#Since they can't fly in heavy constant rain

[ms-hells-bells]

His name is squilliam. Say hi squilliam.

[kookicat]

The Greater Good

He steps off the bus and into a fitful, spiteful rain that rolls down the back of his collar and soaks into his shirt with icy water. The bus stop is on the opposite side of town to where he needs to be, so he slings his duffle bag over his shoulder and starts walking, tugging his beanie low to keep the rain off as best he can. His bones know the route, and he's not expecting trouble for once, so he lets himself relax, drops the constant vigilance that was beaten into him by every bit of training he'd had since stepping on the bus out of the same town. It makes him feel naked, exposed, even though he knows there's no-one else about. The scratch and scrape of his boots on the path are the only sound apart from the rain dripping off the occasional tree. 

The thick stone walls and cast iron gate come into sight and his steady pace falters, because he's not ready for what's waiting for him on the other side. Seeing it will make it real, and there's a finality about that he can't avoid. His feet feel stuck to the rain dappled pavement, legs heavy like there's lead flying at him, and he heaves in a breath before he starts walking again, ignoring the shake that's slowly spreading through him. There's water on his face and he blames the rain, though that doesn't explain the way his eyes are burning. He blinks, gets in another choked breath, swiping his hand under his nose before he surveys the neat rows of shining white stones. The sight is like a fist to the gut, drives the air out of him and he has to close his eyes, lean against the wall for minutes-seconds-hours before he can fill his lungs properly again. His duffle drops to the floor with a thump and he leaves it there, because there's enough weighing him down already. 

The one he wants is at the end of the row, fresh flowers standing proud in the vase by the headstone. Oxeye daisies. Her favourite, he thinks, and bites his lip, hard on the little wounded sound that wants to escape. Oh, god, Mom. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. 

He blinks again, feeling the salty slip down his cheek and surrenders to it, dropping to his knees, one hand splayed on the headstone, the other dug into the thick grass like if he lets go he might just be swept away. Once the tears start, he can't get them to stop, feels like they're scouring him clean. There's a surrender in them and it feels like the first one in forever, after years spent building walls up, thick and strong and so solid nothing touched him. All the things he held at bay hit him and he yields to them, the scent of dry dusty air and cordite and blood cooking under the baking sun drifting through his mind like a vengeful spirit. 

I think you'd be ashamed of me now, Mom, he thinks and glances down at his hands, expecting them to be coated in thick and clotted red. They say we're keeping people safe, but some of the things we do… He shakes his head, draws a shaking hand over his face. Some of the things we do are wrong. 

It's the first time he's admitted it to himself, and a wave of disgusted relief passes through him. Maybe I'm not beyond redemption, he thinks, if I can still recognise that. 

The letters are cut into the stone in crisp, even lines and he traces them, traces the name that had always just been Mom to him. Remembers hugs scented with baking and perfume, a careful hand brushing out his hair, and tending his hurts. Remembers too, the look on her face when he stepped on the bus, bound for a job he felt called to do, because she'd seen the damage it did once and knew exactly how it would chew him up and spit him out. 

"Well I'm not out yet," he says, aloud, but quietly, because there's a hush about the place he's loath to disturb. "I'm sorry I wasn't here. I tried. God knows I tried, but they… well, there was a mission and…" he trails off, digs awkwardly in his damp jean pocket and pulls out the silver locket he'd picked up at a little market, on a dusty street, in a town whose name he can't recall. 

The ground is soft and he scrapes a shallow hole, dropping the necklace in. "I thought you'd like it - I was gonna-" his voice breaks and he stops, bowing his head and surrendering to the fresh wave of tears. His healing ribs ache, and he presses his hand against them, because that pain he knows how to deal with. "I'm sorry," he murmurs and closes his eyes, focusing on the push-pull of his breaths until his body settles. "I love you." 

"El, it's time to go," a voice says from the gate and he looks over, swallowing hard because someone cared enough to follow him. 

"Paul. You shouldn't have come," he grates out, and forces himself to his feet, wincing as the blood flows into his legs after so long kneeling. The other man crosses the space between them, deliberately bumping Eliot as he stops. 

"Please," Paul says. "You think being a medic is just sticking on the bits you idiots get blown off?" He fishes in his pocket and pulls out a dollar, placing it carefully on the stone. "Mrs. Spencer, you raised a smart boy, but he can be dumb at times." 

"Give me a minute?" Eliot asks, and Paul nods, already heading back to the gate. 

The words he wants to say won't come-they're churning inside of him like the storm that's passing by overhead. "Thank you. For everything. For seeing a baby no-one wanted an-," his voice breaks and he lets the words trail off, because he can't get a thing out past the lump in his throat. "Just thank you," he gets out at last, lifting his fingers to his lips and touching them to the stone in a silent kiss. 

It could be his imagination, but for a moment, the wind feels warm against his cheek as he turns away and walks to the gate, only turning as he reaches it. 

We wanted you, and I'll never be ashamed of you, son, he hears, but maybe it's just the wind and wishful thinking. 

The gate clunks closed behind him, and he can't help but take one last look back before he picks up his duffle and starts walking, knowing the greater good is always calling his name. 

[greenygreenland]

Promise: Norman x Fem!Reader

-idk why but i’m having such a hard time writing pt 3 of Dream a Little Dream of Me, so here’s this to compensate for now

-i normally write for fem reader, but if you really wanted to, you could switch the words around in your head

-AGED UP characters because that’s been a trend in my work, so I’ll keep it constant

-just getting rid of drafts that have been sitting around for months

BRIEF MANGA SPOILERS, READ AT OWN RISK

Summary: Period cramps suck, and so does feeling burnt out and exhausted. Luckily, someone has just the remedy for you. This is after you all reach the Other Side. Emma is still missing.

Everything hurt--from your head to your shoulders to your knees and your toes. It was like someone flipped a switch. The other day, you were fine and dandy. There wasn’t a thing that could have swept you off your feet no matter how powerful the gust of wind. You were on top of the world.

Then your period started and you woke up with cramps that left you glued to the couch. It rained the day after, and when you dragged yourself out of bed to finish some work, you found that you just couldn’t. 

An invisible rope tethered you to the ground, and the fact that it was so heavy made your head spin. Am I good enough to complete this? Will I have enough time?

Your stomach ached and your head pounded. 

I can do this. I can do this.

I can’t do this. I can’t do this.

But why couldn’t you do it? The outlines for your essays and papers were long completed, and it wasn’t like you didn’t spread it evenly throughout the week. You always stuck to the schedule. To the last letter. To the absolute ‘t’. It was all you could do to remind yourself you had control over your unpredictable life. Yet now, why was it so hard to finish the job?

The cramps absolutely massacring your poor abdomen seemed to increase by ten fold, and the gentle sun shining through your window intensified into a raging fire.

The due date was five days from now. It seemed like a while away, but you knew it wasn't. That would fly by in a flash and leave you in the dust. If there was one thing that you took to heart from Mama, then it had to be the fact that time was precious. Without paying close attention to it, then you would surely go tumbling down a hill.

"(Y/n)?"

You buried your head in your hands miserably. "I can't do this. My stomach hurts so much and I can't focus", was what you wanted to say. Instead, it came out in a muffled groan of pain. “I...can’t...”

Norman waltzed over to your desk. His gentle hands settled around your slumped shoulders, encasing them in a much-needed warmth. You heaved out a long breath, sluggishly peeking out of your arms to get a good look at Norman's handsome face. He smiled lovingly and your knitted brows eased just a little.

"What do you need me to do?" he softly inquired. "I know it's that time." You huffed in thought, a weak smile twitching upon your lips. Of course Norman knew you had your period. He was always on top of his game. Always.

"So, do you need anything, love?" Norman patiently repeated. You stared into his bright eyes and melted. Calm. Caring. Sweet. Kind. That had to be one of your favourite things about him. He always had eyes that said what you wanted to hear. Whether it be, 'I love you' to 'I'm here', Norman always seemed to know what you needed.

This time was no different.

"You."

"Hm?"

"I want you."

Norman smiled and it was like the sun at Golden Hour. He took you by the hand and helped you over to your shared bed. A heavy sigh left your lips as soon as your back hit the soft bed. Norman placed a hand on your shoulder and tucked you in with him. "What's wrong?"

You shrugged.

"Hungry?"

You shook your head.

"Tired?"

You shook your head again.

Norman hummed to himself in thought. Papers lay on you desk, scattered in a mix of opened folders and half-baked diagrams. The unsharpened pencil perched at the edge of your desk centimeters from an immediate pit-fall to the waste bin. It wasn’t like you to leave everything laying about. Mama brought you up in the best way possible. She taught you that being neat and tidy were one of the most important things to do since it helped promote focus and calmness.

You weren’t one to let yourself slip like that, unless something were really bothering you. Norman’s gaze fell on your computer screen. It glowed brightly, slowly falling silent until the screen faded.

ELA ESSAY DUE MONDAY

The computer fell fast asleep, "Essay?" Norman echoed. You nodded and he pulled you close to his chest. College wasn’t easy when you couldn’t focus. Sometimes, Norman found himself dozing off. He worked just as much as you so that no one would have to borrow money from the Ratri Clan. It was a necessary sacrifice you both agreed on so no one else would have to suffer the horrors of high school and college combined.

It wasn’t that any of it was too hard, just that it was a lot of work.

After you both graduated, you’d make your own company, and from there, make a lot of money to support everyone.

"I'm guessing you're feeling burnt out.” Norman said. “You're almost done with the essay, but you haven't touched it since last night." He ran a hand through your hair. "And since your period came yesterday, you're not feeling too well. Do you want anything to drink?"

You muttered out a small no and Norman pursed his lips. He didn't know what to do because there wasn't much to do. Your stomach hurt, yes, that was bad, but he didn't know how to make you feel better when you probably weren't going to swallow pills without choking. Tea would help, but with the way you weren't moving, it would be impossible to drink.

"I wish I could help more." Norman muttered. "Maybe I should call Ray..."

You shook your head. "It's okay. Can you...keep talking?"

Norman's brows shot up. Of course! Talking would help you forget about your cramps and worries. Either that or you'd fall asleep! Perfect. Why didn’t he think of that?

"Have you read the book The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings?”

You shook your head. Back at the House, The Hobbit and The Lord of The Rings were nothing more than those small books tucked away in the farthest reaches of the library. They were dusty old things, so you never bothered with them. It didn’t matter how bored you were of reading the same five books over and over again, those books were simply too dusty.

You recalled the time Ray playfully kicked at you. He told you to go away and stop complaining. Of course, you didn’t listen, and went on about how you hated (book).

“In those books, there are descriptions of this place called Hobbiton.” Norman spoke like he was reading a story. The way his voice flowed like water eased your nerves, reminded you that the present existed.

All you needed was a breather.

“Now,” Norman continued, “Hobbiton isn’t just a village or town. It’s a place where Hobbits live in holes in the ground. But these aren’t cold and dark. They’re cozy, with rounded doors and grass as green as an apple. Hobbits eat more than us, so they have different names for their meals. They’re mostly friendly people, and they’re open to tea time if you’re welcome in their homes. I heard that the movies were filmed in New Zealand. I’ll take you there on vacation, and we’ll bring Emma and Ray along too.”

You smiled against Norman’s chest. You wouldn’t like that, you’d love it. After staring at the same worksheets and papers, you needed a change of scenery. Somewhere far from here, just to get a breath of fresh air.

“Yeah.” you quietly said. “I’d love that.” Norman smiled and it was like an early birthday present. “When we find Emma, we’ll go to New Zealand and sightsee. We’ll see new places, and take lots of photos.” Norman stared at the peaceful look on your face. He pecked your cheek. “I promise.”