#its like seeing your own gravestone

[aberrantmind]

my god

[starsofang]

Change of Heart

hitman!simon x f!reader / part 6

previous part

tw: gore, violence, blood, ghost makes a return ooo, please be warned! <3

When life has completely and utterly failed you, you hire a hitman to take you out, too afraid to do it yourself. Instead of killing you like you had planned, he strikes up a deal with you, and you're too stubborn to bail out.

Simon had never felt such a boiling rage to the point his blood was bubbling, ready to explode out of his body and paint the walls of your apartment a crimson red that would stain the chipped-away white with messy splatters. It simmered hotly beneath his scarred skin, sifting through his veins like wildfire and egging him into dangerous territory.

He was no saint. He killed people for a living. He took the money of pathetic, lowly people who had the coldness in their heart to request his favor in killing somebody they didn’t like. Lawyers, CEOs, big name people who ate with the silver spoon embedded in their teeth and tainted their smiles with a greedy unnerve.

So no, Simon was no saint.

But he’d certainly ruin any chances of redemption when he got his hands on the coward who’d brought you harm.

Simon didn’t need payment to seek him out. He didn’t need a stack of cash waved in his face, or a bank transfer notified on his phone.

All he needed was to see the pretty girl in tears and blood, lying broken on the floor like a toy, used and tossed aside – worthless, undeserving. His pretty girl.

You were enough to tear down the concrete walls he’d encased around himself, built with his own bare hands. You were enough to wake the flame in his soul, to remind him just what he was capable of.

Simon was tired of killing those who did nothing to him. Sure, many deserved it, but they hadn’t done anything to him. He was a mediator. A spectator. He was a part of a story as a side character, only rising from the shadows to cut that story short and end it with bloodshed and a transaction. Their pages were quipped, torn from the spine of the book with no prospect of a completed ending.

Now, the plotline had changed.

He had the upper hand in this story. He was able to rewrite it without the complications of another’s orders. And he’d be damned if he didn’t tear the man who hurt you right out of the pages.

Simon didn’t want to leave you. He knew how disoriented you were from the fists that had put you through torment – torment he wasn’t there to protect you from. You were dazed and lost, hanging on by the thin of a wire that Simon was the one desperately clinging to.

When he had patched you up and put you to bed, he waited until you succumbed to the exhaustion and fell asleep for him to strike.

He was a man on a mission. A dog off its leash. His nose flared from under his mask as if he was a damn K-9 tracking down his suspect.

He searched through the entirety of your apartment, tearing it to bits in order to find a hint, a clue. All he needed was one quick search of your phone through your blocked numbers to find what he needed.

There was no contact name. No indication of who this man could be.

But a phone number was enough, and when he texted it to Gaz with the demand of finding it out for him, it wouldn’t be long until your ex-boyfriend would be another name on a crumbling gravestone.

Gaz was quick to find him the information. No questions asked, and that’s why Simon loved working with him. He minded his own, and trusted him to complete a job alone. He was good at tracking information for Simon, good at all that he did, and he was sure as hell good at picking up on the signs that Simon was involved in something, or someone that made him bend the fabrics of reality for them.

The name left a bitter taste in Simon’s mouth.

Phillip Graves. American. Bastard with a sharp tongue and a cockiness that’ll get him killed.

Ghost could make that happen.

The man walking down the streets, prowling with a threatening cloud of smoke around him wasn’t Simon.

Simon was the one who tucked you into bed, who wiped off every dot of blood that tainted your pretty skin. He was the one who watched over you in the corners of the night, making sure you got home safe, making sure you were keeping up your end of the deal.

He was the one who you baked pastries for, and didn’t have the heart to tell you he didn’t have a sweet tooth. He stuffed his mouth full of every single crumb despite the fact, just to see you smile.

He was the one who thought you were beautiful at first glance, and didn’t have the capacity to take your money and rid the world of a human being carved like a piece of art in a mausoleum. He was selfish, and he wanted you.

The man in the reflection of every store window as he strode by was Simon no more. Simon was gone, tucked away in the back corner and replaced by the brute of a man he’d been before you.

You were Simon’s religion, his reason for salvation. He’d bow at every altar, pray to every God with his blood stained hands clasped in a plea, just to worship you – but Ghost wasn’t a religious man, and he garnered no peace from anyone. Not even you.

Simon was the one who would protect you. Ghost was the one who would kill for you.

All Ghost had on the screen of his phone besides a name, was an address. It was a temporary one, judging from how recent your ex had moved into it, and the thought of it caused his teeth to grit in annoyance.

The fucker was staying close to you, with intentions so sick it could only make Ghost’s fire burn into grueling embers. He was stalking you, tracking you down, plotting.

Ghost knew exactly what he needed to do to ensure your safety. He made a promise to you, a promise that he hadn’t vocalized but rather slipped in when he made that deal with you. It was written in small lettering, so small so you’d gloss over it and he’d be able to hide away the watchful eye he had on you.

Finding Graves’ apartment was an easy feat. He nearly laughed at how effortless it was to stalk his way up to the apartment building that was somehow even more rundown than yours. But it made sense – Graves wasn’t planning on staying for long, and he was going to flee after latching his grimy hands on you once and for all. He didn’t need a fancy apartment to stalk his claim.

On normal jobs, Ghost was discreet. He’d figure out an alternative for breaking into one’s apartment or home, one that required no curious eyes or witnesses to see. He was quiet, like a shadow moving across the walls in dark anticipation.

This time around, he found himself stomping right up the musty stairwell, boots clattering along every step that creaked beneath his weight. He was an incoming storm the way he clouded over the hallway with impending doom, rain clouds hovering over him with lightning prepared to strike at any given moment.

He didn’t knock. He didn’t wait or stall.

He kicked at the door with the heavy soles on his feet, wallowing in every crack and snap the door made under its sudden force. It withered, flying off of the hinges and slamming up against the wall as it smacked open.

The apartment was a shithole. Messy, cluttered, and uninhabited. Dust collected on every surface, furniture bare from every room, and all that was used was an old mattress with blankets to keep Graves warm from the chill of every night.

Graves stood in the aging kitchen, cooking up something that made Ghost’s nose flare. The bastard didn’t deserve to have an appetite after what he had done to you. He didn’t deserve to use his tongue, didn’t deserve to keep his teeth.

Stood like a deer in headlights, Graves quickly regained his composure, sneering at him with a mock threat made Ghost snort.

“What the fuck?” Graves shouted in a fit of anger, stumbling in the kitchen as he caught himself from the sudden surprise. His narrowed eyes stared Ghost down, taking in every inch of him.

A looming mass with a skull painted mask with eyes that could kill. Graves would be a dead heap on the floor if that was so.

“You,” Ghost spat. He walked slow and dangerous, darkened glare focused on Graves without a single intent of leaving. It was cold, piercing, full of millions of daggers that he wished could mutilate Graves in front of him. “You should’ve gotten a more secure place.”

“The fuck are you talking about? Who are you?”

Graves was tougher than he thought, Ghost had to give him that. He didn’t cower in fear, nor did he try to run like most people did. Ghost was a force to be reckoned with, and looking at him was like looking the Devil himself in the eye.

Ghost continued stalking towards, like a predator to prey, every step calculated. His boots were like hell’s bells ringing as they hefted with every step, stomping clouds of musty dust around his ankles. It was enough to have Graves leaning back, the action so small Ghost would’ve missed it if not for his keen eye and trained skill.

“You touched her,” he stated. His tone was so calm it caused unease to smother the room, suffocating the two of them in a thick cloud. “You hurt her.”

It took a second for Graves to understand, and when he did, he scowled, perfectly aligned teeth just begging to be knocked in. “You’re Simon.”

“Ghost,” he was quick to correct. “Not Simon to you.”

Graves laughed mockingly, the sound more like a scoff as it escaped his thin lips. “Oh, right. She calls you Simon. Little whore, that one is. 

Ghost stopped when he was in front of Graves. He peered down at him with a thirst for blood glimmering in his eyes, locked in on Graves’ own and burning the retinas with the flames that danced around his pupils.

“You hurt her,” Ghost repeated. “I don’t like men who hurt women. Don’t like men like you.”

Graves’ expression soured and he stared up at Ghost with a mix of confusion and offense. He was trying to read Ghost from under the mask, see what was burning in those embers of his, but he only saw rage. A calm, brewing rage that held no remorse and no sympathy for a man like Graves.

“I’m going to rip the flesh off your fucking bones and pluck every single one of those teeth out with my bare hands,” Ghost threatened, and it was only then that Graves showed a single sign of fear. His lips twitched, hands flinching at his sides as if debating on whether or not he could throw a punch at Ghost and scurry his sorry ass away.

Back to his town, far away from this shitty apartment, and far away from you.

He didn’t know Ghost never left a job unfinished. Not until he was left a bloodied, gory mess on the floor of his kitchen, face unrecognizable, tiles stained with the red he had colored your own bathroom the night before when he laid his hands on you like the weak link he was. Graves’ eyes were glossed over, lifeless, staring blankly into the pit of Ghost’s as he took each and every brutal impalement from the kitchen knife Ghost had snatched from the counter.

Ghost didn’t falter, nor did he stop until the fire in him slowed to a stop, leaving behind nothing but ash and debris. He stared down at the man who had hurt you, watched the way his blood seeped into the grout of the tiles like a sponge absorbing water.

It was a picture Ghost never wanted you to see. A side he never wanted you to take a glimpse of in fear of you running.

Ghost wasn’t religious. He didn’t worship you like Simon did. Wouldn’t get on his knees for you and beg for forgiveness for his sins.

Ghost was hungry. Starved. He’d shed the whole town’s blood for you. He’d bury every fucking soul six feet deep if it meant none of them would have a chance to hurt you.

When you woke up from the deep slumber you found yourself in, everything ached. Your body was crying for help as it twisted and stiffened when you sat up in bed.

The apartment was quiet. Cold. Simon was nowhere to be found, nor did he leave you a note when you got up to look for it. The kitchen was void of his presence, void of the banter you two had shared just nights ago when you baked for him and he sat with an admiring gaze.

Last night began to resurface, and your mind flashed you the ghostly images of Graves’ face as he stood over you, lips pulled into a menacing sneer, bitter laughter leaving his lips as he kicked and slashed every part of your body. He didn’t leave a single bit unscathed from the torment, and you felt the weight of it with the way your skin hissed when it tugged or how your nose gasped for air beneath the swelling and ache.

Bile filled your lungs as you replayed the painful memory and recalled every hit and strike he laid upon you. Recalled Simon not answering the phone, not showing up until the damage was done.

Your legs moved before your mind did, and they took you back to that very bathroom where you were nearly left for dead. The contents in your stomach were minimal, and when you emptied them out into the toilet, you were left dry heaving and begging for air. Pangs of grueling pain fluttered in your stomach, and the butterflies that once flew freely had turned into overbearing moths that were desperate to get out.

You didn’t know tears began to flow down your cheeks until they caused your open cuts and wounds to sting. They cascaded in waterfalls, bathing you in a cold, sticky sheen of despair.

Your mind was angry at Simon, but your heart longed for him. The loneliness of the bathroom as the tiles dug into your bruised knees was just an aching emphasis that he wasn’t there to fill that void, to help pick you back up like he’d been doing ever since the two of you met.

Anger you could get over. The hurt of knowing he didn’t answer your call, you could get over.

But the yearning in your heart was something that no amount of anguish could get rid of, for it filled you up like an overflowing glass, pouring and pouring over the rim until you couldn’t take it.

So you waited. And waited. You laid curled up in the same bathroom he found you in the night before, all the way up until he showed – because even if it was late, it was always.

Simon was a mucked up mess when he came ducking into your apartment the same way he left. His hands, covered in dried, cracking red, and his shoulders pulled taut with unfurling tension were the first thing you saw when he entered. His eyes had immediately searched for you, and just like before, willed himself to you like a moth to a flame when he saw you in the bathroom once again.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greeted softly. His voice sent warmth through your bloodstream, lighting you up from the inside and out. “What’re you doin’ in here?”

Simon crouched to your level, lifting a hand to grace it across your features before it froze up and dropped away when the sight of red reminded him of the sins etched into his skin. The sins performed by Ghost, with Simon seeking redemption.

“You weren’t here when I woke up,” you sniffled, a pathetic sound leaving your mouth, almost like a hiccup. It shattered Simon’s heart and buried a knife through the arteries.

“M’sorry sweetheart. M’here now, I promise. I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he promised, and blood be damned, he wanted to touch you, to reach out to you and cradle him in his loving light.

So he did.

You didn’t flinch away when he shoved aside his worries and placed calloused hands on each side of your face. You stilled, melting into him like a child would its mother, sinking yourself into the tranquil solace of his touch. It chased your demons away, filling you with angelic purpose.

When you allowed yourself the brief slice of heaven in the form of a man, you worried your gaze on the blood that soaked from his hands and up his tattooed arms, lacing him with a layer of damnation. Your eyes trailed up, slow and unsteady, before reaching his eyes, which were softened and filled with apologies.

“What did you do, Simon?” you asked in a whisper, and for the first time, he flinched as if you burned him.

“I took care of it,” he assured. “I handled it.”

The it being him. The him being Graves.

Simon didn’t go into the details, but he didn’t have to. Given his track record and the reason as to why the two of you met in the first place, you could assume the worst – but really, it was far from it. It was a taste of freedom.

You would no longer have to walk on eggshells, or peek around every corner. You wouldn’t have to remain bound to shackles that were never meant to be chained to you in the first place.

Simon freed you from the demon you were indebted to, and he did so without a single ounce of hesitation or regret. He’d do it all over again if it meant releasing you from hell and showing you a glimpse of heaven. He broke the contract you signed when vulnerable, and freed you from a lifetime of purgatory.

“Why did you do that?” you asked, and he smiled under his mask. You could see the faint imprint of his lips curling up on the edges, and the crows feet that wrinkled the corners of his eyes.

“Nobody hurts my pretty girl. They’ll be sorry if they do.”

My pretty girl. His pretty girl. It was a claim, one that didn’t feel like a trap that will lure you in and sink its teeth into you, but it was also a declaration of his devotion for you. It posed the option to back out, leaving you no longer bound like you were with Graves. A choice.

Your hand moved on its own accord, and it sauntered its way up Simon’s arm. Fingertips brushed along coated and marred skin, until they rested on the bottom of his mask. You heard him inhale a sharp breath, but made no move to stop you, so you continued.

Grasping on the hem of the mask that laid upon his throat, you lightly tugged it up, and up, until blond hair fell in short tufts along his forehead. The mask fell to the floor of the bathroom where you both resided, but that wasn’t what you focused on, no.

You were seeing his face for the first time, all of it. Not just his mouth where he’d nurse a cigarette, or would stuff your crummy pastries. You saw every blemish, every scar, every bit of stubble that poked from his skin. His cheekbones, high on his face, and his eyebrows, thick and unkempt yet soft and lax without a hint of daunt or upset.

The fingers that had taken off his mask with such care slowly traced along his features, grazing the plush of his lips, to the prickle along his jaw that scratched your fingertips in a way that had you smiling.

Simon was unsure why you smiled, but he offered a pleased one back, his shoulders releasing the tension that had stiffened them before.

“You’re pretty, Simon,” you complimented, and your eyes watched his lips as they parted into a laugh. Teeth, aligned and pretty, making him light up the entire room in a luminescent glow.

“Yeah?” he asked. “Thought you were the pretty girl, sweetheart.”

Your smile grew, nearly cracking the cuts littering the skin of your lips.

“Your pretty girl,” you reminded, and he gazed at you in a mix of adoration and amusement.

“My pretty girl,” he repeated.

The way he said it, so sweet and treacly, caused your mind to fuzz over with unrelenting homeliness. This was what it felt like to be loved, to be cherished, to be at home.

“Can you say it again?”

Simon beamed. “My pretty girl.”

You sucked in a breath. “Again.”

He leaned closer, his own fingers cradling the plains of your bruised face and layering the black and blue with tender touches and glimpses of a world where your skin would never feel the tortures of pain again, but rather longing and care.

“My pretty girl,” he repeated one more time, and by the last syllable, his breath was fanning across your face, warming you and nuzzling you with unfathomable fondness. “I really want to kiss you. You know that?”

Your eyes fluttered as you stared at him, feeling those moths transform back into butterflies from the simple weight of his words, swarming you with a never ending fervent.

“Would you do it if I said yes?” you managed to murmur through your newfound shyness.

“I’d be an idiot to ever deny you, sweetheart,” he muttered sweetly, and with no more words needing to be said, he pressed his chapped lips to yours, taking you with such gentle care it left you dizzy.

Home was where Simon went, and to Simon, he’d go with you to the ends of the Earth if it meant you’d follow him.

With close to three days left of your deal, he had high hopes you'd pull through.

posting this and running away (also thank u to my bbg abby for the BAR of a line about you being simons religion I LOVE U)

[sakkiichi]

MEOW?

them as cat parents.

ft. Kaedehara Kazuha, Scaramouche/Wanderer, Xiao, Shikanoin Heizou, Albedo, Kaveh, Alhaitham, Childe x gn! reader.

cw/genre: fluff, headcanons.

word count: 1.7k.

✧ KAEDEHARA KAZUHA

— All cats adore him and he’s fond of them too, he’s the perfect cat parent.

— Kazuha is soft, warm and gentle, all attributes very appealing to the small felines that tend to follow him around everywhere he goes: from the streets of Inazuma City, to the docks of Ritou, to even during his trips to Liyue.

— Kazuha is a free spirit, wandering from one place to another, a fallen maple leaf, vibrant red in its trajectory across the sky. His desire to see the world makes it difficult for him to linger in one place only, so it is not likely he ends up adopting a cat of his own.

— However, always that he’s in Inazuma, the wandering samurai makes sure to visit his late friend’s gravestone. In those occasions, as much as he keeps his composure, Kazuha’s grip on your hand tightens, a reassurance to himself, that the heavens won’t part in thunderbolts and take you away too.

— These visits are heavy on his heart, but your company and the soft mewls of the white kitten his friend left behind manage to shine a little sunlight in his stormy memories.

— The small cat’s ears perk up when you two show up, its tail swishing as it leaps into Kazuha’s arms, eliciting soft giggles from the wandering poet.

— You could stare forever at the sight of your lover’s smile when the little one paws at his cheeks curiously, playing with the tips of Kazuha’s moonlit hair. You sigh dreamily, gaze soft. If a day comes when you’re too weary and old to travel anymore, you’re so taking in the kitty.

✧ SCARAMOUCHE

— He’s the cat.

— Seriously, now. Cats are drawn to him. And even if he denies it, he has to hold back a smile when the little creatures follow him around.

— The wanderer is secretly very, very soft on the cats.

— Oftentimes, he lets them hide under his hat, carrying them around when he goes for walks around Sumeru. He thinks, that way, his doll won’t be so lonely either (he definitely introduces it to his favorite cats he befriends but shh don’t tell him you saw that.)

— If you point out how the kittens seem to consider him one of them, Scara will blush deeply, frowning and spouting how you’re seeing things and that no, he’s not keeping any of them.

— Oh yeah, he totally went out to feed the kitties some scraps that night, it’s late and he wanted to sleep, you see? and the animals were being loud. (No, it’s definitely not because he feels guilty of saying he’s not keeping them).

— One time, you caught him rescuing a very small black cat on a thunderstorm, and to this day, you still believe that’s the most precious thing you have ever witnessed.

— The smile on your boyfriend’s face and his wide indigo eyes when he felt the warmth of the kitten’s small body against his hollow heart are definitely a treasure you want to keep forever.

✧ XIAO

— He’s the cat, number 2.

— Liyue’s cats have a favorite and that’s definitely none other than the mighty vigilant yaksha, the conqueror of demons, the bane of all evil.

— In truth, he’s just a blushing awkward mess around the kittens.

— One, he’s scared to hurt them. They’re so small and their mewls are so soft… such pure and innocent creatures… What if his karma were to taint them?

— Two, he’s clueless.

— Literally. One time you were playing with the stray cats around the streets of Liyue, Xiao showing up as you were rubbing a tabby one’s belly. When you put the small kitty in the adeptus’ arms, he didn’t know what to do.

— What if he accidentally drops it? Or holds it too tight?

— Please, reassure Xiao :( he really needs it.

— Wrapping your hands around his, your body against his, you petted the cat with Xiao, the small animal nuzzling into your boyfriend. His blushy face when the feline purred in pleasure was too adorable, you’ll have to make him hold cats more often ehe.

✧ SHIKANOIN HEIZOU

— Heizou wants to protect beautiful things, to keep them in the precious light of their safety.

— That, of course, includes cats.

— They’re so adorable, brightening his day when he’s away from you and the small animals follow him around on his way to work in the mornings.

— They look so cute, with their big shiny eyes, observing him curiously, that the detective starts to take them under his wing.

— As unexpected as it was, to hear “meow?” instead of “I’m home, sweetheart!” one day as the front door swung open, you can’t deny it was beyond adorable, the way your boyfriend walked into the living room with a small cat nestled on top of his head.

— Yes, you ended up keeping the little one.

— It now joins the detective gathering clues for the cases he solves; sometimes the small animal leads the way when it’s too dark to see the trails, or it gently scratches Heizou’s legs when it senses danger.

— And rest assured, that Heizou will keep the kitty safe too. No matter what. It reminds him of you, sometimes, when it stares up at him with a starry gaze. Something as precious needs to be cherished.

✧ ALBEDO

— He finds cats to be very interesting creatures.

— Independent, intelligent, able to fit in practically any space… he wonders if they’re actually liquid or if their structure has been alchemically altered to have such fascinating properties.

— When, after exhaustive observation, the chief alchemist finally concludes that cats are indeed just naturally like that, they become his favorite companions (after you, that is).

— Sometimes, when Albedo is around Mondstadt, the kittens there follow him to the alchemy bench, rubbing against his legs when he’s working.

— You and the cats become Albedo’s favorite models as well. He loves your giggles when the little ones paw at your lap, trying to climb on your shoulders.

— They also become his little helpers when he paints, handing him a brush when he needs it, even without him having to ask.

— If you’re lucky, you’ll get to see the chalk prince trying to converse with the kittens too.

— Something along the likes of “Hmm… which color do you think [Y/n] would like best here? This one?” The kreideprinz asks, dipping his brush into it. “You’re a smart one, aren’t you?” He coos as the cat, rubbing its chin.

— Now you wish you could sketch, to immortalize the moment. Luckily, you have your kamera with you.

✧ KAVEH

— Oh sweet disney princess Kaveh, cats and pretty much all animals adore him.

— Neither you nor him know when the cats around Port Ormos started following him, but now they just won’t leave.

— No matter how many times he (halfheartedly) scolds the kitties, they are not fazed by the architect’s pouty expression.

— So your home becomes home for the cats milling about Sumeru.

— Your lover goes as far as to design a whole area for the little animals, building small houses for them to stay in with their own bowls of food, color coordinated and decorated, of course.

— You look happy helping him care for the cats too. However, when you offer to buy them food, your boyfriend can’t let you; he’ll take on extra commissions if he has to, but Kaveh just can’t allow you spending money on this little, albeit adorable, “problem.”

— There was one time one of the kitties sneaked inside your house, making it to your room. Let’s just say, the small feline found Kaveh’s face very entertaining and decided to nuzzle against it. The scene was so precious you couldn’t bring yourself to shoo the cat away, deciding to lay down with your partner and his new fan.

✧ ALHAITHAM

— Around the time he had to fill in the position of acting grand sage, the hours your boyfriend could spend with you were helplessly diminished, due to him having to cover overtime.

— You felt a little lonely, so well, can you exactly be blamed for adopting a baby cat from the local shelter?

— Turns out, your decision kind of “backfired” on you. For, in the hours he’s away, not only do you miss Alhaitham, but the latest addition to your household does too.

— The kitty has become very fond of your lover, often curling up beside him while he reads. One hand holding his book and the other caressing the kitten’s grey fur, the sight is rather candid, you think, smiling, as you curl up beside them.

— At your presence, the cat doesn’t hesitate to jump into your lap, swishing its tail and meowing for more petting from the scribe beside you.

— With a tender grin tugging at his lips, Alhaitham leaves a kiss to your temple, resuming his affections on the little one.

— No matter how brief, as long as you can have moments like this, everything will be alright, you muse, closing your eyes, heart warmed by your two boys.

✧ CHILDE

— Repeat after me, Childe: no, you can’t train the cats to fight on the battlefield with you.

— Once you get past that, he’s good at caring for the kittens. Makes sure they always have food and toys, comfy beds and a space to play. Ajax is good at taking care of those he loves, as proved with his family.

— Speaking of which, his siblings would adore playing with the cats you and Childe adopt, especially Teucer! (he totally talks to them about mister cyclops, the animals staring up at him curiously, pawing at his figurine softly).

— As much as you’re against your cats joining your boyfriend in his battles, they love watching him as he practices, their large eyes following the movements of his dual blades or his bow.

— The harbinger always makes extra time for the adorable pets, playing with them after his training, no matter how tired he is.

— Those times, he doesn’t get scolded when he’s late for dinner (you’ve been secretly watching, smiling to yourself at how cute your lover is. Yes, you totally were staring too while he was shirtless, muscles taut as he wielded his hydro conjured spear).

[adore-laur]

COME HOME TO MY HEART

— an angsty continuation of home is a feeling that takes place months after ☕️

——

Standing under a bleak sky copious with death, Harry is just another person in a black ensemble of mourning that rivals the white winter scene. Snowdrifts heap over inscribed gravestones, and willow trees weep frigid tears along with everyone else at the street-corner cemetery. It's a sorrowful evening, not even the pastel pink wisps of a brumal sunset being able to lift spirits. 

As the coffin is lowered into the ground, its sleek wood collecting flurries from above, the surrounding air grows colder in lamentation. 

A departure from life is impossible to prepare for, isn't it? 

Harry hangs back from the crowd by a bare maple tree. He wears a long black coat with deep pockets for his hands. To anyone else, he's an intruding spectator, but in actuality, you personally invited him to be a crutch of support since your parents can't be that right now. 

He promised you he would be here, yet the way you've been gazing up at him with indecipherable eyes every now and then tells him you didn't quite believe him. 

When you had called him out of the blue and relayed the upsetting news about your grandfather's passing, his heart had ached in a way it hadn't ever before. It ached for you, his grief-stricken girl, and also your family, who were always generous throughout the years. In the week since he arrived back in his hometown, he gave you time to deal with the initial grief independently. There was no need to barge into his ex-girlfriend's life and attempt to be your saving grace. If you needed a shoulder to cry on, he'd wait for you to ask and then lend it without a second thought. Your level of comfort with him isn't something to be presumed. 

Nonetheless, it's an unfortunate circumstance just to be able to see your face again. 

The crowd disperses once the loose dirt is shoveled back into the ground. Crumpled tissues in hands and hushed chatter signify the end of the funeral burial. It didn't feel right for Harry to attend the service, as it was for close family and friends only. Even now, a nagging feeling inside his gut tells him he doesn't belong in such a sensitive area. 

He pushes himself off the tree trunk and searches for your familiar figure that has suddenly disappeared. He mentally prepares what he'll say to you and is highly aware that there's no right way to go about condolences. He just needs to be as gentle as possible. 

Eventually, you emerge from a huddled group and lock eyes with him again, with a slight smile that mends his aching heart for the time being. 

"You look like a spy," you say, your boots crunching in the snow as you walk toward him. 

He laughs softly but doesn't say anything. Instead, his empathetic side takes in every part of your face, looking for an emotion to pinpoint so he can comfort you in the most chivalrous way possible. He notices your dissociative eyes with prominent bags under them, your tinted nose from the cold, and your chapped lips that make him yearn to kiss the rawness away. 

He's so close to you again. Has your hair gotten darker due to the seasons changing? Why do you have such beautiful eyes, even on a dreary day? Does the eyeliner you have on come from the pencil stub you've owned since high school? 

Knowing his own boundaries, Harry thumbs a quick swipe across your shivering chin and then wraps you in a tight hug. You instantly melt into him, your arms looping around his torso—just like that one night on the rooftop. 

"Your hair is so long," you mumble into his coat. 

He releases you before the intimacy starts to hurt too much, but he keeps a protective hold on your upper arms. "Do you hate it?" 

"No, it suits you." You swallow and look at him, your teeth chattering a bit. "Thank you for coming." 

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," he replies sincerely. "Gramps was a great man." 

"He liked you a lot." 

"Did he?" 

You give him an almost scolding expression and say, "Of course he did. When I brought you home for Christmas the year we started dating, he took me into the kitchen and told me you were a keeper." 

Harry's posture stiffens. "I didn't know that." 

"It was our little secret," you say quietly, snowflakes falling onto your eyelashes. "Um, have you had a chance to talk to my parents yet?" 

"I don't think they'd want to see me," he says while removing his hands from you. He tucks them back into his pockets since they're becoming numb. 

"Why not?" 

"I just have a feeling." He's been having a lot of those lately. "Not often that an ex-boyfriend shows up at a funeral, you know?" 

Frowning, you glance around and say, "It's not like they hate you or anything." 

God, he hopes not. Although, he wouldn't necessarily blame them, considering he broke their precious daughter's heart. 

"Where are you going after this?" he asks, not wanting to delve into his regrets. 

"My parents' house," you reply, your breath visible in the frosty air. "To my childhood bedroom. Hopefully to get some sleep for once." 

You haven't been sleeping? He could've guessed, but he didn't want to assume. He wonders if you still light vanilla candles and turn on salt lamps to rejuvenate your energy, according to you. 

"Did you drive here?" 

"No, I rode with my mom and dad." 

Harry shifts his footing and clears his throat. "Would they mind if I stole you for a bit?" 

You blink quickly. "What do you mean?" 

"I just want to talk," he elaborates, scratching under his nose. "Catch up. That's all." 

There's an apparent hesitance when you nibble on your bottom lip. "What do you want to talk about?" 

"Anything you want." Truthfully, he just misses hearing your voice. "I'm staying here with my mom for a while since my winter break starts soon. And, well, you're the only person in this town I enjoy talking to." 

"Are you kidnapping me from a funeral?" 

"Maybe don't put it like that." 

A genuine laugh escapes you, and Harry's knees almost give out. "Sure, let's go," you say with a smile and a lighthearted shrug. "Being here is making me sad." 

"Okay. Let me say hello to your parents really quick." 

You scan the cemetery, then ask, "Do you need me to come with you?" 

He scrunches his nose and toes the snowy ground with the front of his boot. "Please?" 

After he politely shakes hands with your dad and gives your mom a long hug, he walks you to his black Jeep parked on the side of the road by the first row of graves, his elbow hooked with yours so you don't slip on the pavement slush. The first thing he sees is that his windshield has iced over from the bitter cold. 

He sighs and fishes for his keys, then unlocks the doors. "Here, start it for me and turn the heat on. I need to scrape the ice off." 

You take his keys and slide into the passenger seat. Harry makes sure you're situated and then grabs his ice scraper from under the backseat. After a few minutes of manual labor, he gets behind the wheel and shakes snow flurries out of his hair. 

"Where on earth are your mittens?" he asks when he notices your hands are tucked under your legs. 

"I didn't bring any," you reply defensively. 

"Love," he stresses as he pushes his hair back. "It's bloody freezing out. Give me your hands." 

"Maybe if your stupid Jeep didn't take forever to warm up." 

Harry doesn't make a snarky remark since he knows you're sensitive right now. He just cups your hands between his and blows warm air on them to increase your circulation. They're soft and fit so well between his palms like they were molded to be held by only him. 

"Ready to go?" he asks between blowing breaths, focusing his gaze on you. 

You study the snowflakes sticking on the windshield. "Where?" 

He gently sets your hands in your lap and then reaches across to buckle your seatbelt before fastening his own. "Is Edge of Town still your favorite café?" 

"Yeah," you say bemusedly, turning toward him with widened eyes of innocence. "Why?" 

Putting his car in reverse, he places one hand on your headrest and smiles at you. "Let's get some coffee there, yeah? For old times' sake." 

                                           ——

Sitting across from Harry at a corner table in the dimly lit café, you can't believe you almost forgot how handsome he is as you both sip from cinnamon lattes, careful not to disrupt the intricate art made from steamed milk on the surface. 

All the slight changes since you last saw him become your focal point, his hair being the most staggering. It's now tied up into a bun, and you're not sure why, but it makes him look different. His facial features have gotten slightly older; the high school baby face you fell in love with now showcases physical maturity. 

He's different but somehow all the same. 

You've spent the last half hour catching up with him, which has proved easy since college is a relevant topic in both of your lives. You learned that he's getting his degree in the spring of next year, and then he's going to find a job somewhere in Europe to start the next chapter of his life. You're proud of him. He's always had a good head on his shoulders. 

"Have you ever had marshmallows in your coffee?" Harry asks, tapping his foot against yours under the table. 

You set your cup down and blankly stare at him. "No, you freak." 

"It's good," he claims, wiping his lips with a napkin. "You should try it." 

"You know, your taste in beverages hasn't improved over the years. Don't even think for a second that I forgot about the ginger ale." 

"Excuse me," he says offendedly, "it helps fight the common cold and digestion problems. It's the perfect drink to have in the wintertime." 

"Absolutely rancid," you mutter, taking another sip of your coffee. 

As you continue your subtle ogling, your eyes catch on brown leather peeking out from his coat pocket. The familiar journal of his catapults you back in time, flashbacks playing in your head from all the vivid occasions you've seen him carry it around or write in it. He had never let you look at his entries, always making a show of hiding his secret words from you. Looking at it now, you see that a page toward the end has some sort of bookmark sticking out. 

"You still have that?"

Harry looks confused. "What, digestion problems?" 

"No, oh my God," you say with a burst of laughter. "I meant your journal. You've had that thing for ages." 

"Ah." He pulls it out and sets it next to his coffee cup. "Yeah, I still have it." 

You admire how worn the cover is, decorated with permanent marker scribbles on the cracked material. "Are my terrible drawings still in there?" 

Nodding, he smirks and leans back into the booth, stretching his arms over his head. "I'll show you later. They're quite abstract." 

The space fills with comfortable silence for a while, and before you know it, you're walking out the door with him and into the night. You don't remember ever getting up, but the numbness in your brain might have caused it. The past week has felt like a fuzzy dream you've been stuck in. Grief is a peculiar thing.

Under the snowy sky, hometown nostalgia in the dead of winter creeps under your skin. When you look around at the sidewalks you used to walk with your grandpa, everything suddenly hits you hard. Your lips wobble as you try to blink back the tears, but they fall without warning. 

Harry quickly wraps both arms around your shoulders, resting his cheek on the top of your head. "It's okay to cry," he whispers, kissing your hair. "I promise you it's okay." 

You sniffle and say, "Whenever we see each other, I always end up crying." 

He hums. "Sorry. I don't mean to." 

"No, it's not you this time." You bury your nose in his coat and let the woodsy scent of his cologne distract you. "I just always realize how lonely I am when winter comes around. It gets harder as I get older." Swallowing and shaking your head, you continue, "I used to adore winter as a kid. I would play outside in the snow for hours and then come inside to drink hot chocolate. I wouldn't care if the sky was grey or if my fingers would freeze. Nowadays, I just stay in my room when it's gloomy unless I need to go to work. Growing up isn't as fun as I thought it'd be." 

"You still have my number," Harry replies softly, pulling you closer. "You can always call or text me when you're feeling lonely." 

"I had to pay by the minute when I called you about my grandpa since you were in the Netherlands." 

"And is that so bad?" 

You smile and sniffle again. "No, it isn't. To be here on an empty street in the freezing cold, crying and joking around with you... I've missed it. Not the crying, but you know what I mean." 

"I know," he murmurs. "I've missed it too." 

"Will you be celebrating Christmas with your mom?" you ask, hearing a car drive by. "She's still living here, right?" 

"Yeah, I'll be at her house." He cradles the back of your head and gently pulls it away from his coat. "You should stop by. She always thinks of you." 

You look at him and say, "All good things, I hope." 

"Always." Taking your hand, he starts walking further down the sidewalk. "Follow me." 

Harry stops at a streetlight and releases his hand to pull his journal out again. He flips through the pages until he gets to one toward the end. "When we said goodbye in the summer," he says, "I walked around town and wrote about all the places we used to go to—places where we had good memories. You can read what I wrote if you want." 

"Really?" you ask. Harry nods, so you take his journal from him and read the black ink that fills half the page. 

The streetlight on the corner of Lawton Avenue. I kissed you under it on New Year's when the clock on my phone turned to midnight. Your lips were cold, but they lit a fire inside of me. What I would do to feel them again, even if just pressed against my cheek like you did when we said goodbye. 

"Lawton Avenue..." you trail off, your eyes dancing around the area where you stand. "Isn't that—" 

"This is the same streetlight," Harry interrupts quietly. 

You exhale incredulously, gazing up at the familiar light. "It is. I remember now." 

"This feels right, doesn't it?" He steps closer until his boots touch the tip of yours. "Me and you being here. It's like something keeps bringing us back to one another. Does that sound crazy?" 

"Gramps," you choke out. 

He tilts your chin up with his knuckle. "Hmm?" 

You take a deep, shaky breath. "I almost wasn't going to tell you that he passed, but then I thought about how much he liked you. He always went on and on about how nice of a boy you were. How he could see the love in your eyes." 

"He loved you. I only saw him a few times, but I know that he loved you so much." 

"I know. I think he brought us back together." 

"Well, he was right about the love in my eyes," he says, his gaze piercing your soul. "I don't think it's ever completely gone away." 

Logical thinking goes out the window when you tell him, "I love you. I shouldn't anymore, but I do. 

Harry cups your cold cheeks. "Stop. You don't get to say that." 

"I love you," you repeat, your voice becoming thick with emotion. "You still mean so much to me. Just like what you said to me back in July." 

"Right person, wrong time. That's what we decided on the rooftop." 

"But I didn't mean what I said." 

That night was five months ago. It's wild how one day, one look at him can change all your feelings. The love you thought you lost with him is coming back as an unraveling epiphany. 

Sighing, Harry looks down at the sidewalk blanketed in snow. "You told me it would never work," he says. 

"I didn't know what I was saying," you reply hastily. "It was so overwhelming seeing you again after two years." 

"I don't understand," he says, slightly frustrated. "You made it seem like we were better off never seeing each other again." 

You wipe your tears that are either from the brisk air or your own misery. "I'll be your friend, I'll be a one-night stand, I'll be anything. I just want to be someone to you again." 

He glimpses at your lips. "You are. You're everything to me." 

"But the distance—" 

"Fuck the distance." 

It was the only thing that broke the relationship. 

"You were so good, Harry." Resting your forehead against his, you breathe out a landslide of emotions. "Such a good boyfriend. You loved me better than anyone." 

"I still love you," he says, placing both palms on your neck. "Years ago, it was high school love that I didn't fully understand. This... hey, look at me." Your chin is tilted back up with his thumb. "This right here is even more real to me. This is why I asked if we could try again." 

"So, what now?" you ask, looking into his eyes. "We try again?" 

"We try again." 

"How?" 

"If the distance fucks everything up," he says with his warm breath hitting your lips, "then we know we aren't right for each other. But I'll go through that possibility if it means I don't have to love you from afar anymore." 

"Just come home," you plead desperately. 

"I am home. Technically, right?" 

"No, you don't get it." You grip onto his shoulders. "Come home to me. To my heart." 

He kisses your cheek twice, the first quick and the second longer. "I'm right here, baby. I'll stay for as long as you need me to." 

"I want you to stay here." Your own voice sounds distant. "I miss you all the time." 

"I will," he affirms, his eyes fluttering shut and his voice fading. "I'll come home to you." 

Just as you're about to kiss his lips, something taps the back of your hand. The streetlight you're under goes dark, and the vision in front of you fizzles out as you blink rapidly to find yourself back in the café, staring at your latte. 

"Hey," Harry says tentatively, squeezing your fingers with his. "You all right?" 

Snapping your head up to him, you blurt, "Sorry. I zoned out for a bit." You shake your head and repeat, "Sorry."

"That's okay." He looks out the window, the snow falling harder than it has been all day. "I was just saying that your parents will probably want you to get home soon since the roads will be getting bad. I can drop you off." 

Your throat tightens. "Um, sure. Yeah, I'm ready to head out if you are." 

"Okay," he says while standing. "Stay here. I'll start my car since it takes forever to heat up." 

You just weakly smile as he walks out the glass doors. Sinking in your seat, you try not to think about where your mind drifted. It felt so real, so wildly vivid. His voice, his words, his touch; all of it made sense. In your head, you do everything right. You let him in, not push him away. You talk it through, not avoid the burden you carry. You keep your chin up, not give up at the first sign of doubt. 

After lightly slapping your cheeks, you sigh and put your coat back on. When you get up to shove your arms in the sleeves, you see that Harry left his journal on the table. It sits vulnerably next to his empty coffee cup, the string tied loosely around the cover. 

You shouldn't, but you do. 

Quickly opening it and flipping to the page with the bookmark, you skim the messy ink on the damp page. It looks fresh. Dried dots from snow darken the paper in various places, but you only focus on what the words spell out. 

She's under the willow tree, more beautiful than the weeping branches crystallized with icicles. I sit here in my car, wishing there was a way to let her know that I would do anything she wants me to. 

My love for her warmly courses in my blood, protecting me from the brutal winter. If she opened her heart to me, I could make her my home again. Light those vanilla candles and kiss her like I used to. Tell her all about how she makes me a lovesick fool with no cure. Give her my time and apologize for ever walking away from the best thing that slipped through my fingers. 

Where she goes, I follow. There's some powerful force that refuses to keep us apart. Why can't she see it? I can't be with her if she doesn't yearn for me like I do for her. I understand the distance and why, in retrospect, she sees the potential downfall. However, I see the beauty that could flourish from it if we just try. 

I want to come home to her every day, but how do I even begin to tell that to a girl who doesn't feel the same? 

Fuck the distance. 

The café door suddenly opens with a chime, making you slam his journal shut. Thankfully, Harry doesn't notice since he's too busy looking down and stomping his snow-covered boots on the welcome mat. 

You pretend you're picking up his journal for the first time and say, "Don't forget this." 

He glances up, eyeing what you hold. "Shit, thank you." He strides over and takes it. "Wait, I never got to show you your drawings." 

"It's fine," you tell him. "They're probably really embarrassing." 

"Are you sure?" 

"Positive. I'm pretty tired." 

His gaze dances around your face, then falls to your hands fidgeting with the zipper on your coat. "Let's get you home," he says softly. "You can try to sleep on the way there." 

You end up doing just that until he pulls into your parents' driveway. Opening your eyes, you squint at the bright beams of the headlights reflecting off the house's windows. You look over at Harry and find him staring at you, his face barely visible in the dark. 

"We're here," he whispers. 

You nod sleepily and unbuckle your seatbelt. "Thank you for… for making today a little easier." 

"Of course." He rubs the back of his neck, not knowing where to look. "I hope you get some sleep tonight." 

A chasmic pang. A searing sting. A residual twinge. 

Why? 

Because the words you tearily whispered to him before shutting the car door cause you to fall into bed and clutch the blanket until sleep overtakes your heartache. 

You're a good man, Harry.  

——

[unclewaynemunson]

It was winter '86 when Nancy found out what it felt like to return to your hometown after having moved away. She had managed to skip Thanksgiving, giving her mother some vague excuse about needing to study for her midterms, but there was no way she could get out of Christmas. So here she was, wrapped in a thick coat and matching scarf, finding herself back on the very streets she had wanted so desperately to leave behind.

Moving to Boston had been a liberation for her. It had been the only way to break free from everything that happened over the past three years. Life had become normal again: she had made friends, gone to parties, taken interesting classes... She had finally been able to breathe fresh air again.

It wasn't like everything was magically alright all of a sudden, of course. She still slept with a gun beside her bed – praying that her roommate Jess would never find out about that – and she wondered if the pain of not having Barb to share all these new experiences with would ever fade away. But she was doing better. The pain wasn't as sharp anymore, far away from the streets that did nothing but remind her.

Now, it was the day before Christmas Eve and she was walking around town, with no aim but to flee from her mother's stress about needing everything about the upcoming days to be perfect.

It felt weird, walking these familiar streets again after having been away. She felt like an intruder in what once used to be her town, a place she had left behind for a reason. She still knew every road, every building, she still had memories waiting for her at every corner... But those streets weren't hers anymore.

All of these memories were about Barb. Barb, who would never get out of Hawkins. Barb, whose skeleton was decaying in the dark and twisted version of her town, right underneath the pavement Nancy was walking on. Barb, who had a gravestone with her name on it while another girl was now growing up in the room in the house that had once been hers. These streets would always stay Barb's. It was a narrative that was finished, a book that had reached its ending, and Nancy was forcing it to stay open by merely walking here.

The streets were quiet: as cold and dark as they were supposed to be on the night before Christmas Eve. Lights were twinkling in the houses Nancy passed, and on the few occasions she did cross paths with someone else, she'd always think – just for a second – that it was Barb, still sixteen and risen from her early grave to haunt her.

Wherever she went, she found shadows that only she could see, darker than they were supposed to be. She saw the shadow of their lemonade stand on the corner of Barb's street. She saw the silhouettes of two little girls with pigtails in their hair cycling hand-in-hand towards the middle school building. She saw them giggling on their way to the swimming pool, looking at store windows on Main Street after they got their first pocket money, walking out of the library with big piles of books in their arms; she saw Barb waiting for her at the community center after Nancy's ballet practice, and she saw herself on the way to Barb's to walk Bobby the dog with her. She saw two shadows on the playground, gossiping on top of the jungle gym that was shaped like a pirate ship; two shadows on their way to the pumpkin patch on the edge of town; two shadows playing tag in the woods... Two shadows leading her exactly to the last place they'd been together, where the walls of a big house were stained with Nancy's mistakes on that fateful warm November night in '83. The place where the two shadows had stopped being interlinked; where one of them had wanted other things than the other and they each went their own separate way. Where they got ripped apart from each other for good.

Nancy just stood there, unmoving and hidden away by the shadows of the evening, staring at the stones of Steve Harrington's house with no intention of going in and saying hi. She had no idea how much time passed until the door opened and a girl stepped outside.

For a moment, Nancy genuinely believed that her mere gaze had managed to summon Barb out of the swimming pool that was her grave, to finally become something far more horrifying than a shadow. It was a moment long enough to make her lose her guard and stumble forward over the pavement.

“Nance?”

It was Robin. The girl who stepped out of the house was Robin Buckley. Tall, freckled face, blue eyes... But that was all the resemblance she had to Barb

“What are you doing here?”

Nancy took a big breath and shrugged, trying to shake off the uncanny feeling.

“I was just taking a walk,” she said, trying to seem normal - or at least as normal as this situation would allow her.

Robin stared at her for a few seconds, a strange look in her eyes, as if she was trying to decipher some secret code written on Nancy's face.

Then, she nodded. “Okay,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “Wanna walk home with me? I was gonna bike, but I can call Steve when I get home and ask him to bring me my bike tomorrow.”

Nancy could easily admit that aimlessly roaming the empty streets of Hawkins with Robin by her side sounded much more appealing than all by herself, so she agreed and allowed Robin to distract her with easy conversation while they left the big houses of Loch Nora behind them.

The two of them had kept in touch, with Robin in college in Indianapolis and Nancy at Emerson. They wrote each other letters and called almost every week. And when Nancy had arrived in Hawkins a few days ago, being around Robin again had no doubt been one of the good things about being back.

The presence of Robin beside her reminded Nancy of all kinds of other memories laid out on those streets; ones that didn't include Barb. They passed the corner where she and Steve had once made out in his car, not long after they got back together at the end of '83. They passed the playground with the trampoline where she and Mike had spent countless afternoons launching a laughing baby Holly into the air. They passed the lunchroom where she and Fred would hang out together every time they had a newspaper deadline coming up. They passed the dirt road leading up to the Byers' house, where Jonathan had run after her that day they broke up to give her a hug and make sure they'd part as friends and not just as exes. And finally, they passed the edge of the woods where she and Robin had walked side-by-side and Robin had smiled at the ground, almost shy, when Nancy asked her if they were friends, officially. Nancy remembered that as clear as if it had happened yesterday: amidst all the horrors, the fear, and the looming threats on their lives, had been this genuine smile. It had given her yet another reason to keep trying to win that fight no matter how badly the odds were stacked against them. It had warmed something deep inside of her and made her realize that her problems with Jonathan were beyond trying to save.

Now, more than nine months later and with the feeling that she'd known Robin for much longer than that, Nancy looked to her right to find that same smile playing around Robin's lips, as if she was lost in the exact same memory as Nancy.

Barb would probably keep haunting the streets of Hawkins forever, never letting that uncanny feeling in Nancy's gut fade away whenever she'd visit her old hometown. Her ghost would make the fading pain flare up, sharp and fresh all over again. But this street right here, following the edge of the woods and leading into Robin's neighborhood, was untainted by memories of Barb. The two of them had no business ever going here – contrary to Robin.

Nancy breathed out and asked herself what Barb would want her to do right now.

She'd want you to heal, Nance, Robin once told her, months ago, when Nancy had finally found the courage to talk out loud about everything that happened.

So on this cold winter night, she stretched out her hand and grabbed Robin's. She could feel warmth through their gloves, sparking all the way through her arm and chest, right into her cheeks. Robin's smile deepened and she squeezed Nancy's fingers, not letting go until they reached her front door.

Maybe being back in Hawkins wasn't as bad as Nancy thought it would be.

Ronancetober day 8: uncanny. Inspired by the song These Streets by Bastille

[jasmines-library]

Just One Big Headache

WHUMPTOBER 2023: Day one, prompt "How many fingers am I holding up?" FANDOM: Supernatural Summary: A routine salt 'n' burn takes a nasty turn when the spirit directs its anger towards you, leaving you with a nasty concussion, but not to worry, the Winchesters are there to look after you. Warnings: Head injury, concussion, loss of consciousness, violence, weapons, broken ribs. Word count: 1.8k Author Note: Aaaaaand its off! Welcome to jedi-archives whumptober 2023! I promise i'm going to try my best to get these out everyday but i can't make any promises. My prompts are coming from a mixture of the official @whumptober prompts and my own. I'm starting off with something slightly fluffy to ease us in. With that said, happy whumping!

MASTERLIST ⛤ WHUMPTOBER WORKS

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

'it's just a salt 'n' burn' they said. 'it'll be fun' they said. Oh boy were they wrong. 

The air was crisp as you stepped out of the Impala. You watched as the little clouds of air rose before your face, illuminated by the street lamps which flickered haphazardly. Tugging your jacket closer to your body you made your way around to the back of the car, following the crunch of Sam’s shoes as he walked across the frosted grass. Dean propped open the trunk and made quick work of loading rock salt into his rifle and ensuring that there were enough matches inside his pack. The other Winchester hauled the shovel from the car and leaned it against his shoulder; it was hefty and made with iron, caked in mud and rust. The pistol that you shifted between your hands was so familiar, like an extension of your body. It fit snugly in your grip. Flicking the chamber open with a metallic click, you made sure it was fully loaded before snapping off the safety and slipping it in a holster on your belt. 

The grass was damp from the frost that had settled on the grass in the graveyard. It had managed to claw its way up the gravestones and trees like fingers too. It seeped uncomfortably through the toes of your boots as you trudged towards the grave. Small and unkept, it sat located towards the west side of the gravesite. It belonged to a young woman who was brutally murdered a few years ago, but who’s case ran cold. It was safe to say that she was pissed; her revenge taking the form of hunting down those who were associated with the woman who killed her. But what started out as unfinished business soon turned cold and twisted as she turned to others who had wronged. Her grave stood out on the line of tall, pearly stones with dainty flowers laying at their feet. It was dark and clad with weeds. Unloved.  

Dean’s duffel landed with a thud next to the grave, unsettling the ground around it. The shovel went down next to it. 

“Alrighty.” He said, rubbing his hands together. “You know the drill.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but brought out his hands in front of him anyway. “Seriously dude, I don’t even know why we bother anymore.”

“It’s a game of chance, Sammy. Now shoot.”

After the count of three, you and Sam shaped your hands into a fist and brought them forwards. You smirked. Dean had played scissors. With a groan, he pulled his hand back and reeled his body away. 

You laughed. “Scissors everytime, Dean.”

The eldest Winchester grumbled something underneath his breath, but picked up the shovel and begrudgingly began to dig until the shovel hit something solid, you and Sam kept your eyes peeled for any sign of the spirit. 

“Okay. This is it.” he confirmed, hauling up the lid of the coffin. It creaked open on unsteady hinges. The corpse beneath still had skin attached to its discoloured bones. It pooled loosely around the woman's frame. The putrid smell that emerged would have made you gag had you not already had your fair share of salt ‘n’ burns. “Keep an eye out for that son of a bitch.”

Sam lent a hand to haul his brother out of the newly dug pit. From where you were standing, a few feet away, you could see the top of his hair poking out from the top of the opening. Almost mechanically, the brothers began to tip the gasolene and sprinkle the salt onto the body. 

The deathly howl that suddenly emerged in front of you snapped you awake. The spirit raced towards the Winchesters, gritting her teeth and scowling. Her vacant eyes narrowed at them as she got closer, but your fingers were on the trigger before you could blink, sending her away with a shrill cry and a cloud of grey. 

“Hurry.” You told your friends, who had moved from preparing the body to the old duffel on the ground. Dean rummaged around desperately on his knees, not caring about the cold, until he felt the familiar grit of the matchbox against his fingers. Tugging it out, he ran back to the body. Sam tugged the shotgun tighter to him and positioned it in front of himself. The two of you danced around, keeping your eyes peeled for the ghost.

The spirit appeared behind you this time, wailing like a banshee. Sam shot it in the chest before it howled shrilly and disappeared. 

“Dean! Hurry up!” You cried as it reappered again. He was busy fumbling with the matches, which refused to light on the cold box. He pushed too hard against the cardboard and felt the stick snap and splinter. He cursed loudly. 

“I’m trying!” He huffed back through gritted teeth. 

All it took was that one look over your shoulder to Dean for the spirit to catch you off guard. Sam’s shout of your name was a second too late as a ghost appeared behind you, wrapping its cold, bony fingers around you and flinging you away. You cried out in pain as your head collided with one of the neighbouring gravestones and your body slid to the floor. 

“Dean!” Sam yelled out for his brother, firing his weapon at the creature and sending it dissipating to somewhere else on the property. 

The match slipped between Dean’s fingers, twisting in his grip as he tried to create friction between the two objects. Time seemed to stop as Sam raced towards your side to be cut off by the woman re-emerging in his path. That was when the match tumbled from his brother’s grasp, landing on the heap of chemicals and starting the chain reaction of events. 

The woman reeled back as she burst into flames like a candle. The sound she made was dreadful, it cut right through you as she writhed on her feet. When she finally finished her onslaught of screaming and her bones were no more than a dismal pile of ash, Sam fell to his knees in front of you, cupping your head in his hands. It lolled to the side, unable to hold itself up against the throbbing pain in your skull. Sam was suddenly aware of the blood that trickled from your temple and coaxed his fingers, crying out again for his brother, he gave your face a gentle tap. Your eyes fluttered beneath heavy lids.

“Hey, Hey. Kid. Stay with me.” He pleaded, searching your face. “Open your eyes Y/N, come on.”

Your eyelids felt like they were made of lead. Your head felt hazy as you peeled them open, watching Sam swim before you. 

“That's it! Keep them open Y/N.”

Dean was to your left, his hands roaming your body for any other injuries. You whimpered when his fingers flushed against your tender skin on your upper back. You were sure you had a broken rib. Or three. 

“I know. I know sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

Sam’s face was close to yours as he tilted it upwards. He saw the way that your pupils were dilated; one the size of the fucking moon, the other lagging behind. 

“Shit. Dean?”

“Okay, sweetheart,” Dean prompted, “Can you stand?”

He moved to position himself under your arm, wrapping it around his neck. Sam’s arm weaved around your waist and the two of them hauled you to your feet. The movement made you want to hurl and you cried out as the pressure in your head and ribs increased tenfold.

“You’re okay, sweetheart, You’re okay.”

Your movements were sluggish as you floated towards the car. your vision doubled and you were now struggling to differentiate left and right. Your legs trembled in your fogginess, you seemed to lose all control of your limbs, relying heavily on the arms wrapped around you to aid you back to the Impala. It was when your vision blurred and your legs completely folded beneath you like a crushed can that Sam scooped you up into his arms. He cringed at your noise of discomfort, but raced behind his brother to the old car which was parallel parked across the street. 

“We’re nearly there kiddo,” He hushed. “Just keep those pretty eyes open for me, okay?”

You tried to keep them open. You really did, but it just became too much. Your body became slack in Sam’s arms as you gave into unconsciousness. 

~

The light was too bright when you peeled your eyes open again. You were back in the bunker, propped up on pillows in your bed. Your whine alerted Dean to your awareness. His hand, which was clutching yours, moved to wave in front of your eyes.

“Y/N? How many fingers am I holding up?”

Sam rolled his eyes, swatting his hands away. He saw the way you squinted painfully against the light and moved to the switch on the other side of the room to dim it, before promptly coming to perch on the edge of your bed. . Satisfied, you hummed and scanned the room, eyes landing on the two worried Winchesters who loitered in your room. They breathed a visible sign of relief when they saw your eyes focus on theirs. Your ribs still stung, and the throbbing in your head was still present. You reached up and trailed your fingers across your temple. The skin had been cleaned there, the dried blood no longer glued to your face. You could still feel it in your hair where Sam hadn’t quite managed to get it all out. The skin was rough and had begun to scab over. A pair of hands wrapped around your wrist and pulled your fingers away. 

“Don’t touch.” Sam said tenderly, handing you a glass and a handful of painkillers. The glass was cool against your lips as you swallowed them thickly. “It should heal on its own. It didn’t need stitches.”

 You blinked groggily. “What happened?”

“Ghost got you good.” Dean told you. “You have two broken ribs and a concussion.”

“And the ghost?” you asked.

“Taken care of.”

Nodding slowly, you rubbed the sleep from your eyes.

“I-” Dean stuttered. “You had us worried Y/N”

“I'm sorry.”

Sam shook his head firmly. “Not your fault.”

“But-”

“Nope. Not hearing it.” He said sternly.

You sighed. “So, what's the damage, Dr Winchester?”

The youngest brother chuckled at the remark, glad to see that you were feeling more of yourself. “You are going to stay in bed and rest for a few days. We are going to stay here and look after you.” he told you before you rolled your eyes at the idea of being bed bound. 

“I suppose I could do that.” You shrugged, not opposed to the idea of having the Winchesters as your personal waiters for the next few days.

“I thought you’d be happy.” Dean shook his head, then gestured to the covers and the tv which was mounted on the wall. “Room for two more?”

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

DAY TWO

🏷️ Whumptober Taglist

[mybutcheredtongue]

I'll Love You 'til the Grass Around My Gravestone is Deceased

harry potter timeline Sirius Black x fem!reader

You lived out your years at Hogwarts with the company of your best friends, Lily Evans and Alice Fortescue. You fell in love with one of the infamous Marauders, Sirius Black. After school, you married and became Mrs Black, living in a home full of love and life with your faithful husband. Your happy life is cut short when Sirius is wrongfully convicted of the murder of Peter Pettigrew and several muggles, and sent straight to Azkaban without trial. The Ministry thinks you must be connected, but after several days of investigation and questioning, litres of veritaserum pumped thrown down your throat, you're proven innocent. You have maintained his innocence ever since, knowing Sirius would never do something like that. The only person who'll hire you is Albus Dumbledore, and with his help your name is reverted to its maiden and your past is buried deep.

This story follows your life during your time as a professor at Hogwarts when Harry Potter joins the school and everything changes.

FULL of angst but has a happy ending.

No use of Y/N

This fic is mostly a collection of moments and scenes! So a lot of time skips.

p.s. title is from the song "I Love You" by Fontaines D.C. — one of my favourite bands!! would so so recommend checking them out :)

CHAPTER ONE (see full series list here)

1991

You glance at your watch, the hand ticking slowly as it moves to show 9:03 p.m.

Finally, the large wooden door opens and a scrawny young boy pushes forward, huffing tiredly, and less than 20 odd first-year students filter into the astronomy tower.

"Evening, everyone!" You say cheerfully. The Gryffindors and Ravenclaws stand awkwardly as they gaze around the room in wonderment.

You feel proud of it. The last astronomy professor had left this room a little...boring, so when you came into employment you spruced it up a little bit. Though there aren't many to write on, each wall is plastered in hand-painted constellations with their names in 5 languages written underneath. You had cast a spell on the floor to conjure up a moon, one that matched the real one's lunar phases. Today, a waxing gibbous.

Telescopes line the edges of the circular room, each pointing high into the sky. You eye your favourite for a moment, the same telescope you'd used during your own years as a student at Hogwarts.

It feels like home in this room.

"Welcome to the Astronomy Tower," you say with a smile. "Here, you'll learn all about the wonders of our universe and its planets, galaxies, stars...everything. Please, find a telescope and stand behind it. We'll start with charting some simple constellations today."

The students obediently line behind a telescope each. Your eyes immediately focus on a young boy, with jet black hair and circular glasses. You lose your train of thought for a moment, feeling as though you're looking at a ghost.

He's the very image of James Potter.

Then, he turns to look at you and his eyes strike you. Green and vibrant, full of youth and gentleness.

Lily.

You feel your breath catch in your throat, but quickly shake your head of the grief and clap you hands, smiling at the students again.

"Astronomy is one of the very few subjects that is present in both the wizarding and the muggle world. That means that there are millions of resources out there for all of you to use, whether it be from a wizarding standpoint or a muggle one! Interesting stuff," you continue. "Now, I want you all to do a small task for me. Look through your telescope — please don't change any lenses just yet — and try and see if you can spot a constellation. Then, using the first page of your book, see if you can figure out which constellation it is. Call me over when you think you have one!"

The students immediately start rooting through their bags for their Astronomy textbooks and you sigh gently, content with your introduction. First-years are always well interested and curious about everything, so Astronomy is a pretty easy subject for them to get into. After all, lots of the first year curriculum is just looking at pretty stars and constellations.

"Professor, I think I have one!" A young Gryffindor girl with bushy brown hair and an excited face says to you, throwing her hand in the air enthusiastically.

You smile, walking over to her. "What's your name, dear?"

"Hermione Granger, professor."

"And what constellation do you think you've found?"

"Aquila, professor," she beams, pointing a finger to the small, 'T' shaped constellation in her book.

You close one eye and look through her telescope, noticing it immediately.

You grin at her. "Well spotted, Miss Granger! Excellent work." You glance at her scarlet and gold tie. "5 points to Gryffindor for being the first one!"

Her face lights up proudly.

"Now, let's see if you can find any of the stars present in it. Any at all, though you may find it difficult to differentiate — "

"The star of Altair, professor!"

Your eyes widen and you chuckle in surprise. "Well, aren't you just making my job a whole lot easier for me? Well done, Miss Granger. Please chart that constellation down on some parchment and continue looking."

In the next few minutes, many students find constellations and are charting them down. One boy seems to be having a particularly difficult time.

"Neville Longbottom, isn't it?" You say as you wander up to him. He jumps at the sound of your voice, knocking his forehead against the edge of his telescope and letting out a small yelp of pain. "Oh, sorry..." You wave your wand gently and his eyebrows raise, bringing a hand to his forehead in surprise.

"Just a small healing spell. For minor, minor injuries," you tell him. "How is your charting going?"

The boy's cheeks go red and his eyes focus on the floor beneath him. "I...haven't been able to find one, professor. I — I thought I had one ages ago, but there were too many stars in it..."

"Let me have a look, Mr Longbottom," you say kindly, bringing your eye up to the lens and grinning. "Well, you most definitely have found one. One I didn't think anyone would find!"

You glance at Neville's face, and he's the picture of shock.

"Pisces, Mr Longbottom. Trust your judgement! Excellent work."

Neville grins, and you step aside, but not before he says something else.

"Uh, professor..."

"Yes?"

"How do...how do you know my name?"

You study his face and smile again. The very picture of Frank Longbottom. With Alice Fortescue's mousy hair.

"I went to school with your parents, Mr Longbottom. You're the spitting image of your father."

Next, the young boy with jet black hair and glasses calls you over. Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived.

"What one have you found, Mr Potter?"

As he looks at you, green eyes connecting with your own, you try your hardest not to see Lily staring back at you. You try your hardest not to picture your best friend, your honourary sister, a woman of true light in a world full of darkness.

Your heart has felt lonely since her absence. Since James. Since Alice. Since Frank. Since Peter.

You blink.

"Uh, Canis Major, I think?"

You swallow hard. Of course.

"Let me have a look see..." He's right of course, you don't even need to look. You can spot that constellation any night without a telescope. You know it like the back of your hand. "You're dead right, Mr Potter. Brilliant constellation, that is. Canis Major means 'the Great Dog', and it actually contains the brightest star in the night sky visible to our naked eye, Si — "

"Oh, wait, hold on..." Harry says, flicking through his book to find the page on Canis Major. He pauses, eyes skimming down the page. "Uh, Sirius, right?"

You bite your lip, feeling your heart speed up. You take a deep breath, forcing a smile. "Yes, Mr Potter. Sirius."

Your favourite star.

Your favourite person.

Your heart has been broken since his absence.

"Good work." You promptly spin on your heel, heading for your desk as you glance down at your watch. "Alright, everyone. Excellent work today! Now, I won't set anyone any written homework...but if you're truly interested and find you have a little free time, try and see if you can chart any other constellations! Night, everyone."

The students chat animatedly amongst themselves and exit down the spiral stairs, leaving you alone in the room. You sit down at your desk, sighing as you slip a key from your pocket and open one of the drawers. You pull out a small photograph, eyes wandering over the young, elated faces of James Potter, Lily Evans, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew, Alice Fortescue, Frank Longbottom, and yourself.

Graduation day.

One the left, you're standing in the middle of Alice and Lily, arms around them and laughing wholeheartedly. James stands beside Lily, arms around her and Sirius beside him, who's connected with Remus, Peter, and Frank.

You smile weakly. You remember that day, all full of hope and joy. There was some sadness too, sadness to be leaving Hogwarts and ultimately leaving childhood.

Your fingers gently skim over Sirius' face, feeling your heart ache.

What you wouldn't give to go back to that day.

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

Dear Moony,

I hope you're well! School's started back up again. Been a bit crazy lately, sorry that I haven't written since your last letter. Someone let a troll into the dungeon. Quirrell went mad, fainted in the middle of dinner and set all the students into a panic. It was torture.

Harry's started here. It's hard to look at him sometimes. He's the image of James. It's uncanny. He has Lily's eyes, too. Sometimes I start to feel like I can talk to them through him, even though I know that's mad of me. Neville Longbottom's here too. He's just like his parents. Both in Gryffindor, you'll be happy to know.

Dumbledore's gave me strict instructions not to say a word to Harry about it all. Says it'll be too much for him. He won't be able to understand why I couldn't have raised him instead of the Dursleys. He says that Harry will only start digging around for more information on me if he finds out I'm his godmother. He'd ask about his godfather then. It's too much for a young boy to know that his godfather is in Azkaban.

I wanted to talk to him so bad, Remus. I want to tell him about his parents, show him the photos. I want him to be able to feel at home here, feel like he's got someone here. A part of his family. I know exactly what those Dursleys are like. Petunia always hated James, you know that well enough. I hate that I have to keep this secret for even longer.

I talked to young Neville though. Merlin, he has Alice's clumsiness, that's for sure. Such a sweet lad. He was more than happy to see photos of the two and hear stories about them. I feel like a little bit of the weight that's been hanging over me has been lifted. I even showed him that photo of Alice falling into the Black Lake in 5th Year. If she was of sound mind she'd surely throttle me for that.

I think I need to get out of the castle for a bit. Wanna get a coffee? It's been a while.

I've omitted a few details of the past few weeks so I have something interesting to tell you about next weekend, if you're up for it.

all my love,

You sign the letter, folding up the parchment gently and dropping it in an envelope. You grab your bland wax stamper and press a small circle of black wax over the envelope's seal. You slip it into your pocket and stand up from your bed. Beside you, your black cat, Dubh*, stirs from her sleep and meowls at you.

You give her a loving scratch behind the ears. "Just popping down to the owlery. I'll be back."

On your way down to the owlery, you pass two lanky, identical students with heads full of ginger hair. They haven't noticed you yet. They're peering around the corner at Filch, a suspicious-looking bag in one of their hands.

"Bit late for the two of you to be out, isn't it?" You whisper behind them. They wheel around immediately and their eyes widen in shock.

"Professor! We — uh, we weren't doing anything!" George blurts out.

"Don't you look just lovely tonight, Professor? There is such a...healthy glow about you," Fred remarks suavely and you raise an unamused eyebrow at him.

"I sincerely hope you don't think I'm that thick, Mr Weasley."

"Never, Professor!"

You sigh, shaking your head. "Off to bed, both of you. Quickly, before Filch can catch you. I advise you to keep your pranks within the time you're actually allowed out of bed."

Fred's shoulders slump in disappointment, his want for a good prank evident on his face. George however, is staring at you in surprise.

"No detention?"

Fred immediately smacks his hand over the back of George's head, scowling at him. "Don't give her any ideas!"

"Get going, you two."

They take it this time, quickly scampering down the hallway. You step out from it, into the same one as Filch, who's eyeing you suspiciously.

"Is someone there?"

"Only me, Mr Filch," you answer.

"I thought I heard voices."

"Just me. I was trying to remember a poem I heard recently, it's three pages long. Would you like to hear it?"

Filch's face contorts immediately. "No."

You shrug. "Suit yourself."

You walk past him and out into the cold night air, trying to suppress the smile on your face.

->-> read chapter two here!

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

*Dubh: pronounced 'duv'. Irish word for 'black'.

→ all types of interaction appreciated ♡

[apicelladonna]

Some your middle-aged married Albus&Gellert headcanons?

Where to begin!? These are general musings whether they stayed together in another lifetime or met in secrets during the war.

Albus-Gellert middle aged married fellas let's go

Beverage of choice: Tea and black coffee (Gellert swears that he saw Albus dump a whole sugar bowl into his tea but still frowned and say it wasn't sweet enough for his liking)

Mornings: Albus is a early riser because of his morning classes while you couldn't wake Gellert (night owl) even if it there was a raid unless a necessity.

Bookmarks: Leaf pressed personalized bookmark gift from Elphias- Doesn't or it will crease the binds so he just remembers the page.

When mad: Cold silent anger - passive aggressive temper

Perspective roles: The Sword & The Pen

Love language: Acts of service - Words of encouragement

Favorite body part of their partner:

(Albus: Gellert's hands when they swing animatedly when he is very vocal with his afternoon rants. Or choke him)

(Gellert: Albus' blue eyes that sucked him deep into its trenches and he gladly drowned in them. Albus' plump bottoms/thy lovely peaches to behold)

Endearment

(Albus to Gellert): 'Dear boy', 'Darling' 'My Cherished Stars',

(Gellert to Albus): 'Schatz' 'Sonnenschein', Any of the languages he can speak that has the endearment close to 'Precious Treasure' he's said it-

Blood troth: Albus kisses Gellert's lips first then the troth, Gellert kisses the scar on Albus' hand first then their troth.

Public Displays of Affection (Albus): Discreet pinky finger holding, the shit you see in Bridgerton and more, says I love you to Gellert with his eyebrow scrunch-

PDA (Gellert): He is a damn peacock with what we've seen in the Lestrange Mausoleum rally where he just shines their blood troth for all to see that he's taken. Basically: This is my husband, have you read his research article regarding the advantages of not eight but twelve properties of Dragon blood? Astounding man he is. Too humble for himself. Here have a copy-

Bedroom intimacies: gone were the days of fiery passion of their youth, when they are in their own little world, when they are alone in their bedroom, a hotel room in europe or where ever Gellert's rallies or Albus' conference were, it was selfishness of the two combined to think they had the time to map out each other's skin, scars, freckles, and marks..

There is no urgency to reach a state of euphoria, each kiss and touch was already bliss in borrowed time.

They will argue for hours end about the most mundane things.

Gellert: Does Albus like me?

Vinda: You do know you are married to him?

Gellert: I know but does he LIKE me?

One time, both were dead tired from their perspective ordeals that they just collapsed on their bed still wearing their coats and shoes.

Clothes: Simple sweaters - vain bastard, only the best silk shirts (Gellert gets colorbinded the minute Albus' wardrobe turned into a variety of bright plum, yellow, and blue. What a way to go-)

Pastime : Discovered a fondness for knitting - Catch up on the books he bought years ago from various old libraries he'd been to in Europe

Godric's Hollow: Will always visit Bathilda for tea if they are in the area and then end their day by visiting and cleaning up Ariana's gravestone.

Favorite color:

(Albus) Gold

(Gellert) Blue

Feel free to add your own takes! Thank you again for this question! I'm sorry it took me long but I wanted to give it my all. Cheers!

[siriuslystarbucks]

Cemetery

Written for @prongsfoot-microfic prompt May 11, 2023: Cemetery

((A/N: James's parents have been dead 2 years))

James is crying softly, near silent. The only sound he makes is a sniffle, happening occasionally as they stand in front of the gravestone.

Sirius has one arm around him, the other holding his hand. He rubs at his back or the skin on the back of his hand. There's nothing he can say to help him feel better, so he doesn't try. All James needs is for him to be here. He glances at the gravestone and swallows thickly. It doesn't hit him as hard as James, but he still misses them.

Euphemia and Fleamont Potter

Beloved Parents

Last year, the first year after their deaths, had been rough. This year's been easier, but he wouldn't describe it as being easy for James. Knowing that his parents were old didn't prepare him for the news that they were sick, and even the news that they were sick didn't prepare him for the inevitable one month later. Sirius did his best to get him ready for it in that month, but James had been optimistic. He accompanied him to St. Mungo's, helped him with the funeral arrangements, and held him every time he cried or froze in place, unsure of what to do.

James stops crying and turns his face to hide in Sirius's shoulder, but he makes no move to suggest he wants to leave, so they stay where they are.

Sirius rubs at his back and waits. He wishes there was an easy fix for this, something he could do to pick James's mood back up; knowing that there isn't doesn't stop him from wanting it.

"I miss them so much," he says eventually.

"I know you do," Sirius replies. "I miss them too."

"There's so much that's going to happen in my life that I wanted for them to be around for." He turns his face to the side so he can wipe at his face. "Getting married. Finding a house of my own, and getting a cat for it. The big things yes, but also... also the little things, like inviting them over for dinner once I feel like I'm not a kid anymore, or hosting a party." He stands up straight now, no longer leaning on his boyfriend, though still touching him.

"I'm sure they would've loved to see it all," Sirius says, squeezing his hand.

James smiles sadly but doesn't resume crying. "They won't get to see any of it. But-" he takes a breath in "-maybe this moment is the best they'll get."

"Us visiting them?"

"No," he replies softly, smile losing the sad edge bit by bit. "This." He turns to face Sirius fully and holds his hand in both of his own. "I've known for years that I never want to live without you. Ever since I met you, it feels like, but since we moved in together, it's been more than that."

Sirius's heart beats louder, certain that he knows where this is going. He can tell James right now that the answer is yes, but it's clearly something he wants to say in its entirety, so he keeps his acceptance behind his teeth as a smile steals across his face.

"You're my best friend but you're also the love of my life, and I want to live by your side. And one day, when we die-- hopefully very far in the future-- I want for us to be buried like my parents are: together. I want every single day to have the promise of you in it because I love you. Sirius..."

He's about to start crying; tears of joy must be a novelty in a cemetery.

"Will you marry me?" 

Sirius nods first, uncertain he can say a word without coughing. He swallows it down and blinks away the tears that sprang to the surface. "I would love to."

James's smile is beatific, though he had to know what the answer would be. He leans in and kisses his fiance softly, and Sirius sneaks another kiss before he can pull away. 

He glances at the gravestone-- their names seem to glimmer in endorsement-- before refocusing on James. "I think they'd approve." 

"I know they would." James brings his hand up to his mouth and presses a kiss to his knuckles. "Shall we go? I think a celebration is in order."

[manderleyfire]

'panem lost a poet panem lost a standup comedian' lmaoooooooo what are your favorite Coriolanus’ unhinged quotes from tbosas?? I cackled so much during that rather dark book, I feel embarrassed, lol

He had to think of just the right way to break the news. But what would that be? 'I love you deeply, but I love officers’ school more?' That wasn’t going to go over well.

Did you tell your best friend his crush was a cannibal? Never a rule book when you needed one.

AH, TRUST AGAIN. ThE aIr WaS fUlL oF iT.

Coriolanus winced slightly. TWO biking mishaps in the same twelve-hour period seemed more than coincidental.

This entrance was for the poor people, Coriolanus thought. Or perhaps not poor. The word PLEBEIAN came to mind. (those history classes did nothing for him)

PASSING OUT SANDWICHES WAS ONE THING, THROWING THE CHAIR QUITE ANOTHER (sorry, i'm in tears, xDDD)

Snow lands on top and ALL THAT. He knew he should be elated at this turn of events and jumping up and down inside while p r e s e n t i n g a modest, pleased front. But what he really felt was jEaLoUs.

THE HERO OF HER LIFE!!!!!!!!!!

The i m p o s s i b i l i t y of being a Snowflake in this postwar world.

And here he was in his uniform, clutching a rose like some lovestruck schoolboy, hoping she would — what? Like him? Trust him? Not kill him on sight?

Good-bye, Lucy Gray, we hardly knew you (biiiiiiitch 🔪)

So now that loudmouth Arachne was a defender of a righteous and just land. Yes, she laid down her life taunting her tribute with a sandwich, thought Coriolanus. Maybe her gravestone could read, “Casualty of cheap laughs.”

BETTER OFF SAD THAN DEAD

Coriolanus did not want to spend the next twenty years listening to them *mockingjays* serenade the local executions.

What was he doing but dressing her up to be a pretty corpse? Perhaps she could strangle someone with the scarf, or stab them with the pin?

HIS OWN FANS HAD A LITTLE MORE CLASS (rich boy™)

The LAST TIME Sejanus had lost his appetite, he’d lost his sanity as well.

Who were all these PeOpLe hanging around on a weekday at the zoo? Didn’t they have jobs? Shouldn’t the children be in chool? No wonder the country was such a mess.

What an ugly place, he thought dully as the train chugged its way through District 9. It didn’t look fit for human habitation.

Coriolanus gave the camera a thumbs-up when they cut for his reaction. He could not believe THIS was his life.

How much bread had they wasted with this nonsense? Oh, no, he starved to death! Somebody get the bread!

CORIOLANUS SNOW, MORE LONER THAN LOVER (whatta slogan for his presidential campaign)

How awful, Coriolanus thought. To have YOU be the first person in the world a baby sees *about dr. gaul*

Why would evil incarnate help his girlfriend?

In rhetoric class, she’d once attributed his inability to decipher the deeper meaning of a poem to the fact that he was too self-absorbed. The irony, coming from Livia, of all people! But actions spoke louder than words. Coriolanus to the rescue, Livia to the nearest exit.

“Of course I liked it, but I’m more open-minded than most" (hahahaha)

Then came confusion. If she had saved his life, he owed her, what? A sandwich and two cookies? That was how he was repaying her. For his life. Which apparently he held quite cheaply.

Oh, a ghost story. Ugh. Boo. So ridiculous.

Ma? Was Coriolanus’s place about to be uSuRpEd by someone who referred to his mother as “Ma”? The cabbage and posca threatened to make a reappearance.

CANNIBALS OVER CUTTHROATS!

several people took the pained look on Coriolanus’s face as sorrow at Arachne’s death, when ironically he felt like killing her all over again.

“That was some good-bye.” Coriolanus just shrugged. “What can I say? I’m irresistible.”

Poor Sejanus. Poor sensitive, foolish, dead Sejanus. (GUNSHOT 💀💀💀)

[the-demon-prodigy]

a few thoughts abt dazai + atsushi ^v^

this is going to be one of my first posted analyses! it doesnt cover everything abt atsushi and dazai's relationship, as their relationship is pretty complex and i cant really summon up all my thoughts, but this is some of what i see as the core parts of their relationship. this post is pretty open so add on your own analysis and whether or not you actually agree or disagree with the points i bring up here!

so, it sorta seems like atsushi is immensely unsure of his ability to evaluate dazai's emotions and understand him. however, he comes far closer to understanding dazai than some others in his life, simply by being exposed to a more emotional version of him, and lacking the precepts that those who knew him in the pm had. atsushi has always seen dazai as a person. although he initially idolized him to the point of seeing him as perfect, this has since been toned down and atsushi mostly sees dazai as simply an exceptional person that cares for him and that he admires. atsushi is a person who defaults to empathy for others and care for them, most of the time.

when atsushi sees dazai at odasaku's tombstone in dead apple, dazai prompts him to say what it seems like dazai is doing. atsushi says that he looks like he is visiting a gravestone. this surprises dazai because, well, visiting a tombstone is often synonymous with grief. something that is human beyond dazai's perception of himself and the perception of him that some in the pm had of him. teenage dazai was treated as a volatile hazard, and a genius harboring a deep darkness, but barely anyone saw him as being capable of things like true kindness, grief, love, etc. (by 'people in the pm' i generally mean people like dazai's underlings, yk, the pm grunts, not the people he actually knew)

but atsushi comes far closer than these people ever came to understanding dazai simply by acknowledging that dazai is a human being who feels and expresses grief in simple ways such as visiting a tombstone or recalling the dead.

this is one of my favourite facets of their relationship, because its this genuine kindness of atsushi that causes dazai to trust him and want him to grow up emotionally strong. dazai loves people who are kind, people who view human life as valuable, etc, and atsushi is these things. like a less mature version of dazai's favourite person, odasaku. and dazai wants to raise him right so that atsushi can grow up trusting in himself without losing his empathy and care for others.

in my eyes, dazai sees atsushi's combat ability and wants him to improve in that aspect, but what truly causes dazai's trust and commitment to atsushi is his kindness.

anyway, back to atsushi. it seems as though atsushi often finds dazai incomprehensible, but he sees dazai's capabilities as a person which earns atsushi's respect, and dazai's unconditional care for atsushi, always guiding him, always accepting him, is what makes atsushi so loyal to both him and the entirety of the agency.

in conclusion, atsushi and dazai both care for each other. atsushi wouldnt want anything bad to happen to dazai and vice versa. atsushi respects dazai, admires him, and loves him for his care for the agency and his skills. dazai loves atsushi's kindness and wants to foster it. they have a complex relationship not without its flaws (atsushi's over idolization of dazai, dazai's flawed handling of some of atsushi's emotions, etc) because it contains two flawed people. however, its foundations are that of care for each other, and so it is strong and can improve over time.

[lettuce-on-toast]

CATBOY STORY

Fyodor bsd x fem reader

i’m not doing content warnings for this read at your own risk i suppose? fyodor bites a mouse but its just in a flashback and it was mutual like they were both biting each other 

you wake up with a jolt, drenched with cold sweat. a quick glance towards the digital clock on your bedside table tells you it’s already past two am. your field of vision is blurred and limited by the darkness shrouding your bedroom; your eyelids droop heavy with exhaustion. 

you’re about to just close your eyes and attempt to go back to sleep... but then, at the foot of your bed, you see a shadowy figure standing there-- silent, unmoving. you can’t quite see their face. your eyes scan the room desperately as you attempt to find the fastest way to the door. your heart drums a frantic beat in your chest. terror seeps through your bloodstream and freezes over, paralyzing you.  you realize that you may very well be about to die.  then, suddenly, just as your life begins to flash before your eyes, they move closer, and their features become visible, illuminated by the faint moonlight that’s managed to creep through the curtains. a strange sense of familiarity comes over you.  those brilliant violet eyes, piercing through even the shadows of the night.

it can’t be. that man... he died years ago. you’ve moved on, managed to live with, if not mend, the hole in your heart. 

that raven hair, glimmering faintly in the moonlight.

stop. you must be dreaming again. it’s been so long since you last dreamed of him. you’ve almost forgotten the shape of his face, forgotten the way your lips would trace the outline of his jaw. the way you would kiss passionately at midnight in the IKEA parking lot. the way he refused to shower on sundays because he claimed they were holy days set aside for rest and as such it would not make sense for him to work on sundays by maintaining his personal hygiene and how once he just stopped showering period sundays be damned and hence a group of field mice made a nest in his head and you had to take him to the hospital when one of the mice bit him. you remember how he then bit the guilty mouse back-- “An eye for an eye,” he’d quoted in response to your horrified expression. “Exodus verse something. Judgement would have reached the poor creature eventually. In this case, it would seem I served as a mere vessel of this karmic justice. No more. No less.” yeah. that was pretty screwed up. 

it can’t be him. it can’t be him. you repeat the words over and over again in your head, a prayer, a mantra, a plea. you won’t allow yourself to hope for something impossible. you won’t allow yourself to fall back into these delusions again.

but it’s all so familiar. it all seems so real. 

those eyes, that hair, that... that.. shapely tail...

oh, god. 

the figure moves closer yet, and somehow, some way, it *is* him. 

standing in your bedroom is catboy fyodor dostoevsky. 

catboy fyodor dostoevsky. surname dostoevsky. patronym fyodor. first name catboy. 

seven years ago, you met him at burger king. he was throwing up in the parking lot after eating a bad ice cube. you thumped him on the back a few times, perhaps a bit too hard, as he collapsed soon after. besides falling flat onto the pavement and fracturing his elbow, though, he also ended up falling for you. you started dating the day afterwards, and though it wasn’t always perfect, you both loved each other, and that love carried you throughout several happy years together.

three years ago, he was drafted into the war. he left on a bright july morning, and never came back. he didn’t die in the war, though-- he got into a horrible car accident on the way there-- drove into a truck carrying copious amounts of explosives. exploded. etcetera. funny how things like that just happen. you were too grief-stricken to attend his funeral, but every year after his passing, you commemorated the anniversary by placing a new WonderPets DVD on his gravestone. catboy fyodor dostoevsky did not like WonderPets at all; in fact, he quite detested the titular pets. you hoped that his hatred for this piece of media would somehow propel his soul from the grave and bring him back to you. alas, it was all in vain. 

or was it really?

for now, your once-lost love is standing mere inches away from you. you can feel his breath on your face. 

he is purring.

he is real. 

it’s almost too good to be true. 

“good evening, Y/N,” he whispers, the sound of his voice clear against the quiet of the night. he still sounds exactly the same as you remember him, calm, almost smug, his words slightly accented. “MEOW are you doing?” 

“is it really you?” you stammer. “are you really alive? why are you making cat puns?”

he smirks. “what do MEW think?”

“please stop making jokes and just give me a straight answer.”

“i am bisexual.”

“oh, for real? congratulations on coming out!” 

“meow.”

He kisses you. you spend the night Kissing each other. he keeps on meowing and it is a bit annoying. he does not explain how he came back from the dead. you do not ask. that’s just how things have always been between you, though, you realize. he never questioned the suspicious noises coming from your basement. you never questioned why he had only ever talked to three women in real life ever, the first two of which were his mother and sister. you’d lived together like that for years. and you were ready to resume life with him once more.

“i’m glad you’re back, catboy fyodor dostoevsky,” you mumble sleepily

“мяу мяу мяу мяу я кот мяу мяу мяу мяу мяу мяу мяу я кот мяу мяу мур мур мур мур мур мур мур мур мур мяу,” he replies back. 

you giggle. “oh, stop it, you. you’re such a flirt.” you smile faintly before drifting off to sleep, catboy fyodor dostoevsky at your side.

AUTHOR’S NOTES

i want to shoot myself in the foot for writing this im so sorry bsd fandom

[alovesongtheywrote]

I'll Ruin You | Eddie Munson x Reader

♥ Summary:  Vecna has been put down, at least for now, but the cost was a little too much for Eddie to take. Then, in the middle of the night, he sees you again- or at the very least, he sees something that has your face. [Eddie Munson x Gender Neutral!Reader] 

♥ Warnings:  Suicidal ideation, grief, general horror, and mild gore.

♥ Word count:  1,708

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4,

♥♥♥

Eddie Munson never thought he would have to mourn you.

In all honesty, he had always gone off the assumption that he would meet his end first, and you would be the one mourning him. You’d pick the words for his gravestone, attend his funeral, and maybe you'd even cry over him a little. Eddie had even made you promise him that you wouldn’t let his funeral be lame. Even when he went into the Upside Down, he didn’t think that there was a world where he left that fresh hell and you didn’t.  

But here he was after your funeral, wearing an uncomfortable suit jacket and staring at your empty coffin in silence. He hadn’t been strong enough to save you.

Shit, he hadn’t been strong enough to pull your body out of the Upside Down.  

He could still see it- your body, limp in his arms. Your clothes soaked with your own blood, your skin covered in wounds thanks to those damned bats. He could still hear the monsters screeching, and you- gasping, trying to breathe through the agony. Your last breaths were spent telling him you loved him, telling him not to blame himself, but what else was he supposed to do? He’d failed you. Now, all that was left of you, all that was left of the person he loved, was an empty coffin in an empty room.

With a shaky exhale, Eddie placed his right hand on the box. The ring that had once made its home there was gone now. He’d torn it off months ago, leaving it with your body in another dimension. It felt right to leave a part of him down there with you. This way, he told himself, you wouldn’t be completely alone.

He told himself a lot of things.  

He told himself that it should’ve been him in your place. He told himself that he deserved to die. He didn’t deserve a life or a future- not while you were rotting away somewhere, violently deprived of any sort of future you might’ve had.

As the months passed, he drowned in a sea of grief. Each and every thing in the world reminded him of you, and therefore, each and every thing in the world made him want to join you. All he could think, for all those months, was how willing he would be to trade his life for yours- to sink into a cold, painless abyss, bringing you back to the world of the living. Willing as he was, this was impossible, and so he let the anguish fill his lungs and carry him out to sea.

And then, one year later, just as he started to surface, to recover, you came back.

Kind of. Not really. It’s complicated.

The sun had gone down a few long hours ago. A blue TV screen cast Steve Harrington’s living room in a cold, unforgiving light. Steve himself had stepped into the kitchen, both to put away a few empty beer cans, and to grab himself another drink. Dustin Henderson was dead asleep on the couch, his snores light, and his nap apparently nightmare free. Robin Buckley was in the same condition- out like a light, though she was on the floor instead of an actual piece of furniture. They had to be there. Eddie wasn’t allowed to be alone.

Currently, Eddie was as he had been for the last year- staring into space, missing you, and craving a cigarette.

And then he heard something strange- three knocks, not from the kitchen, or from anywhere else in the house, but from the glass doors leading to Steve’s patio.  

Eddie ignored the sound, assuming that the knocks had some reasonable explanation- maybe it was all in his head, or maybe the house was settling, or maybe it was a bird pecking at the glass or something like that. Honestly, he didn’t care, he just wanted to return to the cold, bittersweet embrace of his own grief.

Too quickly, the knocking came again, growing in volume.

This time, Eddie stilled for a moment, waiting and listening, still clinging to the idea that there was a reasonable explanation for the sound. On another day, he might’ve been right. On another day, the sound might’ve had an average, everyday cause.

But when the knock came again for the third time, Eddie knew that wasn’t the case.

He knew, instead, that someone was knocking on the glass door with intention. Someone wanted to get their attention- that, or someone wanted inside.  

Eddie sat up from his place on one of Steve’s overstuffed armchairs, turning to the door with a little too much speed. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see. A neighbour, maybe? Or some rando off the streets? It could’ve been anything. In full honesty, Eddie half expected Vecna himself to be standing there, or a ghostly version of Chrissy Cunningham, rotting away in her cheerleading uniform as he’d seen her in so many of his nightmares before that night. 

But there was nothing there.

When Eddie sat up and looked out the door, all he could see was the pool-lit patio and the shadowed forest that stretched off endlessly behind it. Outside, nothing moved. The entire world had gone eerily still.

And then, he heard the knock again.

This time, it was from the window behind him, but it was no less intent, and it had only grown in volume. Eddie spun around to look, but again, he saw nothing but the Harrington’s front yard. Outside, the street was dark as pitch, lit only with a now flickering street lamp.

Inside, the light from the TV screen began to flicker. In the backyard, the pool light switched on and off.

Eddie heard the knocking sound again.

He couldn’t exactly place it this time, but he had a horrible feeling that the sound was now coming from inside the house. He also had a feeling that he did not want to handle this shit alone.

He dropped to his knees, shaking Robin’s shoulder semi-furiously, “Buckley? Buckley, wake up, now.”

She didn’t wake up. Eddie stood, turning to the couch and trying to wake Dustin next. It didn’t work. As his words (“Wake up,” “Hey, hey, wake up,” “Time to wake up,” etc.) became a little too familiar, Eddie took a few steps back- enough steps to look into the kitchen. The lights flickered. The faucet ran. Steve was nowhere in sight.

“Harrington?” Eddie called out into the suddenly empty house. There was no reply. When he called out again, three knocks drowned out his voice.

Three became four. Four became five. In an instant, the house was consumed by the sound of knocking, of knuckles rapping on wood and glass and plastic. The volume increased. Eddie couldn’t breathe.  

The echoes of sound in his ears were too much to handle. The living room had grown warmer, uncomfortably so. Eddie could feel everything around him from the seams of his clothes to the dust in the air. He fell to a crouch, his hands covering his ears, his lips moving in a silent plea for all of this to stop.

And it did. For a moment, the world went quiet. The lights in the house, on the street, and in the pool stopped flickering, sweeping everything under a blanket of darkness. There was no sound but the voice of Eddie’s exhausted panting.

And then, the knocking came together, forming a new sound- something unfamiliar to Eddie, something that was nothing like knuckles on wood, glass, or plastic.  

The chiming of a clock.  

The panic that had made a home in Eddie’s chest seemed to explode. He threw himself back, eyes wide, looking around for the source of the noise, whatever it may be. He didn’t find what he was looking for. There was no clock, no demon, nothing- but in the reflection of the glass door to the backyard, he did see something.

You.

Kind of.

You were standing behind him, eyes unseeing, rotting skin marred with bloodied wounds from the demobat attack that had taken your life. He’d seen this before, in his sleep, in his nightmares, but you had never seemed this real- and you had never touched him.

But the hand you placed on his shoulder was as real as the floor beneath his feet. You were there, somehow. You were real this time, and so was the familiar silver band that sat glinting on the ring finger of your left hand.  Slowly, Eddie turned to face you. His breath caught in his chest. Your appearance was not the horrifying visage reflected in the glass door. You appeared as you had in life. Vibrant. Human. Beautiful.

Eddie turned back to check your reflection in the glass, but you stopped him with a gentle hand on his cheek. You turned his face until all he could see was you. You said nothing.  

Then, you took a step back. Then another step, and another, until you were walking away from him, backwards towards the front door. Without thinking, Eddie followed you.

He spoke your name the way some whisper prayers. His eyes were again wide, though this time they were full of hope. Were you back? Did he have you back? He asked you those questions out loud, though he cut himself off with torrents of apologies, and moments where he begged for your forgiveness.

You walked backwards out the front door. He followed you into the street. He blinked. And then you were gone. There was no trace of you left behind. Eddie wanted to lie down right there, in the middle of Steve’s suburban road, and let the wealthy families of Hawkins drive over him with their fancy fucking cars. He was pretty sure they wouldn’t be opposed.

Eddie sighed, assuming that the sight of you and the sound of the clock were manifestations of his grief, but when he turned back to the house, he saw Steve, Robin, and Dustin, scattered across the lawn and in the doorway. In the faint street light, he could see their faces- their eyes were wide open, their mouths agape.

“Am I going crazy,” Robin asked, “Or did you guys see that, too?”

[undertheopensky]

Sleeping By The Gravestones 1

Whumptober Day 24: “I thought they were with you.”

Characters: Time, Twilight, Warriors, everyone’s there (except Four) but may or may not have a major speaking part

Trigger warnings: Anxiety

Read on Ao3!

-----

When even Hyrule turns up, complete with sticks in his hair and a sheepish expression, Time starts to worry.

Splitting up had made sense at the time. After landing in Four’s Hyrule so far south that it would take a week of travel to reach Castle Town, they’d agreed there’d be no point in making the trek when they might well just have to turn around and come back. The portals usually left them conveniently close to the source of the problem, after all.

The thick woods here limit visibility; with such a large area to search and no leads, they’d each headed off in a different direction to investigate, promising to meet up back at the campsite by sundown.

And now the afternoon light stretches long and golden even through the close-set trees, but there’s no sign of Four. Sensible, practical, reliable Four.

What could be keeping him?

“He couldn’t have gotten lost, could he?” Sky frets. “What if he ran into a monster nest and got into trouble clearing it out?”

“It’s his era,” Warriors points out. “He would know the dangers here better than us.”

And all he’d warned them about were stray chuchus and octorocks, though deeper in the forest lurked greater dangers. Some of those ‘greater dangers’ were probably what they were here to deal with. And Four wouldn’t have tried to take on something of that calibre alone.

“Twilight,” Time says, “where did you see him last before you split off?”

“Up th’ river. We was followin’ it to th’ falls, and then went either side when th’ cliff was too steep t’ climb.” Twilight’s accent’s gone thick, almost strained.

Time’s not the only one to notice – Warriors gives him a concerned look. That was the plan, Twi, he says. Split up when you get to a good splitting point, report back if you find anything.”

Twilight makes an interesting noise, one more suited to Wolfie’s mouth than his own, low and strained. Warriors’s eyes go sharp.

“Twi? What did you find?”

“Honestly, I didn’t wanna mention it,” Twilight admits. “Place gives me the creeps.”

“What place?”

“Village. Upriver a ways. I passed it on m’way, but Four coulda come across it, if he hadta double back.”

It’s Wind who asks, frowning in puzzlement. “But – I thought we weren’t anywhere close to Hyrule Town.”

Twilight shakes his head. “We ain’t, ’s not. ’S a different village. Small. Jus’ a few cottages an’ a taller stone buildin’, like a temple, almost.”

“Strange for a hamlet that size to have its own temple,” says Legend.

“Some communities are more fiercely devout than others.” Time frowns to himself. Four had never mentioned any other settlements in the south, though from Twilight’s description, it’s a small place. It’s possible – though unlikely – that he hadn’t even known it was there. “It seems a good place to start asking around, at least. Twilight, why wouldn’t you mention it? It could be important.”

“No, I mean –” Twilight’s face screws up. “I don’t… know how to… it wasn’t –”

“Spit it out, farm boy,” says Legend, impatient.

Twilight shakes his head. “It felt wrong. The whole place, just – puts your hair on end. It don’t feel right.”

Well that just increases the likelihood of it being important. Whether or not Four is there, that’s yet to be determined. “Did you notice anything else about it? Unusual tracks, strange buildings, people where they shouldn’t be?”

Wordless, he shakes his head again.

He’s genuinely a little white around the eyes, though, and the Hero of Twilight is not easy to spook. Time considers, eyes narrowed, before giving a sharp nod that gets everyone’s attention.

“Waiting here isn’t getting us anywhere. We’re going to go find Four. Wind, Wild, I need you two to stay here –” he raises a hand – “and start on camp –” he pushes the hand forward to fend off Wind, who’s nearly vibrating with indignance – “so that if Four makes it back here there’s someone here –” he puts the hand over Wind’s face and shoves gently to push him off his tiptoes. “I’m serious, Wind, this is important.”

“You just don’t think I can’t handle fighting!” Wind finally boils over. “I’m just as much a hero as any of you!”

“I’m hoping we won’t be doing any fighting,” says Time implacably. “Ideally, we go in, find Four got distracted by something and lost track of time, then come back. Twilight, can you go find Wolfie? He’ll be the fastest way –”

Twilight shakes his head again. “He won’ go.”

“What do you mean?”

“He won’ go near it. Wouldn’ even with me. There’s sommat wrong ‘bout that place.”

Time doesn’t unbend – can’t, when one of their number might be in danger. “He can at least confirm Four’s whereabouts if he is in the village – and if not, where he actually wound up. I don’t want to waste time searching buildings if Four took one look and went in a different direction entirely.”

Twilight still looks tense, uncertain. Time could push – Warriors would, and probably will if the situation drags on – but Twilight’s as stubborn as his goats when the mood strikes him. But one of their own could be in danger. Is likely to be in danger, if Twilight’s instincts are correct. He wouldn’t leave him to whatever fate he’s been caught up in.

As Time expects, Twilight slumps.

Less than thirty seconds after Twilight heads off in one direction, Wolfie’s snout pokes out of the shrubbery from near the opposite side of their camp.

Warriors snorts. “Sometimes I think Wolfie’s just pranking him.”

Several people studiously fail to make eye contact.

Time ignores them. “Legend, do you still have that shirt of Four’s?”

“What? Oh, right, yeah.” Legend pulls out the undershirt he’d offered to mend in exchange for Four repairing the loose hilt of his favourite dagger. “Here, ‘Wolfie’, give this a sniff.”

Wolfie gives him a flat look instead but grudgingly sniffs the shirt. His tail starts to wag. Then he puts his nose to the ground and sniffs his way around the campsite, following Four’s trail. He gets to the side nearest the river, hesitates, then turns back to whine at them.

“Time to go,” says Warriors. He’s still geared up; all he has to do is grab his shield and sling his scabbard over his back. In fact none of them had completely settled in. Settled down, yes – but even in a safe area like this, no one could relax entirely until everyone made it back to camp safely.

It sure benefits them now, when they have to head to the rescue. It takes Hyrule just a few seconds to get his pouches back in order and secure his sword, and the only thing Sky had taken off was the Master Sword – which he’d already been holding.

Wind shifts, suddenly nervous. “Shouldn’t you wait for Twi to get back?”

“Twilight will know to come back to the campsite, or meet us closer to where he separated with Four,” says Time.

“Better not to waste time, if the smithy has gotten himself into trouble,” says Legend, as he checks his pouch.

They set off, the six of them: Time, Sky, Warriors, Legend, Hyrule, and Wolfie in the lead.

Knowing that Four is likely in danger, and every minute of delay could be the one that deals a fatal blow, they don’t have the luxury of a leisurely march. Warriors can tell that Time even wants to speed up, but in full plate armour there’s no way the old man could maintain such a pace. Not if he wants to be functional at the end of the trail.

They follow the river for about fifteen minutes before coming to the cliffs Twilight had mentioned. Wolfie sniffs all around the base.

“Twilight said they split up here, right?” says Hyrule. He’s puffing a little, but nothing like poor Sky, whose deliberately deep breathing carries a dangerous whistle.

“Sky, if you need a break, please tell us before you collapse,” says Warriors, then focuses on Hyrule. “Yeah, the waterfall, he said. Though Twi was the one who found the creepy village, we don’t know where Four wound up for sure. Hopefully, that’ll be Wolfie’s job.”

On cue, the wolf turned from where he’d been snuffling the underbrush along the riverbank and turned towards the forest again. “Here we go.”

Sky sighs, but there’s otherwise no complaints as they follow the wolf at a steady trot.

Dusk falls around them. It makes the going difficult, as the light fades to grey and tree roots become less obstacles than jumpscares. Those hazy minutes are an adventure in avoiding sprained ankles, until their eyes adjust and the forest begins to thin out, revealing the foothills of the western mountains, still limned pink and gold. That’s where Four was headed, from the looks of things. Shit, Wars hoped he hadn’t fallen –

Wolfie makes a grumbling noise and pauses to snuffle the ground.

It looks like he’s sorting through multiple trails. Like Four’s been through here more than once, and he’s trying to work out which one is the most recent to keep following it.

“So he did double back after all,” Legend murmurs.

And sure, it means Wars probably isn’t going to find Four crumpled at the bottom of ravine, but it puts a dagger of ice into his heart – because if Four doubled back – if Four found the same eerie village Twilight did – if Four didn’t have the same keen senses, the same awareness of potential danger –

They’re doing everything they can right now, he reminds himself, trying to get a lid on the flood. They’re following him. Wolfie’s even hunting up the freshest trail, instead of just following it end to end.

It doesn’t feel like enough.

Wolfie lets out a soft ‘woof’ of success, and they head off again – not the way they were going, or the way they came, but angling away from camp. Had Four been intending to meet up with Twilight?

Maybe he was just trying to bypass the cliffs, Wars realises later. In the thick of the trees he hadn’t even noticed they were ascending until the roar of the waterfall – from below them – clued him in. But no – Wolfie takes a few careless sniffs of the river bank, and then looks between the Hylians and the opposite bank. Now what, geniuses? says that unimpressed stare.

Four must have crossed. Must have gone after Twilight.

Time grimaces, eyeing the fast-flowing water. “You’re sure he came this way, Wolfie?”

Wolfie thumps his tail on the floor. It’s more irritation than agreement, like a cat that’s had enough of teasing hands.

“River’s not as deep as it looks.” Legend’s pulled a long stick from somewhere and is poking through the riverbed. “As long as we go careful, we should be good.”

Warriors isn’t the only one to cast a dubious glance at the waterfall less than thirty yards away.

At least night’s fallen properly now. Sure, starlight alone’s not the best for visibility, but it’s enough for them as they cautiously wade through the shin-deep water. Warriors is trying very hard not to think about how high the water would have come on tiny Four, and the immense strength of the river shoving against him – if he’d gone over the falls they would have found him at the bottom before. Unless he just got swept further downriver –

His foot slips on an algae-slick rock and Warriors flails for balance. Time grabs his wrist. “Steady there, captain.”

Right. Not the best place for catastrophising.

On the opposite shore Wolfie’s already shaking himself off vigorously, to Legend’s loud and screeching disapproval. Honestly Wars thinks that’s on him, for sitting down so close to dry his feet off. Hyrule is laughing at him and it’s well-deserved. When Time tugs, gently so as not to put him off balance again, Wars follows easily.

Once everyone’s got their boots back on they follow Wolfie into the trees again. Now, though, there’s signs of habitation; a tree chopped down for wood here, an area cleared of scrub there. It’s not long before the forest starts to open up: they pass an actual field, knee-high green, and what looks like a tiny orchard of immature trees. And further ahead, thatched roofs and mud walls are outlined in starlight, and Wars feels his heart lift. They’re nearly there.

Fifty feet from the outmost edge, Wolfie freezes up. A low whine is caught in the back of his throat. Ears back, tail tucked, and shaking, he looks as frightened as Warriors has ever seen him. Sure, the wolf has always avoided civilisation, never tried to enter towns on their heels and turned away when they approached caravans, but this fear – that’s new. And concerning.

The wolf seems to almost force himself to take one more step – and yanks the paw back as if burned, trembling all over.

“Good job, Wolfie,” says Time, in a low voice not meant to carry. “Go back to camp now. Sit with Wild and Wind, make sure they don’t get into trouble – or go find Twilight. See if he’s not still wandering around looking for you, eh?”

Wolfie shoves his nose into the back of Time’s knee and heads off, relief in every line of his body.

Now that they don’t need to conserve air for running, the rest of them gather loosely around Time. “What’s the plan, old man?” says Legend.

Time looks over the hamlet with a careful eye. Nothing is audible at this distance, and the few lit torches are enough to show the dirt paths are empty of people. It’s late enough that it’s likely the inhabitants have all gone to bed. There are no guards, no watchmen – it’s just a tiny farming community. Innocuous. Unsuspicious.

But he can’t forget the fear in Twilight’s eyes.

“We’re not here for a fight,” Time says, “but that doesn’t mean we should let ourselves be caught off guard. Something in this place unsettled Twilight and Wolfie very badly. Be watchful.”

Hyrule wriggles his shoulders, looking for all the world like he’s trying to climb out of his own tunic. “I – I feel it too. There’s something – very wrong here.”

Legend goes tense. “Dark magic?”

Unsettled, Hyrule shakes his head. “I can’t – describe it. It’s almost like – a hole in the world. I’ve never felt anything like it.”

But it doesn’t matter how wrong it is, and they all know it. They have to find Four.

[slxsherwriter]

The Spirit of Lending a Hand

Fandom: 2001 Maniacs

Pairings: Potential Buckman x Reader

Word Count: 4,073

Warnings: Cannibalistic spirits, death, witchcraft, talks of necromancy, honestly this whole movie and its contents probably count as a warning

Author's Note: Here I am, once again writing Buckman. My brain works in mysterious ways, even to me. This sort of took a life of its own. As always, not beta read and unedited. Information also taken from the comics.

Tagging: @slashingdisneypasta & @tinalbion

The semi-annual trip to Pleasant Valley had been delayed this time around due to unforeseen and unwelcomed circumstances that were beyond your control. Namely, a set of hunters that had been on your tail for the better part of four months. They had been smart, annoyingly persistent, and meticulous in their planning. Far more trouble than you had met in recent years.

Once you had felt confident that you had shaken their incessant pestering and attempts on your life, you gathered all the necessary supplies and headed out to the small, off the beaten path, ghost town. Well, cemetery, but it had the feeling of a ghost town. The energy there was indescribable. Then again, after such a tragedy, it didn't come as a surprise. The spirits likely lingered there, something you understood even if others didn't.

You had first come across the resting site of the small town in your travels for your doctorate, focusing on the fall out of a war on small towns in the south from an economic, social, and overall day to day living standpoint. It was hard when records of those that had been destroyed as a byproduct and casualty of war were wiped from the map. Before heading back, you decided to take the summer and explore some more rural areas of South Carolina and Georgia. Besides, there were plenty of supplies for your other studies to be found in that took time, too.

The tug in your gut had you making that left hand turn for the first time. The graveyard was large. A place full of sorrow, of mourning, of anger. But so were most places like this when lives were irrevocably changed. Which, really, was a civilized way to say slaughtered. From your understanding after reading the gravestones and doing some digging, that was what had occurred in Pleasant Valley. A massacre of innocent lives. It was a frequent happening when it came to times of war but made it no less tragic or horrific.

After that first visit, there was something that kept pulling you back time and time again. Before you realized it, you had routinely visited the place twice yearly for years. It was a place to calm your mind and gather yourself. Feel recharged but also perform those darker rituals that required a draining amount of energy. There was enough in the place that you could draw from it and get done what was needed. The occasional necromancy and such. Not things that you dabbled in too often but when it was needed, and unfortunately, there was a time and place for it, then being in a place like Pleasant Valley helped.

This year, it felt entirely different. More energy, more lively. Typically, you came during summer and winter, but because your winter trip had been delayed, you were entering the area during mid-spring. Lively. That was an odd way to frame it, and your brain stuck on it when the normal left was marked with a giant detour sign. You stopped the car and stared at it for several long moments. The lettering had been poorly done with the e of detour backward. Enough to make you laugh, but at the same time, there was a nagging concern. Had someone desecrated the resting place of these poor souls?

It was a smart idea to see what you were walking into before you did. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Parking the car on the shoulder, you settled back into the driver seat, closed your eyes, muttering the words of the spell, and concentrating hard. Astral projection was always one of those spells that you could never quite get the hang of, but this was worth the attempt.

It had to be repeated twice before you felt the telltale heaviness and then lightness of your limbs. Traveling slowly down the dirt road, hands in your pockets, you still took time to appreciate the beauty of the natural surroundings. Right as you were about to cross under the arch that marked the threshold, you were thrown back into your body. Gasping and coughing, it took a moment for your spirit to settle back in and breathing to come normally. Well, that was new. Something was happening. Something not of the natural world. With your intrigued spiked, the tires nearly peeled on the gravel as you turned the car down the road towards the familiar spot.

Instead of a graveyard, you were met with a quiet, quaint looking town. Something akin to what one would see in the south during the eighteen hundreds. You should know well enough. As you got closer and closer, there was a buzz in the air that felt electric. The anger that hung around Pleasant Valley was present, but this was far different. If an energy could feel hungry, that was what you would have described it as. There was a gathering of people ahead, surrounding two cars. The cheering and hollering were evident from a ways back. Your skin pricked, and your hair stood on end. And in that moment, you understood perfectly.

It was dangerous. So very dangerous for any living being to be here right now. These weren't people. They were vengeful spirits. How had you not made the connection before now? Was it because there wasn't enough energy when you normally stopped by.

“More guests!” The patch was recognizable. After so many trips to the site, you knew that it could only be George Buckman. Whether you made it out of this or not was up to how it was played. And that required a private conversation with the man that seemed to be pulling all the strings. Offering help seemed like your best chance. Should you feel bad about offering the lives of those who had unwittingly found their way here? The answer was yes. But would you? No, not likely. Who was dimwitted enough to follow a sign like that in today's day and age? Besides, fresh sacrificed blood was a hard commodity to come by unless you got your hands dirty yourself and even then, it could be iffy.

It took a little bit, and there were a few odd looks, as if people were trying to place exactly who you were to them. The familiarity of a place you had never been washed over you. It wasn't entirely true. You had never been to Pleasant Valley when it had existed with living people, homes, businesses, and the little quirks that came with such things. But you had been here before, had communed with the land and in ways with the spirits. In a way, they did know you, and you knew them.

Southern hospitality dictated a certain set of manners in return. That much you knew. Your history degree wasn't entirely useless after all. The sirs and ma'ams worked their way in, albeit a little unnaturally and awkward at times. Offers to help with whatever it is they were doing were made. They were declined each and every time but the offer was there.

There were other ways to be useful, though. Hex bags and a corresponding hex could provide easier targets for the souls stuck on this Earth. The problem was making them quick enough and properly placing them. You might be able to get one or two together and tucked hidden away, but would it be enough?

Before much thought could be put in, or you could gain a private audience with Mayor Buckman, someone else decided to grab your attention. Quite literally. The large hand clapped down on your shoulder, a firm touch that spoke a fraction of the strength it held.

“I think you and me need to have a chat, miss.” It felt like there was little room for argument. Nodding your consent, though it was hardly needed, the large man beside you was a presence that you would lose a physical fight against. And a fight would not help with your plans here. It was best to go along quietly and see what it was that he wanted to discuss. No one else was being pulled off on their own, at least not yet and no in a manner like this. Hopefully, you weren't marching towards your death.

The town was mostly out of sight by the time that the little walk had come to an end. You were finally able to turn and look at the man. Taller, broad shoulders. But an air about him. Another magic user. In some form or another.

“You're the one that comes around here.” It wasn't a question, a simple statement and acknowledgment that maybe some did know who you were. “Practices your witchcraft.”

“That is me.”

“You're late this year.” It shouldn't have been surprising, and yet, you were standing there, entirely caught off guard to the fact that the man knew your schedule had been entirely thrown off.

“I had a little problem to take care of,” you paused. “Well, not so little. Took me a good four months to handle. But, occasionally, things like that come up, someone tries to take my life, and it's a vicious circle for a short while.” An amused twitch of his lips was the response. You took that as a good sign for what was to come. It was all a matter of still carefully navigating the landscape.

“Yet, you are still here.”

“Well, did you think I was going to miss my routine just because I had two men trying to kill me?” At that, you ended up receiving a smile, which was counted as a victory.

“Why do you come back?” Now, that was something that you had asked yourself quite a bit over the last few years and never came up with a solid answer. Perhaps ones that sounded pleasing to the ear but never one that was genuine. Why not be honest with the spirits? More than you had been with yourself, at least. A small shrug came before the words started to flow.

“Because it always felt right.” A simple answer. “There was always something pulling me here, demanding attention and a commune. There was never really a solid explanation for it. I just knew the first time I passed something demanded, I show up, and that demand never ceased. The energy always felt right.”

“So perhaps you are the one.” The tilt of your head came unbidden, something that you couldn't help at the words grabbed your curiosity. Never one for chosen prophecies or the like, it was still something that was worth the intrigue. There didn't seem to be much more information forthcoming. “You do understand what is going to happen here?”

“I would be foolish to miss it in the air. Vengeful spirits create a certain…energy in the air. Intent shapes it and leaves lingering traces.” He nodded.

“Yet, you remain.”

“Admittedly, at first, I was worried someone had desecrated the graveyard. And when I felt something blocking me, I had to investigate. You all did catch me a little off guard with the whole, ya know, appearance thing going on.” He chuckled and nodded.

“I do suppose that would cause a bit of a shock upon arrival.” He nodded to himself and motioned for you to follow after him. This time, he wasn't leading you but rather trusting that you would be walking alongside him. Far more peaceful that way. There seemed to be people milling about, watching, but not really participating in anything now that there wasn't anyone to pay attention to them. You supposed you could understand such a thing. If you were stuck in a purgatory pattern like this, there wouldn't be much drive to do anything either.

“Didn't go getting lost now, did ya?” The mayor greeted with a wide smile, eye flickering back and forth between you and your companion, whose name that you never got.

“Think you and Granny Boone need to have a sit down with this one, sir.” There was an odd emphasis on some of the words, but whatever he had been trying to convey was apparently done successful as Buckman paused long enough to process the information.

“Really, now? Ain't that the darndest thing. We were just going to have a little chat, so why don't you just come along then?” This would be the make or break moment that had been looming since your arrival a few hours ago. Once again, you could only consent.

“Of course.” With Buckman taking over, you were led towards the small church in town, after it had been demanded that your former companion let Granny know that she was expected to attend the meeting.

During the short walk, you exchanged names properly, and there was an ease about it that could be appreciated. Rare was it that you got along well and right off the bat with others, a byproduct of the life that you led. A sense of calm that came from him, even though there was still that hint of rage simmering beneath the surface. As much as it would make others uncomfortable, you found a calming effect to it in the familiarity.

The church was void of everyone and everything, and while it wasn't exactly your favorite place to be but it wasn't the worst.

“Must be a reason he is thinking so highly of you, darling. You gonna explain or keep me in suspense?”

“Wouldn't it be easier to wait for the others?” Waiting meant that you wouldn't have to repeat yourself multiple times. It was far more preferable than spitting out the same explanation over and over and over. There was a moment of indecision, the choice flipping around before a sigh was given as an answer. He didn't have to wait long. The older woman who had been running the quote hotel of the town came in, eyeing you suspiciously. The response? A broad smile as you remained seated, allowing the two to gather around you.

“All right, Missy. Best start explaining what's going on.” Granny Boone was no nonsense. You liked her.

“Well, I've been coming to Pleasant Valley for years now, twice a year specifically. This is the first time that I've met any of the residents, though.” There was a tension that briefly filled the room, enough to give you pause and wonder if you had said the wrong thing before it broke and a sense of excitement took its place.

“Knew I recognized something about ya!” Buckman was practically joyous, while Boone remained a little more reserved but was all smiles like he was. “Looks like this year's festival is about to get a whole lot more interesting, ain't it?” Boone quickly batted at his knee.

“You haven't even asked yet. Don't get ahead of yourself.” The interaction was enough to make you smile.

“I'd be happy to help in any way that I can. Eye for an eye aren't just some fanciful words. I can spot others' work when I see it.”

“Ain't you a smart one.” You shrugged. “Well, we got our answer. We got our guests. All we need now is to get ready for the barbecue.” If you thought he was excited before, it was nothing compared to now. The man was all but vibrating with energy in his spot.

“I just have a quick question. And you may or may not be able to answer it for me. I've been coming here for years but this is the first time we have met, face to face, so to speak. Why now? Why not then?” There had been plenty of opportunities, but nothing had ever happened. The two looked at one another.

“Well, it's not always easy to appear as it is at other times. The more Yanks, the more it's worth the effort.” Interesting. Something caught, but the idea refused to fully form right yet. Stuffing that thought away for later, you nodded.

“Makes sense. Wasted time and energy if the reward isn't big enough.”

“Besides, you bring something with ya that just livens us all up a bit. Especially since you drop by at quieter times.” That idea drug forward a little further. Again, thought would be dedicated later in a quiet moment where you could concentrate on the feeling and what the idea was supposed to shape up to be.

“I suppose I should say I'm flattered.” The small laugh that accompanied the words had the other two smiling wider. It was a relaxed but giddy and anticipatory atmosphere. One that you found yourself sinking further and further into as the seconds ticked by. A place to stay. To be safe. The whispers tickled your consciousness. “Just direct me as to where I'm needed and what is expected of me. I'm not afraid of getting my hands dirty if that's required.” Not to find joy in it. Maybe they did to some degree, but this was about avenging the egregious act that they had suffered. After suffering so long in a made purgatory, things started to twist a little bit, though.

“No use in sitting here like bumps on a log. We got work to do.” Buckman clapped and jumped to his feet. “Think I'm gonna keep you with me, pretty thing. Wanna see just whatcha can do.”

Boone went back to continue prepping whatever it was that she was in the middle of, something with the ladies that had arrived from your understanding. With her gone, it was just you and Buckman.

The seemingly jovial man was observing you still, though he was on his feet and motioning for you to follow.

“Ya know, ya been coming here so often, for so long, sort of makes ya an honorary resident of our little town.”

“Sort of feels like that.” There wasn't any use in lying or trying to deny that feeling. Being honest with the man had been your decision from the smart, so why stop with something as silly as telling him that there was something that made you feel so connected to this place. “Moved around a bunch as a kid. Never really had a set place, and that's sort of been the theme in my adult life, too. Moving minimizes the risk of being caught by those who would prefer to see me dead. Always liked it when we stayed in the south, though. Felt most at home. That subtle heat in the spring and fall. Different pace to life in the smaller towns. An abundance of ingredients for spells and such. Better energy, too. Something far more deeply rooted. Unless I visited places like Salem or Plymouth. Sometimes, there was less acceptance of the….well, lifestyle for lack of a better term but always made due.”

“That happen often? Someone chasing after ya like that?”

“Often enough. It's what delayed my appearance here this year. Though, I guess that it worked out in everyone's benefit in the end. Except for theirs….”

“Hm, then ya really won't have a problem helping us take care of these Yanks.”

“I've brought people back from the dead for less than honorable purposes. Yeah, I really don't mind helping you kill someone. Or in this case, someones given the turnout you have here.” The laugh that came from Buckman couldn't have been classified as anything but ecstatic and excited. A sound that others would likely think bordered on the sound of insane. For you, though? There wasn't a way to stop the grin that it brought. “My hands haven't been clean in many, many years. What's adding a little more?” And your view on the world and the people in it may have been twisted and just a little skewed, but it came with the territory.

“Just gonna have to gather up the town to make sure no accidents happen then. Let them know you are here helping.” He raised a hand to rub his chin, thoughts clearly going a mile a minute. Not that he could be blamed. You knew that while you were there to help and would, your presence ilkley threw a monkey wrench into whatever plans that they had.

While Buckman might have been accepting, it didn't mean that the rest of the town would be right away either. So a meeting would have been smart. You would have hated to cause a problem for one of the spirits because you had reason to defend yourself. They couldn't be hurt in the traditional sense and had probably gotten quite comfortable in their relative safety from physical harm. But, you weren't their usual prey, and while you didn't want to focus on it, having various methods of protection were floating through the back of your mind. Hopefully, there wasn't a need for it.

******************

It was a sight to behold, how quickly the spirits were able to create chaos, one that was under a tight control and allowed them such freedom to do as they pleased. Impressive, really. So much so that you were feeling immensely grateful that you weren't on the receiving end. No one was spared, and no corners were cut. The brutality of it wasn’t so uncommon to you that it gave a weak stomach, but on the same hand, it did press some sort of line. As complicit as you were, you kept your mouth shut. Besides, was there really room for you to talk? It was a reminder to yourself given all that you had done in your life.

There was such a captivating sort of aura around the entire thing, the passion and need that came from those around you enough to make you want to drop to your needs. All driven forward from desperation. If you helped them, how long would it take for them to finally know rest?

“He's getting away!” There was one that had just escaped the flaying knife of the cook, apparently not all the way dead. The urgent tone cried out loudly and caught your attention. The man was moving far faster than he should have been able to, adrenaline, and the critical need to stay alive kept him moving. And he had a heavy head start on just about everyone. So far, the spirits had appeared to move like normal humans. The first natural, gut reaction that you had was to lash out, the ground immediately rising into a wall in front of him. Head first he ran into it, with no time to hit the brakes and bring himself to a stop. How he wasn't knocked out cold was beyond you, but it was enough for others to catch up to him.

“Well, buttermilk pancakes, look at that.” Buckman was by your side seemingly out of nowhere, letting out a low whistle. It had been a long time since you had heard anyone even slightly impressed with your abilities. A twinge of pride swelled in your chest. “That's a mighty fine trick ya got there.”

“Ain't the only trick up my sleeve.” The comment slipped a little more flirty than intended. The chuckle that came from the man was well worth any embarrassment.

“I think you are going to do just fine here, sweetheart.” That old southern twang that came through was pleasant to listen to, an emotion that came unbidden and unexpected. Trouble. The thought meant big damn trouble. You were too far into things now, though, to give up. Giving in was the only option. What was the use of living a long life if a little fun couldn't be had every once in a while? It wasn't like he was going to be around forever after all. Once they were able to fulfill the force keeping them here on this Earth, they would finally be allowed to rest.

“Planning on keeping me, sir?” A proper southern gentleman, even if he was a vengeful, cannibalistic spirit, instead of offering back anything vulgar or too untowards, he simply grinned and rested a hand against your lower back.

“Oh, ya ain't ever getting free, sweetheart.” The possessive note sent a shiver down your spine. Not in a bad way. It had been many years since you had ever felt a flick of danger mixed with desire like he was able to ignite. He would be gone eventually, but until then? There was nothing saying that you couldn't enjoy yourself and bring a hint more pleasure to his life.

[mybutcheredtongue]

I'll Love You 'til the Grass Around My Gravestone is Deceased

post azkaban sirius black x fem!reader

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (see full series list here)

1993

A man stands in the doorway, leaning on a long staff, hidden away behind the shadow of a black travelling coat. Every head in the Hall turns to him, a great crackle of lightning forking across the enchanted ceiling. The man lowers his hood and shakes out a man of long, grizzled, dark grey hair and makes his way up to your table.

The loud, dull clunk of a wooden leg echoes throughout the silent Hall with every step he takes, and your ears prick with the recognition of that clunk — you've heard that clunk before...many times before.

He makes it to your table, lightning flashing and illuminating the man's face. The skin of his face is scarred and looks rough to the touch. There's a large chunk of his nose missing, his mouth is thin and his lips are cracked. But nothing compares to his eyes — the most unsettling part about him.

One is small, dark, and beady. Dark like the depths of the Black Lake. The other is quite the opposite — as large as a coin, the iris a startling, vivid blue. It's encased within an eye patch, held on by straps of leather. The blue eyes moves without reason, spinning and twirling in its socket without blinking. And though the glass eye makes most look away from squeamishness, you give a little smile. You're well used to that eye by now, that skin, that clunk, that man.

It's the face of your old mentor, Alastor Moody.

Or, as he's more widely known...

Mad-Eye Moody.

Moody sits down at the table, shaking his man of grizzly hair. He pulls a small knife out his pocket, pulls a plate of sausages towards him, and spears one on the end of the knife before eating it.

"May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?" Dumbledore says brightly into the stunned silence. "Professor Moody."

Usually, the Hall erupts into applause from both the staff and teachers. However, tonight, it's only you, Dumbledore, and Hagrid that clap. Mad-Eye's not that bad, really, you just have to get used to him. He's a sweetheart!

Okay, that's a total lie.

But you do really just have to get used to his... peculiarities. Everyone'll be well adjusted to him by the end of the year, you're sure.

Moody doesn't seem to care about his unwelcome welcome, instead pulling a flask out of his pocket and taking a swig from it. Well, that's something he's always done — carry his own personal flask to drink out of.

"Constant vigilance!" He'd told you. "You'll never know if what's in front of you has been poisoned or not!"

Dumbledore clears his throat. "As I was saying," he says, smiling out at the crowd of gaping students, "we are to have the honour of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that hasn't been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year."

"You're JOKING!" Fred Weasley exclaims loudly.

The tension that had been thickening ever since Moody's arrival breaks as nearly everyone bursts into laughter at Fred.

Dumbledore chuckles appreciatively. "I am not joking, Mr Weasley...though now that you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun who all go into a bar..."

Minerva clears her throat loudly from beside you.

"Er — but maybe this is not the time...no..." says Dumbledore, "where was I? Ah yes, the Triwizard Tournament...well, some of you will not know what the tournament involves, so I hope those who do know will forgive me for giving a short explanation, and allow their attention to wander freely."

Of course, as a member of staff, you've already been well briefed on the tournament and what's involved. You've heard it all before, and as per his instruction, you allow your attention to wander.

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

You trek down the stairs of the Astronomy Tower, clutching a letter addressed to Remus in your hand. You dread having to walk back up all those stairs for your last class of the day in an hour. A few students are milling about the corridors, a few chatting amicably while others complain about the homework they've already gotten on the first day back.

You round a corner, glancing at the oil paintings on the wall next to you. Then, you start to hear the sound of a dull clunk echoing down the hallway, and Moody appears, hobbling towards you. His glass eye is swivelling erratically in its socket, but his good eye isn't looking at you.

"Oh, sir!"

When you were training to be an Auror — which you never got to finish — you always addressed Moody as sir. Never Mad-Eye, never Alastor. And when you were talking about him with somebody else, you always said Moody. His character demands respect and you don't hesitate to give it.

But this is different. Now, you're proper colleagues. It's a bit strange, like adjusting to working alongside Minerva when you first started here. Hopefully you'll adjust to his presence just as easily as Minerva's.

Moody flinches when he hears you call out, head snapping to you, regular eye fixating on you.

You give him a hesitant smile, nodding at him. "It's — uh — it's been a while, sir. It's good to see you again."

Something flashes in his good eye — recognition. His glass eye spins and looks at you, scrutinizing you silently. You feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up under that interrogating eye.

It's a while before he answers.

"Yes."

"I know this probably isn't the field you expected me to go into — but you know, after everything..." You chuckle awkwardly, shrugging. You immediately curse yourself for that — that chuckle would have instantly gotten you reprimanded during your training.

"It's unconfident!" he'd said. "You're letting your guard down, appearing vulnerable. Do you want your enemies to think you're an easy target?"

But now, Moody doesn't comment on it. He barely even seems to register it.

"Right," he says curtly, before continuing on his way, hobbling down the corridor. You turn and stare after him, mouth agape at his coldness. You thought you had bonded during your time together, that he thought of you as a good student. And you really looked up to him too, you still do. But he disregarded you like it was nothing...like he forgot who you were.

As you stare after him, he pulls his flask out of his pocket and takes a swig from it, grimacing. He glances back over his shoulder and catches you staring. You quickly turn around and continue towards the owlery, feeling incredibly embarrassed.

Reuniting with your old mentor? Check!

Did it go well? Nope!

How embarrassing.

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

It's Thursday evening, and you sit in your office, reading Astronomy's Articles. The fireplace crackles in the corner, radiating warmth throughout the room. There's quite an interesting piece here on how old astronomical teachings influenced pop culture, and you're nearly finished it when there's a weak knock at the door. At first you think you might've imagined it, but the knock comes again, slightly louder this time.

You go over to open it, revealing Neville Longbottom, who is currently staring down at his shoes. In his hands, you spot a heavy book. He's shaking.

"Neville, dear, what's wrong?" You ask gently, concern obvious in your voice.

"C — can I please come in?" The poor boy's voice is no louder than a whisper. You nod wordlessly, opening the door further for him to come in and then closing it softly behind him.

"Sit down there, Neville, and a take a deep breath," you say kindly. You grab a jug and fill it with water, placing it on your desk with a glass for him. You pull all your papers out of the way and he sits down.

You sit down at your chair, looking across at him encouragingly. You don't say anything, just wait for him to start himself. While he's quiet, you take a look at the book in his hands, titled: Magical Mediterranean Water-Plants and Their Properties.

"I — I don't want to bother you, Professor."

You shake your head. "Neville, you could never bother me. Please, tell me. What happened?"

He doesn't meet your eyes, hands fiddling with the book.

"I just...Professor, when my parents...when they...did they really go through all that p-pain?" he asks shakily.

You're highly taken aback by this. What is he doing asking something like that? The answer will only hurt him further.

"Oh, Neville, what brings this on?"

He doesn't answer you for a moment, looking down at the cover of his book.

"Professor Moody...he — he showed it to me," he responds quietly, like he's telling a big secret.

"Showed what to you?" You're almost reluctant to hear the answer. Something heavy settles in your stomach sickeningly.

The office is silent as Neville breathes heavily. He fiddles with the book again, bounces his leg. It's like you can hear every blink of his eyes, every individual lash brushing against his under-eye. What would Alice say if she seen him like this? She'd be devastated, no doubt. You're here to look after him. Harry and Neville. Both lost their parents, parents who were your best friends. You could never sit by and watch as their sons sit in turmoil, battling something extremely difficult.

"The Cruciatus Curse," Neville breathes.

You blink in confusion. "I'm sorry, what do you mean he showed you the Cruciatus Curse?"

"O-on a spider," he says quietly. "He-he pointed his wand at it and said — "

"Crucio," you whisper, horrified. "Why would he do that?"

You're confused and shocked and horrified. Moody really did that? In front of the students? In front of Neville? He knows exactly who Neville is, he knows exactly who his parents were and what happened to them.

"He — he said we needed to know. That we n-needed to see it to know how to defend it."

You bring your hands up to your face. You've seen the curse performed before, when you were helping Moody track down a dark wizard who'd taken a Muggle hostage, and nothing about it is pretty. It's scarring — it's the kind of thing that lodges itself in your mind, and the image never weakens. The sounds never fade.

Neville hasn't stopped trembling since he walked in here.

"Neville..." you bite your lip, unsure what to say, so you do the only thing you think you can: you stand up from your chair, and hug him. You pull the frail boy into your arms, gently stroking his hair soothingly. You're conscious of the fact that really, Neville's only maternal figure in his life has been his grandmother who — while being a formidable, strong woman — can't hold a candle to the warmth that Alice had. The heart of gold and love that she had — that she still has, somewhere — for her son. He needs you to provide that warmth and support now.

He pulls away to talk again. "My parents...do you think they suffered...? "

"They did, Neville," you say, pulling away but leaving your hands on his shoulders. "They suffered. I'm afraid I can't tell you any different."

Neville's eyes begin to water and he doesn't meet your eyes.

"But," you continue softly, "they were brave, Neville. They were so brave and strong and stood their ground. Anyone else would have ran, fled with their tails between their legs, but not your parents, Neville. And — the people who hurt your parents? They're all in jail. Rotting away in Azkaban, which is an awful fate. Perfectly deserved for the horrible scum that did that to Alice and Frank."

Neville nods slowly, taking a shaky breath. He sits for a few moments, quiet, as he thinks over what you said. Eventually, you feel confident that he looks a bit less shaken, colour returning to his face. He stands up and you give him a sympathetic smile.

"Would you like to stay here for a little longer?" you ask softly, and he shakes his head.

"No, it's okay...I'll get going now."

You nod, patting his shoulder and moving to open the door for him. "Alright." He exits and you follow, locking the door behind you. When he looks back at you in slight confusion, you say, "I'd like to go have a word with Professor Moody."

Moody's office isn't too far from yours. Neville departs off towards the Gryffindor Tower, the time nearing curfew. You knock on the door, waiting impatiently for the door to open. Eventually, you hear hobbling behind the door and it opens a crack.

"Sir!"

You can only see the blue eye, spinning rapidly in its socket. He looks you up and down, scrutinising you.

"What?"

"Look, I just talked to one of your fourth-year students. Is it true you showed them the Cruciatus Curse? That you performed it on a spider?"

Part of you is scared. This is you, standing up to the best, strongest Auror you've ever met. Your mentor. But at the same time you're filled with anger. How could he do that? How could he put that on Neville, and all those other students who had to bear witness to that torture?

Moody doesn't answer. His tongue darts out of his mouth to lick at his lips for just a second, before receding back. That's something you don't think you've seen Moody do before. No, you've definitely not seen him do that.

But you recognise it. You definitely remember being grossed out before by that exact move. He must've just caught it from someone else, after all, they do call him Mad-Eye. He has been known to be somewhat far-gone.

"I'll admit it was an unorthodox way of teaching, but they needed to see it," he answers curtly. "They need to see in order to know how to defend it and resist!"

You shake your head furiously. "There are other ways to show them how to defend themselves! You can't do that. They're children, sir. They shouldn't be coming out of class half traumatised!"

He pulls the door open more, revealing his cracked face. His good eye stares daggers at you and he moves forward, forcing you to take a step back. He leers over you threateningly.

"Don't question me, girl."

You stare back at him, searching his face for any sliver of a joke, but are met with the hard, steel expression of a man who is certainly not joking. The Moody you know would never say that to you. He would never use that threatening tone with you, no matter what you did. Constructive criticism, yeah, a bit of frustration, yeah, but not this. You've never had to feel scared in his presence.

But you do now.

You're suddenly aware of the fact that this is a strong, strong man in front of you. You would never be able to fight him off. Your lip trembles, and embarrassingly, you feel your eyes start to water.

This was your mentor. This was someone who you looked up to so much, and now he's looking at you like some scummy substance he found on the bottom of his boot. You feel hurt. You feel so badly hurt and embarrassed and scared.

Moody continues to stare you down, before grunting and doing that janky tongue movement and slamming his door shut in your face. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, and stare at the closed door in front of you.

What do you do? Should you tell someone? None of the other teachers know about that class, otherwise something would have been said. Minerva would already have been banging on your door to talk about it.

Is it worth your while even reporting it? You doubt anyone would care. It's Alastor Moody, famed Auror. Who would they really rather support: you or him? You don't stand a chance against him.

You return to your office that night feeling sick to your stomach. Worries churn your stomach sickeningly and quiet tears drip down your cheeks. You're just so confused. Why would Moody do that to you? He never expressed any dislike for you before, but there it was obvious. You feel so foolish for allowing yourself to think the Mad-Eye Moody cared about you at all.

You feel lonely. You start to just want Sirius here, next to you, so you can talk to him. He always knows what to do. He always knows what to say. You want him to be here and to take you in his arms, stroke your hair soothingly, reassure you.

You just want him here.

♡*⁠。♡*⁠。

Spring, 1980

Bright, cheerful chatter fills the area, guests milling about and laughter bubbling up out their throats. Beside you, Sirius has his hand on your knee, circling it idly with his thumb as he chats to James beside him. James tells a joke and Sirius lets out a hearty laugh. You watch his face light up in joy, a beautiful smile spreading over his face.

He's so handsome.

His long locks just tickling his neck, the shirt of his suit unbuttoned to show the skin of his chest, his jacket shrugged off and thrown on the back of the chair. The sunlight catches his long lashes, the outline of his face, making him look like something out of a dream.

You glance around at the guests, thinking about what to do next. You take a quick sip from your wine and lean over to Sirius.

"I'm going to go mingle," you say, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He stops talking, turning to you with a loving expression.

"Don't be too long," he says. "I want my wife back as soon as possible."

He kisses your lips softly, smiling, and you pull away to go mingle.

You make a beeline for Alice and Lily immediately, who are chatting animatedly with Remus and Peter.

"Hello, hello!" You greet with a grin and they all smile.

"Well, if it isn't the beautiful bride!" Alice exclaims with a laugh.

Everyone looks absolutely perfect. Alice and Lily in their pretty bridesmaid dresses, Remus and Peter in their groomsmen suits. It's a small enough reception, you could never invite too many with the way things are right now. There are a few Aurors and Order of the Phoenix members dotted around, some looking about the place like they're expecting an attack.

"Where's Frank gone?" You ask Alice. It's rare to see Alice without her dear husband, her husband of two months now. Even now, you can see the way her face lights up at the mention of him.

"Oh, he's just gone to get us some drinks," she says with a smile, looking past you to see a man standing at the drinks table, plucking two glasses out of the lineup and turning around to come towards you.

You throw him a small wave, and he nods back because his hands are full. Beyond him, you catch sight of a man you didn't actually expect to see tonight: Alastor Moody. He's standing beneath a large tree, shaded from the sun by its foliage. He's looking around him suspiciously, like he's afraid someone's going to spot him.

You place a hand on Alice's back, patting it as you say, "I've just spotted someone. If I don't see you leading a conga line when I get back I'll be livid."

She giggles, saluting you jokingly. "Yes, ma'am."

You smile at the group, taking your leave and heading for Moody. He looks up when you approach, his good eye settling on you while the other dances in its socket.

"Sir, you came," you say with a smile. You really are shocked that he actually showed up. You gave him his invitation ages ago, and hadn't mentioned it since. He said nothing of any intentions to come to the wedding.

He nods, glancing around himself furtively like he doesn't want anyone to catch him here. "Yes, well...I'm here just in case something happens of course... in case you have a few unwelcome guests."

"What, like you?" You joke, and you can see how he tries to hide his chuckle, shaking his head gruffly.

"Dark wizards, more like."

He doesn't seem entirely certain of that, however. You can tell that he's not just here for that, but you don't say anything. You're just happy he's here. Nobody would attack your wedding. Maybe because there's Order members here, but something tells you that won't happen. You have such a happy gut feeling, you feel like you're on air today. Nothing could ruin it.

"Well, thank you for coming," you say genuinely. "I really appreciate it."

He glances away from you, seemingly fixating on something in the distance. "I can't have you getting attacked on your wedding day. It would make for a pretty shitty story."

You smile. "Thanks."

You stand together in silence. You glance out at the rest of the party: Alice is, as you instructed, leading a long conga line on the makeshift dance floor, now bathed in evening sunlight. You spot Sirius right behind her, enthusiastically throwing out his leg in time with Alice. You chuckle appreciatively at them.

"You know," Moody starts, and you turn back to him, "when they told me I'd have to take on a student, I thought they'd be a nuisance, getting in the way of my work. But you, I am...I'm glad it was you, and not some clueless thing who doesn't know their left from their right. You're good at this, and you'll be even better when you're finished with me."

Your mouth opens dumbly and you just stare back at him in surprise, before a great big smile spreads over your face. You don't want to say anything to embarrass yourself, so you just smile at him and he looks away, clearing his throat.

"Once you stop giving me cheek, that is," he adds.

You can't help but laugh, before he fixes you with a look and you straighten up again, pursing your lips, holding back any comments.

"Now, it's time you stop bothering me and go back off to the lovesick lad you've left behind," he says, nodding his head in Sirius' direction, who has detached himself from the conga line to beckon you over with a longing gaze. You smile back at him and don't hesitate to hurry towards the fun.

♡*⁠。♡*⁠。

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