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hiwelcometothemonstersancturary · 2 months

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And that's how you begin to heal (and stop Catnap and Mommy Long Legs from killing each other at the hospital)

You were hurt. Not just emotionally, of course, you were pretty much dead inside for more than ten years at this point, but you were physically what anyone could only describe as "devastated". Your back ached with carrying the grabpack around for the last four days or so, you had broken three bones in your right hand, your arms and legs had almost been torn off at least twice, and, of course, the nasty cut from almost getting impaled.

Frankly, it was a surprise that you didn't just collapse the moment the first ambulance arrived. But if you did, then your newfound kids would have panicked, and the Prototype would have been really, really mad if there was another conflict just when you all thought this nightmare was finally over.

You were gently cradling Poppy in your lap when you saw the ambulance lights in the horizon. You had tried to prepare yourself for this moment since the end of the confrontation with the Prototype, but your heart was still almost breaking out of your body with how fast it was beating. And yet, you kept a calm exterior. Comforted an anxious Dogday, let Bunzo also take shelter in your lap, much to Poppy's dismay, even tried to distract Mommy Long Legs with a joke or two.

The cops arrived first. You had put yourself between them and the group of toys, trembling from head to toe. You didn't exactly know what exactly they were going to do, but Catnap's sudden apparition behind you made some of them shiver.

You calmed down the big feline as you approached the authorities. "These guys were trapped inside the factory", you calmly communicated. "Playtime Co. made them as experiments. They're organic, very hurt, and starving. Please put your guns away unless you want to startle any of those kids".

The man you that approached you had his eyes glued on the group, who, in turn, was staring back. Your thoughts went racing to the idea of Mommy Long Legs deciding to attack them in order to protect you or herself, and you immediately just gave him the bag full of paperwork you had found on your journey. He stared at the first paper, then quickly looked at the others, then simply said:

"What the actual fuck did Playtime got themselves into...?"

"Maybe try to leave a bucket close to you. Some of the things they did won't be good for your stomach".

The cop ignored you. Then the ambulances arrived, and all hell broke lose as your last remains of sanity and calmness fought a war in order to not die from the idea of any of the toys you had just rescued ending up attacking a doctor. You came back to the group, gently begged them to be patient and to please trust the humans dressed up like doctors, and to please remember these ones were there to help, not hurt, and to please stick to each other.

Then a mini huggy tried to bite a nurse. You called out for the little guy, who simply shrugged and approached Kissy Missy, headbonking her and begging to be close to her as the strange humans surrounded you.

An hour and a half later and everyone was at the hospital, trembling and anxious, and you were stuck with Catnap and Mommy Long Legs.

"C'mon, big boy", you called for the feline. "You can do it. Just let the nurse help you!"

Catnap hissed, loud and angrily, at both you and the man with the lotion for burn treatment. Long Legs was sitting close by, eye twitching and a smirk on her face as she watched the two of you.

"Why not?!"

"I can survive. I felt worse", he told you, eyes never leaving the nurse. "Now leave".

"Theo, weren't you the one who told the Prototype it was time for us to live instead of just survive?"

Catnap then looked straight at you, looking very unhappy. The growled again before, finally, offering one of his paws for the nurse.

"Don't try to pull any tricks. I know all of them".

"Like playing dead?", Long Legs chuckled. "Like what you did to me?!"

"And now, look at where we are. I have merely lost part of my ear. You, on the other hand..."

You sighed as Long Legs got up from her chair, hand on her missing arm: "Are you sad because Mommy scared you? Booh, booh, Mommy is so scary, Prototype! Please, help me destroy Mommy!"

"I learned how to hunt. You learned how to throw a tantrum".

"And Mommy never had to call Daddy for help when she was hunting!"

"If you two keep on like this I'll undergo cardiac arrest"

The two toys stopped hissing at each other to instead stare at you with wide eyes. You made a "hmph" sound, pointing at your own bandaged chest in order to further prove the point.

"See? I'm all hurt in there! If you two don't let the nurses and doctors treat you, then I'll be the guy needing treatment".

"No, no, nononono!", Long Legs dramatically gestured a half "X" sign with her single arm, quickly going back to just sitting on her chair instead of being all spread out. "You'll see how much of an excellent patient Mommy is, don't worry! I'll show you a good example!"

"...", said Catnap, growling quietly to himself as the nurse was finally able to treat him. "... I remember you going into disiciplinary confinement more times than I ever did".

"W h a t ?", Long Legs asked.

Catnap stared at the window, tail anxiously twisting. You merely melted in your own chair, staring at the serum next to you as it was slowly trying to make your body feel better again. The nurse kept on with his job, and the TV kept on playing an episode of Pingu.

They even had disciplinary confinement, uh?, you thought, not impressed in the slightest, the memory of having to hold Long Legs in your arms so she would let the doctor examine her passing through your mind.

Catnap and MLL were now staring at the TV, little Pingu entertaining them. Poppy was asleep in another room with Bunzo, Kissy and Huggy, while both Miss Delight and Dogday were undergoing more serious medical procedures for their "conditions". The other toys were being examined, and, if everything went well, would soon return to you. And Prototype was doing his job back at the factory at making sure no one would find the how tos of transforming a person into a toy...

You closed your eyes, feeling true relief for the first time in your life.

Maybe, just maybe, after all of this was said and done, you could all live together as one big family. That was what Poppy suggested, at least, and the other toys seemed happy with the idea. And also maybe, also just maybe...

You could finally feel free from all this guilt

---

Oh, dear, this was harder to write than I thought, but it was a blast! I didn't proofread anything but I'm open for more requests regarding my own take on "Angel saves everyone"! And if you enjoyed this, please check out my commission info - it's all in my pinned post at ! garcavisconde! Thank you! <3

#poppy playtime #catnap #dogday #mommy long legs #poppy playtime au #save everyone au #poppy worldwide #my writing tag

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serenescribe · 2 months

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the once (and many) prince(s) Twisted Wonderland | 3.3k Summary: Silver is, has always been, and will always be, the crown prince of his kingdom. AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54424864 Collaboration with @ohsleepie | Potential spoilers for elements of Chapter 7

Hi everyone! @ohsleepie and I are back at it again with another collaboration based on his wonderful "The Prince and his Physician" AU! This fic is meant to act as a companion story of sorts to the Malleus-focused "the prince's physician," this time focusing on Silver within the AU! Once again, this fic features incredibly beautiful and amazing art drawn by Sleepie; please check him out and follow him, if you haven't already!

I hope you all enjoy!

The worst part of reincarnation, Silver thinks, is the constant cycle of relearning everything all over again.

Okay, perhaps it would be a bit of a stretch to call it the worst part. There are many negatives, many downsides, far too many to count, to being stuck in a loop of constantly dying and reincarnating. But this particular aspect is, in Silver’s honest opinion, one of the worst out of them all.

There is a bookshelf carved from expensive ebony that sits in his chambers, nestled against one side of the wall. There are several bookshelves in his room, but this is the only one that Silver ever uses, filled from top to bottom with centuries worth of journals — leather-bound books gilded with gold and silver, every detail immaculately painted and carved, the cover opening to expensive parchment made from calves. He tends to absentmindedly run a hand along the spines, eyes glazing over the muted leather colours, before plucking out a book, and reading it through.

Silver only lives a good seventeen years at best, always dying before crossing the pinnacle into adulthood. How much of those seventeen years consist of just… reading? There are, of course, his early years, where he is much too infantile to read and write. But he barely has a few years of reading simple children’s stories before the latest journal is pressed into his hands, and he is briefly explained about the details of his curse.

He pores over the words of those who came before him — the Silvers who came before him, his previous iterations, all dying to form the next one. Their handwriting ghost his own, not just similar but straight up identical, and if he stresses his brain hard enough, he can almost conjure up wispy, fading memories of putting a quill to paper, ink curling across the page in the same, sweeping cursive.

And yet, it is a necessity to read all of it, all over again. Because Silver remembers — but not enough.

His memories are shattered, like an ancient mirror that has been cracked right through the middle, fractured into thousands of tiny, individual pieces. It is akin to a kaleidoscope of lifetimes; when he gazes into this metaphorical mirror, a thousand Silvers stare back, each one reflecting his exact appearance, yet distinct and different in their own ways. And yet each piece is but a shard; Silver remembers only the smallest bits of each past life, the pieces coming together to form a jumbled jigsaw of sharp-edged recollections.

He has lived far too many lifetimes as Silver — the crown prince of his kingdom, the only living heir of their royal family. He has lived far too many lifetimes as a Silver — distinctly different with each rebirth, living a short number of years until the day he inevitably dies.

Silver is immortal, and yet he is not. He lives on as the royal, the prince, a beacon of hope—

But Silver the person changes, with each new looping cycle.

(And so he reads through their journals, no matter how much it exhausts him.)

Many a time, his gaze wanders to his bedroom window.

As the sole heir to the royal family, Silver resides in the largest chambers of the castle, a sprawling set of multiple rooms, from a drawing room to receive guests, to his private bedroom where he slumbers at night. What this also means is that he is privy to the best views of everything within his kingdom, from the area stretching across the castle grounds, to the rest of the kingdom beyond tall and guarded stone walls.

There are many things for him to peer at, but today, he is gazing at the soldiers’ barracks again. They have their own section of the castle, tucked out of the way, but Silver can view them from the sanctity of his study, a room where he pens his thoughts in his journal and reads through old ones.

The emotion that dwells within him is nigh imperceptible, difficult to describe. It feels as though someone has tied a rope around his ribcage, double-knotting it and pulling it tight before tugging at it, and pulling him forward. There are twinges and pangs that cross his heart, a hollow cavern yawning as his soul collapses into itself.

He feels this as he stares out the window at the soldiers training in their courtyard. His eyes fixate on the swords in their hands, at the way they slash and thwack their weapons against straw-stuffed training dummies. Occasionally, he will spot the soldiers gathering together, jumping and yelling as two of them spar with wooden swords, all of them oblivious to his peeping.

He wants this. He longs for this. He—

“Your majesty?”

Silver blinks. It takes him a split second, pulling himself out of his thoughts, shoving away the deep desires that permeate his heart, but he quickly turns around, eyes fixating on the familiar figure in the doorway.

“Malleus,” Silver greets, shoulders relaxing as a smile slips onto his face. Of course it is Malleus; there are few who have his explicit permission to enter without needing to knock, and his physician is one of them. He waves his hand, ushering him in. “How long have you been standing there? Come on in, take a seat wherever you’d like. And what have I said about the formalities?”

Malleus is here for another check-up, and Silver gladly acquiesces. He can think of no other person he trusts more with his very life and soul than Malleus himself. He allows the man to lead him through familiar routines, magic permeating his body as he searches for something Silver cannot see, before shifting to more physical methods of testing Silver’s health.

Still, as Malleus works in a near-silence, preferring to focus and get his duties done before they can relax and spend some time together, Silver cannot help his thoughts from wandering off again. His desires are not new; he has seen them expressed across multiple journals, scrawled in identical, curling scripts across expensive parchment. The desire to pick up a weapon, to learn to fight and defend, to learn how to wield a blade like a true prince — that is what he so desires.

But he is frail, and the council insists that he stays in, that he can learn to fight once they break the curse. So never, Silver thinks bitterly, eyelids slipping shut as he feels cold claws brush against his forehead. Never in this lifetime, and not while I’m alive.

Malleus is many things.

To the populace, he has many names, many signifiers, viewed in many different ways. He is a blessing and a curse, for his magic is by far the only thing that can cure their prince, but all of it comes at the cost of his very existence itself: A fae; a deplorable, wicked creature; a monster that is the very scum of the earth itself. The history of their kingdom is written in the blood of their ancestors, shed through grievous wounds inflicted by the sharp claws and gleaming maws of the fae that slaughtered them all.

To the nobles, the members of the council who govern over the kingdom in Silver’s stead, making decisions on his behest, Malleus is something they tolerate. They do not speak of what will happen after the curse is broken and Silver is cured, but Silver knows, from their whispers and sly glances, from the words penned by the others who came before him, that they wish for nothing more than to rid the world of the last of the wicked — not, and never, fair — fae.

Humans gaze upon Malleus with distrust, wariness, abject hatred.

But for Silver, Malleus is one simple thing alone.

To him, Malleus is his friend.

There are two distinct points in the history of Silver’s incarnations: Before Malleus, and After Malleus.

The difference is like night and day. The journals of before are dismal and depressing, imbued with a bone-deep loneliness that carried all the way through into the parchment pages, stained in the very ink used to scrawl thoughts across the pages. The Silvers of that time tried — truly, they did — to cling to hope, to believe in what their people believed: that one day, their prince would be freed from the shackles of his horrific curse.

But with the passing decades, the many years, the many Silvers that lived and died, they all seemed to suffer from the same truth: there was no cure in sight.

And then there was Malleus.

The guards found a young fae child today, lurking in the borders between what remains of the valley and the kingdom, his own handwriting reads, the parchment yellowed with age, the ink long-since dried. This, Silver knows, is the first point at which Malleus is mentioned, though not yet by name, tucked away in a notebook he recognises by the distinct fern-green colour of its cover. Even now, as I write this, I still cannot believe the abysmal state he was in upon meeting him. No child, whether human or otherwise, should have that many injuries on their body, and though I have had a stern word with those who found him, I fear for his safety.

He shall remain with me for the time being.

Though Silver does not have favourite journals — for such a concept is lost on him when all the journals are such a drag to read, recounting the day-to-day experiences of his past selves, a depressing fog seeming to permeate every page of words — this one is perhaps the closest one to such a concept. Because this journal is different — he clings to every word, phantom feelings of a fierce protectiveness flaring within him, as though this particular incarnation has stirred somewhere deep within him and seized his soul.

It is so painfully obvious how much his past self had cared for Malleus — taking care of him, granting him such patience and endless kindness, spending time with him teaching him the human tongue, of how to read and write. There is a page filled with endless delight upon learning the fae’s name, ink smudged together where the page reads Malleus. Their activities did not end at the crude essentials; there are sweeping recounts of games played together, of crayon drawings and delicious platters of sweet treats — and Silver aches when he reads every word of it, possessed by a longing to return to those simpler times, when Malleus was not his physician, and was merely his friend.

And this care is made so apparent by the last few pages, the cursive made shaky by the cold, approaching winds of Death. To the next Silver, it reads, take care of Malleus. If there is any hope of breaking this curse that ails me, it lies within the powers of the fair folk. And yet, the rest of the page is filled with sentiments, rather than explaining how Malleus is the key to breaking the curse:

I wish this could last forever, these sweet days of playing together. For much of my life, I have been haunted by a bleak loneliness, isolated by my circumstances, and haunted by the weight of all our pasts. I have never had any companions my age, and I know from my readings that all of my predecessors shared the same lonely fate. To indulge in such fleeting luxuries, to have someone to speak to as though we were on the same level, intimately so— it is a happiness unlike anything I have ever felt before.

Blotchy circles stain the pages, the ink smeared in places.

Things may be different from now on. I understand that the council wishes for him to begin his work when the next cycle begins. And it is with that knowledge that I must remind the next Silver: Malleus may be our physician, and he may be tasked with breaking our curse—

But before that, before any of that, he is our friend.

Never forget that, for as long as we may live.

“Thank you for joining me today.”

Wispy trails of steam rise from two cups of tea, sitting in elegant saucers. Before Silver, and in the middle of the round tea table, is a small spread of sweet delicacies: scones accompanied by small glass jars of jam; finger sandwiches, some filled with goat’s cheese and roasted pepper, others filled with cucumber and salmon; and a small, round cake, tiny enough that it’s perfect for just the two of them.

“Of course,” Malleus replies, his voice smooth as usual. He raises his head slightly, slitted-eyes roaming over the tea-time spread before them, before he dips his head. “I thank you for the invitation, your majesty.”

“We have been over this many times, Malleus,” Silver says, unable to hide the exhaustion that spills into his voice. “You need not refer to me by such formalities.”

He knows why Malleus does so, of course. The answer is written across several different journals — It is difficult for him to reacquaint himself with us in each new cycle, and I truly cannot blame him. How alienating must it be, to witness someone you grow close to, time and time again, look upon you with no familiarity in his eyes? There is another reason too, though one of mere speculation, for Malleus has never confessed the truth by his own tongue — Earlier today, I witnessed a council member chide Malleus for regarding me with such familiarity during our meeting. I do wonder if this may be another factor into those needless formalities.

Thankfully, Malleus always obliges whenever Silver asks this of him — though whether it is because Silver is his prince, or because Silver is his friend, he never knows. “Is there any occasion for this meeting, Prince Silver?” Malleus asks, as Silver beckons for him to help himself, unwilling to dig in first when the fae’s eyes are flickering over the food, glinting with hunger. I wonder if he has forgotten to eat again, Silver thinks. Malleus carries over a scone and a sandwich with his utensils, leaving the cake intact. “Not that I mind it, by any means; it is always a pleasure to spend time with you.”

“There is no special occasion,” Silver answers, finally reaching for the spread as Malleus cuts into his meal. “I… only wished to spend time with my friend.”

Their relationship is a strange, tenuous thing. There is undoubtedly a bond there, from the way that Silver always feels so safe and secure in Malleus’ presence, and the gentle way that Malleus treats him, always appearing whenever Silver calls for him. There are even some rare occasions where the facade of dutiful physician slips, a careful veneer crafted for the sake of survival in the court, and Silver relishes those times, watching as Malleus’ expression sours, the stinging barbs that spit from his mouth more endearing than his usual regal elegance.

But all the same, compared to the earlier journals after Malleus’ appearance, filled with much more warmth and life — even as he learnt his role, Malleus would still happily chat with those Silvers, accept his offers to play games, spend the night with him on many occasions — there is a gap between them now. Driven by age, driven by time, and driven by the eternal, scathing judgement of the many humans of this kingdom, who cycle in and out of life and death, but are all fuelled by the same spiteful hatred and prejudice, taking it out on the only fae they know.

Still, Silver tries his best. He knows Malleus does too.

He sees it in the way the fae’s shoulders relax, expression smoothing out at the edges. “In that case,” Malleus says, after a moment’s pause, “let us indulge. How have you been lately… Silver?”

It is a good day for the two of them, Silver reflects. They drink their cups of tea and drain the pot of its excess drink, and the tray of delicacies are filled with nothing but crumbs by the time they’re done.

Even the cake, a dessert regarded with conflicting feelings by Malleus, is finished by the end of it. For once, Malleus eats his slices with a small smile, both their forks scraping the bottom of the plate as they help themselves to their fill.

Death no longer scares him, unlike everyone else. Death, in its own way, is a comfort, an inevitability: Silver knows he will reach his demise at the same time, at the same age. Very few people can ever be privy to such knowledge, going through their lives not knowing if they will pass on at age fifteen or fifty.

In that vein, what does it matter if Silver chooses to speed up the process?

He is not allowed proper access to weaponry. The council states that it is because there is no need for him to pick up a blade when he has guardsmen patrolling the halls around his room at all times, but Silver knows better. This is not the first time he has longed to die earlier than he usually does; he can count the other occasions on two of his hands, based on cryptic journal endings dated months earlier than they usually do.

To an extent, a part of him wonders what the point of it is. He will die, inevitably; why inflict such pain and suffering if he knows he’s going to come back? What is the point of it all?

The point, Silver tells himself, is that there isn’t one. He’ll always come back. He’ll always return — and so why should he languish and rot in his bed as his body slowly gives out on him? Why waste those months feeling his muscles weaken and his grasp on reality slip?

Why not do everyone the honour of ending it early, ending it now?

(The silver blade of the dagger, requested from some rookie soldier who knows no better than to deny this particular request from the prince, is cold against the flesh covering his heart.)

Silver is so, so tired. His life is stagnant, unchanging; he lives and he dies the same person, the same name, the same cursed prince of the same bloody kingdom, every childhood filled with days of reading the same handwritten journals signed with the same, stupid name.

When will he be allowed to rest? The weight of a legacy, the weight of his people’s hopes and dreams, drag him down, like impossibly heavy weights that are shackled to his limbs, pulling and pulling until he’s flat against the ground. He never asked for this — and god, it’s so selfish to even think of that, but it’s true.

Nobody ever thinks about him, Silver the person. They are only ever concerned with Silver the prince, Silver their saviour.

Except—

A memory flashes to mind, unbidden — of twisting, dark horns and raven-spun hair, and slitted green eyes that crinkle at the corners as he smiles at him.

(His hands tremble.)

Malleus.

The name fills him with an ache. If there is anything Silver can take comfort in as he straddles the line between life and death, it is simply that Malleus will always be there. Malleus is a constant throughline throughout Silver’s life, and while Silver may ebb and flow, weaving in and out of the many, many years of a fae’s long lifespan, Malleus will always be there.

And though the thought of that face, rendered a child once more in its shock and sadness, causes his chest to knot itself with hesitance and reluctance, Silver steadies himself.

The humans may come and go, live and die, but Malleus will always remain.

(And the blade plunges down.)

#my writing tag #writing collaborations #twst #twisted wonderland #twst fanfiction #twst writing #malleus draconia #twst silver #the prince and his physician au #once again it was an absolute delight to be able to collab w sleepie on this!#i really do love this au so i'm so happy to get to write something for it

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critrolesideblog · 11 months

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Essek sat on the floor in the center of the Nein-Sided Tower laboratory. Papers crammed with arcane equations were spread about him in a semicircle, and the slate wall before him contained diagrams and notes copied from the fragile pages of a mostly-destroyed Aeorian spellbook.

"Oh, boy." Caleb had appeared in the doorway, returned from his quest of retrieving possible spell components from his bedroom. He was grinning with the sort of delight most typically seen on the faces of children who'd just received a gift. "Are we shifting into floor mode?"

"It seemed appropriate." Essek grinned back at him as he set the satchel of components down on a nearby table and waved his hands back and forth through the air excitedly. It was a habit Essek found endearing in the extreme. His enjoyment in puzzling over Caleb's subtler body language not-withstanding, his hand-waving was like a brightly-painted sign that said HAPPY and EXCITED.

He turned his focus back to the challenge in front of him as Caleb began carefully tip-toeing his way around the papers. The spell in question sent its target into a maze in a demiplane. Essek supposed it could have practical uses under the correct circumstances, but really it excited them simply because it was, well, fun. The demiplane foundations had been a wonderfully engaging brain teaser to solve, but the randomization of the maze was proving to be a much more complex bit of arcana. And complex arcana simply made more sense on the floor.

He was certain the fragment on the upper right corner of page twelve of the spellbook held the key to the puzzle. He copied it neatly onto a fresh piece of paper and considered it. It took some time before he noticed Caleb was watching him in his periphery rather than examining the equations on the ground, a soft smile on his face.

"What?"

"This thing you do when you're thinking hard," Caleb replied after a moment, tapping his fingers on his chin in demonstration. Essek's own fingers stuttered to a halt. He had long ago trained his hands to find other, less-obtrusive outlets for their energy when not in the comfort of his own home, but this time he had not caught himself. Before he could apologize, however, Caleb continued. "It … It's cute." There was a hint of bashfulness to the way he turned his head back towards the papers on the ground that, combined with the lingering boyish excitement, made him look as young as he was.

"Cute?" Asked Essek, once his senses returned to him. "I do not think I have been called cute in a hundred years, if that."

"I find that hard to believe. We were calling you 'hot boi' within an hour of meeting you."

"Well, 'hot,' certainly. Handsome. Sexy, perhaps." This earned him a grin from Caleb, and he tapped his fingers against his chin as he thought it over. "Hmm, not cute, though, no. At least, not to my face."

"I will have to add being the first to do so to my list of accomplishments."

Both grinning, they turned their focus back to the puzzle at hand. They settled into a comfortable silence broken only by the tapping of fingers and the scratching of quill against paper, until a solution struck Essek like a lightning bolt.

"We need to apply Petjyre's Possibility Theorem!"

Caleb was already in motion reaching for the nearest piece of chalk. "Ja, ja, and we can apply Wysaric's rune to stabilize the containment field."

And off they went.

#might I interest you in a little neurodivergent-nerds-in-love fluff this morning?#WIP wednesday in that I wrote this instead of working on my WIP #shadowgast #essek thelyss #caleb widogast #my writing tag #I hope the wizardly jargon at the end is sufficiently ridiculous 😌

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dreamersbcll · 8 months

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thinking about sam teaching tara how to jump into the big kid’s pool.

tara, only seven years old and her hair in pigtails, shivering at the shallow end. her big sister sam stands tall, her arms out and ready for tara to jump.

“come on, honey. jump! i’ve got you!”

ever the skeptic, tara stands there, her hands balled up.

“i can’t, i’m scared!”

sam laughing, splashing water around. “i’m right here, i’ve got you. i promise!”

and tara, the force behind her knocking both sisters flat into the water. sam gets up first, holding tara to her chest like she was swaddling a baby. sam braces herself for the tears she’s expecting. instead, tara’s just looking up at her, grinning wildly.

it dawns on sam that tara truly trusts her, no matter what.

so when sam is holding her sister over the balcony, their hands slick with blood, she’s brought back to the pool. except now her sisters begging her to let her go.

and now it’s sam’s turn to trust tara, no matter what.

#scream #sam carpenter #tara carpenter #carpenter sisters #my writing tag #just talkin

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krikeymate · 1 year

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Enid laments her lack of pack after another row with her mother. Wednesday promises her that she shall always have a pack, and pulls her out their room. Wednesday drags her into the trees, and Enid is a little confused, but she’s still reeling from the intensity of Wednesday’s words, waving at Eugene as they pass the hives. Enid smiles to herself, and yeah, maybe she doesn’t have a traditional pack, but she has a pack.

They stop, Wednesday whistles. 30 seconds pass in silence.

“Wednesday wha-”

In the blink of an eye, they’re surrounded. Enid stiffens, adrenaline rushes through her, claws and fangs escape with a snick.

Wednesday turns, hands clasped in front of her. “A pack. For you.”

“Wednesday, what the fuck.”

Enid eyes the wolves surrounding them cautiously. 9 of them, all a variety of size, shape, and colour. A close look reveals hidden injuries, small patches of missing fur, scars glinting in the light.

“You’ll find them to be a much more intelligent conversation than your previous pack.”

“Wednesday. What. The. Fuck.”

Wednesday appears visibly confused, brow furrowing. As if this is an entirely normal and reasonable situation.

“You wanted a pack. Behold, a pack.”

Enid startles as one nudges her leg, sniffing curiously. Snapping her eyes back to Wednesday desperate to know what to do, she’s startled by the sight in front of her. Wednesday is petting one, as two others rub against her and another flops down at her feet.

She turns back to the wolf and slowly reaches out, relaxing when she isn’t immediately ravaged. The wolf begins to wag its tail as she scritches its ears and Enid finds herself smiling. Ok, so this was a little cute.

- 🐺 -

“Wait, there are no actual wolves in Jericho, where did they come from?”

“Oh I bought them with me from home.”

“Wednesday, what the fuck.”

#/mp #my writing tag #Wednesday Netflix #Wenclair #I just think Wednesday should have a little pack of wolves. For shits and giggles.#she rescues injured ones and nurses them back to health #she saw enid talk about how she couldn't wolf out and was like ah. another one for the collection.

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kermit-coded · 2 months

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"I love you," Fabian admits helplessly. "Um, romantically, that is."

Riz flinches, like Fabian just slapped him. "Please don't say that, because I don't- I can't feel that way. About you, or anyone. It would've been you, I think, if it was going to be anyone."

Fabian's throat feels thick and his stomach churns. "I see," he says, and he sounds small.

"You're my best friend," Riz says helplessly, "And, like, it is different, with you. You are... different. But it's not that. It's not love." He glances over at Fabian. "Please say something. I- you're really fucking important to me, okay? I wish I could feel the same way. I wish I could make you happy."

#snippet from my qpr fabriz fic #my writing tag #fabriz #fabian seacaster #fabian aramais seacaster #riz gukgak #fantasy high #fh #d20

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cherry-flavoured-thot · 2 years

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“You’re drunk.” “And in love, please give me your number.” “We’re dating.” Would love to see it with mammon

❤️Prompt List❤️

Your night was pretty uneventful, to the point that you were about to just crawl into bed. Only to get a text from Levi. "Please come get your boyfriend, he's wasted and trying to find your room but keeps knocking on my door LOL." And out of bed you go to go retrieve Mammon whose drunkenly stumbling around.

"There you are human! Listen I got somethin' to tell ya." He's leaning onto the wall with every other step to make his way over to you. "It's important." When he gets close, you stand next to him, letting him put some of his weight onto you instead.

"Okay." You have no idea what he's going to say. Especially when he's taking a deep breath and seems to be giving himself an internal pep talk before speaking again.

"I'm in love with you." To which you laugh, much to his confusion.

"Mammon, you're drunk."

"And in love, please give me your number.” He tries again, making you laugh even harder.

“We’re dating.” You eventually say, and he almost falls over in surprise.

"Wait actually?"

"Uh huh. We have been for months now." His eyes are wide as he tries to remember when this occurred.

"Really?"

"Yep."

"How'd I manage that?"

"You tell me."

"Nah there's no way. You're just so, perfect." You laugh again, shaking your head as you start to guide him to bed and his steps are all wobbly. Wondering as more compliments to you fall out of him in drunken rambles, if he'll even remember all this in the morning.

He does. He very much does. Sending you pleading messages when he eventually crawls out of bed to never bring this up again.

#cherry's fruit infused prompt list #mammon #om mammon #mammon om #obey me mammon #mammon obey me #mammon x reader #obey me #obey me x reader #om!#om x reader #obey me swd #obey me one master to rule them all #my writing tag

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15minlatewithbatbucks · 10 months

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Clark: You know, sometimes I wish I had more children like you do, Bruce.

Lois, sighing heavily because one alien pregnancy was enough for her: Clark-

Bruce: No, Lois, I've got this. You want more children, Clark?

Clark: Uh.

Bruce, calling over his shoulder: Hey, Dickie... Just wondering, did you ever give your brother back his Superman autograph?

Jason: What. Wait, what?

Dick: It was, hold on, hold on! Don't be mad.

Jason, advancing aggressively: You stole my shit- You stole a DEAD BOY'S superhero memorabilia?

Dick: It was to remember you by.

Jason: WELL I'M SURE YOU REMEMBER ME PLENTY NOW, GIVE IT BACK.

Dick: You don't even want it! You haven't once asked about it or-

Jason, throwing himself at Dick: BUT IT'S MINE!

Bruce, to Lois and Clark: Do you need another demonstration?

Clark: Ah, no...

Lois: Yes.

Bruce: I thought so. Tim!

Tim: I've done nothing you can prove.

Bruce: Oh, I know. Did you get your camera back?

Tim: My what.

Bruce: Damian had it out in the garden, playing with the settings earlier and I just wanted to know if he put it back.

Tim, stalking away: I'll skin him, I really will this time.

Bruce: Don't do it in front of Jon!

Bruce, to Lois and Clark: You know what, I can give one of them to you if you change your mind.

#tim drake #dick grayson #jason todd #bruce wayne #lois lane #my writing tag #batfamily #clark kent

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museaway · 3 months

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prompt: in another life

MDZS modern AU, xiyao. References a canonical death.

The sword plunges through his chest and he wakes gasping.

“What's wrong?” Xichen mumbles from the adjacent pillow.

Although Xichen's skin is hot where he touches it, Meng Yao shivers.

“Nightmare.”

“No more horror before bed.”

Xichen's arms engulf him. Against Meng Yao’s ear, his heart beats. Beats.

“I asked you to die with me," he whispers.

“It's only a dream, baby.”

But Meng Yao inhales the earthy damp of an ancient temple, and within another Xichen's eyes, fixed on him at the far end of the sword, sees regret. An unspoken yes.

Unseen, Meng Yao smiles into the dark.

#'i'll make this happy' i thought and then didn't really #xiyao #my writing tag #drabble #microfiction #mdzs drabble #ficwip drabble challenge

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carmenlire · 11 months

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rewatching the first episode of bloodhounds and the instant connection between gunwoo and woojin has struck me all over again! I adore that gunwoo just genuinely loves boxing. This hobby-turned-passion may have started to protect his mother but it’s something he finds such solace and joy in. He truly embodies the heart-of-a-boxer mentality that he mentions on the rooftop.

You can see gunwoo be a little taken aback at the showmanship of woojin. I’d like to put a little bit of intrigue there too because it’s so different to his own serious, by-the-book style. And then after the match, when gunwoo is waiting outside the locker room and his puppy energy is just off the charts!!! he says that everyone else left :( but I think he secretly he was just waiting for woojin. And he is so eager and woojin is just staring at this kid like what the fuck? shouldn’t he be annoyed at this rookie who KO’d him? but nah how could he be when it’s so glaringly obvious that the kid loves boxing for boxing’s sake and he’s such a sweetheart.

so they get dinner!! at the barbecue buffet!! and it’s at this part that woojin’s interest is well and truly piqued. He wants to know more about gunwoo and his rapid-fire questions are his way of getting the information. the two of them bond and i gotta love sangyi’s and dohwan’s chemistry because you can literally see their friendship come together, that bond unbreakable.

And then the next morning! I could write an entire thesis about that first morning after the match! Gunwoo immediately calls his new friend woojin and woojin answers and even when he’s so tired and he doesn’t understand just why gunwoo would go to the gym, he still picks up the phone and his little amused-- and already so fond!!!!-- “gosh, you’re so clingy in the morning” is immediately nullified whenever he tells gunwoo to come over!

and i love that woojin rapidly and without missing a beat understands and reworks his potential first impression of gunwoo. you can literally see him decide that “idk how this kid has managed this long without me but now i’m here and i’m not letting anything hurt him.”

and just the moments later-- their married couple ass bickering the second time they go to the buffet with hyunju before they are once again a united front as they both bicker with her!

the montage after the devastation of Episode Six-- the way gunwoo so totally loses it all, his driving need to save his hyung, the way he carried woojin’s drunk ass to bed the night before (and if i hc that woojin wasn’t as drunk as it showed? that maybe there’s a conversation that happens in that moment?). his sheer relief. the way that in the wake of everything falling to pieces, they have each other and nothing will ever come between them-- the way they’re stronger than ever.

and don’t even get me started on their time in the granddaughter’s apartment?! it’s so obvious??? the way she tells them not to be creepy old men and they’re so confused but as soon as they realize what she’s alluding to, their faces wrinkle in disgust and they’re like “lmao wtf absolutely not u don’t have to worry about that” the way they’re talking one morning and??? they don’t realize she’s in the room???? and that’s because she was ON THE TOP BUNK AND THAT NECESSARILY MEANS THAT THEY SHARED THE BED ON THE GROUND FLOOR BECAUSE HOW ELSE WOULD THEY NOT KNOW SHE SLEPT THERE??????????????

#i'm going to write a fic and it's going to be titled the heart of a boxer #i want to see them in those quiet moments of the show #i want to see them happy and secure post canon #i KNOW that gunwoo's mom sees more than she lets on and she's very happy for her son #they get married idc and the granddaughter makes a joke that she knew all along #i wanna see woojin get jealous of someone flirting with gunwoo bc his man is so oblivious #i want to see them with kids #they make a nice little fortune boxing for a few years #and the rich guy i forget his name #he gave them a lot more money than the show said #and they keep that connection #because him and his cousin weren't kidding when they were drunk and said they have to take care of these kids #man i love woojin and gunwoo #bloodhounds #bloodhounds kdrama #my writing tag #fic ideas

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capseycartwright · 5 months

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to be irish is to leave -

i know this, i’ve always known this. i was raised on stories of emigration and of new dreams: american, english, australian, dreams of a house of your own, cities bigger than anyone could imagine, a career you’d never get to have at home. the songs sung at the end of the night in cosy pubs were always lamenting - songs grieving those who left and never returned, songs that told stories of what it means to be irish: to leave, to build a new life elsewhere, and to still be irish at your very core. because we leave, we do, but we never shake off our irishness, finding community in corners of the world filled with other irish people, thousands of miles from home but finding solace amidst your loneliness with the neighbour who grew up ten miles down the road.

it’s no country for women - that’s what they used to say, why they left. it’s no country for young people, now. we say it, over and over - with your family, as they welcome you home for christmas. with your friends, over christmas pints, the conversation always turning to emigration - she’s left too, you know, to sydney, and there’s a gang of them in london, and he’s gone to canada. our hometown is quiet now, a generation emigrating all over again. they say that leaving is in our blood but it’s not there out of a joy travel and a desire to see the world - not just that, at least. no, no, leaving is in our blood because this country we love so deeply doesn’t love us back.

this country raised me - the green fields and rolling hills and waves crashing against the shore are all embedded deep in my DNA, the very core of who i am. this country raised me, it shaped me, it’s one of the biggest parts of who i am - irish, i say, when i’m asked when i’m from, even though i haven’t lived here since i was 22, even though i have built a life in another country and i don’t know if i see myself coming back. we all feel it - raised to so fiercely love a country that doesn’t love us back. “i’ll never afford a house here.” “i didn’t think i’d be living with my parents this close to 30.” “it costs too much to build a life here.” “if i want my dream job - i have to go.”

i have to go, i have to go, i have to go - i knew this from the moment i settled on a dream: a career i could never pursue in ireland the motivation behind the one way ticket i booked all those years ago. i love this country - we all do. i fought for the betterment of this country, i marched and i led campaigns and i voted over and over for a better future for the country i love so dearly: and still, i ended up standing in the airport, suitcases in hand, and i got on a plane and left. because to be irish is to leave - and so i left. i left, and built a life elsewhere, gave that love and passion to another place, and the ache for ireland lessens, day by day, but i still ache for home, ache to be able build a life in the land i love so much.

ireland will always welcome you home, is the thing - with wide open arms, and a bright smile. this year marked the seventh christmas i arrived home to a choir, to news cameras, to a rapturous reception of carols and clapping, strangers happy to see ireland’s children return home. ireland will always welcome us home - but she waves us off just as enthusiastically. january comes and the airport is full again - tearful goodbyes, suitcases of presents and all the home comforts you never learned to live without, and the plane always leaves: taking you back to the place you’ve built your new life, ireland in the rearview mirror.

you learn to live with the homesickness, rugby matches in irish bars and monthly drinks with familiar accents a salve for the part of your heart that will always ache for home: because to be irish is to leave, yes, but to be irish is to leave and to always long to come home to ireland’s shores. and to be irish is to know you might never come home at all.

#in which i ramble #me and my complicated feelings about emigration are back #my writing tag #complicated feelings i say as if anger isn’t the clear emotion in this

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serenescribe · 6 months

Note

I’ve been infected with the fever of Lilia’s bats adopting Silver as their non-bat pup, and it’s adorable! I suppose this is just me asking to see Lilia seeing his bats chitter and nuzzle Silver as a child or as a teenager. Whichever you prefer~!

[✐] ficlet frenzy

“Silver? Siiilver?”

No response. Lilia sighs, hands resting on his hips. Now where could his son be at this time of the day?

He’d just returned home after a trip to the market, and had called out Silver’s name in hopes of hearing a sleepy response and the soft pattering of feet before his son emerged at the front door. But today, he heard nothing.

And so Lilia had glanced around the house, leaving the groceries in the kitchen in favour of checking every nook and cranny of their little cottage. At the very least, he can still sense Silver’s presence somewhere, even if he can’t find him. Perhaps he’s playing a game of hide and seek? It’s a distinct possibility, Lilia supposes.

He comes up empty-handed until he tries the one room he had saved for last, for no reason outside of the fact that he can’t think of any explanation why Silver would be in there. With a flick of his wrist, the door to Lilia’s bedroom creaks open, the doorknob turning with the help of magic, and…

“Ah,” Lilia says, as he looks into his room.

He understands now why Silver couldn’t reply. Because Silver had been preoccupied.

Dozens of his bats — those sneaky little rascals! — surround Silver, chittering and flapping their wings at Lilia as he steps into the room. Lilia scoffs, rolling his eyes as he approaches the bed his son lays on. “Don’t give me that attitude,” he lectures, even as the bats huddle closer to the slumbering human boy, pressing against his neck and shoulders, clinging to his clothes and hair. Lilia squints, peering closer. “Did you cover his ears?!”

One of his bats — the largest of the group, and the boldest one, who always makes a habit of clinging to Silver even when Lilia chases the others off — squeaks out a response. Lilia folds his arms, lips twisting into a pout. “I told you, you cannot hoard him for yourself!” Another protesting whine. “‘Why not?’” Lilia echoes. “Oh, for the love of— we’ve been over this already! You can have your quality time with Silver, but you cannot hoard him like this! How heavy do you think you all are, hm, crowding him like that?”

The bats do not seem to care. Bastards, Lilia sulks, tapping his foot against the ground as they nuzzle into Silver, continuing to strategically cover his ears with the thin membrane of their wings in order to stop him from waking at the sound of his father’s voice.

Of course his pesky familiars don’t give a damn. They know the real reason why Lilia keeps fending them off — a deep-rooted jealousy that feels pathetically childish to admit, hidden under the guise of whatever excuse Lilia can think of on the spot.

“You win this time,” Lilia grumbles, throwing his hands up in defeat. “But mark my words, if you make Silver miss dinnertime again, I swear—”

The bats chirp back their protests, and Lilia’s voice pitches.

“You have no RIGHT to criticise my culinary skills when you can’t even COOK!”

#my writing tag #tumblr drabbles tag #ficlet frenzy #twst #twisted wonderland #twst writing #twst fanfiction #lilia vanrouge #twst silver #and this is the last of the first batch of ficlet frenzy!#from here on out it's all new reqs #lets hope i've gotten started on them by the time this post goes up... drafting in advance #hi future me i hope you're not dying as bad

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critrolesideblog · 7 months

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A little ficlet inspired by this post by @thevalleyisjolly

"Welcome home, dear."

Essek glided across the threshold with his usual grace. He let his disguise of warm, brown skin and small, rounded ears fall away with his cloak as he placed it on his usual hook with a well-practiced flourish. His hands found to their usual places on Caleb's neck and waist, grasping firmly as he pulled him in for a kiss. But Caleb noted there was something unusual about him. More than his usual happiness and relief at arriving safely, there was bright delight twinkling like stars in his eyes and a smile peeking out from the corners of his lips.

"I have gossip," he announced, breaking into a proper grin, and Caleb laughed.

"Ach, I should have known."

Essek's grin only widened as their hands interlaced and they began the ascent up the stairs to the bedroom that housed the tower entrance.

"During the lunch break at the symposium, conversation at my table turned to the unfortunate absence of a certain Zemnian transmutation specialist."

"Oh, boy."

"What's-her-name heard he took down the Cerberus Assembly single-handed, and so-and-so was hoping to gain a glimpse of Widogast's Transmogrification. And didn't you know, one Xalser Tecklaras heard Professor Widogast was quite handsome as well as an excellent speaker! Handsome in a roguish sort of way, so-and-so heard! What a pity! Tecklaras was hoping to make his acquaintance! Did anyone know if he was married?"

Caleb could feel his cheeks starting to redden. Essek's grin turned mischievous with a quick flash of fang as he watched Caleb's reaction sidelong.

"Of course, I heard that Professor Widogast has quite the history of romantic entanglements -- lovers of all variety seen entering and exiting his home --"

"Oh my gods."

"And one, Professor Talib, was only too happy to verify my account! She heard much the same from Archmage Becke of Rexxentrum."

Caleb paused before the tower door to roll his eyes and sigh long-sufferingly. What happens when you get a bunch of wizards in one place? They gossip like Schulkinder.

"Ah, but Professor Ieteru saved the best for last," Essek leaned in closely, eyes ablaze. He was squeezing Caleb's hand tightly, and his dimples were showing as he smiled widely, lit by the arcane glow of the door. "She heard from someone in Yios, who heard from someone in Emon, who heard from someone in Nicodranas, that Professor Widogast is not human at all, but actually… a dragon."

Caleb stared, mouth agape.

"W--was?"

"That is not even the best part," Essek gasped, sweet laughter dancing through his words. "Most of the other professors agreed!" He leaned forward, closing the small gap between them, resting his head against Caleb's shoulder as he struggled to stay upright, his body shaking with mirth. "The point of contention was not whether you were a dragon, but what sort of dragon you were! Ieteru insisted gold, Talib, white, and Tecklaras, blue!"

Caleb stood there a moment, alternating between shocked processing of this new information and savoring his lover's closeness.

"Well, what did you say to that?" He asked at last.

Essek straightened, his smile positively wicked.

"I told them I knew for a fact the correct color was copper."

#shadowgast #essek thelyss #caleb widogast #my writing tag

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dreamersbcll · 8 months

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I think I’m finally clean

- a piece for myself; an ode to one year sober

——————————————————————————

Sam didn’t know how to bring it up. It was the elephant in the room, the weight on her chest. The anxiety pressed down on her lungs, making breathing hard. The worst part is, it was good news that she couldn’t get out.

One year. One whole year of sobriety. No drugs, no drinks, no bars. Just walking the straight and narrow and keeping her nose clean.

It was the most exhaustive thing Sam had ever willingly done.

She knew this was a significant accomplishment- hell, a major victory- but she couldn’t quite believe it. None of it felt tangible or even remotely meaningful. Sam knows that she worked hard to achieve this. Why couldn’t she accept that she had done a good thing?

Perhaps it was the guilt. The hot shame that sat in her throat, burning holes each time she spoke the truth. Getting clean and sober was a good thing, especially since she did it for herself only. But good things weren’t in her favor. She had quite the track record for screwing up.

Yet despite all her efforts to self-sabotage, she was here, in a shitty folding chair in a dingy room, waiting to announce her anniversary to a bunch of strangers. In a way, it was poetic, Sam Carpenter, the sinner, confessing once again for her own personal crimes.

But everyone had their own demons and reasons to be, and Sam was just a tiny voice in a very large crowd.

That’s what she told herself anyway.

“Alright! Anyone else want to share?” chirped the chairperson. Sharon, maybe.

Sam holds her breath, willing everyone to stay quiet. She was bursting to share and needed to before she exploded into a million half-assed apologies and used bottle caps.

Thankfully, everyone heard her silent prayers and stayed quiet.

Clapping her hands together, Sharon spoke with hope. “Okay. Does anybody have an anniversary to celebrate?”

Immediately, Sam’s hand shot up, refusing to be ignored. Smiling, Sharon beckoned Sam to the podium.

Now, Sam Carpenter wasn’t a stranger to speaking to mirrors, and this crowd of people wasn’t any different. Reflected to Sam was her, all of her, in other bodies and life stories. Once an addict is always an addict, the addiction runs deep in their veins.

Breathing out, Sam began.

“Hi, I’m Sam. I’m one year clean today, and I'd like to share a story with you all,” she huskily said, her voice thick with emotion.

Her reflection nodded back to her, and so she began.

——

“Sammy.”

Looking up from her sketchbook, Sam raised an eyebrow at her little sister. Tara was lying across her feet, her little head on Sam’s ankles. Instead of playing with her toys or reading her big-girl chapter books, Tara was staring at the ceiling, her brow furrowed.

“What’s up, honey?” Sam mused, putting down her colored pencil.

Tara chewed on her lip, a worried frown on her face. Her baby sister was wise for her age, but even though Tara was a little too astute for a seven-year-old, she was still that—a child. Sam was constantly reminded that she was raising a sensitive child, even if she was quiet and careful.

Sam reached her arms out, beckoning Tara to her. Her little sister scrambled up, immediately crashing into Sam’s arms. She grunted a bit at the force Tara managed to construe but still held her little girl close.

“Oof. Hey baby. What’s going on? Are you okay?” she murmured, kissing her hair.

Her little sister just shuddered, eyes fluttering shut at the kiss. “Sammy, I don’t want to be like mommy,” she whimpered, wiggling deeper into Sam’s ribs.

Pausing, Sam let the words roll through her brain. This wasn’t the conversation she expected. She should’ve known Tara picks up on more than she realizes.

“Well, what do you mean, baby?”

Tara shrugged. “She’s mean. And loud. And when she drinks, she hurts us. I don’t wanna be mean. Will I be mean?”

As if all the oxygen was sucked from the room, Sam breathed deeply. Of course, Tara would pick up on Christina’s careless alcoholism. She was too intelligent and intuitive for her own good

Sam hummed. “No baby, you won’t be like her. You won’t be mean. You will be good, I know it,” she soothed, rubbing circles on Sam’s back.

Her little sister sniffled a bit. “Will you be mean like mommy?” she softly asked, her voice barely registering above a whisper.

Her body stiffened, her back ramrod straight. She was only twelve, but she knew her mom wasn’t any good. Christina was a liar and a cold-hearted manipulator. She didn’t care, and she took what she pleased, offering nothing in return. Sam would never be like her.

“No. I will not be mean like her. I won’t let myself or you follow her steps. Okay? I’ve got us. I promise,” she sharply said.

Tara jerkily nodded against Sam, holding onto fistfuls of Sam’s shirt as if she was about to fall off the face of the earth. Sam held back just as tight. She wouldn’t let herself or Tara fall off the wagon like Christina always did.

That’s what she told herself at twelve years old, anyway.

——

“And now, at twenty-two years old, I am proud to say that I am officially one year clean from substance abuse and alcohol. I am new, and I am alive.”

Sam cleared her throat, her vision blurring. She could feel her throat choke up, her skin flushed with incoming tears. It truthfully took everything in her not to ugly cry, but she promised herself to make it through this. So she would.

“And I am not my mother. I am better than her. I am clean; I am whole and alive,” she firmly said, refusing to let her voice waver.

It took a second, but the room burst in a round of applause; a few scattered congratulations and whoops could be heard among the noise. Sam released her grip from the podium, breathing in the feeling of success.

No. Hope.

That was an odd feeling. Hope. The fluttering bird in her chest gently asked to be freed and followed. The smell of budding spring flowers and cold winter days. It always followed her, a thin ribbon in the middle of her ribcage, holding her bones together.

Sam wasn’t used to leaning into the hope, the curiosity of what could be. But today, in a room full of people like herself, she could feel the warmth splash over her face, holding her like the sun after a long rain shower.

She was clean. She was whole. She was alive.

And she had forgiven herself for her past to build a stable future. One with someone she missed some deadly; the only other person she had fought to get clean for real.

Maybe, just maybe, one day, her sister could forgive her, too.

But for now, she was alive. That was enough.

#scream #sam carpenter #tara carpenter #carpenter sisters #AU: protect my heart #my writing tag #this is a letter to myself telling me i’m okay #sam carpenter and i are the same #projecting a little bit onto sam sorry

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