#I thought it was just dread over this week's funeral

[thebibliosphere]

I'm a fecking edjit.

I keep complaining about this never-ending EDS flare, but I forgot that a mast cell reaction can not only be triggered by pain but also ignite the pain neural pathways and basically become a fecking ouroboros of self-devouring misery.

Pain triggers mast cell degranlation. Mast cell degranulation causes pain.

I'm not just having an EDS flare. I'm still degranulating from last week's migraine episode. I stopped medicating too soon.

Christ on toast.

I hate this disease.

[jackalhadrurusluvr]

craaaaaaazy that my dad was apologizing for being angry in front of me earlier (hashtag number one trigger for yours truly) and his girlfriend was like "no you dont need to apologize" girl you just simply cannot be surprised your children dont like you very much if thats what your stance is

[sublimitymp3]

Do you, brother?

Pairing ✵ Aegon Targaryen/Younger sister!reader

Warnings ✵ Hotd season 2 spoilers, incest, swearing, smut (Dub-con, p in v, fingering, choking, slight breeding kink), mentions of death, mentions of child loss, descriptions of birth, and heavy themes

Word count ✵ 2.6k

Summary ✵ The death of your son leaves behind a shadow upon everything, and after an overwhelming funeral procession for him, your evasive brother finally comes to you in the night.

Jaehaerys

Your little boy. Jae-hae-rys. The syllables roll off your tongue in a smooth manner, as they always have done. Sweet Jaehaerys. The very thought of the name conjures memories in your mind of the day you labored him and his twin into the world, screaming and writhing in pain as you felt as though you were being torn apart at the seams. He was a small, splotchy babe, who exited you covered in blood and wailing and squirming in the maester's arms. But even through your delirium and searing pain, you knew then what love was.

He was a precocious boy, eager to learn and to explore the world. "He has the makings of a very fine king," you recall your grandfather telling you once. The thought of Jaehaerys on that throne made your stomach feel uneasy, and the words loomed over you, lingering in the back of your mind and refusing to leave.

Even now it still lingers.

The once dreadful notion has been reduced to a silly daydream, for Jaehaerys will never be king. He will never grow, never explore the world, never ride his dragon, and you will never cradle him in your arms again.

It feels wrong to carry on. It feels wrong to do much of anything with the knowledge that your sweet Jaehaerys will exist only in memory now. Your mother tries to console you, to hug you in her cold arms, but you do not want her now. After all, what does she know about losing a child? The funeral procession your grandfather insisted on felt even more wrong than anything else.

Your son, the martyr.

Hundreds of the smallfolk clambered over each other to catch a glimpse of your little boy, and you. Your tears bought their sympathy and a new resentment for Rhaenyra, but it mattered little to you. They had sewn his head back on, you saw. It was an ugly sight, where black thread met severed skin.

Jaehaerys

How you longed to climb over to the cart carrying his body just so you could hold your boy one last time, but your mother's steadying and sobering grip on your knee kept you from doing so. "Deepest sympathies, my queen!" "Curse Rhaenyra!" "We love you, our queen!" Their shouts of support felt more like a ringing in your ear than anything. You didn't want this. You only wanted everything to be quiet.

You had a headache and felt nothing but exhaustion, and you couldn't even bring yourself to weep any longer. It was as if you were wrung dry. You cursed under your breath at the seemingly endless flights of stairs in the Red Keep, for all you wanted to do was to go and lay in bed. But then you saw him. First, you saw his hair, hair much like yours, only it was messily cropped short. Next was his eyes, violet in color and mirrors of your own. The scowl upon his handsome face, well, you didn't care for it, but you couldn't pry your eyes away. You found yourselves gawking at each other on the stairwell, and only then did you remember how much Jaehaerys looked like Aegon.

"Your grace, I-" Is all you can say before Aegon quickly turns away from you and hurries down the steps. You stand there, watching as the head of silver hair swiftly disappears from your line of sight. You snap your mouth close, pressing your lips into a firm line and continuing up the stairs. 'Foolish girl, when has he ever confronted anything in his life?' you cannot help but think.

You don't see your husband for around two weeks. Fleeting glimpses in the hallways, mentions of him from your mother, and murmurs about the king from the courtiers are all you have of him during that time.

As you prepare yourself for bed, you try to banish all thoughts of him from your mind to get some semblance of much-needed sleep. The nights seemed so long and torturous now, and yet you hardly could find sleep no matter what you did. Tonight was the first night in what seemed like centuries that you finally felt tired, and you wasted no time settling into bed to drift into a slumber.

You dream odd things, nonsensical things you'll forget when you wake, mostly. And even more odd, you begin to dream of Aegon. Of his strangely soft hands on you, of him pushing your nightdress up to your hips, and of him maneuvering you onto your back. It feels real, but you know it isn't. He won't come near you, no, not now. But even your mind begins to suggest otherwise.

With an irritated whine, you feel yourself being pulled from your sleep. It is only when you open your eyes to curse at what you assumed was a maid disturbing you, that your assumptions are quickly proven wrong.

Aegon is on top of you, staring unblinkingly into your eyes. Salty, hot tears drip from him onto your face, and his hand clamps down over your mouth before you can question him. You must make a face unwittingly, for he begins to speak,

"Shh, shh, it's alright, it's just me...just me," Aegon soothes, and you smell the wine on his warm breath. He's drunk. Or at the very least near drunk. "I-I am sorry, sorry for you, sorry for our boy. Oh, my poor son," his words are ever so slightly slurred, and he retracts himself to sit on the edge of the bed and weep in his drunken stupor.

You sit up, a bit startled to discover your nightgown bunched up by your hips. Your smallclothes were even pulled down a bit, but not fully. You realize now what he was attempting to do, and you can only sit in a tense silence with him. "He was my son too, you know," he mumbles like a petulant child, once he catches a glimpse of your resentful face.

"I grieve him just as much as you, mayhaps even more. He was my heir, my only heir," his words linger in the stagnant air, not sitting well with you. His gaze unnerves you even more, staring at you expectantly. The implications in his voice are clear to you; he means to beget another heir.

"Take another wife then, I am tired," The brazen words escape you (before you can think) in a whisper, and you lay back down, wasting no time to turn your back to him. "I don't want to again, I can't again. No more, Aegon." and you close your eyes, letting your tears roll down the side of the face.

You refuse to subject yourself to it all over again. To the aches, the uncomfortable swell of your belly, and the terrible pain birth brought. You know what it will all end in. It's a deep knowledge that has burrowed itself between your bones, embedded itself in your brain, and wrapped around your heart.

The Stranger will come for you all, surely.

The bed dips again as he shifts himself closer to you, and he grabs your shoulder in a bruising grip to turn you onto your back. His face gets so close to yours that the tip of his nose nudges your own, and you feel his warm breath fanning against your lips.

"I wasn't asking what you thought of it. You're my wife, my little sister. You were born for me to have. A king needs an heir, surely you understand that? You're not a stupid girl," he brushes his thumb against your bottom lip, mockingly, almost.

He manages to wedge himself between your thighs, and you feel his wandering fingers pull down your smallclothes. "Aegon-" "Don't say a word, don't say a damn thing," he interrupts, irritated by your unwilling mood. "Wouldn't it be nice to have another little babe to rock in your arms? Hm? We'll make more, yes? Enough to fill this fucking castle," Aegon grunts, pushing his fingers past your folds. A whine involuntarily escapes you at the invasive feeling, and even more so as he pumps his fingers in and out.

In and out, in and out, in and out.

You feel your body give into his ministrations and get wet. 'Betrayal,' you think. A pleased hum escapes from him as you leak onto his fingers, and you feel your cheeks burn with shame. This isn't right. No, no after what has happened.

"You weep down here too, did you know, sweet sister?" He mumbles, pulling his fingers out of you just to drag them along your dripping folds. A shiver runs up your spine at his actions, forcing you to bite your tongue to muffle any noises. You don't want him to hear you. You don't want to give him that satisfaction.

He fully retracts his fingers, and you know what is next. He undresses himself quickly, untying his breeches and tunic with a practiced speed before pulling your nightdress off of you, leaving you vulnerable and cold. He chuckles at your little shivers and the way you wrap your arms around yourself protectively. "Shh, do not worry, you'll be warm soon enough," he laughs as if this is a lighthearted moment between two lovers. Your stomach churns slightly.

"You're so beautiful, you know. I've never thought otherwise. So pretty like this, all for me," he whispers against the shell of your ear as he lines himself up with your cunt.

The burning stretch of the intrusion is what you feel first. It has been long since he bedded you, and your body had forgotten the feel of him. "F-Fuck, how are you so tight? Like you're trying to squeeze me to death," he groans against your neck, before suckling bruises into your soft skin. He bottoms out completely, and you feel his tip brushing against your sweet spot.

It's overwhelming for you. It's too much. You close your eyes and let your mind drift to happier days. Days long before you called Aegon husband, days when you would play with your sister by your mother's skirts. Days when the most daunting task was getting out of bed or letting the maids bathe you. It almost brings a smile to your face. Almost.

Your blissful daydreams and nostalgia are interrupted by Aegon gently slapping your cheek repeatedly, rudely reminding you of where you are now. "Hey, hello, where are you? Look at me, for fucks sake," he grumbles, slowing his thrusts you only now are noticing. He grips your face in his hands, forcing you to stare into his familiar violet eyes.

It's cruel to have to stare into your own eyes while this happens, you think.

"Don't do that again. Think of me," he whispers against your lips, his voice a bit shaky and heavy with lust. "Only me, and this."

His thrusts resume, and his lips are soon pressed against yours. He kisses you with a greedy, bruising force as if he's trying to devour you whole.

"Messy girl," he muses as he wipes drool off your chin with his thumb, and the action is oddly tender to you. The tip of his cock keeps brushing against your sweet spot, making your mind turn to mush and your legs turn to jelly.

You hate how Aegon has this talent to make your resolve slip with only a few touches and kisses. You could be upset with him for weeks on end, and yet all he had to do was hold you down and you'd soon forget whatever grievance you held against him.

"A-Aegon, brother, please-" you whine, even more so as he maneuvers your knees to press against your chest. He holds you down like this and the new angle allows him to push further into you. The sound of skin against skin reverberates in your chambers around you as he drives into you at a faster pace.

"Stay still, stay still. Quit squirming, don't you trust me, sweet girl?" He huffed, still irked by your light resistance. His hand reaches back down to your weeping cunt, and his thumb rubs gentle circles into your bud. The added stimulation makes you cry out with overwhelming pleasure, and you feel like your very bones are gyrating.

"There we go," he smirks, dragging out his words. He's found the combination that makes you fall apart around him and he finds it satisfying. "You like that, don't you? 'Course you do, sweet girl. You were made for me, made to take my cock and bear my children. You were born to be mine. Nothing more, nothing less," He groans, his own peak beginning to build up.

His words ignite a fire in your belly, and it feels so wrong. His words are mocking, demeaning even, and on any other given day and situation you'd have retorted and isolated yourself from him until you calmed down. But this night was not simply any other night. His words and his movements bring you closer and closer to the edge, and the coil in your belly tightens up as it prepares to snap.

"Aegon, gods, keep going, please don't stop-" you moan, lost now in the bliss of it all. You selfishly buck your hips against his, desperate for your own impending release.

"I got you, pretty girl. Go on, let go for me, sweet sister," and with his words, the tightly wound coil in you snaps. It is a white-hot pleasure that wracks through your body, and you feel as though you are floating.

You come to when you feel Aegon increasing the pace of his already rough thrusts. He is close, you can tell. You have no strength to tell him to pull out, to beg him not to finish inside. He's fucked you too good for that. Maybe that was his plan after all, you think.

"F-Fuck, I'm so close, sweetling. I'll fill you up, make sure you're nice and full with my seed. In nine moons time, we'll have another little boy, hm? Another silver-haired beauty," he pants, before his grip that still pushes your knees against your chest tightens. He brings one hand to squeeze around your throat, and you feel his fingers dig into the sides of your neck. There will be a bruise there in the morning, no doubt.

His movements are rough and fast as he chases his release, and soon, his steady pace falters and his hips stutter to a halt. "Gods be good," he moans, slumping over to bury his face into the crook of your neck. Spurts of his warm and sticky seed coat your velvety walls, a familiar feeling. Surely you will be with child by the next month.

Exhaustion is what you feel. Exhaustion, and a pang of sadness in your heart. Another babe you will have to labor into the world, another pawn in this war. Another victim of this needless bloodshed, as brother and sister tear each other apart.

Aegon gently kisses your lips, rubbing your stomach with his hand, no doubt imagining you are pregnant already. "I love you, I really do." He whispers, holding you close and breaking you from those thoughts of impending doom.

Violet eyes meet violet eyes, and you gaze upon his features that are not dissimilar to your own. The very same blood that runs through you, runs through him. The same blood that ran through your son, you think. You do not know what to make of his drunken declaration, and it is like your body speaks for you then;

"Do you, brother?"

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[solelifauna]

But You Belong to Me (You Belong to Me) - (Yandere Jason Todd x Reader) Sneak Peak!!

Hey guys! I just thought I'd post a sneak peek for the upcoming yandere Jason Todd x Reader fic. It isn't much but hope y'all like it!

[Exerpt]

Heavy rain pelts down onto your frame, coveted in all black; what a bleak day it was, but you guessed the weather was befitting the occasion. There are three other people standing next to you also dressed in black. There was a hand on your shoulder (you don't know whose though, and you can't seem to care either), most likely in place to comfort you, or to try at least, but you couldn't focus on anything else but the too small coffin being lowered into the ground.

It was mahogany, a deep brown casket with gold details, something fancy. You knew if Jason were alive to see it, he'd hate it. He likes–liked red, he would have wanted a red one. But no, he was busy being lowered into the ground instead. Tears streamed down your face but you couldn't bring yourself to wipe them. What good would it do you? It was raining anyway.

The funeral comes to a close, although you're not sure when (how) time passed so quickly, leaving Jason, your best friend, the boy you loved, buried six feet under. You don't know what to do, you don't know what you can do. You just stand there, unable to move. He's dead. He’s dead. You’ll never see him again, he’s dead. You'll never sit on the couch with him arguing over his book of the week, he’s dead. You'll never get to stay up and watch the stars with him, he’s dead. You'll never get to tell him how you really feel, he's dead.  

It's only when Bruce, his father, gently tries to guide you to the car you came in, you break. You lash out, twisting away from his hand as you trip over yourself trying to get to Jason’s headstone. Bruce and Dick, Jason’s older brother, exclaim in surprise and then follow after you. You collapse on your knees near the freshly lain dirt, sobbing with your full chest.

You could hear Bruce and Dick stop a couple of feet away from you, unable to comfort you in their own grief. That was fine though, you're not sure what you'd say or do if they tried to. They let you have your time with him, knowing it was just as difficult for you as it was for them, but as time ticks by another hour has passed and you’re still kneeling by his grave, no longer crying, but still unmoving. 

You stared blankly at his headstone, still trying to realize that he wasn't coming back. When you feel someone grab your shoulder this time, you know it's Alfred. And you know what he's going to say to you, the words you’ve been dreading to hear.

“It’s time to go Miss (Y/n).” Alfred says gently, his own voice filled with grief at the loss of his grandson.

You don't say anything, your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Alfred only sighs, before taking his leave. Good. Nobody was taking you away from here. A couple more minutes pass when you hear another pair of footsteps headed towards you. Bruce.

“(Y/n),” Bruce calls softly, yet voice still rough and raw from his own sorrow, “It’s–It's time to go now sweetie.”

You don't even turn around from where you were sitting. “No.” You say firmly.

Bruce and Alfred exchange a look. 

“Miss (Y/n),” Alfred starts, “ you’ve been sitting out in the rain all day. Wouldn't you like a change of–”

“No!” You shout out this time. You flinch back from the sound of your own voice, and you could tell Alfred and Bruce were taken aback by your behavior as well. 

With a sigh, Bruce decides that he'd come get you himself, any longer out here and you'd be sick for a week. His hands come around to grab you, to pull you up and you scream, kicking and fighting your way out of his hold.

“No! No, I wont leave him! I'm not gonna leave him! Let me go!” You cry, banging your punny fists against Bruce’s chest. He doesn't even flinch, he just holds you and lets you cry, kick, and scream. 

“Please let me go! He–he doesn't like being alone, I promised him–I promised I'd never let him be alone.” You cry out again, your voice fizzling into another sob as your fussing stops. You just stand there, slumping into Bruce’s arms, sobbing once more.

He doesn't say another word, he just brushes your tears away and leads you towards the limo where Dick was already situated. Alfred sits you down into the limo, making his way to the driver's seat. Bruce slides in next, eyes aghast and tired, clearly haunted by the loss of his youngest. Dick is turned away from the rest of you in a similar state. The car starts, heading towards the manor.

It was a silent and short ride over, nobody daring or having the strength to say anything. The vehicle comes to a stop, everyone numbly piling out the door and into the Manor. Dinner would be forgotten tonight as everyone went to their own respective places to continue grieving. Bruce, to the Batcave; Alfred, to the Library; Dick, to patrolling the streets of Gotham (knowing that if he stayed in the manor, he’d end up breaking something); and you, to Jason's room.

You crumpled onto the maroon carpet, gazing around his room, hoping that you'd see him pop up and tell you it was all a joke. But he wouldn't. You saw his mangled body. You knew that he was never coming back. What's even worse, is that you could still see Jason’s unfinished math homework lying on his desk, the paper slightly crumpled from when he would undoubtedly grip and erase out of frustration. Mrs. Delaurier’s algebra II homework would forever remain unfinished.

You promptly break into tears once more.

[I want to preface that the reader is NOT adopted by Bruce Wayne!]

[777heavengirl]

the one with the picture

sirius black x reader ! - 2,084 words masterlist bags masterlist A/N: IM BACK IM BACK IM BACK also sorry its so late at night hectic day xoxo i hope you enjoy!! don't forget to drop a little reblog or even just comment guys!! it is so very appreciated and it lets me know y'all want more!

“Ready to become uncles?” You asked, a yawn following your words. 

Remus smiled at you, soft and sleepy from the couch facing yours. His cane rested on the arm of the couch, abandoned for the comfort of the shitty hospital seat. Remus nodded wordlessly.

“I reckon I’ll be a terrible uncle,” Peter gruffed as he shook the box of candies into his mouth, emptying it “I have nothing to teach this bloody baby-”

“I don’t think anyone expects you to teach him anything Wormtail-” Sirius pipped up with a laugh from the corner where he paced in circles, head swiveling towards the room James and Lily were in as a nurse hurried out of it.

You ignored the bustling of nurses, you had long learned by now that unless you saw James, it probably didn’t mean anything.

“Why on Merlin’s green earth did they decide to give birth in a muggle hospital-” Peter groaned into his hands, the hours of waiting bearing down on him.

“Lily refused to do a home birth remember? St Mungo’s doesn't exactly do the whole birth thing- ” Remus muttered from the small beige sofa he had curled up in, long legs spilling from the edge of the cushions. You wondered if he was comfortable, but his eyes were closed and he had barely moved in the past two hours so you assumed on some level he probably was. Well, between his cardigan and long pants, he was at least doing better than you. You could feel your skin start erupting in goosebumps from the cold.

It had been a blur really, the furious knocking at your door at the hands of Peter, and haphazardly putting on the first thing you found after basically clawing off the stuffy funeral dress. You didn’t even have enough time to grab a jacket, barely putting on shoes as Remus and Peter swept you off to the muggle hospital. A shiver ran down your spine as you cursed the pajama shorts and stupid t-shirt you had thrown on. 

You could feel Sirius’s grey eyes on you, staring straight into the side of your head. But you refused to look, instead burying your face further into your hands. You didn’t notice he had moved until he was right next to you- 

“Take it-” Sirius handed you his suit’s jacket, basically shoving it into your arms so you couldn't say no. “You’re going to get sick,” You stared at it, fingers softly squeezing the soft material. He sat next to you. 

The small, beige couch you had chosen to sit on was much like the one you had when you were freshly moved in. It lived in your home for a measly two weeks before Euphemia decreed that no child of hers would have such a stiff abomination in her watch. It was hard and restricting. The two of you might as well have been sitting on a wooden bench. But neither of you dared to move, so you sat, silently, both wishing Euphemia could save you from the clutches of the rigid couch.

Sirius thought of the sofa. And when you first moved in. Together and bright-eyed, he had been so in love with you then. He reckons he still was. But now he knew there was no hope of you loving him back.

He cursed the couch silently.

“Put it on,” he sighed as he leaned back, his white button-up shifting as he threw his arm over the backrest. “Don’t be stubborn-”

You huffed as you put it on, “thanks…”

“Don’t mention it,” you leaned back too, the back of your neck close to his arm, almost touching but quite. “Did you bring my camera?” you nodded, but he didn't answer back. 

You couldn’t stand the distance between you, a thick jelly of silence that was anything but peaceful. You dreaded going home, you dreaded having to face that your best friend, the boy you so dearly loved was upset with you.

Especially over something so petty. What did he care that you had a job? Your own life? Something to do that wasn’t shared with him? It was rather selfish of him, wasn’t it? You could almost hear your father spew that sentence from the darkest pits of your mind. 

You stared at the small bag in Sirius’s hand. You didn’t know why you hadn’t taken notice of it before. He clutched the small velvet bag tightly. Did it have an extension charm? You wondered if it was his things then, had he carried that to the funeral? You thought you would’ve noticed. Had he been planning on staying at James’s? Had he cleared his things at some point without you noticing? 

You rubbed circles into the palm of your hand and chewed at your lip worryingly. 

If your father knew he’d call you stupid. Stupid for not looking for an apartment to move out, stupid for not being the first to leave, irresponsible, too trusting, so stupid.

You decided you maybe didn’t want to know if he was indeed planning to leave. 

“Hey-” he shifted uncomfortably “do you think we can talk about... you know, everything”

“Sirius I don’t know if it's the time-” You refused to even take a peek at him, even though you knew he was staring right at you now. 

“Well, Merlin knows how much longer we’re going to be here-” he was right, you had all been here for ages waiting for the baby to come “so yeah it might be the time,” 

You sighed, finally turning to look at him. His stupid shiny grey eyes, and his stupid porcelain skin. His stupid stupid frowning lip. He’d deny he was sporting one if you called him out on it. 

He had always been a pouty one.

You were mad. At least you wanted to be, but when you looked at him, in all his disheveled glory, the hair he had run his hand through a thousand times, the white button-up with the top buttons undone and that had been unconsciously untucked from his slacks. You just couldn’t be genuinely mad.

So you softened, finally moving to face him. Your knee knocked against his, his warmth transferring from his leg onto your skin.

“I’m sorry, for being so petty earlier- it was unfair and-” Sirius sighed, staring at your hand on your lap. His fingers twitched with the need to hold yours, to feel your no doubt freezing fingers between his warm ones.

He thought of your first week of living together again.

He grabbed your hand. You stared at the bag in his other hand again.

Like if you stared at it hard enough it would tell you its contents. But your thoughts drifted as your soft fingers were enveloped in his. Yet, you didn’t say anything, you didn’t dare. You squeezed his hand and he finally looked up, back from whatever thought he had briefly gotten lost in. 

“I’m really sorry about the past few weeks-”

“I’m sorry too,”

“I just wish you could trust me enough to let me take care of you- there’s no one else in the world I’d rather spend my days with…” You swallowed thickly as he spoke “I love you-”

“My baby’s here!” James burst through a door down the hallway, cheering at the top of his lungs without caring about the nurse shushing him. “He’s here and he’s beautiful come on you lot- come on!”

Sirius quickly scrambled to his feet, the other two boys following in the chaos of unsticking themselves from their respective sofas. You tried to ignore it, the sting in your heart. You loved him too of course. But did he love you the way you loved him? 

There simply wasn't any time for that right now.

Sirius didn’t let go of your hand; he simply pulled, pulled until you came up with him. His hand grabbed tightly onto yours and as you ran down the hall, straight for the door to Lily’s room. 

He never once let go of you.

The room was lowly lit, and Lily looked exhausted, but a smile graced her features nonetheless. Sirius tossed the small velvet bag to James with his free hand. The worry of it left your head as quickly as it had come.

Sirius dragged you by your hand all the way up to the bed, his face turning in wonder as he looked at the small baby in Lily’s arms. 

“He’s so small” Peter called out from the foot of the bed,

“He’s so bloody pink-” Sirius glanced at James’s darker skin, a beaming smile nevertheless decorating his face. “Do you reckon he’ll stay like that? Or did he get the redhead’s genes?”

“Oi is that the first thing you have to say about your godson?” James couldn't help but laugh

“My godson?” Sirius stared blankly at James, briefly flickering between Lily’s equally beaming smile and the baby’s little pink face.

“I meant to ask but-” James smiled sheepishly as Lily glared, 

“Merlin he’s my godson”

“Do you want to hold him?” Lily whispered as Sirius’s face broke into a smile as well, 

“Of course, I want to hold my bloody godson Evans- he’s my godson”

Remus chuckled as he patted James on the back. You couldn’t help but wrap your hand around the camera that hung from your wrist.

 You snapped a picture. 

You knew what Sirius would write on the back of it later.

My godson. July 31, 1980

Just simple, and small, in his fancy, loopy cursive and black ink. But monumental in itself. He had done it. He had a family, he had always had one but now he was properly part of it. He was not just a stray taken in, but he now had a part in it. He’d love that baby until his body gave out. 

He knew it, you knew it, James and Lily knew it. From the second he was born, this baby would be the most loved baby on the planet. 

“I can’t believe he’s mine-”

“You don’t get to take him home mate”

“Hush Prongs- I’m going to be his favorite I know it” Sirius smiled, a playful smirk exchanged between friends. James couldn’t help but quip back

“Right after Uncle Moony-” 

“Ah that’s for sure,” Remus laughed 

“I meant his favorite parent but I reckon Wormtail will be the preferred uncle, with all the candy pouring from his pockets the kid is gonna love him no doubt-” You all couldn’t help but laugh-

“Do you want to hold him too?” Lily asked, her gaze shifting onto your face. “I reckon the godmother also deserves to hold baby Harry-”

“Are you serious? 

“Obviously-” 

“Lily are you being serious-”

“Yes! Black hand her the baby- god-” Sirius chuckled as he passed the small bundle into your arms, placing the camera at the foot of the bed. He was heavier than you expected, and the tears gathered in your eyes as you looked at his little face. Harry was small and definitely pink. He was a quiet little thing, undisturbed by the exchange of hands he was going through. Sirius leaned his chin on top of your shoulder, his cheek borderline pressed against yours. 

“Isn’t he the ugliest most precious thing you’ve ever seen?”

“Oi!”

“He’s so ugly it's cute-” His words tickled your ear

“I don’t think babies are supposed to be all that cute straight after birth Sirius-”

“I know love,”

“Alright, picture time idiots-” Remus said, leaning on his cane as he grabbed the camera with his free hand. James sitting on the side of Lily’s bed as you and Sirius also approached, baby Harry still in your arms.

“I look like shit-” You huffed as you sat on the bed with Lily

“I do too”

“Yeah, but you have a reason to Lils” Lily laughed. Sirius’s hand never left your back. 

“Well- he won’t remember anyway-”

“The picture will-”

“Say godparents!” Sirius had basically wrapped himself to your side, his face pressed against yours, his arm around your waist as he leaned down for the picture.

The flash made your eyes sting, a wide smile on your face. 

It was fitting, the disheveled state of the lot of you, even in the picture the nurse would take for you all later. A family sewed together like a mismatched quilt. 

Sirius smiled all night.

“Seriously though why is he so pink? Is this some sort of condition? Bloody baby doesn’t look anything like Prongs-”

“-Yet” James beamed.

My family, July 31, 1980

taglist ; @thatlittlered @giuli-in-earth @notsolong-pause @niceonejames7 @caspiankingofnarnia @ilovejamespottersomuch @bmyva1entine @lanadelreykt @froggiedragon @stanzie

LET ME KNOW IF I MISSED U OR IF YOU WANNA BE ADDED (i was gone for like a month and some change so i may have not been able to properly keep up with the tag list but i did my best)

[risustravelogue]

Gifts of A Kind

Summary:

His love for you is the gift he's offering.

Featuring:

Zhongli, Alhaitham, Wriothesley

Tags:

Emotional hurt/comfort, love confessions, self-indulgent, reader has mental health issues and huge insecurity about her worthiness of being loved. Fem!Reader (referred to as a woman) who is having her birthday!

Note:

Me: Happy birthday to me! 🥳 Also me: *writes an emotional hurt/comfort piece with my favorites to cry* Haha. Also, I'm resting from the 1-week EBG grind, so have this for now. As always, enjoy~

🔗 AO3 | masterlist 🔗

It’s another busy day at Bubu Pharmacy.

Sorting the medicinal ingredients in one of the back rooms, you were humming to yourself when a familiar baritone voice came from behind you.

“Happy birthday.”

You turn around to find your crush, the handsome consultant of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor, walking towards you with a huge bouquet of silk flowers, dotted with the biggest glaze lilies you’ve ever seen in your life.

“Zhongli! You remembered!” you squeal.

When the man you fancy remembers your birthday, you say thanks to Celestia above. Especially when he’s actually Liyue’s beloved archon.

—This is fine. He can never be mine, but I can have my small joys, can’t I?

“I have a gift for you,” he says with a playful lilt to his voice as he hands over the bouquet to you.

“You mean this pretty thing?”

He smiles. “No. It’s a surprise. Close your eyes.”

You obey. Your heart thumps with anticipation. Maybe you’re finally getting that cute hairclip you’ve been eyeing for a while? Or maybe…

Your thoughts dissolve into thin air when you feel a soft warmth pressing against your lips and the scent of his cologne entering your sense of smell. Your eyes flutter open to find your vision filled with him.

But it’s not joy you feel inside your chest—it’s dread.

You struggle in protest, only for him to snake his left arm around you and press his lips harder against yours. He takes the bouquet away from your hands and sets it on the table behind you while nipping at your lower lip, as if asking for permission. You put your hands on his chest and push him away, breathless.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask.

Zhongli blinks, surprised.

“I thought you wanted it. Was I wrong?”

You shake your head and offer him a frown. “Why?”

“Is that not obvious? I love you.”

—What?

“What did you just say?”

He smiles as he repeats, “I love you.”

“... Heh,” you chuckle, and it turns into a full-blown laughter. “You’re lying. You wouldn’t.”

He only stares into your eyes with those golden pupils of his, his soft expression still like the mountains. You shake your head, dispersing the thoughts that maybe, just maybe—

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “No one would, especially not you.”

You feel his left hand clench at the small of your back as his expression hardens. “Why not?” he asks.

A bitter smile grows on your lips. “You know why. I’m—you know. I’ll only be a burden for you. For anyone.”

“I can bear it, and you know that.”

“But I’m—I’m defective and you know it!” you shout, pushing him away to no avail. His eyes widen, his heart taken aback at how much you must have hurt. You feel your chest clench as you mutter, “I am not the right person for you.”

Zhongli sighs and caresses your cheek, so gently as if you are the most fragile piece of porcelain he has ever held.

“Listen. No one is perfect. Not even me. And you… you awaken something I have never felt in the thousands of years of my life. And I want—”

His lips quirk to form a painful smile.

“I want to keep you by my side, for as long as I am allowed.”

You chuckle bitterly as you slap his hand away.

“Stop it. I don’t want this. I don’t—you’re mistaken. You don’t love me. You can’t.”

Tears roll down your cheek as your fingers clench on the fabric of his suit.

“Please… you can’t.”

A heavy silence hangs between you. His fingers find their way under your chin, tilting your face up towards him.

“Look at me,” he whispers. You shut your eyes in defiance, and you can feel tears dripping down your chin.

“You are the kindest woman I know, and have a strength beyond what even most gods can comprehend. And please believe me when I say I have never met anyone like you in my life,” he says, his voice gentle like you’ve never heard before. You open your eyes to find his gaze looking softly into yours.

“I love you. I will be yours if you want me to.”

He smiles, and you can feel your heart melt.

“Let me be your strength, your rock, your home. Will my word as the God of Contracts do?”

Expressive is one of the last attributes one would assign to the Scribe of the Akademiya, who also happens to be your longtime crush.

So you were surprised to find a saccharine sweet love letter in a pink envelope containing the words “I,” “love,” and “you”—in that order, next to each other—in his distinctly neat handwriting arriving at your doorstep on your birthday.

It’s not funny anymore, you think, deciding to confront him for playing with your feelings. You stroll to his office and bang at the door harshly, your face hot with anger.

“Come in,” the room’s owner says. You barge in, slamming the letter he sent you onto his desk.

“Out of all of your jokes, I rate this shit minus a hundred out of ten,” you say, voice shaking.

The silver-haired man tilts his head, seemingly confused. “What joke are you talking about?”

“This,” you smack the tip of your index finger onto the pink envelope, the force nearly ripping the paper in two. “This fucking letter, Alhaitham.”

“Oh, that,” he says with a smile. “I assure you, it’s not a joke.”

“Stop playing around!” you shout. “You said you love me, you liar.”

“Careful, I did say that, but my patience still has an end,” he says, his voice low, almost a growl. He sighs. “Why would you say I’m lying?”

You scoff. “Because there’s no way, right? You’re perfect, men and women alike want your hand in romance, and you said you love me?”

You laugh derisively as you try to ignore the sharp pain penetrating your chest.

“You can’t love me. You can’t. I’m just a pathetic woman fumbling through life, unlike you. You’re fit as a fiddle while I have to take medication every single night, else my sanity would crumble like dust. I’m a burden to everyone I’ve ever cared about. So please, just stop.”

You feel your lips tremble as you grit your teeth in pain. Alhaitham frowns.

“Yes, I know about all that. I still love you, though.”

“Shut up, Haitham.” You lower your head and turn away, stifling back a sob. “I don’t deserve you. Nobody wants me, and that should include you.”

He slams his fists against his desk as he stands up, making you jump in surprise at his loss of composure. He saunters over around the desk and stops in front of you, his much taller figure looming over your head. His hands find their way to squeeze your shoulders.

“Who hurt you?” he demands, his palms trembling in quiet rage. “I swear I’ll hunt them down and make them suffer for making you think so lowly about yourself.”

“No one,” you lie. The pain in your chest pulses. “I’m just stating the truth.”

“It’s not the truth,” he says, his hands moving to cup your cheeks. “One as strong as you shouldn’t have such a low opinion of themselves.”

He lowers his head to meet you in a slow kiss. A tear rolls down your cheek as you relish the feel of his soft lips against yours.

“There,” he mumbles after pulling back. “Now do you believe me?”

“I don’t want to,” you finally admit, tears now streaming down your face. “I can’t.”

“Then—give me the chance to prove my love for you. Please,” he says while pulling you close. You shut your eyes, taking in his presence like a thirsty deer greedily drinking from the water’s surface. The words he whispers next have a certain promise woven into them.

“I am going to make you the happiest person in the universe.”

The Duke of the Fortress of Meropide looks a bit different than usual today. You are certain of that.

Whenever he catches sight of you, he’ll either hum tunes to himself, smile like an idiot, or walk towards you with a skip in his step that others barely miss.

Too bad you’re only his personal mechanic. Pointing his strange behavior out is way above your pay grade.

… Which is what you’ve been saying to yourself, but your feelings, your amour for him screams and rebels inside your chest, threatening to spill into the flirty sentence of “Wow, someone sure is happy to see me.” You bite on the insides of your cheeks to hold it back. After all, he knows that you’re literally sick in the head, and he wouldn’t want someone like you by his side.

He would never, ever fall in love with you.

But, if that is true… what is that beautiful bouquet of Rainbow Roses doing in his hands, then?

“Happy birthday, wonderful woman,” he greets, a grin plastered across his face. “Please accept this duke’s gratitude.”

“Gratitude?” you ask, folding your hand over your chest where your heart is—the organ working super hard to pump more blood to your already-pink cheeks.

“Yes. Gratitude for all the work you’ve done,” he says in a sing-song voice.

You sigh, trying to rein in the butterflies in your stomach. “Wriothesley, I’m not an idiot. I know what Rainbow Roses mean.”

His smile turns melancholic.

“So what do you say?”

You harden your expression, trying to keep your tone as flat as possible.

“I’m sorry… I can’t.”

An uncomfortable silence goes on for a few seconds.

“Sure you can. Why not? I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

“No, I can’t. Now please stop this nonsense, Boss.”

He takes a step closer, and you take a step back.

“Go away,” you say, turning away from him while stifling back a sob. “I can’t have you.”

He puts a hand on your shoulder. “You can. I want you to have me.”

You shake your head and shrug him off, tears starting to roll down your cheeks as the pain in your chest grows stronger.

“I can’t! I won’t burden you with… with me, of all things!”

“Stop saying that!”

Before you can react, he turns you around and pulls you into him, wrapping you with his strong arms like he’s protecting you from the cold, cruel world.

“Please stop saying that. You’re not a burden. You are never a burden.”

You try to push him away, but he doesn’t budge. His shushes drown your grunts of struggle.

“Let me go. Please, I can’t want this—I can’t want you,” you finally plead, but he only pulls you closer, trapping your hands between your chest and his. You limp, pathetic sobs filling the air as you finally surrender.

“You want to know a secret?” he asks. He does not wait for your answer.

“I think you’re perfect. The way you pursue growth, the way you love. You are the most precious thing I have in my life,” he says, his voice half a whisper. “I am eternally thankful for you. Thank you for coming into my life. I’m at my best when I’m with you, and I don’t only mean because you can fix my gauntlets.”

His embrace tightens around you. You can feel his growing stubble rub against your temple.

“And if I don’t at least try being with you, I’m sure I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”

He sighs as he presses his lips to the crown of your head, the warmth sending goosebumps across your skin.

“I want to be your home. I want… no, I need you by my side,” he continues.

Your grip on his vest tightens as you feel him bury his face into your hair.

“I love you. I love you so much, my heart hurts every moment I remember that you’re not mine,” he whispers. He pulls back, only to press his lips against yours in a slow, gentle kiss the next moment.

“Please… be mine. I will never let you down. That’s my vow to you, and I intend to keep it for the rest of my life.”

He looks into your eyes, his gaze as gentle as a beautiful snowflake. You tiptoe a bit to meet him in another kiss. He chuckles as he returns the favor with passion.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

© @risustravelogue 2024 • FEEDING THIS WORK TO GENERATIVE AIs IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED. • do not repost. • reblogs are precious. • feel free to send an ask to suggest, chat, etc. 💖

[frankcastleonlyfans]

𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐍 𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐄𝐒

pairing: daemon targaryen x royce!reader

summary: after an unexpected invitation to a wedding at the north, y/n royce teams up with her unbearable ex-husband, prince daemon targaryen, on a journey that leads us to Winterfell, where they plan to stop their daughter from marrying cregan stark.

author's note: this short series (it will probably be a trilogy) is based off the movie "ticket to paradise" (yes the one with george clooney and julia roberts)

warnings: enemies to lovers, short haired daemon, y/n and daemon hate each other and will probably remind you of your divorced parents. daenys is 18 and i don't remember how old is cregan sorry :)

reblogs, feedbacks and likes are appreciated. support your content creators 💓 please leave a comment if you like my work, and enjoy your reading.

· ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · ༓ ༓ · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ ·

You thought that years after your daughter became a woman, parenting wouldn't be a problem in your life anymore. You were wrong. As your eyes read the letter in your hand, over and over again, your mind screamed: This is all his fault!!! And of course you knew it wasn't directly his fault, after all, your ex-husband resided at King's Landing, and probably by now he'd be reading the letter, same as you, after receiving this dreadful news. Your sweet young daughter has just got engaged to Cregan Stark.

Daemon's nostrils dilated in anger. Two weeks ago, Viserys had asked him to visit Winterfell and make presence at Cregan's takeover ceremony, as he just became the new Lord of Winterfell. The Prince was ready to do so, but his precious Daenys asked him to go on her father and uncle's behalf. Now, Daemon would take the blame as he knew it was, in fact, his fault.

As the The Rogue Prince went over the words written on the paper, he could already feel your future judgmental gaze burning him alive. He had thrown his daughter to the wolves, and she thought she was prepared to lead the pack. She asked to go and he let her. Now, he was invited to a wedding at The North.

This wouldn't be happening if she lived in The Vale with you. But no, she had to choose daddy. She would always choose daddy. The Vale didn't had a dragonpit, The Vale didn't had her silver-haired family, The Vale didn't had anything but cows and sheeps and grass. But The Vale had you, and sometimes Daenys would stay for a few weeks with you, even if that meant that her dragon would be flying around Runestone and scaring the villagers.

You had received a raven from Daemon, inviting you to King's Landing so he could escort you to Winterfell on dragonback. Though you preferred the more traditional method of traveling on horseback, you accepted.

The capitol greeted you with its usual oppressive heat and unpleasant smells. It was as you remembered it: hot, congested, and overwhelmingly unpleasant. The last time you had been here was for Rhaenyra's engagement, which had turned into a wedding—and a funeral. The bitterness of that memory lingered.

The court's reception of you was as cold as the city was warm. You were an outsider—no Targaryen lineage, no purple eyes, and no place in the intricate web of court politics. Queen Alicent, though not a Targaryen herself, had embraced the court's customs, which had twisted her children into incestuous little monsters. And as for the heir to the Iron Throne, Rhaenyra's disdain for you was palpable, perhaps fueled by her own obsession with Daemon. The rest of the court's members paid little heed to your presence.

Your carriage delivered you to the Dragonpit, where Daemon was preoccupied with Caraxes, his dragon. The beast’s excitement was evident in its whistling and the way it eagerly twisted its neck to catch sight of you.

Daemon's scowl was familiar as he wrestled with Caraxes. “I wondered if you’d actually come,” he grumbled, his voice a mix of irritation and begrudging relief.

“You knew I had no choice, someone had to come fix up your mess." You shrugged, getting closer to pet the animal.

"My mess!? I don't remember telling Daenys to marry Cregan fucking Stark!" The Rogue Prince scoffed, his voice sounding a little high pitched, "I gave her a task, It's not my fault she has done something completely different."

You hissed at his audacious condescension, "You gave her your task, your responsibility. It's your fault Daemon, as everything is always your fault."

The Rogue Prince frowned as he hopped on his dragon's back, "What's that supposed to mean?"

You chose to ignore him, but accepted his help to get on top of Caraxes' back.

It took eight agonizing hours upon the skies on way to Winterfell, and you could only imagine how many Stark babies your daughter had made by now. It was quite silent upon the clouds, and you could feel the cold air of The North starting to freeze your bones. You wondered if Daenys had adapted herself to the cold already. As always, all your thoughts were on your daughter.

A soft, almost comical tune drifted over as Daemon hummed in High Valyrian while steering the dragon. You rolled your eyes and snorted.

"What’s so amusing now?" Daemon asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Just thinking about how we're going to stop her from marrying the North’s icy prince," you replied with a sigh.

Daemon’s eyes sparkled with mischief. "We should act like we're totally onboard with this. I'll get Cregan to admit he's marrying her just to get his hands on political power, and you, with your talent for manipulation, can work your magic on her."

You shot him a sharp look. "Oh, right. Because your idea of ‘support’ is turning into a two-faced schemer, and my ‘magic’ is just being a professional puppet master. Perfect."

Daemon chuckled at your response, his gaze fixed on the icy expanse below. "It’s not a matter of ‘manipulating’ her, it’s about protecting her. If this marriage goes south, it’s not just her future at risk—it’s the stability of my entire line."

“Stability? You’ve always cared more about your pride and dragons than anything else,” you retorted, shivering slightly as the cold air intensified.

“Pride and dragons have their place, but you underestimate my concern for Daenys,” Daemon said, his voice softening. “She’s my daughter too. If this marriage is a political maneuver or a trap, I need to know. And unfortunately I need your help to do that.”

The snow-covered landscape of Winterfell was becoming clearer as Caraxes descended. You glanced at Daemon, seeing a flicker of genuine worry in his eyes. For a moment, the old animosity between you seemed to melt away, replaced by a shared concern for your daughter.

As Caraxes touched down in the snow-covered grounds of Winterfell, the stark chill of the North bit through your layers. Daemon’s expression was a mix of determination and frustration, and you couldn’t help but notice how the grandeur of Winterfell seemed to dwarf the fiery presence of his dragon.

You and Daemon dismounted swiftly, the crunch of snow beneath your boots echoing in the silent, frigid air. The imposing structure of Winterfell loomed ahead, a stark contrast to the warmth and opulence of King's Landing.

“The Starks will be expecting us,” Daemon said tersely, his gaze scanning the frosty landscape. “We need to play our parts carefully.”

You nodded, still bristling from the cold and the tension between you two. “I’ll do my best. But if this whole affair is some kind of power grab or an elaborate ploy against us, I want to make sure Daenys is safe.”

Daemon’s expression softened again, a rare glimpse of vulnerability crossing his features. “We’ll find out soon enough. For now, let’s just hope this is a union built on more than just politics.”

As you approached the gates of Winterfell, the grandeur of the ancient castle was both intimidating and awe-inspiring. The guards let you pass with minimal fuss, their cold eyes assessing you and Daemon with practiced neutrality. The hallways of Winterfell were lined with Stark banners, and the warmth from the hearths provided a small relief from the biting cold outside.

You were soon ushered into a grand hall where Cregan Stark awaited. His presence was as formidable as his reputation, with an aura of quiet strength that seemed to fill the room. Beside him was Daenys, looking regal but noticeably tense, her eyes meeting yours with a mix of relief and apprehension.

“Mother, Father,” Daenys greeted, her voice steady despite the situation. “I’m glad you’ve arrived safely.”

You offered her a warm but concerned smile, taking in her attire and the unmistakable signs of stress on her face. "Daenys, dear. You look… well. But we need to talk."

Cregan stepped forward, his expression courteous but his eyes sharp. "Welcome to Winterfell. I trust the journey was not too arduous?"

Daemon gave a curt nod, his eyes fixed on Cregan. “It was long, but we’ve managed. I hope the arrangements for the wedding are proceeding as planned?”

Cregan’s expression remained neutral. “Indeed. We’ve made all necessary preparations. I’m eager to discuss the future and the alliance this marriage represents.”

As the conversation continued, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just the beginning of a complex and possibly perilous chapter. You knew you’d have to navigate not only the intricacies of court politics but also the fraught emotions of a father who was clearly worried about his daughter’s well-being.

The banquet that followed was a display of Northern hospitality, but your mind was elsewhere, focusing on how to ensure Daenys’s future was secure. As the evening wore on, you planned your next steps carefully, knowing that every word and action would impact the delicate balance of relationships that had already been strained.

As you finally retired to your quarters for the night, you and Daemon shared a moment of silence. The weight of the situation was palpable, and while the old arguments and grievances were still there, a shared purpose had emerged. Protecting Daenys was now the priority, and perhaps, in this endeavor, you and Daemon could find some common ground, if only for a little while.

In the stillness of the night, you lay in the unfamiliar bed of Winterfell, the grandeur of the castle doing little to soothe your growing unease. The banquet had been a parade of forced smiles and veiled threats, and the cold seemed to seep through your bones with each passing moment.

A knock at your door broke the silence, and you opened it to find Daemon, his face lit by the flickering torchlight. His usually stern demeanor was tinged with a rare hint of vulnerability.

"Thought I'd find you awake," Daemon said, stepping inside, uninvited "We need to be extra cautious. Cregan Stark is shrewd, and there’s more to this marriage than meets the eye."

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. "Is that so? Because it sounds like you’re just now realizing what kind of game the Starks are playing. Should I prepare myself for a lecture on how wolves hunt in packs?"

Daemon scowled, clearly irritated. "I don't need you to remind me. What I need is to figure out if this alliance is a genuine union or a clever trap."

You snorted, leaning against the wall. "And you think I’m here for the fun of it? We need to be careful, Daemon. You can’t just stomp around like a bull in a wolf’s den and expect to come out unscathed."

Daemon’s eyes flashed with irritation. "I’m not planning on stomping around. I’m suggesting we handle this with some subtlety. Unlike some people who seem to think they can charm their way through every situation."

You gave him a sharp look. "Oh, don’t start with the high-handed approach. We both know you’re just as likely to spark a conflict as you are to prevent one. If you want to be useful, maybe try blending in with the Northerners instead of prancing around like a dragon amongst wolves."

He narrowed his eyes. "And maybe you could stop pretending you have all the answers and start cooperating for once. We’re in this together, whether you like it or not."

With a huff, you pushed away from the wall. "Fine. Let’s agree to not kill each other while we’re here. But remember, Daemon, while you’re plotting your next move, I’ll be the one trying to keep the peace and avoid any unnecessary skirmishes."

Daemon’s expression softened just a fraction. "Agreed. I’ll focus on not antagonizing everyone, if you focus on not making me look like a fool."

As he turned to leave, you caught his arm, a smile playing on your lips. "If this goes south, I expect a full report on how you are to blame."

He shot you a sardonic smile. "I’ll make sure to include a chapter on your unmatched ability to defuse a crisis."

With that, he left, and you returned to the window, staring out at the snow-covered grounds. The chill of Winterfell seemed to amplify the tensions between you, but perhaps, with a bit of wit and a lot of careful maneuvering, you could unravel the true nature of this alliance and ensure Daenys's future wasn't just a pawn in a Stark game.

chapter two: icy flames

[miley1442111]

fresh out the slammer- a.hotchner

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

a/n: yes, i am a swifty- sorry lmao.

intended for fem reader!

summary: based off of fresh out the slammer by taylor swift

pairings: aaron hotchner x reader

warnings: sad ending, talk of falling out of love, aaron is still in love with Haley

the tortured poets department masterlist

Now pretty baby, I'm running back home to you

Fresh out the slammer, I know who my first call will be to

Fresh out the slammer, oh

Aaron unlocked the door to your shared home, one thought on his mind. Haley. 

He missed her more than life itself. He missed being a family with Jack and her. He missed it all. 

You were his girlfriend, you should’ve been on his mind. You had been there for him during his recent recovery after the stabbings with Foyet, you were working at all hours to try and find Foyet, you were always there for him. He loved you, truly. 

But you weren't Haley. 

Another summer takin' cover, rolling thunder

He don't understand me

Splintered back in winter, silent dinners, bitter

He was with her in dreams

He lay beside you in your bed. You were already asleep, soft snores falling from your beautiful lips. A certain unease settled into Aaron’s body. He realised something slowly, and it led to a heavy sense of dread, shame, regret, and guilt. 

He didn’t love you. He was still in love with Haley. 

He thought of Haley everyday, every night. He wondered what she was doing, now that he didn’t know where she or Jack was.

Sleep evaded him that night. 

Gray and blue and fights and tunnels

Handcuffed to the spell I was under

For just one hour of sunshine

Years of labor, locks, and ceilings

In the shade of how he was feeling

But it's gonna be alright, I did my time

Weeks passed and Aaron became more and more distant. He cancelled dates, came home late, he was reckless at work. 

You felt hopeless. You knew something was wrong, but you couldn’t figure out what. You decided to confront him, staying up late enough to catch him. 

“Aaron, what’s going on?” You asked as he walked into your shared bedroom. He stared at you for a moment, then sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Nothing,” he lied.

“Aaron, I’m a profiler too. Tell me.”

He felt conflicted. He liked you, a lot. He’d been dating you for a year. He’d thought he was over Haley, he was wrong. “I’m not in love with you anymore, I’m not sure I ever was.”

Your heart broke, but you swallowed it back. “Ok,” you whispered and got up, grabbing your go-bag and walking out. Aaron didn’t chase you. He didn’t want to. 

You got into your car and let yourself break down. He never loved you. He was still in love with Haley. You were just a placeholder for her. 

You went to Penelope’s place, knowing she’d be there for you. She let you in immediately and comforted you to sleep.

Now, pretty baby, I'm runnin' back home to you

Frеsh out the slammer, I know who my first call will be to

(Frеsh out the slammer, oh)

Haley was dead. You felt devastated for Aaron and Jack, not enough to speak to him though. You attended the funeral, you stood beside the rest of the team, then went straight to Strauss. You handed in you badge and gun, leaving the BAU behind. You cut everyone off, blocking their numbers, moving house, taking up a job in the CIA instead. 

Aaron had officially lost you. In the weeks of your breakup, he’d realised how wrong he was, that he had loved you, that he was in love with you. 

Camera flashes, welcome bashes, get the matches

Toss the ashes off the ledge

As I said in my letters, now that I know better

I will never lose my baby again

He spent weeks trying to find you, finding nothing. You’d asked one of your new colleagues to essentially wipe your existence off the face of the earth. You changed your name, you changed. 

He’d made Penelope look for you for months, he went to your family as a last result. 

“You want to know where Y/n is?” Your father asked. “We thought you’d know.”

His heart stopped. You were missing. 

He got the team on it immediately, until Strauss called him in. 

“Aaron, Y/n Y/l/n is not missing. She’s been reassigned,” she explained.

“Why can’t we find her then! All of her accounts were drained and closed, her family don’t know where she is, and she left the BAU!” He demanded. 

“She was reassigned Aaron, that’s the end of it.”

He was helpless. You were gone. 

My friends tried, but I wouldn't hear it

Watch me daily disappearing

For just one glimpse of his smile

All those nights, he kept me goin'

Swirled you into all of my poems

Now we're at the starting line, I did my time

He took a leave of absence from the BAU for a month, deciding to try and find you on his own. He looked through everything on you, tried to remember details you’d told him, but he came up with nothing. 

Until he saw you on a case. 

Now, pretty baby, I'm runnin'

To the house where you still wait up and that porch light gleams (Gleams)

To the one who says I'm the girl of his American dreams

And no matter what I've done, it wouldn't matter anyway

Ain't no way I'm gonna screw up now that I know what's at stake here

At the park where we used to sit on children's swings

Wearing imaginary rings

You were a CIA agent, you were happy the way you were. You’d found a husband in the 2 years since you’d left the BAU. He loved you and adored you like you were supposed to be adored. He was a childhood best friend, one you’d had a crush on as a child. Aaron walked into the CIA building and saw you with your hand in his. His world crumbled for the third time in his life. 

You had found someone else. You shot him and the entire team a small, knowing smile, and assisted them on their case.  

“We thought you’d died,” Derek admitted as you were all cleaning up the conference room they were using as an office. 

“Well technically Y/n died, I’m Y/n/n now. Y/n/n Scott,” You smiled, showing off your wedding ring and smiling at your husband, the other CIA agent that was helping with the investigation. Aaron’s stomach turned. At least you were happy. 

But it's gonna be alright, I did my time

[izvmimi]

cw: angst. character death. you and izuku are married and have a young son. godparent!katsuki. katsuki has an unnamed wife.

Your son always starts a fuss when you bring him to his grandmother’s house, but for some reason, as you slowly trudge up the steps to your mother-in-law’s modest home (she’d refused to let her son move her out into your large shared home or even a much larger, more roomy domicile of her own), you find that your son is eerily quiet, as though he can sense the turmoil inside of you and is choosing to give you a much needed break. 

By the time he makes it into Inko’s arms, he’s always less fussy, but today he’s quietly looking at you, curiously, as if he’s waiting for you to break down and cry. He’s unnerving that way, gifted with practically the same emotional intuition as your sweet husband, and it doesn’t help that he has practically the same face. Inko is quick to take your behaving not-yet-toddler from you, and gives you a sympathetic look. She is not going to the funeral yet because she plans to watch your son, but she’s spent practically every night this week at Mitsuki’s house, preparing food and helping her through her tears. You’ve helped your best friend, Katsuki’s wife, grieve similarly, but now that the final moment has come to lay him to rest, you feel dread rising in the pit of your stomach. 

You should not show your face. After all, you killed Katsuki Bakugou.

After you repeat this statement again out loud to your mother-in-law, shaky hands folded in your lap as she hands you a glass of water and tries to steady your nerves, she reminds you, as all good mothers would, that it wasn’t your fault.

He’d meant to save you. You hadn’t been the one to force an unclosable hole through his chest, and if it hadn’t been you standing and vulnerable in that particular spot, it would have been someone else he’d have aimed to save. 

Perhaps that last part is true. Or perhaps, because you are one of his closest friends' treasures, he fought a little bit harder, moved a little bit quicker and a little bit more recklessly to ensure that you made it out, that you’d be the one to explain to your best friend why her husband is not coming home to dinner, rather than he have to explain to Izuku why the mother of his child is no longer of this world. It’s a moment that plays in your mind constantly ever since you first heard the sickening crunch of bone and sinew give way, the spray of your child’s godfather’s blood soaking your clean clothes.

You’d just been at the grocery store and run into each other by chance. It’s been over a decade long gag now to pretend you hate each other more than everything while acknowledging that you’ve both intertwined your lives with a person the other holds terribly dear. When you saw Katsuki you crinkled your nose, a joke akin to ‘look what the cat dragged in’ muttered in some variation by you both, before walking side by side and catching up. The four of you had dinner plans that weekend anyway and Katsuki takes the idea of godparent far too seriously for being an only child, and thus was far too interested in what you were putting in your cart.

“I read kids develop their tastes early in life and I don’t think this” - he picks up a six-pack carton of juice that was admittedly laden in sugar from your cart - “is particularly conducive to healthy development.”

“Katsuki, I didn’t ask you,” you hiss, snatching it out of his hands, then sheepishly add, “in fact, that was mine.”

He laughs and shakes his head.

“Figures for all that chaotic energy you have,” he jokes. 

You had more to say to him, and then merely ten minutes later, in a flurry of explosions and debris, screams and scattered people,  you were staring straight through his chest to the other side.

“Fuck.”

Fuck? You thought. Katsuki looking at you, then looking at the gaping wound in his chest, then looking at the incapacitated villain and the destroyed supermarket, then looking back at your hands deep in his wound, pressing down at his chest desperately to stop the bleeding as best you can, tears running down your cheeks. You who so often were joined at the hip with the one he loves, who’s grown to merge their natural smile with Izuku’s over time, whose face is distorted in fear and shock and desperation to keep him alive so you don’t have to tell your best friend that you are the reason he’s no longer here to protect her.

Because he was protecting you. For his friend. For his wife. For the kid you’ve entrusted to him in case something happens to your or Izuku's child, who better not get that goddamn juice box.

“Hey, it’s okay.”

You want to scream, no it’s not, it will never be, how am I supposed to tell her-

“I forgive you. I’m not mad. Just take care of her, okay?”

Katsuki’s voice was the quietest, calmest you had ever heard it be since you’ve met him and you hate that he smiled, and you hate hate hate that Izuku would have done it for him, too. 

The shaking turns into sobs again and Inko holds your hands tightly. Your son is upstairs, too occupied with toys, again far too polite and considerate, and you wonder if he’ll remember how hard you are crying right now. If he’ll remember his father crying and holding you that terrible evening. You wonder what he’ll do when he’s old enough to know why his auntie doesn’t have a husband and why there are four people smiling in that wedding photo that hangs in your home instead of the three he knows, and who bought him nearly half of his books and toys. 

“I can’t go there,” you whisper again. 

Inko tilts her head. 

“But she needs you,” Inko murmurs. You wipe your tears with the back of your hands. Your husband, who isn’t the coward you are, is already at the funeral, working through funeral arrangements. Your throat dries up at how much he must be apologizing again, or perhaps he’s not apologizing at all, keeping his head up high and reminding everyone that Dynamight died saving someone important to him and what he did was not a mistake. 

“Kacchan is a true hero.” Izuku repeated softly into your ear, then to himself, then to you again, then to the world, then to his wife. His wife who should hate you but is too mournful to bother.

“I can’t go there,” you repeat. “I cannot look her in the eyes.”

But your best friend needs you and cried in your arms that very first night.

Inko nods.

“But she’d do it for you,” she says, softly.

She would do it for you, the same way Izuku would have done it for Katsuki. 

…

Moments later, you’re squeezing Dynamight’s widow’s hand as Izuku praises him, and you wish it hadn’t turned out this way but you’re at least fulfilling your promise.

Just take care of her, okay? 

You will, for the rest of your life.

[betterinvienna]

" too far off " ; hayakawa aki

synopsis — in a world without you, aki is haunted by your absence though it is never truly silent | (aki x gn!reader)

song inspo — funeral by phoebe bridgers

tags — light angst (?), pre-gundevil

content warnings — selfharm-ish (?), grief, death (occurrence not detailed)

word count — 455

authors note — hiya ... this is my first fic like ever & i haven't even touched the angst topic. i just love csm. i wrote this in a day and didn't proofread any of it so don't b 2 brutal in the cmnts </3 thank u for reading - and maybe request something - i love writing off of prompts ^__^

She’s dead. She’s dead. She’s gone. She’s dead.

It’s been a year – maybe a little over it – but it’s 4 AM, and Hayakawa Aki remembers you. Every bit, follicle, scar, curve, and pore, like you were yesterday. Running a hand over his face to quiet his incessant thoughts, he, unfortunately, drifts off to sleep, the sick feeling – dread – in the pit of his stomach festering like an ugly wound. Like all of the other nights, he dreams the same dream, nightmares the same nightmare. He doesn’t need an explanation for it. After a certain point, he began to lose the hope that it isn’t just a meaningless hell.

It’s the one where he’s awfully lucid, standing in the middle of the ocean, and you’re just arm’s length away from his shivering body. But no matter how far he reaches, which angle he contorts his body, how loud he yells your name, he can’t touch you. This time, he doesn’t attempt any of his desperate antics and watches you quietly as the transparent waves crash against you and your head cranes around – but never enough “around” to make its way behind you, to see who awaits you. Who awaited you. God. Why not pick someone else to torment?

Unfortunately, you never do. 

Aki drags himself out of bed and into the kitchen he shares with his subordinates, choosing to ignore the spaghetti-stained plates in the sink and the sticky spills on the counter as he grabs a mug and shuffles his way to the tap. She’s dead. She’s dead. She’s dead. For the past 12 months, 52 weeks, 365 days, 8,760 hours — it’s been a constant loop. She’s dead. She’s gone. She’s dead. She – he gulps down his water, a bit too much of it, and it pushes against his throat and burns him as hard liquor would. To Aki, that hurt is good. An all too welcome distraction. If he digs his nails into his forearm a little more, scratches the side of his head with a bit more fervor, maybe you’ll knock on his door with that pretty smile of yours again.

But you don’t. You won’t, and never will again.

The coppery taste of blood fills his mouth only after he relaxes his jaw and relents the attack against his tongue, allowing a caring glance to the eerily silent door of Power and Denji’s room before stepping out into the balcony to light a cigarette. You hated cigarettes, he knows – but you’re not here to tell him off for the action anymore, so he flips lid on the shiny black lighter and sets the ceramic mug aside to grab one from his back pocket. 

After all, you’re gone, aren’t you?

[love-toxin]

Retrieval - entry I

plot: after escaping the horrors of Los Iluminados, a piece of your heart is still stuck in that desolate place. you won't truly be able to rest until you find him--or until you put him down like the monster you wish you'd saved him from.

(cws: post-canon divergence, re4make spoilers, yandere!plagas!leon, fem!agent!reader, guns & blunt weapons, blood, gore & injuries, violence, grief, funerals, pining [chapter smut cws: wet dreams, mild choking, possessiveness, unprotected]

wc: 5.3k

(future entries to come! <3)

No matter how much time passes, you're certain this place will always reek of blood and death. It will always be the place that you lost the person most dear to you, and in such a vile, cruel way that it still haunts your darkest nightmares.

It's been awhile since then, but it all still feels the same when you step down from the car and let the door shut with an unapologetic thud. The air hangs heavy and thick with humidity, and although the distant stench of rot is lesser this time around, it still lurks in the background of your senses like a shadow creeping by the windows of a house. The trees hang low and sway gently as you pass them, crows beckoning you deeper into the brush with their croaking trills echoing all around you. Aside from a pitiful line of cautionary police tape strung across an iron gate, even the entryway and the path leading into the village all look exactly as they did weeks ago.

The last time your feet hit the dirt here, only Leon had been your much-needed company in your venture. You'd walked through the mud and ran through the mist together; searching the lodge and being chased into the heart of the village had only been the beginning. His breathing had been the thing to keep you calm then, of all things. Those heavy pants when he scrambled through doors and soft puffs of his chest when it was a touch too quiet; it reminded you that he was alive, and saved you from having to glance over and pray in the seconds between that he wasn't being carved into a bloody stump by a Ganados.

But all that? That was a long time ago. It feels like a lifetime, and yet neither of those timelines are the truth–really, it's barely been a month since you and Leon had been separated, but it still feels like years since you've seen him.

The scent of charcoal pulls you away from the memory of him as you draw close to the circle of houses, your gun out of its holster the moment you cross underneath the main gate. You at least have the sense not to go slinging it around when you hear the crackle of twigs in the underbrush, though the sound that resembles a gasp has you eyeing the forest to your left…just long enough to watch the offending group of birds chitter and take flight suddenly up and away from the trees as you draw close. The policemen that had accompanied you here have long since granted you their goodbyes, their eyes dark and fearful at the sight of this village looming in the distance before they had driven off in a frantic hurry. When you think about it you can't really blame them, not with them knowing the unfortunate fate of the two men they had probably rubbed shoulders with back at the station. Knowing that both of them had been made sacrifice for no better reason than violence and power.

That would've been you and Leon once upon a time, if Umbrella and the virus and everything hadn't screwed it all up and blown it to pieces. Sometimes you daydream about what it could've been like at RPD, but most times it's too painful to even consider and you just end up drowning your sorrows in a bottle of liquor instead. Leon would be admonishing you for dealing with it in that way and he would've been a total hypocrite for it, but he hasn't been here to do so. The thought that he won't ever be again fills you with so much dread you can feel it in each step you take into this dilapidated heap of pig slop and manure.

It's been over a month since you've been here last, about 37 days if you've been marking off your calendar correctly. You had to take into account the retrieval, your hospital stay, and the few days that seemed to meld into each other when you'd slept almost every hour away in recovery, but altogether it totals 37 days since you last stepped foot on this soil. Over five weeks since you last saw Leon, and only a couple days since you gave a eulogy at his funeral. It had all felt fake and pitiful even with you having organized it yourself–most of the people there were the reasons he even came to this disgusting place, all those government agents and well-to-do politicians that ate up yours and Leon's survivor stories and demanded you join the military's special ops. They should be the ones paying the price in the grave, not Leon.

But as you look around now, there really isn't much to speak of in the first place, now that you feel the sense of urgency wane and lower your pistol in the wake of dead silence. Aside from the bullet holes, the crumbled tower, and the blasted-out windows that cake the dirt with glass, there's not many signs that you and Leon had even treaded ground here. It's getting later than you'd like based on the position of that hot, Spanish sun, though. You've got to get moving and quit moping around this ghost town if you want to make any progress on his retrieval before night falls.

This isn't a trip down memory lane, after all. You came here with your own rescue mission in mind; you're here to find Leon's body, and you're prepared to give him the mercy he deserves if your suspicions about his supposed death are correct. Because you can't keep living with that memory of him in your head, that version of Leon burdened with black veins and vermillion eyes and a pained gait as he tried to kill you. When there weren't enough injections of the suppressant to go around, he gave you his own–and when it came time for you to go under the knife, Leon insisted on you and Ashley going first even when he had a death grip on the lever, the Plagas taking over him quick enough that he knew exactly what he was doing. Leon gave his life for you, Ashley, and Luis to live–and you've taken on the job of returning the favour, whether it means dragging him home in a body bag to give him a worthy burial, or putting a bullet in his head and ending the monster you never wanted to see him become.

"La Americana!"

But the moment you take another step to climb over the rubble of the church, a voice shouting from behind you sends a chill rocketing right up your spine. You thought you would only hear it again in your nightmares–but no, as soon as you turn on your heel, your eyes scan over a mob of Ganados shambling right for you. Drooling, bloody, rotting villagers wielding their pitchforks and sickles, and in that momentary panic that freezes you to the ground, a cold feeling erupts inside your chest that you've never experienced before. Acting on base instinct alone you make a mad dash for the house on your right, but you're left skidding to a stop and backing away just as quick when another monster lunges out of the doorway and makes a swipe. You're being cornered, trapped, with nobody left to save you like they did before.

This is wrong. It feels wrong, it sounds wrong, it's all wrong. This is exactly what happened before, but that was a nightmare you fought through and survived. You shouldn't be here again. Why are you here again? Why are you being so stupid to feed yourself to the same monsters that took your Leon from you? Why haven't you learned your lesson? Why?

When the first gets close enough to strike, you barely even register the hot, vile presence of its foul breath on your skin. Your muscles tighten and you swing indiscriminately, the butt of your pistol smashing into its temple with a force you didn't even know you were capable of. The scythe in its hand is halfway to hitting the ground before you're crossing the distance to the second one, movements almost robotic as you empty half your magazine into its forehead and don't stop until you're standing over it. For some reason, the gore and the blood splattering over you doesn't disturb you like it should. It doesn't even feel…real.

You're all to blame for this. This is all your fault.

Whether those thoughts are self-inflicting or self-soothing, they plague your mind in a constant, changing loop as you stagger from villager to villager. There's no other option; either fight or die, because reason won't get you anywhere but closer to your own grave. It's not even worth running at this point because they'll just chase you down, and you want them to just leave you alone more than you even want to live.

Getting hit doesn't feel real. Watching the Ganados choke on metal doesn't feel real. Not even your gun clicking empty and burning hot in your hands feels real, even when your brow furrows and you whip it at the nearest monster with a grunt that sounds more feral than ferocious. It's a slaughter but you can't tell that time has passed, or that you've gained bruises from the beating you've taken, or even that you've been blowing off the faces of people who were probably just people once. It just doesn't matter in that short, fury-driven span of time, not until you have nothing more to attack and you blink yourself awake with a hatchet gripped in your hands, soaked from head to toe in rotting blood.

With one final, blood-curdling scream from the deepest pit of your stomach, you throw your arm down and send the weapon flying across the ground like a tempestuous child. The pain, fury, and grief have been building up inside you for long you've forgotten what it feels like to be free, what it once felt like to laugh away your troubles when they got too big to deal with. Now you've been planning your best friend's funeral on the days you don't drink yourself into a stupor, and nothing matters anymore. This was a stupid idea and all you've done is set yourself up for a bigger, stupider failure than you've already proven you could accomplish. Right now, the best relief would come if you just dropped dead.

….But it doesn't come, even after you've fallen to your knees and sobbed into your hands. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. You count each breath, but each of them are just as heavy and laboured as the last, never slowing or getting shallower. If anything, you feel more alive as your senses come back and you cringe at the blood starting to crust over your skin and clothes. Taking your hands away, all that fills them is a sheen of dark, wine-deep red, splattered with tears that sting just as much as your skin that's been hacked with small, shallow cuts and bruises. As the episode passes, your desire to get up is stronger than your want to just lay down and relinquish your strength.

So you press on. Not for want of something better, but for the simple fact that you have nowhere else to go but forward. You put yourself into this mess, and as you can hear Leon's voice in your head, "You can get yourself out of it."

So you walk. You scoop up your gun from the ground and wipe the blood from the handle with your shirt. You stumble over the chunks of stone and rubble that litter your path, weaving through the half-open doors that haven't leaned right since Leon had first kicked them in or shot them open. You just keep walking until the gate with that familiar symbol comes into view, and upon pushing it open you're met with the sight of a sea of graves and dead grass–and a murder of crows watching you through the tree branches while they await a new body to pick at.

Seeing the church looming over the hilltop is enough to give you a chill. Maybe the graves are helping with that, standing as crooked and crumbling as they were before, but whatever it is about that place just plagues you with a sense of unease. Each step up the hill has you on guard, peeking around to see whether more Ganados will come out–but it's just as eerily quiet as you expected it to be, and you don't even spot much more than the crows until you're past the gate and standing on the front step of the chapel. To your fortune, the door's still unlocked–as you hoped it would be, considering all that you and Leon had to endure to get it open the first time. You'll never forget that feeling of your stomach sinking when you watched him retch up all that blood over the side of the boat, nor the heat of his tight grip as he had grabbed your wrist and whimpered in pain before slipping into unconsciousness on your lap.

Life had been scary enough then, but in some way seeing Leon go through the Plagas infection hit you harder than any other mission you'd gone through…especially since you know now that he would never be cured. He was just so strong in the face of everything, even during Raccoon City, when he truly had no idea what he was doing. He had such a kind heart that he would do anything for anybody. Even if he could be a hardass at times, he was pure.

Thinking about Leon always ends up leading you to memories of his funeral, especially so as your shoulders relax and you step into this church that somewhat resembles the one that housed it. You drop your bag on the nearest pew and let it spill over on to its side, and when your wallet tumbles out, your eyes pass over the picture inside that makes another memory pop into your head.

"This world is undoubtedly worse off without Leon. It won't ever be the same, and I…I'll miss you, Sancho."

Luis hadn't more than dabbed at his eyes at the service, but he'd hugged you so tightly at the reception he could've broken your bones with ease. You sat at a pew just like this one and held your hands between you throughout the eulogies, quiet and empty while Ashley cried her eyes out a few rows ahead. Other than a few close friends from the academy, a couple surviving members of RPD, and a handful of people Leon got to know in the military, the rest of the service was populated by complete strangers to you. Including the president himself, whose hand you openly refused to shake when he approached you with his "condolences". Without Luis there to guide you away to go get some complimentary dinner, you might have told the leader of your country where exactly he could stuff his condolences.

At the very least you can get some healing by actually burying your best friend, you think as you check the perimeter of the church to ensure its security. If you succeed, which you're hoping might actually happen if you can keep the grief and overwhelming anxiety to a minimum.

"Mh?"

Perhaps it's a good sign already, but going unnoticed by you up until now you spot something out of your peripheral that looks out of place here–and when you step up to it to take a look, sitting at the crest of the church where the podium would be, is what looks to be a washbasin that might have come from one of the nearby houses. Peering over the lip it looks to be filled with nothing but clear water…and when you dip a finger in, a sigh escapes you when you feel how warm it is. There's even a towel hanging over the nearest pew that you could've sworn wasn't there earlier, but it's getting harder to see with all the blood caking your eyelashes. And not one to turn away a perfectly good miracle, you're all too happy to strip off your clothes and dunk your head, hair, and limbs into a clean, semi-refreshing bath.

While you scrub the dust, dirt, and dried entrails from your skin, your mind wanders yet again into another world–the one you lived in before, so blissfully unaware of how bad the outcome could truly be. You'd met Leon for the first time at his debriefing in the RPD, when he'd been quietly optimistic with that baby face and a well of enthusiasm that had come out in the strength of his handshake. Marvin introduced you first as his immediate superior because you'd been in that same position before; you had been the rookie from out of town the year prior, and aside from the beaming sense of pride at moving up a peg in the force, you also liked how sweet Leon was.

He'd greeted you with honorifics you didn't need, smiled when you gave him a tour, and not once did he ever scoff or roll his eyes when you were giving him advice before he had even started. You noticed him because he was new, but also because he respected you and pretty much everyone else with barely any hesitation. In his plainclothes surrounded by decorated officers he treated everyone he met like a friend, and although Marvin had expressed concern about him being a little naive once he went home, you remember that moment as you watched him get into his car, and you remember thinking that the world–and Raccoon City–needed more people like that. You liked to think that you always knew he was a hero at heart.

Your brow softens as the water starts running clear down your body, the basin filled with blood and muck that you've been scrubbing off your skin until it's raw. The tiredness is setting in now from the plane ride and the tension, and all you want to do is sleep–but a sudden start and pain flooding through your abdomen has you alert and gripping the edge of the basin. Easing your chest out of the way to look down, you watch in frustrated horror as your fingers brush by the opening of a much more significant wound than the scrapes and bruises just beneath your breast down towards your stomach. At only about a half inch wide and five or more inches long the cut isn't severe, it doesn't even seem like it's been touched by the filth you've been doused in as you pour a little more water over it. But now that you've noticed it the sting is much more palpable, and with no desire to have it infected and die a slow death you fumble for your pitiful first aid kit and work away at closing the wound. Strips of medical tape and gauze are about all you can do, though the process is slow and awkward with you trying not to stretch or strain it too much for it to hurt worse. Just your luck. It's only the first day. You just count yourself fortunate that Leon isn't here to see this because you know he'd both fuss over you and tease you to no end…although you do find yourself glancing around more as you fix yourself up, your mind on high alert while you're in this state of vulnerability. For some reason you do feel watched, although with no sounds or odd noises to tip you off you're tempted to assume you're relatively safe. You can only hope that you are, because rarely have you ever been so sluggish and desperate for rest than you feel right now and you'd rather not wake up with an axe in your skull.

When you're done and with your clothes still hanging wet over the pew, you've got little choice but to tug on an old shirt and thin shorts from the bottom of your bag, the spare set of clothes an absolute emergency item that you're glad you at least brought this time. The summer heat's still strong so hopefully it doesn't get too cold in the night, the darkness of which you can spot creeping over the horizon through the stained glass windows. Luckily for you the layout is fairly simple and you'd already rediscovered the upstairs room where Ashley had been kept in your search, so after pushing the pews with a grunt to block the doors, low windows, and finally the ladder to the second floor, you take your gathered things inside and set up on the thin, downy cover that will have to do as a mattress for tonight. You've certainly slept in worse, less secure places than this anyways.

But before you allow yourself the chance to drift off, your fingers stretch for your wallet again that you'd tucked back into your bag, the picture greeting you once more when you flip it open and slide it out. Leon's beaming face smiles back at you, and your gentle self stands beside him six years younger in front of the RPD's grand foyer statue. Him in his jacket and you in your uniform, waving and grinning at the camera with his arm around you like nothing bad ever existed in the world. You knew in your heart that day would be the start of something different, but just how different wouldn't occur to you until it was too late. The picture sits tightly in your hand for immeasurable moments that melt into one another, up until your eyes finally flutter closed and you drift off in neverending silence.

When sleep finally comes, so do the dreams. And in them, you get to see Leon in a much more visceral way than the pictures on your desk or the smell of cologne on his jacket. The walls behind you look to be the same as the room you'd fallen asleep in, but in smooth fashion a hand cups your chin and pulls your gaze back from the floor to the one who wants it the most.

Leon looms above you on bended knees, his chest bare and hair tousled as if he'd yanked off his shirt in a hurry–he's always like that, always in a rush to begin only to take his sweet, agonizing time when he's actually performing. His lips look bitten and flushed like he's been kissing you already, but maybe that's because he's been nibbling on it like he is now out of shyness, or maybe embarrassment.

"I missed you." Your voice comes out muffled as it usually does, and Leon shifts around, his hands dwarfing your knees in comparison as he moves them to fit himself between them.

"I'm right here, sweetheart." His smile lights up your world with a glow, he makes it brighter even though a shadow still casts itself over half his face from the lantern on the other side of the room. "I'm always here for you."

But you died. Those words play on your lips, but you don't allow them to slip out. If you do, the dream may end here and now, and you can't afford to let such a precious moment of affection pass you by. "I love you, Leon." You whimper instead, and he gasps with pure, undiluted need as he makes that push inside you that he's been waiting for all night–that soft, wet heat welcoming his stiff self in like it always does and always will. The pressure stings at first, it beats hard in your chest and between your legs where he lies, but it's a forgiving ache and not a dull pain. When Leon kisses you again, it all disappears just as quickly–even quicker when he eventually starts to move.

"I love you more. I'll always love you, even after you're gone." He whispers against your lips, breathing his sentiment in and capturing yours on every exhale back. His fingertips leave trails of searing desire up your flesh, warm hands guiding your arms higher to rest around his neck and keep him as close as you can. You wouldn't need to, you don't have to, but he wants to be closer and you know you do too. Being inside you isn't enough for him, he needs you to want him, to desire him so deeply you can't fathom being apart. And you do, you always do, but you never seem to manage saying it out loud even in the throes of a perverse dream…but he can.

"I'll love you even if you leave me again. I'll fuck you so good you don't even think of doing it to me." Your lover pants, his pace picking up while your pleasure jumbles up into a heated, twisted mess. It seems like he's just entered you but at the same time it feels long, like you've been at his mercy for hours or days on end and the pressure keeps mounting higher and higher too fast. These fantasies usually end too soon for your liking but that's always because you're the one folding first, legs shaking and nails digging blunt marks into his arms when he makes you see stars. You're getting close to that mark now, yet you've barely even started.

Leon suddenly holds his hand up to your throat, fingers splayed over your delicate neck to squeeze it with a growl low in his throat. "Don't ever leave me again. Promise me." At your absent reply he tightens his grip harder, and the stars in your eyes have you choking out an answer that isn't good enough. "Promise me I'm the only one. Swear on your life you won't choose him over me."

"I-I promise! Leon, p-please, I promise! I-I'm coming to–c-cumming, Lee!" You cry, overwhelmed as you look up with wet, hazy eyes at the man you've always loved. The black veins start spreading across his golden skin, and his own gaze grows cold and dark before a sudden pulse turns his irises to a bright, piercing red. The killing blow comes with a chuckle as his lips curl into a sinister smirk, and his hips plummet down to meet yours in a cacophony of sounds that will echo in your mind for days on end, just before he stills and a shudder rolls through his body. As tight as he says you are, he never fails to press himself deep enough that he releases that pent-up desire as close to your womb as possible.

"Mine. All mine. You promised."

In the next moment of bliss settling in and a groan erupting from his throat, the world blots out into darkness and you jolt up from the floor with a start.

"Shit!"

The curse just flies from your mouth on instinct, the heat having disappeared and the pressure of a body on top of you making way for cold, aching emptiness. An uncomfortably warm, sticky wetness pooled between your legs has your attention immediately, but you've got no choice but to cringe and ignore the discomfort for now. Your breathing labours in your chest for minutes upon strained minutes before eventually quieting, and only then do you groan and shift in your spot to glance at the time just to remember that you aren't in your bed nor at home. As you would hope not, considering how stiff your back is from sleeping on the ground.

Without windows it's impossible to tell just how long you've slept, and a glance around the empty room offers no clues either. So when you manage to get up and stretch, the only thing you notice fluttering down from where you'd let go of it is that same photo of yourself and Leon–with that dream in the back of your head, however, you can't bring yourself to look at him and shove it back into the plastic holder in your wallet.

Still, with that being a normal practice for you being around the person you've been harbouring feelings for, that dream in itself was stranger than most. The last thing you want is to dwell on it right this minute, but Leon's words still echo in your head regardless; what did he mean when he spoke those words? Did they have a shred of truth to them, or were they just the frantic machinations of your brain still trying to make sense of his death?

Either way, you don't really want to know. You just want to leave this place altogether–but with that option out the window, the least you can do is leave this church and get some fresh air. With the skill and briskness of a trained agent, you gather your things and briskly slip on your newly-dried clothes downstairs, a few bites of a protein bar all you need to sustain you at least for a couple hours.

Upon pushing on the heavy entrance doors, the crack of light between them opens up into a bright horizon with the sun beating down on the soil, the burst of morning light blinding you temporarily as you take those first few steps outside. It's just long enough for your surroundings to come into focus that you get a whiff of the humid air–and in seconds your nose scrunches up, the foul stench of decay pervading your senses in the instant that it takes for you to take a look around.

Lying in droves around the cemetery, piles at the bottom of the hill, and strung in pieces all around your feet, are the bodies of the Ganados. The sight of it strickens you immediately with shock, but then nauseates you to the point of clutching your mouth to keep what little food you brought from coming back up.

The corpses have been strewn around like some sort of macabre dollhouse; lying in pieces splayed every which way, facedown in the grave dirt or strung up in the trees for the crows to peck at. Some have been gutted and others dismembered. A few have their heads missing. Intestines and gore lie in bloody wake around the site of the massacre, sticking to the soles of your boots from one step into the aftermath, and you want to vomit. God, how can you not want to vomit at the sight of it all? What god could be so cruel, even to monsters?

It's sickening to the point of panic–run, you just want to turn tail and run far, far away, but your destination hasn't been decided quite yet. Ideally you would have sat down with your map and plotted it out, found your next objective, maybe would've scoped out the closest place to rest once you're finished your search. You would've been thorough and confident like any rescuer should be.

But the cowardice in your heart screams louder than courage. In a moment, you're rushing down the path and running out the gate, frantic in shoving it open just enough to slide yourself through but too disturbed to look back towards the carnage. In seconds the church is far behind you, and in a matter of minutes you're on a new path you haven't yet considered the danger of.

All you know is that you want out of this place, you want to go home–even though home has been within arm's reach since you got here. It's never too far away, especially when you inevitably follow the road that leads right towards that infamous castle gate, and your destiny.

[tomatoluvr69]

Helene floods diary/blog entry 10/11/2024.

Mentions of severe disaster, death/child death, burials/funerals, and of course a splash of deep illness and ed. TLDR it’s very very hard here but I’m more or less ok.

Hi everyone :-)

Greetings from [Appalachian town absolutely shattered by Hurricane Helene floods]. Slowly crawling my way out of the indescribable wreckage. No idea when I’ll be back to work, but received word that every one of my students survived the storm, which is a huge, profound relief. I’ve changed my post-storm efforts from direct mutual aid stuff to burial. Lowered a stranger into her grave and then filled it in manually. No family could be present. There are more next week. Every single day is so hard. Drove with a friend who lives in [one of the hardest hit towns— this place is GONE.] to mourn and get some supplies— he was stranded in his home without information or ability to cook hot meals for over a week. I used to live on the outskirts of that town— I really cannot sum into words how disturbing it is to the core of a person to see places you know so well in utter, severe destruction, soldiers crawling throughout. It’s like trying to describe the color purple to a worm or something. These floods have changed me. Yesterday I went to drop off a load of hazard protection gear in Marshall, NC, where signs read, “WARNING: MUD IS TOXIC. May cause: Disease, Fatigue, Dysentery, Headaches, Lung Infections, Staph Infections. Please Decontaminate Before Going To Kitchen Or Eating.” And on our way back home through downtown (google the downtown, seriously. These are places I went in the before times, visiting with friends, buying groceries, going to friends’ gigs at a now-obliterated bar called Mal’s) we forgot to roll the windows up, until a cloud of dust hit our eyes and lungs. Feeling okay so far, but god only knows.

But my work at the ecoburial sanctuary feels like a respite. There are just a couple people at each burial, proxies for the decedent’s loved ones who can’t come in because of the severely damaged infrastructure and lack of places to stay. The entire city has been without water for over two weeks now. Power is an unreliable commodity, as is internet and phone service. I feel honored to have this opportunity, and grateful for a way to be useful— I was struggling with the executive functioning necessary to carry out my supply runs, to budget the donations and read the lists, then sort and organize drop offs. My brain is genuinely impaired from what I’ve seen. But I see the community at work and trust the people in my network to continue that work. To lower caskets and shovel earth feels better. On Wednesday, the day of my first burial, I went the entire day without the gaping, gnawing dread, sorrow, fear, and stress that’s been my constant companion.

There are learning centers cropping up around the city, schools still being out indefinitely, and the school I work for will likely establish one over the next few weeks in an outlying town that gains water service— likely a few makeshift classrooms in a disused church or fire hall, something like that. And I’ll rejoin as soon as I can, many of the staff having young children they’ve had to evacuate. I work at the elementary level, and I miss my students, I want to provide the stability of a familiar face, but I also sort of can’t fathom returning to work. To bury people is wordless, your body knows what to do. There is no thought required. I can let the boundless grief and sorrow pool within me, and ease it with every thrust of the shovel. It’s getting cool here in the mountains, but the days are still warm enough— crisp October skies, autumn foliage, all that stuff. A gorgeous time to be buried. I would do it every day for a year if I could. But life here is making awkward, creaking lurches towards normalcy, and schools are vital. So I’m soaking in this strange, sacred interlude while I can, laying a stranger’s flood-bloated remains to rest, lowering my head to the mourner’s Kaddish or Nicene creed, grieving tremendously.

Furthermore, the outpouring of support is drying up. You see disaster relief convoys leaving, meal distros shuttering, October rent coming due in full. You get screamed at in traffic, your roommate’s car gets rear-ended by an internet cable repair truck, in the midst of his mourning a family of four. Now comes phase two: the community is still shattered, but you’re expected to function as normal. And you cannot even shower or defecate at home. No one cares anymore what’s happening to Western NC/Eastern TN, and I understand, as I understood when a mass shooting killed 11 at a synagogue three blocks from my childhood home while I was away in NC, as I understand with guilt each time a distant tragedy lands and is forgotten— no one has the bandwidth for everything. It’s simply not possible. But it is surreal to stumble around a shattered world and know that you’re in an island. I already have given up trying to relay what things are like to people outside Helene. Maybe one day. But there aren’t really words for such a visceral trauma. The things I’ve seen will be with me, cluttering my dreams and thoughts, until I die myself. I’m uninterested in making myself heard. I’m alright and I’m not. What I can do for right now is try to feed myself and my community, try to make sure I visit a toilet at least every other day, and show up to the graveyard. I really will be okay. But it’s so surreal, and terrible. Please, for the love of god, if you can help it, never ever live next to a river, and don’t cross floodwaters. The homes, the family members, and the friends people here have lost. It’s unfathomable. I’m gonna try to track down a shower today. All you can really do is move forward. I feel like I’ve finally passed the stage where I was catatonic for hours at a time, which feels nice. I’ve been there before even pre-flood, but it’s so much harder to crawl back from when the things you need, like hygiene, sleep, routine, hydration, and healthy foods are all intermittently accessible and tremendously hard to acquire. But I’m trying now, which is something; I have the goal of two meals a day, two jugs potable water, two showers a week. I’m doing okay again. I’m in financial ruin, it’s really fucking hard. And my ED troubles are back with a vengeance— again, all the measures I have to combat this stuff are prohibitively difficult. I may have to finally cave and go to a grocery distro myself, just to get some healthy foods. Even though grocery stores are open, I am genuinely too traumatized to handle them right now. When im not proactive, which is often, im freezing cold and faint, hyperconvinced all foods are poison. There are times when I could get a hot meal at one of the distribution sites but I cannot eat it because of how triggering and uncertain it feels.

So it’s hard to take care of myself. But I don’t know that layering my trauma of my involuntary hospitalization from my teenage years over my flood trauma and food trauma is possible. And even then there’s no real way to get help right now. All the health centers are either closed or booked out indefinitely. So what, I’m gonna drive to Charlotte for care? Or get telehealth when there’s no place to even do a video call? It is what it is but hey, it’s not great. But I’m ok. Got some fruit and bread, made some rice. I have to remind myself I’m very sick, of course I can struggle with this flood more than, say, my well roommate out chainsawing roads in Swannanoa every day. But every meal really is such a struggle. I got a banana outside a church earlier while I was trying to find a water truck and now my next task is get some dinner. A normal person in my circumstances would be fully equipped to eat healthily by this point, we can refrigerate and cook now. But I’m unwell and it’s hard. But maybe I will let my friend pick up some stuff soon, some bananas and tofu and milk. It’s also hard because we have to use our extremely hard-gotten potable water to wash cooking dishes, so it’s hard to like batch cook a huge batch of dal which is what I usually do when I’m struggling to feed myself, because it means having to do another big water run a lot sooner. But this is a chronic condition and I know its contours, I’ll be ok, even though it’s severely challenging. I have got to work on invalidating myself less, and telling myself my chronic condition isn’t worthy of aid. But the guilt is too overpowering to take advantage of it. So many people lost their entire homes. And even though I’m in dire straits financially and have invisible disabilities and illnesses, I still can’t let myself receive help. But I have hard days and easier ones and if I’m proactive I know how to turn them into easier days. It’s just hard. It’s so much easier to lie in my bed and watch the light on the wall shift for hours. So I fall into that trap sometimes. Especially now that temperatures are falling into the forties and fifties at times, and my window got shattered, and I can’t eat so I’m cold all the time, it’s just so much more comfortable to lie in bed and then I get trapped lol.

All that sounds very grim but really, I’m okay. Part of me still really acutely yearns to get out of WNC for awhile but I don’t think I could be cut off from my community right now, and the closest person in my life is enduring tremendous grief (four people, drowned! Two boys under ten! Bodies found all the way in Tennessee!) and I cannot conscionably leave him, even if I’m struggling to manage my illness here, even if he’d urge me to go, I wouldn’t want that. We tried for a couple days in Durham and it was profoundly terrible in its own way.

So I’ll go back to the cemetery, and then I’ll go back to work at school, whenever that may be. And one day the shower and the toilet will be back, and the grocery stores will have safe foods I can eat. And I’m very acutely aware of all the people, especially in Gaza and Sudan and displaced by imperial interests from which I benefit, who will not regain that stability— my disaster is, at least, the whim of nature, theirs is manmade. I’ve been carrying the trauma of destruction & feeling grief for Gaza in an even deeper way. WNC will pull through, if deeply scarred— i at least have that consolation. It almost feels as if I’ve endured nothing at all. I’m incredibly aware that the water truck I can go to is provided by the same government bankrolling unfathomable death and despair of people in an even more brutally shattered world. The scale of trauma is just beyond imagination. My fury has only increased.

I hope everyone on here is well— I’ve really loved having this space over the past few years, it is such a tremendous mental respite even in antediluvian times, and I am anxiously awaiting having power and internet restored so I can regain that sense of normalcy as well. I fucking miss scrolling, yall. I’m at a Buddhist monk’s house to download some forms I have to fill out and wanted to blog a bit. Please everyone have a really nice hot shower for me and watch a good movie, have a glass of wine with a hot dinner. And give a few bucks to relief efforts in Gaza. WNC will rebuild, Gaza cannot. Much love, your favorite natural disaster survivor ❤️

[littlestarbigsky]

peril angst ahhhhhh

so i posted a short version of this earlier this week and im obsessed with this concept so now theres a whole fic and all the accompanying angst. eat up babes😚

pony and soda pretended not to notice, but they knew. actually, they knew much more than darry thought they did. there were things he was just bad at hiding and they all silently agreed not to discuss it, but there were also things that darry actively hid from them. they knew anyways, though. but darry didn’t need to know that.

they all knew he stayed overnight at paul’s house after football games… sure, they all liked to buddy around after a win, downing a couple of beers a piece while paul’s parents were out of town on business. darry was never quite sure if his brothers knew that the rest of the guys were back home by their curfew at midnight.

it had seemed innocent enough for a while, until darry started staying over for whole weekends. nights when they didn’t even have a football game to cover for them, darry sneaking back in just in time to catch a few hours of sleep before school on monday.

everybody knew that something had happened with paul. darry had long since given up pretending it hadn’t, and they’d all figured out the hard way that whatever happened his senior year was something darry would probably never talk about again.

things seemed to get hazy when darry graduated and paul introduced him to bob, the new kid who had just transferred from the prep school. they’d gotten along fine and everything that summer had been alright until it came up that darry was from the east side.

the phone bill started to go down as darry stopped making so many calls across town. it had been weeks since paul’s white t-bird was honking outside their house. all of a sudden, darry was spending more and more nights bugging the gang to play football in the lot, going over to buck’s to play pool with dally, hell, he even went on something of a bender with two-bit right before he left for school.

as much as their parents bugged him about finding a girl he liked at school, all he had to talk about his classes. every now and then he would talk about the football guys, and how they were just never as close as his high school team was.

pony and soda watched him change. before paul and after paul, night and day.

they had all pretended not to notice paul lingering in the back row of the church the day of the funeral. he didn’t even have the nerve to come up and speak to them or stay long enough to merit taking off his coat, maybe even follow the funeral procession to the cemetery to catch darry when there weren’t so many people.

he had told his brothers that he was meeting some of his old friends, that he would be back late and not to wait up for him. soda and pony didn’t discuss it, not even with each other, but they watched him drive off in beverly’s baby blue corvette with a pit of sickening dread in their stomachs.

what soda and pony didn’t know was that it was the first time in near a year that things had felt like they had before. the first time since his parents died that people talked to him like he wasn’t made of glass, like saying the wrong thing would shatter him into a billion shards.

they went down to their old favorite spot, down by the river where they could skip rocks and no one would hear them if they got a bit too drunk and started shouting. bob’s parents were out of town, so he had more than enough liquor for all of them, and trip and brill had brought more packs of cigarettes than darry had ever seen in his life.

it was all so much. he had just had the worst week of his life, who could blame him for losing control?

soda and pony didn’t know that none of them drank anything, not so much as a drop. even chet had abandoned his cigarettes for the night. they just let darry keep on downing beers until he couldn’t see straight. they didn’t know that when bev started joking around about jumping into the river, darry had been too drunk to know that they were egging him on.

he forgot that it was january. he forgot that he was way too far gone to be able to swim. he forgot that he didn’t have parents anymore, that his brothers needed him now.

nothing sobers you up quite like a freezing river with an unforgiving rip current.

even through his numb and drunken haze, darry knew the moment he hit the water that it was a mistake, that they had set him up.

flailing in the icy water, watching them pile into that stupid blue corvette, he tried to scream. whether it was out of anger, to get them to come back so he could knock their teeth out, or fear, because god he was dying, but he just swallowed more filthy river water. he could hardly keep his head above the water for long enough to gasp in fresh breath, let alone cough out the water he had inhaled. for a moment, one terrifying breath of time, he knew he was going to die.

what pony and soda never managed to figure out was how. sure darry was alive, and sure he had made it out, but how? death had come for their brother, just like it had their parents, but something had stopped it.

something had grabbed darry around the waist and hauled him back to the riverbank and dragged him up into the grass, the weight of him familiar. that something had pressed an ear against his chest and listened for a heartbeat, and for a moment, remembered that feeling from a lifetime ago; when there was nothing between them but a thin sheet and dumb love. fresh water dripped off of chocolate brown curls, steely blue eyes watering as he whispered, “i’m sorry… i’m so sorry…”

darry woke up alone, soaking wet, covered in mud, and colder than he had ever been in his life, and all he could do was roll onto his side and throw up into the grass. it took him at least fifteen minutes to gather the strength to push himself off the ground, realizing he wasn’t getting any warmer.

none of them knew how he managed to get back home, still drunk off his ass, tripping over his trembling, hypothermic legs, barely able to see four feet ahead of him in the dark.

darry didn’t remember getting home, but soda did. sitting outside on the porch, a blanket over his legs. he heard darry before he saw him, coughing up a lung halfway down their block. he’d sprinted to meet him, is heart falling straight through to his stomach as he saw darry’s soaking wet clothes sticking to his chest and arms, water dripping down his face from his hair.

soda remembered throwing the blanket around his shoulders and hurrying to get him inside the house. it wasn’t that much warmer in there, but it was better than nothing. he saw darry’s blue lips and red eyes, skin white as snow. he had sat him down on the couch, wrapped in the blanket like a straight jacket and shaking uncontrollably.

ponyboy remembered walking out of his bedroom to get a glass of water to see soda changing darry’s clothes for him, the waterlogged clothing landing heavily on the floor. soda was muttering to himself, but it seemed like darry was bordering on catatonic.

“soda?”

soda whipped around to see their little brother in the kitchen, mouth hanging open, looking like he was about to be sick.

“i thought you were in bed,” soda answered shakily, not stopping his ministrations.

“what-” pony tried to say. “what happened to him?”

soda let out a strange squeak from the back of his throat, “i… i don’t know, honey.”

pony watched silently as soda got darry changed and into a sweatshirt and pajama pants, toweling his hair dry and help him stand up on legs that no longer seemed willing to support him. pony rushed over, grabbing darry from the other side, and helped soda get him into bed. without saying a word, they both crawled in next to him, extra blankets tucked around all three of them.

god, they remembered being so scared, what if darry had really been sick? what if he hadn’t made it home and nobody found him? he needed to be okay. he had to be.

darry woke up the next morning with a splitting migraine and cottonmouth and his two brothers curled up around him. he only remembered fragments of what had happened, but the sight of the two of them bundled up in blankets and trying to keep him warm…

he never wanted to forget.

[cheesit-notes]

Widowed Ghost

Ghost goes through the stages of grief... but only 4.

tags: hurt/virtually no comfort, throwing up, implied ghost didnt eat, or sleep, or take care of himself, 5 stages of grief, reader died, (first time) angst teehee

a/n: writing this made me feel better teehee. anywho, i love reader deaths (love u readers ♡)

widowed Ghost who cannot bring himself to cry when he hears the news. allowed to see you, or at least the hollow husk of you, he’ll glance at the mangled burned body that was once yours with a thousand thoughts yet no words to say. he’ll turn away, unable to face the reality.

for the week leading to your funeral, Ghost cannot, and perhaps purposely does not, process your death. he goes on with life as he usually would. but there are a few moments where he'll call out your name, intending to show you something, talk to you, or just because he wanted your attention. and those moments kill him inside. the silence, the lack of a response, the lack of you, kills him. for a few seconds to minutes at a time, he faces the reality that you're gone. for better or worse, his mind quickly convinces him you're simply busy. and he'll foolheartedly believe it. 

Ghost is silent the day of your funeral. he's forced to face the reality that you are gone; not just for a few seconds or moments at a time, but indefinitely. pitiful glances from empathetic faces and softly muttered 'I'm sorry's feel suffocating. he can't- doesn't want to believe it. you, in that god awful box? it can't be true. as cruel as it would be, he wishes this was all some sick joke.

blurred memories of being driven home, walking inside his house, and mindlessly walking into your once shared bedroom. and as he sits on the edge of the bed, it hits him. the cold, harsh reality hits him like a truck. you were gone. and there was nothing he could do about it. he hated this feeling. he hated feeling like a helpless little boy at the mercy of his heartless father; unable to do anything.

tears threaten to fall, his eyes burning to hold them back as he chokes on air. he hasn't cried in so long. always feeling like his problems didn't matter enough to cry. the feeling, it's nauseating. he feels like he's going to throw up.

he stumbles over to the bathroom sink because he knows you aren’t fond of cleaning up vomit after he got too drunk once. he never got that drunk again. he throws up the bits of food he forced himself to eat earlier because you were always worried about the lack of food he used eat. he didn’t want to worry you. and he looks at himself, and thinks he looks pathetic. pale, unkept, dirty, and he believes he's so undeserving of you; this is why you left him. that you left this world behind, left him behind, because he wasn’t enough to keep you here.

he’s mad at you for leaving him, and he’s mad at himself for being so.. him. and god, he thinks if anything was different about him, maybe you’d stay. doesn’t matter to him if you had no say in your own death, all that mattered was that you weren’t here now. reason had no place in a man blinded by pure fury. all he could think about was how unfair it was that you left him, and how he wasn’t enough to have you stay. maybe, he thought, if he was better, if he was anything else than the pathetic excuse of a man, maybe then you’d care a little more and be alive.

the blinded rage continues for hours. it began with thoughts of hatred he had towards you, himself, everything, but slowly began getting physical. he was never taught to use his words to express his feelings so they came out in actions. holding back tears he didn’t know he had, he took his rage out on anything that couldn’t fight back. a table flipped over and broken, chairs laid on their sides, everything pushed and shoved over leaving him standing in the empty space he created.

there’s no dreadful feeling like what he felt standing in the middle of the mess he made. he felt like his father; taking his anger out on things that couldn’t fight back. the arguable difference was the things Ghost took his anger out on wasn’t alive, but what difference did that truly make? perhaps if he had a kid, he would be his father’s replica. and he feared such a thought. with a heavy heart, he slowly put everything back where it once was, because you wouldn’t like the place being a pigsty.

he hates himself for this but for moments at a time, he’s convinced that it’s better you’re gone. he’ll never have to hear you nagging him to eat more, clean up after himself, go take a shower, take a break; never again. he’ll never be woken up by your laughs because you stayed awake, watching videos, for him to sleep. he’ll never be interrupted in anything again.

but who was he kidding? he misses it badly.

he misses hearing you tell him to eat more, threatening to force feed him if you caught him eating less. he misses you shoving him into the bathroom and yelling at him to shower because he stunk and you couldn’t stand the fact he just didn’t take care of his hygiene. he misses you forcibly taking him away from his work; the cruddy attempts of kidnapping him away from base and the way he’d begrudgingly play along. he misses you reassuring him that he could sleep, that you’d keep watch. he misses being woken up by your barely audible laughs, and how you frantically apologized for waking him. he misses resting his head on yours while the two of you stayed awake watching anything. he misses having someone who cared enough about him to do all that and more. 

he misses you.

[come-away-with-me87]

The Art of Love Chapter 9

Chapter 8 here

******

After cleaning up, he suggested that you both grab your glasses of wine and make your way back to the living area so you could sit down, talk, and get to know each other better. You did just that, and sat down close to each other on the couch. You didn't know what to say; you were so rusty at this. So you decided to bring up Eri; thinking that would be a good subject to start on, and he didn't seem to mind at all. You told him how Eri was opening up more at school, and even started befriending another student. Shouta absolutely beamed at this, saying "after spending most of her life around adults, including now, I'm very happy to hear she's making a friend."

You then told him about the emotion color wheels you had the class make, and how Eri's had consistently remained on green for happy for the duration of the week, "she really seems to be opening up more and coming out of her shell. Even her artwork is not as dark as when she first came to my class. But I know it's not just my class; she speaks very highly of you and the others at the U.A." Shouta just smiled at everything you were telling him; you could tell he cared deeply for that little girl, and made him all the more alluring to you. By that point, you hadn't noticed that you two had inadvertently inched closer to one another on the couch.

You two went on to talk about yourselves in length, really getting to know each other. You told him your tale of becoming an art therapy teacher, and he told you his story about how he landed at the U.A. teaching the hero course. You talked about your passions in life, what really made you tick, and how you'd ideally like to see your lives turn out. You then got into the subject of relationships, which is a subject you were kind of dreading, but you knew there was a possibility of it coming up tonight. He mentioned that he has been in one relationship in his life; he was in his early twenties, and it wasn't a long-lasting relationship by any means. "She was another hero, but we just didn't go well together in the end. And I have been single ever since." You could tell he was leaving the door open to you talking about Kento, since he mentioned the picture on your desk the other day at school.

You decided then and there to tell him everything; what was there to lose in telling him? You told him how you met Kento around the time you started your role as teacher, and became engaged after two years of dating. You then explained that a month before your wedding, he was killed in a villain attack. You left out the part about the decision you had made at his funeral back then to close yourself off to relationships. Shouta put his hand over yours on the couch, "I'm so sorry for your loss, Y/N, that's terrible." You let him keep his hand on yours, and you just looked down at your lap, quietly replying, "thank you, Shouta." Shouta still kept his hand on top of yours, his thumb absentmindedly grazing your hand. It felt nice. Shouta looked over at your empty glass on the table, and said he'd go pour some more for the both of you. While he was doing that, you smiled to yourself; Shouta was very easy to talk to, and you could truly see yourself end up really liking him. The conversation between you two flowed easily, and he made you feel comfortable. You were still lost in thought when he came back with two freshly poured glasses of wine and sat back down. "Anything in particular on your mind, Y/N?" You just looked over at him and smiled, "I was thinking how easy you are to talk to. I'm really happy you asked me out on this date; I'm having a wonderful time." He smiled back at you saying, "I am, too. You can feel free to say no to this, I would completely understand if you did, but in the spirit of being forward again...may I kiss you?" You felt your heart skip a beat at this question. You knew there was a possibility of this happening, and you were previously very nervous about it, but all of your nervousness seemed to wash away when you looked into his dark eyes. "I'd like that," you finally said. He moved closer to you on the couch, gently put his hand up to your cheek, and captured your lips in a sweet kiss. You slightly turned your head to the side to deepen the kiss, which surprised even you. You two kissed like this for several minutes, until you finally, reluctantly, pulled away. "As much as I would like to continue kissing you, I think it's best if I get going." He sweetly smiled at you, "I understand, let me walk you to the door." You two walked hand-in-hand over to his door, where he pulled you to him in one last kiss, this time both of his hands cupping your cheeks. You wondered if he could feel how hot the skin on your face was from how flushed you were. He was a very good kisser for him being as inexperienced as he said he was. You two stood there for a few moments, still kissing, and he was the one to pull away this time. "Y/N, I had an amazing evening with you. I'd love to see you again, if you're interested." You looked up at him with hazy eyes, "of course I'm interested, I'd love to see you again, too." You pulled him down to you by the collar of his shirt for one more kiss, saying "goodnight, Shouta." "Goodnight, Y/N." With that, you walked out the door and were almost about to walk down the stairs, when something told you to turn around. You turned around, and Shouta was still standing there in his doorway watching you leave. You smiled and gave him one last wave. and made your way down the stairs and into the courtyard where your car was. You got into your car, sighed deeply, yet happily, and smiled up at the campus. Tonight was one of the best nights you've had in a long time, and you knew, from the bottom of your heart, that Kento would be so happy for you. ******

To be continued... ******

Tag list: @lili-pond ; @jaguarthecat ; @big-denki-energy ; @ivydoesit23 ; @salientseraph ; @dreamofkaty ; @simp-hub ; @bluebreadenthusiast ; @fuzzyfestcat

[callsign-magnolia]

Undiagnosed // Ch. 2

Mature Content 18+

Jake Seresin x Neurodivergent OC

Summary: Katie Blair grew up trying to be the perfect daughter. She always struggled to be the prim and proper little girl her parents wanted. Big personality as a kid, but now at 25, she's the shy admiral's daughter who just keeps her head down and tries to get through law school. So what happens when she's had enough and with help from a certain Lieutenant, she gets out.

Warnings: Emotional abuse, one instance of physical abuse, Major Character death, asshole parents, Jake is a jerk to start.

Word Count: 6.0k

Chapter 1 | Masterlist

The week that everyone was gone on the mission was one of the most peaceful I’ve had in a while. At least when I wasn’t at home. In the evenings, my dad spent all his time on the phone. Many of his conversations went on in his office well into the night. I tried not to be nosey, but I couldn’t help myself. I would occasionally stop outside of his office, listening closely to his conversations. Nothing really piqued my interest, until one night. “Maverick went down?” My heart thudded in my chest at his words. “And Rooster followed him and was also shot down?” I felt bile rising in my throat and I turned, rushing upstairs for the bathroom. I managed to through myself over the toilet, just in time to throw up everything in my system. “Why are you throwing up?” My mom huffed as she stopped in the bathroom doorway. Once I was done, I used some toilet paper to wipe my mouth. “Must’ve eaten something bad.” I said as I stood, grabbing my toothbrush off the bathroom counter. “You only eat my food.” I rolled my eyes as I looked down at the sink. “Unless you’ve been eating that awful fast food.” I shook my head. “No, mom.” I groaned out. “I have not been eating fast food.”

She crossed her arms across her chest, narrowing her eyes at me. “You better not be. You have to watch your figure.” She said as she pinched my side. “I’ll be damned if I have a fat daughter. We’d be the laughingstock of society.” She huffed before walking away. Once my mouth was clean, I walked into my room sneering at the thought of my mother. “We’d be the laughingstock of society.” I whispered in a high-pitched voice. “Well fuck society, I don’t really give a damn anymore.” I huffed, slamming myself into my desk chair. Two more funerals coming up now. Tears gathered in my eyes at the very thought. I only saw Maverick the one time, but Bradley. He was nice when I spoke to him, and I hate that this happened. Him and Natasha seemed close, God she’s probably a train wreck right now. I grabbed my phone from next to my textbook, going onto Instagram and searching for her. I scrolled through probably a thousand Natasha’s before typing in Phoenix. Five profiles down was hers. It was set to private so I requested to follow her, knowing it would be a few days before she accepted or declined. I heard my dad coming upstairs, so I tossed my phone in my desk drawer before grabbing my highlighter. He swung my door open, eyeing me cautiously. “You studying?” I nodded, twirling my highlighter before giving him a small smile. “Good.” With that he was gone, and I released the breath I was holding.

Another week later I sat in the rec room again, writing a paper for one of my classes. I was on a roll; my focus hadn’t wavered in hours. Then I heard the voice I dreaded, that ridiculous goofy like laugh that could only be from one person. I redirected my eyes back to my textbook, hoping if I kept my head down, he would ignore me. I glanced up as him and Lieutenant Seresin came in and turned to the vending machine, their backs to me. I looked back down quickly, going back to my paper. But I lost my focus, anxiety taking over, fear that he would come over here and bother me. Every move they made I tuned into it. Soon they sat on the couch, and I relaxed a little. I sat there quietly, attempting to get my focus back to write my paper, and I was lucky for a few minutes. I was so focused I didn’t hear them get up until they sat in front of me. “Damn did I miss you, Kate.” I refused to look at him, keeping my eyes on my paper. “What are you writing?” I didn’t say anything. “Not answering is rude, honey.” I didn’t care, I wasn’t giving him an opening to bother me. I continued to write when my paper was yanked from under my pencil. I just sighed, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms over his chest. “Let’s see what you’ve written so far.” He smirked, standing with it and reading over it. He stopped and turned to me. “Not gonna try and take it from me?” I shook my head. “Nope.” He raised a brow before leaning onto the table. “Why not?” His face was close to mine, I could feel his breath brushing across my cheeks. “Because I’ll be damned if I give you another apology.”

He chuckled before tossing my paper down in front of me. “Your writing is shit.” I just went back to writing, ignoring him again. His hand darted out and I grabbed my glasses, stopping him. “Oh, come on. Just trying to have a little fun.” I rolled my eyes. “No, you’re acting like a middle school bully.” I retorted and he scoffed. “Now, if you don’t mind, shit writing or not, I still have to turn in this paper tomorrow.” I went back to writing. Neither offered to move so I looked up, waving my hands to shoo them away. “Goodbye.” Coop’s eyebrows shot up, surprised at my sudden bravery. “God you’re a bitch.” Lieutenant Seresin said. “I know.” Coop said as he leaned his hands on the table. “Yeah. I can be a bitch and you know what.” Blood was pumping in my ears as I placed my paper in my textbook, slamming it shut. “You fucking deserve it.” I marched out, getting permission from my father to go home. I blanked out the entire ride home. When I pulled into the driveway I was confused as to how I got there, and safely at that. I shook it off, going inside to finish my paper. Once I did, I fed my fish, realizing their tank needed to be cleaned. “I’ll get you guys all clean tomorrow.” Tomorrow kicked off the weekend, so if I got it done tomorrow, I would have more time to do things I wanted.

The weekend was long, and it consisted of my parents dragging me to all kinds of functions and studying. I didn’t even get to clean my fish tank till Sunday night, which resulted in me getting yelled at. “You should’ve done this before now!” My mothers shrill voice pierced the air. “I didn’t have an opportunity till now.” She widened her eyes, practically stalking towards me. “Are you saying that it’s my fault you’re just now doing this?” I shook my head as I tilted the tank, dumping the water out. “You have dragged me all over town this weekend.” I told her and she gasped. “So typical. Of course, you can’t take responsibility for anything you do.” I had my head down as I sat on the edge of the tub, scrubbing the inside of the fish tank. “Then you come in here and make a mess!” I stopped, sitting up and looking back at her. “It wouldn’t be that messy if I could get a syphon. Then I could even leave my fish in there.” She scowled at me, angry that I spoke back to her. “No! You don’t need anything else for those stupid fish! Why do you still have them anyway? We got them for you when you were nineteen because we thought that maybe you deserved it.” I glared at her. “Because I love them, that’s why.” She laughed at that. “They’re fish! They can’t mean that much to you! Besides, you’re lucky I haven’t made you get rid of them yet.” She said before she stormed off, her heavy footfalls growing quieter as she went into her room. Once I finished the tank, I quickly refilled it and set up their filter before putting them back into the water. “Don’t worry guys. I’m never getting rid of you.” I said before feeding them. I smiled, watching them for a few minutes before crawling in bed, picking up Salem’s Lot to read.

The next day I made my way to base after class like normal. I walked into the front portion of dad’s office seeing Melanie, his secretary, at her desk. “You can go in.” She said in her dull, monotonous tone. I grabbed the handle, swinging the door open like I’ve done every day and was shocked to find nine sets of eyes on me. But the ones that caught me off guard were Bradley and Mavericks. I was shocked to see them standing in front of me after the conversation I heard in dad’s office at home. My eyes shifted around the room before meeting my father’s angry gaze. I gulped, seeing the fire in his eyes. I felt fear creep up my back, but I tried not to show it. “Katie. I’m in the middle of a meeting, why are you in here?” I opened my mouth to reply when Melanie rushed in, a look of panic on her face. “Admiral I am so sorry.” “You’re fired. Get your stuff and get out.” Melanie turned her gaze to me, her glare piercing my cheek, almost as if she was hoping I’d catch on fire or drop dead. I dropped my head, focusing on my heeled feet instead of looking at anyone. “Will you please give me a moment with my daughter? Stand just outside the door and I’ll let you back in in a moment.” Everyone quickly stood, filing out the door. Don’t leave. Don’t leave me in here alone with him. My body was screaming at me to run. My father has always been strict, and I don’t recall many moments when he was kind. But as I stood here against the wall, clean across the room from him, the door closed, and we were alone.

I was shaking violently as I kept my head down. “Get over here.” He spat as he stood up. I quickly stepped closer till his desk separated us, dropping my bag into one of the chairs. “Look at me when I say this.” There was something in his voice. Something that had every alarm in my body going off. Tears streamed down my face as I looked up at him. I’ve never seen him this angry. “If you think, you can ever barge into my office like that again. You have another thing coming. My work puts a roof over your head, puts you through school and keeps those expensive fucking shoes on your feet!” I flinched as he yelled the last bit. “My work is the most important thing in my life. Not your mother and certainly not you. You need to get that through your head, because your life will be a lot easier when you do.” I nodded, pulling on my thumbs as I fought the urge to run. “Yes, sir. Melanie told me-“ I was cut off when something connected with my face, a loud slapping noise filled the room as I fell to the floor, bouncing off one of the chairs. It took a minute for my vision to settle and when it did, I realized my dad had come around his desk, squatting down on front of me. “Get your ass up, right now.” I stumbled my way up off the floor, realizing everything was blurry. “Go study and stay out of my way for the rest of the day.” I nodded, reaching down to grab my silver frames off the floor, sliding them back up my nose as I grabbed my bag. I made it to the door and almost opened it until I realized everyone was just outside of this door. I grabbed the clip holding up my hair and let it fall around my face. “What are you waiting for? Leave!” I jumped, swinging the door open and rushing past everyone.

I rushed into the rec room, thankful for the silence. There was no one in here and I sat at the table, unpacking my books and my laptop. My cheek stung and I’m sure I had a bright red mark on my face. I was grateful my hair was long enough to cover my cheeks, allowing me to hide the growing mark from peering eyes. I quickly got to work on my notes, trying to refine them from class so they would be easier to study. I did that for about an hour until I heard footsteps coming towards the room. My body tensed up, scared of who was going to come through the door. I heard the door swing open and I kept my head down, hoping if I didn’t look up, they would leave me alone. But my wishes were spoiled when someone sat in the chair next to me. “Hey.” A soft voice spoke from next to me. I was surprised, my head snapping up and turning to her. “Hi Natasha.” My voice was quiet, almost scared to speak up. “Are you okay?” I immediately nodded. “Totally fine. Just stressed from school.” She hummed. “No stress at home?” I shook my head, writing more in my notebook. “No, everything’s fine.” She seemed to realize I didn’t want to talk, so she dropped the conversation as Rooster came in. “Hey. I see you found her first.” Rooster said as he sat across from me. “I told you she’d be in here.” She said with a grin. “Yeah yeah.” He winced as he shifted in his seat, my eyes never leaving him. “You okay?” My mouth opened and closed a few times before I finally spoke up. “I thought you and Maverick were dead.” He chuckled slightly. “We all did for a while. But then Maverick pulled a plan out of his ass, and they crash landed back onto the runway.”

I sat back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest. “I didn’t know you survived. I just knew you went down.” He furrowed his brows. “How’d you know that?” I bit my lip, considering if I should tell them. “You can tell us.” Natasha said, smiling at me. “I um… I was walking past my dad’s office, and I heard him on the phone. It was the phone call he got when you and Maverick went down.” He gave me a small smile. “Well, we’re alive and mostly uninjured.” He chuckled. “We wanted to ask about you.” My heart rate picked up, worrying they knew what happened in the office. “I’m fine.” I insisted but he raised a brow. “Your dad seems… unfair.” I pursed my lips. Unfair isn’t even the word. “He just pushes me because he wants me to do really well in school.” I turned my eyes back to my notes. “How is law school anyway?” He asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “Fine.” His face fell and Phoenix hummed. “So, I saw on your Instagram you have a pretty neat set up for your fish tank.” I looked at her and she had a smile on her face. “You uh-you like it?” She nodded. “It’s really cool. What kind of fish do you have in there?” I pulled out my phone, excited to show her. “So I have two goldfish, a guppy, an angelfish, and a neon tetra.” I said as I pulled up a few photos to show her. “Oh wow. What are their names?” I opened my mouth to answer but stopped. They’re not clever names. They’ll think you’re stupid.

I pushed the thoughts out of my head, not wanting to listen to it. “Katie?” My head snapped to Natasha who was looking at me. “Um, they’re not the greatest names.” I said and she laughed. “I didn’t ask if they were amazing names. I just asked what they were.” She was right. “Um, well the two goldfish are Splish & Splash.” My face burned red as they laughed. “Okay, that one is cute.” I felt a little better at her words. “My guppy’s name is Georgie, the angelfish is Simon, and the tetra is Ripley.” She smiled at the pictures. “Those are some cute names.” I nodded; glad she wasn’t judging me. “So, what made you get fish over a dog or something?” Bradley asked and I shrugged. “My parents got them for me. I wasn’t allowed to have dogs or cats.” Bradley raised a brow. “So, you’ve never had a dog?” I shook my head. “We didn’t have any pets at all until my parents got my fish for me when I was nineteen.” They seemed surprised. “Even I had a cat growing up.” I pursed my lips, nodding. “Do you want some help studying?” Bradley asked, pointing towards my textbooks. “Oh, no. You don’t have to!”

“I offered because I wanted to.” I thought about it for a minute before Natasha nudged me. “Um, sure. That would be great.” He smiled, turning my book towards him and Natasha leaned forward to look at it. They helped me for a while until Lieutenant Seresin walked in. He had that stupid smirk on his face and he kept looking over at us as he got something from the vending machine. My stare locked on the vending machine, the noise of it releasing the snack reminding me that I hadn’t eaten all day. “Katie.” My head snapped back to Natasha, who raised a brow at me. “Why are you staring at him?” She whispered and I shook my head. “I wasn’t.” Bradley wiggled his eyebrows at me, and a blush flooded my cheeks. “I swear. I heard the vending machine go off and I remembered I hadn’t eaten all day.” I turned my attention back down to my notes. “Katie. That’s not good.” Bradley said, leaning on his folded forearms. “I know. I just- I spend so much time studying I forget until Dad and I get home and mom has dinner cooking.” I looked between them as they furrowed their eyebrows at each other. “You seem to study a lot for something you don’t seem so interested in.” Natasha observed. I shrugged my shoulders. “It’s what my parents want, so I don’t really have a choice.”

“If you had it your way, what would you be in school for?” I bit my lip, debating on telling them. But decided that it would be okay. “Nursing. Probably pediatric or oncology nursing.” Something in Bradley’s face shifted. “Those are two very different types of nursing.” I nodded. “But they’re the two specialties that I would want to do if I went into nursing.” Bradley hummed. “The oncology nurses were some of the best when I went with my mom to her appointments.” I was a little caught off guard by his statement. “Oh, um, I’m so sorry Bradley. Did she…” I didn’t know how to properly ask if she died or not. “She didn’t make it. I was seventeen when she died.” I gave him a small smile. “Well let’s get back to work.” Natasha said and I nodded. “Just let me clip my hair out of my face.” I grabbed a claw clip from my bag, twisting my hair and putting it up when there was a gasp next to me. “What the hell happened to your face?” Natasha asked loudly and I quickly remembered what had happened earlier. “Oh I uh, fell this morning on the stair case and hit my cheek on the banister.” I tossed in a little chuckle to play it off. “Banisters don’t have fingerprints, Katie.”

Bradley seemed mad. They both did, but I couldn’t let this get out of hand. “It’s not a big deal. I was out of line.” I said as I grabbed my pencil, when suddenly a much larger hand gripped mine. “You’re saying your dad did that to you?” Bradley asked menacingly. “I-“ “Is that what he did when we had to leave his office?” Natasha’s eyes were so wide, I thought they would fall out of her head. “No! No! My dad would never! No!” I immediately got defensive, and I knew it. They both narrowed their eyes at me in suspicion. “God! Can y’all shut up?” The voice came from the obnoxious blonde lounging on the couch across the room. “Shut the fuck up, Hangman. This doesn’t concern you.” Bradley snapped and only received a chuckle. “Come on, Rooster. She sounds like a cat in a woodchipper, I can’t stand it.” I took a deep breath. See, no matter what you do, you’re annoying. No wonder you didn’t make friends in college. “What the fuck is your problem with her?” Bradley yelled as he stood up. Lieutenant Seresin stood as well. “My problem?” He stalked closer, eyeing Bradley closely. “She’s entitled. Thinks she can do whatever she wants around here. I’d tell you you’re wasting your time with her, but you wouldn’t listen anyway. She’s just mad that daddy knocked her down a peg.” Bradley moved fast, grabbed Lieutenant Seresin by the collar of his flight suit. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Oh, don’t I?” His eyes shifted to me, then back to Bradley. “Punching Coop? Barging into our meeting with the Commander-” Bradley reared his fist back and Natasha and I jumped up. We both grabbed Bradley and I grabbed the elbow of the arm he pulled back. “He’s not worth it!” He tried to pull away from me, but I kept a hold of him. “Bradley!” I yelled, hoping he would stop, but he didn’t until a booming voice interrupted us. “What the hell is going on here?” We all froze but I quickly let go of Bradley, folding my hands behind my back. “Commander Blair, sir.” Bradley addressed. “Lieutenant Seresin was saying some rude things about your daughter.” His face was stone solid as he said it and my eyes flashed to my dad who glared at me before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Katie. Get over here.” Dad demanded. I took a deep breath, trying to stop the shaking before I slowly took steps towards him. Once I got close enough, he pulled me out int the hallway and slammed the rec room door closed. “You listen, and you listen well. I’m tired of you causing problems between my men. Either shut your mouth and stay away from them or you’re barred from base, and you will only go to school and home.” I nodded in understanding, and he stared at me for a moment before he reached around my head, and yanked my claw clip out of my hair. “AH!” I yelled out as he pulled, taking some of my hair with it. “Keep your hair down. You can see the mark on your cheek.” I nodded as he slammed my clip into my waiting hand. “Now you go back in there and you don’t say a word to anyone.” I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

He opened the door back up and I walked in, keeping my head down. I blew past everyone, back to my seat. “See! Once again, she’s pouting because she got in trouble! God, she acts like a child.” I couldn’t hold back the tears anymore as I set the hair covered clip onto the table and pulled my book back over to me. “What happened?” Bradley asked as he sat across from me. I held my breath to keep the sobs at bay as more tears fell. “Katie.” I didn’t look at him, I didn’t speak to him, anything. “You don’t have to listen to him.” I wish that were true. I may be twenty-five, but I had no way out. “This is fucking ridiculous.” He said as he stood from the chair, slamming it back into the table and making me jump. I heard a sigh next to me as Natasha leaned her hands on the table. “You don’t have to go through this, Katie.” She said as she slid me a small piece of paper. Once she walked away, I glanced over at it, seeing a phone number with her name above it. Once she was out of the room, I subtly grabbed the paper, slipping it into a page in my textbook so that no one would find it. Lieutenant Seresin sat on the couch again, scrolling through his phone as I continued my work, staying quiet. But when he got up, he stopped in the doorway. “God. Coop was right about you.” Once he walked out and slammed the door behind him, I let the sobs out.

I wasn’t sure how long I cried for, but once I got home Dad told Mom what happened, and I got another earful. I didn’t have the energy to fight back so I just sat at the dinner table, listening to how disrespectful I was, how awful of a daughter I am, how I can’t do anything right. By the time I made it to my room, I felt numb. So much so, I almost forgot to feed my fish. I attempted to study for a while, but it was no use. So, I laid in bed, warm under my covers as I scrolled through Instagram. Eventually I came across Natasha’s Instagram, and I remembered I had her number. I got up, pulling it from my textbook and laying back down. I put it into my phone and shot her a text. After a few minutes I was panicking, wondering about her response so I picked up my copy of Salem’s Lot, attempting to pick up where I left off but as soon as my bookmark slid onto my lap, my phone buzzed. By the end of the conversation, I was sobbing. No matter what, I can’t seem to keep others around. Something always ruins it. I laid back in bed, staring up at my ceiling. This is how my life is going to be. My parents will ruin everything, and it’s something I’m just going to have to accept. I sobbed at the thought. Being stuck with my parents for the rest of my life sounded worse than death.

I heard footsteps in the hallway and quickly turned over and closed my eyes and attempted to settle my breathing. I heard my door open, but I couldn’t tell if it was my mom or my dad. The hallway light spilled in, giving way to a large shadow. “I’m about to put duct tape over your mouth if you don’t shut up.” He muttered before walking out and closing my door. Once my dad was gone, I took a deep breath fighting back the sobs as I exhaled. I was choking myself holding it in, so I buried my face in the pillow and quietly cried, hoping neither of my parents would hear. Eventually I cried myself to sleep, regretting it with a massive headache and a splotchy and swollen face the next morning. “Look at you! You look like a literal train wreck!” My mom yelled as I finished curling my hair, opting for only mascara and eyeliner today. “I had a bad day yesterday.” I mumbled. “Speak up!” Mom yelled, ramming the side of her fist into the bathroom door. “I said, I had a bad day yesterday.” I enunciated. “Who cares? We all have bad days. Just get over it and don’t let it bother you, because when it does, this is what I have to deal with.” I bit my lip as I grabbed my glasses off the counter, sliding them on my face. I turned to her as she blocked the doorway, arms crossed over her chest. “Excuse me.” It was basically a whisper. “Speak. Up.” I cleared my throat, meeting her gaze. “Excuse me.” She huffed before walking away and I went back into my room to grab my bag before heading downstairs to grab my keys.

I walked past my dad who sat in the dining room, drinking his coffee and eating the breakfast my mother made for him. “Where are you going in a rush?” He asked and I stopped in the doorway, turning to him. “Leaving for class.” He didn’t look at me, keeping his back to me. “Forgetting something?” I clenched my fists at my sides, not wanting to go near him. Yesterday crushed every hope I ever had that he loved me even a little. Mother has always made it clear ever since I was little, but my dad was always a little softer with me until I started college. “Katie.” His deep voice broke me from my thoughts, and I took a few steps forward, leaning down and kissing his cheek. “Love you, daddy.” I said before I rushed out, not sticking around to see if he said anything. I got in my car and drove to campus, hoping the drive would clear my head. By the time I reached campus, my headache had eased a little and my face wasn’t as red but my skin was a little dark on my cheek where dad slapped me yesterday. I huffed, making sure my hair covered my cheek for the most part before walking into my first lecture of the day. My lectures were mind-numbingly boring, and I counted the moments until they ended. My last class of the day was Dr. Nieman’s class, and my least favorite.

My dad has known Dr. Nieman for a long time and he tells my dad everything, any move I make is told like small town gossip. We were halfway through the class when I heard the whispers a few seats down from me. It took a second to pick up on what the girls were saying, but I froze when I heard it was about me. “What do you think she did to deserve that bruise?” The hand holding my pen stopped dead in it’s tracks, tuning into the conversation. “Who knows. But we all know she’s a freak, probably scared some poor person with that intense eye contact of hers.” Tears sprung to my eyes at their words. I’m not a freak, I’m completely normal. You are a freak. You can’t control half the things you do or say. “Ladies. I hope whatever you’re discussing is more important than my lesson.” They froze as they were caught, staring at Dr. Nieman with wide eyes. “Go ahead. Share your thoughts.” My head snapped to the two girls, my eyes pleading for them to lie. Their eyes met mine and one of them cleared her throat. “We were curious about Katie’s bruise on her cheek.” Dr. Nieman’s eyes met mine and I hung my head, refusing to look at him. “That seemed like an awfully long conversation about a bruise. There must be more to your discussion.” I gripped my pen so tightly I was worried it would snap in my hand. “We came to the conclusion that she earned that bruise because she stared at someone too intensely.” Dr. Nieman hummed and nodded. “Sounds like a solid conclusion.” He said before turning back to the board. “Yeah, we all know how much of a freak she is with that stare of hers.” Some guy behind me said as he leaned forward. I slammed my pen on the desk before standing, grabbing my bag and my books before hauling ass out of the lecture hall. “Miss Blair!” Dr. Nieman yelled, but I ignored him as tears streaked down my cheeks.

I knew my dad would hear about this, but I didn’t care. I have never done anything to anyone in that room and yet they’re all acting as if I don’t belong in society. I sobbed as I launched my bag clear across my car before tossing it in reverse and high tailing it off campus. I drove for who knows how long, but I only stopped when I pulled into an ocean front parking lot. I sat in my car and cried, letting out all the frustrations I had as people around me went about their day as if nothing was wrong. Finally, I sat up, pulling out a makeup wipe from my center console and cleaning my face of the streaked mascara and eyeliner before putting my glasses back on. I stared out at the rolling waves, watching them crash along the sand. I watched as one guy swam out, far. I wonder if anyone would miss me if I just swam out into the ocean and let the current take me under. Immediate fear struck me, and more tears clouded my vision. I’ve never had any thoughts like that before, but it scared me. I never thought I would be that person, contemplating suicide in the slightest. I flung my door open, getting out and closing it behind me. I need something to distract me. And at that thought, the smell of food invaded my senses and my stomach growled, reminding me I haven’t eaten anything all day.

I grabbed my wallet from my bag, walking over to the little shack. “Hi, what can I get you?” I stared at the menu for a minute. “Can I please get a cheeseburger and some fries?” He nodded, keying it into the register. “And what to drink?” He asked. “Um, water is fine.” He nodded and I stood to the side, waiting for my food. My mother would kill me if she knew what I was doing. Especially since I’m using my gas money for it. I’ll just have to make the gas stretch until they give me more money. “Katie!” The guy yelled, startling me. “Oh, sorry.” He said as he handed me the red and white bowl that held my food. “It’s okay.” I muttered before saying thank you and walking away. There was a small picnic table in front of my car, so I sat, opting to people watch while I ate. I was startled as a seagull landed on my table, staring at me in curiosity as I ate my burger. I broke off a small piece of a fry, tossing it to him. “You’re just hungry aren’t you little guy.” He screeched at me before taking off. Once I was done I tossed everything and got back in my car, realizing I had half an hour to get on base. Thankfully I was close, but that meant I had to time it right to walk into my dad’s office or else he’ll know something was up, that is, if Dr. Nieman hasn’t already called him. I took my time getting there, but I still pulled into my usual parking spot five minutes early. I sat there for a moment before slowly making my way into the building, I stopped in his secretary’s office that was now empty and waited. Just as my watch ticked to four o’clock, I hesitantly walked in. “Hi, dad.” He was signing some things as I set my bag in my chair. “Hi. How was school?” I was taken aback by his tone. He sounded happy, even his facial expression showed it. “It was… fine.” I said, surprised by his demeanor. “I’ll be here a little late, but we’ll make it home in time for dinner.” I nodded, grabbing my bag from the chair. I hesitated, turning back to face him. “Dad?” He looked up to me, a curious look on his face. “Is everything okay?” He made me nervous when he got like this, because it’s usually followed by rage. “I have just had such a good day. Now, go study and I’ll come get you when it’s time to go home.” I nodded, walking over to his door. “Yes, sir.” I replied. I swung the door open, startled to see a man rushing for the door. His eyes caught mine and he narrowed them at me for a moment. “Admiral Blair, sir.” The Lieutenant said as he pushed past me into dad’s office, offering him a salute. “There’s something you should know.”

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