Ghost BC Headcanons and Oneshots!

Cheating, Mistress, Pt. 2

Papa II: You probably ended it. You probably got bored of the sneaking around, and secrets, and only ever getting fucked without conversation or care. You probably want a real relationship now, a real life with someone else. You tell him it's over, and you two can go back to being civil when you need to see each other, and that's all there is to it. He says "I'll probably be around if you need a fuck, and you always know where to find me. Now if you'll excuse me I'm in the middle of work, please". He's not hurt because no one's heart was ever going to break, but suddenly going home to that good woman of his is incredibly less appealing, and the guidelines of being a good man are a little blurred and a lot less strained. He tries a little less hard to do the right thing because the right thing became second nature and second for a reason, because his divine nature was living with reckless abandon of all ethical and moral codes, and he's a little more alone without either of you in his corner. Your life is a little more boring without him and you realize the thrill of the lie, the thrill of knowing a man like that, was more of the excitement in your life than you thought all along. You might call him once a month, maybe longer between, maybe not for a few years, but he's always around, and you always know where to find him, and that's the only promise he's ever kept in his life.

Papa III: He loved her. He loved her so much. She kept the fire inside him alive for a long time. But dear, you brought the fire in him back to life, which is a much harder task, full of much more love. And if you promise to never let him read the paper, and never let the love you have for each other cool down, he promises that if you give him exactly thirty days, he'll be on your doorstep with a megaphone to declare you relationship and a shiny ring to ensure it lasts forever. The waiting is agony. By the twentieth day you haven't heard, you're convinced he isn't coming back, You're convinced he could leave, couldn't get away, and you would never be getting him back. By the twenty-ninth day, you're in tears every second trying to find a way to grieve a loss so great, the loss of the one man you truly loved, one man you were willing to risk everything for, put everything on hold for. On the thirtieth day, he is outside your window with that megaphone and a lump in his pocket. You hear from three stories down, "Caramia, I love you so entirely, so completely, it is madness without you. Won't you come to me and end this torment?" You run down the stairs so fast you trip down the last few and nearly break your ankle. When you throw open the door he's on one knee, and the diamond on that ring is bigger than hers was, and he's never looked so happy in all your months together. Be mine, he whispers. Be mine forever and I promise to never let you read the back of the cereal box, or read books in bed. Marry me, my love. You take the ring, and it fits perfectly just as you two do together. It's three years before you're the new her, and he's coming up with new nicknames for the new you.

Papa IV: It's not fun anymore, you say every single day to him like it matters anymore. He still says it was never meant to be fun. When you've convinced yourself with childish lies for so long that all the stomach-ache laughter and the sex and the look of what you wanted to call love in his eyes when he was crying, that it was worth how dehydrated you've been for all the months you've known each other, and it was worth all the drinking, and it was worth all those prescriptions. It wasn't. It never was and it never would be. When you've convinced yourself that you'd rather die than be without him because that's the only thing that can tear the terrible two of you apart. He's terrible, and bad, and awful, but he made you all those things too. All those times you cry on the exhausted shoulder of your friends because you hate him so much and love him bad. All those times you got too drunk to see, because that's all you do together, and your friends had to stay up all night by your side to make sure you don't choke on your own vomit in your sleep. It was worth it to be loved by him. Then he gets bad, he gets worse, and worse, and worse, and worse. And with a few phone calls to the wrong people, wrong in his eyes only, all the sudden you're on the phone with Her to make sure he's okay before you never speak again. She thanks you for calling those wrong people and all you want to say is don't thank me, please don't thank me, I did this to him and he did this to me and we've been fucking the whole time he's been trying to convince you he still loves you. But you don't. And you spend your days wandering like a ghost, a little more hollow than before and infinitely more lost, and you scream in your sleep and only sit on the floor in the shower. You grieve him like he's dead and not just a phone call away, because you said only death could tear you apart and if you had to see him again or hear his voice the cycle would start again and one of you would be. He always said you would always stay friends if anything happened. You're glad he's immortally dead so you don't have to.

(both parts of this are my favorite things. thanks. also i might have some new things to post soon but IN THE MEAN TIME thank you so much for all the votes and please check out my book Persephone Minor. it gets Ghosty around chapter 6. i promise.)