#at least I knew I was putting the hands in the pickets from the start but my oh my

[hollowaluminumvessel]

everyone

i have found a new purpose. fat men with hairy chests. I will take the sacred oath and will continue to grow, and maybe draw body hair a bit better next time

[upontherisers]

❛ are you wearing my shirt? ❜ for Dora and Rosie . for legal reasons

a/n: this took so long babe my apologizes. cari write established relationship or draw 25 challenge. i'm drawing 25.

It’s hot in the sun, gloriously hot, the kind of hot that seeps right through her bones, the kind that makes her feel like she has dissolved and diffused into the air. The kind that sings her to sleep without any sound, that makes burning feel like a hug, the kind her mother would chase her out of on the grounds of too dark and wrinkles. Sorry, Mama. I’ve always loved the light. The kind of hot that needs no wind, no umbrella, no shade at all – just the clear sky overhead and the laughter of children splashing in the fire hydrant on the street below, shrieking and shouting and ignoring their parents as is their right on such a perfect day. 

The kind of hot that makes her sleepy without ever being tired first and she’s already napped today – Pastor had asked after her absence and Grammy, a quick thinker, had pardoned her granddaughter’s absence. A summer cold, you know how those get. And she has things to do – bring her laundry off the line after forgetting for two days and darn a stocking and do her readings for class tomorrow and review a radio contract offer for the picket – but it’s the kind of hot that absolves her of guilt and the day is about indulgences, isn’t it? She’s sunbathing on her roof, for Pete’s sake.

Besides, Robert’ll wake her up before it gets too late.

She cracks an eye open to look at him seated on the blanket beside her, engrossed in a newspaper. It’s tough to make out the date on the front page as it bends into shadow, but the breeze does her a favor. July 7th, 1943. It’s two weeks old but he’s reading like it’s December 8th, 1941, like he’s going to do something about what he’s seeing. You’re in it now, aren’t you?

“They don’t give you newspapers in Texas?”

His eyes, brilliant blue, as blue as the sky above, meet hers over the headline – 6 JAPANESE WARSHIPS BELIEVED SUNK IN FIGHT, and those crinkles in the corners remind her of the day they met, her confusion over Mildred’s forlorn pining when she learned where Dora had been assigned. Oh, I wanted that desk. And then he walked in and offered a hand and smiled and if she were a different woman – ambitious, romantic, concerned with station, she would’ve gloated. But Dora was new and Robert had only just started and they both needed to see who they’d turn out to be, legal secretary and lawyer.

“They give us Texas papers in Texas.”

“And they don’t have the news?”

He blinks and sets that pesky left brow. “Not the backpages stuff. Nothing about New York.”

“I can send them to you,” she says, “if you want to keep up. They’ll be a week behind but—”

“Do you read ‘em?”

“Yes,” she does, and her panic about welcoming him back into the apartment by daylight is that he’d be able to see the pile stacked on top of the piano, in reach when she’s tucked into the nook of the front window. The ones she managed to fish out of the bottom and shove into the broom closet before he finished giving himself the tour were from March and she doesn’t know when that started, but it surely wasn’t good. Just another thing to add to the list of things he made her look twice at – shoes, streetlights, and newspapers. She could at least get the Great Paper Purge done today. 

The corner of his mouth lifts, the one Mildred swoons over, he snaps the pages upright again. “I’d rather have your summaries. They’re a little more uplifting.”

She’d fret over yet another assignment getting put down in writing if it weren’t for the sun, for the warm stone under the blanket as she rolls onto her stomach, if it weren’t for the reminder that she’s as alive as anything, and she really needed this, didn’t she? She doesn’t know how he knew, but the sun tells her not to get herself into a tizzy over that either, and she slumps into the pillow beneath her chin, checking her watch – 1 o’clock. An hour won’t hurt. She’d pop up at two, take her laundry down, fix her stocking, then bring her books to the roof. Dinner will have to be sorted eventually, but her eyelids are so very heavy and as Robert hums along to Mr. Delaney cranking his car radio all the way up at the end of the block, she feels like she’s floating in water, indistinguishable from the air around her. 

Hell, they can walk to Dean St. and Robert can pay for dinner at Cal’s with his big fancy Air Force salary. She sleeps.

Dora doesn’t snore so much as huff, little bursts of air puffing through her lips with every exhale. It’s sweet, leisurely, and relieving that she doesn’t have to sleep like she’s desperate for it. Shades of the bone-tired woman he had coffee with a week ago still remain – her bleary, addled amazement as her younger sister gleefully announced his arrival at their grandparents’ brownstone, her gentle slump in his passenger’s seat as she quietly watched the city pass by – but she has her light back, the glow that pushes from her as she finds him a file, chats with Mildred and Bob over lunch, sheepishly hops up on stage to play with the Putman house band, and rests here on her building’s roof. 

He abandons his article about illness threats to women factory workers – interesting how the men on the line next to them don’t face the same risk – to watch her for a while. It’s strange that she’s here now, in front of him, after so many months of wanting to see her, of writing down stories that would be easier to tell in person, of picking white and yellow wildflowers on the side of the runway in Tennessee and wishing he could tuck them behind her ear and watch her smile, bright, blinding. He thinks of her more than he knows what to do with. 

Her face is turned toward him, brushed gold by the sun beating down over her round cheek and slight chin, the oval of her pink mouth, the heart of her Cupid’s bow. He’d kissed that beautiful, wide, flat nose, and brushed his thumb indulgently over her soft skin under the cover of night, but the light reveals the best of her. The small of her back, a heart-freckle on her shoulder, the curve of her spine – he wants to touch.

Hesitantly, he traces a knuckle over her shoulder blade and she stirs, but doesn’t wake. One finger, then another, then the rest, then his palm and he listens to her breathing as he rubs her back. It manages to be musical, like everything about her, as it matches the pace of the horns popping in and out of the Crosby tune floating up from the street. With our full crew aboard and our trust in the Lord, comin’ in on a wing and a prayer. He’s never been a fan of Crosby – crooners are killing the art of big band – but he doesn’t sound half bad when Robert can watch Dora’s lashes flutter as she stretches out on the plush, striped wool under them.

What’re you gonna do about that girl, his mother had asked him as he left this morning. 

Jeannie laughed from their dining table. Something stupid.

Something helpful, he insisted. 

Something helpful.

He stops rubbing her back before he really does something stupid – brush away the hair falling into her eyes, feel the freckle on her shoulder with his teeth – and pulls out the note he’d written as she was making them lemonade. Be right back. Standing, he discards his unbuttoned shirt, leaves the note on top, and grabs his edition of the Times before descending the fire escape ladder at the back of the building and slipping into Dora’s apartment. It takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust, but as soon as he regains his bearings, he gets to work.

Kitchen first. There’s not much to do; he sweeps, collects the sugar that had spilled on the counter, discards the empty lemon rinds, and washes the dishes in the sink. He picks up around the living room, scooping fallen petals from the purple flowers in her windowsill, placing stray records back in their sleeves – not without putting Benny Goodman on first, and he’s in the middle of organizing the newspapers on top of the piano when he flips through a May edition on a whim and his eyes catch black ink in the margins, two words hastily scrawled next to a small article. For Robert. The headline circled, $3,629,000 FOR REFUGEES; Jewish Relief Unit Appropriates Funds. 

He remembers this. She’d written him about it along with assurances that the new Jewish families in the neighborhood were adjusting well. Her Yiddish is rudimentary, her German sparse, and her Polish non-existent, but she made sure to greet them all with a smile when passing by on the street or the bus, and she’d joined an antifascist coalition with her grandparents that had seen her speak in front of jeering crowds at borough council meetings and counter protesters at aid rallies. But they don’t bother me, she wrote.

That’s Dora, kind and fierce. She’s going to make a damn fine lawyer. 

There are a few more of her notes as he skims through the papers and leaves them on top of the piano. He tidies the worn cushions in her window sill and it brings him no small amount of peace to picture her reading there with her legs curled under her, basking in the sun during the day and aglow with warm lamplight at night. 

He goes to look for a duster for the piano and gets lost reshuffling her broom closet for half an hour.

This wasn’t the plan. The plan was to pick her up in Harlem, change into their bathing suits here, and spend the afternoon on Coney Island before coming back to Brooklyn and getting ready for an early dinner at Rosetti’s followed by a show on Broadway. The tickets, nervously purchased over the phone yesterday evening while Jeannie cried with silent laughter and picked up as he drove through Manhattan this morning, sit above him next to Dora in the front pocket of his shirt. They can wait there until Germany surrenders for all he cares, as long as she sleeps in peace. There’s no use in running around the city if she can’t wake up with a lighter heart tomorrow. 

He’s not blaming anyone – there’s a war on – but he likes to think that if he were home, he wouldn’t have let her work herself into the ground. Surely someone had noticed the shadows growing under her eyes, her smile fading as the days went. How could they live without it?

And selfishly, he wanted one last look. Dora had circled the numbers in the papers; twelve bombers lost, fifteen, seventeen, twenty. Whatever that meant for him, a homecoming or a gold star in his mother’s window, he wants to remember what he’s fighting for. His older sister’s incessant teasing; the joy in Mrs. Schuman’s voice when he enters her bagel shop – her son Robert, also a lieutenant, didn’t make it off Guadalcanal; and the way Dora’s little brother protests that he doesn’t need her to adjust his hair and his tie before he goes to lunch at his sweetheart’s place but still lets her kiss his cheek on her way out the door. He’s fighting so that Darren doesn’t have to, so that Jews and Poles and the French get to kiss their little brothers’ cheeks, too, out from under the boot of authoritarianism.

A pair of gloves fall from a high shelf and hit him in the forehead. The Benny Goodman record has ended, and he places the gloves in a box marked WINTER before heading back out into the apartment. One of Dora’s shirts snaps in the breeze through the kitchen window. Laundry, right.

Dora rouses gradually, laying with her eyes closed for a few moments before she notices the quiet, no more children laughing or the radio playing. Rolling over, she opens her eyes. The sun is further across the sky than she’d thought it’d be, and she sits up with a start as she checks her watch – 4:30. Shit, shit, shit. She hops to her feet and sees that Robert isn’t beside her, a note left atop his shirt in his neat, even hand. Be right back. She’ll meet him downstairs; she needs to get out of the heat and get to work.

A cool wind blows, making her shiver and she throws Robert’s shirt on, which matches the light blue of her bathing suit, and her stomach does a funny wiggle. They used to show up to the office in the same colors weekly – it’s nice to know that some things don’t change.

The fabric is soft, well-loved, and as she runs her hands down it, her fingers catch on something in the breast pocket. Looking down, she sees two thin strips tucked in the fabric, and fishing them out, she rubs the sleep out of her eyes to read the print.

Broadhurst Theatre. 44th St. Evening - Sunday. E 19.

Robert Rosenthal, you didn’t.

She yanks the blanket from the ground, grabs the lemonade pitcher, and throws on her shoes – interior soles burning after hours baking in the heat – before leaping down the ladder and taking the stairs two at a time. He’s wide-eyed at her sudden entrance, holding one of her work blouses as she pushes through the window, slightly woozy at the green tinge everything takes coming out of the sun. They’re both frozen for a moment.

“Did you buy these?”

“Are you wearing my shirt?”

“I asked first,” she says, holding out the tickets.

There goes that damn dimple as he smiles softly, not helping slow her heart hammering in her chest. “I, uh, I got us a dinner reservation at Rosetti’s, too.” He folds her blouse over a bare forearm and she’s hit with so many thoughts at once – she doesn’t have anything to wear to the theater; he’s not wearing a shirt and she can see the firm muscle of his stomach and the arch of his hip bones; he’s doing her laundry, brassieres included; she still has to do her readings; he’s not wearing a shirt – that she starts to laugh, heaving, side-splitting guffaws. Of course he did.

This is what he does – waltzes into her life, shows her just how good it can be, just how kind the world can get, then leaves and she’s a better, lonelier person for it. Here he is, in her dead parents’ home, doing her laundry because she couldn’t manage, telling her he planned a night for them, that he chose her over a Yankees’ game or a show at Minton’s or simply an evening in with his darling mother, and he’ll be gone in three days, off to be a shield against evil, off to save the world after watching her nearly fall asleep on her feet in a dirty kitchen and still deciding to come back for her.

She laughs until she wheezes, until she’s folded over and her abdomen cramps, until there are tears in her eyes and she doesn’t know if she’s happy or heartbroken. 

“Dora.” He’s in front of her now, smelling of heat and leather and chlorine like he got the Bab-O out from under her sink.

“What have you done?” she asks as she stands and wipes her eyes. And here she was thinking they might get dinner at Cal’s.

His face falls, eyes turning big and sad like a kicked puppy, his dark brows furrow, and it nearly sends her into another fit but she manages to stay upright. “We don’t have to go if—I thought that—”

She shakes her head vigorously and reaches up to hold his cheeks, his stupid, perfect cheeks. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

His smile is so bright that it beats the sun outside and she gets lucky with where her fingertips have landed because those glorious laugh lines find themselves where she can touch them. He turns his head just so and squints as if he’s listening to a good song and steps into her, setting his hands on her hips. 

This is where they kiss in the pictures, and the thought is so laughable that she chuckles aloud before throwing her arms around his shoulders as his slip around her waist. It’s warm, not sunbathing warm, but good all the same.

“Thank you,” she murmurs in his ear. Tears bite at her eyes.

“You deserve it,” he says.

They stay in an embrace until she realizes that she still doesn’t have anything to wear and they have to get all the way to Midtown in traffic. She stands back with a sniff. “I need to borrow a dress from Jeannie.”

[lorimnnn]

hey babez :3 could u possibly write about how michael feels for a hyperfemme bimbo gf? like he never sees her without heels and lashes on X3 this is shamelessly a self insert lol

i have no excuses. this has been sitting in my inbox and stewing in my mind for way too long but here it is!!! i was so excited to put it out I have no idea what happened lol

hope you enjoy my love!!

p.s. remember to reblog and comment!!!

cw: swearing, canon-typical violence, suggestive themes

~

i feel like a lot of the people who say he wouldn't care because he's literally a psychopathic serial killer forget he was born in 1957. He was literally raised in the sixties--- he won't care BUT HE'S GOING TO NOTICE.

michael is a watcher. long before he approached you he has memorised your routine, developed favourites from your closet, salivated over the doe-eyed batting of your long lashes when something doesn't quite go your way. you will later learn that your missing makeup products and fraying clothes is because of this fucker playing with you.

he's intrigued by you. the way you prance around without a care in the world, legs exposed, everything exposed. it's so scandalous. it feels like a sin to look at you alone.

the confidence that you carry yourself with only arouses him even more. he can't even fully objectify you because you know your worth and have standards and therefore he finds himself wondering what you're like. your personality. everything in between.

it becomes obsessive

when he approaches you, it's to extinguish his desire over your body. over you.

if he lets it go any further he'll---

are you... are you flirting with him?

he doesn't know how to feel with you looking directly at him, flinging comments his way despite knowing, KNOWING who he is. you're not even mistaken, you're just going for it even though he still has a knife in his hand

he already can't resist you

when you start running your hands down his body, he's done. just done.

if you're a bimbo in the 1960s (idfk you time travelled), you're going to be an outsider yourself and it makes him feel closer to you. you're practically a power couple--- two outsiders doing whatever the fuck you want with your lives? marriage. now.

you make him feel like a filthy old man. michael was raised with ideas of a white-picket fence and a busy 9-5 with a pretty wife to come home to. all that jazz. while he isn't that traditional you're going to be uprooting everything he once thought he knew and you best believe that when he looks at you, there is not one clean thought in his head

he becomes possessive tenfold. it doesn't help that you're dead gorgeous. will try stop you from leaving the house. will lock you and isolate you in there if he knew it wouldn't draw attention. why the fuck did you have to be so popular?

so many guys asking after you are now dead. and they keep popping up like flies--- Michael gets annoyed by this really easily. it's probably the only part of your getup and lifestyle that he doesn't really like. since he's a pretty independent killer and likes to go and do his own thing, it sets him on edge knowing he can't leave you alone for a minute without having like, 500 men pile up on his hit list

you get a free scary dog now at least. yay! privileges! feel free to walk wherever you want at whatever time of day or night. Michael will take care of you and castrate any man dumbass enough to even look your way

michael is so obsessed it's not okay

his favourite part about this though is watching you get ready. then tearing it all off you and watching you have to start again. you'll be doing your makeup and his hands will just be running up and down your legs, squeezing your thighs and waist, bruises left in his wake.

you'll be constantly swatting him away because he can't help himself. his hand is always on an exposed part of your skin

he just thinks you're so gorgeous and not in a loving way, but an inquisitive way. he's genuinely affronted by how good you look and he doesn't understand it, that explosive, sensual vitality of yours that can never be snuffed out and is so, uniquely you. he wants to pull you apart and understand you because just like him, you're an anomaly of your time

he already has a staring problem... can you imagine him now? he's not looking away once. it'll quickly get uncomfortable because he just won't stop. doesn't even wanna close his eyes when you're sleeping. everything you do to him is just provoking him. push his face away? he's going to steel himself and lean into your touch. shove him? he's a brick wall and thinks you're feeling him up. yell at him about it? he's unimpressed--- don't you get it? you're literally the centre of his world. why would he look away?

michael is literally feral for you i don't make the rules

tell him you've got nothing to wear and he will go and pick an outfit he's lowkey been fantasising about for a good month, waiting for the opportunity. and it's actually pretty good. depending on how you react, this will become his love language for you--- acts of service.

definitely starts targeting other bimbos and stealing from their closet to give you clothes.

i have a very clear image in my head of The Shape himself, prowling down the streets of Haddonfield and surveying the empty streets of the night, utterly ferocious as he hunts his next kill---

completely softening when his bimbo s/o, previously clinging to his arm like they're on a nightly stroll, trips over nothing.

if your feet ever start to hurt from the heels, he will happily carry you. but not in a cute way. as in a 'I want you around but you're holding me up. I'm going to sweep you off your feet now. Don't fall."

decorate his mask with lip prints

I dare you

you'd think he would hate it but it's been like a few weeks and the lip prints are still there. you know he loves it. he knows he loves it. he will always pretend to be indifferent though and it will surprise you every time. michael can care less about how scary he looks. even with his s/o making him look like a besotten college boyfriend, looking scary is the last of his worries when he's literally a famed killer.

since he's following you anyway, use his pockets. mechanics overalls have so many pockets. and he'll encourage you. if you ever end up walking around at night with him and start complaining that you forgot your lipgloss at home, he's going to suddenly be holding out his hand--- he's a walking, non-talking, portable storage bin and be grateful because this is his only way of showing non-physical affection lmao. i fully suggest you take advantage of this. he doesn't need his pockets anyway, he holds his knife. so feel free to stock him up and rummage around as much as you like

but be warned. if you touch him in the slightest when retrieving your lipgloss from one of his pockets, he's going to think you're sending signals.

holds all your specialists at knife point so you can get your stuff done for free. if you don't like that, just tell him. but he thinks he's helping you lmfao. your poor nail girl is pissing herself trying to glue on your acrylics

just give him lots of kisses to fuel up for the day and he's good (he will stand there and act unresponsive and neutral, but if you don't give him his daily dose of affection he's going to continue to stand there, blocking your path until you do)

and don't be fooled, either. Michael may be soft on you but he is not a soft man

definitely takes sick pleasure in seeing his bruises peeking out of your skimpy clothes, his marks on full display on your neck. it's just so territorial and it's one of the few things that is able to send a rush through him--- knowing that everyone wants you and that you're walking prey, but you've already been claimed

is like an animal around you. give him one signal and you will definitely be devoured--- i hope you don't spend a lot of money on clothes because you're going to find a lot of it destroyed. better learn how to sew

just think of him as your pet rabid dog. full stop.

otherwise i actually think Michael loves his hyperfemme bimbo gf. not that he'll admit it, but you know. he's horrible at hiding it but it has a lot to do with the fact he doesn't try. just stay out of trouble and he won't wreck havoc on your life <3

Michael has always been an outsider.

It had nothing to do with the fact that he'd become a killer as a kid, although that was the first and most obvious sign. Growing up in the sanitarium had only conditioned him into believing he could never be anything else and that his only mercy would be embracing it. Funny. Now he was rumoured to be the devil incarnate: the ultimate outsider.

But that wasn't the point.

Even if Michael weren't a killer, he'd always been different. A flimsy grasp on emotions and even clumsier responses to things that were supposed to inspire sympathy. Sadness. Pity. The in-between emotions that weren't quite happy but weren't quite sad or angry or scared. But he'd just been slow in development, right? One day it would end and he would wake up and be like the rest of them. It had been a naive thought--- it had gotten Judith killed.

The sanitarium also taught Michael other things, other than the fact that he would never belong in society as anything more than a menace and disruption. He learned that he was a rarity. Some sort of unexplainable anomaly that they had to contain because they couldn't understand, and because he didn't care about changing that, he would never be free. The sanitarium had taught Michael that people feared him because there weren't many of him. So he gave them something real to fear.

He never really came across someone like him. It wouldn't have really changed things, but it would have added bredth to perspective. But Michael would soon find out that anomalies like him came in all shapes and sizes. Anomalies, like you, were just as strange, even if you fit in much better than he did.

You.

He didn't know what to make of you.

"Hey sexy!" A drunkard's voice floated over the heads over the bar and stabbed right into your back. You only wrinkled your nose.

"Um, ew!"

"Aw, don't be like that. You don't mean that." His eyes raked over you. "Looking for anybody, hey? I can save you the time you spend searching."

You look like you're about to gag. "No. Like, never. In a kajillion years."

"Bitch."

"What's the word again?" You frowned. "The men with no dicks?"

"... Eunuchs?"

"Yeah!" You beamed. "That's you. 'Cause you have no balls."

His friends roared in laughter as red crawled over the man's face. You were satisfied enough by then to move on. You knew he wasn't done. He'd probably try follow you home. That made you smirk.

You had a little magic trick up your sleeve for little diseases like them. A magic trick you weren't even sure knew that you knew he existed: Michael fucking Myers.

Michael didn't understand what it was about you that stuck out so much. You were here at the bar for what every other person was there for. Talk. Drink. Fuck, maybe, if you got lucky that was. You were all dolled up like every other woman in the room but it was like the spotlight was naturally attracted to you and he couldn't look away. Was it that tiny little skirt? Your tits pressed up towards your chin by a tight little top? You were so scandalously dressed and hid nothing. Your intentions were clear and yet somehow that repelled people the same way it drew them in.

Michael could tell you were like him. You couldn't relate to the conversations. The difference was that you tried to. They'd just laugh at you and walk away--- another dead tonight.

How long has it been, now? Since he'd started stalking you? A few days? Weeks? Months?

It had never occurred to him that you could be doing it on purpose. Changing with your blinds wide open, bending over when you caught a glimpse of him standing there in your mirror. But the obsession had gripped him. There was no escaping.

And it was distracting him horribly.

You would die tonight, he decided. These... Feelings would die with you.

It all happens in moments.

Him, following you home.

Him, raising the knife above his head.

You, turning before it could meet home, pressing your body against his.

"I knew you'd say hi one day."

Michael stops. Tilts his head.

"Not like this, though." You pout. You run your finger down the cheek of his mask and along the zipper of his mechanic's overalls. Your touch is electric and he can nearly feel it against his skin, the thrills exploding at the slightest pressure. "I'm honestly kind of hurt."

He could kill you now.

Maybe give you a chance to run?

Having you see him and speak directly to him, though, is a dizzying feeling he can't quite seem to recover from. But from the outside he looks stoic. He looks like he's humouring you before your inevitable death, which you inwardly frantically hope against.

"Michael, right?" You taste the word, curiously finding your way around it. "Mikey."

He stares at you impassively.

"I thought you had a crush on me." You draw circles into his chest with your finger and tilt your head back to look at him. "Did I get it wrong?"

Er... Not really.

You were either really dumb or maybe just---

Maybe a little weird like him.

Michael slowly lowers the knife. You take it as an olive branch and push yourself further against him, hard enough to feel the contours of his toned stomach and the rippling valleys of his body. Muscular. Well, he was a serial killer. You could put that thought away for now, though.

"I've been dying for you to talk to me all week. What took you so long?" You bite your lip. "I almost went and talked to you myself. Oh. Oooh. Maybe I should have. I think you're more excited than I am that we're finally talking."

Experimentally, his hand comes up to take hold of your throat. He inspects you--- your long, fake lashes framing filthy doe eyes, the sparkling smear of eyeshadow across your lid that matches your abnormally long and sharp nails. The confidence in which you hold yourself despite being at the mercy of The Shape himself. Genuine.

You're being genuine.

And Michael is... Feeling things. A lot of things. It's almost overwhelming, the onslaught of arousal, the heightened obsession, the near-desperate desire to possess you right there and then---

Mine, he thinks, and he almost says it out loud. Mine.

[compacflt-iceman]

Germany 2015

Welcome back Aviators and everyone else interested into this little blog (? That’s at least what baby goose called it)

Today in response to my annual invitation by the German Navy to attend their yearly „Hanse Sail“ where the German military is apart of (it’s in the city with their naval headquarters after all) I thought I share with you the story how I took my darling husband Maverick with me to Rostock, Germany with me for the one and only Hanse Sail I ever will attend with him.

The one Time my darling husband didn’t threw hands with the Germans, he just threw up

Rostock, Germany

08th of August 2015

I’ve attended my fair share of international naval events, but nothing could have prepared me for the Hanse Sail in Rostock. The Germans, known for their efficiency and discipline, had somehow managed to combine maritime tradition with what could only be described as a massive, seafaring Oktoberfest. And, of course, Maverick was by my side, eager as ever to immerse himself in the local culture.

The German Navy had extended an invitation specifically to me, but Maverick had been more than welcome to tag along. I should have known better. Within the first hour, he had already spotted one of the MANY beer tents—all of them massive, bustling structures filled with cheerful sailors and locals alike. Maverick’s face lit up as if he’d found the Holy Grail.

“Hey, Ice, check this out!” he called, practically dragging me over to the nearest table.

I watched with a mix of amusement and apprehension as he ordered us two steins of beer, the size of which would have made even the most seasoned college frat boy weep. I sipped mine carefully, ever aware of my surroundings, while Maverick downed his with the enthusiasm of a man who’d just discovered water in a desert.

The beer was cheap, strong, and—much to my surprise—delicious. But I knew better than to keep pace with Maverick. I had a long day of formalities ahead, and the last thing I needed was to stumble into a diplomatic incident. Maverick, however, was under no such constraints.

By the time I’d finished my first stein, he was already on his second, regaling a group of German sailors with exaggerated tales of his exploits in the air. They were hanging on his every word, laughing and cheering with each embellishment. It was hard not to smile at the sight—Maverick, in his element, charming the socks off everyone within a ten-foot radius.

After what felt like a small eternity, and several refills later, I finally managed to pry him away from the beer tent. He was, to put it mildly, shitfaced. Maverick’s grin was wide and goofy, his steps just a little too wobbly, and his arm slung around my shoulders for support as he insisted he was “perfectly fine.”

“Come on, Ice! Let’s go see the rides!” he slurred, eyes sparkling with a dangerous mix of alcohol and excitement.

“Mav, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I started, but he was already pulling me towards the amusement area like a determined five-year-old.

Before I knew it, we were standing in front of one of those spinning rides that looked like a recipe for disaster—especially for someone in Maverick’s state. But he was insistent, and, well, I’d learned long ago that trying to stop him when he was like this was about as effective as trying to stop a tornado with a picket fence.

The ride operator didn’t even blink when Maverick, swaying slightly, handed him a ticket and climbed into the seat. I hesitated for a moment but climbed in next to him. As the ride started up, Maverick whooped with joy, throwing his hands in the air, and I braced myself for the inevitable.

Sure enough, halfway through the ride, Maverick’s enthusiasm took a nosedive. His face went from ecstatic to queasy in record time, and I knew we were in trouble. When the ride finally came to a stop, Maverick staggered off, leaning heavily on me for support, his complexion a shade of green that was both alarming and oddly impressive.

“Next time… less beer, more sailing,” he mumbled as I guided him away from the ride, trying to suppress my laughter.

“Agreed,” I said, patting his back. “Let’s get you some water and maybe… avoid the roller coasters.”

Maverick groaned in response, but I couldn’t help but smile. Sure, the day hadn’t gone exactly as planned, but it was never boring with him around. And, as I steered my slightly ill, very drunk husband towards the nearest bench, I couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, the Hanse Sail wasn’t so bad after all.

[yourmomxx]

FATHER OF MINE

Dean Winchester x daughter!reader

summary: After Sam had left to go to College, Dean dealt with his grief the only way he knew how to - sex. What he didn’t expect was for a One-Night Stand to have certain … consequences. Your mother had died about a year after you were born; car accident. John Winchester, who had made it his mission to keep the knowledge about your existence to himself and as far as possible away from his eldest son, your biological father Dean, decided that he couldn’t just let you get adopted by some random people. The chances of them not being good news and thinking of using you as leverage against Dean were too high. So, he put you in the care of the only people that seemed right for this: The Harvelles. Former hunters, reliable, never could say no to strays. And, most importantly, Sam and especially Dean would never, ever meet them. At least that’s what he thought. Because when the Winchester brothers start to frequently visit the Roadhouse after their father’s death, they discover more secrets about John Winchester than they could ever bear to know.

“I just don’t get it, man,” Dean said, ignoring his brother’s complaints, but he didn’t seem to address anyone in particular.

“I mean, I checked everything, Sammy. No demonic omens, no strategic killings, no recent disappearances. That place was all white picket fences and summer barbecues when we- ” He was quick to cut himself off.

Sam threw his brother a side glance, but decided to not address his slip-up.

“Well, Dean, sometimes monsters just … turn up, you know.” This time Sam turned his head to get a proper look at his older brother. “Maybe it’s just passing through, or simply moved there from somewhere else. They aren’t exactly tied to a specific place.”

Dean ran his hand over his face and through his hair in distress. “Out of all places, why there?”, he muttered in a low tone.

And again, he was more talking to himself than anyone else.

“I don’t understand.” Cas was suddenly talking from the back seat. “What is in this Children’s Home that is of so much importance to you both?”

Dean was quick to answer a “Nothing,” but Castiel didn’t quite believe him.

Sam turned in his seat to face the angel.

“We were working a case near there a while back,” he simply explained.

Cas frowned, still not quite convinced, but he decided to let the topic rest. For now, at least.

Coming soon.

[brewsterispunkk]

prologue

pairing: steve harrington x f!reader ; this is a reader insert, but reader is described as having curly/frizzy hair. this is a part of the story.

WC: 1.8k

summary: the beginning.

warnings: classism, minor reader description, people making fun of textured hair (taken from my own experience lolz)

a/n: i have no clue why I’m starting ANOTHER series but this has been in my head for forever. I had to put it out there. as always: pls give me feedback, and also listen to the playlist!

series masterlist

PROLOGUE:

1973

The day you became friends with Jonathan Byers, you had braids in your hair and a frown etched on your seven-year-old face. And you were royally pissed.

You weren’t new to Hawkins, though you’d wished you were. Somehow, you thought that would’ve made your whole situation easier. 

But no. Your family had lived in Hawkins for generations. Your grandfather had worked at the old power plant before your father had, and though it was a blue collar job, it was enough to afford a decent-sized home in the suburbs for your small family. In 1973, at least. But then the lay-offs had happened, and your white picket-fence was traded for a shiny new trailer at the trailer park. 

You were only seven; you didn’t, couldn’t, know all that moving from the suburbs to the trailer park entailed. Still, somehow you knew it wasn’t good. That there was something shameful about giving up your three-bedroom for a small, rickety building with a tin roof. 

You’d pouted as you’d driven up to your new home. 

Your two best friends had told you so after school the day before. Carol Perkins had sneered in your face and told you she couldn’t be friends with you anymore because you were moving to where the ‘poor people lived.’ Your other best friend, May Green, had only stared at the ground. You’d come home crying that day.

“Honey, c’mon.” Your mother tutted, turning back in the front seat of your family’s station wagon. “You’re gonna love it.”

“Look, they even have a swingset!” Your father added, as he put the car in park.

“I like the old swingset.”

Your mother sighed. 

“You’ll get to decorate your own room this time, aren’t you excited about that?”

“I liked my old room!” 

Your father sighed, setting his hands on the wheel.

“Well,” he said. “This is home now, whether you like it or not.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Uh huh, okay,” he unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the car. Your mother followed. He opened your car door, leaning on the top of it. “Because this was sudden, I’m gonna let the attitude slide, just this once, got it, young lady?”

You furrowed your eyebrows, suppressing an eye-roll. 

“Got it?”

You nodded. 

“Oh, give her a break,” your mom called, a cardboard box already in hand. 

Your father moved to the trunk, grabbing a box of his own. 

Across the park, a few trailers down, a group of kids played on the rickety, aging playground next to the swingset your father had pointed out. It was a group of boys—three of them, by the looks of it. Two of them, one a boy with dark wild curls and another with short blond hair chased each other in a game of tag. You recognized them from school: Eddie Munson and Greg Davies. The third, a slight boy with mousy dark-blond hair, stared at you pensively. You didn’t recognize him.

Your eyes held his as you exited the car.

“Go on, honey.” your mom called over her shoulder. “Make some friends.”

You sighed, raising a hand in a wave at the small boy on the playground. He raised his back, a smile spreading on his face. 

That’s when you knew: you were a goner. 

- - -

1974

Jonathan sighed as the two of you walked back from the bus stop. 

“He didn’t mean it, you know.”

“He did!” You gripped the straps on your backpack in a vice grip, glaring at your best friend. “They all did!”

“But–”

“And it’s not like Eddie has any room to talk! His hair is even frizzier than mine! Mine only looks more frizzy because it’s longer.”

You threw your bag on the ground and slumped onto one of the swings. Jonathan set his own bag down gently beside yours before quietly sitting on the swing next to you.

At eight-years-old, the two of you were almost done with third grade, and thank god for it; kids were mean. Today was a prime example. 

It was the first warm spring day of the season; The grass was green and dewy, the trees sprouted buds in the Indiana sun, and the air was humid from the weeks of April rains in the past weeks. 

Your mother had done your hair that morning like always, taking care that all the right products were applied to make it…manageable. But, by recess, after a game of soccer, whatever she had done had proven useless. 

You’d been out of breath from scoring a goal when you’d heard it. 

“Woah, look at that frizz!” 

Your heart plummeted and you turned behind you to see Tommy Hagan standing, hands on his hips. Behind him were his friends—all of them mean—snickering. You stood about a head taller than them, having hit your growth spurt before all the boys in your grade, even Jonathan. 

You instinctively reached up to touch your hair, finding that it had, in fact, grown since you’d been outside.

“Woof!” Someone called from somewhere else on the field. 

You felt your chest plummet, eyes searching for Jonathan instinctively. You panicked even more when you couldn’t find him. This year, all of the third and fourth graders had recess together, which made it nearly impossible to find him in the sea of people.

“Hey, frizzy!” One of Tommy’s friends with big hair called. 

Tommy threw his head back and laughed. 

“Frizzy!” he repeated. “Yeah, move it, frizzy! Our team has the ball!”

Everyone had repeated it for the rest of the day. Your final straw, though, had come when Eddie called you frizzy on the bus ride home. You saw red. 

“It was mean,” Jonathan offered, small hand grabbing yours. 

You sniffed, eyes filling with tears.

They were right, your hair was frizzy. It wasn’t straight or sleek and smooth like the other girls in your class. It was so big and coarse and hard to brush. You hated it.

 You blinked the tears away and straightened your shoulders, peeking at Jonathan out of the corner of your eye. 

“You’re right, you know,” he said. “Eddie’s hair is frizzier than yours.”

You snorted, throwing your head back laughing. Jonathan’s light laugh joined yours as they echoed through the trailer park. 

- - - 

1979

The years moved on and on, and eventually, so did the Byers. 

Not for good—in fact, they’d only moved a short bike ride away from the trailer park. Still, to a fourteen-year-old you, it felt like an ocean away. 

Once Lonnie and Joyce split, Lonnie got the trailer and Joyce was able to buy an actual house in the neighborhood next door. Lonnie moved to Indianapolis barely a month after the divorce papers were signed, and a new family had moved in after that. 

You still saw Jonathan almost every day—he was your best friend, after all—but you still missed him on the bus rides to school. 

You’d started at Hawkins High in August, and it had been smooth sailing since then. Well, all except for one small detail: the overwhelming crush on your best friend. 

Over the summer, Jonathan had had a growth spurt: he’d grown six inches, and gotten broader too. His once boyish voice had deepened, and he’d let his hair grow. The small, insignificant, feelings you’d had for him all these years were no longer as manageable. In fact, they were no longer manageable at all. 

It was more than just his looks, though. 

Jonathan was gentle. You had never met anyone as kind as him. He was funny and smart and more than that, he had always been there for you. Through thick and thin.

You were in love with him, you were sure of it.

You walked through the halls in search of him, silently praying the hairspray you’d used on your hair earlier this morning remained intact. 

As the years had passed, you’d gotten…minutely better at taming your hair. After the incident in third grade, you’d never worn it completely curly again. You didn’t think you could handle the humiliation. You’d used relaxers, straighteners, and curlers, you’d braided it, tied it back, pulled it half up—anything to keep it tame. 

The nickname had stuck all through middle school. Tommy Hagan hadn’t let you live it down all through grades six, seven, and eight. By now, though, as a freshman, you’d managed to mostly make the school forget your old moniker. 

Frizzy. 

You felt nerves flutter in your stomach as you saw him. 

Today was the day you were finally going to do it: you were going to ask him to be your date to the Snow Ball. 

He had his head in his locker, bent over his camera, fiddling with the lens. In recent years, while you’d gotten more involved with student council, Jonathan had taken up photography. 

You tapped his shoulder when you approached, causing him to jump. 

“Agh!” He startled, nearly dropping his camera. “Jesus, you scared me.”

“Sorry,” you laughed. “Don’t drop that thing.”

“You asshole!” He laughed with you, shoving your shoulder lightly. He shut his locker. 

“Oh, I wanted to ask you–”

“Oh my god, guess what–”

The two of you stopped, laughing to yourselves. 

“What is it?” he raised his brows at you. “What did you want to ask?”

“You first,” you said.

“Okay,” he said. “But be prepared. I nearly shit my pants.”

You snorted, beginning your short walk to homeroom with him by your side. 

“You are not going to believe this,” he said, voice teeming with excitement. 

“Just tell me already!”

“Christine Mendoza asked me to the Snow Ball!” He turned to face you. “Me!”

“That’s…” you stopped walking, clearing your throat. “That’s…great. Isn’t it?”

“Uh, yeah.” He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I didn’t think anyone was going to ask me.”

“Mmhm,” you nodded, shaking your head. You began walking again, widening your strides to catch up with him.

“Anyway, what did you wanna ask me?” He asked, following you into homeroom and taking his usual seat next to you. 

“Huh?” you asked. 

“The question? You said you wanted to ask me something.”

“Oh,” you blanched. “I don’t remember.”

“Hm, okay.”

That’s the thing they don’t tell you about unrequited love: there is nothing romantic about it. It’s not tears on love letters or wistful sighs or a thorny rose. It’s suffering in silence and pushing down all you want to say until you feel it’ll burst from your chest. 

You learned for the first time to push it down that day–to hold it back. All the emotions you felt rising up your chest, clawing at your throat to get out, you pushed back. You knew if you said anything now, it would ruin everything. 

You smiled sadly to yourself. 

You were always a suffer in silence type anyway.

[blackacre13]

OH MY GOD we need parts 2, 3, 4, and 5 of the bodyguard fic!!!! PLEASE

Part one above. Part two below:

“I don’t like being told what to do,” Debbie sighed, starting to pace towards the apartment.

“Don’t you though?” Lou called after her.

“Under the right circumstances, of course.”

Debbie found herself blushing at the subtext of what Lou was asking, a grin growing on her face.

“Come on in,” Debbie nodded. “Least I can do is make you a drink. Have to learn who’s protecting my ass.”

“It’s a nice ass,” Lou shrugged.

“You’re a little bold, aren’t you?” Debbie asked, studying her face, trying to get a read on the blonde.

“I’m not the one who went out for a latte while knowing someone had a hit out on me.”

“I like to live dangerously,” Debbie shrugged in return.

“Looks like I have my work cut out for me,” Lou chuckled. “Good thing I came prepared.”

“Oh?” Debbie laughed. “What? You’re packing heat?”

“Always,” Lou winked.

“Here it is,” Debbie sniffed, undoing the door with its multiple bolts before picketing several rusted keys. “Home sweet home.”

“Seems more Danny’s style than yours,” the blonde muttered, her head dipping past Debbie’s to peer into the small apartment.

“You know Danny then?” Debbie asked, eyebrow raised as she swung her arm towards the interior, maybe with an ulterior motive of having Lou walk in front of her so she could discreetly check her out. But Lou was ahead of her.

“Ladies first,” Lou smirked, nodding her head towards the apartment as she held the door open wider. Debbie didn’t have to look behind her to know that the blonde had stolen her own plan for herself. “And I do. Know Danny I mean. He hired me after all.”

“You ran a job with him before?” Debbie asked, looking up at the blonde as she closed the door behind her.

“Maybe one or two. Sometimes you need a distracting blonde and as pretty as Rusty is…” she laughed.

Debbie laughed at the comment. Funny. It was. But it wasn’t also much of an answer. Seemed that Debbie wasn’t the only one who kept her cards close to her chest. It made sense in their line of business. But Lou had already revealed enough that Debbie knew she wasn’t just run of the mill bodyguard security. She played their game. At least in some capacity.

“Beer okay?” Debbie asked, disappearing into the tiny kitchen as she heard Lou’s boots clicking across the floor. Just looking around, sure. But Debbie felt like she had someone casing her right in front of her eyes.

“Acid is okay,” the blonde snorted. She was holding one of Debbie’s vinyls she’d inherited from her brother. She wondered if Lou could pick out that it wasn’t actually hers. “Not picky. I can also run out and get you a new coffee. I did ruin yours.”

“You saved my life,” the brunette smiled, passing an open beer bottle to Lou, who took it, silently raising it for a cheers before she took a swig. Debbie was distracted for more than a moment watching her drink before she shook her head and threw back her own bottle, only for the fizz to rise to her nose and make her chortle out something between a choke and a sneeze that had Lou looking at her sideways from under her bangs. “You don’t owe me anything,” Debbie wheezed, attempting and failing for her voice to come back and not further embarrass her.

“Seems like I’ll need to make that a habit,” Lou murmured, taking another sip, but her eyes didn’t move from Debbie’s.

“I’m usually more put together than this,” Debbie sighed.

“The almost shoot out I don’t blame you for,” Lou promised, moving around the apartment, sitting on Debbie’s coffee table rather than her couch, Debbie noticed. “The inability to drink beer? That’s a bit rough.”

“I was…”

“Distracted?” Lou smirked.

“I should take you to dinner,” Debbie decided, clapping her hands together. “Thank you for saving my life and all. Get to know you.” She tried to ignore the blush warning her cheeks.

“We’re not supposed to leave the house,” Lou spoke, eyes twinkling.

“I thought I just couldn’t go anywhere without you by my side.”

“That’s also an option.”

“Good,” Debbie nodded. “Then it’s a date.”

She almost dropped her beer as she realized her fumble.

“A date?” Lou grinned. “I thought this was a thank you for saving your life. You move fast, Ocean.”

“Not a date—“ Debbie protested, eyes finding the floor. “It’s a—I don’t know. Dinner. A plan. It’s just a saying.”

“You’re adorable,” Lou whispered.

The quiet compliment threw Debbie. If anyone else had said it, she knew her eyes would be ablaze. Nostrils probably flaring as she barreled towards them quick to prove them wrong. But Debbie just wanted to do something to make Lou say it again. She wanted to say something witty in return but Lou was already up off the table, gesturing towards one of the other doors in the apartment.

“Before we head anywhere, I need to see your bedroom.”

Who was being forward now?

“For security purposes,” Lou smirked again, Debbie’s mouth apparently gaping before she forced herself to shut it. “Need to see windows. Exits. Hazards. That kind of stuff. How many ways there are in and out of this place. And I’m gonna want to make it look like you’re home while we’re out. For starters.”

“Right,” Debbie nodded, fumbling towards her room. “For starters.”

[thewhumpcaretaker]

The Broken Veil: Chapter 7 - How to Shoot

TW: blood transfusion, needles, needle phobia, panic attack, fainting, discussions of dying

Disclaimer: I have no medical knowledge and described IVs and blood transfusions purely from Googling and memories from a patient's perspective. This may be highly inaccurate.

This is the last chapter that will be written. I had the fic planned out to the end and I might make a post about what would have followed. Thanks for coming along for the ride, everyone!

Summary: John Wick has just agreed to kill Gianna D'Antonio, repaying the marker that gave him a life with Helen. However, Helen is trying to contact John from the afterlife, to show him that it is possible to stop the cycle of violence – not by forfeiting his own life, but by creating a fundamental shift in international systems and perhaps even the balance of good and evil in this world. But he doesn’t have to do it alone. She’s coming back.

“Her present countenance had a wild vindictiveness in its white cheek, and a bloodless lip and scintillating eye; and she retained in her closed fingers a portion of the locks she had been grasping.” - Nelly Dean, speaking of Catherine Earnshaw, Wuthering Heights

The first thing Helen felt was the IV. There was almost no pain. So little, in fact, that she must have been on even more painkillers than the last time. But that swollen sensation (no matter how subtle) cut through even the painkillers, the feeling of something pouring into her veins, forcing her own blood to part and make way, the irrational fear that her body wouldn’t be able to hold it and would spontaneously burst. That fear had gotten worse with each hospital stay. She was always the brave kid when getting shots as a child, but not anymore. Well, at least she didn’t have to feel it going in this time.

The second thing she felt was John’s hand in hers.

There was someone speaking to him. “The initial loss of consciousness was likely due to anemia. To put it in simple terms, when the body fights this hard, it starts to run out of red blood cells. She’s on a basic drip now, but she needs blood. I can see that she’s had this issue before. So we can do a transfusion – “

“I want to be the donor. We’re compatible. I found out after last time.” She wanted to tell him how ridiculously sweet that was, but her jaw wouldn’t move. Maybe she wouldn’t mind the transfusion as much if the blood was his. Maybe it wouldn’t feel so sickly foreign.

“I saw that in the chart as well. So you donated in advance… and it looks like your sample was approved for use.”

“Good.”

The voice became a little softer. “But I need to be very honest about the situation. Can I talk to you outside?”

She could sense his reluctance even then, before they were bound together beyond the grave. It was in the way he lingered, then kissed her hand before slipping away.

So she was dying. Well, of course, she was already dying and knew that, and before the diagnosis, she knew she was dying eventually, as all human beings do. But somehow, it always snuck up on her. It was different for it to be happening eventually, than for it to be happening NOW.

What a good life she’d had. There were problems, sure. She grew up an orphan like John, yes, but an orphan with adoptive parents who brought her up in the suburbs with three cats and a white picket fence and at least pretended everything was perfect. It instilled in her a craving for the innocent, genuine warmth that their manicured McMansion pretended to hold. When that family fell apart too and she went no-contact, it still never affected her love for humanity or for life as a whole – if anything, it intensified the desire to reach out to others and break through their walls with a kind of overpowering acceptance. She had expressed it by meeting people, by going out into the world as a portrait photographer with a particular taste for damaged misfits and unloved vagabonds in seedy bars that contrasted so deliciously with her clean, good-girl image.

That image was truly more than skin deep. She wanted to be good, and she tried to be good, and she was good, she realized – she was able to lay on her deathbed and believe that she had lived her life in accordance with the kindness she wanted to show to others. Unlike John, she didn’t hate herself, maybe because she was so rarely capable of hating anybody…or maybe because she’d been to a lot of therapy, that could be it too…but either way, the introspection and extrospection she’d done over her 48 years of living had paid off. She fell in love with everything and everybody, even the most supposedly unworthy. And she found the perfect receptacle to match that outpouring, the most vulnerable man whose walls she had ever broken down, and dragged him out of the pit of hell to have pillow fights and share milkshakes on Valentine’s Day and watch the cartoons he’d never seen growing up because he didn’t have a childhood. She lived the dream.

But John deserved that too, and she wasn’t done giving it to him. She wanted him to feel this good about himself, she wanted him to die this fulfilled or never at all. She knew better than to assume that he would be alright. Marcus was conspiring with her to keep a foster puppy for John, and would give it to him after she was gone. That would keep him alive at least. But she wished she could be there for him herself.

And her body, her breakability, this was the thing tearing her away from him. Not his work, as they had always expected. No, just this petty, senseless vessel. Just chance, the callous irony of life, and that was somehow worse. The little knot in the flesh of her arm where she had to be physically tied to existence…that was the proof of it, the symbol of it. That hideous bump of plastic… She tried to squirm her wrist, beginning to panic. He was going to be without her. She was not ready, her affection not burned out, her work not done, and her anxiety spiked, and she slipped away into unconsciousness.

***

Fear is irrational. It doesn’t care that Helen can’t die anymore. It doesn’t care that being shot head-on several dozen times ought to be much scarier than sitting in a vaguely medical environment. It just lives in the body, even the undead body, and screams something incoherent about needles from deep in the amygdala.

They were loaded into a shopping cart under a tarp and wheeled blindly to somewhere that reeked of fishy water on the outside and of burning flesh on the inside, and when they ripped the tarp away, she panicked. It barely even looks like a hospital. It’s technically a morgue (much more cheerful). But there’s a row of hospital beds stretching down the hallway from the open glow of the incinerator, and that’s enough to send Helen over the edge. It’s a mercy when the abyss flickers blankly over that scene, blotting out her vision. But it comes and goes.

She can no longer tell whether she’s clinging to John for his sake or for her own. She hasn’t let go of him since they fell to the ground together and isn’t about to start now. John is in and out of consciousness in her arms as she sits on the edge of his bed, his head lolling against her shoulder where she pulled him on top of her, trying to crush out her shaking with the weight of his body and trying to crush out his shaking with the tightest embrace that won’t wring more blood from his abdomen. They took off his shirt and suitcoat and laid a blanket on top of them but they’re both still freezing despite being drenched in sweat.

“What the fuck do you mean we don’t have his blood type on hand? This is Wick. Get it here now. Do a raid if you have to.” The panhandler has stayed with them the entire time. Helen would guess that he’s in charge of their visit. Several equally scruffy men who act as their nurses seem to answer to him, based on the way they’re scrambling at his orders.

She hears herself speak and it sounds like someone else. “I’m his blood type.”

“Finally some good luck. We can do it directly.”

“Put out your arm.” One of the nurses is advancing towards her.

Shit. A wave of dizziness passes through her and she jerks back before she can stop herself.

“Do you need a lollipop, or do I need to tie you down?”

“Don’t mess with her, idiot. That’s his wife.”

“I’m fine, I can do it…” Her voice is so breathy and unnatural. She absolutely cannot do it.

But John moves listlessly, just enough to make his head nod sideways into the hollow of her neck. She feels him slip into awareness of a clammy, dark, blotched-over existence. He’s trying to groan in pain and wooziness but then he registers that her arms are wrapped securely around his shoulders and he relaxes back into numbness, consoled. He needs her. He’s trusting her to keep him safe. It makes her feral.

She could do anything he’s ever done for her. She could kill if she needed to.

This feels like killing.

Her arm is out. Hands on her, antiseptic. The seconds are so long as she awaits that familiar pinch.

Something strikes her and bounces off.

Again. The tip of the needle snaps.

Of course. Her skin can’t be broken.

“So it’s true…what is it? Is it some kind of high-tech skin sealant?” Someone slides a scalpel against her forearm, to no effect, but she’s mostly in the void and can’t see who.

“Hey! I said don’t mess with her!”

Helen doesn’t respond. She’s a human sized bag full of blood and none of it can get into John. Her body is immaculate, inviolable, impenetrable, forever safe…and useless to him. Her other half lies beside her, utterly broken, unconscious, white as a sheet, hair clumped to his cheeks, soaked in sweat and blood, but he still somehow has a capability that she lacks – and when he needs her most, no less. He has the very basic human ability to suffer and bleed and endure. This powerful, noble, compassionate man is in love with her, and she dragged herself all the way back from oblivion, performed a miracle, gained immortality, and walked at his side again just to be useless to him? To cling to his side while he bleeds out, trusting her to save him? No, absolutely not. That can’t be how this works.

“What if I do it? My own intention…”

“What? You gotta speak up.”

“Get another needle and show me how to shoot it. I’m going to try it myself.”

“Why would that matter? Is it magic or something?”

“Just let me try it.”

“…Okay, let’s try it.”

She can barely see the person who’s talking. It’s so hard to focus on anything he says. “This is the activation button, point it here…”

There are people dragging her out from under John to give her full range of motion. And then the little cylinder is in her hand and fear has her completely, rising up from somewhere deep and universal, somewhere in life when she believed death to be permanent and ruin to be possible. It evaporates all the blood from her head and fills her fingertips with stars. She’s either going to pass out or vomit, there’s no way, there’s no way… Hands are pinning her left arm down against the bed so it doesn’t move when she’s trying to hit it, but that will hardly do much good when her right arm is shaking just as much. Someone flicks at her to raise the vein. Something about relaxing her muscles but that’s completely out the question right now. Just do it. Just do it. She keeps rocking forward and backward.

There are two souls, in the corner of the room and nowhere. She only sees them for a moment. They’ve come up from somewhere far more settled than she’s ever been. A woman, with wild dark hair. A man with John’s piercing eyes.

His birth parents. Their gazes pleading with her.

She steels herself. I intend to save him. This is what needs to happen. Whoever and whatever may be, make way for this. Helen lets herself scream and shoots.

Stabbing pain. It feels wrong. She had no idea how much more wrong it could feel when done improperly. But it worked. It worked! There’s blood climbing up the tube. And blood bruising under her skin around the horribly botched entry point. There’s plastic inside her…

Helen faints.

***

The first thing John feels is Helen’s hand in his.

The second thing he feels is the IV. In two forearms. Her blood is mixing with his, and with it, her every sensation. …She did that for me? That must have terrified her beyond belief.

It isn’t so long since he tasted her life back at the hotel, but he realizes he already missed it. She has such a sunny way of looking at the world. To be inside her head is to feel the weight of his own self-hatred and deep-seated jadedness fall away. To feel an overpowering hunger for life.

Through half-lidded eyes, he sees their arms entwined, both covered in smears of red, all of it his. Both pierced by the tubing that joins them, an external vein bridging the gap between them. She holds him, inside and out. He’s trying to say thank you, but she knows. She knows, and it makes her so damn happy.

She’s so proud of what she just did. I’m so proud of you too. You’re so brave for me. She’s so proud of him, for surviving, for calling out to her to help him walk at the very end. I… he can’t say that just yet, can’t even think it. A twist of guilt that she felt the agony he just endured, that she has to be involved in this life at all. No, he’s not proud of himself. But she overwhelms the guilt in a wash of affection for him that makes her squirm closer against his side. Her phobic headiness is still there but its flavor is innocent, kitten-like, as she basks in the consolation of being with him. She’s floating, she’s in the clouds with her favorite person, she’s petting his hair.

He falls asleep to the beat of her pulse.

***

She’s in a chair at his side the next time he wakes up. The panhandler, who she now knows to be The Bowery King’s right hand man, is sitting by her side with a partially assembled handgun. “…And then you pull back, like this. When you hear the click, let go, and it snaps back in.”

John clears his throat. “Having fun?”

“John!” Helen looks up at him delighted. Then she turns back to her new friend. “Please give me a moment to speak to him alone.”

He frowns. “I’m not going far. It’s my job to keep you lovebirds out of trouble.” But he steps around the corner.

She gathers herself and meets John’s gaze. “I need to be very clear about something: I am never going to do that again.”

He’s surprised, but relieved. “Good. You shouldn’t have to see me at a time like that. In fact, if there’s some way we can shield you from what I’m feeling when I’m – “

“No, that’s not what I meant. I am never going to stand by and do nothing while you get shot in the gut. I want to know how to fight.”

That stops him short.

“And as for separating our souls, even temporarily, I couldn’t possibly have less interest in doing that. The more pain you’re in, the more I want to be there for you. Think about how you’d feel if you were sharing my suffering. Wouldn’t you want to maintain that connection?”

The thought touches him deeply. He’s still savoring how it felt when they were joined by the blood. “…Yes. If I can feel you as well, I want to. No matter what.”

“Well, you will in the hereafter. All in due time.” She kisses his forehead and it sends a wave of butterflies through him. “For now, I look after you. I want you to teach me how to understand a fight enough to stay out of your way when you’re attacking, how to shoot, how to throw a knife, how to fight hand-to-hand...all of it.”

“How to kill.” His expression darkens.

“How to save your life.”

“Yeah, that’s what I tell myself too when I’m doing it.”

“And whenever you’re acting of your own volition, whenever you’re free, it’s always true. Let me set you free, John. Show me what I need to know and we’ll start a revolution. We’ll set the whole world free.”

“…Alright. I’ll show you.”

[9r7g5h]

K.

Fandom: My Hero Academia, Boku no Hero Academia 

Rating: M

Genre: Romance/Suggestive

AN: This was written for the CASBkDk event, so each fic is based off a song by the band Cigarettes After Sex!

Words: 1452

Katsuki was, to put it simply, fucked.

This was supposed to be simple. It was hard to find someone to hook up with when you were a pro-hero; everyone was either a crazy fan trying to steal your blood to sell on the otaku market, or a villain trying to take advantage of you in your weakest moments. Just going to a club, getting drunk, and heading home with someone wasn’t an option. Not one that had appealed to him, at least, not after hearing what had happened to the little grape fucker from his class.

The only other option that had remained had been sleeping with other pro-heroes, which had been tricky at best. Not many of the ones that had been actual options that he knew were down for casual sex; most of them wanted commitment, wanted a relationship and someone to come home to, someone to marry and find a quirk specialist that could help two cis guys have a kid in a couple of years. He was an asshole, sure, but not enough of one to string along some lovesick romantic bastard just so he could get his dick wet. He wanted to get laid, not fuck up some poor guy’s heart.

But then he’d struck gold, or, rather, green.

Because despite knowing Izuku was a bi fucking disaster, he’d always pegged him with the rest of them. Wanting the marriage, the white picket fence, the three kids, two mammals and a fish. In short, not an option, despite the number of times Katsuki had thought about it. Really thought about it, because his hero costume left very little to the imagination, and they’d been in the same locker room and showers enough times that he’d been able to fill in the rest. It might not have been worth destroying their rekindled friendship and the easy partnership they had in the field, but Katsuki would have given a lot to get Deku in his bed.

Turned out he didn’t need to give much. A couple of drinks with their friends at Shitty Hair’s shitty apartment, a couple minutes griping about his lack of luck getting laid, and a few hours later had ended with them both in his bed, Izuku’s legs hooked over his hips as he fucked him into the mattress. “I’m ok with casual, Kacchan.” had been the only thing the nerd had said on the matter, shrugging as he took a sip of his beer, voice too soft for the others to hear over the music Denki had insisted on playing, but it’d been enough. Enough for Katsuki to stick close the rest of the night, enough for them to leave at the same time, enough for them to call a single cab, his hand in Izuku’s back pocket, palming his ass as he reveled in his giggles. More than enough to kiss him on the ride home, to finally sate his curiosity and taste him, to keep kissing him as they moved from the car to his apartment to his room, neither parting for long.

Fuck if it wasn’t the best lay he’d had in a long time, Izuku responsive and loud beneath him, warm and tight and solid, biting and kissing and giving as good as he got. Challenging Katsuki, pushing him, just like he always did, not just lying there and expecting him to do all the work, leaving him just as marked up and claimed with hickeys and love bites as Izuku himself had been.

He’d always known Izuku was physically appealing, despite what he and other people might say, but fucked out and marked as his, even if he wasn’t, Katsuki couldn’t have imagined something more beautiful.

“We’re doing that again,” he had practically demanded, the best he could when he was panting, hand slapping Izuku’s ass and giving a little jiggle. “No way in hell am I letting that ass go now.”

Luckily Izuku had just laughed and nodded, settling down to fall asleep; not a promise for future hookups, but at least not an outright refusal, something Katsuki had held onto.

Thankfully, whatever had cursed his sex life had left, because whatever they’d started had continued, Izuku going home with him on a regular basis after work, eating his dinner, riding his dick, sleeping in his bed until the next morning, when he would have to wake up early and run off to get ready for the day. An easy routine, one Katsuki found himself happily falling into with Izuku.

It was supposed to stay easy. Stay them being fuck buddies until one of them tired of their arrangement, or Deku found someone to fall in love with, or just wanted a change. He wasn’t supposed to fall in love.

He wasn’t supposed to hate when Izuku left, even for a moment to flip the lights or blow out a candle, and feel lighter when he slipped back in bed. He wasn’t supposed to enjoy it as much as he did when Izuku stole one of his shirts, the oversized black tee brushing his thighs as he wandered around his apartment. He wasn’t supposed to want to kiss the nerd outside of their hookups, want him to stay longer in the mornings so he could make Izuku breakfast, wasn’t supposed to stay awake long after he’d fallen asleep just so he could memorize his face. He wasn’t supposed to want everything he had scoffed at with the others he had considered, a house and pets and maybe (maybe, if they were part Izuku’s) a brat or two of their own. He wasn’t supposed to want romance and shit.

“Why,” Kirishima finally asked, when he’d managed to pry it out of him, a few weeks after his discovery that things had gone horribly wrong. “Is it because you’ve spent so long thinking you were above ‘this shit’ that it’s a blow to learn you’re not, or is it because you’re scared to tell him?”

Fuck Kirishima. He wasn’t scared of anything, especially not telling the damn nerd his feelings, that he wanted something more than their casual dinners and hookups. That he wanted something real with Izuku, something with a foundation, not something just barely floating there, no strings attached, that could be blown away with a strong enough wind. He could. He could.

Even if the thought of doing so and being rejected, of Izuku looking at him with that sad, pitying look in his eyes before gently turning him down and cutting off what they currently had made him want to hurl.

But he could, and would, do it. So when Izuku leaned against him in the locker rooms that afternoon, the two of them changing out of their clothes and laughing at the idiots they’d taken in that day, he’d make a plan.

“Come with me to dinner.” An almost demand, his voice wavering ever so slightly as he threw this wrench in their normal routine. Normally he cooked for them, or at least heated up some prepared meal he had thrown together earlier in the week; either or still got the nerd’s praise and him laid, so he hadn’t been especially picky about what he fed him. But this time he wanted to do it right. Wanted things to be special. “I don’t feel like cooking, so let’s go out somewhere.”

Even if he had to come up with some lameass excuse.

“Sure, Kacchan.”

Not much else changed from there - Izuku still took up much of their walk talking, waving his hands to emphasize his points (disgustingly cute). The place he chose was casual; it had to be, with their shitty after work clothes, neither of them having planned for this, but it still smelled good and had a table for them; the only two requirements Katsuki really needed. Well, he needed a lot more, but sitting at the table across from Izuku, watching him skim the menu for something to eat, he’d make due.

Though, perhaps he was just imagining it, but there was something about the way Izuku’s eyes flickered back to his every few moments, glancing up over the menu, that gave him the littlest bit of hope. Maybe he wasn’t about to be rejected horribly by his childhood friend turned fuck buddy; something that only grew as he reached out his hand and took Izuku’s. Took Izuku’s and watched as his eyes grew larger, wide and surprised for a split second before crinkling in his smile, his hand turning under Katsuki’s to interlace their fingers together, giving his a quick, comforting squeeze before turning back to the menu.

Maybe, just maybe, Katsuki wasn’t as fucked as he thought he was.

[END]

If there are any questions/requests, I have a Curious Cat and a Retrospring! :3

curiouscat.live/9r7g5h

retrospring.net/@9r7g5h

And if you would like to support me, I have a Ko-fi! :3c Tips are appreciated! Comms are open, so if you're interested, info is on my Ko-fi page.  

Ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/9r7g5h

[itsawhumpsideblog]

And Guide Their Way Home, Book 1

Content notes: It's Christmas, and a birthday; homesickness, midnight mass and lots of good singing Our opening lyrics are the Connemara Cradle Song. If you're following the links to listen to the music, you're getting a nice and accurate picture of what my dad usually played in the car when we went places. I've seen these guys play live a couple times and they sounded great last time I heard them, but the picture on all their albums is... well, from some years ago. Listen here: https://youtu.be/PncKPO2ZUhI

"Oh, winds of the night, may your fury be crossed, May no one who's dear to our island be lost Blow the winds gently, calm be the foam Shine the light brightly and guide their way home."

~Connemara Cradle Song

We were sent south to Washington on the train, and then we were marched to a place called Camp California. A few other regiments joined us there, and mostly what we did was drill, day in and day out. My everyday life was less than exciting, but my friends and I learned to make our own fun, and to keep ourselves as entertained as we could while we were stuck in camp that winter.

The first snow fell early that year, at least by Virginian standards. It snowed the first week in December, and we came out of the hut we had constructed to find a blanket of white all over the ground.

"Great," I grumbled. "Now we've got to walk through this for the firewood, so we'll really appreciate it." I had been on picket duty the night before, and exhaustion was making me sarcastic.

"Cheer up, Micheál," Jack grinned. I rolled my eyes and felt something hit my chest. When I looked down, my coat was covered with cold, powdery snow. Jack was grinning like the cat that ate the canary.

"What did you do that for?" I asked, and Jack opened his mouth with a smart answer only to find himself with a faceful of snow. Just like that, his expression went from self satisfied to shocked. I looked to the direction the snowball had come from to find Patrick calmly dusting his hands off, his nose stuck a little too high in the air.

"You're welcome," he told me and started to walk off, when he and I were both hit at once by huge icy projectiles, more the size of cannonballs than snowballs. A little went down my collar and I shivered.

It was Ted, and Jack let out a cheer before he too was hit with a snowball the same size. He spluttered, and Ted let out a hearty laugh.

"Thought you were safe, did you, lad?" he chortled, and the three of us bent over to gather handfuls of snow and began to pelt him with them.

To Ted's credit, he fought well, but there were three of us and only one of him and he was going to lose the fight. He knew it as well as we did, but he kept on flinging snow, until all of a sudden Rory came walking over from behind him. Rory was watching the snowball fight and grinning, his arms full of logs for the fire, and he was making a beeline for the little tent we had constructed to sleep in for the winter when Patrick's snowball missed its intended target and smacked Rory in the chest.

We all froze and there was a long pause as Rory looked down at the snow, surprised, and then a scramble as he dropped the wood to the ground and picked up a handful to fling back at Patrick.

"That's the way!" Ted cheered, laughing, and he and Rory began packing more snow and flinging it back at us until all the snow in front of our tent was muddy and all five of us were laughing and exhausted.

Our uniforms were also wet and muddy, and when the last cannon-sized snowball smacked into Jack's chest, he cried out,

"Lads, they got me," and fell over into the snow, laughing so hard he had to gasp for air.

"And the Union wins, of course," Ted said slyly, scooping up a few logs before retreating into the neutral territory of our winter quarters.

We had gotten creative with the construction of these quarters, digging down into the ground, building up very short walls of logs, and putting our tents on top for a roof. This gave us just enough space for four bunks, two on each side, and for Ted, the biggest and therefore the worst strain on our bunks, to sleep on the floor in the middle. To get out, we had to climb a couple feet to ground level, but we were warmer and better insulated down there, mostly underground. We had packed the walls with sticks to keep out the cold and wet and stomped down the dirt floor, then put in a rudimentary fireplace with a barrel Ted had scrounged from somewhere for a chimney. It was very cozy, and actually warm enough at night, so that it was difficult to convince ourselves to go outside, particularly on windy days. We had even rigged up a door flap which kept the snow out.

It was very like a home, we thought, and it was nice to have some place permanent. I got to know my friends a little better for living so closely with all of them at once- almost too well. We learned that Ted snored and that when Jack got up to go to the sinks in the middle of the night he didn't look where he was going, and the result was usually that Ted woke us all up swearing after Jack stepped on him.

Rory, in contrast, was a near perfect housemate. He was quiet, which we had all known since the previous spring, when we had boarded the train together, and he slept silently, too. He was also good to have around on boring evenings, because he was for some reason not shy when music was involved, and he was willing to play his fife as long as we liked, or to sing for us. His voice was deepening practically as we listened, as he approached his 17th birthday, and he was a pleasure to listen to. He barely spoke to us, and never to strangers, but he was often invited to the firesides of various members of our unit to sing and he never turned down an offer, nor did he seem nervous about performing. It amazed us all, and it pleased us immensely so see him so happy.

A week before Christmas, I was sitting on the lower bunk which was what passed for my personal space that winter (Patrick had taken the bunk on top, Rory and Jack shared the bunk opposite) when Patrick came through the door holding a well tied package.

"We've got mail," he announced, tossing the package and catching it again.

"Don't drop that," I cautioned. "You don't know what they've put in it."

"Yes, Mother," Patrick teased and I sat up to open it with him. On the bunk opposite mine, Jack sat up to watch and Rory climbed down from his bunk, where he had been lying on his back playing his fife.

I took out my knife and cut the string on the package, and we spread it out on my bunk, our friends watching curiously. Rory had a sad look in his eyes, as he always did when we spoke of our families, or received letters from them.

This time, however, we found three letters inside the package, three warm pairs of socks and three new pairs of gloves, each with a different set of initials embroidered into the right-hand glove. There was also cheese and sausage, handkerchiefs, and a little whiskey, purely for medicinal purposes of course.

"Look at that," Patrick said, with a sly smile as he spread out the contents of the package. "The girls have knitted you gloves, Rory, and socks." He handed Rory his pair and stuck his own on his bunk. "And there's a letter for you, too. Read them aloud, Micheál."

I handed Rory his letter to open while I sliced the envelope of my own with my knife. I saw him turn it over to examine the wax seal on the back- Maura had put her best into the first letter Rory had ever gotten- the result of a discreet letter home from Patrick- and Rory was enchanted. With one finger he traced his name on the front, moving his lips as if sounding it out, and he smiled.

Dear Micheál, I read,

I wish I had more interesting information to share, but life is going on as normal here at home. Mother and I are working, and so is Bridget. She and Colleen knitted the gloves for you themselves, and they are very proud of their work, especially the idea of putting your initials on them. Bridget sends all her love, and she wants you to know she's putting special care into the next package. She would also like you to send her greetings to Rory and Patrick and all your friends in the army. Mother sends her love as well, and she prays for you each morning and night as do I,

Your sister,

Maura

Patrick's letter was next.

Dear Patrick,

Do you like the gloves? Bridget and I knitted them specially for you. They are the warmest we could make and so are the socks. Mother would like to know if you have heard from Declan, or if he is maybe with you? He ran away from home a week ago, and Mother and Da are sure he's gone to join the army, and they are hoping he's with you. We would feel much better if he was, then we would know he was safe. We are hoping for word from him soon and we will let you know if we hear anything.

Love

Colleen

When I had finished reading Patrick's letter, Rory cut his open slowly and carefully, almost reverently. He split the top of the envelope, taking pains not to cut the letter inside, nor to disturb the seal, and he handed me his letter, looking a little ashamed.

Dear Rory, I read, enjoying the pleased expression on his face immensely,

We were so pleased to have you staying with us this summer! It was nice to meet one of Micheál's friends and we enjoyed your company, particularly your music. Are you still playing the fife in the army? Bridget has some music she will send you in the next package and she hopes you like it. It is very pretty, and she will try to find a few more songs to make it worth your while. We pray for your safety as we pray for Micheál and Patrick, and hope you will return with them when you get furlough.

Yours truly,

Bridget, Colleen and Maura

Rory's face was glowing and he was grinning from ear to ear when I finished reading the letter to him.

"How do you like that," Ted said amiably. "And those nice warm socks, too," he added, examining the gloves and socks enviously. "Guess you won't be going cold on picket duty."

"I guess not," Rory said quietly, still smiling broadly. We toasted our sisters in the whiskey they had sent and ate some of the food and it was then that I noticed that Patrick was brooding. After the celebrations were over, he dropped down to sit next to me on my bunk and put his chin in his hands.

"What's wrong?" I asked, studying his face.

"Declan," he replied. I had suspected as much.

"I should have known he would run off," Patrick burst out, and the other three looked over in surprise. It was completely unlike Patrick to get upset.

Patrick sighed, ignoring the looks our friends were giving him. "I hope they hear from him soon," he said, "and I hope they write me when they do."

"They will," I comforted him. "Declan's no fool. He'll get what he wants and then write home- you know how your brother is." Patrick cracked a smile.

"You're probably right," he admitted, and clapped me on the shoulder before climbing back into his own bunk. I heard him tossing and turning late into the night.

Much of the next week was spent in making plans. There were a couple of occasions coming up- one was Christmas and the other was Rory's seventeenth birthday. In fact, they came in the opposite order, with Rory's birthday on the 24th and Christmas the next day. It was clear to us that if Rory had ever celebrated his birthday, which we doubted, it had not been for many years now. We had great plans in the works and the only downside to it all was that Rory was beginning to look left out whenever we snuck around with the preparations.

There had been a letter to the girls, since the mail was still moving reliably in those days, requesting a scarf or similar for a present and Patrick was organizing the decoration of a somewhat lopsided cake into which Jack had put his best efforts- and some of the skin on his right hand. He'd had a difficult time convincing Rory that he had burnt it putting wood on the fire while the rest of us slept. Rory knew better than to believe that Jack would willingly get up in the night.

By the night of the twenty third, we had received an impressive package from home and had decorated the cake with fruit and some whipped cream and hidden it with Sergeant O'Malley. We spent most of the 23rd sneaking around to make sure the preparations were finished. We were planning to decorate the tent while Rory slept, with popcorn balls and a small fir tree so that the decorations would be useful to both holidays.

That night, we waited until Rory had gone to sleep. In order for this to work, we had to feign sleep ourselves and I had thought I was doing well until I felt something poking me. I rolled over and opened my eyes to find Patrick standing over me holding a lantern and looking amused.

"Got a little too into the act, did you, lad?" he whispered. He chuckled, and I had to smile as I rubbed my eyes.

"Maybe a bit," I acknowledged as I rolled out of my bunk. I narrowly missed Ted, who was also just waking up, but when we left the tent as stealthily as we could, Jack was already standing outside with his coat pulled tight around him, blowing on his hands to warm them. He had an axe tucked under his arm to chop down the tree.

"Let's get this over with," he whispered, "and then we should build the fire up as hot as we can. I'm frozen already." There was a chill wind whipping around us, and my coat did little to protect me from it.

"We've got to find a tree," Patrick whispered. "Let's go see if the sentry will let us go into the woods." We nodded, too cold to stand around and talk about it, and we headed in the direction of the forest, near which a sentry was posted. Inside my mittens I had my fingers crossed. If the sentry was friendly, there would be no problem. I could come up with the names of a few men, however, who would be more than happy to detain us a while. Long enough for hypothermia to set in, at least, I thought sourly.

Luckily for us, the man on sentry duty was a friend of Jack's from home. He had lived in Jack's building and let us by with a cheery threat of, "If you desert, Jack Lynch, I know where you'll be heading back to," and a laugh.

We walked into the forest by the light of Patrick's lantern and drew a little closer to each other. Somehow, darkness is more frightening in the biting cold and we wanted to be closer to the light. Luckily for us, we didn't have to go very far to find a tree we liked. It was about as tall as my waist, and had room for the popcorn balls we had made, at great expense, and which were intended to be eaten as dessert, so as not to let them go to waste. We cut the tree with the axe Jack had borrowed- I can't really say that we chopped it, because it was too small for that. With just a little more patience we could have uprooted it entirely. As it was, Ted took the tree on his shoulder and we hurried back in the direction of camp.

"Friend or foe?" the sentry greeted us.

"Friend," Patrick told him confidently.

"Advance, friend, and give the countersign."

We were at a complete loss. We didn't know the countersign and couldn't begin to guess.

"Don't you know it?" came the sentry's laughing voice.

"Christmas tree?" Patrick joked.

"How about 'let me through, Aiden Connor, or I'll hit you in the nose'," Jack supplied dryly.

"That sounds about right," Connor chuckled. "Happy Christmas, lads."

"Happy Christmas, Connor," we replied and headed back to our own tent.

Once we got there, we stole next door to fetch the popcorn strings and decorate the tree with them. We dug a hole in the floor, which was just dirt anyway, off to one side of the door, nearest Rory's bed, and set the tree trunk in it, then used the excess dirt to hold the tree in place. We wrapped the popcorn strings around it, and at last went to bed, still shivering. Ted was the last to lie down, having drawn the short stick and therefore being the one responsible for stoking the fire.

This time, I found it extremely difficult to go to sleep. I couldn't wait to wake in the morning and see Rory's face. When I finally drifted off, however, I slept heavily all night long.

I woke in the morning when Patrick nudged me with his foot- he was climbing down from his bunk. I rubbed my eyes and it took me a second to remember the night before. Then, I was wide awake and my eyes swung to where Rory sat, his legs dangling over the side of his bunk. He was eyeing the tree, and looking as though he had questions he was afraid to ask.

"It's for you," Ted supplied. "Happy birthday, Rory."

"Happy birthday!" the other three of us chimed in.

Rory ducked his head, but we could see how wide his smile was. "Thanks, lads," he said in his shy voice.

"What's more," Patrick jumped in, "We have presents for you." He produced the package from where he had hidden it under his greatcoat at the foot of his bunk.

"For me?" Rory asked, wide eyed. Patrick nodded, his own grin as broad as Rory's. It was one of those aspects of Patrick's personality that was just about too good to be true. He loved to give things to other people, and he seemed to enjoy it more than receiving things himself. He told me once that he liked the looks on their faces- it made his time seem worthwhile.

"Open it," Jack urged, leaning over Rory to join in the fun.

Rory pulled his knife out of his pocket and slowly cut the string on the package, savoring every moment. He folded the paper back from the items carefully and to his obvious delight the first thing on top was a card.

The girls had clearly gone to a lot of work with it. Maura, who drew well, had sketched a camp scene with a group of boys who were clearly us. I was impressed- you could tell from the picture which of us was which. There was Jack grinning at Ted, who was poking the fire with something. Patrick's head was thrown back in laughter and I looked to be shaking my head over something. Rory wore his usual solemn look, but Maura had managed to capture the sparkle in his eyes and that soft way he had of smiling to himself. I couldn't imagine where she had gotten the supplies to make this.

Rory marveled over the drawing for long minutes, examining the fire, each of our faces, the trees. "It looks just like us," he said in amazement. We agreed.

 "Open the letter," Jack suggested, his patience gone. Rory did so and, with a light blush, handed it to me to read.

Dear Rory,

Happy Birthday! We hope that you have a wonderful celebration and many happy returns of the day.

Then each family member had written a short note and signed their name:

Son,

La breithe shona dhuit and Happy Christmas!

~ Finbar and Kathleen Murphy

Dear Rory,

We hope you enjoy the card, Maura put lots of work into the drawing. Bridget hopes you have the chance to eat lots of sweets and that they are not too expensive for soldiers. If they are, she will send you some more in the future.

Yours,

Bridget and Maura

Rory,

Be careful of Patrick, he believes in birthday punches, or at least he does for his little sister,

Colleen

But the best letter came from my mother. When I read it aloud, Rory looked down at his hands and smiled that dreamy smile that meant he was thinking seriously. His eyes were shining with tears that he didn't want to shed when he looked back up.

Dear Rory,

Take care of yourself, and enjoy your day! I hope you like the preparations the lads have made. They think the world of you, if you don't know it you should. We agree with them- it was a joy to have you with us this fall, and the house seems quite empty without you. We are anxiously awaiting the day when we can see you again.

Love,

Mother Ní Shúillebheán 

Rory stared at his hands for a long time. His chin was trembling and he was taking deep breaths, as though to keep himself from crying. After a few minutes, we pretended not to see a tear drop from his face to his hand, or to see him draw a hand across his eyes.

As soon as he felt it was proper, Jack burst out, "Have a look at your presents!"

Rory laughed and put the card aside with great care before turning back to the package.

The most obvious item was a scarf, a lovely blue one, with long tassels at each end. Rory picked it up to admire it, and embroidered near the tassels were his initials, R. C. in lighter blue. He wrapped it around his neck, grinning, and turned back to the package. The next thing there was a St. Christopher medal, something I recognized as Mother's choice. St. Christopher was the patron saint of the military and travelers, and Mother had been praying to him for us every night since we had first enlisted, and this gift would come with her special blessing.

There was an orange in there, too, which the cold had kept good for Rory, and a generous handful of candy. Rory removed all his gifts to examine them, and handed around one piece of candy for each of us. We tried to refuse, but he wouldn't let us and I realized as I took the gift that this was his way of trying to do something for us, a chance he didn't often get. We thanked him and ate the candy, good molasses candy I could see my sister having made herself.

Rory took me aside that afternoon when Jack, Patrick and Ted had gone out to get firewood and, probably, throw snowballs at each other. I was reading a bible that Mother had put into my haversack so that I might not be too tempted by racy novels when there was the sound of someone clearing his throat, perhaps a little nervously.

"Micheál?" Rory asked.

"Mmhmm?" I replied absently, replacing the piece of paper I had been using to mark my page and sitting up.

"Would you… could you teach me to read?" he burst out, and then looked ashamed.

"Sure," I said. "Now?"

Rory looked as though he was about to say yes when the other three burst back through the door, wet and carrying armloads of wood.

"Maybe later," Rory said quietly, but he looked pleased at the idea.

"Whatever you like," I answered, and put my Bible aside.

That evening, there was the cake. Rory had walked around all day wearing his new scarf, his chest stuck out proudly, showing off for the first time. The other men noticed as well.

"That's a nice scarf you've got, lad," Sergeant O'Malley said with a wink. "Present from your sweetheart?"

Rory went scarlet. "It- I- it was-" he stuttered and the Sergeant laughed. He winked again and walked on without another word, leaving Rory standing there speechless, his hand on the tassels of his scarf. There was a long pause, during which Jack bit his lip until it nearly bled to keep from laughing, his face turning red from bottled-up mirth. Patrick was grinning widely, and I had a feeling that he was also trying to hold in his laughter.

"Rory, lad, come back here for a minute," he suggested. Ted was in the tent next door, waiting for the signal to come in with the cake. Rory, who never disagreed with what was asked of him, followed Patrick inside.

Before ducking in, however, Jack doubled up, his laughter exploding.

"Did you see the look on his face?" he asked between gales of laughter, holding his sides, tears running down his face. He wiped them with his sleeve. "Ah, poor Rory," he chuckled, "but it was just so funny…" he had a good laugh and I waited as patiently as I could, rolling my eyes, and after a second, Patrick stuck his head out.

"Jack, do you know we can hear every word in here?"

Jack's eyes went wide. "Oops."

"That's right. Now why don't you come inside?"

"Right. Sorry, Rory," Jack said, still snickering as he went inside, but Rory just shrugged. He was laughing a little too, though he was still blushing.

Looking around at us, Patrick raised his eyebrows and Jack and I nodded. Rory looked mystified. Without warning, Patrick stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled so loudly that the three of us instinctively ducked and covered our ears.

Ted came through the door just a second later.

"Jesus Mary and Joseph, lad, what the hell did you do that for?" he grumbled, shaking his head, but after a second he brightened up. He was holding the cake and he offered it to Rory.

"Happy Birthday," he said and Rory's jaw all but dropped.

"Cake?" he blurted out, and we were so happy to have shocked him out of himself that we all started to laugh again.

"Cake," Ted affirmed, and he pulled out his pocket knife in anticipation. "Would you like a slice, then?" Rory nodded enthusiastically, and slices of cake were handed all around.

Out of the darkness that night came a voice, the last thing we heard before going to sleep- "Thanks for the birthday, lads." It was Rory, masking his shyness with the dark, but sounding as though he had never been happier.

The next day was Christmas, with more gifts from home for everyone and more sweet things from my sister. It was almost less eventful than Rory's birthday. We had eaten most of our food to celebrate that, though we were careful with the cake and finished it for Christmas dinner.

There was one surprise, though, and it was for Jack. It seemed that Sergeant O'Malley had been holding onto the latest shipment of mail and waiting until Christmas Day to distribute it. The men complained when they discovered this, but not bitterly- letters from home were agreed upon as the best present a man could receive.

The rest of us had letters in the packages from home that had arrived somewhat earlier- Ted's mother had gotten together with Mrs. Murphy and Mother and had included Ted's package with Rory's birthday gifts and our Christmas presents-  and so Jack was the only one to get a letter.

As you might have guessed, it was from Sinead and Jack grinned like a fool from the moment he saw the handwriting on the envelope until long after he had finished reading the letter.

"What does she say, then?" Patrick asked.

"She's in New York," Jack reported. "My landlady went to meet her, and she's staying in my rooms. They get along well, she says, and she's found work already." He looked proud.

"Good for you, lad," Patrick grinned, and we left Jack to his lovesick daydreaming.

We spent the night with the rest of the regiment around a huge fire that company B had made. It was a chilly night, but we sat as close as we could to the fire and ended up in the middle of a huge crowd of men and so were warm enough.

There was music, and a boy even younger than Rory played the fiddle while his father played the bagpipes. They played the old songs I remembered from Ireland, songs I had always heard sung at celebrations in town, or songs my Mother had sung to us. Everyone was quiet and listening intently, no doubt remembering the old country and the families we had left behind. That boy sure could play.

When they finished their concert, there was a long silence. I looked around at my friends- I'm that kind of person- and studied their faces. Jack was grinning, probably thinking of Sinead, and Rory was looking dreamily into the fire. Patrick had his chin in one hand and I was surprised to see Ted actually wipe away what might have been a tear- although then again, it might just have been a speck of dust.

Finally somebody broke the silence and a group of men danced a jig and performed a little, and then we all sang in unison, the entire regiment belting out whatever tunes we could think of to sing. "The Girl I Left Behind Me" was sung twice, as was "Silent Night" and my throat was sore by the time we were finished.

There was a midnight Mass to be celebrated, and all five of us went in a group.

"It's been years since I went to Mass," Rory confessed quietly as we took our places. "On the farm, they didn't believe in that."

Jack shook his head and Ted looked angry- we heard little about Rory's years on that farm, but what little we had heard gave us cause to hate the place intensely. Patrick just put his arm around Rory's shoulders and said,

"Well, you'll celebrate Mass in style tonight, lad. No place like an army camp, eh?" He laughed a little. "And my mother said the army'd ruin me." There were chuckles from the few men within earshot, and we made ourselves comfortable for a Mass that was very cold, but which still managed to feel like home.

We finally headed back to our tent more than an hour later. On the one hand, I was unwilling for the evening, which I had enjoyed immensely, to be over and on the other I was suddenly so homesick that I wanted to go to sleep and wake up on another ordinary day when there was nothing to miss at home.

January consisted of more drill, more snow, more picket duty and monotony. We near froze and it took all the wood we could find to keep warm at night, which didn't keep us all from getting sick, one after the other. In early February, however, Thomas Francis Meagher took command of our Irish Brigade, as a Brigadier General, and when the news was passed around camp- and news passes particularly quickly in army camps- there was a huge spontaneous celebration. There was more dancing and singing, whiskey was removed from the hiding places in which any man with whiskey left to hide had been secreting it, and the bottles were passed around.

Our officers watched and participated in the celebrations with great amusement, and even toasted the General themselves.

Out by one of the many bonfires that had sprung up, fire being a necessity for any celebration that winter, I was standing with my friends, warming my hands, when one of the men looked over in our direction.

"Coleman, lad?" he asked. Rory looked up, curious.

"Would you sing for us, or play something on that fife of yours?" The man looked slyly at Jack. "No need to accompany him, though, Lynch. He makes pretty enough music without your thumping." Jack laughed good-naturedly. His drumming was better than it had been, to be certain, but it was nowhere near as good as Rory's fife music, nor so pleasing to the ear.

Rory nodded and drew from his pocket the fife that he always kept close by him- I had seen him sleep with it in his hand- and blew experimentally over the instrument. It was freezing cold and he needed a minute to warm it up, but after a few seconds he began a beautiful rendition of "Home Sweet Home" and the group around the fire lapsed into a silence. After that was finished, he put his fife away and sang a few tunes. We all sang along- beautiful though Rory's voice was, it was more fun to sing these songs in chorus.

Those events were the high point of our winter- other than that, it was lots of drilling and plenty of trying to keep warm. I was actually grateful when, one day in March, we were told to gather what we needed and prepare to march. At least, we thought, we would be warm.

Next

Masterpost

[simp-ly-writes]

My Old Friend Al'

Pairing: Alastor x Platonic!Reader

Summary: You have been friends with the radio demon when humans, when your time finally comes and you fall down to hell Alastor is happy to have his best friend back with him.

Warnings: 2000 words, canon-typical violence and language. Themes of death.

A/N: I know I have been sayin' that I would write an Alastor fic for awhile so here it is!

Masterlist | Taglist Request | edited.

Hazbin Hotel Masterlist

↳ You were a waitstaff at Alastor's favourite dinner in New Orleans, working the nightshift you were the only staff in and you enjoyed the peace of it all. The chirping of the crickets right outside the door, the wind blowing down the street and few drunk, late night workers, or early morning risers that would grace your booths and bar.

While cleaning the various glasses by the till, Alastor would make his way to the stool just in front of you. Order a coffee- black alongside a stack of pancakes with a side of fresh fruit that you would often pick at as you both talked till your shift ended at 7AM.

You did not know what genre of person he fell under from your list, nor why you felt such peace while in his presence. Time always appeared to slip by as you nodded along to his stories of the day, the material he planned for his talk show the next day, and the new suit he picked up just across the street.

His suits- always freshly pressed it seemed, not a speck or thread out of place just like the small smile he casted to you in greeting or while listening to you rant about the evenings customers, to your rent raising, or how your mother was insisting on you finding a partner to settle down with, you were getting "too old."

As you ranted about your life, Alastor always nodded his head along, taking gentle sips of his coffee while insisting you take more bites out of his food- seeing the tiredness in your features.

↳ You would be surprised to find a few extra dollars on the bar top every time you turned your back around, Alastor gone without a trace as you waited for his presence the next day. You would be even more surprised to find that your manager had been killed in the alleyway behind your place of work and Alastor ready to comfort you, allowing you to stay at his place for as long as you needed as your job let you go.

↳ Some time ended up being a long time as you fully moved yourself in. Alastor insisted that you joined him in the studio as he taught you how to operate the various mechanisms so he could focus on delivering the best show possible. You clapped after each story as he would bow playfully in return as you cut to commercial break and thus started the rest of your lives.

↳ When you returned back to the apartment one day, it was eerily quiet and you called out Alastors name, he should be home by now, you thought to yourself while checking every nook and carney of the apartment. Only to come up empty handed, you put the groceries away, went to find the studio already up for sale- no, note- nothing.

↳ Your heart broke- you lost a good friend that day and to what you did not know. The police changed their answer every week you went to ask for an update and soon you stopped on coming. You still had the rest of his savings stashed away in the apartment- feeling disgusted with yourself for using it you found a new place of work where you would end up meeting your spouse.

↳ It was bittersweet to move out of that apartment, to donate his things to charity shelters but with the baby in your arms, a proud mother latched to your arm, and a spouse that adored you dearly within a white-picket fence. You knew you could not complain. Yet all good things would come to an end as you found deaths cold embrace and feel into a deep red pit.

↳ Emerging onto hells streets was a shock to say the least as you scrambled out of the way to on-coming traffic as their horns blared in your ears, a couple was fucking in public right next to you under a lamp post as you shuttered in disgust- picking up your step towards what looked to be a welcoming sight- The Happy Hotel.

--

↳ You think you died twice that day when someone that looked and sounded to be your old friend Alastor opened the door to close it quickly in your face just after. Picking up your dignity, you started to make your way back down the hill and towards the city streets only to be stopped by the shadow of a man appearing before you- Alastor once more.

"Why hello there! It has been some time, dear-friend," He singed to you, hand extended as you received a firm shake just like your new reality.

"A-Alastor is that really you?" you questioned, nerves in your tone as your hand shook holding his own. Alastors smile softened into a small line, your heart pounded- eyes widening in remeberance to all those nights at the bar-top.

"Yes dear, the same one you know," Alastor reassures you now dragging you back up the hill and into the hotel. Various demons and creates alike look at you, look at Alastor, and look at your hands together with a raised brow.

A small girl comes striding up to your leg, pulling at your pant-leg as you bend down to hear them better. You fall back when they tackle you into a hug, jumping up and down on your chest as you cough and choke before Alastor pulls them off of you by the back of their skirt, they go to hide behind his leg.

"And that was Niffty-" Alastor begins to speak in a strained tune as one of his shadows helps you to stand. You whisper a thanks to it, trying to ignore the various stares burning into your back as your cheeks paint themselves a brilliant red- matching Alastors jacket perfectly.

"I'm Niffty- Yes! And you are Alastors old friend, he tells me all about you! Especially when he's having a bad day-" Niffty spews out as you try and gather every piece of information to ground yourself before Alastor cuts her off with a sharp-toothed smile, a screeching heard as you stumble back into a wall to escape the sound.

"Apologies," Alastor voices, eyes filled with nervousness as he stares at your scared form- unknowing to his still green eyes staring through your soul and the antlers growing from his... interesting new haircut.

"It's alright?" you try and reassure the demon yet it comes out more like a question as you now make eye contact with the blonde jumping up and down- being held back by a spider-person and emo girlfriend. You offer them a cheezy wave while straightening out your suit jacket and fix the ring on your finger.

"You got married?" Alastor comments, voice back to being soft as you nod once, still unsure how not produce another outburst. "Have a kid too," you reply softly, eyes looking at your shoes and Niffty moves to pick at your clothing once more.

"Then we do have much to catch up on, Husk a drink for me and my friend here," the Radio Demon orders as you follow his lead, nostalgia hitting you hard as you laugh and remember on memory after memory as the rest of the hotel staff stand back, popcorn in hands as they observe someone not getting brutally murdered by hugging the man.

--

↳ You are surprised that with how much time had passed since you two last saw one another, you still worked well together as you helped to organize his newest radio broadcast. A simple talk show and you were the newest spokesperson as you both recounted life advice and recipes that all of hell was beyond confused to what they were listening to.

↳ Alastor would do his best to keep his killings and overlord activities on the down-low with you, warning everyone around him not to slip a word to you without severe consequences. He knew that you would not stand for such things which made him even more confused as to how you even ended up in hell in the first place.

↳ You and Alastor would cook for the hotel, stealing food off one anothers plates with of course a side of fruit and two cups of pipeing hot black coffee on the breakfast table.

↳ You both started a reading club at the hotel with Charlie and Vaggie whom you had become close friends with over your time at the hotel as you had a room just across from Alastor's- the only person to share a floor with the man and he insisted upon it

↳ You walked the streets with him, pointing out the various shops you wanted to enter as he kept a watchful eye of your surroundings that you paid no mind to. Yet when you entered a store, you could not help but notice the panicked looks of staff and the relaxed look of city-goers when he finally went inside a building.

You tugged on Alastors sleeve as he leaned down humming that he was now listening. "Why is everyone so shocked to see you here?" Alastor chuckles, shaking his head side to side as playful sound effects play around you, helping to ease the tension forming in your shoulders as you play with your wedding band once more.

"Nothing that you have to worry that brilliant head of yours with, old friend" he reassures you, smiling more brightly at the staff as they still and turn to the back as you are free to choose anything you like as Alastor comments he would pay afterwards... right...

--

↳ At dinnertime, the hotel residents loved hearing of your various memories with one another- shocked of the platonic history you shared together and the domestic moments you lived from dancing in the kitchen together, your first time ice skating when you visited another state and the handful of times you spilled coffee on one of his suits that he insisted on being okay with.

↳ When you did find out about his killings and murders, you ran from the hotel a dishevelled mess of tears and fear. Alastor stoped himself for stalking after you, heart aching for losing a friend so quickly like this as he made quick work of the waitstaff that told you of his past.

Their screams did nothing to ease his pain as he worried to where you ended up that night, whoever you blindly trusted with that big heart of yours, and how he could share another morning coffee and gossip-filled chat with you and Rosie during the afternoons.

↳ You ended up running to Rosie who also admitted to what she did as you threw up on her shoes, she patted your back. She insisted that you never had to be worried, no one would try anything like that in your presence and especially not in front of you unless necessary.

↳ Alastor came strolling through the door, your favorite mug in his hand filled with soup as you took the mug out of his had, placing it on the table and pulled the Radio Demon in for a hug as he stood there still before wrapping his arms around you

"I have a suprise for you," he stated after a moment when you pulled away, wiping away your tears with the back of your hand and taking a drink of the home-cooked meal with a small smile.

↳ You followed Alastor outside, running to find your spouse waiting there with open arms as you danced around in each others presence. Looking over their shoulder you mouthed a thank you to Alastor who threw a hand in your face, leaning against his cane as Rosie looked at the two of you before commenting and glaring at your spouse, "If he ends up being a prick, I wouldn't mind eating him- or Alastor, you can rip him to spreads. Know his time here is only of their wishing."

You chuckle out, catching the end of their conversation before whispering reassurances into your spouses ear, joining everyone back at the Hazbin Hotel for yet another story time.

↳ Taglist: @jtcat305 @amarokofficial

[queen-of-hellfire666]

Imagine: your Stranger Things death scene plus funeral… (this has fan reactions.)

Pairings: Eddie Munson X Henderson! Sister! Reader (Dustin Henderson X sister! Reader)

Warnings: blood, angst

—

There was a silence that filled the watch party as you grabbed your drumsticks using them on the bats as best as you can.

“Eddie catch!” You throw a bat toward him, he quickly kills it. You soon get distracted fighting bats as fast as you can and forget about behind you.

“Y/n WATCH OUT!” Eddie screams as a hoard of bats attack you (a very bad wound). You gasp as you fall from the pain.

Everyone is at the edge of their seats.

Eddie fights off the rest of the hoard and they disappear for now. He rushes to your side.

“Y/n. Hey, hey, I’m here sweetheart, I’m here.” He wipes blood off of your face that’s coming from your mouth.

“Eddie..” you whimper holding onto him as he pulls you into his chest. “Hey, I’m here sweet girl. I’m right here.” He kisses your head. “I love you..” you whisper softly. “I love you too.” He smiles. “I’m gonna get you out of here. Your gonna be okay princess.” Tears falling from his eyes.

You reach for your necklace. The D&D necklace that Eddie loves and always liked.

As you take it off fans watching at home start to tear up.

“For your travels good sir.” you cough handing it to Eddie. “I’ll be our sacrifice.” You smile softly. He holds the sword necklace in his hand bring it up to hold it on his heart.

“My fair maiden.. I’m gonna get you out of here. I’m gonna marry you and me and you will graduate as promised.” he whispers kissing you soft and gentle. Everyone has now gathered around you and Eddie as you spend your final moments.

“Dustin.. I love you buddy. Your the best brother I could have asked for.” You hold your brothers hand in yours. “Take care of Eddie for me.” You whisper in his ear as he nods. “I want you to take anything you desire from my room you hear? Anything.” You smile softly.

“Can I have your D&D stuff?” He asks softly.

“Consider it yours buddy.” He hugs you. “I love you y/n I’m sorry I haven’t been the best brother.” He hugs you tighter.

“I love you too Dusty, you’ve always been the best you can. Hey, you want my stash of nugget? It’s in my closet with my D&D stuff.” You hiss in pain. Dustin let’s you go and watches, crying.

Blood slowly rushes out of your mouth as you continue to cough. “I love you Eddie Munson..” you whimper holding onto him.

“I love you too Y/n Y/l/n.” He holds you close. He goes to kiss you again but you stop him. “The blood…” you whisper smiling. “So?” He wipes it away before kissing you passionately.

You take your last breath as you kiss…

Everyone stops breathing.

He pulls away as he feels you go limp. “Y/n?” He whispers softly. “Y/n?!!” He shakes you.

Everyone at home are crying at this point.

“Y/n….” Dustin whispers holding your hand. Eddie’s tears drop on your body as he sobs.

“Y/n please. Please baby please.” Eddie sobs holding you. “Eddie, Eddie we gotta go!” Steve warns.

“I’m so sorry my sweet girl..” he looks down at you with pained eyes. “This is my fault.” He gets up putting on the necklace and picks up your body.

“Let’s go.”

—

Eddie paces back and fourth nervously. “Hey, look it’s gonna be okay.” Dustin places a hand on his shoulder.

“She’s dead and it’s my fault..” Eddie whispers holding the sword necklace that’s around his neck. “Hey, no it’s not. She sacrificed herself so we could live. She knew the risks.. that’s why she’s my hero.” He whispers.

“I’m sorry about this, Henderson.” Eddie hugs him. “I’m sorry too. She was your girlfriend.”

“You know Eddie, she really loved you. She would always talk about you and talk about how your the best boyfriend. How she couldn’t wait to have a picket fence life with you erh.. well, Trailer park life.” He smiles teasing him.

“Come on.. let’s go bury her. That’s the least she deserves.” He whispers. Eddie nods walking with Dustin.

- 5 years later-

Eddie sits down infront of your grave. “Hey baby… I miss you. I finished highschool. The upside is shut. I’m not married or dating anyone.” He whispers. “I know you would want me to move on but.. baby I can’t. I miss you so damn much it hurts.”

“My band is making it big. Well kinda.. heh. It ain’t the same without you being my lucky charm. I seen a girl like you in the crowd and my heart stopped. I thought she was you babe.” He whispers laying your favorite flowers down on your grave.

He places a dog tag on your grave stone. “It’s a dog tag of our initials. Just like the tree outside of school. I was gonna give it to you but I didn’t put it in your casket like I was suppose to.” He sits down fiddling with his jacket.

“I.. I um.. I tried that icecream you begged me to try.” He whispers tears threading his eyes. “It was good just like you said.”

He would sit there for hours talking to your grave. Knowing you were listening the whole time.. or.. so he would hope. (Which you were.)

Eddie missed you so much. There was not a ache in his body in which he didn’t. He helped Dustin grow the rest of the way up and Dustin helped Eddie cope without you.

Whenever Eddie was over at Dustin’s he would pray to a higher man above that you would come down the stairs alive and happy.

Hoping you would come kiss him on the lips with that strawberry chapstick he oh-so-loved. Or even come to the Hellfire club meetings that they held in school.

He created a character named after you and imagined you looked like that character. He also kept your seat empty by him with your favorite jean/leather jacket draped over it.

Eddie probably would never get married or date again. He might learn to cope and finally find a nice woman to settle down with but he’d never forget you.

He would always wear your necklace and never take it off. Never..

E + y/n

—

I’m sorry you guys. I’m crying with you. I didn’t mean for it to be this long lol.

[plus-size-reader]

Just a Kid

Daryl Dixon x Plus size!reader

Word Count: 2453 words

Warnings: none

Summary: Taking Lydia in as your own with Daryl

Hi, I couldn’t get this concept out of my head. 

—————————————————————————————————

“She’s just a kid, D” you hummed, carefully working at the knot in his neck that he’d been complaining about for days.

You knew that this thing with the girl, and Jesus, and all these people wearing faces was really starting to wear on Daryl’s nerves.

You could tell, because every night when he came back to your house, he was even more tense than the last and at this point, you were really starting to get concerned that he would burst a blood vessel.

There was just too much going on right now.

...but you knew what you had to do.

Lydia was just a child, and even if her people were the purest evil you could ever imagine, that didn’t mean that she was. If nothing else, she was little more than a battered little girl who had never known any better.

That was how you saw her, and you knew Daryl did too.

He just wasn’t ready to take on so much yet, and honestly, he didn’t know if he could. It was hard for him to have to take over all this at Hilltop, and that girl they’d brought was only making it worse.

“You still on that?” he grumbled back, really hoping that you would have gotten over this pipe dream of yours already.

The two of you had talked this conversation to death, and while you knew there was a good chance that nothing was going to change, you would continue to do so until he changed his mind.

Ever since she had come to know this group, you had gotten it in your head that the two of you could give her the home that she had never had but Daryl wasn’t so easily convinced. 

It just seemed like more than you were ready for.

He saw that look in your eyes, when she was finally safe behind those gates, but then you’d gone and made it even worse.

You met her.

Maybe it hadn’t been the greatest idea, and maybe it wouldn’t help but you knew that at least you could try to understand better.

You could only imagine how a girl in her position would be feeling. You knew that if you were her, you would have been absolutely terrified.

After all, she was surrounded by strangers, in an unforgiving and new environment.

It was possible that one friendly face would make all the difference to her and as it happened, you had one of the friendliest faces around here.

If anyone was going to get through to her, it was you.

Course, Daryl was against the idea from the start but you knew that no one else was going to stick their neck out for her if you two didn’t. That made it more than worth it to you, even if no one else understood.

She didn’t say a word for the first few days.

Lydia had nothing to say to you and frankly, you couldn't blame her for that. You were a stranger, the enemy as far as she knew, and there was no reason she should have trusted you at all, but that wasn’t always going to be the case.

The more you came, the more she realized that you may have been the only person willing to stick their neck out for her. Once she decided that you weren’t going to kill her, or sell her out, it was pretty much settled.

You needed to help her.

It wasn’t up for debate, but for some reason, convincing Daryl was proving to be an even more difficult task.

“We aren’t her parents, it ain’t our place” he tried, desperately hoping that you would see how insane what you were proposing was. Still, you weren’t letting up, and he knew you well enough to know what that meant.

You were invested.

You were going to do whatever you could to get through to her.

Perhaps it was because you two found yourself comparing her to Daryl or perhaps it was your own soft spot for kids.

In any case, the damage was done.

“She doesn’t have parents D, that’s why she needs us” you sighed, leaning down to rest fully into his back, your head nestled in the space between his shoulder and his neck. It gave you just enough leverage to look at him.

It was hardly up for debate.

Lydia’s mother saw her as little more than an asset, something to abuse and control. After all the things you’d endured with Daryl, it made her well being that much more personal, for both of you.

It took months to get Daryl to tell you about his past.

He trusted you more than anyone else in the world, and his greatest pain was still too difficult to share until he knew you weren’t going anywhere.

You had no doubt that the hold this girl’s mother had on her was even stronger.

At least Daryl had Merle, he knew how much of an asshole his dad was.

Lydia was brainwashed.

You would be lucky if you were ever able to break whatever her mother had done to her, due to the extreme circumstances, but you knew that you had to try.

No one deserved the way she had been treated, and you wanted to make sure that she understood it wasn’t her fault.

Her mother was cruel, and there was nothing more to it than that.

The best way to prove that to her would be giving her a real home, proving to her that not everyone was going to treat her the way that she did. Maybe, if she felt safe, she would finally start to open up.

When the two of you first met, Daryl hardly spoke to you and when he did, it was always in a gruff, unfriendly tone. It took him some time to warm up to you and once he had, that tone warmed up to one of love.

It just took time.  

The same thing could apply to Lydia, if you just gave her some time.

If nothing else, it had to be worth a shot.

She was worth it.

“You really wanna do this?” he hummed, after what felt like an eternity of silence between the two of you.

Daryl heard you, he got the message, he just couldn't be sure that being with you, and him, would be enough.

He knew what it was like to be in her position, and he knew how hard it was to let people in. It was possible that she would never allow herself to be cared for in the way you wanted to, and he didn’t want you getting your hopes up.

You would be crushed if she rejected your offer, but it couldn’t hurt.

Even if she wanted nothing to do with either of you, at least you tried to give her something. That was much more than anyone else in the world had ever done for her.

“Yeah, I do. I really do” you smiled, not even bothering to hide the wide grin that spread across your face at the idea of what he was saying. It wasn’t exactly a yes, but it was as much of a yes as you were going to get from Daryl.

It was more than enough.

At the end of the day, even if it was a bad idea, Daryl knew better than to argue with you. What you were suggesting was crazy, but it was so very you that he couldn’t even worry about it.

He fell in love with you and that heart of gold of yours, so if this was what it was telling you to do, he owed it to you to let you do what you thought was right.

You had to, just as he had to.

...and of all the crazy ideas you’d ever had, this was hardly the most dangerous one.

All you wanted to do now was give a little girl a place to live and a family, it wasn’t like you were suggesting some kind of suicide mission. You and Daryl had faced far worse than a child, desperate for belonging and acceptance.

What you were doing was new for all of you.

~

Lydia wasn’t sure, at first.

After all, she had never really had parents and you and Daryl had certainly never been parents.

It just wasn’t something you had any experience with.

However, with all that you’d lost recently, it didn’t make sense to turn her away too. She was a product of her circumstances and nothing more. It wouldn’t be fair to make Lydia pay for the sins of her mother.

Instead, you chose to put all your effort into making sure she never felt like a burden again.

You knew that she blamed herself, in part, for what her mother had done. Henry was gone, Tara was gone, Enid was gone, it was just too much.

You’d lost too many people in the months it had been and you weren’t interested in losing any more.

You certainly weren’t interested in letting a little girl take the blame for what her people had done, not when she first arrived, and not now.

Lydia was good, she was trying, and that wasn’t something you were going to debate.

Thankfully, that was something you and Daryl could both agree on, without all the initial back and forth.

You were both winging it, of course, but you knew that you had to try and stick up for her. Even the smallest gesture would make a world of difference.

She deserved to feel safe for once.

When you and Daryl had decided to take her in, it wasn’t supposed to be perfect. You weren’t going to move into a little cottage surrounded by a white picket fence, with flowers and a dog.

It was making the best of whatever shit show situation you’d been dealt.

It was all you knew to do.

“You wanna help me with this?” you hummed, addressing your words to the young girl at your side.

What you were asking wasn’t really all that much of a question but considering that you were sewing up a huge hole in Daryl’s button up, she wasn’t interested.

“D does it himself, mostly, but he’s clumsy about it. The stitching always comes undone” you reminded, thinking about the last time he’d offered to stitch up a hole in your jeans, and it had unraveled by the end of the day.

He meant well, he really did, but he had never really had the patience for more delicate things like this. Sewing of any kind, even stitches in flesh, had never really been his foray.

...but that was okay.

You told him that you would take care of this, and he could pick up the slack somewhere else, making dinner or cleaning blood and dirt out of the laundry.

“I don’t know how” she tried, looking at you in the way she often would when she ran into something she had never done before. The two of you’d had this same conversation when you suggested she go to school with the other children.

She didn’t even know how to read when she came to you, and now, she is making great progress.

It was just a matter of learning what she had never had a chance to learn before.

“I’ll teach you, it's easy” you smiled, handing her the garment with one hand, and the needle with the other.

She looked unsure, lost even, but she took it nonetheless.

“Hold the fabric with this hand, and move the needle with the other, up and down in as straight a line as you can manage” you instructed, keeping it as simple as you possibly could until she got the hang of it.

You knew this was probably a tad bit overwhelming, and if she didn't go it right the first time, she would get discouraged but luckily, years by Daryl’s side had taught you a patience that nothing else ever could.

You could sit here all day if you had to, as long as she got the hang of it.

Lydia had been living with her pack of skin walkers all this time, only doing what she was told, but that wasn’t the life she was living now.

She was part of a community, and she had a family, but that also meant that she had to learn to protect and provide for herself when you weren’t there. If something ever happened to you or Daryl, she still had to live.

Her clothes couldn’t be ripped or ruined, her wounds couldn’t stay open to fester, and eventually, she would need to cook and clean for herself too, but for now, a helping hand was all you needed.

People were what kept your communities running, and your home was no different. You and Daryl were a team, communicating without words most of the time, and she was part of that now.

She was part of the team.

“Like that?” she tried, hoping that some part of what she was doing was right. There was no real way to tell but you didn’t seem upset so that had to be a good sign.

It was a strangely domestic task for her, one that brought back memories of her people, her old people, sewing up masks of tanned human skin. The motion was the same, the idea was the same, but there was something normal about this.

She was just fixing a shirt.

There was nothing volatile or aggressive about this, and it wasn’t for anything other than someone she cared for. That made it a little easier to stomach than any other chore may have been.

This was for Daryl after all, and if anyone had earned something like this, it was him.

Lydia wasn’t blind.

She knew what the two of you had done for her, always making sure she had something to eat and sticking up for her when the others got a little too comfortable with their distaste for her.

“Exactly, just a little closer together” you prompted, smiling when she did just as you asked. She was a quick learner, and you knew that she could do this.

This was normal, real, and the sooner she learned that she could live a completely normal life, the sooner she would really adapt to life in a community like this one.

“Once you’re done, you can help Daryl with dinner. I’m sure he’d love the help”

It was hardly where she expected to be, but it was more than where she’d been. At least, with you and Daryl, Lydia knew that she was safe.

[after-witch]

Baby Mine [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Title: Baby Mine [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Synopsis:  The first time you laid eyes on your child, you knew: You had to get out. Set in the ‘White Picket Fence’-verse. 

For request: Something with Overhaul + the reader’s children and manipulation (I’m sorry I accidentally deleted the original message so I don’t remember the exacting wording!)

Word Count: 3328

notes: yandere, stockholm syndrome, abuse

From the instant you laid eyes on your daughter, the moment your gaze took in her fresh, wet skin and her small, blinking, uncomprehending eyes, you knew: you had to get the fuck away from Chisaki Kai.

The realization was instant, like a flash, peeling away years of manipulation and training and forced self-acceptance of your situation. Years of justifications and excuses that had wormed their way under your skin, forcing you to see the bright side, to see his side, and let yourself get wrapped up in its candy-coated, fluffy cotton bullshit--gone, ripped away with brutal, exacting force. All that was left was the stark realization, a single driving force shoving you forward: you and your daughter were going to get out.

That was four years ago.

Four years of agonizing pretending. Of forcing yourself to put back on the coat you'd worn before, the false version of yourself that loved him and accepted him and excused everything he ever did to you. It was hard. It was harder to pretend that you accepted this than to actually accept it, to indulge in his control. But every time your resolve weakened, it only took a glance at your child to remind you of why you couldn't just give in.

You had to get out, not for yourself, but for her. To give her a normal life. A life where she could be free, where she could have friends, where she could run outside and not be limited to the house or, if the weather was nice, the secure, high-fenced backyard that Kai had only built within the last year.

Four years of pretending. Four years of planning. And, most difficult of all, four years of waiting. Trust was not easily given by Chisaki Kai, even to the mother of his child.

So you waited.

You waited for Kai to move you two--no, three now--into a house, a real house; not in a populated suburb (another broken promise that you swallowed deep, deep down) but an offshoot of some protected compound in a remote area, where it could be secure and guarded. But what mattered is that its doors connected to the outside, not to some unknown underground bunker.  You could manage, if you were connected to the outside.

You waited for Kai to ease up on the restrictions that built up around you during your pregnancy, rules to keep you under a far more watchful eye, rules that made it harder to find a way out. Inches of trust, gradually earned, which made it possible for you to think concretely about escape.

You waited for your daughter to get old enough to run, old enough to survive without needing to be fed every few hours, old enough to know how to stay quiet when told. Watching her grow up only made you want to leave, more. She had a personality now. Stubborn but accepting when she knew she wouldn’t win; sweet in her own way, an unusual way, likely one that came from a lack of interaction with anyone but her parents and a handful of trusted Shie Hassaikai members.

It was one of those trusted members--you never have learned their name, a secret Kai (nor they) were willing to give--that would be your key to escape.

 They loved your daughter, too, in time. They were drawn in by her precociousness, her insistence on formalities and pleases and thank-yous. But it was her bubbliness and inherent interest in the world and people around her that made them decide to love her, too.Her big eyes and bubbling laugh when you two were allowed in the yard, sometimes under this member’s supervision. 

To your daughter’s delight, they didn’t simply watch you like the handful of others did; they joined in the fun. Just a few weeks ago, she’d convinced him to push her so high on the swing set that she’d gone all the way around--even your heart briefly froze until she’d emerged on the other side, cackling with delight, safe and sound.

They were loyal to Overhaul. Of that there was no doubt. Had they killed for him? Maimed? Tortured? You tried not to think about the things that were done in Overhaul’s name.

Yet they’d betrayed him, all for the sake of your daughter. Part of you feels bitter that they wouldn’t betray him for the sake of you--but then, what was that saying? Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

It was with their help that you were finally able to secure that last necessary piece of the puzzle for your escape: getting out of the secured, monitored gate surrounding the house unnoticed. He told you in hushed, intense tones that he would be on watch duty the night of your escape, that he would take care of the other member assigned that night, and that all you had to do was get out the door at the agreed time with your bag, your daughter, and a good pair of walking shoes. He would drive you as far as he could, and then you two would run, run, run after that.

It was going to work. Your daughter was going to live her life, a real life, not one carefully constructed in captivity. What would you do first, once you were free? The thoughts sometimes made you so giddy that you pinched yourself to calm down. So close, so close to the finish line, and you must be vigilant.

Tonight. You and your daughter are going to leave tonight.

Your daughter is in her bed, tucked in safe and secure. Her eyes are already closed, and Kai is sitting at the edge of the mattress, as always, smoothing down her hair and pressing a chaste kiss to her forehead. You watch from the doorway with your arms casually crossed, a small, tired, end-of-the-night smile on your lips. It's all so normal, so domestic, isn't it.

"Good night," he says, so soft and sweet that, if you hadn't been pulled out of your deluded coping mechanism, you might find it endearing. Instead, your thoughts scream: This will be the last time you ever see her, you fucked up piece of shit bastard. Oh, do you have a potty mouth when your 'husband' can't hear you...

He leaves your daughter to her dreams and clicks off the little lamp on her nightstand. When he crosses the doorway, you make room and he lets you slide your arm around his, linking yourselves together for the walk to your shared bedroom.

"Tired?" He asks, and you nod. You are tired. Not for the reasons he thinks, and not for the reasons you'll give, but the telltale darkness under your eyes belies the stress of planning your escape from a years-long ordeal.

You sigh, as soft and sweet as his voice was earlier. "Mmhmm. She didn't want to focus on her lessons today. I got a bit frustrated. Sometimes I don't think I'm cut out to be a teacher." By now you're in your bedroom and you casually take off your day clothes, dropping them in the labeled hamper in front of the closet. Your stomach twinges with the memory of how he used to look away when you took off your clothes.

But that was long ago, and now he continues the conversation casually as the pair of you strip and change into your respective pajamas. You slip a pink nightie with ruffled bottom over your head as he

"You just need more practice. Are you reading the lesson books before you start class?"

I wouldn't have to read any lesson books if you let her out of this house, if you let her out of school, if you weren't--you stop your thoughts, afraid that they might show on your face. Afraid that you might lose everything at this last, crucial moment.

But you know you look frustrated, so you roll with it. "Yes," you say, voice just the right amount of annoyed in retort. "But if she doesn't want to sit down and focus, me reading the lesson beforehand isn't really going to help, is it?"

He stares at you, and you wonder in a flash if you went too far. But in the next moment, he's simply continuing to button up his shirt. "Is it going to help our daughter learn if you take out your bad day on your husband?" His voice is dripping with the natural condescension that once had you questioning whether or not it was okay to be upset that he'd kidnapped you, and you hate it. But at least it's a sign that he bought your excuses.

You feel a warm flush of shame at the way his condescension still makes you feel less-than. You slide yourself into bed, under the covers, instinctively grabbing the book on your end table and staring down into it like you could simply disappear inside the pages. You can't mess up anything right now. The weight of what you need to do tonight feels so heavy and you can't stop your hands from trembling slightly.

"Sorry," you whisper, voice thick with emotion. "It's just hard sometimes. I feel in over my head."

It's Kai's turn to slide under the covers, though he doesn't bother grabbing his own book. Instead he gently pushes on your hands until you set the book on the covers. You know he wants you to look at him, so you do. He looks so gentle, so calm. Did he kill anyone today? Did he insult some hapless victim who crossed his organization, spewing venom with his words, before kissing your daughter goodnight hours later?

His gloved hands tip your chin up and it's a familiar feeling, an intimate feeling, when he pulls you in for a kiss. When he pulls away, he's smiling softly, indulgently. You aren't in trouble. You're good.

"I'll come home for lessons tomorrow and see what I can do. Would you like that?"

I'd like you to drop dead and make this easier on us, you think.

"Yes, Kai."

You smile. You nod. You let out a shaky sigh and lean your shoulders against his, picking up your book and signaling an end to the crisis. He lets you read quietly for a while before turning off the lamp on his side of the bed; it's a wordless signal that you already know: time to sleep. You're a dutiful wife and you put your book away and turn off your lamp and then turn back to your husband and whisper,

"Good night, Kai."

**

You wait until he's deep asleep to ease your way out of the bed. Every step you take in your padded socks makes you cringe. Will the floor creak? Will you make too much noise? Will you have to come up with a half-assed excuse as he comes to, groggily asking what you're doing? You feel like you can't breathe, but you do breathe, soft and shallow as you make your way to the bedroom door.

 You didn't dare keep anything related to your escape in your shared bedroom. The door feels like it weighs a thousand pounds as you ever-so-slowly open it, keeping your head turned towards the man sleeping on the bed all the while. He doesn't stir. He simply continues to snore, even as the door opens enough for you to slip out.

Your heart is pounding in your chest as you cross the hallway and into the spare room that you used as a playroom and, lately, a makeshift school. The bag you packed is in the closet, tucked behind bags of school supplies that you'd asked Kai to pick up in order to make sure that your escape bag didn't stand out. You grab it swiftly, along with your daughter's outdoor shoes, and make your way to the most dangerous element of your escape: your daughter's room.

She did so well. You remind yourself to praise her once you're away from the house, once you're in a car and making noise isn't a life or death dilemma. You built up the idea of your escape bit by bit over the past few weeks. You couldn't tell her that her father was a monster who kidnapped you, but you could prey on her desire to see more, to go beyond the rules established in her father's domain.

Don't you want to meet other kids? Go to the beach, feel the sand underneath your feet? Meet... your grandma? We'll just take a secret trip, you and me, and then come back to Papa when we're done. Then he'll see that it's safe to leave and come with us next time. But you have to keep it a secret. You can't tell him a thing, or we won't be able to go. You can keep a secret, can't you?

You kneel next to your daughter's bed and gently wake her up, whispering her name and stroking her hair, so she slowly opens her eyes in confusion before her gaze lands on your face and ah, a smile--it's just mom.

"Mama?" She asks, a bit too loudly for your liking.

"Shh baby," you say. "Yes, it's mama. Are you ready to go?" You see the tentativeness, the childish confusion in the way she nods. She doesn't know what real life is yet, she doesn't have an inkling of the freedom that she's lost, but she will.

You don't bother changing. You have a pair of clothes in the bag and you'll change when you're in a safer space. For now, you take her hand and lead her down the staircase, your chest tightening with every step. You can't help but glance back at the still-open doorway leading to your bedroom. You pray to whatever is listening that he won't wake up. Each step is a step closer to freedom. Each step is a terrifying risk that you or she might slip, might make noise, might wake him up.

Your spirits lift when you reach the bottom of the stairs. All you have to do is get out the door and he'll be waiting there with the key and a getaway car and freedom.

You clutch your daughter's hand, your own palm now sweaty; you nearly trip on a toy you forgot to pick up earlier, but thankfully the light in the entryway was turned on (you must have forgotten to turn it off) and you see it just in time to avoid disaster. You squeeze your daughter hand and turn the corner that leads to the entryway of your home--

Where Chisaki Kai is standing, waiting for you, his eyes practically illuminated by the glowing lamp light.

You drop the bag.

"No," you say. "No." Your mind suddenly feels fuzzy, like its buzzing, drowning out all of your thoughts with a pure denial of what you see in front of you.

"How--how did you--" you sputter, unable to continue voicing your question. It was all planned. It was all practiced. You pretended, you waited, you planned--for four years. How? How did he know?

He doesn't have to answer. You know the moment that your daughter's grip slips out of your hand and she runs up to her father, feet thumping on the floor. She clings to his side and doesn't look at you, and he runs a hand through her hair without taking his eyes away from your shaking form.

Of course she told him. Of course she told her papa that you wanted to leave. She loved him. Why wouldn't she? It was all she'd ever known. You were breaking the rules, breaking the structure that dominated her life since she could remember. 

"Please don't be mad at me, mama." Your daughter whimpers against Kai, and you can hear the tears in her little voice, and your heart aches for her in so many ways.

"I'm not," you whisper. "I'm not mad at you, baby." You're just sad, so sad. It hurts. All of it.

"Sweetheart," Kai says, voice surprisingly calm despite the events, "go back to bed while I help your mother unpack your things, all right?"

Your daughter nods and suddenly she's against you, hugging you in a tight, childish way; you only have enough energy to pull your arm around her, limp and heavy, patting her back without really feeling it before she scampers up the stairs.

You're left alone. With him.

He approaches you slowly and you feel like an animal. There's wildness hammering in your heart and the thought comes up, unwillingly: could you still run? Escape on your own? And hope that some day, your daughter escapes and finds you? But the thought of leaving her behind is impossible to indulge in for more than a second, and you know that without her, your life isn't worth living. The thought of abandoning her to Kai Chisaki brings up an immediate sense of revulsion and guilt and shame.

"What were you thinking?"

You aren't looking at him, but you don't have to be looking at him to know that he's glaring at you. Looking down on you with his gaze filled with righteous justifications. You glance and--yes, he is, but there's something darker, something you’d forgotten, underneath. Your stomach suddenly feels loaded with weights and your legs move backwards, pulling you away from him, away from the anger that feels like it's radiating off him in waves.

He suddenly grips your chin with brutal force and yanks your jaw forward, forcing you to look at him.

"I had to kill one of my most trusted men today because of your..." His eyes dart back and forth for a moment, before he spits out the apparently perfect description of your escape attempt. "Hysteria. An absolute waste of potential, all because of your ridiculousness."

Your mouth is dry. Your voice is hoarse. But you speak up, anyway. You've already lost everything.

"It's not ridiculous to want to get out of here." 

The weight of the years seems to press down on your shoulders, pounding into your bones, screaming in your ears. 

"It's not ridiculous to--to want to take my daughter away from the man who kidnapped me and forced me to pretend like I was happy here, like I was happy living in some--" you cough, needing moisture, but not daring to stop to swallow lest you lose your courage. "--glorified dollhouse while you tell me what to do and what to wear and how to act and when to fuck you and when to have a baby and fuck you, fuck you, just fuck you Kai. I hate you. Oh I fucking hate you."

You don't notice as your voice gets louder, emboldened by the adrenaline that's been crashing through you since you opened the bedroom door, until his hand is gripping your upper arm in a show of brute, vise-length strength.

"Lower. your. voice." 

His grip strengthens until you cry out, and then it gradually loosens without letting you go completely.

For the next few moments, you do nothing but stare at one another. Your mind feels hazy, darting from thought to thought. It was all for nothing. The last four years, all for nothing. But you think about your daughter, about what she may have been able to accomplish outside of these walls, and even the fantasy of a free life for her made it worth something--didn't it?

It's his voice that lowered, now, as he lets you go completely and straightens himself up. All business now. But what business will he engage in, this time?

"Perhaps you do need a vacation," he says, finally. Firmly. He's made a decision.

You wonder if he's lost his mind and you're about to ask as much before he continues.

"Did you know this house has a secret room? It's nice and quiet. The perfect place for you to recuperate until you've regained your senses."

The room, the room, the room.

Your hand instinctively claps against your mouth as you cry out.

After all, you don't want to wake your daughter up with your screams.

[evanthenerd83]

2

“Why—“

“We need the money.”

They crossed the street.

Holly squeezed. The demon felt bones breaking, heard them as well, but didn’t resist. It couldn’t.

Her hand might have been cold.

Holding it might have caused hypothermia—or whatever equivalent existed for demons.

But at least it was soft.

“Are you ev—“

The demon winced as Holly increased the pressure.

“Yes, Dem. I am qualified. You may not believe this, but I used to babysit my neighbors’ kids.”

She was right. It didn’t believe her.

It found the image of Holly—violent, temperamental, sadistic Holly—putting a child to bed positively horrifying. Unethical.

What parent would hire her?

Someone who hadn’t wanted kids?

Someone who had given into temptation, lust? Someone who hated their kids, their own flesh and blood?

Someone who knew full well what Holly was capable of?

The demon shuddered.

Humanity… such an awful, horrid species. Its sinfulness knew no bounds. Mortals kept exceeding Its expectations.

Sin really did run deep within their hearts.

It blinked slowly, then looked around. A lazy expression overtook Its features.

Moonlight cast a sickly glow on Bramford Street. An ordinary suburban hellscape revealed itself.

There were houses everywhere. They all looked the same: tiled roofs; wooden porches; driveways; garage doors.

Picket fences segregated neighbors from neighbors. Not that anyone would have cared.

The demon smiled weakly. Something tickled the back of Its brain.

A familiar voice piped up. It sounded like smoke, if smoke could spawn a mouth and several vocal cords. The aftermath of Hell’s corruption. Demonicity.

“you can feel them”

Holly didn’t seem to notice that It had gone loose. She scanned the neighborhood, peering at numbers decorating mailboxes.

She was searching for an address.

“you can taste them”

A specific address.

Probably the one that woman—Ms. Woodhouse—had told her over that poor girl’s cell phone.

“they are here, useless child… as they are everywhere… the sinners… the whores… the blasphemers… the ill and soiled… do you see”

“do you see”

Everything faded away.

Everything other than—

Sins.

All types of sins. They flashed before Its mind, oil stains running down paintings.

Sins that varied in severity and harmfulness. That was an important term for a demon. Harmfulness.

It determined how awful one’s eternity in Hell would be. Sure, Hell was always awful.

Fire consumed all who called it home or prison.

The demon saw them. Those who lived on Bramford Street, populated the houses.

And It saw their sins.

A teenage girl took a drag.

A grown woman listened to her baby’s shrieking.

A teenage boy swiped several bottles of alcohol from his father’s liquor cabinet.

A grown man ducked beneath the covers, mistress giggling.

So many sins were happening. They happened behind closed doors, in marriage beds, backyards, and basements.

The images kept coming in rapid succession.

They bled together, colors mixing and forming new shades. A rainbow of suffering.

A withered old man eyed his old service pistol.

A little boy doused his baby sister in gasoline.

An elderly woman cast a spell, stabbing a stuffed doll.

A little girl held her kitten underwater.

“you may eat, my mistake”

“eat”

“eat”

The demon ate.

…

Holly snapped her fingers. “Dem?”

It didn’t respond. Nor did It blink.

The demon stared into space, eyes bulging out. A certain look had come over Its face.

“Hey,” Holly snapped again. “Dem. Earth to Dem.”

Its lips parted. Drool started to ooze out, sizzling upon contact with air.

She leaned over. Her ears twitched. They hovered over an expanding puddle of acid.

She didn’t dare get too close.

But curiosity betrayed caution.

What if It said something interesting? Revealed a sweet, sweet secret?

It would be worth the momentary distraction. Ms. Woodhouse could wait a few more minutes.

Ever since their run-in with Lilah, a fact had slowly dawned on Holly. It was a shadow. A parasite.

It’d begun to impair her efficiency.

Not in killing or hiding. But in thinking.

The gears of thought—usually cold and mechanical—grew hurried and panicked.

Her divine temple—her brain—changed. Alien forces beyond comprehension corrupted what made Holly… Well, Holly.

Holly wasn’t feeling like herself.

Holly was feeling like someone else.

Holly was feeling.

Apathy surveilled the situation before it. It promised its restless constituents—wrath and lust—a quick resolution.

A rebuttal to the fact.

The fact that Holly didn’t actually know the demon. She hadn’t been Its childhood friend. They hadn’t grown up together in Hell.

What were Its parents like? Did It have any siblings? Where did It go to school, if It did? With whom?

Did It have a driver’s license? Were Its experiences similar to her own?

These questions occupied valuable real estate.

Holly listened closely. She waited for something, anything.

All she got was—

She leaned backwards. The spittle flew. It struck the old, wooden awning overhead.

Which started to melt.

Holly blinked.

“Right,” she muttered.

This was no time for exposition. They had a job to do.

She ignored It. Her eyes traveled down the length of the front porch, rotten wood mingling with fungus and moss. Several brown pots sat in random spots.

All filled. Cracks allowed some dirt to fall out. Roses and sunflowers were waving lazily.

Gusts of wind sent her hair flapping. Like Medusa’s still growing serpentine braids.

She took a sly step.

Even while creeping, her foot nearly broke through. A worrying groan peeled off the weakened floorboards. This elicited a raised eyebrow.

She didn’t weigh all that much. The demon arguably resembled a twig suffering from malnutrition, and would have sent a scale shrieking for the hills. Half in madness, half in fear, and half in pain.

A smirk crossed Holly’s lips.

She knelt down. Performed a spontaneous potoscopy.

“Damn it.”

No key, just cold dirt.

She pulled out her hands. They were smeared with pot innards, wriggling worms, and a little bit of mud.

Positively brown.

She stood up. Chances were none of the pots held the key. If Ms. Woodhouse was smart, she’d have hidden it somewhere nobody paid any attention to.

Usual choices? In potted plants. Under the doormat. On the doorframe, out of reach.

But Holly didn’t think Ms. Woodhouse was smart.

She never thought anyone was smart.

Especially smarter than her.

Holly had done a few… ahem, “errands” with her mother as a little girl. No babysitters would watch over her or her brother. Payment wasn’t the issue.

Her family was loaded. As loaded as a middle class family could be, of course.

The problem, as always, has been her brother. That asshole. Chaotic ankle-bitter with a talent for ruining good things, making bad things worse, and tipping the metaphysical scale towards absolute chaos.

Holly was mean. She was cruel. But her criminal proclivities ultimately came down to:

Get rid of witnesses.

Or get wetter than the Florida Everglades during monsoon season.

Her brother simply had a mischievous streak. One helluva mischievous streak.

911 calls from their neighborhood ranged two to three each morning. When Theodore turned ten, they increased tenfold.

During her mother’s midnight runs, Holly would sit on the ground. She watched with wide, hollow eyes. Her mother knew better than to scold her.

She was secretly memorizing each flurry of the screwdriver.

The steps were filed away.

Ways to break a lock. To disengage the doorknob. To get inside.

Breaking-in was easy. Routine.

Holly chewed on the inside of her cheek, walking back to the supine Demon. It looked like a suffocated fish. She wondered if It was still breathing.

Eh.

Whatever.

She turned towards the front door. It was big and charcoal gray, ornately carved. Moonlight revealed ghoulish faces screaming in anguish. Winged figures were perched on what looked like ledges. Gargoyles scowling.

How gothic.

A thought sprung. It exploded inside her head like firecrackers, tripwire, Vietnam-style party favors.

She glanced down.

At the gnarled doorknob. Which was staring back up at her, eyes dark and bottomless.

‘Christ. Even the knob.’

She grabbed it.

She twisted it.

And the front door swung open.

…

Pulling the demon inside, Holly surveyed the parlor.

It matched the outside. Old photographs hung on the walls. Their subjects were undetectable, since they’d faded away.

A short dresser sat underneath. Something like a tablecloth—lace, white, almost grandmotherly—covered it.

Dust hovered in the air.

Cobwebs vibrated when Holly slammed the door.

Oddly enough, there were no spiders present.

Or flies.

Holly dragged the demon towards the narrow hallway. It stared into space. It probably saw Hell again.

She carefully avoided the second dresser. It stretched the length of the hallway, midnight dark wood bare.

These pictures weren’t faded.

She glanced.

A middle-aged woman seemed to smile back.

Her hair was brighter than the sun, and she wore a purple shirt with big, black buttons. Sleeves revealed pale skin.

White teeth caught most of the light in the photo. The background couldn’t be seen. Except for a few trees.

Holly nodded.

‘Ms. Woodhouse.’

Her attention fell.

She paused.

‘What the—‘

A young boy stood before Ms. Woodhouse. He clutched at her skirt, but didn’t seem afraid.

He wasn’t looking away. Far from it. He actually seemed to be staring deep into the lens, past the lens.

At the viewer.

A proto-shiver ran down Holly’s spine.

The boy had short black hair. Paler skin than his mother. His eyes were…

… dark. Like midnight.

Not precisely empty. Holly could see light—or what appeared to be light—within them, hiding behind the immediate darkness.

She recognized what she herself lacked.

But this light was muddled. Less emotional than artificial. Something inside her reminded Holly of a bug-zapper.

Another proto-shudder.

She looked away from the duo.

What was up with her?

Why was she feeling?

What was she feeling? Fear? Anxiety?

Recognition?

Before she could rewind the constant mental traffic and subject that particular thought to a personal strip search, someone coughed.

“Holly And The Demon Play House”

CONTENT WARNING: The following story contains harsh language and graphic violence.

1

“Man… this is hard,” Holly said while she shoveled.

The demon glared at her, pupils supernova hot. It growled.

It sounded like a dog. No. More like a hellhound that had just spotted the soul of some unfortunate sinner.

Holly giggled. She reached over, rustling Its black hair.

“Aw, good doggie.”

A claw swiped. She yelped, drawing back.

Her pale flesh had been slit open. The cut stretched across her hand, barely missing the knuckles and wrist.

A bead of crimson was forming.

Crimson.

“B-bad d-d-doggie.”

The demon rolled Its eyes. “Just keep digging.”

They were standing in what was supposed to be a park. A very small, plastic park.

Fake trees. Fake grass. Fake dirt. Everything within this park had been manufactured by the newest geo-capitalist startup company.

Engineered to look natural, but not offend humanity’s delicate selfishness.

Holly hated it. Almost as much as nature. Being outside, being around animals, wasn’t something she found… let’s say… mentally relaxing.

Nor did it strike a particular chord. There was no chord to be struck.

Animals only made things difficult. Snapping twigs ruined months and months of stalking, observing.

It didn’t help that animals felt the same way. Dogs would bark whenever she’d walk past, nearly choking themselves with their own collars and chains.

Cats hissed. Bugs scuttled away from her traps.

Birds shat themselves.

And yet… Holly found this park disgusting. Whoever had designed it ignored the way the world worked.

The natural order.

She believed in the natural order. It was her guide to living, her so-called “moral code”.

The weak would be eaten.

The strong would eat.

The strongest would prevail.

And to Holly, she was the strongest. Humanity could go suck death’s boney, dry dick for all she cared. Which wasn’t much.

Or even a little.

“Do you think… we should leave her… wallet?”

The demon shot another glare. “What?”

Holly kept on digging, blonde curls plastered to her forehead. Sweat glistened beneath a full moon.

The hem of her skirt was covered with dirt and grime. Her uniform clung.

“We need… money… for like… some extra clothes and stuff… and maybe even food… you said so yourself…”

She stabbed her shovel into the ground. Another heap of dirt.

It quickly joined its brethren. There was so much of it, the demon could hardly see the girl anymore.

A memory flashed.

An awful, vivid memory. Graphic and gratuitous.

The demon screwed Its eyes shut. No such luck.

The image had been burned into Its head. The girl, rearing back; hands half-raised as if to stop—

Holly, turning around; face dead as she aims—

The pistol, barrel flashing; bullet—

The red, spewing out; chunks of brain and shattered skull—

The demon gagged.

It scrambled away from the hole, hooves casting dirt. It disappeared into a nearby bush.

Holly simply rolled her eyes. “Drama queen.”

Ding-a-ring-a-long

Sing-a-song-a-dong

She froze, blade mid-stab. Her ears twitched.

A faint diddy. It wasn’t that complex, just a few repetitive notes played on a keyboard. The vocals were heavily synthesized.

The singer could’ve been a male or a female. It was difficult to tell.

What was easier to ascertain, though, was the source.

Holly stared at the impromptu grave.

“#$@& me.”

She dropped her shovel.

The ringtone suddenly ended. Silence fell upon the park.

Aside from the demon’s breakdown, of course. It was still puking Its guts out. As well as crying.

She kneeled.

Pain. And not the good, pleasurable kind.

The kind reserved for physical activity. A deep, hollow ache.

Holly could feel it in her bones. Each muscle burned. Overuse coupled with stress, making a bastard child.

Burying a body proved to be difficult work.

Unlike in movies, the ground refused to yield. It grew harder the deeper one went. The soil became stone.

They had started working hours ago. It took them several just digging the hole.

Holly despised labor. Exercise would leave her feeling used. Both of her armpits were swamps, and an unpleasant scent clung to her skin.

And exhaustion…

She ignored it. Her hands thrust themselves into the mound.

Cold engulfed them. Squishy dirt gave way. Excess rainwater added to the overall sensation.

Holly smiled.

Like exploring a victim’s body.

She searched.

…

“What are you doing,” the demon groaned.

Holly didn’t respond. She was sitting on the ground, legs crossed.

She seemed to be looking at something. The demon ran a single claw across Its face, knocking globs of leftover vomit from both cheeks.

It stumbled forward.

It felt like crap.

Utter crap.

Its throat was burning. Ribs were being beaten up by Its rogue heart, and something sent shockwaves through Its nerves. Shock.

Shock?

Yes.

Shock. Trauma. It couldn’t have been sick. Its immune system acted as a hellfirewall against invaders.

Nothing got through. Lowly creatures, viruses and bacteria, would find themselves in a world of hurt.

Or worse. Absorbed.

It coughed, peering over Holly’s shoulder.

She had both hands in her lap. They were wrapped around something small.

The demon squinted.

It was incredibly dark. Branches formed a canopy that prevented moonlight from reaching them. Whoever had designed the park deserved eternity in such darkness.

“Uh, Holly?”

“…”

“H-Holly,” It whispered. “What is tha—“

Ding-a-ring-a-long

Sing-a-song-a-dong

A song.

Light.

Bright. Blinding. It cut the dark like a butcher knife.

The demon yelped, falling backwards. It crawled away from the source of this light. On all fours.

It quickly scrambled to Its hooves. “H-Holly—“

A slender finger rose.

An angered hiss broke free. It froze in place, mouth snapping closed.

It stared at Holly with wide eyes.

She simply answered the cell phone. “Y’ello?”

The demon winced.

This wouldn’t work. This couldn’t work.

Holly was a lot of things. A mass murderer. A spree killer. An arsonist. A monster. A sexual deviant.

A sniper. A torturer. A perfect singer.

“Uh huh.”

A fugitive. An excellent cook. A sadist.

“I’m sorry, but she can’t. My… Uh, my sister has fallen ill.”

A survivalist. A master planner. An awful writer.

“No. No. No need! You enjoy your night, Ms. Woodhouse! I’ll…”

Holly eyed the demon, face going blank.

It felt her gaze on Its back. It stopped pacing.

“… you know what? We’ll be there! In about… what’s your address?”

The realization hit.

It instantly paled. Horror liquified Its face, and beads of sweat cascaded down Its cheeks.

Holly smiled as It started to shake Its head. She looked away.

“Perfect! That’s not far at all!”

It darted forward, claws outstretched.

Holly simply raised her pistol, and It froze.

“Hm? Oh. Just my brother.”

A pause. Her smile fell, replaced once again by the emptiness. She blinked a few times.

And then—

She threw her head back.

“Ha! Ha! Hahahahahaha! Of course not, Ms. Woodhouse! That’d be inappropriate!”

The demon cringed. Holly was inappropriate.

Her laughter simmered down. Yet another sneer appeared.

“And don’t worry. You can just pay me, and we—my brother and I—will split the money!”

It glanced at the mound. It gulped when It saw the glazed eye staring back.

“Yes ma’am! Just five more minutes! We’ll be there! Thank you! Thank you! Goodbye!”

Holly hung up.

She allowed the cell phone to fall. It landed in the dirt, face down.

“Um…” the demon backed away. “H-H—“

It cringed. The sound of shattering glass and snapping plastic echoed, joined by crunching leaves. She lifted her shoes.

Debris. Wasted technology.

She looked up, then started walking.

“Holly,” It whimpered. “What—“

She grabbed Its collar, pulling It behind her. It didn’t dare to resist. Resistance was futile.

It had seen enough to understand.

[lovers-in-japan-reign-of-love]

The End of Something—Chapter 2

Notes: I mean no disrespect by writing or posting this, and in no way do I take the themes and topics discussed in this series lightly. So if you’re triggered by any of this, I suggest not reading it.

This is an AU of THE WALKING DEAD. So the apocalypse never happened, and everyone’s alive and well. If for any reason I’m getting characters wrong, please let me know and I’ll fix it to the best of my abilities. Also, there will be moments where I’ll come back to do some editing where it’s needed.

Message me or leave an ask if you want to be tagged!

Pairing: Rick Grimes x Reader (she/her pronouns)

Chapter Description: Seeing Lottie’s home for the first time. Emotions and tensions rise, leaving the sisters struggling to reconnect and understand each other.

Warnings: Anxiety; jealousy; brief fighting; low self-esteem; language probably; possible mentions of past toxic relationship; strained relationship between siblings; non-descriptive mentions of abuse; spelling/grammatical errors; bad writing; whatever else I missed

Additional Info: Y/N = your name | Y/N/N = your nickname | Y/L/N = your last name | Y/E/C = your eye color | Y/H/C = your hair color

Masterlist: Click Here

Previous Chapter: Click Here

Next Chapter: Click Here

(image from Pinterest)

Reader POV

The drive continued in a semi-comfortable silence. You still struggled with the feelings of uncertainty—feelings that seemingly increased the closer you got to Lottie’s home. Questions swirled in your head. Why did Lottie take you in so quickly? Would Max and Moose really like you? What if they didn’t? What if you made a mistake? What if he was right, that you couldn’t survive without him?

Doubt began filling you, and you started chewing on the inside of your cheek. Maybe it wasn’t too late to go back home. Maybe he’d take you back, and wouldn’t be as brutal if you begged…

You shook the thought out of your head. You couldn’t go back. Not after the fit he had. You’d been scared of him for years at that point, but that moment had you frozen in absolute dread. Your flight or fight had kicked in, and instead of running for your own safety, you chose to stand impossibly still while he raged around you. You could vaguely hear the sound of shattering glass, the feeling of glass shards landing on your head. Everything around you seemed to move in slow motion. He was yelling, but it sounded distant and distorted.

To make matters worse, you were the one who initiated the break up. Not him. He was the one breaking it off constantly, going after other girls before he got bored and drew you back in. Each break up left you devastated. You’d go home, crying and blabbering about him to your parents. They hated him from day one, and the turmoil he kept putting you through only solidified that. Except that’s all they really knew about him—his emotional toying with you. They never saw the bruises; he always hit you in places no one would notice. Places that could be covered. You didn’t want them to know. But the straw that broke the camel’s back was…

You felt your blood run cold. A chill ran up your spine as you clenched your hands into fists. Your nails dug into your palms, stinging the soft skin, but pulling you out of those horrendous memories. Grounding you in your surroundings.

You’re fine, you thought, digging your nails further into your palms. You’ll be fine. You’re safe now. He’s not worth it, don’t think about him.

“We’re here,” Lottie exclaimed.

Blinking a few times, you looked around for a moment before realizing the car had stopped. In front of you was a home, at least two stories. It looked like the picture-perfect family home. A moderately sized front yard with green grass and vibrant shrubbery. A beautifully modest home in the middle of a Georgian suburban neighborhood. A white picket-fence, apple pie kind of place.

And your sister and her husband were living there.

A twinge of something ached in your chest. She could afford a place like that. With him, you weren’t allowed to work. By that point, your friendships had fizzled out because of him. If you had a job, you’d be financially independent. You could have work relationships. You wouldn’t be under his control. You’d be able to leave him.

But this home, this neighborhood, your sister’s fucking suburban mom car—something about it pissed you off. Why was she allowed to have all that? Why’d she end up with Max and you settled for the first guy who showed you attention? Why, after years of little to no contact, did Lottie decide to help you? For as long as you remembered, Lottie showed very little interest in you. She was absent for most of your childhood and adolescence. As an adult, you could count the times she reached out to you on one hand. Why was she acting like she cared?

“You coming?” Lottie turned to look at you. She was partially out of her car, looking at you questioningly. On top of the damned worry still lingering in her eyes.

You opted to nod in response. Your emotions were becoming too much, too overwhelming. You didn’t know if you wanted to scream or cry, but you knew you didn’t trust your voice.

Opening the car door, you hop out before slamming it shut. You were trying—and probably failing—to hide the scowl that was beginning to form on your face. Neighboring houses were just as modest and nice as Lottie’s. Their yards similar in size, albeit decorated differently. You saw cars parked in driveways, heard the occasional bark of a dog or chirp of a bird overhead. The neighborhood seemed idyllic. It seemed like something out of a magazine.

“How do you afford a place like this?” you grumbled, going to the back to grab your luggage. Your sister had already opened the back of the car, pulling out your duffel bag.

“Max and I get pretty good pay at our jobs,” Lottie responded. “On top of not having kids, I think we’ve been able to save a lot.” Your scowl deepened. You heard a heavy sigh before Lottie responded, “what is going on with you? You’ve been acting…”

“What?” you exclaimed, throwing your hands up in exasperation. “I’ve been acting what? Weird?Like a bitch?”

“That’s not what I—”

“You didn’t have to! I don’t need your pity and I don’t need you pretending to care after a lifetime of you ignoring me.” You ran a hand through your hair, scoffing. “I mean seriously, why did I even call you? You never cared about me, and now you want to help you bitchy, screwed up little sister?”

There was a long pause. You were breathing heavily. You were flushed, both embarrassed and still angry.

“I get I haven’t been the best sister,” Lottie started, her voice low and her eyes watery, pointing at you with a trembling hand, “but I’m trying to make things right. I don’t pity you, okay? And you’re not screwed up or a bitch. You are the strongest person I know, do you understand me?” She quickly wiped her eyes. “I’m helping you because you called me,” she finished. “You came to me for help. I agreed because I’m your sister and it’s the right thing to do. I want you safe, and it wasn’t back home with mom and dad.”

You let out a huff, turning away from your sister. You could almost hear his voice, reminding you how emotional were. That condescending, almost sarcastic lilt in his voice. You were too irrational, and he was the only one who could make intelligent and logical points on anything. Brushing off your concerns and opinions, basically claiming your emotions and period invalidated everything you said. He was always good at invalidating you.

A little voice in the back of your mind seemed to agree with him. Your whirlwind of anger and jealousy was making you irrational. You didn’t feel happy that he was thousands of miles away. You were upset that Lottie had a nice life. You weren’t upset that he couldn’t hurt you anymore. You were jealous of Lottie’s seemingly perfect life. Why weren’t you happy? Why weren’t you relieved?

“Let’s just get inside,” Lottie said, her voice plain. You flinched at that. Great, now she was upset with you. Walking to the front door, your sister unlocked it and pushed it open. The inside was well decorated, just as modest and comfortable as the house’s outside. You grabbed your duffel bag and headed inside.

* * *

It was a long couple of minutes. A silent, tense few minutes. Your luggage had been brought in, taken to a guest room where you’d be staying for the time being. Once everything was inside, Lottie left without a word and you let her. What could you say? Part of you was still upset and jealous, but another part was exhausted.

Sitting at the foot of the bed, you take in the room. It’s cream colored, with a decently sized closet and a wooden dresser. The bed was comfortable, and the sheets and blankets seemed soft. A smaller wooden table was beside the bed, with a lamp and a clock on top. There was a window, slightly ajar and letting the cool air pool in.

With a slight frown, you laid back on the bed, your legs hanging off. Closing your eyes, you took a deep breath before letting it out. You’re alone, left with your thoughts and emotions. You could spend that moment to think over the drive, your outburst, Lottie’s words even in the driveway, but you didn’t want to. Not yet. You wanted to just exist, without being sucked back into what happened.

Your thoughts drifted into unpacking and getting that mess over with. You hadn’t brought a whole lot with you, just whatever you could grab from his apartment during his fit. Once you finally broke out of your trance. You pushed yourself into a sitting position, looking at your duffel bag with mild disinterest. Might as well get it over with.

Pushing yourself off the bed, you shuffled toward your duffel bag and unzipped it. You’d managed to stuff in as many clothes as you could grab, plus your phone charger and your wallet. You didn’t have time to think of anything else. Pulling out the clothes, you started organizing and putting them away.

* * *

After unpacking, your forced yourself out of the room. You wanted to get accustomed to the house’s layout. You’d given a brief glance here and there, but didn’t take the time to really look. You were on the second story, and you took your time as you observed. There were framed pictures of Lottie and Max, Lottie and friends, and a few scattered pictures of family along the hallway. The carpeted floor felt scruffy on your feet.

There were a few other rooms on the second floor, too. A couple more guest rooms, a bathroom and Lottie’s and Max’s room at the very end. The staircase was in the middle of the second floor, the steps and railing made of wood. Going down the steps, you shivered a little at the wood’s cold feel. The closer you got to the first floor, however, the more you started to hear and smell something. There was music and humming, mingling with something being cooked.

You found yourself wandering into the kitchen. Lottie was standing by the stove, her hair pulled back as she stirred something on a pan.

“You cook?” you asked.

Lottie turned and looked at you, her expression cautious and uncertain as she paused her music. “Yeah,” she responded. “I taught myself. Figured you’d be hungry from the long trip.”

At that comment, your stomach started rumbling. It was almost as comedic as it was embarrassing. You blushed furiously.

Lottie gave a soft chuckle. “I’m making spaghetti,” she said, glancing back at the food in front of her. “The first meal I ever made. Took a long time for me to get it right, but I’d say I’m a pasta master now.”

“Shouldn’t you wait until Max gets home?” You chewed on the inside of your cheek. “In case he wants any?”

Lottie shrugged, not taking her eyes off the food. “He doesn’t mind,” she said. “Besides, if we don’t eat it now he’ll eat it all when he gets home. His stomach is like a black hole.”

You chuckled. “I’m sure,” you murmured. “Where’s Moose?” You looked around; you hadn’t seen head nor tail of the dog.

“He’s in the backyard,” Lottie hummed. “If Max and I aren’t home, we keep him outside, just so he can have someplace to go potty and get his exercise in.”

“Aren’t you afraid he’ll run away?”

“Not really.” Lottie turned to look at you. “He’s never tried running away before, so I trust he’ll still be here when we get back.”

“I always wanted a dog,” you stated, after a brief pause, fingers unconsciously fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. “Mom and dad never let me have one.”

“Yeah, they didn’t want the extra responsibility.” Your sister nodded.

“He never let me have one either.” Your voice was soft, uncertain in its mention of your ex. You could see Lottie’s face harden. “He didn’t want me to care for or love anyone that wasn’t him.”

“Well he’s an asshole,” your sister glowered. “Probably for the best he never got a dog. He’d probably do something to it.”

Deep down you agreed with Lottie. Given how your ex treated you, any animal in the apartment would’ve received similar treatment, if not worse.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you,” Lottie said. She sounded guilty, remorseful even. “If I’d tried harder…if I’d been a better sister, then…”

“It’s not your fault,” you interrupted. “It’s mine. I didn’t notice anything until it was too late. My friends tried telling me. Mom and dad tried telling me. I didn’t listen. I didn’t want to listen. Just like I didn’t want to notice what he was doing in the beginning.” You gave a half hearted shrug. “It’s my fault.”

Lottie turned the stove off, pushing the food away from the hot surface before coming forward, putting her hands on your shoulders. You tensed.

“It’s not your fault,” she insisted. “What he did is entirely his fault, not yours. Okay?” You nodded, though not entirely convinced. “I’m serious, Y/N. Everything he did to you, was wrong. And that’s on him. Not you, him.”

Gently shrugging Lottie’s hands from your shoulders, you took a step back. It had been drilled into your head that everything that happened to you was your fault. The beatings, the isolation, the manipulations and gaslighting—it was because of you. You said the wrong thing, you didn’t do what you were told. You were being a bad girlfriend. He never took responsibility. He never accepted his own faults. Everything wrong in the relationship was because of you and you had to accept it to keep the peace.

Now that you’re out, you’re being bombarded with all kinds of emotions. None of them good. You feel like shit for leaving. You feel guilty for how things ended, but it also scared the shit out of you. You’re anxious and fearful, waiting for Lottie—and Max, eventually—to realize just how bad you are. You’re the root of everyone’s problems, and they’ll come to see it. And they’ll throw you out, toss you aside like garbage. God only knows how tired your parents are if picking up the pieces of you, only for your ex to come back and destroy their progress. Now your sister and her husband will have to deal with you and your baggage. Lottie’s talking big now, but she’ll see how useless it all is.

“Hey.” You look at your sister. She’s watching you, brows furrowed and a concerned frown on her face. “What’s going on? You spaced out for a second.”

“Nothing,” you mumbled, avoiding her gaze.

“Y/N, can I ask you something?” That question itself had your heart jump. Your body tensed and your head went blank. “Can we not have any secrets between us?” she asked.

Confused, you looked at her.

“I know there are things you won’t be comfortable sharing just yet,” Lottie said, her voice soft, “but I’d like to know how I can help you. So…I was hoping maybe as we get more comfortable, we can open up more and…y’know…see where it goes.”

You thought it over before nodding. It was a hesitant nod, but that seemed to be good enough for Lottie, who smiled and nodded in return.

“I’ll finish cooking,” she said. “Why don’t you set the table? Then after we eat I can give you an official tour.”

Permanent Tag List:

@rvgrsbrns @sugarrushblondie @rororo06 @crimeshowtrash @parkers-thoughts @nerdy-thespian-10 @wastefulsushi @aworldwideapart @supernaturallover2002 @mystoragehatesme @change-the-world-someday @natasha-danvers @just-one-ordinary-fangirl @hera-the-writer @herecomesthewriterwitch @unbelievablefandoms @its-izzys @peggycarter-steverogers @buchanansebba @utterly-in-like @sevenmorningstars @pachiibatt @seabassstanfan @badgercerealsupremacy

Tag List:

@bl00db0n3z