#and my dreams have been getting really vivid lately and i hallucinated the other morning which could be related or unrelated to what happen

[fuckingarataswespeak]

I'm so scared of losing my friends

[olde-scratch]

So I watched LUCIDS 1-4 without any prior knowledge...

and here were my thoughts. I didn’t watch any backstory or anything so enjoy my suffering.

PART 1

“So what happens when the people inside of their dreams go to sleep?” They die

“What happens when we wake up? Do they go on living while we’re not there?” THEY DIE-

“Who are they anyway?” they’re faces that our brain catalogs and stores for later use, although it’s also arguable that every time we dream we go to an alternate reality and inhabit the body of another version of ourselves. Now, were you in a car accident and trapped underwater or-

Are they twins?

(Me tuning out to do something)

“-the squirrel in spongebob was your soulmate, making you a Sandy simp-”

Me, snapping back to the video: hold up-

[missed the part about the worksheet, realized it when i rewatched 10 mins later to make this post]

yall speakin gibberish idk what youre saying-

“I’m gonna go to bed.” bro it literally looks like morning-

“You should get some sleep you look terrible.” i get six hours of sleep a night minimum and i look worse than him shut up bro-

“jump into someone else’s dream” ah i know this con-

why they all got the same face-

haha funni meme

“--an interruptiion can create feedback and tear them apart.” Death. I long for thee.

Is that Karl Jacob’s jacket?

“a second grader” makes me think this is a different school system. [i was wrong? i think?]

“[get him to] eat your apple”

[in the dream sequence] weird dream, but ive had weirder. now, Why Pamper’s-

why does he suddenly have a knife-

“You put a filter on the Dreamscape feed?”

“Technically, you are seven years old.”

???????????

the second hand embarrassment is UGGGHHH

[reading the description] you mean like the guy who was knocked out for 2 minutes on a football field and woke to find he’d dreamt 17 years of his life? oh this shall be Fun

PART 2

[I check the description] “jasper cult” what the fu-

how many camp camp references can i make during this

Is the apple a reference to religion or does the creator just really ilke apples?

“meal.”

“meal?”

meal????

Wait why couldn’t that guy eat the apple? If he wanted it in the fruit bowl, wouldn’t there be a chance of the guy eating it anyways?? Why can’t the guy who brought the apple eat it?

well he’s Dead

[debating if I should read the backstory}

n a h h h h h -

Was he gonna feed the dead guy the apple or something? Why is he upset about the apple in this scene???

oooo the grownups are fightinnnngggg

Is he an antagonist?

HE WROTE A BOOK???

oh now i want food

ESTABLISH JUSTICE ENSURE DOMESTIC TRANQUILITYYYYYYYYYYYYY

“I watched all those aforementioned shows” what shows did i miss something what-

man why you gotta hate on her jane austen fanfic let her live bro

string theory! i can get behind that! sorta-

o no he found the memes-

BOY GOT KNOCKED OUT-

kim there’s people that are dying-

is SHE an antagonist?

quinn? calling himself jasper? u sure hes not just nonbinary? is this just a metaphor for transphobic parenting?

“He died... but somewhere, he grew up.” So is your plan to take a Quinn from a different universe and make him your own, thereby robbing another version of yourself from happiness? When does this ever go well?

Yknow most people, when they lose a kid,,,, kinda,,,,,,, dont go on a ceaseless quest to find another version of their kid that grew up without knowing that another version of his mother was invading other peoples’ dreams to find and kidnap him,,,,,,,, like aint u got a therapist-

“Once you get past the point of not knowing what’s real anymore, you realize it doesn’t matter.” Well, I Got Called Out-

PART 3

“you’re real, oliver.”

aRe yOu sUrE aBoUt tHaT-

“you’ve been infected by the anti-love parasite of Mandadon” the amatonormativity is strong

so anyways ive been infected since birth hbu-

“James Jasperson, creator of Japple” did you mean to Fancy Well-Educated Man in a Black Turtleneck? cause the only FWEMBT i allow near me is prof. hidgens

“are you winning?” says the capitalist

why did you rewind to see his face?? you have the same face????? is this just bc the creator doesnt like working with other people cause in that case same but???????

“it’s a bad idea. i’m not gonna do it.” we’ve all been there. and we’ve all done it.

looks like me trying to study. (i say, a person who has studied a total of five minutes throughout their entire life.)

your “Spartan trial” looks like a bunch of guys standing on a hill pretending to be something they’re not. Let The Man Bring His Snacks.

eat the apple.

is this your first existential crisis or something what a loser lets all point and laugh

“One of you should be spared, the other shall’nt.” did you mean shant or was that a choice-

yall gonna get called out for talking shut UP

“sorry if this is too personal, btw. are you okay?”

me, confused and half understanding what’s going on and also needing to sleep cause its almost one in the morning but wanting to finish what i can find of lucids which i only starting watching cause i saw an animatic of ranboo and dream w audio from it: i don’t know anymore

“i just want my life back... i was gonna get married-” AREN’T YOU LIKE SEVEN-

ay man if this is a sacrificial cult yall gotta get daniel-

UPDATE: I  H A V E  N O T  F O U N D  I T -

“oliver”

I  F O U N D   I  T -

WHICH ONE IS QUINN?? WHO’S JASPER???? WHICH ONE IS BENJAMIN???? I THOUGH BENJAMIN WAS SEVEN BUT I THOUGHT HE WAS THE ONE GETTING MARRIED WHAT-

oliver. eat the apple.

“Can you still have memories even when you’re dreaming?” One time I woke up to my alarm and fell back asleep and in my dream I remembered that I had class in a few minutes and my dream self woke my real self up so fast I thought I was gonna get whiplash. Anyways, I was late to class bc of my computer but that doesn’t matter.

NOPE I FOUND IT. HERE’S THE AUDIO. THE ANIMATIC ONE. FINALLY.

im thinking car crash. but also maybe murder. but also maybe both? is it raining or was he drowning? is he in a coma? hmmmmmm?

wait olivers the one with the apple does that mean he’s the one dreaming? is the ending gonna be him and jasper (quinn? idk) fighting against ben and mrs hills about jasper eating the apple to save oliver from the dream? hmmmmmmmmmm-

waitwaitwait i thought oliver was 7 how is benjamin 7 years younger than him if they look the same age what what what explain america explain what you mean arkansaw-

are the cuts on his nose plot-relevant or

“What if you hadn’t been driving?” So I was right about the car accident but Mrs. Hills still said he was seven so did i mishear her say that BENJAMIN was seven? but even then oliver would be 14 and that would still be illegal-

“How are you feeling?”

“Like you’re a pretty bad therapist.”

mood

“--it makes it all bearable to have power over the stories we write in our heads” that’s why i write fanfiction

HE’S GOT THE NOTEBOOK HE’S GONNA WRITE SOMETHING ONE OF US ONE OF US ONE OF US

WHAT YOU MEAN AN EXPERIMENT THAT’S HIS NAME-

[upon reading the description] so i was right.

wait was that supposed to be the twist in part 2 about the apple in his pocket is that what the existential crisis was about i thought it was because he was introduced to the multiple worlds theory-

PART 4

wait wasnt the other one january 2018 why we going back to 2017-

appol

“--the future and the past all already exist” mhm yep figured this out long ago

there was simultaneously a point in time in which i hadn’t known about this, had been looking it up, had been watching it, and had been writing an ending to this post, and had been posting it the next morning before class. that time is both now and not now. Welcome To The Multiverse Theory or whatever its called-

“--my favorite scene of the movie is waking up next to you.” Mine is eating fast food as I listen to AJJ and play Minecraft. We are not the same.

Now I’m hungry but it’s 1 in the morning and i already put my retainer in god fu-

[reading description] what do you mean previously??? she did that in the first episode????????

[still on description] WHAT DO YOU MEAN WILL QUINN BITE THE APPLE AND GO TO BENJAMINS REALITY ISNT THIS OLIVERS REALITY AND HE HAS TO GET BEN TO BITE THE APPLE WHY IS APPLE CAPITALIZED IS THIS THE DOING OF THE FWEMBT

i should have watched the backstory i should have watched the backstory i should have watched the backstory i should have wa-

[description] oh ive been spelling quinn right the whole time nice

i hope she rejects you /j

WAIT BENJAMIN WAS THE ONE GETTING MARRIED TO ISABELLE

ISNT HE IN SECOND GRADE-

HE IS SEVEN YEARS OLD HOW IS HE GETTING MARRIED ARE THERE TWO BENJAMINS THAT WE’RE FOCUSING ON-

bro get out of the road ull get hit

how do you knOW WHICH ONE IS QUINN THEY ARE THE SAME PERSON-

so

wait

hills wants ben to feed quinn the apple bc in his mind, that will give hills and quinn a happy ending and she doesnt want ben to see the apple bc thats gonna mean ben will know that his reality isnt reality at all. so then oliver has to,,,, not let anyone eat his apple? he just has to wake up?

IS HILLS THE VILLAIN AFTER ALL ORRRRR

wait but if ben sees the apple wont he realize that his reality is wrong and his reality will change, making it so that hills doesnt get her son? or is there some time-based rule that says they’re only transported to the reality that the person believes at that moment? or is this another stab at the multiverse thing where an infinite amount of hills gets their happy endings while an infinite amount of hills doesnt and etc etc?

i should have watched the ba-

oooo dramatique

they’re in a time loop?

nope thats a new powerpoint

wait so theyre,,,, no-

wait-

nvm-

IS THE BEN WE KNOW AN ADULT GETTING MARRIED TO ISABELLE OR NOT-

“they were actually pretty nice” didnt they throw someone off a cliff-

oh so it got confusing THEN??? NOT BEFORE?????

“it all seemed so real.” is that Not the point of vivid REM sleep hallucinations-

is oliver gonna show ben the apple and ruin hills’ whole operation

WHO ARE ALEX AND RYAN-

“what’s 25-8″ bro dont do this to me-

yep hes gonna show the apple

ayyy the guy who stole karl jacobs jacket it back

the second hand embarrassment is back and I Hate It

all that happens in episode ONE??? bro get some better writers that is bad pacing

“it’s the best!” wait until season eight. no show has a good season eight.

quinn knows about the apple thing w the dreams and multiverse and realities dont he

YOU KILLED HIM

NOT KARL JACOBS NOOOOO HES ALREADY DIED ONCE

oliver is v relatable

wHaT iN tArNaTiOn-

lemme hear that explanaton again-

is bill cipher gonna show up? i hope bill cipher shows up. i miss gravity falls

“ah! a tree! ah! a tree! ah a tree!” moooooooood

did hills murder quinn

is your family the jasper cult

TOXXIICCCCCC get that lady out of your life quinn that is so toxic

“ ah! a tree! ah! a tree! ah a tree!  ah! a tree! ah! a tree! ah a tree!” mooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooood

WHAT DO YOU MEAN THAT’S THE END NO WHAT WHY NO

The Adventures of Benjamin and Oliver

he is Not Good

ope-

wait so ben is equal parts an adult AND a child?? okay that clears a lot up

I MEAN HE WAS RIGHT THO BEN U CAN’T REALLY ARGUE ON THAT-

ew get off the floor

butterfly effect, multiverse theory, memory decay, and your imagination ALL exist yall gonna ignore that cause you wanna be famous?

“We already know what the future looks like!”

aRe yOu sUrE aBoUt tHaT-

to add to the list of bad things: Cats (2019)

YA BOI THINKS IT’S NOT ALREADY FIFTY YEARS TOO LATE TO START FIGHTING CLIMATE CHANGE FFFFF

BINGO BABYYYY

get what what

what mapped-

awwwww he thinks THEY’RE creating the multiverse

you gonna dismiss the multiverse theory bc of something you created in your current reality? loooserrrrrr

ABUSE YOUR GODLIKE POWERS

she draggin that seven year old

a lot makes sense now why didnt i do this first-

Jasper

the food shortages-

bro that calculators like 90 bucks at walmart

imagine meeting a stranger and they know Everything about your life like that’s gotta be so weird

what’s even weirder is them telling you you’re the deity of a cult that sacrifices animals

THAT FOURTH WALL BREAK WAS-

KARL JACOBS IS DEAD NOOOOOO

ooohhh there’s context for that

OOOOHHHH THERE’S CONTEXT FOR THIS TOOOO

w h a t -

w  h  a  t  -

W   H   A   T   -

Conclusion:

it’s 2 in the morning and i need sleep but hOOOOO MY GODS THAT WAS GOOD IS IT OVER OR NOT IDK ANYMORE IM TIRED THAT WAS CRAZY I HOPE QUINN AND JASPER GO ON TO BE VERY GOOD FRIENDS, AND I HOPE BENJAMIN AND OLIVER STAY VERY GOOD FRIENDS AND I HOPE HILLS FINDS A THERAPIST WAS A LITTLE CONFUSING BUT I ENJOYED IT

if i dream about apples im suing /j /lh

[haberdashing]

open your eyes (i see your eyes are open) (2/?)

Jon, faced with being the last one left in a dying world, sends his memories back in time to someone who might be able to fix things before the worst can happen.

Sasha James, for her part, is very confused.

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2

on AO3

The night before had been ordinary enough, the only quirk being that Tim had used it being the Friday marking the end of their first week in the Archives as an excuse to invite Sasha out to the pubs that night, as opposed to any of the other excuses he always managed to find to do the same.

Sasha’s head was pounding from the beginning of a hangover, though it was early enough in the morning (and her drinking had ended late enough at night) that she could still feel the tail end of her drunkenness in her system, a few drops of alcohol still sluggishly coursing through her veins.

The memories that filled her head now weren’t a mere drunken vision, though, Sasha knew that much.

It was a bizarre feeling, seeing the world through another person’s eyes, another person’s memories. Seeing herself through Jon’s eyes might have been worse still, but Sasha was spared that particular awkwardness... if only by having her place in all of his memories taken up by somebody else entirely, which was just as awkward in a different way that Sasha wasn’t sure she actually preferred.

A small part of Sasha wondered dimly why now, why her, but most of her mind was focused instead on analyzing the treasure trove of future memories that now lay before her.

This wasn’t a dream, a vision, a hallucination. The details were too clear, too specific, too vivid. This was real. This was supernatural, and this was real.

...Sasha wasn’t so sure anymore that her pounding headache was anything so simple as a mere hangover.

She groaned a little as she sat up, taking in her surroundings. They hadn’t changed since the night before, of course, even though Sasha had. She’d ended up getting a little too drunk accidentally-on-purpose and spending the night at Tim’s flat, on the couch that was probably beginning to form an outline of her prone body on it after all this time. (Tim would’ve let her have the bed if she asked, but Sasha didn’t dare; that’d mean either inconveniencing Tim or sharing the bed with him and neither were palatable options for her, not when she hated the idea of imposing on others, not when their friendship was still being rebuilt from the last time they’d been in a bed together.)

It was early still, too early, and part of Sasha wanted nothing more than to curl up in the haphazard pile of blankets Tim had assembled for her and go back to sleep, but she knew that would be a lost cause. Her thoughts were moving a mile a minute now, ideas flowing quickly and steadily even as Sasha stared blearily out at Tim’s living room, and her mind showed no signs of slowing any time soon.

(Unless she encountered a certain web-covered table, perhaps...)

What was she going to do with all this information? Where should she start? How much of the worst of it could she prevent from happening all over again?

Sasha was just grabbing a notebook out of her bag to jot some initial thoughts down when she heard footsteps coming her way, looked up to see Tim entering the room.

“You’re up early.” Tim’s face was covered in a grin, but his eyes told a different story, bleary and glossed over, though he still didn’t look as bad as Sasha felt.

One benefit to being up earlier than her usual, Sasha supposed: Tim was always a morning person, something she could never quite understand, so she’d have someone else to bounce ideas off of, someone who was probably more awake than she’d managed to become so far.

“I am, aren’t I?” Sasha cracked a smile as best she could manage.

“What’s the story, morning glory?”

Sasha hesitated for a moment, biting her lip before finally speaking up. “Can I tell you something weird, something that might sound crazy?”

Tim blinked a few times, and the bleariness faded from his eyes, leaving only that strange early morning energy of his. “Of course. It’d only be fair, right?”

“...right.”

Neither of them mentioned Danny’s name. Neither of them needed to. The grim story lingered over them just the same.

Sasha considered her words carefully. She trusted Tim with the truth, would trust him with her life, but... but she wanted to make sure too much didn’t get out too fast, that her efforts to prevent the end of the world weren’t ruined before they could begin, and even speaking everything aloud here and now wasn’t entirely safe.

Tim sat down on the couch next to Sasha, her scooting over to make room for him as she lay there, planning out her next move.

“I just got hit with this weird wave of... information, I guess? Just this knowledge pouring into my head about the Archives, the Institute, the supernatural in general. And most of it’s not good. We’re really in over our heads here.”

“...you’re not just talking about how Jon doesn’t know the first thing about archiving, are you.” A statement, not a question.

Sasha snorted. “No, though I suppose that bit doesn’t help any. But it’s so much bigger than that. All these things out to get us, ways loads of people could die along the way... I saw a way you could die, Tim.”

Sasha watched Tim’s reaction to that news carefully. He didn’t look happy about it, which Sasha supposed was a good thing, but he didn’t look especially surprised, either. His eyes were dark and hard to read.

“But you’re going to fix it, right? Make sure nothing too bad happens?”

“I’m damn well going to try.” Sasha leaned her head, filled with sleep-time fog and racing thoughts and far too much knowledge now, against Tim’s shoulder; it was firm and warm and comfortable against her cheek. “But I don’t know how much I can do, or even where I should start.”

“I’m sure that big brain of yours will figure out some master plan soon enough.” Tim turned his body a bit, and Sasha adjusted her position in turn to match. “Especially if I have anything to say about it.”

“I think- no, I know I could use the help.” Sasha rested her hand on top of Tim’s. “It means a lot, really, not being alone in figuring it all out.”

“Of course.” Tim squirmed in his seat a bit, and Sasha lifted her head, not wanting to bother repositioning it yet again--where did he get all that energy so early in the morning? “Want me to start making breakfast while you think it all through?”

Sasha’s laugh was shaky but clear just the same. “That’d be lovely.”

[shiftysdogtags]

I Knew You

I based this off Taylor Swifts song ‘cardigan’. When i heard the song i immediately thought Joe Liebgott and i seen this story play out and i knew i had to write it. I’m not 100% happy with it and i know no one asked for it but here it is anyway.

Warnings: passing mentions of drinking and being drunk. Slight swearing. Also my terrible writting✌🏻

If you listen closely you can hear my heart breaking in the distance. And a big thank you to @hellitwasyoufirstsergeant for the teddy bear idea and the title.

Taglist: @hellitwasyoufirstsergeant @floydtab

Headcanons and ships for the pacific and band of brothers are open

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I knew you

Dancin’ in your Levi’s

Drunk under a streetlight

Joe didn’t let many people get too close to him. Very few people knew the real him, they just seen the person he wanted them to see. He was soft and delicate. Not delicate like a flower, delicate like a grenade with the pin removed. One wrong move and he could blow up. It was because of this people avoided him. He was blunt and rough around the edges. Maybe he was standoffish too, but he was my Joe and nobody knew him better than i did.

“Joe, get off the street” i tried pulling him onto the path.

I would love for Joe to show people this side of him, slightly drunk and giddy. He was swinging from a street lamp and dodging cars that tried to beep him out of the way. Although i tried to be serious, the more he swung around the dizzier he became, making me laugh. All i had to do was pull him twenty feet to the right and he would be inside my house and safe.

Joe stumbled in my direction and pulled on my hand “Dance with me, Doll”

No matter how much i objected and stated that i had two left feet he persisted. It wasn’t dancing exactly but the way he held my hand gave me butterflies. The sound of his laugh when he threw his head back was enough to put me in a trance and i swore if that was the last sound i ever heard it wouldn’t ask for anything more.

Joe made me feel careless and brave. With him my by side i was afraid of nothing, as if i could do anything i dreamed of. I found fearlessness somewhere in side of me and it was all thanks to him.

It wasn’t until he spun me i realised i was also tipsy. Slightly light headed, he pulled me to his chest with a kiss to my temple. A car stopped, catching us in the headlights and i decided it was time to go inside. Trying to pull Joe towards the house again he stumbled over his feet but, i somehow managed to get him to the spare room and into bed.

He was almost half asleep and i pressed my lips to his forehead. “Night, Joey”

I knew you

Playing hide-and-seek and

Giving me your weekends

Joe and i kept each other a secret. Although people knew we were friends, they didn’t know the true or full extend of our relationship. Relationship, if it could even be classified as that. On a normal day we would be polite and only acknowledge each other if really needed. Our days off were spent together doing anything and everything. I learned about Joe and who he really was by just sitting around and listening.

“Do you think stuffed bears have feelings?“ he asked me, lying on the sitting room floor counting the cracks in the ceiling. He had one arm under his head and the other was holding a bear i found in my mothers attic amongst my old childhood toys.

Of course i laughed and i though how out of character it was for Joe to ask something like that. We were hidden from view, the curtains were closed and no one could ruin the time we got to be alone together. The Joe i knew was softer and more vulnerable than he would like to admit. Opening the curtains would be like him confessing the fragility of his emotions and letting people into his life. They would be kept closed and the world would be none the wiser of his feelings or his closeness to me in that moment.

Watching him investigating the bear i realised how few people saw this side of Joe. I loved being one of the only few, if not the only person, he acted like this with. He pulled on a loose thread and a hole formed. He looked wide eyed at me with an apologetic face. It wasn’t until he heard my laugh did he join in too. With anyone else he would have brushed it off but he was afraid to hurt me.

“I think you hurt his feelings” i said nodding to the bear. He laughed louder and threw the bear at me.

To kiss in cars and downtown bars

Was all we needed

Joe used to drive around for hours with me in the passenger seat changing the radio. He would pick me up after work in the diner downtown. After a long day he would tell me i needed to loosen up and go on an adventure with him.

“Come on Y/N, have a little fun once in a while” he said with a little smirk and that was all that was needed to convince me. That smirk on his face made me feel like i was selling my soul to the Devil.

With no destination in mind we normally ended up parking the car beside the bay. When we were together we didn’t need material things or to be doing anything specifically, all we needed was each other. All of our major firsts happened here. The first time we kissed was eating ice cream a few months after Joe got back from Europe. The first time he mentioned the war and what he experienced happened at the bay.

It was here on a chilly Autumn night i realised i was in love with Joe. We sat on the car bonnet sharing a blanket as we watched the car headlights dance across the bridge. He was warmer than me, always had been. With my head on his shoulder and his lips in my hair i hoped he felt the same way.

There was never supposed to be anything romantic about our rendezvous, but i couldn’t help but hope. The bay had seen the same amount of kisses shared between us as cars that crossed the bridge.

I knew you

Tried to change the ending

Peter losing Wendy

I knew nothing good would come of this. The ending was clear before anything had even begun. The second i met him everything played out like a dream in front of me. Heartbreak was the only possible outcome and vivid hallucinations danced in front of me, almost real enough to touch. But when i reached out my hand they were gone just as fast as they came, disappeared in a cloud of smoke

“We’re just friends and you know it” Joe stated, cigarette hanging from his lips

“Thats bullshit, Joe.”

My emotions got the better of me and ignoring the warning signs, i let them. Despite all this i had hoped, really hoped that i could somehow change it. Joe was Joe and he did what he wanted when he wanted. I knew i was delusional to believe i had the power to change anything, let alone a strong willed person like Joe. He refused to grow up, constantly acting childish and never committing to anything for a significant amount of time. People around him were play things that he singled out to suit his specific needs. He dropped them like toys and picked them back up again when he was bored.

“Can you honestly sit there and tell me there are no feelings between us?” I begged him for an answer. “Do you feel anything for me? Anything at all?”

No answer was given, just a simple shrug of his shoulders. If my heart wasn’t broken before it certainly was then. He couldn’t look at me, focusing his eyes over the steering wheel and watching the rain fall against the windscreen.

“I can’t do this anymore” Getting out of his car i slammed the door closed and ran across the street into my house. Even though the distance was short i was soaked and my clothes felt heavy on my skin as did Joe’s words, or lack of words, did on my heart.

That boy had me wrapped around his little finger. Like a puppet on a string, Joe pulled me left and right. He had me where he wanted me. Believing that having something more than a fling with Joe was a fantasy. Being with him was like playing make believe. He makes my head spin and his voice fogs my judgement. It was time to come back to reality. It was time for me to grow up, with or without him. I wanted to forget him.

But I knew you'd linger like a tattoo kiss

I knew you'd haunt all of my what-ifs

The smell of smoke would hang around this long

‘Cause I knew everything when I was young

It was while making coffee the next morning i realised tying to forget someone like Joe is near damn impossible. Every detail about about him lingers in my mind, his name constantly on the tip of my tongue. The shape of his lips are imprinted onto mine and i will never forget how they felt. The spark when his deep brown eyes met mine is always embedded deep in my heart where no one else can reach. His touch is eternally burned onto my skin, forever part of me. I knew i would never really be able to untangle Joe from my life. It was hard to know where he ended and i began.

The coffee machine was done and i took my favourite mug from it’s place in the press. Of course it was positioned next to the mug Joe usually used. I noticed the coffee stains on the edges. I’m sure if i looked closely enough i would see transcripts of all the late night conversations shared between us. They were never really serious, only ridiculous ‘what if’ scenarios, but it made me wonder. What if i never met Joe? What if he never smiled at me the way he did? What if we never had that fight? How many washes would it take to get the smell of him and his smokes out of my clothes?

Everything blended into one and i couldn’t remember a time in my life when Joe wasn’t part of it. It was impossible to know what parts of my life actually belonged to me and not him. Pictures float in front of me, reminding me of our time together. No matter how hard i tried to forget, each memory will be forever burned into my heart.

I knew I'd curse you for the longest time

Chasin’ shadows in the grocery line

No matter where i went a memory of Joe played like a movie in front of me. It was like an outer body experience, as if i was watching from afar. Shadows danced in the store aisle, distracting me. I only noticed the cashier was ready for me when the man behind me cleared his throat. Apologising, i quickly placed my few items and thanked the girl quickly leaving the store.

When i reached my car i realised all my thoughts were consumed with Joe. He haunted my memories and my past. Flashbacks came daily in the most random of places. Every inch of our home town crawled with the sound of his voice and each street screamed him name tauntingly at me.

Starting the car, i made my way home while desperately trying to avoid any streets where i shared moments with Joe. It was impossible. Every street contained a different story and a different memory. The streetlight outside my house is the one i danced with Joe under. He was everywhere and unavoidable.

He ruined me in all the best ways. Joe stripped me back to the basics and built me up again in ways i can’t describe. Before Joe life was boring and grey. Now, it is full of colour and new sounds i wouldn’t have experienced without him. He turned everything i knew upside down. The vitality in everything we did together will always be etched into me. It has made me a different person and for that i can’t be anything but thankful towards him.

I knew you’d miss me once the thrill expired

And you’d be standin’ in my front porch light

I missed him, more than anything. Two months later i still missed him and I have never felt so alone. Even when Joe left to join the paratroopers i never felt this lonely. Somehow the thought of having him in the same town but not as my friend was worse than him never coming home. That was such a terrible thought but it’s how i felt.

The thunderstorm outside reminded me of the night i fought with Joe. The rain beating against the window made it feel less lonely. It created a sound displacing the constant silence that surrounded the house now Joe wasn’t around. Picking up the stuffed bear he once made fun of i smiled before i threw it across the room. He was everywhere.

I almost missed the banging noise against the front door. Cautiously walking to the window to see who it was because who in their right mind would be out in weather like that. The last thing i expected to see was Joe standing on my front porch knocking at my door. I deliberated for a moment whether to let him in. Could i leave him outside and hope he would leave, or should i let him in and wreck the little progress i have made in forgetting him?

I chose the latter, grabbing a blanket from the back of the couch. After opening the door he stood there not saying a word. He didn’t come in straight away and i watched the raindrops fall from his face in the light. He looked exhausted like he hadn’t slept in days. I handed him the blanket and he followed me in placing it around his shoulders.

He said nothing, he just smirked. “Hey Doll”

And I knew you’d come back to me

[heartofsnark]

This Is Love (Chapter Eleven): Angels of Doubt, Bearing Broken Halos

Notes; The chapter title is pretentious as fuck, but I don’t care. I’m very happy with the beginning of this chapter so I’m very excite to finally let y’all read it fully. Overall, this chapter definitely is more of the build up that this uhhhh nice little religious family mayyyyyhaps be a bit less nice than originally thought.

Word Count:  10451

Chapter Warnings: Cult Angels, Animal Death (in the context of dangerous wildlife needing to be put down), A Judge Wolf, Indoctrination, Assault, Me Awkwardly trying to write himbo Nick Rye for the first time

For chapter one and the warnings about this fic’s overarching themes, please click here!

For the previous chapter; click here!

They don’t go to The Spread Eagle that night, staying too late making plans. But it’s all for the best in the end, Casey would be more busy in the evening and if she’s interrupting his work, he’ll be less likely to listen. It’ll be easier to talk to him tomorrow just as the bar opens, before anyone arrives and during down time. Regardless, when she comes back to the trailer park. She breaks next to the registration building, checking her mailbox in case Cassie or Joseph had wrote her back, but no such luck. Maybe it will take a while for them to even get it?

A breeze passes through as she leaves the building, that familiar flower smell itching at her nose. The trailer park has fields of those white flowers surrounding it, the delicate petals seem ghostly in the moonlight. Moonflowers, the trailer park has to be named after them, these flowers that haunt her in her dreams. A shift of movement, far back in the expanse of flowers catches her eye. Someone tending to the flowers with a hoe, but she doesn’t know anyone in the trailer park who takes care of the flowers. Surely, if they had a grounds keeper, they’d start with the trash within area; not the flowers surrounding it. 

Dahlia decides to park her bike before investigating, not wanting to leave it in the open while she journeys through the flowers. She pulls out her phone once she’s parked, tucking one earbud in. If only to ease her nerves as she walks to confront the odd stranger. 

“When you told me I should text your brother.

I was walking with a blunt in my hand.

Double Jameson was in the other.

I was drinking like a spiritual man.”

She stands at the edge of the field of flowers, little the scent tickle her nose, watching the…person in the distance. Their gender, or at least presentation of it, unidentifiable. She blinks her eyes, when did she start seeing spots? Her tension eases, body and mind relaxing. 

“I was just talkin’ to Jesus in my hotel room.

I was just talkin’ to Jesus in my hotel room”

And she walks further through the flowers, brushing through them, fractals blurring her vision with every step. Her head swims and floats away, fuzzy as the smell surrounds her. She drags her fingers along the blossoms as she walks, grounding herself with their velvet touch, the contrast of her black painted fingernails against them. 

“And I could barely stand

He said, "Get some water, man"

'Cause they don't understand

I'm not what they think I am”

As she nears them with every unsteady step, she sees them more clearly. And truly they’re a ghastly sight. Shaved head and dirty white clothes; the smell of the flowers strengthens as she nears them, turning acrid with an edge. That smell comes from them, like they’d bathed in chemicals infused with the flowers. The mask latched around their grime coated face, covering their mouth is marked with the Eden’s Gate symbol. They pay her no mind, focused on tending to the moonflowers, their eyes are glazed nearly white and milky. Like Dahlia’s eyes looked her first night in Hope County, when she dreamed of Faith despite having never met her. 

“They can never ever understand me, no

What I came from, what I was before”

“Are you…okay?” She asks them, despite her own swimming vision and weak knees. 

“HelpmeFaithhelpmeFaithshieldmefromsorrow.” 

They grumble, not sing, the lyrics to one of Eden’s Gate’s songs. Their voice a rasp as if they can hardly breathe, each word running into the other, energy manic.  The moonlight shining on gaunt cheeks and white eyes makes them look dead, a walking corpse before her. She reaches out, gingerly touching their shoulder, hoping touch can break through whatever state they’re in. 

And then they scream, swing the garden hoe and bashing it against the side of Dahlia’s head. She’s knocked to the ground, head hitting rock and dirt. The creature screams out and jumps on her, trying to maul her. Vacant eyes staring down at her, her body and head too fuzzy to even give it the reaction it deserves. She should be scared, she should be terrified, but she isn’t. 

Gently, she puts her hands on each side of the person’s neck, applying pressure, not enough to strangle but to hold it at slight distance. It tries to dig dirty fingers into her flesh through her jacket, screaming mangled cries of pain or anger, she can’t tell as she looks over its face. The haunting glow of moonlight on their dirty face. 

“How you get to heaven with a broke halo?

How you get to heaven with a broke halo?”

“Help me, Faith,” Dahlia sings the song it used to soothe itself, “help me Faith, shield me from sorrow… From fear of tomorrow…”

And a switch has been flipped, it stops screaming. Body going lax, fingers no longer trying to tear her apart as she sings the church song, own voice overlapping the contrasting melody of her music. 

“Help me Faith, help me Faith, shield me from sadness…From worry and madness…” 

And it’s slipping out of her loosening hold and climbing off her, resuming it’s gardening work, as if she never existed at all. On trembling legs and with her vision still blurring, she leaves, not sure of what else to do. A part of her knows she should be more panicked, more concerned, more anything, but then she takes another inhale the floral scent around her and she can’t find the energy. It fades as she leaves the flowers and their scent behind, vision steadying as she enters her trailer, the full reality dawning on her just as she shuts the door behind her. 

“What the actual fuck!?” She screams at her empty living room, because what the actual fuck did she just see?  Her mouth is dry and her brain a mess as distress finally shines through the haze. 

Dahlia digs her phone out, shutting off her music and doing a search. Her vision is still fuzzy with prisms of shifting colors, body still light and floaty. They were there the first time she saw Faith, they constantly itch her nose and make her eyes see things. The church compound was covered in bushels of them.  

Moonflowers, she searches, and sure enough the images show the white trumpet shaped blossoms. Also called datura, angel trumpets and it’s down a rabbit hole. They’re toxic and hallucinogenic, can be harvested for either medication or poison. Scopolamine and atropine are in them; Dahlia does not even remotely know jack shit about chemistry. But a quick search shows scopolamine has been used in everything from nausea medicine to truth serum. So…she may have just hallucinated the person? From the flowers… but when she touches her forehead, where the person stuck her, blood stains her fingers. She really did get hurt…

Dahlia grabs her sketchbook, sitting down on the floor before her coffee table as she’s done so many times before, and she draws what she saw. Painstakingly she tries to recreate them, to draw the gaunt of their cheeks and the grime on their skin. To catch the white emptiness of their eyes. And she dates the drawing, scratching out the date in as neatly as she can. And on the next page she draws her first weird dream, sketching herself vomiting flowers and blood, those moonflowers. She adds the rough date she remembers it happening in the corner when she’s satisfied. Then she draws herself burnt and marred with flowers blooming from her mangled remains, hand moving of it’s own accord to match the details, shutting out the rest of the world as she works to carefully craft every line. She dates it as well and then draws the newest one, smears of ink on bare skin with flowers blooming from them. 

Once each image is created with a date etched in its corner, she sits back and rakes a hand through her hair. She’s had nightmares before this, certainly, but never as frequent or vivid as these. Flowers are the recurring theme and she’s not sure why; maybe the datura are doing it? The scent of them always present, making her sleeping brain conjure odd images. She already has a list of things to do; the apple festival is the highest priority, but she still wants to know what each flower means and what on earth is working in those flower fields, what connection it has to Eden’s Gate. 

She’s exhausted, graphite from her pencil smudged and sticking to her hand. But she feels more at ease having put her demons into art, having created something out of this. There’s still a lot of questions in her mind. This constant back in forth of trusting the church only to doubt them again is frustrating. 

Dahlia barely manages not to fall asleep in the shower that night, exhaustion clinging heavy to her leaden muscles and pulling at her eyelids when she lays down on her couch. 

The junior deputy is running on two hours of sleep, coffee, and an energy drink the next morning. But that doesn’t stop her from swinging into The Spread Eagle as soon as it opens, Pratt in tow since they’re technically on shift. 

“Something wrong, deputies?” Mary May asks when they stride in, Dahlia can already see Casey through the kitchen window, prepping food for the later in the evening. 

“No, we actually just wanted to talk to you and Casey about something.” 

“What’s up?” Mary May raises an eyebrow and the chef’s head perks up. 

Dahlia explains Debbie and Doug’s situation, that John is trying to buy them out, at the very mention of the Seed sibling’s name she can see Mary May tense. But the tension lessens, smiles on the bartender and cook’s face when the deputy mentions their plans for an apple festival. 

“I know we could use more cooks selling food there and Debbie mentioned you work with the Testy Festy, Casey.” 

“Plus, figured the band that plays here, might be willing to work a night or two if you talked to ‘em Mary May.” 

“Look, you had me at pissing off John Seed,” Mary May says, grinning, “I’ll talk to the band and Casey, you damn well better help them out.” 

“Come around here, sister,” Casey calls out, voice deep and booming as she walks around into the kitchen already warm as starts prepping food, he spares her a glance as he minces vegetables, “your destiny hangs off you like a coat, the soul of a warrior, and the heart of a hero.” 

Dahlia blinks, taken aback by his unabashed and weirdly soulful compliments. She doesn’t really believe in destiny nor does she see herself as a warrior or hero, but she certainly appreciates the thought. Her heart, that of a hero apparently, warms and she smiles after another second.

“So…you’ll help?” 

“It’s important for people to gather, to bond, and feel a sense of community.  I’ll call Deb and Doug to offer any help I can.” 

“Thank you so much!” Dahlia grins: Casey is definitely an odd duck, but he cares about the community and willing to help. So, a fantastic guy in her book. 

“Happy to help, sister.” 

First two people dragged into their plan, Pratt and Dahlia give some friendly goodbyes before being on their way. This is already coming together and Stray is nearly vibrating with excitement as they leave the bar. 

The pair continue to do their patrol while swinging in to talk with folks about the festival. They swing by Lorna’s Truck Stop, Dahlia unable to resist snapping a picture of the giant cheesy cow statue outside of it before they walk in, door chiming.  An older woman is talking to someone in a green hood, the woman with chubby cheeks and blue eyes pushing a little bag of mini pies into the hooded person’s bruised hands. 

“Here you go, Jess, on the house as always.” 

“Thanks,” the hooded girl responds, an awkward gruff to the words before she leaves. When Dahlia catches a sight of her, Jess has a face of mottled bruises and cuts. 

“Anything I do for you, Deputies?” 

“We were hoping you could help us out, Lorna,” Pratt starts. 

And just like Casey and Mary May; Lorna’s all bright smiles and kind eyes, happy to help. Even pushing bags of the free small handmade pies into the deputy’s hands before they go. There is something undeniably heartwarming at everyone’s willingness to help. She crams one of the little pasties into her mouth, sugary berries on her tongue as they get back into the cruiser. 

The shift passes by with ticketing traffic violations and stopping in to rope people into helping out. Hudson and Brennan sending texts letting Dahlia know that Grace has agreed to help and Adelaide will too if only so her boytoy Xander can have a smoothie stand during the festival. Riding through the valley, Dahlia sees a billboard advertising gun lubricant, Grace Armstrong’s face plastered on it, though her eyes on the board seem off. Dahlia too far away to put her finger on it, but it looks like that part of the advert has been damaged.  An award-winning sniper and veteran; well loved in the community. Dahlia only saw a glimpse of her at the barbecue, talking with Hudson, but it seems clear just how important she is to the county. 

Within an hour of their shift ending, Doug and Debbie have them called out to the orchard. Their smiles are bright, the middle-aged couple holding each when the deputies pull in. Pratt’s still trying to pretend to have a grumpy face but there’s still a slight smile pulling at his lips as they get out of the cruiser. 

Arms are wrapping around Dahlia in a second, Debbie pulling her into a tight hug, the young deputy tenses hands hovering awkwardly at the woman’s sides. 

“Thank you, so much,” Debbie says, pulling away but her hands still on Dahlia’s shoulders, “we’ve been getting calls all day, everyone wants to help us do this, thank you so much.” 

“Uh, yeah, it’s no problem…just happy to help,” Dahlia flusters under the attention, proud of what she’s done, but squirming under the weight of gratitude. 

“Well, we certainly appreciate it,” Doug tells her with a smile, “but we called you out ‘cause we got some flyers made, figure’d it help advertise, though word of mouth already seems to be doing us a lot of good.” 

“We could definitely hand them out, see if some places are willing to hang them up too.” 

“And now we’re the flyer brigade,” Pratt grumbles under his breath and Dahlia jabs her elbow into his side. 

“I’ve already been coming up with everything I wanna sell at the festival, but if you two have some free time Sunday, I could use some taste testers too,” Debbie offers, with a smile, “least I can do is feed you for all your help.” 

“Yeah, I can do that,” Dahlia agrees readily. 

“I…could probably swing by.” Pratt tries so hard to sound above it all, but free apple pie can apparently draw even him in. 

“Can’t wait to see you both then!” 

They wave goodbye to the couple, Dahlia packing the flyers with her into the cruiser car. The ending hours of their shift and the day is spent finding places to hang them up. Mary May posting them in The Spread Eagle, hanging in the window of the garage and general store, Whitehorse even letting it be posted up in the window of the department.  Dahlia’s ride home that night takes longer as she stops at places to ask if they’d hang up the advertisement; after getting Lorna’s Truck Stop and Audrey’s Diner to put them up. Dahlia stops at the Hollyhock Saloon, bartender agreeing to hang it up in the small bar, the rookie deputy giving a quick hello to Brennan and some of the other officers gathered at his table. The 8-bit Pizza bar hangs them up without any question, happy to help, and Dahlia manages to convince Darcy to hang it up in the registration building of the trailer park before she heads in for the night. Dahlia crashes easily that night, sleep finding her as soon as she hits the couch.  

The next day Stray is hit with déjà vu as they’re called out to deal with Eden’s Gate blocking another road. She’s still not sure why this is apparently a thing they do. And to her misfortune it’s not Waylon or members of the church she likes waiting behind the cement block when they pull up this time; but Theodore and Lonny. Because of course. 

“Deputies,” Lonny forces a smile, “to what do we owe the pleasure?” 

“Well, you’re breaking the law, so there’s that,” Pratt says with a roll of his eyes. 

“Yeah, heard you two gave some of our members a hard time about blocking off a road,” Theodore comments, arms crossed over his chest. 

“I’ll refer you back to the fact it’s against the law,” Dahlia grumbles, “why on earth are you blocking the road anyway?”

“Got some property nearby that needs some work.” 

“The church own a lot a property?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow, that was Waylon’s reasoning too. 

“Soon to be even more when John secures the orchard for us,” Lonny has too wide of a grin as he looks Dahlia over, “though rumor has it some little cop is trying to get in the way.” 

“Irrelevant, you’re breaking the law. Just scram and there won’t be any issues.”

“Look, h-“ 

“We’ll be going then, deputy,” Theodore puts a hand on Lonny’s back, reigning him in. Though the way Lonny sneers tells Dahlia that their conflict is only resolved for the moment. 

Regardless, Pratt and her watch as the men yet again pack away the blocks and clear the road out. Dahlia still can’t quite figure out why on earth they’d need to or would want to block the roads. Between that and the strange person she saw in the flowers, bearing the churches symbol, things just seem to get weirder and weirder. She considers for a moment asking the church members there about the person with the shaved head, but she has a feeling asking more questions will just put her higher up on Lonny and Theodore’s shit-lists. 

“Still don’t get why they keep blocking the roads,” Dahlia comments when they get back in the patrol car. 

“They’re assholes, what more reason they need.” Pratt shrugs before starting the cruiser engine and Dahlia just doesn’t feel like it’s that simple. 

“Well, if they do it again, we don’t really have a choice but to arrest ‘em do we?” 

“Can’t let them get away with shit forever; three strikes seem fair.” 

Questions still run through her mind; but there’s no way of getting answers at the moment, left to bury her curiosity as they leave back down the winding roads. Hours pass and bright blues shift to pastel pinks as the sun sets upon Hope County. 

That evening at The Spread Eagle, she’s listening to Pratt and Hudson argue about something; she can’t even be sure what but she’s just amused to not be at the butt of the humor tonight. She’s cramming fries into her mouth when she feels eyes on her. 

“That’d be her right there,” Mary May says, pointed out at Dahlia as she talks to a man the young officer has only seen in passing. Shaggy dark hair under a cap and beard on his face, though the last time she saw him he’d been wearing glasses. She thinks it’s Nick, only having seen a glance of him at his own barbecue. 

“If I’m in some sort of trouble, I’d like fair warning, Mary May.” Dahlia comments, unsure why anyone would be trying to find her in a crowd. The blonde’s smile eases her nerves as she comes across the bar, the man walking Dahlia’s way. 

“No trouble, Deputy, Nick here was just wanting to know which one of you started the apple festival. He’s going fly a banner ad around for Debbie and Doug.” 

“Oh, that’s awesome.” 

“I just wanted to find out who was helping them out, Nick Rye,” he introduces himself, sticking his hand out for her to shake. 

“Pleasure to meet you.” 

“I’ve been crop dusting for Doug and Debbie for years, last thing anyone needs is for John to get his hands on that place.”

“That seems to be most people’s sentiment.” 

“Told ya just about everyone is sick of his shit,” Mary May says with a shake of her head, “it’s about time he doesn’t get what he wants.” 

“That son of a bitch has been hounding me and Kim for months now, trying to buy our place.”  Nick’s jaw clenches, irritation coming off him in waves. 

“I know Kim damn near broke his nose for it.” 

“Wait what?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow; how often does John harass people? 

“Listen to this,” Nick gesture emphatically, now sitting down next to Dahlia, “asshole shows up to the house while I’m gone, trying to bully Kim into selling the damn place, while she’s pregnant. What kind of sick fuck shows up at a man’s house while he’s gone and tries to strongarm his wife into signing the place over. Fuckers lucky I wasn’t home.” 

“You not being home was kind of the point of when he showed up.,” Mary May reminds him, “besides, no offense, but even ready to pop I think I trust Kim’s right hook protected her more than yours ever could.” 

“Now, that’s just mean,” Nick says with a slight pout to his face, reminding Dahlia of a tall puppy dog. 

“It’s okay Nick, anything you lack in strength you make up for in…” Mary May seems to have to search for the next word, normally brains would be the natural contrast, “well, you just keep being you.” 

“Never really thought about being anyone else; well except maybe an eagle, but I don’t think that counts.”  

“No, it doesn’t really count, Nick,” Mary May says with a slight laugh.

Dahlia stifles her own laugh raising an eyebrow at the ridiculous turn of the conversation. Nick is sweet and willing to help out with the festival, so she won’t spend too much time questioning his desire to be an eagle. It’s not long before Pratt and Hudson fall into conversation with the pilot; allowing Dahlia to comfortably settle into the background as the night winds down.

It’s not even the noon the following day before things around Hope County manage to pick up pace.  Sirens and lights flashing as Pratt rushes them up north towards the mountain; there’s a palpable tension. Crisis situations are rare; most days filled with handing out traffic tickets and dealing with roadblocks. Hell, the county is boring enough that the sheriff would allow them to actively work on a festival during shift hours. So, a call requesting EMS, all deputies and units, and the F.A.N.G Center; is definitely out of the normal. 

They see the gathering of people as they pull up, Whitehorse is talking with workers in F.A.N.G Center shirts, Hudson and other officers gathered around and EMS workers carrying someone into the back of an ambulance. 

“Pratt, Rookie; over here now!” The sheriff calls out for them and they rush over. 

“What’s going on?” Pratt is the one to ask. 

“Wolf, possibly rabid, but we don’t know. It attacked a pair of hikers. We tried to tranq it but nothing is bringing it down, we gotta find it and put it down before it hurts anyone else.” The F.A.N.G Center employee explains to them. 

“No way to get around killing it?” Dahlia asks, she understands it can’t always be avoided, but she would prefer not to.  

“We hit that damn thing with enough tranq to take down an elephant and it still tried to maul us before running off; tried to get it with a snare pole and it broke it. We can’t rehabilitate an animal we can’t get near and if we let it go; it’ll hurt someone else.” 

“You heard the man, alright,” Whitehorse’s voice booms as he starts addressing everyone, commanding attention “we got a wolf to find, grown wolf, white fur and aggressive. I want everyone to stay in groups; we have tranquilizers, snare poles, and what’s used to put ‘em down. We want to try to do it as humanely as possible but protect yourselves and keep an ear to your radio. We need to make sure the trails are safe and can’t let anyone else get bit; move out!”

The deputies are given tranquilizer guns, the snare poles, and syringes filled with pentobarbital. Though, given what they’ve been told, she’s not completely sure how effective any of it will be. If the wolf has enough tranquilizers to take down an elephant in it already and is still moving; as well as having previously broken one of the snare poles, then how on earth is any of this suppose to work? 

But she doesn’t voice these concerns as she follows after Pratt, Hudson, and another police officer tagging along so they can maintain a decent sized group per Whitehorse’s instructions. 

The mountains are beautiful, she thought that when she’s gone hiking before, but even during this tense situation she finds herself amazed by how gorgeous it is. Bright green summer grass and towering trees as far as the eye can see. Mountains that reach up to kiss the bright blue sky. 

Dahlia stays at the back of the group, letting Pratt and Hudson lead as she keeps her ears and eyes peeled for anything suspicious. The sneer pole is across her shoulders, her wrists on top and holding it there as she walks. She half listens to Pratt and Hudson talk; something about people making up werewolf rumors because the wolves have been acting wilder and wilder lately. She’s reminded of her meal at the Grill Steak, that man who warned a group of people about wolves. He claimed they were trained by Eden’s Gate; but those still just sound like conspiracy theories. 

Tension crawls up Stray’s spine, skin forming goosebumps at the sensation of being watched, then the sound of snapping branches coming from forests that surround the trail she walks along. She moves without thinking, leaving the trail and her group behind, following where she heard the noise. 

Branches and brush scratch at her arms as she ventures deeper into the wooded area; then she sees his back. Jacob Seed, why does there always seem to be a member of their family just around the corner when trouble happens? 

“Something you need,” he says, not bothering to turn and face her, examining his red rifle. 

“You shouldn’t be out here.” 

“I shouldn’t be,” he spares her a glance over his shoulder, blue eyes rife with condescension, “last time I checked it’s a free country, ain’t it?” 

“That’s not what I mean. There’s a wolf running around; possibly rabid. It’s not safe for you to be out here alone.” 

And he laughs; dry and deep, the sound making her raise her eyebrows. Why is the idea of being mauled by a rabid wolf so funny to him?

“You worrying about me?” He asks, finally turning to face her in full, shifting the bright red gun to the holster on his back. 

“I mean, yes? My job is keeping the public safe and you are a member of the public.” 

“Pfff, you’re just a pup,” he says walking past her, “be better off watching out for yourself.” 

His hand is large and rough as it ruffles her hair while he walks by; his palm and fingers nearly encompassing the entire top of her head. His hand is probably bigger than her face she realizes, heat flushing up her face though she’s not sure of why. He’s so condescending and patronizing and fucking giant; the last point isn’t entirely relevant but it’s still true. 

“I’m a deputy, don’t patronize me.” She says, reaching up to grab his hand from her head, capturing it in her own. His rough scarred hand is nearly double the size of her own; warm calloused skin against her own. 

“You having fun there?” He asks, when she doesn’t let go of his hand right away, instead pressing her small hand back against his palm, comparing the immense size difference. He really could probably wrap one hand around her entire head. 

“Your hands are so big, wow.” 

“’Preciate it pup.”  

And he laughs again, still dry and brief in it’s sound, pulling his giant hand from her smaller one before he leaves. She glares at his back; corded muscle shifting beneath his black tee shirt. Despite her pout, she can understand why he’d see her unable to defend herself in comparison to him. She’s been confident in her physical abilities for a while; but she imagines a man like Jacob isn’t scared of anything. 

“Rook, where the hell are you?” Pratt’s voice crackles over her radio as Jacob walks off. 

“There was a hunter out here, I was warning him about the wolf,” Dahlia explains herself, she wasn’t suppose to leave the group per Whitehorse’s orders, but no one could blame her for warning a civilian. There’s something odd about thinking of Jacob as just a hunter or civilian; though she’s not quite sure why. 

“We’re in the woods near the Visitor’s Center, get over here, you pain in the ass.” 

The radio crackles out and Dahlia gets on her way; she knows the Visitor’s Center is south of where she is. Though she has no sense of direction, so that has little bearing on her ability to find it. She hikes down, feeling that’s the closest approximation to south that she can get, sticking a little closer to the woods than the paths. She prefers the shade and atmosphere of being surrounded by the trees. 

But the further she travels down, the sparser the trees grow, exposing Dahlia to the sun. Green grass and branches crushing underfoot as she stumbles down the terrain. She can just imagine Pratt and Hudson’s frustration, but warning someone about a rabid wolf is certainly understandable.

A drawn-out howl echoes through the woods, making the deputy freeze. Sunlight is warm on her face and stinging at her eyes as she turns towards the sound. A spire of craggy rocks coming off the mountain; the silhouette of a wolf howling with the sun behind it. She uses her hand to shield from the sunlight, straining to see more detail. Seven distinct darts stick from the wolves back; tranquilizers. 

Dahlia quickly tugs her uniform shirt off from over her black tank top, wrapping the fabric around her forearm. Not quite the cushioned guard they use for training police dogs, but it will provide some barrier between it’s bite and her skin. Worse case scenario, she’ll be taking rabies shots once everything is done. She holds the syringe of pentobarbital in one hand, she has her firearm too if that’s unable to bring the wolf down, but she prefers to let it go peacefully if she can. 

She stays crouched down as she approaches the peaked edge of the mountain, craggy rock building up to a spire, levels to climb up to reach the clearing where the wolf sits. Dahlia stays low as she climbs, moving as quietly as she can, using a blue grappling hook handle to help lift herself up to the final level. There’s a gap in the clearing; a log showing a passage between craggy rock to craggy rock; boulders surrounded by grass. She can see the wolf, but it’s yet to noticed her, another howl echoing out as it cries out to the sky. 

It’s beautiful and she’s all at once ashamed that it has to be put down. Matted white fur with a black nose and lips; it’s eyes are luminously silver, like moonlight. Red is mottled across it’s face, red frothing around it’s mouth, as well as a brighter crimson stroked across it’s brow and down it’s nose. Across it’s furred shoulder blade and spine are seven different tranquilizer darts that were shot at it, how has it not passed out? It doesn’t see her not right away, then it’s nostrils twitch and it’s lips pull back to snarl, red tinged drool dripping down it’s maw. Then it’s gaze is on her, growling and baring it’s teeth. 

And then it pounces.  

She puts up her cloth wrapped forearm, the force of it’s body hitting hers knocks her onto her back. It’s teeth snap into the fabric, as it tries to chew through her arm, the edges of fangs just grazing the flesh beneath. One large paw presses against her wrist, attempting to pin her limb down so it can rip the meat off her bones. 

Dahlia pulls back the plunger on the syringe before slamming the needle into the thick of the wolves neck, sinking through fur and flesh before she pushes the chemical through. The wolf snarls through it’s bite on it, then she watches that shine in it’s silver eyes die. It’s mouth goes slack and then it’s body falls limp on top of her. 

The deputy pushes the wolves dead weight off of her, getting up onto her feet, she touches the torn shirt wrapped around her forearm. Drool and blood has stained the green, small damage done to her skin under. It stings but nothing she can’t deal with; the idea of getting rabies shots worries her more. She crouches over the wolf and looks at it’s face, the red around it’s mouth is darker, rusted and clearly blood. But the brighter more purposeful crimson looks like paint. 

She remembers the warnings she overheard in the Grill Steak before; someone warning conservationists about wolves owned by Eden’s Gate. Though, he called them a cult. It’s not for sure or a real connection; conspiracy theories and paint. But, who could have gotten close enough to paint the wolf’s face? Who would want to? 

“Rookie,” Pratt’s voice crackles over her radio. 

“Pratt…” 

“Rook, if you’re not here in five minutes, I’m gonna kick your ass,” Hudson threatens in the background. 

“Please, she’d probably like that.” 

Dahlia’s face flushes at Pratt’s teasing, she can’t say he’s completely wrong, but that’s not the point.  She hefts the wolf’s corpse up onto her shoulder, carrying it’s heavy weight, the head of the furry creature beside her head. It’s fur is soft and thick despite the matted nature. She’s not big on hunting culture, but the wolf would make a nice rug. 

“I got the wolf,” she says into her radio, holding it in one hand while the other keeps the carcass steady on her shoulder as she carefully makes her way down the craggy rocks. 

“What?” 

“I got the wolf,” she repeats to Pratt’s flat question. 

“What? Wh-where the fuck are you?.” 

“I’m on a big ass like spirally mountain thing.” 

“That tells us literally nothing,” Hudson informs her.

“Uhhhh,” Dahlia looks over the edge, of the elevated mountainside, “I think I see a helipad nearby?” 

“Fuck, I know where you are, stay put. Okay, do not approach the wolf.” 

“Uhhh, I think you misunderstood me.” 

“What do you mean?” Pratt asks and she can just imagine his raised eyebrow. 

“I mean, I got the wolf, I already put it down. We can call off the search, but, uh, I think we have bigger issues.” 

“Did you get hurt again?” 

“Hey,” she objects to his tone, “you make it sound like I’m always getting hurt.” 

“You didn’t answer me.”

“No, I did not get…seriously hurt.” 

“Oh lord,” Hudson grumbles in the background. 

“Look, that’s not the issue, alright. Just get up here and let Whitehorse know what’s going on, okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

Dahlia finds a steady rock in the clearing to pull herself up onto as she waits, since apparently Hudson and Pratt have figured out where she is. She tries to look for anything else on the wolf that could indicate it being owned; but nothing. Dahlia does find herself wondering why it’s fur is white? Aren’t white wolves usually those in snowy climates, for camouflage? 

She doubts she’ll receive any answers, so she tries to quiet her mind. The sun warms her skin where she sits on the rock, white wolf still up on her shoulder, ripped uniform shirt still wrapped around her forearm. It all forms an odd picture, she’s certain. 

It’s less than an hour or so before she hears the rustle of footsteps; Hudson and Pratt along with the other officer walking up the way to her. Pratt just stops a second and shakes his head, Hudson is rolling her eyes. 

“Hello,” Dahlia says with a soft wave. 

“What the actual fuck, Rook?” 

And she cracks up; unable to help but laugh at the absolute absurdity of the situation and Hudson’s flat response. She may have already hit the highlight of her career here. 

“Stop laughing; it’s not funny, you could have gotten seriously hurt!” Pratt tries to scold her but he’s laughing through his words, the oddity of it all must be hitting him as well. Dahlia presses a hand to mouth to try and stifle her laughter as Hudson gets her radio out. 

The senior deputy radios Whitehorse, letting him know they’ve gotten the wolf. He tells them where to meet him with the body, so the veterinarian and F.A.N.G Center workers can examine it. Dahlia will be reliant on actually listening and following obediently behind the older deputies.

“C’mon, Rookie, let go.”

“Alright.” Dahlia hops down from her rock and starts to follow after them down the mountain. 

“You need help packing that?” Pratt offers, probably because the wolf is nearly the length of her entire body. 

“Nah.” 

“You just feel cool packing the wolf on your back, don’t you?” Hudson is the one to call her out, raising her eyebrow with a soft smirk on her lips, looking entirely too pretty. 

“Uhhh….” 

“God, you’re a dork.” 

“I can’t really argue with that,” Dahlia admits with a red face and shrug of her shoulders, happy to see Pratt and Hudson smiling at her dorkiness. 

“What happened with the hunter you were warning?” Pratt asks after a beat of silence as they keep walking, helping her over a craggy step with a hand on her hip to keep her steady as the weight of the wolf limits her movements.  

“Uh, asshole just patronized me and left. I don’t know why I still talk to him, he’s always a dick,” she says, rolling her eyes when she thinks about Jacob calling her a pup. He likes to comment on her being a puppy a lot. 

“Someone you knew?” Hudson asks, offering a hand to help Dahlia get over a large branch in the way of the path. The ease at which the two older deputies silently help her, makes a soft smile pull at Dahlia’s lips. Silently grateful for them as she answers their questions. 

“Jacob Seed.” 

“Seriously?’ 

“What?” 

“You don’t find it a little fuckin’ weird how the Seeds are always around you?” 

“I mean, they’re not around me anymore than anyone else.” 

“They really fucking are; you went to the barbecue, John jumped at the chance to rope you into that.” 

“Churches like new blood, it’s n-“ 

“You’ve apparently talked to Jacob more than once; I didn’t even know he could talk,” Hudson says rolling her eyes, “all he ever does at anyone outside the church is glare.” 

“She’s talked to Faith a lot too, apparently.” 

“I still don’t even know where she fucking came from.” 

“I’m still not fully convinced she isn’t a ghost,” Pratt tells Hudson. 

“She’s not a ghost,” Dahlia says with a roll of her eyes. 

“And you would know, because they cling to you like leeches, right?” 

“Shut up.” 

“You know what I think it is,” Hudson says after a moment, “you put up with Joseph’s creepy ass speeches and they realized you’d put up with anything.” 

“He’s not….that…creepy…” Dahlia says with zero conviction, because, well. He’s definitely off, but despite all the weird little red flags, he did help her and Cassie. So, he can’t be all bad. Even if his brother is taking people’s shit…and well…she still doesn’t know what the hell was up with the shaved head person. 

“You can’t even say that with a straight face.” 

“Look, we’ve had run ins with him before, he’s the weirdest creepiest person in this whole damn county and that is saying something,” Hudson shudders, “I’d take Zip lecturing me on being a government shill for nine hours over Joseph even looking at me for even a second.” 

“His stare is weirdly intense…” 

“All of them are weird; John’s skeevy, Jacob looks like he skins people alive in his spare time…Faith’s kinda cute, but at what cost,” Pratt tells her and eh, Faith’s not really her type. The Church Mouse is pretty, but a bit too delicate for the young deputy to really get those weird stomach feelings she gets around women like Hudson or Mary May. 

“Really, I didn’t think you liked women who are taller than you?” Hudson asks. 

“Faith is like barely taller than me,” Dahlia says with a snort, watching the pure look of offense on Pratt’s face, how could she be taller than Pratt? 

“How short do you think I am, Joey?’ 

“What?” Hudson raises an eyebrow, confused by their confusion, “ heard she was like six foot something with black hair.” 

“She’s like this tall,” Pratt puts his hand maybe two inches above Dahlia’s head, “and blonde.” 

“Kinda blonde,” Dahlia corrects, thinking of the youngest Seed siblings dirty blonde hair that fades to a slightly light color at the ends. It toes the line between brown and blonde fairly well. 

“Whatever.” 

“Someone told me she was taller than John, I know they did, am I losing my mind?” Hudson tries to think for a moment; gears visibly turning behind her green eyes. 

“Did you ever really have it?” Pratt taunts her. 

“Keep it up, asshole, see what fuckin’ happens.” 

The trio makes it down to where the sheriff asked, a parking place within the northern area of the county with little gas pumps but not much else. The F.A.N.G Center employees and the veterinarian with a stethoscope around his neck waiting for them as they make their way over. A worker with the center helps get the stiffening wolf off of Dahlia’s back, putting it into the back of a van so they can take it to be examined. 

“Good work, Deputies,” Whitehorse congratulates them and Dahlia grins at the praise. 

“To be completely fair,” Hudson interjects, “it was Rook who was able to get him.” 

“Hey, we helped…move the body…” Pratt jokes, in their own ways they’re both ensuring Dahlia gets her due credit and she can’t help but smile. 

“Well, outstanding work, Rookie.” 

“Thanks, but uh, I’m kind worried about something.” 

“What’s that?’ The sheriff asks, the attention of him, the veterinarian, and center workers all falling on Dahlia. 

“The wolf has paint on it’s face, like a cross or something…which kinda makes me think someone owned it or…something?’ 

“Yeah, that’s definitely not all blood.” A worker looking over the wolf’s face in the van confirms. 

“There’s nothing else on it, but we definitely will have to keep that in mind.” 

“But, uh, what happens from here?” Dahlia asks. 

“I’ll test to see if it’s rabid or if anything else might be the cause for the aggression,” the veterinarian, his name tag she finally catches says Dr. Charles Lindsay, “I’ll let the hospital know and if needed, the hiker will get treated for rabies.” 

“Ah, uhh, is there any possible way you could let us know at the same time…well let me know…?” 

“Why…?” 

“I may have been slightly bit.” 

“Slightly?” Pratt is the one to yell out, incredulous at Dahlia’s description of her injury. 

“Just a little bit,” She brings two fingers close together in front of her for added effect. 

“Jesus fuck, can you just not get hurt for like a week?” 

“No, clearly not.” 

“Pratt, take her out to the clinic,” Whitehorse says with a heavy sigh and pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“I don’t need a doctor.” 

“Yes, you do. Even if the bite ain’t too bad, you never know if it’s infected. Not only could the wolf be carrying something, but it had someone else’s blood in it’s mouth. This isn’t optional, Rookie, you’re going to the clinic and that’s an order.” 

Dahlia can’t and won’t argue with the sheriff on that. Instead shrinking slightly at the realization that her own disregard for her own safety has gotten her scolded despite her accomplishment. She doesn’t think about risks to herself; she needed the wolf put down to save others and if the worst case scenario is her own well-being being sacrificed, that’s worth it to help others, isn’t it?

“C’mon, Wolf-Bait lets get going,” Pratt says, giving her a light smack on the shoulder to follow him. 

“I’m coming, asshole.” 

She follows behind Pratt, back to the cruiser where they parked at the beginning of this day. The sun has long since set, the moon now bright and high in the sky as she climbs into the passenger side seat. Unable to stop herself from pouting slightly that she’s being forced to go to the clinic again. Even if she understands why. 

“Hey,” Pratt gets her attention as he starts up the cruiser engine, “if it makes you feel any better. I’ll be happy to put you out of your misery if it turns out to be a werewolf.” 

“Fuck you!” She yells out through a laugh; his dumb joke bringing a smile back to her face as they go off to the clinic. 

She’s at the clinic late that night, her injury doesn’t need stitches just some bandaging, some bloodwork and tests done to account for anything that could be wrong. Then she’s sent home with antibiotics; the entire time Pratt making jokes about werewolves and silver bullets like a nerd.  All that’s left is crashing for the night and eventually hearing if she has rabies. 

Dahlia sleeps easily that night; thanks to her adrenaline crashing down. She sleeps in the night morning, Saturday never being such a blissful treat for her as she manages to not wake up until around noon. 

The young deputy takes her time when she gets up, eating cereal and grabbing a shower. Faith mentioned her being able to see Cassie at the convent this weekend spending a day together, so that’s her plan on top of doing the rounds on roping folks into the Apple Festival. 

The Convent isn’t far from the trailer park, two buildings seated before the edge of a cliff with craggy staggered mountain range covered in trees beside it.  So many mountains and cliffs within the county. The larger of the buildings has dark roofing, a smaller white church with white latticing canopies between them. Like the material used to construct a gazebo and fields upon fields of the white moonflowers. 

Before Dahlia can step too far onto the property, a woman with long baby blonde hair with flower tattoos spiraling up her arms and the sin of GREED across her chest runs up to stop her. 

“Hello, is there something I can help you with?” 

“Yeah, I was here to see Cassie.” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, but our sister Cassandra is busy today.” 

“Sister?” Dahlia asks, blood running cold for a moment. She can’t seriously mean…Cassie wasn’t interested in joining, she just needed shelter.

“Well yes, she’s opened her heart to the Father, a child of Eden’s Gate now.” 

“Interesting…” Dahlia clenches her jaw, “Faith said that I could come see her today.” 

“Well, I’m afraid that’s not possible, she’s been busy with finding salvation. She’s with herald John, giving her confession, she can’t possibly be bothered right now.” 

“I-”

“Deputy~!” Faith’s sing song voice rings out and Dahlia can’t help but still feel angry, they were supposed to help Cassie, not convert her. The youngest Seed sibling rushes over, nearly floating with the ethereal energy only she can manage. Her white floral dress of the day has a halter neckline and flowers are woven into her braided hair. 

“Faith…” 

“I’m so sorry; I heard, I know you were excited to spend time with me and Cassie today, but I’m afraid things just became too busy with her deciding to join us here.” 

“Yeah…what the fuck?” 

“Excuse me?” Faith says, her pretty little smile fading for a moment. 

“Cassie needed shelter, not Jesus, so I reiterate…what the fuck?” Dahlia gestures wildly, anger tinging her words. Her blood pressure rising and heat crawling up under her skin like pins and needles. 

“Cassie is an adult, she made a choice to join us. Surely, you can’t deny her that freedom, deputy?” Faith’s face pulls into a pout, making Dahlia feel unreasonable all at once, but Cassie was never interested in the religion aspect. 

“Yes, she’s an adult, but she was vulnerable, and I don’t think leaping into a religion when you’re in a shitty place is the best move. I-I wanna talk to her myself.” 

“Well, I’m afraid that can’t happen, not today. But, maybe next weekend or you could write a letter of course.” 

“She still hasn’t responded to my last letter…” 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Faith puts a hand on Dahlia’s shoulder, meant to be comforting but the deputy flinches away, “as I said, it’s been impossibly busy, she’s been studying our beliefs and methods of joining. It’s a long process at times, very time consuming, but I assure you…Cassie opening her heart to the Father doesn’t mean it’s been closed to you.” 

“Yeah, sure, just too busy.” 

“Well, you’ve certainly been busy too, haven’t you?” She tilts her head delicately to the side, still smiling. 

“I have?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow. 

“Mmm hmm, John’s already learned of you helping put together an apple festival.” 

“Oh, yeah, Debbie and Doug wanna save that place so why not, I figure.” 

“Yes, we’ve been hearing all about it, John’s not exactly thrilled.” 

“Nothing personal to it…” 

“I figured, I’m not upset, I promise,” Faith offers a soft smile, “the orchard will end up in the rightful hands no matter what. John just worries a lot about getting land for our church, after all we’re growing by the day and need space for our people.” 

“And Debbie and Doug worry a lot about keeping their livelihood, ya know?” 

“Like, I said, I have no ill will over it, I’m just interested to see you’re so full of surprises.” 

“I am?” 

“Mmm hmm,” she giggles, but offers no more information, like she knows a secret that Dahlia doesn’t. But before Dahlia can ask another question, a sight among the convent makes her breath catch in her throat. 

Shaved head men and women; tending to fields of those flowers, masks across their face. So, they’re definitely with Eden’s Gate as if she really had to question. They work silently, tending to the fields of moonflowers in their white sweaters. 

“Who are they?” Dahlia asks, giving Faith a pointed look. The girl’s eyes move back and forth from the deputy to the workers. 

“Oh, those are our angels,” she answers, grinning, “they’re high ranking members of our church, so devoted to The Father they’ve taken vows of silence and dedicate their lives to helping The Project. Amazing, aren’t they?” 

“Vows of silence, huh?” Dahlia says, more to herself than Faith. Then why did they mumble lyrics and scream out…why would they attack Dahlia? Is Faith lying to her, she’s got to be, right?

“You know, deputy, if you’re so interested in The Project, The Father would still happily let you join our family.” 

“Hmmm, I’m sure, didn’t realize there was a huge process to it though…” Dahlia comments, hoping Faith will elaborate, what the hell kind of hoops did Cassie jump through? Confession, is all she really knows. 

“Well, “ Faith grabs both of Dahlia’s hands in her own, smiling, “we ask for our new family members to prove they see the truth of our faith, to prove their dedication, rid themselves of their sins and make sacrifices in order to truly cut their ties with sin.” 

“That’s-“ 

“Faith, there’s a call from the conservatory!” Someone calls out and Dahlia’s words die on her lips; the notion that Faith’s description is vague and generally unhelpful. 

“I’ll be right there, see you later deputy, hopefully we can meet with Cassie next weekend.” Faith waves her goodbye and then leaves. 

Stray straightens her jacket before leaving the convent, a flood of unanswered questions and doubts in her mind. Everyday something new worries her about Eden’s Gate. If Faith’s lying…that’s fucking bullshit. She doesn’t want to imagine that Faith would lie to her face like that. But, why would their oh so special angels, even the name makes her roll her eyes, be screaming and murmuring despite vows of silences? Why would they attack her?

The rest of her Saturday is spent speaking to people about the Apple Festival, roping Chad from the Grill Steak into it. At least, she believes she did, she’s not completely sure of anything he says. His dialect unintelligible, so she just upped her cajun dialect until she barely knew what she was saying either. Its good busy work, getting places to hang up advertisements, though her heart and mind are somewhere else the entire time. She’s thankful that most people are just genuinely invested in helping; because she certainly isn’t getting by on her charisma. 

Her night is spent with trying to distract herself, but thoughts always coming back to the weirdness of Eden’s Gate, to her doubts. Wondering what exactly led to Cassie’s conversion… She’s being silly, she tells herself time and time again, but something just doesn’t feel right lately. Maybe she’s overeating; seeing connections and red flags where none exists. But, the case remains that no tv, manga, music, or drawing can distract her that night. 

There’s still a slight cloud looming over Dahlia when she arrives at the orchard Sunday, ready to taste Debbie’s baked apple goods. The sun is high in sky and the smell of apples lifts her mood slightly; but she finds herself still distracted as she parks her bike. 

“Deputy!” Debbie greets her and Dahlia gives the warmest smile she can muster. The older woman’s smile helping lift some of that cloud. 

“Hey.” 

“Staci’s already here, c’mon, we’ll sit in the market stall,” Debbie gushes bring Dahlia over to the picnic tables that are under the covering; where they first talked about the festival. 

Pratt is already there; the smell of baked sugar and apples hits Dahlia’s nose before she even sees the array of food Debbie’s put out. Apple pie, apple dumplings, apple scones, and she’s sure that’s just the beginning. 

“Hey dumbass,” Pratt greets her around a mouthful of apple pie as she sits down next to him. 

“You couldn’t wait like five minutes?” 

“Nope.” 

“Ass.” 

The deputy’s feedback is predominantly noises of happiness; neither really food critics but happy to be shoving it in their mouths. The gloomy cloud is starting to lift by the time they’ve finished off a pie; cinnamon, sugar, and apples warm on her tongue. Apple dumplings settle warm in her stomach and she forgets why she was ever upset. The scones are munched down next; cream sticking to her fingers and lips as she eats. 

“God you’re a mess,” Pratt taunts and she sputters a laugh when she turns to face him. 

“You have food in your beard, asshole.” 

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath and starts wiping at his face. 

The stuff their faces for a long while longer; strudel, apple cake, apple cobbler, candy apples, and fritters. Pratt leans back from the table, pressing a hand to his face after a while. 

“You alright?” Dahlia asks, raising her eyebrow. 

“Debbie is gonna have to roll me out of here at this rate; are you not fuckin’ full yet?” 

“…No…” She pauses, before shoving more cobbler and whip cream in her mouth. Debbie and Dough are off rushing to get more goodies. 

“Jesus fuck, Rook.” 

“You’re just a baby.” 

“Shut up,” he leans back away from the table and runs a hand back into his hair, “hey, Rook?” 

“Hmm?”

“You ever gonna shoot your shot with Joey?” 

“What?!” She chokes on her food, just barely stopping it from flying out of her mouth, where the actual fuck did that come from? 

“Your little crush on her, you ever gonna do something about it?” 

“Like what?” 

“Ask her out, you know, like people do.” 

“Yeah…why the fuck would I do that?” She cannot grasp his logic here. 

“I don’t know how to explain to you that when people have crushes; they ask the person out.” 

“I don’t know how to explain to you that that would be really fucking stupid.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I already know the answer, there’s no way she’d say yes, and frankly if she did I’d be concerned.”

“Concerned?” 

“Yeah, who in their right fuckin’ mind would say yes to me?!” 

“So, you wanna act weird around her forever and never deal with it?” 

“That was the plan.” 

“I’m just saying the sooner you rip the band-aid off, the quicker you can act like a normal person around her.” 

Dahlia sighs, she doesn’t want to act like a freak around Hudson for the rest of her life or for her little crush or whatever to get the way of life. Pratt knows more about this crap than her, because everyone does. So, if he’s saying this would help, maybe it would? But, her brain still is struggling. 

“But I already know she’s gonna say no, you know she’s gonna say no, literally anyone with a functioning braincell knows she’d say no. So, why would hearing her say no make a difference?” 

“Its like closure and shit; I think it’d help.” 

“Ugh, just sounds like an excuse to make an idiot out of myself.” 

“Compared to the genius you usually are?” 

“Fuck off.” 

She swallows down a mouthful of strudel before the conversation can continue, but Pratt’s words stick with her. It’s not as if she needed any more on her mind, but she got it anyway. The two continue taste testing for Debbie, though the subject of Hudson never comes up. She’s not sure why Pratt is suddenly so keen on helping her work through her little crush, a friendly gesture, she figures. Maybe her life would be a little easier if she could stop turning into a red-faced mess around the oldest deputy. 

It’s late when they finally finish tasting everything; Dahlia giving friendly goodbyes to Pratt and the couple before she goes back home. Her weekend coming to a close with her falling asleep with a stomach full of baked apples. 

She’s woken up to her phone ringing; instead of her alarm. Dahlia already knows well that despite shift hours, the nature of their work and the higher level of being deputy means that being called out at odd hours is expected. But her blood runs cold when she sees sheriff Whitehorse is the one calling, something is wrong. 

“Sheriff?” She answers, sitting up on the couch. 

“Rook; I already called Pratt and Hudson, I want you all at the clinic now! It’s an emergency!” 

And that’s all she gets before the call ends. She throws on a uniform and runs out the door, jumping on her motorcycle. Mind racing with each passing second. The hurried and frantic tone in Whitehorse’s voice flaring anxiety inside of her. A million possibilities shooting through her mind as she rides towards the clinic; is it about the wolf? Has there been a murder? Is someone she knows hurt? Could it be an officer? 

She’s practically tripping over herself as she climbs off her bike, running into the clinic. The staff is a mess, nurses rushing frantically to attend to someone. Words of transferring, stabilizing, blood transfusion. Something is wrong. Each word swims around her head, but she doesn’t know who they’re talking about. Then she sees Whitehorse, Hudson, and Pratt at the front desk. The three living closer than her. 

“What’s wrong?” Dahlia asks running over; all three’s expressions are tense. Pratt shaking his leg, Hudson digging her nails into her arms until her knuckles turn white, and Whitehorse looking a moment away from collapsing. 

“It’s Pastor Jerome,” Whitehorse tells her, “someone attacked him.” 

“Left for fucking dead,” Hudson interjects, a crack in her voice that Dahlia’s never heard before. 

“They’re trying to stabilize him long enough to transfer him to a hospital in Missoula. We need to make sure it stays secure, no telling if whoever did this won’t try to do something again, and we need to be there to ask questions once he’s out of the woods. I don’t want this slipping through the cracks, Jerome’s a good man and he damn well deserves our best effort.” 

“Got it,” Dahlia nods in agreement to the sheriffs words.

Images of the man in the priest collar coming to mind. She’s seen him in passing, never a conversation between the two. But she saw him speak with Whitehorse; Pratt implied that both him and Hudson went to Jerome’s church as kids. He means something to them all and that’s clear in just how serious it’s being taken; obvious in how shaken up they all seem to be. 

She stands next to Pratt, squeezing his shoulder in an attempt to comfort, wishing she could offer more. He tries to give her a small smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, too worried about the pastor. 

Why would anyone attack him? His church is modest, nearly dying out from everything she’s been told, it wouldn’t make sense to rob him. Hope County has some less than accepting residents; but the idea of a potential hate crime is a hard pill to swallow…

All Dahlia can do is wait with her coworkers, listening to the frantic yells of nurses struggling to save a man’s life. Heart in her throat, anxiety telling her that any second this will become a murder investigation as she watches the hands on a clock ticking away…

[ayatosmlktea]

omg that last request was so heartbreaking )': (you are my sunshine, I'm not the one that requested it btw) since I love angst too I would like to know how Levi's behavior would be after the incident pls?? I love your work

A/N: thank you! I love breaking your hearts just as much as my own 😂 enjoy ❤️

𝑰’𝒍𝒍 𝑩𝒆 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 ❤️ - 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 2 𝒐𝒇 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑨𝒓𝒆 𝑴𝒚 𝑺𝒖𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒆

Part 1

For the first few days after Y/N’s death Levi was a mess. He refused to step foot into their bedroom, more often than not passing out at his desk like he used to before they’d started dating. Even then he would rarely fall asleep, all his dreams being haunted by her. Images of her angry at him for not saving her plagued his dreams, her sick body reminding him of his mother’s illness in the underground. The circles under his eyes darker than ever, his hair wasn’t as neatly styled as it usually was and his cravat was a bit crooked. He did anything he could to avoid having to go back to their-his room so he kept himself constantly busy. Taking on extra paperwork or cleaning obsessively until there was no room left untouched. Levi had become snappier than he normally was, barely letting anyone get close enough to ask him how he was doing and nobody really wanted to in fear of being snapped at.

Levi felt completely lost, more than once he’d found himself standing in front of her old room not sure how he’d gotten there. There were times he’d want to share something with Y/N, looking up and expecting her to be sitting on the couch in his office but he was always met with the depressing reality that she wasn’t there and she wasn’t ever going to be there again. Late at night he could swear he’d catch a whiff of her shampoo so strong it was almost like she was sitting in his lap. But he knew better. It was only his mind playing cruel tricks on him.

He was angry, angry at himself for not being able to save her even though realistically he knew there wasn’t anything he could have done to stop it. A small part of himself was also angry with her, for having left him to survive without her. He was angry at the universe for taking her from him before they had a chance to build a life together.

Levi didn’t know what possessed him to open the door to the bedroom but he found himself looking into the dark room illuminated only by the moonlight outside. It hadn’t been touched since that morning, he didn’t have the heart to clear out her things. Seeing the unmade bed broke his heart all over again as vivid flashbacks of her stiff body in his arms played in his mind. His feet move without thinking as he sits on her side of the bed. Pulling her pillow into his arms the lingering scent of her brings out all the tears he’d been holding back since her passing. He buries his face into pillow, squeezing it tightly against his body as he sobs quietly into it. His heart longed for this to be a bad dream and he’d wake up any second to find her sleeping next to him, healthy again. Levi’s body falls onto the bed wrapping the sheets around himself hoping that it would fill the emptiness inside of him.

“Don’t beat yourself up Levi.” A warm feeling lingered over his face accompanied by a soft spoken voice he’d recognize anywhere. Wide grey eyes lock onto smiling e/c ones, Y/N’s arm is outstretched as her hand cups his cheek.

“Y/N? What are you doing here?” Levi’s hoarse whisper is faint, fearing that if he speaks too loud his hallucination will disappear, he wanted to savour seeing her for as long as possible even if it was only a figment of his imagination.

“I came to say goodbye, properly this time.” Her eyes looked sad despite the smile gracing her lips. Levi’s hands reach out to grab her pulling her into his arms, his fingers digging into her skin almost bruisingly as more tears escaped his eyes.

“Don’t leave me.” Y/N’s heart breaks at how defeated he sounded, her hands combing through his soft black locks.

“I’m sorry I can’t stay but I wanted you to know that I’ll always be here for you Levi. Any time you feel like it’s too hard to keep going I’ll be by your side and when it’s your time to rest I’ll be waiting for you here.” Her lips ghost over his, tingling with warmth as she pulls away.

Opening his eyes Levi is met with an empty bed once more, realizing he had probably fallen asleep he feels a familiar sense of dread in his stomach when something glinting among the sheets catches his attention. Picking it up he realizes it’s Y/N engagement ring. Levi can’t help but smile through his grief, he wasn’t sure if Y/N visiting him had been real but the light weight of her ring in his palm was enough confirmation that she’d been there.

Erwin had caught Levi grasping a ring in his hand, his presence unknown to the other man as he watched him bring it to his lips before tucking the chain under his shirt hiding it from view. Something had happened that changed Levi’s attitude, no one knew what but it gave Erwin some peace knowing that Levi was finally able to start healing and move on from his tragedy.

Masterlist

[drarryruinedme7]

Fairy Dust

This is for the wonderful @jeldenil ❤️❤️It’s just a little thing, but I hope you’ll enjoy it!

Big thanks to my beta @musingsofaretiredunicorn 😍

Drarry | Rating: General | Word count: 2.8K | Tags: bookshop owner Draco Malfoy, children’s author Harry Potter, books smell, asking on a date | READ IT ON AO3.

Fairy Dust

With a flick of his wand, Draco rearranged the books of his store by author.

Another flick, and the dust on the shelves made a little dance before disappearing.

One last flick, and all the fingerprints on the books’ covers and the pages vanished, leaving them looking like new.

Draco sighed contentedly, looking around his store. He knew that some people thought his obsession with books was a bit weird, but he couldn’t resist his urge to cuddle them and protect them from bad weather, yellowing and dog-earing. In his opinion, books were precious treasures and he thought of himself as an intrepid hero, keeping them safe from ill-intentioned pirates.

That was how this had started. One day, Pansy had looked at the umpteenth new shelf full of books in Draco’s house and had scoffed. “Merlin’s balls, Draco, your house looks like a bookshop! Can’t you just borrow your books from libraries, as everyone else does?”

Draco remembered the feeling when he’d heard those words. His heart had started beating fast in his chest, making his hands tremble slightly. He’d grinned at Pansy, saying excitedly, “You’re right! I’ll open a bookstore!”

“That’s not what I — ”

“I can already see it, I’ll mix Muggle and Wizarding books; people will love it!”

Pansy had shaken her head, amused, but she’d been smiling too. Draco had been living in Muggle London ever since the War had ended and the trials had freed him as a ‘forced death eater who was just a kid.’ He hated that definition—no one believed it, not even himself, and people still looked at him with suspicion and hatred. In the end, Muggle London had seemed a good enough solution, but he still hadn’t found what he wanted to do for a living.

It had been feverish months, but in the end Draco’s bookstore, Fairy Dust, had opened, and Muggles loved it. They were fascinated with all the ‘fantasy books’ by authors they’d never heard of, with how pristine the books were, and with the warm smell of the books themselves, that seemed to pervade the air like in no other bookstore in London.

No one knew that the unknown authors were wizards and witches, and that magic helped to preserve the books and to enhance their smell just enough.

During the first difficult months, Draco had almost lived in the bookstore, remaining there even well after closing, rearranging the books, checking that everything was in its right place, balancing the magical account-book and unpacking boxes and boxes of new books to shelve.

When the sky became darker, Draco would linger, seeking a bit of relaxation before going back home. He’d light some candles and spell on classical music—usually Tchaikovsky—and select a new book to read. Even if he sold them, he still had a huge pile of books to read, especially from the Muggle part of his collection.

He’d walk slowly through the shelves, lightly caressing the books’ spines, and when he’d decided on his new read, he’d take it to one of the couches in the reading parlour. He’d open it, his fingers delicate, careful to not wrinkle the dust jacket or the pages and would immerse himself in a new world. Sometimes, Draco would stop reading to gently bring the book near his face, to briefly inhale the smell of the pages. He didn’t even realise he did it; when he read, he instinctively tried to experience it fully, with all of his senses.

There were times when Draco fell asleep reading on the couch and would wake up with a start in the middle of the night, his body aching from the awkward position. Other times he wasn’t so lucky, and he woke up only with the first rays of sunshine coming through the windows of Fairy Dust, too late to go back home and get ready. He would try to make himself decent with magic and would start the day thinking he really needed some time off.

It was one of those mornings. This time Pansy woke Draco up knocking on the door of the bookstore half an hour before the opening. She was holding a large bag and when Draco opened the door, she entered without even saying ‘Hi.’ She hurried to his desk and dumped the bag on it with a loud thump, raising an eyebrow.

“Did you fall asleep here again?”

Draco nodded slowly, still not fully awake. She sighed and went on. “You need to rest properly, Draco! But not today. Today I have a surprise for you. I’ve found some books that I think would be great for your Reading Thursdays!”

Reading Thursdays were an event Draco had started a few weeks before. He had noticed that many children were fascinated with all his books that told of magic and enchanted places—they never wanted to go back home, enthralled by the drawings and the shining letters of those books. After seeing the latest kid begging his mother to stay a few minutes longer, to read ‘just one more chapter,’ Draco decided to open two hours, from 4 to 6 pm, in the reading parlour to read books out loud to the children. It rapidly became a crowded and much-loved event in his bookstore’s neighbourhood.

He yawned and finally looked up drowsily at Pansy. “Pansy, if you brought me your vampire romances again, I swear…”  

Pansy shook her head and took a book out of her bag, shouting, “Better!” and shoving it into Draco’s chest.

Draco took it and his face lost what little colour it had naturally, his eyes snapping fully open now. On a shining green cover with a drawing of four dragons, stood out the title, The Triwizard Tournament, and just under it, “by Harry Potter.”

Those two words spiralled in Draco’s mind for so long that they were starting to lose meaning when Pansy beamed, “So?”

Draco tried to speak, only to find out his throat had gone completely dry. He swallowed sharply and leaned the book on the desk. “He’s a writer? Of children books?”

Pansy smirked and emptied the whole bag on the desk: dozens of books fell on it, in an abundance of colours and seemingly endless repetition of the name Harry Potter all over them. Draco’s jaw fell open and he started opening each book, briefly scanning the pages, brushing his fingers over the drawings of Potter’s deeds, absent-mindedly smelling the pages. They smelled of new, of magic, and of bravery, and Draco cursed himself for being so sentimental over stupid pieces of paper.

Pansy laughed heartily. “I knew you’d like them. Have a look, seems like our old friend has got a unique way of telling stories. I’ve got to go to work, now! Let me know what you think.”

Draco waved a lazy hand at her, muttering a farewell under his breath and continuing to flip through the pages of Potter’s books. Reawakening from the stupor of such a discovery, Draco glanced at his clock to see it was time to open the bookstore. He got up and turned the sign on the door to ‘Open.’

The rest of the day passed in a haze for Draco. He smiled and helped his customers, but his mind had travelled far away—to a time when his life was dominated by magic, when he lived in a big ancient castle, when he used to believe stupid things and had ruined forever his chance to become friends with the great Harry Potter… the same Potter who was now writing children’s books about his life. What a show off! But, at the same time, Draco couldn’t avoid the curiosity that spread through him.

Potter had never struck him as an artistic kind of person. What had changed in these years? Was he really a good writer? When the sky turned black once again, Draco’s entire body was thrumming with excitement to read Potter’s books. He switched the sign on the door to ‘Closed’ and hurried to sit in the couch, a hot cup of tea in one hand and The Triwizard Tournament open in his lap. He started reading it and soon found himself absorbed in its world, in the wonderful way Potter had crafted a narrative of the events, to make it enjoyable for young readers, in the brief sentences here and there that made Draco understand what Potter had actually lived all those years ago.

Had he really been so blind to think that Potter’s life had been easy and happy only because of his fame? And the drawings… they were so vivid, so colourful and immersive. When Draco reached the end of the book, his heart skipped a beat. “Drawings by Harry Potter.” Draco’s mind blacked out and he stared at the page without blinking. Had he known Harry Potter at all during those seven years of school? He closed the book, wishing he could start his life once again and get to know this famous Harry Potter, after all.

That night he fell asleep dreaming of another life, where a hand hadn’t been rejected and Draco was under the water, waiting for Potter to save him before the other Triwizard champions…

^^^^^

After a non-stop month, Harry was happy to finally have some free time, away from writing. His first series of children’s books was completed, and he could finally take a breath of relief. He was walking along the streets of Muggle London, looking in at the windows of the shops, smiling at the freedom he had amongst Muggles. Sometimes he really needed those moments when he could walk in public without being asked for an autograph or a photo with a stranger.

He distractedly glanced at a window and almost tripped over his feet, coming to a halting stop. His books were displayed just there, in plain Muggle London. Was he having hallucinations? His gaze hovered higher, to look inside the shop… A blond man was sitting on the floor, one of Harry’s books open in his lap, reading to a bunch of children. Harry squinted harder... Merlin’s tits! It was Draco Malfoy!

Harry’s heart flew to his throat. What the fuck was happening? Harry’s mind was racing to understand the situation, when Draco Malfoy flicked his eyes up, just in time to glimpse Harry standing like an idiot outside the store, gaping like a fish. Harry widened his eyes and weakly waved a hand to greet him.

After ten years. He. Waved. His. Hand. To. Draco. Malfoy. What an idiot.

Malfoy tightened his lips as if to suck in a breath and then his cheeks flushed a crimson red, but he quickly flicked his eyes back to the children, continuing to read.

Taking a deep breath, Harry entered the bookstore and slowly approached Malfoy, sitting amongst the children. Malfoy didn’t seem to notice him, but a twitch of his jaw and a light stammering on a word told Harry he’d seen him enter.

After that, Malfoy continued to read passionately, smiling in a way Harry had no idea could be possible for his ex-nemesis, using his voice expressively, contorting his face to match what he was reading. He held the kids’ attention, and Harry’s, too. Malfoy seemed sweet, creating a masterful performance for the children sitting raptly in front of him. Had he known Draco Malfoy at all during those seven years of school?

When the story was finished and the children had gone home with their parents, only Harry remained in the bookstore, sat on the pillows on the floor, nervously scratching a patch on it. Malfoy sat in front of him, fidgeting with the book. He cleared his throat. “Potter.”

Harry flicked his eyes up to meet Malfoy’s. “Malfoy… I… It’s been ages!” He stood up and reached Malfoy, offering him his hand.

Malfoy took it and got up. “Ages, indeed. What brings you here?”

Harry felt his cheeks burning; was he really having a civil conversation with Malfoy? “I finished writing my first series of books and so I was enjoying a day off. I had no idea you… you have a bookstore?”

Malfoy smiled and Harry felt his cheeks getting even hotter if possible. When had Malfoy become so handsome? “Exactly. And you’re a writer. It’s a small world...”

Harry found himself grinning like a girl at his first crush. “Surely a weird coincidence. You are, erm, you are good with this stuff. And your bookstore… it’s so neat, beautiful and… cosy.”

They stared at each other in silence for a minute, before bursting out laughing. Malfoy regained control first. “We look like two idiots. Can I offer you something to drink, or maybe —”

Right at that moment, the door of the bookstore opened loudly, and Harry heard quick steps advancing in their direction, while Draco rolled his eyes and whispered, “Oh no.”

Harry turned to see a large woman, with curly hair standing up all over her head and an angry frown on her face, practically running towards them. She stopped right next to Harry, ignoring him and pointing a big finger towards Malfoy. “You! You are a librarian! How can you read such stuff to children! Shame on you!”

Harry raised his eyebrows, barely stifling laughter. Was that woman referring to his books? He risked a peek at Malfoy and saw him with his usual scowl in place. Some things never changed.

He crooked his head and answered with a calm that Harry never would have expected from him. “Mrs Delaoui, we’ve talked about this several times now. I find Harry Potter’s books more than appropriate for children: they love them, and the books teach them good lessons and values. I will never—not today, nor any other day—stop reading or selling them.”

The so-called Mrs Delaoui turned an alarming shade of red and stomped her feet on the ground, like a capricious child who’d been refused a sweet. “They are full of violence! And death and such strong words. This… how do you call him… Voldemort? He’s too bad for children, they could take him as a role model! I won’t bring my child here again under any circumstance and I will write to this famous Harry Potter and —”

Harry couldn’t restrain anymore and burst out laughing so hard he had to lean against a shelf, holding his belly. The woman looked at him, astounded. When he calmed down enough to answer, he looked at her, shaking his head. “Oh, I am sorry, Ma’am. Don’t mind me.” After all, it wasn’t every day that he could witness Malfoy supporting him.

Malfoy snorted and started again. “Look, Ma’am, I’ll repeat myself one last time. If you don’t want to bring here your child again that’s fine by me. And try to reach Harry Potter, too, if you feel like it. But what I can tell you is that I won’t stop selling these books, and the reason is simple. You say there is violence and death, but have you ever actually read the most famous fairy tales? They are all about princesses in danger, knights who have to kill an enemy for their love, and orphans who’ve lost their parents in horrifying ways. This is no less, no more. And I’ll tell you one more thing: these books teach children bravery, real friendship, humility, and to fight for the right things. I wish someone had taught me those things when I was a child. So, for the last time: I’ll never stop reading or selling Harry Potter’s books.”

Harry was looking at Malfoy with his mouth slightly open, his heartbeat racing in his chest. This Draco Malfoy seemed a far cry from the one he used to know, and he felt a sudden strong pull to get to know this new man standing right in front of him, defending him and his past to a Muggle.

Mrs Delaoui seemed at a loss for words and looked back and forth from Harry to Draco. “Well!” She cried out, “That’s! I don’t… goodbye!”

She turned and angrily stalked off, the sounds of her stomping feet the only one reverberating in the bookstore before she exited, slamming the door behind herself.

Harry glanced at Malfoy again and saw that a blush was covering most of his face and the visible part of his neck; Harry couldn’t fight the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Malfoy must have felt his eyes on him, because he turned to Harry and pursed his lips, trying to hold back a smile of his own. “I…”

Harry briefly shook his head. “I never thought I’d live to see the day Draco Malfoy would defend me.”

This time Malfoy did smile, and Harry thought he could see a future in the gleam of Malfoy’s eyes. “And I never thought I’d live to see the day I’d go out on a date with Harry Potter.”

Harry crossed his arms and smirked. “Who said we’re going out on a date?”

Malfoy leaned in towards Harry, his breath ghosting over his lips. “Scared, Potter?”

Harry held his gaze. “You wish, Malfoy.”

[cameronomicon]

I Dream of Jeanie

This blog begins like everything else: with the supernatural. A ghost story. Well, it’s a story about two ghosts: one is corporeal, flesh and bone, hungry. He haunts his own life and the lives of the people who love him. That ghost is me, Cam, a career alcoholic, prescription amphetamine and nicotine addict, and struggling adult human. The other ghost is haunting him. And others. In Orange County, California, of all the world’s god-forsaken places. 

It’s September 2, 2018. I have just emerged from medical detox in a treatment facility in Mission Viejo, California, where I was admitted the evening of August 30. 

The days and weeks preceding this were a blur of teary eyed calls with friends and coworkers, vomiting, tremors, all-day drinking, zero rest, little food, and, finally, an evening drive south to rehab with a very patient friend. I had my dog in tow. The vomit he had saved for over an hour an a half was his parting gift for my friend and her car’s interior as we pulled into the driveway of our suburban destination. 

She is a very, very patient friend. 

The first thing I remember at the facility was the cops showing up to deal with a violent intake who screamed at the graveyard shift tech relentlessly about getting their medication. For the next two and a half days, I staggered around the in an Ativan-induced fog. I managed to execute a supervised grocery run, though I have no recollection of this event. 

After detox, I was driven to one of the houses where I would undergo residential treatment for the disease that has ruled my life in one manifestation or another since that first, boiling-hot, high-school-sized swig of whisky in the Wyman family back house all those years ago. It was, frankly, magic. Alcohol activated something in me that finally allowed me to feel comfortable in my own skin, around others, and as a part of the world. 

A few days passed, and I began to emerge from behind the benzodiazepine cataract. I woke up early one day, as I did every day, and stumbled about in my coffee-making and dog-letting-out routine. I stood outside with a steaming mug amidst the low fog of the costal marine layer, which enveloped palm trees in a smudgy gray that, especially in the golden sunlight of the hours which follow, always seemed eerie and alien. That’s when the graveyard tech walked out to join me. 

“Morning, how you feeling?” he asked. 

“I’m ok.” My dog set off across the yard at a full clip to pursue a rustle in a bush. “Slept like shit, though.”

“Oh really? Must have been that woman screaming.” He laughed.

“The what?” I was incredulous. It was too early. I turned away and watched the fog lick at the clay rooftop tiles of the ascending rows of identical homes on the ridge that kept us from the sea.

“You didn’t hear it? I hear the screams every night.”

*

Over the next few days, residents and staff alike compared notes. All who heard the screaming said it happened late at night, around 3am, and they could not pinpoint the source. Some said it came from across the street, others swore it they heard the scream coming from down the hill. Some of the staff had contemplated calling the police. 

I never heard the screaming because I went to bed too early to be a witness. But there were the nightmares. Horrifying, vivid nightmares the likes of which I’d never experienced before. Graphic visions of being sexually assaulted, of torture, of humiliation and suffering. Horrible, paralyzing dreams that would interrupt my sleep several times every night and continued to haunt me well into my waking hours. The following is from my journal, slightly edited:

“I had a dream last night that I was violently raped by (someone) ... who I was sent to ... as punishment for making a rug dirty. (They) screamed at me and laughed while (they) did it and when I cried (they) made it worse ... Then I was surrounded by empty beer bottles in my childhood bedroom and voices kept saying 'I thought you quit.’”

At the time of this writing, I feel that the whole, unedited content of this and the other dreams I experienced is too graphic for me to feel comfortable sharing. 

This happened to me every single night for over a week.

*

When we told our reiki practitioner about the screaming, she was unfazed. 

“That sounds like Jeanie,” she said matter-of-factly before she began our sessions. “Jeanie died here. Fell out of her bed one night.”

Reiki is a dubious energy healing technique that was offered as a part of the suite of care in our treatment center. Having experienced it myself, I can say that reiki seems to be at best a meditative aid and at worst some psychic hoodwinkery. What we learned is that our reiki master had also serviced the patients in palliative care at our house when it was still a hospice, which was not very long ago at all. She had treated and came to know Jeanie, whose spirit she immediately and authoritatively claimed was the source of the screaming. 

That we seemed to have inherited both reiki and a restless, screaming ghost was a lot to digest on a warm, dry Thursday afternoon in rehab.

What most people don’t know about Orange County, if in fact they know anything at all, is that it is the treatment capital of the world. There is a massive drug and alcohol rehabilitation industry here, with facilities dotting suburban neighborhoods and costal communities alike. Many, such as ours, are indistinguishable from other homes from the outside. Only when you go inside can you spot the differences: no locks on the doors, cameras everywhere, California-required hazard signs and fire extinguishers, motivational-adjacent but woefully empty wall platitudes. 

“Don’t dream your life...live your dreams!” taunted me in perfect cursive from its place on a kitchen wall. In that moment, if I lived my dreams, I’d be in the worst hell I could imagine. Most mornings I simply ignored it as I avocadoed my toast. It was ultimately harmless and forgettable, though I admit I got a mildly satisfying kick out of sneering at it. 

Having administered both reiki and information about our ghost, the master left. We living residents of the house all sat together outside on the back patio to discuss what she had told us. The others smoked or vaped as they speculated about what it could all mean. I crammed a few handfuls of candy in my face, and then I told them about my dreams. 

“Holy god in heaven,” one of my friends cried out. “Now that’s some sick shit.”

Eyes downcast, faces ashen, I could tell my information had affected the others and added a gravity to the situation that hadn’t been there before. We did not speak of it again. 

That night, I dreamed about someone I loved once who couldn’t love me. I saw her across a crowded dance in a school gym. She was made up beautifully, wearing a blue dress, her hair cut short, colored blonde and bouncy. She smiled and reached out to me. I tried to grab her hand, but she fell back into darkness, crying out for me, falling farther and father out of reach, her eyes filled with fear. 

That was the last dream I had at the house. We found out suddenly the next day that we would be moving to a different location, and that the facility we were leaving would be transitioned into a detox. 

Of all the nightmares, this felt the cruelest somehow. I woke up at 3:30am and just sobbed. I was physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted. And this was on top of all of the other challenging work of getting sober. 

But I never had another bad dream after we moved. And the screaming did not follow us.

* I would find out later that a common side effect of Seroquel, along with fugue-state ambulation and sleep-eating, is nightmares. This drug is often prescribed to patients who are in post-acute withdrawal from drugs and alcohol to treat insomnia. Seroquel is what I started taking when I moved into residential treatment. 

Graveyard shifts are notoriously hard on the human body. Inverting the natural  sleep rhythm can do an absolute number on the brain, and often leads to chronic insomnia. Anyone who has stayed up all night can attest to how significantly it messes with your internal systems. I have stayed up multiple consecutive nights before, and have hallucinated. I have heard screaming when there was none, I have seen shadows morph into human forms and vanish just as quickly. 

This is all to say that there seems to be a perfectly logical explanation for the dreams, for the screaming. The reiki master could have just been having some fun with the unruly and obnoxious adult children that were her clients. She could just be full of shit. Night shift guys could have just heard things, or maybe it was a coyote. An owl. Someone actually screaming (hey, maybe it was a detox patient at another facility!) One morning I awoke earlier than usual to find one of the graveyard techs standing in the dark, staring at a street lamp. He was transfixed by a silvery form hanging below it in the yellow light.

“Is that a goddamn bat?” he asked, horrified.

It was a spiderweb.

But...I continued to take the Seroquel after we moved houses, and the nightmares never returned. The other house, Jeanie’s house, became a chaotic mess for the staff. Patients in detox were found fucking in multiple rooms, people disappeared in the middle of the night and others showed up suddenly in the morning...the entire detox program of this treatment facility seemed to be plunged into unmitigated bedlam, and it wasn’t like that before. Sure, there is always going to be some drama at places like this, but techs said they’d never seen things so bad. Anywhere. Additional workers were hired. Others quit without notice. And I have to wonder.

So, this story also ends like everything else: with the supernatural, with the unknown. Life ends with a big fat question mark, and that’s ok. One thing I’ve grown to appreciate is not having all the answers, to accepting the unknown and allowing myself to dip a toe into superstition. Human beings are no strangers to faith, but faith is especially vital for a person like me: faith in myself that I can stay sober, faith in redemption, faith that there is something, somewhere, greater than me that can save my ass. Faith in good friends, faith in good dogs. Faith in a life worth living well. Faith that Jeanie will find whatever she needs to cease her wailing, and faith that one day I’ll be there in time to stop somebody’s falling.

[writer-or-whatever]

Game Night

The one where Remus is pining and there’s alcohol and monopoly involved and ThingsTM happen.

Read it on AO3.

((Based on a prompt: “We pulled an all-nighter trying to play monopoly and I think I may have confessed some shit” (I got this off a masterlist of prompts somewhere a while ago and the op has been deactivated so…)))

The lights were bright, even through the curtains drawn around his bed. Wait. The curtains, though red- much like those around his own bed, were not his and neither was the bed. The bed which Remus just realized he was sharing with someone. Someone who was pressed tight to his back, arm around his waist, and breath puffing against the back of his neck, slow and steady and clearly still asleep. As he forced himself to stay still and not wake whichever of his friends he was spooning with, he wondered just what the hell exactly happened last night.

Remus remembers the beginning of the evening clearly: they were all sitting on the floor of the dorm playing a rather heated game of exploding snap. Then, three games and about an hour later, there came alcohol and an outcry for a more interesting game to play. Peter produced the muggle game Monopoly, another bottle of firewhiskey to add to the one and a half bottles already laying between the other three marauders, and a bag of cheap muggle halloween candy from his mum.

After that is when his memory starts to get a tad fuzzy.

Remus remembers Peter trying to explain the rules of the game to a slightly tipsy James and Sirius, neither of whom had ever played the game before, while he charmed the pieces, dice, cards, and money against any sleight of hand jinxes or spells, making sure everyone played the game fair and square and 100% the muggle way. He remembers James trying to buy properties prior to landing on them (and Sirius’s subsequent drunken outcry of “Noooo, Jamie, you have to put the little hat on the square before you can buy it, didn’t you listen?”) and James’s drunken attempts at counting out the monopoly money (“I wonder what the galleon equivalent is. Do you think they make monopoly galleons?”) and his mad laughter when he bought all the properties on one side of the board and put houses on all of them. He’s pretty sure that Sirius flipped the board, sending pieces all over the place, when he went bankrupt and also there was definitely wrestling happening between James and Sirius and James lording his new, self-proclaimed title of Monopoly Lord over the rest of them.

He knows that they cleaned up Sirius’s mess, except for the thimble piece which was now lost forever, and started a new game now that everyone was completely clear on the rules (Sirius’s reason for not winning the first time). He remembers this game lasting forever and Peter falling asleep. He’s fairly sure that was when James proceeded to eat what remained of Peter’s share of the muggle candy (which was quite a bit) and then running into the bathroom to throw it all up (he never could handle large amounts of alcohol and sugar together). Remus isn’t sure if James ever came back out or if he passed out on the bathroom floor and he doesn’t remember why he didn’t check.

He does remember Sirius trying to continue the game, playing for both himself and James when he didn’t come back after a few minutes, which quickly deteriorated into Sirius and Remus giggling as Sirius gave the pieces voices and made a lot of poor spending decisions with his monopoly money (“Nobody buys the purple squares, Pads, because they’re worthless.” “Shh, Moony, it’s a good investment, and I’ll show you when you loose. Besides, this is technically James’s piece and so he’s buying it not me.”). He thinks he remembers Sirius going from the topic of poor monopoly investments to Remus’s most recent ex-girlfriend but he’s not really sure how that happened or what was in between (“I’m glad you broke up with her, Moony, she’s not good enough for you,” Sirius was serious when he said it, too. That Remus remembers and he remembered not being able to figure out just why Sirius was so, well, serious. “Why not, Sirius? I mean, I thought she was pretty good; she was smart and funny and she liked studying with me. Clearly she didn’t agree, because she dumped me though.”). He remembers Sirius’s sad look when he started getting a little self-deprecating.

Remus is fairly certain that what he remembered next was just a dream or some drunken hallucination, though the presence behind him in a bed that isn’t his might say otherwise.

Sirius had gotten really close to him somewhere between taking over James’s pieces and talking about Claire, his ex-girlfriend. He’s pretty sure that they were doing that whole staring then quickly looking away before the other person notices thing, and he remembers Sirius telling him that he thinks Claire was an idiot to break up with him. Remus remembers asking why and he remembers not getting an answer. He also is pretty sure that Sirius didn’t answer him because he was too busy kissing him. The only thing that makes Remus doubt that this isn’t just a hyper-vivid dream that he had was being able to remember how Sirius’s mouth tasted, like firewhiskey and cheap chocolate, and he’d never dreamt that before. He remembered kissing until they broke apart panting, and he remembers the high of the sugar and Sirius fading just a bit and saying it was late. He remembers Sirius pulling him up from the floor and towards his bed and the two of them tripping over each other’s feet and sort of just flopping onto Sirius’s bed. He only half-remembered Sirius pulling him close, his back to Sirius’s chest, kissing the back of his neck, and mumbling incoherently before they both dropped off into sleep.

Remus’s reminiscing was interrupted by Sirius’s arm tightening around him as he groaned and started to wake up. “My brain feels like it’s throbbing, Moony. Do you think Peter has any more hangover potion, he always has some.”

Remus didn’t answer, he just blinked dumbly; Sirius was acting like this was completely normal, the two of them wrapped together like this. Remus knew he wanted things like this to happen with Sirius but for them to actually happen was causing his brain to short circuit and him to freak out.

“Moony? Are you awake?” Sirius was still wrapped around him when he asked, clearly not intending to let go any time soon.

“Uh-huh.” Sirius’s arm still didn’t loosen and neither of them moved- Sirius because he apparently didn’t want to and Remus because he physically couldn’t, not with Sirius cuddled around him like this (not that he could’ve if Sirius wasn’t, his insides were jelly and his brain was goo from waking up in doing what he had fantasized about for months and he wasn’t sure his legs would be able to follow the command to walk, was his brain actually capable of issuing such a command).

There was silence as they lay there, Sirius relatively relaxed aside from the groans caused by his hangover, and Remus tense, wondering when and how this situation would be resolved.

After a couple minutes of this, Remus couldn’t take it anymore, “Sirius, do you plan on letting me go anytime soon?”

“Why, don’t you want to cuddle with me?” Remus couldn’t see him but he was sure he was making those damn puppy dog eyes of his.

“Well, it’s alright, but it’s not exactly something we normally do, you know?” Remus was freaked out that Sirius was so nonchalant about this and even more freaked out that Sirius wouldn’t remember how they got here (considering he drunk a lot more alcohol than Remus had and didn’t have his werewolf metabolism) and would think it’s just some platonic drunk cuddling thing, which Remus really didn’t think he could handle since he was both struggling to get over a break up with a girl he actually liked (as opposed to one Sirius set him up with so that they could go on double dates because Sirius thought they were fun) and nursing a major crush on his best friend.

“But it’s something I’ve been wanting to do for a while.” Sirius’s voice was soft and he pressed a kiss to the back of Remus’s neck after he’d said it, causing Remus’s breath to hitch.

“Yeah?” Remus’s voice was just as soft as Sirius’s had been.

“Yeah.”

That was enough to prompt Remus to turn around in Sirius’s arms and kiss him, morning breath be damned.

He was really, really glad that he’d let Peter talk them all into having a game night last night.

((I started writing this a while ago, forgot which notebook I started it in, then found it a few months later and finished it, so it might be a little eh.))

Send me a prompt!

[medjaichieftain]

5 7 8 and 20

5: How has your musegrown since you first started playing them?

Athis core, he hasn’t. I have really tried to stay true to the original character, sincehe’s not mine. But as far as things I have expanded upon that were neveraddressed or mentioned in the movies, I would say the biggest area of growthfor Ardeth has been actually paying attention to his own life, heh. That soundskinda silly, but the movie gives you the impression that being a Medjai isArdeth’s whole life and he doesn’t really do anything else. He doesn’t ever haveany downtime, there’s nothing said about his family, there’s no talk about whathe wants for himself in his own life, it’s made to sound like he just works allthe time. Well that’s because he does, haha. So one thing that I’ve been ableto do with him is explore his own wants and needs a bit through threads withships or ones that include downtime. As dedicated as Ardeth is to his veryimportant job, there is more to life than that, and it is perfectly okay forhim to have a balance between work and personal life. That’s one of the thingsI want him to learn as I write him, so as I do, he transitions from a workaholicyoung person mindset to a more mature and well-rounded person. He still has alot to learn, though, as he still overworks himself and is kindof one-track-mindedwith regard to the Medjai.

6: What motivates yourmuse to get up in the morning?

Thethought that if he doesn’t get up and get his ass in gear fast and efficiently,someone somewhere might be seriously injured or even die. He cannot justifyslacking off or sleeping late when there are literally things ready to destroythe world, heh.

On ahappier note, in threads with ships and when he is with his family, Ardeth ismotivated to get up in the morning in order to spent time with his loveinterest or wife or children. Once he has a family of any kind, he becomes asdedicated to them as he is to his work and treasures the time he is able tospend with them.

7: Name a time whenyou really wanted to punch your muse.

Inthe canon, it was when he was on the bus and he just lost his shit and screamedat the mummy in his face haha. Like totally scared like a Chihuahua, arms up inthe air, doofy look on his face, screaming. And I’m just like Ardy, sweetheart,you face things that can kill you on an almost daily basis, what are you evendoing right now? (sigh)

Asfar as things I’ve written for him, I sorta want to punch him in his threadwith @runawayagent because Charlotte hasgracefully accepted the fact that she has had past lives and is someone ofgreat importance, but Ardeth is completely resisting accepting the same. And thefact that he told Rick the exact same things in The Mummy Returns, that he needed to embrace the missing piece ofhis soul and if he does he can do anything, just makes it worse. Eventually hewill accept it, but right now as he’s dismissing the signs of it as coincidence– just like Rick did! – I kinda wanna punch him, haha.

20: Name a headcanonabout your muse you haven’t said yet on this blog.

Since the events of The Mummy Returns, Ardeth has sufferedfrom sleep paralysis. Let me explain a littleabout what sleep paralysis is for those who aren’t familiar with it.

It’s asymptom of both anxiety and stress. Basically what sleep paralysis is, is whenthe brain is overactive during sleep and believes that it is awake when it isactually asleep. So the person is completely asleep, but the brain believesthat the person is awake, and therefore that they should be able to move,speak, see, and hear as normal. People with sleep paralysis often mistake the auditoryand visual hallucinations they experience for ghosts, demons, shadow people,aliens, astral projection, or near-death experiences. Really, though, all thatis happening is that, while asleep, your brain is interpreting what your sensesare responding to in a very primal way.

Common sleep paralysis experiencesinclude waking up in the middle of the night and not being able to move orspeak. Sometimes people feel like they are being choked or that something issitting on their chest. Usually a humanoid figure will be perceived as sittingon the person’s chest (this has happened to me) and/or chocking them, but alsoa common myth about cats (that they steal your breath at night) can beexplained by this. Other experiences include seeing a black shadow person inthe room, seeing a black dog or wolf, and hearing it growl (all of these havehappened to me). In actually, this can all be explained by human prey fears andprimal instincts as well as the biology of what occurs during sleep.

When weare asleep, our breathing becomes slower and shallower, so we don’t takedeep breaths. We also don’t move voluntarily, so we can’t choose to move orspeak. The brain, which thinks it’s awake, becomes alarmed by the fact thathey, we can’t move or cry for help right now. That panic response will thenresult in the brain trying to explain why this might be. Why can’t we move orspeak? Oh, because someone is trying to choke us or is sitting on top of us andweighing us down. Why are we so afraid right now? Oh, because there’s astranger in the room that wants to hurt us, or because there is an animal thatwants to eat us. The wolf is a very common predator fear for humans, and red isthe color of alarm. If we’re seeing a lot of red, it might be because there’s alot of blood, so red brings about some amount of alarm in our subconsciousminds. It’s why red is considered such a bold color in art or fashion, becausewe as humans key in on it very much.

So no, there aren’t any demons or shadowpeople or shadow wolves in the room with glowing red eyes, it’s just your braintrying to explain why it can’t do all the things it feels it should do becauseit’s actually asleep. Sometimes people will also claim that the shadow visitorswill moan and the wolves will growl. What that actually is, is you hearingyourself breathing or snoring in your sleep, and your brain interpreting it tobe a noise from something else.

Very religious peoplemight interpret these experiences as being visited and/or attacked by demons.Sci-fi nuts might think aliens visited them. And people who are verysuperstitious or who live in cultures where various types of predatory ghostsor nature spirits are considered to be real and common, they may think that’swhat is visiting them. Really, all it is that you are overtired, overworked,worried about something, really stressed out, really upset, etc., and yourbrain is unable to completely rest during sleep. (For example, two out of thethree times it happened to me was in the months leading up to my Ph.D. defense.I was nervous out of my mind, haha, overworked, and not sleeping well to begin with, so itmakes sense.)

Sleep paralysis is notactually dangerous. Although you may feel like you’re dying, you aren’t, andeven the visions and sensations you have of being crushed or choked are notreal, it’s just that you can’t breathe as deeply as your brain thinks youshould be able to because you’re sleeping. Where sleep paralysis can become aproblem is if the person is very afraid of what is happening to the point wherethey will actually avoid sleep to keep it from happening. Or if it’s soterrifying that they jolt awake and then don’t want to go back to sleep. Thatcan cause sleep deprivation if it occurs often enough. Most people that have itonly experience it once or a couple times maybe, but there are a few unluckypeople who have it very often, or some people may have it almost every nightuntil they can reduce the stress in their lives. And that is really the only “cure”for sleep paralysis is to relax and reduce stress.

Now as far as what Ardethis experiencing, he has felt the crushing/choking sensation and he sees ashadow person either in his tent or near where he’s sleeping or actually on himtrying to kill him. He does not experience sleep paralysis every night, but itis maybe 2-4 times a week in the weeks after the events of The Mummy Returns. He has not told anyone about it, but he fears itmay either be something evil trying to influence him when he is vulnerable or aprophetic experience trying to warn him of a rising threat in the future.

In the case of sleepingbeside a ship, what she would see is maybe that he would twitch a little, hisbreathing might become irregular, and he might manage to mumble a bit, butotherwise, he would just look like he’s sleeping or maybe having a vivid dream.Of course, if he were to suddenly wake up with a start - and he does this often– that might wake her up, heh.

[thejokersenigma]

Christmas Advent Calendar 2017 - Day 9 - Joker x Reader - A Christmas Carol Part 2

Phew, managed to finish with 2 minutes left until midnight! I’m tired and so this may not be the best! But I hope you enjoy anyway!

MASTERLIST

When J awoke the room was still completely dark, yet the clock by his bed read 23:07. It couldn’t be 11pm -  it had been 2am when J had left his office for his room.

It wouldn’t have been the first time that J had slept a whole day away, but the date on the clock still read 24/12. Maybe his head was still clouded with the alcohol.

He pushed himself to his feet, not feeling particularly rested, and made his way to the large windows that made up one of the walls of his bedroom. He ripped the heavy curtains away, the night outside still clearly pitch black despite the frost on the glass, blurred lights of the nearby buildings the only thing he could obviously see.

The Joker was wide awake now and stalked out into the rest of the empty penthouse, heading into his office where he firmly closed the door behind him and poured a large drink, the odd hallucination from earlier that evening still haunting his chaotic mind.

He sipped his drink moodily, sat at his desk staring blankly at the solid black door in front of him, only the small dim lamp producing any light in the room. Every time he thought of Marlo he kept thinking how something had been off about him. There were certain things he did that none of his hallucinations ever did. They rarely ever spoke back, never really listened to him like Marlo had, and certainly didn’t sit next to him for a chat. But it could only be a hallucination, nothing else – maybe Frost had just brought him the good stuff this time and so his hallucinations were, in turn, stronger than usual.

The Joker remained lost in his mind for the next hour, vaguely hearing the chiming of an antique clock that sat on the mantle piece of the unused fireplace in his study. It hit 12 and the dull chimes echoed through the empty rooms.

Suddenly a large light – similar to that of a flood light - illuminated the room making J shield his eyes. He had to wonder if the police had finally got lucky and found him out, thinking the light to be that of a search light of a GCPD helicopter – if they had any of those left after J’s latest stunts.

J spun to look at the window behind his desk, but the light was too bright to see anything, forcing him to shield his eyes. Just as soon as it had come, the light was gone, and the room was plunged into darkness – even the small desk lamp having somehow gone out.

J turned back to face the rest of the room again, finding himself blind thanks to the sudden darkness, and unable to make anything out through the glass. He glanced across at where he knew the lamp was on his desk. Was it purely coincidental that the bulb had gone out, or was this someone’s idea of trying to intimidate him?

He let out a echoing laugh into the darkness at the very idea and took another sip of his drink as the lamp flickered back on next to him. Must be a lose bulb instead then. He’d have to remember to yell at Frost in the morning. No. Frost had tomorrow off now. He clenched his jaw in annoyance at the thought.

But then something distracted J. A figure stood in the shadows of the room, too far back to for the small lamp on the desk to reach his figure.

“Can I help you?” The Joker asked dryly, not at all impressed by the disruption, his hand reaching into the drawer of his desk and retrieving the pistol store there.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.” It said in familiar voice.

The Joker let out a loud, empty cackle, absent of any humour. “How the hell did you get up here, Eddie?” The man stepped into the light, dressed in his usual bright green suit, white shirt and dark tie, a matching bowler hat on his head and his hands gloved in purple, holding his usual golden staff, the end twisted into its characteristic question mark.

The Riddler said nothing in response to the question.

“You’d better have a good reason for disturbing me…” Joker growled in annoyance at Ed’s disrespect.

“I am here to help you.” He said simply, though his voice sounded more hollow than usual and he didn’t appear to be his usual cocky and flamboyant self.

“I would have thought it would have been more helpful if you let me have my drink and return to bed.” The Joker pointed out contemptuously.

“Your reclamation, then.”

“Smaller words Eddie…” Joker drawled, bored of the late-night visitor and wishing he’d take him and his riddles out of here. “Why couldn’t this wait till tomorrow?” Joker asked in annoyance, tilting his head back and leaning it against the back of the chair. He was feeling tired for the first time in a long time. All these hallucinations were taking it out of him.

Suddenly his chair was spun violently around, halting sharply so he faced the window again. Before he could even comprehend what was happening, he was yanked out of his chair by something pulling around his waist and landed nimbly on his feet despite the few drinks he’d had.

A glance down at his torso confirmed he’d been pulled by the Riddler’s staff, somehow unwrapping out of it’s usual solid shape to curl around his waist. The gun was still in his hand he now aimed it directly at Nigma’s chest.

“Huge mistake Eddie.” He snarled with a wide, sinister grin, not even bothering to wonder how Eddie had moved that fast, or how his cane how somehow been modified. The staff was unhooked from around the Jokers waist and returned to it’s usual size and shape in the Riddler’s hand.

“Come with me.” Was all the Riddler said, curling his fingers on his outstretched hand, his eyes not even bothering to look at the gun now pointing at him, as though he hadn’t even seen it.

“I don’t believe you’re in any position to tell me what to do, my wordy little friend.” Grinned the Joker madly, still aiming the gun – and people said he was crazy.

The Riddler ignored this too though, grabbing J’s arm that was outstretched with the gun, and dragging him towards the window. The Joker was slightly taken aback by the man handling, but barely hesitated before firing the gun at the exact point that he was pulled through the penthouse window.

When J’s eyes focused again he was stood in what appeared to be an old pub. It was completely impossible. Must be another hallucination and J growled something to himself. He’d never known them to be so vivid as to create a how new scene around him as well as a person – as he was now certain the man next to him could possibly be real. The Riddler stood next to him, completely unharmed and as uncaring at J’s presence as before, despite the fact that the Joker was certain he had shot him. Even now the man’s eyes weren’t on him, but straight ahead of where they stood.

The Joker was about to demand what was supposedly going on in this hallucination as he followed the fake Riddler’s gaze, but he was silenced by what he saw.

It was him. An old him – in the way that he was in fact younger. And his skin was normal. His hair wasn’t green. And he was wearing a dark, rather tatty and worn suit with a rather crinkled shirt underneath which was done up to the highest button.

Joker knew this moment from his past. But why was it playing out around him now? ‘The Ghost of Christmas Past.’ Was he dreaming rather than hallucinating? But he’d had never thought of this moment since he’d been dunked in those chemicals all those years ago.

There was one way to differentiate between hallucinations and dreams.  J reached into trouser pocket and pulled out a pen knife, flicking it open and, without hesitation, slicing into his left palm. The wound oozed blood sluggishly, quickly clotting. The Joker let out a loud cackling laugh at the sheer ridiculousness and impossibility of the situation.

“Alright Ghosty!” The Joker went, going along with the whatever his mind wanted him to see. “Whatta we here for?” He grinned.

The Riddler pointed at the front door as it opened to reveal two men. They walked casually into the bar like it was their regular place – which it was – grabbing a drink from the bar before they wandered over to where the younger J sat.

“Jacobs and Gamphrey….” Drawled the Joker, reaching out a hand to grab Gamphrey’s arm, but the hallucination walked straight through him, both men continuing on none the wiser, and taking a seat next to the other J and playfully elbowing him in the side. You couldn’t see it on his face – even back then he was good at putting on a mask – but the Joker knew he had been anxious that night. It had been Christmas eve. The night before the big heist. J’s first real heist that he had planned himself. It had taken a long time to get to that point thanks to lack of funds for it or anyone willing to take him seriously about the idea, but he had managed to cobble enough resources together with the help of the men now sat with him.

The Joker almost felt sorry for those men that had come to his office earlier that evening suggesting a series of blueprints for heists over the holidays. He had been in a similar position once.

“What is it, Joker?” Came the Riddler’s voice next to him as though he could read his mind. The Joker growled at him, clenching his jaw and not saying anything. Instead, he watched the naïve joking faces of the three friends. Jacobs and Gamphrey wouldn’t see the next morning.

“I always liked those guys…” The Joker mused, feeling himself soften slightly at the memories, but the creepy grin spreading on his face hid any emotions he had at the memory.

The Riddler nodded his head, a far off look on his face. “You will always find me in the past, I can be created in the present, but the future can never taint me.”

J shot Eddie an annoyed glance, but quickly returned his eyes to scene before him, only to find it had changed. The two men were gone, and the young J now looked slightly older, his hair neatly brushed and his suit replaced with a nicer one. He downed a glass of something as the Joker watched, then gestured for the bar tender for another, far more confident in himself now than he had been a moment ago.

The J in the memory was making eyes at a few of the women at the bar and they were flicking their hair behind their ears encouragingly. He gave them a smile - completely different to the one he frequently wore now – more cocky and arrogant.

Suddenly a man stood directly in the young J’s line of sight. “Odd way to spend ya Christmas, boy.” The Joker heard the man say in a familiar voice. The Joker looked at the man carefully, but only when he turned to take the seat next to his younger self, did he recognise a younger Marlo.

Marlo gestured to the barman as well, and, without a word in the way of an order, a bottle of strong port was delivered to the table.

“Ah, Wiese and Krohn…” Grinned the Joker happily to himself. “The man always liked his shitty port.” He told the Riddler, not caring what he said to them – after all, he was only a hallucination. They watched as Marlo poured two glasses and the young J sipped at it, making a face at the taste and Marlo laughing at his expression.

“He always told me I’d grow to like it.” J said, “Never did.” He admitted. “That was the night he asked me to join his little group. Said he saw potential in me!” The joker giggled manically. “I was too big for my britches though, turned him down flat! Didn’t think I had anything to learn! Until I lost everyman I had!” J laughed chaotically, closing his eyes and shaking with mirth at the memory of his failure and stupidity at that age.

When J opened his eyes again they weren’t in the pub anymore, they were outside a bar in the wintery night, the cold wind whipping through J’s hair, throwing it all over the place and biting at his exposed skin. His imagination was really working on overdrive tonight. He had to wonder if someone had spiked his drink.

“You know this place?” Asked the ghostly Riddler.

“Oh course…” Grinned J, picking up on the familiar décor. The place burnt down years ago thanks to a hit from a rival gang, but J would have known the place anywhere. It was Marlo’s original place of business. J had spent a large proportion of his life in this club.

It had been before the chemical bath that had warped his features and his life. Before he had changed.

He had tried to work alone for a long time - tried to set his own gang - but could never accomplish much more than a few small heists and petty crimes. Then one heist had gone horribly wrong and he’d lost all his men and had been unceremoniously kicked off his high horse.

After that he had sought out Marlo again to take him up on the offer from all those years ago. Marlo hadn’t let him in without a good bit of humiliation for J – which probably had done him good – but soon after became one of Marlo’s henchman, eventually working his way up to his right-hand man.

This club had been his home. He walked in without thinking about it.

The scene before him was one of the Christmas Eve before J had been plunged into the acid. The club was loud with the music of the era and the laughing and shouting of the dancers as the strobe lights flashed throughout the club. The Joker saw the memory of himself stood at the back of the club, tall and intimidating, next a booth where Marlo lounged with his usual glass of port, surveying the scene before him, a beautiful girl nestled under his left arm. Marlo’s girl. Marlo’s wife.

Her name had been Georgia and the two of them now cushioned up together had been inseparable and a team. She’d never looked that tough, but J had only underestimated her once before he had never done so again. She had been a force to be reckoned with and reminded him distinctly of [Y/N].

Back then J had liked one night stands just as much as the next guy, but he wanted to be like Marlo, and that meant having a girl like Marlo had.

It only took a dunk in some acid and a fried brain to get rid of that idea. No one would want him looking the way he did. But he hadn’t care anyway.

Until [Y/N]. She liked him before and she liked him afterwards. Well, up to a point.

Speaking of the girl, she now wandered up in the hallucination towards the booth. The Joker watched her movements across the club, unable to stop his eyes raking over her body, knowing each detail intimately and to the smallest degree, but still drinking them in anyway.  She hadn’t really changed from all those years ago, unlike him. She still held the same beauty and grace, walking with a sense of power and knowledge, always like she was one step ahead of you.

The Joker watched her glance across at the younger J who stood on guard by the booth with an emotionless mask over his face. Her gaze lingered on him in interest and a small smile turned her lips before she slid into the booth next to Marlo, kissing him and his wife on the cheek. Greeting her parents with a Merry Christmas before ordering a drink

J remembered how hard it was to keep his mind on his job that night, and his eyes.

After a short while, [Y/N] whispered something in her father’s ear, he glanced an expression of question down at her, but then nodded, straightening. “Lads!” Marlo called, and the surrounding henchmen gathered in front of the booth’s table, awaiting their orders. “My daughter has so kindly reminded me it is Christmas,” He told them, gesturing at the young girl by his side, “and so, she has persuaded me to give all of you the night off.” He exclaimed, and a ripple of murmurs broke out amongst the men. “You may do what you please, but under the condition that I insist you stay on the premises in case of a sudden requirement for you.” Marlo added.

The men nodded eagerly, not believing their luck. Marlo’s club was hard enough to get into on a normal night, let alone the Christmas Eve party – this was a night not to be missed, none of them wanted to leave anyway and they had soon disappeared into the crowd to enjoy their night.

Marlo was always generous to them, often at the cost to his own power or money, and J almost regretted how he treated Frost sometimes.

The Joker could have watched his younger self throughout that night, but he already knew what he did the whole night with his smitten heart. He had kept stealing glances at [Y/N]. He sometimes thought she had met his eye too, but she had never left her father’s side that night.

As the Joker he watched [Y/N] in the booth, the lights in the club faded out and he was stood in the cold night air once more.

“What are you doing?!” The Joker snarled at him angrily, because somehow, he knew all these changing scenes were the Riddler’s fault. When the Riddler didn’t answer, the Joker clenched his teeth and looked around, realising with a small shot of alarm, that they were stood the roof of a skyscraper. When he looked back round he suddenly saw Harley Quinn stood in front of him looking battered, beaten and exhausted.

“No, puddin…” She whimpered, “Please…!” Her cheeks were wet with tears and her makeup smeared. She reached out and ended up falling to her knees. J looked down at her in confusion until he heard a hard, cold laugh behind him and spun to see himself - now an exact duplicate of his current self, except maybe ever so slightly younger – pointing a gun at the sobbing psychiatrist.

J knew this memory. This was the night he had finally rid himself of Harley. He had meant to kill her. Seemed the perfect place, could even push her off the edge and make it look like she’d done her usual acrobatics and just fallen – not that he cared if people knew it was him or not.

“You never did get the joke did you, doll?” Asked J cruelly as he pointed the gun at Harley’s bowed head. He removed all but one bullet from the revolver. “Let’s play one last game. That’ll decide the winner.” He purred, clicking the safety off. He aimed the gun again and pressed on the trigger.

Yet the Joker heard nothing. He turned back to see Harley but she wasn’t there. The cold night was gone as well, instead he saw [Y/N], the pain in her eyes so similar to those of Harley only a moment ago. They weren’t on the roof anymore, they were in his office.

The Joker turned around to see himself again, but he was no longer pointing a gun, he was sat at his desk, bored and unbothered about the distraught women before him, his face down and studying a pile of documents instead.

“Goodbye J.” He heard [Y/N] whisper.

This wasn’t his memory. It couldn’t be. J had never heard [Y/N] say it. He’d blocked her out by that point, drowning her voice with the false ones in his head, sick of the truth she was spitting at him, killing his punchline over and over.

Suddenly the scene seemed to rewind.

“I’m going to leave J.” [Y/N] declared, her voice wobbling with emotion. “I know you don’t want me anymore, so I’m doing you the favour and leaving.”

“When have I ever said anything like that, doll?” He demanded with a growl.

“Never.” [Y/N] admitted, “But I can see it in you and everything you do. You think I’m holding you back.” She told him, “And maybe you’re right.”

“Doll…” The Joker protested tiredly.

“Tell me that - f you were single now and you saw me - you would want me. Try to win me.”

The Joker watched himself stupidly hesitate, opening his mouth slightly.

“You wouldn’t, J! You wouldn’t because you’ve changed – you’re not the same man!

“I’m not that boy anymore you mean.” He growled back at her, his eyes dark and dangerous.

“No, I meant what I said!” [Y/N] snapped back at him. “You’ve replaced me with your want for power and I can’t do this anymore. You’re not funny anymore.”

“Life isn’t funny,” J spat back across the desk. “Life is about power over others, doll! Understanding and mastering the corruption that rules everyone’s pathetic lives! There is always someone higher up! Someone at the root of it all! And that is someone I aim to be!” He declared heatedly, banging his fist angrily on the desk.

[Y/N] didn’t flinch at the action, keeping herself steady despite J’s temper. “That right there, is my father talking.” She pointed out angrily. “Now I know you loved him – don’t lie to me J.” She snapped when he went to protest. “But I don’t want you to be him, and I know you don’t want to be him either.”

That was the point J had blocked her voice, letting her rattle on whilst he focused all his thoughts on the job details in front of him, bowing his head and getting to work.

But now. Through this hallucination or dream or whatever it was, her was hearing her words. Hearing her tell him that was her late father’s ideas. That J didn’t want that. That J had never cared about power. He cared about having the last laugh. Cared about the chaos and giving people the truth even if it involved slaughter and torture. Showing people that life was just one big joke. That there was no way you could avoid the punchline.

He was hearing her now. Hearing her tears. Hearing her goodbye.

And then he was watching her leave through the door again, whilst he sat at his desk doing nothing.

Joker watched the door shut on her figure, his jaw clenched tight. “That’s enough.” He growled back to the ghost slightly behind him.

“I am the beginning of the end, as well as the end of time and space. I am essential to creation and I surround every place. What am I?”

“I DON’T CARE!” J spun on him. But he was gone. It was an empty office and the clock to the side of him continued to chime 12.

How could it still be 12 after all of that.

J didn’t know if his drink was spiked or not, but she still poured himself another one and collapsed exhausted into this chair, rubbing tiredly at his pale face as he downed the glass.

[flyswhumpcenter]

Gentle Frostbites [Fever February Day 8 - Keeping It Down]

FEVER FEBRUARY INDEX

Summary: They were right about self-care. He's terrible at it, but he tries his best, as he tries feverishly to prevent himself from going into deliriums.

Fandom: Original Work (PDV)

Word Count: 1.2K words

Notes: yeah it's bad and it's short but heeeeeeh that French essay is wrecking me

AO3 version available here.

They were right about self-care. He’s terrible at it.

All alone in an untidy, messy flat is a student desperately trying to tame down what’s currently afflicting him: a powerful, ill-intentioned strain of influenza. Of course, he would catch it: he has been working a lot lately, hasn’t he?

The only reason he even knows why he’s sick is because Henri brought the doctor to him. Otherwise, really, he was barely able to get up. He’s still barely able to get out of bed as he speaks. Well, thinks, since his voice has gone out this morning. That’s painful, by the way.

His wobbly arm struggles to reach the washcloth which fell from his head not too long ago. He doesn’t remember when exactly, or how, but it fell off. That’s the issue with being sick: the fever is always the worst. It’s always what strikes him the most. Not the cough, not the stuffed nose, not even the muscle aches and the unending want to end it off once and for all.

No, the fever is the goddamn worst.

It’s the worst because, as he is, Florian tends to overwork himself. He knows that. He’s the only one who doesn’t have a problem with it around here. He explains it as passion, the absolute will to power through what fascinates him and encourages him to keep on going and going. He lives for this. He lives for literature, almost in a romantic fashion, wanting to know and master everything he has under his hands.

Other people would explain it as him being a stubborn idiot who can’t ever stop working or thinking about something not his books, or his girlfriend for all it matters. They treat it like he’s been with a girl for the first time: it’s the second, but it’s the first one who knows from the get-go what he really is. Roxanne is amazing and he’s grateful for her: however, she’s a lesbian, and he’s not a girl. That’s not how it works, but they remained great friends after their couple ended in deep respect and profound platonic bonds.

It’s also the worst because it messes with his brain badly. Constant headaches, a sharp pain behind his eyes and all around his head, deliriums, illusions, hallucinations. A real bane. He can’t even read when it’s at its paroxysm: it even hurts to open a book when that happens. He can barely open up his phone, actually. And he always wants to bury himself in his sheets, only to desire moving in a fridge two minutes later, then back to cuddling with the heater.

It’s annoying and counter-productive. How is he supposed to work on an essay or take notes on a fantastic book when there’s such a thing wrapped around his brain?

Fevers also remind Florian of one thing. He’s easily lonely when he’s sick. Back when he still had parents, his mother would stay at home when he was ill. Roxanne would visit after school. Chris and Henri took care of him after classes or on weekends they stayed at school. But now that he lives alone, in his own flat he pays by himself, he doesn’t have anyone to bother with his fevers and his frequent illnesses because he’s always tired.

His fault. His fault, so he doesn’t call anyone over to see him in wrecked state. A ship sunk in blankets.

His hand manages to grab the washcloth. With the tiniest footsteps, he manages to dip it in the bucket’s water. He has to bring the fever down, and fast. It’s not at forty yet, but if it reaches that stage, he’s good for dead. He never knows what to expect from his fever dreams and his deliriums, except either slipping back into his former selves and spewing his dirty secrets around, or get vivid nightmares and failing to access the sleep he needs to recover quickly.

As he wipes the sweat from his face, he thinks of one thing. It’s been a while since Chris and Henri had to guess why he wasn’t attending class, if they even noticed it. Annabelle would probably notice: they attend the same classes. He’s not so sure for Chris, but Henri was the one to bring him the doctor. They should had noticed he was missing, right? Or maybe he sent embarrassing stuff again…

He goes back into his fort of blankets and cushions. It’s freezing and burning all around him. When did he last take fever reducers? He should take his temperature. A thermometer, his mouth, a beeping sound, 39.8. It’s getting dangerous around here. He feels very uneasy, right now, his head is spinning… He can’t pass out now… Not when he’s alone and defenceless…

He hears someone rummage through the door. He has to get up, fast, tell them not to enter. Nobody can see him like that. He looks like garbage. He takes a fever reducer, not giving a damn about when he last took one, and attempts at getting up, but he just falls. His head smashes on the ground, his knees and elbows hurt, his glasses fell off his nose. His vision is blurry.

The door opens by itself, and enters a new character into the play. He wishes it wasn’t her, of everyone who knows where he lives.

“Florian, darling??” a familiar voice screams as she runs towards him on small heels.

He rises his eyes towards the source of the sound. It’s all blurry so he can’t distinguish much, but at least, he’s certain it’s her. The warm colours, the perfume, the voice…

“Anna…belle…?” painfully exits his mouth as he coughs immediately after.

It seems like she gets down to him.

“Oh my god, darling, you look awful… Let’s get you to bed, shall we?”

He just nods. He doesn’t have any energy left to refuse such a thing. She wraps her arms around him, get him up with some grunts and in an ending pant.

“You are burning underneath… You are lucky I was there…”

A few instants later, he’s back in bed, except he’s wearing different cloths and has a fully new washcloth on his forehead.

“You have such a high fever,” she sighs as she looks at the thermometer, “goodness gracious… You need to take care of yourself more, Florian.”

He loves her voice but he also hates the tone she’s taking. He hates hearing her worry in general anyway.

“I tried though…”

Annabelle stares at the nightstand next to her, with something between disdain and upset feelings.

“I see so… Fever reducers aren’t enough and you know it, honey. You also need to rest instead of panicking… You know only a few people have the key to your flat.”

“I guess I never learnt to…”

“Hush now,” her tone gets stern, “your voice is almost gone.” She strokes a hand over his exposed cheek (the other one being buried inside his pillow). “Do you need anything else?”

He just moves his head in a pitiful no.

No, instead, he just falls asleep because he’s more tired than he remembered, but he gets to fall asleep with her smiling to him and wishing him a good night. He can even feel her kiss before it all goes black.

[whitewolfofwinterfell]

Stelena fanfiction recommendations

A list of fic recs has been requested a few times over at my sideblog (hellyeahstelena), so here it is. 

All stories are written in English. 

All stories are complete. 

Each story has the rating, word count, genre, summary and a little personal summary from myself. 

Most of them are years old and set during the early seasons, but unfortunately, there are very few Stelena fanfiction writers that are still writing. 

There are a lot of one-shots since there aren’t many long/multi-chapter stories out there that are actually complete.

I’d recommend checking out this post, which is probably the most comprehensible list of Stelena fic rec’s I’ve come across. I could’ve included a lot more fics on this list, but most of them are already listed on the above list, so go check it out. It includes some of the best Stelena fic’s/writers out there. 

A Dream and a Prayer - StelenaIsMySunshine

“Elena’s vivid hallucination/dream reveals the nature of her deepest desires… A bittersweet Stelena one shot.” 

Rating: M  ||  Words: 1,723 || Genre: Smut

Set around the time of 5x16 when Elena was infected with the Ripper virus and hallucinating. Mostly smut, and as the summary says, this is pretty bittersweet, meaning, there’s no happy ending to be found here. 

A Lazy Summer Day -  ariadne melody

“ “It wasn’t easy to get out of bed in the morning.” Stefan and Elena have some fun during the summer. Oneshot.” 

Rating: M || Words: 1,720 || Genre: Smut/Fluff

Just a simple fluffy one-shot of Stelena enjoying quality time together during the summer and getting caught up in their passion and love for one another.

A Place Called Home -  ariadne melody 

“ “He’s not you,” she whispered. ” 

Rating: M || Words: 2,524 || Genre: Angst/Smut

One-shot set sometime in late season 3 before 3x22. Elena is in bed with Damon but can’t sleep and soon finds herself in Stefan’s arms. Very angsty.

Autumn Leaves - chinocoop81

”Post 4x02, right after the memorial scene. “She had broken him with her lies, and he had broken her with his truths, and together they were just a pair of vampires wishing they could just go back.” One shot.”  

Rating: T ||  Words: 1,833 || Genre: Comfort

Pretty emotion-heavy one-shot whereby a vulnerable and sad Elena takes comfort from Stefan. Very sweet and romantic.

Bonded For Life -  ICURAQT2 

“Alt S4 cont’d unsired! Please review! Original premise: Here’s what might be happening in Mystic Falls post 409. Inspired by Stefan finding out about certain DE shenanigans and a vision of what it might be like when the sire bond can truly be broken…because I don’t think what Damon told Elena to do at the end of 409 truly did enough to break it.” 

Rating: T || Words: 190,102 || Genre: Angst

A multi-chapter story (39 chapters to be exact) which is an alternate take on season 4. A lot of angst and drama. Be warned, this ends on a cliffhanger.

Chances Are -  veraflynns

“AU spin of the end of 119. Stefan catches Elena trying to stab him with the vervain dart and makes it known he isn’t happy about it.” 

Rating: M || Words: 4,433 || Genre: Angst/Smut

An alternate take on the end scene of 1x19. After Elena tries to stab Stefan with the vervain dart, things get heated and one thing leads to another. Basically just shameless smut.

Hold My Hand - electricsymphony

“Perhaps our ingrained longing for love is really just human nature’s way of itching at the seams of its most profound evil to find someone in whom it can realize the truest embodiment of acceptance; a mesmerizing twisted fun-house mirror whose depravity reflects and echoes the darkest crevices of its own soul. AU post-3x22; dark & unconventional Stelena.” 

Rating: M || Words: 4,242 || Genre: Smut

This is an OOC AU where Stefan teaches a newly turned vampire Elena to feed. Has a very Datherine vibe. 

Holding On - C7

”Just one more Stefan and Elena one shot.”  

Rating: M || Words: 7,248 || Genre: Smut 

Set during the porch scene at the end of 4x04 where Elena returns home to Stefan after learning how to feed with Damon. A vulnerable and sad Elena leans on Stefan for comfort which inevitably turns into a passionate and steamy encounter. 

I’ll Be Home For Christmas - chinocoop81

“It’s Christmas, and Elena realizes where home has been all along. Stelena. Slight spoilers for 4x09. One shot.” 

Rating: T  ||  Words: 2,497 || Genre: Angst

Set immediately after 4x09, Elena realises she made a mistake and leaves Damon at the lakehouse to go and find Stefan to make things right. Starts out pretty angsty, but has a happy ending. 

Let The Right One In - Moonlit Tides

“With the recent discovery of the sire-bond and the revelation of the cure looming, Elena, Stefan and Damon are forced to question their relationships and are faced with their greatest challenge yet, as they embark on a journey that could potentially change their lives forever. Re-write for season 4, with focus on the triangle (Stelena endgame).”

Rating: M || Words: 249,888 || Genre: Angst/Smut/Everything

This is my story (I know I’m so narcissistic including my own on here, my bad) and the longest one I’ve ever wrote. It includes the full ensemble cast and really does have a bit of everything, but particularly lots of drama. Not one for those that are extremely anti-Delena since there’s focus on the triangle. Lots of Stelena angst (there’s even a mini AU sprinkled in there for that bit of fluff) and does contain smut.

Never Again - NeuroticFiction

“What I hope will happen during Stefan and Elena dancing in 4x19. Elena thought she had everything turned off for good, but are her feelings for Stefan stronger than no humanity? Stelena oneshot.” 

Rating: T || Words: 1,617 || Genre: Angst

Set in 4x19, Elena’s dance with Stefan leads to an awakening of her humanity. A short but satisfying take on something all Stelena shippers believe should’ve been canon. Angsty. 

Perfect Match - Vampire00Diaries

”Stefan and Elena are best friends in high school who are both secretly in love with each other. What happens when they have to pretend to be a couple? Will their romance rise, or will their friendship fall? AU fic. STELENA!” 

Rating: T || Words: 53,294 || Genre: AU

Very sweet story whereby Stefan and Elena have grown up together as best friends and slowly come to realise they’re in love. This is a great story if you want to just read about Stelena since 99% of it’s focus is on their relationship. Quite fluffy and romantic with occasional drama sprinkled in.

Snapshots of Me & You - HufflePuffPatronus

“A series of drabbles revolving around Stefan and Elena living the life that they deserve.” 

Rating: M || Words: 1302 || Genre: Fluff

This contains two drabbles focused on a future human Stelena. Short but sweet with lots of fluff. 

Tearing You Apart - electricsymphony

“Under the bright lights of the city of sin, thoughts get muddled, actions are severely impaired and inhibitions are reduced to nothing more than beads of sweat trickling down your body. And sometimes, the heat of bodies pressed together can surface past reflections and bring about surprising new revelations. A short little smutty Stelena ficlet.”  

  Rating: M || Words: 959 || Genre: Smut

A smutty one-shot involving masturbation. There’s no plot, but as the author makes a good point of, this fandom could always use a little more of this.

These Mornings - stelena-diaries

“To Elena, these mornings were perfect. STELENA.” 

Rating: T  ||  Words: 867 || Genre: Fluff

An adorable drabble that showcases a very happy and in love Stelena. Basically just pure and utter fluff.

WRITERS

BePassionate024 - Has a tonne of Stelena stories of all kinds and although, there are occasionally spelling/grammar mistakes within her writing, she is very creative with her ideas/stories and great at capturing the essence of Stelena. 

Future Memory - One of my favourite Stelena writers. I’d reccommend all of her stories, but particularly her more recent ones as her writing has improved vastly from her first stories.

zalrb - Her writing style is fantastic and I’d recommend reading any/all of her fanfictions. Most of them do contain smut, so a warning for those of you that don’t like it. You can also find her FF account here, but she primarily shares her stories on her Tumblr blog.

And on a final note, you can find all of my Stelena one-shots here, and if you have any Stelena fic requests feel free to send them my way and I’d be more than happy to write them for you.

[80smikewheeler]

The Stranger In The Storm ⚡️

When Mike Wheeler was around the age of 7, he went through a brief period of having very unusual and peculiar dreams. These odd visions which were so vivid and so real always seemed to take place on a night when thunder and lightning ruled the skies.


It first happened in late October, when the trees had shed their golden leaves, leaving the ground scattered in deep orange tinged hues. A thunderstorm had started raging in the sky, the clouds grew darker and more obtuse, and the wind was wild, sending the orange leaves flailing about the air. 
Mike had always gotten excited whenever a storm was brewing. He loved to sit out on his porch with Will, Dustin and Lucas, and stare at the sky, giggling with excitement as they would count the seconds after they heard the thunder, to the next flash of lightning, getting more and more restless with the buzzing thrill it gave him.

The smell of a thunderstorm, got Mike all excited too; the dirty smell of rain, the smell of the leaves getting wet, wilting and drowning into the mud, giving off a forest-y kind of smell. He enjoyed watching the rain collect into muddy puddles, as it hammered down into them. The murky brown water gave the boys a perfect means of entertainment and fun, splashing each other as they leaped into the puddles, throwing their heads back in laughter as their faces and clothes soon became splattered in mud. Thunderstorms had and will always be Mike’s favourite atmosphere. It presented mystery and teased the magic of the sky.

On one particular night, after Mike had come out of a hot bath, which his mother had forced him to take; (after another messy evening of playing in puddles with the boys), he started to get ready for bed, drying himself off and changing into his ‘red racecar’ pyjamas. The night was especially dark for only 8:30pm, and there was something about the atmosphere that felt strange to him, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but the only way he could describe it to himself, was as though something was coming…but what?

After hauling himself into bed, and bringing the soft linen sheets up to his neck, his mother entered the room and kissed him softly on the forehead and wished him a ‘goodnight’, before going and leaving Mike alone in his room, as the rain pelted against his window and the storm raged on.

It took Mike a while to fall asleep that night, the heavy rain battering against his window, and wild winds blowing trees against the glass, kept him awake and alert for a time, but soon the sounds all seemed to merge and mute out into a soft silence, and Mike fell into a deep sleep…

He awoke in his dream to his room the same way he had left it when he had fallen asleep, and the storm was still clattering on outside, only now he had that ‘odd’ feeling in his stomach again, like something was going to happen, and he couldn’t seem to shake it off.

He scanned the room for any signs of anything significant or unusual, but nothing seemed to be amiss, so he gazed out of the rain-spotted windows, admiring the way the lightning briefly brought a light to the outside surroundings, electrifying them, before vanishing and covering the land in darkness once more. Suddenly he felt fear stirring inside him, and he thought he caught a glimpse of something standing near his door, as his heart filled with terror.

He stared over at the door, not too far away from his bed, hoping that the next flash of lightning would reveal that nothing was there, and it was only his imagination. Only when the next flash came, his room was momentarily illuminated, to reveal there was in fact someone stood at his door, staring down at him. It looked like a girl… As more and more fear and panic filled Mike’s bones, he tried to scream but found that he could not. The girl who appeared to be around the same age as him, edged closer to the bed, and Mike suddenly felt paralysed, as he felt a suffocating feeling of dread washing over him. She reached Mike’s face and sat on the edge of his bed, her blank expression not revealing anything about her intentions towards him. She was wearing a tatty pink dress, a blue jacket, she had long, silvery blonde hair, and she seemed to have on her wrist something of importance, something which Mike immediately recognised as his own; it was his digital wrist watch, although for some strange reason, the numbers on it seemed to be stuck on ‘3:15’.

Mike tried to speak, tried to ask this girl what she wanted, was she here to hurt him or not? But every time he tried to speak, he felt unable to.

The girl brushed her hand over Mike'a cheek, her hands felt cold, as though her entire body was freezing, and she stared at Mike for the longest time before finally saying, “M-M-Mike…” 
Mike’s body slightly shot back a bit at this, how did she know his name? 
His eyebrows creased slightly, “H-How do you know my name?” 
The girl sighed and replied, “I once knew someone with that name, who looked just like you…” The sporadic intervals of lightning briefly illuminating the room and her face, revealed that she looked pained and Mike caught a glimpse of what looked like, loss in her eyes.

Mike still sat there confused as to who she was and what she wanted, but a brief brush of her hand against his, suddenly felt oddly familiar to him, as though he…for a brief moment recognised the touch of her skin and the feeling that accompanied it. But alas, the familiarity of it only lasted a second or two, much like the illuminating white flashes of lightning bolts outside.

“W-what do you want with me?” Mike finally stumbled. “I mean, why are you here?” 
The girl didn’t answer for a moment, she looked as though she was thinking, hard about something, and then she opened her mouth and finally said, “I am here to give you a message, a sign of comfort to you.” Mike looked puzzled at her words, but didn’t want to interrupt her with more questions, so continued to listen on to what she was saying. 
“Many years from now, you will come across something that will become very dear to you in the woods on a stormy night. You will become attached to this thing you will find, and you will grow to love it. However, one day, it will disappear into nothingness before your very eyes. 
You will mourn terribly. However, the thing that you lost, will know of your suffering, it will feel your pain and heartbreak, but it will one day return to you. Fear not, all things that belong to one another, always find their way back to each other in the end. You will know great loss, but you will also know great love, and although at the time, when you lose this thing, you will feel as though it has gone forever, and you have no way of contacting it, I want you to know and remember that this thing knows that you love it, and it will survive, it will always be with you in your heart, and watching over you, and IT WILL return to you…Remember that…”

Mike sat wide eyed staring at the confusing girl, what was she talking about? He did not know, and he didn’t get a chance to ask her, as the next flicker of light seemed to make the girl vanish, and leave the room feeling as empty as before, nowhere to be seen.

Mike still felt confused by what the peculiar girl had said to him, but managed to drift off into another vivid dream about playing in the rain with Will, Dustin and Lucas…

When he awoke the next morning, the memory of the spooky hallucination was still fresh in his memory, it batted back and forth between the blinking of his eyelids, and seemed to resonate with him for weeks. He told his friends about this funny dream, but they all responded in telling him that it didn’t mean anything, that dreams were just that…dreams; and soon enough Mike had forgotten all about it, let it flutter off into the farthest reaches of his mind, hidden. Until one stormy November evening, in 1983, it all came flooding back…

Mike, Dustin and Lucas were all out on one miserable Friday evening, scouring the woods for their missing friend Will. The trees waved and danced in the wind, howling, and the smell of wet leaves and mud, reminded Mike of days gone by, of afternoons and evenings like this one, spent with his friends splashing about in muddy puddles.

As they roamed further and further into the woods, the thunder rolling and groaning in the sky, a sudden flash of lightning introduced a small, dark figure into their view…A young girl, (who didn’t really look much like a girl at all), stepped out into the light of their torches. Her clothes were sopping wet, and she looked somewhat, stray and odd. For a few moments, Mike felt the same fear and panic as Lucas and Dustin did on seeing this girl. But then as soon as he locked eyes with her, he unexpectedly, felt a wave of calmness, and familiarity. It was strange really, it was almost like a feeling of déja vu…Then it hit him…he remembered, like a light had just been switched on his brain, this was what the girl from the dream was telling him about, this prophecy, which at the time, he too thought nothing of, until now it had come to pass.

The more that he gazed at the 'stray looking’ girl, the more he felt she bore an uncanny resemblance to the girl that visited him in his dream all those years ago, and he didn’t feel afraid anymore. He somehow knew, that before him stood a new page in his story, a new adventure.

He felt a brief moment of worry, remembering that he was told, he would end up losing this person, but he knew that she would come back to him one day, as he was told in his dream.

He offered out a hand to the girl, as the rain poured down on them, smiling as he said, “Come on. You’re safe now. You’re home…”

The boys trudged off through the marshy woods with the stranger walking slowly alongside them. Mike took a second to look up from the boggy ground beneath him, and meet the stranger’s deep brown eyes. Something in them echoed mystery, and Mike felt a warm buzz in his stomach, the adventure had begun…

[awriterorsomething]

Sleep Paralysis

Night One

It’s late, or early, whatever you prefer to call this hour. I’m tossing and turning, wishing I could just sleep through the night and wake up feeling okay. I know that if I close my eyes and attempt to get some rest, he’ll come back. He’s always there, just waiting for me to become vulnerable. He wants the control. Always. I fight it, but he fights back. I’m afraid to sleep but I’m so exhausted that I can’t keep my eyes open any longer, so I end up passing out without realizing. Within a matter of minutes, the paralysis starts. I feel awake and aware of my surroundings. I see him there, standing over my bed. I’m looking at him and he’s staring right back at me, as if he can see right through me. I can’t move. My whole body is frozen. He’s dressed in all black, wearing a heavy cloak that stops me from seeing his face. I could only imagine what it might look like. All I’m thinking about right now is how I’m going to get away from him if I can’t move. I’m blinking in hopes of waking up, but that isn’t working. I squeeze my eyes shut while struggling to break free of his control on me. When I open them he’s closer to me; he’s above my bed and I’m looking right at him. I know what’s going to happen next and I’m panicking. I start losing my breath and trying even harder to move. His hands are around my throat. I can feel the oxygen leaving my body and my limbs becoming weak. I’m still trying to force myself awake. Things start fading in and out and everything becomes more and more distorted, going back and forth from reality to nightmare. I can’t even scream out for help because his grip on my throat is too tight. As soon as I feel myself losing all consciousness, I’m jolted awake. I’m out of breath and confused. Even though I’ve been in the same position before, it always feels like the first time, every time. I’m in a daze, wondering if I’m really awake or still in the same room as the figure. It’ll take a while before I can fall back asleep, so I sit up in my bed, turn the lights on, and cry out of fear. “Why is this happening to me?” I quietly weep to myself.

Night Two

Do I dare try to sleep? I’ve been trying so hard to stay awake, just until the sun starts coming up at least. I don’t want to suffer through another hellish episode of what people call a nightmare. I hate this so much; I hate being so afraid to sleep. I don’t want to find out what happens if I let him win the fight. I’m just so tired. I need sleep… I need… sleep… and once again, I unknowingly close my eyes and fall into the darkness. It always happens so fast, I don’t understand how it feels like hours have passed when it’s really just minutes. I can feel his presence. I don’t see him yet, but I know he’s here in my room, watching me. Everything is so cold and my vision is blurred because I’m already trying to wake myself up. Of course it’s not working, I’m stuck in this world of shadows until he’s finished with me. Still not knowing where the figure is, I’m trying my hardest to make sure he doesn’t come near me, but in a split second, I feel him sitting on my chest with his hands firmly on my throat, choking me to death. I don’t know why he makes me suffer this way. The feeling of all the air leaving my body makes me squirm underneath his weight. Something is different about tonight - I try to yell. I stop fighting so hard to get away, but instead I fight for my voice. I’m screaming as loud as I can. “Mom! MOM! PLEASE, MOM!” This is the first time I’ve begged for help in a nightmare. The tears are streaming down my face as I’m still being strangled. I keep trying to scream for my mom, thinking this is real, hoping she’ll come into my room and save me. The grip on my throat gets tighter and tighter. I’m ready to give up, but as soon as I go limp, I jump awake and immediately sit upright. My hands on my face, I can feel the wetness of the tears. I try to catch my breath, but it’s difficult, still being in panic mode, wondering again if what I’m experiencing is just a nightmare, or real life.

Night Three.

The bags under my eyes are a lot more noticeable now. I still don’t know if these nightmares are real or just my vivid imagination, and I’m terrified of the answer if they are real, but I need to find out somehow. These just can’t be hallucinations or me going completely out of my mind - well, actually, I don’t know for sure. It’s almost 5AM. I decide it’s early enough in the morning to try and get some sleep. My mistake. I open my eyes to a gut wrenchingly cold bedroom. I’m uneasy. It feels like I just woke up so I try to sit up in my bed, and as soon as I start to move, he grabs me and throws me back down. I am completely paralyzed. I can’t even blink or feel myself breathing. He has me. Not making a sound, he holds my arms against the bed, I can hear my wrists cracking as he pushes down on them even harder. I can feel the pain shuddering through my body. After a few seconds, he takes his hands off of my mangled wrists and places them on my chest; he makes a fist and pounds on it as hard as he can. And like every night, he goes for my neck. I can feel his anger pulsing through the palms of his hands. Maybe I shouldn’t fight him this time? He’s just going to keep trying and trying until I’m finally gone. If I let him kill me in this dream state, he’ll leave me alone, right? I don’t really have a choice. While distracted by my thoughts, my body subconsciously wakes itself up.

Night Four

I’m not ready. I never am. I just want this to end, so I’m prepared to let myself go and give him full control over me. I hope this works. I can’t keep being terrified to sleep. I’m exhausted, emotionally and physically. I don’t know what to feel anymore, everything seems so distorted and dream like even when I’m awake. This needs to stop, tonight. The lights are out and I’m tired enough to fall asleep in the next few minutes, so here we go. As expected, I open my eyes, and I’m staring at the ceiling. I don’t see anyone yet; it just feels like I’m lying awake in bed. I attempt to sit up, and surprisingly I can, unlike all the other times I’ve tried to move in this state. I look around my room and I still don’t see anything that could be a threat to me. I’m so confused. Am I in a dream? The atmosphere feels blurry and altered. I start to rub my eyes thinking there’s a chance I might be awake and just disoriented from lack of real sleep. I sit for a minute wondering if I should just try to sleep again, because obviously I’m just out of it. So, I lie back down, cover my face with my hands, and rub my eyes again. I let out a long sigh. Maybe tonight will be different, I think to myself. But the second I take my hands away from my face and open my eyes, he’s right on top of me with his face directly in front of mine. I froze. I could see every facial feature for the first time ever, and I immediately felt sick to my stomach. I could feel the vomit rising in my throat. I was so shocked I couldn’t believe what, or who, I was seeing. I managed to speak, “Oh God, oh God no, please.” A demonic smile stretched across his face. The teeth he revealed were sharp and decayed. But I couldn’t stop staring at his eyes. They were as dead as I imagined they’d be. I felt them burning through mine. I’ve never been this horrified in my entire life. I don’t know what’s going on here, I don’t even know if I’m asleep or not. Either way, this feels too real. I can feel his hot breath on my face, and I can smell the putridness of it. He laughs and sits up on my stomach with his hands on my chest. The weight of his body is crushing me. He slowly moves his hands towards my neck, staring directly at me, still laughing, even harder now. I don’t know if I should fight this or not. What am I supposed to do? I’m panicking and screaming but he puts one hand over my mouth. Even with my mouth covered I can taste my own tears through the small openings between his fingers. I can’t do this; I can’t fight. I have no energy from lack of sleep. Just kill me. Everything after that happens so fast. This is so terrifying that it can’t be real. This has to be another lucid nightmare. With one hand still on my mouth, he uses the other on my throat, and pushes down hard, squeezing the breath out of me slowly and painfully. Now knowing what this creature is and what sick form he’s taking, it hurts even more. I know he’s not actually who he looks like, that would be impossible. I can see and feel him adjusting his position. He’s sitting on my chest now. He removes his hand from my mouth and uses both on me. With the pressure he’s putting on my throat and chest it feels like my collar bones are breaking. I’m going to wake up soon, I have to, because I know he’s getting close to ending me. But, all of a sudden he leans down and puts his head beside mine. I can feel his mouth open and his exhale on my ear. He takes a second before he speaks. “You never fell asleep.” My heart stops, and everything turns black.

[imbicuriousyeah]

wings

oneshot: angst, hurt/comfort

angel!Jimin x reader

word count: 1983

warning: abuse mention, abusive ex

You were drunk. It was the only way you could really stand yourself, your thoughts, the stress. It helped and it didn’t. Which is why you were a crying mess right now, the alcohol serving to just magnify your painful thoughts and emotions. You always felt tired these days, always lonely. You’d hang out with friends, and that would help for awhile, until you were alone again, and your demons would catch up with you, with nothing to distract you from your fears and insecurities.

You even missed your ex, Jordan, the asshole. You knew he was bad news, and a manipulative bastard, but at least you felt loved, even a bit. At least you weren’t alone when you were with him.

You uncurl from your fetal position on the bed, lifting your head a bit as you see a light start to appear beside you. It’s warm, pulsing, like a small sun, but not painful to look at. You reach out to touch it and it feels warm. It flashes a bit as your hand passes through it. The weight in your chest lightens a bit. Your vision swims and there’s two lights, then it seems like their glow outlines a figure sitting on the edge of your bed as your head falls back down onto your slightly damp pillow.

You feel a hand carding through your hair as your tears start to lessen. You must be dreaming, you think, as you hear humming. A beautiful soft melody seems to come out of the darkness, like a living thing. It’s comforting, like a mother’s embrace. The hand in your hair gently combs out tangles you didn’t have energy to take care of, and your scalp tingles with the pleasant sensations.

You curl tighter into yourself as the tears won’t stop, wrapping your arms around your legs in an attempt to hold yourself together. Suddenly the hand in your hair gently tugs on your arm, unwrapping it, and before you know it you’re being enveloped in a warm embrace. Arms wrap around your waist and hold you tight, your legs are tangled with someone else’s and you really must be dreaming, because you don’t question who it is. It’s your angel of course. He’s finally come back to your dreams. Or your incredibly vivid imagination. Doesn’t matter.

All that matters is he’s here, holding you as you cry, something nobody has ever done, or been able to do. When you cry, you cry alone. And living alone means nobody notices when you’re upset. A hand smooths your hair as you tuck your head into his chest, letting your arms wrap around him in turn. He’s saying something, but you can’t tell what. It doesn’t matter though, his beautiful voice is enough to start banishing your worst fears. He smells of comfort, and you breathe deeply, trying to memorize the scent. Lavender, clean laundry, and something else.

The warmth of another body pressed against yours begins to calm even the strongest of anxieties. A hand reaches to take yours, fingers intertwining as his thumb rubs the back of your hand. You somehow know you won’t remember any of this in the morning, and that prompts a fresh wave of tears.

“Shh… It’s okay.” The soft gorgeous voice whispers. “Please just rest.”

You wake in the morning much more easily than you usually would have, after drinking so much. You find a feather in your bed that’s much larger than the ones that usually shed from your pillow. For some reason you stick it in your bag when you leave the apartment later, you can’t seem to want to part with it.

You’d decided to try to take a full class load this semester, and on top of that your creepy ex wouldn’t leave you alone. He kept showing up at the buildings after your classes (you do not know for the life of you how he found out your schedule) and trying to guilt you into dating him again.

You had tried giving Jordan the cold shoulder, not responding, but he took that as compliance. Your quiet “no’s” and “please leave me alone” were met with pleas of “I miss you” and “I know you never loved me as much as I did, but could you give me another chance?” The only thing that saved you was the desk lady on the ground floor of the building of campus suites you lived in. Any guests had to sign in and she was very aware of how uncomfortable you looked when you walked in followed by your ex, so she cleared her throat severely and glared, and somehow that was enough.

But not tonight. Tonight you were leaving a friend’s place when you’d spent the evening studying and when you rounded the corner of the building he was there, leaning against a wall.

You jump. “Holy fucking shit are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Recognizing the shadowy figure as your ex doesn’t really lessen your unease.

He just stares at you, hands tucked into his pockets, like he’s trying to decide what approach to try this time. Was it going to be more emotional manipulation?

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Listen to me Jordan.” You jerk your hand in a sharp gesture to cut him off as he opens his mouth to speak. “I’m tired and stressed and I don’t want to deal with your shit anymore.” Self-preservation out the window, once again.

“I was getting through to you!” He comes closer and starts to get up in your face.

“I was trying to let you down gently so you wouldn’t flip out on me. It’s not. Going. To happen.” You grind out, trying not to raise your voice.

“The fuck it is!” He grabs you by the upper arms, hard. That’s going to bruise, isn’t it.

“Would you leave me the fuck alone already? Does the word ‘no’ mean nothing to you anymore?” You’re shouting but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“But I love you!” He shakes you once, hard, and then you actively start trying to wrestle out of his grip.

“Get over it!” He keeps shaking you like you haven’t said anything, like he’s trying to get you to react. “Let go of me!”

“Nobody will ever love you like I do! Nobody will be able to overlook your annoying habits and definitely not your weird repulsion to intimacy! And you cause problems no matter where you go, no wonder your best friend abandoned you!”

With the next shake your head hits the wall and you curse, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

You seem to see a flash of light but assume it’s from hitting your head. Suddenly, the hands gripping your arms are gone, and a soft voice asks, “Are you okay?”

You almost don’t want to look up, recognizing that voice without any doubts or second thoughts, but not wanting to let yourself believe. I’ll open my eyes and Jordan will be standing there, and…

“Please,” the voice cracks with emotion, worry, as fingers lift your chin, “talk to me.”

You find yourself staring into the most beautiful face you think you’ve ever seen, the streetlight making a halo of his hair. How fitting. You hiss as you touch the back of your head and your hand comes back bloody. I must be going crazy, hallucinating from the knock Jordan gave me. Or maybe I’m unconscious and dreaming.

He reaches a hand behind your head and suddenly warmth replaces the sting. You bow your head again, you want to just collapse into his arms and cry, but you have a feeling if you touched him, he’d disappear. A few moments pass and he’s still there, you can hear his light breathing.

“Well? Cat got your tongue angel boy? Are you impressed by how much of a fuck up I am? You really should’ve left my head to heal the long way, teach me a lesson.”

“You don’t deserve that… You don’t deserve any of this.” It’s the longest sentence you’ve heard him utter, and you have to actively restrain yourself from looking back up; you’re starting to tear up from the kindness of that voice, part of you wants desperately to keep hearing it, but it’s breaking down your walls with the genuine strength of emotion. Why does he care so much?

You can’t help yourself. You look up, and the pain on that beautiful face, one that should only smile, breaks you. You turn away as your tears overflow and start streaming down your face.

You feel a soft touch on your arm and flinch as it grazes what must be impressive bruises by now. You think you can hear him mutter ‘bastard’ but aren’t angels not supposed to curse? He’s in front of you again as he puts a hand to each arm, repeating the healing light and warmth.

“I deserve it at least for all the pain I’ve caused to those around me, if not for being stupid enough to walk alone at night. Again.”

He starts to answer vehemently, taking a sharp breath, but ends up saying ‘fuck it’ as he pulls you into a hug. You instantly feel better, safer, warmer. Like nothing could touch you. You hesitate before slipping your arms around his waist, if you do, you might never let go. He rests his cheek on the top of your head, rubbing comforting circles into your back as you cry. You feel feathers brush the backs of your hands as you try to take deep breaths, wonder mixing into the chaos of negative emotions you’re drowning in. Why does this feel so familiar?

“Nobody deserves to be punished like that for mistakes they’ve made. You’ve always been selfless, but lately more and more to a self-destructive degree.” His voice is so soft but you can hear every word distinctly, like they’re spoken only for your ears. “It’s not your responsibility to fix other people’s lives. Or to let them walk all over you in order to be happy. That’s not love.” He says the word like it’s sacred, hushed as a rush of air past your ear, and you shiver slightly.

“But if I’m the only one that can help… I can’t just turn away.” You say into his chest, almost clinging to him as you try to stop crying.

“Yes you can. You’re tearing yourself into pieces trying to help everyone else, and there’s less and less of you left every time. I can’t stand that. You haven’t smiled, really smiled, in weeks, and no amount of potential good you could do is worth that.”

You pull back a bit to look at him. His voice is sincere, so much so it breaks your heart, but your brain doesn’t believe what he’s saying.

 He takes your face in one hand and your skin starts to tingle, you almost can’t stand the radiance of looking at his face. I don’t even deserve to be touched by such a- “Please. I can feel you’re putting yourself down.” You squeeze your eyes shut against the overwhelming kindness in those soft eyes.

“Why did you stay? Aren’t you going to disappear like last time? Leave me alone again, to face the consequences of my mistakes. I’m not used to being comforted, and it’ll be that much worse next time when I’m by myself.”

“I’m never going to leave you again, no matter what, I am going to be right here. But right now, rest, I’ll be here when you wake up.”

You blink to see that you’re not in the alleyway at all, but in your own room. Well, this keeps getting more improbable. But you’re already falling asleep and the last thing you remember is a radiant smile and soft hands tucking your covers in around you.

A/N: I know this is kinda fragmented and weird, but it was very validating to me when I wrote it, so I hope it could comfort someone else as well 🌌

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