#like i left her as a memento until it was time to go

[fraugwinska]

What about the reader found and old radio, they thought the radio was broken but it's not, it's just antique.. when they play it at night time alastor broadcast was heard first they feel something is odd.. but they love to listen to his voice, heck they even like talking to each other, because of this encounter alastor talk about it to rosie, she was happy hearing alastor telling her stories but she feel odd when alastor mention that the person he talks to is a human, Rosie giving him advice to not fall for human because they're different species, and it will make him weak etc.

Alastor feel guilty and agree with rosie advice so he's stop contacting the reader from the radio, he thinks that the reader will be fine but no the reader take it personally.. they thought alastor don't want to talk to them anymore.. it drive them mad and lead to suicide..

So yeah angst :D

Oh Anon. What have you done.

I cried while I wrote that - it took two very good friends of mine to encourage me to post it (Thanks to @macabr3-barbi3 and @mysterypotatoink). But I think it's tragic and beautiful, and honestly - I'm kinda proud of it!

TW: Psychological Trauma, descend into madness, loss of self care and suicide - please take care of yourself and do not read if you aren't comfortable with any of the mentioned! MINORS DNI

Here we go.

❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️

Leap of Faith

You carried in the last box from you banged-up minivan. The old thing barely made it to your new home. A little cabin in the outskirts of New Orleans, a little off the grid and surrounded by the peaceful and whirring bayous of Louisiana.

A fixer-upper, just like yourself.

The online auction had intrigued you the second you found it, the photos were a bit blurry and you knew it was a risk to buy a place you've never set foot in, but something in you called you to get it. The price you paid was laughable, barely making a dent in your savings. Moving states sounded scary and impossible, but you felt oddly calm about it.

You didn't have a lot of stuff to move anyway. After all, you only lived with your late grandmother, and she never really cared for material things. Your parents left you at her doorstep, never to be seen again.

Caring for her in her last, sickness-ridden years had been a no-brainer - it felt like nothing in comparison to all she had done for you - but it also had been a bit lonely.

You had your friends, if you could even call them that, but you rarely saw them - guiding your nan through the last months of her life had been demanding and time-consuming. It had left you exhausted and emotionally unavailable, and after a while, calls and texts ceased, until it was just you and her. You felt lost, as if the world was slowly pulling away from you.

When she finally died, peacefully in her sleep, you felt sad, relieved and drained.

Detached from the city you lived in.

Lost.

So you decided to sell what little you inherited, except for a few sentimental mementos, and move away from it all. To start a new life, a happier one, finally one that was truly your own.

You took the final box inside, setting it on the coffee table and wiped the sweat from your brow. You looked around the little cabin: The roof had some spots that needed a patch, and the wood floors were a bit warped, but it was all yours. No more having to share anything with anyone.

The cabin came furnished, a lot of the stuff was old, but still usable. You figured that would change once you settled in and had a vision of what you wanted and needed to buy. The thought of thinking about no one but yourself made you nervous.

But a little excited, too.

The old furniture would do for the moment, but there was a particular piece that caught your eye: an old, vintage cathedral radio, sitting nestled in between a cracked wooden box and a tarnished, bronze candle holder in a bookcase that was a bit out of place in the tiny space. With a tilted head, you stepped closer to inspect it, drawn to it by it's unique character and beauty.

It looked as well-loved as it looked well-used, the mahogany a bit scuffed, the knobs a little worn from years of being turned. But there were golden details etched into the front, and you traced them lightly with a finger, strangely touched and intrigued.

You were certain the old thing didn't work, but when you plugged it into the nearby socket, static erupted from the speakers, making you jump back. You had to smile, though.

Tonight, you wouldn't be alone. You'd have this little device and a little music for good company.

***

"I'm home!" you announced to no one in particular, as you closed the door behind you, your hands full with overfilled grocery bags full of necessities, waiting to fill your empty cabinets.

The day had been hot, but a welcome breeze of the impending night break cooled the inside of your little cabin a bit. With a quiet grunt you set the paper bags down at the small kitchenette. Your groceries were quickly dispersed, and you put on an apron you saved from your grandmother as you got started on dinner.

You hummed as you cut vegetables and boiled water. It had been a long time since you had cooked, really cooked, your nan wasn't much for eating and had no problem living off of simple soups and toast. When you opened your fridge to get some butter, your glance fell onto the radio.

A little music would be nice, you decided, and you walked over, cleaning your hands on the red, frilly cloth around your waist before you turned the dial. The soft sound of static made you hum in contempt - yup. Still works. A little turn to the left, and the room was filled with a soft jazzy tune, the melody a bit grainy, but you didn't mind that at all. You returned to the stove, swaying your hips to the beat as you worked. The music made you feel at ease, and for a moment, the world seemed to be just right.

Just as the onions began to brown in the pan, the song faded out to a voice. You turned your head to the radio, intrigued by the unusual, eccentric accent of the host. It reminded you of the old, vintage films and recordings your grandmother had been fond of - wasn't it called 'transatlantic'?. Whatever it was, it made you smile.

"Now wasn't that a kick in the head, dearest listener? I sure hope you enjoyed the little musical interlude, but it's time to return to the real show! As usual, my name is Alastor, and you are listening to the best jazz, blues and swing music that Hell has to offer!"

You blinked, a little puzzled and yet amused. "Sure is hot as hell today, strange man in the radio.", you mumbled, chuckling as you stirred the bell peppers under the caramelized onions.

"Today we have a very special guest joining my humble broadcast, it seems. Pleasure to meet you, darling, quite the pleasure!"

"Oh who? Me?" you asked, looking theatrically over your shoulder with batted lashes, shaking your head over your own silliness. You weren't used to talking out loud to yourself, or even really thinking out loud. You were always alone, after all, but the little pretend-play was fun. You laughed a bit, waiting for the host's guest to speak.

"Of course you, little dove. Who else would I mean?"

You gasped, and nearly dropped the spoon as you whipped around, eyes glued to the humming, orange glow of the radio in the dim darkness of your living room.

"What's that? You're surprised, my dear? Don't worry, you're not the only one! This is a first for me, too. Never had a human join my program. I must say, I'm quite intrigued! Tell me, what is your name?"

Your eyes grew wide, and the hairs at the back of your neck stood up. You took a hesitant step backwards and hit the hot stove, making you curse under your breath. Was the heat finally getting to you?

"Don't be shy now, darling. I'm not gonna hurt you, cross my lil' old, blackened heart."

"I-I'm..." you began, swallowing as your fingers tightened around the wooden spoon. "My name is..."

"Yes?"

"I'm... crazy.", you mumbled, rubbing a hand over your face and chuckling a bit. You were just going insane, that's all. Must be the stress, combined with the intense heat. And lack of a companion, a tiny voice reminded you. Yes. Must be.

"Hello crazy, this is Alastor." The host laughed, together with a canned audience.

"Alastor...", you repeated, realization settling in - this wasn't a joke, or a trick of your mind.

"At your service, my dear.", the voice cooed. "Now, I believe you still owe me your name..."

***

You weren't crazy.

Or if you were, you didn't mind. Not with Alastor by your side - or, to be exact, in the radio on your bookcase.

After two weeks of ignoring the cursed radio after unplugging it in a wave of panic on your first night, your morbid curiosity got the better of you. You plugged it back in, and turned on the dial. Just once, you told yourself, then never ever again.

And that's how the two of you got in contact with each other once more. Alastor was as chipper as the first time you heard him, and after a bit of back-and-forth, he promised once again not to harm you, and you shared your name with him. The rest was history. He was very pleasant company. For a demon from hell.

You wouldn't classify the conversations you had with him as a real friendship in the beginning, but you did talk. Occasionally. Mostly in the evenings, when you cooked dinner: He'd ask you about your day and would pry eagerly for a little bit of gossip or new information about the modern New Orleans. When he let it slip that he lived in this very cabin in the 1920's, you weren't stopping with questions about what it was like back in his days, which he, in return, answered generously and enthusiastically.

The first few times he would try to coerce you into making a deal for your soul, casually sprinkling the offer into his small talk, but with enough blunt refusals and a few more days of radio silence (pun intended), he dropped the topic and seemed content on just talking. You, in return, found yourself relaxing into his charming company, your brain happily engaged with trying to wrap your head around him, or better, you tried to come to terms with it.

Weeks passed, and turning the radio on in the evenings became less of an occasional lapse of judgment but more of a routine you were looking forward to. You could tell the Alastor felt the same, his banter became less tense and acted, and a little more genuine.

It made your heart swell in happiness, that someone out there seemed to appreciate your company – even if that someone wasn't human.

Apprehension became amusement, and fascination became friendship. Oddly enough, you found common grounds in a lot of things: A love for cooking and good music. Preferring books over films. Red wine over white. A shared aversion of vulgarity, and appreciation for good manners.

Your nights were cut shorter and shorter, you would spend hours chatting on and on, until the deep darkness of night disappeared into a shade of blue on the horizon. Neither of you minded, at least that was what you thought. Alastor never ended the conversations with you. Either you had to say your goodbyes, or you would just fall asleep after hours of talking on your couch, and awake with a pained back to a shut-off radio. Then, after you'd realize that you would have a whole day ahead of you without hearing his voice, the loss would make your chest ache.

Two months into the 'thing', which was still a strange concept you could barely comprehend, the truth of the matter dawned on you: You liked him. Not just because he was a surprisingly amicable voice coming out of your vintage radio, a lively constant in the uneventful life you had made for yourself in Louisiana - he had become important to you, irreplaceable, even. An essential element to your life. You couldn't imagine how you'd gone so long without him, and yet, here you were, lost without him, scrambling through the hours until you could talk to him once more.

"Something on your mind, darling? You're awfully quiet today."

You held your fork and knife still above the salmon you had just been about to eat. It was the first meal of the evening in a long time where you weren't spending the entirety of the preparation time speaking to him, lost in thought about your blossoming feelings. He had gotten excellent at reading you like an open book - you should've gotten used to it after a couple of weeks of him catching on to every little change in your demeanor and knowing just what to say, when you were feeling happy, upset or nervous.

"Oh, um... no. It's nothing Al. Work had me in a wringer today."

"Is it your co-worker Susan again?" You could basically hear his eyes rolling, making you chuckle. "That name must be cursed, every single soul with that name is a menacing pain."

"Maybe,", you muttered, nibbling on a piece of the roasted fish. "This one is mostly just an ornery old bitch."

"Taking the words right out of my mouth, dear." he laughed.

There's was a comfortable pause, with just a gentle background noise of his ever-playing static and an easy, melodic tune coming from his program.

"Is that really all that preoccupies that pretty little head of yours?"

You blushed, picking at the food with your fork. "Bold for a guy who's never seen me to assume my head is pretty."

The radio crackled with pops and feedback. "Bold to assume I can't see you whenever I want, little dove." he said, his voice strangely deeper, tinged with something you didn't catch at the shock of his words.

"You... what?"

"And I can most assure you,", he purred out of the speakers, "pretty is a well fitting word to describe you."

He hummed in approval when your cheeks gained color, as if he knew his comment threw you off guard and made you turn a lovely shade of pink, but it didn't make it any less enticing.

***

"Alastor, if I didn't know better, I would say you have become smitten with this mysterious gal you're blabbing on and about."

Rosie giggled, hitting his shoulder in a playful, friendly swipe. "When will I meet her? Come on now, you can't hide her forever. Or are you afraid she'll like me better?"

She laughed, and Alastor forced a toothy grin. His long time friend was the only one he talked about you with, and he knew she was intrigued whenever she could smell a blooming dalliance, especially with a notoriously abstinent bachelor like himself. Normally, he would laugh at that thought with a healthy dose of mockery, but he found himself to be less and less aversed at the thought - if it would be you. Impossible, of course.

"Nonsense, Rosie dear, nonsense,", he chuckled, taking a large sip from his coffee cup, a heavy hand bringing up a plate stacked with finger sandwiches. "And I'm afraid you won't meet her for a long time, maybe never. Humans seldom traverse to hell in their lifetime, and who knows if the little darling will take on the trip downstairs?"

Rosie coughed in her tea, her blackened eyes wide in shock. "Human? It's a human girl you've been courting here? Oh, Alastor, you old fool."

Alastor scrunched his nose, "Talking, Rosie, talking is all we do. And yes, she's a human. I don't see the quandary in that. It's just a little fun."

"Well,", she huffed with a small, thoughtful frown. "I would've hoped for a little more sense in you." The tall demonesse set down her teacup with nimble fingers.

"You may not call it courting, but if it quacks like a duck, it's a duck, love." Rosie ignored the indignant look Alastor gave her. "You know as well as I do that such a connection is dangerous to entertain. Humans are fragile and fragile things tend to break. And when they do, the owner mostly follows. You need to break this connection off."

Rosie gave him a sad look as his ears flattened against his head. She would've been more than happy for her oldest and dearest friend to have a partner on his side, someone good and honest who really cared about him, maybe loved him even, as unlovable as he was. But she had to protect him from the silly idea of possibly falling for a living, breathing and supposedly untarnished soul, and the heartbreak that would surely follow. "Don't make the mistake of breaking your heart, dear friend." she smiled, a tint of melancholy hidden in the red of her lips.

"I think it's far too late for that."

She offered a handkerchief, but Alastor waved her off, his smile more faint and close to a frown than she's ever seen.

***

The first day where nothing but static noise came out of the radio, you were irritated but just thought: 'Maybe Alastor has something to do'.

The second day of static you grew concerned. 'What if something happened to Alastor? Was he okay?'.

On the third day, you were panicked. 'Maybe he doesn't want to talk to you anymore! Maybe he met someone in hell, someone that he could talk to whenever he wanted and not through an old, dusty radio?'.

"Please talk to me.", you whispered into the empty room. Your knees were pulled to your chest, and you sat on your couch, eyes fixed on the radio in the bookcase. Your eyes stung with the tears threatening to spill. "Please, Al. I miss you." You shook your head, chuckling sadly. It had only been 3 days, but they'd felt like an eternity. The world had seemed silent without Alastor's constant chatter.

When night fell for the fourth day, you were half asleep, eyes red and burning and tears still staining your cheeks. You talked for hours into the void of your house, the radio now moved to sit in front of you on the coffee table, growing more and more desperate as hours passed. Talking faded into pleading, and pleading into begging.

"Please, I'm sorry, if I did something wrong, I'm sorry...", you mumbled into the wooden furnishing, resting your cheek against the top of the machine, eyes slipping shut with fatigue and defeat. A dry sob slipped past your trembling lips, as your hands desperately grabbed the sides of the antique device.

"Alastor please, don't leave me alone here...", you whispered with the last of your strength, before your body succumbed to your exhaustion, your unconscious mind welcomed the darkness.

If you had stayed awake for just a moment more, you would've, maybe, heard the faint shuddering breath beyond the static rumble. But you didn't. So you had no chance at knowing that, Alastor, listening to every word, saw and heard you at your weakest, and all it did to him was stir the embers and give the blaze an opening for the flames of his anger at fate to rage.

Work had called, again. Susan of all people. Threats were made - either come back to work, or don't come back at all. You smashed your phone. It was useless anyway. What was the point without...

Alastor wasn't here, hadn't answered for seven days now. And you had spent the whole time talking, begging him to show himself, just show himself and tell you what you did wrong, just talk to you one last time and then you'd stop, if that was what he wanted. You became obsessed with the orange light of the illuminated screen, imagining the flickers were maybe signs from him.

You stopped eating, stopped drinking, stopped almost anything, you just sat, in front of the radio, unmoving and unwilling to miss the smallest sign of his return.

Every single minute stretched into agony, and every breath that left your lips made a fresh tear roll down your paling cheeks, until your body couldn't produce them anymore. Then, you cried wordless whimpers and moans, even started praying to an unknown entity.

It wasn't as if Alastor owed you anything. It's not as though you thought the two of you were anything other than two kindred souls, one human, one demon, talking to each other. As a result, it wasn't like you had the right to anything from him.

It was strange to consider the connection the two of you shared: Something more than acquaintances, something closer than friends, and yet never fully crossing the line beyond it. The unpenetrable boundary dividing life and death in between.

Your eyes fell on a large, old crucifix on your wall, staring back at you with pity.

For the first time in days, you left the sofa, took it from the wall and burned it on your gas stove, watching the face of the nailed figurine slowly melt in the fire.

***

It had been eight days of excruciating, one-sided silence.

Eight days Alastor cursed his cowardice as he sat, red eyed with claws digging into his scalp, as he listened to you plead for him to talk - To answer. To do anything. Anything, but leave you alone, he heard, as if the words were spoken right in his ear.

Eight days of watching you slowly detriment from the eyes of the shadows he was able to manifest above, tugging on the very fabric of the world to move you, to keep your mind from going where it shouldn't go.

He kept telling himself it was for the better. His shadows murmured persistent reminders that he should find entertainment in your growing lunacy. He was the radio demon, after all. He shouldn't care if this wisp of a human were to perish, should laugh at your wails of agony and despair.

But Alastor never felt less like laughing. Your dried sobs and pained apologies for things you never did wrong in the first place filled his head, taunting and gnawing on him with feelings he thought he was unable to feel: Guilt and Regret.

It was as Rosie had predicted - he was becoming weak. But weakness was something that should be avoided. Had to be. He knew. Being weak, being feeble, would make him vulnerable, make him into the prey his cruel from already portrayed to the world he had to inherit. He couldn't allow it. Couldn't let his feelings for you bring him down to the levels of the sinners in hell he would tear apart and laugh while he did it.

That's why he stayed silent. Endured it, all of it, every word, cry and plea. Stayed invisible and silent, waiting for you to move on, forget him, shut off and leave the radio, never to turn the dial again. For your sake and his.

When the connection broke, on that eight day, Alastor could feel your resignation, your peace with which your pale hands gripped the electrical cord at it's base to pull. And he was suddenly filled with the awareness of something horrible, like a premonition. It set his already battered, aching heart in an ice cold grasp of dread.

His room exploded in green light as he expanded into his full demonic form, his limbs threatening to pull and burst at the stitches and his smile splitting his face almost entirely in half. He had to reach out, had to reform the connection to the radio one last time, even though nearly impossible.

You were about to do something he would never be able to forgive himself for.

***

Your car broke down just where it needed to. You took the radio out of the trunk, knocking the hood two times for a goodbye, the key safely in the ignition. Maybe some other poor soul would find and repair it, make happier memories with it.

You clutched the wooden device closer and started to walk. Indigo blue faded into black as you looked up to the sky that was sprinkled with glowing, shimmering silver dust, stars blinking in the unimaginable distance. There, but out of reach.

Just like him.

Your dry sob stung in your throat, but you didn't really feel the pain. Your eyes were fixed on the path to your final destination, right in front of you.

The Crescent City Connection Bridge was mostly abandoned by traffic at this time of night and provided just enough covered spaces to hide you from some foolish saviors eyes.

You didn't need to be saved.

You didn't want to be saved.

Because you were about to save yourself.

There was nothing waiting for you in the other direction than the one you were going. So, with slow but steady steps, you walked towards the middle of the bridge, settling on a place next to a metal pillar and looked over the railing onto the shimmering waters of the Mississippi River.

Alastor had told you about the river, how he loved to watch the steam boats floating on it from the radio station where he worked at when he was alive. The station was long gone, you didn't even find out where it had been in the first place, but you liked to imagine that you were looking at the same scenery now that he had been looking at when he peered out of his booth in his radio tower.

It made you smile through the tears... You were glad the end was somehow connected to him, even if it was most likely just your naive imagination.

It felt like the device in your arms was emitting static energy, prickling over your arms, hands and fingers as you caressed the mahogany wood gently, feeling as though the radio was shaking in your hands, trying to pull you back from the fenced ledge.

A quiet sob escaped your lips, turning into a giggle and into hysterical laughter. You sat down between the railing, and hugged the radio close, trying to breathe as you closed your eyes, resting your temple on the worn, warm wood.

"It'll be okay, Al.", you said quietly, your voice unnaturally hoarse and rough from lack of use and dehydration. "I'm coming. I'm coming to you.”

With one arm around the radio, holding it tight against your chest, you turned to stand on shaky legs, gripping the railing with one arm and, with one final glance at the stars above you you smiled. You heard sirens in the distance, and some people shouting from a sparkling streamliner passing under the bridge. Time was running short, so you didn't wait to put first one foot over the fence, then the other, taking a deep breath.

"I guess doves were always meant to fly."

And, with that, your body twisted, turned and leaped, falling as the light on the radio, firmly pressed against your heart, began to glow in deepest crimson and swirls of green.

Falling like an angel would descend from grace.

Part 2 for closure

[praisethegabs]

HOME

Leon Kennedy x F!Reader

synopsis: starting a family right after the incident that ended Raccoon City wasn't in your or Leon's plans, but destiny decided to bless you two with twins. Now married and with two kids to raise, life can't be better. Leon finally seems to be healing and moving on, until his job starts to take a toll on him. Again.

warnings: angst (again) with happy ending, mentions of traumas, nightmares, sub!leon and soft dom!wife, mentions of: ptsd, crying during sex, soft smut, p in v, hand job, praise kink, use of pet names. both oc's named olivia and jake as the twins.

word count: 7k

a/n: istg i needed to write something like this. idk why, but the idea felt so great... i like to imagine what was like for leon if he had kids and a normal life, so this is what i got. enjoy it, fellas

"show me the most damaged parts of your soul, and I will show you how it still shines like gold," nikita gill

Starting a family wasn't something you thought about in your early 20s.

But then, Leon Kennedy entered your life. You both met before Raccoon City, and you couldn't help but fall in love with those innocent baby blue eyes. At first, Leon was full of energy, completely eager and enthusiastic about his new job as a cop. You both thought that moving to Raccoon City was a good idea, and you were both happy.

You had just started a new job as an intern journalist, and it was the perfect opportunity for you since you were almost done with college. As for Leon, he graduated from the police academy and was ready to serve. For two individuals in their early 20s, it was the perfect opportunity.

Life can be weird at times.

You both never got the chance to do what you wanted. Raccoon City was in chaos with numerous casualties, and Leon came close to death while battling the Tyrant known as Mr. X. Somehow, amidst all the chaos, you managed to befriend Claire Redfield, a teenager who was searching for her older brother. Together, the three of you managed to survive that night, even rescuing a little girl named Sherry. What happened afterwards were mere consequences.

You knew from the start that Leon was an orphan, and that he was rescued by a cop after his entire family was killed. This is why he helped Claire keep Sherry safe. However, even after that living nightmare ended, the government decided to "ask" Leon to join them. He never told you what happened afterward. He never explained why he had to attend this six-month training camp.

But he was acting differently. Sure, you couldn’t blame him for being distant.

What happened that night traumatized him. He was shot in the shoulder and pursued by Mr. X, narrowly escaping death. You were with Claire most of the time because Leon thought you would be safe with her. He never told you exactly what happened, but you knew him. He changed.

Sometimes, he would wake up screaming, scared, and desperately searching for you, just to ensure your safety and well-being. You would calm him down, talk to him, and help him understand that you are safe and that nothing is real. In the mornings, you would wake him up with breakfast in bed and tend to his wound - which later turned out to be a scar. It was a sorrowful memento of that evening.

Two weeks before Leon left the house, you discovered that you were expecting a baby.

This wasn't exactly what you both wanted, and at first, Leon was mesmerized by the idea of becoming a father, but he was also very scared. Suddenly, he wanted to be at home with you instead of going to this training camp, just like you wanted him to stay. But Leon didn't have a choice. You watched him leave, and something inside your chest told you that this would be the last time you would see this version of Leon, the rookie cop you had fallen in love with.

When he returned home, he was bigger than you had remembered.

His muscles had doubled in size, and he was much stronger, completely different from when he left. His eyes, however, remained the same. It was your Leon, the same man you had met before the apocalypse. When he saw your baby bump and realized it was his child inside, he cried. You had a baby shower, but you didn't know the gender of your baby - you wanted Leon to be a part of everything. So, one week after he returned home, the two of you got married in a beautiful, intimate, and small ceremony. Claire and Chris were in attendance - Chris being Claire's older brother - and you and Leon quickly became friends with him.

Your family lived in another country, and you had no contact with them. You were on your own, and you were glad to have him by your side.

At the end of the year, your twins were born, and Leon was there to witness the childbirth. His eyes were shining just like they did when you both first met. Her name was Olivia. Leon loved that name, and she had her father's eyes and the same blond hair. The other twin was named Jake, and he had your hair and Leon's eyes. Both Olivia and Jake were copies of Leon, and he was proud of them. After the first few weeks, he took care of all the chores around the house and looked after you, Olivia, and Jake. He always said, "You shouldn't worry about that anymore."

But sometimes, he was very scared of someone trying to hurt the three of you. So, he asked to move somewhere else, and suddenly, you didn't have to worry about work or money anymore. He provided everything you needed, and he would move mountains to ensure the security of his loved ones.

The year was now 2002.

He had to leave for a mission with Major Jack Krauser. You stayed at home with your twins and were aided by Claire because they would cause you a lot of trouble. Of course, Leon's job was dangerous, but he always managed to call you and the kids. He never used his ring while on duty and had no pictures of his family with him, afraid that someone would find them and harm the babies. You can be sure that no one at the agency knew he was married and a father of two.

To be honest, you didn't care. You knew that after the incident in Raccoon City, your family meant everything to him, and he would do whatever it took to keep all of you safe. Leon was broken inside, but now he had found a new sense of purpose. He loved all three of you more than anything in the world, and when he returned from the operation, he embraced the twins and showered all of you with affection. Something happened there, but you decided not to ask.

For the twins' 4th birthday, you set a small party for a few friends.

Claire and Chris were there, as always, along with a few of your friends. The barbecue was filled with love and happiness, and yet, you noticed Leon's eyes shining once more. A little reminder that life could be peaceful sometimes, without the horrors of one's job. You would look at him, with all his glorious features kissed by the sun. The way his eyes shine with happiness. He was so beautiful. You felt so lucky.

Olivia was definitely her dad's girl. She loved running into his arms and staying there. She loved it when Leon played with her or bathed her. Jake, however, was more of a momma's boy. Of course, he loved being with his father, but he preferred being with you. They used to sleep together and be each other's best friends until that day arrived.

They were growing up, and now they wanted separate rooms. They would fight sometimes, and Leon was always the reasonable person who would calm them both. He would always talk to them instead of doing something else, and occasionally, on very rare occasions, he would ground the twins.

You knew that your husband was happy with his life. It made him forget about Raccoon City. It helped him heal.

Things couldn't be better for your family. The twins were at school. You finally had time for yourself and Leon. Sex was incredible, and occasionally, you would send the children to Claire's so you could reaffirm your connection with your husband. Leon was very submissive, and you enjoyed being in control, making him beg like the obedient boy he was. You ruined him so deeply that you were certain he would never forget it. Even with two children, you still had the power to touch him and drive him crazy.

Until 2004.

“The president's daughter?" you asked him when he dropped the news about his new assignment. "In Spain?"

"Yes, honey. The president doesn't want anyone to know... that's why I'm going alone," Leon sighed, holding your hands. "But I promise I'll be back before you even have a chance to miss me."

"I already miss you," you muttered, which made him smile. His thumb gently pressed against your lips, while his hand firmly held your chin, compelling you to meet his gaze.

"You know I love you more than anything in this world, right?" Leon asked, his voice smooth, husky, and caring. You nodded in response. "I'll be back soon, I promise."

"Well, you better tell the twins. Good luck, Liv is not in the mood today," you said, playfully tapping his shoulder, which caused him to furrow his eyebrows.

"Oh, come on, honey... this is unfair!" Leon protested, but then he laughed, following you to the living room. He called the twins, and Olivia was already sitting on his lap. "Okay, Daddy's gotta go for a few days to fight the bad guys. Behave and don't get into trouble with your mom, or I'll be the one in trouble, okay?"

"Fight the bad guys?" Liv asked, facing her dad while clutching her favorite teddy bear.

"Yes, sweetheart. They need Daddy to fight the bad guys again. There's someone who needs help," Leon explained calmly, while cradling Olivia in his lap.

"Will you be safe?" Jake asked, as he went to sit with his sister on Leon's lap, hugging his dad.

"Always, pumpkin. When I get back home, I promise I'll take a few days off so we can all be together, okay?" Leon smiled at his son.

"Please, get back home safely, Daddy," Olivia said, burying her face in his neck. Her words brought a smile to his face as he hugged the twins.

You had your twins in your arms as the three of you watched Leon leave in the black SUV. As soon as you closed the door, you activated the non-negotiable security system. Leon needed to be sure that you would be safe with the kids, and you knew very well that he wouldn't be able to focus on his job if he had to worry about his family's safety.

"Why does Daddy have to go, Mommy?" Olivia asked, her eyes shining with tears.

"It's his job, sweetie." Sometimes, Daddy needs to save people so he can keep us safe too," you tried to explain in the best way you could. After all, they were only six years old.

"But what if we need him, Mommy?" Jake asked. You touched the tip of his nose, smiling.

"Well, mommy can protect both of you from the bad guys... and we also have Uncle Chris and Auntie Claire who can help if I need assistance," you reassured your twins with a soothing tone of voice.

"I miss him already," Olivia cried, and then you hugged her tightly.

“I know, baby. Mommy misses him too”

It was the middle of the night when you heard someone deactivating the security system and unlocking the door. After three distinct knocks, you knew exactly who it was.

Leon was tired, distressed, and angry all at once. His clothes were dirty, and he felt quite miserable. His entire body was aching, and he couldn't wait to fall asleep in your bed, holding you in his arms. You, on the other hand, turned on the lights in your room and went immediately to meet him.

The moment Leon saw you, he immediately embraced you, his face completely buried in your neck, sending shivers down your spine, despite the difference in height. Your fingers ran through his tousled blonde hair, and for minutes, words were unnecessary. The way he was holding you in his arms made you think that something really bad had happened in Spain.

"Shh, it's okay... you're home, baby," you whispered in his ear, providing some comfort.

"I'm so sorry," Leon said, his voice breaking.

The last time you saw him so fragile, on the verge of tears, was after the incident in Raccoon City. Witnessing him in that state once more filled you with fear. Right after he apologized, for reasons unknown, he started sobbing and crying on your shoulder. Something was not right.

It took 40 long minutes until Leon finally calmed down. Meanwhile, you kept hugging him and reassuring him with calm words that everything was fine and he was safe at home with you. You gently stroked his hair and often traced circles on his back with your finger.

"I never told you why I left... or why I am doing this job," Leon said vaguely, his eyes focused on something else.

"I never told you why I left... or why I am doing this job," Leon said vaguely, his eyes focused on something else.

"Why does this matter now, baby?" you raised your eyebrow, sitting next to him on the sofa.

"It was because of Sherry. Remember that when Claire left to find her brother, and we attempted to locate a rescue but ended up in that government facility?" Leon asked, his gaze still fixed on something else.

The memory was still fresh in your mind. They kept you away from Leon, but they never told you why. After six years, you would have the answers to this issue.

"That day, they started questioning me, and because I possessed the skills they were seeking, they expressed their desire for me to join them. I only managed to get us out of there because of that," Leon says, his eyes cast downward as if he were ashamed. "But the thing is... they never asked me to join them."

You raised your eyebrows again, confused by his sudden revelation. You knew from the beginning that something - or someone - was being used to make him stay. He finally looks at you, his eyes shining with tears once more.

"They forced me. They said they would kill us if I didn't say yes... and I had no other choice. I asked them to leave you out of this, and I would work for them... I just wanted to keep you safe," Leon sobs again, burying his face in his hands, his voice cracking. "But this last mission... God... the things I saw and did..."

You decided to let him vent. Whatever happened, there was enough to break the wall that Leon had built over the past six years. He was finally allowing himself to feel his emotions, and you wouldn't interrupt him.

"These villagers, they were insane. Controlled by a parasite called Las Plagas, they transformed into monstrous creatures, their heads exploding and their forms becoming grotesque." Leon continued to sob, as the memories of the events in Spain flooded back into his mind. "The cult leader also infected me. He almost turned me into his pet, using the plaga inside me to torture and control my body and mind."

And then, he sobbed again. Seeing your husband hurt like that breaks your heart. Since Raccoon City, you have always been the tough one. You never showed any signs of sadness or trauma because you knew Leon needed your support. Eventually, what happened there stays in the past. But for him, it was completely different.

Gently, you embraced him once more, his head resting on your neck and his breath caressing your skin gently. You felt his warm tears on your robe, but this wasn't something that you cared about at the moment.

"I can't fall asleep... I keep seeing those things over and over again. I see Saddler, Mendez, Salazar, and Krauser," Leon sobs one more time, holding you tightly in his arms. You raised your eyebrows, surprised to hear that name after all these years. "He didn't die. He kidnapped Ashley. He was working for them. I had to fight him, I had to kill him."

"Sweetheart, none of this is your fault," you whispered, trying to calm him once more. Your words were full of assurance.

"He tried to kill Luis and me. I felt so betrayed. I thought he had died two years ago... but he was working for Saddler. He died because of power, something so stupid," Leon said, his eyes closed as he replayed everything in his head. "I just can't believe it. I thought it could be different..."

"Well, you brought Ashley home safely. You did it, and then you managed to come home for us too," you smiled kindly, using your thumb to wipe the tears from his face. "You're here with us, safe and sound again."

"I'm so tired, baby," Leon whispered to you, his eyes still closed as he started to calm down again. "It is always the same bullshit”

"I know," you said, taking a deep breath. "But I'm here, and nothing will hurt you."

You noticed a slight smirk on his lips, and both of you remained there for a while.

You knew that his missions left him stressed and tired. Sometimes he would be gone for weeks, and it always made you anxious because you were scared he wouldn't come back. But you knew Leon better than anyone else. He would always come home.

"Daddy!" "Daddy!" Olivia jumped into his arms when she saw him in the kitchen in the morning.

"Good morning, princess," Leon chuckled, holding her in his strong embrace. "Someone missed me, huh?"

"Where's Jake?" you asked Olivia, noticing that her brother didn't come downstairs for breakfast.

"He's in his room, Mommy," Olivia said, hugging Leon tightly. "I told him to come down and see Daddy, but he didn't want to."

"Ok, I'll take care of it," Leon sighs, gently placing Olivia on the ground and kissing you on the forehead.

You smiled and nodded your head. As Leon went to Jake's room, your daughter helped you prepare breakfast. Gently, Leon knocked on Jake's door before entering. He saw his little boy lying on his bed, with his eyes closed. His room was filled with blue adhesive posters, scattered bears, and toys.

"Hey, big boy. What happened?” Leon asked, sitting on the edge of Jake's bed, with his hand on his son's shoulder.

"I had a bad dream," Jake whispered, trying to hide under the blankets.

"A bad dream? Wanna talk about it?" Leon asked again, gently holding Jake's hand and stroking his hair.

"I saw a man hurting you, Daddy... I felt it too," his baby blue eyes then shined with tears.

"Well, Daddy's back home safe and sound, you see? There's nothing to be worried about, okay? While I'm here, no one will hurt you," Leon smiled, his voice calm and soft, as always. "Now, let's go eat breakfast, or your mom will definitely ground us."

Jake nodded smiling and Leon lifted him onto his shoulders. They walked downstairs together for breakfast, with Leon carrying his child. He placed Jake in the chair, sitting between the twins. Olivia and Jake enjoyed their pancakes with juice, while you and Leon had your favorite meal. Such a warm way to welcome him home.

"Daddy, I did something for you," Olivia said. Then, she ran to the living room and returned with a piece of paper. "I was waiting for you to come back."

"This is so beautiful, princess. I loved it," Leon smiled, as he observed the drawing she made of the family. "Thank you, baby girl."

"Jake drew too," you said, noticing that Jake was away. He seemed sad. "Right, baby?"

"Yes, I did," he nodded, then he ate another slice of his pancake. Your shared glance with Leon conveyed what words couldn't.

A few hours later, Olivia and Jake were playing in the garden, while Leon and you were casually lying on the sofa, watching the twins from the window. He was between your legs, and your fingers were gently running through his disheveled hair. His breath was calm, and he appeared tired, but at least he managed to sleep for the rest of the night.

"I'm worried about him," you sighed to Leon, your eyes locked on Jake as he played with his sister.

"Do you think we need therapy?" Leon's eyes met yours as he lifted his head to get a better view.

"I think he misses you, Lee. Let's be honest, Olivia is like your baby girl, and I think Jake feels that you give her too much attention," you said, analyzing the two.

"Right, babe. I'll fix that, I promise," Leon smirks, passionately kissing your hand.

"Take him to a boys' day or something. I'm sure he'll love spending some time with his dad," you suggested, smiling and leaning in to kiss his forehead.

"Alright, I promise I'll spend some time with Jake. I don't want to miss anything," Leon smiled again, then he leaned in to kiss you.

"Ew, that's disgusting!" Olivia shouted. Then, you glanced at your daughter and smiled mischievously at Leon. Both of you then ran after Jake and Olivia, giving them each a kiss.

2006 was a terrible year.

You knew that someday you would have to explain to the twins the true nature of Leon's job. You thought you would have time for it. Instead, his job decided to rush things, and now you have to deal with it alone.

Leon had gone to investigate something in China, and for some reason, you felt uncomfortable with the idea. Since his mission to Spain, he has completely changed again. Of course, you loved spending more time with him, and the twins loved the idea as well, but he seemed a little sad. Every time you tried to talk and understand what was going on, he would shut himself off and change the subject.

Just like what happened after the incident in Raccoon City.

You were at home when you heard about a submarine exploding and rumors circulating about the Chinese being behind the attack. The last time you had actually spoken to Leon, he was on his way to catch a submarine. Your heart sank at the possibility of him being killed, but somehow, you decided to remain positive. Leon would never leave you alone; he always finds a way to come back home.

But then, just as you were about to tell the twins, Leon returned.

This was the first time you had a fight with him. You needed to tell him how distant he was and the fact that he almost died made you freak out. He needed to open his eyes because he had been away from home since Spain, and you were trying everything in your power to make him see what he was losing.

And right after the fight, Leon attempted to reconcile and make amends.

He was more present at home, spending more time with you and the children. He was being more passionate and caring than ever before, treating you in the best way he could. Even so, he still had nightmares. One night, he woke up abruptly, his face and chest drenched in sweat, his breath labored, and his eyes filled with fear and panic.

"Babe, I'm here. It's okay, it wasn't real. It was only a bad dream," you said soothingly, hugging him tightly and stroking his hair to provide comfort.

"Shit... I-I can't sleep," he muttered, trying to catch his breath. He was very scared.

"Take a few deep breaths with me," you said, placing your hand on his chest and feeling his rapid heartbeat. Leon held your hand for support, to confirm that it was indeed real.

He never told you what his nightmare was about. You attempted to engage in conversation with him, but he mentioned something about terror and fear, implying that it would be better to avoid discussing it. Eventually, after a few weeks, he told you about Jason and what had happened in China. If Jason wanted to scare him, he successfully did that.

You hated Jason more than ever.

After the events of the Eastern Slav Civil War in 2011, Leon decided to quit USSTRATCOM for good. He told you what happened there and expressed his disgust towards the current government. He expressed his anger and stress by fucking you forcefully. Thankfully, the twins were at Claire's, so they couldn't hear your pornographic moans.

Now, he was working for DSO, and he seemed happy.

It was a very peculiar routine. Leon was called during a family quality time and was gone for weeks. When he returned, he would be exhausted to the core, stressed, and angry. The only way to relieve his tension was by using your gentle touch.

Jake and Olivia were at an age where they enjoyed spending time with friends. You didn't mind letting Olivia go to her best friend's house for a sleepover while Jake had fun with his own group. And when you had the house all to yourself, Leon would not only find a good massage but also the perfect stress relief.

"Beg to come, my good boy," you teased, slowing down your hands on his erect penis.

"P-please... let me cum, please,” he moaned so loudly that you knew your neighbors would hear him pleading with you. "F-fuck, I can't take it anymore."

"Again," you demanded, smiling teasingly as you continued to move your hand slowly. You watched as he desperately tried to find some friction, lifting his hips into your hand.

"Please, let me cum, babe,” he whined aloud, tears streaming down his cheeks as he gripped the sheets beneath him, burying his head in the pillow and closing his eyes. “Pleasepleaseplease I'll be your good boy.”

"The light is green," you whispered in his ear, biting his earlobe. With the trigger words, Leon released himself into your hands, emitting a loud moan that left you satisfied with your performance. His body jerks with the sudden release of pleasure, and he tries to catch his breath again.

“I love you,” he says. 

It was 2013, and you were at home, focusing on your paperwork for DSO since your children were teenagers, and you had time to work again. Jake was at soccer practice, Olivia was with her friends at the theater extra class, and you were alone with Cookie, the stray black and white cat that Leon adopted a few months ago. 

Suddenly, you heard the news about President Benford being killed. At the same time, someone called you. It was Hunnigan. 

She told you Leon was accused of killing the president while on a mission with Helena Harper from the CIA, and he was apparently MIA. You fell onto the couch, your heart beating faster inside your chest. You knew Leon would never betray his own country like that. Not only that, but you knew him better than anyone else. You knew what was about to happen. Immediately, you went to pick up the twins, driving them home in such a hurry that they didn’t understand what was going on. 

“Mom, is there something wrong with dad?” Jake asked, checking his phone with a worried expression. “The president died? Is all over the news” 

“I’ll explain when we get back home” You sighed heavily, your heart beating faster and your hands shaking completely. 

“Is he okay?” Olivia glanced at you, trying to find any assurance. In response, you just bite your lip. 

You said nothing. When you parked in front of your house, you took the twins inside in such a hurry that they started to get anxious. They could definitely tell something was wrong. You closed the curtains and checked the entire place, and when you found nothing, you finally relaxed. 

“Your dad went on a meeting with the president earlier, but I don’t know what went wrong, but he had to kill the president,” you finally said, after sitting with the twins on the sofa. Olivia gasped in shock as Jake remained with his Stoic expression, just like his father. “And at the moment, he’s missing in action” 

If you could protect your children from the truth and the whole world, you would without hesitation. The look of sadness on their faces, the way they leaned in for your support — it all broke your heart. Olivia was crying quietly, Jake was in shock, and once more, it was your responsibility to be the tough one. 

The three of you remained in the living room as your embrace protected the twins, giving them the comfort they needed. At any time, you knew you would receive secret agents at your door, but you had no patience to deal with them. Deep down, you knew that Leon was alive. He needed to be. 

But eventually, after a few days, you started to question if he really died. The twins were at home with you, as you decided to keep them at home after being dismissed from class due to personal reasons. The house, once full of laughs, jokes, and love, was now silent and cold. You were dead worried, waiting for any sign or call from Leon or Hunnigan. Olivia barely left her room, and Jake tried to stay positive, giving you the support you also needed. 

Until he crossed the door. 

The moment Leon walked inside the house, it was like he brought back the light. It was like the missing piece had finally found its way back. Olivia and Jake jumped on him, and for a very long time, tears and sobs were the only symphony inside the place. You were looking at him like he was your sun, the warmth and kindness that always finds a way to melt your heart. He glances at you, and he smiles.

He opens his arms, and when he embraces you, this is exactly where he needs to be.

“I had no other choice. He got infected,” Leon later said, when the four of you were having a family quality time. “And Simmons tried to blame me to cover up for his crimes”

“But you got him, right?” Jake asked, eating his popcorn and focusing his attention on his father.

“Well, kiddo, if I didn’t, I would be dead by now.” Leon chuckles, stroking your hand as you lay comfortably on his chest, smiling.

“Why do you keep doing this, dad?” Olivia asked, sighing. Leon hesitated for a moment. This was a subject never spoken in your family.

“Back in 1998, right after I met your mom, I had recently graduated from the Police Academy, and your mom was about to start as an intern. We decided to move to Raccoon City so we could start a life together, but one week before, I got a call telling me I shouldn’t go. I don’t know why I ignored that call, but we went anyway.” Leon sighed, his eyes looking somewhere else. He never liked talking about Raccoon City. “When we arrived, the city was drowned in chaos, death, and zombies. It was a living nightmare. But at least we met Claire and Sherry, a little girl who was alone. We managed to survive the night, barely escaping the city. The entire city was wiped away the next morning, and when we tried to find a rescue, we ended up in a government facility. I made a deal that day in exchange for keeping your mom and Sherry safe, I joined their top-secret program. One week before I left, your mom told me she was pregnant"

Both Olivia and Jake were surprised to hear about the incident. Sure, everyone knew, but knowing their parents were there and somehow survived was very different. Now, at least, they knew the true nature of Leon’s job and why he did what he did. But, the most important thing in the world, they knew Leon would do everything in his power to keep his family safe.

One year later, in 2014, however, things turned unexpectedly.

Leon decided to go on a vacation in the Rocky Mountains in Colorado after his entire team was killed by a mole. He drowned himself in alcohol, and he clearly was struggling with depression. After everything he went through, he was losing himself again. It was morning when you woke up alone in the hotel room, his side cold and empty. His blonde hair was now dark, he had a beard growing up, and his eyes weren’t shining like usual.

You found him already drinking his sorrows away.

“Babe, you can’t keep doing this to yourself,” you sighed, sitting on his side, holding his hand and squeezing it softly.

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this anymore.” Leon muttered, his eyes focused on his own drink and avoiding your gaze. “I had to watch them die… I had to shoot them in the morgue. I lost them all”

“And do you think drinking heavily will ease the pain, Lee? You can’t bring them back, and I know it hurts, but this wasn’t your fault. You tried, I know you did… but sometimes things don’t happen the way we want them to happen,” you sighed again, still holding his hand.

He was shattered inside. Losing his entire team in front of his eyes made him regret every decision he ever made. He was disgusted by himself and found solace in alcohol, which you hated.

“It's a little bit early to be that deep in the bottle, Leon,” you heard Chris say, getting closer with Rebecca.

You smirk, and Leon sighs. He’s going again on a new mission.

When he came back from this mission with Chris, he seemed different. Although his arm seemed to be hurt, he was acting differently. Whatever happened between him and Chris, it worked to make him open his eyes. He enjoyed the rest of his vacation, cutting out alcohol permanently and spending more time with his family. 

He eventually told you about Arias and what happened in New York. Likewise, he told you about Maria. 

Leon was, again, healing. It was a very slow process, but he had his family to remind him that life could be beautiful and happy. He had you by his side, and even after sixteen years since Raccoon City, he was still alive, and nothing bad really happened to you or the twins. Now, he was making his dad jokes again, laughing and smiling more than ever. His presence at home was more frequent, and he definitely decided to stay more with you. 

On the weekends, he would take you and the twins to some random beach, have a picnic, or go camping outside. The family portraits were happier than the previous ones, and slowly, he was starting to show the first signs of his age hitting him. His body wasn’t the same as before, but you didn’t care. To you, he would always be the Leon you met in his 20s. 

A year later, everything was normal again. 

“Ok, slow down. I know you want to go see this prison, but I’m not Flash!” You shouted at Jake while he was speaking aloud about Alcatraz. “Liv, are you ready?”

“Mom, why do you keep treating me like I’m a baby?” Jake rolled his eyes, finally meeting you in the living room, his phone on his left ear. 

“Well, you might be sixteen, but you’re still my baby.” You teased him by kissing his forehead. 

You drove to get the boat to Alcatraz Island because Jake had been asking you for the entire month. He had this history project, and since you were the cool parent, you decided to take him and Olivia on a small trip to the island because Leon was too busy at work, and you wanted to enjoy San Francisco since their vacation was ending. 

But something went wrong. 

You three were at the cell block when everyone started to scream and run. You grabbed Jake and Olivia by their hands and entered one of the cells, locking it. Whatever was happening, their safety was your priority. You took a gun from your purse, ready to keep your children safe. 

“Mom… I-I don’t feel good,” Jake muttered, sliding against the walls. He was pale and sweating, and his breath was very shallow. 

“What happened, baby? What's wrong?” You asked desperately, trying to find any sign of a bite or any other wound. “Are you hurt? Olivia, help me lay him in bed"

But then the same thing happened to Olivia. You were desperate, and their phones were missing. Now, they were struggling against something you couldn’t know what it was, and there was no way to call for help. You sat with them, stroking their heads and whispering soothing words, fighting to keep tears in your eyes. You saw a blonde woman standing on the other side, half of her face covered by her own hair. She watched you with an awful smirk and disdain.

“Who are you?” you asked, your hand slightly reaching your gun.

“I’m the one who will make your husband pay for killing my father,” the mysterious blonde said angrily. “I’ll make him watch your children rip you apart and see him kill everything he loves. And then I’ll make him suffer”

“You’re stupid to think he’ll fall for that,” you said, smiling, but deep down, you knew you were scared. “He’ll beat the living shit out of you just because you thought you could harm us”

She smirks.

“Yeah, if I were you, I’d be worrying about my own skin by now”

“Well, if you think I’ll leave my children alone, you’re wrong. You better find Leon before I find you, because no one fucks with my family and gets away with it,” you threatened with cold, dead eyes, and she seemed to back off.

“Badass, mom,” Jake smirks, holding your hand tight.

“Don’t worry, sweetie. Dad’s coming,” you whispered to the twins softly.

You had no idea how she found out about your family, but this wasn’t important at the moment. You had calmed them both, knowing they were struggling with the infection. Seeing them suffer made you angry, and whoever she was, you would go after her and make her pay for hurting your babies. You had no notion of time, but you heard someone. It was Chris and Claire, they were also infected. You hated being the one spared, but you knew you were running out of time.

“Are you guys okay?” You asked both Chris and Claire, hearing them groan in pain.

“Yeah… how about the kids?” Chris asked you back, followed by a groan.

“They’re infected…” you sighed. “I don’t know, it happened quick”

You heard a loud thud. Two people were walking inside the cell block, and then you heard him scream your name, running immediately to you. Desperation floated in his eyes as he saw his twins.

“Babe, are you okay? Are you hurt?” Leon asked with desperation in his voice. He managed to open the cell, hugging you tight. “What happened to the twins?”

“That little bitch infected them,” you muttered, kneeling next to Olivia.

“Maria? Where is she?” Leon asked again, holding Jake in his lap. “Hold on, big boy. Daddy's here”

“Dad… it hurts,” Jake hissed, closing his eyes. Olivia reached for his hand, trying to squeeze it.

“I know, but I need you to hang on just a little bit. I promise I’ll take you home safe,” Leon said, stroking Jake’s hair and, with his other hand, holding Olivia’s.

As soon as Rebecca arrived, she injected the vaccine into the twins, Chris and Claire. Jill had to leave to face Dylan by herself. It was time to end this. As soon as the twins recovered from the infection, you sat next to them with a serious look on your face.

“I need you two to go with Claire and Rebecca. Jake, you need to protect your sister, okay? I’m counting on you two,” you said to them. “Me and Dad will be back for you when we finish. Go, now!” As they leave with Claire and Rebecca, you take your gear.

“You look so sexy when you’re angry,” Leon teased as you two walked to the armory room.

“Keep teasing me like that, and I’ll have to teach you a lesson” You wink at him, which makes him giggle.

Maria was waiting for both of you in the armory room. After an intense fight, Leon managed to kick her, impaling her into some broken metal pipes. She looked at you, and you leaned closer, pointing your gun into her head.

“I told you. No one fucks with my family,” you hissed angrily, right before she dropped dead on the floor.

Alcatraz was a terrible experience. Leon had his face almost purple after being beaten up by Maria, and the twins were exhausted. At least your family is intact again. You were with Rebecca, Chris, Claire, Jill, and Leon outside. He seemed distressed, so you hugged him tightly, kissing his shoulder gently.

“I almost lost them,” he said, looking at the twins laughing with Chris. “And you”

“We’re here,” you said to him, looking into his blue eyes and placing your cheek peacefully on his shoulder.

“I’ll quit.” Leon looks at you. “I’m coming home, and I’ll never leave you again”

You smiled, holding his hand. No matter what happens, at the end of the day, Leon always comes home.

[sunshine-theseus]

Apple and Chocolate Muffins | Katie McCabe x Reader

Words: 1.9k Summary: owning a café apparently brings you the girl of your dreams Warnings: fluff

Having your own little book café on a corner of a small street in St Albans, London, brings you things you’d never expect.

I’d first bought the place from an older lady, Ms Nelson, who sold antiques. She’d decided she wanted to spend whatever time she had left travelling. She tried to simply give it to me, but I couldn’t accept and ended up paying her half of what was listed.

She likes to send me post cards whenever she’s about to leave a place. I put the most recent on display on the counter and the rest go in an antique memento box she gifted me before she left.

Ms Nelson also introduced me to my best friend Juniper, one of her old workers who helps run the place now.

“3 years here and you still refuse to tell me what your special recipe is. Whyyy?” Juniper’s favourite item, was my special apple and chocolate muffins. It was an item I refused to take off no matter how many times we changed the menu.

“They wouldn’t be a secret then would they June?”

“But I’m your best friend. And I need these in my life daily.”

“I literally make an extra 3, every night, just for you.”

The ringing of the bell on the door stops her from retaliating, and I approach the counter while June finally makes an order for Mr Byrne, one of our regulars.

“Welcome to the Inkwell Café! What can I get you?” I look at the customer, but my breath gets caught in my throat.

It’s like the Gods just sent down and angel to derail my day. Her eyes were a greyish blue and her skin was sun kissed, freckles scattering her cheeks. And her arms… well fuck me.

“Hello?” I hadn’t even realised I’d stopped paying attention until she waves a hand in front of my face.

“S- sorry could you repeat that?” I let out a nervous chuckle, but she just smiles a magnificent smile.

She starts listing off an order and I momentarily get caught off by her Irish accent, but I manage to take down the 3 different drinks. I’m about to tell her the total when she stops me again.

“Oh! And can I get one of those apple and chocolate muffins? Jonas is going to kill me, but I hear they’re worth it.” I give her a confused look.

“My friend Steph, she comes here once a month as a treat and raves about it at training.” Training?

“Oh! Well, here’s an extra one for her! For free of course. What’s the name for the order?”

“Katie”

“It will be ready soon.” I flash a smile before going to make the coffees.

June comes out of nowhere.

“Why is Katie fucking McCabe in here?” she whispers into my ear.

“Who?”

“Katie McCabe. One of the best Arsenal players ever? Captain for the Republic of Ireland Women’s National Football team? How do you not know her? I talk about Arsenal all the time. They literally train right down the road.” I stare blankly back at her.

“How did she even find us? You don’t casually find this café on your way to work.”

“She said her friend Steph comes here, told her about it.”

“Steph Cately!? I’ve never seen Steph Cately walk through those doors.”

“…Who? And you do tend to not pay attention.” Juniper just groans and I finish making the coffees.

“Katie!” as I give her the drinks, her hand brushes against my own. Tingles run up my arm, but I bid her adieu with a small smile and wave.

~~~~~

Katie begins coming in every Tuesday and Friday, and we slowly get to know each other while Juniper freaks out in the corner. Or sometimes Katie liked to just sit and read in a corner for whatever time she had before she left for training. Either way it was nice.

She loved telling me about her younger sister Lauryn who was on her way to joining Katie on their senior national team, and her crazy encounters on the pitch during games. I tell her about how and why I decided to open a book café and retell the stories Ms Nelson sends me. I also desperately try to repress all my feelings for the Irish angel that blessed my shop every week.

I also find out who Steph is. A very nice Australian woman, who does in fact come in once a month for the Apple and Chocolate muffin. I get to know her a bit too, but she usually grabs her muffin and something for her fiancée and leaves.

The first time Katie misses a Tuesday is 4 months after her first visit. I’m disappointed but don’t think much of it until she doesn’t show up on Friday, or either day the week following. That’s when I decide to visit their training ground, obviously dragging June along to do any talking, to see if I can figure out what happened.

I don’t think about how weird it is until Juniper pulls me out of the car in front of their training centre at 9am on Friday after hurriedly closing the café. And a promise for a free coffee to everyone we had to kick out.

“June this was stupid, this is something you do, not me. Why didn’t you talk me out of it.”

“I’m about to meet the whole Arsenal team just because your huge crush failed to come for her regular coffee a few times.”

“But like it is weird she just stopped coming so abruptly, right? Like we were getting along.”

“I mean sure, but you didn’t freak out like this when Mickie stopped coming. And it took us another six months to find out she’d moved to fucking Glasgow.”

“We should leave shouldn’t we.”

I turn around to head back to the car right as we’re about to enter the reception but come face to face with a slightly shorter brunette. One I’ve seen the face of in some recent team photo Katie had shown me, but was otherwise completely unfamiliar.

“Are you trying to get in? The door can be a little tricky sometimes.” How many Australians did they have here?

“Oh no-“

“Yes! We’re friends of Katie; Y/n and Juniper, and we haven’t seen her in a few weeks. We were hoping to catch her.”

“Oh! I think she’s shown us a picture of you actually! She talks about you both quite a bit. I’m Kyra by the way.”

“I know.”

“Nice to meet you.” I talk over Juniper and hold out a hand for Kyra to shake.

“Well, I’m not quite sure why she hasn’t come to see you, but I can bring you back to the locker room, you’ll just need to fill some forms out probably.” She’s already leading us to the front desk before I can deny her offer.

 Not 5 minutes later Kyra is happily dragging us to the locker room, and I can see Juniper skipping next to me, clearly excited.

“Dude you’ve gotta calm down.” I whisper to her.

“More like you need to stop being so uptight. Kyra Cooney-Cross is literally leading us to the whole Arsenal women’s team.”

“McCaaaabe! Someone’s here to see yoouuu.” Kyra calls out as soon as she opens the door.

“It’s not my bloody mum again is it? I swear she decides to come surprise me far too often.”

I peak out from behind Kyra and give a small wave.

“Hiii” I say meekly as Juniper jumps into talking to her favourite players.

“What are you doing here?” Katie gives me a quick hug.

“Well, you kinda stopped showing up and I just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

“Oh, y- yeah. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. I just, I started getting feelings for you and freaked out and thought that cutting you off would help.”

“Y- you like me?”

“Yeah. Like a lot. I obviously totally understand you don’t like me back.” She lets out a sigh and looks at her boots.

“Shh shoosh shut up.” I place my fingers under her chin and tilt her head up.

It was hard to escape the doom of falling in love with Katie McCabe. Her eyes were the perfect shade of blue, her lips the softest of pinks, her freckles like the stars. She had the kindest of hearts and the most beautiful laugh. A creation made by Aphrodite herself.

“I really like you too.” And her lips are softer than you could imagine as she presses her’s hard against my own.

We’re broken apart by an array of whistles and shouts from Juniper and Katie’s teammates and I hide my flushed face in her neck.

“I can’t believe we finally get to meet the girl Katie hasn’t shut up about for like 4 months.” Alessia Russo, one player I am familiar with, comments from across the room.

“You talk about me?” I poke her in the side.

“Y/n you can’t talk you literally don’t shut up about Katie. ‘Oh my god she’s sooo funny and pretty.’”

“Bro what the fuck? That was a secret you were meant to take to your grave.” Juniper simply shrugs.

“As much as I want to stay and tease you about how much you talk about me, and kiss you, we do unfortunately have training.” Katie pouts as she hugs me.

“Oh! Before I forget. I brought you an apple and chocolate muffin.” I pull the baked good from my bag and hand it to her.

“Fuuuck yees! You are literally the best person ever. I need to know your recipe so bad.”

“Mmmm maybe I could teach you how to make them. Tonight, at the café?”

“I’VE BEEN ASKING FOR THAT RECIPE FOR 3 FUCKING YEARS AND YOU’RE GOING TO JUST HAND IT OVER TO HER?” Juniper’s outburst makes the room erupt in giggles.

“How about for your birthday?” She nods solemnly and begins to say goodbye to the other girls as they begin to head out to the pitch for training.

I turn back to Katie.

“I’ll see you tonight…” She leans up and kisses me one more time.

“Girlfriend.” She leaves before I can reply, and I’m left to giggle as Juniper drives us back to the café, to reluctantly reopen for the rest of the day.

~~~~~

The clock shows 6:13 and I begin to think Katie flaked, but right as I’m packing up the ingredients, the bell rings and in rushes a flushed, panting, Katie McCabe.

“I’m so… sorry! Caitlin could only… drop me… a few blocks away… so I had to… run.” She pants out.

“It’s ok.” I peck her on the cheek and take her coat, then offer her some water which she sculls down.

We spend hours baking and messing around. Mostly kissing.

~~~~~

Another 6 months pass before Katie and I decide to move in together in a small apartment down the street from the café.

She now helps me bake my apple and chocolate muffins once a week, insisting she has to always be in a simple cropped singlet after I had made a comment about how good her arms looked when she mixes the batter.

There was something so domestic about baking together that made it hard not to just scream to the world how much I loved the woman. Instead, I stick to wrapping my arms around her waist and whispering it in her ear, periodically kissing her while she cuts the apples or mixes whatever needs mixing.

I can’t wait to tell Ms Nelson her apple and chocolate muffins brought me the most beautiful girl in the world. She and her wife have been begging for a new post card.

[queenphanessa]

Hi, I hope you're having a good day! ^-^

Can I request Arlecchino x Fem!Reader? Maybe suggestive fluff where she gets possessive and does marking/biting on reader?

Note: Thank you! I hope you're having a good day too! I'm sorry I took a while with this! 😭 I hope you like it!

The Knave was not an easily troubled woman. If she can weather foes, her workload as a Harbinger, the rowdy orphans under her care, and her own irksome colleagues, then something like a few unworthy eyes gazing upon you was nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

From her room at Hotel Debord, she looked out her window and saw you. You were so cute with the way you were indulging in your pastime of observing some clockwork meka on this hot sunny day, smiling as they delicately served you macarons that had been provided by the President of Spina Di Rosula.

Speaking of the president, she sure had an eye for fashion, didn't she? Thanks to her, you were adorned in a frilly corset top and a skirt that barely came above your knees. You were nothing but sweet smiles and giggles as Navia posed with you—standing a bit too close to you for Arlecchino's liking, but she deemed her to be harmless—while one of her bodyguards took a picture of you both.

Yes, you were indeed a lovely sight. And it seemed that numerous onlookers thought so as well. Those at the nearby cafe drank you in along with their coffee and people who were in the process of making wishes at the fountain paid no mind to the coins that were carelessly slipping from their fingers as they leered at you. Arlecchino followed the direction of their gazes—only a few of them for the sake of her mood—and realized they were paying close attention to the swell of your chest that your top accentuated and generous sight of your luscious thighs that came into view as you walked to share treats with Spina Di Rosula's president. You certainly were a feast for the eyes.

But a feast that only her eyes were worthy of devouring.

Later that evening, you went to her hotel room to visit her. Being seen visiting a Harbinger at night might cause some whispers, but your beloved was set to leave Fontaine first thing in the morning, so you just had to get as much time with her in as possible.

The second you went through the door, a familiar set of blackened arms snaked around your waist, pulling you into a tight embrace.

"Darling, welcome." The Knave wasted no time. She was quick to lock the door behind you before returning her attention to you and peppering your neck with kisses. "You enjoyed yourself today, no?" She toyed with the frills of your top, twirling them around her finger until it was pressed against where your nipple was. "I simply adore your new outfit."

"O-Oh, yes..." You couldn't help but stutter when she got touchy like this. "Miss Navia has been very kind to me."

Arlecchino hummed thoughtfully. "Perhaps a little too kind." She gave your top a little tug. "It's a lovely outfit she put you in, but it's much too enchanting. Something like this," she tugged harder, exposing one of your breasts and cupping it in her hand, prompting a small squeak from you, "should be illegal to be seen by eyes other than my own." Marveling in the flustered state she put you in, she slowly dragged her tongue along your neck, before biting down. "In Fontaine's land of ludicrous laws, that shouldn't be out of place, right?" The following morning, Arlecchino had already left Hotel Debord and you were left alone in bed with the sheets wrapped around your naked body in lieu of her loving arms.

But it wasn't as if she had left you without any... "mementos".

When you woke up, the first thing you did was head to the bathroom. And there you saw them and were reminded of the Knave's seldom seen mischievous side.

Where kisses once graced your neck lay a trail of bite marks with the Knave's favorite shade of lipstick, going from your neck, your collarbone, and even to your breasts.

Of course, the thighs that Arlecchino always gave her affection to were not missed. Not a single place on your thighs was left without a bite mark with special attention having been given to your inner thighs. On her way back to Snezhnaya, Arlecchino received word from one of her informants in Fontaine that her lover was quite flustered and indignant to the point of angrily shouting her name.

All Arlecchino could do was chuckle and look forward to the next time she would mark her territory.

[ttinygoldenbird]

Athena "Thea" Second

My Our Life: Now and Forever MC!

Here's what feels like a very long ramble! (even wrote in a very professional way with proper capitalization n everything, lol)

I'm very fond of this lil character I've created for a game series that I cherish dearly <3

-- Step one ✩ ° 。⋆⸜ 

Pronouns: she/her

Nickname: Thea

10 years old and left handed

She has a scar on her neck that travels down to her collarbone but that part’s not really visible. She got it from an accident/clumsy moment before she moved. Now she tries her best not to get hurt.

She has two moles/beauty marks! One under her right eye and the other above her left eyebrow which she loves a lot. They’re like small stars that she gets to keep for herself (aw, my heart).

Star gazer, star lover, star admirer. Writes tiny love letters to the moon. Will absolutely point out and ramble about star constellations at any given time (Her favorite is Orion!) While she's a star and moon admirer by night she becomes a forest gremlin by day. UNTIL it's time for school and she’s suddenly quiet as a mouse.

Loves a bit of academic validation. Feels like she has to be the smartest she can be—to her, she has a pretty big namesake to live up to!

Owns a skateboard and feels like the coolest kid every time she rides it.

It didn’t rain a lot back where the Second’s used to live so! Anytime it rains in Golden Grove, and she’s able to take some time to herself, Athena will go outside, sit curled under her umbrella, and watch the rain blur the forest around her. This becomes a tradition and her very own act of self-love over the years.

She’s quite confident in how she views herself and doesn’t shy away from expressing her thoughts and feelings. She’s very vocal in letting Qiu and Tamarack know how much she appreciates them but she’s not afraid to join in on some teasing. Most importantly, she likes to make her loved ones feel loved!

Starts ice skating classes which she absolutely loves!

First time she met Qiu and Tamarack she whispered, “pretty” without even realizing it. They’re the prettiest people she’s ever met besides her mom.

Attached to Tamarack’s hip and she becomes her first BFF! However, at first she was unsure if Tamarack was genuine because of how many compliments she gave. That changed really quickly after they talked in her backyard after the first day of school. Forest gremlin buddies for life!

Admires Qiu like a lot. Except after learning how popular Qiu was on the first day of school, she develops a small amount of doubt on if they genuinely liked her as a friend. That worry washes away really quickly though!

Wants some stability in her life so moving to Golden Grove is troubling at first until she realizes she never has to move again then she falls in love with her new home.

She’s never felt a desire to meet her biological father because in her mind it’s always been her and her mom since forever. Why does she need to care about this silent figure? However, she does feel self-conscious whenever it’s brought up to other people because she never knows how they’ll react. It became a topic of teasing/judgement back in her old hometown.

She absolutely loves that she looks just her mom. And as far as she cares to know, the color of her eyes is the only thing she has in common with this unknown father figure. And right now? She’s not a fan of them. It’s a feature of herself that she’ll have to learn to love as she grows older.

-- Step two ✩ ° 。⋆⸜

Pronouns: she/her (?)

Still sometimes goes by Thea!

Age 14 and has grown quite tall.

Athena gathers any mementos from each season that she finds most beautiful. Such as, a flower from the first bloom of spring or a striking red leaf from autumn. They’re pressed and kept in a journal with the year and season written in the corner. Sometimes she keeps them because they remind her of Qiu and Tamarack…ohh what’s this feeling?

Still writes and whispers all her secrets to the moon.

Still in love with the stars and moon, skateboards, ice skating, and now takes pottery lessons!

Coffee becomes a staple in her life because she doesn’t know what a good sleep schedule is anymore. Too many late nights spent studying or watching the moon and stars.

Regularly has nail painting sessions with Qiu. Sometimes they even match each other! When she got her new ear piercings, Qiu went with her and got their own piercings

Listens to Tamarack practice her cello any chance she gets. It’s truly magical and if she could, she’d listen forever.

Believes it’s her duty to keep the neighbor trio together forever so the falling out between Qiu and Tamarack is a difficult thing for her. Qiu and Tamarack are her BEST FRIENDS! They can't Not like each other!

Still strives for academic success and validation (Look out she might burn out!)

Will absolutely give a big wholesome or cheesy smile every time for pictures even with her new braces.

She’s a creature of habit at heart so she likes things that are constant. Like her star earrings, gold colored sweaters, and favorite outdoor jacket. Though some things change like ooh new ear piercings! One summer she even dyes her hair a dark navy blue color to be a lil spontaneous! But soon wants her cranberry hair back. Her friendship with Tamarack is perfect to get her outside of her comfort zone that’s never negative.

She’s a pillar of support for her two best friends. Always willing to listen to any worries or problems. And while she keeps a lot to herself now, she will still open up if asked.

She’s always had a steady amount of confidence in herself but at 14 it starts to waver. She’s desperate to find a balance in how she views herself. Especially seeing Qiu experience a journey with their identity and becoming a little jealous of Tamarack’s femininity. Very complicated feelings that are hard to express and she’s always had an answer but now nothing’s clear.

Continues to be very close with her mom. Now that’s she older she’s starting to see her as a friend too! She tells her everything except her struggles with her identity. She needs to find the answer on her own (but oh, Thea, you can lean on the ones who love you!)

So far, I haven't thought too much on who Thea will develop a crush on, but it might start late step 2 or step 3! But, once she realizes she has a crush/likes another person, she doesn’t know what to do. She’s always watched her mom remain independent and she wants to be just like her mom so why does she have silly feelings about romance all of a sudden? There’s a lot to unpack with this one so that’s saved for step 3 Athena! Poor babes </3

And here’s some extra silly pictures that I think represent Athena pretty well!

[jrow]

May Prompts (30)

Day 29 here. Start from the beginning here. Day 31 here.

Journey

He looks up the stairs and thinks about the journey that brought him here.

He was always going to end up back at 221b, wasn’t he?

Something Sherlock said yesterday has stuck with him. I wasn’t even in the story until you came along.

And maybe that’s true for the both of them. Maybe the story—the journey—didn’t begin until he climbed these 17 steps for the first time.

No, that’s not quite right. Maybe it began when Mike spotted him in Russel Square.

Maybe it doesn’t really matter when it began at all. Maybe all that matters is that this is where it continues.

He used to see his life in black and white. Right and wrong. Triumphs and regrets. It was a foolish and simplistic way of viewing the world. He finally understands that he is allowed to feel many things at once. He is allowed to remember those early days with Sherlock fondly while still recognizing the period as one where his demons were left to fester and grow. He is allowed to wish Sherlock hadn’t jumped while still recognizing Rosie as a gift and someone he could never live without. He is allowed to feel sorrow that Mary died while simultaneously feeling incredible joy that he has a future with Sherlock.

To ignore the good is to ignore the bad and vice versa. It’s all a part of his story.

He looks down at the box he’s carrying. It’s filled with a random documents and mementos that he didn’t trust to the movers that Mycroft booked (who are all dressed in suits and look suspiciously like agents that must have far better things to be doing). Some of the contents are from this story—Rosie’s birth certificate, his wedding album, newspaper clippings of early cases with Sherlock—but others are from another life. His mother’s favourite necklace, that friendship bracelet Harry gave him when he was 8, his army ID discs and medals.

Rosie bounds into the doorway at the top of stairs. Her face is covered in jam and he can see a glob in her hair. Definitely a bath night. “Coming Daddy?” she asks, but doesn’t wait for answer before disappearing back into the flat. Their flat.

“John?” he hears Sherlock yell. “Errr, there may have been an incident with your toaster. It looks worse than it is.”

Maybe this isn’t the continuation of a story at all. Maybe it’s the start of a new one.

“I’m coming, loves,” he says quietly, even though he knows they can’t hear him.

He takes the first step.

@keirgreeneyes @raina-at @totallysilvergirl @meetinginsamarra @jolieblack @phoenix27884 @friday411 @calaisreno @lisbeth-kk @safedistancefrombeingsmart @momma2boys @helloliriels @dapetty @quimerasyutopias

[holybibly]

Divine Rosa  ❢ot8xreader❣ 

❣ Pairing: yandere!otx8 x reader

❣ Genre: Dark Romance, vampire au, angst, horror, yandere au, smut

❣ Word Count: 10.1k

❣ Summary: The moth always pours itself into the flame; what a pity that in the end it burns out. After the tragic death of her sister, MС tries to find answers to the questions she left behind. This leads her to a gated cottage town known for its luxurious rose gardens. In addition, there are also these mysterious men who manage all the affairs in the city. Too sweet, too helpful, too intrusive, and too in love.

❣ WARNING: only!18+ Themes of death, suicide, severe depression, stalking, blood, yandere behavior.

❣ Disclaimer: I don't support yandere behavior, stalking, or religious imposition. Themes include violence, obsession, possessiveness, and emotional or psychological manipulation. This book is intended solely for entertainment purposes.

❣ Chapter 1: Memento Mori ❣

Have you ever thought about death?

How many times have you asked yourself, “What will happen to us next?” “Is there something on the other side?” “Will we see the shining light at the end of the tunnel and the white-winged angels, or is it just darkness waiting for us?”

We constantly reflect on this, sitting in the noisy company of friends, frozen for a moment in cold numbness; late at night, when there is no sleep and gloomy thoughts creep into your head; on the subway, bus, or taxi returning home from work or school, desperately understanding the desperation of their situation; recurring days in endless solitude.

We should stop doing that. When the time comes, we will ask ourselves other, more important questions.

Nevertheless, we tirelessly continue to be interested in it. Again and again, until our clock stops.

Sometimes I think all we have after we die are flowers and regrets. In our soul, heart, and mind, every second, there are many events that do not obey any rules of formal logic. All that we lose at death. There is no longer the privilege of choice that we had in life; now we have to settle for small, choking on despair and memories, staring into our own reflection on a silver epitaph.

“Our love will stay with her forever.” It would sound like a dream if it weren’t such a dirty lie.

I don’t think love exists. It’s like a sweetener: we feel sweetness, but the brain realizes it's fake, sending out red signals warning of deception. But we still desperately crave this feeling, however painful it may be.

And yet, after death, our lives go on, and in some special cases, we find ourselves more alive than ever before.

It's our time to watch as the new story unfolds, and the usual roles are played by other actors. New names appear on the waiting list, and celebratory ribbons are given to the new queens. See how fake diamonds sparkle in their luxurious crowns. Despite that, you’re the star of this show. Your name is in the news, in the bold headlines on the front pages of newspapers, and every casual passer-by claims to have known you personally while you still existed in a small, closed time period called life.

So what does it feel like to be the only spectator in the front row? The main subject of general regret.

In our cooled consciousness, a sharp conviction of our own uselessness is born and settles. Friends we used to call the best put your stuff in boxes with ribbons of tape. A family that tears the remnants of your life apart, erasing your name from the family register with a sickeningly straight line of black ink. Acquaintances and colleagues, always smiling with an astringent sweetness that glues their teeth, easily remove your number from the contact list and open their palms in a welcoming gesture to those who came to take your place.

All of them, all these people close to us, express their false regrets about your untimely departure, putting a tick in front of the memorized phrase: “Ah, we are so sorry. She was young and beautiful.” Is that what they usually say?

That’s all; our race for popularity is over. The rules of good manners and standards of appearance no longer matter. Your thoughts, actions, and preferences belong only to you, and at this very moment, we feel freedom. Short time, but still freedom.

It is only a short moment until the lid of the coffin closes completely over us. And here we are, face to face with our past, alone.

As hard as it may be for us to admit it, it's true. All that remains for us after death is regret.

Each of us has our own. Someone feels regret for the love that he could not protect and the loved ones that he has lost forever. We regret the things we’ve done and the words we haven’t said, but most of all, we regret the time we’ll never get back.

The dead mourn more than the living.

Besides regrets, we’re taking flowers with us. Yes, these beautiful creatures are leaving with us to one day wrap around our bones, sever the grayish subtlety of our skin, and grow again above the ground, eating us like a parasite. 

The flowers also symbolize the grand finale of our celebration. When the music dies down and the curtain falls, they will be the only ones who will stay side by side while the guests leave the lavishly decorated hall one by one.

Have you noticed how many bouquets are brought to cemeteries?

I like to think of it as a peculiar payment for our rest. Maybe death is as in love with these deliciously fragile things as we are, and that’s why they’re leaving with us. Silent companions who hold our hand as we go into the darkness.

The path to the origins of the great Sanzu River is paved with bloody lycoris and mournful lilies. Truly a magnificent sight. Ugly and beautiful are two sides of the same coin.

When I was little, Mina told me many different stories. Some warmed my cheeks and stretched my lips in a happy smile; others were gray, like days with incessant downpours. I wrapped myself in blankets and warmed my palms with warm cups of herbal tea, but there were other stories that I didn't want to remember until now.

They were sinister, like a spider hovering on a web waiting to be sacrificed. The words were sharp; they pierced the skin, leaving long, stinging wounds. Meaning has always been terrible; like a blade in the tongue, it could not be swallowed and understood. I was afraid. I was scared to death. I could not sleep in the light of a bright day or in the mist of a starry night; in the coziness of the blankets, there was no warmth or protection, and the mocking laughter of Mina made it worse.

My grandmother scolded her and assured me that all this was nonsense, empty words, and legends formed from idleness, but I knew better. There was truth in Mina's stories, and the realization of this only made them scarier.

The most terrible of them was the story of a young man in black silk robes. Beneath the black veil was a sensual smile, and the fox's heterochromic eyes were alluring and sparkling like stars.

Was he a nine-tailed kumiho? A black reaper holding death itself on a leash? He may have been a vampire, desperate and thirsty, but personally, I was sure he was a ghost. A past woven into a single canvas, thread by thread, stitch by stitch. I think I saw him once, during the Lunar Festival. He was the center of my little universe, the otherworldly and inexplicable, his long black clothes flowing to the ground like a waterfall, and the diffused light of the treacherous moon embraced his silhouette like a caring mother’s embrace.

I thought the world was dancing around him. The children were running around laughing and circling like butterflies in the round dance; the couple were whispering nicely, their palms intertwined tightly, as if it would save them from the inevitable parting; and the others were simply enjoying the festival time, waiting for the sheaves of colorful fireworks to explode in the sky.

His eyes pierced my figure so greedily and sharply. I saw hunger in them. A thirst. A goal. 

And then I screamed. So loud and disgusting in a childish way. With a shrill screech, I rushed into the crowd, hoping to find Mina. The colorful ribbons in my hair rushed into the air, and the wind bore me the echoes of his sweet laughter.

He was mocking me. I could have run, but he could have caught me in a second if he wanted to. For a moment, I looked back to make sure that he was still standing there, covered with moonlight and a myriad of stars, but the long, flowing silk of his black robes melted like a mist in the night without leaving a trace.

Mina laughed mockingly as I clung to the lush skirts of her violaceous hanbok, sobbing, choking with tears, and pointing my finger in the direction where I saw the young man with the fox’s eyes.

After that incident, I didn’t sleep for days, couldn’t eat, and was afraid of every noise.

From that night on, I began to believe in ghosts. They are among us. We can see them, reach them, and hear their whispering voices. Science cannot explain them; they are not subject to it. They are mistakenly called fictions, twisted forms of memories that acquire real outlines and are indistinguishable from the real world.

Science calls it imagination; I call it another form of life. Ghosts exist. They’re always there.

The line between the dead and the living is thin and fragile. If you push it a little harder, it’ll shatter.

It’s true—life after death exists.

I was told once that death is like being submerged in water. First, the lungs start to burn from a lack of oxygen; the body gets heavier; the eyes are baking, but we’re still conscious; and the brain continues to function. Then comes the next step. Our body desperately clings to life, continuing to contract the heart muscle. Bam, bam, bam. Deaf blows on the rib. If you start acting now, there is little hope of salvation. No more than a minute. And then, after that, there’s the final stage. Clinical death. Smooth stripe on the monitor.

Our sinking is over. We have reached the bottom. We have met eternity in the muddy depths, blended with the muddy sand and pearls.

That may be true, but for me, death is no more than a moment—until the last flowers on the grave fade.

I never thought about dying. Until it happens to Mina.

The first time I met death, it was with my first breath. I was born with silence—too small, too fragile, and painfully quiet.

Then there were the piercing sounds of medical devices and the screams of doctors and assistants. I was taken away instantly and carried far into the sterile, transparent box. Death retreated, but it didn’t go away.

I was only three when my parents died. Mina was squeezing my hands and talking about a long journey. Grandma took us to her old country house, where secrets were hidden and hyacinths blossomed. At the time, the very concept of grief was not clear and tangible to me; rather, the feeling was like frostbite, when the skin was already dead, but the pain was absent.

So I knew death before I even knew it.

My grandmother died suddenly. Her life was cut short in an instant, like a thread brought to the flame. I knew it; it seemed long before it happened. That summer, I was going to be at a ballet camp, and Mina was the star of the school, and she was planning on spending time with her cheerleading friends. Just one call changed all our plans. Short skirts and ballet points replaced chrysanthemums and black ribbons. Mina was grieving, taking condolences, while I watched from the sidelines. Grandma's leaving seemed like a dull pain from an old injury rather than a sharp cut, and it was easier to deal with than I thought.

This was the third time I'd known death.

And then Mina happened.

The passionate, bloody, grandiose Mina's death. By closing my eyes, I could see her face again. White, sun-drenched, and blood roses, her long fluttering eyelashes, and scattered carmine strands of hair.

She was not at all afraid to die, as if this scenario had been memorized by her. Isn't it an innate instinct, a fear of the unknown, of death? We are frightened by monsters under the bed and horrors lurking in dark corners. We must be afraid of death. We are obliged to do this from the very moment we are born.

Mina was not afraid. She was never afraid of anything, unlike me.

Spiders, darkness, roses…

The list goes on.

When she died, I realized two things: one, nothing lasts forever, and two, I wanted to know what happened to my sister and what became her trigger. Big red button. At my request, an autopsy was conducted to rule out a drug-induced hypothesis that could have caused mental and emotional distress. Forensics found nothing in her lungs except rose petals. Mina literally breathed flowers. It sounded almost fantastical to me. Even her death was beautiful. Forever the first violin in the orchestra. 

The case of her mysterious disappearance was closed. There was no point in looking for someone who was already dead. I asked the detectives to continue the investigation, but despite my desperate pleas, the police were adamant. My sister’s once-radiant life was packaged in a pair of cardboard boxes with a large-scale signature in black marker. “An Mina, case 117”. With each passing day, everything about Mina sank into darkness, but the mysteries and secrets around her only grew larger.

Once upon a time, I could call Mina an open book. It was easy to read—all the emotions, character traits, and habits—everything in it was exaggerated; there was no middle. Her love was never a simple hobby; it was always sharp, risky, and passionate.

Perhaps that is why she so easily fell into an obsession with roses; her feelings took a dangerous path.

I wanted to know who gave her these fabulous roses, who sent her candy and little sweet notes. There was something wrong with all of this, and not just the fact that the lush pink buds didn’t fade. No. It was a feeling, something very ominous, like a calm before a hurricane. A frightening, unnatural silence when all is silent and the air is gathering in front of the thunder's stunning storms.

There’s a long, unrequited tranquility on the other side of the phone line.

In the Japanese language, there is the expression “koi no yokan,” which literally means the feeling of inevitable love for the person you first met. This is not love at first sight, but a premonition of future love. So it was with these roses; they were not evil as such, but they were the inevitable omen of his coming.

True evil does not come in the form of a little red man with sharp horns and a long tail. Evil is beautiful—almost religiously magnificent. His appearance is divine and seductive, attracting the sweetness of the forbidden. Of course, the Devil himself was once an angel. And not just anyone; he was God’s favorite.

So are these flowers. I’ve never heard of people falling in love with soft petals and spiny stems. No one ever sings strange prayers for roses and dedicates his life to them without a trace. Those roses were bigger than they looked.

I think that Mina’s death was not accidental; it wasn’t suicide. Something broke her, violated her mind, and eventually destroyed her. Whether they were roses or people who gave them, that was my question. It was a secret hidden in the white folds of her lace dress, the dreamy smiles, and the names she spoke with such awe.

During Mina's funeral, I was approached by one of the lawyers who handled her legal affairs. I had to sort out the property rights and the lots of pages with numbers, dates, and places. Mina left me not only secrets but also a great legacy. As it turned out, in addition to our common apartment, she had several other assets in her possession, including her grandmother's mansion, which at one time she received as a sole inheritance, shares in various companies, and investments abroad.

I am now the sole owner of all this.

I had no idea where to start looking for answers or where to find the keys to the secret locks. Maybe I can find something in her files between the lines and the capital letters, or maybe it’s all dry formalities. So, going to the lawyer sounded like a good start to me.

How many can hide from those who command our last will?

Even so, I didn't want to be alone with Mina's secrets if I could find something in her belongings. I decided to call Soomin, who was once Mina’s best friend, the closest, to be exact. She was always there, having fun and crying with Mina, supporting and comforting when needed. Soomin was an integral part of her life. My life.

After the incident with the roses, they split up, not on the best of terms. Their conversation completely ended, but I still continued to spend time with her, and we often went to brunch at various gourmet cafés that Soomin loved so much. She was an elite restaurateur and had great taste, not only in the interior but also in food.

In a way, she completely replaced my sister. Soomin always told me, “No orgasm can ever match a stunningly cooked fondant au chocolat”. Yeah, I could totally agree with her on that.

After dialing her number, I waited for an answer. The wait was not too long, and after the second tone, I heard the melodic voice of Soomin on the other side. “Hello” “Soomin, I'm sorry to distract you from work; can you give me a few minutes?

“Sarang? I can’t believe you finally called me. How are you feeling, honey? I’ve been really worried about you, you haven’t spoken to any of us all this time.” In her voice, there was a sincere concern that resembled a mother's. 

Soo has always been so caring and gentle. In her was the same fascinating brightness that Mina possessed, which brought them very close and became the strong foundation of their friendship, but unlike Mina, who resembled a raging forest fire, Soomin was a comforting flame of home. One was ready to destroy everything around her; the other collected ashes in beautiful vases and kept them as precious memories.

After Mina died, she was there for me when I especially needed support.

“Sorry, Soomin, I’m still trying to get over it." I sounded exhausted, even to myself. The days spent in voluntary isolation completely drained me emotionally and physically. I was the alarm of danger light for my friends. “You know, when she went missing, it was hard for me, but I was still hoping she’d come back. I convinced myself that Mina was fine and that she was enjoying life surrounded by her favorite roses.” It was the first time I had spoken openly about my feelings since Mina’s death. “I never imagined that my sister would slit her throat in front of me. I still have nightmares, Soomin, but I’m calling you for another reason, I have a little favor to ask you.”

“Sarang, you should feel like this; it’s okay. What happened to Mina traumatized you; damn it, it would have traumatized anyone if they were you. We agreed to give you time to get over it at your own pace, but when you didn’t answer our messages and calls, we started to worry. Eun Jung even offered to come to you several times; you know how she is.” She was anxious, and I understood why. “I’ll help with everything I need; just tell me how I can do it.”

“You agree too quickly, Soo.”

“Sarang, please stop. The only thing I can offer you now is my help. I can’t imagine how you’re handling all this, and if you need my help, I’ll be there for you. So stop denying me and tell me what you wanted to ask.”

“Do you remember Mina’s lawyer who approached me at the funeral? I think it’s time I met him. It’s all about inheritance and property, but there’s something else.” I started off insecure. “I want to find out who sent her those stupid roses.”

“Why?” in her voice sounded like sincere surprise. “If you were me, would you want to know how it all started?”

“Probably, but aren't you afraid? Judging by how it turned out for Mina,” she stammered for a second. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to.”

“No, you’re right. Absolutely. I’m scared, and if things weren’t so messed up, maybe I would have done something different, but listen, Soomin, I have a strong feeling that I’m always missing something, and it’s bothering me.” “People don't change so dramatically, and certainly not because of the roses. You've been friends with her for so long, so you know her as well as I do, and we both understand that it's crazy to give up everything in your life for roses like that. Especially for Mina.” When I spoke my thoughts out loud, I was even more convinced that I needed answers. It really was crazy. “ She left so many secrets that I want to find a clue. I haven't told anyone, but the roses are still being sent. I received a call from the cemetery administration saying that her grave was littered with flowers, and they needed to figure out what to do with them. Not only that, but I also received several bouquets.” There was no point in hiding it anymore. If I want Soomin to help me, she needs to know about those roses that were sent to me.

“My God, Sarang, you should have told me right away. Did you talk to JiHo? This is an abnormal situation. What if you’re being chased, Sarang? I don’t know, it’s all so scary.”

“You have no idea, but I don’t think we should talk about stalking.”

“Why? Maybe it’s a stalker or serial killer; you should be careful. Please tell me JiHo is living with you now.” “First, I don’t think anyone in their right mind is going to come after me, and second, JiHo and I took a pause.”

“Did you break up?” she asked with an incredulous echo.

“I'm not sure if you can call it a breakup.”

“God, the bastard left you. I always told you he was a rare asshole and would run away at the first opportunity.”

“Soomin, let’s not talk about it, but if you want to hear it, yeah, you were right about him.” The memories of our conversation with my ex were still fresh and festering in my mind like a ball of worms.

It’s very convenient to hide behind phrases like “let’s take a break,” “you need time to figure things out,” “emotional vacation,” etcetera. No one wants to be a part of your grief. At this party, the cake belongs entirely to you.

“Okay, let’s close the JiHo thing. Tell me, do you know anything about who sent the roses? Any ideas?”

“Absolutely nothing; I’m stuck. There’s nothing that can help. No address, no sender’s name, Maybe we can find something in her files or stuff; I don’t know.”

“Yes, it’s possible. When do you want to go to a lawyer?”

“This Friday, if you’re free?”

“Give me a minute,” the papers rustled on the other side, Soomin clearly trying to find the day she needed in her diary. Knowing the nature of Soo, it was difficult to make out anything there; her records were always chaotic, and careful planning was not her forte. In this, too, she was similar to Mina.

“I’m totally free. How about going to brunch first and then to the lawyer?

You could use some fun, and I’ve always wanted to go to this new trending place. I hear they serve incredible fondant au chocolate, and the owner looks like God cut him out. How does that sound? “First, tell me, are we going there for the fondant or the owner?”

“You can’t judge me; everyone’s talking about how attractive this man is; I just want to see.” Soo softly dissipated.

“Have you betrayed your love of chocolate for a man? Kim Soomin is something new. Anyway, everything sounds great. Let’s go and see if those rumors are true, but if I were going there solely for the chocolate,” I smiled at that thought. I’ve really been lacking in communication lately. We should start coming back to the real world. “Do you know the address?” “Sure, I’ll pick you up at 11:00. Please wear something prettier than a black dress.” “It’s a classic, and thank you again, Soo.”

“You have nothing to thank me for, Sarang. Finally, I can call you like that, you know, Rosa, it doesn’t suit you. I’ll see you Friday, baby.”

“I think so, too. Until Friday.” I put the phone aside, taking a deep breath. The long stems of white roses had folded in half in the cramped bin. A luxurious wrapping in a rare shade of Solferino and embroidered topaz ribbons lay next to the bulky pile, and a small note was shrunk into a perfect ball that was also lying in the trash.

Whoever sent those flowers should have stopped doing that. I’m not Mina. I don’t like roses.

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

How quickly does the waiting time pass? We count the days, the hours, and the minutes until the exciting event we’re expecting, circled by a thick red line in the calendar, but is it really worth our time, which life has measured for us?

It's so strange; the days are like bottles of sand thrown by a restless ocean onto a flickering glass bank. I remember this one, crystal blue—it smells like strawberry cheesecake and summer heat. And this one, made of gloss and pearls, is full to the brim with grave earth and chrysanthemum petals. I like the one that sparkles with diamonds from the royal frosted glass; it smells like a lover’s pillow, and there are memories of the first love. There is another, very ordinary, and therefore the most precious—empty and at the same time full. If you open it, you can hear the gentle wind whispering your name.

My life is all about memories now. I’m just trying to keep what’s left.

The rest of the week passed unnoticed by me. Time, like the rapid trains at the station, rushed by, and I kept waiting to see the stop I needed in this incessant turmoil.

Existing in space is very simple when it belongs only to you. I did actions that were memorized to the finest detail, simple mechanisms that gradually brought me back to my normal state. Feed the neighbor’s cat. Do the cleaning. Go for a walk. Check the mail. Cook dinner. Ordinary things to take your mind off the colorful bottles on the shelves of consciousness and the endless cycle of nightmares.

And I also noticed that at night, time flows more slowly. Second by second, replace the glowing dial until dawn. And so on until the ruthless rays of the sun insidiously penetrate between the tightly woven threads of heavy boudoir curtains, and the golden shadow spills over the pampered skin like boiling water.

I think I'm allergic to the sun and, therefore, to the stars.

Maybe the whole world.

Today I woke up earlier than usual. Somewhere below the horizon, the sun splashed in the golden ichor of the predawn twilight. Yoru stretched out at the foot of the bed, warmed by tiny drops of warm light that seeped into the room through the window. Last night, she refused to leave, stubbornly ignoring my presence and my tender pleas to return home to her mistress.

Yoru was my neighbor’s cat, perfectly embodying all its best features: a slightly aggressive, capricious, and having a little bit of arrogance. Despite this, she had a strange affection for me and often stayed at my house if she was in the mood.

Other tenants avoided Yoru, considering her a bad omen, and it was not only the polished glossiness of her black fur; she always appeared where death later came. I didn't care; I've always loved cats, and having one of them in my house was a bit of comfort. I wasn't alone.

Sensing my awakening, her almond-shaped eyes flashed with the sharp color of precious stones in the slits of the eyelids—a thick amber glow, not yet warmed by curiosity or playfulness. Yoru tossed and turned, clearly unhappy that someone had disturbed her sleep, arched her back and closed her eyes again.

We could lie like this all day long, in silence and some strange harmonization. I’m sure she’ll get close to me a little bit later, calculating her every move, until he presses on his heart with a peaceful, relaxed purr. Unfortunately, today was not the day I could afford it. Soomin will soon be here, and I need to get a little tidy.

Shower. Food. Simple things. Jars of creams and neatly arranged lipsticks Are there certain rules of appearance when you go to a lawyer? What dress should I wear—a deep neckline or open legs? How decent?

Should I still look mournful? Should I wear a veil? Two months have passed; are other colors acceptable? What will he think of me?

So many questions were spinning in my head while I was going, and it seems to me that whatever I choose, it will still be inappropriate. The story of Mina was not a passing affair; probably everyone in the city had fleetingly heard about her death. One of my friends told me she was called “Queen of Roses” because of the flowers in her hair, and I saw the headlines of the “exquisite death” articles.

The black color dripped venomously to the floor with the long hems of the dresses in my wardrobe; the gray, like a mist, settled in the loops of cardigans and oversized sweaters; and the ghostly white terrified me with thin transparent lace and ruffles, just like on Mina's dress. The choice was not too large.

A jacket dress on a naked body made of thick matte silk, a little pearl, and a high choker collar with long falling threads, It was one of the old jewels I bought in a small antique shop. Vintage trinket in the style of Queen Marie-Antoinette. I had a whole collection of such chokers—some studded with precious stones made of expensive jewelry metals, others woven with the finest threads, like a skillfully woven web. Hard made of steel and leather, and soft, like angelic kisses, made of organza and velour. JiHo once said I had a choke kink if I liked things like that; maybe I did, but my ex was too “vanilla” to close his hands around my neck.

After getting dressed and styling my hair, I sat down on the couch and waited for Soomin to arrive. What should I do now? I was lost. Turn on the TV or read a book? Look at the news feed on Instagram; be sure to look at JiHo's profile to see his new photo. Does he miss me or not? Is someone else warming up his bed now that I'm not around? Is JiHo still wearing the same perfume as before, or has he found something different?

Anyway, I never liked his perfume; it was salty like tears and distant ocean breezes and rancid like decaying wood in the dense Amazon. He called them gourmet; I could only agree if they were worn by someone else, say someone more dominant and powerful. Maybe I would even find this strange, gloomy mixture of aromas attractive, inhaling it from someone else's hot skin and feeling with the touch of my lips a steadily beating pulse in the swollen veins on a strong neck.

How long does love last? Three years or more? For me, it's a moment; for others, it's an eternity. I loved him. It's true. Very strong and very long ago. My love did not resemble the indomitable elements or the explosions of colored fireworks; rather, it was the fragrant bloom of wildflowers and the scattering of stars in the sky. She was comforting, not passionate, and I wanted to see someone like me, someone who could comfort my heart and give me tenderness.

Tenderness and comfort alone were enough for me, but deep inside, I wanted something dangerous, something forbidden. I was devout, one of those people who are called “good girls,” but was it really me or the role that Mina gave me?

Maybe in the far corners of my mind, my thoughts weren’t as good and right as they should be. I didn’t even want to admit it to myself, but sometimes when I woke up from another nightmare, I was glad she was dead. Dark, reckless emotions made their way through my cracks; they were moments of despair as my anger lifted its ugly head and oozed poison and blood. My cruelty and hatred had the color of roses and smelled like chocolate. She had fox eyes and a seductive smile; desire flowed in her veins, and strangled thirst was heard in her voice.

In my nightmares, I saw not only Mina and bloody roses; sometimes there was a young man in long silk robes and a veil hiding his face. He's just a ghost; I met mine years ago, but somehow he seems more real to me night by night when he comes into my dreams without permission. He crept into them like a serpent-tempter into the Garden of Eden, slipping away at dawn like the shadow of two moons, hiding behind a door I could never open.

Unreal in my reality.

I felt the arrival of Soomin even before her long nails methodically began to knock on my door. It was as if the spell had been removed and all the sounds of the world had rained down on me in an instant. Yoru shook off her sleep and whirled around at the front door, waiting for an unknown guest. The clatter of high heels echoed in my apartment, slipping through the cracks of the door locks, and the thick smell of ambergris and blooming jasmine at night walked ahead of her, warning every one of her approaches. If I didn’t know better, I could easily have mistaken her for Mina. That was my sister once.

The whole world was just a part of her life; she was not part of the world. To be ordinary—what a bad form!

“Sarang! Sarang, open up. I’m here.” and in fact, her long nails caught on the dark wood of my front door, causing Yoru to bristle and hiss.

I was absolutely sure they wouldn’t get along.

“Are you awfully loud? Someone told you this, Soo?” I opened the front door wide, smiling softly. “I missed you, Soomin.”

“Don’t tell me about it; I missed that pretty face.” She hugged me, which made Yoru hiss again, attracting Soo’s attention. “When did you get a cat?”

“That’s not my, Yoru cat, my neighbor from apartment 1366, that door.” I waved my hand to the far end of the corridor, where Mrs. Lee’s apartment was located. “I like her; I don’t mind having the baby stay with me sometimes.”

“I see.” There was an awkward pause between us until Soo broke it. “You want to talk about… you know what.” She was worried about this topic; I could see it from the way she shifted from foot to foot, or was it from high heels? In the light of the electric lamps, the steel studs glittered like sharpened spindles from the tale of The Sleeping Beauty.

“Not now. Better tell me about this restaurant we’re going to.” Soomin was easily distracted if you changed the topic of conversation in the direction of a subject of interest to her.

I walked out of the house, taking one last look at Yoru. The cat didn't even think about leaving my space; he was already ensconced in a pile of pillows on the sofa in the living room. If she wasn't going to leave, I wouldn't force her.

“Don’t you need to return the cat to the mistress? She looks expensive.” asked Soo

“She’s a purebred Persian cat, and no, Mrs. Lee won’t worry about it; Yoru can stay with me for weeks before she comes home. This has happened before.”

“All right, if you say so.”

I shut the front door and turned the key, permanently cutting off my escape routes. Today. I have to do this today or my resolve will wear thin, and I will once again voluntarily isolate myself in the comfort of blankets and tightly closed curtains.

"And so, the restaurant..." This was the beginning of a long story that interested no more than random passersby in a faceless crowd.

“You’re going to love this place, I promise. Everything I’ve seen on their Instagram profile is so fascinating, but you know what makes this place really attractive? It’s the owner. Eun Jung was there last week, and she couldn’t shut up about…”

For the next 30 minutes, I heard about this trending establishment. “ Angels' Share” is the most requested boutique café in the last 3 months on all search engines. A luxurious café with exquisite dishes and a magnificent concept.

But most importantly, it is, of course, divine, and Soomin, the owner, was absolutely sure of this. Hundreds of girls lined up in endless lines from dawn to dusk, hoping to see him, at least for a moment.

On your first visit, the owner of “Angels' Share” personally serves you throughout your interruption there. Your name is inscribed in the book of exclusive customers in gold ink. Their main specialty is gourmet desserts, and if you are not seduced by the angelic face of the magnificent man who runs this place, then the sweets melting on your lips will do it instantly.

Full berries of scarlet strawberries in white Belgian chocolate. Mille-feuille with fresh wild berries. The devil's food is the most chocolate of all chocolate cakes, and, of course, the angel cake has the most delicate silk cream of exotic fruits.

As Soomin told me about it, she was clearly having an emotional orgasm. Her arousal was obvious, but I could not understand what she craved more: exquisite desserts or the sweet kiss of the owner.

“I think he's a real angel,” Soo finished her rant after giving a fiery speech about the unique beauty of a man she had never met in her life.

“I'm not sure if it's all true, Soomin, but you'll be able to see for yourself when we get there. You should not trust everything they say. You're too impressionable and trusting.”

We spent the rest of the journey in peaceful silence. This is the type of silence when there are a lot of questions in the air, but each side is not sure when to start asking them. I know she wanted to ask me a lot of things, and in response, I wanted to finally share my experiences and feelings that I had been desperately hiding for the past two months. Nevertheless, each of us remained silent, as if afraid to destroy fragile comfort with uncomfortable words.

When the car stopped, Soomin smiled approvingly at me, as if to say, “Go ahead, my girl!” She was good at it because she was also a cheerleader like Mina.

“Angels' Share” was impressive at first sight, and not only because of the long line of girls lined up in a perfect line and dressed in intricate clothes like collectible dolls on the shelf.

A myriad of flowers, lace, and feathers, pastel shades, and delicate ruffles—all of them looked like animated sugar fantasies. Their cheeks were dusted with pink blush, and their inflated lips were accentuated by a thick layer of transparent sticky gloss with a fine sprinkle of glitter.

Perfectly well-groomed hair is arranged in children’s cute curls or intricate hairstyles with hundreds of sparkling hairpins and velvet bows. The variety of their images was amazing, as was the height of their heels. This place was definitely something special if the girls were willing to sacrifice their comfort for a couple of desserts.

Or it wasn’t about desserts.

At such moments, I especially understood how much we needed someone else's approval. The list of items seems endless: he likes cute girls, girls with an athletic figure, pale skin, and big eyes; she should not be boring; my friends like her; she has long legs and a thin waist; and she is a certain height. I wonder if he'll use a ruler to measure me. Big boobs or a nice ass—which turns him on more? What will our first date be like? That's right; should I call him Oppa or not? Tell me what you want, and I will fulfill whatever you want. I will fulfill every one of your fantasies. Tell me about your desires.

Seduce me. Surprise me. Love me!

I don’t want to live like this. I want to be who I really am, with all my flaws and imperfections. I want to be sharp and rude; I want to be cruel and honest; I want to look as I want, without colorful tinsel and layers of makeup, with cellulite, stretch marks, and a little overweight. That may be so, but it will be me. Just me. 

The voice of Soomin ripped me out of my mind.

“I told you so,” said Soo smugly, purposefully heading for the entrance, circumventing a string of discharged girls. She was a lioness on a hunt, while they were stranded in colorful piles like scared rabbits.

If you do not pay attention to the girls, the exterior is fascinating. Gold, flowers, and crystal resembled the frame of a precious box. “Angels' Share” was positioned in such a way that the sun flooded it from all sides, creating around it a mysterious golden haze of sunlight and a dazzling iridescent play of crystals.

Everything was so beautiful, I won't deny it, but didn't the gingerbread house beckon the children deep into the dark forest where the wicked witch lived? Everything beautiful always has a downside, and someone knows how to mask it better than others.

While I was looking at the details, Soomin dragged me inside and was already talking to the host girl, who was checking the records for a long list of names. She also, like the girls on the street, looked like a doll. Her hair was long and shiny, tucked away from her face with an embroidered rim with Swarovski crystals, and her eyelashes were so lush that they touched her cheeks when she blinked. I would call her beautiful; she licked to perfection, which made it almost unnatural. She had a sweet, high-pitched voice and an overly friendly smile. Annoyingly friendly. 

“Please follow me; I'll show you your table. Since you have visited us for the first time, Mr. Yoon will personally take care of you today. Please enjoy your stay at “Angels' Share.”

YooA—that was the name of this girl—led us up the spiral staircase to the second floor. It seemed that everything around was carved from pale golden marble, with the addition of luxurious interior items and thousands of flowers—or, to be more precise, thousands of roses. Snow-white, cream, pastel pink, and soft peach—the whole space breathed rose buds that stood in tall transparent vases.

The sight took my breath away, and I was inwardly tense. It's okay; it's just a café, not Mina's apartment. You need to relax and not start panicking; it will not benefit anyone.

As if sensing my growing panic, Soomin squeezed my palm.

“Are you all right? You look pale.”

“Yes, it’s all right; there are too many roses for my taste; you know, it brings back memories.” I smiled tortuously in response to her words. I didn’t want to ruin her day; she was so excited and happy when we came here.

“We can leave if you are not comfortable, Sarang.” Soo still held my hand, gently walking her thumb over my palm in a comforting circular motion. “If you want to go somewhere else, this is fine. I can always come back here later.”

“No!” came out too loud. “No, I’m fine. I can’t wait to try their chocolate fondant. You know I’m here only for chocolate.” She said the last part with me in one voice.

YooA showed us our table, although it was more like a small loggia separated by airy chiffon tulle and pearl threads from the common room. I could easily fall in love with this place if not for the languid, enveloping smell of roses and the beauty of their lush, perfect buds.

“Do you think the rumors are true, and we'll see an angel appearance today?” Soomin leaned across the table to talk about the owner, not so obviously?

“I think you'll find out about it now, anyway.” I couldn't finish my thoughts, interrupted by Soo's enthusiastic sigh. It was a sound of undisguised admiration that she couldn't hold back, even if she tried.

The reason for her excitement was right behind me, and I had to look back a little to see what it could have been.

Of course, all the sounds of delight belonged to none other than Mr. Yoon. In part, I could understand why he was called angel-like. His beauty was painfully perfect, to the point where it became almost terrible. His face was beautiful—almost obsessively beautiful, like the face of a stone goddess on a grave. Surreal. The skin seemed to glow from the inside, like molten silver flowing through the veins. He had long hair—ashes, platinum, mother-of-pearl—everything mixed on a diamond cloth. One silvery strand fell delicately over his face.

Are the melodies of an angelic choir in the air, or does it just seem that way to me?

The more I looked at him, the more his appearance disgusted me.

I felt flawed and unsuitable, like a puzzle that did not fit the picture; my heart did not beat faster with excitement or sweet agony; I did not burn and did not desire it as it should. Between us, it was possible to draw thousands of parallels in a myriad of universes, and none of them ever intersected. Beauty is deceptive, like a serpent promising forgiveness. It’s the pain of a bittersweet injection entering our nervous tissue.

What do we know about them—angels? White-winged light bearers, without flaws and ignorant of evil and vicious desires, are submissive and faithful to their ideals and purposes. Silent watchers who look after our virtue. But there are those who are chained and silken, whose wings are torn out with bloody flesh, for they are sinners.

Their name is the fallen. Unforgiven. 

He was not an angel. He was one of them who traded the vaults of heaven for the flames and steel of the nine circles.

His presence was heavy, stifling, and sharp. Goosebumps ran through my skin as an omen of the imminent end.

I could have sworn that the second our eyes met in his eyes, the color of dark bitter chocolate, anger, and disgust thickened. So everything that is perfect collapses, falls, beats, and crumbles like the great walls of Babylon, kissing the transcendental peak of heaven. Like a Venus flytrap, his appearance was a clever disguise of vice and rot in a velvet cage of flesh, and this place is the very gingerbread house that beckons to certain death.

 “Welcome to “Angels' Share”. My name is Yoon Sung Hoon; I own this place, and today I will make sure your stay here is unforgettable.” The voice flowed like honey smoothly and gently, I could melt at this tone.

“I am Soomin, and this is Sarang; we have heard a lot about this place.” Soo’s cheeks were pink from a shy blush, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say she was embarrassed. This man was clearly something special, if he could make Soomin behave like a schoolgirl in love with just his presence.

His eyes rested on my figure for a second, and I wanted to shrink into a ball under this appraising gaze, as if he was trying to probe me and understand how dangerous I could be. It was only a moment, and then a smile shone again on his angelic face.

“I hope you’ve only heard nice things about us. What do you want today?” I wonder what he is used to hearing in response. I want you and your love, and I will accept everything you would not give me. Will you be my boyfriend? My husband? Will you give me eternal love? Judging by the expression on Soomin's face, this is exactly what she wanted to ask him, but she pulled herself up in time.

“I want to taste your best dessert.” As they say, kill them with your sweetness. Where has my self-sufficiency and t.” As they say, “kill them with your sweetness.” Where has my self-sufficient and confident self gone? Soo, this blushing mess was nothing like hers.

“Of course, only the best is for you. And what do you want?” All his attention was now drawn to me, and I had no pleasure. Yoon Sung Hoon is clearly not used to girls not falling at his feet like moths hitting the glass. Our dislike was mutual. Our dislike was mutual. “What do you want, Sarang? I would recommend one of our most special desserts: a white chocolate soufflé with candied scarlet roses.” Sung Hoon was smiling, but not at all benevolent; there was something mocking in the exquisite curve of his lips, as if he were challenging me: “Come on, try me.”

Roses. Those damn roses again. It always came down to these flowers. Were they my path leading away from the dark forest, or would they lead me straight to the crystal coffin in the tallest tower of the castle?

Instead of politely refusing, as a true lady should, I have given a crude, hoarse, and utterly evil speech:

“I hate roses.”

For me, flowers are as beautiful as the pain of a broken heart. You can call me a heartbreaker. What will your heart taste like? I'm so eager to try it. 

“My apologies.” Sung Hoon bowed his head, hiding his gaze in the lace of fluttering eyelashes and platinum bangs. With this simple action, Soomin once again made a barely audible, enthusiastic sound. “In this case, I offer you our signature chocolate fondant with raspberry jam and glass caramel glaze. Our clients say that he has a heavenly taste, so celestial that he can be sinful.”

Sung Hoon—there was something about him that disgusted me. His way of speaking, his appearance, his behavior—in general, every detail of it The most beautiful apple on the branch will always be wormy. I couldn't understand how he could charm girls in a split second, without any effort, as if it were in his blood—to cause desire and awe.

During our short conversation, Soo did not look at me once, inseparably studying every detail of the angelic man. If I make an incision in his skin, will the gold pour as befits angels, or will it be the viscous and black acid that Pandora once shed from her eyes?

I didn’t like it here. I didn’t like Yoon Sung Hoon, and he probably didn’t like me. How was I in his eyes—insignificant, puny, ordinary? Our dislike was mutual but totally unfounded; I just knew I didn’t want to be in the same space with him. I can’t breathe.

Guests always leave after dessert. I didn't want to linger, so I agreed to fondant. “Okay, I'll take fondant and cappuccino.” I looked at Soomin again; her thoughts were clearly elsewhere, judging by the bitten lower lip and flushed cheeks. “And matcha latte, please.”

“Of course, ladies…” With this phrase, he finally left us, and I sighed deeply.

“I think I'm in love, Sarang.” Apparently, with his passing, Soo’s brain has resumed active activity. “He absolutely justifies all the rumors about him.”

“Yeah, I can agree with that; he’s definitely something very special.”

After Sung Hoon served desserts and another 10 minutes of heated discussion of his appearance, our conversation took its normal course. It’s like ping-pong; the rules are very simple: move from one question to another, follow the theme, and don’t miss your turn. “How's the work?” “Everything is fine.” “How’s your boyfriend?” “You remember I told you we broke up?” “What have you been doing lately?” “Too much to do; I can’t remember, but recently I came back from Japan”, “Did you like it there?” “Great seats and great cuisine.” “How do you feel, Sarang?” Say it again; I didn’t hear you.

“How do you feel, Sarang?” Once again, you speak unclearly.

“How do you feel, Sarang?” It's so loud here, I can't hear you.

“Sarang?!” Can I skip my turn? I’m tired of this game.

I took a deep, slow breath.

“What do you want me to say, Soo? Something that will calm you down or something that should comfort me? ”

“Truth, Sarang. I want to hear the truth from you.” Soomin looked at me so carefully that it seemed as though she was looking straight into my soul.

My mind moved from one thought to another, not knowing what it would focus on. Truth. What is it like, this truth? She is like a beautiful, spiritually disheveled monster with a lesbian couple of black widows in an aquarium; she exists in an endless eternity of joyful decadence and an ecstatic nightmare.

It’s no big deal to tell someone the truth, but are you ready to see your own reflection in someone else’s eyes? They say alcohol is a liquid truth, but I think it's nothing more than a road strewn with bread crumbs, straight into a dense, dark forest. The more you drink, the deeper you go. Sometimes, through the intricately woven stems of condemnation and bitterness, subtle rays of understanding break through, like the light shed by the dual face of the moon. But this happens so rarely that the eyes themselves become accustomed to the surrounding darkness.

I’m still afraid of the dark and, therefore, of the truth. Now I’m sure I’m allergic to the world.

When I looked at the café, I noticed that there were many more people. Bunny girls with colorful barrettes occupied small transparent tables filled with all sorts of desserts; others, similar to porcelain dolls, put their palms to their cheeks, flushed with embarrassment, and laughed loudly, sitting in the same loggias as ours. The sounds of clicks from selfies and aesthetic Instagram photos did not subside for a second, as did the high play of voices merging with soft background music.

This probably wasn’t the best place for such a serious conversation, but was it ever the perfect place to have a heart-to-heart?

“Honestly, I don't know. Really?” I began, stirring the thick, fragrant foam from the cappuccino. It tasted like a first kiss—a little bitter, a little sweet—something that I would like to repeat again and again. “Secrets, secrets, and more secrets—everywhere I look, no matter what I ask, they only get bigger. Everything is as usual: Mina died, and the world is still spinning around her. Remember, I told you that they still send roses? I can say that soon the cemetery will start selling bouquets because there is simply nowhere to put them. Every day there are fresh flowers on the grave.” Maybe I sounded a little petty and annoyed, but I didn't care. “I may not seem like the best person on this planet, but sometimes I feel absolutely happy that I finally managed to bury her in the ground.”  Yes, this is exactly the right moment; you are not mistaken. That was my truth, like salt and pepper, like ashes, like burned dreams.

Soomin shook her head negatively.

“You shouldn't talk about yourself like that, Sarang; you're not a bad person, and we both know it; everyone around you knows it; and even that bastard JiHo knows it. You have gone through a lot, and if I were you, I would have gone crazy long ago, but look at yourself: you are here with me, in the noise of the metropolis, and you have your whole life ahead of you.” She put her hand on top of mine, and the warmth of her body penetrated mine. “Mina was who she was, and neither you nor me nor anyone else could change her. So don't let her ghost poison your life. I'm not a fan of this entire Nancy Drew thing, but I won't dissuade you. If you want my help, I'm on board.”

I laughed bitterly, taking a sip of the coffee that had already cooled. There was something special about it—sweet, ice-cold coffee, like long-cooled love.

“Yeah, you’re right; she was who she was, but I guess we were wrong about that because those flowers broke her in half. In fact, that’s the whole point of the question: where did the roses come from? She was interested in nothing but flowers and some strange prayers. She frightened me. You know, at first it looked like another love of hers; everything was as usual—she talked incessantly about flowers and admired them, but the more roses they sent us, the less she was interested in the rest of the world. Mina withered and languished while the roses bloomed. I've never seen anyone come to our house or meet someone. Nothing, just roses—hundreds of roses. You just can't imagine how many there were.”

“You know, I don’t really want to imagine it. Okay, let’s say you find something in her files. What’s next? You really need this? Maybe we should just let go, you know, scatter the ashes to the wind.” Breaking off a slice of angel cake, Soo mooed in satisfaction as the dessert was in her mouth. “Mmm, I love sweets. Who handled her legal affairs? If this is one of the free lawyers, we should hurry; the queues in these cantors are worse than here.”

“No, no, we're not going to a free advocacy team. Wait a minute.” I pulled out of my purse a small card from a thick black cardboard and handed it to Soomin. Transparent gloss on a soft matt surface looked refined and very expensive, just like the business card itself. “Silver & Black LTD” was the name of the law firm that handled Mina’s affairs.

“You’re kidding me!” She exclaimed, almost burying her face in her business card. “That’s “Silver and Black.” How did she manage to work with them? They’re one of the most elite law practitioners in all of Seoul, and I’d say across Asia. Their lawyers are real sharks in their cases; for the existence of their practice, they have not lost a single case, and the bills for their services are simply cosmic. How does she have so much money? Sarang, did you inherit her sugar daddy too? If that's the case, ask for more; you're much more expensive than a cheerleader, and nerds are always sexier and more desirable.”

“Stop saying that like I’m a whore. I don’t know where she got the money, but are their services so expensive?” My surprise was obvious. Our family was not poor, but we were not rich; we occupied that golden layer in the class hierarchy where we could just live without any worries about tomorrow. Mina and I were well provided for, but judging by Soomin’s reaction, “Silver and Black” could afford only filthy rich and influential people.

“If I were to be offered the opportunity to trade my virginity for cooperation with them, I would have done it without hesitation. Are you sure we have an appointment with them?”

“Soomin!” Frankness was always such a simple thing for her that I felt awkward at such moments. “Of course, I called them yesterday to confirm the details.”

“What? The cult of virginity is overrated anyway, but now I'm much more interested in it.”

“Let me think, more amazing men?” “How did you guess?” Soo smiled sweetly, shoving another piece of dessert into her mouth. I snorted; I couldn’t help it. "Hey, don’t laugh! You should also consider new options, since you and JiHo have broken up. Listen to me, little Sarang, nothing will warm your bed better than a hot big boy."

"Ew, Soomin." She just laughed back.

[deathsbestgirl]

okay so here comes a super incoherent post about beyond the sea, never again, season 6, all things and beyond.

i was thinking about how cyclical scully is. in beyond the sea, her father just died and she's struggling partially because of how different their relationship became since she "left" medicine for the fbi. she didn't make him happy or proud before he died, things were left unsteady and the first thing she does is believe boggs, thinking her belief would please mulder. but it didn't, it scared him. but it did get a reaction out of him. something she didn't really get from her father. he was still mildly affectionate but he didn't really want to hear about her job — something she's so excited about in that first year.

slight tangent: scully is always encouraging mulder. at the least, she's taking his theories seriously, no matter how outlandish she may think them. in little green men, she sees her friend in a haze of depression, and she's going to pull him out of it. he starts talking about george hale seeing elves and she tells him 'but the telescope still got made.' and the only trace of him is george hale on a list of passengers to puerto rico. so many of scully's issues boil down to perceived failure and she never lets mulder bask in it either. something that takes him a little longer to figure out.

anyway. by the time we get to never again, they just experienced paper hearts & el mundo gira — a case about murdered little girls whose families have no answers, where she failed mulder & skinner. another case about immigrants — people ignored & invisible (this time the "aliens" are the victim of a cruel system that doesn't care, but they care). two failures, two cases hitting close to home.

when i think of scully, i think of that line from supergirl when kara tells cat she just wants to be useful to someone. i very much believe that's similar to scully. she didn't care about capital H humanity until mulder showed her the way. she followed mulder because she was so touched by is compassion & relentlessness. she believes in him, but she doesn't quite believe in herself nearly the same.

scully talks about wanting a life from time to time. she tells mulder in bts she loves her job — and that's the truth. but it doesn't mean the work is enough for her. and when she's feeling like she isn't useful, hasn't been of value, like she's invisible. well, she hits that wall. she spent so much of season two telling mulder she's fine, she's back, she needs to work, she's lost so much time already. but somehow, the x files are still only his. for mulder, that's a defense mechanism. believing everything that's happened to her is his fault, that her assignment is only temporary because he believes in her so much. i don't think it's an ownership. he invites scully into everything (except when he's impulsive or he doesn't want to endanger her for his personal quest).

but scully. she needs to know. so she tells ed about the way she rebels and how there are other fathers. in na, she doesn't have the evidence of her importance to the x files or to mulder, only to be smacked in the face with her cancer diagnosis. where he does everything she asks of him in memento mori. where she writes letter after letter to him as she lies dying in a hospital bed, desperately grasping at this treatment that hasn't saved a single woman. every single episode she's faced with what her death will do to mulder, and she can't bear it. she begs forgiveness for leaving him, begs that we won't make her his next cause, that he will live & keep searching for the truth. he celebrates her birthday, gives her a gift that only she could find his meaning in. and when she doesn't die, she's reinvigorated. she's excited to be back at work with him. she thinks maybe they can move forward, makes a joke about agents consorting as she opens wine. and when he runs into the woods after mothmen, she understands and waits for the call. but she doesn't just let him off the hook and he doesn't really want her to. the answer is the same though, so she waits and she follows him and they do the work & look for the truth.

in ftf, they're being punished for something that isn't their fault and everyone knows it. she's been reassigned and she tells him she's going but scully knew. she went to him so he could change her mind (like he did in redux) and he tells her she made him a whole person. just because it's hard & frustrating doesn't mean he doesn't need her. she's the only reason they have anything to go on, but it's also much more personal than that — and that's kind of the crux of it. the work is personal and he let scully into all of it. all of their cases are dates.

season six, scully keeps asking mulder to get out of the car. he finally learns the lesson in the unnatural. it isn't that she doesn't love the x files, love working with him. she just wants more. she doesn't want it to be her entire life (their entire life). and so she keeps hitting that wall!!

in all things, scully hits that wall again. despite the fact they are together, and they're happier than they've ever been. but it almost feels like it happens just because it's a pattern, and she had a recent failure in en ami that really cut her, and mulder. even that didn't really set them back. (except mulder's fear about what scully knew of his brain disease, and csm's true motive with enticing scully. sorry guys i'm invested lol) it's almost like a fake crisis, and not michelle (omfg what's her name lol) just enlightens her. gives meaning to what she's feeling, and sets her on the path to move forward and not just in her typical cycle. it's such an episode of scully breaking her patterns. she puts faith in another belief system. she returns to her past to understand she's where she's meant to be, where she wants to be. that her choices are completely valid, not just to her or mulder, but to the world. they made a new blueprint just for them and that's one of the most incredible things anyone can do. and all not michelle did was share her story and the patterns she recognizes everywhere because of her own experience. not michelle did for scully what mulder & melissa have done for her before. opening her mind, giving her courage & security & strength.

anyway. did that make any sense?

[heartstringsbloom]

Au where McQueen was created (a la the replica program from Kingdom Hearts) for racing and this can go either way, but for the purposes of this story we’ll focus on humanized!Cars

When he wakes up he’s blank. He can perceive everything, see the white walls around him, feel the baggy white jumpsuit he’s wearing. But he doesn’t really associate with anything, rather he just perceives

A man in a lab coat walks in and tells him that he’s a racer. What does that mean?

He learns that it means to go fast, to loop around a track over a hundred times for a trophy. That trophy means he’s the best. The person they hand him off to—Harv—tells him that he’ll be the best

People cheer for him and scream his name from the stands. All he has to do is make first place in that little red car they give him

They also tell him that his name is Lightning. Because he’s fast, there and around the track in a flash. Lightning McQueen.

Royalty? Not yet, Harv tells him. Not until he wins the Piston Cup

But McQueen gets lost on the way. It was supposed to be a tie-breaker, but Mack—and Mack is so nice, always makes Lightning smile—leaves him behind at some diner while McQueen was signing autographs. Strange little mementos that people like to ask of him.

Lightning doesn’t think he meant to. He had been told that the race was too important to miss. Maybe Mack didn’t realize he had even left the trailer

McQueen wanders. It’s nighttime, and the stars are bright and decorate the sky. McQueen wonders why the cars passing have headlights when his doesn’t

(The track is always lit. Is too much light a bad thing? Is he a bad thing?)

One of the cars slows next to him, and McQueen sees the window roll down. Someone with a hat and a badge

Sheriff of . . . Well the man doesn’t say, but he asks Lightning if everything is alright. Lightning thinks it is, except he doesn’t know how to get to California.

It’s a long way, Sheriff tells him. Guess McQueen has a long walk

Sheriff scoffs and asks if he needs a place for the night. Lightning doesn’t think so. He only needs to get to California. But Sheriff shakes his head and mutters something Lightning can’t make out, sorry.

He offers Lightning a ride

Can Sheriff get him to California?

What is with you, kid? You need some rest.

Okay.

Sheriff takes him to a bright orange motel with a sigh that reads “Cozy Cone,” and it makes Lightning smile. It reminds him of the track. Nothing else

Inside is someone with hair bluer than the sky, Lightning thinks. She has to be made of the sky, or the ocean, or maybe both. He asks

She blinks at him and her face gets pink, making her ocean eyes all the more vibrant. Wow.

Sheriff calls her Sally. Lightning forever associates her with everything blue and beautiful

She shows him to a room, and he tilts his head in the tiny but warm space. It’s smaller than his trailer

Is it? Sally asks. He nods, clutches his trailer key in his pocket. He wonders how Mack is doing

Sally asks if he’s hungry, and Lightning hasn’t thought about it. He’s . . . Never been hungry, has he? Should he be?

“Should I be?”

Sally blinks and her eyes get softer, and she looks him up and down as if she’s seeing him for the first time. Lightning mimics her, smiles because she’s so lovely and he wonders how the stars would scatter across her waves of hair

She says to stay put, and leaves. Lightning falters, saddened by her absence, and falls to sit on the floor, folding his legs in a crisscross

He lights up when she returns, carrying a bag of something that smells amazing.

She sets it on a small table next to the bed, beckons him over and starts talking about burgers and fries and a tiny salad, whatever those are

But he eats, seeing how she smiles when he does, and it makes him want to do everything in his power to keep that on her face

Sally bids him goodnight and leaves, and it’s a little sad because she’s so wonderful, but the food tastes amazing so Lightning doesn’t feel as sad

He stares at the empty takeout carton when he’s finished. Thinks about Sally and the stars and burgers and the bed. It’s a soft, neatly made and fresh-smelling. He lays down slowly, finding it an interesting alternative to the seat in his car

He doesn’t think of California that night, too swayed by the sky and the ocean and stars.

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

There's Such a Sad Love (Deep in Your Eyes) - Prologue

it's finally time, friends!! here is the first part to my ghost!eddie fic! I am planning on getting the first real chapter up tomorrow, and the rest as they are done! I'd like to have this done by halloween but we'll see if i continue to have the spoons for this story thanks for reading! 🙌🥰👻

pairing: steddie | rated: M | on AO3

CWs for this chapter include: mentions of suicide/ideations as part of chrissy's backstory, and depictions of violence but nothing graphic!

He’s spoken with her a lot since he died, the Moon.

She’s lovely, beautiful, bright, and loves her monsters (Eddie still doesn’t quite know what that means, are monsters real? …Well…he is a ghost now…).

She was the first one he cried to when he realized what had happened to him, why it did.

Chrissy was his better half, his soulmate, his sister, his best friend.

He’d found her afterwards, his first thought being how could he have not known? He could understand anyone else not knowing, not knowing her like he did, but even he didn’t know.

He’d found her letter just as her boyfriend found him.

Eddie replays his last few minutes on the mortal plane over and over again in his head in the years afterwards, starting with the front door to his trailer being blown open in the wake of Jason Carver’s entrance…

“Carver! Jason, I–I’m so sorry…”

“What’d you do to her, freak?”

“What? Nothing! I’d never—I just found her letter—”

He can remember that he was hit in that moment, struck across the face lightning fast, but he can no longer remember the pain.

Probably a good thing too, for what was to come. 

“Oh yeah, sure, like anyone’s going to believe that.”

Another hit.

Another.

Another.

Over and over again until eventually, Eddie’s memory goes sideways; his sight is blurry, but clear enough to tell he was now on the floor.

He’s faced towards Jason’s legs, watches as they shuffle and bend to pick up something.

Wait, Eddie was holding something earlier wasn’t he? Something important?

His vision starts fading out, still watching as Jason’s legs back away from him, then turn sharply to run out the open door.

Tired, Eddie succumbs to the darkness; his last thought being that Wayne was going to be the one to find them both.

“A tale as old as time, I suppose.” he had told the moon one night of the thousands he must’ve been through at this point, “Blame the Freak, right?”

Her words of love and encouragement normally helped soothe his soul, but there were some nights where he just couldn’t let the injustice go, it wasn’t fucking fair!

In the end, Jason got second degree murder. Eddie got a plain wooden box.

His uncle was left alone and heartbroken.

Jason only served a fraction of the time he was supposed to.

Eddie never graduated high school, never got out of this shitty town, never got the chance to make something of himself.

He had never fallen in love.

Now, he was stuck in limbo. Stuck haunting the empty trailer (he doesn’t blame Wayne for leaving), then the empty plot where it’d had once been, and now he’s the new Forest Hills Estate’s resident poltergeist.

Admittedly, kinda metal. When he was alive, he might’ve thought it’d be badass to one of the tortured souls he used to enjoy reading about.

Now it’s just torturous. 

It’s been 38 years of hell.

Three of people breaking in and stealing mementos of the trailer ‘that poor girl’ died in.

They didn’t even say her name.

Ten of watching his home crumble around him before eventually getting torn down on purpose, to try and rid Hawkins of ‘that boy what did her in’.

They don’t dare say his name.

15 of watching the whole trailer park fall to disrepair; everyone else leaves, saying they hear sobs carried on the wind at night.

In 2001, the land the Forest Hills trailer park was on is sold off and construction starts.

Eddie laughs with the Moon when he sees walls start to go up around him, a moment of sardonic reprieve.

“Is the town’s memory that short? Don’t they know this is where it all happened?” he asks her, but she was just glad he’d have a roof over his head again.

Joke’s on him, though, it wasn’t the town that built there, it was some private company that didn’t know the history. The town knew. They remembered. And no one bought the place (even with as large and lovely as the home was).

In the 23 years it was left standing empty, he’d had loads of fun messing with the teens who’d come around every fall. Daring each other to just go up to the door, to ring the bell, even to just step up the first step. 

Sometimes they managed to get in, and those were the best times, especially on Halloween.

Eddie found himself corporeal every October 31st. Some years he’d just answer the door nonchalantly when someone knocked, knowing full well his bruised and bloody appearance really added to the effect.

Some years they’d come the day before, and those were the best. He wasn’t fully “a person” again yet, just a solid black shadow. 

His power grows in the months leading up to the 31st, and he uses the extra juice to scream and wail, to throw shit around…it adds to the story a bit, though he’s realized in the last few years that the kids who come around looking for thrills don’t even know what he and Chrissy went through.

The first time he’d heard that, he’d nearly thrown a couple kids out a second story window in his rage.

Finally, one day in late winter while wandering the grounds, testing the limits of his haunting range as if they’d suddenly expanded out any farther overnight, he sees the bright red SOLD sign at the end of the driveway.

next ->

[lathalea]

The White Raven 7/9

The next chapter of Thorin and Carra's story is here!

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x OC Carra Rating: G Warnings: mentions of injuries/death/dragon sickness Author's notes: This is the story of Thorin Oakenshield's quest to find the White Raven, a mysterious creature of legends only few were fortunate enough to see. This is the story of love stronger than time, destiny, and laws of gods and mortals alike. You can find this fic on AO3.

Special thanks to @legolasbadass for being a great, great, great beta reader and extra special thanks to Legolasbadass (again!) and @i-did-not-mean-to for our Silm evenings and discussons that helped me write this chapter 💚

Khuzdul: Karkûnê - My Raveness 🌟 Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 ... 🌟

The tint of Carra’s face closely matched the crispy white colour of the pillowcase beneath it, her silver-white hair scattered across it in disarray. Her eyes were closed, and Thorin held his breath for a heartbeat—before he noticed the slight movements of her chest. 

She was breathing. Still.

Sitting on a makeshift wheeled chair, which Nari, the disgruntled healer, procured from somewhere, Thorin leaned closer towards Carra, biting his lip in an attempt to ignore the pain his protesting body evoked. Another spell of dizziness washed over him again, and his body pleaded for mercy, but he pushed those sensations away. Perhaps Balin and Nari were right, and he should have stayed in bed, but at that moment, Thorin’s own discomfort felt insignificant.

His fingertips brushed against the softness of Carra’s hollow cheek. Her skin was cool under his touch, but warmth still lingered within.

“Carra… Karkûnê…“ he murmured. There was no response. Her eyelids did not flutter to show the iridescent depth of her gaze; her lips did not open to utter his name. She was here, beside him, yet completely out of his reach.

“How long has she been this way?” he asked.

“Since she was brought in here on the day of the battle, Your Majesty,” the healer responded and cast a worried glance at Balin. “Most of her injuries are minor, but she has yet to regain consciousness. We do not know why it takes so long but then again, she is not a Dwarf.”

Thorin thanked him with a nod, and his eyes returned to Carra. Her face and arms were marked with multiple bruises and scarrings—mementos of her confrontation with Azog. He closed his eyes, attempting to get rid of the tightness in his throat. At least a fortnight had passed since the battle ended, and her body seemed to refuse to heal at its regular pace. Throughout the years, he learned how quickly she regenerated; one or two nights should have been enough to cure most of it, and yet, for some inexplicable reason, this did not happen. But…

She was still breathing.

He took her slender hand in his. So soft. So fragile.

“I want my bed moved here,” he turned to the older dwarf, not letting go of her hand.

“Thorin?” Balin raised his eyebrows.

Nari’s stifled cough of surprise reached him at the same time. Thorin chose to ignore it.

“She needs me, Balin,” he looked at Carra’s hand. So delicate in his palm, like a folded wing of a sleeping fledgeling.

The older Dwarf pulled at his beard and cast a meaningful glance at Nari. It was enough to make the healer bow and leave the room, closing the door behind him. Only then did Balin speak again. 

“I assume that you are aware of what message this is going to send, laddie.”

“What message…? I told you, Balin, she is my wife.” Thorin’s eyes wandered to Carra’s peaceful, unmoving face. With his left arm bound up, he had to gently free his right hand and reach into her hair. He let his fingers run through the silver-white strands until he uncovered the marriage braid he had pleated himself. “She watched over us on our way to reclaim Erebor. Now I shall watch over her.”

His mentor sat down on a nearby bench with a grunt, his gaze resting on Thorin’s hand, once again clasped with Carra’s. Thorin could almost feel its weight.

Balin sighed heavily, “There will be trouble with the lords when they hear of it.”

“I have never supported any of their plans of political alliances via marriage as you very well know,” Thorin furrowed his brow.

“Indeed. I still applaud you for how you handled the situation with Lord Yngví and managed to convince Fili to marry Lady Tarja. You killed two birds with one stone!” A shadow of a smile appeared on Balin's lips. “The Firebeards are our strongest allies, and if Mahal blesses the couple with a babe, it will rule over the whole Blue Mountains.”

“It was not a great feat. They were already in love with each other,” Thorin tilted his head.

“But you saw the opportunity and took it,” Balin’s smile grew slightly. “And now it seems I will be the one on the lookout for an opportunity to explain the current situation to the lords. And Dain…”

“She is my One, Balin.” The rasp of his own whisper sounded hollow in the silence of the stone chamber. He had said these words only once before and only to Carra. They were meant to be said not more than once in a lifetime, and it felt wrong to repeat them in this stuffy, dimly lit chamber and not under a star-studded sky with his Raveness in his arms.

His old friend remained silent for a long while. Silent and unmoving, like a stone statue. Thorin avoided looking into his face by turning his attention to Carra’s hand, which he still held. He felt the warmth of his own body seeping through her skin, but it remained cool despite his best efforts.

But she was still breathing. There was still hope, he reminded himself.

“How can it be? She is not a Child of Mahal.” Balin frowned. “She could not have been made from the same piece of stone as you.” “I do not know, Balin,” he shrugged and presented their joined hands to him. “But I do know this: she saved me. Twice. Once—at Rivendell. And the second time… Do you remember my feather, Balin? That is how I overcame the curse. In the darkest hour I took it in my hand. And so I recalled my One—and my true self.”

Thorin glanced at Carra’s face, but it remained unmoving; her eyes closed. 

“My blood sings in my veins whenever she is around. Even now.  It feels almost like when you sing to the stone and it sings back, showing you the hidden veins of ore in its depths.” His voice was but a whisper. “I shall not attempt to understand Mahal’s mysterious ways, but I am certain beyond doubt that she is my Other Half.”

His mentor pulled at his beard once again. “Let us only hope that this explanation will be enough for our people to accept her as their queen. Our kingdom is about to be rebuilt. We need unity, not dissent.”

“You told me once that I have done honourably by our people. That I had a choice… This is my choice. She is. If Carra cannot be accepted, so be it. We have never planned for our secret to see the light of the day and it can remain hidden,” Thorin admitted with conviction. After taking a brief look at her pale face, he addressed Balin once again. “And before you mention the issue of succession, we both know that I have already named Fili as my heir. The lords have no leverage here. I will do all in my power to unite the Seven Kingdoms again, but I will not be parted from Carra. That is my final word on the matter.”

Speaking of a future with Carra, regardless of the shape it would take, felt like a fresh waft of hope. She would wake up—and soon. And then they would keep meeting in hidden forest clearings, secluded valleys, and forgotten caverns, just like they had done for years.

Thorin never noticed when Balin stood up with a grunt. He barely felt his hand patting him on the shoulder.

“Very well, laddie. I will see what I can do about this matter. And now—allow me to leave you be. You have your wife to take care of.”

Thorin’s eyes met Balin’s in an instant. It was impossible to miss neither the softness of his gaze under those white bushy eyebrows nor the warmth in his smile.

“Balin, I…” he began, his voice faltering. Instead, he covered his mentor’s hand with his.

“I know, laddie, I know.” The old dwarf nodded. No other words were needed between them.

At that very moment, something brushed along the inside of Thorin’s palm, as if a butterfly opened its wings.

“Carra!” He brought her hand to his face, hoping to see the repeated motion of her little finger. Gently pressing his lips against the back of her hand, he breathed in the faint scent of snowdrops.

Her face was as expressionless and pale as before, but when Thorin was about to look away, Carra’s eyes darted about once or twice under her eyelids.

It took him one heartbeat to lean closer toward her; before he knew it, he gave her forehead a soft, lingering kiss. The pain and exhaustion he felt did not matter any longer. Everything besides Carra was of no consequence. His One was still there, and this knowledge imbued him with a new strength.

“Fight, Karkûnê. Do not give up,” Thorin whispered into her ear. “I am here, beside you. Do you hear me, amrâlimê?”

He pressed his forehead against hers in an intimate gesture they exchanged whenever they met. Her skin pleasantly cooled his burning hot forehead while Thorin whispered, “Come back to me, Wings of my heart.”

***

The butterfly circles above the rock basin. Its orange wings flutter gracefully a hairbreadth above the still surface of the water, yet its wings never touch it. Carra cannot seem to tear off her eyes from the afterimages of the spectacle she has witnessed a mere moment ago. More blurred shapes appear in the water, but they are distorted and barely recognizable, fading away quickly.

“Do you see now, Silver One?” The Weaver’s voice fills Carra’s ears. “There are countless possibilities for the thread to run through the loom.”

“But the taint is spreading in the pattern,” the white-haired man, the Water Bearer, says; his words sound hollow. “Everything withers in its wake.”

“There is still hope. Not everything is lost.” The Great Mother walks towards a nearby apple tree. Both its leaves and her gown shimmer in the sunlight. Something tells Carra to follow her creator, and so she does, her legs unsteady.

“Not everything? What about… ” The White Raven’s voice trembles. “Thorin Oakenshield’s life?”

The Great Mother does not reply. Instead, she plucks a large, ripe apple from the tree and smells it with an approving hum.

“Curious creature.” The Water Bearer approaches them from ahead; Carra could have sworn he was behind them merely a moment ago. “Is it the silver dust in your wings speaking or your heart?”

Carra lowers her head—in shame or embarrassment? She does not know which one burns stronger.

She wants to seek redemption—to show that there is still a part of her that is worthy. In fact, she wishes to explain that her question was born solely out of her sense of duty, that her feelings are insignificant, but then her own faint whisper reaches her.

“I speak from my heart,” she says. Always my heart, she thinks.

The Water Bearer and the Green Lady exchange a boundless glance. An eternity seems to pass, as long as one blink of Carra’s eyes.

The Great Mother turns back to her and speaks; a shadow of a smile blooms on her lips, “Then you should already know the answer to this question, my child.”

“I do not understand, Great Mother.”

“Was it not you who alarmed us of the threat to his life?”

Carra recalls the very moment when the Pale Orc attacked Thorin and finds that she does not have the strength to speak. She simply nods as the sense of foreboding tightens its fingers around her throat.

“Your croak echoed so strongly across the tapestry that I almost lost several useful threads!” The Weaver’s voice seems to come from afar, but when Carra turns towards its source, she sees the Weaver standing only a few steps behind her.

“My apologies, my lady,” Carra says faintly. “It was not my intention to cause trouble.”

“Child, you did no such thing. You fulfilled your duty.” The Great Mother shakes her head gracefully, the apple still in her hand. “He is still among the living.”

Something hums in Carra’s ear, and the dread that has been gnawing at her mind finally leaves her; her legs fold beneath her, and she finds herself on the grass, supported by trembling arms. Her heart beats fast, as if after a long run.

Thorin lives. Thorin lives. Thorin lives.

“Thank you, Great Mother.” The world blurs before her, and she needs to wipe away the tears. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“You should be thanking yourself, dear child—it has come to pass through your sacrifice.” The Great Mother extends her hand, and Carra takes it tentatively, lifting herself from the ground on unsteady legs.

The Water Bearer steps towards them. His hands are empty. The butterfly is nowhere to be seen.

“And so the line of Durin remains unbroken,” he says. “So does the pattern.” The Weaver’s elegant fingers move along a thick piece of thread. Its colour makes Carra think of the waters of the Long Lake at dawn. “I was almost certain that this thread would be lost to the tapestry forever.”

The three of them exchange a lengthy glance in silence, and Carra wishes she could understand its meaning.

“Forgive me, Great Mother.” Her throat constricts at her own boldness.” But who will watch over Thorin Oakenshield and his kin now that I am gone?”

“The mettle on this one!” The Water Bearer chuckles, but Carra can barely hear him. A strong gust of wind picks up suddenly, making the leaves rustle in the trees around them. As she looks up, the wind brings another sound with it. A low whisper that reverberates in her ears with longing.

“Carra… Please…”

“Thorin?” Her eyes search the beech grove ahead in hopes of seeing her son of Durin, but there are only tree trunks and shrubbery, and the rustling of leaves. Has she imagined hearing his voice?

“Is that…?” There is a hint of amusement in the Water Bearer’s voice. His white hair dances in the wind.

“That silver in her wings…” the Weaver adds, but before she can finish her sentence, another figure appears in the garden, as if out of nowhere. With a few measured strides, he approaches the Great Mother, who offers him the apple she picked before. He takes it, reverently kissing her on her hand. Even though the newcomer is taller than his companions, there seems to be something dwarven about him. Perhaps it is his robust figure or muscular arms, his long hair, brown as elm bark, or perhaps his thick, braided beard; Carra is not certain.

“Husband mine, it is good to see you here,” the Great Mother says.

“I would not have missed it for the world, my dearest.” The man’s voice is as deep as the deepest mines of Erebor.

The wind picks up again, and the rustling intensifies, but the Great Mother’s spouse remains unmoving; even his hair and garments remain still, as if carved out of stone.

“Karkûnê… Come back to me…”

Carra’s searching eyes frantically move from one tree to the next, from one patch of shrubbery to another, but he is not there.

“Thorin!” Helplessly she exclaims towards the sky. “Where are you?”

“You will not find him here, Winged One,” the Great Mother’s husband addresses her. “He is under his Mountain.”

“But I hear him as if he was here!” Carra does not dare to lift her eyes and look into his radiant face.

“The bond between you is as strong as mithril,” he explains.

She opens her mouth to speak, but then she hears the Weaver’s voice.

“So it is mithril, not silver… What are you up to, Smith?” With her brow furrowed, the ethereal lady glances at her loom. “You are not hammering out a new pattern, are you?”

He gives out a short chuckle, “Nothing of the sort, Spinner. This pattern does not need any adjustments on my part.”

“Because you have already made them,” the Water Bearer interjects, once again standing by the rock basin, the silvery jug resting at its edge. When his all-knowing gaze meets hers, Carra wants to disappear.

“A pinch of mithril has never done any harm to anyone.” The Smith takes a step towards Carra. “Has it, Winged One?”

“My lord, I do not comprehend…” she speaks shakily. “I only wish to know if Thorin is going to be safe now.”

There is something benevolent in his expectant gaze. Is he smiling? He has heard her, surely, but he does not address her. Carra does not understand what is expected of her now. A glance passes between the Great Mother and the Weaver, but Carra remains oblivious to it, her attention caught by a new occurrence. The orange butterfly appears in front of her, its wings fluttering, and then it flies off to rest on the folds of the Great Mother’s robes, as if on a flowery meadow. Standing by her husband, she gives a shallow nod.

“So be it, Smith,” the Water Bearer says. 

Carra blinks, and when she opens her eyes again, she stands by the rock basin once more. This time, the water is black and impenetrable, like the sky on a winter night. An image starts forming, but it feels like a mere shadow of the visions she has experienced before.

*** Thorin sits on a gilded stone bench on a high terrace carved out of the slope of the Mountain. A beautifully ornamented walking cane rests against the wall behind him. A thick fur-lined cloak rests on his shoulders, adorned with golden embroidery. His breath turns into mist in the cold air, and several stray snowflakes find their way to his hair, adorned with braids and golden cuffs. His sunken cheeks and pale skin are in stark contrast with the opulence that surrounds him. A guard passes by and salutes him, only to disappear in the bowels of the Mountain.

Time passes as Thorin gazes into the horizon. Although his left arm remains motionless—his left hand clothed in a glove—his right hand reaches under his tunic. Soon, his ringed fingers emerge, holding a silver-white feather. Thorin presses his lips against its tip and closes his eyes for a moment. He whispers something, but his words escape on the wind.

When an elderly Dwarf clad in burgundy robes approaches him, the feather is still in his hand.

“The delegation from the Woodland Realm has arrived, Thorin,” the Dwarf says. “It is time.”“Time, Balin? It feels like mine has already passed,” Thorin replies.

“And yet they say it is time that heals all wounds,” Balin gestures towards the feather.

Thorin rises from the bench with a pained hiss, helping himself with the walking cane. There is a heavy limp in his walk, and as they enter the Mountain, his solemn voice echoes in the corridor.

“But will it heal mine?” ***

“Your Dwarf rules over his kingdom. There is peace and safety for him and his people,” The Green Lady speaks. “Why the tears, my child?” 

Carra brings her fingers to her cheek. It is wet.

“I failed him, Great Mother. He needs me. I should be by his side, not here!” With her vision blurred, she can barely see the four luminous silhouettes standing around her, the expressions on their faces unreadable.

“You are on the path to the Timeless Halls of your winged kin where the reward for your deeds awaits you. You have earned it, Carra.” The Great Mother’s voice is like a sturdy nest shielded from the elements, like a warm blanket on a stormy night.

“I cannot draw joy from such honours. Not when my mate—the one I love—suffers. I’d rather…” She stops, terrified by her own insolence. Nevertheless, Carra has had to speak out. The vision of the terrifying king on the throne of Erebor, cloaked in darkness and blood, has been haunting her since the moment she saw it in the water. But this image was not as horrifying as her sudden realisation. Thorin’s gaze in her most recent vision, bitter and devoid of hope, was disturbingly similar to the darkness in the dragon king’s eyes.

The Smith gives out a lengthy hum. It sounds like a rumble of a distant avalanche.

“What is it that you are saying, child?” The Great Mother stands before Carra now. 

“I do not have the right to ask, Great Mother, but there is no greater reward for me than seeing Thorin contented and at peace,” Carra explains, and there is no doubt nor fear in her voice now because she speaks for Thorin, not for herself, for the one she has been watching over since she can remember. “His past has been filled with hardships. And now he needs joy, not grief, to heal. I will do anything you ask of me, I will serve you for as long as you wish… Please, Great Mother, do not let the darkness consume him. Does he not deserve a long and happy life now?”

“You would relinquish your place in the Timeless Halls for the sake of this Dwarf?” The Weaver inquires. There are several threads in her hand, but Carra does not see their colours.

“For Thorin’s happiness, I would, my lady. As my last gift to him.” Carra swallows. She has just sentenced herself to oblivion, and yet it does not terrify her in the slightest. Only Thorin’s future matters to her, just like it always has.

“Shall we grant her this reward, husband?” The Great Mother turns to the Smith, who looks at a little pebble in his palm, and then tosses it up, catching it in a blink of an eye later.

“Your devotion reminds me of my own children, Winged One,” he declares. “Know that the path you chose is a path of no return. If you take it, the Timeless Halls will not welcome you. You will become like this stone. Stones do not have wings nor do they dream. Do you understand?”

“I do,” she speaks quietly. “This is the path I want to take.”

“Very well,” the Great Mother grants her a smile as warm as a spring day. In her open palm, a flower blooms. Its countless petals are orange, and it smells like fire.

“You have fulfilled your duty as the White Raven, dear child. We shall bestow upon you the reward you have chosen,” she offers Carra the flower in her outstretched hand. “Accept it, if that is truly your choice.”

“Thank you, Great Mother.” She touches the flower with her trembling fingers. It feels hard, like a piece of stone. “Thank you, Great Smith…”

As Carra closes her hand over the silky petals, a curtain of darkness falls over her, and it is as if the air disappeared from her lungs. She cannot move; she cannot speak. This must be the end, she thinks, and in the cold stillness of oblivion, a familiar sound reaches her ears.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

The loom resumed its work.

🌟 Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 ... 🌟

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[dailyadventureprompts]

Howdy Mr. Dapper! Your ideas for zhuzhing up different gods are always so cool, I was wondering if you had any for Grummsh? Either keeping him as a patron of orcs but losing the evilness, or making him believably evil but not relegating him to one people?

Deity: Gruumsh, God of Grudges

The soldiers let me and my boy through the wall because they thought we’d be useful. Making leather’s foul work but someone’s got to mend their armour and boots. A few years go past and my boy gets bigger, starts looking like he might be a problem, so they start looking for excuses, and they keep finding excuses until they have him on the ground and are beating him to death with the boots I made them. 

Ruiner, they have taken my son so let me have this instead: Help me live long enough to slip my knife under their skin, Help me flay every last one of the bastards , Help me give back this pain they’ve given me. I do not want it. 

-Grimma, orcish tanner and resistance leader

As much as the kindhearted would like to deny it, there are some hatreds that are holy, some transgressions that can not be forgiven, some hurts that will not ease until they are avenged. These are the province of Gruumsh, the Ruiner, Father of the wronged. Gruumsh is a god to curse by, a god to get you through bitter times, and he lends his strength and fathomless anger to those who have been hard done by. Gruumsh is defined by his symbol of the gouged eye, a wound that will not close forced upon him by enemies yet to be brought to justice. 

That justice however does not resemble anything that could be codified in law. Gruumsh is known as the Ruiner because often the ultimate culmination of his worship is just that: the violent obliteration of both his worshipper and those that wronged them, a closed circle of bloodshed and loss that balances the scales through pain. 

Adventure Hooks

A storm has driven the party and several other travellers to take shelter in a roadhouse, delaying their days long journey to the next settlement but giving them a chance to get cozy by the fire, maybe trade some gossip with the others. Storytime is however interrupted when a deadman begins hammering at the door, demanding for someone to let him in so that he can wreak vengeance on those that murdered him. Interrogating the dead man through the door reveals that he was making his way towards the inn when set upon by masked figures who robbed him of his possessions and left him dead in a ditch with a prayer to the Ruiner on his lips. Its up to the party to piece together which of their dinner companions might’ve done the deed, or else the revnant is likely to break in, kill them all, and let Gruumsh sort it out. 

An orcish noblewoman needs the party’s help in recovering a number of important items stolen from her family’s chapel. She was on the eve of brokering a peace with a rival noble house and putting an end to generations of bloodfued when someone broke in, defaced their altar, and stole several mementos that are not only important to her family but also empowered with a dangerous magic. Most of her people blame thieves,  the rival faction, or the disfavour of Gruumsh himself, though if the party search hard enough the evidence may just point them in the direction of her hot blooded younger brother who feels as if he’s yet to prove himself in the family’s ongoing conflict. 

An enterprising land baron attempted to oust the local hermit from his land and ended up getting some divine wrath for his trouble, the old crank’s curse bringing down a celestially empowered chimera to harry the baron and rampage across his holdings. Landlords are parasites, and while the party might be tempted to let the beast despite the generous reward he offers, there is also the matter of the other people live on his various tenant farms who’ve been caught in the literal crossfire. Perhaps there’s a more equitable way to end this, especially since killing the beast ( or the hermit, as the landlord subtly entreats) may bring Gruumsh’s wrath down on them. 

As with gods like the Allhammer or the Archheart, Gruumsh can be worshipped by any but is most often depicted as an orc, with some myths claiming that the first orcs rose up in legion from the drops of blood spilled from the Ruiner when his eye was first taken. Some of his priests, known as grudgekeepers like to joke that the famed orcish resilience in the face of grievous harm  is one of Gruumsh’s favourite gifts, the chance to strike back against your murderer one last time before death comes to claim you. 

There are few temples dedicated to the Ruiner, and those do exist often serve as monuments to wrongs so great that could not be avenged. Likewise those devotees who extend their faith into public practice tend to preach to others seeking to memorialize, or to ferment public agitation against some great personal or social injustice that must be corrected. Some societies try to suppress worship of the ruiner, fearing that he incites the same pain he claims to avenge, but in these austere cultures where the mighty may do as they please Gruumsh has little need of temples: his shrines are the bloodstains that can’t be cleaned off the street, his prayers are made in defaced edifices and vulgar words shared between those who suffer.

Signs: Fresh blood remembering old violence, rage so pure it distorts reality, physical cracks in symbols of authority

Symbols: A lone bleeding eye, nails driven into a resilient surface over and over and over again.

Titles: The Ruiner, The Unblinking, He who never sleeps

Art

[rhithefella-sillytimes]

Memento Mori, Memento Vivere

A Cabin Tales Quick Fic

-----

"Alright... if I gave you all one more year, what would you do? Will you... make the most of it? Or will you just waste it like you humans always do?"

This question left the mouth of the Storyteller, as he glanced at the unfortunate lot. Its fingers tap against his arm, his cold gaze piercing into their bodies like a well-aimed bullet.

-----

Wayward 01 - Cassidy White

A young girl who ran away from home and never came back. Perhaps there were a few things she wishes to do differently if she returned?

Cassidy sniffled, wringing the tips of her hair dry. She seemed out of it, and was shivering even though she was placed close to the fireplace. She looked up at the Storyteller, before looking away again. She seemed like she was moments away from either sneezing or sobbing her eyes out.

"Well..?", the Storyteller asked. "I don't usually do this 'second chance' thing, so consider yourself lucky that I even considered this."

"I... I...", Cassidy tried to speak with a shaky breath. She was stopped by a sudden itching of the throat, and she leaned forward, coughing up water.

Begrudgingly, the Storyteller stood up from its seat, walked to Cassidy and patted her back. It waited until the spirit could be able to speak without pausing to spit lake water. To him, it felt so tedious, but he has to do this if he wants an answer from her.

After what seemed to be forever, the girl was finally ready to talk. The Storyteller moved away from her, making his way back to his chair. He peered close, locking eyes with her. She couldn't look away, or at least she felt like she couldn't. She looked hesitant, which was reasonable. After all, she was sitting face to face with Death themself.

"Go on.", the Storyteller urged her. Cassidy's mouth quivered, but she knew she had to speak now.

"Well... I... I want to go home.", she started, holding her arms close and leaning closer to the fireplace.

"I just want to see my mom again. I have... to talk to her. I just want to get back in good terms with her. Oh shit, she might hate me now. I just want to tell her that I'm so sorry...

Most importantly, I wanna actually say goodbye to her. Please, let me have this chance for once..."

-----

Wayward 02 - Eric

A boy who was the unfortunate victim of a curse that haunted the orphanage he lived in. An acquaintance tried to save him, but they failed... what would he do in this chance he may be given?

Despite the circumstance he's found himself in, Eric looked a lot more bummed out than scared. It was almost like he's been called to the principal's office instead of sitting right in front of Death.

At least, that's how he seemed outwardly. Death knew better. It knew this child was scared. Well, why wouldn't he be? Such a young soul, having faced a horrifying situation that he barely had control over. But the kid knew how to feign a lack of fear, as he had done many times before this.

The spirit just picked at his teeth with his fingernails, staring back up at the Storyteller with a bored but wide-eyed expression. He didn't even seem to react to the blood trickling down his throat as it stained the wooden floors red. Once the Storyteller said their question, Eric paused, wiping his finger against his shirt.

"Hm... Let me think.", the boy said.

Time dragged on, and Eric was still thinking. The Storyteller grew impatient, and they waved its hand in front of the boy's eyes.

"Hey.", they said. "Do you have an answer yet? I have all the time in the world, but I can't say the same about you, boy."

Eric laughed a little, some blood spraying onto the mysterious entity's clothes as he did. "I kind of forgot what you were asking. What was it again?", he replied, much to the Storyteller's annoyance.

It groaned, pinching its forehead with an annoyed sigh. "I said, if you had another year to live, what would-"

They were cut off by the orphan snapping his fingers. It gave Eric an unamused look, annoyed by the kid's audacity or ignorance.

"Oh, I remember now!", the boy says, before clearing his throat. He slightly winces from discomfort after the gesture, before continuing his response.

"There's this kid I knew. I think his name's Ethan..? He seemed like he would be cool to be around. I just... regret not talking to him.

I dunno, it didn't cross my mind. I didn't really think I'd be dead, so I always thought I'd start talking to the guy some other day. Besides, the other guys would pick on him, I could've been next if I did do that."

He shrugged, before he sighed.

"I guess I just wish I didn't have cold feet before this. Maybe if I had one more year to do things right, I could talk to the dude. We would've been great friends, I can tell."

-----

Wayward 03 - Samuel Larson-Watts

A boy who died alongside his friends, but was the deciding vote that caused his own friend to die alone. Now that he's gotten a new chance, will it make things worthwhile for his friends?

Sam looked like all the blood had drained on his body, as he sits still in front of the Storyteller. In his bloodied and slightly charred face was an expression that was equally frightened and defeated.

The Storyteller leaned forward, their head tilting slightly. "What's with the face, boy? You haven't even answered anything yet, and it already looks like you've given up on convincing me." It then chuckled snidely, their voice echoing throughout the cabin in a low rumble.

The loud voice caused Sam to partially duck his head low by instinct. He squeezed his blurry eyes shut, balling his hands into fists. He opened his mouth to apologize, stopping before the first syllable could even escape his lips. He slowly opened his unfocused eyes, trying to look up at the Storyteller with the toughest expression he can manage to make.

The Storyteller's sneering expression remained. "What? Are you gonna give up? Go ahead, you can just give up. Don't answer anything. It will be easier for the both of us."

This remark made Sam's eye twitch, and he sighs before finally talking. There was annoyance and frustration in his voice, which was almost enough to mask his defeated expression. "No I'm... I'm not giving up. I just... I'm just trying to think. If you aren't going to help me, don't talk at all, ok?"

This made the Storyteller lean back on his seat. Finally, the boy's decided to toughen up a little. It was a little worried that Sam would just give up. Despite their smugness, they wanted to see the boy struggle and fight, like he's always done in life. "Okay kid, just tell me when you're ready."

"Fine.", Sam says with a scoff. A minute passes, before the spirit lets out a sigh. He looks up at the Storyteller.

"I don't know.", he admits, looking down and letting some blood drip from his forehead to the floor.

"What do you mean 'you don't know'?", The entity asked, almost looking furious that the boy seemingly just gave up on finding an answer.

"Well...", Sam responds, still looking down but also looking to the side. "I wouldn't know what I'd do by myself. You don't just... come up with answers to this on the go. You'd need to think about them.

But... whatever it is, I don't think I could do it alone. So if you bring me back, I'd rather have this chance with my friends, please. Besides, I want to make up for them, and maybe I could if we all came back.

I've been a bad friend... and I want to do things right this time. And I promise, I will."

-----

Wayward 04 - Timothy Conroy

A kid quickly taken by forces beyond comprehension and barely even had the time to process what happened to him. I wonder, would things be different if he knew how much time he had left?

Timothy leaned back against his seat, his eyes fixated towards the fire. He then stretched his back, an audible and sickening crack heard as his bones locked in place. Even the Storyteller looked disturbed by the noises his spine and ribs made as he adjusted his back.

"Ooh... that sounded painful.", it said with an amused but surprised laugh.

"That's cuz it is.", Timothy said with a slight cough, stretching once more. "My back is... killin' me. Got any painkillers I could use there?", he says, wincing as he rubbed his presumably dislocated shoulder. "Got hit really bad 'round here."

The Storyteller can only let out another laugh of disbelief, though he felt a little bit of amusement as well."It's normal to feel like that after what happened to you. You'll get over it."

"Heh, hopefully it'll be soon, this sucks.", the spirit says, sighing. "Now back on what ya wanted to ask. It was what I'd wanna do if I lived again for a year, correct?"

The Storyteller nods, and Timothy continued. "Well, last thing I recall before things went dark was somethin' attackin' my family. If I get this extra year, maybe I'll try to get them outta there. Or y'know, fight that thing that got me."

The Storyteller shrugged. It seemed unusrprised by his answer, but almost looked unsatisfied. He then slightly changed his question, adding onto it. "Well, what else? That can't just be your goal now, can it?"

Timothy shrugged. "Well, if you want something else I guess I'll just help pa as much as I still can. Y'know, with workin' on the farm. Maybe find Bandit if he's still alive, but I doubt it."

Wayward 05 - Matthew Godrick

A young man struck down at the prime of his life by what many would say is an act of self-preservation. Does this person even have any regrets from his time on earth?

Matthew was quiet after the question was asked, busy thinking of how he'd respond to such a question. Only moments ago, he's been repeatedly apologizing to the Storyteller for bleeding all over the place. To the Storyteller, it was getting annoying so perhaps this silence was better than that.

It was still evident to Death that the poor soul was still anxious. He's slightly hunched over, his arms crossed across his body and his knees pushed against each other as he tried to prevent his visibly painful wounds from dirtying the floor even more with a dark red. Bloodstains and wood aren't a good mix. And if they looked closer to him, they could see him shudder. His mouth was slightly agape and his breath escaped in quick shaky gasps, as if his lungs were seconds away from collapsing.

The spirit's eyes weren't fixated on the Storyteller's, instead looking to the flame that refused to die despite the wood having burnt down into a pure pile of ash. He can still see its vibrant lights dance around, and to him it seemed even stronger than it did before its fuel had ran out.

The Storyteller's patience was going thin, as he wasn't fond of this silence that followed the question they asked. As much as it was used to waiting, the Storyteller didn't like this kind of wait. So they decided to say something, just to urge the conversation. But before it could even utter a word, he was interrupted by the spirit raising his hand.

"Wait!", the young man exclaimed, before looking up at the Storyteller. Almost all semblance of nervousness had disappeared on his face, replaced with a look of confidence. Or at the very least, a feigned confidence. But it was enough to fool everyone, even the spirit himself. "I just... want to see my family again. I want... to help them."

The soul clasped his hands, as if he were going to do a business proposal, before continuing. "You see, my life was taken from me at a time where I was just going to settle down with them. It was so unfair that it had to happen to me, and I want-"

He paused, trying to hold back from saying something else. He then talked again, his confident smile unbreaking but his body stiff, like a corpse.

"I want to use this extra year to spend time with my family. To help us settle down better. I didn't want to leave them alone like that, but... I never had the choice. That... man never gave me the chance. I hope you do give one to me. You're better than him, right?"

The Storyteller looked back at the spirit, before tilting his body to the side. His gaze looked up and down at him, before it looked directly at his eyes once more. Something was... off with what he said.

It leaned forward to the adult, giving him a stern look. "I know that isn't the full truth, Godrick."

"Hahah, of course. I didn't want to waste your time. You might shoot me like he did.", Matt said, his eyes glancing towards a rifle mounted on the cabin's walls.

A chuckle released from spirit's throat that just sounded painful. "Of course, of course. There's still that... bucket list I never got to finish."

"Please cut the nonsense, Mr. Godrick. I know what you've done back there.", the Storyteller says, a disappointed expression in its face.

The spirit's stiff smile finally faltered albeit slightly, and his eyes look back at the flame. "Ah, so you think I want to do bad things... is that it? You think I wanted to hurt people?"

He looked up at the Storyteller, letting out another bitter laugh. "For shame, Death. You really let that crone's lies affect you too. I thought you were better than the humans, hahah..."

He sighed, before looking up at the Storyteller. "But... you would be right for once. But only just this once."

He looked at his nails, watching the green light of the fireplace shine against them. They looked sharp, as if they hadn't been cut for months. "I did do bad things. And I did think about horrible things when you asked." His hand did a small grabbing motion, and he clenched his hand into a fist.

The spirit rested his hand on the armchair, and he sighed again, giving a sad smile to the Storyteller. Tears welled from his eyes, and he wiped them off with his bloodstained sleeve, leaving a red smear on his cheek.

"But what else would you do if you were killed the way I have? It would've been alright, if I were just dead... but that man decided to ruin me. Made up a whole web of lies just to make everyone see me as the one who started it. He even shot my wife, for crying out loud!

So... of course I'd be angry. Of course I'd want revenge. Of course I'd try to get it. That news lady got what was coming for her. I've managed to confuse her enough to not trust a single soul. But I'm not done yet."

The ghost looked back at the flames, his teeth almost grinding as he spoke in a ghastly, raspy wheeze. "If I had one more year, I would try to avenge myself. Avenge my wife. We didn't deserve this to happen to us. And he didn't deserve to get away."

-----

The Storyteller looked over at the loose pages, pieces of paper that documented the spirits' responses. They were stacked neatly on his wooden table, and each one perfectly labeled after each poor soul he interviewed. It picked them up, giving them short glances as it thought to itself. It then walked off, having made their decisions on what to do with each of them.

[mysticstarlightduck]

Personality Through Quotes Tag!

Jumping on an open tag by @willtheweaver (here)! I'll go with the cast of Supernova Initiative for this one!

My Quote - A quote about the person they love the most.

Your Quote - A quote about their favorite memory.

(Supernova Initiative)

Jack Tithus - "My sister is the only family I've ever really had - I've always watched out for her and made sure she grew up happy, though I often struggled with providing for the both of us. I would do anything to make sure she stays safe, anything, even if it means I gotta suffer so she doesn't have to."

Vesper Foxx - "That answer brings up too many memories. I'm not quite sure if I'm ready to talk about the ones I lost. At least not until I have my revenge."

Cassiopeia Tithus - "The person I love most is my big brother, Jack. It's been us against the world for so long, that I can't imagine what it would be like otherwise. He's my best friend, and I just wish he didn't try to handle so much on his own. I also am very close to our friend group, and consider them almost like family to me"

Artemis Zreeth - "That person would be my Dad. The best bounty hunter in the known galaxy, he was always my childhood hero. I didn't know my mother, so it was always just me and him until his old crew screwed him over after a mission - they took the money and killed him. Bunch of cowards."

Aleks Keldora - "Oh, my moms for sure! They're the best - witty, funny, no-nonsense and with quite possibly the best cooking and advice in the galaxy. I love them both dearly and can't wait to spend some time back home!"

Pax Stellaryn - "My adoptive family, no doubt about it. They gave me another chance when most would've left me behind and provided me with a life of opportunities I'd never have dreamed of. I only wish to be able to make them proud and make all their love and support worthwhile!"

Ethean Mirannir - "My parents, and my younger brother, Pax. Family's the most important thing in this life, more important than duty and anything else, and that's one lesson I take to heart."

Tagging (gently): @sleepy-night-child, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @smol-feralgremlin, @oh-no-another-idea, @littleladymab, @little-peril-stories

@the-ellia-west, @winterandwords, @cowboybrunch, @eccaiia, @sarahlizziewrites, @illarian-rambling

@leave-her-a-tome, @writernopal, @anyablackwood, @unstablewifiaccess, @forthesanityofstorytellers

@i-can-even-burn-salad, @cakeinthevoid

@lassiesandiego, @thepeculiarbird, @clairelsonao3, @memento-morri-writes, @starlit-hopes-and-dreams and OPEN TAG

[pinkrose787]

Amnesia Branch AU Chapter 7

Summary: Branch contemplates what life will be like beyond the hospital now that he's broken up with Poppy and pushed away his brothers.

Ao3 Link

Chapter 7

The hospital room is so quiet. The only thing Branch has to distract himself are the many scrapbooks and get well cards that Poppy brought him. All of them feel like billboards reminding that he isn’t the troll that everyone wants him to be.

Poppy’s card sits on his bedside table, but he can’t even look at it. Looking at it feels like a stab to the heart. He still hears the echoes of Poppy pleading with him not break-up with her. When he closes his eyes, he sees the tears that were welled up in hers.

He didn’t want to break-up with her. There is nothing in the world that he wanted to do less than end the one good thing in his life. But after the reunion with his brothers, after they left him again, he realized that a horrible break-up was inevitable.

Continuing the relationship would have only hurt them both. Poppy would be at her wits end trying to help him, and he would spend every second in agony waiting for her to leave him.

Now, that it’s over, the two of them can move on. Poppy can be the wonderful happy troll that he’s come to love. And Branch… well, he’s going to be miserable. But he’ll be miserable in a way that won’t hurt her.

Branch buried the scrapbook that the better happier version of him made at the very bottom of the scrapbook tote bag. He should give that back to Poppy. She deserves at least one memento of the troll she used to love.

Now, there’s going to be no more hospital room visitors. He burned what little relationship he had with his brothers yesterday. There’s no way that Poppy is going to visit him. Not after he broke her heart like that.

Maybe it’s all for the best.

Branch is a poison that hurts everyone around him. BroZone broke up because of him. His grandmother died because of him. Poppy has been a total mess, and why? Because of him.

Everyone is better off without him. No one’s life has ever been improved by him. Every good thing that people say Branch has done is something that Poppy did that they are misattributing to him. She’s the source of all the good in this world.

This solitude is good. He’ll be able to contemplate what his new life will look like. It won’t be exactly like it used to be. The entire social structure of society has changed in a few years, not that’ll matter much given how little he socializes.

Even though he knows that the Bergens and Trolls are allies, he still feels like he should fear them. There’s a little voice in the back of his mind telling him that they are still a threat. Maybe he should start making preparations in case they attack again.

Who is he kidding? They will. Eventually.

All of this “peace between Trolls and Bergens” stuff is a ruse. They’re waiting for the second that the Trolls let their guard down to attack. This time though, they’ll have all the Trolls in the world, not just the Pop Trolls. 

Branch won’t let that happen. He has to protect everyone from them, because Lord knows that they are not going to protect themselves. As long as they consider the Bergens friends, they won’t have any defenses.

Morning comes and goes. Just like Branch thought, no one came.

That’s probably how it’s going to be from now on. Not just for his time in the hospital, but for his entire life. He’s going to be alone.

But that’s okay. He accepted that he’ll always be alone a long time ago.

The door opens. He looks over at whoever entered. It’s only Dr. Moonbloom.

“Hey, how long until I get out of here?” Branch asks.  

Dr. Moonbloom clicks her pen a couple of times. “Well, you’ve proven to be stable, and, aside from the amnesia, there doesn’t seem to be any long lasting health effects. So, you’ll probably be out of here tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow…” Branch repeats.

“Yes, tomorrow.” Dr. Moonbloom replies. 

She proceeds to go over some test results with Branch. There’s a lot of medical jargon that he’s not familiar with. It’s hard to tell from her tone if what she’s saying is good or bad, but given that he’s getting released tomorrow, it’s probably all okay.

Once she’s done, she leaves the room. Leaving Branch alone again.

Tomorrow. That seems so far away. Time seems to move so much slower here. Even though it has only been a couple of days, it feels like he’s spent almost six months in the hospital. It’s getting unbearable.

At the same time, that’s too soon. The hospital has been a controlled environment where he’s only had to face how things have changed a little bit at a time. Once he’s out in the real world, who knows what life will be like for him.

He’ll probably be accosted by trolls that knew the previous happier version of him. They’ll probably all be disappointed once they meet the old damaged Branch. From how many friends the old him seems to have made, he’ll have a lot of trolls to disappoint.

Once everyone gets the news about how awful Branch now, they’ll leave him alone like they should. The Pop Trolls will probably be the first to understand the way Branch is now. They were the ones who had to deal with him for years.  

The social order should return to exactly as it used to be. Except for the fact, that Branch will no longer receive anymore invitations or anything from Poppy. She probably hates him and never wants to see him again.

He doesn’t blame her.

There’s a gentle knock at the door. Branch has come to know that knock very well the last couple of days. There is no way it’s her. Not after what happened yesterday.

The door opens with a high-pitched creak.

“Hey Branch!” Poppy says.

She looks better, more well rested, and just as radiant as she always does. There aren’t any obvious signs that she had been crying. Her eyes aren’t red and puffy. In fact, they’re very bright.

It only took a day of not dating Branch, and things seem to be far better for her. Just more evidence that he was bad for her.

“Why are you here? We’re not dating anymore. I broke up with you,” he says curtly. Normally, when a couple breaks up, the two of them try to avoid the other. Then again, Poppy isn’t normal.

The smile seems to fade on her face. “We’re not dating anymore and I respect that. But-” The smile forms on her face again. “Just because we’re not dating, doesn’t mean that we’re not friends!”

Of course, she’s like this about a break-up.

There’s another troll with her. She looks exactly like Poppy, but taller and with wild blonde hair. From the scrapbooks he read, this must be Viva, Poppy’s big sister and Clay’s girlfriend.  

Unlike Poppy, she does not look happy at all. She is glaring at him, hard. He can feel her eyes piercing his soul.  “Is this your sister?” Branch asks.

“Oh, yeah! I forgot that you haven’t met her yet!” Poppy perks up. “Branch, this is Viva! My sister! She wanted to see you!”

“Hey,” Viva says. She does not give off the vibe that she wanted to see him to check up on him. It feels more like she wants to keep him in check. Make sure he doesn’t say anything to hurt Poppy again.

“Nice to meet you.” Branch is trying extra-hard to be polite to her. He is a little scared of her. She looks like she wants attack him. He doesn’t know what Poppy told her about what happened yesterday, but it doesn’t seem like she said anything good.

Not that there is anything good that could be said about yesterday.

“Anyway, you’re getting out tomorrow! That’s great!” Poppy pulls out a chart from her hair. It looks the charts that Branch usually makes to keep track of what he needs to do.  Only difference is that this one is brightly colored and covered in glitter.

“When you get out, I am giving you a tour of TrollsTopia! It’s changed so much over the last 4 years! You’re going to love it!” She starts listing off all the things that they’re going to do. Places that they’re going to visit.

Hearing about all of it feels overwhelming. Branch is tired just thinking about the plans that Poppy is talking about. Maybe past Branch would have enjoyed doing a lot of that stuff, but he’s not sure how much he’d enjoy it.

She looks so happy talking about the tour that Branch doesn’t think he has the heart to tell her that he’s not interested in doing anything. That and he’s scared of what Viva will do if he outright rejects her.

Maybe he’ll see if he can get released a few hours early, so that he doesn’t have to reject her to her face. Instead, he’ll just hide in his bunker and hope she gets the message.

Poppy has always had access to a better more brighter version of the world that Branch has never had access to. Well, he did for a little bit, but all memories of that world is gone. A sign that he was never meant to be part of it.  

As Poppy talks, Branch glances at Viva, who hasn’t spoken since her introduction. She is still giving him a death glare. From what he read in the scrapbooks, the two of them were friends before all of this. That doesn’t seem to matter to her now.  

From what he’s read, she really does value protecting her little sister above all else. Not even letting someone that she considers a friend hurt her.

Branch respects that.

He wishes that his brothers would have done the same for him. Not leaving the second things didn’t go their way. If they did that, then maybe his life wouldn’t have sucked so much. Maybe things would be better for him now.

Being around Poppy right now is more agonizing then pain he felt when he first woke up in the hospital.

She’s right here. So, very close to him. Acting like nothing happened yesterday. Like he didn’t rip her heart into two. As if things have always been like this between the two of them. He doesn’t know how she can stand it.

Maybe she never cared that much about them being together romantically. Maybe when he broke-up with her relieved her of a burden that she never wanted in the first place. Maybe the whole reason she was dating him was out of pity for how sad and pathetic he was.

That makes much more sense than someone as wonderful and perfect as her falling in love with someone as terrible as him.

After what feels like an hour of Poppy explaining her very thorough plan, she finally reaches the end. “Well, that’s the plan. What do you think?”

“That’s all for one day?” Branch asks. The explanation of the plan took up the whole day. There’s no way that all of that can be done in a single day. It would probably take a whole century to do half of the list. 

“No, not all of it.” Poppy shakes her head. “Think of it as another bunker list.”

“Bunker list?” Branch asks. That sounds familiar, but he isn’t sure what it is. He doesn’t remember reading about that in any scrapbooks. Maybe that is somehow the one piece of his memory that didn’t get completely wiped when he hit his head.

“Yeah, it was a list that we made of a bunch of different things to help you be a troll again. This is sort of like that.”

“Huh.” Branch says. “We made it?”

“Yeah! Me and you worked on it together!” There’s a very bright smile on her face. “I actually based all of this off the bunker list. It’s a bit different given how much has changed, but the core of it is still there!”

Branch does like lists and checking things off of them. Still, he isn’t sure just how much Poppy spoke about is meant for tomorrow. It seems like that there’s way too much planned.

“What do you think?” Poppy asks.

“It sounds… nice,” Hopefully, he doesn’t fully convey just how much he does not want to do any of that. Fearing both hurting Poppy and pissing off Viva.

“I knew you’d love it!” Poppy shoots out of her chair. A triumphant smile on her face. “I have to go, but I’ll be back tomorrow I promise!”

She heads towards the door. Her hand on the handle. “Bye! Love you!” She pauses for a second, her smile fades a bit, before exiting.

Viva did not leave with her sister. Branch doesn’t know what to say to her. She is just glaring at him.

“You made a terrible mistake breaking-up with her,” she says.

“I know.” Branch hangs his head low. “But I had to. It’s best for both of us.”

He isn’t sure how to explain his reasoning. Trying to put it all into words seems pointless. How is he supposed to explain how them holding onto each other was only going to hurt them? When he broke up with Poppy, he didn’t think he’d have to explain it to her sister.

“No, it isn’t. You really hurt her.”

Branch sighs. He knows that he hurt her. How could he not? It’s the only thing that’s been on his mind since it happened. “She’ll get over it and find someone who’s better for her.”

The glare Viva gives him tells him that was the wrong answer. “She won’t. You two are perfect for each other.”

“We were perfect for each other,” Branch corrects her. “But I’m not the one that she fell in love with.”

He’ll never compare to the troll that he used to be. No matter how much he wants to be like him, it’s just not possible. It was a series of unlikely events and coincidences that are the reason he became who he used to be.

The stars will never align like that ever again. 

“That doesn’t matter to her.” Viva says coldly.

“It should.”

Viva sighs. “You don’t get just how much you mean to her. She loves you so much. You’re one of the most important people in her life. And you know that she isn’t going to stop trying to help you no matter what. So, please at least make it easy for her.”

Branch doesn’t have a response to that. Nothing about his life has ever been easy. Every day has been an uphill battle for survival. Even sitting in a hospital bed, he’s been struggling.

“Get it together, Branch. At least for Poppy’s sake.” She leaves the room.

The hospital room is now silent except for the quiet whirring of machinery.

Branch glances at the card Poppy made him that still sits on his bedside table, all the scrapbooks that surround him. It’s almost enough to make him feel like he really is special to her.

Viva is wrong. He isn’t special to Poppy. She would go through this level of effort for anyone. That’s just the kind of amazing person she is. The kind who would go a thousand miles out of her way just to help someone she barely knows.

--------

Being around Branch was agonizing for Poppy. Every time she looked at him, she wanted to burst into tears. She wanted to beg him to reconsider the break-up. Ask him if this is really what he wanted.

But that would have been counter-productive.

The purpose of today was to show him that it doesn’t matter how hard Branch pushes her away, she’s going to be there for him. He can break-up with her, be as cruel as he can be, and she’ll still be standing by his side knowing that this is all because he is afraid and in pain. 

Still, knowing that he’s acting like this because he’s in pain doesn’t make it hurt any less. If anything it hurts more.

If he acted like this because he was cruel and heartless, there wouldn’t really be anything for Poppy to do. Helping him would be a moot point, because he wouldn’t care. Letting go of him would be so much easier.

But she knows that he isn’t evil. He’s in so much pain. More pain than Poppy has ever felt in her entire life. She wants to do everything that she can to comfort him and make him happy.

There isn’t anything that Poppy wouldn’t do to make him feel happy again. She’d rearrange the stars, alter the course of history, or even tear out her own heart. All of that just to make him feel a little bit better.

The door opens, and Viva exits the room.

Poppy wants to ask her why she stayed behind, what she talked about with Branch. But she’s too exhausted. “I told you that everything was going to go fine. You didn’t need to come.”

“Mhm,” Viva says clearly unconvinced.

This morning, she lost the argument to come see Branch alone. She was insistent that she could handle Branch on her own. In the end, she’s happy that Viva came. Even though she didn’t contribute much to the conversation, it was still nice to not have to deal with this on her own.

“How are you holding up, sis?” Viva asks. “Really. Don’t give me any of that I’m fine nonsense, because I know you’re not.”

Poppy leans against Viva. “I’m tired.” She sighs. “I just want everything to go back to normal.”

Viva pushes some of Poppy’s hair back. “I know.” She pauses for a second. “I have an idea! Let’s go get, ice cream! You need a break from all of this.”

Poppy lightly smiles. “Yeah, I really do.” The two of them head out of the hospital. Poppy feels a bit of anxiety leaving Branch behind, but he’ll be fine.

Tomorrow, Branch gets released from the hospital. There’s a lot that she has to do to make sure everything is ready. She has to make sure that pretty much everyone is briefed on how he is, though it seems like the gossip has spread pretty far already. She has to get all of his brothers to help

The list of what she has to do is so exhausting to think about, but it’s for Branch. All this effort is going to be worth it in the end. It has to.

[lily-alphonse]

For the rare pair suggestion thing!

Crack that I think could be very sweet would be Willy (our fisherman!) and Birdie (the pirates wife!)

I think Willy could be the one to help soothe her loneliness and be the companionship Birdie needs to heal!

I feel like Willy and Birdie is actually so straightforward it loops back around to being my greatest challenge yet lol

(Some of you may not know of Birdie if you've never been to Ginger Island, she has a quest where you can find a memento from her late husband and then she never speaks to you again)

Well she's content to live the rest of her days alone right but what if something happened?

She felt her end was near, her body slowing, some ominous feeling bearing down on her. And it urged her to return to the sea. One last time, or perhaps she was meant to end her days there too. For whatever reason, the sea called to her, like it had called to her late husband.

So she gathered the courage to leave her hut, clutching the only possession that mattered to go meet the ferryman (/ref).

But he was nothing grim. He was so pleasant despite her surely haggard appearance. He was confused by her request to simply tag along with no destination in mind, but he humored her.

Willy found her odd of course, but he wasn’t one to judge what someone had endured.

She joined him on his ship, despite not seeming to want to be there at all. She trembled, white-knuckling the railing. Her leathery face even seemed to pale. Willy asked if she’d like to sit down inside but she refused. She stared so intently at the horizon like there was something there, but when Willy looked there was only stormclouds. He left her to her thoughts.

Until it began to rain, and Willy insisted on ushering her inside and getting her a blanket. Birdie would have balked at that if she wasn’t so damned cold. She took it without thanking him, though Willy didn’t mind. He was learning to not expect much in the way of decorum from this odd woman.

He had questions but kept them to himself, instead silently packing his pipe as the rain battered the ship. Birdie stayed hunched with the blanket wrapped around herself, making herself small. The only change in her demeanor came when he lit his pipe and the smoke began to swirl around them. She didn’t say anything, but she looked up and stared at his pipe. He asked if it bothered her, she simply shook her head.

She joined the next day.

And again the next.

She would never do anything but keep him and the other occasional passengers company, though everyone but Willy tended to keep their distance.

"My husband used to smoke a pipe like that," she said suddenly one day, staring at his pipe again.

Willy had gotten so used to her silence, her voice was startling. He hesitated to ask for more information lest she shut down again, so he waited.

She looked out at the ocean and continued, and didn't stop talking for a long time. She had spoken to the farmer about her husband a little, but it felt important now to pour out every memory of him. Out into the ocean, the wind taking his spirit with it.

And when she finished, Willy surprised her back by telling her of his late wife, and how he left everything behind for the sea when she passed.

They talked more after that day. Birdie even began to smile sometimes. They started to fish together, off of the side of the boat. Eventually she decided to cut her hair, which had long tangled into an impenetrable mess on her head. She started to bathe again and started to feel more alive, though she still felt death looming. Her bones ached, her heart hurt at times.

"Are you sick, Birdie?" Willy asked one day. It had been eating at him. He could see she was in pain, though she tried to hide it.

She sighed. "Came out here to die," she said bluntly. "I don't think I have much time left."

They had been traveling for months together, and she was so far changed from the person he first met.

"What if you aren't dying? What if you're just sick? I can get you medicine."

She looked away from him to pet the smooth wooden railing of the ship. Willy could sense she was about to shut down the conversation again.

"I'd have to see a doctor," she said grimly, as if that meant there was no hope.

"I would go with you. Birdie," Willy placed his hand over her gnarled fingers, stopping their movement against the ship's railing. "Please?"

Birdie stared at his hand over her's. Willy had always been so kind to her. She supposed now that if she thought about it, the thought of leaving him alone made her heart ache.

She met his sad eyes, and nodded.

Hope you like this one Syd xoxo

Send me any Stardew Valley rarepair and I will tell you how I would make them work! (Even non-marriage npcs) If youre lucky you may get a mini fic out of it. Check the list below to see if Ive already answered yours

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