#Acknowledge Collective Grief | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

literaryvein-reblogs · 9 days ago

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Writing Reference: Grief

“Grief is the emotional reaction to a loss, in this case, to death” (Samuel, 2019, p. xvii), and mourning is the process of adjustment to a world without that person.

The following physical sensations and perceptual experiences often accompany the grieving process (modified from Worden, 2009):

Hollowness in the stomach

Tightness in the throat and chest

Being oversensitive to noise

Feelings of unreality

Shortness of breath

Muscle weakness and lack of energy

Dry mouth

Strong emotions typically occur during grief, including (from Worden, 2009):

Sadness. Failure to acknowledge and embrace sadness can cause more complicated and prolonged grief.

Anger. A common reaction to loss that leads to many issues during the grieving process.

Guilt and self-reproach. Often regarding something that happened or was neglected at the time of death.

Anxiety. Ranging from feelings of insecurity to panic attacks, sometimes associated with fears of being unable to take care of yourself in the absence of the other person.

Loneliness. The loss of a day-to-day relationship can leave someone feeling all alone. Social support can help but does not remove the sense of a broken attachment.

Fatigue. Feelings of apathy and listlessness are not uncommon following the death of a loved one and may limit behavior and activity.

Helplessness. Survivors can be left feeling vulnerable and helpless, especially when they have young children to look after.

Shock. Sudden death, by its very nature, can cause the survivor to experience shock.

Yearning. Yearning or pining for the loved one is a typical reaction to death, and as it reduces, may indicate the mourning process is coming to an end.

Emancipation and relief. It is not uncommon for a survivor to experience a sense of relief, especially where the deceased was oppressive or was suffering a prolonged illness. While a normal response, it may be accompanied by feelings of guilt.

Numbness. While the previous feelings are common, so too is an absence of emotions, at least initially. With so many feelings to experience and manage, the early stages of grief may be overwhelming and result in a protective numbness.

It is important to note that each person’s experience of grief is different, and while the emotions above are typical of loss, they are not exhaustive.

Types of grief can take various forms, including (Elizz by SE Health, 2019; CaringInfo, n.d.; WebMD, n.d.):

Abbreviated grief. A short-lived response to a death, possibly following the experience of prolonged anticipatory grief or something immediately filling the space left by the loss.

Absent grief. The bereaved may not acknowledge or may remain in denial of what has happened. If prolonged, the lack of response can be concerning and require specialist support.

Anticipatory grief. For a caregiver, grief can begin before the person being cared for dies. It may be associated with a sense of losing what they expected life to be like. Such feelings can start with a terminal diagnosis or a worsening state of health.

Chronic grief. A sub-type of complicated grief (see below), left untreated, chronic grief can involve extreme feelings of hopelessness, a sense of disbelief, and a loss of meaning, leading to severe clinical depression or thoughts of self-harm and even suicide.

Collective grief. A shared experience of grief that affects a family, group, or community, often preceded by an event (natural disaster or attack).

Complicated grief. Where grief seems to deviate from what’s expected, complicated grief interferes with the ability to function. Complicated grief may include chronic (see above), delayed, or absent grief (American Psychological Association, n.d.).

Cumulative grief. Multiple deaths over a period of time can leave the bereaved without the opportunity or capacity to process each loss.

Delayed grief. Grief may not occur immediately after losing a loved one but may be postponed until another significant event occurs, resulting in what may seem an excessive response to the present situation.

Distorted grief. An extreme form of complicated grief exhibited as self-destructive behavior, anger, guilt, or hostility toward others.

Disenfranchised grief. When others do not recognize the importance of the loss, such as the death of an ex-partner, pet, or colleague. Society may consider the loss as minor or not legitimate.

Inhibited grief. Grief may not always be outwardly visible; it may result from a conscious effort to maintain privacy or keep emotions hidden from close friends or family.

Masked grief. Atypical physical symptoms and behaviors can be a response to grief without being attributed to the loss.

Normal grief. While there may not be a ‘typical’ grief shared by everyone, normal grief is considered to be when emotional intensity surrounding the death gradually decreases or basic daily activities begin to return to normal.

“We need to learn to support a healthy grieving, and to help people to understand that each person goes at their own pace” (Samuel, 2019, p. XX).

The treatment given to those attempting to process grief must be specific to the individual and their experience. The following approaches overlap and complement one another in supporting the bereaved (modified from Worden, 2009).

Helping the survivor actualize loss

When and where did the death occur?

What happened?

How were you told and where were you?

Visiting the grave can also make the loss more concrete.

Helping the survivor identify and experience feelings

Many feelings may not be recognized or felt to their full degree during intense grief. It is essential to help survivors experience the following:

Anger – arising from feelings of frustration and helplessness.

Guilt – for what the bereaved did and did not do to affect the outcome (usually irrational).

Anxiety and helplessness – feelings of helplessness can leave the bereaved unsure if they can survive alone and concerned about their own mortality.

Sadness – it can be challenging for many to show their upset in front of others. Crying can be helpful if associated with an awareness of what was lost.

Assisting living without the deceased

What problems are you facing, and how can they be resolved?

It is important to neither rush the bereaved to make decisions nor encourage a sense of helplessness, but instead communicate that they will be able to make decisions when they are ready.

Helping find meaning in the loss

Why did this happen?

Why did this happen to me?

How has this loss changed me?

Allowing for individual differences

No two people grieve in the same way; the process and feelings associated with loss are unique. There is tremendous variability in the following:

Intensity of affective reactions

Degree of impairment

Length of time it is experienced

Source ⚜ Bereavement ⚜ Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

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spider-stark · 10 months ago

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INFINITELY YOU

part one // back at the beginning

SUMMARY - In every universe, Peter Parker seems destined to fall in love with you. And, in every universe, he realizes it too late. When universes collide and two of them are granted a second chance at rectifying their biggest mistake, neither of them are willing to let the opportunity go to waste–even if you end up not being the person they thought you were.

WARNINGS - 18+, story will contain mentions of blood, broken bones, weapons, suggestive language, and more. all versions of peter are between the ages of 19-23 in this story. I will try to update warnings accordingly for each chapter, but please read at your own discretion

WORD COUNT - 5.4k

// masterlist // series masterlist // send me your thoughts // playlist // no way home fan fiction //

The world seemed to slip out from under you, fracturing beneath your feet and leaving you to sink into a deep, dark hole.

It was quiet—so unbearably quiet—and the tension between you and your estranged friends had become so thick that you feared it would soon take form and seep into your lungs. Maybe that would be for the best, you thought, wondering if suffocating on your collective grief would somehow be easier than whatever came next.

“Aunt May…” You sputtered, unable to force the words out. Shaking your head, you asked, “Are you sure?”

God, what a stupid question. You almost wanted to slap yourself for asking something so mindless.

Ned’s lips pressed into a thin line, trying to swallow his own sorrow. “I wish we weren’t,” he said with a small, wistful chuckle, still too shocked to fully acknowledge the gravity of it all. “But… yeah, we’re sure. She’s… She’s gone.”

Your heart sank, unable to think of the right string of words to form a reply.

With your mind reeling, you couldn’t stop yourself from thinking that this was some sort of cruel joke–the kind where the punchline would never quite hit. But all it took was one look at the red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks of Ned and Mj to know that they were telling the truth.

She was dead—Aunt May was dead.

And, somehow, it seemed as though that wasn’t even the worst part of the mess your friends had gotten themselves in.

“I know that it’s a lot to take in all at once,” Ned started back up, perhaps noticing the way the color seemed to drain from your face. “If you need me to go back over it or explain anything then I can-”

You stopped listening to him, staring blankly at the doormat beneath their feet. They hadn’t even bothered to come inside your apartment, too panicked to waste any time before delving into the details about Doctor Strange and the multiverse and other Spider-Man’s.

But honestly, you didn’t care about any of that.

You didn’t care about string theory or whatever multiversal villains had apparently slipped into your world—because you couldn’t stop thinking about what Ned had said about how May died. It hurt to think about it, the shrapnel and debris that had torn her flesh, the glider that had punctured her side and left her bleeding out in Peter’s arms…

Aunt May had died a horrific and brutal death, and you weren’t sure that there would ever be any way for you to come to terms with that.

“Peter,” you finally spoke, fire raging in your eyes as you looked at Ned. “Where is Peter?”

He spared Mj a sidelong glance, as if silently asking for her permission to answer. Frustration began to prick your skin, crawling up your spine as your stare turned harsh, offended that he didn’t just tell you outright. You knew that things between the four of you hadn’t ended well, but this…

Mj crossed her arms, looking almost as frustrated as you were with Ned’s choice to look to her for permission, and decided to answer in his place.

“Downstairs,” she told you, her tone purposefully clipped as a way to show that the wounds sustained in the downfall of your friendship had not yet healed–and you didn’t care, because you knew that yours hadn’t either.

“Is he…” you trailed off, not sure how to say it. If May’s death had been so brutal, then God knows what kind of injuries Peter might’ve sustained in the fight?

But you didn’t have to speak, because whether the two of you liked it or not, you had been friends—and she always knew what you were thinking. “He’s safe,” she told you, quelling your nerves just a little. A reluctant sigh slipped her lips, shaking her head as she added, “But he’s not okay.”

You knew what she meant—physically Peter had survived the fight with this Goblin man that they had told you about, but mentally…

You understood why she was hesitant to tell you about it, too. Of the three of you, there was only one that had ever been able to delve down into the depths of Peter’s trauma and help him claw his way back out of the gnawing pit that threatened to consume him—and it wasn’t either of them.

And, just as Mj knew you, you knew her.

She didn’t want you around Peter, not anymore—and so if she was willingly telling you that he wasn’t okay, then it meant that she knew how much he truly needed you right now.

“You guys should’ve told me sooner,” you grit your teeth, desperately trying to bite back against the resentment rising in your throat. “You should’ve told me as soon as all of this started, instead of waiting until everything went to shit.”

It wasn’t your intention to sound bitter, but that didn’t stop you from coming across that way. Ned recoiled from your tone like a blow, but you didn’t have it in you to feel guilty right now.

They had been dealing with all of this multiversal crisis bullshit for nearly a week now—and yet none of them had thought to say a single word to you until now. And while you knew that your presence likely wouldn’t have changed the course of events that had unfolded, it still hurt.

And it still made you angry.

“What do you need me to do?” You asked after realizing that neither of them intended to respond to your sharp statement.

“Well,” Ned started, nervously rubbing his sweaty palms against his khakis, “it’s gonna take us some time to figure out where the villains are hiding, and even longer to work out what to do with them. And, since these other Peter’s have dealt with these guys before, we could really use their help…”

He trailed off, once again looking to Mj, this time to silently urge her to finish his sentence.

She rolled her eyes. “We need you to let them stay here.”

Your brows furrowed, glancing between the two of them as if once again waiting for some sort of punchline to hit. It didn’t.

“It might take us a bit–a few weeks, maybe—to find all of them and stop them. And now that Happy’s complex was literally blown to pieces, we don’t have anywhere for the two of them to stay while they help out.” Mj tried to explain. She looked defeated when she said, “We didn’t know who else we could go to that would actually understand.”

Understand.

If you weren’t still reeling from everything they had just told you, then you probably would have laughed at the word. You would hardly say that you understood what was going on—but you knew what she was getting.

Mj’s dad would hardly allow two random men to stay in his house with them, and Ned’s Lola probably wasn’t too keen on the idea either. With Happy’s place destroyed, they had nowhere left to turn.

You weren’t sure how to feel now that you knew they had only come to you because you were their last choice.

At the risk of aggravating Mj, you said, “I wanna talk to Peter.”

“I don’t know if now’s a good time,” Mj swiftly shot back. “I told you that’s he’s not okay—”

“But he’s here,” you stated, nodding your head towards the stairs somewhere behind them that led back down to the lobby. “And you’re insane if you think I’m gonna agree to let two random ass men stay in my house without at least knowing what his plan is.”

Mj bristled at the harshness of your tone; and so did you.

You weren’t used to this.

Mj had been your friend for far longer than she had been whatever she was to you now, and neither of you were used to this—to your once special connection being reduced to nothing more than strained conversations and fractured feelings towards one another.

“Fine,” Mj surrendered, her hands lifting slightly. “Do whatever you want.”

It wasn’t until then that you realized that you had been waiting for her permission, even though you didn’t believe you truly needed it. Peter was your friend—and he had been your friend long before he even knew Mj. If you wanted to talk to him, then you had every right to.

Yet you still hadn’t been able to will yourself to push between the two of them until she had spoken, side-stepping to let you pass. When you started descending the stairs to the lobby, you were shocked that neither she nor Ned followed, offering you a sense of privacy with Peter that you hadn’t expected—as if she still held some shred of trust in you.

You didn’t want to think about it though, unsure of how you felt about that, too.

Halfway down the dank stairway of your complex, you felt a shiver dance along your spine. It prickled your skin and set your nerves on edge, but it didn’t catch you off guard. You always felt this way when Peter was around—as if your body could always sense when he was around, even when you hadn’t yet seen him.

The last step creaked when you placed your weight onto it, and from across the poorly maintained lobby, Peter’s neck snapped in your direction at the sound.

It felt like ice skittered across your bones at the sight of him, your heart lurching against your ribcage.

You had gotten used to seeing Peter battered and bruised years ago. Even before he became Spider-Man, he often found himself the victim of bullies and assholes, rarely going more than a few weeks without a busted lip or a new bruise. But this…

This was different, somehow.

It wasn’t just the blood-stained suit that set your heart racing, nor was it the lacerated skin or his sweat-matted hair. No, those things were normal—in the same way that being bitten by a radioactive spider was normal.

It was even normal to see him standing before you, his chin high and shoulders back, presenting a perfect image of strength even after experiencing something as traumatic as losing May.

Peter’s relationship with trauma had been intimate enough these past few years that you weren’t shocked to see him like this, standing tall rather than balling up and crying on the floor. You figured that was what most others would do if they were in his situation.

But Peter wasn’t like other people.

Peter was a hero—and if you had learned anything about heroes in your lifetime, it was that they were incredible liars.

His eyes couldn't lie, though.

Bloodshot and ringed with exhaustion, his eyes were what had made you feel so sick, your stomach twisting itself into knots.

They lacked the life and hope of the boy you had loved so dearly, replaced with something like rage—a pure, unbridled and unrelenting type of rage. Looking at him now you couldn’t ignore the burning talon that seemed to rake against your mind, filling your brain with thoughts you didn’t want to think right now—telling you that looking at Peter now, with the light draining from his eyes, was the same as looking in a mirror.

“Peter,” a metallic tang danced on your tongue as you dug your teeth into your cheek, biting back against the tears threatening to well-up in your eyes.

Letting your instincts guide you, you rushed across the lobby to where he stood by the front door, reaching for his hand without a second thought.

His suit had been torn along his palm, and as you felt the warmth radiating from his calloused skin, you tried to take some comfort in the fact that at least he had survived—even if you still weren’t ready to accept that May hadn’t.

“Don’t,” He yanked his hand back from you, his voice hoarse. “Don’t say you’re sorry.”

You froze for half a heartbeat, your hand hanging awkwardly in-between the two of you. “I wasn’t going to.”

You weren’t sure if you were telling the truth, but it didn’t seem to matter either way.

Either way, you tried to understand his reaction, even as you winced from the sting of rejection. What good would an apology really do for a boy who had already lost everything?

It wouldn’t bring the light back to his eyes.

It wouldn’t bring May back to life.

“Ned told me everything,” you told him, unwilling or unable to say Mj’s name right now. You clenched and unclenched your fists, painfully aware of the absence of his warmth. “You know I’ll do anything I can to help, so just tell me what needs to be done and I’ll do it.”

Peter scoffed, his jaw tensing. “We both know that what I want doesn’t matter,” he said bluntly. Motioning to your surroundings, he continued, “If what I wanted mattered, then we wouldn’t even be here. We wouldn’t be asking for your help—wouldn’t be dragging another person into this and asking them to risk their life!”

You did your best not to react, knowing that he hadn’t meant it quite as bad as it sounded. It already hurt knowing that you had been Mj and Ned’s last choice for help, but knowing that Peter didn’t want you to be a choice at all hurt far worse—even if it was to keep you safe.

“Well, you’re here now,” you told him, keeping your voice steady. “So you might as well tell me what your plan is—or at least tell me how long I’ll need to play bunkmates with strangers.”

You were lying when you had told Mj and Ned that you needed to talk to Peter before agreeing to let the alternate Spider-Men stay in your apartment—you didn’t care about housing with strangers, aware that there was nothing they could do to you that you haven't endured before.

Selfishly, you had just wanted a reason to come down and talk to him. To see him. To know that he was alive. You didn’t care about anything else.

Sometimes you worried that you didn’t even care about your own life, only Peter’s.

But Peter cared about your life—far more than you would ever want him to.

“My plan doesn’t matter,” he said, his tone clipped, “cause I don’t want you getting involved. And I definitely don’t want you to let those guys stay here, alright? We don’t know them.”

You steeled yourself, resisting the urge to argue with him and instead asking a simple question. “Do you have anywhere else for them to go?”

He didn’t respond, huffing out a breath, already frustrated with the defiance he knew you were about to display.

“You might not want my help, but if Ned’s right–” you told him, gesturing backwards towards the staircase, “–which he usually is—then you’re gonna need these guys.”

“But that doesn’t mean we need you,” Peter protested gruffly.

Your chest tightened, but you kept shoving back against the hurt. Later, you would deal with that later.

“It doesn’t matter if you need me,” you retorted with a defiant tilt of your chin, unwavering as his rageful gaze seemed to pierce through your skull, “because you’re stuck with me either way.”

You hadn’t expected the statement to affect him, but it did, his voice softening slightly. “I always have been.”

“Exactly. So you might as well make this easy on the both of us and not fight me on it,” you declared, trying to conjure up the most convincing smile you could offer. “Let me help, Peter.”

A sigh slipped his lips, heavy with reluctant resignation as he realized he wasn’t winning this battle. “We’ve already lost so many people… I’ve lost so many people. And there’s already enough blood on my hands,” he said, lifting his hands to display the torn, blood-stained fabric, driving his point home. “It doesn’t matter what I say—so let them stay here or don’t, I don’t care. But just know that whatever happens to you, it’s not on me. Because I told you to stay out of it, alright?”

He took a step closer, and you didn’t dare move a single muscle as his lips hovered just inches from your own. “Do whatever you want,” his voice was barely a whisper, laced with a venomous edge that nearly made you tremble, “but don’t expect me to come running to save you when it all goes to shit.”

His words hung in the air like a curse, lingering in the lobby for far longer than he did. As soon as the promise had left his lips, he was already turning on his heel and shoving the door open, abandoning you in the dim space.

You knew better than to think he meant it.

But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

You stuck your hands beneath the running faucet, scrubbing the blood from a jagged cut on your palm. It wasn’t all that deep, shallow enough that it probably wouldn't even leave a scar once healed. When you were done rinsing it, you cupped your hands and gathered the water in them, splashing your reddened cheeks.

Crying would have been a normal part of grieving for May, and when you forced yourself to look back at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you couldn’t help but wish that you could’ve been a little more normal.

But tears hadn’t been the cause of your flushed appearance—no, because you had never been very good at expressing the more delicate emotions, like sadness.

You were good at expressing anger, though.

You were very good at expressing anger.

After Peter had stormed out of the lobby and abandoned you to choke on his cruel promise, it had taken you several minutes to work up the nerve to go back upstairs and face Mj and Ned. By some stroke of luck you had managed to keep a tight leash on your often volatile attitude, telling them your decision to let the other Peter’s stay with you.

And then you lost control as soon as they left, loosening the reins on your anger and taking the uncomfortable feelings out on a nearby potted plant, shouting curses as you tossed it at the wall.

By the time you thought to clean it up, after finishing another string of irate profanities, your hands had been shaking so bad that you cut yourself on one of the dirt-covered shards. And maybe, once you felt the jagged ceramic dig into your palm, you should’ve hissed or cursed more or stopped cleaning to patch yourself up.

But you didn’t. You stayed quiet, continuing to pluck the shattered fragments off the floor until you had gotten them all, dumping them into the trash before grabbing the broom and dustpan and cleaning the dirt and scattered leaves, too.

There were more important things to deal with than cleaning a dirty wound.

Like making sure none of your friends could see that you weren’t nearly as composed as you tried to seem.

The familiar rhythmic rapping of Mj’s knuckles against the front door made you forgo the bandage you were going to fix to your palm, tossing the rag you’d used to dry your face into the sink and heading straight to the living room.

Carefully shoving your injured hand into your pocket, you opened the door and tried not to look surprised when Peter wasn’t standing in-between Mj and Ned. Of course he hadn’t come with them—why would he? He had already made it clear how he felt about all of this.

It did become significantly harder to mask your shock however when a tall, messy haired boy stepped into view from behind them, clad in a crimson and cobalt webbed suit.

“Get inside,” you hissed a bit harsher than intended, stepping aside and waving the three of them into your apartment.

The last thing you needed was your neighbors seeing an unmasked, alternate version of Spider-Man standing in front of your door. It had already been risky enough that Peter had come here in his suit, standing in the lobby and sticking out like a sore thumb.

Once they were inside, you shut the door and turned to Ned. “I thought you said there were two of them,” you noted, avoiding looking at the lanky Spider-Man who seemed just as desperate to avoid you, busying himself with walking around the room and studying the art on the walls.

Ned shrugged. “He didn’t wanna come.”

“Not that he didn’t want to come,” Mj pointedly corrected him, frowning at his bluntness. “He just wanted to keep patrolling. The Goblin, the one who…” she cut herself off, unable to force the words off her tongue. Scrapping the sentence altogether, she started again, “The Goblin’s from his world, so he seemed to think that he had the best chance of hunting him down. But we gave him the address.”

You didn’t bother giving her an actual response, a subtle nod the only sign you had heard her at all. She didn’t seem to care much, just as unsure of what to say to you as you were to her.

“So,” Ned clicked his tongue, trying to cut through the growing tension. “This is Peter 3!” He announced, gesturing to the other Peter, who was picking up a frame that had been face down on an end table. “That’s what we’re calling him, at least. Y’know, to tell them apart. The other one is Peter 2.”

You gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Creative.”

Done dawdling over Ned and Mj, you forced yourself to look at the un-masked hero from another world. He was placing the frame back onto the table—not face down, as he had found it, but up-right. You frowned at the photograph it displayed, a picture of you, Ned, Mj, and Peter from sometime last year.

“You’re awfully nosy,” you told him, your voice like ice.

His muscles tensed, hesitating as he faced your gaze. “Sorry,”

His voice was slightly deeper than Peter’s, his hair a shade or two darker, his features a bit less soft, but still noticeably young, putting him in his early twenties at most. Truthfully, if it weren’t for the suit he was wearing, you would’ve never guessed that he was supposed to be the Peter Parker of another world.

You had expected him to be more… Peter-like, in appearance, and yet as far as you could tell the resemblances were very slight, if they even existed at all.

The mannerisms were there, though. The subtleties of Peter Parker, the things that most people never noticed and yet were ingrained in your mind. He licked his lips, a nervous tic that left you always carrying chapstick in your pocket. His hands hung at his sides and you saw the way his thumb tapped against each of his fingers, starting with his index and ending with his pinky, only to start over again.

Watching him, taking note of every familiar twitch and tic and habit, made something in your chest tighten.

And, when you told him your name, it was as if your icy tone had melted altogether. “It’s nice to meet you.”

For a moment you thought he wouldn’t respond, his throat bobbing as he swallowed roughly, eyes darting around the room. But then, suddenly, he gave you a weak smile. “You too.” A trace of amusement laced his response, too subtle for you to detect.

“We’ve gotta go,” Ned suddenly spoke, jutting a thumb towards the door. “Peter’s waiting outside so he can make sure we get home safe, but-” he stopped, brows furrowing as considered whether he should finish. “But text us later, okay? Just to let us know that you’re okay.”

Your heart stuttered at the mention of Peter’s name, at knowing that he actually had come—even if it hadn’t been for you—but you didn’t mention it.

Instead, you focused on Ned, giving your sweet friend the kindest smile you could muster—which, admittedly, didn’t feel like much. Despite everything that had happened with your friends in the past few months, your fight had never been with Ned. He was just caught in the middle, unfairly forced to pick sides.

And you couldn’t bring yourself to be mad at him for picking Peter. Not when you knew that you would’ve done the same.

“I will,” you promised.

Ned gave you an equally somber smile before opening the door to leave. Even once Ned was in the hall, already descending the staircase, Mj lingered in the entryway—not for long, a heartbeat, maybe—turning back towards you just long enough to mutter, “Keep your guard up.”

You didn’t have a chance to say anything back to her before she let the door slam shut, following quickly after Ned and leaving you alone with… this guy.

The other Peter had abandoned his spot by the end table, seemingly done with investigating your apartment and left to do nothing but stand awkwardly a few feet away from you, clearly unsure of what to do or say now that it was just the two of you.

“So,” you breathed out, popping your lips. “Peter 3, yeah? Good name. You go by that back home, too?”

He laughed, a suit-clad hand nervously rising to the back of his neck. “Uh–yeah, no, definitely not. Just plain ole�� Peter Parker over there.”

The nervous energy radiating from the boy almost seemed contagious as you started to pick at your nails. “Do you have a nickname?”

He blinked, looking as if he hadn’t heard a word you said. “Sorry, what?”

“A nickname,” you repeated, only for your brows to then furrow. “You have those where you’re from, don’t you? Nicknames? Like, you know, something you go by other than your actual name?”

“Oh! Yes—sorry, yes we have nicknames in my world,” he exclaimed, his pale skin starting to flush.

“I just thought that this whole numerical system thing that Ned’s going with to keep track of who’s who seems a little dehumanizing, yeah?”

“For sure,” he agreed, sucking on his lip as he nodded along with you.

You gave him a second, waiting and waiting for an answer to your apparently long-forgotten question, before asking, “So… Do you have one?”

The slight blush that had tinged his skin instantly darkened, suddenly the same shade of crimson as his suit. His grip on the back of his neck tightened, too, his fingertips prodding into his own skin.

“Sorry-” he apologized for the millionth time, more nervous laughter spilling out alongside it, “I do! I mean, sort of, I think. I don’t know if it’s really a nickname, but back in my world you really just called me by my last name most of the time anyway, so–I don’t know—maybe that would work?”

The sheer quantity of word vomit spewing from his mouth was impressive and likely hard-to-follow for most, but you consider yourself a bit of an expert in the anxious ramblings of Peter Parker.

“In your world?” You echoed, instantly catching the subtle mention. “We know each other?”

Maybe it shouldn’t have been shocking to learn that there were other versions of you throughout the multiverse as well, and yet it was. You figured that it was plausible, of course, considering that two variations of Peter had just been thrown into your world, but for some reason it just didn’t feel right.

You reasoned that anyone would feel that way, though.

“Yeah,” the boy, Parker, answered, a bit clipped. “We do.”

“Interesting.” Your brows lifted, “Are we friends?”

Parker scrunched his nose, his head tilting slightly.

“Yeah,” his voice was an octave higher than before, and if you knew him better, then you likely would’ve called him on the obvious tell. But you didn’t know him, and so you didn’t say anything when he decided to double-down on the lie, “Yeah, we’re friends.”

“Well I guess that means that this is just as weird for you as it is for me, then.” You laughed, trying to add some humor to the situation.

Parker gave a tightlipped smile. “Definitely weird.”

The seconds felt like they stretched into minutes after that, silently racking your brain for something to say, hoping that he might say something—but, eventually, you settled on offering an escape from the situation instead.

“You’re probably exhausted from the whole multiversal travel thing, so if you want, I can just show you the guest room and give you some privacy or something,” you told him, vaguely gesturing towards the hallway.

Parker seemed to relax a bit at the prospect of being alone, loosing a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Uhm–yeah, that’d be great, actually.”

He followed you down the short hall, his hand finally falling from his neck and his skin returning to its normal complexion as his nerves began to wane.

“This is it,” you told him, the hinges crying out as you shoved the door open. “It’s not much, but it’s somewhere to sleep, at least.”

Wasn’t much felt like an understatement, though the room was typical for a New York apartment.

A tad bigger than your average shoebox, there was just enough space to fit a full-sized bed, a small armoire, and a single nightstand adorned with an old desk lamp and a little pink teddy bear—a gift from Peter, years ago.

Parker walked into the room, looking around and brushing his fingertips against the emerald quilt. It was a bit old and somewhat thin, but it was better than nothing you supposed, and Parker certainly didn’t seem like he was going to complain about it.

“It’s great,” he assured you, and even though he did sound genuine, you couldn’t help but snort. He looked over at where you still stood in the doorway, giving you a timid smile as he said, “Way better than sleeping on the streets.”

You returned the gesture, lazily lifting a shoulder. “We’ll see if you still feel that way in the morning. That mattress is about a hundred years old, so it’s probably the equivalent of sleeping on really lumpy cement.”

Parker hummed his amusement, carefully perching on the edge of the bed, his smile seeming to deepen when he caught sight of the little bear on the nightstand.

“I guess I’ll let you get some sleep,” you told him, reaching for the door handle, “if you need anything—extra blankets, or something—just let me know; my room’s right across the hall.”

He muttered his thanks, but as you went to pull the door closed, you heard your name fall from his lips. It was strange sounding, strangled and foreign, like he didn’t quite know how to say it. When you turned back to face him, a subtle wince seemed to etch across his face.

“Can I… Can I ask you something?” Parker stammered out the question, his voice faltering like a candle flame in the wind.

You nodded once, fingers still wrapped around the knob, savoring the coolness of the brass against the now-clotted wound on your palm.

He took a breath, his gaze momentarily flickering back to the teddy bear on the nightstand. His thoughts felt heavy on his tongue as he tried to force them out of his mouth, “Are you happy?”

You blinked at him, unsure of what to make of the hope that seemed to cling to each syllable and half-wondering if you’d heard him right.

“I-” you tried to start, only to realize that you had no clue what to say.

There was a fleeting moment where you realized that you could tell him the truth. You could tell him that happiness felt like a distant shore far from your reach, forever obscured by the fiery tempest of a brutal and ancient rage—a rage that, sometimes, didn’t even feel like your own.

But then he looked at you with those big, expectant eyes; eyes that should have been foreign to you, and yet felt so familiar—and you realized that he wouldn’t like that answer.

Sucking in a breath, you evaded his question as best you could. “Ask me again when all of this is over,” you told him, your lips curving into a soft, playful arc, “and maybe I’ll tell you the truth.”

This time when you went to close the door, he didn’t stop you.

series masterlist

a/n - i wish that i could properly express just how amazing (and terrifying) it has been to rewrite this story. first created at quite possibly the lowest point of my life, infinitely you has provided me with a necessary escape at a time when i desperately needed it. now that i'm in a better position, i found it necessary to give it the plot, writing style, and dedication that it deserved. i'm aware some people might not be interested in a rewrite and that's ok, but for those that are i just wanna say: thank you, thank you, thank you for giving infinitely you (and me) another shot. you're incredible.

if anyone would like to be added to the tag list, just let me know! as of right now, chapters will be posted every other monday, though i may switch that to weekly soon!

part two, titled "crullers & constants", to be released april 1st

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carionto · 6 months ago

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The circle of life

Human 1: "We are gathered here today to mourn the passing of a loved one."

Human 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, and 10: *sobbing, wailing, murmuring in disbelief and shock, silent dumbfoundedness, various stages of denial, grief, and bargaining*

H1: "He was a friend, a co-worker, a frequent visitor in all our lives."

H2-10: *continuous shedding of tears and blowing of noses*

Alien: *whispering to nearest, least emotionally distraught human* "Um, was there something special about that ap-"

H4: "Shh, not another word. Please. We need this."

A: "But you can just ta-"

H8 *loudly* "DON'T YOU EVER DARE FINISH THAT SENTENCE! YOU WOULDN'T UNDERSTAND!!!" *softly now, almost voiceless* "you couldn't understand what he meant to us..."

H1: "He was loyal to this vessel from day one, dedicated to his task to the fullest, even at the eventual cost of his life..."

H2: *uncontrollably* "I MISS HIM SO MUCH ALREADY! I CAN'T DO THIS!" *runs off*

A: "There was not this much emotion when an act-"

H1: *loud cough of deliberate interruption* "And he was greatly rewarded and praised by all for his countless acts of bravery and simply for such a stunning decades long career. We salute you! May you rest in piece."

Humans in unison: "To Stabby! May you bump into Mecha-Gods ankle in the After-Warranty!" *celebratory chug of hard liqueur*

A: *almost given up* "But it still works just fine, what changed?"

H5: "Look, when Stabby's duct-taped knife finally breaks on its own, that's it. Stabby is both the robo-vacuum AND the blade, especially after it's been around for so long. You have to acknowledge it, it's a matter of respect towards everyone, especially the crew."

-----N E X T D A Y-----

H11: "GUYS! Stabinthia just got the President of Venus!"

Humans collectively: "Hell yeah! Promotion party already!! Woo!!!

A: "..."

#humans are space orcs #humans are space oddities #humans are space australians #humans are deathworlders #humanity fuck yeah #carionto #stabby the roomba #stabby #remember how it works #a stabby is ranked based on the highest rank of all its victims

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lilia-calderus-pet-goat · 2 months ago

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Something of note about Lilia's tarot spread is that—it's hers. The cards she pulls aren't precisely who the characters are to themselves, but who they are and what they represent to Lilia. As her coven, in her life.

Like, I don't really know my tarot that well—I'm just pulling themes from within the episode and my general understanding.

But when she was reading for Billy, he was fittingly represented by the Magician. But for Lilia, he was the “windfall.” He was the tower, reversed. Miraculous transformation. Because she, having put the sigil on him, saved him from the destruction and lead to his miraculous transformation. And to her, he was the windfall, because without him, she wouldn't be here, with her coven. She wouldn't have found herself.

Alice's is very straight forward—“full of fire, fights bravely.” It's how Lilia saw her, what Lilia had once again predicted for her. 'Wound suffered, lessons learned.' Specifically, Lilia wasn't able to warn Alice, but she learned her lesson. So, this time, she makes sure to warn Agatha. “When she calls you a coward, hit the deck.”

And why does she warn Agatha? Agatha represents her 'obstacles,' after all. Maybe so—Lilia's literal obstacle at this stage ends up being the Salem Seven, who merely want Agatha. Yet she chooses to stay behind to save a woman who probably wouldn't do the same for her. And the reason is—for her, Agatha is the Three of Swords. She looks at her and sees Heartbreak, (Rio) Sorrow, (Evanora) Grief (Nicholas). And Lilia is willing to forgive her—to sacrifice herself for her—even if the universe itself doesn't think she deserves it. This is different from how Agatha views herself, or even how Billy views her, since he initially pulls out the Chariot. One might say it's a random choice, but the Chariot is described as representing “determination, success, and control.” It's about overcoming challenges and gaining victory through maintaining control of your surroundings—which, I argue, embodies Agatha pretty well. So The Three of Swords is who Agatha is to Lilia. She doesn't hate her, or see her as a force to be reckoned with. She pities her. After all, the Queen of Cups is defined by her empathy.

Then, of course, Jen. Jen is Lilia's path ahead. Not only because she has a brilliant future of her own ahead of her in the mcu, now with her powers unbound. Because Lilia senses all the trapped light and bound power that Jen carries—“The High Priestess: Immense spiritual power, unable or unwilling to use it--” but also because Jen, the survivor, is the one who will carry on Lilia's memory. All those centuries, Lilia had been alone—there was no 'path ahead.' Everything was a jumbled mess, her “path” was non-linear and twisty. And Jen, after centuries of solitude, was her light in the dark, guiding her through the dark tunnels, as her mind wandered through her timeline searching for answers. Jen was the only person in centuries who bothered to see her as something more, to acknowledge her strength, and to help her fill in the gaps as best as she could. And so Lilia sees so much hope in Jennifer—who won't stop becoming better and better. Because for Jen, the Queen of Cups is her path behind. Wound suffered, lessons learned. “I couldn't save Lilia, I didn't even try to save Alice, I'll be damned if I let you two idiots die.”

Finally, Death, Rio. Well—it's obvious. In tarot, death isn't literal. It's mist often symbolic. Transformation, end of a cycle, new beginnings. Which is why we never see Lilia's corpse, and we never see Rio collect her. Because unlike Alice, Lilia went into the afterlife willingly. And for her, it was a beautiful release. After years of running out of time—she got to start anew—knowing that this time, she managed to save her coven. (I'd also like to think that the reason we don't see Rio collect Sharon is because it was a peaceful death—joining Mr. Davis instead of suffering further. Whereas Alice finally had something to live for, but I digress. I've already made my posts about Alice.)

I think that this is all relatively obvious—but I genuinely can't stop thinking about Lilia and her dynamics with the rest of the coven.

#agatha all along #lilia calderu #in lilia we trust #patti lupone #agatha harkness #billy maximoff #alice wu gulliver #jennifer kale #rio vidal #lilia calderu x jennifer kale #lilia calderu & jennifer kale #lilia calderu & agatha harkness #lilia calderu & billy maximoff #lilia calderu & alice wu gulliver #lilia calderu & rio vidal #lilia's leggings #agatha all along analysis

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whoopsyeahokay · 10 months ago

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October Sun

summary: your mother had warned you. Don't let them know, she'd said, her nails digging angry crescents into the flesh of your upper arms, eyes wild and imploring, don't let them know you can see. you'd listened, all these years, you'd lived your life by that rule. until you couldn't.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER SUN pt.1

Like most things, it started with a look.

A boy. A girl. A crowded place; a friend talking—their voice muted as if heard through a motel wall. Time slows. People filter in and out of the space between, chatting, laughing, in frame just long enough to emphasize the weight behind something that, in any other context, would be utterly unimportant.

Simon had urged you outside at lunch, pulled you away from your table, tone frayed in desperation as he interrogated you about things you're certain you'd made seem the expression of a morbidly quirky imagination.

"Well," He said, like jabbing the eraser-end of a pencil into your sternum, "Can you?"

You hesitated, gaze lifting away from his to skirt the middle-distance behind him.

And then—

It happened molasses-slow. Your eyes caught his; lingered a beat too long to be played off as anything other than what it was. Acknowledgment.

Those sweet-sultry cow eyes widened a fraction.

Oh no.

Then time rushed back in and snapped into the correct rhythm. You didn't have a chance to process what had just happened because Simon sighed with the weight of the world, grabbing fistfuls of his hair and pulling. Quickly, you arranged your expression into something slightly put-off.

"Si, what are you talking about?"

Simon groaned and took a few steps back then forward again. He reminded you of a caged animal being forced to perform. Lately, his mannerisms had been erratic, a little unhinged. You'd caught him talking to himself a couple of times, in classrooms or the cafeteria. The last couple of days he'd been glued to his phone, taking spontaneous calls that he'd never received before. Initially, you'd assumed he was in touch with Maddie; the only one she'd trusted enough to keep in the loop. However, the more you'd observed, the more you'd doubted the assumption.

You'd watched him unravel from a distance, of course. Nicole had turned inward, Simon was bursting at the seams, and you, as the casual friend with a life separate to theirs, stayed away out of a sense of insecurity.

You and Maddie hadn't been as close as she and Simon and Nicole. You shared interests in the macabre and spooky, but that's where it ended. Event Buddies who became familiar through exposure, lacking that profound connection that would give you a reason to call about something other than the next horror film release date.

You didn't feel right about asking to share their grief. It felt intrusive.

Simon paced the length of the bus shelter once more before stopping in front of you. He was clearly nervous, frustrated, avoiding your gaze for a second while he collected his thoughts.

Finally, he took a deep breath, glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot, and said, low and secret, "You talked about the ghosts here—" You folded your arms and tilted your head in what you hoped came across as confused. "—Last year," Simon grabbed your arm and pulled you in closer when a group of younger girls walked by, "Last year, you told us about the crush you had on your mom's dead boyfriend, remember? The guy who died during the '83 homecoming game?"

"They never dated." You corrected, fighting the urge to chew your lip. A giveaway that you were about to choose your words very carefully. "But, look, Simon, I talked about that stuff because I thought it was fun. Not because I can commune with the dead."

"But your mom—"

"Is a fraud and you know it." Then you frowned, genuinely intrigued, "What's going on?"

Simon shot you a dazed look, "Huh?"

"Why are you suddenly into this Sixth Sense shit? You've never believed in it before. A stance you've made very clear you take." Every time you joked about reaching out to the Other Side, Simon would scoff and roast you endlessly. Something that you found endearing. Like a prickly inside joke. It was your thing.

Suddenly, Simon got that look on his face, the one he got in class when your teachers outlined your homework. As if he were listening to someone. Except there was no one else close enough to hear.

The silence stretched into a thin static between you until, at last, Simon said, "Never mind." He sounded equal parts defeated and aggravated.

Taking a cautious step forward, you placed a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry about Maddie, Si, I—" Have no idea how to put into words how fucked up it all is, "—I wish there was something, anything, I could do to help."

Simon pressed his lips together and nodded. From the corner of your eye, you saw a figure approaching the bus shelter. Tall, broad, donning the unmistakable colors of the Split River Bandits, née Devils. You had to get out of there before you irrevocably fucked up and found yourself at the center of what your mother warned you would be a swarm.

"Look," You dropped your hand to Simon's, squeezing supportively. You might not have been able to tell the whole truth but you could try to offer some comfort. Whether or not he believed you was up to him. "Maddie's okay, Simon. Wherever she is. Whatever happened to her..." You paused, considering your next words, "She can't be so far gone that we won't get her back."

You said it with all the conviction you had in you, believed it to your core.

You'd seen the beatnik with her lollipops, the shy boy with the glasses; you'd seen the young man in the outdated suit, and the modest, Sally Olsson lookalike, and the girl with the daydream eyes. You'd seen the myspace emo punk, the lanky autoshop geek, the dark-skinned disco queen; the marching band, and the theater kid...and him. The charming, high-on-life football star currently stood outside the bus shelter, his hands cupped around his eyes as he peeked through the glass against the glare of the sun.

You hadn't seen Maddie. Not a glimmer or a shadow or the impression that she'd been and gone. Nothing. And you'd done your due diligence as soon as you'd heard about the blood in the boiler room. You'd scoured the town after dark, before school, whenever you could get away without raising suspicion. Her old haunts and favorite places had been empty.

Minus a couple of exceptions, but they hadn't been Maddie, so you didn't see the harm in continuing to keep the truth from Simon.

"Yeah." Simon said. He didn't sound convinced. "Thanks. For that."

You deflated, released his hand with an affirming squeeze, and made your excuse, "I gotta get ready for next period."

He didn't meet your eyes, simply pulled his phone out and put it to his ear. "See you later." The smile he gave you was tight, quick, insincere.

Taking that as your cue to leave, you turned and exited the bus shelter, tall dark 'n' handsome keeping pace as you made your way back into the school, his gaze a warm weight on the side of your face.

All you had to do was pretend he wasn't there. You'd done it countless times in the past, were well-versed in how to cover your mistakes.

You stopped briefly, reached out to open the door, and in that second, you felt a tingle up your spine and the closeness of a body behind you. His voice, a gentle rumble, spoke directly into your ear, the parody of soft breath tickling the hairs on your neck.

"I know you can see me."

You forced yourself not to react, perhaps stood a second too long before yanking the door open and marching inside, but you kept your eyes forward, and relaxed your jaw and shoulders. To the students milling about the hall, you were the picture of normal.

"Do what you want but I'm not going anywhere until you admit it." He said lightly, a step behind you as you maneuvered toward your locker.

Once again, you had to stop, twisting in the combination to open your lock. You fumbled, missing a number, had to start again. He leaned his shoulder against the locker beside yours, watched you through his lashes, a smirk pulling one side of his mouth upward.

You'd always been attracted to him. Had to suppress the urge to stare at him when he appeared in the same classroom or hallway you happened to be in. Having him interact with you, intentionally, made your heart quicken and the ability to think critically dissolve.

Oh God, not again...

Your brain fired a thousand synapses in every direction as you willed yourself to hurry before you accidentally did something stupid; steadied your hand to input the combination correctly. You tugged the lock. It stayed stubbornly latched. And then he leaned in, too close, the tip of his nose practically grazing your temple.

"You missed the 3."

The air was syrupy thick, fuzzy. In an effort to concentrate, you closed your eyes, repeating a mantra your mother had taught you to center yourself.

You sensed his body shift, tilted further toward you like a bracket, then the sensation of blunt nails traveling up up up your back, catching in the material of your shirt as if the touch were real. Goosebumps erupted over your arms, your breath hitched, and you found your head slanting in his direction.

Fuck. You needed to—BANG—Jesus Christ!

Your eyes snapped open at the abrupt noise, your friend cackling wickedly as she took in your shock.

"Hey, silly." Mathilda Grace—of The Split River Graces, not that she'd ever say it like that—grinned proudly at the reaction she'd gotten out of you. "You ready to fail this test with me?"

You could still feel him hovering, but it seemed he'd put an appropriate amount of distance between you. Shaking your head to clear the last of the muzziness from a moment ago, you plastered on your most natural smile and responded, "Let's go disappoint our parents."

You managed to undo the lock and grab the right textbooks, transferring what you didn't need from your bag into your locker while Mathilda regaled you with what you'd missed after Simon had dragged you outside.

"What did he want, anyway?" Mathilda asked, more concerned than curious.

"To talk about Maddie." You replied as close to the truth as you dared. It had the added benefit of making Mathilda feel awkward enough to change the subject immediately.

"K, c'mon, bell's about to go and I need to grab my book, too."

Shutting and locking your locker, you chanced a sideways glance and were relieved to find that it was just you and Mathilda and the regular stream of other alive-and-well students making their way to their next class.

Still, as you and Mathilda walked toward Ms. Fields' class, you felt the tingle of his gaze on the back of your neck.

The next couple of days would be white-knuckle hard, but you'd dealt with it before and could do it again. Had to do it again.

What you didn't anticipate—and probably should've, given what you knew about him—was Wally Clark's steadfast determination and his refusal to let sleeping dogs lie for a second time.

💀___________________________

PART TWO

also available on AO3!

MASTERLIST

#Milo Manheim #Wally Clark #Wally Clark x Reader #fem!reader #Wally Clark smut #Wally Clark fanfiction #Milo Manheim fanfiction #School Spirits #October Sun

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ramblings-of-a-chaotic-neutral · 3 months ago

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Hello everyone! I'm back with another Merlin au! This one is a horror-themed au for spooky season! Enjoy!

This au is Inspired by the story of King Pedro I of Portugal and Ines de Castro (which is a heartbreaking story that deserves to have more people talking about it), and it's set in a world where Merlin and Arthur are already together in season 3. After a magic reveal gone wrong, Merlin's magic was revealed while Uther was still alive, leading to Uther ordering Merlin's execution while Arthur was away on a hunting trip. When Arthur returns, he's met with the news of Merin's death, but he refuses to believe such horrible news until he rushes into Gaius's chambers, screaming for Merlin, only to find Gaius and Gwen sobbing over Merlin's body.

Arthur is overcome by grief and, after a few hours sitting in Gaius's chambers staring at Merlin's unnaturally still form with tears streaming down his face, Arthur marches off to face his father, to make him pay for his crimes. Uther is, of course, furious over Arthur getting so worked up over a treacherous sorcerer, but Arthur fights him like a madman, fueled by grief and rage.

In the end, Arthur wins the duel, and while the shocked lords and knights watching the whole ordeal were expecting Arthur to run his father through with is blade, Arthur does something that no one expects. He uses his blade to carve open Uther's chest, cutting out his heart, saying that Uther had been so heartless as to take Arthur's love from him, this ought to be his fate.

While the lords and knights were all shocked and horrified at the display, there was little they could do besides acknowledge the prince as their new ruler. Within a couple days, Uther's funeral and Arthur's coronation were organized, but Arthur still felt numb, even as the crown was placed on his head. He could almost feel the empty consort's throne next to him, where Merlin was always supposed to be, mocking him viciously.

But then, an idea formed in Arthur's not-quite-sane-anymore mind. Merlin had always deserved to sit at his side, to be honored as any consort to a king should be. Arthur had to see this through, to ensure that Merlin received the honors that he was denied during life.

Arthur ordered the servants to, under Gaius's supervision, collect Merlin's body, dress him in royal robes, and have him carried to the throne room. There was no way to make any of this right again, no way to make Arthur feel whole once more, but there was a way to make sure that Merlin's memory and all that he meant to Arthur lived on.

When the doors to the throne room finally opened, shocked and horrified gasps rose up from the assembled court at the sight that awaited them. There, being carried in on a stone slab, lay Merlin's pale, prone body, dressed in royal finery from Arthur's own wardrobe. His colorless pallor against the rich red robes created a striking and distinctly disturbing contrast, which was only heightened by the colorful jewelry that accompanied the outfit.

Arthur imagined what a magnificent sight Merlin would have made if he were alive and yearned for such a vision with all of his heart. But the reality of the situation was as grim as the expressions of the knights carrying Merlin's body. Merlin was gone, taking Arthur heart and all of his joy with him, and all that was left for Arthur to feel was somber determination to make at least one thing right: Merlin would be honored and remembered as a king.

The crowd's shocked whispering didn't cease as the procession passed them and made its way towards the thrones, reverently placing the slab in front of the steps to the throne, but they were shocked into silence as Arthur picked up Merlin's body and cradled him gently before carrying him over to the consort's throne and placing him on it with the greatest care.

The court was silenced at the disturbing sight of a limp body sitting in the queen's throne, but horrified gasps shot up from the crowd as the king suddenly turned around to face them, his eyes bloodshot and glaring at them all.

"You, all of you, stood by and let my father do this! And now, you will show your respect to the man you had forsaken. Merlin was everything to me, and I never had any intention to rule without him by my side. Living or dead, if I am king, then so is he."

Arthur slowly made his way back to his own throne and sat down, a picture of royal power. His eyes darted over to Merlin for a second, before shifting back over the crowd. Still, was it just Arthur's desperate imagination, or was there now a slight flush in Merlin's skin that wasn't there earlier?

"Just as you all knelt before me and took an oath of fealty, you will do the same for him. You will give him all of the honor he deserved in life."

At first, the lords in attendance just looked at him in utter disbelief, but the fierce glare Arthur sent them confirmed that the king was being entirely serious. Slowly, each of the lords knelt before the consort's throne, not daring to look up at the disturbing sight before them, and recited their oaths of fealty, feeling the king's burning gaze on them all the while.

Finally, after all of the lords had taken their oaths, a pale Geoffrey presented Arthur with the consort's crown, a treasure that had not been seen by anyone since Ygraine's passing. Arthur gingerly lifted the crown and made his way over to Merlin.

As he stepped closer, Arthur wanted to weep. Perhaps it was some cruel trick his mind was playing on him, put it looked like Merlin's color had returned to him, making him appear like he was only sleeping, like he would wake up and everything would be fine again.

Taking a steadying breath to hold his tears at bay, Arthur finally stepped right in front of Merlin, holding the crown over his motionless head. It wasn't fair, Arthur decided. It wasn't fair that Arthur had finally become king, was finally in a place where he could openly profess his love for Merlin, but Merlin wasn't here by his side to see it!

Still, he could let everyone else see his love for Merlin. Slowly, he lowered the crown onto Merlin's head, letting rest on his limp head. Arthur took a shaking step back, trembling with rage and grief as he looked at Merlin, bedecked in royal robes and wearing the crown that Arthur had always longest to give him. Arthur's own mind still mocked him, making Merlin look almost alive again, like he was only sleeping, when Arthur when that Merlin was gone, and all that was left of him was this pale, empty shell and a terrible hollowness in Arthur's chest where his heart was supposed to be.

Arthur tenderly gasped Merlin's chin, tilting his head up to face him. This was goodbye, Arthur knew it. After this, Merlin would be laid to rest with all the honors of a king, and Arthur would be left ruling over his kingdom alone and heartbroken for the rest of his days. With tears flowing freely down his face, Arthur leaned down and pressed a kiss onto Merlin's lips. Once again, Arthur's mind took pity on him, as he could swear that Merlin's lips were warm with life under his own.

Arthur drew back, gazing at his love's face for what might be the last time, attempting to commit every minute detail to memory, such that Merlin's likeness would never fade from his mind even as the years went by. As Arthur eyes scanned over Merlin's face, however, there was one thing that struck him as odd before his mind caught up to what he was seeing and his heart, which had felt cold and frozen fir days, started beating at a frantic rhythm.

Because Merlin's eyes were open.

(Yes, Merlin was immortal the whole time, but his magic was just taking a while to heal him lol!)

And that's all for now! I hope you all enjoyed this au! Let me know if you'd like to see a continuation!

And, as always, thank you for reading through my ramblings! :D

#merlin #bbc merlin #merlin bbc #merlin au #arthur pendragon #merthur #merlin prompts

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ghcstao3 · 1 year ago

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Johnny likes art. Likes looking at it, likes creating it, likes learning about it. He’d always known he’d end up in something involving it at the end of everything, and that he does.

For a few years now, Johnny has worked as an art restorer. Primarily fixing up paintings, it’s pretty close to ideal work—he gets to study all sorts of new styles, and bring pieces back to life so they can be admired again, as they were always meant to be.

The only downside is that it’s freelance work.

At the very least, gone are the days where Johnny had to make a real effort to establish himself—but just because he gets better jobs now, doesn’t mean he gets better supervisors.

His current employer is a great example of this.

Johnny had been hired by a man named Ghost, real name unknown, to revamp a private collection of his for an absurd amount of money. Johnny would be an idiot not to accept—even when part of the terms included working onsite and with provided tools in order to get everything done.

The house—manor, more like—is beautiful, nearly as stunning as the eclectic collection or artwork Johnny is meant to repair itself. He’s greeted by a man going by the name of John Price, supposedly a dear friend of Ghost’s, here to meet Johnny since his employer wouldn’t be home for another day yet. He’s kind, not strange like Johnny thought anyone involved with this might be, and he introduces Johnny to the few pieces he’d be working with.

It’s… intriguing, to say the least. Because the pieces come from different time periods, but all look as if in the same state of decay. It’s bizarre, Johnny thinks, because all other artwork in the home is pristinely kept.

That isn’t to say he’s not grateful for this opportunity, of course.

John makes good conversation until he ultimately leaves Johnny to his own devices. First day progress is well along, and by the time Johnny is seen out, he’s feeling optimistic about this job.

Then he meets Ghost.

It’s like the atmosphere of the manor has entirely shifted around the man and his broad, imposing figure. Even eyes that share the warmth of coffee pierce through Johnny, and Johnny isn’t sure what to think of the mask that obscures most of the man’s face otherwise. His voice, low and gravelly, rumbles through Johnny as he makes inquiries about the previous day, about Johnny’s process, then dismisses him to continue his restoration.

Even though Johnny doesn’t see him again until the end of his work day, he feels like he’s being watched all the while.

The third and fourth days are the same. The fifth, Ghost surprises Johnny by sitting in the room for part of the day, though he offers no commentary between incoherent grunts and what Johnny hopes to be hums of approval.

The sixth day, Ghost asks, “What do you think happened to the artist?”

Of course, there’s no signature, so even if it was by an artist Johnny knew of, there’d be no indication.

But he considers the question anyway. Considers the painting, it’s clear inspiration in impressionism, it’s pale colours and light, flowy strokes. And yet, it seems contradictory to the style—the scene within is almost… angry, sorrowful. Like grief. Its problem had been a tear in the canvas and fading paint, nothing overly difficult or unsurprising for Johnny.

So he shrugs. He doesn’t look back at Ghost, maybe afraid of that gaze, of gauging any reaction.

“Hard to say,“ Johnny admits. “A painting doesn’t tell a whole story about its inspiration, let alone its artist. And not knowing any of the artist’s other work, or when it began and ended—it’s hard to say.”

Johnny can feel Ghost looming over him. He tries not to shrink in on himself too much, but it’s almost impossibly.

For a long moment, Ghost doesn’t speak. He barely acknowledges Johnny’s response, and Johnny wonders if he’d ever get one.

If he had said the right thing.

“Hm,” Ghost finally decides. Johnny can feel his presence straighten, putting distance between them. He says, “I’ll give you a hint.”

Johnny offers a slight nod, eyes fixed on the painting before him. He still doesn’t dare turn back. “I’m always happy to learn.”

“This artwork, everything I’ve hired you to restore,” Ghost says, “it’s all from the same man.”

Immediately, Johnny frowns. His gaze darts across the piece and the collection of others he’s meant to look at, all of completely varying styles and forms, before whirling around to ask something, anything of Ghost’s statement—but he discovers Ghost to have already left.

Well, Johnny supposes with defeat.

He doesn’t know if he should let himself become curious.

(part 2)

#um um um maybe a second part soon #(this is immortal ghost btw)#simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #soapghost #ghostsoap #ghost x soap #ghoap #alternate universe #writing

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oidheadh-con-culainn · 1 year ago

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"Grief is closely allied with anger. They are expressed with similar sounds: moans, groans, shouts, and screams. Like anger, grief responds to a terrible loss or terrible harm done — but without any sense of the possibility of reparation. Anger turns the pain outward, against others; grief turns it inward, to the self. People subsumed by rage try to replicate the wrongs they have suffered by hurting others. Those consumed by grief long to turn their own bodies into that of the dead loved one, by lying down in the ground, cutting the hair, scratching the face, and rolling in the dust. The enraged want to humiliate, hurt, or kill; the grief-stricken want to be dead and to inhabit the perspective of the dead.

But grief is different from anger, because it can be expressed and experienced collectively. Through the funeral rites and games for the dead Patroclus in Book 23, Achilles shares his loss with other Greek warriors, just as the Trojans in Book 24 are able to share their grief at the death of Hector. Even enemies, like Priam and Achilles, can share a moment of grief. Anger drives communities apart; grief brings them together, over a shared acknowledgment of irredeemable loss."

Emily Wilson's Introduction to The Iliad, p. xliii

#emily wilson #the iliad #grief #anger

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lizzy06 · 6 months ago

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Jujutsu Kaisen Fanfic Recs!!(AO3)Pt.1

Main Masterlist

[For part 2 -> Pt.2]

The Blind Date Show by NatoriousJANExo (Humour, Blind dates) Each chapter has a different blind date which they shoot in a studio.{ALL CAN BE READ STANDALONE}

No Pairing(The fic that nourishes/ destroys your soul)

The Burden Of Grief by Redwarrior2003 (oneshot, angst, family feels) Kong shiu gives megumi a clarity to his past.. [COMPLETED] Animals of regret by tteokcrossing (oneshot, toji tries to be a good parent) Toji lives. Neither teaching nor parenting are his strong suits, but he ends up stuck with both. [COMPLETED] Piano Joint by KatInnRotato (oneshot, Domestic fluff, humour) When Toji told Gojo his last wish instead of killing him, Gojo asked him to 'take responsibility' ...so now Toji's domestic life began. [COMPLETED] Father of Mine by oceansgrey (fluff, humour, toji tries to be a good parent)- Toji upon being left by his now ex-wife is stuck taking care of Megumi and Tsumiki and he also ends up getting the job of combat specialist at jujutsu tech [ONGOING] Blackout by Xhoi (Mystery, Toji as shikigami)- In an attempt to improve himself after his fight with sukuna, megumi summons a shikigami he has never seen before. It doesn't listen to him and acts on his own. Also he doesn't why his teacher is so scared and alert. [ONGOING] End of Beginning by may_aar (No curse au, Uncle sukuna, hurt/comfort)After the sudden passing of his brother and his wife whom sukuna hasn't met in 13 yrs, he has to take guardianship of his nephew.{This is so good!!} [ONGOING] Out of the Night That Covers Me by rainyconcrete (Angst, Hurt/comfort) An ancient necromancer resurrects Toji and Megumi is to acknowledge the loss of family along the way. [ONGOING] Terminal by jules(talefeathers) (oneshot, Angst, Hurt/comfort, death) Megumi Reunites with his family in after life. [COMPLETED] Yuji's adventure with his big brother Sukuna by semisEmi - sukuna did not know he has a brother until he turned 26... with the help of his friends he traverse through his new life.[ONGOING] In Another Life by Yunaminayuna (collection of oneshots, fluff and humour) collection of Fushiguro family drabbles and short fics [COMPLETED] Three times Toji apologizes to his Son by calmthyself (Domestic fluff, Hurt/comfort)And the one time Megumi apologizes to his dad.[ONGOING] The Problem with Ms.Itadori by PsychaoticButterscotch (Alternate au, toji trying to be a good parent, fushi mama lives) Yuuji's mother , she's weird - But Megumi doesn't say anything about it, Mama always said to not say anything at all if it's something not nice. [ONGOING]

Ryoumen Sukuna x Reader

Flowers for u- 1.Dandelion 2.Sunflowers by yuukiqwq(temporary unrequited love, love confession) 1.Dandelion- His heart beats only for you while yours beats for someone else, so he made a wish on a dandelion, hoping it would come true. 2.Sunflower- He only has eyes for you so why won't you look his way [COMPLETED] Not Many women by Lemon_Pepper_Fox (modern au, smut) you have a crush on yuji but you really like his brother sukuna. [COMPLETED] Blooming Cactus by poeeee(fluff, humour, idiots in love) Transferring schools in the middle of the year is never easy and then you are stuck with an uncooperative partner for history project. [ONGOING] Yuji's Caretaker | Sukuna by Sukunasuka (slowburn, family fluff) You are a new kindergarten teacher who loves your job. One of your new students, yuji, gets in trouble frequently forcing you to call in his caretaker quite often who also happens to be your neighbor. [ONGOING] With you, I Hurt. With you, I Love by VinVictory (High shool au, fluff) You are busy taking care of an injured Yuji as his caretaker and his older brother is busy falling in love with you. [ONGOING] Intrusive Thoughts | Sukuna/Reader by Visaliar (High school au , stalking, psychology) After becoming a forfeit to someone's bet, y/n is left heart broken. To add to her troubles, she has a mysterious stalker who daily send pictures he takes of her secretly. [ONGOING]

Gojo Satoru x Reader

Fair game by yemyem (Angst, Friends with benefits, Jealousy, Fake dating) Gojo is kind of your boyfriend but he fucks other girls too as he doesn't want anything serious so geto offers to help u out...that's fine..right? [ONGOING] Hello Again by MixyX21 () You are the new staff at jujutsu tech and one of your coworkers is Gojo Satoru, you ex fiancé who left you on your wedding day 10 years ago. [COMPLETED]

Gojo Satoru x Leiri Shoko

let us stand a chance by keouil (oneshot, fluff) gojo and shoko are invited to megumi's pta meeting.[COMPLETED] Close isn't enough by randsomprose (oneshot, getting together, making out) shoko confronts satoru about his stupid 'nobody will ever need to be alone again' comment before the fight with sukuna. [COMPLETED] To Say the Least This Is ... by starrybride (oneshot, slice of life, fluff) Shoko comes home a little too late for Satoru's liking. [COMPLETED] It’s past 3AM (I see you again) by moonlightsonata(mintedcaffeine) (oneshot, angst, hurt comfort) Both shoko and satoru can't sleep so they spend the night together. [COMPLETED] Sunny with a chance(with Gojo) by tiressian(fluff and humour, tooth rooting) Satoru comes back again.[COMPLETED] six step backwards by dickwackerlao (Time travel fix-it, sugushoko and satosugu on side, angst, fluff and humour) Shoko goes back in time and makes things different. [COMPLETED] Tale as old as time by starrybride(old japan, werewolf shoko) Japan is ruled over by three clans, descended from the gods, populated by humans and supernatural creatures. When one of those ruling clans kills Shoko's childhood friend, she heads to Kyoto to seek vengeance on the clan that killed him. Along the way she receives help in her quest from an unlikely source. [ONGOING] The Infinity Between Us by OddLittleSpider(Slice of life, Friends to lovers, slowburn) Gojo asks shoko to marry him, what exactly are his intentions? [ONGOING] Companion Proposal by jokerxpanther (Friend to lovers, slowburn, Domestic Fluff) Gojo asks shoko to marry him. [ONGOING] My Best Friend? by Kate_Loves_S4toshoko (friend to lovers, gojo is an idiot) [ONGOING] i hold the longing of the winter in my hand by Anonymous (friends to lovers, mutual pinning) Shoko saves satoru's life at the cost of her soul [ONGOING] COLLECTION: satoshoko mixtape by tiressian- standalone satoshoko stories in one place for our brainrot

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unabashedlyfuriousenthusiast · 4 months ago

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Catastrophic Depression: Broken People in a Broken System

Last week, I shared the heartbreaking news of my friend Christine’s passing. She was a vibrant soul, full of love. I had been living in a state of shock and disbelief since learning of her untimely death. Days after writing the blog post, per the plan I had mentioned in it, I drove by Christine’s house shortly before sunset. The fading light filled my heart with a bittersweet sense of nostalgia…

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jolalibrary · 6 months ago

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v. if you cling on, i will too

joel miller x f!reader | chapter five of honey stained hands

chapter summary: things take time to heal, but will you be the same you when you do?

wordcount: 3.5k warnings: typical canon-angst/grief. angst. injury/comfort recovery. joel calls reader honey (because she bakes). smutty? this pair are together but won't admit it. mentions of joels attempt on himself but minimal, lots of healing angst. but it's me so the ending is... nice. an: we should all thank je te laisserai des mots for the final chapter to this series! and also @thetriumphantpanda who i said "hey, can i ask a favour" and then dumped this on her without her prior knowledge.

The grip of winter slowly loosens, the world beginning to thaw as your wounds heal.

Green begins protruding where there had only been white, shooting up hope, a silent promise of renewal etched into every bud and leaf.

Joel supposes the promise came true.

By the time the first flowers emerge in a riot of colours, their vibrant hues a stark contrast against the lingering remnants of frost, he’d asked if you wished to move in. To have your things more officially with his. Less a cluster of things you’d “take back the next time you do” and more a permanent place for them to collect.

Saves you havin’ to walk back and forth.

Joel is thankful you smiled at the kitchen table and said yes.

Because it had been convenient, easy, to have you here with him when the two of you had arrived back. When your wounds were scarlet and tacky, bruises convulsing and growing under your skin until it made you hiss and whine at each movement. Then, there were the bones you feigned weren’t broken, in the same way you pretended your soul wasn’t fragmented.

Then, there was the simple fact you could barely dismount from your horse as a worried crowd approached, news of your missing nature now resolved.

You clung to him as you shied away from questionable eyes and paused glances. Horror sketched into the faces, blanketing over earlier panic—faces that had only shown you prior kindness. Because the monster you kept at bay until you were outside of the walls, was tired, depleted and very much on parade as Joel helped you down from the horse and the others, who had come to help retrieve them both, stood back to let the audience gawk.

If it stung, you never showed it. Holding him tight, gripping. Using all of your left strength to remain upright and desperately rooted to him.

You are stubborn in that way, and in the way you tipped up your chin, daring them to see what had been inflicted for the sake of their survival.

Good girl he had almost whispered into your ear.

He saved whispering that for over a week when you’d clung different to him, when your eye was no longer swollen shut and you begged to feel him—feel something other than hands that weren’t his.

Those two words ran from his tongue like they’d been swallowed back for too long. Pressing to your skin wherever possible, attempting to heal what he couldn’t understand, see or feel.

Things flower in the spring. The sun rises and lingers for longer before darkness crests over the world briefly.

Flowers shift towards the sunlight, laughter runs along the streets; coats are hidden away, with thinner layers covering bodies and trade shifts from boots to things that are easier to enjoy the warmer weather in.

You don’t bloom though.

Something altered in you, forever cracked. A thing that kept you from sleeping and dreaming when your wounds looked angry and raw; the cracks not healing, even incorrectly, when your skin stitched itself together.

It doesn’t ease when you stop hissing as you descend the stairs, when you’re able to walk for longer than a minute before pausing for a break. It only appears to lessen when you visit the bees. You avoid the other animals, though. Weighing it up, acknowledging with your head bowed that the strength isn’t there. Apologising in heavy whispers to Maria, to yourself, to the air and the cold and the breeze.

He waits for you to bake, to begin rolling things in a bowl and allowing the house to smell like yours used to. It doesn’t come. Not even when he returns from patrol and finds you in a similar state to when he left you.

Your monster is more than wounded, so close to dead that he struggles to work out how to heal it.

Joel doesn’t ask, and you don’t tell.

He could assume, formulate a story; he could create the pieces of the puzzle that were missing.

Instead, he leaves it alone. Rather wishing to live with the unknown than what he feels he’d have to pry from your clenched fists.

“You tried talkin’ to her brother?”

“Nothin’ to talk about.”

Because Tommy doesn’t know that the forest and cabin know all the secrets, the rest withered and shaved down inside of you. Doesn’t understand what it is that remains in a person who temporarily hangs between the living and the dead.

The only time he heard you reference it, what happened out there, was when he overheard you with Ellie. Honey-yellow light splayed across the landing, his feet pausing near the creakier floorboards as Ellie’s voice rang out in the quiet, in the heavy air that was desperate to splinter or slither away.

“You survived.”

He likes to imagine your hand sliding into hers, that you nodded, before you realised the meaning of the girl’s words. Maybe your head snapped up, stared into her younger eyes and hunted for the thing that neither of them should have had to suffer through.

“We both did, Ellie,” he heard you say, and his hand goes to the wall for leverage, for stability. “We survived… because we’re stronger than them.”

Then, he breathes out. A heavy one, a puff. An exclamation that loosens the knot around his heart—because it’s that or let the tears burn his eyes. Hand on the wall of the place that now feels home, steadying himself on the stairs that the two of you climb each night before you slide into the bed you now call yours.

Before you call him yours, mouth wrapping around the head of him, taking more of him than he can wrap his head around down your throat. M-i-n-e you stain against his cock, swirl it with your tongue until pulls you from him, burying the same word inside of you, making you arch as the word shifts into something else.

Us.

In the summer, you laugh.

A sound you’ve left escape a handful of times, but nothing like this. Head thrown back, neck elongated—eyes shimmering with mischief and sarcasm and all the other things he noticed in you.

He wonders if you’re better. If things are better.

Ellie has made friends, informs him over breakfast that she’ll be here, there or anywhere, and he just hides a smile behind his mug. Nods, agrees. Asks what time he’ll expect her as he internally grumbles about teenagers. Then, you descend the stairs, half-dressed in you and half-dressed in him, a picture, a sight for the sorest of eyes.

Your kisses have grown softer in the day, than just at night—almost reminiscent of the ones he received before you left that day.

“You still like shortbread, Miller?”

He snorts, elbow on the table that needs tightening, watching you fold your arms—cockiness sewn into your mannerism, in the way you sit. “That what we callin’ between your legs, honey.”

“After last night, y’can call her whatever you goddamn please.”

He snorts, briefly. Instead choosing to hear the lilt of your laugh, watching as it paints sunshine around the room. As it trickles out and flutters, before chair legs scream against floorboards and you’re by his side, palm on his jaw, on the wiry hair that grows in odd ways and leaves patches that never fill.

“Can you walk with me to see the animals?”

He does.

A gut instinct he ignores as your fingers slot themselves in his, tight, holding him as you don’t ask for a breather, don’t sound ragged or out of breath. Only letting go where you near the pen, when your voice becomes that high-pitched tone he remembers briefly—akin to a parent speaking to a baby.

Joel recognises it before you do. Counts, studies—looks for the familiar pattern on the one sheep that sticks out like a sore thumb. He swallows, dread filling his chest, making his stomach bubble and knot.

You look at him.

Sadness blended with hysteria, alarm. Body over the fence, running with awkwardness from healing wrong, until you slow at the side of the place where the animals sleep.

Roscoe on his side, cold, still. Gone.

His heart, whatever remains left of it, breaks when he sees you go to your knees. Tentative shaky hand brushing over sheepskin, before your body rocks, tremors, and you burst.

It’s more than mourning an animal that you’ve cared for. It’s more than mourning itself.

So, he steps back and stands on the other side of the barn door as he listens to the sobs, the cries, the wails and incoherent ramblings. All things that remind him of a loss he never sits too much with. A loss that made a barrel press to his forehead and made him feel like a hole had been left in him forever—one in his chest, not even close to where he’d tried to pull the trigger.

He wonders if you’ll laugh again.

Joel also worries he’s lost you again.

The sun is setting when he returns from patrol, the air sweet when he opens the door—it creaks, protesting against him, and he wonders, briefly if he’s entered the wrong place.

His boots thudding, coat hanging—ache blooming behind his bones.

But it’s all righted when he sees a mixing bowl, egg shells and a pot of honey. In the mess, a plate. Stacked high, and then you.

Different from the person who used to bake in your kitchen, but also different from the person he’d left this morning, tangled in sheets. The one who looked lost, and now appears more found than he’s known in months.

“Hello, stranger.”

Even the sound of you is familiar. That tone, all flirtatious and confident, parcelled in someone who grins as he moves closer.

“Ellie’s out—she stole one, though. So, she’s eaten.”

He snorts. “Just us then?”

Nodding, undoing your apron, sliding it from over your head as you fold it onto his kitchen counter and he keeps approaching. Hand scratching at his patchy beard, watching as you tilt your head, and let your lips slide into your cheek.

You’re back, here—existing.

It’s different, the attraction that thrums in his bones. It had begun as a need, primal, unexplainable, before it shifted, changed, and became something foreign yet oddly familiar, and now it was just desire, longing.

And you kiss him hard as though acknowledging it. Pressing yourself as firmly as you can, smothering yourself to him as though attempting to merge with him. Your tongue licking behind his teeth as you moan, as you equally long, lust and need.

You trail him with your palms, across his chest, shoulders and neck. Trailing them down his back, kneading out aches you haven’t heard him complain about yet, before you’re palming him over his jeans, whimpering at the feel of him hard and desperate.

“Like how you want me, Miller.”

“Like how you take me, honey,” he groans, runs his nose along your neck, licks at your skin—tasting the sweat of your labour having mixed with the sweetness of the air.

It isn’t all the time like he wishes. Tiredness and age played a factor, but right now—like this, a reminder of a memory, he feels anew. Younger. More capable. Roughly shifting you until it’s you pressed against a counter, until he’s pawing at your clothes until he can admire, feel smooth skin with his worn, calloused hands.

“Missed you.”

It leaves his mouth before he can stop it.

Because you’ve been here. But not like this. It is far too honest for what the two of you are technically, but not quite what the two of you have become.

Thankful you grasp his cheek and pull his mouth to yours, but he swears he tastes your reply before he earns it. Before his hand slides inside the band of your cotton panties and makes you hiss against his teeth, slick coating his fingers. An urge to drive you to the edge, to have you pleading, to have you call him Joel and not Miller, to have you seeing white and erode your pain from your body and fill it only with bliss.

He’s a mess, and you’ve barely touched him. The sight of you, unhinged, wild and free. Head thrown back as his thumb swirls circles on your hardening nerves, as your pussy tightens around the fingers he has buried in it. As you moan, as you plea, as you cry and whine for him, almost needing to command you to come so he can sheath his cock in you and feel you.

But, then you surprise him.

As you always fucking do.

“Missed you too,” you whimper, hips grinding against his hand—teetering in the land where you find it hard to shy away and can only emit honesty.

Your eyes, the deepest valley of affection, so much he almost feels he must look away. Undeserving of it. A thing he finds on the tip of his tongue before you call him Joel, before you moan for him.

“Y’perfect, you know that? All o’you,” he confesses, buries it into your ear. “Your tight pussy, your anger, your stubbornness—”

“—Fuck, Joel—”

“Can’t be without you. Not this version. Need you too much—like I need y’to come. Can you come for me, honey? Make a mess of my hand, let me lick you clean—”

“Shit, m’close.”

He knows. Your jaw clenched, body rigid—eyes creased closed as your hips grind slower but deeper, more intense, until they lose rhythm and you snap. In a completely different way than you did all those months ago.

Because this time, he thinks you’ve snapped back into place.

Because when your eyes open, he doesn’t greet a pair that he doesn’t know, but a pair he knows intimately. It’s why he pants, and loses his breath—that, and the fact you grab his hand from between your thighs and bring it to your lips, tasting yourself, licking yourself clean from him.

“Get upstairs, Miller.”

His brow arches, mouth clamping shut. A fire building in his chest, his other hand flexing at his side, wanting to slap it to your ass and ask you to repeat yourself.

But, you straighten your spine, look him dead in the eye. “Wanna ride you, Joel.”

Before autumn comes—before leaves change and the Jackson is shadowed by earlier nights and later mornings. When it looks close to the misery and horror that lives outside of the walls. Joel is on his knees.

Tools close to his fingers, red toolbox to the side.

Itching, necessarily torturing himself by fixing things that don’t need fixing, just to busy his hands, keep his mind on something, to not worry, to not hate, to not be angry.

“She’s going to be alright.”

Joel almost snorts, but buries it under a cough. Twists the bolt into the wood, checking the panel with a rough tug as Ellie shifts position, as she comes to a place he can’t avoid not glancing at her. Now scowling and making her be distant with him even more than she already is.

Because his mind is a storm, all concocted with worry he doesn’t what to do with, with fear he hasn’t been able to displace. Each horrid thought is thunderous, like a crack in the silence as the house creaks and he struggles to keep himself from splintering. Twisted up, insides knotted, every distant shout or laugh setting his already tired heart racing—forcing it to pound against his ribs like a prisoner desperate to escape.

He’s not the same man he was before. Not sure if he’d have the strength to keep you safe in the way you’d not needed then, but could now.

It’s why he keeps picturing you, darkness closing in, shadows formed with malicious intent attempting to take you. It makes his hands shake, as he grips the tool tighter, almost as if by holding onto something solid he can anchor his thoughts. Images of your last injury flashed in his mind—the blood, the pain, the helplessness he felt.

How angelically gothic you looked surrounded by snow. How he can still taste the metallic tang in the air if he thinks about it too much

“She’s not wrong,” a voice says.

One that forces his head up, one that makes him double-take.

You standing, with no scratch, no markings. Not a figment of his imagination, but something real from the shadows that stretch from your legs across the ground. Not an illusion as Ellie throws herself at you, all arms and cheerful glee.

Real, real, real, as you step up the porch, as you crouch down and grumble at the ache in your bones, and kiss his mouth. Warm, and all very you.

“You been worryin’ about me, Miller?”

He chews his tongue, drops his gaze before he flicks it back up. “No.”

You smirk, devious, but yet still so sweet. “Good.”

Hand still caressing his skin, thumb brushing over the patch you comment looks like a heart—one you brought up some weeks back, asking if it’s for you, if it doesn’t grow just for you. Smirking, laughing, leg bent over his hip as you continue to tease. Is this how you tell me you love me, by shaving a heart, Miller? And, just for me, a heart all of my own?

“You fancy getting a drink with me tonight?”

Frowning, he lowers the tool back to the floor. “Y’wanna go out?”

“With you? Yeah.”

Swallowing, he glances over your shoulder to see Ellie smirking, looking more pleased than he’s ever known her. Swaying, folded arms as she begins to nod at him, mouthing say yes, say yes.

“Ellie wants to go to Dina’s,” you add, as though spotting where his gaze has gone. “And, I realised something.”

He hums as you lower to your knees in front of him, as you cup his cheek and tug his eyes back to you.

“We never watched that VHS, either. Did we?”

Clearing his throat, hand coming to rest on your wrist, thumb drawing a shape against it. “No. We didn’t.”

Smiling, face lighting up—shimmering. Exactly like that time you had brought him shortbread in a tin. “Y’wanna go on a date with me, Joel? Drink and a movie.”

Glancing at Ellie, and then back to you. Spreading his hand from your wrist up to the back of your hand, it dwarfing yours against his cheek, staring into your eyes—so sure he sees your monster smiling at him too.

“Let me clean up. You… Y’deserve that.”

“Alright,” you reply.

“What, no arguin’?”

Shrugging, dropping your hand as you sigh. “I know when to pick my arguments with my man.”

He tries not to show how that warms him, the words replaying over and over. It makes his chest tighten in a way he doesn’t hate. My man. A phrase that carries a weight, an intimacy he's not accustomed to out here, only ever when he’s buried inside of you and your skin is glistening with sweat, him and his spend.

He swallows hard, masking the fluttering in his chest, concealing the way his breath catches ever so slightly. A vulnerability in those words—how you’ve exposed yourself. Changed your tune from no names to this. A soft promise he’s struggling to wrap his head around. He knows you see it, that flicker of something unguarded in his eyes.

His hand balls into a fist, his thumb sliding over his fingers, levelling himself as the emotions surge, unbidden and uncontrollable. Feeling exposed, as though you’ve peeled back the layers of his defences with a single phrase, laid bare the raw, tender part of him he thought long buried.

But he doesn’t hate it. Not the strange comfort in being wanted or seen, even less so by you. How it makes him want to run and stay all at once. He suspects you know the turmoil you’ve stirred, having done so to yourself with the confession.

And somehow, knowing that helps him swallow it, accept it, finding it true.

“Tha’ make you mine, then?”

Shrugging, you roll your lips, a coy, more nervous smile there. “If you want.”

If he wants, he snorts.

Three words he repeats hours later, when he’s stripping you bare, lying you down on the bed that belongs to you as much as him.

“If I want?” he repeats, your lips curling into a smirk.

Before he’s dipping his mouth between your thighs, writing with his tongue how he's wanted that for months now, maybe even since the very beginning.

an: it may have taken me a long time, but, i hope in some way it was worth it. thank you for reading! eeeep I finished a joel 😂

npts for those who loved them the whole time (sorry if you didn’t want this tag, forgive meeee):

@swiftispunk @missladym1981 @ptime1999 @survivingandenduring @pimosworld

@sawymredfox @thelightsandtheroses

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steviewashere · 8 months ago

Text

Make a Home Out of Hurt

Rating: General CW: Death of a Grandparent, Mourning Tags: Post-Season 4, Post Canon, Grief/Mourning, Established Relationship, Alternate Universe — Future Fic, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, Sad Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Has Absent Parents, Steve Harrington Mom is Okay, Steve Harrington's Dad is an Asshole, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Moving in Together

Had an evil little thought. Also, all these Fenton bunnies I mention are real! My nana collects Fenton. (She's alive, don't worry, but I thought about her the other day and it spiraled into this.)

🏡—————🏡 We’ve already seen this neighborhood, Eddie thinks, but won’t say.

Even though they have. They’ve driven by the same three houses. Yellow, pastel pink, and navy blue. White door, white door, brown door. Bushes and bushes and a bushel of red roses. One garage, no garage, no garage but large driveway. He’s seen them. Over and over and over.

And each time they pass the last one, the leather of the steering wheel squeaks. And each time, Steve makes a muffled sort of noise. And each time, Eddie wonders if resting his hand on Steve’s shaking shoulders would anger him or mellow him. And each time, the car gets just a little slower as Steve loses his control more and more.

We’ve already seen this neighborhood, Eddie continues to think, but knows he’ll sit here with those words. He’ll sit in the passenger seat. Window cranked as far down as it’ll go—half-way since Dustin busted the actual mechanism. Beemer’s been through a lot, so it’ll be here for Steve’s end all breakdown, too. With the radio volume low, playing the same double-sided tape on repeat, flipped by Eddie because Steve’s hands have been shaking: The World We Knew by Frank Sinatra. Because it was her favorite. Nana’s favorite. Nana Harrington’s favorite.

On the fifth drive through, Steve finally parks the car. At the end of the long, slow winding driveway. He looks out the windshield, hollowed and not quite here. With limp hands in his lap. Messy, greasy hair he couldn’t bother to style. Eye bags so heavy, Eddie barely believes he can hold them on his face.

Eddie can follow his line of sight. To the edge of the white picket fence, worn down a little with age, scratched up from the curled nails of an old brown dog, carved with her son and daughter-in-law’s initials, and eventually stained with yellow handprints from baby Steve. Yellow because, as Steve has echoed, “Lello, Nana. Lello like your dress. Your favorite!” Well, Steve’s favorite too, he just won’t acknowledge it’s because of his nana. Eddie knows that the paint has faded a bit since then, given that it’s been fifteen years since Steve’s had hands that small, but Eddie can see him. In his little white and red striped t-shirt, hidden by a pair of nicely pressed denim overalls, white sneakers, and his mom’s bobby pins in his hair—something she did because it just wouldn’t stop growing so fast and thick. Or so Eddie’s been told.

He’s been told a lot in the last week. Since the call came through the landline of their apartment. Since Steve had gone silent and collapsed to his knees and wailed, screamed even. Since he dressed himself in a suit that fit well, but looked out of place on his curled in body. Since…since the obituary was finally in his hands at the funeral, and he got so sick in the church’s restroom, Eddie had to drive them home in a daze—a quarter worried, a quarter tired, and half hanging by a thread. He thinks he’s heard everything, but what is love if not more than everything? If not all the words in every language, all known objects and unknown, every species and race and sexuality and identities combined?

He’ll hear everything. Until their old and grey and forgetting everything.

“There used to be a tire swing on that tree,” Steve states flatly, pointing at the weeping oak in his nana’s front yard. It’s crooked like it’s been kissed by the wind. A lot withering because the weather’s been harsh on her. Grey against the navy blue of the house’s siding.

I know, sweetheart, Eddie wants to say, so soft it gets lost between them. Instead, “Yeah? Bet it was a good tire, too,” he coaxes, still soft, all sweet. Even if he’s heard it each time they’ve passed by.

Steve nods once in his peripheral. Sniffs. “Yeah,” he states wetly, “one of the expensive ones. She didn’t want it to pop under me. Didn’t…She didn’t want me to stop using it.” His head dips down, looking at his fingers, where they’ve begun to absently trace the seams of his jeans. “I stopped,” he whispers shamefully. “You think she got mad because I stopped?”

“No, baby,” Eddie answers honestly. “I think that she was happy you used it at all. Think she was always just happy to see you, Steve.”

A sharp intake of breath next to him. “I used to come over here when my parents were gone. Or when they’d scream at each other. Or when…when they’d forget I existed,” he relays, quiet as a mouse. “When they’d forget, Nana would open the door and kiss my cheek and make me something to eat. I was always too skinny. So she made me casseroles,” he explains, a wisp of a smile. Gone in the blink of an eye. “She’ll never make ‘em again, though. She won’t—”

“Steve,” Eddie calls gently, a small warning. A siren before the tsunami.

“—Love me again,” Steve sobs, “Nana won’t love me again.”

“Oh, baby,” he breathes. Eddie steps out of the car, rounds over to the driver’s side, and yanks the door open. Carefully, he unbuckles Steve, scoots him so that his legs dangle over the side, and pulls him down into a gentle hug. “Baby,” he coos. “Just get it out, honey. I’m right here. We’re right here. I’ve got you.”

And Steve cries. Again; though Eddie’s lost count. He squirms against Eddie’s chest. Head nestled to his neck. Crying big sounds that sound too large, even for his adult body. Sounds that carry boats, that poison with oil spills, that home orcas. He slobbers onto Eddie’s skin, grand globs of hot spit that gargle in his throat before launching from his mouth. His unshaved stubble scratching at the side of Eddie’s face—where his skin is sensitive and smooth and will most definitely be raw with Steve’s aching.

He sobs until there’s no more tears. Until he’s a whimpering, shivering mess on Eddie’s chest. Bunched up and small and fisting Eddie’s t-shirt like a lifeline. Squeezing the fabric in his hands like two lemons.

Eddie runs his hands up and down Steve’s spine. From the small of his back to his hunched shoulders, squishing him. He sways them ever so gently like the rustle of the old oak tree. Hums something incoherent and unrecognizable. If only to get Steve to stop shaking.

“Eds?”

“Hm?”

He takes a long, slow breath. Breathes out, “Why’d she give me the house?”

Eddie pulls them apart. One hand on the middle of Steve’s back, the other cupping his left cheek. Swiping at the tacky tracks from his tears. “I’m not sure, baby. Maybe she loved you so much that she wanted you to have it? To always be safe there?”

“Shouldn’t she have given it to my dad? I don’t…” Steve’s eyebrows scrunch in confusion, his mouth frowning. “I don’t deserve her house?”

“Sweetheart,” Eddie sighs. “She chose you for a reason. You, Stevie. Not anybody else. Just you. If she wanted to give it to her son, she would’ve. But she didn’t. She thought of you, put you in the will, and now it’s yours.” When Steve doesn’t respond, Eddie gives him his moment of silence. Running his palm up to Steve’s shoulders. Pressing his thumb into his supple skin. “You may never know her intent, but she probably had a reason. It was a home you came running to, where you felt safest, where you felt…loved. Grandmothers always have this air to them, like they just know things about you before you say ‘em. Maybe she just knew you needed her and her space before you even realized.”

Steve sniffles. His eyes are still wet. Bloodshot and tired. Rumpled all the way around, exhausted and quiet. “She used to play with me in the yard.”

I know, Eddie thinks once more. He goes with the topic change though, if that’s what Steve needs.

“And when we played hide and seek, she always made sure to look until I was found. Because she didn’t want me to feel forgotten, her words.” Steve’s fingers are fidgeting with one another again. Picking at his fingernails, peeling at hangnails. Eddie moves down and takes them, rubbing soothing circles into their backs, just so Steve doesn’t harm himself on top of everything. Steve continues, hushed, “When I’d stay the night, she would sleep with me. Hold me close to her. Scratch my back and scalp and tell me stories…all the way until I fell asleep.”

“Kinda like I do, huh?” Eddie asks.

Steve nods. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Think that’s why I feel so loved and safe with you.”

And Eddie hasn’t cried, not really, not yet. But this may be it. Because he knows, beyond everything, that Nana was special to Steve—so special that just one negative comment, one complaint, one little fuss about her was enough to get you shunned by him. He’s seen it play out with Dustin, he’d been banned from coming over for two weeks. And with El, who didn’t understand quite yet, but had lost conversational abilities with Steve for two whole days—ergo, the Silent Treatment.

This means something. It means everything. Eddie kind of wants to cry about it.

But he reigns himself in for now. Because Steve needs him like water. For somebody to just be there and be present and be patient. Through it all.

“You wanna head inside,” Eddie offers, “I’ve got the key in my pocket.” He gestures loosely to the inside of his vest, the safest pocket near his heart. When Steve nods, Eddie leads them inside silently. Opens the door first, per request made by Steve days prior. Sets his shoes by the front door—not told to, but just out of respect. Hangs up his jacket, his vest. Takes Steve’s jacket, too. Unties his Nike sneakers. Smacks a quick kiss to his cheek. And then he waits by the front door for Steve to say or do something.

The first thing he does is gasp. Eyes roaming the hallway, the living room, and the fireplace that connects the kitchen and living space together. He takes a few tentative steps before stopping in front of a tall, full China cabinet.

“Her Fenton bunnies,” Steve breathes.

Eddie slowly approaches behind him. Wraps an arm around his waist, tugging him into his side a little. “Are these the ones your mom was talking about on the phone?”

“Yeah. I just…Didn’t think my mom was telling the truth,” Steve murmurs. “She told me Dad didn’t want these. Takes up room or whatever. But they’re so pretty here, how could you not want these?” His left hand reaches for the knob of the cabinet. Twisting it gently as to not rattle the glass shelves. With the doors swung open, the bunnies under the cabinet’s lighting are free to touch. And so Steve picks one up, carefully in his hands like it’s alive. Maybe it is, Eddie thinks for a moment, alive with her spirit.

He breathes silently by Steve as he investigates the glass item in his hand. Running his thumbs over the ears. Down the smooth back.

“Satin glass,” Steve states, “It’s like touching the fabric, which is so weird. Nana used to talk about it all the time, but I never believed her. She never let me touch. You wanna?” He holds the bunny up to Eddie’s face. In offering, for him to pet. So he runs a slow thumb down its back. And sure enough, soft as silk, cold to the touch. “All of them are here.” He replaces the silk, purple bunny on the shelf. Picking up a chromatic shifting one next. “Carnival glass,” Steve explains, “it’s heavier than the other one, feels like. But so shiny. Think Nana used to say it was amethyst or something, but that might be what the color shift is called?”

“You sure listened to her well,” Eddie murmurs, “know a lot about this.”

Steve chuckles, a little choked to Eddie’s ears but he makes no comment. “Yeah, I guess I did. Mom used to say that I had selective hearing. That I listened when it was something I cared about.”

“And you cared a lot about Nana,” Eddie concludes.

“Yeah,” Steve whispers, “cared a lot about Nana.” He sets the carnival glass bunny back on the shelf. Standing idle in front of it all, taking it all in. “She has one upstairs, in a different glass cabinet. It glows green under the special blacklight upstairs. Said it was radioactive.” He chuckles again. “I gave her that one. As a gift for Mother’s Day in…I think ’77? Mom helped me pick it out—she was nice about the bunnies, about finding this stuff. She loved Nana, too. And she…” He laughs low in his chest and Eddie blossoms a little at the sound, unheard in so long. “Mom would pull out the long box of tissue paper and gift bags from the crawlspace. She’d unfold the prettiest gift bag—this one was a little brown one, covered in peach colored peonies. Stuffed some off-white tissue paper in that one. Wrapped the little yellow—well, it was supposed to be yellow—Fenton bunny in bubble wrap, covered it up with a bunch of caramels. Gave it to Nana, and she squealed! Apparently, she already knew it was radioactive? Thought it was the best gift ever. Which, ouch Nana, I gave you other bunnies for Mother’s Day, c’mon.”

Eddie snorts. “Maybe that’s what earned you the house? That radioactive bunny was probably the key to her heart,” he jokes. Though his stomach turns at the possibility it wasn’t appropriate to make.

Steve laughs loudly, though. Shaking his entire body with it. He slips his hand into Eddie’s back right pocket, sighs, and leans against him relaxed. “Dad should’a tried harder if he wanted Nana’s heart,” he comments, “all it took was a damn bunny.”

“Among other things, I’m sure.”

“Probably,” Steve sighs. “I think she was just excited to have a grandkid. She had a weird relationship with my dad. They didn’t get along very well. So maybe she was sorta…trying again?”

“Stevie, I think she just loved you. There doesn’t have to be some grand, deep meaning behind it. I think she just loved your company. How your laugh fills a room and your smile is seen from across the yard. And how you’re always polite, despite having reasons to not be. Maybe because of your terrible puns and how awful you are at quoting Shakespeare? You charm everybody, Steve,” Eddie monologues. “There’s not a reason to not love you.”

For a moment, the room falls completely silent. Distantly, there’s the slow tick of a wall clock. A few birds singing out in the backyard, where the bird bath probably is—only known through Steve’s memories. A slight hum from the radiator. The cars passing by on the main road just around the corner. Hawkins is quiet when there’s mourning; maybe it’s felt through the whole town, through the soles of Steve’s socked feet, from the beating of his ever love absorbent heart.

She died November 7th, 1993. Just a few days ago. Maybe it’s the anniversary of Will Byers going missing that Hawkins is feeling. Maybe it’s just tragedy. It’s love persevering—even in the most dire of situations. Where Joyce Byers was screaming about where her son may be, all those mismatched theories, and the ways in which the town thought she was crazy—even when they believed her and cried over her son’s body being pulled from the water. Where Will is actually thriving now. Where Sandra Harrington no longer is, though she was a fixture in several communities and families, Steve’s own being included.

“How’s your boy doing?” Wayne asked the day after her funeral. Eddie had shrugged, admitting he wasn’t sure because Steve had gone terribly quiet and sick. “Tell him I’m sorry. That he has a home with us. That he can come over and cry and I’ll make him hot cocoa. Alright, Ed?”

God, even Wayne knew. And there was silence after his condolences.

There is so much silence.

Until, finally, Steve asks, “Will you live with me here?”

“Wh—What?” Because surely he didn’t hear that right.

“Live with me here,” Steve repeats, a little more urgent. “I don’t think I can handle this place alone. And…I know how to use her gas stove. I can make you the spaghetti dish she used to make. And the casseroles she used to bake. We can open up her recipe box and I’ll teach you how to make her apple pie—the one she gave me for your birthday two years ago?

“And we can read your Lord of The Rings books on the porch on the bench she has out there? Grill in the backyard when we have everybody over. Robin can have the room that used to be my nursery. We can…We can live our lives here.”

Stunned, Eddie gapes momentarily. Before gripping harder at Steve’s waist, drawing him closer even when there’s no more room. Two solid bodies connected from shoulder to foot. “Are you sure, Steve? You don’t wanna—“

“You’re my family, Eds. I have loved you since that bullshit in ’86. We have seen each other through our absolute worst. Of course I’m sure. Of course I want you here,” Steve swears. “I know what I’m getting into. Even if it hurts to look around here right now. But you’ve been here by me through one of the worst heartbreaks I’ve ever experienced. I want you here—preferably always.”

“Stevie,” Eddie breathes. He reaches out with his free hand and cups the right side of Steve’s face. Swipes over his glistening cheekbone. Under his shadow beaten eye. The tickling brush of Steve’s bottom eyelashes on the tip of his thumb. And he kisses him tenderly, with every word he could ever imagine to say, all emotion he could ever feel, with an intensity seen in atomic bombs. He pulls back to see Steve’s eyes closed. Flushed and bright in the cabinet’s full white lighting, doors still open, and fragile glass bunnies as witnesses. Promises, “I want to, Steve. I want to be here with you. Through it. All of it. As long as I get to love you.”

And on his thumb there are fresh tears, gone cold but skin scalding. Steve’s lips trembling with silent cries. His eyelashes fluttering. Him and him and him. Beautiful and raw and open. Gentle like flowers and strong like wind. Aching and romantic and with a heart the size of the universe itself. Because Steve Harrington is everything—

Or so his nana has said. But Steve doesn’t know. And that’s Eddie’s own secret.

“Okay,” Steve mutters, “make a home with me, Ed.”

🏡—————🏡

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #angst and hurt/comfort

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