#sad that its through church but whatever helps

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[r3starttt]

LADY OF MERCY

PAIRING: priest! abby x reader

CW: angst. religious guilt. internalized homophobia. suggestive(?

SUMMARY: you look for comfort in a sin Abby's there for you to forget.

AN: been in my drafts since september, wasn't meant to be published, was supposed to be a horny small scenario, turned out sad

DON'T BUY TLOU | PALESTINE MP PALESTINE LINKS | DAILY CLICK

TAGLIST | PERM: @twopeoplee @Kaimythically @greysontheidiot @levilvrr @sapphic-ovaries @girlkisser168 @bilsvlt @tlouloser @marsworlddd @1-800-fantasy @ellieswifee232 @prwttiestbunny @thesevi0lentdelights @lvlymicha @stickycherritart @rob1nbuckl3ys @abbys-muscles @dinakisser @lott6i @imagoddess1 | ABBY: @imdrowningindispair @rkivedpages @aouiaa @grey-jedi12 @bruhhtsukjf @wastdstime @softlikesilk-chiffon @0court

The cathedral is hushed, a stark contrast to your first entrance. The world outside seems to have stilled, no birds or crickets dare disturb the sacred silence. Through the slender windows, perched high upon the cathedral’s walls, a faint, bluish light trickles down, casting ethereal shadows. It no longer glows with the warm orange, as it was when you last sought solace here, when your heart was heavy with unspeakable pain, when you had come in desperate search of solace—of something, anything, to cling to as your spirit threatened to break.

In this profound quiet, the only sound is the echo of Abby's sermons, her words filled with a fervent passion that stirs the souls of the faithful. Her voice is a beacon of light in this holy place, its very cadence soothing the hearts of those who gather in worship.

The congregation hangs on her every word, finding peace in the presence of this aura, a palpable warmth that wraps around with each graceful move, her every step a ritual, her voice harsh yet soothing, a balm for troubled souls.

She offers sanctuary—not just from the world, but from the weight of one’s own vows, from the burden of unspoken confessions. In her presence, the sacred space heightens every emotion, intensifies every thought, until the very air seems charged with divine energy. And you, like so many before you, had approached her in the confessional booth, trembling with the weight of your sins, searching not only for spiritual guidance but for a release from the turmoil within.

Abby had made a promise then—a vow to help you navigate the storm inside your heart. In her eyes, you saw a reflection of your own struggles, and in that moment, you knew she understood your pain.

With each stolen glance and fleeting touch, her teachings became more than spiritual lessons; they became the thread that bound your soul to hers. Days turned into weeks, and your secret meetings became more frequent, your connection deepening with every whispered word.

It was not sin that drove you to her, but a desperate need to purge the temptations that plagued your mind. She assured you that within every confession, there was salvation, within every sin, a path to redemption—and she would be there to guide you through each one, no matter the cost.

You sit in your designated pew, the one you had longed to touch when you first entered this sacred space months ago. Everyone knows that if you are not to be found, you must be here, in this place that has come to feel like your own.

You wait patiently, your eyes finding hers, watching her every move, though this time, no tears mar your face. As the voices of the congregation rise in unison, you join in, your voice mingling with theirs, but your heart is focused solely on her. They offer thanks to God, to the church, to whatever they hold dear—but you, you thank her alone.

Abby had once assured you that, in time, you would feel God’s presence, but try as you might, you could not. This was your final confession to her, the one you came here today to address.

But today’s prayers feel distant, blurred. Even her words, usually so grounding, only serve to deepen your unrest.

As the congregation disperses, people greet you warmly, recognizing the change in you. To them, you have become a living testament to Abby’s grace—a girl once lost in sin, unworthy of a second glance, now pure and forgiven, reborn in the light and drawn back from the brink by the guiding hand of Abigail Anderson herself.

Only when the cathedral is shrouded in silence, its sacred halls emptied of all but the faint whisper of past prayers, does Abby beckon you closer with a subtle gesture—an invitation to wander within the sanctified walls. Your footsteps, firm against the cold stone floor, echo in the vastness, a sound that belongs only to you and her in this solemn space.

"You seem troubled," Abby’s voice, soft yet tinged with the weight of concern, breaks the silence. It is less a question and more a gentle prod, urging you to unveil the turmoil within your soul.

"It’s you," you confess, the words heavy on your tongue. "I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t picture God." But Abby does not look at you, not yet. Her fingers move delicately over the pages of her Bible, each touch reverent and deliberate, drawing your eyes to follow her every motion.

"Did you pray?" Her gaze lifts abruptly, and your eyes instinctively meet hers, the connection sharp and undeniable. You shake your head, a hesitant motion that speaks of your internal struggle. "I couldn’t, but I tried," you admit, your voice laced with quiet desperation. She hums in acknowledgment, a sound both understanding and contemplative.

"May I know what—or who—has you so troubled?" she inquires, her tone inviting you to unburden your heart. It is then that you notice her braid, meticulously crafted as it was the first time you saw it. There is something about her hair that brings you solace, a symbol of her unwavering presence, each strand perfectly aligned, a reflection of the order she brings to the chaos within you.

Your feet move almost on their own, following Abby as she descends from the altar, her steps deliberate and purposeful, leading you to the nearest pew. With a graceful motion, she gestures to the very center of the seat, her hand inviting you to rest there. The Bible, now nestled in her lap, carries the weight of ancient wisdom, and her presence beside you feels like a fortress against the turmoil within.

“It’s still you,” you confess, the words escaping before you can stop them, heavy with unspoken fears.

Gently, Abby releases her grasp on the sacred book, placing it beside you with reverence. “Before we continue our meeting tonight,” she begins, her voice a soft murmur that seems to resonate with the very walls of the cathedral, “may I help you pray?”

Her question lingers in the air, a holy offering. You pause, taking in the serenity that surrounds you, the dim light casting long shadows that dance with a life of their own. With a slight nod, you give your consent, though your heart still flutters with uncertainty.

“Did you meditate?” she asks, her words catching you off guard as you prepare yourself for prayer. Her question is unexpected, but Abby reads the confusion in your eyes before you can voice it.

“Think of this as a guided meditation,” she continues, her tone gentle but firm, like a shepherd guiding a lost lamb. “You do not need to see God. The more you strain to find Him, the further you will feel from His embrace.”

“I will,” you murmur, the words a fragile promise as you settle into the position you’ve practiced day and night, seeking to still your mind and open your heart to whatever presence may hear your plea—be it God, if He truly exists.

“Sit upright,” she instructs, her voice carrying the calm authority that has always been your anchor. “Keep your back straight—just like that.” Her gaze meets yours, a blend of gentleness and unwavering resolve that soothes your trembling spirit. “Rest your hands in your lap or on the pew before you. Clasp them together if it brings you comfort, or let them rest open on your thighs.” As she speaks, her hands move with an elegant grace, demonstrating each position as if guiding you through a sacred ritual. You mimic her motions, albeit with a touch of hesitation, each movement drawing you deeper into the solemnity of the moment.

“It’s entirely your choice,” she reassures you, her tone as calming as a whisper of wind through the leaves, “but I suggest closing your eyes and simply breathing.” The suggestion, though simple, carries a weight that only her presence could lend it. Her fingers brush your forehead, a touch as light as a prayer, and you feel a warmth spread through you as your eyes close, yielding to her gentle guidance.

“To pray,” she begins, her voice a soft invocation, “start by addressing God with the reverence He deserves. Whether you say ‘Dear God,’ ‘Lord,’ or another name that resonates with you, is entirely personal.” Though your eyes are closed, you can still feel her presence, a warm light in the darkness of your doubt, and it brings a faint smile to your lips, a gesture she does not miss.

“Speak aloud only when in the presence of the congregation,” she advises, her words flowing like a sacred hymn. “It fosters unity and shared worship.” You fidget with the fabric of your clothing, your fingers tracing a quiet rhythm on your knees. “But for now,” she adds, sensing your inner turmoil, “a whisper will suffice.”

“Begin by offering thanks for the blessings in your life,” she suggests, her tone gentle but firm. The suggestion makes you bristle slightly; you have come here seeking solace from an absence of gratitude, not to recount it. But Abby, with her deep insight, seems to anticipate your resistance. “Perhaps, in your case, you could express gratitude for the opportunity of renewal, for the chance at a new beginning.”

“If there are wrongs you wish to confess, or forgiveness you seek, do so sincerely,” she continues, her voice soft and encouraging. Though you feel a reluctance to confess—doubting the power of such an act—her presence fills you with a sense of hope, a bridge between your skepticism and the glimmer of faith you yearn to grasp. “Reflect on the areas of your life where you seek divine guidance,” she advises.

Silently, your internal prayer begins to form, an unspoken plea for peace amidst the chaos of doubt. It feels as though Abby’s presence alone is guiding you, her words not merely instructions, but a lifeline to something greater.

“Consider your personal concerns, requests for guidance, or prayers for others,” she says, her tone both firm and compassionate. “Be specific and honest in your petition.” You ponder the notion of purity in prayer, questioning whether your thoughts are pure enough to be heard by the divine.

“Some people prefer to make the sign of the cross at this point. Are you familiar with it?” she inquires gently. You shake your head, a wave of fogginess sweeping over your mind. The faint scent of pine from her presence mingles with the soft cadence of her voice, enveloping you in a cocoon of tranquility. “Look at me,” Abby instructs, her gaze a beacon of comfort amidst the sacred space.

Surrounded by the symbols of faith, Abby leans closer. Her fingers hover over your forehead, and you instinctively open your eyes to find her nearer than you expected. “This gesture symbolizes God the Father and is the first step of the sign,” she explains as her hand traces a delicate path down the center of your body, her fingers barely grazing your lips and chin before resting above your heart. “This represents God the Son, signifying the connection between the divine and humanity.”

Her touch, feather-light, continues to your left shoulder, resting there with gentle insistence. “This symbolizes the Holy Spirit, extending divine guidance from within.”

“And now, your right shoulder,” she instructs, her movements precise and fluid as she completes the sign of the cross. Her smile, a blend of tenderness and pride, illuminates her face, drawing your attention to the constellation of freckles on her cheeks. “This completes the cross, symbolizing the fullness of the Trinity and the direction of divine grace.”

With a soft, graceful motion, she guides your hand back to your side. “Conclude your prayer with an affirmation of faith, a reaffirmation of trust in the divine will. Many say ‘Amen,’ or ‘May it be Your will.’” Her demeanor remains as poised and comforting as ever, embodying both grace and strength as she leads you through spiritual communion once again.

The stained glass windows of the cathedral bathe the stillness in hues of quiet reverence, casting shadows that dance across the cold stone floor. The air feels heavy, thick with unspoken words and sacred promises, broken only by the soft rustle of fabric as Abby shifts beside you. The wood beneath her creaks, a sound that reverberates through the silence, grounding you in this present moment, though your mind spirals elsewhere—toward a fear no prayer could ever soothe.

Your lips falter, struggling to utter the word 'Amen,' as your eyes open, desperate for an anchor to reality. The question you’ve carried for too long gnaws at your soul, compelling you to turn, your neck aching as your gaze finds her. "Abby?" you whisper, the word barely more than a breath, uncertain whether you should dare voice the thought that rises like a forbidden prayer.

Her eyes meet yours, calm but curious. “Yes?”

You hesitate, but the weight of your heart presses the words out. “If you weren’t a priest…” You swallow hard, feeling the gravity of the inquiry take hold. “Would you have fallen in love with me?”

For a moment, the world stills, the cathedral’s ancient silence deepening as if the very stones are waiting for her reply. Abby’s face tightens, a fleeting shadow flickering across her expression. Her fingers twitch in her lap, the only sign of the turmoil beneath the surface. She inhales slowly, her voice calm but fragile when she finally speaks. "God suffices me," she answers, each word tinged with a rawness that betrays her composed exterior.

Her eyes, however, tell a different story—a flicker of vulnerability, a glimpse into a world of feelings she cannot confess. The answer lands heavily on your chest, and though you anticipated it, the ache it leaves behind is undeniable. You exhale shakily, your fingers fidgeting in your lap as your thoughts unravel, pulling you deeper into the void of unspoken desires.

“Have you never longed to love, or be loved?” The question slips out before you can stop it, laced with the pain and confusion that has haunted you since the day you met her.

Abby’s posture stiffens, her gaze turning inward as if searching for a truth she cannot find. Her fingers trace the edges of her Bible, restless and seeking solace in its familiar weight. But no sermon can ease the tension between you. The silence that follows is thick, filled with everything that remains unsaid.

You rest your head in her lap, an act of surrender and silent plea, your heart laid bare before her. Abby’s hand, tentative but deliberate, finds its way to your hair, her fingers threading through it in a gesture that feels as intimate as it is forbidden. "We cannot," she whispers, her voice trembling, laced with the weight of emotions she dares not speak aloud. "This is... beyond us."

Yet even as she speaks, her touch lingers—her thumb brushing tenderly against your cheek. Her gaze meets yours, and in that fleeting exchange, there is a silent acknowledgment, a love neither of you can voice but both feel deeply. Kneeling before her, you feel both comforted and cursed by her nearness, the warmth of her hand a bittersweet reminder of everything you can never have.

Her hand cradles your face, her thumb tracing soft circles over your skin, her eyes heavy with the burden of her vows. There is a quiet sorrow in every movement—a resignation that cuts deeper than any spoken words. "We are bound to something greater," she whispers, her voice wavering, as though she is trying to convince herself as much as you.

But the tremor in her voice, the way her fingers graze the curve of your lips, tells you more than words ever could. The silence between you feels sacred, as though the cathedral itself is listening, waiting for your next confession.

The plea falls from your lips, fragile and desperate. “Absolve me of my sins,” you whisper, seeking not forgiveness, but her—only her.

Abby exhales slowly, her touch still tender but now laden with sorrow. “You seek absolution,” she murmurs, her voice thick with compassion and an unspoken ache. You lift your head, your eyes searching hers, though you already know the answer she cannot give. Her gaze softens, weighed down by her sacred vows and the love she feels but can never express.

Her fingers trace the lines of your lips, intimate and agonizing. "I cannot," she whispers, the strain in her voice unmistakable. “I cannot absolve what was never meant to be sin.”

Yet her touch lingers, heavy with a love that transcends words—untouchable, private, and entirely yours. “Only seek the strength to bear it.”

[alexsgrimoire]

Sermon of The Signless Sufferer - The Sun Will Rise

It has been a dark twenty-four hours. For those who reside not only in the United States but also for those abroad, it is a scary time. You may feel a mix of emotions - fear, anger, sadness, or perhaps no feeling at all. Whatever emotion you may be feeling, you are allowed to do so. Cry, scream, mourn, in whatever way you wish to express them. It is a challenging time for us all. 

As we navigate what the next four years will hold, there will be trials and tribulations. You may feel like there is no hope left in the world. But you must not give up. You must live. To our trans and queer siblings; to our BIPOC kin, and those with disabilities of all kinds; you must live. Fear and despair are what those in power feed off of; they prey on us like a leopard stalking its meal. They want us to give in, to lose all hope for the future. But you must survive. Not only for yourself but also for your loved ones, those in your community, and those you may not even know. It’s a “fuck you” to what those in power stand for. You are a dandelion in the cracks of pavement, bright and flourishing in a dim world that wants to erase you.

That isn’t to say that there won’t be a fight. We must gather and organize, finding alliances in even the most unlikely of places. We shall follow the teachings of The Signless Sufferer: compassion, forgiveness, and equality.

We shall be compassionate to ourselves; rest when rest is needed, and treat our souls and bodies with care and respect. We shall be compassionate to others; caring for those who are cast the most judgment and uplifting those who are struggling.

We shall forgive ourselves; not focus on the smallest mistakes, and instead make peace with them. We shall forgive others; no one is 100% perfect, and there is always room for growth.

We shall preach for equality from now until the end of time; no human or troll, beast or being, should ever feel the pain of prejudice. We shall be unified as one, filled with love and understanding.

But within this need for peace lies an anger.  A, “Why can’t it be this way?”; a, “What does this mean for the future?” This anger is normal, and it is actually encouraged! This rage, this expletive, is your fuel. It is a hunger for justice, your passion and power. Use it to your advantage, but do not let it overpower you. Anger is strong, but your empathy must be stronger. We cannot tear the world down and rebuild it without caring for one another. We shall stand together in the face of adversity, hand in hand. We will make it through together. 

Even the darkest night will end, and the sun will rise.

Many thanks to rev. mandi huizenga at the DuPage Unitarian Universalist Church for her service on Wednesday, November 6th.

Hot & Warm Lines in case you need support:

U.S. Suicide Hotline: call or text 988 (Available 24 hours) 

Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA) National Helpline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) (Provides 24/7 confidential support and referrals for individuals and families facing mental health and substance use disorders, including panic attacks and anxiety.)

Wildflower Alliance Peer Support Line: (888) 407-4515 (Trained peer supporters)

Thrive Lifeline: (313) 662-8209 (Trans-led & operated)

Trans Lifeline: (877) 565-8860 (United States), (877) 330-6366 (Canada) (When you call, you’ll speak to a trans/nonbinary peer operator. Full anonymity and confidentiality) 

LGBT National Help Center: (888) 843-4564 

Trevor Project: Call (866) 488-7386, text START to 678-678, or chat online

Call Blackline: (800) 604-5841 (Centers BIPOC, LGBTQ+, & Black Femmes)

StrongHearts Native Helpline: (844) 762-8483 (Centering Native Americans & Alaska Natives)

[drevisrose]

Divine Intervention [Alastor x reader] Chapter 2

| Your POV |

The bright glaring rays of the sun shone through the tulle covered window of your otherwise darkened room. You shoved your face into the feathery pillow, attempting to shield yourself from the intrusion disturbing your peaceful sleep. You had just been dreaming of being whisked away from everything that felt like a cage—escaping the judging eyes that followed you, the scornful nights filled with harsh lectures that echoed your failures, and anyone who could remind you of the person you were. You couldn’t help but to feel the presence of a particular figure in your dreams, looming on the outskirts of your mind, leaving you in a deep frustration when you couldn’t make out their face. Yet, you felt serene in the pretend world you had created during your slumber, in here, you could do whatever your heart pleased. 

As you strolled through the vibrant nightlife of the city, the glow of streetlamps cast warm halos on your skin, illuminating the joy radiating from your face. The night air was filled with the distant sounds of saxophones, laughter, and the soft hum of conversations. Each step felt lighter, a melody echoing in your heart, fingers intertwined with a charming stranger you had just met at the jazz club. He twirled you around his fingers, causing you to stumble over the cracked sidewalk. You laughed, you were happy, and you were free. 

Suddenly, a repetitive clanging noise caused you to shoot up in your bed. 

For fuck’s sake. I couldn’t have five more minutes of peace?

You reached over and flipped the switch on the light pink alarm clock, its face seemingly mocking your own as you catched a glimpse of your tired reflection in it. You yawned as your hands stretched above your head, attempting to wake your body from the slumber it was deeply enveloped in. Your feet reached for the fuzzy slippers at the side of your bed, finally standing up to get ready for the day. 

Sunday. 

You reached in the closet and skimmed through the many dresses your father had bought you. As your eyes scanned each dress on its respective hanger, you couldn’t help but to voice your opinions, “Frumpy… drab… just sad…” Your eyes landed on a deep crimson dress you had altered to fit your figure after your father bought it specifically to hide your curves in its plain design. You braced yourself for the inevitable scolding, certain that if it wasn’t your dress that would provoke your father’s anger, it would be some other imagined flaw he conjured up in his mind, so did it truly matter? Adorning the dress on your body, you made your way to your en-suite bathroom to finish your hair and makeup. Despite how much you hated attending your father’s church, it gave you a reason to be dolled up— it offered you a fleeting chance to dress up and escape the drabness of your daily life—though you knew he would never allow you the freedom to go anywhere else. 

You hummed a song while wrapping your fingers around the hot iron, curling your deep brown locks into a beautiful array of waves.  Lost in the melody, you fell into a trance, the rhythm of your voice guiding your hands as you moved effortlessly through the familiar motions. 

Sweet dreams ‘till sunbeams find you

Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you

But in your dreams, whatever they be

Dream a little dream of me

 “Y/n, you better be ready,” your father’s abrupt interruption caused you to jump slightly, causing the hot iron to press against the crook of your neck, leaving a reddish splotch in its wake. 

Great. Just fantastic timing. 

Wincing in pain, you were slow to reply until you heard his steps approaching the closed door. “Yes, I won’t be late this week.” Your fingers pressed down on the painful mark, attempting to ease the sting.

“Good,” you breathed a sigh of relief as his voice faded into the distance. “Oh, and I don’t want to see you sitting beside that radio host.” A note of condescension crept into his tone by the end of the sentence. “You know I don’t approve of those whose words lack the substance and values that truly uplift the spirit.” With that, you heard the front door slam shut, leaving a heavy silence in its wake.

Radio host? 

Suddenly it clicked. You recognized his voice from one of the few times you were able to sneak downstairs in the midst of the night and have unrestricted access to the radio. His voice was as melodic and charismatic as it was over the waves of the radio, dare you say, more entrancing than in his broadcasts. 

What is he doing in a dreary place like this? Doesn’t he have somewhere—I don’t know—glamorous, exciting, fun—to be? God knows if you weren’t forced to be here, you would be long gone in search of anything close to that. 

With that, you parted your hair down the middle, bringing both sides to the front to inconspicuously hide the mark on your neck that failed to disappear as you finished getting ready. Your curls bounced as you walked out the door and up the stairs of the church, walking down the aisle to find your place in the cold, uninviting pews. 

| Alastor’s POV |

Alastor’s large hand reached for the gold handle on one of the double doors, pulling it open with a practiced smile, aware that all eyes would soon be drawn to him. His polished black dress shoes clicked against the wooden floor, the sound muffled as he stepped onto the carpet that lined the aisle between the pews. As he walked, he scanned the crowd, his heart fluttering and beating harder as soon as he spotted his target on the right side of the aisle. 

But then his gaze fell upon who he recognized as the priest’s daughter in the left-hand pews, her shining hair now curled into beautiful spirals. Almost as if a shadowy force had taken control, he found himself veering away from his original intent, moving instead to find a seat next to the young girl, despite his better judgement.

Not why I am here. 

The words echoed in his mind, ricocheting from one ear to the other, as if trying to warn him against his actions. Yet, he didn’t stop himself. As he approached her, he cleared his throat in an attempt to bring her attention to his presence. Her soft eyes meeting his sharp ones, he sensed an unease in her demeanour. 

“Good morning, dear,” his voice echoed the warm, sweet sentiment close to her, attempting to shield their conversation away from prying eyes. Yet, unlike the usual reactions he elicited in women, a sense of tension tightened her shoulders, making her stance more rigid. Alastor was well aware of his charm. “Is something amiss?” he asked, his brow slightly furrowed, concern threading through his words. He reached up to fix his perfectly styled brunette hair. Nothing wrong there. Maybe his suit jacket was creased? 

“N-no, good morning, sir,” 

Sir? How old does she think I am?

A snicker escaped Alastor’s lips. “Please, call me Alastor.” His smile faded into a thin smirk, mischief glinting in his eyes. “You know, ‘sir’ is far too formal for me. I hope you don’t think I’m just some old sack of dust.”

“Not at all!” Her arms shot up in protest, a hue of red cast against the otherwise plain canvas of her cheeks. “Sorry, I’m just not used to…” Her voice trailed off as she searched for the right words, feeling the weight of his gaze. “Well, most people here hold me to a high standard… being the daughter of the priest and all…”

The admission hung between them, a fragile thread of vulnerability. She glanced away, partly to hide the embarrassment flushing her cheeks and, unknowingly to Alastor, partly in search of her father’s presence. 

Was she always this on edge, like a skittish animal sensing a predator lurking nearby?

He watched her bring her knees to the cold floor, fingers interlocking one another as her head fell down towards them. Following suit, Alastor did the same, increasingly closing the space between them—his indifference towards people’s personal space ever present. 

He began to whisper through his heart shaped lips, “Do not fret about appearances around me, dear. I am sure people have already begun to speculate of my sudden presence in a place like this, and in that sense—I understand you.” A sigh escaped his contemplative expression, “We all have personas to uphold.”

Her head turned ever so slightly to face Alastor, and with that, he noticed the mark her curled hair was vaguely covering. A sly grin grew on his face as he stayed in his position of prayer, “Just make sure that the audience doesn’t see that rather suggestive mark on your neck.”

Not very holy for the daughter of a priest. 

It was quite amusing to Alastor to watch the y/n’s frantic expression following the interaction. As the service began, she continued to avoid his ever present gaze, slightly shifting away from him. She reminded him of the deer he once hunted: cautious, guarded, constantly on edge. His heart beat increasingly as he reminisced of their final moments, when they were finally still. 

| Your POV |

You needed to get out, to catch your breath, to ease your nerves before your father saw the growing look of worry on your face. More importantly, you needed to reposition yourself from Alastor—a stranger whom you had no trust in to keep your oh so guilty looking mark on your neck to himself—someone your father told you to stay away from. Throughout the middle of service, you took your chance while everyone was deep in their hymns, singing in unison with the choir. Side-stepping your way out of the pew, it was lost on you that Alastor’s eyes followed your movements as your mind ran wild with worry. 

You knew exactly where to go. Darting yourself towards the basement of the church, increasing in speed, you walked yourself down the set of stairs to the where one of the bathrooms was found. You slipped into the nearest stall, pressed against the wall, and took a moment to gather yourself. The familiar small window in the corner offered a sliver of escape. Cracking it open, you climbed atop the toilet, reaching into the garter that clung to the thickest part of your thigh for a pack of cigarettes. It was one of the few vices you allowed yourself, a small act of defiance against the sacred world that enveloped you. After taking a few puffs, you flicked the cigarette away, extinguishing its flame in the receptacle below you.

You were ready to go back and face the audience like nothing had happened, you reassured yourself while checking your appearance in the mirror. You made sure to really cover the mark on your neck this time with a small compact of powder from your beaded purse. Letting out a deep sigh, you quietly whispered to yourself, “I am fine. He will not find out. If I get away from that man before service ends, I will be fine and dandy.”

Turning your heels, the scent of expensive cologne enveloped your senses, ridding your nose of the comforting smoke you could have sworn was only there a second ago. You had to take a step back to reach the eyes of the man who stood before you, much vaster in stature, his presence bringing back the same sense of unease you had just escaped. 

“Do I scare you so much, dear?” Alastor’s voice sliced through the silence, sharp and jarring, like the alarm clock that shattered your peaceful slumber.

You were 0 for 2 in this dance with the radio host.

[outpost51]

— The Unlikely Adventures of Bitchface and Go F*ck Yourself (18+)

Expiration dates are for bologna and bad boyfriends, not sisters.

Chapter WC: 8,363

Warning(s): violence, gore

{READ HERE ON AO3} or below the cut ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Dillon was grateful for the emergency towels Cheryl kept in the trunk, because both she and Daisy were covered in enough mud to start another garden for their mom.

“I think we’ll need to hose off in the backyard.” Daisy’s voice was soft, but Dillon’s nerves were so frayed she almost ran a red light. If her sister was affected by the jolt, she didn’t show it. “Like when we were little, remember?”

“Yeah,” Dillon replied numbly. Of course she remembered. Her sister’s death forced her mind to unlock every happy memory they ever made together to protect it from the trauma of losing her. The sun had just started its ascent when they pulled into the driveway. She felt like a robot helping her sister out of the car and sneaking around the back of the house; her limbs were stiff and her heart was shuttered the whole way when she knew she should have been ecstatic — Daisy was back, but at what cost? Had her sister left anything behind? Would she be forced to relive the night she died in her dreams night after night? Would she even dream anymore?

Would she ever smile again?

A cold blast of water hit her square in the ass and she squealed, then nearly collapsed as a wheezy giggle filtered through the stuttering stream of the hose. Oh, how she missed that sound, even as weak as it was. When she turned, Daisy was looking down at herself, clad in nothing but the frumpy church dress she’d been buried in and holding the drooping hose in both hands, as if she couldn’t believe she was standing in our yard again. “I’m alive,” she whispered, and Dillon wasn’t sure if those two words broke her heart or made it swell so large it popped.

“That’s good… right?” She suddenly wasn’t as sure of her actions as she was when she first lit the candles.

Daisy dropped the hose to prod at her stomach, chest, and face. The pause was long enough for Dillon to give herself two separate internal lectures and a mild anxiety attack. “Yeah,” she finally replied, an echo of her sister. “When my car landed… I wanted to text you. I wanted to tell you I was sorry I wouldn’t make it in time, and that I loved you, but I think my phone went out the window, or maybe I dropped it.” She wrung out the hem of her dress, and the action was so unnervingly… normal. “I thought about how sad you’d be, and Mom and Dad. I had so much I needed to tell you and I just, I couldn’t stop crying, I couldn’t find my phone—”

Dillon didn’t know what she expected when she brought her sister back; maybe something shambling, maybe a hollow echo, but not… normal. “Daze, it’s—”

“I know, I know. It was such a silly thing to fret over, wasn’t it?” She looked up and smiled. It wasn’t the same one that brightened the breakfast table every morning. “Think Mom’s gonna flip if we waddle in with our clothes soaked?”

Dillon shook her head. “I think she’ll fuss about us catching cold,” she snorted, then froze. “Fuck, I’m sor—”

“Whatever for?” Daisy’s eyebrows crinkled in sympathy. “Oh, Dill, I’m not upset at you, it just feels weird being back in my body, and my stomach kinda hurts, and I’m still trying to shake off the heartache.” She closed the distance between them and sank to one knee to hug her little sister.

That was it, that was the thing that finally broke what thin veneer of composure Dillon had managed to work up on the way home. “Because you died?” she sniffled.

Daisy lifted her head, resting her chin on Dillon’s chest. “Because I lost my sister, too.”

There was no telling how long it took them to stop sobbing on each other, but the sun had almost cleared the copse of trees at the edge of the neighborhood by the time they stumbled through the front door. The smell of bacon and eggs assaulted Dillon’s senses and made her knees wobbly. She hadn’t eaten since picking at breakfast before they left for the funeral.

“Cheryl, we’re home!” she called, toeing off her soggy boots by the door.

“Who’s ‘we’ this morning?” Cheryl didn’t look up from the stove. “Did you pick up Moira?”

Daisy waved at her back. “Hi, Mom.”

A pancake hit the ceiling and stuck there. Their mother might have, too, if she wasn’t in heels. Her scream made Dillon’s ears ring, though.

“That’s what you get for springing the werewolf thing on me last year,” Daisy mumbled as she made her way towards the stairs. “I’m gonna get cleaned up for breakfast. Did they find my phone by my car?”

Cheryl shook her head numbly.

“Bummer,” Daisy sighed, and continued up to her room.

The door had just barely shut before Cheryl was on the phone with her ex husband. “Darren? Darren, shut up, I don’t care if you’re at the office, it’s never mattered before,” she huffed. “Daisy’s home.”

There was a pause, a few muffled words Dillon couldn’t make out. Her mom hung up the phone and turned to her. She suddenly wanted to be anywhere but shoveling pancakes in her mouth at the kitchen counter. “Dillon Marie, what in God’s name did you do?”

“I’m pretty sure a god was involved, but I don’t think capital-G had anything to do with it.” That was apparently not the correct answer, because the fork was removed from her hand and her mom’s fists went to her hips. “A weird lady gave me a zombie recipe book when I stayed behind at the grave. I was desperate and stupid, I know I shouldn’t have messed with forces unknown, but Daisy—”

“What book?”

Dillon retrieved her bag, then the book inside it. “I did what it said to do. It worked, but Daisy’s headstone—”

“Your dad doesn’t remember.”

“Remember what?”

“That your sister died.” Cheryl flipped through a few pages. Raised her eyebrows a few times. She set the book down and went down to the basement, leaving Dillon alone at the counter with a massive stack of pancakes. Unattended. Four fell prey to her grabby hands before Cheryl returned.

With a severed head, its face frozen in a scream.

That she promptly whacked against the counter over and over until it cracked open.

“You cut up bodies three nights out of the month, pickle,” Cheryl chided as her daughter lost her pancakes in the sink.

Dillon looked at her mother with a mix of shock and disgust. “Yeah, I cut ‘em up, I don’t brutalize them.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, it’s not like it’s bleeding.” Cheryl dropped the pulpy remains in her daughter’s outstretched hands. “Do something with that, please. I need to scramble this before your sister comes back down.”

With her mind completely dissociated from her physical form, Dillon sputtered, “Like what? I can’t just throw this in the trash!”

Cheryl exhaled through her nose. “Of course not, that’s wasteful. Put it in a bag and put it back in the freezer. I’ll boil it later to make freezie-pops.” She scoffed at Dillon’s continued perturbation. “What? Werewolves get hot, too. It’s too much work to fill a kiddie pool with ice for Gus to roll in every time we go on a run. Get some of my bacon while you’re down there.”

Dillon inhaled to respond, but swallowed the thought at her mother’s look.

Until she returned from her task. “Who’s Gus?” she asked as she set the paper-wrapped package on the counter. She’d taken to labeling the meat in their freezer according to what living thing in came from after one unfortunate incident involving a pig-bacon and people-bacon mixup that left her with far more questions about herself than she ever wanted answered.

The stairs creaked under a weight much more significant than Daisy’s, and the clicking of heavy claws on the kitchen floor prickled painful gooseflesh over her whole body. “I heard my name,” a gruff voice rumbled behind her as a massive shadow fell over the kitchen. “Pancakes?”

Cheryl smiled up at the mountain of scruffy black werewolf draped over her head and shoulders. Like he belonged there. Much too fucking comfortable for Dillon’s liking. “Mmhm, eggs and bacon, too. Dillon resurrected her sister.”She pushed the grabby wolf-hand away from her pan. “Don’t touch the scrambled ones, Gus-Gus, there’s brain in there.”

Their guest — or intruder, by Dillon’s perspective— looked like he told his mother he wanted to be a cloud when he grew up and subsequently made weightlifting his entire personality. His piercing yellow eyes might have been intimidating if Dillon hadn’t seen the same glow in her mother’s. “Daisy died?”

“Long story.”

He grunted in response. No shock, no theatrics. Was it such a casual thing in their world? “Coffee?”

“Still fresh. Make Dilly a cup, would you? I doubt she’s gotten any sleep.”

Dillon accepted the mug with far more grace than she expected she would have when faced with a potential — “So are you gonna make Cheryl an honest woman, or do I need to go put my boots back on?”

Gus choked, sputtering black coffee out of his nose. It matted down the thick, fluffy fur on his chest in twin rivers like tire tracks through a cornfield.

“Dillon Marie!” Cheryl’s hands went to her hips.

“There’s a naked wolfman in our house, Cheryl!”

There was a squeak of surprise from the stairs, rapid thumping away, and finally Daisy skidded into the kitchen, one of Darren’s abandoned golf clubs in her hands. She wound up, ready to swing.

Cheryl nearly turned purple. “Gus, I am so sorry, they’re just protective.”

“No harm done, Cherry, I’m the same way with my mom,” Gus snorted as he scrubbed the coffee out of his fur with a kitchen towel.

The outrage from the girls was simultaneous, though the volume was inversely proportional to their sizes — where Daisy was softly inquisitive, Dillon shattered a wine glass in the rack above the sink. The jolt of energy almost, almost startled her enough to derail her tirade.

“Cherry?”

“Cherry!”

“Dillon!”

“Rasso,” announced another newcomer, who caught Daisy’s golf club in a sandy-furred hand an inch from his head. “Nice swing. Why are we yelling names?”

“Oh, there’s a naked werewolf in our kitchen,” Daisy replied. “He hugged Mom, I think, Dillon’s protective.” She looked at her captured golf club, then up further to Rasso’s face. “You pulled me out of the car.”

The action in the kitchen froze as everyone looked to the eldest Monroe daughter on the stairs; Gus had Dillon in both hands, held aloft in a rocketship pose, she had one of his ears in a vice grip, and Cheryl was doing her best to keep one eye on her youngest daughter and the other on her oldest.

Rasso tilted his head. “What car?”

“Long story,” the kitchen inhabitants intoned in unison.

Daisy’s bright smile brought a choked sob from her sister. “Dill brought me back from the dead last night,” she explained. Pride coated every word in a gilded shell as they fell from her mouth in a waterfall of riches. “Nobody can remember, apparently. My friends think I lost my mind, but I remember your eyes. You held my hand and told me about the lake in Arizona so I wouldn’t be scared.”

“Well, how about that? Small world.” Cheryl gave Rasso a warm, grateful smile and plated Daisy’s breakfast. “Come eat, baby, you must be starving.” That warmth turned into a glare that froze him to the stairs when he stepped forward at the same time as Daisy. “If you want to stay for breakfast, you can ask nicely instead of assuming.”

Gus’s snicker abruptly ended in a choke as Dillon managed to land a solid kick to his Adam’s apple. He released her to the wild. “If this is what she’s like at twelve, she’ll be the first human to run with a pack by the time she hits twenty.”

Daisy at least had the courtesy to shove a bite of eggs in her mouth to hide her laugh.

“She’ll be nineteen in a few months, Gus,” Cheryl snorted.

As if the silent shock bulging his eyes wasn’t enough to give Dillon the vindication she deserved after her unjust humiliation, the wayward pancake chose that moment to unstick itself from the ceiling and crown Gus as the king of fools.

“Got something on your face, Gus,” she sneered as she plated up her own breakfast and took the spot next to Daisy. To her great disappointment, he merely put his hands up in surrender, then accepted the plate of meat and eggs Cheryl offered. He at least possessed the skill to read the room, leaning his hip on the counter to eat rather than sitting at the table. Rasso followed suit, and Cheryl took her usual seat.

“Dilly, I know you love your dad—”

“But,” Dillon huffed. She cut into her stack of pancakes a little more aggressively than necessary and with a little too much eye contact with her mother’s guests. Rasso twiddled his fingers in a cheeky wave. “There’s a ‘but’ in that sentence.”

Cheryl exhaled through her nose. “But I am an adult, and I can date if I’d like to, and I am not dating my packmates,” she concluded. “We just buried your sister and I needed my pack. That’s what werewolves do when we’re upset.” Dillon must not have hidden her watery eyes and wobbly lip as well as she thought, because her mother’s face softened with heartbreak. “We both needed to process things on our own in our own ways, pickle. Daisy wouldn’t be here if I made you spend time consoling me.”

The thought sobered the entire room, and they ate in a tense silence until Daisy broke it.

“Brett ran me off the road,” she admitted.

Dillon checked her pockets for her phone when a sudden rumble rattled the plates on the table, the windows, and her entire skeleton. She must have left it in her bag, then, and the violent pulse came from three pissed off werewolves.

Cheryl went unnaturally still. Politely set down her fork. “Excuse me?”

“He doubled back and pulled over to make sure I didn’t get out, I think. I saw his car, but he was making a bunch of vague threats the day before too.” Daisy frowned at her eggs, pushing them around the plate. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t you dare say what you’re about to say,” Cheryl warned. “Don’t you dare. None of this is on you, do you understand me? Not a single bit. You didn’t make him hurt you, or yell at you, or run you off the road, Daisy-mae, all you ever did was want somebody to love you, and that is not a fucking crime. Pass me the people-bacon, Dilly.”

Dillon passed the plate across the table without question. “Holy shit, Cheryl.”

“Language, pickle.”

Dillon was wired as she laid down to sleep that night, kicking her feet and tossing and turning until finally, mercifully, her brain and body gave in around two in the morning. She’d feel like shit when she inevitably dragged her carcass out of bed, but it was fine; she had her sister back, her mom was still single, and she was right about Brett. She just had to figure out how to bring him to justice, but that was a problem for future Dillon. Present Dillon just wanted to sleep.

A weight sank down on the edge of her mattress, stirring her slightly back into awareness but not enough to jolt her awake. Cheryl checked on her a lot that week, so it was nothing new. She’d probably kiss her forehead and go back to her room. “Dillon, wake up, baby,” she whispered.

“Muh?”

“I need you to drive me somewhere. I’ll buy you burritos.”

Dillon pulled her blanket up higher and scrunched her nose up. She didn’t want burritos. She wanted to go back to sleep. “Why?” she grumbled. “It’s late.” The overhead light seared her eyes even behind her eyelids. Fuck it. She peeled one open to see what all the fuss was about. The other followed suit with gusto.

Her mother stood over her in her silky, auburn-furred glory, wolfed the fuck out and clearly ready to party; her gardening belt was strapped around her waist and loaded down with knives, a hammer, duct tape — “I thought werewolves didn’t need weapons to hunt,” Dillon slurred.

“These aren’t for hunting, pickle,” Cheryl growled. “They’re for making that piece of shit wish he never looked at your sister.” She pulled out a screwdriver, twirling it around between her fingers. “And to make sure he never looks at another girl again.”

Dillon had her helping-Cheryl-in-the-garden pants on and her backpack slung over her shoulder before her mother could utter another word. It was funny what a little time and a heaping spoonful of trauma could do to someone; just two years ago, she was worried about disposing of a body her mother left on the front lawn, but now? She was more than happy to help her make one.

She plugged the address Cheryl sent her into the car’s GPS, handed her mom the aux cord, and off they went to pay a visit to her sister’s murderous piece-of-shit ex.

A murderous piece-of-shit ex whose car was not in the driveway of his parents’ grotesquely huge house. “Cut the lights and stay here,” Cheryl hissed, and before Dillon could ask why and what she was doing, she was halfway across the yard, loping silently through the shadows to check all the windows. One must have been open, because her ass shimmied right inside and Dillon felt her heart stop. What if they got caught? Was her mom going to murder Brett’s parents? That wasn’t part of the deal, she didn’t sign up for —

Cheryl slammed into the car, a shirt in her mouth. “Drive, pickle!”

Once she stopped screaming and remembered how to breathe, Dillon floored it. “Where are we going?”

“To the edge of the neighborhood, I can catch his scent from there.” She took a deep whiff of the shirt and discarded it at her feet before rolling down the window. “Slow down at the intersection, I think I have it.” Cheryl hung her head out the window and sniffed a few times. Her snout abruptly jerked to the left. “That way, go! But stop at each intersection and I’ll tell you whether to turn or stay straight.”

They tracked him to a gas station a few miles down the road. Dillon pulled the car up behind a truck to stay out of sight while Cheryl kept a lookout. She didn’t know what he could possibly be doing that took half an hour, considering his was the only other car in the parking lot, and she didn’t want to know.

Cheryl climbed back in and rolled up her window. “Keep the lights cut until it’s too dark to see the road, and don’t follow him too close, not yet,” she said, keeping her voice low and steady. She was way too calm about what they were doing. What Dillon suspected they’d be doing next. Just what did her mom get up to on her runs besides hunting predators in the park? “You okay driving, or do you need me to shift back? I’m not going to make you do anything you’re uncomfortable with. We can even turn around if you want to, but once we leave this parking lot, we have to commit.”

“Commit to what?” Dillon didn’t think she wanted the answer. She wanted to be blissfully unaware until the very last minute.

Cheryl answered anyway. “We’re gonna run this motherfucker off the road and make him wish he didn’t survive.”

Dillon swallowed. She needed less time to think about it than she probably should have. He hurt Daisy, and if he wasn’t hurting Daisy, he’d hurt someone else, and no one was doing anything about it. It ended tonight. “Okay,” she breathed. “Let’s do this.”

She kept the lights off as they drove in silence until she couldn’t make out anything in the dark but Brett’s taillights. “I can’t see anymore,” she said.

Cheryl nodded. “Count of three, turn on the brights and lay on the horn. Three… two…”

Dillon clicked the headlights all the way up and slammed all her weight on the horn. Brett swerved, but stayed in his lane.

“Do you trust me?”

Dillon nodded, afraid to take her eyes off the road. Her mom might have been practically invincible, but Dillon was still very much a small human with bones that broke and skin that cut.

“Speed up, get beside him in the left lane.”

She pressed the accelerator as hard as she could with her limited reach.

When their windows were side by side, Cheryl barked, “Now flip his ass the bird.” Dillon gladly did so. Her mom rolled down her own window and snarled. Where she expected to see anger on Brett’s face, she saw only palpable fear. “He’s gonna run. Let him.” Sure enough, he sped up with a sudden screech of tires. “Keep on his ass, baby!”

It was exhilarating. Terrifying. Was that how Cheryl felt when she ran free during the full moon, hunting the worst of the worst?

When her mom screamed, “Clip his flank!” she jerked the wheel without hesitation. There was a sickening crunch like breaking bone and Brett’s candy-red car lurched hard towards the shoulder. His front tire caught on something and the whole thing went airborne, flipping sideways twice before landing on its side. It slid into the woods running along the interstate and Dillon hit the breaks, skidding to a squealing stop a hundred yards away, heart pounding, breath coming in ragged pants.

It was a lot easier to think about when it wasn’t real. When she wasn’t faced with the glossy smear of fluids Brett’s car left behind. When her bones didn’t ache from the impact.

“Holy shit,” she wheezed. “We just killed somebody. We fuckin’… oh my god. Oh my god, we killed—”

“Back it up, Dilly, come on, we can’t make assumptions,” her mom urged.

She nodded numbly and carefully reversed the car until her mom held up a hand to stop her.

Cheryl was out of the car before Dillon could even park, bounding down the hill on all fours with an excited howl. She’d never seen her mother hunt, just the aftermath, and for a few seconds, the logical, human part of her brain made her hesitate. They ran him off the road. If he survived, he’d be scared out of his mind and probably wouldn’t fuck with Daisy ever again.

It was the probably that boiled her blood and thawed her feet. He didn’t spare Daisy a second thought except to make sure she wasn’t getting back up. There wasn't room for probably.

They were going to make it a definite thing.

She could have her morality crisis later, after she’d taken the eye that he owed.

They found the car flipped on its side, slotted between two trees like a CD on a rack. The engine was still ticking to the beat of whatever country song warbled out on the radio’s dying breaths.

Dillon kicked her foot up on the door and leaned into the smashed window. “Sup, bitch,” she spat. Brett’s eyes weren’t quite focusing, and he squinted like she was blurry and swayed like she was floating around. He sure as hell didn’t have a problem seeing six-foot-nine Cheryl hulking behind her. “You’ve met my mom, yeah?” She leaned in closer to sneer in his face. “You’re about to meet your maker.” He got half a scream out before Cheryl ripped his door off with one hand and yanked him out of the car with the other.

“How did you like that taste of your own medicine, Mr. Lawson?” Cheryl asked sweetly, or as sweet as she could through an elongated snout and dozens of very big, very sharp teeth.

“How’d you… nobody else rem-remembers,” he slurred. He definitely had some kind of head trauma. Oh well. “You wrecked my fucking car, you psycho bitches.”

Cheryl pulled him closer in case he didn’t see her dozens of very big, very sharp teeth the first time. He kicked his feet uselessly. A mouse dangling in the talons of a flying owl. “Tell Little Red Riding Douche what the book said, Dilly-willy.”

Dillon climbed up on her mom’s back and held up the book. “When somebody dies tragically, it makes a shallow scar on the world and a deep one for people directly affected by their death,” she explained. “When they come back, it heals that shallow scar and erases it from everyone’s memories, but the deep scar stays. Cheryl and I were waiting up all night for Daisy to come home when your itsy-bitsy teenie-weenie havin’ ass decided your poor widdle feelies were too hurtsy-wurtsy over getting dumped like the trash you are.”

Brett bared his teeth. Cheryl bared hers. Brett pissed his pants.

“So we remember,” Dillon continued. “We remember how it felt to bury her, and you remember because you’re the reason we had to.” She pointed the book’s spine at Brett. “But you? There’s not gonna be enough of you left for your folks to bury.”

“Pick a piece to leave behind,” Cheryl sneered.

Dillon thought it would make her sick, the crunch of bone, the slick squelch of viscera being torn inch by inch from a living, screaming person. He was another human being, flesh and bone like her. It should have. She knew that on a logical level, she should have been repulsed. Guilty. Afraid.

Maybe losing her sister broke something in her. Maybe it had been broken long before that, when she butchered John Doe. Or even before that, when Darren and Cheryl divorced. Maybe, maybe, maybe. The maybes didn’t matter anymore. Life was too short for maybes.

Dillon pulled a filleting knife from Cheryl’s gardening belt. “I never liked you, Brett,” she said, gently pushing the point of the blade under his chin.

“Fuck you,” he spat, turning his head blindly to find the source of her voice. Cheryl hadn’t waited around to use the screwdriver. “Dunno why my Daisy even bothered with your emo little ass. I told her not to fuck with you anymore, it fucked up her image.” He coughed up a wad of phlegm and blood.

“First of all.” Dillon applied more pressure and drew blood. He screamed. “I’m not emo, I’m goth, there’s a fucking difference. Not that it’s gonna matter in about twenty minutes.” She looked up at her mom, who was lurking close by and picking her teeth like she was bored. Nice touch, Cheryl. “Ten if I get tired of you.” She pressed the knife in further. “And second, you lost the privilege to call her your Daisy the second you hit her, you worthless, pathetic little worm.”

Dillon didn’t know this version of herself. She didn’t know where it came from. It was twisted, angry, sadistic. She wasn’t any of those things.

But grief did funny things to people, made them do things they wouldn’t normally do.

And so did assholes.

“Pathetic? I make more in a week working for my dad than your whole family makes in a year. You’re nothing, noth—”

Brett’s tirade was cut short by a strangled yelp as Dillon brought her heel down between his legs until she felt a pop. “No, Brett. You made more in a week. Past tense, buddy.” She removed the knife. “And now you’re nothing but breakfast for the next couple weeks.”

“My dad—”

“Can fuck a better son into existence,” she barked, slicing her hand through the air. The ground shook. His body jolted and fell limp.

Cheryl nudged his prone form with her foot. Something sloshed around with the motion. “Shit, pickle, I think you liquefied his insides,” she muttered. “Might need to have a family meeting about—”

Something slammed into Dillon’s head, and she managed half a realization that it was the force of her mother catching her before the world went dark.

Dillon awoke to the world moving around her and a headache to rival the time she fell off the monkey bars in elementary school. Her upper lip felt tight, and when she rubbed at it, her hand came away crusted with blood.

“How’re you feeling, Dilly?” Cheryl’s voice was soft and gentle so as not to contribute to the pain she clearly expected.

Dillon grumbled in response, rolling her face across the cool surface of the door’s interior. The chill made it feel moderately better, so she opened the air vents on her side. Cheryl turned the air conditioning up without prompting. She heard the motors inside the door whir shortly before a strong gust of wind sucked her hair out the window. “Thanks,” she mumbled. Her throat was scratchy.

The car turned gently, but the speed stayed constant. She was about to ask where they were, but when she looked up, the sight of her mother hanging her head out the driver side window, ears back and mouth open, wiped all memory of potential questions from her mind.

Cheryl glanced back at her and a smile tugged at the corners of her maw. She leaned out further, rolling her head and lolling her tongue.

Dillon’s headache all but disappeared in the wake of a full on giggle fit, and when Cheryl howled with joy, she couldn’t help but do the same, though hers was much quieter and less haunting.

Her mom finally retreated into the car and rolled up the windows when they approached their neighborhood. There was a noise ordinance, after all, and the Homeowners’ Association was notoriously bitchy about it. The vice president once called the cops on a toddler greeting her mother, who had been deployed overseas, at nine p.m., because the volume of her enthusiasm exceeded the allowable limit. “So, we’re not telling Daisy what actually happened, right?” Cheryl proposed as they pulled into the garage.

Dillon snorted. “You got it, Mom.” She imagined the utter surprise on her mother’s face matched her own. She touched her fingers to her mouth to assuage the tingle; the word felt so foreign now, it was like she’d repeated a swear in another language. “Lights are still off,” she redirected, gesturing to the darkened upstairs windows. “I think we can get him down to the basement through the house, Daisy’s still asleep.”

Cheryl checked the tape binding the plastic tarp they wrapped around Brett’s body, ensuring the seals were tight and it wouldn’t leak on the carpet. Satisfied, she gathered the bundle into her arms and followed closely behind Dillon once she got the door unlocked. She wasn’t as silent as she was on a hunt thanks to the crinkly plastic, but between the two of them, they managed to get Brett’s body down to the basement and processed without waking Daisy.

As it turned out, they had enough time to get showers, change clothes, start a load of laundry, and get breakfast mostly done before the eldest Monroe daughter shambled into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes and yawning. “Turns out being dead isn’t the same as a long nap,” she sighed. “I feel like I haven’t slept in a month, it’ll take weeks to get back to normal.” She flopped down in her seat next to Dillon and sniffed at her plate, nearly drowning in her own salivation when one was set down in front of her. It smelled different than her sister’s, but not in a bad way. “What’s for breakfast?”

In unison, her mother and younger sister chirped, “Brett!”

She blinked slowly. Poked at the eggs. There were little greyish-pink bits hiding among the egg curds again, and her bacon had a different fat pattern than Dillon’s. “Mom…?” she hazarded.

“Yes, Daisy-mae?” Cheryl sank down across from her. Her wet hair was just starting to shrink up into gentle waves.

“Is this… actually Brett?”

Her mother took a few bites of her own bacon and eggs, and for a minute Daisy thought she wasn’t going to answer. “You read those articles I sent you, right?”

“Yes, Mom, I know I have different dietary needs now, and that’s fine, I’d just like to be in the loop if I’m helping you cover up a crime by eating the evidence.”

Cheryl grinned proudly. “That’s my girl,” she beamed. That was all the answer Daisy needed, and after another moment of hesitation, she tucked in.

A few days passed before the authorities located Brett’s car, but no Brett. From the evidence they did find, however — a few patches of thick fur, claw marks on nearby trees, the entire door ripped off — they concluded it was a bear attack. Coincidentally, there were quite a few empty liquor bottles covered in his DNA and fingerprints in his back seat, and in the absence of a body, they assumed he was drunk, drove off the road, and bears came across the wreckage. So while Brett thought he got away with murder for a little while, yet again the Monroe girls had him beat. They actually got away with it, and had enough meat in the freezer to last until the next full moon.

Two years later

The first sign something was wrong was how late Daisy was for breakfast — typically, she was up minutes after Cheryl to help out and was already on her second cup of coffee by the time Dillon dragged herself to the table. She took her new diet in stride, and was downright enthusiastic about it, learning and modifying recipes, mixing up her own spice blends, and even learning a few recipes for their mother and her packmates, too. That was just how Daisy was; she didn’t just make lemonade out of the citrus storm life threw at her, she made everything she could think of and used the leftover zest in a cocktail.

The second was her lack of pep. Even before she had her daily dose of caffeine, Daisy at least had a little bounce and bubble, but when she shambled down the stairs in an old t-shirt, looking like she hadn’t eaten in weeks and slept in just as long, Dillon knew something wasn’t right. “You okay, sis?” she asked. “Did you get a zombie cold?”

Daisy’s eyes took a while to follow her head as it turned to her sister, but they were still dull and unfocused. “I don’t… I’m not sure,” she replied, voice dazed, airy, quiet.

She went down in a heap of limbs.

Dillon shouted her name. No response.

Cheryl shook her. She was limp.

“No, no, nonono,” Dillon sobbed. “Not again, please, not again, you just opened your own studio, Daze, you can’t go yet, you can’t—”

Cheryl dropped a firm hand on her shoulder. “Go get your books, baby. I’ll call Denise. Her heart’s still beating, she’s still with us.”

It was the still that bothered Dillon. Still wasn’t a certain word. It wasn’t permanent. Still was what you said to people so they wouldn’t panic while the boat was sinking. It was still above water, sure, but it wouldn’t be forever. She sprinted up the stairs, not even acknowledging the pain in her chin, hip, and hand when she tripped on the top step in her haste. They didn’t have time for her to lick her wounds. She could do that later, when Daisy was back to being Daisy.

She had only just set down the last of her books on the table when the front door slammed open and Denise jogged in, kitted out in her hunting gear — khaki cargos, black tank top, boots, utility belt, entirely too many weapons for the current situation but sometimes, somehow, still not enough for the particular brand of nasties she hunted — with her short brown ponytail swishing behind her. “What can we do to help, girls?” She always called them girls, despite Cheryl being thirty-eight and Dillon nearly twenty-one; she was the second oldest in Cheryl’s friend group at forty-eight. “Where’s — oh, Daisy,” she gasped.

Dillon raised an eyebrow. The fresh piercing did not like the motion and she winced. “We?”

Denise’s veritable army filed in — Charlotte, Dottie, Regina, Joyce — followed by Cheryl’s pack, or at least the ones who were off work. Dillon counted ten people in total, but then Bailey, her mother’s newest (and shortest, clocking in at two whole inches taller than Dillon) packmate, squeezed out of the crowd to hoist Daisy into her arms and move her to the couch so she could at least be a corpse with dignity.

No, not corpse, that was a bad thought, and Dillon didn’t need to be thinking those things lest they come to pass.

Eleven people had dropped everything they were doing and hauled ass to the Monroe house. For Daisy. Dillon quickly wiped the tears from her eyes and swore. She’d already put eyeliner on that morning. Fuck.

“Move, bitches!” Moira’s voice was the most heavenly sound, bellowing over the din of the gathered crowd’s planning and brainstorming. Regina didn’t even chastise her daughter for her piss-poor manners. Not with bigger things to worry about. The familiar jingle of her best friend’s heavy pants was the only warning Dillon got before she was tackled nearly off her feet in a tight hug. Her shoulder-length shock of pink hair enveloped Dillon in the familiar comfort of strawberry sparkle body spray. “Show me what to read, Pugsley.” They’d called each other Wednesday and Pugsley for as long as Dillon could remember, because even when they wanted to kill each other, deep down they had an unbreakable bond. Moira dropped her voice to a stage whisper. “I brought the sacrifices.”

“Please don’t sacrifice us,” Faith quipped, dropping an armload of books next to Dillon’s.

Rosie, ever the perfect twin, was right behind her with an entire basket of baked goods and other snacks. “Mmhm, we’d be really rotten sacrifices. Scream the whole time. Mom and the other church ladies sent this, we were at Bible study.”

“When Daisy wakes up, I’m so thanking her for picking today to pull a Princess Aurora.” Dillon appreciated the when, and knew Faith picked the word on purpose. When was certain. When was sure.

Bonnie dropped her backpack in the only empty spot left on the table. She was the most recent addition to their friend group, having been dragged in by the twins a year prior when they met her in the local used book store. They liked her vibe, and thus Bonnie Lucas was adopted into the fold. “My cousin’s in town. You know, the one that’s spooky by our standards,” she explained, pulling out beat-up notebooks that smelled like incense and books that looked like they might have been bound in human skin.

“Damien?” Moira grimaced. It took a lot to make her cringe, but Bonnie’s cousin was definitely a lot.

Bonnie snorted. “Yeah, Eugene. Don’t call him Damien, it makes his ego annoying. Anyway, apparently he’s a necromancer for a private firm that like, brings rich old people back from the dead for succession issues, or whatever.” She scrunched up her nose. “Sorry, ‘resurrectionist’” she mocked. “He said it sounds like your ritual is wearing off.”

“What do you mean ‘wearing off’? I put her soul back in her body and she’s been taking really good care of herself,” Dillon sputtered.

“Yeah, he said you’re a fucking badass for managing it without any training whatsoever, by the way. And if you want a job that pays better than night stocking at Sprawlmart, he’ll vouch for you,” Bonnie replied idly as she flipped through her cousin’s books. “Here, look.” She set one of the possibly-skin books in front of Dillon and pointed to the page she was looking at. “This isn’t the same book you used, but see how this one says it lasts… five years, but in really pretentious magic terms? There should be a follow-up ritual in your book.”

Dillon looked through the pile of books on the table for the one the mysterious graveyard woman left behind, then thumbed through the pages until she found her ritual — still as vague as ever — and turned one more page. There it was right at the top, in bolder lettering than the rest:

TO BE EXECUTED BEFORE THE THIRD ANNIVERSARY OF RISING.

“Fuck,” she sobbed, quickly turning her head so the escaping tear wouldn’t damage the pages any further.

Moira looked up from the thick tome she was digging through. “Why can’t she just use that other one? It lasts longer.”

“Because it has to be the ritual specifically designed to follow the one used to bring back the person in the first place,” Bonnie explained, holding up something that looked like a textbook.

Rosie cocked her head and pushed her glasses up with a finger when they threatened to fall off with the motion. “And why can’t Dam— uh, Eugene do it?”

“Because he’s a fucking prick,” Moira scoffed.

“Because he probably costs money we don’t have,” Dillon corrected.

“You’re both right, but also wrong. Dillon has to do it. It’s her energy binding Daisy’s soul to her body.”

Faith furrowed her brows. “Well, why can’t we just let, ugh, this sounds so insensitive, Dill, I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath. “Why can’t we just let Daisy… uh, leave and then someone else can bring her back with a ritual that lasts longer?”

Dillon felt her heart shatter as Bonnie’s RBF softened like butter next to an oven. “If her soul gets detached, that’s it. Game over. People can only be resurrected once per reincarnation. She has to be refreshed by the third anniversary of her resurrection, by Dillon, out of that book, or Daisy’s gone for real this time.” Her lip wobbled, but the mask was back before Dillon could blink. “I’m really sorry, Dill. I wish I knew sooner.”

The twins called over the group before Dillon could tell them not to. They were just trying to help. Everyone was just trying to help, but their help was overwhelming, and she felt the heartbreak of inadequacy roiling within her. She couldn’t figure out the problem herself, other people had to step in and fix the mess she made, because she was stupid, and weak, and—

“Hey, stop,” Moira urged softly, pulling her into a hug to shield her from view. “You haven’t fucked around with magic in two years, Pugs, and you fucked around with it before without knowing anything about it. You can ask for help with this.”

She couldn’t, though, this was her mess, and her sister —

“You know Daisy would tell you the same thing, Dillon, you know she would.” Moira pushed her away to dab her sleeve under Dillon’s eyes. “Would I lie to you?”

She wouldn’t, and she was right. Dillon shook her head and looked up at the expectant crowd. “I have to—” Her voice cracked as she choked on a thousand emotions all at once. “I need—”

Moira stepped up and placed her hands on her best friend’s shoulders. “Daisy’s batteries are losing their juice, folks, that’s all,” she announced with all the confidence of a lighthouse in a storm. “Pugsley here just needs to reset her zombie clock, and we have a few months for her to train before Daisy goes critical.”

“What happens in a few months?” Cheryl asked.

Dillon tried to look everywhere but directly at her mom, but the tears came anyway, because no matter where she looked, she saw family. “We lose Daisy.”

“Ah, shit.” Regina’s brows sank as she dropped down to Dillon’s level and wrapped her in a hug. “We’re not gonna lose Daisy, pickle, you’re both Monroes. Monroe girls are unstoppable,” she cooed, peppering the top of Dillon’s head with kisses. She was the only other person that could call her ‘pickle’ and get away with it; she’d been Aunt Reggie since Dillon and Moira met in preschool and bonded over a vampire cartoon they both loved. Daisy and McKinleigh, Moira’s older sister, becoming fast friends sealed her place as an honorary Monroe. She could use Cheryl’s dumb nicknames if she wanted.

Her hair tickled Dillon’s neck and ears, and when she turned her head to escape it, she only managed to get the black shoulder-length waterfall up her nose. She tried not to sneeze on Regina’s very nice fleece jacket, even though she knew she was already smearing the remnants of her eyeliner all over her shoulder, but she couldn’t fight it. She bruised the bridge of her nose on Regina’s shoulder.

“D’you get snot on my jacket, missy?”

“Sorry, Aunt Reggie,” Dillon grumbled, wiping at the spot with her own hoodie sleeve.

A small noise in the living room drew everyone’s attention, and from the immediate, ecstatic uproar, Dillon knew Daisy was awake. “I need to tell her,” she insisted. “I need to be the one she hears it from. I brought her back, this is my—” Moira yanked a handful of her hair, knowing damn well what was about to come out of her mouth. “This is my thing.” Not much better than blaming herself, but at least Moira didn’t pull her hair again.

Regina let her go to start shooing people out of the house. Denise and a few of Cheryl’s packmates stayed behind ‘to help out around the house,’ which was code for ‘Cheryl didn’t want to be alone but was too proud to ask in front of a crowd.’

Dillon found Daisy sitting up on the couch, staring absently out the window and clutching a blanket to her chest. She looked confused, lost, unsure how she got there and where she was in the first place. “Daisy?” She perched as carefully as possible on the edge of the cushions, caging her sister between herself and the back of the couch. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I fainted in the kitchen and got hit by a train,” Daisy replied. She sounded distant, and when she finally turned to look at Dillon, her eyes weren’t as clear as they usually were. Was she going blind? “Did everybody come here for me?”

Dillon nodded. “Yeah, you had us worried for a second.” How did she even approach the subject? She couldn’t just say ‘hey, so, you’re dying, sorry.’ There wasn’t a segue in the world that would cushion that blow enough.

Lucky for her, she didn’t have to come up with one. “I’m dying, aren’t I?” Daisy was so matter-of-fact, so calm, so… accepting about it, it broke Dillon’s heart all over again. “I’ve felt a little off all week, but I didn’t want to worry anybody.”

“Daze, you can’t do that anymore. This isn’t a head cold you can sleep off.” Dillon took a deep breath to stave off the tears. She needed to be brave. Daisy was facing her second death with grace and—

“I’m scared, Dill,” she said softly.

So much for sucking it up. After several agonizing minutes of painful sobs wracking her body, she found herself leaning heavily against Daisy, her sister’s arm wrapped protectively over her shoulders and cradling Dillon against her collarbone while she played with her messy mop of hair, brushing out the tangles. Daisy was comforting her, when she should have been the one comforting her sister. “I just have to do another ritual to refresh your binding, or whatever, but I’m scared, too.”

“Because you haven’t messed with the magic stuff since Brett?”

Dillon made a noise in her chest.

“Mom told me what happened,” Daisy sighed, holding Dillon tighter so she couldn’t whip a betrayed look at Cheryl. “I asked, Dill. You know she can’t lie to us, it would break her. You scared yourself, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t try to… to—”

“Turn his guts into a smoothie?”

A bitter snort snuck its way out. “Yeah. That. I didn’t tell it to do that, I was just… angry. I was so angry, and I just wanted to shut him up, and I put my hand out like—” She repeated the motion from the woods, slicing her hand through the air in front of her. Nothing happened. She didn’t know why she expected anything different. “But it hurt, Daze. It hurt bad.”

Daisy hummed. “Maybe because you used it as a weapon, and a really big one at that. You’ll tear muscles if you try to sprint a mile without training or stretching. Magic is the same thing, isn’t it? Just using a muscle to bend the world to your will?”

Dillon shrugged.

“How long do we have?”

“Until next July. The twentieth. The ritual only lasts three years, and we can’t use a different one to make it last longer.” Dillon knitted her brows. “I’m so stupid, I should have studied it more and maybe I would have known that and picked a different one, or—”

Daisy shushed her with a squeeze. It wasn’t as strong as her hugs used to be. “It’s fine, Dill. I believe in you,” she said, with all the confidence she could muster in her weakened state. “You did it once, right? You can do it again. And even if you can’t, if the worst comes to pass, I won’t be upset. I got to see my family again and spend a few more years with you, and I’ll get to say goodbye this time. You gave me that, you know?”

Dillon’s lip wobbled. Her throat seized around everything she wanted to say and everything she couldn’t find the words for. She had to do it now. She had to, and she would.

Because Daisy believed she could.

Arsonist Chronicles Taglist: @sparatus @thetrashbagswasteland @writernopal @tabswrites @starknstarwars @asher-orion-writes @captain-kraken @teamdilf

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[slayingstan]

CHICAGO

| I was surprised to see, that a woman like that was really into me. |

Riri's POV: 

Riri had been in Wakanda for a couple weeks now, she was there helping Shuri develop ways to advance the 'Midnight Angels" suits. She has a habit of singing when she works and she has been in choir for years. Even though she doesn't sing many church songs anymore her voice is still amazing.

For the past couple days she's been singing tons of Michael Jackson. Every Era. She has been making Shuri listen to it as well, Shuri didn't listen to a lot of Pop, she enjoyed playing instruments instead. She played violin, piano, and electric guitar. Yet, Riri didn't know that. The constant exercise of her fingers came with many perks, but one was being able to type extremely fast. She has to invent a new keyboard for herself because of how fast she types, but once she was finished with her daily work she always took Riri to her wing of the palace. There was tons of space. 

As they walked into Shuri's highly decorated room, the princess asked "What's that song you've been singing."

Riri couldn't answer this question, she had been singing a lot. "I don't know? I've been singing all week."

Shuri huffed, and she let out the most vicious screech that contained some of the lyrics of Chicago by Michael Jackson. "I was dun dunnn to seee, la la la into meee."

Within seconds Riri was coughing and her jaw was locking from laughing so hard.

"Please don't ever sing again! I don't even recognize whatever the hell you just sung." Riri laughed through her sentence.

"I'm going to play it, since you seem to not know. Its so simple Riri." Shuri rolled her eyes as Riri continued to laugh at her efforts.

"Come now." Shuri guided Riri to an outlined wall with a little screen on it, she held her Kimoyo beads up to it and it opened. It was a room filled with instruments. Guitars hung on the walls, along side keyboards, as well as assorted records. On the floor was a drum set, and a purple Steinway piano that was surrounded by velvet ropes, and a couple of swivel chairs.

"Sit." Shuri looked at the amazed face of Riri as she spoke.

"Where did you get all of this? Do you play all of this? How much is all of this worth." Riri began to flood with questions.

"You didn't answer my question, I'm not answering yours." Shuri spoke as she grabbed a 1961 Vintage Stratocaster off of the wall, along with the a cord. 

"You play that don't you?" Riri looked to her for an answer and Shuri just smiled.

Shuri plugged it into a speaker, and sat next to it in a swivel chair and she began to tune it. 

"Who taught you to do all of this, you amaze me everyday." Riri questioned.

"My brother was a musical prodigy, most of this stuff is his. He needed a place to put it, so I let him keep all these things here in return for full access to it all. He taught me how to read music, and play just about everything. I play everything in here except that piano." There was a tinge of sadness as she spoke and looked over to the grand piano. She felt like she could still see and hear her brother playing it, now the piano sat untouched behind velvet ropes. Never to be played again.

Riri sighed softly, the two sat in a comfortable silence. Understanding was never a challenge between them two.

Suddenly Shuri plucked a string of the guitar, and it let out a roaring noise. Riri jumped a bit. Shuri played a quick warm up melody. 

"I haven't played guitar in a while, I hope I'm not rusty. Now time to play that song." Shuri played some chords that were recognizable, as she tried to get an idea of the song.

"Alright here we go." She began to play the chorus of 'Chicago' and Riri instantly caught on.

"This girl she had to be, an angel sent from heaven just for me. She said she didn't have no man raised the kids the very best she can." Riri sung with the guitar. Shuri began to sing the ad libs, the only part she seemed to be good at.

Shuri decided to throw in a guitar solo, purly for the purpose to showing off. She played until she noticed she cut one of her fingers and started to get blood on the guitar. 

"That was a sign for you to stop being such a show off." Riri joked. 

Shuri hastily wrapped her finger with bandage, and used a cleaning wipe on the body of the guitar. She laughed at Riri's joke. 

"Eh, I don't think I will ever stop trying to one up you. Let's get out of here. " Shuri smiled.

Shuri grabbed Riri's hand and lead her out of the room back into the main bedroom.

[the-fiction-witch]

Dec 21st The Christmas Deal

Media pistol

Character Malcolm

Couple Malcolm X Reader

Rating kinda dark and sad + funny

21st of December 2022

I smiled widely as I worked on the little tree, making sure it looked pretty but also doing my best to make sure the children were happy, Joseph happily helped but adding things to the tree, little Bridget on my hip with a bauble in her hand enjoying its sweet sparkle.

I heard the keys in the door, "Ohh whos that?" I giggled 

"Papa!" Little Bridget giggled 

"Hi daddy" Joseph smiled as the door opened revealing Malcolm who dumped his keys in the pot beside the door and began slipping off his jacket 

"Hello, Malcolm. How was work?"

"Fine" he sighed coming through to the living room and giving josephs hair a tussle "Real son" and gave my cheek a kiss taking Bridget from me to give her a cuddle "Daughter. oh god what has happened to your head?"

"I braided her hair"

"why?"

"She wanted a little rapunzel plait didn't you darling" 

"Yeah!"

"Whatever" he sighed going and opening the window getting himself a cigarette "what are you doing anyway?'

"Putting up the tree."

"Really?"

"Course."

"Aren't you gonna help daddy?" Joseph asked

"No I am not."

"Why not papa?" Bridget whined

"Christmas is an overhyped over glorified cash cow only pushed so hard so companies make money. Linked with a coopted holiday in an attempt at religious reeducation"

"Malcolm" I warned

"No no. Let me do this" he says "Christmas is nothing. It started as a Roman feast to get pissed and cross dress. It didn't catch on too well in Europe given the pagan grasp on the area at the time, celebrating yule once again an excuse to go into the woods burn shit and get drunk, once Christianity came along it wasn't all peace, love and Goodwill no this was back when Christianity had some balls. Slaughtering Catholics and burning witches but given how widespread the various roots of paganism where people refused to part with the pagan parties so in a moment of corrupted genius they combined the birth of Christ with Yule. Knowone has any clue when Jesus was born let alone it having anything to do with a manger, they simply coopted the holiday and made the tradition of burning the biggest tree into lighting the tree with candles and sparkling things, people continued to get drunk as was the holidays main focus, at times drunk mobs would take over streets demanding the best foods and wines for grand stolen feasts. In fact Christmas was so disliked and had such a bad rap for drunken madness it was banned in various American colonies it's only after years of slow introduction all these symbols and festivities seeped into popular culture, but the whole idea from the tree, to lights, to the presents to simply the songs sung its all bullish with a horrible history that's been taken in by greedy stores and religious figures to demand conformity and make money. You imagine the kinda money from donations alone the church makes at Christmas, or how much money just from trees stores make. So excuse me if I want no part in your madness"

Bridget began to cry and Joseph sat on the floor teary eyed

"Malcolm. A word." I snapped putting Bridget down

"Why?" He asked and I didn't even speak I just grabbed his ear and janked him into the kitchen

"What the fuck!"

"What?"

"The fuck was that!"

"You know how I feel about this type of shit."

"Yeah I do. Doesn't mean you have to be a fucking cunt about it"

"What's your problems. I do the same for every holiday you've never had an issue before"

"Because Malcolm Christmas is different"

"Oh what you really doing this?"

"Malcolm. I don't give a shit. I had my happy holidays when I was little and honestly I think your kinda bang on with alot of the corruption of the industry but" I explained "Joseph and Bridget are kids."

"So? Let them learn while there young"

"Malcolm. Please." I told him "I don't ask for much. I accept we don't celebrate the holidays especially religious ones but please let the kids have Christmas. We both know Joseph hasn't had anything close to a normal life and likely never will. Neither will Bridget. But they love it just let them have it Malcolm please"

"..... Fine" he rolled his eyes

"Ummm thank you" I smiled hugging him closely "knowone said our Christmas had to be normal we'll make it special all our own"

"Alright. On one condition."

"What?"

"I get to make you an advent calendar"

".... okay."

"And whatever it says behind each door. You have to do for me."

"Fine"

"Yes!" He smirked "I know exactly what's coming on the twenty fifth!"

"You I assume."

"Yes."

"So we're agreed"

"Agreed"

"Good. Be nice." I remind as we headed back out to deal with the children. 

[erykatega]

I feel like a I have a bad hangover, like an emotional hangover. Im tired, sleepy, sad, and feel like a wilted flower. As much as I enjoy being home, it feels heavy sometimes. There are things that are ravaging my household members/family like alcoholism, depression, worry, anxiety, and other hardships I may or may not know about. But I feel it, like a cloud over the home. And there are a lot of reasons known or unknown to me for these feelings. I want to help them out, but I don’t want to become responsible for them, I don’t have all of the answers and to pretend that I do is so exhausting to me. But it makes me to sad to know that they could be better but are not. I want to relax at home but it’s hard to. There’s this stagnancy that I feel in the home, that I feel around me, sometimes it feels like inaction, it feels like a rut. I am also sad about my boy toy who I cannot reach, who I cannot caress, my little slice of sweetness that I cannot indulge carnally with. Im sad about a lot, im resentful for feeling like im giving a lot of myself to people around me and I feel like im bled dry. Then I have to come into work and pull out of me the same amount of output that I did last week and do everything again and again and again and again. I don’t know when I’ll see my sweetness again. I hope he remains, but I don’t know anything. And although I should revel in the bliss of not knowing, it chips at me. Im not looking forward to the next show that I’ll be in, I am mildly hoping that this new love affair continues to flourish. I want to remain hopeful and grounded. But right now, idk. idk if it’s bc I’m in between eclipses and the energy is just weird right now. But i need to break free from my rut. I feel like I need to connect with myself again. This past weekend it felt like it was for others – Friday night with amrinder, Saturday morning with my sister and family, Saturday afternoon at a coworker’s kid’s birthday party, Sunday morning at 7AM at the church that traumatized me with family, Sunday afternoon with my mom at the fair, and nik sprinkled across the weekend but no video call.

I wanted to show up for all of them. I know they’re all going through a lot. And they had special moments that they wanted others to be present for. And I wanted to show and support. My sister is going through health stuff, coworker is going through whatever she is going through, and my mom has been dealing with the worry of my youngest brother. I knew going to the fair would lend my mom a sense of respite, a bit of a distraction, which I had been meaning to do with her. I gave others a lot of me this weekend before I had to return to work and give my job what is remaining.

I don’t feel well resourced right now. Honestly, I cant really focus. I want to take a trip to LA, I want to just clear my head, I want to spend some time alone. I want to take the time to reflect on what this summer brought me, to process some emotions, to build up the courage to deal with things I’ve been putting off. I need time to recharge and reset, so I can see everything in 4k, in its clarity. When I have clarity, I feel like I have power. I can see all of the moving pieces and prioritize accordingly, I can give weight to what needs it and discard the excess. But when im in my primal cave woman brain, everything sets me off. I wish I had gone to that concert last week – or the week before. That would’ve been nice. But in a place where there is a lot to do, I can find something. Something just for me.

[lizzygrantarchives]

Flush the Fashion, June 16, 2011

Lana's strange combination of dreamy old style vocals mashed with low-fi arrangements and lush production fuses together in a beautiful but slightly haunting way. We followed the trail of broken hearts to her front door.

Lana Del Rey aka Lizzy Grant is currently putting the finishing touches to her as yet untitled new record. American born, she grew up in Lake Placid, New York before relocating to her current home in London.

Lana’s strange combination of dreamy old style vocals mashed with low-fi arrangements and lush production fuses together in a beautiful but slightly haunting way. To me it’s what a musical version of ‘Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?’ meets Larry Clark’s ‘Kids’ would sound like.

She has movie star looks and loves Italian landscapes, big churches and roller coasters and if her new record is only half as good as the ‘Video Games’ single then it will be one worth looking out for. We followed the trail of broken hearts to her front door.

How long have you been writing songs?

For a very long time – since I was 11. I was also the leader of my church choir from when I was 11 onward.

I heard Video Games described as ‘Hollywood Sad Core’, what is the rest of the record like?

The concept of almost every song on the record is a dark love story seen through hopeful eyes. Lyrically its also about the way my life’s been for the past few years – from making my first record with famed producer David while living in a trailer park in New Jersey.

It’s also about my troubled love affairs.

Sonically, the record is a perfect mix of Old Hollywood glamour and pop production. Most songs are laced with lush Sinatra string sections. But the bones of the songs are based in fat beats.

Think Nina Simone singing a Cat Power song over Lil Wayne’s track. It’s sick.

Who are you working with on the record?

So many people have been involved in making this record – notably Liam Howe, Chris Braide, Emile Hayney, Justin Parker.

How involved musically are you in the studio?

I am the dominating factor in the studio – I’m very particular and I know exactly what I want. I am a writer first and a singer second. I always have a vision for the final outcome and for what I want sonically. I write the lyrics and melodies to most everything with the exception of certain songs and verses. What is most helpful to me in the studio is a talented composer or a sick producer.

Do you have a title for the record yet?

I have four titles that are always in rotation in my mind:

1. G.B.A (God Bless America) 2. Do U Luv Me Yet? 3. The Best of Lana Del Rey 4. The World is Ours

Do you have any plans to tour once the record has been released?

Yes of course. It will be good to be back on the stage. We have big plans for touring Europe and a wonderful company we’ll be working with. The single is so very dark and has been resonating with a bigger audience in Eastern Europe than anywhere else.

What is your favorite film noir movie(s)?

Sunset Blvd or The Big Sleep.

Where is the most beautiful place in Italy?

Venice, of course … but nowhere’s as beautiful as New York or Hollywood!

Originally published on flushthefashion.com with the headline Lana Del Rey – Hollywood Sadcore.

[lindajenni]

oct 25

faith is a fact but faith is an act

"show me your faith without your works, and i will show you my faith by my works." jam 2:18

i’ve heard the old saying that “life is not a bed of roses” for as long as i can remember. i understand what it’s trying to convey but i’ve also thought that it would not really be all that great to lay down on a bed of sharp thorns. nevertheless, it’s safe to say our journey will have its ups and downs and unfortunately, most of us will experience our share of hard times.

whether it’s a financial worry, a medical situation, family problems, a concern for the world, or just being discouraged from the relentless grind of our job, life can be tough. however, in the midst of all that is going on, we can always turn to God who is filled with an endless source of strength, hope, and love. we can choose to embrace the encouraging truth that God cares about our problems and how He has the power and the solutions to give us the victory no matter the size of our mountain or how dark the night. “and God is able to bless you abundantly, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work.” 2 cor 9:8

yes, there are bumps in the road that can help us learn about faith and patience but whatever the crisis it was not God’s intention for us to dwell in a state of defeat. in spite of being surrounded by negative forces, we have been given the opportunity through Christ to abide in His presence where there is an abundance of joy, security, and peace. in john chapter ten and verse ten and eleven we find the words of Christ, “the thief comes not but for to steal, and to kill, and to destroy: but I have come that you might have life and that you might have it more abundantly. i am the Good Shepherd: the Good Shepherd gives his life for the sheep.” whatever the situation, He has promised that He wants to save you and bring you through your trials stronger and more confident than ever.

the concept of God supplying our needs is wonderful but there is also a very important component to receiving His abundant blessings and that is our responsibility to believe. if we do not have faith, it’s not only impossible to please Him but highly unlikely that His miracles can be activated into our life. in jeremiah chapter 29, we see in verse 11 that we are always on His mind and He has planned very good things for us to enjoy. but continuing in the context, the next two verses mention for us to take the initiative to call upon Him, pray, and seek His presence with all of our heart which of course includes the element of trust and assurance.

i recall a story about a small farming community that had been experiencing a terrible drought. the crops were dying in the fields and everyone was very worried because this is how they made their living. the pastor of the local church called a special prayer service for all the people of the town to gather in front of the church and spend some time agreeing in faith that God would send some rain. many people arrived and you could sense the seriousness among the crowd. as the pastor was getting ready to begin the meeting, he noticed a young girl standing quietly in the front. her face was beaming with excitement and then he saw beside her, open and ready for use, was a large colorful umbrella.

as he stared at the umbrella, he was a little ashamed that he did not bring one but also felt a sudden surge of hope and confidence. the little girl’s childlike innocence warmed his heart as he realized how much faith she possessed. though the town had come together to pray for rain, it seemed no one else had thought that maybe they should bring an umbrella to keep from getting wet.

a life without a positive expectation and a hopeful anticipation of goodness is an example of the miserable pessimist who abides in the shadows of fear and sadness. the world and even our own human nature is constantly telling us it’s impossible, it’s risky, it’s hopeless, but we will believe that nothing is too difficult for God and all things are possible with Him.

believe today. believe God for mighty acts, but in believing, act accordingly. "but let him ask in faith, with no doubting, for he who doubts is like a wave of the sea driven and tossed by the wind. for let not that man suppose that he will receive anything from the Lord; he is a double-minded man, unstable in all his ways." james 1:6-8

good old james. he added action to his faith, practicality and common sense took second place.

[soul-dwelling]

I dunno Vigilantes, atleast at the beggining had such a lowkey vibe that it in a weird way just feels better as a manga. Maybe its just the way I experienced it - on lazy Sundays when a few chapter had amased during my college days, just staying inside or finishing just in time for some church gathering or other student event

Oh, jeez, do I have conflicting feelings about Vigilantes. 

I’m kind of irritated right now, so maybe I’ll recant some complaints later--but I’ll give my thoughts on Vigilantes. 

Spoilers below. 

Content warning about representations of mind control, brainwashing, and coded implications of rape. 

So, short version: yeah, it works better as a manga (although it drags way too much in the final arc); if I sat through this as an anime and got _that_ ending, I’d be pissed, whereas skimming 126 chapters is a faster way of doing it; and if this was an anime, it would frustrate fans who would ask, “You mean you could’ve just adapted the Aizawa and Oboro story from Vigilantes into the main MHA anime instead of shoe-horning Oboro out of nowhere and saving him for a subpar Vigilantes anime storyline?”

I enjoyed Vigilantes--initially. 

Then the last fight dragged on. (On a monthly schedule, it felt even worse, and that pretty much broke me when it just wouldn’t end already.) 

And we again reduce a girl/woman character to be the victim that the leading man has to save. 

And almost nothing significant changes after that final arc wraps up: our lead is still a foul-up. Any indication of character progression is sapped amongst our main trio. Crawler still sucks at superheroics despite his incredible saves. (No one pulled this kid away from reporters until he could be trained in marketing, public persona, and speaking one of the major languages where he was now working?) Pop is still a sad sack in love with a man who will not return that love. And Knuckleduster is again trying to get someone young killed by his training regiment. (I do love his Midnighter aesthetic.)

…And somehow Makoto is one of the most tiresome characters I have seen lately in fiction. 

How can one character like Makoto feel like a giant walking deus ex machina? It’d work if there was more of a wink to the camera at how easy everything comes to her and how easily she solves everyone’s problems--but it isn’t there. She’s not an Izuku where his solutions for others more or less come naturally to him. She’s not a Momo where the joke is how much access to privilege she has, thus that it helps her put into action her genius. 

No, it’s just Makoto is here whenever the story needs her to be here, for whatever purpose, whether to advance someone else’s characterization, or to solve the problem that is the plot itself by her mere presence and collection of qualities (police detective’s sibling, college student, practically in charge of Captain Celebrity’s entire hero agency and corporation, best-selling author). 

And all just to set up the awful gag of, “She is in love with our dumbass protagonist.” Ugh. 

She’s here to barely advance her brother’s characterization--by just making him the typical cop (obstinate, ignorant, foolish) that runs counter to anything we saw between him and All Might in the main manga, before she gets to work solving Captain Celebrity’s problems, the department store’s problems, creating a career for Pop (so that Makoto’s exit speeds up how Pop’s rise falls apart, putting her into the position where she will get kidnapped, tortured, mind-raped and based on visual clues probably literally raped--because why not have your fucking comic just get gross). 

(I know this is a superhero story where you don’t need things to be realistic--but the idea that someone in her position can publish her dissertation and turn it into a common-parlance coffee table book to get herself interviews on late night talk shows isn’t just unrealistic, it’s not believable, even in a series that up to now has made superheroics so mainstream that I should think, “Of course her academic book would find a wide audience.” Based on my experiences working in academia, even the most popular research-based non-fiction academic book doesn’t get as wide an audience or this many sales. It’s not even like Makoto’s book is novel in some way: see Nick Sousanis's Unflattening, his dissertation told through the form of a comic book/graphic novel, which he then got published. I would stop nitpicking Makoto’s publication success if the story gave her one more untapped talent, that being that she is an excellent illustrator and comic book artist, if it turned out her dissertation-turned-book was also a comic--which would be a genius ploy by the story to emphasize that, you know, this is a freaking comic book that you’re reading.)

And I complained about the ending, and the lack of character progression--but, again, when your ending is just showing that nothing changes for your main characters because they remain the same even after all they went through, I don’t care. I mean, does Pop change at all? We can see she is devastated by what happened--and then we time skip away from that and still have her thinking about Crawler. We barely get to see the aftermath because heaven forbid you confront more directly that trauma is fucking hard to live with. We even repeat the same gag from the first chapter, so nothing changes with Knuckleduster (and how the fuck did he survive repeated deaths--I know I just said this has to be believable, not realistic, but when you have his daughter seeing the shooting star and then, “LOL, no, he isn’t really dead”). 

I know there are enough fans who didn’t like how Vigilantes handled All For One, and I can only guess there are probably complaints how some MHA characters differ in characterization or design--but I honestly liked most of that. 

I mean, I hate the Aizawa story (“here is a long story to tell you why Aizawa is what he’s like”...as if you couldn’t figure out enough of that without that story--and then finding out that story exists just to add drama for him and Kurogiri and, fuck, I don’t care). 

And, yeah, Midnight’s behavior is…problematic. 

But seeing what Mirko, Rappa, and Fatgum were up to was fun. 

I did enjoy most of Crawler’s progression--until that final arc, where suddenly it’s more stupid love triangle shit and mind-raping (literally raping?) Pop to up the stakes when Six’s antics are already enough to up the stakes because of course a good guy like Crawler would stop the villain, so why are we again going for “rape makes this more dramatic” and “(almost) killing the girl lead makes this more dramatic”? 

*sigh* 

So, yeah, I don’t know how to wrap this up, beyond looking to what comes after Vigilantes in two parts. 

First, I hope the best for the Vigilantes creative team on their latest project: an official Marvel comic where Dr. Octopus is reincarnated as a young girl. On the one hand, they figured out enough of Peter Parker’s life and skill set with the Crawler, so they’ll probably nail that (and just how pathetic and annoying Parker can be). On the other hand…I mean, this manga could somehow have a worse ending than Vigilantes--hard to pull off, but given how badly Vigilantes ended, not impossible. 

Second, as I said before, I really would rather not have BONES animate this. Give it to Trigger. Yeah, I’m not a big Trigger fan. But given how cartoony, action-packed, and problematic Vigilantes can be, all of that seems to fit the style and tropes Trigger keeps using. (It’s almost like Court and Furahashi designed Midnight’s outfit as if to beg that studio to animate the series.)

[a-purely-objective-frog]

Hey dude I'm just a lil older than you and you remind me a lot of me (can u tell I'm going through your blog lol) and I just wanna assure you that shit gets better. It really does. Being born in the church, esp AFAB and queer, really deeply fucks with your perception of the world and yourself and I can't undo that for you but I see you hurting and I want to help.

As a kid I felt like my entire life was laid out before me, a train track from primary to yw to marriage (straight marriage! In the temple! Ha!) and that I had no choice in the matter. And the other kids seemed to want that, there was no precedent for how I felt, and I was already an outcast so I didn't say anything. And I was scared that I would always be to scared to say anything. Scared that I was enough of a doormat to just say yes to the things expected of me until the day I caved and killed myself. I couldn't imagine living that life (marriage, kids, church) and so I figured I would simply die. Not a good plan, kids.

I vibed in PIMO spaces for a long time (I never actually believed in the church but that's a long story) and so I'm familiar with the intensity of that pressure. And the fear of becoming even more of a social outcast, or just trying to avoid all the shit people talk when you leave keeps you in. It feels like a feedback loop. And you get good at it. I got compliments on the strength of my (non-existent) testimony. All of my social circles, my family, my friends, my coworkers, were all Mormon and knew me as a Mormon. It was suffocating.

Everything about Mormonism is suffocating to me. Your body isn't yours, it's a gift from God that you must keep in pristine condition. Your journals aren't yours, you keep them for your descendants to read so they can know the strength of your faith or whatever. Your desire isn't yours, it's the devil's, or the "natural man's" and you must purge those things that are not godly. Your time isn't yours, it's God's, so you clean the church and do FHE and go to church and watch conference. Your hands don't work for you but for God and 10% of your wages go straight to him. Bullshit

I wasted a lot of years in the church, being scared and being quiet and being unhappy. And you know what, my good dude? I'm never getting those years back either. But it doesn't fucking matter. It's so easy, I think, at 18 to believe your life is over. You don't think that in your mind but somewhere in your heart you believe that this is the end of all things. In some ways it is. Your childhood is dead. The paths laid out before you have ended and now you must make your own. Everyone says 18 is a magical age where you become an adult but that's also bullshit. It's the first time that your entire life flips on its head and you have all this new responsibility dropped on you, maybe, but you aren't magically an adult now.

We are still so young, my guy, we're babies. I feel like 18 was a lifetime ago when in reality it only barely ended. Mourning your childhood, or some lost ideal childhood is normal, I did it too. In many ways I still am. Allow yourself to grieve. Be angry, be sad, miss what you had and yearn for what you didn't, cry for your younger self, be angry on their behalf, imagine what you would do if you could go back and protect them. It helps, I think.

When I was very young, before I knew words like "depression" and "mood disorder" I explained my sadness like a sunset. Like the darkness had come so quietly and gradually, and I was so busy, that I didn't even notice I had lost my color vision until the streetlights came on. And I wandered through the night for years, every glimmer of light seemed to me to finally be the sunrise, but they were only streetlights, and every swath of darkness between patches of light seemed darker than the last. The sunrise doesn't come all at once like a streetlight. The darkness you are in is going to take a while to lighten, but it will. When I was a kid I thought platitudes like that couldn't possibly apply to me. I thought I was different, or broken, in some fundamental way. What I was, was young.

I had no experience with things getting better so on some level I didn't think it would happen. And then I got out of the mire of the church, and I got better. The sun started to rise. One day I looked back and realized I didn't want to be 15 again. One day I looked back and realized didn't miss high school. I found things I loved, new things to look forward to rather than always looking back. I was so sad for so long it was hard to figure out how to be any other way.

Have you heard that anecdote about elephants? That you train an adult elephant to stay by tying it to a post as a baby, and it will try to get away until it finally realizes it can't, and then it will give up. Permanently. As it grows it will defer to the post still, firm in the belief that the post is immovable, even as it becomes too strong for any post to hold it. The elephant may be stronger than the post, but the idea of the post is stronger than the elephant, so it's trapped.

And it's hard, it can be so miserable and so dark. I read my journals from when I was 18 and I remember how much pain I was in. How scared I was, how much I missed my childhood, how lost I felt. I just want to give her a hug and tell her she'll be ok. However shit you feel right now your future self is looking back and wishing they could help you, they're rooting for you, and so am I.

This got so fucking long and so out of hand but suffice it to say you haven't wasted your life. You've barely started it. And shit really does get better. Dude it gets so much better you can't even imagine. You aren't locked in.

Tell me right now, your favorite band, favorite color, favorite songs, books, movies, authors, artists. And come back in 6 months and say oh, no, I've discovered something new about the world or about myself, so gradually I didn't even notice, and these are my new favorites. And then do it in a year. 2 years. And I'll come back to this post in 6 months and cringe and ask "what was she doing trying to impart wisdom, blind leading the blind look at these children". Because that's what we are, dude, children.

Anyways sorry this was so long winded and I hope I'm not overstepping or anything and you don't have to read all of it the tldr is HOPE and I'm so excited for you. You've got a lot of awesome shit coming dude, maybe it's gonna take a minute but hey, it's gonna be so worth it

i suppose this fits here but i just needed to get shit off my chest.

the idea of growing up terrifies me now. im 18 finally and ive graduated high school and i have a job and its not what i thought it would be. i dont remember the details, but i woke up thrashing and panicking this morning over. some dream that had something to do with growing up. i spent my whole goddamn life trying to get to this point as fast as i could, because it was the only way i could see to break out of my parents rules and restrictions and finally be free and be myself without fear.

and. now i made it. im here, i did it, and. id give anything to go back. i wasted so much time, so much energy, being afraid and letting that fear control me and focusing only on this one nebulous far off goal that i wasted my life. i missed every opportunity that might have been there had i decided to just stick up for myself instead. i already had a fucked up high school experience and i made it worse for myself out of fear.

im never getting those years back.

ive already lost so much to the way i was raised in the mormon church and now this, by proxy but still at my own hand, and its. i dont know. it makes me sick. i only ever wanted to be normal and this is what i fucking got and theres nothing i can do about it. my whole life was stolen from me because of this church, be it directly or indirectly and theres nothing i can do about it.

[comradecowplant]

KILLING EVE SEASON 4, LET'S FUCKING GOOOOO!!!

[riotlain]

Carl Grimes Fluff Alphabet

Me when i lobe him sm

THIS IS A NWLNW BLOG!! WOMEN DNI

--------------------------

A ctivities - What do they like to do with their s/o? How do they spend their free time with them?

Theres not alot of free time during the end of the world and surviving and all. But he enjoys just doing whatever with you around.

Reading comics? Hell yea! Just laying together in silence? Alrighty!!

B eauty - What do they admire about their s/o? What do they think is beautiful about them?

Physically he enjoys your eyes. Carl just loves staring into your eyes. He doesn't know why but its calming. He also loves your hands. Doesn't matter how they feel. He just enjoys holding them.

He admires your passion. Your interests, your deep thoughts. Carl just loves to listen to you ramble whenever he can listen to it.

C omfort - How would they help their s/o when they feel down/have a panic attack etc.?

He's not good with emotions himself. The apocalypse never really taught him how to comfort I guess.

He's there by your side when you need it and will try to calm you down and talk you through it. Unless you want alone time, he wont leave your side.

D reams - How do they picture their future with their s/o?

Carl knows he shouldn't, but he cant help but dream of a future with you and a small family.

He would love to grow old with you but you both know this'll never happen.

E qual - Are they the dominant one in the relationship, or rather passive?

Mainly leaning towards dominant I guess. Of course he gets rather dominant when he's being protective, telling you to stay put or something.

But he also listens to your thoughts and opinions alot and will go with what you say at times.

F ight - Would they be easy to forgive their s/o? How are they fighting?

Yes he's very easy to forgive you. Any day you could die so he can never stay mad forever.

When you get into big big fights tho, he will probably yell honestly. When you get upset he will ask Rick or Michonne for advice.

G ratitude - How grateful are they in general? Are they aware of what their s/o is doing for them?

Its the end of the world, OF COURSE HES VERY GRATEFUL OF YOUR EXISTENCE

Like bro will literally go one rambles about how grateful he is to have you just for no reason. He loves you sm

H onesty - Do they have secrets they hide from their s/o? Or do they share everything?

No. Nothin to really hide. He doesn't tell you everything everything. But he tells you most things on his mind.

I nspiration - Did their s/o change them somehow, or the other way around? Like trying out new things or helped them overcome personal problems?

You helped him accept the fact that he can show when he's sad instead of bottling it up

He has the mindset of "People have been through worse so i'm not worth hearing" and you really help him overcome that.

J ealousy - Do they get jealous easily? How do they deal with it?

Really depends on how youre acting. If someone is straight flirting and you dont realize it, taking it as just compliments, he'll probably get jealous.

He usually just tries to walk into the convo saying he needs to talk to you or something. Just to have you away from whoever flirts with you.

K iss - Are they a good kisser? What was the first kiss like?

He's.. alright???

No one teaches you how to kiss so the first kiss was awkward as hell. A short simple kiss after you killed a walker for him.

L ove Confession - How would they confess to their s/o?

He either confesses by giving you a letter or out on a "run".

He'd make sure you 2 are alone on a "run" just to lead you to an area thats set up like a lil picnic as a lil date.

M arriage - Do they want to get married? How do they propose? What would the marriage be like?

Maybe yea kinda. He knows you guys might not live for long so if anything he gave you a promise/kinda wedding ring.

Father Gabriel would be the one to wed you guys in a run down church or something along those lines

N icknames - What do they call their s/o?

A shortened version of your name, babe and simple names like that.

O n Cloud Nine - What are they like when they are in love? Is it obvious for others? How do they express their feelings?

Carl is the most obvious thing alive. Everyone knows except you (MAYBE YOU EVEN DO). Always looking after you, very act of servicey, maybe a bit touchy

Everyone knows.

P DA - Are they upfront about their relationship? Do they brag with their s/o in front of others? Or are they rather shy to kiss etc. when others are watching?

Carl doesnt brag but he isnt shy to kiss you. He kisses you whenever one of you goes on a run. He mainly gets a tiny bit shy when the adults start teasing yall a bit

Q uirk - Some random ability they have that’s beneficial in a relationship.

You learn how to use a gun and usually always have a weapon on you.

R omance - How romantic are they? What would they do to make their s/o happy? Cliché or rather creative?

A good balance. Honestly he goes off the adults around him and asks around to see what he should do.

Carl is a romantic fella who loves to take you on lil run dates and giving gifts.

S upport - Are they helping their s/o achieve their goals? Do they believe in them?

Im not sure what kinda goals you would have in the apocalypse other than surviving but yes hes very supportive and helpful!!

T hrill - Do they need to try out new things to spice out your relationship? Or do they prefer a certain routine?

Routine is kinda the norm. Just for living. Carl tries to keep a routine but yknow you never knows what happens when theres dead people roamin the earth.

U nderstanding - How good do they know their partner? Are they empathetic?

Very understanding and always willing to listen when your distressed. Hes generally pretty empathetic I think.

V alue - How important is the relationship to them? What is it’s worth in comparison to other things in their life?

Carl would risk his life for you. And he probably has. You mean the world and more to him.

W ild Card - A random Fluff Headcanon.

Very very warm. Radiates heat. Also i feel like his love language is a good mix between acts of service and physical.

X OXO - Are they very affectionate? Do they love to kiss and cuddle?

Very affectionate. Like y'all cuddle almost every night. Except like maybe during the summer.

Y earning - How will they cope when they’re missing their partner?

Bro will steal your clothes. Like doesnt matter if he can even fit them theyre just in his room now. Wont elaborate on why he has them if you ask.

Z eal - Are they willing to go to great lenghts for the relationship? If so, what kind of?

Once again. Will literally die for you. Like he doesnt try to but he is willing to do almost anything as long as your well and alive

[amourology]

𝐉𝐉 𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐊 | 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗍

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | jj maybank x fem!reader

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | cursing, mentions of domestic abuse, sad jj, y/n fucks a bitch up. idk i wrote this girl as, like, the stereotypical mean girl and the feminist in me hates that i wrote her that way :(

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 | y/n had been there to take care of jj’s wounds ever since discovering they shared the same secret spot. when she doesn’t show up for the first time ever, jj goes out of his mind. especially when she finally returns, except this time she’s the one covered in bruises.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 |  thank u so so much liane ( @pogueslandia​ ) for helping me shape this fic, it definitely wouldn’t be the same without u <3 — and sasha ( @mrs-cameron ) for making me realize it’s okay to write other stuff, too <3

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 5.8k.

Ever since she was little, Y/N had taken to abandoned places. Whether it were playgrounds, houses, graveyards, or churches - she didn’t care. All she knew was that the locations gave her something hard to come by within her household; some much needed silence. With her parents lingering on the edge of a divorce, though never going through with it for the sake of appearances, a quiet moment for oneself was seldom granted.

Eventually she’d stopped waiting for the shouting to dial down, stopped wincing at the slamming of doors, and had simply chosen to leave whenever she felt another fight bubbling up - which is how she came to discover her favorite spot in the entirety of the Outer Banks.

A church. Abandoned, half-torn down, and whenever she went there she couldn’t help but think its outside appearance closely resembled that of her current mental state.

Despite its ragged appearance, it had become the place Y/N was most comfortable in. Specifically the upstairs, on the windowsill that gave her the perfect position to look out of the enormous glass-stained windows and tune the screams of her parents out for just a few hours.

Which is where she found herself once again, curled up on the old wooden space and tucked underneath the thick blanket she’d hidden there for whenever a particularly cold winter night decided to accompany her. Y/N sat there, staring out the window and fiddling with the necklace around her throat as a nervous habit.

The peace and tranquility she’d found herself in got abruptly interrupted by the slightest of sounds. With her first reaction being the one of freezing up and wishing for it to go away, she had to tell herself not to be such a wimp and forced the stiffness away from her limbs.

Ever so slowly, Y/N got up - careful not to step onto the planks she knew would creak. She placed the blanket back into the box she’d previously stored it in, and brought herself towards the wooden ladder a good ten meters away from her. With the size of the church, it was a miracle she’d been able to make out the sounds from such a distance.

One of her hands found their grip on the ladder’s handle, and she leaned the slightest bit over the edge, waiting, listening for whatever - whoever - was down there. She prayed they didn’t have any bad intentions.

Guess that’s what I get for hanging out in an abandoned church, she grumbled to herself. Perhaps she needed to rethink her hiding spots.

Still, she pushed that thought to the back of her mind for now. Listening in on whatever the individual underneath her was doing was deemed more important.

A long silence ensued. She frowned, and was just about to leave when she heard the softest of sniffles echo through the room. The sounds of sadness tugged at her heartstrings, so much so that she decided upon climbing down the ladder to see what was going on - all previous fear thrown out of the window.

When she made it down, her eyes fell on the broad back of a blond boy. He seemed to have been occupied with a bandage he’d tried wrapping around his knuckles, which was probably why he didn’t hear the slight noises she made while coming down.

“Do you need some help?” Y/N spoke softly.

The boy in front of her flinched, dropping the bandage onto the altar he’d been standing in front of. “Jesus, fuck,” he cursed, turning around, eyes wide as he looked around for the supposed intruder. “How did you-” He looked towards the door, finding it just as closed as he left it.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, and walked towards him. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I just,” she paused, taking a look at the freshly fallen tears on his face. “I, uh, I come here a lot and I - I heard you…” The boy looked down, knowing the final word before she even said it. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

The blond shrugged, and went back to his bandages. A silence covered the both of them, and, despite it being what she came here for, was not what she’d hoped for at the moment.

Y/N stayed where she stood for a few seconds, watching the boy struggling wrapping the bandage around - what she assumed to be - his dominant hand, as he probably wouldn’t have had such a difficult time if it wasn’t.

“Here,” she said. “Could I?”

She got closer to him, taking the space at his side. He was a good bit taller than her, and she felt her knees getting just the slightest bit weaker at the deep blue color of his eyes. And even through his battered state, with a busted lip, a bruise forming underneath his eye and knuckles covered in blood - he looked ethereal. Y/N truly wondered whether he belonged in the church.

With a small smile, she held her hands out for him. “My mom’s a doctor,” she offered. “Seen her do this countless times when I was young.”

Hesitantly, he gave her his bloodied hand. “Been in a lot of fights as a kid?” He asked, with just the slightest tilt of his lips.

Y/N shook her head, tongue poking the inside of her cheek in amusement. “No,” she said, and reached for the supplies he’d strown about the altar. “But I was very rambunctious, and fell out of my tree house a lot.”

“Rambunctious,” he whistled under his breath, nodding. The slight edge of resentment didn’t go unnoticed. “Expensive word.”

She paused her movements to raise an eyebrow at him. “Am I supposed to be offended by that?”

“What? No,” he said, blinking quickly and shaking his head. “No, no, I just - I didn’t - It makes you sound smart. You’re probably…” He sighed, closing his eyes as he gathered himself. “I’m sorry. I’m still in a fighting mood.”

Y/N smiled, now focused again on patching the stranger up as best as she could. “‘S okay,” she mumbled underneath her breath. She reached for the rubbing alcohol and a cotton swab, putting a bit of the liquid on. “This might sting a bit.”

“I know,” he said.

It made her wonder how he knew. “Alright,” she said instead of asking.

Y/N placed the disinfectant on the wound, and felt how his muscles tensed up a bit underneath her fingers. Still, he didn’t let a sound escape him. Wishing to help him as quickly as she could, she decided against conversing with him further.

“There,” she said eventually, smiling up at him as she let go of his hand.

He nodded at her gratefully, glancing down at his perfectly bandaged knuckles. “Huh,” he chuckled, turning his hand around to look at her handy work. “This is way better than all the half-ass jobs I’ve done.”

Y/N laughed. “Thanks?”

“Could you-” He interrupted himself, not sure whether he was in a position to ask her for more. She’d done plenty already, he figured.

“Of course,” she cut off his train of thought. “You, uh, may have to sit down, though, I can’t reach you otherwise.”

The blond smiled. “Right, yes, no problem.”

Y/N watched as he happily sat down on the altar, and contemplated whether she was going to stand in between his legs or to his side - eventually she decided upon the latter, as he was still a stranger, one she didn’t even know the name of.

“I’m JJ, by the way,”

Alright, then, just a regular stranger that she now does know the name of. “I’m Y/N.” She answered, once again starting her work on his wounds.

“Y/N,” JJ repeated, nodding along. “That’s a pretty name.”

“Thanks,” she mumbled, too focused on attending to the cuts on his face to notice the way his eyes roamed freely across her figure.

The quiet that surrounded them seemed to unnerve him, and JJ started his jittering movements by bumping one of his legs up and down. It wasn’t until a couple of minutes had passed, and Y/N had finished taking care of the cut on his lips, that he finally broke and spoke up.

“Where did you come from?” He blurted out.

“What?” She asked, frowning just a bit.

JJ cleared his throat. “I closed the door.” He explained. “And you were just - there. Right behind me.”

“Oh,” the girl answered. She narrowed her eyes to inspect the bruise forming on his cheekbone. “I was upstairs. I come here frequently, usually whenever my parents are fighting again.”

“Oh, I’m - I’m sorry,” he said sincerely, giving her a sad look.

“It’s okay,” she said. “You get used to it after five years.” Pulling back from their close proximity, Y/N glanced at the first aid kit. “You don’t happen to have an ice pack in there, do you?”

“Uh, no, no, I do not,” JJ spoke quickly. “It’s fine, though, the swelling will go down in a few, anyway.”

Y/N opened her mouth to ask, though closed it just as quickly. Hesitant, but still curious, she decided to take her chances and ask what she wanted to regardless. “Tell me if I’m overstepping, but,” she paused. “How do you know that stuff so well?”

The first alarm bell went off when he seemed to have been familiar with the feeling of rubbing alcohol. And the second one went off just a few seconds ago, when he discarded the upcoming bruise with such nonchalance. If she didn’t watch out, Y/N would find herself becoming seriously worried for the boy she met not even an hour ago.

“Oh, you know,” he shrugged, giving her the best smile he could muster up at the moment. “I just...get into fights a lot.”

Still not convinced, but not quite sure whether it was her place to pry, Y/N nodded. “Right,” she said with a nod. “Well, just make sure you put something on it when you get home, okay? Just to be sure.”

JJ nodded, and gave her a salute. “Will do, ma’am.” She rolled her eyes at him, in which he gave her a grin in return. He jumped off of the altar and turned around, facing her. “Next time you come to my spot, though, don’t sneak up on me, please. Gave me quite the scare.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Your spot?”

“Yeah,” JJ said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“I think you mean my spot,” she corrected him.

JJ shrugged, scratching a spot behind his ear. “No, no, I don’t think I do.”

“I found it first,” she argued.

“Did you, though?” He questioned, his demeanour changing into one of doubt. “It’s a big place, maybe I just slipped right past ya.”

Y/N tilted her head to the side, and knew he was full of shit. “Right.” She muttered, sighing shortly after.

The blond’s shit-eating grin fell rather quickly after noticing her walking towards the exit. “Hey, where—where are you going?” He called out.

Y/N stopped, turning back around to face him. “Home?” She said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“What? Come on, don’t be like that!” The blond shouted after her, seeing her continue her walk home. “We can share! Just ask very, very nicely!”

The only thing Y/N gave him before leaving was a quick show of her middle finger, a gesture that earned her the first of many laughs JJ was to give her.

Y/N had, by no means, ever asked him nicely since then - yet, they still ended up sharing the space with one another. Each and every evening they’d wander towards the abandoned church, finding comfort in the other’s presence, laughter, embrace.

After much tugging and whining on JJ’s part, the boy even managed to convince her to share her fluffy blanket with him on a cold night. They’d spend the evening huddled together underneath the blanket, sometimes watching a movie on Y/N’s laptop, other times talking about the stuff going on in their lives.

“You can’t possibly tell me she’s going to win that case,” JJ had argued, bottom lip puffed out as he stared at the screen in front of them.

Y/N, having seen the movie countless times before, smirked and turned around in his grasp to face him. “Of course she is, she’s Elle Woods.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he’d responded, tightening his hold on her when he heard her laugh.

Other times were...less joyful. As they’d often consist of JJ stumbling through the door accompanied by one or more injuries all over his body. His previous excuse of ‘just getting into a lot of fights,’ watered down over time, until he eventually opened up about his father.

It had been a heavy night, with the blue-eyed boy sobbing into the crook of her neck, and the girl doing everything she could at consoling him.

“I just - I can’t take him anymore, I didn’t do anything, I just,” he’d choked on a sob, his arms tightening around her figure and bringing them impossibly close together.

“I know, love, I know,” she’d mumbled softly, caressing his back delicately while carefully tangling her fingers through his hair.

That was the first night they’d spend together sleeping in the church, with Y/N texting her parents she’d stay over at a friend’s. JJ had fallen asleep on her chest somewhere between his cries, and she couldn’t even think about waking him up after that.

Their relationship hit a turning point after that. Though, one thing stayed the same. Each time JJ would come to her when his father lost control again, when he needed help. And each time she’d be there, ready to patch him up and put him back together in more ways than one.

Until one day, JJ came back to an empty church.

“Y/N?” He called out, the door making a creaking noise behind him as it closed. Upon the lack of an answer, he tried again. “You here, sunshine? My pops went ape-shit again,” he added a dry chuckle before clearing his throat. “Right, sorry, shouldn't joke about that. Know you hate it when I do.”

Nothing. Pure silence greeted him, and after checking the upstairs area, he decided that she must’ve been held up and would meet him in a few.

JJ brought himself towards the altar, struggling to put the first-aid kit up onto the wooden platform with just one hand. “Might as well start,” he mumbled to himself, wincing as he took a good look at himself through the little mirror within the box.

With Y/N around to take care of him, his previous skills at patching himself up had faded a bit which resulted in a clumsily wrapped bandage around his hand. It probably took him twice as long as it would’ve taken her, but eventually he was done - and still, there was no sign of the girl.

By now, night had fallen and it was pitch black outside. JJ frowned, she’d never been this late before. He glanced at his phone, cursing at himself in his head for not asking her phone number sooner.

Still hopeful she might show up soon, the boy laid down onto the spot they’d created together - a cozy corner with battery-filled fairy lights, a bunch of pillows, her ridiculously thick blanket and a mattress he’d managed to swindle from a guy that knew his cousin Ricky.

It wasn’t much, but it felt more like home in these past months than his actual home ever would.

The gut-wrenching realization that she never showed didn’t hit him until the next morning, when he woke up alone, with the blanket covering him entirely as she wasn’t there to steal it away from him. The fairy lights had died and needed new batteries because he’d fallen asleep before turning them off.

If he hadn’t made plans with the pogues, he would’ve stayed there and waited for her. But, as it happens, he had, and so he had to come back tonight.

Just before leaving, JJ scribbled something on a little post it note and placed it onto the pillow that Y/N claimed as hers - just in case she showed up.

She didn’t.

And she didn’t show the day after, either.

Nor the day after that.

By then it had been three days since he’d last seen her, and he’d be lying if he said his worries weren’t through the roof. Y/N told him about her parents, about the fights, the upcoming divorce, what if something had happened?

Or what if nothing happened. What if she just decided to stop coming? What if she just left him?

A hand waving in front of his face snapped him out of his thoughts. “Yo, you good man?” John B asked, a frown on his forehead as he looked at him.

JJ took a deep breath, eyes roaming around all the people that showed up at the kegger, and decided. “I need a drink.”

He needed more than just a drink. He needed multiple, he decided. And so he drank, and drank, and drank, until he lost the ability to think straight. He drank, and drank, and drank until he found himself pushing a random girl he’d snatched away from her friends against the tree.

Her lips were harshly pressed against his as they sought a distraction in one another, and it was working for him - until her hands reached towards his hair.

JJ felt the hold he had on her waist waver as he felt her roughly tugging at the ends of his blond locks, no gentleness, no care, no love in it whatsoever - nothing like Y/N would have done.

Y/N. This wasn’t her. He needed her, not some - some random Kook that wanted him for a quick fuck.

All his previous thoughts came rushing back into his head, and he shook his head, blinking away a soft layer of tears that had started to gather. “I can’t.” He said firmly, pushing himself away from the girl. “You’re not -  I - I have to go.”

“What?” She exclaimed, a scoff escaping her lips as she watched him walk away. “I’m not what, Maybank!”

JJ threw one of his hands up at her slight outburst. “Y/N. You’re not-” he shook his head, hating himself for saying her name. “Whatever, doesn’t matter. Just - I have to go.”

The Kook let out a sound of offence. “Loser,” she spat under her breath, and went back towards the party.

He would’ve heard the insult if he hadn’t been so preoccupied with rushing towards the church. The only thing he allowed himself to do before leaving was sending his friends a quick text, making up some excuse about having to work tomorrow. He doubted they’d believe him being so responsible, but that was a worry for another time.

All he knew was that he needed her, and if he couldn’t be with her, then their spot would do for now.

So, JJ left, and felt his heart falling to his stomach upon the lack of her presence once again. A soft sniffle left his mouth, the worry about her and the possible worst-case scenarios he made up in his head finally got to him.

The boy curled himself into the blanket, laying his head down on her pillow and inhaling the almost faded scent of her perfume. She will be here tomorrow, he told himself.

She had to.

...Right?

Y/N never thought her parents would actually go through with it. They’d threatened one another with it countless times before, but never had they actually done it. Her past days spent in the courthouse were quick to change her mind, however.

Everything around her felt like a blur; her thoughts, her feelings, even her vision when they’d get clouded with tears. With what had to have been the worst three days of her life behind her, she couldn’t help but look forward to tonight. Tonight, when she’d finally (after days of going in and out of court and going straight to sleep when she got home) be able to go to their church.

Y/N hadn’t noticed how much she missed JJ and his comforting presence until she suddenly found herself without it.

But, first things first; she had to get through this day at the beach with her friends. After that, she could sneak away and reunite with the boy who’d been on her mind non-stop ever since she met him.

“I got it!” She yelled, running as fast as one could while standing on warm sand. With a loud huff, Y/N passed the volleyball back over the net - smiling when the opposing team failed at sending it back.

“You’re slow as shit, John B,” the curly-haired girl they were playing against grumbled, throwing the guy next to her a look.

“Wha - she threw that thing at me with lightning speed. How is that my fault?”

“To be fair, you were out of position there, man.”

“Not helping, Pope.”

Y/N let out a soft chuckle at the bickering of the three, glancing between her own two friends who were waiting on their next move. “So,” she called out, a slight challenge to her voice. “What do you guys say, two out of three?”

The guy she’d identified as John B looked at her, one of his eyebrows raised as he held a non-verbal conversation with his friends. “Yeah, yeah, we can do two out of three,” he said eventually.

Pope - the only one out of the three she’d seen before, as she and him shared a biology class and he’d been her labpartner - raised one of his hands, slightly bent over as he rested them both on his thighs. 

“Yeah, I - uh, I’mma need a minute,” he breathed heavily, glancing at Y/N. “You really kicked my ass there.”

Y/N and her friends laughed, nodding. “Alright, let’s take a break then,” Ivy spoke from beside her, and all six of them stepped off of the makeshift volleyball court.

Just as she was about to lay back down onto her towel, Y/N heard a group of girls walking past - and if it weren’t for his name being dropped, she probably wouldn’t have tuned in to listen.

“I’m serious, that JJ guy every girl talks about? Not all that great. I finally got the chance to hook up with him, and, Evie, he is nowhere near close as to how you described him,” the red-head complained, a slight sign of disgust mixed with a major amount of annoyance on her face. “We were, like, really getting it on last night, so I was worked up, obviously, and then this fucking loser just starts crying out of nowhere, pushing me away and blabbering about some nonsense.”

A brunette next to her laughed. “That’s so pathetic. Who cries in the middle of a hook up?” she chuckled. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Ellis.”

Y/N clenched her jaw at the conversation, and got up from the towel she was seated on. She could briefly make out her friend, Meredith, throwing a soft ‘where are you going?’ her way before she started nearing the girl.

“Right!” She spoke again. “Honestly, what a-”

“Excuse me,” Y/N interrupted her, tapping her on the shoulder. As soon as Ellis turned around, she pulled her arm backwards and let her fist collide with her nose. “Shit, motherfucker,” she cursed as soon as she did so, cradling her knuckles.

No wonder JJ’s knuckles were always bruised. That punch hurt like a bitch.

Ellis had fallen to the ground, her hands immediately reaching upwards to her nose. “What the fuck!” She screeched, looking up at Y/N who’d been standing over her. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Y/N,” Ivy whispered after running over to her, seemingly in shock at the sudden punch her friend had thrown. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Y/N?” The girl she’d punched muttered, so much envy seeping through her voice it would make the seven deadly sins jealous. With as much might as she could muster, she pushed herself up from the sand. “You’re the bitch he was crying about.”

“What?” Y/N asked, a soft, worrying frown appearing on her forehead. Though, it didn't stay there for long - as the red-head harshly tackled her to the ground.

A loud huff escaped her lips as she fell, Ellis landing on top of her. Quickly, Y/N twisted her leg away from under her, resulting in them switching positions. She tugged harshly on her red hair, a feeling of satisfaction flowing through her veins at seeing her struggle - though, the feeling was short lived as she soon felt a harsh punch to the side.

“You fucking asshole,” she cursed under her breath, letting go of her hair at the stinging pain in her side. The feeling of rage got intensified by receiving an elbow to the nose. Feeling the blood drip out of it, Y/N scoffed. “You know what?” She spoke, and harshly punched the girl in the boob.

A loud gasp escaped her mouth and immediately all grasp she had on Y/N got released, both friend groups scrambled to collect their respective friend and did all they could to prevent them from getting at the other again.

“Okay, okay, atta girl, calm down,” Ivy mumbled, pulling Y/N away from the girl she’d just attacked. “I think she got the message.”

Meredith hurried over as well, both girls having a steady hold on their, still very much angry, friend. “Yeah, let’s go, okay?”

“Fine,” Y/N huffed, her breathing erratic as she wiped a bit of blood away from her nose.

Just as she turned around to leave, she heard Ellis speak up again. “She punched me in the tits, Evie!” She exclaimed, a slight tremble to her voice. “Do you know how much they cost? What if she ruined them?”

Y/N halted in her step, contemplating her next actions for just a second. Then, she turned back around.

“I hope I did.”

The last thing she gave her before her friends dragged her away, was a proudly presented gesture of her middle finger.

While they left the beach, she could vaguely hear the voices of the people she’d played volleyball with just a few minutes ago.

“What the hell,”

“Who - why did she?”

“Beats me,” someone chuckled. “But I’m glad she did, certainly saved me a fight.”

It had taken quite some convincing for Ivy and Meredith to leave. As kind as they were, Y/N was quite eager to take care of her injuries by herself - preferably in a church, and even more so preferably with a certain blond at her side.

So here she was, snuck away from home once again, limping because Ellis fucked up her ankle in that tackle, with a blasting pain in her side, aching knuckles and dried blood underneath her nose. What a sight for sore eyes she must have been.

Y/N couldn’t contain the sigh of relief when she finally got to the church. An even bigger one left her mouth when she finally managed to push the door open, despite her aching body. The sight that met her there was enough to tug at her heartstrings.

There he was, the boy she hadn’t come to see for three days, asleep, cuddled underneath her blanket and with his head firmly pressed into her pillow as if it would bring him that much closer to her. She couldn’t fight off her upcoming smile of adoration.

Carefully, and ever so softly, she walked towards him. She tilted her head to the side when she reached JJ, smiling softly before crouching down and very delicately brushing a few fallen strands of his hair out of his face. He looked angelic.

“Better let you sleep, hm,” she muttered under her breath, more so to herself than to JJ. WIth a soft groan, Y/N pushed herself back upwards and made her way towards the first-aid kit they left on the altar.

Her entire body froze when she heard a crunch from underneath her feet. Wide-eyed, she looked back at JJ - only letting herself breathe out again when she saw him still fast asleep. She frowned, and took a step backwards, reaching down to grab the bright yellow, crumpled piece of paper she’d accidentally stepped on.

‘hi, saw you weren’t here, yet. i’ve got plans with my friends but i’ll be back right after, promise. if anything’s wrong, call me 919 555 0133 - jj :)’

Y/N stared at the paper for a few seconds, only tearing her eyes away to look at the writer of it. All the guilt she should have been feeling for not showing up hit her like a truck - she never thought about how worried he must have been, or how abandoned, god what thoughts had been going through his head?

Swallowing deeply, she pushed the thoughts away for now. The tingling feeling on her knuckles made her painfully aware of the more pressing matters she had to attend to, and she promised herself she’d apologize thoroughly when he woke up.

And so, she started tending to her wounds. First was the blood underneath her nose, because it’d been bothering her immensely. Second, were her knuckles, as she wouldn’t be able to take care of the rest without proper use of her hands. Just as she was about to finish up the bandaid, she heard some rustling behind her.

Y/N turned her head, and gave the sleepy boy a small smile.

“Hey,” she whispered, as if he would run away if she spoke too loudly.

“Hey,” he croaked out, rubbing his eyes. JJ froze soon after that, not moving for a few seconds before carefully removing his hands away from his face. He peeked up from behind them, blinking as he looked at her. “Y/N.”

“JJ,” she echoed.

“Y/N.” He said again, louder this time. A loud laugh left his lips and he pushed himself upwards with such speed that he almost tripped. “Y/N!” JJ exclaimed, a large smile on his lips before hastily making his way towards her, he happily took her in an embrace and let his arms rest around her waist. “You’re here, I thought something happened, or that you left, don’t scare me like that again. Not a fan of it at all.”

Somewhere along his ramble, he had tightened his hold on her - which resulted in a wince from the girl. The gesture of pain made him freeze, and only then did he properly register the state she was in.

“What happened?” He asked, voice steady.

“Nothing, it’s fine, I promise,”

“What happened?” JJ asked again, voice louder this time. “Y/N, what happened? Who did this to you?”

“Nobody, JJ, it’s okay - nothing happened.”

“That’s bullshit!” He said, all happiness from before gone. Taking a step backwards, he allowed himself to do an entire scan of her body. The bruise creeping out from underneath her crop top made his jaw clench. “Listen, I’m not fucking around, alright? Just - tell me who did this.”

“JJ,” Y/N said, and took a step towards him. She connected their hands, caressing the top of his with her thumb as she knew it calmed him down. “Nothing happened. I got into a fight with some girl, that’s all.”

If it weren’t for the sincere look in her eyes, he probably wouldn’t have believed her. “Alright,” he spoke softly, nodding towards the hand that wasn’t holding his. “Can I - you know, finish it off for you?”

“Yeah, of course,” she answered, and took a seat upon the altar.

Neither of them talked for a while, with JJ focusing his attention on patching her up this time around, and with Y/N paying attention to his every move. The way he moved so delicately around her wounded hand made her heart flutter. He’d always been gentle, as if she would crack underneath his fingers if too much pressure was applied.

“Why did you fight her?”

“Hm?”

“The girl. Why did you fight her?”

“Oh,” the question snapped her out of her daze. Clearing her throat, she let her eyes flicker from their intertwined hands to his eyes. “She just said some stuff about you.”

JJ couldn’t help but let the smallest of smirks appear. “Fighting in my honor now?”

Y/N rolled her eyes, though she still wore a smile. “Don’t let it get to your head.” The laughter he let out and the joy on his face were enough fuel for her to fight the girl all over again, if only she’d get to see it a second time. Then, the words Ellis had said came back to her. “She, uh, said you cried over me.”

JJ stopped his movements for just a few seconds, but then carried on, pretending like nothing happened. “Did I, now?” He said, clearing his throat.

“JJ,” she said, and caught his eyes with her own. “I just - I’m so sorry if I made you feel worried, or cast aside, or - or - I don’t know, I...my parents finalized their divorce and it’s been one court day after the other and every time I got home I was just so tired and-“

“Hey, hey, hey, hey,” he said quickly, slowly letting go of her hand after he finished bandaging it. One of his hands found its way towards her chin, and he slightly tilted it upwards to make her look at him. “It’s okay. You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

He moved his hand to cup her cheek, and she copied his movements by placing her hand over his. The two stared into each other's eyes, and she thought she’d seen his eyes flicker to her lips for a second - but it was gone as quickly as it came, and she was left thinking she’d imagined it. At least, until—

“Can I, uh, can I kiss you?”

Y/N blinked, a wide smile settling on her face before she nodded eagerly. “Yeah, of course,” she said, their faces so close together their lips almost touched as she did so.

The blond didn’t have to be told twice, and placed both of his hands on her cheeks before pulling her into a kiss - it was soft, caring, and passionate, and much unlike any kiss he’d shared before.

It took a while before either of them pulled back, though Y/N did so first, as the lack of air proved to be too much.

Y/N and JJ smiled at each other, foreheads pressed together as they relished in the thought that somewhere along the way ‘my spot’ had slowly turned into ‘our spot.’

tags: 

@theepoguelandia​ @golden-hoax​ @jemimah-b99​ @outerbcnks​ @goldenroutledge​ @sylvieshay​ @stilesks @pogueslandia​ @prettyboystarkey​ @luvhann​ @basicluvvv​ @tenaciousperfectionunknown​ @miniiminie​ @mrs-cameron​ @blue-4-55-readinglist​ @iheartualot​ @tsnelf7​ @alanniys​ @luversgirl​ @afuturemilf​

[bella-goths-wife]

Growing old together: Bo x reader

Bo looked at himself in the mirror as he thought about the day ahead, he was finally gonna do it. Bo Sinclair was about to marry the love of his life.

It had been two years since the day you first met when your car had broken down and you came to Ambrose looking for help, that day Bo was sure he had died and gone to heaven.

You were so beautiful, you walked with confidence you held yourself with grace. You were amazing in every single way.

Bo was originally going to kill you but seeing you and talking to you quickly shooed the thought from his head. The more he talked to you the more he realised that you were not only funny but intelligent and charming.

You stayed for two years and Bo was grateful for every moment and here he was, waiting at the church for you to enter so he could finally make an honest person of you.

The wedding songs began as you entered and Bo was speechless. You were an angel, a masterpiece, a heavenly image only few could ever wish to see. Your white outfit Flowed around you and hugged your figure making you look like a lost deity.

Vows were exchanged and every soft word was encouraged with declarations of love and affection. You ended the ceremony with a passionate kiss as Vincent and Lester cheered and made the wax figure clap at your union.

About a year into your marriage the arguments started. The subject would range from Bo’s yelling to his drinking to your lack of following through when it came to Ambrose’s victims.

The fights were viscous and challenging for you both. Bo knew one night full of yelling that you were going to leave him, he could see it in your beautiful, honest eyes. They were always your opening to your true feelings.

Bo couldn’t lose you, how would he go on if the person he worshiped left. You couldn’t go, he wouldn’t handle it.

He got control of himself and for a month worked on your marriage by taking you out to dates and going to therapy.

The hard work eventually paid off as you eventually got your marriage back to its old passionate, loving relationship. He made a promise to you that day that he would forever be yours in body, mind and soul.

Three years later your belly was round and you were expecting your first child with Bo. He was ecstatic and terrified of becoming a dad. What if he turned out to be his parents? What if something happened to you? What if your body couldn’t take it.

You comforted him through these thoughts and reassured him that you and he would be fine and whatever happened, you would have each other body, heart and soul.

You gave birth to a beautiful baby girl who you named Sophia. She looked like a carbon copy of you but with Bo’s smile. She held Bo’s smile and you would constantly say that it was your favourite of her features.

You had three more children after that, two boys and the youngest was another daughter. They were raised by parents who were not afraid to show they’re playful love and they’re adoration for each other.

Everything was perfect. Everything is perfect. Everything will be perfec- Bo’s eyes snapped open, why was he being shaken? What’s happening? Where were you?

“Papa” a voice called out. Bo looked up to see a girl who looked exactly like a twenty year old you, but she wasn’t you? Where were you?

“(Y/n)??” Bo said panicked, looking desperately around the room for you. He got out of the chair he was sitting in “who are you?” Bo asked

The girl sighed “it’s me papa, it’s Sophia” she said attempting to put Bo back into the chair “your daughter”

Bo looked her up and down confused “but you got so big” he said with confusion.

“I know papa I’m twenty one” she said looking at him misty eyed. Why was she so sad? What’s happening. But before he could think of anything else one fought rushed to his mind.

“Where’s my wife?” He said panicked “where’s (y/n)?”

“Oh papa” the girl sighed before looking back at him “mama died a year ago”

“What? No…” he said as he felt his world crumble “how she was so healthy?”

“She had a problem with her heart” Sophia explained “the doctors tried to help her but by the time she was diagnosed it was too late”

Bo felt tears falling down his face as he looked at himself in the mirror behind Sophia. When did he get so old? What used to be smile creases had turned into crows feet. What used to be laugh lines had turned to wrinkles and his once dark hair had turned grey and frail.

“Let’s get you to bed papa it’s late” Sophia said before leading him to his bedroom.

When they got inside Bo noticed that the left side of the bed, your side, had laid made up while his side was more lived in.

Before lying down, Bo grabbed a photo of a young you and him from the nightstand and held it to his chest. Sophia kissed his forehead before heading to the door.

“Goodnight papa” she said Turning off the light “I love you”!

And with that he was left with his thoughts. For hours he stared at the ceiling and thought about how he was meant to go on without you.

At some point his eyes closed and he fell asleep and during that sleep his heart had stopped. Bo’s eyes snapped open to see you standing at the edge of the bed, you were looking exactly like you did the day of the wedding. You looked at him with an adoring smile.

“Are you ready baby?” You said and reached your hand out.

Bo looked at the bed and saw his now dead body let out it’s last breath. He looked down at his conscious self and saw his wedding tuxedo on his young body.

“I’m ready sweetheart” he said grabbing you hand and smiling “I missed you stupid”

“I missed you more idiot” you said lovingly before stepping outside the house “it’s time to go baby”

This time Bo had actually seen an angel and this time Bo had actually died and gone to heaven.

Heaven was wherever he was with you.