#fuck a casket turn me into a tree

[spacecowboyhotch]

The Bee & the Bear, Chapter 1: And Then There Were Four

summary: Mikey’s death brings the gang back together again.

pairing: carmy berzatto x f!reader (Bee)

contents: 18+/NSFW/heavy content, mention of suicide/mental illness, grief, longing, pining, angst, friends to strangersish to lovers

wc: 2.1k

an: this is my first time writing for the Bear so i beg of you to go easy on me.

series masterlist

The sky is gray and cloudy and birds are singing softly, perched in dead trees. There’s snow on the ground, crunching beneath the weight of everyone’s shoes. Beneath the weight of everyone’s grief, so heavy it's palpable. It’s the coldest day of the year, fitting for the occasion. Because Mikey’s dead, taken from all of you with his own hand.

You’re sandwiched between Sugar and Richie, to keep them apart, to keep them together. Regardless of their history and their care for each other, it's always touch and go– a disaster waiting to happen. But with you here and in the flesh after so many years, they’re both trying to balance that fucked up mixture of happiness from seeing your face and the pure despair from losing Mikey.

“Thank you for comin’, sweetheart,” Richie squeezes your shoulders, his eyes soft and watery when you look up at him.

You lean more firmly into his side, “You know I wouldn’t miss it.”

“You know who would.”

You know exactly who he’s talking about. Carmy isn’t here, and while anyone else would expect him to show up to his brother’s funeral it had not surprised you. Not with how the last several years have gone. Richie’s words make you sigh tiredly, and you give him a stern look. The last thing that Mikey’s funeral needs is more blaming. That didn’t start at Mikey’s funeral though, the Berzattos have pointed fingers at each other for as long as you can remember.

There are faces familiar and not around you, all of them turned to the ground, paying their last respects to Mikey. This hurts, it hurts deeper than anything you’ve ever felt before. Since you’d gotten that phone call from Sugar something heavy and dark has sat in the pit of your stomach, taking root and finding its home there. Life has always been the 5 of you, even with you and Carmy strewn across the country. You and Mikey and Carmy and Sugar and Richie. A reality that you’d always known, that you found comfort in on days you felt a little too homesick. Your relationships with all of them heavily inspired your art, they had become your family.

As you watch Mikey’s casket be lowered into the ground you can’t help but feel like your lens on life has shifted. For the first time in a long time, you aren’t completely sure where anything goes.

—

“Are you hungry?” Sugar asks as the two of you shed your coats and head into her kitchen.

There was no repass, what with the restaurant currently closed. Everyone had agreed it didn’t feel right to eat anything but The Beef in Mikey’s honor. There had been one last huddle, shared goodbyes and I love yous, and many tears before everyone had dispersed. You’d promised Sugar that you’d help her sort through everything since Carmy never showed up.

“Starving.”

She sets the file box full of Mikey’s paperwork on the counter and takes a step towards the fridge, “I’ll make us something.”

You rest your hand over hers, shaking your head, “No, it’s good, Sugar. Sit, start sifting, I’ll do it.”

“You sure?” She asks skeptically– sure you know how to work your way around a kitchen-- its impossible not to with Mikey and Carmy-- before you’ve never been known for being a cook. You're the artist, the traditional creative of the bunch who has mess and color strewn all about.

“I’m sure, just let me help. It’s what I’m here for, yeah?”

Her eyes go a little soft and she nods, “Yeah, okay.”

She goes to sit at the breakfast bar, looking at the pile of documents that hold Mikey’s life. Heaps and heaps of paper that mean nothing to her. That do a terrible job of capturing who Mikey was and what his life meant to others.

You open the fridge, poking through the contents as if you’ve done this a million times. That’s just how things are with Sugar, they’re comfortable– always have been and always will be. She has the ingredients for their mom’s chicken piccata in her fridge and you quickly fetch them and the proper tools.

Sugar does her best to stay on task, but the sounds of someone else in the kitchen, and the smell of her mother’s food are distracting. She watches the flick of your wrist and the speed of your knife. You dice and sprinkle and stir in similar ways to her brothers. It’s impossible to notice.

“You look like them,” She says, her voice a little melancholic.

“Look like who?” You ask, glancing over your shoulder at her in concern.

The smile on her face is wistful, “Like Mikey. Like Carmy. Carmy especially.”

Something in your chest cracks. You turn back to the pan in front of you, spooning sauce over the chicken one too many times, just to stay away from the tender look on her face. “They did teach me the basics.”

She’s silent for a moment, battling herself, wondering if she should ask this question. It’s a touchy subject, it always has been despite your closeness but she just had to know. “I sorta know the answer to this, but did you…did you try?”

“Don’t start with me, Nat.”

“I just want to know,” She assures you gently. “Did you really try?”

You reach for the jar of capers angrily, though this is less about the anger and more about the hurt. About the longing, this brings up. “He treated me just like everyone else. There was nothing for me to try.”

“You know Carmen’s always had a soft spot for you.”

“Not soft enough to follow through on his words,” You mumble sourly.

She goes quiet then because you’re right. Carmy had taken off for culinary school and seemingly never looked back, besides the infamous Christmas– the one you don’t even know about. All of his promises of staying in touch and showing each other new worlds fell flat.

You had tried. You offered to take him on a food crawl through Seattle where you were going to art school.

“Oh my fucking god,” She grits out, the shock in her voice sending you into fight or flight. The plate in your hand clatters to the counter without breaking, thankfully.

You turn to her, leaning across the counter, “What? What’s wrong?”

Her eyes continue to scan the page in front of her, over and over as if the letters will say something different. “Michael you fucking— he left Bear the restaurant.”

“He what?”

“Fucking Mikey,” She stands abruptly, scrubbing her face with her hands. “Ok, ok, um–uh–can you call Bear? I’m gonna call Richie.”

“Me? Call Carmy?”

Was the man that you’d fallen in love with when he was just a little boy really still out there? Sure, he was— living and breathing, walking and cooking and testing. But, all of that was mechanical. Was his smile still the same? His laugh? Did a heart still beat in that empty chest of his? Did his blue eyes still hold as much as Lake Michigan?

Sugar sees your panic, face softening with concern, “We both know he won’t answer, you’ll be fine.”

“But—“

“Please, Bee?”

The name that Sugar calls you knocks the breath from your lungs. It’s been a long, long time since anyone has called you that— since you left for college. Since the last time you’d seen Carmy. Would he still call you that? He’d started it after all. Named you Bee because you were obsessed with painting flowers, they covered your room, all of your canvas and anything else your parents deemed invaluable enough to lose to your hobby turned career.

“Hey, you okay?” She asks when you don’t respond after several seconds.

You blink a few times before refocusing on her. You shrug, trying to appear nonchalant, “What? Yeah, just fine.”

Her brow furrows, and she steps closer reaching out to run her hand up and down your arm, “Are you sure?”

You give a smile that doesn’t touch your eyes and fish your phone out of your pocket, “Yeah, I’m good. I’ll go call Carmy.”

Before Sugar can respond you make your way to the front door and let yourself out. You’re met with the frigid Chicago air, the wind whipping at your cheeks. With your coat inside, the cold chills you to the bone but the feeling is welcome. It shocks your nervous system in a way that makes it easier to call Carmy. Your head is clear, and most of your focus is now on warming your fingers as you dial his number and start to pace.

Sugar was right– he doesn’t answer. It rings and rings and rings until you hear his voice for the first time in years. It's the same message that he’d set years ago: Hey, it's Carmy. Let it rip at the beep.

Many beats of silence pass before you realize that it's time for you to speak.

“Oh fuck, sorry. H-Hi, Carmen. It’s…it’s me. Nat and I just went through Mikey’s will and well…he left it to you. The Beef I mean, it’s yours. Sugar really needs you to come home to figure this out.”

You pause for a moment, wondering if you should say anything about yourself. About your friendship that he’s let crumble. About your heart that he’s ground into dust with each day that goes by with no contact. No that won’t do.

“Just come home and help your fucking sister. Please, Carmy,” You plead softly before hanging up.

You aren’t sure if that was a good enough attempt, but you don’t want to risk calling back and having to face him. Despite your worry, it does the trick.

—

You and Sugar are tucked in Mikey’s office, combing through records of unpaid pills and disorganized expense reports when it happens.

“Cousin!” Richie yells with just enough disbelief in his voice for you to know.

You and Sugar look at each other with wide eyes, hands frozen and full of stacks of paper. You can hear them clambering through the restaurant, making their way to you and you wish that some freak accident that denies the laws of physics would swallow you up.

To your dismay, It doesn’t.

Carmy and Richie round the corner, and you’re a goner like you’ve been all these years. Soft blue eyes that give the crystal skies a run for their money and a messy mop of ashy hair. It doesn’t matter that a man waits for you at home or how many times you’ve told yourself that you’re over Carmy. It never sticks, you don’t know why you thought it would. You were hoping that he’d hurt you enough for it to fade.

Carmy stops in his tracks at the sight of you, throwing Richie a look that clearly says “you couldn’t have warned me”. You aren’t sure how to interpret it– was he excited to see you? Upset?

He stuffs his hands into his pockets nervously and leans against the door frame. “Hi. Hey,” He means to say it to you and Sugar, but his eyes don’t leave your face.

“Hey,” You squeak, cheeks heating in embarrassment. You clear your throat and try again. “Hi, Carmen.”

“Hey, Bear,” Sugar waves her hand playfully as if she’s trying to get his attention, and his eyes finally flit over to her.

He smiles, one that you know is genuine despite that lack of teeth. His eyes drop to the ground and he nods a few times before glancing to Natalie again. “So he left it to me,” He says lamely.

“Yeah, Carmy, he left it to you,” Sugar repeats his words, frustrated not only with Carmy for his late arrival or for his lack of appearance at his own brother’s funeral but for this entire situation.

None of them should be here trying to figure this out. Mikey should be in this kitchen with Richie, she should be at home thinking about what she and Pete for dinner. And though this finally brought you and Carmy home, she wishes that things were the way they were just a few short weeks ago. She wants Mikey alive.

“Guess that means I should open it.”

Richie gives out a shout before clapping Carmy on the shoulder, “See now I like the sound of that, cousin.”

Carmy flinches under Richie’s touch, hoping no one will notice. It's not something he wants to talk about or even think about. He can feel your eyes on him and quickly makes up an excuse to put some space between the two of you. “I’m gonna go check out the stock in the fridge. It— uh, good to see you, Bee.”

You nod awkwardly, though those simple words make your heart race, “You too, Carmy.”

Richie doesn’t follow after him, stepping into the office and crossing his arms. The three of you sit there in a silence that screams he has something to say.

“Just say it, Richie. Fuck’s sake,” Sugar finally says, rubbing her temples.

Your brow furrows as your head whips from side to side to look between them. “Say what?”

“You know he’ll notice, right?” Richie asks you, leaning back against the desk.

“Notice what?”

Richie looks at Sugar expectantly, and she sighs, rubbing at her temples again. She fixes you with a look that is as sympathetic as it is accusatory, “That you don’t call him Bear anymore.”

| > chapter 2: Back in the Beef

let me know if you’d like to be on the carmy taglist!

#carmy berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x fem!reader #carmy x reader #carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto fanfiction #carmy berzatto fic #carmy berzatto angst #the bear fanfiction #not sfw #arson writes the bear #the bee and the bear

[transgenderknothead]

The Funeral

Warnings: Spoilers, Death, mentions of depression, suicide, funeral, Travis’s dad(brief mention), ugly crying, descriptions of a dead body(in casket)

AU: Sal never killed anyone, no one went crazy, no cult, Larry’s body is still there after he dies

Pairing: Larry x Twin!reader, Sal x StepSibling! reader, Travis x Best Friend!reader

Pronouns used: They/Them

POV: Y/N

None of us could believe he’d done it. My brother had suffered depression since his early teen years, but now, he was gone. I curled into myself in the corner of the room, trying to make myself as small as possible. I hid my face behind my knees in an attempt to hide my tears, but Travis noticed. Of course he would, he’d never gotten along with my brother but he was my best friend.

“Hey,” he spoke softly, unusual for him, “listen, I’m not sure what to say, I’ve never had a death this personal to someone I knew.”

I lifted my head to give him a half-assed smile. I leaned onto his shoulder, letting out a breath.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do,” I admitted, “I can’t remember a minute we weren’t either sitting in our room or up in the tree house together.”

“Yeah,” he placed his hand on my back awkwardly. I knew of course, about him, I was the only one that knew. His dad watched us from across the room, making eye contact with Travis before he nudged me to sit up.

“Fuck, I’m gonna miss him,” I rested my hands in my face. He stayed silent this time, just rubbing my back. 

“Did he leave you a note?” it was an innocent question, but it brought tears to my eyes.

“Yeah, I’m gonna read part of it for my speech.”

“Would you rather I go get Sal? He’s probably better at this than I am,” He spoke after a moment.

“Yeah,” I laughed a little, more tears slipping out when I looked over at the casket. Travis got up next to me and disappeared into the small crowd of people who knew him from school. Sal walked towards me, his prosthetic left at home. The area around his scars were puffy, probably from scratching out of habit.

“Hey Y/N/N,” he greeted gently, “God, you’re worse than Lisa.”

I hadn’t even thought about how my mom was feeling, she was probably breaking down somewhere near Harry. Sal sat with me, pulling at the collar of his suit. 

“I can’t do this,” sobs escaped my lips.

“Have you seen him yet? It might help accept it, it helped me with my mom.”

I shook my head, Sal standing and pulling me to my feet. He carefully guided me over to the wooden box, and looking at my brother laying there broke me further. His skin has turned ashy, his eyes sunken in. If not for those features, and the lack of snoring, I would have thought he was asleep.

“Hon, their ready for your speech,” Mom put her hand on my shoulder, puffy eyes and all she still smiled at me. I stood on the podium a moment, trying to find the words.

“My brother,” I started, “most people who commit suicide don’t leave notes, but he left two, one to me and one to Sal, I would like to read just a little bit of mine, censored of course we all knew Larry. Y/N, I’m sorry. I am so sorry I left you like this, I’m sorry I couldn’t go on, and I’m sorry that I stared you in the face for months, and pretended to get better. You have to keep going though, move on, get out of this town, you’re gonna do great things. I’m sorry I won’t be there to see them.”

I left the podium, silently reading the rest to myself, the other’s didn’t need to hear it. I love you, I promise I do. And I hate having to leave the same way Dad did, but I cannot keep going, and you cannot keep being held back. Your favorite brother, Larry. Goodbye kid, take anything you need from my closet to help get through this.

#sally fisher #sally face #sal fisher #sal fisher x reader #larry johnson #larry x reader #Sal and Larry #larry johnson x reader #sally face larry #travis phelps #travis phelps x reader #lisa johnson

[turanga4]

For @hinnymicrofic Prompt 18: Stop WARNING IT IS SAD

Read here (but it's long-ish) or on Ao3.

It’s quiet behind him, but loud in his head. Harry remembers a time when he could slip away unnoticed, when the Burrow’s kitchen table rang with arguments and laughter. The voices now are low and tired—their exchanges, dull routines.

He needs to deal with a different set of words. Again and again they come to him, disembodied echoes, high and cold as they were that night, but heard now just by him.

You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself.

He shakes his head. It doesn’t help. The leaves have been fading on the trees in the distance, spring moving towards summer. More heat in the air. A bird is singing somewhere; the voice drowns it out.

You have permitted you have permitted

Harry blinks a few times quickly and looks around again. The Burrow’s mostly been restored, its wobbly gate set back on its hinges. Some things, though, were too broken to fix. There are other, smaller things where no one has bothered.  One window hangs cracked above the couch in the living room, with thin spidery lines like ice on a lake.

He should go back in: Mrs. Weasley might worry. He aches each time he thinks of her, because the watch that she gave him becomes the clock in his nightmares, and Fred’s hand is spinning as it tears into the ground. He’d stay outside forever if that would help, but it wouldn’t. Rather than face me yourself.

Harry’s fist clenches, still wrapped against his wand. “For fuck’s sake. I did face you. I killed you. You’re done.” 

The voice echoing inside of him laughs at him and shifts.

your friends

your friends

your friends to die

Hermione, glassy-eyed, staring at the kitchen floor when he crept downstairs in the hours before dawn. “It’s lunch time in Australia,” she whispered, turning away. Ron’s been looking constantly from face to face to face. George, cutting his hair and breaking two mirrors.

Then Colin’s mother, thanking him. Her warm ungloved hands, and how she let go of him mid sentence to dab at her eyes.  The casket, obscenely, was the same size as Remus's. But Remus, at least, had been a full-grown man. 

You have permitted you have permitted

He answers again then, just one word. He’s almost crying.

STOP.  

Harry isn’t sure if he said it out loud.  If it was a command, or a plea, or if it can even happen. The tree in front of him has just dropped three branches; he sees that before noticing that he’s not alone.

Ginny approaches and he realizes that it must have been out loud after all. “You hear him still, don’t you?”

Harry jerks his head back. She continues to step forward. 

“Even though he’s not speaking? Even though he’s dead? You hear him still, don’t you? You shouldn’t, but you do.”

She’s looking at him carefully. Not afraid, but something else.

“How do you know?”

Ginny draws herself up to her full height. Her eyes make his breath catch as her gaze locks with his. She raises one hand and ghosts it over his forehead.

Then seems to fall into herself, shrinking down. Her voice not her own, her eyes fixed on the dirt. They stand, facing each other, and there’s a promise of a future in the echoes of the past. He wants to hug her, to kiss her, to marry her, to heal with her. (They will do all of those things, some day. But not yet.)

Ginny’s picking at her thumbnail as he leans in to listen. 

“Funny the damage a silly little book can do, especially in the hands of a silly little girl.”

#harry potter fan fiction #see ao3 for credit list but thanks thanks so much #missing moment #post battle of hogwarts #harry x ginny

[bunny-hoodlum]

Sharing this because I feel like it. ☺️ The first 900+ words of Idle Hands (rewrite) so far. 🥹 In case you didn't catch previous now deleted post, I gave up on the 'stressful childhood' direction. Now it's more of a retelling, but I'm still calling it a rewrite. This Naruto is interesting imo. Ahhhh, I hope I'm doing this right? I guess bear with me here. Contradictions may be inevitable, Idk. So, he falls under the Obliviously Evil trope this time around. I'm shooting for 'cheerful yet stressed (traumatized) and actually secretly crazy'. Doesn't fit the standard Dark Naruto depiction, so I can't really say one way or another which he leans the closest to. 😭 He hasn't broken yet, but he's going to get there, so we'll see. 🤭 Hope this instills some hype! :3 Becuz I'm making progress babyyyy~🎵

xxx-xxx-xxx

Idle Hands (2024)

Pairings: NaruHina, eventual NaruHinaSasu

Smut, Freeuse, Dacryphilia

cw: toxic behavior, dubcon, ijime

Summary: There's nothing to do in the sticks. There's even less to do when you're on probation. There's even less than that when: Your dad is the most popular man in town/You've been raised to be a boy and are invisible when you try to be a girl/When your exciting city boy lifestyle has been taken from you.

Or when two losers and a fuckboy choose all the worst ways to have fun. Not that one of them had much of a choice.

There in the middle of an overgrown clearing sat a rusted, abandoned car, wheel-less and sitting atop four cement bricks. The dense forest trees towered in the distance, their foliage deep green and billowing in the wind. Beneath the car, you can follow the remnants of a gravel path out of the clearing, towards an abandoned auto factory – you know, when having an auto factory way the fuck out here somehow made sense. Back before the bubble burst when everything went to shit. But what does he know? He was only six when it happened. Not like that shit ain’t affecting him well into the Y2K or anythin’.

Naruto lounged in the backseat with a nudie magazine and a sage green quilted blanket over his lap, his cheeky eyes devouring the curvaceous models on the pages. Oiled up, lips spread, pouty eyes peering and pleading for his cock.

He nudged his toe in the soft belly beneath the blanket, or maybe he threw it a little harder than he meant to, forcing a slight cough from her throat as her mouth retreated from his cock after gagging.

The blanket rose up from his lap.

“Hey, I didn’t say ‘stop’.” He cupped the back of her head and forced her lips to press against the underside of his rigid girth, teeth sliding and catching against his tender flesh. When the wet, warm vacuum pull of her mouth around his cock returned, he settled back into place, flipping pages like he was reading the newspaper.

Green eyes stared back at him. Earnest, yet cold. White skin framed by black hair. Her tits squished together in a string bikini as she bent forward, her arms crossed underneath their swell.

Shizuka. Didn't matter that she was twenty-four and he was sixteen. There were plenty of ways he could ruin her that life hasn't yet.

His breath quickened, shallow quiet pants puffing past his lips.

Her rich green eyes were growing on him.

Maybe his first girlfriend will have green eyes. If only.

Women like them didn’t exist out here. Not in this dying town of theirs, where their only market street was rows of shuttered-up shops, their storefronts heavily tagged and dirty with runny rust-stains.

Dsy by day, this place was turning into an old person’s home. Or a fucking casket.

Day by day he passed by a chain-smoking mummy, half-deaf and half-blind yet still nosy enough to cuss him out. Every day those same disapproving stares like he was some kind of disease, some kind of curse.

He wanted a woman like Shizuka. He wanted softness like hers to make him forget. He wanted eyes like hers fixed on him in every mundane context, like two lovers, their names signed on the lease just the day before. He wanted her silent worship.

God, he couldn’t wait to get out of here. Couldn’t wait to get a taste of real women.

He was wasting his fucking youth here. His mind too, not that anyone believed he had much of one to begin with.

He imagined someone beautiful, someone way, way, way out of his league taking him inside her, wanting him more than anyone else inside her. She would rewrite his entire history in a single night.

Excitement arced up his spine as pleasure pooled in his groin, building and building–

Naruto grabbed the back of her head. He thrusted into her hot, slimy throat, ignoring her startled whines, the gagging convulsions tightening around his invasive cockhead.

“Gotta train your throat again, huh, Hinata? C’mon, just endure it. I ‘ppreciate you not playing with other dudes while I was away, but you’ve really gotten sloppy. But that’s fine, too, actually. It’s kinda cute.” He threw his head back and closed his eyes, surrendering to the soft, clinging sensations thrumming around his cock. He was melting against her devoted tongue, so persistent to please him no matter what as she licked and laved the ridgid underside with broad sweeps that left echoes of each across his turgid flesh.

Knock knock knock!

A rhythmic tapping on the glass beside his head startled the lewd occupants and Naruto threw his toe into her stomach again.

He lowered the nudie magazine atop her head and turned his face out the window.

Bent over at the hip stood the thorn in his side that his dad personally stabbed in him the moment he found himself in front of the family judge again – no less than two months after his release from the Juvenile Training Facility.

The silver-haired man with the lazy, lidded gaze mimed cranking a handle backwards and Naruto sighed. He reached for the window crank, lowering the window just enough that he and Kakashi could properly exchange words.

“Go to school, Naruto.”

Naruto sank into seat, clearing his face of any hint of expression as he leveled Kakashi with a cold, ignorant stare.

His toe had other ideas, as he nosed around the convergence between her legs, finding the soft resistance of her panty-covered cunt. He idly teased her clit while he waited for the weary douche to give up like he always did.

Not like his father’s favorite student was all that invested in him, anyway. The dude was freaky smart and found ways to make his minor infractions such as truancy go away. Precisely to his father’s satisfaction, and not the system’s.

Obito told him someone like Kakashi would have proposed lifelong marriage to ‘The Rules’ if it had taken the shape he most desired.

The fact that he could give two shits about integrity these days convinced Naruto that his dad knew Kakashi’s state of mind. And that he was exactly what his dad was looking for in a probations officer.

Someone that would take Namikaze Minato’s side, always.

Someone that would protect Namikaze Minato’s image, always.

TBC

#naruhina #eventual naruhinasasu #idle hands fic #fic snippet #rewrite #two little shits don't make a right #and Hinata is trapped in the middle #NaruHina are childhood friends but Naruto is too fucked up to be a good friend to her

[somewhereontheeastsideofsorrow]

we all burn, burn, burn, and die. chapter 5 - hold me through the shakes darling

masterlist part 4 part 6

Go to my harry potter masterlist and read part 1

WARNINGS, PLEASE READ: death of sibling, angst, sad, funeral, mentions of car crash, mentions of driving while intoxicated, swearing, mentions of murder

A/N: This was written on my phone, so my bad if there are mistakes. Bit of a short one

-----

There aren't many people here, some of his friends, their parents and siblings, my siblings and Mum. Dad didn't even bother to come to his own sons funeral. Mum was crying, fake fucking bitch, as if she even really cared about any of us.

-----

My tears grew to sobs as we picked up Finn's casket and felt the dead weight of it, the realisation that he was lying in there and we won't ever see or talk to him again. We began walking to his final resting place, next to his brothers, where they would lie next to each other forever, and when my time comes I would go there too.

Arlen, who was behind me, put one hand on my shoulder, comforting me as we walked for what seemed like not long enough, as we said our final silent goodbyes to Finn. We placed the casket onto the lowering device. I let my hand leave the handle and slide onto the top of the casket not ready to say goodbye. Thomas came behind me and grabbed my hand and pulled me up from the ground, wrapping a arm around me and placing his head on mine.

The casket began to lower into the ground when Prim shouted.

"Wait! Stop, don't do it yet."

"Prim, come here." I said as she cried.

"I wanna say something!" She said, looking at me, as the casket stopped lowering to the ground. I gave her a nod and she walked over infront of me as she began to speak.

"Finn, I'm going to miss seeing you around school, I'm going to miss your loud laugh, I'm going to miss seeing your eyes full of life and love, but it is nice to know that you'll be with Nikolai, Jack, Vinnie and Cedric." The world was quiet as Primrose spoke, the birds stopped singing for her, so she could say what she needed to, what we were all thinking.

"Every time I look at the stars I'll think of you and our brothers, I know you'll look over us just as Niko, Jack and Vin do. We love you so much Finny, and I'm sorry we had to say goodbye so soon but I hope you find peace and maybe it is a better place for you to be where ever you are than here, no matter how much it hurts." She turned around and hugged me crying into my chest.

The casket started to lower again, and it felt as if my heart lowered with it. When it stopped people gathered round, the grave as they each threw a flower on to his casket. Arlen, Thomas, Leo, Prim, Mum and I stood around the edge of the grave each holding a flower, I inspected it as I twirled around in my hands.

"Finn hates flowers." I said, that was the first time since we found out Finn died my voice hasn't trembled, saying more than one word in a row.

"I know, kiddo." Arlen says, looking down at Finn's casket and putting his flower on it. We each did the same, one by one, until we all had put a flower down. We stepped back as, Tom, Dylan, Mattheo and Theo, who had volunteered to put the dirt in the grave, walked forwards, Mattheo kissed the side of my head and walked to the dirt and grabbed a shovel. They began placing the dirt on top of the casket, I watched as it slid down the side of the casket and to the ground beneath it and continued watching until I couldn't see the casket anymore.

I felt Leo move beside me and lean into my side, I put my arm over his shoulders.

"Y/N/N?" Leo whispered.

"Yeah." I whispered back as I leaned down to him.

"Dad's here."

"What? Where?"

"By that tree, behind Mattheo's Mum." I looked up, and Dad was exactly where Leo said he was.

"He doesn't fucking deserve to be here, not after what he does to him, and you, Thomas and Arlen." Leo scoffed, getting louder and angrier.

"It's okay, Leo, it's okay." I mumbled, pulling him off to the side away from everyone. He couldn't have the fucking decency to come at the start, so he comes now. I pull Leo into a hug, and he hugs me back as if he lets go, I'll disappear.

"I hate him, I fucking hate him." He cries. "He probably did it."

"Who did what? Leo."

"Dad, he probably got Finn and Cedric killed. It's all I've dreamed about since he died, Dad and some deatheaters making the car crash, because Dad found out about him and Cedric." He said shaking with anger.

"I don't think he did, they were drunk Leo, their reactions were slow, they probably swerved so they didn't hit an animal and couldn’t get control of the car or something, okay?"

"In my dreams, I'm in the back seat of the car, and then I look out the window and on the side of the road Dad and 2 deatheaters are there with their wands in their hands and then I wake up crying."

"Oh Leo, there just dreams, there not real, okay?"

"Okay."

"If you ever need to talk, I'm here. I love you so much, Leo."

"I love you too Y/N/N." He lets go of me, grabs my hand and we walk back over to the others. They're almost done filling the grave up, we stand next to Arlen and he kisses both our heads.

"Arlen?"

"Yes, Y/N/N."

"Dad's here."

"I know." Thomas comes to stand beside me and puts his head on my shoulder, Prim and Leo stand in front of us and Arlen. Tears fall down our faces as the last bits of dirt are placed on top of the grave.

"Goodbye brother, we all love you so much." Thomas says, sitting on the ground, I sit down next to him and wrap my arms around him, and Arlen, Leo, and Prim come and sit down next to us. I feel a hand on my shoulder and look behind me and see Mattheo's mum with one hand on my shoulder and the other on Thomas's. I look up at her, and she smiles back at me and rubs my shoulder. I turn back and watch Mattheo place the last pile of dirt on top of Finn's grave. I watch Mattheo step back and hold the shovel so the end is resting on the ground. His grip grows tighter on the shovel as he bows his head toward the ground, a tear makes a track down his face through the slight layer of dirt that was on his face. Tom places a hand on his shoulder and takes the shovel from him.

The boys walk over towards us and stand behind us beside their mum. I feel Mattheo kneel down behind and press a kiss to my shoulder. I can feel someone looking at us from behind, I turn and look and see my father, looking at me and Mattheo, then watch him turn around and walk away.

-----

Chapter title is from the song 'Darling' by Zach Bryan.

Won't you 'hold me through the shakes darlin'?Well, it's fine if you cut and run At first light of the crestin' sun But right now I'm feenin'

#harry potter #gryffindor #hufflepuff #slytherin #hogwarts houses #slytherin boys #everyone lives au #well nearly everyone #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo x reader #mattheo riddle #ravenclaw #WABBBAD #thg

[dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night]

You Can't Follow your Heart if there's a Stake Through It part nine

TW: burns, claustrophobia, nonconsensual affection, captivity, mild gender dysphoria, manipulation, vampire whumpee, human whumper

Jacob returned to his quarters after a day spent occupying himself with various distractions. Like sitting outside and painting a tree, with the end result of a very nice painting and paint stains on his sleeves. He also tried writing poems about Rurik, but they turned out abysmally bad.

He set his art supplies in the distressed cardboard box he'd been keeping them in for the last six years, and laid his half-dried painting down on his desk so it wouldn't get smudged.

Only then, in the middle of unlacing his boots, did she notice the muffled sound of crying coming from Rurik's casket.

"What's the matter?" Jacob asked, knocking on the casket lid. "Are you okay in there?"

Rurik stopped crying at the sound of Jacob's voice. But still, his voice was shaky. "Let me out, please."

It took Jacob a moment to figure out what on earth Rurik was talking about. The wild rose, of course. Jacob had left it lying on the lid of Rurik's casket so he couldn't escape while he was away. Such magical seals were dangerously effective against the undead.

"Here you go." Jacob picked up the rose, and left it on his desk. "Try opening the lid now."

Rurik slowly opened the heavy wooden lid, his whole body wracked with trembling. The acidic tears staining his cheeks gray were now mostly dried, but his eyes showed every sign that they would start leaking again at the slightest provocation.

"I'm sorry," Jacob said. "I meant to get home sooner. I won't leave you like that again. I know you're claustrophobic."

Rurik nodded, and brushed the tears from his eyes. "I was… scared."

Jacob sat down on the edge of his bed, and patted the mattress. "Come sit down. It's okay to be scared, but you need to calm down."

"Yes, Jacob Amity." Rurik sat hesitantly beside him. "I sat down. Scared, still."

Knowing that this was Rurik's best attempt to emotionally connect, Jacob chose to appreciate this show of vulnerability. He had to comfort Rurik now, and prove how caring he could be during hard times.

He put his arm around Rurik and held him close, providing physical connection first and foremost before attempting to communicate.

What he wasn't expecting was for Rurik to wiggle away from him, not overly pleased by the sideways hug.

"What's the matter?" Jacob asked. "You seemed upset."

"Yes, Jacob Amity. I am upset."

"Then why won't you let me hug you? It'll help, I promise."

"No. I do not like."

"I don't understand you, darling." Jacob cuddled closer to Rurik, despite being clearly rejected. "It would take a thousand suns to warm you up."

"Sun makes plants grow," Rurik said. "It will not help me."

"That's all you care about, huh?" Jacob huffed in annoyance. "Those stupid plants and animals. It doesn't matter what I do, it won't ever be enough. All you want is that fucking forest."

"You stole me."

"You need to get over that." Jacob trailed his fingers up Rurik's thigh. "You're too handsome to be hidden away in the woods for only the squirrels to look at."

Rurik closed his legs. "I want return home. Today."

"But I don't want to let you go. And I'm in charge, not you."

"I thought we both husbands, not you only." Rurik looked close to tears again. "You said."

Jacob had no idea how any of his statements could have possibly triggered gender dysphoria. Clearly, Rurik's late husband had instilled some nutty gender roles back in the 1600s.

"Alright, you're my husband," Jacob said. "I'm still in control here. It doesn't matter what your gender is."

"That does not… work. Husband makes decisions. Husband in charge. If we both in charge, I will leave. You come with me. No more cave. No more vampire hunters."

Jacob felt like his heart was going to burst. Rurik wanted to take him with him. He wanted them to be together. This was enough to knock Jacob completely off guard, with no idea of the obvious trap Rurik was trying to lay.

"That sounds wonderful," he said dreamily. "You're such a romantic. I'll have to make some plans."

For once, Rurik seemed almost comfortable in Jacob's company. He rested his hand on Jacob's knee, trying to disguise how badly he was trembling by holding tight to the fabric of his jeans.

Jacob stroked Rurik's mousy brown hair. The soft texture reminded him of the mink fur coat his mother had worn to the parties her friend Bethany had been fond of throwing. What a funny little memory.

Rurik flinched away. "I do not like."

"I'd like to be doing a lot more than playing with your hair. You're too sensitive. Chill the fuck out."

Rurik held still, his eyes closed fast, allowing Jacob's gentle violations.

The pain of Rurik's claws digging into his leg did nothing to deter Jacob, instead exciting him further. He pushed Rurik's long hair back, and leaned in to kiss the clammy flesh of his throat.

Rurik shrieked, jumping backward and nearly falling off the bed in a panic.

It took a moment of confusion before Jacob realized he had forgotten to take out his silver angel and snake bite piercings.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. God, I didn't mean to do that," Jacob scrambled to apologize, cursing his own stupidity. "Rurik… It was an accident."

Rurik didn't seem to be listening, having gone back to sitting on the floor. He hugged his knees close to his chest, shuddering horribly enough that even Murzik noticed, and ran over to check if he was okay.

Jacob sat on the edge of his bed, not sure where to go from here. They had been doing so well, making plans for happily ever after, and Rurik finally comsenting to be touched. It had been such a stupid mistake too.

Slowly, still not sure of what he was doing, Jacob knelt on the floor in front of Rurik.

"Hey," he said softly. "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to do that. Are you hurt too badly?"

Rurik's glowing orange eyes peaked out from behind a curtain of hair. "I hate you. I try. And I try. And I try love you. But you hurt me. Nothing in forest hurt like you."

Now it was Jacob's turn to start crying, tears he had fought so long to keep at bay finally breaking loose. How had he been so close to convincing Rurik to love him, brushing his fingertips against the dream that had plagued him for months… only for it fall down into the abyss?

"What is wrong?" Rurik asked, after a long few minutes, now sitting up properly and rubbing his neck. "You not hurt."

"I want you to love me," Jacob's voice cracked under the weight of his tears. "I love you. And I didn't mean to hurt you…"

"Why hurt me, if didn't mean?"

"I forgot I was wearing the fucking jewelry." Jacob took his piercings out with a trembling hand. "I just wanted to kiss you."

Rurik moved his hand from his neck, and brushed his hair out of the way, showing Jacob the blackened pinprick burns on his throat. They were nowhere near as pleasant as the hickies Jacob had intended to leave.

"Sorry," Jacob said again, not sure how many times he would have to say it. "It shouldn't have happened. I was trying to be friendly, not hurt you."

Rurik considered Jacob's words, paying more attention to the spider he found crawling on the floor than to his husband. He still didn't look satisfied with Jacob's apology.

Jacob knew he was going to have to think of something better than "I'm sorry" to win Rurik over. Another kitten, maybe. Or an ant colony. Something physical to prove he was serious about doing better.

And he was certainly going to start wearing iron in his lip piercings instead of silver.

Taglist: @hugh-lauries-bald-spot @heavenlyeden @whumpsday @whumpshaped @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @whumpytine

#Abraham original: Hot off the press #Whump #You can't follow your heart if there's a stake through it #Vampire whump #Vampire whumpee #Human whumper #Whump writing #Whumpblr #Whump series #Nonconforming kiss #Burns #Captivity

[klaeus]

character interview.  

basics.

name: niklaus mikaelson.

nickname/s: klaus, the hybrid, the original hybrid, the big bad wolf, klaus the mad, etc. niklaus and nik can be used by a select few.

age: mid 20s / 6000+. verse dependent.

species: the original hybrid.

personal.

morality: lawful / chaotic / good / neutral / evil / true

religion: nihilistic.

sins: greed / gluttony / sloth / lust / pride / envy / wrath

virtues: chastity / charity / diligence / humility / kindness / patience / justice

known languages: most of them tbh, but heavy focus on english, italian, and spanish.

secrets:  they wouldn't be secrets if he blabbed about them, would they? but safe to say he has plenty of them.

physical.

build: scrawny / bony / slender / fit / athletic / curvy / herculean / pudgy / average

height: 6'5

scars / birthmarks: a line a couple inches above his heart (and a matching one on his back) from when mikael pinned him to a tree with his sword while sparring.   

abilities / powers: way too many to list here, but there's a lore section on his carrd fdsjak.

restrictions: nonfatal; broken neck, the cure, desiccation, uninvited, vervain, wolfsbane, being daggered, dismemberment ( while extremely painful, due to the strength of the spell that turned him, klaus would even be able to heal from being dismembered. it would be a long and agonizing process, and would likely need to be aided by his allies. but he would continue to live on, even if he was never put back together - more of a curse than a strength, really ). fatal; white oak stake.

favorites.   

food: he doesn't have a strong passion for food in general, given the whole being a vampire thing. but he's always rather enjoyed italian and chinese food in particular.

drink: anything alcoholic, though he has a particular fondness for bourbon and vodka.

pizza topping: he doesn't care.

color: he tends to gravitate towards neutral colors, though enjoys a nice royal red or purple.  

music genre: depends heavily on his mood tbh, but classical and / or opera is a go-to for him.

book genre: nonfiction of all types, though he probably enjoys reading anything historical the most. being around to witness many of the things in history that people tend to write about, he's curious to see how accurately they're recorded.

movie genre: unironically enjoys cheesy romcoms, but will never admit it. it's mostly because he likes the carefree, lighthearted nature of them. if asked, he'd probably say something like documentaries or historical stuff, just to sound serious and ~manly~.  

curse word: fuck, though he most often will use bloody hell. 

scents: velvety sandalwood, earthy, musk with a base note of rich amber and dark, warm vanilla.

fun stuff.

songs: empty, letdown. don't pray for me, within temptation. twisted, missio. lost in echoes, caskets. dark matter, rivals. voices in my head, falling in reverse. the death of peace of mind, bad omens. all the king's horses, karmina. lion, saint mesa. born without a heart, faouzia. demons, jacob lee. last resort, falling in reverse. devil within, digital daggers. despicable, grandson. no rest for the wicked, klergy.

aesthetic: a man who goes by the name of death, loyalty to a fault, the smell of fresh paint, a dark gaze the color of the ocean at night observing every detail of the world with the sharpness of a hawk’s frigid gaze, a beast within that will never be satisfied, clothes stained with blood that isn't his, cruelty that has clawed so deep within raw flesh and made him more monster than man, fingers stained with charcoal, stubborn wounds that just won't heal, static filling the air before a lightning strike, a charming but threatening smirk, the howls of wolves within the dark, the smell of the forest after a rain, crackling fireplaces, whiffs of vanilla and amber.

sings in the shower: only if he's in an exceptionally good mood.

likes puns: he doesn't have a strong feeling about them either way, but will definitely make them if he thinks that will annoy someone. 

#study. #dash games. #q.

[enkisstories]

Higher and higher the group ascends. They know they must be close to their destination, the hiding place of Darth Vader's wayfinder, and once again the realization that they have no idea what exactly they are looking for sinks in. A cave, maybe? An ancient tree growing upwards of the treeline, defying the elements? Or maybe a small metal casket half buried under the snow?

From now on they better turn over every rock and Rey and Finn start to actively listen to the Force.

Armitage: "Not much more mountain left to scale. Look how far we've come! Technology, discipline and sheer willpower let us prevail. This is humankind at its peak!"

BB-8: "Beep..."

Armitage: "Ey? But you're a product of humankind at its peak, too! Doesn't that make you proud? And so was Finn, before he glitched."

Finn: "So was who? Excuse me, General, I never heard you say that name before..."

Armitage: "FN-2187, I meant to say! Fuck you!"

Finn & Rey: *chuckle*

#finn fn 2187 #armitage hux #bb-8 #star wars #sims4journeytobatuu #simblr #battleforbatuu5 #newstarwarssims

[magic-is-something-we-create]

i am about 50/50 right now on whether to do a monday excerpt vs A Certain Announcement tomorrow

BUT.

even if i dont do the excerpt. i want to share this bit from what i wrote over the weekend because in my own humble opinion, it fucks

(aka i improvised this funerary tradition based on the general agreed-upon image of the Goddesses in the Ehlverse + the different climate/interpretations that have been made in Emarye specifically and i really like it)

content warnings: depiction of a funeral and an episode of temporary paralysis; references to fire in a ceremonial context.

In turn, we each bowed to kiss the bowl of red paint presented by the holy woman whose skin was a mural of golden tattoos, and each pressed a kiss to the lid of the casket.

The grain was smooth against my lips, and cold as the frost that crunched beneath my boots that morning. It smelled of the pine cones she would nestle beside candles, and was stained to match the needles of the tree over her grave--because that was the closest we could get to the green of the auroras.

Meerin and Irina’s hands found mine again when we stepped back. Father moved to stand behind us all, and nestled us closer. Kept his hands on our shoulders and stood firm and stoic, as the holy woman sprinkled salts over the casket.

We all cried when the fire licked green and gold across the wood. Meerin shook when the rain began to steam, Irina hid her face when the flames died, Katya let out a heaving sob when the blackened casket was lowered into the grave.

My legs gave out under my weight for the first time when the first shovel of dirt was tossed.

Father had to carry me away.

#snip #braindumps.txt #whispers

[redhoodedjaybird]

@pam-a-la-fuckyou - continued from x

“I’m more than happy to keep it quiet as long as you don’t put me back in Arkham for killing that guy,” she says with a nod towards the guy she’d strung up with vines.

As he drops the goon she steps in, more of her plants coming to wrap around the guy, beginning to string him up the way she had done to the last guy. She’d warned them not to do this last week and here they were dumping more shit into the ocean, so she had no sympathy. She was the one they should’ve been scared of, not their boss.

He’s in the air screaming in pain alongside the others she’d grabbed, she turns back to Red Hood, not giving the man attention as she kills him. “Just this once you can call me Ivy, and I’ll be sure to invite you when I do decide to kill Joker. He’s at least as bad as the other bastards who dump chemicals because he seems to think poisoning bodies of water is a good idea.”

“Hey, relax, I’m not the Bat, alright? Be pretty hypocritical of me to haul you back there when as far as I can see here, these gentlemen died of plant-related natural causes,” Jason answered, holding his hands up in a pacifying gesture as his tone carried a hint of mirth to it that said he was more than willing to turn a blind eye in the case of assholes dumping toxic waste into water where the current would carry it toward beaches where families brought their kids.

“Speaking from personal experience, I’d argue he’s even worse, and not just because he likes to fuck with Gotham’s water supply. I mean, I know of at least one incident where he tried to sell a nuclear warhead to someone.”

Jay paused briefly as he considered something before continuing.

“And the sheer number of people he’s killed has to have made considerable contributions to all the trees cut down to build caskets and the carbon dioxide output from Gotham’s crematoriums, not to mention all the embalming fluid leaching into the earth from corpses who were buried. I’d say the Joker is an ongoing one-man ecological crisis.”

#jay:thread #jay:ivy:001

[rustbeltjessie]

Diane Seuss, “Folk Song” (Poem-a-Day; April 14, 2023)

Let me enter the afterlife lithe not plodding.   Rise out of this heavy peasantry. Lithe   and cool as a battery-powered flame,   not fire. My feet are short and wide. The soles, stained   with mulberries. I have never been lithe, streamlined, pedicured, compressed, minimal, ergonomic,

silver fuselage cutting the air.   In my herringbone skirt and shirttail out, I am a slob. What is a slob but a knob of thickness, a mushroom stem, a beer stein Mozart stole from the Hofbräuhaus while writing Idomeneo. My stylist, gravity. Memory a tree so loaded with fruit and birds the tips  

of the branches rake the ground.   By lithe I do not mean in body, do I? Do I mean in soul?   To be one of those green-eyed ones others refer to as aquamarine. Empty   of ancestors. Face clean   of lipstick smears and other gestures of artifice.

Feet a rare triple-A, so narrow there aren’t shoes   that won’t chafe. Skin easy to tear,   like Kleenex we turned into carnations for parade floats. Those drinks from the soda fountain we called Green Rivers. Green and sweet, without flavor, but delicious. I am too tired to hold up this heavy self. Of selfhood I worked so hard to earn. Of work I worked so hard

to avoid. Of the working class. My class. Its itches and psychological riches. Its notions and values and humble achievements. Of this town which inhabitants speak of with endearments as if it were a child. As if it’s not like every other brat. Town with its river, drunk on itself. Its shitty Xmas ornaments   and fall-down-fucked-up Santa on a raft tethered to the river bank.   Its tiny museum

built around the star of the show, a lamb born with two heads. Every town has a two-headed something. It doesn’t mean anything. You know what? I want to be rich and lithe. Rich, with a lyric gift and a song   like a white-throated sparrow. I am vulture-heavy.   My stories are caskets filled with black feathers,

the lids pounded shut with railroad spikes. The gravedigger is noodling Melba, the widow-woman, and a hognose is consuming a toy train on cemetery lane. Let me resurrect beyond the bracken fronds and the three-legged stool and catgut guitar   and this two-ton song from the mouth   of a wax museum troubadour.

#poetry #typography #diane seuss #poem a day #folk song #i love her #truly truly #diane is one of my all-time favorite poets

[infelicits]

ꗃ 𝑟𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑙 ︰ 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜.

MOURN ME from @cathartidie

tw: death. body horror. decomposition. morbid shit. sad. this is on u del. kith kith xoxo

“This is the part where you wake up, asshole.”

Maybe you will come to regret saying that. Regret calling Roje an asshole as you watched him bleed to death, jumping in front of a bullet meant for somebody else meant for you. Always playing the fucking martyr. It’s endearing. It’s infuriating.

This had happened before. The scene itself is hauntingly familiar, but there is a cold sort of comfort that comes from having memory to fall back on. You know how this will play out. Roje will be out of action for a short time, and then wake up.

Unharmed.

Alive.

As if nothing had ever happened. And then, your heart would return to its place in your chest instead of stubbornly stuck in your throat, and your lungs would remember how to draw breath. That’s how it would happen.

They don’t wake up.

( You’re staring at a casket. )

You don’t remember how long you held the body before somebody instructed you to move it. Ten minutes? An hour? A week? You hear whispers behind you about calling an ambulance, a coroner, covering the body. Something animalistic comes out of you at the suggestions – halfway between a hiss and a snarl.

They were wrong, you see – because Roje always came back.

( You don’t like public speaking. Your eulogy is short. )

You’d put him in the back of your car before an ambulance could arrive. Fuck that. You’re not letting them wake up on cold steel inside a morgue. You’d decided you would drive until they wake up. It shouldn’t take long.

You’d driven for eight hours before returning home.

They hadn’t woken up.

( Smalltalk at the wake. It’s inane. Roje would’ve hated it. )

You decided to keep the body Roje on your couch.

They’re surrounded by their possessions. They’d be comfortable, when they woke up here. It was a familiar space. It had been difficult to carry him up the stairs. Their limbs had begun to stiffen.

When the morning came, you were sure Roje would be back. He had to come back. It wasn’t fair if they didn’t. Why should they be allowed to die in some heroic sacrifice and leave you here all alone?

You don’t think about it. You go to sleep. In the morning, things would be normal.

( The plot of land they’ve picked is nice. It’s next to an oak tree. )

The morning came, and things, decidedly, were not normal.

A week passes, and things, decidedly, are not normal.

“They’re not coming back, Rachel.”

The first time you’d heard it, you’d snapped back that they were wrong. The second time, you’d cursed them out and stormed off. The third time, you’d put your fist clean through a wall. You’d broken three bones. You didn’t notice.

You don’t accept it – because Roje came back. That was what they did. That was the gift and the curse they had been given, just as you were sentenced to play with chance, they were sentenced to play with death. As fate was meaningless to you, death was meaningless to them.

You don’t accept it even as the days turn into a week.

You don’t accept it even as the body begins to decay. As your apartment begins to fill with the smell of rot – as bugs begin to make their way through your windows and your doors.

You don’t accept it even as the weeks turn into a month.

You don’t accept it when you can no longer stand to be in your own home, when you no longer recognise Roje’s face, bloated and blotchy and beginning to fall apart. You can recognise him enough. You still speak as though he were there.

You don’t accept it when the others finally intervene – when Eres needs to pull you away, kicking and screaming that they just need to wait a little longer. That it was only a matter of time. You sob into Althea’s chest. You still refuse to accept it.

You won’t allow them to cremate him. And you ensure that the casket can be opened from the inside. You compromise by allowing a funeral. You’re still waiting for them to come back.

”Sorry I called you an asshole.”

( You’re staring at a gravestone. It’s been two weeks since it was laid there. )

“Though… it is kind of a dickish move to wait this long before coming back. I – uh. I made it easy for you, when you do. There’s snacks in the casket. Non-perishables, of course. No cutlery though, that’s your punishment.

There’s a pager in there, too. And spare batteries, in case it dies. I’ve left a note with instructions on how to contact me when you wake up. I’ll come dig you out. But the food’s there in case I get held up or something. There’s also a bottle of water. It might be a big gross if you wait too long, though.

I… um. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t wait too long, by the way. I got you a new couch. But the, uh… the apartment’s kind of quiet with just me and the frogs and your chicken. I’ve been feeding her, by the way. She still bites me every time I do it. But I think we’re making leeway.

I think the chicken misses you. And the frogs. And… and me, too.

I didn’t think you’d be gone this long. I still need to yell at you for taking that bullet like an idiot. You need to stop doing stuff like that, because… one of these days it’s gonna stick. Not now, obviously. Because you’re going to come back. If you don’t… just do it, okay?

If you don’t, then you really are an asshole. Didn’t you think about how it would feel for me when you did that? Jumping in front of a fucking gun, and, for what? To stop me from getting a little graze? It’s not fair. You don’t get to just do shit like that. People care about you… people need you. More than they’re gonna need me. If you don’t come back, people will be upset. I will be upset. And I’ll have to spend the rest of my life with the knowledge that you’re dead instead of me. And I don’t want to live with that. So you have to come back.

You have to come back so there’s someone to feed the chicken. And sleep on my new couch. You have to come back so… so we can have dinner together. And you can finally teach me that recipe you keep banging on about. And I can teach you how to count cards. You’re going to miss out on so much if you don’t – and it’s not fair, because I love you and I don’t want to do all this shit by myself. And that’s what you’re forcing me to do, so you could play the hero. Don’t you get how fucked up that is?”

( You’re crying. You don’t know when you started doing that. )

“I’ve.. uh. I’ve gotta go. Read the note when you wake up.”

#meme. #ehehehehe #crying in the club #i have not read this if there are typos do not perceive me #drabble. #ft. vulture

[lesp1een]

Forgiveness. (Shawn x Taker)

Shawn goes to Taker's funeral home to apologize for an untinentional chairshot, comes out questioning all his life choices.

It's a crime i never really wrote something about these two like man they're my favourite ship.

As he crossed the gates of the Underworld, Shawn hoped they gave him the right address, and prepared himself to do one of the few things he never thought he would ever do in his life.

The cemetery was empty. It was almost closing time, the the sun was setting, hiding itself behind a huge land of cypress trees.

Reddish, bloody clouds filled the sky, giving that place an even more ominous aura.

The gravel soil creaked under his feet every step he took towards the funeral parlour, his path surrounded by endless fields filled with stone graves.

Besides his own steps, it was silent. Sometimes, he heard the rustling of the trees and the chirping of birds, but nothing more.

The door of the parlour was left ajar, and as soon as Shawn pushed it, it opened with the creepiest creak, shivers running up his spine as he entered the dark building.

Maybe that was the worst mistake he ever made in his own life. He would get himself killed.

The place looked empty, and Shawn noticed the temperature dropped. It was freezing cold. The only light source was an old oil lamp placed on the wooden table in front of him.

The most noticeable thing in the place were the caskets. It was filled with them, all stacked one above the other against the walls, covering the windows, covering almost every inch of the floor.

Since it looked like nobody was there, Shawn fought off his desire to get the fuck away from that place, and started to look around. On the big desk, which looked more like a working table, laid the most terrifying objects he ever saw in his life. Hammers, sharp scissors and nails, rusty saws, chains, and, the strangest thing among all those torture items, a bouquet of fresh cut lilies and white roses.

He opened every drawer he found. By the time he started to snoop around the deadman's belongings, he had forgotten the reason he was there for.

There weren't a lot of interesting things to look at. He found a framed photo of what looked like a family picture, a big ass necrology, a bunch of romance novels (which was unexpected, and cute) and a leather cover journal. He picked it up, and opened it. It looked like a diary.

Oh, it was about to get interesting, he thought, a big grin on his face, and picked a random page to read.

Every page was signed with the Undertaker's name, so it had to be his personal diary. He had a nice calligraphy, too.

He was about to start reading, but curiosity killed the cat, and he froze as a big figure casted its shadow behind him, covering the light.

He turned around, wide eyes meeting a dark silhouette as the diary fell from his hands right on the floor, his breath sucked out of his lungs by a big hand grabbing at his throat. As soon as the figure was close to him, he saw wide eyes look directly at him, freezing him in place. The Undertaker was silent, staring at him in fueling rage.

"I can... I can explain-" He choked on his own words, big, calloused, cold hand tightening around his throat. He knew he was gonna get himself killed. So he panicked, and tried to kick out of the other's grip.

"What are you doing here." Undertaker spoke in a deep, growling voice, and softened his grip a little, letting Shawn take a deep breath. He coughed up as he tried to answer, shaking in fear. "I wanted to apologize for the chairshot. It was a mistake... I didn't mean to snoop around your stuff, I promise i didn't read anything at all! Please don't kill me."

He cried out, trying to get the other man to have mercy for him. Taker remained expressionless, eyes looking on the ground at the dropped diary, and then at the open drawers.

"I don't believe you." The grip tightened again, and Shawn was sure he was gonna die. He was gonna die and nobody would come looking for him. That canadian motherfucker would be so happy about it. Fuck him, it was all his fault. He was the one Shawn was aiming for. He didn't mean to hit the deadman. He wasn't that fucking dumb.

"Too prideful to seek forgiveness."

It was true. Shawn never said sorry.

That was the reason it took him so long to build up the courage to confront the deadman. That was the reason Bret hated him so much. Because he did him dirty, he knew he did him dirty, and never apologized for that.

But he was not suicidal. He didn't want to antagonize one of the most dangerous men in the industry.

Taker was no man. He was raw power, he was pure strenght made flesh and bone. He could never stand a chance against him without ending seven feet deep into the ground.

"Say you're sorry." the bigger man cornered Shawn, his back touching the table as the other's cold body was menacingly pressed against his. His tone was commanding, his voice deep, right against Shawn's ear. He was so close to him dark strands of hair were brushing against his cheek, hand still thight aroud his neck.

Shawn was sure it would leave a mark on his skin, and that, along with the man's voice ordering him around, trying to get him to say the most humiliating thing, trying to destroy his pride forever, sent an unwanted wave of heat though his body.

Fucking hell, he was about to get killed and still managed to get horny over it.

"I'm sorry." he whispered, shame pooling deep in his stomach.

"Louder." The deadman spoke with earth-shaking force, his words rumbling through the walls, making Shawn shake in fear and anticipation. "I'm sorry!" he then almost shouted, his pride shattering into millions of pieces.

That was the first time he said that to someone after too many years.

Silence filled the room after those words were spoken, and Shawn struggled to look up at the other man, whose expression never changed.

For a moment, Shawn feared he was going to get choked out again, or worse, laughed at.

Instead, the Deadman's hand left his bruising neck, and did the most unexpected thing.

He cupped Shawn's chin, tenderly stroking his cheek with his gloved thumb.

"Good boy." He simply said, and Shawn swore he saw the ghost of a smile on his lips, as Undertaker noticed the other's reaction, his surprise, the tightening of his legs, his reddening skin.

"You're forgiven. You may go, now."

His verdict was proclaimed, and Shawn was able to return to the land of the living, pride shattered and a new striking desire blossoming in his chest.

#wwf #wwe #shawn michaels #undertaker #taker #shawn x taker #hbktaker #writing #wrestling fanfiction

[robotblues]

What could comfort me now?

No platitudes of love, no touch,

No suspicious tenderness.

A turn to the shapes in the smoke,

The soft and unsteady disturbance of a slow river

Sickly sliding on,

Banks rowed with dark and reaching trees.

Become smoke. I hope you die.

I wonder how long I'd feel better before the grief and guilt set in.

An hour? A day?

Most likely, no time at all. I hope you know you were wrong.

You think, I think, that comfort should be something universal and easily named,

Like everything else.

My comforts would confuse you. You'd reject them. The you I want to gut out of myself with that old ten-inch carving knife would reject them.

Your shallow efforts at consolation made everything worse, but only because you’re too afraid to listen.

You were right. Is that your favorite phrase to hear?

You were right. You're fucked up and you break everything you touch.

I wonder how you convince yourself you don't want to be that way,

Falling back on it every time.

I, being stupid,

I, being young and congenitally afraid,

Tried to learn to fall like you.

Fall the particular deep where you find the people you love until you hate them.

I caught a ledge on my spine. Fickle fate.

Will to live.

At least I’m built to climb. I lost weight to the drugs you extolled and your ideas of objective beauty. Or was that me?

Your new whore's ugly.

Is that an indefensible thought? Is that what you'd think if you were me?

How deep did you get?

No, whatever got deep wasn't you. Impotent freak. What's filling in the cracks in the lower deep of my mind came from me - from my immaculate and caustic simulacrum.

Burn, star. Burn, earth.

Another strange factoid: you solidified my preference for cremation over casket.

God willing and the creek don't rise, that won't be relevant for a long time.

I know you've acquiesced to a fast-track into the ground. I wonder if that'll pan out for you or if you'll be foiled by the creek a dozen more times.

Hail leaps up high off the street.

If you were drinking about me and you killed someone while driving drunk, would that be my fault?

No, I only tripped on a preexisting chain. You'd find a reason any way the ball bearings rolled.

I think you only feel guilty when you're too tired to think in circles until you find someone else to blame, and by then you're too tired to not make your guilt someone else's problem anyhow. The snake eats its tail, and all the rest.

What could comfort me now?

No violent scene, no empty bed,

No cry torn from a torn throat.

I might say only distance, but you were nothing but distance. I painfully adored that catastrophic and omnidirectional distance.

Rotting like a log would be cold and damp comfort.

I find only smoke. I miss the awful smell of your cigarettes.

Don’t forget, it all burns in the end. Even the dust of my buried bones would be swallowed by the sun, but I'd just as soon forego the worms.

I find a slow river. I wonder how long I could fight the current before I drowned.

I wonder if I could save someone.

I find a slow river. I watch it slouch and sigh towards the sea, through transience and contamination and writhing creatures.

I can't speak for spring, but there's a weary sort of solace in the water.

You'd miss it.

#my writing #poetry #tw

[judethebrood]

No title

Pupils dilated, cheeks flushed, and the air is thick with smoke. Wiping off bands of sweat as I turn over to borrow the view from the window. Hot wind moving through trees, and the sky is changing colors as fast as I’m rolling. Thumbs sliding over paper against palms; light it through the window screen so the detectors don’t go off. I laugh at nothing sometimes.Sometimes, it’s everything. I don’t remember when I’m high…Unless I do. Then it’s worse. The late August air is choking me out, more than the smoke. Outside only looks nice before I go out there, and then the day is over, and the illusion is ruined. Every time, without a catch. I should walk it off, ironically. I’m not an outdoor person. I’m not really a person at all. More less, something gaining way and losing faith. Something distraught and selfish, and so fucking high right now. Something like that cig between your teeth; sharpie caps and ice baths. Something prolonged and exhausted.Something trying to be more of this or that, without the inner monologue. Something passive, and infinite, but distracted. Leaving a brand against the earth; like a grave in my backyard.Like the trail from my casket, drug along until it was laid in the ground. Cicadas singing back at the wire birds, and the air feels like childhood.It feels warm, and heavy, and buzzing with every word I’ve never told you. Tobacco and marijuana mix, aimlessly; I think there’s a barbeque somewhere.And maybe somewhere, you’re meeting me for the first time. Across years that belong to the stars. Across the street, before the light turns green. Opposite crowds. I caught you for only a moment, and just as fast, you were gone. Just like the smoke.

#Poetry #EMOTIONAL DAMAGE LMFAO #relationship #We are more complex than any label #The last 6 something months

[heritageartifacts]

Gawd, I hate crowds. But it was Saturday morning and our Airbnb only had an aluminum Moka coffee pot. Anytime I cook anything in aluminum, I’m sure I’m soon to be scrawling my name on the wall with my own feces. We agreed to a very early expedition to the village of Finale Ligure, no doubt a zoo by mid-morning on this warm, sunny weekend. - White-knuckle navigating the hills (one-lane roads with two-way traffic) complete with hairpin turns and blind corners behind stone walls quickly lessen the effects of my morning smoke, but views of an already sparkling green-blue Ligurian Sea provide their own high. Hills are covered in lemon and orange trees, the harmonic hues of Le Corbusier’s color theory come to life; natural colors creating atmosphere. Passing a shrine to Madonna made with seashells, I prayed we’d find a parking spot, arriving early enough to miss the stroller set, the day-trippers, the hustlers. - A stainless Moka was found at a kitchen shop in the old quarter, the owner, a scarecrow of man, extending the customary discount, a charming Italian oddity. My wife stumbled onto a minuscule plant/pet store in an alleyway, purchasing treats to buy puppy silence. I’m convinced I would’ve been one of those parents who park their kids in front of a TV for an hour (or three) for a bit of fucking peace. - Set on a square away from the main piazza in front of a gigantic church, the cafe was mostly empty, the bells not yet striking ten. Mary by the Sea (or an equally beatific moniker) boasts white marble slab steps, their edges rounded from the heat and salt of the Med; the limestone’s black veins softened from the trodding of millions of pilgrim feet, or from sneaker-clad hooves of looky-loos like me, who push open every heavy wooden door on every chapel and cathedral, searching for quite literally god-knows-what. - Just as creme-filled brioche are dipped into frothy cappuccino, a blue Cadillac-hearse parked in front of us, spotless and glinting in the sun, ensnaring us as an unwitting audience to someone else’s circle of life. Somber folk filed into the church behind the casket, casting each bite and sip of our breakfast uniquely delicious, utterly appreciated. (at Finale Ligure) https://www.instagram.com/p/CqOcr7Mtw02pcu2AV-zCBrKv0D0CzWlgtsgnng0/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=