#Nightlight can and will climb out of all the windows | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

whatsnewalycat · 5 months

Text

Psychomanteum / Chapter 15

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC Louella (2nd POV)

Chapter 15: The Widow

Chapter Summary: Contemplation.

Word Count: 7.6k+

Content / Warnings: alternating pov, suicidal thoughts and planning, intrusive thoughts, grief, swearing, alcohol use, uncertainty, parker, lotta yearning and self-reflection, angst, paranormal/spooky elements, food

Notes: Chapter title from “The Widow" by The Mars Volta. This is the peak of angst in this story, I promise. Pleaaaaaase be mindful of the trigger warnings above. Big big thanks to @frannyzooey for proofreading 🖤✨ OK THANKS FOR READING YALL LOVE U SORRY IF ITS A BUMMER.

[ Previous Chapter ] [ Series Masterlist ] [ Next Chapter ]

As far back as you can remember, you hated the dark.

The uncertainty of what it contained would keep you up for hours in your childhood bedroom.

Your mind ran rampant, imagining all kinds of insidious creatures lurking in the shadows. Beneath your bed, in the corners, behind your closet door, outside your window. Watching, waiting for you to fall asleep.

At some point you started sleeping with the lights on. Your parents got you a nightlight in an attempt to curtail this behavior, but it wasn’t enough. There were still shadows. You were still cloaked in darkness with the monsters. All this did was begin a new ritual, where you waited until they went to bed before turning on the lights.

One night, after you heard your parents’ bedroom door click shut, you scurried over to the light switch and flipped it up. The overhead light came to life, flooding the room in safety. Relief.

By the time you crawled back into bed, your dad opened the door and peeked into the room. He looked between you and the overhead light, sighing, “Louella, we talked about this.”

“Don’t turn the light off.”

“Why not?”

Even then it felt silly. The answer stuck to the inside of your throat, hot and buzzing. Instead of letting it out, you burrowed beneath the covers and curled up into yourself.

The floorboards creaked as your dad made his way across the room. He sat on the edge of your mattress and rubbed your back, comforting you.

“Sweet pea,” he cooed, peeling back your Lion King comforter to expose your face, “It’s not good for you to sleep with the lights on all the time.”

At this, you pouted at your blanket, fiddling with the frayed edges.

“The dark is scary, isn’t it?”

You nodded.

“What’s so scary about it?”

You shrugged.

He hummed in acknowledgment, then glanced around the room, “I’ll let you in on a secret. Most everyone is afraid of the dark at some point or another. You know why?”

Another shrug.

“In the light, we have certainty. We can look over in that corner and see with our own eyes there’s no boogeyman there. It’s just a corner. Done deal. The dark… that’s trickier, isn’t it?”

You nodded, trying to decide whether or not to tell him about the monsters you believed would manifest in the black abyss and swallow you whole.

“You’re safe here, though. I promise. It’s just you in here. There’s nothing hiding in the dark. The corner is just a corner. All that’s under your bed is dust. In your closet, it’s just clothes.”

“Can you check?”

He chuckled, but granted your request, lowering himself to the ground to peek under your bed, telling you, “Nothing under here,” then climbed to his feet and strode over to your closet, pulling the door wide open so you could see the proof yourself.

“All clear,” he said as he closed it and returned to your bedside, “Does that help?”

You nodded, casting your gaze down to your lap. A lingering feeling of dread still sat heavy in your stomach. His gaze stayed trained on you, obviously unconvinced.

Eventually you asked, “But what if we just don’t see it now? What if it sneaks?”

Your voice felt tiny, meek.

His shoulders deflated with a sigh. He scooted closer and petted your hair, holding eye contact when he countered, “Your brain is trickier than the dark ever will be. It makes you see things that aren’t there. Unless you believe it’s safe, you’ll never be able to rest.”

He was right, you suppose.

Rest only really found you when you trusted the lights’ promise that nothing would hurt you when it vanished. Even when the light broke its promise. Even when your dad went to the ER and returned in a box.

You tried to believe that your family would live on without him. That he would still somehow keep you safe.

But he didn’t.

Neither did your mother.

Your mother cut the power and made you fend for yourself.

You learned that the only way to ensure nothing would hurt you was to make sure the room was vacant before deadbolting the door. To lock the windows and draw the blinds. You sharpened your teeth into fangs. You developed night vision and grew claws, and you hid so well you thought nothing could find you.

Sure, it was dark.

But the abyss had only one occupant, you knew that as fact.

Sure, your skin ached to feel the sunlight.

But you were safe.

You’re not sure when it happened, but sooner or later, you swore you could see shapes shifting in the pitch black. When you laid in bed at night, you could hear something in the walls. The faint, dry scratch of nails on plaster.

It sneaks.

The thing became clearer over time. Bloated, purpled skin. Limbs that popped and groaned when it crept around just beyond your reach. It carried the stench of rot, putrid and sulphuric.

Deep down in your guts, you understood the horrible truth.

It was you.

A part of you, anyway. Something that lived and died inside you, stillborn into the darkness just to haunt you.

Then there was Ethan.

Brash and charming, he took a sledgehammer to your walls and yanked you from your hiding place. Sunshine poured into the dark, dank room, soaking you in brightness.

At first you were terrified.

It overwhelmed your senses.

Your eyes, having long forgotten how to operate in the light, burned in reaction. You clamped them closed for fear of going blind. It felt so warm you thought you might melt. Ethan’s honeyed words seemed like loudspeakers compared to the quiet echo of your breathing. To the faint, hoarse whisper of your monster.

It took some time to acclimate to this long-forgotten brightness. But once you did, it felt incredible. You couldn’t believe you hid from it for so long.

Together, you understood that with light, comes shadows. He had a monster who crept after nightfall, too. Sometimes you’d wake to the soft caress of its nails on your cheek, to his sour, putrid breath gurgling in your ear, “I will be the death of you,” like a promise.

You came to trust its keeper, though. You believed it wouldn’t tear you apart, like yours wouldn’t Ethan.

That is the promise of love, after all, isn’t it?

To cherish one’s light so much that you’ll endure their dark? To love even the most haunted, grotesque parts of someone? Even their monsters? Even their ghosts?

To trust that you can rest your weary bones in the dark without it destroying you?

You believed this for so long. Bright years filled with joy and laughter and love, where you felt alive and trusted him. In those years, you forgot a very important fact:

It sneaks.

The fireplace lets out a sharp POP, drawing your attention away from the pitch black window.

A smoldering log at the bottom of the hearth collapses. The fire shifts, birthing fresh flames that breathe hot against your cheeks.

You pull the quilt snug around your supine body and huddle deeper into the couch, into the warmth of your body heat.

When you called your mother-in-law yesterday and explained what was happening, that you needed a place to stay for a few days while you figure out what to do, she graciously granted your request to use their cabin out in the Sierra Nevada foothills, but warned you the place was winterized and had no central heating.

“I don’t know what condition it’s in, nobody’s been out there since August. There’s quite a bit of firewood by the fireplace and out by the woodshed, use as much as you need. Electricity is on, but no internet and cell service is shoddy. You’ll need to get the water going, too—you know, why don’t you give me or Adam a call once you’re out there, we can walk you through it.”

“Is there a landline? I don’t have my phone.”

“Sure is.”

“Ok, I’ll call you when I get there.”

“Stop and get some groceries in town, too, there’s that grocery store—”

“Yeah, I remember,” you interrupted, eyes darting to the departures board, “I have to go, my bus is gonna be here soon. Thank you so much, Sarah.”

You could feel it coming within one second of the quiet hesitation that followed.

“Lou, I just want to make sure…”

Don’t ask. Please don’t ask.

“Are you ok, honey?”

Fuck.

Your face crumbled. Emotion clogged your throat. Tingles worked up your chest, behind your eyes, and you squeezed them shut to suffocate the tears.

“Yeah,” you managed to tell her, your voice wavering with bullshit, “I just, um… I just need a few days. To get myself together, you know.”

“Alright. Well, will you call me when you get there?”

“Yep,” you sniffled, “Talk to you then, bye.”

Before she could respond, you returned the receiver to its cradle, ending the call, then took a moment to gather yourself before picking your toppled-over suitcase up off the ground and finding your bus.

The ride to Fresno was long. You spent most of it staring out the window, not really looking at anything in particular, just lost in your noisy head.

At the Fresno Bus Station, you talked to three different cab drivers before finding one who agreed to bring you all the way out here.

He made a few attempts at small talk, asking how your day was going and if you were on vacation and so on, but quickly picked up on your not-so-chatty vibes and let the cab go quiet.

As he drove on, palm trees were replaced by threadbare ash trees, soon joined by evergreens. The hills became steeper. Swathes of rock broke through the earth’s soft surface, more and more with each mile.

You asked him to stop in the town closest to your in-laws’ cabin. He kept the meter running while you bought a meager supply of groceries, figuring you only needed a few days worth, if that.

Then the yellow taxi cab then drove deep into the forest, turning off on a low-maintenance dirt road that made the car jostle and rumble.

When you came around a curve, and the mailbox labeled FRIEDMAN came into view, you instructed him to drop you off there.

“Are you sure? I can take you down the driveway, no problem,” he insisted.

You could have explained that the gravel driveway was in poor condition and you didn’t want him to break down or something. Imagine that. Drive a girl to the middle of a goddamn forest and wind up getting stuck out there. What a fucking nightmare. For both of you, really.

“I’m sure,” you said, flashing him a weak smile as you handed him the remaining money from your wallet, “Thank you, though. I appreciate it.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise when he looked down at the bundle of cash, but he took it, giving you a nod of thanks.

“Just, um…” you bit the inside of your cheek and shrugged, looping plastic grocery bags around your wrists, “If anyone comes around asking if you saw me, could you maybe… maybe you could say no?”

“Yes ma’am,” he nodded again, studying you for a moment before turning to open his door, “Let me get your bag for you.”

He pulled your shitty suitcase from the trunk and handed it to you. Before returning to the driver’s seat to begin his voyage home, he paused for a few seconds, then looked at you.

“Excuse me for asking, ma’am, but are you… well, are you… safe? Do you need me to contact anyone?”

“No.”

The word came out sharp and final. It felt harsh leaving your lips, so you added, “I mean, you don’t need to contact anyone. I am, uhhh… cool as a cucumber. Safe… as a lock. Thanks, though.”

You tried your hardest to give him a reassuring smile. He didn’t look like he bought it, but got in his taxi and left.

From here, you followed the driveway into a tunnel carved out from the trees.

The air was crisp and clear and everything seemed quiet except for the sound of you huffing and puffing down the path, leaves crunching under your feet, plastic bags rustling, your suitcase flopping around behind you like a defiant animal on a leash, fighting against each step.

Fucking exhausting.

About halfway, you spotted a flat boulder peeking out from the earth a few strides into the forest. You dropped your suitcase, shaking the plastic bags from your wrists, and blundered through the trees towards it. Your rubber legs ached with relief when you sat down criss-cross applesauce on the cool stone. Catching your breath, you leaned back and tilted your face up towards the canopy. A breeze rattled through the pines and ashes and cooled your cheeks.

You spent some time here, stretched out on the boulder, admiring the contrast of the dark, rheumatic branches stretched out towards the powder-blue sky. When your labored breathing calmed, the quiet sounds of the forest started to come into focus. Leaves rustling. Birds warbling. The whistle of wind.

It felt nice.

Peaceful.

Eventually, you heaved yourself to your feet and resumed your journey. You walked and walked, legs and wrists and arms aching, body and mind sapped of energy, until the tree line opened up into a clearing.

The cabin came into view, and a bone-deep sense of nostalgia struck you.

You remembered the first time Ethan brought you here, the summer after you started dating. Everything seemed to pulse with life. The trees, glowing green with leaves. The roaring river in the background. Ethan. The future, in general.

What’s the word for the kind of nostalgia that guts you? The kind that feels like a 30-pound weight in your stomach? The kind that shreds your heart to pieces in your chest?

That’s exactly what you felt when you saw the cabin.

It looked cold. Dead.

The inside felt no different. Everything was dark. Cool, still air bit your cheeks. Canvas was draped over all the furniture. It smelled of dust and damp and better times.

You dropped your belongings to the entryway floor, collapsing in a heap among them, then cried your eyes dry.

Once you gathered yourself, you found the phone to call Sarah.

She walked you through the ins-and-outs of making the cabin habitable. How to turn the water back on and get the fireplace going. Gave you permission to use whatever you want or need… which, so far, is just some firewood, a quilt from the cedar linen closet, and this couch.

You blink your bleary eyes a few times, before looking back to the window. The world outside has lightened. Frosted trees stand out in the rich, Neptunian veil of morning, every branch appearing lacy and crystalline, important and beautiful.

Have I slept? Or did I sit here all night, staring into the abyss?

“Fuck it,” you sigh to yourself as you sit upright, “Might as well make some coffee.”

Ding

The elevator doors slide open.

Dieter follows Parker onto the fifth floor hallway of your apartment building.

As he walks down the familiar hallway like he has so many times before, a guttural, foreboding feeling builds in his veins.

The sensation is unbelievably heavy, but hollow. Knight’s armor. A church bell. The barrel of a gun.

It reminds Dieter of the first time he came here, when he sensed Ethan’s presence on the other side of that door.

“Hopefully the landlord didn’t change the locks,” Parker says as he flips through his keychain, isolating one labeled LOU. The key slides in without protest. Parker pushes the door open and enters the apartment, Dieter hot on his heels.

When Parker flips the light on, the state of your apartment makes Dieter’s stomach drop.

Ransacked is the first word that comes to mind.

Every drawer and cupboard in your kitchen sits ajar, their contents disorganized or spread across the countertop. The couch and chair cushions are all discombobulated. Dirt tracks dried into the white carpet trace the heavy flow of boots that moved in and out of the apartment. It looks like every surface of the place has been perverted.

Dieter crouches down to set an overturned cubby upright, shoving a pile of your hats and scarves and gloves back into their rightful place, muttering, “Fucking pigs.”

A leopard print pattern catches his eye, and he plucks out a scarf, draping it around his neck before returning the container to its home.

“Pigs is right,” Parker snorts, slamming closed cupboards and drawers, “This place is a fuckin’ stye. I’m glad she’s not here to see this.”

Dieter rubs the soft fabric between his fingers and brings it to his nose, inhaling your scent. A freshly-baked smell that prods his tender heart. He stands and starts towards the kitchen, but freezes when he notices the door to Ethan’s room is open. His eyes flick from Parker, totally preoccupied with reassembling the kitchen, then back to the doorway.

Curiosity gnaws at his insides.

He approaches it, trying to act casual despite his pounding heart. At the threshold, he pauses to peak inside, not entirely surprised to see the room exactly as he pictured it.

Well, mostly, anyway.

No file cabinet or deep freezer, but open spaces where he thought they’d be. Taken as evidence, probably. Empty file folders are strewn across the desk. But the navy blue walls, the hardwood floor, the mirrors… all there.

That horrible, palpable emptiness, like loss on loss on loss… that’s there, too.

He glances over his shoulder at Parker, still distracted, then looks back into the room. When he steps through the doorway, a rush of adrenaline spikes his pulse.

Why are you here?

Dieter cautiously wanders over to the desk and starts picking up the empty file folders, halting when he finds a sketchpad beneath one.

He flips through the book of abstract black-ink illustrations. Some of them scribbles, some exquisite, some in-between. All of them saturated with emotion. Hopelessness. Guilt. Anger. Grief. Frustration. Every time he turns a page, a new sensation strikes him. Shame. Resentment. Suspicion. A whole dictionary of dark emotions.

Scattered throughout, though, he finds a few that feel… not lighter, per se, but different. They feature negative space and soft curves. Clean lines and chaos. Love.

They’re you.

Of course they’re you, love. Of course you were his light in the darkness. A brightness carved out of soot and rot.

A fond smile creeps across his lips.

For reasons he can’t quite explain, Dieter looks to one of the mirrors and asks, “Can I take this with me? To give to her?”

Yeah, sure.

“Thanks,” he nods and tucks the book into his coat pocket, glancing over his shoulder before quietly inquiring, “Any chance you know where she is?”

Not here.

“Yeah, no shit,” Dieter thinks. He jumps a little when he hears the response crystal clear in his head.

Well then why the fuck’re you here? You’re wasting time.

“Me? What about you? Didn’t you move on from this place?”

After this, Ethan goes quiet.

Dieter shrugs and looks away from the mirror to study the framed photos on the wall. Photos of Ethan with, who Dieter assumes are, his kids. None of them recent. The vast majority of the pictures feature you.

You and Ethan kissing on your wedding day. The two of you posing somewhere with mountains in the background, drinking on a beach, dancing at a party. Each one depicts big, genuine smiles. The adoration you had for each other is evident.

As the successor to your heart, maybe he should feel a twinge of jealousy, but he doesn’t. He actually finds it sweet. It fills him with warmth to know you spent a long while being well-loved.

The wall of photos displays relics from Ethan’s youth, too.

Graduation photos, family vacations, a bar mitzvah. Dieter picks up on something. A distinct before and after. He stops on a picture of Ethan as a child, hugging a younger boy—his brother, Benji—by a lake, and it starts to come together. Although he can’t quite pinpoint the defining line, it splits him in two and fractures into shards.

An icy cold rush overtakes his body, like the word gave out from under him and he’s suddenly submerged in freezing water. He can’t breathe. He can’t scream. Feral, panicked energy pulses through his veins. His concrete limbs can’t move, paralyzed as he sinks, deeper, deeper, deeper…

Dieter returns to himself with a jolt, gasping for air.

He takes a step back and slumps over, pressing his palms into his knees as he pants, “What the fuck, man? What the fuck?”

You need to find her before it’s too late.

Red bubbles up his chest.

“You think I don’t fucking know that?” he sits up, jaw clenched, fists balled, and steps into the through-line of the mirrors. They reflect off one another to form a long, curved tunnel that stretches out on either side of him. Dieter looks from one mirror, to the other, seeing his image captured within each infinite layer.

“Fuck you, man,” he seethes, shaking his head, “You fucking did this, you know that? Fucking piece of shit. I’m fucking trying, ok?”

The last sentence comes out hoarse and thick. Heat works up his throat and his vision blurs with tears.

“Whoa—hey, Dieter,” Parker runs into the room, all wide-eyed and searching Dieter’s face, “What’s wrong?”

A sob heaves his shoulders. He hangs his head, shaking it from side-to-side, “I’m trying, Parker.”

“I know, baby, I know,” he coos, pulling Dieter into a hug, reassuring him, “We’re gonna find her.”

“What if we don’t?”

“We will. Keep that faith, papi. We will.”

Dieter buries his face in Parker’s bony shoulder, releasing the pent-up worry and guilt festering infectious in his chest for the past day. Parker pets his hair and rocks him back and forth, letting out a few of his own sniffles alongside Dieter’s.

When their crying starts to peter out, Parker gives him one more squeeze and pulls back, asking, “You wanna get out of here? This place is a fucking mess, and we gotta catch that flight soon anyway.“

“Can I look in her room first?”

Parker’s eyebrows knit together over bloodshot eyes, and he nods, patting his friend on the shoulder before stepping aside.

Dieter approaches your bedroom cautiously. Paranoid thoughts circulate in his brain, all those what-ifs and delusions of tragedy. What if he finds you here, cold and lifeless? What if you’re dead somewhere while he pokes around your apartment, looking for clues? Is he doing enough? Could he do more?

But when the door groans on its hinges as he pushes it open, and he sets foot inside your bedroom, the impending doom percolating in his veins drains from him almost instantly. Many of your things have been rifled through, like the rest of your apartment, but the place holds an air of serenity.

It feels warm and safe.

It feels like you.

Flipping the light on, he closes the door behind him, then walks over to your bed and crawls under the covers, burying himself beneath them.

The sheets still carry a faint whiff of sex and sleep from before the two of you embarked for LA. His lungs expand with a deep, wide breath. Eyes drifting closed, he thinks of you. How you’re feeling. Where you are. What you’re doing.

He picks up the bite of a chilled breeze. The steady babble of a river. Warm hands. Burnt tongue. Coffee, bitter and black.

The signal drops.

Not much, but enough for him to know you’re not in immediate danger, which brings him some solace.

Still under the blankets, he pulls out his phone and dials your number. It rings and rings until your voicemail picks up.

“Hey, this is Louella, sorry I missed you. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back, thanks.”

“Hey doll, it’s me. I’m at your apartment. It’s a fucking mess. Parker and I stopped by before going back to LA. He’s coming with me to help… well, to help find you. Anyway. I’m in your bed. It still smells like us. It was hard for me to fall asleep last night without you. Waking up without you is… it’s hell. I don’t know. I miss you, Lua. It’s been one fucking day and I miss you more than I’ve ever missed anyone in my life. I love you. I’ll call you when I get back.”

Despite your lack of sleep, you managed to make this morning a productive one.

You removed the slip-cases from the furniture and dusted, then forced yourself to eat a halfway decent breakfast of buttered toast and scrambled eggs. After washing the dishes, you soaked in the tub for a while, staring up at the wood-paneled bathroom ceiling as you contemplated what to do with yourself, both in the short-term context and the long-term.

While drying off, you noticed the bright, mid-day sun shining down into the valley, making everything glow golden. It looked inviting.

You dug through your suitcase, sifting through the clothing you packed with a warmer climate in mind. Shorts. Dresses. Bikinis. The best you could do was a sweater and some pajama bottoms.

Down by the riverbank, you found this creaky wooden porch swing and settled on which to sit and ponder.

You smooth the tip of your finger along the dewy lip of the mug, breaking up a curl of steam with each lazy revolution around its circumference.

Today is the shortest day of the year.

The winter solstice.

Every once in a while, wind rolls down off the snowy tips of the Sierra Nevadas and meets the warmth of the California sun. The creaky wooden bench sits square in the middle of these contradictory weather conditions. Hot and cold. Dry and damp. Constantly churning, waxing and waning from one state to another.

A crisp gust of wind from upriver cuts through the sun-baked pocket of air where you’re seated. You huddle into your jacket and bring the steaming mug to your lips, hissing when the black coffee scorches your tongue.

The thought of Dieter shoots through you like a bullet.

You picture him beneath the covers of your bed, fully clothed in his furry winter jacket, wearing your scarf, eyes clenched shut, wishing you would come out of hiding because it’s safe now.

It rattles you.

An infinite number of memories and worries and hopes and what-ifs flood your mushy, sleep deprived brain. They all muddle together in an incomprehensible cluster fuck that sets your blood ablaze and makes your ears ring. Your body contracts, squeezing a sob from deep within your chest.

Fuck.

Every single ounce of you aches to see him. To smell him. To feel his arms wrapped around you and hear his voice murmuring honeyed affirmations in your ear, telling you he loves you and understands why you had to leave.

You pray he understands that you didn’t want to. Of fucking course you didn’t want to. You had to. For his sake and for yours.

During the FaceTime call with Parker, when you first saw the cops outside your building, then David Alterman, you could only see two paths forward: Dieter would choose you or his career.

Would he have chosen you? Maybe, but it would have been foolish.

He would have to support you through whatever punishment the state of New York has queued up against you—prison, probably—on top of dealing with the fallout. The public backlash, the halt of money flow, not to mention the loss of his career, which means more to him than public opinion or money. In his own words, acting is his fucking purpose in life.

And for what? An incarcerated girlfriend? Even if you put the issue of your pending criminal charges aside, you still wouldn’t be worth that loss.

It would be gradual, but eventually he would feel it.

It sneaks.

He would come to resent you, and you wouldn’t be able to fault him one bit.

Would he have chosen his career? Maybe, but it would ruin you both.

If he chose to break off your relationship in order to salvage his career, you would have to hear him say it. You would have to know, with certainty, that you take second place in his heart. Maybe this is a selfish notion, this desire to be his number one priority. If he didn’t choose his wife over his career, why the fuck would he choose you?

Not only that, but if he chose this path, he would have to shoulder the hardship of two broken hearts. You know he loves you. You do. Ending your relationship would devastate him. He would be plagued with guilt and shame and regret, all the same as if he chose you to begin with.

It seemed cruel to force him to make this impossible choice. No matter what he did, it would be wrong, and he would carry the burden.

This is when you saw the third path branch out before you.

The one where you could sneak out before the sun rises, dragging your monster by its tether behind you. Where you could lock yourself away in a boarded-up room and wait for her to take you. You, not him.

You would rather absorb the blame, from him and everyone else, a million times over than curse him with the responsibility of this dissolution.

This is a mercy kill.

An act of love.

It may not seem like it to anyone else, but really, it is.

This thought brings you some solace.

Another gust of wind blows shivers down your spine. You bring the mug to your lips to test the coffee’s temperature, finding it tepid, but drink it anyway.

Dieter wasn’t sure what to expect when he came home.

Worst case scenario, he imagined cops waiting to arrest him for bribing an elected official or tell him you turned up dead. Best case, he imagined opening the door to find you there. Problem solved. Happily ever after. He would kiss you breathless and never let you doubt your station in his life again.

What was most likely, though—and what he found—was something in the wide gray area between his paranoia and hopeless romanticism.

Lincoln was sprawled out on the couch, scrolling through TikTok on his phone, while Darlene sat at the dining room table, typing away on her laptop.

Although he tried to keep an open mind the whole way here, he couldn’t help but be disappointed. Here he was, exhaustion burning his bones to dust, expecting some kind of a celebration, only to find out this was a checkpoint, not a finish line.

Lincoln and Darlene both perk up at the sound of the door opening. They both rise from their respective places to greet Dieter and Parker.

“Hey, welcome back!” Lincoln calls as he grabs Dieter’s suitcase, “How was your flight?”

“Fine,” he grunts, then nods to Parker, “This is Parker. Parker, this is my PA Lincoln and my publicist Darlene.”

“Former publicist,” Darlene corrects, shaking Parker’s hand, “Nice to meet you.”

Parker gives her a polite smile and a nod to her and Lincoln and tells them, “Thanks for your help.”

“Want me to take your suitcase?” Lincoln asks Parker, dark blonde eye brows raised in expectation.

“I’ve got it, love,” Parker waves him off with a dismissive hand, then turns to Dieter, “Where do you want me?”

Before he can answer, Lincoln cuts in, “Here, I’ll show you to the open guest room.”

A small smirk tugs at the corner of Parker’s mouth. He shrugs, “Lead the way, pretty boy.”

Even in the dim illumination of the waning daylight, Dieter sees Lincoln’s cheeks flush pink. He grins and starts off down the hall. Before following, Parker looks at Dieter, raising a mischievous brow as he glances between him and Lincoln, mouthing, “Cute.”

“Any updates?” Dieter asks Darlene as he slides off his crocs and starts towards the kitchen.

“Well,” she sighs, crossing her arms, tilting her head to one side, “There has been progress.”

The way she says it sounds like the beginning of bad news. He pauses his search for food and frowns at her. Static rises in his throat.

“And?”

She walks to the dining room table to grab her notebook, flipping back a few pages as she approaches the kitchen island and leans against it.

“So, I was able to trace her steps to a transit station in Fresno. I went up there yesterday and talked to security. Found out she took a cab from there, but the cab company won’t disclose where they dropped her. The driver reported that she seemed… off. Said she seemed scared and was very secretive, like she was in danger or something. He thought maybe she was running from a domestic abuse situation, and requested that the company not disclose her location.”

Dieter gapes at this, unable to formulate words. She continues.

“She talked a few other cab drivers before this one, so I talked to them. They told me she didn’t give them an address, just said it was about sixty miles away, up in the foothills. But that’s… that’s all I was able to get. The trail runs cold there.”

“Can’t we throw some cash at the cabbie who drove her? Whatever it costs, I’ll pay it, I don’t care—”

“I tried,” she shook her head, throwing her hands up at her sides, “I told them to name their price, they said it wasn’t about money, it was about safety.”

Heat spikes his blood, overwhelming him with nervous energy that sets him into motion, pacing back and forth, running his fingers through his hair, rubbing his neck, clenching his jaw.

“What the fuck do we do now?”

“Do you know if she has any family or friends in that area? Maybe she mentioned something in passing—”

“No, of course she didn’t,” he scoffs.

Darlene doesn’t say anything. Her hazel eyes follow him from side-to-side.

“I know her family is from Ohio, her friends are from New York. Anything else is a fucking mystery to me,” he shakes his head and stops pacing to holler, “PARKER, get in here!”

A few seconds later, he hears footfalls in the hallway, then Parker rounds the corner, blinking at him, “I know you didn’t just call for me like a fuckin’ dog.”

“Does Lua know anyone out by Fresno? In the mountains?” Darlene asks him.

Parker frowns as he thinks about this, shaking his head, “I don’t think so.”

“Distant relatives, old friends,” Darlene glances at Dieter, “Exes, anything like that?”

Dieter glares at her, nostrils flaring, to which she defends, “We have to cast a wide net, I’m just asking.”

Parker shakes his head again, “No.

“What about Ethan’s family?”

His face stays fixed in a searching expression. No glint of recognition.

Dieter’s shoulders slump.

Parker looks at him, brows knit together with concern, and adds, “But honestly, I’m so fucking exhausted, I might not be remembering right now.”

They sit there for a moment, dull and disenchanted, until Darlene sighs, “Well, should we order some takeout?”

By late afternoon, the sun starts to sink down into the ragged black tree line of the far away mountains.

Rays of light catch the atmosphere just right, casting a shimmering golden hue onto the cabin. One of these beautiful glowing beams streams through the window and manages to hit you square in the eyeballs.

Grimacing, you flip your book belly-down onto the end table and push yourself up into a sitting position. A yawn expands your lungs. You stretch your arms above your head, then let them fall limp at your sides.

Charred logs glow inside the fireplace. No flames. You rise to your feet and trudge over to it, swinging the grate open to slide a few more logs on the fire. They sizzle and pop as they catch heat and light ablaze.

You look around the cozy, rustic living room, glancing at the clock on the wall, then out the window.

Earlier today, while poking around the cabin for something interesting to take your mind off… Well, everything, you stumbled upon a small stash of homemade wine. A glass–maybe a bottle–sounds nice right now. Maybe you could make some food, too. Probably should.

You pad across the dark lacquered floorboards to the cellar door, and push it open. Wrinkling your nose at the mildew scent, you flip the lightswitch on and tip-toe down the stairs, then across the room to the wine rack. One-by-one, you pull out the corked green glass bottles and take note of their year. A few are labeled Plum 2017. Two Strawberry 2018s. Half a dozen Red 2018s.

One of the bottles reads White 2017. A fond smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. You slip the bottle under your arm before jogging up the stairs to the main level, where you sift through Sarah’s record collection. A Frank Sinatra album catches your eye, so you put it on, then pour a glass of wine and survey your limited options for supper.

A part of you wants to say fuck it, skip the meal. Just let your empty stomach soak up the wine. Let the tiny tendrils of alcohol branch out into your bloodstream and work its numbing magic. Maybe it’ll dim the acute pain simmering beneath your sternum.

Then you spot the lemon on the counter, sitting beside a bulb of garlic and a blue mesh bag of onions.

There’s pasta and olive oil in the cabinet. Parmesan in the fridge. You could make something nice with that. Maybe watch the sunset.

I could do it tonight.

No.

Why not?

You picture Dieter the first time you saw him. Shifty and slightly arrogant, all blown-out pupils and twitches. Basically a red flag wearing a human suit. You thought he was handsome, though. And his booming laughter brought a real smile to your face for the first time in weeks.

It felt familiar.

It felt like sunshine kissing your skin after a long bout of darkness.

Shaking the picture from your head, you start rummaging through the cupboards for a pot and saucepan. You fill the pot with water, toss in some salt.

When you pull the chef’s knife from the butcher block, you pause to examine the blade in the golden hour light.

I could slice my pulse open.

No.

Why not?

You picture Dieter the second time you met him. Kaleidoscope skin and chartreuse aura. Acid stripped away the cocaine ego to expose his bare bones. And they were beautiful.

Something happened that night. A tethering. A melding. Some ethereal otherworldly connection that intertwined your souls.

Even though he was essentially a stranger, you couldn’t shake the sense that he had always been and always would be a part of you.

Swallowing around the emotion welling up in your throat, you shake your head. Too messy.

The thought of your own blood makes you queasy. If some has to find you like that?

Fuck.

Your stomach twists into nausea.

You set down the knife and find a cutting board, then resume your dinner preparation, singing along to the music, concentrating on the mechanical motion of the blade tearing through the onion, meeting resistance with each aromatic layer.

The goddamn knife is dull anyway.

After mincing the garlic, you nudge your little piles of chopped-up produce into the gleaming pool of melted butter in the saucepan. Steam rises with a gentle sizzle, moisture meeting fat.

Inside the pot, tiny ripe bubbles line the underwater walls, waiting to burst.

Turn up the heat.

Stir the saucepan.

Sip your wine.

You tap your fingers on the countertop, following the beat of the brass band, and quietly sing along with Ol’ Blue Eyes, “No one would care, no one would cry. If I should live, if I should live or die. What now, my love? Now there is nothing. Only my last, my last goodbye.”

You picture Dieter at the beach, holding your hand as the two of you waded through the tide. The best day of your life.

You picture him in his boxers, watering his plants. You picture his warm brown eyes flicking between you and a sketchpad. Him taking the first bite of a gooey brownie and groaning with delight. Laying behind you in the bathtub, arms wrapped around your waist underwater, planting a soft kiss on your cheek bone. Waking up in the morning, his wild dark curls all bent the shape of his pillow indent, a wistful, sleepy smirk on his lips. Laughing. Smiling. Telling you he loves you. Meaning it.

A deep ache of shame spreads across your chest. Your stomach churns. Tears burn behind your eyes, then spill over, streaming hot down your cheeks.

How fucking stupid are you to think the darkness wouldn’t come and swallow everything whole, Dieter included?

What, because you’re in love, the two of you should be spared?

Has that ever stopped her before?

I should fucking know better.

A far-off, high frequency noise starts in your ear and it cuts audio for a second. Everything around you seems far away. Not real. You feel spectral, like you’re dreaming or a ghost or in a tv show or something.

Entirely fiction.

Sniffling, you wipe your damp with the sleeve of your sweater.

You grab the wine glass off the counter and swallow its contents, then refill it, splashing a little vino into the saucepan before setting the bottle aside.

A roar swells as the ingredients get to know each other. You take a deep breath, inhaling the sweet, pungent scent, then notice steam billowing off the water in your pot. The still surface has erupted into a consistent boil. You throw about half of a pound of fettuccine into the pot. More than enough, but who the fuck makes only one serving of pasta?

While the fettuccine cooks, you pour some cream into the saucepan, then whisk and whisk and whisk, pausing periodically to stir the pasta. Once the sauce thickens, you whisk in pre-grated parmesan a pinch at a time. You fish a strand of fettuccine out of the boiling water and confirm its al dente status, then transfer a few spoonfuls of pasta water into the sauce before pouring the pot over a colander in the sink.

It calms you, this process. The step-by-step. Seeing the fruits of your labor unfold in real time. Each checkbox marked calms your ragged nerves more than the last.

Before you know it, you’re curled up in an adirondack chair on the deck, quilt draped over your shoulders, twisting fettuccine around your fork as you watch the sun sink down into the mountains, turning the sky into this beautiful vivid watercolor. It’s fucking gorgeous, you’ll give it that.

Am I really going to go through with this?

That’s what you came here for, isn’t it? To end this? To ascend into that glowing iridescent tunnel? To cross the threshold and finally return to the sea of love?

It’s funny, you think, how your whole life you were afraid of dying because you didn’t know what came after.

But after seeing it, you know you had it completely backwards.

Death is a piece of cake. You weren’t scared once when it happened. It’s like the light turned on in your room and you knew there was nothing hiding in wait. Nothing sneaking.

Life, though?

Life is scrambling through the darkness of uncertainty, trying to find a beacon. When you make contact with them, you cling to flames, hoping they’ll burn forever to keep you safe and warm. They won’t. They always burn out.

By the time you finish your pasta, the wine has fully assimilated into your bloodstream, drowning all the excess noise in your head. You polish off the bottle while watching the sun sink down into the Sierra Nevadas. Dusk absorbs the light. The atmosphere shifts from midnight blue to inky black, enveloping you in darkness. It doesn’t even bother you.

Head swimming with wine, you lay out on the cold deck and stare up at the nighttime sky, littered with dazzling pinprick stars.

They remind you of all the times you stargazed with your father, and the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars Ethan hung on the ceiling of the first bedroom you shared with him.

They remind you of how incredibly vast the darkness is.

How the hopeful glimmer of a star can appear so bright and so close, but really be lightyears away, in another galaxy, another life.

Maybe the next one.

[ Next Chapter ]

#psychomanteum #dieter bravo #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x ofc #dieter bravo angst #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal characters

106 notes · View notes

strangeshoepatrolbandit · 8 months

Text

Sunshine follows with Sunfall. Pt. 6

Warnings: Cat?, Jason having a tiny mood swing, mentions of death and bounties.

You guys have no idea how bad I feel for disappearing. Writers block is a bitch. (Short chapter)

Series Masterlist

~☆~

"She's sleeping." You sigh as you hear a window slide open.

Jason climbed through, "I'm sorry..." He apologized before closing the window. "I just had to come see her, even if she's sleeping."

You nod in acknowledgment as you pick up one of Judith's toys.

Jason and you had been talking more and more lately, just trying to become civil and fix the rift in your relationship with each other. But he had mostly been coming around for Judith.

He reached up and took off his helmet, setting it on the couch, keeping his domino mask on. His hands ran through his damp hair, pushing it back from his face as he revels in the feeling of your cool apartment.

"You know I don't like you coming in with all of your gear on." You look at him. "You're a wanted man, Jason. What you're doing right now is dangerous. If a bounty gets put on our daughters head, I will personally kill you again."

Jason knows your paranoia is justified, which is why he nods and looks directly at you as he apologizes again. "I know, Y/N. I'm sorry."

You give him a lingering stare before you turn around, picking up more toys. "Just... stop..." You hesitate as you speak, causing Jason to nod yet again.

He gazes at your back for a few seconds before he decides to go see Judith now. Jason keeps his footsteps quiet, a perk from being an anti-hero who once worked alongside Batman. He approaches the white door to her room, slowly turning the silver handle, for he does not wish to wake her.

The room is dark, illuminated by a small projector nightlight, making artificial stars show on the ceiling. Her room is surprisingly clean for a child, yet still full from the amount of gifts she gets from her family.

Jason cautiously steps closer to Judith's small bed, seeing how she's facing away from him, dark hair sprawled all over her pillow, and her orange sheets up close to her chin.

He crouched down next to her bed, petting her hair. Not running his fingers through it since he does not wish to tug on a hidden tangle and wake her up from the pull. A black cat that is snuggled up next to her stretches, letting out a small meow as he looks up at Jason. A small, soft smile grows on Jason's face as he scratches the cat with his free hand.

~☆~

You hear Judith's door open again, signaling that Jason was walking out.

"I didn't know you guys had a cat." He speaks, voice low and laced his Gothamite accent, something him and Judith share.

"Yep," You sigh, finally done tidying up the living room. "Judith is obsessed with Blues Clues. Specifically, the version with Steve. So when we got him, she immediately named him 'Periwinkle'." You smile at the fond memory.

"Bruce offered to get her a lilac tabby, but she just loved her Periwinkle too much. She didn't want one of the correct breed."

Jason also smiles as he watches you stand in front of your couch, hands on your hips. "She's loyal, loving." He says.

You let out another deep breath and look at him. "So... you going back on patrol?"

He takes a few steps forward. "Actually, I wanted to talk about something."

Your eyebrow raises as you look up at him. "Okay...?"

Jason takes in a breath and closes his eyes for a few seconds. "Look, I've been getting help, and... I can be better now." He tells you. "I can be better for you. I think you and I... should try again..."

You let out an abrupt laugh. "You're kidding?"

There's something about him that just doesn't seem like your Jason anymore. He's so civil and in touch with his emotions.

"I'm not." He shakes his head.

You scoff and look away. "You have some nerve, you know?"

"I know, I know-"

"Jason." Your voice is firm. "You did something that I dont think I can ever forgive you for. What if I allow myself to love you and you end up leaving again, hm?"

Jason looks down at the floor, then the wall behind you. "I'm getting better." He mumbles.

"All you're going to do is fix your relationship with your daughter, don't even think about me like that." You snap.

Jason goes and grabs his helmet, putting it on, his shoulders tense, a way for you to understand that he's annoyed.

The audacity.

You know him well enough to know that his jaw is clenched underneath his mask. You hear a loud breath from underneath the red material he wears on his head.

"Don't even start right now, J-"

You're cut off by a small familiar voice.

"Red Hood?" Judith beams, standing in the entrance of the living room, grinning up at her father, even though she doesn't know it's him.

Jason Red Hood turns to face her. "Hey, kid." His voice is thankfully warped by the voice modulator in his helmet.

"Let me go get my action figure!" She squeals before running off into her room, leaving you and Jason to exchange some tense stares.

~☆~

Taglist: @keira324 @dakotali @22nranjan @skepvids @harpy-space @godknows-shetried @mirrorball-6 @macncheese69420666 @parkjammys @yyxy27 @burningkidanchor @elleclairez @amecchii @chickennugghon @marvelworldlover @oakexists @p0tterhead934 @makhaia @cassini-among-the-stars @tsukishimarawr @flowestallen @attackonnat @90s-belladonna @sucker4seresin @riahpickle-blog

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd #jason todd x you #reader x jason todd #x reader #batboys #batbros #batsiblings #batkids #batfamily #batfamily x reader #batfam x reader

127 notes · View notes

anyca786 · 1 month

Text

MID NIGHT FOOTSTEPS

Mom!Reader x Dad!Doctorstrange

Summary: On a stormy night, unexpected little footsteps knocks on your door

Rain lashed against the windowpanes, each boom of thunder punctuated by a flash of lightning that momentarily illuminated the room. Curled up under the duvet, you snuggled closer to Stephen, his warmth a comforting presence against the storm's fury outside. The day had been draining, filled with mystical mishaps and interdimensional threats, but here, in the quiet sanctuary of your bedroom, a sense of peace settled over you. Just as your eyelids began to droop, a tiny whimper broke the silence.

The bedroom door creaked open a sliver, revealing a silhouette framed by the hallway light. It was your daughter,Sofia, clutching her well-worn Spiderman toy tightly. Her lower lip trembled, and her big eyes welled up with unshed tears.

"Mommy?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the storm's din. You opened your eyes and reached out, beckoning her closer. "Hey, baby," you said softly. "What's wrong?"

Sofia shuffled towards the bed, burying her face in your side. "Scared, mommy" she mumbled, pointing towards the window with her free hand.

A rumble of thunder echoed through the room, followed by a particularly bright flash of lightning. Sofia flinched, her grip on Spiderman tightening.

Stephen, who had been woken by your daughter's whimper, stirred beside you. "Hey there, sweetheart," he said in a gentle voice, reaching out to stroke her hair. "What seems to be the trouble?"

Sofia peeked at him from behind your arm. "Stormy, daddy," she whimpered. A small smile played on Stephen's lips. "Ah, yes, it seems Thor is having a bit of a tantrum tonight," he said playfully.

Your daughter giggled slightly, a welcome sound amidst the storm's roar. "How about you come cuddle with us?" Stephen suggested, patting the empty space beside him. "Spiderman can protect us all from the scary thunder."

Your daughter's eyes widened. "Really? Daddy"

"Absolutely," Strange chuckled, scooting over to make room. He patted the space beside him. "Come on, climb in."

With a shy smile, Sofia climbed onto the bed, crawling between you and Stephen. You wrapped your arm around her, pulling her close, while Stephen placed a protective arm around both of you.

The rain continued to lash against the window, but nestled between your parents, your daughter felt safe and secure. Her eyelids drooped, and her breaths became slow and even.

"See?" Stephen whispered, his voice barely a murmur. "The storm can't touch us here."

You leaned in and kissed the top of your daughter's head. "We're all here, baby. Nothing to be afraid of."

As the storm raged on outside, inside your little haven, peace reigned once more. The rhythmic patter of rain became a lullaby, and the flashes of lightning a gentle nightlight, all thanks to the love and comfort of your family.

#doctor strange #stephen strange x reader #dr. strange #doctor stephen strange #marvel #marvel fic

49 notes · View notes

vexic929 · 29 days

Text

Blue Streak

Chapter 1

Warnings: none

Chapter 2: link

OC info: link

Barry and Malcolm should have been asleep - their mom and dad had tucked them into their respective beds almost an hour ago. Instead, the soft glow of the nightlight in the corner cast elongated shadows across the walls and revealed Malcolm, hanging halfway off the top bunk upside-down to talk to Barry, dangling precariously as he whispered to his twin.

"You can't name your Pikachu 'Zapster', Barr," Malcolm said, rolling his eyes, his GameBoy suspended haphazardly from his fingertips, the tiny light attachment clipped to the side nearly blinding Barry as the handheld console swayed.

"But you said I can't just stick with Pikachu, either." Barry argued with a small frown, his own GameBoy in his hands, halfway under the covers.

"Cause that's dumb, you're not Ash. He's your Pikachu, he should have a different name." Malcolm insisted.

"Then why can't I name him 'Zapster'?" Barry asked, sitting up in bed.

"Cause that's dumb, too."

Barry opened his mouth to argue again but his words caught in his throat as he watched the water in their fishtank, along with the fish, begin to float. He powered down his GameBoy and frantically gestured for Malcolm to look too, unable to find the words for what he was seeing.

Malcolm turned his head and dropped his own GameBoy, nearly falling out of bed. "Whoa..."

"Maybe...we should go get Mom and Dad..." Barry said hesitantly, eyes locked on the floating water. Before his brain caught up, his feet had already hit the floor to go do so. Malcolm hauled himself back onto his own bed before climbing down the ladder quickly and joining his twin as they crept towards the door and down the stairs.

The air itself felt thick and stifling, the hall too quiet save for an electric buzzing sound that made the hair on both brothers' necks stand on end. Mom and Dad were probably still up but the lights flickering from the living room didn't look like the blueish glow of the TV.

The boys froze in the doorway to the living room as they both tried to comprehend what they were seeing - it had to be a weird dream or nightmare. Their mother sat in the middle of the floor, looking terrified, surrounded by flashing red and yellow lights like some sort of weird tornado.

"Mom!" Barry blurted in a panic but Malcolm caught his arm before he could run towards her.

"Boys! Don't let him touch you!" Their mother screamed, barely audible under the sound of the crackling lightning and wind from whatever was violently spinning around her.

"Mom!" Malcolm was the one to yell this time, squeezing Barry's wrist almost too tightly in fear.

"Nora!" Their father was suddenly in front of them, pushing them back further, behind him.

"Stay back!" Nora screamed, barely audible over the racket surrounding her.

"Nora! Hold on!" Their father called before turning to Barry and Malcolm. "Run! Get somewhere safe!"

In almost the same second, Barry was gone from Malcolm's side. Another instant later, in a flash of red lightning, Malcolm found himself outside, lying in the grass, nowhere near his brother.

The pain didn't register right away as it often doesn't in situations like this. Confusion and fear spun in Malcolm’s head until he realized his chest ached and he couldn't breathe.

"Mom? Dad?" Barry's voice echoed in the dark street and Malcolm tried to call out to him but all he managed was a choking sound that he was sure nobody could hear at all. He rolled over to try and push himself up - blinding pain pierced his skull and shot up from his lower back before he lost consciousness.

"-looks like he got thrown out the window. Malcolm. Mal, can you hear me? Where's it hurt, kiddo?" Joe West's familiar voice cut through the darkness for a minute and Malcolm moaned in pain, blinking his eyes blearily before letting them fall closed again. "Dammit. How far away's the ambulance?"

A voice Malcolm didn't recognize answered but he couldn't focus on anything else until someone moved him and pain rocketed through his entire body.

"It's okay, it's okay. We're just loading you into the ambulance, try to relax." A calm woman's voice soothed. Malcolm knew it couldn't be his mom, didn't sound anything like her, but that didn't stop him from asking for her anyway as he drifted out of consciousness once more.

#earth-111 #earth 111 #malcolm allen #vexic writes #vexic lives #vexic ocs #blue streak

22 notes · View notes

economy-wonderglue · 9 days

Text

@acorncoffeeformysweetheart was my giftee for Celebradiation this year. Have a little thing about Daisy, reading, and the upsides of having a friend that can act as a nightlight.

—————

The first snow of the season has started its descent. Little flurries stick to the window before melting against the glass. The cold seeps in through gaps in the walls, despite Daisy’s best efforts to finally get the second floor of the store fixed up. With heavy reinforcements (more blankets) and a resupply (extra wood for the barrel fireplace), Nate and Daisy have managed to stave off any further encroachment (the room getting too cold to bear). They’re equipped with a stack of overdue library books that Nate brought around to share before turning them in for book tokens. Daisy has a beginner’s guide to rodent care, and Nate holds a copy of Dostoevsky’s Notes from Underground that he keeps setting down.

“Daisy, this is patently unfair,” Nate says, watching with obvious jealousy as Daisy flips another page in her book. She doesn’t look up.

“You’ve got your own stack of books,” she reminds him. It doesn’t wipe the little pout off of Nate’s face, and he continues to wallow in his pile of blankets on the couch, arms crossed over his chest.

“Uh, no. Your friend?”

“You’ve got Dogmeat.”

“Yeah, but all he does is bite people and sleep.”

Dogmeat lets out a tired little whine-sigh of a wasteland dog living a tough life. He’s currently enduring the hardship of sleeping underneath Nate’s knees like a living cushion. Never mind the fact that he crawled under the vault dweller’s legs to get there, or that Nate has been feeding him mirelurk jerky the whole time. He pokes his nose out from under the blankets.

“Where did you even find it?” Nate asks, shimmying against the couch to keep his shoulders under the blankets.

“I think it’s more accurate to say that it found me. It was limping around the entrance of Goodneighbor, and I felt bad. It just needed a little love, isn’t that right?”

Daisy raises one hand to scratch at the chin of her “friend” currently draped over her shoulders. Her friend emits a happy whuff and resumes napping. Dogmeat makes a noise that sounds like an attempt at mimickry, trying to be cute as well. Nate rolls his eyes.

“How come you can’t be like Daisy’s friend?” Nate asks. Dogmeat grumbles. “Come on, it’d be cool! Think of how useful it would make you too!”

“I’m not sure Dogmeat would be as good at sneaking,” Daisy points out, turning the page in her book.

“Do I look like the kind of person who sneaks?”

Daisy gives Nate a once-over, which isn’t quite as helpful thanks to most of his body being covered by blankets. The two scars crossing his face are good enough to answer his question.

“I know the kind of ammo that you buy from KL-E-0.”

“Exactly.”

Something downstairs makes a strange sound, and the floor lamp next to Nate’s couch goes out.

“Aw, shit,” he mutters. He makes no move to get up. “Daisy, can you—”

“No way, vault dweller.”

“But I can’t read without a light!”

“I’m not having any trouble.”

Daisy tries to hold back a smile as Nate lets out a long, annoyed groan. He wiggles his legs to knock the blankets off, and awkwardly lifts them over Dogmeat to avoid kicking him in the head.

“That is so unfair,” he tells Daisy.

Nate walks over and gives her friend a quick scratch on the head, before walking downstairs to restart the generator. Dogmeat uses the opportunity to take over the couch, eyeing Daisy as he lays down on top of the blankets to make himself a little nest.

“Hey, no eating my friend,” she tells the dog, who rests his chin on the couch’s arm and gives her a pointed look. “I need my reading light.”

The glowing mole rat balancing itself against Daisy’s shoulders and the back of the armchair seems to pulse for a moment. It glows with just enough light for Daisy to keep reading. Nate climbs the stairs again and puts his hands on his hips.

“Again, super unfair,” he says, and Daisy shakes her head.

“Well, I’m sorry that I’m better at finding animal friends than you are,” she replies without a hint of remorse. The book says something about the highly social nature of rats, and Daisy wonders if her new friend needs some other mole rat buddies too. The only problem with that is finding and taming them. They bite without hesitation, tunnel all over the place, and chew on everything in sight. Daisy’s friend is content with living indoors because of his mangled front paw making it too difficult to dig anymore, but any other mole rats would immediately set off to cause structural damage all over Goodneighbor.

“Have you named it?” Nate asks.

“Not yet. I wasn’t going to, but I guess we have to call it something other than just ‘my friend’. Any suggestions?”

“Glowy.”

“No.”

“Radstorm.”

“No.”

“Mole?”

“You are terrible at naming pets.”

“Hey, I’ve never named a pet in my life. Dogmeat came with that name already.” Nate pauses, looking thoughtful. “Hey, how about—”

“I am not naming it Ratmeat.”

Nate takes to calling the animal “Not-Ratmeat”. The mole rat starts responding to that name after a week.

#fallout #celebradiation24

12 notes · View notes

ariesbilly · 5 months

Note

Um 🥺 every physical intimacy prompt for fredsythe pls but especially 3,8,33,45 for hand holding 👬

Riverdale, 1989

Fred’s always antsy the night before Christmas. Bundled up warm under his covers, but wiggling around, tossing and turning with a grin on his face as he awaits the reasonable hour of 6 am so he can run downstairs and wake everyone up for presents.

He knows he’s eating good this year. There’s a bunch of big boxes under the tree with his name then. He just knows one’s a Nintendo.

He’s just done his fortieth flip of the night, back to his window, when something taps. A lone clink he figures must be a tree branch scratching the glass. Happens from time to time. He’s content to ignore the second time, even the third. But the fourth one seems harsher, and the fifth one comes too rhythmically to be a lone branch.

Fred knows who it is before he even hops out of bed, but the question is why FP isn’t climbing up to his window like he normally does. (A small part of him also wonders why FP’s sneaking all the way over to his side of town on Christmas Eve, but Fred knows in his gut the answer. It’s the quiet part they don’t say out loud.)

It’s snowing out, he realizes as he reaches his window. Must’ve started after he went to bed. And FP’s standing out in his yard, arms folded around himself as he stares up at his friend.

“Are you gonna let me in or am I gonna have to freeze to death out here?” FP whisper-shouts.

Fred can hear the chill in his voice, the wobble to it as he shivers in the snow.

“Meet me at the back door,” he responds before dashing down the two flights of stairs as quietly as he can, just barely remembering to avoid the squeaky floorboard in front of his parents’ room in his mad dash.

FP’s always been pale, but there’s a sickly hue to his skin as Fred lets him inside. Up close, he can see now FP’s without a jacket. Which means he walked across town without one. In the snow. In the dead of night.

“Are you crazy?!” Fred just barely remembers to keep his voice down. Immediately brings his hands to FP’s arms, rubbing them quick to bring some warmth back. He’s like ice when Fred touches him. “Why don’t you have a coat?”

“Didn’t really have time to grab one,” FP mutters through clenched teeth.

He doesn’t need to say anything else for Fred to get it. So he lets it go. Focuses instead on just getting FP warm. Brings his hands down to his friend’s and tries to warm those up, too. But when Fred reaches for FP’s palms, he winces back.

There’s a small nightlight Fred’s mom keeps in the kitchen, just in case. He brings FP over to it, drawing his hands near so he can get a better look. There’s tiny cuts and bits of gravel dug in. Fred looks up, must be a million questions all over his face.

“I tripped running out of the trailer,” FP mumbles, not meeting Fred’s gaze. He pulls his hands down to his sides, shoulders going up to his ears, and Fred lets him.

“We should get that cleaned up,” Fred offers, instead of saying what he really wants to. “Go down to the basement. I’ll go get the first aid.”

The basement’s not exactly warm, but there’s blankets down there for FP to wrap himself up in, and it’s easier to huddle down there than it is to sneak past Fred’s parents’ room again.

Huddled under a blanket is exactly how Fred finds FP a few moments later. He’s sitting crisscross on the couch down there, a quilt wrapped around his shoulders. He looks almost childlike, body curled in on itself and his curls sticking to his forehead from the wet snow. And then it hits Fred - they are kids. Going into high school had made him feel grown up, larger than life. But nothing could humble him quicker than hiding his best friend in his basement because he was running from his father. Suddenly Fred wishes an actual adult were in the room.

“Lemme see.” Fred’s gentle as he takes the seat next to FP, waits patiently for him to stick his hands out from under the quilt. He’s got some color back in his cheeks already, so that’s good.

Fred’s careful as he goes over the cuts on FP’s palm, even moreso when he uses tweezers to pick out the bits of dirt and gravel lodged into his skin. There’s a couple flinches, but beyond that FP doesn’t react.

There’s one deeper cut on the heel of FP’s palm that needs a little extra attention. Nothing too bad, but Fred slips a bandaid over it just to be safe. Lets his finger ghost over it, getting lost in thought as his eyes skim over the older, faded scars that align FP’s hand. Not all of them are from something bad, like the one on his thumb from where he got a hook caught in it the one time he and Fred went fishing. It’s a good memory, all things considering. Fred finds himself smiling bitter sweetly.

“Kind of a shitty way to spend Christmas Eve,” FP’s voice breaks through the silence.

Fred shrugs. “There’s worse.” He lets his fingers dance over FP’s palm, mostly because FP’s actually letting him.

He places their palms flat against each other, notices how their hands are almost the same size, except FP’s fingers are longer. Fred’s got no scars, though. That’s the main difference. The one he’ll always notice. Wishes he could take some from FP for himself, even the distribution. Take away some of the hurt.

He tests the waters further by linking their fingers together. Thinks he hears FP’s breath hitch a little, but he doesn’t make any moves to distance himself.

Fred’s always been affectionate. FP less so. Not in the same ways as Fred, anyway. Takes him longer to open up to people, to let himself be soft. So it’s surprising he’s letting Fred do something as bold as hold his hand, even if it’s just the two of them alone in Fred’s basement. Maybe it’s a Christmas miracle.

“I’m happy you’re here.” The all things considered goes unsaid. Fred squeezes FP’s hand, careful not to irritate the scratches.

“Yeah. Me, too,” FP whispers, like he’s afraid to say it too loud. He’s staring down at their hands, even scratches his nail fondly against Fred’s skin.

Fred would give anything to know what’s going on in that head of his, but one miracle is enough for tonight. He’s content now to just sit in the quiet with his best friend, making sure he’s safe for the rest of the night.

“Merry Christmas, Effie.”

“Merry Christmas, Freddie.”

#did this come out good I was writing with many noise distractions lmao #briana answers things #fredsythe #Fred Andrews #fp jones #riverdale fanfiction #my writing

6 notes · View notes

sanctuary-kingdomhearts · 1 year

Text

꧁𝐶ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝐼𝐼꧂

𝐷𝑎𝑟𝑘 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑆𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑦

It was always at night that I felt the most scared. Afraid of the way my sight constricted and how I could barely see my own hand without the night light. The way every shift of fabric from our blankets tossed and turned as we moved in them felt like something was on the floor, slithering around. How the reflections of our toys looked like eyes or something sharp.

The way Sora's snores and grumbles and mutters and mumbles sounded like a monster, searching for its prey. The way my own erratic breath kept catching in my throat as I strained my ears to listen for every little sound. Narrowed my eyes to try to see to the opposite end of the room, desperate to know it was just Sora. That we were safe, that he was okay.

I whimpered, wrapping my cover around myself as I tried to sink deeper into the mattress. The ocean-inspired bedding did nothing to comfort me as Sora climbed back into his star-themed covers.

He plopped the night light on his nightstand and turned to look at me as he hauled his body up on the bed which was just a little too tall for him, we'd grow into it, mom said. I could see the whites of his teeth as he smiled at me before it morphed down a little, still a smile, not quite a frown.

"(N/n)? You okay?"

I nodded, spooked by the sound the covers made when I shifted, "'M fine. It's just the one night, right?"

He bounced in his bed, springs making a horrid noise that made me jump. My bed made the same noise, causing me to cry out my brother's name, a resolve that hadn't been there shattering.

"Sora!" I whined, "Sora, I'm scared!"

He rushed out of his bed and hoped over the messy space in between our beds, covered in toys mom told him to put away days ago, and came over to me while I tried hiding my face in my pillow and wrapped my blanket around me protectively. It wasn't much, but it would protect me from the dark. It had to.

From out the window, moonlight shone down as Sora's eye's met my own. He hopped into bed with me and pulled me close, hugging me.

"Sorry, (Y/n). I knew you were scared of the dark, but I..." He trailed off, and from the half-moon's light, I could see his eyes wet and sparkle. I brought out my hand and patted his cheek.

"Don't cry, Sora. It's okay. You just wanted to prove Riku wrong." Riku, he'd said he didn't sleep with a nightlight because he was five, it was only for babies. Sora wanted to prove how grown up he was, that he was just as mature as Riku even though we're a couple of months younger.

"I can put the night light back! Just give me a sec," He moved to get off the bed and make his way over to his own, but I grabbed his wrist and tried not to shake.

"Don't, don't go..." I asked him. "Stay, please. I'll, I'll be fine but you have to promise you won't leave, okay? It's scary without you." I blinked, staring at Sora who gave me a warm smile again and climbed into bed.

I moved to give him some of the blanket, but he stopped me, just giving me a hug as we lay down.

"Don't worry, (N/n)! I won't let the dark hurt you! I'll protect you from all the scary monsters, and tomorrow, we can show Riku how fearless we are, together!" He kept the smile on his face as his sky-blue eyes closed.

I tried to feel comforted by that, but I was still scared. I didn't feel fearless at all. The only thing that stopped my shaking, and helped me nod off to sleep, forgetting the world around me, was Sora.

I removed my arms from the safety of the blanket and wrapped them around him. I'll protect him too.

꧁ఌ꧂

Next to me, the figure beside me shifted and moved with purpose, not the random wiggling and flailing of sleep. I rigidly moved my hand up and down and around, looking for my twin. He grabbed it and set it down.

I moaned, still too sleepy to wake up for him. "...Sora," I croaked, "wh're you goin? 'S late."

He shushed me, patting my head, "need to use the bathroom, be right back, (N/n)."

"Noooooo, don't gooooo." I patted my hand on the mattress again, but I heard him walk away regardless.

I huffed, blinking away the bleariness of sleep as I rolled over, sitting up. I yawned, leaning back and stretched. I can't sleep without Sora, so I'd have to wait for him to come back.

My vision was still a little splotchy, so I lifted up my knuckle and rubbed at it. I blinked again, putting it down. I was awake enough. I looked around the room, it was brighter, not by much, but still late.

The toy clock on my stand –themed like a toy boat with sea shells glued on courtesy of a craft day with mom– displayed the time. It was almost four thirty, only seven minutes before.

I looked out the window, the moon was still high in the sky, but not as much as before, its beams were breaking through the clouds and illuminating Sora's and I shared room, cluttered with books and toys.

Out the windowsill, something moved. I froze, catching my breath. A moment passed, and the darkness rolled as a heavy cloud blocked the moon's summer light.

It moved again, and I saw a paw and the outline of a tail. I let out a sigh of relief, just a cat. I relaxed.

It scratched the window, a cat's knock, three swipes, and then it made a noise.

That didn't sound like a meow. It sounded scratchy, like a screech. An insect's noise. Rigid again, I snapped my head toward the creature.

Beaty yellow eyes stared back at me, black head tilting as we made eye contact. Antennae twitched and lolled to the side its head tilted to the right.

I blinked, and it copied me. Then, it started scratching harder on the window and I started clawing my way out of the blankets that'd wrapped around me and fell when I was asleep, encasing my legs.

I fell onto the floor, the heavy noise of my body hitting the ground as I did. I tried to breathe, but no breath would filter through my lungs no matter how hard I tried. Something else clunked to the floor, knocked off by my fall, a shimmering of faint sparkle crossed my vision before I fell on my face.

That wasn't a cat. That wasn't a cat. That wasn't a cat!

And it didn't look like that misters animal from earlier, however strange that cat might've been.

No, this was a Scary. A scary, scary monster!

I tried to remember what to do, what Riku told me to do when Scaries showed up. I counted on my fingers as I remembered what he'd told me, desperately wishing I hadn't brushed off what I thought were his attempts to spook me.

Right, that's right, he said I needed to hold my breath and keep it in my cheeks. Curl up, and hide. Then, I needed to banish it by... Oh, what did he say? I'm too panicked to remember. I closed my eyes and held my breath, curling up.

I needed to banish it. Get rid of it. How? Sora? Mom?

Right, yes, mom, I should call for help.

I opened my mouth to yell to her, but couldn't get the words out. My eyes opened as the scratching stopped. Terrified, I watched as tendrils came from the flowers hung up outside our window, or maybe it came from the creature, even as the moon's light came overhead again, I couldn't tell. It slithered closer to the window, and the word glass slid up. I started hyperventilating, the Scary was coming in. The Scary was coming inside!

Sora burst through the door, running over to me, almost tripping over his feet. "(Y/n)! You okay? I heard a huge bump!" His arms were out wide to accentuate his point.

I turned to him, shakily pointing at the now open window. The Scary was crawling inside slowly, moving unnaturally as it twitched and writhed. Sora made eye contact with the creature, his mouth agape. It only took him a second before he yelled out for mom.

"Mom!!"

I clutched his shirt and tried to pull myself up using my standing brother as I tried to breathe. The Scary climbed down the windowsill and the desk under it clunked with its weight. There's a noise from the other room, and just as quickly as Sora had yelled, mom had come in through the door, sprinting down the hallway.

"Sora?" She questioned, still with her morning voice and very much groggy, I couldn't seem to care much. "(Y/n)?"

"Scary, big, and scary..." Sora and I pointed at the thing, which stepped on a pencil and caused it to roll down onto the floor.

She blinked, lazily looking toward where we were pointing before her eyes enlarged, fully opening, and alert. Mom was awake now. She rushed forward, into action, and shooed the monster away, out the window.

"Shoo! Shoo! Get out of here!" As it crept out of the window, a little spark of pink light came from the window, not caused by the moon and not by the street lights either. It came out of nowhere, for just that split moment.

And then, she closed the window, turning back to us as she tried to smile –too rigidly now, not comforting like I'd expected it to be– and walked towards us.

"Sora, (Y/n), why did you open the window? Are you okay? Don't worry, it was just a cat, nothing to worry about. Promise." Her continued insistence that things were alright did not make me feel safe and okay. I was very, very worried. That Scary opened the window, and she was promising that nothing was wrong? She knows I hate those. Mom would never use promises to comfort us, or, at least, me.

She crouched down, her back footing hitting something that chinked and clattered against the wooden floor.

"Huh?" She whispered to herself, going to pick up the object. Which seemed to be bigger than she thought. "Sora, I told you to put away your toys."

"Wha, but...!"

She picked it up, and I watched her jaw drop and her eyes widen even further. She stared at it for a moment. A singular, long moment. It stretched for a long time before she closed her eyes and took a breath, opening them slowly.

The thing she was staring at was a large, oversized key. With a silver handle and golden blade tied together with a red hilt. There was a chain at the end, with a crown-shaped keychain. She narrowed her eyes and I could sense a wave of intense anger radiating off of her.

It was almost like she was trying to will the strange toy away.

But it didn't go away, obviously. Because that's not how that works. But I did wonder how it got there. It wasn't there when we went to bed.

Did Sora find it? Bring it home with him? Was it a present? It was nowhere near Christmas, and our birthday was months ago. I turned to him, but he didn't seem to have a clue about it either, having done the same.

Tears welled up in mom's eyes and panicked, Sora wrapped his arms around her arm, the one not holding up the key.

"Momma? What's wrong? What is that? Where'd it come from?" He asked, voice softer than it usually is, distressed by her distress. She bent her elbow and patted his head, smoothing out his hair, not tearing her gaze from the key.

I stepped forward, "mom?" I whispered, breathing slowly.

She blinked, serious. "Sora, (Y/n)," she took in a deep, shaky breath. "Could you touch this key for me, please?"

We looked at each other again, meeting eyes. Blue on (e/c). Sora shrugged, "okay."

He reached out, grabbed the silver hilt surrounding the handle, and squeezed. After a second, he let go. Mom let out a strangled breath, something of fearful relief. Before she turned to me, moving the key a little closer.

"Now you, (Y/n)."

I hesitated, croaking out, "why?"

"Please," Mom grunted, "(Y/n), I'm begging you, just touch the keyblade."

Keyblade?

Reluctantly, I did as mom asked. I don't think she'll give any answers until I do, so I reached out and grabbed the handle in the same place Sora did, feeling the silver metal kissing my skin. It was cold.

A blinding light cut through the dark room as the blade engulfed itself in it and disappeared. In my right hand, it came back, and my grip tightened on the black leather handle. The key was almost the size of me, so it clunked to the floor, my strength not enough to keep the metal object off the floor.

Surprised, I looked from mom to the object before turning back to the blond-haired lady. "Mom? What happened?" I asked, not knowing what else to say.

The tears fell from her eyes and she sniffed, rubbing them away with her hand. She was trying not to frown too. I dropped the key to the ground, unable to keep it up anymore.

I don't understand. Was this a bad thing?

"It's fine– everything's okay, sweetheart. Just–" She took in a breath, reaching out her hand. She grabbed onto my mine, uncurling my fingers and pressing her palm flat against mine.

On the floor, the key disappeared in a blinding light.

Sora came closer, taking both our hands in his. Tears streamed down his cheeks, "I don't know what just happened, but," he sucked in a breath, "I don't want mom or (N/n) to be sad!"

He jumped on our hands and brought them into a hug. Mom pulled him and me closer.

"How about tonight, you two sleep with me in my bed?" She offered. Sora smiled, exclaiming too loudly for so early in the morning, "yeah!"

Mom turned her head down to me. I nodded, sleepy again, clutching onto her sleep shirt. That sounded great.

She giggled, setting us down slowly, she avoided looking at us as she did so. "Then you two climb into bed, I... I'll be right there."

"Where're you going?" Sora asked, tilting his head. Mom paused, her gaze shifted to me for a moment, and I felt my stomach drop at the feeling of not knowing what was causing it. I wanted to know what made her so upset.

"Just have to make a phone call, that's all."

Sora pouted, "So early?"

"It's– for work."

"This is why I'll never become an adult! You have to wake up so early, for what? Candy costs two dollars at the store, I can find that in between the couch cushions!" Sora threw his arms up and took my hand, "c'mon (N/n), let's go."

He pulled me out of our door toward mom's room, but I couldn't help but look back at the saddened woman.

#kingdom hearts #sanctuary #kingdom hearts x reader #child!reader #heart #keyblade #kingdom hearts union x #light #darkness

10 notes · View notes

iwritewhump · 2 years

Text

whumptember day 8

title: cold night and colder conversation

prompts: ‘i’m ok’, lying

warnings: none

characters: caretaker, whumpee

271 words

reblogs appreciated

Caretaker stops in front of Whumpee’s door, they normally wouldn’t but a gust of cold air blows under the door and Caretaker goes into Whumpee’s room. The window is open and the nightlight has been unplugged and sits on the floor. The light clicks on and Caretaker looks around the room. Whumpee isn’t in bed, or anywhere else in the room, for that matter.

Caretaker picks Whumpee’s comforter up off the floor and tosses it onto the bed before looking out the window.

Whumpee’s sitting on the fire escape, legs dangling off the edge. Caretaker sighs in relief and climbs out of the window. They sit down next to Whumpee and stare out into the night sky. There are no stars visible and the moon looks dull.

“Did I wake you up?” Whumpee asks, barley above a whisper.

Caretaker shakes their head, “No, no. I’ve been awake. What are you doing out here?”

“Too hot in my room.” they say.

Caretaker hums and looks down into the alley. “What about the light?”

Whumpee stays quiet. Suddenly, the billboard on the building across from them is very interesting.

Caretaker turns to look at them, “Whumpee–”

“I’m ok,” they say, cutting Caretaker off.

They both know it’s a lie, but Caretaker would never push Whumpee into talking about something they weren’t ready to talk about.

“Let’s go back inside, you can keep the window cracked open but you need to sleep.” Caretaker says. They stand up and climb back through the window.

Whumpee nods, “I’ll be in in a minute.”

Caretaker sighs, knowing they’ll stay out all night, but leaves the room anyway.

#whumptember2022 #whumptember #whumptember day 8 #'i'm ok'#lying #whumpee #whump #caretaker #whump fic #whump writing #my writing

6 notes · View notes

webguys-blog · 5 months

Text

A Comprehensive Home Safety Checklist for Family Caregivers

As a family caregiver, ensuring the safety and well-being of your loved one is a top priority. One crucial aspect of caregiving is creating a safe home environment that minimizes the risk of accidents and promotes independence. In this blog post, we will provide a comprehensive home safety checklist for family caregivers to help you identify potential hazards and make necessary modifications to ensure a safe living space for your loved one.

1. General Safety Measures:

Install smoke detectors and carbon monoxide detectors on every level of the home.

Keep emergency contact numbers readily accessible.

Ensure that all areas of the home are well-lit, especially hallways, staircases, and entrances.

Remove or secure loose rugs and ensure that all flooring is in good condition to prevent tripping hazards.

Install handrails on staircases and grab bars in bathrooms to assist with balance and stability.

2. Bathroom Safety:

Install non-slip mats or adhesive strips in the bathtub or shower.

Use a shower chair or bench for added stability during bathing. - Install grab bars near the toilet and in the shower or bathtub.

Ensure that the water heater is set to a safe temperature to prevent scalding.

3. Kitchen Safety:

Keep frequently used items within easy reach to avoid the need for reaching or climbing.

Install safety knobs on the stove to prevent accidental burns or fires.

Use non-slip mats or rugs in front of the sink and stove.

Store sharp objects, cleaning products, and medications in locked cabinets or out of reach.

4. Bedroom Safety:

Ensure that the bed is at an appropriate height for easy entry and exit.

Use a nightlight or install motion sensor lights to prevent falls during nighttime trips to the bathroom.

Keep a phone or emergency call button within reach of the bed.

5. Fall Prevention:

Remove clutter and ensure clear pathways throughout the home.

Secure loose cords and wires to prevent tripping hazards. - Install handrails on both sides of staircases.

Use non-slip mats or rugs in high-traffic areas.

Consider using a medical alert system or wearable device for emergencies.

6. Medication Safety:

Organize medications in a pill organizer or use a medication management system.

Keep medications in a secure location, out of reach of children and pets.

Dispose of expired or unused medications properly.

7. Fire Safety:

Install fire extinguishers in the kitchen and other high-risk areas.

Develop and practice a fire escape plan with your loved one.

Ensure that all smoke detectors are in working order and replace batteries regularly.

8. Home Security:

Install secure locks on all doors and windows.

Consider installing a home security system or video surveillance for added peace of mind.

In conclusion, creating a safe home environment is essential for the well-being and independence of your loved one. By following this comprehensive home safety checklist, you can identify potential hazards and make necessary modifications to ensure a secure living space. Regularly reassessing and updating the safety measures in your home will help provide peace of mind for both you and your loved one. Remember, every home is unique, so adapt the checklist to suit your specific needs and consult with professionals if necessary.

Become a Caregiver in Indiana

#senior care #senior assistance #seniors health #agere caregiver

0 notes

twst-drabbles · 2 years

Text

Octavinelle 1

Summary: It’s time to feed these weird little sea creatures that Crowley got for you from who knows where. Since when did you become the local dump off point for strange creatures?

(Hahahahaha house pet au, basically. Everyone is an animal hybrid, they’re all small and can be mostly held, and it’s just meant to be a cute and adorable au. I do have a Sanctuary AU that’s darker and involves rehabilitating the (full sized) boys in Night Raven Sanctuary in hopes they’ll remember themselves and take back control over their magic and their human form. But for now, we get cute things. Please, don’t be afraid to ask questions.)

Alright, it’s around noon, your house is clean and now you have to go to the fish room to feed your pets. Pets you’ve been forced to have because Mr. Crowley thought you would be perfect for them. It’s not even the first time he’s done this. They’re the third set you got.

Seriously, where does he even get these strange creatures? They’re about as strange as the man himself, so you can’t say you were caught off guard. You’re used to weird. Like that weird cat with the fire ears that likes to climb your walls and nap on top of them.

The room you picked for these little sea creatures was one without windows. Crowley warned you that they were sensitive to light as a result from coming from the deep sea.

A poacher? He denies the accusation. Can’t say you believe him.

You did install nightlights since you can’t very well feel your way to the long tank that stood just below your shoulders and spanned the entire wall. You had to change those things multiple times because of the color. They didn’t like green, or pink, or red. They wanted blue, and if it was in any other color, somehow Floyd would break the tank’s top and Azul would spray ink on the night lights.

That little guppy had some aim you’ll give him that.

Anyways, the nightlights gave just enough for you to spot a small, forearm length Floyd swimming in slow lazy circles, a frown on his chubby and human-ish face.

Seriously, where does Mr. Crowley even find these creatures?

Jade was sitting at the bottom, tail wrapped about a mushroom decoration you had to buy when he spat a glob of water on an ad on your magazine.

Azul, however, was nowhere to be seen. Likely hiding, as he usually does. Probably in that cave you put inside when you noticed he tried to hide behind seaweed but failed because it was too thin. He was very small, only the size of your hand, and chubby enough that you had to hold him with two.

As soon as you closed the door, Floyd stopped his lazy circles and began banging the top of the tank.

“No no no.” You rushed over, nudging the tank open before he could break it. You are not going to lose another hundred bucks. “Quit that. I have your food anyway.”

Crowley refused to answer what kinds of food they ate so you had to play a guessing game with them. Turns out they had a very typical diet, fish, crabs, shrimp and other sea life, but they shown preference to cooked food. However, because you didn’t want to containment the water, you’ve refrained from giving them any food that would dissolve or was too watery. However, you wanted to do something a little different today.

So, you got a little doll table made to float on water.

So, you have some seasoned steak with you for Floyd since he nearly broke the glass when you bought one, a boiled assortment of mushrooms and vegetables drizzled in a nice sauce for Jade, and finally, some potato chips and a fried clam for Azul.

Soon as you set the table on the water, Floyd clamped his chompers on it.

“No!” you grabbed his little head, trying to nudge his jaw open, “Get that out. Out of your mouth!” And when he bit hard enough to already leave a minor crack, “I will put you in the bucket of shame Floyd, don’t test me!”

And he let go, but he still had that stupid grin on his face as Jade poked his face out of the water, nudging him in the direction of your bag of food. Seriously, why can’t Floyd be calmer like his brother?

You launched out your hand, gripping Floyd as he attempted to jump out and dive into your bag. He wriggled around, the slimy little thing trying to get his meal early.

“Nope.” and you shoved him back into the tank. You looked at Jade, who was sporting a toothy grin. Little shit. “You did that on purpose.” You whispered as you kept your arm elbow deep in the water.

Jade just set his little arms on the table, expression back to its weirdly serene self as he patiently waited for his meal to be served.

Since you were down one arm—eel was still squirming—you balanced your bag on your knee, carefully trying to pull out the food before you felt multiple appendages wrapping around your wrist, thick and clinging.

LIfting your head, you spotted little Azul emerging from his cave, black tentacles delicately going over your skin as he pats the thrashing Floyd on the shoulder. Somehow, that was enough to instantly calm him down. The little octopus looked at you with eyes that were always watery and tapped your fingers. Naturally, you let go, and Floyd just started to circle around your wrist.

For someone as shy as him, you didn’t expect him to have this kind of power over them.

“Thank you, Azul.” His skin went through an array of different colors, your skin tone, your shirt, your shoes, and finally back to his own. He looked flustered, started to play with one of his tendrils.

Shaking your hands free of water, you pulled out the food and set them on the floating and slightly damaged table. Jade took to it easily, eating on the table without pulling it under. Floyd attempted to do so, probably to wrestle it and tear it apart, but Jade stopped him with a pull of it tail. Floyd didn’t like it, and showed it by eating as messily as possible. Azul looked the most uncomfortable, slowly eating the food you know he wanted to stuff down his face. You usually see him go into hiding to eat. However, what made up for it was how bright his eyes looked, his bites slowly becoming more and more bold.

Cute, all of them. Now if only they weren’t so expensive.

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst-drabbles #twst-drabbles exclusive #drabble #azul #azul ashengrotto #floyd #floyd leech #jade #jade leech #octavinelle #house pet au #reader insert

491 notes · View notes

fluffyprettykitty · 2 years

Text

Amorous

Pairing: Selina Kyle x female reader (no other specifications)

Word Count: 700 words

Outline: You were obsessed with your girlfriend's body and what about it?

Warnings: weed, alcohol, heavy nipple play, dirty talk, pet names, praise kink, titty fxcking, not betae'ed, all mistakes are my own, if I didn't tag something or tagged something wrong pls let me know!

Author’s Note: Requested by a fellow h! anon! Hope you will like this and any other thots you might have sent them my way! :)

dividers by @firefly-graphics // banners by @maysdigitalarts

Main Masterlist ・❥・Selina Kyle MasterList

NSFW UNDER THE CUT, MINORS DNI.

"I love you" you breathe out liquor and weed hard on your tongue.

"Of course you love me, I just fucked you stupid."

Selina’s tone is sarcastic yet playful as she takes a puff from the joint, naked against the bedframe. She sets the joint down and positions herself laying on the bed.

"Fucker."

You laugh and climb on top of her pressing your already used pussy on her belly. You begin to wiggle over her body sensually staring at her unimpressed stare.

"I fucking love you and your precious fucking tits. I could fuck those stupid."

"Interesting, what's stopping you, darling?"

Selina cocks her head, a smirk on the curl of her lips. Her breasts were looking very inviting, illuminated by the nightlight coming in from the window. Pressing yourself on your knees you lower your pussy on her breast, moaning when you come in contact with her nipple.

"You really fucking love my tits, huh?"

"Maybe." You let out a soft giggle, intoxicated and enamored as you begin to move your hips slowly.

"All of your body is mine. Mine alone."

"Getting a little possessive there, princess?"

"Claiming what's mine."

“Aw, princess, you know I don’t belong to anyone.”

“Only cause I haven’t fucked you everywhere yet.”

You let out another moan and fuck if it doesn't make Selina all horny all over again. She brings a hand to her other neglected nipple and starts rubbing it synchronizing it to your rhythm.

"Fuck, baby, it feels so good."

You let out a harsh groan when you touch her nipple with your clit, momentarily trying to clench as you are trying to balance yourself on the bed to continue faster.

"You like fucking my tit, baby? You like how it feels?"

Selina loved how talkative she had made you become during the act. At first, you were shy and prudish, hiding your face whenever she went down on you. Refusing to even stand naked in front of her. And now? Now you were a whore for her through and through. If she asked you to fuck yourself in the middle of the street you would do it no questions asked.

"It feels amazing, baby. Fuck."

You moan again, pussy juices falling on her breast while you slowly rub yourself on her. It feels new and good, Selina is wiggling underneath you trying to touch her pussy. You turn your head to look at her, catching a glimpse of a finger sneaking in her vagina, a thumb on her clit as she begins to masturbate.

"Fuck, baby, fuck!"

You groan out again as an echo of moans fills the room. It felt dirty and amazing, fucking again and again. Truly insatiable shit. Selina's fingers are moving around her areola and then she squeezes her breast, while her fingers are buried deep within her.

Trying to lower yourself a little bit more, getting into a much better angle with your clit, you begin to move your body fast, fucking yourself on her nipple.

"Baby, I'm close! Fuck! Can I cum, please?"

A question that always needs to be asked, Selina hated it if you came without her permission.

"Go ahead, baby, I'm close too. Scream my name, fuck, come on!"

Selina lets out a loud moan when she begins to pressure her fingers on her clit. It wouldn't be long so you roll your hips, feeling the coil inside you tighten so close and fist on the sheets. With the loudest cry, you cum on her nipple, soaking her with your pussy juice followed by Selina's echoing scream.

"Fucking hell!"

You breathe out, your legs shaking, panting heavily. Selina is wailing underneath, her own orgasm hitting her in waves. Feels magical and perfect every single time.

"Can I fuck the other one?"

You smirk looking at her blissed-out face.

"Only if you eat me out again, baby."

"Wouldn't have to ask me twice."

If you want to be notified about my future stories please follow my library blog @fluffyprettykittylibrary and turn on notifications!

#selina kyle #selina kyle x reader #selina kyle smut #catwoman selina kyle #selina kyle imagine #selina kyle x female reader #catwoman imagine #catwoman #catwoman x reader #catwoman fanfiction #the batman #the batman 2022 #the batman movie #the batman smut #the batman imagine #the batman x reader #batman 2022 #selenewrites

228 notes · View notes

drakendaydreams · 2 years

Text

Dirty December Day 24 || {11:04am}

Friends With Benefits || {NSFW} x fem!Reader

A/N: Day twenty-four has come upon us and we're gonna have a grand old booty call with Draken. 😌 If you want to be added to the taglist for Dirty December send me an ask or a DM. Age must be in bio or easily found to be added.

Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, 18+ content, offensive language (swearing), degradation, dirty talk, friends with benefits, booty call, fingering, pussy slapping, daddy kink, minors dni

Character: Ken "Draken" Ryuguji

Word Count: 1.8k

Dirty December Masterlist

You picked up your phone and stared at the screen, the text message that sat upon it was from exactly who you had thought it would have been. Draken. Your arrangement? When one of the two of you needed a little release you’d be there for each other, and now was clearly one of those times for him.

You opened the message and chuckled. He had just been here yesterday and he was already coming back for more?

Draken 😘🚬 12:09 am

Hey, you up? Can I come over? I’ve been staring at the ceiling for two hours.

12:10 am

I’m up. Get over here quick before I fall asleep.

You placed your phone back down on your nightstand and grabbed the television remote, curling into the blankets around you. Draken had a key, if you had managed to fall asleep he’d just let himself in. You turned on your favorite movie and yawned, trying desperately to keep your eyes open. All you had to do was make it until he got here, you could manage that, right?

About halfway through the movie, you heard your front door open, the familiar sound of his combat boots on the hardwood making their way toward your room. You took the proper precaution just in case, grabbing onto the knife that you kept under your pillow and clutching the handle.

The door handle of your bedroom turned and as the door opened you saw the easily recognizable dragon tattoo on the side of his head through the small nightlights in the hallway. Your hand relaxed and let go of the knife, clutching onto the blanket over you. Draken grabbed the top of the doorframe and leaned on it, his shirt pulling up to expose his v line for you. You were nearly drooling at just the sight of it. The way his t-shirt pull up perfectly over it, the way his abs seemed to glisten in the small bit of moonlight that was coming through your window. Had Draken always been this majestic?

He tilted his head back and grinned, letting his hands fall from the doorframe. “I know that look Y/n, I’ve seen you wear that same look a thousand times.” Draken watched your face as he moved toward you, smiling as he noticed you swallowing hard. This was what he liked, this was what he absolutely loved to see on you, you didn’t even know what to do with yourself. “You like what you see? I made sure to work a little extra at the shop today just for you.”

You felt the mattress move as he climbed onto it, his shirt easily peeled over his head and tossed to the side. There he was, in all his glory, just for you to see. You could barely think straight as you felt his hands press into the mattress on either side of you. He was really coming for you, his hands were right there. Even after all this time of sleeping together, you were still trying to figure out why Ken Ryuguji had chosen you. His hands slid underneath your t-shirt and up your sides, the winter air outside had left them slightly chilled as you shivered under his touch. He chuckled at you, happy with himself and how you squirmed under his calloused hands.

Draken’s leaned down, wasting no time as he pressed his lips to your neck, your head instinctively moving to the side to give him a better angle. “Look at you pretty girl, just speechless for me. I like that. Means I’m doing exactly what I need to do here.”

You whined as his hand slid back down your side, grabbing the outside of your thigh tightly before sliding toward your core. “D-Draken… please.”

You had been thinking about messaging him all day, but you hadn’t wanted to sound needy since you had just seen each other the day before, but clearly, Draken hadn’t cared about that. He had just as much vigor today as he did with you yesterday. The times that he got to be at your house were some of his favorite times, the way you always needed him made him ecstatic. Draken grabbed the sides of your legs and pulled you toward him, pushing his hips into yours. His cock twitched against his pants as he felt just how warm it was between your legs, knowing that once he got those thick fingers of his between those legs you would be absolutely soaked. “Mmmm,” he leaned down and gripped your neck, closing his hand softly. “Just look at you, you’re falling apart and I’ve barely even touched you. Pitiful.” He put his hand between your legs and slapped your pussy gently. “Someone’s so desperate for me and it hasn’t even been that long since I left here last. Barely even twenty-four hours and you’re this needy?”

You pushed your hips toward him at the smack to your core, reaching for his arms, just wanting him to touch you again. Draken’s hand slid between your legs, pushing his fingers into your core with ease as he used your pooling slick as a lubricant. Your back arched as he plunged them into your core repeatedly, his digits curling against your silky walls as he leaned down toward you. “Such a good girl for me, giving daddy the perfect angle so that he can make his pretty little baby cry with pleasure. Sing for me, doll. I wanna hear it loud and clear.”

As if he had willed it, your mouth opened and your moans poured out, his fingers fucking in and out of you with a vigorous pace as he pushed you closer and closer to your high. It had never taken him much to get you to the edge, he knew your body better than anyone else at this point. You grabbed the bedsheet, balling it up in your fists as you felt yourself about to come undone, his praises fueling you as you bucked your hips to try to get his fingers deeper into your core.

“Look at you, doing exactly as daddy tells you to. And you’re even waiting to hear those words from me, aren’t you.” He hummed happily and put a commanding tone on for you, knowing that you loved it every time. “Now I wanna see you cum for me. Do it, darling. Go ahead and coat my fingers with it.”

With his permission given you finally let go of the bedsheet, letting yourself come undone under his movements. Your cunt clenched around his fingers as you arched your back again, his devious chuckle echoing through the room. His fingers continued to pump, he was determined to get you as far as he could, his free hand pulling the sides of his sweatpants down. “You’re not done just yet, darling. Not at all.”

Draken grasped his length and stroked, smirking at you as he pulled his fingers from between your legs. He raised his hand up for you to see, your slick glistening on the ends as he moved it toward your mouth. You whined as he got closer, the sight of him stroking himself making your loins ache all over again. “Draken… please. I can’t-” Draken cut you off, gripping the sides of your chin in his hand. “You’ve got a little bit of a mess to clean off before you get any more.” Your mouth opened as he tightened his grip, his fingers sliding in as you cleaned them for him. “That’s better. That’s what daddy likes to see.”

His hands grasped his length again as he leaned down and lined himself up with your entrance. One thrust had your legs quivering around him, your cunt trying fiercely to adjust to his size as he pounded his hips against yours. His hand shot up and grabbed onto the headboard, using it as leverage to get as far into your greedy cunt as he could. He grunted loudly as he felt your hands wrap around his back. “F-fuck, doll. Gonna destroy this pretty little pussy. Won’t be able to walk straight for a week.”

You whimpered at his words, your nails dragging down his back, leaving welts in their wake as you clutched onto him like he would disappear if you let go. Draken’s thrusts were quick and rough, every little movement sending you toward the orgasm that loomed over you, building up quicker than you wanted. Your walls closed around him more and more, making it harder and harder for him to keep even himself under control. The squeeze of your cunt as your slick built more had him groaning against your neck, his face now buried in it as he nipped at your shoulder.

“Shit. So close. I’m gonna-” You hadn’t even had time to finish your sentence before you felt yourself trembling against him, your thighs tightening around his body as you cried out his name continually.

Spews of curses followed by sinful moans filled Draken’s ear as he gripped onto your hips, slowing his pace as he spilled himself into you, a loud grunt filling the room as his hips stuttered against yours. “Fucking hell, jesus christ.”

Draken collapsed onto the bed next to you and pulled you with him, wrapping you into his shoulder as you both caught your breath. You closed your eyes as you came down from your high, your body still tense as you settled in next to him. His deep voice shocked you as he ran his hand down your arm. “It’s late… do you care if I stay here so I don’t have to try to catch the train back to my place?”

You looked up quickly, had he really asked to stay the night? He had never done that before, but he should know by now that you would never tell him no. “Of course, you can stay, Drak. It’s not a problem. You can any time you’re over here.”

Draken took a deep breath and pulled you in closer. His body was warm. He was always this warm, like a personal heater as the winter breeze drifted through the windows of the bedroom. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of your even breathing, noticing only a few minutes later as he started a movie that there was the light sound of snoring coming from you.

He debated waking you up and making his way to the couch, but decided against it when he looked down to see the large smile that sat on your face, the same one now stretching across his own as he admired just how purely happy you looked with him. His own eyes closed and before he even realized it, he was falling asleep with his arm wrapped around you, the faint sound of the movie playing in the background.

Taglist: @eriskaitto @moontxz @gonuclear @sweeneyblue1 @q-the-rockaholic

300 notes · View notes

bittermuire · 3 years

Text

a nightlight and a bottle of wine

recently I’ve really loved nezriel and wanted to write a lil thing for them. this will be two parts, this is the first. modern au

---

It’s not like Nesta really knew what she was doing when she moved out. All she knows is that there is a rift between her and Feyre; a scar splitting their shared skin, a wound opening and reopening, never to heal.

And so she’s away. They’ve made their mistakes and let them be. They’ve hurt each other and even tried to love, but sisters love each other too much for love—and so she’s away. The guilt is still there, but farther from her, now. Nesta stirs it into her morning coffee and drinks the sleep, wiping it from beneath her eyes and the lines around her mouth.

Every so often Cassian will text her, inviting her out to dinner or to a work party, and Nesta resists the urge to throttle him. He’s a very smart, thirty-five year old man. He should know what cutting off someone means.

(He knows, of course he knows. She guesses he just thinks it doesn’t apply to him.)

His roguish charm, his smirk, his low voice, all inviting her to one thing—sex—was beginning to exhaust her. It’s a surprising relief to be away from him. She feels like she can wear tank tops and let her hair down and go out without a bra, relieved he won’t be there to stare.

(Was she really so afraid of him?)

So Nesta lives her life and drinks her coffee, wears her tank tops and sleeps in her underwear, finally a woman in the way she’s always wanted to be; she feels discrete from the rest of the world but in a near comforting way. She has no one to disappoint, no one to miss. Her world is confined to very few people and her mind allows for one.

•

But there are things that trip her up. Remaining ties.

One such: the nightlight clipped to her bed. It’s cheap, a gaudy silver. She’s sure Azriel bought it for no more than two dollars.

But she uses it every night.

(This trips her up.)

It’s a routine she’s given to herself, written into the margins of her life; she climbs into bed, smooths the blankets over her legs, grabs her book, opens it on her lap, then twists and switches on the light. It illuminates the page with a pretty, golden sun. She uses it religiously. She thinks that if she lost it, some intrinsic part of her might be lost as well, and this frightens her.

Remaining ties should be snipped. These last threads should be spooled up, put away, hidden in the bottom drawer.

She switches it on anyway, watches the light trace the letters.

(Sometimes she thinks she is the black stamp of letters. The utter bleakness of them on the smooth page. Sometimes she thinks she is what ruins the paper. She is what ruined the paper. There’s a reason she is here and they are there.)

•

November 19th.

Happy birthday to me.

She buys a cake from the supermarket and blows out the candle.

There’s a knock at the door, late at night. Not thinking to check, she goes to open it, and there stands Azriel, still in the doorway, bottle of wine in hand.

“Happy birthday,” he says bluntly.

She lets him in for some reason she still doesn’t understand, and they end up drinking a glass together. It’s from Cassian, the wine—his favorite. Azriel tells her that Cassian didn’t think she’d take it from him.

“So he asked you,” she says.

He smiles. “Because you like me.”

1:00 AM, and they’re still drinking. They barely talk. They just sit; they sit on the kitchen stools, then the rickety chairs, then the floor, then the couch, then back to the floor. His cheeks are pink, his words slurred.

“Why’d you come?” she asks, peering down at where he lays, splayed out, on the carpet.

(He’s not the kind for favors, she knows that.)

Opening his eyes, he fixes his gaze on her. He smiles sleepily.

“Happy birthday, Nesta.”

•

She doesn’t really celebrate for the holidays. Her apartment is bare, save a pair of twinkling bells on the kitchen counter, tied with a red ribbon. Sometimes when she’s cooking she’ll give them a little ring.

The letter comes in the mail—from Feyre, clearly put there by her own hand. It’s an invitation to dinner, for the winter solstice. They’re celebrating early this year because they’re going out of town for a few weeks.

(Please don’t feel pressured to come. We were going to leave you be but Az, since he’s so considerate, thought you might appreciate an invite.)

Nesta picks up her phone and texts Feyre a simple no thanks.

•

The next morning, she opens her door to a bottle of wine. Its neck is tied with a cherry red ribbon, and there’s a note—“If you’re ever lonely, give me a call. It’s my favorite.”

She doesn’t need to see who it’s from to know.

She smiles and picks it up, taking it inside.

•

It bites, the loneliness.

She wasn’t prepared for the quiet.

She traded in insults and jabs and sweaty hands at dinner tables for nothing, nothing, nothing. Silence in the shower, silence over breakfast. Over time, it’s begun to grate on her skin, sift between the strands of her hair, and she feels like she’s swimming a meter below the surface, ears clogged, vision blurred.

And slowly, she’s started to cry; she cries when the silence is too loud, when her aloneness is real, when she realizes the ugly truth of it all. She’s alone, she has nobody, she’s alone.

She picks up her phone and dials his number. “Let’s drink your wine.”

A small quiet. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“That wasn’t a question.”

“I know, Nesta,” he laughs. “I’ll be there.”

•

They don’t drink at all, actually. She starts crying again the minute she sees his face.

“Nesta?”

•

“I’m fine, really.”

They’re walking down the aisle of the grocery store, weeks later.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m doing better, I am.”

He shrugs. “I don’t care. Pick a flavor. We’ll eat it, we’ll watch a movie.” He looks her up and down, brow creased. “You need two things—no, make that three things.”

She huffs a laugh, sticking her hand into the freezer and pulling out a carton. “What?”

“Sleep, ice cream, and company.” He grins. “And now you’ve got me.”

“Lucky me.”

“Lucky you.”

•

He’s seen her beautiful; he’s seen her ugly. He’s seen her in her rattiest apron with flour crusted into her fingernails. He’s seen her laugh so hard she cries, watched her slam her head into an open cupboard door, driven her to the hospital when she sliced her hand open with a knife. They’re together a lot, she realizes. They’re not halves; they’re one and one, and one and one make two, and they stand as two together on sidewalks, squinting at menus in the windows of restaurants, and they pet dogs in the park (Nesta always asks, because Az gets shy), and they take walks at midnight, and they live their lives contentedly next to each other’s. She starts to wonder if he splits his life into two—into Cassian and Rhys and Mor and Feyre, and into her, the girl who walked away. She’d like to know why he followed her.

Sometimes she’ll catch herself staring. Even before Cassian, she’d thought Azriel was the most beautiful of the three; all graceful, sloping shadows, soft and deep eyes, curling black hair. Her heart doesn’t know what to do anymore. It skips a beat when she sees him, but calms when she’s near him. It races when he leans close, falls to steadiness when he slings his arm over her shoulders. She can’t decide if she loves him like this or loves him like that. He means so much to her, means so many different things, that to give him a singular word wouldn’t fit.

She calls him Azriel, Az, Steve, Steven Shadow, Mr. Shadow, Ralph, Ron, He of the Candied Pecans, You. He responds to all of it. Recently he told her that it wasn’t because of the name, but because of the voice—(of course I don’t know who Ralph is, Nesta, but your voice, it’s your voice you use for me)—and she felt warm for reasons she couldn’t understand.

She shows up unannounced at his apartment when it’s a bad night. He does the same.

•

“Tell me the truth,” she begins, tipsy. “Did you like me before?”

“What?”

“Did you like me before?”

He frowns. “Elaborate.”

“Before you learned I’m a nice person. Back at the townhouse. When I hated everyone and was rude to you.”

“Oh.” He laughs a little. “I always liked you,” he says, and then his face settles into something like sadness. Nesta watches him closely. “I didn’t like… the way you made me feel, though. I’d see you down the hall, tired and everything, a stick of a person, and Rhys would make some joke, and I’d hate him.”

She blinks.

He looks down. “I’d never hated him before.”

There’s a tension between them. It’s common enough to be recognizable, but not enough to be familiar. She’s on edge, unsure.

The silence seeps in.

“And I hated myself, too,” he says. His eyes flick back up to hers.

Her breath catches in her chest. “I hated myself because I didn’t do anything. So I stayed away.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, overwhelmed. Everything is building; everything is quiet. His eyes are deep and dark and swirling. He shakes his head slightly, leaning closer, slowly, slowly, and she sees it all happen—he takes her face in his hands. She can see the stray strand of hair on his forehead, the one eyelash resting by his nose, the mole right above his mouth.

“I watched you fade,” he breathes. “I watched them pull you around.”

She twines one finger into his hair, trying to bring him closer, trying to have him closer. Come here, Azriel. Come with me. Be with me, love me, because I love you.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, because it’s all she can say.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he murmurs, and kisses her.

•

“Wait,” he says, reaching up.

“What?”

He touches the nightlight. “You kept this?”

She laughs, curled into his side, and says, “Of course I did.” He drops a kiss to her hair. “They all bought me books. You made it easy to read them.”

—-

@acosfisfeysandpropaganda I finally wrote it!!

#nezriel #nesta x azriel #nesta archeron #azriel shadowsinger

164 notes · View notes

oureverymove · 3 years

Text

some cove holden headcanons!!

ahh this is my first time trying headcanons out so yeah !! CW: hair tugging and cheek biting is mentioned

· · ─────── · ☆ · ─────── · ·

he likes to paint his nails sometimes. it’s never any crazy colors, just very basic colors

he sometimes uses his glasses as like a headband ?? like he pushes his hair back with them

he tends to sway whenever he has to stand still for a while. when he stands in line for something, he just sways slightly

his arms swing back and forth while walking. if he’s holding you hand, he’ll swing your arms

likes to use his hands to drum on stuff. he’ll have a song playing in his head and drum the beat on the nearest surface (sometimes he’ll use your body parts, like your thighs or arms)

he has a cork board full of photos of you two. they’re most from when you guys where kids, but there is a few from recent years

he’ll pat you on the head as he walks by you or give your hair a little tug (he doesn’t mind too much if you do it back to him)

he bites a specific part of his cheek when he thinks. after so many years of doing it, there’s a little indent

he doesn’t like the feeling of being “too moisturized”. he claims it’s because he feels sticky and tries to wash of the lotion if he puts too much

his phone wallpaper is a photo of you at the beach. you weren’t paying attention when he took it and he liked it so much, he set it as his wallpaper so he could see it every time he opened his phone (he just likes to see your face, even when he’s not with you)

he tugs on a few stands of his hair when he’s nervous. occasionally, he’ll squeeze the bottom of it (kinda like he’s trying to get water out)

he has plenty of pet names for you that he only really uses when he feels extra soft and nice (this includes lover, which is so rare for him to say. he uses it as your phone contact, however)

he used a nightlight until he was in late high school but justified it by saying it was easier to maneuver around his room to sneak out with a light that wasn’t too bright

he enjoys rock climbing due to all the practice he has climbing up your bedroom window

he collects mugs from the places he’s visited. he has a whole collection of them that he shares with his dad

he enjoys sleeping on the couch, for some reason. you can catch him there if he stays up all night watching a movie or something

he likes to give you flowers during the most random times. he also gives your moms bouquet’s when something major happens (ie. birthday, holiday, ect.)

he doesn’t really fold his clothes. he either shoves them into where he puts them or leaves them in the hamper and just digs through it to find clothes everyday

when it’s cold, he’ll wear socks around the house. if not, he just goes barefoot

he has the fan on in his room all the time. no matter what time of the year it is, the fan is on

that’s all i have !! please dm if you have any questions or anything <3

· · ─────── · ☆ · ─────── · ·

#cove holden #our life beginnings & always #cove holden headcanons #cove holden x mc #x reader #our life #cove holden x reader #our life beginnings and always #isa.writes #olbaa

307 notes · View notes

toxicbantha · 2 years

Text

for love. chapter II.

tmmc - forbidden romance pairing: modern! pero tovar x f!reader bella word count: 2.3k summary: your bestfriend is a grumpy spanish teenager. warnings: language. alludes to violence. self-contained pining/feelings.

notes: this chapter serves as interlude between ch. 1 and ch. 3. the age given is always reader's, not pero's (though he is only two years older).

[ ao3 ] [ tmmc masterlist ] [ ch.1 ] [ ch.3 ]

The Past: Chapter II

[Bella. Eleven-Years-Old.]

Years of climbing down this incessant rock wall from your bedroom window and it never gets any smoother. Nor does the harping seal looming below ever let up pestering you with his concerns.

You should be grateful – would be – that Pero cares so much, if not for the smug way he shows it. You imagine he already has his hands on his hips, a deep scowl plastered over his caramel-rich face.

Between the rustle of leaves and the night’s quick, haunting wind, you can barely hear him from below. “You are going to fall,” he says, a Spanish accent and irritation roughening the edges of his voice.

You spare a look down, straining with only the moon as a nightlight to see, but notice you’re almost there – you should be able to make it. “I’m not.” Even though you probably are.

His response comes quick with well-practice. “You always fall.”

Ass.

Years. Of this.

He’s right, of course; eventually, you always find a way to end up dropping the last few feet, no matter how careful you are. And Pero, with his ridiculous hovering, is always there to catch you. It is albeit helpful when you’re actively trying to avoid spraining an ankle, but not so much during the actual climbing part.

You sigh, warm breath fanning over dark stones. “Quit hovering Pero, you’re stressing me out.”

Step by careful step you tune him out and continue your descent, realizing at last, that you’re almost there. Wow, you’re really going to make it-

A hand wraps around your ankle and you squeal, releasing your hold in surprise. You drop down, landing – coincidentally – into the waiting arms of a familiar Spaniard boy. Pero’s scar glistens in the moonlight, and his cocoa eyes meet yours with a smirk. “You fall,” he says, pointedly, and you just want to smack that know-it-all look off his face.

You cast him a glare and push against his chest so he releases you. “I had it this time.”

“Si,” he shrugs.

“Then why did you pull me down?”

Pero turns casually and picks his backpack off the ground, regarding you over his shoulder. “Because Bella, you always fall.”

It’s so quiet and you’re so confused you almost miss it. But wait- “Bella?” He stills putting the straps over his shoulders and you know you’ve caught him. “Did you just call me ‘pretty?"

“N- no,” he sputters, “it means something entirely different in Spain.”

You grin, not able to help yourself. “What does it mean, then?”

Pero spins back around to face you, his usual scowl now showcased. A cover. “Monkey,” he says, flatly.

You laugh outright. Spanish is no Italian, but you don’t think for a moment that’s what it really means.

[Pero. Fourteen-Years-Old.]

Pero holds the knife by its blade and soaks in the feel of the cool metal against his skin. The touch is comforting, grounding in all the ways another person's should be. Familiar in that it's all he knows.

Eight years here already - exactly half his lifetime now - and sometimes, even this early, he can't help looking back and not remembering anything else. His first home is just a distant memory compared to the new life he's been pulled into; the Made as his new family.

He should hate what he's become with the Famiglia - hate what they've turned him into - but deep down it feels as if he was always meant to be here. As if becoming a killer and a thief was just a step he needed to take before realizing something wanted - needed - him here all along.

He thinks, maybe, he already knows what it is.

Because she is the only thing to him as constant as the knife within his palm.

With a thud, Pero steps up for his turn at the target. He draws a breath staring down the center and exhales just as quickly, everything going dark around the board. He throws the knife casually, further demonstrating his skill with the blade, and the point hits the bullseye without a slither of doubt. He throws again and again until there are no more knives on the table - all hitting home.

Some of the younger trainees appraise him with awe, the older with envious eyes. Training or not, it's always a competition here - no one wants to be laughed at or "removed" for being unskilled. Though Pero would never have to worry about either while a fire-breathing Bella is around.

Even just fourteen, she is truly her Papa's daughter.

"You gonna slap me, Rocco? Teach my little girl ass a lesson?

Then you better make it fucking count because come morning your ass will be carved up and thrown out into the river.”

Pero pulls the knives from the target and heads to the weapons table to switch them out. There are an assortment of practice metals to choose from, all varying in shapes and sizes. Setting the blades down gently, he feels someone move to stand beside him, their sleeve brushing his.

William – a new Irish “hire” with a similar origin to Pero’s (despite the whole saving the Don’s daughter thing) – greets him with a genuine smile. Strangely, Pero found William’s company to be the least irritating out of the other men, even with his need for idle chit-chat. He also found the man was extremely gifted with a bow – regardless of how blatantly not-convenient the skill seemed.

William reaches to the far end of the table and removes a larger cutter from its scabbard, turning and holding it out to Pero. "Try this one next. It might make for a challenge."

The Spaniard cocks one curious eyebrow before accepting. "Why a challenge?"

"The weight's off."

Ah. That excuse.

Pero takes the weapon with delicate fingers. He assesses the metal structure, notes the feel of the pommel within his hand - where the weight lies, how far off its true center is. Still, the blade's touch feels the same. Familiar.

He smirks, catching waiting blue eyes. "Maybe you are just no good."

The Irishman chuckles. "By all means," he challenges, motioning to a target board nearby.

Silently they both walk to the line.

Pero steps up readily, his muscles taking over without a second thought. He's practiced this move a thousand times before, excelled each and every time, just bullseye-ed out a few minutes ago. The off-weighted blade means nothing.

He raises his hand upward and flicks his arm back to throw-

A familiar trill of laughter sounds from across the courtyard and his concentration snaps. Unable to stop himself - like a siren's call - he instantly turns in its direction.

Pero's arm drops to his side as he sees her. Fondness blooming on sight.

He thinks William's already saying something, but he can’t hear him fully. He only sees her. And despite himself, can't look away.

"-she’s a pretty las."

Pero jerks, his eyes turning voidlessly-feral as they narrow on the Irishman. That's apparently all it took. "Avert your eyes, amigo. Before I carve them out."

If William were any lesser man the threat alone would have turned him to dust. But the archer - seemingly unconcerned - just laughs, patting Pero on the shoulder before motioning to the abandoned target. He must have already expected as much.

[Bella. Sixteen-Years-Old.]

"I-"

Pero frowns, looking down where your eyes meet his chest. "You don't like it?"

"I-" You don't know what to say, how to even put this feeling into words. You wonder if there's even a strong enough term for how you feel.

It's not the black-inked tattoo itself that makes you want to cringe. You've already seen the brand dozens of times before; on Papa, on Antonio, on any Famiglia man that's over eighteen, really. It's a common site among the Made - one and the same - nothing abnormally detestable about it.

But it's the way the tattoo looks on Pero that you particularly don't like. The way the dark inks mars his beautifully golden skin.

Anything that ruins his wholeness you'd automatically hate. You do hate. No matter what it is, but especially if it's only there because of you.

Lingering, you see Pero pull back and realize he must have already seen it in your eyes. The resentment. The guilt.

Shit.

"I do!" But the words come out too fast, too thoughtless, without an ounce of believability behind them.

Pero's smile is soft. Sad. "It's okay, Bella," he mutters, in that voice that makes you want to curl away. Already, he's rebuttoning his black dress shirt, eyes fixed on the grass beneath instead of you.

And for a moment, you think, you might even hate this more.

"I'm sorry, Pero." You can't begin to imagine what's going on in that dark and gloomy mind. You can only hope it isn't something too extreme, too critical, but it's in his nature to push the cusp - to think too deeply, act too harshly. "Whatever you're thinking, Pero, it's not like that." You try to assure him - hope it works - but then when have you ever given him anything else to wonder?

Pero only hums, his soft-skinned fingers deftly continuing their purpose.

Give him this. You have to give him this. "I just-" you start, releasing a breath. It's hard showing this new side to him, especially since you've only just realized it yourself. "I just feel you have enough marks because of us already." Because of me.

You expect him to cave now, turn and ask what you're going on about. But the words only earn you another frown. Pero pauses a moment, but it's the only acknowledgment you're given.

That in itself is strange. But what part of the world you live in isn’t?

You cast your own eyes down, linger on the tall green blades and run your fingers through them, crush the feeling within your palm. You always forget at the most inconvenient times how much your opinion matters to Pero, how he doesn’t care what anyone else thinks except for you. Your thoughtlessness must have hurt him too much for just a simple apology to fix.

You sigh, releasing a last hope kind of breath. The words feel traitorous, but it's the only thing you can think of in the moment. "I'm sure the ladies love it though.” You scoot closer, ignoring the way his shoulders tense. “The scar, the tattoo-" you gesture to his chest - "they probably think it's hot." You even make to smile, but it only comes out half-hearted; it's all you can muster with the bitter taste in your mouth.

You know he's seen other girls before, gone out to bars and clubs with the other men before even turning eighteen. It's in his right to experience those things, even if you can't - not that he's ever pushed it in your face before. What you have is only friendship, nothing else.

But it still doesn't stop the hurt from popping up.

Truthfully, you're not even sure when the switch happened. Somewhere within the last few months, you think, maybe even years. Somewhere along the line of when Pero's broad shoulders grew to be even broader, when his young and awkward facial hair turned into something dark and complimenting. Your body reacts to even the most innocent of his touches now, everything feeling less platonic, more heated without an actual reason. It’s not the same attraction you have for other men, not even close.

But more than anything it's just straight-up annoying.

"And let me guess," you feign a deep-thinking look, pretending to remember the scene. As if you could ever forget it. “You tell them a niñita got lost in the market, and you saved her from a very bad man.” Again, his reaction is expected, but you still can't help the sting when his cheeks reddened. It's the truth of course, but it's also just like him.

Having to watch your touches all the time. Watch your words. Never being able to act on anything. Being afraid of ruining it all.

It's exhausting.

But then losing Pero? You'd never survive it.

Finally, he turns to face you, humor dancing in his eyes as a soft grin sprouts from his lips. "You tease me, Bella."

Of course, you think, it's your job. You can't help but return his smile, cheeks blushing with his admission. But then your face falls just as easily, your gaze catching on where it all began.

The sight of his scar – the scar you’ve come to loathe – transports you back to the marketplace, focuses your mind on remembering it all as it was. Forces you to relive the moment a strange Spaniard boy saved your life.

It's not a joke, it's never been a joke.

Without thinking, without stopping yourself this time, you reach out a hand to him and gently press the pad of your thumb to his cheek, smooth over the line running down his face. "I thought you were a hero," you whisper, completely mesmerized by the sight.

To your surprise, Pero covers your hand with his own. He nuzzles his cheek into your palm, the gesture veering on intimate. It sends a tingling warmth through your whole body and as much as you think you should pull away, your muscles can't help but freeze - soak it all in. "Then we are both heroes," he whispers back.

Huh?

You pull back just enough to look up at him, your brows furrowing in confusion while you try to search his eyes for a silent answer. But Pero doesn't let go of your hand, he keeps it steady against his cheek. There's nothing you can read from him.

Thankfully then, he voices again, a newfound smile tugging his lips. "You saved me too."

[ masterlist ] [ tmmc ] [ ch.3 ]

[ taglist ] @littlemisspascal @marydjarin @elegantduckturtle @just-here-for-the-moment @andiesturgss @ajeff855 // @literallydontlook @elinedjarin

#pero tovar #pero tovar x f!reader #pero tovar fic #the great wall #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction

32 notes · View notes