#sleep hollow fanfiction

[bellehaspurplehair]

A while ago we were doing The Hunger Games in English and I was reading crimson rivers at the time… may have got mixed up and embarrassed myself in front of the class but it’s fine

[lee-by-thy-side]

W.I.P Whenever!!!

a sneak peak into Chapter 2 of A Hollow Point.

I wonder who those tendrils belong to? 🤔

anyway, if you'd like to be a beta reader for this, or if your just wanna here me babble about this fic, just let me know!!!

(please note i need you to be 18+ if you wanna beta read)

[the-silence-never-speaks]

My second fic y'all. Wrote it in an hour. Please excuse if any punctuation mistakes are present.

IDK how many word. An/ also Romione set in Deathly hollows.

Perfect

It was the night of Bill and Fleur's wedding. She walked into the tent looking like an angel. Hermione.That's when he knew he was done for. He knew it was ridiculous to be thinking about angels when they could be attacked at any second. The way her brown curls framed her face and the way she smiled made him forget about Horcruxes or the war though. Her dress is what made her look like a real angel though, ethereal and beautiful. As the night when on, though, other men seemed to think she was looked like an angel as well. Especially Viktor Krum. Ron's mind went blank when he saw them dancing. Without realizing it, he ended up close. enough to hear their voices.

"You look very beautiful tonight, Her-my-own," said Krum.

"Thank you, Viktor," Hermione's cheeks were turning red. She wasn't used to compliments like that. She usually only got compliments on her intelligence.

Before they could continue though, Ron interrupted.

"Hermione, can I talk to you for a second?"

She looked confused, but bade Viktor goodbye and followed Ron. He didn't know why he was going outside of the tent, but his legs were moving of their own accord. Instead, his mind was focused on their hands. He had grabbed Hermione's hand on instinct, and she folded her hand within his. His stomach did a flip. 17 years old, but a girl holding my hand makes me get bloody butterflies, he thought. They stopped a little way from the tent. He realized that she was looking at him expectantly. He remembered he had asked to talk to her. He racked his brain, trying to think of something to say, but he drew a blank.

"Ron, what did you want to talk about? Are you okay?" Hermione's face showed that she was worried now.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just thought that maybe—do you want to dance?" He suddenly blurted out.

Hermione looked shocked. Great, he thought, now I've really messed it up. To his surprise though, Hermione moved closer and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her face had softened and she looked happy. The music from the party had turned slow.

"I thought you'd never ask," she smiled.

That smile took him back to when they were kids. All the times they had fought and yet he still had ended up falling for her, hard. He never thought that he would fall for someone so young, but he had. Her arms tightening around his neck brought him back to the present. She had moved closer and he had wrapped his arms around her waist. It comforted him, knowing that she was there. It gave him hope about the war, about fighting against all odds. He looked into her eyes. He didn't want to risk losing her, like he had almost done countless times, by being a bloody git. He knew she was the woman he needed and wanted in life. He knew that he wanted to be with her forever, to build a life with her. He felt that he didn't deserve her, but the way she leaned into him and continue to hug him tighter let him know that she felt differently.

The music had turned to an upbeat tempo again. The guests had become louder once more.

"You look perfect. You are perfect," he whispered.

He thought she didn't hear him. There was no way she could over the sound of the celebration, but she suddenly pulled away. She looked at him for a minute, maybe longer. He couldn't remember because at that moment he felt her lips on his. It was gentle and it poured all her love towards him. He got over his shock and kissed her back. It was sweet and slow, it was everything they both had wanted since their fourth year. One hand cupped her cheek, and the other went into her hair. Her hands reached up to touch the nape of his neck. He felt her shiver and chills went down his own spine. It wasn't even cold, he wasn't even cold. She warmed his heart. She warmed his entire being. Everything about the war, every stupid thing he had ever done, faded out of his mind. Right now, in this moment with this perfect angel, he was content.

[amora1tarada]

Notes: This is the first fanfiction that I had the courage to post! I’m super excited but also a little nervous. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing it. English isn’t my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes, and I’d be grateful for any tips you have! I’m considering a part two with some smut, but I’m still building up my confidence in English to try it. Have a nice reading, and please don’t forget to repost, leave kudos and comments—your thoughts mean the world to me!

World count: 2k

nightwing/dick grayson

The sound of footsteps dragging across the hardwood floor was what broke the silence of your apartment, jarring you awake from a fitful sleep. The clock on your nightstand blinked red: 2:47 a.m. You didn’t have to look to know who it was. You’d recognize his tread anywhere, the slightly uneven steps that meant he’d probably taken another beating tonight. A familiar knot of fear tightened in your chest, but a wave of relief washed over you as well. He was here. He was alive, at least for now.

With a sigh, you threw on the robe hanging by the bed, clutching it tightly around your body as you moved through the darkened hallway. You were so tired—exhausted in a way that no amount of sleep could ever fix. It was a weariness that lived in your bones, a heaviness that came from watching someone you loved throw themselves into the jaws of danger night after night. You tried, every time, to tell yourself it wouldn’t happen again, that you’d close the window and let him figure it out on his own. But the truth was, you could never turn him away. Every time he stumbled through that window, beaten, bruised, and bleeding, you were there to catch him.

When you reached the kitchen, he was standing by the sink, his back to you, gulping down water like he’d been running for miles. His shoulders slumped in fatigue, his usually immaculate hair disheveled, and from the faint reflection in the window above the sink, you could see a small cut on his lip, a bruise darkening along his jaw. He looked… worn. He always looked a little worn, but tonight there was something different. The way he leaned against the counter, his hand gripping the edge so hard his knuckles had gone white, it was like he was trying to keep himself anchored to the ground.

“Hey, sweets,” he said, not even turning around. His voice was rough, more from exhaustion than pain, but you could hear the tension in it. “Sorry for waking you.”

You took a shaky breath, closing the distance between you and him. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.” You tried to sound lighthearted, but the words felt hollow. How many times had you said this? How many nights had he apologized, and how many times had you brushed it off like it didn’t matter?

In truth, it did matter. Every time he came to you like this, a little more of your heart chipped away. Every bruise, every scar—it was like you were carrying them too, bearing his pain in silence. There were so many times you wanted to scream at him to stop, to beg him to leave this life behind. But you knew he never would.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and loaded. He finished his water, setting the glass down on the counter with a dull thud. You could feel the question hanging in the air, the one you always asked even though you knew the answer would be the same.

“What happened?” you asked softly, stepping closer, your hand brushing lightly against his back. His muscles tensed under your touch, but he didn’t pull away.

“It’s nothing. Just… a long night,” he replied, his voice barely a whisper. But you knew him well enough to know it wasn’t just that. He leaned into your touch for a moment, letting out a long, shuddering breath, and then you felt his body sag, as if all the weight he’d been carrying suddenly became too much.

He turned to face you, and that’s when you saw the rawness in his eyes. There was guilt there, a deep, gnawing pain that he was trying so hard to hide, but it was spilling over, cracking the mask he always wore. He reached up, his hand trembling slightly as he touched your cheek, his thumb brushing gently against your skin. “A woman got shot tonight,” he said finally, the words falling heavily into the quiet. “She… she was just an innocent bystander. If I had been faster, more careful… maybe…”

“Dick,” you murmured, placing your hand over his, trying to still his shaking fingers. “It’s not your fault.” You spoke the words gently, firmly, hoping he would believe you, though you knew he wouldn’t.

But he just shook his head, a haunted look in his eyes. “It feels like it is. Every time someone gets hurt, I… I can’t shake the feeling that I should have been better. Done more.”

You took a deep breath, fighting the tears that threatened to spill over. You wanted to tell him that he didn’t have to be perfect, that he didn’t have to carry the world on his shoulders. But you knew he wouldn’t listen. His mission, his need to protect Gotham, was woven so deeply into his soul that nothing you said would change it.

Instead, you wrapped your arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. He stiffened at first, but then he melted against you, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You could feel his breath, warm and uneven against your skin, and his grip tightened, like he was afraid that if he let go, he would fall apart.

“I’m so tired,” he whispered, the words barely audible. You could feel the exhaustion in him, the weight of every battle he’d fought, every person he hadn’t been able to save. And for a moment, you wondered if he would finally break, if he would finally let you in, let you carry some of that burden with him.

But then he pulled back, his expression shuttered once again, and you knew that he wouldn’t. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

Still, you took his hand, leading him toward the bathroom. He followed silently, and you could feel the tension radiating off him, the heaviness of everything he couldn’t say. You wanted to tell him how much it hurt you to see him like this, how every bruise and scar he bore felt like one etched into your own skin. But instead, you just filled the bathtub with warm water, your fingers brushing against his as you gently helped him undress.

As he sank into the tub, you knelt beside him, reaching for the shampoo. Your hands moved carefully, massaging the lather into his hair, washing away the dirt and blood from his night. His eyes drifted shut, his body slowly relaxing under your touch, and you could see some of the tension melting away. Here, in this quiet, dimly lit bathroom, it was almost like everything was normal. Like he was just a man, and you were just the woman who loved him.

You could feel your own tears slipping down your cheeks, though you tried to hold them back. Watching him like this, so vulnerable, broke something in you. You wanted so desperately for him to stop, to give up this life and just… live. With you. But that was a dream, one that would never come true.

When you were done, you helped him out of the tub, drying him off with slow, careful strokes, your hands lingering just a moment longer than necessary. You dressed him in fresh clothes, guiding him to the bed, and he didn’t resist as you brushed through his hair, letting your fingers trail gently against his scalp.

“It’s enough, sweets,” he murmured, his voice soft and thick with sleep. “Can we just… go to bed now?"

You hesitated, looking down at him. You wanted to tell him everything you felt, all the fear and pain that you kept bottled up inside. But he looked so tired, so worn down, and you couldn’t bring yourself to add to his burden. So you just nodded, slipping under the covers beside him.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close, his face buried in your hair. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “For everything. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, and you pressed your face against his chest, hiding it from him. “It’s fine, Dick,” you whispered. “I’d do it all again.”

The silence filled the room and it was almost sacred, a rare moment of peace in a life filled with chaos. He was holding you close, his arm wrapped securely around your waist as if he was afraid you’d slip away, vanish into the dark. You could feel his heartbeat, steady and grounding beneath your hand on his chest, and for a moment, you let yourself pretend that this was your life—that he wasn’t Nightwing, that he was just Dick, and that he was yours.

A sliver of moonlight streamed through the curtains, casting a pale glow across his face. His eyes were closed, his lashes casting faint shadows over his cheeks, and you let yourself study him, unguarded and still. Every line of his face was familiar to you, etched into your memory from a thousand stolen glances. But there was something fragile about him tonight, something that made you want to reach out, to hold him a little tighter, as if you could shield him from the life he’d chosen.

He must have sensed your gaze, because his eyes fluttered open, soft and filled with an exhaustion that went beyond the physical. For a long moment, he just looked at you, as if he was searching for something, some answer hidden in your face. And you held his gaze, your own heart pounding as the weight of all your unsaid words settled between you, heavy and unbreakable.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he raised a hand to your cheek, his fingers brushing against your skin with a tenderness that stole the breath from your lungs. “I don’t… deserve this,” he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. “I don’t deserve you.”

You shook your head, covering his hand with yours, feeling the roughness of his calloused fingers beneath your touch. “Don’t say that,” you murmured, your voice trembling. “It’s not you who decides.”

For a moment, he looked like he was going to argue, to turn away from you ignoring your feelings. But you saw the vulnerability so clearly in his eyes in a way you’d only seen glimpses of before. His hand moved from your cheek to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and your breath caught as his forehead rested against yours, the warmth of his skin grounding you.

“Why?” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Why do you keep doing this, night after night? Why do you keep letting me in?”

You swallowed hard, should you tell him you love him? That you had always loved him and always will? That you just couldn’t leave? No matter how hard you tried? The words were almost spilling from your lips, But you couldn’t bring yourself to say them out loud. “I don’t know, I just care so much about you, that it hurts. I can't seem to let you go.”

A shuddering breath escaped him, and he closed his eyes, his face a mix of pain and guilt. “I’m just so sorry for everything I put you through. I…I thought you hated me at this point.” he murmured, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles at the base of your neck. “For dragging you into this shit. I’m sorry, I really am.”

You shook your head, your fingers reaching up to tangle in his hair, holding him close. “I could never hate you. I just… I wish you didn’t have to carry this alone. I wish… you could let me in.”

His eyes opened, locking onto yours, and in the soft glow of the moonlight, you could see everything he’d kept hidden—the fear, the longing, and now there was a new feeling that you couldn’t quite decypher what it was.

He didn’t say anything. Instead, he leaned forward, his lips brushing against yours in the lightest, most delicate kiss, as if he was afraid that if he pressed too hard, you’d disappear. It was a kiss filled with hesitation, with years of longing and fear, with all the words he’d never found the courage to say. And as his lips moved against yours, slow and tender, you felt your heart shatter and mend all at once, as if this was the moment you’d been waiting for, the moment you’d always known would come but never truly believed.

You kissed him back, your hand moving to cup his face, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips, the faint scrape of stubble against your palm. It was soft, unhurried, a gentle exploration that spoke of all the times you’d imagined this, the way his lips would feel against yours, the way his breath would mingle with yours. And in that kiss, you poured everything—all the nights you’d spent worrying, the tears you’d shed for him, the love that had grown quietly in the depths of your heart, waiting for this very moment.

When you finally pulled back, both of you breathless, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, a faint, almost disbelieving smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His thumb traced slow, lazy circles on your back, grounding you, and for the first time, you saw a glimmer of peace in his expression.

“Stay with me,” he murmured, his voice so soft you almost didn’t hear it. “Just… stay with me, like this. Please.”

You nodded, your hand moving to brush a stray lock of hair from his face. “Always,” you whispered, and you knew, deep down, that it was a promise you would keep, no matter how many nights he stumbled through your door, broken and battered. Because this was where you belonged—right here, by his side, in the quiet hours of the night, holding him together even as he held you.

As he pulled you back into his arms, his lips found yours again, a little more certain this time, a little less hesitant. And under the soft glow of the moonlight, in the silence of your shared space, you kissed him like you’d always dreamed, like he was the air you needed to breathe, like he was the very heartbeat of your soul. Because, in a way, he was. He always had been.

The kiss deepened, slow and unhurried, a gentle exploration of everything you’d both kept hidden. His hands moved up to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing along your cheekbones as if he was committing every detail to memory. And in that kiss, you felt years of pain and fear melting away, replaced by something softer, something that felt like hope.

When you finally broke apart, he held you close, his head resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet. Neither of you spoke, because words felt unnecessary. Everything you needed to say had been shared in that kiss, in the way his hands held you, in the way his eyes met yours with a vulnerability he’d never let anyone else see.

And as you lay together in the quiet, the weight of the world momentarily forgotten, you knew that this was what you’d been waiting for, what you’d been fighting for. In that moment, you knew that you would always stay with him, no matter how much it hurt, no matter how much you wished he would stop, you knew you would always be there for him. Because even though he was breaking you, piece by piece, you loved him. You loved him more than you loved your own heart, and you knew you would stay by his side, no matter how many nights he stumbled through your door, broken and bleeding.

Because that was what love was, wasn’t it? Holding on, even when everything in you wanted to let go.

[abyssruler]

to you, who loved me most

scaramouche x gn!reader

four snippets, four drabbles, four realistic takes on popular tropes with the person scaramouche was before he became the wanderer. or — soulmate au, time travel, reincarnation, and isekai with the sixth harbinger.

character death (reader), scaramouche being a horrible person, implied dark themes

SOULMATE AU - soulmates share each others’ pain

For as long as you could remember, your heart has always felt hollow. Empty. Your mother once told you that your soulmate must have a heart disease of some kind—but no, this isn’t pain. You know what pain is.

Pain is the electricity crackling through your veins, sharp pinpricks like a thousand needles trying to protrude from your skin. It is staying up in the middle of the night, unable to sleep because of the ache in your joints as if someone is pulling you apart only to glue you back together, like one of those porcelain dolls you always see being sold at the market.

You know what pain is, and it is not the apathy you feel when you discover who your soulmate is. It is not the stark-white heat that overcomes you as your soulmate’s hand pierces your empty, hollow chest.

Pain is the ache you finally feel in your nonexistent heart, a moment before you close your eyes.

And you’ve never known comfort—you’ve never known a lot of things—but you think comfort is the arms that hold you as you choke on your own blood. Comfort is the cold chest against your cheek as you breathe your last, dying breath.

Comfort the voice in your ear, a whispered plea, an apology, one last wish for you to stay.

TIME TRAVEL/TIME LOOP

It’s pointless and foolish and he’s a monster, and you know you should stop coming back, stop greeting him with that same smile you always give whenever you first stumble upon him, dazed and confused and so, so kind and innocent after awakening from his slumber.

You should run from those deceptively angelic looking eyes, but you can’t. No matter how many times you’ve died and come back—the amount of times you’ve died by his hands—you can’t stop coming back and hoping that this time, maybe it’ll all turn out different. That this time, he’ll turn out different.

And perhaps this time, he’ll finally love you back the way he did during your first loop.

REINCARNATION

It was your fault. You shouldn’t have been so kind to him. So warm and bright and innocent, giving him all you have without expecting anything in return. All he knows is to take and take and take until not even you had anything left to give. And still, he continues to take what he perceives to be rightfully his until you’re carved hollow from the inside out.

But you shouldn’t blame him, it was your fault in the first place. You should have known better than to treat strangers like him so kindly.

He has bound your soul to his. Til death do us part, but Scaramouche will not let even death take you away from him. So even if you decide to take your own life, you can never truly escape his grasp.

In your next life and the ones after that, he will always find you, and you will always love him back until you see the monster hidden beneath the veneer of a pleasant smile.

ISEKAI

You’re here. You’re really, truly here in Teyvat.

The most logical thing to do would be to seek out the Traveler, a fellow outlander who would keep you safe until they reach the end of their journey, but you’ve always been reckless and stupid. So you seek out the most disliked Harbinger and join the Fatui under his ranks.

You thought it would be like the fanfictions you secretly read, where he’d notice you and fall in love with you and you’d live happily ever after. But reality is often different from what you expect.

He is harsh, but not the fun, amusing kind of harsh you once watched and read. He is living and breathing and right in front of you, spitting the most horrid words anyone has ever said to you. You once fantasized the scenario of him being mean to you, back when he was fictional and dreamy and not an inch away from taking your useless, pathetic life.

And as you stood in place, blinking back tears that would send him over the edge should he see it, you wonder why you ever thought you’d enjoy it.

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

post-s2. good omens mascot here, coping unhealthily.

This is the first proper post I'm writing since the audio breakdown, good thing I queued a POTC one last week, I suppose. Yes I slept through the entire day today, missed the theatre workshop I was supposed to attend and may or may not be listening to A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square on loop. Have an update on my coping because my social life and family are both Tumblr now:

Every song is about them now. A lot were before, but now every single one. Even an old Hindi song from a 1900s Indian military movie that I have not watched, by the way. But the lyrics (thank you Google translate) are: Everybody wants a handful of the sky, everybody searches for a handful of the sky, there is a world waiting to be hugged to the chest, the moon is a fair full of stars, but this heart is still lonely. And of course that makes me think of Crowley as the starmaker. Ow.

I made the very intelligent decision to rewatch the first three episodes of season 2, knowing what the Job minisode and the Edinburgh minisode do to me. I'll be here clutching Crowley, well, hugging him close to the chest, just like that song... ah, fuck, here we go again.

I listened to you all and am drinking a lot of water, since my tear ducts were emptied yesterday and now I'm unable to cry. I also ate too much chocolate.

I searched for sad Aziracrow edits and watched them. Don't look at me. I'm in a hell of my own creation.

I used too many emotions last night and now I feel hollow and achy. Maybe I should cope with humour and write the summaries.

Or maybe that will backfire and I will be filled with horrifying levels of emotion.

I slept. A lot. Many hours. Lots sleep.

So. Well. You know. Adopted child of divorce. You were all right, this is exactly like dealing with a breakup or divorce, but much more painful.

Someone please, please, please stop me from clicking the Crowley whump tag to find fanfiction.

I remember my initial Good Omens posts. I remember calling the fandom sad, desperate, queer and masochistic, and also pointing out how you all blame Neil and then sit and make headcanons that are a hundred times worse than canon.

I was so right. Look at me now, sad, desperate, queer and masochistic, making headcanons that are a hundred times worse than canon.

Wahoo.

[heatherfield]

It’s only just started and I’m already emotional! I love how you jump right into things and explore Matilda’s emotions. You’ve really fleshed out what we see onscreen with everything that Matilda is hiding and UGH MY HEART!!

The Witch’s Remorse

Chapters: 1/12

Fandom: Headless (Web Series)

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Relationships: Matilda Bishop & Katrina Van Tassel

Characters: Matilda Bishop, Katrina Van Tassel (Headless), Ichabod Crane (Headless)

Tags: Literally just Matilda's perspective of every single episode of this show

Summary:

Matilda felt guilty but this was her friend.

And a life without her was too bleak to comprehend.

---

An exploration of Matilda's guilt, her growing relationships with Ichabod and Brom, and what led her to her decision in the final episode.

[w0menaresuperi0r]

I am actually so in love with Simon Riley. It’s insane but every time I try and look up a fanfiction of reader almost dying I can’t find a lot so when I can’t find it, I write it.

To bring a ghost back to life.

Simon “Ghost”Riley

The battlefield was chaos. Gunfire echoed through the air, punctuated by the sharp crack of explosions and the shouted orders of your team. Dust and smoke clung to your skin, the acrid tang of burning metal filling your lungs as you pushed forward through the ruins of the enemy compound.

You were Ghost’s partner on this mission, tasked with providing cover as he led the team into the heart of enemy territory. The two of you moved as one, a rhythm built on trust forged over countless missions. He was precise and methodical, clearing corners and eliminating threats with unerring focus.

“Keep close,” Simon barked, his voice sharp through the comms.

“Copy,” you replied, your tone steady despite the chaos.

But then it happened.

A sniper’s bullet sliced through the air, too quick to track, and struck you square in the side. The impact knocked you off your feet, and a searing pain radiated through your torso as you hit the ground hard.

“Y/N, status?” Ghost’s voice cut through the haze, sharp with urgency.

You tried to respond, but the words stuck in your throat. Blood pooled beneath you, soaking into the dirt as darkness crept at the edges of your vision.

“Y/N!” Simon’s voice was louder now, panic bleeding through his usually calm demeanor.

You heard his footsteps pounding against the ground as he raced toward you, but it was too late. The world tilted, and everything went black.

Simon dropped to his knees beside you, his gloved hands trembling as he pressed them against the wound in your side. Blood seeped through his fingers, the sight of it threatening to paralyze him.

“No, no, no,” he muttered under his breath, his voice a desperate plea. “Stay with me.”

Your face was pale, your breathing shallow as he worked to stabilize you. The rest of the team had pushed forward, leaving the two of you behind. For once, Simon didn’t care about the mission. All he cared about was keeping you alive.

“Ghost, what’s your status?” Price’s voice came through the comms, but Simon didn’t respond.

“Y/N’s down,” he finally said, his voice tight with barely contained emotion. “She’s… she’s not—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence.

The medevac arrived too late to give Simon hope. The last image burned into his mind was your lifeless body being carried away on a stretcher, blood staining the fabric and your hand hanging limp at your side.

For days, Simon waited for news. No one on the team could tell him if you’d made it. The medics avoided his gaze, their silence feeding the gnawing ache in his chest. He shut himself off from the others, retreating into the shadows of his own mind.

He didn’t sleep, didn’t eat. The Ghost everyone knew—the unshakable soldier—was a hollow shell, haunted by the memory of your last moments.

“Price,” Simon finally said one evening, his voice hoarse from disuse. “Tell me. Is she…”

Price’s expression was unreadable, but his tone was gentle. “I don’t know, Simon. The medics aren’t saying much.”

Simon clenched his fists, his jaw tightening as a storm of emotions threatened to overwhelm him. He turned away, retreating to the solitude of his quarters.

It wasn’t until three days later that a medic approached him, her face pale but determined.

“Lieutenant Riley,” she said, her voice cutting through the fog of Simon’s thoughts.

“What?” he snapped, though there was no real bite to his tone.

“You need to come with me,” she said, motioning for him to follow.

Simon’s heart lurched. He didn’t dare ask the question burning in his mind, afraid of the answer. He followed the medic through the base, his steps heavy with dread.

When they reached the infirmary, the medic gestured toward a closed door. “She’s stable,” she said softly, then stepped aside.

Simon froze. His hand hovered over the doorknob, his chest tight with a mix of fear and hope. Finally, he pushed the door open.

You were lying in the hospital bed, pale and fragile but alive. Bandages wrapped around your torso, and an IV was hooked to your arm. Your eyes fluttered open at the sound of the door, and when you saw Simon standing there, a weak smile spread across your face.

“Took you long enough,” you rasped, your voice barely audible.

Simon’s breath caught in his throat. For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t speak. Then he was at your side, dropping into the chair beside the bed.

“You’re alive,” he said, his voice raw.

“Barely,” you replied, your smile fading as you saw the anguish in his eyes. “But I’m here.”

Simon reached out, his hand hesitating before finally brushing against yours. His touch was uncharacteristically gentle, his fingers trembling.

“I thought I lost you,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You didn’t,” you said, squeezing his hand weakly. “I’m too stubborn to die.”

He let out a shaky laugh, though it was more relief than humor. “You scared the hell out of me,” he said, his voice breaking.

“I scared myself,” you admitted, your eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Simon leaned forward, resting his forehead against your hand. “Don’t ever do that to me again,” he said, his tone both a plea and a command.

“I’ll try,” you whispered, your voice soft but sincere.

For the first time in days, Simon allowed himself to breathe. You were alive, and that was all that mattered.

[stellaluna33]

The thing with Jess saying, "I need the music on to sleep," is that there could be any number of reasons for that, and we're never given a definitive answer in canon. So... Is it tragic? Or is it something more innocuous? The fact is that we really don't know! Is it that he's used to living in a noisy city and can't sleep in the silence of Stars Hollow? (That's definitely a Thing, and we do see him sleeping without music in Season 3) Is it that he has a neurodivergent brain that needs stimulation at all times? (ASP does tend to write very neurodivergent-seeming characters, probably without doing so intentionally. We still exist as observable types of people, even if you don't label us.) Is it trauma from horrible past experiences? (We've heard all sorts of worrisome tidbits about the way Liz has been living) Honestly, ANY (or all) of these explanations would be equally plausible, given what we DO know, but there's really no definitive right or wrong answer, and there's no way of knowing for sure!

It's fun (or potentially depressing, haha) to speculate about or to explore in fanfiction! But I also think it's important to remember that, at the end of the day, ALL of these explanations are personal headcanons or fanon, and if someone else has a theory that differs from our personal favorite, that doesn't mean they're WRONG, haha!

[lfcgirlie866]

You Called ~ JB TAA

Hi! I'm so nervous to post this ahhh. It's probably awful, but hopefully you guys like it! I should also warn you that it's most likely too overdramatic and unrealistic but I guess that's why it's fanfiction, right? That, and I like writing angst apparently...

Summary: Jude is feeling down about everything that's been going on with his team lately, and there's only one person he wants to see

Pairing: jude bellingham × trent alexander-arnold (or it could just be them as platonic besties/brother vibes. It's open to your interpretation ☺️)

He shouldn't be doing this.

He really, really should not be doing this. But he is. For him.

Trent should be at home, asleep, recovering from the game last night but instead he's on a private jet heading towards Madrid at 1 in the morning. It's the one city he definitely should not be seen in right now, and he has no idea what will happen if the media spots him there. He's risking everything; his contract with Liverpool, his vice-captaincy... all of it. But he's doing it.

For him. For Jude.

Because Jude has never been the type of person to let things get to him for too long. He's too mature for that. Usually, the media's chatter about his performances is just annoying background noise that he can drown out with the help of his family or friends. He's the type of player who loves the game, loves to play no matter what. If you give him a challenge then he'll take it, and despite what people think, he's not in it for the glory. He doesn't need to be the 'golden boy' all the time. Jude just loves to play.

So when he called Trent a few hours ago, his voice shaky and devoid of anything good, Trent knew that something wasn't right. At all.

He'd watched Jude's recent games, or as much of them as he could fit in around his own demanding schedule of fixtures and training, so he'd seen the way Jude was being run into the ground every game. He'd watched one of his favourite people in this world give everything he had and more, but with nothing back in return. Trent knows better than anyone just how quick the media and 'fans' can turn on you after a bad performance, but Jude didn't deserve this.

Trents knee bounces up and down uncontrollably as he sits and watches the little plane graphic on one of the screens inch closer and closer to its destination. Each minute seems to feel like ten, and every single one of them is a minute too long. He's never wanted the ability to teleport more than he does now.

The haunting sound of Jude's hollow voice echoes around in his mind, scaring him in a way he didn't know was possible. In all of their defeats, even the huge ones, Trent has never heard Jude sound so lost. It had almost felt like even the younger man's underlying love of the game had been diminished, too.

This need Trent has to see Jude, to protect him, to soothe away the hurt... it's overwhelming. And it's not going to go anywhere until he's there with him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jude's shoulder was in agony, his ankle not faring much better either, and all he could manage to do about it was lay there on the couch, staring at the ceiling for hours on end. He couldn't sleep. Couldn't eat. Couldn't even be bothered to get up and take some painkillers.

Maybe he liked the pain a little too much. Maybe it quietened his mind just enough for him not to drown in his thoughts. Maybe it stopped him from replaying his games over and over again in his head, berating himself each time for all the mistakes he'd made.

Or maybe he's a liar. Maybe he just wanted to punish himself even more.

The large house was silent around him, shrouded in darkness now that he was here alone. He'd thought that was what he wanted. That's why he told his mum to go back to England to visit his dad and Jobe. She hadn't wanted to leave him, especially not when she knew he wasn't doing very well, but he'd ended up practically forcing her to go by booking her flight for her.

In his defence, all he'd wanted was some space to breathe. Some time alone to get himself together. So why did it feel like all the air in the house had disappeared?

His family are usually his saving graces. They keep his feet on the ground and support him through everything. They're his safe space in this world. Jobe especially can always seem to put Jude at ease and lift any weight from his shoulders. But Jobe was doing incredible at Sunderland this season and Jude didn't want to zap any of the focus away from him. His brother deserved all the glory. He was on a high, and Jude couldn't risk pulling him down from it with his own problems. So he'd called the only other person who felt like home to him.

Trent.

It was selfish, he knew that. His best friend had more than enough going on without him adding to it, but even just hearing his voice down the phone had brought some relief. That scouse accent that grates on most people's nerves was like a soothing balm to Jude. He didn't know why. Maybe because it was so familiar at this point. Maybe because it reminded him of all the good times they'd spent together over the years. Maybe it reminded him of how incredible it felt when they connected on the pitch. Or maybe he just loved the person behind the voice.

If he was being really honest with himself, Jude wanted Trent here with him. Their whole 'we ain't inseparable' spiel was mocking him right now, but that was one thing he definitely did not care about at this point. So what if they liked to be around each other? So what if they were each other's support systems? So. fucking. what.

He'd seen all the comments about them during the international breaks, saying the two of them were 'like a married couple' or that they were 'so touchy-feely'. He found them all hilarious, to be honest, and Jude finds himself wishing he was there at an England camp right now. At least then he'd have his 'emotional support scouser' by his side.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Open the door

Trent texts him as he stands by the gate outside Jude's house, his hood pulled up to stay as hidden as possible even though the street is seemingly empty.

What are you on about?

Comes his reply a few minutes later. Trent can't help but smile as he types out his next message.

Get off your lazy arse and come see lad

It's not long before the gate buzzes and unlocks, Trent slipping into the front yard quickly, closing the exterior gate behind him and shutting the rest of the world out with it.

And then Jude is there.

He's standing in the doorway of the house, looking more tired than Trent has ever seen him. Sadder, too. His eyes are wide, a slight frown creasing his brow as if he can't quite believe what he's seeing in front of him.

"You came?"

He questions in pure disbelief, and it rattles Trent in a way he isn't quite comfortable with.

"You called."

And it was that simple. It would always be that simple.

Of course he came. Of. Fucking. Course.

Within seconds the distance between them has disappeared. Jude's hand wraps around Trent's wrist, practically dragging him inside the house. The younger boy slams the door closed with his free hand, the other one remaining tightly gripping Trent's wrist, his fingers digging into the flesh there like he's trying to tether himself back to reality.

"Am I dreaming?" Jude whispers, his voice cracking as if he's about to fall apart any second now.

The sound steals Trent's own breath away. That, coupled with the obvious demons hiding behind Jude's eyes, is enough for Trent to feel like he's falling apart himself. He sends a prayer out to whoever is listening, asking them to take all of Jude's pain and give it to him. He'll bear it for him, do anything just to get the boy in front of him to smile again.

"Nah, 'm real." He murmurs.

And then Jude's in his arms, burying his face in Trent's neck as he clings to him desperately. The relief is instant, Trent's familiar scent and feel wrapping around him comfortingly.

Now, finally, Jude can breathe properly again.

[viscerawrites]

viscerawrites ; writeblr intro

FOLLOW ME BETWEEN THE JAWS OF FATE. [vore - sleep token]

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Hey yall!! My name is Cassian (he/him) and I'm 20 years old. I was on here as @mybodyisaflowerbed but tumblr nuked my main blog on that account so I'm over here now!

I write.., a lot of different things haha, usually along the lines of fantasy and/or contemporary! I also write a lot of fanfiction, but I probably won't talk about those projects here unless I'm explicitly asked.

I am a fiend for music; metal is my favorite overarching genre (I'm terrible with subgenres tho lol) and I love to use my favorite songs and bands as inspiration for my writing.

That's about all I have to say for myself right now. My current original projects are listed below! (PS; my main blog is @dream-i-die and that's where all likes/follows will come from!)

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The list further down on this post desperately needs to be updated, but my main wip im brainstorming right now is surviving sun :] also peep my world; erapiae

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[needs updated] main wips

the sins that make our sons •/ sci-fi. (tag: sins / sons) | wip directory here

Full description tbd.

fearing what the light finds •/ contemporary, eventual portal fantasy. (tag: fearing the light) | wip intro here | series installment for mixtape.

Follows the story of a woman who murders her kidnapper after 9 years of captivity - and finds herself thrown into another world.

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other wip list

mouth of the wolf, eyes of the lamb •/ fantasy/romance. (tag: wolf mouth lamb eyes) | intro here

A man sacrificed to a werewolf in the woods is saved by the very being he's meant to be eaten by. They fall in love.

darcy goes to hell •/ dark fantasy. (tag: darcy) | intro here

Darcy Brisben is fifteen years old when she goes to Hell.

the hollows in our minds •/ fantasy w/ horror elements. (tag: thiom) | intro here

A woman who collects other people's memories is intrigued by the case of nine friends who have mysteriously disappeared. She launches her own investigation, only to uncover a dark, forgotten history.

operation get it right •/ fantasy/supernatural. (tag: get it right) | intro here

A small group of amateur ghost hunters and magic tamers are forced to face their own pasts as their supernatural pursuits lead to more and more devastating revelations.

i dream i die •/ contemporary. (tag: dream i die) | intro tbd

Centers around the story of a woman whose only escape from an abusive relationship is what she believes to be vivid daydreams (but is, in actuality, alternate timelines of her life).

the spiritspeakers •/ contemporary/supernatural. (tag: spiritspeak) | intro tbd

Three grown siblings who have each had unique experiences with the supernatural are pushed back together when they realize that their baby sister is a natural born psychic medium.

our souls on fire •/ urban fantasy/romance. (tag: our souls on fire) | intro tbd

A series centering around soulmate relationships in an urban fantasy world.

[rdr2stories]

"Betrayal" a rdr2 fanfiction.

Arthur hadn't been able to free himself, the wounds he had suffered under Colm's care had simply been too much, his faith was left in Dutch. It was with his whole heart that he had hoped that Dutch would come, after all his life had depended on it, yet Dutch never came.

Loosely based on (I remembeed the drawing not the caption):

The basement had always been a dark and sorrowful place no matter which house, which hideout or which hole they were kept up in, it would always be his least favorite of them all. The air would feel suffocating even if the sun was shining right after a cool rainfall, the walls would feel as though they were cramping in on him even if they were wider than the actual room he was sleeping in, his senses would be overwhelmed, noises, smells and feelings that weren’t actually there would crowd his mind and trap him in a night he would rather forget.

His shoulder was healed, the only remains of the wound that had once hollowed out his flesh being the tough scar tissue that had not managed to patch up the break of his heart. When he breathed it was slow and airy, the kick his former enemies had made to his chest and sides had done something to his ribs and lungs which could not be undone. He was no longer silent, he could be heard miles away by his struggling breathing, but he didn’t need to be silent any longer, his days as a desperate workhorse were over.

He had no doubt that the man in the basement who was suffering the similar wounds he had years ago could hear him, yet he would not know who it was standing there, his mind racing, considering if he was ready to get face to face with a man whom he had love and cared for for years but had not shown the same kindness to him in the end.

One step at a time he made his way down into the suffocating basement, the walls closing in around him and cutting the outside world off like the hatch over the steps had been slammed shut. It was just him, the man and the singular flame of the candle that gave just enough lighting for him to see the face he would remember to his death, that, even when aged, had not changed a bit.

The man was hanging upside down, just like he had, his face was red, his arms hanging loosely down towards the ground as the iron chains wrapped around his ankles and held him above the ground. A wound had been afflicted to his chest, a shallow knife wound cutting over the collarbones and ripping up the fine shirt and vest that he always wore. It was nothing, a mere scrape compared to other wounds suffered in the past, no matter how big the red puddle on the ground was.

His snail-like mustache looked exactly the same, except for the fact that it was no longer black but rather gray with age. The same could be said for the hair that once had curled around his nape but now was cut short as if he was scared it would run off or like he had simply grown tired of maintaining it.

He had not seen that face in years and though he had dreamt of seeing it many many times before, he could not have imagined the emotions that welled up in him. The anger that rose from parts of his core he had not felt since the death of his family, the sadness that made him feel like breaking down weeping on the cold gravel floor and the conflict that he had thought he had overcome. He hated that part of himself felt like hugging the man, embracing him and crying into his chest like a little kid, appologicing as if it wasn’t him who had been left for dead.

The upside down man looked drowsy, his eyelids halfway down his brown eyes that would make you trust him in a mere second even though he had more bodies on his back than he counld count. His lips were slightly apart as if he was simply asleep, but he wasn’t because he reacted when the boy he had left stepped into the light stream coming down from the top of the stairs. He could not yet see who it was, the boy’s features hidden, he recongized the satchel that he carried on his hip.

The man’s eyes seeked upwards to the cold face he had once known as his protegee, as his son. “Arthur?”

“Hi Dutch,” Arthur spoke as he grabbed the chair by the table that the candle stood on and pulled it over to him so that he could sit and face his old mention, his old father.

“You- You are alive!” Dutch’s deep and raspy voice sounded, confusion yet hope and glee to be found in it. “Oh how glad I am to see you! I thought you were dead! Help an old fella down from here and let’s get away! Oh how happy the others will be to know you are alive! We made a little memorial for you back in West Elizabeth since we didn’t have your body, we buried Sean next to it-”

“Sean?” Arthur asked with anger rising in his chest. His brother, his little brother was dead? “Did you leave him as well? Did you leave him for dead too?”

Dutch’s eyes narrowed, his brows drawing together in confusion. “Whatever do you mean son?”

“You didn’t come for me Dutch!” Arthur exclaimed, standing up so suddenly that the chair behind him slammed to the ground as it tipped over. “I was waiting for you! I was waiting for you to come get me but you didn’t! You left me for dead!”

“Arthur- My son,” Dutch’s eyes were frantic and confused as he looked over the green clothing of the boy he had raised. “We thought you had gone out hunting- We didn’t think nothing of it until a few days later and by then we couldn’t find you- You were gone-” 

“Hunting?” Arthur asked in irritation as he felt anger well up in him, a hand running over his eyes. “Hunting Dutch?! I told you! I told you I would meet you by the forked road!” He looked directly at Dutch, an accusing finger pointed at him. “I told you no matter what, I would meet you at the forked road! I keep my promises Dutch! I always do! I made that agreement with you so that if something happened to either me or you, you would have known something was wrong! I wasn’t out hunting Dutch! I had been kidnapped!” He took a step closer to Dutch, who’s eyes widened, for the first time being on the receiving end of the anger that was in the monster he had created, of the anger of the man who’s warrant poster said ‘do not approach’. “I had been shot! I was beaten! I was tortured! Hanging upside down as you are, left with hopes that you would come but you didn’t!”

“Arthur-” Dutch tried to cut in.

“Don’t you ‘Arthur’ me,” Arthur groaned, running a hand over his face again. “You left me Dutch, left me. I sat here, clinging onto hope that you would come back for me, like you said you always would, but you didn’t, and do you know who took pity on me? Colm of all people.” Arthur snorted as he slightly shook his head. “That O’Driscoll boy wasn’t so wrong about Colm, he has a way of making you feel special. He took me in when you left me.”

“I didn’t leave you.” Dutch spoke in a soft tone. “We searched for you Arthur, all of us did.”

“Not well enough,” Arthur bit lightly at the inside of his cheek. “Colm was expecting you to come get me, he gave you a clear trail to follow, but you didn’t.” He let out a snort. “In a way I am glad, I ain’t been a workhorse since I have gotten here. Colm appreciates me, gave me my own room and everything, doesn’t send me out to do his dirty work like you did. And your ideals? You cared so much about ideals, about sticking together, yet you didn’t come for me. Your ideals are nothing but lies that you hide behind.”

“Lies?!” Dutch exclaimed, this time with anger sweepin through his voice.

“Lies, Dutch, lies. Ideals are nothing but empty words without action to back them up!”

“Arthur,” A voice came from the top of the staircase and Arthur turned to look at the man descending, the man whom he had once seen as foe but now as friend, the man who had taken him in when he had been beat, tortured and abandoned, even if he had been the one doing half of it.

“Colm,” Dutch’s low voice sounded as he watched his enemy, the killer of his lover, stride down into the basement, the sunlight coming down the stairs highlighting the fur running around the collar of his jacket as he came closer and stood next to Arthur.

“Dutch, how nice to see you are awake,” Colm gave a big grin, knowing that the pain of seeing Arthur against him instead of with him hurting far more than any bullet wound or stab could ever do. “Look who I found.” He placed his hands on Arthur’s shoulders. “The dog you threw away. You know, it is quite a pity because oh how he works, his bite is stronger than any I have seen before. You trained him well, I am not going to lie, I was surprised when you abandoned him, but then again, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”

Arthur let out a low grunt but otherwise remained quiet, it wasn’t the first time Colm had explained the situation like that, but he hated it either way, he hated thinking that he meant nothing more than an empty tin can discarded after being used to Dutch, it hurt him even after all those years.

“Trash?!” Dutch’s voice sounded, genuinely sounding hurt at the way his relation to Arthur was described. “Arthur is my son. He is not trash!”

“Yet you discarded him as such, forgotten in a basement.” Colm patted Arthur’s shoulder. “Ay ay, so be, we got bigger issues, the gang is on their way Arthur, they are coming for Dutch.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed, he knew it would happen, he had known it because it was the plan, but it still hurt, hurt far more than he was willing to admit. Deep inside he had hoped that Dutch would have been abandoned too, just like he had been abandoned, that it wasn’t him that was the reason he was left behind but that it was simply the gang. Of course it wasn’t like that. Dutch would always be saved, and he would always be left behind, expected to care for himself.

“Coming,” Arthur spoke in a lower voice than he had anticipated when he turned to follow Colm who had begun to walk up the stairs and out of the basement. As such, he turned his back on his father, feeling his heart plummet in his chest. He didn’t know what he had expected. Some kind of closure? That maybe Dutch hadn’t been as he had remembered him? That he was actually much more of an asshole?  Whatever he had wished for, he hadn’t gained it, he merely felt more conflicted than before.

“Arthur-” Dutch exclaimed, heavily in breath and wide in eyes as Arthur reluctantly halted and hesitantly turned to look at him one last time. “You are my son, we can still fix this.”

Arthur wanted to believe it, oh he wanted to believe it more than anything, but he knew he couldn’t. He knew that what had done could not be fixed, the damage could not be repaired no matter how many sweet words were spoken, no matter how many promises had been made.

The sun was warm and welcoming when Arthur exited the basement and he was let out into the open world again. Normally he would let out a deep breath of relief and take a moment to get back into his own body, but he didn’t do it at that time, he didn’t feel welcomed nor as happy as he normally would being warmed by the sun.

He swallowed a lump in his throat and made his way over to his horse which stood hitched in the outskirts of camp. It’s fur was soft as it always had been, but if it had suffered with the years and patches of the previously brown color had gone gray with age. Other than the few belongings he had had on him when he had been kidnapped, most of which had been replaced over time, the horse was the one thing that remained from his years with the Van Der Linde gang. It was a constant, the one thing he trusted to never betray him.

It didn’t pain him to say that he did not trust Colm with his life, he knew that Colm did not care for him much other than the fact it gave him a leverage over Dutch, bragging rights. He knew that Colm cared for himself first and foremost. He knew that, he accepted it, he was okay with it, he had even opened up about it to one of the girls whom had been around camp at some point. She had asked him why he hadn’t cared when he had cared so deeply about Dutch’s betrayal and he had told her the truth.

Dutch had always pretended to be there for him, had spoken grand words about fellowship and friendship and such, he had spilled lies and he had made Arthur believe them, Colm on the other hand, Colm was honest. He never outright said that he cared for himself most, but never said that he cared for Arthur most like Dutch had.

He liked the certainty of the fact he was on his own more than the white lie that he had someone to rely on. It was that lie that had disappointed him the most, that had given him the heart that had yet to heal.

The repeater in his hand was new, one that they had stolen off a man who had gotten on the wrong side of Colm, it was a new model, shiny and bright, not a single flaw to be found. Arthur had determined to keep it that way.

Colm didn’t do much fighting himself, when Arthur had run with Dutch he had thought it had just been pride, but the truth was a bad hand that he could barely bend his fingers on. Arthur didn’t mind it much, he didn’t need to do a lot of fighting either, but in big cases like this, he did, and in this one he wanted to, he wanted to face his former brothers.

Hiding behind a barrel, Arthur waited, his breathing revealing his location but he didn’t mind much. As soon as the fighting began it wouldn’t be audible over the gunshots either way.

The gang he had run with was loud as always, the hooves of their horses hammering against the ground in one big storm, tearing up grass, dirt and stone with them. They weren’t planning on quieting down, they were planning on raiding in the place, like they had a habit of doing.

He heard when the fighting started, but he didn’t move, it wasn’t his job to. His job was to stay, to protect. Maybe Colm had placed Arthur so far back because he didn’t trust Arthur to kill his brothers, and maybe Arthur was happy because he didn’t know if he could either.

Ever so slowly the shots came closer and closer and Arthur’s heart twisted in his chest, he didn’t know what to hope, what to expect. Did he hope his brothers’ blood would coat another's hand because he loved them too much to kill them himself or did he hope their blood would coat his because he could not bare another taking their lives? He did not know, but in the end he would have to make a choice, he knew that when he saw Marston come near, when he saw his brother’s eyes scan the area and run closer to the basement stairs in the back of the building, away fromthe fight happening in the front.

Arthur’s brother was scarred, much more than he had been before. The marks that the wolves had left over his face were practically gone under what seemed to be burn scars which coated his face. His hair looked far more crusty, far more stiff than it had before, though it had found the strength to grow longer. His brother hadn’t even noticed him as he rose from his spot behind the barrel and drew the repeated, a click sounding as it was pointed at Marston who halted suddenly.

“Go on, shoot.” Marston spoke in an annoyed voice, though Arthur could near the slight tremble. Even the boy who now carried all the scars of being worked to the bone in a field of death still worried about the afterlife. He stood with his hands clenched around his revolver as he held it slightly away from himself, the finger off the trigger, maybe hoping it would show peace.

“If you so wish,” Arthur merely replied, perfectly hiding the conflict that made him rest his finger on the metal above the trigger instead of on the trigger itself.

Marston suddenly stiffened up, immediate recognition of the voice he had not heard for years as he turned around without a second thought, his eyes wide and face conflicted, much similar to Dutch’s. “Arthur! We thought you were dead!”

Arthur raised the gun against Marston’s head as he dared step closer. “Yeah you all did.” He saw when Marston realised that Arthur wore the green bandana of the O’Driscolls around his neck, slightly covering a scar running over his throat which he had suffered after the betrayal. 

Marston took a step back, his eyes wide. “You-”

“You left me.” Arthur simply replied, though he knew somewhere that John had been restricted to Dutch’s decision not to find him.

“Dutch told me you died!” Marston defended, his free hand coming to cludge the fabric of his shirt resting over his heart.

“I always knew you were dumb, but not this dumb.” Arthur snorted, trying to hide the fact that he was terrified, the fact that he knew either he would have to shoot his brother or his brother would shoot him. There was not a chance where they both walked away unharmed, it was simply not possible, the betrayal was too big.

[darkpoisonouslove]

Something You Can Do

Summary: Alicent goes to Helaena to tell her about Jaehaerys' funeral and try to comfort her as best as she can. A rewritten scene from 2x02 "Rhaenyra the Cruel" that pays more attention to the awful choice Helaena was subjected to and her feelings in the wake of her son's murder. The idea of rewriting scenes from the second season of HotD is a great way to engage with the show despite its flaws and I would like to thank @aegoncarney for creating this event. It got me to write my first HotD fanfiction! AO3

The eyes of the Red Keep are like knives in Alicent's back, in her ribcage, in her mind. She wants to turn to the seemingly empty hallways and scream, yell at them, demand their accountability. Always watching, at least a dozen pairs shadow her every movement now but where were they when her daughter had been all alone against the monsters in the night?

They are only here to confine her, stop her from going two steps back for every three steps forward like she's lost her mind. She has to leave herself to the motion of walking, keep her mind on other things to let her feet take her to the quarters where her daughter and granddaughter had been moved on their own.

The thought of what she'll see when she gets there only makes her slow down as she wrestles with the impulse to turn around and storm the Small Council again to countermand her father’s commands. But she can't run from this forever. She has to be there for her daughter, as close as Helaena will allow her.

She had been in shock last night, staying in Alicent's chamber. They'd hardly talked her into letting go of Jaehaera and she'd remained perched on Alicent's bed and watching over her the whole night. The alertness in her posture had been disturbing, her hands stroking Jaehaera despite the distant look in her eyes as if to make sure the girl was still there. Alicent had barely convinced her to lie down and rest her body at least if she refused sleep, gaze penetrating the space in front of her as if she could see something in the distance the rest of them were unaware of.

The knight in front of Helaena's door opens it for Alicent, a little too quickly as if he's ashamed of how little use there is for him, now. She thanks him regardless – for guarding her precious girl, for saving her from agonizing over whether to knock and startle Helaena or risk frightening her if she walked in without warning, and for the sake of announcing herself to her daughter. Maybe even for her own sake, to earn herself another second to steel her nerves and bear the sight of what had become of her sweet girl, all because of her.

Helaena is on her feet again, holding the bedpost for support. She has Jaehaerys' blanket in her hands, hugging it to her to feel any trace left of him – his scent or the warmth that is no longer there. Something leaves her throat but it is unintelligible.

Alicent's heart pounds in her ears frantically despite her resolve to listen in, to never let Helaena feel alone or unheard again. She tries to ask… something but the possibility that a sob would be the only response she gets is an insurmountable lump in her throat. Helaena has every reason to weep and never stop. Why should she herself be allowed anything different?

Helaena turns to her, head snapping in her direction so fast that Alicent almost gasps in fear that she's hurt herself. Her eyes are focused now, her gaze so intense as it lands on Alicent that she nearly collapses to her knees. Whatever her sweet girl is looking for, she will fail to provide.

"I had nothing to give," Helaena's voice is so hollow – as if she knows her mother won't have what she needs.

Alicent chokes down her own sobs but her words are still wet when they come out, bathed in the tears welling in her eyes, "No, you are so loving and warm. A great mother-"

Helaena goes on as if she did not speak, "I couldn't offer myself. They only wanted a son."

Alicent freezes. The blood drains from her; she can't breathe. Her arm only shoots out to brace her against the wall when her knees buckle.

"I only had a necklace they didn’t take." Helaena's fingers are bunching the blanket, digging into it in search for her baby, or at least for an answer to settle her heart and mind. "Did I have something else to give?"

She whips around, eyes running over the room.

"This was my son's," she holds up the blanket. She steps towards the table and picks up one of Jaehaerys' toys. "This was my son's. All of these. He had many things. Why did I not…?"

Her arms fall next to her body, limp, the blanket pooling in her feet. She looks up at Alicent, her lips trembling. "I must have had something to give. If I am the queen."

Alicent runs to her. The moment she opens her arms, Helaena collapses in them and they fall to the floor, the blanket barely softening the thud their bodies make against it. The toy in Helaena's hand clatters to the ground and her nails sink into Alicent’s shoulders like she'd slip away if she doesn't burrow herself under Alicent's skin. She is only grateful for that pain.

She tries stroking Helaena's hair and only continues when Helaena doesn't push her away. Though, she doesn't really seem to notice, still clutches at her and her breaths come in irregular gasps. Like she's stifling the cries before they can form in her body.

Alicent doesn't know what to say, how to encourage her to let it out. She wants to tell her she'll remain with her as long as Helaena needs her but Helaena speaks first.

"What else could I have done, mummy?"

Alicent's heart breaks. She bites herself to blood to keep from weeping; the tremors of her body are already shaking Helaena. That's all she can give her. Not an answer but her own pain reflected back at her.

She has to remind herself not to cling to Helaena like that's the only thing keeping her head above water. She's supposed to be the one consoling her baby.

She has nothing to give.

"I didn't see them," Helaena's voice is so thin, like she'll break under unbearable weight. "Just the rats. In every hallway, swarming together, with a big shadow behind them swallowing the light. They were coming for us and I couldn’t pick him up, my boy…" She buries her face in Alicent's neck. "They were running from it."

Alicent can't help the pangs of guilt cutting through the relief of having Helaena nestled into her neck, safely in her arms where nothing can take her away. It's a comfort only to her while her sweet girl is twisting her mind inside out, looking for a way out of a tragedy that's already happened, that none of them could have foreseen. She has to soothe her, has to find a way to lead her out of the maze Helaena is wandering in her own head.

"There is to be a funeral for Jaehaerys. We’ve been asked to… accompany the procession."

Helaena has gone still, stiff, in her arms. She has to tread very carefully.

"If we show we need them, the people will help us. With them on our side, it will be easier to defend ourselves. You can protect your girl."

Helaena pulls back to look at her and Alicent tries to find her own conviction. She'd do anything for her sweet girl but this doesn't feel right. She's not lying; they need the people. She still feels like retching just thinking of standing next to her daughter while her pain is paraded around.

Her sweet girl needs a second but understands. Her eyes search Alicent’s face and she feels like she's failing her. Tears have already started to blur her vision and she knows her jaw trembles; she doesn't even have the strength to clench it hard enough to stop that. How can she harden herself when Helaena is in her arms? Only gentleness should ever touch her girl.

Only when she sees her tears mirrored in Helaena's eyes as she nods, she knows her girl is braver than her.

Her heart jumps when Helaena leans into her again. She tucks her under her chin immediately and strokes her back.

She wants to say, "I'm sorry."

All she says is, "There is something you can do."

She's not sure if she's talking to Helaena or to herself.

She repeats herself over and over again.

Maybe at least one of them will believe it.

[mel-vaz]

the Black Brothers sister

Hi everybody this is my first time writing so please be kind. This a x reader fanfiction the reader is mentioned to be chubby this is SAD injoy   

Invisible. That's what you were. You were nothing but Regulus and Sirius' little sister your whole life, a shadow in the grand tapestry of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Forgotten and achingly alone, you drifted through the vast, empty rooms of Grimmauld Place like a ghost—unseen, unheard, unwanted.

It wasn't always like this. When you and your brothers were little, you were inseparable—like one big person, three hearts beating in unison. You did everything together, from sleeping to playing, your laughter echoing through the gloomy halls, a brief spark of light in the darkness of your family's legacy.

Those memories haunted you now, phantoms of happiness long lost. You could still feel the phantom warmth of Sirius' hand in yours as he led you on daring adventures through the house. You could still hear the echo of Regulus' conspiratorial whisper as he shared secrets with you in the dead of night. But those echoes grew fainter with each passing day, drowned out by the deafening silence of your solitude.

Nights were the worst. As you lay in your bed, the vastness of your loneliness threatened to swallow you whole. You'd stare at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster, anything to distract from the hollow ache in your chest. Sometimes, in your weakest moments, you'd sneak into your brothers' empty rooms, curling up in their beds, desperately seeking some lingering trace of their presence. But all you found were cold sheets and fading memories.

The day Sirius left for Hogwarts, a piece of your heart went with him. But it was Regulus' departure two years later that truly shattered you. You were supposed to go with him—you'd spent months dreaming of it, finally escaping the suffocating confines of Grimmauld Place, and having your brother by your side once more.

But then it happened. The incident that changed everything.

It was just a week before you were set to leave for Hogwarts. Your excitement had been building, a crescendo of hope and anticipation. But with it came a wild, untamed energy that thrummed beneath your skin. Your magic, always unpredictable, became a living thing, responding to your every emotion.

You were arguing with Regulus—not about packing, but about Sirius. His letters had become less and less frequent, and when they did come, they were full of stories about his new friends, especially James Potter.

"He loves us, Reggy!" you shouted, your fists clenched at your sides. "He cares about us!"

Regulus' face hardened, a mask of pure-blood pride sliding into place. " No, he doesn't he's made his choice," he said coldly. "He chose those blood traitors and mudbloods over his own family. We're better off without him."

"How can you say that?" you cried, feeling the magic building within you, a storm ready to break. "He's our brother!"

"Not anymore," Regulus spat. "As far as I'm concerned, I only have one sibling now, and she'd do well to remember where her loyalties lie."

Something in you snapped. Your frustration, your pain, your longing for the brother who had left you behind—it all came surging to the surface. Before you could stop it, a wave of raw magic exploded from you. The windows shattered, raining glass like deadly diamonds. Regulus, caught in the blast, was thrown across the room.

The memory of his cry of pain would haunt your nightmares for years to come.

When the dust settled, Regulus was sprawled on the floor, a deep gash across his forehead, his eyes wide with shock and fear. Your parents burst into the room, wands drawn, ready for an attack. But when they saw you standing there, the air around you still crackling with power, their expressions changed from alarm to... calculation.

"By Merlin's beard," your father breathed, lowering his wand. "I haven't seen a display of raw power like that since..."

"Centuries," your mother finished, a gleam in her eye that made your skin crawl. "It seems the old magic runs strong in you, child."

You stood there, trembling, waiting for the punishment that surely must come. But instead, your father stepped forward, his hand closing around your arm like a vice.

"Do you understand what this means?" he asked, his voice low and intense. "This kind of power... it's only been seen in the Black family. It means you're valuable, my dear. Very valuable indeed."

The word 'valuable' sent a chill down your spine. Not special, not loved—valuable. Like a prize cow or a rare artifact.

In the days that followed, your world turned into a nightmare. Instead of anger, your parents showered you with cold, calculating attention that was somehow worse than their previous neglect. Tutors were brought in, not to nurture your gifts, but to shape you into a weapon for the family's ambitions.

"Control it," they would hiss as you struggled to contain the wild magic within you. "Master it, or it will master you."

But you didn't want to control it. You hated it. Hated the power that surged through your veins, hated the way it made your family look at you—not with love, but with greed. You were no longer a daughter, but a pawn in their grand schemes.

Regulus, for his part, never forgave you for the incident. The scar on his forehead was a constant reminder of what you were capable of. "Stay away from me," he snarled the night before he left for Hogwarts. "You're a monster. A freak. I'm glad you're not coming to Hogwarts—I'd be ashamed to call you my sister."

As you stood on Platform 9¾, watching Regulus board the Hogwarts Express without you, you felt nothing but despair. You'd lost both your brothers now—one to a new life, the other to fear and hatred. And you were trapped, a prisoner in your own home, your own body.

You were no longer invisible. You were all too visible, a focal point for your family's ambitions and fears. As the train pulled away, carrying Regulus towards his future, you turned back towards yours, a future that now seemed darker than ever.

How could things get any worse? Oh, but they did. They most certainly did...Nobody cared about you, nobody saw you, nobody heard you, you were all alone. 

    Until one day, when the bitter Scottish winter had seeped into the very stones of Hogwarts, you hurried through the crowded corridor. Your mind was elsewhere, worrying about the upcoming Potions exam and the letter from home you'd been avoiding. The press of students, the cacophony of voices, it all faded into the background as you rounded the corner and—

WHAM!

You collided with something solid, sending you sprawling onto the cold stone floor. Books scattered everywhere, ink spilling from your broken bottle. James Potter, the boy who had taken your beloved brother away. Your eyes locked with his hazel ones, and for a moment, the bustling corridor seemed to fade away.

"Fuck, that hurt. Watch where you're going," he snapped, his voice laced with annoyance. 

You..." you growled, pushing yourself up off the floor. "You're the last person I wanted to see today."

James raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into that infuriating smirk. "Well, if it isn't Pads' chubby little sister. Didn't get the good looks, did you?"

The insult stung, and you felt your face flush with humiliation. How dare he mock your appearance, after everything he'd done. You clenched your fists, your nails digging into your palms as you fought to control your anger.

"You have no right to say that to me," you spat, glaring daggers at James."Not after what you did to my life."

James's smirk faded, replaced by a cold look. "Oh, come off it. Your life? Don't be so dramatic. Sirius made his own choices."

"Shut up!" you shouted, cutting him off. "You have no idea what you've done. You ruined everything!" 

"Y/n," a familiar voice cut through the tension. Your heart sank as you turned to see Sirius standing there, his friends and Regulus flanking him. Sirius's face was thunderous, while Regulus wore his usual mask of boredom.

"Sirius," you whispered, your anger giving way to a wave of sadness.

"How could you talk to James that way?" Sirius demanded, his grey eyes flashing.

You started to get up, desperate to escape this nightmare, but Sirius's next words stopped you cold.

"You're not going anywhere until you apologize to James."

"Why do you care?" you asked, barely audible.

Sirius's lip curled in disgust. "Because he's my friend. And I can't have my chubby, ugly sister losing her only redeeming quality of being a good girl. Now do as you're told."

His cruel words hit you like a physical blow. Something inside you snapped. You whipped your head around, facing both your brothers.

"YOU ARE NOT MY BROTHER!" you shouted at Sirius, then turned to Regulus, pointing accusingly. "AND NEITHER ARE YOU! Now leave me alone!" 

[ambrossart]

Bad Omens

summary: after experiencing the most unlucky morning of his life, eddie is convinced that doom is on the horizon. all his friends think he's just being paranoid, but then jeff receives an unexpected request from you, eddie's little harbinger of misfortune.

pairing: eddie munson x dwm!reader word count: 4,633 warnings: middle school, young!eddie, insecure!eddie, language, bullying, teasing, secret crushes, the unnamed freak is named grant in this series

series masterpost | series playlist | fanfiction masterlist

It was a dull, dreary, rainy morning for all the students hanging out in the Hawkins Middle School cafeteria. They sat in small, quiet clusters around the room, eating, talking, scrambling to finish last night’s homework. Jeff was part of the latter group, and like everyone else, he was having a hard time staying awake. 

While the rain pattered softly against the window, he sat slumped over the table with his chin on his wrist, struggling to resist sleep’s sweet siren song. His social studies book lay in front of him, open to his current reading assignment: something about the Incas or the Mayans (Jeff couldn’t keep them straight and, this late in the school year, he didn’t have the motivation to care). He kept reading the same sentence over and over, but the words always got lost in the fog of his thoughts. His eyes, listless and heavy-lidded, blurred with tears every time he—

Another yawn snuck up on him, threatening to split his mouth wide open. Jeff raised his head and surrendered to it, let it wash over him and then drift away, leaving little pools of moisture in the corners of his tired eyes. He wiped them away with his sleeve, put his chin down, and went back to reading.

“Dude, you gotta stop yawning,” Grant said. Then he let out a big yawn of his own.

He was slicing through the school’s frozen waffles with a fork. Inside the other compartments of his tray were two greasy sausage links, a cup of assorted fruit, and two cartons of milk. Grant always bought an extra milk because one was never enough. 

“They’re too small,” he would say. “You finish one before you’re even halfway done with your food.” 

“Boy, this is riveting stuff,” Scottie would answer. “Now, Grant, how ‘bout you share with us your thoughts on the basic four food groups? For instance, should fruits and vegetables really be grouped together?”

Then someone, usually Eddie, would tell Scottie to shut up, and that would be the end of it. 

“God, these are awful,” Grant was saying now, while he stuffed a waffle square into his mouth and forced himself to chew. “Just look at ‘em. Pale, lifeless, cold in the middle. It’s like they have no pride in their product.” 

“And yet you keep eating it,” Scottie said while he doodled in his notebook. “See, Grant? You’re part of the problem.” 

“I have to,” Grant answered with a shrug. “You know I can’t go to class on an empty stomach. When I get hungry, my stomach growls really, really loud, and I’ve got a test coming up. Can you imagine what it’ll sound like in a room that quiet? Everyone will hear it and they’ll know it came from me. I can’t handle that kinda stress.”

Scottie’s doodling hand slowed. He stared at Grant with bored, blinking eyes. 

Then he said, “I keep going back to the tombs. I feel like the tombs are crucial.” 

Jeff lifted his chin off his wrist. “What?” 

“He’s talking about his campaign.” 

“Oh.” 

Shocker. Scottie was always talking about his campaign. 

“I still haven’t come up with a name for it,” Scottie said. “So far, I’ve got Into the Delves, The Delves of Dunmar, The Delves of Dunland, Digging in the Delves, Digging in the Dark Delves…” 

“Why are you so stuck on ‘delves’?” Jeff asked. 

“I dunno, I just like the way it sounds.” 

“Yeah, but I thought it was about a tomb.”

“Well, what’s a delve?” 

“It’s not a tomb! A delve is like a cave or something.”

“A hollow,” said Grant, “or a pit… a grotto.” 

“It’s also a verb, which means ‘to dig,’ which would make half those titles kinda redundant.”

Scottie’s shoulder sank. “Well, shit,” he said. “Now I’m back to square one.”

He tore out the page and crumpled it up. 

“Hey, where’s Munson? He usually comes in hot with all kinds of weird ideas. They’re usually shit, but sometimes there’s a little diamond hiding in there, and I pluck it out and shine it up real pretty until it glows into a sparkling, wonderful idea.” 

Jeff cracked a smirk. “You’re like Rumpelstiltskin spinning straw into gold.” 

Scottie squinted at him. “Rumple who?” 

“Rumpelstiltskin. It’s a German fairytale. Sorry, my lab partner got her hands on a book of Grimm fairytales and now she’s like Mother Goose. She brings them to class and reads me her favorite ones. Except these aren’t nice, happy fairytales. These are like weird and creepy. Like in one, this girl gets kidnapped by a rabbit or something and is forced to marry him.” 

“Oh, ‘The Hare’s Bride,’” said Grant. “That’s a good one.” 

“You know it?” 

“I know a lot of things I shouldn’t.” 

Scottie rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Grant, you’re just a well of knowledge. A giant, giant well.”  

Grant ignored him and went on talking: “I thought she was into Lovecraft.”

“No, that was last month, thank God. I’m so glad that phase is over. Those stories are the stuff of nightmares.”

“Speaking of nightmares,” Scottie said. “Did anyone else get a weird call from Gareth last night?” 

Jeff and Grant shook their heads. 

“Well, he called me at like eleven o’clock ranting about the Antichrist and the end of the world. It took me a while to decipher what he was actually saying, but I guess he was watching The Omen last night, and a bird flew into his window and broke its neck, so naturally he started freaking out, like Gareth always does, and the whole time I was thinking, Dude, this why your mommy doesn’t let you watch horror movies. The kid just can’t handle ‘em.” 

“Weird,” Grant said. Then he perked up and said, “Hey, here comes Eddie!” 

Their friend had come gusting in from the rain and was now trudging through the cafeteria, stomping muddy shoeprints all over the tile. He had yet to draw back the hood of his black sweatshirt, which to the rest of the students, gave him a striking (and amusing) resemblance to the Grim Reaper. Some of them snickered as he passed. One girl cupped her hand over her mouth and said to her friend, “Go back to the graveyard, Eddie Munster,” and the girls tittered hysterically while clinging to each other. Eddie pretended like he couldn’t hear them, but he could. He always could. 

He threw his backpack to the floor, ripped off his hood, and slammed both his hands onto the table. 

“Guys, something horrible’s about to happen.” 

“Yes!” Scottie said, pumping his fists excitedly. “Let’s fucking go! You’re all worked up. You’ve got that crazy intensity in your eyes. This is gonna be just what I need. Hold on, lemme get a new page ready. Make sure my pen has plenty of ink.” He scribbled with his pen, gave a satisfied nod, and settled back into his seat. “All right, gimme some straw, Rumpleskillskin.” 

A deep crease formed between Eddie’s brows. “What’s he talking about?” 

“Just ignore him,” Jeff said. He closed his social studies book and gave Eddie his full attention. “What happened, man?”

Eddie pulled out a chair, sat down, and dragged his fingers through his damp hair. “Okay, so last night I woke up with this horrible and just uneasy feeling, y’know? It was like this massive weight was just sitting on top of my chest. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. It was fucking terrifying.” 

“What, you mean like sleep paralysis?” Scottie said. “Was a demon sitting on your chest, like in that…? Wait, what’s that painting again?” 

“The Nightmare,” Grant said. 

Scottie snapped his fingers at him. “Yes, thank you! ‘The Nightmare.’ Is that what you had, Munson? Did you have a little nighttime visitor? Did it whisper to you in the dark? Did it tell you secrets about the afterlife? Or maybe, you know, give you ideas for my campaign?” 

“Oh, would you stop?” Jeff said to him, and Scottie threw up his hands, as if to say, What? I’m desperate! 

“Keep going, Eddie. You woke up with a really bad feeling. What happened after that?”

“Okay, so while I was laying there, I thought back to what Gareth said earlier. Did you guys know a bird flew into his window last night?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Scottie threw down his pen in frustration. “That’s what this is about? The fucking Omen? Eddie, relax, the Antichrist isn’t coming, okay? You and Gareth just have overactive imaginations and like to drive each other crazy with your paranoia. You guys need to go outside and get some fresh air every once in a while.” 

“What?” Eddie said. “I’m not talking about the Antichrist! Look, something bad’s gonna happen, you guys. I can feel it. And right now I’m having the worst day of my life. My alarm didn’t go off this morning, so I was running really fucking late. The roof started leaking from all the rain, and everything on my desk got drenched. My books. My homework. Everything. It’s all just ruined, so I dunno what I’m gonna do about that. Then the chain came off my bike while I was riding to school, and I crashed face-first into a puddle of muddy water. It was disgusting and I think I swallowed some of it. I had to walk my bike the rest of the way, and who did I see as soon as I got to school? Her. Because, of course, I would see her on the worst morning of my life. I see her every other morning, why would today be any different? She was just sitting on the steps with a book on her lap. I swear, it was like she was waiting for me or something. She smiled that smile and giggled that giggle, and she said, ‘Rough day, huh, Mudson?’” 

Scottie stifled a laugh. “She called you ‘Mudson’? Okay, that’s actually kinda clever.”

“It’s not clever,” Eddie said. “It’s not funny. It’s not cute. Y’know Gareth’s all worried about the Antichrist, but… as far as I’m concerned, the Antichrist is already here, and her name is—” 

“She’s not the Antichrist,” Jeff said. “Now you’re just being overdramatic.”

“Yeah, well, her giggle signals doom, so…” 

Scottie said, “What, is she like a banshee or something?” and his eyes lit up. “Oh, a banshee, I like that. A banshee wailing in the dark. Shrieking… shrieking… Yes, I’m starting to feel it now. There’s definitely something there.” 

He put his pen to the paper and tuned everyone else out. Meanwhile, Jeff leaned back in his chair and gave a solemn nod.

“Okay, Eddie, you had a bad morning, I’ll give you that, but that’s all it was, man. A bad morning. It doesn’t mean something horrible’s about to happen to you.” 

“Yeah,” Grant said. “I mean, there’s a logical explanation for most of that stuff. Like your alarm not going off? You probably lost power at some point last night. The leak in your roof? Well, dude, you live in an old trailer and it was raining pretty hard last night. Leaks like that are bound to happen. It sucks, but it’s really not that weird. And chains come off bikes all the time. Same thing happened to me last month. As for your little doom-giggler, well… that girl’s always giggling at you.” 

“Exactly,” Scottie said as he put down his pen. “She’s just your little heckler, Munson. Just a sweet little sixth-grader that likes to watch you squirm. God, I’d love to meet this girl. I wanna go up to her and shake her hand and thank her for giving me so much entertainment this year. I’m really gonna miss her.” 

“Shut up,” Eddie said. He leaned onto his forearms and went quiet, simmering in his thoughts. 

“Feel better?” Grant asked after a minute. 

“No.” 

“Well, have a fruit cup.” 

Grant plucked his cup off his tray and set it down in front of him. 

“Thanks,” Eddie said, and Jeff clapped him on the shoulder. 

“Hey, relax, man. Try to look on the bright side. School’s almost out, summer vacation’s coming up, and we’ve got three months of D&D to look forward to. Scottie says this campaign’s gonna be the best one yet.” 

“Yeah, I bet,” Eddie muttered. He stuck his fingers into the cup and felt something wet slap the top of his hand. 

It was an orange wedge.

“What the fuck?” 

He drew back just as a second wedge came skipping across the table. It landed beside Grant’s breakfast tray. Then a third bounced off the side of Jeff’s head—“Ow!”—and plopped onto Scottie’s notebook.

“What, is it raining oranges now?” Scottie made a sickened face and flicked it away. “Is this part of your apocalypse, Eddie?” 

“No, I dunno what this is.” Eddie turned his head and—“God dammit!” 

Andy Hauffman and Clay Howard were sitting a few tables over and throwing orange wedges at them. Andy said, “Thought you could use some vitamin C, Munster!” and fired another one. It clipped Eddie on the shoulder and left a wet mark on his sweater. 

Jeff ducked down and said, “Wait, why do they think Eddie needs vitamin C?”

Scottie shrugged. “Because they wanna boost his immune system?” 

Grant sighed. An orange landed on his thigh. “They mean vitamin D.” 

“Oh,” Scottie said. “See, that makes more sense, because Eddie’s so pale and hates the sun.”

“I don’t hate the sun!” Eddie said, and winced as the next wedge gave him a big kiss on the cheek. He wiped the wetness away with his hand while Clay gave Andy a high five and said, “Nice one, dude!”

Eddie turned around and glared at them. Clay just laughed and chucked another one. Eddie swung his hand at it, missed, and got hit anyway. After that, he finally gave up and put his head down on the table. “I fucking hate this school.” 

“Dude, just ignore them,” Scottie said. “They’re idiots, man. They can’t even insult you properly. Besides, you should consider yourself lucky they only throw fruit at you. Last week, they depantsed me and shoved me into the girls’ locker room. I’ve never heard so many girls laugh in my life. They’d never do that to you, though, ‘cause they’re too scared you might bring a knife to school and stab them.” 

A stunned silence consumed the table. Jeff had his hand pressed to his forehead. Grant froze in mid-drink. An orange wedge struck his cheek and made it jiggle. 

“Hey—” Jeff began in a low voice. 

Eddie pushed himself to his feet, yanked his backpack off the floor, and stormed out of the cafeteria. 

“Oh, come on, Munson,” Scottie said as he went by. “It’s funny ‘cause your dad’s in prison! Everyone thinks you’re gonna shank someone. Oh god, there he goes again… off to find a dark corner to brood in… Poor, Eddie, nobody understands you, waah, waah, waah.”

“Dude,” Jeff said. “Enough.” 

“What?” Scottie said. “I’m just trying to toughen the guy up a little. If he thinks middle school’s bad, high school’s gonna be a nightmare for him. What, does he think people are suddenly gonna stop thinking he’s trailer trash? I had a stutter when I was six and they still call me ‘Suh-Suh-Sloman.’ Kids suck. They’re always gonna suck. He needs to accept that and move on.”

Scottie picked up his pen, put it back to the paper, and sighed. 

“I went too far, didn’t I? Oh shit… I’ll make it up to him later.” 

Grant finished his breakfast in silence. Jeff opened his textbook and returned to his reading assignment. 

“You know what, though,” Scottie said after a while, “I kinda know what he’s talking about. There’s something in the air today. I dunno how to describe it. It’s like electric or something. I can feel it pulsing through my veins. Yeah, I think something really exciting’s about to happen, you guys.” 

Jeff hadn’t given much thought to what Scottie had said, not until he sat down in his fourth-period science class. 

It was the strangest thing. As soon as his back pressed against the cold metal chair, a tingle ran up his spine and made all the little hairs on his arm stand on end. Electric, he thought, and immediately shoved the thought away. Come on, get ahold of yourself, Jeff. He wasn’t about to get all worked up over some silly superstition. 

At eleven-o-one, the door swung open and you walked into the science lab, your nose wrinkling instantly from the sharp lemon scent of disinfectant. 

Oh good, Jeff thought. A weird, whimsical story from you was sure to mend his frayed nerves. All right, Mother Goose, what creepy tale do you have for me today?

You slid into the chair beside him, laid all your materials on the table, and said… nothing, absolutely nothing. This morning, you were oddly quiet. Disturbingly quiet. Instead of gushing about your latest obsession, you were staring at the empty chalkboard and tugging at your sweater sleeve. This made Jeff a little anxious. 

“No stories for me today?” 

You raised your eyebrows at him. “Hm? Oh, uhh, no… not today.” 

The book of Grimm fairytales lay on top of your notebook, its cover lightly speckled from the rain. How long did you sit out there waiting for him? Jeff wondered. Ten minutes? Twenty? He could almost picture it: you sitting out in the cold, barely sheltered from the rain, huddled over your book, frowning miserably, trying to stay warm, trying to read, stopping every other sentence to look up and see if Eddie had arrived yet. Man, say what you want about her, but you gotta admire the girl’s commitment.

With this in mind, Jeff decided to shift to a different tactic. He leaned back and folded his arms over his chest. 

“So… Mudson, huh?” 

And just like that, your eyes sparked with life, like two little lightning bolts.

(Electric)

You placed your hand over your mouth and giggled. It was impish yet innocent, and it brought a much-needed smile to Jeff’s face. 

“So he mentioned it, huh?” you said, delighted by the thought. 

“Yeah,” Jeff said. “Yeah, he definitely did…” 

“It just kinda slipped out, you know? He showed up all wet and muddy, and my brain naturally mashed the two words together.” To illustrate this, you smashed your fist into your palm. Then you broke up into giggles again. “Oh my god, you should have seen his face, Jeff. He was so pissed!”

“Yeah, well… Eddie’s not having a very good day.” 

Your chest rose with a sharp breath. “Why? What happened?” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Jeff said, but he knew you would anyway. 

You fell back against your chair, dejected, and dropped your gaze to the floor. In a small, guilty voice, you said, “It really did slip out.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Jeff said. “Like I said, don’t worry about it, okay? It’s not because of you.” 

The rest of the students came trickling in and class finally began. 

Afterwards, while everyone was packing up and getting ready to go to lunch, you turned to Jeff and said, “Hey… uhh, you know that fantasy game you’re always playing?” 

“You mean D&D?” 

“Yeah, that one,” you said, and suddenly that strange, tingly feeling had returned. It had jumped off the chair and was now crawling up Jeff’s back like a big, hairy spider. He looked at you and wondered if you felt it, too. 

(Or maybe he was just losing his mind. Or having a stroke.) 

Jeff rolled his shoulders a few times, trying to rid himself of the feeling. Then he snatched his books and quickly headed for the door. You followed him out. 

“So, umm, hypothetically speaking, how would one go about joining? Like, is there an interview or an application process? Do you have to sacrifice your firstborn child? What’s the procedure here?” 

“Uhh, I dunno,” Jeff said. “Nobody’s ever really wanted to join before. Why? You interested?” 

“Kind of… I mean, it may have crossed my mind. You know, you just make it sound so interesting when you talk about it.”  

“Oh,” Jeff replied with a sly smile, “so I’ve piqued your interest, huh?” 

“Yeah, I guess you could say that.” 

Jeff nodded, still smiling. “And this has nothing to do with your massive crush on Eddie?” 

“No…” You paused, fell a few steps behind, and ran to catch up with him. “Is it that obvious?” 

“Well, not to Eddie. He thinks you hate him.” 

You cringed. “Yeah, we kinda got off on the wrong foot…” 

“Yeah, you got off on the wrong foot and just kept on walking, didn’t you?” 

“Hey, it’s not my fault! School really brings out the worst in me, you know? I can’t relax. I feel like I always have to be on the defensive. Middle school is basically hell on earth, and I’ve had to develop some really sharp edges in order to survive this place. Sometimes I cut people without meaning to. And he’s just so sensitive, Jeff. Every little comment sets him off.” 

“Yeah, well, that’s Eddie for you…” 

“A tragedy is what it is. He has all this potential, but he’s just wasting it! Right now he’s Bruce Banner, but he could be the Incredible Hulk if he wanted to.” 

Bruce Banner? The Incredible Hulk? Boy, Jeff was really starting to regret lending you his old comic books. 

“Look, Eddie doesn’t wanna be the Incredible Hulk, okay? He wants to be Bruce Banner. He just wants to blend in and be left alone.” 

“Well… too bad! I want him to be the Incredible Hulk. And don’t pretend like you don’t agree with me, Jeff. Eddie would be so much happier if he would just stop worrying about what everyone else thinks. He can do it when he’s playing guitar on stage. Why can’t he do it at school?”

“Because Eddie’s a very complicated person.” 

“I know. He’s fascinating.” You hugged your books close to your chest and let out a dreamy sigh. “I just don’t understand why he tries so hard to pretend he’s boring and normal. His crazy side’s way more entertaining. I’ve seen glimpses of it when he thinks nobody’s paying attention. Oh my god, Jeff, he’s such a little weirdo! He gets all dorky and hyper, but then he notices me watching him and, you know, runs away. It’s such a bummer. Like, stop teasing me with the trailers, Munson, just gimme the full show! It’s like he’s got a little monster hiding inside him, and I just wanna rip it out and unleash it on the whole town!” 

Jeff put his hand up to stop you. “Okay, don’t ever say that to him. Ever. Trust me, the last thing Eddie wants to hear is that you think he’s got a monster inside him.” 

You both turned at the end of the hallway. Jeff’s shoulder accidentally bumped against yours and he drew back suddenly, with a jerk. There it was again, that spine-tingling, unnerving feeling. Except this time it wasn’t in the air. It wasn’t clinging to his chair. This time it was radiating off you like some invisible force field. When Jeff touched your shoulder, he felt it surge through his whole body like a shock of static electricity.

“Oh my god,” he said, “you’re Eddie’s bad feeling!” 

You scrunched up your face. “What?” 

Jeff gave his back to you and broke into a near-jog. You chased after him, calling his name. 

“Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you, okay?” Jeff ripped open his locker and dumped everything inside. When he closed the door, you were standing on the other side, staring at him with confusion. “I mean, what do you think’s gonna happen, anyway? You think Eddie’s gonna wanna date you or something? Because I can tell you right now that’s never gonna happen.” 

A silent gasp escaped Jeff’s lips. You stared at him with a startled, wounded expression.

“Oh, damn it,” he said, and knocked his head against his locker door. “Hey, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”

“Whatever.” You sniffed loudly and wiped your runny nose on the back of your hand. “I mean, you’re probably right, anyway. It’s not like I’m blind or stupid, Jeff. I know I’m not exactly the prettiest girl in school.” 

“Oh, come on, that’s not what I meant.” 

“Yeah, I know what you meant,” you said, and wiped your nose again. “Eddie’s fourteen and next year he’s going to high school. He’s not gonna be interested in dating some twelve-year-old, not even if she was a lot prettier than me. I know that. I’m not delusional or anything. I’ve already accepted that my parents had sex two years too late, okay? I’m not quite tall enough to ride that rollercoaster. That’s why I need some time to… well, you know…”

“Get taller?” Jeff said, cracking a smile. 

“Exactly,” you said, and giggled. “Look, I know Eddie doesn’t think very highly of me right now. I bet he thinks I’m really annoying, right?”

“Yeah… he called you the Antichrist this morning.” 

“See, that’s… Wait, he called me the Antichrist? Seriously? That’s what he thinks of me? I’m the spawn of Satan?” 

“Pretty sure he was just exaggerating.” 

“Yeah, that better be some crazy hyperbole ‘cause I dunno how I’m supposed to recover from that.”

You both laughed at that for a minute. Then you squeezed your hands into fists and gave him a pleading look.

“I just need time, Jeff, and right now I don’t have enough. School’s almost over and next year Eddie’s going to high school. He’s gonna be gone for two years while I’m trapped in this purgatory that is middle school. This summer’s my last chance to spend time with him. To make a good impression on him. Show him that I’m not the Antichrist. Holy shit, I still can’t believe he called me the Antichrist! Like, I know he doesn’t think much of me, but that seems a little harsh, doesn’t it?” You gave your head a shake and refocused. “But, hey, that’s okay. I can dig myself out of that hole. It might take me a while, but I’ll get there eventually. And then maybe, like in a few years or so, he’ll start to like me, too… maybe… but I’m not expecting anything. I mean, don’t get me wrong, that’s definitely the ideal scenario, but I’ll settle for whatever I can get at this point. Shit, anything’s better than the Antichrist, right?”

You gave a helpless but hopeful shrug. Jeff rubbed the back of his neck, mulling it over. 

“You know you’re putting me in a tough spot here.” 

“I know.” 

“And Eddie’s really not gonna like this.” 

“I know.” 

Jeff sighed. “Okay,” he said, and your face lit up like the sky on the Fourth of July. “But listen to me: if I do this for you, if I stick my neck out for you, you have to promise to be on your best behavior, okay? You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into here. This isn’t just a game for us, especially not for Eddie. He takes his D&D very seriously. It’s like sacred to him. He’s not gonna like you goofing around.”

“I won’t goof around. I won’t, I won’t.” 

You did. 

A lot. 

Sorry, Eddie, Jeff thought, looks like your nightmare’s about to come true.

He walked into the cafeteria with his tray, found his friends sitting at their usual table, and sat down.

“Guys, I’m calling an emergency party meeting.”

Eddie’s whole body tensed with dread. “Why? What’s going on?”

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