#raising my grandmother from the dead to kill her again..

[martyrbat]

i found old photos of my grandfather's parents and like... omg Miss Fannie its actually u...

[hello-eden]

TMA X DP Crossover

I have fallen down the Magnus archives rabbit hole and have decided to merge it with DP.

Jonathan Sims is Dan.

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The GIW tried to purge everything of  ectoplasm. The first person they captured was Dan. This ends up with Sam, Valerie, Tucker, Jazz and Danny all being taken by the GIW to experimentation to try and ‘cure’ them.

 Vlad goes off the deep end after Maddie gives up her own son to be experimented on. Thinking Danny's dead he takes up cloning again as a way to not be the only halfa.

It takes a while but Dani/Elle  gets word of what happened and stages of Breakout. They all end up regrouping at Vlad's which makes them realize what happened.

A fight ensues giving the GIW time to find them especially with emotions powering ectoplasm. With no option left the three end up going through Vlad's portal to the ghost Zone.

Unfortunately GIW catches them about to go through and fire at the portal which then makes it unstable that they get sent to a different dimension instead of a portal to the ghost zone.

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They all end up in the TMA universe with Dani/Elle, Dan and all the other clones reverted to a core state.  they're all very confused and  their power is still Haywire. their Dimension is still connected to the ghost zone though the people overseeing it are the fear entities which are the only way to get back.

they don't become avatars nor do they realize what is going on. Their main priority is fixing Dani/Elle and Dan. They find out for a while that Danny, as the closest one with DNA, can incubate the cores without him into a hibernation-like state.

Due to their situation they are not actually able to keep Dan Elle/Dani and the clones after a certain amount of time some of it being resources, some of it being trauma and another part is having too many of them together is causing certain people to come out after them. 

Ellie goes off with Sam after they realize this and Dan is sent off with Tucker.

Tucker makes friends with an older lady who was unable to have kids and when Tucker dies due to a supernatural incident. he is left in her care.

Everything is mostly the same except for in the background Danny is continuing to incubate the cores and the rest of the group are with him. 

Due to the nature of their powers they are hiding from the fear entity cults. Jon/dan has No idea his background due to his grandmother dying before she tells him.

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Valerie later goes off  with one of the Clones to raise them and ends up being killed by one of the Cults that are trying to steal power for a ritual.

This leads the Clone(Atlas)To try and find any of their family and stop the cult that killed Valerie. 

Jon did a DNA test in uni which then pops up for Atlas when they try to figure out their family. Valerie didn't quite tell them their history but made vague mentions of the fact that they were not an only child and that the power is biological.

There are 8 kids including Dan and Ellie but only about 3 pop up in the DNA test.

 Atlas then tries to get into contact with his siblings. The easiest one to get in contact with is Jon due to the ability to give statements as well as a social media post from his promotion telling Atlas where he is.

Atlas pops up just before the season 1 finale or somewhere in season 2 when Jon's in his paranoia spiral.

—-------------

If anyone wants to write anything about this I would be eternally grateful. this has been stuck in my head for the past 3 days.

[khush-chronicles]

My own grandfather was a freedom fighter. But that is his achievement, in his lifetime. What right do I have to benefit from that? Even my dad wasn't born at that time.

My grandfather used to work as a police officer for a Nawab in a palace (which is now used as a museum) in Dhaka before the liberation war. My grandmother was the beloved handmaid of the wife of the Nawab. the 8 siblings of my mother were born and raised in the palace.

My grandfather was courageous. But he had 8 children and a wife. So during the massacre of 25th March, he left the city. My grandmother still says how she had to step over and on dead bodies, and walk to her village from the city all the way. How the river she had to cross through a boat was filled with fresh dead bodies, how vultures were eating the flesh by the morning of 26th March. She says that was the last she ever saw a vulture in her life. Vultures are nearly extinct in our country today. She is an 87-year-old woman, who often forgets her grandchildren's names. She can still clearly describe the horrors she saw.

After coming back, my grandfather started a grocery store. But his spirit to fight remained. He used to refuse any Pakistani who came across him. No service at all. He used to sell Milk tea with cream. Which my grandmother made at home. Pakistanis apparently loved the cream, but he always refused. He used to give shelter to the young freedom fighters in his home. Wrap them up in mats and make them stand beside cupboards so it'd look like it is just a rolled-up mat. My grandmother used to feed them like her own children, even though she was younger than a lot of them. Such were their spirits, such was their love, such was their will to serve.

The Pakistanis my grandfather used to turn away, came with military officers, beat him up in front of his own shop, thought he died, and threw his "body" in the river. His "body" was brought home to my grandmother, who didn't cry. She stood firm. My grandfather laughed, that supposed dead man laughed and said, "Fooled them".

This happened again. But he pretended to drown to save himself again. Then the man proceeded to drown 3 wooden boats full of military men in the same hour. He came back and went straight to the freedom fighter camp, collected weapons, and disappeared. Came back as a victor, a proud Bangladeshi, a warrior, a free man, and paralyzed.

He received a pension from his previous police job. But never collected the Freedom Fighter certificate. He didn't see any point in dragging his paralyzed body to a few villages away just for a piece of paper that said freedom fighter. He kept the rifle though. My grandmother now threatens people with it. Badass couple.

When asked, why he did not collect it, he used to say, "Are you free? Are you alive? Are your family members being killed? Am I alive? Are we looking at the green and red flags? Then we're liberated. We are fighters. Our freedom is our certificate."

Where is that freedom now, Nanu? Why are we dying again? Why is that piece of paper more important than our safety and lives? Are you watching from the sky? The sky was painted red yesterday, did you see? Do you know it is the blood of our brothers and sisters? The grandchildren you gave so much up for?

[chernabogs]

Hello! I rise from my tumblr slumber to humbly ask if you’d be interested in writing for Malleus, based on the prompt ‘I didn’t feel like I’d step into another world, but like it’d stepped into me. I knew I was there and forgot I’d left anything behind.’ from the prompt list you’d reblogged? I am…sensing much Malleus related angst potential here.

Hehe yes... sort of angst, sort of spooky

RUINS

Inc: Malleus, a fisherman, one ghost (maybe?) WC: 3.1k Warnings: Bleak LMAO. Drug use (smoking, alcohol, and tobacco thanks to the fisherman), ocean horror mention, supernatural horror mention. Summary: A boy looking for his mother visits the last place she was before her passing.

“It’ll be a few hours down the path just beyond the tree line. Impossible to miss if you ask me.” The man pauses to chew on his cigar, his dark gaze narrowing, before grabbing for his pint again. “Why’re you interested ‘n that place anyway? Right rotten, it is.” 

The Red Rabbit is a place renowned for information gathering and sharing—so long as you allow the bartender to continue pouring the mead. Malleus’ fingers reach up to brush along the hood of his travelling cloak as he pulls his own pint glass close. He’s used glamour to conceal most of his obvious features. If anyone saw the crown prince sitting in a dingy pub asking for directions, it would most certainly cause a stir. 

“Right rotten, is it?” Malleus raises the pint to his lips and allows the burning liquid to slide down his throat. Fae mead is noxious, only in that it can get you intoxicated in the first few sips—if you’re a human. The man who sits before Malleus has taken more than a few at this rate. “Perhaps it would be best to let me be the judge of that myself.”

His companion snorts before setting his cigar aside. He’s a fisherman; the scent of the ocean lingers on his person, and his hands are calloused from tossing and hauling nets into an ungiving depth. The shores of lands that had once been Briar Nations have been deprived of fish ever since they became isolated. The village’s landscapes, once vibrant, have now become jagged rocks and dead trees. The villagers are no different. “Go where y’want, see what y’wish. So long as yer not on the rob. That’ll get you killed.” 

This is another thing that Malleus has noticed regarding the village and its denizens—people mind their own business. This is uncommon for small villages, where most would be itching to get in everyone’s affairs, and only further emphasizes the economic faults of the borderlands. It unsettles him.

He didn’t come here on a whim. The thought of this journey had sat in his mind ever since he found out the origins of his birth, and the deception under which he was raised. Perhaps this is why when he slipped out of the palace through the servant’s entrance and into the forest late at night, he did not feel threatened by the burning gaze he felt on his back.

His grandmother owed him. This, she seemed to know, and so she let him go without protest. 

Still, the villagers final comment piques Malleus’ attention. “Get me killed, hm? And what could be there to kill me if it’s just a rotten, desolate place?” 

“Dire beasts’ nests are in there. Few of the guys have seen ‘em—big, hungry things lumbering past the stained-glass windows and down the corridors. Lots’ve people who try goin’ there end up goin’ missing instead because they underestimate how vicious a defensive mother can get.” The fisherman picks up his cigar again and chews on the end. “Anyone who’s lived here long enough knows.” 

Malleus’ nails tap against the pint before pushing it aside and setting a coin pouch on the table. The fisherman raises an eyebrow, his beady dark gaze darting from Malleus to the pouch in interest. There’s enough to pay for Malleus’ drink, the fisherman’s drink, and probably tide the man over for the wintertime as well. A saccharine smile pulls on Malleus’ lips—the part of him that isn’t shadowed by the hood he wears over his head. “Take me there yourself, and I’ll give you more.” 

The fisherman chews on his cigar, staring at Malleus as he does. A thoughtful look crosses his face before it ends in him shaking his head. “Fuckin’ rich ‘uns…” 

His grumbling doesn’t stop him from grabbing the pouch and opening it up. He drops a few madol on the table before shoving the rest of the pouch in his pocket and tossing his cigar aside. A foul, hacking sound comes from his lips before he spits on the floor—which Malleus tries politely not to make a face over—and grabs his raincoat. “Come off it, then. I’ll take it the ocean way. It’s a lot faster and safer than tryin’ ta move through the woods. Bad season for that.” 

“Bad season?” Malleus asks as he rises to his feet. The fisherman shuffles past the other patrons in the crowded space before shouldering the door open to step back in the bleak outdoors. He mutters under his breath as he digs around his pockets before pulling out a small container and popping something into his mouth. The pungent smell of chewing tobacco notifies Malleus quickly of what it is. 

“S’breeding season. Everything in those woods is all riled up and starving in their energy. You’d make a fine morsel for somethin’.” The fisherman glances back at him and grimaces. “Tall n’ scrawny.” 

Well, Malleus tries not to take too much offence to that as he follows the fisherman down the path towards the docks. In his transformed appearance, his physique did look different than usual—leaner, less ‘victim of countless years of training.’ 

“Tragic,” is all he sighs instead before adjusting his hood once more. 

_______________

There’s something humbling about sitting on a cramped boat next to a net full of dead fish that you don’t really realize until you experience it. For Malleus, who sits with his knees to his chest and his body leaning as far away from the net as possible, it’s an experience he doesn’t want to go through again. The fisherman seems utterly unbothered as he stands at the end of the boat, looking out at the murky waters beyond while still chewing on the same tobacco lump. The vessel putters slowly with its magic-powered engine into the night. 

“Gotta go at this pace in case we run into rocks below.” The fisherman shouts over his shoulder as he looks down to the waters again. “Or anythin’ else for that matter.” 

“Anything—” Malleus recoils as a slimy fish corpse brushes against his hand. His expression twists and he swats it away. “Eugh. Anything else?” 

“Merfolk, sea creatures, indiscernible entities. Y’know—no man’s land specialties.” The fisherman’s foot kicks against the engine as the boat is guided to swerve around a rock in question. “Merfolk especially have been comin’ up and around these parts. Which is strange, considerin’ they usually mind themselves down in the Coral Sea.” 

“Perhaps they are vacationing.” Malleus prompts. He knows this is a stupid idea as soon as the words leave his lips, and the fisherman’s bark of a laugh reassures him of such. No one is vacationing to these no man lands. 

The two of them fall back into silence as Malleus looks out to the sea. The lamp on their boat hardly cuts through the darkness that shrouds around them, churning and twisting like the waters they drift upon. He can see why stories of sailors going mad in the night are so prevalent in these parts. The world around them, which seems to hold no beginning or end in this moment, is a prime canvas for delusions. 

“Try not to look out too long. Focus on the lamp instead.” The fisherman’s voice draws him once more as the boat sails along a cliffside now. Black stones loom over them in a daunting stance. It’s the same stone that was used to create Black Scale Palace—carved from the body of Briar Nation itself, back when the body still had a lot to give and belonged to his family. He can see faintly where fae-made chips reside and where nature itself has taken course. “It’s a fool's role to try and see out there. You’ll start seein’ shit that isn’t.”  

Malleus sinks back down in the boat with a sigh. The fisherman is weathered enough to have done this for a long time now if his grey hair and sun-wrinkled skin had anything to say. If he can survive to this age, then it’s for a good reason. 

“How much longer?” He asks. The fisherman scratches his chin before stepping off the bow and sitting against the side of the boat. Fish corpses, a fisherman, and the void-like world around him—Malleus is beginning to doubt the journey’s worth. 

“Five minutes, give’r take. Best just get comfortable.” 

Comfort is impossible with the pungent scent around them, but Malleus pulls his cloak tighter regardless and looks back to the lamp. A few insects bump against the glass in a foolish bid to reach the light, and he busies himself by counting how many burn up in their efforts. 

_______________

When they finally arrive, he pays the fisherman enough madol to wait for him at the bottom of the cliffs before beginning the steep ascent up the hills. His mother had an apparent idea that building a palace near the edge of the nation’s lands was a brilliant one. Perhaps in the forgiving summer months the view of the ocean was tranquil and pleasing. Right now, it’s the most loathsome thing in his existence. 

Making it to the top of the cliff offers no reprieve, either. He’s greeted abruptly with an excess of thorns twisting and writhing their way across the earth. Brambles, starving for something, shudder and groan as he inches past them. The only reason they refuse to sink into his supple flesh is perhaps because they can smell the magic of their creator imbued within him. His mother apparently did have brilliant ideas—one of them being to give him a healthy dose of magic before her departure. 

“Gods,” he hisses as he burns away another bramble. The sudden light seems to make the patch shudder and retract with an angry sound. The movement enables Malleus to notice a different aspect of the palace that he neglected—the scent of diurnal fae magic. He can feel it clashing with his mothers in a power-struggle for control, the two essences entwining and biting like starving dogs. The diurnal fae likely wished to keep humans away—Malleus wagers his mother wished for the opposite. 

His lip curls in disgust as he makes his way down the stone path leading to the decrepit white structure beyond. The closer he gets, the more he begins to see the truth in the fisherman’s warnings. Stained glass windows are either blown out or breaking along the palace’s walls. The stones themselves are chipping and beginning to crumble, crushed under the weight of the thorns that still twist and move subtly. The musky scent of animals also begins to appear alongside the earlier magic. This is what draws him to a stop as he reaches the front door. 

It may have been heavily fortified once. Now, it looks as though one door was violently kicked in, lying broken on its hinges and giving just enough room for Malleus to wiggle inside. He nips his finger on a thorn, causing a curse to slip past his lips as he presses his wound to his tongue before his feet finally meet stone again. 

There’s no chuffing of dire beasts from within like the fisherman warned. There’s also no indication of any sort of haunting present, which Malleus has also heard rumours of. 

No. Upon entering Wild Rose Palace for the first time in his life, Malleus is greeted with silence—anticlimactic, and brutally honest. 

“... hm.” He shoves his hood off his head and waves a hand to dispel the transformation glamour he’s been wearing. Once that’s in order, he begins to move down the hall to his right, his eyes narrowing with intent swimming in their green depths. If the layout of this palace is the same as Black Scale, then the throne room is likely down this hall, past a few more turns, and then through another set of double doors—nestled right in the heart of the building. 

As he moves, he does begin to track similarities to his grandmother's home. It didn’t feel like he had stepped into another world—rather, that it had stepped into him. He knows he’s here and yet feels like he forgot he left to arrive. It’s unnerving. His fingers trace along the wall to his left as he passes by suits of armour, portraits either torn up or faded from age, and tapestries that display tales with which he isn’t familiar. His grandmother had tried hard to shield him from a lot of things. This apparently includes censoring literature that may have once existed. 

The brambles continue to part for him as he makes turn, after turn, after turn in the labyrinthian design that was formed in his mother’s mind. His breath hitches a few times in panic when he hears a sound from behind him in the hall, causing his pace to pick up, only to level out again when the sounds fade. It feels as though he’s been walking for eons when another set of doors finally appear. 

Carved of black oak and adorned with two dragons curled on their frame, he reckons that they can only lead to one place as his hands grasps the cold, metal knobs. With a jerking motion, he pulls them open to a cacophony of deafening shrieks, and steps inside. 

_______________

Glass. 

The sight of his body takes him aback for a second as his expression becomes almost comical. The wall behind the throne that sits at the end of the large room is glass, polished and untarnished despite nearly 400 years of neglect. His hands fall from the knobs as he slowly makes his way inside. There are stained glass windows lining the one wall while the other is white stone, which is decorated with brambles crawling to the rafters above. Malleus steps over them deftly, frowning as he does before coming to a stop in the middle of the room. Once he reaches this point, he pauses, before closing his eyes and trying to think. 

He wants to see if he can feel her. Even a slight lingering wisp of her presence would be enough to please him. He wants to know if he can experience what it’s like: a mother’s touch, a mother’s voice. His grandmother had tried hard to shield him from a lot of things, with maternal affection also being one—not that he can blame her. He used to, but experiencing loss first-hand had taught him that not everyone heals the same way. A few remain more fractured than others even in the years after. 

“Mother?” He tries the term on his tongue, tastes it, rolls it over to see what that’s like as well. It’s foreign. His mouth struggles to form it and his voice warbles as his eyes open and he grimaces. Sour and strange—that’s how it tastes. His feet drag him closer to the throne before he kneels upon it to peer at the glass wall. 

It looks like it was covered by fabric once. Scraps of violet remain pooled on the floor, which he passes a sparing glance at before looking up again. He feels like a child as he peers over the thrones edge to his curious reflection. He used to do this with his grandmother when he was little—play on her throne, try to get her attention for even a moment. He’s always been somewhat of a needy child. 

“Mother?” He prompts again. Maybe saying it twice will do something. Instead, the only thing he receives is his own voice echoing back as he looks over his shoulder to the darkened hallways beyond. 

Silence—anticlimactic, and brutally honest. 

His nails dig into the metal of the throne as he slumps down, temporarily dejected. It’s a stupid thing to get dejected over, he reasons to himself. It isn’t like he expected to hear what her voice sounded like anyway. All he has are a few nagging memories of it from his time within his egg. His head turns to the side to look in the glass again. His expression is less curious and more frustrated now as he stares into his own green eyes. 

And then, a flash. 

It’s so subtle that he might have missed it had he not been looking in the glass at the right moment. It makes him sit up straighter as his breath stutters to a pause. There’s nothing for another few seconds before another flash, and another. A few lost green fireflies seem to have found their way into the palace and are now floating by his head in interest. Malleus’ lips crack into a faint smile as his hand goes up to brush against one, which lights up bright before floating just out of reach. 

He can see them in the mirror. The fireflies, the stained glass, the tapestries, the shadow—

Shadow. 

He thinks for a moment—just one, foolish moment—that he can see standing behind him in that glass, something tall, with horns like his own and a flash of green that isn’t a firefly. Malleus twists around rapidly in the throne, his body tense and ready for conflict, only to look upon a room devoid of anything but him and the insects. The silence of all but his own breath is becoming oppressive, weighted, like he’s starting to no longer be welcomed in this place. He hears something low rumble from somewhere else within the palace as he waves a hand to conceal his appearance. 

He rises from the throne, shaken but not put off as he steps down to the stone floor once more. A thought crosses his mind that he can’t help but find amusement in—it’s utterly her. From the stories he’s heard through Lilia, and Baul, and even his grandmother on the odd night, it’s utterly her to give him a fright before vanishing into the ether once more. 

It thrills him. It vindicates him. 

“Thank you, mother.” There’s a dry bit of humour in his tone as he casts one last glance to the throne before turning away. 

Does he feel as though a part of himself is satisfied now? Does he feel whole? He isn’t sure. Perhaps the realization will come to him on the boat ride back to the bleak, miserable village he came from. Perhaps the realization will come to him in his bed, when he’s wrapped in sheets of black silk and staring at the stars beyond. Perhaps the realization will never come at all because it never existed to begin with. 

Anticlimactic, and brutally honest.

[watermotif]

CITIES & THE DEAD 2

Never in all my travels had I ventured as far as Adelma. It was dusk when I landed there. On the dock the sailor who caught the rope and tied it to the bollard resembled a man who had soldiered with me and was dead. It was the hour of the wholesale fish market. An old man was loading a basket of sea urchins on a cart; I thought I recognized him; when I turned, he had disappeared down an alley, but I realized that he looked like a fisherman who, already old when I was a child, could no longer be among the living. I was upset by the sight of a fever victim huddled on the ground, a blanket over his head: my father a few days before his death had yellow eyes and a growth of beard like this man. I turned my gaze aside; I no longer dared look anyone in the face.

I thought: 'If Adelma is a city I am seeing in a dream, where you encounter only the dead, the dream frightens me. If Adelma is a real city, inhabited by living people, I need only continue looking at them and the resemblances will dissolve, alien faces will appear, bearing anguish. In either case it is best for me not to insist on staring at them.

A vegetable vendor was weighing a cabbage on a scales and put it in a basket dangling on a string a girl lowered from a balcony. The girl was identical with one in my village who had gone mad for love and killed herself. The vegetable vendor raised her face: she was my grandmother.

I thought: 'You reach a moment in life when, among the people you have known, the dead outnumber the living. And the mind refuses to accept more faces, more expressions: on every new face you encounter, it prints the old forms, for each one it finds the most suitable mask.'

The stevedores climbed the steps in a line, bent beneath demijohns and barrels; their faces were hidden by sackcloth hoods; 'Now they will straighten up and I will recognize them,' I thought, with impatience and fear. But I could not take my eyes off them; if I turned my gaze just a little towards the crowd that crammed those narrow streets, I was assailed by unexpected faces, reappearing from far away, staring at me as if demanding recognition, as if to recognize me, as if they had already recognized me. Perhaps, for each of them, I also resembled someone who was dead. I had barely arrived at Adelma and I was already one of them, I had gone over to their side, absorbed in that kaleidoscope of eyes, wrinkles, grimaces.

I thought: 'Perhaps Adelma is the city where you arrive dying and where each finds again the people he has known. This means I, too, am dead.' And I also thought: 'This means the beyond is not happy.'

italo calvino, invisible cities (tr. by william weaver)

[michaellangdonswhore]

Hi, I just saw you poste so here I am? maybe an ethan landry x reader who is smiliar to stu (Personality wise?) you can choos reader gender. like the act 3 there it reaveld that ethan is one of the ghostface and reader is quite sad/grumpy cause they like him and know he is a killer. "Man, I really wanna date you ):, but i cant cause rules of friendship, like you wanna kill my friends.... " I am sorry if this is not very specific but do what you wanna with it :)

warnings: like none this is just a blurb. prob bad I wrote this so quick and I don't feel like proofreading because I want to write something else. xoxo

word count: 1.6k

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There's three of them and there's three of you. You stand with your friends, Tara and Sam, severally injured. Detective Bailey was standing with a gun pointed towards you with two masked killers standing next to him.

"You?" Tara scoffs.

"Yeah, of course me," Bailey shrugs. "Frankly I expected more from you after what you did to us."

"Us?" You repeat.

The person next to him begins to take off his mask, revealing a smily familiar figure beneath.

You scoff, because out of all of your friends, you genuinely didn't believe it was him. Sure, everyone joked about it, but he was... he just seemed to innocent. Ethan seemed so vanilla.

Also, you liked him, so you were a firm Ethan defender. No matter how many times you were told to trust no one; especially Ethan after Anika was murdered, you did.

You just couldn't believe it. Ethan- who you had confided in, cried to, almost made out with had pretty much, quite literally, stabbed you in the back.

"Mindy was right. It was easy to juke the roommate lottery," He spoke, so confidently, which was so unlike him.

This really hurt- in many different ways. You actually thought you knew him and understood him. You had never seen this person before.

"I mean all I had to do to meet you was room with a conceited, condensing alpha literally named Chad. Fuck, it felt good to kill him!"

He presents his mask.

"This was your grandmothers, Sam. Nancy Loomis? Really runs in your fucking family, doesn't it? Speaking of family..."

"Wait for it..."

"My name's not Ethan Landry!" He says excitedly. "Is it, dad?"

Well, isn't he just full of surprises.

"Dad?" Tara scoffs.

"Well then that just leaves..." Sam looks at the only one unmasked. "Mindy?"

Luckily, it's not.

"Hey, roomie," Quinn says. "You didn't see that one coming, did you?"

"Well, yeah, we all thought you were dead," You scoff. You turn to Tara and Sam. "That's one way to get off the suspect list. Creative, I must say."

"Yeah, you'd be amazed what a grieving father could get away with." Bailey says.

Ethan's staring you down with a hungry look in his eyes. It was all a game to him.

You can't help but actually roll your eyes in the situation. The audacity you have. This ends with all out hell breaking loose-

Quinn slices deep into your arm with her knife and Bailey starts laughing.

"You stay the fuck away from her!" Tara yells as you stumble back, beginning to look for an exit plan.

This was not how it was supposed to go.

Why couldn't it have been someone else? Anyone but him? You just felt so stupid.

"What is this?" You ask them all, specifically Ethan. "You did this as a family?"

"She should know better than anyone," Ethan shoots a dagger at Sam.

"I don't know what you believe, but I didn't commit the murders at Woodsboro!" Sam groans, sick of explaining the same thing over and over again.

"We know that. What do you think this is? You think this is based on some bullshit conspiracy theory? Bailey scoffs. He gives Sam a pitiful look. "Come on. Who do you think started those rumors in the first place?"

Quinn raises her hand and laughs, "Do you know how easy it was to turn Sam from the hero of Woodsboro into the villain? How easy it was to convince the world to believe the worst in people rather than the best?"

"It's not enough to just kill someone these days," Ethan adds, "You have to assassinate their character first. So when dad here discovers your horribly mutilated bodies, posed with Sam wearing her father's mask, he'll say some poor dumb bastard read on the internet that you're the real ghost face and took matters into their own deluded hands."

"It's the perfect alibi!" Bailey chuckles. "And all the best lies are based on truth."

He points to Sam, "You're a killer. Just like your father."

"No, I'm not!" She yells back.

"Yes you are, motherfucker, you killed our brother!" Quinn screams.

"What are you talking about?"

Great. Another surprise.

So, Ethan's a killer. Quinn's not dead. And their brother was the last ghost face. Great.

"You told us your brother died in a car accident," You shoot daggers at Ethan.

"No, you sweet dumb thing. He died at Woodsboro."

He's pointing his knife up, using it to make a point.

"You're Richie's family?" Sam looks distraught.

"Yeah," Bailey nods.

There's an awkward moment of silence, interrupted by Ethan stabbing Sam in the chest and filling the room with laughter.

"She's finally starting to get it!" He exclaims.

"Have I been a perfect dad? No. Have I maybe over indulged in Richie's interests in these movies? Yeah. He even made a few of his own. There's a very special bond between a father and his first son."

"Ouch." You look over at Ethan, impulsively. "That's gotta sting."

You take another small cut to the shoulder from Quinn. You couldn't tell why she wouldn't just kill you right then and there; it would certainly get the point across.

"What?" You look offended- almost as if you weren't meaning to be offensive. You look back up at Bailey. "And just because you sucked at raising your kid doesn't mean you get to take it out on... literally children."

"Yeah, well I think we're a little past that point now," Bailey sighs.

You open up your mouth, gaining your voice back before Quinn nips at you again, causing nothing but a wince to escape your throat. She's warning you for interrupting.

"I built a tribute to my son," Bailey continues. "This is where you have to die, Sam. Because everyone dies, Sam!"

He's beginning to rile up, pointing his gun at her now.

"Everyone that had to do with the death of my son has to die." He says. "Put on the mask."

"He was a man baby." Sam smirks. "He made his girlfriend do all the killing for him."

Quinn begins to charge at her, but Tara manages to knock her away, and that's when Kirby decides to wake up and shoot Bailey to the ground. Ethan then tackles her, stabbing her harshly in the abdomen in the process.

You act swiftly, taking a nearby brick on the floor at charge at him, slamming the brick into his head and knocking him off of Kirby.

The knife is still in her stomach, you and Ethan fighting each other on the floor in the corner while everyone else does their thing. You notice Sam and Tara climbing somewhere out of the corner of your eye. You want to get to them, but this might be the last time you can ever have your hands on him again.

It's almost if he's not fighting back, though; and it's like you're not fighting hard enough. It's like you're scolding him, like a wife hitting her husband with a dish towel for not liking the food. Except it's with a brick in your hands.

And he's laughing at you while you're doing this, knows that you couldn't possibly hurt him.

"Stop."

"Stop what?" He smirks. "You're the one hitting me with a brick."

"Stop laughing!" You groan. "This isn't funny."

You hit him a little harder.

"Ow!" He grabs his arm. He rolls his eyes and walks back to Kirby. "Where's my knife?"

As he retrieves it, you hear a gunshot and then see Tara swinging off the balcony, being held up by Sam. Ethan has his knife now, and he's swinging at Tara.

This is your moment to act again; you charge at him once more, bringing him to the ground. Not to your surprise, he overpowers you and is now holding you tight, knife pointed at your neck to ensure that you don't move. Bailey's gun is aimed at Tara, but now switching between the both of you.

"Take care of her, Ethan," Bailey says, aggravated that this is taking so long.

He nods, dragging you into the corner of the room; and then into a separate room. You're trying to fight back, kicking and digging your nails into his skin.

You know he won't kill you. He would've already.

Once you're alone, completely alone, he loses his grips. However, he's still holding tight enough to prevent you from moving anywhere.

It's silent for a moment. Neither one of you are talking.

"If I wasn't like this..." He begins. "If I didn't do this-"

"What?" You ask. "Would I have considered being with you?"

He awkwardly blushes. What a time to blush.

"You always did read me so well."

"Clearly not well enough." You groan and roll you eyes, escaping his grasp and pushing him off of you. You're not fighting him, and he's not trying to fight you, but you are keeping your guard up in case he decides to attack.

But he won't.

"So?"

"How can you expect me to answer that?" You question. "Like yeah, I would've loved to date you, but you're kind of trying to kill my friends and me. So, I don't really think the whole relationship thing would work out."

He sighs.

"I should've asked you out sooner," He says after a moment of silence.

"Yeah, you really should've." You snap back.

It's weird. This is the Ethan you knew. It's like he's back. Ghostface or not, your dynamic hasn't changed.

Your brief moment of peace was interrupted quickly though with another gunshot. This freed you of your delusion- that he was this normal guy.

Freed from his grasp, you ran back to the main room to find your friends perfectly fine. Both Quinn and Bailey basically looked dead, and Sam was in the Ghostface robes. You figured some sort of poetic justice had occurred.

But now it's three against one, and there's nothing you could do to save him.

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

False-Moon

So the publishers rejected my short story, but I figured yall might like it haha! Here:

The shining spectre of the holy sun dipped behind the clouds, and I watched it go. When the last ember of gold was dashed, I sparked my lantern and raised it up on its stick, twelve and a half men high. 

Night bloomed around me, darkness without the respite of a moon. Ours had fallen many springs ago, when the Dryads warred with the Harpies, who stole the moon to spite us. The gods had punished them, and there are no Harpies now, but no man nor god had been able to find the moon again. So we made do with my lantern.

Its post was carved living birch, taken from the corpses of fallen Dryad Warriors, each strip from a different corpse, held together by metal inlay. Under the flickering lamp-light, its runes were more serpent than silver, glinting and shifting slyly. It was a comfort, a stave against the weight on my duty.

The wind was bitter on the moors tonight, tall grass whipping at my ankles, chilling me through the layers of bark I bore. It would not hurt me, any more than the winter could kill an ancient oak, but I hated it all the same, for I had not the fortitude of my sleeping siblings, and it meant the night would be an even more unpleasant one.

I walked through the moor, lantern held high. it illuminated me in a too-small circle of gold. I was but a little sapling when the moon fell, of course, but I remembered the moon's blessing on me. It felt nothing like the thin lantern-light. 

The light had been silver, like my mother's greying hair, like the wolves that guarded our forest, like safety and wisdom. All I felt here was exhaustion. That, and fear. We did not venture out of the forest at night, and nothing separated me from the endless darkness. Nothing, except my false-moon.

I stopped in the middle of the field and looked up. I was not quite sure why I did as such, for there was nothing up there. I remembered a story my grandmother's grandmother told me, of a time when her grandmother had been a little girl, when there were stars in the sky, little shining dots like the freckles on a Human's skin, and when night was but an icy day, so perhaps it was a ghost of a memory. It was all gone now, in any case.

I wondered how long it would be ‘til the sun was gone too.

My steady feet carried me to the edge of the moor. Water rushed there, slick pebbles hard against the wood of my soles. I stepped into the stream, letting the flow part itself around my calves as I moved. My hands never faltered, never dropped low. They were aching, now, just a little.

Under my golden lantern, the river might well have been blood, the blood of all the wars we had held over the millennia. I could only catch the faintest glimpses of silver amidst the dark river, and that could have just been the moon's blood. 

I crossed the stream with no fuss, and stood on the ancient battlefield. Charred ground crumbled beneath my feet, a steady path made by my predecessors leading me forth. From within the tiny circle of illumination, I saw stumps of torrefied wood, my sleeping siblings dead from an agonising blaze. The elders had called it their due, for the dead-wood had sheltered our mortal enemies. I could only call it a sham, a shame, a horrible thing out of my nightmares. Treason, my elders would remind me, but true nonetheless.

The very air itself resisted my movements, as though the darkness did not want to be lit here, that the horrors that had occurred should not be revealed. In the daylight, perhaps, it would not have been quite so grim. The sun would have warmed the dead dirt, and I could have pretended not to feel the life-destroying salt beneath me.

Closing my eyes, I shook the unease off. It would find no mantle within me. Five years I had trained for this day, to do my people proud, to set the night alight. Yet, here I was, on the boundary between my people and our long-dead enemy, and I felt nothing but loss.

The ground was not burnt here, not yet. Grass still poked up between my toes, friendly and curious. My sleeping siblings, great oaks, smiled down at me, in the way they had done at home. I looked up at my little sphere of fire. It danced and gleamed within its cage of metal and glass, eager to unmake. 

I should have done what all my predecessors did, and broke that sphere, letting our wrath blaze, sending the Harpy-forest alight. It would please my elders, and brighten the endless darkness, returning that which the Harpies took from us for a brief night. 

I could have done what a few did, and walked away, returning my lantern unbroken and the forest unburnt. It would make the elders rage, and they would cast me out of their ranks, but at least I would not be a part of this travesty.

I did not do either of those things.

Instead, I set my stick firmly into the growing grass, where it stood tall. I got on one knee before my people's nemesis, and I bowed, the way I would have done at home, before my forest and my gods. My nose brushed against the dark earth, and I inhaled it. The scent was strange, with its char, yet familiar. It had once been a part of our forest too, once.

I knelt there, and I whispered a prayer. “Great old ones, my fallen brethren, my people's old enemies, hear me. I bring an apology. Forgive us, for our senseless violence. Forgive us, for making a farce of the moon's light with our fire. Forgive us, for we must end this cycle. The stars have all fallen. The moon is spirited away. When the sun is lost too, what hope will there be for any of our peoples? So— I take the first step and make amends. I am Entarai, daughter of warriors Jerai and Ilkoi, who were felled in the same battle that took your lives. I offer this lantern, and the fire within, and I beg you, with all my heart, forgive us and return our moon,” I said, not expecting a response.

There was none, of course. I had not the sensitivity of a druid, to hear the whispers of the dead, nor the skills of a necromancer to call them to me, so even if they had reached out, I would never know.

I got up, brushed the dirt out of the cracks on my bark. I pressed my cheekbones in a final orison, then turned and began the walk home. My miniature moon, the little lantern on its stick, disappeared behind me as I left the woods behind. 

Strangely, the darkness did not hold the same terror it once did.

My path back was marked by the indents of my feet, the path walked by me and every other lantern bearer for a hundred thousand moonless nights. Blind as I was, I could follow it back to my lands. I navigated the riverbank through its pebbles, my feet feeling blindly for the smooth slippery stone and the water that would follow. Whence I found it, I crawled on my hands and knees through the river, its coolness washing over me, soaking me to the core. 

Perhaps it was just a trick of my mind, but the stream no longer felt like blood.

[mykingdomforapen]

chapter 10 of "courage of stars" will be coming next week and guys, I'm so nervous. I am so excited and I'm so nervous. This chapter is many things. It's where I got to do some things I've been really wanting to do. It's where I cross a point of no return in the story. I got to try a different style. It's where the line blurs between fanfic and a genre that I respect and fear.

It's also a huge factor in why this fic is rated M. Hoo boy.

So! In lieu of updating today, so that you won't have to face a three week wait afterwards, here's a fun little drabble/filler episode:

-

When Lu Guang was four years old, he lovingly killed three tadpoles. He had scooped them from the pond in a plastic cup and brought them home happily, convinced he would raise them into froghood. By Thursday, all three of them floated lifelessly in the surface of the bright blue tub in which he housed them. His mother poked them curiously with a chopstick while he sobbed into his grandmother's lap.

"Don't be so sad, Guangguang," Maamaa crooned as she patted Lu Guang's head. "You tried very, very hard. We all know that you did your best." 

"I killed them!" Lu Guang wailed into her skirt. "I just want them to be frogs and now they died!"

"Oh, A Guang," his mother said as she furtively plucked the dead tadpoles into a bundled newspaper for a more discreet funeral. "This is a good learning experience, right? Now you know what not to do with a frog. See, it's good to learn with the wild tadpoles, before you spend money on a pet. You know better for next time not to use tap water."

Lu Guang sobbed louder ("I meant it to be comforting!") until Yeye came home. Maamaa intercepted Yeye before he walked through the door and sent him on a mission to bring home steamed bai tang gao as a consolation, and Yeye beelined to the nearest vendor to bring home a steaming, buoyant cake of tangy sweet rice. Lu Guang chewed on it sullenly on the living room sofa after bidding the dead tadpoles goodbye into the storm drain.

Yeye sighed as he sat next to Lu Guang, stroking his grandson's little head.

"You know," he said, "when I was little, my father raised bees."

Lu Guang blinked up at Yeye with teary eyes.

"Honeybees?" he asked.

Yeye nodded. "My father was a very adventurous man, you know. A scholar, but always enjoyed the outdoors. He got it in his head that he would like to try raising a colony of honeybees. I was so excited to help him. I thought we would have hives and hives of bees, but what do you know! Only a month or so of having the bees, one day they all flew away. The queen said, no more! I was so disappointed."

Lu Guang sniffled. Yeye scratched the back of Lu Guang's head.

"After that, we stuck with chickens," Yeye said lightly. "What do you think of chickens, A Guang?"

Lu Guang shook his head.

"I like frogs," he whispered.

"You want to try raising frogs again?"

Lu Guang nodded. Yeye smiled crookedly.

"Ah, well," he said. "Chickens are smelly, anyway."

-

For Lu Guang's seventh birthday, his parents took him to the pet store.

His mother had promised him a pet frog for when he turned seven, partly because she had assumed he would grow out of frogs in three years' time. She was a woman of her word, though, when she noticed him checking out library books about frog care and frog types when he hit age six. When asked if he wanted to invite friends over to play, he shook his head and asked to go to the pet shop.

So on Sunday when Ba and Ma were off work, they took Lu Guang to the best-rated pet shop in the city, four subway stops away from Peidi University. Lu Guang was shaking with anticipation as he counted down the stops, donning his frog bucket hat in celebration and looking away solemnly when teenage girls cooed at him. All he could think about was his dream coming true.

“Now, A Guang,” his mother said breezily as she took Lu Guang’s hand to wade through foot traffic. “When you pick a frog, you have to make sure it isn’t poisonous, okay? Mommy is afraid of poisonous animals.”

“I don’t want a poison dart frog,” said Lu Guang, albeit with reservation. “They won’t have them in a pet store.” 

He did not know what sort of frogs were available in the pet store that Ma and Ba were taking him. Ba, in all his practicality, had assumed that they would go to one of the street markets and pick up a frog that was meant for the dinnerplate. He expressed mild surprise when they turned left to the subway station, so Lu Guang knew Ba wasn’t going to be any help in asking for clues. 

“All right, Guangguang,” said Ma as she ushered Lu Guang into the pet store. It was a corner shop with clean glass windows, full of tanks and cages and colorful habitat accessories. Colorful parakeets squawked and glittering snakes coiled under sunlamps, and Lu Guang’s little heart began to race with anticipation. “Only one frog, do you understand?” 

Lu Guang nodded, his eyes as wide as coins as he stared up at the tall towers of tanks. There were saltwater coral fish dancing among anemones, drowsy tarantulas (Ma squeaked at the sight of them), sunbathing turtles, bearded lizards, and–

Lu Guang felt his jaw drop. 

An Amazon milk frog. 

It was just at eye level with Lu Guang, so that when he pressed his nose to the glass he was eye to eye with the docile pale blue frog. It perched on a rock under the sunlamp, milky blue and content to stare back at Lu Guang. It was perfectly patterned, gummy blue webbed feet, and a lipless mouth that promised simplicity. 

It was, in short, the most wonderful creature that Lu Guang had ever seen. 

He stood up on his tiptoes to get a closer look at the frog. Its tiny breaths puffed in its throat in a fascinating rhythm. It was like seeing a real-life Doraemon in Lu Guang’s eyes, or Sun Wukong–a fairy-tale celebrity come to life, except instead of comic books it was Lu Guang’s frog encyclopedia. Lu Guang knew its habitat, its life cycle, its favorite foods, and now he could behold one with his own eyes. 

Seven minutes passed, and his mother touched him on the head.

“A Guang, there are other frogs you should look at too,” she said.

Lu Guang shook his head. He pressed his hands against the glass. 

“Aiyah, A Guang, not too close.” 

Lu Guang moved his nose a millimeter away from the glass, leaving a smudge. His mother looked down at him with a crooked smile. 

“Is this the one you want, then?” she said. 

He looked up to his mother and nodded. Ma turned to Ba and tapped the price tag. Ba nodded solemnly and undertook the task of haggling (unsuccessfully) with the store owner. 

“Let’s pick out a tank for him,” said Ma. 

She took Lu Guang’s hand and tugged him towards the habitat shelves, but Lu Guang refused to budge. He glued himself to the spot, maintaining unbreakable eye contact with the milk frog. 

“A Guang, come on, now,” she said. “We have to give him a home, don’t we?” 

Lu Guang huddled closer to the tanks. He was convinced that if he were to let the frog out of his sight, some other seven-year-old boy would swoop down and claim the frog as his own. 

“Ba is buying the frog right now, see?” Ma said, pointing to Ba who was conceding to the original price of the pet store while he pulled out his wallet. “There. Let’s choose a tank.” 

After another minute of convincing, Lu Guang finally followed his mother to pick out a proper tank for his frog. He picked out the soil, cleaned rocks, plants, and water source that would all go into his terrarium, but it wasn’t until Ba handed to Lu Guang a plastic covered cup with his milk frog sitting politely inside did Lu Guang feel the surge of joie de vivre. He hugged the cup to his chest, whispered his thanks to his father, and then burst into tears, precisely in that order.

-

Thanks for indulging me with this little drabble, gang. Who knows, since I'm kind of keeping up this 2 week streak for the rest of the update schedule, you might see the return of Frog Guang's adventures again...after all, if you've been on my tumblr for some time, you may recall that I have a headcanon that Lu Guang has beef with one of his cousins.

Until next week!

[uncpanda]

Blood is Thicker than Water: Chapter 20

AN: Not going to lie. I STRUGGLE writing wedding scenes. However, I really love how this chapter turned out. Instead of dragging it out, we get snippets. I love that about this. Please leave feedback.

Warnings: None that I can think of.

Master List

Guest List: 

“Four hundred and thirty-six people.” 

Rafa stares at you. He’s been sipping from that cup of coffee for over two minutes now. You lean forward and say it again, “Four hundred and thirty-six people.” 

He finally puts the cup down, “I really don’t see the problem.” 

You scream in frustration and stomp right out of the apartment. 

The moment the door closes Rafael looks at Benny and asks, “She realizes I have a big family right?” 

Wedding Party: 

“So that gives me Rita as my best woman, and Ed and Eddie as groomsmen.” 

“And I have Liv as my maid of honor.” 

Rafa stares at you, “That means the sides are uneven.” 

“So?” 

“They can’t be uneven.” 

You raise an eyebrow, “Why not?” 

“It won’t look right.” 

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you.” 

Your fiance sighs, “What about your friends from college?” 

“Most of them are already married and have kids. Plus they live in different states. That’s not fair to ask them.” 

“Friends from childhood?” 

“I hung out with Elliot’s kids. I haven’t talked to them in years, andI don’t really have a desire to do so now.” 

“So this is just how it is.” 

“Unless you want me to ask your mother?” 

“Nope. We’re good.” 

The Venue: 

“What do you think?” 

You look around at the garden. It is perfect for a springtime wedding. Even without the flowers in bloom, it’s gorgeous. 

You look over at Rafa, his smile is stretched across his face. He’s done good. Amazing really. There’s just one problem. 

“It’s not going to fit four hundred thirty-six people.” 

Your fiance scowls, “We can figure it out. Some people can stand.” 

You cross your arms, and lean forward, “That’s against the fire code counselor.” you point towards the plaque that reads a max of 300. 

He throws his hands up in frustration, and finally says the words you’ve been waiting to hear, “Fine! I’ll make cuts.” 

Ring Bearer: 

“He needs a part in the wedding!” 

“I’m not disagreeing with you.” 

“You said no.” 

“I said no, because I already told my sister Noah could do it, and he’s our nephew.” 

“Well of course Noah is a ring bearer, I’m just saying Benny could be one too!” 

  “There’s also the fact that your grandmother might pass out if she sees a dog in the processional. We’re already not getting married in the neighborhood church. She nearly cried when we told her that.” 

“She loves Benny!” 

“I know, that’s why he can come to the reception and take pictures with us. I already talked to the venue and our dog walker.” 

“Oh. Well, okay then.” 

Shopping: 

“So how did you manage to convince mama Barba and Abuelita and the rest of his relatives not to come today?” 

You take a sip of the champagne in your hand, “I told them the truth. This is a you and me thing. No one else allowed.” 

Liv smiles, “Well, it means a lot that it’s just us.”

“What do you think of these?” 

You and Liv turn together and watch as Ed and Noah come out together. They’re dressed in matching tuxes. You and Liv melt. Noah is absolutely adorable, and Ed actually cleans up pretty good. While Rita is Rafa’s best woman, Ed and Eddie are his groomsmen, and Noah is the ring bearer. 

After you’re all done cooing at Noah, Rafael finally steps out of the dressing room. He looks drop dead handsome in his tux. You feel your eyes go wide, and then he gets a little smirk on his face. You know you’re not living this moment down. 

Music: 

You stare at Rafa. He’s trying not to laugh. You can’t blame him. “She’s going to kill us.” 

You smile, “This song comes from the first movie we ever watched together.” 

“We’ve already found a way to work quotes into the wedding. If you walk down the aisle to this song, your sister might just kill us.” 

You shake your head, a serious look coming over your face, “No she won’t. She knows why I love this movie, why I love the book.” 

Rafa looks serious now too, “I think it’s perfect.” 

Dress shopping: 

“No,no, no, no, no! What did I tell you about off the rack? I said absolutely not! Where is your manager? I helped him evade a racketeering charge, he owes me!” 

You sip on champagne and look at your sister. She has that look on her face, “At least it wasn’t a murder or rape charge.” 

She nods in agreement before asking, “How did Rita end up on this chopping trip again?” 

“This is apparently the best wedding dress shop around. She knows the owner . . . apparently rather well. She’s trying to help.” 

A second later a terrified manager and a ranting Rita pass you by.

You both watch them go. You’re happy to say you don’t find your dress in that store. 

Dress Shopping Part 2: 

The day you find your wedding dress, you’re not expecting it. You’re less than five months away from the wedding, and you’re panicking a little bit. You KNOW it takes time to order a dress. Rita’s told you about it five million times. 

You’re walking Benny when you see it. A small bridal shop, with a pretty dress in the window. You stare at it for several seconds before you call your sister. She answers on the first ring, “This better be an emergency. I’m in the middle of a case.” 

“I think I might have found my wedding dress.” 

There’s a moment of silence, “What’s the address, I’ll be there ASAP.” 

You rattle it out just as an employee sticks her head out, “Hi there. Would you like to come in?” 

You look down at Benny and she smiles, “He’s welcome to come in too. I love dogs!” You go in.

By the time Liv arrives, Benny is on his back getting belly scratches from the staff while you’re in the dressing room being fitted into your dream dress. 

Liv stares at your goofy, three legged dog for a second before she calls out your name. You step out a second later. 

You watch her eyes go wide, as she studies you for a second, “That’s it.” 

You nod, “Yeah.” There are no tears. It’s just a comfortable feeling. This is your wedding dress. 

The Night Before: 

The night before your wedding is spent at Liv’s apartment. Ed and Noah head over to your place to spend time with Rafa and Eddie. It’s just the two of you. You put on face masks, paint your nails, and watch Disney movies. It reminds you of one of the best parts of your childhood.

It’s as you’re sitting on the couch that Liv says, “I’m so happy for you. You know that right?” 

You smile, “I know.” 

“He’s a good man.” 

“The best in my opinion, though Ed gives him a run for his money.” 

She smiles at that, “I truly think, you’re going to be really happy together.” 

“I know so.” 

With that, she pulls you in for a hug. 

Right Before the Wedding: 

You don’t actually feel nervous until about half an hour before the wedding. Your makeup and hair is done. You probably should have been in your dress by now, but you’re still in your getting ready outfit. Things are a bit behind schedule. Noah had a melt down, your sister has cried no less than three times, and Abuelita and Lucia have been bickering with each other. You haven’t seen Rafa. You’re not sure why you’re sticking to this stupid tradition, but you are. 

You’re watching the chaos with an observant eye when someone taps you on the shoulder. You spin around to see your sister standing there. She tosses her head to the side and you follow her outside. The sun is shining and the March air is only a little chilly. You close your eyes and allow yourself a minute. When you open your eyes, you see Liv smiling at you. 

“What?” 

“It’s just crazy. How Lewis,” 

“May he rot in hell,” 

“Lead to all of this. You moving back and meeting Rafael. Me and Ed connecting, getting married, and having Noah. We’re getting those happy endings we dreamed of as kids.” 

You hug yourself and look at the ground for a little bit before you look up, “Did I ever say thank you?” 

“For what?” 

“For raising me and loving me when you didn’t have to?” 

Your sister hugs you, “You never have to thank me for that. You are one of the best joys of my life.” You smile at that. 

Walking Down the Aisle: 

You’re nervous, but you’re allowed to be. You’re in your dress, your veil is attached, and everyone has walked down the aisle except you and Liv. You look at your sister. She’s dressed in a black dress. She has once again avoided color. 

She holds out her arm to you, and you take it. You close your eyes, and you count to three. The music starts: the instrumental Dawn from Pride and Prejudice; the first movie you and Rafa watched together. The movie you two still watch together.

You start to walk. It’s slow, and thanks to the three hundred and twenty three people (Rafa was able to cut it down) you can’t see Rafael yet. You do, however, see Uncle Don, and Finn, and Munch. You smile at them. 

And then you turn the corner of people, and you see him. Rafael is standing there. He’s dressed in his tux. His hair is perfectly styled. His eyes are focused solely on you as though you’re the only thing he sees. You feel yourself start to speed up, but your sister grounds you like she always does. 

When you finally reach him, you feel your breath leave your chest. And as you take his hand, everything else fades away. It’s just you and him. Just like it’s supposed to be. 

[dreaminonao3]

1. "that was good work" - Arackniss & Angel Dust

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Warnings/Triggers: none

Rating: T

He Cares (AO3)

That was good work.

Angel Dust stared at his phone. The attempted extermination was thwarted, the hotel had been rebuilt, and he was in the middle of decorating his new room. The text was completely out of the blue – a number he didn’t recognize and a statement too simple to hang on anything in particular.

One eyebrow raised, he typed out a reply. New phone, who dis? It was a lie but he didn’t care. I ain’t textin’ people I don’t know, I don’t care if they’re a fan.

Liar, you can’t afford a new phone with what that falena pays you.

The Italian word for “moth” was a dead giveaway to the sender’s identity. Angel scowled. What’s Big Bro up to now? It’s been what, a year? Two? What do you want, Niss?

I was just complimenting you on your fight with the angeli malvagi.

That was a week ago. Wait, you saw it? I thought everyone was too busy hidin’ ta see the fight.

On TV, along with the rest of Pentagram City. I would’ve joined you but I didn’t think you’d appreciate my presence.

You got that right. Still, he decided to be diplomatic. We could use another fighter, they could always come back.

There was no response and Angel was about to give up on the conversation when another text came from Arackniss almost half an hour after his previous one.

Molly wasn’t with them, was she?

Angel was so shocked, he nearly dropped his phone. NISS! MOLLY’S NOT AN EXORCIST! WE DON’T EVEN KNOW FOR SURE SHE’S AN ANGEL!

She's certainly not in Hell. No, it was straight to Heaven for our sister.

Then why the fuck would you think she’s an exorcist?

Because she’s a better fighter than both of us and you know it.

Memories of his twin roughhousing with the two of them while they were kids surfaced. Molly had a mean right hook and her left one ain’t bad either. Fine, yeah, I admit that, but she would never wanna wipe out sinners, she's got a better moral compass than both of us too.

You’re sure?

He sighed. Look, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll see if Charlie can find out exactly what happened to her. Heaven owes us one for not wiping out all of their exorcists.

I doubt they’ll see it that way but if you can find out, I’ll owe you.

No need, we’re family. Angel paused. You know, Niss, if you’re ever wanna give redemption a shot, the door’s always open.

Some people aren’t redeemable, Tony. Some sins just aren’t forgivable.

Didja ever think that maybe forgiving yourself is the first step?

His response was immediate. Goodnight, Anthony.

Is he getting formal with me? Two can play that game. Goodnight, Gionata.

*

A week later, Arackniss found what he could only call a care package on his doorstep. Inside the cardboard box were a newly-printed brochure for the Hazbin Hotel, a carefully-wrapped pan of lasagna that he knew was their maternal grandmother’s recipe, a handmade royal blue sweater that, when he held it against his body, would fit him but would also be long enough to nearly cover his legs entirely, and a framed photograph of Molly. She was a spider like the rest of the family, but the wings and halo were proof that she was indeed an angel in Heaven, and her happy, innocent smile was proof that she wasn’t an exorcist.

Arackniss had to wipe his suddenly wet eyes on his sleeve. He found her. He found her and she’s okay. She’s not killing sinners. She’s safe. She’s happy.

He glanced at the brochure. His first instinct was to toss it out but after looking at Molly’s photograph again, he stuck it on the fridge with a magnet then started unwrapping the lasagna.

Maybe someday…

[thaliexvii]

Hi, I really like your take on Lee's character. Do you have any headcanons about his biological parents? What they werelike, how did Lee lose them, what did/does he think of them? Whether or not Lee still remembers his parents?

Thank you, I am glad you like! (Sorry for the time) I don’t think Lee actually remembers much of his parents. In my headcanon, he was about 8 years old when they died in a fire from their cheap apartment so it is now about 40 years ago so he barely just got vague memories of them, not even remembering what they looked like and early memories tend to go away more quickly so even if he probably remembered more as a child growing up on the Mishima Estate, he probably didn’t remember too much either then.

I think he remembers a bit more his mother than his father since his father was probably working outside. From my headcanon, he remembers his father sitting on a chair in their small apartment and being tired, but again, very vaguely, just an impression, not a real picture and not even an interaction. He possibly remembers a few more interactions with his mother, like her scolding him for his bad behavior sometimes, cooking and serving him his food, asking him to wash his hands before they eat, which in some way, in my old fanfiction, made him get attached more to Heihachi since when Heihachi found him, the first thing he did was pay Lee a meal at the restaurant and order him to wash his hands before eating. Then Heihachi inspected them to see if that little dirty urchin washed them correctly but that gesture made Lee remember his mother caring about him, he felt cared for after years of having no adult being concerned about him and somehow, it took away some of the mistrust he first had in Heihachi and made him see him as a paternal figure.

But also, since he really took Heihachi as his parental figure and cared so much for his esteem, I think he doesn’t remember his parents much. Otherwise if he was really close, he could somehow get comforted by them even if they are dead, like some people might remember someone who cared for them to help them go through hard times. The memories he has are quite neutral ones as a whole. He knew his parents were not mean, he loved them, for the few he remembers, his mother acted like a caring mother even when she scolded him, not like a bad mother and his father was probably not mean since Lee barely has memories of him and no bad feeling. He did think about them sometimes but he also didn’t remember much of their personality. One thing I imagined that Lee never realized is that while his father was mostly neutral, his mother was very loyal to the Communist Party and to the Maoist philosophy and always had her Little Red Book near her. But that doesn’t concern Lee very much then or now. Lee did learn a few of the Communist party lessons at school but forgot them quickly once he lost his parents and quit school and then he turned to full capitalism when Heihachi raised him.

Since both his parents were busy, with work outside or at home, Lee had his paternal grandmother living with them and watching over him when he went to play with his kite. But being a healthy child, Lee was mostly spending time playing and going to school or outside so again, he didn’t get so close to his grandmother. He remembered for a while her kind gaze on him, though. I imagine the father came from a village more northwest of Shanghai from a family of peasants while the mother is a war orphan born at the end of WWII and always lived in Shanghai. Some years later, (not long before they were all killed in the fire) the father brought his mother and sister to Shanghai (apart from knowing she was there, Lee doesn’t remember his aunt at all, she was also working outside and barely lived there) but the cousins or anyone Lee may have on his father’s side are elsewhere, his father, grandmother and aunt didn’t talk about them so Lee doesn’t know them, while Lee’s mother, being orphan, doesn’t have any family on her side so that is why Lee was alone when his whole family died. Lee had escaped the fire by a window, being the only one small enough to pass through and his parents urging him to jump and telling him they would meet him outside by the stairs, he waited and waited until the firefighters brought the bodies of the many victims. Unable to stand the sight of his whole family’s dead bodies once they were brought outside, Lee fled in tears and got lost in the streets, not wanting to go back to see any of this since it was too painful, so he didn’t even know what happened to their bodies after. He avoided that area and lived in the streets away from there.  

I think sometimes Lee does feel guilty for not remembering them enough. When Heihachi killed Kazuya and exiled Lee with nothing, feeling alone, Lee might have wanted to turn to his own parents to comfort himself by saying they were better than his adoptive father, that they loved him but then, even if it’s true, he does know the one who took much place in his heart was Heihachi, even if by then it had turned to maybe not hate but deep anger. Maybe hate for a while, that will lower to anger, then only resentment as he let go of his revenge ideas. But Lee spent far more years in the Mishima family than with his biological one and knows them far more than his biological parents. And sometimes he does feel guilty of somehow having forgotten the first people in his life. Sometimes he does think of looking where they are buried if they can be found again so that he give them his last respects but then he also tells himself that it doesn’t matter, they are dead, and he doesn’t like grim stuff like funerals and cemeteries, so he doesn’t go there. I think he doesn’t really want to look back and face any of that sad past. Staying at his mansion, flirting, dancing, enjoying his pool, playing golf, all those things are much more excellent. And he is now quite busy with his other family…

[oneeyedoctogod]

Here late, but better late than never! For this WIP Wednesday, since the poll ended with a majority for me sharing my original writing as well (thank you everyone who voted!), have a little of an old(ish) WIP of mine where I wanted to experiment with second person POV. This isn't quite the beginning, but almost (although I should rework it probably. Starting with a dream is quite cliche :P)

--

You wake up.

You gasp, eyes blurry from tears — or is it sweat? You can’t tell, but it feels disgusting, like it always does after one of those nightmares. You rub your eyes, then keep your face buried in your hands, feel a sob stuck in your throat block your breathing. You try to force it out and cough, swallow back bile. You hate waking up. You want to run, like you did back then. But you’re stuck in your bedroll, having twisted it all around you before going to sleep because you knew how you’d react if you had a bad dream.

You’ve been having them for a while after all.

You force yourself to count your breaths, to calm yourself down. To come back to reality. Put your hands down in your lap and open your eyes.

(one, inhale)

You see your camp in front of you. The dying embers from your fire, the rest of your dinner scattered carelessly around it. Your backpack is right beside you, in case you need to leave quickly (in case your pursuers catch up to you). The river isn’t far and you itch to go wash your face but first — first this. The sky is still dark, although you can’t see the moon anymore. Your hands are clenched in your bedroll.

(two, exhale)

You force your hands to relax, to touch first the rough texture of the bedroll, then the soft grass around it. You blindly move them around, eyes staring at the sky, and feel something cold and hard — a rock. No wonder your back hurts, then. Then, slowly, you raise them to bring them to your face once again, rub your eyes once more. Carefully this time. Purposefully. Your skin feels hot to the touch, and wet.

(three, inhale)

Your breathing is loud to your ears, too loud. An owl hoots not far away from you, makes you jump. The flow of the river is quiet, but you still manage to hear it.

(four, exhale)

The smell of the fire is still strong, even with only a few embers still alight. You’ll have to be careful when erasing your traces, to make sure no one can still smell it once you leave. Under the sharp smell of the embers is the scent of coming rain, the humidity in the air almost stifling. It will help mask your presence. Slowly, the tension from the nightmare fades, replaced by the one from being on alert.

(five, inhale)

Your tears taste salty, covering the bitterness of the bile you swallowed earlier. You blink, and more of them fall from your eyes. You can’t stop yet. You have to remember first. Sometimes, it feels as if you’re still stuck in a nightmare. As if you never left that house.

(six, exhale)

Your name is Altair. You are… eighteen? Probably. Maybe nineteen. You let out a bitter chuckle. You have been on the run for more than half of your life now.

(seven, inhale)

Your family is dead. You relive their death every night, sometimes more than once. A mob killed your mother, father and siblings. You managed to run, helped by the only friend you had left in your village.

(eight, exhale)

You ran to your grandmother’s house. Both of you left the same night, to settle somewhere else, in another village where no one knew you, where no one could suspect what you were. You got a few years of relative peace. But you weren’t far enough.

(nine, inhale)

Your new village heard about you — about the young fugitive who escaped from the Inquisition. You don’t know who told them, how the rumors reached them. They went after you once more. Your grandmother tried to stop them. She used forbidden magic, and so they burned her.

She cursed them in return though, her last revenge, her last protection. You heard her that night, and as far as you know, that village is now haunted by so many restless spirits it had to be abandoned. It feels like not enough.

You were twelve.

And now here you are, on the run since then.

(ten, exhale)

You close your eyes on the last exhale. That last nightmare — there was something different about it. Something… other. A voice, perhaps? You want to remember it, but no matter how hard you try, it slips through your fingers, like trying to catch mist.

[away-ward]

Pursuit

Summary: Will was supposed to pick Emory up from the library for their first date, but a storm killed the power before he got there. And now everyone is missing. And maybe that was his plan all along.

Set in December after the Homecoming dance; Canon-Divergent.

Disclaimer: general OOC-ness as my writing style is different from PD's.

Emory

I shifted, the old plastic chair creaking with the movement. The noises of the library – hushed whispered, footsteps muffled by industrial carpet, book carts with squeaky wheels – fell silent about thirty minutes ago as it got closer to closing time. Those sounds provided comfort - background noise for me to complete my homework. Today, I was too distracting. My eyes drifted to the clock on the wall more often as the night wore on.

Uncontrollably, my eyes darted up again. Still fifteen minutes before Will would be here.

I clicked my pen repeatedly and licked my lips, forcing my eyes to return to the open book. I read the first two lines of text for the eight billionth time, but still -

Would this be our first legitimate date?

I swallowed, my throat feeling like sandpaper and my heart a hammer in my chest. The absurdity of it ran down my spine. It was silly to think that, knowing everything that had happened between us already.

The sweet, honey tones of the head librarian, Mrs. Porter, floated over from the front desk as she waved goodbye to another family. She saw me sitting at my usual round table in the corner, and she smiled and raised her right hand to pat her heart, a sympathetic gesture. My mom used to take me to Mrs. Porter’s Reading Hour when I was a little kid. When my parents died, Mrs. Porter let me sit on the children's beanbags even though I was technically too old. And when Martin was alive –

My breath hitched, stuck in my lungs.

Martin was dead - taken by a storm in the first week of November. There was an emergency call from an anonymous tipper saying a girl about to jump at the cliffs on the other side of the Cove. Everyone thought it was a prank, but just in case, they sent officers out anyway. Martin never came back. His friends and fellow officers were sad when they broke the news. It said it was too windy, they said, and he couldn’t see the edge of the cliff.

They thought I cried because I was sad. Poor little Emory Scott, an orphan in the truest sense. The town honored him the same way they did any public servant, quickly and quietly. There was an announcement in the paper, a small wake, and a donation fund that the townspeople contributed to. People brought flowers and looks of pity. Grand-Mere liked the flowers. They filled our home for a week after, and for once, things looked brighter.

The Ashby’s made an appearance as representatives of the town. The mayor and his wife stayed precisely long enough to say something nice and leave a card. Arion had nothing to say, but Winter seemed genuinely sorry. The Graysons' showed up too, surprisingly. I couldn’t look at Will, even as he stared me down. Not after homecoming or what happened the next day. It hurt too much, and now that Martin was gone, most of my excuses gone with him, I didn’t know what to do with Will.

Not that I had the time to deal with him. At sixteen, I wasn’t old enough to take guardianship of my grandmother, and without Martin’s salary, there was no way I could afford it, even with my college fund and the donations. I was overwrought at thought of losing her, missing a week of school to look through the law books, talk to lawyers - to anyone who would listen - trying to keep them from separating us.

Will found me, as he somehow always managed to. I was dragging my tired body back home from the bus stop when he forced me into his truck and down the road to Sticks where he wouldn’t let me leave until I finished the plate of fries he ordered.

He joked that we had to stop meeting like this, and images of the day in the movie theater overwhelmed me. I choked on my soda. When I tried to glare, he laughed.

Thunder echoed outside the library. I frowned, wondering if this was going to ruin his plans.

Storms. I should hate them, given all they’d taken from me, but I don’t. Outside, the streetlights flickered with the shadows of trees whipping in the slow wind. Over the next few hours, it would grow into a howling squall.

I checked my phone to confirm I hadn’t missed any messages from Will. Whatever he had planned, it wouldn’t be outdoors. Maybe that’s for the best, I thought. Somewhere inside, where it’s dark, and we’re alone. Sounds good, actually. Tonight could be the night he finally stops holding out on me.

A large draft of wind followed by a boom of thunder drew my attention back to the window. Above, the lights flickered before losing power. Then the streetlights blinked out, casting the street in darkness.

While I’m not afraid of storms, I’m not stupid either. Using my cellphone flash, I quickly gathered my stuff into my bag and walked to the reception desk, where I last saw Mrs. Porter. The space was empty, and as I looked around, I realized I didn’t see anyone else around either. My arm hair raised as I listened for something other than the wind. Mrs. Porter knew I was here, and she wouldn’t just leave a patron. Something is keeping her away.

Slowly, I made my way around the microscopic library. There are only two public spaces and a hallway. The front doors open to the reception desk. Going left leads to the Young People’s section, and right to the Adult section. The hallway that branches off the front goes to the bathrooms and to the break room in the back.

Despite the size, there’s an abundance of places to hide. Or to hide someone.

As soon as the thought came, I scoffed. “That is stupid,” I said, solely to hear it out loud.

But is it? It’s not like I don’t know a murderer. It’s not like this town is short of bizarre happenings.

It’s not like I haven’t wondered if Martin’s death was really an accident.

It’s not like I wasn’t planning fucking the man I thought may have done it.

I bit my bottom lip. “Will?” I called out, taking a chance. This is right up his alley. The kind of stupid prank only he’d think of. Nearly identical to what he did at the school.

I smirked, loosening up a bit. “Look, we’ve been here before, you already know I’m not scared,” I lied. Well, partially. There was still a part of me that doubted it was him. “I’m impressed you even got the storm. Is it a paid actor?”

No answer. I wondered if Mrs. Porter was a hostage, and if she could hear me talking to nobody.

Flirting. I was potentially flirting with a murderer while sweet Mrs. Porter was bleeding out somewhere. That would be bad.

Another strong gust forced the front doors to slam open. I gasped, dropping my bag to get to them quicker. I was surprised the power of the wind didn’t break the glass. Even as I tried to use all my strength to push them closed, I was losing that fight inch by inch.

Until someone appeared behind me, taking both doors and managing to muscle them together, giving me a chance to flip the lock in place. Finally able to catch my breath, my face and hair, and entire front soaked with rain, I turned to see who it was because it certainly wasn’t old Mrs. Porter.

The white mask glowed bright in the shadows. Whatever fear I was feeling was immediately expelled in a strong exhale.

He stood close, practically on top of me, all around me. Neither of us said a word as we watched each other. But I wanted –

Mimicking what I did before, I slipped the mask back, revealing his piercing green eyes.

Yeah. That’s what I wanted. To watch him watching me. Nobody looked at me the way he did, even now.

I could have kissed him in the lab at school, but I didn’t. I had my reasons. Now, though, I didn’t want to hold back. He’s been making me work for it, and the role reversal has nearly killed me.

I stood on my toes to reach him, leaving millimeters between our lips so that I could feel the air leaving him. And that’s where I stopped, just a breath away.

“Was this the plan?”

He swallowed. I couldn’t keep the hint of a smile at his suffering off my lips.

“Feels familiar,” I continued. “Was the lock-in just the teaser for the main event?”

His eyes danced, and I knew I was right.

“Do I get to hide this time?”

“You want me to hunt you?”

I pulled the mask back down, lowering myself to the ground. “Close your eyes, count to sixty. And then come and find me. If you can.”

I trust that he’s playing fair as I step away, noting the spots of water that trail after me, which was how I found him at school. I go to the carpeted area in the adult section, trying to map out the space from memory.

The stacks weren’t in rows like most libraries. They were more like a maze, with some rows dead-ended and others turning into the next row, which could only be discovered if you kept going. The shelves created illusions. I didn’t know how Mrs. Porter managed to keep it organized or why she let it go on that way. I chalked it up to just another Thunder Bay peculiarity.

After what felt like forever, I heard movement in the row over. I rolled my lips together to keep the giggle from getting out. I knew he’d come into the stacks. Being the rich boy he was, I doubt he spent as much time in them as me.

Darting around in the dark, I kept just out of his grasp. At some point, I think he was letting me get away so the game went on. When I think I’ve finally got him turned around and confused, I exited the rows of books. My legs shook as I crossed to the Young People's section. They have a loft area there, where the beanbags are. It should take him a while to think of that.

Halfway there, my foot slipped in the water from the rain. It just happened to be when the wind got quiet, and the small squeak from my shoe against the tile was so much louder in the silence. I waited with baited breath to see what he would do.

The noise seemed to reorient him, and suddenly, he shot off through the stacks faster than before. Thinking swiftly, I snatched the container of pens from the counter and threw it toward the bathroom hall before darting the other way.

The stairs to the loft were around the corner, and I climbed the small steps in threes, checking over my shoulder, until I could crawl into the loft area. Gently, I moved into the pile of beanbags, piling them over me so that every bit of me was covered.

Surrounded by darkness, all I had was my hearing to determine if he was coming. I waited, trying to hear him over my heartbeat.

And when he did find me, then what?

My breath came out slow. It'd been two months since homecoming. Two months wasn’t that long of a time. It still felt like forever for me. Everything had changed, just not Will.

But, then, hadn’t he changed? The night Will took me out to dinner, he asked how things were going since Martin died. I looked at him, remembering the day in the hall when he asked me about the bruises.

I thought of Damon Torrance and what he knew.

Then, of the two of them that night in the wrestling room.

A cold sweat broke along my neck as I straightened, pushing away the food he bought for me.

I remembered what Damon said as we walked to his car from the cemetery. He offered to “take care” of Martin for me. I never took him up on that; I never intended to.

Would he have made the same offer to Will?

Will’s green eyes watched me closely, waiting. He never seemed perceptive before, but there was no other word for the way his gaze pinned me in place.

I drew in a deep breath, suddenly feeling sick.

Will’s fondness for the Cove, for Cold Point, for mysteries, and his story of Reverie Cross all came flooding back. Suddenly, what happened with Martin was all too familiar.

But Will wouldn’t…

Would he?

I told him to take me home, and with a smile, he did.

He didn’t disappear. He was there the morning, parking his truck in my driveway. There was no stopping him from coming in the front door with a take-away breakfast for me and a cup holder with enough coffee for everyone, including the nurse attending to my grandmother. He also brought hot water in case Grand-Mere preferred tea.

He sat in her room and talked to her while I finished getting ready. I could still hear her charmed laugh from something he said. I hadn’t heard that sound in so long I nearly cried.

I divulged him about what was going on with Grand-Mere on the way to school. I didn’t want to go, but he reminded me I’d lose my scholarship if I didn’t keep my grades up. I sat in the passenger seat, hugging my back full of applications and petitions, and whispered my fears out the window, refusing to let a single tear drop. It felt good to admit it - to share the burden with someone.

A week later, a lawyer arrived with a check. A private benefactor was offering to pay for my grandmother’s care for the rest of her life in Thunder Bay, including a round-the-clock nurse if I needed it. Between that, and letters of character from my school and the town mayor, the judge agreed to let us stay in our home as long as we agree to a quarterly child service inspection until I turned eighteen.

I’d never felt so free as the day I left the courthouse.

The evidence pointed to Will’s involvement, but I never asked. Asking would make it real. Making it real would make me indebted to him. He wasn’t offering any information either. For two months, he didn’t push me. The most he’d done was sneak into my room through the window, even though he could use the front door now.

Some nights, he would just lay with me. Sometimes he waited until I reached for him, pulling him closer. As much as I pushed for more, he held back, always leaving me wanting more and frustrated at his resistance. Hours felt like they could stretch for all eternity when I was with him, but his patience never wore out.

I didn’t know what he wanted from me until he formally asked me out. He made sure I knew it was a date in the full sense of the word. He’d pick me up at an arranged time, we’d go to a pre-determined destination, and then after that, he’d take me home. There might even be a kiss on the porch at the end of the date “if I’m lucky.”

I gave him my middle finger, which he thought was hilarious.

I barely had the mind to agree to the date, I was so shocked. There was no denying I was better. I’d rejoined the swim team and band. I mostly hung out with Elle at school, but occasionally, we met up for coffee on the weekend. My projects around town were on track, and I got approved to start a new one on the bell tower the following week.

I might even have a boyfriend. Or something. Will doesn’t seem like the boyfriend type, though he’s still here, isn’t he? I can’t argue that it’s all for a chance to get into my pants anymore; I gave that to him two months ago and have more than offered several times since. What did I have to do to get him to take the bait? Strip off my clothes and dance around my room?

Something seized my ankle, dragging me from my spot as I screamed and fought to crawl away. Flipping over, I scrambled to get to my knees, but he came down on me before I got any leverage. I could feel his heart through my back as we breathed at different paces.

I laughed to myself.

Despite his superior size, I still struggled. I’d never stop fighting; I’d been too easy on him recently.

I bucked, trying to throw him off, but I just pushed into him more. His hand came around my throat, and he pulled me up, arching my back. His knees were on either side of my legs, my back against his chest. We panted with energy and anticipation. His hand drifted down, ghosting over my heavy chest, down to my waist, fingers dancing along the hem of my shirt. They brushed against the heated skin of my stomach. My breath shuddered.

Maybe my heart should be guilty over what I was doing. Haunted by Martin’s ghost, disturbed that Will was the one I wanted. It was sick, the things I wanted from him, to do to him. The fact that I just didn’t care.

Will’s not good for me.

But if it’s all true, then I wasn’t good for him either.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered against my ear. I could tell he’d already removed his mask by the way his lips brushed against the sensitive skin there. “Maybe you’ll win next time. After I have my reward.”

--

Last one left in my drafts, based on the idea that a game of hide-and-seek in the library is Will's ideal first date, though I wasn't able to find where PD said that.

Anyway. I struggled with it for a while because as I was writing, I couldn't figure out away to make it different than what had happened in the school during lock-in. And then also how to make it a first date? I could have gone completely AU, but ultimately decided on canon-divergence.

This will probably be the last one I write for a while.

As always, thank you for your time, any comments you leave, or liking. I appreciate everything you do.

-KO

[kahlanmars]

BAD FEELING part.31

IT'S THE FINALEEEE! Then we have an epilogue and then stop. Finished it. THE END.

I actually have a season 2 in mind, but I don't think if I should post it here on just on AO3. Let me know!

MASTERLIST

taglist: @crimsonincursive

31. Good Feeling

Home is not like it used to be. Some houses are still up, like Holly’s, but everything is broken and the ruins are all over the District. Most of the animals are dead, and the ones that aren’t are scared and gone wild. 

Not everything is lost, though. The people want to do things right, the reconstruction has already begun. 

You can’t be a part of it, of course. You are in your bed and the doctor asked you to be up one hour per day, and everyone is fussing over you like you are about to die again. 

After the end of the war, everyone rushed home. Effie and Portia are back in the Capitol, which needs reconstruction as well, and they took Peeta with them to help him. He needs Capitol doctors. And you said no to Portia, because your district needs you and now you couldn’t do it, you don’t have the strength. 

And now you are at peace. You want to stay with Haymitch, you don’t want to lose him, you’ll find another job in Twelve.

Perla is in Four with Finnick and Annie, and Lora is back in Eleven with Chaff. 

Now that you don’t have your friends anymore, Katniss is buried in her home and refuses to go out, and you remember Madge too well, you feel a little alone.

But Holly is here, though.

«Mom?» You ask, watching yourself in the mirror. The scar of the surgery is right along your hip, it’s ugly and you don’t look pretty anymore. 

«You shouldn’t be up.»

«I’m tired of staying in bed, my bones hurt.» You pause, because you want to ask her something. «Did you know my biological mother?»

She tenses. She doesn’t want to talk about it, you always knew and that is why you always avoided the topic but now that you risked your life without knowing it, you feel like you have the right.

«Yes, I knew her.» She answers after a good minute. You shouldn’t push it, but now it’s the time to know. 

«Was she your friend?»

«She was an avox. Your father too, they tried to run away from Capitol City and they captured them. Then they flew again, because your mother was pregnant. If they stayed…» An avox. In all this time you didn’t think your parents could have been outlaws. You tried and tried to figure out why they gave you up, and the chances were always two: either they were too poor to raise you, or they didn’t want you.

«They used to kill avox’s children.» You finish for her.

«They wanted to go to Thirteen, but your mother had to have you. An elderly couple from the Seam called for my mother and we came.»

«You were younger than me.»

«I was nineteen and terrified, because that was against the law. You don’t help an avox, you report them. And yet we didn’t. They couldn’t talk, obviously, but the look in your mother’s eyes I couldn’t forget. It was like she was screaming “Save my baby, please, save my baby”. The birth was complicated, your mother was so weak from the run and the tortures. She died.» 

Your mother died giving birth to you. You feel conflicted, because that means she didn’t give you up because she didn’t want you, but she died giving birth. You know you are not supposed to feel guilty about it, but it’s hard. And that also means you don’t have another mother somewhere that could find you.

«And my father?»

«He couldn’t have kept you. People in Twelve couldn’t protect him, Thirteen was a myth, a legend. He was an avox. A pariah. He didn’t want to leave you, but he had to. He was a handsome young man, you know, you look a bit like him.»

«He didn’t want to leave me.» You repeat, and you feel smaller and younger than your age. 

«Your grandmother promised him we would keep you safe. She was thinking about her. She was supposed to be your adoptive mother, and I was supposed to be your older sister.» You don’t even remember your grandmother, she died when you were two. You barely have flashes of her, but she looked like an ancient woman to you. She was fifty at best. «But when I saw you I knew. You were mine. You were meant to be my daughter.»

You squeeze her hand. «I ruined your life, you didn’t get married, always alone.»

«I didn’t want to. And I know I was severe, I was strict, but that’s because I was terrified of losing you. Two women alone, three before but your grandfather was already gone, we weren’t safe in Twelve.»

You try to picture her and you find out you have some memories. Holly’s long brown hair when she lifted you up, her hands when she lectured you on herbs, the songs she used to sing for you. You don’t get it, in your memories she is not young, she is a mother. She was nineteen. A kid herself, Lora’s age. You can’t bear to ask her if she never fell in love or she gave it all up for you. 

«I don’t remember.» You whisper, and you feel sorry and guilty about that. Were you a difficult child? Could you have done more?

«I tried to shield you. I thought if you were perfect you couldn’t have any enemies.» She resonates.

«But you were nineteen.» Just a year after the end of her Games. A year after Haymitch’s games, when he was sixteen, a year after Marjorie’s “death”. 

«And I made a mess.» 

«You didn’t. Infact, I think I’m pretty close to perfection.» You joke but you hug her. «I get it. I get why you did what you have done, you just wanted to protect me. And you did it! I’m here. And I saved myself because I knew things you taught me. Skating for the Game Masters, the Sagittaria. I didn’t die because of you.» You get it now. All the times you wanted her to be like every other parent of the District, instead of having curfews and rules to follow.

«You didn’t die because of you. But I’m glad I’ve helped. And now you live in this big house and you are all grown up…» You are almost shocked when you see her eyes watering. Holly is not big on showing feelings.

«We are ten minutes apart, mom. You don’t need to cry about it.» You laugh, but you see something in her eyes just for a moment. It’s probably just the fact you moved out, it’s a big thing for a mom. 

The decision to move out has been… not really a decision, actually. You were so tired and weak you couldn’t decide anything, and Holly and Haymitch decided - according to Perla, it involved a lot of yelling - that a big victor’s house was better to recover. You don’t complain, since you can have cuddles and breakfast in bed with a shirtless hot boyfriend, a big bathroom where you can keep all your things and a king size bed. 

«Humour an old woman, c’mon.»

«You’re forty four, mom, you are hardly an old woman!» You stay in the hug nonetheless. She smells like lavender and carnations.

«This young, young woman needs to go home. I have to help in the morning, we are rebuilding the school.» She pats your head and lets you go. You decide not to think about the school. That was supposed to be your place.

«You don’t stay for dinner?» You ask. 

«I don’t want to be poisoned, thank you.» You let out a laugh but look at her bad nonetheless. She is still warming up about your relationship. Or she just likes to treat him badly.

«Haymitch knows how to cook. He is quite good.» You are just as surprised as she is. You always cooked for him when he was your boss, because he was too wasted to do anything. And now you find out he actually knows how to. And, in his words, He likes to take care of you.

«I would like to know when you don’t think he is good at something, child.» And the coy smile you let out only confirms it.

The thought of the scar doesn’t let you go, though. You are in front of the mirror and you watch it like you’d watch another enemy, but it’s your flesh, it’s your body. You want to get rid of it.

«Don’t obsess.» You hear a voice and you turn around to see Haymitch. He leans against the door in a pair of old jeans and he is shirtless and God he looks like a whole meal. He is fresh out of the shower, his chest is still wet and so is his blonde hair. A great sight. A sight you can get used to.

You lick your lips and immediately cover the scar. «Hey…»

«I wanted to ask you if you wanted to eat.» He asks and kisses your shoulder, guiding you to the bed because he is the one who obsesses over your injury. If he wasn’t so hot he would have been a little annoying.

«Yes, I want to eat.» You jump at the opportunity and you answer purring like a cat, since he wanders around bare chested and with those blue eyes and c’mon, he should think about the consequence of his magnetic field being a little too strong. 

You hug him and kiss him, but when you reach for the belt he stops you, with a huge grin on his face. «The doctor said no sex.»

You roll your eyes. «C’mon…»

You don’t deal well with “No sex”, especially when you don’t want to think about the kids, the reconstruction or your District in general, since you can’t help anyone now. Haymitch is your favourite stress-relief and he is more than willing to be that for you. And you two behaving like teenagers doesn’t add up with the doctor prescription; every night you make out a little more and every night is a little harder to stop, hands wandering around places where they are not supposed to, his mouth going a little lower every time, teasing your neck, your cleavage, your belly button.

«You nearly died. Be good.» He giving you orders doesn’t improve the chance of you getting better at this dealing, and by the glimpse of lust you see in his eyes, he is in the same situation.

«A good girl?» It’s your turn to grin when he slaps your ass. 

«Minx.» He accuses you, while he is on his way to prepare dinner. He is stoic in his mission to keep you safe, but he is as passionate as you are.

«You tempt me and I’m the minx?!»

Since you are not okay, you usually have dinner in bed. This is something you don’t particularly like, because you would like to stay up, but Haymitch seems comfy and you suspect he likes to have you all snuggled up while he eats. 

«You should eat more.» He warns you. «If you don’t like it we can call Sae.»

You would like to eat, especially since he is good at cooking, but you are too tired. It’s annoying. Everything is annoying now, except for chatting at the telephone with Effie (Haymitch’s house has a telephone, and for you is a big, big news because you never had one of these, so you use it almost every night connecting with the girls, Effie or Finnick) and kissing your non-boyfriend. Every bone in your body hurts, and on top of that you feel guilty. You are not helping in Twelve, you are not reaching for the kids who were hurt in the explosion, if not by letter, and you can’t even help Haymitch at home. He is cleaning, cooking and taking care of you and you can’t do anything. When you tried to tell him he looked at you like you had another head, he answered that you got shot for fucks sakes stay in bed and proceeded to kiss your thoughts away from you.

«No, I like it. I’m just tired and full.» You peck his lips. «It’s okay.»

For a moment you stay silent, he is finishing his meat - thanks, Katniss, but you don’t want to know what she hunted, you just want to eat in ignorance - and you are hiding your face against his neck. 

«About the scar…» He begins. So he saw you earlier. You know the scar is the least of your problems right now, you could have had it much worse, but it’s an aesthetic thing and aesthetic things are yours. Only Effie can get it. Surely not him. In his world - and yours, to be fair - a scar is just a scar, there’s nothing about beauty that allures someone in the district. It is all about survival, if you have a scar it means you are alive. And Haymitch is full of scars because he survived a Quell, so that makes him strong, respected. 

«Yeah?» You don’t want to talk about it. You’ll see doctor Aurelius and you’ll talk to her, you don’t need to show him how shallow you are.

«You know you are still the hottest girl alive, mh?» He lifts your chin up with his finger, and normally you wouldn’t smirked or joked but now you are not that sure anymore. But the fact that he tries to understand you, even if for him it's a whole other perspective, it’s huge. Even if you are sure there is a part of him that is screaming that you turned out to be a full Capitol girl. 

«Maybe.» You whisper. Perla is strong, Haymitch is strong, you are pretty. You know how to allure people. You survived because people took care of you, because you are friends with strong victors. Finnick, Perla, him, even Effie. And you love them back, of course, but… If you are not pretty, what the hell are you? 

«You are. And you deserve that scar. It means you fought for it.» He insists and you find yourself rolling your eyes.

«Barely.» You whisper. It has not been exactly a fight, you just saw something and acted, all instinct. Normally you are not a fighter. You are a manipulator. And that doesn’t mean you always use your power for bad, but being pretty is part of what you can do.

«The hell? You saved my life.» He shouts. He is aware shouting is bad, but sometimes he can’t control it. He is a man from the District raised by men from the District. Not really good manners. When you cover your ears he immediately stops, though. Because he loves you. Because he knows better.

«My fault, my responsibility.» 

«Your fault?! How is that your fault?» He is controlling himself not to get mad, you sense it. 

You take a deep breath. «You had to explain the plan to me. To make me get it.»

«I didn’t explain it, you understood. You, alone.» He sticks his finger on you, but when you take it in your hand he chuckles and kisses you.  

«You did send me clues. And I kinda told Finnick. They probably heard me and-» You start shivering, stress is not good if you almost died, but he takes you in his arms.

«Stop it. You still saved my life. And by the way, I have scars too, and you kiss them.» He whispers in your ear before kissing it.

«It’s different.» 

«Because I’m a man?» In his defence, it doesn’t seem like a joke. He really tries to understand.

You still glare at him. «Because it proves you are a fighter.»

«And that proves you are a fighter too. A survivor.» He caresses your cheek. He really believes that. He sees you as a fighter, and that makes you proud. You doubt that, but that makes you proud.

«Not like you.»

«Not like me?! Daisy, stop. This is bullshit. For a self absorbed person you are quite blind about what you can do. You won the Hunger Games. You saved Finnick, Effie. You saved me. And it wasn’t because of me, or Perla or your mother. You saved yourself.»

You watch him fondly. You don’t know how, you barely recall the facts from the Games, but somewhere along the road you stopped being a couple who only fucked and the relationship began. And you love him. You are in love with him and you definitely had a high school girl crush on him - you don’t blame yourself, the man has game - but you think this is love. The real big thing. You feel sure, protected and you can’t stop smiling when he is around, and you want to protect him from the world yourself, you want to be the one he can be himself with, and if that means hovering on him at night because the tremors won’t let him sleep, or feed his geese when the headache is too strong, you’ll do it willingly. 

«I love you.» You whisper against his lips with a dumb smile on your face and you kiss him passionately. You never thought you were going to have this life. 

«I love you too.» Then he sees your face and laughs, «Still no sex.»

«Don’t go around tempting me with a handsome face and loving words!» You joke, «I guess we have all the time we want and I can wait because you won’t leave me because I have an ugly scar...»

«Correct, you are breathtaking, scar or not. As for the time… not so correct. I have to tell you something.» You stop. You are definitely not ready for other problems. But you trust him, so you don’t know what to think.

«What have you done?»

«I’ve talked with Portia. Well, Portia talked to me, she thought I didn’t want you to leave but I didn’t know anything.»

The offer. You said no, of course. It wasn’t worth it and now you are injured, anyway. You won’t force them to be your nurse.

«Oh. I won’t leave, Capitol it’s not worth it, I want to stay with you and you have to stay here for Katniss and I get it! And-»

«I brought you tickets.» He blurts out.

«What?» You only let out, in shock.

«I brought you tickets for the train. Not today, not tomorrow but in a few months you should recover.»

You don’t know what to say. He wants you gone? Or, or he is sacrificing himself because you did it first. 

«But I don’t want to leave you, I don’t want to break up…» You don’t want to force him to stay away from Katniss. He and Katniss may not like each other for the most part of their days, but they get each other and he is like his father at this point. Her mother and Prim are out of town, she can’t come to them (a thing that her mother calculated, you think), Finnick is in Four, and Peeta is in the Capitol, recovering. That poor girl is alone in the whole world. You don’t want to rip him away from her.

And you suspect she is good for him too. He is really trying to dig sobriety for her, to be a good father. He wakes up in the morning every day to check on her, he keeps up with Mrs. Everdeen and he also tries not to break the phone even if he really hates it. 

Haymitch would be miserable in Capitol City. 

And you are not even that good anyway. 

«Who talked about breaking up? You want to stay in that hell of a city? I’ll come during the weekends. You can come sometimes. It’s just for a few months.»

«At least a year.» You bite your bottom lip, unsure.

«A year has a lot of weekends. C’mon. I know you want to make dresses or wear dresses or whatever. You have talent. I remember the dress from the curtains in Thirteen, you were stunning.»

You laugh, «Are you sure?»

«That you were stunning? I fucked you that night, didn’t I?»

You blush, he is crude but is that weird that it turns you on? Probably. «About the trip. You hate Capitol City.»

«Well, I suppose it’s not all bad. Effie is from Capitol and she is my friend. Portia wanted my head but she’s not that bad. Do you want to go?»

«I don’t want to lose you for something that can go bad.» Because you are terrified. You didn’t pass the exam to be a teacher, you didn’t win the games, the only thing you are good at is being protected by someone. This is not a talent. 

«Not what I asked. Do you want to go?»

Of course you want to, but if you won’t be that good…

«…Yes.» You manage to say. Doctor Aurelius says it’s good to be scared. And that also makes you happy. You want to learn more, you want to become actually good, to be with Portia who is a genius in her job, and to work, sewing all day, it looks like a dream. Now that the grey jumpsuits are out of the way and you can use your dresses, you will love exploring your fantasy.

«It’s settled, then.» He winks at you and he looks so sure, you… not so much.

«Will we survive this?» You have to ask. It’s not simple. You are so used to be together - Perla calls it “Co-dependency” but she just wants to make fun of you - that a day apart is a big change.

«We can survive anything, Sweetheart. Maybe just not the doctor sex strike.»

You burst into laughs and kiss him sweetly. «We can cheat a little…»

«Don’t even try. I’m not losing you again. Not now that you are in our home.» Our home. That makes your heart flow with joy. 

«If the house is mine too, does that mean I can decorate? I have a lot of ideas. I can sew the curtains and- do you think I’m crazy?» You stop. It’s his house. It has been his home for twenty five years. Maybe you need to slow down.

«I know you are crazy.» He strokes your neck. «You can do whatever you want here. I’ll just enjoy the view.»

«I’m happy to be here. With you. With our devil’s birds.» You add, because you can hear them screaming for food even if Haymitch just fed them. Sometimes, you go near them and you whisper “Foie gras” just to see their reaction. You would never, though. 

«And our stolen books.» He bites your shoulder. He is in a playful mood today.

«Seriously, you have to let it go.» You shake your head and place yourself in his arms, after putting the plates on the table near the bed.

«Hey, I know I’m not the most optimistic guy in the District… » He starts, but you have to snort.

«Or in Panem. Or in the world.»

He ignores you this time. «But you know what?» 

«What?» You watch him fondly.

«I have a very good feeling about this.»

[snippychicke]

Aftermath--Chapter One

Summary:

Raymond Chestnut gets a harsh surprise when he realizes the body in his living room isn't actually dead. Now he has a severely injured white man, who tried to kill him, to deal with. Thankfully he knows a friend who might be able to help.

Lorelei was used to people coming to her for medical attention. But when Raymond brings Otto to her home, nothing could prepare for how her life was about to change.

--------

Well, if you followed me like... 3-4 years ago, you may remember I was quite into the Swedes from The Umbrella Academy...

I never got over them to be honest.

So here we are, I am proving my screen name yet again with a rewrite of an old story! That I never finished! But hey, my writing skill have definitely improved.

For those unfamiliar, go watch season 2 of the Umbrella Academy. The blonde assassins? Those were the boys that inspired the rise of ol' Ikea Mafia Fam. As well as the following story in which a white woman born in the 80's tries to write the perspective of a poc woman in the 60s. (and prays she is not being offensive in any way and begs forgiveness if she is.)

Also:

Herb did not, in fact, take away the dead body of the Swede Assassin. 

It was still laying in Raymond's living room, long after everyone else had disappeared in flashes of blue lights. Wrapped tightly in the rug his sister had gifted him and Allison on their wedding day. 

Silent. 

Foreboding. 

Raymond watched the unmoving figure as he sipped at his scotch. There was no way in hell he could move it by himself. And who could he trust to ask for help to move it? 

To move him, Raymond reminded himself harshly. It wasn't an it, it was a ‘him.’ That was a human body resting in his living room. 

Who, admittedly,  had tried to kill him and Allison. But still, Raymond could at least acknowledge him as a fellow human. After all, Raymond had tried so hard to be the respectful and peaceful man his grandmother raised him to be. Even when faced with the violence because of his involvement with the protests, or being unfairly treated time after time because of racism, he never raised so much as a hand to another human being. 

He shouldn't try to deny another man his humanity, even if he was a dead would-be murderer. 

But he was still stuck with a dead white man in his living room. It didn't matter that the man and his brother had forced their way into their home (his home, now that Allison was gone, but he didn't want to deal with that heartache on top of everything) with intent to kill both of them. 

All the law would see was a white man dead in a colored man's house. 

He would go to prison… No. He was going to be lynched for this. Old-fashioned hung from a tree for the whole city to see. 

Raymond tipped the rest of the scotch back and poured another full glass as the liquid burned its way to his stomach. All of his work, gone. He had abandoned his education and teaching position so he could do his part for the Civil Rights movement. He had hoped he could do some good.

And instead, he had made things worse. 

It was probably a good thing Allison had…left to be with her family. It was comforting to know she was safe and alive somewhere somewhen. A small, cold, comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. 

His lips touched the glass for another swig when he heard it. A noise so soft and quiet he was sure he had imagined it. Still, it made him freeze, his body tense as he held his breath, eyes darting to the rug. 

No. The man was dead. It had been hours since the attack. There was no way he could be somehow still alive. 

Raymond shook his head, deciding it was probably just the house settling, and shot back the drink once more, feeling the burn in his throat match the burn of his eyes. His whole life had just ended. It wouldn't be long before he would join…

His somber thoughts were cut off by another sound, this one unmistakable. 

A groan of pain. 

Raymond startled and jumped to his feet, throwing his glass out of reflex towards the body, which grunted as the glass bounced off the rug and shattered on the floor. He grabbed a butterknife off the table and held it towards the body; the cutlery shaking in his hand as he stared at the body. 

But there was only silence. For what felt like hours, Raymond stood frozen yet mentally daring it to do something. Anything. If it did, he would… he would…

The rug moved as another groan cut through the heavy silence. There was no doubting the haggard breathing and muffled moan of pain that quickly increased in both volume and frequency. Raymond cursed every foul word his grandmother would've washed his mouth out for and ran back to the kitchen to grab an actual knife. The long thick butcher’s knife his wife had used so skillfully once upon a time. 

He pushed that thought away and stalked back to the living room, gripping the wooden handle tightly in his shaking hand. Raymond towered over the rug, knife poised to strike where he assumed the man’s chest was. He had to do something swift. Otherwise…

Otherwise what? He was already a deadman walking. 

The knife clattered harmlessly to the floor as Raymond regained his senses. He was going to die either way, but wouldn't it be better to die innocent than guilty? Not just for his soul, but for the Civil Rights movement? His brother and sisters? 

Raymond dropped to his knees and desperately undid the knots he and Allison had tied, allowing the rug to fall open. The man's face was no longer placid with death, but grimacing in pain, pale lips pursed as he sucked in haggard breaths.  Blood was caked dry around the remains of his right eye, dark purple and black bruises colored his neck, while the rest of his skin was as pale as his blond hair. 

"Hey, uh buddy," Raymond said as he placed a hand on his shoulder, earning a painful grunt that caused him to yank his hand away. "Right. Sorry. Let's… let's get you to a hospital." Except questions would be asked, and Raymond would definitely be arrested. 

But… what if there was a chance he could avoid that? Someone that could help him and the man before him. 

"Actually, on second thought..." 

~❖~

Lorelei groaned as she fell into the old couch, slipping off her shoes and rubbing the ache from her feet. The third twelve-hour shift in a row at the hospital had left the young nurse sore and exhausted. This week had been crazy between the street shooting and the asylum patients escaping.

Then there was the man found in the woods. She grimaced at the memory of being briefed by the operating room's recovery nurse as she was assigned to John Doe for the rest of her shift because the white nurse had been overwhelmed and needed help (nevermind the black's unit had been just as understaffed before they had dragged her away). Even though the nurse had rattled off the injuries--including the traumatic amputation of his leg-- seeing the young man as white as the sheets, covered in bandages, left her heart sore. 

Dr. Wilson and his team had done their best, but they all had their doubts. No one knew how long the man had been in the woods, wounded. It had been a miracle he hadn't bled to death. But there had been plenty of time for sepsis to set in.

Lorelei's eyes were starting to drift shut when somebody desperately knocked at the front door; hard and frantic enough to rattle the glass panes of the windows. Her eyes shot back open and she jumped up out of instinct, her heart thundering in her chest as she stumbled around the coffee table to open the door. 

She knew it was going to be an emergency, knew that she should expect anything, but yet she wasn't prepared for Raymond Chestnut to be standing on her old porch, a man nearly twice his size leaning heavily on him with an ill-fitting tan suit covered in blood.   

A very pale, very white man.

"What the hell?" she started, automatically shifting to the white man's side, having to lift his arm to sling it over her shoulder to help support his weight. 

People coming to her was no surprise. It was normal for her the way people in their neighborhood would knock on her door for help, ranging from childhood bumps and bruises, injuries from teenagers getting into fights, and other emergencies. 

But that was from people in their neighborhood-- which was very much a black community. And while she was about as white-passing as they could get-- barely passing the paper-bag test most days--her skin was still far darker than the man she helped Raymond half-drag inside. 

Her stomach curdled at the wounds she saw, though the bloody mess of an eye was probably the worst. One slight touch to the unconscious man's cheek and he snarled as he shifted away, his other eye fluttering beneath its closed eyelid. "Shit. We need to get him to a hospital, Ray!"

"I know!" he hissed back, keeping his voice low despite the fact the door was closed and no one else in the old two-story house but them. "But can you imagine me pulling in the ER with him like this? I'd be lynched by dawn!" 

"What even happened?" She asked, noticing the darkening bruise around his neck. Without hesitating  she quickly undid the silk tie and ripped the white shirt open. There was no mistaking the shadowing of hand-prints that wrapped around his neck. Obviously not an accident, but if Raymond got in a fight, and one serious enough to do this kind of damage, why would he bring the man here?

Nevermind that Raymond was as pacifistic as it got, and she couldn't see him doing this. Hell, even if Raymond was fighting for his life, she doubted he could cause this kind of damage.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he said with a dry tone, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Hell, I barely believe it, and I lived through it."

She shot him a look, "I worked in the ER on a full moon on Halloween this year. Try me."

Before he could begin, however, she stood and quickly disappeared into the kitchen. Raymond could hear the faucet running as she rummaged through drawers, and within a minute she was back with a basin of water and more than a few washcloths. "Well?" She snipped as she soaked a washcloth and wrung it out before starting to work on the caked blood around his eye, making the man hiss and flinch but not wake up. 

"Him and his brother came to my house and attacked Ally and I. Allison did that," he gestured to the eye covered by a washcloth, "before telling his brother to kill him. Which I certainly thought he did when he strangled him, but…obviously not. So, here we are."

Lorelei paused and looked at him, confused and sure Raymond was lying to her. In fact, she was about to call out bullshit when she noticed the solemn look on his face. Raymond was a poor liar, and there was no way he could lie about something like this when he could barely keep a straight face about who had stolen the collards out of her abysmal attempt at a garden.

Yet there was nothing but complete honesty when he met her gaze, making her swear under her breath. 

Allison, while always a bit different and headstrong for sure, was still a lady. Lorelei had a hard time seeing the hairdresser stabbing someone. Granted, being attacked in her own home would make anyone lash out.

But the attempted strangulation? And she told the man’s brother to do so, and then he apparently followed through with her command? How? Why?

As perplexing as the mystery was, right now it didn't matter. She had a patient to tend to, the ‘hows’ and ‘whys’ did really matter. She shook her head to clear her thoughts and shifted to stand. "Come on, let's get him back in your car and get him to the hospital.  We can say we found him on my doorstep like this. Dr. Cahoy is working tonight, and..."

The man's hand suddenly shot up and gripped Lorelei's wrist tightly, making her freeze and Raymond tense. The man's other eye was open and staring hard at her, the soft blue somehow violent. "No," he said, his voice hoarse and barely a whisper.

"No?" She repeated, incredulous. "I can't treat the trauma to that eye. We need to take you to the hospital."

"No," he repeated, his hand tightening slightly, his fingers easily encompassing her small wrist. For a moment, Lorelei feared he would pop her wrist out of joint. Yet after a brief moment his grip relaxed, though he didn't let go. 

"You do realize you could lose your eye," Lorelei started, mentally adding 'if you haven't already.' The bloody mess concealed most of the damage, but she feared the worst already. Eyes couldn’t take a lot of damage before becoming blind, or needing to be removed. And, well, this one had been rather severely damaged.

The man stayed silent, his gaze not leaving hers. There wasn't an ounce of fear or worry in his expression. Just stubbornness and acceptance. "Fine," she sighed, giving in. "But in return for my services, you have to promise not to go after Ray and Allie, okay? Or any negro for that matter."

That was a big bluff for her to take, trying to demand that a white man make her a promise? Yet instead of being incensed, his gaze glanced briefly at Raymond before his eye fluttered close and he let go of her in apparent agreement. 

Lorelei stood, rubbing her wrist as she mulled her options. This was a bad idea. A terrible idea. White men could get the care they need at the drop of a hat. They could get quality care no matter where they went. She needed to save her stores for those not so fortunate. 

Yet something in her gut was leading her towards an idea that there was something was not quite right with the situation beyond the obvious. He only said one word, but there was a definite accent to it, and not one she was familiar with either. Her gut was telling her that she had to help him, and not just dump him off at the nearest ER. 

"Ray, start boiling some water.  Grab the pack of gauze and gloves under the sink too."

Raymond didn't ask any questions but nodded his head and followed her directions. Lorelei sighed as she touched the man's shoulder, making him crack open his good eye once more. "I'm serious here,” she continued softly yet firm. “I am not a doctor. I can do my best, but I doubt I can do anything to save your eye. You need a hospital."

"No," he repeated, though this time softer. Almost apologetic, as if he understood the moral quandary he was putting her through. Which, sympathy from a white man was just about as unbelievable as the rest of this.  

She pushed the thought away. "Do you have any plans to hurt Ray or Allie?"

"...no." he closed his eye, becoming stoic but not before she saw a flash of something. Anguish? Regret? Or just pain? 

"I'm holding you to that.” She didn’t much care about herself, but she wanted to protect her old friend and his wife. “Now, give me a name I can call you-- I don't need to be your real one," she continued as he looked at her strangely. "I just need a name you'll answer to."

"...Otto." That time she caught the accent but still didn't have an idea of where. Definitely not any of the local American drawls. Maybe that was why he was so much kinder than the usual white.  

"Well, Otto, I'm Lorelei,” she returned with a tight smile. “And this is probably going to hurt like a son of a bitch."

[iheartshoko]

an unexpected visitor ft. shoko ieiri wc 1.3k wrngs smoking syn you and shoko have an important talk on roses and cigarettes

“roses!” you exclaimed as you took a set of flowers from ieiri’s hand. “d’you buy these just for me?”

ieiri paused before shaking her head. “no, they were for my grandmother but i forgot she was already dead. then i remembered her grave was way too far and—”

“ieiri!” you interrupted. she liked being sarcastic a little too much, you decided. “i get it! you don’t have to be so rude.”

“sorry, sorry,” ieiri put her hands up in a surrendering gesture. “i just don’t get how you would think they were for anyone else.”

you rolled your eyes. ieiri smiled from the other side of your door, waiting for you to let her into your apartment.

midnight visits from your girlfriend were common with her working the job she did. to this day, almost six months into your relationship, you didn’t know what exactly that job was, even after pressing ieiri over and over again. the only answer she gave you was “it’s in the medical field”, which you learned to accept after asking for the 20th time. at that point, you guessed you would simply have to wait for gangsters to break into your home to prove that ieiri had a sketchy job.

to adjust to these midnight visits, you’d been training yourself to sleep earlier in the day, to be full of energy when ieiri came around. the first few months of your new routine were brutal, your body confused on your new sleep schedule. ieiri almost, as someone in the “medical field”, forced you to return to your normal schedule, but you assured her that you were alright every time. (you weren’t, but you had a point to prove.) eventually, your body adjusted itself, and visits from ieiri became more and more common, much to your liking.

you step aside to let ieiri in. she kisses your cheek as she walks past the threshold, taking her shoes off in a space where you had thrown yours. you had always been a bit messy.

“where’s that cigarette you always have?” you asked ieiri as she took a seat on your couch.

ieiri looked at you, face twisted in confusion. “i thought you wanted me to quit.”

“are you telling me you quit that fast?” you raised an eyebrow at her.

“um…” she began to answer, “why are you asking about it anyway? you want to take a hit?”

you looked down to the floor immediately.

“i can’t believe you, (y/n),” ieiri chides, clicking her tongue. “don’t you know those things can kill you?”

you giggle as you lock your door before putting your new roses on your kitchen island. you move over to where ieiri is sitting to take your own seat on her lap. she wraps both arms around your waist before kissing you on your jaw. then, she moves one hand to dig into her pocket. you watch as she digs and digs before pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. pack of cigarettes between her pointer finger and thumb, she expertly opens the package and slowly slips one out before letting it drop onto your couch. you want to reprehend ieiri for the mess she creates as her cigarettes spill out, but try to focus on the fact that this is the first time you’re seeing her all day. moving the cigarette between her pointer and middle fingers, she switches the lighter from its position between her middle and ring fingers to between her pointer and thumb. you realize she’s done this way too many times when in a split second the lighter is on and lighting her cigarette.

“do you even know how to take one of these?” she asks you, breaking you out of your thoughts.

“of course i do,” you answer, taking the cigarette from her hand and hovering it in front of your mouth.

“wrong side, sweetheart,” ieiri stops you, “flip it over before you burn yourself. you know what, just let me do it.”

she takes it from you before flipping the cigarette around. she then holds it in front your lips and gestures for you to put your lips to it. you do, slowly, knowing this is your very first time trying one. and after all those lessons about not falling into peer pressure and avoiding smoking.

“inhale,” ieiri directs before quickly adding, “slowly. do it slowly.”

and so you do. as soon as the smoke hits the back of your throat, you break into a coughing fit. ieiri immediately bursts out in laughter, hiding her face in your neck as if you won’t know she’s doing it that way.

“it’s not funny!” you yell.

“it is so ridiculously funny, (y/n),” ieiri counters in between laughs, “you should’ve seen your face. you looked like that cat coughing.”

you huff out in annoyance. you knew you should’ve never shown ieiri that stupid meme.

“why’d you give me that dumb stick anyway?” you grumbled. “that stuff kills you, you know?”

that only made ieiri laugh even harder. you slipped out of ieiri’s grip and walked away toward your kitchen. ieiri tried to call out for you to come back, but she couldn’t manage to get your name out with her laughing.

“i’m going to throw away your flowers!” you shouted to her. her laughs ceased. she turned herself on the couch to face you.

“don’t you dare!” she shouted back. “they were so expensive!”

“that’s too bad!” you walked over to your trash bin. you lunged over to your island to take the roses and hang them over the bin. “i hate roses, anyways! i told you i liked dahlias more!”

“those were more expensive than the roses!” ieiri exclaimed before putting out her cigarette on an ashtray (that you bought for her) and walking over to where you hovered her gift over your trash. “if you want those, you’re going to have to pay for a part of it.”

“what do you mean? only one of us claims to be in the medical field. shouldn’t you be rich?” you ask ieiri.

“(y/n)—claims? you think i’m lying about my job?” she asks back.

“i mean, even if you weren’t in the medical field,” you continue, ignoring ieiri’s question, “you lying about your job would mean you have a sketchy one, right? if you were some mafia boss, you’d still be rich! why aren’t you rich, ieiri?”

“give me those damn roses,” ieiri snaps, ripping the flowers away from you before throwing them in the trash herself. you dramatically gasp. she lets a small laugh out before saying, “i’ll buy you the damn dahlias. when i come tomorrow. maybe then you’ll believe me.”

“maybe,” you repeat. you smile when ieiri looks at you again, taking in a deep breath to signify her annoyance.

“i should’ve never came over, huh?” she asks rhetorically. you still answer.

“maybe.”

ieiri kisses her teeth at that, and moves over to where her shoes are before beginning to put them on.

“hey!” you call out after her. “where are you going?”

“i think if i stay here any longer i’ll go crazy,” she answers.

“it’s a bit too late for that, ieiri.”

ieiri pauses while putting on her second shoe. “dammit. i guess you’re right,” is what she replies with before slipping her shoes back off and heading back toward the couch. she takes her pack of cigarettes and lighter out of her pocket again before performing her four-finger tricks and before you can blink she’s got a lit cigarette in her mouth.

after a few moments of debate, you scurry over and ask ieiri, “can i try one more time? please?”