#* she'll be fine on her own ! / visage.

[eldritch-spouse]

Bestie pinnie!! I am so very tipsy, is there any chance you could do some hc's of the icons with a drunk/tipsy s/o? One that's affectionate and shit?

Hope the dungeon is going well!!

[This was a while ago, hope you're okay lmao. The dungeon is alive and full.]

TW: Dubious consent.

Vesper finds this so cute. Oh, you're so adorable. A couple drinks and you want to climb him like a tree, you're just the cutest. Vesper meets your affection twofold, cooing and goading you into waxing poetic about how you feel regarding him. He's also definitely taking this as an invitation to find out what type of drunk you are doing sex. Do you get sloppy and lazy or are you the type that comes alight with passion? The giggly ones are always fun.

Zizz also thinks fondly of these moments. He's one of the icons that drinks the least, so you can get pretty drunk around him, Zizz will be there to protect you (though never from himself). He welcomes your affection, enjoying petting you while you ramble half-coherently and love on him. He's the type to lay there with a wagging tail and point to several parts of himself, asking you to kiss them if you really love him. Eventually, he'll recommend you sleep it off on him, what he does to you while you're in a drunken slumber stays forever a mystery...

Kalymir finds this so fucking funny. Look at you, you little bumbling fool! What a lightweight! He's on his tenth bottle, you're such a pussy (you are worryingly drunk, that was not a drink for humans). He definitely makes fun of you, leaning out of your reach when you try to kiss him and goading you into getting irritated enough to drunkenly snap at him. If you're half-crazy enough to bite him out of frustration, that's what he wants. For every smooch and coo you land on Kalymir, he slaps your ass and pokes around at you, but your pathetic state is getting to him. Wanna sweat that alcohol off, runt? Start running, he'll give you a head start since you're already giggling about it. He's laughing too.

Vorticia drinks plenty. There's nothing like a fine wine, even if she also indulges in harder stuff often enough. Point is, you're not drinking alone with her more often than not. By the time you're tipsy, she's hammered. And you'll note the way her serpent tongue gets the best of her because she starts slurring those "s"s pretty heavily. It's actually very easy to fluster the Queen in this state, so you'll get her to blush and laugh loudly, laying down somewhere just to enjoy some pleasant moments with her charming Queenie. She's definitely going to try to at least finger you a little, joking around when you react in shock, as if she's not really doing anything weird. You're likely to get very sloppy, drooling oral. She'll empty a bottle on you and go to town.

Cero is chastising you for having absolutely no self-control, even if there's a drunken tint to his cheeks as well. You're a complete mess, this is shameful, get a hold of yourself- Why yes, he is handsome. He's very kind to you, that is also true. My my, you're being very honest today, aren't you? What started as chiding and bitching very quickly turns into a reluctant tolerance, and then very eager conversation- As Cero blushes heavily and his usually frowning visage melts into a genuinely soft look full of adoration for you. He'll let you cling to him, kiss around and even stain his outfit, if only just to hear you say you love him more than anything, that you think he's so hoootttt and prettyyy and smart and wowwww. You should get drunk more often, he concludes.

Rinx has such an endless selection of liquor, it's a small miracle you're only tipsy and not blacked out on the floor. He's very talkative when he drinks, so your affectionate quips are returned with his own affectionate thoughts for you and invitations to try different brands- This one's so old, it might kill you, better not. He can't help picking you up and walking around with you under his armpit like a purse dog as he rambles on and on and flusters while you kiss at him drunkenly. There's definitely going to be some very messy humping at one point, he has yet to shut the fuck up, even when you kiss him.

Livius gets as drunk as you do, which takes more drinks than it does for you. Since he mirrors a lot of your mannerisms in all sorts of situations, he's also going to mimic your drunken stupor, to the best of his abilities. "I loves you"s are met with "I love you more"s and it escalates into stupid, cheesy comparisons. His voice gets high and whiny and Livius needs to have his arms coiled around you, he might even be more affectionate than you. He's very prone to tickling you a lot in this state, just to hear you laugh and try to torture him back. It's adorable and painfully lovey-dovey from start to finish.

[afterglowofcalamity]

no right answer

— serval boards the express.

she'll be back, of course. for birthdays and anniversaries and maintenance checks, whenever the fancy strikes and her new partners are willing to oblige. she'll convince pompom, she promises. gets promises in return of her arrivals being made holidays, concerts by the workshop left in her devoted disciple's hands, all of their time in exchange for all that she can give.

she'll be back.

it's welt that cracks the code, after many long back-and-forths with an ipc salesman still trying to market to a presumed-dead planet. march whisks her phone away while she's not looking and welt presents it back to her with grim flourish. you can contact them, he says. a mostly permanent line between belobog and the astral express! march cheers, an excitement she feels in herself, smile building on her lips, thank you's and promises of repayment and how did you do it? spilling out.

she can contact them.

she can. it's possible.

... she can, but...

space is limitless, the vast sea of stars dwarfing even the shadow of cocolia that hangs over her every step. and it houses ever more giants. the very first planet she visits with the crew isn't a planet at all, yet it is so, so, so much larger than her own home. a mechanical creature much like the express, yet multiplied in size. she loves it.

himeko lets her accompany the trailblazing team, because after all, it's her first mission. and what better place than such a fascinating ship, even more curious than the express itself? such a stunning visage she is.

she slots right in with the kids, just as they had back in belobog (back home), although this time it's welt as tired passenger to their shenanigans. it's love at first sight when they come across the xianzhou's native automatons.

she thinks of her often.

she rarely thinks of her.

her voice fading into the eternal dusk, echoing quietly, painedly - why must you always get in my way, serval?

why was it so hard to say farewell, when cocolia herself had used her last moments to reject the very idea? her ghost did not give her the relief of an ending. it drags with her, lingers over the shoulders. why, serval?

she's not in her way, anymore. she's not even on the same fucking planet where her soul melted into the everfrozen ice. she haunts her still. she haunts her always.

why, serval?

she does not come home; bites her lip shut when the next destination is chosen. and the next, and the next, and the next. her friends (family, now; this is home) worry, but it does not last. or at least, she thinks it doesn't. she finally managed to send little gepard a message, and an apology to lynx for not saying goodbye. casual conversation with pela, a cautious hello for bronya. the response is explosive, phone buzzing nonstop even with the cosmic delay. they're so far away, she thinks, watching the messages come in, swallowing tears she didn't think she had left.

she's fine. even if she is haunted, still - it eases.

she will go home, someday. maybe even soon. she promised that was not their last farewell, and serval keeps her promises. even to people who don't.

she carries cocolia with her forever, even though she had cast serval aside long ago.

she promised.

why, serval?

i loved you.

[asharinhun]

DWC Day 3 - Consequence

//This is a continuation of two older dwc stories from last year.

Samantha grunted in pain as a fresh wave of ice and cold battered her form. She was on her knees, frost-rimmed gauntlets clutching onto her claymore, the sole reason she wasn't lying facefirst in the snow. She'd have laughed at the situation if she had the strength. As things stood, the worgen wasn't long for this world.

When the brawler first accepted Zhiadormi's offer, she didn't expect it would eventually lead her all the way to the fabled Dragon Isles... nor that it was there her own story would end. A bit ironic, but at least she'd go out in a fight, a pity it lacked the blaze of glory. At least the claymore served her well, another gift from the bronze after her old cleaver shattered on a stone elemental.

"Well, shit. Always knew there were others who could best me, and a big ass proto-dragon fits the bill..." Sam muttered with a huff, not even the fur of her worgen form could keep her warm now. She didn't come to this so called 'primalist future' alone - Zhia wasn't the only one to send associates through the portal at the Temporal Conflux - but if any of the others were still alive, she couldn't say.

"Come on, Sam... at least die standing...!" She hissed through gritted teeth, trying to use her weapon to pull herself up, but the frost was covering most of her body now. "Damn it..." She felt sleepy, the sting of cuts and the shard sof ice piercing her body barely more than a dull ache.

A sudden blast of heat shook her awake and the worgen's eye widened in disbelief. A heavily scarred black dragon landed before her, a mighty roar followed by a ball of molten lava erupting from her mouth. The proto-dragon was screeching in pain, its domain of ice unable to withstand the scorching heat for long.

With her foe retreating, the black turned to glance down at Samantha and huffed. "Stay awake." Before the brawler could say anything in reply, she was scooped out of the ice unceremoniously and was carried back all the way through the portal. The landing wasn't too gentle, but the worgen wasn't in a state to complain.

"Sam! Thank the Titans that Neria got there in time!" The brawler shocked by the sudden embrace and couldn't bite back a small hiss as the pain of her injuries flared anew without the numbing cold.

Zhiadormi frowned, concern marring her elven features as she placed a hand on Samantha's cheek, her gaze roaming over the worgen's body. Taking a deep breath, the bronze dragon used her powers to undo most of the damage to the worgen's body while Neria was shielding them from view.

"Sheesh, don't look at her like that. She'll be fine." The black dragon growled, taking on her own preferred visage after Zhia was finished. "Just get her cleaned up and keep her warm." She added haughtily, ignoring the uneasy, even hostile looks she was receiving from the other bronze dragons in the area. "Tch, timelizards..." "Now that your bedwarmer is safe, don't call me over again for such trivial matters." Neria's tone was annoyed, but a hint of pride glittered in her eye as she glanced at the weapon. "And don't forget, you owe me this time." The black dragon resumed her true form and flew away without wasting more words.

The brawler wasn't aware of the whole conversation, only catching the last part as the haze of pain and cold was pushed back from her mind, and could only watch Neria's departure. "What the..." She was quickly silenced by a finger over her mouth.

"Sush, sweet thing. The short version is, I've made a deal with that grumpy black dragon, and this is one of the results of that. I'll sate your curiosity about the details once you're fully recovered." Zhia hummed, lifting the worgen with ease and carried her bridal-style to one of the nearby tents. "Just rest for now."

Sam wanted to argue at first, but she was too exhausted. In the end she just nodded, eye slipping closed now that she was safe.

@daily-writing-challenge

[zorkaya-moved]

@impishsensei asked:

"i'm trying to fix your hair, so hold still."

There is a strange solidarity between the two sorcerers alienated and isolated from the large majority. They may be so for different reasons, but there is an unspoken understanding of something between them that none puts a word to. A company is enjoyed and that's how it is. Though, Zarina wonders when did she first tell Gojo where she lived instead of dragging him into a motel or hotel or whatever place they could find to indulge, discuss, have fun, relax, be human. Even more surprising is how she lets him fix her hair right now. Her hair is her pride and joy, the most important part of her whole visage aside from her eyes that she loves the most about herself. Not because she dislikes the rest of herself, but because those two features are just her own favorites. Almost makes her wonder if Satoru wanted to play with her hair before with how eager he's doing it right now.

As she sits on the bed, Gojo sits behind her and plays around with locks of silver. Their hair colors are distinctly different when the light is not white and too bright for normal eyes to see, now it's obvious her hair is darker than his. Yeah, naturally, his is a white and fluffy snow while hers is the waves of moonlight. He's sure as hell not fucking it up, right? Right? Oh she hopes not. Her hair is her treasure and she'll break his fingers (keywords: seriously try).

The tug makes her roll her eyes and she just wants to stretch but is interrupted by his words. Fine, she'll obey his instructions for a bit longer. A huff comes from her right away, lips are pressed together as she wonders how long it's been. Feels like a while, but it is nice to be spoiled just a bit. But then again, it seems more like he's having too much fun. He better be braiding her hair there and making sure nothing is sticking out funnily. Zarina tries to imagine what it may look like, but her trust in Satoru's skills when it comes to braiding long hair falls short without evidence of his successes. She almost whines at the prospect of having to fix it herself after his fixing.

"I hope you know that if I look in the mirror and I have a chicken nest on my head, I'm finding a way to shoot your dick off and put your eyes in a glass jar to sell," she says it in such a monotone voice that it feels like she is not joking, but it's just her deadpan snarker coming out. No way she can actually shoot his dick off (his Infinity won't let her) or put his eyes in a glass jar (they're better and more useful in his head). Her shoulders relax and she glances to the side (without turning her head), a small mirror on the table isn't turned in a way that lets her see what Satoru is fixing, but she sees him. The way the t-shirt hugs his body, the way his hair is a bit of a mess, the way he lacks that blindfold that's hanging on that small mirror, oh. That's where it is.

Sokolova sighs.

"Are you going to be done soon? I want to eat." Probably make dinner. Or maybe this time she'll order a take out or go to the restaurant downstairs.

[hauntedpaperbag]

The Angel Said

"Where've you been off to?" David grumbles, whittling the end of a stick. 

Maggie sucks her teeth, thin lips pulling shrewdly apart. She opens her mouth to speak but closes it, words lodged in her throat. She's soaking in sweat from the Louisiana heat, humidity clogging her pores. A crane caws. 

"Off." She says, sitting on the opposite side of the fire on a moss-covered log. 

David's eyes flicker up towards her face, pausing his whittling. 

"Off where?" 

Maggie doesn't respond, setting her pack down on the ground. It smacks against the wet dirt. She twiddles with her cross necklace, twisting it around her pointer finger until it turns red. Her own form of flagellation. She thinks of Father Michael. 

If it hurts, it cures. 

"Nowhere, David, just…off. I needed to clear my head." 

He sighs, the start of an argument bubbling out of his chest, all the unsaid things of the past three days crawling from the pit of his stomach. His face twists, old visage turning sour, and Maggie almost feels bad. Almost.

"Nowhere," David mumbles, shaking his head. He sets his project down, standing, wiping the shavings off his blood-stained jeans. He picks up his rifle, army backpack, and canteen from the ground. 

"What are you doing?" 

He ignores her, heavy boots shuffling around their little camp in the middle of the swamp. David looks up at the moon; it reveals nothing. 

"Remember what I said about honesty, Maggie?" He says. 

"What are you talking about?"

"Back in the swamp, when you were running, and I told you the truth, I said that's all we have. Honesty." 

"David, I don't know-." 

"Maggie." He says quietly. She stops, slamming her mouth shut, all her mistakes rattling in her head. 

"I-I was on a walk." She can't meet his stare, too afraid that if his eyes find hers, she'll drown in them, just like she nearly did back in the bayou. When he hauled her out of green sludge, harbored her in his tiny log cabin, lied to the congregation.

No girls come round these parts, Father. 

'You're a gahdamn liar, Maggie Turner." And he starts to walk away from her and their little camp of broken faith. 

Maggie scrambles to her feet, tennis shoes sliding in the mud. She runs towards him, grabbing his arm, putting herself between him and his freedom. David looks down at her, square jaw set tightly, hard lines etched into his skin. He reaches a strong, scarred hands hold her shoulders. 

"Where were you." And it's not a question because he knows where she was. It's a statement, a threat. 

"You know where I was." 

"I want you to say it."

"David-"

He pushes her away harshly, discarding everything she won't tell him. She falls into a tree, the breath knocked out of her lungs, empty in the swampy air. The forest screams around them. She slides down the tree, crouching on the wet earth. 

"Fine!" She shrieks like an insect horde. "Fine, David! I went back; I went back because he has it, and I need it; it's the last thing of my mothers-" 

"He coulda killed you!"

"He wasn't there! I looked everywhere on the first floor, and it wasn't there and-"

"You went inside his HOUSE!?" He shouts, startling the forest awake. 

"He wasn't there!! I swear, I triple-checked just like you taught me to-."

"Shit, Maggie! What in God's name is wrong with you? Did he beat the sense out of you too?"

"He has it, and it's mine; it's the only thing I have left of my mother, and-and I-shit-" Maggie cries, sobbing into her knees. The moon shines over them softly, garishly, and Maggie feels all the mushy parts that make her her become exposed. 

"I can't go alone. I can't go, David, please; I can't go to his room alone-" 

David stares at her. Flashes of the bayou, of Father Michael's slimy words at the door of his cabin-

Have you seen Maggie Turner, a young girl, around? She's been missin and…

David sighs. A moment passes as the cicadas sing around them, harmonizing with the owlish sound of Maggie's grief. 

"Fine."

Maggie looks up, calming down, wiping her face with a dirty sleeve. 

"What?" She sniffles..

"We'll go get it, but you listen to me. Do you hear me?" David grits. 

And for the first time since moving to New Haven, Louisiana, Maggie smiles. It curls on her face like a dying spider's legs, and David feels a shiver crawl down his spine. 

Father Michael's house is a monstrous beast that lives in the woods. Old, white, and worn. Inside is nothing but the remnants of the previous priests, their furniture, covered swathes of white cotton cloth. David touches a finger on what looks like a couch, and it comes back bathed in dust. 

"Who the hell lives like this?" He mutters. The hairs rise on the back of his neck; someone walking over his grave. 

Maggie's looking around, triple checking all the corners she double-checked before. But nothing's here. 

"It's always been like this." She whispers. "The parish doesn't come here anymore; he goes to them." 

David walks around the living room quietly and steps before a massive fireplace. It's unlit, ashes stone cold inside the hearth, and above it hangs a large painting of The Virgin Mary. It's a copy of some old, famous version. There's a painted golden glow emitting from behind her blue-shrouded figure. But in this light, under her obliterating gaze, David wonders what she's seen. 

"We have to go upstairs."

He whips his head around. Maggie is standing by the stairs, one foot already beginning to climb up old rickety wood. 

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Upstairs, David. It has to be upstairs." 

David swallows with a dry mouth. He glances back at Mary, whose stare has not yet left his soul. 

"I don't know if that's a good idea." 

"Fine, you stay here, and I'll go alone." Maggie snipes, quick as a bullet, faster than a prayer through town. She starts to walk up the steps, and David knows there is no reason with the unreasonable, he follows. The wood creaks under their feet. David feels the wear in the middle from decades of parishioners before coming to this house for penitence. For forgiveness. He wonders if they found what they were looking for. 

When they're at the top, the room is small, with a single-lit candler glowing on a tiny table in the middle. The shadows it casts along the wall tower over them. Suddenly, the air in the room is very, very cold. On two walls are two doors facing across from each other. Maggie tries to open three and finds them all locked. 

"Shit. Do you know how to pick lo…" But at the fourth door, the knob turns and swings open.

David and Maggie peer inside.

"This is his room." She whispers, sounding so frail that David worries one step and she'll crumble. 

"I can go in and look-"

"No. I can do it." 

She steps inside first, shaking from head to toe.  

Father Michael's room is filled with crosses. Nailed to ceiling, to the walls, the floor. It's nearly impossible to walk without stepping on one. In the middle of the room, not against a wall, is the largest four-poster bed David has ever seen. The white comforter is stained, the pillows are ripped, and the drapes hanging from the posts are sheer. Moonlight filters in from three windows on the far wall. 

It's ghastly. 

A small desk is in a corner, with unlit candles melting onto the surface. 

"Oh my god," David says, but there is no God here. 

And when he looks at the ceiling, he knows that. 

Stuck to the wall, directly above the bed that he realizes has no top fabric, is a painting of Jesus, with blood dripping from his forehead, crowned in thorns. And hanging from the ornate gold frame is a necklace. 

"Maggie," David says and points.

He expects something, an exclamation, a sob, a prayer. But Maggie's face is stone cold, and David feels a little silly for expecting a reaction. 

She walks into the room, carelessly stepping on every cross, and climbs atop the bed. She grabs the necklace and rips it from the frame. Her hands shake when she brings it down to her level. She trips off the bed, her foot catching on the bedding, and falls onto the floor. When David moves to help her up, she shakes her head, red hair falling like the confessional curtain covering her face. 

David shuffles his feet, growing antsy. 

"Okay, you got it; let's go." 

Maggie nods, not really listening, paying more attention to the jewelry in her hands. She presses her lips to the locket and turns to David. He feels the Holy Ghost whisper in his ear. 

"I'm gonna kill him." She says. 

David knows this to be true. 

***

"Lord Jesus Christ, we pray that you will protect our parish in the face of sin. We pray that You will cover us with Your power, Your love, and Your blood. Heal our wounds and soften our hearts so that we may be able to accept Your will into our souls. Surround all of us with Your heavenly Angels, Saints, the strong arms of St. Joseph, and the mantle of Our Blessed Mother. Through Christ our Lord. Amen." 

"Amen." The herd repeats. 

Father Michael bows his head and raises his hand; father, son, holy spirit across his chest. Atop the platform, behind the podium, he stands, cassock shining in the morning sun. His hand's toy with the beaded rosary braceleting his wrist. 

"Now, my friends," he starts, voice curling around the parishioners like a shepherd's crook, guiding, leading, commanding; "We have all been made aware of Maggie Turner's disappearance and the subsequent threat she has become to our church. Her place in The Ritual will not be replaced, so it is pertinent, friends, that she is found. Neighborhood watches have taken the helm in the search, and the Lady's group has kindly offered to go through her Uncle's things at his home. John was a close friend to this parish, and may his soul rest in heaven now." 

The women smile in the first row, all pastel hats and perfumed hair, stockings with runs, and kitten heels. They cluck like hens, giggling under Father Michael's gaze. 

"The church is also raising funds for John's funeral. Once the Lady's go through his home and find his will, we'll commence with a burial under my guidance in the cemetery." 

He smiles with crooked teeth. The parish waits on bated breath; hands outstretched for the morsels he will grant them. 

"That is all for today. Through Christ our Lord. May He guide you." 

The sermon ends, the herd rises, bleating to each other, spewing the same conversations they do every Sunday, and Wednesday, and Monday. Someone sneezes, and a chorus of bless yous erupts through the crowd. Father Michael says goodbye to the flock, waving them out the door with one mighty hand. When they have all gone, he sighs, wiping the sticky sweat off his brow. He looks up to the arched wood ceiling, mumbling a soft prayer only he and God will know. Then, raising the rosary to his lips, he presses a foul kiss to the cross and walks up the spiral stairs to his office. 

Sheriff Will is sitting inside, in a chair facing the mahogany desk, lit cigarette in mouth. 

"Beautiful sermon, Father." 

Father Michael thanks him and sits at his desk. 

"We've been looking all night. Haven't found a hint of her." Will mumbles, cowboy hat tipped down over his eyes. A gold cross necklace shines in the sunlight from the stained glass windows.

"Not hard enough," Father says, not meeting Will's eyes, signing paperwork. 

"Father, we've had men-."

"Not hard enough." And when he does look at Will, it's God's lightning striking through his soul. Will chokes on his spit. 

"Yes, of course, Father."

Father Michael hums, nodding his head. 

"I expect you at confession today, Sheriff." 

"Yes, Father." 

"I haven't forgotten about your deputy."

"He didn't know it was her, sir. He thought it was some kid playing a joke-"

Michael tilts his head, raising his hand, and with a single flick, Will is ushered out of the room. Michael looks down at the morgue's papers on the desk about Maggie's Uncle, John. His eyes skim over the injury report.

13 stab wounds. 

13 times Maggie shoved a knife into her Uncle's stomach, chest, neck. 

Oh Maggie, he thinks, you can't run from God.  

***

Maggie sits in David's tiny cabin, buried in fleece blankets by the wood furnace, cradling her mother's locket close to her heart. 

"That's your mothers?"

"Yeah." Maggie nods, voice solemn. "She was sacrificed in the ritual too, but I was living with my dad. I'd lived with him since I was only a few months old when he left the parish. Then, when he got the letter from Fathe- God…." Tears skim her water line.

"He lost it." There is so much unsaid, but Maggie won't bring herself to say it. "Uhm-that's why I had to move here, to live with John. My Uncle." 

David grunts from his bed, whittling a stick with his pocket knife. It's warm inside the cabin, cozy. 

"They said she died in a boat accident. Riding through the bayou, that she just fell out and hit the rudder…." She scoffs. "And I believed it." 

"You were grieving-"

"I was stupid." 

If it hurts, it cures. 

Maggie shakes her head, trying to slap the vengeful voice of Father Michael like a fly out of her head. 

"You found out, then," David asks, eyes turned down at his work. 

"I found Father Michael's letter to John with the news." 

The fire crackles in the furnace, but this is no campfire story. 

"John was, he was- he knew I wouldn't do it. Said they were gonna force me too. That I should feel lucky-" Maggie can still feel his hands gripping her arms, pulling her hair, dragging her back into his house when she'd tried to run, "said Father Michael thought I'd like it, to die like my mother had."

"Then you killed him." He says, looking at her now, wrinkly face so so guilty.

"Yeah. Then I killed him." She can still feel his hand around her kneck loosen when she'd first shoved his own knife into his stomach. The blood was warm. She'll never feel clean again. 

They stew in silence for a moment, reality heavy on their shoulders. Feeling like Atlas, holding the world. "And then you found me in the swamp." 

David remembers, on his boat, lamp looking for gators, but instead catching Maggie, trudging through the marsh. Drowning. 

"I tried to go to the Sheriffs, but they all- everyone knows. They all knew, and they were almost…jealous. So, I'm going to kill Father Michael. For my mother, for my father." 

"Revenge is a fool's game," David mumbles.

"Well, I guess I'm the biggest fucking fool there is."

The wind howls outside the cabin, rattling the window. 

"Why do they leave you alone?" Maggie asks. 

David stops his whittling, thinking. 

"My family has been here for decades. Before Father Michael. They leave me alone; I leave them alone." 

"So you all have just, like, lived in the middle of the swamp for forever." 

"Yuhp." Back to whittling. 

Maggie pictures generations of David's, whittling right where he is, knowing everything yet being silent.

"Did you know?" She asks. 

David doesn't answer. 

"David."

He looks at her, and in his face, she sees an old man drowned in guilt. 

"Yes." 

Maggie knew that he had to have known. Kept their secret safely tucked away in his back pocket, the skeleton shoved in his closet. 

"Do you believe in God?" She asks. 

David finally sets his work down, places the carved wood onto the floor, and puts the knife back in his cargo shorts pocket. He meets her accusing gaze, and they just watch each other for a moment. 

"No."

Crackle goes the fire. 

"But I've seen the Devil." 

And Maggie knows this to be true because she has too. 

***

Father Martin pulls into his driveway, tires rumbling on the gravel. The radio's on, crooning the Kossoy Sisters. His head sways back and forth, voice humming along. He parks the truck and steps out, the top buttons of his cassock undone, skin sweaty in the Louisiana heat. The swamp around him hisses in the night. 

Walking inside, he skips the first floor, going straight to his room. The steps creak like they always do, and the candle in the top room has completely melted onto the wood table. 

When he steps inside his room, undresses, prays, lays in bed, and looks up at the Lord, it takes him a second to realize. 

Father Michael grits his teeth, balling his hands into the sheets. He gets out of bed and redresses, buttoning the cassock to perfection, and goes back outside to his car. The truck door slams hard, chipping red paint falling off the side as it rocks under Michael's fury.  

He calls the town to a meeting and sends the Sherriff and his useless men knocking on doors, gathering the herd like hounds to the church.

It only takes an hour.

"My friends, the situation has become much worse than I anticipated." 

The church is full, every soul there, and Father Michael is doing more than preaching tonight.  

"Maggie Turner has broken into my home and stolen something of mine!" He shouts.

The herd gasps.

Father Michael wipes sweat off his brow with a quaking hand, pale face red in anger. He runs his fingers through his thinning hair to smooth out his cracking seams. 

"She has broken into my home, friends. She will be found tonight."

The church is alive in agreement, people raising their hands in fists of justice, some shouting for God to help them all. 

"I believe that David Halloway has taken her into his satanist cabin, fed her, kept her hidden from us. This man is no friend of ours. We have tolerated him all these years, let him live close to our home, and this is how he repays us?" 

The crowd roars. 

"Tonight, we will drag Maggie Turner here and perform The Ritual! TONIGHT!!" Father Michael cries, gripping the podium, torso leaning over the front, nearly flinging himself forward. The parish moves out of the church's large double doors, going to their cars, boats, and bikes. Some have flashlights, some have guns. They all have Father Michael to guide them, though. 

And Father Michael has God. 

***

Maggie hears the cries before she sees them. Shouts of her name, of whore and witch calling through the trees. Footsteps stomp through tall grass and marshy mud; they cry for justice, fire for the sinner. 

David grabs her by the arms and hauls her from the fireplace and out back. He brings her to the small dock behind his cabin. The moon shadows his stern face, and the only thing Maggie can genuinely see is his frightened eyes.

"Take my boat. Do what you have to do." 

"David, no-"

"If you're not here, I can try to shove them off. Say you stole my boat."

"I can't leave you!"

He shakes her hard. The parish cries, growing closer. A flashlight's beam falls over the front of the cabin; it shines through the windows. 

"Take my boat!" He hisses, reaches into his pocket for the pocket knife, and shoves her to the dock. 

Maggie falls in the blood, tears falling from her face. She wants to thank him for saving her, and for helping her; but instead, she scrambles down the dock, tripping on the shoddy wood structure, and slides into the tiny mud motorboat. Sitting on the bench, she pulls the engine, which rumbles to life.  

With one final glance at David, standing at the start of the dock, she sees him lift a hand. A cry gurgles out of her, and she sobs, waving with one hand and steering away from him. 

She turns to look at the swamp ahead of her, unable to face Davids's shrinking form. Parishioners are shouting out, screaming like locusts tearing through crops. Father Michael's voice croons in her ear, whispering of holy lands. She feels nauseous and retches over the side of the boat. Her hand wipes the vomit from her mouth, and she steers away, looking for the church's spire. It's a few minutes before she catches it peaking through the woods. 

It spears through the treetops like a stake in the ground.

It laughs at her. 

By the time she reaches the church, no one is there. They're all out searching for her, wading through chest-deep water, driving on the roads. Maggie pulls to the dock and slows to a stop, listening for the horde. All she hears is crickets and the deep rrrrribit of bullfrogs. She stops to breathe for just a second and listens. 

The swamp surrounds her, holds her, cradles her in mushy arms of wet moss. 

But then Father Michael is strolling out the back door, and his steps stomp down the stone staircase, and he smiles. 

"Maggie, we've been looking for you." His voice rings like a church bells Sunday morning chime. 

She looks the Devil in his cold, hollow face, and spits. It splats on his left cheek, and Father Michael's smile drops. He lifts a sleeve to wipe it off, and Maggie fights a smirk from her face.

"That's not nice, Maggie." he laughs with no mirth. 

Maggie steps back a bit, her hand gripping the pocket knife, knuckles turning white. Father Michael advances on her slowly, backing her to the water. Maggie is terrified; she wonders if her mother felt like this, but no, her mother wanted it. 

"You stole from my home." 

"Fuck you!"

Father Michael's hand snaps out like a viper and grabs her wrist. Maggie cries out in pain, his fingers digging into her skin, no doubt leaving marks. 

"No!" She screams as he drags her up the steps. 

"Come now," and he's so tall, so broad, so strong. Did Goliath fight this hard? She flings herself backward, but he pulls her like an ox, dragging her into the church. 

The altar is ready in the middle of Father Michael's platform. It's tragically beautiful, carved from ornate white quartz and trimmed in gold filigree. Their footsteps echo through the air, crashing and clanging through the pews. Maggie breaks free of Michael's hold and runs back, turning and sprinting to the podium. She holds the pocket knife before her in a fighting stance. 

"Fuck you! You're no man of God! You killed my mother!" She sobs, screaming, voice hoarse with raw emotion. 

"No, Maggie, your mother was glad to offer her soul to the church."

"Liar!"

"If only you could see it her wa-"

"LIAR!" She wails. And for a breath, Father Michael is startled into silence.  

"You killed her! You told her to do it, and she trusted you! You've killed all these people." She advances on him. "You're the Devil." She spits. 

Father Michael scoffs, affronted, but backs away. 

"Don't be simple-minded, Maggie. I don't need the laws of man to advise me." 

Maggie laughs through her sobs, snot trickling down her face, hair sticking to her wet cheeks. She's a wild animal, cornered in a cage. Moonlight filters through the stained glass, washing the room in a muted rainbow. 

"He reached down and touched my hand." 

"He doesn't say shit to you. You're insane." 

"Gave it to my strict and charred. Taught me right." 

Father Michael laughs, shaking his head. His eyes burn like hellfire, spreading through Maggie's soul. 

"Put the knife down, Maggie." 

"No." She steps forward.

"I'm warning you." 

"Eat shit." 

"Fine." He says, and charges forward, grabbing her hair and yanking her back. Her face is forced upwards, and he grabs the wrist that holds the knife, forcing her to step to the altar. She thrashes in his hold, screaming like a banshee. Father Michael grits his teeth, huffing in the exertion of dragging her up the platform steps. 

"Thank you, Oh Lord, for-for protecting m-my people…" He commences the prayer. "Blessed be those that-that follow in your grace-" 

But Maggie crashes free and tumbles to the ground, back hitting the altar's side. She looks up at Father Michael with wide eyes and, holding the knife in one hand, stabs his thigh.

He screams.

She takes the knife and stabs him again, and again, and again. Pushes him down the steps and falls on top of him, cracking his head on the wood floor. Till there is nothing left but blood. She's in a trance, adrenaline coursing through her bloodstream like the holy spirit. Jesus on the cross hangs above her, nailed to the church wall, crowned in thorns, face tilted towards her with sad eyes carved from stone. The grief of sacrifice. 

When Maggie is done, she's done slowly. Like rising from a deep sleep, eyes foggy, blinking away the haze. One final stab into his corpse before she rises off of him and drops the knife. Staring down at him, at his desecrated body, she smiles. 

She hears rain. 

Drops pitter-patter on the roof, and the world is still. The swamp is alive outside; frogs sing, and crickets chirp. Maggie huffs in heaving breaths. She steps over Father Michael's unrecognizable body and walks to the back door. 

Stepping into the rain, she lets it wash away her sins. A newly baptized baby, naked and swathed in fresh cotton. Her clothes are drenched in blood and water, and her shoes feel like swimming pools. She thinks of her mother, slitting her throat on the altar, or her father, hanging himself in his bedroom. She thinks of David, fighting Goliath and winning, and David, finding her drowning and helping. She thinks of Father Michael, the wolf in sheep's clothing, with a shepherd's crook the shape of a sickle. 

The parishioners are arriving. They're emerging from the river, out of their airboats and canoes. With rifles slung over shoulders and flashlight beams streaming through tall grass. They gasp, wobbling back on their heels. The Lady's group cries out in horror, men aiming their guns at Maggie's crimson figure. Shouting erupts from the herd. They tremble in fear and suffering, bones shaken with grief. 

"He's dead." 

And the Angel said be not afraid. 

But they were, Oh, they were. 

[rogue-durin-16]

EIGHTEEN, CRAZY (Part IV/?)

"Corroded Coffin"

Summary: With her highschool experience coming to an end, Y/n finally grows tired of her parents' long lasting effort to make her the perfect girl; if they refuse to let her live her best life, she'll make them live their worst— and what can possibly be worse than having your lovely daughter mingling with Eddie Munson?

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

Genre: mostly fluff/fake dating

Tags:

Eighteen, crazy: @greetings-and-salutations @ozdramaqueen

Permanent taglist: @elia-the-bibliophile @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa @just-here-to-escape-from-reality @comfort-reads

Warnings: probably just language? Damn

A/N: this one's a little bit longer but it's fine bc we get a glimpse of corroded coffin and we love that. I saw someone name Unnamed Freak #1 Grant bc of the actor, so we're sticking with that. Enjoy<3

Prologue Part I Part II Part III

Rogue-durin-16 masterlist

"—and when I tell you she was ruthless... Ugh." Lizzy's eyes rolled back in annoyance, fingers carding throw her hair to move it out of the way as we walked the halls in her locker's direction. "Anyway, my point is, you made the right choice by not coming to Tina's yesterday."

"Not much of a choice there, was it?" I corrected her, keeping my eyes front. "I had to tutor Eddie."

A single amused laugh left my friend's mouth. "He's a bit of a nightmare, isn't he?" Before I could agree with her, Lizzy pointed at four punk boys idling near Ms. O'Donnell's classroom. "Speaking of the devil."

To the blonde's surprise —and mine—, I jogtrotted to the group until I was at arm's reach and tapped Eddie's back, until then turned to us.

"Hey!" He seemed taken aback by my cheerful demeanor and took him a painfully long instant to snap out of the confusion and jump into character, a toothy grin tugging on the corners of his mouth as he turned his body to face me.

"Well good morning, m'lady." Stealing a quick look at his friends, I wondered how much they knew about our arrangement. Taking in consideration their distrustful visages, probably not a lot. "Hey, Lizzy."

My head spun to see my friend, who had caught up with my quick pace, and was now subtly waving her hand at the metalhead.

"How was the test?" I inquired, returning my attention to Eddie.

"Oh?" He shifted awkwardly in place, clearly not expecting my question. "It was good, I... think? Dunno, I don't wanna jinx it." He grimaced, scratching the back of his neck. "I'll get the grade next week."

"I'm sure it'll be a good grade." I reassured him with a genuine smile. "Next time we should start studying earlier, though. Not just, you know," I vaguely gestured with my hand. "The day before."

"Yes, ma'am." He teased, leaning forward for a second, only to retreat back fast as lightning, undecipherable brown irises staring straight into my own. "Is that it or...?"

"Uh, yeah." I gave him a short nod with pursed lips. "Yes, that's it."

After a second of awkward silence, I cleared my throat and excused both me and Lizzy before waving the boys goodbye.

"There was absolutely no need to make it that awkward." Lizzy commented in a whisper.

"Shut up, okay?" I mumbled mortified, fighting the urge to run into the nearest bathroom and die because what the fuck was that.

We didn't get far before my name was called from the history classroom's door, loud enough to be heard above the usual hubbub caused by the seniors and underclassmen.

"Y/n! Hey!" In a couple of strides, Eddie was once again in front of me, looking as fidgety as I had ever seen him. "Hi. Again." With a nervous titter, his bravado demeanor was completely gone, so much that he averted his gaze from mine. "Uhm... You know, I'm— I'm in a band?" He questioned more than stated, folding his arms over his chest.

"Yeah, Liz told me." I credited my friend, pointing my thumb at her.

"Nice, so" He shot a silent cry for help to what I figured were his friends. "We gig at The Hideout on Tuesdays, at 10pm."

"Really? That's really cool."

"Yeah, pretty cool," he finally gathered the courage to make eye contact. "we actually got a crowd of five... Drunks." After tearing a laugh out of me, his shoulders began to relax. "You should come see us. If you want."

"Oh." Oh. My face tightened, sympathy getting in the way of rejection. "Actually," Already knowing the answer, Eddie's shoulders slumped. "We got a Calc test tomorrow and I kinda suck at it so—"

"That's okay." He gave me an understanding nod, shoving his hands on his back pockets. "I was—"

"You said you play every Tuesday?" I cut him off, brewing what I knew to be a crazy idea in my mind.

"Yeah, every Tuesday. Unless it gets cancelled."

"Well, don't cancel the next one." The ghost of a coy smile appeared on my face at his wide eyed expression.

"Alright, we gotta go." Lizzy announced, situating herself behind me to push me forward. "Bye Ed."

"See you, ladies."

One Week Later

"Y/nnnn!" I barely had time to close my locker and turn at the singsong sound of my name before two ring clad hands spun me around, making me squeal in the process. "Y/n, my beloved, my sweet darling, my saving grace." He listed the titles with unnecessary dramatism and a lot of gesticulation with both of our hands, as he held my palms on his own.

A confused giggle escaped my lips, unknowingly returning Eddie's touch by rubbing the back of his hand with my thumbs. "Okay, what's going on?"

He halted his movements, letting go of me to dig in his backpack. After shuffling through it, he pulled out a piece of paper with a cocky grin. "I got a C+ in Ms. O'Donnell's." He announced, chin tilted up while he handed out proof of his words.

Effectively, a big 'C+' had been written and circled in red ink on the top corner of the sheet. "WHAT? OH MY GOD!" My chest unreasonably swelled at the grade, wide eyes ping-ponging between the test and Eddie's toothy smile. "That's great, that's actually great. Well done Eddie!" Without thinking twice, I threw my arms around his shoulders and pulled him into a quick, euphoric hug.

Even though he was quick to hide it, I didn't fail to notice the initial sheepishness taking over Eddie once I pulled away. "Gotta give you some credit for putting up with me, huh?" He pointed out in a joking manner.

"We should go celebrate." I suggested, spinning to shut the locker, which had been left open behind me.

"No can do." Eddie let his shoulder fall on the row of lockers in order to re-enter my visual field. "Got band practice and then—"

"The gig at The Hideout, yeah."

"You remembered." The boy seemed somewhat surprised. "You coming?"

"I'm thinking about it." I tried my best to play contemplative and hold back the suggestive smile. It's supposed to be a surprise, I reminded myself, mirroring Eddie's posture.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Jesus Christ!" I could see my best friend's grimace reflected on her vanity mirror, in front of which she sat retouching her eyeshadow. "Gag me with a spoon."

"Don't be mean, Linda." I chastised her from the heavily cushioned bed, helping Lizzy pick up her Calc notes that, with any luck, would get me from a D- to a B.

"Is this, like, important to you?" George questioned from the rug without looking at us, eyebrows furrowed at his notebook.

"It's part of the deal." I lied. Why did I lie?

"Oh, spare me." Liz snorted, inquisitive eyes digging holes into my elusive frame. "You're dragging that excuse now."

"Okay, it's not a part of the deal! So what?!" I glared at my friends in vexation, slamming the notes on the mattress. "He's putting up with so much shit lately, so forgive me if I wanna do something nice for him."

A tense silence flooded Linda's bedroom, which was broken as soon as a swift exchange of glances took place among my friends.

"I'll phone Steve." Linda began. "See if he can help."

"I can call Tina." Lizzy followed.

"Someone's gotta make sure none of Tommy H's friends show up so," George sighed, finally rising from the floor. "I guess that's me."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Why?"

"Oh, I just wanna know if I have to practice extra hard later." I tilted my head at his playful tone, unable to tell if he was joking or not.

"Well I—"

"Eddie, c'mon! We gotta get going, dude!" A passerby's hand yanked the long-haired boy's sleve, making him roll his eyes.

"Alright, sweetheart, duty calls." He took a step forward and planted a soft kiss on my temple before taking off while I stayed helplessly frozen in place. "see you around!"

It took a good minute for my body to start functioning again, and when it did, my face felt burning hot. God, I hated it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

EDDIE'S P. O. V.

"EDDIE!!"

I seethed at Gareth's voice, pausing my motions when I heard his quick steps coming my way from the inside of the bar.

I had used the establishment's back door —as per usual before every gig— to go out, tune my guitar and have a smoke. It was my little ritual, a brief but effective alone time moment before the show. Apparently, not even that was allowed.

"What." I spat at the youngest bandmate, throwing the cigarette to the concrete and stepping on it.

"It's— they're— there's—" I frowned at his stuttering and the way he frantically motioned into the bar with his drumsticks. "Jeez, just— you gotta see it. C'mon!" He urged, gesturing me to follow him back in, which I reluctantly did.

I was about to tell him off for interrupting my routine for something stupid, but then we turned the corner to get to the poor excuse of a stage we played on and I froze.

There was, objectively, a lot of people —and I mean a lot—, most of them around our age; considering we usually played for five to seven middle aged men... Well, the current situation was a bit overwhelming at the very least.

"I think your girlfriend brought them." Gareth whispered, trailing after me while I climbed up to where Jeff and Grant stood confused.

I couldn't find it in myself to face the crowd just yet, so instead of skimming our incoming audience, I asked, "Y/n's here?"

"Uh... Yeah." Grant bobbed his head at where the bar counter was, prompting me to look. I peeked over my shoulder and instantly met Y/n's gaze. She gave me a timid wave, which I returned with a snort because why on earth did she look nervous? It was us performing in front of classmates that called us freaks in the high school halls.

"Okay. Listen up." I leaned into my bandmates, hanging the strap of the guitar across my chest so I could clench and unclench my fists in an attempt to rid myself off the anxiety. "This may be new, but a crowd is a crowd; doesn't matter if it's five people or fifty, alright? We're performers. We perform. Got it?" They all gave me a swift, resolved nod. "Don't get nervous and don't fuck it up. We got this."

There was a wave of murmured agreement preceding our retreat to our respective spots on the stage, which left me at the very front, exposed to all those eyes.

"Alright, guys." I spoke into the mic. I refused to sound somewhat shy or unsure, and therefore overcompensated by raising my voice as much as I could without screaming. "This is Corroded Coffin. I hope you're ready to rock, 'cause we sure as hell are." I shot a look over my shoulder at my three friends, who gave me their unanimous approval.

Breathe in, breathe out.

"Y/n!" The girl shot me a panic-stricken look, eyes going comically wide when I turned all the attention to her. "This one's for you."

I couldn't help the amused grin tugging up the corner of my lips when I heard the nosey, unintelligible whispers that followed my shameless wink at the blushing mess of a girl Y/n had turned into.

Oddly enough, that granted me the confidence I needed to shred my guitar.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

READER'S P. O. V.

Only good things had come out of the gig, I thought to myself as everyone began to exit the place in order to return to their respective cars.

Eddie got his big crowd —who enjoyed the music more than they'll ever admit—, I had the privilege to see him play guitar, and people had approached me at least five times to ask me to congratulate my 'boyfriend' for his guitar solo, which I was gladly going to do.

The bar was still reasonably crowded when I approached the stage. While two of the band members helped the drummer dismantle his instrument, Eddie picked up the amplifiers and sends at the edge, which situated him just in the right spot to see me walk towards them.

"Hey there, sweetheart." He greeted me, crouching for us to be eye to eye.

"That was amazing."

Eddie motioned at the wide open front door, through which the multitude of classmates could still be seen by the cars. "You brought them all?"

I shook my head no, a smile escaping my lips are Eddie's raised brows. "I just... spread the word. Live music at The Hideout every Tuesday."

The boy before me observed my form with a mildly squinted, undecipherable gaze that made me both want to hide and get lost in his dark eyes.

"Are you gonna go home now?"

"I mean," I tittered nervously, toying with the hem of my short skirt. "I wasn't supposed to be out at all."

Eddie visibly pondered something, his lost irises landing on his black combat boots. "Okay hold on." Placing the wires and amps on the side, he climbed off the stage, adjusting his belt before letting his hand dig into every single one of his jeans' pockets until he found the keys to his van. He whistled at his bandmates until he drew the attention of one of them. After throwing him the keys, Eddie's focus returned to me. "Can't leave them stranded."

"Stranded?"

"I'm walking you home." He clarified, intertwining his fingers with mine in order to pull me close to his side and drape an arm over my shoulders. "C'mon, m'lady. Got a long walk ahead of us."

And just like that, we walked out of The Hideout, waving my friends goodbye and trying not to snicker at the looks everyone gave us while we crossed the parking lot.

Only when he considered we were completely out of sight, Eddie put some distance between us, making me miss the warmth of his body.

We walked in silence for a good while until sneaking glances at each other and flashing smiles wouldn't cut it anymore.

"So," Eddie began, eyes glued on the pavement and hands on his pockets while his foot kicked a rolling stone. "What'd you think? Did you like it?"

It took me a second to understand he meant the music. "Oh! Yeah, I think it was awesome! Weird, but awesome." He echoed my sentence in low, amused voice, the ghost of a smile making his dimples show. "You know? You looked a bit like uh..." I'm snapped my fingers repeatedly with a focused frown. "What's his name? Ugh!"

"I'm kinda scared of the comparison you're about to make." Eddie quipped.

"Why? I'm sure you know him." I groaned, pulling on the strings of my memory in hopes of remembering his name. "Lizzy has a crush on him. This one guitarist—" I clapped my hands, doing a little jump on the spot. "Eddie Van Halen!"

"Oh." Eddie's eyes went wide. "Wait, really?"

"Yeah. Oh my God, are you blushing?"

"Pfft no I'm not." He unconvincingly stated, his voice going up an octave. "Shut up."

"I didn't say anything." I breathed out an amused laugh, raising my hands in surrender.

"You don't have to, I hear your thoughts." He whispered, pulling a caricaturseque scary face whilst bending in my direction.

"Creep." I playfully shoved his arm, earning a cackle from him.

"Lizzy has a crush on Eddie Van Halen?" I hummed affirmatively and he clicked his tongue, tilting his head to the side. "The lady's got taste."

"I think she might have a crush on you too."

"You think so?"

"I mean... You look a bit like him. And you play guitar." I pointed out, motioning at his fit and guitar, strapped to his back. "Liz loooves guitarists." I shrugged, putting my hands behind my back. "If you want, when this is over, I can set you guys up."

"Nah." Eddie shook his head no, eyes falling back down from me to his boots. "Lizzy's cool and all, but I don't mingle with the popular crowds. Oil and water."

"You mingle with me."

"Yeah, 'cause we got a deal."

"Uhm Y/n?" Eddie spoke again refusing to walk in silence for another couple of minutes. "tell me something about you."

Ouch.

I didn't know how to respond to that, so I just stayed quiet, forcing myself to ignore Eddie's inquisitive irises on me and choosing to observe the poorly lit suburban street instead. Luckily, we were close to my house.

"Something like what?"

"Dunno, favorite book?" I quirked a brow at the metalhead and he sighed, overtaking me to walk backwards before me. "We're supposed to be 'dating', and if someone asked me what you like, I wouldn't know how to reply."

"Fair point." I agreed, deciding to indulge him. "Alright, favorite book... Probably Jane Eyre."

"Jane Eyre?"

"Yeah."

He snorted. "You're weird."

"What's yours— if you even read."

"Ouch!" He mockingly stabbed himself on the heart, throwing his head back.

"I'm kidding, I swear!" I assured him with a surprised laugh, my hands reaching out to stop him from tripping.

"Okay, mine's Lord Of The Rings."

"Oh! Which part?"

"You've read it?" My eyes followed his movements while he retreated to his original position to walk by my side. "Obviously not, 'cause your favorite book is Jane Eyre." The side of my fist bumped his arm in feigned outrage.

"I tried, but I never got past the Ents."

"What?!" Eddie nearly jumped at my statement.

"The Ents" I groaned dramatically. "They're sooo annoying!"

"How dare you!"

"They're insufferable."

"You're insufferable." I slapped away Eddie's accusing index finger with a smile.

"Oh," I halted my steps, eyes fixed on my house. 'this is perfect."

"What's perfect?"

"My mom's by the window."

"D'you want me to put on a bit of a show?" Eddie's tone was dangerous; he had 'trouble' written all over his face.

"Yes."

With a wink, he took my hand in his and led me to the front sidewalk of the house, only stopping when he was sure my mother had an acceptable view of us.

"Is making out still off the table?"

"Eddie." I warned him, seeing the grin dancing on his lips as he turned to face me, readjusting the strap of his guitar so the instrument wouldn't come in the way.

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding. C'mere."

My eyes went wide when Eddie's ringed fingers found the right side my waist, slowly drawing me in. "What are you doing?" I muttered, trying not to panic when he more hesitantly placed his free hand on my left hip.

"Put your arms around my neck." I did as I was told, feeling his breathed whisper fan on my skin due to the lack of distance between us. "Is your dear mother looking?"

I peeked over Eddie's shoulder to see my mother standing by the window with a folded arms. "Yeah." I barely had time to return my attention to Eddie before he dove in, body arching into mine while our noses bumped.

But that's all he did.

"woah."

"Don't laugh now." He chastised me, anticipating I would most likely burst into nervous giggles due to the situation.

"I'm trying my best." I assured him, gnawing on my lower lip to try and comply, which almost led Eddie himself into a fit of laughter.

His lashes fluttered close as he forced himself to stay in character instead of pulling away to chuckle. Taking a deep breath, his lids opened once more and he leaned a but further, planting a kiss on the corner of my lips.

My racing heart was nearly put under cardiac arrest when my front door bursted open. "Y/n! What in God's name are you doing?!"

Eddie hissed, pulling away just enough to meet my eyes. "She's religious?"

"Mhm." I confirmed, finally allowing my shoulders to shake due to my chuckling. "Devoted."

"Get inside!"

"Coming, mother!" I shouted, letting my hands slide down from Eddie's neck until they rested atop his chest.

"I'll see you tomorrow." He announced, squeezing my side before letting me go.

"Eddie? You got my phone number right?" He gave me a quick nod while I took a step back and circled him. "Call me when you get home, okay?"

"As you wish. Hey, Y/n," his digits brushed mine, stopping me from taking another step further in my mother's direction. "Thanks for tonight."

As a response, I briefly took his hand in mine, rubbing the back of it with my thumb before resuming my walk.

Due to my back being turned to Eddie, I missed his puzzled half smile, and the way he almost tripped when he began to undo our path.

[thesilkentheater]

a doll in elysium

Once upon a time, there was paradise far, far away from any sort of reality. There lived a doll, whose life was spent as a princess celebrated even without a kingdom; she woke up every morning to birds singing praises and hymns, ate from a pantry she never filled but never emptied, spent her day doing as she pleased, and slept again. And the only things she cared about were thus: keeping herself beautiful, the weather in the evenings during which she'd go gardening, and what she wanted to have for a meal that morning.

For she, having much time on her hands, had thought about why she was there. And after a while she concluded that it must be her beauty, because she was not troubled with anything else but someone could easily watch her and derive use from that. So she kept herself beautiful, carefully. It was easier than it might be with porcelain skin instead of flesh, and glass eyes rather than organs, though it still took some work. Her hair still fought her every step of the way.

But sometimes this uselessness quite got to her, not having anything to do but reread books she could recite by heart and contemplate her very existence. So she started to garden, finding seeds in the basement when she went looking not a day or two after thinking that she should have a garden, and then she planted them and waited. She'd hoped for perhaps some home-grown produce.

Flowers now bloom in the place instead. When she looks at the sickly sweet purples and blues and yellows she wants to vomit, wants to reach into the soil and pull each and every one of them up by their roots and thrust them into reality. Sickly-sweet, like the pastries she eats for desert and lunch or the tea that finds itself brewed and often largely ignored.

Nonetheless, the teapot is clean the next day. Fresh, waiting for more discarded drinks to be waiting in there, the kind of thing that should cause a stain but the inside is always blindingly white.

She has tried, oh, how she has tried. She has spilled tea on her favorite novel and found it perfectly fine the next day, cut the inside of her dress and found it mended without a trace. The flowers bloom whether or not she tries, because the rain comes exactly every three days and fills them full of what they need. The weeds die on their own, or disappear, or perhaps they end up in her pantry somewhere.

Except for her own body. She will not stain that.

Because there is still fear, somewhere hidden within her rigid frame. The books, the plants, everything else was a desperation fueled by a question of purpose and God; but even thinking about marring her own body sends a deep-seated panic coursing through her veins and she has to sit down and breathe, slowly, lest she hyperventilate and faint.

Which is strange, considering she was molded from clay and baked in an oven- presumably, she has no memory of these things- but nonetheless it happens.

Considering her own biology would require breaking the skin, and that would taint her visage, so she can't. She can test upon it- eats only sweets for a week, overeats another, tries and tests but nothing seems to have any particular effect on her so much as her body simply deciding she's to be panicking in a certain moment.

There is still fear in her. In desperation she could burn the house down but she would never be able to hurt herself, because if she is ruined, could she be fixed? Would she be fixed? She would then be useless, surely, because her job is to look pretty, and then whatever deity put her here would throw her away like she wants to toss the flowers off the face of the world.

How could she vomit if she has no stomach? But she finds herself looking at the flowers from the kitchen window while eating a plate of pancakes and thinks that maybe she will anyway. And hopefully it won't get in her hair, because that would be a nightmare to get out.

Her fingers rap against the table, clay against wood, and she thinks she'll go gardening today. Tomorrow it will rain, and she will look up into the clouds and ask them to tell her the future, and they will say nothing but continue to cry and cry and sob and weep and the house will be filled with the sound that she can't escape. Even in the basement it is omnipresent, even if she wraps her head in a blanket and tries to ignore it it seeps into her bones and erases every thought in her mind.

Very calming. She doesn't like that.

The exact opposite, in fact. Because the state of panic she feels when she can't breathe due to some new revelation or thought is quite addictive, a high like no other; it deprives her of needs to be autonomous, of thoughts of courtesy or propriety. It is simply I need air, and being unable to get that, both of which are things she has very little of. If she needs something, it is there.

Perhaps she could intentionally avoid things, but that wouldn't serve the same purpose. The air is impossible to get, no matter how hard she struggles, so long as she does not attempt to slow down which her breathing does not naturally do anyway; the food is right there, if she wanted it.

But today maybe she will go gardening.