#WHY ARE YOU EVEN HERE!? ITS COLD AND DRY OUT YOU SHOULD BE DEAD

[benisbeaaaaans]

Fragmented

Mirrors always made him uneasy.

The villagers who were aware of that always assumed it was because of his eye, the injury that was deemed so severe upon his arrival that he was given a patch to keep the non-functional socket clean and protected. He’d be lying if he said that wasn’t at least partially true, so he’d nod somberly every time it was brought up.

But it wasn’t the whole truth. No, he’d much rather they not have the burden of knowing the rest of the story.

It pained him to be reminded of what he was, and what he had left behind on Beast-Yeast.

It was the dead of night, the only night outside the window broken by tiny pinpricks of light, the moon gone from the sky tonight. He stared at the mirror on the wall, water dripping from his milk-white hair and down his back, seeping into the towel wrapped around him. His eyepatch hung on the bathroom doorknob, its lock slid into place more to hide him from unsuspecting eyes than for privacy. Witches forbid a villager or worse, Pure Vanilla Cookie come walking in and seeing the black scars on his body and the unnatural glow of his right eye. He looked like a monster in his reflection, and he was the one that was used to it. Imagining what would happen if he lost this second chance to something as easily concealed as his appearance-

He sighed. He grabbed the patch from the door handle, tying it back around his head over his eye. It took some work, given his hair was still heavy from his bath, but looking at himself too long gave covering it more priority than drying the mop of hair upon his head. He briefly contemplated cutting it short, before dismissing the idea.

‘Pure Vanilla Cookie recognizes me like this. I shouldn’t drastically change my appearance, especially so early on. I might frighten him if he thinks I’m a stranger.’

He stared at the mirror a second longer. He had yet to put on his nightgown, but even covering that hideous eye made him sigh with relief. He’d never forgive that wretched part of himself for such a vile change. He knew it didn’t care about appearances the moment corruption took hold, but to force it upon him, too?

He turned away. “It cannot be helped,” he murmured aloud. “It is simply the truth of the matter.”

‘Aw, my little parting gift isn’t appreciated?’

He froze.

“What-?”

‘And here I thought you of all people were honest about your feelings! I had to wait until you left before finding out about this!’

A cold feeling rushed over his body.

He looked back up at the mirror.

His reflection stared back.

Smiling.

That sickly cyan eye staring into his very soul.

‘Hellooooo, my darling other half~! Having fun playing family?’

‘What are you doing here?!’ Blueberry Milk Cookie’s words echoed in his mind, not daring to say another word aloud, lest he wake the entire house.

‘Mm, nothing in particular, really. Not much to do inside this wretched tree. I must say, though, I was really hoping for more excitement after the journey here… watching this is almost as boring as sitting for a portrait!’ Shadow Milk Cookie sighed, the reflection moving independently from the cookie projecting it.

‘How?? How are you able to watch me?! That shouldn’t be possible, you’re- trapped! Trapped forever, I should add, that should mean that you have no power!’

‘What a naive assumption. And here I thought you were smart,’ the mirror scoffed. ‘Did I get all the brains in the split? That’s rather unfortunate for you…’

‘I’m not stupid! The Witches chains bind you for all eternity! Any connection with me was severed when the Soul Jam’s power was split!’

‘Tch, tch, tch, sooooo naive indeed. You’re forgetting some crutial details, my “beloved” other half.’

‘Tell me, then, instead of dancing around it like a chicken with its head cut off!’

‘The Soul Jam’s power cannot be entirely severed. That’s why you were forced to bring that snot-nosed brat to a different continent to ensure I could not effectively puppet him.’

‘…’

‘Hehe~! Got your attention now, did I? Yes, I know about the heir. Too bad, so sad, you’re getting nepotismed right out of weilding your own lifeforce!’

‘Silence,’ Blueberry snapped, before thinking a moment more. ‘This must be why I’m here. So long as he doesn’t hold the Soul Jam, you have no will over him. But he still needs it eventually. I’m the beacon that must protect him not only until he’s grown, but from the very power he will grow to inherit.’

‘Yes,’ Shadow replied through a grating smile. ‘It’s so very inconvenient, all this “pure and good” nonsense he has to be. You must be so upset you have to deal with me! You’re already going mad listening to me mock you! Maybe I’ll make you have nightmares every night! Or! I’ll make you hallucinate spiders crawling under your clothes, and snakes in your shoes constricting your legs so you can’t walk! You won’t last so much as a day now that I-‘

“No.”

‘… What.’

“I refuse to be driven mad by you,” Blueberry Milk Cookie whispered, turning away from the mirror.

‘… Huh???! You can’t just- REFUSE to be driven mad! That’s stupid! I am not some meager insect that can be swatted away, you insolent fool!’ The mirror hissed, the furious cookie’s eye flashing with rage.

‘Perhaps not. But you do not worry me in the slightest. Now that I know we are still connected through the Soul Jam, I know exactly what I must do. Not just raise Pure Vanilla Cookie, but teach him. He will learn how to resist you when the time comes. I will ensure it, and until that day comes, I will suffer the consequences of holding the Light of Truth and its connection with the Sin of Deciet.’

‘That will take years! Decades, even, perhaps even centuries if his life is as long as ours!’

‘I’m sure that’s enough time to grow a tolerance for you.’

‘No one can last forever in torment…’ Shadow Milk Cookie growled, eyes narrowed into slits.

‘Not forever,’ he agreed, pulling on his blue tunic. ‘But this is my purpose now. Just as yours is to be trapped “forever”. Such fickle wording, don’t you think?’

Before the reflection could retort further, Blueberry Milk Cookie unlocked the door stepping out and closing it behind him.

[skitskatdacat63]

I want to go to sleep but there is a centipede that had been stock still above my bed for literally like 4 hours, what is he planning....

[luvingshidou]

WHO ARE YOU???

....its not like you every cared...

wild card!! kunigami rensuke x fem!! reader

ANGSTT

probably ooc

not proofread

Today was the day that you were finally going to meet Kunigami after not seeing him in what felt like decades. You were a small local café sitting down waiting for him, you already had a cup of tea but he would be here soon, right???. You were excited about meeting him. All you wanted to do was go up a hug him to death and give him millions of kisses all over his face. But even with all that excitement, you knew that kunigami would be different, he's text messages have been so dry, like there was a drone texting you and when you'd watch his newer matches he looked so tired, so drained, like he was more of a soccer drone the an actual human being. When he saw you, would he want to break up with you??? Would he even show up???

You can fondly remember the last day before he went to blue lock he took you out on beach date, and you can remember him kissing you at sunset, promising you that he would text you everyday, call you everyday and when he'd would come back to smother you in kisses and hug you to death, but now your not sure he'd even come to the café at all!!!

You continued to overthink when you suddenly felt a strong hand on your shoulder. "Y/N." Kunigami says he voice sounding emotionless and cold. Without another word, he sat down across from you. god, he looked so tired, so dead looking.

"Oh, Rensuke, ah— how are you???" You say, smiling at him, trying to mask your nervousness. Fuck, you couldn't lie but you felt a bit intimated by him, he was so closed off, you just which you knew what happened so you could help him!!!

"Fine." He responds, he sounds like he couldn't care less about this conversation or this 'date' if you could even call it that at this point. He was not making it easy to keep the conversation going.

"And how's your sisters???" You ask, hoping he would make it more akward than it already was. Thinking about it, know he didn't even hug you, fuck now you were overthinking even more.

"There good." He answers, not any hint of interest in his voice. "That's good!!" You respond, trying to be as nice as possible. You started to pour yourself some tea, trying your best not to worry, its gonna be fineeee.

"Y/N. I'm here cause I want to be clear with you." Kunigami starts speaking, his eyes boring into yours. Fuck, fuck, fuck, you wanted disappear, run away, you wanted to be anywhere but here. "I've thought about it, and we should break up. You're distracting me from my football, and I can't let that happen. I hope you understand." He says blanked face, still staring at you. You could feel yourself frowning, your eyes darting around the place, you could feel the tears welling up in your eyes, you let out a measly "What??" You looked down at the table, staring at the cup of tea, trying not to start sob. You began wiping your tears, feeling like your heart has been trampled on. What a piece of shit.

"I have to go Y/N." Kunigami says, getting up. You had a gut feeling it was going to happen, but God did it hurt. "Rensuke— please, please don't leave me— I love you, —i need you, please." You plead, sobbing quietly, your breathing becoming slightly erratic. You knew it sounded pathetic and needy, but you'd do anything to keep this relationship going.

"Sorry." Kunigami murmurs and turns around quickly. "And don't keep chasing for me, I won't take up back." He stopped for a second and then began to walk away, not saying another word. He didn't even turn around and face you, didn't have to balls to make eye contact why you were pleading with him, your mascara running down your face. This Kunigami was a complete stranger to you, who even was he???

(sorry, I haven't posted for like 4 days. i have such a bad toothache that I've been crying 🤕🤕🤕)

[kinglazrus]

this isn't the beginning (but it's a start)

An AU where Portal Danny went missing his senior year of high school, and he's back home twenty years later.

Ch. 2 | Masterpost | Read on Ao3 | Cover art by @lil-yardstick | Glass figures by @what-even-is-sleep

Chapter One: Oblivion

It was always going to hurt.

Words: 2085 Warnings: mild gore

The star is dying. Tiny flares stretch into the darkness, fiery tongues lapping at the air until the thread of light tethering it to the whole breaks and the heat is lost forever as it dissipates. The star grows smaller with every burst. Dimmer. Colder.

It’s dying, and he might be dying with it, but that feels trivial in comparison. He dies every day.

It always starts in the burial ground, where he roams between the graves. Most of them are little more than mounds, gentle slopes in the grass where something is buried underneath. But others have been tended to so carefully, marked by stone with flowers laid upon them, as if to show there can still be life there.

It’s a nice sentiment, if a bit mistaken.

His memories are buried there, interred deep beneath the dirt and beyond his reach. Most are lost to him, and the few he knows, he knows only by the words carved upon their tombstones. They’re stories he’s been told, faces described, names repeated so many times they should be burned into his brain, but somehow manage to slip away from him again.

But he always wanders, and digs and digs and digs, until his nails are torn and his fingers bleed, and still there’s nothing. If there are any caskets here, he’s never seen them. He lays at the bottom of an empty grave, hands folded over his chest, mud clinging to his fingers as the damp seeps into his clothes and hair. He closes his eyes and wishes the dirt would pour over him. Sometimes it does, stinging his eyes, filling his mouth and nose. Pressing down on him until his ribs creak. And another piece of him dies as he goes stiff and cold.

But he doesn’t get to stay dead. When he wakes, he has to claw his way back up, remind himself who he is and why he’s here. And the next time he pitches forward into darkness, it happens all over again.

So, he’s used to dying.

Then why does this hurt?

It was always going to hurt.

A whimper pulls from his throat, and he holds the star even closer.

He could cradle it in his arms, before. Curl around it as he was enveloped in its light and warmth. Now, it’s caged between his palms, casting soft shadows that sink into the creases of his knuckles as he tries to hold the light in, but it just streams through his fingers while the space between his hands shrinks. Maybe he’s killing it faster. Squeezing the life out of it. Suffocating it. Or maybe, if he lets go, the cold surrounding them will rush in and snuff the star out. Or, without his hands to contain it, all the fire will burst out in one brilliant flash that leaves him blind and aching.

Another shudder ripples through him, and as his head bows toward his clasped hands, a drop rolls from his eye, carving a path down his cheek. It touches the corner of his mouth, seeping into the cracks of his dry skin. When he licks his lips, he tastes iron.

He mistook the blood for tears, at first. Tried to blink it away when he felt his eyes growing wet, and stared down at the polka dot napkin in his hand as his vision went fuzzy. Pretty pastel flecks—yellow, pink, blue, green—scattered like confetti across the paper, except where it was already smeared with red.

He pressed his thumb against the wet spot, wondering how it got there.

“Hey, put that back,” an older woman said. She stood just in front of him, not too close, but enough that he was backed into a corner between her, the wall, and the row of lockers beside him. Her frown deepened the wrinkles around her mouth as she took his hand in hers, raising it up to his face and pressing the napkin against his cheek, just below his eye. She held it there for a second, then squeezed his shoulder.

“Do you know what we did today?” she asked.

“I don’t...” It wasn’t meant to be an answer, but she took it as one. Rightly so. He wasn’t sure what he was doing right then, much less earlier in the day.

“What about the date?”

He blinked at her slowly.

“Okay.” She worried her lip, then ran her fluttering hands over her hair, which was pulled back into a tight bun. “Okay, hon. Go sit down.” She grabbed his shoulder once more and tugged him forward, nudging him toward a nearby doorway. “I’ll get your bag and be right back.”

She lingered another moment before heading down the hall, walking so briskly that each step kicked at her long, flowing skirt. She wasn’t quite running by the time she turned the corner, but it certainly wasn’t a walk.

He wondered what her name was.

Then he blinked, flinching in surprise when his eyelashes fluttered against a napkin pressed into his hand, and pulled it back.

Hm. Polka dots. Like confetti. Marred by two bright red stains. He started raising the napkin back to his face, because she had told him to keep it there.

Who?

He paused. That’s right. Or wasn’t right. He was alone.

That’s okay. Everything is fine.

His head throbbed. He crumpled the napkin in his fist and stumbled toward a nearby doorway. Everything spun as if balanced on a point between his eyes, and he could really use a moment to sit down. As he stepped through, the world tilted around him. His shoulder struck the door frame, and he would have pitched forward if not for the door itself, into which he stumbled as his knees went weak. He braced himself against it, leaning heavily on the doorknob while squeezing his eyes shut, and didn’t move until the world settled enough that he could look without feeling a swoop in his stomach.

Identical tables took up most of the room, their chairs poorly tucked, tops strewn with empty chip bags and paper cups. A few crumbs here and there, and some spilled juice that hadn’t dried yet. Along the wall beside him, a row of hooks overflowing with jackets and backpacks. On the far side of the room, a solitary desk accompanied by filing cabinets and a shelf crammed full of books.

One of the fluorescent lights above his head, the second from the left, flickered, clicking and buzzing as it flashed on and off. He stared at it until the stripes of light were burned on the back of his eyelids, and he tore his gaze away.

He looked to the tables again, to the crumbs and empty wrappers, and the crumpled napkin in his hand, and knew had forgotten.

The first shiver brought him to his knees.

It’s okay. It’s okay.

He gasped, clutching his shirt while tears poured from his eyes, but the drops that hit the tile beneath him were red. A howl filled his ears, keening and desperate and echoing all around him. Or maybe it was him. He could barely hear anything above the noise, but somehow a single shout broke through, and his head whipped up to see a woman in the doorway.

Oh, her.

The last thing he saw before the shadows rose up to meet him was the shape of his name on her lips, and then he was swallowed. Plummeting into the darkness and spat out here, before the dying star.

So it hurts.

Because he might be dying, too. Really dying.

He can’t remember what that feels like, but he imagines it’s something like this. With a heat building in his chest while his hands shake from a chill seeping even deeper. Trying to swallow past the lump in his throat as his tongue scrapes, like sandpaper, against the roof of his mouth, and every muscle in his body constricts until his head is bowed toward his knees in a mockery of confession.

He grasps his throat, fingers wrapped so tightly that he might have been choking himself.

“No.” It’s barely a word. A croak. A wheeze. The smallest moan pushed between his lips. Maybe it’s not a word at all, but he knows what he means to say as the iron blooms across his tongue. “Please.”

He can’t breathe. He doesn’t even need to, but now he can’t, choking as something wells in his throat. Guilt, maybe. How much has he pushed this mind away this past year? It’s not like he didn’t feel it. The pull. At first, just the brush of someone reaching out every couple weeks. Then a firm tug every few days. Then every day, as the gentleness gave way to desperation and pokes and prods that made him snap his teeth.

He wanted to answer. Wanted nothing more than to sink into this dream and see that familiar face. He’s sure he would be received with a smile, despite turning his back on it for so long. But he couldn’t. Not until he was ready. Did he even notice when it stopped reaching out? He tries, now, to recall the last time he felt that nudge against his mind.

How long ago was it? A few days, a week, a month. He can’t say. Time is such a difficult thing.

And now...and now...

He tries to reach back. Presses the star against his chest and wills the dream open, waits for the light streaming into the darkness to coalesce into the shape he knows so well. Instead, heat blooms in his chest, as if all the warmth the star lost has found a home behind his ribs. A spark catching and settings his organs on fire as it tries to burn him out.

So maybe he’s choking on his guilt, or it’s maybe just the mass squirming in his throat. He can’t feel it against his hand, but it’s there. Wriggling as it tries to dislodge itself. Scratching against the muscle. He imagines his throat splitting open and a fleshy mass spewing into the stars, squirming amongst the gore as it drifts into space. But no blood wells beneath his fingers.

He wouldn’t even care if it did.

He tries to gasp out, “Please, no, please,” but his chest squeezes and crushes the words before they can form.

No, that’s not quite right. It’s not a press in, but out, grinding the plea against his rib cage. A fullness, like when you eat too much and your stomach stretches to its limits, except the feeling rises from a place deeper within him. Where his heart used to be, where his core now resides beneath layers of ozone and ectoplasm that he moulded in a facsimile of flesh. A little too much swelling against the limits of this body and pulling his skin taut, something that should not be possible for a being who contains galaxies.

His mouth opens, though no sound falls out. He’s not even sure which of them he would be crying for, now, if anything but blood were pouring from his eyes.

Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go, please.

The stars around them blur. Not dying, just swallowed by the spots dancing at the edge of his vision. His eyes want to fall shut, but he refuses, afraid that if he even blinks, the star will disappear while he’s not watching.

It’s slipped from his grasp while he was thrashing and gritting his teeth. Flares burst off it in every direction as it shrinks smaller and smaller. He reaches toward it with one hand while the other clutches at his chest.

Stop this.

How?

Get it out.

The thing in his throat squirms and slips further down.

Get out!

Cracks spread along his chest. His skin burns as it splits open along old wounds, up his neck and across his jaw. He digs his fingers into the cracks, reaching inside his chest until he finds something soft and fleshy, and he squeezes.

Lightning rips through him, setting every nerve on fire, and his jaw snaps shut. A crack rings out as something in inside him gives. The sound echoes through his head. Blood oozes alongside the ectoplasm as he withdraws his hand, and the cracks along his skin seal once more. The heat rushes out of him, and though the throb in his chest is still there, it’s ebbed slightly, and he finally goes limp.

At the same moment, the star goes out.

—

Masterpost | Next chapter

[royalsunshinehotel]

Stones (Gawain x Reader)

A/N: Introspection from a Queen's Point of View

Cobblestones. It’s the first thing you think of when you wake that morning. 

There’s a lot more to it than that, but you rise anyway. 

He’s not here. 

The pathetic, dried-up words have been pounding in your head, dull, since your husband disappeared on the horizon with his troops. Of course he’s not here. He’s King. He has business. 

This leaves you, the Queen, to sit in your castle and ponder how, in two years of marriage, the only improvement you’d made was cobbling the streets your subjects walked upon. 

He’s not here. 

Later in the day, you planned to call upon Lady Essel, and your husband’s son Galahad. Perhaps the boy had cooled his temper since his father left. It’s not his fault he’s only nine. It’s not his fault he’s the eldest child, the heir to Camelot. It’s not your fault either. 

He’s not here. 

Gawain only wed you for access to your father’s coffers, and you had made peace with the fact that you would be decoration. 

It was a political match, until it wasn’t. Until one day, almost a year and a half ago, you’d crossed paths with your King in the courtyard, and he’d gotten the nerve to ask you about the weather. 

Fine day, is it not your Majesty? 

It’s snowing. 

And it would appear, you and your husband would become a “love match”, rare and elusive. Now if only this border dispute would stop. 

You hoped that it wouldn’t escalate, you hoped that the wealthier, more powerful kingdom wouldn’t press its luck, no one needed to die over a miscommunication. You wished for a lot of things. 

He should be here. 

Now this was just silly. You had to get up. You had to go talk to another live person. Moping in your loneliness was a luxury you did not have. Your people needed to see that you were unfazed by the absence of every man of fighting age. 

It’s fine. 

It’s not, you’re unnerved, Essel is unnerved, Galahad was a day away from having hair fall out. The people were surviving winter, unnerved. 

It’s too much. Something has to give - and it does. 

The next hours pass in something of a blur. 

Soldiers on the horizon coming home. 

Freezing wet cold against your skin. 

It doesn’t even matter. 

Not just any soldier - that one’s yours! 

You speculate, as your husband lays in your arms in the bath, long eyelashes closed. You speculate about how the people saw their Queen. 

He’s here. It doesn’t feel real. 

They saw their Queen running amongst her people, knock her husband off his horse, and drag him away to their rooms. Did they know? Did they understand what his being away did to you? 

They couldn’t, could they? 

Gawain groans as you bring your hands back to his hair, working in the soap. 

He’s here. 

You help him dry himself, and pull back the covers, safely depositing what's yours into your bed. You swear he says, “thank you,” but it was so soft, it could have been anything else. 

 He looks at you, moving his long arm, and patting next to him. His dark eyes look pitiful in the fading winter light, you’d give him whatever he wanted. For now, you ljust ay next to him. 

He moves, just a little, to be closer at your side. You’d swaddled him in the same manner you would a baby, when all he really wanted was your skin against his. 

Tomorrow. 

You muse, as Gawain begins to snore. You’d wake him tomorrow and show him how you missed him. 

He’d made you a bangle, when you first started ‘courting’, out of a fallen limb from a favorite tree he shared with you. 

You toy with the bracelet as the city goes quiet. It was everything to you. When you and your husband were dead and buried, would people even know what this silly bangle meant to you? Maybe it would just be firewood, something to get them through long and grueling winters. Maybe they’d toss your bracelet on to feed the flames. 

Would they wonder why it burns so warm?

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

Game Over (Merridy)

Alternative title: Merry Winter's Heart! :)

Remember that time this one ask game made me write the Worst Possible Ending™ for Damien and Cedric? Well, for over a year, I wanted to get to the next one in line, but I wasn't in the right mood for it—until this year's xmas kicked my ass, so here we go.

This one's after Game Over (Damien) and Game Over (Cedric).

Warnings: Major character death, specifically frozen to death with a slightly suicidal flavor, lots and lots of sadness, a little bit of drunken violence

“That’s for table five.” The cook pushed a bunch of filled plates and bowls into Merridy’s hands. “Hurry, girl.”

Merridy hurried. The air in the inn was hot and stuffy, fires blazing against the cold of a dark winter afternoon. As she made her way to table five, she tried her best to ignore the mouth-watering smell of potatoes, roast, and freshly baked bread. Whatever was left in the kitchen pots after a long day usually contained nothing but bones and soggy, overcooked vegetables, and even those she was rarely allowed to take.

With a smile that was every bit as fake as it was bright, she put the plates and bowls down in front of the two patrons, getting nothing in return than a moody grunt and a lecherous gaze. The muddy weather of the past few days left people in a bad mood, which was directly reflected in the tips—or lack thereof—she got.

No matter how long she already worked at this inn, her feet still ached an hour into her shift, and the smell of spilled beer and hot grease still made her queasy. She hurried back and forth, delivering beer, roast, and stews and retrieving empty mugs, bowls, and plates. 

“Your—”

Looking up to meet the patron’s gaze, her smile froze on her lips. Those striking purple eyes. That copper gleaming hair. The carefully groomed stubble of a beard adorning too familiar features. Pain struck her chest with such an intensity, it took her breath away. 

“What the fuck.”

Merridy flinched. Beer soaked the front of her pants and stained his shirt, and the mug she had dropped clattered to the ground, splattering the last of its contents onto her threadbare shoes.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry.”

“Whatever. Get me a rag or something,” the man barked, and Merridy almost fell over her feet in her hurry to comply.

She ran into the kitchen, ignoring her called name as she snatched two rags off a hook. Dodging patrons and maids alike, she was back in record time, handing the man one of the rags to dry himself while she fell to her knees and set to work cleaning up the mess she had made.

If only she could stop herself from looking up over and over again. If only her hands would stop trembling, and her heart would stop beating so quickly, and her eyes would stop filling with tears. If only he didn’t look so much like him.

“What are you staring at me like that, huh?”

The man sounded mostly irritated, not truly angry. Merridy swallowed. She shouldn’t she shouldn’t she shouldn’t—

“I’m sorry. It’s. You. You look like him,” she whispered.

Gods, why had she said that? She was here to serve patrons, not to pour out her heart. And why, for one impossibly long moment, did a part of her hope to be recognized, to find him in those purple eyes? 

The man’s gaze hardened. He let the rag sink.

“Who?” he demanded.

Merridy quickly shook her head. “Someone I once knew. Doesn’t matter.” She scrubbed at the sticky floor, avoiding the gaze that burned into the back of her head. “I miss him, is all.”

“He’s dead?” the man asked. His voice sounded strangely pressed.

With a clipped nod, she wrung out the rag into the mug, adding to the slosh inside. Most of the beer had long soaked into the floorboards, but she had wiped up the rest as best as she could. Now the rag was dirty, and she still had to clean the table. She should have done it the other way around, but she wasn’t exactly thinking clearly.

“What was his name?”

Ignoring the question, Merridy pulled herself to her feet and reached for the rag the man had put on the table in front of him, apparently done with drying himself. He was wearing all black, so whatever stains her clumsiness had left were at least invisible.

His hand shot out, and his fingers closed around her wrist.

“His name?” he asked.

Why did he care? “Let go of me.” Merridy leaned back to put her meager weight against his grip. “Let—”

“What was his fucking name?” the man shouted.

“Damien!” she yelled back. “His name was Damien.”

When he let go of her, she threw the rag on the table and snatched her arm back. The skin around her wrist was red and would probably bruise. What the fuck was wrong with that guy? 

“Liar,” he hissed. He stood up, looming over her as she shrank back. “You’re a fucking liar. Damien isn’t dead.”

“Why would I lie?” Tears welled in Merridy’s eyes. How did he dare remind her of him? How did he dare bring up all this pain and then doubt her words? “I held him while he died. While he— while he.”

She hiccuped and sobbed, her voice breaking.

“How?” the man asked, his voice like ice.

“Infection,” Merridy whispered without thinking about it, cowering under his tone. “His arm. It was rotting away. The healers couldn’t save him.”

“What the fuck, man?” someone behind her exclaimed. “We’re trying to eat here.”

“Then eat and shut the fuck up,” the man that wasn’t Damien yelled past her. “And you—” While she tried to shuffle away, a hand crashed down on her shoulder, and the man spun her around, hissing, “I’m not done talking to you.”

He was too close. She could smell it on his breath that this wouldn’t have been his first beer—probably not his second or third, either. Panic crept into her throat, turning her voice shrill and squeaky.

“Leave me alone!”

The moment she slapped his hand aside, he shoved her, hard. She stumbled backwards, into a table that was laden with food and drinks. One of the patrons jumped up, leaving his empty chair for her to fall over. As she crashed to the ground, plates and mugs clattered around her, spilling their contents.

She scrambled to her feet, dodging concerned gazes and helping hands. She had to get out. Too much attention, too many people yelling at each other, too much food sticking to her clothes and alcohol lingering in her nose.

Before she could duck into the kitchen, an arm blocked her way. Steel-gray eyes under bushy eyebrows gave her a stern look, and already thin lips vanished almost completely with how tightly they were pressed together. 

Her boss signaled her to follow him, and Merridy’s heart sank. This was it, then. It didn’t matter who had started it, or that the patron had lost his fucking mind at the mention of a mere name. She wanted to cry, and it took all her willpower not to. For the past few months, she had slept in a corner of the tavern’s storeroom, unable to earn enough money to afford the ludicrously high rent in this city. Losing this job meant losing the roof over her head, too.

As Merridy stepped out of the inn, the first snowflakes glittered in the light of the street lamps. The air was freezing to match. Just her luck. She clutched her bundle to her chest and started to walk, picking directions at random. While the snow settled on her hair, her tears left freezing trails on her cheeks.

A few days until Winter’s Heart, and once again, she had nowhere to go. Her family was long gone, as was every single friend she had made on the way. Yvan killed by the guards. Cedric and Laurent, hanged minutes apart. Damien’s body giving in after weeks of ceaseless struggle against the infection. Death trailed behind her like a shadow, taking those she loved most while she always managed to escape. 

Her toes had long gone numb inside her too-thin shoes by the time she reached Cedric’s house. The garden was overgrown, the windows dark; those that had been broken during the raid boarded up. After a couple of terrifying interrogations, she had avoided this place like the plague, but it seemed like no progress had been made in determining the house’s fate.

She tiptoed towards the front door and paused next to the wind chimes. At night, the colors of the glass shards were muted and barely distinguishable, but her memory filled the gaps. Her fingertips brushed over the glass, then she stretched and lifted the chimes off the hook. She had no more keepsakes of her friends, nothing that had survived her need to buy food, and the many times she had been thrown out of one place or another. 

Tonight, she wanted something to hold onto.

For a moment, she considered picking the lock and hiding inside, but she knew it wouldn’t be the same place she had once known. The remnants of a fight—broken furniture and long-dried blood stains—would only ruin the memories she kept locked away in a small corner of her heart. Memories of warmth and food and laughter, of the only real home she had ever had in this city.

Clutching the wind chimes to her chest with her bundle, she ducked back into the shadows between the scattered street lamps. Left and right and right and left, she walked until her eyes kept sliding shut, until her feet kept slipping on the snow, until her lungs burned and every muscle in her body screamed.

When she looked around, she found herself in front of a dead end, the pavement broken and littered with discarded trash. She didn’t know where she was, and it didn’t matter, because she had nowhere to go. This place was as good as any.

She knew that once she sat down, she wouldn’t ever get up again, but deep inside, she didn’t have the strength to care anymore. Next to a broken nightstand, she sat on a splintered piece of wood to keep away from the cold ground, wrapping a half rotten piece of fabric that might once have been a rug around her legs.

What a miserable place to spend the last hours of her life in. She thought of Yvan’s cookies and Cedric’s coins in front of a fireplace, the warmth of which was no more than a fleeting memory. She thought of Laurent’s candies, all the different ones he had brought her while courting Aurelia, until he had finally come clear about his little lies and resumed buying the cherry ones.

Aurelia.

After the arrests, she cut all contact and played the card of the poor, innocent, blind woman who had had no idea what her partner had been up to behind her back. Merridy couldn’t blame her. She was sure Laurent would have wanted nothing more than for Aurelia to be safe. Merridy hoped she was.

More and more memories flooded back, breaking down the last of the barriers she had put up around her heart. She cried, and she remembered, and she cried some more, rubbing numb fingertips across the polished glass shards as she thought of all the times she had arrived at Cedric’s house. Looking for a kind word. For help. For warmth. For friendship.

For someone to put her back together after Damien’s death.

She didn’t know why his death hurt her most of all. She had barely known him. Half of the few weeks they had spent together, he had been confined to his bed and asleep more than he had been awake. But something about him had tugged on her heart the moment she had laid eyes on him. The pain in his gaze. His words, telling her how bad a person he was, while every single action had proved otherwise. A bone-deep loneliness she had recognized herself in.

She wondered who that man had been. Damien’s brother, perhaps, or a cousin. He was definitely too young to be his father and too old to be his son. Had he ever looked for Damien? Had he ever lay awake at night, wondering where Damien was? Had he ever tried to find him? Had he known that Damien had been in prison, that he had escaped?

Well, now he knew. Not everything. Not the state Damien had been in, nor that it was Merridy who had helped him escape. It didn’t matter. Whoever this man was, wherever Damien’s family was, no one had been there for him. They had let him rot in his cell until it had been almost—until it had been too late. 

Despite everything she had tried, it had been too late. And she cried for him, for the second chance he had never gotten, and those eyes that had been so full of pain, and those hands that had clung to her like she had been his lifeline. And she cried for the body she had been forced to leave behind, cold and stiff and helpless, to be discarded like society had discarded him when he had still been alive. And she cried for herself, because a part of her had died with him that day. The part that had still believed that perhaps, sometimes, life could be fair. That perhaps it was never too late to hope.

She had hoped. Every day, she had hoped, until another gaze had broken, until another’s eyes had become dull and lifeless, until she was all alone again. There was no more hope left in her heart.

She dug through her bundle as if she didn’t know every single object in it, all of them useless except for the half-empty box of matches. They weren’t going to save her. She had no fireplace, no candle, nothing to keep herself warm. So often, she had owed her life to the kindness of strangers, but there would be no kind stranger tonight; not at this hour, not in this weather, not in this part of town. 

Snow piled on the discarded rug around her legs. It did nothing to ward off the creeping cold. As more and more of her body became numb, her tears dried up and her thoughts slowed down. With shaking fingers that kept dropping it, she struck the first match against the box until it sparked to life. 

She huddled against the wall at her back and lifted the shards of the wind chime in front of the flame one by one, soaking up the colors. Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Cyan. Blue. She stopped at the purple one, turning it this way and that. 

Too quickly, the fire burned out. She lit another match, holding it behind the purple shard. The shade didn’t quite match, but it was close enough. She stared at the shard until that match died as well, thinking of Damien’s sad eyes, and the man’s angry ones. If only he hadn’t flipped out like that. She would have loved to talk to someone who had known Damien.

As she lit match after match, she thought about what her parents had told her when her grandfather had died. If she was honest, she didn’t believe there was anything at all beyond the aether. Even if there was, it would be nothing like this world. Like a body turning back into soil, whatever remained of her mind might have no resemblance to who she had been in life. If something remained. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so terrible if it didn’t. 

When the last match went out, she wasn’t trembling anymore. Her fingers were so stiff, she had trouble arranging the shards of the wind chimes on her lap, and each freezing breath burned in her throat and lungs. She tucked her nose against her shoulder and looked at the treacherous beauty stretching out in front of her. The snow blanketed the ground, hiding the dirt and the trash. Soon, it would hide her as well.

Her eyelids kept dropping. She was so tired. If she was honest, she had been tired for so long. It wasn’t easy to sleep when death kept following her into her dreams and she kept waking up trembling with fear.

She blinked her eyes open. Everything was blurry. Unreal. Even the cold was far away. She found that she was no longer afraid. Just tired and sad. Wishing it could have ended any other way.

As she closed her eyes one last time, the wind chimes slipped off her lap. She never felt it, just like she never felt it as her heart beat slower and slower and finally stopped. In the glittering light of uncaring stars, snow silently covered her body until she became one with the street she had, in the end, never been able to escape.

Don't kill yourself/your family/annoying strangers, they said, but no one said anything about beloved fictional chars I already took everything from until they were nothing more but a mere shadow of themselves 🥰

[whorediaries-09]

are you death or paradise?

pairing- sirius black x auror!reader warning(s) - throwing up, hurt/comfort. a/n- god i should really stop breaking my own self lmao.

little train. series masterlist.

sirius found himself in the corner of his room, disgusted by what he'd done. he hated himself, and in the drunk haze, he slipped into a little bubble of deranged anger and despise. he found himself clenching onto a piece of parchment and a pen. he wanted the pain he felt to be shattered. so he decided to write it down, burning it into a flame.

'prongs, i hate it here, please take me with you. what if it didn't happen if i was made the secret keeper? if i changed anything would you still be alive, prongs? do you hate that i begged you to make peter the secret keeper? do you hate me prongs? am i to blame?'

the tears stained the parchment. he felt his body burn, and within the pocket of his t-shirt, he found a lighter. staring at the girl asleep on his bed, he burned it up. his arteries drowned with the poisonous pricks of his blood. his breathing differed and he shuddered as the cold air bit him.

he hooted to the little owl he had bought. it flocked onto his shoulder.

'can you find remus?' he slurred with half open eyes. 'please?' the owl stared at him with it's big amber eyes that reflected through its black feathers. as if it understood his words, it nodded before flapping its wings and flying off into the night.

*-

the owl had been nipping at remus' ear, trying to grab his attention. even to the owl, it seemed weird that the lanky male was up at the dead of night, drinking black coffee and reading the newspaper as if it was the beginning of the day.

remus didn't understand why the owl had been there. or how the owl had been there. or why the owl was there. remus had his flat in the most secluded-if not the most darkest alley he'd found. it was cheapest he could find, after all.

his eyes shimmied over the bold headline on the newspaper.

'sirius black freed, but has disappeared? what is the mystery behind the man?'

another obnoxious article by rita skeeter, remus thought. the news of his long lost friend was the hot gossip, and everybody was in the watch out to look for him. his face was printed onto the front pages on the paper for the last few days. the shift from the front page to somewhere in between, he supposed was a change.

he had also received sirius' letter. reluctantly, he had agreed. however, when he went to the three broomsticks to meet him, he had not showed up.

the owl nibbled his ear again before perching on his lap, prodding at the moving picture of sirius on the paper.

'are you sirius' owl?' remus asked. the owl turned his head, blinking and agreeing, as if he understood his words. with an earnest glowing fire in his eyes, the owl tried to speak to him with his eyes and hoots.

the amber glow of his eyes contrasting against the black feathers strangely reminded him of sirius. perhaps he'd gotten an owl just like himself...

*-

sirius found himself being jerked awake. his mouth was dry, lips wet with saliva as drool drooped all over himself from his open mouth. his body ached.

'padfoot, wake up!' remus said, holding up a pair of pants. 'please wear this pants, we have a guest!' he startled awake, his head thumping against his skull. he stared aimlessly at his bed, the sheets crinkled and dirty. his mind tried to make sense of the things that happened around him, but he couldn't ignore the feeling of ache that spread all throughout his body.

'fuck, moony, you're here,' he whispered. his gut churned as he tried to stand up, his vision dizzying. remus wrapped his hand around his shoulders telling him to sit down on the bed and handing him the boxers he held.

'wear them, then we'll talk.' he said, his voice harsh. sirius nodded slowly, lowering his head into his hands. he breathed slow, letting his head ache and gut churn. with slender movement, he slipped his legs, sliding the boxer up to his scarred narrow waist. slow and hot, he felt salty water accumulate into his mouth, the hangover getting the best of his sanity. he spilled out whatever he had consumed the last day, throwing up on the floor.

a soft, strangely familiar hand wrapped around his hair, pulling it up, simultaneously rubbing his back for comfort. he felt his gut bubble for the last time as he spilled out every bit of food consumed. with tear stricken eyes and a rumbling stomach, he stared at remus, who cleaned up the mess with a simple spell.

'you're okay,' the familiar voice whispered from behind his back. 'you'll be okay.' you said, a tad bit more stern as he whipped his head around to look for the source of your mouth.

'lupin, please help me get him up. he needs to freshen up. i don't know how many whiskeys he had last night, but he smells pretty booze-y.' remus merely hummed, helping you to carry sirius into the bathroom. you filled up the bath with warm water and the cherry flavored body wash kept beside.

sirius hazily took off his clothes, ignoring remus' pleas to not get rid of them in front of you. he was too far gone within his crumbled ruinations to care. he plopped himself into the bath.

'lupin, can you set the tea?' sirius' eyes opened droopily,

'how did you know i have tea?' he slurred, staring at your standing form. you rubbed the back of your head, sitting down on your knees beside him, sponge in hand. you rubbed the water on his back.

'you told me the other night,'

'i'll go and make the tea, actually,' remus said, awkwardly walking away. tenderly, you rubbed the age old scars on his back. they were healed, yet visible from the fading ink of the tattoos on his back. you rubbed agonizingly slowly as if the scars still hurt.

perhaps they didn't. but the chronicles behind them certainly did.

'are you looking at my scars?' he asked, twisting his head to stare into your eyes, catching you off guard. there was a glow in them you'd never seen before, a strange glow that felt so familiar to be within the curtain of his gray irises. a hue that belonged within him.

'maybe,' you said, continuing to rub the soap on his body. with slender, cold and wet fingers, he tucked your stray hairs behind your ears. as the sun rose, the golden light illuminated through his windows. it fell directly upon your features, enhancing your features.

he felt his heart soar. words stuck on his tongue as he watched you tenderly, bitterly wash him off. it was as if the lightening had struck again, and he was outside in the rain, his body and heart bleeding. as if he'd felt james' warm embrace again as he took him in. as if it was maa yet again cleaning him up, with papa vowing to never let him go.

but in his mind, he knew it wasn't james or maa or papa. he was in his doomed loophole of prison that burned him to the very core. perhaps he was escaping death, freeing himself from the cold hands of death. but where was he escaping? who was his paradise?

were you the paradise he was escaping to?

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original idea posted by - @lilwnet

taglist - @reggieisfit @siriuslycaptainofthedawntreader @jamespottergf @eternallybipanicking @fictional-magic @iamgayforyourmom1510

taglist (for series) - @urbansaint

(if you want to be tagged please send a request through my inbox.)

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[pink-sparkly-witch]

The Widow - Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Summary: Sam and Y/N are happily married, but everything changes after a fatal car accident leaves her a widow. The Winchester motto: "Family Don't End with Blood," takes on a whole new meaning for Y/N as she navigates her new normal with the help of her brother-in-law, Dean. But what no one can tell her, is what happens when she falls in love again?   

Pairing: Sam Winchester x F!Reader (past) | Dean Winchester x F!Reader (eventual)

Warnings: grief, angst, fluff

Words: 2,450

A/N: I am so sorry for making so many of you cry or get emotional from the last chapter. Although I made myself cry writing it, but I never thought it would have the same impact on the readers *hugs*. This one shouldn’t be so bad 🫣💖

You can catch up here!

My Masterlist     AO3    Ko-Fi

One Month Later

Grief is a funny thing; on the good days, you can function like a normal adult by eating and sleeping quite well. But on the bad days, you stay on the sofa just staring at the wall, wearing pyjamas that – like your hair – haven’t been washed in days, and you can’t remember the last time you ate because everything tastes like ash.

Today though, is a good day. You’ve eaten, showered, done the laundry, and now you’re washing the dishes from the lunch you had with John and Dean. One of those things on its own is a huge achievement, and the fact you did them all feels like it should be worth celebrating, but your sense of accomplishment is whipped away just as quickly as it had appeared.

“Have you thought any more about clearing out Sam’s things?” John speaks softly and carefully, like he’s dealing with a caged animal. But when he’s met with silence from you, he lets out a sigh. “Darlin’, it’s not healthy staying cooped up in the house all day surrounded by his things.”

“Dad…” Dean attempts to shut down the conversation.

“Look,” John continues, ignoring his eldest son’s plea. “I know you’re hurting, believe me, I do. And honestly, it’s gonna be like that for a long time. Maybe even always. I’m just trying to make it easier for you. All these things you’re doing,” John gestures around the open-plan living area of the home you shared with your late husband, “aren’t healthy.”

You don’t need this right now. This is a good day. So, you do what you always do when John brings it up; you walk away.

Dropping the plate back into the soapy water, you quickly dry your hands, pick up the basket filled with clean laundry from the kitchen table, and walk away. You know it’s childish, but his argument is one you don’t want to hear because you know he’s right. You know seeing Sam’s things everywhere doesn’t help. You know wearing clothes that still hold a little bit of his scent will only prolong your grief. And you know that calling his number to hear his voicemail message several times a day isn’t healthy. You’re just not ready to let go yet. And that’s something neither he nor Jody seems to understand.

“Dad, you need to drop this. She’s grieving,” you hear Dean say as you step into the hallway. “Do you want to push her away? Because that’s what’s gonna happen if you don’t leave her be!”

“I’m only trying to help, son,” John sounds defeated, and you pause to listen to what else they have to say about you. “She’s a good girl, Dean, and she’s choosing to waste away by locking herself in this damn house day after day!”

“Sam only died last month! Her husband has only been dead for six weeks,” Dean yells. “He’s barely cold in the ground, just let her grieve!” 

You smile softly at the way Dean always has your back. That’s why the days he comes to check in on you are your favourite. He listens and understands you – or at the very least, pretends to. He gets why you’re still holding on. He gets that it’s not as easy as putting your big girl panties on and getting back on the horse. You lost your husband. The love of your life. You don’t just get up, dust yourself off and walk away from that. And Dean seems to be the only one who understands, which surprises you because John lost Mary when he was around your age and you thought that might make him understand what you’re going through a little more.

You hear John sigh, and from the scratching sound, run his hand over his stubbled face. “I just hate seeing her hurting. In all the time I’ve known her, I’ve never seen her do anything other than smile, and now, I never see that smile. Some days, like today, that hurts more than the loss of my son.”

“I know, dad. I miss her smile too, but she’s going through a process, and she’ll take her own time to do it. What she needs is for us to be supportive and stop pushing her to move on before she’s ready.”

You smile again, grateful beyond words that Dean gets it. Gets you. He’s always been good at reading people and emotions. He knows you better than you know yourself. Better sometimes, than even Sam did.

You’ve heard enough and make your way upstairs to put the laundry away, taking the time to stop, breathe, and reset because today is a good day.

Deciding you’ve hidden away upstairs long enough, you make your way back down to your guests, but stop short when you see John standing at the bottom of the stairs.

“I gotta get going, darlin’. I’m sorry if I upset you, it wasn’t my intention. I’m worried about you and trying to help.” he steps towards you and places a kiss on your forehead.

“I know,” you smile softly. “And I appreciate it… Sometimes.” You smirk, and John chuckles.

“I’ll see you in a few days, alright? I’ve been putting this hunting trip with Bobby off for a couple of weeks and I’ve run out of excuses!” he chuckles again.

“It’ll do you good to get away. You work too hard, and you’ve been taking care of me too, you deserve a break.” John’s been getting the family business ready for Dean to take over for the past few weeks, and you have the suspicion he isn’t quite as ready for retirement from Winchester Auto Repair as he says he is.

“Alright, I’m going. Dean, take care of our girl. Y/N, take care of Dean,” he jokes, and you let out a bleat of laughter, the sound now so foreign to the men in your hallway that they grin like little kids on Christmas morning. With a hug and another kiss on your forehead, John heads out.

“I’m sorry about dad, sweetheart. When mom passed, he didn’t have a choice and had to keep going because of me and Sammy, you know? I think he thinks everyone should be able to do the same.”

“I get it, I really do. But I don’t have anything to fight for, and I feel like I’m barely treading water most days,” you chuckle sadly. “Jody says the same kinda things, you know?” You glance up at Dean and see he’s got his whole attention on you.

“Her latest is: ‘Honey, when are you gonna stop wearing his clothes? Surrounding yourself in his scent constantly is tricking your brain into thinking he’s coming home…’” You mimic Jody’s voice perfectly, albeit a little whinier than she really is, causing Dean to chuckle. “I know she’s right… and so is your dad, just don’t tell them I said that!” you point at Dean in warning, and he holds up his hands.

“Your secrets are safe with me, sweetheart. No one needs John Winchester knowing he’s right about anything,” Dean chuckles before asking the question you know is coming. “So, if you know they’re right, what’s holding you back?”

“Because some days it comforts me. Wearing his clothes, smelling him, seeing his stuff exactly where he left it, makes me feel like he’s still here. Like literally here, watching me,” you sweep your arms around you, “and that makes me feel safe and comforted and loved. And I’m not ready to give that up yet.”

“You said some days,” Dean brings up. And of course, he picks up on that.

“What?” You ask, in a bid to delay the inevitable.

“You said, ‘some days it comforts me’. Are there days it doesn’t?” 

“Me wearing his clothes, leaving his stuff around… it’s my choice. But sometimes I catch his scent when I’m not expecting it or find something in a drawer, and it hits me so hard, and I feel like I’m drowning in anger and grief and I–” your voice catches and you stop to take a deep, shaky breath. “Those are the days that kill me. The days I don’t move from the couch or even get out of bed. It’s like if I do these things – even though I know it’s not healthy – it feels better when it’s a choice I have and not forced on me.”

“So, it’s about controlling your grief?” Dean questions and it makes you stand a little straighter and give him your full attention. “They say the last stage of grief is acceptance, right?” He looks at you with a raised brow and you nod your head. “Sweetheart, I think you’re almost there, standing right at the line, but you’re not ready to cross it.”

“What are you, my therapist?” Your attempt at joking falls flat because you know he’s hitting the nail on the head.

“Hey, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it. I’m just trying to understand where you’re at and what’s stopping you from getting to the other side.” He stares at you intensely, and you can feel the heat rise from your neck. “Come on, sweetheart, help me out here. I just wanna figure out what’s going on in that pretty head of yours to see if I can help.”

“What if crossing that line means I’m forgetting him?” You mumble meekly.

“Y/N/N–” Dean starts but you cut him off, realising the need to say it out loud.

“If I clear out Sam’s things, get rid of all his clothes, put the photographs away, I’m removing every trace of him from this house. Our house. What if by doing that, and without seeing those reminders of him every day, it makes me forget him?”

“That’s never gonna happen, Y/N. Your relationship with Sam, your love for him and his for you, will always be a part of you,” Dean takes your hand and pulls you with him to the sofa and sits you down. Rather than take the seat next to you, he sits on the coffee table facing you. “I can tell by the look on your face you don’t believe me, so let me ask you a question.”

“Okay.” You’re dubious but agree anyway.

“Who was your first love? And I don’t mean Sam,” Dean states before you can try that argument. “I mean your first, first love. I’m talking like middle school and the first guy you thought you couldn’t live without.”

“Billy Richie.” It comes out of your mouth before your brain fully registers his question.

“What was Billy like?” Dean smirks, and you grin back at him, understanding where he’s going with this.

“He had blond hair, blue eyes, and a really cute smile. Oh! And he wore a leather jacket all the time, whatever the weather,” you giggled. “He sat next to me in Math class, he was always chewing gum and would wink at me every time he sat down.”

“Oh, Billy was a bit of a bad boy, huh?” Dean chuckles.

“Nah, he was a big teddy bear. He just looked the part.” You smile at the memories Billy Richie is stirring up. “He was my date to prom, and my first kiss.”

“And with that smile on your face, sweetheart, I’d say you remember him just as well now as you did fifteen years ago,” Dean holds your gaze, even gently pulling your chin towards him when you try to look away. “My point is that if you can remember bad boy Billy Richie so clearly after fifteen years, you’re gonna remember Sam even clearer in fifteen years because he was your husband.” Dean leans forward, placing a kiss on your forehead.

“I get that you’re not ready to take that final step, and trust me, I have your back against anyone who tries to push you over that hurdle before you’re ready to make the jump. And when you do jump, I’ll be right here with you.” Dean smiles softly as he takes your hands in his. “But I do want you to think about doing one thing for me,” Dean’s voice is kind and gentle, and you know whatever he’s going to say to you is a suggestion rather than an order.

“I would really like you to think about going back to work. Seeing people, getting out of the house and having a distraction for a few hours a day will do you the world of good, sweetheart.” 

Dean stares at you with such intensity and all you can see is how much he cares about you. It’s clear that he thinks this is the best thing for you, and the more you think about it, the more you agree with him.

“You know what? I’ll think on it a little more, but I think you might be right,” your answer is not what Dean expects by the way he looks like he’s just won the lottery.

“Awesome,” Dean declares. “Now we’ve got that out of the way, The Lost Boys is on tonight. Wanna order pizza and watch it?” He grins at you, and you can’t help but smile at how boyish he looks when he does that.

“Dean, it’s Friday. Don’t cancel your plans with whichever girl is your flavour of the week to spend the night in with me,” you tease.

“I, uhm,” he rubs his hand over the back of his neck, “haven’t had those kinda plans since the night Sammy…” he doesn’t finish his sentence. He doesn’t need to. “Even if I did,” he continues, “One: you are much more important than some girl in a bar, and two: I’d much rather spend the night watching movies with you.”

“Dean–”

“I mean it,” he insists. “You’re not a burden or an inconvenience – I know that’s what’s running through your head, don’t even try to argue with me! So, are we watching this damn movie together or are you gonna make me go home and watch it by myself? All alone. On a Friday night.” Dean’s feigned grumpiness makes you laugh.

“Fine! I’ll order the pizza! But I don’t have any beer, so if you want some, you’ll have to go to the store.”

“On it!” Dean stands and leans over to press another kiss on your forehead, something that was second nature to all the Winchester men where you’re concerned, but you aren’t going to complain about the sweet gesture. “You need anything else?” he asks as he picks up his car keys.

“No, all good. Just… please promise me you’ll drive safe,” you beg, worrying at your bottom lip.

“Always, sweetheart. I promise.”

Next Chapter>>

@deans-spinster-witch @muchamusedaboutnothing @kazsrm67 @twinkleinadiamondsky @waters-2567 @leigh70 @waynes-multiverse @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld @chriszgirl92 @stoneyggirl2 @marilynnlew @ilovedean-spn2

[specific-dreamer]

it’s me…. the ghost of askbox-mas past…… back to offer you an olive branch for cheating on you with everyandanything that one time 😭😭😭😭😭

I’ve tortured them enough, I must return to my original victim 🤝 so I bring you…… a resurrection au……….. there was a show I was obsessed with when I was like 12 where a bunch of people in this small town started coming back to life still at the same age they were when the died and I- recently found it again and ofc had 8million thoughts bc I can’t consume anything without turning it into an au including my favorite characters 👹 the idea quite literally has nothing to do with the show except for the coming back from the dead thing but regardless !!!!!! let’s get into it… and by it I mean 😏 bare bones bullet point excerpts 😏

johnny cade hath risen ! he wakes up in the water, the sun almost red as it begins to set, cold and alone and dark beneath the surface he kicks through, the thin layer of frost settling over top breaking over his head and melting away. he can’t tell whether he should be panicking or not, he most certainly remembers slipping away in the hospital small and dead staring at the bright lights in his room, he recognizes the trees as he pulls himself out of the cold water and onto the scratchy half green half yellow grass. that big one with the sparse but curly leaves used to mostly hide behind a rotting wooden steeple…. if he sniffs the air he might be able to smell fire, it almost dries him up, those imaginary flames, the church… the kids… the trees. windrixville? but how? how was there water here… a storm maybe? most of all, as he rolls onto his back letting himself catch breath that he didn’t realize he’d been missing out on, how the /fuck/ is he here? why? his heart or something like it hammers inside him a million different memories hitting him at once.

(the church set from the movie is underwater in present day so it’s ummm 100% going in the notebook lmao)

he’d been walking for hours now, slowly drying off as he follows the train tracks as best as he remembers back to Tulsa. his legs are shaky, unused for he’s not sure how long, and his fingers are frozen despite tucking his hands in his armpits, the sun leaves behind a few pink clouds as the sky turns dark. he stops beneath a street light and looks out at the town that had snuck up on him, familiar but not quite as inviting, shadows from trees and street signs spiking out on the blacktop as if they don’t want him there, as if they’re keeping his own neighborhood from him, his clothes are still wet but he isn’t sure if his trembling is because of the cold or something different.

it doesn’t take long for him to find the lot, to pass it by and turn down the block. he moves without having to think about it, muscle memory or something he’d heard of, he knows where he wants to go before anything. a patter of tiny feet crunches over the leaves in the street and race beneath a car in some random’s driveway and he about jumps out of his skin, he approaches the car slowly, against his better judgment he supposes, and kneels to look under it, barely able to see in the dark even with another street light above him. two glowing eyes peer back at him and there’s a low growling sound coming from its head. he recognizes her, a little cat he had befriended the year before everything and happened, she’d been scraggly and young and attached herself to him pretty quickly. he calls to her, “missy” psst-ing between his teeth and snapping his fingers softly to coax her out, she comes, sniffing his hand on low-to-the-ground legs with flat ears and spiked back fur before she growls again and hisses, swatting him with her paw. a long scratch down his pointer finger beginning to drip on the sidewalk. he stands and watches her hiss again and swat again this time at his shoe before scampering away into the bushes, tries not to let it hurt his feelings too much that his kitty doesn’t seem to recognize him anymore�� or maybe it was that cats could smell death, he thinks he’d heard that before, maybe Two drunk and rambling… or Buck making awkward conversation while waiting on Dal… or Pony… /Pony/… he wipes his finger off on a wet patch on his vest and keeps going on..

at least he can still bleed… gotta count for something right? ghosts can’t… or shouldn’t…

the porch is still lit up at whatever time it is now since he’d gotten out of the church-lake. he reaches over the gate and unhooks the hatch, letting it swing itself open for a bit before stepping onto the concrete walkway with jittery breath caught in his lungs. the old car is still sitting in the weeds but small flowers grow up with them. the screen is closed but the main door stays open and he can hear the commotion inside, laughing, TV, something sizzling on the stove. he hugs himself while he makes his way up the stoop, sucking in air as he taps his knuckles on the spotty black metal. one of the people inside the house calls something over their shoulder, moving through shadow and opening the door, and…

Johnny had seen Darry mad hundreds of times, lots of the time he could understand why too though he’d never tell that to Pony in a million years, but this feels different. the comfortable smile on his face falls away in a second, replaced by /Anger/ and something sort of like disgust, like something in his drink is sour, like he’s three seconds away from throwing said drink in his face. “another one” he calls over his shoulder. johnny steps back confused. “dar-” “we let you boys have your fun but it’s time to stop, ‘know you’re really lucky he ain’t here or I don’t think I’d be able to stop-” he cuts himself off flaring his nose, “I don’t wanna be gettin no kids in trouble but I’ll take you to the station myself if I have’ta”

“dar what’s the-” sodapop appears over his shoulder and makes that same face.

🪦🪱🏚️🍃

…….bye !

first, bullet points my ass. this is half a fic and i am hooked, loudly requesting the rest

wdym another one are the socs doing this often wtf and why was he all the way back at the church omg

second what show is this ?? i’m hooked and now i’d like to watch it akjssj

[my-own-walker]

Come Back, Come Back To Haunt Me

note: part two of this post, since a few of you asked so nicely. i get wanting a happy ending :)

summary: after the argument at the party, kyle and Y/N talk (and make up??)

warnings: cursing, sadness, reader talking about death for some reason lol, talks of cheating, and maybe even fluff…

+++

Right about then, I wanted to be found dead in the woods near a stream roughly four months after my passing, and never have a legacy beyond being Jane Doe. Blinding rage made my thoughts turn wild, my whole existence in a tailspin.

I was so distraught and in pain, I couldn’t think straight. I saw no way to fix anything besides disappearing and never being seen again. The walk home from the party was long and exhausting. I was wracked with a striking feeling of detachment from reality.

My whole world was shattered in an instant. The moment I walked away, I knew I had sealed the deal that Kyle and I were through. But that wasn’t what I wanted. Not in the slightest.

The Earth was thrown off its axis. The streets felt tilted and my head was spinning. Was I too drunk? Or had the events of the night caused me to lose my mind?

Before I could even contemplate it, I heard a car horn behind me. I spun on my heel, jumping at the sudden noise. Squinting, I could make out Kyle in the driver's seat of his frat brother's car driving slowly toward me. It must have been the only car not blocked in by other cars at the party. He pulled up to the curb next to me and rolled the window down.

'Can you please get in, Y/N?' he pleaded.

'Why would I want to do that?' I spat back.

'Please, you've been drinking. It's cold. Come here.' he urged. I sighed demonstratively and got in the car. As much as I didn't want to be without him, I sure didn't want to be with him in that moment. He tossed his sweatshirt over onto my lap and I put it on. I was cold, after all. We drove in silence some time, Kyle navigating his way to the park near our shared apartment. He threw the car in park under a large elm tree.

'Can you just let me talk?' Kyle started. I kept my arms folded in front of me, not even turning to look at him. 'You need to understand that that meant nothing. That whole thing with the girl.'

'And you need to understand that I'm not just upset about that,' I retorted. 'This is deeper than that.'

'You're being crazy right now,' he muttered.

'I'm being crazy? Yeah? Is that how you plan to fix this?'

'I'm just saying, you're making this into something it's not,' he huffed. 'You're upset about that girl but now it's a big fucking issue about other things.'

'Kyle, you gave her more attention at a party than you've ever given me, and we've been dating for over a year,' I exclaimed. 'You get off on ignoring me in public or something!'

'Look, she meant nothing-'

'Kyle, you keep saying that. And it only means half as much when you say it over and over,' I cried. 'This isn't just about her.'

'Then what is it about? Making my night miserable? This is so stupid,' he whined.

I couldn’t take it anymore. He was acting dense on purpose. I got out of the car with a huff and began walking toward the park's grass, putting the hood of the sweatshirt Kyle gave me up over my head in the process.

‘Wait!’ Kyle called. ‘Y/N! Where are you going?’

I stomped over to what looked like a clear enough spot and flopped down onto my back, arms outstretched on either side of me. I could hear Kyle’s frantic footsteps drawing nearer to me.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked, baffled, panting slightly from running over.

‘Laying down,’ I replied, simply. I was in fact, just laying down. I needed to feel the bugs in the grass make my skin itch. I wanted the tiny dry green blades to poke into me just enough to make me uncomfortable. I wanted to get just slightly wet from the dew that had already formed on the ground. I was willing nature to reclaim me. I wanted to feel something.

'Y/N, it's cold,' Kyle stated, flopping down next to me. 'We should go inside.'

'I don't care,' I replied apathetically. 'You refuse to hear me, so I'm done with the conversation. I'll lay here until I don't want to anymore. Hanging out where I don't belong is nothing new to me.'

'I hear you. I'm hearing you,' he replied.

'But you're not, because now I'm crazy. Leave me alone.'

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean that,' he said lowly.

'And yet you said it. Words and actions hurt,' I whispered. I stared up at the night sky with tears in my eyes. I could make out Orion's Belt and nothing else. I wasn't a much of a stargazer.

'I want to understand,' he spoke. His elbow brushed up against my fingertips as he adjusted his position in the grass. I shied away from the contact, still unwilling to even look at him. 'This grass is scratchy.'

'What you don't get is your tendency to abandon me in public social situations, Kyle. You don't even look at me at parties. And we go every fucking weekend, so it's a bit grating after time,' I explained.

'Like I said, I just figured you got it. You can hold your own.'

'Have you ever stopped and asked me if that was true? You just assume I'm fine, but clearly it's something that's hard for me,' I countered.

'I'm sorry. I just get wrapped up,' he answered.

'In nonsense. In talking to other girls, apparently. It just baffles me.'

'Y/N I love you. I'm an idiot, I think,' he murmured. 'I never thought to make sure you were okay.'

'Clearly,' I snarked. Kyle sat up and scooted closer to me so that his head hung just above mine.

'Now will ya look at me?' he smiled. I stifled my own show of emotion, preventing the corners of my mouth from curling upwards. Man, was he cute. 'I'm gonna make you look at me.' He followed my face with his as I moved it around, trying in vain to avoid eye contact. Eventually, he caught me. I couldn't help but giggle a bit. "Oh, look! And I got ya to smile,' he laughed.

I reached my hand up to his cheek and pushed it lightly. 'You're so annoying,' I smirked.

'I really am sorry. I'm just so self-centered at times,' he laughed sardonically. 'My mom always said that about me.'

'Oh hush,' I replied. 'You're a stupid boy, not self-centered. And anyways we're all a little self-centered at the end of the day.'

Kyle got up. He stood in front of me, in between my outstretched legs, and held out his hands to help me up. I rolled my eyes but didn't object, reaching up to be helped. He scooped me up with no issue, slinging me over his shoulder to carry me to the car. I cackled in amusement at his forcefulness. He placed me in the car carefully and circled around to get in the drivers seat.

'Let's go home,' he declared.

'But this is Ryan's car, right?' I asked.

'He can figure out another way home.'

+++

Semi-based on a real thing that has happened in my life recently LMAO. I love writing semi-toxic arguments 😈

[ahollowgrave]

Grave (noun): 1. An excavation for the interment of a corpse. 2. A place of burial. // what to do. what to do.

(TW: Suggestion of being buried alive.)

Your vows have led you to a wide assortment of graves.

i. A stately mausoleum rises above you with Nald’thal’s scales proudly displayed on the door. The door that is ajar. Incense wafts from the opening. The earth before it is greatly disturbed from foot traffic, flowers litter the ground along with gil. You make a note -- a well-loved soul has recently departed.

Only --

A moth as black as midnight alights on your shoulder and you feel a red-hot rage that brings a tingle to your fingertips. You weren’t done. Beneath all that rage is a current of, what else, sadness.

And beneath that, even fainter, a growing pool of pride for family and the care they showed here.

“Hello, friend. Would you like to talk awhile?”

ii. You walked past it four times before you found it. A simple cross a little ways off the road, lost in the tall grass and the flowers. It is a pretty spot, you decide. The name has long since worn away. A small moth clings to the cross’s point and when you reach for it, it responds. For a moment you are overwhelmed by a deep well of loneliness but you plant your feet and the waters recede.

“Hello, friend. Why don’t you come with us?”

Į̸̛̼͙͓̻͋͂͗̋̄͐̕͘͝i̵͇̗̣͐̓͆͂̋̍i̶̦͎̱̺̝̳̇.̷̨͙̟̦̘̫͙͕̓̾͝ You cannot breathe. You cannot breathe. You cannot breathe.

Something sits heavy on your chest, dead weight, something clammy, dead weight, your wiggling fingers feel only dirt.

You d̵͓̩͈͚͒̑̀̄͂̍̕͠o̷̧͔͎͔͂̆̀͝ ̵̡̨̖̞̠̗̩͇̦̬̊n̵̪̰̱̹̊̈́͝ö̷̢̥̩̤̱́̿̋̈́̓̇͠t̷̛̙̲̦̪̓͊̓͑͋̃͝ breathe.

ɨɨɨ.

iv. As soon as you cross into the abandoned inn your blood begins to sing. The living have long left this place but It Remembers. Oh! How It misses the rhythm of stomping feet, the calls of drunkards and mercenaries, the sound of a bard plying their trade. It misses the many vermin that lived within it for they have gone, too. It only has the things that crawl in the dirt and the filth to keep it company. It wants more.

You are overwhelmed by the Inn’s longing.

You back out the door before It can drown you.

You’ll have to come back for this one.

v. Tucked into a little bend of a little ice-cold creek is a little shrine. Bits of tattered paper are stuck to it and chimes missing half their parts give a valiant effort in sounding. You stamp a little spot in the snow so you have a level working field. From your bag you unroll a bit of cloth, collecting the bits of the chimes that tumble free of it. You begin piecing it back together, with a needle and fishing line, reciting prayers you have only just been taught.

Your fingers shake, although you do not feel the cold.

It takes a long time. Each piece needs to be hung from the exact right length of wire so that it sounds as it should. A wrong sound might recall the wrong thing. Or, worse, upset that which you seek to aid.

When you are done you rehang the chimes, you leave your own prayer written on crisp new paper, and you light your own stick of incense.

A moth of rosey pinks and brilliant yellows crawls over the top of the shrine, its wings flapping as if new. When you reach for it, it responds and creeps into your palm.

“Hello, friend. You’ve been here a while, haven’t you?”

v̴̭͐ͅî̶̡̨̡͙͇͓̹̤̭͒͒́̒͛.̴̜̗̲̥̻̰̦̿͝ You crawl out of the dirt like a worm during a rainstorm, desperate for air that you no longer need but have never lived without. The arms around you are not holding you but they are deadweight and they cling to you like static.

You haven’t made a sound.

Your fingers are dirty and bloody and you are missing a few nails but they work well, still, as they dig into the dry and sparse grass around your grave.

You pull. And pull. And pull.

It is some time before you remember that you have legs and then you begin to kick, as well. Bracing against the bodies buried with you and feeling bile rise in your throat. They are -- rotted.

You can feel it where their skin touches yours.

Y̸̢͍̯̳͕̻͑ơ̴̧͕͉͐̽̈́̓̔̈͛́ů̷͎̣̯̦̥͑̆̈́͐̋̄͋͘̚'̶̘̰͚̠̺̟͖̞̌̍͌̈́͐̉̈́̇͗͠r̵̛̯̻͍͈̭̬̻̼̤͒̈́͘ȩ̷̦̱̖̦̼͉̈́̓̾̅̾̄͜ ̴̻̳̲͈̱̪̓̂͑̀̑̅̈́̉͜͠r̸̘̣̈́͊͊̏̓̕͠ọ̵̢͍̯̝̣̫̎̅͒̈́̿̀t̸̤̤͒̈́̈́̃͠͠t̷͎̟̣̞̙͚̭̋͋͠ę̵̯̝̘̯̤̗̺̃̔͐̂̀̽͛̕̕͝ͅd̷̟͇́̂.̴͇̜̮̜̻̪̦̝͓̀͒

vi. ----------------------------------------------------------------------

[midnight--capricorn]

Ok I have no title for this and because it is darker than what I would usually make I am just going to throw it here and not on my ao3, here is a thing I just... cobbled together in a couple of hours. But first, the warning. I'm not good with actually tagging horror, I've not really been a huge writer until now... sorry for that.

This fic does contain some horror and vague hints of body horror, though nothing to overt or graphic. Please do proceed with caution.

The perfect spring evening. Flowers danced in the gentle breeze, a wave of soft colours blanketing barely-seen grass under a soft pink sky. The golden glow of the setting sun sinking over the horizon bathed everything in its colour, its gentility, its warmth.

Bliss.

Alm stared out at the waves of colour in front of him, around him, surrounding the serene little hill close to the festival grounds. If only the night wasn't threatening to swallow this picturesque landscape in darkness…

He would have stayed there forever if he could.

"Alm!" The faint voice drifting on the breeze behind him dragged him out of the thoughts of flowers and back to the thoughts of his beloved. Sat at the top of the hill, in the shade of a large tree. Yet still those fiery curls seemed to glow in the dwindling light, standing out over her simple yet radiant white gown. Alm raced back up the hill to her, taking her gentle hand in his, staring into those gentle copper eyes, watching those lips crease into a smile. He felt his own do the same.

"I have something I'd like to show you, Alm."

"Celica, it's going to get dark soon, can't we wait until tomorrow?" Alm gently tugged her arm. "Look, we can meet up with Conrad and the others and tomorrow-" Celica rose from her perch in silence, still smiling at Alm, her grip like iron around his wrist. "Oh, Alm, I can't wait!"

Celica raced down the hill, Alm in tow, every step further from the festival, from their friends and family. Every step closer to the forest beyond. Once at the treeline, Celica finally let go of Alm's wrist, her smile still not fading, Excitement glittering in her eyes like the sparkle of the evening sun.

"It's just in here. It's a rather short walk… perhaps I should have waited a little longer." "Don't worry about that now, Celica. We can see what you want me to see and head back."

They headed into the forest together, Alm trying his best to match Celica's sprightly pace, weaving between trees. Even matching her as her bounding through the trees turned to a cautious stroll, and then a complete stop.

This wasn't the part of the forest they had been in before.

The proud, tall trees looked gnarled and withered, though still had enough reach to completely block out the light. The grass crunched under their feet, dead and dry. The freezing air seeped into every bone of Alm's body. He felt something wrap around his sleeve, and glanced down at Celica staring back up at him. Perhaps she was more terrified than he was. "…I think I may have misremembered the path." She chuckled, her voice hushed. Strained. As if something was hurting her. Even her warmth couldn't seep through the cold. "It's gotten rather cold, hasn't it?" Alm nodded, trying to keep his composure. "We should probably turn back. This doesn't seem safe."

Yet neither of them moved. They didn't look at each other, they didn't speak. The darkness of the rest of the forest loomed over them, engulfed them. Alm could hear Celica softly squeaking beside him, feeling her arms slip off his, taking a glimpse of her huddled on the ground.

"Celica, are you--" "Alm, please. Leave. Leave me here, just go." "Why? Look, I'll come back for you- I'll get Conrad, and-" "No, just leave me. Go."

Alm stared at his wife, curled up into a ball, shaking. For a brief moment, he hesitated, ready to reach out to her. Instead, he ran.

It felt like the trees themselves were closing in, trying to entangle him, to stop him from getting to safety. The ground under him felt uneven, he barely knew where he was going. All the while, wailing cries echoed out behind him. "Alm! Don't leave me!"

He couldn't look back. Looking back would get him killed. The darkness his whatever was behind him- whatever was calling out to him with her voice. He couldn't look back. He wouldn't look back. Not until he was safe, not until he was free of this damned forest. He stumbled and rolled down a steep bank in the ground, coming to a halt by the base of another withered tree, the sounds of whatever was coming for him getting closer. Closing the distance too fast for him to recover from.

He closed his eyes, ready to accept his fate.

He waited. And yet, nothing happened. The voice echoed in the distance, faint, growing further as another grew closer.

"Alm, there you are!"

The other voice startled him back to the forest floor. The deep hues of twilight seeped through the leaves overhead- what he could see of them beyond Faye staring down at him, at least. "Where have you and Celica been? We've been waiting for an hour for you!"

"Sorry, she wanted to show me something in here… we got separated. Where is Celica?"

"She's with Conrad and Silque. Said a monster started chasing her through the forest, that it sounded like you. I doubt a monster could replicate your voice, though, Alm. It wouldn't know you well enough to do so."

Alm sat up at the base of the now-normal tree, gazing into the distant darkness of the rest of the forest beyond. He didn't want to let his mind wander into there, otherwise something would call back. A creature using her voice, or his, perhaps even another voice entirely. Waiting in the dark for its prey.

[whump-card]

Forged Divinity Chapter 29: Phineas Makes a Threat (THE END)

2049 words

CW: past institutionalized slavery, religious themes, returning to an abuser, downer ending, caretaker whump

Previous, Masterlist

~~~

Enjolras wished more than anything that Clary hadn’t said Phineas’ name in front of Leannan. The way he’d lit up made Enjolras feel ill, and he’d insisted on coming along to the radio tower, his tears drying withing minutes.

The tower was a spindly construction on the east end of the island. A little hut at the base held all the interfaces, wired up to antennae perched at the top of the tower.

Enjolras sat at the mic, headphones on, while Clary hovered behind her. Leannan had been convinced to wait outside. For the moment Enjolras was just sitting, her eyes closed, mentally preparing to speak with Phineas.

Leannan had asked on the way over if he could speak with Phineas. She’d told him she wasn’t sure. She sure as hell didn’t want to let them talk to each other, but she needed to respect Leannan’s autonomy, too.

It would depend on what Phineas wanted.

“You’re recording this, right?” She glanced over her shoulder at Clary. They nodded. Having stalled as long as she could, Enjolras switched the mic on.

“Phineas. It’s Enjolras. What do you want.”

“Enja!” She could hear them grinning, as compressed and crackly as the audio was. “Are you alone?”

“Why does that matter?”

“Because I want to discuss the matter of your Iowan. Or should I say, Iowans.”

Enjolras blood ran cold. Phineas shouldn’t know about the enclave of Iowans, couldn’t know…

“What are you talking about?” she asked, keeping her voice even.

“Don’t play dumb, Enja. I know La Libera has all those supposedly-dead Iowans within its borders somewhere. Leannan told me all about it.”

Enjolras’ tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Her guts twisted around in a panic. Of all the people to learn the secret, why did it have to be Phineas?

“I ask again, Phineas. What do you want?” she forced out.

“Here’s the deal.” Phineas was never one to beat around the bush long. “Give Leannan back to me, or I tell everyone who will listen that you’ve got the missing Iowans.”

Enjolras breathed. This was bad, for sure – but it wasn’t impossibly bad. La Libera’s borders were well defended. Anyone who wanted to take the Iowans for themselves would have to be extremely determined.

Then, she remembered, this was Phineas she was dealing with.

“I’ll give you a while to think about it,” Phineas interrupted her thoughts, “I’ll call again at three. I hope I can have Leannan back by supper. Roger?”

“Roger.”

Enjolras waited a minute, hoping against hope that Phineas would add something else, some caveat, some way out of this, but they were done talking. She turned off the mic and took off the headphones, feeling numb.

“So what did they say?” Clary asked grimly.

Enjolras couldn’t answer. She was too preoccupied with what to tell Leannan. She couldn’t tell him – chances were, he’d be all for running straight back to Phineas. But she couldn’t keep it a secret, either. Leannan’s future and the future of the entirety of La Libera hinged on this decision.

But as she remembered his face on the way over, nearly vibrating with excitement about merely second-hand contact with Phineas, she knew she couldn’t tell him. She looked up at Clary.

“I want a meeting with all the adults on the island – and we can’t tell Leannan.”

~~~

It had been a miscommunication – it wasn’t Phineas, after all.

Leannan tried to hide his disappointment when Enjolras told him, but he ended up crying again.

Enjolras let him go back to his room. He was better off there. Less disappointed, less disappointing.

He must have slept, because a knock on the door woke him.

“Come in!” he called, sitting up.

It was Aisling, Clary, and Mohammad. They all looked somber, and nervous.

“There’s something you need to know,” Aisling said.

~~~

“Has anyone seen Leannan?” Enjolras asked, walking into the common room of the Longhouse, “He’s not in his room.”

Jeanette’s fingers lifted from the piano keys, halting their music.

“He didn’t say goodbye to you?” she asked.

“Goodbye? What…”

Jeanette turned and looked at Enjolras sadly, evidence of tears on her face.

“I tried to talk him out of it, I really did.”

~~~

Mohammad and Leannan walked together through La Libera’s city. Leannan couldn’t help but marvel. So many homes and buildings were completely intact from the old days. New structures were beautifully engineered masonry. Nearly every home had a garden – some just grew flowers. People sat on rocking chairs on porches. Children played in the street. Neighbors chatted.

It was so much more evidence that he didn’t belong here – and that this place didn’t deserve a war.

He’d packed a backpack, and Mohammad had given him some decent walking boots and a broad-rimmed hat. He wouldn’t be a burden on Phineas, not this time.

It took an hour to reach the city border. There was farmland beyond, but it wasn’t as tightly guarded. Mohammad flashed a badge and they were let through the checkpoint with no hassle.

Then, there was Phineas.

They stood in the middle of the road, watching Leannan approach, with a big grin on their face that made Leannan’s heart swell. They had their big boots, their big backpack, and their sniper rifle, cutting a familiar silhouette.

“Phineas!” Leannan broke into a run, flinging himself into Phineas’ arms, his hat flying off. Phineas hugged him tightly, pressing their face into his neck and breathing deeply.

“Hej, bebino,” they said softly. Then they pulled their head back and kissed him, like how real lovers kiss – a gentle parting of the lips, an exploratory tongue – and Leannan relished every second of it, his blood pounding with excitement.

It almost made up for not saying goodbye to anyone except Jeanette.

“Phineas,” he reluctantly pulled away from the kiss, “Give me a minute?”

Phineas smiled at him. “Sure.”

Leannan went back to Mohammad, who was watching them uneasily. Leannan unclasped the necklace from around his neck and held it out.

“Can you give this to Shannon for me? And tell her I’m sorry it didn’t work out. But that I’ll be okay. Actually, you can tell everyone that.”

Mohammad hesitantly took the necklace.

“I know this was your decision, but no one’s going to be happy about it. Your sister might actually kill me.”

“This is where I belong,” Leannan said, “This is who I belong with.”

“Leannan,” Mohammad looked pained, “Please come back with me. Please come home?”

Leannan shook his head.

“It’s not my home.”

“You done?” Phineas sauntered over and threw an arm around Leannan’s shoulders.

Mohammad opened and closed his mouth, like he wanted to say more, but only nodded.

“Good luck, Leannan.”

Leannan nodded back.

“Thanks.”

Mohammad slowly turned and walked back to the checkpoint. Phineas pulled Leannan around and started walking the two of them away from the city, keeping their arm around Leannan’s shoulders.

“Real jerk move, Phineas!” Leannan leaned hard into indignation to stifle his sorrow, “You didn’t have to threaten a war, I would’ve come with you anyway.” He wasn’t entirely sure if that was true, but it felt good to say.

“Didn’t like your family?” Phineas asked.

“They didn’t really like me,” Leannan said quietly.

“I know the feeling.” Phineas gave him a squeeze before dropping their arm. Leannan immediately missed the warm weight.

“Where are we going?” he asked, picking up his hat as they passed.

“Wherever we like,” Phineas replied.

“Oh, no,” Leannan said warningly, “I’m not living on the road with you! You better have a place where we can actually live figured out.”

Phineas laughed brightly, and Leannan’s heart sang.

“We’ll figure something out,” they said, and Leannan found himself satisfied with that noncommittal answer. They walked in silence for a while, putting some distance between them and the city.

“I learned that Enjolras is your sister,” Leannan said.

“Mhm,” Phineas grunted.

“How come you two don’t get along?”

“Long story.”

Leannan smiled at them.

“We’ve got all the time in the world.”

Pounding footsteps, behind them.

“PHINEAS!”

The two of them whirled around at the shout to see Enjolras coming to a halt on the road behind them, her chest heaving with labored breaths, aiming a crossbow at Phineas. Leannan stepped in front of Phineas at the same time as Phineas stepped behind him.

“Let him go!” Enjolras snarled.

“Enjolras!” Leannan pleaded, “This is what I want! You have to let me leave with Phineas!”

“Phineas is abusive, Leannan!” Enjolras yelled, “They’ll only hurt you!”

“That’s not true!” Leannan raised his voice to match, “Phineas takes care of me!”

“Oh, like they took care of you the night I visited? Or when they burned Donda Island to the ground?” Enjolras countered.

“That was different! Phineas didn’t know back then!”

“Know what?”

“That I’m human! Things will be different now!” Leannan spun around, grabbing Phineas’ shoulders, “I learned it, it’s true, I’m really a human, so things will be different now, between us, right?”

Phineas smiled serenely at him. “Of course.”

“See?” Leannan faced Enjolras again, “Things will be different!”

“Leannan,” Enjolras gaped at him, shaking her head, “How can you be so goddamn stupid?”

Leannan froze, her words cutting him to the bone.

“Enjolras, I…”

“Hey!” Phineas’ voice rang out, “Don’t talk to him like that.”

Leannan couldn’t help but smile, thrilled to be defended.

“Get away from him, Phineas!” Enjolras ordered, taking a threatening step forward.

“Or what?” Phineas taunted, “You gonna shoot him? You can’t have him, so no one can?” Phineas wrapped their arms around Leannan, but before Leannan could enjoy the hug Phineas pressed their hunting knife to his cheek.

“Good idea,” Phineas said slowly, “If I can’t have him, no one can.”

Enjolras lowered her crossbow immediately.

“Phineas, don’t.”

“Turn and walk away, then!” Phineas said.

Leannan knew Phineas was bluffing – what else could they possibly be doing? But it was clear Enjolras believed it.

“Just go, Enjolras!” he called to her, “Leave us alone!”

“Do as he says, Enja,” Phineas added.

Enjolras stared at them with a fiery mix of helplessness and anger.

“Phineas, please,” she begged, “Just let Leannan go. Let him be with his family.”

“It sounds like his family wasn’t really a good fit for him,” Phineas said, “I guess we have that in common.”

Enjolras’ burning eyes darted from Leannan, to Phineas, and back.

“Your sister loves you,” she said, “Everybody there loves you.”

“Phineas loves me,” Leannan retorted.

Enjolras’ eyes widened a little. She turned away slightly, looking out over the farm fields lining the road.

“Leannan…”

As soon as she was looking away, Phineas moved.

The hunting knife thunked into Enjolras’ ribs, and she stumbled back a step. Her hand flew to the wound, and she stared down at it, mouth open.

“Enjolras!” Leannan started forward, but Phineas grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

“Let’s go!” they shouted.

“But Enjolras!”

“She’ll survive,” Phineas said, dragging Leannan along, “She always survives.”

Leannan looked over his shoulder, watching Enjolras fall to her knees in the dust, growing ever smaller as Phineas pulled him away.

“Phineas, please!” Leannan begged, “She’s your sister, you can’t want her to die!”

“She won’t die,” Phineas scoffed, “If she leaves the knife in, and is careful, she’ll be able to walk back to the checkpoint. She’ll make it, she always does.”

Leannan had no choice but to follow Phineas’ bruisingly tight lead, constantly glancing back at Enjolras.

She’d brought him to his family. She’d done her best to make him feel welcome, even if it hadn’t worked.

He’d have never met Peter or Rory or Lena without her.

He huffed a sob of relief when she slowly stood and started walking back towards the city.

Phineas didn’t let go of his arm until well after Enjolras was out of sight. Leannan didn’t speak for bit, rubbing his arm as they walked.

“Phineas,” he finally piped up, “Maybe we should go back and make sure…”

Phineas whirled on him, grabbing the front of his shirt.

“Did I ask for your fuckin’ opinion?” they growled.

“No, Phineas!” said Leannan.

“That’s right. Shut up and walk.”

They released him and strode ahead.

Leannan straightened his shirt. Assured himself that things would be different.

Then he shut up and walked.

END

~~~

Previous, Masterlist

Taglist: @angst-after-dark, @sunshiline-writes, @flowersarefreetherapy, @thecyrulik

[apoptoses]

Pairing: armand/daniel

First sentence: Usually, Daniel liked to sleep in, not waking until long after the scent of coffee- thanks to Armand- filled the house.

Usually, Daniel liked to sleep in, not waking until long after the scent of coffee- thanks to Armand- filled the house. He would lie in bed, face buried in the pillow, stretching his legs beneath the sheets until Armand unceremoniously tugged the blankets off him.

There was none of that now.

Just the narrow confines of the coffin, lined in padded satin. As a mortal Daniel might have panicked in the tight, dark box with its impossibly heavy lid. But the death sleep released him slowly; awareness first coming to him in the sensation of his dead feet pointing and touching the bottom of the coffin. And then creeping into his limbs, wrapped around a weight that lay heavy on his chest. His dead lungs, which inhaled the dry, stuffy air trapped inside the coffin. His brain- wakefulness came upon that slowly as well, and then all at once as if a curtain had been pulled back and let in the rush of sounds and thoughts that filled the Night Island.

Somewhere in these crypts beneath the Villa was Lestat, Louis. Marius. Jesse and Maharet. Khayman. Daniel couldn't hear their thoughts but he could feel their presence in the way one feels the presence of an animal in the dark woods, invisible but very much there.

"You sleep late, lover. The sun has been down for nearly an hour now," Armand said.

Daniel squeezed his eyes tight. Then opened them and took in Armand's pale face. Even the darkness it seemed to glow, thanks to his vampire sight. He lifted his hand from Armand's bare shoulder (bare? ah, yes, they'd ended up sneaking into the coffin together bare well before dawn last night, he remembered, the little blood he had in him rushing to his cheeks) and tucked an auburn curl behind Armand's ear.

"And yet you're still in here with me, so you must not have anything to complain about," Daniel said, words slurred with sleep.

There was hardly room for the two of them in the coffin; Armand had no choice but to lie atop him, chest to chest, face tucked into Daniel's shoulder. But then they both liked that- Armand for the intimacy, Daniel for the way it left him unable to focus on anything but the sensation of silky smooth skin against his.

It was comforting. Grounding. A gentle way to start the night before the fascination with the sights and sounds of Miami overtook him and had him awash in the surrealism of it all. How hilarious it was that the staff who had known him as the disgruntled man who slept in the massive bedroom upstairs saw him now only at night, with no idea of how or why he'd changed!

"What's so funny, Daniel?" Armand murmured into his neck.

"Everything. Waking up in a coffin with you. Having everyone in the house," Daniel said. "Thinking about how I should get breakfast but now breakfast is an entire human life. It's surreal."

Armand kissed at his throat, right above his carotid. In life that kind of kiss had made him shudder, but in death- it was a full body experience, like an electric spark had passed through Armand's lips and gone shooting through his veins.

"It'll be less surreal when you've fed."

Armand sat up, pushing open the lid with his shoulders first, and then, once he had the space to dis-entangle himself from Daniel's arms, his hands. There was a light on in the room, a lamp in the corner on a timer that ensured they rose to bedroom awash in its incandescent glow. Armand's auburn hair seemed to shimmer like molten bronze as he tossed it back over his shoulder.

"Come, lover. We'll find you someone to feed from," Armand said and held out his hand to help Daniel up.

No more coffee, no more blankets. No more greasy breakfasts of bacon and scrambled eggs. Just a bed for the dead, and the metallic rush of blood over his tongue.

And Armand, forever his beacon beckoning him into the night.

Daniel took his hand (so cold! so bizarrely like marble that compressed and reformed itself beneath his palm!) and climbed out of the coffin, eager for the hunt.

[dathomirdumpsterfire]

Read the prequel on Ao3 HERE. Start at chapter one HERE. Updates Tuesdays.

~~~Chapter 5: Please Be Functional~~~

Maul steps off the boarding ramp into a world of inky black. Not darkness, but absence. Dry pebbles crunch under his boots, but when he looks down he sees only himself. 

At a distance something small disturbs the unseen ground, skittering and sliding through the grit. Some little animal or another, many-limbed from the sound of it, chittering as it flees from him. 

From… 

While he’d been distracted by the creature, the dark horizon had lightened a shade and resolved into shapes. Odd, angular formations of rock far in the distance. Behind their sharp planes, a color appears- dim yellow. Maul blinks and suddenly there is a sky above his head, as though it had been there the whole time and he could only now see it. 

Dirty atmosphere and yellow light, a field of lifeless rock. But no, there had been an animal just now, it-

Something slams into the back of Maul’s shoulder. He whirls, snarling, and sees a stone hit the ground. It rolls to a slow stop by his foot. There’s no ship behind him. He’s alone in the dusty wasteland. 

“Welcome to Tosste.” 

Maul whirls again. Nothing moves. There’s not even a breeze to whistle between the sparse boulders. Only the voice of his Master. 

He reaches out with the force- seeing, feeling, knowing. It is present everywhere, even in barren places, even in dead winds and dry rocks. 

“What do you see?” 

He isn’t stupid, he isn’t a child anymore. He’s learned his lessons, he understands. 

Maul does not voice the answer Sidious seeks aloud, but he knows his Master hears him nonetheless.

Weapons. I see weapons.  

Warm laughter echoes across the landscape, everywhere at once. Crouched in the grit, senses expanded far beyond himself, Maul can feel every pebble around him. Ready. 

Unseen, another rock smashes into his arm. 

“To live without leaving a mark is a terrible thing,” his Master drawls. “To die forgotten is even worse."

“Rrrgh!” Maul redoubles his efforts, gathering the force to himself, feeling the pebbles, the dust, the lines of fossils trapped within the rock beneath his feet. The ghosts of a world long dead. But underneath it all, he feels emptiness, an icy void, its chill creeping up into everything.

His Master continues as if Maul hadn’t interrupted. “It is… irresponsible.” 

His fingers are going numb. A stone flies toward his head and he fails to bat it away, his arm moving too slowly to stop it from cracking into his horns. He should have felt it sooner, why couldn’t he feel-? 

“The creatures that once roamed this now dead ocean, they lacked imagination. Ultimately, that is why they all perished. They failed to see… potential."

“No!” he screams. “It is you who failed to see! With your teachings I survived! I survived! You-!” 

The next rock slams squarely into his lower back, then another hits the side of his knee, his left arm. He can’t feel them coming. No matter how deeply Maul attunes himself to the landscape, the force is silent in the face of his Master’s will. He’ll never feel them coming. 

“You have been… replaced.”

Cold climbs into Maul’s bones and roots him in place, and it’s all he can do to lift his arms—bare and skinny. His hands are small, with a child’s stubby fingers and soft claws, filed flat. He shields his head and roars, his voice cracking apart into nothing but a thin hiss. 

“Not fast enough.” 

The next rock flies straight for his face. 

Maul gasps awake, jolting upright from a slouch over a reading desk.

His eyes itch, and his neck aches. His left leg is awash with the cold-fire burn of nerve pain, and he wants to run off through the gravethorn forest and kill something to make the energy vibrating in his bones go away.

He has been over this fucking library enough times to have it memorized.

Manic energy crests and Maul snarls at it, at the books, at everything. At the irony that once upon a time the entire room and all its knowledge would have been forbidden to him, simply because he was born with the audacity to have a dick. Not that he got to keep said appendage. Oh no, even that he will have to recreate if he ever wants more than the strange human prosthetic the mandalorians inflicted on him along with his fourth set of legs. 

A stone candleholder, the candle propped inside long burned down to a puddle, rattles across the desk, spilling wax. He snarls again and hurls it across the room with the force, listens to it bounce off the wall and roll to a stop on the floor.

‘Turn around.’

He does. From sitting hunched at the table to standing with his back to it, faster than his conscious mind can process. For an achingly clear instant his discomfort -tetchy nerves and exhaustion and frustration- is burned away in a bitter chill. A cold-snap reset of reality.

Then his thoughts catch up to the moment. It is the force damned voices again, come to bother him in his distraction. 

‘I suspect that every creature that ever lived on Tosste did not think much about rocks either.’

He wants to light everything in sight on fire.

Maul turns from his former master's voice, making distance between himself and all the remaining books and scrolls of the nightsisters, knowing that he needs to be further from precious, flammable things. Immediately. 

He kicks the candleholder aside on his way out the door.

Seeking a balm for his temper, Maul heads to the temple's hot springs, born up from deep water with old magicks. Perhaps the heat of them would match his energy, and curate it, buffer it so he could think.

‘I had hoped that you would be smarter,’ Sidious whispers from nowhere.

'I will soak myself and rest,’ Maul thinks, forcibly placid, shaky with rage, ‘then on the 'morrow I shall contact Vos and see if-'

W                   

   h  e   r           A                                             ?

        e              r r  rr                Y   o            u?

                               r   r e                 o  ou

"Rrraaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!"

The sith howls in abundant, caustic fury and turns for the sanctum. He slams claws that have begun to overgrow into the solid rock of the temple wall, and reinforces them with his hate .

The timing! Of these attacks! Is!

Maul's nails leave a trail of gouges all the way there. Who is left to chastise him for defacing the temple? No one. Who is left to forbid him from knowledge because his flesh does not match his talent? No one. Who is left? Only. Him. He is alone but he is free, and he is determined to find whoever or whatever is responsible for these assaults.

‘What do you see?’ his master’s voice asks again with deceptive calm.

The circles of ichor are already lit, their protections triggered even before he could reach them. Latent magicks help push away the tendrils, warding him automatically simply because he is there, and in need of their aid.

Something soft at the bottom of his chest catches and aches. How distinct that feels from everything else, like… like the memory of blue eyes and cinnamon oil and petrichor. Mother.

But a memory is not a feeling.That does not make sense, he is missing something. 

Or something is missing from him.

Maul growls and shoves that mystery down into the frustrating bramble of all his other useless emotions, so much fuel for his rage, and takes his place at the center of the wards. The strings are slippery today, plying and sweet, almost deceptively gentle. He refuses them all the same, not fooled by the lie.

‘I’ll ask you again.’

It has been five days, and he has noticed no specific pattern to the threat. Sometimes the break between is measured in minutes. Other times he has hours before it comes again. 

Either way, he has been sleeping in this room.

Either way, he has not been able to trace the source. 

Maul watches as the walls start up their firework flicker, runes burning bright and fading out. He made both a holo-recording and a physical diagram of the entire wardset on the second day, just in case any of the marks failed from overuse. So far they have held. The Nightmother's wards remain strong, even in her absence.

Runelight fades, and Maul sneers in triumph at the threads’ retreat. Fucking good riddance.

Now, he will go to the pools. 

‘What do you see?’

With a veneer of calm he rises to leave, still ignoring the voices of the past, pausing briefly to touch the delicate curl of a long and winding rune. Just the vitality in his fingers is enough to make the ichor infused in it glow softly. Maul stares at it a moment before exiting and heading for his original destination.

He wends his way through the empty halls of the nightsisters’ undercity, led onward by a draft of cool night air blowing in between distant carbon-scored pillars and the remains of titanic statues. 

Far to the city’s edge a series of springs lie sprawled against the wall of the cavern. The heartspring sits high at the back and literally boils with heat, too hot to enter. A curling scent of sulfur and magnesium wafts around on air currents thick with steam. The heart and its immediate children sit tucked away in an overhang made of the same stone and gnarled roots as the temple. 

There are dozens of options further away, relatively cooler and brackish, but it is to those higher pools he goes, shedding clothing in a trail, leaving himself bare to the elements.

A waft of heated air curls past him, pricking at the synthskin recently grafted around his hips. The flesh is tender and raw in its newness, delivering an uncomfortable amount of sensation compared to the bare metal of his outer thighs or the nerveless mesh around his knees and ankles. He can feel the airflow there now, the tickle of condensation and the heat rising off the water. Maul has reclaimed these for himself.

Any discomfort is ignored as he continues past carved shelves above and below the waterline. Higher to sit and cool off. Lower to recline in the water. Maul bypasses these options and dumps himself in the deep end, letting the weight of his metal half pull him down, down, down…

At the very bottom he purposefully lets go, roaring a gout of muted bubbles, feeding his fury into the world, letting it run rampant. The waters geyser up, splash away, turning a slow trickle from pool to pool into white, frothy rapids.

The remaining water crashes down, leaving his basin at a fraction of its previous depth. Maul breathes deeply, and spends more than a few moments centering his mind. Long curtains of glimmering navy kelp hang limp down the sides of the pool, dripping, alive with waterbugs large and small. A vividly yellow crab goes scuttling across the bottom toward it, kicking up a trail of sandy murk as it races for cover.

‘What do you see?’

The sith lays down right where he is, and lets the water rise around him. 

-

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@ghostpeppercalamari

[ebaeschnbliah]

A little way beyond the battle-field they made their camp under a spreading tree ...

... it looked like a chestnut, and yet it still bore many broad brown leaves of a former year, like dry hands with long splayed fingers; they rattled mournfully in the night-breeze.

Gimli shivered. They had brought only one blanket apiece. 'Let us light a fire,' he said. 'I care no longer for the danger. Let the Orcs come as thick as summer-moths round a candle!'

'If those unhappy hobbits are astray in the woods, it might draw them hither,' said Legolas.

'And it might draw other things, neither Orc nor Hobbit,' said Aragorn. 'We are near to the mountain-marches of the traitor Saruman. Also we are on the very edge of Fangorn, and it is perilous to touch the trees of that wood, it is said.'

'But the Rohirrim made a great burning here yesterday,' said Gimli, 'and they felled trees for the fire, as can be seen. Yet they passed the night after safely here, when their labour was ended.'

'They were many,' said Aragorn, 'and they do not heed the wrath of Fangorn, for they come here seldom, and they do not go under the trees. But our paths are likely to lead us into the very forest itself. So have a care! Cut no living wood!'

'There is no need,' said Gimli. 'The Riders have left chip and bough enough, and there is dead wood lying in plenty.' He went off to gather fuel, and busied himself with building and kindling a fire; but Aragorn sat silent with his back to the great tree, deep in thought; and Legolas stood alone in the open, looking towards the profound shadow of the wood, leaning forward, as one who listens to voices calling from a distance.

When the Dwarf had a small bright blaze going, the three companions drew close to it and sat together, shrouding the light with their hooded forms. Legolas looked up at the boughs of the tree reaching out above them.

'Look!' he said. 'The tree is glad of the fire!'

It may have been that the dancing shadows tricked their eyes, but certainly to each of the companions the boughs appeared to be bending this way and that so as to come above the flames, while the upper branches were stooping down; the brown leaves now stood out stiff, and rubbed together like many cold cracked hands taking comfort in the warmth.

There was a silence, for suddenly the dark and unknown forest, so near at hand, made itself felt as a great brooding presence, full of secret purpose. After a while Legolas spoke again.

'Celeborn warned us not to go far into Fangorn,' he said. 'Do you know why, Aragorn? What are the fables of the forest that Boromir had heard?'

'I have heard many tales in Gondor and elsewhere,' said Aragorn, 'but if it were not for the words of Celeborn I should deem them only fables that Men have made as true knowledge fades. I had thought of asking you what was the truth of the matter. And if an Elf of the Wood does not know, how shall a Man answer?'

'You have journeyed further than I,' said Legolas. 'I have heard nothing of this in my own land, save only songs that tell how the Onodrim, that Men call Ents, dwelt there long ago; for Fangorn is old, old even as the Elves would reckon it.'

'Yes, it is old,' said Aragorn, 'as old as the forest by the Barrow-downs, and it is far greater. Elrond says that the two are akin, the last strongholds of the mighty woods of the Elder Days, in which the Firstborn roamed while Men still slept. Yet Fangorn holds some secret of its own. What it is I do not know.'

'And I do not wish to know,' said Gimli. 'Let nothing that dwells in Fangorn be troubled on my account!'

They now drew lots for the watches, and the lot for the first watch fell to Gimli. The others lay down. Almost at once sleep laid hold on them. 'Gimli!' said Aragorn drowsily. 'Remember, it is perilous to cut bough or twig from a living tree in Fangorn. But do not stray far in search of dead wood. Let the fire die rather! Call me at need!'

With that he fell asleep. Legolas already lay motionless, his fair hands folded upon his breast, his eyes unclosed, blending living night and deep dream, as is the way with Elves. Gimli sat hunched by the fire, running his thumb thoughtfully along the edge of his axe. The tree rustled. There was no other sound.

Suddenly Gimli looked up, and there just on the edge of the fire-light stood an old bent man, leaning on a staff, and wrapped in a great cloak; his wide-brimmed hat was pulled down over his eyes. Gimli sprang up, too amazed for the moment to cry out, though at once the thought flashed into his mind that Saruman had caught them. Both Aragorn and Legolas, roused by his sudden movement, sat up and stared. The old man did not speak or make, sign.

'Well, father, what can we do for you?' said Aragorn, leaping to his feet. 'Come and be warm, if you are cold!' He strode forward, but the old man was gone. There was no trace of him to be found near at hand, and they did not dare to wander far. The moon had set and the night was very dark.

Suddenly Legolas gave a cry. 'The horses! The horses!'

The horses were gone. They had dragged their pickets and disappeared. For some time the three companions stood still and silent, troubled by this new stroke of ill fortune. They were under the eaves of Fangorn, and endless leagues lay between them and the Men of Rohan, their only friends in this wide and dangerous land. As they stood, it seemed to them that they heard, far off in the night. the sound of horses whinnying and neighing. Then all was quiet again, except for the cold rustle of the wind.

'Well, they are gone,' said Aragorn at last. 'We cannot find them or catch them; so that if they do not return of their own will, we must do without. We started on our feet, and we have those still.'

'Feet!' said Gimli. 'But we cannot eat them as well as walk on them ' He threw some fuel on the fire and slumped down beside it.

'Only a few hours ago you were unwilling to sit on a horse of Rohan,' laughed Legolas. 'You will make a rider yet.'

'It seems unlikely that I shall have the chance,' said Gimli.

'If you wish to know what I think,' he began again after a while 'I think it was Saruman. Who else? Remember the words of Éomer: he walks about like an old man hooded and cloaked. Those were the words. He has gone off with our horses, or scared them away, and here we are. There is more trouble coming to us, mark my words!'

'I mark them,' said Aragorn. 'But I marked also that this old man had a hat not a hood. Still I do not doubt that you guess right, and that we are in peril here, by night or day. Yet in the meantime there is nothing that we can do but rest, while we may. I will watch for a while now, Gimli. I have more need of thought than of sleep.'

The night passed slowly. Legolas followed Aragorn, and Gimli followed Legolas, and their watches wore away. But nothing happened. The old man did not appear again, and the horses did not return.

JRR Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, The Two Towers,  The Riders of Rohan