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#beasts in the boroughs
stranglermatt · 2 years
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Heavy Dirty Soul
a Beasts in the Boroughs au featuring strangler!Matt, killer!Charlie, and Kacey (ofc)
In collaboration with @abeastoftheborough​ @asthehourspass​
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The soothing blaze of crisp menthol burns through Matt’s lungs as he inhales the smoke deeply, sinking further into the rough brick of the building that he was leaning against. Pulling the cap of his hat down to better conceal his identity, his eyes track the pretty thing he’s been watching for the last few days. She runs from one building to the next, hopping over the puddles to ensure that her expensive pumps don’t get soaked and stopping under every awning in between to avoid the worst of the rain. She wasn’t going to get very far at this rate; not that she would ever make it to her destination tonight anyway. No, he had plans for her. 
Matt never thought he would get this opportunity again. The opportunity to indulge. After the incident in Washington and his near-capture, he had fled to New York to get lost in one of the biggest cities in the world. Starting over had been the easy part; he had started over more times than he could count but the need to do so to such a large degree had never been necessary before. Never until now did he have to give his identity a complete overhaul; new home, new job, new ID, new person. Hand in pocket, he rubs his thumb and fingers together where the identifying ridges used to mark the flesh, now smooth with new scarring to eliminate any suspicion should his past ever catch up to him. He had to be more careful here, he couldn’t afford to make any more major mistakes– practice makes perfect and he intended to perfect his practice. 
Stubbing out the butt of his cigarette, he pushes off from his resting spot and follows a couple of blocks behind the woman as she gets further and further away from the safety of her home. 
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Matt lets out a huff of irritation, mostly with himself, succumbing once again to the disappointment of his carelessness. He squats to inspect the fresh body and observes her back carefully, looking for any signs of breathing. Nothing. Removing a dark leather glove from his hand he lifts her wrist and places his fingers on the pulse point, finding… nothing. With a sigh, Matt releases her, watching the perfectly manicured hand fall limp to the damp pavement with no resistance. 
Well shit… that didn’t go as planned. He had hoped to have more time to play with her before her inevitable demise but he got too excited— too caught in the moment of watching the coloring of her pretty face transition into a darker hue.
He rises from his squatted position and paces the small confines of the dark alleyway, panic and anger settling in as he tries to think of his next move. With a growl, his hand curls into a fist and he hits the nearest brick wall, over and over again until red droplets and scrapes marr his knuckles, the pain giving his brain enough of a reprieve to think clearly and come up with a plan. Bloody fingers comb through his curly mop, leaving pink streaks in the light hair as he paces the small confines of the alleyway and he assesses his options. Eventually, his eyes land on the dumpster a final time and a defeated sigh escapes him as he realizes that this is his only choice. Matt places the black cap snuggly back on his head and slides his glove back on before getting to work on disposing of the body. 
The slam of the dumpster lid hitting the wall of the building behind it echoes through the small space and Matt is met with the wafting scent of decaying city trash. With any luck, the pick up services wouldn’t run for another day or two and by then he would be long gone. He hefts the limp body over his shoulder and does his best to slide her over the lip of the steel box. Just as he gets the second leg over the ledge and rummages some of the full trash bags over the corpse to conceal his deed, a voice speaks from several feet away, startling Matt into a defensive stance as the lid smacks back down. 
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dilatorywriting · 1 year
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Monster Mayhem: Little Red Rapscallion
Gender Neutral Reader x Jack Howl Word Count: 3.7k
Summary: 'Dear Evil, Overlord, Patron. Please stop sicking your demon guard dog on me. I'm only trying to help. Kind Regards, Little Red Ridinghood'
A/N: Thank you so much to @insideous-beez for the brain rot, which became brain fertilizer, and eventually a functional story; This one is a bit darker than the other installments due to the Warlock/Evil Deity goodness, so there is a bit more horror here!
[PART 1]
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Your grandmother had always told you to mind your manners when it came to the creatures who made the forest their home.
Or, well. That was a lie. Many lies, really. If you wanted to be nitpicky.
Firstly, the old crone who lived deep within the borough of the cursed trees wasn’t actually your grandmother. At least, not in the biological sense that seemed to matter most within your little, provincial, town. She was just a kindly, wrinkled, turnip of a woman who found you wandering the mudflats one day and decided she liked your spunk and general lack of self-awareness. She patted your head, served you strange, bubbling, teas laced with sweet magics, and always returned you to your fretful parents by sundown. And so, she was Grandma. Even if calling her that aloud made your parents go nearly green and had the local shopkeepers crossing themselves and spritzing you with Holy Water.
Secondly, Grandma had never told you to keep to your manners. Usually, she encouraged the opposite. (‘Why not curse them, huh?’ she’d complain loudly. ‘They’re thieving bastards, the lot of them.’ ‘Grandma,’ you’d sigh. ‘The street cleaners are just doing their job. They didn’t mean to steal your dead racoons.’) The idea of her demanding you act ‘proper’ and ‘kind’ was damn near laughable. But what she did enforce upon you with all the firmness of a world-weary teacher was the concept of not fucking with that which ought not be fucked with.
And the sprawling, Shaftland Forest was not to be fucked with.
It had always been a great, creeping, thing. The trees would groan and whisper as you passed, and when their sharp branches tangled in your cloak like grasping fingers, it never felt like an accident. The animals that lived beneath those trees were even stranger—wild, large, beasts with glinting eyes and an arcane mysticism about them that left icicles in their tracks even on summer days, or tangled the undergrowth into something that moved.
The people of your village did not enter the Shaftland Forests. They put up signs, and wards, and spun cautionary tales to every traveler who dared step even a single foot into their teeny, terrified, homestead.
You visited regularly. Because you were half-stupid at least, and because Grandma lived in those woods. And while she’d cautioned you about treating her habitat with care, she’d promised ages ago that so long as you were sweet to the forest, it would forever be sweet on you too.
‘There is a great power in these trees,’ she’d hum to you, as she stirred a simmering pot that looked to be filled with the blood of… something you probably shouldn’t think too hard about. ‘You would have been a lovely gift for it, you know.’ She laughed under her breath. It didn’t sound like a joke. ‘But you were too precious to ruin like that. So he decided we ought to keep you.’
You had no idea who ‘he’ was supposed to be, but you always made sure to shower the forest with compliments. As thanks for not using you as whatever being a, uhm, lovely gift entailed. ‘Oh what nice leaves you have,’ you told many a tree. ‘And what large petals have bloomed today,’ to all the flowers. You’d always been safe in these woods—sheltered beneath a bubble of golden affection and the soft scents of the richest perfumes. The forest always welcomed you with open branches and the coo of creaking bark.
Which is why the twisty field of black thorns blocking your usual pathway gave you pause.
You reached out a finger and prodded one of the sharp points. It bit into your skin with the clear intention of drawing blood, before swaying away at the last moment to twine loosely around your wrist.
Huh. How peculiar.
“May I pass?” you asked the thorns.
The shivering web of ebony tightened along the path and you frowned.
“May I pass, please?” you tried again.
The briar patch seemed to heave with a gusty, angry, sigh. You were about to reach forward and try your luck one more time when a deep, rumbling, snarl curled out from the shadows beyond. Out of the sea of roiling darkness and dainty thorns strode a great, white, wolf. It bared its teeth at you in an expression that was entirely unpleasant.
Immediately you held up your hands in placation and took a wide step backwards. The wolf just kept growling at you like you’d murdered its entire family or something else equally egregious. It skulked forward soundlessly, ears pinned flat.
“My apologies,” you said, dipping your chin in a gentle bow. “I didn’t mean to overstep. I’m just trying to use this path to—”
The wolf lunged at you with a near roar, and you just barely managed to roll out of the way with a shriek. The thing landed hard in the dirt where you’d just been not a moment prior, and it swung its great, fanged, maw in your direction.
“Apologies, old one,” you tried again, just as Grandma had taught you. “But I really just—”
The wolf snapped, nearly taking off your fingers, and you folded over like a turtle that had been upended on its back—rolling around helplessly with your limbs flailing wildly as you went. The sharp crack of your head against the ground left your brain rattling around like dried beans in a can, and you could taste the copper sting where you’d bitten down into your tongue. The failed cartwheel had set you back a solid fifteen feet from the wood’s edge, and the wolf huffed at you—a stupidly pointed ‘stay away’ if you’d ever seen one. It glared at you with glowing, golden, eyes for a long moment before melting back into the shadows.
You spat out the cocktail of mud and blood pooling along your tongue, and wiped angrily at your sore chin. The forest had never denied you before. So maybe it wasn’t your lovely, lonely, trees that were sending you away. Maybe it was just this stupid wolf. Maybe the beast was trying to make a stand—to usurp the role of whatever spirit had ruled over this dark land for so long now. You grumbled and made your way back to your feet. It was fine. Your forest was strong. It would never lose to such a stupidly fluffy opponent. You’d just have to try again tomorrow.
The next day you armed yourself with a small arsenal of goodies. Daggers, ropes, armloads of talismans, and kindling, and rations. You hoisted your bow across your back and carefully plucked at the soft fletching of the arrows. The feathers buzzed beneath your fingers, and after a moment of uneasy hesitance, you cautiously replaced the weapon where it hung over your bed. Grandma had never liked the idea of you carrying weapons in the forest (‘it invites troublemakers’ she’d warned), but if something really had gone wrong in her woods, then it was better to worry about asking forgiveness than permission. And surely you could argue for a dagger. The bow… With its weighted arcana and strange, dissonant, strength felt like something dangerous.  
So you apologized to the rippling thorns before cutting them back with swift, precise, strokes of your blade and starting down that familiar path to Grandma’s cottage.
You made it about fifty yards before one of your talismans began to ping worryingly. The tingling thrum along your side was just enough of a warning to keep you from being mauled outright.
The White Wolf lunged from between the trees and you skittered out of the way of its attack. For such a huge creature, it was so silent. And its gleaming, downy, coat should have more than given away its position in the gloom. There must have been some kind of magic to it—something old, and ancient, that let the beast slip through the darkness unseen.
The Wolf situated itself firmly in the center of the path, hackles raised and shoulders hunched like it was readying itself to pounce.
“I need to get through,” you told it, firm, and raised one of the Protective talismans. After a heavy moment you scowled and bit out, “Please.”
The Wolf snarled and propelled itself forward. It latched its overlarge teeth in the fabric of your red cloak and quickly began to drag you to the ground. You frantically flailed about, and just managed to avoid those glinting fangs enough to thrust the talisman up into the beast’s ribs with a heavy smack. The charm lit with a brilliant, amethyst, gleam and sparks shot through the air. You let out a triumphant, ‘ah HA!’ And then all that magic fizzled out like a dying candle. You gaped in horror as the ‘one hundred percent foolproof, don’t you worry about that child’ Protective talisman fluttered to the ground like a discarded bit of newspaper.
“Oh, shit,” you croaked, as your cloak was shredded between the wolf’s canines with a horribly shrill wriiiiiip.
You sprinted like a bat out of Hell, tearing through the undergrowth and only just managing to collapse beyond the border of the tree line before the wolf could snap its jaws around your ankles. You curled your limbs protectively up beneath you, and watched through a veil of cold sweat as it paced along the foliage—leaving no tracks in its wake.
Fine, you thought bitterly. Two can play at this game.
The next morning you walked North, beyond the only safe paths you knew. Carefully, you began to scuttle your way up the nearest, gnarled, tree. The bark groaned and rattled beneath your fingers, as if disquieted. But there were no trails of white fur yet darting about the underbrush, so you offered the tree a hasty apology before climbing higher.
From there, it was only a matter of cautiously hopping from branch to branch. Normally when you’d tried ridiculous feats of stupidity like this in the past, the trees seemed more than eager to help you along—practically reaching out with their branches to catch you in their willowy, wooden, fingers. But they seemed stiff today, testy. The leaves themselves seemed to complain as you went, and you shushed them as politely as you could.  
There was a sharp bark from beneath you, and you looked down to see the Wolf circling your perch in a frantic, pacing, dance.  
“Hello!” you beamed, perfectly, poisonously, pleasant. “Nice to see you too!”
The Wolf sneered, lips curling up into a tight, tense, bow over its fangs.
You leaned forward, keeping a hand securely looped into your roost.
“Aww,” you cooed. “Is it too hard to climb up here with those big, fluffy, paws?” you mocked, wiggling your own fingers contentedly. “Bet someone really wishes they had opposable thumbs, huh?”
And then, like you were being smited by God Himself, the branch beneath your feet cracked clean in half, and you plummeted to the ground bellow with a harrowing screech. Naturally, you landed right at the wolf’s aforementioned stupid, fluffy, paws. Its great head lowered, and you could feel the heat of its breath as it growled into your face.
With a pathetic little ‘eep!’, the talisman tucked into the back of your boot burst into life and you flickered like a janky illusion. You stumbled to your feet a dozen or so yards away, fighting the urge to double over and barf. Slipping through planes was unpleasant at the best of times, let alone when under actual fucking duress.
The Wolf blinked its wide, golden, eyes at the empty space beneath its paws, and then whipped its head in your direction like a blood hound. You pushed yourself upright with the help of the very tree who had betrayed you so thoroughly, and began your hasty retreat.
You crashed through a curtain of thorns and out into the open with a gasp.
You rolled forward like the world’s most inelegant acrobat and came to a skidding halt in the dirt. You sat up with an achy cough, dislodging muck, and rocks, and leaves from your windpipe.
The Wolf prowled behind you—its glare a set of golden pinpricks in the gloom.
“What is your problem?!” you wailed.
The wolf tossed its head, like rolling its eyes wouldn’t have been enough. And snapped at you with another one of those pissy, bitten off, growls.  
“You know what?” you seethed, swinging back onto your knees to jab a finger at it accusatorily. “Fuck you!”
The thing had the absolute gall to snort at you before turning to return to its ceaseless patrol.
By the time you hauled yourself back to your family home, you must have looked an absolute mess. No one bothered to stop you when you practically clawed your way up the stairs and into your small bedroom. Though to be fair, no one really bothered to stop you for anything anymore. Not since an old women with too much spare time and not nearly enough light in her eyes had decided that you were a child to be treasured.
You grabbed your bow off the wall and slung it over your back. The sleek, silvery, wood hummed beneath your fingers. It had been a gift, one whose very existence you stalwartly refused to question. The weapon was finer than anything that could have come from your village’s blacksmith, or honestly probably any human craftsman. It was weightless. It was too heavy. It sang in your hands. It was not a token to be bestowed lightly. But… Well. Whoever it had belonged to before, it was yours now.
And you were going to shoot that goddamn Wolf right in the ass.
On the fourth day of your apparent banishment from the Shaftland Forest, you stormed those woods like a would-be conqueror. The silver bow keened beneath your palms, and you held a thin, spiked, arrow knocked and at the ready. Your nemesis found you in no time at all, and you bared your teeth at the stupid, fucking, mutt before it had the chance.
“One last time,” you said, drawing your bow as tight as you could. “Let me pass, beast. Or I will go through you.”
The wolf’s hackles were raised, but the snarl had slipped off its face. It dug its claws into the dirt, and you watched something like surprise work its way across the thing’s regal features. Its golden glare flickered from you, to the bow, and back again, like it couldn’t quite believe what it was seeing.
“I have business in these woods,” you demanded. And then, petulantly—because you just wanted to know that your stupid, devil worshipping, turnip of a grandmother was okay, and you were so fucking fed up with this garbage—you stomped at the ground and shouted, “And I was here first! So scram, you overgrown Pomeranian!”
The Wolf’s ears drooped, and something like a tremor worked its way down its spine. But then the thing was shaking its giant head like it was surfacing from beneath a pool of water, and it straightened its posture with a rumbling growl.
“Fine,” you snapped, and unleased the first arrow. It whizzed past your fingertips with a thready, shrill, fwoom faster than you could track. The booming force of it shocked you enough to have you shooting wide, and you watched that pin-thin arrow hit a tree trunk and sink all the way through to the other side.
The Wolf rushed forward when you went to reload, fur standing on end like you’d run it through with a bolt of lightning. It tackled you bodily to the ground with a yelp, and you wheezed as the air was knocked out of your lungs in one, fell, swoop. The bow tumbled out of your hands and you scrabbled for it wildly. And then the beast lunged for the bright red of your hood, as it seemed so keen to do in each of your past scuffles. But maybe it was done playing with you. Or maybe it just wasn’t expecting you to flail around so terribly. Because its garish fangs bore down past the soft, billowy, fabric of your cloak and tore straight into the meat of your arm instead.
You gasped and weren’t entirely able to swallow down the sharp shriek of pain that bubbled up and out of your throat. The wolf reared back in shock, its mouth stained red. It immediately ducked back in close, and then away, and then in again. Like it wasn’t sure what to do. The stalwart resolve from earlier was gone—replaced entirely by a bumbling sort of panic that had your head swimming more than the blood loss.
You tucked your arm in close, feeling the tattered remains of shredded fabric curling beneath new, warm, wetness. The Wolf cautiously nosed forward, but when you flinched it reared back like you’d struck it. The beast stepped pointedly away, and then began to pace frantically back and forth. Occasionally it would stop, like it was going to move in close again. But then its pointy ears would press stiff and flat atop its head and it would skulk away all over again.
Whatever, you seethed silently, jerkily ruffling through your bag for some of the Healing talismans you knew were tucked away at the bottom. If the monster felt some kind of weird guilt for taking a chomp out of you when it’d already been doings its damndest to maul you for the past four days straight, that was its problem.
It was taking you longer to unearth the talismans than you would have liked, and your hand was really starting to shake in earnest. The Wolf whined high and miserable in its throat, and you rationally decided that it would be a terrible, petty, idea to waste what little composure you had left just to tell it to fuck right off.
The horrid mess of crimson had begun to seep its way along your skin—dripping down your wrist to plop against the damp, mossy, earth with an echoing plip plip plip that was not unlike the fall of slow, fat, spring rain. The air around you seemed to grow heavier with it—the trees swaying at their roots and the dark, shriveled, flowers straining against their stems to get a taste. The Wolf’s golden gaze flicked around the grove cautiously, and you watched its black nose twitch in obvious discomfort. You swore you could see hands—dozens, hundreds of inky appendages reaching out from the shadows. Fingers twisting up into claws like they meant to grab onto you and dig in, never letting go. The Wolf settled itself at your back like a brick wall, snarling doggedly at the wispy talons. The beast was so large it practically enveloped the entirety of you, and you had to fight the delirious, dizzy, urge to lean back into its impractically soft fur.
“Hey! Are you alright over there?”
Both you and the Wolf jolted in surprise as a group of adventurers plowed their way through the trees. The Wolf’s already distressed expression twisted into something nearly manic and it roared—putting all those ferocious teeth on display.
“Woah!” one of them yelped, crashing to a halt and dragging their friends to a stop beside them. “What the fuck?!”
The others all looked equally startled, hands settling heavily on their weapons. And while right now Mister Wolfy wasn’t outright nomming on you or your limbs, there was a still a steady stream of blood trailing from the wound near your shoulder—a set of very obvious teeth marks sitting stark and red against the rest of you.
“We heard a scream,” another spoke up. Then, pointedly raising the sharp edge of his sword, asked, “Is this your companion, Ranger?”
‘Ranger?’ you blinked, confused, before remembering the bow still sitting in the dirt by your feet. Before you could respond, the Wolf lurched forward over your shoulder. It didn’t leave you—didn’t stray from its steadfast position at your hind—but it pushed its gaping, angry, maw as close to the group as it could. The trio reeled back as the monster snapped, and snarled, and nearly vibrated out of its skin with rage. But… no. Something wasn’t quite right. As viciously angry as all that harsh barking sounded, there was something very, very disquieting about it. Something strained, something afraid.
The one with his sword raised stepped forward, the others moved to follow. And then they were gone.
You blinked, shocked silly. There had been people there—not a second before. You were sure of it. What the fuck was happening?—
And then there was a discordant scream from somewhere deeper in the woods. Distant, but close. Like there were arcane tricks distorting the way of the world. Keeping you separate from the horrible, grinding, shrieking noises while… whatever was happening carried on—not a dozen yards away. Cloaked in shadows and rotten, violet, petals like how a parent might gently close a curtain around a child’s bed at night.  You watched in half-awe, half-horror as seeping, purple, miasma leached from the trees and into the air. It chased the intruders with vicious intent. You could feel the sharp, dark, heat of it prickling along your skin, but when that swirl of near-black enchantments made its way to you, it slipped past you like smoke—leaving only a faint trace of awful, coppery, perfume against your clothes.  
“Why couldn’t you just stay away?” a deep, miserable, voice echoed in your head, and you jerked around in shock to see the Wolf staring at you with heavy, gold eyes.
“Did… Are you…” you trailed off, swallowing. Not sure how to even begin asking what you wanted to ask.
The Wolf sighed, bone deep and weary.
“I tried so hard to keep everyone away,” its voice rumbled in the back of your mind. “Why did you have to be so stubborn?”
“This is my forest, too,” you said after a long moment, fingers digging into the dusty material of your pants. “What’s wrong with it? What happened?”
The Wolf stared at you, quiet and considering. And then it lumbered to its feet with a defeated sort of slouch.
“Come, then, Little Red One,” it huffed, and swished its tail against your back. “I’ll show you.”
.
.
.
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Nobody's Girl - A Luca Changretta/OC Story.
Okay, okay! I got the message quite clearly that just a few of you are more than a wee bit excited for this, so regardless of the poll results, ya bestie over here is giving you the first chapter. Everybody gather round and meet Emily Jane. She shyly says hi.
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Taglist - In the comments, please DM to be added/removed
Words - 4,224
Warnings - Adult content throughout, minors DNI!
Brooklyn, 1923. It was a dangerous place to be in certain areas of the New York borough, where bullets fell like rain and crimson bled plentifully into the gutters. Its misdeeds were becoming famous, the mob swelling like a well-fed beast, prowling the streets unleashed, snarling and hungry. In Brooklyn, the mafia were the kings, whether you, your mother, your cousin or the cops liked it or not.  
It was generally advised that you did not protest.  
Wiseguy compliance was safer than the alternative, and everybody knew it. When they came knocking, offering fistfuls of dollars to store barrels mostly containing contraband beer, gin and whiskey within the warehouses of legitimate businesses, the proprietors knew that you either said yes or you died. That money you were so generously handed would be earned back, though.  
“So look, uh, you gonna be lookin’ after this cargo for us, right? That means there are gonna be certain guys on the street who ain’t gonna be too pleased about you working with us. So, what I’m gonna do is have a few of my guys lookin’ out for ya. Fifty bucks a week and nothin’ happens to your business, or your family.” 
The story was the same for any other business within the radius of their turf, racketeering forced upon you whether you guarded contraband alcohol for them or not.  
It was generally advised that you paid them the fifty bucks.  
Of course, when it came to the families going to war with one another, there was nobody there to protect you, whether you paid into a protection racket or didn't. If the police were called, they generally – and purposefully - arrived too late, the large wedges of cash stuffed into their back pockets by whichever mob crew were buying their compliance ensuring that.
No, when the gunfire erupted and turned the silent streets into a bloodied cacophony, you knew there was only one thing to do.  
It was generally advised that you duck.  
On that particular chilly November night, though, with the threat of snow hanging heavy in the air from the thickened clouds above, one young woman opted not to duck. Instead, she chose to walk right out into the carnage, for it was perhaps the only avenue she could tentatively tread upon in order to save herself from hell.  
The Changretta’s and the Calabrese's had been at war with one another over turf for months, disputes rife over what mob presided over which area, promises of blood come good after negotiations had failed, leading to the shootout between both crews in the dead of night.
Bullets peppered the air, tattooing the buildings and cars along the street, screams and shouts only just about audible over the thrum of heavy machine gun fire, men diving and dying left and right. The sins they fought and died for knew no difference, but somewhere in the madness, these men of bloodthirsty savagery had a line they would not ever cross.  
The Changretta mob scanned the desolate street, high alert agitating their blood, neurons firing rapidly as they watched the area, looking, waiting for movement. The enemy had been thinned to what appeared to be nothing, their bodies littering the ground, but that didn’t mean there weren’t more lying in wait.  
Luca’s unblinking eyes toured the darkness, daring to slowly rise from his concealed place behind the front wing of a shot-out Ford, each step crunching the shattered glass beneath his feet. Nothing. They’d accomplished the extermination mission sufficiently, not a single Calabrese goon left breathing.  
“Boss! On your left!” 
At his right hand’s call, Luca spun, directing his gun at what his eyes picked out through the inky night, a glowing light splitting the dark, his men beginning to fire.  
“Stop, fuckin’ guns down, now!” he bellowed, his cadence rising sharply, way above his usual silky, rumbling drawl. “It’s a girl, you dumb fucks.”  
She seemed to glide over the ground, her feet bare, platinum hair matted and tangled, the white lace of her dress torn and bloodied.  
“What the fuck? Is it a trap, or what?”  
Luca turned to view Enzo with a slight shrug, his hand reaching out to grasp his arm when he raised his gun. “Ah, aspetta, aspetta.” At being told to wait, his right hand once again lowered the machine gun, both Italians watching as the girl continued her walk, her eyes wide and dazed, her face bloody, purple welts marking her features. The closer she got, the more of them Luca noticed, angry and swollen upon her pale skin, the infliction of brutality tarnishing much of her body, a body that buckled as she suddenly fell, collapsing in the middle of the street.  
“Ain’t no trap.” Moving out fully, Luca strode through rivers of blood and bullets, removing his long, wool coat, wrapping it over the barely dressed blonde as he crouched at her side. “Hey, what the fuck happened to you, huh?” He gave her cheek a few gentle slaps, trying to rouse her. “You with me? C’mon, wake up.” This truly wasn’t the time or place for damsels in distress. He had himself and his guys to think of before all else.  
Her eyelids fluttered, blinking rapidly a few times as she came to, curling herself smaller. Her mouth opened, and Luca was sure she said something, but her voice was ghostly, so quiet he was scarcely sure she’d spoken at all.  
“What? I can’t hear you.” He leaned closer, craning his ear, just about able this time to hear her words.  
“There’s a bomb under your car. Twenty seconds.”  
With widened eyes, his head spun round to where his assembled crew waited. “Move! The fuckin’ car is live, move!” Pulling her up off the street and into his arms, he and his men began to run, covering the ground rapidly. They’d gotten a good hundred feet away, yet their eardrums still all but ruptured when the TNT blew, reducing the Buick to an inferno.  
They took cover behind another car, a car Enzo rapidly broke open the door of, cranking the engine into life. “Let’s get the fuck outta here, eh?”  
So, it looked to Emily like she was leaving one set of wiseguys and going with another as the tall, slender man who held her jumped into the back of the car, three other guys piling in, the car shuddering out from its spot and being directed in the opposite direction to the blast.  
“Hey boss,” Dante piped up from the passenger seat, nodding at the blonde. “Who’s the dame?” 
“You know as much as I do.” He was just about to ask her that very question, looking down to see her head lolled over his arm, out cold once more. Whatever the fuck she’d been through, he could gauge it was a lot. Giving him the kind of information she had, though, information that had saved him and his crew from being blasted to smithereens, he wasn’t just about to let he be on her way.  
If she knew about the bomb, then what other information might she have? The firefight had not exterminated all of the Calabrese mob, just a mere handful of foot soldiers.  
Exiting the car on the corner of Third Avenue, Luca strode towards the doors of Bella Vita, the bar turned speakeasy he owned, the doormen nodding to him and swinging the doors open. He took an immediate right, the thumping blare of jazz music and patrons having a fabulous time hurting his still fragile, bomb-blasted ears, another large man employed for security purposes opening the next door he came to.  
It closed with a heavy thud behind him, the wall of noise muted, Luca beginning to climb the stairs that led to his spacious apartment. It had only been home for seven months, since he had the former three dwellings gutted out and fashioned into something more resembling the comfort he was accustomed to. High standing members of the mafia did not reside in shabbiness.  
His former abode, a sprawling townhouse upon the Upper West Side of Manhattan, was now solely home to his ex-wife and three children. For a quicker divorce from the wretched, screaming harpy whom he had once loved very dearly, he considered it a cheap price to part with for the sake of his sanity. Her alimony was also eye watering, but it wasn’t like Luca didn’t rake in serious bank.  
He’d also never deprive Milania, Guiseppe and Alessio of anything. His sons were the apple of his eye, and his daughter, well, she was quintessentially daddy’s little girl. He just wished she had a smidgen less of her mother’s hot-headed temper. Then again, he supposed he deserved every ounce of it, not being a particularly good husband to Filomena.  
Well, it was subjective, really. He provided for her, took her out regularly, bought her an abundance of luxuries from expensive jewellery to beautiful furs, but he did have somewhat of a predisposition for sticking his cock where he most certainly should not have stuck it. Filomena had all but turned a blind eye to his philandering ways, and Luca knew that was why he’d continued to do it, because she'd let him. She didn’t care, it seemed, so why should he?  
Maybe if she’d have been the kind of woman to crack his jaw and tell him in no uncertain terms that he was hers and hers alone, he might have fixed up and adhered to the fidelity he’d promised her, but she never had. It went right over his head that this is what he should have pledged without the threat of violence in the first place.   
The final straw finally drove her into action, though, arriving home earlier than he’d expected one day to find him in bed with two whores, one astride his face and the other riding his cock. There weren’t many women out there who could witness the man they loved in that kind of scenario and still continue to love him. She’d given him nothing but pure, unfiltered hell in the time between, Luca agreeing to all of her demands, just as long as she didn’t touch either his car collection, his speakeasy, or his home in the Catskills.  
Carrying the mystery blonde over to the lounge area of the open plan apartment, he placed her down on the dark, oxblood leather chesterfield, noticing that she’d come round again. “You wanna drink, sweetheart?”  
She nodded, beginning to tremble a little. “Hey, you’re alright. I ain’t gonna do nuthin’ bad to ya.” Emily doubted his sincerity, knowing wiseguys as well as she did. His voice was half salty rumble, half viper’s hiss, but each word was delivered with the kind of hush that made her feel soothed, she had to admit. The quietness of his tone made a nice change from being yelled at. “Whaddya drinkin'?” 
“A water, p-please,” she stuttered, Luca nodding. He’d been offering liquor, but water he could do, too.  
He paused before going to fetch it, crouching before her, studying her wounds a little more closely now she was under the brighter lights within his home. “Those cuts are nasty, doll. Who fuckin’ did this, eh?” He reached for her face, regretting it instantly when she shot across the couch, curling into a ball at the opposite end. “Woah, hey. Like I said, I ain’t gonna hurt ya. I just wanna help you, and for you to tell me what you know about the Calabrese guys. I’m guessin’ you know a whole lot, to know one of ‘em stuck a bomb beneath my car.”  
She trembled, her eyes wide, her silence profound. “I’m gonna get you that water.” He rose to his feet slowly, knowing he had to treat her as if she were an injured fawn, everything slow and steady, save her from becoming furtherly spooked.  
Caring for another, though, was somewhat beyond his usual skill set. Luckily from his own scrapes, he both knew how – and possessed the necessities - to clean up wounds before they became an infected mess, going to the bathroom and pulling out gauze and a bottle of iodine, returning to the kitchen to fetch her requested glass of water.  
He handed it to her, moving to his drinks cabinet then and pouring himself a large measure of whiskey, returning to sit in front of her on the coffee table. “You gonna let me clean you up?”  
She shook her head, spilling several drops of water as she lifted the glass to her lips, downing it in its entirety.  
He nodded, sucking the matchstick he was chewing before removing it. “Alright. You gonna tell me what you know?” 
Again, she shook her head.  
He shrugged, a little agitated, but knowing he had to play his cards carefully. “I got all night, doll. Could start with your name, though, if the rest is too much to ask.”  
She wanted to trust him. Hell, he could have simply dropped her from his grasp and left her there on the street, but he’d taken her with him, back to the safety of his apartment, no less. Of course, though, it was to gain information. Then again, if it was solely that, why was he trying to help her? Men who sought only answers to their questions seldom had the interest to clean wounds. Hell, they usually jammed a gun to your tonsils and told you to spill all as soon as they removed it.  
Who was she to him that he’d care whether her cuts were bathed? Still, it took him a patient wait of just over a half hour until she finally spoke.  
“Emily Jane,” she finally replied, swallowing hard. “Emily Jane Mortensen. Most people just call me Emily, though.”  
He lifted his chin, pointing to her water glass. “You want another in there, Emily?” 
“Please.”  
Well, she had a name, at least. It was as good a start as any. “You know,” he began, long legs extending as he rose to his feet, walking back over to the kitchen area, “the Calabrese’s won’t do shit to you with me around. If that’s why you’re scared to talk, ain’t no mind, doll.” Returning to her, he resumed his seat upon the coffee table, handing over the glass. “Like I said, though. I got all night.”  
Protection. Something she’d longed for, but could she truly trust it? She knew exactly who he was; Luca Changretta, the big boss, the number one apex predator at the top of the mafia hierarchy. It was either the very best, or the absolute worst place that she could have ended up. “Gino Calabrese ordered Joey, his youngest son to have the bomb planted, so that if the firefight didn’t kill you, the blast definitely would.” 
His eyebrows rose a little, chewing the matchstick slowly. “And you know this how? Who are ya, to Gino?” 
Finishing her water, she reached to place it upon the coffee table, Luca taking it from her, resting his forearms back to his thighs as he leaned forward, looking expectant. “Um, nothing to him, but to his son, I – well, I was his card counter. That’s kinda moot now, though, since you and your guys put about sixteen bullets in his chest.”  
His lip curled slightly. “Card counter?”  
“Yeah. I have a real fast brain for math, so technically I can’t ever be beaten in a game of blackjack. I won Joey thousands upon thousands at games all over, from Vegas to Reno. Illegal games, too. Women don’t usually get a seat at the table, but I got to, because...” 
“Cuz’ Joey boy was partially sighted, I’m guessin’, right? You were his alleged eyes, but truly, you were there to tell him when to make his moves, amirite?” 
God, he was very sharp. “Correct,” she confirmed, although Luca still looked slightly dubious, reaching behind him and grabbing something. He turned back to reveal a deck of cards, sliding them from the box and giving them a rapid shuffle.  
“Show me.” Standing, he moved to sit beside her on the couch, dragging the table nearer and dealing out as he were the house, Emily moving a little nearer.  
“Alright, so I mostly use the Hi-Lo strategy. It means if the ratio of high to low cards is higher than normal, the player can make bets that are larger when the deck is favourable.” 
He noticed it instantly, how when presented with the opportunity to show off her skill, she unwound from the nervous, tense little waif he’d carried into his home just over an hour before. “How’d you know if the deck is favourable?” he asked, a frown knitting between his dark brows as he pointed at them on the table.  
“You have to track the ratio of high to low cards by assigning them with a value. You begin at zero, then as each card comes up, you add it to your tally. Cards two to six have a value of plus one, cards seven to nine have no value, and cards worth ten and also aces have a value of minus one, so you keep adding and subtracting, betting accordingly. Watch. Hit me.”  
He dealt her another card, Emily tapping it. Another was placed. “I’m holding.” Turning the other cards, he saw she would have won her hand had they been playing for cash. He made her do it another five times before he truly believed what she could do, sitting there with slightly widened eyes.  
“Look at that, huh?” he spoke, gathering the cards from the table and returning them to the pile. “No wonder he kept you around.”  
She shrugged. “Shame it wasn’t of my own free will. All of this mess I’m in, it was because I tried to get away from him earlier, so he took a set of brass knuckles to me. Wasn’t the first time either.”  
He studied her face, his jaw tightening. Luca had few codes of honour, and not taking his fists to a woman was high upon that list. He hissed a breath, his eyes narrowing. “Fuckin’ asshole. I’m extra glad I shot the living fuck outta him now.”  
Dropping her gaze, she folded her arms, looking at her bare feet. “So am I.”  
Reaching for his drink, he knocked it back, truly feeling glad that Joey no longer breathed. If there was one thing he truly detested, it was a woman beater. He didn’t have much to be proud of in his life, morally speaking, but he had never and would never raise a hand to a woman. Ever. “Fuckin’ brass knuckles, Jesus above. I know how much those fuckin’ things hurt only too well.” 
She snorted softly, her eyes finding his again, her heart doing a little somersault as she watched the peridot shards glint at her through the low light. Hoo boy, he was a handsome one. Deadly, but handsome nonetheless. “Who on earth is brave enough to take a set of brass knuckles to the famous Luca Changretta, and live to tell the tale?”  
He smirked, rising to his feet. “Nobody these days, but when I was still comin’ up, plenty of guys.” Moving back to the drinks cabinet, he took the bottle of whiskey, turning to her. “You want another water in there, or somethin’ else? I got just about everythin'.”  
Peering at him over the back of the couch, he felt his inside pinch a little. She was so tiny and cute. “Could I have a vodka rocks, please?”  
“You can, but ice I don’t have. Gimme a sec.” He strode across the space again, heading back down the stairs, the sounds of music growing louder and then returning to the dull rumble, Emily moving to pull on the long coat around her, feeling chilly. It smelled of him. The woody, musky, yet slightly spicy notes of whatever cologne he wore filled her nose as she held the soft lapels to her face.  
The sudden blare of music signalled his imminent return, the tall Italian appearing from the stairwell once more, carrying with him an ice bucket he placed upon the table, going back to the cabinet and collecting the whiskey and vodka bottles, pouring a large measure into her glass, dropping the ice in and handing it to her.  
“Thank you,” she spoke, Luca noticing her manners were impeccable, also watching her face as it twisted into a grimace, Emily hissing before straightening her leg, examining her grazed knee.  
He gestured to her injuries with a sweeping hand. “Gonna let me help you with that yet? You’re kinda bleeding all over my couch.” 
In an instant, she looked horrified. “Oh, I’m so sorry, and probably your coat, too. I’m an idiot, I'll sit on the floor.”  
He moved swiftly, shaking his head. “It’s fine, ain’t no bother, doll.” In truth, it was, but he kept that to himself. Blood cleaned off, he had to concede. This girl, he needed to keep her sweet in order to keep on feeding him further information that he sensed she possessed. Joey Calebrese might not have been high up within his criminal family, a street guy who was not yet elevated at the time of his death (and which was why, Luca guessed, he’d used Emily for her card counting skills to make the kind of bank his lower standing didn’t allow for) but being around them, she was bound to know more.  
She was a valuable asset, and he’d treat her as such.  
He picked up the handful of gauze and iodine, moving back to the coffee table. “It’s gonna sting like fuck, but you likely know that.”  
She did. Bracing herself, she clenched her teeth as one by one, Luca dabbed each cut and graze with the iodine-soaked gauze, wincing, hissing at the burning, sharp sting. “Gonna be a little black n’ blue for a while, honey,” he drawled, his mouth tilting into a smile. “Still pretty, though.”  
He winked, and it sent a spark through her, although the rational side of her brain told her that allowing herself to be charmed by a dangerous mobster was the last thing she truly needed right then. He didn’t make it easy, though, being attentive to her, looking as good as he did. She’d always had a thing for older men, and she could guess he likely had at least a decade and a half on her twenty-three years.  
“So, you gotta home I can take you to, people wonderin’ where the fuck you vanished to?”  
Home. It was a word she didn’t really have any true comprehension over, the place that to everyone else acted as a sanctuary, a safe haven, had truly been anything but to her. “No, I don’t.”  
“No port in a storm, huh?” he asked, gently lifting her leg to rest upon his slender thigh, smoothing her dress up a little to reach a cut beneath. His hands were so hot. Yet another spark flared within her belly.  
“No, no port.” She paused, meeting his eyes, knowing he was expecting more. “I’ve no idea who my father was, and my mother was a drunk, still is for all I know. I don’t have any siblings either so when I was eighteen, I left California and made my way across the country to New York. Wanted a better life for myself. It didn’t exactly go to plan. I have a habit of trusting the wrong people.” 
He looked away from her then, eyes flitting to her knee, pressing the gauze onto an open cut. He was definitely a man she shouldn’t have trusted, and he wasn’t entirely sure why that suddenly prickled quite sharply at his conscience, but it did.  
“You probably don’t trust me, but if you wanna crash here until you find your feet, you’re welcome to.”  
She looked at him with big, grey eyes full of hope. “Really, you don’t mind?” 
He sniffed. “Wouldn’t have offered if I did.” Placing the cork back into the iodine bottle, he moved to take a seat beside her again, picking up his drink. “Might be better if you do, actually. The Calabrese’s are likely lookin’ for ya. If you vanished and didn’t wind up as a dead body, and I didn’t get blown up, then it don’t take no genius to work out that you ratted on ‘em.”  
Shit. She hadn’t even considered that. It was a fear Luca was banking on playing upon, and it had worked flawlessly. “S’okay, though, sweetheart. As long as you’re with me, they ain’t gonna touch ya. You’re fine.”  
Was she, though? Emily truly had to wonder. She pondered over it for the rest of the night, Luca telling her she could go take a bath and clean up, loaning her one of his shirts to wear that absolutely buried her, telling her he’d take the couch while she slept in his bed. She tried to protest, but he wouldn’t hear of it. 
“I ain’t exactly a gentleman in a lot of respects, but you ain’t gonna sleep on the couch. Nah. It’s fine.”  
Was it, though? As her tired eyes fluttered, lying in the comfort of a big bed that smelled like her host, she truly did have to wonder.  
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Everyone in the city was doing their best to find a quick buck, to make something of themselves, to be greater than even they thought possible. That's why she never really paid much attention to the television when the advertisement featuring four English boys, who looked more like a band than a ghost hunting agency, appeared. 
Sorry, not ghost hunters. 
Ghostbusters. 
13,497 words. Edited by @stardust-speckles.
She's seen their ads late at night when she can't sleep and wants to unwind in front of the television. She's no stranger to the never-ending hustle culture that is the United States of America, but New York seems to be its own beast. 
The first time she'd seen the tarps laid on the ground, covered in hundreds of "genuine fake" designer bags surrounding the blocks of Times Square, she couldn't believe her eyes. Then she'd seen her neighbour leave their building in the morning, wearing a suit and tie, looking every bit the Wall Street professional, to then come home and change his outfit at the end of the day, ready for a shift of food delivery driving. 
Everyone in the city was doing their best to find a quick buck, to make something of themselves, to be greater than even they thought possible. That's why she never really paid much attention to the television when the advertisement featuring four English boys, who looked more like a band than a ghost hunting agency, appeared. 
Sorry, not ghost hunters. 
Ghostbusters. 
~~~ 
She'd moved to the city to find herself and to discover some sense of purpose or meaning for her life, leaving her family and friends behind in Australia. So far, all she's done is cause more heartache for herself, and the answers hadn't come as easily as she'd hoped they would. 
Five days a week, she took the subway back and forth between the New York boroughs, temping at offices, working as an assistant to founders of tech startups, or waitressing at high society events. There was no job that she couldn't do, but there didn't seem to be even one that she could see herself doing as a career. 
Well, that's a lie. She'd gotten to spend a day as an assistant to a music producer in Manhattan. Those kinds of jobs didn't come up often, as high-profile clients usually had their own set of people they'd request from the agency she worked at, but she'd miraculously been rostered one day at Electric Lady Studios during her first week in the city. 
She'd learned more about music with Jack, the producer, in those 10 hours than she had in her whole life. Her time with him didn't finish until after dark, but she'd stayed back to talk, sharing stories about their favourite live shows and what certain songs meant to them. 
The next day, she'd gone to a flea market in Brooklyn at his recommendation and found a gorgeous piano. It had seen better days, but she could tell by the markings on the wood that it had been well-loved and cared for. Getting it back to her apartment had been a nightmare, and she'd anxiously waited for the moment she'd see her own face appear in a viral video, pushing the darn thing up the street. 
So, that's the story of how she thinks she might have found her new purpose. 
~~~ 
After living in the city for a month, she thinks she's going insane. She's a very organised person but keeps losing her keys every day. There's a bowl that she keeps on her TV stand, into which she places the keys every night after she steps through the door, but every morning, they disappear. After tearing apart her place, they always appear on the kitchen bench, in plain sight, once she's running late. 
Then there have been times when she's woken up in the middle of the night to get a drink of water, and her front door is wide open. She's not an idiot; she lives in New York City. She shuts the front door when she gets home, deadbolting it and sliding the chain across the latch for extra protection. (If someone wants to break in, they will, but this will at least buy her a few extra seconds to scream bloody murder and hope that her neighbours have dialled 911 in time.) 
Her heating is on the fritz too. Parts of the living room heat up, and it's lovely, but the corner behind her TV is always freezing, as well as some parts of her bedroom. She just assumes that the air ducts are blocked in those spots and really wishes the building maintenance would get on it sooner rather than later. 
She realises how shitty her building is when the electricity goes out next. A lamp in her living room always flickers, even once she unplugs it from the wall, and the stereo in the kitchen blares every night at 2am. Her neighbours hate her, she's sure of it, but she unplugs the damn thing, and somehow, every night, it's back in the wall socket and playing some god-awful song for the entire city to hear. 
Her final straw comes when she gets out of the shower, and it looks like someone has left nonsensical messages in the fog on the mirror. She wraps herself in her towel, uses her hand to wipe it away, and tries to ignore the sense of terror ebbing through her veins. She dresses in her dirty clothes, afraid that someone has broken into her apartment, but when she leaves the bathroom, the steam billowing out of the open door into her cold bedroom, there's nobody around. 
After checking that the locks are still secured on the front door, she changes into a clean pair of pyjamas and gets ready for bed. Lifting the blankets, something flutters to the floor. Crawling onto her hands and knees, she pulls a few square cards from underneath the bed frame and realises they're Polaroid photos. (Another find at the Brooklyn flea market. She's thrifty. Sue her.) 
Turning the cluster over in her hand, her stomach drops, and she calls the police. 
~~~ 
"I don't know what to tell you, kid," the officer doesn't seem to give a shit, and he's making her feel stupid for calling them in the first place. 
"There's no forced entry, there's nothing on the security footage, nothing on CCTV from across the street. I don't know what more you want us to do." He gives her a sympathetic smile, but it does nothing to placate the panic inside her. 
"Someone came into my apartment, took photos of me while I was sleeping, and you're telling me there's nothing more you can do? Isn't it your job to deal with this?" 
It sounds bratty even to her own ears. 
"Something came into your apartment, and we're very sorry, but unless you've got more for us than rattling pipes and faulty wiring, there's not a whole lot we can do here." 
The way the officer says "something" instead of "someone" sets off alarms inside her head, and her case is closed for now until new evidence appears. Another detective, dressed in a charcoal suit with a tie loose around his neck, takes pity on her. He passes her a crumpled business card with phone numbers meticulously printed on it. Along the bottom, in smudged blue ink, was a set of numbers that didn’t belong and an address for 55 Central Park West. 
~~~ 
She can't sleep. Something is stopping her, and whenever she does manage to close her eyes for more than a few minutes, she wakes up screaming. Her skin is crawling within the sheets of her bed, and she can't lay there any longer. She's at her wits' end, paranoid and exhausted, when the goofy ad appears on the television again. The four English boys point towards her through the screen, telling her to call or visit them now, and she feels completely delusional when she jots down their address. 
The streets of Manhattan in the middle of the night feel safer than whatever is lurking in her apartment, and when she approaches the old firehouse, the business card with smudged blue ink in hand, her mouth drops at its size. It may be decrepit and probably condemned, but she's envious of all the space they have to themselves. She's sure if their stereos went off in the middle of the night, they wouldn't have anyone banging on their door to yell at them. 
Stepping through their front door, she notices the car straight away. The logo on the side is impossible to miss, a cartoon ghost with a red general prohibition sign across it. It's effective in portraying exactly what their business does, but it makes the moment feel more comical than it should. Her shoes echo across the concrete floor as she approaches the front desk, and she breathes in the faint scent of cigarettes and car oil. 
There's an appointment book open on the desk that's empty, the dated pages left blank with a cold cup of tea next to it. A few postcards are stuck to a set of lockers with some beige janitor suits hanging haphazardly inside. After a few more moments of looking around (and judging the bikini model calendar tacked to one of the walls), she smacks the bell and waits for someone to finally attend to her. 
A squeak of skin against metal sounds from above, and she watches a boy with curly hair slide down a fireman's pole. She wonders, not for the first time, if she was making a mistake by coming to an agency that seemed to not take themselves seriously. His easy smile puts some of her anxiety away, and she doesn't know why she thought somebody else would be helping her. Despite the ad featuring him and three of his friends, she had pictured older men, weathered by their hard lives, working on her case. 
"Sorry if you had to wait long," he apologises, and she's instantly reminded that he's English; his accent drips around his words like honey. "How can I help?" 
He's wearing dark jeans with a white t-shirt that fits him so nicely it's like he's just left a rock show or a date. She wishes she’d thought to throw on something cuter instead of wearing her plaid pyjama shorts and tiny tank top.  
(It’s the middle of the night, she hasn’t slept properly in weeks and she’s worried about her outfit. Kill her now.) 
As his hungry eyes travel up her bare legs, pausing for the briefest of seconds on her chest, she thinks maybe what she’s wearing is fine. 
"Yeah," she swallows before finally saying aloud the words she was afraid of. "I think I'm being haunted." 
~~~ 
She's pulled into their office, if you could even call it that. A few desks are spread around the room and judging by the layer of dust on all the surfaces, they clearly didn't use the space that often. Sitting in an uncomfortable chair, one of the boys, Adam, she thinks he said his name was, sticks diodes to her temples that connect to an "Aura Analyzer." 
Bright colours illuminate the screen, indicating that it was working, and she cannot for the life of her begin to understand why this test is necessary. She feels stupid and kind of like she's being taken for a ride and that this was a scam. 
Matty, the curly-haired boy who'd slid down the fireman’s pole earlier, hands her a cup of tea and asks her to recount everything that has happened since things started going bump in the night. Her hands shake as she tells her story, trying to remember every instance of something strange or unsettling. 
"Could be Djinn?" Ross wonders. 
"Does she look strung up and being pumped for blood?" George dismisses with a scoff. 
Her stomach turns at the thought, and the more they bicker amongst themselves, the less confidence she has. She thought they'd listen to her story and then storm her apartment. She thought they'd throw salt around the room, say a few prayers, and the thing would be banished. 
(The basis of her knowledge stems from watching Supernatural reruns when she was sick, and honestly? Maybe these boys would benefit from watching it too. At least Sam and Dean pretended to know what they were doing.) 
"Why don't I take you home and check you out?" Everyone turns to Matty with wide eyes. George looks amused, the edges of his lips quirking into a smile that he hides behind his hand. 
"Check your apartment out, I mean," Matty corrects with a toothy grin. 
~~~ 
She's kind of embarrassed to pull up to her building in the Ghostbusters car. It's loud, and she thinks maybe Matty is trying to impress her when he flashes the lights and turns on the sirens to get them through the traffic. The drive is awkward because she doesn't know what to say to him, doesn't know how to fill in the silence of the ride, and doesn't know how to explain how anxious she is to be returning. 
Matty follows her up the stairs, and she's suddenly very conscious of her outfit as he trails closely behind her. He pulls out a heavy device from his pocket that she initially thinks is a walkie-talkie, and she's immediately reminded of how dumb this whole night has been when it suddenly lights up. Two arms spread from the sides of the unit, and Matty wanders around her apartment waiting for something to happen. 
"It's a P.K.E. Meter," he explains. "It tracks psychokinetic energy. Adam made it." 
She nods and tries to be respectful, but it looks like a toy with flashing lights. He walks slowly through her cramped living room, carefully inspecting every nook and cranny for god knows what. He rummages through papers she's left on the coffee table and opens cabinets in her kitchen, helping himself to some of the biscuits in the canister next to the tea bags and sugar. 
"This is where the worst of it normally happens," she says quietly after pointing him in the direction of her bedroom. 
"Boyfriend that bad, huh?" He doesn't even look at her when he says it, and she's grateful that he can't see the blush covering her cheeks. She really set him up for that punchline, and he looks pleased with himself. 
(She also knows exactly what information he's fishing for with that statement, and she's smart enough to not bother dignifying it with an answer.) 
She expects the machine to light up like the fourth of July, but instead, it remains dormant, and she wonders if he can feel the change in energy like she can though. The weight of invisible eyes on them and the heaviness of something in the darkness, even with the lights on. 
He waves the reader over her bed and closet, pausing over one of the drawers she hadn't fully closed. He pulls at the handle, and she quickly rushes over to slam it shut. 
"I don't think there's a ghost hiding in my underwear drawer," she huffs. 
"You never know. That's why you hired the professionals." 
She rolls her eyes, and the innocent grin that covers Matty's face makes her feel the most at ease within the four walls of her bedroom that she's felt in a long time. 
"There's nothing out of the ordinary here, but we can do a more thorough investigation if you like?" He puts the P.K.E. Meter back in his pocket and pulls out an envelope instead, handing it to her after she nods. 
The contract is about as standard as she'd expected. Simple, but with infinite clauses in fine print that hurts her eyes as she reads over it. "The Ghostbusters take no ownership of any damage caused" and "The Ghostbusters cannot be held responsible" etc. 
There's a list of checkboxes that Matty must have filled out when she wasn't looking. Some items that are ticked off are "Aural Analyzer test" and "initial inspection performed", and then there's the "pretty girl discount" with a checkmark that makes her brows raise. 
"Most of the time, it's for the little old ladies we deal with," he shrugs, leaning against her kitchen bench and snacking on more of her biscuits. 
"And the other times?" 
"Aren't you lucky you don't have to find out." The cockiest smirk she's ever seen coats his lips, and she laughs in disbelief. 
He's smooth, she gives him credit. 
She signs her name along the dotted line at the bottom of the page and hands the contract back to him. Matty offers to leave a few cameras around the place, one in the living room and another in the bedroom. He offers to put one in the bathroom too after she tells him about the drawings in the fog, and he seems genuinely concerned enough that maybe he didn't realise how pervy he sounded. 
When he'd gone back down to the car to get everything, she's embarrassed to admit that she did indeed fluff her hair in the hallway mirror and put a smear of lip balm on. The spritz of perfume was probably a step too far as now her whole bathroom smells unsubtly like sweet vanilla, but all he does is smile knowingly when he steps back through her front door. 
As he's fiddling with wires and checking the camera connections, he points out the tiny piano in the corner of her bedroom. 
"I'm trying to learn," she explains. "I'm not very good." 
"You probably haven't had the right teacher then." He puts a tiny screwdriver into his mouth to hold as he adjusts the focus on the lens. 
"I'm self-taught." 
"That explains it then," he laughs. 
"I'm sorry, is this you offering your services?" Her brow arches. "Ghostbuster by night, piano prodigy by day?" She quips. 
"Yeah, something like that." 
His smile sets off the butterflies in her stomach, and she fiddles with the tea bag in her mug to give herself an excuse to look away from him. 
"Alright, I'm all done here." 
He pockets the last of his tools, brushing invisible lint off his pants, and she almost feels disappointed. They'd been getting along well, chatting about music and shows they wished they'd been able to see. They shared more in common than she'd anticipated, and now she kind of wishes he could stay a little bit longer. 
"Do you need me to tuck you in?" The cocky smirk is back, and she's more than happy for him to leave now. 
He promises to call her in a few days, and she has to bite her bottom lip to keep her smile from becoming too wide. He leaves a card with his number on it and tells her to call him if she needs him, no matter the time, day, or night. It feels like he means more than just to talk about ghosts, but she's never been good with being forward. 
Crawling into bed, she attempts to sleep even though she can still feel the eyes of the entity and the now the cameras on her. 
~~~ 
She lasts all of two nights before she makes her way back to the Ghostbusters' office. She can't take it anymore. Things are getting steadily worse; the contents of her kitchen cabinets are spilling onto the floor in the middle of the night, her piano starts playing randomly, a few keys playing some disjointed melody she's never heard. She feels like she might go insane if she doesn't get a decent night's sleep soon. 
Smacking the bell at the front desk, she waits for someone to slide down the fireman's pole. After all of three seconds, she smacks it again. Then again. Then again, and again, and again until she can hear stomping boots on the second level and a muffled "alright, enough already!" 
Matty slides down the pole, his hair a mess, and his shirt rumpled. She thinks maybe she's woken him up. 
Good. 
"Brittany Jackson. Amateur piano player and alleged level one ghostly presence." 
He stands next to her instead of going behind the counter like she thought he would, close enough that she can smell the last of his cigarette that he must have been smoking earlier and can see what she thinks might be red wine stains down the front of his top. 
"What can I do for you?" He wonders, leaning against the desk with his arms crossed over his chest. 
This cocky bastard. 
"You can kill the ghost in my apartment," she deadpans. "What's the holdup? Are you scared or something?" 
"Oh, I ain't afraid of no ghost," he smirks. "And we don't kill them." 
"Bust the fucking thing, then! Sort it out!" She's angry and exhausted, but he just looks amused by her outburst. 
"Have you got a boyfriend?" 
She's so caught off guard that all she can do is drop her jaw. She wonders if this is his weak attempt to flirt with her. (She wonders why she's not more put out by the thought.) 
"What?" 
"A boyfriend? Someone who can stay in your apartment with you to ward off the critters." He tilts his head. "Why? What did you think I meant?" 
This motherfucker. 
"No, I don't have a boyfriend." 
"That's too bad." She doesn't believe him for a second. 
He pushes off the counter, walking behind it and grabbing his coat before she can say anything else. "Come on, I'll walk you home and I'll check things out." 
~~~ 
They wander slowly through the streets, talking idly as they carefully navigate around people pouring out of bars at the late hour. Matty always puts himself between her and the other people on the sidewalk, a casual hand along the small of her back as he guides her back and forth, away from the road. He reveals he's watched some of the footage from the cameras in her apartment, and when she makes a face, he's quick to mention it's only from when she's been asleep or at work. 
"There hasn't been much of anything." It's disappointing to hear. "I do believe you, though, if it makes you feel any better?" 
Funnily enough, it does. 
"We don't exactly get people beating down our door and smashing the bell at reception every day, you know?" 
He smiles shyly at her, and their quiet walk almost feels like the end of a date. Their hands brush as they sway once, twice, three times before Matty puts his hands in his pockets. He looks kind of mad at himself, though, so she thinks maybe he just wasn't brave enough to grab her hand. It's sweet. 
He asks her a little more about her building and when she moved in, picking her brain about her life outside of ghosts and demons. 
"An Australian, living in the States, hiring a Brit." He laughs as he scuffs his shoes on the sidewalk. "Why New York?" 
"Why not New York?" 
"Answering a question with a question..." he trails off. 
Normally she wouldn't fall for the charm, but there's something about him that makes her open up. His stare that sees her instead of straight through her, his smile that makes her want to start talking and not stop. She spills all her secrets, her somewhat secret desire to be a musician, but her fears as she lacked the training. How she always dreamed of something more for herself but doesn't exactly know what "more" looks like just yet. She tells him about some of the funnier jobs she'd been assigned with her agency. 
(She was once an assistant to a racehorse for the day. The owner wanted her to talk directly to the animal, asking it any questions she had and making sure that all its needs were met. At the end of the day, the horse apparently decided that it liked her and tipped her heftily. 
She'd walked away from the job in a daze with a thousand dollars cash in her pocket, nervous she'd get robbed on the subway home.) 
Matty holds the security door open with an arm above his head, allowing her to walk through first, and she wonders how easy it would be to convince him to stay the night. He trails behind her up the stairs, and when he steps through her front door, he sucks in a breath. 
"Here, ghosty," he whistles sharply like what he would for a dog, but nothing happens. 
He performs the same checks he did last time he was there, opening and closing cupboard doors and waving around the P.K.E. Meter. He also steals more of her biscuits from the tin on the counter, but at least he looks guilty about it this time when he sees her face. 
"Still sure you don't want me to tuck you in?" He smiles, thumb pointing to her bed, and she's frustrated now. 
"Can you at least pretend to take me seriously?" She asks quietly, wrapping her arms around her middle. 
Matty's whole demeanor changes, the joking smile slips from his lips, and his face straightens out. 
"I'm taking it seriously, but there's nothing here yet." He steps away from the kitchen, coming closer to her. "I can stay the night if you want. I can sleep on the couch?" His thumb points in the direction of her lumpy Ikea sofa, and she sighs. 
"Can you just kill this thing already?" She whispers. 
He guarantees to bring the rest of the boys the next day, and she looks down at her shoes. 
"You gonna be okay tonight?" His hand grips her upper arm, his thumb moving soothingly across her skin. She nods and quietly utters "until tomorrow" when he presses a kiss to her temple before leaving. He throws her a wink as he jogs down the stairs, and her heart races with anticipation. 
When she closes her front door, she can't help but fall back against it with a soft thud, letting the grin that had threatened to break out ever since Matty's lips touched her skin free. It feels like her face is going to crack in half, and it feels like high school. That never-ending freefall when you develop a crush on someone. The butterflies, the flirty looks, and longing glances. It's intoxicating and thrilling and— 
The deadbolt slides into place behind her without her touching it. 
Her eyes pop open, and she looks around the room. It's eerily silent, and she'd gotten so lost in everything Matty that she'd almost forgotten all about her invisible, insidious roommate. 
It's like it knows what she's done and exactly who she's brought over because suddenly every piece of glass in her apartment shatters into a thousand pieces with a boom, raining down on her like tiny knives. She covers her face with her hands, drops to the floor and waits for it to be over. 
This is new. 
The ghost, or entity, or whatever you want to call it has never done anything other than play tricks on her. It's never caused her physical harm until now, and suddenly she's terrified. 
An unearthly roar sounds, and the floor rumbles beneath her as her body is slammed into the living room wall by an invisible force. The shattered glass pierces through her skin, and she can feel the slice in the back of her bicep and blood soaking through her shirt. The plaster sheeting cracks with the force of her body, and she has to quickly roll out of the way to avoid being killed by the heavy painting falling from above her. 
Another roar sounds, and it feels like the beginning of an earthquake. Her books rattle on the shelf along with her trinkets, the piano keys in her room play a disjointed melody, and all the items in her kitchen cabinets fall onto the tiled floor of the kitchen. 
She closes her eyes when the rumbling feels like it's going to break her chest apart. She can feel it in her lungs with every breath, and her ribs contract as she tries to suck in air. Her hands are grabbed tightly, and she's pulled from the floor. Her stomach goes haywire as she becomes vertical, but when she opens her eyes, all she sees is Matty. 
He's kicked down the front door. The wood lies splintered across her entryway, and they have to step on it to rush out of the building. She can still hear the roaring as they storm down the staircase and spill onto the street. 
Matty doesn't falter, dragging her away with fast steps and not letting her stop to breathe. Not letting her stop to think about what just happened. 
It's only when they're a block away that he pauses in the middle of the sidewalk. He turns to her, brushes the hair out of her face, and pushes the sleeve of his sweater against a cut on her forehead. It stings, and his eyes dart over her skin, assessing her without really seeing her before he grabs her hand so they can quickly keep moving. 
She's coming back to reality, grounded by his fingers between hers and the distance between them and the evil that lies within her building. Whatever happened doesn't seem to have affected anybody else. There are still a million people in the street, the usual guys hawking their "genuine fake" designer bags and shoes. There are still the hot dog carts and the stand that sells the driest soft pretzels you've ever tasted to unsuspecting tourists. 
Matty pulls her through the main door of the firehouse, guiding her through it with his hand on the small of her back. It's nice, comforting even. He sits her down in their kitchen/living/dining room, and it's hard to imagine firefighters ever residing in this building with all the band posters and ghost hunting gear spread over all the surfaces. 
(It's also obvious that only boys live there. Chinese takeout boxes litter the dining table, there are dishes piled in the sink, and their version of home décor consists of empty red wine bottles neatly lined up along the top of the cabinets.) 
Matty does his best to clean off the blood from her face, wiping a damp cloth gently over her skin and placing little butterfly band-aids over the cuts that are a bit deeper. An ice pack sits on her shoulder lazily, and he wraps a little blue bandage over the slice on one of her palms where she'd pressed her fingernails through the skin. 
The first aid kit is overflowing with bandages and alcohol wipes. There's an old blood smear along the front of the container that nobody ever bothered to clean off, and she flinches when he accidentally presses a little bit too roughly against the cut on the back of her arm. 
"Sorry," he whispers, softening his touch. 
He looks disappointed in himself as she watches him over her shoulder. He's been quiet since they sat down, clearly carrying around guilt for some unknown reason. Tonight wasn't his fault, and she wonders if he knows that. 
"How did you get into this anyhow?" Her voice doesn't sound like her own. It's raspy, and her throat is dry from screaming in absolute terror. 
Matty frowns and gets her a bottle of water from the fridge, twisting the cap off and passing it to her before sitting down opposite her again. He pulls her chair so that she sits closer to him, between his legs, as he inspects how deep the slice in the back of her bicep is. 
"We came out here for music," he tears open a new packet of disinfectant wipes, pressing the square against her skin, catching the droplet of blood before it rolls down her elbow. "We were doing alright for ourselves, made an album, sold a bunch of records, but the money wasn't great." 
"We stayed at this awful motel in Los Angeles. Seriously, horrible." He laughs through his words, and his smile is infectious, causing the split in her lip to reopen when her lips spread. 
"There were obvious signs of ghosts there, and we set traps for fun, like the kind of shit we'd seen in movies. The whole salt in a circle thing, and we bought holy water from the church across the street. We thought we were just gonna kill some time before our next gig, but we ended up catching spirits." 
He wipes at her lip one last time before throwing the leftover supplies back into the kit, closing the lid and throwing the rubbish into the bin in the corner. 
"The motel let us stay for free, paid us five grand for our troubles and then asked us to check out another motel in the area that was infected. We hadn't seen that kind of money, ever. So we quit our gigs so we could save up and buy new instruments and equipment and whatever the hell else we wanted." 
He seems kind of sad as he speaks, looking forlorn as he wraps a cloth bandage tightly around her bicep. She realises the next part of his story is where he's going to tell her that he gave up on his dreams to help others out of their nightmares. 
"You ever think about quitting?" She asks quietly. 
"Every day." 
"Why don't you?" 
"Because then I wouldn't get to meet pretty girls like you." 
If she felt any weaker, she's sure she'd blush at the compliment. Instead, she rolls her eyes with a scoff and pushes at his shoulder. 
"Aren't pretty girls a rock star's bread and butter?" 
He snorts, sitting back in his chair. "Take the compliment, Britt." 
Now she blushes. 
They stay up a bit longer, drinking tea and talking. She's exhausted, but she wants to stay up with him, learning everything she can. He's mystifying and intelligent, quoting obscure references from books he's read and reciting lyrics from his favourite musicians. 
He tells her about how one of the boys, Adam, was great with computers and science. He made a whole ghost containment unit that's fully sustainable. George was the level-headed one of them all, a natural leader. He took charge during most of their cases and reined them in when they got too overexcited. Ross was fearless, charging into rooms and practically daring any ghost to mess with him. 
They end up moving to the lounges on the other side of the room, sitting close and watching the sun peek through the clouds. With drooping eyes, she tells him her reasons for moving to the city, mirroring his – she wanted to make something of herself. 
"Most successful at your high school reunion, huh?" Matty jokes, and she tells him very seriously how true his statement is. 
When the sound of traffic starts to drown out the sound of the birds singing, he pulls her from the couch and drags her down the hallway. 
"Come on, you can sleep in my bed." 
She stands there with her eyes closed, too tired to open them, as he fluffs the pillows and pulls the sheets back. He grabs her arm when she's practically asleep on her feet and helps pull her sweater off. Her hair gets all messy as her head pops through the neck hole, and Matty smiles at the wild strands, smoothing them down with the palms of his hands and tucking them behind her ears. 
"You're staying with me, right?" She asks through a yawn. 
He hesitates before answering. "I can stay." 
"Good." 
She unbuttons her jeans, sliding them down her legs before crawling into his bed. She's honestly too tired to realise that it's probably not appropriate. She's only known Matty a few days, but something shifted tonight. She trusts him. Trusts that he'll deal with whatever is lurking in her apartment and trusts that he'll take care of her. 
He pulls his shirt over his head, and she notices the tattoos littering his skin. They're both practically naked, her in a tiny tank top and her underwear, and Matty just in his boxers. If they weren't so tired, she'd probably make a move. 
She's asleep by the time he lays down on the empty side of the bed, next to her. 
~~~ 
Brittany doesn’t dream of monsters trying to get her for the first time in a long time. She doesn’t wake up screaming, gasping for breath after feeling some invisible force holding her down and trying to sink into her bones. In her dreams, she isn’t sprinting down her apartment building staircase that doesn’t seem to have an end, or stuck running in the same spot while shadows draw closer to her.  
Instead, she dreams of a two-story house in a town she’s not familiar with. Snow falls gently around her, and she lets herself become mesmerised by the golden lights of the Christmas tree in the front bay window twinkling softly. It’s nice, comforting even. It feels familiar and safe, and she lets herself relax in the beautiful home that feels like somewhere she might’ve stayed in another life. 
When she opens her eyes, she instantly forgets. 
~~~ 
Matty's room isn't what she expected. Now that she's actually managed to sleep through the night (and most of the morning), she's able to take in her surroundings. There's a dark wood acoustic guitar sitting on a stand in the corner. There's no dust over it, so it must still get a good amount of use. A blue sweater hangs off the back of a chair sitting by his desk with stacks of black leather journals mounted on top, and she wonders if he writes his own music. 
She notes the absence of the sickly feeling in her stomach. She'd been the walking dead lately, too exhausted to do anything other than exist. More than once, she'd fallen asleep on her feet while on the subway, and it's honestly a miracle that none of her belongings were stolen. 
(Frankly, she was more pissed that she missed her stop more than once and had to double back. It meant that her journey home took twice as long, and it was already enough of a slog going between Brooklyn and Manhattan every day.) 
Sunlight streams into the room through a break in the curtains, and she stretches languidly. His sheets hold the scent of him, wine, and cigarettes, and the butterflies in her stomach flap their wings. Her bare feet hit the floor with a light thud, and she pulls on her jeans, left in a messy heap on the floor. Her shoulder aches from the collision the night before, but she feels so much better than she has recently that it's a pain she's more than happy to deal with. 
Exiting the bedroom, she follows the sound of a dog collar jingling and the clash of dishes. She can hear the muffled conversation through the door, and she knows they're talking about her and her situation. Pushing it open, she waits for them to notice her. 
"I thought you said this wasn't anything to worry about?" One of the guys, George, pushes the dog off his lap with a grunt, and it moves onto the next person, begging for scraps with a wagging tail and its tongue hanging out of its mouth. 
"I didn't think it was! Nothing came up on the P.K.E. Meter when I went there. Fucking thing is probably broken.” 
“Don’t blame the technology!” Adam snaps. 
Matty throws a dish towel over his shoulder and leans against the bench with his arms crossed over his chest. The sink is filled with dirty dishes, and the drying rack is overloaded with plates and cups. Water has slopped over the sides of the basin and onto the floor by his feet, leaving dirty footprints in its wake. 
"So, what? You're thinking a poltergeist?" Adam pipes up, handing the dog the crumbs from his lunch. 
"I don't know, maybe." He scratches behind his ear, and she can see that his fingers are pruney. "After last night, I'm not particularly fond of the idea of going back there until we figure out what it is." 
"Can't you use the cameras instead?" 
They all look at her as she enters the kitchen. Ross gets up from his chair, offering it to her, and Matty pushes off from the bench, grabbing a mug off the shelf. He places it in front of her before sliding the pot of tea that's already been brewed and passing a little sugar container across the table. 
George pulls at her arm to inspect the large slice covering the back of her bicep, and the other boys tell her their plan to rewatch the footage from the night before. Adam leaves the room to connect the tapes to the flat-screen television downstairs, and Ross gathers their dirty plates, dumping them into the sink, splashing Matty, who flips him off. 
"It's going to scar," George says gently. "You probably need stitches, but it seems to be holding up alright for now." 
She smiles sadly, and he lets her go, leaving the room so that it's just her and Matty again. 
"There's, uh," he drops a plate with bubbles still all over it on the drying rack and points to one of the cupboards. "There's bread and stuff if you want something to eat." 
He won't look at her. 
He's being weird. 
"You're being weird." 
He sighs deeply, and she wonders if this is the part when he tells her that they don't know how to bust the ghost in her apartment, or worse, that he’s not interested. 
"I had a really nice time last night," he admits. “Before you almost died.” 
Oh. 
Now she feels stupid. 
"I had a really nice time too." 
Matty grins at her from across the kitchen, and it feels absurd to have this kind of conversation the morning after a ghost tried to kill her. 
"Matty!" 
Adam's voice booms from downstairs, and they both rush out of the room. Following him through the maze of hallways and doors, they stop where the other boys are fixated on the flat screen. Ross hits the rewind button on the remote, and she watches herself fly from one side of her apartment to the other in the blink of an eye. 
The footage starts over again from the moment Matty left. Her head drops against the front door as she sighs, letting the goofy smile break out onto her face before all the glass in her apartment explodes. 
It's weird seeing her apartment from this angle. She's noticing things she'd never seen before, like how she thought the beginning was the deadbolt sliding into place, but really, whatever was haunting her had crept its way across the room in a smoky sort of haze from her bedroom. At least, that's how it appeared on the screen. 
The wall shakes when her limp body hits it, and she realises just how close she was to having her head cracked open by the painting in the heavy frame that was once on the wall. The front door is kicked in, pieces of wood flying everywhere as Matty comes to save the day, grabbing her off the floor and dragging her outside. 
It all happens in less than thirty seconds, but at the time it had felt like she was stuck in the moment for ages. 
Adam takes notes, moving the video back to certain points and zooming in on different areas of the room. George lines up the video from her bedroom next, connecting the time frames together and comparing the two lots of footage. Ross starts packing some gear into his bag, confident now that they have a ghost to bust. She watches them run around the ground floor of the firehouse, filling the trunk of their car with everything they think they’ll need and charging up their proton packs. 
There are a few hours until sunset and the boys head to their rooms to catch some sleep, bidding her goodnight. She supposes she can just hang around the building until they return, watching television, or reading one of the many books stacked on every flat surface. Matty doesn’t head to his room, though. Instead, he laces up his shoes, grabs the dog lead and looks at her with a raised brow, like a challenge. 
“Coming?” 
~~~ 
They make it all of one block before Matty slips his hand into hers, twisting their fingers together, and she blushes the entire time they stroll through the New York streets. 
~~~ 
After they quickly eat a few slices of greasy, cheesy pizza for dinner (extra olives for Adam, no pepperoni for Ross), the boys slip on their suits and get ready to head out. She straightens Matty’s collar as he pulls the boiler suit over his shoulders and slowly pulls the zip up to cover his clothes. There’s a moment where his hands cover hers, and she thinks he might kiss her, but then he must think better of it because he pulls her fingers off gently and awkwardly waves goodbye at her as they leave the safety of the firehouse. 
When the garage door closes, she’s completely alone, and it's terrifying. 
She spends the first hour sitting impatiently in the chair behind the reception desk, waiting for their return. The following 30 minutes she spends seeing how fast she can spin around three times. After that, she stands at the top of the fireman’s pole and attempts to be brave enough to try sliding down it because it looks like fun, but when she realises how high she is, the novelty wears thin. 
After more than two hours, the incessantly ringing phone is driving her so mad that she answers it after the third call in a row. She jots down a few bits of information, including the name and contact number of the person on the other line, and hangs up with a sigh of relief. Her newfound enjoyment of the silence lasts all of 10 minutes before the phone rings again. 
She’s hanging up the phone again as the garage door opens, and the red flashing lights of the Ghostbusters vehicle illuminates the building as they pull in. She can hear them whooping and hollering inside the car, so she thinks it's safe to assume her apartment is no longer haunted. Matty pushes open the passenger door, grinning from ear to ear as he lets the dog jump out. 
“We came, we saw, we kicked its ass!” he cheers. 
George steps out of the driver's side, holding a white towel to his nose that still seems to be gushing blood. Ross looks a little bit worse for wear, his hair in disarray, and Adam is the only one who seems completely unscathed. Even Matty has a tear in his coveralls at his shoulder and a purple jaw from where the ghost undoubtedly tried to smack the smirk off his face. 
“It’s really gone?” 
She can’t even keep the awe out of her voice. She’s in disbelief that the thing that has kept her up every night is currently contained in what could only be called a metal shoebox. 
“Standard, run-of-the-mill poltergeist,” Matty triumphantly informs her. “Brittany Jackson, your apartment is now ghost-free.” 
It feels like the right time to kiss him, so she does, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her lips to his. Just as he slips his tongue into her mouth, the reception phone rings again, and she groans before picking up the old receiver. 
“Ghostbusters. What do you want?” 
She untangles herself from Matty, and he smacks her ass before heading upstairs. 
“We do the hard work, and he gets the girl? Typical,” Ross grumbles as he heads down the stairs, into the basement, holding the still smoking trap at arm's length away from himself. 
~~~ 
She finds the boys in their kitchen/dining/lounge room, going over the footage in her apartment, laughing raucously as they watch themselves get thrown around her living room. Her living room rug is literally pulled from beneath George's feet, causing him to fall flat on his face, which explains his nose. Ross gets up from his spot next to Matty, pulling her arm gently and making her sit down just in time to see Adam trip over the plug to her lamp. No ghostly presence this time, just his own clumsiness, and they all laugh hysterically. 
Turning in her seat, she looks at Matty, who's already looking at her with a raised brow. He looks tired and sweaty, his hair sticking to his forehead, but he looks happy. His arm is lazily slung behind her back, his fingers fiddling with the belt loops on her jeans, twisting the material around before letting it go again. The other boys cheer when their proton packs light up her apartment in the footage, and they're so caught up in reliving their victory that they don't even notice her and Matty slipping out the door. 
They barely make it to his room in time before he throws her against the back of the door. His mouth presses against hers in a heated frenzy, and her hands run over his bare skin, her eyes darting quickly over the tattoos on his torso as she grips his arms. Pushing his blue sweater that she’s apparently borrowed over her shoulders, he buries his face in her neck, inhaling the last of her perfume. 
“Do you wanna go out sometime?” He pants, nipping at the underside of her jaw. 
“I thought you’d never ask,” she gasps, crossing her arms in front of herself and peeling her shirt off. 
~~~ 
"Explain it to me again." 
They’re in her apartment the following morning, and he’d be lying if he said he was anything less than absolutely exhausted. She’d kept him up almost the entire night (he’s not complaining), but after being thrown around her tiny-ass apartment and having to run up and down her stairs all night, grabbing more gear from the car because the ghost in her apartment kept breaking their shit? Yeah, he’s absolutely knackered. 
“You like all this vintage crap, right?” He gestures around her room from his spot, reclined on her bed after she’d changed the sheets. “It was probably attached to something.” 
He’s supposed to be taking down the cameras and collecting payment from her, but he can’t be bothered. Stifling another yawn, he watches her pick clothes up off the floor and place them neatly back on the freestanding rack. He’s noticed a few short dresses that he’d like to see more of and some boring collared shirts that he assumes she wears for work. 
“Well, how do I know if something is haunted?” She frowns. 
“You don’t,” he can’t stop his jaw from widening as a yawn escapes him. “Not until they make themselves known.” 
She picks up a yellow PVC coat with a feathered collar and he can’t help but comment. 
“That’s definitely haunted.” He sits up, moving down the edge of the bed, lazily attempting to pull it from her hands and grabbing her hips instead. “I’ll take it back to the firehouse and get rid of it.” 
She drops the coat on the floor and wraps an arm around his neck, grinning down at him. Her fingers play with his hair, and if his eyes weren’t falling out of his head, he’d probably make a move. 
“My hero,” she offers with a sarcastic laugh, and he loves the sound. With a quick press of her lips against his own, she picks up the coat and goes back to organising her belongings again. 
Laying back on her pillows, he wonders what she’ll be like now that there’s no ghost keeping her tethered to him like some kind of invisible string. He’s already noticed the brightness that she seems to exude now that she’s finally slept, and her eyes don’t look so dark anymore, no longer swimming with fear and anxiety. 
He likes watching her putter around her apartment, likes seeing how she lives. He finds it cute that everything has a place, but then there are little cracks in the surface, like how she’s incredibly put together, but her nail polish is chipped. Or how all the vinyl records on her shelf are organised alphabetically, but the discs inside each sleeve are from a different record. 
“What?” She laughs when she’s caught him staring. 
“I really like you.” 
Fuck. 
He didn’t want it to spill out like that. 
He didn’t want to— 
“I really like you too.” She bites her lip, and her cheeks flush. 
Oh. 
Oh. 
“Do you wanna go out sometime?” 
She tilts her head and looks confused. “Didn’t you ask me that last night?” 
He closes his eyes and cringes internally, exhaling out of his nose sharply. 
“I forgot,” he admits. “But that's not an answer either.” He looks at her pointedly, and she laughs. 
“I’m just messing,” she laughs. “Yes, I’d love to go out with you.” 
They make loose plans for the following evening, and just as he’s about to fall asleep in her bed, she asks one final question. 
“Are there any kind of nepo baby perks when you go out with a Ghostbuster?” 
The laugh that bursts from his chest surprises them both and makes her downstairs neighbour bang their broom handle against the ceiling. 
~~~ 
He doesn’t want to, but he goes home. He’s technically on the clock from sundown and needs to catch a few more hours of sleep in his own bed. Brittany’s apartment is great, but everything is just too noisy, and he’s not used to the sounds. The most frustrating of them all was the piano in her bedroom, whose keys were too loose and kept playing notes just as his eyes would droop. 
Plus, he also knows the look in Britt’s eye; he’s seen it once or twice in his lifetime. It’s a look that every man becomes familiar with, the look of a woman who wants to be thrown against a wall and be thoroughly had. He’d love to be that guy right now, but he hasn’t got it in him to take care of her as well as she deserves. He still kisses her hard at her door though, so at least she’ll be thinking about him for the rest of the night, hopefully. 
They text sparingly throughout the rest of the day; she keeps him informed overnight about the lack of ghosts in her apartment, and he drafts and deletes messages based on all the filthy things he wants to do to her. Their upcoming date the next day feels like a formality. Of course, he wants to take her out and spend time with her in a romantic setting, but he knows she’s about to be his. It just feels too soon to be able to say so without taking her out for dinner and maybe a movie. 
That doesn’t stop him from ironing his shirt, spraying some cologne his mum bought him for his last birthday, and picking up a bunch of flowers along the way to her place. He wants to make a good impression, wants her to know how serious he is about her. 
The security door at the base of her building is propped open as removalists carry furniture to the truck parked along the curb (mostly in the bike line, he notes with a frown). He runs up the stairs, skipping every few, ignoring the burn in his thighs before knocking on her door. His heart beats quickly as he waits for her to answer, and he runs a hand through his hair nervously. His palms are beginning to sweat around the plastic wrapping of the bouquet, and he’s beginning to think she’s forgotten about their plans when there’s a shatter of glass from inside her place, and the door swings open suddenly. 
Brittany stands in the doorway, looking otherworldly. 
No. Seriously. She looks insane. 
She looks possessed. 
Her eyes have a glow to them as if they're lit from beneath her skin, and she moves as if she’s a newborn foal, with gangly legs and slinky arms. She bares her teeth and questions his presence in the doorframe with a voice he’s never heard come from her before. His stomach sinks at the thought that whatever he and the boys caught a few nights earlier wasn’t the problem. 
“Do you know John?” 
She’s propped against the doorframe like a doll, and her voice is completely emotionless, but deep enough to scare the life out of him. Whatever they caught in her apartment was not the only thing lurking in the shadows, waiting to get her. If anything, the poltergeist was probably somehow protecting her from whatever big bad had snuck its way into her body. 
“I might know John,” he plays along. 
Brittany’s body saunters across the apartment and drapes itself onto the sofa listlessly. Her head rolls around on her shoulders, and he thinks back to all the minimal times they’ve dealt with possession. This scenario isn’t new to him, but it's not like he’s got plenty of experience with it either. Stepping into the apartment and closing the door behind him, he takes a calming breath and tries to remember the basics. 
Keep calm, follow along with whatever the entity requires until they find the source that keeps its presence trapped on their earthly plane. Simple. Most of the time. He doesn’t figure today is going to be one of those days, though. Dropping the flowers next to her keys on the TV unit, he shrugs out of his jacket and gets to work. 
First things first, he needs to alert the boys and then clear the building. The moment whatever is inside Brittany realises that he’s going to try and remove it, it’ll just jump to the next warm body, and they’ll be chasing it all over town as it causes chaos. The best thing he can think to do is pull the fire alarm, but not before doing some due diligence. 
“Where’s John?” She moans, and he slides onto the coffee table, facing her. 
“He’s on his way,” he lies smoothly. “What's your name?” 
Her body groans indelicately, but it comes out more like a demonic roar that's so loud that he has to manually remind himself to breathe to keep his heart rate down and his mind focused. She’s wearing one of the dresses she’d been rehanging the day before in her room, and he wonders if this was the outfit she’d planned to wear on her date with him before she’d become what she is now. 
“My name is June.” Her eyes brighten again, like it knows something he doesn’t, and it's unnerving. 
She slinks off the couch like a serpent and fiddles with the vinyl records on the bookshelf. While she’s not looking, he shoots a text to George with the address and “911” before slipping his phone back into his pocket. Whatever is in Brittany’s body is getting frustrated with the record player, probably another one of her vintage finds at a flea market somewhere in the city because it's beaten up as hell, with scratches all over it, and the needle is bent. He quickly gets the music to play, and even though it skips every few seconds, she relaxes again, falling onto the couch and closing her eyes. 
As she’s not looking, his eyes rove around the apartment, trying to find things out of place. Everything seems to be in its correct spot, so he slowly moves towards the bedroom. The door is closed slightly, but as he inches it open, he can see the remnants of what looks like a burglary. He creeps inside the room, his blood pumping furiously through his veins. The tall mirror she’d had propped against the wall is shattered, the mattress is barely on the frame, and her pillows have been ripped apart, feathers laying across every flat surface. 
It’s clear something sinister occurred in the space, and the darkness that drips from every corner is enough to make his lungs feel tight. He backs out of the room and closes the door behind him. The living room is silent, and when he turns to look at the sofa, Brittany’s body is gone, and the front door is wide open. 
“Shit.” 
He runs out of the apartment, looking over the railing of the staircase. He can hear quick footsteps, so he bolts after them as quickly as he can. He gets stuck behind the removalists as two burly guys haul a stupidly large dining table through the ground floor, and he knows he’s lost her. By the time he gets onto the street, the Ghostbusters car pulls up and the boys file out, fully geared up. He appreciates the timely manner in which they arrived, but they’re all too late now. 
~~~ 
“You’re sure she said nothing?” 
He’s just about sick of George asking the same stupid question. 
“I’m bloody sure. She said nothing to me about anything important!” 
With no other options, they’re back inside her apartment trying to find something they may have missed, a hidden clue that would help point them in the right direction. So far, it was a bust, and he’d retraced his steps too many times trying to make sense of everything. 
“It’s all important!” George barks. “You need to tell us everything that was said from the moment you walked in the door!” 
He sighs, rubbing his forehead, and begins telling the story all over again. How he’d come into the building, knocked on the door, and known instantly that things weren’t right. 
“How’d you know?” Adam pressed. 
“Because I know her, and whatever that was, wasn’t it.” 
“You’ve only known her for a bit,” George reminds him. “Maybe she’s just letting you down easy?” 
“By acting like a psycho? Use your head, G.” 
He keeps going, trying to remember all the small details, but he can’t think straight because Ross is messing around with the out-of-tune piano in her bedroom that remarkably remained unscathed in all the drama. 
It instantly feels like the puzzle pieces sliding into place. 
"My radio blasts every night at 2am, and it's not even plugged in." 
"Sorry, I need to get it fixed. The keys are too loose, or something, so it randomly plays all the time." 
"I bought this beautiful old piano from the Brooklyn flea market. It cost me more to get it back to Manhattan than it did to buy the bloody thing." 
Pushing Ross aside, he moves the sheet music, and there it is, inscribed on the underside of the lid, the answer they'd been looking for. 
"For my June bug. May our love be everlasting in this life and every other. Love, your John." 
"The piano is the source," he states, and George stares at him, waiting for the explanation. 
~~~ 
Adam gets to work finding out all the information he can on the piano while Ross wheels it into the living room. 
“This thing weighs a fucking ton,” he moans, sweat glistening on his forehead. 
George throws him the keys to the car, and he sets off, attempting to find Brittany in the streets of Manhattan. He cruises by slowly, keeping his eyes trained on the traffic in front of him while he scans every face he comes across. The walkie in the passenger seat blares white noise every other minute as the connection comes and goes. 
There’s a crowd forming outside of a building in Gramercy Park, and he thinks it's either going to be some sort of Frankenstein-ed baked treat (a bloody doughnut-muffin or a croissant-cake), or he may have just stumbled upon the body that is supposed to contain Brittany Jackson. Pulling the car up, he slides out of the driver's seat and makes his way across the street. 
"Come in, Matty? Over.” 
“What do you have? Over.” He waits for a response on the other side, pushing his sunglasses onto his head. 
“Turns out the piano was custom-made by one John Davis for his wife June. They used to live in a building over in Gramercy-” 
“Near 3rd Avenue?” 
He lifts his head to follow the eyeline of the crowd and is stunned for a moment by what he sees. 
“What? Yeah, somewhere close to–” 
“I got it. Over.” 
Pushing his way through the crowd of people formed on the sidewalk, he bursts through the door of the building. He pushes the elevator button repeatedly until the doors open, and once he's inside, he selects the top floor. 
~~~ 
“Ok, so Viking goodbye?” Ross scratches his beard as they contemplate the best way to dissolve the last of the spirit from the piano. 
“We can’t set it on fire inside an apartment building,” George scoffs. 
They stare down the cause of their latest problem before Adam breaks the silence. 
“How did she even get it in here?!” 
~~~ 
Wind quickly whips by his head, whistling in his ears as Matty opens the door. He swears the clouds are close enough to touch as he looks around the deserted rooftop until he finds what he was looking for. His heart sinks into his stomach as he watches Brittany Jackson’s body dance along the edge of the building, her bare feet tip-toeing the edge and her dress rippling in the breeze. 
“I’ve got eyes on her,” he whispers into the walkie-talkie. 
Her body looks over at him, angry at the intrusion, with narrowed eyes and teeth bared. 
~~~ 
“We need more time,” George pants, scrambling for his walkie-talkie that had fallen by the wayside after an invisible force viciously shoved them all back, away from the piano. 
It was as if it knew they were trying to destroy it. His nose is pouring blood again from the impact, and he has to use the sofa to pull himself up to a standing position. Ross stands on the kitchen bench, clutching his ribs as he holds a lighter to the smoke detectors until the alarm starts blaring obnoxiously. 
They needed to clear the building. 
~~~ 
Slipping the walkie-talkie into his back pocket, he slowly inches closer. 
“Where’s John?” She snarls, cautiously watching his every move like a predator eyeing its prey. 
He sucks in a breath. The boys need more time. He can do that. 
“I’m right here.” 
It’s instantaneous, her reaction. Her lips stop curling into a growl and transform into the brightest smile he’s ever seen from her. Her hair stops whipping around in the breeze and starts dancing lightly along her shoulders, the curls at the ends bouncing lightly along the top of her dress. She jumps off the ledge towards him, rushing over quickly in her heels. He tenses as she throws her arms around his neck and smashes her mouth to his. 
~~~ 
George had managed to chip the edge of the piano lid with an unused frying pan in the kitchen (the thing still had the tags on it), and Adam had somehow dislocated his shoulder when he was thrown against the wall. It’s safe to say that they weren’t exactly busting this ghost with ease. 
Their proton pack blasts ricocheted off the piano like a basketball against a backboard. Desperation was beginning to set in, and they were running out of ideas. They could sit by it, could run their hands over it, but the moment they lifted a finger to cause damage, it flung them back violently. 
Ross shakily gets up from the kitchen floor, peeling his back gently off one of the now crumpled cabinet doors with a wince. He can feel tiny splinters attached to his boiler suit, and as he stands, he spots some inspiration as he looks back to assess the damage. Reaching into the sink for one of the dirty water glasses that miraculously hasn’t shattered yet, he begins to fill it with the unused, brand new olive oil in the pantry. 
With shaking hands, he walks slowly across the apartment, ignoring George’s curious gaze and Adam’s confusion. Sitting at the bench seat, he channels Matty’s parents and tries to give the acting performance of a lifetime. 
“Oh, I am so thirsty,” he clears his throat and carries on. “Perhaps I will sit right here and have a drink, and then – oh no!” 
With fumbling hands, Ross knocks the glass over. The oil spreads across the wood, the glossy liquid dripping over the sides and splattering to the floor. Standing up, he heads back towards the kitchen, searching through his pockets for his zippo when he feels the sharp ridges meet his fingers. Rolling it between his fingers, he ignites it, the flame burning brightly as he tosses it towards the piano. 
“Ross, don’t!” 
~~~ 
“Come with me, be with me!” The ghost of June Davis, currently inhabiting Brittany Jackson, downright begs him to get on the ledge of the building. “We’ll be together forever, and you’ll never have to spend a second without me again!” 
Tears flood her eyes when he doesn’t answer quickly enough. Her hands grip his arms with unnatural strength, squeezing his biceps painfully under her nails. 
“Don’t you want me anymore? Don’t you love me?” 
Standing this close to the girl that had invaded his every thought since she’d first stormed her way into the firehouse all those nights ago, it was hard to remember that she was currently possessed. Her eyes were still blue with flecks of green, her hair was dark with a few strands that were lighter than the others. She still had the tiny little scar on her forehead from when she’d had chicken pox as a kid and she’d scratched too hard. 
“I want you to stay here with me, just for a bit longer.” He pleads, gripping her waist and stopping her from pulling them any closer to the ledge than necessary. 
“But you don’t love me.” Her fingers unclench, and her arms drop by her sides. 
“I–,” he stumbles on his words. “I didn’t say that.” 
Before he even realises it, she’s ripped herself away from him and is climbing up onto the ledge again. By the time he reaches her, she’s already standing on the precipice, holding out her hand to him. 
“Then be with me!” 
Taking her hand, he tries to pull her off the ledge. 
“Britt, get down from there!” 
Her lifeless fingers begin to tighten around his hand, squeezing until he can feel his knuckles pop beneath his skin. 
“That’s not my name.” She growls, her voice becoming distorted. “You’re not John.” 
~~~ 
The apartment was nothing more than inferno. As soon as the lighter had hit the piano, it had blasted everything in its path away in a vicious fury. Fire licked the walls and the demonic vessel screeched and wailed as its body burned cruelly. The keys played a disjointed tune, trying with all its might to breathe life back into itself before becoming engulfed in the flames. 
Crawling tiredly through the smoke, George tries to find the other boys in the haze. The last thing he’d seen before his head collided with the wall was red flying towards Ross in the kitchen. He can hear Adam coughing on the other side of the room, somewhere towards the door, and knows that he’ll be fine without extra help. 
“Ross!” He bellows. 
~~~ 
"I am John," Matty attempts to convince the presence in front of him, but the ghost of June Davis seems to have him completely figured out. 
"Liar!" 
The demon growls, a malevolent roar, and the earth shakes beneath his feet. Although June's grip on him doesn't falter, something ominous begins to take place. Her shoulders quiver, and a gust of wind starts to howl around them, whipping through the air. Her once-piercing eyes roll back into her head, leaving him to wonder if the other boys had somehow found a way to intervene. 
Matty yanks her away from the ledge, pulling her back to safety. He holds her tightly as she begins to scream in agony, an unearthly wail that seems to screech through the city. Black smoke billows from her mouth, pouring out in thick tendrils as her skin sears and crackles as if she was being licked with invisible fire. Her body convulses, and he feels helpless. 
Then, as abruptly as it had begun, it stops. 
"Britt? Hey!" Matty gently places her on the ground, urgently tapping her cheek, waiting with bated breath for some kind of reaction. "Wake up!" 
There’s no response, and his trembling fingers press urgently against her neck to feel her pulse. Panic grips him when he can’t find it. He’s never had to do CPR before; normally, George or Adam took care of it, and he regrets never bothering to learn. It was just pure laziness – he never thought he’d need to know, and now, of course, he was the only one around, and this woman who had turned his life upside down might die because of his stupidity. 
Pinching her nose and tilting her head back, he breathes strongly into her mouth before beginning chest compressions. He berates himself when he doesn’t even know how many he’s supposed to do before breathing into her mouth again. He ignores the tears that drip solemnly from his eyes and continues to push down repeatedly. 
Suddenly, Brittany Jackson returns to life with a horrified gasp, followed by a hacking cough as she rolls onto her side. He can't help but crowd over her, gently sweeping her hair off her face and pressing grateful kisses onto her shoulder after he pulls her up against his chest. 
“You’re ok,” he promises, his voice trembling with relief. “I’ve got you.” 
Her eyes close, and he gets her to just focus on breathing. With every lungful of air, the tension eases in his own lungs, and he holds her tightly, keeping her grounded against him. 
“Worst date ever,” she manages to croak out. 
~~~ 
George pushes open the double doors to Brittany Jackson’s building with a bang and strolls outside, lighting a cigarette and feeling a new spring his step. Ross and Adam shuffle out behind him, groaning, and they ignore the fire brigade shoving past them, making their way inside to deal with the flames currently taking over the building. They’re covered in soot, blood, and sweat, but the relief is evident on their faces. 
A detective makes their way over to them, and a crooked smiles breaks out on his face. “I thought you boys might make an appearance at this one.” 
“You knew?” Adam asked, a brow arched in surprise as he shakes Detective Venkman’s hand. 
“Who do you think told her to call?” Another officer calls him over, and he bids them goodbye, promising to come by the firehouse later for a statement. 
~~~ 
Matty hates hospitals, he despises how they smell like death, and that there are always a million people running around. He doesn’t know how anyone can rest enough inside the clinical walls to recover from whatever illness put them there in the first place, but sitting in the waiting room, his arm around Brittany’s shoulders, she closes her eyes. 
She’s poked and prodded for the rest of the night by doctors testing her reflexes and asking her insane questions that she can only provide nonsensical answers to. Matty holds her hand when she’s hooked up to an intravenous drip, and he wipes the tears from her lashes when they do a blood test. Her head rests against his shoulder when she looks away as red liquid pours from her arm into the tube, and he whispers more calming sentiments. 
Brushing his fingers across her scalp, she’s finally beginning to fall asleep. They’ve been there for hours at this point, and he knows she’s frustrated, tired, and wants to leave. Her breaths even out, and he’s stopped catching himself counting the rises and falls of her chest. 
His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he sees George’s name flash across the screen. 
“G, you good?” He answers, standing from the uncomfortable chair next to her bed and leaving their little curtained-off area. 
“Yeah, we’re good. You?” 
Looking around the hospital, he’s hit with the realisation of how much worse things could’ve been. 
“Yeah, we’re good.” 
They fill each other in on the events of the evening, working through some of the questions they still had when George drops another bombshell. 
“We accidentally burned down Britt’s apartment.” 
“Fuck off.” 
“It’s not our fault. The fucking thing fought back!” 
Rubbing his forehead, he doesn’t know what to do with the information, or how to break it to the girl laying in the hospital bed behind the curtain. Her entire life was inside that shitty one-bedroom place. She’d taken great pride in showing him all her little knick-knacks when he’d come over to help put the place back together after they’d caught the poltergeist. 
“Matty?” 
A gravelly voice softly calls out, and he hangs up the phone quickly, sliding through the gap in the curtain and sitting beside her once again. 
“Sorry, baby.” He intertwines her fingers with his own, kissing her knuckles. 
~~~ 
George wasn’t lying. The next day, after she’s checked out of the hospital and gets discharged wearing Matty’s spare boiler suit that was in the back of the car and her heels, they inspect what's left of her apartment. The piano is nothing but ivory keys and ashes that she doesn’t want to touch, and her vinyls are all melted together. Her couch is a pile of soot, and all her clothes are burnt to a crisp (except for her yellow coat, which Matty seems thrilled about). 
Her arms are folded over her chest, and she doesn’t say anything as she looks around at the remains of her life. Kicking the corner of her coffee table that miraculously still stands on all four legs, she tries to keep the tears at bay. 
“Can you explain it to me again?” She looks at him, biting her lip and taking a shuddering breath. 
“June Davis passed away from illness, and her husband John went not long after. He died from a heart attack,” Matty begins. 
“More like a broken heart,” Brittany sighs, holding Matty’s hand and carefully stepping over the charred remains of her bedroom door. 
“John bought June the piano because she loved music, but she never learned how to play it. According to their neighbours, who still live in the building that you almost nose-dived off, she always had guilt for never learning,” Matty says, watching her shuffle around the room. “That’s probably what kept her spirit anchored to Earth.” 
Britt nods as she lets the information roll around in her mind. 
“They were happy though, right?” She wonders sadly. 
“Yeah, I think so.” 
Turns out the piano had been causing the same problem every few years. The new owner would purchase it from a market somewhere in New York, they’d manage to hold onto it for a while before becoming possessed with the ghost of June Davis. The story unfortunately always ended the same, the possessed would fall off the apartment building in Gramercy Park that June and her husband, John, had once lived in, and the piano would go on to be sold again. 
“Can we go?” 
There’s nothing left to salvage, so he nods, grabbing her hand, and leaves the crumbling apartment behind. 
~~~ 
Brittany moves into the fire station. She promises that she’ll only stay until she finds a new apartment to move into, but somehow, the real estate pages of the newspaper keep disappearing. It’s like a ghost keeps taking them. 
Matty won’t allow her to pay any kind of rent or board since they literally burned down her apartment, and when she reminds him of the contract she signed, he pretends he has no idea what she’s talking about. To ease her own guilt, she answers the reception phone during the day and organises all their invoicing into a better system than what they previously had, which was none. At night, Matty teaches her how to play more instruments; her favourite out of his collection is an old, dark-stained acoustic guitar. 
(When everyone’s gone to bed for the night, he makes her heart, body, and soul sing as his calloused fingers play her instead, her back arching off the bed, and eyes rolling as his lips make her come undone.) 
As much as she feels anger about what happened to her and all the chaos that was caused, Brittany thinks about June Davis fondly sometimes. She can still recall some of the love-driven thoughts that had occupied her mind when June was in possession of her body, the longing the woman had felt for her husband. 
It almost feels serendipitous because without June Davis, she wouldn’t have been kept up late at night from all the supernatural disturbances. Without all the supernatural disturbances, she wouldn’t have called the police, who ended up giving her a business card telling her exactly who to call. 
131 notes · View notes
owlish-owlhouse · 1 year
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Could you do a head cannon of Darius x fem!reader who’s a Clawthorne? Like they met at Hexside and were childhood sweethearts, and now they see one another at the rebellion meeting and have like a heart to heart moment. Just lots of awkward fluff lol (and only when you get the time ofc!!)
All readers are gender neutral
...
You were in Hexside Potions like your sisters. While you had your own interests you weren't sure how to feel about always being lumped in with Eda and Lilith. You liked having your two sisters around and being in the same track as them but always being told you weren't as good as Lilith or as innovative as Eda left you in a strange place in the family. Classic Middle Child syndrome even though you were the younger sibling.
Despite this you got along well with your sisters. Eda always took you on her wild adventures and Lilith helped you study and learn. They cared about you and wanted you to always know you could depend on them. While you were always compared to the two they made sure to spend time where your own interests and hobbies were explored. They wanted you to be your own person as much as you needed to be your own person.
You always had a deep longing to explore. You'd spend hours mapping out the secret parts of the school and wandering around the woods near your house. You wanted to see the Entire Isles someday and maybe even past that. While Eda and Lilith didn't understand your want to leave they did support your habits and enjoyed finding new places with you.
Darius while he befriended your sisters first, fell head over heels in love with you once you met. While you were always compared to your siblings both at home and at school, he taught you that you weren't them. He saw you for you and he never let you think he saw your sisters. While he saw ClawThorne traits in you, he knew you were all you and he loved you for that.
Whenever one of them had a fight (which was growing more frequent as graduation approached) and stormed off you always knew where they were going. Able to find and calm them down the quickest it became your job. Your sisters relied on you for balance and often aired their grievances with you, you were the glue that kept the family together through all the arguments and bitterness.
As you spent more time with Darius and your relationship went from friendly to flirty you realized what you needed and that was space. As you distanced yourself from your sisters and grew closer with Darius you told each other everything. He taught you all about his track and working with abominations. He showed you all of his tricks and gave you peaks into his special research he didn't let anyone else see. You spent your days discussing your potion track but also anything and everything that came up. Your mother's beast business, your father's palismen carving shop, his advanced studies at the castle. You could talk for hours and you often did, enjoying how much he listened.
You had a habit of being able to find lost things and knew all the hiding places in Bones Borough. So you spent your time going on new adventures with Darius. While he collected abomination supplies and tested new spells you told stories and mapped out your favorite areas. You always knew the best place to get ingredients for potions or the best places to lay low when one of your sister's got you in trouble.
As you became more and more distant from your sisters finding yourself and who you were, the curse happened and changed everything. While you didn't know Lilith was the one who cursed Eda you had your suspicions. Your older sister had taken an interest in the Night Market asking you questions that made you hate yourself for not paying closer attention. Your mother neglected you and Lilith focusing everything she had on Eda and her new curse. Your father did his best to reach out but was never the same after Eda attacked him in her Owl Beast form. You tried to be that glue again, to keep your family together but as Eda pushed you away and Lilith worked towards her dream of becoming an Emperor's Coven member you all grew apart. Eventually you couldn't take it anymore and knew after graduation you needed to leave.
You told Darius everything. He supported you, loved you, helped take care of you. But when you mentioned leaving, sailing far away to explore new places and coming back with your knowledge you realized how far you'd drifted from him while trying to keep your family together.
Sadly it was the very things you bonded over that inevitably split you up. While you had been focused on Edas curse and helping with Lilith's coven training he took his place mentoring under the Golden Guard. You didn't want to leave him but you found yourself wanting a different life. One away from your family and Bones Borough where you could grow and explore. You begged him to come with you but he said being the Head Witch of the Abomination Coven was too important to give up. You wanted to stay but knowing you'd be miserable, knowing your family had big plans, you left to give it all time. Hoping that you'd someday meet again.
The years pass and while you write him the occasional letter you haven't seen Darius in a long time. You had taken trips back to the Boiling Isles over the years to see your family and check on old friends whenever you turned in new maps you'd made but you avoided him. It hurt you to do so but you couldn't open that old wound, couldn't see him again lest you fall in love all over again.
Lilith always implored you to join her in the Emperor's coven with every trip home and Eda wanted you to come with her on wild adventures. Mom always asked if you'd eaten recently before giving you a giant meal and pestering you about visiting more while dad asked about your work and life on the sea. Much had changed and much stayed the same as the years passed and you came and went. You remained covenless and neutral escaping the system by constantly traveling and never staying in one place long.
The last time you returned however things were different. This time you stayed. Eda and Lilith finally working all of their feelings and secrets out. Lilith left the coven choosing Eda over her life as head witch. Your suspicions were confirmed and Lilith admitted to cursing Eda. They know shared the curse and we're openly plotting a rebellion. Beloses Day of Unity was not as Uniting as it sounded.
As you stayed with your sisters plotting against the throne and throwing a secret rebellion you were no longer the glue. You got to explore and be free without feeling trapped. Your sisters not needing you to resolve every argument and fix every problem they had. Luz your sisters new apprentice also helped keep the house peaceful and for once in a long time you felt everything could be right again. That it could go back to how it was.
You spent your days mapping out hiding places for the rebellion. Creating forts and safe houses with your magic and knowledge of hidden spaces in the Isles. While you were a small group now you felt unrest in the system. Others believed Belos was wrong as well, believed what he was saying and what he was planning were different. Believed the coven system was wrong. As the Day of Unity got closer you felt the unrest grow bigger.
You were right. Half the coven heads were on your side and as you learned this you couldn't believe you didn't see it earlier. You loved this man once upon a time a long time ago and here he was saving the day again. Seeing him in front of you all those feelings came flooding back, you were a young teen in love again. Before you could stop yourself you were running forwards and jumping into his open arms.
Darius stumbled back but didn't let go as you held onto each other. He tucked you under his chin clinging tightly to you and you felt hot tears spill down your cheeks. You had missed him. While you loved exploring and learning and sending the occasional letter back home you missed everything about him and that aching in your heart you'd felt all these years finally fell silent.
It was a tearful reunion one you knew couldn't last long but as you whispered apologies to each other both holding on for dear life you knew everything would be okay. Whatever happened at least you had each other.
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whinlatter · 7 months
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Beasts chapter 8 this week out now!
i will simply never stop with the vibes 🚂🧣☕️🏔️🌨️
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art credits: sambourne house interior (royal borough of kensington and chelsea) | shakin steven by jerrybones | 155-oxford street in the late 1980s by warsaw1948 | picadilly by berk aksen | how soon is now/please please please let me get what i want by the smiths | the grapes by ron donoghue | modern life is rubbish by blur | sambourne house interior 2 | petit grand cafe by dutchamsterdam | a christmas carol by charles dickens
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shrimpmajordomo · 1 year
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Land of Beasts and Boroughs
I don't think it's Aesop's realm. Borough is too modern for Aesop. I think boroughs didn't become a thing until the middle ages in England?
Definitely long after 600s bc Greece
If we're talking English storytellers, I mean, The Bard is right there. That would be so fucking sick.
They definitely wouldn't go contemporary, near the hyper-litigious Disney.
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junkshop-disco · 1 year
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Couple of people asked me to share some pics I have on file of the kind of place Thomas Barrow might've grown up that I have saved from when I was writing A Matter of Time. So here they are.
Before we dive in I'm just going to apologise they're all unsourced. I basically screen grab what's relevant to the fic, make a few notes about how I want to use it, and move on. I take notes like a scatty writer; my archivist friends are crying rn. But if there's something you want to know more about, just drop me a comment--I might be able to remember more or point you in the right direction.
Let's start with some background. This is from a write-up on a contemporary report into housing in the North, which confirmed for me that the kinds of places I was imagining as likely locations for where Thomas might've been born as a working class person were broadly on the money. The show gives us little to go on for an exact location, but I was guessing somewhere in the Greater Manchester region. I went with Greater Manchester rather than Manchester itself based mostly on the accent Rob uses in the show and a couple of lines from Baxter about Thomas's dad/background and, of course, that Thomas ends up in service.
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These places also imo tie nicely into Thomas's father being a clockmaker, as the Industrial Revolution led to a clock making industry (tied to the need for accurate time keeping mechanisms in factories etc) in Greater Manchester, specifically in places like Salford, Stockport, Bolton and Wigan. There was a huge growth in public clocks in those new factory towns and a demand for cheaper watches, and there were over 3500 clockmakers in the city at the end of the 19th C.. Manchester itself was instrumental in scientific research into time keeping thanks to the Townley Group so there's a strong history of working class clockmaking there (as opposed to the more artisan kind).
And this is about slum patching, with some contextual detail from the 1860s about the kinds of housing and housing issues generally facing working class people.
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These pics are both Chorlton, which is a suburb on the outskirts of Manchester from between 1900 and 1920. It's smog not fog, just in case that's not obvious.
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These are I think from the Angel Meadows area and show the kinds of housing, in particular the back-to-back terraces I imagine Thomas and Baxter were familiar with and hung about around (which people may be familiar with from shows like Coronation Street). They're designed for factory workers and communities that popped up to serve those kinds of textile industries that put Manchester on the map during the Industrial Revolution.
And these are Salford, which is a borough within Greater Manchester. The second one is dated 1900 so gives a flavour of where young Thomas might've grown up.
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Deansgate Lock in Manchester itself. This shows the canal, which was phenomenally important to the textile industry. Also: vibes.
And these are some general shots of villages/housing in Greater Manchester and Manchester itself, including factory workers from a cotton mill.
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When I was writing the fic, I discovered a place called Kersal Moor when I was looking for green spaces around the Salford area that Thomas might've gone shooting or walking or something. The first is a painting called View of Manchester from Kersal Moor by William Wylde from 1857 and the second is now, with some poetry that mentions it and conveyed the atmosphere of the place.
I loved the painting because it really shows what Manchester was like from the outskirts and how it got the nickname Cottonopolis. I really liked the idea of Thomas not being from the heart of the city but seeing it from a slight distance, this huge throbbing, smokey industrial beast of a place, and then deciding that wasn't for him and eventually ending up in the relative calm and quiet of Downton but still finding York boring compared to what he's used to.
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This is a working class house in Worksop, Nottinghamshire that was essentially frozen in time in the 1920s (I think 1924), which I used for reference for the Ellis house and the kind of fixtures and fittings working class people might have, although obviously being mindful that York and Worksop have different kinds of housing.
And since I've mentioned York, here's what I have for the Ellis's house and contemporary York, a general pic of the town, the Shambles, and a typical town house in the vague area I placed Richard's parents.
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I didn't do as much research on Richard's background since the fic is not from his pov so there was limited need for it, but I think it's clear from the few pics it was quite different.
Anyway, that concludes our whistlestop tour of Greater Manchester at the turn of the 19th Century, as seen through the lens of my incredible fic notes archive.
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thelonelywiz · 3 months
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THE POET VIRGIL.
“Death and grief, I find, is inherent to vampirism. I’ve seen many die young and old, naturally and unnaturally. It may not look it, but the beast follows me yet still.”
SYNOPSIS.
In a world where monsters and humans coexist, anything can happen. Especially in the brownstones of Brooklyn, New York City. 
The famous vampire poet, Virgil, lives with his roommate, Bea, a werewolf and former rock star drummer of BLUDHOUNDS turned grade school teacher. With his very last chapbook in the works and an award ceremony to attend, Virgil has a speech to write. But when his literary agent and best friend (and Bea’s on and off girlfriend), Calypso is found dead, he and Bea are spun into the world of murder mysteries and conspiracy. The threat of succumbing to their monstrosity increases as tensions and risks run higher, and Virgil and Bea must learn to face their grief together despite their differences. With the help of Bea’s brother, Seven; a fairy from the Bronx, Juno; an unlikely ally, and an eager human barista, a team of monsters (and Aaron) is just what the five boroughs need to defeat The Hunters once and for all. 
In this romantic comedy turned murder mystery, The Poet Virgil tells a story of death, love, and what it means to be seen as a monster.
NOTES.
Started: Feb 2022
Format: screenplay
Word/page count: 256 pages
Genre: urban fantasy
Themes: grief, justice, friendship, family, generational trauma, love, hope
Content warnings: transphobia, heavily implied child neglect, on-screen child death, domestic violence, on-screen violence, blood & gore
(the following character art was made using wervty’s picrew, the first two are commissioned art by @fesenmoon)
CHARACTERS.
Virgil (he/him): An introverted vampire poet born in 1888. He likes baked goods, all things gothic, and has a special interest in the arts; art history, piano music, and of course, poetry. Protagonist and foil to Bea.
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Bea (they/them): The former drummer of the all-werewolf punk rock band BLUDHOUNDS, now they’re a grade school teacher. They are the oldest of 8 and have lots of issues because of it. Deuteragonist and Virgil’s roommate (and foil).
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Calypso (she/her): A human who would do anything to protect her friends. Her death haunts the narrative. Virgil’s literary agent and friend, Bea’s on and off girlfriend.
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Aaron (he/him): A human barista who’s flirty but so incredibly awkward. A mama’s boy through and through. Virgil’s love interest.
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Seven (he/him): The former lead singer of the all-werewolf punk rock band BLUDHOUNDS, now a college dropout. Second oldest out of 8 but is pretty chill about it. Not dissimilar to Beastboy.
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Juno (she/her): A nature fairy going to community college. Has a special interest in insects, specifically beetles. Hates being called cute, don’t call her cute.
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Belladonna (she/they): A water nymph who does get paid enough for this, but it’s not worth it. Morally gray, knows her way around a silver bullet. Works for the enemy…or do they?
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Orpheus (he/him): A human musician that’s too obnoxious for his own good. Has a weird obsession with monsters. How he hasn’t gotten himself killed is anyone’s guess.
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Minerva (she/her): A half beast that’s been severely brainwashed. Very bloodthirsty and weirdly into her boss. Has killed and will kill again.
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Pandora (she/her): A human woman who really hates monsters, like really hates them. Main antagonist, manipulative and uses eugenics to get her way. Used to be a cop…enough said.
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FURTHERMORE…
Feel free to send me asks or prompts about this project! I did a lot of worldbuilding on this and I think about it a normal amount (lying)
Soundtrack: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1irfe7yT2sWBlh506wOJVF?si=iZ5NXL-xQ06fmmIvaven-w  
Pinterest board: https://pin.it/1FzCle5 
Main tags: #tpv
Taglist: @calenhads, comment or write in the tags if you want to be added to the taglist :D
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sapphirebluephoenix · 7 months
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Multiverse Tales Gem AU : Episode 1
Mikayla Maciel was a human resident of the small city Wilmingmore, Delmarva. She'd grown up there, and was well versed in the local legends surrounding an area just outside of the city labelled by the locals "The Bronze Zone". It had been there for as long as she could remember, and she couldn't recall anyone ever going in. Even the dumb teens of the city would only ever get up to the fence, perhaps slipping through a hole before darting back out as fast as they can if they were brave.
Well, perhaps she was going to have to change that.
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She wouldn't call herself the most adventurous of her friends, but after hearing Obi was going into the deadly zone, she knew she had to save him. So here she was, wandering through the area she'd long feared as 'haunted', or at the least dangerous. To her surprise, it looked like an old borough, like a residential area that had going through some sort of terrible earthquake (or attack).
She searched for what felt like forever until she felt the ground shake, and a swirling mass appeared in her vision. She froze, confused and scared. Her pause however gave the creature time to latch onto her. Without time to think, her vision was filled with a white loud, and she felt like her whole body was shifting and... growing?
With a gasp her eyes fluttered open, and she shuddered. She tried to move, but it felt like the path between her mind and body was covered in fog. "Oh, wow, this is awesome! Is this what fusion's like? Cool? Oh, hi, I'm Charlie! Well, I think, that's just a name I learned about from you humans. Oh, sorry, are we going to move? We should probably move." Suddenly moving was so much easier, and Kayla stumbled to her feet, looking around in shock. Around the corner, a beast lurched toward her, but unlike the blue rock imbedded in the metal plate on her chest, she couldn't see a gem on it. No matter, they were running right now, so she had to run too.
They ran, then when they couldn't run anymore, they fought. Then they found Obi, with another of whatever 'Charlie' was, this one with a circular orange gem... it was terrifying. Obi was so much taller than he normally was (and she must have been at least a few centimetres taller), but despite it all she found herself smiling. Then grinning, then laughing once it was all over.
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Then, with Obi unconscious, the light enveloped her again, and she was back to herself, shirt fitting nicely and no more wires or piping flowing around her. Only, now she was by herself, she realised she wasn't strong enough to carry Obi... great.
This time, she willingly let Charlie back in, and together they were able to work more cohesively. It wasn't a quick and sudden change, but, once Obi was at the local hospital and Kayla and Charlie were back in her apartment, they were able to talk.
Charlie honestly didn't know much about his own kind, but he offered to help Kayla track down more problematic creatures, whom they'd now dubbed 'biocrysts' if she would help keep him out of the 'boring zone'. Kayla agreed cautiously, but over the next months, then years, their bond would grow... and so would their fusion.
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baura-bear · 11 months
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some more stray and specs?
Both the most laid back of their respective boroughs, very trustworthy and amicable with most everyone they meet!
Originally from Queens!
Stray has always been really good with animals. Specs has always loved animals because of her but doesn’t have the same connection as she does. Stray loves every animal she meets so much, if one ever stops showing up or if one dies she mourns. She’s able to move on quickly because that’s just how life has to be but she never forgets an animal, even if she only knew it for a day. Specs grew really close to a dog that followed them around before their newsie days and was really upset when it stopped coming around but otherwise he’s never had a super strong connection with any animals. He always tries to give scraps or anything he can spare to strays that he sees because it makes him think of his sister.
Stray and the Brooklyn girls make a game out of naming the animals that come around to the lodging house (animals often follow stray around once they get to know her and a lot of times will show up on the steps of the Brooklyn lodge) Stray will always try to save at least a bite of her meals to give away to an animal.
A rumor starts spreading around the boroughs that Spot has a wild pack of rabid dogs that she’s not afraid to stick on anyone. This of course is not true. Mack thought it would be a funny rumor to start up after a few boys saw some dogs following Stray around. (“Those? That’s Spot’s watch dogs, they’s vicious I’d keep ten feet away if I were you.”) Racetrack visits Brooklyn one night and upon learning that Spots wild pack is actually just a litter of puppy’s that Stray’s been raising he laughs his ass off. He of course makes the rumor ten times worse and starts telling everyone about how he barely got away from the beasts that chased him across the Brooklyn bridge while foaming at the mouth. Some of the younger kids asks Specs about it because they know he’s got a sister in Brooklyn and he’s doubled over in laughter for five minutes before he can get a word in.
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saturdaynightlivedork · 2 months
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In tribute to the CBS Sunday Morning host Charles Osgood, I’m sharing this story I wrote in the fall of 2018, asking where an elephant got his name.
The Emma with the Dilemma
Hello, and how are you? How are you today?
I send you this letter, for I have to say,
That I send you this letter to ask something great
I'm on pins and needles; oh, I cannot wait.
Marvin K. Mooney and Gertrude McFuzz,
They’d both be surprised at how happy I was.
I feel as glad as the Cat in the Hat,
I must ask you a question, a good one at that.
Now I know you will mark this letter as spam
Quicker than one can say “Green Eggs and Ham”—
But hear me out on this, oh, please do not fail
To listen to all of this mystical tale.
Not much long ago, in the Land of the Prowds,
There was a young maiden, her head in the clouds.
This young maiden (named Emma McRosebud McGlews)
Had her heart wholly taken by men of the news.
Walter Cronkite made her heart go quite crazy!
She’d swoon and she’d sigh at John Cameron Swayze!
She hopped up and down just as if there were bees in her
When she laid her eyes on the late Harry Reasoner.
And last, but not least, there was one more to mention.
A man who had captured her beyond comprehension.
Born on January eighth, nineteen thirty-three,
He was as wondrous as wondrous could be.
Well, he still is wondrous, since he’s still alive.
(Last January, he happened to turn eighty-five.)
He made it a great day, he made it a fun day,
When he’d saunter by every morning of Sunday.
The sun would be shining, a smile on its face,
And all would be right with the world, everyplace.
He had a sweet smile, and also brown eyes,
And, also, of course, quite a thing for bow ties.
But something else also chased off the blues,
From the mind of our Emma McRosebud McGlews,
You see, she loved beasts: beasts big and beasts small,
Beasts fat and beasts thin, beasts short and beasts tall.
She especially had a soft spot in her heart
For the great elephant, and it's not a small part.
She knew of one elephant who babysat
For a little bird egg, and not only that;
This elephant also saved all the Whos,
Which has earned him respect from our dear Miss McGlews.
But he’s not her most favorite elephant ever;
Not the reason for Emma's question most clever;
No, here is the reason I tell you this story:
She wants to ask you folks a question of glory:
On the sixteenth of August, nineteen ninety-nine,
There was born a great big baby boy, oh so fine,
Thirty-nine inches tall, forty-three long,
And two-hundred-fifty pounds, healthy and strong.
His father was Charlie—now this is a dilemma—
You see, this baby boy’s mom’s name was, too, Emma.
But that’s not the wonderful, magical part
(Though it's an amusing and cute little start);
'Tis the tip of the iceberg, yes, it is a joy;
But it's not the best thing about this baby boy.
This baby boy, he had nothing to lose,
At least not to Emma McRosebud McGlews...
He did not get his name immediately;
For there was a poll ‘twas conducted, you see.
Five names in the running, five names did begin;
But obviously, only one name could win.
“Barnum” and “Boomer” and “Webster” and “Petey” –
All were considered for this little sweetie.
But none of these four came out victorious.
No, he got the other name, which was much more glorious.
It brought to mind Sunday morn on CBS,
His name was "Osgood"—she has to confess.
Now, he might have been named for a clown known as Scott,
Who flew in the air in a sinister plot.
Scott Osgood toured with them two decades ago,
But he might be the reason, this Emma does know.
But a small part of Emma still has happy hope,
Gladder than soap back again with its rope,
That this handsome prince of great wisdom and size
Got his name from the man with the lovely bow ties,
Born on January eighth, nineteen thirty-three,
In the bitter, cold Bronx borough of NYC,
The bringer of joy and the fighter for good,
The wonderful man they call Charles Osgood Wood.
Now you know what has enchanted her so;
Now Emma must ask you, oh, Emma must know.
Did Osgood the elephant, of wisdom and size,
Get his name from the man with the lovely bow ties?
If he did, that’s so lovely; if not, that’s OK.
If you tell her, we know you will make Emma’s day.
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heavenboy09 · 4 months
Text
Happy Birthday 🎂 🥳 🎉 🎈 🎁 🎊 To You
The  Newest Young Jewish ✡ American SNL Comedian, Actor & Writer In The Entertainment Industry Today Of The 21st Century
Peter Michael Davidson was born in New York City's Staten Island borough on November 16, 1993, the son of Amy (née Waters) and Scott Matthew Davidson. His father was a New York City firefighter for Ladder 118 who died in service during the September 11, 2001 attacks, along with the rest of his unit. He was last seen running up the stairs of the Marriott World Trade Center just before the building was destroyed when the Twin Towers collapsed. His Requiem Mass was held at St. Clare's Catholic Church in Great Kills, Staten Island. Davidson, then aged seven, was profoundly affected by the loss. He told The New York Times that it was "overwhelming" and that he later acted out in school as a result of the trauma, at one point ripping his hair out until he was bald. In October 2016, he revealed on The Breakfast Club morning radio show that he struggled with suicidal thoughts when he was younger and that the music of Kid Cudi saved his life.
He is an American comedian, actor, and writer. He started standup in 2013 before being hired as cast member on the NBC late-night sketch comedy series Saturday Night Live for eight seasons from 2014 to 2022.
Davidson began his career in the early 2010s with minor guest roles on Brooklyn Nine-Nine, Friends of the People, Guy Code, and Wild 'n Out. He released his comedy specials Pete Davidson: SMD (2016) and Pete Davidson: Alive from New York (2020).
Davidson starred and executive produced the comedy film Big Time Adolescence (2019), and co-wrote and starred in the semi-autobiographical comedy-drama film The King of Staten Island (2020), and the Peacock series Bupkis (2023). He continued acting in films such as The Suicide Squad (2021), Bodies Bodies Bodies (2022), and Meet Cute (2022).
& Starred In 1 Of The Biggest Blockbuster Scifi Movies Of The Summer
TRANSFORMERS 🤖: RISE OF THE BEASTS 🦍🐆🦅🦏
Please Wish This Rising Young SNL Star 🌟 A Very Happy Birthday 🎂 🥳 🎉 🎈 🎁 🎊
You Must Know Him
& You Can't Go Anywhere Without Hearing His Name Everywhere
& Alot Of Famous Ladies You Know Him Well.
The 1 & The Only
MR. PETER MICHAEL DAVIDSON AKA PETE DAVIDSON AKA MIRAGE OF THE AUTOBOTS 🤖🚘
HAPPY 30TH BIRTHDAY 🎂 🥳 🎉 🎈 🎁 🎊 TO YOU MR. DAVIDSON & HERE'S TO MANY MORE YEARS TO COME
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#PeteDavidson #SNL #TransformersRiseOfTheBeasts #Mirage #Autobots
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imaginedreamwrite · 2 years
Text
Criminal: Part 4
1946 - Brooklyn
The billowing puffs of smoke that rose from around a crushed velvet top with exactly 5 seats around the wooden table, was being emit from low glowing cigarettes held between the fingers of the men.
In their other hand was a deck of cards each being held close to their chest as the game of high stakes poker had been playing out.
In the background, a seductive and sultry voice rose from the record player to give the men background noise and a means to push the silent driven madness away.
“Make your move Barnes.” The voice to speak belonged to a man that he had known earlier in his childhood, a man that also came from mafia blood.
Thomas ‘Tom cat’ Johnson was a man of great intellect and drive, the kind of man who could really drive the family controlling half of New York into a new era.
Like Bucky himself, Tommy was a man who was approaching the takeover of the family business with caution, leaving no door open to allow any kind of attack from Jersey or even Philly.
There had been peace so far, but both Bucky and Tommy were suspicious that it was the trauma of the war that kept the beasts at bay.
“Pressuring me again, Tom?” Bucky glanced up from the cards in his hands, inhaling the smoke before he blew it out the right side of his mouth.
“We don’t got all day ya god damned dandy.” Tommy grunt, shifting in his seat.
Bucky briefly stole a chance look at the three other men playing, and then he made his move. He set down his cards slowly for a dramatic effect, and internally preened as the men playing with cursed and threw their cards down.
“Curse this damned borough.” Tommy down his glass of whiskey like it was water, before slamming it back down. “Next time we come to my place. Better luck there.”
Bucky’s headquarters were in Brooklyn, Tommy’s was in the Bronx, and both thought the others was better.
It was healthy competition.
“Ya get the bird?” Tommy didn’t take the next round of cards, instead he pushed his chair back and grabbed his empty whiskey glass.
“That’s none of your business, fucker.” Bucky slipped out a loose lipped curse as he stood and followed Tommy toward the bar.
“Ya could have any broad ya want.” Tommy sipped on his newly refilled glass of whiskey before glancing over at Bucky. “Ya just gotta get to a club and flash some green and the broads come crawling.”
Bucky’s ma would’ve smacked both of them up the head for such colourful language, if she here. She would’ve taken off her designer heel and clubbed both of them over the head until they learned sense.
“Have a little more respect for women.” Bucky seethed as the eldest member of the Barnes family with 3 younger sisters.
“Fuck ya prick.” Tommy snuffed the rest of his cigarette out before shaking his head. “You get your dream dame yet? Or haven’t ya thrown her over her shoulder like a caveman yet?”
Bucky took the time to finish his drink before he finally answered, nothing less than full respect as he spoke about you.
“We both know how dangerous this all is. We both know that there is nothing we protect more than our wives and children.” A fond smile broke on Bucky’s face. “God as my witness, that woman could scare a lion off before it laid a paw on her.”
Tommy’s laugh was almost immediate and boisterous. “Ya got yourself a real one, Barnes. Or you would if she actually enjoyed your company.”
“She’s a real class dame, Tom.” Bucky spoke softly. “The kind of girl a bum like you needs. Someone to keep you in line.” Tom lit another cigarette and placed it between his lips.
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“I can’t get used to the new…you.” Bucky stared intently, his blue eyes fixated on you as you moved around the small shop, eyes scouring the cases lined with jewelry.
“Haven’t changed that much, doll.” He leaned against one of the cases, left hand tucked under his chin while his right was in his pants pocket.
“The boy on the schoolyard who used to chase girls around the playground trying to catch a peek under their skirts is a long way from head of the Brooklyn mafia and veteran of the Second World War.” Your eyes were moving from one piece of jewelry to the next, fingers delicately tracing the edge of the glass case.
“I’m not the only one who changed, sweetheart.” Bucky drew closer to you, casually slipping a hand onto the small of your back.
“You used to beat every boy you could in a race, or throw punches when they teased your brother.” Bucky leaned in, unable to resist the bombshell you had become.
“I still can.” You proved your point by jabbing your finger into Bucky’s chest, eyes narrowed. “I can still fight as well as I did in school. Don’t be mistaken.”
Bucky grinned like a schoolboy and raised his hands, eyes alight with respect and endearing affection. He was a man who’s heart was stolen, who’s heart belonged to one woman and that’s were it would stay.
Even if you thought Bucky was playing with you when he told you how greatly he cared for you, how he had wanted you from before the war, it wouldn’t change the truth.
“Put the killers away, doll.” Bucky joked, succeeding in drawing a light and fairy laugh from you.
If you had wanted to make a rebuttal, you were unable to. The owner of the shop had proceeded to come from the back with a sealed envelope in his hand, Bucky’s initials scrawled on the top, and a tray of jewelry not set in a case.
“Payment, Mr. Barnes.” The shop keeper slid the envelope across the glass, and then he set the tray of jewelry down. “And for your dear madre, I suggest the newest piece in our collection.”
Bucky watched you from the corner of his eyes as you had leaned over to gaze and inspect the jewelry set upon crushed velvet.
The pale emeralds and alexandrine stones were set in gold, surrounded by diamonds that encased the coloured jewels in a blanket. The jewelry came in varied sets of earrings with matching necklaces, bracelets and rings, broaches and even hat pins.
“May I suggest the pale alexandrite teardrop earrings for the lady?” The shopkeeper waved his hand across the earrings to draw attention to them, hopeful to please the big boss.
“Dame here doesn’t like earrings that get in the way. Stud earrings are all she wears.” Bucky spoke, flashing you a brief smile. “My ma though, would love the set. Wrap them up for me Jimmy.”
Bucky had turned away from the counter with the envelope in a hidden pocket on the inside of his suit, only to stop when a particularly stunning yet simple necklace had caught his eye.
“Hey doll wait outside for me.” Bucky called to you, hiding a groan from the impact of your fingers in his right side.
“I’m not your doll, Barnes.” You had listened anyway, turning and striding toward the front door with the skirt of your dress swaying hypnotically as you moved.
“Is there something else you want, Mr. Barnes?” Jimmy asked from behind the counter, the pair of earrings already boxed up.
“Box up that locket for me too.” Bucky’s attention moved from the locket in the case to the shadow of your frame outside the shop.
You may have had your doubts that Bucky had become anything but a skirt chaser, but he was determined to change your mind. He knew how you felt about him, he knew that you weren’t as dismayed by his presence as you let on.
Bucky would show you that he was the man for you. He would show you that he was a changed man and that he could be everything you had ever needed and wanted.Bucky was committed, you were his dame.
He was sure of that.
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Dame Angela Lansbury, 'Murder, She Wrote' and 'Beauty and the Beast star dies at 96.
Angela Brigid Lansbury was born on 16 Oct 1925, in London, the daughter of actor Moyna Macgill and timber executive Edgar Lansbury. The London-born actor took her life’s final bow as one of the most decorated players in stage history.
Both her father and grandfather (George Lansbury) were active in liberal British politics. Edgar Lansbury was mayor of the London borough of Poplar, while George Lansbury served as Labour Party leader from 1932-34.
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Lansbury, then 19, received a best-supporting actress Oscar nom for her very first film role, as the young maid Nancy in the home of Charles Boyer and his new bride Ingrid Bergman in George Cukor’s Gaslight (1944).
Angela Lansbury, played Mame and won five Tony Awards, received an honorary Oscar and starred for 12 seasons as Jessica Fletcher in 'Murder, She Wrote’ Lansbury, received an Emmy nomination for best actress in a drama series for each and every season of Murder, She Wrote.
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Angela Lansbury Singing the "Beauty and the Beast" Theme Will Take You Back. In case you forgot, Lansbury voiced teapot/mom Mrs Potts in the animated film, though you'd probably be able to figure that out for yourself instantly upon hearing her.
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Queen Elizabeth II bestowed the DBE (Dame Commander of the British Empire) honour on Lansbury in 2014 during a ceremony at Windsor Castle.
https://news.sky.com/story/angela-lansbury-murder-she-wrote-actress-dies-aged-96-12718271
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necromatador · 9 months
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I wanna know more about Gallecross! What's the structure of the city like? Who's in charge? How does the criminal underworld that Jaz and Alk are part of intersect with that? How do walled cities interact? Is travel and/or trade between them feasible?
These are all such good questions lemme see what I got/can come up with.
So for the physical structure of the city I'll try and draw a proper map sometime but it's big. Very big. It ruins up against the ocean at one side (the access to the ocean is part of what helped make the city as prosperous and able to grow as big as it did) and there are two layers of walls on the other, one around the original city border and another further out encircling additional agricultural and forestry land that the city had a big campaign to "reclaim" from the wilderness several generations ago when they needed more farmland and a steadier supply of wood for construction. It was a whole big thing, definitely a lot less noble or dramatic than it was made to seem, and may or may not have been the thing that led to Gallecross being one of the few cities to offer protective citizenship to fablefolk.
The city itself is very eclectic. Really it's a bunch of smaller towns and cities smushed together behind the safety of the walls. There's a lot of vertical construction both above and below the ground, as the efforts to expand the walls out another ring aren't easy to raise funding or manpower for. Some of the older sections of the city are basically a 'hive' of pathways and levels and bridges and tunnels. The walls themselves are 1) divided into four sections each by the 3 entry gates, and 2) each section is its own borough as well, largely housing generations of guardsmen.
Each district, or borough, functions more like a town of its own, with a unique law enforcement body, mayors and governors, and/or other governing bodies. Each borough has a representative or two who sit on the city council for issues and rulings that effect the whole city. But otherwise, unless it effects the boroughs next to them, they govern themselves.
Obviously the people in charge range from actually decent people to assholes to egomaniacs on power trips to corrupt basically criminals themselves. Several are tied into the criminal underground either directly, through family, or via bribes or blackmail. Some got their seats because of their criminal connections. But the divide between boroughs means that most often, criminal elements that would normally overlap in smaller cities tend to generally coexist in their own little biomes quite peacefully. There are some rivalries, obviously, but distance will keep two on opposite sides of the city from honestly almost ever interacting and keeps their clientele pretty separate. There are also alliances, especially within a borough or in neighboring boroughs, because sometimes it's easier to source something or there's a similar clientele they can both use to their advantage without overlapping.
Walled cities do trade and travel between them is possible but often considered too risky to do without very good reason or, for a lot of people, high enough chance of monetary gain. There are companies who rent out security for larger groups traveling between the cities, and it's usually regularly scheduled so that they can gather the most together to travel for safety in numbers and splitting of the cost of the security. There are attempts at getting some kind of transit system in the past, but The World Outside The Walls is chaotic and full of weird magic that tends to thwart those designs pretty regularly and pretty definitively. Other than that it's primarily a chain of messenger systems (usually involving some sort of trained magical avian or very crazy, very stealthy individuals) or news and mail brought by travelers like merchants and traders, hunters and outdoorsman, refugees from destroyed towns, and Hunters who usually also bring warnings of dangerous beasts and fablefolk nearby.
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