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voxmortuus · 10 months

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✧*̥˚ PAIRING: *̥˚✧ Yandere!Count Vronsky x F!Reader!Wife ✧*̥˚ UNIVERSE: *̥˚✧ Anna Karenina ✧*̥˚ WORD COUNT: *̥˚✧ 3.6k ✧*̥˚ PROMPT: *̥˚✧ This was given to me by the lovely @bettytaylorversion || Okay, okay I'm lately obsessed with yandere Count Vronsky, so how about yan Vronsky suspecting that his wife is seeing someone or like in love with someone and it doesn't help when his mother keeps feeding his suspicions so he ends up locking the wife/reader up in their house in countryside/ another country house where no one can reach them and where he makes sure his beloved wife knows exactly how much he loves her. ✧*̥˚ TRIGGER WARNINGS: *̥˚✧ Dead Dove Do Not Eat | Yandere Count | Possessive Count | Aggressive Count | Stalker Count | Demanding Count | Accusations of Cheating | Toxic Mother | False ideas | False Suspicions from mother | Toxic Marriage? | Isolation of Reader | Slapping | Pushing or Shoving | Yelling | Slamming doors | Gripping readers throat | Passionate making out | Throwing reader on bed | Stripping reader | Unprotected PiV | Aggressive sex | Reader fights a bit but stops fighting | Dub-Con? | insinuated Cream Pie | Crying Reader | Fluff | Reader questions if she loves him at the end | Relationship conflictions | PLEASE TELL ME IF I FORGOT ANYTHING!!! I want to make sure readers are fully aware of what they are getting themselves into when they read this… ✧*̥˚ NOTES: *̥˚✧ I've been wanting to write for him for a long while! Thank you love for this request! I hope this is along the lines of what you were hoping for... Sorry if it doesn't hit exactly what you're looking for but I tried!!! Anywho.... I hope this brings you some joy. ✧*̥˚ DIVIDER CREDIT: *̥˚✧ @nyxvuxoa ✧*̥˚ TIME PASSER DIVIDER CREDIT: *̥˚✧ @voxmortuus ✧*̥˚ IMAGE CREDIT: *̥˚✧ @peachyspaceslvt ✧*̥˚ ATJ TAGLIST: *̥˚✧ @earth-elemental18 @nyxvuxoa-writes ✧*̥˚ My Master Masterlist | Aaron Taylor-Johnson Masterlist *̥˚✧

It was this gnawing feeling, this feeling of dread, sorrow, a pain in his gut he couldn't shake. Watching you go as he leaned against the window frame, he knew where you were going. He knew, he just had this gut feeling that he couldn't quite shake. It ate at his heart, it ate at his brain, it was like these cogs and wheels working, but not in a way of rationality. His thoughts were completely irrational. Looking out that window as your carriage vanished into the thick fog of the dawn, he felt so lost, so angry. He wasn't happy, and not happy may be quite an understatement.

Placing a hand-rolled cigarette between his lips he grabbed a match from the fireplace and lit it. The smoke bellowed above, tossing the match into the fire he turned to see his mother sitting at the table.

"She does not have love for you anymore, Alexei." She stated. Her tone appeared caring, honest, maybe even having pity, but it was just because she didn't like you.

"She must love me. That is my wife, she must." He stated he didn't seem demanding about it, he seemed sad, heartbroken even.

"But she does not. She will never love you as she loves him. What married woman is happy with her husband? She has grown bored of you. Had she not she would not go to him as she does." She points out.

His heart, if it was a glass a cat had pushed off the counter it would have shattered. He only hoped that you were as enraptured by him as he was about you. He looked up at the wall, the painting of you seemed to be watching. He closed his stormy blue eyes and looked back at his mother.

"She does love me. I know it to be true. You speak lies, like a snake in the garden." He snapped and walked to the table and had taken a sip from the slightly sweetened tea he had poured only moments before your leaving. Sitting there he tapped his smoke against a small crystal ashtray and his mind became overrun, thinking of everything his mother had stated. Thinking of those possibilities. What were you doing? Were you spreading your legs for him? Was he satisfying you? Were you unhappy with him? Did you not love him? Did you grow bored of him? He rubbed his lip a moment as he took another drag before looking at his mother.

"When she comes home, I will settle this." He stated. Taking the cup and his almost-gone smoke and had vanished to the bedroom. He sits on the edge of the bed after putting the cup on the bedside table and looks over your side of the bed. It was too much, these feelings he had, it was like they were just bubbling up, ready to overflow and put out the fire that kept the pot lit. Feeling the stinging in his nose from the slight anger he ran his hand through his curly blonde locks and his jaw clenched as he put his smoke out in the ashtray and grabbed his clothes for getting dressed before he slammed the bedroom door.

His mother had heard the slam and had made her way to the room. Letting herself in she looked over him and sighed. "I just want what is best for you."

"I said I would take care of it. I do not need your help. She is my wife, not yours." He sort of snapped.

"You are right, she is your wife. And your wife is off with another man, spreading her legs and enjoying her time away from you. So how are you going to handle that Alexei?" She asked.

"I will take her away from here. I will take her far away from everyone. Including you." He snapped. "Now if you do not mind, I am getting dressed. Go find something else to bother." He snarled slightly as he escorted her out of the doorway and closed and locked the bedroom door.

Looking out the bedroom window and looking over the garden, he watched the flowers bob from the heaviness of the heads that were filled with the morning dew. It was something so simple, and yet even looking at their beauty, he saw you, he saw your smile, your smooth skin, your curves, he saw how your hair fell, that glow in your eyes when you were happy. You had to love him, why was he questioning it? Why was he standing there, looking out on those flowers questioning if you loved him?! With a clenched jaw and a knitted brow, he threw open the closet door and grabbed his attire for the day.

After fastening the last button on his coat, he makes his way back to the kitchen- it's like he doesn't want to acknowledge the other parts of the home without you here. Feeling lost, and one track minded. He didn't like that you were gone, it loomed over him like a dark cloud heavy with rain looms over the dirt countryside roads. He needed to know where you were going. He needed to know what you were doing. He needed to know what you were saying. Were you tired of him? Were you unhappy? It just gnawed at him like a beaver gnawing on a log.

Why was this even a feather of a thought? It's not that he didn't want you to have friends, it's just, why did they have to be male friends? And even then, it wasn't the idea of male friends that bothered him, it was the embedded, plated thoughts from the snake in the garden that made him believe that you were unhappy, that you were not in love with him any longer, that you were looking for a way out of this relationship. Well, that was going to be nipped in the bud right away. There was going to be no second-guessing it, not after this.

He decided to gather himself a little more and decided to head out to find you. He had these questions that needed answers. He turned to look at his mother who was still there. "Watch the house while I am away. We will be gone for a while." He states. His mother went to speak but before she could retort with a comment he was out the door and off to the stables.

After a few hours of looking and getting a general idea of where you were he stopped, getting off the carriage he approached, standing a good distance behind as you stood there, talking to another man. Oh, this did not sit well with him, but he watched and observed. With a lick of his lips and a look of heartache, as you touched the other man's face, he couldn't help but feel that slithering snake of a mother of his was right.

The more he watched, the more you laughed, the closer this man seemed to be getting to you, and the more it climbed up him like ivy claiming lattice fencing. This green envious monster coils around his every nerve, his nostrils flair as he walks toward you and clears his throat, but you don't pay much attention until he grabs your arm and pulls you to him.

You gasp and look over his face. "My Love, what are you doing here?" You ask him.

"I could ask you the very same." He states. His stare was cold, his stare pained, and his stare… it bore into you like a hot glue gun into plastic.

"I am just out with a friend, we do this every week. It means nothing." You state honestly.

"Does it? Does it really mean nothing? You were touching his face, and laughing with him like you do with me. Do I not make you happy anymore? Have you grown bored and weary of me?" He asks you with a small shake in his voice almost as if holding back tears.

"Of course you make me happy, why would you ask such a thing?" you respond back looking into his stormy blue hues.

His jaw clenches and he looks at your friend and back to you. "We are leaving." He states as if dismissing you from your date with your male friend.

"What? No. Alexei, no." you stated.

"I do not know him, nor do I like how you were touching him, we are going somewhere. You'll like it. Get in." he states and gestures to the carriage.

"Alexei, no." You state firmly.

He clenches his jaw and looks over you. "Do not make me put you in there myself. Now. Be a good wife, and get in the carriage." He snarls lowly.

Licking your lips you look over his face and let out a slight breath before getting into the carriage. Feeling the shake of the carriage from the door closing. Placing your hands in your lap you look down, studying them a moment before you close your eyes almost in defeat, and wonder where he is taking you. It was clear he wasn't taking you home. Why was he suddenly acting this way? What was it that made him feel like you were unhappy? You began to study yourself, you even began to question yourself. But why? His actions alone.

His actions just then made you question if this was really where you needed to be. But the more you thought about it, the more you realized that maybe he was seeing something you were not seeing. Were you really happier with your friend than you were with him? Was he not seeing how much you loved him? Were you really doing something bad? You turn back and look at him as he stops the carriage and climbs into the back of it with you as someone else takes over. Someone he had paid to drop you both off and take the carriage back to the house.

You sit there, in silence, and you study him, you study his face, his eyes, how his jaw twitches, how his brow knits, how his eyes seem to be full of sorrow, and maybe is that hate? You look down, and you think about all you've done, but you can't help but shake your head. You love this man, and he was blind to false things. Was there a way to fix it? Was there a way to get him to see that you love him just as much as he loves you?

"Where are we going? There is nothing for miles." You point out looking out the little window of the carriage door.

"We're going someplace secluded." He states.

"Secluded? Whatever for?" You ask with a slight bit of worry in your tone.

"Enough with the questions, you will see when we get there." He states, short in his tone.

You lick your lips and hike a brow before looking back down at your lap and letting out a slight sigh. You feel this could get problematic.

By the time you get to where you were going, the sun had already set and come back up. You look over his face as he offers to help you off the carriage. Your jaw clenches and you shake your head.

"Are you serious? Why are we here? We are days away from home at this rate Alexie." You point out.

HE shakes his head and looks at you and looks over the country home before looking back at you. "You will survive. This is for a reason."

"THIS IS ABSURD!" You scream. The only thing you cause to stir is birds out in the field. Your jaw clenches and you look over him shoving past him and heading toward the inside.

He sighs slightly and shakes his head, he isn't expecting you to understand. Rubbing his brow a moment he looks up at the gray skies and then over on the vast rolling fields of nothing. A small smile creeps across his face as he listens to the front door being slammed. Another soft sigh escapes his lips as he heads toward the house.

Upon walking in he looks around and spots you standing there in the living room. As he walks toward you to join you, you turn and look at him.

"What is all of this about?" You ask.

"You need to see how much love I have for you. I cannot do that back there." He stated honestly.

"So you isolate me?!" You raise your tone.

"Yes! It keeps you away from another man touching you!" He snaps.

"NO ONE ELSE IS TOUCHING ME!" You snap back.

"HOW DO I KNOW?!" He steps closer to you.

"No. You don't get to ask me that question! How do you not see that I love you!? I have always loved you!" You snarl as you step forward challenging him.

"Well, I suppose now you can show me just how much you love me as I show you how much I love you." He stated coldly.

"Don't be so pigeon-livered." You growl to yourself. "You're being a floozer Alexei. What has ever gotten into you?" You ask him.

"Are you really going to throw insults at me? Pigeon-livered? Floozer? Do not." He grips your arm and pulls you close. "Do not cross me."

You shove him and look over his face. "Or what?" You ask with a tightly knitted brow. "What are you going to do?"

Stretching his neck from left to right he licks his lips and his jaw clenched.

"WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO?!" You snapped.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?!" He snapped back. He began to pace. "All I ever do is shower you with love and attention, I do nothing but prove to you how much you mean to me. I make sure you always put your best forward. And you do this. Run off with another man doing god knows what." He states.

Crossing your arms over your chest you stare at him a moment and blink a few times. "Are you blinded by your own selfishness right now? Can you not see past your own nose? I am not laying with another man Alexei! I have never laid with another man!" you snap.

"HOW DO I KNOW THAT?!" He snaps. "How do I know that?" He asked you. A complete and utter look of defeat sprawled across his features.

Walking to him you slap him across the face. Not once, but twice. Reaching forward he grips your throat and moves you through the house. Kicking open a door he shoves you into the bedroom and starts to unbutton his jacket. Looking over you his eyes hungry. His snarl was fierce, his jaw clenched so hard you could hear the bones grinding and you could feel the flex of his jaw. You try to shove past him but that wasn't happening.

"What are you going to do rape me Alexei?" You ask.

He scoffed and looked over at you. "Do you think that little of me? Strip." He demands.

"No." You cross your arms. At this point, you were fighting him to fight, how far could you push?

"I said strip!" He demands again. Walking to you he spins you around and starts to untie your skirt.

Layer by layer you fight, until you are both stripped down to mere thin layers. Tears staining your face, you look over him and shake your head, a small thumping sound of your heart feeling like it was echoing in the room.

"All I have ever wanted was for you to love me. You have to love me, you must love me." He states. He steps closer to you, looking over you he grips your face and pulls you near. "You will love me. You will." He states firmly.

Scared at this point you cannot find your words. He presses his lips to yours and at first, you give in, you cave, you wrap your arms around him and kiss him deeply, lovingly, longing for that affection he wanted to give you, but then you start to push away, saddened by the fact that he couldn't believe you, that he had no trust in you.

"No…" You start to push away, but you didn't want him to at the same time, it was this conflicting feeling.

"Do not tell me no, you want this…" he points out as he listens to your breathing.

You have no means of responding.

"I'm not taking that as a no." he states.

You give him a cold stare, looking over his face, his lips press against yours and you shove him back, and he throws you to the bed. You bounce once before he climbs on top of you and looks you over. He tilts his head and looks over your face and takes your wrists and places them above your head and looks over your face intently.

You attempt to wiggle free but he hovers over you, his body pressed against yours. In one hand he has your hands gripped together, in the other hand hikes up your skirt, he looks over you, and he leans in and nips at your lips. Your breathing becomes heavier, and you close your eyes. Shaking your head you begin to breathe heavier. It felt good, his hands on you, it always felt good, but there was this sense of fight that also washed over you.

As his lips found your neck he kissed up your neck to your jaw, finding your lips. While you loved his affection, you were terrified. Literally scared of him.

"Get off of me." you demand.

"Let me show you. See how much I love you." He takes your hand and places it on his hard cock. "This is how much I love you." He states.

You pull your hand away and turn your head in another direction. His senses overwhelm him, and unable to control himself he groans softly as he presses himself against you. You turn your head away from him, maybe checking out, but at the same time ever so present in this moment. As he thrusts himself into you you take in a deep breath. A whimper leaves your lips as a groan leaves his.

Looking over you he observes your features as he turns your face to look at him, leaning in he kisses you again. And it was then you cave, just a little. Your lips pressed against his, your hand moved up his arms to his hair and you pull him closer. Your hips roll against his thrusts and you begin to whimper against his lips. The feeling of him against you was something you always loved. Truthfully you never questioned this man's love for you. But you were conflicted because of how he was coming at you. You didn't know if you should fight him, or cave to him a little more.

The more he thrusts the harder he becomes in his motions, the more you fight. But the more you fight, the more he growls, it was a conflicting feeling all over again and you aren't sure what to do, it was overwhelming. You push him away, shoving him but he pulls you closer.

Feeling your body flush against his you let out another soft whimper. You move your hands to his shoulders as you feel him thrust deeper into you, your moans escaping you were almost pained but yet pleasure-filled. Your hips rolled against his as he continued to thrust with a fever. He pulls you even closer to him, pulling you into his lap as he guides you along his stiffened cock, nuzzling into you, nipping and biting at you.

The moans fill the bedroom, bouncing off the windows and the walls, and while you might be fighting him because of his choice of actions, this man was your life. You kiss him deeply as you both moan in pure pleasure. Your bodies collide in such a raw motion. Thrust after thrust, grunt, and groan after grunt and groan, screams of pure euphoria leaving you both. It all came to a halt with a trembling body-shaking finish, feeling as his cock twitched inside of you as hot ribbons of seed coat your velvet walls. He snarled against your skin, and you bring a hand across his face, and you begin to cry.

Holding you close, he looks down at you, smoothing your hair he presses his face against you.

"Shh… now now, everything is alright. I love you, so much." He whispers. "You have to love me back, you just have to." he says softly.

"I… I do love you, Alexei. I do. I wish you would see that." you say between sniffles.

He holds you close, nuzzling against you. "Shall we draw you a bath?" He asks.

Nodding your head he looks over your face and nods. "I shall draw you a bath. Think about what I said." He states.

"Are you isolating me? From everyone?" you ask as he gets up and slips his pants back on.

With a firm stare, he looks over you. "I am, and it's for our own good. You won't be seeing him, we will stay here as long as it takes." He states truthfully.

And like that, your heart becomes conflicted, you love this man, but you feel scared of this man… but then you look at him, and you don't feel afraid anymore. You just want him to see that you do love him. It's conflicting, and it's terrifying, you love him, but is it true? Staying here, you're only choice is to grow to love him. But that's been his goal all along, for you to love him, and for him to show you in so many ways how he loves you.

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melit0n · 4 months

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Half-Starved

- Oneshot

- Obsessive! Ghost/Reader

- Word Count: 3.2K

- Warnings: Descriptions of gore, canabalism as a metaphor for love, mentions of past domestic abuse, stalking

- Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52474849

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley was born hungry.

Born with a relentless nagging feeling curled up right between his oesophagus and the squirming muscle of his stomach. From the very moment Simon opened his eyes, he was hungry for something he would never have. Left to starve in the gloom of the locked cupboard he was shoved into for not shutting up. He spent fifteen-odd years greedy for any drop of affection he could get. Anything he could grasp and hold onto, no matter how many bruises it would leave him with. No matter how long he would have to spend chained up like a bad dog in the corner of his room licking his wounds telling himself that it was worth it. That the blood was worth it. The pain was worth it.

Anything to be acknowledged.

Now, once again finding comfort in the gloom of his home, he is still hungry. Even more so. However, he didn’t like to be touched, because of him, but he still craved it. Maybe too much. He wanted, wants, to be held tight enough so he doesn’t break. Wants to be vulnerable. But he’s still afraid he’ll end up being a scared kid looking into the slit eyes of a snake again.

He blames his younger self for the predicament he’s found himself in, wants to sit down with him and shake him by the shoulders and ask why. Why he put himself through that for that long. But even so, he can’t blame the kid. He knows how hungry he is now; feels the scraping like dull claws against the soft spot between his liver and his spleen. He can only imagine what it was like for him as a kid. He’s blocked most of those memories out now, though.

He sits through the tugging, the pulling, through each dull meeting. Each dark night spent alone in his bunk. Each evening he spends licking wounds that just won't close.

Unfortunately, this issue, this dilemma, is a hard one to fix. A hard want to satiate. Being a 6’4 SAS agent with a heavy Manchester accent and an apparently unapproachable demeanour, most people tending to avoid him in the streets, makes it a bit hard to gain attention, let alone affection.

But then there’s you.

The first word that would come to his mind is kind.

Out of the blue, draped in moonlight and glimmering stars, you begin to appear everywhere. He doesn’t know if you’ve moved here recently, or if his brain has randomly decided to notice your presence, but you’re here. And there. And everywhere, really.

He sees you in the local corner shop, holding tightly onto the baggy sleeve of whoever you’ve brought along for your midnight excursion, brushing your hand, intently, against that of your work friends on the crowded train you both take every day into the city. You use physical affection as not only a way to show affection itself, platonic or romantic, he isn’t particularly good at guessing unless it’s incredibly obvious, but as a form of comfort and encouragement as well.

In less than a month into his leave, you’ve managed to become a staple in his civilian life. He sees you in the morning, always at the train station with breakfast and lunch in hand looking quizically around to see if you’ve missed your train like a doubtful deer. He knows you know you haven’t. You’re like him; you’ve got an obsession with time. While his is instilled by the harsh words of the military, yours is brought about by a tight work schedule. And maybe something else. He wonders what the something else is as you both board the already stuffed train, both standing in the same carriage full of warm, tired bodies.

He sees you in the afternoon as well, sitting outside on a park bench with a friend eating lunch. While you talk, you have a habit of taking tiny crumbs off of your sandwich, flicking them off to the ratty pigeons that flock around your feet like moths to a flame. You always have the same lunch; the same sandwich bread from the same corner shop with the same filing. You have a thing with regularity, routine, as well, it seems. Just like him.

Of course, he sees you in the evenings too. You both take the same train home, and almost always end up so close yet so far from each other on the carriage. Your work friend gets off at the stop two before yours and Simon’s; always leaving you with a pat on the shoulder and a closed eye smile, which you almost always return. You have a habit of doing a little jump when you get off the train which Simon finds quite cute. It’s almost as if you’re actually afraid of the gap.

Of the fall.

Either way, you part ways without knowing you’re parting from him, leaving him incomplete in an odd way, and head back to your home. Ghost has an impulse to follow you, in between curiosity at where you live and to make sure you’re safe, but Simon urges himself to head home. To sleep. You linger in his thoughts each time he walks back.

At first, he’s oddly amazed, a bit in awe, if he were honest, that you can give so much affection so easily, touch so easily, and receive it tenfold from the people around you.

Then, there’s annoyance, titering on the fine, chipped-away line of anger. Like a mantra, he asks why it’s fair someone can give, give and keep on giving, let alone receive something back, and he can’t? How can you hold someone so closely and not be afraid of a knife in your back?

Maybe that’s Ghost talking, he thinks.

Eventually, he falls off the fine line of annoyance and anger into the muddied trench that is jealousy. Jealous not only of you, how you can give and receive so easily, but of the people in your life who get to experience the affection that you give to any warm body that passes by you. Said people who don’t understand how precious and rare that experience is to others. To him. He wants to taste it. Badly.

Then, it morphs. Twists and turns like a dying thing, all red with chunks of fur sticking at odd angles, into attraction. Turning from a want to be held, a quiet plea to the void for you to keep him together for just a little bit longer, to a need. A need to kiss until both your lips are bloody and raw, bitten and chewed like a pomegranate, seeping your liquid life for him to drink as an elixir. He wants, needs, hungers to feel the comforting weight of your blood in the bottom of his stomach.

He’s seen the way you kiss, and God above he needs it. Needs you. He doesn’t care if it’s the fleeting, platonic kisses you gift to your friends on the cheek (he wants you to take a chunk out of his cheek. Wants you to chew on the fat like the gum you always have in your mouth), or if it’s the rough ones you give to the men you bring home. The ones that have them chasing your lips for more, which you always allow because you never stop giving.

Simon wants it. Ghost needs it.

Consequently, the dull scratching of the claws in between his liver and his spleen grows sharper. After years of the scratching, the pulling, the tugging, he’d thought his hunger pang’s talons had grown weary, but he feels them. He feels the sharp ache like a pistol’s bullet and it bloody hurts. Has him hunched over on his bed trying to claw out his stomach because, for the first time in years, it's hurting him.

And, for the first time in years, Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley decides to listen.

As more time passes, more time spent getting soaked outside your house in the rain waiting for you to come home because you’re oddly late for all the time he’s known you, it changes again. Writhes around in his stomach and the fat in his veins, to something much worse. Much more harmful, at least, to you. In all the pain of his hunger, he contemplates taking chunks out of you. Maybe that will satiate the creature that squirms in his bloody viscera, laying claim to all of his innards in an attempt to get him to feed for once in his life.

To allow him to know what it feels like to be full, instead of half-starved.

Zoning out during meetings easily turns to daydreaming of taking one of his hunting knives to your flesh. Cut strips of skin, like your his sacrificial lamb to slaughter and devour, and finally put those butchering skills he gained to work somewhere other than on the field. He promises he’ll be delicate. Promises he’ll be kind. He wouldn’t dare show you the bloodthirsty rage his opponents see on the field.

Oh, and he can just imagine how you’d cry when he’d do so. He hates hearing people cry. After all, he’s haunted by the echoing sobs of someone lost to him in some distant, sun-stunned, sand-smothered land. But you? He doesn’t mind one bit. It’s another piece of you for him to consume, another piece of you that you can offer to him, gift to him, to bring you two together.

He knows how much it takes to be vulnerable, so he wouldn’t even be able to describe what he’d do to taste your tears. To savour your salty sadness upon his tongue and be able to offer comfort. To lick your face dry and hold you in his arms; warm body against warm body just like he’s daydreamed about.

The more time that passes, the further he falls.

On slightly rarer occasions, ones where he’s alone in the quiet of his room for longer than a human should be, he thinks about feeding your own lovingly cooked gore to you. Get’s him more riled up than he’d like to admit.

He can see it as clear as a freshly painted watercolour; a candle-lit dinner. Warm lighting. He’s tried his hardest to cover up the smell of his cigarettes for you, a scent that clings to his walls like mould, with roses. The smell of whatever he’s cooked for you permeating the air.

Soup sounds good, doesn’t it, love?

It’s a macabre yet intimate fairytale that finds its way into his thoughts when all else is quiet. Leaves him tossing and turning in his bed because the scraping just won't stop. He swears he's bleeding out from the inside, and he’ll break his own kneecaps from how long he’s been on the floor at your feet begging you to make it stop. To stop the scratching, the itching, the nagging feeling. For you to clean and stitch up his wounds, new and old.

He’s utterly enamoured with the thought. The idea of being that close to another human being. To be able to physically intertwine each other’s atoms through mutual consumption. To be sewn into the quantum patterns of your being. For you to feed him a proper meal like his parents never could.

He remembers being taught in his History class, the one with the old hag of a teacher who, with her droning words alone, convinced him not to take it for GCSEs, that in ancient times people used to eat each other as well. They did this so that in life, and eventually in death, the two of them would share an utterly unique bond, as well as each other's attributes.

He only really remembers that because his mates laughed at the idea of aristocratic Victorians eating mummies like it was a five-star meal for weeks after that lesson.

Even so, Ghost decides he could die happy on the field knowing that a part of you rested within him. That even when he was dead and gone, probably much earlier than he should be, you two would still be connected. He would have a piece of you, and you him.

And you, him. Mutual consumption. He doesn’t mind extra scars, extra wounds, because he knows you’ll lick them clean for him. Knows you wash them, stitch them up and check on them so they heal properly.

In the end, that is the intimacy he dreams of. The affection he wants from you.

His body is yours, as yours is his. Let him be yours. Let him feed. Let him fulfil you.

The idea leaves him with a small smirk on his face that Soap nudges him in the ribs for with a prodding grin of his own.

So, he makes a decision. For once, Simon and Ghost agree on something and work together as one instead of turning the other off for the greater good.

The decision? To feed. To finally know what it is like to be full instead of half-starved.

The scraping, the nagging, only grows stronger.

He makes it a point to bump into you as much as he can before his next mission.

Anywhere is a dinner table to him. On the crowded train, brushing his calloused hand against yours to ease the hunger for even a second. In the artificial lighting of the run-down corner shop, grabbing that bag of snacks that are just out of reach for you. Anything. Anything will do. But it only temporarily satiates the pang, doesn’t satisfy it. He just gets hungrier and hungrier and hungrier.

He knows you’ve begun to notice him. You’re getting hungry too. He just hopes it’s in the same way he hungers for you. He hopes you’re hungry for him, and him alone.

At first, you attempt to offer him platonic comfort, which, God above, tastes so sweet. You offer soft touches on his shoulder. You gift your fingers intertwining with his as you cross the street to his home because he’s gone off on another bender trying to stop turning over in his bed and seeing the inside of a coffin that he has to dig his way out of again.

‘N you’re just some poor night owl who’s trying to be kind.

It becomes a routine. Both for you and him. You know he’ll come out of the pub at quarter to one and you know he’s expecting you. You’ll walk the same walk to his home, fumbling with his keys as he looks at you with the softest eyes you’ve ever seen on a man, hands intertwined. You’ll still carry him home and close the door softly with your foot as you lay him on his couch and get him a glass of water and whatever painkiller he has lying around. You’ll still stay as he chats, drunkenly, to you. You’ll take care of him and he’ll be whole again, for just a moment.

At least until the morning comes, anyways.

He hungers for your touch the same way water hungers for the cavities of people’s lungs. Hungers for your skin like he hungers for the nicotine in his cigarettes. Hungers and begs and pleads until you both fall like Icarus; wax melting and dripping off your backs as you try and crawl your way back to the sun, back to the light, while he drags you down into the depths of the deep blue.

It's almost poetic.

In the midst of your drowning, the front door opening startles you out of your stupor. You do that a lot, Simon notes. You’ll black out and stare at a wall for hours, whether it be to awkward silence or a piece of music. He doesn’t question it, verbally, at least. From how easily you dissociate, he’d say it's something you picked up a long time ago. He’ll find out when, eventually.

Carefully, you get up from the couch, approaching him as he walks over to the kitchen counter. The blue plastic bag he has rustles loudly in the spotless kitchen.

“What’s that?” You ask, gently, placing a hand on his shoulder to get a better look.

Please give me more.

He lets out a knowing grunt and pulls out two round, red fruits. At first, you mistake them for apples, but the star-shaped top throws you off.

“Pomegranates?”

He nods, looking into your eyes for some sort of approval.

Gingerly, you take one of the pomegranates out of his hand, his fingers twitching as the pads of your digits brush against his. Your eyes dart back and forth between him and the fruit as you do so, careful to earn his compliance as you inspect the fruit.

I’ll take anything you give. Just please give me more.

They’re a deep red, almost crimson, and the shine reflects your face on its vermilion skin.

“Chopping board,” He pauses, “please?”

Nodding absent-mindedly, you place the fruit back into his cupped hands.

You open the drawer behind the both of you and pull out an old chopping board, red soaked and stained into the wood that Ghost just can’t seem to get out. You place it on the counter next to the pomegranates, along with a clean bowl he didn’t even hear you grab, and then find your way to the knife block. Hearing the subtle shink of a blade against wood, Ghost turns and scrutinizes you as you try to remember which knife is the fruit knife. Choosing the shortest one, you hold it by the handle, facing downwards just like Simon taught you, and place it on top of the chopping board with stitched-up hands and missing fingers from all the times he’s begged for more. From all the times you’ve said you have nothing more to give, but he knows you always have more.

I’ll take even the spare and broken bits. Just look at me. Touch me. Let me be full.

You watch, intently, as he delicately cuts the top of the pomegranate off, slicing through the thick skin. Gently, he peels the layers of the pomegranate back, kissing each one with the tips of his fingers, letting it stain them something beautifully violent. He reveals the soft viscera inside, glancing back over to you again and again. Looking for something in your eyes you’re not sure you can give. He cuts it into quarters, continuously surprising you how utterly gentle he is with it, but not down to the skin. Leaving it in a fileted star-like shape, he turns it upside down on the bowl, and, using his hand, slowly shakes the seeds off of the fruit into the bowl.

Once he’s finished, sure he’s got all of the seeds off, he sets the empty corpse aside and just…stares at the bowl of red.

The silence is deafening. You want to fill it.

Simon takes a bloody scoop of the red viscera with his right hand, letting the pinkish juice dribble down his hand, his forearm, and drip onto the immaculately clean counter.

The kitchen smells like bleach. It makes the back of your throat itch.

He offers his hand out towards you, like an olive branch, like some lurid type of eucharist, and, like the obedient dog you are, you feast.

“I love you.” He mumbles, fondly watching the muscle of your tongue dart out to catch the pinkish juice dribbling from your frothing maw.

Be full. Let me fill you, and in turn, you fill me. Feed on me until there is nothing left. Let us decompose, intertwined. Please. Just say you love me, too.

You’re eating, and you begin to repeat it, but Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley taught you well not to speak with your mouth full.

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

Note- If anybody believes this needs the Dead Dove: Do Not Eat tag, please let me know. I've seen much more horrific works without the tag, but I'm mildly worried this is inching into the category.

I've spend the past week hearing Abbey by Mitski at every turn, so I wrote this out in an hour or two. I think if I heard that song or saw something about bloody pomegranates one more time I think I would've started chewing the flesh off of my own bones. Canabalism as a metaphor for love is a incredibly profound, and, in some ways, poetic literature device for the sheer destruction a toxic relationship can cause, so, I wanted to try my hand at it! And also to stop myself from clawing my face off from hearing anything about this canabalism metaphor from literally everywhere on the internet.

I apologise for this being description and inner monologue heavy. I wanted to focus on the horror aspects in this rather than the romance aspects, so I'm sorry if you didn't get what you came here for.

Do tell if this feels too out of character for Ghost. It was originally written for König, but I changed it last minute. Thank you for sitting down and reading my work! It means a lot <3

I'll leave it up to you if the metaphor is really a metaphor in the end.

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scarlettjohanssons-mistress · 9 months

Text

Are you safe with me

Warnings: Implied/referenced rape/non-con, sexual assault, angst and hurt/comfort, assault

Word count: 1.5 K

Pairing: Diana Prince (Wonder Woman) x Fem!Reader

Prompt: R has just suffered a trauma

Requests: OPEN

[Main masterlist] [DC masterlist]

Carefully, and trying to make it as unobvious as possible, I stretched out my arms, making my bones thunder, and carefully, I yawned, trying to get some oxygen to my poor, battered brain.

My boss had kept us in the conference room for what seemed like years.

More than three hours trying to find a solution to an extremely stupid problem, from which, it seemed, the magazine was hanging by a thread. It was extremely stupid.

Carefully, I looked at the watch on my wrist only to realise that it was already 11:30 PM.

"Does anyone have any solutions?" asked Jessica, the boss. Nobody answered, we were all extremely tired.

"Jessica, I don't think this is going anywhere," said Raquel, her right-hand woman, "We are extremely tired. We can sort this out tomorrow".

Jessica kept quiet, but watched us with a very unfriendly look on her face. She even stared at everyone's faces for a few seconds.

"It's OK. You can go."

Quicker than I would like to admit, I grabbed my things and left the office. I didn't even check my mobile phone or my work computer, I just turned it off, picked up my coat and went out into the streets of Paris.

Carefully, I ran down the stairs of the metro and climbed into the first carriage I came across, a few seconds before it closed its doors.

It was almost empty, only for a man and a woman with her baby. I carefully placed my bag in my arms, hugging her tightly and trying not to fall asleep.

"Hi cute" I looked up to see that the man was sitting next to me. I turned my head to notice that we were the only ones in the carriage.

"Sorry but…" I tried to get up from the seat, but his big hand stopped me. I sat back down.

"Why are you leaving, beauty?"

"Get away from me!" my right hand struck his cheek, but, apparently it only made him angrier.

"Well, princess, if you don't want to do it the easy way, you'll have to do it the hard way."

Out of nowhere, he pulled out a gun and pointed it at my head. I froze immediately and just raised my arms.

"Give me your phone and your wallet"

With a trembling hand, I took both things out of my bag and handed them to him. He quickly stuffed it into his sweatshirt pocket, but he never stopped pointing it at me.

"Good, beautiful. I like obedient girls. Now on your knees."

Without even thinking about it, I fell to my knees, feeling my stockings tearing on the scratchy floor.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see him start to undo the belt of his jeans.

"You're hungry for a fat cock, aren't you, gorgeous?" I could tell as he dropped his trousers until they covered his shoes. "Are you going to suck my cock?"

Before either of us knew it, the metro had reached the next station, so he pulled his trousers back up and forced me to stand up.

Thankfully, the station was one of the most used by tourists, so, despite it being almost 12:00 P.M. the carriage began to fill up quickly, so I took that opportunity to get off the carriage and run to the outside of the station.

With bated breath and a sense of dread, I approached a restaurant, asking a waiter if he could spare a couple of coins to call someone.

Maybe I looked really bad, because he didn't give me the coins, he just passed me to the kitchen and told me I could call whoever I wanted.

With trembling hands, I dialled the number I knew by heart.

"Hello?" Her voice was hoarse. She was asleep. Shit.

"Diana?"

"T/N, My love, is that you?"

I felt my eyes fill with tears again.

"Are you OK, why are you calling me from an unknown phone?"

Evade.

"Can you come and get me?"

"Oh, sure baby, are you at work?"

"No"

"Where are you?"

I broke away from the phone to see where I was. It was only then that

I realised where I was standing.

"Do you remember the restaurant from our first date?"

"Yes"

"Here I am"

"Okay, I'll be there in 5 minutes. Are you sure you're okay, T/N?"

I made a sound of denial.

"Can you hurry up… please?"

"Sure, baby. I'll be right there."

And she hung up.

———————————————————————————

Before I knew it, two toned arms embraced me tightly, as that sweet scent wafted into my lungs.

"I'm here".

Before she could say another word, I quickly pounced on her, hugging her torso and hiding my face in her chest.

Only then could I start to cry.

Diana like the good girlfriend she is, simply let me cry and began to rub soothing circles on my back and start a light cooing.

When I calmed down, I simply lifted my face and looked her in the eye.

Just looking into her beautiful eyes made me feel at peace.

"Can we go?"

"Sure"

With his right hand on my lower back, he guided me to the car Bruce had lent her, but not before thanking the staff.

If he had come by car and arrived in 5 minutes, that meant that he might have broken more than three traffic laws.

She opened the passenger door and made me sit down, even put my seatbelt on, closed the door and ran into the car.

She quickly began to drive,

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" she asked in her soft voice.

"Can we talk about it later?"

"We can talk about it anytime you want, baby, I just want you to be okay."

She gave me a smile as he took her right hand out of my hand and kissed the back of mine.

"Thank you. I love you."

"I love you"

———————————————————————————

I thought I would fall asleep on the way home, but no matter how sleepy and tired my body was, it was impossible for me to close my eyes for more than a few seconds.

So, I had no choice but to look out of the window and make Diana believe that I had fallen asleep. Until we reached our home.

Diana turned off the car, causing the soothing music on the radio to stop playing, leaving an uncomfortable silence.

"I know you're awake T/N"

But she didn't say anything else, she just got out of the car and opened my door, raising her hand. I took it and we both went into the house.

Once in the house, I went upstairs and into the bathroom. I quickly removed my smeared make-up and went into the bath.

I washed my hair about three times and scrubbed my arms, legs and face with enormous force. I even hurt my thighs a bit.

I left the bathroom to put on some panties and one of Diana's few casual T-shirts.

I put a towel over my head and lay down.

Minutes later, Diana arrived and lay down next to me, hugging me from behind, pressing little kisses on the back of my neck.

"I was assaulted"

The kissing stopped abruptly and I felt her get up.

"What?"

"I was mugged in the underground. The man had a gun" I began to sob "and he almost raped me, Diana".

The brunette didn't hesitate for two seconds to hug me tightly, letting me cry as much as I wanted, but when I pulled away from her chest, I noticed that she was crying too.

"Why are you crying?"

"This wouldn't have happened if I had been with you."

I took her face in my hands and forced her to look at me.

"No, my love. Neither of us is to blame for this."

We both hugged each other for a long time. Trying to soothe each other with Diana's body heat. It was a great advantage of dating a goddess.

"I'm going to kill him"

She tried to get up quickly, but my arms prevented her from doing so.

"No, not today. Now I just want you to hold me" I hugged her burying my face in her neck. "Please, I just need my girlfriend."

"Here I am, sweet girl. I'll always be here for you" I constantly kiss my head "You'll always be safe with me"

"I know, I always feel safe with you."

"What did they steal from you?"

"My mobile phone and my wallet"

"The one you just bought?" I just nodded, feeling the tears of anger start to roll down my cheeks. "Oh baby, I'm so sorry."

After another moment of silence, of her hand trying to reassure me and her lips kissing my temple and my hands playing with the zip of her sweatshirt.

"I love you, and believe me, I'll be sure to cut off his testicles."

"I know, I know your word is fact."

"Just like my love"

"Just like mine" I kissed her nose.

Note:

The only good thing about having my own cell phone stolen is that… I'm more active writing

I hope you enjoy it

I appreciate the reblogs, the likes and the comments

taglist: @littlebitchsposts // @xxsekhmet

message me or send an ask to be added to my taglist!

#dcmultiverse #dcu #dc universe #wonder woman #wonder women 1984 #diana prince #diana prince x reader #diana prince x fem!reader #wonder woman x reader #wonder woman x fem!reader #diana prince x you #wonder woman x you #gal gadot #gal gadot x reader #lgbtq

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randomwelcomehomestuff · 10 months

Text

Unfinished Business: a Welcome Home Corpse Puppet AU fanfiction

A/N: Just here to let you know that I'm not creative. Like, at all. This is a fanfic of a fanfic inspired by a fan-made AU of a completely unrelated work, but I couldn't get it out of my head so maybe now my brain will be at peace so I can work on my original story (or it will come up with fifty other fanfic ideas because that's more fun than editing).

Anyway, Welcome Home belongs to Clown/partycoffin, the Corpse Puppet AU belongs to @sketchquill, and the fanfic this is based on is a Corpse Bride/Nightmare Before Christmas crossover fic called The Undead Groom by moviefan_92 on Ao3.

Spoiler Alert for all of that media, plus a little for the novel The Pumpkin Queen just because there's a reference here and there, but not too much.

Also C/W: There's a lot of major character death in here.

I may add more to it later if inspiration strikes. Let me know in the comments if you are interested in that.

Okay, I'll shut up, now. Here's the fic.

The carriage jostled down the muddy dirt road. You wrung the handkerchief in your hands as you gazed out the window at the grey sky, occasionally distracted by the raindrops trailing down the glass. Try as you might, you just couldn't cry. You wanted to, but no tears would come.

At least the dreary weather was appropriate for a funeral.

Howdy was watching you. He wasn't one to judge his spouse's appearance, but he did decide that funeral black did not suit you particularly well. Not when he'd seen you in so many other bright, cheerful colors, when you had been happy. When you were like this—mourning—the sparkle in your eyes was gone. He thought you were beautiful when you were happy, somehow still hauntingly so when you were sad, but he would be lying if he said he didn't prefer seeing you smile or laugh.

“Are you alright?” he asked. “I know you and Eddie were close.”

You sighed. “I'll be fine. This isn't my first time dealing with grief.”

Yes, Howdy knew that all too well. The first several days of your marriage had been more awkward than they probably should have been for... obvious reasons. Any time he caught you staring despondently out the window, he knew deep down that you were thinking of Wally.

That didn't have a negative impact on your marriage, though. You were strong and optimistic, and Howdy shared many happy memories with you. You taught him how to play piano, and he in turn taught you how to garden. You even started a small orchard together. Howdy couldn't think of many more signs of a happy home than the smell of apple blossoms in the garden and hallways filled with the sounds of music and laughter. You were comfortable, and your fortunes were secure, (that was the most important thing to both of your parents, and neither of you could ask for much more than your parents' satisfaction).

Most of all, you and Howdy loved each other. Howdy had accepted long ago that yours was a love built off of friendship and mutual respect rather than romance, but it was enough for him, (considering what he grew up witnessing from his parents, he counted that as the greatest success of them all). You recently celebrated your copper anniversary, which baffled Howdy. How could seven years fly by so quickly? Thinking back on everything, he knew that he was completely satisfied with where his life was, as long as you were by his side and happy.

Which is why he hated to see you so sad. He wouldn't rush you through your grief, but he could at least help lighten the load. “Would you like to talk about it?” he asked.

You looked down at the handkerchief in your hands, wadded up beyond recognition, but still as dry as it was when Howdy handed it to you. You smoothed it out over your lap and stared at Howdy's initials embroidered in green in the corner.

Howdy watched you, patient. A deep rumble of thunder rolled through the sky outside.

“I just... hate how somber it was,” you said.

“Funerals typically are.”

“I know, but Eddie wouldn't have wanted that. He was so much more cheerful and... and colorful than that. He'd want people telling funny stories about him and celebrating his life, not... just standing in silence while the dirt is thrown over his casket.” Your shoulders stiffened. “I should have said something.” Now you could feel the tears building up, but they simply would not come. I should be crying. Why am I not crying?

Howdy leaned forward and took your hand, and you finally looked into his eyes. He was smiling. “He's in a better place, now.”

You smiled at that. Seven years ago, those words would have felt like a hollow attempt at consolation, but now they were a real comfort. Howdy was there when the dead came up to the Land of the Living. He witnessed Eddie and Frank briefly reunite. Now they would never be separated again, and he knew it as well as you did.

Perhaps that was why you couldn't cry: you knew that good things were waiting for Eddie on the other side.

The tears finally spilled over and rolled down your cheeks, but they were not tears of sorrow. You were happy.

Howdy used two of his free hands to cup your face. His smile was soft and understanding as he thumbed away your tears. You stood and shifted over to the seat across from you so you could sit beside him, and his four arms wrapped you up into a tight hug. He pressed a kiss into the top of your head, like he had so many times before. “Everything will be alright,” he whispered.

“I know,” you mumbled into his shoulder.

Lightning flashed outside, followed by a loud clap of thunder. You gripped at Howdy's coat as he leaned forward to look out the window. “That storm is getting much worse.”

“Should we stop somewhere?” you asked.

He nodded. “Most likely.” He reached up to knock on the ceiling of the coach. “Johnson? How are the roads looking?” he called.

Johnson, the driver, shouted something back to Howdy, but his voice was drowned out by a deafening crash. A blinding white light flooded the carriage and the horses whinnied outside in terror. You tried to lean forward to look out the window, but the horses bolted and the momentum sent you crashing to the floor of the coach. You could hear Johnson yelling. Howdy grabbed your arm and tried to haul you back into the seat, but when you looked out the window, what you saw made you freeze.

Lightning had struck a nearby tree. It was on fire. Johnson seemed to have lost the reins, because you could see them flapping in the wind by the window. Howdy was calling your name. Johnson was screaming at the horses to stop.

The carriage was passing the flaming tree right as it started to crackle and groan.

You jumped back into the seat and grabbed Howdy. One of his hands grasped the back of your head and his body tensed around you as if he was bracing himself.

It only took a few seconds—three at most—but it felt like an eternity.

Wood splintered around you as the carriage shattered. A heavy weight came down on you and Howdy, and for a brief, macabre moment, you were amazed by how fragile your bodies really were.

Then everything went black.

There was nothing but darkness for a long time. You tried to move, tried to call out for Howdy, but nothing happened. You were just... nothing.

That thought scared you. There was so much more than that. Light. Color. Noises and smells. Life. You couldn't be nothing, that just wasn't possible. You had memories and goals. You had a spouse and a family. You had an estate to attend to you. You couldn't just... not be.

Panic twisted your stomach into knots, clawed its way up your throat, and came out of your mouth as a scream: “Help! Help me!”

“Alright, alright! Calm down!”

You stopped. That voice sounded familiar, but you couldn't quite put your finger on who it was.

Then you heard another, timid voice. “Is it always like this?”

That one you did recognize, because you had just heard it a few days ago. It was Eddie. Your instinct was to gasp, but you couldn't. I can't breathe. Oh, God, I can't breathe.

The first voice spoke again: “Often, yes. It all depends on the person and how at peace they are.”

There was a shuffling nearby. It was odd, despite the panic coursing through you, your body was strangely... calm. You expected your heart to be thumping fast and heavy in your ears and for your palms to be sweaty, but there was nothing.

The space above you shifted with a low creak and light stabbed your eyes. You flinched, blinked, then stared at the two faces above you blurring into focus.

Eddie and Frank were leaned over, looking down at you. They both offered you sad, soft smiles.

Your neck was stiff as you looked around. Your were laying in some sort of bed. It wasn't comfortable; even though it was all silk, there was no cushion, and the pillow at your head was much too small. Your mind was sluggish like you had just woken from a long nap. You had to blink several times and crane your neck to the left before you realized that Frank was holding open a lid.

You were in a casket.

Your tongue felt like cement in your mouth as you stammered, “Am... am I d-dead?”

Eddie gave you a pitying look. “Oh, Y/N.”

“Come on,” Frank said, “the sooner you get on your feet, the better you'll feel.” He and Eddie grabbed you under your arms and hoisted you out of the casket, which was sitting on a table. They helped you find your footing and Frank instructed you through some stretches to shake off the rigor mortis. You took a moment to look around.

You were in a sort of cavern, full of other caskets sitting on tables. Some looked new, others old and decayed.

“Where are we?” you asked.

“The Land of the Dead. Specifically, an offshoot of our village, just below the graveyard where you were buried,” Frank said.

You felt dizzy. “So... the crash... I didn't make it.”

Eddie put his hand on your shoulder. “No one made it except the driver. When the tree fell, he got thrown off, but he survived. Poor man blames himself for what happened. Thinks he should have kept better hold of the reins or suggested you leave sooner to avoid the storm.” He squeezed your shoulder. “They say you and Howdy died in each other's arms.”

“Howdy...” Your stomach was churning and you wondered if you could still get sick even if you were dead.

Eddie nodded. “Frank had to break a couple of rules, but we went to the Land of the Living to see your funeral—”

“From a safe distance, of course,” Frank interrupted.

“Of course. Your parents spared no expense. They got you a big, beautiful gravestone and there were flowers everywhere. You and Howdy were buried next to each other in the outfits you got married in.”

You glanced down at yourself for the first time and realized he was right, you were wearing the outfit your mother had picked out for your wedding, complete with your wedding band on your left hand.

Not only that, but you were also wearing the other wedding band on your right hand. Wally's wedding band. It was the same ring Wally had worn all those years ago, after you had practiced your vows in the woods. You ended up keeping it for myself since Howdy's mother insisted that you purchase new rings for your next attempt at getting married, (”I'll have no cursed rings at this ceremony,” she said). You could never bring yourself to get rid of it, though, and eventually fell into the habit of wearing it on your right hand while you wore your actual wedding ring on your left.

You were surprised that you had been buried with it, considering everything. Perhaps your family decided that since you wore it all the time, it held sentimental value to you and you'd want to keep it. Or, you shuddered to consider this, your hands were too swollen to get it off.

You shook those thoughts away and looked back to Eddie. “Where is Howdy?” you asked. “If he was buried next to me, shouldn't he be here?”

Frank and Eddie exchanged a glance. “We aren't sure where he is,” Eddie said.

“We've been keeping an eye out for him, but we think he's gone to the upstairs,” Frank added.

“The upstairs?”

“Heaven, Paradise, Nirvana, whatever you call it. You can go to whatever version of the afterlife you choose once you pass on. Unless you're someone like Julie.” They frowned. “Someone like that who has caused suffering for others doesn't get a choice. She's downstairs.”

“So, if there's an upstairs and a downstairs, where are we? The ground floor?”

Frank's mouth twitched into a smile. “Something like that. The people who end up here usually either can't make up their mind where they want to go or have unfinished business. You could join Howdy upstairs, if you wanted.”

You considered this, but the idea made your head spin. Where exactly did Howdy go, and how would you go about joining him?

Frank nodded to a nearby hallway. “We can talk more about this, later. Come on, the others are waiting to see you.”

The others. You perked up a bit remembering them. Sally, Poppy, Barnaby, even your old dog, Scraps. You followed Frank out of the cavern, and Eddie fell into step beside you, whistling a cheery tune as you walked.

The bells were already ringing by the time you reached the village, and as you got closer to the old tavern you could hear a chorus of voices all calling out, “New arrival! New arrival!”

Eddie chuckled beside you. “Poppy is up to her ears in cooking. They just had a Welcome Feast for me the other day.”

You tried to swallow, but your mouth was too dry. God, Eddie's, funeral was just the other day, and now here you were. You weren't sure if you could take part in any kind of feast; your mind was still reeling from everything that had happened.

You entered the tavern and were immediately greeted by Sally, the tragic Shakespearean actor, who gripped your hand and was roughly shaking it as soon as you stepped through the door. “Well, it's about time you showed up!” she said.

“Easy, Sally. Y/N is still adjusting,” Frank said as they came in beside you.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sally said as she tugged you across the room and sat you down at a bar. “So how'd it happen?”

You cleared your throat. “Um. A carriage accident.”

She whistled. “Wow, that's a rough way to go. Do you remember any of it?”

“Not really. I got knocked out pretty quickly.”

There was a loud thud beside you as a familiar, tall blue dog plopped down in the seat on your other side. “Welp, that's good at least,” Barnaby said as he handed you a frothing mug of beer.

“Sure is. Not remembering violent deaths makes the transition a little easier.”

Barnaby leaned over, his eyeball rolling into his right socket, and peered at you. “And judging by all the schmutz on your face, I'm guessing it wasn't a pretty sight.”

“Schmutz?” You gently touched your face and realized that you had a very thick layer of makeup on.

“Oh yeah! We need to get that off you right away. It looks awful.” Sally stood up and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Poppyyyyyy! I need a mirrooooooooor!”

“One moment, please!” a high-pitched, crow-like voice squawked from the kitchen. “Goodness me, I'm going to start molting again from all these feasts.” Poppy walked into the space behind the bar, wiping her wings on her apron, and she looked up at you. “Oh, my dear Y/N. I heard the rumors, but I didn't know if they were true. I'm so sorry.”

You couldn't help but smile at Poppy, remembering the way she comforted you when you first came here and were scared out of your wits. “I'm fine. It's good to see you again.”

She smiled back at you before digging through her apron pocket. “Let's see, I think I have a mirror in here, somewhere. Ah!” She withdrew a tiny hand mirror and handed it to you. “Please don't be insulted, but whoever did your funeral makeup certainly did you a disservice.”

You looked into the mirror and blanched when you realized that they were right. The makeup didn't match your skin tone and made you look horribly discolored, and they seemed to try and make up for that by applying huge splotches of rouge to your cheeks and lips. You grimaced at your reflection.

“Uh huh. Here,” Sally said while handing you a rag.

You went to work cleaning up your face and neck, scrubbing the makeup away. You froze when you glanced at your reflection again and noticed just how much you had changed. Your skin had taken on a bluish tint, and you had massive stitches across your neck and down your right temple. You gently prodded at your temple and flinched when a fraction of your skull shifted under your touch. No, the accident wasn't pretty at all.

Sally noticed this and took the rag and mirror from you. “Here, I'll finish,” she said.

“You'll get used to it,” Barnaby said as Sally got to work. “Imagine how Poppy was when she first got here and saw that half of her face was missing.”

Sally finished and nodded with satisfaction. “There. Now you look like one of us!”

“The stitches are a nice touch, too. Makes you look like a pirate,” Barnaby said.

Sally gasped. “Oooo. We could do a production of The Pirates of Penzance! Are you a good singer?”

“Me? Well, uh—”

Barnaby laughed then stood up. “Care if I go ahead and audition?” He started singing “I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General” before anyone could protest, going out of his way to use a silly voice and make larger-than-life funny gestures.

Eddie took Barnaby's seat beside you and helped himself to the drink that Poppy put down in front of him. “So, what do you think you're going to do now?”

You pondered this for a moment. “I'm not sure. What can I do?”

“Whatever you want, really. You could move on to another afterlife upstairs, or you could stay here. Take care of whatever unfinished business you have.”

You shrugged. “I guess that's why I'm here, huh? I just can't make up my mind?”

Poppy leaned against the bar and giggled. “Oh, no. I think you do have unfinished business.”

You tilted your head. “What?”

Sally's attention was brought back to you and she propped her elbows on the bar, giving you a sly smile. “Oh, yeah. And I bet we all know what it is.”

“I'm confused,” you said.

“Oh, come on. Do we really need to spell it out for you?” she said with a groan. “How about the guy you almost drank poison for?”

Your eyes widened. “Wally?”

Sally and Poppy both nodded. Barnaby gave up on his performance when he realized no one was watching him juggle three empty beer mugs and approached you again. “Sounds about right,” he said.

“But that's not possible. Wally, he... he's gone. I saw him disappear.”

Frank approached you from behind and placed their hand on your shoulder. “He's not gone. Souls don't just disappear like that.”

“Yeah, and he visited us a couple of weeks ago,” Barnaby added.

You felt something deep within you—your heart, maybe? even though it wasn't beating anymore?—jump up at the revelation. “Where is he? Upstairs?”

“Nah, I think Poppy would have let us know if he was living in the attic.” Barnaby laughed when Frank gave him a sharp glare.

“Not precisely. Last I heard, he's residing in another in-between kind of place. It's a little bit harder to get there since it's separate from our world, but he's figured it out well enough that he still visits us from time to time,” Frank said.

Your throat clenched like a fist and your eyes were stinging. You pressed your hands against your mouth and sniffled.

Poppy grinned. “I knew it.”

“Please. We all knew it,” Sally said.

“How do I find him?” you said.

Frank put a hand to his chin. “Well, he told me that there are a couple of ways to get there, but for most of them you have to know what you're looking for. I haven't been able to go there, myself, so I won't be very much help, there.” They tapped his jaw and hummed a bit in thought. “I suppose I could give you the spell I gave Wally before. It's a bit of a gamble, but I'm sure it won't be much of a problem for you. It's a spell to help you find your heart's desire. I gave it to him when he first got here in case he ever changed his mind about that unfinished business of his, and he kept it with him for years. Didn't use it until that day in the Land of the Living.”

You remembered that moment vividly, when you watched as Wally's body dissolved into hundreds of blue and grey butterflies. “That was a spell? I thought he was gone.”

Frank shook his head. “I think once he decided that he was satisfied, he needed something to help him move on. He's happy where he is now, if not a little lonely.”

You hugged yourself. You had never considered the possibility of seeing Wally again, and now that you were told that it was possible, your heart seemed to sing at the idea. But something was holding you back.

“What about Howdy?”

Frank sighed. “I can't help you with that. I'm afraid that's a decision you'll have to make on your own.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Eddie said, “you're not limited to one place. You can visit each afterlife whenever you want. I visited my parents in the upstairs the other day, but I'm staying here to be with Frank.” As he said this, he took Frank's hand and gave them a sweet smile. “So, uh, if you want to see Howdy again, you can. But you don't have to stay anywhere. You're free to do what you want.”

That seemed to loosen some of the tension in your chest. You took a deep breath and let your heart take over. “Okay. How do I use that spell?”

Frank smiled. “We'll need to get some things out of my office.”

You stood and followed Frank out the door. Sally whooped behind you, “Woo hoo! Lover boy's getting his partner back!”

“We'll have that Welcome Feast another time, alright?” Poppy called.

Barnaby just hummed to himself, considering adding another verse to “Remains of the Day” so that the story would have a happy ending, after all. Then again, he'd probably have to sacrifice the catchy instrumental part in the middle so the song wasn't too long, and he wasn't willing to do that.

You and Eddie stood in silence as you watched Frank dig through his various supplies. He scrutinized their spell book as he carefully measured and combined the ingredients. When they were finished, he handed you a small capsule the size of a marble.

“This is it?” you asked.

He nodded. “It looks unassuming, but it is a very powerful spell. All you have to do is crush it in your hand and you'll be sent to wherever your heart's desire is. Though, you may need to try and focus on one thing, or else you may get sent to the wrong place.”

“But don't worry. If you get lost, just find a graveyard and enter a crypt to go underground, and you'll find a village associated with that grave yard. You should be able to find your way back from there,” Eddie said.

You nodded, staring at the capsule in the palm of your hand.

Without warning, Eddie pulled you into a hug. “Take care of yourself, okay, bud? And you'd better visit us all the time, or I'll come find you, myself.”

You smiled and leaned into his hug. “I will. I promise.”

Frank sniffed and cleared their throat, trying to hide the fact that you reminded him of themselves when he was young and fell in love with Eddie for the first time. “Alright, go on before Eddie decides to make you stay here.”

You turned to Frank and gave him a hug, too. “Thank you,” you whispered.

They awkwardly patted your back. “Of course.” He led you out to his balcony that overlooked the village. “I will warn you, it may be a bit of a bumpy ride.”

You walked to the edge of the balcony, looked back over your shoulder at them as Eddie put his arm around Frank. You took a deep breath—just out of habit at this point, and it was an odd sensation to feel your lungs stretch for the first time in a while—then turned your face up. You closed your eyes and pictured Wally, wherever he was, then you squeezed your right hand until the capsule burst and a fine powder spilled out between your fingers.

Nothing happened, at first. You opened your eyes again and looked down, wondering if you'd done something wrong.

But then you felt another strange sensation: an unraveling, like your body was falling away from you. A gust of wind swirled around you, your feet and the tips of your fingers tingled, and your body transformed into hundreds of butterflies.

Just like Wally.

Normally, you would have been frightened. You weren't. Your heart jumped up in your throat with excitement. You almost laughed, but your face and mouth had been transformed by then.

You were jumbling, fluttering, riding on the wind current, spread out in a great cloud of delicate wings. You tumbled through the air, trying and failing to grasp what was happening and where you were going. The world flew past you in a blur. You felt free.

You jolted when your feet suddenly met solid ground. You blinked, held your hands out in front of you and found them whole again.

You were in a circular clearing in the middle of a grove of trees. You spun around in a circle, taking in your surroundings. The trees were all tall and dark, and each tree on the edge of this clearing had a door carved into it. A four-leaf clover, a big red heart, a Christmas tree? An Easter egg? These were all symbols associated with holidays.

“Oh!” a quiet voice sounded behind you. You turned to face them and stared, slack-jawed, at the person who met you. She was a tall, slender woman standing at the edge of the grove. Her skin was made of a blue fabric and she had long, red hair and wore a colorful, patchwork dress. A small basked was hanging from the crook of her arm, stuffed with sprigs of lavender. Her round, glassy, babydoll eyes blinked at you. She smiled and dipped her head down. “I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting to find anyone else here.”

You struggled to find your words as you were still wrapping your head around the concept that a giant rag doll was talking to you. This was all a lot for you to take in one day. You coughed and said, “No, I'm sorry. I'm just... looking for someone.”

The woman tilted her head. “Is that so? Who are you looking for?”

“A man named Wally Darling. He's a...” You hesitated, unsure how foreign this would be to her.

But she finished the sentence for you. “A corpse? Like you?”

You smiled bashfully. “Yes.”

The woman grinned even bigger. “Then it's a good thing I found you. He's from the same town as me.”

That jolt of excitement shot through you again. It seemed like the spell that Frank made for you worked like a charm. “Really? Can you take me there?”

“Of course.” She walked up to you, her stride small and with a noticeable limp, thought she didn't seem to be in pain. She held out her hand. “My name is Sally, by the way,” she said.

Another Sally, you thought. You shook her hand and introduced yourself. She nodded, then motioned to the side toward a tree with a door shaped like a jack-o-lantern in it. “We'll be heading to Halloween Town. This is the fastest way there,” she continued. She limped to the tree, turned the knob that was disguised as the jack-o-lantern's nose, and the door swung outward. You cautiously approached it and looked down into the hollow tree. There was nothing but darkness, and the door opened to a steep drop-off that you couldn't see the bottom of.

“I find it easiest to just close my eyes and jump,” she said. “I know it can be a bit intimidating sometimes, but I promise, it's perfectly safe. My husband and I come through here all the time.”

You swallowed, grabbed hold of the doorway, and shut your eyes. A gentle breeze blew through, carrying the comforting scent of fallen leaves and caramel apples. A smile crept onto your face, and you pulled yourself through the doorway and jumped.

There was only a second of free fall before you landed smartly on your rear end in a giant pile of leaves. You grunted and clambered to your feet.

Sally appeared beside you. “Are you alright? That happens a lot for first-timers.”

You straightened up and said, “Yeah, I'm fine. Not like I can get much worse.”

She giggled at that and motioned for you to follow her. You walked together down a dirt path that cut through the woods and she asked you about where you came from and how you got here. She was a good listener as you told her everything.

“How do you know Wally?” she asked.

“We, um...” Your face heated up and you found yourself fiddling with the band on your right hand. “It's a long story. Let's just say we're... old friends.”

“I see,” she said with a knowing look that made you blush more. But then she looked forward and said, “Here we are.”

You both crested a hill and looked down on an archway with “Halloween Town” spelled out in black, iron letters. A large town bustled with activity down below. The architecture was conflictingly made of a combination of twisting, curving lines and jagged, sharp angles, and the citizens seemed to enjoy and monochrome color palette with occasional splashes of bright color. You followed Sally down the path and entered the town.

You had to keep yourself from gawking when you saw the first couple of citizens gathered in the town square: a wolf man dressed in tattered flannel chatting with a bulking man dressed in overalls with an axe stuck in his head. They both gawked at you, though, when you came into a view.

“Look! Queen Sally has brought in someone new!” the wolf man exclaimed with a gravelly voice.

You glanced at her. “Queen Sally?”

She blushed. “Ah, yes, I didn't mention that. I'm the Pumpkin Queen.”

“Oh!” You fumbled and started to bow, but Sally stopped you.

“Please, don't. That's exactly why I don't go around announcing that to everyone. Just treat me like you would anyone else.”

You nodded. “Sorry.”

“And don't apologize, either.” She hooked her arm around yours and said, “Now, let's go find Wally.”

She led you away, but not before you noticed that a trio of women, (witches, you guessed, based on their clothes and pointed hats) had gathered around the wolf man and were whispering conspiratorially.

You hadn't gone far before you stumbled upon two more citizens: a man wearing a long trench coat and tall, thin top hat, and an even taller, thin, and gangly skeleton dressed in a pin-stripped suit with tails on his coat and a bat bowtie. They were both leaned over something on a table.

Sally perked up a bit beside you. “Oh, that's my husband over there. He may know where Wally is.” She waved her free hand and called, “Jack! Jack!”

The skeleton looked up and his face split into a wide, toothy grin. “Sally! Perfect timing! Mr. Hyde and I were just testing out his newest creation. Would you care to see?”

She nodded and walked to the table, where Jack presented her with a large, orange bowl of candy with a small sign taped to the front that read “Just Take One.”

“A seemingly normal bowl, yes? Perfectly welcoming to trick-or-treaters.”

“Of course,” she agreed.

“Go and take a piece. Just one.”

Sally did as he said a delicately picked up a wrapped piece of butterscotch. She waited a moment, then raised a brow at him. “Is that all?”

“Precisely, because you were good and only took one. Now, pretend you are a greedy trick-or-treater and try to grab a handful.”

Sally nodded and drove her hand into the bowl, grabbing a large handful of candy, when a ghostly hand jumped from within the depths of the bowl and grabbed her wrist. She gasped, startled, then laughed. “What fun!”

Jack clapped Mr. Hyde on the back. “You see? A brilliant idea! I knew you were an excellent choice for the knew town scientist. Well done!”

Mr Hyde chuckled, pleased with himself. “You flatter me, Jack.”

Sally gently tugged at Jack's arm and whispered to him. He looked at you and his eyes lit up. “Oh, my apologies! I was so caught up in my work, I hadn't noticed you there.” He swept into a low bow. “Jack Skellington, Pumpkin King and Co-Representative of Halloween.” He stood upright and draped an arm over Sally's shoulder. “And you've already met my wife and partner, Sally.” He looked you up and down, then beamed. “We don't get very many new faces, but you seem like you'll fit right in, here.”

You cleared your throat and said, “Actually, Mr. uh, Skellington—”

“Please, Jack is fine.”

“Jack,” you corrected, “I'm actually looking for someone. Wally Darling?”

He raised a brow and glanced at Sally, who only smiled up at him. “Your name wouldn't happen to be Y/N, would it?”

Your eyes widened. “Yes. Why?”

“He talks about you all the time. Oh, he'll be over the moon when he sees you!”

You could have sworn that your heart thudded hearing that, but that couldn't have been possible, could it?

Jack tilted his head and hummed. “I just saw him a moment ago. I may know where he is. Follow me!” He let go of Sally and strode away. You glanced at Sally and she nodded to you, urging you forward, then you jogged to follow the skeleton.

Jack led the way down a twisting cobblestone path that led out of the town and into farmland that mostly consisted of pumpkins. He led you through a graveyard and up a steep hill, and his long strides took him up the hill faster than you could keep up with. You couldn't run out of breath, anymore, but that didn't stop your muscles from aching as you hiked after him. As you reached the top of the hill, you could see another hill in the distance that made the shape of a spiral. As you took in the view, your gaze wandered from the massive spiral and down to the bottom where another there was another pumpkin patch.

You froze when you saw him. There was no mistaking him with his blue, patchwork skin and signature hair style. He wasn't wearing the wedding tuxedo anymore; now he donned a simple white shirt and blue striped pants. He was seated at a stool in the middle of the pumpkin patch with an easel in front of him, hard at work on a painting. You would have gasped if you still had breath, and your body moved before you completely comprehended what you were seeing.

Wally.

As you came closer, you could see that he was recreating the view of the spiral hill on his painting. His back was to you, and he hummed quietly as he worked, so deep in thought that he didn't notice you and Jack approaching until Jack called his name.

“Wally! I thought we'd find you here.” Jack leaned over Wally's shoulder and looked at the painting. “Ah, is this my commission? It's coming along swimmingly.”

All you saw was Wally's side profile as he smiled up at Jack. “Thank you. I'm just touching up a few details, right now. It should be finished in a day or so, when it dries.”

“It will be a wonderful anniversary gift. Sally will love it!”

Wally turned back to his painting, and Jack glanced at you like he'd just remembered you were there. “Actually, Wally, I needed to speak to you.”

“Hm?”

“It seems,” Jack said, putting his hand on Wally's shoulder, “that someone is here to see you.”

Wally gave Jack a confused look, then turned.

His eyes widened, and the paintbrush fell from his limp fingers.

Neither of you moved. His eyes trailed up and down your body. He stood, took a few hesitant steps forward, and said, “Y/N?”

You smiled. “Hello, Wally,” you said.

Jack was beaming.

Wally blinked, then shook his head. “I'm dreaming.”

You almost laughed. Your hands were shaking. “No, you're not.”

“I am. You... you can't be here. It's not possible.”

“Wally...”

“I'm going to open my eyes, and you'll be gone.”

You approached him, took his hand, and pressed it against your face. His eyes dilated and his mouth fell open.

“I'm here,” you whispered.

He studied your face, and his fingers trailed down your jaw and to your neck, where they found the stitches. He glanced at them, and his mouth opened wider. “Oh...” His other hand found your neck and he gently traced the stitches. He gently turned your head from side to side as he looked you over like he was just noticing the bluish tint your skin had taken, and his gaze fell on the stitches on your temple. “What happened?”

“A carriage accident.”

He covered his mouth. “Oh, no...”

You took his hand again. “It's alright. I don't remember anything.”

You noticed tears forming at the corners of his eyes. “I'm so sorry.”

You cupped his cheek. “Don't be. I'm alright.”

Jack coughed. “I believe you two will be wanting some time alone?” He leaned down and whispered to Wally, “I recommend the top of Spiral Hill. Very romantic spot.” He winked, and Wally started to blush.

“Thank you,” he mumbled before he gripped your hand tightly and led you toward Spiral Hill. You trudged to the top together, hand in hand, and you looked out over the view of the graveyard and pumpkin patch, grey and black with dots of orange.

Wally turned to you and took a tight hold of both your hands. “Tell me everything.”

You didn't speak, because with him holding your hands I noticed something for the first time. When you had met before, when you were still alive, whenever he touched you his skin was always freezing cold. Now it wasn't. You realized it was because we were the same temperature. It made you want to hold him closer.

“I already told you, I was in a carriage accident.”

“No, no. I mean... tell me about your life. What happened after I left?”

“You want me to tell you all of that? Right now?”

He nodded. “We have all the time in the world, now.”

You grinned, and then you did just that. You told him about your marriage to Howdy, the relationship you had formed, the good and bad times, and you told him that during those seven years, you never forgot him. You were afraid that he would be upset or sad when you told him about your marriage, but he seemed to be the contrary.

“I'm glad,” he said. “I was hoping I was making the right decision. It's good to know that you lived a good life after I was gone, even if... even if it was a short one.”

He had looked away, and you gently cupped his cheek so that he would look at you. “The others in the Land of the Dead said that the reason I stayed behind was likely because I had unfinished business. At first, I didn't know what they were talking about, but I think I do, now.” Despite building up to that, you suddenly became bashful and couldn't quite find the words.

Wally touched your hand on his face and leaned into it. “You were looking for me?”

You nodded. “The thing is... I missed y—”

He interrupted you by pressing his lips to yours.

He had only ever kissed you once before, that night on the bridge. You weren't sure if that even counted since you fainted when he did. You remembered being terrified back then, your stomach swirling and your heart thumping so hard and fast you thought you were about to have a heart attack. You remembered how cold his lips were, and how dizzy you were from the fear.

This was different. Obviously, you weren't afraid, now, but it was more than that. It was rushed and passionate, not the formal seal of the vows that Wally had done before. And it was warm. You still felt dizzy, though.

When he pulled away, you stared into each other's eyes for a moment, then you took his shoulders and pulled him back to you for another kiss. Your hand went to the back of his head and your fingers tangled into his soft hair. His hands trailed up and down your back. You gripped each other as if the second one of you let go, you'd be lost forever. You finally pulled away again when you heard the sound of an applause in the distance.

At the top of one of the nearby hills, a small crowd of monsters and ghouls had formed, and they were whooping and cheering. Jack and Sally stood at the center of the crowd, smiling up at you as Sally leaned into Jack's shoulder.

“So much for alone time,” you muttered. You turned back to Wally to see him beaming up at you. His eyes sparkled.

He wrapped his arms around your waist and lifted you up into a twirl. You yelped in surprise and gripped his shoulders. He laughed heartily as he set you back down, then he leaned his forehead into yours, and for a moment you simply relished in each other's company.

“Thank you,” he said. “I've missed you, too. I know that I was selfish before, but I really am glad that you came to find me.”

You were surprised to feel your heart melting a bit when he said that—it seemed that even if your heart didn't beat anymore, it was still capable of swelling and melting with emotion.

The ring on your right hand glinted in the moonlight. A knot formed in your throat. “I think... I think I know what my unfinished business is, now.”

Wally tilted his head, curious.

You took the ring off your finger and held it up to him. “I want to try again. Properly, this time. Nothing in our way, and no interruptions. I want to give you the wedding you deserve.”

Wally's eyes widened a bit, then he chuckled and shook his head. “It was never just about the wedding, you know. I wanted true love. A happy ending.”

“Exactly,” you said. “I want to give you that. A big, beautiful ceremony to celebrate true love, and a real happily ever after.” You cleared your throat, suddenly nervous. “If you'd like that, I mean.”

He broke into a wide smile. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

You nodded. “Yes. Will you marry me? Again?”

He laughed again and pulled you into a hug. “Yes. If you will have me.”

You closed your eyes and leaned into the hug. “Of course I will.”

You finally pulled apart once again to slip the band on Wally's finger, right where it belonged.

A/N: Yes, I already know I'm cringe. Don't look at me.

#welcome home fanfic #corpse puppet au #wally darling x y/n #wally darling x reader #nightmare before christmas crossover #jack x sally

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george-weasleys-girl · 1 year

Note

Ohhh would you be able to do one with reader helping George (long term partner) at the shop. He witnesses how she is with younger kids and just ✨️baby fever✨️ . Queue Fred teasing him about it.

I love this so much! Thank you for requesting it!

Baby Fever

George stood enthralled at the sight of Y/N sitting cross-legged on the floor, helping a couple of the younger kids pick out some age-appropriate items. One of them had crawled into her lap and was giggling at something she'd said.

Y/N and George had gotten married a little over six months ago, after five years together. They both wanted children, but they also wanted to enjoy married life for a year or two before starting a family.

George was beginning to think that was far too long to wait.

"Hey Georgie," Fred walked up beside him. "Wanna join us back down here on earth?"

"Oh, yeah. Sure. Be right there," George mumbled, his eyes still glued to his wife, who now had both kids sitting on her lap, all three in the throes of uncontrollable giggling.

Unable to pull his gaze away from his wife, the only coherent thought in George's brain at that moment was how much he wanted to watch his wife doing this with their children. His heart was almost bursting just thinking about it.

"She's good with kids," Fred observed. "Ready to pop one in the oven, yeah?"

That caught George's attention. "Pop one in the--?? What are you talking about?"

"Business is kinda slow today, I could let you two have the rest of the afternoon off." Fred waggled his eyebrows.

George opened his mouth to retort but was cut off by a customer approaching Fred asking about Skiving Snack Boxes.

"Right over here, my friend," Fred replied, giving George a quick wink before guiding the customer away.

~•~

"I think someone in this room, who will remain nameless, has baby fever." Fred teased. The store was closed, and the twins were working on some paperwork in the office before calling it a night.

"I have no idea what you're babbling on about." George commented.

"Oh no, of course not. There's no reason for you getting all starry-eyed every time Y/N was helping the little ones."

"It's just cute, is all." George argued.

"Uh-huh," Fred replied, a devilish grin on his face. "I'm your twin, remember. You can't hide from me."

George sighed and put down his pen. "Ok, fine. Maybe a little."

"I knew it!" Fred laughed. "And it's more than just a little. You were wandering around like Mr. Dopey McDope Face half the day."

George looked at his twin but said nothing and attempted to go back to his paperwork.

But Fred had other plans.

"Hey, what's that muggle poem?" Fred asked. "You know the one. 'George and Y/N sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Georgie with a baby carriage.' "

"Who's got a baby carriage?" Y/N stepped through the doorway and headed straight to the safe to lock up the till.

"No one!" George answered just a little too quickly, earning a momentary cock of the eyebrow from his wife.

As soon as she turned her back, Fred put his arms together and began rocking them back and forth in a cradling motion, humming a wizarding lullaby.

"Shut up!" George hissed, slapping his brother in the arm.

"What's going on with you two?" Y/N turned around to take in the twins.

"Nothing," said George, his ears tinged pink.

"That's right," Fred concurred. "Nothing going on here."

"Right..." Y/N replied, absolutely certain there was something going on here. But whatever. She'd find out eventually. George couldn't keep a secret from her if his life depended on it. "I'm gonna go see if Verity needs any help and leave the two of you to continue doing nothing."

~•~

George watched his wife sleeping, the moonlight shining through the window, highlighting her soft features, making them almost dreamlike. He couldn't help but smile at that. From the moment they met, Y/N was like a dream he never wanted to wake up from.

Scooting closer, he pulled her into his arms. She mummered something but didn't wake up. George kissed the top of her head, then rested his cheek against it, thinking about what Fred had said.

His twin was right. George had baby fever, and he had it bad. All throughout dinner, he was silently picking out names, his mind swirling with thoughts of lullabies and diapers and his baby's laughter mingling with his and Y/N's.

He couldn’t envision a life more perfect.

Now, all he had to do now was find the right moment to tell Y/N that he was ready to start a family.

~•~

The house smelled divine when she woke up the next morning. George was already up and making his self-proclaimed "world famous" waffles. Y/N had been craving them for a while, and he'd promised to make them for her on their next day off.

"Anything in particular you'd like to do today, love?" George asked over breakfast.

"Well, I need to go shopping for a gift for Anna's baby shower."

"Ooh, that sounds fun!" George grinned. "Mind if I tag along?"

"Of course!" Y/N smiled at his unexpected enthusiasm. "I love your company."

~•~

It was the most fun Y/N'd had on a shopping excursion in quite a while. They looked at all the cribs and bassinets and talked about which ones they liked best, tried out different rocking chairs, and gushed over all the cute clothes and toys. It was almost as if they were the ones having the baby. Y/N left the store feeling hopeful that George might be ready to start a family.

Because that could be happening far sooner than either one had expected or intended.

Her period was late.

Very late.

She'd already bought several pregnancy tests and was just waiting for the right time to tell George.

Maybe tonight was the night.

~•~

George had put Y/N into a lovely bubble bath as soon as they got home, knowing she would soak for a long while, giving him time to think. Or panic.

After spending half the day looking at baby things, his baby fever had kicked in to overdrive. He knew before they even left the store that he was telling her tonight.

Pacing from one end of the living room to the other, George tried to figure out the best way to say what he needed to say.

"Y/N, I'm ready to start a family."

"I want to start a family, love."

"How do you feel about having a baby sooner than we planned?"

"If you're not ready, it's ok--"

"Georgie," Y/N's soft voice called to him from her bath.

~•~

As soon as George had left her to soak, Y/N quietly got out of the tub and grabbed the pregnancy test she'd snuck in.

On the way home, she'd decided it'd be best to take the test first to see she even needed to broach the subject.

After doing the deed, she slipped back into the bath, placing the test on the little table next to the tub, and attempted to relax for fifteen minutes.

It was the longest fifteen minutes of her life.

~•~

"Whatcha need, love?" George asked, coming into the bathroom.

"Can we talk? I have a bit of a surprise for you."

"Of course, darling. As it happens, I need to talk to you too," he said before he lost his nerve.

George sat next to the tub. "Which one of us should go first?"

"Umm, I don't know," Y/N began. "Maybe we can do it like they do in the movies. Say it at the same time."

"Ok," George said. "On the count of three?"

Y/N nodded.

"Ok--1‐‐2--3"

"I'm pregnant."

"I'm ready to start a family."

"What?"

"You want to--"

"You're‐‐"

Y/N nodded as a wave of relief rolled through her.

"You're--" George repeated.

"Yes!" Y/N couldn't stop smiling.

"I--I'm gonna be a dad? And--and you're gonna be a mom?"

"Yes, Georgie," she giggled. "We're going to have a baby."

Before she realized what was happening, George had climbed into the bath, fully clothed, and pulled her into a bear hug.

After a few moments, he leaned back, his hands going straight to her belly. "We're gonna have a baby," he said again, his voice shaky, tears wetting his cheeks. "How long have you known?"

"Only a few minutes." She handed him the positive test.

"This is a dream come true, Y/N. I love you so much, sweetheart," he said as he pulled her into a kiss.

Seconds later, he suddenly broke away, eyes wide. "We've got to tell mum and dad and Fred and--"

Y/N silenced him with a kiss, finishing what they started.

"There's plenty of time for that, my love" she said when they pulled away. "But for now, why don't you get undressed and then get back in here with me. I want us to savor this moment, just you and me for a little while first."

George looked down at himself as if he just realized he was still fully clothed. "Oops," he said with a snort. "Got a little excited."

Y/N giggled affectionately. "I noticed."

Her husband stepped out of the bath and undressed, using his wand to magically clean up the mess before sliding back in behind Y/N.

"I love your idea, babe. Let's wait and tell everyone tomorrow. Tonight will be just for us. All three of us," he said, encompassing her belly with his large hands.

@princess-paramour @milivanili99 @fancy-pantaloons @turvi @zvummyummy @xmjthewitchx @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @georgie-weasley

#george weasley #george weasley x reader #george weasley x y/n #george weasley headcanon #fred weasley

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supernovasilence · 4 months

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Casmund happy ending: I love the idea of the Pevensies(mostly Edmund) trying to teach Caspian how to function in the real world with them. I think Edmund Lucy and Susan's favorite part would be trying to get him proper clothes. He basically looks regal and princely in everything he wears. Also when Edmund introduces Caspian to his mother. He's super charming, kissing her hand and stuff. Peter is a little(maybe a lot annoyed) of Caspian dating his brother. But he gets over it really quick. Their mother takes Edmund and Caspian's relationships really well. It's mainly their father they have to deal with. But Peter puts his foot down and talks to his father. Gives him basically an ultimatum. Accept your son as is, or lose all your children and not just one. Because the Pevensies are ride or die for each other. And Edmund and Caspian are basically married in all the ways that matter.

Sorry for the late response! I was thinking about Caspian in the real world, and wanted to ask if you've seen the Dorian Gray movie with Ben Barnes, because the beginning with innocent Dorian wandering London around all wide-eyed gives off such Caspian-in-England vibes. I couldn't find any gifs of that scene on tumblr, and instead of just screenshotting it like a reasonable person I thought "well, I know how to make gifs. how long could it take?" AND THEN IT WAS 2AM. Anyway have these gifs of Caspian completely failing to act casual while I ramble about your ask.

(yeah it'd be more cars than horse-drawn carriages by the 1940s but Caspian almost getting run over was too cute to leave out. he's trying his best)

Oh my gosh yes, Caspian is the sort to kiss people's hands. The chivalrous disaster. He probably goes around calling people "my lady" and "my good lord" etc too. And he absolutely would somehow look regal in whatever he wears. Edmund is torn because he wants Caspian to blend in, but also his boyfriend looks so gorgeous. Also imagine Edmund tying Caspian's tie for him. And the hat Caspian is wearing in the gifs above looks a lot like the one Edmund wears in Prince Caspian. What if Edmund is scolding Caspian, telling him mess up your hair or something, slouch a little more, you still look like a king, stop standing like you've got a crown on— And Caspian grabs Edmund's hat from the coatrack and puts it on. "Does this help?" he asks, grinning, because Edmund's brain just stopped working for a moment and Caspian knows it.

As much as I want the Pevensie parents to just be okay with their son being gay (or their children, because let's be real, none of these siblings are straight), realistically at least one of them would have some difficulties with it. I love Peter not being happy about Edmund and Caspian dating but instantly getting over it when he needs to defend them to his father. These siblings are so close and it's so good. Imagine traces of the High King showing through as Peter calmly, firmly tells his father Edmund and Caspian are together. This is how things are going to go, and there is nothing he can do except make himself miserable by pushing his children away. And Richard* sees a side to his oldest son he hasn't before--or maybe hasn't accepted before, but it has been there for a while. And he takes some time to really look at his children, and sees all sorts of things about them, strange things, but they make his children seem so alive. Like how happy Caspian makes Edmund. So after that the parents have a new son-in-law.

*props for LWW use Richard as Mr. Pevensie's first name and since he doesn't have one in the books I'm taking Richard and running with it

#asks #darkcrowprincess #the chronicles of narnia #casmund #caspian the tenth #edmund pevensie #helen pevensie #richard pevensie #the pevensies #peter pevensie #pevensie siblings #caspian in england au #nova actually answers asks

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prince-kallisto · 7 months

Text

An official introduction to my TWST “Yuu” OC: Viktor (*´∀`)♪ He’s a 42 year old man who was accidentally hit by the black carriage instead of the “real” Yuu. Now stuck in Twisted Wonderland, he makes do by working as NRC’s janitor and general handyman. He lives in Ramshackle Dorm and is assigned as Grim’s caretaker. Ramshackle is even less of a dorm now since no one’s the prefect haha, but Grim was allowed to take some limited classes under strict supervision of the teachers. Viktor is fairly indifferent to being in a new world because working for survival remains the same- and so do the stingy employers! (● ˃̶͈̀ロ˂̶͈́)੭ꠥ⁾⁾

Although Viktor seems stand-offish at first, he’s a friendly person who likes listening to people and giving advice when they need it. The troubled kids at NRC reminds him a lot of himself in his youth and he helps them out a lot- which make the sudden Overblots even stranger…However, he isn’t afraid to put his foot down, which he unfortunately has to do a lot at NRC. Crowley’s threats of withholding food, money, or the dorm don’t work on him at all. Whether by eating free leftovers from the cafeteria, haggling over prices with Sam, or just sleeping in Main Street or in front of Crowley’s office…Viktor can become quite the annoying enemy when necessary haha.

Can you guess who he’s (loosely) twisted from? -v-

Cinderella! \(//∇//)\ His color palette is meant to be a mixture of Cinderella’s and Grim’s lol. For months he wasn’t based off anyone, but I recently thought of this and it clicked perfectly in my head. He works, works, and works, but has his own wishes and dreams kept deep inside his heart. That, and I think it’s funny. Surprisingly though, he gets along really well with Trein.

With this in mind, he has a blessing cast upon him- although he doesn’t know it yet. Whenever the clock strikes twelve, any magic cast on him (minus the blessing itself), no matter how powerful, will break. For example, if Riddle casted “Off with Your Head” on him, the collar would magically disappear by midnight. Malleus having the ability to stop time is scary though ｡ﾟ(ﾟ´ω`ﾟ)ﾟ｡

I was racking my brain to think of how I could fit a glass slipper reference. His initial job title in his world was vaguely a handyman or tradesman, but then I thought about it some more- a glazier! A tradesman that works with installing glass like windows and mirrors. Not only did it have a slight glass reference and give him the physical work I imagined, I think the mirror connection is fun 👀 (even my OC isn’t immune to my theories 🔫)

He is very much a “homebody” type person, with his interest in flower arranging and baking (bread specifically). He also likes collecting silly and unique knickknacks- but has a growing collection of bottle caps and shiny trinkets from Crowley haha.

I think some parts of the main story would change with him as the MC since he’s street smart, extremely stubborn, and is willing to put his life on the line to protect the students. What immediately comes to mind is Book 3. Viktor vs the Leech twins would be so chaotically violent haha. Maybe I’ll make separate posts detailing how I think each book would go down with him as MC

He’s my first OC I’ve ever made for a fandom…I feel a little embarrassed but the TWST fandom makes a lot of OCs so I feel better about it -v- I have a lot more I want to say and talk about character relationships, his origin story to NRC, and how Viktor affects the main story… but I’ll be saving it for future posts and art \(//∇//)\ I hope the more I draw him, the more I can improve!

#poor guy got animefied and disneyfied. tragic #I am cringe but I am free #twst oc #oc #my oc #twst #my art #twisted wonderland oc #KallistoPost

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breakfastteatime · 6 months

Text

(For Whumptober Day 26 - 'Sometimes I get so tired, I don't know myself')

"Hey, hey, you're okay. You're okay, Cal. Take it slow."

Lights and rain blind Cal the moment he opens his eyes. A strange garbled sound emerges from him. What... where...

A shadow leans over, offering relief from the lights and the rain. Who? Master Tapal? Cal blinks the rainwater from his startled eyes, clearing his vision. Oh. Cal's slow brain finally coughs up an identity. It's Prauf. Good thing Cal can't get any words out right now.

Good thing he's too tired to cry. Disappointment knocks the wind out of him.

Prauf looks sad. "I warned you," he says. "They're called death shifts for a reason." There's a big hand resting on Cal's head. "You look awful." Prauf sighs. "Good news though, you made it through."

Death shift. Five days. Minimal breaks. Never leaving the shipyard. Quadruple pay if you see all five days through and remain productive throughout. He'd made it? All those credits were his now. He'd be ahead, just for a little while. He can finally repair his -

Prauf looks over his shoulder. "Hey! I dunno what any of you slackers are staring at, but you better start minding your own business unless you wanna get assigned to septic tank duty!"

Cal pushes himself up. The ship is hazy, the other scrappers patches of blue and orange hustling around him. He feels all heavy and light all in one go. His exhaustion isn't gone, but he feels good enough to get right back to work. Maybe he should. Look, his tools are right there. All he's gotta do is pick... pick... pi -

When Cal misses for the third time, Prauf swipes them up and tucks them on his own belt. "Not a chance, pal, you can't even see straight," he says. "You got a second wind?"

Second... secondy thousand wind? Whatever. Cal nods.

"Great!" Prauf gives him a hearty pat on the back. "Let's use that to get to the train."

"I'm fine," Cal says.

Or not.

"People who are fine can enunciate," Prauf chuckles. "Sorry, but 'mfyn' doesn't pass muster. Besides, the Guild's pretty strict about rest periods after death shifts. Even they've got some limits."

Eyes rolling, Cal plods along with Prauf... plods into Prauf... all the way back to the train. Plenty of people stare at him on the station. Cal weaves on his feet, Prauf poking him back into place every now and then. People stare more. Are they waiting for him to fall? (Again?) Not too many people can pull off a death shift, especially not teeny tiny Humans, and word got around that Cal was on one (he asked for it, and he'll never complain about a mere hell shift ever again). Maybe they think he failed. Hah, he'll show them on payday. He's gonna get the best meal down at the Sparkplug and -

The train pulls in. Cal nearly falls over as it screeches by. Prauf wraps an arm around him, holding tight. It finally stops, doors sliding open, workers spewing out from its greasy innards.

Everyone about to board their carriage waits.

Prauf nudges him. "Death shift survivors always get to go first."

Cal boards the carriage, finds himself a chair next to a support beam and falls into it. Everyone else follows, the carriage filling with the stench of rain soaked bodies. He can feel the prickly prickles of eyes watching him. He knows - he's an easy target and someone's going to take the opportunity to rob him.

Prauf stands in front of him, blocking him from view. "What?" he tells the other scrappers. "You really think you're gonna try something?"

"Hey, it's called a death shift. If the kid can't defend himself, he shouldn't volunteer for 'em."

Cal looks up. Someone is actually trying to square up to Prauf. Cal notes the uniform. Hazmat. Brain's gotta be cooked from all the shit they breathe in all day. 'Cause Prauf is big. Like really big. Like soooooo big. Cal watches him looming over the Hazmat dumbass.

"Try it," Prauf says.

The crowd steps back.

All except one.

"Get tae fuck!" Tabbers. Tabbers is here too. "Youse better leave the boy alone, else you'll be picking your teeth out of my fists!"

"He ain't got any, Tabbers!" someone shouts.

More shouts go out. Then the only people standing in front of Cal are Prauf and Tabbers, and the train is moving, rocking down the tracks and Cal is -

"Such a wee thing to be working like this."

Footsteps. Boots on rain-soaked metal. Cal is... not walking. He opens his eyes. Whoa, the ground is a long way below. Prauf's thrown him over one shoulder. Literally. He watches his arms swinging with every step Prauf takes.

"I tried telling him he didn't need to do it, but wanna know what he said?"

Prauf's voice, rumbling right into Cal's ear.

"I already hate what youse are gonna say to me," Tabbers moans.

"He says 'Might as well be at work instead of sitting doing nothing. Otherwise, it's just laziness.'"

Tabbers' complaints follow Cal down into sleep.

He wakes up again on a sofa brimming with sleepy energy. He knows it so well. He's at Prauf's place. Safe. He opens his eyes and finds a blanket over his head. He fights his way free of the thing (it's four times the size he needs it to be) and emerges into the bleak light of Bracca's dawn. Even that's enough to stab him through both eyes and directly into his aching head.

"Morning!" Prauf calls from his small kitchenette. "You alive?"

Cal grunts.

Prauf laughs. "Not quite regained the power of speech, huh?" He walks over and drops a cup of caf and a bowl of oatmeal on the coffee table. "Get that down you."

Cal doesn't need telling twice. When he emerges, he's even starting to feel alive again.

"You're off-shift until tomorrow," Prauf says. "Your prize for surviving a death shift."

"Okay." Cal doesn't even care that he can't go to work today. He survived a death shift, and he only had a few hallucinations and a couple of accidental naps on his feet while doing it. Maybe he'll make it a yearly thing whenever he could use the extra credits. "Thanks for letting me sleep here."

"You can talk! You didn't break your brain!"

Cal glares at Prauf. Prauf cracks up.

"So, today's my day off too. Whaddya say, wanna head into town and pick up the parts you need for your heater? I'll be happy to help you fix it up."

"Really?"

"Really, kiddo. C'mon, shake a leg."

Sliding off the couch, Cal pulls his boots on. "Thanks, Prauf. For everything."

"Anytime. And Cal?"

His head pops out of his poncho. "Yeah?"

"No more death shifts, alright? Surviving here is all about pacing. Don't wear yourself down to the bone before you're done growing, okay?"

Cal's is a crooked smile. "I'll try."

#star wars jedi: fallen order #jfo headcanon #jfo minific #cal kestis #prauf #bracca #whumptober 2023

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bonefall · 8 months

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Do you have any plans for Shaded Moss, since Gray Wing is dying in his place? (The specifics of that in my brain was Gray Wing shoving him out of the way of the carriage)

My own thoughts were something along the lines of him having been second-in-command to Gray Wing, but after xir death, Clear Sky starts undermining them, 'suggesting' to people that hey, maybe he *set that up* like, isn't it convenient? That Gray Wing died? Leaving Shaded Moss in charge? Wow, funny like that, huh? And even if most of the group dismisses it as bullshit, it's still "What kinda moron almost gets run over by a carriage and has to be pushed out of the way? Should we really be following him?" Eventually, Clear Sky takes the people who listen to him and leaves, and Tall Shadow kinda forces him to step down, and Shaded Moss kinda lives on the fringes of the group until after Bumble gets driven out. He kinda serves as a surrogate father to Thunder (because I kinda want to keep adoption a thing) and teaches him how to pass better as a tom (because I love older transmascs helping guide their juniors, I wish I had had someone older who knew a little more helping me with that shit as a kid).

I imagine he dies in the First Battle, either just before the "Tell the stars you won" line, or just after, knocking Clear Sky off of Bright Storm and getting killed for it just before Starclan intervenes.

GREAT IDEA let's take it!

(Note though: Shaded Moss -> Shaded Flower, because they now have a naming system that includes a familial last name. Shaded Flower and Rainswept Flower are father and daughter like canon.)

It'll be good for showing how "connected" tribe culture is, to have Thunder Storm have bonds with a lot of the cats he will eventually come into conflict with. Thunder Storm having a surrogate dad figure in the disgraced leader works nicely. Here's how I'll approach it though, taking your suggestions and making sure it works with what's established;

Gray Wing was the leader, Shaded Flower was second in command. He was a logistics sort of guy.

They had never seen a horse before. The group charged in front of it while crossing, spooking it.

Something I found interesting in Sun Trail is that Clear Sky was commanding them across the road that gets Canon!Shade killed on. I think I want to keep that, having Clear Sky be the one who shouted for them all to charge.

Shaded Flower's response to the large animal rearing up was to hiss and freeze

And of course, Gray Wing runs back to save him, getting kicked and killed.

While burying xem, Shade was catching flak. He panicked and his response was to freeze. Clear Sky never takes responsibility for his own actions, and what kind of guy freezes in front of a deer so huge??

He didn't really "step down" so much as Tall Shadow and Clear Sky just naturally started becoming the new leaders. He was pretty ashamed that he got Gray Wing killed.

Embarrassingly, Rainswept Flower ended up having to be his defender a lot of the time. He didn't want her reputation to suffer as a result of his cowardice, but... ugh here they are.

When Jagged Peak broke his leg, Shaded Flower didn't speak up, doubting his own judgement.

But when Bright Storm comes back with her three-legged newborn, he is IMMEDIATELY on Tall Shadow's side in the split. Though his reputation took a big hit, him being on her side IS still helpful.

He probably teaches Thunder Storm how to cook along with helping his transition, since this is going to be an important skill he displays later when he befriends River's Ripple. Rainswept Flower is like a young 19-year-old at this point, making her own life, and Shaded Flower has a sort of loneliness about him.

He probably looks out for Bright Storm, too, since they both had a pretty traumatic experience with Clear Sky treating them like ass. Brings her food and such, makes small talk, watches her kid when she needs a break.

Shaded Flower is, however, probably not a member of early ThunderClan. Or at the very least, he's kind of conflicted about it.

Rainswept Flower is loyal to Tall Shadow, and will remain ShadowClan for her whole life. He really doesn't want to leave her behind

(She even eventually has kittens with Sun Shadow, but that's not super relevant.)

Though... I may have him be part of Bright Storm's Reinforcements, and note how much he's torn between supporting the boy who's practically an adopted son, and his daughter back in Tall Shadow's Clan. He can love them both equally and be torn up over it.

Whatever happens, he will be dying in the place where Rainswept Flower dies in canon. His death in Clear Sky's jaws, "I'm not greedy, just strong!" enrages Bright Storm, who bumrushes him.

She delivers the Star Line, Clear Sky rejects it, and Thunder Storm rushes in to end his battle with Clear Sky once and for all before StarClan halts it.

#I'll clean this all up later along with any other Shaded Flower suggestions anyone has #And make an official character summary #BB!DOTC #Shaded Flower #BB!Shaded Moss #Better bones au

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animentality · 4 months

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What do you think were Durge’s thoughts when they saw Gortash again at the end of act 2 and all the times Karlach mentioned Gortash’s name in conversation and how she would kill him / with your help?

And what do you think were their thoughts AFTER seeing him again and then Karlach is actively like “we gonna unalive him” would durge have a weird feeling? Would they just agree cuz murder yay✨ or would they have strange thoughts about him/some sort of idk yearning? And straight up lie to Karlach “sure vengeance all the way (while crossing their fingers)” or even go as far as ~I’m the leader I decide~ “no, he might be useful” or just dodge the topic altogether?

Do you think Karlach would ever say, maybe after the coronation, being all pissed and hurt something around the lines of “I cannot believe I haven’t realized it sooner, you’re just like him” “Do you even care about any of us?” or “You would throw anyone under the bus/carriage😂 to get what you want”

Damn the Durgetash brain rot is awful 😪

Unfortunately in game, you don't remember him at all, which is a shame, but I have always maintained that you should get this feeling in your gut, like a flicker of warmth, or a tinge of discomfort.

Like you don't "know" this man, but your body seems to.

You catch a whiff of his smell, and you remember not memories exactly, but feelings.

Comfort. Quiet solace. Triumph. Camaraderie.

I know when Karlach says Gortash, the name is "familiar" to you, but I wonder how exactly.

See, it doesn't make sense that you remember Balduran things, but don't remember anything at all about your life in the city?

I know part of it's just, they wanted to recycle lines for Durges that Tavs get.

But Gortash's name should evoke something in you.

(Arousal)

As for if the Dark Urge would object to killing him...well.

They spent most of their partnership having to reign that in. I suspect when she says, we need to kill this man, you would probably say, yeah, for some reason, I feel that too.

But then he offers you an alliance, and you're like...ok, this feels familiar too.

Choosing not to kill this man...entering into an alliance with him...and working with him... maybe this'll bring back more memories...

Hehehehe.

As for Karlach, well...it's such a shame she can't drag you more for being so buddy buddy with Gortash.

She of all people should be able to yell at you. You would have to pass a DC 30 to convince her not to leave the party...

#baldurs gate 3

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rphelperblog · 1 year

Text

𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚜. ( feel free to change pronouns, potentially triggering, read & reblog with caution. )

’ i look like my mother and she looked like the enemy. ‘

’ i’ve never been welcomed here. ‘

‘ keep a pencil in your hand. or else someone will put a rifle in it instead. ‘

‘ i spent years thinking i’d find a way out. ‘

‘ i’m old enough to know the only way out, is through. ‘

‘ well, i need someone to take the fall for my petty crimes, that’s all. ‘

‘ we learned some good life lessons back then. ‘

‘ one: don’t cry in public. ‘

‘ she/he/they isn’t like you. no one is. ‘

‘ you’re the one of us who believes in a higher power. ‘

‘ when i get the nerves the night before i like to have a good tumble with a stranger. ‘

‘ you don’t seem like the type to do what they should. ‘

‘ well, turns out they do need me, so. ‘

‘ you’re a terrible shot. ‘

‘ when i was young, i had nightmares about it. ‘

‘ if it goes wrong, come back. you’ve lost enough already. ‘

‘ i’ll find my way back to you, promise. ‘

‘ don’t you want to know if you’re grisha? ‘

‘ if i can’t crack this, none of us are going anywhere. ‘

‘ maybe i won’t be here when you get back. ‘

‘ what are you? ‘

‘ that’s why i’m here, isn’t it? ‘

‘ they’re all gone. it’s my fault. ‘

‘ is it true? can you summon light? ‘

‘ when they realize their mistake, what do you think they’ll do to her/him/them? ‘

‘ i know her/him/them better than anyone does. ‘

‘ i don’t know where this letter will find you. but you must’nt worry about me. ‘

‘ i am perfectly capable of washing myself. ‘

‘ don’t change my eyes. ‘

‘ i’m almost as rare as you. ‘

‘ sentimental. we’ll work on that too. ‘

‘ i can’t go in front of the king, i need more time. ‘

‘ know that when i told you about true north, i was talking about you. ‘

‘ black is his color. not mine. ‘

‘ tell me, are you so anxious to be like everyone else? ‘

‘ it would be nice to know what the feels like, someday. ‘

‘ time for a heist. ‘

‘ you managed to win us over, didn’t you? ‘

‘ training is good. well, i think it’s going well. ‘

‘ where you are doesn’t matter nearly as much as who you’re with. ‘

‘ when there’s something you want, better to act without thinking than think without acting. ‘

‘ i’ve always wanted to travel the world. ‘

‘ i like seeing you this way, i want you to be careful. ‘

‘ you never compliment anyone to their face. ‘

‘ aren’t you supposed to be scouting our way out? ‘

‘ what do you think i’m doing? ‘

‘ i think you’re flirting with that stable hand. ‘

‘ tell me, what makes one carriage faster than the other? ‘

‘ the right answer is their is no right answer. ‘

‘ it’s the horse that makes the difference. ‘

‘ no human being should be as proud as you are right now. ‘

‘ you think that’s what it is? just a trick? ‘

‘ you don’t want to keep it in your pocket for too long. ‘

‘ i’m sorry that it took me this long to see you. ‘

‘ i prefer to travel alone. ‘

‘ i’m afraid we can’t let that happen. ‘

‘ you stick with us, everybody gets what they want. ‘

‘ i’m not being anyone’s captive ever again. ‘

‘ it was my power keeping you warm. ‘

‘ you won’t get far out here without it. ‘

‘ if i wanted you dead, i would have slowed your heart instead of speeding it up. ‘

‘ you intend to kill me! ‘

‘ why would you save me? ‘

‘ so there is a brain inside all that muscle. ‘

‘ you used to call on me, on times like this. ‘

‘ when your table was messy and your bed was neat. ‘

‘ i am a witch hunter and you are a witch. ‘

‘ you made him afraid. now he wants you to fear him. ‘

‘ you’re the one who taught me how to kill, mother/father. ‘

‘ i taught you so you could protect yourself. ‘

‘ we need to teach them how to fight. ‘

‘ i forbid it. now, do you hear me? ‘

‘ it’s dangerous to go looking for the dead. ‘

‘ what you see may haunt you for the rest of your days. ‘

‘ maybe. just maybe. greed is a poor motivator. ‘

‘ true wealth is the friends you make along the way. ‘

‘ i should just tear this down now. ‘

‘ i will go north in the night. ‘

‘ no. this can’t be it. i’m not done tormenting you. ‘

‘ i will keep you warm. ‘

‘ i can’t wait to introduce you to my truest love. ‘

‘ when i got older, i learned that darkness is a place and it’s full of monsters. ‘

‘ they aren’t the monsters. they’re just boys/girls. ‘

‘ we can’t hide forever. we can run together. ‘

‘ no businessman worth his salt bargains for what he can take. ‘

‘ our enemies are threatened by your mere existence. ‘

‘ never make decisions out of fear, only out of spite. ‘

‘ well greed always worked for me. ‘

‘ the bone road ebbs and and the bone road flows. ‘

‘ handsome decoy is also not a [NAME’S] talent. ‘

‘ i’d rather starve than be a traitor. ‘

‘ needing anyone is weak. ‘

‘ you and i are going to change the world. ‘

‘ so, who actually saw what happened? ‘

‘ it came from everywhere, because you called upon it to come. ‘

‘ i have been waiting a long time for you. ‘

‘ there are no others like us and there never will be. ‘

‘ not many people surprise me. ‘

‘ fine. make me your villain. ‘

‘ they are traitors who tried to kill you. this is retribution. ‘

‘ i’ve survived for centuries. did you really think you could kill me. ‘

‘ you are quite valuable, you know. ‘

‘ the deal is the deal. ‘

‘ i’m just trying to keep warm. you should join me. ‘

‘ i’ve been warned off the job. ‘

‘ i know that look. he’s a man consumed with vengeance. ‘

‘ please tell me you have a plan. ‘

‘ i’m not against the occasional light roleplay. ‘

‘ i’d miss me too. i’m fantastic. ‘

‘ no one is ever going to believe i’m that old. ‘

‘ why does this concern me? ‘

‘ well of course certain death pays a million. ‘

‘ unlike a spider, i only need one leg. ‘

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retourne-toi-eurydice · 1 year

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Ghost Death Theory Time!

I have basically no proof for any of this, it’s just for fun and I’m sure there’s going to be a line or detail I’ve missed as most of my Ghosts knowledge comes from Tumblr because I’m English and episodes are hard to find here.

Note: Trying to work out the cause of death for any of the ghosts (in either series) is difficult because by nature of being family-friendly(ish) shows they can’t go overboard on the body horror and also whatever makeup they do has to be cheap and efficient enough to do every day exactly the same, particularly for our main cast. So it’s not surprising that most of these theories centre on the idea of internal injuries. All that being said, I believe Hetty and Sass are the only true mysteries left so let’s get into it!

~Hetty~

Pushed: Much like her BBC counterpart I think it’s possible Hetty was murdered by someone she knew. However, if she were pushed out of a window like Lady Button I don’t see why they wouldn’t also carry over the joke about noisily reenacting her death every day. For some reason, my brain latched onto the idea that she was pushed out of a moving carriage. There was just something about everyone’s reactions when she got exorcised out of the car, I don’t know. For many reasons (clothes and hair in perfect order, no broken bones, it wouldn’t really make sense) I don’t think this is it. But I like it so it’s on the list.

Hoity toitied to death: Maybe something stressed her out so much, something was so contemptuous, someone so impertinent, that she had an aneurysm. Obviously, if she had had a stroke or something they couldn’t keep giving half her face muscle relaxant for shooting (yeah I don’t like that image either), so it would make sense if they were choosing to exercise creative license and have all the damage be out of sight. All that cocaine she took in life probably wouldn’t have helped, either. Speaking of…

Drug overdose: I think this is a popular theory but not one I particularly like because that would bring our count of drug-induced deaths up to three, and given that a house full of dead people is the perfect opportunity to get creative why wouldn’t the writers take it? However, I do think that their mutual love of drugs has probably been the topic of a pillow talk or two between her and Trevor- and who knows, maybe dying from the same thing is one of the reasons they bonded in the first place?

There isn’t really any one cause of death I’d bet on with Hetty, although the fact that we got the beheading, lightning strike, and mass disease deaths carried over from the original show makes me think a Grey Lady-style end is a very real possibility.

~Sass~

It is possible that Sass has a fatal injury somewhere under all his layers, though I’m not sure what the most prominent offensive weapons were in his lifetime so I can’t say how likely that is. I’m not sure whether that would be something he’d have disclosed by now either, albeit everyone else who died by another’s hand doesn’t half go on about it. Two things we do know about him are that he is very defensive and hates being embarrassed, so this leads me to think that perhaps his life was cut short by something comparatively pedestrian (and dare I say Isaac-like?). How about these:

Foodie misadventure: This tracks, right? He saw an unfamiliar berry or type of plant during his travels, it looked/smelt good, he ate it without due diligence and died either immediately or a short while after. Explains no physical indications for his death, his love of food, and why he might not want to advertise that he got taken out by a berry he should have known better not to eat. My money’s on this one.

Illness: Boring, but effective. He got sick with something only antibiotics could cure and he died young and unfulfilled *sad face*.

The elements: To be honest if one of the ghosts had frozen to death I like to think they'd be our Mary equivalent but with icicles clinging to them instead of smoke. That would be cool. I don’t have a lot to say about this one but it’s a possibility so it’s on the list.

I think that’s pretty much it for Sass theories- unless he’s got a stab wound hidden somewhere I do think that given his lifestyle and times he died of literal natural causes.

So what do you think, anything you agree with/disagree with? I honestly loved considering all these theories and I’m dying to hear everyone else’s ideas!

#cbs ghosts #hetty woodstone #sasappis #ghosts cbs

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forestshadow-wolf · 1 year

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Blossoms of Love (Chapter 9)

(not so) campfire stories

Pairing: soap/ghost

Tags: hurt/comfort, angst, hanahaki

A03 link || Chapter 1 || Chapter 8

Progress was… slow, sluggish, stagnant; soap was sure there was a better word for it but he’s an artist not a poet. The sun creeped closer and closer towards the tree line, an image he’d have loved to sketch had he not had a job to be doing. It quickly became apparent that they would not be finishing before night hit, confirmed by price’s command to set up camp in the mostly intact body of the plane.

Ghost had been scarce since the initial crash, the night was beginning to set in and he wasn’t with the others yet. Soap found him a few paces into the trees. Why would Ghost be all the way out here, there was no reason to be, at least not as far as he could tell. He was crouched down, back to him, he seemed… off. Well more off than he had been lately.

He called out to the man, who straightened up and whirled around quickly, as if caught off guard. Odd, he wasn’t being particularly quiet, and even if he was Ghost ordinarily would have picked up on it anyways. He worked to hide an interrogative look, not wanting to push any boundaries, not today at least.

“Sergeant.” he cleared his throat.

“Uh Price set up watch. Ah said ah could take first, but he said you wouldnae mind. So…” he trailed off at the end, not sure where he was going with that sentence.

“Aye, I don’t mind.” they set off back toward their makeshift camp.

Everyone was already mostly settled and were heading towards the edge of sleep by the time they were back. Ghost settled on his bedding and soap grabbed his sketchbook before sitting beside Ghost. To which he got a shoulder nudge and an inquisitive look.

“What?”

“What’re you doin’, Johnny?”

“Wha’d’ya mean ‘wha mah doin?’ ah thought it was pretty obvious am sittin’ doon.”

“I know that, ya ass. I mean shouldn’t you be goin’ to sleep, not doodlein’ in your book?” ghost rolled his eyes.

“Eh, not tired, ‘Sides ah w’s g’nna come take yer place anyway. ‘Ts easier to j’st stay up fer a few more hoors.” that truth was easier to say than the ones that lay beneath it. The one that said that Ghost was acting just a little bit too off. the one that said he knew exactly what kind of thing grew in loveless areas. The one that said that something about Ghost made him want to both run away and get even closer at the same time. Ghost hummed roughly with what Soap could only describe as skepticism, as if he knew Soap hadn’t told him the real reason, granted he hadn’t but Ghost didn’t know that.

It was maybe half an hour later, they hadn’t said anything to each other since they settled down, instead opting for a… something silence. He couldn’t really explain how it felt. Soap still had yet to actually draw, he’d just been slowly filing his pencil down into a sharp point on the paper, watching it darken with each pass of graphite. It’s not like he was even going to do anything with the blackened paper, he’d never been good at negative drawings, it was really just something to keep him occupied. Ghost shifted beside him, but he didn’t really pay much attention to it, he didn’t mind being watched. Not if it was Ghost anyway.

“There’s Orion's belt, just over there.” soap startled slightly at the quiet voice beside him. He looked over to see the man pointing to something in the sky. He followed the finger, but he’ll admit he never had a knack for picking out stars and constellations. He offered up an interested hum, Ghost took that as his cue to continue.

“That cluster over there I’ve heard goes by many names, only know some of the stories though. My favorite is Aphrodite's carriage.” soap nodded, pretending to follow along as Ghost launched into whatever tale stars he had queued up in his brain. Soap couldn’t tell if Ghost was doing it for his benefit or if that was just how he told stories, but his imagery gave Soap intense urges to sketch it out.

That’s how they spent the next hour, with Ghost telling stories and Soap quietly sketching them out, it was an odd sort of role reversal. Soap would be lying if he tried to claim to have learned any of Ghost’s constellations, but he did listen to them.

“How’d’ya ken so much aboot th’ stars, L.T.?” soap garnered his curiosity between a lapse in Ghost's storytelling.

“I don’t.” he said it so simply, so matter-of-factly that it took soap a moment to process what he said.

“Bu- wha’d’ya mean? You were literally just telling me about- er what’d ya call it? ‘Jupiter’s Bowl’?”

“I made it up. The only constellation I know is Orion’s belt. Hell, I don't even know if I pointed to the right stars on that one.” again it was that matter-of-fact tone, as if it was obvious. It confused Soap to no end, he’d spoken with such… confidence? Self-assuredness? That soap didn’t even question him.

“So.. ye just got thoose stories locked and loaded? Or do ya improv ‘em?”

“Had some of ‘em for a while, other’s I made up.” There was a slight inflection in his voice that gave soap the feeling that they were creeping up on uncomfortable territory, so he flipped aspects.

“Tell meh ‘nother?” a smile quirked at the edges of his lips.

“Depends, it gonna put you to sleep?” the tone was light again, if not a tiny bit scratchy.

“Me? Nah, ah’d neve’” Ghost took it with a nod and launched them into another story. It was something flashy and eye-catching, but not memorable, simply for entertainment. At some point Ghost scooched over to watch soap draw, who leaned back just slightly to give a better view. That’s how they spent the rest of Ghost’s and the first half of Soap’s watch, with Ghost taking them on mini adventures, and soap documenting them. Eventually though soap nudged Ghost over to his bedroll next to Nik, knowing the man hadn’t gotten much sleep lately. Ghost rolled his eyes and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like ‘mother hen’, but complied nonetheless.

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

@checkerscharlie @halb-nichts @heyitsropi @trekkie-in-space @lavenderstem

#el rambles #Blossoms of Love #hanahaki #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghostsoap #soapghost #cod mw2 #call of duty #cod

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weepingfromacedartree · 1 year

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Dancing Around the Truth - Chapter 4

Happy (almost) Tuesday! Since the last chapter went up a little late, I'm posting this chapter a bit early.

Warning: this is the most graphic chapter when it comes to Penelope's illness. Nothing crazy, but prepared for some brief mentions of vomit and other flu-like symptoms.

Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 4: Thursday

Colin awakes to the sound of Penelope retching.

His body reacts faster than his brain. One second, his hands are grasping the arms of a chair. The next, one hand is tangled up in tousled red locks, the other is caressing circles into her back.

Penelope’s back.

His right hand involuntarily pauses its movement as he tries to recall how the hell he ended up in this position. Then Penelope gets sick directly onto his shoes, as a gentle reminder.

Blinking away sleep, Colin’s eyes adjust to the room around him. For all he knows, it could still be the middle of the night. The room is enveloped in shadows, except for the single candle wick still burning bright beside them.

“Pen,” he whispers unhelpfully as he attempts to gather the hair away from her face.

The cuffs of his sleeves are unbuttoned and nearly riding up to his elbows. He does not remember discarding of his jacket and waistcoat that night. Nevertheless, they remain in a pile on the floor. His arms are bare, and all over Penelope.

He had touched her bare skin before on rare, usually accidental, occasions. Grazing her forearm while they walked side-by-side. Pulling her gently away from a crowd by the crook of her elbow. Brushing an eyelash from her cheek. Nothing like this. His fingers on her scalp, his wrist on her neck, his arm on her back. It’s intimate in a way that Colin had never imagined.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears a voice reminding him of the etiquette rules that make the touch of Penelope’s skin such a rare vice. But that voice is distant and losing its presence. The Ton’s orders and opinions feel increasingly irrelevant, the more time they spend alone in this room together.

After Penelope empties the contents of her stomach, she struggles to turn over in bed. He wonders how she could possibly have anything in her stomach to begin with. She had struggled to eat a crumb in the two days he had sat by her side. To Colin, that was an alarming sign indeed. He could be at death’s door and still scarf down a hot meal.

His hands guide her body so she is laying on her back once again. For a moment — maybe two — Colin just stands above her. His fingers linger on her neck and shoulder. He studies her face, barely lit by the sun now peaking through the window.

Her eyes are fluttering. Even in the burgeoning morning light, Colin cannot tell if they are focused on him, or at nothing at all. Quickly though, he determines the latter must be true. She has to be delirious, otherwise she would be advising him to stay away.

Colin moves his hand from her neck to her forehead. It’s hot. Hotter than it was the day before. Still in the realm between sleep and consciousness, she whimpers beneath his touch.

The last thing he wants to do is leave her side. But he made a promise to himself last night.

Straightening his spine as he rises to stand, Colin steals a glance out the window. At the world outside. It’s morning, he belatedly realizes.

Regretfully, he calls for Anne to take his place.

⚘ ⚘ ⚘

The sky is orange above him as Colin crosses the short distance between homes.

He would have departed to the doctor’s office directly from Featherington House, if it were not for the remnants of Penelope’s early morning wake up call still evident on his loafers. So, first, he runs to Bridgerton House. He calls for the footman to bring the carriage round. He undresses and re-dresses quickly, without much thought or a valet in sight. He runs back to the street and finds… nothing.

Above him, the sky is a deep hue of yellow, but Colin does not realize this fact. His head is turned to the left, eyes fixed on the point where the the road meets the trees, willing his carriage to come into sight.

Below him, Colin taps his fresh, clean loafer into the gravel with the insistence of a woodpecker. He wonders if it would be faster to travel on foot.

No, he quickly determines. It will be simpler to throw the old man in a carriage than drag him back here on foot.

As he stands there for what feels like an eternity (knowing his footmen, it is more likely seconds), his eyes are naturally drawn back to the Featherington’s front door. If he had kept his eyes on the road a second longer, he would have finally caught a glimpse of his carriage turning the corner towards him. But that is of little importance to him now.

There is a man walking up Penelope’s front steps. Colin is over there before that man can raise his arm to knock.

“Scott!” Colin bellows once he recognizes the figure.

He should be grateful that the doctor is finally there to perform an examination on Penelope, but the anger he had felt the night prior rises back up as he closes the distance between them. He stops himself short, one foot on the Featherington’s bottom step, after remembering the physician will be of little use if he allows his anger to control his actions. Colin nearly falls over from the sudden lack of motion.

“Where the hell were you, yesterday? I sent you a letter expressing the urgency —”

“I apologize, Mr. Bridgerton, greatly.” Remorse is more evident in the man’s eyes than in his words. The look nearly turns Colin’s hot blood ice cold. “When your note arrived yesterday morning, I was attending to Lord Michaelson and…”

The doctor looks down, breath shaking as he takes a deep breath. Coincidentally, Colin stops listening at the same moment the doctor stops speaking.

In the two full days he had spent by Penelope’s side, watching as she suffered through her symptoms, he had never, not once, questioned where the illness had been born from.

In a flash, he’s back in Lady Danbury’s ballroom, pining for Penelope as she dances with that decrepit-looking man. He’s taking her by the hand as Lord Michaelson stands closeby, coughing all the air from his lungs. How could Colin be so blind? So thoughtless, so stupid, so —

“Bridgerton,” Scott speaks sternly, breaking him from his train collision of thoughts. “Did you hear what I just said?”

He had not.

“I regret to inform you, but Jeremy Michaelson passed before the sun rose this morning.”

It’s like the blood drains from his body, completely.

“I do not say that to alarm you. Miss Featherington is more than three decades his junior and Michaelson was in poor health to begin with. I tell you so you do not read his obituary in tomorrow’s paper and be alarmed for the girl’s condition.”

“Right, I — Thank you — I just —” His words come out in stammers, with no motivation or capacity to finish any singular thought.

Colin’s ears, lungs, and stomach are all processing the doctor’s words at different speeds. He hears the final statements and understands that they were intended to be reassuring. But his lungs are not so quick to catch up; the constricting sensation in his chest lingers as air starts filtering through his body again. And as hard as he tries to push it back down, there’s something rising from the pit of his stomach. It formed the the second he heard the word “passed” and has been traveling upward ever since. Each word Colin utters feels like it’s bringing the bile closer and closer to his lips. Fortunately, the front door swings open before he can say anything else.

“Greetings, Dr. Scott,” Anne says from the other side of the entryway. “Miss Featherington is in her bed chambers. You may see her now, sir.”

“Thank you, miss.”

Anne stands to the side to allow the doctor entry into the home. She continues standing there as he walks past.

“Are you all right, Mr. Bridgerton?” she asks after a moment.

Colin nods unconvincingly, avoiding the maid’s eyes as he does so. He holds up a finger, trying to signal that he needs a moment to himself. Thankfully, Anne takes the hint and follows the doctor towards Penelope’s quarters. She leaves the door slightly ajar behind her.

Before he knows it, Colin is leaning over the railing, emptying the contents of his stomach directly onto one of the Featherington’s finely trimmed shrubs.

⚘ ⚘ ⚘

Colin stands dutifully outside Penelope’s door while she receives her examination. He does not intend to eavesdrop, but as hard as he tries to divert his attention away from the sounds drifting through the crack beneath her door, he cannot. Though, he wonders if it even counts as eavesdropping if you cannot discern a single word through the jumble of sound. Penelope’s coughs, the doctor’s questions, quiet murmurs — it’s all just noise. None of which can quell his increasingly worrisome thoughts. Those thoughts are only momentarily disrupted when a new noise breaks through.

Footsteps.

Colin takes a step away from his spot by the door, as if that would conceal the fact that he had, in fact, been eavesdropping.

When Dr. Scott walks into the hall, he closes Penelope’s door so swiftly that Colin cannot steal a glance at the redhead in bed.

“Mr. Bridgerton, I — ”

“How is she?”

“She is…” The doctor looks down at the notes in his hands, as if the answer to Colin’s question is hidden somewhere in the stack of papers. “Her fever concerns me. A bit.”

“A — a bit?” Colin asks. His words sound hollow.

The doctor’s eyes are still trained downwards. He senses that the doctor is more interested in avoiding Colin’s gaze than examining his notes.

“I am prescribing her an antipyretic to reduce her fever.”

“That’s — ”

“And opium. For the pain.”

Colin’s heartbeat picks up. Penelope had not mentioned being in pain once in the last two days. Was there anything else —

“Pardon.” His mind clears, suddenly focused on just one single word. “Did you say opium?”

It unsettles him to think that a doctor would prescribe Penelope the same drug Colin had once bought off a street merchant in Paxos. Logically, he knows that opium is prescribed for such treatments, but logic does little in the face of memory.

Colin had found the effects alluring when he had tried it himself, two summers ago in Greece. But he had felt averse to such effects after witnessing them in his brother’s behavior during their trip to Aubrey Hall last season. Watching his brother bumble about for hours after taking it… Colin imagines that Penelope would not wish to give up her control and reason in such a way.

“Yes. I have seen opium offer immense relief to many of my patients. Not only is it a potent painkiller, it can also produce sleep, relieve irritation, quiet a cough, diminish diarrhea, control — ”

“Ahem.” Clearly, Colin was ignorant to the full scope of the drug’s effects.

“I understand but…” He clears his throat again. “Opium, antipyretics — those are only meant to treat her symptoms. Surely, there is something you can do to eradicate the illness at its source.”

“Right now, this is all I can do for her.”

Colin’s blood is boiling again.

“Is that all you could do for —” He lowers his voice, suddenly very aware of the crack beneath the green door. “Lord Michaelson?”

“Colin,” Scott finally meets his eyes again. “Reducing her fever, keeping her hydrated, relieving her pain — all of those things will help Penelope’s condition improve. They will help her get better.”

The doctor’s sudden use of his and Penelope’s Christian names deflates something in Colin. He had let his heart overpower his head. He had let himself forget — or just ignore — where he is, what he is doing, and who they are to one another.

He is in Featherington House. He is alone, unchaperoned, with Penelope. They are unmarried. And now, Colin has brought along a witness to the impropriety. To the scandal.

He thinks of Benedict’s words, uttered not 48 hours ago.

Be discreet.

“Of course, thank you, doctor.” The other man nods and starts turning towards the staircase. But Colin is not done.

“Dr. Scott, I…” He takes a breath. “I understand that my presence in this home might be considered unusual to some, but you must understand. Miss Featherington is a friend. She is very important to me.” Another breath. “Even if it is considered improper to some — to the Ton, I mean — I could not leave her alone here. Not in her condition.”

“Colin, please — ”

“I am simply asking for your discretion.”

Scott looks him up and down, a moment of silence before speaking. Then, he chuckles.

“I am a man of medicine. I deal exclusively in discretion.”

Colin chuckles too. Though, he can’t grasp why. None of this is funny.

“Of course, I simply —”

“I promise you, etiquette does not concern me. Not in my line of work.” He sighs. “But even if it did, those rules would not be applicable when a young lady’s wellbeing is at stake.”

“Thank you.” Colin tries to sound appreciative. He should be, but there’s still something nagging at him as the doctor turns to leave.

“One last thing, doctor.” Scott raises his eyebrows, signaling for Colin to continue. “Did you happen to inform Miss Featherington of Lord Michaelson’ passing?”

The doctor’s eyes go to his papers once again.

“No,” he finally says. “I typically recommend against informing a patient that they contracted their illness from a dead man. Hope is a powerful placebo.”

With that, Colin allows Scott to leave. Heading towards the staircase, the doctor calls over his shoulder that he will send a messenger boy over with the medication later that day. Colin’s hand is wrapped around the brass doorknob before the doctor descends the first step.

If he had taken a single second to consider his actions, Colin would have remembered that this is not his own home — not his own room. That it is, to put it lightly, rude to barge into someone’s bed chambers unexpectedly. But when he twists the handle and pushes open her door, Penelope does not seem to mind. Or possibly even notice.

She lays in bed, just as she had when he left her there that morning. Just as she had yesterday. And the day before that.

She’s awake. Her eyes are open, but looking distantly out the window closest to her bed. Colin imagines that from her angle, head sunken deep into her pillow, she can see nothing but the blue, cloudless sky above. He wonders if she has ever looked into the morning sky and noted the similarity between its color and that which is found in her own eyes.

“Pen,” he calls out weakly, praying that it will break her from her trance. It does.

“Colin,” she speaks softly. Her voice is laced with the serenity of someone still half asleep, but also the scratch of someone who has not been able to breathe from their nose in days.

Colin approaches, kneeling beside her bedframe like a boy in a church pew. He raises his hand to her forehead. With that small act, he does not solely intend to check her temperature. He also hopes — prays — that her touch will help ground him back in reality. To help him consolidate the Penelope who begged him to stay safely away from her yesterday with the Penelope looking up at him now.

“Are you in pain?” he asks, the words feeling like a bruise on his throat as he speaks. That word, pain, has been swimming around in the back of his mind since the doctor had let it slip.

Penelope tries to swallow, but Colin can see her neck tremble as she struggles to do so. She shakes her head, “No.” The movement is so subtle that Colin doubts he would have distinguished it from her stillness if his hand were not already cupping her face.

Liar, he thinks. He uses his thumb to push a damp piece of red hair away from her forehead.

“You should sleep,” Colin says, remembering the doctor’s instructions.

Rest. Liquid. Hope.

Penelope’s eyes move away from his. They land on an object sitting on the floor, a few inches from Colin’s left loafer. By some small miracle, Penelope finds the strength to speak.

“You should read,” she tells him. Then, “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

Hand still cusping her cheek, Colin bites his tongue and nods his head once. Twice. Three times, to really sell it.

Back in exile (the armchair a few feet from the spot where he just kneeled), Colin picks up Volume Two of Pride & Prejudice. Something tells him that they would not rush through the story at the same velocity as they had the two previous days. A wise prediction, it quickly proves. Penelope’s eyes flutter shut by the end of the chapter.

It’s for the best, Colin thinks. Last night, he had felt the sudden urge to flip to the last page — to know how it all turns out. Today, he dreads the thought of the story coming to an end at all.

He reads a bit more as the day drones on. As the sunny morning sky makes way for a cloudy afternoon. As Penelope drifts in and out sleep. When she’s asleep, she’s restless. When she’s awake, she’s not fully there. Throughout it all, Colin sits unmoored.

When his eyes are not fixed on the book grasped in his hands, Colin’s mind swims with images of Penelope dancing with Lord Michaelson. Of Portia departing with that egregious stack of trunks. Of his own family playing pall mall in Aubrey Hall. Of Dr. Scott’s advice. Of his own hand, leading Penelope into a secluded, private room on the outskirts of a ball. Of a staircase. Of a willow tree. Of foolish words. Of the smile of a friend. Of red hair. Of morning sky eyes. Of

⚘ ⚘ ⚘

Thursday (Six Months Before)

“Mr. Bridgerton.”

In hindsight, her words should not have caught him so off guard. It had been six months since he last saw her. At the Featherington Ball last August, they had danced together, she had bowed her head, and then she had disappeared down a hallway. Then nothing. For six months.

Just as he had done the previous year in Greece, Colin had sent Penelope countless letters while traveling along the Italian coast. Unlike the previous year, all of those letters had gone unanswered. Most of his letters go unanswered, though, so he didn’t read too much into her silence.

If her lack of correspondence had not indicated that something was amiss with Penelope, surely Eloise’s behavior that morning should have tipped him off. When he had asked if she had seen her best friend yet that season, she had scoffed. “To whom are you referring?” But Eloise was prone to dramatics; it’s typically unwise to read too much into her vague, cryptic messages.

But surely, Penelope’s disappearing act at the ball that night should have done it. From the moment he stepped into the Queen’s ballroom, Colin had found himself scanning the crowd for Penelope’s red curls. He caught a few glimpses, but always in motion. Always turning a corner or passing through an exit. Each time Colin tried to get close, the flash of red was gone. Except for the one time it turned out that he was following Prudence Featherington. She had not known the whereabouts of her sister, either.

Just when Colin was at his wit’s end, ready to abandon the ball and request Penelope’s presence at Featherington House the next morning, he finally saw her face. A few inches from Eloise’s. Neither looked very happy to see the other.

In the few seconds that it took to bridge the gap between himself and the two (former?) friends, Penelope had disappeared again. At least now, he could clearly follow her with his eyes as she departed the ballroom. She had exited out the closest door to Queen Charlotte’s garden.

He brushed past his tempestuous little sister without so much as a word. He did not have time to bother investigating whatever disagreement Eloise had found herself in.

“Pen!”

When he finally caught up to her, she stood on the bottom step leading to the garden. He remained on the top step.

In the six months of silence, he had thought of Penelope’s face many times. Usually warm and cheerful. Occasionally furrowed and serious. Sometimes sad. But as she looked up at him in that very moment… Colin could not recall a single time when Penelope’s face looked so disdainful. At least, never when he was the subject in her view.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” she had called him.

“I — I have been searching for you all night.” Colin’s face remained still as he struggled to find the right words. He had waited months for this moment, why had he not rehearsed something to say? But then again, why would he? Conversations usually came quite naturally when shared with Penelope. “It is so good to see you again.”

Penelope did not speak right away, possibly considering words herself. Colin observed a look of conflict pass on her face as she stood there, even in the shadows of nightfall. His eyes moved downwards, taking note of her dress for the first time that night. It was the color of emeralds.

As Penelope stood there looking up at him, silent and looking so unsure, Colin felt the need to end the lull in their conversation. He placed one foot on the step below him, moving towards Penelope in the slowest fashion he could manage. He moved towards her with the abundance of caution that a hunter might approach a deer, careful not to spook or cause her to flee. Penelope, in turn, took a step back, her short heel sinking into the grass beneath her foot.

“I hope that your family is well. After what happened with your cousin last season, I —“

“We are quite well.” She bowed her head, as if that was a natural conclusion to their long-awaited reunion. “Thank you, Mr. Bridgerton.”

Those words again…

“Pen, wait!” he said before she took the chance to disappear again. The caution he had held in his words just a moment ago was gone. Confusion and desperation took over. “Is something the matter?”

The look of disdain returned on her face.

“Why would anything be the matter?”

“Well… I don’t know —”

“Twas a rhetorical question. No, nothing is wrong. I simply stepped outside for some fresh air.”

She smiled for the first time since he laid eyes on her that night. For years, when Colin thought of Penelope, the first thing he pictured was her smile. How could he not? It was the first thing he saw when they greeted one another. Penelope would meet his eye and immediately smile. But the smile she shot to him then did not look familiar at all.

All of it felt like unfamiliar territory. Colin was desperate to get things back on track.

“Well, the night is almost over. Can I escort you to the dance floor?”

“No. I do not believe that would be wise.”

“Why —”

“I would not want anyone to get the wrong idea about your intentions.” While most of her speech up until that point had been even, measured, hiding her true feelings, she slipped up with the last word. It was delivered with spite.

“Intentions?” Colin repeated.

She took a step forward, both feet planted on marble again. Her eyes did not dare leave his.

“Dancing with a young lady at a ball is typically seen as an act of courting. We are friends. I would not want any onlookers to get the wrong idea about us.”

Colin had spent most of the conversation in utter confusion, but he certainly wasn’t expecting that. He laughed.

“Penelope, I do not care about the opinions of ‘onlookers.’”

Those were not the right words.

Clenching the skirt of her deep green gown, Penelope slowly, methodically walked up to the top of the stairs. Although now a step above him, given their notable height difference, she was still far from eye level.

“This is not a joking matter and I do not believe that to be remotely true.”

“I —”

“And honestly, our friendship, while innocent in childhood, became inappropriate the second I debuted in society.”

Colin opened his mouth to protest. His first instinct was to call her words ridiculous. But before he could voice that opinion aloud, he took note of their surroundings.

He only glanced away from her for a second. That’s all it took for him to realize that the two of them were isolated on the Queen’s back steps, in the shadows and out of view from the rest of the ball’s attendees. If someone wandered onto the terrace and observed them standing there together, what would they have thought?

But when Colin directed his attention back to Penelope, her neck craned to look up at him, the absurdity of her statement hit him again.

“Men and women are allowed to be friends,” he countered.

“Not like this.” Penelope raised her hands, fingers pointing towards the night sky. The white satin of her gloves shined in the moonlight. “Speaking privately, unchaperoned. Using each other’s Christian names. Writing letters.” Her hands fell to her sides. “All of those things — those indiscretions — could have disastrous consequences.”

On her. She didn’t need to speak the last two words aloud for Colin to hear them. All of those indiscretions could have disastrous consequences on her. Men rarely receive the same finality of judgment.

Colin was silent. He wanted to tell her that she was wrong, but it struck him all at once how true her words were. Whether he knew it or not at the time, he had taken so many liberties with Penelope over the course of their friendship.

He had been selfish. The benefits he gained from her companionship had blinded him — had prevented him from thinking critically about what she stood to lose from his actions.

Sensing Penelope might bolt at any moment, Colin opened his mouth again. He could not allow her to interpret his silence as him caring so little about their friendship to let her walk away now.

“Pen, what are you saying?”

She stood in her place, seemingly asking herself the same question. Then she looked down.

“We cannot keep conducting ourselves in this way. It’s improper.”

Once again, Colin did not need to hear the implied words to understand her meaning. They needed to stop conducting themselves in that way. As friends. They needed to stop being friends. The thought infuriated him.

“Pen, I hope you know how much I value your friendship. I would never —”

“If you were ever my friend, I would hope that you would take my status — my future — a little more seriously.”

“Of course I do. I —”

“I heard you, Colin. On the night of my family’s ball.”

Realization hit him in the chest with the force of a race horse. Clarity set in, finally bringing some level of understanding to the words that had confounded him moments ago.

Mr. Bridgerton…

“Penelope Featherington?”

… intentions.

“The way you were dancing with her looked rather interesting.”

… an act of courting.

“You courting the girl, Bridgerton?”

… wrong idea…

“Ah. Are you mad?”

… joking matter…

“I would never dream of courting Penelope Featherington.”

… I do not believe that to be remotely true.

“Not in your wildest fantasies, Fife.”

In the moment, that night in August, he had loathed himself for speaking of his dear friend so flippantly. But in truth, that loathing was not intense enough to stick to him for long. He had not thought of the interaction once since those words left his lips. It was a brief, drunken interaction with a group of men whose opinions Colin truthfully did not care much about. If he had known that Penelope’s ears were privy to it…

“Penelope, I am so, so sorry.”

“You —”

“My behavior was unacceptable, inexcusable, but please know that my words —”

“You need not apologize.”

“I assure you that I do need to apologize. I —”

“You did not know I was there.”

“Nevertheless —”

“No. Please listen when I say you have nothing to apologize for.” She raised a hand again, as if to remind Colin to steady himself. Her words remained even and controlled. He sounded like a madman.

“We were not and have never been courting. It would be like me saying that I would never dream of courting your brother Benedict. Do you think he would take offense to me making such an obvious declaration?”

Colin was quiet, one final moment of realization hitting him. It delayed his response.

“No. He wouldn’t take offense,” he eventually says. Although in truth, Benedict probably would have taken at least some offense. Anyone’s ego would be bruised with the tone Colin had employed.

“It is settled then.” Penelope turned to leave, the beading of her dress catching the moonlight as she walked away from him.

“Goodbye, Mr. Bridgerton,” she called over her shoulder.

⚘ ⚘ ⚘

“Mr. Bridgerton.”

There’s a hand on his shoulder, gently tapping him awake. Once he gets over the initial shock of having fallen asleep in the first place, Colin looks up to find Anne standing above him.

“The messenger boy returned with the medicine for Miss Featherington.”

Colin looks from the maid to the window. The sun is already setting.

What on Earth had taken so long?

“Ahem. Thank you, Anne.”

“No thanks necessary, sir.”

Anne places a cup of tea and two small bags on Penelope’s bedside table. She points to the gray bag: “Ground willow bark, used to treat fevers.” Then, she points to the black bag: “Opium, for pain.” Finally, she places a note beside the other materials. “The doctor said to start by mixing small doses of the powders into her tea. Add more as needed, if her symptoms do not improve within the hour.”

Colin nods, although he’s still making sense of the doctor’s instructions. He looks over to Penelope, still snoring softly in bed. What if he empties both bags and her symptoms do not improve?

“I will see that she takes them.”

In his peripheral vision, Colin sees Anne turn towards the door. But then she stops.

“Almost forgot.” She takes a light blue envelope from the pocket of her smock and hands it to Colin. She says something about “Miss Featherington” receiving a letter earlier in the afternoon. Colin’s mind is too busy questioning what would happen if those medications don’t help for him to listen to the details. He places the envelope on the table, for Penelope to read later.

“Thank you, Anne.”

With that, the maid exits. She closes the door shut behind her.

Colin pulls the chair forward so when he sits, his knees graze the wood grain of the bed frame. Leaning over, he raises his hand to Penelope’s forehead. His touch is light, careful not to wake her unless strictly necessary. She’s burning up.

“Pen,” he says gently. He moves his hand from her forehead to her shoulder, careful to keep his touch contained to the fabric of her nightgown.

“Hmmm,” she murmurs, nose scrunching while her eyes remain shut.

“Pen, wake up. Please.” Penelope, ever the dutiful lady, opens her eyes at the last word.

She blinks a few times, reminding herself of her surroundings. Then she turns her attention to the man leaning over her. She smiles.

“Hi,” she says dazedly.

Colin smiles for the first time in what feels like days. “Hi.”

The moment is warm, but quickly disrupted when Colin remembers his reason for waking her. Pointing his eyes towards the table, he says: “Your medicine is here. Can you sit up?”

She nods weakly. Before she can even attempt to adjust her position, Colin’s hand moves to the space between her shoulder blades. He gently pushes her upright, then adjusts her pillows so they support her lower back.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

He’s taken aback by her words.

“Don’t thank me,” he says dismissively. He reaches his hands towards the teacup and gray bag.

“Colin —”

“The doctor prescribed this for your fever.” In his head, Colin questions what kind of idiot doctor hands you a prescription with the sole instruction to start with “small doses.” After a moment of consideration, he sprinkles about a quarter of the bag into her tea. Before handing over the cup, Colin glances at the black bag still sitting on the table.

“He also prescribed opium. For your —”

“Pain.” Penelope heaves a heavy sigh. “I know.”

Remembering all of her previous attempts to hide the severity of her condition, Colin chooses his words carefully.

“Do you —”

“Yes.”

If there is one thing that had not changed between them over the last year, it’s Penelope’s ability to know what he is going to say before he says it. Sighing, he picks up the black bag.

“Opium is a powerful drug. Even the smallest of doses can have considerable effects. It can unburden your mind, allow you to transcend bodily pain, but it can also leave you feeling a bit…” An image of Benedict nearly falling out of a third-story window flashes in his mind. “Unrestrained.”

When he notes a look of doubt cross her face, he asks: “Are you sure you want the opium? You can start with just the antipyretic.”

“No — I mean, yes.” She nods. “Yes. I will take both.”

He unlaces the string from the black bag. Feeling the weightlessness of the powder between his thumb and index finger, he looks over to Penelope again. She’s staring at the bag in his hand.

“If it’s not working or if you require a larger dose, you will tell me. Right?” Eyes still on the bag, she nods.

He pinches a “small dose” of opium into the tea, swirls it with a silver spoon until both powders dissolve, then hands the cup to Penelope. It’s empty within the minute.

Colin takes the cup from her hand before she has the chance to lean over and place it on the table herself.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t —”

“Just accept the thanks, Colin.”

He nods, but his lips unwittingly form a tight line. It feels dishonest to accept gratitude for something so insignificant. In truth, it has been difficult for him to accept any form of gratitude from Penelope since the night of the Queen’s inaugural ball. It always feels undeserved.

“I don’t know about willow bark, but the aftereffects of opium can come on quite swiftly.”

“Have you ever consumed it, yourself?” Colin raises his eyebrows. “Opium, I mean. I heard it’s a common vice for travelers.”

“Oh — yes. A few times while on my travels in Greece.”

The sides of Penelope’s lips twitch upward, revealing a hint of a smirk.

“Not in Italy?”

Colin leans back in the chair, then moves a hand to his face to hide his own smirk. Another image of Benedict, the one of him attempting to fingerpaint with red wine, pops into his mind.

“No, I have not felt the compulsion to partake in many months.”

“Bad reaction?” she asks. He detects a hint of worry in her voice, nearly buried by intrigue.

“No,” he answers quickly. “Well, not personally, anyway.”

Penelope tilts her head ever so slightly. “Just a witness, then?”

“You could say that.” Penelope’s growing smirk begs him to continue.

“Last year, during a trip to Aubrey Hall, Benedict was waiting on some news. He seemed anxious — a trait I had nary observed in my brother before — and I thought opium might do him some good. I thought trying a bit of the elixir would help clear his mind but…” He chuckles beneath his breath. “He dumped the entire bag into his tea and spent hours off his rocker.”

Once his mouth shuts, Colin looks over to Penelope. He suddenly fears that he had said the wrong thing. That his words would alarm her for what is about to come. But she laughs.

“And did Benedict leave the situation feeling similarly scathed?”

“Oh, no.” Colin laughs in turn. “He had found the whole ordeal quite hilarious in the aftermath. Though, I do suspect that my brother was born without the sense of humility that allows the rest of us to learn and grow from such embarrassments.”

“Well, at least your intentions were sincere.”

The room becomes rather quiet after her remark.

Colin picks up the book that’s still sitting at his feet. “I could read more, while we wait for the medicine to take effect.” He starts flipping to the page they last left off, but Penelope stops him.

“No, I think I’ve heard enough for today. I fear that listening to Lydia’s unending streak of poor decision making is aggravating my symptoms.”

A chuckle escapes him as he sets the book back down. “Fair enough. I fear that I will break out into hives if Elizabeth and Darcy do not learn to properly communicate soon.”

Penelope breaks out into a fit of giggles so energetic that he suspects the opium is already kicking in.

“Consider yourself a romantic, Colin?”

He crosses his arms in front of his chest, suddenly feeling defensive. He shrugs. “I never claimed otherwise.”

“No,” Penelope says, lighter now. She moves so she’s no longer sitting upright, her head now hovering just above her pillow. “I suppose you haven’t.”

After a beat of silence, Colin opens his mouth again. “Are you feeling —”

“Tell me about your travels, will you? In Italy, I mean.” Her words are clear, but also sound far away. Her body continues slumping into the sheets, her head now situated firmly into her pillow. He had not expected the drugs to take effect this quickly.

“Uh… of course. I can —”

“I was so mad at you at the beginning of the season, that I never got the chance to hear your wonderful stories. I read all your letters, and they were beautiful, really. But it’s not the same as hearing a story from one’s own mouth.” She ends her staring contest with the ceiling to glance at him. Her blue eyes are rounder than usual. “Sorry. I did not mean to imply that you aren’t a great writer, because you are!” Turning away from him again, she snorts. “I would know.”

Alarm bells ringing violently in his head, Colin grabs the teapot and pours her another cup. He hands it to her, sans any drugs. “You should remain hydrated.”

Penelope does as she’s told, sipping the lukewarm liquid down quickly. Once she’s finished and he takes the cup from her hands, she smiles.

“Tell me about Venice,” she asks, sweetly.

Despite his growing unease, a small smile breaks through on Colin’s otherwise troubled face. Venice was his first stop on the Italian coast and, thus, the first letter he had sent to Penelope.

The idea of recounting his travels now instinctively feels trivial to Colin. But the way Penelope’s looking up at him — earnest in her want to hear his tales — he justifies that it can, at the very least, be an effective distraction to whatever else might be swimming around in her thoughts.

Before he says anything, though, he checks her forehead with the back of his hand. He breathes a sigh of relief; her skin does not feel quite as hot as it did before she drank the tea.

For about an hour, Penelope listens as Colin talks. He mentions the highlights already detailed in his letters — the sights, the gondolas, the delectable food — but he also shares with her things he never dared tell anyone else about his time abroad. Mainly, he tells her about the loneliness he felt, being away for so long. How the excitement of every new piece of art or intellectual conversation with a local could not stave off his longing for home. For the people he left there. He tells her about the Italian beaches and how the sand feels different than that of the English shores. He’s about to tell her about the boat ride from Venice to Comacchio, but then Penelope’s head shoots up and over the side of her bed.

“Pen!” Colin exclaims, standing up so quickly that the chair nearly rocks onto its side.

Just as he had done so many hours ago, he hastily pulls her hair away from her face as she empties her stomach. At least now there is a bowl to catch the contents, rather than them landing on his shoes.

Colin calls for Anne. He prays that she can hear him through Penelope’s shut door.

Returning his attention to the ailing woman in front of him, Colin questions how the hell Penelope has anything left in her stomach to vomit up. She had not managed to keep anything down all day.

It seems like Penelope is nearly done retching when Anne rushes into the room a minute later, a fresh bowl and damp washcloth in her hands. The maid helps Colin turn Penelope on her backside again.

For a moment, Colin wonders if he should dismiss Anne, or if it would be better for Penelope if she stayed. But Penelope decides for him.

“Anne, go.” This alarms Colin. Not just the audible strain in her voice, but also the bluntness with which she carries out her words. Absent is the rudimentary politeness of Penelope’s typical speech. He had never heard her address anyone in such a way. Other than, perhaps, himself.

Penelope’s speech seems to alarm Anne as well, as she does not immediately follow her lady’s order to flee the scene. She turns to Colin instead.

After another moment of consideration, he nods, indicating for the girl to go. The very second that they both hear the click of the door shutting behind her, Penelope opens her eyes.

“Go, too.” She uses what seems to be the last of her energy to point towards the door on the other side of the room. He should have been expecting that, but…

“No!”

“Yes.”

“We agreed —”

“I didn’t —” she starts coughing so violently that Colin worries she is about to choke. “Agree to —” She keeps coughing.

“My God! Pen, stop talking!”

Without much thought to his actions anymore, Colin sits on the edge of her bed, places one hand on her shoulder. He’s about to use the other to test her forehead again, but Penelope swats it away. She wiggles her shoulder from his grasp.

Regaining her composure, she speaks again. “I didn’t agree to any of this.” She coughs. “I don’t —” Cough. “You shouldn’t be here.” She seems to find her breath again, because the room goes unnervingly quiet for a moment.

Colin realizes he’s holding a breath deep inside himself. When he opens his mouth, simply to help deflate his lungs, Penelope speaks again. “Just go.” Her face, more than her words, crushes him.

He recalls what she had said to him an hour ago. At the time, he had been so concerned for her wellbeing that he had barely processed the contents of her words. But now…

I was so mad at you at the beginning of the season.

Colin recalls another sentiment. Something Benedict had told him the morning after his adventure at Aubrey Hall.

I swear, it’s like you slipped me truth serum last night.

Watching as Penelope continues to glare at him, Colin thinks of the final few weeks of the season. All of those little conversations he stole in the shadows of a ballroom or on the edge of a garden… Things had felt hopeful for the first time in months. He thought he was winning her back, but had he simply worn her down? Had Penelope’s relative good nature towards him these past three days all been in the name of politeness?

As her coughing fit grows louder, the dread in Colin’s stomach grows deeper.

Had Penelope’s hatred for him washed away? Or had she simply chosen to conceal it from his view?

Hands shaking ever so slightly, Colin stands from his spot on Penelope’s bed and pours her another glass of tea. The liquid must be ice cold by now. He hands it to her and she accepts. Even if she despises his presence there, neither one stands to gain anything from her choking to death on her own words.

Before moving the cup to her lips, Penelope says again: “Go.”

“No.” The assuredness in his voice surprises him — although it shouldn’t, really. Though it kills him to think that she still truly hates him, that does not change his reason for being there.

“Colin —”

“No, I’m not leaving you here alone. I am truly, deeply sorry that I am the last person left in Mayfair to take care of you, but I am and I am here. I know that you still hate me for the complete, comprehensive carelessness I practiced throughout the duration of our friendship. I know I deserve it, but none of that matters as much —”

Colin’s words stop short when Penelope lets out a groan so loud he wonders if it will summon Anne back into the room. He is stunned into continued silence by the knowledge that her lungs could produce such a long, deafening sound in their current state.

“You don’t understand me at all,” she whines, slurping down her tea.

“What? I —”

“I don’t hate you, Colin.” Slurp. “I never did.”

Colin is not sure he heard her correctly. He tries to run through everything she said that night — everything she said that season — trying to discern a single narrative that makes any amount of sense.

He comes up empty.

“Then why do you want me to leave? If it’s because you’re afraid I’ll contract your illness, at this point —”

“No. And stop acting as though you know everything I’m about to say before I say it.” He closes his mouth. That’s Penelope’s talent, not his.

When she is finished drinking the tea, she let’s go of the cup. He barely catches it before the porcelain can hit the hardwood floor. When he turns back towards Penelope, her face falls.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she says. Her voice is quiet and full of despair.

At a loss for words and feeling more unsure of Penelope’s intentions than ever before, Colin simply asks: “Why?”

She opens her mouth, but words do not come right away. She raises her hands palms up, fingers pointing towards the ceiling above. Then: “I am not a good person.”

Of all the things she said to him that night — no, of all the words she has ever uttered to him — those hurt Colin most of all.

“That’s not true.” He takes both of her hands in his and lowers them towards the bed below, but Penelope wiggles them from his grasp before they can hit the top sheet.

When he looks up, her face changes. Despair makes way for fury once again.

“I am Lady Whistledown.”

#fanfic #bridgerton #fanfiction #polin #dancing around the truth #weepingfromacedartree #penelope featherington #colin bridgerton #colin x penelope

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dethharmonic · 1 year

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Community Gardens

Otto Octavius x Reader; Alternate Universe - Magic Summary: If you dig in the soil you can pull up roots. Your first day of working for the scary magic fella down the road. Chpt 3: tilling

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_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

You know when you lift up a rock and it was a nice little home for the dozens of bugs underneath, but you had to go and move that rock. So now they scatter and scurry to the other side of the rock in an attempt to flee and you feel bad about disturbing them, so you set the rock back where it originally was. But oh, now its too late and the little bugs are still frantic. This is how your brain feels when you wake up today. Sleep was hard to come and even harder to keep, with you waking nervously every few hours. Now that it was now on the edge of dawn, thoughts raced through your mind like those scared little bugs. You slapped your hands to cover your face, moving up to rub the last bits of drowsiness away from your eyes.

“Getting up now. Up. I am so awake and getting dressed.” You hoped stating these things would somehow make them occur without further effort on your part. Shockingly, this didn’t work. “AaaAaaUUUghhhh……..okay.”

Perhaps the hardest task anyone has ever done, you sat up and tossed your blankets aside. Birds were already beginning to chirp away by the time you shuffled around enough to get ready for your first day of assistant work. It wasn’t that you were dragging your feet purposefully, lord knows your anxious soul wouldn’t allow that. Though maybe in the very back of your mind you were. The apprehension blooming from a trip into town the previous day.

Partially because you wanted to take in the view (also you were avoiding the walk past Otto’s home), you had gone into town the long way. It was quite a busy road, but wide enough for carriages and pedestrians to comfortably share.

Honestly, what the path lacked in time saving it more than made up for in the scenery. Even the short bridge spanning the stream connecting to the river was masterfully made. It was truly baffling, the more you thought about how much work had been put into this road the less it made sense that the other road was abandoned. Sure, avoiding magic users tended to make people do silly things but the lengths this path went were just plain stupid.

So engrossed in your thoughts, you were shocked to see you were at the town already. As you had no plans to work, you figured you may as well learn the basic layout of the town’s marketplace. The center held the more extravagant shops, gradually fading out into humble carts in the surrounding clearing. Those carts were obviously more in your monetary line, but a little window shopping today sounded nice so you milled around the ritzy area.

One shop in particular stopped you in your tracks, though obviously catered as more of a touristy novelty, was an honest to goodness seller dealing with magic. At least that's what you gathered by longingly staring through the window display. Most of the shop seemed to be kitschy, but there was a portion that looked to have spell books and ingredients. The ring of a bell attached to the shop’s entrance drew your attention away, briefly looking to the pair of women exiting.

“God, the gall of her! Opening a place like this in this city!” One exclaimed loudly, barely waiting for the door to shut.

The sound of their mocking laughter snapped your head back to the window, dread clutching your chest. A bigger city doesn’t mean people are any less hateful, you supposed. Foolishly, you couldn’t help but listen to their conversation.

“Right? I can’t wait to see it crash and burn. I mean seriously, she should know better after that Octavius incident.” At his name your heart jolted and you fought to keep your gaze focused on the window display. The second woman dismissively waved towards the shop, sneering before continuing. “One freak blows half the town apart and goes on a rampage, then another thinks ‘Oh, I know just what the public needs!’ Unbelievable,” she scoffed.

“At least she waited a few years.”

“Oh please, still so fresh it’s like the smoke from the crater only just stopped. Anyways, what do you want for lunch?” They linked arms and finally moved away from the store, their continuing conversation muted in your mind.

That was enough of town for today, you thought. Eavesdropping that small conversation had drained any mental energy you had left. Too tired to walk the long scenic route again, you made a quick beeline to the short road. Eager to be home and...process, you accidentally bumped into a vaguely familiar man at the mouth of your road.

“Aah! Shit, I’m so sorry!” You hovered a hand out in case the man had lost balance, but quickly withdrew it when you saw he was fine.

“No worries, sweetie. You weren’t about to head down this way, were you?”

Much to your discomfort he placed his hand over your shoulder as he spoke. Ah, you placed his face now. The man that bothered you the other night. You either had very unfortunate luck or this guy loooves guarding the nearby path.

“Mighty unsafe, that road. Best use the main way.”

“Oh its fine, I live on the end of this road.” You leaned down to avoid his touch and swiftly crossed over to the boulder. “Anyways thanks for the tip, bye.” You awkwardly shuffled past the large rock, both avoiding anymore conversation and the plant growth to slip to the path beyond. Once you got home you slowly ate a bowl of cabbage soup while staring into the void. Afterwards, right to bed.

Back on the road this morning, you worried a bit about the stranger you agreed to work for. His demeanor didn’t quite scream that he would be the type to do what the townsfolk had said about him, but then again he did scare you so badly you thought your heart may jump from your chest. You were nervous, to say the least.

You hoped you weren’t too late, the sun only just peaking out into the sky when his home came into view. The crunch of the gravel under your feet growing just a bit louder with your hurried pace as you saw that Otto was leaning on his garden wall, looking at the opposing woods with an unreadable expression while quietly waiting for you. At the sound of your approach his head swiveled lazily to you, tilting slightly to the side.

“You don’t really know when dawn is, do you?” Unfolding his arms, he pointed to the horizon. “This is sunrise.” “Sorry,” you said with a grimace.

“Don’t be sorry, be punctual.” He turned away from you and stretched his arms out, letting out a soft grunt when you heard the pop of a joint. “I’m going to show you around the woods today as there are some things I have to frequently forage for, and it would be much less cumbersome if I didn’t need to do so myself. Also keep in mind the places I tell you to avoid, its best to respect boundaries of some creatures.” He stood then, tossing a linen bag your way. Apparently done with the conversation he set off towards the woods, motioning for you to follow. It was possibly a bad time to tell him that you had no sense of direction.

Also, a very poor memory.

After what seemed like hours, a half-full bag (which was surprisingly hefty at this point, lovely of him to make you carry it) and far too many instructions for your brain to remember, you both broke into a small clearing with a single white birch in the center. It was the only birch you’d seen that day, standing proudly within a spotty patch of wildflowers. Heavy moss blanketing the bark and a decent sized hollow about chest height being the most prominent features you could see.

Your attention was drawn back to Otto as he rummaged though the pocket of his cloak, curiously pulling out a double pointed quartz.

“The moss on this tree has a decently concentrated amount of latent magic, a wonderful ingredient but only if you’re not greedy about harvesting. Only what you can pull off in one hand, once a week at most.” He held the gem out to you, warily you took it. “An exchange is also wise,” he motioned to the hollow before continuing, “something nice of course. If you offer up garbage, that’s what you get in return. I want you to place that in the tree and collect a sample of moss.”

“Uhh,” you rolled the quartz between your fingers, glancing between him and the tree “alright?”

Stepping up to the tree, you gently set the gem in the oddly dark hallow. It just sat there. Not sure why you thought anything wild would happen. With a mildly disappointed hum, you looked over the thick moss. Finding a suitable chunk right below a limb, you gently pry off a handful. To your surprise the broken moss edges had a brief bio-luminescent glow, much like a lightning bug.

“Neat!” You carefully set the moss in the bag, making sure it wouldn’t get crushed once you began walking again. Absentmindedly you raised a hand to the spot the moss was picked from and gave a gentle pat to the tree, whispering a fond “Thank you.”

Careful to avoid stepping on flowers, you went back to Otto’s side. He had a peculiar expression on his face.

“What? Did I do something wrong?” You asked quickly, looking back at the tree with a worried frown.

“Hm? No, no its--” he cut off with a small chuckle, “Its just that was very respectful for someone who steals vegetables in the middle of the night.”

“To be fair, you do have enough cabbages in that garden to feed an army.”

“You’re highly exaggerating, I think.” He pulled a small silver pocket watch from his cloak, glancing at the time before snapping the cover shut. “The lake is just ahead and its about lunchtime, I suppose. I did make a sandwich we could split if you’d like.”

“That sounds great! I honestly didn’t think we had been out that long.” You craned your head upwards to look at the treetops, speckled light made its way through the canopy here and there but you wouldn’t have guess it was afternoon already.

He nodded and set off towards the lake with you following closely behind. As insanely nervous as you were to start the day, it had ended up being quite nice. This had actually been the most you’ve talked to someone (and had that conversation be pleasant, at least) in a hot minute. Unfortunately, the initial meeting paired with what you’d overheard in town still had you on edge. Until he gave you a concrete reason to distrust him, you were determined to ignore those thoughts and have a nice time. Also someone that shares their sandwich can’t be all bad. After a few minutes walking in a comfortable silence, the trees broke to a rocky shoreline. You had seen the lake from a distance when on the long road a bit away, but up close the view was breathtaking. Fallen pine needles mixed with the soft sand and pebbles, mossy boulders dotting in and out of the water’s edge. The combination of cool lake air and shade from overgrowth made the temperature a bit chilly, but not unpleasant.

My god, there’s even ducks.

“I’m gonna sit on that big ol’ rock.” You exclaimed, rushing past Otto to scamper up the side of a relatively flat hunk of rock. Once situated you turned back and gave a small wave. To your absolute delight, one of the actuators waved back. He sent a fond smile your way, taking a seat next to you on your boulder throne. You ate the shared lunch while taking in the scenery, deeply enjoying the peaceful vibe.

Movement at the base of the rock drew your eye. One of the actuators had found a glass bottle, rolling it slightly with the delicate claw. Another that was curiously nearby suddenly bumped into the other, attempting to take the bottle like a jealous toddler. At the sudden jerk Otto turned his gaze to the scuffle, letting out a stern “Hey!” to end the moment.

“So, whats up with those dudes. Do you not fully control them?” The question slipped out before you could think, you’d been painfully curious since meeting him. The words seem to jolt him.

“In a way. When I’m not actively telling them to do things, they can either act on my subconscious or do as they wish.” He spoke carefully, looking out to the water. “I’m not sure how much you know of me. The actuators were a custom mishmash of spells to assist me, but after …complications, they became permanent.”

You picked at the skin of your thumb, not sure what to say.

“The gems in the center of the claws are enchanted by different magic users, the essence of them granting a sort of artificial intelligence. I’ve gotten them mostly under control these days. Though they can get to be a bit much still.” He trailed off with a tired sigh.

“I can’t even begin to think of the skill it took to achieve that.” The actuators seemed to react well to being talked about, one ghosting a touch near your arm. With a light touch you traced along the joints, marveling at the smooth yet intricate metal. Absentmindedly you rested your hands along the actuator as you turned to look at Otto. To your surprise he had been looking at the feathery exchange of contact.

“They were a bit of a hassle, yes.” Judging from his demeanor, he seemed relieved that you didn’t push further. He slid off the makeshift bench, holding his lower back with a grimace. The actuator retreated from your grasp and you followed its path for a moment, looking out to the lake where a few ducks swam.

“Alright, you lead the way back!” He exclaimed suddenly.

“HMM?” Your head whipped to him as he barked out a laugh, witnessing your very panicked expression.

“Don’t worry, we have all day. Surely your memory can’t be that bad.”

“Yes. My memory is in fact good and not at all bad.” Maybe you really should have said something about your poor navigation skills. Whoopsie.

#otto octavius #doc ock #otto octavius x reader #magic!ock au #dethwrites

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