#alibi for a miracle

[bloatedandalone04]

Romance is (not) Dead

➪the one where ethan is your boyfriend and you’re his alibi.

Warning: spoilers for scream vi, blood, swearing, making out, mentions of blood, mentions of death, character death, you're literally dating a killer, mentions of smut, possessive ethan, lowkey yandere ethan

Word Count: 4.3k

Do not repost this anywhere, reblogs are fine <3

Man, did you hate frat parties. Especially the one you were at now. 

These ones were the worst; the loud music, the smell of booze and smoke, the overly confident (and unbelievably unattractive) men, the horrid dancing. 

No fucking thanks.

Maybe you weren’t like most college students as you didn’t enjoy partying all that much and would rather stay in studying or watching whatever movie you felt like that night, but what can you do? 

This was definitely not your scene. 

And it was definitely not your boyfriend’s scene, either. 

You slouched against the uncomfortable cushion of the couch, your arm pressed to Mindy’s as the space was limited. Anika’s legs were draped over both yours and her girlfriend’s as they talked between themselves, effectively cutting you out of the conversation you didn’t want to take part in to begin with.

Looking around the room, you tried to locate Ethan and came to the conclusion that he was no longer in it. He and Chad must’ve wandered off in search of alcohol or something else to keep them entertained. 

You tip the cup in your hand, seeing that it was still half full, and reach over to put it on the table beside the couch. Standing up, you push Anika’s legs off yours and wince at the cracking sound that came from your knee. 

Had you really been sitting for that long?

“Hey,” Anika called out to you once she felt the push you gave her legs. “Where are you going?”

Mindy answered for you, “Probably to go find her boyfriend,”

You shrugged, paying no mind to the teasing wiggle of her brows. “What if I am?” You ask, matching her tone. “What, you’re the only one allowed to get any action tonight?”

Mindy raised her hands in defense. “Hey, I’m not judging,” she said. “And TMI, by the way.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your jacket from off the couch. “I had to sit next to you two making out every five minutes and I’m the one who is giving out too much information?”

Mindy looked at Anika then back at you. “Point taken,” she agreed and wrapped her arm around Anika’s shoulders. “Go on, then.”

Shaking your head, you bid them both a goodbye and take off in search of your boyfriend. You find him in another room with Chad, and already you could see that his roommate was trying to boost his confidence. 

You lean against the doorframe and watch as Chad pushes Ethan forward and towards a group of girls. A heat burns in your bones as Ethan shakes his head and turns away, only to be pushed back by Chad, this time with his arm around his shoulders as he did the talking for him.

It was as if Chad didn’t care that Ethan had a girlfriend, you, and wanted him to talk, and probably flirt, with as many girls as he could without you being in the room.

Fucking Chad.

The girls laughed at whatever Chad said to them before turning away from the guys, no longer engaging in a conversation with them. 

You smirk to yourself at that. Ethan really didn’t know how to flirt, and it was a miracle he somehow worked up the courage to ask you out a year and some ago. 

Ethan went to the same high school as you, and in your senior year he built up enough confidence to ask you out on a date. Well, sort of. He saw you rummaging around your locker and walked up to you, a folded piece of paper in his hand. When you noticed the cute boy from your English class leaning on the locker next to yours, you offered him a smile. He smiled back before handing you the note and you took it from him, a quirk in your brow as you read the messy handwriting. 

It was one of those cheesy I like you, will you go out on a date with me? questions, completed with two boxes, one for yes and one for no. 

You shook your head and reached up, grabbing a pen off the top shelf of your locker. Scribbling a quick check mark onto the box next to the yes, you hand the paper back to him and watch as a smile forms on his face and from then on it was history.

You were brought back to reality when your eyes met his and you can see the excitement swimming in the brown irises, his roommate quickly forgotten about as he walked away from him and towards you. 

He took off the cheap head piece of his costume and held it in one hand, using his other to make a mess of his flattened out hair. 

Once it was a perfect mess of curls, he stood before you in all his glory. “Hey, hotness,” you greet him, crossing your arms as you continue to lean against the door frame. It was as if the whole house had quieted down just for the sake of you starting a conversation with your lover, and you nodded at the group of girls that had obviously turned down his unwanted advances. “New girlfriends?”

Ethan shook his head, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your cheek. “Yeah, right,” he answered, towering over you and looking you up and down. He was with you when you dressed yourself in the angel costume that included a white dress, wings and a halo, as you got ready at his place and walked to the party together, but that didn’t change the fact that you looked unbelievably hot, even more than usual. You had long since ditched the accessories, now only being left in the dress, fishnet stockings and your black ankle boots. “You know, I think Chad does a better job at embarrassing me rather than boosting my confidence.”

You laugh quietly, shaking your head as you tug him closer by the waistline of his pants. “Poor you,” you murmur, tilting your head up so you can look him in the eye. “Guess you’ll just have to settle for me.”

Ethan gave you a sly smirk, leaning down to reduce the gap between the two of you. “Who’s settling for who?”

You shake your head with a grin, draping your arms around his shoulders and leaning up on the tips of your toes. Pressing your lips to his, you kiss him slowly, unknowingly taking his breath away and he drops the headpiece to grip your waist, pushing you closer to the frame. 

Space became limited between the two of you and you had no room to arch your back like you normally did, so you settled on pressing flat up against the wood, your hands tugging Ethan closer by his biceps. 

If there was one thing you loved most about him, it was the confidence he gained whenever he was with you. He was his true self when he was alone, or in this case, ignored with you. No one paid any attention to you, continuing their conversations or just walking past one of the many couples making out. It was like the world became just the two of yours and everyone else didn’t matter anymore. 

With that being said, you would much rather be doing this somewhere more private, preferably in the comfort of his apartment as you knew Chad wouldn’t be there, but that still didn’t stop you from deepening the kiss by gripping the sides of Ethan’s face and tilting your head for better access. 

In the midst of it all, you don’t notice the quiet, hardly audible thud of your green jacket falling to the floor as Ethan twists the fabric of your white dress in his hands. His tongue runs along the length of your lower lip, and before you could part it from your top one, Ethan is tugged away slightly by Chad.

He muttered something about Tara and then he was gone, disappearing further into the house. 

Ethan sighed out of annoyance and lifted his hand to wipe away the smeared lipstick from your chin, his thumb lingering on your bottom lip before he took your hand in his, following the path that Chad cleared. You couldn’t wipe the giddy smile from your face as you place your free hand on your boyfriend’s forearm, allowing him to guide you in whatever direction he believed Chad took off in.

That wasn’t your first heated make out at a party, and it wouldn’t be your last, but it still left you breathless and with an ache that you only wanted Ethan to relieve. 

However, when you see the concerned look that both Anika and Mindy wore, you quickly forget about your own needs and instead ask, “What is going on?”

“We’re trying to stop Tara from going upstairs with this loser,” Mindy told you, her eyes never leaving the man beside your friend. Chad was on the first step while Tara and the guy were a few above him, and she was doing a really bad job at acting like she wanted to go anywhere with this guy.

“I’m fine, guys,” Tara insisted, though you could still hear the doubtfulness in her voice. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Tara, don’t go with him,” Chad said, daring to move onto the second step.

“Yeah, just come back to the party,” you add, lacing your fingers with Ethan’s. “It is downstairs, after all.”

What happened next happened in a blur. Tara was tugged back on the steps, causing her to fall over, Chad pulled the guy away from her, Sam showed up out of nowhere and tased him in his…well, let’s just say that the area she tased him in had him on the floor within seconds. Tara yelled at her older sister and fled the house and everyone followed them outside. 

Before you could leave the house, Ethan told you to stay by the door while he went to go grab something. When he returned with your jacket in his hands, you didn’t bother holding back the smile that took over your face as he threw it over your shoulders before taking your hand again. 

You probably would’ve forgotten it had he not gone back for it, and you couldn’t be more grateful as the temperature you were met with once you stepped outside wasn’t exactly warm. At this point, you didn’t care about the whereabouts of the rest of your costume as they were cheap accessories that could easily be replaced, so you didn’t mind leaving them behind. 

You met back up with the group just as Sam got a drink thrown at her and been called a murderer by a group of girls. After yet another bicker between the sisters, Tara walks off with the others following behind her, leaving Sam to stand by herself. 

As you begin to tug Ethan in the direction of the others, he stops beside Sam, fumbling around in his pocket for something. “Here,” he said, holding the white fabric up. “Sorry, I only have, like, three tissues.”

You held back a laugh as Sam grabbed them from him, glaring at the two of you as she uselessly wiped at her soaked chest. Tugging on his hand again, you leave her behind as you walk the short distance back to his apartment. 

When you were in the privacy of Ethan’s room, you shrug off your jacket and sit down on his bed, leaning against the headboard and stretching your legs out in front of you. “Chad’s not home,” you point out the obvious and make sure to have a sultry tone to your voice. 

“No, he’s not,” Ethan replied, taking off the rest of the knight costume and dropping it by the growing laundry pile by the desk. “He probably went to check on Tara at her place.”

You nod as he sat next to you, his fingers trailing down your legs until they reached the zipper of your boots. “So, what I’m hearing is,” you trial off as he unzipped your boots and slid them off of you. He had his eyes on your legs, focusing on his task of ridding you of as many articles as he could, but the curve in his brow told you he was listening. “We’re all alone?”

Ethan dropped your boots to the floor, the thud sounding throughout the quiet room as he nodded, meeting your eyes. “Mhmm,”

You lean back on your elbows, watching as he moved so he was hovering over you. “We should really go see if she’s okay,” you say but make no move to stop what is bound to happen if one of you doesn’t pull away within the next few seconds. “You know, just to be sure.”

Ethan hums in agreement, situating himself between your legs, his hand sliding up your dress to tug at the hem of the stockings. “Yeah, we probably should go check on her,” he mumbled as he ghosted his lips over yours. “And the others.”

“Agreed,” you nearly whisper as your hands tug at his shirt, your hips bucking up into his just slightly. It was enough to soothe the ache you both were beginning to feel, much like how you felt earlier with him at the party.  “But we’re not going to, are we?”

He hummed, shaking his head before connecting your lips.

-

You were sitting with your back pressed against the headboard, a blanket covering your naked body and your phone in your hands. You scrolled through one of the articles posted about the killings that happened earlier in the night, which something you had no clue even happened. 

Ethan was at the end of the bed, half dressed as he couldn’t be bothered to put his shirt back on at the moment. 

Just as you were about to inform him of the two students that were killed, Chad bursted into the room. “Tara and Sam were just attacked,” he said. “Where the hell were you and where the hell is-” he cut himself off when he saw your bare shoulders peeking out from under the blanket and the annoyed face you gave him.

Ethan cursed him out as he moved back to block your body from Chad’s view. “Jesus, don’t you know how to knock?” He asked angrily, grabbing a grey shirt from off the floor and giving it to you. 

“Um, yes, I do,” Chad mumbled, embarrassed at what he just walked into. “To be honest, I was coming in here to accuse you of being the one who attacked them, but I see you’ve been…busy with something else.”

“Yeah?” Ethan asked as he pulled a grey henley over his head. “What gave you that idea?”

“Yeah, heh,” Chad trailed off, scratching the back of his neck. “I guess you don’t need me to be your wingman afterall, huh?”

When neither you or Ethan laughed, Chad cleared his throat and shook his head, pointing behind him with his thumb.

“Um, Mindy wants us all to go to Tara and Sam’s place,” he said. “So we’re all together and no one becomes suspicious of one another.”

“Really?” You scoff as you put the shirt on and throw the blanket off you. “Is this what our life has become?” You ask no one in particular and take the pair of sweatpants Ethan held out to you. 

He shrugged and covered your body with his as best as he could as Chad let out an awkward laugh. “Yeah, you know what?” He slowly backed out of the room, making both you and Ethan look over at him. “I’ll just see you guys over there, okay?”

You rolled your eyes when he closed the door again, sitting up straight once you were dressed. “I seriously can’t stand your roommate, you know that?”

While you began moving various blankets and pillows on the bed in search for your phone, you become too distracted to hear the way Ethan agreed with you, mumbling a quiet, “Yeah, me either,”

-

You had nearly dozed off multiple times during Mindy’s rant about the rules of horror movies and how to narrow down the suspects. You had your chin pressed to your hand that was resting on Ethan’s shoulder, your eyes feeling heavier as she continued to ramble. When she mentioned that newcomers, aka new friends, are most likely the killer, you lifted your head and furrowed your brows. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see how I could be the killer,” you say and gesture over to where Sam was sitting. “I don’t even know her.”

“All the more reason you could be out to get her. You have no connection, but you’re friends with Tara, who was also attacked,” Mindy said, her eyes cold and accusing. “Now that I think of it, where were you when Sam and Tara were attacked? Everyone was at their place except for you.”

Before Chad could interrupt his sister’s interrogation and come to your defense, Ethan grabbed your hand. “She was with me last night,”

Mindy glared at him. “And where were you?” 

“At home,” Ethan answered. “In my room.”

“TMI,” Mindy shook her head, taking her eyes off the two of you.

“It is true, though,” Chad said after a few seconds, raising his hand as if he were answering a question. “I might have accidentally walked in on them.”

You give him a sarcastic smile and stand up. “There, it wasn’t either of us,” you say and tug on your boyfriend’s hand. “Can we go now? This is boring.”

Mindy squinted her eyes at you before shrugging. “Fine,” she said. “But I’ve got my eye on both of you.”

“Maybe you should have your eye on your girlfriend, too,” you point out and hear Anika scoff. “She’s also a newcomer.”

“Yeah, okay,” Anika muttered. “And maybe you should care more about your so-called friends rather than slutting it up with your boyfriend.”

You rolled your eyes at that, the words hardly affecting you and you pulled on Ethan’s hand, not noticing how his eyes were cold and hard. He glared at Anika, her harsh words about you playing on repeat in his head, before he let you lead him away from the group. 

-

At the sound of Quinn and her boyfriend going at it, you regret not asking Ethan if you could go with him to econ. Earlier you were sitting next to him on the Carpenter couch and were prepared to fall asleep with your head on his shoulder when he got a text. 

You were too distracted by his phone wallpaper, which was a picture of the two of you on your third date, to see what the text he had received said. He gave you a chaste kiss, mumbling something about needing to go and the word econ before he was gone. 

Now, still on the couch, you were sitting next to Anika as she flipped through the channels on the TV. At the sound of four distinct phones going off, you sat up and watched as Sam, Tara, Mindy and Chad stood up from their chairs at the table and ran towards Quinn’s room.

This made both you and Anika stand up as well and follow after them, all six of you pausing outside the closed door. “What is going on?” As soon as you asked that, the door was pulled open and Quinn’s bloodied body was thrown at Anika. The force of the body took her to the floor and chaos erupted as the killer, dressed in a black robe and mask, stepped out of the room. 

They sliced up Mindy’s arm as Chad and Tara ran out of the apartment completely, leaving the four of you behind. The killer turned to you and you let out a small scream as they grabbed onto your arms and threw you into Quinn’s room. 

You landed on the floor with a harsh thud, a jolt of pain shooting down your arm. You watched in horror as they picked up Anika and plunged the knife into her stomach, twisting it and sliding it upwards. Sam came running out of the kitchen with a knife block in her hands and she slammed it against the head of the killer, making them fall to the floor with a grunt. 

“Guys, in here,” you yelled out and got up quickly, pulling them into the room with you. Sam slammed and locked the door, telling Mindy to do the same to the bathroom door. When she came face to face with ghostface, she tried closing the door before they got in, but failed to do so. She instead opted for the other door and slammed that one, but everyone knew it wouldn’t be long until it was broken through. 

It was then that Sam opened the window and secured the end of a ladder to the frame, successfully creating an escape route into the apartment next to hers. “You go first,” you say as you help Mindy hold the dresser against the door. After a quick debate, Sam finally gave in and began crawling across the ladder, yelling at the three of you once she was on the other side. 

“You next,” Mindy said to you and you shook your head, nearly losing your balance when the killer gave a particularly hard shove to the door. “Yes, go. I got Anika. Go.”

At this point, ghostface had his arm in the room and began swinging it around. As you gave Mindy a nod, the blade sliced against your back, cutting the shirt you were wearing as well as a layer or two of skin. 

You cry out in pain and rush towards the window. You avoided looking down as best as you could, listening to Danny and Sam’s words of encouragement as you crawled as fast as you could across the ladder. Danny easily pulled you into his apartment once you were in reaching distance, and the three of you began yelling for Mindy and Anika. 

Mindy made it across and Anika would’ve, too, had her wound not worsened and had she not wasted too much time crying over how high up she was. She was about half way when the killer finally broke into the room and walked to the window. They dropped the knife and grabbed onto the ladder, swaying it in a mocking manner. Anika cried out once she was about half way, giving up on trying to crawl the rest of the way.

What none of you knew, at that moment, was how the degrading words Anika had spit at you earlier played through Ethan’s mind, making his hold on the ladder tighten. He stopped moving it for just a second before gathering the strength he needed and flipping it onto its side, sending Anika falling several stories down. Her head slammed off a dumpster before her body fell limp a few seconds later, her lifeless face staring up at the four of you.

-

The sun was glaring down at you as you sat in the back of the ambulance. The paramedic examines your arm after she places a large bandage on your back, successfully stopping the blood flow from the cut. She came to the conclusion that your elbow was sprained and after she finished wrapping it in a sling, your eyes met a familiar pair of brown ones. 

Ethan ducks under the caution tape as you quickly stand up and take off in his direction. He drops his bag to the ground as you throw yourself at him, not caring about the pain that shoots up your arm at the force of your body hitting his. You wrap your free arm around his shoulders, pulling him down into as you cry, your fingers tangling in his hair. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there,” he said, guilt evident in his voice. “Are you okay?” He asked quickly, hearing you whimper in response. 

You shake your head and he wraps his arms around you protectively, eyeing the body bag in the alley way with a dangerous glint in his eyes. Chad makes his way over to the two of you, his defensive side coming out. “Where the hell were you last night?”

“Back off, man,” Ethan muttered, standing up straight and keeping his arm around your shoulders. “I had econ. Ask anyone I was with last night.”

Chad scoffed. “You were the only one who wasn’t here last night,”

You had grown tired of the countless accusations thrown around and lifted your head to glare at Chad through teary eyes. “Would you give it a rest?” You ask angrily. “I think I would know if my boyfriend of almost two years is going around killing people.”

“I thought the same thing,” Sam mumbled as she stood next to Chad. “But I was wrong.”

“Guys, come on,” Ethan sighed, feeling like he was being backed into a corner but not letting his defensive side come out. It would give everything away. “I already told you where I was. Ask one of the hundred people who I was with.”

At that Chad and Sam backed off, walking away with heavy shoulders.

You press your head against his chest once they leave, small whimpers still escaping your lips. Ethan holds you tightly, his eyes narrowing at the cut in your shirt and the glimpse of the white bandage he could see under it. 

He presses a kiss to the top of your head as he stares at the Carpenter sisters and the twins, his eyes holding a deadly glare. 

It’ll all be over soon. He thinks to himself. 

And when it is, it’ll just be you and him - just like how it always had and always will be.

-

Thank you all SO MUCH for the love and support I received on the teaser. It blew my mind as I truly wasn't expecting it :') I hope you all enjoyed this <3 (ps. I tried to make it as accurate as possible to the movie, but I have a terrible memory heha.)

I don't normally tag people, but since you asked ;) @anonoussy

#ethan landry #ethan scream 6 #scream 6 ethan #ethan landry imagines #ethan landry x reader #scream 6 #scream 6 imagines #scream 6 x reader

[fandoms--fluff]

Family Therapist

Female vampire reader x Elijah Mikaelson

Summary: Elijah is your husband and you've been basically the family therapist. Well, one night you both became one for his little brother.

Warnings: mentions of death I think?, mentions of ghosts,

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

Elijah and you have been married for well over 400 years and over time you have gotten used to the family's drama and dynamic.

There have been many times when you acted as the family therapist, and let's not kid ourselves, you still are. Just somehow in weirder ways than some may think.

(But let's also be real, you still have to lecture Klaus out of daggering any of his siblings or hurting them 'just because', being the only one who he actually listens to, which is a miracle by itself.)

A great example is what just happened one night.

Surprising enough, this is the first time you've ever been in a situation like this. It's definitely not the worst or anything of it, but this was very different to say the least.

You were sound asleep in your husband's arms until you hear the door to your guys' room slam open. Both of you separate in alert, but the only danger there is, is the body that crashed between the both of you.

"What the?" You said sleepily and reached over to turn the lamp on.

Once the light lit the room in a yellow glow, you both look at the visitor in your bed.

"Kol? What are you doing?" Elijah asks, surprised that his younger brother is there, without acknowledging one of you.

"Oh you know, just missed my older brother and his wife" his voice was muffled by the pillow he pressed his face in to.

"Uh huh, and how does that explain you gripping onto the blanket for dear life?" You raised your eyebrow at the youngest brother.

"Because it's soft?" He asked unsure, rather than answering you.

"What happened?" You kept your eyebrow raised at the immortal teenager, no way for him to get himself out of this conversation now. Elijah saw that look on your face, knowing, now you won't budge until you get the truth out of Kol.

Kol looked up at you, letting out a huff, seeing no way of getting out of this. At least this is better than Nik, he'd just throw him in a box, he thought.

"I swear I saw someone move in my room, but I couldn't find anything, so I came in here to make sure if the ghost comes back there'll be alibis" he rapidly said, and hid his face back into the pillow, feeling his cheeks starting to turn red.

You and Elijah shared a look of concern before your husband placed a hand on Kol's back. "Kol, you don't have to be embarrassed about that, considering your experience with ghosts in the past, you have a right to react the way you did," he told him.

"Lijah's right, we would never judge you about that. So what if you're a bit wary about ghosts, it's normal, a lot of people are" you added.

Kol's breath hitched before speaking, "Really?" He looked up at both of you.

"Of course" You and Elijah nodded.

He smiled softly before a cheeky grin appeared on his face. "Just so you know, I'm not leaving. And if that ghost takes me, I'd rather have my final moments with you guys over Nik, who would most likely yell at me."

He laid his head back down on the pillow and closed his eyes, knowing that he was laying between you guys. "I know you guys probably want to be laying together and be all cute and couply, but I don't want to think about you two doing anything over pg-13. My poor innocence couldn't handle it" he said and let out an 'oof' when you smacked him with a pillow for the comment.

"Have you ever even been innocent?" You asked and looked at Elijah with amused eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose, looking like a tired father that just had to put up with his child. Honestly, he just did, considering what Kol had just said and he can sadly be even more immature.

"Of course I have...like that time...okay maybe when I was human, but that still counts" he mumbles and sticks his tongue out at you. And he hates it when you call him a child? Really?

#elijah mikaelson #elijah mikealson imagine #elijah mikealson x reader #vampire reader #kol mikaelson #kol needs comfort #kol needs a hug #cute kol mikaelson #elijah mikaelson x female reader #elijah mikaelson x wife reader #elijah mikaelson x vampire reader #fanfic #cute #writing #imagines #comfort #fluff #thevampirediaries #the vampire diaries #the originals #klaus mikaelson

[morallyinept]

Rockford & Roses - A Detective Tim Rockford One Shot 🌹

Summary: Tim's coming home to you on Valentine's night with a heavy heart and secrets that threaten to tear you apart. Can your love for him survive the ghosts of his past that still haunt him? More importantly, are you willing to make room for them in your already strained marriage?

Pairing: Det. Tim Rockford x Wife!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub.)

Word Count: 5k-ish

Scoville Smut Rating: None, it's fluff. Mostly angst. Definite angst. You're safe. Kinda.

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Warnings/Triggers: Alludes to smut, nothing detailed/mentions details of a case involving the murder of a child, nothing too graphic/alcoholism/A N G S T in abundance/some dark themes in the sense that Tim is self-destructing. Tim is very a broken man, poor lamb. Give him a hug, will you?

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: This story evolved massively from the direction it was going in originally, and I'm actually kinda pleased about that... It's something different from your typical, "schmoozy" Valentine's Day story, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.🌹

MAIN MASTERLIST | TIM ROCKFORD MASTERLIST | FLORA & FAUNA MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

Detective Tim Rockford had been sober for almost a year when it all fell apart completely on that terrible night. 

But it wasn’t until the winter was in its latter stages, that he would tip fully over the edge into regular, almost daily, bouts of oblivion to keep himself from falling off the ledge completely.

To keep the nightmares and sense of guilt that he drowned in on a near constant basis at bay. 

He unscrews the cap from the bottle of dark amber liquid he’s craftily been hiding under the seat in his car, and swallows it all back letting it slip down his throat.

Without him giving it permission to, his mind replays over the events from that fateful night, four years ago, and is brought back to the little girl lying at the bottom of the ravine just off of the ridge. 

A call had come in about a missing child on the morning in question, and he and his partner Peter ‘Petey’ Harman went over to the home of the parents to talk to them about it. You know, do the initial questioning; worker bee stuff. Try to suss out if she was a regular runaway or if in fact one of them had stuffed her under the foundations and was crying wolf.

The family home was nice; an average run-of-the-mill house, in an average run-of-the-mill neighbourhood. Tim was presented with a photo of her from her mother and he remembered thinking that he’d missed his chance to be a father, to watch your belly swell and witness the miracle of life forged from your love, and it left a bitter taste. 

She was cute as a button; all brown hair and freckles, and she had this blue, silk princess-dress, with lace collars and cuffs, wearing a gonky smile that was missing a tooth or three. 

‘Find my baby, please Tim.’ Her mother had begged him whilst Harman took down the notes - he was good with that stuff - and Tim promised her that he would - knowing that a detective should never promise that - if it was the last thing he ever did. Not knowing that he would actually make good on that word further down the line. 

Looking again at the picture, he learned it was her favourite dress, her mother had said it through the red eyes that she wore that pretty dress everywhere, and that she turned into the spawn of Satan himself when she tried to get her out of it so it could be cleaned.

It was also the same dress Tim had found her wearing when he discovered her remains.

The search had been dragged out as much as it could be, but there was no trace of her. Leads had been exhausted; those pulled in for questioning were found innocent and their alibis solid.

It was as if Rainie Thompson had vanished off the surface of the planet in a click of a finger.

The search efforts began to die off around the four week point, mostly due to the heavy snow settling in and it pained him to know that everyone was giving up on finding this little girl - a little girl that he was convinced was still alive - she just had to be; he could feel it in his gut.

Some perverted bastard had her and he was determined to make them feed from a tube for their rest of their life when he found them.

Tim was determined to find her, despite his colleagues and even Harman at times, convincing him it was a lost cause. He’d been spending most of his time - including down time - combing the woods, the parks - everywhere and anywhere he could think to try and find her.

Where are you, baby? She consumed him wholly.

She was what kept your husband away from you.

Left you sat at the dining table alone, with an uneaten plate opposite you and a creeping draft settling into your bones. The creaky sounds of the house seemed louder when you were alone, and soon they were your only companion; their creaks soon turning into words of comfort at an absent husband.

Tim left the space in the bed vacant, crease-free and cold beside you. 

Tim’s whole world had come tumbling down when he’d picked Rainie up and cradled her small, cold body to his chest and wailed like he had lost his own beau.

No, baby... no.

He cursed up to the sky, as though having it out with God himself - God, who had allowed this innocent, beautiful child to die.

Tim wasn’t exactly devout or the God-fearing type. He’d been to church only a handful of times in his life; to marry you being the most notable, but after that day he’d especially not been back to a church since.

This is how faith dies in a person; violated and fractured. Altered and hollowed out from the inside and everything pure and good is obliterated by the poisoning fingers of the darkness in the world, wrapping their hands tightly around its neck and simply snapping it in two.

Fuck you, God! Damn you, you son of a bitch! 

She had been thrown down in there like a puppet whose strings had become entangled with themselves; she was six-years-old.

Rainie Thompson was six-years-old and she had a little, blue dress and played Hopscotch and liked drawing pictures of red roses, and eating chocolate ice-cream until her tummy hurt.

Rainie Thompson was the one who killed him. 

Tim cried through the drinking, mourning her like his own and mourning the part of him that was dying with her; a hollow husk of a man soon to be filled by the familiar numbing void that alcohol had to offer.

It would make him forget the horror; forget the depravity, although the nightmares would never relent, he would be certain of that - they never do. 

To date, he hasn’t found the killer and it’s been four years. A one-off, grisly murder that hinted at possible cannibalism, but later was discovered she’d been partly eaten by a wild animal scavenging; it left very little in the way of clues or evidence, because there was very little of her left.

Most of his team concluded it absolutely was an animal of some kind, a cougar happened upon her perhaps, or a bear after she'd wandered off? But Tim did not quite believe that - they didn’t see her. 

It’s changed him, changed something within Tim to see the world for what it is. The band-aid has been ripped off and once you see that shit, you can never unsee it again.

And Tim's seen some pretty fucked up shit in his career.

He closed up, closed off and began unknowingly cementing the spiralling destruction that was to be his life. He’s fifty-eight and has nothing anymore.

Well, that’s not entirely true, he has you.

Despite the distance that has grown between you, evolving from carnal desire to ships passing silently in the night, you remain steadfast in your love for Tim, silently supporting him as he battles the demons that threaten to consume him wholly.

Yet he can’t help but feel that he's condemned you already in some ways. Watching as those demons hold you down and tear pieces from you until, one day, they'll be nothing left. 

The wife of a gritty detective doesn't bode well in a happily ever after.

His decades long career is the reluctant third wheel in your marriage, and at first you admired his dedication; his passion to solving mysteries. Getting excited yourself when he'd use the dining room walls to gather his thought maps, pinning up mug shots, red thread lines linking people and place and circumstance. Weapons of choice like an elaborate game of Clue.

And he'd talk to you about them in those early days, the tamer cases he had. Mugs of coffee and thoughtful kisses exchanged as you offered your opinion and challenged his thinking.

Now it's getting harder not to resent that damn gold badge.

He swigs again at the bottle. It feels good; the warm, numbing sensation flooding through his veins down both his arms and legs. The giddy onslaught of amnesia begins to twinkle around the edges of alert thinking as he slowly succumbs to the light buzz.

He closes his eyes and lets himself teeter on the edge of it, welcoming the calmness like an old friend. 

His first heavy session had led to his first blackout and it had scared him; scared him that he could lose a chunk of time that was unaccounted for out of his life - waking up at home fully clothed in the armchair, sometimes the kitchen floor, knowing he'd driven severely under the influence, and equally amazed and relieved that he hadn’t killed anybody in the process. They would take his badge for that recklessness if they knew. 

No-one knew. Or if they did, they never mentioned it.

But it wasn’t enough to stop him. It got him through the paralysing fear of handling those dark days, which were particularly brutal, and the other fucked up cases he’d had to solve since.

They tell you; tell you that it will be difficult and bad, but you’re never prepared for it.

His father never prepared him for that shit and was right when he said he hadn’t got the cajones to be a police officer all those years ago.

His father headed up the ranks of Chief in a suburban precinct elsewhere and eventually made Commander, like Tim knew he would, probably just to spite him. He also told Tim in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t "Commander material." Hell, he wasn’t even Detective’s material, and for a while, Tim believed sincerely that he was right.

Although, he’s six feet under now, so what the Hell does he know? Shot in the back during a supermarket raid gone awry when he’d popped out to buy a newspaper and a some smokes. Commander John Rockford shot by a drugged up lil’ pipsqueak looking to get cash for his next score - what a legacy! 

His death left a nice, fat pension for his mother who squandered most of it on a gambling addiction that she’d always had looming in the background of his childhood; the root of many a ferocious argument witnessed between his parents when they thought he was tucked up in bed, and he could literally hear the punch from his father’s fist make contact with his mother’s jaw.

But that didn’t stop the fact that his words clung to Tim like a bad shadow most days, even now, long after his theatrical send off like he was a Goddamned hero or something. He wasn’t; he was a mean little asshole with a bad temper and Tim had been glad to see the back of him, too sloshed to remember much of the funeral at all and cutting his no good mother out of his life soon after. 

Tim swigs from the bottle once more, the sting dying out slowly and melting into an alkaline that soon tastes of nothing. It’s all nothing; emptiness and voids that are getting harder to fill. Disassociating himself from his shitty past life; from his first wife and her erratic behaviour, which took him years to figure out, was probably his erratic behaviour that had pushed her away and out of their home for good, not that he’d truly cared to notice.

Work all but consumed him. And he was happy to let it.

Of course, he’d gone to AA; out of town where nobody would know who he was - an upstanding pillar of the community, yeah right - talking about your problems, laying them all out there in front of a bunch of strangers who were just as fucked up as you were, was difficult because, up until that point Tim had never recognised or considered that he had a problem; just a mechanism he relied upon that helped him cope. 

Having to take a moral inventory of himself and dig into the suppressed emotions he was hanging onto, and using them as an excuse to inebriate himself through the day, was hard.

The hardest thing he'd ever done, doubting he was strong enough to climb those twelve steps - and he wasn’t even really sure that he wanted to.

But he did; was sober for a while, until Rainie Thompson obliterated him.

He takes another quick swig after spotting Harman coming out the Gas n’ Guzzle and shoves it back under the seat covertly.

Harman finds Tim sitting as he left him, squeezing the steering wheel inside of his deft hands, over and over, trying to make sense of everything and when exactly the world had become such a terrible and unforgiving place - but is coming up short. 

Gas stations are the most uninspiring places to get a decent cuisine that won’t make you shit ten tons the next day, but it's late; Detective Petey Harman is tired and hungry for just about anything right now, no matter how crappy it would taste or make him feel in twelve hours’ time as it burns through its exit out of his anal passage.

Once back inside the car, Tim scrutinises the large brown paper bag filled to the brim that Petey rifles around in, before pulling out a dire looking sandwich and handing it to his senior. 

“You planning a sleepover with your girly friends or summin’?” Tim questions him.

There are several boxes of microwave pizzas, a bag of extra-large puffy marshmallows, various microwaveable meats in packet sauces that look questionable in their paleness, a jar of chocolate dipping spread and a large bottle of orange and pineapple Cactus Cooler. 

“Nah... No girly friends for me.” Petey says, sombrely. “Weekly shop.”

“Well, watch your damned cholesterol.” Tim tears into the plastic packaging to be met with disappointment the moment he puts the sandwich in his mouth. 

Petey can smell the waft of alcohol lingering in the car but he doesn’t mention it. Just like all the other times he's smelt it coming out of Tim’s mouth when he speaks, making his eyes water.

Petey was not long into being a newbie; a junior ranking officer in the department and up until a year ago or so now, had been making pretty good at busting low-level criminals successfully, to the point that he hadn’t really taken the gig that seriously, thinking at times he was invincible.

So much so that he had his thumbs in his belt loops and his shooter on show proudly like they do in Miami Vice as he and his reluctant mentor Tim, solved bleak mysteries together.

They’d stopped in for a burger break at Lafferty’s Grill on the day of Rainie being reported missing; talking about the pretty waitress giving Petey a lingering smile, and Tim trying to persuade him that he actually had a pair of balls and should use them to go and talk to her.

Instead, Tim was mirthed with disappointment as Petey's cheeks flushed a crimson red as he stared into his laminated menu, tacky with barbecue sauce residue, and tucking said balls firmly inside himself.

Petey had to grow up fast; he knew that the moment he’d heard Tim yelling at him crazily when he’d found the child’s remains whilst they scouted around for her aimlessly one night after Tim was trying for weeks to hold it together.

It was an image that still gave Petey nightmares, and the sounds of Tim sobbing still made his blood run cold when he thought about it, but it was far less frequent now.

He’d been promoted since to Detective, taking the job more seriously and knuckling down; his life coming up roses whilst Tim’s fell out the bottom of his ass. 

Speaking of roses, Tim looks up mid-chew on something that the label assures him is tuna fish, and spots something red and velvety clustered in the window of the gas station.

He spies the date on the radio and sighs out heavily, tossing the sandwich back in the plastic packaging. 

“Shit.” He mutters. 

“You good? I got a BLT if you want that instead?” Petey asks. 

"No. Fuck no. Wait, you gave me the shitty tuna when you had bacon?" Tim frowns.

"Was gonna save it."

With that, Tim exits the car, the driver side door squeaking on his beaten Pontiac and his trench coat billowing in the wind as he makes his way inside the gas station.

The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting a harsh glare over the rows of snacks and drinks lining the shelves. His weary eyes fall upon the sad display of the florals. A few wilted roses, their once vibrant petals drooping with neglect, sitting haphazardly in a cheap plastic bucket.

Tim grimaces, knowing they’re far from the bouquet you deserve. 

His mind flashes back to the drawings of roses on Rainie Thompson's bedroom wall and how, for a time, they engulfed him, tracing his fingers over the waxy ridges of their messy circles.

Tim was sitting on her bed, clutching a stuffed bear with a plaid neckerchief that smelled of talc and her mother informed him the bear's name: Tim. Or Timmy. Timmy the Teddy.

He remembers squeezing that damn bear tightly as he took in the surroundings of the little girl's room, trying to work out where she was - where are you, baby? - When he spotted the drawings.

He kept one, pulling it off the wall and folding it neatly into squares until it fit in his wallet. A reminder that she would be with him, crying in his ear for him to bring her back home to her mommy and daddy.

She never stopped crying and wailing in his ear; the pitch growing until he drowned it out with the booze.

He remembers the pictures, full of clumsy scribbles, bulbs of red crayon petals and skinny green stalks. Kind of how the roses look now in the bucket staring out at him; a sad little gift from beyond the grave in their macabre despair. 

He hears it again now, that crying, right beside him. He squeezes his eyes shut, a few moments of forcing it into white noise.

With a resigned sigh, he plucks a handful of the least wilted roses from the bucket and makes his way to the counter. The clerk eyes him curiously as Tim approaches, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of their lips.

Tim ignores the silent judgement, focusing instead on paying for the flowers and grabbing a bottle of wine from the shelf by the counter. The wine selection is vastly limited, but he purchases a bottle of red without giving it much thought and hoping it won't taste like sharp vinegar.

He pays for his thoughtlessness, and hurries back to his car, the weight of his guilt and exhaustion pressing down on him like crushing lead.

“Get out,” he gruffs to Petey as he starts the engine. 

Petey gulps down his sandwich with a splutter. “What?”

“You’re walkin’ home tonight.” Tim announces with eyebrows knitted, and Petey rolls his eyes, fumbling with his shopping and splitting the bag in the process. 

"Aww man. You're kidding me?"

"I gotta get home. You didn't tell me it was fuckin' Valentine's." Tim scowls.

"Big deal. It's just another day." And Tim can hear the bitterness of being single and alone awash in Petey's mouth with stale bread, lettuce and bacon.

"Out." Tim presses.

“Roses won’t cut it this time, Tim.” Petey whines, as Tim reverses before he can even shut the door. 

He’s right. Despite his bumbling ineptitude, Petey’s right - it won’t cut it.

Tim can’t even believe the sight of the wilted roses sitting on the passenger seat, mocking him and reminding him of all of his failings to you. It wasn't always like this, he's sure of it. Somewhere in the recesses of his tempestuous mind, he knows you were happy; he made you happy at some point, right?

He remembers how happy you were when you exchanged vows and gold bands, gorgeous in your little lace smock dress, beaming up at him. Fuck, it seems like a lifetime ago.

Burgers and beers on the bonnet of his car, he had a chevy back then, and watching breathtaking sunsets, and going to the movies when he was off duty.

He would bring you roses then. Fluffy, sumptuous blooms that almost guaranteed him a bigger helping of your cherry pie with the perfect, sweet crust, and extra kisses that led to him detaining you in the sheets, reminding you that you had the right to remain loud, to scream his name when he made you come.

He brought you real roses back then. Not these... weeds.

It’s late, almost midnight which ironically, is the earliest Tim has been home in a long time.

With a deep breath, he gathers the roses in his arms and makes his way to the front door. As he pushes it open and steps into the warmth of your shared home, the scent of your perfume catches his nose making it twitch.

He remembers that scent, like a sucker punch to the jaw. As he inhales deeply, the memories come flooding back, transporting him to a time when life was simpler, when the weight of the world hadn't yet settled upon his broad shoulders.

He can almost feel the warmth of your hand in his, your laughter echoing in his ears like sheet music. The feel of his cock inside your wet tightness as he fucked you into the mattress and you clawed at the expanse of his back leaving red welts on his skin from your nails for days after.

You couldn't get enough of each other once, and now you're barely strangers.

He steps into the deep bellows of the house searching for you, and finds you on the couch, wiping frantically at swollen eyes that have obviously been crying.

And the guilt drowns him instantly, crushing him like a tsunami as he sees you there, small and withered, worse than the roses he dared to bring home to you.

Looking down at them and frowning, Tim is disgusted with himself. He tosses them onto the table wanting to be free of the wretched things.

He longs to spend time with you, his darling wife, but the relentless pursuit of justice consumes every waking moment, pollutes every free thinking thought.

You can only watch from afar as Tim pours himself into the work, and pours himself another glass to compensate for the scars it leaves.

You know he’s haunted by the very vestiges of unsolved cases stacking up on his desk that he never talks to you about anymore. Closes the files of grisly crime scene photos before you have a chance to see them.

He protects you from his work now, but consequently, and unwittingly, protects you from him, too. 

Each night, you would leave a warm meal on the table and wait anxiously for his return, hoping that he’ll come home early to eat with you, your heart heavy with worry and your hair turning whiter in the process.

More often than not, you dine with bitterness and disappointment.

Often, you’d wake in the early hours of the morning to find Tim slumped in his armchair, surrounded by case files; his brow furrowed in comatose concentration, glasses almost fully sliding off the bridge of his nose.

An empty bottle always rusticates beside him on the floor.

You can’t remember the last time Tim slept in your bed with you. The last time he held you in those strong, broad arms of his that you know he has hidden under that trench coat. 

You can't remember the last time Tim made love to you and whispered how beautiful you are in your ear with whimpering grunts as he filled you up. 

Tim is crestfallen as he steps forward, the faint glow of something flickering on the dining table pulls his sight.

A candle, close to being exhumed by the deathly kiss of its barely remaining wick, and unopened boxes of now cold Chinese take-out litter the table. 

“I ordered your favourite. Number seventy-three with a side of nineteen.” You sniff. "I got extra twenty-two because they always give us an odd number."

“Darling, I...” Tim stops, for he knows nothing he can say can absolve this. On the most romantic night of the year, Tim has failed you, yet again. “I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t, Tim” you raise your hand shaking your head despondently. “Just don’t.” 

"I didn't mean to be late. Not tonight.”

A small ghost of a smile evaporates on your lips. “You never mean to be late. Yet you always are.”

“The case-”

“It's not about the case, Tim," you say, your voice foggy with emotion. "It's about us. About the fact that you're always putting everything else before me."

He notes the roses again, bearing witness to his shame; their haggard state mocking him once more and he curses inwardly. 

“I’m so, so sorry,” he approaches as you stand, arms wrapping around yourself and glass cutting tracks down your cheeks. 

“I packed a bag…” You say as his eyes follow yours to a small suitcase in the hall that he didn’t even notice when he came in. passed right by it, oblivious. And he suddenly wonders what else he's been missing all these years, as it registers in his gut.

“No.” Tim states with a croak in his throat. He shakes his head vehemently. "No, darling."

Tim steps forward, the suitcase filling him with terrific dread. "You're leaving me?"

You're surprised that he's surprised.

But you shake your head, tears falling freely now. "I can't do this anymore, Tim," you say, your voice barely a whisper. "I can't keep waiting for you to come home to me. To open up to me and tell me what’s eating at you. I know it's something bad, something terrible. And I want to help, I do, I'm your wife. I want to make it better. But you make it so difficult. You push me away."

“To protect you.” He says with a low voice.

“Who's protecting you, Tim?"

"I don't-"

"I don't know who you are anymore. The man I fell in love with, he's... a ghost.”

“I…” words fail him as you look at him with a deep sadness that will stay etched on the thin fibre of his soul forever. A stain that won't wash out, no matter how much he scrubs.

You were the one. You're his one. And he's fucking losing you.

“Tell me, or I’m leaving... for good.” You warn. "If you ever cared about me at all, you'll tell me what's killing you. Please..."

You shake your head in despair, wiping your eyes harder now, when he doesn’t say anything. Just swallows the lumpy constriction in his throat and stares at you with hollow eyes.

"Goodbye, Tim." You sniffle.

“Rainie Thompson, she loved roses...” Tim mutters thickly as you approach the hall.

You stop, turning to face him.

"Who's Rainie Thompson?" You ask fearing the immediate worst.

You expect him to reveal to you that he's been unfaithful. That's he's not just been putting the hours in solely at work. That he brings roses - roses that are alive - to another woman. He eats her cherry pie now, fucks her into the mattress.

That he drinks because of the guilt of hurting you. But what he says instead alters a part of you that you don't think you'll ever get back.

“They look just how she drew them.” Tim says, his voice breaking, until his face caves in fully, features drowning in the onslaught of emotions, and for the first time you witness this unwavering man crumble completely. 

And it terrifies you. For if he, the strongest man you've ever known, can break like this, what hope is there for you?

You rush to him as he collapses to his knees with a heavy thud, and wraps his arms around your waist, sobbing into the softness of your tummy.

You shush him and stroke your fingers through the greying curls, matted with sweat at the back of his neck. He holds onto you tighter than he’s ever done and you're afraid to let go of him. 

Afraid that he won't ever stop bawling, as he mumbles incoherently and snottily into your abdomen.

Hours pass by, Valentine's Day gone in a blink of an eye, and you listen carefully and woefully as Tim recounts the haunting tale of Rainie Thompson, and how she's slowly killed the man you love.

You sit at the dining table with his thick, gun-calloused hands inside of yours, stroking over the ridges of his knuckles and listening to him swear to you that’ll get help with the drinking.

That he’ll take some leave and the two of you can go to the beach, or the lake, or somewhere where it can just be the two of you for a while.

Away from his cases, away from the horror of it all. Hell, he even mentions early retirement in his pertinent desperation, until you pat his hand gently and ground him with a stroking cup to his grizzled cheek.

You smile lightly as you gather the roses, and try to push aside your cynicism and wonder if you’ll regret not actually leaving tonight. Wonder if all what Tim has fed you is more empty promises when he'll eventually slip back into that expected monotony.

But you can see some swill of sincerity and regret inside the brown muddy pools of Tim’s tired eyes that you've never seen before.

He silently watches you pull the dead outer petals from the roses before placing them in a vase with fresh water. 

“They’re already dead.” He mutters apologetically to you, shaking his head at the sight of them. 

“Some things can come back to life, Tim, with some love.” You smile softly and Tim wants to just die in your arms right now. 

“I don’t deserve you, darling.” Tim says, reaching for you.

He hasn’t yet taken off his trench, and you help it from his shoulders, the smell of worn leather from his holsters greeting you this close.

You've forgotten what he smells like as you inhale deeply. The scent of the leather leads a rugged and slightly musky undertone to his familiar aroma that’s swilled with coffee, cedarwood and sweat underscoring the gritty, primal edge to him. 

You lick your lips as you graze your nose against the warmth of his neck, allowing him to finally crush you close to his broad chest, before the handle of his gun digs you uncomfortably in the breast.

He braces to kiss you, sweeping his lips delicately against yours, but you flinch. A reaction that slashes at Tim’s gut.

“Just hold me tonight, Tim.” You plead to him.

He nods, a solemn heaviness in his eyes as well as on his shoulders. 

“I’ve missed you so much.” He admits.

Hearing him say it offers some vindication, but you know that these wounds need layers of bandages to be changed daily, and not some flimsy band-aids.

"I've missed you too."

“I’m so sorry for pushing you out. I don’t wanna lose you. I can’t. I’ll do whatever it takes. I promise.” He takes your hand and presses it to his mouth, the soft scruff of his facial hair feeling like gossamer, and you'd almost forgotten the feel of that too. “I love you.”

And when he says it, your emotions hiccup out of you and the tears fall again. 

“I love you, Tim,” you whimper. 

He takes you in his arms, those big, strong arms, and leads you upstairs to bed where he makes good on his word and doesn't let go of you all night.

You fall asleep listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat as he rubs your back gently, soothing you into sleep whilst he stays awake well into the night, staring up at the ceiling and trying not to listen to the dark thoughts urging him to finish that whole bottle of cheap wine downstairs. 

He came so close to losing you today, on Valentine’s Day of all days, and he knows he has to do better. For all his faults, you love him and he spends the night pondering on that. Pondering when it was that he last slept in the bed with you, until his eyes fall heavy and he succumbs to a short, stunted sleep.

In the morning, he rises, stiff and aching from laying in the same position all night with you curled tightly in his arms. Amidst his back cracking and feeling stuffy in his slept-in crumpled button up and vest, Tim silently leaves the bedroom, careful not to wake you.

After pissing for what feels like an age, Tim catches sight of his face in the vanity mirror. White-gray stubble spreads across his chin and top lip, and the weary look of a man of the law that’s seen too much and knows too much weighing heavy around his sullen eyes, greets him.

He rummages in the vanity for some Tylenol and pops two in his mouth, swallowing them down without water. He re-shapes his oil slicked hair and tries to avoid the face looking back at him.

It knows all his terrible secrets, and now, so do you. 

In the beginning the alcohol wouldn’t let him remember all the details, but its dropped its guard. The dreams were real; too real and he would find himself reliving the events each time he tried to get some damn shut eye.

He wasn’t supposed to keep seeing these things or to remember - it wasn’t part of the deal. Inebriation was supposed to wipe that shit out, but it'd failed to serve its purpose, instead serving as a beguiling wedge that expanded between you and him. 

After descending the creaky stairs towards the kitchen, Tim passes the dining table en route to make some coffee; his tongue washing around dry, tight gums.

He spies his mobile and checks it out of habit; a message or two from Harman, one about a lead on one of their minor cases, and the other enquiring about his 'night of passion with the Mrs' and if it went well, and Tim simply scoffs. He makes a mental note to kick Harman when he sees him next. Preferably in the balls.

But out of the corner of his eye, Tim notices the vase of dead roses and stops to take in how they're now fully alive.

Overnight, their wilted petals have straightened and regained their vibrant colour, as if infused magically with a newfound vitality. The once drooping stems now stand tall and proud, their green leaves unfurling to reveal a lushness that seems to defy their previous state of neglect. Shades of crimson glow in the stale morning light, their hues deepening and intensifying the longer Tim takes them in.

Tim reaches for one, revelling in the soft velvet as he rubs it delicately between his finger and thumb. His eyes widen in disbelief at the transformation before him. It’s as if the flowers themselves are reaching out to him, a silent reminder of the resilience of your love and the power of forgiveness. 

Some things can come back to life, Tim, with some love.

And Tim swears in that moment he’s never loved you more.

He swallows back a choke as he glances the wedidng photo of you both on the wall. Fuck, you looked so happy and beautiful that day.

Feeling a new sense of budding rejuvenation settling into his tired bones, a tiny bud, but one still seeding nonetheless, he turns towards the kitchen and then freezes, feeling it as his blood runs cold over his skin.

Prickles shoot down the back of his neck as he hears the sound, as clear as day. But it's different this time.

The haunting, yet wonderfully brilliant sound, of a little girl playfully giggling beside him.

Rainie Thompson isn't crying in his ear anymore, and Tim Rockford can't help but smile, closing his eyes as he listens to that sweet melody.

I found you, baby.

Thank you so much for reading. I'd love to know your thoughts and would appreciate a re-blog so others can enjoy this story too. Thank you! 🖤

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#pedro pascal x reader #tim rockford x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #tim rockford #detective tim rockford #merge mansion #tim rockford fluff #tim rockford angst #valentines day #jett's writing #tw alchoholism #tw grief

[punkflower11]

Choose Your Own Adventure: Miles Morales - Part 1

————

“You like him.”

“I really don’t.”

At this, Gwen gave him a look.

“Fine. Maybe I did, whatever. Look, can you just help me out?”

“You should ask him instead.” She told him.

“I don’t want to. That’s why I’m asking you.” Miles emphasized.

"Miles," She says, "Ask. Him." with that, Gwen stood, leaving Miles at the lunch table to go put her tray away. Rubbing at his temples, Miles remained at the table wallowing away in his own grave misfortune.

It was almost comedic when thinking of how the whole thing had come about, really. Fresh from the script of some cliche, over-the-top Hollywood film Miles' current predicament was truly as testament to the saying anything can happen.

Following the events of the latest multi-universal fiasco, Miles had finally returned to his (real) parents after suddenly disappearing for days with zero communication from either end. Never mind the fact that Miles had made it back relatively OK to his very much alive mother and father, it didn't excuse him seemingly dropping off the planet for several days, even if he had saved it.

So when his parents had confronted Miles' about where he'd been, his brain, panicked, had hastily supplied him with the response Girlfriend. From there, he was able to create an alibi about feeling hurt and upset and in his state of mind had decided to leave home temporarily and stay with his Girlfriend while his mental health recovered.

Did Miles feel guilty about emotionally manipulating his parents for a lesser punishment? Oh absolutely. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

In retrospect, it was foolish to think that he'd be able to get away with it cleanly. Now don't get him wrong, Miles was eternally grateful that his parents had been so supportive about it all. Just not as much when when lighthearted prodding from his dad of ‘You ought to bring them over for dinner sometime,’ eventually became more persistent gradually progressing to the point of shameless guilt tripping on the part of his Mom displayed by her subtle disappointment every time Miles showed up to dinner on without his fictional girlfriend. It was getting ridiculous.

Ultimately Miles had to given in and bite the bullet, no matter how hellish it might be; and as such bringing us back to his current dilemma.

Chasing after Gwen, Miles once again began pleading with her.

"Gwen, I'm begging you. I'm actually so screwed right now, it'll be a miracle if I make it to next week."

"If you don't want to ask Hobie then I'm sure Pav would be more than happy to help." She suggested, unmoved.

"It wouldn't work, Pav isn't subtle like that." Hobie even less.

"I'm sorry, Miles. I'm sure you'll figure it out."

Leaving Miles to stew in his misery, Gwen rushed off to make her next class. Mulling over his options, Miles now sat alone in the virtually empty cafeteria. He could take Gwen's advice and ask Hobie for help anyways, or alternatively he could go ahead and ask Pavitr like Gwen had suggested; even though he wasn't too enthusiastic at the idea of pulling another person into the whole mess.

#choose your own adventure #across the spiderverse #ghostflower #punkflower #chaiflower #updates daily! #fake dating #polls

[zmediaoutlet]

ww: letters (3)

for the @wincestwednesdays prompt: radio

I figured out one benefit to you being gone: spent three hours on I-40 listening to an educational podcast, and I didn’t have to tell anyone to shut up or slap hands away from the tapedeck or even forcibly cover a mouth that wouldn’t stop telling me this was boring, and then suffer getting licked, which even with everything else we’ve done—that’s just gross, you know? So. That’s something.

Turns out all kinds of stuff counts as electromagnetic frequencies. Not just what we get from ghosts or what comes across the stereo but GPS and phones, too. All depends on the hertz being transmitted and what’s being used to receive it. People even used to get reception in those old metal fillings, with their whole body acting as an antenna. I guess that’s how angels must work when they’re in human bodies, right? The vessel receiving rays of light.

I’m going to have to re-listen to the part about how sound gets captured in the waves. Somehow, at just the right frequency, the mic captures one kind of wave and sends it to the tranceiver and that can travel all over the country, handed off quicker than you can think, so two people can be standing on opposite coasts and hear each other breathing. The waves dissipate eventually in the open air but we can catch them, reuse them, make them replay. In the old days the recordings would fray and tear apart but if you have something captured digitally you can keep it as clean as you want. So the sound appears fresh, every time, like the musician’s playing in the bar right in front of you. If you close your eyes you can almost pretend you’re there.

I have six saved voicemails. None of them are interesting.

Hey, you about done? I’m gonna swing by the liquor mart and then I’ll come pick you up. Text me if you’re knee-deep in granny panties and need another five minutes. Ha.

Dude, you have got to remember to charge your main phone. I’m calling your burner next but you know what? This is shame. This is a shame voicemail.

Sheriff says the husband’s got a clean alibi. Grab something for dinner when you’re done with the coroner, huh?

[muffled noise, then:] Oh—hey—look, I’m butt-dialing you. And you’re not answering? I can see that you’re standing right there. Look, it’s the principle—

Jody broke her ankle. Again. I told her you guys could be gimpy buddies. You better be taking a coma-nap on pain pills, pal. Home soon.

Why do you go to lame art movies immediately after doing laundry? Where the hell did you hide my socks?

A digital file downloaded onto my backup drives, played through speakers, transmits waves directly against the structure of my ear. Vibrations inside my head that traveled from years ago, from a thousand miles away, from a different location of the planet. Crazy to me that we treat it like something mundane. Like there isn’t something amazing happening, when I can close my eyes and the speaker makes electricity and magnetism and motion into you, tuned exactly as though you were standing five feet from me. With my eyes closed I can imagine it like that. Your phone to your ear, your face turned away, waiting for me to pick up. Transmitter, receiver. Your breath, before the call drops. Crisp and clear as the day I first heard them. As long as my eyes are closed it’s a miracle.

#wincest #wincest wednesday #my writing #happy wincest wednesday

[lisbeth-kk]

December moments

Prompts used in this chapter: feast - miracle

It’s Christmas! For Sherlock that is, and we all know what that entails…

December 22

John feels like a new man the next morning. Sherlock’s massage the night before had been divine to say the least, and all his silly worries dissipated. When he was nothing more than a boneless mass, filled to the brim with serenity and love for his sweetheart, John had confessed. 

“I just had doubts about a gift, and I know it’s utterly idiotic to almost go into a depressive state, but…”

Sherlock put his finger to John’s lips and shook his head. 

“Let it be a surprise, and I promise I’ll try not to deduce it. I’m not particularly fond of seeing you out of sorts like this, and I’m glad it’s over,” Sherlock said seriously, which made John’s heart clench. 

Sherlock had really been worried about him, but hadn’t pestered him too much about it, but found his own way to let John come clean on his own. 

“My genius,” John murmured and kissed said genius thoroughly.

***

Just after noon, John and Sherlock found themselves deeply preoccupied with a double murder in a luxury suite at The Hand & Flower Hotel in Hammersmith. It’s a small Victorian boutique hotel with only eight rooms. The downstairs pub had been filled with cheerful patrons the night before, making the list of suspects to questioned quite extensive. Luckily Lestrade took care of that while Sherlock surveyed the crime scene. 

It was a horrible sight that met them, and both John and Sherlock had a grim look on their faces when they realised what had happened. In the middle of the king size bed, two naked men where embracing. If one didn’t look too closely it could seem that they were just sleeping, but the stiffness of their bodies and the foam around their mouths told another story. 

“Poisoning,” they murmured in unison. 

Before Sherlock got to work, he grabbed John’s hand and squeezed it hard. John looked at him, nodded and squeezed back equally hard. 

*** 

Friends and family of the victims weren’t aware that they were having a love affair. Both men were married. To women. Delicacy was required and Lestrade was reluctant to let Sherlock question the wives. 

“Well, if you don’t want to increase your solution rate, it’s hardly my problem,” Sherlock told Greg, and beckoned John to come with him to leave the Yarders alone. 

They had reached the kerb when the small and unexpected miracle occurred. John heard Sally quarrel with Greg, and to John’s astonishment she was the one who wanted Greg to call Sherlock back. 

“I’ll be damned,” John whispered to Sherlock who just smirked and winked at John. 

***

In the cab ride home, they decided to treat themselves to a feast of Chinese take-away. It didn’t take Sherlock’s remarkable brain to suspect that one or both wives were the culprits, but it was only he that was able to shatter their alibies to pieces. 

“Christmas came early for you this year, my love,” John whispered when their Chinese feast was devoured, and they were cuddled up on the sofa.

“A bit not good, John,” Sherlock murmured before he made an impressive love mark on John’s neck. 

Read it on AO3

@totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @a-victorian-girl @phoenix27884 @safedistancefrombeingsmart @sabsi221b @gregorovitchworld @raina-at @helloliriels @topsyturvy-turtely

#christmas ficlet prompts #sherlock fandom #sherlock #john watson #greg lestrade #sally donovan #johnlock #sherlock fanfic #bbc sherlock #ao3 fanfic #december moments #respite in december

[imagine-you]

Stranger Things Masterlist

Boys Like You [complete, 21k]

↳ You’re sure Steve Harrington will never notice you. Billy Hargrove sets out to prove you wrong.

Reach Out and Touch Faith [in progress, 16k]

↳ Sequel to Boys Like You. You leave Hawkins for the summer and come back to a total shitshow. The new mall burned down, Chief Hopper and Billy among the causalities, and everyone, including Steve, seems to be hiding something from you. To make matters worse, you keep hearing and seeing Billy, but that can't be possible. Billy's dead...isn't he?

This Is Real [complete, 2k]

↳ “ i just need to know that something’s real. ” or “ i don’t know who to trust anymore. ” with steve harrington??

Trust Me [complete, 1k]

↳ Steve Harrington x reader with the prompt "why didn't you tell me you were hurt?!"

You Should Be Here With Me [complete, 2k]

↳ "We go to the same college and are trying to get home for the holiday break, but our flights got cancelled so we’re road tripping it together; when we finally get there, we realize that the friend you’re visiting is actually my sibling who was plotting to set us up, but their work is already done now" + steve harrington

I've Got You [complete, 2k]

↳ "For the Christmas prompts could you do certified rich boy Steve Harrington takes you skiing for the first time and the lift gets stuck, and oh boy are you uncomfortable with rickety, swinging metal benches 40 feet in the air."

Open the Door [complete, 2k]

↳ "Please open the door. It’s cold out here." for Steve Harrington/reader.

Keep Me Warm [complete, 3k]

↳ steve harrington x "sweater" prompt? /// steve harrington + "scarf" prompt please?

If I Only Could [complete, 1k]

↳ "Steve Harrington/reader with them at the end of episode 6, beginning of 7. How they interact in that moment. Protective, hurt Steve.

You Still Catch My Eye

↳ Last Christmas and the horrors of Hawkins are on your mind, but you know Steve is exactly what you need to feel right again.

Baby, You're a Haunted House [complete, 58k]

↳ You grew up in the lab along with Kali and Jane. When Kali escapes the lab, you manage to escape with her. When Jane finds the two of you, you're not sure what to make of her. You think she's going to be like Kali, but Jane manages to surprise you. You decide to go back to Hawkins with her when she leaves to save her friends and manage to find your way to the kind of life you've wanted all along. [Headcanons]

Love's Strange [complete, 9k]

↳ “You were starting to get your hopes up that it would only be the four of you, but then the library door opened once again and your hopes were quickly dashed by the sight of Billy Hargrove being escorted inside by Principal Himbry. Himbry had a hand on Billy's elbow, as if he thought Billy was about to make a run for it if he didn't personally usher him inside the room."

Going Under [complete, 1k]

↳ billy hargrove + “what happened to her?” & “i—-i can’t breathe…!”

Cover Up Love's Alibi [complete, 4k]

↳ "could you if possible please write a slasher fic where billy hargrove is ghostface who is tormenting reader with eerie phonecalls to upset her just so he can comfort her as billy because they’re really close as friends i.e mutually pining after each other but Billy’s idea to get your affection is to protect you from danger, soothe your anxiety and stay over night with you for safety but obvs he doesn’t want you in any real danger he just wants you to think your in danger so he dons the ghostface mask."

In the Midnight Hour [complete, 5k]

↳ billy hargrove + demon + “did you think they could protect you?”

Don't Blame Me

↳ One boyfriend clawing his way free from the clutches of the Upside Down once it decided to unleash its own brand of hell on Hawkins was a miracle you weren't sure you entirely deserved. When another previously dead boyfriend shows up on your doorstep and throws your whole world into chaos, you start to wonder if it's a blessing or a curse. You're terrified you'll have to choose between your first love and the guy who saved you from yourself, but will that turn out to be the least of your worries? As word begins to spread around town of a masked killer draining Hawkins residents of their blood, you realize you're a lot closer to danger than you've ever been before, but maybe, just this once, it's not such a bad thing after all.

Living As Foes [in progress, 14k]

↳ It only takes you one week to realize Eddie Munson hates you. It only takes you one year to fall in love with him. Go figure.

Like a Secret In Your Throat [complete, 1k]

↳ eddie munson + vampire + the freaks come out at night

This is Why

↳ Inspired by this list and the prompts: "Are you travelling alone?" / "Come on, just take it."

Don't Blame Me

↳ One boyfriend clawing his way free from the clutches of the Upside Down once it decided to unleash its own brand of hell on Hawkins was a miracle you weren't sure you entirely deserved. When another previously dead boyfriend shows up on your doorstep and throws your whole world into chaos, you start to wonder if it's a blessing or a curse. You're terrified you'll have to choose between your first love and the guy who saved you from yourself, but will that turn out to be the least of your worries? As word begins to spread around town of a masked killer draining Hawkins residents of their blood, you realize you're a lot closer to danger than you've ever been before, but maybe, just this once, it's not such a bad thing after all.

#stranger things #masterlist #stranger things masterlist #steve harrington x reader #billy hargrove x reader #eddie munson x reader

[eshasunrise]

On Professor Layton Vs Pheonix Wright

No spoilers, but I talk about PWPL for a long time under the cut.

The most frustrating part of Phoenix Wright vs Professor Layton is the way it treats its lead characters. The two do their jobs well, Phoenix is the same goofy, down on his luck lawyer he always is, and Layton is as charismatic and clever as you'd expect, but there in lies the problem. Neither character is really explored to any real degree beyond what's already been established. And I get it; dubiously canon crossover made by two disagreeing companies designed to be an entrypoint into both series. It's better to play things safe, not change too much, and use the best parts of both series against each other. And to be fair, they do that with aplomb. The AA and PL character designs mesh beautifully together, especially after the hard work unifying the main characters. The Puzzles are an excellent addition to the investigation segments, and the court cases do a great job dredging out the minutia of the larger than life story and setpieces.

But Layton is a man with far too much intrigue and nuance to just be the confident windfall, and if there's one thing the Ace Attorney Franchise is good at, it's nuance.

Professor Hershel Layton is a man defined by three things: his gentlemanly demeanor, his love of puzzles, and his willingness to always lend a hand. But the Layton of Lore and the Layton we play as are two subtly different men. Hershel is truly a gentleman, no doubt about it, but he's cautious, aloof, and reserved. He won't meddle in matters that don't interest him or call upon him in the first place. He also never speaks of his past or his family. We know how secretive he is about his lost love, and how he becomes estranged from his children in the near future. This speaks of a man afraid, one who wants with all his heart to be always there, yet frequently is one moment too late. One who can be relied upon, but who ends up falling just short. One who strives to shoulder the burden of others, but ends up taking the praise as well.

A man who strives to be Phoenix Wright.

Phoenix is known to be a bumbling mess of a man, who wears his heart on his sleeve, hinges his bets on bluffs, and is responsible for overturning law and order in his country. Yet the Phoenix we play as isn't that man, despite what he thinks. He's somebody who knows people well, and can tell when someone is innocent, and will put his own life and reputation on the line if it means protecting that, even against his own better judgement. He's a man whose bluffs are more thought out than the carefully constructed alibis of men with more power and time than he'll ever hope to have. He's a man who overturned law, not through excess trust or gullibility, but his willingness to call out corruption while protecting as many people as possible from the fallout of his actions. He couldn't have begun to change things the way he did were it not for the trust and love others put in him, or his dedication to the truth above all else. Phoenix Wright has, without fail, shown himself to be someone to fall back on. Someone who will shoulder your burdens, hell, someone who will take the consequences of your mistakes and victimhood onto himself if it means making sure you can wake up happier three days from now, and refuses to let it go until justice is served. He takes the blame for the Dark Age of Law not because nobody else could; it's easy to point to Gavin, Gant, and Karma, but because nobody else can. He will carry the consequence of horrid people for the rest of his life, egg on his face (or coffee), trudging through hell until a better tomorrow comes, all the while thriving against odds stacked so far against him it's a miracle he's even alive.

That is the man Hershel Layton longs to be, the man he goes out of his way to become every day of his life, and the man Phoenix Wright is by simply being his own goofy, bumbling, easily panicked self. It could be said that, for as soft and kind as Layton is, his drive to be a gentleman distances himself from being the protector he wants to be. For as brilliant as he can be, it doesn't help much when he doesn't have the answer. With all the time he spends trying to help others, he never lets himself move on from, or share, his own pain.

And that's why Luke needs to be framed for murder.

Imagine: a situation that Layton cannot deal with. One he couldn't expect. Set it up so he sees Luke holding the bloody weapon in the body of the scared victim. So caught in the moment he just can't put together any other alternative, try as he might. That's where Phoenix comes in. Immediately knowing Luke wouldn't do such a thing, he takes the case before a case can be made, even as Luke second guesses himself and Layton is sent to testify. He's made to put together evidence pointing directly to Luke's guilt. And just as all seems lost, he turns the question on its head, asks why Luke can't be guilty, and that's when he asks Layton for help with one thing; a puzzle. By reframing this impossible situation into Hershel's field of expertise, removing all elements of trauma and impossibility, Layton reorients himself, adjusts his testimony, and slowly the truth begins to unravel. Press after press, puzzle after puzzle, piece after piece, and just as a dead end seems to be in sight, who else should interject but the real murderer, panicking from how close they've gotten, pointing out the logical flaw, in turn outing himself as the true killer to Phoenix and, more importantly, Hershel.

And you do not hurt Hershel's friend.

A duel of words breaks out (likely a game/framing mechanic unique to this sequel) where Layton takes command of the conversation and trial, pressing the Murderer further and further into a corner until, at one point, he slips. Layton backs off and confidently hands the floor back to Phoenix, who immediately presents the evidence that contradicts the pressed statement. The prosecutor has to object to a confession made out of duress, but at this point, the damage to the alibi is done, and the Murderer can't weasel his way out any more. One more round of testimony, and one more puzzle to present a piece of evidence, and the case is closed.

Afterwards, Layton can't help but cry as he hugs Luke, realizing the man who had been put down all game, whose made himself out to be a fool and jumped to harebrained conclusions to just barely be proven right, was the man who not only saved them, but the man he aspired to be like his whole life. Someone who can shoulder the pain of others until it's light enough to carry. Someone who accepts his own past, and lets it guide him forward without weighing him down. Someone who can stare defeat, even death, in the eyes, panicking all the while, then turn around, point his finger, and demands one more answer, over and over until the truth has come out. Someone who can solve even the most impossible of puzzles, when all he has to go on is a hunch, and trust that it can be done. (I'd also like to foreshadow this by having the first puzzle on Wright's side be a Sudoku puzzle, specifically, one where you have to take a leap of faith at turn one to solve, trial and error-ing the first move with little penalty).

Basically, a game where Phoenix is on the back foot and Layton can support him is great, but a finale where Layton is in a no-win scenario, and Phoenix can see him through by bringing out what Layton can do best, that would be excellent.

#ace attorney #professor layton #pheonix wright #professor layton vs phoenix wright #PLPW

[coolmayordamien]

Some sweet, angsty Abestache for my beloved @willywarfy

"Don't wanna live a life that is comprehensive; cause seeing clear would be a bad idea."

Being with Wilford is an experience. Usually a good one, sometimes a frightening one, and frequently a painful one. But Abe would rather take a bullet to the heart than spend another moment without him.

He knows which one hurts more, trust him.

Again, it's usually good. Great, even. The happiest that he's ever been in his life, probably. Wilford is, in many ways, perfect for him.

Sometimes Abe will be sitting at his desk, pouring over case files with a glass of whiskey, and he'll look up to see his lover stretched out on the sofa (three guesses on who had decided that his office needed a sofa) with his hands behind his head and a shit-eating grin plastered all over his face. It always takes the detective off-guard when Wil just appears out of nowhere, even after all of this time.

"I was thinking about you," he'll explain, and Abe will realize that he is a goner. Because Wilford can (and sometimes does) spend the whole day stepping out from around corners or out of closets (and on one memorable occasion, falling out of the fridge) and right into his detective's arms, simply because he can't stop thinking about Abe.

It's a nice feeling, knowing just how often he crosses this man's mind. The detective has spent years, although he could not say precisely how many, consumed by thoughts of Wilford Warfstache, in one form or another. Obsessing over him, hunting him, desperate to force him to explain his actions. Cross-referencing alibies, keeping tabs on every single person who had managed to survive those awful events-

Getting too caught up in the details, focusing on the minutae of it all.

-devoting every moment of his life to this one man.

Things aren't so different now that they're an item, as a matter of fact. Abe still spends most of his time tracking his mustachioed maverick down, trying to get useful information out of him. And obsessing over Wil, of course. It's just a healthier, more enjoyable obsession now.

But it's not all fun and games. They're not a pair of springtime lovers, sound of mind and body, cured of their every imperfection by the miracle of love.

They're people. Flawed, damaged, traumatized people. And they share a lot of history together.

Sometimes when Wilford appears out of thin air, it doesn't just startle Abe; it terrifies him. He'll feel his heart begin to pound and will remember how it felt to drown in his own blood. He'll choke, tears streaming down his face as he fumbles for the gun, and it is not Wilford who is reaching to steady him but a wild-eyed Colonel with a 357 Magnum and his partner is right there he can't let them die not this time not again-

Sometimes Wil remembers things that he is supposed to forget, and forgets things that he is supposed to remember. Every so often he'll sort of...wake up. He'll stop whatever he's doing, his beautiful eyes losing their usual intensity as they scan the room, unfocused and afraid. Abe knows what he is looking for.

"They're not here, Wil," he'll say softly. The man with the pink mustache will startle, his face twisting up suspiciously. If Abe is lucky, Wilford will not recognize him.

"Where are they, detective?" William demands angrily on days that Abe is not lucky. "Where's Celine? Where's Damien? Where are my friends?"

"They're- they're not here," he stammers, because he promised that he would never lie to his lover, even when the truth only hurts him.

Once, Abe had lost his temper. Wil had been frightening him, had cornered him by the doorway and it was too much like what had happened before. He had snapped, grabbing him by the shoulders and shouting, "They're dead! They're gone and they are NEVER COMING BACK, no matter how many times we do this!"

Wil had shot him. Again.

That was...a very bad night indeed. Abe doesn't like thinking about it, remembering the pain of the bullet and the pain of the betrayal, knowing that he couldn't really die again but not being able to stop himself from crying out as his blood dripped onto the floor, as William became Wilford once again and screamed in horror at what he had done, crying and laughing and shaking as he pressed his bare hands against Abe's wound to staunch the bleeding that had never really begun, because it had never really stopped.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Wil rambled, his hands and sleeves turning pink with blood. "I didn't mean- I'm so sorry, I didn't know that it was loaded-"

Abe wonders who Wilford sees when he's like that. The District Attorney, maybe. It can't be Abe himself. William had absolutely meant to kill him.

Sometimes Abe looks at the man he loves and thinks, 'Murderer. You're in love with a murderer, you filthy traitor, what would everyone think? Are you crazy?'

Wilford always hears him when he wonders if he's crazy. Abe has just about given up on trying to figure out how he does it. But it's alright, because he only takes Abe in his arms, pressing a tender kiss to his forehead, his cheek, his mouth.

"Don't ever let anyone tell you that you're crazy," Wilford says strongly, a beautiful, mad grin on his face. "Not even yourself. I think that you might be in need of a little fun, sweetheart."

As they dance together on the stage, lights flashing, music blaring, Abe knows that everything is going to be alright. He's got what he needs; a man who can bring a little color into his world, a little madness into his life. A little bit of pain as well, true, but that just makes these few perfect moments all the sweeter.

"I love you," Abe says suddenly, and the joy on Wilford's motherlovin' face at those words--he would be happy if he could make Wil smile like that every day for the rest of time.

So he does.

#markiplier egos #who killed markiplier #wkm #wilford warfstache #markiplier fanfiction #wilford motherloving warfstache #markiplier warfstache #warfstache #abe the detective #abestache #angst #angst with a happy ending

[carnivorousyandeere]

Do you think Marcus would get frustrated if I get another therapist as a “second opinion”? 😭💀 (I’m doing it cause I’m bored and wanna see what happens 🤭)

Ily you (/p) and your oc’s 🫶

-Moodie 🫶

YEAAAAAAH this is such a good prompt Moodie 😩

CW: unethical therapy practices

For the first time in a long time, Marcus feels the sickening lurch of anxiety in his chest.

He tries to breathe from the diaphragm, and go through some basic steps he’d give a client. Find five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, and one thing you can taste.

Marcus can’t do it, can’t get past that first step. His gaze catches on the framed article hung over the door to his office, in perfect view from his desk.

“Miracle-Worker Marcus, The Rising Star In Mental Healthcare.” The headline and his tiny, black-and-white photo smiling from the page, seem to mock him now.

Marcus tears his gaze away, chewing at the skin of his lips, tapping his fingers on his desk and wracking his brain to try and figure out where he may have slipped up, what he could have done wrong.

Marcus worked so hard for everything he has, everything he wants— all of his money, successful career, his shining reputation, you. He was so sure he had you. He’d been so careful, so meticulous.

What if he lost everything? You only knew so much, but if people began sniffing around they might catch wind of the less-savory nature of his interest in you. The things he’s done to protect you— illegal, but necessary. Not that they would care for that nuance.

What would you say to the other therapist? What would you expose to them? If it came down to it, who would people believe— you, or him?

This last thought brings Marcus a pause and some comfort. Of course they’d believe him. And as for the other parts of his life… Marcus was careful, clean, quick, with airtight alibis. How could he possibly lose everything? Lose you?

Marcus managed to return to working, but the tick-tock of the office clock dragged out ever-so-slowly, the discomfiting feeling of uncertainty simmering low in his gut.

#Moodie✨ #havenmoodz #moot moot 💕 #mail 📬 #oc Marcus #yandere therapist #my thoughts #yandere #yandere oc #yandere imagines #yandere scenarios #yandere x darling #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere cw

[somebodytookmyusername]

inspired by this post by @scoupsahoy

Eddie died. Max is in a coma. Lucas and Erica are traumatized. And Steve Harrington is crying in the cold tub bloody, dirty, and clutching Munson's battle vest.

It was one mistake. It was a lapse of judgement on Steve's part. He just got tired of being a babysitter once and look where it got him. He killed them, he was the reason they died. Max wasn't supposed to be in a coma. She was supposed to be alive making snarky remarks of how close they were from being dead or how Vecna deserved to get his ass whooped by a sawed off shotgun. She was supposed to be here, held by Lucas, held by Steve.

Eddie... he wasn't supposed to be involved in this. He wasn't supposed to be bait. He wasn't supposed to be a hero. He was supposed to be alive, to be with Dustin, to be with Hellfire. It was a lapse of judgement. It was the moment when Steve knew he'd lost a friend was when he took Eddie to his back and ran as fast as he could. He couldn't even care less about the vines. He just had to keep Eddie alive by some miracle. But he didn't. If... if only he'd run fast enough. Maybe if he didn't trip, maybe Eddie is still alive. Maybe Eddie would be back in his Uncle's arms again.

But for now, he sobbed for their loss.

----

“Steve, you need to eat.” Nancy gently cooed. He has been staying beside Max for almost a month now. Just alternating between sleeping and breaking down. The Party had took turns on leaving him some food, sometimes the containers would be empty, sometimes it hasn't been touched. Robin has been worried over Steve. He already lost his job at Family Video. He's already so thin. He never left Max's side unless he's sure she'd be safe but he's never gone longer than 2 hours no matter how much they force him to go home and take a nap.

Those hours, he'd go home take a freezing shower to calm his nerves and if he feels like it, he'd snatch an apple then hit the road to go to Eddie's headstone. He paid for the funeral, the casket, the service, everything. He felt responsible for not being able to save the only one person who genuinely thought Steve Harrington is a good person. The only person who showed that someone actually believes in him. For Eddie Munson, this is the least he can do. He'd left the jacket on his headstone, washed but not truly clean. Steve assumed Eddie would look at the bloodstains as ‘very metal.’

‘He always comes back.’ Dustin thought. Steve was great at bouncing back from the horrors of the Upside Down but not this time. He knows how Steve cared for all of them, and losing Max has been his breaking point. Dustin barely recognizes Steve anymore. The glassy, tired eyes, the thin line of his lips, the dark bags under his eyes, even his hair lost all it poof. If Steve Harrington was drained before, he's devoid of color now.

Robin tried to talk to him, to tell him that its alright. That he didn't have any fault in this. That he was also a victim too. Yet no matter how much she tried, Steve wasn't having any of it. It shocked her to her core with how much Steve blamed himself for everything. He never dived deep to any of his troubles but what he said was enough for Robin to know that his bestfriend is spiraling down and has always been trying to hide everything in a smile.

“Steve, Dustin needs a lift.” it's still one the responsibilities of his that he remembers to do. He just nodded softly and took his keys before nodding to Robin about Max. He hasn't talked after the whole incident, just quiet, thinking, hoping. Dustin babbled the whole ride about Suzie and school, the kid was careful not to let anything slip about Eddie or any of the Hellfire guys, specially some of Gareth's news about Uncle Wayne.

Steve hasn't talked to any adult, not even giving an alibi or a statement. The police figured he's too shocked to even talk, The Harrington's paid a hefty sum just to keep Steve of the newspaper and the rumors.

As soon as they went to Dustin's house, Steve was greeted by Claudia Henderson with a warm hug. it wasn't too much, but it wasn't formal either. Just like a warm hug from a mom seeing his new son's friend. He almost teared up by the gesture but he held it in. He nodded and almost walked back to his car before Claudia held his wrist gently and sat him down in one of their couches. He felt the couch sink as she sat beside him too.

“How are you doing, Steven?” if he answered the question, it would be the first conversation he's had after everything but maybe Claudia was the best person to start all over. His head hung low trying to hide how easily his eyes starts to water.

“I'm doing great, Mrs. Henderson” he said without even looking in her eye. He can get used to this. Just lying to keep everyone from knowing he's suffering because they don't deserve to know. They're already happy. He's just a liability waiting to happen.

“You’re an good child, Steven. I don't think I could see anyone taking care of Dustin like you do. But you have to take care of yourself too we know you're hurting too. Dustin knows.” she took his hand and held it. He couldn't take it anymore, the walls he'd put up for the past month has been breached. Steve let his tears fall has he tried to hide it with his free hand.

“I couldn't save them, they should've been here instead of me. I was supposed to be the one who dies. I was supposed to have it under control. I shouldn't have left them for a while.” his voice was hoarse as he said this. Claudia squeezed his hand and enveloped him in a warm hug as Steve cried on her shoulder. She knew he was suffering but she didn't know he blamed himself for everything let alone wished he'd be the one who dies. She let him sob while rubbing his back.

“You're a good person. They wouldn't make it out alive if it wasn't for you. Don't be too hard on yourself. You saved them, even Max.” she said as she held him. He tried stopping the tears from falling but he can't. He just sobbed quietly.

“Thank you.”

#so i placed claudia as the one who's gonna hold him #because one he's not that close with the Sinclairs #two he's not gonna go to Karen Wheeler for advice because holly and ted is there #three joyce and hopper back in cali #four he wouldn't put robin with the burden he's carrying because he thinks she doesn't deserve to know #im gonna make a second version where its gonna be lucas who talks to him. #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things 4 #steddie #fanfic #max mayfield #steve and dustin #dustin henderson #lucas sinclair #jopper #joyce byers #claudia henderson #babysitter!steve

[arsenicetvieillesenseignes]

Aujourd'hui, dévidons le fil d'une épopée mécanique, celle du Garage St Christophe, un foutu nom pour un endroit où les miracles sont aussi rares que l'amour dans un mariage de cinquante ans. C'est ici qu'officiait autrefois Gérard, un artiste de la clé à molette, dont le génie résidait dans sa capacité à confondre une bougie d’allumage avec une bougie parfumée. Un jour, Robert, un aventurier de l'asphalte, s’y arrête avec sa voiture qui crachote comme un tubard à la réforme. Gérard, le genre de type à te vendre un parapluie en plein désert, diagnostique un changement de pneu. Robert en reste comme deux ronds de flan : « Vous plaisantez ?! Ma bagnole a la bronchite, et vous voulez changer ses godasses ? ». Gérard, pas démonté pour un sou, lui répond : « Tout est connecté mon cher, c'est le papillon qui bat des ailes à Pékin et provoque une tempête à New-York ». Robert, déboussolé par tant de poésie, finit par hocher la tête. Gérard s’attelle à la tâche avec la précision d'un boxeur dans une cristallerie. Résultat ? La voiture est toujours là, sous un amas de pièces et de revues de mécanique datant des années 70. Ici, les clients venaient avec l'espoir d'un miracle, mais repartaient souvent à pied. Dans le village, chacun.e avait une histoire à raconter sur ce garage. « Tu vois cette bagnole ? Gérard a essayé de la réparer avec une vieille chaussette et du fil de fer. Elle a roulé trois mètres et elle a pris feu. » Au bar d’en face, le comptoir avait une forme incurvée tellement Gérard s’y accoudait. « J'ai ressuscité une vieille Renault aujourd'hui. » « Ah ouais ? Et elle roule ? » « Non. Mais maintenant, quand tu tournes la clé, elle fait 'vroum' avant de mourir. Pourquoi réparer ce qui va finir par se casser de toute façon ? Le mouvement perpétuel, c'est pour les horloges suisses, pas pour les bagnoles. » Entre deux lampées, il laisse échapper un rire qui se perd dans le brouillard de la fumée de cigarette. Une voiture, finit-il par dire en allumant une autre clope, c'est comme un alibi. Ça tient la route jusqu'à ce que les choses se mettent à chauffer.

#AncienGarage #GarageSaintChristophe #Abandon #Desuétude #HauteLoire

[applepiesandalibis]

I decided to finally make an introduction post, so here we are

I'm Dee! Or Diane. Minor (adults can interact, just be sfw and don't cross the line), she/they. I identify as demigirl and asexual. Also I'm autistic

My content here is centered around music, some of my favorite artists are:

The pAper chAse / John Congleton and The Nighty Nite (as you can probably guess by looking at my profile. I mostly post about them, has been hyperfixating for more than a year :]), Black Eyes, Xiu Xiu, Ten In The Swear Jar, Tub Ring, Will Wood, Miracle Musical, Lemon Demon, Mother Mother, Modest Mouse, Radiohead, Cocteau Twins, The Residents, The Front Bottoms and more!

I have a lot of other interests besides music, but I'm too lazy to list all of them. In general I like to draw, post my sillies and randomly disappearing into the void sometimes.

DNI is just basic stuff, you know, don't be a bad person and have fun👍🏻

Please interact if we have similarities in music taste. I need you people

I'd be really glad if you follow me on here too:

Second blog — @r0semirages (I follow from there btw)

Pinterest — @v0rtexofself

Art instagram — @rosemiraqes

Meme instagram — @ms.fregoli (barely active, but still)

Spotify

Questions, DMs and all sorts of interactions on any of my platforms are very welcomed :)

That's all I guess, have a nice day/night!!

#intro post #blog intro #pinned post #the paper chase #john congleton #black eyes band #xiu xiu #tub ring #will wood #miracle musical #lemon demon #not tagging the rest #cause that's a lot

[slashingdisneypasta]

Familial!Horror Villains x Sibling!Reader || Headcanons

Plot: What being their sibling includes.

Includes: Freddy Krueger, Sawyer Brothers and Tiffany Valentine

Warnings: Some angst- which will be in the colour red.

Freddy: Abusive home life + Attempted murder + Actual murder + Cops. In fact most of Freddy's HC's are angst, but I'm only gonna colour the really bad stuff.

Sawyer Brothers: Chop Top getting drafted.

Tiffany: Not much, actually /: You and Chucky hating each other will be in red but its not that bad.

You were adopted a little after Freddy- Underwood wasn’t collecting enough child assist from just one kid apparently so he picked you up.

Freddy Krueger: 2-year age difference.

You were basically a goddamn baby, and Underwood sure as hell wasn’t equipped to take care of an infant, so most of the duties fell on… yep. 5-year-old Freddy’s shoulders. Not by his choice, obviously, in fact he attempted to kill you a couple of times (Almost drowned you in the bath, left you outside one night in the dead of winter, got his hands on a knife once and considered sinking it in your little stomach, etc), but by some miracle, you survived. Maybe Underwood showed up at the exact right time, or you spontaneously learned howta fucking crawl, but you survived.

It was only when you got a little older, and could talk and play with him, that you two really started to get along… you know, be more sibling-ish.

You could play games with him, so he thought… huh. Maybe I should keep them around.

Y’all didn’t play mundane stuff like Mums and Dads, or anything though, oh no no… Y’all played stuff like Hide & Seek, and Supreme Court, and… Life or Death. How long can you hold your breath? How long can you stay still before he gets too close with Mr Underwoods straight razor? Would you rather fall off the Empire State Building or get stuck in a freezer? Etc, etc. Freddy was always a… creative, child…

You weren’t fazed, though. That was just your childhood, that was just your brother. There’s nothing weird about any of this! You were just the same, in fact.

He also told elaborate bedtime stories in the dark when neither of you could sleep- its not like Underwood would do anything if you stayed up past your non-existent ‘bedtimes’. He was always passed out by 6 in the afternoon.

You ended up never really getting any new clothes your size or your style, even into your teenage years (until you got yourself a part time job that is)- you were wearing Freddy’s old cast offs for most of your childhood. All ratty sweaters and moth-eaten t-shirts hanging shapelessly off your body.

OH MY GOD, Freddy was a nuisance in your teenage years. He always seemed to know when you were planning to sneak out and would blackmail your ass for no apparent reason apart from wanting to be an asshole. He’d make up some thing he wanted, like pizza or beer, but you knew he only did this for the fun.

You were always patching each other up after beatings.

No one understands eachother like the two of you, which made it difficult for the both of you to make friends- especially you. Because you weren’t the kid of a hundred maniacs, like he was- you were just an orphan. The Springwood kids could forgive that, but because you stood by your big brother you never really made any other relationships until Late teenagehood when you basically decided he was really annoying and you could stand to have some space.

When you came home one day to Mr Underwood dead, you're the one that figured out what to do with the body. No hesitation. You didn't even need him to explain anything- you were relieved.

Him coming to you after a kill sorta became a routine? Freddy would do his evil thing, you know, then come over to your house and you would talk about it (You're smart. You want plausible deniability) but you would know what happened anyway and put on the kettle.

You were also his alibi.

You were the first person cops came to question when Freddy was jailed. You gave them nothing- just sorta toyed with them for a bit, until one of the policeman suggested you had something to do with it. This was a conmen theory over the years, but you never ever served any time because no one could ever find any evidence against you.

Eventually a certain frizzy haired Final Girl would come to you in her early 20's, having tracked you down for her own closure. She got nothing out of you of course though, except for a couple curious, sinister things.

You told her Freddy wasn't the monster in that house, when she touched on your childhood.

And when she asked you if you were 'just the same as him', you admitted in some ways, you could be even worse.

YOU GET!... No privacy!! Congrats. Chop Top and Nubbins will literally yank you outta the damn shower (Assuming they even have a working shower-) if they wanna show you something. And Bubba is not much better XDD He’s just a bit more chill, so he’ll just wait til you come out- then bombard you. And then theirs Drayton, who will just yell through the door to get the fuck out; Dinner’s on the table and if you don’t eat it now, so help him, you will go to bed hungry.

Sawyer Brothers: I’m not gonna specify your age difference because honestly, I don’t know the ages of the Sawyer brothers.

Goodluck putting a lock on your door- Nubbins will melt at it with a soldering iron until Chop Top can ram himself into the door and it breaks open. Yes this has happened, and then all you had was a curtain for a door because Drayton’s ‘not made of money’.

 When you were little, you were the only one not totally feral (Well, you were- but you were cute when you were worn out at least XD ), so Drayton liked you the most (Yes he plays favourites, Of course he does. It goes Grandpa, You, Bubba, Chop Top, literally anyone else, then Nubbins), especially when you would ‘help’ him cook. And by help, I obviously mean follow him around the kitchen taking things he handed you and putting them in a line on the bench. As you got older you learned a few things in the kitchen from your older brother, of course.

Chop Top used to herd together you and Bubba in his room, cuddle you both up to his sides and play music for you both- all the time. Drayton’s actually got an old polaroid of it in his wallet. Honestly, as far as insane big brothers go, Chop wasn’t bad.

The twins both liked to dress you and Bubba up like dolls when you were both littler (VERY likely with victims’ clothes), and Nubbins would take a million photos of you both ‘all dressed up’. There are embarrassing as hell pictures of you two gender swapped, as bride and groom, as animals, going on Holiday in Hawaiian shirts, with your faces all painted on like you’re in KISS or you’re clowns, etc.

Actually- Nubbins has taken so many pictures of you guys growing up that you would basically have a flip book of your lives if he didn’t lose or destroy half of them.

Ohhhhh god, the day that Chop Top got drafted, was one of the worst days of all your lives. Screaming fights, because Drayton and Nubbins get angry not sad, crying because Bubba didn’t believe for one second that his brother would come home, and hiding because Chop Top refused to face any of it.  

You could never leave your brothers, and your grandpa- this is your family; This is your home, in fact, and they need you. You're just as insane as they are and belong there.

Tiffany: My Mother always told me; Once is a blessing twice is a curse. // Chucky: Well, that would explain your sister.

Tiffany Valentine: 5-year age difference.

Shut the f u c k up, Chucky.

Anyway-

You and Tiffany have a pretty typical relationship for siblings- you irritate the shit out of each other because know too much about each other but also get along quite well.

Like, you two were quite happy to actually spend time together- willingly- when you were living in the same house. Yes, you fought and when you did the skies might as well have been falling for how awful it was for everyone in hearing distance, but most of the time you understood each other.

You used to watch Jennifer Tilly movies together! You knew each others snack preferences well (Orange juice became wine eventually, but they mostly stayed the same XD ) and could quote whole sections of the movies together when the inspiration struck. Your mother thought you two were wierdos for it.

Tiffany often used you as her living doll when you were growing up; Experimenting with hair styles and make up's on you.

She was so encouraging!! She convinced you that you were beautiful, and would not tolerate you saying anything else about yourself.

OH. BOY. Anyone tried to pick on you? Your big sister was coming and the assholes were going to regret it, greatly. Mamma said to look after each other, because you're all each other has in the end, and Tiffany took that, like everything else her mum ever told her, quite seriously.

You did, too- when Chucky turned up you were immediately not on board. You were distrustful of him from the goddamn start. Grilling him in the kitchen when they would hang out at your (Yours and Tiffany's mums) place, 'subtly' trying to scare him off by bringing up past boyfriends (Tiff!! Guess who I saw at the store just then!! // Oh geez, Y/N please don't- not again- // BECK. He's back in town! He went to Canada and fought a MOOSE!- oh chucky... hi... didn't know you were here... ), generally being even more unpleasant towards him as he was to you and your mother.

You and Tiffany fought about this, but in the end she always sorta agreed that Chucky was a jerk- she just... kinda... liked that about him? It was infuriating for you.

THIS DOES NOT MEAN, THOUGH, THAT WHEN YOU AND CHUCKY FOUGHT SHE WOULD AGREE WITH HIM EVERY TIME. We all know Tiff is not a push over. She chooses Chucky, knowing he's a dick, and she disagrees with him quite often. It was usually You and Tiffany VS Chucky.

When she was turned into a doll, she called you up to just let you know?? XDD Like, I'm okay but I'm a doll now... yeah, no, a real doll... *sigh* yes this was Chucky's fault... (*Chucky, whose ears perk at hearing his name: IS THAT Y/N?? YOU TELL THAT STUPID BITCH TO GO FUCK THEMSELF.) No, Chucky, I'm not gonna tell them that, jesus... - Oh, you heard Y/N? Okay I'll tell him. *Tiff turns back to Chucky* They want me to tell you that they were the one that stole your CD last year. (Chucky: I KNEW IT. Where is it?!). The garbage. (Chucky, hearing you laughing your ass off through the receiver even from the distance he is away: Tiff... are you sure we cant kill Y/N?) They're my baby sibling, Chucky! Je-sus!

#Slashers x Reader #Familial!Slashers x Reader #Familial Love #Familial!Slashers x Sibling!Reader Headcanons #Tiffany Valentine #Headcanons #Slasher x Reader Headcanons #Slashers #Chucky #Charles Lee Ray #Sawyer Brothers #Drayton Sawyer #Chop Top Sawyer #Bubba Sawyer #Nubbins Sawyer #Freddy Krueger #X Reader

[mxrstar]

[ID:

INSTRUCTION MANUAL

here’s how to talk about yourself:

love something describe it

I’ll start—

my friends are all beautiful including those I haven’t met yet

miracles happen by accident just look at rainbows and good poems

being transgender feels like getting away with the money. I told you my name and you believed me. don’t you know I made it up?

my nightmares keep me alive. they give me a reason to complain, a make-shift pain to justify the wound

all my alibis are confessions. sometimes I think I love you just to rob you of a chance to hate me

here’s how innocence works: 

be guilty regardless of your crime 

I’ll start—

by never asking questions and telling you the truth

a tree falls in a forest and no one gets hurt. the words I’m sorry I fell crush a leaf or two, like laughter after a distasteful joke

love, I want to make you dinner, I am addicted to a certain type of kindness. can you tell me where you keep the knives?

one day I’ll forget all my tomorrows like blowing candles after dark

here’s why I have started to miss you

even though we were never close: if you love something enough

I’ll start—

loving you, too. let me stare, just for a while, I will testify against this sadness, kill the lights and tell you stories until you fall asleep

is there a way to touch you without hurting you? does it count if I keep my eyes open, if I always know where my hands are?

here’s your heart on a pedestal

it is so far away I cannot touch it. I put it there all by myself, against my wishes, regardless of your will. perhaps

I can start

again tomorrow. I can love you more by trying less. my friends are all beautiful including those I haven’t met yet. I am alive, guilty and often unkind. be gentle with me, darling. I think I am trying to let you in

/end ID]

#my poems #sometimes i talk #poetry #poets on tumblr #never know how to tag this stuff

[driftwithme]

I love for a world where Yancy is everyone's favorite Victim #1. It's the older sibling in him that designated him for such faith, truly.

Newton and Hermann ask him to go to the labs later and he appears dismayed but on time. "What are you minions plotting now". He sits for two crazy hours straight listening to Newt and Hermann rant possible solutions of how ans why he could have appear in the middle of the ocean as if nothing happened after Operation Pitfall. When Herc finally gets him out he's green and horrified, wondering if he is part kaiju (he is not, they ckecked) or if he is a ghost (Herc's trying hella hard not to laugh because this is serious goddammit!!!).

Pentecost requests him to deal with some diplomats while Herc and him are out (going on a freaking date, he knows, Herc told him). His face is stuck on a painful smile and that's how Raleigh finds Mako putting ice to his face pitifully on their room. He just wishes his brother and bestfriend were better at hiding their amusement. Hello? He is in misery???

He is the one the cooks call when they want someone to taste their new food (sometimes a miracle from heaven, sometimes the devil's ass served on a plate). He is the guy the med bay calls when they have developed a brand new kaiju-based treatment for his old hurts (at least Chuck and Raleigh are trapped with him, Victim #2 and #3). He is the j-techs out to go when they need an alibi to go out to a bar ("Yancy needs enviroment enrichment!") and the man who sits a listen to Mako's rant when Raleigh is being ridiculous or when she doesn't want to worry or bother Raleigh (he gets it and never complains about that one).

He's Thee Testing Guy.

It happens so often, he teases Raleigh about being jealous of not having enough time with his older brother. Because Raleigh more than once has tell people to back off or fuck off or some variant, forcing his brother to rest.

Raleigh knows Yancy doesn't mind, that the people on the Shatterdome does it because they love Yancy, that he's good company and an amazing listener and his brother has such a good heart. But they didn't grow up with Yancy. They don't know that his older brother always wanted to be a hero. That Yancy is the type to hide his pain and continue on and on until his body collapses, playing it as nothing but "being a bit old already haha".

Yancy's smart enough to take care of himself most of the time, but after he came back to live, his sense cracked a bit. Survivors guilt? No, whatever is opposite of that. Yancy feels guilty because he died and left Raleigh alone and didn't help the program when it needed him. He is desperate to reclaim years of his life that are gone. He is terrified that all his friends and co-workers would disappear and he'd die on his sleep or wake up screaming tied to some kaiju testing table. Stacker and Chuck suffer from that too, but they were dead for hours. Yancy was dead for 5 years.

Yancy is like that dog that you must reject play time with because they need to rest and eat. It breaks your heart who impossibly fond you are of him. He's so good, so gentle and looks so strong that most people sometimes forget he is human too.

#pacific rim #pacrim #pacific rim 2013 #pacrim 2013 #raleigh becket #yancy becket