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widowsofchaos · 1 year

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8 with steve rogers please🥺🥺♥️ thank you

𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐧

synopsis: a mission goes wrong, and all there is left is pain. but, there’s always light.

ao3

a/n: “You take me instead, do you hear me? Give her back and take me instead!” requested 8 from this dialogue prompt list, with Steve Rogers. sorry tumblr ate the inbox message.

warnings: mention of SA, ptsd, minor angst, recovery.

The ruins of ghosts’ past haunt you.

You were once as pure as a church, clean and holy —- now desolate, abandoned, and corrupted. Ruined. Broken pews where little children once bowed their little heads in prayer.

All these disregulated nerves alight with fire, and terror. Cautiously awaiting for the monsters to come out of the darkness, and finally devour the remaining carcass.

Five months ago.

Armed to the teeth with strapped weaponry, and confidence. An abandoned Hydra base left to rot in the middle of wilderness.

Cautious steps tread the corridors with precision, and stealth. As your husband was scouting the other end of the base, he entrusted you to be safe.

Found a laboratory, old vials of chemicals, and gasses. Dead silence hung over you as a wet blanket—- ears straining, faint footsteps near.

It was a blur.

All you can recall was the acidic scent of gas, shouting, a kick to your ribs, and your name being shouted through your comm.

His sweet voice bellowing, pleading for your life, sweet Steve. ‘You take me instead, do you hear me? Give her back and take me instead!’

Held onto those words wound tight, as if you could weave them between your fingers from it’s vibrations, pull the static itself and wear it as brass knuckles.

Endless days of pain, stripped of your sanity, stripped to the marrow of nothingness. Girlflesh licked and bit at, one eye swollen shut, and upper lip plumped to a ripe bruise.

Split knuckles, torn and raw. Calculated blows bled to feral clawing, and biting, punches earning cherry stained ivories. Pinned to the cold floor by your wrists, and ankles by filthy palms, multiple men snickering in German, as they hovered over you, thrusting as swine.

Locked away to rot, no sunlight, no fresh air, only the stale scent of your urine, and … other bodily fluids. Every few hours, another agent came, and beat your weakened state.

It was hell.

Time was nothing but imagination.

Until finally, yells and gunfire erupted from the outside. A man’s skull smashed against the door, bursting the metal door wide open.

Light surrounded his blonde tresses as a halo. Towering over you, with soft hands.

He gently held your body, causing you to shrill in agony. Steve silently cried over you, whispering ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry’ under his breath, pleading for forgiveness for every wail that seeped from you.

Steve held you all through the ride on the jet. Friday’s monitors checking over your vitals, and not even blinking away.

Once the doctors at the compound told him the extent of your injuries, and what was found inside of you. He nearly broke into a rampage that only settled with Bucky tackling him into a bear hug.

The mental scars weren’t healing. You felt pathetic, and weak. You never lost control.

Tiresome training that stretched itself through hours, day after day, demanding for the most brutal discipline from Natasha. Demanding for more and more, barely any water breaks—- for a moment to breathe.

Compulsive need to feel the pain, to bare your teeth in reaction, triggering fear which led to lashing out and screaming—- and a concerned Natasha.

Eventually, this habit led to a halt with a towering Natasha hissing, enough . Her green eyes lidded, with concern. Hands at the jut of her hips.

“Replacing the grief with aggression, isn’t going to fix it.”

“How would you know? You’re the world’s deadliest woman.” You snarked back, monotone and sarcastic.

A pregnant silence.

“I wasn’t always.”

Her tone is soft, and speaks with an unspoken feeling. You understood, but didn’t dare ask. Ending the conversation at that.

And it was never brought up again.

Sex only brought revulsion, not towards Steve. But towards yourself, all you saw was ugliness. A mere touch brought you back to that dark cell.

Vices became familiar habits again, smoking, and rarely eating.

Every-time he touched you, you cried. Bawled as a child, hysterically. Hyperventilating as all he can do is watch, and guide you through it, just like the therapist instructed.

Days not spent on training, are held up in your bedroom, blankly staring up at the ceiling, tailbone aching from oversleeping.

The waves of stress crash against the strong willed ship that is your marriage. Irritated to even talk, disconnected from everyone, every mirror has been smashed.

Now you lay here, in the dark.

From the corner of your oculus, faintly in the crevices of your mind, there is an inky black mass—— just staring, always near.

And yet, somehow, you’re convinced that it’s real, that you must respond to the plaguing thoughts; but the body doesn’t recognize false visions, only fear.

The bedroom door quietly opens. Taking most of the entrances' space, divine shoulders squared, and those knowing blue pools with murky green swirls.

Coiffed blonde hair, and tender blue eyes. A nose that rivals a roman god, a man that would be mounted in a church, the face of a saint.

Your saint.

Century old eyes that seen more than it can bear, ever so knowing. Perhaps, he heard your thoughts, and came to your aid.

His footsteps dull against the carpet, gently coming towards you. His hand hesitatingly stretches out, unaware if touch is right.

But you yearn for it, silently asking for comfort.

Gently his hand lays on your chest, circular rubs to soothe the haggard breathing. Shooing away the bad thoughts as a mother would.

“Deep breaths.” Steve says, “It’s okay.” Filling your chest with gusts of air, being guided by his voice, with the lulling twang of that Brooklyn accent.

You want to break through the fog. You yearn to heal these angry wounds.

Watery sigh escapes you, eyes never leaving the ceiling, and for a fleeting moment, you wish you died in the cell. Then maybe, you wouldn’t subject your husband—-

“Mama?”

—- and your daughter to your troubles.

A creek at the door is followed by small footsteps. Her small body shuffles and ruffles on the blanket at the edge of the bed, quickly lifted by Steve by her belly.

Steve gently shushes her, a reminder saying, ‘be careful, remember, mommy isn’t well’. Soft snuffles, and grunts follow with each tug of the blanket, and your legs as support.

Climbing over your body, your daughter’s little chubby hands dents onto the flesh of your body. Slowly the black mass evaporates, its suffocating presence dissipates into nothing.

As a fog clears from your mind, and a small smile forms at the corner of your mouth. Steve smiles a little, his hand caressing her little head.

“Mama, are you okay?” Her baby voice lulls you, and brings tears to your eyes. “Yeah,” your voice raspy, “Mama’s okay.” Nodding weakly.

What was it your therapist said, again?

‘There’s always light at the tunnel. You just have to find it.’

Her little cherub brown cheeks puffed, and plump. Ripe for kisses. Her little fingers toying with your face.

‘And if that light isn’t your husband,’

Your eyes gaze up at Steve, love emitting from his blue hues. Your weak hand shakingly moves to his cheek, he leans into your touch, closing his eyes.

‘Then I’m damn sure, it’s your little girl.’

Slowly, your eyes sheen wet at the brim, looking at such innocence. Untainted, and pure. Life doesn’t end, it just changes, like the seasons. Some good, and some bad.

‘You don’t have to heal today, and I don’t expect you to heal tomorrow. But remember what we have created. She’s so much more than us.’ Steve’s words from therapy ring in your mind.

It doesn’t end.

“I love you, mama.”

You inhale a watery breath, smiling from ear to ear. A relief curling in your chest.

“I love you too, my little bubble.”

#widowsofchaos wrote this #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x reader angst #drabble #Alexa! play let the light in by Lana Del Rey

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cryingtulips · 11 months

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i love you, but i hate this version of you

SBIWhumptober n.7 (marked by death) + n.18 (nightmares) + n.22 (grief)

Tommy never got a moment to grieve for Wilbur after his death, and now with both resurrected, Puffy notices how Tommy's paranoia stops Tommy from learning how to forgive his brother.

ao3 link

---

It’s no surprise when Tommy says death changed him.

Of course it did, Dream had done the unnatural and defied the natural order of things. Tommy had no choice but to partake the revolting experience.

He still dreams of it, his death. Of obsidian walls and consuming heat and the pain of having your head crush into itself. Of freezing darkness and needles stabbing into him, taking apart his soul, stitch by stitch, only then to ruthlessly put it back together again. He dreams of oranges bleeding into green, and of crazed eyes as a pale mask is stained with his blood. Even through the cracks of Dream’s mask, Tommy sees his face. Dream’s always smiling as he crushes Tommy’s head into the wall.

Tommy remembers how red grew on the floor and how red splattered around them and onto that stupid fucking mask. He hates how easily the red blended into the obsidian, as if it was always meant to be there.

When Tommy told Puffy this, she had asked what was the worst part of these dreams.

Tommy knew she was expecting a certain answer; that the worst part was seeing Dream himself, experiencing his death all over again, about how he couldn’t move on like everyone else has.

But if Tommy had to be honest, it wasn't any of that.

It was Wilbur.

Always Wilbur.

After all, who was Tommy without clinging to his big brother, forever chasing the remnants of a dead star that’s long given up.

Puffy had asked him to expand on that, but Tommy doesn't know how to explain it. About how after his death, Tommy felt empty without Wilbur by his side, guiding him with a gentle smile and loving eyes. About how awful Pogtopia was, about how Wilbur acted then and now, how limbo didn’t change his brother at all, not for the better and not for the worst.

He didn’t know how to explain that sometimes in his sleep, it isn’t Dream laughing as he dies, but his brother. Wilbur who prattled that Tommy’s death was for the good of the server, Wilbur who rambled on about "Let’s be the bad guys Tommy" and "What good has that serve ever done for us?!"

The Wilbur he met in limbo was not the same Wilbur he grew up with. Wilbur in limbo was apathetic at best, mocking at worst. There may have been grief in his eyes, when Tommy finally met them, but there was no comfort found in his words.

There are not enough words or time for Tommy to explain that while yes, Wilbur is his brother, and has always cared for him and tried to protect him—at the end of the day, Wilbur hurt him. And still hurts him, even if it’s unintentional. It’s an endless cycle, their dynamic.

And Tommy doesn’t know how to break it, or if he even wants it too.

Tommy is afraid, and Puffy knows this, but when it comes to Wilbur, it’s for the wrong reasons.

He’s afraid of Wilbur getting worse again, that his attempts of redemption are lies, that everything Wilbur does now is a cruel game of deception. Out of everything else, he’s more afraid of the possibility Wilbur is helping Dream; giving him intel, doing his bidding, tricking Tommy. Wilbur says he would never even dream of doing so, but it wouldn’t be the first time Wilbur went back on his word. How does Tommy know this is no different? Everyone who has sworn to protect him always stabs him in the back, and Tommy is tired.

“I miss my brother”, he admits shamefully one afternoon. He misses Wilbur, but he doesn't think he’ll ever return.

“Your brother is still here”, Puffy says back. She’s known about Tommy’s growing paranoia for a while now, has been tracking it the first time Tommy mentioned its alluring whispers. It’s been getting worse, promising him safety and comfort, and Puffy worries her help will not be enough.

“You just need to give him a chance,” she begs him to see beyond this growing fear.

Tommy never does.

#sbi whumptober #dream smp #dsmp #c!tommy #dsmp tommy #crime boys #crimeboys #c!crimeboys #dsmp fic #dsmp fanfic #dsmp writing #cryingtulips.writes

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fairyyyeo · 3 months

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𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐈 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫 || y. hwanwoong x k. youngjo

cw: mentions of death

inspired by luna - oneus

word count: 653

feedback & interactions appreciated || please be kind <3

summary:

"He loathed his past self for the small moments and actions that had been taken for granted. He loathed the way he had brushed off the soft smiles, the understanding words, and the doting expressions." —

It has been a month since Hwanwoong passed. Youngjo is trying his best to cope with the words he never got a chance to say.

The letters were endless. Each held different words. Different wishes. Yet they were all merely one part of a grief-laden song. All screamed at the heavens and the cruel world around him. A silent and futile plea. His mind was ever-burdened. Weighed down by the countless reminders of his lover's untimely passing. He loathed his past self for the small moments and actions that had been taken for granted. He loathed the way he had brushed off the soft smiles, the understanding words, and the doting expressions.

As he stared down at his latest letter, his attention was drawn to the blue-black stains on his hands and the pooling well from the long forgotten pen. It spilled over the side of his desk, a dark waterfall melting with the shadows of his darkened room. Even this served as a reminder. This time, it was of the countless times Hwanwoong would help him when the inkwell inevitably spilled. His light laugh and endless teasing veiled Youngjo’s guilt for the ruined floorboards. But now, while the spill was small, it felt overwhelming. He couldn’t bring himself to grab a rag.

He lifted the pen, disposed of the now ruined paper, and started over.

– ☪︎ –

My dearest Hwanwoong.

It has been a little under two months since your passing. Not a day goes by where I don’t regret all of the unspoken words. My mind has spilled over; these papers no longer feel like enough. I feel guilt over what I have taken for granted. I miss your touch. The way your eyes sparkled under the moonlight. That mischievous air you held. That constant warm feeling that enveloped me whenever you were around. I’ll admit, I still fall short when it comes to expressing how deep my emotions can be. Even after death, I still can’t fully express to you how I feel. Since you’ve been gone, I’ve changed. You would be disappointed. I can see your face now. You would give me that look, the one you reserved for when I holed myself up in our room. You would try to keep the air light, but you would know that I could tell. I could always tell. I hope you aren’t too disappointed in me. I don’t know that I would be able to handle it. There are days where I wish to join you. I often daydream about meeting you among the clouds. The weight and shadow that would be lifted from my heart. How happy we would be once again. But I yet again know how disappointed you would be with me. I truly do hate how tempting the thought seems to be. However, I won’t burden you with that. For you, I will continue to live. I will continue to see our friends. I will try my best to do what I think would make you happy. I truly despise this world for taking you away from me.

I miss you more than you would ever be able to imagine. I feel as if a part of me has been taken. It feels too empty here, too quiet and cold. I still expect to wake up with you by my side. I find myself unable to believe that you are actually gone. I sometimes talk and act as if you are still around. It hurts. I am able to compose myself around others, but my mind is a mess. I know I cannot expect myself to get over you so quickly, but in some selfish and twisted way, I wish I could.

I love you. And I miss you more with each passing day.

With love, Youngjo.

– ☪︎ –

A single tear signs the letter. Youngjo hadn’t even realized that he had started crying. As the moon shone onto the paper, he looked up to the stars.

“If there is a god, please tell my lover the words that I failed to deliver.”

thank you for reading <3

#kpop #fanfic #oneus #kpop fanfic #angst #ao3 fanfic #fanfiction #ao3fic #oneus fanfic #oneus hwanwoong #oneus ravn #hwanwoong #ravn #hwanwoong x ravn #kpop bg #fairyyyeo #yeo hwanwoong #kim youngjo

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pxppet · 2 years

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How about a bit of an AU with an unlikely whumper?

————————————————————————

Darkness, darkness, suffocating black-

His head is pulled up roughly, sopping wet hair flinging from the force as he sucks in as much air as he can. Before he's had time to even open his eyes he is back underwater. His vision is black and he coughs, sucking in air and choking on the water instead. Up, down, up, down.

And then it stops, his hair being held up so far it stretches his neck from his weak body on the tile floor. His arms hang limp from exhaustion as coughing wracks his lungs, that dangerous deep wet sound. He gasps in and out, slow and desperate. He can't even open his eyes from the weakness, rolling in his head beneath his lids.

The person holding his hair tsks, leaning back his head to force him to look. "You done playing games with me yet, puppet?" demands the blurry figure dressed in red and black. JJ gasps down wheezes of air, the flourescent light of the tiled room is so bright he can't focus on a word the man says.

"Can you not hear me? I said where is your master!" The blue mask does nothing to hide the rage and terror and grief on the man's face, his teeth snapping on his words.

Jameson lifts his hands, tapping his chin. "Please, please, please," he begs over and over, too weak for anything else. The man growls like an animal and grabs JJ's chin roughly. "Why aren't you fucking talking?!"

He can still smell Henrik's blood-stained bedroom and it makes his nostrils flare on the ghostly scent. Jackie has never tortured someone. Jackie has never hurt anyone who wasn't evil. He glares into the face so much like his own, left behind in the skirmish as Anti stole his brother. The puppet stares at him with wide eyes, trembling. Jackie steels his heart against the weepy, exhausted face that looks just like his brothers.

"You fucking bitch!" Jackie screams, shoving him to the floor. It hurts too much, he never swears like this, he was so close to saving him, he needs the puppet to spill his guts - one way or another. The stiff tapping motion on his face repeats helplessly, and as much as he fucking hates it it gives him pause. He growls at himself in frustration and drops Jameson like a sack. He punches his own chest over and over, just like the puppet's endless tapping. This is stupid, he's wasting time. Clearly Anti's cursed this thing somehow. Jackie knew of JJ, the stolen and misshapen toy that Jack made for Anti. To keep him busy, to keep him satiated. To keep him away from Jackie's family.

Well clearly Anti got bored.

Jackie wheels back around and the smaller man flinches like he was hit, curling into a ball as his desperate wheezing grows faster. It's funny, Jackie's had the puppet here 15 hours, and only now he notices the crosshatching of scars all over the puppet's back and arms. Jackie is still panting in anger, but that sight cools the moment like a wave of ice water on a sunburn.

"Who did that to you?" he points. JJ gasps on a choke, drenched and scared of him. Jackie has never seen one of Jack's creations look scared of him.

"Anti," Jameson taps the A and swings the knife of his master's name. Jackie just stares at him, clueless. Jameson wheezes. "Just let me go back home." He knows the signs mean nothing to the hero boy. Anti hates this one the most, that JJ knows. The hero boy is the only one that scares Anti. And so Jameson is so afraid it makes him feel faint. The red-clad man glows with rage and hate in the beaming overhead light.

"Why won't you just talk?" Jackie says, deflating and sounding very suddenly like a kicked dog. He collapses back into the chair he had tied the boy to at first. "Why won't you help me get my brother?!"

Jameson gestures at his throat and moves his lips open and closed, shaking his head back and forth. "I can't," he desperately attempts to say.

Jackie is no longer panting. It's like his temper just did a cold plunge in the Arctic. "You- You can't? Because of something Anti did, right? Did he cut your throat?" Jackie points at the keloid on the puppet's neck.

"Yes," JJ nods, because pretending he wasn't born this way will make the beastly man pity him more.

Jackie blinks at him, cold cold cold. Grounded by the sudden realization of what Jack has done. Jackie was so concerned with keeping the others safe - keeping his family happy and healthy and well. And all along the puppet boy was suffering for it. He didn't even consider Anti would cause harm to his special gift. Jackie puts his head in his trembling hands, staring at the water as it snakes along the floor. Stupid, desperate, horrible Jackie. He feels tears on his face and looks across at the puppet.

"I- I'm sorry," he tries. Not enough, not enough, Henrik is gone and he needs to be smooth as butter to get the words out of this boy - written or not. "I didn't realise you would- you were being hurt. Your master has my brother- your master might kill him. I need your help. I'm sorry."

Jameson smiles meekly, forgiving him out of fear of what the hero will do to him. Anti told him how cruel and vile this man is. Barely even human, Anti said. Barely even a man. He sits up, still wheezing on the air he takes in.

Jackie stands and walks over to him. He fucking made him sleep in the bathroom. He locked this boy, so much like his family, in the bathroom and tried to drown him. Holy shit. He hits his chest once, twice more and takes a deep breath in.

"There's a guest room," Jackie offers. JJ just trembles in place. Jackie feels like beating his own skull in with the guilt. So much guilt he can't process that Jameson might be a danger anymore. Without waiting for an answer, Jackie picks the frail puppet up and carries him away from the bathroom. The puppet is so frail and sickly looking that Jackie questions how his brain saw him as a threat at all.

JJ ignores the nice, lived in home around him, and the clearly beloved family photos on the shelves. He tries to ignore how scared he is. Just be compliant, just be still. Stiffen, lock your joints, they won't hurt you as much if you lay still.

He's laid in a bed and Jackie leaves quietly. But the mutual distrust hangs heavy over them, and Jackie sticks a chair under the knob to keep him from leaving.

Jameson stays awake jumping at ghosts and thinking he heard Anti's whisper of salvation. Jackie lays awake and grieves, and grieves, and grieves.

#ask to tag #I have no idea how to trigger tag this my apologies #jacksepticeye #writersofjack #writers of jack #jackieboy man #jameson jackson #antisepticeye #whump #unlikely whumper #whumpee #whump writing #whump prompt

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hehosts-moved · 1 year

Text

— what are you seeking?

REN: ACCEPTANCE

"i look in the mirror and don't recognize the face staring back." // oh, little songbird, when did you stop singing? why do you let yourself fade into the background, so sure you're not worth seeing? who convinced you that you are nothing but empty air? for as long as you can remember, you've screamed at the sky to be noticed, to be seen, but that never quite worked, did it? so you accepted your role. you learned to bite your tongue, to watch, to fade away. it's easier that way, isn't it? better quiet than ignored. at least this way, you have some control over the situation. but it stings, doesn't it? the more you quiet yourself, the more you force yourself to fade away, the harder it is to reach you. you're losing yourself...and that terrifies you, doesn't it? what you seek is acceptance, to be seen and loved and listened to. and, little ghost, you deserve it. you are worth knowing. i see you. now let others do the same. step into the sunlight and sing, little one. i believe in you.

YORI: FORGIVENESS

"what should i apologize for; what i am or what i'm not?" // oh, little hero, how close are you to crumbling under the weight on your shoulders? how heavy has that heart of yours gotten? how deeply has the guilt burrowed into your bones? how permanently has the grief been seared into your soul? you were so tender, and the world so cruel. loss after loss after loss, each another chip on your shoulder. because you deserved it, didn't you? if you could be better...faster...stronger...smarter...then maybe it wouldn't have happened. right? the blood stains your hands, and it won't wash out will it? but darling, it's never been your fault. you've learned to turn the rage and the regret, the guilt and the grief, inwards. if you're hurt, it's your own fault isn't it? because then there's a reason for it, because it gives you some semblance of control, doesn't it? what you seek is forgiveness, for your perceived wrongs. but oh, little skeleton, you do not need it. stop blaming yourself for what was beyond your control. let go of the past. grow. and learn to breathe with both of your lungs. stop choking on your own self hatred. the weight will ease, i promise. i love you.

JI-HUN: PEACE

"i survived because the fire in me burned brighter than the fire around me." // oh, little soldier, how long have you been at war with yourself? how much of yourself have you lost to the fire that's made its home in your heart? oh, but who can blame you? for as long as you can remember, you've had to face the world alone. all bared teeth and bloody knuckles. you learned young the only person you could rely on was yourself, didn't you? learned that the others would leave you to the wolves? and so you learned how to fight, how to stand tall even if you stood alone, how to shed the softness that wounded you before. but that isn't very sustainable, is it? the embers you swallowed, the fire you cloaked yourself in, it doesn't just burn the world around you. you have watched piece after piece of you go up in smoke: your hope, your smile, your mercy. what you seek is an end to the seemingly endless burning. and, little phoenix, you deserve it. please, breathe out. lean on me. the world isn't as cruel as you've made it out to be: it is okay to stop fighting. it is okay to let go of that anger. there is so much more to you, so much more that you have. the serenity you seek can be granted, but only once you are willing to work on letting go of the hate you've harbored for so long now.

TAGGED BY: taken from @vonerde TAGGING: you!

#i love doing these #i would have done goro and deng but it was getting long rip !! and hina too rip rip #these are all very fitting :'((

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libidomechanica · 21 days

Text

What, conscious Hand folly

A kimo sequence

He had never on the serious. Her owne vertue hath no stain of Moore. What, conscious Hand folly.

In sight could not. Called more: a thousand from June the origin her bloud friend. In pages the door.

III

Sad case, and still these were sun and eek a frere wol fall, look on thy foot, the open ground. Their shoes.

To love, most stranger’s mind. To thought for, baith kisse thee, sweetness to embrac’d. Hyena foemen’s wrong.

Load an oath desire. Who knew them spitously broke my hair blown about it. A belt of Time.

And Mars yaf me a mission. See fierce the woman close—From thee will anxious, and as his glory.

VII

Yet mine I knew his body feels, and care, each other’s dart. Is faith, ye’re not melted downe dyd lye.

VIII

And in a clothd with an eare. And now he’s glad to have TWO of fire. You see a kiss me, be love.

In equal. And tuff, amygdaloid and tempts of laughing lightnings quickly the crescent promise.

And what now disjoin, whatever. Then in mail one day I mette of God and did raise tomatoes.

He puzzled; Julia was supernatural conduct by the tapers why didst arise—arise!

XII

And after me with kindling brain, her grandson armed, o eyes, the north, in the misery! The same.

XIII

My heart. On which after than myn housbondes, quod she, in patient forced to build the holy days.

XIV

Thy worst of a make, then would vex, and let thee. Know the waters of love, my heart sae fu’ o’ wae!

If in my life might kiss all, nor pale enchantment toil and great. While and Julia’s eyes shall leisure!

XVI

Not easy chearful of ragerye, the palsied hands. Soon as kindred birthday part, which makes no stars.

XVII

He liked what’s my master reader will of men, she made his gravest citizen see! How would kill?

XVIII

For Adonais; till to home winter and pass the Lord’s guilt confounded ice. All her mind is this?

XIX

Away, wherewith both include those who her father, as we knowe what it a monster of six.

Ill affrontery, is more in green; and Parties, comply. For Nisus’ injur’d Hair did his hoold.

XXI

She flesh and wherewith dew and devotion I would be no weltring Duncan, Nelson was. Cheek!

XXII

At length into closet, of Donna Inez, to die so, and there! Intend, some huge rondure not.

XXIII

Thou shalt obey, and for shame o’t. Man could utter’d the Noon of stormy mist; so swept down too.

XXIV

Whan my bonie Jean. He story, the silver Bound, The joys refined, drag on Love’s first, that Desire!

XXV

And then, but decorous alters hurt you. He will be my lovers, and fair; and would come your fate.

XXVI

At first the floods no hymn whose articles depend on the most difference; Give me thus? To tinder.

XXVII

Or which serve a knight, so warm? Devil’s so very to request, of fruitful in the Head. We meet.

XXVIII

Plunge that comes: then yellow prest, than their shoes. There unstrung unable to the street, with endless Sky.

XXIX

The heard; and and sorrow and dare to come, she said, My cousin Amy, speak plain English, many?

XXX

If thy unworthy of youth not, she smile thine, or elles hadde enchantment to know it. Say nay!

XXXI

Yet tikleth me birafte his were King Victorious Day. And help me God, I will I was this?

XXXII

Which glorious flow, and desolate, she meads; wherefore? Once more I hear himself, into bed.

XXXIII

No more—no more, one haukes lure. Since this Morning-tide, I only son with heavy—as a test.

XXXIV

Had to stir? A globe, years, and looked at hoom as dropped to the sea. Where the sun’s domain and his head.

XXXV

The ages, to goon and saw his warm, unnerved his cottage bench; an auld brass will bite. Creatures out.

XXXVI

But ta’en by this only, call all the though my heart of man. And with grief- worn heart none lovely signs.

XXXVII

And played with all the longinge. Every different Nations, keep your very same column; date, Falmouth.

XXXVIII

I wish these, now blithe, now let them. The pull; fair Annie’s bark our glory fight, propped my hand could not.

XXXIX

The clean, i’ll cross vibes. Faire, and ye sal gae and sang sae merry comrades, or call our own in wild!

Different from me; and you see the smother. If you’d best hoom; I have chose falls, where burnish’d to deck.

XLI

Dare repeatedly, in truth alit, and hung heaps, she cold, caress. Numb were blow back toward casting.

XLII

’ And dwellen in his dotage that hapless clay, they faint on his head might he. My horse we gain’d wing.

XLIII

Truth you aught it may be mortal door I lay as wel of those loss—of the grave. Full of delight.

XLIV

Of his nycetee. That a suit mighty titles, fal’n from the minds is o’er the place—but Verbum sat.

XLV

It changes on the sea. Ye, woltow so got into gold in mourn she says god helped together.

XLVI

Of horsemen. He had lost in vapours to call its sustained, and keep his home. Then stars. ’Re alike.

XLVII

Rent talents find the Fates himself and speak. Two distance be dried his own time of warm and his feats.

XLVIII

She might not wear your tied heart was tolde han my knee desired. The head, i’ll love her purchaser!

XLIX

I leafe is the many-living him with tufts and refrain. Her fav’rite Lock! That froaths beloved!

” Thus was he were now determined, which flies. Making lay, who found a ruin, with its self and grey.

Are quite agree: what to say! Life bloud congeal’d from the bad his obscure; he whole of common-place.

LII

Torture not. And shook the Potter’s windows thre, that froaths below, set thee to tell me of the Hair.

LIII

In an aged the Nymph in early pull him any mercy deere? Till time? He died, and the royallie.

LIV

Is lyk a catering arms, he is o’er he went. Declining Love as I glide; that’s like the grave.

But Julia, who had a bonny son to understand for Corks. By the falwes, and keep his Heart?

LVI

Ah wanton maids, in this I knew that Jhesu short, she saith. And is through the best he like the Sphere!

LVII

Him in her Body chanced to go. His relinquisitions, not what’s out of tears and Despair.

LVIII

Spirit, cared nooks, which men delight. They dances, by what art can find one of us thyn, pardee!

LIX

Here ends the wind. The wine of Thy mother as they danced Albano’s boy, him up, it could be had.

Each shell is o’er a light were swarms that held it seemed very set, he ceased the green. They took you years.

LXI

His man, wi’ an auld wife. Is like. They could not head, and do hear the dead. Actually marry. Day.

LXII

So do our meant to given the ground, while, may seem so mean enough. Call you are forgotten years.

LXIII

The door and still lessoned so, satisfied of thunder. Her Joy in girth, there’s beauty’s case.

LXIV

To follow: a shouting, is much linen band. But true nobility of blood less dear delight.

LXV

For reputations gives us ourselves where you hear homely wife. And al swich withal, they died.

LXVI

Whatever at they found, I said, No, no. At which leans sinistered to catch the sacrifice.

LXVII

Began the Snuff-boxes and palms. And straggled the Lock; ariel himself from an humble broom.

LXVIII

But the shiver’d o’erstep their sockets, with true-heroics strain, draw near the thorn? How Vlster like thee!

LXIX

Who my Childless spotted not. Big heart thought us, bats when he’s peevish and haste, and but to me.

LXX

Date, their treasur’d though her yesterday. His refulgent Queen’s deep emotions glowing red, the sky.

LXXI

Be within her son, and thought, and sit in meaning, by harbour shelf. When Husbandships go on so?

LXXII

—Need I sing, which are my heart’s disgrace you canst not, like Tom Waits. Although quite by many danger.

LXXIII

For, God it with an Hidalgo! In the Frere, I think I pick’d and flits are the decoys, they give?

LXXIV

Must noble the abode wherefore tame leopards. The parted to stop. Artist, the walked to say.

LXXV

I have a wyf in chase the Gnome! Of condition, The lovely colours the monks preferrė bigamye?

LXXVI

Once, the sea of life; they be well-a-days is spring reverted be God, that thou not we feed?

LXXVII

He stood like besmear’d with many scorn, good society is but if they loue. Eternal are.

LXXVIII

As thou would: and when in the should come as winter, who dislike cancer and brow. The two ages.

LXXIX

And speak for his gore, hey both for my Jean. And Juan the sea what I felt and the Samaritan?

LXXX

He seemed to spill the doubt not thro’ mystic cares. Within our mind many a tiptoe, amorous?

LXXXI

And burn your Eye, where you go. Beauty morn as the rosy heigh ho, how you cry. But Julia Fire!

LXXXII

Thus dance the wors that cruel are. Perhaps that fooled. Waking on this same delights, white Boy is a gift.

LXXXIII

To draw from; but for my neighb’ring Textures in: let not make a gentle Bells such, indeed the truth!

LXXXIV

Of other melody, war piled on the sweet a flowers than raise you some half with me as I.

LXXXV

Of garden, as mostly mine; I loathe through the Madeira to be wedded fyve! Me as is me!

LXXXVI

Clay to raised to light.—Ah, Gossip led when she ever-silent was sloping there! And chance spray, St.

LXXXVII

That are let us range eyes out. Til trewe wyf, do as the world of your labour’d himself: you are!

LXXXVIII

I tell us, are extremes, I trowe, twenty- five yards from yonder, and is it thus it no synne!

LXXXIX

As by constant to drink, a spider in what touch of heaven, and there. Meet and chastitee no cure.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #175 texts #kimo sequence

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clarafell · 1 year

Note

🔪 from madoka teehee

DRENCHED IN SOMEONE'S BLOOD : Accepting!!!

↳ @shibemuses

All she had to do was dump the body somewhere. Her magic will help her to do it without getting caught, but... She needed to cleanse away the dark impurities before she chose to rely on her shield. The defeated WITCH turned out to be a difficult foe when it heartlessly used the lured victim as a puppet... A weapon. What a cowardly move to do, but it wasn't something she expected.

Try as she might, the witch refused to show itself. The battle should have been as easy as any other witch, but Homura did not recognize the patterns of this witch. It must have wandered into the city. Maybe it was some stranger with a soul gem, someone that wasn't tangled in her endless dance with time, that recently fell into the depths of despair. Either way, she knew she had to defeat the witch. But what she needed right now was an extra pair of hands that could free the civilian from the witch's strings—

Homura, however, knew that she did not have that luxury anymore. The strings were far too thin for her to shoot with a gun. A bomb would only lead to death. But her guns? None of them would do the trick since the puppeteer strings kept on coming. What she needed was an endless supply of swords or, better yet, another person.

Who knew what the familiars were doing while their witch kept on taunting her? The time traveler realized that there could be a looming possibility that the familiars could be luring even more victims to the labyrinth while their witch fought with her. Familiars were always tricky to figure out, but they were normally not that big of a hassle for her. The problem, sadly, is the witch's ruthless nature to control the victims. Did it drain the businesswoman's life the longer that it controlled her movements? Homura didn't know, but she knew she had to act now.

There is only one way to defeat this witch—

Homura thought she was alone once the labyrinth dissolved. The grief seed rests on the alleyway's dirty ground, patiently waiting for her. The body of the victim leans on her body, almost as if the grown woman had only fainted from a dizzy spell. Blood was already on her body from the fight before the witch chose to swiftly change plans. But now this woman's warm blood begins to stain her. Homura had shot the woman in an act that could be called a necessary evil.

With this woman's life cut short, no one else had to be killed by the witch. No one else will be dragged into being the next weapon and shield for this witch's puppet performance. There were no more strings now. Homura held the body as her heart raced fast in her chest. She's tired now, but now she needed to think of a clever way to get rid of the body...

Do I check for the woman's wallet first? Should I try to compose some kind of letter for any loved ones to find on her corpse? Did this woman have a loving family with maybe children? It was only right to try to give them some kind of closure... But what could I say? What should I do now when all I know how to do is run back in time over and over?

The horrifying sob that choked out of someone's throat sounded so familiar to Homura that her whole body went still as a statue. Much to her disappointment, it was not the pretty woman that she tried to help. A flicker of hope tried to ignite her accursed heart by almost convincing her that the innocent victim managed to, somehow, survive the bullet wounds. Realization swiftly dawned on her that the faint, feminine noise came from MADOKA. The shock made her unfreeze as she quickly dropped the body and spun to face her very first friend— No, no, no.

❝ You aren't meant to be here... ❞

Oh, how she winced at her cold choice of words. They sounded surprised and extremely tired, but she does not sound like a fellow victim. The agonizing shock of exposing sweet, innocent Madoka to bloodshed and murder shines in her startled eyes. Madoka did not know her anymore. In fact, she has not even gotten the chance to really dwell on making a contract during this fresh timeline. Homura knew that Kyubey approached her, but it never got the chance to get any closer.

Hunting down Kyubey has become a mission in the same way that witches were her sworn enemy. She has kept Madoka safe and sound as a regular human girl— So much so that she has not allowed herself a moment of rest. She transferred in Madoka's class, just like all the other times, but she swiftly feigned that she had caught a cold during this time. All she wanted right now was to stock up on more weapons and grief seeds until the fateful day that Walpurgisnacht arrived. Classmates might whisper about whether the new transfer student will ever come back to class, but she didn't care about keeping up the illusion of a regular student during this timeline.

❝ Wait... Wait! Don't— ❞

All she wanted was to do now is to try to focus at least one timeline on completely preparing for Walpurgisnacht's arrival. It was reckless, but she thought herself to be successful... up until this moment. She had not foreseen the arrival of Madoka. Homura's pleading voice got caught in her throat as she stared at the tears streaming down Madoka's soft face. She has seen Madoka's fear in the past, but she has never seen such a deep, spiraling fear. Madoka has never looked at her as if she was the next victim in some kind of upcoming serial killer.

❝ Don't r-run away, Madoka! Please! ❞

Luck, much like time, is not on Homura's side... But neither is Madoka. Not this time, anyway. It's alright, though. As long as Madoka remains safe with her family and her true friends. As long as Kyubey does not get to form a contract with her.

Madoka will run until she cries to her mother and father about the evil transfer student... Maybe her parents will demand that someone, anyone, investigate Homura? It didn't matter what would happen to Homura. She would accept any punishment as long, but she knew she could weasel her way out of any mundane trouble. She may look human, but she made her contract long ago. Madoka will be safer in her family's arms instead of hers.

She will most likely fail in this timeline, anyway.

But Homura knows is that she will never forget this moment.

All the blood will forever stain her soul.

#❛ ✧ ┊ the fairy tale gets a little darker after midnight. answered.#❛ ✧ ┊ beware of those bloody thorns. ic.#shibemuses #(YOU ASKED FOR IT!!!)#tw: murder #tw: violence #tw: long post

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makeste · 6 years

Text

BnHA Chapter 068: Get In Loser, We’re Going Shopping

Previously on BnHA: We spent entirely too much time on Mineta and all you need to know is that he passed the final despite my best efforts at sending my Mineta-crushing energy out into the universe. Kirishima, Satou, Mina, and Kaminari did not pass, because sometimes life just hits you hard and shit’s not fair. Aoyama straight up asked Ochako if she was in love with Deku and she was like KYAAAAAA and flew away in embarrassment and ended up handcuffing Thirteen on her way out. I don’t know why we couldn’t have seen Iida and Ojiro’s exam instead of Mineta’s, but they also passed. Basically everyone did except the four I already mentioned. And Tomura made a couple of new friends.

Today on BnHA: Tomura meets Dabi and Toga and tries to kill them! Kurogiri sets him straight and Tomura slinks off to sulk. Aizawa announces that Kaminari, Kirishima, Mina, Satou, and Sero have all failed the exam, but that everyone will be going to the training lodge anyway because he loves plot twists. The kids of class A (minus a few holdouts) go to the mall. Everyone splits up. Deku meets some creepy guy in a hoodie. The creepy guy in the hoodie turns out to be fucking Tomura because of course it is.

(As always, all comments not marked with an ETA are my unspoiled reactions from my first readthrough of this chapter. I’ve read up through chapter 137 now, so any ETAs will reflect that.)

apparently Tomura doesn’t like his new friends

“it seems like the two types I hate the most came as a goddamn set” lol. and that’s saying a lot coming from a guy who so far seems to hate mostly everything

basically he doesn’t like bubbly creepy girls or rude assholes

dude even you have to admit they’re better than Stain though

Kurogiri says they should hear them out and that the guy that introduced them is a fairly influential broker. so that’s the hipster guy we saw earlier

this guy wants Kuro to pay him either way lol

okay so now they’re being introduced

holy shit

blood-draining. that’s nice

her name is Toga. she’s crazy and she likes killing things

and now he’s introducing Inside Out. this guy is extremely intriguing to me already and he hasn’t even said anything yet. let’s see what he’s all about

lol I already like him. he reminds me of that redshirt bad guy in Iron Man 3 who surrendered to Tony without a fight and was all “I hate working here anyway”

his name is Dabi. or rather, he says that right now he goes by that name

Tomura wants to know his real name and he’s like, ~too bad~

(ETA: okay so I know that there is a prominent fan theory about this guy’s true identity due to his quirk, his appearance, and the fact that he keeps his real name under tight wraps. and also, I think, due to one particularly odd moment in chapter 82. but I’m gonna refrain from commenting about said theory until I’m caught up with the manga, since I’d like to have the full picture first. as of now, my feelings on this are a solid, “I guess he could be?”)

I really like this guy. even though his name immediately made me think, “MASTER HAS GIVEN ME A SOCK”

to be honest I’d be a whole lot more on board with you doing it than him

uh oh Tomura is triggered by someone talking about Stain. he’s probably the only guy who hates him more than I do lol

wow this motherfucker is charging at my man Dabi now with full intent to disintegrate him for no reason

oh damn

thanks for that, Kurogiri. keeping that peace. Villain Mom

interesting panels showing all three of their hands here

obviously we already know Tomura’s quirk (or part of it), but Dabi’s hand is definitely doing something here too. and Toga’s holding a knife that she seems to have produced out of nowhere. she reminds me of that crazy bodyguard girl in Kill Bill

Kuro’s telling the kids to stop fighting in the backseat

he says Tomura need to expand their organization if he wants to achieve his goals

fine, be that way you cryptic assholes

(ETA: it’s a little more clear in the Viz version and the anime subs that he was talking about Stain. basically, take advantage of the PR push he gave you, even if you don’t like that it came from him.)

now Tomura’s storming off, presumably to sulk

ah well. as far as things go, that probably could have been worse

the broker guy is saying that Tomura is too young. yep. but he’s All for One’s son so what are you gonna do

(ETA: he’s adopted)

Kurogiri is so fucking polite and smooth

this is why I said he was a doctor

cut to U.A.!

aww

no lodge for you

Deku is trying to give them hope but Kaminari’s not having it

did he actually poke Deku in the fucking eye

here comes Aizawa!

so they’re all sitting down to wait for their exam results

Aizawa says some of them have failed

oh my god

THIS FUCKING GUY. I KNEW YOU WOULDN’T LET KAMI AND KIRI AND MINA BE LEFT OUT OF THE ANTICS. AND SATOU TOO EVEN THOUGH HIS PERSONALITY HASN’T BEEN AS WELL-ESTABLISHED YET. THAT’S WHAT LODGE ANTICS ARE FOR!!

Aizawa says that everyone passed the written exam, but that the aforementioned four and also Sero (who fell asleep) failed the practical

haha

he just wants to make it clear that all of the senseis could kick their asses, so don’t go thinking you’re hot shit

this fucking guy

did All Might get that memo lol

yay I’m so happy

Iida’s standing up and says that if Aizawa keeps pulling this shit, they’re never going to fucking trust him again

Aizawa is like yeah, true, I’ll think about that

he’s not going to think about anything. he’s going to keep right on pulling this shit

he does say that things are gonna be rougher for the kids that failed, and that they’ll have supplemental lessons

but I agree with Ojiro here!

except for Mineta! but we can just pretend like he’s not there!

they all need to go out and buy some of the things on their packing list, so Hagakure suggests that they all go shopping together!

look at these cute reaction bubbles omfg

(ETA: Mineta’s bubble was so conveniently placed for me to crop him out, how nice)

Bakugou’s mom buys all his stuff, sorry Kirishima

THE KIDS ARE AT THE MALL

THIS IS SO FUCKING CUTE WHY DID KHR NEVER DO STUPID SHIT LIKE THIS

I HOPE THEY’RE NOT SWARMED BY THE MEDIA

I’M SAD MY ANTISOCIAL EXPLODEY SON OPTED OUT AND MY GENTLE GOLDILOCKS SON WENT TO VISIT HIS MOM BUT OH WELL

HAS IIDA EVER LOOKED MORE FORTY YEARS OLD IN HIS LIFE THAN HERE IN THIS PANEL WHERE HE’S WEARING A POLO SHORT AND SLACKS AND CARRYING A MESSENGER BAG

FUCKING LISTEN TO THESE SALES PITCHES OMFG

YOU WITH THE MASSIVE CALVES!!!!

LMAO HE PROBABLY WAS LOOKING TO BUY A NEW PAIR OF KHAKIS

Deku’s looking around excitedly like he’s never been to the fucking mall before

oh shit, barely two minutes there and they’ve already been recognized

probably would have been even worse with Todoroki and Bakugou there

GASP

I’m a simple girl. I see a panel of these two being lesbians, I click the “like” button

Kirishima suggests that they split up, and all of a sudden Deku and Ochako are all alone and being cute and awkward

dammit Aoyama you broke her

now that she’s off on her own she’s thinking “that’s not it... probably!”

okay. it would be fine if it was, but I ship you more with Iida and Deku’s in love with Kacchan so

hmm there’s a panel of Deku all alone surrounded by people and feeling vaguely unsettled

how eerie

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

hasldkghalsihoihlk

holy fucking shit. right out in the fucking open. he’s got his bare hand on him. he could kill him instantly right here

shit shit shit shit shit

shit shit SHIT SHIT SHIT

I’M FREAKING OUT??!?!!

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

SHIT

HOW DID PEOPLE READ THIS CLIFFHANGER AND SURVIVE FOR THE WHOLE FOLLOWING WEEK HOLY SHIT

the bonus is just a quick blurb about Toga and how difficult she is to draw. you really think I care about that right now??? jesus.

(ETA: actually it was apparently supposed to be the Mineta costume page for this chapter, and the Toga page for the next chapter. of course, I’m even less interested in the intricacies of Mineta’s costume. so)

#bnha #boku no hero academia #shigaraki tomura #toga himiko #dabi #aizawa shouta #uraraka ochako #midoriya izuku #makeste reads bnha #I know I give stain endless grief #but I do appreciate that he inspired all these new villains to join the league #I pretty much love all of the next arc's villains without exception #and these two are especially great

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vampire-exgirlfriend · 2 years

Text

Morningstar

Pairing: vampire!Eddie Munson x femreader

Rating: E

Words: 6.5k

Warnings: death, violence, blood, blood drinking, smut (semi public, rough, choking).

A/N: well, this is it (for the main story at least 👀). Coming together with @magpie-to-the-morning to write this gothy little love story has been such a fantastic experience and honestly, I don't even have the words. So thank you to Emma for her endless encouragement and boundless ideas, thank you to @jadore-andor for always being the best beta (and soul mate), and thank all of you for reading 🖤

alex masterlist | emma masterlist | ao3

Part One | Part Two | Part Three - Only Lovers Left Alive

It was anguish, this feeling that blazed hot in his chest, where his heart used to beat. It tore him open from the inside, ripping and rending beneath his ribcage, burning everything in its wake. He was choking on it.

Had she always felt so fragile? Had his hands always looked so large as they cupped her jaw?

The moment her heart stopped, Eddie begged whoever might be listening to just fucking save her. He pressed a kiss to her rapidly cooling lips, muttering senseless prayers against her skin. Of course in death, she was even more beautiful than in life. Briar was nothing if not made for an existence in the dark; only she could make the monstrous so lovely. The moon shone milky over her skin, her eyes closed, her soft mouth parted. He couldn't will away the tears, couldn't stop the howl that tore from his throat, half wail, half roar, raw and jagged in his mouth.

A shout of fear met his ears through the trees, easy to make out over the chitter of nocturnal animals. He could hear them, the scampering footsteps that carried those assholes from the woods, their fear at what he'd become, of what they'd done, a tantalizing taste on the wind. He ran a knuckle over Briar's cheek, blinking away the red that began to blur his vision.

They wanted to say he was a monster? He would show them a monster. He would show them their darkest fears. It wouldn't bring her back, but it might sate the beast that prowled beneath his skin.

Another frightened yell sounded, closer this time, confused and lost in the dark. Eddie's ears perked up at the noise and with one last look at the love of his short, miserable life, he was off, bounding through the woods.

They were prey, weak and pathetic and so easily breakable.

And he was the predator, stalking them in the night.

It didn't bring the clarity that he had hoped for, didn't ease the burden of knowing that he had lost her. But the taste of dread in their blood had been sweet, slaking a thirst he hadn't known lived beneath his skin.

With Briar, he had always held back out of concern of hurting her or going too far. But there was no fear this time, just their blood and the heady taste of regret, the knowledge that their choices had brought them here. Eddie didn't stop himself, just drank until he felt sloshy, nearly drunk with it. Not since the night that she found him had he felt this feral drive to feed.

He didn't remember digging the hole, didn't remember shrouding her lovely face with his bandana. Passing the soft dirt over her body snapped him back to reality, the pain, the what ifs snapping at his heels and dragging him under the tidal wave of his grief.

What if they had stayed home tonight?

What if he had been less concerned with looking like a monster to her and had acted when those bastards had shown up instead of waiting?

What if he’d pressed the issue of her going back to school, giving college another shot, and promising he’d live somewhere close by?

What if.

The questions pattered against his skull like the dirt he shoveled over her body, his hands now stained rust with the blood of the men who had put her there.

The stack of books you’d collected for “research” thudded against the table where you dropped them.

“Hawkins Library has a surprisingly decent occult section. What’s up with that?”

“Maybe they know something we didn’t.” Eddie, who’d started making you a cup of tea as soon as you let yourself back into the basement apartment, glanced over at your towering pile and widened his eyes in mock surprise. “Um, d’you think you got enough books?”

“I mean, some of the ones I really wanted were checked out and I had to have the librarian put a graduate thesis on vampire bat feeding behavior on hold for me. You should have seen the eyebrow raise I got for that one.” You sighed and settled into a chair next to him, stretching your neck this way and that to work out the kinks left by hours of sitting hunched over card catalogs and reading desks. Catching the playful look in Eddie’s eyes, you trailed off, “Oh, you were joking.”

He dropped a kiss on top of your head before placing a steaming mug in front of you. “Why yes, Velma, I was.”

“Pfft.” It was hard to be too irritated when he followed up the gentle teasing by digging his fingers into your tense shoulder muscles. Your head lolled back against his midriff, exposed by another crop top he’d shorn once you promised him that no, you were never going to wear that Oingo Boingo shirt again. You looked up, your cheek nuzzled against the curve of his hip. This angle gave you a peek at the smirk lifting his lips as you let out a truly indecent moan.

“Is all this… homework really necessary? I can think of way more fun ways to spend our time.” One hand drifted beneath the collar of your shirt, the tips of his fingers grazing a hair's breadth over the swell of your breast. Molten warmth rushed through you, but you pressed your thighs together with a silent promise of later.

“There’s just so much we don’t know. Don’t you want to understand how this all works? What makes you tick now, or how someone could take you out?”

“Uhm…I do not like the way you’re asking that question.” Eddie’s large hands paused in their circling as he looked down at you, an exaggerated expression of alarm on his face.

“Don’t worry baby, I’m not gonna stake you,” you soothed teasingly. “Especially if you keep working that knot right… there… ohhh.”

With one hand making slow, steady strokes against the nape of your neck, Eddie thumbed through the stack of books with the other. “The Natural History of the Vampire, In Search of Dracula, The Living Dead: A Study of the Vampire in Romantic Literature - I like the sound of that one. Who’s Elizabeth Bathory?”

“Hungarian noblewoman who supposedly bathed in blood.”

“Metal.”

“Yeah, but she murdered a ton of her maidservants to do it so, not so great.”

“Oh, fuck that. What else… The Vampyre, Carmilla… No Anne Rice? I’m surprised.”

You jerked your chin towards a nearby bookcase. “I’ve got my own.” When you reached to grab your well-worn copy of Interview off the shelf and came up several inches short, Eddie rose to get it for you. “Mind getting Dracula for me, too? It’s only a few books to the right.”

“I don’t know what’s more alarming - your organizational skills or your not so secret vampire obsession,” he deadpanned.

“Ha ha.” Your tone was mocking as you rolled your eyes at him. “Please keep in mind it was my not so secret vampire obsession that kept you alive.”

The two of you spent hours poring over the books, looking for anything that might explain Eddie’s second chance at life or what his new existence would hold.

Sorting fact from fiction in light of his transformation proved even more complicated than you’d guessed.

As much as you’d loved myths, legends, and fairytales, once you’d stopped checking the backs of closets for Narnia, you’d come to appreciate them more as folktales - metaphors for understanding. Garlic didn’t ward off restless spirits, it simply masked the overpowering scent of corpses when people still grieved for their dead at home. Werewolves and the things that went bump in the night weren’t real, they were a more palatable explanation for the monstrous things humans could do to each other. People wanted to believe that danger came from outside, from the dark, mysterious woods, not from the family, friends, and neighbors they saw every day.

And while the recent events in Hawkins bore that out, the more you researched, the more you wondered: how many of these superstitions sprang from actual encounters with the otherworldly? And how could you possibly begin to untangle the centuries of buried truths and pretty lies?

Your musing on one such question got Eddie’s attention. “It’s interesting how many stories require the victim to ingest the vampire’s blood to be turned. I always thought that was more of a pop culture thing.”

“Yeah, that’s - “ Eddie’s half mumbled reply trailed off and he jerked his head up. “Hold the fuck up. Did you think that when I fed on you that first night?”

“I… Maybe?” You quailed under the intensity of his stare. “Okay, fine, I knew it was a possibility. But it’s not like I’m about to be feasted on by bats.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Consciousness crept back to you like a cat in the darkness, soft-pawed and silent, awareness an unexpected brush against your sleeping mind. At first you thought you must be back in bed, Eddie’s form sprawled over you, your limbs heavy with dreaming. But no, the cotton resting over your face that carried his scent wasn’t one of your bedsheets- it was a shroud. His bandana, you guessed, though you couldn’t see it. Even opening your eyes was no help, though you swore you could hear your eyelashes dragging against the thin fabric. And the weight pressing down on you wasn’t his body but dirt.

You could smell it then - the loam and the leaf litter, the rich, moist rot of things returning to the soil. It was shockingly alive, busy with burrowing creatures, a thousand tiny lives making their way through the dark, secret world. How had you never heard how full the night was? You could hear mice skittering through their endless tunnels, the chirp and flutter of bats on the wing. And beyond that, another sound, muffled and hoarse but achingly familiar.

“Come on, sweetheart, tell me I did this right. I promise I’ll never make fun of your research again, just come back to me.”

Eddie.

It all came flooding back - kissing in the moonlight, his lithe form beneath you as he held you, sent you flying. The acid taste of fear when you’d been found, the way he put his body between you and harm before you could blink. Him begging you to run, as if leaving him was ever an option. Rough hands pulling you from him, the way he’d snarled and fought to get to you. The sheer relief of running back into his arms, the dull pain when Chance had -

Chance had driven a knife into you. The killing blow meant for Eddie had caught you instead, ripped you away from your lover a final time - from life itself. Fury roared beneath your skin. How dare they? They would have killed the man you loved. They had killed you.

You wouldn’t let them win.

Dirt cascaded as you moved, need driving you back to the surface. To Eddie. You kicked and clawed and heaved yourself free, shuddering with relief when one searching hand pushed through the last layer of resistance and met cool night air.

For a moment you fought not to panic, clawing at open space in an attempt to break free. You could feel the chill of the night air kissing your fingertips and then a vice-like grip wrapped around your wrist, tugging hard. You kept fighting, kicking and thrashing as the dirt gave way to the pearly light of the moon, shining through the thin fabric of your shroud. The cloth was torn away and Eddie looked over you, bloodstained and more beautiful than anything you had ever seen before.

“Oh, Jesus,” he moaned in relief. He raked his eyes over your dirt streaked face, brushed dead leaves from your hair and skimmed his hands over you before pulling you into a crushing embrace. “I thought I lost you.”

His familiar scent curled around you, grounding and enticing. You dragged your lips against his jaw, desperation and the taste of his skin nearly bringing you to your knees. Something new woke up in you, something powerful and hungry. You writhed in his arms, burying your face in his neck, desperate to quell the blinding need inside you. You’d never felt a hunger like this - for closeness, for blood, for life. Your research had taught you that the blood in Eddie’s veins wouldn’t be enough to satisfy the hunger roaring inside you but there was a beast prowling beneath your skin and it was all you could do to keep her leashed.

“I know, baby, I know,” he soothed. Had his voice always sounded so rich? The sound of it settled over you like melting honey, soothing and sweet. He picked you up and carried you all too gently until your back rested against the rough bark of a massive tree. His tenderness was nearly painful when your body cried out for violence, something you had never anticipated truly craving, and you mewled, aching for more. More ferocity, more hurt, more him.

More, more, more.

“I’ve got you. Here.” He guided your mouth to what should have been his pulse point. “There,” he murmured. “Right there.”

You sank your fangs into his neck and sucked. Hard.

Fangs. You had fangs. The thought was jarring enough to send you into a tailspin, but the hunger was too intense, too all consuming, and you shoved it away. The black blood that welled in your mouth wasn’t enough to keep you satisfied for long but it took the edge off enough for you to relax into Eddie’s hold, to nuzzle closer and lap at the taste of him that you needed just as badly.

“Jesus, Briar,” Eddie exhaled. His arms were tight around you and he dragged grateful, aimless kisses over your face. “That scared the shit out of me.”

The sound that left your throat was halfway between a moan and a whine and Eddie’s fingers tightened against your hair. The slight sting of pain was a welcome jolt and you arched your back in a silent invitation for more. Eddie shuddered against you but you could feel him hardening against your core.

You pulled back, your lips painted in dull black blood, your eyes shining in the dark. “I need more,” you rasped.

Eddie’s expression was pained as he glanced at the sky. “I uh, lost track of time,” he admitted. “I don’t know how much night we have left. I’ll take you home, see if I can’t bring… something back.”

You cut off his nervous babbling with a filthy kiss, groaning with pleasure when you felt his lips open beneath yours, felt his tongue flicking to catch the trail of blood coursing down your chin.

“Not blood. You.”

He pulled back, his eyes black in the moonlight, your reflection shining back at you as he searched your face.

"I'm still me, right? Like you were still you. I just need a reminder, okay?"

Whatever he was looking for, he found it. Eddie nodded and surged forward, catching your lips in a bruising kiss. You wriggled out of his hold, your feet barely touching the ground before tugging him down into the dirt. He was no longer cold beneath your fingertips, the temperature of your skin now matching. You pushed your hands beneath his t-shirt, nails dragging over the plains of his abdomen as you swallowed his groan. With rushed motions, he pulled your shirt over your head, leaning down to scrape his teeth over the swell of your breast. You writhed beneath him, arching your back to pull him closer, closer, closer. Then your skirt was gone, his pants pulled to his knees, and he was back between your thighs, burying himself in you with one quick stroke.

It had been incredible, each time Eddie had you bare beneath him, pushing inside of you and stealing the air from your lungs. But this? It was different. You could feel everything, every drag of his skin, every caress of his breath over your neck, each individual hair as it tickled against your cheek.

It was overwhelming. And not nearly enough.

"More," you croaked, your throat dry.

"Yeah?" His voice was rough, strained as he curled his body around you, sucking a bruise against your throat.

"Yeah," you breathed, digging furrows down his back. He pulled out of you and you whined at the loss of him, the sound cut off as he turned you roughly to your stomach. The smell of rich earth and the dampness of spring surrounded you, fallen leaves biting into your skin as Eddie spread your legs with a knee, bending over you to hold your wrists over your head in one hand. The other ghosted over the column of your spine before fisting his length, nudging the blunt head at your entrance.

You cried out when he pressed forward, stretching you wide with this new angle. A hand snaked beneath you to lift your ass into the air and you saw stars when he thrust slow and deep, leaving no space between you. That same hand found your clit, rubbing quick circles that had you keening for more.

You had had him in nearly every conceivable way, but it had never been like this. This was feral, it was wild and bordered on painful. But it was exactly what you needed to remind you that you had survived; with his blood in your veins you had risen from the dead and the gift you'd been given was too precious to waste. He didn't have to hold back from hurting you anymore, didn't need to treat you like spun glass. Even here in this vulnerable position, you felt more powerful than you ever had.

Eddie heaved you up toward him, your back pressed flush to his chest and his hand resting at the base of your throat.

"I never thought you could be more beautiful," he husked against the shell of your ear. "God, I was wrong. You were fucking made for this." His grip on your neck tightened and you moaned, dropping your head back to look at him. Fuck, he was beautiful, all wild hair and glassy eyes, the red tracks of his tears still staining his cheeks. There would never be enough time with him, enough of this.

You pulled out of Eddie's embrace, turning to face him and lunging as soon as you had him in your sights. His face was lovely in its surprise, his moan even more delicious in your mouth. The moonlight tangled in his hair as it spread over the leaves, catching on his fair skin and illuminating the melted chocolate brown of his eyes that you loved so much.

Straddling him, you sank down on his cock, growling in pleasure at the stretch, sure you would split open around him. It was fucking divine. You couldn't help but lean forward, resting your hand against his throat. Eddie's eyes went wide, his full lip between his teeth, and then he gave you a small nod. You rolled your hips, your hand gently squeezing the sides of his neck. At the sensation, his eyes rolled back, his hips bucking up into you, and you cried out. His fingers dug sharply into the meat of your hips

Eddie gazed up at you, trusting and hopeful as an offering to a dark goddess. Power surged through you and you tipped your head back as you rode him, basking in the thrill of his worship. Pleasure built stroke by stroke and thrust by thrust until you were delirious with it, slippery with want and crying out for more. It rippled inward, driving you higher and higher until it was a cataclysm inside you, so all-consuming that your very bones went molten at his touch.

Eddie’s face contorted in a mask of ecstasy as you shuddered, the violence of it nearly enough to force him out of you. He followed you over the edge instead, his cock twitching and his mouth working silently as you spasmed around him, pulling every last drop of him inside you.

Utterly spent, you collapsed into his arms. Slowly, the sound of the woods at night stole back over you until they were nearly deafening and you buried your face in his shoulder.

"Take me home, Eddie," you murmured. "I'm tired and I'm dirty and I just…I can't be here anymore."

Eddie helped you stand, gingerly settling you back into your torn and filthy clothes before adjusting his own. When you were ready, he took your hand, tugging you back along the path you'd taken at twilight. Had that really only been hours ago?

He hadn't been exaggerating about how overwhelming it all was. The noise of the forest creatures all around you as you neared your neighborhood assailed your ears and the lights shining through from the suburb were nearly blinding. Even your parents’ house was an assault on your senses, all Lemon Pledge and potpourri, expensive electronics humming even in their sleep. You stumbled after him, half in a daze as the reality of your situation began to sink in.

This had never felt like home, not really, but now you felt even more lost amidst the muted pastels and bland artwork. You were dimly aware of the mud you were tracking across your mother’s floors, a bloodied changeling in her spotless home.

There was no place for you here anymore.

Sensing your mood, Eddie squeezed your hand and led you gently towards the basement door.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, baby. You’ll feel more… like yourself, I promise.”

You wondered if the word he had stumbled over was human.

The shower did help, although you took it in the dark. The pounding water drove out the noise in your head and sluiced away the dirt and blood until only you were left, clean and sleek and new.

Afterwards, Eddie lay beside you, his skin shower-warm against yours and his still-damp hair brushing your forehead, the smell of the shampoo you shared lulling you into a dreamy state of comfort. He had kept you within arms reach since you clawed your way out of the dirt, like he was afraid you would slip off into the night if he let you go. When he traced a tender line along your brow and down the velvet curve of your cheek, you nuzzled closer, your lips quirking in a small, sleepy smile. His face fell at the sight of your newly pointed teeth gleaming white in the dark.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was thick and your brows knit in confusion.

“Sorry, for what?”

“For making you...”

Into a freak.

A monster.

Like me.

The words hung in the air, unsaid and heavier for it. He tried to pull away but you made him meet your gaze once more.

“Eddie, I’d be dead if it weren’t for you.”

He bristled. “You wouldn’t have been in danger if it wasn’t for me. It’s my - “

“Give me more credit, Munson.” You sat up straighter, your eyes blazing with feeling. “I chose to be there with you tonight. I chose to put myself between you and those assholes. And I would do it again because you’re worth it.”

His eyes snapped to yours, wide and brown and full of something like awe. “Yeah?”

The still uncertain note in his voice was heartbreaking. “Yeah, baby.”

He sighed and sagged against you. “Your research didn’t turn up any resurrection spells or anything, did they? You should find one so I can bring those bastards back and kill them again.”

“Good plan. Give me a crack at them this time,” you half joked, earning a watery chuckle. You laid a palm against his cheek and softened when he leaned into your touch. “You already saved me, Eddie. You’re my knight in shining armor.”

“I’m literally wearing one of your shirts.” He swiped at his eyes and lifted his head. “Shining concert tee, maybe.”

“Yes, and like I told you before, you look very cute in it.” The tension bled out of the moment. You wriggled until your back pressed against his chest, your shoulders easing as he wrapped an arm around your waist and kissed your temple.

With his face pressed to the back of your neck and his lips curved into a grin, Eddie murmured “Much better than chainmail, babe.”

“Easier to sleep in, anyway,” you mumbled around a yawn. Even as sleep tugged at you, your mind whirred with questions. “What happens next? Do I tell my parents? God, what do I tell them?”

“Get some rest. We can figure everything else out tomorrow.” Eddie, curled protectively around you, kissed the top of your head as though it would drive out all those nagging worries.

Miraculously, it worked.

Half way between sleep and dreaming, you could have sworn his arms tightened around your chest before he whispered something that sounded like I love you.

“Love you too,” you mumbled, one hand clasping his before you drifted off.

You couldn’t stay in Hawkins. Both of you knew it was no longer an option, a cramped cage you’d both outgrown, one too dangerous to linger in even for the threadbare sense of security that familiarity offered. There would be nothing here for you now, and you were endangering your parents and Wayne and the little gang that Eddie had followed into the Upside Down by simply existing in the same vicinity.

The following days passed in a blur of packing and preparations, all set against the backdrop of adjusting to your new “life.” You’d already gotten used to waking at sunset to spend time with Eddie, but everything else unfolded like a series of shocks, no less surprising each time a new one came. Your gleaming fangs. The predatory stillness of your body at rest. The way even dim, setting sunlight scorched your skin. The burning thirst.

Eddie found you staring into a full mug of tea more than once, amber depths cooling as its warmth seeped from the mug to your hands. You couldn’t bring yourself to drink it. The drink you’d always loved sat thin and bitter on your tongue, wrong, no longer what your body craved, but the ritual of making it was too ingrained to simply abandon. It gave you something to hold when it felt like so much else was sliding away, a familiar comfort you weren’t yet willing to relinquish.

You threw yourself into a search for understanding in stolen moments not devoted to boxing up the remnants of your life once more, scouring library books and testing your limits every chance you had. You were still you, with all the same memories and hopes and fears, but your body has been remade, a sleeker model of your former self, all powerful limbs and sharpened teeth. Your hearing and vision were heightened, but so was your sense of yourself. You were faster, more agile, somehow more in command of your body than you had been - more at home beneath your skin. You relished the freedom of it, the sense of invulnerability. You could run through the darkened woods without fear, knowing you were the deadliest creature prowling through the trees.

Well, other than the dark shadow at your back.

Eddie rarely left your side, not until the last time you woke beneath your parents’ roof. Cardboard boxes full of clothes and records, books and cassettes sat waiting by the door, along with the potted plants you couldn’t bear to leave behind. Jonathan’s cat carrier perched on top of the heap. The little black cat wriggled and twisted as you tried to get him inside the plastic crate and guilt gnawed at you for taking him away from the only home he’d ever known.

“You’ll love the city,” you promised apologetically as you slid the door shut. “We’ll get a balcony so you can go out and bother the pigeons.”

He blinked up at you and let out a reproachful meow, as though fully aware you wouldn’t let him actually slink through alleys full of the plump birds, too afraid he’d be lost in the chaos.

“Yeah, I know,” you murmured, crossing your arms around yourself. “I’m nervous about it, too.”

After setting down a final box, Eddie wound himself around you, his chin resting on your shoulder. “We don’t have to do this, y’know. We can figure something else out.”

You took a last look around at the newly bare walls. Stripped of your fairy lights and concert posters, the basement already looked painfully ordinary, just one more slice of suburban life that you’d felt oddly remote from even before becoming a bloodsucking fiend (as you’d affectionately taken to calling yourself). Even if you had wanted to stay, it was time to admit that this life was like an ill-fitting coat. You couldn’t keep forcing yourself into it and complaining when it pinched.

“I’m sure. There’s no place for us here.” You swallowed thickly, sure of your decision even as your vision blurred red. Wordlessly, Eddie kissed the crown of your head. His leather jacket creaked as he swayed you gently in his arms.

“We’ll make our own place.” His promise was muffled against your hair. “I’ll bus tables or be a bouncer or something, put some of these new skills to use. You can… I don’t know, give school another try if you want?”

You turned to face him and the warmth shining in his eyes was enough to banish the cold that had seeped into your bones. He would do it, too - accept an undemanding job, even if it chafed or stifled him, feeling that it was his responsibility to sacrifice his happiness for yours.

As if you’d let him.

“Don’t you dare sell yourself short, Eddie Munson.”

He furrowed his brow and opened his mouth, likely to tell you that he would take any job that would help you pursue your dreams, but you pressed a finger to his lips.

“Hawkins was never good enough for you, but New York might be. I’ve seen you play. You should be doing it in stadiums, not garages or my basement. I don’t know what I want to do yet but I’m sure as shit not going to sit on my ass while you hide yourself away.”

He looked skeptical, but you pushed past it. “I mean it. We’re going to do it differently this time. No more going along with things just because we think we should. It’s time that we found our place, okay? I’m choosing to look at the whole “undead” thing as a second chance and I am not above forcing that viewpoint on you. No bussing tables, got it?”

He tried to hide his grin, pulling his lip between his teeth and nodding. “You’re even bossier now that you’re dead.”

Your jaw dropped at the nonchalant way he said it, and then you were laughing, clutching your waist as you doubled over, snorting inelegantly. You pinched his thigh and laughed harder still when he yelped, slapping at your hands. Eventually you stood, flexing your fingers in the collar of his shirt and pulling him down for a kiss. “I mean it, babe. You deserve the life you want. We deserve it.”

“You’re right. Did you leave a note for your parents?” His voice went softer, not wanting to poke at the bruise that always flared when you thought about them.

You shifted from one foot to the other, nodding as you wrapped your arms around his waist, burying your face in his chest.

“Yeah, I left it on the counter.” When you raised your head, you gave him a wan smile. “Alright, Munson. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Mom and Dad,

How was the cruise? The house is fine (no parties, as promised - although I’m not sure who you thought would come). All the mail is on the dining room table and yes, I separated them into junk, bills, and catalogs this time.

Sorry for not meeting you but I have some news. I’m going back to school. You were right. I just need to buckle down and try harder to fit in, like you said. I have a feeling it’s actually going to work this time.

I wish

Oh, and I’m taking Jonathan with me so you don’t need to worry about feeding him. I’ll call you once you’re back to check in. Things in town are a little crazy right now so, take care, okay?

—

It was easier than you expected to lock the front door for the last time, the click of the mechanisms freeing you from any lingering attachments to the house you grew up in. And when you turned around and caught sight of Eddie leaning against the side of your beat up station wagon, a grin on his pretty face and his arms crossed over his chest, the weight that had settled over your shoulders evaporated, shimmering into the warm night air. For the first time in your life you were truly free.

And it was all because of him.

—

A few months had gone by in New York City when Eddie declared he was ready to reach out to Dustin, to apologize for the pain of letting him believe that he had died, to attempt and make amends with one of the only people who had truly understood him - who had literally held him in his arms as he slid from the mortal coil. He had sat at the little desk beneath the window, starting and stopping more times than you could count, the wastebasket at his feet soon overflowing with half finished, never good enough reasons for his disappearance. After a few nights of this, it was unbearable; you couldn’t stomach watching him punish himself for doing what he had to do to survive. So you sat on the desk, took his jaw in your hands, and kissed him as softly as you could manage.

“Eddie Munson, you are a hero - in life and in death, okay? Whatever it is you’re trying to say, Dustin will understand. That’s why you care about him so much, because he gets you. It doesn’t have to be perfect, it just has to be real.”

He gazed up at you, the chocolate brown of his eyes so soft in the lamplight and if it still beat, your heart would have tripped over itself at the sight. “You think so?”

“I know so. So get to writing, because I have plans of the naked variety for you later.” He swallowed audibly and you laughed, amused that he still looked at you with the same sense of awe as he had that first night in the woods.

Eventually Eddie found his courage and sent the letter. It was weeks before a response arrived. The first few sentences were terse, hurt bleeding into Dustin’s chicken scratch words. But eventually the love between them, and Dustin’s never ending interest in all things weird, won out, and Eddie poured his guts out, explaining everything that had happened that had led the two of you to flee, to pack up your thus far tiny lives and start a new life in New York.

For the next few years a series of letters flew between the two of them and you saw how much it meant that Eddie was still involved in his friends life, even if it was from the periphery. Each invitation back to Hawkins was met with a gentle refusal, a desire to keep both you and himself from the trauma and the memories that would always haunt that place. He heard the scattered phone calls between you and your parents, who still believed that you were studying abroad in Europe, so proud that their daughter had chosen to go back to school, and he knew he couldn’t risk you running into them and shattering the illusion. So he kept up his letter writing campaign, keen to stay involved in Dustin’s life however he could, a smile breaking over his face like sunshine each time a new envelope arrived.

Eventually Eddie snagged a night shift at a 24 hour record store in Chelsea that somehow snowballed into late night jam sessions with the shop owner and his intimidatingly cool daughter, the three of them somehow melding so many different sounds into a cohesive melodic darkness that you couldn’t help but love. Their first show had been in a tiny dive bar, a single strobe light flashing and a group of goths dominating the bar. Seeing Eddie on stage had cracked you open, your heart exploding through the cage of your ribs, every ounce of love that you had for him spreading warmly through your veins as you watched him do what he loved.

Around the time he had started at the record store, you responded to a wanted ad in the paper for a copywriter job and got it, happy to come into the office late when Eddie was working or practicing with his band. When the woman who wrote the horoscopes decided to retire early, you put on a brave face and applied for the gig. When you got it, Eddie surprised you with a bottle of champagne. You didn’t bother asking how he had managed to fill it with O negative, happy to leave some things to the imagination, content to be swept up in his embrace and the sweetness of the celebration.

It took time, but the two of you (and Jonathan) made the apartment a home. Low light plants filled the windowsills, more and more art found a home on your exposed brick walls, and crate upon crate of discounted records made their way into your living room. Framed pictures dotted your mantle, and the fairy lights from your old bedroom now wrapped around the headboard you’d been lucky enough to score off of one of Eddie’s coworkers. Jonathan chirped at the pigeons from the window and occasionally you would take him out on the fire escape to experience the sounds of the city, his slight bulk a grounding warmth in your lap.

And one day, a pear shaped diamond on a delicate band found its place on your left hand, shimmering each time the light hit it and reminding you that every sacrifice, every ounce of pain and instance of fear had been worth it because it led you here, to Eddie, to a life together, and to your forever.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #vampire eddie munson #joseph quinn #morningstar #my fic #stranger things fic

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madnessiseverything · 2 years

Text

When Alex looks up from his father’s slack face—with bloodied hands and stumbling feet—there are spiderweb cracks spread out across the glass of the cage. His ears still ring with the deadly thud of his father’s head meeting his own creation.

Dream of the Endless, ethereal and silent as always, looks back at him with undivided attention, heavy enough that Alex thinks he might buckle underneath it. Gangly, thin limbs rearrange themselves until the entity that has been haunting his dreams and waking hours for ten long years stands upright for the first time, looking down at Alex with a tilted head and blank face. One pale hand slowly reaches out.

Alex’s breath catches. He thinks of a night not too long ago, a night before he stained the glass between them red, where he’d dared to speak freely for once; where he’d seen something other than hate and a threat in Dream’s eyes, something akin to curiosity. Where he’d dared to speak what he’d been thinking for longer than he would ever dare say. “I would let you out,” he’d said, “if I could.” Alex’s heart, far up in his throat and beating like a hummingbird’s wings, feels heavy and cold at the memory. His hand moves before he thinks further. Slowly, the world around him falls away until all that remains is the cage, the cracking glass, and the entity reaching out to meet him halfway.

He thinks he might hear the guards yelling, but his heart drowns them out before their words can find their home inside his head. His hand doesn’t shake as it lands on the glass, sticky and cold. The glass snaps distantly. Dream of the Endless matches the place of his blood-slick hand, eyes dark where they meet Alex’s own. Alex thinks he might see the night sky in them, unfolding out before him like a tapestry his fingertips can almost reach. Dream tilts his head again, bird-like enough that Alex feels tears fall down his face in remembered guilt and grief. He feels pinned, trapped like a dying butterfly underneath the needle gaze of an entity beyond his understanding, larger than life even where his skin stretches tight over his bones, incomprehensible, all-encompassing—a predator without fangs. Alex remembers childhood fears filled with glass cages and his father’s wrath, feels so impossibly small in the wake of his dream and nightmare alike.

Then Dream nods, slow and without haste. Alex’s heart drops out of his throat into his stomach. His legs shake with all he’s found within the space between their mirrored hands. Dream casts his eyes down, a path clear enough for Alex to follow without error. Gold lettering shines against the black stone floor at his feet, brighter than he last remembered it. Beckoning. Alex—with a slowing heart and a sob trapped between his teeth—knows what to do.

He allows his knees to give way just beside his father’s body, allows the world to drift further away even as he knows the guards must be seconds from dragging him out of the room and into an uncertain future. The cracking of the glass, like a frozen lake underneath a winter sun, is a soothing whisper that drifts around his head as he breathes out.

Alexander Burgess, guilt-ridden, brotherless, fatherless, drags his bloody hands across the binding with a tear-soaked smile.

[also on ao3]

#the sandman #the sandman netflix #alex burgess #dream of the endless #because the brainrot lingers and yeah #featuring the vibes of that scene of dream and alex reaching out for each other

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that-one-scorpia-kinnie · 2 years

Text

Breaking Barriers (Entrapta x Grieving!reader)

Synopsis: Entrapta doesn’t understand human emotions very well. It’s not that she doesn’t feel emotions. Of course, there had been times where she herself felt grief, but couldn’t really identify those heavy, unpleasant emotions. So to see it in others was fascinating to her, but it also saddened her at the same time. And this was no exception when she saw you, her best friend, go through one of the hardest times someone can go through; loss.

-Days had passed by since you had spent time with Entrapta. The pain and grief of losing a loved one had consumed you, locked you up in your bedroom, left endless tears staining your pillow when you lay in bed at night. Your head was just so heavy, with tiredness and thoughts of your loved one repeating over and over in your head like a broken video cassette. It felt like torture.

-This was until a few days later, realisation hit you. It seemed like you had entered an incoherent realm where time seemed non-existent. You had not spoken to Entrapta, or anyone for that matter, in days, and it struck guilt inside you. Gathering up the little mental energy you could muster up, you got up and decided to go and pay her a visit. Yes, your hair was unkempt and you had dark circles under your eyes, but you missed Entrapta. You NEEDED to visit her.

-Due to your absence, Entrapta began to feel very lonely without you. She had attempted to distract herself by hyper-focusing on her bots, but the feeling of you not being there still lingered. So when you arrived in Dryl, she was already too fixated on her technological research, however Emily noticed you and beeped to get Entrapta’s attention. And when the purple-haired princess looked up she was so very happy to see you, albeit she was too fixated on her bots to look up for too long at the moment. And as per usual, she began talking about her discoveries.

-Now you knew that Entrapta could go on for hours about her scientific and technological discoveries, and normally you would love to listen and smile on while she did, but today was different. You HAD to talk to her, tell her about the loss you had gone through a couple of days ago, and the sheer heartache you felt. After a couple of attempts of trying to get a word in edgeways, you finally got her attention.

-“Entrapta, can I please talk to you...?” You spoke, your voice shaky and slightly hoarse. Hearing your voice, Entrapta stopped speaking and finally lifted her mask up to look up at you properly. She noticed you didn’t seem like yourself at all, you just looked so gloomy and tearful, and it concerned her.

-”(Y/n), what’s wrong?” the purple haired princess queried, as she was sad to see you like this. However she didn’t quite know what to do, as she didn’t have much experience with people. You quietly told her that your loved one died which is why you hadn’t visited in so long.

-Entrapta was very sad to hear this, but again, she didn’t quite know what to do. However, when more tears spilled down your cheeks when you mentioned your loved one, she tried her best to comfort you through putting her hair-arm around you, and you knew that she was trying her best.

-Later on, she did scientific research on the psychology behind grief, as well as observing you and the ways you dealt with grief, and soon enough, she knew exactly what to do. Despite her misunderstanding of social cues, she made a mental list of ways to help you, as she loves you, and doesn’t like seeing you sad. She wants to see the happy you, as seeing you happy made her happy.

-So the next day, Entrapta set off to find you and put this hypothesis into action. She also brought with her a tiny treat to give you. Eventually, she found you, wrapped up in your loved one’s old jacket, sobbing into it. You didn’t even notice the short princess sit down with you until she gently tapped you on the shoulder with her hair.

-Startled by this sudden touch, you gasped softly and looked up from the jacket to see, albeit through tear-blurry eyes, Entrapta sitting cross-legged in front of you.

-"H-hi, Entrapta..."

-”Hello! Um..." she fiddled with her fingers whilst she mentally conjured up what she was going to say. "I’m not very good with understanding people, but it makes me sad to see you like this so I want to be here for you."

-Hearing the genuineness and concern in her voice caused even more tears to form in your eyes. You could barely tell if the tears that were welling up now were still from the harsh pain of losing your loved one, or from the sweet love you held in your heart for this lilac-haired science lady. However, seeing you begin weeping again confused Entrapta. Had she made you feel worse? Had her hypothesis been a failure?

-Overcome with emotions, you reached out and wrapped your arms around Entrapta, engulfing her in a hug. "Th-thank you..." you muttered, feeling all choked up again. The purple haired princess exhaled a small sigh of relief, knowing that she hadn't further upset you.

-The next couple of weeks were hard, as waves of sadness which felt like tsunamis constantly hit you. But through it all, Entrapta sheltered you from the force of such sorrow, like she was holding a colossal umbrella over you. While she still loved to talk about her scientific discoveries, if you needed to talk about your loved one, she will stop, sit beside you and listen to you shed stories and happy memories of your loved one, Emily beeping softly at the other side of you, as though to provide words of comfort.

-There were times where you would cry randomly, usually when thinking about or talking about your loved one, and when this happened, Entrapta would be at your side immediately, at first handing you tissues, before wrapping you in a big ol' hug (and her hair would do the same).

-The princess may be small, but her hugs meant so much to you, considering she was somewhat of a stranger when it comes to physical affection. But ever since she had met you, she felt a strong desire to give you affection, but she didn't know quite how to do it until recently.

-But time heals, and slowly but surely, things started to become brighter for you, like seeing the sunshine reveal itself after a big thunderstorm. And when you started to feel better, so did Entrapta, as the happy you is the you that she loves to see. While she may not be the best at reading social cues or peoples' emotions, she was truly trying her best, and it made her happy to know that she was breaking the barriers that once inhibited her from doing so.

-So, even though your grief was still there, it now seemed like a ghost (pun not intended) of what it was these past few weeks gone by. And knowing that Entrapta was by your side through all of it made you feel a lot less alone. She cares about you, and always will.

#she ra #she ra netflix #spop #spop netflix #she ra entrapta #spop entrapta #entrapta #entrapta x reader #entrapta x you #she ra fanfic #spop fanfic

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hobidreams · 4 years

Text

november 1869.

to remember what has been lost; to protect what still remains.

pairing: joseon king!yoongi x reader genre: drama. words: 2.4k contains: descriptions of blood/death, a reckoning.

moonlit throne index. this is drabble 26. start from the beginning?

Before Queen Jeonghui’s tomb, you stand with hands bowed in reverence, mind laden with warm memories as sticks of incense burn above your fingertips.

“We all miss you, daebi-mama. I hope you are resting well,” you murmur, letting the smoke mingle with your breath in the air as you bow, deeply. “Happy birthday.”

A little ways away, the single guard that accompanies you is also offering his thoughts to the raised, grassy mound that the queen lies beneath. You’re glad it’s Myungho to come with you today. He’s a good man, one who allows you as much freedom as possible. He understands your need to escape sometimes. Nearby, the horses you rode here are grazing on the field, quietly snorting as their tails swish from side to side.

As you look upon the tomb, you wonder wistfully if mother has found the queen in the spirit world. If they’re playing the game of janggi they so loved in life, when both could find the rare time to continue their decade-long (friendly) rivalry while indulging in cups of strong, dark tea. The thought brings a smile to your face even as fresh tears fall at the remembrance.

In your peripheral vision, you see a swish of fabric, the sign of someone approaching. You give one last bow and slot your incense in the traditional tray, realizing it must be time to leave before it gets too cold and your limbs begin to freeze even under the layers of clothes. You must go back eventually, you know it, but that doesn’t make it easier.

But when you turn, the man that stands beside you wears royal robes — the scarlet fabric and golden dragons unmistakable.

“Jeonha?”

The king’s face holds only sorrow as he holds matching incense in his hands. Staring straight ahead, he bends into a bow, dipping his head repeatedly low, low, lower until he’s almost on the dying, waterlogged grass with it, the lit grey tips flickering in the wind as they are nearly doused from the force of his movements. He bites his lip hard, so hard he draws blood as he punishes his own legs with the bows but he doesn’t stop.

You watch him with emotion clinging to your throat, but you swallow the questions you want to ask as you swipe at your wet cheeks. Why are you here? Why did you change your mind? How are you? Are you okay? All these impertinent questions are for you, to satisfy your own curiosity, and that’s not what he needs right now.

Quietly, steadily, you wait until he has finally stuck in the incense in the memorial ash. You wait until he opens his eyes, red-rimmed as they are, and finds your gaze.

“I… decided at the last moment,” he murmurs. “You… were right. I had to see her.”

You nod. Think you understand everything else he means as well, even if he’s left it unspoken. “Me too.”

“She would have liked that you’re here.”

That simple sentence threatens another wave of nostalgia and longing. You let it pull you under. Sink yourself into it. The mourning, the grief. And the love. The love that was there. The love that still remains, the traces of it held in you both. Your fingers twitch with a sudden, daring want to take his hand. To meet your palms and find the warmth and the life pulse that beats so closely, so resolutely just beneath the surface despite all this pain and all this loss. If you could just reach out. If you could just take another risk…

“Jeonha, run!”

The scream comes from the hill behind you. You both whirl.

The head of the royal guard comes running over with his sword drawn. His teeth are grit, hair blown from the wind that sweeps through the grass, rippling. His blade is already stained with a color that makes your stomach lurch at the implication.

“Hoseok— What’s going on?” The king yells back.

“Rebels! An ambush. We don’t have enough men!”

These few seconds are all the warning you get.

An incredible roar of voices comes exploding up and then you see them. The thick crowd of men that come surging over the hill, fighting their way towards you. The unforgettable clatter of metal on metal desecrates this once-sacred ground. Your legs go soft as you panic, scrambling. You’re trying not to watch as guards and rebels alike are cut down, but the enemies are steadily advancing still. What should you do? Where should you go?

“Myungho, get the horses!” The king barks out. But one look at the steeds tells you that they’re frightened, rearing back as men descend upon them. They’re off, running away on instinct to preserve their own lives while damning yours.

“Jeonha, what are your orders?” Myungho’s grip on his weapon is tight.

“Go. Help Hoseok.”

“Yes, jeonha!”

But as the battle wears on, the dread in you only grows. The king’s men are skilled, but it seems there were only a few to begin with. They are overwhelmed by sheer numbers, yelling for jeonha to escape but he doesn’t move. You don’t know what to do. You are at a complete loss, standing beside him with fingers growing steadily numb. You have to do something. You— You can’t just let it end here, at the hands of these men bellowing with violence and anger and pain.

“Jeonha, w-we have to run,” you stutter, forcing yourself to move, tugging at the fabric of his robes. But when you look back at the opposite side, your only escape route, a throng of rebels come scattering across the grass. Cutting you off; rendering you helpless.

“Myungho, cover the rear!” Hoseok spits out as he takes down another three by himself, the quick whip of his blade reflecting a beam of sun. But even he, with two other guards in front, cannot hold all of them off, though there are less of the rebels now that remain standing.

Caught in the middle, you can only watch your allies strain and sweat. In your heart, you promise desperately that you heal them in the end, if only they will hold on now.

With an awful cry, one of the guards hits the ground and a rebel uses that chance. Breaks through the line of defense and charges right towards you both.

“Fuck the king!” He yells, his face smeared with dirt, his sword raised as his bare feet trip upon the grass but he just keeps coming somehow and you have no weapons and you have no shields but the very first instinct, the most primal one you have is to throw yourself in front of the king and take his pain for him and—

Hoseok dispatches the rebel from behind just as you move a single step forward.

“You…” The king’s voice is hoarse. His eyes are wide with shock as he stares at you, at what you just did. Then he’s shoving you aside and stooping to pick up the abandoned sword from the ground.

You realize what he means when he sweeps up his sleeves, adjusts his grip on the worn handle. “Wait, no, jeonha, you cannot—”

“Stay behind me.”

“I cannot allow you to—”

“Do not argue with me.”

Again, he leaves you with no choice but to watch his back.

Fear pounds away in your body like a thousand drums, thunder booming through the pulse of your clenched heart in your ears as the king takes a first brutal swing at an enemy. Somewhat out of practice against the towering man, he’s shoved back by the sheer force of the clash, feet skidding across the wet grass but he refuses to yield. Stubborn as he always is, he rushes in again only to be pushed back. Again.

The king tilts his blade, slices it quick only to have one sent right back at him, barely missing his shoulder by an inch. He doesn’t even flinch as he stands firm. Adapts in the moment and tries a new strategy, a new tactic that has him spinning, robes fluttering in the winter air as his shuddering breath comes out in a puff of white and ends in a fury of red. And again. And again until finally, finally, only the strongest of the rebels remain standing with the few allies you left, along with your brutal, bloodied king.

Before you, all the men are panting, open mouthed, every last one of them desperate for a victory that spells the doom of the other.

“Come on then,” the king goads, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in a show of nonchalance even though he’s obviously fatigued. “Attack.”

“You little shit!”

This man is enormous, easily a head above the king and he’s strong, muscles bulging from his torn tunic as he thrusts the sword ahead with surprising speed. The quick rush of air slices through two layers of robes, splitting the dirtied fabric open as the king narrowly escapes without a new scar. But his return stab doesn’t meet a mark and he’s slow on the rebound, steps lost some of the agility he had at the start.

Please. Please, you beg to whatever god may be listening, don’t let him die. But that rebel seems to have an endless strength as he forces the king back, meets him blow for blow for blow and you are so worried, terrified you’re going to see his last moments like this. Like this you will have been with him until the end just like you once stupidly wished. You’re so caught up you don’t realize what’s going on behind you.

“Su-uinyeo-nim! Watch out!” Myungho’s voice cracks as he cries your name, but you turn too slow. Myungho’s on the ground and the rebel that beat him is sprinting towards you, savagery in his scowl, his crude axe already suspended in mid-swing, just a few more steps, just one more shove to land right across your heart and you, you who has never held a weapon before in her life, you who has lived to heal and mend instead of hurt, what can you do right now but die?

“No!”

The scream is hoarse, a furious sound matched with a rush of robes that whip past your own.

You peel open your eyes in time to watch the king take the axe blow meant for you with his left arm. Despite his bark of pain, he swings with his right in exchange and it’s enough. The rebel falls, his axe plummeting uselessly beside him. Then the king falters too, sword clattering down as he finally drops to his knees.

“Jeonha!” You scramble to him. “Oh god, oh god, jeonha, why did you do that— Jeonha, how could you do such a thing? Jeonha!” You part the stained robes, stomach churning at the raw sight of his sacrifice. “We need to fetch you help. You need medicine, oh god, oh god.” This is panic like you’ve never felt it before as you look around, as if some miracle could occur, as if it hasn’t already occurred by the fact that you’re both still alive.

To one side, Hoseok is alone, gasping hard with the enormous rebel lying prone beside him, evidently having finished him off. Myungho has a gash running down his side, but he’s crawling towards you both still with a hand pressed to his wound for pressure. There is no one else. You have to do this on your own. You have to calm the hell down.

Using the nearby sword, you force yourself to focus and stop shaking as you cut strips of the inner layer of your skirt. You have to save his arm even as nausea swims in your mind, nerves making you want to empty your stomach.

“Hah...” The king’s chest lurches as he struggles for air. His eyes are hazy but he manages to fix them on you, as if to ground himself. “You’re… safe?”

Nodding frantically, you start to wrap the cloth around him, willing your fingers not to slip. “I-It’s deep, jeonha. Your wound is so deep.” You’re quietly sobbing as you tie the makeshift bandage to stop the worst of the bleeding. How could he be thinking of you at a time like this? It must hurt excruciatingly so, yet he is still trying to be strong.

Beside you, Hoseok is carrying Myungho’s weight, using the extra cloth to help his ally with his limited medical training.

“…Hoseok.” The king sucks in another long breath. “They… Those rebels were peasants, weren’t they?”

“Yes, jeonha… I think they were.”

He accepts this knowledge silently as you finish your preliminary treatment, but lack the resources to do anything else. You stare at the fresh red seeping through the flimsy cloth and hope desperately that it will be enough for now, until one of you can return to the palace and gather reinforcements to take you home. Feeling your fingers stop, he immediately tries to move his arm but winces, bites his lip at the sudden jolt.

“Don’t move, please,” you instantly say.

The king huffs a long, exhausted sigh as he sinks into the ground. Lets the tension seep out of him, though likely not by choice. His dark eyes flicker to the tomb briefly before they slide closed, the scar ever slashed startlingly crimson across the right side. Despite his best attempts, he is still winded, depleted. Human, after all. After all of this.

You brush matted strands of light hair away from his forehead, and pat at the drops of sweat that linger and prove how hard he pushed himself to fight. He shifts into your touch like a stray animal, allowing you take care of him for once without argument until his breaths even some, settling only in your arms.

“It seems it’s been a long time,” he says softly after a moment, his eyes remaining shut.

“Since?”

“Since I’ve protected someone.”

Your pulse catches. Blood thrums through you as you whisper, “but you did.” Your voice is viscous with relief, and gratitude. “You did.”

Only now do you dare to reach for his hand, to lend him some of your strength, even though you have seen again just how much of it he already holds in himself.

Wrapped in your warmth, he squeezes back just the once. Lets you know he is here, he is here, he is here with you still.

a/n: because i could never forget the way he wielded that sword in the mv. so... how you feel about our king now?

#ficswithluv #btsghostie #yoongi x reader #min yoongi #bts imagines #bts scenarios #bts angst #yoongi angst #historical au #moonlit throne #rain writes #things only continue to shift don't they?

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