#realitybled

her expression doesn't change, but something about her eyes seems to spark and brighten at the sight of the oreos. she catches the pack deftly in one hand, sitting back on the surface of the fridge and shifting to sit cross-legged with her snack and proceeding to impatiently tear into the plastic with her teeth. olivia is already eating the oreos two at a time by the time his comment registers, at which point she leans over the edge of the fridge toward him, hand held out expectantly for the so-called real food.

she only ever speaks about half the time; some days she'll talk about the pigeons she's taken to feeding in the park or the odd squirrel she sees now and again, pretty dresses in shop windows, almost chatty, and then days like today she is utterly silent. the soldier had affectionately referred to her as a shadow, but others used the term church mouse- quiet like her life depended on it.

❛ what? what — stop, don't act like this is, like — something that happens every day, oh my god! i am so within my rights right now to be freaking out! ❜

she's never met another ghost before. if that's even what she is, that is, which — honestly, if anything, meeting willie has kind of proven to her that she isn't one. or at least not a normal one. it's starting to seem like she's something else entirely.

willie is like, dead dead. all the way through, all the time. and she ... isn't. something cemented further by the fact that she's had to duck them off to the side, wedged in the alleyway next to a coffee shop, so other people don't see her standing in the street talking to the air, because people can still see her ( well, most of the time ), and they can't see him ( all of the time, apparently ). the last thing she needs at this point is adriana texting her because someone's posted she's having a mental break on hollywood boulevard or something.

mina runs her hand down her face with a groan before she holds it up in front of her, hopefully quieting willie down in the process. jesus, if it hasn't already, she's pretty sure her heart's gonna stop.

if beau was canon (accepting)

oh… yeah.

there are already so many imagines & x reader posts and fics out there for ty, so if he was cast in the canon of whatever – there would be A Lot

i also just think those blogs would just completely mischaracterise how beau behaves in a relationship and turn him into some strange fanon version of himself for the express purpose of x reader fics - even if not in the wider fandom.

“ what always happens. ” she has no strength left in her to rebut his observation. he is right anyway, and beatrize can feel it. there is blood and gore all over her armor, her skin feels sticky and her scalp is itching something demonic. and so she plops down right at the opening of her tent and begins to unbuckle the straps of her breastplate. the light chain mail underneath it is soaked with darkspawn ichor. she thinks she can feel it start to burn her skin.

giving up on the third strap, beatrize looks over at lancelot, both arms falling limp by her side, stiff shoulders sagging. “ the merchant was right, ” she tells him, “ the village was overrun by a horde. ” she had been warned, and she could have opted not to go to honnleath. but the prospect of a golem was too tempting to refuse; any help we can get, beatrize reasoned to herself the night before. it was worth it in the end, despite looking like reddened shit in the aftermath, as her companion so succinctly put.

“ we got a golem out of it. ” she gestures to shale with her chin, standing rigid under a big oak tree, with fire crystals gleaming all over her shoulder, arms, and legs. she isn't what beatrize thought a golem would be, but then again... it's not like she would know. the fact that shale killed her last master is something they're all simply going to have to live with. at this time, she isn't inclined to mention it to lancelot. “ would you mind getting your hands a little dirty? ” she asks, a wan smile marginally brightening up her tired face. beatrize gestures to her back. “ need some help with these last two buckles. ”

she likes the semi-controlled chaos of the materialki workshops. for reasons she's unsure of, the buzz of machines and the heat of forging fires never seem to bother her. often, she'll settle under a table with one of the books she's borrowed from the library and read it as the figures in purple pass by discussing metal and stone. they don't usually seem to mind, though some have forgotten she was there and then shriek in alarm when hours later she crawls out from under a table

james passes the candy her way and she swipes it out of his hand with a smile of her own. " thank you, " she says softly