#just poppin back in so i can disappear for another three months

[tsulilan]

I wrote a thing for it

Cri’ik coughed dirt into their sleeve, trying to do it as gently as possible. They didn't quite understand why they felt the need to do it discreetly. Perhaps it was the weighted stillness in the air that established the need for reverence. Perhaps it was because they didn’t want to go through the trouble of comforting their Master’s concerns. Either way, Cri’ik wanted to respect it.

They sat on an ammo crate, their soaking cloak wrapped around them heavily. The rain had slowed, and still, was coming down in delicate waves. Funny, Cri’ik thought, that it was the worst during the battle. It was as if the sky was fighting alongside them.

Troopers surrounded Cri’ik, passing on all sides, rushing to the Med Tent or to Captain Aero to file paperwork or to Force-knows-where. Either way, every one of them seemed to have somewhere to go, even if they created it themselves, just to have something to do besides sit down and think. Cri’ik didn’t blame a single one. They understood the need for distraction. They partially wished that they could do the same, instead of sitting here and watching the Lieutenant drone on and on about casualties and armory costs. Truthfully, they were entirely exhausted. They didn't understand how Master Vey could be so alert, how any of the Clones could still fight. It had been days of fighting after a month and a half on this outpost.

Of course, this battle was not the first Cri’ik had ever been in. They were almost fifteen now; they had been a Padawan for almost three years, and a Commander for two. They were well acquainted with the war zone. But this one was something else. They had won, of course- Cri’ik could only name a few battles they had lost- but at what cost did their victory come?

This battle, it seemed, was especially brutal. The flat horizon of Crait made it difficult to find cover, and so many Troopers- some they were friends with, people they knew- were left alone in the open, and were lost to the rain. Cri’ik was used to this. Losing friends got easier. It was never easy, of course, but it got easier. They were just relieved it was over.

Crait’s terrain was deceptious. Underneath the blinding white salt flats lay a deep sea of carmine soil, as red as blood. Dreadfully, it was difficult to tell the difference between the blood of fallen men and the exposed mud smeared across the land. Even more horrifying was the mire that caked their gear- Cri’ik’s and the troopers’ alike. Despite Cri’ik’s best efforts, they found it impossible to ignore the likelihood that what stained their robes was not only the natural pigment of the planet.

The rain died down slowly. Cri’ik sat next to their Master still, Lieutenant Fawn listing off numbers and stats before them both. The sky was pink now, as the sun set slowly. The clouds were aglow. It should’ve been nice to look at; instead, Cri’ik just felt tired. They didn’t know how much more they could take of this. All they wanted was to be back on Coruscant, back in the Temple Gardens, in a clean, dry set of robes. The pink sky was sickening.

Cri’ik looked blankly across the bivouac. The moving men were just noise, and everything was too bright. They drew a knee up to their chest. The fighting was over for now. Their leave would start soon. Soon, they would be away from all the blood, and death, and guns, and red. They just had a little more to wait, and then they could rest, away from the exigent red.

Ok that's all back to life

[andawaywego]

Can you write Dani & Jamie’s first Thanksgiving in Vermont? Neither seems capable in the kitchen, but they give it a try. Takeout is inevitably ordered.

i loved this. hit both your points, too. hopefully you like it!

..

“You’re a murderer.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You just killed it. In cold blood.”

“Well, it wouldn’t shut up, would it? And now it has.”

“Okay…”

“What?”

“I just...Part of me is wondering when you’re going to do that to me.”

Jamie stops fanning the air with the placemat in her hands and gives Dani a derisive look. Dani is smiling, biting her lip in that way she does when she thinks she’s being clever. Jamie’s heart gives a little squeeze at the sight, but she tries to look annoyed instead of absolutely in love.

“Shove off,” she says and Dani laughs. “And help me. Before the entire house smells like burnt turkey.”

Dani shakes her head, giving their broken fire alarm—pulled out of the ceiling in a fit by Jamie not two minutes earlier—a sad look where it lies in the trash bin. She leaves the kitchen and goes off to their bedroom, disappearing for a few moments and then returning with a fan. Plugging it in on one end of the kitchen, she points it toward the open windows on the other side and turns it to its highest setting. Immediately, the lingering smoke starts to swirl and billow as it pushes out the screens and outside into the cool, November afternoon.

“Should I call Owen?” she asks next, crossing her arms and cocking her hip to rest against the counter like she’s all-too-pleased with herself. Jamie isn’t sure why. It’s not like she’s only one who ruined dinner.

“Don’t,” Jamie says. “It’s getting late there and I don’t want to bother him again.”

She’s already made three collect calls to Paris asking for advice on basting and temperature settings today. Any more and she might swear off the practice of cooking entirely.

Setting the placemat down on the counter, Jamie looks over their dark and scorched turkey resting there with dismay. If mangling the fire alarm on its way to the bin was considered murder, she can’t help but wonder what setting a turkey on fire in the oven counts as.

“God, I’m such an idiot,” she says, dropping her face into her hands and slumping back against the fridge.

There’s barely a moment’s hesitation before steady arms wrap themselves around her body and pull her into an embrace. “You are not,” Dani tells her, soft and serious. “Do you know how many times my mom burnt the turkey when I was growing up?”

Jamie shakes her head, resting her forehead on Dani’s shoulder and closing her eyes.

“Pretty much all of them. And the worst part is, she always made me eat it anyway. It was...I mean, ‘terrible’ isn’t even a good enough word for it.”

Jamie’s shoulders shake with silent laughter. She’s seen pictures of Dani when she was younger—all chipmunk-toothed and braces. She imagines her sitting at the table with her mother, making that face she always makes whenever she drinks soda with every bite.

“I just wanted to do this right,” Jamie mutters, embarrassed by the moment of raw honesty. She feels too emotional for this and part of her is embarrassed by the thought of getting all worked up over nothing. But this is their first major holiday living together and it’s her first Thanksgiving ever and she just wanted it to go well. “And now it’s ruined.”

“Hey, it’s not ruined.” She feels Dani press a kiss to the top of her head, grip tightening a little around Jamie’s body. “Just...surprising.”

Jamie chuckles wetly into Dani’s sweater, clutching her girlfriend closer. “That’s one way of saying it.”

“How about this?” Dani asks a moment later, pulling away so they can see one another again. She reaches out and cups Jamie’s face in her hands, running her thumbs beneath Jamie’s eyes to wipe away some of her smeared eyeliner. “You order out for food and I grab us some plates.”

“For what?” Jamie asks, frowning.

Dani smiles and pulls away, going to a paper bag that’s been resting on the pantry shelves for the last day, folded shut with “Do Not Open—I’m serious, Jamie” on the side in black marker. She grabs it and opens it up, rifling around for a moment before tugging out a round tin with a plastic cover on the top. She sets it on the counter triumphantly, letting out a cute little, “Ta-da!”

It’s an apple pie. Jamie’s only ever had it one time—at a restaurant they went to on their drive to Vermont all those months ago—and it’s the only American pie she can stand.

“Poppins,” she says slowly, “did you make this?”

Dani’s face does this amusing thing, twisting in confusion. “Oh, God, no,” she answers, shaking her head. “Believe me, it would look like our turkey if I had.” She throws an apologetic look to the still-steaming, blackened turkey. “Thank god for bakeries, huh?”

Jamie laughs and kisses her, right there in the kitchen. “Guess so,” she mumbles against Dani’s lips.

They order food from the Chinese restaurant just a few blocks away from their apartment building and, when she gets off the phone and informs Dani that it will take at least forty-five minutes for it to arrive, Dani smirks.

“I have an idea of how we can pass the time,” she says and Jamie knows that look. She knows it well. A spark ignites in the low of her stomach.

“Oh, yeah?” she asks.

Dani nods and grips the straps of Jamie’s overalls, tugging her toward the living room. “Yep.”

It’s a good idea, Jamie thinks as she’s being straddled on the couch a moment later. One of the better ones either of them has ever had.

..

[moonflowerlesbians]

I took a quick break from prompts to write 5000 words of pure angst. I hope you’ll forgive me. 

“we let precious time go by”

Read on AO3.

Summary: “The day will come when she returns to an empty flat, or she’ll wake to a cold pillow beside her. If she’s lucky, she’ll be there when the beast pounces. She’ll get to say goodbye. 

A piece of her will die that day, she knows. 

Dani will die that day.”

Word Count: 5088

They live together thirteen years after Bly. Thirteen wonderful years in a little flat in a small town in Vermont that looks like the spirit of Christmas itself retched on every building in the wintertime. They sell poinsettias and wreaths of holly for the holidays and budding perennials in the warmer months. They find the cheapest grocer, the best plumber, the man who drives into town selling fresh eggs on Wednesdays.

They befriend an elderly woman with three toy poodles, who stops by The Leafling every Sunday morning before mass to purchase flowers for her late husband’s grave, and they try not to think of Hannah. The daycare center three doors down marches the children to the park twice a day, right past the shop, and they try not to think of Rebecca and the Wingraves. They learn the quickest route to their favorite take-away place by heart, and they try not to think of Owen.

It’s hard, though, when your world’s been shattered and everyone else is carrying on as if nothing’s happened. But, thirteen years go by, and they manage. They manage, even as Dani becomes a bit less like herself every day, and Jamie struggles to pretend everything is fine. She pretends not to notice when she finds a sock in the freezer or Dani’s toothbrush between the couch cushions. Pretends not to notice when the lines on Dani’s face grow deeper, etched into her fair skin like stone, and she pretends not to notice when Dani wakes in the dead of night to gaze out the window for hours on end, then returns to bed as if she never left.

She’d brought it up with Dani over dinner. She had grasped Dani’s hand ever so gently, running a soothing thumb over the knuckles. Dani looked as if she hadn’t slept in days. Maybe she hadn’t. A tear tracked down her cheek and dropped onto her lap.

“Please, love, please let me help,” Jamie had begged, and she had never meant anything more in her life, save the night she had accepted Dani’s ring.

Dani had observed her sadly, centuries of knowledge weighing heavy behind her eyes. “You can’t.”

“Please, Dani.” She hadn’t meant to break down, she hadn’t. She had meant to be strong, a steadfast rock in a stormy sea.

“Jamie…” Dani’s voice had been soft, resigned. “It’s her.” She looked down at her clasped hands, as if unwilling to bear witness the damage sure to show on Jamie’s face.

This was meant to be dinner, a question about a frozen sock, an easy explanation. Just a little swamped with the shop’s finances. A natural remedy she had read about in a magazine. Not this. Anything but this.

Jamie had known the day might come, when the memories they’d repressed would reappear to haunt them like Peter fucking Quint. She had hoped with every fibre of herself that the ghastly woman from that terrible night at the lake would slumber for decades yet.

Christ, how long had the Lady been awake? How long had Dani kept this from her?

Dani had seemed to sense her question. She’d become too good at that as of late.

“Only a few months.”

A few months.

Jamie’s lips had tightened into a thin line, and she forced herself to swallow back a sob, eyes closed.  

“Dani, why-?”

Why didn’t you tell me?

Why now?

Why this?

Why them?

“You don’t deserve this,” Dani had said, and Jamie’s heart shattered. “It’s my burden, not yours--”

“No. No, no--”

“--I can’t ask you to take this on. I invited her in; I condemned myself, not you.”

“Stop, Dani, stop.”

“Jamie, please…” Dani had sounded so small, so broken. “You have to go.”

“No,” Jamie had refused outright. “Never.”

“Then me. I’ll leave.”

“No one is going bloody anywhere.” Jamie had been steely calm, even as her ribcage threatened to break with the effort. “You and I are staying right fucking here. You hear me, Dani? Right here.” She hadn’t been able to hide the crack on the final syllable. Her ring caught the warm glow of the kitchen light.

Jamie took a steadying breath. “When you came home with that wee plant, you know what I thought? I thought, ‘ah, shite, she’s gone and found another lost cause.’” Here, Jamie had given a small smile. “‘And I bloody love her for it.’”

Dani wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“Haven’t got a clue how you always see the possibility in everything. No one’s too far gone to save with you around, Poppins. It’s exhausting, really,” Jamie had continued. “I took your ring, and I’ve never regretted it. Not once, yeah? Not once. I knew what I signed up for: lovin’ you, relentless optimism an’ all.” Her laugh had been watery. “So, we’re not goin’ anywhere. It’s us, yeah? Always has been, always will be.”

So Dani had stayed. And Jamie redoubled her efforts to support her.

She runs the errands on the evenings where the dark feels all too familiar and returns to Dani huddled beneath a fleece blanket. She wraps Dani in her arms and soothes the nightmares away with feather-light kisses. She’s there in every way she can be, never pressing, never rushing, and never letting Dani see just how utterly terrified she is.

To tell Dani would be to ruin the careful dynamic they’ve reached. Dani is scattered, rain moving with the wind; Jamie has to be grounded, a stake dug deep into the earth. But the slopes grow muddier the longer the rain pours, and dirt washes away, gone like a rushing stream. Jamie knows she can’t keep this up forever. She’s already lost so much, and her most important person is fading fast, swept up in the rising current.

She loves Dani to the stars and back. Which is why Jamie must bear this load alone. Dani is already carrying the sky on her shoulders, and Jamie cannot burden her with this.

Call her stupid, call her noble. She calls it mercy.

She knows she’s pulling the same shit Dani did not telling her that Her Royal Lakeness was stirring. She knows, and she resents herself for it. She also knows that Dani would look at her with such guilt for causing Jamie strife. Dani would try to mask her hurt to spare her wife, and Jamie’s gut wrenches at the thought. Her brow would crinkle, lips pursed, and Jamie would yearn to kiss the stress from her face.

Jamie is rewarded for her silence. Dani is getting better about vocalizing her nightmares, telling Jamie when the Lady makes an appearance as she slumbers. They embrace beneath the covers and speak between labored breaths, where Dani finally caves and Jamie does her best to hide the way she’s become afraid of the dark. She murmurs reassurances and tells herself they’re for Dani, pressing kisses into her forehead.

Dani sleeps tucked into Jamie’s side as though it’s enough to ward off the ghosts, a formidable wall against things that go bump in the night. She sleeps, and Jamie lies awake. Her defense is slipping. She can’t keep them both afloat.

She can try. She can hold out as long as Dani will have her. She will. She doesn’t know anything else. Jamie swears, she swears on her plants, she swears on her life, she swears to anyone who will listen that she will be there for Dani, even if she can’t be there for herself.

The weeks pass and more socks freeze, more toothbrushes go missing, and Dani drifts. Some days are better than others. Some days, Jamie’s Sisyphean task is easy, and Dani meets her at the top of the mountain with a flirty smile and sunshine on her greedy tongue, with hands that grab at Jamie’s belt and tug her shirt up and over her head. On those days, they feel like themselves.

But, on other days, days when the whole world is overcast and the tide is rising, they shutter the shop and lock the doors to their second-floor flat. They wear matching pajamas, while the television set plays classic cinema. Jamie makes tea; Dani still hasn’t mastered it in a decade, and Jamie doubts she ever will. Their legs tangle in a heap, ankles sliding along calves.

Jamie comes to rest her head on Dani’s sternum, allowing the beat of her heart to remind her that they’re here. Dani is here, breathing steadily and weaving their fingers together like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like they aren’t living borrowed years. Like Jamie’s mantra of one day at a time doesn’t feel like a splintered crutch beneath her arm, supporting the weight of an impossible situation.

Every day feels like the last, and Jamie hates it. She hates the feeling of inevitability that lurks just out of sight. The beast in the jungle, Dani had said. It prowls between streetlamps and seeks refuge in their walls, skittering away when Jamie shines a torch, only to return the instant she turns her back. The creature is waiting for something Jamie can never see, and it terrifies her. She cannot prevent what she cannot see. All she can do is wait, hopeless, at the mercy of a fucking ghost.

The day will come when she returns to an empty flat, or she’ll wake to a cold pillow beside her. If she’s lucky, she’ll be there when the beast pounces. She’ll get to say goodbye.

A piece of her will die that day, she knows.

Dani will die that day.

And, god, she feels so bloody selfish for thinking of her own fucking self-preservation when the woman she loves might one day disappear from the world, but, Christ, how can she be expected to go on like this? Just waiting for the days to pass until she’s alone again. Again.

She’s lost more people than she can count. Some to time, some to death, some to drink, some to the shelter of a warm embrace Jamie could not provide. Each loss is different, yet each brings about a sting that is painfully familiar. An old bedfellow she’s forced to accommodate. It settles in her bones, nestling into the hollow spaces between her ribs, cold and unwelcome. Once it latches on, it never truly leaves.

The ache is ever-present, a plate of steel, layering and building into a grim suit of armor that clashes and clanks and frightens people away with its noise, and, after a while, she forgets. Forgets what it’s like to be free of those reminders that she wasn’t good enough for people to stay. Wasn’t good enough for her parents, nor her foster parents. Wasn’t good enough for classmates and teachers who deemed her a waste of effort. Wasn’t good enough for women who hid themselves from the world or from their own judgment. Hell, she wasn’t even good enough for the prison system, released early on account of behavior.

She forgets how to breathe without each inhale taking the strength of someone who’s had a scarlet letter branded across her chest her whole life. Forgets how it feels to extend a hand in invitation without her own fear dragging her down, the fear that results from rejected companionship and harsh words. She forgets what it’s like to touch and be touched and to lay yourself bare before another, trusting that you are safe and wanted.

Dani had taken her proffered hand and held it to tender lips. She had glacially pried away nearly three decades of fine steel with the care of a dutiful lover, uncovering the origin of each piece as she went. She had never once flinched away, only nodded with sweet understanding and kissed Jamie a little more fervently that night.

Then, one day, Jamie had found herself the lightest she’d ever been, open and vulnerable beneath Dani’s affectionate gaze. She had breathed, and it had felt like a sigh. The old ache was not gone; it could never truly be banished. But the act of sharing her very soul, and receiving Dani’s in return, had turned bruises into mere memories and fear into excitement.

Her armor had sat, gathering dust in a corner of their life, no longer needed. She had been content to let Dani, or, rather, the security of their relationship, be her protection.

Now, though, with the ground they walk upon growing perilous, Jamie is defenseless. Her own beast hungers, prepared to strike with familiar claws, and Jamie loathes that she is reaching for her old guard. Loathes that she even considers distancing herself. That Dani cannot escape the cruelty of a fate brought on by selflessness, and Jamie is pondering how life will go on without her.

It feels so bloody selfish that it makes Jamie sick to her stomach. It’s only human to fret about the future, but this feels like an especially abominable twist of the knife. And Dani can never know. No, never. Jamie will be strong for her. She needs to be unwavering in her dedication to their love.

She manages, though it feels like standing in the middle of the road, watching a lorry drive toward her at a hundred kilometers an hour and choosing not to move out of the way. Rather, she plants her feet firmly on the asphalt and stares down what will surely splinter every bone in her body if it doesn’t kill her.

For Dani, she tells herself.

Dani, who startles at unseen reflections in their dishes and damn near scares the living daylights out of Jamie. There’s a haunted look in her eye, and, suddenly, Jamie can hear their countdown clock ticking away the seconds without Dani having to say a word. Her chest is heaving as Jamie steps in front of her, inspecting her for signs of physical harm, and blocking the faucet from her line of sight. Dani can’t meet her eye, craning her neck to see the sink.

Her voice is hoarse, ragged. “I saw her.”

No. No, no, no, no. Dreams are one thing. Dreams, Jamie can handle. Bad dreams can be banished with soothing caresses and warm tea, but this? They are both very much awake.

Breathe.

“What did you see?” Jamie seeks confirmation to calm her racing pulse.

Dani’s lip trembles, and she clutches frantically at the countertop. “Her.” It’s little more than a whisper, but the meaning is unmistakable. Dani continues, with painstaking deliberacy. “I keep seeing her.”

Christ. Keep seeing her? The sheer terror in Dani’s tone implies this isn’t the first time the ghost has appeared to her. But it is the first Jamie is hearing of it. No, not this again. Not Dani keeping from her the details of the most horrific secret of their lives.

She can’t stop to process this now. Dani is shaking, and Dani is frightened, and Dani needs her here, in this moment, not dwelling on what this means for the course of their lives.

Jamie turns the tap off and pulls the drain. “We’re gonna be okay. You can’t think the worst.” The words sound hollow, even to her own ears, but she tries, god, does she try to mean them with everything she has.

“Jamie…” Dani’s tone is warning.

Don’t lie to me.

I have to, love, Jamie thinks, I have to, or we’ll both give up, and I’m not ready.

“We could have so many more years together.”

Could.

It’s not technically a lie. ‘Could’ leaves room for uncertainty, the unpredictability of an entity so far beyond the scope of their control that they’d be institutionalized for suggesting such a thing exists. ‘Could’ allows them to pretend they aren’t trapped on a preordained path, walking side by side into inevitable grief. ‘Could’ is hope.

“It’s okay,” Jamie hears herself repeating. Distract. “I’ll do the washing up from now on, yeah? You’re shit at it, anyway.”

It earns her a weak chuckle from Dani, and it’s enough. Jamie holds her close, speaking soft comforts, though her stomach roils and knots. Dani trembles in her arms, and Jamie curls a soothing hand to the back of her head.

It’s going to be okay.

It isn’t.

It isn’t, and, deep down, Jamie knows it isn’t, but she holds onto the falsehood like it’s the only thing keeping her from drowning. She has to believe that there’s hope, that there is a chance for a future for them, because if she doesn’t, she doesn’t know what she’ll do. Her mind screams to prepare for the inevitable worst, but a part of her, that bright, sunshiney part, where she holds her fondest thoughts, tells her to pretend just a while longer.

She does. She does, because she loves Dani too much not to. They’ve been through far too much together for Jamie to withdraw now, when Dani needs her most.

She cannot control who lives and who dies. She said as much to Dani, years ago, in the forest behind the manor. Knowing that everything must come to an end dictates life’s joys. Temporality is the driving force of sanctity. The moments we hold most dear are the ones that have come to an end. They are forever preserved in amber memory, pressed between book pages, and flowing through veins. You are left warm, free to continue and free to leave more life behind in the hollows of lingering remorse.  

‘Live in the moment,’ say thousands of song lyrics. If only it were that simple. If only Jamie could simply ignore the consequences and allow herself to just exist with Dani in the life they’ve created. She can’t, though, and it is agonizing.

Instead, she dons the facade of a woman who believes that there is still good in the world, chances for miracles, despite countless experiences to the contrary. In private, she grieves a life she hasn’t yet lost.

Dani sees her shoulders shake only once, the day Jamie returns to a flooded flat and eerie silence and Dani with her face mere centimetres above the water in their overfilled bathtub. The tips of her hair are submerged, and her breath sends ripples across the surface. It’s unclear how long she’s been hunched over the side of the tub, but judging by the pool around her, quite a while. Jamie turns off the tap and draws Dani back onto her heels. Dani lets out a panicked gasp, and her eyes dart around the room before they finally flick to Jamie and back to the water.

“Do you see her?” Dani rasps, returning to her position bent over the rim.

Jamie peers into the tub, too, unsure of what she might find. She does not know whether to be elated or dismayed when only Dani’s heterochromatic reflection stares back at her.

“I only see you,” Jamie says, and it seems to pull Dani from wherever she’s been. The sleeves of her bathrobe are soaked, and she notices the puddle around her knees. She stammers an apology, but Jamie could not care less. Dani sags against Jamie’s firm grip on her upper arm.

Her voice comes subdued, as if each syllable takes monumental effort. “I’m so tired, Jamie.”

Jamie understands. She feels it, too, the toll this has taken on the both of them. The constant glances over her shoulder, always on alert for any sign of danger, living their lives like prey. She cannot hope to equate her exhaustion with Dani’s, but she understands all the same.

Dani continues, using such frightful terms as “fade away,” and it’s all Jamie can do to swallow the lump in her throat and the tightness in her chest. Dani sounds so timid, so lost, and she’s looking to Jamie for answers she hasn’t the faintest notion how to find and the soil is eroding and the current is quickening and it all becomes too much.

“You’re still here,” she says, like that will make everything alright. The wet tile seeps into her trousers, cold and clammy.

“It’s like I see you right in front of me,” Dani says softly, “and I feel you touching me. And, every day, we’re living our lives, and I’m aware of that, and it’s like I don’t feel it all the way.” She readjusts to study the water again. “I’m not even scared of her anymore. I just stare at her, and,” Dani takes a shuddering breath, “it’s getting harder and harder to see me.”

Jamie’s already strained resolve is rent in two. All of the air is sucked out of her lungs at once, and her heart constricts. She cannot help the well of tears that rises behind her eyes and threatens to spill over. She needs to be resilient, needs to set her emotions aside. For Dani.

But Dani is nodding. She’s nodding and crying and saying things like, “Maybe I should just accept that and go.” It’s excruciatingly similar to the conversation they’d had at the dinner table, all those many months ago.

And Jamie breaks. “No. No, no, no.” Her thumb rubs circles into Dani’s wrist. “Not yet.”

You can’t leave me. I’m not ready.

“Jamie…” Dani says in that same, horrid, broken tone, and suddenly, Jamie knows. Their hourglass contains mere grains. They are nearing the end, and it hurts, and the pain is so much worse than she could have ever anticipated.

Dani has all but given up, and Jamie is fucking furious.

Not with Dani. Never with Dani.

Rather, Jamie has a bone to pick with the universe and its sense of righteousness. There’s no such thing as fairness in the world, as has been proven to her time and time again. But this? This is shit, and it’s not fucking fair. Just this once, she’d like to strike a bargain. Allow her to be selfish, just this once. Allow her to remain at Dani’s side until they grow old and grey and their eyes fail and their joints creak. Allow her this one thing, and she will never ask for anything again.

The universe, in all its cruelty, remains silent, and Jamie resents it even more. She resents the set of circumstances that led them to this point, Dani tearful on the bathroom floor. She resents the world that made the woman she loves hurt in unfathomable ways. She resents that the most marvelous woman Jamie has ever met has been reduced to a shell of herself, harboring an invisible intruder.

She resents that all she has to offer is herself, when Dani deserves so much more. It’s all Jamie has, though, and maybe, this time, it will be enough.

“If you can’t feel anything,” she says, voice wavering, “then I’ll feel everything for the both of us.” Dani opens her mouth with quivering lips to speak and is cut off. “But no one is going anywhere. Okay? You’re still here.” A tear escapes, tracing a trail down her cheek.

“What if,” Dani whispers, more afraid than Jamie has ever seen her, “I’m here, sitting next to you. But I’m just really her?”

Jamie chokes down a sob. She exhales. “One day at a time.”

They clean up the water and blow out the candles and eat a quiet meal of pasta and sauce from a jar, holding hands all the while, as if any loss of contact would be to admit defeat. Dani is here, and Jamie is here, and they are together, and when they lay in the dark that night, they do not sleep.

Jamie hovers over Dani, pressing gentle kisses to every bit of skin she can reach. Dani’s eyelids, her knuckles, her wrists. The hollow on the underside of her knee, her clavicle, the sensitive patch just below her ear. Anything to reassure Dani that she can still feel, she is loved, and she is safe. The act is not erotic, nor is it meant to be.

She pours every ounce of passion into every caress, touching Dani as if it was the first time. She endeavors to convey her message, clear as crystal, that Dani is the single most important thing in her life. Their love is all that matters. For this one night, let them forget about ghosts and manors and lost friends and be wholly present in this moment of solemn intimacy.

Jamie commits every kiss to memory, savoring Dani’s smooth skin beneath her lips. The way she sighs and whimpers when Jamie finds a particularly tender spot, the way she relaxes into Jamie’s embrace when they finally settle, a leg thrown haphazardly between Jamie’s thighs, her face pressed just above Jamie’s breast, sending small puffs of air against Jamie’s sleepshirt.

Dani sleeps, and Jamie’s mind wanders to all the words she wishes she could say. She sighs them into the night air, a hand cupping the nape of Dani’s neck.

I love you, she thinks, and I’m going to lose you, and I don’t know what I’m going to do. She inhales the faintly floral scent of Dani’s shampoo. It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair that you’re going to go, and I have to go on without you. Think of me, Dani. Think of me and stay because I can’t explain to your mother what’s happened to you. Stay, because I’m not ready for our life to end.

She’s crying, now, and her tears dampen the top of Dani’s head as she tries to remain still.

You’re in pain. I see it, love, and I never, never want you to hurt. You’ve been so damn brave. You’ve fought so hard. For yourself. For us. I will be forever grateful for the time you’ve given me. You are everything I never thought I could have, my love.

Dani stirs against her with a hushed, confused noise. “Jamie? Wha-?”

“Go back to sleep, baby,” Jamie murmurs, her eyes shut tight. Dani nuzzles into her chest, and only when her breathing evens out once more does Jamie release the tension from her limbs.

Rest, sweetheart, you’ve earned it.

Three days go by, and Jamie spends them at Dani’s side. They walk the streets of their little Vermont town, and they greet the old woman with her three toy poodles. They watch the line of children toddle by on their way to the park, shepherded by exasperated adults, and share a smile. They wrap themselves in blankets and bundle on the sofa, Jamie with a book and Dani with a crochet project that Jamie’s been teasing her about finishing. The tea is hot, and the company is good, and Jamie is happy. The rain comes down against their windows, but they are shielded from the deluge, though the soil outside turns to slick mud.

The sun rises on the fourth day, and Jamie blinks awake. The pillow is soft under her head, and she is loath to move. She reaches a tentative hand to Dani’s side of the bed to pull her closer, but she finds the sheets are cold. Jamie’s stomach leaps to her throat. She sits up, peering around their room, listening for any sign that Dani has simply risen early. The clock on the bedside table reads six-thirty-eight in the morning. Beside it, a single sheet of paper folded in half.

Perhaps Dani has run to the coffeehouse to bring back breakfast. Perhaps she has gone for a walk. Perhaps she has done anything except Jamie’s worst fear come to fruition, but what Jamie knows in her soul to be true. She takes a steadying breath as she examines the thing in her hands. With shaking fingers, she unfolds the note.

The script is slanted, a mixture of cursive and print, as if written in a hurry. The ink has smeared in places, where the page appears to have been wet. Dani’s normally neat lettering is scattered.

Jamie,

I can’t risk you.

Not for one more day.

I love you.

Dani

Her heart stops.

The silence is deafening. Her whole world narrows to the thin yellow paper in her hand. Her last piece of the woman she loves.

She knows what has happened. She knows where Dani would go, where Dani has gone, deep in her core. But she has to be certain.

It is her first plane ride without Dani. She spends the six-hour flight clutching the armrest, knuckles white, as she looks straight ahead. The flight attendant has the decency to only appear mildly perplexed by Jamie’s lack of luggage. When she lands, Jamie can only nod at the cabbie’s futile attempts at conversation.

She gazes up at the daunting manor house, its brick overgrown with English ivy. The grounds lay vacant. The path to the lake is unkept, yet she treads it anyway, past the church, past the cemetery, slowing as the water comes into sight.

How badly she wants to be wrong. How badly she wants to return home and find Dani worried out of her beautiful mind.

The water is unseasonably warm, but that does not stop the chill that permeates Jamie’s bones. She swims out as far as she can bear before holding her breath and plunging below the surface. It’s nigh torturous to keep her eyes open, but she needs to see. She needs to be sure.

Everything is blurry through the liquid lens, fuzzy around the edges. Something stands out from the landscape of green and blue. A spot of porcelain and red against a backdrop of emerald.

No.

Jamie shakes her head.

No, please, no.

But it is.

And she screams. She screams out thirteen years of rage and sadness and grief and frustration and love. The sound is muted, but she does not care. Dani is gone, and she is alone and it burns and stings like nothing Jamie has ever felt.

Everything Jamie could give, she gave. It wasn’t enough. Nothing will ever be enough. Nothing will bring Dani back.

She rises to the surface with a cry, paddling to the muddy shoreline and crawling up the bank to collapse in the shallows. Her ring rests heavy on her left hand. A reminder of promises made. Eternity.

Together. They were supposed to stay together.

It’s us. Always has been, always will be. That’s what we said, Poppins.

She gasps, taking in great lungfuls of air that Dani will never breathe again. Her hair hangs limply, plastered to the sides of her face. She shivers, but she cannot move.

She sits in the shallows of the lake at Bly Manor, and she weeps.

Dani is dead.

And Jamie is alone.

[goldeneyedgirl]

Jaliceweek20 Day 1

Against a Wall Part 2

Jaliceweek20 Day 1: Human/Vampire

Words: 6264

Notes: It is DONE. JALICEWEEK IS DONE. I am tired, so I’ll do a wrap up tomorrow. I’m honestly not sure how happy I am with this ending - I’ll write more notes tomorrow once sleep had been acquired but there still might be a third enormous rewrite.

I’m just so excited I finished EVERY SINGLE PROMPT.

Warnings for: suicidal ideation.

—

Nineteen.

There was a shoebox under his bed with a bunch of stuff in it, that he’s collected over his life. Stuff that was special - Sorates’ collar, a rock shaped like a dog, the rubber spider his grandfather bought him from the dime store. And the last thing he put in it was an unopened back of Skittles.

He wonders where that box is now.

—

Things are hard to remember. The doctors say his memory should return, with time, and everything will stop feeling like someone scooped them all out of his brain and threw them up in the air like confetti.

He remembers… Ava. No, not Ava. Yes, Ava, his sister.

She did something.

Ava lit the fuse that had been dangling over the family for six years. Wasn’t Ava’s fault. Never blamed her. He hurt for her.

Louise found the bit of paper and freaked out, yes. It was Ava’s paper. Evidence. And Louise was shrieking. And Jerry heard.

Everybody heard. He remembers making Flo and Hettie stay in the kitchen, hide under the table if you need to (the screen door is banging, Lydia is gone like a puff of air at the first sign of trouble; wish she’d taken Flo and Hettie this time). Hettie had already been sniffling, and he’d left the kitchen.

Bang.

He’d gotten between Ava and their father.

He would have killed them both; that look in his eye. There wasn’t love or affection in that gaze. There wasn’t recognition of his children. There was just rage. That’s a look he wished he could forget; of all the things lost in the confetti, he wants to know why that moment that Jerry looked at him and Ava (Ava was bleeding, can’t remember why) is still there?

Then it’s a blur. Then there’s nothing.

Then he joins the military. He walks away entirely, with only what he can carry and doesn’t leave any parting words because there’s nothing to be said.

No. Something happens before that.

Ava packed her car, yes, packed in Hettie and Flo, suitcases and boxes, and at the last minute Lydia materialises into the passenger seat, whilst their mother tries to … beg? Yell? Ava’s face is black and blue and bandaged, and there was someone he knew who could fix that, with Mary Poppins’ bag…

Then Ava drives off, and their mom is crying, and he walks straight to the nearest recruitment office even though he doesn’t graduate for another three months because once the bomb has gone off, there’s no taking it back.

—

What was the bomb again?

Bomb. Which bomb?

Ava’s, not the one that… not the other one.

Paperwork from Planned Parenthood. There was a baby, but Ava’s already raising her sisters, so she sucked it up, stole $500 from their father’s study, and took care of it. She’d thrown the money back in their father’s face, money she got from her own account, and their father had punched her so hard he broke her nose and her orbital bone, and then it gets blurry again.

His body stings and aches and itches. He recites all the swears he knows in his head, and a few he doesn’t, and he wishes everything would put itself right again.

Bang.

—

The other bomb. That’s why he’s here, in the VA hospital. The one that was strapped to a little boy who ran up to one of the guys in his unit, grinning and clutching a soccer ball to hide the shape obscuring his torso.

Bang.

Bombs don’t sound like ‘bang’ either. They are a vacuum of noise and pain and detritus and fire and he now knows the sound-taste-smell of roasted human fresh.  They are wiping out all but two members of a unit and a little boy who didn’t have a choice or an idea of what he was getting into.

The images are burnt onto his brain forever; when he closes his eyes, all he sees is a face roast black and splitting open to reveal the ruby red of the blood and muscle underneath, leaking clear and yellow fluid.

Empty, black eye sockets staring, just sticky blackened holes.

Bodies arched and twisted in pain, looking like blacked trees and burnt bark until you remember where you are and what you’re looking at and some of that burnt bark flesh is your own.

He wishes those memories would disappear.

Less than a year in the army, and already medically discharged. So much for an escape plan. Has to be a record, shortest army career in Whitlock family history. Shorter even than Uncle Wyatt’s, but Wyatt was smart enough to die outright, so it’s just a damn tragedy instead of a humiliation. He knows how the game is played.

Fuckin’ Whitlock curse comes for all of them eventually.

The skin graft hurts like hell, and the medication is still scrambling him, and even when the doctors have pulled out every last stitch, he still looks like some kind of monster pieced together from leftovers. There are still scars, dozens of scars. He asks when they’ll go, but the doctors just brush over his question - plastic surgery is the most solid of answers, but nobody wants to commit to an answer, so he guess he has it. This is how he looks now.

They fill his pockets with pills and send him on his way with their gratitude for his service, as if he has somewhere to be, someone to go to. He’s got nearly ten months of army pay just sitting there - minus a chunk that confuses him until he remembers he’s been sending money to Ava, a neat row of transactions he’s simply labelled ‘miss you’.

Should’ve sent her more.

He stays in Houston, doesn’t bother going home. There’s nothing there for him - his sisters are gone; Ava’s in Austin for college with the girls. Ava, who is somehow juggling three sisters, a college degree, probably a part-time job, and all her own pain.

Maybe he should go to Ava. But the idea of dragging himself all the way to Austin, to sleep on a couch or something, and have his sisters see this ruined version of him makes him want to hide.

The idea of his shaking hands, and the crisscross of scars, and limp being seen by sweet Hettie, dear Flo, sharp Lydia, and tired Ava; knowing they’ll hear his uneven pacing, his wild panic, his endless nightmares makes him stay away - he can’t even pick up the phone. He failed them so many times, and he can’t expect them to put him back together now. Ava’s got nothing left for herself, the others are too young; Lydia’d be graduating this year, she doesn’t need a fuckin’ ghoul of a brother hovering in the background after everything she went through. Better they remember him as he was, as the name on a receipt, that whatever he is now.

His mother is probably still there; working too many hours at the VA hospital and burning toast and being tired. She wrote to him once or twice after he left, and he hated how those letters made him feel. They were all messy apologies and excuses and blame and misery framed in the day-to-day monotony of her life. He felt her hollowness at being left, the mother of five with no children in her home. She should have been helping Lydia pick a prom dress, arranging her graduation party and college tours; driving up to visit Ava at college; sending him inedible cookies; dropping Flo off on her first date, and spoiling baby Hettie even though she’s almost in middle school. But she couldn’t. Because they’d all walked away.

He didn’t write back. He was too angry then, and now he’s … nothing. She feels like a ghost to him, like she died the first day Jerry hit him, and she slowly faded away every Tuesday after that.

And Ava’s the only name on his paperwork, for next of kin and power of attorney shit; and that’s only so she could have his money when he was gone.

His father’s still in Sheldon, he has no doubt of that. He hopes Jerry dies in that empty old house, abandoned by everyone he should have loved better, cared for better and surrounded only by the bottles that he let salt the earth and poison his family.

His uncles are still there, as reliable as the rising and setting of the sun, most likely ready and waiting to jeer at Jasper for his wasted attempt as a soldier, for his patchwork of skin and scars, for his limp and his confetti memory; to fail so fantastically after ten lousy months. No diploma, no future, no plan.

Not even old enough for a fuckin’ drink.

Still a better shot than Bo, though. Sometimes he wants to ask them, though, to look ‘em in the eye and demand to know what they expected from him - the sole Whitlock boy, the heir to a name that meant sweet fuck-all these days - when all they did was punch him when he was down? That letting a kid get beat up, then get insulted and demeaned and mocked and yelled at… that didn’t create a good man, that didn’t create a happy, successful person. They did everything they damn well could to see him gone, failed, erased and that was before he joined the goddamn army. There was no brotherhood in the Whitlock name. Even if he had gotten out unscathed, he would have run til no one knew him, and he wouldn’t have gone home again.

But he didn’t, and here he is having bitter arguments with old men who aren’t even there.

He sits in his motel room, takes his pills with water from the bathroom, and occasionally remembers to find food. He doesn’t sleep well on the hard, musty motel bed; the nightmares come in waves even when his brain is like mush from the medications. A car door slamming, a yell from the street, the smell of cooking meat - it all sends him skittering, panicking, pacing. He can’t stop moving, and his bad knee swells up and finally he gets his hand on some liquor and he ends up slung into the stained bathtub barely able to think. Definitely not able to stand.

He just wants it to stop.

The mostly-empty bottle hits the grimy tiles and smashes, but he thinks of a girl with amber eyes and a magic bag and a watch that she gave him - hurled at him. He remembers sleeping on a cold, bony shoulder in an alley, her voice sweet and warm.

She was so mad with him that last night. He did end up back behind Dewey’s again, on more than one Tuesday, but he didn’t see her again. And it wasn’t long after that when everything went to hell, so he never got to say goodbye. Say sorry for being a dick.

He can’t quite remember what they were arguing about that last night. Whiskey and valium have chased that memory away, and his head slumps over as he sleeps. Or looses consciousness. Either way, he doesn’t have to exist for awhile, and it suits him just fine.

—

Time passes. He finds a cheaper motel, because there’s a corner of his brain that is somehow still functional and practical, and he knows what money he has has to be stretched. Someone from the VA calls his cellphone and he ignores it. He takes his pills - less than usual, because they’re running out.

His knee hurts.

He breaks a lamp and the mirror after a nightmare, and ends up at urgent care getting his knuckles stitched up by some intern who asks him too many questions.  Tries to give him pamphlets, and he resists the urge to punch the doctor in the face.

The doctor does write him new prescriptions though. That’s helpful. And he gets something to eat at the cafeteria. It starts out as a bad night and ends up being one of those mornings he almost feels human, as long as he doesn’t look in the mirror.

That’s why he picks up the phone when the VA call again.

That’s how he finds himself sitting outside the VA hospital with a paper bag of the shit he left behind. His mother’s letters, his dog-tags, and an extremely broken watch.

“Happy freakin’ birthday.”

He looks at it closely now, more closely than he did when he was given it - even if it was thrown at his head, it was a gift in his mind. The brown leather strap is stained and nearly torn through, and the brass buckle bent. The face is cracked in an almost perfect spiral. The face is mottled cream, with neat gold Roman numerals; several have come loose and rattle along the bottom, along with the minute hand. It no works, and he hopes that the internal gears are still functional.

The watch will need to be repaired professionally, to be taken apart and pieced back together. A new glass face and band, the numerals and hands put back in the rightful place.

He doesn’t even remember wearing it, that last day. He knew he had it with him the entire time, through basic training and everything, but he didn’t remember wearing it. He’d had some chunky digital thing that told him the weather and GPS and shit that had been responsible for the mutilation of his left wrist.

Carefully it into his jacket, Jasper stands and begins the walk back to the motel.

Nineteen, still.

Sometimes, he thinks about going back to Dewey’s, just to see if she ever turns up again, on a Tuesday. For some reason, when he thinks of her - Miss Alice, in her funny clothes, and her lilting voice - he thinks of her exactly how he remembers her, that she is fixed in time and will never change. That he could return to that alley a week, a year, a decade from now, and she will still be there with her bag of tricks and big golden eyes.

He thinks about her a lot. He never knew where she came from, how old she was, why she spent Tuesday nights in an alley with him. He hopes she’s safe, comfortable, and happy.

He hopes she still thinks of him.

Time marches on, and he can see his twentieth birthday rushing up to greet him. He’s done nothing to change his circumstances - the cheapest hotel room, a fistful of pills on an empty stomach, patchwork sleep haunted by corpses. The PTSD special.

He finds a bar that respects his service more than his age, and they’re happy to let him drink himself numb in the corner as long as he doesn’t make trouble, and slips out the back if the cops come round. But even when they do, and get a good look at the scars, at his jacket, at the look in his eyes, they usually just nod and move along. No one asks questions, just counts out his crumpled money and then slides his drink along the bar.

Life doesn’t feel worth much on those nights.

Stumbling back to the motel, drunk and dull, he never notices the footsteps. He just goes to his room, his home, and passes out on a stained bedcover fulling clothed, waiting for the nightmares to kick in.

—

When the nightmares press in on him, and he’s lying on the bed staring at the discoloured popcorn ceiling, all he really wants is to go home again.

Not to Sheldon.

To the ranch.

Before Hettie, before Tuesdays, before everything. Where they buried Socrates under the tree with the treehouse, where he learned to ride, and would catch rabbits, and everything was easy. He still got told off by his father for being such a disappointment, but back then, they still had the family property, so his father wasn’t so angry.

He’s stone cold sober - aside from the Vicodin and Valium rattling around in his stomach - when he decides to go home again. He even stops in at a grimy diner and shovels in a plate of eggs and some coffee before he buys the bus ticket.

He knows the old place never sold; bank couldn’t shift it. Sold some of the land, but the old farmhouse just sits there, rotting. The Whitlock curse strikes again and again, into the heart of everything.

It’s a long trip; only way out there by bus is to go via San Antonio, and then down towards the old farm on another rural bus that only runs a few times a day. And he didn’t think much about how to get from the last bus stop to the old house proper, but some old guy in a truck takes a good hard look at him - his stained jacket, his limp, the scars twisting around his limbs and under his clothes, and offers to take him wherever he’s going.

He’s stiff and sore and hungry, but he doesn’t worry about any of that. The driver’s polite, amicable, doesn’t ask too many questions but gives him the number of the only cab in town for his return trip. He nods his thanks, and begins limping up the old driveway, towards home.

The house is… sad. Not like his memories, of blood red geraniums in the window boxes, and a pile of sneakers and boots in a jumble by the front door. There aren’t any bikes leaning up against the porch railings, either. Hell, the porch has a hole in it, the wooden rotten through. The yard is an overgrown tangle - probably concealing a few snakes.

The treehouse has long since collapsed, the wooden remains jutting out from the overgrown grass like a shipwreck. Socrates’ little grave is probably still there, under it all, with the brick he and Lydia painted his name on. He was a good cat.

He’s not going to go into the house, and now that he’s here, he’s not sure why he came at all. It’s just a house he once lived in, like Sheldon. But there is something peaceful about being back here, sitting on the - thankfully brick - front steps and staring out at the road. No cars come by, neighbours are too far away to matter. It’s just him.

He lets his thoughts float. More than once, he’s wished he’d been able to keep his service weapon, finish the job the bomb started. He thought about other ways - swallowing all his pills till there’s nothing left in the bottle; buying some razor blades and cutting along his seams; finding a motel with rafters he can loop a belt around. But he doesn’t. He hasn’t. He doesn’t know why - the thought is like a mischievous cat looming over his shoulder. The cat with a too-big smile, from Hettie’s books. Sinister yet convincing and trustworthy. But the thought lingers, and right now, he wishes he’d come prepared because … it’s quiet here. It’s quiet and he associates it with good things, and he’s really, really tired.

His VA shrink said that disassociation was a common symptom of PTSD. There were methods of dealing with it, techniques he could use, but he didn’t bother remembering them. Sometimes it was nice not to feel things, to be entirely seperate from himself for awhile.

When he comes back to himself, the afternoon has turned to night, and he’s an idiot sitting outside an abandoned farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, in a town with one cab. He swears under his breath, and the two braincells that are still desperately trying to keep him alive blaze into action, as he fumbles for his cellphone.

At least it isn’t dead.

He doesn’t even notice the sound as he dials, but as the phone rings he looks up in confusion, as a woman walks up the drive. She’s small enough for his heart to jump in misguided hope, waiting for that smile, those eyes, and that stupid bag that he placed so much faith in.

Her eyes are red, and her hair is long and brown. Her lips stretch too far like that stupid cat, and she takes the phone from him so gently and crushes it into a find powder. And he wishes he’d stayed drunk and high instead of staying sober and coming back to his childhood home like some kind of fucking book character.

She calls him ‘mi amor’ and apologises for what comes next.

He tries to back away, but stumbles on his bad knee, and when she hurls him back up effortlessly, she dislocates his shoulder and probably breaks his arm, and for a moment his vision swims and he yells, and that is only the very beginning of the pain.

—

In his few lucid moments over the next seventy-two hours, he wonders when he gets to stop suffering. When he finds the end of the tunnel of pain, from Tuesdays behind Dewey’s, to being half-burned alive, to be put back together and drugged senseless to function, to whatever this woman has done to him.

It feels kind of like the bomb did, except like it is taking him slowly. If he could open his eyes, he’d expected himself to be blackened and splitting, like the crust of a volcano.

If he could be sick, he would.

He thinks he screams himself hoarse. He might just think about doing it.

Red eyes watch him the entire time, with the ruby-coloured too-big smile, and if he still believed in god or fate or family curses or anything aside from the slow drip of pain in this veins, he would think she was the devil incarnate.

—

Time passes. He doesn’t know how much, since he woke up in the rotting remains of his family’s home with a burn in his throat, and Maria waiting for him. She’s quick to reassure him of his new status as a god, quick to find him something to quench the burn (the boy is young but strong and bulky; probably a high school football player. Healthy and full of blood and cries for his momma when Jasper half-rips his throat out. She is quick to caress his cheek and to kiss him long and deep and to fuck him in the wreckage of the house.  

Maria’s clan is small - only nine of them counting him. They are suspicious of him, of the way he stares and stays quiet. But Maria is quick to ease any of his own misgivings - newborns are entirely unpredictable, volatile. He is her new pet, her treasure, her mijo.

He loves what he is, truly. He leaves the pill bottles rattling in his pockets in the dirt of the farmhouse floor, and strides confidently after his new mistress. His leg is strong again, and all the scars have melted away into smooth, hard stone. He came to the farm looking for something, and he found it - himself, the way he was always supposed to be. If life had been kinder.

He’s found himself a soldier in another war, but war is a lot easier when you aren’t weighed down with equipment or fear or stupid fucking rules. When winning a battle means glutting yourself on blood, and losing means instant death, and there’s nothing in-between.

They are so fast now, hunting grounds stretch from Monterrey to Corpus Christie to San Antonio.

He refuses to go to Austin but sometimes its hard to remember why. He nearly kills Lucy when she tries to take the others to Austin, and Maria’s lips purse but she says nothing and they go to Laredo instead. They create a few more newborns, but he notices Maria’s attention to him never wavers; they are like pets, whilst he is her devoted prince.

(Later, he’ll find out it was only six god-damned months he lost. That he turned twenty and Lydia graduated somewhere in an Austin high school, and a bunch of people - mostly social workers and VA employees - were looking for him with the fear of the worst. He’d tell them that whatever ‘worse’ was, they weren’t even close.)

They figure out his gift during one furious early battle that leaves his arms and neck littered with bite marks, and they don’t go away. The venom works too fast, the bites are too deep, and he is once again a mess. A monster. His rage ripples around the camp, and everyone huddles in on themselves, and even Maria cowers a little, cooing and trying to settle him.

He makes them afraid, he makes them tremble, he tries to force them into fixing the unfixable.

Maria is so pleased with his gift, he is never punished for his tantrum. And more bite marks layer upon his skin; when he frets over them, with a sneer on his face, she laughs and promises he’ll have many, many more before they are done.

—

Nineteen, always.

Reconnaissance in the back of Houston is required, and Jasper and Maria take a small group with them. Maria is insistent there are others on their lands, and that is a crime of the highest order. They will destroy the newcomers, feed, and return to Monterrey. They each pick a point of Houston, and agree to meet in the centre.

He is ordered to the northeast, and he goes without resistance; he knows soldiering is following orders, and Maria lets his resistance to Austin go unremarked upon.

Most of his human memories are hazy, like they are so very much older than they really are. The streets he stalks are almost familiar, and he keeps his head low - more because of the blazing red of his eyes than any fear of being recognised.

There’s an aged but enticing aroma that he follows, that smells of nice, soft things; not fresh enough to guarantee a confrontation (or execution), but one that is a regular in this part of town.

It’s late enough there are few people in the street, in this working-class part of town. Even the dive bar has gone dark, and only the drunks and shift workers are left stumbling around. It’s not even hard to snag one of the less aware drunks around the wrist and vanish around into the alley with him.

His blood is nothing memorable, and it’s not hard to make the drunk look like he tripped and slashed his neck on a smashed bottle in the alley. He’s good at staging these scenes; at making things look like terrible, despicable accidents.

“Oh, Jasper.”

The words are soft and murmured, and he can’t decide whether they are sad or relieved or something in between. All he knows is that there is a sweet-smelling threat behind him, and he spins around with a snarl.

She’s only as tall as a child, with uneven black hair curling around her cheeks. She’s one of the prettiest girls he has ever seen, with huge amber-coloured eyes that remind him of porcelain dolls. She’s wearing a sky blue sweater a size too big over jeans with stars on the knees, and staring at him with hope and regret.

In the back of his brain, that little bit that is not quite human and not quite animals looks at her hard and breathes in her roses-and-rainwater scent and simply thinks, “Yes. Good.”

But the louder part recognises her as the trail he has been following, the one that Maria wants destroyed. A growl rumbles from within him, and the girl just looks sad.

“I’m so, so sorry Jasper,” she says, still standing there, not the least be defensive. “Carlisle and Edward forced me to stay away once you left, and then I tried to watch you but I lost track of where you were…” Her eyes are shiny, as if she wants to cry. “Do you remember who I am?”

The question hangs in the air between them, his growl fading away as he stares at her.

She steps closer, and he glares at her. The animal brain is getting louder - “Yes-good-yes-good-yes-good.” Her emotions are threatening, mostly sad, and she’s tiny. Nothing bad could be so dainty and pretty.

She’s right in front of him, standing on her toes as she presses her hand to his face. “I’m Alice,” she says simply, and his mind folds itself over and over again in an instant to provide him with an answer to this riddle, to this girl that is so clearly something good and known to him.

And he remembers.

“Are you okay?”

“It’s a stupid fucking decision you’re about to make.”

“At least I didn’t break it worse.”

“Happy freakin’ birthday.”

"They just looked nice. Happy.”

“I’ve come too far to watch you die in this disgusting place,”

“Alice,” he says hoarsely, and his memories of her are clear, sharp. He can remember that one strand of hair that always fell into her face; her ice cold hands roughly patching him up; the constant, lilting companionship of her voice, even when he slept. She is so clear in his mind he wonders how he forgot her in the first place.

Her smile and emotions bloom with joy all at once, and it warms him all the way through. It’s the kind of happiness that eluded him during his human life, and one he has not felt, waking up with this gift that feels like everyone’s emotions are constantly crawling on him. It’s something he wants to wrap himself in like armour.

“I’m so, so sorry,” her fingers brush a scar on his neck so gently, he wants to shudder.

“What for?” he asks, wanting to know if he can touch her. She’s so pretty and clean and is a good thing, a precious thing.

“I see things. Things that are going to happen,” Alice says, as she inspects his arm with a frown. “And when I saw what was going to happen to you in the army, I got mad that I couldn’t protect you anymore. And when you came home, I didn’t realise she was following you until it was too late and I couldn’t work out where you’d ended up. I would have come sooner if I’d known, I swear.” She turns his arm over to reveal a bite mark on his wrist and impulsively kisses it.

He flinches; the contact magnifies her emotions - and his - and it skitters pleasantly along his body.

“I don’t…” he begins, his voice still gravelly from lack of use. “I don’t blame you.”

“I do,” she replies softly, and then she backs away and that is disappointing enough that he takes a step closer to her. She giggles and smiles at him again, and he will follow her anywhere.

“You have to make a choice now,” she says, and he nods hypnotically.

“You can go back to Maria,” her voice wavers again, and he doesn’t like the coldness that sweeps through her at that statement. “And fight and kill until she’s bored with you. She creates war and destruction and monsters, Jasper, and I don’t want you to go with her. She will destroy you, and I couldn’t bear it if…” She stops, turning her head away and stays silent for a moment.

“Or,” her voice is steady again, “you can come with me.”

She holds out her hand.

“My brothers and sisters are distracting Maria and her friends for now, you and I can get away, and go somewhere safe,” she continues. “Just you and me together. I can…”

He never knows what she was going to say because his choice is made, his hand taking hers without a second thought, and she stares up at him with wide eyes, her mouth a perfect ‘o’.

“Are you sure?” she manages, and he nods. He thinks of pain, human and immortal. He thinks of rage and regret. He thinks of his lowest point as a human, of the permanent bite marks on his arms, and the weight that has only shifted now that he’s immortal, not lifted away.

He thinks of being happy and safe and clean and peaceful. He thinks of a girl sitting next to him in an alley, with her throat burning, but her only worry about his bruises.

The girl who can back for him.

Everything is still muddled, from his human life, but he knows that lot of people took him apart and remade him in both his lives. She’s the only one who tried to heal him.

“Let’s go,” he says, and she laughs sweetly, and then they are running faster than anyone can see as they disappear into the night.

—

‘Home’ is a cabin in the middle of the forest, somewhere towards the north east, he thinks. No people around, just wild animals for him to glut himself on. There is the constant running of the river beside them, covering their scent against nomads. It is quiet here - a good place to figure out the edges of his gift, to learn resistance and control, to try and heal and reconcile all that happened to him in such a short space of time.

Alice tells him Maria was indescribably desperate after his disappearance; their exit covered by a well-time rainstorm that washed all the scents away. She had torn apart Houston in her fury, and now she was in more trouble than she knew.

Meaning that Maria wouldn’t come hunting for him any time soon. And, he supposes, when she does, Alice will know. Alice knows everything.

She knows that he likes to sit on their front steps and just stare out at the forest without being disturbed. That the scent of smoke and fire sends him twitching worse than any vampire she’s ever met. That the scars that mark his arms, neck, and face are simply placeholders for the ones he gained as a human, and his disgust over them lingers from the injuries he suffered in war. That he misses his sisters, and they are one of the reasons he is so resolute in his control training. That, if nothing else, he will say good bye and fake his death to give them closure. Alice promises him that she knows someone who can help them figure all those kinds of details out, but she wants him to see his sisters one last time almost as badly.

He knows that Alice loves him, as truly as anyone has loved before. That feeling never wavers, not through his rages, his depressions, his disassociation. That just watching him read a book on their (broken) couch has joy blooming inside her. He knows that Alice will never pressure him, never ask him for more than he is ready to give - and because of that, he is willing to give her anything she asks.

Some days are harder than others, especially when Alice talks to him about her family - the one she walked away from for him - and he knows that she wants the both of them to return to the Cullens sometime in the future. And he feels obliged to do it, eventually, since her jumble of siblings were a part of his escape plan - the most dangerous part, if it involved aggravating Maria. But she never asks, just talks to him about them.

But mostly, he’s okay. Good, even. Animal blood is disappointing, and sometimes he’s so agitated he can’t sit still and wishes for … a battle, to run, to do something other than sit, and read, and hunt animals, and talk. Alice blames it on his newborn year, and he tries so hard to contain it, but it’s hard.

She tries to make it better, and on days that he can stand to be touched, she teaches him all the old-fashioned dances she knows, and he spins her around and sometimes it does make it better.

He’s got regrets, a laundry list of them, but Alice says that isn’t unusual; it takes very specific circumstances to be changed - especially young - and be satisfied with the final outcome. When he asks her regrets, she shrugs and admits that she doesn’t even remember being human. Leaving him unprotected is her biggest regret, and that makes her sad, which he doesn’t like the feeling of.

So he puts his arm around her, and she curls against him, and that makes the sadness evaporate, and she beams up at him with golden eyes he could drown in, and one thing he will admit is - that despite the pain and unhappiness that followed him from human to immortal - that he will never, even regret taking her hand.

[berlinaura]

Oh how the laziness has taken over. My school motivation has completely disappeared and the only thing keeping me going is the fact that the work I have to do are group works. I am allowing myself pass classes with minimum effort right now. 

On the week after my birthday party my Finnish friends were in Berlin. I was at school on one day of that week. We drank 4 days in a row (okay I had to take one chill day in between because I had the throw up kind of hangover). We went to some bars and Mauerpark flea market on Sunday. 

The next Monday I had an intervietw for an internship in Berlin. I was stressing over the interview for the whole night and got only 1 hour of sleep. I felt like a shaking zombie. Nevertheless, the interview went alright in my opinion. They made me speak some German and wanted to hear why I applied for the position. That’s basically all they asked me. They promised to let me know their decision by the end of the week but so far I have heard nothing from them (now it is Monday again and exactly 1 week has passed). That is alright because I also got a job offer from Finland and I am pretty sure I am gonna accept it no matter what. The tasks and salary are too tempting and unfortunately outweigh Berlin. I also got another interview for an internship in Berlin and even though I have basically made up my mind, I am gonna do the (phone) interview for practice. 

Last Thursday me and my friends were at Escape room. It was a birthday gift I recieved from them and it was so much fun! I have never been to an Escape room before so I had no idea what to expect. We took one called “Puppeteer” and the idea was to escape from a puppeteers workroom before he makes us into puppets. We had a creepy ass robot baby, quietly saying “take me with you, take me with you...” that we had to carry from a room to another. We did so well and only needed “1,5 hints” from the game master. And even got 2 spare minutes in the end! I definitely want to try this game again.

Afterwards we went out for a couple of drinks and to analyze our game. Suddenly we got the best idea ever: we are going on a road trip in February, after exams! It didn’t take long and suddenly we already had a route planned, From Barcelona to Montpellier, from there to Lyon and ending at Genf. I have been wanting go on a such adventure for ages and now I can’t wait until the exams are over!

On Friday me and a friend went spontaneously for drinks to an Indian restaurant called Amar. I found my new favorite drink “Touch down”. One thing I love about Berlin that the cocktails are often so cheap and good and you can get them from normal restaurants. It feels kinda luxurious but at the same time it only costs around 4 euros each. Also, they were super strong and only a few cocktails got us drunk and talk about deep stuff. I wish I had one right now...

On Saturday I tried my best to concentrate on school work. I didn’t proceed at all. I ended up playing Mahjong and taking a nap. In the evening I had a super fancy sweatpants, tv and frozen food -kind of date. The best way to relax after a hard week, am I right! 

On Sunday me and friends decided to check out an Asian restaurant called Umami. Their food was delicious. Always when I try food like this I try to analyze which ingredients they have used so I could redo the dish at home but I never end up doing it. 

The next week was nothing but school work from the morning to the evening. I have three presentations coming up, one paper to write and of course exams and normal homework. I feel like I am learning so much and these courses are actually beneficial for me but at the same time I feel like there is no point in stressing over grades and stress over studying. I think I have found a nice balance in working hard during week and then being super lazy during the weekend. 

After one Thursday we went to have a drink to a bar to plan our Spain/France roadtrip. After 30 minutes we had already booked flights to... SCOTLAND! No idea what that trip is about but I can not wait for the exams to be over now. We are going to visit both Edinburgh and Glasgow. Hopefully the weather is not going to be a classic February gray rain weather, though. 

On Friday 31.1. we were supposed to have a house party but decided to do a pub crawl instead. Somehow our group grew to 10 people and towards the end of the evening we were having a hard time to fit into the places we wanted to go to. The first one, multilayerladen was the stereotype of a hipsterish Berlin bar where people sat on swings, Mary Poppins film was projected to the wall and rusty shopping carts were used as a decoration. They made a delicious and affordable Gin & Tonic though so nothing to complain there. Then, naturally we ended up at Que Pasa to order their 3,5€ cocktails and read palms. Then towards the end of the evening our group started to crumble. At the last place we found fun pinball arcade machines, had conversations about language grammar and smoking and then finally left the extremely crowded yet cozy place (Clash).

I had the laziest fucking Saturday yesterday and I plan to spend my Sunday exactly the same way. I already slept for 13 hours and now I plan to play some sims, maybe bake something and maybe in the evening do something for school. If the stores were open, I would have wanted to go thrift shopping today, it seems like the perfect day for that but unfortunately I have to leave that for the week. 

Recently I have been feeling melancholic because I know my exchange year is ending soon. It is hard to enjoy fun moments when you know you are going to leave these people soon and go back to your normal life. I should accept that this semester is just a temporary part of my life and I won’t feel the same after a year. I know that after being in Finland for a couple of months, I am already used to it and don’t feel so dead inside anymore :D Also, I can always come back after graduating. Literally, who knows what I am going to do. At least now if I ever think about moving abroad, I know I’ll manage and fear isn’t holding me back.

[snarkybluechristian]

Hazbin Hotel: Yandere Alastor x Vaggie Chapter 6

Vaggie immediately tossed the shoes to the side and began running through the house as quickly as she could.  She bolted up the stairs and only allowed herself to catch her breath when she was back on the floor that she remembered her bedroom being on. As Vaggie leaned against the blood-red wall, her eyes settled on a mirror on the wall across from where she was standing.  In the mirror, Vaggie could see the bruises on her neck.  They didn’t camouflage into her purple skin at all.  The spots were dark red, fresh, and plain to see.   A shudder ran through Vaggie’s spine.  Alastor was no genius at romance, but he was right about hickeys.  They were a way to mark territory.   Vaggie covered them with her hands fearfully as she remembered her “patrons” back in El Salvador and what they did when they started getting possessive. Vaggie felt a fearful tear run down her cheek before she took a deep breath to give herself strength.  She would not be a rich man’s property.  Not again… “I don’t care how obsessed you are with me,” Vaggie said turning away from the mirror and wandering around her room searching for Angel as she briefly reflected on Alastor’s behavior. It was beyond creepy, especially that line, “Women are made to bear and so are you…” Vaggie shook her head and forced herself to focus on the task at hand.  What happened happened, but Angel still needed her help. Vaggie crept the hallway quietly listening for any sign of Angel. “Alright, if I were a freaky, sex-crazed Mary Poppins, where would I hide my victims?” Vaggie questioned out loud. Suddenly, Vaggie heard the sound of Angel’s screams coming from just ahead of her. “AHHHHHHHH!” Angel screamed out in agony before he laughed painfully.  “Oh, baby!  More!  More!” His voice caused Vaggie to shudder fearfully in her tracks as she finally found the room, twisted the knob open, and peeked inside. Vaggie held her hands over her mouth to cover her horrified gasp.   Angel was chained on a rack with his back exposed, his arms chained up, and his legs held in restraints.  The poor spider demon had scars on his back from the leather whip Rosie was holding in her hands. In a flash, Rosie lashed her whip against Angel’s bare back again causing the spider demon to scream out in agony. Rosie turned the wheeled contraption Angel was strapped to around, wrapped her leather-covered leg around his waist, pushed her chest against his, and asked, “Are you sure about that, sweetie?” “I can take anything you can dish out, lady,” Angel said before his eyes locked with Vaggie’s.   Angel’s eyes flashed in panic as Rosie’s wrinkled lips locked with his. Then Angel said, “Lady, please, this is torture…” “Oh?” Rosie asked licking Angel’s cheeks.   “Yeah,” Angel answered with a smirk.  “You pressing your sweaty, saggy tits against my bruised chest really stings!” Rosie then kicked Angel in the chest, spun him around, and began whipping him more viciously than before. It suddenly occurred to Vaggie that Angel said this on purpose so that Rosie would be distracted.  She quickly glanced around the room for anything she could use as a distraction.   Vaggie’s eyes settled on a vase on a table down the hall holding more of those blood red flowers.   The vase gave her an idea.  It was a bad one, but bad ideas were better than no ideas at all at this point.  So, Vaggie pulled out a spare knife she had hidden on her person and tossed it at the vase causing it to shatter on contact.   Vaggie then backed herself against the wall and held her breath as she heard Rosie stop her whipping and run into the hall.   When she dared to look at her, she had to keep herself from gagging.  Rosie was dressed in a leather dominatrix outfit with absurdly high stripper heels.   “Oh, Vaggie…” Rosie called out upon noticing the broken vase.  “You silly, silly little girl.  You should know better than to interrupt my playtime…” In a flash, Rosie dashed right down the hall and disappeared out of sight.   When she vanished, Vaggie breathed a sigh of relief and ran back into the room to see Angel panting in exhaustion. Vaggie quickly shut the door and said, “Angel…?” “Is she gone?” Angel quickly interrupted.   “Yes, I think so,” Vaggie said quietly. “Oh, thank God,” Angel said breathing a sigh of relief.  “I’m so glad you’re here.” “Shhh…” Vaggie said running over to the other side of the rack to look Angel in the eye.  “I’ll get you down, but you have to be quiet.  You got it?  How do I get you down from there?” “The keys are on that table,” Angel said gesturing with his head to a bedside table with a lamp and a book on it. Vaggie quickly grabbed the keys and began releasing all of Angel’s limbs from the rack.  When she was done, Angel fell forward on the ground tiredly. “Angel, are you alright?” Vaggie asked fearfully worried that Angel was injured.  “Can you walk?” “Yeah, babe,” Angel said with a smile as he reabsorbed his extra pair of arms and got to his feet while putting on his coat that was lying on the floor.  “How about you?  I see those hickeys.  Alastor must be a rougher lover than I imagined.  I’m jealous.” “It was completely non-consensual.  I assure you,” Vaggie said angrily as she began pushing the contraption towards the door to block it.  “Now, we need to get out of here before…” “There you are!” the merry British demon’s voice called out as she stopped the contraption where it stood.  “What are you doing here, Vaggie?  Did you want to play, too?  Angel and I could always use another partner…” Vaggie pushed back against Rosie’s grip before she felt Angel grabbing her arm and pulling her back behind him just as Rosie rolled the contraption across the room to get a better look at her captives. Angel stepped in front of Vaggie as he summoned his Tommy gun and his bat.   Vaggie looked around for a weapon and only found the book and the lamp, so she grabbed the lamp off the table with one hand and grabbed the book to use as a shield. “Oh, dear,” Rosie said with an amused smile.  “Do you two intend to fight back?  How adorable.  I love it when I can get down and dirty!” “Bring it on, you dominatrix bitch!” Vaggie spat back.   Angel stuck his tongue out and said lewdly, “I’m gonna screw you as you screwed me, ya crazy bitch.  I hope you’re ready.” “I think I just threw up in my mouth a little,” Vaggie said out loud.   “Make your way to the window,” Angel muttered to Vaggie gesturing his head back towards the window.  “And prepare to jump…” “Got it,” Vaggie replied with a nod. “Oh, I am so defenseless,” Rosie retorted sarcastically putting one hand on her hip and twiddling her fingers against her face with the other hand.  “What’s a little old lady to do?” Then with a snap of her fingers, Rosie summoned her umbrella and six penguin familiars and said, “Ladies, how about you show these brutes some manners?” “Bring it, bitch!” Angel yelled back as Vaggie threw open the window.  “Vaggie, grab on!” Vaggie dropped her lamp and grabbed onto Angel’s side as he dissolved his bat and picked her up with his extra arms, but unfortunately before Angel and Vaggie could jump out the window, the window slammed in their face. “Enough!” Alastor’s voice suddenly rang out.   The three demons and penguin villains turned to look at Alastor who suddenly appeared on the other side of the room.   “I believe we can settle this dispute in a more civilized manner,” Alastor said stepping between the two warring parties.  “That is if you two are willing to cooperate…” Angel reflexively held Vaggie tighter against his side and took another step backward as Alastor continued, “How about this?  Vaggie, if you stay with me, I will let this hairy mess go.  Then as long as you are obedient and loving, I will let you visit the Hotel once a month.  What do you say, dear?” Vaggie knew she didn’t have a choice.  Angel couldn’t stay there.  He had already suffered enough.  If Vaggie said no, Angel would spend the rest of eternity as Rosie’s sex slave.  Not even he deserved that. “I’ll…” Vaggie began before she felt a hand cover her mouth. “Hold it right there, bucko,” Angel interrupted as he pointed his gun straight at Alastor.  “You have to fuckin’ insane to think that I’m goin’ to just leave and let you pound Vaggie like a goddamn piece of meat.  I ain’t leavin’ without her.  And if that means I have to claw my way outta here with her, so be it.” Alastor’s eyes twitched for a brief second before he flashed a cruel smile, snapped his fingers causing Angel’s gun to disappear and Vaggie’s lamp to disappear, and said, “Suit yourself then.” Before either Angel or Vaggie had time to react, Alastor tapped his staff on the ground and instantly teleported everyone present into a dark, cool dungeon room.   The cell was built completely out of gray stone.  It was oddly spacious and horizontally long, able to hold the four demons comfortably, and that was about the best thing about it.   There were a toilet and a sink with a mirror on the back wall on one end of the cell to their right, a single bed with a bare mattress and pillow on the other end of the cell to the left, and chains hanging on the bare wall between them.   The only light sources were a lightbulb with a pull-string hanging from the ceiling and a small, horizontal window about the size of a two-by-four board above the bed where the light met the ceiling.   Iron prison bars made up the fourth wall.  Their cold, menacing, vertical poles were spaced evenly and only interrupted by an iron bar door on the very right which at the moment was hanging open with a black key hanging in the lock of the door much like it would be in jail cells from the 1930s. Vaggie and Angel looked around fearfully at their new surroundings.  The cell was oddly clean, but there were still faint blood stains on the walls where the chains were.  That was enough to make Vaggie let out an involuntary gasp. “You know, Alastor…” Rosie began interrupting the thoughts of the two frightened prisoners practically backed up against the wall as she dismissed her minions and leaned back against the prison bars.  “Vaggie hasn’t had a chance to answer the question herself.” “Hmmmmm…you’re right, Rosie,” Alastor replied with a smile glancing back at her before returning his gaze back to Vaggie.  “So, what is your answer, Vaggie?  If you stay here with me willfully, I will let Angel go, but if you refuse, he will stay and you two will both be at our disposal.  So, tell me.  What will it be?” Vaggie squirmed until Angel finally dropped her on the floor and then slowly walked up to Alastor looking him in the eye as much as her smaller frame would allow. “Vaggie…” Angel tried to complain. Vaggie held her hand up to tell Angel to be quiet and said boldly, “Alastor, I promise to spend every day for the rest of my eternal life fighting for my freedom.  I will never give in to you!” Alastor’s eyes narrowed as he said, “Well, then.  As punishment for your defiant behavior and your trespassing, you two can spend the night in this cell…” Alastor, Rosie, and Rosie’s minions instantly teleported outside the cell.   Alastor quickly locked the door, took the key, and continued, “Rosie and I will come for you in the morning, Vaggie.  Have a good night, you two!” The Radio Demon quickly right down the hallway out of sight.  Rosie stood there for a second quietly flashing a cruel smile as her familiars disappeared before finally following behind her friend. Vaggie stood in place tensely as Angel laid himself out over the bed and stretched out his limbs. “Well, looks like you and I are spending the night here, Vaggie,” Angel said nonchalantly folding his arms behind his head on top of the pillow.   Vaggie didn’t respond but continued staring at the hallway in front of their cell. A look of concern flashed through Angel’s eyes before he said, “Hey, doll?  Vaggie?  Are ya there?” Vaggie finally looked over to Angel. The spider demon tapped the old mattress and said, “What do you wanna do, doll, the day is still young?” Vaggie tiredly sat on the bed next to him holding the book on top of her lap and sighed.  She glanced over to Angel and cringed when she noticed him staring at her with a smirk. “Why are you staring at me like that?” Vaggie demanded. “You still owe me,” Angel said playfully. Vaggie looked at Angel in confusion until she finally had her revelation. “Oh, my God,” Vaggie said in growing annoyance. “What?” Angel asked playfully. “You only stayed here because I owed you?!” Vaggie yelled. Angel sighed with a playful smirk that got on Vaggie’s nerves and said, “It beats the therapy sessions back home.  Besides, this was too good an opportunity to pass up, babe.” Vaggie took a deep breath to calm down and conceded, “Okay, fine.  What the hell do you want?” “Just give me a moment to…” Angel said nonchalantly allowing himself to wonder before he got his idea.  “Wait.  I know just the thing!” Angel sat up, threw off his coat to reveal his bare chest, posed dramatically, and said, “I want you to snuggle between my fluffy tits!” “WHAT?!” Vaggie asked incredulously.  “You can’t be serious!” “I’m completely serious,��� Angel said playfully running his gloved hands through his chest fluff.  “My skin under my fur gets cold.  I need warmth.  Think of it as my way of saying thanks.  I don’t let anyone do it for free.  My customers say it’s like heaven in here.” “Forget it,” Vaggie said in annoyance putting the book at the head of the bed next to Angel’s pillow and laying down so that she was not facing him.  “I’ll just use the book.  I’m not resting my head on your STD-contaminated fur.” “Hey!” Angel retorted.  “I’ll have you know that I wash it every day.  But if that’s how you feel, babe, suit yourself.” Vaggie laid down for a few minutes but very quickly got uncomfortable.  She turned over and stared at Angel’s chest longingly.  His fluff looked so soft and silky… “Like what ya see, hon?” Angel teased. “Fine,” Vaggie snarled as she reluctantly sat up and climbed on top of Angel’s chest.  “But this never happened.  Understand?” “Whatever you say, hon,” Angel retorted playfully as Vaggie slowly lowered her head onto Angel’s fluffy chest.   Vaggie lowered herself gingerly as if she were getting used to hot water in a bathtub. Angel rolled his eyes and used his lower pair of arms to push Vaggie’s head on top of his chest.   “Angel?!” Vaggie yelled in protest before her head sank into the chest fluff.  “Oh, my God.  This is so soft…It feels like cashmere…” Angel chuckled as his lower arms pulled his coat over Vaggie and himself to keep them warm. “That’s it, doll,” Angel said soothingly as his arms rested on Vaggie’s back.  “Just relax.  We both need this.” Vaggie tensed up again as she began to realize the gravity of the situation that they were in.   Vaggie began shuddering fearfully and taking shallow breaths, but before it could get any worse, Angel started rubbing her back.  He didn’t say or do anything else.  He just rubbed her back until her breathing finally returned to normal. Angel then took a deep breath and picked up the book next to his head.   “What’s this?” Angel said before he read the title.  “The Taming of the Shrew?  Oh, my God!  I haven’t seen this one in decades!” Vaggie lifted her head up and scowled. “That book again?” Vaggie asked incredulously.  “Dammit.  Alastor tossed me that fucking book yesterday to entertain myself while he ran off to talk to Rosie.  The nerve of that guy.  What’s that book about anyway?” “It ain’t a book, doll,” Angel replied excitedly turning open to the first page.  “It’s a Shakespeare play.  We read it in school.  Oh, God, this one was one of my favorites!  It’s been forever.  Want me to read it to ya?” “We still have daylight and we’re gonna be stuck in here until tomorrow morning, so why not?” Vaggie conceded. “Alright,” Angel said excitedly.  “I’ll try to explain all the stuff that’s kinda confusin’, but just let me know if you’re having trouble followin’ along.” Vaggie smiled and relaxed into Angel’s fluff as he began reading the story. 

[klobsquad]

If its clean, its Gronk

Warnings: Gronk spikes and tide pods

Word count:1694

Summary: a fantasy/horror/drama based completely on our experiences with Gronk’s cursed tide pod commercial

Notes We apologize in advance for what you’re about to read

i awake suddenly, sheer panic running through me. ripping the blanket off my body, the layer of sweat that lays on my skin is immediately hit with the frigid air of my room causing me to shiver. After a few moments, i start to realize where i am.

I'm in my living room on the couch. This is the first wink of sleep i've had in nearly 2 weeks. i think at least. time has started the run together after it, well, he, showed up. why haven't i slept? i've been too scared to let my guard down.

My phone lay broken, having thrown it against the wall several moons ago. Broken glass and piles of clothes are strewn throughout my apartment. Every electronic in my house has been either broken or hidden, yet somehow he’ll still manage to find me. i haven't left my apartment in weeks even though i ran out of food 4 days ago. I can't go to the store. I'm too afraid he'll be waiting at the end of the isle. I've been wearing the same outfit since it started, too scared to do even the most basic of household chores. doing laundry was banned a months back as an attempt to stop him.

The couch i lay on is pushed up hard against the wall, i'm laying on my side facing the back of the couch. the only electronic that hasn't been thrown out is my living room TV. I swear i've tried discarding it countless times, yet it keeps showing back up. The entire apartment, scratch that, city, is dead silent.

rumor has it, it started in new england, moving fast throughout the country. What started as random disappearances eventually became nationwide panic.

it wasn't long until he reached my home state of Texas. Most of the town had evacuated when the marks started showing up. Crater-like holes in the ground. 11 inches deep and 22 inches wide. The ground cracked and glowing around the marks, showing that he was getting somehow stronger.

Although I boarded up my windows when I caught wind that he was moving towards Texas, I still took a board down every so often. From my third floor apartment, I could see the marks starting to fill the town. He marked his territory right after he struck. Entire families disappeared at a time. Only once was a survivor found. She was found in the same clothing she was wearing when she went missing though they were suspiciously clean, almost as if they'd been washed then returned. She spoke in a hurried whisper, as if he was still watching her. Rumors soon filled the streets quicker than his markings. Apparently after her interrogation she was left alone in a cell at the local jail. When the officer came to retrieve her for more questioning, she had scribbled the number "87" and "bands a make her dance" on every square inch of the cell. Investigator after investigator was brought in, yet none of them could decipher what it meant. After three days of questioning, the only valuable thing they got out of her was a description of him. He was large, solid, his muscles constantly glistening. He towered over everyone, though he wasn't intimidating, the exact opposite actually. He had a boyish charm, soft brown eyes and youthful smile. Apparently he loves to dance, frequently droppin' it low and booty poppin' on them haters. Most notably was his hands. In her words they were "damn near leviathan. I never knew someone could have hands like that. It ain't normal. I'd be lying if it wasn't hot though.". The police were immediately on even higher alert. With such a specific description, it couldn't be hard to find him right? Wrong. She forgot to mention one detail. His speed. For a man of his size, he's unusually nimble.

I snap back to reality at the sound of the metal entrance door 3 floors below me opening and closing. My heart pounding. "Maybe it's just the neighbor" I tried to tell myself, though deep down I knew it wasn't. Even if they hadn't evacuated with everyone else, there's no way Mr. dolly, an 96 year old war vet could open and slam that door with such little effort. my gut and my head were at war. My gut was telling me it was him, the man I spent months hiding from. Yet my head was trying to come up with any other possibility. They were coming up the stairs, fast. I was paralyzed. Still laying on the couch, i covered my head with the fleece red sox blanket I got last Christmas, before this all started.

*BANG* *BANG*

They were knocking. I could barely hear the pounding on the door over my racing heart. Seconds feel like hours, waiting for the sound to stop, for whoever it is to go away.

After what feels like an eternity, the pounding stops. I exhale for the first time in minutes. Moments later a loud scraping sound fills the room.

He's here and he's removed the door.

There was nothing besides me and my red sox blanket separating us both. His presence sent chills down my spine. I could feel him standing in the corner of the room.

He was waiting for something.

*click*

The dim light of the TV immediately filled the dark room. I open my eyes suddenly as patterns of colored light dance off the walls. He's still waiting, but he keeps going back to the hall he came from. Almost as if he's loading something into my apartment. Suddenly the room goes yellow and orange. He gets into position. I turn around slowly, not knowing what to will be waiting on me when I turn around.

There he is, in all his glory. The survivor described him perfectly. He was dressed in a fitted grey tank top, joggers, and sneakers. He was oddly handsome given the circumstances. Unmarked boxes were stacked floor to ceiling, covering ever surface. One box, the one closest to him is open. He grabs a handful of whatever is in the box.

I'm frozen. Horrified.

3.

The tv shows a laundry room.

2.

He looks at  me intently, his boyish smile shining full force in the low light.

It's time.

1.

"Hi! Welcome to tide pods talk with Gronk. I'm Gronk. I'm big, *flex* and awesome. But this guy-" he chucks a fist full of tide pods at my body. I'm utterly speechless. "-Is little, can it really clean?". He rips the doors off my linen closet, scooping every single piece of laundry up in one scoop, even the clothes I'm wearing. Opening the washer, he throws the clothing in with a loud boom before dropping a couple Tide Pods™️ into the load. Im left sitting on the couch, ass naked, as the New England Patriots Tight End does my laundry.

He resumes his spot at the corner of my living room. Staring blankly at me as we both wait for the washer to finish its cycle.

45 minutes of silence later, the washer pings signaling the end of the wash. He once again grabs the entire load of laundry in one incredibly toned arm, spiking it into the dryer like it's a ball into the end zone. He spots my stained patriots jersey in the load. Pulling it out, he slips me a note then once again goes back to the spot in the corner. I'm still naked.

Clearing his throat, he make gesture with his hands I take it as a cue to open the note. It reads "ask Gronk if Tide Pods™️  really clean" in very messy handwriting that I'm pretty sure is done in crayon.

I'm once again stunned.  He holds up the jersey. My once beer and chicken wing stained jersey is now completely clean. He makes another gesture, prompting me to speak this time. "D-do Tide Pods™️ really clean?" Im shaking at this point, not because I'm nervous, but because it's 68° outside and I'm still naked. With the enthusiasm of a kid on a sugar high, he answers the age old question I just asked.  "Heck yeah they do!" His eyes twinkling as he speaks.

The boards blast off my windows. Rainbow light streams into the room. I’m still naked. The missing people immediately flood the streets. He's smiling again, and you guessed it, I'm still naked. A chorus of cheers fills the streets "You saved us! We were stuck in the realm of stained laundry! Bless you!" A tear runs down his cheek as he falls to his knees. "I've been searching for you, thou chosen one. If you may take me, I ask for you hand in marriage. Together we can continue to bring stain free clothing to people across the land!" The crowd outside cheers, completely ignoring the fact homie refuses to give me any clothing. Instead he whips out a ring, and by ring I mean a ring pop band with a Tide Pod™️ hot glued to the top. He slips it on my finger before I can respond. I'm soon being twirled in a blinding golden light. I emerge, fully clothed in a ball gown made completely out of Tide Pods™️. He picks me up bridal style and runs out to the hallway before quickly bounding down the stairs four at a time. In the way down I look at my ring. After not eating for days it looks surprisingly tasty. Bringing my left hand up to my face, he stops dead in his tracks and drops me. My cat like reflexes come into play and I land on my feet, breaking both my legs after falling from such a height. Somehow I'm still standing, the power of Tide Pods™️ holding me up. I immediately pop the ring into my mouth and before chewing. The detergent rolls down my chin. His screams fill the room as he realizes what I've done. "How could you do this to me?!" I look up, like really far up because I’m literally 5’0”, and meet his eyes. I match his boyish smile from earlier, though this time my smile is filled with detergent.

"What can I say? I'm Gen Z."

[littlemaatta]

Lowkey - Bryan Rust x Reader

Anonymous said: Since you're taking requests, could I request a bryan rust imagine where you guys are secretly dating because you're someone on the teams sister and you don't want to tell them yet but you're all at a party and you and him are trying to be lowkey and some guy keeps hitting on you so he gets jealous and finally admits that you guys are dating and it ends really cute? Sorry this is so long! Thank you!

A/N: Oh thank you so much for this request! I LOVE Bryan Rust with all of my soul. I also picked Conor to be her brother bc I love that boy. a lot. okay well enjoy! and yes, a boy named adam has wronged me in the past which explains the boy. also damn this is rly long lol oops. 

I recommend watching this video before you read ;)

Warnings: language, drinking, creepy boy, sexual comments/innuendos, 

Word Count: ~1,500

Being the sister of Conor Sheary had it’s perks. Free tickets to games, great seats, meeting some amazing people, getting to ride in the Stanley Cup parade last year alongside your big brother. 

Not to mention that Conor is such a great brother, he is always there for you and you’ve been best friends for your entire lives. Being only a year apart in age, the two of you are very close.

But being the sister of an NHL star, also came with its downsides. The main one being that you fell for one of his teammates and were very afraid to tell your older brother.

Bryan Rust. You and Bryan started talking one night after a game. After winning, some of the guys went out for drinks and Conor brought you along. While Conor was busy dancing with his girlfriend, you were sitting next to Bryan and the two of you got to talking. 

You realized that you had a lot in common and he was just very fun to talk to. By the end of the night Conor had ditched you to go home with Jordan and Bryan offered to drive you home since your brother had been your ride. 

When he pulled up in front of your apartment building he nervously asked if he could have your number and of course you gladly gave it to him. 

From there, you two texted frequently until Bryan finally asked you on a date. 

You’ve been together ever since. The only problem with your perfect relationship is that it has to be kept secret. Both you and Bryan agree that telling Conor might not be the best idea. So you kept it hidden..

You pull up to Sidney’s house and Conor parks the car in the street. Tons of other cars are already lining the street. You climb out of the car  and cross the street to Sid’s house with Conor by your side. 

As soon as you walk in, Sid greets you and your brother with a wide grin. 

Conor disappears as you start a conversation with the captain. 

After talking to him for a minute, you ask if he has seen Bryan anywhere and he raises a brow but points you in the direction where he last saw your boyfriend. 

You thank him and walk away in the direction Sid gave you. 

You soon find Bryan, dancing with Hagelin to a Fergie song, no surprise, and you laugh as you watch them. 

He glances in your direction and winks at you and you shake your head, laughing harder. 

“G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S” Bryan and Carl use their arms to make the letters as Fergie says them. 

You grab a beer and crack it open as you continue to watch Bryan. 

“We flying the first class, up in the sky Poppin' champagne, livin' the life In the fast lane and I wont change By the Glamorous, oh the flossy flossy”

Bryan and Carl continue to dance, singing along and having almost a choreographed routine to the song. The whole thing is extremely amusing to you as you watch with your drink in your hand.

“Hey there, beautiful.” a deep voice says from beside you and you glance over, seeing a stranger and you only nod in response as you turn back to watching your boyfriend. 

The man doesn’t take the hint however, and tries to start up a conversation with you. “Name’s Adam. What’s yours?” 

“Y/N.” you answer, reluctantly. 

“Pretty name for a pretty girl.” you cringe internally at his use of such a cliché line. 

You nod and look at him from the corner of your eye. 

“I know those guys. We’re pretty good friends.” he says, referring to Carl and Bryan in a failed attempt to impress you after noticing that you were watching them. You raise a brow, skeptical that this man you’ve never met before would know Bryan, much less be ‘pretty good friends’ with him. 

“Hm, really? So do I.” you answer, taking a sip of your drink. 

“Oh, really?” he says, seeming to regret his lie. 

“Mmhm.” you hum in response, seeing Bryan look over at you while still dancing. You share a look with him and shake your head as subtly as possible, telling him not to do anything that will reveal your secret.

The song finally ends and Bryan moves to stand next to some of the other guys and continues to watch you and the stranger. 

The man continues talking to you, not leaving you any opportunity to politely bow out of the conversation. 

“Dude, who’s that guy talking to Y/N?” Dumo asks Bryan. 

“I don’t know.” Bryan answers, his voice low. 

Finally, you are presented with an opportunity to leave the conversation when Maureen Kunitz, bless her soul, sees you struggling and walks over, starting up a conversation with you. The man stands silently for a moment as you talk to Maureen and then, realizing she isn’t leaving anytime soon, says a quick ‘See ya later, gorgeous’ with a wink and then walks away. 

“See ya later gorgeous?” Maureen repeats once he is out of earshot, doubling over in laughter. 

“When does he think he will see me?” you say, laughing with her.

You thank Maureen for saving you and then part ways, her going to find Chris and you walking over to Bryan and the other guys he is with. Hags, Cole, and Dumo greet you with smiles. 

“Who was that guy there, Y/N?” Dumo asks, raising his brows suggestively, not knowing that the other Bryan right next to him was the only guy you actually wanted to talk to. 

“No one. At all. Hope I never see him again in my life.” you respond, looking at your boyfriend briefly. 

The three men laugh and then change the topic which you are grateful for. You look at Bryan again and give him a small smile.

He returns it but it doesn’t seem whole hearted. You sigh, knowing he’s angry that he can’t publicly be your boyfriend yet. It’s something that bothers him frequently, especially when other guys flirt with you.

~~

Later, you are in the backyard, by the pool in search of your brother. Until your search is rudely interrupted by none other than Mr. ‘See ya later gorgeous’ coming up beside you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

“Hey gorgeous, miss me?” you sigh as the words leave his mouth and are about to put the poor boy out of his misery and attempt to let him down easily but before you can say a word, your boyfriend lets himself into the conversation.

Bryan steps up to you and pushes Adam off of you. “Get your hands off her.” Bryan snaps at the man.  

“And why would I ever do that?” Adam responds with a sly smirk. You crinkle your nose in disgust. 

Bryan grits his teeth together and steps closer to Adam and you grab his arm to stop him from hitting the guy. 

“Bry, stop. Just let it go.” you say quietly, your hands wrapped around his arm, pulling him away. 

“Oh I get it,” Adam chuckles. You continue walking away, pulling an angry Bryan along with you. “Hey, sweetheart, when you get bored with him, call me!” Adam yells from behind you. 

A low growl emits from your boyfriends throat but before he can move to punch the man, you grab his face and kiss him. Successfully distracting him and pissing off Adam enough that he finally walks away, but also very unsuccessfully keeping your relationship a secret. 

“Y/N?” you hear your brother’s voice, making you pull away from Bryan quickly. 

“Hey, Con. Um... I can explain.” you stutter, looking up at your brother nervously. 

“No need. I saw the whole thing. How long have you been dating?” Conor asks calmly, completely shocking you as you thought he would be angry with you for dating a teammate. 

“About 4 months now.” Bryan answers, rubbing the back of his neck, just as nervous as you are and still angry about the persistent guy.

“Congrats, wish you told me sooner, sis,” he says, with a large smile.

“I-I thought you’d be mad?” 

Conor chuckles, “Nah, you guys are good together. I’m happy for you.” he opens his arms for a hug and you gladly return it. 

“Thanks, Conor.” you say after pulling away. 

He nods and turns to walk away but stops and turns back around to look at Bryan. “Rusty, I like you. But if you ever hurt her..” he trails off and Bryan laughs nervously, nodding to show that he knows where the sentence was headed. 

“I would never.” he answers sincerely, making you smile. 

Conor nods, satisfied with his answer, and then walks back into the house. 

You move closer to Bryan again and take both of his hands in yours. “I’m sorry that I kept this a secret for so long. I was scared that Conor wouldn’t approve and I didn’t want to lose my brother or you.” 

“I know. But it’s out now, so it’s okay. Now I can proudly show off my beautiful girlfriend wherever I go.” you smile at that and lean into him. 

He wraps his arm around your shoulder and places a kiss on your temple, leading you back inside and heading straight for the improvised dance floor to choreograph a routine for another Fergie song; but this time, you get to help. 

[the-cowgirl-bookworm]

Drunken Road Trips and Family Bonding

Chapter 5

Please Tell Us Why You Had to Hide Away For So Long

When Peter had shaken Yondu's shoulder early the next morning, saying he was going into town to pick up supplies, Yondu had sent him off with two rules before rolling over and going back to sleep. "Don't buy anything, yer still a Ravager idjit. And bring back some of what ever you Terrans got for booze, if yer gonna get soft again like last night I ain't goin' through it sober." Quill had rolled his eyes, pulling his Ravager coat over his shirt. It stood up to the elements, kept him warm, and had about fifty different pockets for stashing illegally obtained materials. Of course, not everything could fit in pockets, so he grabbed a collapsible repulsorlift and a Ravager tarp, modded to able to put up a decent camouflage.

While you couldn't count on Ravagers to have things like food or water on all their ships, they always had stealing supplies.

It was a ten mile trek to town, but it went quicker thanks to a few rocket boosted jumps. He stashed the lift at the edge of town, throwing the tarp over it, the camouflage activating as soon as it settled. The first thing Peter did was find a vending machine outside a gas station and shake loose a Coke. Even after twenty years, it still tasted the same. He tossed the can aside, jacked a full can, and set off farther into town. Ridgeton had always hovered between small town and small city, mom and pop stores right next to large sporting goods dealers. Peter approached one of those large sporting goods stores, the window displays stuffed full of hunting trophies.

It took him five seconds to jimmy the lock, then two to activate the jammer in his pocket. It would block any signals going out to security companies and render any security footage to mere static. Peter grabbed a cart, pulled out his earbuds, and set his Zune to play. He smiled, remembering how Yondu had shoved it into his hands before Stakar had come over to their ship, ready to welcome Yondu back after hearing about what he had done. Yondu had pressed the device into his hands, earbuds tangled around his fingers. "Saw ya lost yer Walkman. Found this at a junker's, she said everyone on Terra was usin' it." He'd hit the center button, the display lighting up. "We had a copy of yer music in the data banks, I transferred it for ya."

Peter had grasped it like a lifeline. "Well, not all of it. Ego smashed the second tape."

Yondu had snorted, shaking his head. "If you think we didn't scan and log every single thing in that little pack a yers," He just shook his head again. "It's all on there, plus about three hundred other songs."

Three hundred songs had left him speechless, as well as the fact that Yondu had actually done something kind for him without threatening to space him or eat him, when Stakar had grasped Yondu by the shoulders, making some proclamation about how Yondu had proven himself a true Ravager in the end, and if anyone wanted to dispute that, well, Stakar was one of the fastest draws in the galaxy and they were more than welcome to try.

Peter danced through the store, Mr. Blue Sky blasting in his ear drums, dragging a cart behind him. He threw in whatever he could find, high dollar fishing poles, hooks, line, enough camping supplies to last them a month. He made sure to grab two cans of bait, knowing Yondu might just eat a can of worms just because he was tired of fish. He even did his best to pick up gifts for everyone. For Drax, two massive serrated hunting knives. Gamora, a leather archery guard she could use to keep her sword hand from bleeding after getting blisters. As much as he wanted to, Rocket would probably not appreciate the stuffed raccoon, so he grabbed the little guy a collection of gun parts and candy. Turned out the raccoon had a sweet tooth, which they discovered after he had eaten every piece of Xandarian sugar puffs on the ship. Drax had almost strangled Rocket for that, stopped only by Gamora wanting to do it herself. He picked up a variety of animal plushes for Mantis, because God knows Ego hadn't given that girl enough things to hug in her life. Yondu was getting an absolutely adorable bobblehead of a mountain lion. Kraglin was getting a knife, the antler carved with a cool design. For Groot, a collection of these new fangled things called CD's that apparently held music. He thought Groot would really like one in particular, some band called Mouse Rat that sounded pretty good when he put it in a boom box.

For Nebula, well, he just picked her up some magazines. He didn't even really look at them as he dumped them in the cart. That was all the fishing stuff, but he would need more than that. He wanted enough Cokes to last him a life time, and enough ice cream that he could eat himself sick. Plus, what kind of camping didn't have s'mores? So before he pushed his ill gotten gains out of the shop, he opened the safe, which for someone used to cracking Kree lockboxes, was nothing. He pocketed the cash, then pushed his cart back to the repulsorlift. The futuristic wagon was pretty full, but he figured he could fit more in.

But the grocery stores wouldn't be open for hours, so Peter left everything under the tarp and made his way back into town. He figured he'd find someplace to hang until the stores opened up. He was figuring a stoop or a park, but then he saw something called an Internet cafe. There were already a few people headed in, sleepy eyed and groggy. He walked in, and the smell of coffee overcame him. Turns out you could get coffee pretty much anywhere nowadays, if the people in front of him were to be believed, but apparently this place was pretty good. He ordered a large, with enough creamer in it to make it more like a hot chocolate than a coffee. He listened in to a couple of guys as he waited for his coffee.

"I'm telling you, I saw a UFO last night. Came blasting down over my trailer, then set down in the forest somewhere."

"Jerry you got into your moonshine again, and we all know it. You were going on about chemtrails the last time, and you smelled like a damn still."

"Greg, I swear to God I wasn't drunk last night."

Chuckling and sipping his coffee, Peter made his way over to the row of computers set up against the wall. They were pretty primitive, no holograms but an actual glass display. He hadn't seen that since they landed on some planet that had yet to make contact with the Xandarians. Fortunately this Internet thing wasn't as hard to navigate as the Kree cyber service, which he'd have to have Kraglin crack for him once when Peter had his bounty tripled in Kree space after an incident with a Kree general's daughter that the general had blown completely out of proportion. Hell, the thing on this computer even opened up to something called a search engine. Of course, Peter being the smug self-absorbed asshole (Gamora's words, not his) that he was, he immediately searched his own name.

There were only a few results, but one caught Peter's eye, something from a cold case website. He clicked on it and started to read.

Twenty-five Years and Still Holding Out Hope

May 15th, 1988, was the worst day in Robert Quill's life. That night, his daughter Meredith passed away from an inoperable brain tumor and her son, Peter Jason Quill, disappeared. Robert contacted the police, but despite their efforts, they could not locate Peter. Now, twenty five years later, Robert has still not given up hope that Peter is out there somewhere. He invited our reporter to visit him, and we found his house filled with pictures of his children and grandchildren.

He keeps a picture of Meredith and Peter separate, set atop the mantle. It shows a beautiful brunette with an arm around a smiling five year old. Robert spoke briefly about his daughter, "She was always so loving. She loved that boy, even if his father didn't stick around. And he was a bit of a troublemaker, but he was a good boy."

Robert has searched for Peter ever since that day in 1988. He still hasn't given up hope. We have included a digitally aged picture of Peter Quill at the end of this article. We ask that our readers look for anyone matching this picture, and contact the tip line that Robert Quill has open.

There was a phone number listed at the bottom of the page, and Quill couldn't help but chuckle at the picture of "him". It looked nothing like him, rather chubby actually. But there was another picture farther up in the little article. His grandpa, standing by his fireplace and looking at the picture of Peter and his mom. Peter pursed his lips, then reached into his pocket, jotting down the phone number on his hand. There was nothing wrong with calling his Gramps and telling him he was still alive. He'd find a payphone after he got groceries, before he made his way back to their campsite.

He hung around the cafe for a bit, before heading out and finding himself in the midst of paradise. There was some new store here called Wal-Mart that was absolute heaven. Quill piled his cart there high with everything he could think of, spices, sweets, ice cream, marshmallows, a gross of Coke and twenty boxes of macaroni and cheese. He also found that movies were apparently on the same type of disc as music now. He grabbed everything he could recognize, Star Wars, the Princess Bride, Indiana Jones, and thinking of Yondu, a copy of Mary Poppins. It took most of the money he'd stolen, but he felt pretty good as he walked out of the store. There had to be some kind of tech on the ship that could read those weird discs, and he could finally show everyone what he had grown up with. But it turned out that finding food was easier than finding a payphone nowadays. Everyone seemed to have these somewhat bulky handheld comm units now, and when he'd asked a lady for a nearby payphone she had looked at him like he was crazy.

"Don't you have a cellphone?" She asked, already hurrying away.

Peter snorted. Did it look like he was carrying around a giant briefcase? It took him a little while to find someone who mentioned that there was an old payphone at the library. He pulled his cart in with him, dug out a couple quarters, and dialed the smudged number on his hand. It rang three times before going to a message machine, his grandfather speaking. "Hello, if you have any information relating to the disappearance of Peter Quill on May 15th, 1988, please leave your name, number and your information and we will get back to you."

There was a beep, Peter took a deep breath, and spoke. "Hi Gramps, it's me. Peter. Sorry I haven't called. Listen, I'm in Ridgeton, out at the lake you and me and mom would go to. I don't know how long I'll be here, a week, maybe? Anyway, I'm calling on a payphone, so I guess if you want, you can just come find me at the lake. So, um, bye." He hung up the phone, turning back to his cart. Even if his grandpa didn't come out, at least he'd know he was alive.

After he had made it back to his stash, he dumped everything into the repulsorlift, and set out on the much longer trip back.

[khelinski]

A writing exercise – write one of your worst memories (I will get to a best memory in the distant future).

There is a scene from a memory that I keep going back to in my head. The moment I felt very low. The moment I really wanted to die.

November 23rd, 2015. A few weeks prior, I had flown down to Florida for an interview at a theme park with mouse ears. They had placed me on a waiting list. I flown back home to Michigan with mixed emotions, high anxiety, and low self-esteem.

I had divorced someone I very much love(d) a month and a half prior. I had separated from her a couple of months before that, relocating to my parent’s basement. I had stepped-down from a leadership position a month before that. And my ex-wife and I were going through hell six months+ before that. In hindsight, the relationship turning sour the way it did was nobody’s fault. She suffered from addiction. I suffered from depression. The two do NOT mix well – like mixing drugs and liquor together (I’ve seen my share of that). We were so perfect for each other (I still think that), but we were terrible at each other. It’s a damn shame. I inspired her to push her art. She inspired me to push my writing. I hope she is still art-poppin’.

Anywho, on the 23rd of November, I was having a texting fight with her while I was at work. I don’t even remember what it was about. Probably something dumb and meaningless (as most of our fights turned out to be). I was physically, emotionally, mentally drained from the entire year. And I have the unfailing ability to take someone’s negative comments and harness its content, context, and subtext into my brain, body, and soul; feeding into its negativity like a drug itself. I start believing the negativity – I start to become the negativity. It’s a contributing factor to why my depression keeps rockin’ n rollin’ in my head.

I came home from work in the late afternoon (I was a liquor orderwriter at Retail Hell then, and had early shifts). Working with liquor bottles and having strong amounts of depression infuses your mind to want to drink. I had an entire pack of wine coolers that was in the fridge, stored Captain Morgan in the basement, and whatever else bottle I could find. I drank and drank and drank in a very short amount of time. I don’t remember the duration of how long it took for the buzz to kick-in, but by the time I felt it – I was a wreck. I cried, screamed, had a full-fledged emotional outburst. It was like everything I was feeling that entire year poured out of me. I then got sick, and as you could imagine – it wasn’t a pretty sight. I know I freaked out my family. Ashamed they had to witness that.

Though I don’t remember what all was said or done that evening/night (after all, it was just about three years ago). I do remember what was going through my head. I didn’t want to drink to get drunk. I wanted to drink to disappear, to not think and feel anymore. At that moment – I wanted to die.

Days and weeks blended together afterwards. I felt lower and lower.

December 7, 2015 at 6:20 P.M. – I get this email…

“Congratulations! On behalf of [the theme parks with mouse-ears], we would like to offer you a Full Time Food Service Quick Service H/H Spec Bev role at [one of our theme parks].”

I learned a month later that the role ended up being at Trolley/Starbucks. I can’t even imagine what anyone’s first impression of me was.

I gave a notice to an employer I was employed at since mid-2008. I packed everything in my KIA, and drove all the way down here on a whim (and to save myself). Friends from up above keep asking me when I am going to visit Michigan. I am not. Not anytime soon, anyway. Not for many years, probably. Bad memories, bad demons, and bad dreams (that still haunt me) await me in the Great Lakes State. But it’s not my ex’s fault. It’s just the way things happened. She had her reasons…her demons…her bad memories (and I am sorry I didn’t make it easier for her). It’s not my fault. It’s just the way thoughts flow in my head. I strongly believe if I didn’t leave Michigan when I did – I don’t know if I would be writing this worst memory today, or walking this earth for that matter. That’s how close I was to losing it.

Fast-forward all the dumb mistakes I’ve made, the emotional outbursts, the ever-so-learning curve I had at Trolley, the people I befriended (and hurt) along the way, the triumphs and losses in Florida since I moved here…goes back to that damn bad memory, binge-drinking and wanting to disappear.

I joke about drinking and knowing things but in all actuality, I don’t drink as much as I make it out to be. I joke about rum, but hardly drink it. I scared myself November 23rd, 2015, and watch my in-take very carefully. I slipped a few times in 2016, but nothing serious. And don’t worry, friends – I am okay. Compared to this time three years ago – my state of mind is better.

A leader asked me recently what motivated me to return to the mouse. I gave a BS reply, because that’s all I believed prior to 2015. Then 2015 happened, the year my joy died. Life hasn’t been the same since then. And even walking through the theme parks being spoiled with all the wonders many spend their savings on – I must admit, there is a good chunk of my soul that doesn’t feel much enjoyment in it. Not like where my head was at back in 2007/2008, when I did the college program. Back when I was naive. Back when I didn't experienced life yet.

The leader’s question kept jabbing at my head, though. After all this time – why did I return? Is it my dream? My dream is to write. I am doing that. So no. Is it because of the pixie dust, the fantasy, and the magic? Sadly, no. That was my excuse years ago. Truthfully, it goes back to my worst memory. It goes back to 2015. It goes back to my depression. The mouse gave me a purpose to continue on, to live another day, to keep moving forward as Walt himself once said. At the time, the mouse was my lifeline.

Fast-forward to now – writing has become my lifeline. Self-indulgent and all, I express everything that has been boiling inside of me – all my thoughts, emotions, feels. And as you can read – I feels a lot. This is one truth I’ve shared with some people – but never shared it with all. It’s a memory I am not proud of, since it was manifested from bitterness, anger, and hurt. I said a lot of [edited for content] things to my ex, about my ex – none of it was deserved (or true). Regardless how she might feel about me – she still inspires me. Inspires me to write, to read, and to be better. I don’t know if I am better, truthfully. My head is still the same. The thoughts in my head still flicker the same images. But I am writing with courage, with honesty.

Regardless how much I sleep or lack of, I still write - like a hard to reach itch that needs to be scratched. Regardless who reads it, likes it, shares it. Even if my ex reads this (or not). Even if the people that hates my guts for an assortment of reasons stumbles upon this, points, laughs, and presses on with their life. Even if a friend skims, scrolls, and likes without proper context. Regardless if it is ignored by many (which is usually the case, especially of this length – a meme is easier to e-digest). I still write, friends. I write for me. I write to learn. I write to live. I write.

I am glad I picked up everything and moved down here. I am glad theme park with mouse ears hired me when they did. I am glad Trolley was the door in. I am glad of all the people I encountered, the lives that helped me through this journey, and the friends I’ve made (seriously – everyone I worked with at Trolley, even the ones things had turned sour between us – you all not only helped me at Trolley at the time – you all saved me). I am glad of everything (except one, or two, or many things - but never mind about that). I am glad I met the particular person that hates my guts, but I can't stop writing/thinking about. I am glad my family moved here with me six months after I did. I am glad I am still writing to this day.

Most of all - I am glad I woke up November 24th, 2015 - with just a hangover headache. Even wrote a lighthearted post about it:

“Mental note: don't do heavy amount of drinking and then have an emotional breakdown. The morning after is brutal.”