My name is Mephistopheles (Mephis for short), but a lot of people also call me Rainy and I am delighted to introduce you to my writing blog. Make yourself comfortable!
He/They/It pronouns :)
Not chill with racism, homophobia, transphobia, ableism, antisemitism etc (you get the idea by now. Tl;Dr don't be a dick)
Feel free to ask me anything any time (just don't be a creep please!) I have a special interest in Ghost and writing so feel free to shoot me a request any time! I may write some NSFW stuff so viewer discretion is advised.
My mainblog -> @ghostedrain
My SFW Agere blog -> @littlerainyghoul (For all ages)
(I may reblog or write certain heavy themes / NSFW so please be careful. Prioritise your mental health)
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
Desc: Aether wakes up in a bed that isn't his own, next to someone he isn't used to. But he's willing to make the adjustment.
Word Count: 522
Day 6!!!! My first Copiaether fic :3 (Takes place after Copia finally asked Aether out after pining over him for years).
Aether's heavy eyelids opened slowly, trying to blink away the sleep as his eyes began to focus. The room was dim, the blackout curtains blocking out most of the morning sunlight, spare the streams that seeped in through the cracks. He laid shirtless in a bed that wasn't his own, but one he was starting to be comfortable with.
Arms suddenly snaked around his stomach, pulling him closer with quiet, sleepy mumbles. Aether smiled, chuckling softly, but trying not to be too loud for the sake of the small man on the other side of him.
"Did ya sleep well, Imp?" He said, glancing over his shoulder.
"Mmm sĂ," Copia breathed against Aether's back, sending a slight chill up his spine. He liked the way Copia's breath felt on his skin. He liked how Copia's arms felt wrapped around him tightly. How could he have not pursued him sooner?
Aether turned over to face Copia, bringing a clawed hand up to cup his cheek, smiling tenderly at him. Copia smirked back, cocking an eyebrow.
"What are you staring at me for?" Copia questioned, laughing lightly to himself. Aether's smile only widened when he watched the way Copia's laugh lit up his whole face.
"Because you're pretty." Aether said, his tail swaying behind him. He still couldn't believe this was real. That Copia wanted him. Wanted to be with him. And ever since he met his beloved Papa, he wanted the same, even if he hadn't known at the time. But to think Copia wanted him of all people? It baffled him beyond comprehension, but didn't make him any less appreciative.
Copia rolled his eyes, kicking Aether's leg gently. "Stop it!" He said bashfully, a faint pink filling his cheeks. Aether moved his hand to Copia's chin, directing him to look him in the eyes.
"I mean it. You're beautiful, C." He said tenderly, scanning his face. He brought his lips down slowly, Copia eagerly meeting him. They shared a sweet kiss, full of admiration and care. They parted, Copia laying his head on Aether's chest, sighing contently.
"I could get used to this." He said softly, and Aether felt his heart start pounding. Waking up like this? All the time? He could get used to it, too. He wrapped his arms around Copia, gently rubbing his back. He chuffed happily.
"We should probably get up soon, C." Aether suggested lightly. Copia shook his head firmly, tightening his grip around Aether's mid section.
"No, we shouldn't. Let's just enjoy this. I waited so long to ask you out, and now that I finally have, I need to make up for lost time. We're staying right here. Got it, Ragazzo?"
Aether laughed, closing his eyes and kissing the top of Copia's head. He wasn't one to argue, especially not about something like this. Especially not with him.
"You know I can't say no to you." He huffed, hooking one of his legs around Copia's. He began to drift off again, lulled to sleep by the sweet scent of roses and sandalwood. A scent he would engrave into his memory, never letting go of again.
Chapter 16 - The Day the Sheep Were Incorrect
A Stardew Valley x Ghost fanfic Au
Read here or on Ao3:
Morning arrives in layers rather than all at once, easing its way into the house with a kind of quiet persistence that feels particular to the Valley, as though even the sun understands that nothing here benefits from being rushed.
Light comes first, pale and diffused, slipping through the curtains in soft ribbons that stretch across the floorboards and climb the walls in slow increments, gentle enough that waking feels like a choice instead of a demand. Sound follows not long after, the distant rustle of tall grass shifting in the breeze, the low murmur of birds beginning their morning conversations, the faint creak of wood settling into the day.
And beneath it, something else.
Subtle. Irregular. Just enough to catch at your attention without immediately naming itself as wrong.
You stay still for a moment, caught in that fragile space between sleep and awareness, listening more closely now. The house holds its breath in the way old places sometimes do, as if waiting to see whether you will notice.
There it is again.
A soft, hollow sort of sound, like breath moving through something that was never meant to hold it. Not quite a voice, not quite an animal, but close enough to both that your mind keeps trying to decide.
Your eyes open fully.
You lie there a second longer, staring up at the ceiling as the pieces begin to arrange themselves in your thoughts, slow and deliberate, like something being recalled rather than realized.
Haze, standing at the edge of the lanternlight with a fox curled at her feet, her voice carrying that same quiet certainty it always does.
Visitors may arrive before the barn does.
At the time, it had felt like one of her softer warnings, the kind that settled gently into the back of your mind without insisting on urgency, something to be considered later rather than prepared for immediately.
Later, it turns out, has arrived.
Something brushes the outside wall.
Not a knock. Nothing so intentional. Just contact, brief and curious, like a presence testing the shape of the house the way one might trail a hand along an unfamiliar surface.
You sit up, the blankets slipping away as the cool air settles against your skin, grounding you fully in the moment.
Another sound follows, closer this time.
A low, almost questioning bleat.
You exhale slowly, dragging a hand over your face as though that might rearrange the morning into something more manageable.
âRight,â you murmur to no one in particular, the word quiet but resigned in a way that suggests you already know what you are going to find.
The floor is cool beneath your feet as you cross the room, each step measured not out of hesitation but out of a growing awareness that whatever waits outside will not be hurried by your approach. The curtain yields easily when you pull it aside, the fabric whispering against your fingers as the view beyond comes into full, unobstructed clarity.
The field is no longer empty.
For a moment, your mind resists the image, trying to reconcile what you are seeing with what should be there, with the memory of overgrown grass and leaning fence posts and the slow reclamation of land that had been waiting for attention.
Then the resistance fades, replaced by a quiet, almost inevitable understanding.
They move like weather given shape, like fragments of cloud that have decided, for reasons entirely their own, to descend and remain.
Sheep, if the word can still be applied, drift through the tall grass in loose, unhurried patterns, their forms soft at the edges, bodies made of pale mist that curls and shifts with each step as though solidity remains an optional condition. Each one bears a single eye, luminous and steady, glowing faintly from within as they wander, observing without any visible urgency.
One lifts its head.
It looks directly at you.
The eye blinks once, slow and deliberate, with the kind of calm attention that suggests recognition without familiarity.
You find yourself returning the gesture before you can think better of it.
âOf course,â you say under your breath, though there is no real frustration in it, only a kind of tired acceptance that seems to arrive fully formed alongside the sight itself.
Movement flickers above them, drawing your gaze upward.
The rabbits move faster.
Small, bright shapes cut through the air in quick, darting arcs, their wings catching the morning light in translucent flashes that shimmer and fade with each beat. One settles briefly on the sagging line of the old fence, its ears twitching as it surveys the field with keen interest.
Then it lifts again, crossing the distance to the house in a single, effortless motion.
It lands on the roof with a soft, almost inaudible sound.
You let the curtain fall back into place, the fabric muting the scene without truly removing it from your awareness.
There is a brief moment where you consider returning to bed, pulling the blankets back over your shoulders and allowing the morning to unfold without your involvement, trusting the Valley to resolve its own peculiarities in its own time.
Something brushes the front door.
Closer now.
Insistent in its quiet way.
You close your eyes for half a second, then straighten.
âNo,â you say, more firmly this time, as though the act of speaking might anchor you into action. âWe are dealing with it.â
By the time you reach the front room, the situation has already begun to evolve in ways that confirm your earlier suspicions.
The door remains closed, solid and unchanged in every visible way.
Its authority, however, has clearly become a subject of interpretation.
A sheep has its head halfway through it, the mist of its form thinning just enough to slip past the wood without resistance, its single eye peering into the room with mild, almost polite curiosity. Behind it, another waits with patient stillness, as though aware that its turn will come in due time.
You stop a few paces away, taking in the scene with a level of composure you suspect you will appreciate later.
ââŠNo,â you say, and this time the word carries intent.
The sheep pauses.
It considers you.
Then, with the same quiet determination it showed before, it continues forward.
You step toward it at the same moment a small, determined shape launches itself into the space between you.
Clove lands with surprising force for something her size, her paws planted firmly against the floor, her back arched and her tail fluffed to an impressive degree. The sound she makes is sharp and indignant, far larger than her frame should allow, and entirely effective in capturing the attention of the intruding mistling.
The sheep pauses again.
Clove advances.
There is no fear in the animalâs response, only a gentle recalibration, as though it has encountered a new variable that requires adjustment. It eases backward, its form slipping once more through the door with that same soft, fog-like motion.
Clove follows with unwavering focus, circling once the sheep is outside, guiding it with small, precise movements that suggest instinct awakening into purpose.
You watch, arms slowly folding across your chest as the situation resolves itself, at least temporarily.
âWell,â you say, a touch of wonder slipping into your voice despite yourself. âThat helps.â
Behind the first sheep, the second shifts forward, curiosity clearly undiminished.
Clove turns.
The message is immediate and unmistakable.
There will be order.
Youâre very close alreadyâthis just needs more breath and less stop-start emphasis. Iâll smooth and extend the ending section so it flows more naturally and reads less âconstructedâ and more lived-in.
The delegation takes its time in a way that feels deliberate rather than hesitant, as though whatever process led them here had already been discussed and agreed upon somewhere out of sight, somewhere beneath the floorboards or in the quiet spaces between things where small creatures conduct serious business.
They do not scatter when they emerge from beneath the porch, and there is none of the scrambling urgency you might expect, no jostling for position or chaotic overlap of movement, but instead a slow, coordinated arrangement as they form themselves into lines along the worn wooden boards, each rat settling into place with an ease that suggests familiarity with this kind of gathering.
At the center, the larger one steps forward, her movements unhurried, her posture composed in a way that immediately sets her apart.
You recognize her more from Copiaâs subtle shift beside you than anything else, from the way his attention sharpens just slightly, as though acknowledging her presence carries its own weight.
Mozzarella, apparently.
She stops just short of the doorway, right at the place where the air still holds that faint sense of boundary, and lifts her head toward you.
There is no sound.
And yet the feeling of being addressed lands clearly enough that you straighten without quite meaning to, suddenly aware of your position in the doorway, of the fact that you are standing there as something more than just a bystander to whatever this has become.
Behind her, another rat pushes forward with visible determination, dragging what looks like a scrap of paper that seems far too large for her, though she handles it with a kind of practiced efficiency that suggests this, too, is not a new occurrence.
She smooths it flat against the wood with both paws, pressing it down carefully before lowering her head to the threshold itself, her nose tracing along the edge of the doorway where Copiaâs earlier work left that faint, nearly invisible shimmer.
Her whiskers twitch as she moves, pausing at certain points as though she is reading something written into the grain of the wood, something that exists more in texture and scent than in anything you could perceive directly.
After a moment, she lifts one paw and begins scratching at the paper, slow, deliberate marks that feel far too intentional to be random.
She glances up briefly.
Not quite at you.
Through you.
The sensation of being evaluated settles in a way that is deeply uncomfortable in its quiet thoroughness.
ââŠI donât like what they're up to,â you murmur under your breath.
Beside you, Copia makes a soft sound that could be agreement, though his attention remains steady on the group.
From somewhere behind the front row, a third rat pushes her way forward with far less patience, her movements sharper, her posture carrying a kind of pointed irritation that makes her presence immediately known.
She climbs partway up the step and stops just short of the boundary, her tail snapping once against the wood as she surveys the porch with open disapproval, as though something here has already failed to meet her expectations.
Pesto, if you had to guess.
She does not look at you.
Instead, she turns her attention toward the open window and lifts one paw, pointing with a level of clarity that feels almost exaggerated.
You follow the gesture automatically.
A winged rabbit is perched inside, nestled comfortably in what used to be your tea tin, its small body perfectly at ease as it surveys its surroundings with bright, untroubled interest.
You look back at the rat.
She looks at you.
Then she points again, slower this time, more emphatic.
The rabbit and the tin.
Herself.
The sequence repeats with unmistakable intent.
You blink, the translation settling into place whether you want it to or not.
ââŠyouâve got to be kidding me.â
Her tail lashes once in sharp agreement, and she taps the step with her paw, not loudly, but with enough insistence that the motion reads as a demand rather than a suggestion.
Behind her, Inspector Beans makes another series of careful marks on the paper, then presses his paw down firmly as though sealing whatever conclusion she has reached.
Mozzarella remains still at the front, watching the exchange without interruption, allowing the moment to unfold with a patience that feels practiced rather than passive.
Clove appears at your ankle without sound, her small body slipping forward until she sits at the threshold itself, her gaze moving from the rats to the field beyond and then back again, sharp and assessing in a way that makes it very clear she has already decided this concerns her.
She watches the agitated rat for a moment, then lets out a short, precise chirp.
The effect is immediate.
Pesto stills, the tension in her posture easing just enough to shift from confrontation into something more like reluctant acknowledgment, her tail lowering slightly as she glances toward the window again.
Clove chirps once more, softer this time, though no less deliberate.
Inside, the rabbit lifts its head, pauses as though something has shifted just beyond your hearing, and then, with visible reluctance, pushes off from the tea tin and drifts toward the window, slipping out into the open air with a quiet flutter of wings.
Pesto watches it go, her focus unwavering until the space is clear.
Then she looks back at Clove.
There is a long, quiet moment between them, something passing that feels settled rather than spoken.
Clove blinks once.
Pesto steps back.
You let out a breath you had not realized you were holding.
ââŠright,â you say quietly, more to yourself than anyone else. âSo sheâs in charge.â
âFunctionally,â Copia murmurs, his tone carrying a hint of quiet agreement.
Mozzarella shifts her weight slightly, drawing the focus back to herself, her attention moving between you and Copia with steady composure.
Again, there is no sound.
But the intention is clear enough in the way it settles.
Expectation, and structure.
Something like a proposal taking shape at the edge of understanding.
You glance toward the field, where the mist-sheep continue their slow, drifting movements, lingering just beyond the boundary as though aware of it now in a way they had not been before.
âThey want space,â you say, the words forming slowly as you test them.
Copia glances at you, a small, approving note in his expression.
âYes,â he says. âAnd terms.â
You huff a quiet breath, folding your arms as you look back at the assembled rows of very small, very serious creatures currently holding what appears to be a structured discussion on your porch.
âOf course they do.â
The inspector rat folds his paper with careful precision, tucking it neatly beneath himself as though the record has been made and will be referenced later.
Pesto gives the window one last, suspicious look before settling back into place.
Mozzarella inclines her head, a small, measured motion that feels like acknowledgment, like the beginning of agreement rather than its conclusion.
The tension across the group loosens, not disappearing, but easing into something more workable, less rigidly held.
One by one, they begin to disperse, their formation dissolving with the same quiet coordination it had when they arrived, each rat slipping back beneath the porch in an orderly retreat.
The morning settles again in their absence, the air soft and strange in a way that feels newly defined.
You stand there a moment longer, watching the space they left behind, then glance back toward the field, toward the mistlings that continue to drift in slow, patient patterns just beyond the threshold.
ââŠI think,â you say after a moment, your voice carrying a quiet kind of certainty now, âIâm going to need that barn.â
You come to a stop just outside Copiaâs bedroom, breath catching in uneven pulls that refuse to settle no matter how hard you try to slow them, your lungs working a little too fast for the quiet of the hallway, your hand braced flat against the wall as though the wood might steady you if you give it enough weight.
Your stomach tightens sharply, tingling with quiet nerves, something in between that curls inward and holds there, insistent, as if it expects something from you that you have not yet decided how to give.
Gerald passes you at knee height, his surface catching what little light filters down the corridor, glowing faintly as he makes a slow, thoughtful loop near the baseboard before drifting back again, tracing the same path with a precision that suggests intention rather than habit.
For a moment, he pauses beside you. He shifts closer.
Waiting, in the way doors always seem to, as though the choice has already been made and all that remains is for you to follow through with it.
You straighten slowly, your hand slipping away from the wall as the last of that sharp, restless energy settles into something more manageable, something quieter but no less present.
Behind you, Gerald continues his slow orbit, humming softly as he goes, keeping the space in motion even as everything else holds still.
âGerald,â you gasp between breaths, the name coming out thinner than you intend, pulled apart by the uneven rhythm of your lungs as you try and fail to steady them.
The orb pauses mid-drift, then pivots in place with a smooth, deliberate turn that feels almost attentive, as though the sound of his name carries weight enough to redirect him entirely.
Somehow, impossibly, he is now wearing the googly eyes Sunshine had once plastered onto his box, the adhesive long since repurposed for reasons that defy both physics and good judgment, the plastic shapes fixed to his surface in a way that suggests either quiet determination or a deeply concerning level of autonomy.
"Follow me!" you gasp at the orb.
Buzz. Nothing. It continues circling the house.
âPlease?â you try again, softer this time, as though volume might be the missing ingredient rather than intent, and you step out onto the porch in your socks with the faint, unreasonable hope that proximity alone might convince the orb to reconsider its current life choices.
Gerald, for his part, continues to hover in a slow, unbothered circuit around the eaves of the house, tracing the same lazy oval pattern as if the architecture itself has become a thought he is still in the middle of finishing, and each pass seems to leave the air slightly more attentive, slightly more aware of itself, though whether that is comfort or consequence remains unclear.
You watch him complete another loop.
Then another.
Then, because repetition has begun to feel like a kind of language here, you try again with more patience layered into it, letting your voice settle into something closer to negotiation than request.
âThere are sheep outside,â you say, gesturing vaguely toward the field where the mistlings continue their unhurried occupation of your landscape, âand rabbits inside, and a rat committee currently drafting what I can only assume are legally binding opinions about my furniture.â
Gerald pauses mid-air.
Not in the way of interruption, but in the way of consideration, as though the information has been placed into a very large room inside him and is now being walked around slowly.
For a moment, nothing changes.
Then the orb dips lower, drifting toward the edge of the porch where Clove sits in watchful silence, her tail curling neatly around her paws as she tracks the field with the seriousness of someone who has accepted responsibility without needing permission to do so.
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length of each Papa's reign from official reveal to last performance đ
Papa Emeritus I - 1001 days (March 12, 2010 - December 15, 2012)
Papa Emeritus II - 652 days (December 15, 2012 - September 27, 2014)
Papa Emeritus III - 865 days (May 20, 2015 - September 30, 2017)
Cardinal Copia / Papa Emeritus IV - 2017 days (March 31, 2018 - October 7, 2023)
Papa V Perpetua - 357 days...? (March 4, 2025 - February 23, 2026...?)
notes on calculation + additional info below:
Papa 1 - March 12, 2010 is the day Ghost posted their first music demos on the official MySpace page.
Papa 3 - May 20, 2015 is indicated in The Summoning 1 to be the date on which Sister Imperator officially announced the beginning of Papa Emeritus III's reign.
Cardi - March 31, 2018 is the day Chapter 1 premiered, and the opening of Chapter 1 indicates it took place in March of 2018. though Chapter 2, which shows Cardi's official promotion and blessing, didn't premier until April 6, 2018, it continues directly from the end of Chapter 1, having happened on the same day.
V - March 4, 2025 at 9pm is when the Las Vegas conclave "FumataCast" livestream ended and Papa V Perpetua was officially revealed in the Satanized music video. though other sources set the date and time at midnight as the date rolled over to March 5th; in the Las Vegas timezone, it was still only 9pm on March 4th.
V - February 23, 2026 was the last date of the Skeletour. i'm not necessarily setting it as a definitive end date for V's reign since it's unlikely we've seen the last of him, but Ghost is now on hiatus for an indeterminate amount of time.
all of these time periods are calculated starting from the date of their official reveal / promotion to frontman of the band, not the date that we first became aware of their existence. several of the Papas were known to have been already working for Ghost or were preparing to become Papa before their official reveals:
in The Summoning 1, Sister Imperator indicated they were 7 years into the reboot of The Ghost Project in 2015, putting the actual starting date sometime in 2008â and indeed, Ghost's first demo songs (on which Papa Emeritus I sang) were recorded in April of 2008.
The Summoning 7 indicates Sister Imperator had already chosen Cardi as a replacement for Papa 3 by September of 2016, about a year and a half before Cardi's actual promotion. additionally, a teaser clip showing Cardi reviewing Ceremony And Devotion was posted on Ghost's official Facebook and Instagram accounts on January 19, 2018â several months before Cardi's promotion in March.
V was first teased / shown stuck behind the door in Rite Here Rite Now and Chapter 18. additionally, dialogue in Rite Here Rite Now (which takes place on September 12, 2023) indicates V had already been chosen as a replacement for Cardi about a year and a half before the Las Vegas "conclave" in 2025â though many members of the Clergy, including Papa Nihil, did not yet know who V was.
It was supposed to be a simple "we need to talk" over coffee.
But when Young Sister Imperator's boyfriend decides to get "assertive" with his breakup speech, he forgets one very important rule: never break a heart that carries a literal spark of hellfire.
Ao3 version
Enjoy!
Outside the wood-paneled "Groovy Bean" coffee shop, the air was thick with 1970s smog and the smell of cheap cologne.
The boyfriend stood by the brick wall, adjusting his polyester collar with trembling hands.
"Do I... do I really have to do this?" he squeaked, looking at the cafe door as if it were the entrance to a lion's den.
"Yes!" his friend hissed, still sporting a lingering limp and a nervous twitch in his eye.
"She is out of control, man! Look at me! She tried to flat top me and my dog with a truck just because I waved at you!"
The boyfriend swallowed hard. "She's just... protective."
"Protective? She follows you like a shadow with a grudge! And don't forget your sister," the friend reminded him, pointing a finger for emphasis.
"She 'accidentally' got gum in her hair just so she could 'help' by shearing her bald! And she called your mother a mad cow right to her face! It's over, man. Go in there, be assertive, and get out before she weaponizes the biscotti."
The boyfriend took a final, shaky breath.
He looked at his friendâwho was still gingerly rubbing his hip from the truck incidentâand gave a heavy, defeated nod.
"You're right," he gulped, his voice cracking like a dry stick. "She's... she's a menace. I'm doing it. I'm being assertive."
He pushed through the heavy glass doors, the bell jingling with a cheery irony that made his stomach flip.
Sister Imperator was already there, waiting at a booth.
She was an arresting sight, dressed in her striking, deep green dress woven with a complex pattern that seemed to shimmer like reptile scales as her blonde hair was gathered in a bun.
Two coffees were already on the table, steam rising in thin, judgmental ribbons.
As he slid into the vinyl booth, Sister didn't move a muscle.
She didn't look like a girl on a coffee date; she looked like a queen waiting for a peasant to finish a very boring apology.
She tilted her just slightly, eyes narrowed with a calm, terrifying boredom that made his heart skip several beats.
"Hey," he started, his voice cracking. "You look... really groovy today. That headband reallyâ"
"You're late," she snapped, her voice a sharp, cool blade that cut through his compliment. She didn't look at a watch; she just kept those piercing eyes locked on his.
"Two minutes, darling. Two minutes of my life I'll never get back because you were likely dawdling with that pathetic, limping excuse for a friend of yours. Is he still complaining about his leg? Because I have a very sharp pair of fabric shears if he needs more... adjustments."
The boyfriend gulped before looking down at the two ceramic mugs waiting on the tabletop.
He managed a weak, appreciative smile.
"Oh, hey, thanks for ordering for me. That was... really thoughtful."
He picked up the heavy mug, the warmth seeping into his trembling fingers.
He blew a cautious puff of air and took a long, brave sip.
Sister's green eyes tracked the movement of his throat as he swallowed.
His eyes widened.
"Wow, this is actually incredible," he admitted, feeling a genuine spark of relief. "What blend is this? Is it Colombian?"
A slow, sharp smile spread across her lipsâthe kind of smile a cat gives a mouse.
"I'm so glad you approve of it," she purred, her voice dripping with a cold, sugary malice.
"I was worried my spit might throw off the flavor profile, but I suppose it adds just the right amount of... body."
The boyfriend's eyes nearly popped out of his skull.
He let out a choked spray of dark liquid, coughing and spitting the coffee directly onto the floor in a panicked mess.
Sister didn't flinch. She just let out a sharp, melodic laugh that echoed through the quiet shop.
"Ha... ha... good one!" the boyfriend wheezed, wiping his mouth with his polyester sleeve and offering a high-pitched, hysterical laugh of his own.
"Oh, man! You have such... such a great sense of humor. That's honestly what I like most about you. Always keeping me on my toes!"
Sister didn't even acknowledge his "spit-take" mess on the floor. Instead, she reached behind her back, pulling out a rolled-up scroll of paper.
With a flick of her wrist, it unrolled with a dramatic thwack, cascading over the edge of the table and coiling onto the floor like a paper serpent.
"What... what is that?" the boyfriend stammered, staring at the endless rows of neat, sharp handwriting.
"Oh, just a few marriage demands," she said casually, as if she were discussing the weather.
The boyfriend nearly choked on his own breath. "M-marriage demands?!"
"Well, obviously," Sister purred, leaning back and letting the list dangle from her fingers. "You do know that you have to marry me eventually, right? It's simply the natural order of things."
She began to read, her voice cool and rhythmic. "First, I want 2.5 children. Specifically, one boy and one girl. We'll figure out the point-five later. Second, you will purchase a residence of appropriate statureâlarge, multi-story, and within walking distance of the Hollywood sign. I find the view... inspiring."
The boyfriend opened his mouth to speak, but she held up a finger to silence him.
"Third," she continued, "you will secure a high-paying executive position. I have no intention of 'working,' and I certainly don't intend to spend my afternoons changing diapers. That is your department. And don't you dare whimper that 'it isn't fair'. I won't care, and I will happily take you to divorce court before the ink on the certificate is dry if you underperform."
She looked him up and down with a final, stinging critique.
"And finally, you are to get a haircut immediately. This 'hippie' aesthetic of yours is quite tragic, and I won't have you rub that lack of discipline off onto the children."
The boyfriend sat there, stunned. He looked at the endless scroll of paper, then at his own reflection in the window.
He was a "hippie" who was apparently destined to be a high-earning nanny in a Hollywood mansion.
Something finally snapped. The fear that had kept him pinned to the vinyl booth evaporated, replaced by a surge of pure, "assertive" adrenaline.
"Okay, that's it! I've had enough!" he barked, slamming his hands onto the table.
Sister actually flinched.
"Huh?!" she breathed, her green eyes widening in genuine surprise at his tone.
"Listen hereâI don't like you anymore!" he shouted, standing up so fast that the table jolted.
"I'm not buying you a mansion, I'm not being your nanny, and I am definitely not getting a haircut! We are through!"
Sister sat frozen, her face turning a shade of red that clashed horribly with her dress.
The boyfriend began to head toward the door, giddy, hysterical laughter bubbling up in his chest.
But before he pushed the door open, he stopped and leaned back in for one final, parting shot.
"Oh yeah, by the way," he smirked, pointing at her outfit. "Green isn't even your color. It makes you look five years older."
The silence in the Groovy Bean was absolute. Sister just sat there, eyes flashing with a dangerous, supernatural heat as the insult landed.
The boyfriend didn't wait for a reaction. He let out a triumphant laugh, spun on his heel, and practically skipped out the door into the 70s sunshine, feeling like a free man.
...
The boyfriend's friend's face lit up when he saw the boyfriend's triumphant grin.
"You did it, didn't you?" he asked. "You dumped her, right?"
"Yes!" the boyfriend cheered, the two of them trading an enthusiastic, echoing high-five.
"Nice! How'd she take it? Was she... you know... calm?"
The boyfriend adjusted his collar, feeling like a king. "Oh, totally. She took it like a pro. I even gave her some fashion advice on the way out."
CRASH!
The table that he and Sister had just been sitting at suddenly smashed through the front plate-glass window, soaring through the air like a wooden frisbee.
The boyfriend and his friend dove in opposite directions, hitting the pavement just as a massive explosion rocked the Groovy Bean.
From the center of the wreckage, a figure emerged.
It was Sister Imperator. She was fumingâliterallyâas demonic sparks flew from her grinding teeth.
Her piercing eyes weren't just green anymore; they were blazing with a supernatural, smoky red light.
As she spotted the duo, she let out a bellowing demonic roar, her jaw unhinging to reveal rows of jagged, shark-like teeth while two sharp red horns sprouted from her head in a terrifying sight gag.
"RUN!" the friend screamed, his limp completely forgotten as he hit a record-breaking sprint.
They scrambled into the boyfriend's vintage sedan, slamming the doors just as a stray espresso machine whistled over the roof.
The boyfriend fumbled with the keys, his hands shaking so hard they rattled against the steering column.
"Come on! Come on, come on!" he pleaded, the engine giving a pathetic, wheezing cough-cough-vroom as Sister began to stomp toward them, cracking the sidewalk with every step.
The engine finally caught with a guttural roar, smoke billowing from the tailpipe as the boyfriend slammed it into gear.
"GO, GO, GO!" the friend shrieked, pressing his face against the window as he watched a strong hand clamp onto the chrome of the rear bumper.
The tires screeched, leaving twin streaks of burnt rubber on the asphalt as the car lunged forward.
But the weight didn't drop.
Instead, the back of the car dipped dangerously low. Sister wasn't letting go; she was anchoring herself.
As they sped and weaved down the narrow street, narrowly missing a milk truck and a stray disco-era pedestrian, the boyfriend looked in the rearview mirror.
His heart nearly stopped.
Sister Imperator was scaling the trunk like a mountain climber on a deadline.
The boyfriend gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. "Hold on!" he bellowed, slamming his foot on the brake and yanking the wheel into a sharp, screeching 90-degree turn.
The car fishtailed, the rear end swinging out with enough centrifugal force to finally break Sister's demonic grip.
She went flying, a green-and-yellow blur spinning through the air until she landed with a wet, heavy CRASH directly into a mountain of silver trash cans and overflowing garbage bags.
The boyfriend didn't stop, but he slowed down just enough for them to savor the victory.
In the rearview mirror, Sister Imperator was rising from the wreckage, looking absolutely unhinged. A soggy banana peel was on her head, and a discarded tuna tin was stuck in her bun.
A tiny, stray puppy trotted up to the pile, sniffing at the garbage and lifting a leg to investigate.
Sister let out a shattering, guttural roar that sent the poor dog yelping into a record-breaking sprint down the alley.
"Ha, ha! Take that, klutz!" the friend yelled out the passenger window, pumping his fist. "You just got tr-ashed!"
The two of them erupted into high-pitched, relieved laughter, the boyfriend slapping the dashboard in delight. They were free. They were safe. They had the ultimate story to tell.
But then, the boyfriend's laughter died in his throat. He glanced at the side-view mirror again.
The alley was empty.
The trash cans were still rolling, the banana peel was lying on the pavement, but Sister was gone.
"Wait... where'd she go?" the boyfriend stammered, his eyes darting from the mirror to the street ahead.
"She was just there!" the friend squeaked, his celebratory mood vanishing instantly. "She can't move that fast! People don't just... poof... disappear!"
Standing in the dead center of the asphaltâcompletely devoid of trash and looking impossibly pristineâwas Sister Imperator. Her eyes weren't just glowing; they were twin furnaces of demonic light.
With a guttural snarl, she lifted one polished boot and slammed it into the pavement.
CRACK-BOOM!
The road didn't just break; it erupted. Massive ruptures tore through the concrete like paper, and the ground fell away into a glowing pit of bubbling lava.
"LEAP FOR IT!" the boyfriend shrieked.
The two of them dove out of the doors just as the vintage sedan tilted, sliding nose-first into the magma with a pathetic hiss-clunk.
They hit the grass on the shoulder of the road, rolling until they reached the edge of a nearby public park.
"The park! Run for the trees!" the boyfriend commanded, scrambling to his feet.
The friend, clutching his side and gasping for air, finally slowed down as they reached a dense grove of oaks.
"At least... we're... safe in here," the friend wheezed, leaning against a thick trunk. "She can't... see us through the... OOF!"
With a sound like a thunderclap, the very tree he was leaning on snapped like a toothpick.
It crushed him into the dirt under a mountain of branches and 70s-era foliage.
The boyfriend spun around, letting out a high-pitched scream.
Sister Imperator was standing at the edge of the grove, her silhouette framed by the glowing lava behind her.
She wasn't just chasing them anymore; she was punching the ground with her bare fists.
Every impact sent a shockwave through the earth, causing earthquakes that uprooted dozens of trees, sending them toppling over like dominos.
The boyfriend didn't look back. He couldn't. The sound of the tree crushing his friend was still ringing in his ears, and the ground was bucking like a wild horse under his feet.
He scrambled over the mangled roots and splintered bark, his "hippie" bell-bottoms snagging on every branch as he tore deeper into the park.
Sister Imperator let out a low, vibrating growl. She was about to lunge after him when a rhythmic thwump-thwump-thwump echoed from above.
A colorful "Action 5 News" helicopter was hovering just above the treeline, a powerful spotlight cutting through the smoke and lava-glow.
Inside, a reporter in a wide-collared suit clutched his microphone, his face pale as he shouted into the camera.
"We're live at the park, where reports of a crazed blonde woman on a rampageâ"
Sister's head snapped toward the noise. Her eyes narrowed, the red glow intensifying. She didn't like being called "crazed," and she certainly didn't like being "reported."
With a grunt of supernatural effort, she reached down and ripped a massive granite boulder straight out of the shaking earth.
With a flick of her wrist that looked effortlessly graceful, she launched it.
CRUNCH!
The rock smashed directly into the tail rotor. The reporter's professional voice turned into a blood-curdling scream as the helicopter tilted sharply.
Smoke and fire erupted from the engine as the bird began a death-spiral, plummeting toward the earth like a lead weight.
Whether the crew survived the impact was anyone's guess, but the "Breaking News" segment was officially over.
Sister didn't even watch it hit the ground. She turned back toward the path where the boyfriend had disappeared, her shark-like teeth bared in a terrifying grin.
"NOW, DARLING... ABOUT THAT HAIRCUT!" she bellowed, her voice drowning out the sound of the exploding helicopter.
...
The boyfriend scrambled through the sand, his breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps. He dove behind a bright blue, smiley-faced whale spring rider, pulling his knees to his chest and whimpering like a lost puppy.
For a heartbeat, the only sound was the distant crackle of the burning Groovy Bean and the faint whirr of the fallen helicopter. Then, the sun seemed to vanish.
A massive, jagged shadow began to stretch across the sandbox, crawling over the swings and the slide until it swallowed the whale rider whole.
In the shadow's silhouette, a terrifyingly wide grin appeared, rows of shark-like teeth shimmering in the dark outline.
With a screech of twisting metal, Sister Imperator reached down.
She didn't just move the whale; she ripped the heavy spring straight out of the concrete and tossed it aside like a discarded candy wrapper.
"S-Stay away from me! I-I'm warning you!" the boyfriend shrieked, scuttling backward.
His back slammed into a wooden "Keep Off Grass" sign.
He yanked it out of the dirt with a frantic grunt and held it up like a holy relic, the splintered wood shaking in his hands. "D-Don't make me use this!"
Sister didn't even slow down. She reached out, plucked the sign from his white-knuckled grip, and snapped it in half.
"W-Who are you?! Wh-What are you?!" he sobbed, looking up as her entire shadow towered over him.
She didn't say a wordâshe didn't have to.
The atmosphere shattered with his final scream, the echo dying just as the scene went black.
...
The black screen lingers for a moment before fading into a warm, golden-hued room. The sound of a record crackling and a soft, romantic ballad fills the air.
We see Sister Imperator, now older, her blonde hair replaced by a dignified gray, though her eyes still hold that sharp, piercing intelligence.
She is standing at a table, her hands deep in a bowl of dough, kneading it with the same methodical precision she once used to dismantle a relationship.
Behind her, Papa Nihil leans in close, his skeletal face-paint softened by the dim light. He rests his chin near her shoulder, his arms loosely draped around her as he watches her work.
"I love it when you tell me that story, Seestor," Nihil murmurs, his voice a raspy, loving velvet. "The way you stood up for yourself... the way you didn't let that commoner disrespect your worth. It's truly inspiring."
Sister Imperator offers a small, thin smile. She was just glad to have someone who's easy to control who listens to her every word.
"He was a hippie, Nihil," she says softly, her voice still holding that cool edge. "He didn't understand the vision. He didn't understand me."
"He was a fool," Nihil agrees instantly, burying his face slightly in the crook of her neck.
To him, Sister is a goddessâa woman who knows exactly what she wants and exactly how the world should be.
In his eyes, she is never wrong; she is simply firm. She is always, and will forever be, in the right.
Sister kneaded with calm satisfaction, adored by a man who wouldn't dream of saying that green wasn't her color.
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Aaaaand that's all I can show before tumblr probably just removes the post entirely.
Happy Hockey Bukkake Day to this freak and this freak only
(yes they look like shit (can someone please tell me how to make gifs not look like shit? All the guides I find are super outdated or not relevant) but I forgot to make them days ago as I'd planned, so they were a rush job, okay?)
