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yostresswritinggirl · 1 year

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Kintsugi (1)

: "to repair with gold"

Scaramouche / Wanderer x First Puppet Reader

Based off of this plot with major alterations; After his third betrayal, he stumbles upon the one thing that would never deceive him. Not a god, not a human; a broken puppet, discarded just like him. Part 2.

He had heard of this tale multiple times by now, all in different versions and walks of life.

From his bladesmith friend who recounted the tale of a statue that guards a sakura tree in a faraway village in Tatarasuna, and that those who dare harm either of the two meet a fate most foul. But he remembered it only as a made up story, ever spoken to him once as a bedtime story and forgotten soon after.

Another iteration the puppet heard was of a beautiful ghost, who had died by the tree and lingered since then as a spirit awaiting its lover. Its doll-like feature had left many humans falling for the specter, while some find it tradition to leave offerings for love and fortune. He remembered shaking his head as he turned away from the intoxicated villager, focusing on bringing the lavender melons back home.

And the last one came from someone old, with a wrinkled smile shy of teeth, and eyes perpetually closed. When the elder heard of the versions he had recounted, he could not help but laugh, despite the scathing glare sent his way.

"None of those versions are true." But how can he be so sure? "There is one more, while we cannot verify its authenticity, it is at least the first one to ever exist." And he with his straw hat followed after the mortal as they walked.

The guardian of eternal slumber, is a tale of a puppet (to this, he perked up) who wondered into the village in search of something. Upon seeing the sakura tree, they made home at its roots, dutifully waiting. Generations came and went, but neither of its visitors could ever sway it to leave.

Soon enough, the villagers began leaving items in sympathy of the lonely puppet. And if it is up to its unspoken standards, the puppet would open its eyes. Zealots began to view that gaze as divine, and preached that those who were to see it are blessed.

Gifts became offerings, and visitors all over Inazuma went out of their way for a chance to be blessed with fortune.

He and the old man found themselves in a scarce village, of rundown houses and deathly silence. "But in the greed of desperate devotees, one group decided to steal the puppet one night in hopes of monopolizing the blessings." They passed by the only house that looked functional. "Lightning struck our sakura tree and the village's lands began to lose life. The criminals were never found."

The puppet only comprehended the darkened grass flattening under their steps, dried out and crumbling from the pressure. But he could not pay it any more mind as they reached a staircase, leading up a hill where a sakura tree in full bloom resides.

"You are like them." His violet gaze turned sharp and his attempts to climb the steps stopped. "May you both find what you're looking for."

"Musings of an old man." His moves forward, fingers clenching his sleeves in contempt and anticipation. "What I'm looking for is beyond your understanding." There is no reply.

When the base of the tree slowly appeared over the horizon, the sakura tree began shedding its leaves in with the gust of the wind. And he found himself stopping at the last step upon meeting eyes with a visage.

Never had he felt such hopeful and wide gaze on him before, framed by the pink shower of sakura petals both old and new where they sat, pulling one's attention away from the dead vines and clinging dust.

But as quickly as it came, the smile on their face slowly fades.

And those eyes once brimming with hope turned to hate so searing, it burned him more than the hate in his empty chest.

"Have we truly exhausted all our options?" A passing wind felt like a gentle caress, swaying the pink petals above to a comforting, simple melody.

The sakura tree stands tall and beautiful, gaze unable to look away, its color flooding your vision successfully.

"Quell your doubts now, the proof is already in your arms." The soft cloth cradling you moves, prompting your gaze to look up, from pink to purple hues.

"It is nothing short of miraculous." She's more beautiful than the sakura tree. You blink at her, she smiles. And warm too, even more so when she cradles you closer, the softness of her embrace and kimono lulling you to sleep. "The proof of eternity."

Your face was half-buried by the silken cloths as you simply watched closely, your creator and another person's conversation passing. At one point, you reached out to take a petal that landed on your creator's sleeve. She smiles again.

"Then I shall be in your care." You curl your fingers around the petal as a soft hand covers your eyes.

"It is my duty, Ei."

Stumbling out of the dark room into an empty world shrouded by the night, you clutched the pink petal close to your chest as you set out for your creator.

Blindly stumbling in the dark, in your haste and desperation, you find your feet take you to a familiar sight. A pretty sakura tree, just as beautiful as the one you've seen. And so you sat between roots, waiting for your mother.

You haven't heard footsteps in a long time, was the first thing that came into your mind as you rubbed at your eyes with your haori. How long has it been since you last woke up?

Yet despite your tired eyes and blurry vision, that familiar shade of purple began to climb the stairs.

Could it be? After all this time, she's finally -

The weakness in your knees were more than the fatigue, as your smile fell in realization that it wasn't her.

But those eyes, that hair - that faltering smile.

There is emptiness, no purchase, no purpose - to your steps as your legs carried you to walk away from the tree, down the steps, away from here. Anywhere, anywhere else but here.

The puppet sputters as he turns to your retreating form, only for his attention to be divided as the old man found his way over to the tree, sitting on the root where he had seen you perched on.

"The sakura tree has shed its last leaf." The old man looks up at the empty branches before looking at him. "Go after them, there is nothing left here to see." And closed his eyes.

He turns to follow and never looked back.

She left you. She abandoned you. She's forgotten you. She replaced you.

It doesn't take a child to come to that conclusion and they echo in your mind repeatedly in every waking moment.

"Where are we going?" You dug your foot harshly in the sand before turning around, watching his eyes that scanned the area to land on you.

"Why are you still following me?" You watched his curious eyes widen to perplexity, lips parting and closing as he scrambles to find the right answer. Only a few seconds pass before you turn again and resume your walk.

You wouldn't be able to answer him either.

Your desire to get away from him was never answered either, opting to follow the footprints in the sand for hours upon hours. At times, you'd find yourself stumbling when your joints struggled to follow orders. You'd hear him mumble, make noise, but they stop after you brush off the incident and continue.

This was the first time he addressed you, and this was the first time you talked.

That was also the only time you looked at him - and nothing had changed. He still looked like her, the same presence, the same energy.

She replaced you?

Looking over your shoulder, you chanced another glance to see his gaze elsewhere again, as if looking out for something. Only then did you notice a transparent cloth folded, hung, and tucked beneath an arm.

"Are you certain you are fine with that attire?" His attention was on you again, looking over your form. At your glare, he seemed to backtrack after realizing the misunderstanding. "I mean no harm, I'm simply mentioning due to your... Exposed joints and the petals hanging on your form."

If you could only see yourself in his perspective. Perhaps it was due to being divine creations but despite the unsightly details that clung to you (no doubt due to time), there is still a magnificence to you that made you look ethereal.

He supposes that would make sense, as you are worthy of folklore and tales.

He watched as you gingerly rubbed at your left wrist's joint (he had yet to see you ease your curled up left hand) while his eyes lingered on the pink sakura blooms that's found home in your hair and the folds of your clothes.

Whenever he closed his eyes, it feels like he's still standing next to the sakura tree, the sweet scent permanently lingering so long as you're nearby. It's soothing.

With a raised brow, you looked at him with questioning eyes. A good sign, and he finds that you looked much better without a glare.

"Not all humans are open to the concepts of our existence." The gloom fading the light in his eyes doesn't sit right with you. "It would be best to cover up."

It was only then that you noticed the black arm guards conveniently covering his wrists. But what can you use to hide them here?

Watching your eyes scan the area for something, the second puppet stepped close and unfolded the cloth in arm to reveal a very long but beautiful veil. "While it's still transparent, it should be good enough to at least camouflage it." What a beautiful shade of purple. "May I?"

You do not miss the eagerness in his eyes, hands clutching the cloth in waiting. It's the best you can do for now, you thought as you bowed your head.

He was expecting a glare, a refusal, anything to dispel his suggestion. But the moment the agreement registered in his head, he quickly but carefully draped the veil over your head like he had worn before.

You gasped when the cloth almost slipped off when you straightened up, only for his hands to pull it over again. "Careful, perhaps we can find pins to keep it in place."

Your gaze lingered at the hands close to you. Porcelain white and perfectly unharmed. You reached up - with a hand littered with cuts and creaky movement - before pushing his hands off as you turn to walk again.

You hear him gasp, pause, and his footsteps follows behind you again.

She may have replaced you.

But she abandoned you both.

He doesn't miss the way you pull the veil over your face whenever you look at him.

Even now when you accept the lavender melon slice to eat. At one point, he had forgotten that puppets need not eat, but before he could fix his mistake you took the food and ate like normal.

Perhaps you had gotten used to the offerings given to you back at the village, just like how you carried the mora you received despite not knowing how to use it. Something you easily lent him at the promise of necessities.

His eyes lingered on your wrists and ankles where the black guards now cover it. And then to the veil that had lost its purpose, or at least, its initial purpose. (With his kasa, he also sees no purpose to take it back.)

He also bought you a new yukata to replace your old one but - "It's still not fully dried, it seems." His eyes lingered on the damp purple haori he had hanged on one of the branches, the only clothing you refused to part with. He took the liberty to wash it seeing as he knew how to, and he was more than estatic when he realized the scent of the sakura blooms still stuck to it.

That, and there's not much one can do with just one hand.

Sitting next to you, he watches as the hand resting on the grassy floor hides underneath the veil. Still clenched to a fist, still hiding.

He must have been staring obviously when you finally spoke. "I can't open it."

His eyes met your veiled ones before looking back to your hand - and then he quickly looks away despite his gaze still glancing in the corner of his eyes. He's flustered for being caught, you recognize the shyness.

"Then... Can I try and help with prying it open?" He is too curious for his own good.

Despite your nod, you make no move to pull your hand from under the veil. More so, you simply looked back to watching the clouds pass. Alright, it's up to him then.

Mumbling a please excuse me, he swipes the veil away to take your hand. He feels a slight flinch but continued on without any other sign of discomfort.

Your fingers are stuck close. He knows it's not intentional when there's no tension in your arm that indicates you're forcing it closed. So you weren't lying, he pursed his lips as he began nudging and uncurling each finger.

For each digit he takes time to flex each section to alleviate the jagged, mechanical movement. Before he could lose himself to the tender proximity, something on your finally open palm catches his eyes.

A sakura petal. Creased on some places but still looking fresh.

"Mother..." He sees you mouth before the fingers slowly curled around the pink blossom.

He doesn't ask anything further. Not when his feather necklace weighs heavily in his own pocket.

"Why are you still here?" You ask again. This time, he does not miss the question you wanted to ask.

This time he speaks. "I would never abandon you." Because you only have each other now.

It was your turn to become quiet.

Only the wind through the leaves dared to break the silence.

Sora. Sakura. Aoi. Haru. Hana. Kami.

You bow your head to look at the black fan in your hand. Sensu.

Feeling the gaze of someone's attention on you, your furrowed brows deepened as you unfolded the fan to cover the lower half of your face, turning to the other puppet sitting by the hill with you.

His purple gaze took time to register the eye contact that told him he was caught staring, and when he did his small smile faded in his fluster, turning to hide in the open book he was supposed to be reading. Was he basking in your frustrations? Perhaps he was, especially since it was his own doing that caused this turmoil to begin with.

In your wandering, you came across a bustling small town that he decided to walk through instead of around for once. Mostly because of the approaching rain clouds that threatens to soak your perfectly dry selves, and through your joints and cracks - there was an incident before that he didn't want to deal with again, didn't want to be careless of your condition when it not only deterred you from properly functioning but from also looking at him with kinder eyes.

But the pretty stalls, the whispers and shouts, it was all drawing your attention. He learned from the long trips you two had done that there was a lot of things you have yet to discover, see for yourself, after staying by the Sakura tree for hundreds of years. A festival seems to be one of those.

He took note of the way your eyes lingered on interesting things, familiar objects, counted your pocket money and bought what might look cheap enough to spare. Like a kanzashi that you used to fasten the veil to your haori, a stick of tricolor dango that he gently blew on when he thought it was still too hot.

And lastly - he watched your gaze linger on a black folding fan in display, eyes solemn in comparison to the other many things that caught your eye. He can tell why, simply because he knows what it meant too. His memories with her are far and few but he remembers them in full detail, they haunt his dreams every night, after all. "We should -"

"I... want that fan."

Only when you finally looked at him with furrowed brows (mayhaps due to impatience) did he finally make his way forward to address the vendor. "Only 300 mora." More than what he wanted but he it won't be a huge loss. "If you add 100 mora, I can also write on the fan. Do you want your name on it?"

His grip on the pouch tightened, sending a glare to the vendor that she conveniently misses in her sole attention focused on you. Still that same sales lady smile, how irritating she lacked the common sense to read the room.

"Ah, perhaps you didn't want to share your name, you two do seem like you're not from around here. How about -"

"We only need the fan, you annoying hag." Throwing the coins on the stall, the pristine puppet roughly snatched the fan away and pulled you away, far from the village and far from any stupid human who might catch on to the hateful sneer hidden by the shadow of his hat.

That was hours ago, and the moon replaced the sun by now. Tsuki.

It was time for rest, if you can call it that. Carefully folding the fan close, you lean back against the tree trunk as the stars above began to shine, a familiar sight you've seen more times than you can count. You close your eyes all the same.

You never sleep. It was something that he had discovered only some time ago when nightmares would find him instead, and his frazzled mind would notice your eyes on him every time he awakens. And many times he wonders if you simply do not trust him to be vulnerable in his presence.

Yet you would always answer when he tests the waters, and the one time he tried to sneak up on you, a tight grip on his wrist immediately pulled him away. He remembers the fear and the pain, the same ones reflected in your eyes that followed him in his unfortunate nights.

He thought he would never be able to sleep too when the fear of finding out that his dreams were true when he wakes up kept him from dozing off.

But one night when he thought the long silence of the night would accompany him once again, a comforting melody slowly coaxed him to the land of dreams so easily. When he turned to you with barely open eyes, you barely moved, the expressions on your face only privy to the moon and the stars and the veil that hides you.

That was the only time he wished he could take it away from you.

That same lullaby echoed tonight and you opened your eyes, turning to the other puppet to see his lids closed, concentrated on recreating that same melody he had only heard briefly. Somehow, you mused as your eyelids slowly started to droop, his voice soothed the nightly song more. So peaceful.

And it would turn softer in your dreams, as soft as the silk that wraps around you, as soft as the petals that lands on you, as soft as the woman that calls for you.

When he woke up, he saw the start of the beautiful sakura shower, the blooms finally cascading to color the sea of green he laid on. He sees why you can never look away when they are in full bloom, just as he couldn't look away from your form that watched on with eyes full of life.

"What's your name?"

His hand brushes against the book he took from the village as he sits up. "Kunikuzushi." The rustling leaves made your mutters incoherent, but his eyes do not betray him when he saw your lips move to test out the syllables.

"What about yours?" Your gaze slowly left the sakura tree to watch 'Kunikuzushi' make his way over. "Have you made up your mind?" Despite looking forward, his purple hues would occasionally flicker to you in obvious anticipation.

The dream in a thousand restless nights speaks to you clearer now, and you mimic that word, that name.

"(Y/N)." He let it roll off his tongue in a deliberate manner, with such wonder and awe so child-like the first time you met. 'Kunikuzushi' dropped the facade to hide his elation and smiled freely this time. You turn your head to look back at the Sakura tree. "It sounds pleasant, it suits you."

You pull the veil over your face for good measure.

Only when the last petal fell from the tree did you finally step away with purpose, hand in crumbling hand with Kunikuzushi, never looking back.

Too sleep-deprived and sick to write anything else so you get this early. Part 2 releases either the next day or the day after that.

@deepdinosaurwizard @local-mr-frog @angryhope @rowielol @shoujishu @notyuki @asteriacos @willburzone @crystalcosplays @hxqlou @rolo-at-midnight @ireallylikehamsters @crxwned-mxnarch @reveltica @seddiepilled

#genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #scaramouche x reader #kunikuzushi x reader #wanderer x reader #exile.flower #exile.pocketwatch #genshin impact angst #exile.reader #gender neutral #another case of drabbles that should have stayed as drabbles #sumeru arc

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ghouljams · 4 months

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I’m tired and thinking of more Historal Fae au. Liebling expanding her farm further outwards to plant newer crops, holding her machete close as she clears away vines and branches, feeling the eyes of a predator on her the whole time. And Love staying up late at night, bone tired but needing to get the finishing touches done for this dye order. The money’s enough to feed her and Liebling for weeks. So strung up on it that she can’t even feel Ghost’s fingers running up and down the spine of her spine, breathing heavily in her ear like a demon.

Hmmmm, and Carpenter!Crybaby. She gets so many commissions for her beautifully crafted chairs and tables. Even nobles wish to purchase her sets. But sometimes she loses steam, tears in her eyes as she vents her sorrows to the newcomer in town. She doesn’t know why she does it. His eyes a little too sharp, his smile too wide, just watching her as she cries and giving her words of sympathy. She goes home and suddenly she’s right back to work the next day like nothing happened, just making her pretty furniture again. She thinks the newcomer ordered a set, what did he want again? She couldn’t remember…

- ☀️

OOOOH Yes babe, yes yea yes.

Love spins her yarn and checks her dye baths, measuring and re-measuring dyes. Every order has to be perfect, her work never compromised no matter how tired she is. She pulls a lump of yarn from a pot and checks the depth of color before returning it to the liquid. Her skin is warm, her mind fuzzy around the edges, phantom fingers trail over her arms and down her back. The shadows lick at her fingers when they rest against the edge of the candle's flickering glow. Ghost watches her, a specter behind her back, just at the edge of her sleepy perception. He presses his lips against her ear and she shivers, tips her head to get away from the cold, baring her neck for him. Ghost's teeth itch, his mouth waters, he's never had such a meal laid out for him, and yet something stops him from biting. Maybe it's the soft scent of herbs that clings to her skin, maybe it's the way that same skin feels under his fingers. So full of life and warmth. He wants to keep her like this as long as he can.

Liebling keeps pushing her farm further into the forest. She's never been scared of the fae folk that dwell there, besides this part of the woods is uninhabited by the fae. It's old, deserted, she assumes. Her eyes scan the trees, the dense foliage that covers the ground, if there was intelligent life she'd see it. It's the only gift she's ever been given, and one she keeps closely guarded. If the village knew she was a seer she'd be driven out of it. König watches his clever little farmer clear stone and sow her seeds from the dark crevices of the forest. He can smell the magic sewn into her blood, can feel the pressure of her gaze, she looks soft but he's heard the barbs on her tongue. Just one taste and he'd be satisfied that she was ordinary, just one quick grab of his claws and she'd be his. She holds her knife tightly, never lowers her guard. She may not see him, but she can feel him, and he's getting closer.

Crybaby finds her inspiration comes in waves, never fleeting, but a steady ebb and flow. She makes her craft, and by the time it's ready to sell she's ready for a break. She enjoys spending the coin it earns her, almost as much as she enjoys avoiding the attention she gains from her talents. It's not wise to be talented, not in fae country. She's always been a little more superstitious than most, and yet somehow that caution doesn't extend to the handsome stranger that sits down next to her at the bar. His hands are warm where they touch her, his eyes sparking like flames, he smiles with too many teeth and though that startles recognition in her mind it doesn't stick. She feels hollow after putting in so much work to make her wares, and perhaps she has too much to drink to end up crying on a stranger's shoulder. It doesn't matter when she wakes up the next day and feels like her well has been filled again. It's easy to ignore the silver that strikes across her throat, the threads that wrap like a collar around her neck, invisible expect when the water glitters just right. A patron of the arts, he'd called himself at the bar. Soap, he'd told you in hushed whispers when he'd taken you home.

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voidpetrova · 8 months

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hanahaki — damon salvatore x reader

☄. *. ⋆

content warnings and genre: swearing, blood, death, diseases, unrequited love — angst

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

synopsis: 花吐き病, a disease that only a one-sided fairy tale can cause, because when damon won't give you the flowers, you grow them yourself

✧.*

the air was infused with the scent of blooming flowers, a fragile beauty that masked the impending tragedy that lay hidden within. there was once a time where roses that grew in your garden held a special place in your heart, and nowhere else. you relished in the moments you spent kneeling down in order to catch a sweet whiff of the devastatingly beautiful scent. when winter came, when they began to wither, you couldn't help but feel sorrowful.

you stood at the periphery of the salvatore mansion, your gaze fixated on the enchanting sight before you. damon salvatore, the enigmatic vampire with eyes like liquid darkness, moved with a grace that seemed to defy time itself. he was entwined in a dance of whispered words and stolen glances with elena gilbert, the woman who held his heart captive.

your heart fluttered with an ache you had grown accustomed to, a yearning that seemed to grow stronger with every stolen glance you cast upon the two lovers. damon's laughter, rich and intoxicating, echoed through the air, and you couldn't help but drink in every note as if it were a rare elixir. his devotion to Eeena was palpable, a force that bound them together with an unbreakable thread of destiny.

“they look great together, don't they?” you turned to see stefan by your side, smiling because he knew how much their happiness meant to him. you so desperately forced a smile, ignoring the way your breathing grew heavy as your gaze softened. “yeah,” you murmured, voice a mere whisper. “yeah, they do.”

as the days turned into weeks, your affection for damon remained a silent symphony, playing softly in the chambers of your heart. you watched him from the shadows, your presence unnoticed amidst the bustling chaos. you reveled in the mere seconds he spared for you, fleeting interactions that left an indelible mark on your soul.

the town itself seemed to mirror your emotions, as flowers of all kinds bloomed in profusion. yet, within you, a seed of despair took root, its tendrils creeping through your heart like delicate vines. unbeknownst to you, this burgeoning ache was mirrored within your very breath, as each inhale carried a hidden poison that would soon become an integral part of your existence.

it was a cool evening, the stars above twinkling like diamonds against the inky sky, when you dared to venture closer to the epicenter of your yearning. a masquerade ball had enveloped the salvatore mansion in an air of mystique, drawing guests from all corners of mystic falls.

you watched from the shadows, your masked visage concealing the hope and pain that swirled within your eyes. damon and elena moved through the crowd, a picture of grace and desire. their dance was one of undeniable connection, leaving you feeling as if you were but a specter in their world.

as the night waned and the moon hung low, you found yourself on the outskirts of the mansion's sprawling garden. moonflowers, their petals luminescent in the silvery light, bloomed in abundance. wiih a sigh, you plucked a single bloom, its delicate fragrance filling the air around you.

“gorgeous, aren't they?” you met stefan's eyes once more, his gaze nearly pitiful. he was aware of how much you yearned for his brother—how much you craved to be loved the way he loved elena. you turned back to the bundle of flowers, eyes glowing with admiration. “i love them,” you admitted, all the while knowing you had a different confession in mind. him. you loved damon.

stefan's lips curved in a gentle smile, though there was a tinge of sadness hidden behind his eyes. “moonflowers,” he murmured, his voice carrying a soft, almost melancholic quality. “they're said to bloom only at night, under the moon's tender gaze. but their beauty comes with a price.” he extended a hand to touch one of the petals, his fingers brushing against the delicate surface with a reverence that spoke of deeper understanding. you followed his lead, letting your fingers graze the petals of the moonflower. the texture was velvety, cool against your touch, and you couldn't help but think that it mirrored the complexity of the emotions swirling within you. “what price?” you asked, your voice hushed as if afraid to break the fragile tranquility that surrounded you both.

stefan's gaze turned distant, as if he were peering into a past filled with memories too painful to bear. “legend has it that moonflowers take their beauty from those who admire them,” he explained, his words carrying a weight you could sense even before he continued. “they absorb the heartache, the unspoken longing, and the unrequited love of those who stand in their presence.”

the truth of his words settled over you like a shroud, chilling and numbing. you stared at the moonflowers with a mixture of awe and trepidation, as if they held the key to your very existence. “do they take away the pain?” you whispered, your gaze flickering up to meet stefan's.

hia expression held a mixture of sympathy and empathy. “no,” he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of his own experience. “they bear witness to it. they hold it, absorb it, until the pain becomes an intrinsic part of them. but they cannot erase it.”

a silence hung between you, heavy with unspoken truths. you turned your gaze back to the moonflowers, their luminescence seeming to shimmer with an otherworldly light. it was as if they understood the depth of your emotions, as if they were waiting to cradle your secrets and carry them into the night.

“you're not alone in this,” stefan said, his voice a gentle reassurance. “i know what you feel.” your heart clenched at his words, a mixture of gratitude and sorrow flooding your senses. in that moment, you understood that the pain you carried was not a solitary burden—it was shared by another who knew the taste of unrequited love all too well. you knew he loved elena more than damon ever could.

as the days turned into weeks, the symptoms of your hidden affliction began to manifest. A persistent cough, dry and unyielding, echoed through the quiet chambers of your room. each breath you took seemed to carry a weight, as if the air itself had turned into a tangible reminder of your unspoken desires.

days turned into nights, and the moonflowers in the garden continued to wilt, their petals falling like tears that went unnoticed by all but you. the nights grew colder, the air carrying a heaviness that matched the weight on your chest. your coughs became more frequent, each one a reminder that the poison of unrequited love had taken root within you. the moonflowers had all but withered, their once-beautiful petals scattered like confetti of heartache upon the ground.

in the final throes of your affliction, you sought solace in the warmth of your bathtub, the water soothing against your skin. moonflower petals floated upon the surface, their delicate fragrance a reminder of the pain you had carried, the love you had hidden, and the sacrifices you had made. the coughing had grown more frequent, each fit more violent than the last, leaving you weak and trembling.

blood stained the water, a macabre dance of crimson against the white porcelain. each cough was a harsh reminder of the poison that had taken hold, the unspoken emotions that had finally found their voice in the form of bloodied petals.

as you leaned against the edge of the bathtub, your breathing labored and your body weakened, you felt a strange sense of peace settle over you. the moonlight filtered through the window, casting an ethereal glow upon your skin. you closed your eyes, your consciousness drifting between the realms of pain and serenity.

in the quiet of that moment, you felt a gentle pressure against your hand—a touch so light, it could have been a figment of your imagination. but then it came again, more persistent, and you slowly turned your head to see stefan sitting by your side. his gaze was filled with a mixture of sorrow and acceptance, a silent acknowledgment of the journey you had shared.

“i'm here,” he murmured, his voice a soft reassurance.

you managed a weak smile, your fingers curling around his hand. It was cold, a reflection of the reality that was slowly dawning upon you. “stefan,” you whispered, the word a fragile breath that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken sentiments.

his eyes met yours, and in their depths, you saw the depth of his affection, the extent of his understanding. he was not just a witness to your pain; he was a bearer of it, a partner in the silent symphony of longing that had played out in the shadows.

as your vision began to blur and the world around you faded, you felt a strange sense of release. the pain that had plagued you for so long was no longer yours to bear. and as you closed your eyes for the last time, you felt a single tear slide down your cheek, mingling with the petals that still clung to your skin.

when consciousness finally left you, stefan held your cold hand, his touch a poignant reminder of the connection you had shared. he stayed by your side, his gaze fixed upon your face, as if willing you to find peace in the afterlife.

but just as the sun began to paint the sky with the first hues of dawn, a harsh cough erupted from stefan's lips. he doubled over, a hand pressed to his mouth, and as he coughed, delicate petals of moonflowers tumbled to the ground—a mirror of the pain he had absorbed, the love he had carried, and the sacrifice he had made for you.

the ache that had bloomed within his heart was the same ache you had carried for his brother, and now, it was the ache that bound him to you in death.

#tvd #the vampire diaries angst #the vampire diaries #damon salvatore #damon salvatore x reader #damon salvatore angst #stefan salvatore x reader angst #stefan salavatore x reader #stefan salvatore angst #stefan x reader #stefan salvatore oneshot #stefan salvatore

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galaxyshine24-7 · 8 days

Text

The Silver Bullet🥂

Chapter 7 White Wine

Tw: Blood, Violence, Child abuse

Thunder cracks overhead as the wind kicks up around them. Riddle’s bangs hide his eyes as a red spot appears on his cheek it with a wave of his specter he sends Ace flying back into rose bushes.

“Ace!” Deuce and Yuu yell as a gust of wind causes them to fall back.

“Riddle!” Trey yells his final plea to get everyone to stop.

“I am, I am absolutely possibility right!” Black tears stream down his face as a pool of ink surrounds him.

Is this… an overblot? Yuu have only heard about it in stories, seen pictures yes, but never the real thing. The rose bushes around them blackenn as thorns burst out creating large thorny vines. A sharp pain shots through Yuu’s ankle as a vine wraps around their leg. Yuu acts fast taking out the dagger they have concealed on their thigh. The stab at the vines just enough until they can release themselves. Yuu takes a look around to see many other Heartslaybul members getting pinned by the vines dragging them into the foliage of the bushes.

“None shall dare defy me!” Riddle’s form gets covered in dark ink as his skin and outfit change in front of everyone’s eyes.

“Riddle stop this now!” Trey holds out his wand.

“I am the King and all should bow down to me!” Riddle raises his hand as they all watch in horror as a giant creature forms behind him. The creature follows Riddle’s command slamming the ground beneath it and cracking the earth towards the group.

Trey doesn’t waste any time using his magic to block the attack.

“I thought you’re unique magic was only for food!?” Ace yells.

“I can use it to override whatever I want,” Trey explains.

“What? How can you?” Riddle steps back, but soon grows redder by the second. “Are you saying that this whole time you’ve been hiding your power from me?! You can not be stronger them me Trey, nobody can!” Riddle releases another attack to quick for Trey to counter as it sends them flying back. Yuu expects a heavy fall but is wrapped in the arms of Cater, and so is everyone else. “Thanks for the save Caters.” Cater let’s out a smirk as his clones give him a thumbs up.

“Quick we need to knock Riddle out before his magic completely runs dry!” Trey yells as any available Heartslaybul members rally to his cry. Ace and Deuce compose themselves once again.

“Oh, I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.” Ace grins.

“Me too.” Deuce cracks his knuckles.

Yuu gets into a fighting stance, might as well give it all they got.

“Ace, Deuce he’s about to attack watch out!” Yuu yells just in time for the two to dodge out of the way.

“Good call Yuu!” Deuce pants.

“Keep doing that!” Ace launches some wind magic at Riddle managing to stun him.

Yuu’s eyes dart around searching for any dangers for the others to watch out for.

“Trey watch from above!” Yuu shouts as rose bushes fall from the sky.

Trey manages to dodge the attacks as Riddle readies himself for a more powerful strike. This can’t go on for long, Riddle is on a time limit they need to get closer and knock him out. Yuu ventures forward as Cater’s double watches in surprise.

“We need to get closer!” Yuu yells pushing through the harsh wind that kicks up.

“Yuu stay back!” Deuce yells.

Riddle’s eyes turn to Yuu as they advance closer a wicked grin adorens his face.

“Riddle! You need to calm down! You’ll die if you keep this up!” Yuu pleads.

“So what?! If all that I’ve suffered meant nothing then what’s the point?” He lets out a laugh black tears streaming down his face. “If I’m not right then what good am I!” He unleashes a large blast of energy causing Yuu to fall to their knees. Hopefully, the others can find an opening with Yuu distracting him.

“You can't live like that Riddle!” Yuu yells over the thunder and wind. Rain starts to fall as everything gets drenched around them.

“I have to be! I have to be…” Riddle’s voice dies down as he sways his body going to give out.

Yuu doesn’t waste a second to catch him as the creature lets out a bellowing roar.

“Now!” Yuu yells as the boys gather up their magic to cast one final blow.

Yuu closes their eyes as a white light blinds them and their world goes black.

“Mama…”

Yuu’s eyes flutter awake as they look up at a grey sky. The sound of a child crying causes them to turn their head. The child is in a field with everything black, white, and grey. The only color is the child's bright red hair in the center crying into his hands.

“Mama why isn’t it working.” The boy wipes his tears.

Yuu slowly rises from their spot approaching the child with caution.

“Hello there.” Yuu gets down on one knee raising their hands to not startle them. “What’s wrong?”

The child just cries louder making Yuu get closer.

“It’s going to be okay.” Yuu slowly brings the child into a hug.

“I don’t know what to do, I did everything Mom said.” The child cries into Yuu’s shoulder.

“I followed all the rules and I studied hard, but the pain isn’t going away!” Small fist bang on Yuu’s chest. “I did everything, and I’m still not right!” Big eyes full of tears look up at Yuu as they can finally see the little ones face. Striking red hair and big eyes all point to this being Riddle. Memories of the battle flash through Yuu’s mind. Is this Riddles mind? Maybe the root of the overblot? Yuu looks back at Riddle taking a deep breath.

“You must have went through so much trying to follow every rule.” Yuu brushes a a tear with their thumb. “But it’s clear those rules did more harm then good, you shouldn’t live your life by someone else’s rules.” Yuu explains, as little Riddle goes silent.

“I’m scared, what if I make a mistake.” He sniffles.

“Well it’s apart of life, but you can always learn and do better.” Yuu ruffles his hair.

“Riddle!” The voice of Trey echoes throughout the field.

“Wake up dude.” Cater’s voice comes in next.

“Who’s that?” Riddle tilts his head.

“Your friends.” Yuu smiles.

“Mommy didn’t let me have friends.” Riddles looks down at the ground.

“And how did that make you feel?”

“S-sad, and angry they always played with me and even brought me an amazing strawberry tart. Something I wanted more than anything in the world. I wanted to spend more time with them, but Mommy got mad and I never saw them again.” Riddle rests on Yuu’s shoulder. Yuu rubs his back bringing him into another hug.

“You still can they are waiting for you to wake up. You can always make things right.” Riddle gives Yuu a nod as he takes a deep breath. As the world around them glows a bright white.

Yuu feels a rain drop on their cheek as they open their eyes to a cloudy sky. Ace and Deuce hover over them, their bodies full of scratches and bruises. Yuu looks over to the side to see Trey holding Riddle in his arms, the housewarden stirs awake with tears streaming down his face. Yuu takes a deep breath glade its over. Their body aches as they sit up with the help of Deuce and Ace.

“I’m sorry!” Riddle’s cries break through the atmosphere as the fearsome leader is reduced to a crying child.

Ace rolls his eyes getting up from Yuu’s side and flicking Riddle in the forehead. Which only makes the leader cry more.

“Stop your crying, your crocodile tears won’t sway me. It’s going to take a lot more to make up for the bullshit you pulled.” Ace puts his hands on his hips.

“W-what do I need to do?” Riddle sniffles.

Ace begins to list off all the things Riddle needs to make up for as his voice starts to drown out in the background.

“Are you okay Yuu.” Deuce still holds them his voice full of concern.

Now that Yuu thought about it they did feel tired resting their head on Deuce’s shoulder.

“A-ah Yuu!” He stutters.

Yuu takes in the smell of roses and rain closing their eyes for a deserved sleep.

#twisted wonderland #twst silver bullet au #silver bullet au #disney twst #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #my writing #twisted wonderlandxreader

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ashyronfire · 3 months

Text

pride

Title: pride Rating: T Characters: The Knight, Hornet, Grimm, Grimmchild Warnings: Injury, Recovery, Fluff(?), Humor (?), Second Person POV

Author's Notes: For @aewrie <3 This was meant to be something...else. But the Knight's POV always ends up being "why are you so inadvertently hilarious" and I can't stop them anymore lmao

pride on AO3.

“Where was she?” the specter asks, tone gentle, and you do not answer, because you cannot—and he knows that.

Grimm is regarding the disheveled, unconscious form of the spider – your sister, you remind yourself, though it feels more like an afterthought than familial affection.

You found her, collapsed and covered in her own sticky hemolymph, outside of a cave-in in the Crystal Peaks. You don’t know why she was there, and the fact that you happened upon her at all was nothing short of miraculous. You do not venture into that region often; there is little reason to that you have found so far, despite your fondness for exploration.

But you heard the collapse all the way from the Temple of the Black Egg.

You heard it when the infection ripped up the cavern, spreading like blood in water, tinging stone in molten gold. You heard it when the thick vines, like arteries, coursed along the stone walls and gave it a pulse. And you heard it when the stones dislodged themselves and shattered, breaking on the ground.

The child helped you bring her back here, to Dirtmouth, where you went to the only person that you thought might be able to help.

In retrospect, perhaps Iselda would have been a more appropriate option. You are fairly certain that Hornet would have preferred that. By nature, the spider is fiercely independent, and the idea of anyone seeing her in a weakened state will grate her nerves. That the person seeing her this way is someone who could potentially outlive her, who will never forget, is not lost on you. She will find that infuriating, but—

But you trust him. You trust him and you want her to be okay, even if that means earning her ire at a later date.

(You suspect it will be aimed more at him than you, though. How much the spider views you as capable of processing emotion and thought varies on a daily basis.

Nevertheless, you are left with the distinct impression that she would have much preferred for you to leave her to die beneath the rubble, rather than wound her pride by asking another to aid her. That you know this and make this choice despite that fact is, perhaps, telling.

Pride comes before a fall—and it is not you who is injured, so what care have you?)

The god-in-mortal-flesh tilts his head down and shifts Hornet’s mask from side-to-side. “She does not appear to have been fully crushed but she has definitely suffered contusions, with potential internal injuries,” he observes. He glances at you, then paces across the room to a large cabinet. When he opens it, you catch sight of folded blankets and pillows, which surprise you: he does not sleep on those things, favoring hanging, so what purpose do they serve?

Comfort, perhaps.

Other bugs like that sort of thing. You must constantly remind yourself that you are an exception who has little interest in things that are without proper function.

“Do me a kindness, would you? The table—can you move it?”

You nod. The nymph on your shoulder glides over to the table, as though to indicate what its father is referring to, and together, the pair of you push the old wooden thing to the side. It smells of varnish and the intricate carving work tells you that it was probably expensive—or custom. Much of the Troupe Master’s belongings are like that: old, heavy, seemingly valuable, or custom tailored to his rather eclectic tastes.

(He has a lot of things. No sensible person needs that many things.)

You do not need help. Though your frame is small, the void within you is a veritable tempest; there is no little that can withstand your might when you choose to call it to you, and that includes furniture. Your friend is eager to be of assistance, though, and you find the earnest effort endearing; you pretend that you are struggling more than you are to make it seem like the child is doing more than simply headbutting one of the legs. The dark cherrywood gives a little creak as the base of the legs drags across the ground, and it almost drowns out the sound of rustling fabric. Almost.

When you turn around again, Grimm is behind you unfurling a mountain of fabrics and blankets. They are threadbare and a jumbled mix of fabrics haphazardly stitched together, with little regard for presentation, and yet… you find it charming.

He lays a pillow down, then turns to you. “Thank you. Let us move her here and see how extensive the damage to her carapace is.”

‘Us’ here means him. You barely managed to drag Hornet to Dirtmouth on your own. It involved void tendrils that you were cautious not to touch her shell with, and frequent breaks, with Grimmchild chattering the entire time as an anxious bundle of nerves.

(The spider may not appreciate the child, but the feeling does not seem to be mutual. The nymph seems to greatly enjoy using her as target practice, in part, you think, because she dodges so deftly.

You should likely discourage this behavior. You do not.

You somewhat hope it manages to set her on fire. You may be family, but you are not entirely friends.

You also would find this very funny. Your sense of humor is not the kindest thing ever.)

Grimm carefully gathers Hornet’s unconscious form and moves her to the pile of blankets. He is delicate in each movement, mindful of her wounds, and he uses the pillow to keep her head elevated. You do not miss that he also kicks her needle very far out of reach, so that should she wake, she cannot immediately eviscerate him. This is a good decision because you suspect that she will wake up violent. You cannot pass judgment. If you woke up injured, in a strange place, you would also feel an inclination to start swinging your nail.

You perch at the end of her feet and Grimm unfastens the brooch on her cloak, carefully settling it around her. There is a very vivid split in her shell, black breaking to ooze with transparent fluid.

“This is the source of the stains on her cloak,” he tells you without looking up. Grimmchild alights next to part of the discarded fabric and gathers it into its maw. Grimm looks up at the larva and thumbs with one finger toward the door. “Take that to Brumm, would you, please? He will be able to clean it for her.”

The child nyehs affirmatively and then bundles the fabric in its vestigial wings. You are not entirely sure how it manages it, but it does carry the cloak out of the room. Grimm watches it go with an affection that would make you uncomfortable, were it anyone else. As it is, you find the unusual relationship between father-and-child to be fascinating. They are the same soul, split into two, and there is an undeniable connection shared between them. They are individuals, too, though. Where the father is macabre at times, easily amused, and of a black sense of humor, the child is excitable, enthusiastic, and genuine. You enjoy both.

(You are very close to the child, though, and of the two of them, it is your favorite. It is one of your favorite people altogether.)

To you, Grimm instructs, “There are numerous jars in the cabinet at the back. We will clean these injuries and glue them shut—and she will likely molt them out once they are closed. Go. Open the cabinet and I will tell you which ones we need.”

You nod, while Grimm shifts slightly to rest Hornet’s horns in his lap. This allows him to curl over her, drawing attention to how malleable his shell seems to be; he bends and twists in ways no natural bug ought to be able to. You cross the room to the cabinet and then pull a small box over to use as a stepping stool, so that you can reach the handles.

When you open the cabinet, you are presented with a myriad of colorful glass containers, each sealed with glass and labeled immaculately, strings tied around the top and dates marking each one. You look over the different names, but they are in a language that you do not speak.

“The amber one,” Grimm says from behind you. “And… there is—do you see the square jar with the white powder? Those two. And then the fabric roll, if you would be so kind.”

You nod. The amber jar is very large. Its weight is less of a problem than the shape, which you struggle to hold onto. You are slow as you step off the box and bring it over to Grimm’s side. When you set it down, the fluid within sloshes, and you catch brief sight of his reflection in it—

(Doesn’t match. Pink and red instead of black and red. Too bright eyes. Too much fire. Obscure lines, blurred shape. Not really of this world. Reflections of the truth. This is an illusion. The Nightmare’s Heart in mortal flesh.)

—before you turn to grab the square container.

“This is antiseptic. And that is corn starch.”

Corn starch?

You angle your head to the side in silent question as you carry that particular case back to the Troupe Master. He sets it aside while unfastening the lid on the antiseptic and, in answer to your unvoiced inquiry, he explains, “It is to be our glue. We will clean the open splits carefully in order to avoid… infection.” The word is not lost on him, and you catch a brief smile that registers as amused. “Then I will have you hold her plates together while I mix the cornstarch with water and then use it as a seal on the wound. That will stop her bleeding—this is not enough for a half-wyrm to bleed out, but she is not going to feel very good when she wakes up.”

“I already do not feel very good,” Hornet answers, voice croaking, and Grimm jerks above her. She angles her head toward him. “You.”

“Hello.”

“Of course it is you,” she groans, attempting to sit up, and he puts one hand on her shoulder to force her back down. “Don’t touch me.”

“Too late,” Grimm murmurs.

You go back to the cabinet to retrieve the rolls of fabric. You hear shuffling behind you and when you turn back around, two more legs have come out from underneath Grimm’s cape, to hold Hornet’s arms down. “Do not make this harder than it must be, Princess-Protector; it is not my aim to cause you further injury.”

“I do not need your help. I would rather have been crushed than rely on you.”

Grimm scoffs. “Then perhaps you should have been several steps further back, my dear.”

He releases his hold on her, Hornet stilling enough to make it justified, and then he returns to assessing the damage.

Corn starch. You tune out the pair of them bickering, laying the bandages down at Grimm’s side, to open the container of powder and swipe one hand through it. Corn starch. You would never have guessed that to be used for first aid, but it does make sense.

You put one paw underneath your mask, void shifting and twisting into a mouth to ‘taste’ it off of your fingertips.

You have no idea whether or not you consider it to taste good. You do not think it is meant to be consumed this way.

Grimm and Hornet ignore you.

Hornet stills, though the look she levels on Grimm is one of positively murderous intent. As you expected, it is he that she holds completely responsible, and you would argue that this is your fault, if not for the fact that you are incapable of proper communication. It does not seem to bother Grimm at all, though; if anything, he seems to be fueled by her reactions, his head inclined to the side in obvious amusement.

“You mustn’t struggle so. Your wounds remain open. You were near crushed. You should be thanking the vessel for its kindness in rescuing you.” He takes one of the strips of fabric and then dips it into the antiseptic. Rather than touch her with it, he holds it out for the spider to scent. “Antiseptic. It is a combination of witch hazel and grape seed extract. It will clean the wounds.”

Hornet bristles. She takes a long, slow sniff of the fluid, as though to verify that she is not being lied to, and then exhales.

“Very well.”

It is obvious from the rigidity of her posture that she does not trust Grimm, but you do. You do not believe that he would harm her. Not like this, anyway. That would be rude.

(And not nearly theatrical enough. Grimm likes his showmanship.)

As he goes to clean the large crack with the rag, you decide that you do not like the taste of the corn starch and proceed to excise it from your body—still in powder form—all over the floor of the tent. You can feel Grimm and Hornet both staring at you, but you do not look their way. You look at the flap separating the chambers instead, because you can hear the beating of wings, and sure enough, Grimmchild returns a heartbeat later.

With a metal bucket carried in its maw, the fluid within sloshing to-and-forth.

Good child. You dart to its side to take the bucket and it flops between your horns, panting. You would pet its back to reassure it, but it takes both of your hands around the handle to lug the bucket over to where Grimm and Hornet are sitting. She is sprawled against his chest, her own head tilted down, and it would be an incredibly familiar position if she did not look like she was about to spring off the ground at any moment.

You set the bucket before them and incline your head to the side in silent interest. Your gaze follows the way that Grimm cleans the gouge in her chest, mindful not to pull the broken shell too hard.

“You will molt this off, yes?” he verifies.

“When next I molt, yes,” she agrees. Her gaze slants toward you. “… You went to great lengths to retrieve me from the collapse. Know that I will return the favor, should the opportunity arise.”

Grimm bursts out in a harsh laugh. “That is as close to a thank you as you are going to get, my friend.”

If looks could kill, he would be lying flat. As it is, Grimm does not so much as acknowledge the spider’s discomfort. He finishes dabbing the witch hazel onto her chest and tosses the rag aside, then uses a fresh one to clean around the wounds.

“You will want to visit a hot spring to accelerate the process of healing,” he murmurs. “I assume that you possess your sire’s ability to channel Soul to some degree?”

“Not at the level that it does,” Hornet answers, glancing at you. You bob your head to the other side pleasantly, as if to say, ‘That I do!’ and she ignores it, explaining, “But it will do more good than harm. How long was I unconscious?”

Grimm looks at you and you hold up your hands, counting out on your fingers idly, before settling on just three of them up. That’s a good enough estimate. Three or so—

“Days?” your half-sister asks, appalled.

“I expect that it means hours, Princess; do calm yourself.”

She snatches the wet cloth out of Grimm’s hands, and he holds both of them up as if in surrender. “I am plenty calm,” she insists, though her tone is anything but, and you want to point out to her that she sounds wound tighter than a drum. You can tell from the way that Grimm’s fingers twitch, animated, that it takes every bit of willpower he has to also withhold such an observation. “I can do the rest myself. Stop touching me.”

She really should accept the help, you think. She is badly wounded. Not mortally so, no—she will not die from these wounds—but they cannot be comfortable, and their position means that she won’t be able to accurately see what she is doing. She also should not be walking around, but you know the futility of trying to inform her of that. Grimm clearly does, too, for he untangles himself from around her, his second set of arms going back beneath his cape. He shuffles past you, easy on his feet, unbothered by the spider’s agitation, and you watch her as she never takes her eyes off of him. It is the look of a wounded predator expecting to be put down. It is unmerited. You remain convinced that if Grimm wanted to harm her, he would be far more flamboyant in the attempt. There would be fire, there would be spectacle, there would be a show.

(Grimmchild, on the other hand, might bite her shell off for the doing.)

“Forgive an old bug his whims,” Grimm hums without turning back. “It is good that you are spirited.”

Grimmchild mewls on your head and then, as if in defiance of its father’s words, spits a fireball right at Hornet. She narrowly manages to wiggle her way away from it.

Master of mixed messages, that.

A sharp clink snares your attention, and you look away from Hornet, who is moving to mix the water from the bucket that Grimmchild brought into some of the corn starch. She clearly has experience with doing so, and you suspect that this is not the first time that she’s glued part of her shell back together. You are sure that stitches are her favored method of treatment, though you do not ask whether one is more efficient than the other. That is not your problem.

Grimm is making tea. You recognize the pot.

“I am not at all fooled by your disguise, Nightmare King,” Hornet hisses.

You draw away from her. She is in no danger of sudden collapse; she will not die today, and despite her agitation, you know that she is in good hands with Grimm.

“I know very well that though you say one thing, your actions say another—”

“You would blame me for my child’s actions?” Grimm quips back.

“Your child is you—”

You leave the pair of them to bicker, the last of Hornet’s statement being lost to you as you start back through the tent. The musician at the front offers you a polite nod, continuing to play his accordion, while Grimmchild hangs onto your horns, draped over your mask like a doll. It makes a low noise in its throat as the pair of you depart.

You have places to be. Your task remains unfinished.

Your sister will be just fine.

#ashe writes #hollow knight #hk fanfic #hollow knight fanfic #hk ghost #hk grimm #hk hornet #hk grimmchild #one shots

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steviewashere · 1 month

Text

No One You Can Save That Can't Be Saved (Love)

Rating: Teen and Up CW: Lots of talk around death, Vague suicidal thoughts (seriously very vague) Tags: Post-Canon, Post-Season 4, Established Relationship, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Steve Harrington has Nightmares, Panic Attack, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Cuddling & Snuggling, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Introspective, Fear of Death

I don't know what this is. I wrote the opening poem and then wrote the rest. Enjoy, I guess? Title is from "All You Need is Love" by The Beatles.

This is also on ao3, but it's not showing up currently in the Steddie tag. If you'd like to read this in full on ao3 instead, Here's the Link!

💕—————💕 I’ve had no desire to die. None in my body. But if you told me to die, I’d ask: Who for? Where should I lay my body? Like this? I’d perfect it. I’d make a gala out of it. I’d win. Blood on my hands and flesh between my teeth; I am not dead. But— Death is intimate with me. I have no desire to die.

——— The grass pearls with early morning dew. Tacky soil shapes to the bottom of his left sneaker. He takes a step forward, the imprint of his posture a temporary fixture in the lawn. If it rains again, the divots of his soles will collect water like cupped palms. Though the day will surely pass while he stays inside, working the nightmare from his musk scented skin, and he’ll return home dead on his feet. Ready to lay himself bare to a cooling bedsheet.

Tapping his sneakers on the doorway of his vehicle is the first thing he does fresh from his house. Shake the dew from his feet, shuffle inside until his legs are tucked gently under the steering wheel, slam the door shut, turn the engine over, and wait for the radio to croon. If he had the time, he’d pick a tape. But on mornings like these, he backs out of the driveway. One arm on the headrest of the passenger seat. Head peering over his shoulder.

One time he hit the neighbor’s mailbox. His cheeks remember the anger radiating from his father. If even one tire begins to turn incorrectly, he pulls back in and tries again.

Desolate roads are his favorite bit of scenery. Morning drives where people are between waking up and already at work. Long stretches of asphalt against his tires and breeze icing his cheek. It’s the quiet, too. Silences in lulls. Reaching out and holding him.

Today is different. His sneakers are wiped and his legs are burrowed and the cold air reaches his cheek. But today is like no other. Heart racing, blood chilling in his wrists, fingers going numb. The tendrils of a nightmare wrapping around his brain like thorned vines on dungeon walls. He is a prisoner to himself and his surroundings. And he can’t take a deep breath. It’s like drowning, but nothing is like drowning. Drowning is death. This isn’t death. Everything is death.

It’s death in the way his breath tastes like finality. Mouth dry of saliva and teeth as specters, rotting and decaying before he has time to fully swallow. The heave before the storm. Before the vomit goes beige on his thighs and chunky to the floor of his car. And it’s death in the sense there’s blood every time he blinks. He’s reminded of the way he played role as emergency room technician. Two hands on a slim chest, ribs crackling under his palms—the sounds similar to that of heavy tree branches downed in an Indiana snow storm. He is numb in the fingers, but cold on the palms. And it’s the darting in his eyes, sign of life somewhere, sign of life nowhere. The road stretches forever this morning.

It’s death in the harrowing way. A car beelining for the side of a road. Parked in the means to brake, but not to settle. He is thirty seconds away from a crash. Turbulent planes flying overhead, he is an unsuspecting tree. The cat between his front two tires. Mushed traces of squirrel guts half a foot from the base of a robin’s nest; crushed eggs fallen to the floor. It’s death because there is the phantom tail of a bat pinning him to the headrest of his seat. Wrapped to the two metal bars below the bottom of his skull. And his hands are tingling, heavy on his lap. Kicking his legs, feet lurching into the brake, a squeal when his car takes the movement as instruction. He’s not ready to go.

But he can’t escape. And he can’t move. Can’t blink unless the road crumbles below him.

He is trapped. This is death because he’s dying and he’s got the black spots in his vision to prove it, but there is an overbearing glow of a white light like a cone on his peripheral. He is trapped—a dog free from the vet.

Clinking on his window draws him to look left. Blearily. The slow drag of his eyeballs. Two weather vanes in stilted, hazy, sticky summer stillness. Muffled. This is death because he’s forgotten what urgent care sounds like, but this is a near thing.

He’s not ready to go.

It’s death because there is warmth and gentleness. He cries—though it isn’t felt—because there is love. And while love is not absent, he had been chasing it. Longing and yearning. Giving himself in ways not even God would approve of. This time, though, it makes sense he had to die for it.

“You’re not dying, sweetheart,” a pleasant voice says. If Death is speaking, then he is listening. Death has two hands and warm breath and a husk gargled in his throat like sucking down cigarettes on and off for four hours. The stale smell of one smoked swirls in his nostrils. “Not dying, you’re just far away. And scared,” Pleasant Voice speaks again. It’s accompanied by a faint tickle under his eye. He closes up, lost in the sensation.

It’s death because he doesn’t desire, but he is persuaded. God, it’s sweet.

He takes a deep breath. The hurt is temporary as it seems like shards shed from his lungs. Nosing at his headrest, the perfumed scent of floral shampoo and fragrant salty sweat and those cigarettes. It relaxes him slightly, the tail away from his throat. The breathing comes easier and the black spots begin to dissipate. He’s reminded of the aftermath of torture, sleeping fitfully in bed, but alive. And he chases his nose to the left, body twisting around on his seat, hands limp on his legs still.

Pleasant Voice seems to hum. Murmuring low, raspier than before, “Easy, you’ll be okay. Doing a good job relaxing. I’ve got you, sweetheart.” Another careful pet to underneath his eye. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” And a caress through his hair, two hands cupping him like water. He ripples with contentment. Crumpling against the pleather seat. He swallows. An uneasy emotion, a vapor, noxious poison billowing through his nose.

His eyes flutter open again. In front of him, two brown irises. Both gentle and concerned, deathly afraid and lowering their haunches. He blinks. Clarity. And he had expected to die, but it’s like drinking ice cold water, coming back to life from the warmth of an early summer’s day. “Eddie?” Steve chokes. “What’re—Eddie?”

Eddie—not Death—smiles a sad thing. Two frowning corners, but the gentle uptick of his lips. His eyes don’t crinkle. And his nose remains stagnant. “It’s me,” he whispers. “I was on my way into town from the trailer and I saw you on the side of the road. Looked like—Thought you were—I was half expecting your skin to be green when I came closer.”

“What does that—“

“I thought you were dead, Steve,” he answers bluntly. His hand tightens on Steve’s jaw, the other pressing closer to his scalp. “Baby, that was horrifying. I wasn’t ready—Why are you out here driving?”

Steve shakes his head. The low ruffle of his hair like two pieces of paper being scrubbed together. “I don’t remember,” he mutters, “I woke up and—My throat was aching and I thought that—Woke up with blood behind my eyelids, Eds.” He tries to swallow again, but the emotion rises. Bile. Pleasantly like bile. Then, he bursts. Crying and keening. Hiccuping through his gasps and breathing as if there are rocks on his tongue. And he isn’t sure where to put his hands, but the rest of his body falls forward into Eddie’s. Though, maybe it was on purpose. An expectancy. Because Eddie wraps back fiercely, tugging, half-climbing inside of Steve’s car. Making the room for this coagulated form of welling fear and quelled calm, the body shivers and sudden blood to his cheeks, a cough caught somewhere between a sob and an expel. It’s death because he’s frightened, Eddie is in there somewhere, too.

Eddie keeps tugging until they’re comfortable in the back of his van. Him on his lap, curled inwards in the fetal position, secured warmly between Eddie’s lithe arms. Somehow containing him. He’s not strong, he’s not weak, but he’s enough to keep Steve’s pieces all mushed in together. Not completely whole, but not spiraling like thread between lengths of road.

He’s worn when he pulls back. Eyes as two cement blocks taped above his cheeks. “Thought I was dying,” he finally croaks.

With a somber gentleness, Eddie pushes back strings of his hair. Whispers, “I know, baby. You kept telling me in your car.”

“I was afraid.”

“I know, baby.”

“I think a part of me thought you were dying, too.”

Eddie hums. “Did you have a nightmare about…About having to save me?” He quietly asks. He’s never breeched the subject before, but it’s different. Today’s different. It’s death because he has to answer.

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs. Sniffles noisily. The carnage stuffed high between his brain and sinus cavity. “I couldn’t feel my hands. Back in the car. They were completely numb. But—No, that’s not right. My palms were cold like your skin. And I couldn’t hear you at first, just your ribs. And then I—“ He stops to shake his head. Tilting it down towards his chest. Plucking at the hem of Eddie’s t-shirt. He’s fully dressed in casual wear in comparison to Steve’s outfit. Still worn down to his stained Hawkins High gym shirt from early last year, the fall of his senior year, and his red tartan fleece pajama pants. “Think I was searching for you and just didn’t make it.”

“I’m here now,” Eddie simply responds. He pets again at Steve’s face. He likes to do that. Never condescending. As if part of him can’t believe he gets to touch. Or another part can read just how much Steve needs it. It’s death because he’s known. “How about I get you home? Back in bed?”

“Don’t think I’ll sleep.”

“Okay,” he mutters, nodding. “Okay, how about you sit with me today back at the trailer? I’ve got to fill out some job applications. It’ll be quiet. You can bring a few tapes from your car, play them if you like. And I’ll make you hot chocolate. Does that sound…?” Steve’s nodding before he can even finish the question. “Alright, baby. You’ll be okay, you know that? I’m here right now. And you’ll be with me.”

“I’ll be with you,” Steve murmurs.

“Yeah, sweetheart. And if you need a reminder, you can just look at me. Or…Ask me to tell you a story. You like that, don’t you?” Steve nods again. Eddie pets the crest of his head, down to the tuft of hair on the back of his neck, dipping into his t-shirt to settle his palm between his taut shoulder blades. He twitches when he fully sets his palm. “You have your thinking face on. What’s going on up here?” He asks, tapping at Steve’s left temple.

Steve swallows. “I—I’m afraid of death.”

“I know, sweetheart. That’s okay, you—“

“But I’m more afraid of everybody else dying,” he admits. “I’d die for you. I’d…I think part of me died for you.”

A sharp intake of breath. “Baby, I don’t like that.”

“I don’t like it either. But it’s true. Feels like…I feel like a lot of me has died. For everybody around me.” His voice is shameful, but flat. Tepid and shaking. “But I let it happen. I wasn’t fighting against the urge. It just—I allowed myself to experience death. Either it was my own or somebody else’s. At every turn, I was expecting to be incinerated. Dissolved. Turned over in the ground like recycled soil. I don’t—“ He sighs through his nose. Confesses, “I’d do it again.”

“I really don’t like that, Steve. Is this—Are you asking for help? What do you need, sweetheart?” He’s not sure what Eddie’s eyes look like right now. There’s an infliction, though. A steady storm of concern and mild trepidation. Hands flat and pressing as if he’s willing them to stay rooted to their spots in the back of his van.

Steve doesn’t answer immediately. Blinking and exhaling and shoving the images that haunted him into early morning to just…die, oddly. Allowing Eddie’s gentle touch to soothe his frayed nerves. He collapses further in the lap underneath him. “Don’t go. I’m not ready for you to go.”

He toys his hands in his lap now. Fingers picking and prodding at healed scabs. Hangnails that were chewed short by his fingernails. Knuckles that have scarred over and over, time and time again. “Don’t go,” he reiterates, whispering. His voice is keening. And he knows that it’s sort of childish, what he’s requesting. Tugging on Eddie’s pant let and wrapping his limbs around his ankle. Thumb in cheek and eyes wet. But though the events of the last few years have manhandled him and stretched him thin like a mushed ball of murky colored Play-Doh, he is immature still. He can beg if he wants to.

And thankfully, Eddie appeases. Pressing again into Steve. In a way, he’s afraid, too. “I won’t, Steve. I promise that I won’t go willingly. But you have to promise me back.”

“I promise,” he immediately mutters.

“Okay,” Eddie says. A default in conversations like these.

‘I have a migraine.’ ‘Okay.’ ‘Just need silent company.’ ‘Okay.’ ‘Don’t die again.’ ‘Okay.’

He holds Steve tighter. Bending in a prairie dog way to kiss his forehead. Murmuring sticky wet against the skin, “Love you, sweetheart.”

Steve sighs through his nose. This is all going to come up again and again. He’s sure of it. Later today, he’s sure. When he’s half there and half in the dark crevices, the depths of his brain, caverns without crystals. And Eddie will be there, too. As a rescue team, sent far down with nothing but a pickaxe and harsh, yellow rope. They’ll have to talk about it. What he means about doing it again, even though he didn’t die. That significant emptiness that shapes itself like craters in his chest. Or how it all coincides with facing so much with such little time, his self worth and respect like forks in a garbage disposal; clinking and whirring and dancing, then shredding and grating and screeching, and so irreversibly broken, they can’t be eaten off of anymore. And then he’ll probably have to see a therapist, explain what he told Eddie, and listen to suggestions.

For now, he dips forward until his forehead is on Eddie’s shoulder. Nose crushed against his shirt. He closes his eyes as he takes in the scent of an alive and well Eddie. A part of him wants to apologize for all this mess he’s left construed about. But knows the moment he even tries, he will soothed into much needed silence. “Will you hold my hand while you drive?” He murmurs into the base of Eddie’s neck. He’s still crumpled and misshapen, but somehow also held. Held in a way that reminds him of being a little kid. Cherished through fear in both parties. He supposes that’s what he is. Brain still exploring like he’s seventeen, before the demogorgon. A child in a sense. An overgrown weed.

“I will,” Eddie promises.

And so Steve nods. “I love you, too.” He wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist, encircling barely, air still able to travel in the gap he creates where his bare skin doesn’t touch the cotton of Eddie’s shirt. Tangling his hands loosely. Not exactly grasping for something, but the suggestion of it. “I love you,” he murmurs once more. The words like white noise, but true.

He’ll say it more later. Curled on one end of Eddie’s couch while he sits on the other side. No space between them because Steve refuses to move his legs, the bottoms of his feet, socked and dry, shaped firmly to the soft give of Eddie’s thigh. In between moments, he’ll whisper the words. As a tape plays and the beats are bright and jingling, while he’s melancholy and still to the soft cushion. When Eddie mutters something indistinguishable, chewing on the end of his ballpoint pen. Over a plain turkey and American cheese sandwich, mayo smeared on his bottom lip, and Eddie wiping away the residue. A reverence focused on him like soft spotlight.

It’s death because he knows they won’t have forever.

He loves, though, and that’s enough to quell the fear that floods him.

He wades in Eddie’s soft touch. In his sticky lips. The lulls.

“I’m going to play my Beatles ‘Magical Mystery Tour’ album,” he tells Eddie. Because, much like the end of the album, love is all you need. He’s afraid. But he can be brave in Eddie’s arms, his warmth, his deserved life.

💕—————💕

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #fanfiction #angst and hurt/comfort #fear of death #but still being a sacrificial bastard #eddie munson takes care of steve harrington

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violetlunette · 1 day

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Runaway Chapter 10: Phantom

Summary: After searching for so long Lilia finally finds Silver. But is it too late?

Previous Chapter

Master List

Ao3

Notes: *Twst spoilers for Chapter/Book 7

Lilia continued the search. Yet, while the vines became thicker, there was still no sigh of the rumored specter nor a clue to confirm that his son was here. Lilia was starting to lose hope.

‘Did I choose the wrong place?’ He growled as he clutched the ring around his neck.

“Argh, fuck! Stupid piece of shit!” he cursed, using his other arm to swipe at his tearing eyes. It served Lilia right, though. What was he thinking following a dumb--

“Urk!”

Lilia was nearly choked as the chain suddenly yanked him forward by the throat. He was so surprised that he ended up tripping down the large hill.

“FuuuhhhAhhAhahAhhh!” His cries went up and down as Lilia rolled.

Crash!

WHAM!

Lilia's body hit a large boulder at the bottom of the hill.

Upside down, the world continued to spin around him as the fae's mouth, bones, and muscles all groaned.

“Ughhh! Of course!” it was just Lilia’s luck, wasn’t it? Shit, was all this bad luck that Leprechaun king’s way of getting revenge for tricking him that one time 300 years ago? Cause if so--

Whoooosh~

The area turned gray, layered by a strange mist that slowly filled the air. Around Lilia, the vines began to move like snakes cricking and cracking as they did so.

“ Ah, ah, ahh, ahhh, ahhhhhhh~... ”

The notes of a song drifted overhead and fell like raindrops. A song that was both strange and familiar...

It tugged at Lilia’s heart, springing tears to his eyes as his breath caught in his throat. Then he remembered.

It was one of the songs he used to hum to Silver when the lad was a baby, to calm him after a terrible nightmare.

A song he nearly had forgotten…

A shadow fell.

Then he saw it.

Lilia’s gaze widened in horror.

“It can’t be…” Above him was a phantom .

Despite living long, Lilia didn’t have an extensive experience with Phantoms. Though recently they had become more frequent, for a long time, they were rare.

Yet, despite his lack of knowledge, Lilia felt confident in saying that no Phantom was as beautiful as this one.

Its form was that of a Princess in sorrowful blue, floating upon a swirl of black mist. Like all Phantoms, it had an ink bottle for a head. This bottle was in the shape of a heart with a green light glinting off the glass. Atop the odd head, it wore a tarnished crown. It reminded Lilia of the ring that led him here. Yet what gave the Phantom its true beauty was its golden halo of hair. It hung in ringlets around the Phantom’s doll-like frame. Despite the green glow around the specter, it gave off no light, only a nimbus of darkness.

It sang a haunting tune like an old music box created to lull a child to sleep.

What held Lilia’s attention, however, was the figure she carried between delicate arms.

The man’s mouth fell agape, eyes growing twice their size as his brows pulled inward. His body began to tremble as the cold of winter plunged down his spine.

Through quivering lips, he muttered, “It can’t be... Silver! ”

Ink smeared across skin pale as the grave. The black streamed from closed eyes like tears, making it seem as if he were a boy crying in his sleep. The silver hair, for which he named, lost its moon-like shine and had become a dull gray, frayed like cobwebs. But none of that was what lit the terror that made Lilia’s old muscles turn to stone, nor made his heart stop dead as if shot with a bullet or turn his blood to ice. What did that was the blade. Said blade stabbed through Silver’s heart. The sword also pierced the Phantom, pinning him to its breast. The Phantom stroked the teen’s hair like a child, singing her lullaby. Lilia felt his mouth dry as he whispered, “It can’t be…” He then cartwheeled himself upright, turning as pale as the moon as his irises nearly vanished. His breath began uneven as he began muttering to himself, “No…It can’t…Please, no...” The chant became more and more desperate till it became a prayer. Mentally, he begged his mind to tell him his eyes were playing tricks. That it was all an illusion or a bad dream. Otherwise, the reality would be that his son was dead and that—that thing was cuddling his corpse like a doll. ‘No…’ he told himself. Lilia forced his panic back, and his rational side took over. ‘Silver could still be alive, just under an enchantment. Or could that…’ Could be his Overblot? It was difficult to see as the Phantom and the blade blocked most of his form. Regardless, Lilia knew his first step; freeing Silver from-- The Phantom turned an eyeless gaze upon him. Lilia crouched, clenching his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering from the chill going through his bones. Watching the foe closely, his hand moved to his clever, ready to pull and fight when-- It vanished.

Lilia blinked. He blinked again. Once more to be sure. Then his mouth dropped open.

“Huh? What...no...No!” Confusion turned to horror.

Silver was right there. He was right there! Dead or alive, Silver was right there before Lilia! And now he was gone! Again!

“Silver! Silver!” Lilia ran to the spot where the Phantom had disappeared, swallowed by the mist of the late noon.

“Come on, come on, come on!!” Frustration filled the fae as he clawed through the mist as if the action would reveal his lost son.

Alas...

“Augh!”

The anguished cry tore from his throat as the father fell to his knees.

S L A M !

He pounded a fist into the dry soil as his legs hit the ground. “FUCK!”

As the man's fingers dug into the dirt, a few tear drops escaped his eyes, his body shaking from frustration.

He was so close! He was so close, and yet—and yet…

Hick, sob, hick…

Lilia slumped forward, over weighed by grief.

“F--fuck...”

~*~

Once he regained himself, Lilia called Idia. Well, sort of.

He called Sebek, who took the phone to Idia, apparently breaking his door down to do so. The other was not at all pleased.

“Sorry about that!” Lilia apologized, cutting short the complaints. Had he not been so emotionally exhausted, Lilia would have laughed or found some amusement in the situation. “But I had something I really needed to ask.”

Lilia then went on to explain the appearance of the Phantom and its odd actions. Lilia wasn’t familiar with Phantoms, but he knew them to be aggressive. Silver’s Phantom, on the other hand, took one look at him before fleeing.

Idia sighed sadly.

“So, even Silver…” he mumbled. He trailed off before returning to the topic.

“It’s rare, but it’s not, like, unheard of for Phantoms not to attack,” Idia explained. “There are some who are, well, cowards and will choose to run instead. From what we can figure, it depends on how the person who blots over handles stress.

“Like, Riddle has a temper, so when he's pissed, he lashes out at everybody.” Lilia heard the story of Riddle’s blot from Carter and how it acted like a large child throwing a tantrum. Even Malleus’ Phantom had lasted out like a beast in pure rage. But Silver wasn’t like that.

Yes, the teen got mad and upset. He would occasionally yell as well, as rare as it happened. But when he was truly upset to the point his heart broke he ran.

‘Just like when he found out we weren’t related…’ Lilia closed his eyes as he recalled the memory and the child’s broken expression.

“ So… you’re not my father?” Lilia had been so stunned not by the question but by the torment on Silver’s face as the words were muttered through trembling lips.

Lilia flinched as a metaphorical dagger pierced his soul. That same anguish was on his face in the dream world, his body shaking like it had as a child.

“ Father… I—I…” Lilia’s heart broke.

‘Oh, Silver…’ After everything that happened, it was no surprise that Silver was distraught to the point where he must have felt like he was drowning. However, it took more than an emotional state to blot everyone over.

The teenager would have had to have used a lot of magic. The broom ride would have been tiring but not enough—

Then Lilia realized; ‘Meet in a Dream.’ Silver Unique magic.

Silver used that spell for who knows how long to save everyone. He also took travelers with him to several dreams. So, even though his body was resting, it must have taken a toll on his mental state and mana. And then with everything he had discovered and gone through…

A knot twisted in his stomach as his chest became heavy.

‘The reason Silver blotted over was…’ Because of him. Because Silver wanted to save everyone from his mistakes--

Lila’s grip shook till he tightened it on his phone.

“Then what about the Phantom in this case?” he asked Idia, keeping his voice firm. “Are you saying it’s not dangerous?” It wasn’t Idia’s voice he heard next.

“Well?! Answer him!”

“Eep! Stop shaking me!” Ah. Lilia forgot Sebek was there. From what he could hear, Sebek had become quite emotional about Silver’s state. Knowing Sebek, Lilia was surprised Sebek held back this long.

“Sebek, control yourself,” Lilia ordered. “Idia; is the Phantom dangerous?” There was an exasperated groan from the other side as Idia attempted to pull himself together.

“Uggghhh...Diasomnia...can’t deal…” He took another moment to compose, but Sebek barked something, and Idia jumped into his answer finally.

“Eep! Kinda?!” He (and Lilia) made Sebek back off before going into more detail. “They’re usually pretty harmless till cornered. Then they lash out like a trapped rat, ya know?” Then the Shroud sighed heavily as if something heavy was dropped on him.“The real issue is that while it's running the life is still being drained from its host.” Lilia’s skin nearly went transparent.

‘ Shit! ’ He forgot that. He forgot that a phantom drained its host of their life force.

Which meant that even if Silver was alive now--

“You mean… Silver’s going to die?” Sebek’s question turned the whole world static. He didn’t even hear Idia’s response.

Die, die, Silver? His Silver? His son? No! No, no, no!

“Hey, Lila? Ortho’s contacted STYX officers. They’re sending over a troop. It would--” Lilia hung up, his heart racing in his ears as he started running.

His jaw clenched as he breathed hard through his nose, his eyes growing wild. He didn’t know what would happen from here on out, but he knew this;

Silver was NOT going to die!

#mine #twst #twisted wonderland #twst silver #silver twst #silver vanrouge #lilia vanrouge #silver twisted wonderland #lilia twisted wonderland #lilia twst #twst lilia #twst diasomnia #twst runaway #twst fanfic

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martianbugsbunny · 7 months

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Rainbow Mists In Which He Stands (A Kalluzeb Fic)

Had to do something short and sweet for these guys, I'm being consumed by them. I haven't decided yet if I might expand this into a three-part series, with this one, a Kanera one, and a Sabezra one (which, fair warning, would probably be platonic bc I have complicated feelings about them being a couple). The point is, this is a delightful little break for Kalluzeb and they're having a nice time together. IN case you were wondering, the title is another Wayne Visser reference; that part of the poem kinda melted and gooified together in my brain like crayons left in the sun with that art @kappamelone did of trans kallus a little while ago to create my favorite scene in here (which will be terribly obvious when you see it). Read on and enjoy!

The crew of the Ghost had been offered (ordered) shore leave for a few days after a stunning misadventure involving Chopper, a bag of explosives, and a remarkable inability to count. Kanan said it was because their nerves were all stripped after that; Hera muttered about being put in time-out and kicked a couple of crates.

Zeb, like Ezra and Sabine, didn’t really care why they had been sent away to a remote moon for a bit of quiet time. He joined them in making excited plans about how to make the most of it, especially after learning that Kallus had been commanded to go with them.

“They want me to keep an eye on you,” he said, then a little more irately, “I’m pretty sure Rebel Command is as sick of me as they are of you.” Having been recruited into the Rebellion by the Specters, he had picked up their annoying habits of rarely listening to orders in the way in which they were intended.

But once again, Zeb didn’t care why Kallus had been packed up and shipped off with the Ghost’s crew, and he convinced Kallus to stop caring at least until they got back from leave. Then he could be annoyed about it all he liked.

The minute they landed, Ezra and Sabine raced out of the Ghost, shoving each other to the side, to take in the view. The planet was warm, covered in tall trees with vines hanging from the branches and brightly colored spiky flowers. Zeb had never seen another planet quite like it; the kids probably hadn’t, either.

Kanan and Zeb sat down together on the ramp, while Hera went through her post-flight checks and powered down the ship. “I used to go camping with the other Honor Guards,” Zeb said. He was still a little bit surprised, himself, every time he mentioned his life on Lasan. It seemed to happen more frequently these days; he wondered if maybe letting go of his pain enough to make room in his life for Kallus had helped him be more at peace with it in general. “I could show the kids how to set up tents.”

Kanan smiled, his head tilted towards where Sabine was gushing over how good the spiky flowers would be as pigments for her paints. “They’d get a real kick out of that,” he said. “You’ll probably have to drag Hera off the Ghost by her ankles, though.”

“What about my ankles?” Hera sat down between them, leaning against Kanan’s arm. “I guess—to spare you boys the effort—I could be convinced to spend the night outside. Sleeping among the stars is one thing, but there’s something special about sleeping under them, too.”

Kanan’s grin grew wider, and he kissed the side of Hera’s head. “You old romantic,” he teased.

Zeb rolled his eyes, standing up to stretch. “I’ll get the tents,” he said. Let those two have their moment. He went back into the Ghost and hefted the top off of a storage crate that he’d stuffed a couple of tents into before leaving the base. He’d only been able to find three; he expected Sabine and Hera would probably share a tent and leave Ezra and Kanan to commune with the new planet’s nature in that Jedi way of theirs—and of course he and Kallus would bunk together.

Speaking of Kallus, where had he gotten off to? He was prone to sort of drifting off while everyone else was busy, and half the time he neglected to even mention to Zeb where he was going. It was hard for him, Zeb thought, when he was with the Spectres; they had been a family unit when he met them, and he hadn’t figured out how to integrate into it just yet.

Zeb stopped to set down the tents outside before following the path that Kallus’s boots had left in the soft grass. Ezra and Sabine had stopped their frenzied exploration to lay back on the ground for a minute, and he gently nudged Sabine’s shoulder with his foot as he passed. It was good for them to enjoy themselves. They didn’t get to be kids often enough.

He didn’t mind getting the time to relax himself. He didn’t really care how long it would take him to catch up to Kallus, with fresh, greenery-scented air to breathe and nothing to distract him from appreciating the scenery. There were certain bright orange flowers that reminded him of ones that grew on Lasan, and soft white ones that looked like the drifts of snow on Bahryn.

Zeb finally stopped when he saw the waterfall up ahead. It was one of the most stunning views he’d ever seen.

Standing at the very edge of the fall, feet submerged in the pool it created, was Kallus, shirt, jacket, and boots discarded on a nearby rock, his head tilted back ever-so-slightly and his damp hair clinging to his face and neck. Where the water spilled across his freckled shoulders, it shifted and shimmered in the light, the mist forming a rainbow in the air like a cape.

There was that feeling Zeb was still trying to get used to: looking at Kallus and being sure that his heart was going to beat against his lungs so hard he would pass out, like there wasn’t enough room for love and oxygen in him at the same time and his body would rather go without the oxygen. It was easy to say he had never been in love with anyone the way he had fallen for Kallus. He wondered sometimes at the designs of the Ashla, but he was certain it had guided them towards each other, softening each of them in turn to make what they had now possible.

Zeb released a sigh and walked across the clearing to stand at the edge of the pool. “Enjoying nature all by yourself, handsome?” he teased. Kallus’s face instantly broke into a wide, unguarded smile, such that Zeb only ever saw when they were alone together, his amber eyes lighting like sparks from a flint. There weren’t many lines by those eyes yet; like Zeb, Kallus had spent more of his life frowning or scowling than he had smiling, but he was making some progress. A few of the worry lines, at least, seemed to have become less pronounced, now that Kallus was a little bit less tense than he had been as an Imperial agent.

“I don’t have to be,” Kallus said. Zeb stepped into the shallow water and waded over to Kallus, ripples fanning out around his legs as he walked.

Zeb cupped his hands around Kallus’s upper ribcage, thumbs covering the beautiful twin scars beneath his pectorals. The lines were thick and pale, mostly even; only jagged at the edges. “Have I ever told you how much I like these?” he asked, leaning his forehead against Kallus’s.

“Every time you see me with my shirt off,” Kallus answered, resting his hands on Zeb’s forearms.

“Which isn’t often enough for my taste,” Zeb said. Kallus laughed (Ashla, did Zeb love that deep, hoarse laugh), fingers playing across a set of dark purple stripes that were a little bit darker still than the others on Zeb’s body.

“How long do you think we have before they miss us?” Kallus asked. His face was flushed from sun—it made the freckles on his face seem just a little bit more vivid by contrast.

“A half hour before the kids hunt me down to set up the tents.”

Kallus smiled at him, more softly than before, but with just as much earnestness. “Ever the family man, aren’t you, Garazeb.”

Then he put his arms around Zeb’s neck and kissed him, and there was nothing on the planet except the two of them and the stones beneath their feet and the mists spilling across their shoulders, and for just a moment nothing could ever be wrong again.

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multi-fandom-simp00 · 5 months

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I'm gonna start posting Shovel Knight characters as vines now

Anyways

King Knight to Specter Knight: so, how does it feel to be the worst member of the Order ever, haha

Specter Knight: shut up, your mother buys you Mega Bloks instead of Legos

King Knight: *gasps dramatically* you take that back

#shovel knight #king knight #specter knight #incorrect quotes #do i care? no #i thought it was funny #pls help

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perpetuallylate1890 · 13 days

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Crisis of the Mind

As Ford slipped into his mindscape, he immediately realized something was wrong. Black tendrils threaded through the holographic screens and floating books. A sickly gray haze had overtaken the usual stars and galaxies. Looking at it for too long made him nauseous. If it weren’t for the pervasive sense of dread, the changes would’ve been fascinating.

Ford licked his dry lips and called out. “Bill, are you there?” No answer, but that wasn’t surprising. His muse was fickle, and often left days or even weeks between each visit. Sometimes, being Bill’s protégé felt like trying to hold water in his cupped hands.

Ford made his way to the front portion of his mindscape, where a chess board rested between two armchairs. Pulsing black growths crawled over the furniture. There was no sign of his triangular muse. Briefly, Ford wondered if Bill was playing a prank on him. If he was, Stanford couldn’t discern the punchline.

“Bill?” he chanced aloud. Only a ringing silence.Now this was a real enigma. Ford frowned, rubbing his chin. Gravity Falls had its fair share of supernatural oddities, though few of them possessed the ability to alter mindscapes. Ford considered the Dream Hipster, but as this dream was decidedly lacking in subpar puns, he highly doubted the specter’s involvement. This must be something new.

Ford grasped a nearby journal and tugged it from the vines with a snap. Writing always helped him to gather his thoughts. He jotted down his observations: mysterious tendrils, numbing fog, an inescapable feeling of doom. Though it was just a dream, his pulse quickened and his palms grew clammy. Well, nothing a little investigation couldn’t fix.

Ford mustered his courage and set out into the fog. It swirled around him, dulling his senses. His footsteps had a strange echoing quality. Every sound seemed to reverberate unnaturally.

Soon, he entered the deeper part of his mindscape. Bookshelves loomed on either side of him, shrouded in mist. Soft voices reached out to him. They sounded familiar, but were indistinguishable from a low hum that rose from the fog. Clutching his journal to his chest, Ford attempted to dismiss the sounds as the product of an overactive mind, though with every step he grew less sure.

He had entirely ruled out Bill as the culprit: his muse lacked the patience to let a joke run this long. The farther he walked the denser and more tangled the tendrils grew. He stepped over them like venomous serpents.

Stopping, he attempted to trace a growth back to its source. It wound through the bookstacks before disappearing off into the mist. How peculiar. Ford adjusted his glasses and continued on. Now, the sounds began to increase in volume. He distinctly heard his ma and pa engaged in a verbal clash, followed by the nasal drawl of Cathy Crenshaw. Six-fingered freak! Grimacing, he attempted to move past the unpleasant memory, but was stilled when he heard the familiar crunch of a toffee peanut bag. His heart plummeted.

That sound was a symbol of failure, of sabotage, of dreams grinding to a halt. Ford couldn’t stop the bitterness from welling up. A decade later, and he felt the betrayal like it had happened yesterday.

Stanford gripped the journal with white knuckles, clenching his teeth, and soldiered on. No use dwelling on the past. He had a muse who believed in him, who truly saw what he had to offer. Bill looked past his surface-level deficiencies and saw his potential for greatness. Stanford Pines, the man who changed the world. Bill had said it himself, and when had he ever been wrong?

Still, the doubt was eating him alive. What if he wasn’t enough? What if, in the end, he failed?

Suddenly, the voices doubled in strength. Ford stumbled under the onslaught of doubt. You were always just a freak! sneered the voices of his former bullies. I’m not impressed, commented his father. And worst of all, his own defeated voice, saying, I knew Bill was too good to be true.

Ford dropped the journal, flooded by a surge of inadequacy. His bullies were right, his father was right. How could someone like him deserve someone like Bill? Only a moment of doubt, and already he was losing resolve. Utterly shameful.

A chasm opened at his feet, its edges writhing with noxious tendrils. The voices reached a fever pitch until he couldn’t remember a time without them. Ford sank to his knees. He was outcast, unremarkable save for the extra fingers that marked him as other. Once Bill saw that, he’d abandon Ford and move onto someone more special, more deserving.

His gaze fell on the yawning abyss. Its call was a gravity he couldn’t escape. Ford climbed to his feet and stared down the gaping maw. It’d be simpler to give in. He swayed on his feet, dizzy, before something shiny caught his eye. The journal he’d dropped, once dull and unassuming, now bore a golden six-fingered hand.

He stooped to pick it up, matching his hand to the one on the cover. The journals, the portal were his life’s work. How could he ever think to throw them away? He dusted off the cover and stared at his reflection in the gold. Blue eyes, uncertain and afraid, peered back at him. He schooled his features into a semblance of heroism.

It didn’t matter if he was misfit or alien. He’d seize his destiny by the horns and prove he was worthy. With a shouting cry he clutched the journal tight and leapt into the hole, to follow the tendrils to their source and obliterate them.

Stanford Pines did not shy away from greatness.

_________________________________________

“So then you leapt into the giant hole?” Bill Cipher, reclined on a plush armchair, stirred sugar into his teacup. When he looked up, his slitted eye gleamed with approval. “Attaboy, Fordsy! I like your style!”

Ford flushed under the praise. He rubbed his neck self-consciously. “Well, it seemed like the right thing to do. I certainly feel better.” He frowned. “Although I never did figure out what caused it.”

Thoughtful, Bill sipped at his tea. “I have an idea,” he said finally.

“What is it?” asked Ford. “A spirit? An ancient curse? Some kind of emotion-sucking vampire?”

“Woah-hoh, hold your horses,” Bill said. “Nothing that exciting. What you experienced was just a stress dream.”

“Oh.”

Bill laughed at Ford’s disappointed expression. “What, you don’t appreciate the inner workings of your own mind? Geez, IQ, and here I thought you were smart.” He laughed again as Ford opened his mouth to defend his intelligence. “Kidding, I’m kidding!”

Mollified, Ford took a moment to process. “So all that was just… me?”

“Yup.” Bill reached out to ruffle the scientist’s hair. “When you’ve got a mind as brilliant as yours, it doesn’t take much to set it off. One tiny doubt spirals into another, and before you know it, boom!” He waved his hands in the air. “Identity crisis.”

“Identity crisis,” repeated Ford.

“It’s the little things that get you.” Bill poured Stanford a cup of tea and handed it over. “So, what kinds of things were ya stressing about?”

“Some unpleasant memories,” Ford said dismissively. “Family squabbles and the like.”

“Oh, is that all?”

Of course, Bill had seen right through him. Unable to meet his muse’s searching eye, Ford stared into his teacup. “The voices mentioned you,” he admitted.

“And?”

Ford swirled his tea. “I suppose I was worried I’m not… good enough for you. That there’s someone out there more deserving of your guidance.” There, he’d said it. He squeezed his eyes shut, fully expecting Bill to laugh it off. Instead, he felt a tiny hand under his chin.

“Hey, Fordsy, look at me.”

He did so. Bill was hovering directly in front of his nose, his slit pupil burning into Ford’s. Stanford froze, transfixed.

“Listen up,” Bill said, and squished Ford’s face in his hands. “I need to drill this through your thick skull. You are worthy. You’re one of the greatest minds in existence. Just stick with me, and you’ll change the world.” He paused. “No, scratch that. You’ll change the multiverse.”

His muse’s words were a balm to Stanford’s anxieties. He felt the tension leave his body, the tendrils releasing their hold. Confronting his doubts had helped, but having Bill’s full attention, receiving his validation, was something else entirely. Ford released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

Bill gave him a little shake. “Better?” he asked.

“Better,” Ford replied, and meant it.

“Good.” Bill released him and floated over to his armchair. “Now, how ‘bout a game of chess?”

With a click of his fingers, he summoned the pieces and made the first move. Ford leaned forward, settling into the rhythm of the game. Everything would be alright. He just knew it.

(Spoiler: it wasn't)

#stanford pines #bill cipher #gravity falls #fanfiction #writing

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eve-be-sleep-deprived · 4 months

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Preta the Wisp, the Ghost... Looks like Forgki has a sister now. Bonus pics and a story below!

Preta, a specter, a wisp, a distant whisper. Upon the Zariman she roamed, aimless, thoughtless, without meaning.

Not a soul did she meet, not a soul like hers, not a soul like theirs, not a scrapling of life to be found anywhere.

Bodies of silver littered the halls, polluted the ground, filling the skies. Preta wondered every day, she wondered what they were, why they looked so much like her... Oh, she wondered and wondered and wondered.

So much did she wonder, so much did she wander, finding no direction, no meaning. Hers was a goal ethereal, to find someone such as she, someone like the silver souls that stood as statues around her.

She wept, for she found not another living soul. Despair wrapped itself around her like a cloak. She wondered to herself if it was just best for her to vanish, to vanish like all the others seemed to have done. Would it have been easier just to leave it all behind?

No! There was too much left to live for, too much left to do! She'd not searched all of the ship yet, there were still so many places to look!

And so she kept looking, and looking, rising higher and higher through the ship. But, as she stepped from a cargo lift, she heard something odd... Voices... Voices!?

They were coming from behind those doors, she couldn't understand what it was they said, but they were voices, that was all she cared for. There were souls beyond there, souls she so desperately wished to meet!

Preta crossed over, emerging in a cave full of deep shadows. Vines streamed from the ceiling, brushing her shoulders, and grass tickled her legs. There was so much life... but from where did the voices come? Where did they go?

"You look lost!" a voice called, clear as crystal, ringing like a bell through the swirling air.

Preta looked, she looked back into the light she had emerged from, seeing another form detach from the blinding gloom.

"I'm looking for another soul like mine!" Preta called back, using her voice for the first time in so many centuries. "Is your soul like mine!?"

"I would hope so," the soul replied, holding a hand out to Preta, "take my hand, I'm flesh and bone, just like you."

"Just like me?" Preta whispered, reaching out to take the soul's hand.

In a flash of movement, the Soul wrapped its arms about her waist, holding her close, holding her tight. Preta could feel the beating heart beneath the soul's skin, the twitch of muscle as she was held tighter and tighter. This was no attack, or aggression, this Preta knew.

"You're not alone anymore," the soul whispered.

You're not alone... not alone...

"I'm not?" she whispered...

Not alone

Not alone...

Not alone?

No... I suppose I'm not...

Thank you, so much...

For saving my life... Prin...

#warframe #captura

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steelcladbutterfly · 1 year

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Yandere Ghost: House

This is the fourth of ten halloween fics now. I enjoyed this one and I’d like to think I made it somewhat layered. Anyways, hope you enjoy it!

Prompts: Fog, Forest, House

Ghosts are known as many different things across many different cultures, names for them include; apparition, shade, demon, specter, phantom, ghoul, and spirit. In general, however, they are known to be the soul or spirit of a dead person. They are sometimes known to only remain on the material plane until they have fulfilled their purpose, other times they remain until they are banished or otherwise forced out or destroyed.

Your panting filled the air as you rushed through the forest, branches leaving long red marks all along your face and upper body, a few trails of blood joining the stream falling from your clenched hand as you continued to run full tilt in a desperate bid to escape the fog swiftly filling in the air behind you. You wanted to go home, wishing there was a way to turn the day around so that you didn’t follow your friends into the woods and into an abandoned house deep into the trees.

They had wanted to check it out, spend the day before Halloween digging into places they should have just left alone. And you had followed them like the fool you were despite the warnings and tales told across town about the woods and the house left abandoned and rotting within. There were many stories, with different ideas and assumptions, but all had the subject and warnings in common.

~~~~~

Something horrible happened in that house to the young owner, he had been found rotting in the front hall, guts strewn about, left for a week before anyone thought to check on him. His wife was found three weeks afterwards, shivering and unresponsive in the next town over. She had apparently been attacked as well, but had managed to get away, but, before they could get any of the story out of her, she died from the wounds, treatment having been administered too late to save her from infection. No one knew for certain what happened, but anytime someone had tried to move in after, they either left, ranting about something wrong in the house, or were never heard from again. And anyone who thought it was a good idea to mess with the house were soon found in the same manner as the original owner; rotting and strewn about in a bloody mess of twisting limbs and eviserated organs.

After everything that happened, it was left abandoned and rotting for years, until only those who had been children at the time of the first death were still alive, old and still scared by the woods and what they swore lurked within.

~~~~~

When you and your friends had arrived, the house looked almost slumped over on itself, standing in a small clearing with an overgrown garden and crumbling porch. The swinging bench to the side creaked eerily, held up only by the horribly rusted metal that made up its chains.

You shivered, instantly feeling eyes upon you. You glanced towards the top floor, seeing moth eaten curtains move slightly behind the cracked glass and warped frame. Just when you were about to complain, one of your friends surged forth, leaping over the ivy and vines choking whatever remained of the front yard and onto the old wood that made up the porch. You were pushed along in the swell of gathering excitement as you slowly went up the groaning steps and over the swollen and warped boards of the porch right under the massive hole torn through the awning above.

You quickly found yourself alone as you felt almost drawn towards the second floor, wincing at every creak of the old wood beneath your feet, listening to the laughter and thumps as everyone else explored below. You glanced around cautiously as you pushed open the door to the room you thought the curtains moved in. They looked to be the right shade and you slunk over to look outside to find the correct view, not noticing the door closing behind you and locking with a firm click.

It seemed to be the master bedroom, large bed with dusty and decaying sheets left like the rest of the house to rot. There were distinct differences in the two sides of the room, indicative of the tastes of separate people. You noticed something glinting in the fractured light that filtered through the cracked glass, and found it to be a large locket. You shivered as a sudden chill seemed to pass over you.

Looking more closely, curiosity getting the better of you, you traced the elaborate design etched into the front before flipping it over to find a sweet message written into the back.

“I will always love you, my heart.”

As soon as you spoke the line out loud, the chill was back and stronger than before. Your finger suddenly caught onto a latch in your jolt of surprise at the sudden draft and, still curious, you twisted it as the locket slowly opened to reveal a picture on one side; a man and a woman smiling towards the camera. From the limited background, you could vaguely make out the house, new and tall with a small, carefully taken care of garden in front. It looked nothing like the ominous, vine infested, rotting nightmare you were currently in. The original owners, you had to assume, long since passed in the horrible fashion everyone knew about.

You frowned, a sudden sadness filling you as you tried to compare the happy picture in the locket to the stories of the death and misery that soon followed. Looking back down, you noticed more writing within.

“There is nothing I would not do for you, my heart. If you ever left I would do anything to have you back in my arms once again.”

The chill slowly caressed your arms, as it seemed to settle and loom on your back and over your shoulder. You were shivering and terrified as a sudden voice filled your ears.

“I meant every word when I had our locket engraved. Death and life cannot keep me from you any longer. It was so lonely waiting for you.”

The chill moved around you, as what felt like icy fingers suddenly tilted your head up as the chill drew closer and closer. You felt frozen, unable to move as the force seemed to hold you in stasis. But the sound of a crash and the hooting and hollering of your friends below drew both you and the presence out of the predicament you had walked yourself into. The cold seemed to grow worse as the grip on your face tightened slightly, loosening only after you let out a squeak at the slight pain.

The icy feeling drew away slightly, almost reluctantly letting you slip from its grasp. It drew closer only to lay a chilly kiss upon your forehead, its form seeming to solidify the longer it was around you.

“Stay here and be safe. I’ll deal with the interlopers swiftly. I will be back soon.”

The presence faded and you felt yourself able to move once again, even as the ominous promise settled into your brain. You paused for a moment, unsure on what to do before a scream rang out. The sounds of a fight reached you and you jumped into action, trying the door and finding it locked. It should open from the inside, but no matter how you rattled the knob and banged on the door, nothing budged. The screams grew and the sound of thumping and sobs started up as it seemed your friends tried to run.

You were trapped in a room as something with the intention to return massacred your friends. So, with desperation, you turned to the cracked glass. You tore the curtain off and wrapped it around your fist, gritting your teeth as you began to punch out the glass from the warped and swollen shut frame. Finally, after a few hits the glass shattered, falling to the ground outside in a mess of shining and shimmering shards, bouncing off the awning below on the way down.

The sounds below continued though there were noticeably fewer screams filling the air. You climbed out, carefully settling onto the solid part of the awning before you, avoiding the few pieces of glass that stayed. You scooted towards the gaping hole you knew was above the porch, hoping and praying that it didn’t give out under you. You found yourself carefully falling through the hole with only the slightest twinge in your joints as you landed. You stood up, turning to see if you could help who remained only to find the door thrown open as someone desperately tried to escape.

The chill returned, covering your friend in a fine layer of frost before it paused, finally noticing your presence. You shivered, feeling the eyes upon you once more as the voice filled the air even as your friend turned purple, gasping for air and scrabbling fruitlessly at their neck as icy marks in the form of fingers formed around it.

“My heart, what are you doing outside? What happened to your hand? How did you get hurt? Please, come back inside, now.”

The firmness of the tone brooked no argument, but the sound of desperate gasps followed closely by a meaty crunch as your friend’s neck was snapped right before your eyes incited your flight instincts. You bolted, only speeding up as a sudden wail filled the air.

~~~~~

You had looked behind only once, seeing the fog take over a deer you had passed, stopping it in its desperate leap away. It fell over, seeming to be completely frozen solid. There was no way to fight that, so you were left to run away, heading away from wherever the fog surged forth from to follow you, nipping at you heels but never encasing you within it.

That should have tipped you off, but adrenaline and fear left little room for thoughts other than to run from the threat following close behind. You found yourself bursting back into the small clearing you had run from only a few minutes ago, having been chased in a large loop. You looked around frantically for an escape but the line of trees encircling the clearing was filled with the fog that had frozen a deer solid.

You had no where to run to now. The door still hung open, but the body had vanished. You stepped closer, stumbling when a hand suddenly latched onto your arm, tugging you inside as the door slammed shut behind you. You found yourself guided into what seemed to be a sun room, overlooking the overgrown garden.

The form pressed itself close to you, now solid in a way it wasn’t just ten minutes ago. You were pressed into its lap, seeming to hover above the chair it chose to sit in as you felt yourself surrounded by the icy chill it seemed to emanate.

The voice that accompanied the bone deep chill was light, almost a whisper, even when it seemed to fill the air around you.

“It’s not lonely anymore. I was waiting for you to return but only interlopers emerged. Visitors only harm this place, but not you, never you. I kept them away and when they refused to leave I took matters into my own hands. I kept our house safe and secure, waiting for you to return to me. And now, I’ll keep you safe from them all, just stay with me. Stay with me, my heart and I’ll never let anything happen to you again. We can rebuild our life, tend to the garden and do everything we never had the chance to do before.”

As the firm and icy arms settled on your waist, tugging you against a firm chest, as kisses began to spread along your neck and all along the various wounds that you had inflicted upon yourself in your attempt to escape, and as the feeling of hair began to tickle your cheek, the fog outside only grew thicker as the trees seemed to bend closer to the house, working with the fog to block out anything beyond the clearing and house you were now trapped within.

#yandere #yandere ghost #yandere x reader #yandere ghost x reader #yandere monsters #this honestly falls somewhere between fae and headless horseman

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sailorgoon13 · 2 months

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Josephine Blanchet

Basics:

Full Name: Josephine Colette Blanchet

Nickname: Josie

Gender: Female

Date of Birth: 18 July, 1873

Heritage: English and French

Blood Status: Pure Blood

Wand: Vine Wood, Unicorn Hair, 10 3/4 inches, Pliant

Transfer student from Beauxbaton Academy

Appearance:

Hair Color: Blonde, usually worn down with the front strands pulled back. In Seventh year she keeps it in more of a braid.

Eye color: Crystal Blue

Skin Tone: Fair with Olive undertones.

Height: 5'7"

Body Type: Slender with gentle curves

Style: Well-fitted clothing that accentuates her figure without being overly revealing. She opts for tailored blouses, dresses, and trousers that showcase her elegance and class. Her clothing is crafted from high-quality fabrics such as silk, satin, cashmere, and fine wool. Blue color palettes are her go to

Features: Soft freckles, scar across the bridge of her nose, gruesome burn scar on her left forearm (from Sebastian in the night of the Catacombs)

Personality:

Traits: Intelligent, Creative, Empathic, Sophisticated, Resilience, Selflessness, Curiosity, Adventurous Spirit

Likes: Organization, Watching Sebastian play Quidditch, Exploring, Star Gazing, Puzzles, Painting, Caring for her Creatures, Spring Time

Dislikes: Confrontations, Feeling Helpless/ Overwhelmed, Dark Wizards and Poachers, Losing Control of her Emotions

Hobbies: Star Gazing, Painting, Spending time with friends

Fears: Death, Being Alone, Failure, Abandonment, Reliving her Trauma

Family and Friends:

Father: Cornelius Sterling

Pure Blood

English

Magizoologist

Hufflepuff

Similar Personality to Arthur Weasley

Mother: Celine Blanchet

Pure Blood

French

Professor and bred Abraxan's at Beauxbaton

Papillonlisse- known for kindness, artistic ability, maturity, and idealistically

Sibling: Chloe Blanchet

Two years younger than Josie

Placed in Hufflepuff

Rebellious and mischievous

Pet: Vega

Kneazle

Blue-Black and Grey fur

Does not like new faces

Friends: Sebastian Sallow, Ominis Gaunt, Vash Stampede (Comes in during The Gunslinger)

Magic:

Boggart: Solomon Sallow

Patronus: Butterflies

Polyjuice: a baby blue color and tastes like blueberries

Amortentia: Fresh paint, Vanilla and Lavender, summer rain

Backstory:

In the quaint town of Cordes-sur-Ciel, nestled atop a hill, Josephine's childhood was steeped in enchantment. Her parents, Magizoologists, fostered a love for magical creatures while Chloe, her younger sister, often looked up to her despite their occasional clashes. Their home was a sanctuary amidst sibling rivalry.

However, tragedy struck during Josephine's fifth year at Hogwarts. The sudden deaths of Professor Fig and the sinister Solomon Sallow left her reeling. Traumatized, she struggled with panic attacks and fainting spells, haunted by the specter of Solomon. Despite the darkness, Josephine found solace in her family's unwavering love and the support of a few trusted friends, embarking on a journey of healing and self-discovery amidst the turmoil.

Academics:

Best Subject: Astronomy

Favorite Subject: Divination and CFMC

Favorite Professor: Hecat

Worst Subject: Ancient Runes

Least Favorite Subject: History of Magic

Least Favorite Professor: Sharp

Student Life:

Never late to class and is most times the 'star' student, except in Professor Binns class.

Gets along well with others and had many friends until Sebastian became too territorial, which wasn't helpful for Josie's depression.

During her Seventh year (The Gunslinger) she abandons her responsibilities at Hogwarts in search for Repositories all over the world in order to harness the power before Nai does and eradicate the muggle world along with most of the Wizarding World. (Still writing)

Career:

Becomes a Healer

Helps her dad on the Magical Creature Reserve

She is an activist for Mental Health within the Wizarding World

*Still writing more to her story so I won't say who she marries etc*

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moonshine-nightlight · 2 years

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Free Piano: Haunted - Part 1

When you drive by the piano on the way home from a job across town, you almost don’t stop. But your kid’s been wanting to learn how to play—a desire that’s stuck around for the last few months, a rarity—and this one’s free. It needs some TLC and while you’ve no experience with instruments, you’re good with your hands. On impulse, you pull over. Soon enough, you’re loading the free piano into the back of your truck. You barely give a passing thought to the “haunted” part of the sign.

Perhaps you should have.

Inspiration post: Haunted Free Piano Pic

Modern, enemies to friends to lovers, ghosts/spirits/specters, male monster x male reader, M/M, Part 1 of 8

Part One [Part Two]

You’re on your way home from a job across town when you see it.

You’re waiting at a busy all-way stop-sign intersection, counting your turn, when you see something big and wood on the side of the road. While people occasionally leave old or unwanted furniture out on the side of the road for either the garbage collectors, or anyone really, to take–it's not often.

The first time you ever actually stopped for one of these was with your grandpa, who was driving you home after baseball practice. He’d decided not to take the chair home that time—he said never take anything with upholstery because who knows what sort of bugs or vermin could be in it—but you two had stopped a few times after that.

You’d helped him take home an old record player cabinet, once. He’d even let you stick around while he fixed it up–the first time you’d ever done any work like that in your life. Even though all he had you do was hold things for him for the most part, it had earned his trust in your abilities, leading to a few other projects he’d drafted you for. It was the only project you’d gotten to work on with your gran, she was the one who knew how to restore the record player to functioning.

You still had it in fact, now that you had their house. Your parents hadn’t expected to inherit it, hadn’t really known what to do with it, but well, then came your divorce. It had made you feel like you belonged, that you weren’t just sneaking into their house–reminded you that you had contributed to the house with them. You’d still felt like a trespasser those first few weeks, there without Grandpa, but looking at the record player cabinet, and other spots you’d helped with at Grandpa’s side, helped ease that feeling.

You carried on with the habit, picking up an old TV stand for your college apartment with some buddies and a nightstand for your first apartment after that—easier to come by in the city you were living in at the time.

You pull yourself from your memories when your turn comes and on impulse, you go right instead of going straight. You’re just curious enough to want to take a closer look and it’s not like you have anywhere to be.

When you get close enough to pass by it, you’re surprised to see it's not furniture—it's a piano. Before you realize it, you’ve pulled into a driveway and turned around, coming up behind it on the correct side of the street. You don’t play, but your kid’s been wanting to learn. You’ve been considering getting an electronic keyboard, but they’ve never sounded right to your ear. Besides, while not as bad as a real one, any good instrument is expensive.

This one is free.

Well, you think as you hop down from your pickup to take a closer look, it doesn’t look like it's in great shape. The wood’s beat up and covered with what looks like water stains, discoloring and mildly warping the finish. But it's got a matching little bench, with a beat up, damaged design of what you think are supposed to be flowers or vines of some kind.

And then there’s the sign.

Ductaped together and to the piano itself is what looks like the side of a cardboard box with a piece of printer paper taped on top that in big, but neat print says “Priceless Antique”. Under that is another panel with very dark, large block letters merely saying “FREE”. Finally, under that is a third pane, looking even more hastily tacked on than the first two parts, stating “HAUNTED” in the same print as “FREE” but this word is underlined-twice. You appreciate the contradiction of “priceless” and “free”. The ‘haunted’ part causes you to raise an eyebrow: why would someone trying to get rid of something purposely label it haunted?

Restoration on this, even just the wood, will probably cost a fair amount—let alone any sort of specialist, mechanical restoration it’ll need.

But you’re a contractor by trade, which means you at least have access to more tools and supplies than most and you know the right people to ask for help—hell, isn’t there a youtube video for everything these days anyways? It's probably still cheaper than buying one.

You carefully flip up the lid to reveal the keys. They seem in better condition than the wood, only one or two looks damaged. You press a finger down on what you think is middle “C”. The note that rings out is clear and at the right volume, at least to your untrained ear. You don’t want to mess with it too much here on the street, but you hit two more keys at random, above and below, and they sound good enough—nothing obviously discordant or muted thuds from a hammer hitting wood instead of string.

You turn towards the house. No one’s come out to yell at you for messing with it, still… You shut the lid and reluctantly make your way over the house’s front door. It’s probably best to at least ring the bell and check with the current owners.

The bell rings louder than you expect and you’re already regretting deciding to voluntarily talk to strangers. You stand still, resisting the urge to fidget, until you start to think it's been long enough that you can just walk away when you hear footsteps from inside the house.

“Hi, sorry to bother you,” you say to the harried looking brunette a decade or so older than yourself who opens the door. “I just wanted to ask you about the piano?” You jerk your thumb over your shoulder in case she’s unaware of the free piano in her own yard. You’re glad when recognition blooms in her eyes before you can feel too silly for the gesture.

“Oh! Really? Great,” she says, sounding relieved.

“It’s still available, yeah?” You didn’t want for someone to have already claimed it, but just not gotten around to moving it. No way did you want someone to accuse you of theft of their free item. Not again.

However, the woman just nods. “Yeah, definitely. You can take it. We’re moving to another state and there’s just not enough room. Besides, none of us can play it—my mother-in-law used to, but the arthritis means that's not a good idea anymore.”

“What sort of condition is it in?” You don’t know how much that’ll change your mind, but it can’t hurt to ask. A quick question with the owner can save time down the road—like if a drawer is locked and the key lost or where it was purchased from or what they’ve used on it before. Any extra info is helpful with these types of things.

She frowns a little and you can’t tell if it's because you’re bothering to ask when it's literally free or because she’s trying to remember. “It got a bit damaged when the roof leaked a few years ago, but we made sure that the strings were alright—no rust or anything. I think it needs a tune and doesn’t look the prettiest, but,” she shrugs, “that’s why we’re just giving it away.”

“This the mover?” an older woman asks, her short white hair falling back from her face as she straightens from a bit of a stoop. She moves to stand in the doorway, the tennis balls on the four feet of her cane keeping her steady as she looks you over.

“No, but they might be taking that piano off our hands,” the woman replies, a bit of a warning in her tone.

The grandmother’s eyes sharpen as she stares at you. “Are they now?” She looks past you and spies it on the side of the road. Her eyes go a bit hard when they narrow back on the woman. “Did you just drop it on the side of the road?”

“Mike was careful when he put it out,” she retorts defensively. “And no matter what you think, no one’s gonna pay money for it. Even this guy’s asking questions, despite it being free—no offense.”

You smile, glad you have practice with acting like everything is fine while family members get passive-aggressive. “None taken.” You wish you hadn’t bothered to knock.

“Do you play?” the older woman asks while her daughter-in-law squints passed you at the sign taped to the piano, as if just noticing how long it is.

You shake your head. “No, but my kid’s been wanting to learn.”

She gives you a measuring look before nodding slowly. “It’s a good one for a beginner, given they’re polite.”

You frown, opening your mouth to ask what that means when the daughter-in-law cuts off whatever you were going to say with a muttered curse. Turning, she yells back into the house, “Emma! What did I say about messing with the sign on the piano!?”

“What?” a faint but defensive voice comes from deeper in the house. “Gotta warn the people!”

You can’t help but smirk at the joke. That sign makes a lot more sense if they made the teenager write it.

The daughter-in-law turns to point a finger at the now smirking grandmother. “This is your fault for encouraging her.” She turns back to you with a brittle smile, “Look, take or don’t. I’ve gotta finish packing this whole house and if you don’t want it, garbage will collect it Monday.” With that said, she walks off into the house.

You turn to the grandmother and raise an eyebrow. She raises one back. “You’re the one who stopped. I’ve had that piano for many years, my brother played it too. It’s been around since my parents’ got it. If you think you can spruce it up and have your child play it, please do. If not,” she shrugs, “I’m sure someone else will take it. A piano like that won’t end up in the trash.”

Before you can reply, there’s an indistinct shout from inside and she sighs. “I better go help. Be a dear and shut the door. Have a good day.”

“You too,” you reply as you obligingly close their door and head back to the piano.

You walk around it, and even take a look under it—mostly looking for anything like big holes or something—before you just sort of stare at it. Are you really doing this? What makes you think you can do fix it up? That it won’t still be too much money. That by the time you fix it, Kit won’t have moved on to some other interest. Even optimistically, you can’t finish this by his birthday—it’ll have to be for the winter holidays in a few months.

Will it fit in your shed? Will you be able to move it around without breaking it?

You shake your head, scowling as you try to banish all your second guessing. It’s free, it's right here. If you take it home and figure out after some research it’s too expensive or impossible for someone not a professional, you can throw it out yourself.

No harm in doing that much, right?

Decision made, you hop into your truck bed, moving things around until you’ve got enough space for it. It’ll be good for you to have a project again, you think. Now that the house is more or less fixed up, you’ve been finding the evenings on the days you didn’t have Kit too empty. You always feel better when you’ve got something to occupy your mind as well as your hands.

The space made, you frown as you try to get a feel for its weight. Just as you’re trying to decide the best way to move it yourself, a man comes jogging out of the house. “Hey!” he says as he raises a hand in greeting. “My mom says you’re gonna help take this off our hands—least I can do is chip in to get it into your truck.”

“Thanks,” you reply as you reassess how to do this with another person to help, “that’d be great.” What did the woman say her husband’s name was? Mike? Regardless, he’s taller than you and seems fit enough so with two people…

“You mind if we do the piano first? We can always squeeze the bench in wherever,” you say, glancing at the other man to see if he wants to take over the job of moving it or if he’s willing to go along with you. Frequently, when you go to work on a project, the man of the house wants to show he knows what he’s doing, that he’s only hiring someone like you because he doesn’t have the time to bother. Those types never seem to have a clue and are more trouble than they're worth.

Luckily, Mike just smiles broadly, “Sure, makes sense to me. I swear I’ve moved more furniture in the last month—even though we’re not taking much with us—than I have in my whole life before this.”

“I bet, moving’s never easy,” you reply generically, correctly guessing that Mike doesn’t need much from you to continue talking about the move, where they’re going, and why. All you need to do is grunt every once in while to show your listening and he fills the silence, which honestly is your preference—you’ve never been much of a talker.

You pick up your side, noting the wood feels noticeably cold, odd given it's been sitting out all day in the sun, but it feels solid enough that you focus on that instead. You’re more than willing to listen as Mike helps you drape a tarp over it, secure it down with bungee cords, hold things out of the way while you get everything all settled.

The only time he falters is when he gets a good look at the sign stuck to it. “What the…?” You see him mouth the word ‘haunted’ as he pales. Quickly, he reaches out and pulls the sign free, folding it up and then tossing it near the other trash they have out. “Kids,” he says vaguely when he sees you looking at him. “Always joking around.”

“Right,” you reply, not sure what else to say. You shrug and turn to check that it's not blocking too much of your rear mirror. Then you make sure everything else in the truck bed is secure before you gesture that Mike can jump down.

You follow, squinting in the sudden burst of wind that blows dust and dirt into your face. Once you blink your vision clear, you give the other man a nod. “Thanks for your help.”

“No problem,” Mike replies, hands in his pockets, staring up at the piano. “Sad to see it go, but it’s not like anyone was playing it here. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” you say and after a moment of silence, head around to go. “Bye.”

“Bye,” Mike replies.

As you drive away, you see him by the trash bins, breaking down the cardboard sign surprisingly thoroughly before stuffing it under the lid.

Your eyes flick to your new, free piano. Possibly haunted? You roll your eyes as you focus back on the road. Nah, the only scary thing is how much effort (and money) it's gonna take to get this thing up and running again.

Well, you’ve got plenty of time for it at least.

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elizaviento · 1 year

Text

Green on the Vine — Strawberry Wine (Part 14 of ?)

(Stardew Valley — Shane/Female Farmer/OC)

This chapter is rated NSFW — 4084 words. Blow job and come swallowing amid some wholesomeness. lmfao.

(FYI: Additional chapters of Green on the Vine — Strawberry Wine can be found in the Stardew Valley Fic Masterpost link in my blog description. Or, you can click the #green on the vine strawberry wine tag in this post, within my blog, to access all additional chapters.)

*****

Shane spent every step back toward the ranch replaying his evening with the farmer, looping specific moments over and over until he was sure they'd imprint on his soul like a fresh brand, raw and searing.

"I love you."

Had she really said the words, or had his desperate sense of longing manifested them from thin air and embedded each syllable into his ear canal like an intangible specter? It was hard enough to reconcile his unabated self-loathing with the reality of Kristen presenting him with a bouquet. He recalled learning of the saccharine tradition among Pelican Town shortly after he and Jas had moved in with Marnie. He'd scoffed and declared it cheesy, confident that he'd never indulge in such a mortifying display. Even while he planned to purchase one at week's end, he wondered if Kristen would laugh and call him a stupid sap.

She would never do that. Just because you despise yourself doesn't mean you get to shove those insecurities onto her , he thought as he kicked a rock in his path and watched as it skittered into the tall summer grass.

It all seemed so surreal in a way that Shane couldn't describe. He wasn't dumb enough to believe that fairy tale romances exist. Hell, every relationship he'd witnessed or been a part of had folded like a house of cards, with the exception of one — Yana and James. If any two people truly loved one another, it was them. Jas was proof of such love, inheriting the best parts of each of them, nurturing their essence even while what remained of their physical bodies merged with the earth, unrecognizable. Ashes to ashes; dust to dust.

Bullshit. They shouldn't have died, and no amount of poetic blather will make it okay. They deserved better. Jas deserves better…

Recognizing the infinite void he threatened to spiral into if he kept dwelling on things he couldn't change, Shane felt the seductive pull of some invisible thread guiding him toward a path etched with his footsteps over the years. The ranch was in sight, and those footprints nearly glowed, leading from the front stoop directly toward the faded oak door of the Stardrop Saloon. How many times had his fingers curled around the iron handle and pulled that door open to the aroma of marinara sauce and melted cheese? How many times had he drowned his traitorous memories under foam that bellowed over the rim of a frosted mug? How many times had he spewed them into a bucket, a toilet, Marnie's kitchen sink, his own bed?

You're three days completely sober, Shaney boy. You can stretch it to four. You can do whatever you put your mind to.

Her voice echoed within his skull, almost as clear as a bell. Though, Yana had never seen him at his worst. She didn't have the opportunity to find him passed out on lake docks in lonely forests in the middle of the night. She didn't have to witness him guzzling cans upon cans of Joja brand clearance beer while he sloppily played James' favorite first-person shooter alone. And she certainly didn't have the misfortune to find him neglecting her precious daughter in favor of spending nearly every evening at some small town saloon where everyone surely despised him.

Shame burned the tips of his ears as these thoughts plagued him, especially when he realized that he was glad Yana wasn't alive to discover the deadbeat he'd become. It seemed that Kristen had taken up the torch as his designated babysitter, finding him in every one of those situations and more, drunk off his ass or altogether unconscious. And he'd treated her so horribly in the beginning.

"Who even are you? Fuck off."

"No, I don't care what your name is. Go tell it to someone who gives a shit."

"Why can't you just ignore me like everyone else?"

Anytime her shock of curly auburn hair caught in his peripheral vision, or when the tinkle of her cute giggle wormed its way to his earshot, or when he noticed her dark brown eyes boring a hole through his head as if she could read his every thought, he wanted to scream. She was nice. Too nice. He'd been convinced she'd been put up to befriending him by Marnie, or she had a fucked up savior complex, and he couldn't decide which one was more unappealing.

He wasn't sure exactly when her presence ceased to feel like nails on a chalkboard or the scrapping of a fork across porcelain, but he could acutely pinpoint the night he'd looked her directly in the eye without forcing a scowl. He'd been standing on the edge of the very lake dock his feet found themselves thudding across now, early fall, a crisp chill nipping at his calves while he chased the bottom of his fifth beer can. One remained, and he'd handed it off to the farmer when she saddled herself up beside him without so much as a word in greeting. He supposed she'd grown weary of his insults but somehow still felt compelled to approach him regardless. He supposed he was glad for that.

The booze and his meandering broody thoughts had loosened his lips, confiding things he'd never said aloud to another human being, wondering if she'd look at him in abject horror. It would have been easier that way. Most people, especially those in Pelican Town, didn't like to ponder anything deeper than a mud puddle or a teardrop overflowing a thimble. If the frustratingly adorable farmer had been so shallow, perhaps he might have drank himself into oblivion by now. Instead, she listened — actually listened — and offered nothing more than her companionship, gulping her beer as if it didn't taste like warm piss on a good day.

"A woman after my own heart."

Pathetic. Shane had hated himself the second the cliché phrase tumbled from his mouth and abandoned her shortly after, standing alone in a halo of golden light from the lantern he'd left behind so she wouldn't be stranded in the dark.

He'd dreamt about her for the first time that night. The finer details had slipped from his mind and rolled down the length of his spine in the form of cold sweat by the time he'd stumbled to the bathroom to vomit. Despite telling the farmer that his liver was begging him to stop, he'd done anything but. The bottle of cheap whiskey he'd stashed above his closet door sang to him — a siren with the sweetest lullaby, promising a moonless night devoid of light or conscious thought. He gave in, slipping into the darkness like aching joints into a warm bath. Relief… alongside her freckled face.

Night had fully fallen by the time Shane returned to the present, standing at the edge of the lake dock, fireflies twinkling over the water, reminding him of childhood and Marnie convincing him they were tiny fairies. Even then, Shane had wondered why fairies would waste their time in the presence of a little boy when they probably had important fairy business to attend to. He was nothing. He was no one.

Except, maybe he wasn't. The farmer somehow found worth in him, despite all he'd done to discourage it. And, no matter how hard his self-loathing tried to convince him otherwise, she cared about him. She loved him.

Suddenly feeling light-headed, Shane swayed slightly before stepping back from the edge of the dock, certain that if he looked down, he'd topple headfirst into the lake.

You didn't say it back. Why didn't you say it back? She said you didn't have to, but you should have. You should have said it back.

"Shit," he hissed while running a trembling hand down his face. Summer evening humidity and sweat from his walk clung to his skin, coating his dry palm. A question formed in the back of his mind, the words swirling like a tornado around him while held captive within its tranquil eye.

Do you love her?

The question had never been posed before, so he'd never explicitly ruminated on the answer, even if its certainty had existed for longer than he’d realized. It had crept up on him, slow and undetected, biding its time while sprinkling pinches of adoration here, a drop of dependence there. Until the day he found her bloody and semi-unconscious in her kitchen, terrified that if he lost her, he'd lose the last piece of him that he considered human.

Do you love her?

Yes. He did.

❦❧🍓❦❧

"Shane, is that you?" Marnie shouted over the cacophony of upbeat bubblegum pop and Jas' voice singing along to the lyrics at the top of her lungs.

"Yeah, Marn, it's me!" he yelled, shutting the front door and greeting her with a half-hearted wave. Her frizzy hair was tied up in a high ponytail while she stirred a pot of something steamy on the stove, seemingly unphased by the ear-splitting racket threatening to crack his skull like a ball pein hammer.

"Good! Dinner will be ready in a bit! Go fetch Jas?"

He nodded, unable to muster up the energy to yell back at her when he knew he had to step into the lion's den known as his goddaughter's bedroom. When he saw the door was closed, he winced. How much louder could it possibly be inside ?

When he tapped the dancing little girl on the shoulder to get her attention, wiggling in front of a stereo that used to belong to her father, she launched upward like a rocket, a blood-curdling scream slicing through the music.

"Uncle Shane!" she squealed when she swiveled and caught him laughing, playfully slapping him on the arm while he reached over her to turn the volume down. "You scared me!"

"Uh-huh," he said, folding his arms as he stared down at her. "Yasmeen, how many times have I told you that you'll blow the speakers if you keep turning it up that loud?"

She wrinkled her nose at the use of her real name, knowing that he meant business this time. "Okay. I'm sorry," she mumbled, fiddling with the hem of her dress. "I won't do it again. Promise."

"You'll also damage your hearing, just like —" He cut himself off, biting his tongue before the remainder of the thought could be vocalized.

"Just like what?" she asked, her large doe-like eyes staring up at him, brimming with curiosity.

Unsure what compelled him, he placed a hand on top of her hand and continued. "Just like your mom, kiddo. She used to listen to music so loud her ears would ring. Drove your dad nuts."

"Oh," she replied, her face drooping so suddenly that Shane mentally cursed himself for being such an idiot. But she surprised him, as she often did, by reaching up to remove his hand from her head and clasp it in hers, tiny in comparison. "Will you tell me about the music she liked sometime?

"Yeah, I will." Rapidly blinking his eyes to keep the traitorous tears at bay, he scooped her up and carried her to the kitchen.

Dinner consisted of Marnie's famous spaghetti and meatballs, Jas' favorite, and the usual conversation. Shane was content to listen, mainly when Jas spoke about school and the things she'd learned that day, occasionally challenging her with questions. But the thinly veiled glances from Marnie in his direction indicated she had several questions of her own that he would be obliged to answer. Luckily, she'd kept her lips buttoned until Shane led Jas to bed for the night.

"Uncle Shane," Jas began as she snuggled under the covers and clutched her favorite teddy bear under her arm, "Aunt Marnie said you were at Miss Krissy's farm today."

"Did she?" he asked, tucking the sheets and blanket under her legs and feet, hoping his face didn't betray his unease.

"Mmhmm," the little girl confirmed between gaping yawns. "Do you think I can visit the farm sometime? I wanna pet the kitty."

"You have lots of kitties here," Shane said, unsure why the thought of Jas romping around his girlfriend's farm put a sticky lump in his throat. Especially when he'd just agreed to move the both of them in just hours before.

"I know. But none of them are white."

"That's true," he relented, forcing himself to relax. It would be best to get Jas acclimated to the new environment sooner rather than later, right?

"So can I?"

"Yeah, kiddo. I'll tell Kriss you wanna come over soon. But now, you need to sleep," he said, smoothing her hair from her face while another vortex-like yawn overtook her, eyelids fluttering and sealed shut by the time he softly closed the door behind him.

"So —" Marnie spoke as he meandered back into the kitchen, anticipating her probing questions as if he were about to be presented in front of a firing squad. "Lewis told me someone bought a bouquet from Pierre earlier today."

"That's interesting," he replied, skirting past her to pull open the fridge and pluck a can of Joja Cola from the top shelf. Only then did he realize he'd forgotten the damn bouquet at Kristen's, discarded on the tea table by her front door.

"Indeed, it is. He doesn't know who bought it, though. He was collecting taxes today, and Pierre's weekly sales manifest only shows quantity, which I guess makes sense. Why would he need to keep track of who buys what?" She crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes slashing through him like lasers as she attempted to discern his inscrutable expression. The crack of the soda can as he pulled back the tab caused her to flinch and then roll her eyes.

"Pierre didn't just tell him?" he asked, almost bored as he sipped his soda and sat in one of the kitchen chairs.

"No," she replied, frustration creeping into her tone.

"That's shocking, considering how much everyone loves to shove their noses in other people's business. Guess I had the wrong idea about Pierre."

"Shane." She approached and stood directly beside him, arms still crossed and clearly incredulous by his blase attitude. "Were you really not going to tell me that you bought a bouquet for Krissy? We're family, and I want to be happy for you. Did she say yes?"

He took another deep gulp from the soda can, allowing her to flounder in uncertainty a few seconds longer before finally replying, "I didn't buy it."

"What?" Her face fell so fast it was almost comical, and Shane bit his lip to keep from smiling. "Then who?"

"She did." He wasn't disappointed when his aunt's expression morphed from sullen to confused to cautiously delighted within a second. When she opened her mouth again, he cut her off before she could ask if Kriss had bought the bouquet for someone other than him. "I said yes. Guess I got a girlfriend now."

"Well, what do you know…" Marnie said, her eyes already swimmy and red around the edges. "That girl always did have spunk." Without another word, she grasped her nephew by the shoulders and yanked him up into a rib-crushing hug, pressing her wet cheek into the hollow of his throat. "I am very happy for you, Shane," she mumbled as he awkwardly patted her on the back. He honestly hadn't expected such an emotional reaction and wondered if Marnie had doubts about his ability to function in a stable relationship. If so, he couldn't exactly blame her.

"Uh — thanks," he said when she finally released and leveled him with serious eyes.

"When you tell Jas, be honest. She's too smart for her own good and picks up on everything anyway." The implication of that statement wasn't lost on Shane, and he shifted his eyes to the side, not particularly interested in discussing her weird "secret" relationship with Lewis.

"Yeah, Marn. I know. She's just like her mom."

The slightly uncomfortable conversation wrapped up with Marnie capturing him in another hug before she took a phone call from someone with a familiar male voice. Shane gestured that he was heading to bed, resigned to the fact that everyone in the Valley would be aware of the newest official couple in town by morning.

A text from the farmer lit up his damaged phone screen just as he switched off his bedside lamp, and a thrill shot through his body like a low jolt of electricity.

You left your bouquet here.

With a guilty sigh, he tapped out a reply, the pads of his fingers sliding over the cracks.

I know. Sorry. You gonna break up with me?

He unconsciously held his breath; a small part of him actually worried she might have a change of heart.

No such luck. You're stuck with me for a while. I put the flowers in water so they won't die. Did you leave it so Marnie wouldn't find out?

He supposed that was a fair question. He wasn't blind to his caginess, and neither was she.

No, babe. I told Marnie. I'll tell Jas soon.

Her reply took longer than usual, and Shane found himself chewing on his thumbnail, waiting.

Good night. I love you.

A breath caught in his lungs as the words popped on screen, slightly warped by the cracks but unmistakable, confirming it hadn't been a one-off fluke.

Good night, pretty baby. See you in the morning.

❦❧🍓❦❧

Shane attempted to keep his breathing even while Kristen's tongue swirled around the head of his dick, her deep chocolate eyes staring up at him, nails digging into the back of his thigh as she anchored it for leverage. Even without the use of her other hand, she bobbed her head effortlessly, hollowing her cheeks for the perfect amount of stabilizing suction, holding him captive in many more ways than one.

He'd arrived at 5 am and found her waiting for him outside the coop with a cup of coffee so strong it could wake the dead. Considering he hadn't had a drink since Friday, he'd felt surprisingly light on his feet. The usual deep thirst that drenched every cell in his body still made itself known, especially in the quiet moments when he was alone, and his mind wandered and dwelled on intrusive thoughts. ( What if this is all an elaborate prank? She can't really be this into you. She'll change her mind. They always do.) The burn at the back of his throat, the trembling of his hands, the cold sweat that shone on his forehead and pooled in the dip under his nose. But those troublesome symptoms and the aching thirst itself became slightly less prominent when he was with the farmer. Like now, with his cock fully lodged in the warmth of her pretty mouth.

He wasn't exactly sure how he'd ended up with his shorts and boxers around his ankles while leaning against the wall next to the front door. He'd fully intended to only give her one quick kiss after he'd tended to the hens and told her he'd return in the evening. But she was persuasive, and he quickly gave in the second her deft fingers pulled down the zipper and smuggled their way inside, whispering that she wanted to make sure he wouldn't forget her while he stocked rows and rows of shelves with imitation food products. The notion was absurd. She was constantly on his mind, lurking around every nook and cranny, having burrowed into the gray matter of his brain like a parasite he would carry for life.

"Pretty baby…" He threaded his fingers through her unruly hair, curls wrapping around each digit, creating the illusion of crimson waves across his flesh. His stomach was beginning to tighten along with his balls. "Honey, I'm gonna come if…" He trailed off into a deep groan when she shifted below him, grasping the shaft of his cock in her hand to stroke him in time with the movements of her mouth, her tongue trailing slick pleasure in its wake. Of course, her goal was to make him come, and her quickening pace proved that assumption correct. He was dangerously close.

"Do it in my mouth," she demanded in the few seconds she released him to speak. "Come right down my throat."

"Holy fucking shit," he whined, gripping at her scalp as she laved the flat of her tongue from the base of his shaft to the tip, pulling back his foreskin to swirl her tongue again, a maneuver that made him weak in the knees. "Are you sure, babe?" She simply relaxed the back of her throat and nestled her nose in his pubic hair in response.

Never in his life had a woman willingly offered to let him come in her mouth. He'd done it once by accident when he was 18, and the girl gagged before storming out of the back seat of his car with her shirt and bra clutched to her chest. He'd heard of women enjoying such an act during bar crawls with drinking buddies but always chalked it up to male bravado, convinced they were probably making it up to win the latest dick-measuring contest. But now, here he was, a beautiful woman on her knees before him, requesting the very thing he thought was a myth.

"Kristen," he croaked, brushing his fingers across her forehead. "Look at me." Her dark eyes rolled upward to lock with his, even while maintaining a steady rhythm with her hand and mouth, captivating him. "Fuck yeah, you're gonna make me come. You're so beautiful." The praise poured from his lips like sweet wine, effortless. Every minute he spent with her, the less he second-guessed himself. She made him feel powerful and wanted and desired. Like a heady drug that dulled his anxiety while somehow heightening his self-confidence to levels unheard of, and he was quickly becoming irrevocably addicted.

She hummed in appreciation, switching up her technique, taking his cock deeper, nudging the back of her throat in preparation while Shane clutched the curls at the crown of her head. His stomach tightened, and his thighs quivered, forcing him to lean heavily on the wall, hoping his knees wouldn't give out.

"Shit, babe — are you ready?" His gasps seemed to echo within the darkened living room, even as the first rays of sunlight peeked through the curtains at his left. It suddenly occurred to him that anyone could glace through the crack at the right angle and catch him receiving the blowjob of a fucking lifetime. The somewhat perverse thought helped tip him over the edge, intense pleasure ripping through him on a wave of euphoria that softened his tense muscles, threatening to spill him to the floor while his cock pulsed against the back of his girlfriend's eager throat.

"Mmm," she hummed once she'd swallowed and clumsily wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Guess I don't need breakfast now."

He weakly snorted in response as he watched her stand and walk toward the kitchen for a glass of water she'd left sitting on the counter.

"I dunno if I'll ever get used to the shit you say," he remarked, pulling up his boxers and shorts. Once his belt was buckled, he slipped his phone from his pocket to check the time.

"Told you I wouldn't make you late," she said, approaching him with a seductive sway to her hips. When she was close enough, he didn't hesitate to tug her in for a parting kiss, emotion swelling in his chest that he still felt hesitant to speak aloud.

"I won't doubt you again." He was slowly drifting back to earth but didn't feel the usual weight that rode his shoulders like an unwanted phantom, tethered to him since childhood. "Hey, um —" He faltered, uncertain if this was the right time. When she regarded him with a questioning smile, he shouldered on. "Jas wants to come over. You think Saturday is a good day?"

"Yeah, that's perfect!"

Her enthusiasm — how her face instantly lit up, causing her eyes to sparkle in a stray sliver of sunlight — melted the anxiety seizing his lungs, and he exhaled, relieved.

She captured him in another kiss, much more passionate than he'd expected, before shoving him out the front door. Seconds later, he heard her ancient record player roar to life, Frank Sinatra flying him to the moon, even if it was just a Joja Mart.

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