#sprinkle in a dash of family trauma

[jmeslovr]

forever fighting the urge to give jegulus my specific brand of mental illness just split in half

[ofoceansandtombsanew]

Tohru Honda: a Subversion of Shoujo’s Nice Girl Trope

Fruits Basket absolutely nails subverting your expectations of character tropes in anime. 

Momiji is introduced as the cute childish boy but boom we are slapped with the fact that he a mother who hated him so much she had her memories wiped of him. Shigure right off the bat looks like the typical perverted uncle of anime when in reality he is one the most manipulative characters in the series. Ayame is the flamboyant, boisterous one whose bravado hides his regret and desire to repent for his past neglect of his younger brother. Which ultimately brings me to the protagonist of Furuba itself, Tohru Honda.

I'll make it no secret that I have a huge soft spot for Fruits Basket as a series. It was the first manga I read, I watched the 2001 series and I was right on the hype train when I saw it was getting a remake that would follow the manga storyline. But I did my best to be as objective as possible in this essay of sorts saying why I believe Tohru is a great example of subverting the "Nice Girl Protagonist" of Shoujo. Tohru is the protagonist of Fruits Basket and when it comes to those who don't like her, it seems she can be hit or miss due to the assumption that she is perfect. 

The general consensus of those who do not like her or find her bland compared to the rest of the cast is that Tohru is a perfect and bland protagonist with no issues of her own. That all she does is wave her healing wand of warm smiles and makes everything better for those around her.

However, that opinion couldn't be more misguided. In reality, Tohru is just as emotionally broken as the Sohmas and they mend her heart just as much as she mends theirs. As such, I hope to show those who find her bland or otherwise boring that there is more substance to Tohru's character than they believe.

At first glance, Tohru does seems like your typical Shoujo protagonist. She's nice, almost to a fault. She would rather talk her way out of a situation instead of throwing hands, she doesn't get mad in situations other typically would, and she has a hard time asking for help. Oh and with a dash of anime originality, she's an orphan. However even as early as episode 1, you can see hints that Tohru is not going to be the usual nice girl protagonist with her desire to work and be as independent as possible. The mangaka does a great job throughout the series showing with hints and broad examples that Tohru is just as complex as the colorful cast around her.

Ironically enough though, when hints of Tohru's trauma are sprinkled throughout the series it is seen as annoying even when the Furuba takes time to give insight into why she does the things she does.

She mentions her mother constantly in anecdotes of whimsical stories or snippets of wisdom her mother imparted her with.

Compared to the death of parents to other anime protagonists, Tohru's situation is a bit more unique. Tohru's father may have died when she was young but the same cannot be said for her mother, Kyoko, who died fairly recently. When the series begins, Kyoko has only been dead for a few months and it is more than apparent as early as episode 1 that Tohru is desperate to keep any semblance of her mother's existence alive. Kyoko died before Tohru's first year of high school even ended and worse, was told in the middle of class. Tohru has had barely any time to heal from this loss and it is evident in how she talks to her mother's photo.

Yes, in Japanese culture, it may be typical to have photos of departed family members, making a shrine for them and leaving offerings from time to time. But Tohru takes this to a completely different level, showcasing how deep her trauma runs.

When she is digging frantically to take out her mother's photo after the landslide destroyed her tent, she cries "She can't breathe in there. She's in pain." And that's just episode one.

Nobody completely over the death of their parent would speak like this, referring to a photo as a living person. She lost her mother and she didn't even get a chance to say goodbye, even feeling guilt to an extent about the situation. Tohru didn't wake up to tell her mother that she would see her later. There is no way that simply getting up to tell her mother goodbye would have changed the outcome of her fate, but Tohru still feels that way. That it didn't matter if she had tests or work or the next day, the one she should have put first was her mother. 

Anyone who has or is currently experiencing the grief of losing a loved one has likely done the same. Wondering if, if the situation was anything other than illness or old age, there was something they could have done. Things they should have said or could have said differently. What more could they have done to help and the feeling is all consuming. Even if it is unprompted, they somehow will manage to insert their lost family or friend into a conversation that didn't include them or may randomly begin talking about them. A lot of the time, these people don't even realize that they're doing it which is shown in season 2 with Tohru when Hiro asks her why she talks about her mother so much.

She is too positive.

Tohru's positivity is one of the most easily seen aspects of her character. Where others might see the glass half-empty, Tohru sees it as half-full. Her positivity is even noted upon by characters within the show, Saki (Hanajima) mentioning that she doesn't believe she could personally smile like that so soon after the death of a loved one.

Tohru doesn't like thinking about her problems. She doesn't like expressing her sadness. She doesn't want to worry those around her when they likely have their own problems to worry about. Saki predicts that this ability Tohru has to act this way is because she would scold herself if she ever showed a hint of sadness. And Saki was right because we see Tohru later on doing exactly that, crying but forcing herself to try and smile and scolding herself for not keeping it together.

Rather than let Yuki comfort her when she is in tears, she smiles and completely changes the topic even though tears are coming down her face.Tohru tells Kyo that she needs a minute to get herself together because breaking down in tears in front of him wasn't what she planned. She was supposed to smile when she saw him again.

Tohru would rather pretend everything is fine even when she is seconds away from falling apart because toxic positivity is something she struggles with.

No one can be that positive all the time, not even Tohru.

Tohru has a hard time asking others for help.

Yes, Tohru is kind-hearted by nature but she genuinely does believe that she could burden those she troubles for help. Considering how her maternal side of the family wanted nothing to do with her and her paternal side of the family talks poorly about her, it isn't difficult to see where that frame of thinking came to be. When her mother died, her paternal side of the family didn't argue over who wanted to take Tohru in, they argued over who should take Tohru in and that is an important distinction. Even more so the fact, they had these arguments in front of her. When it was finally settled that she should live with her grandfather and that was uprooted due to upcoming renovations, it makes sense that she would rather be homeless in a tent than bother her friends who don't have the space to provide for an additional person even if that.

In Tohru's mind, it was shown very clearly by her family that she is a burden. She's an extra mouth to feed and an unwanted mouth at that, as her family never holds back in disparaging Kyoko even if Tohru is present.

As such, when Tohru is in a situation where she has no other choice than to accept their help, she believes she should be extremely grateful. They're taking their time to help her when they easily could have done otherwise, so why should she want more? Why should she complain? If she has any desires, she pushes it down because of that belief because she feels awful and that she shouldn't want for more when people are already going out of their way to help an extra mouth to feed. Because of this mentality cultivated by the bulk of her paternal relatives mistreatment, she will seldom voice her wants.

She never gets angry or upset.

To say Tohru never gets angry or close to physical in her reactions is far from the truth. Tohru gets angry when the issue impacts those that she cares about.

Tohru can tolerate being mistreated but she will always draw the line at the abuse being directed to someone else. When she first meets Akito and she sees Yuki's clear discomfort and fear, she pushes Akito away from him immediately. When she witnesses Momiji being punched by Akito, she immediately steps in and places herself in front of Momiji to physically shield him. When Rin tells her not to meddle with the curse and involve herself, Tohru, without cruelty, shoots back that she will absolutely meddle and involve herself because she refuses to lose the people she cares about to someone who has clearly been abusing them emotionally and physically for years. Tohru's tolerance for mistreatment has a limit, she is just unfortunately not included in that limit. So when we finally see her get angry in a scenario that includes herselfー when Kyo tries to run away because he feels he doesn't deserve her love, it's incredible.

There is so much more to Tohru than meets the eye. Tohu's reaction to Yuki getting a cold isn't just Tohru overreacting for the sake of being a nice girl, it's because her father died from a cold he brushed off and that cold turned into a fatal illness. For Tohru, colds aren't something that can just be brushed away because what if it turns into something worse.

Tohru would rather wear clothes until they practically fall apart than buy new clothes because she knows that she can't just spend her money haphazardly. But when it came to Valentine's Day and wanting to express her gratitude for those who cared about her, she had no problem dropping an entire check to purchase the ingredients to make enough chocolate for everyone.

She disregards herself and the efforts she puts forward. When she feels she has failed in helping Arisa, she specifically says "everyone around me has always helped me and when it is my turn to do the same, I can't." These aren't problems she overcomes herself by simply "smiling through the pain" as some who discredit her argue. Tohru is repeatedly loved and helped by those around her who care for her and opens herself up to receive that love and help over time. She is taught by her grandfather and Sohmas that is okay for her to be selfish and ask for things.

Her friends teach her that she helps them so much and that in reality they feel like they are never there to help her when she needs it.Her friends get upset that the same amount of money she would spend on them, she wouldn't spend on herself.

She is told that the way she villainized Katsuya after his death because doesn't make her dirty or a bad person because she was a child that was scared to lose her mother. That her fear and desperation to make her mother acknowledge her was understandable. That mimicking her father in her attempt to draw her mother's attention probably helped more than she realized.

Tohru is not just a "Nice Shoujo Girl" Protagonist, she is a girl with trauma who would rather focus on the issues someone else has than look to her own.

Like I said before, this isn't me trying to get Tohrus haters to like her. People are entitled to like and dislike whichever characters they please, but it is a complete disservice to Natsuki Takaya's writing to say Tohru is bland and has no struggles of her own. Tohru has many problems and struggles she has to deal with throughout the series and seeing those issues she overcomes being brushed aside as her being perfect and having no problems is a complete oversight. As such, I just simply wanted to peel back Tohru's layers and showcase that just as characters such as Momiji, Shigure and Ayame are more than the tropes they are introduced as, Tohru is as well.

[i wrote this on reddit too]

[blueywrites]

new skin

The diner’s signature dish: Fresh-baked soft pretzel knots with sweet Georgia peach jam, topped with bitter trauma. Recipe includes a dash of pining, a sprinkle of faith, and a generous heap of healing love.

Linecook!Eddie x Waitress!Reader. 60s Diner. Slow Burn.

The ground is frozen solid when you arrive in Hawkins in January 1989. Ice fills the deep gouges in the earth that remain nearly three years after the earthquake that rocked this quaint town, forcing many from their homes. The ones who stayed are still healing - scarred just like the earth, inside and out. 

You join them as the sky melts to the black of night, pulling up to the dilapidated trailer park in a stolen car. You have nothing to your name but a smattering of pawn-shop proceeds, a nipped cashbox, what toiletries you can carry in both hands, and two trash bags full of tailored dresses.

You’d chosen Hawkins, Indiana because it’s the last place he’d ever expect you to go.

You’d chosen Hawkins, Indiana, and Lord, thank you, because it saved your life.

18+ only for mature themes and eventual sexual content. fem!reader, plussized!reader, fatphobia, domestic violence, domestic abuse, miscarriage/loss of pregnancy, discussions of suicidal ideation, significant religious themes, found family, hurt/comfort, slow burn, angst with a happy ending

the playlist: just some little ditties playing on the jukebox mixed with country folk and so much tasty foreshadowing you'll get a stomachache.

01 / 02 / 03 / 04 / 05 / 06 / 07 / 08 / 09 / 10 / 11 / 12 / 13 / 14 / 15 / 16 / 17

chapter one: an empty room (bonus content: chapter one audio dramatization)

chapter two: I'll be seeing you

[thelaurenshippen]

Out of every film that exists, give one to each of your podcasts. I wanna see what vibes you think, cause I rlly wanna listen to some!

ooooooh GREAT question. this has me fully stumped, because I really don't watch a ton of movies? I'm much more of a TV person. but I'll do my best.

The Bright Sessions - depending on the season, this could really change. but, at its core, TBS is an emotional sci-fi story that's super queer, so...Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind meets Love, Simon meets...like, the non-saving-the-world parts of The Incredibles or...idk, Matilda.

Breaker Whiskey - Another Earth meets Portrait of a Lady on Fire.

Bridgewater - Hereditary is a horror movie about family trauma, right? So that, but not as scary or sad, plus cryptids.

Maxine Miles - Harriet the Spy meets The Goonies, but with environmental anxiety.

New Year’s Day - take The Prestige and The Illusionist, shake, add a dash of The Greatest Showman and then make it gay.

Surviving Hawkins - I mean, obviously, the TV show this is most like is, uh, Stranger Things (this was the official ST podcast I wrote lol), but actually it's closer to Dead Poet's Society or The History Boys, especially since there's no Upside Down business.

Passenger List - I really just want to say that Idris Elba Apple TV show about a plan hijacking but I'm committed to the movie thing--there's an element of Girl with the Dragon Tattoo in here, plus maybe Flight Plan or...Shutter Island even?

and, honorable mentions (shows I produced but didn't write):

In Strange Woods - this is tricky because it's a musical but...Into the Wild meets Spotlight (but not sad in the same way) meets....a musical.

Life With LEO(h) - Her but, like, fun and actually romantic. Her + Pride & Prejudice + Nora Ephron movies.

Look Up - I have never seen it, but Briggon loves the movie Handsome Devil so I'm putting that here along with, like, the tiniest little sprinkling of Moonlight.

Greenhouse - jesus, there are not enough fun sapphic romance movies. Imagine Me & You meets You've Got Mail.

but I'd LOVE to hear all your thoughts, listeners!!

[cosmererambles]

Reposting from Old Blog! Modern AU!

Kaladin: Honorably Discharged Ex-Marine, was a trauma medic, than surgeon, now works at a hospital. Shallan: Starving artist with mental issues she totally has under control. Works with the local organized crime on the side. Runs into Adolin and Kaladin by chance. Adolin: A businessman with a heart of gold. No really, he’s actually really nice. A lot of his accrediation came from nepotism (His father runs the company) but he’s talented, well liked, and his branch makes bank with high moral. He runs into Shallan by pure chance and is immediately smitten. Renarin: The talented, but frail, savant brother of the Kholin family. He disappears and always comes back with an amazing tale and great idea.

Dalinar: Ex-Military Buisinessman. Fell into it from his brother, and doesn’t like it. Previous wife died in a fire. (No he didn’t cause THIS ONE IT WAS TRAGIC.) Navani: Married Gavilar, divorced him, married his brother. Works as head engineer at the company. Dangerously brilliant. Gavilar: Caught in scandle and sentenced to prison, where he was assassinated. (Much like Epstein, he “killed” himself.) Szeth: Morally good man who is caught up with dangerous people. Serves as a hitman for a time due to Taravangian “saving his life” through a convoluted plot. Taravangian: Head of the local crime gang. Fronts himself as an altruistic, almost saint like figure. Jasnah: Works at a local university and is a terrible professor. Her classes are extremely hard to pass. Registration rates are at an all time low, and she can’t figure out why! Elokar: Makes stained glass in his free time, and is the head graphic designer of his Uncles company. Thinks his dad is a piece of shit. (Loved him until the trial) Bridge 4: Kaladin’s Military buddies. They pop in from time to time. Teft actually leaves the service to keep an eye on him; he was due for it anyways. Rushu: Navani’s very scatterbrained by loveable assistent. Tarah: I include her because 1: I’m begging Sanderson to reintroduce her to Kaladin in book 5 and 2: He needs someone to love him for who he is, and I think she’d be neat. She’s a girl he met at the hospital; she worked for a time in registration, and they hit it off, so to speak. THE SPREN: All the spren are figments. Little dashes of insanity sprinkled throughout their lives. If I was to write this, they’d all suffer from sort of psychosis. Syl is basically Kaladin’s conscience. Pattern is Shallan’s, and Mayalarn is Adolin’s past coming to haunt him.

[holyguardian]

Aerith on this blog has a canon daughter named Grace. I never, ever will push that to be something that is acknowledged in roleplays. But in my canon, my Aerith doesn’t make healthy decisions. In fact she is quite reckless — I have it wedged in my brain that Aerith's childhood trauma has manifested in a pinch of self-destructive habits, a dash of attachment issues, sprinkling of looming dread that her whole life is a lie held up by toothpicks and it's all about to come crashing down because an organisation bigger than her has her pinned and it's only a matter of time before she's dragged back into the very place that killed her biological family—

That is how Grace is born into the world. Her mother was a risk-taker. For my Aerith feelings are hard but sex is easy. And it certainly doesn’t help that she treats sex as a casual encounter with other people who are willing to treat it the same. The relationships that work out the best for her are those who pump the brakes or those who put a world of meaning into all facets of the relationship. But I digress, in my canon it is actually easy for Aerith to fall into a situation where she’s seeing a “that-person-is-no-good-for-you” type on the regular.

However that all changes when she suddenly has another life. Her daughter’s life. I am of the full belief that Aerith wept openly holding her little bundle because she knew then just how desperately she needed to change her life. Having her baby, her little Grace to love and protect fiercely is what ultimately made my Aerith take full strides into maturity. To put it simpler — this baby saves her life. She valued herself so little but instantly values her little one more than anything else in the world.

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

Lunar New Love

Lunar New Love by Ophelia Silk

Minh has a problem. They've accidentally told their grandmother they'd come with their partner for Tết Holiday - Vietnamese Lunar New Year - this Saturday, and it's too late to take it back. Not only has Minh not been to a family gathering since their disastrous coming out three years ago, they also don't have a partner to show up with. The solution? A fake partner. And of all the people Minh knows, the perfect match turns out to be Cass Beauregard, the one member of their friend group they can't get along with.

I found this last year on my Tumblr dash, and finally got around to reading it. Minh is nonbinary, and Cass genderfluid (switching between Cassandra and Apollo :D), and they both have their own reason to need a fake date.

It was fun, but I'm afraid there isn't that much more I can say - it's fake dating turned real dating, with a bit of trauma from past relationships sprinkled all over it for good measure.

[ID: The cover shows illustrations of red paper lanterns and a branch of yellow apricot flowers. Red text that looks like handwriting reads: Ophelia Silk. Lunar New Love. How about a fake dating trade-off? End ID]

[sad-poets-society]

Book Excerpts:

I left the church gradually, not intentionally. I left religion in small bursts over several years. I left Jesus without ever wanting to. A sprinkle of trauma here, a dash of rebellion there, an identity crisis that left me split in half bleeding all over the altar.

I would go to church, lead worship, pray for the group, then run out and end up in the back of someone’s car with either a cigarette or a grown man in my mouth. Then I would go home, sob to the Lord that I was sorry, beg for forgiveness, beg for him to cleanse the bad thoughts from my head, beg for him to mold me into the person I was supposed to be. Imagine my devastation when I would still wake up empty - feeling worthless and useless.

My quiet time became an act of self-flagellation. I would vividly picture Jesus on the cross, being beaten and bleeding for my sins. For every time he was cut open and bruised because of me, I did it to myself. I didn’t want to hurt him, I loved him, I needed him, “without God, I am nothing” was written on the inside of my bible for God’s sake! I was worthless, unloveable, ugly, stupid, desperate, disgusting, and I needed to be the one hurting.

I toed the line day in and day out. I would rip my skin to shreds with tears running down my face because Jesus loved me enough to die for me, but not enough to give me the ability to be like him. Eventually, I met my match with someone who toed his own line. The line he crossed while I let him. The line you could never go back from as a Christian girl. The line that separated me from worthy of love and being rejected in the eyes of any good christian man.

So I went home, prayed with a bottle, repented with a blade, and popped some kind of pill that would bring me out of my head and closer to him.

Until she noticed. I would be lying if I said that I reacted well. She could sense the real me hiding and loved me despite it, something I had wanted for so long, and I hated it. I felt so loved and safe there. So I ran.

I ran away from the congregation that couldn’t accept me, ran from the people I depended on too much, ran from my family, ran from the positive people in my life, ran until I felt alone in a room full of people. I ran away from the hurt, I ran away from the feeling of never being good enough for someone to die for, I ran away from the feeling that being used was the only was I was useful, I ran away from a God that let me fail over and over again to rid the world of my existence. I ran away from toxic ideology, I ran away from the belief that people who were different were less than, I ran away from the idea that a loving God would send people to hell because they fell in love with someone who had the same kind of sex organs, I ran away from the idea that an all powerful God would let my kids at school be starved and abused, I ran away from a God who would let children suffer for the sins of their parents. I ran away from a God that demanded submission with no justification for his actions (or lack thereof). I ran away from the idea that I would be okay, I ran away from the idea that my repentance could keep up with my sins, I ran away from the idea that I would ever be worthy of love, I ran away from the idea that the things that happened to me would make me stronger in the end, I ran away from the idea that I would ever be who I was supposed to be. I ran away from the concept that the loving, powerful, almighty God was perfect because if he was perfect, a fuckup like me wouldn’t exist. He let his own son die, why wouldn’t he let me do the same? I ran away from a God that didn’t seem to care that I ran away. It took running away from a life created to blindly worship the God of the old and new testament for me to realize running wasn’t going to work. (This is where you think there will be a lovely prodigal son style ending, sorry!) See, I never stopped believing in the loving, good, one of a kind God. I just stopped respecting him. I stopped trying to understand his divine plan because I stopped believing that it was for my good like I had always been told.

If Jesus walked the earth today, what would you say to him? I’d say that you have all the power, all the love, all the ability to create a world full of kindness, peace, understanding, and empathy - yet you allow people to suffer at the hands of other people? You intricately wove me in my mother’s womb, so why did you weave a brain that was totally fucked? You entrusted me to parents that raised me in a lifestyle that traumatized me to the point where I have the same PTSD score as a combat veteran. You allowed me to have my own thoughts, my own desires, my own personality - why couldn’t you let me have good thoughts, pure desires, only one personality instead of several? You say you want all of me, you want everything, you want me to totally surrender to you - then I need you to explain.

If Jesus walked the earth today, what would you say to him? I think I would sound like my parents to be honest. I think I’d say I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed. I love you, but I just don’t like you right now.

[grrrlsoverdramas]

grrrlsoverdramas’ GTKM: 10 Dramas to Define My Kdrama Preferences

(1) Cheesy Romance with a sprinkle of scifi/fantasy; (2) Ensemble casts in Heartwarming/Cathartic Workplace/School Slice-of-Life; (3) Case-of-the-Week with limited main-character conflicts; (4) Fun family dramas with popular/trendy actors; (5) Murdery Thriller with lots of crying/childhood trauma; (6) Modern Re-Telling of Traditional Korean Folklore; (7) Rag-tag found family and sentimental Coming-of-Age narratives; (8) Grief Romance with Hurt/Comfort/Codependency; (9) Corruption/Conspiracy-Centered Action-Comedy-Romance; (10) Tropey RomCom with a DASH of Jealousy

[taystarotoverload]

PAC what your guides want to tell you

keyword; the smallest

keyword; the smallest

keyword; the smallest

keyword; the smallest

Even those who seem the least to us have their dreams. The tiniest and the weakest have their place in the Universe just as we do. They have a special job that only they can do, a place that only we can fill. There is no one being that is more important or more worthy than another, regardless of the form in which they choose to express themselves in life. We marvel at the tiniest hummingbird. how can it move its wings so rapidly that i can hover in one spot and then fly off in a split second? what strength and agility it has. what divine form! it’s hard to believe that something so tiny can bring so much beauty and wonder. if you are feeling small and insignificant, remember your uniqueness. the only shoes you have to fill are your own and they fit you just fine! there are no insignificant people, none who are less who than another. eliminate prejudices and judgements whether cast upon yourself or another. if you feel that someone is not up to your standards, then realize that is what you are projecting upon them. change your perception and see then truly as they are… a reflection of God energy, just as you are. spirit expresses through us all in its own way. it’s not for us to second-guess. if you are feeling less than whole, remember your divine birth and take comfort in knowing that you are divinely perfect. pursue your dreams and know that you are divinely guided. have faith in your dreams and your abilities. it’s okay to have faith in other peoples dreams. help and encourage them to believe in themselves.

Group 2

The Door Mouse

Keyword; Home

The Door Mouse card can represent your home or a place where you feel the happiest or the safest. the physical body is also the home for your soul and at times can be reflected in this card. it can also be about your family, close relationships, and childhood memories. it speaks of goals you may have for your home: moving, renovating or redecorating. it also encompasses the yard and gardens. in order to determine what it is that you are being asked to focus on, relax for a moment and sense what comes to mind. pay attention to your feelings… where are they guiding you? what emotion does the card bring up? go with the feeling and ask, “what is this about? what is it i need to look at again and why?” perhaps you need to clear a childhood trauma from your aura. it might be that you need to revisit the pleasant carefree memories of your youth. if you are unhappy with your surroundings, it might be that it is time to change residence. sometimes the energy of a home does not support your comfort and well-being. sometimes a home just needs to be cleansed. it needs to be in order and clean, but also smudged or cleansed on a spiritual level. light a smudge stick, say a prayer, or sprinkle sat or water and walk slowly through the rooms. ring chimes or bells, or clap your hands, or drum in all the rooms to break up stagnant energy. if you choose, just visualize doing all these things. you can also ask that your helping friends, from other realms cleanse the house and property for you. your physical body, the home of your soul, needs to be kept clean and in good running order. do the things that are good for your well-being on all levels. home is where the heart is.

Group 3

Autumn

Keyword; releasing

In the autumn the fairies dash about checking to make sure that all leaves are falling. sometimes a lead needs a little nudge and the fairies are happy to oblige! the fairies have a lot to do before they can rest in winter. for us humans, autumn is about letting go. just like the trees retract their sap in winter, we retract our energy. the autumn cards tell you to store your energy up for yourself right now! feel your energies beginning to collect around you and pull them inward close to your body. conserve energy! if you have drawn this card you are being told to let go of the old habits and ideas that tend to take up energy that can be better used elsewhere. it is a time of sorting. a time to release old ‘stuff’ and to see what is truly precious to you, and what you really want to keep in your life. this may be a time of weeding out, so that you can do the prep work for a new project in your life. if your energy feels lower, don’t panic. flow with natures cycles and rest and relax. autumn offers us magical qualities that inspire reflection and thinking. go deeper down into your roots to reflect on where your life is going and where you want it to go. it is also a good time to do some writing or journaling. this may be a day for you to just curl up under a quilt with a good movie and a hot cup of tea.

Group 4

Blue Fairy

keyword; love

Here is the blue fairy who offers to the message of love and peace. she demonstrates the need for quiet within our daily lives. she shows us that through calmness we realize our connection to spirit. this connection is always with us. concentrate on this cobalt blue and feel what it does to your inner body. imagine a blue crystal deep within your heart that resonates to all that is, through the vibration to love. you are connected to all creation snd to the hearts of all beings, through a beautiful crystal blue grid work of light. feel the oneness of all that is. sense the infinite being in your soul. can you feel your problems shrinking in size? feel your own divinity! allow your creativity to flow! with the oneness comes true understating if the greater mysteries of life. they all come down to one thing, infinite love.

[phatphrog]

Zuko would be a Gryffindor and no, you can’t change my mind.

helloooo tumblr. I’m back from my lil hiatus- for now ;) but most importantly, I offer you this as I crawl out of my cave:

so, brief intro. This is based off of my original comments on Pinterest (pictured above), but hopefully written to be a bit more coherent. That comment section had some intense debates, but it was fun seeing everyone’s takes, so I thought I’d bring it over here. I saw lot of people on the Zuko=Slytherin side but, as you can see, I have some strong opinions to the contrary. You guys don’t know this about me but I was obsessed with Harry Potter for a longgg time. I may not be as actively into it now, but once a Potterhead always a Potterhead. That being said- this is all for fun! Reblog/comment your thoughts. What do you think the characters houses would be- let me know :)

Mm yes delicious literary parallels- the stories and characters of Zuko and Sirius Black mirror each other in a lot of ways. That shared angst? Family trauma? Yessir. (And bonus points for being considered heartthrobs haha) If we’re translating Zuko’s story to the HP universe, him having a similar situation to Sirius would make total sense from a literary standpoint. For those of you unfamiliar with the story, Sirius Black is from a long prestigious line of pure bloods. (All wizard ancestry). His family is well off and highly respected, in *certain* circles. Most notably though, they’re all Slytherins. It’s a huge part of their identity- they pride themselves heavily on carrying on the tradition of both being a Slytherin and more or less being part of the bad guys. No one really can choose otherwise. Sirius however, gets sorted into Gryffindor, and allies with people that stand for the complete opposite of what his family believes in. He ends up fighting against his own family in order to help defeat Voldemort. Sirius is literally burned off of the family tree tapestry- he’s an outcast, a disgrace to his own family. Sound familiar? Zuko being sorted into Gryffindor while his whole family had always been Slytherins (Azula would 100% be top off her class in Slytherin), having to grow from their bigotry, struggling with his identity and being shunned from his family, and eventually joining the good guys? Yeah, that adds up. Take out the Hogwarts houses and that’s basically his story already. 

Honor!!! Okay, this ones pretty short. Basically, Zuko’s actions mostly come from a place of wanting to do the right thing and honor. (Granted, what he did in Seasons 1-2 wasn’t the right thing, but he thought it was at the time). Just the idea of being obsessed with honor (again, the Fire Nations idea of honor is warped but let’s think of it as it’s neutral meaning here- think of chivalry, good reputation, respect, etc) of is more of a Gryffindor thing to me, and again, trying to do the right thing is very much a Gryffindor trait.

Determination aka one of the main Gryffindor traits. Bravery, determination, passion, all define a Gryffindor. Passion is pretty self explanatory, Zuko’s a passionate person, period. Bravery we’ll get to in the next bullet. You cannot tell me my man Zuko is not determined. Some argue that much of his actions were out of ambition, which I’ll get to later, but the way he goes about all of his tasks (capturing the avatar, joining the Gaang, getting Katara to forgive him) is very much Gryffindor. He simply does not give up. He keeps going forward, no matter what- no matter the difficulties, Zuko will keep going. He’s determined, always.

Brave, brash, and a not so small sprinkle of self-sacrifice In their constant efforts to do the right thing, Gryffindors often act recklessly, simply crashing forward in earnestness to do the right thing, to save the day, etc. This is very much Zuko. I love him, but let’s be honest, he can be a bit dumb at times. He’s very brash and can get caught up in the moment. He tends to just run ahead, often acting without thinking, except maybe about his end goal. Not to mention, he’s incredibly brave. I could use countless examples, but the first ones that come to the mind are the Agni Kai with Azula, and leaving to join the Gaang during the eclipse. Zuko literally throws himself in front of lightning for someone. Without a second thought, he sacrifices his own life for someone else. Now if that isn’t reckless Gryffindor bravery in its purest form, I don’t know what is. Zuko leaves behind his throne, his family, girlfriend, honor, home, everything, with the very real possibility of never returning, to join the Gaang. He leaves it all behind, to do the right thing. That is most definitely not a Slytherin move. Maybe he could act as a double agent, giving information to the Gaang while retaining his throne, if he was Slytherin, but that blind all or nothing sacrifice for the greater good is simply out of character for a Slytherin. Not to say they’re evil by any means, but they’re cunning. Your average Slytherin just wants to ensure their well being, and is clever about doing so.

Ambition & Cunning (or not really) One of the most popular arguments for Zuko being a Slytherin is that his quest to capture Aang, was done out of ambition. I would argue that yes, he was ambitious in pursuit of the Avatar, but ultimately his actions were not fueled out of self interest, but for acceptance from his father. He wants to be welcomed back home, he wants love and acceptance. Secondly, Zuko really isn’t that cunning. See all of the above points for more evidence, but he’s simply not. He thunders ahead without a second thought. He doesn’t achieve his goals through meticulous planning, or manipulation and deceitful actions, he just goes for it. Let’s look at Azula, who I think we can all agree is a Slytherin through and through. Many of her most valued traits by Ozai, what makes her so formidable, and what Zuko tries again and again to be more like, are in turn her most Slytherin-esque traits. Azula is the definition of cunning and calculated. She plans every step. She analyzes her enemies weaknesses, their strengths. She’s incredibly powerful, but she doesn’t go full force all the time, she’s meticulous in when and how to use that power. Try as he might, Zuko can never be like her. It just isn’t in his nature. He’s not calculating or manipulative, he’s painfully brash, passionate, and straight forward. Take season 2 episode 8, “The Chase.” While Aang is fighting with Azula and Zuko, he gets to the second story of a building via airbending that doesn’t have a floor. In pursuit of him, Azula almost falls through, but quickly realizes and deftly jumps off to the side. Shortly after, Zuko runs through with a determined yell, but doesn’t notice and crashes straight down. This, is the perfect example of them as characters and their dynamic. Azula, always on guard and calculating, Zuko, full steam ahead, all passion and bravery, no hesitation.

Not everyone’s a hero! A common misconception is that Slytherins are the bad guys while Gryffindors are the good guys. I’ve seen this argument as evidence for Zuko being a Slytherin- he wasn’t a hero for most of the story, so he can’t possibly be a Gryffindor. First of all, Zuko has never truly been evil. He’s constantly had the conflicting ideas of good and evil, i.e- Roku and Sozin, within in him; it just takes a long and difficult journey to become a hero. And again, his actions were fueled not by selfish intent, but by a need for acceptance, and that’s all he knew. By merely going through that incredibly painful journey of growth, he ultimately proves his bravery even more, and his determination. He went through all that hardship, but kept going, kept fighting, and came out a good person in the end. I want to stress this point though- not all Gryffindors are these dashing heroes, especially not straight away. Look at Colin Creevey or Neville Longbottom- both Gryffindors, and both untraditional heroes. Sure, they were never ‘evil’, but they did start off unassuming, anxious, and awkward. Many, including themselves, doubted their status as Gryffindors, but by the end of the series through their growth and hard work, ended up proving themselves as the heroes they always had been, even if they didn’t know it. Heroism comes in many different forms and from many different places.

I could probably go on, but I’m sure you get the idea. Let me know what you think! I’m very much team Zuko=Gryffindor obviously, but I’m not sure about the other characters. I’d love to hear everyone’s ideas or takes on my argument :)

[artoverchaos]

Oct Vella Hop~

I’m such a fan of serial fiction, and while Vella is new, it’s launch is being very kind to the authors who are trying out it. You always get the first free chapters of anything for free, and currently amazon is giving readers even more freebies and paying the authors for those freebies. So now is a great time to try out Vella from your kindle app or on desktop. 

Here’s Oct’s Monthly Round Up! 

Building Your Readership  Genre: Non Fiction

The hardest part about promoting a book is finding your readers.  Inside this book I share 10 ways to start building your readership.  Each episode gives you tips and action steps you can implement after each episode.

From The Author: Hello I’m LaShaunda Hoffman. I’ve promoted books for 20+ years. I started an online magazine – Shades Of Romance and it taught me how to build a readership.  I’m currently working on my first women’s fiction book.  I’ve been enjoying this journey on Kindle Vella.  - http://lashaundahoffman.com

 Beneath Gehenna Genre: Dystopian Steampunk SciFi 

After an alert goes out to the paying members of the disaster bunker known as New Eden, residents find themselves trapped between two vastly different worlds: one that preys on trauma and one that creates it. Now, a newly wealthy yet troubled man and his new friends must find a way to live with the Hell they bought or return to the Hell which remains. From The Author: Benjamin ran with scissors when he was five. He now writes, paints, uses sharp woodworking tools and plays with glue. Sometimes he does these things at the same time. You can read more at https://www.bxwretlind.com where he writes blog articles focused (mostly) on writing.

Bounty: Wanted Dead or Alive Genre: Urban Fantasy/Slow Burn Romance

A fast pace, Urban Fantasy tale with slow burn romance. Suggested age for reading is 18-up. I never thought I'd be running the family business alone, but a freak hunting accident left Fenris, my Direwolf companion and me half-dead. Luckily, we pulled through, but my dad he didn't make it. Now I am searching for the people responsible for his death while digging up the pieces of secrets he kept. From the author: Adalynd Grayves  is  the name  and writing darker fiction is my game. When writing my stories, I like to take a pinch of monster, a dash of myth, and add a sprinkle of fairytales into the mix. I’ve been in anthologies in the past, but I’m currently working on publishing my first novel releasing  in 2022 ( official date TBA) and I  have my Kindle Vella serial out and ready to read now.  You can find all my links here: https://linktr.ee/AdalyndGrayves

 Elven Heartbound By Elizabeth Ash Genre : Romantic Fantasy

Born of elven magic. Bound to an elven prince.

All her life, Arisanna has been destined to wed the son of the elf king, and now the elves have come to collect. Nothing, however, goes as expected when the elves arrive to claim her. Despite their misunderstandings, Arisanna agrees to wed the aloof elf prince with whom she's been heartbound since before her birth.

Is the prince as hard as he seems? Or is there more to him than meets the eye?

About The Author: I live in the middle of the woods of the Pacific Northwest, where I keep a wary eye out for sasquatch. So far, he hasn’t revealed himself, but the trees around me are the inspiration for many of the forest scenes in my stories. https://www.facebook.com/ElizabethAshBooks

 Forsaken Beauty and the Etherbeast by Kelsey Josephson Genre: Sci-fi/Fantasy

A bookish strongwoman longs for freedom. A beast searches for a cure. Together, they'll break man-made curses.

After her own father sells her to the unscrupulous Ringmaster, Belle thinks she'll spend the rest of her days performing cheap stunts while the Nuzaran masses gawk at her ether-poisoned body. A chance encounter with a beast by her solitary campfire changes everything. Can they find liberation or will the past consume them both?

About The Author:  I have a deep love for Universal Monster movies, all things related to Nikola Tesla, and iced coffee. The first two things fuel my creativity and the latter keeps me motivated! You can check my other works on my website: https://simplykelseyjo.com/

 Fight or Flight: A Cinderella Tale of Court Intrigue Genre: Fantasy

Who doesn't love a Cinderella story? However, the stories never tell of what happens after the Prince finds his Bride and Cinderella finds her 'Happily Ever After'. What should be a happily ever after for Alyssa quickly becomes a game of survival as she tries to navigate a hostile court and those who are eyeing her position next to the prince.

Will she manage to win the game or will the strike of midnight only declare the beginning of her doom?

Author The Author: In addition to writing Urban Fantasy, one of the things I love to do is write fanfiction. You can check it all out here on my blog in addition to my original works. - https://theseekerfiles.wordpress.com/

  Death Date Genre: YA Dystopian

 People tell you to live life to the fullest.  Take your time. Don't make rash decisions. I should have listened. Maybe it  would have made a difference. Tomorrow is my eighteenth birthday. A day  that's supposed to be special. Eighteen years old means adulthood. Life is  just starting. That's how it used to be, years ago. Before our new society  formed. Instead, I face uncertainty. My past sways the outcome. On this  birthday, I will receive the most important gift. The gift of the date I will  die. 

About The Author: In addition to writing YA  Dystopian, I also write YA Fantasy. You can check out more about my projects  on Facebook at authorbysimpson and on Instagram. 

Not Your Angel Genre: Urban Fantasy

Two worlds, two wings, and one big problem ex...

With the return of her childhood ex-boyfriend, Silana and her family must stop pretending to play normal and embrace who they really are in order to save the world from a disastrous past love eager for new worshippers. The only problem is that Earth already believes in angels.

About The Authors: Some friendships never die. This co-written story is by two life-long friends! Follow one of the authors on instagram @RoseOverChaos to become bookish friends.

 An Operator's Daughter Genre: Coming of Age, Family and High School Drama, Romance

When jettisoned into dysfunctional family and new high school, 17-year-old Ashton must overcome severe anxiety and fight back against sexual harassment, while attempting to rebuild a relationship with her grieving Navy SEAL Veteran father. She questions whether or not history should repeat itself while seeking her own happiness when her own budding relationship with a Special Warfare Operator begins to parallel her parents' love-at-first story as told within the pages her mother's journals.

About The Author: Laurie Anne Brandon writes based upon her experiences as a military academic counselor, high school teacher, years of working television production and as an alpine ski instructor. She lives with her husband, three cats and golden retriever in suburban Western Washington.

Find her on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/laurie.brandon.12

The 7th Whistleblower Genre: Mystery/Suspense/YA

Claire, a journalism student at Brunston University has stumbled onto quite a few secrets about B.U.s alumnae. Outing the culprits might not only destroy the guilty, but take down the innocent as well. Travel with Claire Richardson as she navigates a sticky trail of clues that will ultimately force her to choose between what is good and what is evil.

About The Author: Every since I was a young girl I absolutely loved watching Mystery and Suspense movies with my mother. The art of a story unfolding to reveal the larger picture inspires me to create characters whose curiosity pushes them to find the truth. Visit my Link Tree for more info on current works @ https://linktr.ee/MHandy1

[blueywrites]

new skin

The diner’s signature dish: Fresh-baked soft pretzel knots with sweet Georgia peach jam, topped with bitter trauma. Recipe includes a dash of pining, a sprinkle of faith, and a generous heap of healing love.

Linecook!Eddie x Waitress!Reader. 60s Diner. Slow Burn.

Follows canon, except Eddie lives, and Vecna is defeated after causing the 'earthquake'. This is written in second person 'x reader' format, but you've been given a name. The name and nicknames that appear throughout the story are listed below; use the InteractiveFics extension to replace them if you'd like!

full name: emmaline louise. nicknames: emma, emmy

series content warnings -> eventual sexual content (18+), fem!reader, plussized!reader, fatphobia, domestic violence, domestic abuse, miscarriage/pregnancy, discussions of suicidal ideation, significant religious themes, found family, hurt/comfort, slow burn, angst with a happy ending

chapter content warnings -> 18+ for mature themes. mentions of blood, numerous Christian religious references, disordered eating habits, anxiety, references to emotional abuse and manipulation, body image issues, internalized fatphobia

one: an empty room (10.3k) | next | masterlist | playlist | AO3

You surrounded me

and my windows are breaking

Something is rotten inside of me

I have to find it and

cut it out

House Song — Searows

It was a mortal man who drove you away but divine providence that guided you to Hawkins.

You’d been dropping off the key to your motel room when you saw it: a cockeyed paper pamphlet in the dusty wooden holder mounted beneath the counter. Stuffed beside “Indiana Caverns” and “The World’s Largest Ball of Paint,” it advertised a place where fissures had unfurled like the spindly legs of a spider, all radiating out from the center square. ‘Visit the town that hosts the gates of Hell,’ it read. You knew the town couldn’t really host the gate of Hell because Hell is a lake of fire and not a crack in the earth, though even the thought made a chill of foreboding shudder through you. Still, as you gazed at the name written in big red letters across the faded paper, you rolled it around in your mouth, seeing how it felt against your molars and exploring the way it tasted on your tongue.

Hawkins.

You’d expected bitterness. Ash and fire and brimstone, if the leaflet was to be believed. Instead, Hawkins tasted of pine, of sweet corn, and drugstore laundry powder. And that was odd, certainly. But maybe odd was what you needed— something wholly unfamiliar, nerve-wracking in its foreignness but peaceful in the knowledge that, if nothing else, you know he would never expect you to escape to somewhere like this. 

You’d been cutting a path from your home in Georgia due north, aimless and wandering, restless like a frightened prey animal consumed with nothing but thoughts of flee, flee, flee. The instinct had brought you from parking lot to roadside fuel-pump to motel six day after day, bouncing as the stacks in the cashbox wedged beneath the passenger seat began to dwindle. A pawn shop helped resupply your reserves, and your ring finger was lighter for it, but the running is beginning to wear on you. And there's just something about the taste of Hawkins lingering in your mouth, yeasty like wheat and clean in a way you haven’t felt since the day after Christmas when the bleeding began.

Your fingertips twitch before you snatch up the folded paper from the holder, spilling out into the gray of early morning. You cut a path back to the crack of warm light leaking from your room, where you’d wedged a stone against the metal edge of the door to prop it open. You slip inside one last time before you depart. 

There isn’t much to gather. Inside, there's just a musty floral bedspread and a side table with a bolted-down lamp. You flick the switch, leaving the room cold and dark in preparation for your departure. Your few personal belongings are already packed away in the car waiting outside, and it’s with a sense of familiar shame twanging at your heartstrings that you duck back into the tiny tiled room nestled in the corner of the bedroom. The pamphlet crinkles as you fold it and slip it into your coat pocket, freeing your hands to do what they will. 

This place is just one in a long line of stark rooms, transient nests that shelter you briefly as you flee. It's what made you think you were aimless and wandering, but you weren’t. Not really. 

During your flight from Georgia, you’d stopped in Lexington, Kentucky. And when you drove on, you could have, just as easily, chosen to go northeast, toward Columbus, perhaps curving over toward western Pennsylvania. But you decided to go northwest instead, dipping into the southern edge of Indiana, avoiding Cincinnati and its choked smog until you nestled into fields and farms again. It was divine providence that guided you that way, that bid you stop at this motel for the night, that helps you now discern the notes of flavor you hadn’t noticed back in the office as the leaflet crinkles in your coat pocket. Because beneath the unfamiliar— pine and corn and laundry powder— there is the familiar musk of fresh hay, mown on a sweet summer morning by your pa as soft whinnies huff from the stable. It warms you, though the January wind cuts through to the bone as you scurry back out of the motel room and let the door thump closed behind you. Your eyes dart for lookers-on, though the sting of self-consciousness isn’t quite as acute now as the first few times you’d waddled to the pastel blue Lincoln and fumbled the back door open with laden hands.

When you found that pamphlet and chose Hawkins, Indiana, as your final nesting place, God was calling you home. You will know that in the end, but you don’t know it now. Now, you’re just a scared girl carrying toilet paper, satchets of soap, and tiny bottles of mouthwash in your fists, pilfered from yet another temporary room. They tumble to join the pile of stolen treasures in the backseat, right beside the pillow from Tennessee and the scratchy blanket from Kentucky.

You've known since you were small that you aren’t a lamb— only Jesus is the lamb. Still, you'd hoped you are a sheep, pure and white, close to Him. Yet it turns out you’ve been wrong all this time. It turns out you're just a dirty, thieving crow, poking your beak in the dirt to search for shiny things to sustain you. As you stare at the pile of your baubles, the shame tugs again at your heartstrings, clawing up to settle heavily in the base of your throat. Thick like the beginnings of tears.  

You slam the back door and climb into the driver’s seat, sitting motionlessly for a long moment as you speak with your Father. You've always talked to God as long as you can remember but never had your prayers been so consistent as they've been this past week. First the waiting. Then the bleeding. Then the forsaking. Then the stealing. In all, you ask the same.

Please, Father. Forgive me.

 You pull the leaflet from your coat pocket, unfolding it carefully, avoiding the inflammatory language about gates and fissures as you search until you spot the tiny map and the star in its center that demarks the location of Hawkins. The instructions say that, from the south, you should take route four-thirty-one to route three north. 

Your aimless crawling has suddenly gained a clear direction; with it, your prayers shift for the moment. A hymn comes to mind, and you close your eyes as its melody plays in your head: Lead me, guide me, along the way. For if you leave me, I will not stray. Lord, let me walk each day with thee.

“Lead me,” you sing, a breath of a whisper as your eyes open. “Oh Lord, lead me.”

Beside your Lincoln, a businessman is loading his trunk into the passenger seat of his station wagon.

You crank down your window hastily, resting your fingers against the doorframe as you peek out without making a sound; working yourself up to speak with this strange man takes some effort. He has just closed the door and is about to cross around the front bumper when your voice finally comes, timorous but sweet as Georgia peaches. “Excuse me, sir,” you say, brows tipping as he turns to you. “Do you happen to know the way to route four-thirty-one from here?”

The cloud cover never wanes as you meander along the highways that lead to Hawkins. Even as the hour deepens to late afternoon, there is no glow of warmth from the sun; only cold bright grayness follows you as your gas gauge edges toward a quarter-tank, and you pull off to find a gas station and something to fill your aching stomach. You shade your eyes as you stand beside the pump and squint across the street, gaze catching on a familiar mascot: a swirl of hair like a dollop of black whipped cream and the red suspenders of Frisch’s Big Boy. The sight promises cheap food which will almost certainly be filling enough for your single midday meal.

The place isn’t overwhelmingly busy inside, but you still need to wait by the empty hostess stand before you’re taken to your seat. Against the long smudged window, shiny stickers and little childish baubles crowd the twenty-five cent machines, but your interest lies in the considerably more drab newspaper dispenser beside those colorful globes. You aren’t quite at your destination yet, but you’re close enough that local ads will likely provide you with a taste of your chosen home before you reach it. You purchase one quickly, wedging the newspaper under your arm and jumping almost guiltily when the hostess returns and finally chirps a greeting at you. You feel as if you’ve done something wrong as you trail after her, though as she hands you a menu and leaves you with a pleasant smile, she implies nothing of the sort.

You don’t spend long perusing the menu before you make up your mind. You order with a soft voice as the waitress scratches across her pad, promising to bring your orange juice and coffee in a jiffy. “Thank y’ma’am,” you say, small with your hands folded one over the other in your lap. 

You wait eagerly, stomach rumbling in earnest now that it knows your meal is well on the way. If you had to choose one type of food to eat for the rest of your life, breakfast would surely be it. A smile plays on your lips, and your mouth wells up with wanting as you picture it: crispy fried potatoes, eggs any which way, fluffy sweet milk waffles, cream of wheat with maple syrup and cinnamon. That one’s mama’s favorite. Pa’s is country fried steak, with a crunchy crust but tender and pink inside. Paul’s is—

You hedge from the thought, skipping quickly along to yours: dense, crumbly biscuits and thick, well-seasoned gravy, with little savory bits of sausage mixed in. They hadn’t had that here, so you ordered the pancakes and sausage links with a side of over-easy eggs, plus the coffee and orange juice. You’d gotten into the habit of eating once a day, mostly because it was easier to eat one big meal than try to stop for several smaller ones. That means that, as you sit there waiting, the scents of the kitchen and the clinking of silverware quickly become a dizzying reminder of your hunger, one that necessitates a distraction. So you spread the newspaper out against the table, turning each page slowly as you scan for the town that tastes of fresh laundry and hay.

You spot it once you reach the classifieds. It’s in an ad blazoned with one bold word across the top: vacancy. Forest Hills Trailer Park, the paper reads. Ready-to-move-in trailers, spacious for singles and small families. Just a five-minute drive from downtown Hawkins. In tiny font, tiny enough that you need to scrunch your nose and draw your face close to the paper to read it, the ad remarks, No background check or references required. First month’s rent plus deposit due at lease signing.

Forest Hills Trailer Park will clearly be a far cry from what you’ve left behind, but it checks all the necessary boxes, especially the most important ones.

You fold the newspaper, creasing it carefully with your fingernails before tearing bit by bit along that manufactured edge until the advertisement comes free. You’ve just carefully deposited the clipping into your pocket as the food comes, steaming and succulent, making your mouth instantly water. 

“How’s it look?” Your waitress asks as if you aren’t itching to pounce on the plate the second she goes away, devouring your sustenance like a starved animal.

“Looks great,” you assure her, tiny and sweet and small and docile. “Thank you so much.”

But even once she leaves you to it, your manners forbid you from such a thing. You keep your elbows off the table and cut the pancakes with little even saws of your knife, spearing each square daintily with your fork before raising it to your lips. You eat your meal as if everyone around you is watching, even though no one is.

When your waitress returns with a refill for your coffee, you ask her for directions to Hawkins. For the first time, her eyes rove over you, taking in the winter coat you haven’t removed and the glinting silver cross at the base of your throat that peeks above the collar of your starchy dress. She squints at you and asks, “What, ya visitin’ family?”

When you don’t reply, she gestures with the coffee pot. “Take thirty-five west and keep drivin’ ‘til you reach the barn with the cow out front. Then turn left there. Y’can’t miss it.”

The ‘cow out front’ turns out to be a cow statue, bigger than any real cow you’ve ever seen and certainly not one you could miss, as she said. You slow and turn left, finally abandoning the highway for a scenic road lined with pine trees that stand like silent sentinels as you carefully guide your vehicle along the road to… 

Home.

Your new home.

Now that it feels so imminent— this decision you’ve made to build your nest at the feet of the supposed ‘gate of hell’— doubt begins to creep in, freezing at the edges of your ribs and creeping toward your center. You’ve driven more than twelve hours from your origin-place, and America is vast— so vast— with more motels than stars you can count across the expanse of the sky on a clear summer’s night. 

And you’ve set your mind on this place because you saw it in a pamphlet? 

Your fingers tremble as you pass tree after tree, branch after branch, leaf after leaf, a sea of unending forest stretching to enclose you and the road you follow. Might as well’ve spun myself around at the treeline, pointed a finger, and started walking, you think to yourself, the leather of the wheel creaking under your wringing hands. It is one thing to run aimlessly; it is quite another to plop yourself down the same way.

'Trust in the LORD with all your heart; and lean not unto your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct your paths.'

“Proverbs,” you whisper, your trembling beginning to subside with each exhaled word that passes through your lips. “Chapter three, verses five and six.” The fingers of one hand unpeel from the steering wheel to clasp instead around the silver at your throat. And by the time your fingers have warmed the metal, your doubt has calmed, and a sign on the right interrupts the treeline, declaring you’ve arrived. 

Hawkins, Indiana. The forest gives way to typical small-town life, though the evidence of what occurred here almost three years ago is still evident in the divots of scarred earth now frosted over with ice, like sharp gauze packing a wound. Some buildings are in permanent disrepair— collapsed, crumbled, roofs caved in, wood and brick sinking into the earth like sinew and bone, partially covered over by hairy weeds that expose the steady march of time. But as you drive slowly toward the center of town, where is rebuilt is teeming with small-town life, not unlike the place you’ve come from. As the sun begins to wane, warm lights slowly blink on inside cozy split-levels and ranches to take its place. Wives welcome husbands home from work before sitting down for supper; children are called in from the streets as mothers stand in breezeways, dropping bikes to be left abandoned in the frosty grass until tomorrow. Despite the present bleak midwinter and the past tragedy that befell them, life goes on for the people of Hawkins, Indiana. That fact conjures a sense of peace as you wander through, searching idly for Kerley— the road that leads to the trailer park. This is the place described as hosting the gate of hell? As you pass bare cornfields and sleepy suburban streets, Hawkins feels so far from it that your earlier fear seems suddenly silly.

You meander the town in your pastel blue Lincoln until you happen upon Kerley Street. By the time you finally reach the turnoff for Forest Hills Trailer Park, the black of night has fallen like a curtain over the vague rectangular structures that crowd beyond the gravel entrance. Your headlights swing and illuminate a slapdash sign that designates the land manager’s residence, and you’re relieved to see a vague glow seeping through the crack below the door and between the curtains, persistent despite the clear attempts to keep it concealed from the outside world. You park the car and hold onto the doorframe as you emerge onto gravel, which you waver over in your low heels until you reach the stairs at the base of the porch. There’s a cracked flowerpot on the bottom step, but instead of the husks of flowers you expect, it’s loaded with cigarette butts, decaying in layers of paper and used nicotine. 

You stare at the door for a moment before announcing yourself. You’re nervous to be confronted with the unfamiliar person beyond; foreboding clenches in your chest, but it can’t be helped. A rap of your knuckles conjures the man who’d tried so valiantly to hide that he was home. His shirt is dirty, his pants sag, and his shave isn’t close to even; he eyes you wearily as you stand on his stoop. “Locked out?” he asks dully, and you flounder a moment before replying, swallowing to wet your throat and hope your voice stays steady. 

“I don’t live here,” you say, “but… I’m lookin’ to. That is, I saw in the paper you had vacancies—” You shove your hand in your coat pocket and pull out the newspaper clipping, passing it over. The man surveys the ad perfunctorily, one bushy brow quirked. The toothpick between his teeth bobs as he plays with it, his eyes sliding to you as you ask hesitantly, “...Do you still have vacancies?” 

His chuckle comes so fast it’s startling. The sound is raspy, like he needs to clear his throat. “‘Course I have vacancies.” He pulls the toothpick from between his lips, flicking it heedlessly away. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

When you shake your head, he jerks his toward the doorway spilling light across the porch. “Come on, then. Let’s get this done.”

You forget his name almost as soon as he tells you, but your land manager seems nice enough. Brusque, sure, but harmless as you sign the papers and pay for the first month’s rent. He waives the deposit— literally waves your words away like irritating wings are fluttering near his ear— and explains, “Place is mostly unfurnished, but you got a bed at least.” 

You can’t do anything but stand there stock still as he tells you your house number— seven— and drops the key into your open palm. “Don’t bother callin’ me f’somethin’ breaks. I’m useless at plumbin’ and ‘lectrical. You’ll need to call someone in the profession.” You curl your fingers over cold metal, and the grooves of the key bite your palm as he wags a finger at you. “Y’lose your key, it’ll cost you a fiver to replace.” He waits until you’ve nodded enough to satisfy him, and then he sends you on your way, closing himself away again. The light leaking from the crevices is extinguished by the time you reach your car door.

You guide your car carefully along the gravel path, driving past darkened trailers, past a red dome made of bars and a picnic table, past a trailer with a caved-in roof you stare at as you pass. A great crack churned up the porch floorboards, and between them now sprout tall, dry, brittle grass made feeble by winter’s bite. There's a streetlight nearby, but it's broken; the moonlight that plays on the dilapidated structure makes you shiver. Still, there isn’t much time to react before you’re at your place. Your trailer is a carbon copy of the well-kept rectangular box beside it, except the other has a chain-link fenced-in yard at the front. A clothesline denotes the edge of your side yard from your neighbors’. 

As you cut the engine, the world goes quiet. You sit in the stillness, and for a moment, there’s just you, your car, and your new home beyond a scraggly dirt yard.

You think of the other places you’d called home before your temporary motel rooms. You think first of your childhood home, and your mouth fills with peaches, with the hollowness of piano keys and the rich dirt from under the wraparound porch. You think of that tall white house, where your delighted shrieks echoed through warm wood hallways as you ran out the back door toward the stables beyond. Your clumsy fingers had carved your name over your bedroom door in elementary scrawl. Pa’d been so angry when you did that, but he relented and ruffled your hair in the end, shaking his head. He always was too fond of you.

Then you think of the home you could call your own— not your parents’, but yours. Yours and Paul’s. Stately, proud, with more of a brick landing than a porch leading up to the dark oak door. Inside are gauzy curtains and rich wallpaper; plump pillows line the couches just so, and the servers display decorative crystal. As you remember, your mouth fills with powdered sugar and water lilies, the gloss of fine china and the silk of ruffled bed skirts. But there’s metal on the back of your tongue, the copper acrid and biting as it overwhelms the rest. You shudder a breath, breaking from your recollections to finally emerge from the car and face your newest home.

In the moonlight, you can see that it also has a porch, but it’s sagging. You mount its stairs, and they’re rickety, creaking under your heels. Inside, when the screen door cracks back into place behind you, the interior of number seven Forest Hills Trailer Park feels like a void of stillness. The light switch flickers erratically before coming to life when you nudge it with your fingertip as if it hasn’t been called to do its job for quite some time. A long narrow hallway directly across from you leads into darkness, with a living room on your right and a kitchen on your left. All of what you can see is empty aside from a thick layer of dust coating the window frames, which are cracked with dried paint, the drips of sloppy workmanship forever preserved in lacquer. There’s mildew growing at the corner of the wall in the living room, and you hesitate to explore it further, opting to head left instead.

At the threshold of the front door, you’d landed on a filthy, matted-down rug. You clack forward with hesitant steps as if afraid to disturb anything, as if this is someone else’s place, not yours. When you edge into the kitchen, cautiously pulling open the refrigerator door, the cold air leaking from inside is reassuring. But when it suddenly kicks and rattles as if sick or angry, the sound makes you tense and jerk away quickly. It’s empty in this room, too— every drawer and cabinet is barren when you tug them open, aside from the dried corpses of flies mounded in a strange pile on the linoleum in front of the kitchen sink. At least the land manager said there’s a bed. Vague unease begins to well in your chest; you hurry down that dark, narrow hallway, flicking the switch as you pass, but nothing changes. The light does not come on. In the back room, the bed is nothing more than the vague lump of a mattress, lonely on the floor. 

The screen door snaps closed behind you as you rush back down the rickety porch stairs. When faced with the choice, you elect to wrap yourself in your scratchy Kentucky blanket, your winter coat, and some extra socks to sleep in the Lincoln despite the bleak midwinter.

Because number seven Forest Hills Trailer Park trips off your tongue; it doesn’t taste like home.

The sun streams cheery light through the windshield, and you wake at just after six, mouth dry as cotton weeds. Your back and neck are sore, cricked from their position against the headrest all night, and the muscles spasm when you stir. You rub your bleary eyes clear, holding your palms against your lashes as if reluctant to remove them and see the state of your new home as it was last night. Eventually, you relent; in the light of day, you peek again at the worn trailer with its gray siding, faded and covered with moss at the concrete base, that rickety porch, and the dull brass knocker concealed behind the screen door… 

You take a moment to consider but can’t decide if it’s any better in the light of day.

With a handful of your stolen toiletries, you venture back inside, and the screen door makes you jump as it snaps closed while you’re standing closeby. Your heart hammers, blood rushing in your ears, and you chastise yourself lightly once it calms. I have to remember to lower the door closed, otherwise people’re gonna get mad with me making such a racket in the morning. 

A quick glance past that closed door you hadn’t explored yesterday reveals that the bathroom is in a bad state, so you avoid it aside from what’s necessary. You brush your teeth at the kitchen sink, setting the toiletries— tiny bottles and sachets of soap— in a carefully-laid line along the side, conscientiously avoiding the pile of flies near the toes of your kitten heels. With minty freshness on your breath, you feel finally awake, and it’s clear what your first order of business should be: getting this place spic and span. No use living in a pigsty, as mama would say.

You take a moment to survey the trailer more carefully, walking in circles around the living room, the kitchen, and the singular bedroom as you peek into nooks and crannies and compile a mental list of the supplies you’ll need. You move gingerly as if you still do not want to disturb this place, though it’s not quite as foreboding as it was last night. 

It’s just an empty box, after all.

You don’t bother unloading the rest of your meager belongings before driving into town for your cleaning supplies and other essentials: bedding and bath towels and cooking utensils and furniture to provide you with somewhere to sit and eat. It hits you then, as the ranches and yards subside into businesses and parking lots, how little you truly have. How much you’d relied on others before, how much you’d taken for granted.

Downtown Hawkins in the daytime is a bustle of quaint activity. The streets aren’t overly crowded because the town is not overly populated, but you can take your time perusing the shops you drive past. And you do— your eyes scan them almost desperately as you try to stamp down on the feeling rising inside that writhes in the pit of your stomach. A video store. An arcade. A laundromat. None of use to you right now, though the laundromat has you thinking of the dress you’re wearing, the way it pinches your arms and pulls tight around your stomach as you drive. You’d managed to ignore the feeling during your flight, but now—gasping and huffing on the comedown as you stop running, and with the enormity of your situation looming before you— the writhing is spreading from your stomach to your chest, pressing outward as if you’ll burst, and the wardrobe you’ve been wearing for months now is finally beginning to suffocate you.

Seeing the thrift store feels like a gust of fresh air has been breathed directly into your lungs, and you don’t even need to ponder it before parking and throwing the car door open to access the backseat. After all, there is no reason to endure any longer; no one is stopping you now. So you dump the contents of your two trash bags onto the Lincoln’s backseat and the remnants of your old life spill over onto the floor. Almost detachedly, you sort the contents into ‘keep’ and ‘sell’ piles; you keep your undergarments and pantyhose and shoes, and you stuff all the dresses— all their linen and gauze and luxurious cotton, all their structured hems and nipped waists and darted busts— into the trash bags to be sold.

If the employee behind the counter is surprised to see the quality of the items you’re selling, more suited to a department than a thrift store, he doesn’t show it. Calmly, you pull out each dress, laying the fabric out carefully before you slide it over the counter towards him. As the garments emerge from your trash bags, their associated occasions flash in your mind. The yellow gingham you’d often wear when visiting family. The pink peony was often seen in your kitchen, protected by an apron covered in flour. The blue linen, one of your old favorites, makes you think of Sunday mass. All get passed to the man on the other side of the counter, all but one that sticks in your memory, left laid against the bedspread back in Georgia. 

The man examines each dress and punches staccato numbers into a calculator with the eraser of his number two pencil until they’re all gone from you, and in their place is a wad of bills you can use to shop for a new wardrobe.

If the employee behind the counter finds it strange that you’ve sold your department store dresses to buy thrift store ones, he doesn’t show it.

Gathering your replacements doesn’t take long because you know exactly what you want. Your new wardrobe should be modest and comfortable, comprised of a practical assortment of casual dresses and cardigans, a couple of nicer frocks for your Sunday best, and some loungewear for the house, including a bathrobe that makes your cheeks burn when it slides across the counter toward that same employee from before. After making your purchases, you carry the plastic bag into the dressing room, slipping behind the velvet curtain and pulling one casual dress out at random.

You rip down the tiny zipper on the starchy dress you've been wearing since yesterday, and the release of pressure is bliss. Though the cotton of your new dress is a little scratchier than what you’d been wearing before, you don’t hesitate in kicking the old fabric aside before gazing at yourself in the mottled thrift store mirror. 

The new dress buttons up past your decolletage. It’s almost long enough to skim your ankles, and it is at least one size too big, maybe two. It looks more fitting for a forty-year-old than your twenty-one years; some might even call it frumpy. But it’s what you want.

Because when you think about the clothes you’d been wearing— think about how, over the last year, your breasts and hips and thighs and stomach had gradually broadened, softened, begun to press uncomfortably against the fabric even after your mother had let out the seams as far as they could go— frumpy doesn’t compare with what you’d experienced.

You remember the sympathy in Paul’s tawny brow as he stared down at you. ‘No, Buttercup, I’m sorry. Think of it as an incentive,’ he’d said kindly when you’d asked for an allowance to purchase bigger clothes. ‘I’m just trying to help you.’ You remember how the ladies in town could see the way the beautifully tailored dresses, once so flattering, now bulged and bunched around the heft of your changing body, especially around your midsection. And you knew, though they were always too polite to say it, that when you gathered with them after church or ran into them at the grocery store, they couldn’t help but glance at your tummy and wonder if you were pregnant. But you weren’t pregnant. You were just…

Fat.

The reflection in the mirror suddenly doesn’t feel like you. That’s not your soft jaw; those aren’t your round cheeks. Your dress wouldn’t balloon so far outward over your breasts and stomach, and your thighs wouldn’t rub together because that isn’t you. But those are your eyes, and your hair, and your lips and fingers. And when you twist to look at your backside, so does she; when you smooth your palms over your ample hips, she does too. So she must be you.

You just wish she wasn’t.

You pull your attention from your body and focus instead on your dress, trying to detach from that knowledge again. The important part is that this dress doesn’t restrict or cling or reveal any unsavory lumps and bumps, and that’s what you want. You pull on some woolen stockings and a loose cardigan since it is still January, and after sliding on your low heels once again, you leave the thrift store behind.

You can run from that dressing room— can slip back into your car, load the new plastic bag into the backseat and coax the engine to life— but you cannot run from your feelings. And seeing yourself in the mirror has left you hollow and wanting, exposing the void inside that begs to be filled in that familiar way, the way you’ve grown used to over the last year. Your kitchen at home may be bare, but from beyond your windshield, you can see what will help you fill it. There’s a bright spot down the road and across the way in the lot beside the general store.

Miss Daisy’s Diner.

As you leave your purchases behind in the car, your eyes glaze over the help wanted sign written in beautiful script in the diner window; you’re more focused on filling that hollow place inside you. And inside Miss Daisy’s Diner is more than enough to satisfy the ache.

There isn’t just the promise of good food waiting for you at Miss Daisy’s. There’s the scent of grease and salt on the air, sure, but there’s something else there too. Something that beckons you forward, light and almost ticklish, like the heat of panting breath, the softness of a furry ear dragging under your chin to the tip until it flicks off. Before you know it, you’ve taken two steps forward, and a waitress in a swish of skirts and a flick of her manicured nails has plucked a single menu from the stand.

“One?” she asks, chipper as you nod. “Booth or table?”

“Table,” you answer, and she leads you to one. 

She leaves you with the menu, but you don’t yet look at it, consumed by the crowded atmosphere around you. The restaurant seems almost suspended in time with its black and white tiled floor, the retro-patterned tabletops, the chrome, the beveled glass windows, the teal and white booths and chairs that squeak with vinyl when you adjust in your seat. The walls are loaded with pictures and posters, memorabilia of the 50s and 60s: Coca-Cola bottles, old cars, Elvis and Marilyn, novelty signs advertising products for cents on the dollar. The effect is charming, made even more so when you realize that each table, including yours, is decorated with a white daisy in a glass of water. Somehow, the interior of this restaurant feels jubilant and comforting, like the bright joy of Easter, even though it’s January. Maybe that has something to do with how full it is— though it’s around ten o’clock on a Thursday, the place is no less than three-quarters full.

“Hey there, dear. You decide what you want yet?”

The croak interrupts your reminiscing, and you startle upon seeing a different woman than the one who’d brought you here— older, with gray hair coiffed into a beehive and pink lipstick crackled on her lips. “Oh!” You are immediately repentant. “No, ma’am, I’m sorry. I haven’t looked yet.”

The woman snorts, but it’s all in good humor. “Ma’am,” she echoes you, though where yours was respectful, hers is slightly sardonic. “No need to go reminding me I’m old, dear.” You crackle with nerves, but she grins at you with slightly yellowed teeth. “I’ll come back when you’re ready. Just flag me down, all right?”

You manage a nod, nerves easing as she taps the table with her wrinkled hand and leaves you to it.

The menu is not overly vast, but it takes some time to decide what will fill that void you feel, what you’re really yearning for. In the end, you settle on a Reuben sandwich with french fries and a chocolate milkshake. Though all the waitresses are dressed the same here to fit the theme, you’re grateful for your waitress’s distinctive beehive as you catch her attention, peeking at the nametag she has pinned to the right of her collar when she arrives. ‘Sherry,’ it reads, and oddly, there’s a little doodle of a shamrock beside it which looks to be drawn on in permanent marker.

“Comin’ right up, sweetie,” she promises you.

“Thank you, m—” you swallow the ‘ma’am,’ and Sherry’s smile widens as she wags a finger at you.

“Watch it, you; I heard that,” she says, her voice a croaking tease. “Don’t you start.”

You giggle, and when she leaves you again, it isn’t just the promise of food that makes you feel better.

The sandwich comes quicker than you expected, considering how busy it is, and it's delicious: creamy Russian dressing, salty corned beef and mild Swiss sliced thin, piled together with tart sauerkraut. The outside of the bread is grilled crisp and not too greasy, and the fries are hot and crunchy, a perfect balance with the thick, sweet coldness of your milkshake. It’s perfect; you couldn’t have asked for more.

As you eat, you watch the waitresses flit about in their matching yellow dresses with white collars, aprons, and cuffs, gathering behind the bar counter when not visiting their tables or pushing through the swinging doors to the kitchen. You watch them laugh and chat with one another, and it pricks at something familiar inside you. It’s been years now, but you still remember what it feels like to flit from table to table, to smile and serve, to share in that camaraderie behind the bar, though the place where you’d done it was nothing like this. 

Once you’ve thoroughly cleaned your plate, Sherry stops by again just as the jukebox kicks on to play Baby I’m Yours by Barbara Louis.

“How was it?” she asks, and you tell her it was very good. “Any room for more?” She follows up, eyeing your empty plate, and there’s a sudden hot flash of shame, a moment where you think she might turn wolfish. But her tone and expression remain nothing but sincere, so it wanes. Still, you hedge on an answer, deliberating whether to accept the offer.

She notices your hesitation and perks her brows, coaxing, “We’ve got a mean pecan pie.” A little encouraging smile plays on her crackled lips. “Sounds like that might be right up your alley, judging by your accent.”

It is true— you love pecan pie. And that void was lessened by your meal but not quite filled. So you accept, and Sherry brings you the slice.

And you think maybe this is what does it— this slice of pecan pie. The crust all golden brown, the pecans placed so carefully on top, the filling gooey but not falling into a gelatinous heap upon the plate. Your sandwich had been so good, and your milkshake, too, and this, now— this just looks so good.

You take a bite of the mean pecan pie, and it is not good.

You chew slowly, nose scrunched, brow furrowed just slightly. It’s not… horrible. But it’s not good. Certainly not as good as the pecan pie at home.

Miss Daisy’s Diner is so inviting inside, suspended in time, straight out of the glossy world of dreams. The chrome is shiny, the teal booths pleasant, and each table is adorned with a single daisy. The doo-wop of the jukebox mixes with the hum of conversation; the waitresses in their yellow dresses laugh with patrons as they fill up their coffee mugs and emerge from those swinging doors with plates loaded with delicious food. But the pie isn’t delicious, and you would hazard a guess, as you crane your neck to peek at the display of cakes and muffins beneath the far end of the bar, that the rest of their baked goods are the same way: good-looking under the lights, but nothing compared to what you’re used to.

Nothing compared to what you can do.

'Do not neglect to do good and to share what you have, for such sacrifices are pleasing to God.'

When Sherry stops by the table to ask if she can get you anything else, your reply comes swift and easy. “I saw the sign in your window. Are y’all still hiring?”

It’s a quick affair, becoming a waitress at Miss Daisy’s Diner. 

When you ask that question, Sherry’s brows flash, but she sits across from you right away, crossing her legs smartly as she asks you a series of quick questions. You used to work at the restaurant in a country club back home, and though it’s been a few years now, you know how to answer them all sufficiently. That kind of knowledge— the knowledge you gain from experience— never really leaves you. When you finish, she looks at you discerningly before shrugging. “Well, y’seem alright to me. Just wait here. I’ll get Willy.” She pauses half out of her chair as if a thought has just occurred to her. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Emma,” you tell her, and despite the croak of her lungs, your name flows like molasses off Sherry’s tongue when she repeats it back to you.

Willy is the owner of Miss Daisy’s Diner, and he looks nothing like the ‘Miss Daisy’ pictured on the menu. Where she appears crisp and plucky, Willy is doughy and lax. You learn that there is no real Miss Daisy, though Willy jokes, "All my chickadees here are Miss Daisy. That’s why they dress alike." He doesn’t even interview you after learning Sherry already talked to you; apparently, that’s good enough for him. Instead, he just rambles about scheduling, uniforms, and payroll, speaking in slow circles that loop back and around again until Sherry cuts him off.

“I’ll get her up to speed, Willy,” she says, and his face splits with a lazy smile. 

“Sher’ll get you trained up,” he concludes as if it was his idea.

He begins to turn from the table, and you pipe up before he can leave. “When can I start?” 

Willy shrugs lazily, looking towards his employee. “Tomorrow?” he offers, and Sherry concurs, and that is that.

When you leave Miss Daisy’s Diner, your Lincoln is parked down the street where you left it, the white plastic bag of your new clothes visible through the backseat window. When you get in, your pillow and blanket are beside you, reminding you of the lumpy mattress and the pile of dead flies that need to be tidied. Your original goal for the day still looms ahead.

But, God, you aren’t complaining. You swear it. Because Hawkins is a refuge, and you have a job, and the bleeding finally stopped this morning. And there’s security in the first chore you’ve decided to begin your new life with. You’re intimately acquainted with mopping, dusting, and scrubbing, having learned to clean well in the last three years. While you don’t particularly enjoy it, there’s comfort in making something dirty into something clean. By tomorrow, your trailer will no longer be a pigsty, and maybe you’ll sleep in your bed tonight. Tomorrow, you get to go back to Miss Daisy’s Diner, back to Sherry and the jukebox and the flowers on the tables, and maybe you’ll be laughing behind the bar this time.

‘For I know the thoughts that I think concerning you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you the end that you wait for.’

Thank you, Father.

In the few days following your first day in Hawkins, you learn many things. You learn that the daisies on the tables of Miss Daisy’s Diner are made of fabric and wire, and the water is dried glue. You learn that Willy— given name Wilbur— might own the place, but the girls run it. You learn that the coffee maker sometimes doesn’t spit out water unless you smack it hard and that you won’t get a shiny nametag to match the others until Willy orders one from a special shop, which may take a while. You learn that the yellow dresses and aprons might look cute, but they aren’t all that comfortable, though Sherry kindly accommodated your request for the largest size she could get. It's not quite as big as the dresses you'd picked for yourself, but she did her best.

Still, these cracks in the facade of Miss Daisy’s don’t make it any less charming to you. The pace is hectic, and though each restaurant has its own way of doing things, you fall back into that ebb and flow quickly with the help of all the girls, who don’t hesitate to welcome you into the herd. That’s another thing that helps— the waitresses are all kind and helpful, though more curious about you than you’d prefer, sniffing at your hair and shoes when you aren't looking. It becomes apparent very quickly that they’re all the same: goats who bleat at one another across the floor and nibble at the strings of one another’s aprons in friendly affection, yours included. You aren’t quite one of them, but they don’t seem to notice.

You can’t hide your accent, of course, so they know you're not from around here. There’s always that awareness in a small town— even your tables ask you about it. You remain vague about your past, reserved but polite with your coworkers and charming with your customers, treating them with hospitality just like mama raised you. The beatitudes guide your manner: meek and humble, righteous and merciful, pure of heart and generous. A peacemaker, bringing harmony to those around you. 

It’s almost enough to make you think you might have white wool after all, though you can’t quite shake the raven feathers that shudder when you return home to your nest with its barren sticks and its piles of stolen trinkets you gathered on your flight to Hawkins. That’s why you spend as much time as you can at work, soothed by the dulcet tones of the jukebox as you flit from table to bar to kitchen and back again until all begins to feel familiar and comforting.

Safe.

By the end of your first week, you’ve also grown accustomed to the back of the house. Even the sight of Harry, the line cook, begins to comfort you. He is large, broad-shouldered and thick, but his movements are measured and gentle, set with a pace that speaks assurance that things will get done when they get done. In fact, his movements are so predictable that every time you shuffle through the swinging doors into the kitchen at the start of your shift, you anticipate the repetitive sound of his thick bull hands scraping the spatula slow and even as he works the cooktop. 

So the sight that greets you now as you catch the door from Sherry is quite jarring. 

Before the cooktop stands a man who is both shorter and thinner than Harry but somehow far more imposing. He’s angular and jagged, frenetic in his movements: booted foot tapping tile, elbow jutting sharp as he jerks the spatula, a wild mess of curls shaking as his head bobs exaggeratedly. And the sound of the kitchen isn’t at all soothing in his presence. There’s some kind of tinny howling coming from him, some unholy noise that nearly makes you halt at the threshold of the swinging doors before you realize it’s coming from underneath his hair and not from him, exactly. You quickly spot the thin cord running down to the tape player clipped to his tight dark pants, though the handkerchief swaying at his hip— old and spilling loose threads, black and white and emblemed with eerie skulls— has your nerves kicking up again just as quickly.

Sherry’s voice is hoarse from smoke and age but, to your surprise, not filled with even a hint of the same nerves as she greets the man. “Afternoon, Ed,” she says, sounding almost fond as she shouts to be heard above the music. 

Almost instantly, the headphones are jerked down to hang around his neck, and when the man spins abruptly from the cooktop to face you both, your chest clenches again. His voice is brash and warm, mouth split wide to flash his eyeteeth as his gaze finds your coworker quickly. “Afternoon, Sher,” he says, mimicking her fond inflection, a teasing grin dimpling the corner of his plush pink lips. “How’s my best girl?”

Your eyes quickly dart from him to Sherry and then back, face frozen so as not to reveal your reaction: a mixture of wariness and confusion since he looks almost thirty years younger than her. Sherry just rolls her eyes and purses her lips, which are crackled with deep pink lipstick. “Yeah, yeah. We’re all your best girl, aren’t we, Eddie?” It’s said with long-suffering sarcasm like this exchange is akin to slipping on an old pair of shoes— worn in and comfortably molded to one’s foot. 

The man, Eddie, doesn’t reply, though his smile does widen. Sherry nods your way but addresses him. “This is the new girl. Be nice,” she warns, wagging a gnarled finger.

“Whaddya mean, Sher? I’m always nice.” Eddie huffs through his nose, showily stretching his arms above his head and holding his clothed elbows as his eyes slide to you. Yours dip to the dark stains beneath his pits, the evidence of his toil and sweat that begs the question of why he’d be wearing long sleeves if he’s that hot. “Hello, new girl,” he says lightly, and his voice hums like there’s a secret joke he’s holding back from laughing at.

The cock of his hip, the sharpness of his limbs, the narrowness of his waist where the apron is tied hastily, the stretch of his ribcage against the dirty long-sleeved shirt, the tilt of his lips— it hits you suddenly what he is, just as suddenly as you’d realized that Sherry and the girls are bleating goats and Harry is a gentle bull.

This man is a coyote.

Suddenly, that feeling of safety is threatened. What else could explain that rush of tingling awareness pricking up your neck when he acknowledges your presence, if not the fear that a predator is near?

Instinct drives a prey animal when confronted in such a way. You’ve seen it yourself back at home: hens clucking and skittering in the dirt when they sense a fox, horses swaying uneasily in their stalls when a wolf prowls the woods beyond the paddock. And like a prey animal, your body can either freeze or flee. It chooses the latter. 

You squeak out some semblance of a greeting— even fear can’t entirely overwhelm the graces you’ve been taught— and hurry around Sherry to duck into Willy’s office. You want to close the door, to wedge a physical barrier between yourself and those dark eyes and flashing white teeth, but you resist the urge knowing Sherry will be coming in right behind you, and the gesture is not only futile but potentially rude. 

You’re tying your apron when she enters, and she catches your eyes immediately when you look up. Sherry purses her lips at the sight of your flushed cheeks and wide eyes; she chuckles, but there’s an edge of sympathy. “Oh, come on now, dear," she consoles you. “Eddie might look some type of way, but he doesn’t bite.” Her wrinkled eyes soften as she regards you, the tease in her voice gentling as she adds, “He’s a good boy.”

You force a smile, but her assurances can’t dispel the goosebumps prickling along your flesh. They don’t calm your trembling fingers as they slip your notepad into your white apron, smoothing along scratchy cotton afterward as if attempting to press out the bulge it makes against the front of your body. Your body whispers danger and your mind does, too. And if the spirit guides the flesh, then you know you feel this way for a reason. 

Sherry’s platitudes are no match for instinct and belief.

After your initial spook, your shift progresses much the same as any other. You greet your tables, fetch them drinks, faithfully record their orders, deliver their plates, ask them if they need ketchup or hot sauce, chit-chat just a tad, drop the check, and bid them ‘have a good day now,’ parting with a smile. Your voice doesn’t even waver when you push open those double doors; your call of ‘corner’ is sweet and stable, less tremulous than how you began earlier this week. The only time fear squeezes your chest is when you must clip up your tickets. Because that means you’ll have to approach the coyote, draw near to his jagged elbows, those dark, angular legs, and the abundance of curls that cling damply to the edges of his pale jaw and conceal his expression from your view. At least facing Eddie’s back or side is considerably easier than his front; luckily, he’s so thoroughly occupied by the cooktop that he doesn’t acknowledge you before you scamper off. Your fear becomes a predictable wave: with each step toward him, your chest tightens, and with each step away, you feel the clench begin to ease. 

You’ve just swung returned to the floor, loose and nearly chipper, when Samantha hurries over, holding a loaded plate, her ponytail and yellow skirts swishing as she skids to a stop before you. “Emma! There you are.” She beams brightly, and the words huff out of her as if just the sight of you is a relief. It makes you feel warm inside, and that warmth blooms in the smile you answer her with before asking, 

“Is that mine?” 

You look down at the plate as she nods, noting that the steak has just barely been cut on the corner, not even all the way through. “It’s from table four. She wants it cooked a little more. More like medium-well,” she explains, and you take the plate without a thought.

“Sure thing,” you say, and it isn’t until you’ve pushed back through those swinging doors into the kitchen that you realize what this task will require.

Your throat dries as you approach Eddie, eyes darting over the white of his shirt, how the fabric has gone somewhat translucent where it sticks to the planes of his back. His shoulders roll as he stretches to the side to reach a hoagie roll without moving his feet, which still tap along with the rhythm coming from the headphones slung around his neck. The sound of howling has since subsided to resonant thumping and the faint melody of some screeching instrument, which grows clearer as you edge closer with your plate. 

Closer and closer still you draw until you can detect the faint scent of sour sweat, pungent smoke, and something earthy as the coyote turns his head back to the cooktop, still oblivious to your presence. You halt then, feet sticking as your clenched chest whispers that you’ve come close enough. Eddie continues to load chopped beef, peppers, and onions into the hoagie roll, and you hover some steps away until his chin happens to edge left, and he catches you in his peripheral.

His long eyelashes flick up as his gaze flashes to you, eyebrows jerking in mild acknowledgment, mouth soft and slack. The eye contact makes you hasty; you push out your voice and plate together, squeaking, “Can you cook this more? …Please?” You tack the pleasantry on, nudging your elbows forward as if urging him to take the plate as quickly as possible.

You want him to take the plate, but still, you must resist a flinch when his hand outstretches to receive it from you. His palm is broad, with callouses dotting along the meatiest sections, and his fingers are long and ruddy at the tips. Your breath hitches at the sight of his hand’s approach, but all Eddie does is grasp the plate. As soon as his fingers close around its edge, you snatch yours back toward the safety of your body. “Thank you,” you say, and you hazard a glance at his face.

A dimple forms on Eddie’s cheek as he grins, and his voice is warm and brash when he meets your eye and replies, “For you, sweetness? Anytime.”

And then he winks, a quick flash of those long lashes to conceal a sparkling brown iris. 

Such a small thing, really, to say and to do. Thrown just as casually as a smile for a stranger who holds the door for you, just a brief moment of banter between coworkers as they cross paths in the diner kitchen. 

But the swell of emotion Eddie’s words and wink conjures within you is not a small thing. You jerk away from him, a fierce spasm of your muscles to match the fist of fear that seizes you tightly and shakes you until you’re left trembling. The feeling is visible all over your body— in the tightening of your arms against your middle, the shrinking of your shoulders, the blanching of your face, the quiver of your lower lip, the widening of your wet eyes.

The sudden violence of your reaction clearly shocks him. Instantly, Eddie’s spine straightens, and his face falls. Those dark eyes go wide to match yours, confusion sinking into ruefulness as your back begins to bow— feet planted but spine arching, upper body inching back as if your only desire is to get away from him. All the warm brashness in his voice has deflated as he stutters, “Look, I– I was just— I’m—”

Had he gotten it out, would it have been an apology? An explanation? Would it have put you at ease, unclenched that feeling inside? Who’s to say. Because desperate to repair, to stop your backward flight, Eddie reaches out a hand toward you again. Soft, palm upturned, fingers slack. An entreaty to stay and let him fix things. Suddenly and acutely, your wrist aches at the approach of his palm; with that shock of pain, your freeze finally turns to flight.

In a burst of white and yellow, you skitter and spin toward the swinging doors, leaving your predator behind.

It’s a temporary balm, of course. You cannot avoid the coyote in the kitchen forever. After all, you have a steak to retrieve. This is your responsibility, and though the temptation to ask Samantha to fetch it for you is there, you know it would be wrong to give in to that impulse.

Out of the kitchen, in the front of the house, Miss Daisy’s Diner carries on as if nothing has happened. All is calm; all is bright. You hear the familiar clinking of utensils against ceramic, the swish of yellow skirts and the squeak of sneakers, the bleating of the girls mixed with the crackly doo-wop of the jukebox. Someone has put on Try Me by James Brown, and you whisper the words along with him as you shake off the tension like feathers ruffling to wick off water. ‘Try me,’ ‘hold me,’ ‘need you,’ you sing, the words repeating over and over like the lazy spin of a record on the turnstile. The slow beat eases you back into the rhythm of the floor as you steal precious minutes before you must return to the kitchen.

When you can delay it no longer, you edge back through those doors, breathing slowly to keep yourself from turning away as you anticipate the sight of his body, angular and jagged, coiled tight. But the slope of the coyote’s shoulders is low, and the frenetic swaying of his hips is still now. The howling has quieted, and the jerking of his spatula is slow, slow like Harry’s, which you’re used to. It helps to ease your cautious steps as you reach him, stopping a short distance away. You can see that the plate of your steak is prepared for you to retrieve it, resting on the counter just on the other side of him.

It doesn’t take as long for Eddie to notice you this time, and your chest threatens to clench when his chin turns your way. You try to push out a reminder of what you need. “C-can you—”

Eddie doesn’t make you ask. “Yeah,” he interrupts, “No problem.” 

The three words do not sound angry or sad; they do not sound like much of anything, really. His mouth does not open wide to say them. Instead, his white teeth hide behind his pink lips as he passes you the plate with no other words exchanged between you. And as soon as you receive it, Eddie turns his face away.

Each successive visit to the kitchen that afternoon proves the truth of the matter. Since that first encounter, the coyote’s tail has since been tucked between his legs. The points of his teeth have been filed, and with them, over the course of those hours, your fear of his bite finally begins to ease.

So why, then, does your wrist still ache? 

chapter two: I'll be seeing you is coming soon.

taglist: @emma77645 @ashlynnkennedy @luna-munson83 @micheledawn1975 @gaysludge @hazydespair @ebaylee422 @thebrookemunson @a-time-for-wolvess @lightmelikeamatch @live-love-be-unique @daleyeahson @bexreadstoomuch @devilinthepalemoonlite @screaming-blue-bagel @mcueveryday @ethereal27cereal @vintagehellfire @razzeith @josephquinncore

@h-ness1944 - not taggable

[kookiebunnii]

🌒 one. trouble

pairing: jinyoung x vampire!reader

word count: 3.7k

warnings: mentions of blood, death

Absentmindedly running your tongue across your retracted incisors, you briefly brush your hand against your lips before pulling back to examine the blood smeared across your fingertips. Swallowing thickly, you let out a brief sigh before facing the horrified nurse in front of you.

“Really, you don’t have to look that frightened,” you say, unable to help the small smirk that tugs at the corner of your mouth.

The woman opens her mouth, seemingly ready to scream until you quickly grip her forehead with a practiced but gentle motion. Her widened pupils slowly glaze over, as you take a second to examine the way she’s helpless in your grasp. Her pulse thumps insistently under your fingertips, and it takes everything within you to control your fangs from making an appearance again.

“Forget everything,” you command, the words slipping off your tongue with ease.

Nodding robotically, the nurse is motionless—awaiting further instructions. You remove your hand from her form to look away momentarily with annoyance. It was tiring to continue doing this every week. Having to find a new hospital every few months just to avoid suspicion and blood deficits, ensure every witness’s memory was erased, endure the pains in your jaw that grew fiercer with each passing day…it was enough to drive you crazy.

“Dispose of the bag,” you press the empty blood bag into her outstretched hands.

Her eyes are still covered with a grey mist as the woman grips the material tightly before marching down the corridor on your left. You stay and watch her until she turns the corner before making your own exit.

Outside, rain was sprinkling. Watching as a single lonely car leisurely glides across the wet pavement, you wonder if you should move to a different location this weekend. This city had already offered everything it could, as you left no stone unturned to identify evidence of vampires. The coven you found here had burst into erratic laughter at the mere thought of a vampire trying to find a way to die. Realizing that none of them knew any more than you did and quickly tiring over the insults thrown your way, you spent the rest of your days doing your best to identify any outsiders. Most vampires gathered into covens to ensure that their movements could be effectively hidden while also guaranteeing a steady blood supply. However, you have encountered a few individuals like yourself who operated solo—preferring to freely wander without the politics of coven life.

The rain barely registers against your cool skin, and the scent of fresh rain feels like a much needed wake up call. You wouldn’t be able to find the answer you sought here. Brushing a wet strand of your obsidian locks behind your ear, you considered where you would go from here. It felt like you had investigated every nook and cranny since you were bitten 200 years ago. The thought of giving up is tempting, but you knew you would just remain tormented for another 200 years. At least through searching, you had a hopeful possibility to look forward to.

When you reach the sullen one-bedroom apartment you had been occupying for the past few weeks, you quickly shake out your windbreaker and hang it up on a coat stand near the entrance. Bounding up the stairs, you find the bathroom with ease and automatically turn the silver handle of the faucet to watch the clear water gush over the sink.

Running your blood-stained fingertips under the flow of water, the red that swirls down the drain is mesmerizing. When you finish washing your hands, the pale and gaunt face that stares back at you in the mirror explains why the nurse had seemed so terrified. Even though everything about you looked human, the dark black locks and pupils you developed after turning were anything but. You still remembered the way your hair had looked before it turned a deep raven. This color that didn’t expose any shine or highlight even when you were in the sun reminded you that you couldn’t ever be human again.

Sick of seeing your tired-looking features, you do some quick stretches to relax your tense muscles from the escapade earlier. It was difficult to find a lone wandering nurse since hospitals nowadays seemed to be bustling with doctors even at midnight. However, the process was a lot less stressful given this particular establishment had quite a few blind spots in their security system.

The blood type you enjoyed tonight was O it seemed, as the copper taste lingered on the roof of your mouth. You still remember when it disgusted you, when you cried bitterly over the corpse of a stranger because you couldn’t control your thirst when you first turned. You remembered being taken in by your mentor shortly after, all the while avoiding any news reports possible. Seeing the face of your victim across every newspaper in town reminded you of the unbearable evil you were.

English Breakfast tea was your favorite choice on rainy days. Stirring the cup you just finished brewing, you watched as the rain outside began pouring down harder than before. The loud droplets landed unceremoniously across the windowpane before streaming down in dozens of unpredictable tiny rivers.

You hadn’t seen your mentor since you arrived at this town. Perhaps you lost him after the chase back in Venice, but you knew that he was an experienced enough tracker to find you soon.

“I wish he understood.”

The words echo throughout the room, feeling useless with no target audience and no response returned. Smiling sadly, you set the half-empty teacup back on the table. He couldn’t understand because he didn’t realize how painful your existence was. Watching your family, your friends, and your future dying without you was an excruciating torment you wouldn’t even wish on your worst enemy. The agony was worse than anything you felt before, worse even than the night you were bitten. Back then, it felt like your body was literally on fire as it was being completely transformed into the one you knew now. But after all of that, you couldn’t contact anyone you knew. It was better for everyone you loved to believe that their Y/N was dead instead of meeting the monster you were.

You sense him before you see him, so when you turn around to see Mark standing in your living room, you aren’t surprised. Pulling out a chair next to the dining table, you sit down with a sigh before gesturing to another chair across from you.

“Have a seat,” you give your mentor a halfhearted smile before intertwining your hands across your lap.

He doesn’t budge. The past few times he’s caught you, you were already dashing away from him to your next location. It’s been years since the two of you have properly spoken, and you don’t fault him for being taken off-guard by your eerily calm disposition.

“Mark, you can sit down. I’m not going anywhere.”

Still refusing to talk, he strides forward in broad strokes before resting in the seat across the table from you. Even though vampires don’t age from the moment they’re turned, Mark looks weary. He looked younger when he was smiling and teaching you new things. After you left him without notice, it seems that the ordeal has taken a toll on him in more ways than one. It seemed that everything about you now was primed to continually hurt others.

“Stop running, Y/N,” the first words he speaks to you in this encounter are ones you’ve heard hundreds of times from him already.

A tired groan emits from somewhere within your chest, as you close your eyes slowly. He still doesn’t understand you.

“You will not find what you’re looking for.”

The teacup flies off the edge of the table before shattering into several pieces on the ground below. To his credit, Mark doesn’t even flinch at your outburst. Pitch black eyes meeting his own, you look at him with your jaw clenched tightly.

“If you have nothing else to say, leave,” doing your best to inject as much steel into your words, you hope that he would actually listen to you for once.

Why couldn’t he just leave you to hurt alone? You couldn’t afford any more collateral damage.

Mark refuses to break even when his eyes met yours. All vampires had their features change after being bitten, and for a moment it almost feels as if you’re looking at a reflection of yourself. The two of you were more than just physically similar. Being people of few words, but having hearts filled to the brim with wanting to protect others, the two of you didn’t quite fit into the image of a dangerous vampire. He must think that chasing after you all these years, begging you to reconsider annihilation, was his way of protecting you. But he was far from your savior, he was the only person you had left. He didn’t deserve to spend his time, however infinite, running after a lost cause like you.

Regaining your composure, you straighten and tug on the cuffs of your casual black blouse. Being emotional was a weakness, so you refuse to let your voice crack under the growing sadness you felt. You would never give up on the promise you made to yourself after realizing how lonely being a vampire was.

“I’m leaving the city tomorrow morning. Don’t follow me this time. I respect you as my mentor, the one person that took care of me when I was at my weakest. But I need to do this for myself, the longer I live, the more I hate this pitiful eternity,” you lean your head back in your chair to examine the ceiling.

In an instant, Mark’s at your side and breaking into your view of the same ceiling. Within his eyes, you see something you can’t place your finger on. You give him an amused chuckle when defiance finally flares into those midnight eyes of his, realizing that he was once again too stubborn to see reason. How many more decades would pass until he let you go?

“You’re being selfish, Y/N.”

His words hurt you more than they should. But you’ve dealt with far worse trauma, so the tears easily remain within your waterline. Instead, you begin laughing and it’s such a horribly empty sound that it  frightens even you.

“I’ll be selfish then,” you spit bitterly, standing up from your chair to glare at Mark with your full height. You’re still plenty shorter than the man, but at least it gives you a sense of power. Unconsciously, your fangs begin elongating and the action  catches you off guard slightly with embarrassment.

Chuckling, he softly places his fingers against the curve of your jaw, “You still have a long way to go, if you can’t control little things like this.”

Giving him a glint of your fangs with a snarl, you pull away from his grasp before stomping over to the coat stand to grab your jacket that’s still moist from the evening shower. Although it is still pouring outside, perhaps it would provide enough of an escape for you so that Mark would have a hard time pinpointing where you were heading.

You think you have a head start, but your mentor is skilled enough to sense your emotions before you knew them yourself. Knowing he’s right on your heels, you keep running through the bitter cold. Vampires don’t easily get tired, and with the renewed anger fueling your every step you easily lose sight of him as dawn’s first light peaks through the clouds.

Sunlight doesn’t turn vampires to dust like some movies portray, so it was relatively easy for you reach the inner portions of your new conquest without drawing attention. Daylight rendered vampires relatively weaker, but otherwise failed to differentiate a vampire from a normal human. You observe the stirrings of the city in the early morning—an elderly businessman sipping a coffee on his way to work, a gaggle of schoolchildren skipping and chattering excitedly, and the occasional homeless person lying on a bench. Even if all this life was happening in front of you, it felt like it was happening behind a screen that you could not penetrate. Detached, you merely stick your hands into your pockets and start looking for somewhere to take shelter. For you to do any investigating, you needed somewhere to head back to at the end of the day.

It seems that this new location is a bustling metropolis with very little abandoned housing that you can find. You didn’t have any money either, meaning that you couldn’t even rent a place if you wanted. The whole ordeal was making you a bit frustrated, but you were determined to stay. If there were so many humans here, it had to mean a good number of vampires resided within as well. They always followed the blood.

The day quickly passed as you spent hours simply circling various streets in search of some semblance of a residence, however poorly maintained, if only to avoid resting out in the open. Doing so was dangerous even if most people wouldn’t mess with a vampire. Besides, Mark would be able to find you a lot easier without a roof over your head. It seemed that you would also have to vary your times spent wandering outside, to avoid being tracked.

It seems that your luck has finally run out as you crumple against the side of a building for the night. The alley was the only empty one you could find. It was prime real estate in your book, given that there were very little trash bags tossed carelessly in this particular alley and no one else was sleeping nearby. Pulling together some flattened cardboard leaning against the wall, you lay down while looking up at the stars. This certainly wasn’t the best accommodation you’ve had, but it also wasn’t the worst. It would suffice for a few nights, but it definitely wasn’t a long-term solution.

Vampires didn’t need sleep daily per se, but you found that the act still made you feel more refreshed in the mornings. You found that you could fall within a very light sleep, since your senses were tuned to be constantly aware of potential threats. Sleep was one of the few acts you could attempt to enjoy, to fool yourself into believing that you were someone normal.

Just as the desire for normalcy passes through your thoughts, the familiar ache returns to your throat to remind you of your real identity. The slight discomfort is still bearable, given that it is only the first day since you’ve fed. Before, a blood bag held you over for at least a week. Nowadays, it barely satisfies your cravings. You weren’t sure what exactly was happening to you, and you definitely weren’t going to try to find out. Only bad answers awaited.

You bring your hand up to your chin, tracing the pain that blossoms slowly from your throat to the beginnings of your jaw. The motion reminds you of Mark, the way he had briefly looked at you earlier the way he used to…back when he looked at you like a troublesome sibling he was trying to discipline instead of a dangerous runaway. You can’t help but smile when thinking of him. He was the closest thing you had to a friend, but that also meant he was someone you cared for too much to hurt.

When you’re finally free, you hope he won’t feel guilty. There is nothing he can do to stop you.

You turn on your side, curling up into the fetal position in habit. As a human, you used to sleep in this position most often. It was oddly comforting, and even as a vampire, the position soothes your worries greatly. Your hand stretches outwards towards the dark alleyway, as if reaching for something you’re unsure of. When your fingers curl inwards, the crescent-shaped marks your nails leave into your palm have an unusual beauty about them.

The rest of the week passes with little success to celebrate over. At this point, the dull ache had grew into a ferocious burning, to the point where you were practically wincing into every step you made. Without blood, vampires became seriously weak to the point where injuries would lose their ability to regenerate instantly. The thirst also grew hard to ignore, as entering crowded areas became a liability. You wouldn’t be able to control yourself in a crowd and biting a human in front of hundreds of witnesses would be a difficult clean-up operation.

Forget finding a lead. Forget finding a place to stay. You needed to locate a hospital, stat.

Unfortunately for you, the hospital here seems to be swarming with people today. Even as you hide in the shadows, observing the ins and outs of the building, you feel your incisors begging to be exposed. Your pupils alternate between brief flashes of scarlet and the shade of obsidian you’re accustomed to. You were too crazed to enter that hospital right now to wait for a passing physician to help you out without accidentally harming a passerby.

Cursing under your breath, you force yourself to walk towards the quieter outskirts of the city. Here, there are a few scattered apartment complexes and only lone individuals walking on the streets. Keeping your hood up to hide your changing features, you hurry along the corners of the buildings, hoping for someone to walk by the secluded areas you were prowling.

You hated biting humans, and it was your personal decision to never feed on a live person if you could help it. Even if the bite left no visible mark and memories were easily wiped, the act felt like it was also slowly sucking the humanity out of you. Perhaps it was a futile and stupid attempt on your part, but you had been relatively good at following this rule of yours.

Growing impatient, you almost black out with the pain that’s beginning to course throughout your entire body. If you go unconscious here, you wouldn’t be able to control the frenzy you may enter after awakening. It would easily expose your whereabouts to Mark if the human televisions and mobile devices were buzzing about corpses devoid of blood.

Scanning the four sides of the apartment complex you have your eyes on, you see a small opening in one of the windows on what appears to be the second floor. Without hesitation, you scale the side of the building, gripping whatever protruding ledges you could to reach the windowsill. The sun was slowly dipping under the horizon, so you hoped that it would be dark enough that no one would report you for your suspicious behavior.

Pushing the window up with the remainder of your strength, you tumble inside and fall abruptly onto the wooden floor of the apartment. Clumsily, you stand up while balancing most of your weight on the dresser next to you. You try your best to adjust your eyes to the faint lighting within this bedroom, as your vision grows bleary with your need to feed.

Immediately, the scent hits you. It smells absolutely delicious, very similar to how one’s favorite comfort food would smell when you’re desperately craving for sustenance. Your frame is shaking at the sudden attack of having everything you desired so close, and you whip around to acknowledge the still frame of your victim.

Even through your delirious state, you note that he is quite handsome. Eyes closed in a deep sleep, his features are so relaxed and unaware that guilt still manages to resonate within your chest despite your state of hunger. Brown hair slightly mussed, he makes a soft groan in his sleep and his hand moves slightly to rest on his chest, which rose and lowered rhythmically.

You don’t realize how close you are to him until you see your fingers brushing against the side of his face. His skin is soft, you note belatedly. Relishing the warm that radiated under your fingertips, you gently tilt his chin to the right so that his neck is exposed to your fangs which are now fully extended.

Swallowing nervously, you brush your nose against his neck to feel his slow and steady pulse against you. The scent is so prominent now that even without tasting him you were in euphoria. Resting your fingers behind his ear to better position his inviting skin to you, you press your lips against the artery you find so excruciatingly easily.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, the whisper fading into his skin.

Sinking down, you’re acutely aware of the small noise that escapes from your prey. The taste that spills across your tongue allows your precautions to fade away as you greedily take him in. God, the hot and live sensation of his blood was something else. This man was like the Michelin star meal of your dreams after you've spent your entire life eating microwaved versions of a meal. With each gulp, the pain you felt was dissipating into a feeling of satisfaction. When you do finally pull away, it’s a reluctant and half-hearted end. Licking the wound to quickly seal the marks, you pull your hand away in preparation to wipe his memories.

When you reach your fingers forward automatically, the poignant stare of the man within the bed stops you in your tracks. Awake and fully regarding you at your weakest state, you couldn’t help but once again note how good-looking he is. There is no fear in his eyes, and that alone is more than enough to make you waver. Even though you had just dined on his blood, he seems unwavering in his attention towards you.

“What are you?” he asks, and if the ordeal left him in any sort of discomfort, he does not show it.

All of a sudden, you scramble to your feet as if he had caught you doing some sort of sinful act. Taking one more hurried look at him, you toss yourself out the window nearest you. Running with the wind rushing past your ears, the noise grew so deafening that you could not think.

It is only when you stumble into the alleyway you’ve been calling home for the past few days do you remember: you never got to wipe his memories.

______________________

masterlist       ||       next >> 

[itmighthavebeenintentional]

ItMightHaveBeenIntentional’s Masterlist

Supernatural Stories

Shackled After nearly ten years, Sam Winchester calls Miriam Bard to collect on a life debt. Unfortunately for Miriam, Sam leaves out a few important details.

Characters: Dean Winchester, Miriam Bard (original female character), Sam Winchester, Castiel Rating: EXPLICIT. 18+ONLY. PLEASE READ/HEED WARNINGS.  Warning: Warnings change each chapter, please check every time. Ch 1 Warnings: Implied loss of family, grieving, depression, cursing, Demon!Dean, Sam’s tendency to leave out vital details for folks helping him to save Dean (read: Sam’s tendency to be a Winchester)

...

Walk Me Home Twenty-four years ago, Kimberly Harper met a boy who changed the course of her entire life before up and leaving one night. She spent years moving past the memories, building a stable, satisfying career as professor of folklore and mythology at the local university. Then the accidents start, and she’s forced to seek help among her hunter contacts. All it takes is a knock on her office door to send Kimber’s carefully built emotional walls crumbling to the ground. Inspired by P!nk’s “Walk Me Home.” A birthday present for the incomparable @thoughtslikeaminefield.

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Dr. Kimberly Harper (original female character), Mysterious Big Bad,  mention of Garth Fitzgerald, John Winchester/Teenage Dean/young Teenage Sam (flashbacks) Rating: Mature.. 18+ONLY. PLEASE READ WARNINGS. Warnings: Show level violence, show level parental neglect (let’s not John bash, I’m just saying), show-style witchcraft, show-level mental manipulation, stalking, bit of angst, sexual content (higher than show level),swearing, general yearning. ...

Dear Mr. Fantasy  Sometimes when he sleeps, Dean sees flashes of other Dean Winchesters, in other universes. Inspired by Traffic’s “Dear Mr. Fantasy” and the header image; prompt given by @thoughtslikeaminefield​. @cabin-fever-bang​ prompt fill.

Characters: Dean Winchester, AU Dean Winchester, original female character, Sam Winchester; mentions of Castiel, Chuck, AU John Winchester, AU Sam Winchester, and AU Danny Elkins  Rating: Teen Warnings: SEASON 15 SPOILERS, bit of angst. ...

To My Soul You’ve taken to walking when insomnia strikes. Dean and Sam have their own means of dealing with their occasional insomnia. Every now and then, your paths cross. Inspired by Van Morrison’s “And It Stoned Me”. Image by @there-must-be-a-lock

Characters: Reader, Sam Winchester, mentions of Dean Winchester Rating: Most anyone. Warnings: Some loneliness. This story is very soft, there’s not much to warn about. ...

Detours on the Road So Far - OR - Why Sam and Dean Need Actual Adult Supervision Shenanigans. Lots of them. Probably some pie. THIS IS CRACK FIC.

Characters: Our main dudes. Some friends, frenemies, and various other entities. Rating: Range from Teen to Adult, changes each chapter. WARNINGS CHANGE WITH EACH CHAPTER. READ/HEED WARNINGS FOR EACH CHAPTER. ADULT THEMES THROUGHOUT, SOME ADULTIER THAN OTHERS. ...

The Rose “She’s fifty today, and in Dean’s opinion, there’s never been anyone more beautiful.” An alternate Dean reflects on the life he’s led. Sequel to “Dear Mr. Fantasy.”

Characters: An Alternate universe Dean (no, not that one), his wife (original female character or female reader, depending on how hard you stare at it), mentions of Sam, John, vague reference to Chuck. Rating: Most anybody can read this one.  Warnings: SEASON 15 SPOILERS, bit of angst. Honestly, it’s pretty sweet. ...

Crossword Clues and Coffee A chance encounter in Lebanon’s finest (read: only) diner leads Dean to find the one thing he never knew his life was missing.   

Characters: Dean Winchester, Esther (original female character), Sam Winchester, Castiel Rating: Most anyone. Maybe a smattering of language. Warnings: Tiny bit of language? Angst. LOTS of sass. Honestly, it’s a lot of fluff. No romance. ...

I’m Ready “I can’t...I can’t take my forever if you’re not in it.”  A Destiel story, eventually. Picks up right where the show left off. Not technically a fix-it, as I didn’t change anything, but I promise it gets better.

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel. Many Original Characters, Appearances by John Winchester, May Winchester, Bobby, Jody, Donna, Charlie, Kevin, and a few other name drops you’ll appreciate Rating: Teen Warnings: Cursing, mentions of (canon) child abuse and neglect, mentions of past trauma, working through trauma, denial, bit of pining ...

We’ve Got Tonight  “It’s not your job to do this, Andy. You make people happy. I was in the diner all of ten minutes, and you knew exactly how to get me to smile. You do normal, real things like garden and sing karaoke. Saving the world is my job, Sam’s job. Sometimes it’s even Cas’s job, but it’s not yours.” Inspired by Bob Seger’s “We’ve Got Tonight”

Characters: Andy (Original Female Character), Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Crowley Rating: Mature Warnings: Major Character Death, More Major Character Deaths (sort of?), higher than show level violence, blood, light smutting, language, demons, apocalypse, inferred suicide, cult activity.

...

Marvel/MCU Stories

Breathe With Me “The magnitudes of the rocks and trees and streams are so delicately harmonized, they are mostly hidden.” John Muir

Characters: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, original gender neutral character (reader) Relationship(s): Established poly relationship.  Rating: Teen, but probably not even that Warnings: This is meant to be a comfort fic, rather than a triggery, angsty one. Anxiety attacks, stress, someone with a news-watching trigger, but otherwise the story is people finding ways to cope/deal with their triggers and supporting others who are doing the same. ...

After Midnight She calls him one last time, determined to put an end to their tryst. Loki feels differently. Written for @fvckingavengers Quarantine Challenge, prompt #32: “After Midnight” by Dorothy. Be gentle, this is my first posted Loki story. Beautiful header by @there-must-be-a-lock ; thank you so much, friend!

Characters: Loki, unnamed female character/reader Relationships: Loki/unnamed female character/reader Rating: Mature. 18+ONLY. Warnings: sexual content, Loki being persuasive

...

How Long The call comes sometime after midnight, pulling you instantly alert from your deep sleep. Your phone is set to “Do Not Disturb,” and only one number is programmed as an exception.

Characters: Reader, Steve Rogers (Nomad Steve Rogers, Nomad Captain America) Relationship(s): reader x Steve Rogers Rating: MATURE. 18+ ONLY. 

...

Shadows and Pills Some people come away from the Battle of New York with scars and broken bones. Some come away with nightmares and years of therapy ahead of them. Some don’t come away at all. Alexa comes away with a shadow.

Characters: Alexa (original female character), Dark/Evil Loki Rating: Explicit. 18+ONLY Warnings: RAPE, Torture, Abuse, Self Harm, Negative Images of Psychological Services/Mental Health Professionals, Hallucinations, Stalking, Supernatural Horror, Prescription Drug Use and Eventual Abuse, Mental Illness, PTSD, Flashbacks of Violence, Flashbacks of Tragedy, Starving Oneself, Isolation, Physical and Mental Exhaustion, Denial, Self Neglect, Gaslighting, Mental Spiraling, Mental and Emotional Abuse ...

Real Person Fic

Binging “The last thing he wants you to think is that you’re simply a convenience, someone he just keeps on the hook for when he’s got time.” Inspired by Mr. Stan’s infamous Men’s Health photo shoot, as well as his “Cheat Day” video.

Rating: M, 18+ONLY Warnings: Language (heh), smut, fluff, excessive use of breakfast foods. Characters: Sebastian Stan, Reader/Unnamed Original Character Word Count: 2.4k ...

Every Now and Then “It’s a simple case of not enough versus taking what you can get. Sometimes she sees him for a day or two, then not again for almost half a year.” Relationships are hard. When one person is a world-wide superstar and both people are idiots, they get that much harder. They both take what they can get, but eventually that may not be enough.

Characters: Tom Hiddleston, Reader Insert/Unnamed Original Female Character Rating: Mature, 18+ONLY Warnings: Two large dollops of smut, a half-cup of angst divided, several pinches of language, dash of loneliness, and a good sprinkle of lack of communication. Fold ingredients together gently, bake at 200c fan for 20 minutes, then serve piping hot from the oven.

[dannyphannypack]

Crossover Fic Recs

Hey, saw your post for some fic recs! Unfortunately I can't continue the wonderful thread of reblogs because I wish to remain anonymous, but here have some cool crossovers that I didn't see get rec'd yet :D (you can either post this or add it to the reblogs, I don't mind either way)

Just Another Meteor Freak [500k words, complete] (and it's sequel, which is unfortunately incomplete) is a Smallville/DP crossover that's absolutely a fantastic read and I cannot recommend it enough, it's one of my faves! Brief synopsis: Danny goes to live with his aunt Martha Kent after his family dies (and for once Danny's family dying in a crossover fic doesn't have anything to do with TUE!), and misunderstandings of the good kind and mishaps ensue because of course Danny and Clark's hero complexes come into play. It's got hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, sibling-esque-bonding, and all sorts of cool stuff, including ghost king headcannons and new powers for Danny. It takes place mostly from a Smallville perspective, but Danny's woven in so seamlessly that you won't believe he wasn't in the original show to begin with. I read it for the first time after having not watched Smallville in years and I could still understand it though, so I think that if you haven't watched Smallville before you could still enjoy the fic a lot!

And like, honestly, I totally recommend other stuff by this author (jadedbluerose) too. She's got a Merlin/DP crossover that's pretty fantastic, but unfortunately she hasn't updated anything since 2014 :( still worth the read though!!

Spirited Away [70k, complete] is a Harry Potter/DP crossover, it's honestly THE MOST hilarious fic I've ever read. Synopsis: Danny is an unwilling student at Hogwarts, and the most chaotic Hufflepuff the world has ever seen. He claims he's been kidnapped but when no one listens to him, he raises all kinds of hell to try and get kicked out. And if that doesn't work, well, he can always sue them. 100% worth the read, it will definitely make you laugh.

Various Superphantom (Supernatural/DP) crossovers by sapphireswimming. Literally anything Superphantom found here? Totally the best. You can also check out Superphantom fics by surelysilly (whose fics are more on the darker end of the spectrum, and their prose style is kinda abstract rather than your traditional linear narrative) Vitaliciouscreations (they've got a oneshot collection that's pretty fun, as well as a oneshot that I wish they'd continue and a complete cute 13k-word penpal fic.)

How to befriend a ghost [80k, incomplete] is a HTTYD/DP crossover in which Danny gets stuck in the Viking era, and I originally started reading this for the Danny & Hiccup friendship because it's adorable and both of them see how similar they are to each other and find kinship in that. The dragon Danny gets (because this is a HTTYD crossover, this is inevitable!) really sneaks into your heart though, and I ABSOLUTELY adore Sparky as much as I adore Toothless. He's very lovable and complements Danny super well! Of course, it's not all friendship bonding and training dragons, the archipelago is Danny's home now (until he can find his way back to Amity Park/his own century) and he's going to protect it too when trouble arises, just like the dragons do. He even gets new powers along the way. This fic is pretty fun, there's a lot of switching perspectives and you really see the characters' voices come through in it, and you even get to see the dragons' POV, which is really interesting since you get to learn Sparky's backstory!

Den Mother [8k, ongoing] is a Young Justice/DP crossover that acknowledges the fact that Danny is by all rights a first-generation hero, and he's treated with the respect as such and gets to join the Justice League rather than the YJ team. Of course, he doesn't WANT to join the league at first, which is a different take than you'd expect, but he reluctantly agrees and is then given the same responsibilities as a Justice League member--that is, to teach the YJ something about teamwork or whatever. It's not very long right now, but the premise is so good! It has a lot of potential.

A Foreign Perspective [200k words, complete] is a DNAngel/DP crossover that I saw @scrollingdown call a fandom classic once and honestly agree, even though I don't think many people know/have read it. It's a cute friendship fic that focuses on Phantom (not Danny, but Phantom specifically) making his first friend, an older boy named Daisuke, who seems normal at first, but is slowly revealed to be a little more understanding of Danny's situation than he appears. Some comfort involved too since Danny deals with a little more with the idea of mourning/loss than in canon, seeing as Daisuke thinks he's a full ghost and therefore a teenager that died, and Danny learns to be a different kind of hero because of it. Really cool fic too since you don't need to know DNAngel at all to understand the fic, since it's told from DP's perspective, and you get to learn about Daisuke as Danny does. It's just super sweet and it's got some action here and there that makes it exciting, and it's really a fun read.

Other stuff by this author is worth the read too! They've got oneshots of a HP crossover and Ghost Whisperer crossover, and a sadly incomplete HTTYD crossover [100k words] that is still super super good and also deals with ideas about mourning and loss. Their non-crossover stuff is also pretty interesting (there's a Mute!Danny AU and Dash kinda-redemption oneshot I really liked).

Diversity [150k, ongoing] is another Ghost Whisperer/DP crossover, it's a found-family fic where Danny runs away from home after his family dies in the events post TUE. He ends up running into Melinda and she goes out of her way to help him. There's a couple underlying mysteries surrounding the ghosts that haunt this fic, and Melinda tries to understand Danny's past and ends up tangled in a conspiracy because Danny's hiding his ghostly alter-ego and also the GIW are involved at some point (and they are much more menacing here than in canon). It's totally a page-turner, and you can get as invested as Melinda in hoping Danny heals from his loss. Spellbound [150k, ongoing] is a HP/DP crossover by the same author! Danny accidentally gets trapped by Magical Britain and is bitter about it, but he's trying to make the best of it. The Wizards have no idea what to make of him, but he just wants to go home, and he makes a couple friends while he plots his escape. (It's actually been a while since I read that one, so I'm a bit fuzzy on the details, but I do remember feeling bad for Danny in this fic, poor boy's lonely and can't even interact with kids his own age because he's an unknown creature to the wizards. Good thing Danny's never been one to follow authority.)

A Visit to Paris [10k, complete] is a Miraculous Ladybug/DP crossover in which Danny is Akumatized... sort of. The results are hilarious: Danny's a troll, Hawkmoth is frustrated, the heroes aren't really sure what to make of it, and Danny and Adrien make a lot of puns. Oh, and Danny is the only one smart enough to fix Paris' villain problem (okay, so it might be slightly cracky). It reminds me very much of Spirited Away, which I mentioned earlier. It's got the same level of chaos that's for sure. All in all, it's a very, very fun read.

A Different Sort of House Call [50k, incomplete] is a House MD/DP crossover, it's been years since I read it but I've always considered it one of the fandom classics too? It was definitely one of the first things to pop to mind when I was trying to recall all the cool memorable crossovers to rec you, so this goes on the list too. It's Danny at the hospital with House, and the doctors are trying to diagnose him without knowing about his ghost half (and Danny's not exactly willing to tell them either). There's angst (especially since the author wrote this to follow Lab Rat by AnneriaWings), Vlad trying to be an ally (sorta?), and House being clever as usual. Sadly it's incomplete but it's still super good!!

Running Blind [20k, complete] is a CSI/DP crossover (it took me forever to find the link again since it wasn't listed as a crossover). It's super good, Danny runs away for reasons unknown (at the beginning of course) and gets caught up in a murder investigation and he suspects the culprit is supernatural so obviously he helps out. The CSI guys are both trying to protect him (thinking he was a target for the murderer) but also trying to uncover his past and the reasons he ran away. When you find out why he ran away, you might be awed like I was (especially when you realize how long it had been since he ran) or you might be unimpressed, but the aftermath and his family/friends finally catching up to him might make up for that. I kinda liked how Vlad was written here too.

Ghost Crimes and its sequels is a Criminal Minds/DP crossover. It's the first in a very long series (currently 500k+ words in total) that expands on the DP world and lore, and also involves a lot more murder, death, blood (and the other related gore-ish stuff), and overall realism. Like, Danny fights what is basically Jack the Ripper and its terrifying. It's kind of like a "dark and gritty" DP (but like, not unbearably or overwhelmingly dark and gritty), angst sprinkled here and there, along with darker themes and less light-hearted issues (mental health/trauma/depression/etc. and neglect/abuse and like, actual competent adults like social workers and stuff are a real thing in this fic). There's a lot going on but it's got its lighter nice moments too (Dani is there and gets to be a part of Danny's family, Val's in on the secret, among other things). Also some of the chapters are illustrated, it's great. Definitely check it out!

Okay that's a lot of fics so I'm gonna stop now. Have fun reading!!