#i as a ghost trick fan am begging anyone to play it

[milktrician-hell]

HAPPY GHOST TRICK RELEASE DAY

[hawaiian-has-moved]

you aren’t cannon. beetlebabes is more cannon than you. at least that shit was in the musical and movie and cartoon.

Need I remind you idiots, since I have already said I'm no longer being nice to you anymore.

That I do not give a damn what you think it looked like to you in that fucked up brain of yours, it's still p*dophilia. Man it's almost sad I live this rent free in your head for existing. I just exist and your blood boils. It's cute.

Anyway, Lydia is a minor in every version.

And if you think the wedding in the movie was romantic. Man every gross man I've cringed at for being a creepo must have been true love.

But see, that's the thing you people don't get huh? Consent. Consent does not exist to you. If it did you wouldn't fight when people say that Lydia is a minor and therefore cannot consent. It doesn't click because you found something hot about shipping this developing teen with this old as fuck perv.

But oh? Is that not enough for you, you cry, begging to justify your vile ship. Allow me to humor you and go through the other versions.

In fact! I'll analyze a whole song just for you.

Also please look at yet another picture of Lydia obviously not having it.

Way back when I was just ten

Simple and sweet

Everywhere, fellas would stare

Out on the street

And I felt used

Kinda confused

I would refuse to look in their eyes

But now I really love creepy old guys

This is kinda obvious, she's been preyed on before by men. So basic p*do trying to gr**m a kid scenario. But the satire to the song of course is that "it's all fine now" Which it's obviously not, she's just using this to trick him so they can send him back as an end goal.

We all do!

Gum disease

Skin like grilled cheese

Saggy old asses

(Saggy old asses)

Cute and vile

Hey baby, smile

To each girl that passes

They make me blush

(Can't get enough)

Now one of 'em loves me, wants to be mine

(That's right)

Marrying my own creepy old guy!

(I'm a creepy old guy)

This is just more playing out the satire of pretending it's okay, but with Beej chiming in because he already lacks the knowledge that this is grooming and it's not okay. Tricking him into thinking this is fine to end up killing him is a breeze.

My creepy old guy, my creepy old guy

I'm so happy I could cry

Girls may seem disgusted, but we're actually just shy

It's not uncommon that I've heard about or heard someone get told that they're just shy when a gross ass old man or someone is trying to gr**m a kid. It's gaslighting and manipulation in most cases. So for them to say that it's because they're actually just shy as part of the satire is the point.

My creepy old groom (creepy old groom)

Play that wedding tune

Hey folks, step aside

(I am older, but I'm glad I waited)

And if you've watched a bootleg, you would recall Barbara right here smiling and then turning away with eyes wide, like "this is not fucking okay" Kind of look on her face. But yeah this is another one of those phrases that you hear too often in these gross situations.

'Cause here comes the bride

I am marrying my creepy old guy

(Creepy old guy, creepy old guy, creepy old guy)

He's my creepy old guy

(Creepy old guy, creepy old guy, creepy old guy!)

Fix his hair

Get him prepared

For Armageddon

Again if you have seen a bootleg, here Lydia puts a finger to her lips and goes shhhh. Because Armageddon is Beejs death.

Sure, the groom

Crawled out of a tomb

But hey, hey, it's a wedding!

He's really fucking old guys. There is a huge age gap and this is p*dophilia.

So dim the lights

Pick up some rice

Say something nice

It's my day to shine

I'm getting hitched to my creepy old guy

(It's showtime)

Creepy old guy, creepy old guy

She's marrying a creepy old guy

Have you guys seen "Lolita"?

This is just like that, but fine

I have not seen Lolita, but I have been told it's similar to this who marriage scenario and is mega bad. Now if it were Lolita fashion, that is made to ward off men, so I assume it's a movie from what info I have.

Creepy old dude, creepy old dude

Our faith has been renewed

Now love is alive!

Wave your baby girl goodbye

I am walking down the aisle

I wanna see a tear in every eye as I pass by

I know that on the outside he's disgusting

And even on the inside, he's disgusting

This whole scenario is fucking vile. He's vile.

But I know that this time, I'm makin' it right

(Making it right, making it right!)

With my family by my side

O.M.G.

Dressed to a "T"

Fancy and formal

I found me a wife

L'chaim to life

This is so normal!

I was ignored

But now, I'm adored!

'Cause I extorted, tortured, and lied

Give it up for my underage bride!

They've done it, they have successfully tricked him into thinking this is okay with no funny business. But he's about to get stabbed. L'chaim to life is a nod at him being Jewish, also he had a Kippah in the DC version which backed this joke, but it fell off a lot ig so he doesn't have it now. Traditionally there was a lot of marrying women off to much older men for property and stuff, as most religions do/did tho. I was in a production of Fiddler on the roof for example and that was the whole premise.

Here comes the bride

Here comes the bride

God be glorified

I can't believe some cultures think this kind of thing's alright

My creepy old guy

My creepy old guy

Doesn't he deserve a chance at life?

Oh yeah, that's right

Yeah, that's right

So let's make him alive!

I am marrying my creepy old guy!

Guy, guy, guy, creepy old guy

Guy, guy, creepy old guy

Guy, guy

(I have chills)

Yeah!

And then they stab him and the till death do we part sign over the stage all makes sense now because the wedding vows are undone and since he's recently deceased he almost returns to the netherworld.

Etcetera etcetera... But of course you guys go tome deaf at that one when it plays if I remember right.

Oh right, the cartoon, of course, I knew just what you were thinking don't worry. You're thinking "oh well what about the comics, and the valentine cards! And and the animators who drew lewd stuff of Lydia!" Well.... Haha! Still p*dophilia! And also I have seen the infamous Lydia drawing and it's got her head shape, nose, lips, but it's not fully her. Even if it was again my first point, still p*dophilia. And yeah just because the people who worked on it drew it, doesn't make it suddenly okay. Ffs...

I couldn't even find a cartoon wedding that wasn't fan drawn to match this one. Because that doesn't exist! But I do have my favorite point to make.

Beetlejuice's look into Lydia's future in Pest O' the West.

Now why you b*bes were busy being p*dos and gr**ming kids on the internet into thinking this shit is okay, I was mastering the art of common fucking sense.

Beej makes a joking remark that he cannot see into the future while hiding from Bully the Crud, but when he does as per usual, his puns and phrases make his magic go to work. So a crystal ball appears in front of him showing the future in the images I've provided.

Lydia, doing a heaping pile of dishes as a ghost for bully and all of their kids, very unhappy and driven insane. Because imagine what being married to someone it's obviously wrong to be with would do to her mind. He hates seeing her like this, so he rushes to save her. Which he successfully does.

Toon is actually the one with canon evidence of this shit being not okay to him.

Also before anyone tries to say it, no the movie and cartoon aren't connected, she doesn't even live in Winter River in the cartoon that should have made it obvious. Besides she's like 14-16 in the movie. So I don't think she de-aged.

Lastly, two things that are off topic. I believe it's spelled canon, and before anyone goes saying fiction doesn't effect reality, I would like you to explain to me how being a Jedi is a official religion if that is so true.

See anon! I gave you my special, condescending talk that too two hours to type on my phone! You stalked me endlessly and I picked you as the special anon that, I didn't deletes ask for being a gross piece of shit in a minors ask box! Wow. That searching my name clicking on my asks, and typing out all that so I could live rent free in your head really.... Didn't work lol. I may have took two hours to type this, but I assure you I will forget about you in 2 days max. Because unlike you, I have better things to do than ship a minor with an ancient demon. Bye bye now, be sure to rant about me with pure rage to your house p*do friends so that my existence may spread further into other people's minds! Woo... Being famous is so tough. 😉

[journeynaut]

This decade I went from being 14 to 24. From my understanding this means this decade has pretty much shaped my tastes, beliefs, and personality more than any other decade will. It’s also an important decade because at the beginning of the decade I felt like a real person, and now I feel like a ghost that occasionally almost inhabits the same space as this flesh prison.

Anyway, here’s a list of games that shaped me in reverse chronological order for maximum pretension. Spoilers and typos will be abundant. 

Red Dead Redemption 2 (2018)

I like little, mostly irrelevant prepping activities in games. Currently, I’m playing Death Stranding, and my Norman Reedus always puts on a cap. Mostly to cover up his weird little pony, but also just as a thing to do to focus before a mission. Like, listening to Friends in the Armed Forces by Thursday before the helicopter lands. Like, grabbing your wallet in the morning. Or, like in Arthur Morgan’s case, putting on a bandana before being a nasty crime boy.

Okay, maybe that’s not entirely true. I always play characters as good and pure as possible. But after I got done doing my good boy crimes I could always return to camp. Sure, camp was always moving as we ran, but the people were there every time. The world of RDR2 is beautiful, I think the characters were my favorite thing about this game. The entire plot was that camp, the outcasts in it, and the dreams they followed. They fused a cowboy simulator with a cult simulator. It says, don’t worry, friend - just keep going and Eden is the next job.

This is a game where you give, break, and are broken in pursuit of a lie. This is a game where your perfect life never arrives and the simple pleasures you find are taken. In the end, you only do whatever little bit of good you can, thank your horse for carrying your weight and the weight of everything you carry, and lay down to go peacefully.

Night in the Woods (2017)

This last decade took my memory from me. When I was a freshman in college taking an intro psych class, the class took a short term memory test. I got second in the whole class. Now I’m sitting here trying to remember who said what in this game. But regardless, one character says something like, “Getting older is your list of first times growing shorter while your list of never agains grows longer.” Heavily paraphrased, probably.

I think there’s a Bojack Horseman episode where he says, life is a series of closing doors, isn’t it? In our modern capitalist hell, very few don’t get trapped. This game understands that sometimes you can’t get out, and sometimes you just need to break some fluorescent bulbs at a dumpster. Or in my case, procrastinate on my life by playing this game while everything fell apart around me.

World of Warcraft: Legion (2016)

Tanking in WoW was my most fulfilling gaming experience of the decade. I wasn’t great, but I could be good occasionally. There are a few moments of genuine pride I can remember. Which, now that I think back, might be some of the last times I felt pride.

I had never played WoW or even an MMO before Legion, but everyone has to get into an MMO when they’re in college, right? So I got into it for about a year, and I played it way too much. So much so, I lost myself after I stopped, both personally and in games. It was hard for me to stick to any game for a long time after I stopped playing, and it honestly still is.

It wasn’t the tanking or the pride or the addictive design elements that kept me coming back - it was the people. This became a Return To game for me. Whether I was playing seriously or just goofing off, I would return to the trans mog shop in Stormwind. There were a few players who would gather consistently and talk between queues. I barely knew anything about these people but I spent hours there with them. There was my healer and best friend who I played with every day. There was the carpet layer from Hawaii. There was the player we always assumed was a young girl but turned out to be some rich man? And behind the anonymity of my characters I was able to comfortably interact with the regulars and the passerbys and mess with the assholes. I learned that pretending to be an actor playing someone else is the best way to talk to people.

Even though I barely knew these people they became friends in the modern way people become friends where you see them every day, but are also shocked to find out any detail of their personal lives. I often wonder what happened to all the people I played with. I never said bye to them or anything. I wasn’t planning on never playing again. One day it just happened.

I’ve often thought about playing again. When WoW Classic came out I thought about playing it. I’ve even thought about getting into FF14. But you can never go home, right? Some things that were good can’t be good again.

Inside (2016)

God, this is extremely my shit. I don’t have anything touching or personal to say about this. Every moment of this game is so tight and perfect, and the aesthetic is spot on. Run on, my child, go be one with your blob friends.

Or maybe I just like it because I too am a disgusting blob monster haunted by a dreary dilapidated landscape.

Firewatch (2016)

The plot of this game is messy overall, but I think about the character interactions all the time. This is a perfect example on how good dialogue isn’t realistic. It should be what we want reality to be. Henry and Delilah have such a believable relationship, strictly because I wanted to believe in it. I wanted to believe two people could always be so perfect and so witty.

And Firewatch just won’t let you believe in it. At the end you can beg and beg for Delilah to stay, and she won’t. The game gently pats you on the head, and says, sometimes people are too broken to be perfect with each other.

Metal Gear Solid V: The Phantom Pain (2015)

The PC version lets you set custom music to play as you drop in from the helicopter for your missions. This led to me hearing the beginning to Thursday’s Friends in the Armed Forces god knows how many times. Sure, maybe a 2009 emo song blaring out of a helicopter in 1980’s Afghanistan doesn’t exactly fit, but the mood fit. And it helped set the mood for the routine of going on missions.

Routine is what this game does so well. It’s an incomplete game with a not great story, and it fails at being a good Metal Gear Solid game. But the routine and mechanics blend together to create one of the best playing action games ever made. I never got tired of walking around my base, of boarding my helicopter to go drop into the desert, of launching random animals into the air with reverse parachutes.

This game also led to me formulating my Return To/Go Out theory of games, which I believe most games fall into. An old Mario game is a great example of a Go Out game. You never return anywhere; the princess is always in another castle. The Animal Crossing games maybe exist as the perfect example of a Return To game because you never even go out anywhere. You’re always there, where you mean to be. MGSV falls mostly on the Return To side of the spectrum, as it focuses on building up and managing your base and the people on it, something I’ll always be a sucker for.

Her Story (2015)

This is one of the last games that made me feel smart. As a person who feels chronically dumb as shit, that’s pretty rare. Sure, everyone in my life, and the university I went to, and all my grades say I’m not dumb. But we know that’s just because I tricked them all, and I’m actually a complete fool. But diving into this game’s wild and twisting non-linear story made me feel like a detective.

The Witcher 3 (2015)

Move out of the way Skyrim. The Witcher 3 was actually the best fantasy game of the decade. I played through all of The Witcher 2 in preparation for 3. I became so invested and involved with this universe. I feel like I should have so much more to say about this. In what was a very turbulent year of my life, this was the perfect escape. The world, writing, and characters are all so beautifully done. The DLC provides an emotional finale for the story. I never understood Gwent? But I did everything else in this game, and I still think about escaping into it again.

Also Triss for life.

Also also god, that show sucks shit though, doesn’t it?

Life is Strange (2015)

I love everything about Life is Strange. I love the melodrama, the stilted dialogue, the songs that still make me cry. I love the weird high school that resembles no high school ever. I’m not too much of a fan about what it says about me as a person though.

See, I let the entire town die to save Chloe. The crazy part is that I didn’t even think Max and Chloe were good together. When the game gave me a chance to kiss Chloe, I didn’t take it. I thought they had been apart too long, that they had too much personal baggage, that they were going through too much. But when the moment came I couldn’t let her go. I let the entire town get blown away to save her.

Transistor (2014)

Hey, do you want a cyberpunk, post-rock fueled, murder revenge love story?

Transistor had such an impact on me that Red and the Transistor are still my phone’s wallpaper and lockscreen. It’s the game I always mean to get around to playing again, but year after year I don’t. Maybe one day I will, or maybe that’s just what I tell myself about most things in life.

Regardless, this game acts as a perfect spiritual sequel to the studio’s first game, Bastion. In Bastion, everyone wanted to live in the perfect world that had been, but was now destroyed. In Transistor, the world exists - it’s there and could theoretically become whatever people want, and yet, no one wants to live in it. You’re not even trying to save the world; you want escape as much as anyone else. You just need revenge for the small part of your personal world that has been taken.

Also, at the end you get to basically fight yourself, and I’m such a sucker for when games have you fight someone with the same powers as you.

Gone Home (2013)

I had never been in love when I played this game. I thought I had, but being a teenager is dumb and weird. Of all the first times I wish I could experience again in games, this is up there on that list. Maybe even the top. Mainly because I understand love now, and I think it would make this game hurt more.

Both times I played Gone Home I sobbed, and I’m certain if I played it again, I would sob again. This was the first game to impact me in that way. As I’ve grown more and more dead inside, as I feel less and less, I seek those experiences out. Why yes, I would like to play whatever the sad new indie game is. Why yes, I would like to listen to that song that makes me emotional over and over. That scene in a show made me cry? Yes, I will absolutely watch it again.

Gone Home, like Spec Ops, taught me so much about what games could be and do. In a decade of walking simulators, Gone Home still stands out as one of the best.

Animal Crossing: New Leaf (2013)

Animal Crossing is the best goddamn game series of all time, and this is the best one because you can stack fruit.

Hotline Miami (2012)

I have never done cocaine in the 80’s, but that’s pretty much this game, right? This murder simulator game does something to your body on like, a visceral level. Imagine it’s like your 20th attempt on a level. Your hands are shaking with adrenaline, but you have a careful plan. It immediately goes bad so you just panic and start running around knifing fools and it somehow works out anyway. That’s the thing that makes this work so well, and also the thing the devs absolutely did not understand when they made Hotline Miami 2.

You know what else makes this game great? The vibes. Miss me with your vibe checks if you’re not putting off Hotline Miami vibes. It’s the trippy and psychedelic story, it’s the way you have to walk through the bodies of everyone you just murked at the end of the level, it’s the game constantly asking if you feel good about what you’re doing. Hotline Miami and Spec Ops made me reevaluate how I thought about violence in games. Which isn’t to say I don’t play violent games, just that I think more about what the games are asking me to do.

Borderlands 2 (2012)

My experience with Borderlands was different than how most people played it. I didn’t really uh, have friends, so I played it alone. But it wasn’t an inferior experience. I got to play my haiku spouting sniper at my own pace. All the guns were mine. I could laugh at the dumb jokes as long as I wanted.

Hey wait, actually, is this game still funny? If I thought it was extremely funny originally, would it still hold up? Like, Mr. Satan being Mr. Torgue still has to be funny, right?

Anyway, most of the DLC for this game is pretty mediocre or just straight up bad, but the Tiny Tina DLC is some of the best DLC of the decade. Those madmen just made D&D in a goofy ass game where guns yell at you when you shoot them, and somehow made it an emotionally resonant end to the story.

Spec Ops: The Line (2012)

We all really missed what this game was trying to tell us, huh? It constantly asks you if you’re okay with the dehumanization of minorities and the glorification of imperialism and the military that runs rampant through games. Here we are going into 2020, and goobers are still trying to argue games don’t have politics in them. Anyway, gamers are dumb as shit, and we should have listened to Spec Ops more.

Portal 2 (2011)

This came out at the beginning of this decade, huh? Guess I gotta break out the walker and sign up for AARP. Anyway, being funny is hard. I mean, I’ve never managed to be funny so I assume it’s hard. I mean, sometimes my life is funny in a cosmically ironic way, like I’m god’s personal clown and not in on the joke.

Anyway, anyway, the puzzles are fantastic, and Portal 2 is funny as hell in a way I’m pretty sure would still hold up. The humor is definitely more overt than the original Portal, but Cave Johnson is a god tier character. I can’t remember what I did yesterday, and I still remember Cave Johnson lines from like, 8 years ago.

Minecraft (2011)

*twirls mustache* Not to sound like a hipster, but I started playing Minecraft in 2010 before release. My first world seed was the most perfect seed I ever encountered. It was a large island, the size of which, I never encountered again. Like, it was big enough that it felt like I had to branch out to explore, but also small enough that I could know it all. Playing on that island was the most pure experience I had with Minecraft, in retrospect. I didn’t know what I was doing, and I didn’t realize that actually everyone else was way better at building things and playing the game than I was.

But eventually you get bored of everything, right? So I found a server and joined the forums. Over time I grew a bit bored of the game, and eventually realized I wasn’t very good at it. But I stuck around on the forums. Like, for years. Playing on that server, even as my time actually playing lessened, and being on the forums defined my teenage years.

I had a complicated relationship with the forums and the game, though. I’m not good with people. That’s just something I’ve had to learn to accept. But I’ve actually gotten better over the years. Back during my teenage years I was awful with people. I was antisocial, standoffish, pretentious, etc. I also felt like I couldn’t get anyone to like me, which I now realize was my own fault. There was a group of players I wanted to be a part of, but also could never really break into. The game and forums became what I was experiencing and also everything I couldn’t experience. It’s what I did every day but also what I was missing out on. Even today my thoughts on Minecraft are complicated. That one song, you know the one, always makes me emotional.

I originally had a different end planned to whatever this list is. It was gonna be a pretentious ending about how a few years ago I tried to go back and play Minecraft but just couldn’t because you can never go home again. I was gonna talk about my first world seed and the optimism and exploration I experienced, and it was obviously gonna mimic my decade. Because, you know, pretentiousness. But I can’t do that now.

See, I just looked up that server, and I found out it’s still active. The website looks like when I left. The same people are in charge. It’s like a time capsule. Due to a lot of personal turmoil, I asked for a server ban and a forum ban to stop myself getting back on in January 2015. That was when my time with Minecraft came to an end. But here’s the crazy thing: a couple of weeks ago, almost 5 years after I quit, someone posted on my forum profile that they missed me. And we weren’t even close friends, I thought. I mean, no one liked me, right? And it wasn’t just this one person. Multiple people had left similar messages on my profile over the years.

Normally I don’t like when people have memories and perceptions of me. Like, hell is other people, right? But this kind of hurt my insides deep down, like nothing has in a while. I don’t quite have words for it because it’s so personally tied to how I felt about Minecraft, and thus the forums, and thus a lot of this decade. Does this mean that multiple people I’ve encountered over the decade miss me? That some amount of people greater than zero miss me not being around?

Anyway, this has gotten off track, but also maybe it hasn’t. The point I was trying to make was to make a pretentious list about how silly little things we do in our free time can affect us years later in ways we won’t realize and sometimes can’t understand.

In conclusion, games track better with the most personal moments of my decade better than almost anything. Games are great. The people who play them are often terrible. Video games forever.

[gromvillage]

all odd numbers. do it coward

jesus fucking christ i love you

1. Who was the last person you held hands with?

probably one of my friends when we went to the mall the day before homecoming?? it was a while ago

3. Who are you looking forward to seeing?

i can’t wait to see my cousin again but i also have this one really cool uncle that i’d like to see again. actually i’d like to see a lot of my family cause they live far away but i don’t know when i’ll see them next

5. If you were drunk would the person you like take care of you?

i never want to be drunk but i think they definitely would 

7. Do you think you’ll be in a relationship two months from now?

i’d like to say yes because i’m a thirsty bitch but the answer is prolly no

9. Does talking about sex make you uncomfortable?

negative ghostrider, my friends are tired of hearing me talk about me being thirsty

11. What does the most recent text that you sent say? 

me yelling at my friends about how i want to be on bear grylls’ show, cause i think him and i would have a great time hanging out

13. Do you like it when people play with your hair?

oh hell yeah, my friends got acrylics a couple months ago and i was literally begging them to play with my hair and scratch my head

15. What good thing happened this summer?

lots of good things happened this summer! i went to scout camp, went to washington/canada with some friends, and went to europe for the first time!!   

17. Do you think there is life on other planets?

i’d like to think so! but also,,,,i think it’s probably not like little green dudes sadly, prolly just like microscopic shit that happens to be alive

19. Do you like bubble baths?

i haven’t taken a bath since i was really young, the idea of sitting in your own water is gross

21. What are you bad habits?

oh lots...picking the skin around my nails, i can be really lazy, not tidying up my room as often as i should which then makes me feel weird, the list can go on and on

23. Do you have trust issues?

oh you bet baby, i don’t really have reason to cause no one has done anything absolutely horrible to me (yet) but i am constantly questioning the intents of the people i’m close to

25. What part of your body are you most uncomfortable with?

my face but also the fact i have no thighs and my arms are super scrawny 

27. Do you wish your skin was lighter or darker?

darker, i have such a hard time tanning and i’m high key pale

29. Have any of your ex’s told you they regret breaking up?

h a h a have to have been in a relationship to have has an ex 

31. If your hair long enough for a pony tail?

yeah one tiny one on the top of my head

33. Spell your name with your chin.

paigved

35. Would you rather live without TV or music?

ohhh tough...probably tv though cause i stay listening to music all the time

37. What do you say during awkward silences?

hi welcome to chili’s

39. What are your favorite stores to shop in?

rei or any outdoor store really, small independent stationary shops, target kinda slaps, really any little shop that’s along the main street of a smaller town

41. Do you believe everyone deserves a second chance?

negative ghostrider

43. Do you smile at strangers?

not really, i’m super self conscious about my teeth and also think i look kinda creepy when i do it

45. What makes you get out of bed in the morning?

the fact i have to go to school sadly but my goal is to one day get out of bed and be excited to do a job i love

47. Have you ever been high?

negative ghostrider, that kinda shit freaks me out

49. Have you done anything recently that you hope nobody finds out about?

yeah there’s a couple things

51. Ever wished you were someone else?

all the time, i stay wishing i was an olympic skier or pro mountain athlete or literally anyone more interesting than me

53. Favourite makeup brand?

i don’t wear makeup!

55. Favourite blog?

@friendlydinosaur of course but also big fan of @perpetualpatchwork and a bunch of bon appetit blogs

57. Favourite food?

bread/pasta/sweets

59. First thing you ate this morning?

really lame breakfast sandwich thing on a piece of toast with cream cheese and lunch meat cause i’m lazy

61. Been suspended/expelled? For what?

no but i kinda wish, i have too much of a fear of authority/my parents

63. Ever been in love?

not yet

65. Are you hungry right now?

not super hungry but i could go for some ice cream

67. Facebook or Twitter?

twitter, i’m not a 40 year old lady jesus christ

69. Are you watching tv right now?

nope

71. Craving something? What?

someone to hold me but also really wanna go skiing or on an adventure in general

73. Do you sleep with stuffed animals?

that’s gonna be a no

75. Favourite animal?

ohhh i stay being a closet horse girl but also think elk are pretty cool! also just generally love dogs

77. Chocolate or Vanilla?

chocolate (but vanilla if it’s the really good shit)

79. What colour shirt are you wearing?

maroon! i stay wearing this color all the time

81. Favourite tv show?

i still haven’t finished turn but i do like it a lot! also i just think i finished watching something on netflix but i can’t remember what?? but i feel like i liked it?? thinking is hard

83. Mean Girls or Mean Girls 2?

never seen either sadly

85. Favourite character from Mean Girls?

see above

87. First person you talked to today?

my mom

89. Name a person you hate?

there are a couple but i’m not bouta drag em on tumblr

91. Is there anyone you want to punch in the face right now? 

oh i could come up with a few people....

93. How many sweatpants do you have?

sadly only two pairs but i want more

95. Last movie you watched?

part of ratatouille with this girl that’s kinda like a little cousin to me

97. Favourite actor?

i don’t really have a favorite but i’m big on timothee chalamet at the moment

99. Have any pets?

a sickly beta fish i inherited from my brother when he moved

101. Do you type fast?

i’d like to think so

103. Can you spell well?

oh hell no

105. Ever been to a bonfire party?

a couple, though none recently sadly 

107. Have you ever been on a horse?

a few times!! again, closet horse girl

109. Is something irritating you right now?

the fact i’ve left some major work till the last minute, this one really painful pimple on my face, the way i stay wasting my time

111. Do you have trust issues?

this is a repeat from 23?? but the answer is still yes

113. What was your childhood nickname?

paigey, but a lot of people still use it! also foo foo the snoo was something my mom called me as kind of an inside joke rhyme thing

115. Do you play the Wii?

not anymore, though i was big on wii sports resort and the wipeout game when i was younger. oh also the lego harry potter, cause i liked to collect all the coins while my brother did the Actual Gaming for the levels

117. Do you like chicken noodle soup?

not really, the noodles are always super mushy and i just don’t really like the flavor

119. Favourite book?

i sadly haven’t been reading a ton lately and have forgotten literally every book i’ve ever read but i really enjoyed on jon krakauer’s  eiger dreams that i read this summer

121. Are you mean?

sometimes, yeah

123. Can you keep white shoes clean?

i kept a pair of white slip on vans pretty clean for a while! the trick is to use scotch guard

125. Do you believe in true love?

i haven’t thought about it a lot but i guess? 

127. What makes you happy?

oh lots of things! nice weather, spending time outdoors, good food, time with good friends, ice cream, exploring, creating things

129. What your zodiac sign?

sagittarius (almost my birthday!!)

131. Your bestfriend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do?

now that i think about it i don’t think i have a best guy friend?? but if i did i guess if i didn’t like them i’d try and be nice about it cause i’ve had a crush on close friends and know it sucks when they don’t feel the same way

133. Favourite lyrics right now?

“but if i get my shit together this year maybe i’ll be a ten” -10/10 by rex orange county

135. Dumbest lie you ever told?

oh i’m sure i told some dumb lies when i was a kid but i can’t remember any right now

137. How tall are you?

barely 5′1″

139. Brunette or Blonde?

brunette

141. Night or Day?

depends on the mood

143. Are you a vegetarian?

i really should be for the earth but meat bruh

145. Tea or Coffee?

i don’t drink either!

147. Mars or Snickers?

snickers

149. Do you believe in ghosts?

not really but the other night i woke up to my waterbottle falling off my nightstand and that was some freaky shit

love you dude, i really needed this tonight

[holylulusworld]

Darkened - Part 2

Pairing (none so far): Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Castiel, Garth, Mentioned: Bobby Singer

MoC set after Season 13

Summary: Years of hunting, sacrifices and losses let the Winchesters drift into darkness. Was their last sacrifice too much or can the reader bring light into their darkened world?

Warnings: Violence, Angst, Language, Kidnapping, Dub!Con (unwanted touching, fingering), Dark!Dean, Dark!Sam

You wake up. Your head is spinning and your jaw feels like…shit…like a wrecking ball hit your head. You look around you’re not at the old factory. Maybe Garth picked you up…no he’s in the hospital…

“Ah, she’s awake!” Dean grunts.

“Dean?”

“You know my name? Who told you who I am?” He asks in an angry tone.

“No one! I’m Y/N! We met at Bobby’s house. The last time we saw each other was six years ago!” you say.

“There were a lot of useless hunters around!” He yells now.

“Why did you hit me? I saved your ass! And where the heck am I!” you yell back.

“That was our hunt! You had no right to disturb us!”

“Disturb? I tried to help! I hunted down three out of seven wolves! But I guess Garth was right. Should have stayed away from the famous Winchesters!” you sass back.

“Helped? I doubt that, Sam and I are capable enough to hunt alone!”

“Fine! Then I hit the road now. Forget you ever met me!” You try to get up but your head is spinning. Two rough hands grabbing your wrists harshly.

“No, no Sweetheart. You’re not going anywhere!” Dean says pinning you back on the bed.

“That’s our secret bat cave and you know now where it is! Can’t let you tell anyone!”

“I didn’t see anything. I was knocked out. Remember?” You say and your brain tells you that they won’t let you go no matter what you say.

“Nope. You play by our rules now. You took our kills. You pay for it!” Dean says smirking, slamming the door shut, locking it from outside.

‘Shit!’ You’re screwed. ‘Okay, focus, Y/N they are hunters! They won’t kill you or would they? They hurt Garth, a former friend…

1 hour later

You look in the mirror and your jaw is black and blue. You carefully touch it. ‘Not broken.’ Thank God. You clean your face, freeing it from the dried blood.

The door slams open. “I checked your purse, you’re a doctor?” Sam asks.

“Yes, I’m…Why?”

“You have to patch us up, now!” He grunts, grabbing your arm with full force.

“Ouch! Okay, no need to hurt me! I’ve got a first aid bag in my car. Or did you leave it at the factory?”

“No, Dean insisted to bring it with us, just like you.” Sam eyes you up, like you’re their prey.

“Stay here, I get the bag. Don’t move or I…” He growls moving toward…well you don’t know where he’s going.

‘Where the fuck am I?’ You wonder, looking around you see shelves with books, tables with reading lamps, laptops. It looks like… a library? But there are bedrooms too… no library? What did Dean say, bat cave?

“Ah, Good Girl! So you can follow orders! Good to know!” Sam says smiling wickedly.

You gulp; you don’t want to know what he means. Your hunter instincts tell you to remain calm and to wait for your chance, but the little girl inside of you is afraid of the two large hunters. They are…evil? No, not evil but they are like…darkened versions of their former selves.

“Dean needs help first!”

You nod. Dean and Sam take their shirts of. ‘Shit!’ If you weren’t afraid of the both of them you would be turned on, you always wondered how they look without a clothes.

“Where’s the wound?” you asks shyly.

“Sam has a huge cut on his back and I got one from my chest” Dean says.

You grab your first aid bag…well a huge duffle bag with medical stuff… wait… I’ve got scissors …in it… and…

“Don’t worry your pretty head; I removed all possible weapons from the bag.” Dean smirks at you.

‘Shit! Did he read my mind?’

“I… I was just looking for some sanitizer; you know to clean the wound!” You lie.

“Really? Shall I believe you? Sam asks, suddenly standing closer next to you. You can feel his breath fanning over your neck.

“Yes, I’m a doctor! I help people. I don’t hurt them.” You say.

“We don’t hurt people either, accept they deserve it.” Dean states.

You gulp. “You need to lie down please, so I can clean the wound and see if it needs stitches.”

“Hey Sammy, we just meet again after 6 years and she already wants to lay down with me!” Dean says wiggling his eyebrows.

“I… no. I need to…” you stammer, face flushed.

You clean the wound, carefully. It needs stitches. Shit. You have to crawl up his body to fix this.

“I… I need to stitch this up; it’s a pretty deep cut.” You whisper.

Dean nods. Smiling… did he smile? No he was smirking.

“You, can you, well spread your legs so I can place my leg between and stitch you up?” you stammer.

“Ah, Sweetheart, isn’t it your job to spread your legs for us?” Dean asks smirking again.

‘Wait…what did he say…and did he say us?’

“In your dreams Winchester, I need to stitch this up or you will loose more blood!” You sass back.

Suddenly Sam grabs your hair harshly. “Firstly you don’t talk back, you do as we say. Secondly no tricks!”

“Ouch!” you scream, nodding.

You crawl between Deans legs to have a better position to stitch his wound. And oh god his cock is hard, you can feel “it” poking into your leg. You take a deep breath. “This is going to hurt like a bitch!” You say.

Dean nods. You begin stitching him up and he doesn’t move a muscle. ‘Does he even feel pain?’ you wonder.

“Years of getting hurt. One day you don’t feel anything, anymore.” Dean says, you can almost hear sadness in his voice.

“I see.” You say smiling at him, caressing his now closed wound with your index finger.

He looks up at you with a puzzled expression.

You realize what you did…what to say? ”Does this hurt, is the stitch to taut?” You ask, bandaging the wound.

“No, perfect, maybe you’ll get a reward later.” He says in a husky tone.

“I… I need to stitch up Sam, now.” You say.

You move toward Sam looking at his back. He’s too tall you can’t reach the wound.

“Can you sit down? I… I’m too short. I can’t reach the wound on your back.”

He takes place on the bed and you’re kneeling behind him. Cleaning his wound carefully, just like Deans. He makes a noise…did he just moan? No, you must misheard that.

“Sam, I need to stitch this up too. Can you lie on your stomach? It’s easier for me to stitch you up that way.”

“Well, I would prefer you lying on your stomach and I take care of you, but let’s start with stitching me up.” Sam grunts, your eyes widen at his words.

You start stitching up his wound, just like Dean he doesn’t react to the pain. ‘Can they feel anything?’ Lost in your thoughts you overhear Dean’s words…

“Hey, if someone TAKES CARE of her it’s me. You wanted to leave her behind.” Dean growls.

You can feel Sam tense. Before you can react he jumps up, what causes you to fall out of the bed smashing your head hard against the nightstand. “Ouch!” is all you can say and the lights go out again.

1 hour later

You wake up and well your legs are naked? Why are you legs naked? You can feel a hand moving over your legs, higher to your tights…You open you eyes and see Dean.

He’s smirking down at you. “Told ya, I give you a reward.”

You try to push his hand away. Suddenly he seems angry. “Well, I tried to be a gentleman, but…”

“Gentleman? Beating me up? Kidnapping me? And now I’m suddenly half naked and you’re touching me!” you yell.

“Yep. I was a gentleman, but now I take what I want!” He crawls up your body and pins your wrists up your head with one hand, moving one of his legs between yours. Your try to wiggle your body but he’s too strong, to heavy. He moves the other hand between your legs and starts moving toward your mound. He slides his rough fingers through your folds.

“Dean, stop!”

“Really? But why are you so wet, Sweetheart?” He asks.

“I…please don’t, do this Dean.” You plea.

He circles his fingers through your folds. Slowly pushing two digits into your wet heat, thrusting in and out while rubbing your clit. He’s curling his fingers until he finds your sweet spot and you cry out.

“Ah, there it is. You like that, right?” Dean continues pumping his fingers in and out and rubs your clit even harsher. You don’t want to come but he knows what he’s doing. Dean’s brushing over your sweet spot over and over again, while rubbing your clit harshly; you can’t stop it and come undone

He retreats his fingers and tries to spread your legs for him. You start sobbing.

“Dean, please. Not like this. Please. You’re not a monster. You’re a good man, you’re not a rapist. Please don’t do this.”

He looks up at you with his green eyes and sees your terrified look. Suddenly he realizes that you don’t want this, you’re really afraid of him. He releases your hands and backs up.

“I…I’m sorry…I.” he stammers, running out of the room.

Dean runs down the hallway and crashes into Sam. “Dude, are you drunk?” Sam jokes, looking at his brother’s face he knows something’s off.

“What happened saw a ghost?” Then he hears you crying. “Dean, what have you done? Did you hit her again? The first time you wanted to knock her out and the second time was an accident, well my fault. But there’s…” Sam can’t finish the sentence.

“I didn’t hit her…” Dean stammers.

“And why is she crying, that’s not the way to win her over for us, ya know! You wanted company, a “roommate”, maybe more.” Sam states.

“I…when she touched my wound, no caressed my wound, I felt something for the first time in years!”

“I know, Dean me too, but we need to be careful, I mean we kidnapped her, you hit her, not a way to ask her to help us with…you know.”

“I couldn’t stop, I needed to touch her. After she touched my wound, I thought, she wanted me to touch her too.” Dean says casting his look down.

“Dean! Don’t tell me. Don’t tell me you did…did you force her to something? Don’t tell me you raped her! Cause then I’m going to beat the shit out of you.” Sam yells.

“NO! I didn’t. But I kinda made her come on my fingers. And if she wouldn’t have begged me to stop, Sammy, I don’t know. She was terrified, but she said I’m a good man. But, I look in the mirror and I hate what I see.” Dean says sadly.

“Shit, Dean…that’s no better. You forced her to something she didn’t want to do.”

“I see if I can calm her down.” Sam says.

“You scared her too, the whole time. I guess we need to give up. We can’t…” Dean can’t finish the sentence.

He sees you standing in the hallway, shaken, tears streaming down your face. Your jaw and your left eye are black and blue.  

“Do you want to kill me now?” You ask.

“No, no, Baby Girl, no. Look, I’m sorry. I thought you wanted me to touch you. I’ll never do it again.” Dean pleas.

“I wanted you to touch me? When a woman says NO, she means NO, even if Dean Winchester is touching her!” you yell.

“You, see we’ve changed. 5 years ago something “happened” to us and a “side effect is that we can’t feel anything. But when you touched us, we felt something for the first time in 5 years…

[thorne93]

Curious Conundrum (Part 19)

Prompt: You’re John Watson’s sister. One day you decide to visit your brother for lunch, only to meet the infamous Mr. Holmes…

Word Count: 2469

Warnings: language, flirtation, sexual innuendos (maybe? idfk), murder/crime/case related stuff, angst, jealousy…

Notes: Beta’d by @carryonmyswansong Not only did she beta, but I literally couldn’t have written half these scenes without her help. She contributed majorly, even wrote some parts of scenes. I am forever in her debt.

Also, this starts AFTER Season 2, episode 1. I don’t follow all the episodes, but it does follow the timeline and hit some major events : )

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 |  Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 |

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

You followed the men outside, where Sherlock and him managed to get away. Within a few minutes, you got a text telling you an address. It wasn’t Sherlock’s number, but you had a feeling it was a message from one of his homeless network.

You ducked out of the back of the apartment and made your way through town to the address. When you got there, Sherlock and John were waiting for you outside an apartment.

“I’ve nearly unlocked it...There we are,” Sherlock noted as he stood up and you two went inside a small apartment.

Sherlock asked that you find something to cut the cuffs with. You found some bolt cutters and set them free.

“Where are we?” you asked.

“This is a writer's apartment. Kitty. Remember the frisky fan I told you about?”

“Yeah?”

“That’s her. Not a fan at all. She wanted an exclusive interview and I wouldn’t give it to her.”

“Okay so why are we here?”

“She wrote a story called Kiss and Tell, claiming that a man named Richard Brook has shed light on my fraud.”

“And we’re here to…?”

“To see who Richard Brook is.”

----------------------------

The three of you sat in the dark to wait for her. She got to the door, opened it, clicked on the light and Sherlock asked, “Too late to go on the record?”

Once Kitty got settled in, Sherlock set in on her. “Congratulations, on the truth about Sherlock Holmes. Scoop that everybody wanted and you got it. Bravo.”

“I gave you your opportunity. I wanted to be on your side, remember? You turned me down so…”

“And then someone turns up and spills all the beans, how utterly convient? Who is Brook?”

She shook her head.

“Oh come on, Kitty, no one trusts the voice at the end of a telephone. There are all those flirty little meetings in cafes, those meetings in hotel rooms. How do you know that you could trust him?” Sherlock pressed. “Man turns up with a holy grail in his pocket. What were his credentials?”

At that moment, the door opened to the apartment and a disheveled Moriarty walked in. “Darling they didn’t have any ground coffee so I just got normal.”

Sherlock spun, his eyes wide with shock, yours as well. Suddenly you felt your heart drop into your stomach, your veins filled with ice. John, you, and Sherlock all looked as if you’d seen a ghost. What the ever loving fuck was he doing here?

“You said that they wouldn’t find me here,” he stammered as he backed into a wall, dropping the grocery bag. Your eyes narrowed on him. “You said that I’d be safe here.”

“You are safe, Richard,” Kitty assured and your face whipped to her. “I’m a witness. They won’t harm you in front of witnesses.”

“Wanna bet?” you muttered, utterly put out with all of this nonsense.

“So that’s your source?” John demanded. “Moriarty is Richard Brook?”

“Of course he’s Richard Brook. There is no Moriarty. There never has been.”

A dizzy spell hit your head at that moment.

“What are you talking about?” John wondered.

“Look him up. Rich Brook, an actor Sherlock Holmes hired to be Moriarty.”

Your eyes flashed to your better half, his face unreadable. Then your eyes flashed to Moriarty.

“Dr. Watson, I know you’re a good man,” Moriarty started. “Don’t--Don’t--Don’t hurt me,” he pleaded holding his hands up.

Oh he was good. Playing the part of victim. Playing the part of a scared little man, but you knew better. This wasn’t real. He was as sick and twisted as they come.

John lost his nerve and started shouting. “No, you’re Moriarity! He’s moriarty!” he insisted glancing back to Kitty. “We've met, remember? You were going to blow me up!”

Moriarity continued his charade as he said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. He paid me. I needed the work.” He gestured to Sherlock and you thought you’d rip his head off then and there. “I’m an actor. I was out of out work.”

“Sherlock, you’d better explain. Cause I am not getting this.”

“I’ll be doing the explaining,” Kitty interjected. She went on to hand John and you papers, explaining how Sherlock had invented Moriarity and all the crimes.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Ask him, he’s right here!” she insisted, pointing to Moriarty.  

John went back and forth with the two of them but all you could hear was a rushing in your ears, feel the pounding of your heart, your stomach lurching. You were getting more pissed by the second.

Suddenly, Moriarity had been begging Sherlock to tell John “the truth”.

“Tell him! Tell them! Tell him!” he repeated frantically and you’d had enough.

Shaking your head, you cried, “You sick son a bitch!” Then you lunged at him, his voice getting on your last nerve. This story. The lies. The games. All of it.

“No! No! Don’t you touch me!” he said, falling over himself, getting just out of your grasp. “Don’t you lay a finger on me!”

You continued to march towards him. “Oh I’ll lay more than a finger you sniveling, lying, little snake!”

“Stop it! Stop it now!” Sherlock shouted at Jim, demanding he put this charade to bed. But he didn’t. He started to get up and run away where you and John took off after him.

But he got away. The three of you stormed out of her apartment, your minds still reeling. John was asking if any of this was possible, and Sherlock seemed to surrender and say it was possible.

“There’s only one thing he needs to do to complete his game and that’s to…” Sherlock said, stopping suddenly.

“Sherlock?” you softly said.

“There’s something I need to do.”

“What? Can we help?” John asked.

“No, on my own.” With that he started to walk.

You shook your head, gritting your teeth. “He is such a --”

“Bastard? Annoying dick? Egotistical ass? Patronizing son of a bitch?”

“All of the above,” you muttered.

Just then you got a text message from Sherlock. “Find the computer program. -- SH.”

You showed John.

“Let’s go,” you sighed.

“Uh, you go ahead. I need to take care of something.”

“What? Not you too.”

“Y/N, someone sold Sherlock’s life. It wasn’t me, I highly doubt it was you, so who does that leave?”

It only took you a second before you answered, “Mycroft.”

“Right.”

“But why…?” you started to ask.

“I don’t know, but that’s what I intend to find out.”

“So I’m on my own?” you asked, exasperated as he started to walk away.

“For now, yes! I’ll meet up with you when I can,” he called over his shoulder.

-------------------

You worked all night trying to find the code, not hearing a word from either one of them, except that they were at St. Barts working. Giving up a little after dawn, you decided to head to Barts to see what headway they’d made.

Just as you arrived, Sherlock called you. You stepped out of the cab and answered.

“Hey. You okay?” you greeted.

“Turn around and walk back the way you came,” he instructed sternly.

“What? Why would I do that? I’m coming in.”

“Just do as I ask! Please.” His tone made you nervous so you obliged.

“Yeah, alright. Where am I supposed to go?”

“Stop there.”

“Okay?” you said, looking around for him.

“Okay, look up, I’m on the rooftop.”

Dizziness hit your head like a freight train.

“The rooftop? What the hell are you--” you demanded, angry with him at first, until you actually saw him standing on the ledge. He wasn’t just standing on the rooftop, his tiptoes were over the edge. You gazed up in nauseous horror as you covered your mouth and gasped.

“Sherlock?! What the hell are you doing up there?! Get down this instant!” you nearly shouted into the phone.

“I... I can’t come down so we’ll just have to do it like this,” he said softly.

Your insides twisted.

“Do what?” you asked, a sob already forming in your throat. You didn’t want an answer to your question, but you half hoped it would be something benign, not the horrors that danced through your head at that instant. One horrible thing about your mind was that it quickly worked things out. Moriarity must be making him do this. “Sherlock… What… What’s going on?” you tried to speak through threatening tears.

“An apology,” he said simply.

“For what?” you tried again.

“It’s all true.”

“What’s all true?”

“Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty.”

You shook your head, your heart beating a million miles per hour. Maybe you could get up there but… Sherlock had told you to stay put.

“Why are you saying this? Sherlock this is mad. Stop this right now.”

“I’m a fake, Y/N.”

“No, no you’re not. This is just…”

“The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell John, Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.”

“I’m not going to do that,” you insisted, still biting back tears and your ever-swelling throat. “You know things about people, intimate things, that no one could possibly know in one glance. But you do.”

“Noone is that clever. I couldn’t even tell you anything other than you being an attorney, an obvious deduction. I’ve never been able to read you.”

“So? Sherlock, you can tell people their life story with one glance. I’m the exception.”

It sounded as if he gave a short, sorrow filled laugh before saying, “You always were, weren’t you? My one exception.”

His words. Those words. They sent tears over the edge.

“It’s all one big magic trick, a ruse. I research people. That’s all.”

“You’re lying and I don’t know why. I’m coming up,” you said, starting to move before Sherlock stopped you.

“No! Stay exactly where you are! Don’t move.”

Against your better judgement, you obeyed him and moved back into your spot.

“Alright. I won’t move.”

“Keep your eyes fixed on me,” he requested. “Please, will you do this for me?”

“Do... do what?” you stammered, trying to keep some composure and failing. Not being next to him, seeing him on that ledge, it made your bones, your very soul ache.

“This phone call – it’s, er ... it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?”

A strangled sob escaped your throat as you stared up at him.

“No, Sherlock. No. Just... tell me, I can help you. Please let me help you. We can solve this another way. I don’t know what he has on you but please,” you begged.

“There is no other way. Y/N, I’m so sorry for the pain I’ve caused you… For the pain I’m about to cause you. When we met… I never meant for this to happen. That’s why I told you no, the day you asked me to dinner. I warned you. I told you this would be dangerous.”

“I know, and I still said yes.”

“Do you still say yes now?” he asked ominously.

At first you weren’t sure what he meant, but as you stared up at him, it became painfully clear. He would be dead. You weren’t sure when, but he was going to end his life. Today. And he was asking if it was still worth saying yes.

“Yes,” you breathed.

“I’m so sorry you feel that way,” he apologized.

“Please. Sherlock. Don’t do this. Please, for the love of God don’t do this to me,” you pleaded. He was your first and only love. In your mind and heart, he would be your last love. He couldn’t do this. He just couldn’t. “I love you. Do you hear me? I love you!” you shouted, angry at him for doing this, for putting you in this position. Maybe the anger was just an early stage of grief yet to follow.

“I know,” he quietly says into the phone. “But you were just another part of the game.”

At his words, your heart fell out of your chest.

“I… what?” you gasped, trying to catch up.

“Just another step in the plan to make me seem more normal. John had been on me about being more human so... so I chose you, to play the part.”

“No,” you whispered, disbelief coloring your tone as you shook your head.

“Yes,” he insisted. “If I had it my way, I’d have picked Irene. She was, after all, the first woman to truly catch my eye. I could never love you, because you’d always be the other woman in my eyes. It was Irene that I loved… Not you.” Another moment passed, and you wanted to say something, anything, but your mind was spinning too fast for you to fathom a response. “I’m sorry.”

Before you could respond, he held his had out and dropped the phone beside him.

“Sherlock!” you screamed, louder than you’d ever screamed in your life. Your heart was beating so fast, you thought a heart attack was imminent.  

But he ignored you, he held his arms out to his sides and stepped off. He fell for what seemed like forever, and yet, it seemed like an instant. You wanted to move, to catch him, to break his fall, to… something! But you couldn’t move.

Not until you heard the sound of his body hitting the pavement. That sickeing sound. You’d never heard anything like that.

For a moment, you swayed, sure that you would throw up or that your buckling knees would give out. Then your mind started to work again and you began running towards him, but a bicyclist had hit you, knocking you to the ground. In your shocked state, you didn’t feel it, but your head had smacked against the pavement.

Finally, you stood up and stumbled your way over to him. There was blood... so much blood. A crowd of people tried to hold you back.

“No, he’s my boyfriend!” you shouted, pushing through them until you landed in front of him. Within a second, your brother was at your side.

“Y/N...Y/N,” he said, looking at you. “Oh, God,” he moaned, his face going to Sherlock’s body. “Sherlock… Sherlock…” he whispered in a daze.

You went to reach towards him but people kept pulling you off of him. John tried to take his pulse, but someone had gotten his hand away too.

A gurney rolled up with paramedics and they turned him over, his lifeless eyes staring up, his hair matted in blood. That was all you needed for the light to leave your own eyes as you passed out on the ground next to his body.

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

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[pengychan]

[Coco] The Bedside Ghost, Ch. 3

Title: The Bedside Ghost Summary: The bell falls but, instead of waking up in the Land of the Dead, Ernesto de la Cruz finds himself with a broken spine - and an unwanted guest at his bedside who claims he can let him have the sweet release of death, if he gives back what he took from him… Characters: Ernesto de la Cruz, Coco Rivera, Héctor Rivera, Julio Rivera, Imelda Rivera. Rating: T Status: in progress [This is the fic’s tag for all chapters up.]

[Also on Ao3]

A/N: Ernesto is salty, Héctor's 'ghost' is made of pure salt, and Coco is mostly confused.

ALSO THERE IS ART by @eurazba​ look guys look.

***

Ernesto knew that the bell was about to fall moments before it did, and ran away from beneath it as though he had the devil at his heels.

If that surprised the public, the dancers and the stagehand that had just taken-- Héctor’s -- his guitar from him, he couldn’t tell. He didn’t care. He was aware of nothing but the sense of impending doom, his own pounding heart as he struggled to get away. It wasn’t easy, the escalator was working against him and trying to bring him back under that accursed bell, but he was faster, already halfway down the steps.

The bell would fall, but he wouldn’t be beneath it. All would be well. He’d talk about how close it had been, laugh about it, joke that he was never going to have bell props on stage ever again. Maybe it would become a running joke, and years down the road he would still be telling that funny story of how a bell had almost turned him into a tortilla.

The thought made him laugh even now, but it died in his throat when something suddenly seized his shoulder and pulled him back, when a familiar voice rang out and caused him to still as though blood had turned to ice in his veins.

“Hola, amigo,” Héctor said somewhere behind him, just as his arm latched around his throat. His voice was impossibly cheerful. “Remember me?”

All strength went out of his legs, and Ernesto was unable to take another step. Héctor’s grip tightened, but not enough to strangle him as Ernesto had half-expected him to. He had a split second to feel relieved before he realized that something much, much worse was going on: the escalator was still moving, and them with it. Back up to the top.

Back up towards the bell.

“No, no, no, no! Héctor, stop! Por favor! Por favor!”

Ernesto tried to struggle, to break free, but it felt like he was moving underwater and Héctor’s grip was impossibly strong, keeping him still as the escalator brought them further up, where the bell awaited. It was swinging slowly back and forth, ringing in a funeral toll, ready to fall down on him the moment he found himself beneath it. And it would fall, he knew it, as he knew what kind of hell would follow.

“Trying to get away from me, mi hermano? Trying to leave me behind? That won’t do, it won’t do at all,” Héctor said, clicking his tongue as though disappointed. His voice was gravelly, and he could smell earth and alcohol in his breath, and something else he dared not name.  “I didn’t get to go anywhere, and neither will you.”

“No! Let me go! Someone help me!” Ernesto cried out, trying to stretch out an arm towards the public, the dancers, security, anyone. He couldn’t move it at all. Héctor’s fingers dug into his shoulder like knives, cold as ice.

“I tried so hard to go home, but I fell and you didn’t help me up. Now it’s your turn.”

“Ayúdenme!”

No one lifted a finger, no one said anything. The dancers were still and silent, looking at him with expressionless, identical faces. Because they all had the same face, now, God, they all looked like… like…

“Imelda! Please! Put to stop to this! I beg of you! I--”

Too little, too late, and Imelda didn’t take a single step to help. She didn’t even change expression: she just turned away - all of them turned away - and then Héctor laughed, and the bell came crashing down on him. That final toll covered his old friend’s laugh, but not his own scream.

That kept ringing in his ears even after he woke up.

***

By the time the train stopped at Mexico City, Coco had had enough time to regret leaving without making up with her mother, regret leaving at all, convince herself all over again she was doing the right thing, think up at least seventeen things she should have told Julio to do, and feed everyone in the coach she was in with the lunch Rosita had insisted to pack for her.

Even if she hadn’t been feeling slightly nauseous - had she eaten something that had gone bad recently? She didn’t think so - the sheer amount of food Rosita had dropped on her went well beyond what she could reasonably eat on her own during the journey.

“Nonsense, nonsense! You never know when your next chance to have a good meal is going to be!” she’d said, waving off her protests. To be fair, her tamales were absolutely delicious, so Coco hadn’t complained too much. She was nowhere as good at cooking as her sister-in-law; sometimes Julio joked that his sister’s cooking was the greatest asset he’d brought into the family with their wedding. Coco didn’t quite agree, but she had the distinct sensation that her uncles sort of did.

Tío Óscar and Tíó Felipe were the only ones among them who had been to Mexico City before, too. They had tried to give her suggestions on how to navigate it, but they had only been there for a couple of days and nearly two decades earlier; in the end, all that they could suggest was that she got into a cab as soon as she left the station, gave the driver the address, and let him do the rest. It was exactly what she’d done, and it had been easy; the cab driver seemed more than slightly unhinged when it came to driving, but he was up for a chat and that helped her ignore the stabs of nervousness in her stomach.

“So, Ernesto de la Cruz’s mansion! You know him?”

“Sort of. He used to be a family friend.”

“I see. Dreadful accident he had, huh? Never seen him in public after that. A shame, I loved his songs. Well, who doesn’t-- watch where you’re going, hijo de la mil putas! Er… sorry about that, señorita.”

Coco, who had stopped being a señorita about six years earlier, smiled a bit. “Mexico City is far busier than my hometown. A car is still a sight to behold, there.”

“Hah! This might sound funny coming from a guy who drives for a living, but lucky you,” the man laughed, then glanced into the mirror. “Hey, are you all right?”

Truth be told, she was still feeling a bit nauseous and the man’s driving was not helping matters, but dismissed it as her nerves playing tricks on her.

He has something to tell me about papá. His best friend - there must be so much he can tell me, all the things my mother won’t say. I remember so little. I remember a song, and smiles and warmth and being picked up, but not much else.

“I am fine, yes. Only a bit nervous. I haven’t met Tío Ne-- de la Cruz in a long time.”

In the mirror, she could see the man making a face. “Before the accident?”

“Long before then, yes. I was a child last time I saw him.”

Him, and my papá. They left together. Neither came back, but only Ernesto is accounted for.

“Then get ready for some unpleasantness, señorita. I know a guy who knows a guy whose brother worked in the mansion, and he says he’d be better off dead.”

The notion caused something in Coco’s stomach to clench. Through the journey, she had done her best to dig up all memories she had of Ernesto de la Cruz, as well as those of her father. The man she remembered, ever so vaguely, looked well and healthy, often laughing, with a mustache she’d found almost as funny as her papá’s goatee. It seemed that she would find herself looking at a very different man, after all.

“Is it… that bad?”

“Oh, yes. Can’t move his legs, can’t move his arms, can’t move a thing except his head. Needs help with everything, and I do mean everything if you get what I mean. I’d prefer to die, too. He had a dog, I think - he always had dogs, but that one was the last. It died a couple of years ago. Word is that he almost went insane with grief over that thing. Being stuck in bed does funny things to one’s head, huh?”

There was that sense of nausea in the pit of Coco’s stomach again, and she knew that it had nothing to do with anything she may have eaten. Far from noticing, the driver kept going.

“I guess some folks get used to  being stuck in bed for the rest of their lives, but he never did. They say that he tried to bribe carers to… you know, speed things up.”

The thought was so awful it took Coco’s breath away for a moment. “Did he really...?”

“That’s what my friend’s friend swears by. A blasphemy against God, of course, but Hell can’t seem that scary when you’re living it already," he added, taking both hands off the wheel for a moment to quicky cross himself. "I for one can’t blame him.”

Neither could Coco, really. It was almost unbearably sad to think of, but not surprising, given what she’d heard so far. She felt yet another pang of pity for a man she hardly remembered.

“He used to have visitors, but not anymore,” the driver went on. “He gets gifts, sure enough, from fans all over Mexico, but I’m sure he would trade it all for just being able to get up and walk. Maybe getting a visit is going to help. Look, that’s the mansion - we’re almost there.”

Coco glanced through the windshield to the road ahead. The drive had taken them to the outskirts of the city; they were now going through a long path with fruit groves on both sides and, ahead of them, there was a massive gate.

Nervousness tried to make a comeback, but Coco forced herself to ignore it. Why should she be nervous? He had written, asking - pleading - for her mother to get in touch. She was not her mother, but she was the next best thing, surely. He had something to tell her, and no reason to turn her away.

Telling as much to the man who came at the gate, however, wasn’t as easy as she’d hoped.

“I am telling you, he wrote to us!”

“Señorita--”

“Señora Rivera-Martinez, if you will.”

“However you’re called. El señor de la Cruz doesn’t receive guests--”

“Which part of he wrote to us eludes you?” Coco snapped, holding up the letter. For a moment, he could almost hear her mother’s voice rather than her own. “If you can’t read, it’s not my problem. Find me someone who can and let me talk to them.”

“De la Cruz cannot write on his own--”

“So someone wrote it for him, doesn’t that seem likely to you?”

The man hesitated and Coco drew in a deep breath, trying to calm down. She rarely, if ever, snapped at anybody - but she was tired from the journey, eaten up by questions that wouldn’t let her rest and very close to losing her patience. She hadn’t come all the way from Santa Cecilia to be held up at a gate by someone too thick to understand plain Spanish.

“Listen. Ernesto de la Cruz is an old friend of my family. He asked for our visit, and urgently as well. I figure my godfather wouldn’t be pleased at all to learn you’ve kept me waiting here,” she added, and that finally got the man to recoil, the stubborn frown on his face turning into doubt. He opened his mouth to speak, but someone else got there first.

“Juan, what's going on?” The woman approaching looked about as formidable as Rosita, if at least a couple of decades older. Her graying hair was tied back in a bun, and she carried a small basket filled with tangerines. She looked at her somewhat warily.

Coco held out the letter through the bars of the gate. “I am here to see Ernesto de la Cruz.”

The woman stared at her for a moment, then held out her free hand to take the letter and read through it quickly, her eyebrows rising slightly. After what felt like a long time, she glanced back at her. “Are you Imelda?”

She shook her head. “No, she… she couldn't come. My name is Socorro. I’m her daughter.”

“I heard you saying that he is your godfather. Is that true?”

Truth be told, Coco wasn’t entirely sure; her memories were too few and distant… but she was almost certain of it, almost certain of having heard as much a long, long time ago.

“Ay, don’t you want to give a hug to your favorite goddaughter?” “She’s my only goddaughter, pendejo.” “Hey! Watch your language in front of my girl!”

“Yes,” she finally said. “He was… he is a family friend,” Coco said. “He’d known my father since childhood, in Santa Cecilia. There is something he needs to tell us about him.”

The woman nodded, staring down at the letter. “Héctor,” she muttered. “He does call out that name, sometimes. In his sleep,” she added, and that was when Coco knew she had been convinced that the letter had truly come from de la Cruz. She turned to the man called Juan. “Let her through. And carry her luggage inside, where are your manners?”

The gate was opened, and she stepped in. The woman, who introduced herself as Griselda Lopez, guided her through a large garden - there were groves of various fruit trees, shrubbery, flower beds, lawns, a fountain, and Coco was almost sure she could see a pool at the far end - and towards the main entrance of an impression mansion.

“This place is emptier than it used to be. We have the gardener and his helper, then Juan, myself and a couple more carers. We do have security, too, but there isn’t much for them to do nowadays,” Griselda explained. “We got crazed fans trying to get in, the first year or two after the accident, but not in a long time. The ‘security’ is off somewhere, I suppose, drinking lemonade. Absolutely useless, but señor de la Cruz’s manager insists to pay for them.”

A few minutes were spent talking about her journey from Santa Lucia, what time she had left, how long it took; Coco asked a few polite questions about the fruit groves and the mansion. It was only as they stepped through the front door that the conversation turned to the reason for her visit. “He is not well,” Griselda said, and her feature twisted in a sorrowful expression. “God only knows what plagued him last night - it was a difficult one. He’s sleeping now, and peacefully. I’d rather not disturb him yet. I am sure you understand.”

Despite the need to know gnawing at her, Coco understood perfectly. “Of course.”

“I’ll make sure he knows you’re arrived as soon as he’s awake and aware. Meanwhile, do get some rest. We always keep a few guest rooms ready, just in case. I trust you’ll be staying at least for the night.”

“Oh, I… I wouldn’t want to impose,” Coco said, feeling more than slightly uncomfortable. Truth be told, she had been fully prepared to check into a hotel; the main reason why she’d gone straight to the address on the envelope, suitcase at all, was simple impatience. She wanted to know, and she wanted to know right away. Now, however, it looked like there would be some waiting to do regardless.

“You’re not imposing at all,” Griselda was replying, waving her hand. She put the basked with the tangerines down on a table, took Coco’s suitcase from Juan’s hands - if she noticed her stretching out her hand to take it herself, she pretended not to - and guided her up a huge staircase. “This place feels dreadfully empty, and a change is more than welcome.”

As far as Coco was concerned, that place didn’t feel just dreadfully empty: he it felt dreadful, full stop. It was spotless and luxurious beyond anything she had seen, but it made her think of an empty carcass, like bones picked clean of flesh. Still, she had been offered hospitality and that was a kindness she had no logical reason to refuse. “Thank you,” she said, then, “you said that he mentioned my father’s name before.”

“Never when awake,” Griselda replied, preceding her through a long corridor. There was a sudden defensive note to her voice, and Coco regretted bringing it up. “I never pried. It is not what I’m here for. El señor de la Cruz has little left in the way of privacy, you understand. At least what goes on in his mind should remain his business, unless he decides otherwise.”

“Of course. I apologize for asking. I didn’t mean to--” Coco began, only to fall quiet when Griselda waved a hand and stopped in front of a door.

“It is alright, dear. I am certain he will answer your questions in due time. After all, this is why he wrote to your mother,” she said, and sighed. “I do hope that telling you whatever is troubling him will ease his mind as well as yours.”

“Is he restless?”

“Oh, he has always been since the incident. We all bear our cross in life, but some are heavier than most. And, God forgive me for even thinking this, even His son’s path to Golgotha did not last years,” Griselda said with a shake of her head, and pushed the door open, setting down Coco’s suitcase. “Here, do make yourself comfortable. If there is anything more you need, don’t hesitate to let me know. You’ll have word as soon as Señor de la Cruz is ready to see you.”

Despite the sense of dread that had taken hold of her, Coco managed a smile. “Thank you,” she said, taking suitcase - only to stagger back when her head spun and her stomach turned, as though she’d just made a terrible effort rather than just picking up a relatively light suitcase. There was an arm behind her back steadying her, and she didn’t fall.

“Oh my, this may not have been the best time to undertake a journey,” Griselda said, some sternness in her voice. Head still spinning a bit, Coco blinked at her.

“I supposed it would be a good time as any. I must be more tired than I thought. Thanks for--”

“How far along are you, dear?”

Coco blinked at her. “... Qué?” she asked, causing the woman to pause and shrug.

“My apologies, I assumed… oh, never mind. Do lie down for a bit, though,” she said, and left before Coco could say anything - leaving her to stare at her retreating back in silence, a hand reaching to rest on her stomach.

***

“Oh, you’re awake, finally. I was starting to get bored here. Stop keeping your eyes closed, I know you’re not asleep. Hey, want to hear something funny?”

Ernesto clenched his teeth, refusing to answer, and kept his eyes screwed shut. Of course, his ghost kept going regardless. He always did. There was nothing Ernesto could do to shut him up, to stop hearing him.

“If you hadn’t killed me to become famous, chances are you would have never found yourself under that bell. I figured it would be a nice thought to start they day with. Sort of. You know it’s probably afternoon, right? Whatever they gave you to put you back to sleep when you so rudely woke up screaming must have been some powerful stuff. Knocked you off your feet, so to speak.”

He did remember screaming, but very vaguely. With the nightmare still clinging to him, so dreadfully real, everything else had seemed very far away. He had screamed, and someone had come in. He’d heard a voice - Griselda’s? - and felt a hand brushing back his hair, pressing on his forehead to keep his head down on the pillow. He hadn’t felt the prick of a needle, but of course she must have injected something because he’d fallen into unconsciousness moments later. It had been a deep, dreamless sleep. For a time, he’d been dead to the world. But he was still alive, and all too soon the illusion was gone.

“Señor de la Cruz?”

Ernesto opened his eyes and turned to the door. There was someone standing there, some handyman who usually worked in the garden called Juan. Or was it José? Hell if he knew and hell if he cared. It was some nobody who probably didn’t even know how to read, but he could still walk, scratch his own nose and wipe his own ass, and Ernesto hated him for it.

“What do you want?” he asked, pointedly ignoring Héctor, who was grinning at him while sitting at the end of the bed. He looked, once again, like a corpse just out of its grave. If he had been able to turn in his dream, Ernesto had no doubt that was the face he’d have seen.

The man took a step inside, not sparing a single glance in Héctor’s direction. Seeing him was the one thing Ernesto could do that no one else could; a privilege he would gladly trade for death, really. “A lady has come to see you, earlier this afternoon.”

Ernesto blinked, his heart seemingly leaping into his throat. He was aware, distantly, of the fact Héctor’s grin had faded into an expressionless mask. “A lady,” he repeated slowly. Could it be that Imelda had come, after all? That she had decided against settling the matter by letter or phone, and had come there in person instead?

Ernesto found himself hoping so more than he’d ever hoped for anything, or almost. He almost felt like he could cry if it turned out to be her. Maybe he would: if that would be enough to sate Héctor’s ghost, enough to finally allow it all to end, then he’d weep with joy.

“Yes,” Juan, or José, was saying. “She said her name is Socorro Rivera-Martinez, and that you wrote to her family.

For a split second, not hearing the name he’d been hoping for made his heart sink - but then his memory caught up and he knew that not all was lost. “Socorro, you said?” Ernesto asked slowly. So Imelda had never written back, but her daughter had come. Héctor’s daughter. He remembered a child; she must be a woman now, older than her father got to be before he-- was murdered you murdered me and left me to rot and now you will rot too -- died.

Ernesto’s eyes flickered to where the ghost - Héctor, or a very convincing hallucination - was sitting. He said nothing, did nothing; he only stared at the man with blank, milky-white eyes. And to think that those eyes would sparkle so much when he talked about his little girl; Ernesto had found it amusing, until he’d come to find it annoying and, by the end, plainly infuriating. Now, however, he was none of those things. He was just scared, hardly daring to let himself hope that the end may be within sight, out of fear that hope would be crushed.

Whatever you are, are you happy now? I will tell her, will it be enough to sate you? God, please, let it be enough.

“Sí,” Juan or José or whatever was saying, and Ernesto turned his gaze back on him. He was standing near the door, a hand still on the doorknob. “She says she received a letter from you, and has travelled here from Santa Cecilia. She had a letter to show, but none of us can recall assisting you write--”

“You’re not the only ones here who can write down what I say,” Ernesto cut him off.  “She’s telling the truth. I wrote to her family. Where is he? She better not have left! You should have come immediately!”

“No, no, she hasn’t left. She--”

“Good for you. She is my guest, so see that she’s treated as one.”

“Of course. Griselda gave her a room. Shall we tell her you can meet her once you’ve rest--”

“I have had enough bed rest to last me a lifetime,” Ernesto scoffed. A sense of dread threatened to choke him - how much would he need to tell her for Héctor to be sated? How much of it would the world know? Even now, he found that thought terrified him - but he forced himself to ignore it. “Let her in the living room--”

“Which living room?”

“Whichever is closest, whichever is cleanest, whichever you like the most, I don’t care. Send someone to get me on the wheelchair. I’ll see her right awa--"

“Juan! What did I say about letting him rest?”

Griselda’s voice caused José - no, wait, it was Juan - to wince, and turn back towards the hallway. “I was just checking… he was awake, Griselda, I didn’t wake him up!”

“I certainly hope so,” she huffed, pushing past him. Her expression was stony as she watched Juan leave, and immediately softened when she turned to the bed. She passed right by the spot there Héctor had been, and now had disappeared from. “Good afternoon, señor. How are you feeling?”

Ernesto ignored the question. After all, it was a stupid one to begin with when asked to someone who felt absolutely nothing from neck down. “He said Socorro Rivera is here. I have to see her at once.”

“Of course. I have brought you some tangerines, just picked.”

“I don’t want--”

“You need to eat something.”

“I want to see--”

“Not in these conditions, you don’t. You need to get cleaned up and dressed.”

Somehow, that statement made Ernesto laugh. He could taste bile. “Hah! Like anything you do is going to make me a better sight. She’s in for a shock. Or two,” he muttered, and closed his eyes with a sigh.

Your back looks like Swiss cheese, for the record, Héctor has said. Smells worse, though.

Did it? Yes, he probably reeked of decaying flesh; the only reason why he couldn’t smell it, just like he couldn’t smell the ointments and disinfectant, was that he lived in it.

“How bad are the ulcers?”

“I will change the dressings in a minute. I think your hair needs some washing and--”

“That is not what I asked.”

There was a brief silence, and it was the only answer Ernesto needed.

You’re pretty much rotting alive. I would be amazed that you haven’t died of sepsis yet, antibiotics and all, if l didn’t know you’re just not allowed to die until...

Until. There was that, if anything. That until he could cling to, in hopes it would be now.

Move Heaven and Earth if you must, but give me what I want. And then you can die.

“Get on with it,” he finally heard himself saying, very quietly. “And then take me downstairs.”

“... Sí, señor.”

***

The living room she was accompanied into was large and immaculately clean, with white furniture and walls and even a very expensive-looking piano on the far side. A huge window let in sunlight, allowing a view of the garden outside as the sun began to set, setting the sky aflame. It was beautiful, and yet it felt all the world like she was sitting inside a tomb.

Sitting on an armchair so immaculate she was afraid of staining it by just touching it, Coco drew in a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves, and kept her hands tightly folded on her lap. No matter how much she told herself that she had every right and reason to be there - he’d written to her mother, pleading for her to get in touch - she still couldn’t entirely shake off the feeling she was not where she was supposed to be.

Home, that’s where I should be. With my family, Julio and Victoria, not here chasing ghosts.

Something I need to tell you about Héctor that you should have known many years ago.

I didn’t bother to read it and neither should you!

It cannot be worse than knowing nothing.

Get ready for some unpleasantness, señorita.

You’re coming back soon, mamá?

Is papá coming home soon?

How far along are you, dear?

Coco’s stomach clenched, and she had to fight back another wave of nausea. Maybe it was all her nerves. It had to be, she had plenty to be nervous about. She didn’t want to think that Griselda may have guessed right - she wanted another child, she and Julio had been trying for a couple of years, but now that she was so far away from her family the thought scared her. And if it was true it felt so wrong, being unable to share it with Julio right awa--

The sound of a door opening snapped her from her thoughts. Coco looked up without thinking - only to recoil when her eyes fell on the man who was being wheeled in on a wheelchair by a silent, somber Griselda.

She had expected to see a ruin, but nothing could have prepared her for it. Her memories, few and vague as they were, were of a broad-shouldered man, younger than she was now, who looked fit enough to lift a grown man over his shoulders and take him for stroll. Actually, she was almost positive he’d done as much with her papá once, causing him to protest while wheezing with laughter. She had laughed, too, while her mother watched on with a half-smile on her face as Coco sat on her knees.

What she saw now was a world away from the man she remembered. He was thin in a way that the house vest on him and the blanket on his lap couldn’t hide, all muscle in his limbs having wasted away. The hands on the armrests of the wheelchair looked like a bird’s talons, and she could have easily closed her fingers around his wrist with room to spare.

There was a strap across his chest, holding him upright against the armchair’s backrest, but she hardly noticed that: what her gaze paused on was his face. It was gaunt and of an unhealthy ashen color, but she still recognized those features; even the mustache had stayed the same, and his hair didn’t look that different. And the eyes - those hadn’t changed at all, perfectly clear and alert. They fickered somewhere over her shoulder for a moment, and he seemed to clench his jaw before he turned his gaze back on her, saying nothing.

Coco opened her mouth to speak, but she found herself speechless, and it didn’t seem to come as a surprise; Ernesto de la Cruz’s lips twitched for a moment in what could have been a sneer. Griselda stopped, leaving the wheelchair in front of her across a small table. That was when Coco smelled it: the scent of iodine and ointments and, beneath it all, the sickly sweet smell of corruption. She knew, there and then, that she was looking at a dying man - and that she had made the right choice by visiting, seizing what could be her only chance to know what had become of her father.

“I will leave you alone. If you need me, you only need to call,” Griselda said before turning and leaving the room, closing the door behind herself. It did feel like being locked inside a tomb, too, but this time it didn’t unnerve her.

Right there and then, there was nowhere else she’d rather be.

***

Héctor was there because of course he was, standing silently right behind the woman, looking just as he had the night he had died. She was older now than he’d been then; it was a jarring sight, a reminder that more than a quarter of a century had passed.

He remembered, distantly, how she’d looked at him back when she’d call him tío, laughing and reaching up for his face - his mustache specifically, she seemed really keen to find out if she could rip it off - whenever Héctor decided to put her in his arms for whatever reason. She certainly wasn’t laughing now, her horror at seeing him plain as day, her pity barely concealed. It would have bothered him if his mind hadn’t been taken by something else that he could see so very clearly, with the two of them right next to each other across time.

“You look like Héctor.”

He only realized he’d spoken as much aloud when the words reached his own ears, and from behind her Héctor’s ghost gave the closest thing to a real smile Ernesto had seen on him in a long time, if ever. “She does! Muy guapa, eh?”

“... Thank God Imelda was able to spare you his nose,” Ernesto added, causing her to blink and Héctor’s grin to turn into an unimpressed glare. It gave him no small amount of childish satisfaction, to be entirely honest.

“Oh, I see what you’re doing! You get one chance to roast me back, so of course you had grab it with both hands and run with-- ooh wait, no you can’t,” the ghost muttered, but Ernesto ignored him. Unaware of her father’s presence, if he was indeed present, Socorro Rivera brought a hand to her mouth and gave a small laugh, some of the tension in her frame melting away.

“Haha! I suppose… I’m sorry, I must have come across so rude, just staring and saying nothing,” she said, and pulled her hand away from her face, the smile still lingering. Ernesto half-dreaded to hear her say it was good to see him, or any other equally fake nicety he’d heard far too many times, but she did not. “I’m sorry it took so long for any of us to get here. Your letter was… misplaced.”

“Bet you fifty pesos that Imelda tried to burn it,” Héctor muttered from behind her. Again, Ernesto ignored him and gave her a wry smile.

“I’m happy enough that you made it here, Socorro,” he said, like each single day hadn’t been torture. But she was there, and speak out was all he needed to do, or so he hoped. She would know, Héctor would be sated, and he’d be allowed to die. It’d only take a few words; he could speak them now, and be done with it… yet something in him balked at the prospect.

Maybe I won’t have to tell her everything. Maybe she doesn’t need to know. Maybe the world won’t need to know.

“Please, call me Coco,” she was saying, entirely unaware of his thoughts. “Everyone does.”

“Of course. Coco. Is your mother well?”

“She is, thank you. She’s sorry she couldn’t come - she was needed to run the business.”

Héctor snorted. “So sorry she couldn’t come, sure. You don’t believe that, do you, Ernestito?”

No, not for one second, but it wasn’t important. “She runs a business?”

“Yes. We make shoes - she started it on her own when I was little, with my uncles helping.”

“The Bobos?”

“What?” Coco blinked at him in clear confusion, and the laugh that left Ernesto sounded somewhat genuine. He thought back of two young boys looking at him with identical frowns.

“Your uncles. When they were kids, they used to pull this trick on everyone - pretending to be each other. I solved the problem by just calling them both ‘Bobo’. They were not very amused,” he added, and her confusion melted into a smile.

“Oh! They did that to me, too, when I was little. And my husband fell for it the first few times.”

“You’re married?”

“And with a daughter,” Coco replied, and suddenly her face lit up. She looked even more like Héctor now, nose or not, and there was a pang of something painful somewhere in his head, making him suddenly think that he would have rather faced Imelda and all of her grudge. As Coco reached for the locket around her neck to show him a picture, Ernesto glanced over her shoulder. Héctor was looking back at him, his expression somber.

“A granddaughter,” he said, flatly. “Imagine how much I would have loved her.”

I don’t want to, Ernesto almost said, but he kept his mouth shut and turned his gaze on Coco’s locket instead. There was a small picture inside, that of a man he did not know looking at the camera with a smile, a solemn-eyed little girl on his knees. He stared at her for a few moments. “... She looks like Imelda,” he found himself saying, and Coco laughed.

“She does! More than I ever did. She’s a lot like her, all serious and proper. And she can always tell her uncles apart. They could never trick her,” she said, and closed the locket, putting it back around her neck. “Her name is Victoria.”

“It’s a beautiful name.”

“How many Victorias did you bed back when everything downstairs was still functioning?” the ghost wondered aloud.

“Four,” Ernesto said without thinking, causing Coco to blink in confusion and Héctor to guwaff. “I mean-- she looks like she might be four?”

“Oh! Yes, she’s almost five,” she said, and paused. There were a few moments of silence, and he broke it before it became uncomfortable.

“It must have been a long journey. I trust the staff has treated you well.”

“Oh, yes. Griselda was very helpful.”

“You were offered something to eat, I hope. I should have asked before dismissing her - would you like a drink, or…?”

“Hey! HEY! No tricks with her, pendejo! Mija, don’t drink anything he-- oh wait, you can’t actually pour the drinks yourself. Never mind. False alarm. Do carry on.”

Ernesto kept ignoring the ghost’s antics, though he could have sworn he had felt his left eye twitching a little. If so, she didn’t notice.

“I am fine, no worries. Thank you for letting me stay, señor de la Cruz.”

“Ernesto.”

“Right. I… used to call you Tío Neto, didn’t I?”

She did. He was amazed she even remembered. “Yes. Your father used to call me that as well, when we were children and he couldn’t pronounce my name properly.”

“I see. You... grew up together, didn’t you?” Coco was asking, but before Ernesto could answer, Héctor’s ghost smiled. It wasn’t one of his usual grins. It was a small, wistful smile.

“I wasn’t even three years old yet, and your name was a mouthful. You liked it better than when your mother called you Tito, though. You said you’d always wanted a little brother. I wished I had a big brother. I thought I was so lucky to have found you.”

You were, Ernesto thought, and something in his skull hurt. We were lucky. We could have had it all but then you had to go and decide that I wasn’t enough, we weren’t enough, everything we’d always wanted and dreamed about suddenly meant nothing.

Héctor shook his head. “Oh, no, mi hermano, don’t you get it? I told you, it was your dream.”

“Seño-- Ernesto?” Coco’s voice caused Ernesto to recoil and turn back to her. She looked concerned now, the earlier smile gone from her face.

“I… my apologies. Yes, we… we grew up together. He was my best friend.”

“... I’m picking up a past tense,” Coco said, and drew in a deep breath, as though to brace herself. “He died, didn’t he?”

Ernesto nodded. “Yes. I am sorry,” he said, fully expecting the ghost to say something scathing, but he remained silent. He kept her eyes fixed on Coco, who nodded.

There was a faraway cast to her gaze, but no tears just yet. “Years ago?”

“Sí,” Ernesto said, bracing himself for the next question he ought to expect - namely when, precisely, had he died. He should have dreaded it, but he found he didn’t. If she asked, he would tell her he’d died only months after leaving Santa Cecilia. If she asked why hadn’t he told them then, he would admit to taking his songs. Perhaps she would rage and then, well, she may very well guess the entire truth. Or maybe he would tell her first, anything to sate her. Anything to sate Héctor, and make him go away when she did.

But she didn’t ask. She closed her eyes, drawing in another deep breath, and brought her hands up to her face. She stayed still only for a few moments before she breathed out, and and pulled her hands away. Again, no tears; only that distant gaze again. “Why tell us now?”

“I’m not long for this world,” Ernesto found himself saying, fervently hoping that was the truth. He half-expected a remark from the ghost, but again he said nothing. He remained still and silent, his own gaze fixed on the floor. “It was now or never, I suppose.”

“I see,” Coco said, and looked down at her hands. They were folded tightly on her lap. “I remember so little. I have… good memories of him, but few. And I was so young, I am not even sure I can trust them. My mother never speaks of him - no one in the family does. She hasn’t been anything but amazing, but...”

“It was a sore spot, being left behind,” he said, his voice dull to his own ears. “I understand.”

“No,” Héctor snarled, suddenly looking up. “You don’t. I wanted to go home and you wrote me off musical history, wrote me off my own family. Take your pity party somewhere else.”

Coco was nodding, and suddenly she looked up from her hands to glance at him. “You knew him well. Will you tell me about him?”

For a moment, Ernesto wasn’t sure he had heard right. “What?”

“Tell me about him. You must have so many stories to share,” she replied, and for the first time her voice shook, like that of a pleading child. “It’s the only way I can have him back, I suppose. I want to know about him. So that I can actually be sad that he’s gone. Or angry. Or both,” she added, and gave a painfully forced laugh. “I know it makes no sense, but--”

“It makes perfect sense,” Ernesto cut her off, looking down at his own motionless hands. Having no feeling whatsoever below his neck had been the hardest thing to get used to - so hard, in fact, that he didn’t think he ever truly had. He would welcome the most excruciating pain over that horrifying nothingness.

“Tell her.” Héctor’s voice rang out suddenly, quieter than before, sadder, younger, pleading. Ernesto glanced down to see the young boy he’d been standing by the armchair Coco was on, a small hand with fingernails bitten to the quick resting on her arm. She gave no sign of being aware of that. “Please, Neto. Tell her about me.”

“Yes,” Ernesto said, not knowing who he was talking to anymore. “I’ll tell all I remember.”

If this is what you want, I will. And then allow me to die. For the love of God, let me go.

He looked back at Coco, who smiled. “Thank you,” she said, and then she fell quiet to listen,  hanging to his every word.

Ernesto couldn’t tell for how long she listened in silence: in a way, he wasn’t there at all. For the first time in over a quarter of a century he was back in Santa Cecilia, where the sun beat down mercilessly and two laughing boys ran amok through fruit groves, splashed in the stream and made music with whatever they could find, dreaming of the wide world outside.

***

A/N: Coco will, eventually, know when Héctor died. But at the moment she wants more than anything to know about her missing father's life rather than his death, and she has no reason to suspect foul play. Yet.

***

[Back to Chapter 2]

[On to Chapter 4]

[amylillian22]

I’m Nothing Without Her – Part 3 - Liam Dunbar Imagine

Requested: Yes

Word Count: 1,674

Warnings: curse words

Author’s Note: I’m so sorry this took forever! I’ve been extremely busy, but here it is. The final chapter to the mini I’m Nothing Without Her series. I hope you enjoy it. Also, this wasn’t beta-proofed, so sorry for any grammar errors.

[My Teen Wolf Master List]

[Part 1] [Part 2]

I watched Liam and Brett from the sidelines, standing next to my teammate Nolan. The team was completely quite as Brett ran towards Liam. Brett tricked him into thinking he was running to the left side before he changed his mind and ran to the right side. Liam missed Brett completely and ended up falling to the ground. Brett pulled his lacrosse stick back before he flung it forward, letting the lacrosse ball fly straight into the net, scoring a goal. The guys on the sidelines “Oooh-ed”, completely impressed by Brett’s trick.

“Perfect split dodge,” Brett explained the play to us with a smirk on his face. He walked backwards until he reached the middle of the lacrosse field. He picked up the ball with his stick and started running towards Liam again. Liam charged towards Brett, only to be shoved to the side with Brett’s shoulder, making him stumble to the ground again. Liam quickly looked up and saw Brett make another goal.

“Perfect rocker,” Brett said as he walked by Liam. The guys were impressed by Brett’s lacrosse skills.

“Just remember to cover your back, especially if your opponent’s a dick,” Liam explained to us as his eyes never left Brett’s.

“You got some pretty big cleats to fill with Scott leaving. You ready for all of this?” Brett asked Liam.

“I managed all summer,” Liam answered, causing me to roll my eyes as I let out a small scoff.

“Summer’s over.”

With my werewolf hearing, I could hear Liam panting heavily as he stared at Brett. I didn’t need my werewolf senses to know he was getting angry. Everyone on the sidelines could see it. Liam was pissed Brett was kicking his ass on the field in front of everyone. As captain, he shouldn’t be this bad. Maybe if he got his head out of his ass and used his werewolf powers, Liam would give Brett a challenge.

The entire team stayed quiet as we watched Brett running towards Liam again. Brett shoved Liam to the ground, his legs flying in the air before his back hit the hard ground again. The guys “Oooooo-ed”again. Liam grunted and huffed as he slowly got up from the ground. His anger was only getting worse by the second. I had no doubt he would be shifting any minute. Even though we weren’t speaking to one another, I knew he was having trouble with his shift with everything going on in his life.

I turned around and saw Mason and Brett’s sister, Lori, sitting on the stands, watching Brett and Liam on the field. They were talking about the first game starting in a couple of weeks before I looked back at Brett and Liam on the field. They somehow ended up inside the goal’s net with Corey. When they untangled themselves and got up, Liam’s breathing was getting heavier by the second. He walked back to his position and if looks could kill, Brett would be a dead man.

Brett was back at the center of the field. He picked up the lacrosse ball with his lacrosse stick again and ran towards Liam. Except this time, Liam bent down and threw Brett over his shoulder, instantly sending him to the ground. Liam picked up the ball and ran towards Corey, whose eyes grew wide with fear. Liam flung the ball to the net, making Corey fall back and the ball going inside the net.

Brett quickly got up and ran towards Liam. “There he is! There’s that IED I remember. What’s it stand for?” He asked.

I heard Liam’s heart racing against his chest. My eyes flickered from his chest to his eyes, which turned gold as he gripped the lacrosse stick tight in his hands. He was seconds away from shifting and I knew I had to do something before anyone on the team would notice.

"Intermittent Explosive Disorder?" Brett asked Liam.

Suddenly, I was mad as I walked towards them. I don’t know what Brett’s plan was, but him taunting Liam wasn't helping. Being a werewolf himself, he should know better than to try and provoke an angry beta with anger issues.

"That's enough, Brett," I said as I shoved him back and stood between them, creating some distance between the two.

"Aww," Brett cooed, "Liam's little girlfriend is here to protect him."

"She's not my girlfriend." "I'm not his girlfriend," Liam and I said at the same time.

"Oh, that's right. She's your best friend," he smirked before his eyes landed on me. "In that case, can I ask her out, Dunbar?"

I crossed my arms to my chest as I stared at Brett. I had no idea what he was doing, but I didn’t like it. I could practically feel Liam's anger radiating off of him. Even though I should have played along with Brett and purposely hurt Liam, because he deserved it, I couldn’t do it. Deep down, a part of me didn’t want to hurt him because I still cared about him.

"No," Liam gritted between his clenched teeth.

"Why not?" Brett asked.

"Because I said so," Liam answered as he took a step forward.

"Liam-" I said as I placed my hand on his chest, stopping him from getting any closer to Brett.

"What are we in 3rd grade?" Brett chuckled at Liam's childish answer. "That's not a good enough reason."

Liam let out a low growl, his eyes turning yellow once again. I turned around and placed both my hands on his chest, holding him back. "Liam-"

Liam looked over my shoulder and ignored me as he stared down at Brett. "Because I'm in love with her!" He snapped loudly.

"Oh snap!" Someone from the sidelines whispered, but us three heard it loud and clear with our werewolf hearing. Soon the guys were talking about how they’ve always known Liam and I had a thing for each other. Some assumed we had already been dating or sleeping with each other.

My hands dropped from Liam's chest before I turned around to look at Brett. I hated him for taunting Liam and making him admit how he supposedly felt about me in front of everyone when I knew deep down nothing was going to happen between us. Now the guys were starting rumors about our “friendship”.

"You know what? Fuck you, Brett, and your need to always push our limits just to try and prove a point!" I snapped before I walked off the lacrosse field. I quickly brushed the fallen tears from my cheeks, hoping no one saw them.

"Y/N!" Liam called after me. I could hear him chasing after me, which only made me walk away from him faster.

"Go away, Liam," I said over my shoulder once I reached the double doors to the locker room building.

"Y/N, please," he begged as he stopped the door with his hand, preventing me from going in.

"What?! What do you want?!" I snapped as more warm tears formed in my eyes.

"You!" He answered without hesitation and with complete honesty.

I shook my head, letting him know it wasn't that simple. "Liam-"

"I want you, Y/N," he said more softly, yet with a hint of pain in his voice. "You have no idea how fucked up I am without you. I thought," he paused for a second and let out a deep sigh as he ran his hand through his sweaty matted hair. "I thought Hayden moving was the worst thing that happened to me, but it wasn't. It was you walking out on me. I'm literally nothing without you, Y/N."

"Liam-" I whispered as tears fell down my cheeks and my heart racing against my chest with his words.

He stepped forward before his hands gently cupped my cheeks. He wiped my tears with the pad of his thumbs. I tried not to crave into his warm touch, but I couldn't help myself.

"Why else would you defend me from Brett? Huh?" He asked as he lifted my chin and looked directly into my tear filled eyes. "Because I know deep down you still care about me," he whispered.

I bit my lip before I spoke, "I'll always care about you, you jackass... I'm in love with you."

Liam's lips formed a small smile, "And I'm in love with you."

I shook my head. "Liam, I would be a rebound-"

"No, you wouldn’t be," he leaned in and captured my lips with his. This time it wasn't forceful like the other day in the locker room, where he seemed like he was trying to prove a point. It was gentle, nice, and slow. The kind every girl wished her first kiss would be like, pure bliss. I wrapped my arms around his neck and sunk into the kiss as he released the butterflies in my pit of my stomach. He pulled me in closer as I deepened the kiss before he wrapped his arms tightly around my waist. His lips were so soft and gentle as our lips moved in perfect sync. It wasn't rushed or rough. It was sweet and slow, just like how I imagined our first kiss would be like. It was perfect.

When the burning sensation in our lungs was too much, we broke the kiss. Liam rested his forehead against mine, his warm breath fanning against my lips as his chest quickly rose and fell against mine, trying to catch his breath. "Now tell me that didn't feel like a rebound. Tell me what you felt was real," his lips ghosted against mine.

My heart was still racing against my chest as my hand slid down to his chest, just above his rapid heartbeat. I look down at my hand and traced a heart with the tip of my finger.

"I love you, Y/N. I always have. It just took me a while to realize that," he whispered, almost in a apologetic tone.

I took a deep breath before I looked up at Liam, immediately locking my eyes with his sapphire eyes. "I love you, too, Liam... Just..." I trailed for a second, "Please don't break my heart again."

"I promise if you promise to do the same," he whispered back.

"Promise," I sealed with a kiss.

[foreversillythings]

the stars crossed out our names

because there’s love in their hearts and tragedy in their blood. snapshots of Finnick and Annie

Best Wishes

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed the way they watch you, whisper when you appear. They think you’re going to save them,” Briney sneered and Finnick felt himself tense. “Funny, isn’t it?” she continued, “Seeing as how you haven’t saved anyone yet.”

Finnick knew what Briney was trying to do, knew what reaction she was trying to provoke. This wasn’t the first time he’d had to mentor with her and, with Mags growing older every day, it sadly wouldn’t be the last. She was constantly, eternally, miserable and every day she strove to pull the rest of them down with her.

(as if they weren’t there already)

Years of Capitol servitude had taught him plenty of tricks and he smiled in her direction, covering himself up in his armor of charm.

“Being with me is salvation in and of itself,” he said and Briney scowled deep and dark.

“You’re disgusting,” she replied and he winked, sauntering off to their two new tributes. They were sitting on a couch on the train, looking at he and Briney with awe, reverence but then, District Four was a career district, one that taught all their children to worship their glorious victors.

“You already know who I am,” he said, every inch the Capitol’s darling. “So who are you?”

“Seamus,” the boy answered, all confidence and broad shoulders. He was eighteen and looked promising, a shining volunteer ready to bring honour to District Four. Finnick couldn’t help but feel his heart constrict with hope, because maybe this year, maybe this year he would save someone.

“I’m Annie,” said the girl and Finnick looked at her, took in her dark hair and slender frame. She wasn’t power and strength like Seamus, but she looked capable, her eyes bright with determination.

“Well, pleasure to meet you Seamus and Annie. I hope you’re ready to win.”

*

Naked Truth

Annie stood on the roof and looked out at the Capitol spidering out below her, glittering and sparkling like a world made of diamonds.

“Are you worried?”

She turned and there was Finnick Odair leaning in the doorway, the wind just teasing the ends of his hair. He was a bit larger than life and so beautiful, beautiful in a way she never would have thought anyone could be. He felt almost unreal, too shiny and perfect and charming, and every time she saw him she almost expected him to disappear, just something she’d imagined.

“Should I be?” she asked with half a laugh and she expected him to smile, to drown all her fears in arrogance and bravado. He paused instead and looked up at the sky, all the stars blotted out by the city’s endless lights.

“I think that’s what I miss most about home when I come here,” he mused, “all the stars.”

Annie followed his gaze and nodded, felt almost as if she were dreaming. Could this really be Finnick Odair?

“I’ve been training for this all my life and I’ve got you, so no, I’m not worried,” she told him, knew her district expected her to be brave, fearless. He frowned, arms folded across his chest and she didn’t know who he was right now, but she thought maybe, maybe she liked this him better.

“Yes,” he whispered, so quietly she could have imagined the words, “you should be worried. You should always be worried.”

Annie stared at him, had no idea what she was supposed to say, how she was supposed to feel but then Finnick grinned, some sort of curtain falling between them.

“If there’s anyone who can bring you home, it’s me,” he said, boastful and proud. Annie nodded, swept up in his current, just like everyone else in Panem.

And for just a moment, she wasn’t afraid at all.

*

Stack the Deck

“Will you do something for me?” he asked, stroking the blue hair fanned out over his chest.

“Anything,” his newest patron purred, hands clutching at him greedily.

“Sponsor my tributes,” he said with a smile and hopefully, hopefully this would be enough to save them, would give them the edge they needed.

I’ve trained for this all my life and I’ve got you to help me, so no, I’m not worried

*

End of the Rainbow

Annie was sticky with Seamus’ blood and Finnick’s voice played over in her head, a lie they’d both been foolish enough to believe.

If there’s anyone who can bring you home, it’s me

Annie watched Seamus’ head spin through the air and screamed.

*

Mea Culpa

Finnick held Annie as she sobbed, shrieked and all he could think was I saved you, I saved you, why does it feel like I failed you?

*

Bête Noir

Annie woke with a jump, hands over her ears to block out the screams. Nightmares hounded her when she was awake, hounded her when she slept and she couldn’t stop the tears form coming, her nails digging hard into the side of her head. She never had any peace, ghosts sticking out of her walls and crawling out from under her bed. Their phantom hands clung to her clothes and pulled at her limbs, the smell of their blood making her want to puke.

Stop screaming, stop stop! her heart wailed but it kept going, loud and real. Annie opened her eyes in surprise and looked over the side of her bed, her hands jumping to her mouth. It was Finnick, thrashing about and screaming on her floor. Her heart shook and shuddered and she lifted her blankets, climbing quietly down to the floor beside him. She had begged him to stay the night, the shadows somehow blacker than usual and how silly of her, to think she was the only one with monsters in her mind.

“Finnick, Finnick wake up,” she said softly, cupping his face in her hands. He jerked upright, eyes wild and panting heavily and Annie wanted to kiss away the fear bleeding from his every pore.

“It’s alright, you’re alright,” she murmured and his gaze finally focused on her.

“I’m sorry,” he said, dropping his eyes and Annie frowned. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she told him, stroking the hair away from his sweaty face. He trembled all over and closed his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he apologized and she shook her head.

“I’m glad you did.”

He opened his eyes to blink at her in confusion. Annie smiled.

“Let’s be brave together,” she whispered and tugged her blanket off the bed to cover them both. Finnick stared at her like he’d never seen her before, like she was something shiny and new.

“Strength comes in numbers,” she reminded him and finally he smiled, something sweet and soft, unlike anything she’d seen him show the Capitol.

“Okay.”

*

Pie in the Sky

Annie scooped up the excess flour from the counter and held it up to Finnick’s face. He leaned in, forehead creased in uncertainty and then her eyes lit up. She blew at the pile in her hand, a white cloud billowing up and covering his face and Finnick coughed and reeled back, Annie entirely unable to stop her giggling.

“I’m never baking with you again,” he declared but he was smiling and both his hands dove into the flour bag.

“You wouldn’t,” she said but yes, he would. Finnick cackled as he lifted his hands, a mound of flour cupped between them. Annie spun around and attempted to flee, Finnick chasing after her.

“Stay away!”

“You started it!”

Annie laughed and continued to run, Finnick trailing after her, his own laughter joining hers.

*

Foul Weather Friend

Some days were better than others, but then, some were worse.

There were days Finnick could feel fingers that weren’t there sliding over his skin, some days when the mere thought of someone touching him made him want to vomit. There were days he couldn’t get out of bed, days when he stared up at his ceiling and imagined a million Capitol ceilings, each one pressing down on him and turning him to dust. There were also days when he tried to scrub himself raw, wanted to peel off his flesh and burn down his house, erase every trace of the Capitol’s existence.

Some days, Finnick wished he were dead.

Today was one of those days.

Annie found him curled up in the bathtub, the shower running and the distinct smell of blood and puke lingering in the air. She didn’t recoil or leave, she merely sat by the edge and started to sing, the same sort of lullabies his mother used to sing to help him sleep.

Hush-a-bye, my little child, Hush-a-bye, though winds blow wild; While the storms rage o'er the sea, You shall sleep in serenity.

He’d felt like he’d been drifting before, like he wasn’t real, like his body wasn’t his but he sunk into the sound of her voice and let it pull him back down to Earth.

Hush-a-bye, hush-a-bye, Sea winds whistle a lullaby; Hush-a-bye, hush-a-bye, Sea winds whistle a lullaby.

He could suddenly feel the hot water burning his skin, could feel it stinging tender flesh and he let her song drive away all the ghouls clinging to his body, let it smooth out his jagged edges, at least for now.

Child of fisherfolk by the shore, Winds shall sing to you evermore; Winter gale or summer breeze, Fill your dreams with their melodies.

“Mags sent me with this,” she whispered after awhile and he could smell it, Mags’ famous tuna casserole. He sat up, body aching but Annie smiled at him, even as he was dripping with water and something worse. She held up the casserole and a fork and they dug in right there, using the ledge of the bathtub as a table.

Hush-a-bye, hush-a-bye, Sea winds whisper a lullaby; Hush-a-bye, hush-a-bye, Sea winds whisper a lullaby.

*

Blackberry Winter

Annie pressed her forehead into her knees, the day’s events rising up and trying to eat her alive. It had been her very first speech of the Victory Tour and she’d collapsed on stage, too many memories crowding up behind her eyes. The Peacekeepers had tried to pull her back up but their gloved hands had made her scream and she’d had to be hurried away inside the Justice Building, lest she continue to make a scene.

Snow would be so mad, he had told her, in no uncertain terms, that she was to hold herself together. The Games were supposed to be glorious, but there was nothing glorious about a sniveling mess that could barely string two words together.

“You feeling any better?”

Annie lifted her head and Finnick was standing in her doorway, his face softly lit by the moonlight. She wanted to nod but couldn’t and bit her lip instead. Finnick came inside and closed the door, a few of the shadows she’d felt chained to her starting to drift away. He sat down on the edge of her bed and took her hand, his skin pleasantly warm. For a moment he didn’t say anything and Annie was glad, didn’t want to drag the memories back up to the surface.

“I’m thinking of buying a boat,” he murmured and Annie blinked.

“I bought one for my family as soon as I’d won, but I think I’d like one for myself too. Not to fish, but just to go out on the water,” he continued and Annie felt a little lighter already.

“I think that’d be nice,” she said and Finnick nodded.

“Would you like to go with me?” he asked and she smiled.

“Yes.”

He started talking about what kind of boat he wanted, what it would look like and Annie felt warm all over. Finnick was handsome certainly, so very handsome but he was funny too, could make her laugh even on her worst days. He was sweet and kind and insecure and a little bit bent out of shape, but Annie looked at him and all she could think was you’re perfect. They had no future of course, but sitting like this with Finnick, she wasn’t Annie Cresta the mad girl any longer, she was just Annie, just a regular girl from District Four and he was just a boy, not the Capitol’s favourite plaything.

And that, in the end, was what mattered most.

*

Castle in the Air

Annie smiled, the sun just touching her eyes and making them shine. Finnick felt the air leave him, felt like Annie had knocked him over and for the first time in so long, he felt young and free.

They were out on his boat, no one around to see them, no eyes prickling over his skin and cataloguing his every move. Just him and Annie, untouched for a moment by the Capitol and all its evil. He never would’ve guessed it when he first met her, but moments with Annie felt more and more precious every day, the Finnick he thought he’d buried long ago rising up in her presence. She was working her way beneath his shell, winning a place in his heart just beside Mags.

“It’s amazing out here,” she said and he nodded, wanted to say you’re amazing. Annie grinned suddenly, looking mischievous and Finnick felt a happiness he’d assumed forever out of reach burning inside of him. She launched forward, knocking them both out into the water and they clung to each other as they laughed, her body fitting perfectly against his.

The Hunger Games were the worst thing that ever happened to him.

But even in the dark, it seemed, there was light to be found.

*

Rosy Tint

The stars were out, the sand was cool on her toes and even though she knew it was stupid, even though she knew Snow would never allow it, Annie turned to Finnick and said

“Can I kiss you?”

He stared at her, first in surprise, then looking shy and finally moon bright and glowing.

“Yes,” he whispered, that word so fragile and Annie leaned over and did just that.

*

Fool’s Paradise

“Love is pointless in the long run. In 200 years, will you remember her eyes?” Johanna asked, voice like a knife.

“Yes,” he said, “I couldn’t forget them if I tried.”

Annie’s eyes were like the ocean and Finnick would gladly walk straight into them and drown.

“You’re an idiot,” Johanna accused and maybe he was, “Snow will make you pay for this.”

“I know,” and he did but he was selfish and life without Annie didn’t really seem like life at all.

*

Children of Fire

Annie sobbed and wished she could stop, wished there was some way she could be strong and courageous instead of weak and broken. The bathroom tiles were like ice beneath her and she had to pull herself together, had to strangle the guilt and panic writhing inside of her.

Mags was going back into the games for her, had volunteered to save her and it was because they all knew Annie wouldn’t be able to handle it, too fragile and shattered to manage. All she was, was a burden, a means to punish Finnick, and now a death sentence to Mags.

They’d all be better off without her.

“Can I come in?” Finnick asked, his voice brittle and terrified. Annie thought about turning him away, refusing him but she never could, was too selfish to ever let him go.

“Yes,” she wept and he slid inside, sinking down to the floor beside her. She fell into him and he held her tight, his own tears wetting her hair.

“Don’t be afraid, it’ll be alright,” he swore and she knew he was referring to the rumours and half made plans of rebellion, ones she was far too jaded to truly believe in.  Finnick and Mags were going back in and it was her fault and when they died, it’d be her fault too. Her stomach tossed violently, blood rising up and clouding her vision. Seamus was standing before her, his head gone and all those drowned tributes, bloated and waterlogged, crammed inside the bathroom and this time they were going to make sure she drowned too, clammy hands clawing at her skin and hair.

“Hey hey hey, don’t leave me. Stay with me Annie, stay with me please,” Finnick murmured into her ear and she could feel his fear, could taste it. She grabbed onto that, the hectic beating of his heart next to hers, and dragged herself up out of the dark.

“I’m sorry” she said because he was the one going back in and yet here she was, falling to pieces.

“I need you Annie,” he said, voice nearly choked by tears. Annie squeezed him.

“You have me,” she promised and even though she could still feel the demons scrabbling at her mind, trying, always trying, to break in, she knew she had to keep them out.

Rebellion or not, they could only make it through this together. She would be his courage and he would be her strength and they would make it out of this. They would.

They had to.

*

Tie the Knot

His room in Thirteen was dark, too dark, but tonight at least, it felt as bright as the moon. Annie was back in his arms, he felt whole again and never again he swore to himself, they’d never be apart again.

“I love you,” he told her and finally felt like he could breathe again after too long gasping for air.

“I love you too,” she said, fingers tracing hearts on his chest. He leaned over and kissed her and this time, this time they’d be together forever.

*

Suggestio Falsi

Annie had always hated goodbyes.

She’d thought they were done with them, thought she’d never have to watch him leave for the Capitol again and yet here they were. It was different now of course, Finnick was going to fight, not to do Snow’s bidding, and most importantly, he was her husband now.

(she’d never ever get tired of thinking that)

“I’ll be back,” he promised and she nodded, squeezing his hand. “I’ll always come back to you.”

Annie kissed him and made herself believe every word. After all, in all their years together, with all the obstacles, he had always come back.

Why should this time be any different?

*

Summertide

The sky was bluer than blue, the sun hazy and warm while the waves lapped softly at the shore. Annie and Finnick sat side by side in the sand, shoulders touching and pinkies linked.

“I wish we could stay like this forever,” Annie whispered and Finnick nodded.

“Me too.”

[andrewuttaro]

New Look Sabres: GM 31 - LAK - Sweet Relief

In the aftermath of the genuine third period shitshow that the Buffalo Sabres put on Saturday afternoon one Kyle Okposo called the loss unacceptable and echoed the tenor of his Captain who said the team has gotten a little too high on itself. The win streak is over and brutally so, that much was evident in the words of the leaders in that locker room. Carter Hutton said they don’t want to be a streaky team but a consistent one. Specifically Hutton said that the Sabres need to be consistent in their effort and in playing their game, the same game every night. That identity, driven home in spades during that ten game win streak that is now half undone by a five game losing streak, was a team that was never out of it and played completely every step of the way. There may have been no better opportunity to get back to that team than against the LA Kings at home after three day’s rest. Injuries or not this Kings team has been bad. They are making time travelers from 2014 very very confused. Jeff Skinner went berserk in the last matchup between these two teams scoring a hat trick but this go around the Sabres want some secondary scoring after a five game losing streak that featured precisely zero goals from anyone not named Eichel, Reinhart or Skinner. This game might be the most truly must-win game for the Sabres so far this season. An opponent this bad after a stretch of losses like that with a team that has been good enough to lose five games and still be seven points up on a playoff spot all conspires to say win or the fans will be the least of your worries. Winning teams, those that are consistent playoff contenders and consistent winners in the regular season, those teams don’t sit back when a game is starting to come easy to them and let their opponents come back. The Sabres let that happen against Philadelphia and letting that happen again versus LA would be foolish. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice shame on me.

Former Buffalo Sabres prospect Cal Petersen, kind of hot as of late with the Kings, matched up against Linus Ullmark in his third straight start tonight. There was talk of booing Petersen this game, I wasn’t there, I don’t know if it happened. But evidently, booing would go the other way in this game. A little over six minutes into the first Jake Muzzin capitalized on a weird, poor defensive play by the Sabres and a weird rebound from Ullmark to get LA out in front first. This goal was perhaps the only one in this game you blame on Ullmark. He didn’t get back up in time but then again he was screened badly and the puck was still very near. The home team pushed back and at 13:26 Zemgus Girgensons hardly got the puck off of two Kings defenders trying to exit their own zone and had just enough time to sneak in the hardest working goal you’ll see this week. Through one period you probably want the Sabres to be better off than 1-1 against the worst team in the league but I digress. Rasmus Dahlin looked like a man amongst boys in the first. At one point he got the puck in the d-zone, walked it out past several Kings, and skated all the way around the O-Zone like he owned the place. It was a defensive play that was a goal away from being perfect.

The second period would be better in shots and possession for Buffalo… after a pretty shit start: Matt Luff, yea don’t worry no one knows who that is, scored 52 seconds into the third on an all alone backhand… well everyone except Dahlin who tried a fancy play and got burned hard. Everyone got pissed now as the old Sabs buzzed around in the building like the ghost of Christmas past. At one point Jack Eichel very nearly tied it up on a one timer that very nearly changed the tenor of this game. On a powerplay later on, everyone and their line mate got a shot on goal but nothing went. The only other goal in the second was an Adrian Kempe goal where the Sabres defense just evaporated. Was this how it was going to be; a blowout by the Kings at the hands of a goalie who spurned us? SPURNED US! The period ended with boos from the stands. Boos I felt compelled to feel for in this must-win game. If you watched you may have noticed the Sabres had trouble in the neutral zone in this game. You may have also noticed scarce chances in front of the net where the 10 game winning streak Sabres made their living. This team didn’t look like that team by a long shot for the vast majority of this game. I don’t know what you call those first two periods but the third was the sigh of relief.

The Buffalo Sabres would have been in a full-fledged identity crisis had they lost this game. In the third period they got in touch with the identity that has made them special this season: clutch goals crashing the net. Like a snow blower in the South Towns the comeback machine fired up in the third. Just under four minutes in the Sabres got a powerplay goal from Jack Eichel from the point. The second power play goal in 18 chances by a very familiar goal scorer and the sounds of the machine sputtering to life began to rise. The Sabres are now cycling guys into the O-Zone and setting up way out by the blue line. Crash that net! Randomly at this point Zach Bogosian decides to fight some Kings AHL scrub in what was more a tugging match than a fist fight. Sure; I would’ve rather seen a goal but sure. The frustration that had welled up in Dahlin breaking a stick and me typing caps locked tweets in the second made this 1-goal game an angry one. Then Lawrence Pilut got the puck at the blue line and threw it on net. It wasn’t on target but Johan Larsson, yep, Johan Larsson was there to redirect it in. 3-3, tie game. Gee, at that point there is still 12 minutes left in this game and I wanted the Sabres to just keep the Kings away from Ullmark; this was the last place team after all but no luck. This one went to OT but not before Eichel drew a holding penalty to give Buffalo the man advantage going into the extra frame. I was on the floor in for the 1:49 of overtime, clutching my carpet and writhing frightening my wife and cats quite a bit. Then Jeff Skinner cleaned up a rebound in that sausy goal I had been begging for. Let’s just say my cats were shook by the explosion from my mouth hole after that one.

4-3 win for the Sabres in the greasiest, maybe ugliest win this season. Greasy or not that game sucked ass for well over forty minutes. It ended in nothing short of a sigh of sweet sweet relief. Relief it’s not a six game losing streak, relief it’s not two losses against two teams you should have beat, relief it’s not three losses in a four game home stand. It would be unfair to ignore the guys who did play well this game. Jack Eichel had 10 shots, 12 shot attempts in this game by himself. Rasmus Dahlin had a bunch too in spite of that awful defensive play in the second. Zemgus Girgensons and Johan Larsson answered the bell for secondary scoring. Hell, Skinner had his sixth game winning goal putting him at the top of the league in that stat. That home stand I mentioned earlier they now have win on ends on Thursday against the Arizona Coyotes. That’s another team you simply have to beat; and you ought to beat them better than you beat these punks. Sigh this sigh of relief with me and hit that like button, leave a comment and share this group griping session with your friends. This sixteen game stretch just got less streaky. It’s laundry day for me so I am happy about that. Let’s hope the Sabres take care of their business two nights from now.

Thanks for reading.

P.S. I’m slim on the Sabres content on the blog these days because of my academic semester wrapping up. It’s crunch time. Thanks for your patience and I got something brewing for the 41 game mark coming up soon.