#AND PLANT WHITE ROSES ON MY GRAVE

[sophiesonlinediary]

just finished heartless i wanna fucking die.

[tsukimefuku]

3rd of july ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆.˚ nanami kento

piece written in collaboration with my beloved friend and one of my favorite people, @rahuratna, for nanami's (a.k.a. internet's collective husbando) birthday. 💜🧡 content warning: fluff/comedy/sugestiveness word count: 1k

Nanami wasn't one to make big celebrations on his birthday. Up until he met you, he'd usually go about his work day quietly, saving up a few extra hours to simply go bowling or visit his favorite restaurants for dinner.

After you both started dating, not much had changed. You'd simply tag along for whatever he had planned, and would usually surprise him with something by the time you both got home - a box of dark chocolate, a new set of lingerie, a nice warm scented bath, a new CD album he had been looking for.

This time, however, you decided to push your luck on teasing the poor man.

On his birthday, of all days.

"Kento, how do you feel about surprise parties?" you ask, hiding the smile pulled on your cheeks behind your tea cup.

On the couch by your side, you could feel Nanami holding the urge to flinch the moment you were finished speaking.

"They are not my favorite," he answers in earnest.

"Seriously?" you inquire with a faux disheartened look.

"Yes," Nanami replies, with a tinge of concern to his voice.

"That is... unfortunate, then," you ensue, putting your tea on the coffee table and pulling your robe tighter around your body.

His Adam's apple bobs as he silently gulps.

"Why?"

"Well, my plan was to surprise you when you got home, but I figured you wouldn't want to get instantly jumped. So I told them to wait in the room," you finally say, with a grave finality, pointing to the closed bedroom door.

Truth is, he has no clue what you are really up to.

"Darling…" Nanami sighs, ever so patiently, "I thought it would just be the both of us unwinding, like the past years."

"I… I'm sorry, I really wanted to surprise you with something different this time."

You do sound regretful, and he plants a soft kiss on your cheek in response. Even now, he doesn't quite find it in himself to be annoyed at you, even if the prospect of Gojo lurking around his bedroom is enough to send disgusted shivers down his spine.

"It's… fine. Let's get this over with at once, and then have the house to ourselves."

"Are you sure? I could always go in there and tell them to-"

"No," he counters firmly. "You've arranged something a little different this year, and I'm going to appreciate it."

"Come on, then."

As perceptive as he is, Nanami doesn't notice the mischievous smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. Naturally, since you have successfully planted a seed in his mind, a terrifying image of his pristine suits being tried on by students and his custom made bowling ball being transformed into a disco light by the white-haired menace he calls a colleague.

When you reach the door and step aside for him, he visibly braces himself, fingers almost straightening a phantom tie at his throat.

"Sweetheart, I need to go and fetch a scarf. It's a little chilly in here."

Bless his heart. He's actually playing along.

You raise your voice.

"Oh, I left the blue one on the top shelf. Your closet."

"Right."

Nanami heads in with the air of a man charging from the trenches to face a volley of cannon fire. He stops dead in his tracks, eyes taking in the room.

It is empty of people, for starters.

The comforter on the bed has been pulled back, the white sheets scattered with rose petals. Candles have been placed strategically on the bedside table and vanity, emitting the subtle scent of the ocean. On a corner of the bed, a few ribbon-wrapped gifts await; a small stack of books and a box of his favourite dark chocolate with orange.

You saunter in behind him and he turns to you with a look that is both a solemn reprimand and a loving promise of a punishment you may appreciate later.

"Hmm. It's awfully crowded in here, my dear."

"Well, the rose petals were quite chatty, Kento. They've taken up all the space on our bed."

"They have indeed, you little-"

You laugh as you slip out of his reach, standing coyly in the doorway.

"Have a look at your gifts first."

He narrows his eyes, but approaches the bed, fingers unraveling the ribbon that holds the books together.

"What do we have here? 'The Master and Margarita.' Ah, wonderful. 'Bowling your way home: A salaryman's escape from bondage.'"

He pauses and raises an eyebrow and you gesture airily for him to keep going.

"Fine. What's this one? The-"

His voice cuts off abruptly.

"Kento? Are you all right?"

Very slowly, he turns to you.

"You got me the Kama Sutra?"

"I figured it would make a nice addition to your collection. I may even borrow it, from time to time."

You approach him now, casually opening the book to where you've placed a strategic leather marker within the section on sex positions.

"Since it's your birthday, maybe you'd like to start with the Virsha here?"

He considers the page seriously, before taking the book from you and flipping through it.

"I'm not sure, darling. You've put in enough effort setting all of this up."

Handing it back to you, he watches the flush that spreads upwards, across your neck as you are presented with the Indrani pose he has chosen instead.

"How about you let me do the work from here on out?"

"Well... "

"No, I insist."

His voice has that special intonation now, the husky rumble of desire, the inflection of hushed intimacy, the promise of that playful nature that only reveals itself when you're entangled in the sheets together.

You lay the book down, open to the very instructive illustration.

"In that case, let me present you with my last gift."

"There's another?"

Wordlessly, the robe you've been so studiously arranging around yourself slides to the floor. His kindling gaze takes in the sheer, violet lace, the tiny flowers embroidered strategically over the parts of you that he will discover at leisure.

***

Later, when the gossamer material lies discarded on the floor, when his exhausted limbs entwine with your own, when his golden hair runs like silk between your fingers, you speak into the hush of the bedroom.

"Happy birthday, my love."

His voice is muffled from where his face is pressed against your stomach.

"That was quite the surprise party."

"Maybe we should have one every year."

He snorts indignantly, but his lips curve in a smile against your skin all the same.

[dreamwatch]

Mine is Yours

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest

Day #23 - Prompt: Up And Coming | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: None | POV: Eddie | Pairing: None | Tags: Fluff, good Uncle Wayne, good nephew Eddie, the Munsons

It’s been a year since Eddie’s been home. 

He pulls up outside the trailer in Forest Hills. Wayne’s truck is more beat to shit than he remembers, but the thing was on its last legs when he left for Indy in ‘87. Theres gaffer tape holding up the rusting rear bumper, and the tires are near bald.

He let’s himself inside, careful not to wake Wayne; the one blessing that came from all the shit of 1986 was that the government gave them a double wide and the old man finally got a bedroom again. That was the one thing Eddie could never quite shake the shame of, especially when he was a high school senior seemingly unable to graduate. He’s hoping today’s visit will make up for it a little. 

He takes his sneakers off, new ones he only bought a few weeks ago, lines them up neatly next to Wayne’s work boots, then heads into the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. He had an early start, and what with the flight from LA (a flight!) and the drive from Indy, he’s aching for sleep.

He takes his coffee over to the couch, the red pleather one they picked up for a steal (because it was ugly as shit, Robin had said), puts his feet up and closes his eyes. Just for a minute.

“—die. Eddie. Hey, rise and shine.”

He wakes with a gasp, wisps of a memory, of leathery skin and tails and razor teeth.

“Wayne?”

“There he is.” Wayne straightens up, back cracking as he does. “You never said you were coming, or am I going senile?”

“Both,” Eddie says around a yawn.

Wayne sticks his hand in Eddie’s curls, ruffling them gently. “If you want breakfast and a place to stay, be nice.”

Eddie rolls off the couch, giving Wayne a hug before following him into the kitchen, perching himself on a stool to watch as Wayne sets about making them breakfast at five in the afternoon.

“Is everything okay? Not that I’m not happy to see you, just a long way to drive for a catch up.”

Eddie grins. “Actually, I flew.”

“Flew?” He whistles. “My boy, the rockstar.”

They sit at the table together, bacon, eggs and toast laid out in front of them, Wayne catching him up on the comings and goings of the plant and Forest Hills; old Rose Hannigan still being a nosey bitch as usual, and Dougie has a new dog and god the damn thing won’t stop barking during the day. It’s nice. It’s so different from LA, so small in the best way, and even though his relationship with home, with Hawkins, is so complex, cut through with slithers of painful memories, he misses it. He does. It doesn’t make all that much sense.

Or is it just Wayne he misses? The man who loved him and protected him when his father couldn’t (wouldn’t). The man who gave him everything and more, who was working himself to an early grave to look after a boy that wasn’t his own.

Eddie grabs his bag from the floor and slides the white envelope out, still neat and crisp. He pushes it across the table.

“What’s this?”

Eddie huffs a laugh. “Open it and find out.”

He gets a raised eyebrow back for his trouble, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Wayne. Doesn’t want to miss this.

Wayne grumbles about envelopes being too sticky these days and then he pulls out the slip of paper tucked inside and comes to a stop.

“What the hell is this?”

“It’s a check, Uncle Wayne.”

He shoots Eddie a scowl. “I can see it’s a check. Where— I don’t understand.”

Eddie fold his arms on the table in front of him. “The album is selling. It’s doing good, actually. We’re big in Germany, the UK, I think we’re doing pretty good in Japan too. You know I wrote most of those songs, right?”

Wayne gives him a little nod.

“Well I got a nice royalty check for that. Just came through a few weeks ago.” He gestures at the paper in Wayne’s hands. “And this is for you.”

“Eddie this is… Jesus Christ. Ten thousand dollars? You can’t be serious?”

And Eddie is full on smiling now, grinning ear to ear. “I got thirty thousand.” He laughs. “I still can’t believe it.”

“Eddie, I can’t take this.”

“You can and you’re gonna.” He’s deadly serious now. “These come quarterly, this one’s the second. They’re getting bigger. Sales are growing, so, there’s more coming. And even if there wasn’t, doesn’t matter. I want you to have this—“

“No—“

“Wayne—“

“No!“

“Jesus Christ, you stubborn old fart. I have money now, which means we have money now. I’m not in LA busting my ass for me, I’m doing it for us! And this is the start. That truck should have been put out to pasture before I started high school. You’ve never had a vacation. I’ve never seen you spend a dollar on yourself.”

“Never needed anything.”

“How about wanting? You get to want, Wayne. You deserve to want. And how about not having to worry where the money’s coming from when the roof leaks, or the boiler breaks? I don’t want you to have to worry anymore.”

Wayne shakes his head, but the fight is leaving him. “Ed…” he says, a little choked. He reaches his hand across the table and Eddie grabs it.

“I love you, old man. I want you to have this. Please?”

“I’m so fucking proud of you, you know that? Even before this,” he waves the check in the air. “I’ve always been proud of you.”

“I know. So, you going to take it? Get a new fucking truck?”

Eddie can see the pride on his uncle’s face, but he doesn’t need to; he’s always known. Always felt it.

Wayne squeezes Eddie’s hand, still looking a little shell shocked but smiling. Happy. 

“Reckon I might.”

[invis-o-william]

Day 6: Immortal AU

Danny leaned back in the grass, the wind brushing his white gravity defying hair back away from his forehead, and sighed. Amity Park had changed a lot over the years. What had once been a fair sized growing metropolis was now a sprawling city blending urban technological feats of science with older infrastructure that had been in place for over a hundred years.

One thing that hadn’t changed too much though, was its main cemetery. Others had cropped up on the outskirts of the booming city, but this one, the original burial ground, stayed intact even though no new burials had occurred there in decades.

“Sorry for not visiting sooner,” Danny said, “the Realms have kept me on my toes lately. Clocky has had it with the Observants and is trying to get rid of them as a whole. Good riddance I say.”

He chuckled at the last sentence. “I know you were never a fan of how much they interfered when I first took the throne, so I figured you’d be happy to hear that at least.”

Danny’s eyes followed a pair of children nearby happily playing on the sidewalk with gliders that seemed so similar to the Red Huntress’. Danny frowned. So much had changed over the years, and he was starting to feel like he couldn’t keep up anymore.

“I had something I wanted to tell you about too..” He trailed off and turned to look at the headstone next to him. While it was old, as was every grave in this section, this one had been well cared for. Cleared of creeping plant life and with any and all dirt meticulously brushed off. The inscription read:

Dr. Jasmine “Jazz” Fenton

B. March 31, 1988 D. May 6, 2070

Beloved Mother, Sister, and Professor

“I decided to stay in the Infinite Realms full time now. With my duties as King, and the whole new zone developing there I just don’t have the time to patrol Amity Park anymore. Not that there’s a need to anymore.” He sighed the last words. It was true, after a few decades of kingship, Danny had figured out how to balance the limits that ghosts could venture to the mortal plane and the damage they could cause there.

His role on Earth as Phantom had long been redundant now, and there was no one here for him anymore. All his friends had long since died, as were even Jazz’s grandchildren. On Earth, Danny felt truly and utterly alone.

“Of course I’m going to still come and visit you guys,” Danny said, “other than that though, I think that’s it. People around here are starting to think I’m a fairy tale anyway.” He didn’t think he would ever stop visiting the resting places of his family, his friends. They had meant too much to him not to, and he never wanted to forget them, never wanted to forget who he was.

Danny stood from the grave he had been sitting in front of, glancing at its inscription. It was worn and harder to make out than Jazz’s, but it still clearly read;

Daniel “Danny” Fenton

B. February 12, 1989 D. July 17, 2031

Gone too Soon

Danny still smirked at the irony of it. A grave for a halfa that would never truly die. He had stayed physically stuck in his thirties for centuries now, and wasn’t sure that would ever change. Looking back to his sister’s headstone, he knelt down and placed a rose encapsulated in ghostly blue ice at its base.

“Happy death-day Jazz.” he said with a smile, “I’ll come visit you soon.” With that he turned and with a wave of his hand opened a portal to the Infinite Realms. A familiar woman with a mop of long white hair peeked out of it.

“Thanks for the privacy Dani. Do you want to go see Sam and Tucker now?” he asked his clone. She grinned with enthusiasm before jumping out of the portal to join her “older brother”. Once the portal was closed, they both changed from ghost to human and set off down the rows of graves to visit their departed friends.

[v-e-l-v-e-t-g-o-l-d-m-i-n-e]

Louis and his constant worry over Lestat in the books

"Lestat, don't go on the stage tomorrow night," he said. "Let the films and the book do what you want. But protect yourself. Let us come together and let us talk together. Let us have each other in this century the way we never did in the past. And I do mean all of us." - The Vampire Lestat

Louis, the watcher, the patient one, was there on account of love pure and simple. The two had found each other only last night, and theirs had been an extraordinary reunion. Louis would go where Lestat led him. Louis would perish if Lestat perished. But their fears and hopes for this night were heartbreakingly human. - The Queen of the Damned

“Now we can go home,” he said.

Home. I smiled. I reached out and touched the graves on either side of me; I looked up again at the soft glow of the city lights against the ruffled clouds.

“You’re not going to leave us, are you?” he asked suddenly, voice sharpened with distress. - The Queen of the Damned

For a moment, I couldn't understand the expression of horror on his face as he stared at me, or why he suddenly rose and came towards me and bent down and touched my face. Then I remembered. My sun-darkened skin.

"What have you done?" he whispered. He knelt down and looked up at me, resting his hand lightly on my shoulder. Lovely intimacy, but I wasn't going to admit it. I remained composed in the chair.

"It's nothing," I said, "it's finished. I went into a desert place, I wanted to see what would happen..."

"You wanted to see what would happen?" He stood up, took a step back, and glared at me. "You meant to destroy yourself, didn't you?" - The Tale of the Body Thief

I came towards him, planted my hands on his desk and looked into his face. "I was so sure you would understand this. And by the way, I wasn't born a monster! I was a born a mortal child, the same as you. Stronger than you! More will to live than you! That was cruel of you to say."

"I know. It was wrong. Sometimes you frighten me so badly I hurl sticks and stones at you. It's foolish. I'm glad to see you, though I dread admitting it. I shiver at the thought that you might have really brought an end to yourself in the desert! I can't bear the thought of existence now without you! You infuriate me! Why don't you laugh at me? You've done it before." - The Tale of the Body Thief

Dimly I thought I heard Louis’s gentle voice, protesting, pleading, arguing. I heard locks thrown, I heard nails going through wood. I heard Louis begging.

“For a while, just a little while.…” she said. “He is too powerful for us to do anything else. It is either that, or we do away with him.”

“No,” Louis cried. - Memnoch the Devil

I don't live like our friend Louis, wandering from dusty corner to dusty corner, and then back to his flat in the Rue Royale when he's convinced himself once more and for the thousandth time that no one can harm Lestat. - The Vampire Armand

All the faces were soon there, except for Louis and Rose and Viktor. But how could that be? I turned around. They stood only two feet away from me, huddled together, and down the pure whiteness of Louis’s face were two thin lines of blood tears. - Prince Lestat and the Realms of Atlantis

Louis had been gravely hurt that Lestat had gone off to meet Rhoshamandes alone. So Lestat had promised never to do such a thing again. - Prince Lestat and the Realms of Atlantis

[tamlinweek]

The Language of Flowers

I didn’t care where I was going. After a while, I paused in the rose garden. The moonlight stained the red petals a deep purple and cast a silvery sheen on the white blooms. “My father had this garden planted for my mother,” Tamlin said from behind me. I didn’t bother to face him. I dug my nails into my palms as he stopped by my side. “It was a mating present.” ~ ACOTAR, ch. 19

To celebrate Tamlin Week, Day 3 (as outlined in depth here), one of our prompts is "Flower Language". The title of the book itself carries a double meaning. A Court of Thorns and Roses is not only a Beauty and the Beast retelling (as we know, he is the Beast, she is the Beauty, although they kind of share both roles), but she is also the Thorn to his Rose.

Roses are widely considered to be a symbol of love. Love was the answer to Amarantha's riddle, and why Feyre braved the Trials Under the Mountain, despite Tamlin trying to send her home for the same reason.

Roses are not the only flowers that mean love. Tulips and Forget-me-nots can mean love, too, but it can also depend on the color (as it does for roses.) The deeper the red of the rose, for example, the deeper the love is said to be, while white indicates innocence. (There is a link below for a list of rose colors and their meanings, if you're interested. In addition, there are links for herbs and other plants.)

While the number of plants and their meanings is too long to list here, here are a handful to inspire you:

AMARANTH: immortality, immortal love

ASH: strength, power, divine connection, authority, protection

BIRCH: adaptability, growth, renewal, death, returning from the grave, new beginnings

BLUEBELL: loyalty, constancy, humility, gratitude

DAFFODIL: uncertainty, chivalry, respect or unrequited love, return my affection, new beginnings

FERN: magic, enchantment, confidence, sincerity, shelter

FORGET-ME-NOT: true love, faithful love, memories

FOXGLOVE: insincerity, immortality, courage, adventures, bravery

HYACINTH: constancy, sorrow, playfulness, loveliness, jealousy

IRIS: eloquence, good news, faith, hope, wisdom, compliments, passion, purity

LAUREL: ambition, success, renown

MARIGOLD: pain, grief

MORNING GLORY: love in vain, affection

PEONY: shame, bashfulness, anger

ROSEMARY: remembrance

SNOWDROP: consolation, hope

TULIP: new start, rebirth, prosperity, indulgence, abundance

For more variety and more definitions, consider the following resources:

Floriography: Meaning and Symbolism

ProFlowers: The Complete Rose Color Meanings Guide

The Forest Fairy: Flowers for Your Fairy Garden

Grooving Trees: The Complete List of Tree Symbolism

Dave's Garden: Please Pass Me the Eye of Newt [Herb Names and Meanings]

Wikipedia: List of Plants with Symbolism

We look forward to seeing what you can create using the Language of Flowers and other plants!

[bestworstcase]

I'm now imagining the second half of Cinder's backstory - the meeting Cinder and presumably Summer portion of it. And trying to think which of the more family music osts/what shot parallels could be used to drive home that yeah Salem at some point just slotted Cinder in as a daughter in her heart if post that reveal to the audience.

Though in general I'm also thinking how Salem essentially emotionally adopting Cinder would be a good play on the idea of a fairy god mother role - Cinderella mistaking intentions even when they're turning to her favor because trauma and abuse, miscommunication because Salem is unfathomably ancient/"fairy", and sidesteps by Cinder already (lethally) leaving the step family the whole "leaving someone in an abusive situation is a terrible move"... Also a good want versus need lead in for Cinder.

one thing about the cinderella allusion is—while i do often say ‘fairy godmother’ for simplicity—my sense is that cinder’s story hews more to the grimm brothers version of the story wherein the magical benefactor is a white bird which comes to her aid when she visits a hazel tree planted over the grave of her mother. (ie, a reincarnation of her mother.)

rwby flags the relevant imagery in ‘until the end’ (“the tears that you shed will find a tree to water”)—which is ozma’s song, but salient to the cinderella narrative because cinderella’s father provides the hazel twig which cinderella plants and waters with her tears until it grows into a tree. specifically, cinderella’s mother dies in autumn, her father marries again in the spring and allows the stepmother and her daughters to abuse cinderella. at some point after her effective removal from the family is complete, the father goes to a fair and each of the three daughters requests a certain gift: beautiful dresses for one stepsister, jewels for the other, and cinderella asks for “the first twig that brushes against your hat on your way home.” the hazel twig knocks his hat off while he travels through a thicket. 

so… in rwby the cinderella narrative is nested into the ozlem conflict in a very particular way; the hazel tree over the grave of her mother grows from a symbol of her father’s complicit indifference to her abuse and is fed by the intensity of cinderella’s anguish. the point of cinderella asking for the twig that brushes your hat is not to illustrate any virtue in cinderella; she is not humble, she is not temperate, she is acutely and painfully aware that she is an inconvenience in her father’s eyes, an unwelcome reminder of the past he would like to ignore. 

slavery was abolished after the great war. ozpin raised atlas to serve as a shining example of his ideals. cinder grew up enslaved, surrounded by atlesians who politely ignored the obvious abuse happening in that hotel. as cinderella turns to the spirit of her dead mother for aid, cinder turns to salem. “throw gold and silver down to me” -> “you will have the power i promised you”—in this version of the story, cinderella knows she can seek help from her mother’s tree and asks for the specific things she needs every time, and the bird also intervenes to protect her from her stepfamily’s deception when the prince calls on the house. 

(conversely of course, the bird can only do so much to help her because it’s a bird; her mother is dead and cannot take care of her as she did in life. likewise, salem lacks the power to effect change by any means other than violence because she’s been cast out of civilization completely.)

it all clicks together pretty intuitively. although summer rose is an interesting player too in that where the madame, the sisters, and rhodes were straightforwardly iterations of the evil stepfamily + indifferent father i think summer is likely to be the ‘good’ stepmother in relation to the cinderella narrative; ruby and yang are the ‘evil’ stepsisters (in that ruby harmed cinder and cinder is effectively told not to retaliate) but summer rejected ozma’s cause to join salem’s instead and is by extension aligned with cinder against her own daughters, even if cinder doesn’t perceive it that way. so that will be an interesting thread to watch, i think. what happens if the stepmother also needed to escape?

that the central relic involved in this facet of the narrative is a crown is not coincidental, i think. the prince is cinderella’s liberation; the crown is the relic of choice. it tracks.

[kind-of-crazy-butthatsokay]

A different kind of Haunted

Summary: You and your friends visit a haunted house, but what you find is not what you expected.

Pairing: Nomad!Steve Rogers x fem!reader (plus-size)

Warnings: 18+content, self-esteem issues/body image issues, stalking, obsessive behaviour, non-consensual sexual acts, mentions of loss (close family members), breeding kink

Word count: 8.6k (I am incapable of writing short things, forgive me)

A/N: This is my submission for @darkficsyouneveraskedfor's Halloween writing challenge. Bless you for making this challenge open-ended, truly, because I cannot meet deadlines for the life of me. Especially since my inspiration has died in a corner behind my closet and I couldn’t get to its rotting corpse until a few weeks ago. I managed to revive that little shit. It’s... different now but we gotta work with what we got, lol 😂

Anyhow, my prompt was “Your friends dare you to sneak into the old house said to be haunted.” 

I interpreted it in a way that may not be what you expect, but I liked the idea so much and I hope y’all like it too! ☺️

...

You blow out a low sigh, eyes tracking the clowd of your warm breath as it hangs in the cold air around you. Your hands are frozen, cold fingers curling around the edges of the book you're holding.

The end of October came with a harsh drop in temperature and to you it feels like nature decided to skip autumn alltogether to dive headlong into the cold, dark winter months.

If it wasn't for the colourful leaves scattering about the cold ground and floating through the air, driven by freezing winds, you could have sworn it is winter already.

You close the book – a rather lenghty novel you couldn't quite get into – and set it down on the bench next to you. Stretching out your legs in front of you, you supress a ywan and glance at the neatly arranged plants decorating the rectangular grave a few feet away from where you sit.

It had taken a while for you to get the hang of maintaining your parents' grave. Your eyes wander over the small, grey headstone that has their names and the dates of their birth and death etched into it. The latter is the same.

The first couple of months you hadn't done much of anything but sit at the grave and cry your eyes out for hours on end, but as time passed, you slowly gathered the shattered pieces of your being and put them back together in a manner that has you functioning more or less.

You did research on how to maintain graves, took walks around the graveyard to get some inspiration from the numerous other graves and eventually settled into properly taking care of the one that was, and still is, your responsibility.

This is the first time you actually planted some things instead of just putting loose flowers or arrangements on the slightly overgrown grave. It was a tedious task, but you still remember the sense of accomplishment you felt when you looked at the neatly groomed grave, long lasting flowers and greens framing the simple headstone.

The nice lady at the flower shop was really helpful with choosing the correct plants. You got a pretty Christmas Rose, an extraordinary kind with pinkish petals instead of the usual white or green, a pink heather, a plant with little red berries on it – gaultheria, you recall the name the florist told you – and a pretty ivy that had nice white edges instead of being fully green like the normal kind.

It's not overly colourful, but the flowers would survive the winter and make sure the grave doesn't look too bleak during the cold months of the year.

You shake your head, pulling yourself out of the reverie you had fallen into and push to your feet with a grunt, stiff legs wobbly under you. The book is stowed away in your backpack and you walk up to the grave, two fingers sweeping along the headstone.

“See you tomorrow, guys. Love you,” you say quietly, the familiar prick of welling tears promting you to quickly turn away and gaze out at the bench before leaving for the day. You will return tomorrow, as you do every day.

You tredge along the same path you always take, tall trees and bushes lining it on both sides. There's a quiet crack in the underbrush to your left, but you know better than to turn around and check for the source.

The first months you were terrified of walking along the quiet paths alone, jerking at every crack or rustle, but with time you learned that there's many a critter living in the hedges or tall trees growing everywhere on the large graveyard.

Birds, squirrels, bunnies, one or the other stray cat and more than a few moles call the graveyard their home and none of them are very threatening.

You keep walking, feet dragging across the path, fallen leaves crunching under the soles of our thick boots. After about five minutes you near the gate and pass it swiftly, stepping out into the street and leaving the eerie quiet of the graveyard behind.

-

“Guys!” Georgie screeches, wild curls bouncing around her round face as she hops over to the small group of girls standing outside their lecture hall.

The girls turn around to watch their classmate approach. She's holding a piece of paper in one hand, the other is waving at them excitedly. When she stops before them, she's a little out of breath.

“Look what I found! Now we finally have plans for Halloween!” the tall girl exclaims triumphantly and waves the paper in front of their faces. Nika, a short blonde, lets out an irritated huff and snatches the fluttering piece of paper from her friend's hand.

“Gimme that,” she says gruffly, annoyed at Georgie's excitable demeanour. She straightens the slightly crumpled piece of paper out – a flyer – and scans the text printed on the colourful background, obviously Halloween themed.

“A haunted house, really?” Nika snorts and hands the flyer back to Georgie. The tall girl pouts at the other's unenthusiastic response and holds the paper to her chest.

“What? None of you have come up with any good suggestions yet and we're not spending Halloween on Hailee's couch watching horror movies again,” Georgie argues, handing the paper off to Jasmine who is standing next to her.

“Where did you find this, Gigi? I don't think I've heard anyone else talking about this event,” the brunette asks, passing the flyer on to Hailee as you watch on, brows raised and growing increasingly curious about what it says on the flyer.

“The flyer looks real enough, there's even a date on it... Is there a prize or something for doing this? Or is that just one of these haunted houses someone decorated that you can walk through to get spooked?” Hailee ponders, turning the paper over, but finding the back blank.

“I don't know, it doesn't say on the flyer. But whatever it is, I'm sure it beats staying at home and doing nothing. We should go out a little, have fun,” the curly-haired girl shrugs.

“It says to brings warm clothes, snacks and something to sit on,” you state, brows pinching in confusion at the instructions.

“Oh, yeah. Read at the bottom. You're only allowed to go in one at a time. The others have to wait outside. I doubt you guys wanna stand in the cold and freeze your but off. Hence the warm clothes, snacks and something to rest on,” Georgie explains.

You skip to the bottom and read the words confirming what Georgie said. You hum and scan the flyer for the address. When you see it, you make a sound at the back of your throat.

“What is it?” Nika asks, leaning forward to look at the flyer again.

“I know where this is. It's next to the graveyard. The property borders on one side of it, I can see it from where I usually sit. Well, the part of it that peeks over the old fence anyway. That place is old as hell though. I don't know if it's safe to walk around there,” you note.

“If it wasn't safe, then I doubt someone would offer a haunted house tour. For free, too! I guess that means it might not be the most high-quality experience, but we can still have fun,” Georgie says.

“Mh, I suppose so,” Jasmine agrees with a shrug. “I don't have anything better to do anyway. Not planning on going to any of the campus parties, they get out of hand way too quickly. I don't like the rowdy atmosphere.”

“True. We could bring food and drinks. I have an insulated picnic blanket and with a few pillows we could set up camp in front of the house,” Hailee pipes up.

“I have a portable space heater! Don't want to freeze my ass off waiting outside,” Nika adds, still a little reluctant. She doesn't seem too convinced, but if the rest of the group is going to join in on this little venture, she won't say no.

“I can bring my portable speaker. Some music can never hurt,” Georgie says, a wide grin spreading on her face as her friends come around to her idea.

You sigh, still not too sure about this endeavour. The porperty was old, falling apart. And now apparently also 'haunted'.

“Come ooon, don't leave us hanging,” Georgie whines you name. She must've seen undecided expression on your face.

With a roll of your eyes you hand the paper back to her and grumble your agreement.

“Yay! Okay, okay, we'll plan this out later in the group chat yeah? I can make a list of things we need and everyone throws in what they can bring,” the tall girls says, stuffing the flyer back into her bag, already fully entering her planning mode.

You agree together with the other girls, the idea slowly sinking in. You suppose hanging out with your friends is better than holing away in your room to study or binge-watch whatever series catches your attention.

Even if the haunted house turns out to be a fluke, you still have music, food, drinks and your friends. That alone is more than enough for a good time. You'd enjoy it. Getting out of the house will be good for you.

-

The sky is already dark when you arrive. The soft glow of the few interspersed street lights do little to brighten the dark, eerie street.

The graveyard is located in a quieter area of the city, most houses in the close vicinity run down and abadnoned. No one wants to live anywhere near where the dead are buried.

You walk along the asphalt of the sidewalk, the old path uneven with many cracks in it where the roots of old trees broke through or an especially persistent weed fought its way to the surface.

You can already see your friends, hear them too, when you near the property. They already set up camp, so to say, a few lanterns and the space heater placed around the big blanket that sits in the middle of the overgrown lawn that sprawls in front of the wooden porch at the front of the house.

Georgie calls out your name when she sees you entering through the iron-wrought gate, the old thing creaking in its hinges when you push it open with a huff.

“Hey! You're the last. We've already got everything set up. Come one,” the curly-haired girl says cheerily, patting the free space on the blanket next to her.

You walk over and greet the others before plopping down on the blanket with a groan. Your thick puffer jacket swishes and bunches out around your middle when you sit down, the collar moving higher with the shift. You tilt your chin up and adjust the jacket so it doesn't cover half your face.

“That jacket really isn't flattering,” Nika points out with a half smile, not necessarily mean-spirited, but rather honest in an unfiltered way.

You roll your eyes and try to smooth down the puffed out front with little success. You instinctively try to suck in your stomach and straighten your back, but it doesn't change your appearance much.

“Don't be mean, Nika,” Jasmine interjects, sending you an apologetic smile while elbowing the blonde next to her. “Everyone looks a little round in these things, not only...”

Jasmine trails off, but you still hear the unspoken words floating in the air.

'Not only fat people'

Well, she probably would've phrased it a little more flowery, saying something along the lines of solidly build, chunky, curvy, soft, chubby or plump. Basically anything to avoid the word 'fat'.

You don't mind much. People need to get over the stigma that is connected to the word and you know very well you have a few extra pounds to you.

Most of the time it doesn't bother you too much, having taken the time to try your best and grow comfortable with your body the way it is instead of trying to conform to the propaganda society throws at you every waking hour.

But in moments like this, when someone points out your extra bits so blatantly, the old self-consciousness and shame come crawling back out of the hole you buried them in.

“It keeps me warm and it's comfortable,” you say, shrugging non-commitedly and hoping to move on from the topic before more old demons are stirred up inside you.

“That's what matters, practicality over looks,” Hailee says and points up at her knitted cap. It's green and has two eyes attached to it so the hat resembles a frog. You recall her telling you her grandma had knitted it for her when she was a child. It may be quirky, but it it's warm and comfortable.

“True, true,” Georgie says dimissively and then continues talking. “Anyway, now that we're all here, I suggest one of us should take the lead and get that haunted house experience.” She giggles gleefully, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she eyes her friends.

“The first is always the most exciting! The rest of us can can get started on the drinks and plating up the snacks. I'm starving,” Hailee adds, her green eyes glancing over to the pile of both home-made and bought snacks.

“Well, I guess that means you're going first,” Nika teases and nods at Hailee.

“What? Why me? I wanna eat first,” the girl whines. Nika snorts.

“You're the one who just said the first is the most exciting,” she retorts and then chuckles when she sees Hailee stick out her tongue.

“I don't wanna go first, I'm a crybaby. I need someone to tell me what's happening first or I'll pee my pants and die from a heartattack,” Jasmine declares dramatically, causing the rest of the girls to let out a mix of groans and laughter.

“It's just an old house, I doubt whoever organised what's inside put a lot of effort in,” you say and look up at the house looming over your group.

The windows are boarded up, a few of the shutters hanging only off of one hinge. The light blue paint once covering the wooden fassade is flaking off and the porch is almost overrun by wild growing weeds.

It is intimidating in a way, the sheer size of the slowly rotting building and the desolate windows that look like black maws giving it the typical horror movie feel.

“I don't even know if we're really allowed to be here. Maybe this belongs to someone. We could get in trouble for tresspassing,” you add, the thought only now popping into your head, rousing a whole new collection of concerns that start swirling in your head.

“I doubt it belongs to anyone. There aren't any signs and there was no indicator that said to stay away. The gate wasn't looked either,” Georgie says. “I mean, look at this place. I'm sure no one is missing it or would mind a couple of girls having a good time.”

She gestures at their surroundings and the other girls look around, mumbling their agreement.

You look around, too, taking in the wooden fence to your right. You know the graveyard is behind it. The rest of the property is surrounded by an old wire fence that has more holes than one could count. There is an old wooden shed towards the back of the garden on the left side of the house. The door is boarded up and the roof has a hole in it.

You let your gaze drift farther. Beyond the wire fence is a beaten path that leads past the property you and your friends reside on. You can barely make out a crumbling brick building on the other side of the path, this neighbouring building not looking any better than the one you are supposed to set foot in.

“I guess,” you agree reluctantly and shrug. Georgie rolls her eyes.

“I think you should go first, spoilsport. You can see for yourself there's nothing bad going on. Just a haunted house,” Georgie says and wiggles her eyebrows at you. You cross your arms.

“Why don't you go first?” you challenge, but Georgie just cackles and wags her finger at you.

“No, no, my friend. You're not getting out of that one. Come up, get your ass up,” she orders, digging her elbow into your side. You hiss and pull away.

“Fine, whatever,” you huff and heave yourself to your feel. Smoothing down your jacket, you make sure your phone is still in the pocket and straighten up fully. “If I die because some rotten floorboards give away under me, you're paying for my funeral.”

The girls laugh and you feel your lips twitch against your will.

“Just step lightly, you klutz. You're not that heavy,” Jasmine jokes and the small smile you wear quickly turns tense.

“Yeah, I guess not.”

There's a short moment of silence before Hailee pipes up.

“Oh! We should all take a selfie when we're inside. An additional challenge of sorts. Whoever gets the best picture in the creepiest setting wins!”

“Great idea, Hailee,” Georgie agrees and then turns to you. “Go on, we'll be waiting for you. You better get a good picture, too. I wanna make a collage with them so we never forget today.”

She shoos you away and you turn on your heel, waving over your shoulder as you walk towards the house. You almost prefer the house over your friends at the moment. They are nice enough, but some remarks are just needlessly rude. They just never seem to see it the way you do, telling you it was a joke or that you're overreacting.

“Get your crap together, this night is supposed to be fun,” you scold yourself and ascend the rickety stairs of the porch. When you approach the door, you see the same flyer Georgie showed the group a couple of days ago pinned to the brittle wood.

Pushing away any further hesitancy, you push down the handle and open the door. You can hear the girls shouting behind you, wishing you good luck.

You don't turn around, just step forward and let the door slowly swing back into place with a disturbing creak that echoes in the old house.

You take a deep breath and slowly walk forward, looking for any kind of clue that might tell you in which direction to go first. But there's nothing, or at least you don't see anything, so you set off towards the closest room.

It turns out to be a living room. The furniture is old, upholstery rotting and wood hollow from time. The floorboards groan under your feet, scattered paper and debris crunching under your boots. A stiff breeze rattles the windows and the entire house groans eerily.

You swallow hardly. There's nothing actually scary going on yet, no jumpscares or mysterious silhouettes in corners. And still, your fear mounts with every passing minute.

You don't like this anymore and you find yourself longing for some company. Going in alone was stupid. You should've just ignored the rule and went in teams.

Because now you are all allone in an old, creepy house, the rotten smell of decaying wood in the air and your mind playing tricks on you by making every shadow or foreign form out to be a creature waiting to bring your demise.

Whirling around, you quickly walk back out of the living room and enter the hallway you came from. Maybe you should just go back outside and pretend to having finsihed the tour.

You shake your head. They wouldn't buy it, you've barely been in here for five minutes.

As you stand and ponder over your options, still wincing at every unexpected sound or moving shadow, a flicker at the edge of your vision catches your attention.

You pivot and face the set of stairs leading to the first floor. There it is. A weak flicker dances across the wall at the end of the stairs. It's warm and unsteady, reminding you of a candle.

Your gaze sweeps along the other doors that lead away from the hallway and into more unknown rooms, then back to the flicker upstairs.

“Let's just get this over with,” you whisper to yourself, the sound of your voice loud and at odds with the symphony of creaks, groans and clattering that echoes through the house.

You head towards the stairs and start climbing them, one hand firmly on the rail should you slip or the wood give away. If you go upstairs now you'll be done quicker. You'll just have a quick look around, try to find a location for the picture and then leave. Easy peasy.

The stairs grown under your weight and you reach up to wipe your damp forehead, the skin wet from fear and worry. This whole haunted house thing is putting you through the ringer in a way you couldn't have antcipated.

Grumbling at your own silliness, you finally reach the top of the stairs. The light is brighter now and you look down both sides of the hallway. The flickering is coming from your left so you head in that direction, your heart pounding in your chest and a cold sweat breaking out along your back and under your pits.

'Maybe it's just some homeless people,' you think, your sweaty hands clutching at the phone you retrieved from your pocket once you reached the top of the stairs.

'Or a trick from the person who arranged this... It's nothing scary, nothing real. Stay calm.'

Tiptoeing towards the source of the light – a slightly ajar door at the end of the corridor – you try to measure your breaths. Every loud creak your steps cause make you wince.

“This is so stupid,” you breathe out. “Get your shit together.”

The door is right in front of you now and you take a few breaths, hyping yourself up and gathering enough courage to push the door open.

The wooden door moves ever so slightly under the gentle push of your fingertips and to your relief this particular door doesn't screech noisily. In fact, it glides open rather smoothly.

You peek around the wood, hands holding your phone to hard you're almost afraid the screen is gonna crack.

What you see is not at all what you expected.

The room, unlike every other part of the house you saw, is clean. There's no debris or paper littering the floor and the furniture looks old, but well kept. Like someone made the effort to patch it up and keep it in shape so it doesn't rot away like the rest of the furniture in the house.

“What the hell,” you mutter, pushing the door all the way open and straightening up.

A bed comes into view. The metal frame is a little rusty, but the mattress and everything on it looks new. This room lookes like someone's been living in it and while the house's dilaptidation couldn't be hidden entirely, it still looks decent.

The next strange thing are the candles lit everwhere, the source of the flickering you saw from downstairs. They are scattered across the floor around the bed, one candle is placed on each bedside table and a few more are placed on the other surfaces in the room.

Your eyes wander over the bizarre scene and you briefly throw a glance over your shoulder before stepping inside the room.

A window comes into view, embedded into the wall to your left. In front of it stands a wooden chair, a thing cushion placed on the seat. It's placed in a way to makes it seem like whoever put it there sat down on it to look outside. On the window sill sits a pair of binoculars.

Curious, but no less scared, you appraoch the chair and stand behind it to see what view would warrant the binoculars. You bend down a little and peer through the window and out into the dark.

It's hard to see outside, what with the candles inside the room reflecting off the window and the darkness of the night. Fortunately, the moon decided to shine in all it's glory that night, chasing away some of the impenetrable darkness.

“What...” you mumble, eyes honing in on the view.

The window faces the graveyard. It takes you a moment to realise it and when you do, you glance away from the view to look at the binoculars sitting on the sill. What on earth would a person be watching on a graveyard?

You carefully reach for the binoculars, another glance over your shoulder ensuring your solitude before you pick them up. As soon as you lift them from their place, you freeze.

Underneath the pair of clunky binoculars sits a sketch pad. The drawing on the first page is dark, drawn with coal by the looks of it. But that isn't what makes you halt your actions. It's the motive that chills you to the bone.

It's you, sitting on the bench by your parents' grave with a book in hand, your backpack sitting by your feet.

Dropping the binoculars, you hastily scurry away from the window. Your heartbeat picks up again, the organ thundering inside your chest, beating against your ribs frantically.

“What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck,” you whisper, your sweaty fingers losing their grip on your phone. It clatters to the floor.

“Do you like it?”

You choke on a scream and jump. You heave out a cough and clumsily whirl around, feet twisting beneath you and making you stumble.

“Careful, sweetheart. You're gonna hurt yourself.”

A man steps past the threshold, his frame filling out the doorway as he ducks through and comes closer.

You want to scream, but you're still coughing up your spit, one hand pressed to you heaving chest as you back away from the approaching man.

His features are lit by the flickering candles, his huge body throwing an even bigger shadow against the wall. He raises his hands towards you and you finally manage to choke out a croaky screech.

“Hey, hey! That's not the reaction I was expecting, sweetheart,” the man scolds.

You try to make a run for it, your shaky legs compelling you to run, hide, get away from whoever this man, this stalker is.

Your efforts are quickly put to an end. The hulking giant of a man flings a thick arm out and catches you around the middle, yanking you back and cutting off your escape route.

You start to thrash immediately, your mouth opening to let out another scream. But before the sound can leave your lips and alert your waiting friends, the man's big hand clamps over your lips, sucessfully muffling the sound behind his huge palm.

Using his grip on both your face and midsection, he hauls your wriggling body against his, your back pressed to his broad chest. He meanly digs fingers into your face and you whimper, whipping your head side to side to try and dislodge his painful grip.

“I suggest you calm down, sweetheart. This is supposed to be a happy occasion. Can't have you ruining it with your hysterics,” the growls lowly, the sound of his voice rumbling against your back.

You shake helplessly in his arms, tears of pure terror welling in your eyes as you keep thrashing in this stranger's hold. Your breath comes in choppy pants your panic threatens to swallow you hole and you kick your legs out uselessly.

In a short moment of clarity, you lift your legs and drop your entire weight down, hoping to dislodge the tight grip the stranger has on you, but he doesn't budge. Not as much as a grunt comes from him as you let your limp body hang from his arms.

He lets out a chuckle, dark and condescending, and squeezes your middle until you wheeze.

“You gotta try a little harder than that if you want to break my hold. Not that you could, but I suppose it is a valiant effort,” he says, a mocking tone to his voice. His hold loosens around you and you suck in a deep breath now that you ribs are no longer constricted by his iron grip.

“It's not a fair fight, you see,” he continues, shifting his grip from your middle to swiftly gather your wrists in one big hand, bending your arms and holding them still against your chest. “I could hold you down with two of my fingers and you wouldn't be able to get away.”

He twists your around, his hand still holding yours captive against your chest, but his other leaves your mouth in favour of framing your vulnerable neck.

You owlishly blink up at him, your muscles trembling with the adrenaline cursing through them, tears gathering along the rim of your eyes. Your jaw is clenched shut, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Such a scared little bunny,” the man coos, his thumb stroking along the soft skin of your throat. “This isn't quite how I imagined this to go, but we'll make the best of it, hm?”

“What do you want from me?” you burst out, your jaw unclenching long enough to let the question snap out. You tug at your hands and try to take a step back, but the hand at your throat tightens to keep you in place and you sputter, quick to stop your movement.

“It's not about what I want from you, but what I can give you, bunny girl,” he says, shifting his stance slightly. The flames of a few candles close to you light up his face for the first time since he stepped foot inside this room and you see the sick smile stretching his lips behind the thick beard covering the lower half of his face.

Your eyes jump over his features, taking in the beard, the shape of his jaw, his nose and his eyes... His eyes, dark with wide-blown pupils that only leave a sliver of his irises visible. You can't make out their colour in the dim light, but you still recognise him.

A whole new kind of terror sweeps through you and you unwittingly start to pull at your wrists, fighting to escape his grip, his surprisingly strong grip. Not so surprising anymore now.

“Oh, the penny has dropped,” the man snickers, flicking his head to the side briefly to shake a strand of his grown out hair away from his eyes. It used to be short. And his face was always shaven clean.

“You see, being on the run is quite the tiresome task, sweetheart. Moving from one location to the other, avoiding the authorities, hiding in the shadows. It gets lonely, you know.”

He yanks on your arms and tightens his grip on your throat. He walks you towards the bed, pushing until you sink down on it, legs dangling over the side.

“I've been hiding out here for a while now. Months, to be more specific. It's bleak, boring. But I found something to entertain me. A little bunny that hops by my window every day and sits pretty just for my eyes to see.”

He's been watching you. America's hero, fallen from grace and now off the deep end too, has been stalking you, eyes following you when you sat unsuspectingly, visiting your passed parents, seeking out their lost affection, their comforting presence.

You feel sick, the terror knotting in your stomach as you struggle to breathe through the tight grip Steve Rogers has on your throat.

It really isn't a fair faight. He could snap your neck without blinking and you can't even get him to let go of your hands. Hands that he is holding with only one of his.

“You're lonely, too. So alone, no family left now that mommy and daddy are gone. But you're a good daughter, still. Visiting them, taking care of their grave. So good with your hands, sweetheart. The grave looks beautiful with those plants you picked out,” the Soldier croons, looking down at you with an adoring expression that makes you heart drop somewhere in the vicinity of your knees. He really is mad.

“Don't- Don't talk about my parents you freak,” you manage to squeak, a wheezing sound what with your limited ability to breathe.

“Mind your manners, bunny. I don't appreciate being cursed at. I made all this for you, as a surprise. To make our first time special,” Steve grits out, giving you a shove that sends you bouncing against the mattress.

His hands are finally off your body and you use the opportunity to crawl away from him, huddling on the other side of the mattress while catching your breath. Your throat throbs from his harsh grip.

Steve walks over to the door and closes it, then he turns around to face the bed.

“You need me, sweetheart. You just don't know it yet. I can give you everything you need, everything you lost. I lost a lot of things too. We can be good for each other,” he explains, his face shockingly genuine.

You can't believe what you're hearing. This man is bonkers. He lost his mind. You don't even know him outside his famous Soldier persona. He's a wanted war criminal. And yet here he stands, claiming to know you, speaking about whatever delusion he's crafted in that sick head of his.

'A wanted war criminal that has set his sights on me. Just my luck.'

“Don't look at me like that. I'm not gonna hurt you,” Steve declares and then strides over towards the bed. As he moves closer, he smoothly strips off the thick sweater he's wearing, then the black tank top underneath.

You just stare, frozen in shock. Your mind is reeling, muscles locked in a cowering position.

His thick, muscular chest comes into view, a layer of dark hair covering the taut muscle. Imaptiently toeing off his boots, Steve leans on the bed. Once they're off, he fully climbs onto the mattress, the soft material dipping beneath his weight and jostling you from your stupor.

“No!” you shout and launch off the bed, but not fast enough. A strong hand latches around your ankle, dragging your upper body back up on the back and towards him.

“No, no, no! Let me go, HE-”

A harsh slap whips your head to the side. Your ears ring with the force of it, the ceiling swimming before your eyes for a solid thirty seconds before you can focus enough to work through what just happened.

Steve is straddling your thighs, his teeth bared when he reaches the collar of your puffer jacket and rents the fabric down the middle, busting the zipper and tearing the dark material.

You cry out again. The side of your face throbs and Steve's rough handling hurts your arms, but you can't do much to deter him as he rips the jacket down your arms and then pulls it out from under you to discard it on the floor. Your pullover suffers the same fate, your bra swiftly following suit.

You start to cry, the severity of the situation finally dawning on you. Shaky arms try to cover your exposed chest, but the blonde man above you growls, slapping the weak limbs to the side and reaching out to cup the soft flesh in his calloused hands.

“So pretty, bunny,” he groans, kneading your chest and stroking your nipples. The sensitive peaks pebble in the cold air and from his incessant ministrations.

“Stop, stop, please,” you exclaim tearily, hands hitting at his arms and shoulders, your legs kicking aimlessly behind him.

“You'll be crying for me to touch you soon enough,” Steve says gruffly and rises from his perch on your thighs to flip you onto your stomach. He turns around, settling his weight on your lower back until you squeal in pain.

His hands reach for your jeans and he begins to roughly pull them down, taking your panties with them as he shoves them over the curve of your ass, the fabric scratching you roughly in the process. He wrestles your shoes off and in a matter of seconds you're left completely bare beneath his strong body.

Steve's hands crawl across the backs of your thighs, easily dodging you swinging calves, and then moves up to slap your ass, a delighted grunt coming from him when he watches your flesh jiggle.

“What a nice piece of ass. Love me a girl with some extra on her,” he says, greedily squeezing you bum and thighs.

You grimace at his words, a sob lodging in your throat. Your tears overflow as you're groped and prodded like a piece of meat.

“Please, please, let me go,” you quaver, but your pleas fall on deaf ears. Steve is intent on getting from you what he wants and there's no stopping him.

You let out a weak shout when he finally lifts himself off you back and turns you back around to face him. He's swift to push you further onto the bed and away from the edge of the mattress.

Your limbs start to flail, but he wrestles his way between your legs before you have a real chance to get away.

“Not going anywhere, sweet girl. You're mine,” the former hero rasps. He rests a hand next to your head, partially leaning his weight on you as his other reaches down to pull off his own pants and underwear. He kicks both off the bed, all the while pinning you down with just his torso.

You can feel the hot length of him touching your chilled skin. Every inch of his bare body touching yours sends a wretched shiver through you. You want to throw up, scream, cry. And most of all do you want him off of you. You don't want any part of him touching you, you don't want him looking at you, breathing in your face and cooing false promises. You want none of it.

In a last valaint effort you gather all your strength and start to thrash underneath him. You pull your legs up to your chest and kick out, hitting him on the shoulder before he can duck out of the way.

He raises one arm to shield his face and you take the opening, rolling to the side where his arm is no longer caging you in.

A feral growl rips through the burly man's chest as you slip off the bed. He lifts himself to his knees and lauches forward, just catching you elbow in his grip and yanking harshly.

You exclaim and stumble backwards, thrown off-kilter by the sudden pull. Steve doesn't hesitate to use your unsteady stance and brings you back towards the bed, his long arms wrapping securely around your body and dragging you onto the mattress.

“You'll learn to love it, you'll see. This is what you need!” the blond man barks, frustration bleeding into his features at your ongoing struggle.

Discarding any caution or gentleness, Steve wrestles you onto your side and spoons you from behind. His hard body molds against you back, one of his strong legs shoving between yours. He claps one hand over your mouth, muffling your protests. His other arm wraps around your middle, leaving you completely immobilised.

The only sounds audible in the candle-lit room are your heavy breaths and muffled whimpers. Tears still leak out of your eyes, drawing wet paths over your hot face.

“Hush, bunny. You'll enjoy this just as much as I will,” Steve promises gravelly. The arm around your middle shifts, calloused fingers finding your breasts. He pinches and strokes, giving the flesh the occasional squeeze as he explores you to his hearts content.

“You're perfect,” he grumbles, his lips seeking out your bared throat and pressing a chain of wet, prickly kisses to the sensitive skin.

You can do nothing but endure his touch, muscles still trembling but not fighting. You know it's no use. He's too strong, too big and fast. You'll never get away. If you let him, maybe he won't hurt you.

A tingle stirs deep in your belly when Steve gropes down your body, appreciatively squeezing every soft roll and dip along your side before slipping close to your core.

You tense, a loud whimper vibrating against the palm across you mouth. Steve just shushes you and shifts the leg he has lodged between yours, lifting it to open you up to him. Your soft thigh tenses against his firm, sinewy one, trying to force it back down to hide your most intimate parts from him, but it is no use. He's stronger than you.

“No hiding, bunny,” the Soldier grumbles, nipping your throat and making you squeak at the pain.

His hand reaches the curls on your mound, fingers continuing to dip lower until he reaches the petals of your sex. His middle finger seeks out your bundle of nerves with expert precision, lightly pressing on it and chuckling when you twitch against him.

He toys with the botton for a few moments before sliding lower, using his fingers to part your sticky lips and circle your entrance.

You're ashamed at the wetness gathered between your legs. It's not much, but it's there and you cringe at the feeling of the man's fingers dipping into it teasingly. A sad croak fights its way past your lips and Steve pats your pussy playfully, telling you not to be embarassed. It only heightens your shame.

“Your body knows what it needs, sweetheart. Getting slick for me, what a sweet pussy,” he sighs, the earlier tension gone from his voice.

You groan when Steve plunges a finger past your entrance without a warning, wriggling the thick digit around and pulling it out just to add a second one. He fucks you with his fingers, his thumb teasing your clit as he draws out your unwanted pleasure.

The tingle in your belly sparks into a flame and you helplessly wriggle in Steve's arms as the pleasure forced upon you mounts with every stroke of his fingers against you walls.

Small, unwanted sounds spill from you, little pants and whines sounding past the barrier of Steve's hand.

When the man crooks his fingers, shifting your legs further apart before plunging the digits back into your increasingly wet cunt, your back arches with a  squeal. Steve laughs gravelly and does it again, keeping up the motion of his hand.

You moan, tears squeezing past your tightly shut eyes as the wicked man massages your g-spot with unrelenting fingers. The action has you senseless. No one but you has ever managed to find this little place, much less work it with such precision.

Your body tenses, legs thrashing and arms aimlessly waving around while the pleasure mounts dangerously fast, winding your muscles tighter and tighter until you're ready to snap.

Steve rescinds the hand from your mouth, damp palm touching your hand when he gathers the flapping limb in his and intertwines your fingers in a sick gesture of intimacy. But the mounting pleasure inside you has you too distracted to fight it, so you let him hold your hand, your other one clinging to the duvet that is crumpled beneath your bodies.

“Come on, cum for me. I know you want to, your little pussy is squeezing my fingers,” Steve husks, chuckling at your senseless whines and gasps.

His thumb presses against your throbbing clit and with a few more strokes of his fingers, you fall apart.

“Yes! That's it, good girl, keep going,” Steve praises throatily, his hips bucking slightly against you lower back as you tremble in his arms, overcome by the most intense orgasm of your life.

It washes over you in waves and you're left boneless by the time the last of them passes over you. Your chest heaves, sweat dotting your brow.

Your mind is still reeling from the sensations you just experienced at the hands of this madman and you can do nothing but lie there limply when Steve shuffles away from you. You flop onto your back, your trembling thighs pressing together.

They don't stay like that for long, the blond's big hands prying them apart effortlessly. Not that you put up much of a fight.

He kneels between your legs and his hand reaches down to stroke his flushed and angry looking length, a few drops of precum bubbling from the tip.

He groans needily and adjusts his position, lining himself up to your glistening, puffy pussy.

You mewl pathetically, legs kicking weakly at either side of his hips when you feel the head of his cock nudging your folds apart.

“No...” you beg quietly, hands coming up to push at him. Steve wordlessly gathers your wrists in one hand and holds them against his chest. Your palm rests flat against his firm muscle and he leans over you just a bit, his free hand grabbing your thigh just above your knee and opening you up to his view.

He looks at your face when he tilts his hips and slides inside just a bit, marvelling at the scrunched up expression you wear.

He's big and the stretch burns despite his slow pace.

You whine low in your throat, the fingers resting against Steve's chest pushing at him, nails digging into his skin. He hisses at the sting but keeps pressing on.

“It hurts, please. You won't fit,” you cry out at last, hips twisting from side to side to dislodge him. Steve only tsks at your squirming and pulls back a little just to press forward again, inserting another inch into your spasming pussy.

“I'll fit, bunny. Don't you worry,” he grunts, letting go of your thigh to wipe away the tears rolling down your temples.

You grimace when he slides in even deeper, carving out a space for himself in your body, molding you to his shape. When Steve turns his hand to cup your face, you find yourself leaning into it, seeking comfort from the pain, the fear. Too bad that he's the source of it.

With a last jerk of his hips, Steve's entire length disappears into your straining pussy and you exclaim when you feel his hips resting against yours. He lets go of your hands and moves to grab both your legs, pressing them apart and up.

You feel horribly exposed to his hungry gaze, cringing at the way he stares between your legs when he pulls back and pushes back into you.

Every move of his hips forces a strangled sound from you, your chest bouncing with his still rather tame thrusts. He's savouring it, every push and pull through your quivering flesh.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Steve grunts, his groans and pants mingling with your squeaks and wheezes. His face is flushed, plump bottom lip caught between his white teeth.

He lets go of your legs after a few minutes of measured thrusting, dropping his upper body over yours. His cock slides out of you when he shifts and you whimper, your thighs immediately moving to close. But Steve's thick waist is in the way, so you endure the throbbing that pulses between your legs.

Steve settles above you, his hips cradled between your legs, strong arms to either side of your head. He briefly shifts his weight to reach down and line himself up again before pushing back inside with a throaty groan.

“Yes... what a good bunny you are, taking me so well,” he moans, his hot breath washing over your face. His hips move, finding a new rhythm and a new angle, one that has you seeing starts.

“Oh, oh... hngh,” you squeal out, hands reaching up to clutch at Steve's shoulders. “Fuck, oh.”

The man above you grunts his approval, keeping up his motion to hit your spot again and again, the tip of his erection sliding across with with every retreat and advance.

“There you go, doesn't that feel good? I told you I would make you feel good,” he growls, speeding up his thrusts and giving you no respite.

You babble, hands slipping along the Soldier's arms, unable to hold on to anything for long while he fucks you senseless with his sharp, angled thrusts. The fire in your belly ignites again, burning brighter with every stroke.

“Mh, fuck you're gonna make me cum,” Steve pants. His face is scrunched up, mouth hanging open as he revels in the feel of your wet, hot pussy clenching around him.

He leans to the side and reaches down, pressing his fingers along your slipper cunt, seeking out your clit and rubbing it earnestly.

You keen, back arching off the bed. It doesn't take more than a few rubs to make you come, your clit pulsing under his fingerpads as he keeps hammering away at your g-spot.

You let out a loud, gravelly moan, the sound quickly breaking off into a high-pitched whine when your pleasure peaks, a pressure unlike any you've felt before building in your belly and releasing with one last well-placed thrust.

You squirt all over Steve's cock, his pelvis and yours drenched in your cum as you shake pathetically underneath him, you hands slapping the mattress.

“Good fucking girl,” Steve growls, his eyes rolling back in his head when he feels you squirt over him, your walls bearing down on him as you tremble through your orgasm. “Fuck, you're perfect.”

He rescinds his hand from your overstimulated clit and drops down to his underarms above you, his hips bucking desperately against you.

You vaguely feel Steve's cock throb and twitch inside, followed by a primal groan above you.

The big man shakes with the force of his orgasm, unfiltered sounds rumbling from him as he paints your insides with his seed, pulse after pulse of it surging into you.

You moan weakly at the warm sensation of his spend, too tired and fucked out to listen to the alarm bells going off in the back your head at his actions.

Once Steve stops shaking, he lifts his sweaty face and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“You may have lost your family, but we can make a new one together. You will never be alone again, sweetheart. Neither of us will be.”

Your eyes snap open, your sluggish thoughts clearing in seconds as you stare up at the former hero, pinned beneath his thick body after he took you against your will and came inside you without any form of protection.

“You'll make a good mother.”

His eyes meet your wide ones, a wicked smirk curling his mouth.

“No,” you breathe out, hands lifting and pushing at his chest, body squirming desperately to dislodge his cock still nestled inside you.

“Yes,” Steve hisses, snapping his hips against yours and wriggling them from left to right, letting you feel every inch of his rapidly hardening length. He does it again, cutting off the sob rattling in your chest and replacing it with a choked moan.

His hands wipe at your tears and he coos at you, shushing your sad, terrified sobs as he keeps working his hips against yours.

“You'll love it, trust me. I will take such good care of you.”

...

Ooooop, that was quite the wild ride 😆 I wrote this monster in one sitting and I did not proofread a single sentence. I cannot bring myself to care. Y’all are supposed to enjoy the story, not my immaculate spelling, lol 😳 (it’s not immaculate, it really isnt. And don’t get me started on punctuation...)

Anyhow, let me know what you think! Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated! 🖤

[phorolytte]

Lily Flower

https://archiveofourown.org/works/39120108/chapters/97866888

Relationships: Platonic, Pure Vanilla & the Cookies of Darkness

Summary: Seeking the fleeting shadows of his old friend, Pure Vanilla joins the cookies of darkness. Unknown to him, they are a group of ragtag outcasts and damaged people, held together by mirrors and faded strings. His presence just happened to be the tipping point.

Everything begins to fall apart.

Excerpt (what you’ll be getting into):

This is the truth I had sought all along. The secret to life. 

The little girl dissolved in front of her eyes. She had been reaching out to White Lily as if the mage could save her.

On the shelf, a forgotten staff wilted. 

How utterly meaningless! 

White Lily had not felt the initial burn. She had been in shock, but it was only a second delay. The liquid seared against her skin, and she screamed, but more liquid entered her throat. She snapped her mouth shut, but resisting made no difference. Melting was inevitable. She watched as her legs boiled and crumbled into the mixture. Her vision seemed to flatten as part of her head joined the melting pot of the dead. 

But… 

What a pointless existence. She spent all her life learning the secrets of magic, but had yet to apply them. Her curiosity led to dissolve in the bottom of a witch’s cauldron. She will die alone, her life cut short. There was still so much in the world she wanted to do, so much to experience. She wanted to try one of Golden Cheese’s infamous baskets, lose in Hollyberry’s drinking competitions, join the Make Dark Cacao Laugh group. She wished to see Pure Vanilla again, his angelic smile and hidden mischievous streak. If only he were here with her. 

I want to live… 

The liquid tasted sweet. 

A monster rose from the primordial soup, far larger than any singular cookie. She was the amalgamation of all the lives tossed into the cauldron, warped half-living cookies consumed by a singular consciousness. 

The Dark Enchantress clawed her way out of the boiling liquid amidst gasps and cries. Witches screamed and fled as they were lifted off their feet by powerful magic, spells woven together from a lifetime of research. A dead staff flew into the monster’s grasp, useful beyond the grave. 

These are my gods? She sneered at the heaving, ugly creatures, as they screeched in an incomprehensible language. No, I don’t accept that. 

Plants broke through the ground, ensnaring witches and plunging roots through them, new life growing where they wasted space. Light and dark magic flooded the space, twisting in tandem, the cumulative reactions they caused with each other far stronger than they would be alone. Witches wailed as their bodies were replaced with sugar. Unable to sustain flesh and blood, the sugar crumbled and the witches crumbled with them. Cold, efficient magic stopped hearts and burst blood vessels. 

She threw her hand into the air. Normally, large crystals were catalysts for opening rifts in the world, but the dark enchantress was powerful to the point where tools did not matter. Magic crystallized at her will, dense enough to substitute. She waved and the crystals burst, opening doors to new possibilities. 

Creatures stuck within the burning fires of the ovens came through the rifts, ready to do her bidding. Cake monsters and summons crawled out of the depths of hell as she cackled. She flew above them, freer than she had ever been. 

The Dark Enchantress hated the truth. She hated the fact that she was born to be eaten, to die. She refused to accept her fate; this time, she will create her own truth and the world must bend to accommodate. 

Guilt no longer chained her down, starlight no longer haunted her every move. White Lily had finally given up, fading along with the scores of others in that cauldron. What monster took her place feared not the darkness, the forbidden nature of magic. What could compare to the horrible reality she had seen? 

The Dark Enchantress was worse than the fallen heroine’s nightmares. She embraced the darkness, for she was darkness itself. 

“Come, my monsters, my dear abominations!” she cried, pointing her dead staff at the fleeing creatures. “Tonight, we have a witch hunt!” 

And the shadows danced, no longer smothered by light.

[boygiwrites]

Harley D. Dixon 21

An amazing edit inspired by this story! (Cred to Cora_Line99) Harley D. Dixon's Pinterest Board! Harley D. Dixon's Playlist!

📖Chapter List.

Author's Note.

Another quick under 3,000 word update for you guys :) Enjoy!

When it's quiet, Carl and I go visit Sophia's grave together.

Under the low-hanging oak tree is a whole long line of graves, many more than the last time I stood here, all marked with their own wonky, homemade cross. Rings, necklaces, hand-written notes and little trinkets hang from each one, swaying gently in the afternoon breeze. I wonder which belongs to the one I killed the other night, which mound of dirt and death I'm responsible for. I wonder if they know I'm sorry.

I don't have to wonder which is Sophia's. I know already. It's the one with the Cherokee roses laying on it.

I step forward and carefully place Matilda against the white petals, making sure her yarn-hair is neat and her dress is as it should be, while Carl lays the Pokémon folder down next to it. When I promised Carol I'd return the doll to her someday, I never imagined it would be like this.

As we step back, I grab Carl's hand and tell the small grave, "Wherever you are, I hope you get to play again."

Thoughts and prayers, I think they say. I don't think they ever done any good to nobody. If God was listening to silly things like thoughts and prayers, this tree would be someplace we could play together, and not the graveyard it's turned into. Those roses would've worked. But it's like Shane said. Sophia was weak. Just 'cause it don't sound nice, don't mean it ain't true. She was weak, and she paid the price for it. I wish I could do more than just stand here and miss her, but maybe I can also learn from what she couldn't, be stronger, live what she didn't get to.

I ain't never seen much purpose in death, but maybe that's it. Maybe like scars, all they do is make us stronger.

"We'll miss you, Sophia." Carl utters, squeezing my fingers. "I'm sorry we couldn't find you."

When he starts sniffling, I feel even emptier than I already do. I should cry with him, but I can't. I don't know why. I've always been a bit of a crier. It was one of the things Merle hated most about me. If you're gonna be angry, be angry, but don't start cryin' too while yer at it. He used to need to shout at me and shake me by the shoulders to get me to dry up, but now I've dried up all on my own.

"She'd dead, Carl." I mumble, turning away. "Ain't no tears ever saved nobody."

When we make it back up to the gate where Dad's waiting for us, he doesn't mention my scowl. He kisses my hair and leads us up the path. When we get there, Carl drags me to the spot behind his family's tent, 'cause apparently he wants to show me something.

"You gotta promise not to tell." He warns as he pulls a gun from underneath a rock. "I stole it this morning from Dad."

My eyes go wide. I was not expecting a gun. Carl's more the type of person to steal a cookie before dessert, not guns.

I quickly duck down, glancing around to make sure none of the adults saw. "What the Hell, Carl?"

"You remember Shane was gonna take us for shooting lessons, right? Well, that's not happening anymore. We gotta do it ourselves."

"Are you serious? Your parents are gonna kill ya if they find out, you moron."

"Duh. That's why I'm not gonna tell 'em."

"Adults like to know where kids are." I scold him harshly. "You wanna end up like Sophia?"

"No," He says firmly. "I wanna end up like you. You know all about surviving. You know plants, and birds, and animals. I know nothing."

He's right, I suppose. He doesn't really know anything. He didn't grow up around hunters, didn't live by the woods, didn't get compasses and boots and BB guns for his birthdays. I bet he's never even killed before, neither. Not even a rat in the rafters. Just like Sophia, he knows nothing.

I would like to teach Carl what I know, but I've never done somethin' like this. Unsure, I grumble, "I don't like gettin' in trouble."

"It's fine. We'll be quick." He assures me. "And if we get caught, I'll just say the whole thing was my idea."

I pin him with a look. "It was your idea."

"Exactly. Besides, you got lost in the woods for two whole days and you were fine. I'll be in good hands. So you coming, or what?"

I sigh. "You're gonna go no matter what I say, ain't ya?"

"Mm-hmm."

I roll my eyes. Finally, someone as stubborn as I am. That settles it, then.

"Fine." I say. "I'll come."

He pumps his fist excitedly. "Yes!"

"But lemme grab somethin' first before we leave."

He tucks the gun into his pants line and follows after me as I make my way to mine and Dad's camp. When I stop in front of the motorcycle parked in the shade, he asks what I'm doing, but I wordlessly flip the saddlebag open and pull out a shiny, mean-lookin' Bowie knife.

He blanches at the sight of it as I strap the sheath to my belt loop. "That's the biggest knife I've ever seen."

"Used to be my Uncle Merle's." I say absentmindedly, before nodding him toward the treeline. "Let's go."

"For the record," Carl hums as we walk along the marshy creek, "I think the missing ear makes you look super badass."

I give him a light shove, making him stumble and giggle. "Keep talkin', and you'll be missin' yours in a minute."

"What? You don't think you look badass?"

"Not really."

"Well, I say you do. And I'm always right."

"No, you ain't. Hey, look. Mushrooms."

We skip across a toppled log laying in the water and leap onto the other side, approaching a cluster of brown mushrooms sprouting from the base of a fat tree. Morels, made obvious by their wrinkly, honey-comb caps. I pull him down with me and start plucking some.

"These are Morels." I explain, handing him a stubby, dark-colored stalk. "Here. You can eat 'em."

He takes it from me like it's a bomb. "Are you sure? How can you tell?"

I snap another off. "'Cause they're ugly and they smell like bread."

He grins in amazement as I pop it in my mouth without hesitation. Encouraged to do the same, he takes a little nibble of his.

I watch his eyes go wide. As expected, he seems to like it. "Tastes like nuts."

"The darker the cap, the more flavor ya get. Not that you'd be worryin' too much about that when you're dyin' in the woods, I guess."

"Still a cool fact, though." He takes my hand and stands up. "Let's go find some more stuff."

Happy to keep exploring, we wonder from tree to tree, bush to bush, rock to rock. I teach him which berries will make you froth at the mouth and die and which ones will taste like sour candies, how to tell poison oak from regular leaves, which mark on the ground means what.

I even teach him to make a whistle from a mottled wax-leaf, which he seems to find very fun.

He blows through it for a hundredth time, making the ringing in my ears turn piercingly loud.

"Quit that noise, dumbass." I complain, reaching to snatch it from him.

He comes to a sudden halt, leaf falling from his lips.

"What is it?" Frowning, I turn to what he's looking at.

There's a walker stood on the bank opposite us, its foot caught under the thick, gummy mud. It keeps trying to break free, but it's skinny as a twig and useless as a newborn deer, so it ain't gettin' outta there any time soon, which is good for us but bad for him, I guess.

Watching it flail around, Carl wonders, "Should we shoot it?"

It'd make an easy target, but I got no interest in killin' that thing. Might be the one that bit Sophia. It deserves to suffer.

"Nah." I sourly disagree, turning away. "Let's just leave it there. We can go shoot somethin' else."

He gives it one last glance before falling into step with me. "Okay. Like what?"

"Somethin' that's useful. Rabbit, maybe."

"Ooh, you can teach me to skin it. You ever done that before?"

Have I ever killed and skinned a rabbit?

Pssh. "That's funny, Carl."

He giggles at that.

We return to the farm about an hour later with a dead hare. I offered to carry it, but Carl says he likes having it slung over his shoulder 'cause it makes him feel like a strong caveman, whatever that means. I tracked it and taught him to shoot the thing, but I guess it was him that shot it dead so technically, it's his kill. His first ever kill. He didn't get squeamish or nothin', not even when I flayed its skin off with the knife.

"That was awesome," He exclaims, not caring that there's blood all over his shirt. "Where'd you even learn to shoot?"

Tall grass and laughter come to mind, but as we approach the gate, I settle on shrugging, "Doesn't matter."

"Well, I can't believe an eight-year-old got to learn to shoot before I did."

I unlatch it and open it for him, joking, "Maybe it's 'cause I'm better behaved."

"You know what," He lilts as he steps past, "You're probably right."

I lock it closed and follow him along the path back to camp, feeling more and more grateful that I'm behind him and can hide a little when I realize we weren't as sneaky as we thought we were, as Rick, Lori, Dad, and Dale jump out their seats at the sight of us approaching.

My stomach does a weird little flip at the angry look on Dad's face. I have to remind myself things are different now.

"Where were you?" Lori screeches, running to crouch in front of us. "You silly boy, where were you?"

"We just went out for a bit, Mom. We're fine." He seems to think showing her the hare won't make things ten times worse. "Look!"

Before she can lose her mind again, Dad snatches it off him. "What the Hell were y'all thinkin'?"

"I'm sorry, Dad." I tell him. "I just—"

"You disobeyed me, is what you did." He scolds. "'Stay where I can see ya.' Ain't that what I always say?"

"It's what we say, too." Rick frowns. "You know it's dangerous out there. There's a reason we have rules."

"And there's a reason we keep the gun bag away from children." Dale raises a brow. "We know there's a pistol missing, son."

Lori holds out her hand. He makes a big deal out of pulling the gun out and handing it over. 

"You too, Harley. Where'd you get that knife?"

"It's Merle's." Dad gruffly answers for me. He doesn't take it, but I can tell he's disappointed. Feels so wrong not gettin' belted for this.

"Guys, she didn't even wanna come at first." Carl says. "It was my idea. I asked her to. I thought it would be safer with the both of us."

"So, what you're saying is you not only stole from us and snuck out without permission," Chides Rick, "But you put Harley in danger, too."

"I— I didn't think I was."

"As the older child, you should've known better. You need to look out for her, Carl. This isn't a joke."

Dad scoffs, "Nah, she's more'un capable of followin' orders on her own. She knows not to sneak out."

"Tell you what, we can go shootin' sometime soon if that's somethin' you feel you wanna do, but you cannot do this again."

Lori adds, "Ever."

"Is that clear?"

I nod straight away, but Carl takes a little longer before he gives in. "Do we at least get to eat the rabbit?"

"If you promise you won't try gettin' another one for tomorrow's dinner."

He sighs moodily. "Fine. Okay."

"Glad we're finally on the same page."

As Lori leads Carl away to get him changed into a shirt that's not so blood-soaked, he throws me an apologetic look over his shoulder. He didn't mean for us to get in trouble. Rick leaves to replace the gun, Dale resumes watch duty, and Dad drags me back to our camp without another word. I don't bother saying sorry again. I know he don't appreciate being told the same thing twice, so I keep my mouth shut.

I half expect him to lay me over his knee the second we make it back, but all he does is sit me down on the stump.

"You sit here for however long I feel's right, and you think about how you done wrong."

As he walks off to start preparing the rabbit, I take great effort in keeping my jaw from dropping.

Time-out. I ain't ever been in time-out before. Usually, I just get whipped and that's it, but things really are different now.

I accept my punishment without complaint, watching him gut the hare and slice it into small strips, laying them out on the rocks around the crackling fire. I wonder if he's letting me keep the knife because I did a good job skinning. I hope so. He taught me how, after all.

Once the meat's cooked, which takes about ten short minutes, he beckons me off the stump with a nod of his head.

"Come get some food, chicken."

I hop off and approach him unconfidently, taking the mug of browned meat that he offers me.

"Carl was smart takin' you with him." He says. "Would'a fucked that poor animal up, otherwise."

I find myself trying not to smile. I think I like time-out.

"Are you still angry with me?"

"I don't like what you did, Harley. You went and did somethin' behind my back." I understand that. It wasn't right. "But you wanna start doin' some things on yer own, I'm more'un happy to let you, baby, you know that. Simple things, like havin' yer own knife. I'll allow that."

I perk up a little. "I can keep Merle's knife?"

"Yeah. A gun, though, we'll have to work up to. You got plenty people around here ready to protect you with guns, already. But it's important to know how to shoot one, anyway, so when Rick takes Carl, he can take you, too. Certified instructor, and all that."

That's more than fair. "Alright. Thank you, Dad."

"I'll show you how to use that thing properly later, but for now," He hands me another hot mug, "Go shut Carl up with some'a this."

I carry both mugs back to main camp and find Rick and Carl sitting together at the picnic table, having what looks like the serious conversation me and Dad just got done having. When they notice me, Rick finishes off what he was saying and scoots over so I can sit next to him.

"Dad cooked the hare." I tell him, passing it across the table. He takes it with an owlish look. "Might still be hot."

"I don't think you've ever eaten hare before, have you, buddy?"

"No. Had skunk, though." He pops a piece in his mouth. "Mm. That's pretty good."

"Now you got a taste of what you wanted, I expect you to reel it in a bit. Protection's important, but not if it ends up killing you."

"Rick, My Dad said I can come shooting with you and Carl, if that's okay."

"'Course, honey. I think I'm gonna ask some of the others if they wanna come, too. Start today, if you want."

Me and Carl share an excited glance. "Yes, please."

"Alright, then. Finish up that food and we'll see about leavin' soon."

Author's Note.

Hope you enjoyed the chapter, everyone 💙

Some more intense things coming up in the next one.

[eyelessfog]

ooo what's your headcanon for the jimmy death thing if you don't mind me asking? i'm curious now

youre always free to ask its my favourite thing to talk about

its called flower jimmy and. well. theres flowers

basically, at the beginning of every session, flowers bud on jimmy’s skin. each flower means someone is going to die, and the colour shows what colour life theyre going to drop to. so the first death would be a yellow flower - daisies, dandelions, ect - while the second death would be red - roses, poppies, ect - and the third flower is white. its always a lily.

in this way, jimmy is still a sort of… omen of death, but not in the way that he dies first. he has like. a glimpse of the deaths to come, but not in a way that will help anyone stop their deaths. you dont know who’s going to die, but you might be able to spot a first red- things like that. on top of that, people often die in the heat of the moment, at times where they might not consider that a flower might be for them.

the flowers grow at the beginning of the session as buds, and then bloom upon someone’s death.

the big fun thing to me is that it isn’t about jimmy’s death being a curse so much as it’s a personal failing. because it adds a little something to the story:

jimmy wants to offer someone a flower to their grave. no one cares to take their dandelion or their poppy, but he wants to pick the lily from his arm and drop it where they died. he wants to get the chance to mourn. he never quite gets it.

dropping a lily into the void doesn’t have quite the same feel as planting it in the ground

[za-baransu]

MUSE AESTHETICS: HORROR EDITION.

bold whatever applies | italics what sometimes applies [ both if it's perfect for your muse ] | strikethrough what doesn't apply & tag people. repost; don’t reblog!

TAGGED BY: my own stash TAGGING: mhm!

@quirofiliac ; @pwophet | @thusspoke | @nekurooma | @adenial | @baishouqijia | @kuraikyu | @determinazione | @zajevre | @owabisuru ; @gyakusama | @cinghialefedele | @keikakudori | @imagend | @yasuhtora ; @inouehs | @despairforme | @huntiburon | @deathleads | @jinjahime | @bornhollow | @hxbiris | @kamitakes | @lured-into-wonderland | @liecoris | @amaranthineoni | @deityforged [ and whoever wants to! just say i tagged you ]

CLASSIC.

black and white. powder puffs. red lipstick. winged eyeliner. white kitten heels. black lace lingerie. icy blue eyes. rain. abandoned cars. skeletons. acid. poison. voyeurism. switchblades. strangling. overcoats. looking over your shoulder. trans-atlantic accents. private detectives. dinner parties. haunted mansions. cobwebs. perfect blonde curls. kitchen knives. shock. cellars. dust. ghosts. dark alleys. empty streets. horn-rimmed glasses. radiation. zombies. serial murder. suspicion. the city. witches. the devil. cannibalism. conspiracies. amulets. abject terror. the American South. the American Northeast. England. analog cameras.

CRYPTID & URBAN LEGEND.

aliens. blinding light. dark woods. driving at night. claw marks. bite marks. men in black. memory loss. dismembered bodies. sewers. flashlights. cell phones. video cameras. cars with tinted windows. unlabeled cassette tapes. bugs. big cities. urban crimes. clowns. something rustling outside your window. glowing light. unsolved mysteries. suburbia. mirrors. the american pacific northwest. the american midwest. hiking. backpacking.

GOTHIC.

gaslights. corsets. ballrooms. candlelight. mist. starless nights. full moons. cobbled streets. horse-drawn carriages. mysterious strangers. bogs. moors. forests. mountains. castles. velvet. silver. brass. gold. jewels. domino masks. the opera. dangerous romances. tragic romances. violins. roses. lilies. empty graves. crosses. cemeteries. snow. ice. the gallows. crows. milk-white skin. ambiguous illness. fangs. pointed nails. something howling in the night. capes. gloves. top hats. straight razors. lightning. pipe organs. underground caverns. bats. mice. rats. ravens. cats. pearls. attics. talismans. axes. wood. isolation in a room full of people. vampires. werewolves. ghosts. coffins. western europe. eastern europe. bones. churches. catacombs. mausoleums. books. stitches.

PARANORMAL.

malevolent spirits. seances. spells. missing bodies. hidden graves. white noise. static. flickering lights. rings of salt. demons. poltergeists. dark histories. old buildings. cold air. wells. urban exploration. a dog barking at unseen things. iconoclasm. black ooze. old photographs. dark bodies of water. crucifixes. priests. possession. exorcisms. dolls.

SLASHER.

bloodbaths. massacres. wanton nudity. newspapers. leather jackets. letterman jackets. converse sneakers. obscured faces. social unrest. bonfires. lakes. babysitters. high school. lockers. dead leaves in the fall. jack-o’-lanterns. passing shadows. outdated television sets. nightmares. psychiatrists. hospitals. unstoppable forces. gunfire. police. landline telephones. improvised weapons. halloween. secrets. revelations. cut wires. character masks. scrunchies. wild curls. jeering children. parties. fire. swearing. revulsion. california. the american midwest. ambulances.

THRILLER.

daylight. fluorescent lighting. morgues. unwavering eye contact. tension. lit rooms. empty rooms. killer in plain sight. a dog digging in the newly-planted flower bed. steely gazes. paperwork. anagrams. codes. convicted killers. missing persons. law enforcement. federal agents. small towns. paranoia. subdued terror. dimly-lit parking lots. a noise in the distance

[seriously-nobody]

Love's Dark Afflictions

Chapter 9

Warnings: Romance, nightmares, mention of death, gore

Preface: I hope y'all can forgive me for such a terrible word count and cliffhanger, life's been stressful recently and I've not had the motivation or time to write.

You slip into a dream, and you open your eyes to find yourself lying on the floor of the stretching room. Suddenly you feel a great pressure on your neck and you can’t breathe. You feel around your throat but nothing’s there, suddenly you’re pulled up by the invisible force around your throat. In front of you the vengeful spirit from the rafters materializes grinning at you while gripping your throat. You cough and gag, your eyes beginning to water, as you grasp at his wrist. “P-please.” You rasp. “Please?” The ghost mocks you and laughs boisterously at you. “YOU WILL NEVER HAVE MERCY FROM ME! YOU GAVE US NONE!” He shouts at you, tightening his fist, now crushing your windpipe entirely. “Florence, me, and now another, poor Jules.” He looks down sorrowfully, still toned with anger. “At least… their death… was quick.” You still try speaking. His eyes flick back up at you with rage as his pupils shrink at your words. “You are the true demon. Not him.” He says through gritted teeth. He hoists you up into the air and your legs kick and flail. “You will learn.” He holds you up in the air and the room begins to stretch eerily. The ghost servant keeps you in place while the floor sinks down below you. The wooden walls creak and bend as they stretch, the portraits revealing scenes of death and misfortune. “Geeeetttt oooouuuttt… Geeeettt oooouuuutttttt…” You hear strange and frightening whispers and giggles emanate from the gargoyles on the walls. “YOU WILL NEVER ESCAPE THIS HELL!” The ghost shouts as you reach the rafters. You claw at the ghost’s wrist to break free as you suffocate. His rotting skin and flesh peels off where you claw and you hear a sickening pop and snap of bones. His wrist snaps off and you plummet down, the floor not even in sight anymore, as you fall into the abyss.

For a moment you think you are awake. You open your eyes to a dark room. You can't quite make out where you are but you're sitting up against something wooden. Before you know it you hear a match light and it illuminates the face of the servant. “You will experience every death imaginable every night until you die.” He says then dematerializes. The match falls and lands on what looks to be a rope. The rope catches fire and you realize it's a fuse but you can't figure to what. You stand up trying to stamp it out but it doesn't work. Running out of time, you climb onto the top of the wooden barrel you were leaning up against to get away from it. The fuse lights up the front of the barrel and it reads ‘Danger, Dynamite’. Just as you read it, “Dynamite?!” you shriek and the barrel explodes, blowing you through a wall.

You tumble head over heels and hit the back of your head on a pristine white grave stone. Your eyes roll for a moment as you try to focus your spinning vision. You think you see something or someone coming towards you. You hold your head as your vision becomes steady again you realize it's an elderly woman in mourning clothes holding a rose. “Is this meant to be threatening?” You mumble to the servant who you presume is making you see all this. The woman's rose becomes an axe in her hands and she throws the axe directly at your head, cackling maniacally. You roll out of the way as it cracks the marble tombstone where your head was. You stand and begin to run as the woman takes the axe from the tombstone and begins full speed running after you. “My god she can run?!” You say in disbelief, dodging graves and mausoleums. “You can't escape this nightmare!” The woman shouts and throws her hatchet again. It plants itself perfectly in the back of your head. Pain branches out through your skull and you trip over one of 5 small statues of mice surrounding a larger statue of a cat. You stumble, falling into an open grave.

You land feet first onto a fraying tightrope, balancing as best you can. “Enough of this! This won't change anything!” You shout into the nothingness. “THIS WAS NEVER AN INTERVENTION! YOU DON'T THINK WE KNOW YOU WON'T CHANGE?! THIS IS PURGATORY! YOU WILL FEEL FEAR, PAIN, AND DEATH, EVERYTIME YOU SLEEP! YOU WILL FEEL THE SAME TORMENT WE FELT WHEN YOU TOOK OUR LIVES AWAY FROM US! OUR SOULS WILL NEVER REST BECAUSE OF YOU! THEN SO TOO SHALL YOU BE RESTLESS WITH US!” The servant's angry voice booms. A crocodile jumps up and snaps at the tightrope just out of reach. “YOU WILL BE IN AGONY OVER,” The crocodile leaps up again and latches onto your ankle, piercing straight through your flesh and breaking your bones. You cry out in anguish. “AND OVER,” The crocodile drags you down into the water and begins death rolling you in the water. You struggle against the giant beast but to no avail. “AND OVER, AGAIN!” The servant finishes as you sink into the water, drowning slowly.

For a moment you feel like you're falling again then you land in a pit of sand. Your feet begin sinking into it and you look around for anything to pull yourself out with but nothing is around but a sign that reads ‘quick sand’. You try to wade in it as your knees get swallowed up but your movements only seem to make your descent faster. Your heart beating out of your chest as panic overtakes you. Your torso sinks into the sand as you try to swim in it. You reach up in hopes of any mercy and you hear a laugh in return. “No one will help you here. And your precious Alistair can't even reach this realm, nor me.” the ghost cackles. “You're stuck in here with me until sunrise.” His voice is right next to your ear as your head sinks into the sand. You suffocate on the quicksand, your gags muffled by the sand filling your lungs. Your whole body, sinking slowly, deeper and deeper into the darkness. You feel your last fleeting breath leave your lungs and your life begins slipping away.

You awaken, your eyes opening wide and gasping a breath of fresh air. You’re finally out of your nightmare, and scaring the absolute shit out of Alistair. “Ah! y/n!” He shouts holding his chest where his heart would be. You cough and roll over, hanging your head off the edge of the bed. You wheeze, cough up sand from your lungs. “What did he do to you in there? You were kicking and trying to scream for the last 3 hours. I tried to wake you but you weren’t coming too.” Alistair says concerned. You finish coughing up what was in your system and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand to brush away granules of sand. You flop back onto the bed and rest your head against your pillow, that’s slightly damp from how much you were sweating. “I was… in the living room…” You wheeze, catching your breath. “Hush darling, you can tell me when you’re well. Rest for now alright?” He pets your cheek and you nod tiredly. “I promise I will rid you of his presence soon.” He kisses your forehead and cuddles up next to you. Just outside the window, the first light of dawn breaks and what the servant said in your nightmare repeats in your mind. “You're stuck in here with me until sunrise.” Hopefully this means you can get some rest before you must begin your day. Your eyes flutter closed as you hold Alistair close and drift off into dreamless sleep.

Only to be awoken by the sun rays burning your eyelids an hour later. You groan, opening your eyes, still feeling exhaustion from your nightmare. “Feeling better?” Alistair looks at you. “No… Worse actually.” You stare up at the ceiling. “I can’t do this anymore.” You say suddenly getting out of bed and walking behind your privacy screen. “Y/n, think about what you’re doing.” Alistair says. You get dressed and pull out your flintlock from its drawer. “I’ve never thought about anything more in my life.” You step out loading the gun. “Let’s not do anything rash, now.” Alistair walks over to you. With the flintlock fully loaded you place it in your waist coat. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Alistair asks. “I will when we’re far enough away.” You walk out of your room and briskly walk down the hallway and down into the foyer, but instead of going to the dining room as usual for breakfast you head straight for the entryway. “Where are you going? Please, darling, you can tell me.” Alistair asks concerned. You ignore him and head straight out the door and to the stables. “I need my horse prepared immediately.” You tell the stable boy at the gate. “Yes, right away.” The stable boy rushes in and prepares your horse. “I don’t want you to do anything you will regret.” Alistair says and you feel him cup your cheek. You lean into his touch but do not answer for fear of the stable boy overhearing you. “Here you are.” The stable boy says, bringing out your horse. “Thank you.” You say mounting and spurring off.

Chapter 11

[rmelster]

Make a fanfic of Prince Arthur 🥹

Bc he better

Ask and ye shall receive. There it goes, @catherinemybeloved !

FIRST WORDS:

Summary: Catherine teaches Arthur some Spanish. Arthur teaches Catherine some English. They get distracted at the end.

Genre: Romance, fluff, young love.

Historical fact: Arthur Tudor and Catherine of Aragon wrote to each other in Latin, since they discovered, during their first meeting, that they could not quite understand each other’s accent in that language.

The noble princess of Wales didn’t knew her husband’s mother tongue; that was grave. Neither did the prince spoke hers; that was disastrous.

Catherine of Aragon was a cultured princess; she knew as much as the art of the needlepoint and the domestic affairs, as she did of the classics, the olden languages, the politics and many other topics that weren’t foreign to the wise. But no word of English. Not a single word. Yet nobody seemed to step up; it was expected of her to learn by herself, as many other foreign princess had done before them.

So it came as a surprise that Catherine approached him, to teach him her language.

It was a chilly day of March, and the world barely started to awake from the cold slumber of winter. The white and red roses, that his father had had planted in Ludlow castle many years ago, as a memento of the union of the noble houses of York and Tudor, were yet to blossom, but starry primroses and bellflowers of humble beauty had already awakened, and the gardens had become a pleasant place to spend time alone. Arthur walked without haste, his arm timidly interlaced with Catherine’s, and his eyes often turned to her; in the solitude of the yard, the young princes were not obliged to act like ones, and Catherine dressed rather humbly, without her headdress and with no more adornment that the ring he had placed in her finger months ago, that fateful day of November in St. Paul’s.

The princes of Wales quietly sat on a stone bench. Catherine unrolled a scroll and they started their lesson.

First came the most basic greetings, titles and courtesies; once they both had memorised them, they began working on simple phrases; and while Catherine was quick to learn them, Arthur could barely repeat them twice without clumsily stumbling with his own words, oh, so foolishly! But there was a culprit behind his clumsiness, and that was Catherine.

He was entranced, bewitched, fooled. Despoiled of the regal and rigid protocol, she was as free as a river, and as tender as the fragrance of the flowers. Under the pale light of the day, her golden red hair shone like dark fire; her wide eyes, an abyss of a deep azure that he could not hold in his visage without getting flustered; her hand holding his had reduced him to a witless fool that repeated her words like a parrot.

So when she outlined the last of the phrases they would have to learn that day, he repeated it, not having payed attention to the meaning she had given him.

“Te… Amo…” he said slowly, “Te amo.”

“I love you too, my prince…” she responded.

His breath was taken away. For a moment, he blushed profusely and could do nothing but to look away, seized by a sudden sense of modesty. But he didn’t coward too long. A sudden boldness struck him and he spoke:

“Te amo… Catherine… I love you…”

Bold as he had never been before, the prince mustered enough courage to lean towards her and let his lips kiss hers, in a loving kiss that told all the rods he had failed to learn. Their hands remained tightly joined, as the scroll slid to the floor, its words forgotten, for there was a tender language they had always shared.

Love.

Symbolism: In the language of the flowers (which comes from the Victorian tradition), primroses are meant to represent the first love; bellflowers, in the other hand, everlasting love and faithfulness.

(Ladies and gents: The only royal ship worth shipping in The Spanish Princess)

I hope you liked it! Feel free to request more short fics of worthy historical ships (I won’t accept nothing that has to do with Henry VIII. I have written about evil medieval men, but I trace the limit there hahaha).

PS: Philippa Gregory (the woman who write The Constant Princess and The King’s Curse, books that inspired The Spanish Princess), you cannot sell me Henry VIII. You just can’t.

[lucianjablonsky]

Upon my grave

Upon my grave of straw and grain Sprouts the last bush of memories, a rose in refrain Each white petal, like your tears of dew Each silvery web, a veil on a face I once knew Soon, a concert of field violinists will play In nature's symphony, as night turns to day Yet, only those young trees we planted with glee, Might survive or perish, as time decrees I yearn for your smile, radiant and bright Even sunflowers couldn't match its light ~ Midnight Sun

[a-song-of-art-and-fire]

Jon Snow, The Turncloak Crow

"If we are taken, you will go over to them, as the wildling girl you captured once urged you. They may demand that you cut your cloak to ribbons, that you swear them an oath on your father’s grave, that you curse your brothers and your Lord Commander. You must not balk, whatever is asked of you. Do as they bid you … but in your heart, remember who and what you are."

Another Jon Snow today, this time on his gap yah with the wildlings. I've mentioned before, I really love that Jon and Dany's arcs as GRRMs newer better model of fantasy hero is essentially going on cultural exchange and learning cosmopolitanism. There's something very 90's about it, with a slight undercurrent of Noble Savage condescension, but overall a very earnest well-meaning attitude that I adore.

This mini is a lovely sculpt with a lot of nice details, in my paint job I wanted to highlight the between-two-worlds aspect with his Night's Watch blacks contrasting to parts of his outfit replaced by very warm earthy Free Folk items. The sheepskin cloak is explicitly mentioned and gives a great chance for an earthy white in place of a black cloak. I'm very happy with his darker First Men skin tone here, and you can just about make out his scars from second-life Orell.

For the basing I've generally been contrasting the cold but full of life Free Folk with the more sterile and lifeless look for the Night's Watch, and as a Watchmen-turned-Free-Folk, I went all out with the plant life. The blue winter roses and red weirwood leaves of course each carry significance for Jon alone, but together they tie into the contrasts theme and give a visual signifier of his place in the Ice and Fire balance.