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switchypanic · 3 months

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One Last Trust Exercise || A 'Hazbin Hotel' Tickle Fic

Summary: The night before The Extermination, the hotel crew decides to play a game of truth or dare. After all, what do they have to lose? They'll probably all be dead the next day anyways. However, a few interesting secrets come to light, and the evening takes a surprising turn.

Content Warnings: Canon-typical language and MINOR spoilers for the beginning of episode eight.

Word Count: 2,475 words.

Nobody was excited for what tomorrow would bring. The threat of imminent, painful failure loomed over their heads, unable to be masked by alcoholic beverages or (attempts at) rousing speeches. For them to survive, it was going to take a miracle, and Heaven had not been too keen on giving those out up to that point. However, there was a small bright side to the situation, as hard as it is to believe.

With little left to lose, the hotel staff were oddly relaxed with each other, showing the most affection and open comradery towards one another that Charlie had ever seen from the group. Husk and Angel were sharing drinks and snickering softly to each other at the bar, the former overlord absentmindedly cleaning a few shot glasses as the spider demon watched, barely muffling snickers behind one of his many hands. Whatever the two were joking about was lost on the princess, not that she minded in the slightest.

Nifty was rambling to Cherri Bomb about her newest creation, a morbid adaptation of 'Romeo and Juliet' which utilized the many roaches she had exterminated as puppets, garnering looks of concern and feigned smiles of encouragement from her captive audience. From a few meters away, Alastor listened in silently, his ever present smile somehow even wider than usual, betraying his clear amusement at the situation before him.

And then there was Vaggie, mumbling quiet words of encouragement to Sir Pentious in the far corner of the room, away from any prying ears. The snake demon fiddled with his hat, eyes flickering over to Cherri Bomb, causing his hood to flare open for a moment before he forced it back down with his hands. Charlie couldn't help but giggle; Vaggie wasn't the best at flirting herself, yet she was still trying her best to be a good wingman. If Charlie had thought she couldn't possibly be any more in love with the woman, she was being proven wrong yet again.

Charlie felt a pang of anxious sadness in her heart, knowing that all of the progress they had made could be undone in a single instant tomorrow morning. A single pierce from an exorcist's blade could mean the end, the final end, for any one of them. It could mean the sudden and cruel end of everything they had been working so hard to achieve.

The princess wrung her hands, blinking back tears as she attempted to calm herself down. Getting all worked up in front of everyone wouldn't help matters. No, she needed to do something to get her mind off of tomorrow. Scouring her mind for any ideas, one suddenly came to her, and her usual smile returned in a flash.

Clearing her throat, Charlie climbed atop of the nearby coffee table, careful not to accidentally knock over one of the many whisky glasses left strewn about. "Um, excuse me everyone! Can I have your attempt for a moment?" She yelled.

The various conversations paused, heads turning expectantly towards her.

"I had an idea for one final trust exercise for us to do before tomorrow; truth or dare! Anyone who wants to play is welcome to, but it's totally not mandatory!" Charlie announced. "Like I said, spend tonight however you guys want! I just thought it might be fun for us to-"

"Sounds fun to me!" Angel Dust interrupted, a playful smirk plastered to his face as he got to his feet. "Haven't played that since before I bit the bullet back on Earth. What do you say, Husk? You in too?" The actor asked, glancing over his shoulder at the cat demon.

Husk hummed, seemingly thinking it over. "Aah, what the hell? Why not? Not like I've got much else to do tonight." The bartender replied, shrugging.

Charlie turned her attempt to Nifty, who was bouncing on her toes with excitement. "Oh, I love that game! I love that game!" The short sinner squealed.

Cherri Bomb couldn't help but snort with laughter. "Fuck yeah, I'm in too! Last time I played that, I got to spend ten minutes in a closet with some super hot hellhound!"

From across the room, Charlie noticed Pentious' face go bright red. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with such a game...but I would be willing to learn!" The snake demon pipped in. "This...Truth Or Dare, as you called it, does sound quite intriguing. How about you, Vagatha? Shall you be joining in as well?"

Vaggie rolled her eyes. "NOT my name, dude. We've been over this. But...yeah, why not?" The former Exorcist shot her girlfriend a gentle smile, and Charlie felt like her heart was going to beat right out of her chest.

Now, it seemed the only one left to answer was...

Charlie turned her attention to Alastor. The overlord hadn't moved from his previous position, though his expression had changed ever so slightly, bearing an emotion that Charlie couldn't quite discern. "Al? What about you?" The princess asked, offering an encouraging smile. "You want to play? No pressure, of course!" She half expected him to say no. Alastor was a private man, and while he often enjoyed messing with others, he didn't seem the type to play a game which could leave him vulnerable in some capacity.

However, to her surprise, the radio host let out a small laugh and quickly strode over to her. "Why not? I'm afraid I'm also unfamiliar with such a game, though I have been told I'm a fast learner!" Alastor replied.

Charlie squealed with excitement, jumping off of the table and ushering everyone forwards. "Great! Alright, everybody get into a circle on the floor!" She instructed, plopping down on the carpet with a soft thud. Vaggie took the seat to her right, as expected, and Nifty to her left. Alastor positioned himself between Nifty and Sir Pentious, the later of which had strategically made sure to claim a seat next to Cherri. Finally, Angel and Husk finished out the circle (were Charlie's eyes deceiving her, or was Husk ever so slightly wrapping a wing around the actor).

The princess clapped her hands with excitement. "Okay, since some of you haven't played before, I'll explain the rules! When the game starts, I'll ask one of you to pick truth or dare. If you pick truth, you have to answer whatever question I ask honestly. If you pick dare, you have to do whatever I dare you to. Once you've done either of those things, it's your turn to ask somebody else!"

Sir Pentious raised a hand. "ANYTHING you ask or dare? What if you wanted me to sign over my soul?" He asked, shooting a distrusting look at Alastor.

Charlie hummed, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. "Good point! I guess it would be a good idea to put some rules in place, just for safe keeping. If there is a truth or dare you really aren't comfortable with doing, use the safeword...apple!"

"And how do we know if somebody is telling the truth?" The snake demon continued, head cocked to the side with curiousity.

"That's the thing, we're working on the honor system! It's up to you guys to stay truthful with us. Remember all of our previous exercises; you can trust everyone here!"

Husk snorted. "Suuure..." He grumbled, also shooting Alastor a nasty look. If the deer demon was bothered by the group's apparent distrust in him, he didn't show it.

"Alright, I'll go first! Hm....Vaggie, truth or dare?" Charlie asked, beaming from ear to ear as she turned towards her girlfriend. The former Exorcist chuckled, shaking her head.

"Truth."

"Okay then, what's your favorite food?" Angel could be heard snickering from across the circle; of course Charlie would pick such a vanilla question.

"Empanadas."

"See?" Charlie squealed with delight. "It's super easy! You'll all get the hang of it in no time! Okay, Vaggie, it's your turn to ask someone!"

"Oookay..." Vaggie slowly glanced around the circle, taking a moment to think before selecting her target. "Cherri, truth or dare?"

The bomb expert grinned impishly. "You kiddin' me? Dare, mate!"

"Then I dare you to...do a cartwheel."

Cherri Bomb scoffed, getting to her feet. "For real? I can do that in my sleep!" She retorted, easily demonstrating her point as she completed the dare with ease. Nifty clapped excitedly, letting out a maniacal giggle.

"Bravo, bravo!"

Cherri looked over to the shorter demoness, chuckling as she sat back down. "Alright, pipsqueak, your turn! Truth or dare?"

The janitor was practically vibrating with excitement. "Oooh, dare! Dare!"

"Then I dare you to give ol' Angie here a taste of the tickle monster treatment, yeah?" Cherri replied, sending a knowing smirk to her friend.

Angel, who had been preoccupied whispering something to Husk, sputtered in shock. "What the fuck? Cherri!" The actor cried out, a look of betrayal on his face. "Did you have to throw me under the bus?!"

The other shrugged. "Sorry, mate! I'm kinda limited on the kinds of dares I'm allowed to give at this bloody place."

Angel's head snapped in Nifty's direction, his heart racing as the tiny cyclops scuttled over to him, giggling with excited glee. "N-Now Nif, we can talk about this, yeah?" A grin was already starting to tug at Angel's lips, and while he leaned back slightly, he made no real effort to get away.

"Sorry, a dare's a dare!" Nifty launched herself forward, nearly knocking the actor onto his back with the force of her movement. The smaller sinner's fingers immediately found their way to Angel's sides, digging in with chaotic zeal. Angel let out a surprised yelp, biting down on his lip in a vain attempt to contain his chuckles.

"Nohoho! Nifty, cohohome on! Lemme gohohohoho!"

"Ah, he doesn't mean that! Just look at him; he's barely fighting back!" Cherri replied, grinning deviously. "Wait, not barely fighting back, more like not fighting back AT ALL."

From across the rug, Charlie was cooing at the endearing sight, and even Vaggie was starting to smile a little.

"Aaw, this is so cute!" The princess gushed.

"You think this is cute? Lil' gremlin ain't even gettin' one of his really good spots. You latch onto one of those, he's DONE FOR." Cherri was determined to fluster the shit out of him, wasn't she?"

Angel's face turned a brilliant shade of pink, his face burrowing into his hands in an attempt to hide itself. "Cheheherri, shuhuhuhuhut uhuhuhup!" He whined. Next to him, Husk couldn't contain the teasing grin tugging at his own lips.

"Well, well. Never would have pegged you as the ticklish type, considering your line of work."

Angel collapsed backwards onto the carpet as Nifty was gently pried off of him by Cherri, supporting his upper body on his elbows. It seemed the brief attack had been enough to satisfy his companion's mischievous streak, though Nifty herself was protesting over her fun being cut short. "Oho, cohohome off it. Everybody's a bit ticklish, ain't they?" He retorted.

"Not me." Husk replied smugly. A burst of laughter rang out from across the circle; it seemed Alastor was finally ready to speak up.

"Now Husker, it's not very nice to lie to one's friends, is it?" The Radio Demon chided, shaking his head in disapproval. The cat demon shot him a glare, wings puffing up slightly.

"I ain't lying!"

Alastor hummed, grin sharpening as a devious glint entered his eyes. "Funny, I seem to remember you rolling on the round, wheezing with laughter during your last shedding season. If I recall correctly, Nifty had decided to take a grooming brush to your wings. Ringing any bells?"

While not especially evident because of his fur, Husk knew that he was blushing up a storm. "You shut it!" He growled, tail flicking back and forth in flustered irritation.

"There's nothing to be embarrased about, Husk! I'm ticklish, and as we all just saw, so is Angel! It's completely normal!" Charlie chimed in, attempting to offer reassurance. "It wouldn't surprise me if everyone here was to some degree!"

"Hey, stop draggin' me into this!" Angel groaned. "Though I suppose she does have a point; I ain't never met somebody who ain't ticklish SOMEWHERE!"

"I'm not!" Nifty said, beaming with pride.

"Yeah, suuure." Cherri chuckled in response, shaking her head.

"I'm afraid little Nifty is quite right; both Husker and I have attempted to tickle her on multiple occasions, to no success." Alastor said, sharing a sharp-toothed smile with the little cyclops. "She seems to be indestructible when it comes to tickling."

Happy to have the conversation directed away from his own sensitivity, Husk nodded. "As much as I hate to say it, Smiles is right on that front. The girl's a walking fortress; no cracks in the foundation."

Noticing that Sir Pentious had been oddly quiet, Vaggie gave him a gentle nudge. "How about you?" She asked, wanting to ensure the snake demon felt included.

Pentious flinched, hood flaring out slightly. "Who, me?" He chuckled nervously. "Why, the great Sir Pentious isn't ticklish! It would be rather unbecoming of a villain such as I, would it not?"

"Not necessarily. Anyone can be ticklish, even villains." Charlie said gently.

Angel Dust snorted with laughter. "You say that, but somehow I have a hard time picture Al rolling on his ass and laughin' up a storm!" The actor butted in, pointing an accusatory finger at the overlord. "What IS the deal with YOU, huh? You got anything your wanna admit to the group?"

The faint sound of buzzing radio static could be heard lingering in the air. "Me? Why, I don't see how that's any of your business, is it?" Alastor replied, head cocking to the side as if to challenge the other demon.

"That ain't a no." Angel retorted with a small smirk.

Nifty jumped to her feet, waving her arms about excitedly. "Oh, oh! He is! He is! This one time, I-" The little demoness was cut off as Alastor scooped her up, pressing a palm against her mouth.

"Now, now, my dear! Some things are best left a secret, hm?"

"No fuckin' way, I wanna hear it!" Angel leaned forward, eyes narrowing playfully. "Go on, Nif! Tell us aaall about it!" As Nifty squirmed in Alastor's hold, frantic talking could be heard muffled behind his hand. A moment later, Alastor suddenly released his grip, lip curling as he recoiled in disgust.

"Did you just LICK my hand?!"

Charlie knew she should probably put a stop to things before they got too crazy; that she should redirect the group back to the game. However, seeing the pure, silly interactions they were having, she just couldn't bring herself to do it. After all, why not let them have their silly little squabble?

After tomorrow, it could be a good, long while before any of them could relax again.

#ticklish!angel dust #mentioned ticklish!husk #mentioned!ticklish alastor #hazbin hotel tickle fic #hazbin hotel tickles #tickle fic #sfw tickles #sfw tickling #sfw tickling community #tickling community #sfw twords #sfw tword community #tword community #switchy writes tickles

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fleetingvow · 1 year

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‘ DEATH BY A THOUSAND CUTS .

Wednesday Addams x Female Reader.

SYNOPSIS. wednesday said crying never does anything, but why did a tear fall? will you never wake up?

NAVIGATION. part one - part two. masterlist.

WARNINGS. character death ( reader’s ), just slight faint angst. more thoughts, less plot. countless usage of parallelism in sentence structures.

NOTE. written in second person’s point of view.

𝗧𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗦 𝗠𝗘𝗧 the ground. One after the other. Wednesday’s eyes slightly blinked, staring at her trembling hands stained with the essence of your life ebbing away in horror as she realised how much time you’ve spent with your eyes closed on the courtyard.

‘Tears,’ she thought. She looked away from it and continued to put her attention to you. She didn’t have to try that hard to do so, for everything that filled the arteries in her body all had something to do with the most damnable you.

It was all you.

You on the floor without a sardonic remark to catch her off guard. You and your pursed lips without a breath of exasperation from her antics. You and your cold hands that slipped away and lied so still. You and your pale appearance that shouldn’t be. You and your pulse that she couldn’t feel any longer. And mostly you being gone.

You were the reason that pulled the strings at the back of her mind and caused the salty disturbances to her sight. As she processed what had happened, she couldn’t look at you now. She furrowed her eyebrows and averted her gaze to the door that led to the inside of the school.

Wednesday could just walk away and leave you here. She could do that. But her feet betrayed her when she tried. Her heart — God, her abhorrent, distasteful, black cold heart; The crushing and tearing of it, although how intoxicating the pain may be, she felt defeated. Maybe you won the life-long challenge between you and her after all.

“I will kill you,” she mumbled to herself. She didn’t know what would make it feel better. She knew she had to do something to stop herself from feeling. She was feeling, the live creature kept in her ribcage was racing, her mind was spinning, and she could feel a wash of heavy emotions drown her. She needed to do something.

She wanted to do something. Wednesday clutched your uniform, tighter and tighter to the point that her nails almost dug through the fabric and cut her palm. This rage, it was something new. She wanted you. The tension that even the knives hidden under your bed couldn’t cut always screamed something like this. Like you were the most foul creature to ever walk the Earth. Like you were the tiniest little speck of dust on her shoe. Like you were the colour in her void making her want to scratch her eyes out.

Like you were — Like you’d be the reason she’d tear the world apart.

Wednesday wanted to deny it, but the thought made her notice a strange sensation again. She knew her disdain wasn’t truly disdain solely because of you, but it was scarier to admit now. She had lost her chance, her sanity, her will — Would you just wake up? She was tired of screaming at herself internally. She wanted to rest.

The damage the arrow had left her earlier was starting to take a toll on her, making her slowly and dubiously lay her head on your chest. She was tired. She wanted to lay down, and you couldn’t be the only one to enjoy peace, could you?

No. She couldn’t stand idly by as you enjoyed the tranquillity of what came after life and death. Wednesday could not bear it. She refused to, and she always will.

That’s when her ear touched the centre of your chest, and — Thump! Thump!

Her eyes widened at the sound. She frowned and fixed her position, shifting so she could still get a good grip of you and hold herself in place on the spot where she heard something she never thought she could again.

And there it was! A beat of your heart. Two, three. She didn’t hesitate once she heard it. Your heartbeats were faint, but she trusted whatever it was that existed that you had a chance.

She had a chance.

Wednesday quickly sat up and fixed herself alongside you, removing her jacket as she rolled her sleeves up in haste, positioning her hands in a way that she believed she’d never seen coming in her entire life. Years of believing she only cut the head of those unwilling to live a life. Years of torment as her favourite pastime, and now she had her hands fixed in a CPR position to revive a life she had long-resided to be unworthy and irritating.

She did not care. She wanted you alive so she could kill you herself.

The round of the first pumps and she already felt as though she was going to replace herself in your position due to her desperation.

“You're not going to die on me, I dare you.” She mumbled and resumed.

Once you’ve gotten yourself involved with Wednesday, she was sure that you’d never find a way out to escape her grip. She had poured whatever she had outside the lines of the usual her — the real her. She had run around frantically for you, had her mind run a million miles just to think about anything that correlated to you. She feared. She’d never been scared. Only for you.

Once she got to the third round of the CPR, Wednesday had gone back to zero, thinking you weren’t going to wake up again, but she was more stubborn than that.

You weren’t dead, you were just sleeping. That’s what she hopelessly believed. She lived in-denial. Breathed in denial as long as she was around you.

“If you don’t wake up, I’ll set this school on fire. Wake up, Y/N!”

Again.

You will die with her, but not now. At this point, Wednesday was aware of herself. Why she hated you, why she thought about you, why she wondered about your lips, why she looked at you up and down so hesitantly when you taunted her about the person she tolerated the most. It was ironic seeing you in a burning light but never truly wanting to set you on fire. In fact, she’d watch the world be set on fire by her own doing.

As long as she was watching it in your eyes.

Wednesday faintly grunted. “We’ll fight everyday, if that’s what you want. We have a deal, but I want the end of your bargain. Wake up. Do you hear me, L/N?”

“We’ll stab each other until we don’t see another spot in our bodies in which we could occupy with wounds. Just — ” The young Addams tried to stop herself from saying it. How she hated herself. Hated you for making her this way.

You were a crime, yet she didn’t mind committing it again and again.

“Wake up.”

Her braids were swinging back and forth with beads of sweat scattered on her forehead. “I look so utterly stupid because of you.”

“You will wake up, do you understand me?”

She didn’t know how long she’ll have to keep doing it, but it was a great relief when the door to the courtyard had been busted open and more people than she needed rushed to the courtyard, pointing their flashlights to the girl who never stopped doing the CPR on the unconscious you.

Everything seemed slower. Wednesday couldn’t hear anyone. She felt as if it was finally maybe alright if she let go of her composure when her relief washed over her that the help that she wanted was finally sprinting over to you.

Every movement, she felt like the time slowed on purpose, because once she looked at you once again, she felt her heart break once more when she spotted the man who checked your pulse shake his head solemnly.

Fuck, were you gone?

“No,” she absent-mindedly whispered, breaking from the gasp of the people taking her away from you. “No, she’s not dead!”

The man couldn’t look at her, sparking the vexation in Wednesday. She briskly grabbed him by the collar as her breath hitched, “She’s alive. I heard her heartbeat. You better do your job and start reviving her or I will put an end to this whole school with all of you in it.”

The others looked at each other, frightened by a threat made by a delinquent Nevermore kid before nodding. Another chance, and maybe you’d open those eyes again.

Another chance, and maybe this time, she’d tell you for sure just what it is that you do to her.

* * *

Static! Blood! Knife!

Those three words kept replaying like a broken record. The metallic smell of your blood had become so vivid you feared it would latch onto you forever. You were cold. Too cold you felt like you were dead.

Maybe you were.

You remembered the suffocating feeling. You recalled not being able to breathe, but what was it that you felt now? Nothing.

Nothing?

You winced. Oh, that’s what you felt now. That’s when your senses came back but almost too tired to fully function. You could still feel the familiar object buried deep in your abdomen, and fuck, how much it hurt!

“Wednesday saved her life.” Bianca? Was that her? You couldn’t open your eyes fully, but once it was half-up, the only things you saw were blue and red, blurry lights and blurry heads.

You wanted to fall asleep.

“If — girl hadn’t — CPR — hopeless.”

You didn’t care whatever the full sentence was. All you knew was you were about to slip back into your peaceful slumber, not knowing what had been happening the moment you woke up again.

Yet before you embraced the warmth of slumber, you saw the figure you hated on your side, staring at you so emotionless, making you ponder whether you were cared about or perceived to be stupid.

Maybe this was the last time you’d ever see those braids again, but it was okay to smile passive-aggressively, right?

You believed it to be a great way to die.

* * *

The knife plunging into you with the face of the evil staring tight at you in the face inflicted the pain of acid burning your insides. You couldn’t erase that.

The object kept appearing. Your blood kept flowing. Your gasps kept continuing to emit from your lips.

It kept repeating. Again and again and again.

You wanted it to end. You desired to scream. The fire that accompanied the scene in the courtyard danced around you, glad that you were meeting your end. Your family stood before you when you turned around, each one chanting the same thing, telling you never to return home again. Your past lover wishing they’d never met you joined in on the fun of tormenting you. Saying that you were their greatest regret and shame.

A storm soon started, and the pain was felt all over again. All you could see was the fire, the faces, the drops of the sky, and your blood everywhere. You spun around to look for a way out.

God, you wanted to live!

You didn’t want to die!

You wanted to breathe!

You wanted to feel!

You wanted to make more memories!

You wanted to dance under the rain!

You wanted to steal the English crown!

Your subconsciousness kept craving for more to life than walking around at the school, staring at people without another thought. Just that you were absolutely jealous that they had what you wanted.

Genuine love.

The moment your eyes met a certain pair peeking through her long lifted eyelashes, you almost believed in the thing called attraction. You resided in the faith that the attraction was because you were polar opposites and she kept standing out because she made you feel so irritated.

Yet you had the urge to touch her, feel her hands and touch her pale cold cheeks.

You wanted so many things, and why couldn’t you have that now?

You saw a blinding white light, a place in which you were unaware. There were things you were familiar with yet never familiarised yourself with before at the same time. You scanned your surroundings, the flash of colours now starting to appear. The blue, the green, the spectrum of refracted lights. You kept seeing the cursed smile, the blood on your hands, and the dagger in your flesh. You wanted to scream.

And then — and then there was Wednesday.

The Wednesday who sat beside the bed patiently, careful not to let the support of the chair touch her back. Her who pursed her lips without yet again any emotions peeking through her dead eyes. Her who stared at nothing. The Wednesday who swore to bring you down one day, and now holding your hand on the bed. You thought this was impossible. This was a hallucination for sure.

Her face was etched with fear and worry.

Wednesday never looked like that.

What was she doing following you in the afterlife? Didn't she have any better plans of holidays, dancing on top of graves somewhere?

You didn't believe it and almost laughed, "Wednesday Addams, as I live and breathe! You know you look terrifying when you zone — "

That’s when you realised it was all real. When the girl’s eyes gaped at you and her clutch tightened more that made you feel the full living of her you had hatefully adored. “You’re actually awake.”

“I am?”

“You will never do that to me again.”

“Do what again?” You playfully asked, playing the clueless card as if you weren’t just stabbed.

“Make horrible puns.”

“You missed me.”

“Barely.”

“I heard you saved my life.”

“I did not. I left you at the courtyard to bleed out to death.”

How come you even had the audacity to smirk at her right now after the heart attack she’d been experiencing since you were shown around with a knife to your abdomen?

“When can we throw knives at each other until there’s no spot in our bodies to torment again?”

“I won’t let you do that.”

“Wednesday!”

She emotionlessly looked at you before looking at the bunch of roses without the petals yet adored with thorns on the bedside. “You’re the most idiotic person I know.”

“I’m aware,” those roses. You knew those were her mother’s favourite. You almost diverted your gaze to shy away the smile that was twitching to form on your face, but instead, you returned the gesture of holding her hand. “But I’d do anything for you, Wednesday.” You looked away from the sudden confession.

A sigh. There it was. Were your feelings unreciprocated? Did you misunderstand her cues? You couldn’t understand.

But that was when she mumbled, unwavering like sturdy tree in the eye of a storm.

Wednesday gazed down at your hands, joined together without dirt and blood.

For a moment, she thought she’d never see that sight again. That she won’t ever lay her eyes upon the lively annoyingly missed you.

For a month she suffered silently, dismissing her writing hours in lieu of thinking about how you were and what had happened.

But you were here now. You were awake on the bed you’ve been sleeping in without wake, holding her pale hands with her painted fingers gripping yours desperately trying to remember the feeling for the later eternities to come. You were warm and alive.

Breathing and well, making her slightly pull her lips upwards. It was a good feeling. The poison in her veins she knew were spiked by everything about you.

You were stuck with her now. Forever is a really long time. Will you comit when she finally said it?

“I almost burnt the whole school for you.”

TAGS. @blazemaster4014 @n0p35 @elduster @niekapral @iquit-28 @vlkyriesverse @anidiotwhoreads @emscave @belltako @ryver19 @daddy-jareau @zoophobictiktok @justarandomweeblol @justtiasblog @angel-luv-04 @sunasami @kyday @llcursed-imagell @IIcursed-imageII @alexkolax @anouknagel @leathesimp @manu-007s-world @liliesandrosies @dandelions4us @pennybutwise @ilacknames @eclipsesmoonshine14 @wizardofstories @jas-the-shrimp @director-raven @simpform1lfs @dreifhraniquo29

NOTE TO TAGS. thank you all so fucking much for supporting and leaving notes to the fic that i have created! i am so thrilled that you’re willing to wait this far just to get a part two of the wednesday addams fic! you don’t know how happy i am that you have given appreciation to what i created, and how it motivates me to keep moving forward with this account and my writing overall. wednesday addams christmas special will surely be a thing this month! advanced happy christmas to each and every single one of you! <3

#wednesday addams #wednesday addams x reader #wednesday addams angst #wednesday addams x y/n #wednesday addams x you #wednesday adams x reader #wednesday addams fluff #wednesday addams imagine #wednesday #wednesday x reader #wensday x reader #wenesday x reader #wensday addams x reader #wenesday addams x reader #jenna ortega

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dyketubbo · 1 year

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tbh for me the thing about cbeeduo is that its so like. how am i supposed to look at this dynamic and not feel insane for the rest of my life. like going along w the crushing during nlm hc ranboo fell in love w tubbo at his WORST. they saw some child president who was probably on illegal substances like half of the time with a tired face and forced grin as he got through politics he didnt understand and got insults hurled at him, comparing him to an abusive dictator as he tried to solve a trolley problem (his best friend was on one line and his country was on the other and of course he chooses majority rule but the trolley loops back around anyways and all he did was delay the inevitable) and ranboo saw some 16yr old on his last leg going on about how he felt like he was going to die soon (and hes too too close to the cliffs edge but hes grinning and its like hes really hoping death is a happy ending) and everyone was leaving him and he didnt want all this and ranboo goes follow my voice i wont leave im sorry and they fall in love with whatever virtues there are left in tubbo and decide that they would keep trying to do right by him

and then, inevitably, ranboo messes up and betrays tubbo and tubbos voice shudders and ranboo never wants to see that broken expression of disbelief again so he fights for a country even though hes been disenchanted with it for a while and hes never liked picking sides anyways (but this is tubbo, and if hes choosing tubbo its okay because he cant hurt tubbo again) and of course it falls anyways and tubbo makes a new home and tubbo makes nukes and tubbo makes a plan and then tubbo is on his knees and an axe is held to his neck and ranboo barely gets a glimpse before things are moving forward and tubbo is pressed to her side calling them minutes man again

the marriage starts out as a joke, tubbos never been rich and ranboo only gets richer and tubbo pretends its for tax benefits, hes just a golddigger, because right now its a joke and thats all hes letting it be. but then hes laughing like normal but it feels different and hes looking at the family portrait of the two and michael and hes thinking about bunk beds and he gets a mansion because hes in love at this point because ranboo was there during his worst moments and even as tubbos getting (relatively) better ranboos still there and of course tubbo forgives him because when he met ranboo they reminded him painfully of himself and tubbo cant let ranboo be like him so he falls in love with them instead and if ranboos going to stick by him tubbos going to try and be someone good to stick by

but of course ranboo finds bad influences anyways and tommy is back but different and everythings different and ranboo wont move in so every few days its just him and michael (and god, he shouldnt be a parent at 17, what is he doing with his life? he should have been dead by now) and he tries so so hard to be good for michael and good for ranboo and better for tommy and he isnt really good to himself but thats fine and ranboo is so much better than he'll ever be and michael adores him and tubbo adores him and its fine that the mansion is collecting dust and its fine that ranboo lives by tubbos executioner and the people who helped destroy his country and its fine that he doesnt really know who ranboo is at all outside of his kind husband that was there for him at his worse and its fine that ranboo doesnt really know who tubbo is outside of someone who has been through a lot and needs a good break and its fine that theyre keeping secrets its fine that they never really talk about their problems (its fine that its been months and ranboo still hasnt moved in)

and then they have their first disagreement and tubbo tries to make up for it and it works until they have their first argument and ranboo tries to make up for it but he has to make a point too and they hardly get to talk about it before suddenly time has passed and

and ranboos dead and tubbos a widow and single father at 18 and his (their) son got kidnapped and hes making friends with murderers and hes not sure how to feel about his husbands ghost (and ranboo is so so happy to be dead and ranboo is in limbo alone and tubbo doesnt know how any of this works) so he moves on and his anger gets the best of him and he pushes someone off a bridge and he moves on and he isnt getting better and he moves on and nothings getting better and he moves on and because the dream smp is at its core not that great pretty often theres no closure to any of this ever tubbo dies and loses all his memories ranboos forever a ghost and takes his son elsewhere and thats it the end youre just meant to be normal about all this now. they never learned how to truly trust each other and they were so so in love and wanted to be good for each other but never talked about their problems and now they just Dont Get To. The End !

#mask mews #not to go insane but im going insane rn #beeduo #dsmp #tubbo #ranboo

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shadowy-suitcase-herring-neck · 2 months

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EXTREMELY interested in The Cube AU- Very fun already! Do you have any other details you could share? Like- The Gang's relationship? Or even how the Stars' felt about being cubed? How did the council even manage to send them there? How do the Gang, Error, and the Stars feel about their... transformation? How did Nightmare get the mask and do any of the others have odd curiosities on them too?

grab your popcorn this got kinda long. i mean i could have made it longer but i kept some things too be included in separate posts.

The gang at first kinda hated each other. to Nightmare they where his henchmen. he says he only gathered them to aid in his spreading of negativity. though deep down he knows this isn't why but is constantly convincing himself of it. Too be honest Nightmare was lonely , but he is constantly self sabotaging his chances of ever actually forming any sort of relationship with... anyone tbh. he's afraid It takes awhile for him to realize he doesn't want too nor have too be the demon he was told he was. he was the only thing keeping himself from feeling happy. Horror only really stayed because of the food promised to horrortale. He didn't like Killer at all and Dust didn't really interact with the gang much outside of missions and fighting with killer. Horror did start to make friends with Cross though. Mainly because cross wasn't stab happy, and also didn't waste food, or skip meals like Dust and Nightmare after Horror had already made food for everyone. Dust like stated before would be constantly avoiding everyone when he could. he spent a lot of time in random places around castle that where hard to reach. and even harder to find. he mainly talked to "Paps" a lot. In this au paps is just a hallucination not an actual ghost. The main reason he is avoiding everyone could be that killer takes any chance to antagonize him. Killer is sort of stuck in the mental loop of always trying to gain more exp. Kind of ironic tbh. most of his emotions are dulled and Fighting gives a sort of rush that too him feel.. something. So he is constantly chasing it. Cross doesn't really know why he's there tbh. he's kind of lost. their relationship slowly shifts too found family but it is certainly a journey. -

The Stars felt betrayed more than anything. They had spent years defending and trying to make the multiverse a better place. Dream already has that small voice in his skull telling him it was because he had failed somehow. That he wasn't good enough. Blue is left wondering just why... WHY. Ink is... confused. he hadn't messed up THAT bad right? he wasn't a terrible person... right? In reality it was partially due too the fact The stars would have tried to shut down the Cube if they had Known more about it. As far as they where concerned it was just a high security prison. They didn't know about how it was designed to essentially be an elaborate form of torture. a world where everything was uncertain, your own body untrustworthy, and everything wants you dead. Dream was starting to get suspicious when he was denied seeing his brother. -

Nightmare's mask has something to do with another character I've made. A scientist who helped make the Cube named Jane. I don't think I'll explain all of that here but i will include it when i post her character. -

As for other oddities and transformations... I think it's time to talk about the mutations caused by the change from magic based to something more physical. The claws on the ends of Nightmare's tentacles are an example, as well as the much less goopy nature. Goop wouldn't stay together without magic after all. Though Nightmare's changes are a little less visually different than some of the other mutations. Mutations are for the most part very very random though.

for Killer: Killer had three fingered hands, and a venomous bite. The hatred that dripped from his sockets is technically just a poison now. His soul kinda got fused with his rib cage so it just looks like a sort of target shaped burn scar in a way. it do glow tho.

here's a doodle of what his hands look like tho.

Dust was one of the more drastically changed individuals. it's possible his blaster attacks had somehow influenced his mutations so now he has a face like this:

when his jaw is closed he can almost pass for completely unchanged. His voice has a strange chittering too it now. the buggyness was completely unconnected too the blaster jaw. but it is there. Dust wears a scarf a lot too hide it.

Cross os the only other one i have Mutations made for atm. He got floof. and ears. honestly this was just kind of for fun

biiiiigg yawn.

he can 100% percent bite someones head off if he wanted too. I wasn't going for any sort of similarity too any animal in particular. but yea... floof... he poofs up if startled. anyways this was certainly a long answer huh :D i hope you enjoyed <3 if you want me too go in even more depth on any of these just ask and i will gladly do so.

#herrings rambles #herrings mailbox #The Cube au #herrings doodles #utmv #undertale au #bad sanses #nightmare sans #killer sans #horror sans #dust sans #cross sans #bad sans gang

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avastrasposts · 9 months

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The British Connection - ch. 1

Read on Ao3

Before I started on The Pilot and his Girl I got back into fanfic writing by writing a OFC fic set in The Boys fandom. The Boys is a fairly small fanfic fandom on Tumblr it seems but I'm very happy with the fic and it was the first one finished in a very long time. I never properly posted it here so I'm scheduling it for the weekend in case someone wants to read it while they wait for the next chapter of The Pilot (so much happening in that chapter!).

The plot follows MI6 agent Eve Edwards as she's assigned to help Billy Butcher and The Boys take down a new type of supe killing politicians on both sides of the pond. Not much fluff in this, plenty of canon typical violence, smut and extreme amounts of Britishness 😄

Lieutenant-Colonel Grace Mallory has requested, no, demanded, Billy Butcher’s presence at a meeting this damp January morning. He grumbles down his phone at the early hour she gives him but agrees to meet. Saying no to Mallory isn’t wise, especially since she’s the one paying the bills.

He finds the address she’s given him leading to an anonymous looking office building on a seedy side street in midtown. The entrance door opens after he rings the bell for the 16th floor, a small camera verifying his identity before he’s let in. The building is what you’d expect from a covert agency office, nothing betrays the nature of the activity on the inside.

As the lift takes him up to 16th he ponders on the nature of this meeting. It’s rare for Mallory to be in the city, even rarer for her to meet with the leader of The Boys. Things have been flowing rather smoothly the past few months. Minor supes were biting the dust almost on a weekly basis, information was coming in from reliable sources, coerced or otherwise, and Butcher felt sure that sooner rather than later they would find intelligence that would deal a hard blow to Vought and The Seven. Maybe Mallory had found something too sensitive to share electronically and set up this meeting, maybe this was it.

The lift arrives on the 16th floor and he steps out into a small reception area. A middle aged lady with graying hair sits behind a desk in front of a sturdy looking glass door. The slight green tinge to the glass lets Butcher know it’s bulletproof. The receptionist looks up as he steps out of the lift.

“Lieutenant-Colonel Mallory is expecting you, Mr Butcher. Down the hallway and to your right. Sign here”.

She hands him a pen and he signs his name to the visitors sheet, as if they didn’t already know he was in the building and will keep eyes on him until he’s left.

The receptionist pushes a button on her desk and the glass door clicks open, he grabs the handle and makes his way through, his heavy boots making squeaking noises on the cheap linoleum floor. The hallway beyond is lined with the same material, walls painted a nauseating lima bean green. He turns the corner and is met by another long hallway, blank doors on either side and at the end a conference room with large glass windows with the same green tinge.

Mallory is standing by a large table, her back turned against the door, looking at another woman in the room whom Butcher doesn’t recognise. She’s leaning over the table, hands splayed, studying an open file in front of her. She looks like an agent, that same anonymous black suit they all wear, white shirt, sensible shoes and, oh yes, a glimpse of a holster under her jacket. He can’t make out what gun she’s carrying but she’s definitely packing. At the sound of his squeaking boots approaching she looks up from the file and gives him a once over. He knows that look, it’s the same look he gives anyone who walks up to him, assessing the potential threat, finding weaknesses and making a worst case scenario plan in a split second. Yeah, this lady is definitely an agent.

The women's movement makes Mallory turn and look behind her. As she sees Butcher approaching she says something to the woman who closes the file in front of her and straightens up. Mallory walks over to the door and lets Butcher in by clicking a button next to it.

“Butcher, thank you for coming,” she says as he walks through the door.

‘Ello, Mallory” he replies, “always a rare pleasure to see you in the city”.

He walks round the table so that he’s standing at the short end, back against the empty wall, clear view over the room.

“What’s the occasion?” He locks eyes with the other woman in the room. She moved as he moved, facing him with her side against the long table. Clearly whatever Mallory wants it involves this agent lady.

“Butcher, this is MI6 officer Edwards. She’s been sent over from London by her commanding officer to gather intelligence on a supe that we are also very interested in. As the MI6 mission objective closely matches our own desired outcome it’s been decided she will work with you and your crew while she’s stateside.”

Mallory has kept a straight face up until now but her composure finally cracks and she gives a crooked smile at Butcher.

“And I thought it rather fitting to let you work with one of your own for a change”.

Edwards stretches out her hand towards Butcher but doesn’t make a move to close the distance between them.

“Eve Edwards, nice to meet you” she says and Butcher curses internally, Fuck!

Her accent cuts the air like glass and he’s got her pegged. Privileged, public school, Oxbridge, old money and all the connections you could need to make it in ol’ Blighty. He glares at Mallory but she’s either playing dumb or doesn’t understand the implications of her accent and its stark contrast to his own. In the US, class is based on money, in the UK you can be the richest wanker in the land but your family and your accent will decide what class you belong to. And Eve Edwards’s class has spent centuries fucking over everyone from Butcher’s.

“Billy Butcher, pleasure” he says to Edwards but he doesn’t offer his hand, neither does he cross the space between them. She drops hers without a word, the sarcasm in his voice is hard to miss.

“Why’d ye put me up with this, Mallory?” Butcher barks, turning to her. “I decide who joins The Boys, it’s me own crew and not some CIA/MI6 bullshit operation. And ‘specially not with some..”, he waves his hand in the other woman’s direction.

“We’re working for the same cause here Butcher” Mallory intervenes before he can finish his insult. “We’re sharing our intelligence with MI6 and they are sharing theirs with us so that we can stop this supe faster, before any more damage is done. And as an added bonus,” Mallory gestures to Edwards, “your team is strengthened by a seasoned MI6 officer who I’m sure will prove a very valuable asset.”.

“I’ve read your file, Butcher.” Edwards says before he has a chance to open his mouth again, pointing at the fat documents folder she closed as he arrived. “Former Royal Marines, former SAS, tours in Afghanistan, Iraq, Somalia. If you were still in the UK we’d most likely be working together already. We’d probably even have served together in some of those places”.

She walks down the length of the table and puts her hand out again as she approaches him.

“I’m not joining your operation, we just need to work together on this one and working with someone who knows how MI6 operates is going to make this easier on both of us”.

Butcher stares down at her, he’s at least a good head taller than her, she barely reaches his shoulder, but the way she walked over, the way she stands in front of him now, even with her hand stretched out, tells him she’d be no pushover in a fight, even against him. Fuck.

Furrowing his brow, he acknowledges her attempt at making an effort to win him over with a curt nod, convincing himself this is the easy way to do it. Mallory is not backing down. But he can’t make himself take her hand, instead he snarls at Mallory,

“Fuck it then, I’m in, and she’s in. But you better follow my orders, sunshine”, he growls back at Edwards who yet again has dropped her hand. “And you’re gonna ‘ave to change out of that fuckin’ suit, you look like an operative coming a fuckin’ mile off.”

#billy butcher #billy butcher fanfiction #billy butcher fanfic #billy butcher x ofc #the boys fanfic

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saintsofwarding · 7 months

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BURIAL

Chapter 11

(You know it's gonna hurt. Don't you?)

"It's...it's not true. I know it's not."

(Don't be stupid, Donna. Everyone leaves you except me. Everyone betrays you. And it always hurts)

"Even you?"

(Silly Donna. I'll never betray you. I only want what's best for you)

"No you don't. She's what's best for me. She makes me feel-"

(Don't you dare say whole)

"She makes me feel in control."

(You think control is what you need? The guilt will eat you alive! Your dreams protect you, dummy! You won't be able to handle living when they're gone)

"And neither will you."

(Careful, Donna. I can put you somewhere far away. You know I can. You said it yourself. I'm stronger than you. But-)

A brush of porcelain fingers, cold as a corpse's.

(-we're so much stronger together)

"She's not working for Mother."

(They all work for Mother)

"Not like that! She's not her spy. She can't be, she can't, she helped me, she stayed. She came back-" Her thoughts scrambled and stuttered. She rose and paced back and forth and back and forth. The well yawned before her, its depths endless. It might have gone down forever. "She cares about me. She's not like Violeta- she accepts me. All of me."

(Silly little mouse. Caught in a trap)

"Shut up shut up shut up shut up-" She reached up, grabbing fistfuls of her own hair. Strands broke off between her fingers like wires. The tentacles on her face began to writhe and slap against her own skin, responding to her agitation. The pressure in her head built. She gripped tighter as her voice rose to a scream. "-Stop stop stop stop, I'm not listening, I don't hear you-"

(Yes you do)

"No I don't!"

(Yes you do, yes you doooo)

"No no no!" She slammed her fists into the wall, hard enough she felt her palms split and shear open on the rough stone. Blood trickled down her arms, twisting into her flesh. Her palms grew warm. She knew without looking they'd already begun to heal over. "No! No! No! Bad girl, bad Angie, bad ME!"

She railed and screamed and beat the walls and when she was done, her throat raw and scraped, she turned and collapsed back against the stones, breathing hard, clutching at her upper arms. A strangled keen escaped her, a weird animal sound, echoing through the darkness. The pulse inside her head went on, sickening, comforting.

Angie drifted before her like a small ghost. She nudged Donna, who opened her arms to let the doll settle in them.

(She doesn't know the half of it yet. It'll be just like last time, that ridiculous blonde creature with her stupid little shoes. You can't change the past, Donna. No matter how hard you try. Even if she showed you differently, it's only a dream)

"I can't hurt her," Donna whispered. A warm tear streaked down her face.

Angie leaned forward and licked it from her cheek. She chattered her teeth. (You won't have to. You have me)

Donna hugged the doll to her chest, half-wishing she could drop her down the well and watch the darkness swallow her.

"And what would I do," she whispered. "Without you?"

(You'll see)

(They always betray you)

(And we always have to kill them. Each and every one)

***

Elena heaved aside a heap of old furniture in the attic and found it. It stared back at her, lenses filmed with dust and tinged green. She'd seen a few around the village, left over from a great war that had, a long time ago, raged beyond the valley's borders, a war that Miranda had claimed to have protected the Black God's followers from, keeping the horrors of the outside world at bay.

A gas mask. She'd never worn one, but she knew its function- some of the workers Lord Heisenberg employed at the uppermost levels of his factory, processing the junkyard detritus he unearthed from the land around his domain, were issued the same sort. This one looked to be in much worse repair, its leather strap cracked and peeling, its olive green casing scarred-up. But, examining it, Elena found no holes in it, and when she fit it over her face and inhaled, the air tasted musty, hissing in through its strange elongated filter.

Let's hope it'll be enough.

She removed it and set it in a basket, along with the other things she'd gathered from the shack out in the garden. A set of long chains, and a pair of manacles, secured with a stout padlock.

Elena climbed down the ladder. She descended the stairs. Her shadow crept beside her, silent on the gleaming wood walls.

Donna waited below, Angie in her arms.

"I...I don't know," Donna began.

"It's going to work."

"If it doesn't, she'll kill you," Donna said. She squeezed Angie tighter. "She's told me. She'll hurt you. She'll trap you so deep inside yourself you'll never find a way out."

"So fight her."

"I'm not-"

"You'll have to be. If you want this to end." Elena gripped her hand, tight. "It's okay. We're in this together."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

Donna nodded, her brow creased. She stood aside, showing the curious objects she'd assembled on the small table by the rocking chair. A collection of long taper candles. A lighter engraved with a strange many-headed beast. A black mirror, small as the palm of a hand, and so highly-polished it seemed like a perfect darker double of the world. A sprig of yellow flowers in a vase.

Elena heard her small inhale.

"It was easier," Donna said. "To be dead. To be a part of the dreams, not the dreamer. It was like sleeping forever. I told myself none of it was real. But now I must wake up."

"Some say the whole world is a dream," Elena said. "The Black God's dream. Or that we're all heading toward its dreams when we die."

"So then I really have been dead all these years."

"Then you're even more miraculous than I thought," Elena told her. "It's easy to die. Harder to return from death."

Donna faced her. The look on her face had changed. Still afraid, of course. Still so afraid, that nameless fear that was the undercurrent of all their lives, and yet something in it had settled. For the first time, Elena saw resolve in her single eye.

Donna reached forward, suddenly, and caught her by the hand. "Elena," she said.

"We should get-"

"Hush," Donna whispered, and leaned forward, drawing her hand up Elena's arm, to her cheek. Drawing her face to her lips.

Her mouth brushed Elena's.

Cold, still. Just a touch.

Once, twice.

And then again. Elena's hand came up to hold Donna's face, pulling her to her; the touch of her lips became something harder, became a kiss like falling. Her fingers in Donna's hair; Donna's hands at her face, cupping her jaw, pulling her in.

Her strange cold skin took on Elena's heat as she touched her. Finally, she felt alive. Her mouth tasted bittersweet like her flowers, the faint writhe of her face against Elena's somehow, against all odds, exactly what she wanted to feel.

She wouldn't have it any other way. Wouldn't have Donna any other way than this, now, monstrous and bitter and warm in her arms.

She pulled back, a little. Elena's lips felt bruised, her face flushed; Donna's eye was bright as she looked at her and gave a nod.

"Now we get started," she said.

"Yes, my lady," Elena told her, and at last Donna broke out in the smile she'd been waiting for, full and sweet, nothing held back.

She pressed her hand to Elena's chest, then turned, gathering up the candles. She gave half to Elena, and, together, they traced out a circle on the floor, around the rocking chair. Elena lit them one by one, and soon the darkened hall was full of their light, a sphere of flicker and glow that threw strange shadows on the far walls, made them seem to leap and dance as if they had minds of their own. Elena dropped the lighter in her pocket as Donna took a seat in the rocking chair.

Slowly, methodically, she lay the other objects down at the pointed toes of her boots. The polished black mirror, laying on the rug like a thing cut out of night, and, by its side, the vase with the sprig of yellow flowers.

Pollen drifted in the gloom and underlit Donna's face, throwing harsh shadow over the fine lines of cheekbone and jaw and eye socket. Elena imagined she could see the shape of Donna's skull beneath the skin, and shivered, at once cold.

Donna exhaled, settling Angie in her lap.

The candle flames lengthened, reaching toward the ceiling, long enough to snap.

"Now," Donna whispered.

Elena took up the chains. One manacle went around Donna's wrist; the other went around Angie's midsection. She wound the long chains around and around them both, around the rocking chair.

"Tighter," Donna told her. "I can escape this."

"I don't want-"

"Tighter," Donna hissed. In her lap, Angie's teeth began to chitter, her porcelain fingers clicking against one another.

Elena pulled the chains tighter; their links bit deep into Donna's clothes, leaving smears of rust on the black taffeta. Donna closed her eye; her lips fluttered.

The candle flames spat and flickered.

The padlock clicked in place. Throat tight, Elena knelt before Donna and touched her cheek. "Hey," she said. "You still there?"

"I'm here."

"Good." Elena stood back. "Okay. What now?"

The air pressure dropped. The temperature plunged; her breath became visible in the air, and a high scream sounded in the back of her skull, a buzz-saw through bone. She gasped and flinched, but stayed rigid, stayed where she was.

It's not real. None of it is real.

"You..."

Elena looked down. Donna's voice scraped from her. "You...know this will never work..."

"So prove me wrong. Come on."

"I'm...not strong enough...we...we're stronger together, she tells me so..." A burst of manic laughter escaped her. "She whispers to me at night, all about you, all about the way your skin tastes, the salt off its surface..."

"Come on, Angie, don't be disgusting," Elena said. Her hands tightened into fists at her sides. "Donna, you can fight it. Fight her."

"You don't get it. How can we look in a mirror and not see our whole selves?" Another course of laughter. It echoed around Elena, circling her; she heard pattering footsteps, the scrape of porcelain against wood. A sharp metallic ring, like a chorus of knives drawn.

Whispering.

Little tiny voices.

The dolls are watching.

She saw them staring from the windows of the dollhouse.

Something's inside.

"Break the mirror," Donna-Angie said. "Break the mirror and keep your eyes on what you can see in front of you. Break it and you never have to cry again. Break it all and forget!"

"Don't listen to her, Donna," Elena commanded.

Donna screamed; the sound tore from her, a physical force; it raked through Elena, shaking the foundations of the house. Wood creaked, walls groaning, dust sifting from the ceiling as Donna howled and twisted in her chair. The chain links strained and screeched. In her lap Angie woke, a malevolent light glittering in her eyes, kicking up her limbs as she twisted in turn against the manacle holding her in place.

"Not fair!" she screeched. She slapped at the manacle. "Not! Fair! You don't play nice, Lupu, not nice at all!" "Well, you started it." Elena pushed forward; her limbs shook, joints turned to water. It took effort, like walking against a ferocious wind. Another wave of screams burst from Donna, black liquid spurting down the sides of her mouth, dripping from her eyes and onto the floor. It writhed like worms. The black mirror shone in the candlelight, searing-bright. "Don't make me smash you into bad memories."

"And kill Donna?" The doll lowered her head. "You wouldn't do that, now, would you?"

"It wouldn't-"

"Oh, yes, it would." Her mouth fell open. "Ohhh, poor Elena. Thinking you might be able to...what? Save her from herself? Save that sad severed little piece of Donna Beneviento from the big bad monster made by her mind? Well, tough luck, sweetie! You get the whole deal...or you get nothing! Nothing, nothing, nothing!"

"Donna," Elena called. "Donna, listen to me. She's nothing. You said it yourself, she's just an old doll your father made, and you're all grown up now. You don't need her anymore. Tell her to go! Tell her to go away so far she'll never get out again!"

"Nothing, nothing, nothing." Angie had made a little song out of the word. "Nothing, nothing, nothing at all. Shhh."

Donna slumped backward, suddenly, her face so covered with black liquid Elena couldn't see her skin anymore; her neck was twisted back at a painful angle.

No- Elena stepped forward, heart pounding, but- her hands were still moving, twitching on the chair arms.

She stopped, breathing hard. Don't fall for it. Don't lose control.

Angie tittered. "Baby's sleeping."

"Donna," Elena said, between clenched teeth. "This is...this is just light, it's just memories. Like the projector. It isn't real."

"You're lying."

"I'm not-"

"You are. I know you are. You can't love her. You're going to leave her. Everyone does. You have to understand that I'm the only one she needs." Angie leaned forward as far as the manacle would allow. "You have to get that she's too weak for anything else."

Elena took a sharp breath. It hurt. The walls shimmered around her; on the edges, in the back of her mind, waited golden sunlight.

Donna was retreating. She'd regress again, so far away that Elena couldn't reach her. Reality was agony; that place, that dream, was far easier. Again and again she'd gone there, retreated there, leaving the rest of herself to wreak nightmares on the world beyond the borders of her mind.

She'd killed, Elena understood. She didn't know how many. She'd visited horrors on the innocent, on Violeta. On her. And still she couldn't leave her. Still she stayed, her body shaking with terror, not of Donna but for her, wishing she could go to her again and kiss her face and see if she'd wake up that way.

She wouldn't. Elena had run out of options. Only the truth remained.

I'm sorry.

"It was Miranda," she said.

Angie's mouth snapped shut.

"It was Miranda," Elena said again. Heat welled in her eyes; her throat was so tight she felt like she was being strangled. "Miranda...sent me here to spy on you. Or she would have killed me and my father. I...I could only think of him...too scared for anything else. And, saints, I'm sorry. I'm so, so, sorry, Donna, I told her about you. About you not being able to control your powers. About...what you told me, your secrets, your fears..."

Donna was lifting her head, black liquid streaming from her. Her eye was wide, shining. Angie began to laugh, low and dark.

"You did?" Donna whispered.

Elena couldn't speak. Tears streamed down her face as she nodded.

"It's true?"

She nodded again.

This time, Donna's scream tore through her like knives. The house erupted into darkness, a storm of screams and howls and shattering, the shadows rising in monstrous form, wolves and witches and nameless things with too many claws, too many eyes, crawling toward the ring of light as if they might extinguish it.

But Elena was ready. She was fast. She'd gotten fast.

She slammed the gas mask over her face and tugged the straps tight. It sealed around her face, and her next inhale tasted not of bittersweet flowers but stale air, swirling through her lungs. Nausea rippled through her; she doubled over and retched a mouthful of black slime into the gas mask. It spattered the inside of the glass, but it didn't writhe like before, no, didn't move at all.

Breathing hard, straightening, Elena stared out through the mask. It was already accumulating a rime of yellowish dust. That must have been the pollen. The house wasn't a chamber of nightmares anymore, just a hall with a ring of candles on the floor, and, before her, twisting and tearing at her chains:

Donna.

Her hair had come loose and hung around her shoulders in lank ropes, veins standing out against her pale face as she screamed and shrieked, black tears streaming from her eyes, the doll on her lap yelling abuse at Elena.

"Cheater!" she screeched.

"You shut up," Elena snapped at the doll. She looked at Donna. "I said I wouldn't leave you. I'm not lying. I know you'll get loose from those chains eventually. And when you do..."

She swallowed.

"Whatever you choose to do, I'm still gonna help you," Elena told her. "I trust you. I love you. Hold on."

She turned, already tugging the keys from her bodice, and ran. Down the darkened hallway, straight for the elevator.

Straight for the basement.

***

(You see? You SEE?)

"This isn't funny anymore, Angie!"

(Oh, I'm funny? How flattering)

"Just leave me alone..."

(To mourn? Poor Donna. I know you thought she'd be the answer to your loneliness but your answer was right in front of you all along...)

"I...I don't care."

Angie's eyes sprang wide. She drifted before Donna in the murky darkness, lace veil billowing around her.

(What)

"You can't bully me anymore."

(How dare you talk to me like that. After all I've done for you!)

"I...I know. And I used to need it. I used to want it. But I know now I can survive alone. And I don't care what you say."

They faced one another, now, like they had so many times before. The echoes of Donna's hoarse voice spilled around them, surrounding them. Surrounding her; for the first time in a long time her heartbeat spiked- not from fear, but from anger.

No: rage.

It boiled through her, a white-hot sear through her veins. Rage against Elena, against Miranda, against her parents, against her own weakness and silence and terrors. She wouldn't turn it against herself, not this time. Angie wasn't the issue here. Angie was a part of herself, always had been, a part she'd rather not face. But now here Angie was, looking her in the eye, commanding her body like a puppet. She saw, dully, as if watching a badly tuned television, her own body twisting and screaming in the chair, throwing herself against her chains so hard they'd leave bruises. Felt Angie's righteous hatred against Elena standing before her, dark eyes wide and focused on her with a ferocity Donna hadn't seen for a long time. If she had, ever.

She was so beautiful. She'd become so beautiful to her.

Fight it, Donna, she said. Come on. Fight it. Was it real? It didn't matter.

(No, Donna. She betrayed you. Now do to her what you did to everyone else you loved. Feel nothing. It's safer that way)

"I can't..."

(Let me do it. Let me hurt them. I can dream up tortures that would make even Dimitrescu shudder, just you wait and see! Prisons of nightmares. Endless. Glittering. Full of teeth. You know I can. I'll keep you safe)

"I...I don't need you to protect me."

(Don't do this, Donna!) A note of panic entered the voice. The sound of it changed, becoming more childlike, less sinister, a little girl's voice crying out for her. Claudia's voice. (Please, please don't do this to us-)

"No." Donna grabbed the doll in both hands. She writhed and gnashed her teeth but she hung on as tight as she could.

"I," she said, through grit teeth, "Don't. Need. You. Anymore!"

Angie began to laugh. The sound eclipsed the echoes of Donna's voice, the flare of her defiance burning through her; the darkness pressed in, twining up Donna's skirt and over her skin like tendrils of black mold. The doll's eyes gleamed as she leaned in.

(Little Dolly Donna. Then you leave me no choice)

She realized it an instant too slow. A call. An echo ringing down the mycelial connection that weaved around her, a web across the whole of the village, a web that connected them all. Donna, more so than most. And wasn't Angie a part of her?

"Angie, no," Donna choked, but it was too late.

(Better tidy up, Donna.

Mother's coming)

***

Elena didn't dare remove the gas mask. Tears dripped down her face, salty on her lips. She tried to steady her breathing, slow her heartbeat.

Just stay calm.

The elevator slid downward, downward, the rumble of its mechanism shuddering in Elena's gut.

Just keep going.

The sound of Donna's screams and Angie's cackling had long-since faded, and the silence had rushed in, the loudest noise that of Elena's too-fast heartbeat, thudding in her ears like a ceremony drumbeat.

She'd spat up a couple more mouthfuls of black liquid. It smelled floral. Was that the pollen's effect on her body? She had no doubt spores were deep in her brain, now. Maybe...maybe Donna had retracted her control once she'd put on the gas mask. Maybe a tiny part of her had recognized that Elena wanted to help her, and had relinquished control over her.

It was a small hope, a foolhardy one, but Elena would hang onto it with everything she had. She'd believe it.

Down, and down, and down, into the depths. The weight pressed on her mind, a surface tension easily snapped. The air chilled, like before, and the darkness came up to meet her, and then the light slid up from her feet to her scalp and the elevator was grinding to a halt with the wheeze of gears. Ding, it went.

Elena slid open the gate. Her first step creaked on the dusty floor. She paced ahead, past the door to the study, past the door that was locked. She tried it again, and it creaked open at a push. Inside was a storage room, shelves full of an enviable stock of fabrics, filing boxes, broken furniture, stacks upon stacks of old film reels for the projector. Nothing moved in the shadows; nothing was out of place.

Elena moved on. Her shadow moved alongside her. She felt a faint rumble underfoot- water? Surely not the falls, this far down. How far belowground was she, anyway? She'd tried to count during her descent but lost the numbers after she reached fifty. Deep in the cliffside.

That's where the Black God lives, the priests had said in church, once, reading from Miranda's tomes and treatise. Far, far below us, for the world is its womb, and the divine is birthed in its endless dreams.

These didn't feel like divine realms to Elena. The air was damp, crawling against her skin. Black mold dripped down the walls, infecting the antique furniture, the comfortable chairs, worsening the further down the hall Elena went. Deeper, deeper. She kept track of the hallways, the turns, but it all looked the same, whitewash and wood panels, gloom and flickering lights held within glass sconces on the walls. She passed the phone on its stand. It didn't ring. She hurried by and on, turning a corner, facing a hallway so pitch-black she could not see more than an arm's length ahead, even with the lit sconce behind her.

Her breathing quickened. The darkness seemed to shift before her- movement? Her fear making monsters where there were none? She reached for her flashlight and clicked it on. It illuminated, harshly, the whitewashed corridor, the darkened sconces, the cracked floorboards. Something skittered away from the light. She shone it up and flinched.

It glanced off doors. A pair of them, heavy wood with brass handles.

Elena clenched her teeth. There's nothing here. All your nightmares, they were inside you the whole time. A mirror, remember?

But still she felt it. Like a memory, forgotten. A terrible act, remembered not by her mind but with her body, with her nerves and her breath and the drone of dread in her gut. A weight, deep inside. A weight, warping the world around it out of shape, so heavy it pulled all things toward it.

Somehow, her foot moved. She stepped into the darkness. The sound of her breathing quickened inside the gas mask, the haze of pollen thickening on its lenses. The doors came closer. One was cracked, a gap of light shining from the far side.

She pulled open the doors.

Elena remembered this room. She'd seen it only through a haze of drugs and pain, when she'd first glimpsed Donna without her veil. Arm flayed open, being stitched back together. A low-ceilinged stone room, walls supported with rock arches. An ogre's kitchen from a fairy tale. The table was there, stout wood scarred like a butcher's block. From racks on the ceiling hung not corpse limbs but half-finished dolls, some missing eyes, some limbs, some their clothes, naked and sexless. Others were just heads, their wire armatures dangling below them like viscera. On shelves around the room waited doll parts, a sewing machine, a workbench arranged with paints and colorless glass eyes.

Through a bank of windows to her left Elena saw, lit with a blinding greenish light, what looked like a medical room, brown glass jars of chemicals lined up on counters, syringes and scalpels gleaming hungrily.

Something waited there, on a steel tray, on the countertop. A gleam of gold.

Elena moved closer. She stepped into the greenish light and stopped, staring down at the thing in the tray.

It was hair. A long, braided hank of blonde hair, attached to a scrap of bloody skin. The braid was secured with a red ribbon.

Violeta's hair.

The dread deepened. Elena felt it in her chest, on the back of her throat. Her heart pounded. Her nerves trembled, on the verge of fraying.

No. Don't you dare lose your nerve now. She could still be down here. Somewhere. She could still be alive.

Elena backed from the medical room, turned from the workshop, and stepped down an adjoining corridor. The hallway changed around her, transitioning from whitewashed walls to stout stone, slick with damp. The lights were now naked bulbs on wires, buzzing, releasing a faint wash of amber light that rendered all shadow twice as dark.

Strange objects waited on shelves. Broken dolls and odd little ornaments, music boxes covered in grime as if unearthed from a grave. Primitive statuettes with pits for eyes, carved from wood or crystal.

Elena clicked on her flashlight. It hit a door before her. This was different than the rest of the place. It looked ancient, wood warped and blackened, clinging to dark iron hinges that spiraled like goat's horns. The handle was dark iron, too, and carved into the door's center was the Beneviento moon and sun. It looked, like the statuettes, more primitive than Elena had seen before, as if this place was far older than the rest of the house. It looked older than anything Elena had ever seen before. Was this part of whatever had come before the house? Whatever had rested on this land centuries in the past?

She didn't know. But she recognized the metal of the handle, of the empty lock below. She reached for the keys around her neck and for the first time took up the small iron one, the key Violeta had seen fit to hide away.

It fit and turned. The lock dropped with a heavy thud. Elena felt it in the pit of her stomach. The hinges sang as she pushed the door wide, as it fell open to complete darkness.

She'd thought she'd seen dark before. Nothing like this. Nothing like this emptiness. Away, and away, echoes fanning into the void. She lifted her flashlight before it overtook her. Steps stretched downward, a descent into a black pit. Hand-chiseled, flagstone, slick with damp and years of grime. The dread deepened to a pulse.

You can't do it.

She did. Her foot slid onto the first step, and she kept going. Down, and down, and down. Her flashlight beam flickered; she gave the flashlight a smack and it steadied. Was it dimmer than before? It's your mind playing tricks. She couldn't let the fear win.

On and on through the wending halls.

The heavy mineral smell of the place was thick in her head, even through the gas mask. The smell of a deep world, decomposed.

Soon her hands and feet were numb. She kept going. Water dripped from somewhere ahead. An end to this purgatory of stairs?

Don't look back.

The flashlight beam caught on the jagged arch of an empty doorway and the slimy flagstones of whatever lay beyond. Elena stepped from the last stair and onto flat stone. Dust drifted in the air. Echoes plashed around her. She heard, again, water, and felt the humidity of the air on her bare hands.

The walls curved inward. A circular room? In the middle, something rose from the floor- a low stone wall?

No. A well.

Elena's breath caught. She stepped closer. It opened before her, a mouth, an empty eye. A yawning circle of perfect blackness. Rusty rungs were bolted into its sides. Elena moved to its edge, then stopped. Her flashlight beam had touched something on the far side of the room. Something slumped. A flash of gold.

She lifted the beam.

For a moment she wasn't sure what she was looking at. A mannequin, surely. Its white legs were sprawled, one bare foot twisted to the side. Fine black lines circled its ankles, its knees. Elena's gaze traveled up the legs, past the long skirt embroidered with red silk flowers. The matching bodice, the dangling, boneless arms, the hands curled against the floor. The head, twisted sharply to the side. Long ringlets of blonde hair fell around its face.

Glass eyes stared off into nothing.

"V...Violeta?" Elena whispered.

It was her. But it was a doll, too. Those weren't lines on her limbs, they were joints, as if each part of her body had been disarticulated and put back together. Her skin was glossy like porcelain, two red circles painted on her cheeks. Her hinged mouth hung open, her eyes wide and sightless, one cracked down the middle.

Elena began to shake. No. No. The doll's chest was split open as if with an axe chop. A curled, tentacled shape waited inside. Maybe it had once been fleshy, fetal, but now it was white crystal, glimmering amidst patches of sticky dried gore.

Elena couldn't move. She felt locked in place, unable to so much as breathe. Somewhere, her mind screamed at her to run, get out. But all she could do was stand, locked in place, and stare at the thing slumped there against the wall, half-waiting for it to move.

But it wouldn't, would it? Violeta had said so herself, in her journals. Donna had tried to give her the gift. And the gift had rejected her.

"Poor, poor Violeta."

A lightning-sear. A crack through Elena's whole system. It brought her back to life, broke her paralysis. She whirled. The flashlight beam fell on Angie and Donna, standing in the doorway behind her.

"What did you do to her?" Elena's voice grated from her throat.

"To her? Tried to save her, ungrateful thing. She saw Donna's face and oooh, didn't like that very much. So shallow." Angie chattered her teeth as she raked her hand down the cracked side of her face. "Called us a monster. So I showed her what monsters do. I showed her Claudia. Just to scare her. And it did!"

She let out a cackle. "We thought she was gone for good but she came back. Said she wanted to talk. But talk was not what she wanted, oh, no. She had a knife, smuggled out in her skirts, and she almost got us, too. Nasty, nasty. So we showed her something else scary and in the struggle and the screaming she fell down the stairs and cracked her head right open."

Angie shrugged.

"So...Donna gave her a piece of her gift," she went on. "It didn't work. She didn't come back to life. But look at her now! Isn't she pretty?"

"It-" Elena's mind raced. "It wasn't you, then. It was only a mistake. She wasn't supposed to die, was she?"

She looked at Donna, holding Angie, silent behind her black veil. "None of it was your fault! Not your parents and not Violeta. You wanted to save them all-"

"Not our fault?" Angie's shriek echoed off the walls. "I'll show you what's our fault! I'll show you right now!"

She sprang from Donna's arms and into the air, smacking into Elena and hanging on with hooked porcelain fingers. She was surprisingly heavy; Elena screamed and swung round, but the doll clenched down. She felt her scrabble at the back of Elena's gas mask, felt the gnawing of sharp little teeth-

"Get off me!" She swung round again, for the wall this time, hoping to scrape the little monster off, but-

Oh, saints-

Cold air rushed over her face. She held her breath, but maybe it was too late, maybe breathing it didn't matter. Maybe it had been in her all along.

The dream rippled before her, through her, and she slumped as Angie leapt from her and back to Donna's waiting arms.

Elena panted, breathing lungfuls of the pollen-filled air. What was the difference now? She lifted her eyes to Donna, understanding. A hole in the world. A weight that pulled all things down with it.

"You killed Claudia," she said.

#resident evil village #re8 #re8 fanfiction #re8 fic #donna beneviento #elena lupu #donna beneviento x elena lupu #karl heisenberg #donna beneviento x oc #mother miranda #resident evil #re8 oc #claudia beneviento #angie beneviento #gothic romance #gothic horror #chapter 11

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oreosmama · 1 year

Note

Uh hi Im new here but I read your red thing of nothingness and could you write a alternative ending where reader actually cuts the red string, Im on an angst crave hehe you don't have to if you don't want to thank you!

AHHHHHHH DONT MAKE ME CRYYYYY

i mean....

like....

or....

you could just....

pretend the second part doesn't exist and consider that the ending?

ALSO

i totally get it

so here's the gist of how i would write that

she snips the string

and kenma's too late.

both stagger back, and yn's fucking bawling at this point

kenma rushes to gather up the string in his trembling hands but it just disintegrates into dust (bc fanfic magic yaayyyy)

he's trembling so hard that he can't even breathe and his gaze rises, so slowly until he sees you. god, his heart's just fucking aching at this point, why would you ever do this?

but he knows why--he's known why for so long now.

and you, god, every emotion ran through you like a train. you've got half a sob gathering in your throat and clogging up the rest of the damn so violently that youre gasping.

it hurts. u can both feel it. the loss. the gaping hole that's left

kenma watches as you shudder, shaking the desk so hard the scissors fall to the floor.

He knows its his fault. You know that too.

yet, evil and fucking cruel as it is, he feels betrayed that you could do this.

he has no right to say it.

but how could you do this?

but he has NO right to say that.

and you tell him so. you mouth it because the pain lodged in your throat doesn't even allow a whisper. don't you fucking dare, you say. I had every right to do this. You have HER. I had NO ONE.

and he wants to say 'you had me' and 'you've had me all along,' but he can't

he wilts to the floor, gaze locked on the pair of scissors, fist at his chest. like pressing hard enough would stop the bleeding.

you lean back against the desk, white-knuckled hands gripping so tightly as your eyes find the ceiling. You close them.

neither of you can bear to look the other in the eye anymore. seeing what you've done to one another is unbearable.

betrayals of the worst kind.

#kenma x reader #haikyuu soulmate au #kozume x reader #oreosmama talks

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aquaticsoul · 2 months

Text

on this fine munday, i'd like to share something very close to my heart. (it's sielu. big surprise, i know.)

i have been a musician since before i even started school. all my life, i've lived and breathed music. when i was eleven years old, i picked up the clarinet.

immediately, i fell head over heels for it. it became the main way i could express myself, the only way i could really get all my energy and thoughts out. as a physically disabled, autistic, ADHD child, it allowed me to connect to my peers in ways i never would have dreamed of ofherwise.

my clarinet became a part of me just as much as my eyes or my skin or my nails were.

i began teaching private lessons. i began writing music of my own. i began to think of what i wanted to do with myself, and that was music.

it was no surprise to anyone around me when i declared myself a music major in the fall of 2019, when i was accepted to my university. i dove all in.

i made friends. i took lessons. i went to recitals. i played in many ensembles.

and then, in february of 2020, i got carpal tunnel syndrome. i kept playing anyway.

in 2021, the pain forced me to stop being a music major. i changed to business, stayed in a few ensembles, and was ultimately devastated regardless that my bone disorder and bad connective tissues would continue to betray me as long as i played too much.

i pulled back a little. i thought i'd be fine.

and then came spring of 2023, almost a full year ago now. i sat in my clarinet professor's office, a man who i'd studied under for several years, bawling my eyes out as i explained to him that the left side of my jaw had stopped working. the doctors i went to all said the same thing: i was not allowed to play my clarinet anymore at all. this had happened basically overnight, yet... it forced me to quit.

all my hard work was gone. over a decade of dedication, practice, joy, and light were all suddenly ripped away from me.

concerts came and went. i did not play in them.

my social circle slowly but surely dissolved itself. they moved on without me.

i spent a year rehabilitating my hands and my jaw just to be able to function again. i spent a year relearning how to hold a pen, how to eat, how to smile, how to sing.

my clarinet sat in its case. dust began to gather on the top. i tried to avoid looking at it.

i received a text in late december from one of the few friends i still have, asking if i would play in her senior recital or if the wounds were still too fresh. she was writing the ensemble piece, so she was willing to adjust things if need be.

"you can play marimba if you want, instead of clarinet," she said, "because of your jaw."

i looked at my case.

i told her to write the clarinet part anyway.

and i went to work with the bare fundamentals. i did hours of frustrating long tones and pained popsicle munching. i built strength back into my face.

my skill level is still nowhere near what it once was back in 2019. i won't be playing benny goodman solos anytime soon.

but i played the hell out of my clarinet today during her recital approval, in front of that clarinet professor and a few other woodwind faculty.

we passed unanimously.

and he stopped me, just to tell me congratulations and that he's happy for me.

and... honestly, i wouldn't have been able to do what i did today if it weren't for sielu. i would have likely given up creative endeavors entirely if not for him. after all, i had nothing to pursue. i had barely any hope.

but i'd just made an OC who teaches music. i'd just made an OC that has the mindset i had all those years ago, back when music was for music's sake and not to get a score. i'd just made an OC for, really, no reason at all other than for fun and passing the time.

and it hit me, somewhere last year after the initial shock of my jaw, that music used to be home for me. it hit me that i didn't start playing music to be "good" at it. i started playing music just because i liked it. overplaying to injury was not good musicianship - it was just something i had to do in order to fulfill academic requirements.

sielu has reminded me of all the things i used to love. he got me through the hardest time in my life by forcing me to step back and shift my perspective. he's become so much more to me than just a random character.

and i kind of just... needed to tell someone that. i needed someone to know how much i appreciate the people who have been on this ride with me and how much i appreciate my followers. if you read this far, thank you.

it's a great day for music.

#dealing with the paperwork ; ooc.#injury tw #hopelessness tw #long post

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jack-kellys · 1 year

Note

Platonic sprace hurt/comfort plz and thank u (maybe in a modern au when one of them got bullied?)

tbh surprised i didn't put more hurt into it but we move

send me a request for smth short!

It’d taken forever for all the families to leave, and even longer for Race to force his own to wait for him back at home. Graduation had been much too emotional for his liking, his Mama crying tears as an official empty-nester while Jack had refused to let go of him for what felt like twenty whole minutes. Charlie had been calmer about it, since he’d only graduated high school the year before, but now all three of them had done it. His brothers had left it in the dust, but Race…

He bit his lip as he made his way over to the now-abandoned bleachers that occupied the asphalt city courtyard, plastic bottles and cups strewn underneath like old fallen snow. Only one girl sat on the highest row, back to him as he approached from behind. Her navy graduation gown sat beside her, fingers putting something to her lips. Race quickened his pace.

“Took you long enough,” Spot scoffed as Race clambered his way next to her. The roasted, earthen smell of weed encased them both once he was close enough. “You were gone for like an hour.”

“You know how my family is,” he shrugged, grinning and wiggling his fingers for her blunt. “They just can’t get enough of me.”

They passed it between them a few times, staring up at the northern outline of the city, backs to Spot’s home of Brooklyn. Race’s loose button down fluttered against the coming summer wind, and Spot’s red-and-black vertical striped jumper did the same.

“You know,” she murmured, “I really did hate it here.”

Race laughed, quieting when she turned to him with unamused blue eyes.

“Uh, here?” he clarified. “Manhattan? Or…”

“This school. Come on.” It was her turn to laugh, though it wasn’t as bright as Race’s. “All those entitled bastards whining their way into colleges and through classes. It’s all done now, Racer, we can do what we want.”

Race frowned, leaning back onto his hands after passing her the blunt back.

“I dunno,” he admitted. “Wasn’t all bad. I have a lot of good friends here, good sports. Good trouble, too.”

He nudged her side with a small smile, but Spot didn’t budge much. Instead she turned to him head on, swinging ones of her legs over the other side of the bench and looking at him.

“High school sucked,” she stated, matter-of-factly. “Most of the people? Sucked. Teachers? Awful. Never any student support, ever.”

“..Okay, fine, got me there,” Race said, doing his best to chuckle. “The bar for a good high school experience’s pretty low, I thought. What, you think it was gonna be like the movies?”

“No,” Spot retorted, glancing away. Race watched her fight the urge to cross her arms, squaring her shoulders instead. “I thought it wasn’t supposed to be.”

Race felt his expression scrunch, confusion betraying him. Spot’s gaze flicked back to his, and her eyebrows raised.

“Oh, wow,” she snarked. “Racer, I didn’t pin you for that oblivious, just because the whole school loved you.”

“No they didn’t,” he laughed. How could they? He was this antsy, loud-mouthed, whiny–

“The funnyman charismatic outgoing sports guy is trying to tell me the school didn’t love him,” Spot muttered. “Isn’t the goal to grow up after graduation, Higgins?”

“Shut up,” he hissed, and Race felt heat rise to his cheeks. “That’s not who I am and you know it.”

“It’s who you were,” Spot shot back. “And I wasn’t. I was the.. the- the responsible, staying-in, talking-back Black girl who tagged along.”

“Spot, don’t-”

“Be hard on myself? Feel bad about it?” She shook her head. “Cause I don’t. I was myself through high school and people were assholes about it, just cause I wasn’t like you. And that’s fine, but it’s true, so high school sucked. Got it?”

Race pressed his lips together, wanting to argue.

Spot was the strongest person he knew. She protected her group of friends, always stuck to her beliefs, was never afraid to act tough, never afraid of anything, or at least refused to let it show. To him, she seemed impossible not to like, but… when she’d had to stand next to Race’s play-to-the-crowd attitude, the contrast of treatment made a disheartening amount of sense.

He hoped one day she wouldn’t have to be so unmovable, unbreakable, that she could find a way to crumble and build back up again.

“My life would’ve been absolute shit if you were anything like me, but especially if you weren't anything like you. Do you got it?” Race finally mumbled.

“Yeah,” she said quietly, eyes on her shoes. “Lucky to have me, ain’t you.”

“Of course I am,” Race scoffed. “And I’m lucky to leave this all behind with you, too.”

Race sneakily pulled his friend into his side, Spot only squirming a few moments before chiseling herself just enough to allow her friend room in her rocky form to hold her.

#high school grad core down to the jumper #hope u enjoy claire!!!#ANYWAY FIRST TIME WRITING HER>>>#newsies #fizz answers #newsies fics #spot conlon #racetrack higgins #tagging:#newsies uk #uksies #moreso for visibility vs this being Strictly uk bc. they r characters lmao #fizz writes #fizz freaks #:)#mutuals

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idolsgf · 1 year

Text

WIP Wednesday

Hi, I was tagged by @melisusthewee for WIP Wednesday, thank you <33

So, I haven’t really been working on much except small snippets here or there (work has been very hectic). However, I wrote this awhile ago late one drunken night and I do eventually want to go back to it and expand on it whenever I get the chance. I didn’t know if I would ever post it or not, but here it is :)

It was inspired by a song song that came up in a playlist I was listening to.

Song here 🎶 ( I do suggest listening while reading )

Everything undercut. The tense is kind of a mess so I do apologize for that

It’s the battlefield.

Dark fire swirling all around, the scorched earth warming her bloody face.

Breathless, not as spry as she used to be. The smoke is seeping into her lungs, every breath labored and aching.

One good hand and a crossbow. Four bolts left.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spots him. He’s weaving seamlessly through the chaos, almost like a dance. A spark here, a barrier there. She’s mesmerized. The Dread Wolf.

Her breathing stops, heart in her throat. Memories come rushing back, memories she had pushed deep down. It was so hard to forget, why was it so easy to suddenly remember?

The scenes rush back, melding together in a hectic, melancholy blur. A first glance, laughter at stories, a stolen kiss. Sunlight streaming through the window, dust catching in the light. A soft stare over the pages of a report, a blush rising after being caught. A rainstorm, hiding a tear streaked face. only having to be there to comfort. A wound, feeling no pain while being healed, can’t keep her eyes off his. A secret dance. more battles, more stolen kisses, more laughter, more pain. A waterfall, a promise, only staring at his back as he rushed to leave.

Years pass.

Rushing through the mirror bloody and bruised, only to get the chance to see him one last time. She’s dying, hand burning, the foreign yet all too familiar magic spreading. An explanation, a final kiss, a promise. a mirror. Once again only being able to watch as he leaves. Arm fading. Magic seared into her heart.

var lath vir suledin

“Solas” the name doesn’t fully come out, catching in her throat. Solas. Louder and louder until she’s shouting it across the battlefield. He’s walking away, she doesn’t know if he can hear her. No. I will not watch again.

var lath vir suledin

It’s slow at first, her feet aching, the burn on her leg searing. She pushes it down, and starts running, dodging all that comes at her. nothing will keep her. An arrow whizzes past her ear, nicking the top. She keeps going.

She can see him now, bounding down the hill out of sight. She makes it to the edge.

“Solas!” she bellows, giving pause to some of the battle around her before starting back up into a frenzied scene. He stops, a pause. Shoulders tense, hand clenched around the worn wood, knuckles white.

Is it just for show, the staff? It must be. He’s the Dread Wolf. A wild beast that does not need the silly inventions of mortals to make an impact.

He’s still Solas.

He turns, eyes to the ground before his head snaps up. That look almost knocks her back, catching her off guard. Those sad blue eyes, they’re not the eyes of an all powerful deity, hell bent on tearing the world down. Not the eyes of an evil mastermind, carefully moving the chess pieces across the board. Not a god giggling madly in glee at the edge of the fade after betraying the people. Not even the eyes of one who wants to free them.

They’re pleading. Eyes of someone who only wants to tell the truth. A flash of a waterfall. Tears prickling at the edge of her vision, taking all of her strength to hold them back. She has cried enough. It’s not his right to bring them back out.

He looks up at her, no indication of movement, the only one being a slight twitch of his hand. Almost as if he wants to reach for her. Time freezes still.

Crossbow raised, arrow notched.

#da #writing #mori’na tag #tag game #so the prose might not be great but it’s there :)#it’s been years since I’ve written but I’m slowly trying to get back into it #my renewed obsession in dragon age can be thanked for that

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heckyeahponyscans · 2 years

Text

Thoughts on MYM #3: Portrait of a Princess

Just my thoughts on this MLP episode! :)

Plot summary: Opaline spies on Pipp and Zipp via Pipp’s livestream and is displeased that they’re investigating a message left by Twilight Sparkle. She sends Misty to trap them, with a rare ocean lily as the lure.

Meanwhile at the Mane Melody Salon, Pipp, Zipp, and Queen Haven are getting primped for portrait day, a tradition that Pipp loves and Zipp hates. When an anonymous source emails Zipp a picture of the ocean lily, she convinces Pipp to sneak out with her to search for it because it will make a great social media prop.

Back at the salon, Queen Haven notices her daughters are missing and Sunny covers for them. Meanwhile Pipp only has eyes for her phone; Zipp gets frustrated with her and admits she doesn’t actually care about the ocean lily, she just wanted an excuse to ditch portrait day. The sisters squabble, and even the discovery of the ocean lily in a hidden cave doesn’t improve their mood.

Misty then brings down a ton of rocks in front of the entrance, trapping them in the cave and cutting off Pipp’s cell phone signal. Zipp and Pipp finally talk things out, with Zipp apologizing for tricking Pipp into sneaking out and explaining she just wanted them to have fun together like when they were little and Pipp admitting she had been too focused on her phone all day. Together they sing “the portrait day song” from when they were little, which lifts their mood.

They renew their search for an exit and find a small opening where Pipp can get phone service, which she uses to send out an SOS to her Pippsqueaks, who come to the rescue. Zipp and Pipp arrive in Zephyr Heights just a little bit late for portrait day.

Meanwhile Opaline decides to take matters into her own hooves and enchants herself to look like Sunny.

Episode Thoughts:

Pipp was my favorite pony after watching the G5 movie, even though she didn’t play a big of a role in it, and everything that has come out since has made me go, “Good choice, me! This pony is great.”

I love the pegasus royal family so this episode is right up my alley. Queen Haven randomly breaking into a ballad? Amazing. The conversation with Sunny, where she talks about how Zipp and Pipp have grown apart? Touching. It’s also nice that Sunny has a supportive older pony to talk with about her aspirations.

As for the sisters themselves, I love their dynamic. I feel like we usually get aspirational siblinghood in MLP (except MLP Tales maybe), but here it’s like “nah, sometimes your sibling is going to drive you crazy.”

The premise was simple but it worked and was entertaining . . . It was easy to see why Zipp would feel annoyed and Pipp would feel betrayed. And I liked how both of them contributed to their escape: Zipp used her powers of observation to find a small hole and Pipp put out the call to her social media followers.

My favorite part of the episode was the portrait day song. It was so beautiful, and the visuals were gorgeous, and the thought of two tiny fillies singing this as they face the very hard task of sitting still for hours . . . gosh, it’s just so sweet.

Since the royal family was sitting for portraits, not a photo, Zipp and Pipp could have taken off the seaweed at the end, but my headcanon is that they made the conscious choice not to, so they’d always have a reminder of their day together and, like, a little in-joke.

Other Random Thoughts:

- The character movement was particularly good in this episode . . . Little things like Sunny tapping her hoof to her chin as she talks, Zipp using her wing as a dust shield when the cave got blocked, Misty being flinchy when Opaline gets mad, Zipp restlessly flopping back and forth in her chair as she complains about portrait day . . . Very nice, it made the characters feel alive. I don’t know who’s in charge of that. The storyboarders, maybe? Great job, storyboarders.

- At one point Pipp looks at her reflection but it’s not reversed. I wonder if this was a conscious choice because doing it “the right way” looked weirder than doing it the wrong way. It could also be an animation error, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen that with mirrors in 3D animation. (Yeloli my old friend.)

- The royals seem to paint a portrait every five years.

- Queen Haven really gives G1 pony vibes in this portrait, I think it’s her smile and eyes.

- At one point someone says something about “all those moons ago”, which could mean months but in context it seemed to mean years. How crazy and cool would it be if the moon only orbited pony-planet once per year? Like without pony magic to propel it, it just drifts extremely slowly. (I doubt this is the case though, ha ha.)

- I wish Opaline had told Misty to kill the princesses. It just seems like her style. And then Misty could trap them instead because she doesn’t want to hurt anyone.

- Pipp going into “THANK you for this random thing you’re giving me” fake-mode was very interesting. Like she doesn’t want to hurt these fillies’ feelings but also clearly doesn’t want a piece of coral.

- Thunder and Zoom, Thunder and Zoom, Thunder and ZOOOOOM. Thunder toy when?

- Sunny’s Zipp imitation was great. “Is that a MYSTERY over there?”

- Rocky Riff is really pretty, I hope they make a toy of him. Jazz is getting one, it’s only fair, right?

#My Little Pony #G5 #Make Your Mark #spoilers #Portrait of a Princess

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mamakitty187 · 1 year

Text

Words (Un)Said

Did a writing sprint, came out with this (or the first few paragraphs anyway)... beware, there be angst ahead... (also available on ao3)

~~~~~

Eddie looked up from his spot behind the bar when he heard the door open, and his jaw dropped. In walked a guy he hadn’t seen in years, but one he’d never forget. Golden hair framed a golden face, crystalline blue eyes practically glowing in the dim light. The blond looked around the nearly empty bar, his lips set in a tight line that Eddie couldn’t decipher as disapproving, or disappointed. But then those eyes turned towards the bar, and the man standing behind it, and they widened a fraction. “The fuck are you still doing here?” he scoffed as he leaned against the wood, one foot propping up on the brass rail that ran along the bottom. “Thought you left for New York after flunking out the last time.”

“Hi to you too,” Eddie mumbled, looking back down at the glass he’d been uselessly wiping for almost ten minutes now. “Better question, the fuck are you doing here? I watched you take off like your ass was on fire. Thought you swore you’d never set foot in Indiana again, let alone Hawkins.” “You didn’t answer my question,” Billy insisted, ducking his head as if to try and intercept Eddie’s line of sight. “You were supposed to get out of here. Go play the Garden or some shit.” He sounded almost offended at the notion that Eddie Munson was still a Hawkins resident. Or betrayed even. “Yeah well, shit happens,” Eddie sighed and set the glass down, a little harder than he meant to. He reached into the cooler under the bar and pulled out a bottle of Bud, popping the cap and setting it in front of Billy. “Wayne got sick.” “Shit,” Billy breathed. He took a slow sip of the cheap beer. “How sick?” he asked, glancing up, but Eddie had his back turned, fiddling with the bottles of rum and whiskey and vodka. “He was a good guy,” he said quietly. “The best,” Eddie sighed, nodding. He swallowed hard, then turned back around again. “What are you doing here Billy?” he asked, this time the one trying to catch the other’s downturned gaze. “Whatever happened to your band?” “They all went off to college,” Eddie shrugged. “It was never really gonna go anywhere. I knew that, just tried to kid myself.” He let out a sad laugh, barely more than a puff of air, and shook his head. “I haven’t even played in months.” “You still have her though? Right?” Bill looked up, and there was a sorrow, a desperation in his eyes that hit Eddie in the chest. “Yeah, I still got her,” he nodded, his lips turning up in a ghost of a smile. “I keep her in tune and dusted off. Just haven’t played more than a chord or two.” “Good,” Billy nodded. His hand clutched the bottle of beer tightly, his knuckles blanching. “You still didn’t answer my question,” Eddie said quietly, leaning against the bar on crossed arms. “Why are you here.” A thick silence hung between them. The bar was quiet, a few scattered patrons nursing their drinks, the jukebox groaning out some old folk song at an unobtrusive volume.

“Found my mom,” Billy said finally. He took another swig of his beer and sniffed. “How did that go?” Eddie asked. He remembered all the nights he and Billy had talked about her, Billy voicing his hopes and fears for their reunion. “Good. It was good.” Billy smiled then, just a little, and somehow that made Eddie’s heart ache worse. “We talked it out. Why she left, why she couldn’t take me with her. Apparently she wanted to, but Neil…” He trailed off and shook his head. Heat flooded Eddie’s veins, rage for a man that had done so much damage to such a beautiful soul. “Anyway, I moved in with her. She had this place right on the beach, it was great. Got back into surfing, even started teaching.” “Sounds like paradise,” Eddie hummed, mentally bracing himself. He watched as Billy’s eyes sparkled, then dulled, his smile fading. “She got sick.” And there it was. Eddie’s heart sank to the floor. Billy looked down, but not before Eddie saw them gloss over, moisture gathering on his long lashes. He wanted so badly to reach out and touch him, to offer some comfort. His fingers twitched with the urge, but he resisted, tightening his fists. “Still doesn’t answer my question,” Eddie said softly. Billy nodded and cleared his throat, took another drink, and looked around. Anywhere but at Eddie. It was such a cliche move, it almost made the older boy want to laugh. “Before she-” Billy cut himself off, his body visibly shuddering for a moment, and Eddie wondered how recent the loss was. “I told her about Max. The little shitbird-” Again Billy stopped himself, closed his eyes for a second before continuing. “She called me up last week. Neil kicked her out, took Susan and ran off to fucking Nebraska.”

“Jesus. Shit, I didn’t know. Haven’t really talked to any of the shrimps in a while. I thought she went off to college like the rest of them.”

“Apparently not.” He drained the rest of his beer, tapped the bottle twice against the bar and set it aside. Eddie nodded and popped open a second for him. “She’s got nowhere to go, so. Here I am.” “Big brother to the rescue.” Eddie smiled softly. He felt a small sense of privilege, knowing he was probably the only person that knew how complicated Billy’s feelings about his stepsister were. He’d gotten Billy to open up a few times, his lips loosened with varying substances.

Billy was so much more complex than he let anyone know. It had always infuriated Eddie, the way people wrote him off, but also how Billy encouraged the cover-judgement. It was a defense mechanism, of course, not so different from Eddie’s own. But where he’d gotten comfortable with his mask, Billy had always seemed tormented by it, and yet unwilling- or unable- to let it go.

“Something like that,” Billy sighed.

“You taking her back to Cali?” Eddie turned around again, wiping down some more glasses. He didn’t know which answer he dreaded more. “I don’t know yet,” came the quiet reply. “I’m just- shit, man, I don’t know what I’m doing.” There was a waver to his voice, not quite a break but close to it, and Eddie looked over his shoulder. Billy had never looked so lost, so unsure of himself. Billy ‘larger than life’ Hargrove had never looked so small.

“Look,” Eddie sighed, wiping his hands with the dishtowel. “I’m getting out of here in like twenty. You wanna… I dunno, do something?” He worried his lower lip between his teeth while he waited for an answer. “We could drive out to the lake for a smoke. Like old times.” He was putting himself on the line, but after so long, sure he’d never see those blue eyes again, he couldn’t let this opportunity slip through his fingers without at least trying.

Billy looked down at the bottle in his hand. He picked at a peeling corner of the label. Eddie held his breath, wishing he could hear Billy’s thoughts. There was a time when he almost could.

“Yeah,” the blond said finally, his head bobbing once. “Yeah,” he repeated, looking up, and there was a smile on those lips again, not as sad, maybe even bordering on hopeful. “That sounds good.”

#mungrove #billy hargrove #eddie munson #billy x eddie #eddie x billy #billy hargrove/eddie munson #eddie munson/billy hargrove #stranger things fanfiction

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blackacre13 · 2 years

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(Sort of) sorry for blowing up your asks! But since I just saw you mention this -- would love a Carol/Abby origin story fic!! Please?? ^_^

I got a few requests for this and just posted the first one recently here , so this is sort of a part two/Carol POV since that one was very Abby POV heavy.

She couldn’t bear to face it. That look she knew so well. A mixture of shock and horror and disappointment. Trust that she had earned and then broken into pieces, shattering it and grinding it down to dust. Nothing left to do but sweep it away, under the rug, pretending like there hadn’t been anything to break in the first place.

It was what Carol did. What she’d always done.

And though it wasn’t the same, in some regard, it was every bit the same. After all, everything comes full circle. And perhaps she hadn’t broken her own heart in the process the last time around, but she had left a piece of her soul and betrayed her best friend. Now, she was breaking her own heart and shattering that of her lover’s, who had no idea that when she awoke, Carol would be gone forever. She had to push Therese away. She had to pick up the pieces of her own life she’d run away from, no matter how painful it was to keep moving forward. She had to let go. She couldn’t drag that poor girl down with her, through the mud, with the promise of a life that most likely couldn’t ever be no matter how much she wanted it to exist. She had to release her. Like she did Abby.

Dearest. There are no accidents and he would have found us one way or another. Everything comes full circle. Be grateful it was sooner rather than later. You’ll think it harsh of me to say so, but no explanation I offer will satisfy you.

She stared hard at the fountain pen as she pressed it further into the paper, the ink angered and frustrated, seeping out excess like droplets of blood from a wound before she released her frustration and lifted the pen. It was no use punishing it. This was her own doing. She had always been her own worst enemy, after all.

She pushed people away. She pushed love away. Was it because she was afraid? Was it because she was too weak and tired to fight? The world wasn’t different enough yet, sure. But it couldn’t change without people pushing for that change, and here she was, moving backwards. Standing still. Trying to stop the clock and slip away into the familiar. Into the simple. Into the known.

And she couldn’t face Therese. She couldn’t tell that beautiful soul that she should have never gotten her tangled up in the chaos of her world. In Rindy. And Harge. And Abby.

Abby. Hadn’t Carol put her through enough? How many times had she turned Abby down or given her false hope only to let her down again? And still, Abby had come to her rescue. Had dropped everything to save her and help her, no questions asked. Carol knew she didn’t deserve her.

Please don’t be angry when I tell you that you seek resolutions and explanations because you’re young. But you will understand this one day.

She was older now. Wiser. Perhaps, still more foolish and stubborn than she should have been, but life had handed her enough lessons in the last two decades or so for her to instill some wisdom in Therese, even if she couldn’t understand it in the present. And in a way, it would be easier for Therese not to understand. For her to be angry or upset. She would have an easier time trying to erase the last few weeks with Carol. As if none of this had ever happened. The doll. The gloves. The lunch. The visit. The trip. It could be gone in the blink of an eye.

It was the people who were threaded throughout your life, that you couldn’t truly let go of. Like Abby.

Carol could refuse her advances. Could tell her she wanted her out of her life. But she couldn’t erase the little girl who had sat in the grass, fascinated by Carol and the way she could tie her laces for her. Or forget the bubbly thrill of a feeling the first time Abby had called after her, teasing, “You nitwit!”

And when it happens, I want you to imagine me there to greet you, our lives stretched out ahead of us, a perpetual sunrise.

Yes, it was better to let Therese go. To let the past go. Abide by Harge’s demands and his parents expectations for them and for Carol. Do whatever it took to be able to see Rindy, even if it meant denying her every satisfaction. Denying every bit of who she was. That took strength too, right? Denial?

She was at a crossroads again. Just like she had been that night the Ford broke down. Curled up next to Abby in her childhood bed, finally feeling brave enough to bring up the thought that always lingered on the edge of her mind and the tip of her tongue. Did Abby remember? Of course she did. Carol had never forgotten. Had never forgotten both how strange and delightful it had been for Abby to reveal such a secret to her. Abby had never kissed a boy, which was ordinary for a girl to admit to her friend. But Abby had never wanted to kiss a boy either, and Carol could never have imagined such a thing, until Abby had admitted that she had wanted to try kissing a girl.

Carol hadn’t judged or been scared. She felt trusted and happy that Abby would tell her such a thing. But she hadn’t understood it. At least not then.

But it made her look at Abby differently. It made her curious. Made her wonder if Abby’s lips were as soft as her own. Made her wonder if she would feel those butterflies in her belly the other girls talked about. She had only pretended to have them when she’d kissed boys. She had never really understood why the other girls blushed and giggled and shrieked about it. It had just been so, so. A transaction of sorts. An expectation.

And when she asked Abby to kiss her, everything changed. Everything. Carol finally understood. She understood Abby. She understood herself. But she also understood that she could never have the other things she had always wanted.

A daughter. A great big house. To be a wife.

It would be a life hidden in the shadows. A life only whispered about. There was only so much joy she could seek in secret kisses and sacred touches.

But until then, there must be no contact between us. I have much to do, and you, my darling, even more.

It would be a clean break this time. There would be no difficult conversation. No heart-to-heart to explain what she felt she had to do.

She wouldn’t see the sting she had seen on Abby’s face. The hurt in her eyes when Carol had told her that she had to start taking things seriously, tossing Abby away like a childhood toy for the sake of society and principle and not much else. The pang she had felt in her heart when Abby had let her go, only asking if this is truly what she wanted.

She hadn’t agreed. She hadn’t understood. But she had let Carol go all the same.

Please believe that I would do anything to see you happy and so I do the only thing I can—I release you.

And now Carol understood. Knew why Abby had let her walk away. Knew why Carol had to walk away now.

If you loved something, you let it go. And if you were lucky enough, maybe, just maybe, it would find its way back to you.

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squidproquoclarice · 2 years

Text

Yeehawgust Day 11: Blood Moon

November 1926

Fortune’s Favor, New Caledonia

The thing was, Buck Jones knew this was one of those moments upon which a life turned. Things could never be the same again. Trouble was that he was busy trying to not spill that life out into the dust of the desert, strength ebbing from him by the moment.

He looked up, seeing the red haze over the moon. Blood moon. Guess Frenchy called it true. Blood got spilled all right. He just hadn’t expected it to be his. How had it all happened like this? Things had changed so fast, like a viper’s strike, and it felt like one minute they’d been making a plan for the Wells Fargo payroll stage, preparing for a big score. Then suddenly Harry was yelling about him being a traitor, and guns got drawn, and now here he was, where they’d left him. Not even a backwards glance from any of them, after all these years, just curses and contempt as they passed him by, heading for the horses. They hadn’t even killed him clean, just left him here to bleed out.

He’d been with Frenchy DuBois since he’d been thirteen years old. Robbed his first bank by his mentor’s side at twenty-one. He’d never expected to make it to thirty as he had. Way things were going, though, seeing thirty-one might be a marvel.

Gritting his teeth, holding back a bark of pain, he forced himself to roll over, panting with the effort, hand jammed against his side in an effort to keep what blood he had left where it belonged…

“Jack!”

Pulled suddenly from the world of woe that Buck Jones found himself in, Jack looked up at the sound of his father’s husky voice. “Yeah, Pa?” He glanced at the clock, saw it was after two already, and swore. “Shit. I lost track of time.”

John shook his head. “Some things never change,” he said wryly, fondly. “You with your nose buried in a book? That’s one of them. Don’t much matter whether you’re reading it or writing it.”

“All right, all right,” he muttered. Elijah “Buck” Jones might have been betrayed and on the verge of dying at thirty, but John “Jack” Roberts Jr. proved that thirty wasn’t too old to feel as flustered as he’d ever been as a kid. “Uncle Arthur and Aunt Sadie on their way?”

“Yeah, they’ll be here soon. Uncle Charles and Aunt Karen ain’t too far behind. Just be downstairs in about twenty minutes, yeah?”

“Sure.”

As he turned right back to the plight of an outlaw at the crossroads of his life, Ruthie poked her head into Jack’s room as well. “Momma says she needs more firewood.”

“Ruthie, I’m trying to work...I’ve got a deadline.” Never mind that he was most definitely not working on any news article to do with the happenings in Queensbury. He loved his family, and Thanksgiving together would be a pleasure, but seriously, he did need to get some work done. Trouble was the story seemed to be pushing its way forward, elbowing the news articles right out of the way.

“It’s Ruth, not Ruthie,” she insisted, blue eyes snapping with temper. Fourteen and a half, because she insisted on the half being noted. At that age of wanting so much to be a grownup, and leaping at every scrap of dignity and gravitas possible, wanting to leave any vestige of childhood behind.

When he was fourteen, he’d been working on a farm too, albeit a much poorer one than this. He didn’t like to think much about the hard realities of what his father or Uncle Arthur had been doing at fourteen. Let alone his mother.

He’d only had a couple years here up in Canada before heading off to college, but they’d done a lot to help assuage the uncertainty and turmoil of the years that had come before. The years where his books, and the stories in his head, had been his comfort and shield against far too many things.

He looked at her, calming himself down. He saw too much of a kindred spirit in his little sister. She was a quiet one, thoughtful, worlds existing within her own mind. So different from little Gracie, who’d been all sunshine and smiles, until the day she was gone. Took a lot of the sunshine and smiles out of the Marstons with her. Ruthie–Ruth–would at least get to grow up. “OK, Ruth. Sorry. You grow up so much these days.” Even in just the few weeks or so between his visits back to the farm. Even if in his mind he could so easily still see her as a little girl with two braids and a scraped knee that he’d helped bandage, giving her a cookie and assuring her it would be all right.

Both of their tempers backed down now, she said, “So, can you help me with the firewood?”

He sighed, smiling at her, and pushed up from his chair. “Sure.” Buck Jones’ recovery and redemption could wait. Right now, there was a reality of Thanksgiving with a large and sometimes loud and loving extended clan, and that felt like what he needed.

#yeehawgust #yeehawgust 2022 #rdr2 #jack marston #john marston #that softer au where rdr1 ending we don't know her #sunrise compliant as well #jack becoming a writer just suits too well

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letgraysonsheart · 2 years

Text

Your long day is over now

Dick's hanging upside down. For some reason he can't remember why or: a new one shot for the F1 au!

TW: car accidents, hurt/comfort (for additional warnings check ao3)

Read here on ao3 or continue below

(Parts of this fic and its dialogue is heavily inspired by the important conversation that I hope was had after Romain Grosjeans crash in the 2020 Bahrain Grand Prix, and especially comments made by Daniel Ricciardo after said race. I did not watch that race live myeslf, but I saw the live tweets and the outrage afterwards. In real life theres real guys out there racing. A lot of it for our entertainment. They deserve more than being treated as "lions in a cage for people going to the zoo." as Pierre Gasly once stated.)

He doesn't understand.

There is so much noise. Unfamiliar noise that's muffled in a weird way. There is smoke and dust and... and everything is upside down. His nose stings, the telltale sign of a fire.

His shoulder hurts.

“-ickhead!”

Someone's yelling. There’s... a hand? In his field of vision, out of nowhere, waving.

There’s a face too, poking between the halo and the ground and why, why is he upside down?

“You alive, Dick?”

The face, it’s Jason. He’s in his race suit. Dick can spot the green of the Cards. But he’s not wearing his helmet. Why is Dick wearing his helmet then?

“Dick?” Jason, again.

He tries to answer, but fuck, his head hurts.

“I’m alive,” he manages to croak out at last.

Jason’s face relaxes, some of the tension falling. Good. Good, Jason shouldn’t look like that. All scared and worried. They aren't supposed to be worried about each other, he's pretty sure.

“They’re going to get you out of here,” Jason promises, voice remarkably soft compared to how loud he has to be speaking. There is so much noise.

Also, out of here? That's what Jason had said. Dick looks around. Yeah, he’s in his car. Hanging from his belts, judging by how tight his chest feels.

There’d been a race.

He was gaining on the lead. On Jason. He wiggles his limbs a little, just to check. Just to be sure they’re all still there and still in function.

“Why am I upside down?” Dick finally manages to gather the breath to ask. His voice sounds all weird, and his helmet is so tight against his head. Is it always like that?

Jason frowns at him, brows furrowing together. He reaches out with his hand, towards Dick, and oh. Dick wiggles, his arm pulling down towards the ground thanks to gravity.

Jason grabs it. Jason, his brother who’s not his brother, who left, came back angry and betrayed, is holding his hand.

Dick can feel the pressure around it, how Jason squeezes it with a firm hand. The glove can’t hide the trembling, but Dick doesn’t know if that’s him or Jason. Or both.

“You’ll be okay, Dickie,” Jason states like it’s set in stone.

Then something grabs Jason’s attention, outside of the car, where Dick can’t see. It makes his brother turn away. He sees Jason’s mouth move but is unable to hear what is being said.

As quickly as he lost Jason’s attention, Dick gains it back again.

“The paramedics want to get under here,” Jason explains. “To make sure you’re fit to flip the car back, I think.”

Yeah, that makes sense.

“You have to let go of my hand, now,” Jason tells him.

Oh. Yeah. Dick loosens his grip, which had grown quite tight without him noticing.

“I’ll see you on the other side,” Jason says, moving to shuffle out from under the car again.

“Promise?” Dick can’t help himself.

Jason freezes his whole upper body out from under the car. He looks up at Dick again.

“I promise.”

Dick nods and lets Jason go.

Jason is barely out before the paramedic is there, talking to him, and asking him all kinds of questions.

Is he hurt? He doesn’t know.

Does he remember? Some of it. If he tries really hard.

How's his neck? Sore. Okay, he thinks. Normal sore. Like he went a bit too hard in all the turns in the first race of the season.

Somehow he manages to get her to clear him for flipping the car back again.

After that, it’s a flurry of motion. Suddenly he’s upright again. The sky above him and the car under him. There’s smoke. The medics are on him straight away.

They’re extracting him. Not even letting him contemplate getting out himself. Carefully removing his helmet while someone holds onto his jaw. Fitting a neck brace on him, even if he’d confirmed no neck injury before they flipped the car. They’re strapping him to his car seat.

He's never been lifted out of the car like this. Only seen it done for practice.

Quick and efficient the medics and marshalls work. Practiced a thousand times over for scenarios just like this. They move him from his seat to the compression blanket, to a stretcher. Wheeling him away and into an ambulance.

“How are you doing, Grayson?” the medic from earlier asks, by his side as the ambulance takes off to the medical center.

“Don’t send me to the hospital,” Dick rasps back.

“I’ll take that as a positive sign,” the medic responds, “but we’ll let the medical center doctors be the judge of that.”

Not exactly the answer he wanted, but he’ll accept it. His head hurts too much to argue.

“What’s your name?” he asks her. He’s seen her around before, at drills or in passing. He’s having difficulty focusing on her now though, the woman above him is just a red blob.

“Kory,” he hears her reply though, “Kory Anders.”

“Nice to meet you,” he tries to reply, but he's unsure if his words come out at all. There’s a shout, loud but somewhere he can’t place.

It all goes black, anyway.

Tim’s shaking.

He can’t help it. The adrenaline from the race is still rushing through him. Now it's topped off with the fear of hearing Dick had crashed. That it had been a nasty one. The race was red-flagged. They were all sent to the pits. Gar, his radio engineer, had been short and weird over the radio as he called him in.

By the time they were exiting their cars, the scene had been replaying on the broadcast screen. It was the first thing he saw, after jumping out. The screens were right in his face. Showing images Tim couldn't fathom they were allowed to. Not so close after. Not when things were still so unsure.

They show Jason, on the ground by the upside-down car. Moving to talk to Dick, Tim assumes. He hadn't even known Jason had gotten out of the car.

Then there's the worst: Dick, getting lifted out of the car. Too far away to show any faces, but close enough to see limp limbs and how the medics were rushing.

And the fucking replays of the crash itself. Over and over again.

Tim had felt angry. Angry and upset and scared. When he'd managed to force his eyes off the screen he’d managed to motion with his arms at the screen. Then he'd yelled at a camera before Bart had been there to drag him away.

And now he is stuck in the paddock. Waiting for anyone at all to give him any news. Sitting on a stupid plastic chair, not knowing if his brother is alive. Not knowing if he in 20 minutes has to jump back into the car and finish the race. The fucking FIA can't even decide that.

“Tim,” Conner is suddenly by his side. Still in his racing suit, just like Tim. “You okay?” the other driver asks, as Tim feels him sit down beside him.

“No,” Tim replies honestly.

“I yelled at the media,” Conner confesses, like it’s a secret he can’t keep in any longer, “I- They just wanted a comment. I ignored that. Instead, I said how disgusted I was with the broadcasting. That it’d never been so disappointed..”

“Thanks,” Tim says. “I yelled too,” he adds. Because it’s true, and he doesn’t know what else to say.

“They’re all assholes,” Conner replies. “They’ll probably spin it in any cruel way they can.”

Tim breathes, long and slow. So does Conner, by his side.

“They never should’ve shown those fucking images, we don’t even know-”

“I know, Conner,” Tim interrupts. He can’t bear to hear it.

“So no news?” his best friend questions.

“No news,” Tim sighs. “Just that he was alive when they pulled him out.”

“No news is good news, I supposed,” Conner says. It makes Tim snort.

“We both know that isn’t the case in our sport.”

His best friend doesn’t answer that. But he doesn’t leave either. Just joins Tim in the silence, ignoring the media doing everything they can to catch a glimpse of them. Of anyone.

"Do you think the race will start again?" Conner asks, then.

"Conner," Tim says. "Honestly, I have no idea."

They both know he isn't just talking about finishing the race.

In the end, Dick escapes with a sprained wrist, bruised ribs, and a hell of a concussion. They tell him he was lucky. Dick isn’t sure. Most drivers nowadays walk away from their cars broken into multiple pieces without a scratch. Maybe at worst, a sore neck.

But that doesn’t mean he isn’t thankful. Cause he is. He wants to live.

He's at the hospital now, close to the track. He's pretty sure he would've ended up here anyway. Yet they tell him it's because he blacked out while they were driving him off the scene. The on-track doctors didn’t want to risk anything.

He hadn’t been out for long, he woke up again right before they were loading him into the helicopter.

“We had to skip the medical center,” Kory had said when she saw he was awake. He was grateful to see her familiar face.

He’s never been flown like that, with the helicopter, before. A day of many firsts. Even if he knew accidents like this were a possibility, he never spent too much time actually thinking about it. He knows the risk and accepts it, but it doesn't mean he thinks about it.

Apparently, it was the concussion. Paired with stress and low hydration, it caused the blackout.

“So my brain isn’t about to like, leak out, or something?” he had asked the hospital doctor once they got him settled.

The doctor smiled, “No - no, your brain is still intact. Just got a bit of a wack.”

He isn’t sure that’s such a positive thing, but they don’t seem to be worried.

Bruce arrives not much later. By then Dick’s already had both his wrist and ribs wrapped, and gotten a precautionary MRI for his head. Also a thousand other tests. He has no idea what they're for.

His father arrives like he usually does. In a blaze of loud words and stress as Dick is settling back into bed after his scan.

“Dick,” he breathes more than says. Like he hadn’t actually believed Dick was okay before now.

“Hi,” he replies.

Bruce has a chart in his hand, probably napped it out of some poor doctor's hands.

“You all caught up?” Dick asks, mentioning with his good hand to the chart. Bruce smiles a little at that, but it looks worn and tired.

“Yeah,” his father says, and drags a chair closer to Dick’s bed. “Alfred wanted to know too.”

“I’m sorry,” Dick says, even if he still is unsure of what really happened.

He does remember, however, how hard he was pushing. Taking every corner with everything he had. He'd been pressing Jason in front of him for all that he had. He remembers Wally, telling him, yelling, about tyre pressures and sliding and close calls.

“Don’t be. It.. it was the curbs. They.. were too damn high. Just like we tried to tell them.” Bruce says, and Dick can see that the older is trying to reign in his anger. Those poor track officials. There's gonna be one hefty discussion about the track after this.

Still, it's weird that Bruce is so quick to pin it on the track. He usually isn't afraid to comment on Dick's driving mistakes. Or anyone else's, for the matter.

“I was pushing very hard too though,” Dick says, unsure of why he’s even defending the track. Not letting it go. “I wanted to win.”

“It was.. risky,” Bruce ends up replying, “but let’s not... Let’s not delve into that now.”

So they will later, Dick thinks. Bruce has gotten better. Better at containing his emotions, and his lessons, for the right time and right place. It has helped, raising multiple kids, Dick suspects. Still, Bruce isn’t a man you cross or a man you disappoint, without feeling it in the aftermath.

Yet he isn't always the best in an emotional situation like this either. Maybe that's it. Maybe today's emotions are too much compared to Bruce's anger at Dick's risky driving.

“How’s Tim?” Dick asks, familiar with his little brothers' worry from smaller accidents. On top of that, he's also familiar with how Bruce's mind can work. Getting so focused on one thing he forgets everything else.

“Worried,” Bruce says. “He uh- he was angry at the media. Yelled at the camera.”

Now, that is something to worry about. Tim is usually calm and collected, even if he’s a little anxious and prone to fall into deeper pits. He doesn't lose his anger like that.

“Shit,” Dick starts, but Bruce isn’t finished.

“Actually, he wasn’t the only one.” For a second, Dick fears Bruce lost it too. That all the news channels are gonna play Bruce Wayne losing his mind over and over again. That they're going to be up to their neck in media work the rest of the season.

“Conner Kent had... Quite a few words for the media too. And your old friend Harper too. Even harsher, actually. He’s always had a bit of a potty mouth that one.”

Dick can’t be bothered to tell Bruce that he and Roy aren't close anymore. That Roy somehow chose Jason in a choice Dick wasn’t even aware had to be made. It’s touching though, that Harper apparently talked to the media.

“What- what did they say?” Dick’s surprised there’s such an outrage.

“The media showed scenes from the accident and replays before we could release anything on your condition. It was already playing as the drivers got out of their cars at the red flag, it... was the first thing many of them saw.”

“That’s... irresponsible,” is all Dick manages to say. He imagines his colleagues piling into the pits, full of adrenaline with pits in their stomachs. That is a feeling he knows.

Stepping out of their cars only to see the accidents replaying, maybe scenes of the aftermath... That must have been terrifying. He then thinks about Alfred, at home. Watching the broadcast.

An anger blossoms in him, too.

Bruce nods, in agreement. “Both Roy and Conner talked to the media shortly after. Full of adrenaline. Showing their disappointment in how it was handled, said they were disgusted.”

Dick feels overwhelmed by the support of his colleagues, especially since it isn't from two he talks to a lot. Conner is Tim’s best friend, but still. They didn’t have to do that. The emotions in the paddock must have been heavy, and the accident must have looked bad.

It churns in Dick’s gut, and he’s actually happy he hasn’t had to see it himself yet.

There’s still a thing he and Bruce haven’t spoken about, and it's going to be painful. But Dick has to ask.

“And Jason? I took him out, right?” the words come fast, almost all strung together, “he was there. Afterward.”

Bruce nods, again.

“Yeah, when your car launched off the curb it was close enough to tag Jason. Pushed him into the gravel, where his race ended. First, he was mad. Yelling over the radio. Then he realized..,” Bruce trails off. When Dick looks up at his dad’s face, Bruce’s eyes look far away. His mouth is in a thin line. “He jumped out of the car. Ran over to you. He wasn’t supposed to do that.”

Yet Jason did. They’re supposed to stay in the cars until given the all-clear if there isn’t an emergency. Any real danger. Fuck, the crash must have looked bad if it made Jason that worried.

He’d looked worried too, Dick recalls, when he’d crawled under Dick’s car. Even if his time hanging upside down in the car is a bit of a blur, Dick remembers Jason’s face.

Jason, who Dick has barely spoken to all season. Jason, who he might have squared a little bit up with as the races have gone past. Jason, who still is his little brother but also isn’t anymore.

Jason who had promised Dick he would be there, in the aftermath. Like he meant it.

“Tim’s on his way,” Bruce is the one who breaks the silence first. He’s pulled up his phone, Dick realizes, probably answering messages. “He was a real trooper and gave a short interview. Just to show the fans you're alright.”

A real trooper, huh. Dick’s not sure about how he feels about his little brother taking on media duties. But then again, if Tim said yes...

He takes Bruce’s change of subject for what it is: the end of their talk about Jason. That doesn’t mean he can’t push Bruce some more.

“So, you think I’ll be ready to race in two weeks?” He asks, already feeling his well-practiced shit-eating grin take over his face. Bruce sighs, loudly and tired, but Dick can see how the corner of his mouth is pulling upwards.

So maybe they avoid talking about Jason anymore. And avoid talking about how bad that crash could’ve been. Instead, they argue about racing, free practices, and cars. Maybe that isn’t exactly healthy coping, but they’ve never been about that.

He knows Tim will force him to see their psychiatrist. Probably try to get Bruce to go too, sooner rather than later. But now? Right now, he can sit with his dad and argue. Make fun of him.

All of that while continuing to avoid thinking about how the sport he loves almost killed him.

#posted it on ao3 yesterday but couldnt get on a computer again before now #ITS THE F1 AU MY BELOVED<3 #dick grayson #fanfiction #elie writes #my writing #WHATS THE TAG #the f1 au #this is w h u m p y

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