#listened through the cemetery trees

[bethanyactually]

Fanfic Aesthetic: Listened Through the Cemetery Trees by @pressdbtwnpages

The trip is about Alice. Going to her memorial, meeting her parents, remembering her, learning who she was. But Ace has 34 hours of driving ahead of him; it’s inevitable his thoughts will turn to Nancy. That’s just who she is. How he is about her.

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 58

part 1 | part 57 | ao3

@steddie-island said i wasn't allowed to cut this lol. cw: angst, canon typical horror, mentions of minor character death

“Lucas called me a ghost today.”

Steve almost laughs, bitter and sharp. Sure. Why not? What’s one more ghost in his passenger seat?

He doesn't really want to talk to her right now, if he's honest. It's been fifteen minutes and she still hasn't apologized for trying to rob him, or explained where they're going, or what spooked her, or why this car ride was so urgent that he had to risk his job for it — a job he actually needs, considering his, well, everything. She's hardly said anything beyond the occasional "turn here" or "next left" while sulking with her forehead pressed against the window.

But he can tell she has something she needs to get off her chest, so he swallows his annoyance and offers, "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she says back. Doesn't elaborate.

He gives her another minute to gather her words, watches her open and close her mouth a few times in his periphery, but nothing comes out. She scoffs at herself and abruptly changes the subject. “Eddie was being extra… well, extra today.”

“Was he?” Steve asks, his bones itching under his skin. He doesn't want to talk about Eddie. Doesn't want to think his name.

“Yeah, he, uh- he was kinda manic? He was, like, running all over the cafeteria and starting shit with Jason Carver...” And he's only half-listening, anger simmering as she goes on and on, because she promised that Dustin didn't put her up to this. Said that this wasn't some bullshit excuse to get him to talk about Eddie or hang out with Eddie or think about Eddie or kiss and make up with fucking Eddie, and now she's just talking about him, and it-

And it hurts; god, it still just hurts—

"....Then he started rambling about how he can’t wait to get the hell out of here when he graduates.”

Searing-stabbing-burning-sharp. Steve clutches at the flare of pain in his chest, the crushed soda-can feeling where his heart's supposed to be. His head pounds. He follows her next direction onto a winding, tree-lined road, the canopy suffocating overhead, and his skin feels too dry — too tight, too small, shrink-wrapping him inside of it, because he knows where they are now. Knows the tilt of the rusted lamp shade, the shape of the weather brick paths. He's tasted the metal tang of this stop sign in his nightmares.

Fuck. Fuck.

"Cool," he grits out as he drives through the cemetery gates. Past stone and wrought iron, past the empty central fountain. He hasn't been here since July. “Good for him.”

“Steve-"

“Why are you telling me this?" he snaps. He throws the car in park under an old oak and turns to glare at her, barking a frustrated, "Huh?"

Immediately, he feels bad for raising his voice. Feels even worse for the way she flinches away. The naked fear on her face, her hand reaching for the door. He takes a long, deep breath and lets it out slowly through his nose. “Sorry. Sorry. Just-" There's a leak inside him somewhere; some infected, gaping hole, and his stupid heart keeps pumping all his blood into the wound. "Why are you-?”

“Look,” she says sharply, "I know it sucks. To talk about him." She's staring at the rows of headstones up ahead, her face gone steely with determination, her shoulders squared, her big eyes wide and a little wet when she turns to meet his gaze. “But whatever you were— whatever happened, it just… it really messed him up.”

Good. "You sound like Dustin."

"Maybe Dustin had a point."

"Since when?"

She throws her hands up, nostrils flaring. "I'm trying to tell you that I think he still cares!"

“Yeah? He’s got a seriously fucked up way of showing it if so!”

“Yeah, well some of us don’t know how to show it!”

And oh.

Oh.

Silence blankets them like dust. Eyes locked; harsh breaths. This has nothing to do with him and Eddie, does it?

Lucas called me a ghost.

Steve sighs and slumps forward, his forearms on the wheel, his chin resting on his wrist. The late afternoon sun is warm through the glass, and his head gives another nasty throb as he looks out over the hill, at the polished stones glinting in the golden hour rays.

His dad is buried here.

A lot of people are.

“Hey,” he murmurs, rolling his neck to look at her. The skin under her eyes is red. "Sorry for yelling."

She sniffs quietly. "Me, too."

He reaches over and gives her hand a quick squeeze, keeping his voice low and gentle. "You know you can just talk to me, right? Max, talk to me. Please.”

Her bottom lip quivers. “It’s nothing, okay?” She sinks down in her seat, crossing her arms to shield herself. “Shit’s just been… it’s just been weird all week. Like- like bad weird, and I don't know if I'm just going crazy, or— I mean, maybe Ms. Kelley's right, maybe's it's just— but it feels like…”

"Like what?"

She holds a hand out flat in front of her; flips her wrist over slowly so her palm faces the sky.

Steve's blood runs cold. He thinks of his own nightmares: the weird visions, the headaches, the persistent haunted feeling.

"I don't know anything for sure," she insists, rushing to reassure him before he can fully start to panic. "Seriously, don't freak out; I haven't, like, seen any gates or anything, it's just— bad dreams. Nose bleeds. I don't know." She hoists her backpack onto her shoulder. "I thought coming here might help."

He catches her by the arm, raking his eyes over her face, looking for any signs of danger. "Is there anything I can do?"

She shakes her head no and tugs free of his grip, and then she's slipping out of the car, letting the door fall shut behind her, and Steve watches her crest the hill while sirens wail inside his head.

—

part 59

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[freedomfireflies]

Wake the Dead*

Summary: An iFall for Harry blurb for Halloween Kinktober, Freaky Fun

The one where you and Harry sneak into an abandoned cemetery at night.

And things get a little spooky.

Can be read as standalone!

Word Count: 2.1k

*Contains Mature and Explicit content! Please only consume what you feel comfortable with!💞You are so much more important!*

“Har…Harry—”

“Shh. Gonna scare the ghosts, ladybug.”

You pout playfully while Harry grins and continues his vivacious sucking on your neck. “Har...what if we get caught?”

“Then we run.”

You whimper deep within the back of your throat, sighing when his tongue darts out to swipe under your jaw. “We’re...we're gonna be late. What if Patrick comes looking—”

“He won’t,” Harry retorts calmly, tightening his hold on your hips while continuing to grind you down against his cock. “Now hush, you’re ruining my fun.”

Left with no other choice, you oblige his request. Eyelids growing heavy with lust as you look off into the dark, empty cemetery. The sound of the wind echoes between the trees; an ominous addition to your frantic and somewhat lewd make out session. Yet despite it all…you feel at peace.

It had been Harry’s idea to come for a leisurely stroll through the cemetery in the first place. Claiming it was perfect Halloween fun – and he knew a shortcut.

 But five minutes later, he had you down on his lap, his hands under your shirt, and his tongue tangled with yours.

Not that you really care to complain. You enjoy the spookiness and the secrecy. After all, you don’t always tend to get such private moments with a man whose face is plastered on almost every billboard across the world.

But in times like tonight – when it’s just you and him – you realize how badly you need them.

And how grateful you are that you texted that wrong number all those months ago.

“Har,” you whisper again, fingers tangling in his roots as you tug. “Baby, there’s cameras—”

“So?”

“So,” you exhale, “if they recognize you, you could get in trouble.”

Harry merely hums. A soft, dangerous sort of sound while his thumbs swipe beneath the swells of your breasts. “Don’t care.”

“Well…you should—”

“But I don’t,” he repeats coolly. “Only care about you.”

You feel your insides twist. “Just…don’t want you to get in trouble.”

He smirks at this. Amused with your nerves and enamored by your care. He leans back, now nudging his nose against yours. “I won’t, baby,” he whispers. “S’nothing wrong with me lovin’ on my girl, is there?”

You smile yourself. “No. But that’s not all you had in mind, is it?”

His grin grows a bit more wicked. “I don’t know. Depends.”

“On?”

“If you like an audience.”

Confused, your brows furrow.

He nods his chin toward the dark graveyard before you, gesturing at the headstones with a devious gleam in his eye. “Heard ghosts like to watch.”

Now you understand, chuckling beneath a quiet breath as you readjust yourself over his lap. “Is that right?”

“Mhm. Kinky little fuckers.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I mean, not that I really mind,” he continues, nuzzling his way back to your neck. Dancing a trail of kisses down to your shoulder. “Kind of feel bad for them, y’know? Bet they never see any action anymore.”

Your lashes flutter. “Yeah…”

“We’d probably be doing them a kindness.”

“Mmm…”

“Let ‘em watch…let them listen…let them feed off your pretty, little screams.”

He suddenly tugs on your hips, forcing your cunt against his hardened cock, and it makes a breath hitch in your throat.

“Guess…guess you’re right,” you exhale, head rolling to the side. “S’only fair.”

He smiles. “Guess it is.”

You whine again as his cold hands smooth across the expanse of your stomach, easily slipping down to your waistband. “Har…”

“What?” It’s a gentle hum but filled with concern as his eyes flick to yours. “We don’t have to, baby, I promise. We can leave right now and go back to the hotel, yeah? Finish what we started there. Honest.”

It’s a kind thought. Considerate and so very Harry that it makes your heart wrench.

But it’s not what you want, and you begin to giggle quietly as you shake your head and lace your fingers around the back of his neck. “No, I don’t wanna go. Want you to fuck me – right here – and let all the ghost’s watch.”

The energy shifts instantaneously as he bursts out into a wide, excitable grin that fills his whole face. Putting those familiar dimples on display as you kiss him hard and with an overwhelming rush of adoration. 

“That’s my girl,” he groans, returning to his work of slipping your zipper down. “Okay, but we gotta be quick, yeah? Don’t want you to catch a cold.”

“Wouldn’t care if I did,” you admit, fingers fumbling with his belt. “Just wanna feel you, Har—”

“I know,” he breathes, moaning some when his thumb finally finds your clit. “Shit, I know, ladybug. Got you all worked up, hm? Like it when I tease you, don’t you?”

You can say nothing, instead nodding again as you pull his cock from his boxers. He’s hard and heavy in your hand. The tip slightly swollen and sticky with pre-cum as you work him in your palm.

“Fuck—” His forehead drops to your collarbone, lips buried into the skin not covered by your sweater. “M’gonna cum if you keep doing that—”

“Well, maybe I wanna tease you, too,” you retort. Watching the way he twitches between your fingers. “Know you like it when I edge you.”

He makes another noise – virile and animalistic. Tortured in a sense and it makes your cunt clench around nothing. “And you think I’m the sadist in the relationship.”

You smirk. “We share.”

After a few more coy pumps, you release him, and move to wrangle your jeans further down your thighs. Creating a bit more room and space before he’s bringing his cock to you.

Steadying your stance above his lap, you rise up onto your knees, and allow yourself to sink down onto him. Slow and easy – enough for you to both feel every second. 

And it’s everything – a rush of endorphins and euphoria that transcends this one singular moment. He’s the perfect stretch. No matter how many times you take him, it feels like the first. Enough to knock the wind from your lungs and make your mind grow fuzzy.

Once you’re finally sat, your arms loop around his neck, holding him to you. Keeping him warm inside your pussy as he curses and presses a kiss to your throat. 

“There you go,” he murmurs, hands cementing to your sides. “You okay, baby?”

You offer another weak nod. “Yeah…yeah, m’good.”

“Good girl. Do you want my help or do you wanna do it yourself?” he asks softly, taking a moment to glance over your expression.

You suck in a needy gasp for air and glance down. “Wanna…wanna do it. I can do it, I swear.”

He chuckles gently before loosening his grip. “Okay, lovie. But I’m right here, yeah? Do whatever you want me to do.”

You dip down and smash your lips against his. Kissing him to showcase your gratitude before you begin to roll your hips and set a steady pace.

It’s relaxed at first. Enough to ease you both into it – create a desperate need and worsen the ache until you’re both whining, frantic messes. 

And he allows you to create your own rhythm. Never rushing you or pulling you the way he wants. He merely wants to enjoy you. Enjoy the sound of his cock slipping in and out of your greedy cunt that sucks him in so well.

The cemetery has grown quiet. Almost too quiet, save for your anxious pants and pathetic whimpers. Occasionally a rogue crow will swoop from tree to tree, but it only makes Harry smirk. As if entertained by the reminder of where you are.

You feel his fingers move for your nipples. Tweaking them between the cold pads of his thumbs before he’s forcing your sweater higher so he can attach his mouth to the left one.

His tongue is warm – a stark contrast to the frigid outside air. But it’s perfect. Sensual and erotic as he sucks you into his mouth and moans.

Your mind falls into an exhilarated haze as you begin to bounce on him. Faster and faster, despite the ache in your joints. Needing to chase after that rush and the sounds he makes.

“So good, baby,” he praises between devious licks and harsh gropes. “Just like that. S’it feel good, lovie? My cock making you feel good?”

“Yes…yes,” you whine, head dropping back as he nips at the skin of your breast. “Harry, please—”

“What, hm?” He flattens his tongue against the aggravated skin. “What do you want, ladybug?”

You make another noise that becomes lost in a gasp, struck with a rush of pleasure from the way his cock strokes against your spongy walls.

“Is that it?” he asks, almost proudly. “Was that your little spot, honey? S’that what you need?”

You nod again and work to find it once more – angling your rolls until you feel it. “Shit…Har…feel so fucking good—”

“Yeah? Gonna cum on my cock? Right now, let ‘em watch?”

You mewl despite his teasing. Ghosts or not, there’s something tantalizing about the idea of him doing this to you in public. No matter how crass, there’s something about it that feels almost sweet. About the idea that Harry Styles – America’s Sweetheart – would be willing to taint his reputation and throw away his anonymity just for you.

His large palms suddenly move for your ass, cupping you firmly before beginning to guide you a bit faster. Seemingly overcome by the need for release the closer he gets. 

“Shit there you go…there you go, honey, fuck.” He’s groaning now – almost incoherent as his brows crease and his teeth grit. He’s so beautiful when he’s being fucked. “M’gonna cum, baby. M’gonna cum…and you’re gonna take it, yeah? Gonna take me in your pretty pussy?”

You stumble over a gasp and scratch your nails down his shoulders. Allowing him to move you exactly the way he needs as he begins to yank you all the way down. Burying himself inside your cunt until you feel him twitch.

“Keep going,” he exhales before it twists into a moan. “Fuck, keep going, lovie, m’almost there—”

“Please,” you whisper, pressing your forehead to his. “Shit, please, Har. Cum inside me, please—”

“God, baby. Gonna, I promise. Fucking fill you—”

“Please—”

“And you’re gonna take me, aren’t you? Keep me inside this sweet little cunt all goddamn night, yeah?”

“Harry, please—”

“Shit—”

It hits him then. Suddenly and with no warning as he releases a lewd groan and empties himself into your pussy. Wrapping his arms around your middle to keep you against his lap while he fills you with each drop he has to offer.  

It makes your fucking head spin, a warmth blossoming in your stomach as you weave your fingers in his roots and pulls his head against your heart. 

However, he doesn’t settle in your embrace for long, instead moving his touch down to your clit to work you toward your own release. Pinching and rubbing in small, practiced circles until you’re practically screaming. Unraveling by his hand only moments later as your pleasured sounds echo around the graveyard. Loud enough to wake the dead.

“There you go,” he murmurs, and it’s sweet like honey. Deep and comforting as he kisses your neck. “Oh, baby. Fucking soaking me, aren’t you? Can feel you all over my thighs, lovie. S’fucking perfect. Aren’t you?”

You feel your lips stretch into a lazy smile as you finally manage to catch your breath and slump against his strong frame. Allowing him to hold you up as you both succumb to the quiet night. 

You feel his fingers stroke against the skin of your hips. Another quiet reminder of his adoration that makes your stomach flip. 

“Did so good,” he praises, nuzzling his nose against your jaw in an unspoken attempt at asking for a kiss. He grins when you give it to him. “See? S’more fun with an audience, isn’t it?”

 You laugh, eyes trailing over to the row of tombstones just beside you. “Speaking of which…do you know what a ghost’s favorite cheese is?”

Instantly, a grin is exploding across his face. “What?”

You take a beat to build up the anticipation, fighting a smirk as you whisper, “Ghoul-da.”

He groans, amused and exasperated as he tightens his arms around your waist. “God, that was your worst yet.”

“What? You aren’t scared stiff?”

“Fuck off—”

“Are you gonna boo me?”

“Ladybug—”

“Well, you better fasten your sheet belt, cause there’s more where that came from—”

“All right,” he huffs playfully, tugging you closer until you squeal. “You win. And you’re insufferable.”

You chuckle. “Maybe, but…you love me.”

To this, he smiles, and your heart feels warm and fuzzy as he guides his lips to yours.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

~ iFall for Harry Masterlist

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~ Main Masterlist

~ Blurb Masterlist

Amazing divider by @firefly-graphics! 💞

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[steddieasitgoes]

It’s Mother’s Day 1973 and Steve’s mom isn’t home.

Instead of spending the day with her only son, she’s left to follow her husband on his latest business trip. Steve doesn’t remember where she’s going, just that she promised to bring him back a snow globe for his collection. The one that sits on the highest shelf the bookcase in his room — collecting dust.

He’s been pawned off to his nanny again. Poor Ms. Anderson who has put her own middle-aged life on hold to raise a kid whose not hers. Steve’s not stupid. He knows his parents pay her well to take care of him, but he still wishes she’d tell them off. At least, put up a fight, so she didn’t have to spend all her weekends with him.

Usually the duo stay cooped up in the Harrington’s House. Ms. Anderson will cook him a nice meal and they’ll spend the afternoon playing games or watching movies. She’ll fall asleep early in the movie and Steve will disappear to play with his toys or snoop through his parents things to try to figure out where they’ve gone this time.

Today’s different though.

It’s Mother’s Day, after all.

Today, Ms. Anderson has taken him to Roane Hill Cemetery. She lets him hold a massive bouquet of pink carnations as she gathers a picnic blanket and basket from the back of her car.

“What are we doing here?” Steve asks, struggling to keep pace with Ms. Andersons determined steps.

“Visiting my mom.”

“But isn’t she…” Steve doesn’t finish the sentence.

“Yeah,” she says, spreading out the blanket next to a small gravestone. “But just because someone’s gone doesn’t mean they’re out of our lives. Coming here makes me feel connected to her.”

Steve doesn’t understand that. 

How can Ms. Anderson feel connected to her dead mom if she can’t even look at her? He doesn’t even feel connected to his own mom when she’s in the same room as him.

Maybe it’s a girl thing, he thinks.

Steve sits down quietly, after that. Ms. Anderson clearly needs this visit and Steve’s not going to interfere with her plans. Not when said plans get him out of the house for the first time in a week. So he sits and listens to Ms. Anderson talk to the headstone. Watches as she digs out a small flower pot in the ground to place the flowers in.

It’s only when she ducks her head in a prayer that Steve decides to explore.

“Don’t go too far,” she warns. “And be mindful of others!”

The cemetery is full of older people. Some sit on blankets like Ms. Anderson with gorgeous flowers and picnic baskets full of food, ready to spend hours with their departed mothers. Others, stay for a few minutes. Set down flowers and tap headstones before ducking their heads while retreating to their cars.

There’s laughter and tears and Steve doesn’t know how to feel about all of it, except lonely.

He wishes there was someone his age around here.

Steve ventures deeper into the cemetery, where the trees are taller and fuller. Older, Steve thinks. It’s through a small clearing that he spots a boy about his age sitting in front of a headstone. An older man stands behind him, a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

He’s too far away to know for sure, but he’s pretty sure the boy is talking to the headstone. Head tilted forward, shoulders hiccuping up and down like the boy is crying. Steve wonders who he could be visiting. Certainly not his mom, right? He’s much too young to not have a mom — Steve should know.

He watches as the little boy leans forward and kisses the headstone and Steve realizes it must be.

Steve must make a sound, a gasp or a small cry because the boy and the older man’s head whip around in his direction. He’s still too far away to hear, but he can tell the man is telling the boy something. Whispering in his ear before nodding his head in Steve’s direction.

He should leave. Ms. Anderson is probably done with her prayer now and she’ll be worried if he’s not back soon, but he can’t leave. Not when he spots the little boy trudging through the tall grass towards him.

“Are you lost?” the boy asks.

Steve shakes his head.

“What are you doing all the way out here then?”

Steve shrugs. “Was that… were you talking to your mom?”

“Yeah,” Eddie nods, looking over his shoulder. “Uncle Wayne says it’s good to come talk to her ‘cause she gets lonely too. Are you here for your mom?”

“Oh no,” Steve says. “My mom is, well she’s not here but—”

“Do you want to help me?” Eddie asks, before Steve can finish it. “Wayne wants me to go find a yellow flower in the field over there. It’s so big I could use some help.”

“Sure!” Steve says, happy to finally have someone his age to talk to. “But why yellow?”

“It’s my mom’s favorite color!” Eddie smiles. “She said, she always felt like the sun was touching her when she wore it. It was her happy color.”

Years later, when Steve and Eddie have reconnected and they’re going through Steve’s closet to find items to donate, Eddie will ask Steve why he has so many yellow sweaters.

“It makes me feel like the sun, warm and happy,” Steve says, smiling softly. “I used to wrap myself in yellow whenever my parents left me home alone.”  

And it’s then and only then do the two of them realize they met long before they crossed paths in the halls of Hawkins High and even longer before portals to hell-like dimensions open.

[neonghostlights]

Not sure what you’ll think about this but Eddie cuts across a cemetery on his way somewhere in a hurry and bumps into reader who was visiting someone’s grave. They have instant chemistry, but then he never sees her again and can’t find her, come to find out, she was a ghost.

Dear Betty Anon, this is amazing. I love ghosts. I am obsessed with them. If you knew me in real life you would see just how obsessed I am. I also am a lover of cemeteries so this was the perfect request. My mind is swimming with future ideas of these two because I really don't want to just leave it here.

Warnings: None besides mentioning drugs/Eddie being a drug dealer and reader being a ghost.

Wordcount: 2.2k

The Shortcut

The dead grass crunched beneath his boots as he cut through the trees. It was dark out, so late that if anyone spotted him in these woods they would think he was a phantom of some sort, going out on his nightly haunt. 

He didn’t mean to be late for the deal  but the van wouldn’t start when he tried to leave earlier. It was probably just a dead battery, a quick fix that he could easily take care of in the morning, but in the moment it felt like it was the end of the world. He had a reputation to uphold of being the best drug dealer in Hawkins, besides Rick.  He hoped whoever was waiting for him wouldn’t give him a hard time. 

The trees got fuller on this part of the trail, almost completely blocking out the light of the moon. He wished he had brought a flashlight with him when he left, but he had been in such a hurry that he had never even thought about it. 

These woods were creepy enough during the day, but at night the creepiness got turned all the way up. The trees here were nearly bare from the autumn weather, full of sharp angles that reminded Eddie of skeletons. Each branch casted a shadow on the ground that looked like arms reaching out of the darkness at him. The sleeves of his jacket got caught on his jacket, the woods seemingly trying to pull him deeper inside. 

The hair on the back of his neck stood, he couldn’t tell from what though, either the chill or the fear. He fought the urge to turn around constantly to make sure there was nothing trailing him. He reasoned that if there was something scary behind him then he’d just rather not know. 

His foot caught on a thick root cutting across the trail, sending him flying towards the ground. He felt like one of the girls that faceplant in a horror movie and then refuse to get up in time to continue running from the slow walking killer. He pushed himself up with an annoyed groan, the dirt and sticks cutting into his palms and making them sting. 

At this point he wanted to turn around and give up. He knew if he did then Rick would have his ass for it, and if the people he was meeting with were sketchy enough he’d rather not have them coming after him too. People get pissed off when it comes to their drugs. 

That’s why Eddie thought he was good at this job. He looked scary enough most of the time for people not to want to mess with him. They see leather jackets, long hair, and chains and decide they shouldn’t mess with him. 

On the outside he was tough, on the inside he simply was a man that was about to piss himself from how scary these woods were.

Wayne had always warned him away from these woods, especially at night. His uncle had spouted some stories: saying he had proof that Hawkins was a cursed place. Eddie usually took his warnings for granted, blaming the man’s old Appalachian superstitions that he never grew out of once he moved to Hawkins years ago.  He was surely wishing he had listened tonight though. 

The trees finally broke to the back of the old side of the Hawkins Cemetery. He groaned internally, he had completely forgotten that the trail would take him here. The graves in this part were more aged than the other side, less cared for and not as fancy. It sent an ache through his chest to see how abandoned these graves were, long forgotten by those who still lived. 

The fog rolled by his feet, reminding him of a horror movie with a cheap fog machine. The air in the cemetery had an electric feel to it, probably due to the comically large full moon that seemed to take up half the sky. 

He hadn’t been here in so long; hadn’t visited his mom’s grave in years. This place always made him feel like he was being watched, like there were eyes behind these headstones watching his every move. 

Eddie pushed forward along the trail, weaving throughout the rows of headstones. He silently hoped no one happened to drive by and spot him and call the cops on him for trespassing, especially with his supply on him.

All he needed to do was follow the trail and make it to the big iron gates that protected the dead from the living. Eddie thought it was kind of stupid for the gates to be there when there was a trail that led directly inside but he guessed that not many people knew about the back entrance. 

He was halfway down the path, about to go down another curve when movement out the corner of his eye had him pausing. Eddie froze, head snapping in that direction. All the stories that Wayne had told him raced through his mind, every possible monster he had ever heard of suddenly becoming a real life possibility. 

Instead of a monster, he saw you. You sat on your knees in front of a gravestone, legs bent and head dropped low. Your face was shielded by the night time shadows. Eddie thought it was strange to see you there, alone in the middle of the night. He heard you let out a sniffle, the unmistakable sound of you crying. 

He thought that maybe he should just ignore you and go on his way, pretending that he never saw you here. 

But it was late, and dark. And you were obviously distressed and alone in a cemetery. Eddie didn’t think of himself as much of a hero, but he didn’t feel right just leaving you all alone without checking on you first. 

“Hey! You okay?” He called out, still keeping his distance. 

You jumped, head slowly lifting up to look at him. His breath caught in his throat when he took in your face. You were so beautiful. Your face changed from sadness to surprise as you stared at Eddie with wide eyes. 

“Sorry,” he apologized, walking closer to you like a moth drawn to a flame. Each foot moved automatically in front of the other to bring him closer to you. “I didn't mean to scare you. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

He stood behind the stone you sat at now, switching his weight between both feet while he waited for you to answer. You gave him a strange look that he couldn’t decipher, like you were completely in shock that he was talking to you. 

Up close, you were even more beautiful. Eddie would even dare to describe your beauty as haunting. The moon lit your skin in an unnatural way, making you the brightest thing in this dark place. You wore a white dress and polished heels. Your choice in clothing made Eddie concerned. It was definitely too cold to be out in that. 

“I’m fine,” you said slowly, mouth forming the words in an odd way. You stood gracefully to face him. 

“What are you doing out here alone? Aren’t you cold?” He asked, about to strip off his leather jacket to hand over to you. Eddie was shivering under his jacket, the temperature seemed to drop at least ten degrees. 

You put a single hand up, stopping his movements. “I’m not cold.” 

“Are you sure?” Eddie checked with a raised brow and pursed lips. 

You just nodded silently at him, eyes looking him up and down. You seemed skittish, like you wanted to run.

“You’re just dressed a little funny for the cold,” Eddie commented and then immediately regretted it. Because of course he would meet a pretty girl and then blow it by telling her she’s dressed funny. 

Instead of getting mad, you smiled a wide smile at him. “I think my dress is funny too. Definitely not my favorite.”

Eddie laughed, wondering why you were wearing it then but he didn’t ask. 

“Uh, sorry for your loss,” he said, pointing down at the headstone you stood in front of. 

You shrugged a shrug of indifference. “Thank you.” 

“You, uh, come out to the cemetery in the middle of the night often?” Eddie asked awkwardly. 

You laughed, looking surprised at yourself for it. “Unfortunately.” 

Eddie knew he wasn’t doing a very good job at flirting but he made you laugh and that had to be a good thing. Maybe you would think his clumsy flirting was charming.  

“I’m Eddie Munson,” he introduced himself, sticking his hand over the headstone to shake yours. 

You just stared at his hand with a sheepish smile, making no move to shake it. You did tell him your first and last name as well though. Eddie dropped his hand and shoved it into his pocket, embarrassed. 

“Are you from around here? I’ve never seen you before.” He would definitely remember you. 

“Lived here my whole life. How about you?”

Hawkins was a small town, where everyone basically knew everyone else in some way and he didn’t recognize you at all. Your last name seemed familiar but he couldn’t place it off the top of his head. You looked to be the same age as him but maybe you were homeschooled. Why would you lie about growing up here? 

“I moved to Hawkins when I was twelve. I live with my uncle down at the trailer park.” 

“Oh, Hawkins has a trailer park?” 

Eddie looked at you confused. Of course Hawkins had a trailer park. It had been there forever. Everyone knew about it since it was the butt of many jokes around town. 

You noted the confused expression on Eddie’s face. “Sorry. I don’t get out much,” you explained shyly, tucking your face to your chest. 

So, you were definitely homeschooled or something, Eddie thought. 

“Shit,” Eddie hissed, looking down at his watch. “I’m late for something I’ve got to go. Do you wanna walk out with me?” 

“I think I’ll stay here a little longer,” you said with a sad smile. “It was nice to meet you, Eddie Munson. Thanks for talking with me.” 

“Maybe I’ll see you around sometime?” Eddie asked as he backed away, careful not to trip over a headstone and embarrass himself even more in front of you. 

“Maybe,” you said, watching as he left. 

Eddie turned, making his way to the tall cemetery gates. He turned to cast one last glance at you but didn’t see you anymore. He figured that maybe you were hidden behind a stone and he couldn’t see you from this angle. 

The gates were locked with a chain and padlock, making Eddie have to jump over the fence. It was almost too tall and he barely made it over, nearly ripping his pants on a metal spike. It made him wonder how you even got in in the first place. There was no way you could have made that jump without hurting yourself in a dress and heels. Eddie thought that maybe you walked down the same path he did, but that path started in the trailer park that you didn’t seem to know about. 

There had to be another way then. 

Eddie made it to his deal super late but ended up calling Rick from a pay phone and catching a ride with him so he wouldn’t have to walk back through those damn creepy woods. 

A week later, Eddie found himself thinking about you a lot. 

You were kind of weird, but in a good way. He felt bad for leaving you in that cemetery alone, he should have stayed with you to make sure you were safe. He wished he would have asked for your number or something so he could check on you to make sure you made it home alright. 

He had even mentioned you to Steve and Robin but neither of them had heard your name before. They also thought it was weird that you had been out there alone in the middle of the night but the conversation changed as quickly as it started to something else with the topic of you long forgotten. 

Eddie found himself walking through the same trail, heading back to the cemetery. You said you went there a lot and he was hoping to catch you again, hopefully get to know you more. You seemed a little scared last time he was there, he wished you’d want to talk to him again. 

He practically ran through the woods, narrowly avoiding the same root he tripped over last time. 

When he reached the cemetery he headed straight to the grave stone you were at last time. Disappointment filled him when he realized that you weren’t there that night and that he had walked through the creepy woods for nothing. 

The stone looked old, with dirt and moss covering most of it. He shined his flashlight on it, noting the crack that ran through the top of it. Dead weeds surrounded the base of the stone, clearly allowed to overgrow in the warm months.

This one had been here for a while and looked to be long abandoned. There were no flowers, or pretty decorations like the other graves. He wondered how old it was, illuminating the year listed on it. 

 Eddie was about to give up and make the journey home when he happened to glance down at the name and froze, disbelief sinking in when he read your name on the headstone. 

[the-likesofus]

the forest for the trees

6x15 Coda | Buck POV | 1k words | Confessions, Getting Together

"I see you." Is the first thing that Eddie says when Buck opens the door to his apartment to find his best friend standing in the hallway at eleven o'clock in the evening looking all kinds of distraught.

"I–, what?"

"I see you, Buck."

"Well, yes. You're standing right in front of me." Buck says, stepping back to let Eddie in the door. "Why are you here? Where's Chris?"

"At Pepa's for the night." Eddie shakes his head like he doesn't understand why Buck is asking, like it's irrelevant, and he leans against the kitchen bench. "But that's not–. Buck." 

The way Buck's name crosses his lips is almost like a wine, a plea. Eddie's shoulders are a tense line while he rings his fingers together and chews his lip. Buck's skin prickles with apprehension.

"Do you want a beer?" Buck asks slowly.

"No. No, no thank you. I just–." Eddie stumbles through his words like they're too big for his mouth. "No, I just need you to listen for a minute."

He takes a deep breath and shifts his feet like he's settling himself.

"I see you, Buck! You are kind, and you are thoughtful. You–, you hate mustard and love cooking shows and you screw your nose up every time you see one of those little scraggly dogs but you'll stop to pat it anyway.

"You are always doing things for everyone else. You are supportive and genuine and you love my son, Buck. And he loves you too and I will never be able to thank you for everything you have done for him, for both of us, and I will never be able to make it up to you. But Buck, I see you, every part of you. Even the parts you don't like and even more so the parts that you can't see."

Eddie is red in the face when he slams his jaw shut and stares off absently at Buck's sink, his eyes wide and glassy. 

Buck steps closer to him, slowly, like approaching a spooked horse. 

"Eddie, I–." Buck doesn't really know what to say, what can he say to follow a speech like that while his mind is still reeling and his heart is pounding in his chest? This feels like something big, something important. "I appreciate that, but what brought this on? Are you okay?"

Buck has to stop himself from reaching out a hand to test Eddie's temperature because the man looks three seconds away from passing out. 

"You said, yesterday, at the cemetery, that you thought that you felt like Natalia saw you. But how could she, Buck, how could she when she doesn't know you?" Eddie chews the inside of his cheek as his eyes flit between Buck's eyes and his chin, never resting anywhere for long. "Maybe the lightning strike did change you, I can see that change but you are still you. Still all of those things I just said just–. You're alive, Buck, and I think you feel that way now too and you don't have to pretend to be the 'same old Buck' for anyone because you are him. You are my best friend, and my partner, hell, even my co-parent in all the ways that matter."

"Eddie–?"

"No. No, if I don't say this now I don't think I'll be able to, so listen. You–, just listen." Eddie points a finger at Buck and then finally locks eyes with him. Buck feels as though Eddie's dark gaze is boring straight into his soul. "I see you. I see you but more than that I know you. I love you. I am so glad you are alive and I never want to know another minute without you in it."

Buck feels it, he feels seen. But he's always felt seen by Eddie. Eddie always understands exactly what Buck is trying to say even when he doesn't have the words, and knows exactly what he always needs to hear. Buck has never felt dismissed or overlooked by Eddie and by God it's been in front of him all along and he realizes now that his vision was so clouded by searching for the things he thought he needed that he didn't realize he already had everything he's ever wanted. 

"Eddie, I–." Buck kind of wants to cry but if he starts now he's not sure he'll stop. Every ounce of pent-up frustration and confusion and hope and terror that has been fighting within him since he woke up in the hospital is pressing at his seams and he suddenly feels too small to contain any of it.

"Do you understand me?" Eddie continues and Buck suddenly realizes that he's right in front of him, toe to toe with Eddie's hand hovering by Buck's waist like he wants to touch but is afraid Buck might break, so Buck steps into him and wraps his arms around Eddie's shoulders, both hands instantly cupping around the back of Eddie's head as he draws him in. 

"Yes," he whispers in Eddie's ear as the other man meets him seamlessly and gathers Buck up, holding him back just as tightly. "Yes, I do, I promise."

"Good." 

Eddie leans back after a few long, deep breaths and cups Buck's checks in his hands. "You okay?"

"I feel like I should be asking you that. You're the one that barged in here rambling like a madman. Are you okay?"

"Never been better." Eddie grins. "I'm going to kiss you now."

"You are?"

"I am." Eddie says firmly and Buck's stomach does a summersault. "Are you ready?"

Buck chuckles at the absurdity but also at how genuine the question is and how strongly the sense of right washes over him.

"I am now." He says and then Eddie does. Their lips meet in the middle in a careful press, each of them unsure, out of practice, and overwhelmed. But then Eddie smiles against Buck's lips and they're pressing together again, this time firmer, more sure of themselves and each other, and then all Buck can feel is Eddie, Eddie Eddie. 

His hands on his cheeks, Buck's on his shoulders, their chests pressed together and their arms squished between them. 

They pull away for a breath before Eddie dips back in to leave one last searing kiss against his lips and then they're breathing heavily into the tiny slither of space between them as they both grin manically. 

"I see you." Eddie whispers and it sounds like I love you, so Buck kisses him again. 

[tellmealovestory]

Cemetery

Summary: Eddie has an idea for where you guys can go to get some alone time.

Warnings: Implied smut.

Spooktober Masterlist

There was something about nighttime drives you love. 

Maybe it’s the lack of cars on the road as the tires hum on the blacktop. Lights off in the houses that you pass. Nobody on the street to catch you and Eddie together relaying that information back to your parents who made their disapproval well known to you both. 

Or maybe it’s that late at night, sitting in the passenger seat of Eddie’s van, windows down letting the chill air in making the smoke from his joint swirl around it’s easy to imagine living somewhere else, somewhere you don’t have to hide your relationship and sneak around in search of alone time. 

Sitting up straighter when you catch a quick glimpse of the inky black lake through the tall trees, anticipation thrums through your body knowing that in a matter of minutes you’ll be parked and crawling into the back seat of his van. Eddie’s firm body laying next to yours as you show him how much you missed him.

But as the headlights swing over the parking lot that anticipation plummets like a skydiver whose parachute doesn’t open when you see all the other cars parked with couples who seem to have the same idea. 

Eddie senses your hesitation and reaches over to squeeze your knee as if to say it’s okay, nothing wrong with a little audience, but you have a different opinion on the matter. 

“Now what?” you ask, slumping back against the seat, arms crossed over your chest like a petulant child who’s just been told no for the first time.

Eddie drums his fingers against the steering wheel, head cocked to the side in thought, pink tongue sticking out a little as his eyes scan over the full parking lot. 

“You trust me?” he asks after a few minutes of silence and when he turns to you there’s a glint in his eyes that screams mischief and mayhem, but also an adventure and you’re someone who never turns down an adventure when it comes to Eddie Munson. 

You don’t answer with words. Reaching for his hand you twine your fingers together, squeezing his always calloused palms and fingertips from years of playing guitar. Leaning over the console you press a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth and when his lips curl up from that first touch of your strawberry scented lip balm you finally answer his question. 

“Always and forever, Eddie.”

“No. No. No. No.” 

“Wait, baby, c’mon, just let me-”

“Eddie! No! What the hell is wrong with you?” 

“Uh you wanted somewhere quiet and empty. Did I not deliver you somewhere quiet and empty?” 

Okay, maybe he had you there. It was quiet. And it was empty. But it was also a fucking cemetery full of dead people and probably ghosts and probably bored teenagers looking to prank some couple stupid enough to park and make out here. 

“When you said you had an idea I thought you meant a park or something. Or an empty parking lot that the cops don’t patrol. Not here!” Your arm sweeps out to gesture to the headstones that are illuminated by Eddie’s headlights. 

Rubbing at your goosebump covered arms a gentle breeze drifts through the still open windows and your earlier need for the man next to you is slowly fizzling when he shuts the van off. 

It’s quiet now without the radio and the disc jockey spinning supposed ghost stories to scare the late night listeners in between tunes of Metallica and Iron Maiden. 

You turn in your seat to face him, that glint in his eyes is shining brighter now than when it was at Lover’s Lake and despite your protests at hooking up in a cemetery, which you're not going to do because no, just no, you still lean over to cup his cheek.

Pressing your lips to his lightly Eddie is only too eager to kiss you back, deepening it as his tongue slides across your lower lip, but before things can get too heated which is an all too easy thing to happen when it comes to him you’re pulling back and settling into your seat again. 

“I love you, but we are not hooking up in this cemetery and I can not believe how weird you are to think that this is okay.” There’s no malice or venom in your voice when you call him weird because he knows how much you enjoy that part of his personality. 

There’s only a light teasing that he takes in stride because yeah, he is a little fucking weird, but it’s what keeps your relationship interesting and keeps you on your toes. 

“Okay, okay.” He starts the van back up and it rumbles to life once again illuminating the cemetery in front of you. “Think I might have another place where we could try and be alone.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and you laugh as you shake your head before turning more serious.

“It better not be the morgue, Eddie or I swear we are done,” you say and this time Eddie joins in on your laughter. 

[her-favorite]

HAPPY HALLOWEEN; J. VALESKA

JEROME VALESKA X F!READER

WARNINGS: this is sort of rushed since i really wanted to get a jerome halloween fic out and my writers block has not relented 😭 so i apologize for how bad this is!! also, this is kind of a random thing i added (though, it’s not really an important detail) bruce is already batman in this!

WC: 3296

A/N: you guys know i had to make a halloween jerome fic - i had s4 jerome in mind for this btw! - jerome’s a cutie in this tbh (when is he not)

SUMMARY: On Halloween night, Jerome decided to surprise his girl and take her to two special places in Gotham!

-

"I don't think this is a good idea, Jerome." Your eyes searched the area as goosebumps filled your skin. You weren't sure if it was the weather that caused the chill or something else.

"Oh, c'mon! Loosen up, doll. This is gonna be great!" His loud, cheery voice echoed throughout the whole woods, making birds that were hiding in trees fly away. The sound of their wings flapping joined in with the reverberation of Jerome's tone, adding to the eeriness of the situation.

Twigs snapped under your shoes, breaking the utter silence of the night. Jerome thought that, since it was Halloween, it was a good idea to spend some time in a cemetery. Though you weren't exactly opposed to the idea at first, the ginger decided to propose that you go at night instead. You knew you had nothing to be afraid of, given if anyone were to come by and they were to see Jerome Valeska, you were positive they would run away screaming; damn the spirits that supposedly haunted the area.

Jerome walked carelessly through the grounds, never once looking down to see where his feet were heading. That backfired once his foot fell into a whole in the dirt. Before you could help him or ask if he was okay, a loud boisterous laugh sounded from the man. The same sound caused crows to chirp and crickets to silence.

"Watch out, toots, something might come up and grab ya!" Jerome giggled and reached out for you once he got his foot free. His arms wrapped around you from behind, caging you into his body. A quiet laugh resonated from you as his head dug into your neck and his gloved fingers started to tickle your sides. As you started to protest and run from his hold, he makes sure not to let go.

Jerome loved to tease you in any shape or form. It was one way that always left him entertained, which was a hard task for someone to do. Though Jerome would never admit it, you were never boring. And everyone knows Jerome hates boring. He found a deep sense of comfort in you. Whether it was because of the way you loved him and held him, or because you genuinely cared for him. It wasn't something he was ever given, so it was new to him. It still felt foreign to him when he felt an overwhelming sense of admiration for you. It was like something else took over his body and added this weird soft side to him. A part of him hated that he ever acknowledged that side, but the other part enjoyed it. It was something that he could get used to.

"Did you hear that?" Jerome abruptly stopped and whispered in your ear. His grip never let up as his breath hit against you. You paused and the hair raised on your body at his words. As you tried to listen for anything, your ears didn't pick up any noise. "Kidding! I got you!" He laughed noisily and backed away from you to animatedly slap his knee. You scoffed and started to walk forward, trying your best to make sure you could see where you were going. "You should'a seen your face, doll!" His cackle continued but faded shortly after. Loud and fast footsteps were heard behind you once the man realized you were heading off without him. "Hey, wait for me!"

The sky was pitch black as it reached midnight. The moon was full and was shining down, almost perfectly, on the two of you. There were a couple of lights surrounding the cemetery, lighting it up just barely. A small layer of fog creeped up and sat in the air, adding to your rough field of vision. It was the ideal night for Halloween. You were positive that if you guys were closer to the road and neighborhood, you'd hear the chatter of kids wandering around, trick or treating. But you couldn't. It was dead silent. The graveyard was ways away from the commotion, the only noise being heard were your voices and the sound of leaves and branches being crushed under your feet.

"Why are we here, J?" You've been wanting to ask since he proposed the idea because you knew there was always something else he had planned. A smile spreads across his face, adding to the scars and making them look longer. The sight would've been jarring to anyone else, but you've always liked his smile. It has character and even if you didn't want to admit it, it was really attractive.

"Just wanted to go out for a walk with my girl! Is that so wrong?" His smile widens as he looks over at you, a playful tone evident in his voice. You breathe out a puff of air in response, knowing that you weren't going to get a genuine answer. He giggles at your annoyance and keeps walking, just a step or two ahead of you. "Patience, Y/N." He acts as if he's scolding you, looking back at you with a serious face. It makes your expression soften and a small smile creep on your lips. He hums at your response, turning back around with a smug grin.

Jerome's outfit consisted of a white straitjacket and matching pants, although his arms weren't tied together in the fabric. When you had saw him in it, you had originally thought that it was his Halloween costume, but then you remembered that it was just Jerome. It made him stick out like a sore thumb in the dark, empty woods. If anyone were to walk by, the first thing that would catch their attention would be him. Although, that would probably happen anyway.

"Almost there, dolly." The rasp in Jerome's voice was clear as he spoke quietly. You stood partially behind him, his back and a few headstones in your field of vision. You've debated on reaching out for his hand as the night grew colder, realizing that you hadn't brought a heavy enough coat to warm yourself up with. You pushed back any hesitant thoughts as you moved your hand out to grab on to his. His palms were just as cold, maybe even colder than yours, but it brought you a sense of comfort either way.

Jerome tensed up at first, not expecting the sudden touch. This was another thing he had to get used to, the feeling of someone's hand in his, or the touch of you that isn't going to make him flinch. He knew you would never do anything to him, and he's never actually voiced his thoughts before, but there's always that thought that lingers in the back of his head that reminds him of his mother. How she used to hurt him, and he'll never forget that. And although he hates to even give her an ounce of his attention, he'll always be grateful that he was the one that killed her.

"And..." His voice startles you as it cuts through the silence. "Tada!" His smile is as wide as ever as he stares forward. You follow his line of sight and move next to him, looking straight ahead of you. There was a small blanket lying on the ground with a few headstones guarding it. A pumpkin bucket - that seemed to be a trick or treater's basket - sat on top with a lone lantern sitting diagonal from it. You stood in shock at the sight before you, your hand subconsciously squeezing his tighter.

"Jerome, this is..." Before you could even think of your next words, he cut you off.

"I had those clowns grab some stuff for me," Jerome starts walking again, dragging you behind him. He was referring to the remainders of his cult, and to be honest, you weren't sure if you wanted to know how they got that candy. "Since I can't go trick or treating because people would not give me any candy," he says it like he's offended, and it makes you smile at his childish tone. His arms fly out and they point to the pumpkin that held the candy inside. "Why not steal some?" He smiles and sits down on the blanket, taking you with him.

“This is really nice, J.” You smile and look at him. You knew you were teasing him with the way he rolled his eyes as a reply.

“Don’t get all sappy on me, doll.” He grumbles and reaches forward to grab the basket. His big hands grip the object and then flips it over, giggling as each piece of candy fell onto the blanket. His fingers wiggle as he looks them over, contemplating on which one to eat first. He reaches out for some Skittles and tears the top open and throws his head back, pouring all of the little candies in his mouth.

You watch him as he goes back and forth between chocolate bars and gummies, some times swallowing the food or making a disgusted face and tossing the packaging.

You get pulled out of your daydream when you hear him call your name. “C’mere, doll,” Jerome giggles and looks over at you. He had a gummy worm in his mouth, one side wedged between his lips, and the other waiting to be eaten. He laughs as best as he could with the snack in his mouth and leans forward, getting closer to you. A soft laugh escapes your lips as you lean forward and bite off the opposite side of the gummy. As you swallow the snack, Jerome’s hand moves to the back of your head and steadies you. Suddenly, he moves forward and pressed his lips against yours, immediately pushing his tongue past your lips.

“Mm, you taste like candy.” He giggles softly and moves his hand down to your chin, dragging your lip down before letting it go again.

After a half hour or so of eating and exchanging candy, Jerome abruptly stood up and grabbed your hand, forcefully bringing you up with him. “Next stop!” He yells excitedly, quickly moving forward and walking out of the cemetery, leaving all of the stuff behind. As usual, you didn’t know where he was taking you. You should have been used to his impulsive decisions, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t surprised each time.

Once you both make your way out of the eery, silent graveyard, loud voices and music fill the air. Little kids and their parents, or teens with friends crowd the streets, the sounds of their conversations echoing through the neighborhood. Jerome walks with you down the sidewalk with a wide smile on his face, subconsciously swinging your hand with his.

As much as Jerome couldn’t care less about others, he always had a good time on Halloween. He never got to dress up and trick or treat when he was younger, part of it being his mother’s choice and the other involving the constant moving with the Circus. The Valeska’s never had any proper holidays, or frankly, childhood. You had to show Jerome a lot of traditions that were popular surrounding certain holidays, or even involving him in some of yours. The man looked like a kid on Christmas morning every time you’d share something new with him. When you had told him, a few years ago, that people got to get free candy - not from stealing - and dress up as anything they wanted to be, it was almost like you told him the answer to his life’s questions.

When someone would look up and realize they passed Jerome Valeska, they would either stand in shock or run. Both of them amused the maniac as he cackled at the reactions of others. The loud sound stopped suddenly as he put his foot down, making you still with him. “Is that me?” You look up at him and follow his line of vision. Your furrowed brow loosens up at his question once you realize what he was looking at. A kid, maybe 17 or 18 was walking around with a couple friends, fake staples aligning around his face. A white and black striped shirt covered his top half as his mismatched pants correlated. A smile was on his face as poorly drawn lines brought it out.

A loud laugh sounded from Jerome. He doubled over and squeezed your hand tight in the process, unknowingly catching everyone’s attention. Though you were sure that was his idea. Once he leaned back up to his full height, he wipes a fake tear from his eye with a huge smile on his face. “Oh, doll, that was amazing!” He giggles again, looking down at you before moving his gaze back towards the street.

Once families and others realized who they were walking amongst, some screamed and others gasped as they ran from him. If possible, his smile widened even more. Jerome began walking again, making sure to pull you with him. He hums an unknown song as he drags you in front of him and twirls you twice, bringing you close to him and then back out. It wasn’t uncommon for Jerome to pull these things, occasionally taking time (usually at night) to dance with you. You weren’t too sure why he started this, but you weren’t upset about it. It felt comforting to be in that vulnerable state with him. It made you feel like he truly did love and care for you, even if it was hard for him to communicate that.

“Almost there, babydoll.” His raspy voice cut you out of your memories and you looked up at him and flashed him a smile. His gloved hand never let go of yours as he swung them back and forth lightly, still randomly spinning you when he see fit.

“And..” he smiles and spins you once more before taking you in his arms and dipping you. “Fin!” Jerome lifts you back up and twirls you to look forward as he circles around you to stand in front of you. His right arm stretches out behind him as he points while staring down at you with a grin.

Haly’s Circus is in town.

The lights illuminated everything in a 3-mile radius, glaring up into the dark sky. The sight was beautiful, even over the large wall that separated the attraction from the outside.

“C’mon, let’s go inside!” He grabs your hand and runs for the entrance. You have no choice but to follow, but you couldn’t say that you would’ve protested. “Even better than I remember…” Jerome’s voice was smaller, quieter than usual. His eyes roamed the area, taking in the festive decorations, rides, foods and tents. You realized that Jerome was referring to that one night over a year ago when he had all of his cult over at Haly’s.

Always the Ringleader.

The scene truly was mesmerizing. The original lights were switched out with orange and black, matching the iconic Halloween colors. Other stands were decorated with scary toys and bat plushies, while food booths sold drinks served in cauldrons and pieces of pizza stuffed in tiny coffins.

Neither of you knew who had cleaned this place up since that day, but you were grateful that it was. Haly’s was always a pretty setting in a place like Gotham. There truly wasn’t much to see in a city like this, so having a Circus around was always entertaining. Especially if there was a certain clown that came from it…

Jerome gasps loudly, “Look, doll! They still have my game!” He smiles and runs for it as you follow him. He stood in front of a stand that held several darts that you had to pop balloons with in order to win a prize. The man behind the counter was about to grumble something inaudibly, before he looked up and jumped at the sight of the psychopath in front of him. “Heya, me and my dolly want some darts.” Jerome raises his eyebrows and reaches his hand out, putting out his palm. The man nods swiftly, quickly moving forward to grab them and hand them to the ginger. Jerome sighs contently and smiles, opening and closing his mouth.

As he steadies his dart and pulls it back, he pauses. “Oh, how rude of me,” he starts, playfully. “Ladies first.” His voice went back to normal as the rasp came back. He hands the thin dart to you and moves behind you. You steady your grip and squint one of your eyes to try and get a better view. Jerome was close behind you as you focused, or rather, tried to focus. His close proximity always made you feel dizzy, an affect that he caused that always made him laugh. “Nervous, baby?” He leans down and whispers in your ear, causing goosebumps to raise on your skin. A quiet, sinister laugh sounded in your ear in response.

Before you could think any more, you tossed the dart and a loud pop was heard throughout the area. “Well, would’ja look at that!” Jerome smiles and looks over at the popped balloon. “My girl’s got some precision after all.” He teases and pokes you, silently telling you to move out of his way. You follow his unspoken command and move to his side. His left eye closes as he focuses on his target, his tongue moving to rest on his lower lip in concentration. As he takes in a sharp breath, he throws the dart forward and hits the man directly between his eyebrows. “Ha! Still got it!” He cackles noisily, bending back slightly to revel in his comedic act.

Once he gathered himself again, Jerome quickly jumps over the counter and grabs the biggest prize. With an immense smile on his face, he turns back to you and climbs back over the surface. A stuffed animal bat, just a little bigger than the size of Jerome’s palm, was handed to you.

“For M’Lady.” He adds a unique accent to his words, a cheesy grin taking over his lips. He bows as he gives it to you, as if you were a Queen and he was your butler.

“What a gentleman.” You tease, a joyous smile on your face as well. The fabric was soft, seeming to be new. It looked like something you’d see in a cartoon or something a kid would draw, but it was cute. To think that Jerome Valeska stole this for you was more endearing than you care to admit.

“Always am.” Jerome smirks and winks at you, taking your hand in his again. “Besides, once Batsy decides to crash this party, we’ll have that to remember this night.” Subconsciously he squeezes your palm, either the adrenaline to pick a fight with Batman pumping through his veins or the thought of spending more of his life with you causing reality to set in. For once, you were more than positive it was the latter.

“Oooo, look what we have here!” As Jerome turns a corner, a large wall constructs your view. The sign read, “Hall of Mirrors.” Pretty self explanatory. “Why don’t we go have some fun, hm?” He giggles and takes a glance back at you. Something catches his eye behind you as a devilish laugh escapes his lips. You turn and see a dark figure standing several feet away from you. Batman. “Oh, we’ll definitely be having some fun now.” Jerome laughs loudly, the sound seeming to be echoing throughout Gotham.

He tightens his hold on your hand as he runs for the maze, your bat plushie never falling from your grip. You send the masked man a smile and wave the bat at him, almost like you were mocking him.

A great way to end Halloween.

[bethanyactually]

Feels Just Like A Beat Up Truck // The Sign Up Ahead // (But the Engine Doesn’t Turn) // ibid. // ibid. // I Turn the Engine // ibid. // Listened Through the Cemetery Trees // ibid. // “oh god I had a really big epiphany about love and personhood but I’m too drunk for words”, mixed media on paper by tumblr user billypotts // Listened Through the Cemetery Trees // all fic from the One Headlight series by @pressdbtwnpages

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Kelsey!!! 💛💜 (1/2)

[madwomansapologist]

i gotta say, your gomez/morticia/reader work is just soooooooo *chef's kiss* it's honestly some of my favourite poly works because it's so fluffy but so THEM. might i request some headcanons of how the poly relationship starts, with all the angst and yearning that entails? 👀

meeting the Addams

Masterlist | Rules | Taglist | Library | More Gomez and Morticia Addams | AO3

synopsis: Didn't you knew that the best place to find love is in a cemetery? You live under a rock or what?

warnings: if only they loved me back (reader) x why do I love they? (morticia and gomez). read this listening to bad kind of butterflies by Camila Cabello. a lot of jealousy (we all love that lets be real). i want a relationship like this (reader) to i want to be in this relationship (reader).

ps: that ask made me so happy (((: i spend a lot of time on their stories because i want it to feel like their stories made me feel, so thank you for that compliment 🥺🤍

• A storm as strong as that hasn't happened in years. Trees were falling, blocking the streets. That night, as dark as the immense chaos, just keep on shuddering with thunders. And it was so cold. They could feel it on their bones. In short: it was the perfect night.

• Seeing how Morticia was sinking into worries about their children, Gomez couldn't just observe that perfect landscape. Kissing her body, making her melt into his arms, Gomez invited Morticia to a walk in the cemetery.

• What they couldn't expect was to found someone else there. Walking through the lanes, a lighting lit a silhouette among the ash trees. Someone was dancing on a grave.

• They couldn't help but to stare. The delicate movements, full of feelings, hypnotized them. Gomez took Morticia into his arms, trying to start a waltz, but she didn't payed attention. Morticia only had eyes for that person, and without noticing she started walking towards the anonymous dancer.

• Gomez followed her, a hint of jealousy spreading through his body.

Gomez hold Morticia's waist, stroking gently her skin. His eyes were already accustomed to darkness, so Gomez was able to read the name carved on the tomb. "Was he your nemesis?"

Interrupted, you stopped dancing. Morticia was disappointed, she enjoyed watching you. Sliding your hands through your hair, the rain had already drenched you, you walked through them. Your sweet scent didn't go unnoticed. "He was one of my dearest friends."

Gomez felt his heart race at the asnwer. He followed your steps with his eyes until you were far enough to camouflage among the ash trees. That didn't go unnoticed by Morticia's eyes.

• The next time they saw you was a few days later. A old house on the end of the street, empty since way before they bought their home, was finally sold. Some workers were tooking the furniture out of the truck.

• As good neighboors, Morticia and Gomez decided to welcome the new resident. But when they heard a voice commanding where everything should be, they immediately knew who was their new neighboor.

• Nothing weird was said (unless you were a commom person, but for the three of them it was just a normal conversation) but Gomez felt something strange the entire. The way Morticia look at you, the words she used, it just feels so similiar to how she act around him when they first meet. Gomez was polite, but he wasn't comfortable.

• Morticia couldn't understand why Gomez was uncomfortable. She didn't do anything wrong. Of course, now that Morticia knows that he is jealous she won't be around you, thats not the way she like to torture him, but she still couldn't understand. She was behaving as she always do, he was the one acting weird.

• But it wasn't a big city. Of course they would see you anywhere. And they saw how you were treated just like them. You were so lovely, so polite, so beautiful and gentle, and people still look at you and thought you were mean. They know how it feel to have boring people thinking they didn't deserve to be treated with respect.

• Gomez said to Morticia that you were welcome in their house. Morticia knew that if at the start it was so uncomfortable to him that he asked for her to stop talking to you, something really changed. What it was? Did he realized he was being a fool? Did his opinion about you changed? And for what? Why?

• Spending time with you, they saw who you really are. Not short and polite conversations, not hearing you talking to others because you were at the same place, or just observing you from far away. The both of they saw you. Your strong morals, your opinions on important matters (like the dark forces and the hellish cruzade), your humor.

• And then Morticia understood why Gomez was so uncomfortable at the start. He saw something she didn't. You were... Perfect. You love raining days. And dancing. And fighting. And you didn't mask your inteligence. The way you were gentle with people that wouldn't offer you water. See? Even your flaws seeing perfect.

• Morticia understood Gomez, because now she felt the same. You were so sweet. You could be mean, she know that, but nothing comparable to her. And Gomez didn't deserve someone kind? Gomez is his favorite person in the whole world, but what if he deserve more than her? One time, during a ball, she saw you both dancing. And it feels like the world had ended and you both didn't care.

• And even tho Gomez tried to be the bigger person, he couldn't just stop himself from feeling. Everytime you were around Morticia... you both seen made to one another. Morticia is a goddess, a being deserving of the best the world has, and you are perfect. How could he compete with you?

• After a brutal night, a night when Morticia was like a cruel animal, Gomez woke up after her. It wasn't commom for that to happen. Looking for her, Gomez only found Morticia in the greenhouse. And he saw her reaping a different flower. And she didn't cut their heads. It wasn't for him, and he knew for who it was.

• But it wasn't easy for you. They were so... familiar. You didn't knew then for that long of a time and it still feel like you knew them for your entire live. They were so kind, and fun, and charming. What a dream to have a relationship like that.

• But as it goes, you realized that you didn't want a relationship like that. You wanted to be in that relationship. What kinda of person fall in love with a married couple? Morticia would laugh if she knew you thought that. Of, fuck. You need to stop thinking about them.

• But how could you? They were your neighboors, your friends. They made you feel seen. You would never act on this love. They were your friends and you would try to mess with that relationship? You knew what to do: you would pretend to not feel a single thing a friend shouldn't be feeling. Simple.

• But another storm, just as a strong as the last, Interrupted you three. Inside your house when you heard the first thunder, you couldn't help your body from running to the middle of the street to enjoy the rain.

Watching you from a window, Gomez and Morticia didn't mean to say the same thing: "Everything they do remind me of you."

"What?" Morticia was the first to say something. "How could you?"

"I can see your bravery. And your humor, cara mia. Everytime they are gentle, all I can do is think about how you deserve someone like that."

"Oh, Gomez." Morticia caress his chest, hugging him slowly. "I already have someone like that. And he is right in front of me." She waited a second before puting her thoughts into words. "But I think the same."

"Oh, how I wish you were a liar."

"No, mon cher. I think you deserve more than me. I was never a kind person. You deserve someone that only hurt you on the ways that matters."

With a loud laugh, Gomez started kissing her whole body. Morticia laughed, how could she not? She married a crazy mean. What a luck. "And what do you think you are? What do you think you do to me? Since the first time I ever saw you, I knew you would be the reason of my death."

Looking at the window, they both understood what was happening to them. "The last time I meet someone that hurted me so bad... I married him."

And without any more words, they knew what to do. For now, all they needed to do was to dance. In the middle of the night. In the middle of the street. In the middle of the rain.

GENERAL TAGLIST: @suakemi @notanalienindisguiseblink

if you enjoyed, please reblog! i promise it makes a difference ♡

@ madwomansapologist.tumblr.

[windvexer]

Hi, Your last post regarding what leads to witchcraft, and self-development in association with witchcraft made me curious. What do you mean by "Witches being too humble" and why does it makes you feel suspicious ?

we are in reference to this post

As context for new readers, that reblog was a response to a post about self-development in witchcraft as contrasted by spiritual bypassing in new age,

the hypothesis being that witchcraft encourages humanitarian self-development while new age does not.

My primary thoughts are that while witchcraft is a framework that can support self-development, I don't think that being a witch is about working through your emotions and flaws to be a better person. And I don't think doing those things are usually necessary at all to be a very good witch.

I in fact really do believe that witchcraft is almost entirely about reclaiming your power, growing your power, and becoming a person of power.

Not power in the "I'm secure enough to be compassionate in the face of anger" kind of power.

The, "last month I made my terrible neighbor move out, and this week I'm doing a spell for meemaw so she doesn't lose her trailer" kind of power. The, "we just found out Eddie's cousin has a spirit on him so me and the boys are taking a blue bottle to the railroad tracks to get it solved" kind of power.

The "washing machine keeps breaking and my dreams called me to a corner of the property where I talked to a spirit who was mad we buried our cat near it's home, so I had to move the cat and bake it some bread, and then all the leaky faucets stopped dripping at once" kind of power.

What does a witch need to soothe a problem with an angry spirit? Do they need to be aware of their own flaws, do shadow work prompts, reflect on their mistakes? No. In that scenario, they need some experience in dreamwork, the ability to talk to spirits, respect for the spirit world, and a bread machine.

So that's what I mean when I say that if I had to pick witches out of a lineup to help me with a serious problem, I'd be suspicious of the ones that act really humble. Can they help solve the situation, or not?

Five weeks ago Cousin Eddie went to the cemetery and now every Saturday he has a dream about a red-eyed monster getting closer to him. In a week or two it will be close enough to grab him.

I do not need a witch who knows precisely whether they are feeling anger or anxiety, and what triggered it. I don't need a witch who can look me in the eye and say, "I recognize how I've contributed to my own problems and I'm willing to listen if I've caused you harm in the past."

I need a witch who can say, "I can lay a ghost to rest no problem but if it's a demon we might be a bit fucked." I need a witch who can say, "I've got a closet full of amulets and there are three I'll about guarantee will keep Eddie safe while we figure out what grave the spirit belongs to."

So I know ultimately this is somewhat besides the point of the very original post that caused this discussion - which is also my point. I do not believe witchcraft is about being a better person.

I think it is very nice if people want to use witchcraft as a system of self-therapy or self-betterment (and I agree with original OP that witchcraft provides a better framework for self-development than New Age),

but when push comes to shove, I'd rather get help from an absolute bastard who spent two summers learning from pine trees in exchange for blood, than a really really kind and loving person who has overcome their need to self-aggrandize in lieu of learning spirit traps.

[wacky-nameless-inventor-24]

You don’t have to do this but I would love to see you write another story in the Fenro Witch AU where it’s the 1 year anniversary of Boyd’s death and Gyro and Fenton decide to go to Boyd’s grave to pay their respects with flowers with Fenton at some point giving Gyro time alone to say how much he misses Boyd and maybe you could have it that in certain parts such as them walking to Boyd’s grave, we cut to the past on the day of Boyd’s death showing how it happened, Gyro and Fenton’s reaction to finding Boyd (which would probably have a lot of crying, grieving, Gyro holding onto Boyd rocking him in his arms and begging him to wake up), and Boyd’s funeral. Only if you want to write this of course. 😊 ❤️

UAAAAAGH HUGGING GET OUT OF MY HEADDDD IVE HAD A FIC SIMILAR TO THIS PLANNED FOR FOREVER ty for giving me an excuse to write it <3333

Also! purposefully got this done just in time because May 18th is the 1 year anniversary of this au!!

cw- major character death, hanging mentions, implied self harm kind of I think also this is almost 5k words long just so you know how much is under the read more-

Though they never discussed it aloud, they both knew what day it was. 

They never needed to plan the day, they both just knew what to do. 

Neither of them needed to say it. 

It was cloudy that morning, the way it’d been cloudy on that day before. Heavy clouds that hung in the air, weighing down on the earth beneath them. Threatening to spill colder rain on an already freezing day. 

The clouds were so thick it was still dark when they got up. Fenton lit a candle, and together they made their way downstairs. Gyro didn’t say a word, and Fenton knew he’d have to watch him today. It would be rough. 

Fenton got the flowers and blanket ready while Gyro prepared the food, cutting fruit from last fall that had been magically preserved. It was still much too early in the year for any fresh fruit, so they’d have to make do. 

The flowers too- the frost had killed all of the wild ones growing around the house, so they only had a dried bouquet from last year. 

“It’s alright,” Fenton said, mostly to himself, as he arranged the faded, crisped plants. “We’ll bring him fresh ones as soon as spring starts.” 

Gyro didn’t answer, but the duck hadn’t expected him to. Now as he listened, he realized the sound of cutting from the kitchen had stopped. “Are you done?” 

No answer. 

Fenton peered in through the doorway, robes swishing as he moved. “We don’t need too man- what happened?” 

“Accident,” Gyro grunted, holding two of his fingers tightly in his other hand. Bulb sat on the counter next to him, trying to sniff his fingers, and there was blood on the knife. “Wasn’t paying attention.” 

Fenton frowned, he would really need to watch Gyro today. “How bad is it?” He asked as he stepped into the kitchen, moving to one of the medical cupboards.

“It's fine,” the witch grumbled, looking defensive. He still let Fenton take his hand and examine the injury. Bulb looked quite interested too, and mrowed at Fenton, as if asking him to fix the cut. “It’s not that deep.” 

It wasn’t, but it went right across the pads of his middle and pointer fingers. Quite an annoying spot for both an injury and a bandage. Fenton wrapped it for him without saying anything, and offered to finish cutting the fruit. 

At last they were ready, Fenton held the picnic basket in one hand and interlaced his other arm with Gyro’s. It was just bright enough that they could see fine in the gloom, and Fenton looked up to the sky as they set off. “Hopefully it doesn’t snow.” 

Gyro didn’t comment. 

The cemetery was brighter, there were no trees above in the clearing to block the meager light that struggled through the clouds. There was a single tree in the center of the headstones, with huge spreading branches and even further spreading roots. Right now its limbs were bare, they creaked in the wind. 

Other than that, the forest was quiet. 

The plot they were looking for was on the edge of the cemetery, near the treeline. Gyro stopped, reading the headstone as Bulb wound around his legs and Fenton laid out the thick blanket on the crunchy dead grass. 

Boyd Gearloose. 

The date was exactly one year from today.

“You want to do the flowers?” Fenton asked as he reached for their basket. 

Gyro just nodded, he looked simultaneously too numb and emotional to speak. 

Fenton sat as his partner sat the flowers down in front of the grave with great reverence. The headstone was small, it didn’t match the make of the others in the cemetery, and the bouquet nearly obscured the engravings. 

Gyro then slowly sat on the blanket next to the duck, resting his head on his shoulder. Fenton gently put an arm around him, and Bulb curled up in his lap. 

They sat and watched the grave until Fenton’s bottom and back ached, until the clouds had let up to allow more light into the world and Fenton’s neck felt stiff. Still, he refused to move until Gyro did, wanting him to be as comfortable as possible. To let him take his time. He knew they’d be out here for a while, this was why they’d brought food. 

At last Gyro let out a deep shuddering breath, turning to bury his face in Fenton’s neck. His shoulders shook with silent sobs, and Fenton wasted no time in wrapping him into a hug and pulling him closer. 

“I miss him so much,” Gyro breathed through tears, his beak was tucked right up beneath Fenton’s. “All the time.” 

Fenton didn’t answer, rubbing Gyro’s shoulders and staring at the grave. Blinking rapidly when tears pricked his eyes and taking a breath. 

“He turns ten in a few months, right? He’d- he’d be so tall by now.” Gyro shifted his head just slightly so he could see the headstone. His tears wetted Fenton’s feathers and his robes. 

Last year their grief was too fresh to do anything for Boyd’s birthday. Gyro hadn’t even gotten out of bed that day, but that was a regular occurrence then. Their house was still under construction then, they barely had a roof on their first story, and were sleeping in the living room. Fenton only got up to prepare food. 

Gyro hadn’t eaten. 

“He’d like it out here, don’t you think?” Gyro’s voice was cracked. “Especially the peach trees in the summer and the apples in the fall- it’d be so much easier to have more help with harvesting.” 

Fenton let out a soft sob, holding his partner closer. Tearing his gaze from the headstone as he nuzzled against Gyro. “He would’ve loved to help.”

This was all too much. The wound was too fresh, they were picking at the scab too early. Fenton wanted to get away, he’d suddenly rather be anywhere but here. The cemetery was alright on most days, but on others he avoided the place more than the superstitious villagers did. 

Right now he didn’t even want to think about it. 

But he didn’t move. Gyro needed to be here today, and Fenton had spent the last year supporting him, pulling him through this. He wasn’t going to stop today. 

So he clung to his partner and sobbed along with him, too overwhelmed to do anything else. He cried until his head hurt and his face ached and then he cried some more. Gyro only curled tighter against him, letting himself be enveloped by Fenton while also holding himself. And Fenton held him, kept him there. 

Trying to be and to find as much comfort as possible as they unwillingly reminisced on what had happened that night. 

—

They were in a tree, there was a branch digging painfully into Gyro’s back. 

The witch ignored this as he scanned the nearby houses, searching for any hint of what the angry mob had done with Boyd. This was a temporary refuge, and he needed to use it to figure out a way forward. 

Fenton was in the tree next to him, one hand wrapped tightly around a nearby branch as he bit his other fist, trying to keep himself quiet while he sobbed. He was unable to tear his gaze off of their house as it went up in smoke, now a blinding hot beacon in the dark cold night. 

Nothing would be left when the fire went out. That much was clear already. 

Gyro absently rubbed his back while he searched, trying to keep his panic down. As crazed as the mob was now, he was sure they wouldn’t kill an actual child, right? Besides he had the gallows in his view, the nooses hung thankfully empty. It had been a narrow escape.

Every now and then a group of angry villagers would tramp past their hiding space, screaming with their pitchforks in the air. Gyro and Fenton would duck down while simultaneously pulling their legs up, trying to make themselves as small as possible. The cover of night helped- but the tree's lack of leaves did not. It was too early in the year for even any buds. 

Next to him Fenton choked slightly, and the witch leaned over to kiss his temple. “We’ll rebuild when we get out of here.” The loss of their house he could stomach, they’d been needing to get out of the village for months now. 

What he really couldn’t let go of was Boyd, he had to be around here somewhere. 

As Gyro watched, the town’s mayor, the leader of the mob against them, stepped into the open ground between the houses. The witch’s eyes narrowed in hate, following the old man as he walked casually past the burning wreck of timber that used to be Gyro’s house. Fenton didn’t seem to notice him. 

The mayor stepped over to the opposite side of the street, near the woods. He stooped and reached for something that Gyro had dismissed in his study of the area, a misshapen rock, or someone’s discarded shirt. Something small in the shadows, unassuming. Not anything alive- so it couldn’t be Boyd. 

No. 

Gyro stared as the mayor lifted the tiny, ragged thing, it hung limply in his hand. 

No.

Seconds later Gyro had slipped out of the tree, storming past the burning house and into the clearing. “Don’t you dare hurt him- give him to me!” 

The mayor glanced up, looking shocked, before his expression turned to a smile. He held Boyd’s body close- how dare he touch him- and Gyro caught sight of the blood running down Boyd’s head. 

“They’re over here!” the mayor shouted. 

Gyro hardly heard him as he strode toward him. “Give him to me before I curse you and this entire village-” 

“You won’t get the chance.” The mayor lifted his head, smirking. Gyro was mere feet from him now. “You’re dead, witch.” 

Sure enough, there came the sound of shouts and cries through the woods, from the edges of town. Lit torches appeared through the tree trunks, Gyro heard rushing feet. Alerted by the mayor’s cry, they would all be upon him in seconds. He froze. 

But he couldn’t let that stop him. Gyro took the last few steps toward the mayor, reaching for Boyd. “Give him to me-” 

His fingers barely brushed the feathers of Boyd’s temple before the mayor pulled him out of his reach. “Not a chance. In just a few moments, you and your witch accomplice will be joining him.” 

“Give him-” Gyro broke off as something caught hold of his hand, something held him back. Instinctively he yanked himself away, not tearing his gaze from Boyd’s body. “Let go of me!” 

“Gyro, wait.” It was Fenton, hanging onto his sleeve, pulling him away from the mayor, away from Boyd. “We have to get out of here, the whole mob will be here in a second-” 

“Boyd!” Gyro tore his hand from Fenton’s grasp, throwing himself toward the little parrot’s body. Immediately there were strong arms around his waist, holding him back. Now in the middle of the street, Gyro was ready to fight Fenton to get to Boyd.

“He’s gone, Gyro. I’m so sorry.” Fenton’s arm loosened and Gyro broke free, only for his wrist to be snagged again. The shouting was getting closer, the torches drawing near. 

“No, no, I have to get to him-” 

“Gyro!” Fenton shouted. The witch started, looking back at him. 

Fenton had tears in his eyes, his chest was heaving, his grip on Gyro’s wrist tightened. “We have to get out of here- please Gyro. I can’t lose you too. We’ll come back for him I promise- but we have to leave.” 

The mob had nearly reached the street.

Gyro swallowed, and glanced back at Boyd. 

The mayor smiled, canine teeth shining in the firelight. 

Everything stayed frozen like that for a split second, as Gyro felt like he was free falling. The ground disappearing, wind whooshing past him. His stomach churning. 

With a sob he half collapsed against Fenton, allowing the witch to pull him toward the treeline. Together they half stumbled, half ran, trying to get away from the mob behind them. 

That night was a blur. Gyro was barely in reality, just conscious enough to stay upright as Fenton pulled him forward. They were always pursued by the fiery shouting monster, no matter where they went or hid the mob was close on their heels. 

Gyro cut his feet, crashed into trees, tripped several times, but Fenton was always there, helping him up, pulling him along. No matter how many exits the mob blocked off Fenton seemed to find one last one, and get them out through it in the nick of time. 

The witch’s lungs burned and his body ached, but he kept going. Nowhere was safe, they couldn’t stay in any hiding spot for long. He stumped through the forest, sobbing. They had to keep moving, had to stay alive. 

Despite all of this, Gyro barely felt anything. 

All of it was lost in a swirling haze of numbness. 

At last they stopped, Gyro immediately crumpling to the roots of a tree. Clinging to the bark the moment he hit the ground, curling further in on himself as he sobbed. Fenton collapsed next to him, catching his breath, rubbing Gyro’s back. 

“He’s gone, Fenton.” Gyro gasped, curling into a tighter ball, hardly caring where the rocks and roots dug into his back. “He’s gone.” 

Fenton shifted, pulling Gyro further against him. Holding him tightly. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. 

They stayed by that tree that night, sleeping in the roots against the trunk. Gyro curled up on top of Fenton, crying himself to sleep, while Fenton wordlessly held him and did his best to comfort him. 

Nothing would help right now, but Gyro appreciated it. 

The next morning, the witch woke slowly. Even in his sleep he’d still been clinging tightly to Fenton’s shirt, he slowly loosened his fist as he opened his eyes. His fingers were sore.

He wished it’d been a dream, he didn’t want to look up, to realize where they were. In the middle of the freezing woods. 

Without Boyd. 

Looking around and realizing all of this would mean it was true. 

He could hear Fenton’s heartbeat beneath his head, feel the rise and fall of his chest. The duck’s arms were still wrapped around him, holding him close. 

In a flash, Gyro sat up. 

“How could you?!” 

Fenton started awake just in time to feel Gyro’s hands landing on his shoulders, angrily pinning him against the tree. “Huh? Gyro wh-” 

“You made me leave him behind!” Gyro shouted in his face. Fenton blinked up at him. “I wanted to stay- I wanted to get him back- but you wanted to leave! You made me leave him!” 

“Gyro-” 

“I left him with- with- no, you left him- this is your fault he’s not with us!” 

“Gyro-” 

“I shouldn’t have let you make me leave him- I should’ve gone back- I should go back-” 

“Gyro!” 

The duck’s shout snapped him out of it. He froze for a moment, staring at Fenton, hands still tightly gripping to his shoulders. Fenton’s eyes were wide, he looked startled and scared and worried. Hesitantly, as if he were dealing with a spooked wild animal, his hand slowly slid up Gyro’s back.“Gyro, I-”

That was all it took. The witch collapsed on top of him, head ducked as he sobbed into Fenton’s chest, his hands clutching at the shoulders of the duck’s shirt. Holding on to him as tightly as he could, never wanting to let go of what he had left. “I’m sorry-” 

“Hey, sshhhh, it’s okay.” Fenton shushed him, rubbing his back. His voice cracked, and without looking up, Gyro lifted his hand to gently cup the side of Fenton’s face, to catch his tears with his thumb. “I’m- I’m sorry we had to leave him too.” 

Gyro just swallowed, and held onto him tighter. He could feel Fenton’s shuddering breaths beneath him, the duck was doing everything he could to keep himself together. Gyro had completely given up on that by now, he let himself totally break down in Fenton’s arms. 

Somewhere between five minutes and two hours later Fenton shifted, sitting up further against the trunk of the tree. Gyro was forced to sit up with him, but he refused to unbury his face from the duck’s chest. “Hey.” Fenton held the side of his face, trying to get his attention. 

Gyro couldn’t bring himself to move. 

Fenton understood. “As soon as you’re okay enough to be on your own for a little I’ll go get him, okay?” 

The witch lifted his head. “No- no I don’t want to risk you too-” 

“Gyro,” Fenton cut through his worries. “I’ll be safe, I promise. Things will have calmed down by now, now that it’s morning. I’ll sneak in and out and bring him back here so you can see him again, and so they won’t have him. We can bury him out here.” 

Gyro sat back, looking around. 

They were in the old cemetery. 

They’d slept beneath the huge tree in the center of the headstones, perhaps the one safe place for them to go now. As afraid of the witches as the villagers were they were even more afraid of a haunted cemetery and wouldn’t step foot between the graves. It was a perfect safe haven. 

“You brought us here on purpose?” Gyro asked. 

Fenton nodded. “I figured they wouldn’t touch us if we stayed here- especially at night. We’d mostly lost them before I’d thought of it, so that theory hasn’t been entirely tested yet.” 

The witch let out a breath. Burying Boyd here, in a haunted cemetery in the middle of the woods, where no one but them would come to visit him but them. Where he could be secreted away from the people who had killed him. 

Gyro must’ve started shaking because a few seconds later Fenton was pulling him into a hug, squeezing him as tightly as he could. 

“They killed him,” Gyro gasped through tears. “They hated us so much they killed him.” 

Fenton didn’t have an answer to that, so he just held Gyro until the shaking stopped. 

It was hours before Fenton left, no matter how much Gyro assured him he was fine the duck didn’t want to leave him there alone. At last he stood, leaning down to kiss Gyro’s forehead. “I’ll be back in an hour, alright?” 

That felt like the longest hour of Gyro’s life. It was late March and freezing cold, and the witch stayed curled against the trunk of the tree, staring off into space. He’d cried himself out by then, so he simply watched the dead leaves blow past in the cold breeze, occasionally wiping his eyes. 

Having no concept of time in this state Gyro had no idea how long it really was- whether it was one hour or four he would never know. He would sit and wait until Fenton got back and if he didn’t, if he’d been caught, Gyro would simply sit there until he wasted away beneath the tree. 

Though, watching Fenton approach through the trees was the worst part. 

Gyro was already breaking down by the time Fenton emerged into the clearing, Boyd’s small body held against his chest. Tears streaming down his face the witch reached for him, and Fenton gently passed Boyd into his arms. 

“Careful with his head,” Fenton murmured. “They cleaned him up a little, but it looks like that’s where…” he trailed off, not needing to say it. 

They sat together beneath the tree, holding Boyd’s limp body and sobbing. He was cold, too cold, and Gyro held him close to try and warm him up. Maybe if he was warm again, then he could wake up. 

He never did. 

Gyro rocked him the way he used to before putting him to bed, resting his forehead against the little parrot’s. “Boyd,” he whispered. 

From next to him, Fenton made a sound like a cross between a choke and a sob. 

“God Boyd-” the witch hugged him tighter, his arms a protective shield. “I’m so sorry- I should’ve stayed with you- I shouldn’t have let them take you-” 

Of course he could protect him now, after he was already dead. Gyro had been no use in saving his life, in keeping him alive. “I should’ve tried harder to fight them, I promise I was doing my best for you but it-” he choked, “it wasn’t enough.” 

Fenton’s arms around him tightened. 

Together the three of them sank to the ground, Gyro and Fenton no longer strong enough to hold themselves up as they created a little protective circle around Boyd. Shielding him off from the rest of the world. 

But nothing they could do now would make up for losing him. 

They buried Boyd the next day, Fenton sneaking back to the village for food and a shovel. He came back with what looked like a little white fluff ball on his shoulder. “Hey, look who survived the fire!” the duck exclaimed as he approached Gyro with the food. 

The witch glanced up, eyes swollen with tears, but no fresh ones in the moment. “What?”

Fenton sat next to him, passing him some bread and dried fruit. He then lifted the little puff from his shoulder. “It’s Bulb! I didn’t think he’d made it- but I found him in the woods right next to the house.” The duck hesitated. “What’s left of it.” 

Bulb- Boyd’s kitten. The one that Gyro hadn’t wanted, but Boyd had begged for and cared for by himself to prove they could keep it. 

Now it suddenly felt like it was all they had left of him. 

Gyro sighed, reaching out to pet the little cream-colored kitten’s head. “Hey, Bulb.”

Fenton began digging a few minutes later, in an empty spot at the edge of the cemetery near the treeline. The ground was soft and the grass was dead, and the plot didn’t need to be very big. Fenton had it finished all too soon for Gyro’s liking. 

He didn’t want to say goodbye yet. 

Gyro saved four of Boyd’s soft grey feathers, and clung to them as Fenton lowered the little body into the ground. They’d wrapped him in a blanket that Fenton had taken from the village and laid some dried flowers down on top of him. 

Fenton let Gyro put the first handful of dirt back into the grave, Gyro unfurling shaky fingers and letting the first fall loose. Letting go of the dirt felt like letting go of Boyd- releasing his hand for the last time. 

A few moments later, Gyro threw up what little of the food he’d had at the edge of the trees while Fenton rubbed his back. 

It really wasn’t much of a funeral, Gyro sitting at the edge of the grave with Bulb in his lap, numbly watching Fenton fill the dirt back in. He had too many thoughts whirling around his head to voice a final goodbye, he couldn't catch any of them and pin them down long enough to form a coherent thought. 

The exercise was good for Fenton Gyro could tell- the duck had tears in his eyes as he worked but he put as much effort into it as his body allowed him. Sleeves rolled up, grunting, his face red with effort, he worked his way into a rhythm. Letting his emotions out that way. 

Gyro couldn’t. He just stared at the hole as it slowly got more and more shallow, his body aching. Eventually Fenton dropped down next to him, sweating and out of breath. 

Together they sat and stared at the grave until the sun went down. 

—

It was a long time later that they both sat up, and Fenton wordlessly passed out the food. They ate mostly in silence, Gyro occasionally giving little pieces of peaches to Bulb. 

Surprisingly the sun came out- the breeze picked up into a chilling wind, but it blew the clouds out of the way and allowed the warm sun to shine down. Fenton looked up as the sunlight hit them, smiling faintly. They could use a little sun right now. 

Glancing back down, he realized Gyro’s hands were shaking. 

The duck gently reached out and placed his hands on top of Gyro’s, steadying them. The witch swallowed, flipping his hand the other way to tightly interlace his fingers with Fenton’s. Fenton gave him a smile, which Gyro half heartedly returned. 

He was trying. That was something. 

“So much has changed since… since he was here.” Gyro voiced at last, clearing his throat. “It feels like we’re moving on without him, but… but then I come back here and suddenly everything’s exactly the way it was when we buried him.” 

“The sun’s out,” Fenton pointed out. “And you didn’t throw up this time.” Gyro snorted. “So maybe things are better than then?” 

The witch leaned back, propping himself up on one hand. “I suppose.” Letting out a heavy breath, he tilted his head back. “I didn’t even get to hold him one last time-” his breath hitched. “I wish I could’ve known I was tucking him in for the last time, there was so much I could’ve- I should’ve- said and done, I-” he took a deep breath. “I miss him.” 

Fenton folded his legs tighter, looking back at the grave. “Me too.” 

Even in a new place, Boyd’s empty space could be felt. Fenton missed him in the mornings, when he would make squealing noises to try and match the sound of the whistling kettle. The way he used to lay in the sun next to Bulb, soaking up the light just like the cat. In the afternoons he would pick flowers in the spring and present them to Gyro and Fenton, there were so many less vases of small wildflowers now. He used to sing the enchantment songs Gyro taught him at the top of his lungs just for fun, accidentally causing nearby flies to move in a particular pattern or the air to swirl around him. How when they tucked him in at night by telling him stories, he’d listen to theirs before telling an eternally long one of his he came up with on the spot- just so he wouldn’t have to go to sleep. 

Fenton didn’t even realize he was crying again until Gyro had moved right next to him, kissing his forehead and wiping away his tears with his thumb. 

The duck leaned into him, a fresh sob rising in his throat. 

“I’m just so sad about it,” Fenton breathed, his face buried in Gyro’s shoulder. “All the time still. I- I don’t want to be sad anymore but- but I still want- I still need- to miss him.” 

“I know,” Gyro murmured. “I’m sick and tired of being miserable but I don’t want to be happy without him.” 

“Yeah,” the duck swallowed, wrapping an arm around his partner. “Yeah.”

The breeze blew past, ruffling their feathers and stirring the leaves. Doing it’s best to try and carry away some of their grief. 

It wasn’t until the sun was setting that they made their way back to the house, Bulb walking at their heels. Fenton set up a fire near the back porch while Gyro put their things away. The day surprisingly had brought some life back into him- Fenton knew he could leave him alone for a minute. 

They sat out on the back porch and watched the sun go down, both of them looking up at the stars and shedding a few last tears. At last they made dinner in the fire, sitting close to each other to stay warm on the cold early-spring night. 

Gyro rested his head on Fenton’s shoulder. “Talk to me,” he asked. 

Fenton thought for a moment, unsure what to talk about. If Gyro wanted to hear more about Boyd, or if he wanted Fenton to distract him from his grief. 

So he recounted one of the fairytales from one of the storybooks inside. It was one they both knew, though neither had reread in a long time. They didn’t mind, it was something to fill the silence. 

The witch let himself get really into it, doing impressions of the voices, acting out the scenes. At one point he stood to reenact a fight scene, and pulled Gyro up with him, letting him act as the damsel that Fenton was nobly trying to save. 

Gyro spun around their imaginary battlefield with him, laughing and cheering as he collapsed against Fenton, listening to him recount the story. 

Laughter like this from Gyro was all too rare these days, and Fenton pulled him close by the waist, pretending to fight off a great beast. Gyro collapsed into him, drunk off of laughter as he wrapped his arms around the duck’s shoulders and cackled into his ears. Fenton squeezed him tight, not wanting to let the moment go. 

With one last dramatic whirl Fenton slayed their imaginary beast, and together they landed back in their seats by the fire, clutching to one another as they laughed. Gyro’s head on Fenton’s chest as he clung to his shoulders, shaking with laughter. 

Fenton held on to him as their laughter died down, turning to a quiet contentment. 

Gyro lifted his head, nuzzling the end of his beak against Fenton’s. “Thank you.” 

The duck grinned at him. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” 

[cosmos-coma]

'Did you know..?"

A/N: A request/suggestion by the ever-lovely @beardedladyqueen! While Regis isn't really my thing personally I'm always more than happy to experiment with characters and see what makes people happy! I also realized while writing this that I... I'm just Reigs. I'm an herbalist who just loves to tell people fun facts and maybe falls a little in love when people use scientific names.

Pairing: Regis x Reader

Words: 727

____________________

Birds tweeted eloquently from above, their feather-light songs bouncing off each other and stitching themselves into a fantastic melody. The wind rustled through the delicate grass, tickling your arms as you cut another leaf off the little plant. The large umbrella of shade trees above provided a welcome respite from the wicked heat of the day as well as a comforting sense of protection as it watched over your dutiful work.

“Alright, thank you little plant, that's all…” you said with a quick smile as you stood back up and placed your fistful of leaves into an empty jar. Quietly your feet padded around the well-worn protrusions- headstones dappling the surrounding landscape- as you look for your next plant. Your fingers brushed against a particularly moss-covered wall as you made your way around a moss-covered mausoleum when you were nearly scared out of your own skin.

“Aah!” you exclaimed, jumping about a foot in the hair, your hands immediately clutching your chest as you spotted him, “oh- ah, wow… I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t know anybody else was here..” you explained as you looked over at the figure sitting before a long-gone campfire. He had dark gray hair pushed back and away from his face, matching sideburns that emphasized already prominent cheekbones, and tired eyes that you’re sure made him look far older than he really was. But you found it all rather endearing, he looked as if he spends all night carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, yet still seemed to hold the sunniest disposition.

“Oh, that’s quite alright.” the older man said, standing up from his fire to turn to you. “I wasn’t aware anyone frequented this area- oh, forgive my manners” he held his hand out to you, “I’m Regis… “ he said as he shook your hand.

You introduced yourself in turn with a gentle smile and a shake of his hand. “It's been a while since I've foraged here if I’m being honest, so I doubt I could lay much claim to it.” 

“Hmm, is that lily of the valley and… do I smell lemon balm?” The vampire inquired with curious excitement as your hands came close, now peeking over to look toward your herb-laden basket.

You chuckled with surprise and showed him your collection, “What an amazing nose you have..! Yes, I just gathered some before I came around the corner.”

Regis's lips pulled into a sheepish smile, knowing he was perhaps being a little too telling with his vampiric talents than he would have liked, “yes, well I-I think the scent must still be on your hands,” he said, straightening his posture a bit more, “I actually dabble a bit into herbalism as well… did you know that lemon balm can be used for anxiety, appetite, and even-” 

“-Insomnia,” you two said in unison, causing you both to pause before easy laughter filled the otherwise lonesome cemetery.

You grinned brightly as you shook your head, “Yes, actually that's what I’m gathering it for… I’ve been having absolutely dreadful sleep lately and was hoping Miss Melissa officinalis could help me out a bit with that”, you said with the slightest tinge of blush- no one ever wanted to talk plants with you before. Usually, people just listened for a bit to amuse you, but rarely did they ever want to bring it up again. Yet here this older man stood before you with an almost giddy smile that was barely hidden behind a veil of well-mannered resignation. 

Regis on the other hand thought his immortal heart might just burst out of his chest and onto the floor, then and there. A fellow herbal enthusiast and you can drop a scientific name into conversation like it's nothing? He couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled so broadly at something so seemingly small. 

“I- please, forgive me if this is too forward,” Regis started, nearly tripping over his seat as he stepped forward. He knew it was terribly unlike himself to be so clumsy, but for some reason, he just couldn’t seem to help it. “but would you mind if I accompanied you while you continue to forage?”

Your shy but determined smile captivated him like the first glimpse of morning light as you held your basket out to the love-struck vampire.

 “Only if you promise to carry the basket.”

__________

Taglist: @writingmysanity @open--till--midnight @madamemelancholysstuff @dark-academia-slut

Want to be on a Taglist? Did my brain slip and I forgot to tag you? DM me to let me know!

[locatislunaticolupin]

Day Ten: Keyhole

Written for day ten (of october) of @remadoramicrofics. 642 words. Also available on Ao3.

Their house could get really quiet and solemn. Teddy, as young as he was, was able to listen close enough to know when it wasn’t a quiet day before stomping down the hallway, demanding breakfast and clashing his toys together. On quiet days, he slid on his socks towards the kitchen, where he found one of his parents (usually mama, but sometimes da), pancake batter in hand and finger up to their lips.

On those days, mama opened all of the cottage’s doors and windows so she could keep an eye on Teddy and an ear on da; da put on the gramophone, soft where it was usually fun, and Teddy ran from the house. He’d take Bongui and Tammuz to Little Forest and spend the times between meals there, making hares sprint and birds fly away. Despite the cicadas, the birds, the cows, the dogs, the crickets, the quiet wouldn’t quite let him go, clinging instead to his sweater, his boots and his hair. So Teddy screamed louder, jumped harder, attempted to make the world shake and wake up. On quiet days, the world was too soft and too adult, like the old ladies dressed in all black or the visits to the cemetery. So when he peeked through that keyhole on a quiet day, he knew he’d grown up, a little. That he’d lost something, or maybe gained something, and now couldn’t go back.

It’d been a quiet day, but it had also been a rainy day. Teddy hadn’t been able to escape the stifling, dusty, timeless silence of it all and he was restless. He’d woken up and da had been there, jazz and candles and finger to mouth and water against glass, and Teddy, who had been looking forward to skipping school, had grumpily thrown himself on the couch and let the quiet settle on his shoulders and his frown. Da had let him have breakfast where he was, had kissed his hair and brushed it back with a warm, calloused hand, and then had taken a tray to the exotic territory of the master bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

Teddy looked at his chocolate milk. Then he looked at the door. An adventure was an adventure, wasn’t it? Weren’t parents’ bedrooms just as mysterious as caves in between a tree’s roots? He got up, quiet as a mouse, and avoided the places where the wood creaked, even on quiet days but especially on rainy days, sliding on his socks. Bongui and Tammuz hid him while he held his breath and looked through the keyhole, hands away from the door just in case.

It hadn’t been the first time Teddy saw blood (with Bongui around, he’d seen his fair share of dead animals and what his mama called “crime scenes.” And she’d know! She was an Auror and one of the best) but it was the first time he saw blood on his parents and he wasn’t gonna cry, because he wasn’t a baby and his mama was the strongest in the whole world, so she’d be fine, but she didn’t look so tough under da’s quiet hands, even as she smiled and tried to make him laugh.

(She did manage to make him smile. His da smiled a lot, especially when mama and Teddy did silly stuff like grumpily throw themselves on the couch or recoil from the medicine with an affronted that’s disgusting!).

They were quiet like an old lady dressed in black and quiet like a secret and quiet like they usually weren’t. The gramophone played on and the rain drummed outside and Bongui and Tammuz’s nails were loud on the wooden floor. Teddy moved away from the door, careful and quiet.

On the next quiet day, he stayed indoors. Maybe the quiet would get smaller, he thought, if there were more people to carry its weight.

[justplainwhump]

Cemetery

I don't exactly know where this came from, but this has been written for @flashfictionfridayofficial, "An Empty Grave".

Part of my Angel series, set far into her recovery. Dedicated to @winedark-whump.

Content / warnings: Referenced presumed death, past death of a loved one, grief, memory loss due to conditioning/brainwashing, identity struggles, recovery. Set in the BBU multiverse.

Making Angel, the documentary about her was called. Angel hadn't watched it. Others had, Miguel had, and her lawyer. They said it was well done, empathetic but not too much, clear and direct, but not too intrusive. So she'd nodded, and given her approval.

She had however listened to the transcript, at some point. Not the film's audio, but her screen reader with the written transcript, unemotional and distanced. Even filtered as much as possible through the screen reader's neutral, pleasant voice, though, she'd felt sick listening to Danielle Hammond. Or Dany, as her friends called her.

Angel was not her friend.

She had still moved her lips along Danielle's lines, tried to feel her patterns of speech, her relaxed happiness, her careless confidence.

It didn't match.

Why should it? Danielle had had a life that Angel never even had a chance at. From Danielle's first moment on, she'd had the entire world laying at her feet. From Angel's first memory on, she'd been kneeling at someone else's feet.

She'd made it, somehow. She didn't kneel any longer, she would never again. Angel knew she was confident as well, more aggressively so than Danielle ever had. She was famous, even. More famous than Danielle. But still, famous because of her. Because Danielle Hammond had once existed, and now all that was left of her was Angel.

There was a scene in the documentary, set on a graveyard. The transcript contained barely any description, but the name of the cemetery had been mentioned in passing. Fairview. It had been lingering in the far end of her consciousness for days, weeks, nagging, itching. 

It was manageable - Angel had learned the hard way how to ignore an itch. But today, after work, when she got into her car - she didn't drive herself, but Mr Hammond insisted she took the services of his driver - she told Anthony not to take her home directly.

Hearing the name of the cemetery, he just nodded.

They rode in silence, as they usually did. Somehow, though, there was something new embedded in the silence today. Anthony pulled into the parking space and opened her door, waiting until she had gotten out to finally speak up. "I can take you," he offered quietly. "It's a bit confusing to navigate… I know where it is."

She grabbed her bag closer and nodded sharply, shoulders straightened. "Please," she said. 

Anthony locked the car and took a sweeping gaze over the cemetery, with the kind of careful attention Angel knew wasn't just for orientation. He wasn't just a driver. 

Fine by her. She didn't like drivers much anyway.

She stepped to his side and followed his gaze. The cemetery spread over the side of a small hill. It was old, she wagered, winding paths, huge trees, crypts and stone statues littered along the pathways between simpler stones.

"Oldest one in town," Anthony said. "And most beautiful. Costs a fortune, today. Boss doesn't compromise. Not for his lit-" He tracked off.

"Not for his little girl," Angel mumbled with a half smile and looked at his concealed gun pointedly. "Yeah. I figured."

Anthony shrugged apologetically and pointed at the gates to their right. "That way."

"It's not me, you know," Angel said, as she followed him. "His little girl."

 "I know." Anthony's voice had become lower as he crossed the iron gates. Not only him, it seemed like everything turned quieter, softer, suddenly. The trees absorbed the noises of the city's rush hour underneath them. Here, they were almost alone. A small group - maybe a family - was gathered at a grave at the far end, an old lady watered plants a bit further uphill. Apart from that, nobody was there. 

He lead her past hedges and benches, underneath low branches and the extended arms of elaborate statures, to a field of larger family graves. 

Angel felt her own steps slow down, all but pulled in by a grave site, a well kept field of white pebbles lined with a polished, wide gravestone, small stone figure of an angel outstretched over it, as it to keep the grave save. "Here we are," Anthony said. 

It wasn't necessary. She knew. Even as she couldn't distinguish the letters, she could feel the familiar shape of the family name engraved in it, sudden pain tearing at her. Hammond. 

Two brass plates underneath it, with more letters. Should've been just one, she thought. Should've been just -

She sank to her knees. "Mom", she whispered tonelessly. She couldn't remember a face, nor a name, just… grief, melancholy, and longing.

Anthony's hand settled on her shoulder, gently reassuring. "Maeve," he said, reading the name on the plaque. "And next to her-"

Danielle.

A fresh white flower lay on her grave.

"I'm sorry," Angel pressed a hand over her mouth, not to sob. "Please, don't, don't te-"

"It's alright. A branch snapped, when Anthony went to his knees next to her, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "I won't tell anyone."

She nodded, swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. "Is it… Is the grave-"

"They buried an empty coffin."

"It's still… It's still her grave, right?"

Anthony paused. "What do you mean?"

"I'm here," Angel whispered. "The grave is empty. But Dan- she… I think she's still dead."

"See, Angel," He reached out tentatively, and she clutched his hand. "That's entirely up to you."

Angel turned her head to the side, buried her face in Anthony's jacket, and felt his arms close around her.

She cried, longer than she ever had, until the sun had set, and the cold crept through her jeans and up her knees, and there were no tears left in her.

"Okay," she mumbled as she pulled back. "Okay, I'm done."

Anthony didn't ask with what, or to what conclusions she'd come. He just helped her up to her feet, handed her a handkerchief and a pocket mirror, and then guided her back to the car through the nightly cemetery.

"Get you home?", he asked.

She nodded.

The ride, as usual, passed in silence.

But instead of the nagging, there was something new, something she couldn't quite grasp.

Closure, maybe.

[rcubens]

Southern Hospitality

TASK 2— A Eulogy by Reuben Sharpe

So he had finally found a tie. Did it fit with his outfit? He wasn’t exactly sure and with the compounding weight of a White Russian hangover and an impending funeral, he couldn't care less. He was grateful that Angus had given him a heads up about the eulogy, he spent the entirety of his night restless staring at the ceiling of his second childhood bedroom trying to string a cohesive sentence together. Nothing sounded right, it was either too sappy, or too vindictive, or too guilt ridden. As Mrs. Tristan read out the order of proceedings to the small group he almost asked if he could be excused; the cue card in his jacket pocket burning a hole in his side.

Reuben wasn’t well versed in funerals— something he used to be grateful for but, currently regretted. The whole weekend had been an exercise in time-travel. The same rooms, the same halls, the same bickering and same ridiculous thing they called a family. And to Reuben it seemed as though nothing had changed. He wanted to remain there forever. Sell his DC condo, quit his job and just roll out of bed and into the kitchen where breakfast was already prepared. Walk around the grounds, drink the wine cellar dry, bother all of his siblings daily. In DC, he was an island— well, there was Angus but, still he was alone. A solo office, a one bedroom off Columbia, an only child.

Hyperaware of his own presence and looking to the other wards for guidance, like he was thirteen again. This time he walks through the cemetery without his mother by his side, but rather, in his breast pocket. He needed her strength today, thinking about her for the first time in a long time. Today, he might very well be orphaned. There are too many people here for his liking, people he doesn’t recognize. Rich philanthropists, local politicians and other old geezers that probably knew Richard back when his dad did. Red rimmed eyes dart around, maybe his aunt was here. Or perhaps she moved her practice back to Georgia, or maybe she was dead. Maybe Reuben was orphaned long before Richard left.

As he sat listening to the other eulogies, he’s fidgeting with his father’s cufflinks. The smooth gold beneath his fingers reminds him of his father. He’d know how to do this. How to wrap your venom in niceties, Southern hospitality or some bullshit. Before he knows it, someone is nudging him and motioning him to stand. Suddenly, his attention seeking efforts don’t feel so brave. It’s like that reoccurring dream you have when you’re walking down the hall of your high school stark naked and everyone’s laughing at you. His cheeks are hot, and he’s trying not cry, to not deceive these people into thinking he cares.

He stands at the pulpit, hands gripping the sides so tightly his knuckles are white. He can’t look out at this crowd and say the things he wants to say. He looks down at the worn wood as he slips his notes out of his pocket. Looking up for a beat through blond curls at Mrs. Tristan, her face says Reuben is on very thin ice…or maybe that’s what mourning looks like on someone who did all the work and received none of the credit.

He stands a little taller and takes a deep breath. “For those of you who may not know me, I’m Reuben Sharpe— my father was Senator Benedict Sharpe and my mother is Evangeline Louise Marston Sharpe, and after the death of my father I was brought here to Woodrow House.” He pauses to chew the inside of his cheek, which is raw from all the nerves of the past 48 hours.

“Richard Woodrow was not a good father—” a wave of anxious energy floods every vein in his body. But no one rushes to silence him or chalks it up to Reuben just being Reuben. Fortunately for him, there’s a captive audience. “A good father loves unconditionally— there’s no favouritism for the smartest, or the ones who could charm the birds out the trees or the one’s that mirror those he’s lost. No, a good father is there for them all, not his money or the people he hires to stand in but, the man himself.”

While it feels like an opportune moment to cry, Reuben feels the absence of feeling at all. Like he was slowly floating upwards like a rogue balloon that escaped the hands of a small child.

“But I don’t blame Mr.Woodrow, he wanted to do the right thing— shit, we all do. It’s not like they write a manual on how to raise 16 kids at once. He did the best he could and delegated all the harder tasks to Mrs. Tristan, whom I don’t think likes me very much right now but that’s nothing new—” he smiles sheepishly, mostly to himself.

“I spoke to Mr.Woodrow last week and said some things I don’t exactly regret but ,would take back if I knew it was the last time I’d ever see him. If I got to speak to him one last time, I think I’d say something along the lines of: thank you for being the next best thing. You did your best, and now I think I understand.”

Whatever tension he’d been holding had rapidly dissipated. If he didn’t get horizontal quickly, he might pass out. He raps his notes against the pulpit before stepping down and walking out of the ceremony.