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victoodles · 5 years

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Cruel World I’m Gone (Chapter 4)

Be sure to follow the series on AO3 and to read part 1 / 2 / 3

The breeze that kisses your face feels different. Warmer. This time in the morning at O'Creagh's Run there’s a bitter chill in the air. It’s a cold that reaches down to your bones and leaves your fingers numb. This, however, is a gentle gust that invites you to wake up instead of demanding it.

Grass is plush beneath your deerskin pelts in contrast to the cotton sheets from Annesburg that you had grown accustomed to. Shelter comes in the form of a simple roof of canvas, sunlight lazily creeping in.

Gone is your homestead of a six months. All the work, meals, and rebuilding a mere dream as you pull back the tent and find yourself back at Clemens Point.

Jack is running through the rolling grass with Cain yapping at his heels. Abigail awaits them and their impending mess back at her tent with crossed arms.

Sean flirts with Karen. Kieran tends to the horses. Miss Grimshaw scolds Mary-Beth for her apparent “slacking”.

It’s all back to how it was. Before things…

Before…

You can’t seem to recall what this supposed “before” is. It all fades away, as most dreams do. Locked away in the depths of the subconscious. But when you see Hosea pass by, an indescribable ache in your heart has tears streaming down your cheeks. An emptiness wracks you. You’re running before you can register why.

If you’re too slow…

Too late…

He’ll d-

Hosea seems bewildered about why you’re so exasperated. A wry smile graces his face.“Well good morning to you too, my dear. Are we that eager to see me?” He teases, lighthearted in nature.

You’re rendered speechless from his casualness. Hosea looks vibrant, jovial. Just how you remembered him.

Alive.

Does he not know what happens? In Saint Denis. When…

When what?

The Pinkertons. They...

What about them?

Again, you don’t have answers. Just a jumble of confused thoughts that feel painfully heavy in your head. So you wrap your arms around his waist and hold him close. You need a tangible reminder that he’s here: a man, a leader, a friend, a surrogate father.

Hosea is taken aback again but he returns the affection, chuckling to himself. “What on Earth is going on with you, girl?”

You squeeze tighter, burying your face in his chest. He smells of tobacco and ginseng, the familiarity puts you at ease. “I had the most terrible nightmare,” you say quietly. “But I can’t seem to remember it.”

It’s all painfully blurry, growing even heavier in the back of your mind.

Get him out of here.

Run.

Go where? There’s nowhere safer than camp.

Dutch will protect everyone.

“Oh? Well don’t worry-“

Hosea goes eerily silent as the barrel of a gun fires, cutting through the morning air like thunder. Droplets of warm liquid splatters across your face, trickling down your forehead. A sickeningly familiar hangs heavy in the air, nauseating. Blood.

Trembling, you dare to look up to find a fresh bullet wound in embedded in Hosea. A single shot, burst through his shoulder, blooming into a hideous flower of flesh and bone. He stares at the wound blankly, fingers twitching slightly. Death has him in his embrace and Hosea doesn’t seem to feel it.

You’re panting, a scream burning in your throat as Hosea grows colder by the second. The sounds refuse to come out. Blood drips from the corner of his mouth as he slumps against you, wheezing his last words.

"It was just a dream.”

The ground crumbles beneath you then, dirt deteriorating into nothing. You desperately clutch Hosea, terrified to lose him again. But no matter how tightly you hold on, he still slips from your grasp as you eventually lose your footing.

You pathetically reach out into the abyss for him, for anything, but bring back nothing.

Falling further and further, it all comes back. It hits you all like that same gunshot.

Sean, Kieran, Susan.

Hosea.

They’re all dead.

And Arthur…

You’re running again on Roanoke Ridge. Chest heaving, lungs burning, muscles aching. Running and running and running, but you make no progress.

Arthur!

You burn through all your energy in an attempt to go faster. It hurts - excruciating. Ligaments feel like they’re tearing apart tendon by tendon, but you don’t care. Arthur is just out of reach, eyes glazed and arms limp at his side.

Please, he’s right there!

You try to call his name, but the sound is locked in your throat. The syllables don’t form no matter how much you try. All you can do is pathetically try to move forward - to be with him.

The poppies surrounding him rustle violently the more virtuously you push yourself to every limit. Their leaves caress Arthur’s face as if to mock your plight.

Your heart threatens to rupture from over-exhaustion but as the distance finally begins to close, you can't bring yourself to care.

Just when Arthur is an arm out of reach, so tantalizingly close, your muscles go rigid.

It all hurts, everywhere at once like wildfire.

Then it doesn’t.

Nothing has never been so terrifying.

An arrow pierces your chest, finding its way through your heart and out through your ribs. You’re brought to your knees.

You sputter, trying to bring any air in to alleviate the pain. Bring life to thwart the impending end.

The alleviation never comes. Just more agony and some blood.

You wonder if this is how the game you hunt feels. Teetering on the precipice of life and death after your arrow hits it’s fatal mark. They cry out for mercy that goes unheard.

Irony is a miserable bitch.

You fall forward, face in the dirt a mere inches away from Arthur. A familiar voice whispers in your ear as you struggle to find the energy to merely crawl. Blood - your blood - seeps into the ground; bloodied mud cakes beneath your fingernails in your desperation.

“Have faith,” it sneers, “you’ll be with him soon.”

The world turns darker and darker the more you try to reach for him. The flowers have ceased their shaking.

Now...nothing.

You shoot up in bed, a sheen of cold sweat clinging to your skin. A silent scream burns in your lungs. You’re hyperventilating and you desperately try to compose yourself, heart hammering wildly against your ribs.

Focus, focus, focus.

Your eyes dart around the room, taking in your surroundings.

Reminders.

The quilt blanket beneath your fingers. A partition in the form of a sheet next to the bed. The skull of a moose hanging over the mantle. A dwindling fire in the hearth.

And Arthur. Sleeping soundly next to you.

Arthur.

You reach out to him with shaking hands, running them over his cheek. Reaffirming reality.

The prickle of his freshly shaved stubble tickles your hand. Hair soft from a recent bath. Lips chapped.

He’s here. Actually here.

As much as you want to kiss him, have him fuck the fear away, you don’t want to wake him. Not now when he’s finally started sleeping soundly again. Arthur shifts slightly in bed but he isn’t roused from your touching, thank goodness. You find the energy to smile, and you plant a delicate kiss against his temple before sliding out of bed. Sleep won’t come anytime soon.

Silently slipping out into the night, the wind’s chill nips at you clad in only a chemise and Arthur’s coat. It’s a welcome sensation to quell the heat enveloping you.

Signs of spring sleep within the surrounding forest. The birds have flown back north and nest in the trees. Bears have awoken from slumber and meander through the hills as they please. Wildflowers are just beginning to bloom, even more bulbs bursting through the dirt to count.

New life.

For you and Arthur too, in a sense.

That should make you feel better, but it doesn’t. Not right now.

Now that things have settled down, the grief has been gnawing at you gradually. There's more time for you to focus on it since Arthur had fully recovered. It comes back in waves, varying in intensity but painful all the same. And the nightmares they brought were just as vivid.

Shaking the most recent from your mind, you regard the full moon hanging just over the lake. Brilliant white rays reflect on the water’s surface, dancing in tandem with the ripples of the water striders. It puts you at ease and you find yourself drawn to the scene.

You stand barefoot at the shore, letting the waves roll over your feet as you look up to the sky. A blanket of stars twinkle faintly against the darkness. A variety of constellations shine proudly above, clear as day.

You feel so small under their gaze

Ursa Major, Leo, Hydra.

Memories of nights spent up late with Hosea playing dominos resurface. You would constantly tie with one another, intellects too matched. Sometimes the two of you wouldn’t sleep until the wee hours of the morning unless the streak was broken. Stubborn, the both of you.

During those long, long games, Hosea would regal you about each and every starry arrangement, right down to the name’s origin. Astronomy was never on your curriculum growing up, instead focusing on the drier parts of a lady’s “education". Etiquette, needlework, piano. All you knew of the stars above was from outdated books pilfered from your father’s library and nights spent camped on forest floors.

Almost every night Hosea would teach you, properly. Disregarding your dominoes in favor of creating your own constellations from unused clusters of stars. An interstellar game of dots and tiles. He had even made one especially for you: The Huntress. A brave woman who vanquished all foes before her with nothing but her bow and her quick wit.

It’s the last Earthly possession you have of Hosea. Everything else had been unwillingly abandoned during the destruction of Beaver Hollow, dead and gone. All you have now are these faint lights, watching silently over you.

The frigid pinch of O'Creagh’s Run interrupts your musing. So distracted, you hadn’t realized just how far you had waded into the lake. Now in up to you knees, the bottom of your chemise soaked. What should be a shock, or at least an inconvenience, doesn’t seem to phase you. You just relish the softness of lakebed silt between your toes. And love how the water’s chill reminds you just how alive you truly are.

You fiddle with the hem of your chemise. As the lace slides between your fingertips, you regard the celestial eye above. The moon is your only witness on these vast mountain trails.

The veil drifts upward.

Nothing can see you out here. Nothing can get you out here.

Let the moonlight be your guide and the water be a cleansing.

Arthur’s jacket is discarded and a chemise with it over your shoulder. It lands with a gentle thud; the barrier between you and the elements now lays in a heap on the shore.

Take the plunge.

#vic's fics!#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #this was originally gonna be longer #but i split it up because im very tired

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ashfountainfanfics · 5 years

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The deadlights show a lifetime and then another and then another. Some moments are so clear cut that you’re practically there. Others are overlapped on top of each other, indiscernible and incomprehensible. Beneath it all is the feeling of wanting to die because you’re so painfully human and everything you’re seeing isn’t meant for your fragile mind.

The feeling intensifies as Richie watches a sharp claw burst out of Eddie’s chest. The blood that splatters on his chest and mouth is warm. It tastes like pennies. Richie’s voice cracks as he says Eddie’s name.

Richie doesn’t want to leave him. But It is dying. Richie wants It dead so he helps. When It dies, It crackles and floats away like paper set on fire. Maybe that’s all It ever really was; a paper clown. Richie goes to tell Eddie. But it’s too late.

Eddie’s dead.

Eddie gets left behind.

Eddie has a tomb.

With It.

Richie wants to die.

A vision surfaces out of the cacophony. It sweetly beckons Richie’s own body to climb up chair. Two bare feet planted firmly on a leather lined seat. It’s cold. The rope is scratchy around his throat. His heartbeat thuds in his ears. Now jump, the vision coaxes him in his own voice. Just jump.

Something else breaks through.

Richie feels like he’s being pulled out of heavy water face first. It hurts as much as it’s relieving. Eddie’s face is close and Richie slams back into his own body with a rough gasp.

“I did it!” Eddie shouts, “Holy shit I did it! It worked! It-“

Richie knows in his fucking bones that they need to move. Now. The knowledge doesn’t come to him as a vision nor is it spoken. It just is. Richie grabs Eddie by the shoulders and throws everything into rolling them over and away.

Before Eddie can question it he sees one of It’s spider like appendages crash into the ground. The sharp, claw like tip sparks against the stone and It shrieks at the harsh contact.

Richie's body shields Eddie’s. Eddie starts laughing nervously as It pulls back to its main body.

“I almost fucking died,” Eddie giggles wildly.

“C’mon!” Richie helps Eddie up and waves over the others.

They manage to find a momentary place of safety. The crevice of the cave feels humid and cold. It continues to rage at them; its legs and arms wildly looking for them.

Richie is cupping Eddie’s face and looking him over. He’s still hysterical and giggling. His breathing is too heavy and at this rate he’ll pass out.

“Eds! Focus!” Richie has to hold back from pushing sense into the sides of his skull.

Instead he opts for a hard slap on Eddie’s good cheek. It stops the giggling and Eddie goes wide eyed instead.

“I almost died,” he says again.

“You think you’d be used to it,” Richie says with a smile, “didn't you almost die this afternoon too? Or was that just a weird tooth brush accident?”

“Fuck you,” Eddie smiles back, “you okay?”

Richie nods. Meanwhile the others in the pack have been foiled in their plan to force It through the small entrance to It’s lair. Richie catches wind of a few shitty insults being slung by the Losers Club.

“That’s our cue,” Richie says quickly and again brings Eddie to his feet.

“What the fuck does that even mean!?”

Again, Richie just knows. He’s got an undoubtable knowledge of what’s happening and what’s to come. This time he’s going to take it up a notch.

It is already backed up into its original landing site. It recoils and hisses at the Losers as they call It out on everything they can.

“I know a joke when I see one,” Richie yells, “you, clown faced bitch.”

“You target kids because you can’t scare enough adults!” Eddie chimes in, “You can’t catch a real meal can you? You have to live off of- off of fucking snacks!”

“And you play with your food too!” Richie continues, “We literally teach your fucking food source better than that!”

It looks deflated coincidentally just like a balloon. It’s so small now and Richie cements It’s fear by grabbing an appendage and ripping it off. He tosses it aside unceremoniously. The Losers have taken on a mantra, calling It a clown and really what’s so scary about a clown?

Mike pulls It’s heart out as if he’s reached into a sad, skinny little Christmas tree and plucked out a hidden ornament.

Just like in Richie’s vision, Pennywise seems to flake and dissipate after the group squeezes It’s blackened heart into mush. The heart itself joins in the floating ashes. The strange and oddly secure knowledge that Richie had up until this point drifts away with it.

The cave starts to crumble and the Losers claw their way out just in time. Richie makes sure he can see Eddie at all times. He keeps him in front and almost shepherds him to safety. He may not have that surreal psychic link anymore but he has that memory. He’ll be damned if Eddie gets buried here.

Richie can feel the debris of the house on Neibolt street brush against his back. The force from the collapse sends him forward. This time Eddie helps Richie to his feet.

“I almost fucking died,” Richie mimics Eddie’s wide eye expression from before.

“Asshole,” Eddie comments.

Richie pulls him into hug. It doesn’t matter that he smells like sewer and sweat. He buries his face into Eddie’s neck.

“You smell like shit,” Richie laughs.

“Well you tasted like puke so-“

Richie lets go of the hug and his brow knits.

“Tasted?” Richie asks, “When did you taste me?”

Eddie’s face goes red. He puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs.

“You looked at the dead lights and I speared the fucker but you weren’t back. Your eyes were still doing that thing, that weird glowing thing. And everyone was busy and I remember how Ben fixed Bev so I figured- I don’t know.”

Eddie had kissed Richie.

Richie nods but avoids eye contact. The natural banter between them grinds to a very sudden and awkward halt. Richie takes stock of the others and notices Bill and Mike wordlessly walking down the street. Bev quietly takes Ben by the hand and follows. Richie curtly follows suit and Eddie trails after him. No one speaks until they’ve reached their destination.

—

“This is asking for streptococcus!”

Eddie’s cry deters no one. Bev gets a running start and once she surfaces, the others follow. The water isn’t as deep as they remember and it’s less clear. It’s aged in its own way.

When Eddie surfaces he carefully brings his hand off his wound. Covering it hadn’t done much good though as it’s soaking wet. Again.

In all reality, if he got streptococcus it was definitely because of sewer water. Let alone whatever else was floating around in that literal shit.

Bev playfully dunks Ben. Bill laughs and Mike seems to be entirely at peace as he floats on his back. Eddie searches for Richie with his ears, banking on some kind of joke or comment to be heard. There’s nothing though and that makes Eddie whip his head around.

Richie is sitting on a rock. Alone. Eddie doesn’t blame him; being kissed by an old friend and coming back from the- well not the dead but not quite the opposite- is a little weird. Truthfully, Eddie doubts that his kiss made any impact. He’s pretty sure Ben’s kiss didn’t do anything either. Coming off the deadlights is a delayed thing. Probably.

Eddie cautiously swims up to Richie. Richie is taken by surprise but doesn’t move his body at all. He stays hunched over, face half buried in his forearms.

“You’re quieter than usual,” Eddie comments, “and you’re never quiet. Just saying.”

“I -uh, I saw some shit,” Richie responds.

Eddie rolls his eyes and pulls himself up on the rock, forcing Richie into a tight shared space.

“We all saw shit.”

Richie goes stiff as their shoulders and knees make contact. Eddie feels an electricity as they touch. He feels it spread all the way to his toes and fingers.

Just static he tells himself.

“It’s weird now, right?” Eddie says in spite of himself.

Without missing a beat, almost as if he hadn’t heard Eddie say anything, Richie rolls right into his own train of thought.

“Do you think true love exists?”

Eddie doesn’t know how to respond. He thinks maybe he ought to pull away. Maybe this conversation shouldn’t play out on a rock in a quarry with no distance. Maybe they shouldn’t be touching.

“Like is Myra your one true love?” Richie asks a bit sardonically, “Because that would be kind of gross.”

“She’s nice, okay?” Eddie glares into the water, “I mean, yes, she can be overbearing but-“

“But what?” Richie relaxes one leg to let his foot dangle into the lake, “Do you love her or not? No judgement this time. Really.”

Eddie thinks about this. He met Myra around the time his mother died. His mother was, in many ways, a massive presence. She left a hole behind when she passed and the idea of losing her scared him. Myra was familiar, yes. She wanted badly to be loved but only knew how to instruct love not ask for it. Eddie needed that structure. It was the only thing he ever knew.

He recoils at himself as he puts into full thought that he absolutely married a copy of his own mother. It’s short lived though. Of course he did that. What other types of women did he know? None. His mother had made sure of it.

“No,” Eddie sighs, “I married her after my mom died. I needed… something. And please spare me the Oedipal jokes. I didn’t realize what I was doing and grief is complicated okay?”

“You going home to her?”

“Fuck no.”

This shocks even Eddie. But it’s true. He’s faced death head on twice now. He has a sinking suspicion that if he’d remembered the first time life would have gone differently. What would that Eddie even be like? His mother was like a sickness he carried around and for the first time he felt free of it. Imagine what all he could have done had he saved himself as a child?

There definitely wouldn’t be a marriage to Myra. Eddie can’t go back and change his past but he can free himself in the present. A divorce would be a good start.

Poor Myra.

“Are you still headed to Reno?” Eddie asks.

“That’s where the dream is taking me.”

“Your dream their nightmare.”

This gets no response. Not even a chuckle or a playful shove. It’s not Eddie’s A game but it at least warranted some kind of reaction.

“Nothing? Rich, talk to me. Insult me. Something. You’re freaking me out.”

“I’m freaking me out.”

The others are just far enough away to not hear but they’re noticing the lack of witty banter to the scene. Bev cocks her head to the side and says something to Ben.

“Why’d you kiss me?” Richie asks.

“I don’t know!” Eddie then hushes as it looks like the others are gathering, “I panicked. I thought maybe you’d be stuck like that forever and you’d never make another shitty joke or say you fucked someone’s mom or-“

Eddie takes a deep breath. If Richie never snapped out of it then he might as well be a floating corpse. Eddie thought that never hearing Richie give him shit ever again would be a blessing but that would be wrong. Even now, as Richie sits there in silence Eddie almost feels like his heart is breaking. He wants desperately for him to say something. Anything.

I missed you, asshole. Eddie realizes it quietly and only to himself.

Eddie puts his hand in Richie’s knee.

“I would have done anything to wake you up,” he admits, “You had puked earlier and I kissed you. That is literally the nastiest thing but I still-“

“I watched you die!” Richie starts off as a scream but it cracks at the end into a whimper.

The others swim over as quickly as possible. Bev gets there first. She places a hand on Richie’s.

“You saw it too,” she confirms without question.

Richie starts crying and Eddie cautiously puts an arm around him. Eddie is surprised by how openly Richie leans into it. He’s fucking sobbing into Eddie’s shirt like a kid. Eddie holds him tighter.

Of course Richie saw things. Why hadn’t Eddie considered that? It was clear that Bev had been affected deeply from the dead lights. Why would Richie be any different?

“It’s okay,” Bev continues, “it didn’t happen. It can’t happen now..”

“Yeah, Rich,” Bill is set right in front of him, “It’s over.”

“We won,” Mike adds.

“I can’t unsee it!” Richie muffles his cries in Eddie’s shirt, “I can’t!”

“Hey,” Eddie says gently, “Rich, I’m here.”

Rich looks up. He feels so massive huddled against Eddie like this. Their height difference becomes palpable. He takes Richie in, eyes red and wide. Eddie brushes the tear streaks on Richie’s cheeks.

“I’m right here,” Eddie says again before smiling, “you see me right? Or do you need your old Coke bottle glasses back?”

Richie laughs.

“Nah, life’s better without them.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, that way when I’m at home, your mom is out of focus. Ugly is better blurry.”

Eddie shoves Richie off the rock and he splashes into the water. Despite the joke at his dead mother’s expense, Eddie smiles a bit.

—-

Bev knocks on Richie’s door quietly. Her hair is still wet, at least this time it’s from a proper shower. She’s walking around barefoot. She only had the one pair of shoes for this trip and she promptly tossed them into the garbage when they all returned to the bed and breakfast. She had thrown away every article of clothing she'd worn during the final confrontation. It felt refreshing, like losing an old skin.

It takes Richie a minute to respond. He answers shirtless and his hair tousled. Bev realizes that Richie does have a certain attractiveness about him. It was something that she hadn’t understood as a child looking into the future but she does now. Laughter had aged him well and his height gave him presence. His smile had grown to be his best feature. It’s a shame the smile Bev sees now isn't genuine.

“Hey, Beverly,” Richie says, “I got to admit; this is a very poorly timed pre dinner booty call.”

“Beep beep, Richie,” she responds with a sense of endearment, “Or don’t. I actually want to talk if you can stomach the maturity.”

Richie sighs, half jokingly and the other half legitimately. Still he opens the door and Bev walks in. She takes a seat on the bed cross legged.

“Bev,” Richie smirks “I thought you were a married woman.”

“Not for long,” she states plainly, “I think divorce will suit me better.”

“Wow. Really? Shit, I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t do it sooner. Or that I married that asshole at all really.”

She pats the spot next to her. Richiel acts accordingly but when he sits down he’s so stiff and awkward. Bev reaches for his hand again like she did at the quarry and he tenses.

“I don't know if this will help but just listen,” Bev starts slowly, “The vision that hit me the hardest was watching Bill’s death.”

“Bev, I don’t know if-“

She tightens the grip on his hand. She can feel his pulse in her fingers. She already knows how fruitless it is to avoid the fear. The more you try not to think about it the more you think about it. For years she had to satiate the fear by talking to her therapist but back then she had no context. She could never fully process it all.

“Bill is drinking. A lot. He’s alone. He throws a laptop out of the window and screams. He drinks more. He looks at a bookshelf lined with his own work. He lights it on fire and then he… he passes out before he can douse the fire.”

Her hand has created a death grip on Richie’s. She knows her eyes have glassed over and even now she’s sweating. It’s a secondhand memory but it behaves like it’s her own. It’s too hot now and her chest feels tight. She swears she can smell burning paper and whiskey.

“Bill burned.”

“Bev, stop,” Richie says alarmed.

Bev takes a deep breath and plants herself back into her body. She relaxes her grip and apologetically cradles Richie’s bright red hand.

“I never understood it,” she swallows back the anxiety, “and I can’t even remember how the others went now except Stanley of course. God, poor Stanley.. and his wife.”

She doesn’t cry. Not because she can’t but because it doesn’t come naturally to her. Tears were a thing of rage. Here in this moment she is as composed as ever. Wherever Stanley’s wife may be, Bev sends out a momentary wish of peace to her.

“I saw It kill Eddie,” Richie begins, “it was right before I woke up from the lights. Fucker stabbed Eds right at his moment, yknow? He was so proud of himself. He thought he killed It.”

Bev watches him closely and stays still. If he needs to he can bruise her fingers. It’s the only time Bev will let another man bruise her ever again.

“We won in that scenario too,” Richie’s eyes go glassy too, “but Eddie didn’t make it. And you guys made me leave him there. You made me.”

Bev says nothing. Hearing and seeing someone else go through what she did doesn’t feel good but it does create a certain solidarity. She was always willing to die for her friends but as tear drops from Richie’s far away gaze an even softer spot is carved out for him in her heart.

“I can’t handle it. I think about him all the time. I keep seeing him everywhere. I go over our initials at the kissing bridge. He’ll never know about that. All this time I thought I didn’t want him to. I was wrong.”

Oh, Richie her heart breaks.

“I drink. Bourbon. I need it for courage. I never had enough courage. I throw rope over a support beam and and line up a chair. I keep drinking. I cry. I throw up. I drink more. I step onto the chair.”

“Richie,” Bev tries to pull him back.

“He’s dead,” Richie’s voice is so small.

“No. No, honey, he’s alive.”

Richie blinks a few times and seems to come back. He wipes his eyes with his wrist.

“You never said anything,” Bev isn’t accusing only bewildered.

“To be fair,” Richie half laughs, “I just saw it today. A few hours of silence seems pretty normal.”

Bev bites her lip.

“No, sweetie,” she tries to be tactful, “I meant- the kissing bridge?”

Richie goes completely pale and then laughs nervously. Bev knows what it’s like to keep secrets. God knows Tom kept her in the business of secrets long enough. Of course coming out as a victim of abuse and coming out aren’t really the same thing. Still that expression is familiar. It’s not like she hasn’t had a friend or two figure out the indoor sunglasses and out of season long sleeves.

“It’s okay,” Bev assures him.

“It’s- it’s not, I didn’t mean-“

Bev remembers her friends insisting that she leave. She remembers the legal information, the list of domestic abuse hotlines . She remembers the offers for doctor visits and a guest bed. She remembers with a heavy heart how she pushed all that a way and lost those friends.

You can’t make someone process something if they’re not ready. You’ll just drive them away.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she continues, “Just know that I love you and I’m here, all right?”

Richie hugs her so tight and so suddenly that she almost falls back. She hugs him back with equal force. It feels so nice to be held like this and not be afraid of the next moment.

Before Richie pulls away entirely he plants a soft kiss on her forehead.

“Thanks, Bev.”

#reddie #it chapter 3 ff #unbury your gays #ich3-1 #fanfiction

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malfoii · 6 years

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Hooked - Malfoy x Reader Pt 4

Masterlist

When Draco looks into the mirror of Erised, he scowls. He sees himself, staring back at him; wearing the usual dark suit, the same robes, the same style of hair – there’s only one difference: At his side, is a girl. (Y/n). She clings on to his arm, her head tilted backwards with laughter. She looks at him as if he’s her whole world, as if she couldn’t be happier.

In the mirror, Draco sees his own face: free of worry or fear, his usual glare is replaced by a childish grin and a paid of gleaming eyes.

There’s no death mark on his arm.

An hour passes before Draco manages to replace the mirror’s curtain, and flee the room.

It’s a dark, musky night when the two eventually meet again. Several months have passed since their original meeting, their fifth year has ended and their sixth year has just begun. During this time, Draco’s barely seen her, barely spoken to her, for he’s not a brave person. In the end, he would only admire her from afar.

Everything she did, everything she said, was so incorrigible in his eyes, so perfectly flawless, that he could feel the swell of adoration growing in his heart with every passing day.

To keep his distance was so hard, and it hurt like hell, but it was what she wanted – wasn’t it? After all, it’s for the best.

Since taking on his father’s role as Death Eater, Draco’s hopes for the future have slowly diminished – and with it, any hopes of being with her.

To make matters worse, it is around this same time that (Y/n) begins to “go steady” with none other than Drew Parkinson. It’s a hot bit of gossip that Hogwarts’ students – blissfully unaware of the imminent war – spread about with great relish, for surely they’re the “cutest couple” since ... well, ever! Right?

When Draco first found out, it hit him like a blow to the gut. On one hand, he doesn’t really blame her for making the choices that she does, all things considered. Who would want to date a Death Eater, anyways? On the other hand, however, Draco feels sickened with envy, the kind that festers in his stomach, eating away from the inside-out. The sight, the image, the mere thought of them together is enough to send him into a downwards spiral of rage and self-pity.

“Merlin, if the dark lord doesn’t kill me first, she’ll surely be the death of me.”

(Y/n), for her part, was entirely unaware of her role in this hypothetical death, nor was she aware that he was affected in the slightest.

Actually, having spent her summer cooped up in the Hogwarts library, she was little aware of anything going around her. It wasn’t until the second Friday back, at dinner time in the Hall, that she heard of Malfoy’s Father being in Azkaban.

“Pish, I’m sure it’s just a rumor,” was her reply to the discussion. “Since when is the Malfoy family ever held accountable for anything they do?”

To which her peers had stared at her in stark astonishment. “(Y/n),” they said, almost in unison. “Have you really not heard?”

Indeed, she had not. But the expressions on her friends’ faces – their bulging eyes, their gaping lips – told her everything she needed to know. “Merlin, you can’t be serious. He’s really locked up?”

A nod.

“Poor Draco!” were the words that then spilt out of lips, before she could stop herself. “Is he okay?”

Harry snorted. “You said it yourself, (Y/n). It’s about time the Malfoys reap what they sowed. Besides, rumor has it that Draco’s gotten his Death Mark already. The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, I guess.”

“Draco?”

She finds him sitting alone on the wet grass, hidden from the rest of the school. A harsh wind is blowing tonight, billowing through the fabric of his robes and sweeping his hair into a messy fluster. His gray eyes stare blankly at the scenery before him, too lost in his own head to hear her coming.

“Draco!” she tries again, and this time he looks up.

At first, he seems also surprised to see her. Then his features curl into their familiar scowl, and he sneers. “What do you want, (Y/n)?”

She opens her mouth, then closes it again, at loss for something to say. She’s not a hufflepuff; she’s not cut out for the whole “consoling” and “comforting” kind of thing.

Finally, she settles for, “It’s freezing out here. You’re gonna catch a cold if you keep on sitting there.”

Draco scoffs, looking away in disgust. “Since when do you care?” he snarls, keeping his back towards her.

Timidly, she takes a seat next to him. “Look, I just – I heard about your dad, and I wanted to say I’m sorry. I know it can’t be easy being alone like this, so if you wanted someone to talk to –”

“I’m not alone.” Draco snaps. “What makes you think I’m alone?”

Merlin, this isn’t going well.

“I - I didn’t mean it like that, I just meant –”

“Never mind, (Y/n). It - it doesn’t matter.” he sighs, all the anger draining out of his voice. He sags backwards, leaning on his hands. “Just stop.”

For a while, they sit quietly. A heavy silence, thicker than clay, shrouds in the air. It hangs awkwardly between them, as wide and massive as the ravines. There are a million things he wants to say to her, a thousands things he wants to confess, if only he knew how.

Finally, he speaks.

“I hate you, you know.”

“What?”

“I really, really hate you.” His eyes widen a bit, as if surprised at the words that’ve come out of his own mouth, but he plows ahead anyways. “Coming out here and acting all sweet and pitying for poor little Malfoy,” he says the last part with a sneer, “After ignoring me for half-a-fucking year. Honestly, what the fuck, (Y/n)?”

She doesn’t respond, looking only downwards at her fingers, so he keeps going. “Or, let me guess, you need another favor? Failing another class? Or, maybe, you’re just desperate for attention. Does Mr Parkinson have better things to do than sleep with you tonight?”

(Y/n)’s face burns red, and she bites sharply into her lip. “I don’t see why you have to be such an arsehole, Draco. I was just trying to help.”

With a shake of her head, she pushes herself off the grass. “I’ll just leave then, seeing that you’re so intent on wallowing in self-pity. Have fun with that.”

And she does – she really does – begin to walk away, when the awfullest of choking noises forces herself to turn back.

It’s a cold, heart rattling sob that rises from Draco’s chest and makes her stop in her tracks.

And before she can think, she’s back down on the grass, her arms tight around the boy as he shakes with grief.

He returns the embrace, clutching on to her for dear life, so crushing is his caress that it almost hurts.

Between the sobs and muffled gasps, he speaks softly, trying with little success to form coherent sentences. What he says is this: “I’m sorry, (Y/n), I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said, I’m sorry,”

She only holds him closer, burying her face in his chest.

“Draco,” she says at last, “you’re a real fucking dumbass sometimes, but it’s okay.”

He chuckles now, and wipes the last of his tears from his face. His grip softens, and he holds her carefully now, like a fragile thing that might break in his grasp. With a gentle hand, he turns her chin upwards to face him, and it is slowly, so slowly and tenderly and almost half afraid, that he leans down to press is lips on hers.

This time, she doesn’t pull away.

Gasping, she kisses him back, hungrily and feverishly, yanking him by the collar so as to assume dominance over the situation. Hastily, she pushes him backwards into the dirt, clambering on top of him as to get better access. Their lips stay pressed together the whole time, desperate and wanting, fighting for control.

Her lips part, and he slides his tongue in.

With a jolt, as if all of a sudden aware of what she’s doing, she breaks away. “You have a funny way of showing hate!”

Malfoy laughs, looking up at her in awe. “Was I right about Parkinson not giving you enough attention, then?”

“Shut up, Malfoy.”

He pushes the loose hair out of her face. “More importantly, how long have you been wanting me, princess? A week? A month? A year? It’s okay, I know I’m irresistible.”

She only blushes, and his grin goes wider. “Why are you with that schmuck anyways?”

Groaning, she pushes off him and sits upwards, refusing to meet his gaze. “I’ve told you already. I don’t have a choice, you arsehole.”

“Don’t be daft,” Malfoy snorts. “Of course you have a choice. Dump him, and date me instead.” He runs his fingers up her arm, stopping to stroke her cheek.

She shivers beneath his touch, before slapping his hand away. “And why should I do that?”

“Because,” he starts softly, and his voice trails off.

“Because what?”

He doesn’t answer, and she scoffs, getting up again.

This time, Draco stops her, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her back towards him. She lands with a thump on the dirt, falling to his side. “Malfoy, you son-of-a-bitch, my robes are gonna be filthy -“

“Will you shut up for a second?”

She’s about to respond that No, she will certainly not, when she looks over at him and catches sight of the expression on his face. His eyebrows are drawn together, his eyes are sobered, and more than shocking than anything: Draco Malfoy looks terrified.

The color is paled from his cheeks, his lips are pressed together in apprehension.

“Yes, Draco?”

He takes a shaky breath and clears his throat, sitting up right. She follows suit.

“(Y/n), I’m scared.” The admission hangs stiffly in the air, and he gulps. “There’s...stuff going on right now that you and Potter and everyone else couldn’t have any idea of. There are things I have to do, for me, for my family, that I don’t know if I can. I’m terrified I won’t be around much longer to say this, (Y/n),”

“What is it, Draco?” she asks softly, pressing a hand against his chest. She can feel the rapid hammer of his heart as he speaks.

He laughs nervously, resting his head against her shoulder so that he’s speaking more to her collar than her face. “I’m in love with you (Y/n). God, I’m so incredibly in love with you it’s embarrassing.”

“Draco-“

“I’ve been in love with you, for so long, and you have no idea how much it hurts, how much I’ve hurt, keeping it inside me for all these months, and to see you with another man. Every moment I’m with you, that I see you, is excruciating. But tonight, maybe I’m just foolish, but you’ve given me a glimmer of hope that maybe you’ll return my feelings, or at least patronize them for a while,” he says the last part with a weak grin. Raising his eyes to hers, he waits expectantly for a response.

“Well.” she says at first, the shock of his words clear on her face. “Well. A minute ago you said you hated me.”

“Sorry again about that.”

“And now you’re saying you love me.”

“I’m a bit of a mess right now, you’ll have to forgive me for that.”

She laughs despite herself, and kisses him again. “I can’t, Draco, you know I can’t.

Before she can try to run off again, he grabs her tighter, pressing hurried kisses against the blade of her shoulder. “Please.”

“Draco-“

“Just one night.” he hums, lips scraping her neck, “Just one night. That’s all I’m asking for.”

Her breath hitches in her throat, and she smothers the gasp on her tongue.

Closing her eyes, she sighs and smiles against him, knowing full well she’ll regret this in the morning. “Okay, Malfoy. Just one.”

#draco malfoy #draco x reader #malfoy x reader #malfoy #draco #draco malfoy fanfiction #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy fic #malfoy fic

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crimsonrevolt · 6 years

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Congratulations Taylor you’ve been accepted to Crimson Revolt as Daisy Hookum!

↳ please refer to our character checklist

Taylor lovely, your applications are always so full of beautiful characterizations and complexities (as is your writing in general) that it is a joy to get them and read through everything you provide! I adored Daisy from when you first played her in the rp and it’s so wonderful to think about having her back on the dash and to see you explore her character further! We can’t wait to see what you do with her and how she’s going to change as the war progresses!

application beneath the cut (tw: Death)

OUT OF CHARACTER

INTRODUCTION

It’s Taylor! Currently 18 and residing in the midwest, in good ol’ CST and using female pronouns.

ACTIVITY

Er – well, currently around a six or seven out of ten, weekly? I have real life responsibilities of course, and dearest Marlene, but I try to generate about four replies weekly. Of course this depends on circumstance but for the most part I can stay caught up with little issue.

TRIGGERS

*removed for privacy

HOW DID YOU FIND US?

Originally, I think it was somewhere in an Andromeda Black tag way back in December. But I’ve been here nearly a year now!

WHAT HARRY POTTER CHARACTER DO YOU IDENTIFY WITH MOST?

Okay, don’t judge, and I’m sure this isn’t a great surprise but - Draco. I’ve been immensely attached to him for years now, for a variety of reasons, and I just have a lot of feelings. But also, Harry and Ron as well - for a very recurring theme we don’t need to get into, just know I love them all very much.

ANYTHING ELSE?

Nothing that wouldn’t absolutely just be my singing praise, which really I do enough as it is.

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER

Daisy Grace Hookum.

Her mother, Jocelyn, was a Muggle with a deep fondness for The Great Gatsby, and chose to name her only child accordingly. However, Daisy’s middle name was a hopeful sort of gesture from her parents, a suggestion and prayer that she would grow up to be eloquent and beautiful in all forms throughout her life.

FACE CLAIM

Katherine McNamara will always be my first choice for Miss Daisy.

REASON FOR CHOSEN CHARACTER

I tried. I really, really tried to bid her ado, to tuck her away and move on but it’s proven impossible. Daisy is, and will always be, my first love, a part of me that is unshakable - it’s that easy.

And oh man, oh man. How do I even begin to describe the deep rooted love and affection I hold for Daisy Hookum? She was my first character in CRT, and the first character in a Marauders rp that I truly fell in love with. I had dabbled with others before of course, but none enough that truly struck the way that Daisy did. She was the first character I understood without fault, that I could question and push and she would push back – I grew so much as a writer during my time with her and I know she has so much more to teach me.

She’s such a gentle, kind soul. Raised to have courage and be kind in all strokes of life, Daisy strives to do exactly that; she’s incapable of hate, because there has never been any reason for it. Even after the traumatic, devastating murder of her parents in the new year, Daisy cannot bring herself to hate the Death Eaters. Then again – she doesn’t know what truly caused such a horrendous crime to take place. If she did, it is completely possible that the tables would be turned, but well, she doesn’t. That in itself is an incredibly important facet to her personality, to her humanity; at nineteen to be faced with such a brutal loss is a hardship that I, thank the heavens, have never had to personally experience. To be so young and in the midst of way, to feel so wholly alone must be terrifying. It takes a toll on even the brightest rays of sunshine, which Daisy truly is.

But trauma is not all there is to a person, and there is a love and passion for the written word that was instilled into Daisy by her mother by such an incredibly young age that it is not just a passion, it is a very important facet of who she is. While she doesn’t believe her writing to be any good, it is her safe space, therapy from the world.

Her place in Aversio is one that is to be questioned. She doesn’t get her hands dirty, nor does she truly condone the things that they do – but she’s frightened of the Order. That is what it comes down to, the true reason she never joined. Members of the Order are brave, willing to take risks, be hurt. And while Aversio is very similar, they’re a bit more reckless, and therefore she is more capable of being hidden in the shadows. It has nothing to do with cowardice, it’s fear. Fear that she isn’t a good enough witch, not strong enough to hold her own, not magically, not emotionally. The self doubt is crippling.

But she’s strong, oh lord, is she strong. She has the temper of a red-head, even if it is very seldom seen to the naked eye. Very often Daisy hides her emotions, buries them in fear of becoming too much for someone to handle. But there is nothing she does not feel so strongly that it sometimes pains her in the most powerful of ways. Sometimes it feels as if she may combust with the pressure of it all. Especially now, with the loss of her parents. Moreso than anything else, Daisy is predominately lost now. Protecting her mother was her sole intent behind every motive, in the war, in life. And without her here, Daisy isn’t entirely sure where she stands; a typical teenage emotion, in a much more mature version of life.

There are so many layers to this character, things I still discover now, even after having parted with her. I love her with all of my heart and would be so grateful to write her beautiful mind again.

PREFERRED SHIPS // CHARACTER SEXUALITY // GENDER & PRONOUNS

Sexuality is not something Daisy thinks of, per se, for no reason other than it truly just makes her uncomfortable. Wildly unfamiliar with her own body and personal preferences, the concept of sex isn’t something that bodes well. Never having explored sexual experiences in the past, Daisy often considers the idea as something her body has now become incapable of such acts. However that aside, Daisy is truly demisexual. It takes true emotional connection to become sexually attracted to anyone, but Daisy isn’t convinced she’s ever experienced as much. But this does not specify female/male preference; when it comes down to it, Daisy sees people. That’s all.

Okay. Let me preface this by saying that Daisy views gender primarily on a spectrum more than anything else. There are those who identify as men, as women, and then a very broad area gray shades in the middle. She, predominately, is genderfluid but generally uses female pronouns. This is in part due to the time; they/them pronouns were not widely used in the 70s, and Daisy is not all that aware of her true gender identity. This meaning, Daisy goes between feeling predominantly feminine to out of place in her female body, almost uncomfortably so, almost as if she would feel better to be detached from the sex she was born with. It is something that confuses her greatly, that she does not very often think of - well, that she admits to - but it is always present in some way or form. Whether she knows it or not.

CREATE ONE (OR MORE!) OF THE FOLLOWING FOR YOUR CHARACTER:

Oh boy, oh boy.

Aesthetic1

Aesthetic2

Mock Blog

Pinterest Board

Caring (adjective) - displaying kindness and concern for others; there is not a bone in Daisy’s body that is not built on love. It is almost impossible for her first reaction to anyone to not care more about them and how they are doing, no matter what is going on in her own life. Daisy just wants others to be happy, and okay. Her heart is truly too big for her body, so much that it sometimes feels as if she might die from the weight of it all. Especially, and almost exclusively, when she is suffering - or if someone she cares for is.

Imaginative (adjective) - having or showing creativity and inventiveness; from the earliest days of the capabilities, Daisy has been writing. Creating ideas that simply won’t stay within her head, things that must be released onto paper. They strike at any moment and very rarely do they ever leave her be until the moment comes that she can release and truly do something with them. Otherwise they tend to circle through her mind like a carousel or broken record, repeating and growing, until something is done with them.

Timid (adjective) - showing a lack of courage or confidence; hoo boy, if there ever was a hamartia. A very prominent problem with Daisy is the fact that she doesn’t understand how strong she truly is. If she would only tap into her grief and pain, and true abilities more than just being ordinary Daisy could truly be extraordinary. She already is of course, but too afraid of rejection and criticism to realize it’s so close to her fingertips, so easy to reach out and grip. Daisy has a particularly hard time understanding that in the midst of war, especially, softness is strength. There is too much fear, too much self doubt that it is crippling at times, but so deeply embedded into the very core of being.

Reserved (adjective) - slow to reveal emotion or opinions; really, it all goes back to Daisy’s strong, innate desire to please others. It takes a very specific person for Daisy to feel safe enough to express opinion without fear of being shut down - so few of these exist they can be counted on one hand, and even fewer than truly see her angry. It comes down to fear, and feeling safe. She had it once, at home. But with the loss of her mother and father it has become even more scarce than before, if possible. She puts others first, always, no matter how many times she is told not to.

Unsteady - X Ambassador Hold onto me ‘Cause I’m a little unsteady

Moondust - Jaymes Young I long to hear your voice But still I make the choice To burn my love In the moondust

Jack and Jill - Katie Herzig She wore that dress Like it was a Saturday Pretty as a summer rose Picked in the morning Time ticked away, the way That it will

Turn it Off - Paramore I scraped my knees while I was praying And found a demon in my safest haven, seems like The tragedy, it seems unending I’m watching everyone I looked up to break and bending We’re taking shortcuts and false solutions Just to come out the hero

Beauty Queen - Ben’s Brother And her eyes shouldn’t have Blurred my vision I know that she, oh she Was a beauty queen And if you’re gonna cry Don’t cry for me

If You Could See Me Now - The Script (for her parents, rip) I’m trying to make you proud Do everything you did I hope you’re up there with God Saying ‘that’s my kid!’ Would you stand in disgrace or take a bow Oh, if you could see me now

IN CHARACTER QUESTIONNAIRE

♔ If you were able to invent one spell, potion, or charm, what would it do, what would you use it for or how would you use it? Feel free to name it: “Something to…help see what the most likely outcome of a situation would be.” Daisy said, a small nod of certainty following the words after a moment of quiet consideration. A moment to really think about it. “I have absolutely no idea what I could possibly name that, but it would be quite helpful.”

♔ You have to venture deep into the Forbidden Forest one night. Pick one other character and one object (muggle or magical), besides your wand, that you’d want with you: “Oh, that’s easy. Andromeda, and a flashlight. A bit of bravery, something to provide a vast amount of light. And then I would just have to hope Andy would know a spell to help keep us shielded.”

♔ What kinds of decisions are the most difficult for you to make? “The kind where someone could get hurt. Which I guess are…a lot of decisions these days.”

♔ What is one thing you would never want said about you? “That I…that I’m a failure,” it caught in her throat, the words. Thick and painful, almost like swallowing a cauldron cake whole. “Especially to Dora. I don’t think I could take it.”

WRITING SAMPLE

Warning: this is an old para I wrote for Daisy and for this case, I must prepare for the angst monster that exists in terms of Taylor.

Things had felt wrong all day. New Year’s Eve had come to pass, and Daisy couldn’t help the dread that swarmed in the pit of her stomach. It should have been expected, really – what with the events of the previous evening. The witch had yet to hear from any of her friends, to find that they were okay. But still…something felt off.

It had been the first holiday season Daisy had spent with no contact to her family. As horrible and painful as it was, the decision had felt like a necessity. She had spent months fighting her father. Begging him to help her master Fidelius, to protect her mother, only to be told no, again and again. If only she thought she could do it on her own, she would have…but she couldn’t.

Christmas and New Year’s had been increasingly lonely. Most of it had been spent in her tiny apartment with her cat, or at Aversio meetings, trying to remind herself why she had entered a place in the war in the first place.

Perhaps the loneliness was what left her waking up on the first of the new year with such a hollow ache in her chest. Or maybe it was the fact that now marked two months since she had returned home, had any contact with her parents at all. The truth of it was, Merlin, did she miss her mother. Her gentle eyes, and warm heart and the way she seemed to just calm the realities of what was happening.

Hours seemed to pass, simply sitting in her bed, frowning to herself, tiny grey kitten mewing quietly in her lap. Snow drifted down outside the window, cheerful chattering echoing up from the streets as London emerged into a new year. Once the afternoon sun shifted in the sky, only then did Daisy realized she had wasted so much of the day…realized that she still had yet to hear from her friends.

Impulse took over, blinding her, accompanied only by the desperate need she had to be in Jocelyn Hookum’s embrace again. To be promised that everything would be okay, if only for a moment – to be with her mother. Preparing best she could, Daisy soon Apparated to her family’s home.

The house was still - just enough that Daisy hesitated on the doorstep, unsure of if either her mother or father were truly home. Regardless, she allowed herself in, stepping carefully through the house, unease spreading over her. Even in the January afternoon, the house was dark. It was still.

As she reached the sitting room, the dread, the unease she’d felt for months and even through the morning had nothing on the agony that replaced it all. There, lying on the floor, paled and cold, was her mother. A devastated scream burst from Daisy’s lungs, ringing out so badly that all else seemed to have faded away. There was nothing to give her the indication that she was still moving.

Her small frame dropped down next to her mother’s corpse, tears flooding out of her green eyes at such a speed that it was nearly impossible to see. Breathing had all but ceased. Several pained moments of sobbing later, she finally noticed her father, crumpled dead only feet away.

“No,” she cried, incapable of thought, of anything but just pain as she remained on the ground, desperately wishing for it all to be a cruel nightmare, knowing that there was no waking up.

#Accepted App

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