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notmyneighbor · 1 month

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Let Me In ~ Doppelgänger Francis Mosses/The Milkman x Female Reader

Chapter 1

Word Count ~1k

Rating ~ Explicit

CW ~ blood and gore, character death, eventual smut(not in this chapter)

Excerpt ~ You know it’s not Francis peering at you through the glass window.

You know it, even though he looks exactly like him, every feature carefully duplicated: the sleep deprived smudges on the frail skin underneath his eyes, the narrow chin and a long nose, that unblemished complexion as smooth and pale as the milk he delivers.

They’re getting better at the replication.

It’s getting harder and harder to tell them apart from real humans now.

Also available on AO3

Fanart used with permission @kaworinx on Instagram and TikTok

You know it’s not Francis peering at you through the glass window.

You know it, even though he looks exactly like him, every feature carefully duplicated: the sleep deprived smudges on the frail skin underneath his eyes, the narrow chin and long nose, that unblemished complexion as smooth and pale as the milk he delivers. They’re getting better at the replication. It’s getting harder and harder to tell them apart from real humans now.

Yet there’s still something off. Something in the way the flesh sits on his bones. Almost a shift, like a mirage in the desert: a shimmery, not quite real haze that’s there and gone again in the blink of an eye. He lays his fingers against the glass, splayed directly across from your face. The pretender’s lips curve into a smile. “Let me in,” he says, and it’s identical to the real milkman’s voice, that same sleepy, gentle tone you’re used to hearing day in and day out, and your heart lurches. When had it happened? When had he been taken? During a delivery? Lured into some back alley? Some devious doppelgänger asking for help, maybe, and of course he’d obliged, he was kind like that, he’d never refuse anyone. You envision the wire rack cradling the bottles of dairy product dropping from nerveless fingers, the glass shattering. White mixing with the bright red blood that leaks out of him all over the pavement.

You wince at the gruesome image. Poor, trusting, foolish man.

“Let me in,” he says again, and the words drag at something deep inside of you. A glint of something feral in the dark eyes now. This imposter knows you can sense his deception. “I know what you need. I can give it to you…”

Another chord strummed on the string of your spine, vibrating along your body. Had he taken over Francis’ thoughts? Sorting through the milkman’s memories like digging through a box of old photographs, perhaps. Choosing which ones to keep and which ones to discard. Had the unfortunate third floor resident known about your hopeless crush? He must have. How else would this creature target your desires so readily? The knowledge of this wounds you. Francis had known, and he hadn’t acted on that knowledge. No return of your feelings. Maybe he’d just been shy.

Or maybe he just didn’t feel the same way.

“You must be so tired, working so hard. You deserve to rest. Collect a reward.” His tongue darts out to moisten his lips and this is the first foreign gesture that completely confirms your suspicions: this is not Mr. Mosses.

Everything you need is right in front of you. The entryway door is still securely locked. The rotary phone is mere inches away. You can call in the team at any time now. Save everyone. Except for Francis, of course; it was too late for him.

“Sweetheart, please let me in.” Attracting flies with honey. His voice dripping affection. His fingertips blanch against the glass. The brim of his cap slides further down his brow. A single track of perspiration leaks down his cheek. The body still fighting, even now. Resisting. Rejecting the invader. But it was too little, too late.

“I can’t let you in.”

His head snaps up and the eyes are bloodshot, spidery lines of crimson streaking across the white orbs. A thin trail of saliva drips from one corner of his mouth. “Can’t, or won’t?” Straight to vinegar now. Acidic tone. It lashes against you. You’re shaking.

“I know what you are,” you declare in a whisper.

The replicant raises his free hand, fingers curling into a fist before striking the pane. It rattles in its casing and you gasp. You’d always thought the material was shatterproof. “You don’t know anything. How can you? You run unchallenged for a small fraction of years and you think you know all there is to in the universe. Such arrogant, fragile things you are,” he murmurs, and the sudden calm unnerves you even more than the rage.

You begin to reach for the receiver and his fingers slide down the glass, squeaking as they go. “Wait. Don’t do that.”

You pause, hand still outstretched. “I don’t have a choice.”

“You do have a choice. You don’t have to be one of the mindless sheep.” His nostrils flare, inhaling deeply. “Francis loved that fragrance you wear. He liked so many things about you. You’ll never know how much if you make that call.”

You suck in a sharp breath. Was it true? Or just a ruse to get you to spare him? “He’s gone. There’s no getting him back now.” Your voice warbles, your fingers trembling as you reach again. Making contact with the ebony plastic this time.

“He’s right here. You could have him. All you have to do is let me in.”

You lift the receiver from the handset cradle. The spiral cord connecting the two sways like a tightrope beneath an acrobat walking its length. You feel like that performer. Teetering on the edge between life and death. Yours. The people in the building. You have a duty to protect them.

The uniformed man’s eyes slide closed. Dark lashes light as moth’s wings kissing his cheeks. He’s humming softly. A melody you’d heard every time Francis had left for his route. The tune unfamiliar. But it’s his. Had always been unique to him. Why hadn’t you asked what song it was? Why hadn’t you…

The handset drops back down and the dial tone is silenced. His eyes reopen. “Let me in, love.” The softest, sweetest smile. You reach for the buzzer. Staring at your hand as if you don’t recognize it as your own. “I’ll give you everything you want, sweet girl.” Nearly to the button now. “There you go. Just a little more.” Contact. The light flashes and the magnetic locks release, granting the doppelgänger access.

#thats not my neighbor #francis mosses #milkman #francis mosses x reader #francis mosses x you #milkman x reader #milkman x you

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livwritesstuff · 21 days

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Tommy POV, wc: 2890, full version on ao3

Tommy Hagan is not jealous of Eddie Munson.

He’s not.

There’s nothing to be jealous of, in his opinion, and Tommy probably wouldn’t be thinking about him at all if Eddie wasn’t the most publicly well known member of his graduating class – well, he hadn’t actually been in his graduating class, Tommy supposes.

They had been seniors at the same time, though.

If Tommy happened to be jealous of anything – and that’s a big if – it would probably have something to do with the famous thing. Everyone has a small part of them that wants to be famous at least in some capacity, he’s pretty sure, even if Eddie isn’t really, truly famous – not like the red carpet celebrities. He’s a writer. Even the most well known writers never get all that much attention, but Munson has his own Wikipedia page, and that’s more than anybody else from Hawkins, Indiana can say. Hawkins itself barely even has a Wikipedia page, and it’s only because of all the atrocities that happened in town in the mid-eighties.

Tommy hadn’t been around for the end of it all – the earthquake-slash-serial killer situation that never made any sense to him. He remembers his mom calling him at his college dorm when the deaths first started. He remembers her asking, “You went to school with that Munson boy, right? Do you think he could do something like this?”

And Tommy had been twenty and a total moron, so he’d said some dumb shit like, “Yeah, he’s into freaky stuff like that. Somebody should’ve put him on a list ages ago,” even though four years of experience told him that Eddie was all bark, no bite. Tommy hadn’t been surprised at all by the statements that later came out clearing Eddie's name, and by then his parents had already high-tailed it out of Hawkins so it all sort of became irrelevant to him.

Tommy never even returned to Hawkins one single time after he left for college (barring his high school reunion, obviously), and twenty years after graduation, he doesn’t really think about those years all that much.

He doesn’t love the person he’d been in high school. He was whiny and immature and had his priorities all messed up. Most of the memories he has of his teenage years, he looks back at and cringes, feels a whole lot of shame and embarrassment, but also some pride at how much he’s grown over the last twenty years. He also knows he’d been kind of a dick in high school, but that he’s less ashamed of. It’s normal, he knows, for kids to be mean, that it’s a standard response to being untreated kindly in other ways. Like, his dad had been an asshole to him as a kid, always on him about his grades and his smart mouth and how he’d no longer been a standout on any of his sports teams after starting high school, and Tommy had coped with that by poking kids beneath him at school.

It’s just the pecking order of high school. It’s normal.

Even now, when Tommy’s son had dealt with some pricks in the year above him shoving him around, he had come home from school and tormented his little sister for a while – it’s normal, no matter how much his wife had tried to convince him it was something that needed addressing. It’s just kids being kids. They grow out of it eventually, just like Tommy had.

Occasionally he wonders where the kids he’d spent all those years with in the Hawkins public school system had ended up, but these days the internet makes that pretty damn easy to figure out.

He’s learned Tina got married and had kids real young. She still lives in Indiana. Carol, who he’d split up with before heading off to college, lives in Alabama now and she’s got kids and a husband too. Jonathan Byers is a photographer in California – Tommy isn’t into all that art-y crap, so he has no clue if he’s any good, but he definitely recognizes some of the organizations he’s worked for and if that’s any indication, Tommy would wager he’s not too shabby. No wife, though, he noted, so he’d either been right about Byer’s being a queer, or women just found him repulsive (admittedly, Tommy leans more towards the former – he’s a photographer). Tammy Thompson still lives in Tennessee, though it doesn’t seem like she does music anymore (husband, kids, blah blah blah).

If he’s honest, the only person Tommy is actually interested in tracking down is Steve Harrington, and he’s the one person Tommy can’t find a single trace of online. No MySpace, no Facebook, no weird blog thing, nothing.

Vaguely, he wonders if Steve might be dead. A truly massive proportion of Hawkins had died over just a few short years in the mid-eighties. Maybe Harrington was one of them.

Tommy doubts it.

He would have known.

Steve’s parents would have made sure everyone knew if their son had died. Funnily enough, Steve’s mom is actually on Facebook, and pretty actively too, but there’s no sign of Steve anywhere on her page.

He hadn’t even shown up for their high school reunion in the winter of ‘04, which is odd because Tommy had been certain he would.

He doesn’t obsess over it – he really doesn’t. It’s just a thought that pops into his mind every now and then – where the hell is Steve Harrington?

In the late spring of 2007, he gets his answer.

“Tom,” his wife says, “That guy from your high school is on the cover of this magazine.”

He knows without asking for clarity that it’s Munson – no other person makes sense – and when he eventually gets his hands on the magazine, he finds that he’s correct.

Eddie Munson is on the cover of a magazine because, apparently, he published another book.

Truthfully, Tommy already knew that.

It’s his fourth book (which, for the record, Tommy hadn’t known until he knew it because it’s not like he’s keeping tabs on this guy or whatever), and it’s been getting a whole bunch of mainstream attention after a controversial landing on the top of all those book charts Tommy doesn’t follow despite featuring a gay love store amidst all his normal fantasy crap. It sparked a whole debate about banning books and everything (dumb, Tommy knows, because if he learned anything in business school it’s that if you really don’t want something to exist, the best thing you can do is not funnel money and attention into it).

Tommy does, in fact, watch the news so he’d already caught wind of all this – it’s part of the reason he can’t shake the guy – and it’s why Eddie Munson is on the cover of this magazine (because, seriously, nobody gives a shit about writers until it hits the news).

He allows himself a moment to look at the cover, to look at Eddie, who apparently goes by Ed now. Tommy is loath to admit it, but he looks good. His hair is normal and he’s grown into his frame, not all long and lanky and gangly limbs like Tommy remembers from school. He looks well-fed, confident, happy.

He looks good.

Tommy thumbs through the first few pages of the magazine until he reaches Eddie’s interview, and, again, he allows himself to look over the photo of him that takes up nearly three-quarters of the first page even if he has no intention of actually reading the article itself because, again, Eddie looks good (and maybe there’s something about the scruff of facial hair along his jaw that Tommy's eye gets stuck on). Tommy’s allowed to say that men look good when it’s true – it’s 2007, as his wife likes to remind him whenever it’s convenient for her, and if she’s allowed to say that Angelina Jolie looked good in that CIA movie, then Tommy is allowed to say that Eddie Munson looks good here.

When Tommy flips to the next page, he’s met with a photo that stops him in his tracks, has his feet frozen to the floor because –

Jesus Christ, that’s Steve Harrington.

Fuck, okay, so he’s reading this fucking article.

It takes Tommy a long time to get through it, honestly. Eddie comes out in the article, which might be a big deal, might not (and he doesn't care to be enlightened, thanks). He keeps getting distracted by the pictures scattered throughout it.

The pictures of Steve, mostly.

Because, well, if Eddie Munson looks good, Steve…

Steve looks alive.

Tommy didn’t realize it until this exact moment, but Steve had existed in his head for the last two decades as the eighteen-year-old he’d been the last time they were in the same room together. It hadn’t exactly occurred to him that Steve’s been aging this whole time too, just like Tommy has.

It’s undeniable that Steve is older.

His hair is starting to go gray at his temples (it’s the only thing that’s changed about his hair since he’s still styling it the same as he did in high school – because why mess with a good thing, Tommy supposes) and he’s got just the hint of crow's feet around his eyes when he smiles. He’s smiling in all the photos – every damn one – and it has Tommy struck by how unbelievably happy Steve seems. It’s an effect that somehow both takes years off the age Tommy knows he is and shines a light on just how good those years must have been for him.

There’s no solo shots of him like there are for Munson – though according to the article, it's actually Harrington now – and only half the photos are in color. The rest of them – the more candid ones – are smaller and left in black-and-white.

The one that caught Tommy’s eye first – because it was meant to, he’s pretty sure; it takes up half the page – is right in that sweet spot between staged and candid where Steve and Eddie both know that they’re being photographed even though neither of them are actually posing. Eddie is grinning at Steve in a wicked way that still feels familiar to Tommy even two decades since he’d last seen it on him (probably swaggering around the cafeteria like a total jackass – not that Tommy would know anything about that). Steve is grinning right back at him with a smile Tommy doesn’t think he’s ever seen before.

Or maybe he has, but not on this version of his face, not since Steve was as young as his oldest daughter.

Just as the author of the article said, the photos don’t show the faces of Steve’s children, either leaving them artfully out-of-focus or choosing shots where they’re turned away from the camera, but they’re still present, and it makes the whole spread almost feel like a photo album in a way, like it should be private but instead was published for the whole world to see.

Steve has three of them – kids, Tommy means. He didn’t know that Steve was a family kind of guy. It makes sense though, when he thinks about it. Steve’s parents were kind of a nightmare — present in the worst ways, and absent in the worst ways too (though it hadn’t seemed that way when Tommy was a teenager looking for a failsafe party house). He'd always felt kind of bad for the guy. Like, Tommy's dad had been a total piece of work, but they'd at least been around, and he'd stuck around long enough for them to sort out their issues at least most of the way, and these days he's a pretty kickass grandpa to Tommy's children.

Tommy wonders about Steve's parents now, wonders if they maybe came around like his own parents had, but then he remembers Mrs. Harrington's Facebook page and how there's not a damn trace of her son on there, never mind three grandchildren.

Tommy isn't sure he wants to touch that.

Steve is probably a really good dad, Tommy decides. He’d been kind of that way when they were friends — Steve used to say he wasn’t all that bright, but he always had a freaky sixth sense for reading people, for caring about them in exactly the way they needed.

There's one photo where Steve is managing to holding his youngest daughter — a tiny little baby still — and her bottle in one arm (that's a level-three dad hold, Tommy knows). The bottle is angled in a way that obscures her face, and Steve's other hand is being tugged on by another daughter, this one with a mop of curly brown hair remarkably similar to Eddie's when it was still long.

That's another thing Tommy won't let himself think about, (because he knows if did he'd start wondering if any of those kids were half-Steve).

Anyways, Tommy doesn't need glance to see that Steve wears fatherhood like a favorite sweater.

There’s something about this, about seeing these pictures, about the way Tommy is getting an answer to that question he’s had for years about where his childhood best friend has been all these years, that is making him feel like his ribcage is being split open, bones splintering and shattering as everything vulnerable inside his chest in suddenly out for display.

He probably should feel uncomfortable, right? Like, a guy he’d been seriously close to growing up — sleepovers and gym locker rooms and all that shit — had turned out to be gay. If his own son came home from school saying that his best friend came out or whatever as gay…well, again, it’s 2007, and Tommy doesn’t think his wife would allow him to denounce the friendship entirely, but there certainly wouldn’t be any sleepovers anymore. He thinks that’s pretty reasonable.

What was the likelihood that Steve had been, like, into Tommy?

And that should be an uncomfortable notion too, and in a sense, it kind of is, but not necessarily in the way he would expect.

He just doesn’t understand why all this feels so much like a loss because he knows that he hasn’t really lost anything – not since he got his hands on the magazine, anyways. Steve Harrington hasn’t played any sort of role in Tommy’s life since their final falling out in 1984, and as far as he’s aware, having a falling out with a close friend is pretty much a guaranteed part of growing up. His wife even experienced something similar when her own grade school best friend suddenly stopped answering calls and stopped reaching out after they’d started college – and his wife is basically the nicest person Tommy has ever known, so…it happens to even the best.

It’s just…Steve had always continued to exist in Tommy’s life in a way, even if he wasn't physically present, and maybe Tommy had figured it could be the same for Steve too, that maybe he sometimes wonders where Tommy is, wonders what he’s up to.

This article and these photos makes it pretty fucking clear that Tommy doesn’t even exist in the same galaxy as the life Steve is living.

And that’s not to mention the Eddie fucking Munson of it all.

Tommy had been kind of ignoring the Eddie of it all until he couldn’t ignore it anymore, because he doesn't care about Eddie Munson.

He'd never cared, but he'd spent years seeing the guy's face and his name everywhere, and now it feels like a sick joke, like he's the piece of Steve left in Tommy's life.

If the article is accurate (and he has no reason to believe it isn’t), Steve and Eddie have been together for longer than Tommy has even known his wife. Steve has been with Eddie for longer than Steve was ever friends with Tommy – not by a lot, but still more. That’s a long fucking time, and it’s clear as day on both of their faces that they’re just as in love with each other fourteen years in as they were on day one.

It’s not just Steve, and it’s not just Eddie, and it’s not one more than the other. It’s both of them.

There’s one photo in particular – a small black-and-white one that keeps pulling Tommy’s attention.

It’s another candid shot, taken from a bit of a distance. In it, Steve has Eddie boxed in against the counter in what has to be their kitchen. Eddie is leaning back against the edge of the granite countertop and looking at Steve with something sappy and fond on his face, and Steve’s hands are this close to grabbing Eddie’s waist as he looks at him the exact same way.

It’s shit out of a fairy tale or something, and sure, maybe someone could argue that they’re laying it on thick just for the sake of the magazine or whatever, but Tommy knows Steve Harrington and that look on his face is more real than Tommy had ever seen in all the years he'd known him.

So maybe Tommy has a reason or two (or three or four) to be jealous of Eddie Munson.

#unreliable narrator!tommy hagan my beloved #the ao3 version has the interview btw #steddie #liv’s steddie dads verse #steddie dads #steve harrington #eddie munson #tommy hagan

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dweeb-central · 3 months

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yuu cooked too much ft. heartlabyul, floyd, malleus, & ruggie

guys i entered a fugue state & wrote angst?? hcs

mc is used to cooking for a big family & accidentally mistakes recipe proportions, leaving them w way too much food. scenarios of them asking diff twst boys if they'd want some, mentioning why. a bit downtrodden with no family to share it with...

trey, cater, riddle... are touched. trey & cater both have big families, & their eyes soften at the mention of yours. trey especially empathizes with you, before he began cooking and baking for the majority of his dorm he cooked & baked for his family. he identifies with the habits of buying groceries in bulk & the need to keep the house stocked with anything five or more people could ever need (just in case). cater's interested to see what kinds of foods you'll cook. make him something from your heritage! he'll magicam it <3 or just save the memory in a photograph if you'd prefer. he'd love to listen to you talk about recipes & regional preferences & tastes. that goes for riddle too! his mom kept him on a strict diet for his childhood, but now that he's got the opportunity he'd love to learn about your heritage & culture! as he grows more outgoing he's learned more about the cultures of his peers & he'd probably be one of the most qualified (& excited) to answer any questions or point out any similarities with twisted wonderland cultures.

floyd... blinks his big wide eyes once, twice, & then launches himself towards you to wrap his arms tight & pick up straight up off the ground. "awwww, shrimpy misses their troupe! shrimpy's aaalways welcome to bring me dinner! we can play house!! i'll be the dad, you'll be the mom, azul will be our baby, and jade... he can be the dog and go play outside or something." ('- , -) you better stop him before he gets ahead of himself. least likely of octavinelle to bother you about selling the recipe to azul ((he'll give you a cut of the profits!)). still makes you cook in the mostro lounge kitchen, but only because he wants you to grow to feel more at home with him & in an environment he's used to... that way when he gets serious about his & shrimpy's relationship....

the adeuce duo... both go... quiet, at the mention of your past. it wasn't something you avoided talking about when you were reminded of something relevant, or things you enjoyed or saw, but... you don't talk much about your family. they don't ask much about your family. deuce feels a twinge of guilt—he doesn't shy away from talking about his mom, & he loves her too dearly to be ashamed or shy. he wonders if they make you feel as loved as his does. ace wonders if he should ask you about them more often. he's not exactly shy about his own family, but he doesn't exactly ever seek to bring them up in idle conversation. he wonders what your siblings are like. they give each other a resolved look above your head when you're not looking, & now they regularly (as much as they can) come over for dinners at ramshackle! if you're comfortable with it, they invite all the first years too. you hope they feel as familiar & familial to you as you feel for them. they hope you know they do.

malleus... feels a twinge in the back of his throat—maybe behind his eyes? his truest friend feels alone, something he recognizes deeply. he hasn't lost anyone close to him like that—at least, he doesn't feel like it. his lonely was a different sort, where he's never really known family like you have. but, he considers, maybe no one at this school has had to sacrifice more than his prefect. he wonders what dinners were like with that many, & you tell him. the bickering, the debates, the movie nights & commentaries, the nights spent making s'mores(?) over the fireplace. he wants dinners like that with you. you invite him to.

ruggie... might invite you to spend some time over with his family. not immediately, no way, but the thought lingered in his head long enough for his throat to burn with the words (& his cheeks to burn in embarassment). in reality, he grins a big wide grin & laughs his mischeivous little laugh. "i'll NEVER say no to free food. feel free to keep it coming! shehehe." he ends up coming over to help you cook a few times a month. it's a good excuse to spend time with you over a dinner he knows was cooked with love.

i had to google what a group of shrimp is called lol. could've actually been troupe OR run OR colony. i wonder if it's ooc that floyd knows this.... i mean, he is a fish man, so 🤷

#dweeb speaks #twisted wonderland #twst #yuu / mc / reader / prefect #heartslaybul x reader #riddle rosehearts x yuu #trey clover x yuu #cater diamond x yuu #floyd leech x yuu #ace trappola x yuu #deuce spade x yuu #adeuce #malleus draconia x yuu #ruggie bucchi x yuu #x reader #obligatory once a year post

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raginglesbian2006 · 2 months

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Ne Me Quitte Pas

Alastor x angel!reader

Chapter 2: Among My Souvenirs

Chapter warnings: Heaven being a bitch, harassment from Adam

There's nothing left for me of days that used to be

I live in memory among my souvenirs

Some letters tied with blue, photograph or two

I see a rose from you among my souvenirs

Masterlist

The first thing you remember in your afterlife was the giant imposing golden gates that led you to the heavenly grounds.

You recall standing in a queue, waiting for your name to be called and gain your wings, halo, and a home in heaven. You could see people of various kinds- some short, some tall, most of them resembling creatures of all sorts. Only a few seemed to possess human-like features.

You looked back at where you came from. It was a bridge, a long one. You did not recall crossing it but saw people coming through it and joining the queue with a dazed look.

The person in front of you - someone resembling a bunny- yelped in excitement as their wings and halo were granted and they hopped off, passing through the gates into heaven.

You were next.

You looked up at the angel manning a register, standing in front of a tall podium. His fingers glided over the pages as he mumbled each name he saw before reaching your own.

Your name was called.

“Um…hi?” you said, rather awkwardly, “That’s me.”

“Hello!” the angel exclaimed, “My name is St. Peter. It is my delight to invite you to join the heavenly gardens that lay beyond this door! Congratulations on your journey here. Everyone in heaven is eager to meet you!”

You could feel a tingle at your back as soon as he said that. You waited for a while as your wings sprouted forth and a warmth settled atop your head. Your hands reached out to the warmth- you realized it was your halo.

The heavenly gates opened wide to welcome you. Your eyes widened as you got a glimpse of the paradise that lay before you. It was…beautiful.

“Go on now, dearie!” St. Peter smiled wide, “Enjoy the rest of your afterlife!”

You took one step forward but paused. You looked at the angel.

“Before I go…I had a question.”

The angel tilted his head, “Of course, do go ahead.”

You turned back around and pointed at the bridge, “What…what exactly is that?”

St. Peter chuckled as he explained, “That, my dearie, is the bridge to heaven. After your judgment, you must cross the bridge to reach here. As you do, the memories of your mortal life fade with every step you take. Once you do take a step forward, you cannot go back.”

“Lose…my memories?” you asked, “Why…why do I have to lose my memories?”

“To prepare you for the reincarnation program of course!” St. Peter smiled, “There comes a time when every Winner is reincarnated into a new body to live their next life! It won’t fare well if they remember the memories of their past lives, now would it?”

He continued, “For those that do not want to be reincarnated, they get to live a carefree life in heaven- away from every bad memory that plagued their life when they were alive!”

You nodded, feeling an ache in your chest.

“If you don’t mind, I have another question.”

St. Peter gestured for you to speak.

“Can you tell me then,” you lifted your hand, your fingers holding a beautiful ring- it held a lovely little gem that shone red, “why I have this?”

St. Peter bent down and squinted his eyes to look at the object a little better. Then, he smiled and replied, “That must be a gift to you from someone who loved you dearly.”

He explained, “Everyone who comes to heaven is gifted with something or the other at their grave from people who love them the most. They are allowed to have that little token from their life as they enter the gates of heaven. Consider it a little reminder that they were loved, even though they have forgotten their memories.”

He took a deep breath and looked at you, “Is that all, dearie?”

“Yes,” you replied, “Thank you for clearing my queries.”

“It’s no problem at all!” he said, “Enjoy the fruits of your goodness. Welcome to heaven!”

Your hand clutched around the ring, the ruby digging into your skin as you finally walked through the gates of heaven.

You had stayed in heaven for quite a long while. You could’ve chosen to be reincarnated but you didn’t. It was as if something was stopping you from taking that step.

So you made the best of your time in heaven. You helped your neighbors, spoke kindly to those who passed by you, and volunteered to serve the people of heaven.

Everyone who met you fell in love with your gentle and kind demeanor and they praised you for the goodness of your heart.

You had to make a couple swerves when Adam caught wind of you. He would often pop out of nowhere when you were out and about on your daily tasks and try to get you to go on a date with him.

You were quite adamant (see what I did there?) on not letting your anger at his arrogance get the best of you and politely declined his offers, no matter how many times he tried to convince you. You had class, after all.

In about a few years since your arrival, one of the guardians of the Heavenly Grand Council stepped down from his role to finally retire and head towards reincarnation. The vacancy was to be filled by the collective vote of the residents of heaven.

It was safe to say that you had gained enough love and support from your fellow Winners that you were chosen as the next guardian to man the station left by your predecessor.

You were gifted a golden sword, crafted by the prince of heaven, Michael himself, when you ascended to your position. You still remember how you felt more powerful and how your wings enlarged and grew stronger, the moment you held your weapon in your hands.

And yet, at the moment, even if you had such a powerful item in your hands and were imbued with unspoken power, you thought of the ring that stayed on your finger as a more precious possession.

The sword gleamed in the light refracted by the glass dome that hung above you. The large empty hall echoed with every swish of your weapon.

With your memories compromised by heaven, you were left with a deep aching in your chest. An ache that pestered you since you entered through the heavenly gates. Throughout your years in heaven, you felt like a part of you was missing.

Between your duties as a guardian and the constant pestering from Adam, you thought you would be able to forget that pain. But you couldn’t. The worst thing about it was that you had no idea what was causing this. How could you know? The memories of your mortal life were taken from you, erased as soon as you stepped on that god-forsaken bridge.

The golden sword moved like lightning, as your movements became swifter and more precise. Your breath came out in uneven huffs as you elegantly moved your way around the lonely hall, slicing the air with your weapon.

Suddenly, there was a change- a slight gust of wind blew through. Someone was here. Someone with the agility and patience to move towards you without making a noise.

You paused in your ministrations, only momentarily, before you swung your tightly held sword at your intruder.

The tip of your blade was met by two large pairs of eyes, looking back at you, terrified.

"Molly?"

The female arachnid let out a puff of air in relief, as your sword turned itself into a staff- the latter holding the same regal air as the former.

"I have got to stop sneakin' up on ya, I swear!" Molly chuckled.

"I am sorry, dear," you hung your head in embarrassment as you tapped the end of your staff on the polished golden floors, "I do tend to get carried away sometimes."

Molly waved her hand in a gesture of dismissal.

"It's alright, sugar. It ain't your fault. I just gotta be more careful next time," she winked, playfully.

You let out a laugh in response. Your heavy heart felt a little lighter with such a jovial presence as she.

"So," you gestured to her to walk along with you, "To what do I owe the honor of you visiting?"

"Oh, I'm just a messenger!" Molly followed close behind you, as the two of you walked out of the large hall, " It's Emily who wanted to talk to you."

She leaned in closer and whispered to you, placing one of her hands over her mouth, "I hear there's a very special guest coming! I've been called to participate in the welcoming song by Sera! Can you believe it, sugar?"

Your brows scrunched up in confusion, "There's...a special guest? Coming to heaven?"

Molly nodded her head excitedly, "Mhm! But they won't tell us who it is. I reckon it's gonna be sweet ol' Em who's gonna let you in on that secret!"

You hummed, "Well, I best be off then, darling. I wish you all the best for your performance!"

The arachnid looked at you gleefully, and then with a tight hug, she left you to find your way to Emily.

Fortunately, even though Molly forgot to tell you where the younger seraph was, in the midst of her excitement, you knew exactly where to find her.

You saw Emily waving at you from one of the tables placed outside the quaint cafe you frequented. She had already ordered for the two of you- your cup steaming with a freshly made beverage.

"Greetings, Emily," you bowed your head out of courtesy. No matter how much you considered her a dear friend of yours, she was a seraph first and foremost.

Emily giggled and pulled you down to have you sit at the table, "You have no idea how much I've been wanting to tell you something!"

You glanced at the youngest seraphim, gently blowing over your hot beverage, "Well, I am here now so..." you trailed off.

Emily bounced in her seat, excitedly, "Ok, but you have to pinkie promise that you won't tell this to anyone," she raised her pinkie towards you.

Chuckling, you intertwined your little finger with hers, "I promise. Now don't keep me waiting."

"Theprincessofhelliscomingtovisitheaven!" Emily exclaimed as softly as she could, in a single breath.

Your eyes blinked owlishly at hers for a moment. Then, you burst out laughing.

"I'm sorry, I thought you said the princess of hell is coming over to visit heaven," you wiped away a stray tear, taking a sip of your drink.

"No, that is exactly what I said," Emily stated.

You spat out your beverage in disbelief, "I'm sorry, WHAT!?"

Emily shushed you and awkwardly smiled at the patrons gawking at the two of you.

You immediately lowered your voice, "What do you mean the princess of hell is coming to heaven? I mean-what-why?" you stuttered through.

The younger seraphim looked at you with glee, "Oooh! She's here to propose her idea to Sera and me in front of the court!"

You titled your head in confusion, "Propose....what?" You took another sip of your beverage.

"Why, her idea to rehabilitate sinners, of course!"

You spat out your drink a second time.

Emily handed you a tissue as your wide eyes looked at her.

"The princess of hell," you said, taking the tissue and wiping your mouth, "is working on rehabilitating sinners," you made sure to sound out each syllable clearly, " and is coming to heaven to propose her idea?"

Emily clapped her hands, "Yes! Isn't it exciting?"

Your confusion remained.

"It is indeed...unexpected," you finally took a proper sip.

"Oh! And she's coming over tomorrow!"

You did nothing but nod your head. The princess of hell trying to get sinners into heaven? No matter how noble the cause was, it seemed rather...useless. Sinners were brought down to hell for a reason. Besides, what demon would even want to rehabilitate themselves? Was there any scope for success?

You continued listening to Emily rant about how excited she was at the prospect of meeting someone from hell, let alone, the daughter of the head honcho, herself.

Your thoughts remained on how important it was for you to attend this court hearing. There was a feeling in your chest that you may be able to find some semblance of an answer to the questions you have been withholding for so long.

After a long chat with Emily, you two bid each other adieu and you headed straight to your headquarters, wanting to get some work done before the busy day tomorrow. You knew if the princess of hell was coming over to heaven, things would not go as smoothly as one would hope.

You took your time to wander through the streets leading up to your destination, greeting every angel that passed you by.

Just then, out of the blue, your wings bristled at the sound of your name being called rather harshly.

“There you are!” a gruff voice exclaimed, approaching you, “You know how fucking hard it is to find you nowadays?”

You turned around with a pointed look.

“Adam,” you greeted him, “What a pleasure it is to meet you here.”

God knows you were lying.

“Yeah, yeah whatever,” he leaned in closer to you as you took a step back to create some distance, “There’s this concert coming around in a few days and I wanted to tell you to come with me.”

You raised an eyebrow, “I’m sorry…you wanted to tell me to come with you? Not ask?”

Adam let out a scoff, “Why would I ask? I mean, I know any bitch would want to come with me,” he leaned his face closer to yours, “including you.”

You pushed his face away with your finger and laughed.

“That is where you are wrong, Adam,” your teeth gritted as your anger bubbled through, “Despite the many times I have rejected your advances, you keep coming back to pester me.”

You took a step forward, and your eyes shone golden. Your figure grew bigger as your wings fluttered wide and the grip on your staff- which had now turned into the sword- tightened. You felt your third eye opening, right in the middle of your forehead- the eye resembling your normal ones, golden and terrifying.

Adam gulped and opened his mouth to say something but you interrupted.

“YOU CANNOT SEEM TO UNDERSTAND,” your voice grew more frightening, “WHEN NO MEANS NO.”

After a few seconds, Adam let out a huff and turned around, leaving you be as he shouted, “Your loss, bitch.”

You reverted back to your normal self as you huffed out a sigh. You turned your sword back into your staff and held it in the crook of your arm, your hands fiddling with the ring that adorned your finger. When you calmed down, you snapped your fingers to open a portal that would transport you to your headquarters. You wished you had thought of taking the easy route before Adam had ruined your mood.

When you reached your office, you were greeted by Oliver, your assistant.

“Greetings, your grace!” he bowed his head as soon as he saw you.

“Oliver,” you started, making your way to your desk, “How many times do I have to tell you that you don’t need to use honorifics with me?”

You had met Oliver not too long ago. He seemed to have lived a long and happy life. Despite his old age, he was very sprightly and efficient in organizing the mess that was your paperwork and reports.

Whenever he smiled, your mind was put at ease. You felt safe in his presence. You considered him your dearest friend, your confidante, and most importantly, a person you could talk to without the fear of judgment.

You felt as if you knew him already before you two even had the chance to meet.

Oliver shrugged, “You’re too humble for your own good. Embrace your title! Feel the power you possess!”

You chuckled at his theatrics- your unfortunate encounter with Adam long forgotten.

Oliver continued, “You look like you have a lot on your mind, though.”

“You are the only one who can see right through me, Oliver,” you sighed as you leaned against your chair.

“I’m not supposed to say this to anyone…but let’s just say a very…interesting guest is going to make an appearance tomorrow.”

You fiddled with the ring on your finger once more.

There was a lot of hustle and bustle at the court today.

As you sat down at your assigned place, you politely greeted your fellow guardians and waited eagerly for the session to commence. Several feet below you, you could see two figures making their way to their station. They were not angels, by what you could tell.

One had strikingly blonde hair and a painfully nervous demeanor to her walk, the other had moth-like features and flowing gray hair with a large red bow at the back.

There was, however, something about the moth demon that was familiar to you. You just couldn’t point out what.

Adam and Lute arrived and sat at their respective places, and soon after, followed Sera and Emily. The trial then began.

Throughout the trial, you could see your previous expectations of the princess crumbling before you. You had assumed she had wanted to reach heaven on the false pretense of rehabilitation just to cause havoc here. But you were pleasantly surprised to see before you, an heir, who wanted to desperately help her people.

When you were allowed to take a glimpse at one of the candidates participating in the princess’ efforts of rehabilitation, you could see how he was steering away from the bad decisions he made earlier that night and stood up for his friends, even going as far as putting himself in danger.

You could also see he resembled a certain arachnid you knew.

Despite the evidence provided, Sera refused to budge and that is when Adam foolishly revealed his plans for extermination. Hearing this, Emily intervened asking Sera if she had any idea about this. Sera confirmed that she did and had allowed it for the safety of heaven.

You could’ve stood up and interjected but you didn't. You were frozen in your seat. You could hear your fellow council members whisper and chatter amongst themselves but you couldn’t bring yourself to participate.

Heaven was supposed to be this paradise where everyone was good and helped each other, out of the purity of their heart. It wasn’t supposed to be the hand behind mass genocides taking place every year.

The trial ended with the princess and her companion- who was revealed to be an angel, an exterminator to be specific- thrown out of heaven through a portal.

You immediately teleported yourself to Sera’s office. She was already present at her desk as soon as the trial ended.

“With all due respect, your Highness,” you started, “What in the actual fuck was that?”

Sera’s glare pierced through you, “Watch how you speak with me, guardian.”

“Why is one of the protectors of heaven willingly participating in exterminations- the likes of which seem completely unrequired?” you said, ignoring her threat.

“If you must know,” Sera gritted her teeth, “It was to protect heaven from the uprising in hell.”

Your eyes widened at the information. You spoke again, “And who…or what gave you the idea that there was an uprising going on in hell?”

You flinched as Sera shifted into her true form and leaned in closer to you, looking at you with every bit of anger and terror.

“You are not to question my decisions, guardian,” she started, “Leave. Immediately.”

You took a step back, your eyes not leaving Sera’s before you turned around and walked out of her office, shutting the door behind you.

When you were outside, you saw Emily in front of you. She seemed distressed, her eyes watering with every second that passed.

“Oh, darling,” you stretched out your arms, letting the younger seraph fall into them and cry into your shoulder, “It’s alright.”

“I- I didn’t know,” she struggled, her tears making it difficult for her to speak, “I-If I d-did…”

You gently shushed her as you ran a hand through her hair.

“I know…I know…”

You held the crying seraph in your arms till her trembling stopped.

You sighed as you finished the last of your paperwork.

Today was supposed to be extermination day.

Adam and Lute, along with their slew of exterminators, were going to go down and kill off staggering amounts of hell’s population and despite the powers you possessed, you could do nothing about it.

You’ve never felt so utterly helpless.

“Oliver, I’ll go deliver these reports to Sera.”

After a nod from him, you transported yourself to the front of Sera’s office with a snap of your fingers. You still remember the last time you came here. With a deep breath, you pushed the huge golden doors open.

“Your Highness, I have the reports…”

Your voice trailed off as your eyes saw what lay before you.

It was a snake like creature looking back at you with an awkward smile on his face. You could see his halo glowing atop his head.

You had seen him before.

You recalled the time of the trial when Princess Charlie was showing the court the progress being made by a certain Angel Dust towards redemption. During that, you could also see the other patrons of the hotel.

One of which…was the snake that stood before you.

Your mouth gaped open as your eyes flitted over to Emily’s gleeful look and Sera’s terrified one.

“It worked,” you whispered.

Sera quickly regained her poise and said, “Emily, would you please go ahead to help this…” she looked at the snake, “...new…resident settle in?”

Emily jumped out of her seat and excitedly nodded, “Of course! Right this way, umm…what was your name again?”

“Sir..Pentious,” the snake hissed out hesitantly, “Where…where am I exactly?”

Emily giggled out, “You’re in heaven! Welcome!” she said as she walked towards the door, “Oh, Princess Charlie would be so proud of you!”

“I’m sorry…who?”

Emily stopped and looked back at Pentious, her smile diminishing. She shifted her eyes to you and you looked at her helplessly.

“Right…” she mumbled out, before opening the door.

“Emily,” Sera called out.

The younger seraphim turned her head towards her.

“Not a word,” Sera reminded her, “Not a word until we figure this out.”

Emily nodded her head somberly and stepped out of the office, the new resident of heaven slithering closely behind her.

Sera let out a sigh and rested one hand against her head, cradling it as she leaned forward on her desk.

You flew towards her desk, after recomposing yourself, putting the reports you had intended to give to her atop the table.

You were about to turn around, leaving her in her lonesome before she called out your name.

“Yes, your Highness?” you asked.

“…I need you to do a job for me…”

You burst into your office, startled to see Molly having a chat with Oliver as he rearranged your files. Amid her rant, you caught her eye and she turned to you happily. However, her smile faded seeing the distressed look on your face. She stood up, approaching you.

“Sugar,” she started, “Are you okay?”

“I..” you paused, “I’m fine.”

You continued, moving past the arachnid, “Oliver, I need your help packing my stuff.”

Oliver turned towards you with a confused look on his face, his hands laden with files.

“Pack?” he questioned, “Where are you going?”

“To hell,” you said, averting your eyes.

You heard a thump as Oliver lost his grip on the files and Molly gasped.

“To hell?” the female arachnid shook you by the shoulders, “What do you mean to hell!?”

Oliver approached you with the same curiosity. You sighed and explained, “Sera tasked me with going to hell to oversee some…business...”

Molly looked at you incredulously, “What…what- why?”

You gently lifted her hands away from you, “Look, I can’t say much. It’s confidential information but…” you paused, looking at her worried face, “I promise you, I will be fine and back in no time.”

Molly let out a sigh. Even though she looked conflicted she nodded her head, looking at you with a smile.

Oliver interjected, “And…what exactly made you…accept this task? She could’ve asked anyone, couldn’t she?”

You recalled your conversation with Sera. She had told you to oversee the working of the Hazbin Hotel and to send her daily reports on your findings.

━═━═━═━═━═━═━═━═━

“You’re sending me there…to spy on them?” you had asked.

Sera hadn’t looked at you. Instead, she continued, “The balance between good and evil is being compromised,” she let out a sigh, “I need you to go there to help restore it.”

“And…why me?”

“Because you happened to see the new arrival and you witnessed the trial. I cannot risk anyone else knowing,” She ended.

She turned to look at you, her eyes fierce and her stance imposing.

“This is a command from the High Seraphim,” she started, “I hope you know that.”

━═━═━═━═━═━═━═━═━

You looked towards Oliver, “How can I defy her Highness’ orders?”

He did not look convinced so you had to continue, “And because…” you looked at both Molly and Oliver, “I have a feeling I might find answers there…”

Your fingers brushed over the ring once in an effort to comfort yourself. Suddenly, you felt a pat on your shoulder and your eyes found Oliver’s. He smiled, his aged face giving a wise look to him.

“As long as you’re safe,” he said, “That is all we could ask for.”

You smiled and hugged the two of them, holding them close. Their embrace helped cool your anxious heart as you let yourself loose in their warmth.

You had no clue what to look forward to when you were to reach hell. But you knew, you had to take that step…for your own sake.

Your eyes widened at the sight of the hotel. It looked absolutely beautiful and grand-a place fit for the princess of hell.

You turned around to see the portal fizzing out, the remnants of your home disappearing before your eyes. You took a deep breath and forced a smile to your face, knocking on the large doors of the hotel.

You waited for a while before you saw the doors open, revealing a one-eyed demon who was dressed casually. Her eye flitted up to your halo and before you could get a word in, she slammed the door in your face.

You let out an indignant gasp and your eyes scrunched at this treatment. You were about to open the doors yourself but were interrupted by the Princess of Hell opening it for you.

She looked at you with wide eyes and you sensed that she was going to shut the doors once again but you stopped her, holding the door with your hand.

“I’ve come here by the orders of the High Seraphim… to give the hotel her blessings and oversee its welfare on her behalf.”

The princess’ eyes widened and a smile overtook her features. She eagerly pulled you by the arm and into the hotel, before excitedly exclaiming, “Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel!”

Oh boy, you were in for a ride.

Taglist: @yumiburrito , @candyladycry , @sleepykittycx, @fairyv-ice , @sonatabee @preciousbabypeter, @mo-0-o

#hazbin hotel #alastor #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin alastor #alastor x angel!reader

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tsumuswifey · 1 year

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The different types of hugs with Bakugo (Alternatively, the two times you hug him, and the one time he hugs you.)

The first hug (manga spoilers!!)

You’re not entirely sure what had compelled you to hug him for the first time, only that it was right after graduation and you were feeling particularly emotional.

With your graduation cap in one hand, and diploma in the other, you made your way across the stadium, heels sinking into the grass with every step. Your graduation robe swished around your calf’s, the grey with green accents triggering a sort of nostalgia you hadn’t felt since your childhood.

You pause in your tracks, turning to take in the stadium.

It hadn’t been so long ago that you were first stepping foot in here, stomach in knots at the prospect of fighting your peers on national television. You were naive then, having no idea of the horrors you’d face in the months to come.

The ghost of your past plays out in front of you like a reel of photographs; if you squint, you can almost see Midnight walking across the stage. You’d mourn her for the rest of your life, you think. It had been over a year since her death, but the wound from her loss had never really healed.

You tilt your head, looking up into the bleachers. There, you imagine a younger you, holding Mina’s hand as you watched Bakugo vs Ochako. If you listen closely enough, you can almost hear everyone’s gasps of surprise as Todoroki used his fire.

“Hey, Rainboots.”

Rainboots. The nickname makes you smile sadly, somehow, you think, this would be the person you’d miss the most.

“Katsuki,” You greet, turning to face him. He grins; something you’re still not accustomed to. Pre-war, he was all frowns and negativity. After the dust settled, he still had that spunk, but he was far more inclined to smile and be kind.

Pearly white canines bite into his bottom lip, and your heart skips a beat as you think back to a time that you thought you’d never get to see that smile ever again. Memories of rain and blood, of two heroes working together to save a young boy flash in your mind. You hadn’t been there when he’d taken that final blow, arriving shortly after to find him lifeless on the ground, nearly unrecognizable from the amount of wounds he had. It made you realize that even though he could be incredibly brash, he was so courageous, so selfless.

“You okay?” He asks, sliding his palms into the pockets of his slacks. You nod, nervously twiddling with the paper of your diploma.

You swallow once, before answering, “Do you ever think that we grew up too quickly?”

Katsuki sighs deeply, foreign look in his eyes when he takes you in. “All the time. Didn’t really have time for all the other high school bullshit, huh? Too busy fuckin’ fighting.”

You nod again, feeling embarrassed that you couldn’t come up with another answer. You click your tongue, shifting from one foot to the other, and then-

“So-“

“Do you-“

You both speak at the same time, abruptly stopping when you realize you’re talking over each other. You laugh nervously, eyes taking in the light blush spreading across Katsuki’s cheeks.

He reaches up, tugging at the tie around his neck.

“Can’t stand these things,” He laughs quietly.

You’re not sure why you choose this moment to do this, but you figure this might be your last chance, so-

“Can I hug you? You know because who knows when we’ll see each other again and yeah, I don’t know-“

“Come here,” Katsuki softly commands.

When you hug him, it’s a little clumsy, and little bit strange. You’ve never been this close to him, but he’s warm and he’s familiar, and he smells amazing. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, rhythmically thumping in a way that brings you immense comfort. He slowly brings a hand up to the back of your head, pressing you impossibly close to him.

“I’m gonna miss you,” You say, words muffled by the fabric of his dress shirt.

Katsuki tightens his hold on you, “Well, we will have to keep in touch then. Get dinner together or some shit at that ramen place you like?”

You didn’t quite know it then, but that was only the beginning of a blooming relationship.

The second hug

There is absolute chaos unfolding around you.

In one moment, you were peacefully patrolling, and in the next, an entire building collapsed in on itself. At first, it didn’t seem to be anything malicious, but then just a block down, another building collapsed.

You’re shouting orders at people, trying to get civilians away from the scene while simultaneously trying to fend off villains.

Sweat drips down your temple, the sun beaming down on you like a spotlight. You use your quirk against a bigger villain, muscles burning from the exertion.

Behind you, the familiar sound of Katsuki’s explosions reverberates through the street, bouncing off the concrete buildings surrounding you. The relief distracts you for a moment, and by the time you realize what’s happening, the villain hits you so hard, you fly back into a cement wall.

You hit it hard, breath knocked from your lungs.

Someone shouts something, but everything sounds so muffled all of a sudden. You reach up slowly, eyes squeezed shut from the pain as you touch the back of your head. Warmth spreads across your fingertips in the form of blood, causing you to wince.

You’re not sure how much time passes before someone picks you up, large hands wrapping around you.

“Hang in there, Rainboots. ‘M gonna get you help.”

It’s the last thing you remember before you’re blearily opening your eyes days later. Fluorescent lights burn your irises, a dull ache rattling your skull when you try to sit up. You instead turn your head slightly, only to find Katsuki, ball cap pulled over his hair, black hoodie and gray sweatpants on. His arms are crossed, chin tucked to chest as he sleeps.

You accidentally elbow the side of your hospital bed, loudly enough that it wakes Katsuki.

“Oh shit, you’re awake.” He says, standing quickly. The sight of him is comforting.

“Katsuki,” You whisper, “Thank you for saving me.”

“You’d do it for me,” He says bashfully, “Couldn’t just leave my Rainboots bleeding out on the sidewalk, could I?”

You smile weakly, sitting up slowly. “Give me a hug.”

“Bossy.”

You side eye him, “Don’t then.”

He snickers, and sits down on the edge of your bed. He pulls you into his arms carefully, face tucked into your neck. You grab at the back of his hoodie, cuddling into him like you were the only two people in the hospital. It isn’t until you feel his tears hitting your skin that you realize just how affected he was by you being injured.

“Katsuki-“

He cuts you off, “Please don’t ever do that shit again. Couldn’t sleep I was so worried about you. I dunno what I’d do with myself if I had to live without you.”

He takes a deep breath then, “I love you, Y/n.”

Your heart stutters, you’re sure of it. Time stops, the world tilting on its axis at Katsuki’s proclamation.

“I love you, Katsuki.”

The third hug

“Can’t believe this is where it all started,” Katsuki breathes.

You sit side by side, your butt beginning to go numb from the uncomfortable seats. You glance sidelong at your new husband, the glint of his wedding ban shining out of the corner of your eye when sunlight hits it just right. You reach for his hand, the warmth of his palm engulfing you.

“Can’t believe we were that young once,” You respond, leaning over to rest your head against his broad shoulder. You feels his lips press against the top of your head, before he breathes out a laugh.

“Oh, to be fifteen again.”

You sit up, looking him directly in the eye when you say defiantly, “Oh, to not be fifteen again. You were a menace.”

Katsuki glares playfully, reaching up to pull the ball cap from his head. He places it on your head, yanking it down by the bill so you can’t see anything.

“Katsuki,” You warn.

He laughs quietly, removing the hat from your head. “Sorry”

You return your attention back to the sports festival, nostalgia running through your veins at the aspiring heroes doing everything they can to win. Katsuki’s thumb rubs back and forth over the back of your hand, his fingers squeezing periodically around yours.

A sudden wave of nausea swirls through your gut, and you readjust in your seat, swallowing thickly.

“You okay, baby?” Katsuki asks, “Feeling alright?”

You take a deep breath, trying your hardest not to throw your breakfast up. “Yeah, just feel a little sick to my stomach.”

Unconsciously, you slide your hand over your stomach protectively. You’d been wanting to tell Katsuki the news for weeks now, but never seemed to find the right time.

He hums, “I think I saw that intern that Recovery Girl was training. C’mon, she should be able to help.”

Panic shoots through you. That’s not the way you want him to find out.

“No, no, I’m perfectly fine, honey.”

You gag then, the movement from reaching out to grab at him as he stood making you extremely nauseous.

“Y/n, you’re like three seconds from puking.”

“Katsuki, please. I’m okay, seriously.”

He sighs heavily, sitting back in his seat with a thud. “You’ll feel so much better if you just take some nausea meds or something, babe.”

You shake your head, whispering, “I can’t.”

Katsuki turns to look at you, confusedly asking, “Why not?”

You look him in the eye, tears collecting at your lash line.

“Babe?” He presses.

You grab his hand, pressing it to your lower belly.

“Wait, are you-do you mean, you’re-“

You nod, crying softly. “I’m pregnant, Katsuki.”

What you can only describe as absolute delight flashes through his eyes as he leans forward and gathers you into his strong arms. “Holy shit. I’m gonna be a dad?”

“Yes,” You cry, pressing your face into his neck. “I love you so much.”

It’s funny, how it all began in this stadium. Your friendship. Your first hug. Your careers as heroes. And now, you were going to begin the journey of parenthood with him.

“Our kid is gonna be a badass hero,” Katsuki breaks the moment. “Gonna kick so much ass.”

“Why, Katsuki? We were having such a cute moment.”

This is bad lol.

#bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugou #katsuki bakugo imagine #katsuki bakugo x reader #mha #my hero academia #bnha fluff #katsuki fluff #bakugo fluff #mha spoilers

741 notes · View notes

inkykeiji · 7 months

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character: bonten!mikey x fem!reader notes: a day or two ago teddy and i were daydreaming about sucking on our Daddies’ fingers and i genuinely haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since!!!! warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, daddy kink, hair pulling, oral fixation (finger sucking), somnophilia + minimal prep, mention of drugs words: 1.3k

If he’s being truthful, Mikey doesn’t really mind when you suck on his fingers—kind of likes it, actually; likes feeling useful, likes the way your tongue pulses and jumps just a bit as you draw him in a little further, suck around him a little harder, likes to pacify you—provided that it’s feasible.

You know when to ask, know that if Daddy’s busy cleaning his guns or cutting his drugs that he needs both hands, that his pretty girl can’t be greedy, now, just because she needs something to suck on. No, on those days you can usually be patient enough, can usually wait until Daddy’s finished with whatever important business he has to take care of. But sometimes, if you’re really needy, and you’ve been extra good, you might get lucky—he might let you stick his cock down your throat, let it sit all heavy and hard on your tongue as you kneel sloppily between his spread thighs, chin on the edge of his chair, hands planted between your folded knees and palms pressed flat to the floor, all conscious and intentional, since Daddy has a rule against touching during times like these, claims it distracts him, and we can’t have that, now, can we, sweetheart?

No, Daddy. Of course not, Daddy.

Daddy has a rule against sucking at times like these as well—this isn’t about getting him off or making him feel good, after all, he had told you. This is just about giving his whiny little baby something to fill her mouth with, something to fill her mouth up, to keep her occupied and quiet while Daddy works. If he feels your tongue start to curl around his shaft, if he feels your lips begin to pucker and your cheeks begin to hollow, he’ll be yanking you off his cock in one harsh, swift motion, with his knuckles rooted at your scalp and a growled curse spit through his teeth—and then you’ll be in real trouble, and you definitely don’t want that!

But it’s when Daddy’s sifting through boring paperwork and poring over mind-numbing files and notes—full of gruesome photographs and disturbing details—that the perfect opportunity arises to lend you his hand, to let you wrap both palms around his slim wrist and take his fingers into your mouth.

He knows that’s exactly what you want when you curl up next to him on his plush office couch, gazing at him with glittering eyes and your bottom lip siphoned between your teeth, but he won’t give it to you; not until you say it, of course, not until you explicitly ask for it—because good girls ask for what they want, don't they?—keen stare veiled by feathery lashes and voice trembling with a desperate sort of humiliation.

But he’s sweet as syrup when he nods and allows you to suck two of his fingers into your eager, waiting mouth, silky praises falling from between smirking lips. Because you’re so good for him, swallow so well for him, take his index and ring finger all the way in for him, right to the third knuckle, the edges of your teeth gently scraping the sharp protruding bones.

The metal of his rings clacks against the back of your teeth, platinum and white gold warming in the heat of your mouth as your tongue coils and curves around the bony digits, laves over the bumps and ridges of each knuckle and joint. Foamy saliva pools in all of the dips and crevices of the jewellery, coats the surfaces all slick and slimy and leaves the gems encrusted in the metal gleaming.

The underside of the rings feel smooth on your tongue, tip tracing around the arc of each one, slow and studious, almost as if committing them to memory. The metal has a slight tang to it, smearing the zest of sweat across your tastebuds, bitter and salty with a hint of the rusted blood still caked beneath his nails and lining his cuticles.

The pads of his fingers stroke your tongue in slow, rhythmic motions, petting the slippery little muscle in a tender caress—mindless, soothing, habitual—as tired onyx eyes skim the pages crumpled in his free hand. Delicate fingers hook around the bangles encircling his wrist and tug, begging for more and whimpering nonsensically around his flesh—more, Daddy, more, more, gimme more, pretty please.

And he does, of course, his sweet, greedy little girl, permits you to draw him further down your throat, copious amounts of drool oozing from the corners of your mouth as your lips tighten and your tongue squeezes—so much so that it’s trickling down your chin and dripping off your jaw in heavy, viscous cords, drizzling all over your chest and clavicle.

It leaves behind the prettiest streaks of shimmering spit, and Mikey can’t help but press down on the back of your tongue, enraptured as another tiny torrent of saliva seeps past his fingers to spill down his hand and collect in the lines of his palms.

The action earns him a pitchy yelp, sound vibrating around the tips of his fingers, and he snorts a little, fingers rubbing your tongue in a crude sort of apology.

Sorry, baby, sorry, he’s murmuring in response, though that smug, sadistic little smirk toying with the corners of his lips tells you that he’s not sorry at all.

His fingertips are pruned by the time he’s finished shuffling through his documents, soaked and soggy with your saliva. Your mouth’s finally gone slack, a telltale indicator that you’ve fallen asleep, dribbles of drool rolling down the side of his hand and his wrist as you breathe, calm and even and soft, around the digits lodged down your throat.

Your teeth have left cute little indents in his knuckles and the underside of his fingers, but he doesn’t mind, running the tip of his own tongue over the jagged little craters carved into his skin and humming softly to himself.

It always has his cock twitching in his trousers, straining against the thin material, and on the nights where he really needs it—when the day has been abundantly challenging, excruciatingly exhausting, full of collecting debts and deaths—he’ll rearrange your pliant body, push your head down and hips up and panties aside and use his already sopping hand to wet you just enough to comfortably take his cock, burying himself to the fucking hilt in one swift, sharp thrust and revelling in the gorgeous little gasp of surprise that claws its way past your sleepy lips.

Stay sleeping, sweetheart, he always tells you, murmured into the skin behind your ear and punctuated with a chaste kiss. Just let Daddy take what he needs.

And so you do, every single time, ever his good girl, his best girl, nodding into the corduroy couch cushions and mumbling out some garbled sentiment of affirmation.

It’s never graceful, always shameful, lacking his usual skill and subtlety as he pathetically ruts into your sweet cunt, flush hips grinding into your thighs gone sticky and slippery with desperation, humping away unevenly at you until his cock is pulsing viciously and he’s breathing out a curse against the damp nape of your neck, filling you with thick cream.

He always takes a moment to admire you after, too; to admire the mess he’s made of you, the masterpiece he’s made of you, calloused thumbs spreading your fucked-raw lips and watching as his cum cascades out of you slow and sticky, using the hardened pad to smear it across your cunt—glazing your clit and your slit and your inner thighs; painting you in him, pressing into the splotches of navy and grey those sharp hipbones carved into soft flesh—before he hoists you up, collects your boneless body in a heap in his arms and decides it’s time for bed, finally, for the both of you.

#mikey x reader #mikey smut #bonten mikey smut #bonten mikey x reader #bonten mikey x you #sano manjiro x reader #sano manjiro smut #mikey sano x reader #mikey sano smut #mikey x you #tw:daddy kink #tw:drugs #tw:somnophilia #inky.mikey #inky.tr

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canyourfavesurvivecastledracula · 29 days

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Shawn Spencer, from Psych

-even though he's not religious, he loves free stuff and also playing silly roles so he'd probably accept the crucifix while also adopting some kind of silly accent and dramatic backstory.

-con artist/detective masquerading as a psychic. would absolutely pretend to believe in vampires, but is a skeptic so he would be faking it. That said, he's extremely willing to work on the assumption of extremely wild explanations while he figures out what is really going on.

-very charming but also very annoying. Debatable whether Dracula would be amused/played by him long enough or if Shawn's hogging the spotlight/being ridiculous would irritate him too much. I feel like this also depends on how soon Shawn realizes how serious the situation is because if he isn't taking it too seriously, his antics will be intensified

-photographic memory and genius intellect, very good at putting together clues.

-very good at sneaking around and spying on stuff

-huge fan of the big reveal which would work against him if he tried it here

Is St George's Day May 5th or April 23rd? He's heard it both ways.

Shawn is too smart for his own good, and he's going to be seriously hampered by a couple of things. First off, Gus is most of his impulse control, common sense, and the crucial other half of his double act - will he, like Holmes, be "lost without [his] Boswell" ? (I have no idea who Boswell is). Second, he's all about the Bit - he has to perform all the time, he lives for it. Is Dracula sufficient audience for him to thrive? And third, his overwhelming approach is Refuge in Audacity, which I suspect will not be very well received by Dracula. But then, Dracula also does love playing the game - but his own game, not someone else's.

I agree that Shawn would lean into the vampire angle as part of a Bit, which might make him slower to realize that, no, yeah, that's actually what's going on. Oh gosh he might introduce him as Van (first name) Helsing (lastname), Vampire Hunter, just because he's Like That. (*Gus voice* NO SHAWN).

I also agree with you about the crucifix. I think he would react very similarly to Jonathan with the "I was uncomfortable but..." - sort of an "awkward but okay." Shawn's thing is that he's an excellent cold reader, so he would pick up on the fear of the locals, and maybe go in with more internal caution than he displays outwardly, which might well give him a chance.

The cold reading is also going to help him grok Dracula fairly early on a personal level. Dracula's not as subtle as he thinks he is. It should be fairly straightforward for Shawn to figure out what makes him tick and how to keep him talking. Shawn is a fine actor and nothing if not committed to the Bit. I don't think he'd opt for a Polite Young Man approach because he has to be ridiculous or he'll die, but he might lean hard into an obsequious servant/vampire thrall/pop-culture Renfield approach, since Dracula clearly enjoys being buttered up in that way. This could backfire though, because if he goes too far and Dracula suspects him of insincerity he'll just kill him.

Shawn is also in danger of succumbing to despair, but the isolation will both help and hinder him with that. The silver lining is that his loved ones are not in any kind of danger, which is when things tend to get really bad for him. But he also thrives only with an audience and a support system, and locked in his room cudgelling his brains for two months isn't going to provide him with either. It's a cat and mouse game, and Shawn does well with games in general. He's playing to win.

This one's hard. I think Shawn's worst enemy is probably himself. He can figure out Dracula, which will make him cocky, which (without his balancing influences) might make him go too far with whatever bit he's chosen, which will get him killed. Dracula runs this game, no one else - he doesn't tolerate being played with unless it's by his own rules. He's very good at what he does but he frequently gets in over his head and needs to pivot - which he does admirably! - but it's hard to pivot your way out of a head bashing when your chief weapon is being very cute in an irritating sort of of way.

I've gone back and forth a couple of times, but I ultimately am going to say that Shawn Spencer, Psychic Detective, can not survive Castle Dracula

#psych #shawn spencer #detectives

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grapejuicestyless · 7 months

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hi, hope you're well! i was wondering if you could write something for conrad based on the song my love mine all mine by mitski? i've been obsessed with it lately and it reminds me off him 💖

My Love, Mine All Mine.

Conrad Fisher x fem!reader

summery: Y/n has always gave too much. She always loved, believed too easily. She can’t control what others will do with that, but she can control how she loves.

Sorting through the shiny papers, the corners cut into my skin with each photo I crumpled up, tossing it into the shadows. Each memory ingrained forever on a film that would only taunt me with the past.

I hate the way the sun shined through the leaves in each one. How the sand looked so soft under our feet, the ocean bluer than any summer sky could every paint it now. I am reminded of how vibrant the world became with him in my life, when he was mine.

I say that he was mine loosely. I am unsure if I even have the ability to own something so pretty, so precious. If I ever even did. I remember the way my hands would run through his salty curls after a beach day. How he would hold me extra tight, we’d only bring one towel to share. His lap was soft, shorts scrunched up and dripping still.

I think of his lips on mine. How perfectly they fit on mine. I remember how desperate each kiss was. Not once had he ever made it seem like if it were to go no further we would cease to exist, but he was feverish enough with each lick into my mouth where I knew no matter what, he would never be satisfied. He always wanted more, more, more. How foolish of me to believe it was because he could simply not get enough of me, not because I was not enough.

He was kind, showing me affection in ways he swore would only ever be for me. He decorated his walls with love letters and Polaroids of us, of me. He had stacks of our adventures in an old shoebox under his bed for when I was away and he was missing me. He reminded me everyday how much he adored me. Counting down the seconds until he could hold me in his arms. He promised me it was a feeling that nobody else could ever give him. A heart rush that only ever came over him when my name was involved.

So why does he look at her that way? Why must his eyes carry the same shimmer of lust in them that he once held for me? I see the way his hands grip at her hips, her thighs. It’s animalistic in a way, primal. He wants her, needs her. He’s hers.

I remember the night I discovered their secret. My lover and my sister hand in hand one late June night. I stood still on the grass watching over them. My tears came out dry. I couldn’t even try and sob, let myself break. With his leaving just months ago, I’d already rung myself dry of any tears I had left.

It’s funny how something that once made you feel special can make you feel so sick so suddenly. What once gave me a reason for my living killed me so suddenly.

I knew I was always destined to die, to burn out and disappear. I never imagined how it would’ve happened at the hands of the two I trusted the most in my life. Looking up at the moon that night, I prayed to forget, to heal so suddenly. Rid me of the ache in my heart and replace it with a cold emptiness.

He holds her while she sits in my spot on the couch. She laughs at the jokes I told him that now spew from his lips. Her hands find home in his hair and the towel we once shared as become theirs. It’s all reused, it’s the same. He makes her feel special, wanted, lusted after. He’s a damn good actor, he fools the whole damn world with his cruel games.

Now I know better than anyone that when calling him mine, I must use it loosely. At some time, he might have been. The photos I tear up in my room are only proof of our years spent together. Two summers spent doting on each other. He was with me, but could I call him mine? If he left so easily, did he ever even need me? Want me?

I hold the final photo in my hands, the moon shines down on us. We’re only young in the photograph. His cheek is pressed to mine, our smiles touch. We look so free, so happy. I feel guilty if I were to rip it up when it still feels so happy.

Grabbing a pin from the bedside table, I poke it into the wall beside my mountains of other places and people I’ve seen. It sticks out, like it’s been highlighted in bright red. It stings to look at, but it reminds me of a better time, a time when I believed I had the ability to have good things.

Now I know, nothing in this world belongs to me. Not my baby, not my sister’s loyalty. Not my mother, not my brother. I have no control over anything. Yet, each time I allow myself to believe that I do. That I mean something. I pay a price for the immaturity of my heart. I act a fool over the smallest affections, the most discrete love. And I watch as each time it is taken away, leaving me with a heavy chest and a heart far too full for my body. Nothing in this world is mine for free. Nothing in this world belongs to me but my love, mine all mine.

#tsitp conrad #conrad x reader #conrad fisher angst #conrad fisher #conrad x you #conrad fisher x reader #team conrad #conrad fisher fluff #conrad fisher x you #conrad fisher x y/n #belly x conrad #conrad

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bomberqueen17 · 10 months

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cellulitis adventures

So on Friday I was cleaning in the barn, hosing rotting meat out of a floor drain. I tripped over the hose, and fell on the hand holding the hose sprayer, in a pile of moldy rat shit I'd tried to clean earlier but hadn't done a great job on. The hose sprayer scraped my thumb, opening up a little cut and tearing the skin, which was annoying and hurt a lot.

Naturally I was like, listen I need to clean this really well, so I did. But I was busy, so I washed it really well and then didn't bandage it, because I had a lot more grubby shit to work on and a bandage would just get soggy. I cleaned it again when I was done, but still forgot to bandage it. it was not a serious cut, it was more of a scrape, and it hadn't really bled much, it was mostly just sort of scabbed over. Not a big deal.

Drove home to Buffalo on Saturday, and noticed it was a little sore, maybe a bit puffy. Ah, not great. I cleaned it again, put neosporin on it this time. Went to bed. In the morning I reapplied antibiotic gel and put a band-aid on it, and went off to work, off to Dude's aunt's house where his mother is clearing it out. (Aunt had to go into a long-term-care apartment downstate near her daughter, after a stroke left her with poor working memory, and nobody's happy about this but the house needs to be gone through and her sister is the one to do it. And we are the ones to help her; her children live a few hundred to a thousand miles away, and wouldn't know what to do with the things in Latvian anyway.)

Anyway. Finished with that, took a nap, ran some errands. My thumb was a bit achy under that band-aid, but I was busy. It wasn't until I was making dinner and noticed a red line on my wrist that I realized I ought to give this more attention.

I finished making dinner, sat down, took off my watch to look at the red line a bit better. Now, I have really pale skin, and it shows red marks from everything; I expected it was red from steam from the cooking. But no, the line curved and went unaltered under where the band of my watch had been, and out the other side. It was under my skin, not the surface of it.

So I took a picture of it and sent it to an online buddy who is a nurse, who said immediately to go to urgent care, not to wait and see if it cleared up overnight because it was not going to. And now that I've come out the other side of this with some antibiotics, I thought I would write a little post and tell y'all what to worry about, because it was no big deal in my case but if I had waited it might well have been. So behind the cut will be a very non-gory photograph, which possibly will look more dramatic than it would on your skin because I have so little pigment in mine. But mine was a very clear textbook case, so I figure it's a good example. Again though, no gore, so I do encourage you to look even if you're squeamish, because it's really good to get an idea in your mind about danger.

For the record, urgent care turned me away so I went to the ER and while I waited a long time, the staff, rushed off their feet and far too busy, was still kind and reassured me I had done exactly the correct thing in coming in. This is the kind of thing it's trivial to fix up with a routine course of oral antibiotics if you catch it, but if it goes too long it can get into all kinds of bodily systems and become very difficult to safely eradicate, and can cause lasting, even permanent complications.

So I thought, for other dumbasses like me who would ignore a throbbing cut, here is a little PSA about Shit To Definitely Not Ignore, and thanks times several million to my online nurse buddy who told me so.

Behind the cut, a photo that does not include the actual injury or any gore or disfigurement, but very clearly shows the telltale sign, which is redness from inflammation from the infection traveling through the lymphatic system, and is like, a prime time danger sign and if you see this seek care and do not delay. I haven't been able to find good pictures of what this looks like on darker skin, alas, but here it is on me.

[Image description: the right forearm and hand of a pale-skinned person, lying on the edge of a table with the fingers loosely closed, thumb upward. The thumb goes off the top of the frame, and a bandage is just visible circling it. A red line wavers from the side of the thumb down along the back of the heel of the hand, curves down along the inner edge of the wrist, and then curves down to the underside of the arm. Several blue veins are also dimly visible through the skin, not following quite the same path as the red line, which is wider and blurrier than they are. The red line is quite blurry and hard to see in some places, clearer and more distinct in others, and in one place clearly but briefly splits to follow two channels before reuniting into one. There's also a faint dent visible in the skin at the side of the wrist, where the buckle of a watch was; the red line is not otherwise interrupted by where the skin had been covered by the watch.]

Again, the injury itself was a little gnarly but not anything I would have sought treatment for on its own; it was a bit sore to bend my thumb, it was getting a bit red and swollen but I had it under a bandage and wasn't monitoring it. The red streak was what made me look, and it's good I did. For the record, i don't know if this is typical, but pressing down at the point right on the side of my wrist where that red streak was widest was tender, like pressing a bruise, and isn't this morning; that was what really convinced me this was something from the inside and not a weird mark left by touching something from the outside. I don't know if that would be universal, and it wasn't tender along the whole length of it, but right there it's going over bone so I could really feel it. It's not raised at all, not a rash, it felt like bruising deep under the skin but if you pull your finger across it didn't fade or change color or have any kind of texture to it at all. This morning it's not tender anymore either, though the injury itself is a bit more painful than it was.

They gave me a dose of antibiotics last night around 10pm, and the streaking has faded, but the injury itself is more angry and swollen and is affecting my grip strength with that hand. I plan to follow the course of antibiotics, of course, and am grateful for modern medicine, which makes this mostly just an amusing anecdote. Who knew scraping your hand in a barn full of rat shit was dangerous! (Well, I did.)

Anyway-- off to see about filling this prescription. I gotta take it four times a day but like, y'know, I can handle that in exchange for not having sepsis, LOL.

#medical stuff #health stuff #cellulitis #infection #modern medicine #psa #don't be a dumbass

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morallyinept · 7 months

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Summary: Joel Miller comes back into your life unexpectedly after a gap of thirty years, and stirs up all kinds of memories and longing. Now, as you're stationed on an outpost for five days alone with the man you stupidly let go of all those years ago, you have a chance to confront him about your past life together and all the things you wished you’d said and done.

But Joel’s different now, and you know you need to tread carefully. Joel Miller is not the same man you once knew in another life.

A slow burn romance set in the post apocalyptic world, approx. twenty or so years after the initial Cordyceps outbreak.

Pairing: Post-Outbreak Joel Miller x MatureF!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. However reader is of a similar age range as Joel; in her late forties/early fifties. Joel is slightly older at 56.)

Chapter Word Count: 3.7k

Series Masterlist

☝🏻See Series Masterlist for full smut warnings & triggers in this story. Chapters that contain smut or triggers will be highlighted in the chapter notes below. 👇🏻

Chapter notes: After learning that Joel is still alive, you're conflicted. A plan for the horde is put into action. Nothing too heavy in this chapter, some angst. We love a bit of angst. Very brief mentions of sex/smut. So tiny it doesn't warrant a full warning.

Enjoy! 🖤

Previous Chapter

In the late morning, still rattled to your core with a ghost stirred and wailing from your past, you step tentatively into a room in another house, with a small puncture somewhere slowly deflating you.

Presumably Maria and Tommy’s home; it’s bigger, more space. Photographs hang on the wall of people you don’t know and you wonder if they really do.

You pass through the lounge area taking in the obscure and mismatching knick-knacks. Above the sooted fireplace is a chalkboard propped up on the mantle, with the names Sarah and Kevin written on; dates are scrawled underneath and you assume it’s a memorial of some kind.

Everybody has lost somebody. It’s the only thing people have in common anymore now. Related in anguish and a grief that never subsides, despite the years.

The room adjacent has a large mahogany table and various crowded chairs around it, like they entertain guests regularly, and you baulk at such a thought.

Home cooking and barbecue parties whilst the world outside the white picket fence burns. But you're not bitter; if you had the chance to return to some sort of mundane normality, such as hosting a garden gathering on a sweltering June summer’s day, no matter how small it is, you'd take it.

Strangely, it makes you respect Maria’s determination to provide a place that feels like home for everyone, despite the sweetly-sickening apple pie undertones.

Flanking Kelper, you smile at Maria as you pass her. Tommy is heading up the table, bent forward with his knuckles resting on it and black curls tucked behind his ears.

Tommy’s eyes widen at you as you offer him a small fingered wave when he recognises you. It takes a beat of him searching you out in his memory bank as he nods.

After all, he was only six when you last saw him.

You're surprised to see Joel beside him, arms crossed and leaning back in a chair with his features screwed up into a constant furrow.

He glances at you and the hardness in his eyes begins to waver. At least, you think that’s what you see.

When it comes to Joel Miller, you’ve always been blind.

When everyone is finally huddled in, and there are a lot of them - there’s not enough chairs for everyone and you’re left standing on the edges - Tommy begins to outline the plan. Kelper’s plan about blowing up the horde.

Once the disbelief at the cavalier preposterousness of it is scattered about and churned into a workable strategy, they talk shop, argue tactics, and plot out routes.

Numerous fingers are stamped and thudded over the map spread out on the table, in various locations across Jackson and the surrounding vicinities, as they pull apart flaws, obstructions and every single scenario that could possibly go wrong.

Even scenarios that seem far-fetched and absurd, and Kelper smiles across the table at you knowing they are taking it seriously as they all bicker lightly over it.

They highlight the area where the infected horde congregates, and the areas where they have outposts and safe houses. The commune has a far reaching birth, you discover; they have eyes in a lot of places and bodies that can muster the strength to actually pull this off successfully.

You can only assume that, even if you hadn’t come here to warn them, they would have discovered the horde eventually themselves.

But of course, that would have been too late.

You shudder, throwing your arms across yourself, feeling the creep of the cold down your spine with sharp nails, and the whistling rising up in your ears as the room descends into a deafening silence around you, except for the screaming.

You can see them; all their bloodied faces.

You can see their teeth. Hear them snapping.

Closing your eyes and breathing in deeply, you wash away the scarlet ultraviolet recall and focus back on the room as their voices drown out the carnage.

When you open your eyes, Kelper is scrutinising you carefully; you throw him a small reassuring smile and glance back at the map with a heavy clench set in your jaw.

Joel, with his thick folded arms across his stacked chest, does little to engage with the bipartite, aside from nod and throw curious eyes at you occasionally. You drift off when he does it, wondering if there has been anyone else since the last time you saw him, and realise how fucking stupid that sounds.

Of course there has. It had been a long time. A whole lifetime between you.

Decades of a Joel-shaped gap. But it still makes you frown at the thought of him making those eyes for anyone else. That someone else may have gotten the best pieces of him for the past thirty-odd years or so.

You glance his fingers and there's no obvious evidence of a wedding band. But that could mean jack-shit. He might have been at some point. Or maybe he still is.

Or maybe there's someone here in Jackson with him. Someone who curls up with him at night in bed, feeling the warmth of his big, naked body around theirs, whilst he kisses them and strokes through their hair and-

It causes splinters in your stomach lining, so you look away and try to concentrate on the mission, but you cave again and steal another tactical glance at him.

He's aged; grey roughage takes root in his scruffy beard full of patches that he could never seem to grow in full, even when he was younger.

Silvery streaks now glimmer in the milk chocolate waves of his hair that always had a rebellious curl to it. But it's the same face tucked in the wrinkles and lines and sun beaten skin.

Still the same Joel that, at one point in your life, consumed you wholly.

You wonder how you appear to him now; if he’s knocked for six by your age, your worn appearance and how the world has shaped you into an empty husk of your former self.

It's certainly not been kind.

You ache constantly and tiredness knows no bounds as it resides in the shadows of your eye sockets.

Clearing your throat, as he meets your eyes again, you focus on the discussion and try not to pay attention to the hot prickles now replacing the cold ones on the back of your neck.

It's a fairly simple plan.

Three groups of two will take watch at different outpost points dotted across the map. Their job is to catch any strays that might separate off from the horde, and cut them down before they reach the commune.

Two teams that are number heavy will rally for the final attack at the canyon. It’ll take five days to get everything assimilated, get everyone there into position and complete the blow out. The canyon will be lined with explosives to crush the infected.

Tommy informs Kelper that they have the firepower and plenty of it. He also tells Kelper that he wants him upfront and centre to lead the charge on the first group with him. Max too. And you can see that Kelper is only too happy and relieved to play Sergeant General.

You're dismayed, however, to learn that you're placed on watch duty at one of the outposts, and chew your lip listlessly waiting for your partner's name as Tommy starts to pair teams up, despite Kelper's heated distaste at not having you with him.

"Shooters on the posts." Tommy states.

“No. She’s a strong fighter. Put a gun in her hand and you won't be disappointed. She should be with us.” Kelper fights for you.

“Don’t need fighters, need shooters-”

“She can shoot. Better than you.” Kelper presses fiercely.

“Franklin. You're with her. Outpost one.” Tommy states, ignoring Kelper’s hisses.

Your heart sinks as you look at Franklin; barely old enough to grow facial hair let alone offer you any significant backup should you need it.

His nervous eyes tell you that he’s probably never spent any time alone with a female of any kind either as his spectacles begin to fog up.

Great.

“Put Franklin on two. I'll go with her. We’ll take post three.” You hear Joel gruff and your gut clenches.

"No," Tommy asserts.

"Tommy," Maria's voice nudges gently.

You can hear Joel grumble under his breath. “Still got me that twisted up knee. I won't be of any use on the front. Ya know it.” Joel's eyes dart towards you and then to Tommy, with a hard persuasion. “Put us on three.”

Tommy glances at Maria and she nods once with a stiff smile.

"How good a shot are ya?" Tommy addresses you now with hard eyes.

"The best." Kelper answers for you and you smile at him.

"Joel's one of the best shooters we got." Tommy nods, albeit defeatedly. And Franklin looks just as relieved as you do.

"Two of the best shooters on one outpost? Don't make a lick of sense. Gonna leave us vulnerable on the canyon. I don't like it."

“Don't matter if ya don't like it. Ain't nothin' that'll get past us up there.” Joel says without looking at you, and you can’t help but focus a little too much on the word us.

You find you can't look at him now; your eyes falling onto the map at the small X where outpost three is clearly marked.

“They get past outpost three n’ then they’re here on top of everyone left." Maria reminds him. "Our best should be on outpost three. Last solid line of defence, just in case."

"Can’t have no breaches. S’gotta be tight.” Tommy states looking around the table at everyone. They're nodding and mulling it over.

He ponders on it for a moment himself.

"Put us on three. Franklin n' David on two. Jude n' Rikki on one. Split the rest of the shooters with you. Toe-to-toe. You'll have enough. Garret, Willy... Meg. S'a solid plan." Joel grumbles up to him. His arms remain crossed through the duration.

“That's alright with you?” Kelper asks you, noticing your expression as you chew on your bottom lip.

You unfold your arms and simply nod, trying not to look at Joel, although his eyes are burning holes in you - you can feel it. “Sure. We’ll cover you guys.”

"Alright. Outpost three." Tommy confirms with a knock of his fist against the map.

Afterwards, Tommy catches your elbow as everyone leaves. Joel is the first out of the room, you notice, despite sitting the furthest away from the door.

“Well, here’s a ghost from the damn past, huh?” Tommy’s face is more warm, welcoming now. In stark contrast to his elder brother who is all harsh lines and frowns.

You smile weakly as he embraces you awkwardly. “It’s good to see you, Tommy. You’re all grown up. Boss man.” You say squeezing a bicep and he grins bashfully. "I'm surprised you remember me. Was a really long time ago."

"Feels like the longest sometimes, right? Anyhow, Joel told me he saw ya this mornin'. Looked like he’d shit."

"Yeah," you smile forlornly.

“I didn't mean to be so forward back there. But if you're a good shot as Kelper says ya are, you're better to me, to us, watchin' our backs."

"It's okay. I get it. Whatever it takes." You confirm. Although the hairs on your arms feel otherwise.

"Ya met my lady, Maria?”

You nod. “Yeah. She’s done us a solid.” You smile. “You guys have done great here. This place is amazing.”

“Yeah.” He runs his hand through oily jet hair. “Listen. Ya caught up with Joel yet, properly?”

You shake your head. “No. But we’ll be at the outpost together now, so… plenty of time to catch up, I guess.”

You feel that pull in your gut again. Five days alone with Joel and there is so much you want to say, but where the fuck do you even begin after all the time that’s passed? How do you even navigate that perilous minefield?

“About that, maybe there’s some things y’need to know.” Tommy lowers his voice until the room is fully empty.

“Like what?” You query with concerned eyes.

Tommy sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose before looking at you. “I’m only tellin’ ya this so ya don’t put y’foot in it. Joel, uh… He’s been through some heavy shit.”

You nod, a little concerned. “You can tell me, what is it?”

“Tommy seems trustworthy, although a little eager. I’m not so sure about his brother... Guy looks like he wants to rip my head off.” Kelper says later in the evening as he pops by your room.

He was swept up with Tommy and Maria for most of the remainder of the day, after you’d slunk away once Tommy had filled you in on things that still swam around your head like piranhas.

Things that you were grateful Tommy had given you fair warning about, but also things that you weren’t sure if Joel would be happy with you knowing. They were just… too personal.

Too heart wrenching.

You contemplated looking for Joel afterwards, to use it as an excuse to talk to him - to see him again - discuss the outpost and the plan. How he intended for you both to roll with it. But thought it was probably best to leave him be.

Especially knowing what you know now.

Poor bastard.

Joel had considered the same thought, briefly. Although he didn't bother; he headed straight home and crashed, drowning himself with whiskey so he'd forget your face and all the thoughts he had buzzing around the hive of his mind about you.

Each one continually stung him as he swatted them away.

You’d taken to wandering around the commune in the late afternoon, checking it out and doing anything to distract you from finding Joel. But your thoughts were resurfacing; jumbles of them coming out to taunt you and wear you down.

You lingered by the tables that were sorting through scavenged items, and the most obscure thing had shone out at you; a crumpled, spangly birthday banner despite the dirt, and the memory of Joel’s birthday came rushing to the forefront of your mind.

Happy birthday, stud-muffin! You’d cooed to him as he was nothing but a salivating mess as he strode over to you, legs buckling at the time.

Fuck, look at you, darlin’. He’d swooned back then, ogling you up and down, unsure where to place his hands first as he mapped out your body in the special lingerie you’d chosen from Victoria’s Secret for his birthday.

You’d made the decision for him and took his left hand, sucking his middle finger slowly whilst looking at him intently.

Twenty-two year old Joel had groaned and bit down on his bottom lip excitedly.

Are you going to just stand there or are you going to open up and play with your birthday present? You’d teased him.

Seconds later you were thrown on the bed giggling into his growly kisses as he pinned your wrists above your head and stripped your body slowly of the red lace.

Biting back uninvited tears, you shook the racy memory away as you passed people in the commune; some of them looked at you carefully as you wrapped your arms around yourself and tried not to meet their eyes.

One or two offered a welcoming smile, but you didn’t return it.

You know it’s different now, that too much time has passed to rekindle anything other than a girlish fantasy.

A few days ago, Joel was just a ribbon of a giddy memory locked up tight. And now, he was a harshly confronting reality, so close to reach out and touch the silk of him.

The Joel you knew back then is gone, had to be. Thirty or so years have passed since Joel had ignited a spark in you, and the last twenty were spent fighting for your life each day as monsters offered no reprieve.

The world had changed you, and it had more than likely changed him too.

But there were moments where you were swimming along fine, then drowning in a dark torpor of your own bawdish creation; to recall and conjure him in fragments of sharpened masochism despite your mind pleading with you to stop with the torture already. Plaguing you with annihilating what if’s and regrets and all the things you should have said and done back then.

When faced with wondering if this will be your last day alive constantly, one can’t help but to look back on life and relive all the fuck-ups in their sordid detail under a microscope.

And Joel Miller was probably your biggest fuck-up to be examined on that glass slide.

Even though he was gone, his presence still swilled around your ventricles; his ghost still lamented in it's horrific screams through the dark nights. He was a weight bearing down heavy on your face, like a pillow suffocating you on occasion.

He had been the root cause of some toilsome erosion; permanent eradication of the pieces of you that were missing now. Holes punctured in your skin, less than human.

First loves always destroy and flay you open.

Joel’s different now, you can feel it. See it behind those eyes that seem so filled with a silent pain.

He seems… invisible.

Lacklustre. Drowned in it. He's unassuming and blends in to his surroundings; nothing more than a bland neighbour whom you'd acknowledge in the commune as you pass and should forget instantly until your next encounter, sometimes weeks or months later with even lesser words exchanged.

A person in the crowds crossing the blocks who is lost amongst the sea of the vox-populi and doesn't stand out at all. He’s missing that spark that used to make him shine and it devastates you.

The Joel you knew was handsome, humble; had a pinch of silliness thrown in making the perfect cocktail of a young man, with manners ma’am, and a Southern Texas drawl to boot that made you melt as he whispered sweet, filthy nothings in your ear as you climaxed and squeezed around his thick cock.

The dusty haze of a former life with him filled with laughter, sex and not much else, as you both careened into your lusty feelings for one another, unabashed and unafraid, rattles behind your eyes.

But the Joel you met earlier outside the The Tipsy Bison is a ghost; a shell of a man who regarded you as nothing more than a short fling from the past, no doubt.

And that thought alone is what bothers you the most, because Joel would never know how much you had pined for him, had missed him. Had mourned him.

How you had so many regrets about selfishly walking away from him all those years ago.

Fine, go! If that's what ya want. I ain't ever held ya back, darlin'!

He was a malignant growth in metastasis, poison in your empty, shrivelled veins that you never fully allowed yourself to move forward and heal from the aftermath.

Just learning to exist around the broken fragments of him that you kept sharp to puncture and wound the soles of your feet as you stepped back and forth over them, embroiling further in that spiralling verklempt barbarism.

You sigh now, back in the room with Kelper. “It’s how he always is with strangers.” You grizzle faintly, remembering things that you probably don’t want to. At least, not right now anyway.

Your head is too full and you want to bludgeon it all out.

“Wait, you know him?” Kelper raises his eyebrows and smiles, bewildered.

“You could say that.” You sigh. "Tommy too."

Then there was Tommy Miller, of course; Joel’s younger brother whom you remembered clinging onto Joel’s shoulders as he piggy-backed him around almost everywhere they went, and looking up to Joel like a Goddamn hero.

It would always make you melt how Joel looked out for him. How he protected him, came down to his level, and you remember thinking that he'd make a great father one day.

How he’d stuff him with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and not much else. How he’d read a book and do all the character voices making Tommy snort cola fizz from his nose.

How sometimes Joel would bring him over, apologising because there was no-one home to watch him, so he’d be plonked in the lounge with the TV remote happily, whilst Joel fucked you hard with his hand over your mouth, giggling silently so Tommy wouldn’t hear you both wrecking each other on the kitchen countertops whilst trying - and failing - to make some supper for him.

You're surprised Tommy recognised you today, considering how much younger he was back then. But sometimes faces stick, lingering in the narrowest crooks of recall.

Kelper looks at you quizzically and you cave. "Joel and I… we used to be together. Years before the outbreak."

“Damn. It’s a small fucking world.” Kelper says.

“The smallest.” You agree as you sink onto the bed and kick off your boots with a heavy sigh.

"Was it serious?"

You shrug. "First serious relationship..." you trail of for a second as you feel your heart being sliced into. "He was probably the only person who I've ever loved."

You try to swallow back and kill the repugnant choke in the back of your throat before Kelper can hear it.

"Shit." Kelper says.

"Yeah," you say wiggling your toes, free from the crushing constraint of your boots.

When you considered it, there had been no-one else since, even in this fucked up new world, who even come close to burning you like Joel had.

“Are you alright being paired up with him? There’s no bad blood between you, is there?” Kelper digs a little, but you don’t give him much back. "I can speak to Tommy-"

You shake your head. “There’s a little, but it’s fine.” You reassure, smiling. “Might be good to lay some demons to rest.” You shrug, a little helplessly.

Although, perhaps in hindsight it would have been better to be stationed with Franklin for the next five days and not pick at the festering scabs.

Kelper stands. “Alright. Get some sleep. Heavy day tomorrow.”

“Are you worried?” You ask as he goes to the door. “I know you, you like to stew alone.”

Kelper shakes his head. “Can’t get nothing by you, hmm?”

“Nope.” You smirk.

He thinks on it for a moment. “This is gonna work. I know you’ve got my back out there, so that helps.”

You nod sincerely at him. “I have. Even if I’m not beside you.”

"My team mate." He smiles fondly, and he's able to pry the knife out of your beating organ and stitch you up with just a singular look.

And you equally love and loathe that he's able to do that.

“Come here,” he beckons you into a hug and you stand, sinking into his strong arms. For a moment, all the tension melts away.

Nothing can get you. Peaceful.

You inhale the new scent of soap on his skin, running your nose discreetly agasint the crook where his collar reveals his neck. For so long he's smelt wild, like damp soil and coopery blood. The cold piercing frost of a winter's dawn and the swampy staleness of month's old sweat.

He smells like... Kelper.

He plants a small tender kiss on the top of your crown which lingers, and the embrace tightens between you both until it stops the blood flow.

Kelper’s the brother you’ve always wanted. A force to be reckoned with, a protector; a best friend.

Possibly a soulmate - you're definitely kindred in some way.

He's the one who, for the last few years at least, made it worth living in this fucked up hellhole and saved your sorry ass more times than you can count. He’s seen it all, endured it all with you. Cried snottily with you when you felt you couldn't go on, laughed hysterically with you through sheer delirium.

Vomited and shit profusely with you when you both ate some toxic berries out of desperation when you were starving. He's seen the best and worst of you, that's for sure.

He’s the one who tells you to get your shit together when you feel like giving up. The one who forces you to confront all those ugly parts of yourself and conquer them whilst you're covered in blood, screaming like a wild banshee and hacking infected to death. And he does it all whilst battling his own demons.

He’d be the perfect man for you, in another world.

It’s a shame you don’t have a cock, otherwise I’d be all over that, he’d said to you once when you’d stupidly tried to kiss him in a moment of sheer desperation for some touch.

For some affection. For the fleeting desire of indulging in a bleak orgasm from someone else other than yourself.

For some love.

It didn’t change anything though, you still loved him and he loved you too. It transcended any of the physical boundaries between you both.

You see some of Joel in him too, now that you think about it, and then you wonder if that's why you’ve subconsciously kept Kelper close to you all these years.

“Yeah. Fucking sucks you’re not with me,” he confirms letting you go and pulling the door open.

“You can have all the glory this time, Maverick.” You grin.

“Shit, you think they have that film in the library here?”

“Man, I haven’t seen Top Gun in years…” You remark, recalling the lyrics to Take My Breath Away inside your ears.

“We’ll watch it together when this is done.” Kelper promises. "It's a date."

“Count on it,” you smile.

“Night, Goose.” He salutes and leaves you with your turbulent thoughts about what’s to come.

All of them.

To be continued...

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Thank you for taking the time to read my story; it really means so much to me. I'd love to know your thoughts, and I'd really appreciate a re-blog so others can enjoy this story too. Thank you so much 🖤

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copperbadge · 5 months

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Hi Sam! Recently diagnosed midlife ADHDer here. First, thanks for talking about your ADHD & sharing what you’re figuring out. It’s super helpful to someone on a similar trajectory.

I just saw a reference to your photo books for the first time & it seems like a great way to help with memory issues that come with ADHD (like I know I did [x thing] but when?). Could you talk a little about the process of collecting photos & such all year & then how you create one?

Thank you!

Ey, happy to have helped! Congrats and sympathies on your diagnosis. And honestly it's good for me too, talking all this out, it helps me get my thoughts in order. I often namedrop you guys to Therapist, you are "my readers" :D

The process of putting the photobooks together is...well, it's a lot, so this is going to be a super high-level overview, but basically yeah I wanted to have records of where I'd been and what I'd been doing that were more concrete than just digital photos on a hard drive or a cloud. But I didn't really want to just print the digital photos and put them in a box, either, so I started making photobooks. Usually I go through Walgreens or Shutterfly for printing, whichever has the good coupons when I'm working on it.

So, here's the weird, kind of obsessive part: a huge help in making a yearly photobook, for me, is the fact that I take my photos off my phone at the end of every month. I have some that live on the phone -- my growing collection of photos of my niece, a selection of photos from my Europe trip, some memes -- but those live in their own folders. The main camera roll gets downloaded every month, and I put them all in a file labeled with the month and year (2023-01, 2023-02, etc). It's a recurring task in my to-do list, that I offload the photos on the last Saturday of each month. You don't necessarily have to do it this way, though -- it's just what works best for me, and I encourage people to find a way to do things that will actually be functional for them.

Across the course of the year, although really moreso in October and November, I go through the photos and remove any I absolutely know I don't want to keep. Once I've done that, I save a copy of the whole year's worth of photos to my digital archive, and I take another copy and label it "FOR PHOTOBOOK" which allows me to do more culling of them than I otherwise would, because I know anything I delete is still in my archive. And this all has the advantage of me knowing that the photos in my archive are at least SOMEWHAT organized.

So I go through all the year's photos in the For Photobook file, month by month, sort them into folders by event (so there's, like, 01-Polar Vortex, or 04-Europe, or 09-Birthday) and clear out all but the photos I know I want most. My photobooks are generally longer than the default length they give you at most sites, so I usually do have to add a few pages (they're like $1/page or something) but not too many. Often these days I have some stuff that's events, like the Europe trip, and then some stuff that's just like....a folder of funny shit I saw in Chicago, or a folder of all the food I photographed that I want to save. The cats generally get their own four-page spread at the back. :D

In 2020, I will say, there were only two themes: CATS and COVID. I alternated pages.

Anyway, once I've got the photos sorted, and deleted any I don't want to include, I get on Shutterfly or Walgreens Photo and start up a new photobook project. I upload the first folder of photos, place them on the page with suitable captions, then upload the second folder of photos, etc etc, until all the photos are uploaded and placed in the book. I don't caption extensively -- often it'll just be a page that'll say like "TEXAS IN JULY!" and all the photos from that trip. But it definitely does help me keep track of what I was up to. And it's kind of soothing to review the year and see all the stuff I accomplished.

So that's the bare bones -- by all means feel free to ask questions, although if you guys wouldn't mind asking in comments or reblogs if possible, that should keep the discussion contained as necessary. :)

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missyourflight · 8 months

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omg hear me out: maxiel big eden au (scotty as dean?)

ANON YOU ARE SINGING THE SONG OF MY HEART

Follow me if you will to MONTANA

Daniel’s like a photographer in the big city and he comes back to his tiny hometown for family health crisis reasons. And it’s scary but not world-ending, but his mum’s so stressed and he hasn’t seen his sister’s kids in so long that he agrees to stay for a few weeks and be all together.

And he’s back in his high school room, under soft old flannel sheets, feeling tight in his skin again in a way he hasn’t in years.

His old truck is still in the garage but it makes all kinds of horrible noises when he starts it up. His mum tells him to take it to the general store, Max will fix it up for him, so he drives really gingerly into town and rattles to a stop outside the general store. For Big Eden enjoyers the old guys who hang around outside the store all day are Max’s gamer friends probably. He remembers Max a bit from school; Daniel was a few years ahead of him but round here everyone knows everyone near enough. The Max in his memory was kind of scrawny but this Max is sturdy, Daniel can see the muscles cording his forearms when he pushes up his sleeves.

Max takes a look at the truck, and when it makes a bad noise again he says, I think he didn’t like you leaving him so long, which makes Daniel laugh it’s such a weird thing to say. He watches Max work on the truck and sort of wanders round the store getting reacquainted with everything, the canned food and the beer in the fridge and the blankets on the wall, the racks of postcards. He could take better pictures than these.

Meanwhile due to the family health crisis everyone is rallying round so Max’s mum sends him over with a casserole or something. And Daniel’s mum makes him stay and eat with them and then Max goes back to his mum’s like, We have to keep making them food. And he keeps bringing food and staying for dinner, warm around the table with the family.

One night Daniel walks him out to his truck, laughing like, I haven’t eaten so much casserole in years. And Max is thinking, I bet he likes fancy New York food. So Max (secretly!) takes over making food for Daniel’s family and does some research and finds some things he thinks sound nice, and after he brings beef carpaccio three nights in a row Daniel is like, Maybe we should try and make something else? Together? Because he’s kind of going out of his mind with nothing to do, and also if Max keeps doing this unsupervised he’s going to turn into a werewolf or something with all the raw meat.

So that’s what they do, cooking together in Max’s little kitchen out the back of the general store, trying to decide on recipes they find online, making ratatouille and sticky ribs and gnocchi. Daniel suggests coq au vin like three hundred times in a horrible exaggerated accent until Max is laughing so hard he’s got a stitch. And they eat together every night and Daniel takes the rest back home to his family, humming to himself over the sound of the truck, so much smoother now since Max fixed it up.

Meanwhile Scotty is Daniel’s childhood best friend who is Also coincidentally back because he moderately injured himself snowboarding or something and his mum wants to fuss over him. Obviously they used to hook up in high school and now Scotty is engaged to a woman etc. And Daniel’s so happy to see him but there’s this ache underneath he can’t even look at.

On Sundays everyone goes to church. Sometimes Daniel twists around in his seat to see Max sitting in a row with his mum and his sister, one of her boys on his knee, their matching haircuts, and afterwards everyone stands outside while the kids run around, Max and Scotty eyeing each other warily. Every month or so there’s a dance in the town square, a band, and Daniel swings his niece around saying Bella, bellissima, tells Max he’s thinking about learning to play guitar.

And Daniel just stays, way longer than he’d planned. He cooks with Max, hangs around the general store making a nuisance of himself, drinks beers on the dock with Scotty. He does some photography workshops at the elementary school, has the kids lie on their backs to take pictures of the sky, blows up all their wonky beautiful shots of leaves and stones for them to pin on the walls. He works a bit, too, taking pictures of the landscape way better than the postcards at the general store, selling prints online, photographing at the rodeo. He could make a living here, he could make a life.

He thinks about it sometimes, how in some ways it’s easier to breathe in the city, how it’s getting easier and easier to breathe here, at home, under the wide sky. He takes so many pictures, of the leaves changing, of the lake at the back of his parents’ house, of the kids, of Scotty whooping in the stands at the rodeo; of Max, smiling shyly from under the brim of his hat; of Max, his hands working under the hood of a truck; of Max, his head tipped back laughing.

One night Max very bravely asks him, When do you think you’ll head back to the city, and Daniel grins at him like, I dunno, we didn’t make coq au vin yet. And Max lets himself start to hope, just a bit.

But then! There’s some sort of big city photography emergency so Daniel is sort of reluctantly like, I guess I have to go back. And his family arrange a send-off, just friends and food at the house the night before he flies.

The night before the party Daniel stands out back for a while looking at the lake until his mum says, Come and sit with me for a while. So he comes and sits on the swing with her and she says, It’s been so nice having you back, which, he already feels shitty for leaving again.

And then she says, Is Max coming by tomorrow? And Daniel’s like, I dunno, I mean I told him. Max had gone really quiet, when Daniel said he was leaving, looking down at his hands for a long moment until Daniel said, You better cook me something nice, and then he’d said, I will, of course.

His mum says, He’s such a sweet boy, and Daniel can only say, Yeah, because there’s this weird lump in his throat all of a sudden.

And then (because this is the Big Eden utopia where homophobia doesn’t exist etc) his mum is like, Did we teach you shame? Just rocking with him on the porch swing under a quilt while Daniel cries a bit.

The next day everyone’s at the house to say goodbye and Max hasn’t shown yet, Daniel keeps sticking his head out of the back door to check for him.

Scotty collars him in the kitchen when no one’s around, tugs him into the pantry. And he kisses Daniel, there in the tiny room with the musty old spice rack and the jars of preserves. And Daniel thinks, his mum didn’t teach him shame, but Scotty kind of did. In high school, under the bleachers, in the back of Daniel’s truck. Never where anyone might see.

Are you not getting married, he says, pulling back, and Scotty says, Yeah, but, his eyes raking over Daniel’s face. For old time’s sake. And Daniel’s leaving everything, and Max didn’t come, and he’d wanted Scotty for so long.

Someone opens the pantry door, quickly shuts it again at the sight of the two of them. Scotty freezes.

Daniel pushes out of the pantry and sees this big pot steaming on a trivet on the table, the door swinging behind Max as he bolts. He calls after him but it’s useless, Max is gone, and when he lifts the lid of the pot he’s hit with the rich rising smell of coq au vin. And it’s like there’s a rope around his heart he hadn’t known was there. Daniel has to go after him.

And there are about seven people blocking in his truck, his truck that Max fixed up, so he just starts running, pounding down the road as the sky darkens. And he’s a mess by the time he gets to the general store, he’s sweating everywhere, and all Max’s gamer friends are outside so mad at him but he pushes past them and finds Max, sitting at the table in the little kitchen with his head in his hands.

Max? His voice is all shot from running over here and Max looks up at him wide-eyed, that rope around Daniel’s heart pulling him until he’s on his knees on the kitchen floor, laying his head against Max’s leg. Max, he says again, the worn denim of Max’s jeans soft against his cheek as Max puts a wondering hand in his hair.

He says, I think I’m gonna stick around for a while, his heart well and truly lassoed, and Max says, Good, wiping Daniel’s eyes with the sleeve of his flannel.

At the next party in the square they dance together, and Daniel feels as big as the sky, the way Max is looking at him, kissing him in front of the stars and everyone they know.

And then they’re gay and in love forever in Montana under the open skies etc

#tumblr fic #333 #f1 #my fic #big eden au #asks

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swordheld · 6 months

Note

hi! your blog is one of my favourites and i absolutely adore reading your thoughts. my grandfather recently passed away and it feels like i lost myself with him. how do i continue living after this? there is this constant weight on my chest and it feels like an emptiness has made a home inside of me. how do i go on when it feels like the world crashed on my shoulders?

hello, love! this is so very sweet and kind of you, and i hope you're treating yourself gently and kindly right now - there aren't words for a loss like this. that heaviness is difficult, and hard, and painful. it's okay if things don't feel okay, right now, or even soon - i think that's something that a lot of the people i know that have gone through similar grief feel: like they should be able to get back to a relative 'normal' in a [insert far too short period of time].

but it's okay if it hurts. that's where i'd like to start. you're allowed to feel that emptiness, that world-crashed feeling that goes beyond words, beyond time. don't feel like you have to rush this to feel some sort of better. things get easier with time, i promise you this, but sometimes painful feelings are important to feel, too. cry, scream, feel your emotions. they're a part of you. grieve.

it's perhaps a little silly, but when i think about death i always think about a couple of space songs: mainly drops of jupiter by train and saturn by sleeping at last. there are perhaps others that speak to the emotions better, but these two have always hit something a little deeper for me, and are popular for a wide-reaching reason.

and while personally i don't know much about grief like this, i do know a lot about love; and i think they're a lot of the same thing.

the people we love are a part of us, and this is why it takes from us so deeply when we lose them, because it does feel like we've lost a part of ourselves in the wake of it. but it's because they were so central to our experiences of living - our lives, that the separation introduces a hollowness - a place where they used to be. a home that now goes unlived in.

an emptiness, like you said.

but just because they're not here physically, doesn't mean he's not still there, in your heart, in your life, your memory. you can hold him close in smaller ways, as well: steal a sweater, or cologne/scent for something a little more physical and long lasting for remembering. hold onto the memories you cherish, the things that made you laugh, the ease of slow mornings and gentle nights. write them all down, slide a few photographs in there, go through it and add more when you miss him. keep them all close, keep them in your heart.

you're not alone, in this. he's still there, with you, it's just - in the little things.

he's with you in the way you see and go about your daily life, in doing what he liked to do, in the ways he interacted with the world that you shared with him. the memories you recall fondly when the night is late or the moment is right and something calls it into you like a melody, an old bell, laughter you'd recognize anywhere.

but i think, perhaps most importantly above all others - talk about him. with your family, your friends, his friends, strangers; stories are how we keep the people we love alive. the connections they've made, the legacies and experiences they've left behind, and so, so many stories.

how lucky, we are - to love so much it takes a piece of us when they go. grief is the other side of the coin, but it does not mean our love goes away. it lives in you. it lives in everyone who knew him, in the smallest pieces of our lives.

the people we love never really leave us, like this: they're in how we cook and the way we fold our newspapers, our laundry, in the radio stations we tune in to and the way we decorate our walls, our photo albums. they're in the way we store our mail, organize our closets, the scribbled notes in the indexes of our books. the meals we love and the drinks we mix, the way we spend time with one another. they've been passed down for generations, for longer than history - and we are all the luckier for it.

think about what you shared with him, and do it intentionally. bring him into your life, like this, again. whether it's crosswords or poetry or sports or anything else. if one doesn't help, try another. something might click.

i hope things feel a little easier for you, as they tend to do only with time. i hope you find joy in your grief, even if it is small and hard to grasp at first. know that your hurt stems from so much love that there isn't a place to put it properly, and that it is something so meaningful and hurting poets and storytellers have been struggling to put it into words and sounds that feel like the fit right for eons, and that it is also just simply yours. sometimes things don't have to make sense. sometimes they just are - unable to be put into words or neat little sentiments, as unfair and tragic as they come.

but i promise it will not feel like this forever. your love is real. and perhaps, on where to begin on from here - i think it's less on finding where to begin and just beginning. and you've already started. you've taken the most important and crucial step: the first one. wherever you go, after that, from here? you'll figure it out. you always have, and you always do. it'll come, as things always do. love leads us, as does light - and you're never alone in your hurt. in your grief, your missing something dear to you. i think if you talk about it with others, you'll find they have ways of helping you cope as well - and they have so much love of their own to spare, too.

as an aside, here is the song (northern star by dom fera) i was listening to when i wrote this, for no other reason more than it makes me think of connections, and love, and how we hold onto the people we love and how they change us, wonderfully and intrinsically. it's a little more joyous than the others i've mentioned, and plays like a story, and it made me think of what is at the core of this, love and stories and i am here with you, and maybe it'll bring you some joy, if you'd like it. wishing you all my love and ease 💛

#q&a.#birdsong.#wishing u gentle ease; the death of a loved one is near inexplicable to put into words and i hope you take care of yourself gently <3 #i hope this will make u laugh: when i was a tiny child in middle school there were times i would go outside in my tiny suburban cul de sac-#in the rain and sing along to my lil ipod nano and i only remember doing this to drops of jupiter. can you imagine going out to get the mai #after a long day of work and you just hear this kid singing train in the streets. in the RAIN.... it makes me laugh like i really.#i really thought i was so cool and deep and emotional ghjkd but i find it v funny that i only remember it w/ that one train track.#and saturn just. it's my fav s.a.l. song for a reason. that slow violin opening? the piano coming in gentle and easy?#it feels like light. like hope. like something new - a dawn after the long dark. that beautiful things can begin again even where #it hurts. and there is nothing more human than a sentiment like that.#how rare and beautiful it is to truly exist. what it is to be alive and get to be here and live with other people. with those we love.#i think your grandfather was so lucky to be able to know you. to have you in his life for the time you had together.#i'm no spiritual person; but i like to believe when you're thinking about him? he's thinking about you too.#the second law of thermodynamics (physics nerd mode) is that no energy has ever been created/destroyed since the beginning of the universe.#so it has to go somewhere - it's that carl sagan quote of 'we're all made of stardust'. because we are. we used to be stars; planets; etc.#i think it's why i think of these space songs - because they're a part of everything; once more; when they go. us and everything else.

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dotster001 · 1 year

Text

La Chasseur d'Amour , Chapter One

Summary: Rook x gn!reader. You vanished just as quickly as you appeared. But Rook will find his love.

A/N:I know what you all are thinking. "Dot, don't you have like ten other series You've started and haven't finished yet?" Yes, and shut up 😂

CW:therapy, discussions of trauma (it's not real, but just in case), self gaslighting

Chapters: Two Three Four Five

As you crossed the stage for your NRC Graduation, and received your diploma from a very proud, very tearful, Crowley, you made eye contact with Rook. He was the photographer for the graduation, obviously, because Crowley wasn't going to hire someone he couldn't guilt into pro bono.

His eyes twinkled with delight as you grinned at him, and he shot a picture. You always looked good in pictures he took. He said it was because you could see his love for you in the photo. And, at this point, you were inclined to believe him.

Your friends who had been there since the beginning cheered raucously, even Jack, who had been against obnoxious cheering when Ace had suggested it.

You shot them a smile, and then the floor fell out from under you, and all you saw was black.

5 years later….

"There's these twins," you said, eyes closed, and searching for lost memories.

"What do they look like?" Your therapist asked, taking some notes.

"They're tall, and they have blue hair."

It'd taken two years for you to accept that Twisted Wonderland wasn't real. You had to be thankful to your therapist for her patience. Your parents certainly weren't as patient with you as she was.

"One is serious, and the other is kind of goofy…like he marches to the beat of his own drum."

The hospital had suggested therapy the moment you started talking about magic. They told your parents that the trauma you had gone through, during your kidnapping, had lead to you creating a fictional world to protect yourself in.

"What does the serious one do?"

"I think he eats mushrooms…"

Your therapist had gently waited for you to be willing to give up the illusion on your own. Your parents hadn't, though. The colder the case got, the more they pushed for you to remember any details.

Again, your therapist was patient. Both of you had figured overblots were particularly traumatic moments, so you hadn't touched them yet. For now you were sorting through memories to see if anything coincided with the real world.

"I think the goofy one likes hugs, and shrimp…"

"That's an odd combo. And what do we say about odd combos?"

"Probably important, ha ha."

The problem was, just like with real memories, over the course of five years the memories of Twisted Wonderland had started to fade. It was harder to pick them apart because you couldn't be sure what you properly remembered.

"They both eat octopus."

"The twins?"

"Uh huh."

You had one clear memory. A man with emerald eyes, and blond hair, who often wore a silly hat. Rook. That was his name. Everytime he looked at you, you felt so loved and safe. So many of your "memories" revolved around him.

"Anything else?"

"That's all I have today, I'm sorry."

Which is why you never told your therapist about him. You were, in full honesty, terrified. Because if so many of your "memories" revolved around him, it probably meant that…

"I don't think either of the twins were the ones who took you, but we'll definitely talk about them later. Now open your eyes and slowly bring yourself back to me."

You followed the instructions, squinting in the sudden burst of light, and slowly sat up from the couch you were laying on.

"Good work today," your therapist smiled warmly. "I'll see you next week, Y/N."

You were such a coward. This might all be over if you weren't so terrified of losing him.

….

"This one isn't it," Rook said firmly, staring at a mirror portal.

"How can you be so sure?" Vil asked in exasperation.

"I don't feel Y/N in there," he said before turning back to his table full of viles, making a quick note, and resuming his prior work of mixing different potions.

"Rook, I'm saying this as a friend. It's time to let go."

"You know I can't do that," Rook muttered under his breath.

"Rook!" He grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing him to look at him. "I came to visit you because we're all worried, and you need to hear someone say it. It's time to let go of Y/N."

Rook shoved him away.

"Roi du poison, with all due respect-"

"Rook, when was the last time you ate-"

"I'll eat later-"

"When is later?"

Rook slammed the potion he was working on down on the table.

"You don't understand what it's like!" He shouted. "I can feel them! I just…I just need the bridge to make the final push!"

He hastily grabbed a pile of books, and stacked them into stairs. He laid a piece of paper at the base of the stairs, drawing a circle.

"This is us."

He placed another piece of paper at the top of the stack.

"That's where Y/N is. The closest portal I've come to is," he placed a paper on the book step right below the top, "here. So I just need to work with that potion. Just a couple more tweaks-"

"How can you possibly even know that!" Vil shouted. "you don't even go through any of them, how do you know it's not where Y/N is?"

"My signature spell-"

"And that's another thing! You're not keeping how much blot you produce in check! You've been at this five years! It's not good for you!"

"I'm so close," Rook muttered, adding an ingredient to his vile.

"Are you? What if you go through the portal and Y/N has moved on?"

Rook threw the potion at the mirror, instantly creating a shimmering pink portal. He stared awestruck.

"That's it."

....

Tag list- @shytastemakerthing @eccedentesiast-sapphic @leoll @stygianoir

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #rook x reader #twst rook #rook hunt x reader #rook hunt

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