George Washington Bridge

The Meeting of the Waters

pairing: lin-manuel miranda x reader

summary: lin buys a late 18th century piano during the writing process for hamilton, and when he gets it home, he’s surprised to find there’s a ghost attached to it. reader has been attached to her piano for hundreds of years, and is thrilled to talk about her good friend eliza hamilton with the genius who purchased her piano.

warnings: swearing, and i think that’s it idk do ghosts need to be tagged is that a thing

word count: 5,308

a/n: this is for the @hamwriters write-a-thon day one!!! AH okay i haven’t seen anyone write a ghost AU fic yet, so i don’t know how well received this will be BUT i really like it and i hope you guys do too (if u don’t pls be nice to me i’m fragile)

The lights of the George Washington Bridge glow in the distance, a stark contrast to the dark waters of the Hudson. Lin grunts as he pushes the piano up against the window of his studio apartment, leaning an arm on the top of the piano to peer out at the view.

“To be honest, the piano looked better against the wall,” you pipe up from your perch on the arm of the worn out leather sofa.

Lin spins around quickly, a startled look etched on his face. “Who’s in here?”

“Hi there,” you wave your hand, a small smirk on your face, before you stand. You smooth out your skirts and take a few steps toward him.

“Who are you and what are you doing in my apartment?” He takes a few quick steps backwards as you approach, his back colliding with the wall.

“Relax,” you hold up your hands in a show of benevolence. “I come with the piano.”

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The Madness Vase/the Nutritionist

by Andrea Gibson

The nutritionist said I should eat root vegetables,
said if I could get down thirteen turnips each day
I would be grounded, rooted.
Said my head would not keep flying away to where the darkness lives.

The psychic told me my heart carries too much weight,
said for twenty dollars she’d tell me what to do.
I handed her the twenty and she said, “Stop worrying, darling,
you will find a good man soon.”

The first psycho-therapist said I should spend three hours a day
sitting in a dark closet with my eyes closed and my ears plugged.
I tried it once but couldn’t stop thinking
about how gay it was to be sitting in the closet.

The yogi told me to stretch everything but the truth, 
said focus on the out breath,
said everyone finds happiness
if they can care more about what they can give
than what they get.

The pharmacist said Klonopin, Lamictal, Lithium, Xanax.

The doctor said an antipsychotic might help me forget
what the trauma said.

The trauma said, “Don’t write this poem.
Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones.”

But my bones said, “Tyler Clementi dove into the Hudson River
convinced he was entirely alone.”

My bones said, “Write the poem.”
To the lamplight considering the river bed,
to the chandelier of your faith hanging by a thread,
to everyday you cannot get out of bed,
to the bullseye of your wrist,
to anyone who has ever wanted to die:

I have been told sometimes the most healing thing we can do
is remind ourselves over and over and over
other people feel this too.

The tomorrow that has come and gone
and it has not gotten better.

When you are half finished writing that letter
to your mother that says “I swear to God I tried,
but when I thought I’d hit bottom, it started hitting back.”

There is no bruise like the bruise
loneliness kicks into your spine
so let me tell you I know there are days
it looks like the whole world is dancing in the streets
while you break down like the doors of their looted buildings.
You are not alone
in wondering who will be convicted of the crime
of insisting you keep loading your grief
into the chamber of your shame.

You are not weak
just because your heart feels so heavy.
I have never met a heavy heart that wasn’t a phone booth
with a red cape inside.

Some people will never understand
the kind of superpower it takes for some people
to just walk outside some days.
I know my smile can look like the gutter of a falling house
but my hands are always holding tight to the rip cord of believing
a life can be rich like the soil,
can make food of decay,
turn wound into highway.

Pick me up in a truck with that bumper sticker that says, 
“It is no measure of good health
to be well adjusted to a sick society.”

I have never trusted anyone
with the pulled back bow of my spine
the way I trusted ones who come undone at the throat
screaming for their pulses to find the fight to pound.
Four nights before Tyler Clementi
jumped from the George Washington bridge
I was sitting in a hotel room in my own town
calculating exactly what I had to swallow
to keep a bottle of sleeping pills down.

What I know about living
is the pain is never just ours.
Every time I hurt I know the wound is an echo,
so I keep listening for the moment the grief becomes a window,
when I can see what I couldn’t see before
through the glass of my most battered dream
I watched a dandelion lose its mind in the wind
and when it did, it scattered a thousand seeds.

So the next time I tell you how easily I come out of my skin
don’t try to put me back in.
Just say, “Here we are” together at the window
aching for it to all get better
but knowing there is a chance
our hearts may have only just skinned their knees,
knowing there is a chance the worst day might still be coming

let me say right now for the record,
I’m still gonna be here
asking this world to dance,
even if it keeps stepping on my holy feet.

You, you stay here with me, okay?
You stay here with me.

Raising your bite against the bitter dark,
your bright longing,
your brilliant fists of loss.
Friend, if the only thing we have to gain in staying is each other,
my god that is plenty
my god that is enough
my god that is so so much for the light to give
each of us at each other’s backs
whispering over and over and over,
“Live. Live. Live.”

The Recruit (Chapter 11) - Mitch Rapp

Author: @were-cheetah-stiles

Title: “Day 62″

Characters: Mitch Rapp, Stan Hurley, Beth, Dan Brunski, Peter Collins, Jacob Clemens & Reader/OFC

Warnings: Separation anxiety, anxiety, somewhat detailed description of sexual assault/attempted rape.

IM SERIOUS DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU ARE EASILY TRIGGERED. you can always just message me and ask me what important plot you missed.

Author’s Note: “y/n/n” means your nickname, like if your name can be shortened to something, if it can’t then just go with your name. “y/f/i” means the first initial of your first name. 

Summary: Mitch is forced to take a day trip with Stan to the Ghost Protocol Training facilities, and y/n takes off for New York City to see someone from her past.

Chapter Ten - Chapter Eleven - Chapter Twelve

Originally posted by stileslydias

“Y/n/n.. Y/n/n…” Mitch whispered and nudged you awake. “Hey, hey… it’s me.” You flinched backwards in your bed, your legs struggling to get you upright fast enough under your sheets. You were clearly having a nightmare about the attack. Mitch wanted to leave even less.

“What’s going on? Why are you dressed?” You asked groggily.

“I heard Stan telling Aiden that he’d be gone for a couple of days so I went and slept in my room after you fell asleep. I was worried he’d come in my room and I wouldn’t be there.”

“You’re leaving?”

Mitch held up Joseph Heller’s novel, Catch-22.

“You’re going back to Ghost..”

“Yea and I’ve gotta go now. I told Stan that I’d be down in a minute, I was just stealing one of your books. I’ll only be gone for a day.”

“Be careful.” You looked up at him with emotional eyes, and he nodded.

“I will.” Mitch leaned down and left a lingering, sad kiss on your lips.

Don’t go.” was what you wanted to say but didn’t. You watched him walk out the door, your book in his hand, and you sunk back into your pillow. It was still dark out. You glanced up at the bookcase on your wall and saw the space where Catch-22 had been. It was the first time that he had left in a month and you were anything but excited to go through the day without him. You decided you wouldn’t.

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A/N: The reader will still be referred to as Y/N, but I saw the gif and decided it was too good not to use.

In the beginning of Sophomore year, you arrived at Midtown and caused a storm the minute you enrolled. Because of your father’s job, you’ve moved all over the country with parents feeling as if they have to make it up to you. Until your parents split up and your mom and you went to live in Queens with your aunt. With the lack of parental concern, you grew up rather wildly. You party on the weekends while maintaining your perfect grades during the weekdays.

In the midst of all the attractive guys throwing themselves to you, you always forgot Peter Parker, the smart boy that lived in your building and followed around Gwen Stacy until she liked him. Gwen was one of your best friends since you entered Midtown and sat behind her in homeroom. She almost grounded you and always gave you her superior opinion of how you should live your life. While Peter was certainly a good guy, you rolled your eyes at the pair falling in love in high school.

Peter Parker was the first kid you met, since his aunt knew your aunt. Gwen was even jealous of you for a little bit before she realized you had no intention to date Peter, like his aunt wanted you to. In fact, he was kind of boring to you, when you wanted nothing but excitement and thrills. That is, until the day you learned his secret.

Despite you not being actually friends with Peter, you were flirting with one of his friends, Harry Osborn. He was smart, handsome, and charming, which compelled you to him. Obviously, you weren’t officially dating, yet the two of you weren’t just friends. You became slightly closer to Peter because Harry was a good friend of his.

One day after school, you were turning the lock to your aunt’s apartment when you noticed Peter down the hallway rushing to his apartment. It reminded you that you wanted to talk to him about notes you might have missed in Physics. You quickly threw your stuff down and locked the door again. When you got to his door, it was slightly open so you knocked lightly and entered.

Peter’s bag was at the table and you assumed he was in his room. The door was wide open, revealing the emptiness. You were confused as you entered the room. Suddenly, a flash of red swung by the window, meaning Spiderman was swinging by the room where Peter disappeared. You connected the dots and realized that Peter must have been Spiderman.

You knew better than to confront Peter about this. It wasn’t your secret to tell or discuss, so you reckoned that he would tell people when he wanted to. You knew Gwen didn’t know since she always wondered where Peter was going when he hastily excused himself. It led to pretty severe arguments between the two, but they still made up in the end.

Your discovery was practically forgotten as the years went on. Life continued on as your life took a turn for the worse. After officially dating for eight months, you broke it off with Harry after seeing how mentally unstable he was after his father’s death. You would have tried to help him, but you were scared of his obsessiveness and knew he was in need of professional help. At the end of the junior year, your mother, after being sick for a majority of the year, died in her sleep. Even though you had to take jobs to help bring in some money, you still planned to become an actress after school.

Then the universe decided to punch you once more by taking away one of the only good things left in your life. While fighting the Green Goblin, Spiderman couldn’t save Gwen Stacy when she fell from the George Washington Bridge. Everything was horrible, but you knew who might be feeling worse. After cleaning yourself up, you knocked on Peter’s apartment door. Aunt May answered before giving you a sad smile. “Are you okay, sweetie?” She asked lovingly.

You faked a smile, knowing she’d take it. “I’m fine,” you said, “Is Peter alright?”

Aunt May gravely shook her head. “He’s locked himself up in his room. If you want to come back another time, I understand.” You shook your head slightly. You knew how terrible he would feel and he needed someone to tell him it wasn’t his fault. You needed to be there for your friend.

You lightly rapped on his door, only receiving a soft “Go away” from the other side. Quietly opening his door, you ignored the state of his room and the odor coming off from him. He sat up on his bed with red eyes and messy hair before glaring at you for coming in. “I said go away,” Peter stated firmly, “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Well, I’m here anyways,” you pulled up a chair next to his bed before placing a hand on his back. “This isn’t your fault, Peter.” Seeing him in such a state upset you greatly. It reminded you of how Harry was after his father’s death. You didn’t want another of your friends to be too far from your reach. “Please. I know how it feels-”

His movements were quick and frantic. He shoved your hand off of him and scowled, “You don’t know anything about how this feels! Leave me alone. You won’t make me feel better.” Peter retreated back to his bed, but you grabbed his covers before he could hide under them. He glared at you again and got up to grab them. You held it out of his reach, which wasn’t hard surprisingly, considering Peter’s other identity.

“I don’t know anything?” You repeated in a hurt tone, keeping him an arm length away, “Peter, my father is God knows wheredoing God knows what with God knows who. My mother died a few months ago. I left Harry and now I lost Gwen, my closest friend.”

He stilled at the reminder, but reached for his blankets soon after. “I don’t care,” Peter said gruffly, “Give me my blankets back.” You kept it just out of his reach and as he approached, you went to a different part of his room. Groaning with frustration, he snapped, “Stop being so childish!”

You pursed your lips. “I’ll stop when you stop,” you stated, poking his chest to make him back up, “Gwen is gone. Sulking is not going to bring her back.” He opened his mouth to defend himself. “Don’t say this is grieving. This is unhealthy and Gwen would have preferred you to live the life she couldn’t instead of just moping here. You are disrespecting her memory by not living a life that you are lucky enough to have.” Your cheeks had turned red and tears welled in your eyes during the conversation.

Peter sat back down on his bed, tears going down his face at the memories that would only be memories. You sat next to him and threw your arms around him. He accepted your hug and leaned into you, sobbing every so often. You let your own tears fall, but focused on being strong for Peter. “I miss her,” he sniffled lightly, “And I just love her so much.”

“I know you do, Pete,” you comforted, “I do too. That’s not a bad thing.” He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you closer. You knew that he was scared of anyone else leaving him so you just stayed still. Feeling his sobs get slower, you knew he must have been drained now. You stroked his hair gently to further calm him down until his weight was placed entirely on you and his breathing was quiet and even.

Laying him down on his bed was challenging, but Peter was fast asleep. He didn’t stir as you placed his blanket on him nor when you wiped the dried tears from his face. Before you were about to leave, his eyes opened slightly and made a reach for your hand. “Don’t leave me, please.” You grabbed his hand and rubbed it with the pad of your thumb.

“Never,” you promised, “It’s quite possible that you’re stuck with me forever now.” You stood still until his hand was limp and you placed it back on his chest. “Let’s face it. You hit the jackpot.” There was a shadow of a smile on his face when you left his room quietly.