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m4ndysk4nkovich · 8 months

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there goes the loudest woman this town has ever seen, i had a marvelous time ruining everything - debbie gallagher character study

ao3

You wake up, hungover, alone, and an orphan.

It wasn’t like Frank’s death was unexpected, you’ve been preparing yourself for it since you were five, but it’s odd. Losing Monica didn’t feel this way. Losing Monica felt like a weight being lifted off of your shoulders. When you saw her dead body lying on the living room floor, you knew that it was the last time she would ever leave you again, and it was relieving. You hate to think that, and immediately after the thought comes to your mind, you run to the toilet and puke your guts out at the mere thought of your mother’s dead body.

…Well, it’s either because of your dead parents or because of the ungodly amount of alcohol you consumed last night. Probably both.

You knew that Heidi wouldn’t last and oddly enough, that’s what you liked about her. You liked how spontaneous and dangerous she was, you didn’t think she was your soulmate or anything. But still, her absence hurts. You expected her to be gone in a week or so, off to Texas (you still hadn’t decided if you wanted to go or not, but you were leaning more towards staying), but you didn’t expect her to be gone so soon. You remember last night at Mickey and Ian’s anniversary party, Heidi left you and Franny at the bar with no ride while you were too wasted to protest, and she wasn’t at the house when you woke up. You vaguely remember Lip driving you and Franny home.

What you’re feeling right now can’t be described with words. You don’t think it’s grief, you spent your whole childhood preparing for the day you became an orphan to the point where you’re convinced that you finished grieving at age thirteen. This feeling isn’t sadness, but it isn’t the same relief from five years ago when Monica died. You don’t feel anything except for lonely.

Loneliness is a feeling you know all too well. From being in grade school and not ever having a single friend, to a desperate teenager in need of some love, to a confused young adult with a kindergartner, you’ve always been lonely. It’s something you’ve always known, you knew it when nobody wanted to play with you in kindergarten, and you had it fully confirmed at six when your unstable, drug addict mother abandoned you. Loneliness is the only constant in your life, yet you’ve still never gotten used to it.

You wonder why your mother leaving you effected you so much. You know that you aren’t the only Gallagher with a bad track record when it comes to keeping a relationship (you learned your relationship skills, like you learned most things, from your big sister), but it seems so much easier for everyone else to just have someone. To have someone to love, to cherish, to be with. The thought of someone who you love loving you back and actually wanting to stay with you seems unfathomable. You know that right now your big brother and his husband are dealing with hangovers as well, and maybe your brothers hunched over the toilet just like you right now, and if he is, he probably has his husband with him. His husband is willing to stay through all of the disgusting things, through all of the hardships, his husband literally tried to kill for him and went to prison for him. Debbie can’t even get someone to want her for reasons other than her tits, Ian’s lucky.

There must be something truly poisonous about you. The fact that you could never make a single friend, that you couldn’t make your mother stay, you couldn’t keep your father sober, you couldn’t make a guy or girl want you, you couldn’t give your kid the life she deserved, and your entire family now views you as nothing but an annoyance. How do all of your siblings go on living and have friends, partners, connections, anything? You feel like your entire life, all twenty years, has just been a big failed attempt at getting the tiniest bit of love. You’re becoming desperate, you know this. You can see your siblings, the older ones who once changed your diapers and played with you, and the younger ones who once looked up to you, roll their eyes when you turn your back. You know that you’re the sole reason why Franny doesn’t play with anyone outside of school. You know that Heidi is probably driving to Texas right now, and in a day she’ll have a new girlfriend. You know that you were born alone and will die alone.

Your daughter is around the age you were the first time that you found yourself without a mother. She’s the age you were when you saw your mother cook meth out of your easy bake oven, the age where kids at school would run away from you, telling you that you smelled bad and that you were ugly. You’ve felt like a nuisance since you were Franny’s age, and it has just dawned on you how young you were.

Your daughter is lovable and sweet and adored by everyone in her life. If you couldn’t be that even at five years old, you know that it is something about you personally. You know that loneliness is your only option, it always has been, and it always will be.

#shameless #debbie gallagher #franny gallagher #frank gallagher #post-11x12 #shameless us #character study #fic

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builder051 · 8 months

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Whumptober 2023 day (something)— I have 3 prompts planned to be in this story, but it’s going to be a long multi-chapter ordeal.

*Warning* This chapter (well, probably this whole fic) is some heavy stuff. Poor mental health, depression, passing mention of suicide, death (canonical), grief, descriptions of war (Operation Iraqi Freedom), mentions of drug use… that’s all I can think of.

This is powers/No powers.

The dreams in which I’m dying

I find it kind of funny

I find it kind of sad

The dreams in which I’m dying

Are the best I’ve ever had

I find it hard to tell you

I find it hard to take

When people run in circles

It’s a very very

Mad world

—Tears for Fears

———

There’s a water main break in Sam’s building. His apartment has escaped the damage, but the water has been turned off for the entire complex. He’s fine without access to a shower or dishwasher, but the toilet and the tap pose problems.

Well, some problems. Sam could cope with a hand-dug latrine and bottled water for his toothbrush. The Air Force deems sanitation a necessity. Clean clothes and regular bathing are only priorities in the Civilian world. The thing is, Sam’s having enough trouble with his own problems. He hasn’t been sleeping well lately. If it’s not insomnia, it’s unpleasant dreams. Neither provide the opportunity to rest and recharge. Stress is steadily building, and the monuments run is losing its meditative properties. Either that or he’s becoming treatment resistant.

Autumn in general doesn’t agree with Sam. He begins sniffling when the leaves fall and clump in wet piles to grow fungus. He doesn’t take anything for it, not even what’s available over the counter. He likes to have as little on board as possible. It’s a habit from his flying days; being mission-ready required his body to be free of substances. hasn’t shaken the habit from his flying days. The Air Force’s definition of ‘mission ready’ calls for a body to be free of substances. No beer. No Benadryl. Certainly no Prozac.

It’s calendar that gets to Sam the most, though. He’s antsy when it’s time to turns the page to the next month. The weeks and days have slipped through the autumnal equinox and the start of a new fiscal year. He tenses even more as the days pass steadily toward Halloween. Sam would throw out his calendar if he thought he could function without it, but it stays stuck to the kitchen wall. He’d forget everyone’s birthdays and anniversaries.

Sam doesn’t actually know if that’s true. It’s more of a convenient excuse. The series of dates immortalized in his mind are far from celebratory. They shouldn’t matter. It’s certainly been long enough.

The lines of squares continue to spite him, though, as he marks through through the days passed. It’s the middle of October now, and Sam is caught in the middle of an agonizing countdown.

———

Twelve.

The day Riley’s parachute didn’t open. Sam watched him flip himself over as he struggled with the cord to his backup. What was supposed to be a lifeline wound up as a death sentence. Sam watched him plummet in slow motion, foolishly believing that he’d catch Riley by the ankles if he swam through the air fast enough. But gravity and physics were against him. Against them. Sam was only halfway between the helicopter and the sand when Riley hit the ground head-first.

———

Thirteen.

The day the enemy line backed up far enough for a crew to gather what was left of the corpse. Sam wasn’t picked for the mission. He’d wandered to a table of donated books and DVDs. One corner was overtaken with teetering stack of bibles. Sam meant to glance and move on, but he found himself rooted to the spot. If he’d ever believed in god, he certainly didn’t anymore.

———

Seventeen.

The day Riley’s remains left Kandahar for Regan National. Sam had seen the open cargo hold of the sleek passenger jet, but someone in an orange safety vest jogged around the plane and slammed it shut. Too late. All he was left with was Riley’s terrified expression. That, then a view of the bottoms of his boots. However impersonal, Sam would’ve preferred to see his friend off in a long rectangular box.

———

Nineteen, or so Sam assumes. Maybe twenty. Or twenty-one.

Sam knows the time it takes to get someone to back to their hometown and into a flag-draped casket is highly variable. He’d still found the feeling of anxiety overwhelming his grief. He felt excluded, out of the loop. Then it occurred to him that he have the right to be in it. In truth, he has no ties to Riley. But that didn’t keep Sam from holing onto strings of their bond, struggling to knit them back together.

———

Twenty-four.

The day of the funeral. Sam didn’t attend. He didn’t know it had happened. He’d entertained the thought of asking for leave, but there was no way he’d be approved. He’d get two days, maybe. At most. Too little time to make it stateside, let alone attend an event for which he didn’t know the date or time. Sam’s anguish made him want to try anyway. But in the end, he let logic win out.

———

Thirty.

A letter from Riley’s grandmother showed up for Sam at the makeshift post office. The message seemed canned, though Sam didn’t doubt its sincerity. Riley had been laid to rest. Sam was a good buddy who should’ve been at the service. He was always welcome to visit. Riley was in a better place now. Arlington. Not heaven. But that was Sam’s interpretation. He should’ve folded the pages back into the envelope and placed it in his bag of personal belongings. A better man would’ve. Sam’s angry disappointment backtracked through the previous six days. The image of a flag-draped coffin disappeared in his mind to be replaced with that of an elderly woman who had just outlived her adult grandson.

———

Thirty-one.

The day Sam dropped the torn pieces of stationery into the trash outside the mess hall. He didn’t watch the shreds flutter into the bin; he’d done an about face and headed out for the day’s mission. He hated every second he rode in the rickety rear-facing seat. Sam tried to hold it together, but he threw up during the HH-60’s descent back into camp. He hadn’t done that since before PJ school.

Laying low and slinking toward his bunk had been impossible; the rest of Sam’s unit was outside enjoying cigarettes and melted chocolate bars. It took him a moment to remember the American fascination with Halloween. A boom box thumped in the background with more crackle than bass, and Sam felt sick again. It was as if he was a ghost in the middle of the crowd. Someone passed a hand-rolled cigarette his way, and the sensation of invisibility was broken. He accepted the smoke, hoping it would get the taste of bile out of his mouth. Sam swallowed a gag when he realized he’d just dragged on cannabis. As he got in position to sleep, Sam was sure he would spontaneously combust if he ever smelled pot again. And Werwolves of London should be abolished from the earth.

———

This month is passing in the same way, no different from before. Sam tries reminding himself that he’s made it through the fall and winter months for six years running. Six Octobers. Two during deployments. One at his sister’s house. Sam hadn’t been reaching out for care. He’d just needed a place to sleep before he could sign his lease on the first of November.

Spending time with relatives or squadron buddies doesn’t lift his spirits. He’s far too troubled to open up. In the presence of others, Sam feels like he’s wearing a mask to hide his dour expression. The mask isn’t held in place with straps around his ears; it’s attached with nails that dig deep into his skull. Just thinking brings on throbbing pain. And there’s no dignified way to take it off.

Sam has yet to find proper support, if that’s what he needs to feel better. He imagines an outlet where he can emote without obligation to explain himself. Something with a balance of familiarity and anonymity. Support group feels too formulaic. Sam’s loss seems to close, too personal to be dissected as part of lesson in trust falling. That’s why he prefers to be the leader. He can cue and comfort much more easily than take the plunge to share.

Per his usual, Sam’s been ignoring what’s going on inside him. His issues haven’t yet caused the choking and vertigo of a real panic attack. Those tend to be as embarrassing as they are painful; Sam feels weak and guilty knowing it all stems from heartache. He knows he’s barely hanging on, though. Sam would gladly accept orders to repel to the ground in the whipping wind of the bird’s propellers and run into the middle of a firefight. That would be easier. A welcome distraction. Instead he’s suck wallowing in his marshmallow bed and existential thoughts, lying to himself and denying the fact that he’s past dark thoughts and well into depression.

Sam knows it’s not a fault, but truly a disease. He hates the idea of his body being slowly destroyed by ravaging sickness. And he has the terrible feeling that whatever he has may be contagious. Nobody ought to be around him right now anyway. Sam’s touchiness and vulnerability are turning him into a different person, someone irritable and rude and cold. The stupid broken pipe prevents him from melting his frost in a hot shower or a cup of coffee.

Perhaps the current situation in his apartment is a sign. Even in his current state, Sam wants to be more than than a lump in his bed. A psychopathic robot in the office. His suffering isn’t bringing Riley back. He’s known that from the beginning, but he’s aware that his actions are completely contradictory. There are lifelines. Sam knows the suicide prevention hotline number by heart. He scribbles it on the back of business cards and hands them out to new faces at the VA. But Sam’s nowhere near that far gone, and chatting with nameless, faceless strangers isn’t his style.

He has people he knows. He even has friends. His motivation is the size of a mustard seed, but Sam feels the push to try again at living his own life. The first step will be getting out of his place with no plumbing.

———

#fanfic #fanfiction #marvel #mcu #whumptober 2023 #whumptober #powers/no powers #sam wilson #falcon #mental health #operation iraqi freedom #descriptions of violence #death #grief #sam whump #avengers

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the-writing-ninja · 1 year

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A decade of grieving

(basically Cole angst the fic) (ft. writer trying his best to write Jay (no srsly how do you write Jay in a mature setting that wouldn't come off as obnoxious genuinely))

-TW// mentions of death and grieving.

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[Jay is walking around the monastery in search of his best friend. He then bumps into Kai.]

Kai: Look where you're walking Walker!

Jay: Har-Har very funny.

Kai: Just messin' with ya.

Jay: Well maybe, some of us are not in the mood for messing around Kai.

Kai: Ohkay wow, who lit up your fuse, lightbulb?

Jay: It's just that I've been searching for Cole since morning, I have to show him this funny meme I found. [Jay shows Kai his phone.]

Kai: [Puts down Jay's phone] ...right

Jay: Have you seen him?

Kai: Now that you've mentioned it, even I haven't seen him around since like?? yesterday night?

Jay: Let's ask Zane, maybe he knows?

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[The two then head to the monastery's underground lair, where Zane is helping Pixal build a mech.]

Jay: Zane, Pixal, have you guys seen Cole??

Pixal and Zane, in sync: No, I'm afraid I haven't. [Kai lets out a giggle, Zane and Pixal look at him with a confused gaze.]

Kai: [now trying to control his giggling,] Don't worry about it-

Pixal: If you insist.

Jay: Can we get back on topic please??

Kai: Right, yeah, my bad.

Kai: So, do you guys like- have a clue where he might be?

Zane: I'm afraid I do not. However, I might know why he's away.

Kai: Really??

Jay: Why???

Zane: Today is the 10th anniversary of Lily's passing.

Jay:

Kai: ..Oh.

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[Cole is climbing a mountain, the very same one he scaled when his mother had passed away to handle his grief. He was only thirteen back then, now he is twenty-three.]

Cole: I can't believe it! I-I thought I was over it-

Cole: I thought I grieved enough.

Cole: Then why then am I feeling- so- [Cole grunts]

[He reaches the top. He then sits down on the same spot Wu had all those years ago.]

Cole: I just,

Cole: I just can't believe it's been 10years.

Cole: I can't believe she hasn't-

Cole: That she hasn't been in my life for a whole decade-

[He looks up at the sky, perhaps with some hope of seeing her one more time.]

Cole: Get yourself together Cole.

Cole: [Sigh] And I'm talking to myself again.

Cole: I just-, miss her, so much..

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[Back at the monastery after filling Lloyd and Nya in on the situation, the ninja all devise a plan.]

Nya: Do you think it would work?

Kai: Ofcourse. I'm not the geckle chancellor for nothin' sis.

Lloyd: You might be the geckle chancellor Kai but would Shintaro allow you in in the first place?

Kai:

Zane: Considering how close Princess Vania and Cole's relationship is I think she would readily let you in after hearing about Cole's predicament.

Jay: And we will ask very nicely~

Lloyd: Well, all in agreement then?

Jay: Yee-up

Nya: Yeah!

Kai: Heck yeah!

Zane: Affirmative.

Lloyd: Alright, it's settled then, next stop Shintaro!

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

[Back to Cole now, he is still sitting at the top of the mountain wondering whether he should start heading back or not.]

Cole: They're probably worried about me.

Cole: I didn't even tell Zane or Master Wu I was leaving.

Cole: I should start climbing down..

Cole: Maybe i'll get back to the monastery before dinner.

Cole: I should call dad up once to check up on him..

[He starts descending the mountain.]

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[After a long journey Cole stops by the outskirts of ninjago city to check up on his dad. He rings the doorbell, but to his surprise he isn't greeted with a response. Then it hits him-]

Cole: ...He's also grieving the same way he did all those years ago huh..

Cole: [holding back his tears.] ..out singing and dancing again, ey dad?

[He leaves and heads back to the monastery. It's around dinner time now. Hope no one has noticed his absence, he doesn't want to be bombarded with a million questions today...]

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[Before opening the gates to the monastery, he gives himself a reminder.]

Cole: Whatever happens, you'll not cry Cole.

[He is supposed to be the foundation that forms the backbone of the team, he can't let himself cry infront of them, can he?]

[He's the strong one afterall, right?]

[Cole opens the door and heads inside.]

Cole: Hey guys!

[He notices that all the ninja are gathered in the living room.]

Cole: Why are all of you here? Isn't it dinner time? Oh I sure hope the dessert is some good ol' cake!

Cole:

Cole: ..um guys?

Kai: You don't have to pretend man.

Jay: Yeah it's okay-

Cole: [Looking away] I don't understannd what you guys are saying?

[Kai gets up and goes to Cole. He takes his hand and places something in his palm and closes it.]

[Cole opens his palm.]

[It's the pendant Lily gave to Gleck.]

Kai: We're here for you bud.

Jay: Yeah! Just like how you're always there for us!

[Cole finally breaks. It is the first time any of the other ninja have seen him cry.]

Cole: I'm- so-

Cole: i'm so sorry-

[Jay hugs him.]

Jay: You're my best friend you don't have to apologize for crying in front of me.

Kai: Wow that's the most intelligent thing i've ever heard come outta your mouth.

[Cole chuckles, the others also crack a smile. Jay doesn't mind being the punching bag if it is to make his best friend laugh.]

Kai: Feeling better?

Cole: Yeah..

Cole: I love you guys.

Jay: We love you too you big clod.

[They all sit down on the couch. Cole is at the centre w/ Kai and Jay around him. Nya and Pixal are standing behind the couch, Lloyd is sitting on the armrest and Zane is seated at the bottom.]

[Cole sits there looking wishfully at his mother's amulet. He pauses.]

Cole: [sigh] I can't keep this..

Cole: Mom gave it to the geckle not me..

Kai: I asked him if you could have it and he said yes.

Zane: Which was oddly very out of character for Gleck.

Kai: Eh don't worry about it i'm sure he didn't mind it- much.

Jay: Which meansss,

Lloyd: You can keep it Cole!

[Cole holds the pendant close to chest and starts sobbing. He doesn't apologize this time, for he realizes that he's with his family, who'll just as readily be there for him as he would for them.]

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[That night Cole finally managed to let out all the grief he had buried inside for the past decade, surrounded by people who loved and cared about him, who patiently stayed by his side till he was feeling okay.]

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#Cole. Angst.#I woke up and chose violence #ninjago #cole brookstone #fanfic #constructive critism welcome

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lilolilyr · 1 year

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I wrote 4 W13 fics today which brought my fic count up to 13, my goal for today as it's the 13th anniversary of Myka and Helena meeting on the show!

Alright the last ficlet is just a drabble but hey xD still counts! You can read it under the cut or find it and my other fics on Ao3: lilolilyrae

~~~

It's been a long time

Since Helena felt no anger

The lack of any despair

Nothing but a distant memory

But something about Agent Bering

Makes her want to be

Better, less caught in thoughts

of vengeance, hurt and grief.

It takes time, takes her

Through relapse, and even worse

And yet through the years

Helena learns to let go.

It isn't all Myka, there's

more to it, she knows

Yet without her she might

never would have even tried.

Time passes, thirteen years later,

Thirteen years after they met,

Helena knows that with Myka

Life is worth being lived.

~~~

#13 years of bering and wells #warehouse 13 #my w13 #lilo writes #drabble #ao3 stats #lilo writes fanfic #my post #mine #apr'23 #23.04.23 #bering and wells #my drabble

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calmthefuckdownalright · 2 years

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"Till Death Do Us Part"

A/N: First time writing about Alivebur in limbo! Loved it.

This IS a one shot so don't expect anything referring back to this place except maybe the Glatt stuff and where he is but you can read that at the end.

Genre: 🍃🌷Angsty fluff

Pairing: Alivebur x Fem!Reader

Setting: New L'manberg

Summary: You visit Wilbur's grave on what was supposed to be your wedding day anniversary. Ghostbur, who has happily filled in for Wilbur, accompanies you and can't comfort you as he sees Alivebur's last remaining legacy. As tears make their way to your face, he knows he can't make you as happy as he did.

Warnings: Grief

°~•°~•°~•°~•°~•~°~•

Ghostbur's translucent hand gripped yours as you walked. The spruce slabs creaked below your boots. Just yours. Ghostbur's near invisible feet made no noise on the wood walkways.

A thirteen years ago you were supposed to be married. You should've been in a home you built with your husband and maybe even some kids running around driving you crazy.

You were supposed to be happy today.

"We don't have to go." Ghostbur's gentle voice coaxed you out of the spiral forming. He was the ghost of your deceased husband-to-be. His ghost and much nicer counterpart.

"No. No I need to. I haven't gone since he-" You stopped yourself. "since you died. I need to see him." You said. Somewhere deep down you knew it was wrong of you to ask Ghostbur to come with you to visit his own grave, but the apparition had offered and insisted on not letting you go alone.

"I'm right here." Ghostbur squeezed your hand gently and gave you a smile that could make the heavens weep.

Wilbur's smile. Ghostbur's smile. It was all the same but so heartbreakingly different. Ghostbur was just another reminder that Wilbur was dead. Gone from this plane of existence.

So why was he so hard to let go? Ghostbur? If all he did was bring up memories of the one who was no more?

"Because he's him in some twisted way. He's the good of Wilbur that you loved." You thought in return and stiffened as the two of you rounded the hill outside of New L'manberg towards the spruce tree you'd planted as a marker of where you wanted to live when you and Wilbur married.

Now it was a single grave site for the man you loved. Wilbur's gravestone was eccentric for such a way that he went out. Murdered by his own father. His father who was considered a hero for the act.

You had forgiven Phil ages ago. You knew he did the right thing in the end. The Wilbur that Phil killed had not been yours. Your Wilbur would've kept fighting and trying to find a peaceful way to end things. Your Wilbur wouldn't have ever placed that TNT. Or even thought of that button on a regular basis.

"Ghostbur.... Do you think he's still somewhere?" You knee led in the grass by Wilbur's grave. "Like in some kind of spiritual plane?"

"Sorry, I-I don't think I understand." Ghostbur sat beside you. His presence a wisp in the atmosphere.

"I mean like," You began. "You're here because Wilbur had unfinished business. That's how ghosts work right? And Schlatt was killed but his ghost isn't around because he's fulfilled his purpose here. So, that means you're here because Wilbur isn't finished. He isn't gone really." You're eyes stung with tears and your voice cracked in the sense of hope that he could come back.

"Oh y/n, Please! Please don't cry!" Ghostbur's arms wrapped around you and pulled you close into his surprisingly solid body.

"I miss him Ghostbur." You sobbed. No matter how much you wished it, Ghostbur wasnt Wilbur. He was the goofy and sweet of your dead fiance sure, but he didn't have the playful love for chaotic conflict, or the confidence in his mission for peace. Ghostbur was the smiles and sweet kisses and that's all. He wasn't the laughter at the dumbest jokes or the memories after the fights.

He wasn't Alivebur as much as you wanted him to be.

"He misses you too Y/N. More than you know. I can feel it." Ghostbur said into your hair as you cried. You felt him wipe a few tears away with his thumb only to hear a small hiss from the contact with the salty tears.

Thunder rolled above you and rain pattered down slowly. Each drop on Ghostbur's skin hissed lightly but he made no sign of moving.

"He loved you Y/N. He loves you still, and I know this because I love you." Ghostbur's words sunk into your heart as he spoke in the voice exactly like His. "I love you Y/N, and I'm here to stay whether in the rain or sunshine. In death or life I will never part from you."

You felt him kiss your head and your tears began to dry as the rain slowed to a drizzle.

Wilbur wasn't gone entirely. As Ghostbur said:

"In life and death I will never part from you."

"I'll be right here when I see you again Wilbur." You thought and felt the thunder above relay your message to whatever cruel dimension Wilbur's remaining soul rested in now.

✨BONUS✨

Wilbur stared at the empty train station. The dim lights around him flickered as he blinked. Suddenly there was a rumble of power running through the cold Limbo.

He stood to his feet and walked to the tracks as he saw the glimmer of lights shine down the tunnel. Was this his ticket back to the living world?! Was he finally getting out of this Hell?!

The train blew past, whip lashing the poor man back onto his ass and with his white streaked hair blown into an even bigger mess than it had been when he got here.

How long ago was that? Ten years? Twelve? No no no, it was thirteen.

As the train ended out the tunnel on the other side he heard a message loud and clear ring through the station. A voice he hadn't heard in forever. A saving grace to his last sliver of humanity.

"I'll be right herd when I see you again Wilbur."

Your voice. Oh your sweet voice. It was music to his ears. But where! Where were you talking about?! Where could he possibly find you when he got out of here?!

A memory of his first few moments dead emerged. Schlatt had been there in a meadow. The man looked at ease for the horrors he had caused on the nation of L'manberg.

"If you ever wanna hear your loved ones they gotta be at your grave. The last place your body was before you got sent to your dimension." The ram horned man had shrugged off Wilbur's following questions and simply waved him away.

Then Wilbur woke up from the meadow a few days later to the dingy train station he knew now.

"My grave....you're at my grave Darling." He said to the dark ceiling. A feeling of happiness washed through him as tears ebbed in the corners of his eyes. His head thumped on the pristine gray floor of the station. His back now flat on the concrete.

"Happy Anniversary my Dear. I'll see you soon." He smiled and let out a cheery laugh through his choking tears.

Oh how he missed you...

°~•°~•°~•°~•°~•°~•°~•°~•°~•°~•

Hope you liked it! I cried a little honestly and yes the Afterlife meadow is kind of just a plot hole thing I made up. We don't know where Glatt is and quite honestly I like to think after he died he got sent to a beautiful place full of potential where he couldn't do ANYTHING. He was completely powerless and for the first few decades there he was mother natures toy.

Until he accepted the fact he had no power there he would be punished by the elements and eventually he did and now lives a life of nothing since he can't go back to the living world. 🙂

Fun times 👍

#tw grief #dream smp #c!wilbur #dsmp #ghostbur #c!wilbur soot #c!wilbur soot x reader #ghostbur x reader #Fem!reader

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rinaxcicero · 10 months

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the deepest wave of grief. (self para) where: rina's mothers trailer

[ tw: grief, death, alcoholism ]

Thirteen years had passed, but the pain still remained as sharp as ever. It was that time of the year again when Rina's life seemed to come to a standstill. The 18th of August, the worst day of the year. The day that marked the absence of Mateo, the day that tore the Ciceró family apart. The wounds of that tragic night had never truly healed; they were etched like permanent scars in Rina's soul.

Restless and sleepless, Rina would lie awake in the darkness, haunted by the past. Each year, the drunken voicemails from their mother grew more frequent, a stark reminder of her own pain and suffering. The routine was etched into their life, like a sorrowful ritual that might as well be marked on the calendar.

On this particular anniversary, Rina found themselves once again on a public bus, their head resting against the scratched glass, drowning out their thoughts with loud music from their headphones. The journey to the side of town where their mother now lived felt like a chore, a duty they couldn't escape. It was a far cry from their younger days when they would visit every week, a desperate attempt to ensure that their mother hadn't completely bottomed out, passed out in her own misery.

Rina didn't bother to knock.

"Mom?" they called out, their voice trembling with a mix of anticipation and dread as they poked their head through the door and stepped inside. The trailer was empty. No scattered bottles covering every surface and littering the floor. It was a stark contrast to the chaotic, alcohol-fuelled mess that had become the norm. Rina's heart raced as they took in the scene, a sense of confusion washing over them.

They moved further into the trailer, cautiously exploring the newfound order. The empty spaces felt eerie, as if a storm had passed through, cleansing the chaos that had once reigned here. The absence of the familiar stench of alcohol was almost surreal.

Rina's emotions were a whirlwind. Relief, confusion, and cautious optimism mingled with the painful memories that still clung to them like a heavy shroud. They knew that life with their mother had never been easy, and that Mateo's absence had taken a toll on them both. But this unexpected turn of events left Rina grappling with a glimmer of hope, a tiny spark of possibility that things might finally change for the better.

Sitting on the built-in sofa, it was hard what to make of this. Had no one told Rina her mother had died? It wouldn't be surprising, who really cared about this family? And that including the people within it apparently. Or had she simply skipped town and forgot to tell their only living child? Taking of their phone, Rina already knew what would happen but still called their mom anyway. Number disconnected and the beep Rina recieved was reminiscent of a flatline. The overwhelming sense of disappointment and loneliness sunk in. The only one left standing, the one left behind.

Rina let out a bitter laugh. "Happy fucking anniversary, hermano," they said to no one.

There was no one left but them.

#∘₊✧────── rina ciceró. ( soliloquy )#tw: alcoholism #tw: grief #tw: death

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brokenhardies · 6 months

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i thought about jane in the au where thirteen decides to fobwatch herself and good god her 60th anniversary is not fun

-for starters she has to get donna's memories back - she manages to do so, but believes that she will die. thank goodness for rose and letting it go, which jane does not realize is a perfect metaphor for her own situation

-then there's the wild blue yonder situation, which jane still does the salt trick - and she almost takes the wrong donna onto the TARDIS, much to her horror and anger. her self-loathing is so massive that she pretty much tells donna that she let her mother down - not knowing that her father would make the same mistake in the regular story

-due to jane not being knowledgeable on the toymaker - bc the doctor never tells her anything - she has a panic attack when they're in the toymaker's domain. her reaction to the puppet show is a major outburst of grief and anger when she challenges the toymaker to a game, and she's surprised that she's able to pull the best two out of three by saying to the toymaker "you played one game with my mum, and another with me. this next game will be your third game with the doctor"

-due to being under fob-watch, the doctor is not affected by the giggle, which is how jane is able to spot her. it helps that kate and company took her to UNIT, but she doesn't know jane... and then something happens and she gets shot - either by the toymaker and the galvanic beam or by something else - maybe the toymaker uses the giggle to get soldiers to shoot at random. thank goodness for jane getting the fob-watch in time!

-jane is the only one who undergoes the bigeneration, and jane v - having gone through all the stress of being the doctor for three years - decides to stay with donna and her family to rest up until she regenerates into jane vi and comes back to the bigeneration, which jane vi encourages

-due to thirteen regenerating into fifteen (fourteen) instead of regenerating into tenteen, he still has a lot of trauma and baggage, but decides to stop running away from his problems and admit that he has a problem. its the best jane vi can get... at least, for now lol

#OC: Jane #story: life on mars #tbh two birds might be my fave au bc its just fifteen and five getting to know each other again #and also fifteen apologising to five lol

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theclaymorrigan · 9 months

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FORGING THE SWORD OF THE GREAT QUEEN 📜 Scroll Thirteen:

"You have stopped scribing your memoirs," Sinder managed to make a statement sound like an indictment.

"Aye," shrugged I. We were hunting together near Rivercrest, our adopted hometown on the border of Cyrodill and Valenwood. We had cached one elk and were tracking a second, wounded one. He'd urged me to put what had happened down on parchment but, after filling a dozen Scrolls, the tale was only half told and I was weary or reliving in remembrance what had been lost.

"Will you take up your quill again?" he pressed.

"Perhaps," I shrugged again.Sinder now ran a smithy in Rivercrest; repairing and tempering armor and weapons for me along with the occasional piece of jewelry. He and a fellow named Lond served the region well and made decent livings. I was considered the town hero which I found ironic since I was more like the town drunk, if you asked me.

"Much remains to be chronicled," Sinder continued. "The forging of Diindinok, Dezbomiin's betrayal, Fara's sacrifice…"

"Fara's killing, you mean!" I interrupted him. "Let things be called what they truly are."

"You did her a mercy, Clay," he reassured me for perhaps the thousandth time over the intervening years. "She wasn't long for this life at that point and ultimately being slain by Hircine's champion;...you, she was assured a place in his hunting grounds and avoided the degradations of Molag Bal's Coldharbour. What's more, this one postulates that you could heal from this heartwound if you honored her memory and, yes, her sacrifice for posterity. Every being living on Nirn owes her a great debt of which they are unaware."

I held silent for a time.

"I still feel her with me, Sinder," I confessed. "Sometimes, on my 'adventures' as you call them, when I don't know which way to proceed, that floating, blue orb appears like when she cast that Clairvoyance spell and it guides me true. She still guides me, Sinder. I didn't know how to cast it, don't even do anything and it happens right when needed. I know it's her."

"Will you return to the henge that was once Talonscar again this year on the anniversary?" He asked dejectedly, neither confirming or denying his beliefs regarding my Clairvoyance claim.

"No," I answered. "She's not there anyway. She watches over me from The Hunting Grounds. But it is too painful to write down, my friend. She didn't really do it for all of Nirn. She did it for the love of me and I will never forget her. Ever."

"Will you stop drowning your grief in liquor?" he beseeched me.

"I won't drink any more," I said and his amber eyes lit up until I added: "I won't drink any less, either. When I see her in my dreams each night, I need something to make the waking hours bearable."

He nodded and said no more. We brought back an elk apeice that night. Neither of us has broached the subject since.

TO BE CONTINUED…PERHAPS.

#elder scrolls #original character #skyrim #elder scrolls blades

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mistydear · 2 years

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soften me now, let me take as is given (v)

billie dean howard x reader

summary: You meet Billie in mourning. She’s too professional, and you’re too angry, and it takes too long to see her again. And again. And again as your lives tumble together.

w/c: 4k

notes: warnings for grief, cemeteries, and alcohol. I promise this story isn't only about grief. It'll taper off after this chapter. But definitely settle in for a slow burn, lovelies lol <3

chapter one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen

taglist: @thedeconstructionist

On the one year anniversary of Catherine’s death, Margot calls you at 9:30 in the morning to ask how you’re doing. You don’t answer, but you do listen to her voicemail with your head buried under a pillow.

Hey babe, it’s me. Just calling to ask if you wanted to have brunch. I’m ready and willing to make you pancakes just call me back.

There’s a sigh and a brief pause.

Please tell me you’re not working today. I love you. Call me.

You groan and roll out of bed. Of course you’re working today. What a stupid question. What else would you possibly do, wallow quietly in your apartment? That sounds like a slippery slope to a repeat of the first few months after Catherine’s death. Instead, you turn on your coffee maker and pull two mugs from your cabinet. One is yours. It’s orange and red—hand made with the artist’s signature on the bottom. The other is Kate’s. It’s blue and green and the companion piece to your own. When you finally had the strength to go through Catherine’s things, you and Margot were very deliberate about what you kept, what you donated, and what you threw away. But this was the only thing you chose to remove from your house and take with you to your new place.

The coffee pot screams at you as you fill both mugs. Kate took hers with cream and no sugar, and you make sure it’s exactly right before setting it out on your kitchen table. After you make your own—cream and two sugars—you hold it in both hands, hoping that some of its warmth would seep into you. Gingerly, you sit across from Kate’s mug and watch the morning sunlight stream across the table, separating you. You don’t say anything. You’re not sure there’s anything to say, but you sip your coffee and watch as hers gets cold.

. . .

Almost as soon as you get to work later that morning, Norah finds you shelving books on the second floor.

“I thought I smelled trouble,” she says quietly, grabbing a book to help you stock. “You’re not on the schedule today.” It could have been an innocent observation, but you know Norah better than that. The smell of books has always been a comfort to you, and there’s a certain routine to your job that’s soothing, but it seems redundant to say so. Instead, you shrug and avoid eye contact.

“I needed something to do.”

“There are actually more productive things to do today than this, you know,” she says pointedly, leaning up against a stack. You’re ready to shoot her down when one of your employees walks by and then quickly does a double take. Her name is Joan, but most of the staff calls her Jo. Her hair is long and gray, nearly white, and she usually has a pencil stuck in it somewhere.

“I thought I was hallucinating. What the hell are you doing here?” she asks, walking towards you with singular aim and unflinching eyes. You’ve never spent time with Jo outside of work, but you’ve often thought about what she might be like alone. You imagine her apartment to be filled with books, warm and cozy with an armchair made of worn green velvet.

“That’s exactly what I was trying to figure out,” Norah says conspiratorially. Jo’s worked here longer than you have, so to you she’s always just been a part of the atmosphere here. She holds the same warmth, the same comfort.

“You’ve got ten minutes,” she warns, not a hint of a smile on her face as she points a finger at you. Her eyes are hawklike and sharp, and it’s amazing how effectively she can blend maternal concern with her usual tough old bird demeanor. You’re in no way beholden to Joan, but you feel the threat hanging over you as she disappears past the stacks. Bewildered, you look at Norah who shrugs.

“The Corner Store Oracle has spoken.”

The first time Jo met Kate, she was dropping off a lunch that you forgot at home. You’d just bought your house together, and in the excitement and chaos you’d been unusually forgetful. There were two sets of footsteps down the hall from your office when you heard them.

“You must be Kate. We hear a lot about you over here,” Jo says in that slow drawl as they round the corner.

“Not that much,” you try to defend, swiveling in your chair. Jo scoffs and leans up against the doorframe as you stand to greet Kate. She kisses you with a sweet hum, tasting like clementines and chapstick. You smile into her, instantly feeling at home, and then kiss her deeply on the cheek before pulling her into a tight hug.

“Uh huh. It’s always my wife this and my wife that. Let me show you a picture of the house my wife and I bought,” she mocks, and Kate laughs, squeezing you tight and then letting you go. She trails her fingers down your cheek and brushes her brown hair behind her ear, eyes shining delightfully as they flutter from you to Jo.

“You really like this whole wife thing, don’t you?” Kate muses, setting your lunch down on the desk. You fight down and blush and give her a half shrug.

“It’s growing on me, I guess.” She chews her lip and takes a deep breath. Everything is so fresh and new and bright like a warm Sunday morning.

“Well, it’s nice to finally meet you,” Jo says, holding out her hand to shake. Kate—in that way she always does—smiles and holds Jo’s hand firmly in both of hers.

“You as well. And thank you. For showing me the way.” And as everyone always is, Jo’s pleasantly surprised by Kate’s intimacy and ducks out with a rare smile. Now that you’re alone, Kate turns and is immediately greeted by your waiting arms. She runs her fingers through your hair and kisses your nose, settling perfectly into you.

“You didn’t have to come all the way down here,” you mutter, pulling her closer, your lips brushing. It’s a bit of a drive to work, especially at this time of day in LA traffic.

“I missed you,” she mumbles back, connecting your lips. You hum, collecting that neediness and kissing it right back into her.

. . .

You’re bitter when Norah drags you out into the sunlight. You know she’s trying to get you to face your grief instead of running from it, but you think maybe you’re entitled to a little escapism now and then. Especially today. Then, with your arms linked tightly, her phone rings.

“Hey, Margot.” You roll your eyes instantly, and Norah elbows you but doesn’t let you go as if afraid you’ll run off like an overexcited puppy. “Yeah, she’s here with me.” She nods and chuckles. “Where else would she be?” Right after Catherine’s death, she and Margot took care of you. Really cared for you when you couldn’t do it yourself. You’ll always be grateful for them, for their gentle kindness and boundless generosity. But the one thing you’ve managed to be continually embarrassed by is the way they tag team your mental health like you still can’t get dressed or comb your hair on your own. “I know. Yep. Love you too.” Then she hands you the phone. You feel like a child, so you take it.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Margot sighs, weary and relieved. “I love you so much,” she says forcefully, and a flickering smile comes over you.

“I love you more.”

“Not possible,” she jokes, a laugh on her lips. “I know you probably don’t wanna see me today, and I get it. I do.” She’s right. She looks too much like Catherine for you to be able to handle that today, and all of a sudden you feel overwhelmingly guilty and alone. You aren’t the only one grieving, after all. “But I want you to know that you can cry with me any time, day or night. I’ll be there.”

A lump forms hot in your throat. You swallow and nod. It confuses you to hear Margot say it, but you force yourself to take it in. Margot loves you. You’re her family. You belong. You still belong, and you’ll always belong.

“I love you,” you manage.

“I love you.” Quietly, you end the call and hand Norah her phone back. You know she just wanted to check in. After all, you’ve been known to make rash decisions in your grief—perhaps unwise, unhealthy ones. Norah takes it and tucks it back into her pocket. After a moment of silence, she squeezes your arm.

“Let’s buy some flowers.”

. . .

You hold a hand over your forehead to block the sun as Norah quietly follows you through the cemetery. It’s hot and there’s a light breeze, but the flowers in your hand smell nice. They’re Kate’s favorites, red and orange chrysanthemums.

You remember the morning you bought your first bouquet of the new house. You’d finally gotten settled in, mostly, and decided to go to the farmer’s market. Kate was practically bursting. She’d always carried enough childlike joy for the both of you.

“Oh my god, Y/N, look at these,” she says, pulling you back from the next stall over. She has an armful of chrysanthemums wrapped in newspaper, and you have a tote bag full of fresh fruits and vegetables and bread, and you’re hot and hungry, so you groan. “You’re such a complainer. Look at how cute these are.” A strand of hair has fallen out of her messy ponytail, and you brush it behind her ear before following her gaze.

Two handmade mugs sit at a crafting table, one blue and green and the other red and orange.

“They’re part of a set,” the seller says, looking between you two. “Perfect for couples.” Kate looks at you with brilliant, hopeful eyes, and you’re a goner.

When you get home, she washes the mugs and puts out the flowers while you make brunch. Then she hands you the red and orange mug full of coffee and kisses you on the cheek, holding you from behind as you flip eggs.

“It’s not home until there’s flowers,” she says and kisses your neck. You shiver and lean back against her, inclined to agree.

Kate’s plot is modest with a flat headstone and a peaceful view of the park. You hope she likes it, green and wide and open. As much as coming here hurts, you’re fond of the idea that she has a nice place to rest. Though you were young, you did make a point to talk about final wishes. Choosing a cemetery or a plot was far too daunting, but you made sure she knew what you wanted, and she did the same.

Catherine Ann Hill

Gingerly, you kneel down and tuck the flowers against the stone as if it would shatter at the slightest touch. You trace your fingers over the name etched into cold granite as your vision blurs with tears. You didn’t realize it would be that easy to get you to cry today. The pain hits next, a great stabbing and seizing of your chest when you realize—remember—that Kate is lying right under your knees. Just a few feet away, forever.

A sob pushes its way through you. Almost immediately, Norah’s hand rests on your back, rubbing soothing circles into your shoulder blade. And once it starts, it just doesn’t stop. You sit back on the grass and cry into your hands, feeling so overwhelmed you can hardly breathe.

It’s for this exact reason that you don’t visit Catherine’s grave very often. Maybe you’re just scared to feel it all so intensely again. You’ve only barely gotten back on your feet, and this feels exactly like twisting an ankle.

. . .

You aren’t stumbling, but you think maybe taking several more shots instead of drinking water before you left your apartment wasn’t your smartest idea. Anyway, you’re craving something sweet, and a slice of cake from Insomnia Cafe sounds amazing right now. When you walk in, the bell above the door rings sharp in your ears, and you squint against the harsh light.

Grimacing, you look up at the menu only to find yourself unable to focus on it. It wavers in your vision, threatening to spin, and you curse under your breath.

“What are the odds?” you hear a voice ask from behind you. You turn—stepping awkwardly so as not to throw yourself off balance—to find Billie Dean Howard in front of you again. The corner of her lips is turned up into an amused smile, but you notice her eyes are unusually guarded. And that’s saying something, you think.

“Slim to none, probably,” you reply, folding your arms over your chest. She laughs, but it’s more of a huff.

“Well, ladies first,” she offers, motioning to the cash register before clasping her hands in front of her. You would have found that a little funny had you not sensed the tension radiating off her. Unsettled by her demeanor, you glance back and notice that the cashier is the same as last time you were here with Billie, dark hair and tattoos. Her headphones are already around her neck this time, and she’s standing at the register, glancing between you two. Sensing that you were being waited for, you stepped forward with unnaturally careful feet.

“Um,” you begin—very confidently—pressing your palms into the counter. You’ve given up trying to read. “Do you have anything with chocolate and peanut butter in it?” Now that you actually have to interact with people, you feel the need to act more sober than you are. Though you’re positive this girl gets more drunk people in here than you can imagine.

“We have our Reese’s brownie,” she says flatly, adjusting a septum piercing.

“No, I don’t want that. It’s like. I want cake but with peanut butter. You know?” you ask, leaning on the counter. The cashier eyes you, tapping long nails onto the display case.

“We have a dark chocolate cake with peanut butter mousse?” she suggests, and that sounds like heaven so you nod firmly.

“Yes, that. Nice team work,” you say, holding up your hand to high five her. She glances behind you, presumably at Billie, and then reluctantly taps her palm against yours. You’re too drunk to feel awkward about that, but Billie clearly isn’t because she gently brushes past you.

“Alright that’s enough of that. I’ll have a slice of the same, thank you.” She pulls out her wallet before you can even process what she’s doing and pays for the both of you. And then she leaves a tip in the tip jar before turning back around. You’ve stuffed your hands in your pockets like a child waiting for direction, so she leads you to a table where you both sit down.

“Is this the same table as last time?” you wonder absently.

“Are you drunk?” she asks without preamble.

“No, not at all.”

“Y/N,” she insists skeptically, cocking her head down so she’s looking at you over her lashes which are long and painted. You lean back against the chair, feeling weightless and untethered. “Is everything okay?” she asks carefully, quieter this time. You can’t look at her then, swallowing as you sit up straighter.

“Fine,” you say as neutrally as possible. Billie hesitates. She’s about to say something when the cashier announces that your food is ready. Before you can get up, Billie does, striding to the counter in tall heels. You glance at your phone—that you can read at least. It’s almost two in the morning, and she’s in a floral wrap dress and a full face of makeup. As she walks back—one plate of cake in each hand—her hair bounces lightly against her shoulders, curled perfectly as if it had just been done an hour ago. If you were to run your fingers through it, you wonder whether it would be crunchy with hairspray or just as soft as it looks.

“You’re not making this very fun,” Billie says absently as she sits back down. She seems weary, and you slide your plate closer to you a little sheepishly. Clearly, Billie’s not having the best day either based on the dullness in her eyes, the tightness in her mouth, and you’re not making it better. You may be having an unspeakably terrible day yourself, but you don’t have to push that onto Billie. You chew your lip, fiddling with your plate.

“Thanks. For the cake.” You glance up to find her sliding her fork out from between her lips. She acknowledges you with a flicker of her eyes, and you swallow. “My wife, um…” you swallow again, trying to quell the lump that immediately forms in your throat. “A year ago. Today. She…” you raise one of your shoulders and look down, bringing your fork to your lips. You chew slowly, heart pounding, and when you summon the courage to look up at Billie, her eyes are locked on you, sympathetic and open. You take a shaky breath. “What about you?”

“What?” she asks, thrown off by the change in conversation.

“Why are you here?” For a moment, through hazy, unsteady eyes, you swear that Billie blushes. Her cheeks tinge red, and she looks down, fiddling with her cake.

“It’s nothing. You wouldn’t be interested.”

“Try me,” you say, leaning forward on the table. She scoffs and shakes her head, and you raise your brow. “Billie Dean Howard. Don’t cheap out on me now. I just shared something objectively terrible with you. Your turn.” That pulls half a smile from her, and hers pulls one from you in turn, warming something inside you.

“I had a bad day at work,” she sighs with another shake of her head, poking at her cake. You raise your brow and consider asking whether any of her ghost friends showed up for filming today. You’re drunk, but you’re not drunk enough to be that rude.

“What happened?”

“I really don’t think you’d be interested. Besides, you’ve had a worse day than me, I’m sure,” she says, grabbing another bite of cake. You realize that what she means is she doesn’t think you’d care. You frown, too drunk to wonder why you’re hurt by that.

“It’ll make me feel better,” you offer. “To hear how shitty your day was.” She gives you a look you can’t decipher, and it makes you panic. “Joke, that’s…I was just…”

“I know,” she says, smiling politely. You grimace at your own stupidity and the enormity of Billie’s silent distress.

“Seriously, what’s wrong?” you say, quieter now. She sighs and looks you over, no doubt assessing how drunk you are. If you were her you’d do the same to decide whether it’s even worth talking about. But she seems to make a decision because she shifts in her chair and swallows.

“Good TV requires drama,” she begins, rolling her fork between her fingers. “I knew that when I signed with Lifetime. I just…I didn’t expect so much of it.” You’re confused, and she senses that, glancing self consciously from you to her plate. She’s always so self assured that it’s horrifying to see her unsettled like this. “Usually I try to avoid putting myself in spaces with malicious spirits. I mean I don’t…” she takes a breath and closes her eyes, “seek them out just to speak with them. I do it to protect those still living.” Her words sink into you and linger in the back of your mind. She didn’t say it like a hero or as a burden. She said it as a fact. This is who she is, what she does. It just is. “And I’m not afraid,” she insists, and you believe her. “I’m just…” she hesitates, choosing her words carefully. “Sometimes it’s difficult to block them out.” She stretches her neck and sighs, setting down her fork like it’s all just unappetizing now.

You wonder what Billie hears, what she sees, and for the first time find yourself questioning whether you believe her abilities or not. The thought unnerves you, makes you think of Kate lingering all alone in your house, and that’s way too much to handle right now—drunk or sober. You swallow, setting down your own fork.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” she says, and you’re surprised by how in tune she is with your emotions. Perhaps it’s the years of dealing with grieving relatives coming in handy.

“I know. Today it’s just…”

“I understand,” she says, effectively ending the conversation. You appreciate it, actually, more than you can process right now.

“She believed in ghosts, you know. I think that’s the worst part,” you chuckle hollowly, looking down into your lap. The movement of your head makes your vision swim, and you take a soothing breath.

“Tell me about her,” Billie encourages, her voice softening. You look up at her, confused, to find her head cocked gently, eyes soft and beckoning. She nods, and you blush, looking down at your fingers. How can you even begin to describe Kate?

“She was unbelievably kind and affectionate with everyone. She always talked to people like they were her closest friends. Warm and intimate. I loved that about her.” It hurts to talk in the past tense, but Billie is quiet, and it’s almost soothing to get it out in the open. “She was funny. Knew exactly how to make me laugh. Especially when I was upset. And she had this scar above her eyebrow from when she was a kid. She hated it, so I kissed it every chance I got. Wish I could kiss it one more time,” you say, starting to choke. Something protectively shuts down inside you, so you wipe your nose with the back of your hand and push your plate away. “I need a drink.”

“Come on, I’ll drive you home,” Billie says, pushing back her chair to help you to your feet.

“I can walk,” you insist, stumbling.

“No you can’t, dear,” she says, amused as you latch onto her elbow. You’ve gotten considerably more drunk since you left your apartment.

“I don’t want you to take care of me,” you say because it’s suddenly all so humiliating.

“I’m not taking care of you. I’m driving you home,” she informs you as you walk out to her car. You make sure not to grab onto her, but the road is spinning and you feel like you may be floating but also sinking.

“I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t be,” she says before closing the car door on you and getting in the driver’s side. “This is much more interesting than what I would have been doing otherwise.”

“No fancy celebrity parties to go to?” you ask, remembering some rumors you’d seen online of Billie’s clientele starting to creep into A-list celebrity status. She chuckles, pulling onto the road, and you lean your head back against the seat.

“Not tonight.” When she asks you where you live, you vaguely remember replying with your old address and then quickly and embarrassingly correcting yourself. Billie doesn’t comment, but after that your memories start to get fuzzy.

Things come sharply back into focus when Billie takes your apartment keys from you as you struggle with the lock. She smells like oak and wildflowers with something deeper and richer underneath. Her hands are cool and soft when she rights you as you trip over the welcome mat, closing the door behind her. There’s something intimate about this—about her body next to yours in the entryway—but it doesn’t strike you as strange until Billie Dean Howard is pouring herself a glass of your gin. The day seems to be hitting her again, and her weariness reminds you of your own.

“Pour me a glass,” you say, and she’s decidedly not taking care of you tonight, so she does.

#experimenting with incorporating gifs lmao #let me know if you want to be on the taglist for this fic #billie dean howard #billie dean howard x reader #billie dean x reader #ahs fanfic #ahs murder house #cordelia goode #ahs fanfiction #writing #soften me now

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kawaiijohn · 2 years

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A short train of thoughts fic for 4/13

It's the anniversary of the thing that changed my life, how I met the most important people to me, how I found the people I want to spend my life with.

How I figured out who I am, who I like, and how it relates to the pride flags I decide to fly.

How I relate to the world around me and shaped my sense of humor.

It's the namesake of my blog, my online identity. I will never change it, no matter how cringe or childish it looks to me now.

Keep in mind I have refused, staunchly, to read the epilogues or interact with homestuck^2, this fic is what I wish had happened.

Here we go

A young man stands in his bedroom.

He looks at his hands and swallows.

It is not his thirteenth birthday, but he remembers it well.

He wishes he didn't, but without it, he wouldn't be the same man.

It was all so fun, at first, but childish glee turned to horror quicky. And the smell of frosting and baked goods were soon followed by smoke and ash and fire.

He closes his eyes and breathes- one thing he remains masterful of. He breathes, but phantom iron and oil coats the inside of his nose and he tastes it in his throat.

He opens his eyes.

He is still in his room.

He breathes in relief.

Thirteen years has helped with the painful memories. And so has the therapy.

Lots and lots of therapy.

The Rose of back then would have picked and prodded as to why it took so long, but the Rose of now is proud of him. He's proud of her as well.

How fucked is it that the shit they'd been forced to endure by an uncaring universe shaped them into what they needed to be? The hero's journey (God he only had a middle school Earth education still) is absolute horseshit.

If he hadn't already met a certain Troll or been a God himself, he'd refuse to believe any sort of God exists in the first place. But it doesn't mean much to him anyways, because he refuses to believe a higher power or fate or the universe or whatever the fuck is anything but caring or good after what happened.

According to Rose (and her wife), it happened to her grandparents too. According to her, they'd somehow decided to continue celebrating holidays that honor God after enduring Earth's darkest tragedy but remained atheist up until they passed when she was a baby.

Something about traditions being more important than belief, but it's not like their little group has many beliefs left besides what their parents taught them.

He laughs, she always tries to comfort him about that, but it doesn't matter all that much. Not when he's finally able to see the good that came out of the whole situation.

The memories have faded, but his friends remain vivid technicolor to his dull world;

The orchid bright of wretched tongues and the weird smell of a handmade scarf. Black and lilac and orange swapping in his mind like she swaps her yarn's colors.

The vivid ruby of heat and throbbing bass, the sound of laughter twinged with southern drawl. The sharp sarcasm and wit that flows naturally between them.

The toxic lime of petrichor and moss, the snort-laughter of a sister he didn't know he wanted. The comfort of babbling on about special interests and the semantics of bullshit fantasy science.

They're his rocks. His comrades. His partners in crime.

He's glad he got to meet them, he just wishes it would have been under normal circumstances.

He daydreams of waiting at an airport with an oversized sign that reads "Mr. Strider" while he wears his Groucho glasses and his dad chuckles beside him. Of picking up Jade from an airport after somehow managing to get a flight, watching her nap on the car ride home. Of flying out to New York and being able to see NYC before it became a pile of rubble.

He wipes a few tears from his eyes and laughs.

He's working on it- letting himself work through the grief of missing his childhood, losing out on everything people should have gotten, of how many people vanished because the universe decided it was time to die.

A young man stands in his bedroom.

He's glad he has the privacy to cry it out this time- that he has to hide up in his old bedroom, he doesn't want to worry his friends before everyone else arrives.

Having to hide from everyone is a huge improvement. Because it's better than spending another birthday alone.

He can hear someone walking up the stairs. He steels himself and dons the traditional party hat he makes sure to get every year.

"Hey ass hat, why are you sitting in the dark?"

"Oh, uh... hey Dave! Is it dark already?"

His boyfriend stares at him like he's grown a second head. "Dude you've been up here for an hour, Terezi said she's almost here and you have Roxy down there staring at the cake with actual stars in her eyes. No idea how the fuck she does that but it's real weird, like anime bullshit or something. Kinda makes me wanna see if it's genetic or some shit, give you the anime ugu kawaii eyes and see if it seduces you more or something."

Dave tries to drape his body over his, but he just snort laughs and pushes his boyfriend away. "Okay yeah that's pretty fucking weird, also you don't need to seduce me bro. We're in this for the loooooooong haul."

Their play fight is interrupted by another two people entering the room.

"I'm impressed that you managed to pronounce eight os in that, John. She'd be proud of you."

"Pfft Kanaya, we all know sky Vriska is real and watching at all times! She'd slap me over the head if I didn't at least try!" John responds from the headlock Dave has him in.

He looks and sees as the rest of their group crowds behind Kanaya and Rose in the doorway.

"Hey when did everyone else get here?" he asks.

"We've all been waiting on you, numbnuts! Terezi was the last to arrive and we come up here to see you pseudo black-flirting with our matesprit!" Karkat huffs.

"Boyfriend, not matesprit."

"WHATEVER!"

"John, are you actually okay? You've been up here for an hour..." Rose asks. "We all worry about you on your birthday, but we know you've been doing better lately. We just worry." She walks over to his bed and takes a seat, patting for him to join her.

He does, and Dave sits next to him, propping his long-ass Strider legs over their laps. It's not long before Jade hops up behind them and drapes over the back of him. And then Kanaya. Then Terezi, and Jane and Roxy, and soon everyone is on his childhood bed crowding him (even Dirk!! Wow!!)

John wipes tears from his eyes.

"You guys are too nice to me. I'm such a jerk sometimes and I really didn't wanna make you worry, but I always get this way on my birthday, this is just the first year we're all together and I'm not alone. I just didn't want everyone seeing me have flashbacks and ruin their day."

"Ruin our day? Chum, you're the birthday boy, if anything it'd be ruining Jane's day, and she's too caring to give a damn about that when it concerns stuff like that!" Jake mumbles from under Roxy.

"Precisely. We're here for you, whether you like it or not." Jane responds from behind Calliope. "Just don't be a jerk and leave us guessing, let us know you're not doing well next time."

"Dude if anything you're the most valid person to be having issues with his birthday. Who else of us had all of their planet fucking explode on their birthday?" Dirk muffles from under someone else. "Shit, your trauma is old enough to get it's name today, that's an accomplishment. Congrats to your trauma, let's name it something like "zoosmell" or whatever the fuck"

John starts to laugh but then feels the tears flow for real, not able to wipe them away fast enough.

The group pulls him in for a hug and he feels like things will finally be alright.

A young man sits in his bedroom.

It was 26 years ago that he was given life, but 13 years ago that he was given a name.

Today, on the 13th of April, he finally realizes his life is getting better, all with the help of his friends and family in a cuddle pile. He finally let's them see how vulnerable he truly is.

It may not be today, nor tomorrow, but soon this young man will be able to heal fully. For now, it is still his birthday, and there's a celebration to be had.

==> John: Celebrate Life with your Friends

[END]

#homestuck #413 #homestuck fanfic #john egbert #my fic #dantes vibe corner #long post #im shoving my vintage pepsicola hands all over this yeet

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you-cant-spell-subtext-without · 3 years

Note

I may have missed the tequila prompt window, but if not: rainy summer day Dean and Cas.

(Also, your poems are fantastic and I hope you continue to share. Even if they aren’t SPN-related, I doubt I’m alone in wanting to read more.)

Castiel's wings sparkle in the rain.

Dean stares at them, mouth agape with wonder. For a brief second, he completely forgets that the surprise summer shower has ruined the hours of hard work he spent preparing the picnic that's now a sopping wet mess on the ground.

Dean was going to do it as a celebration of the six month anniversary of Cas' return from the Empty, but the immediate memory of that night changed his mind, quick.

Cas' bedraggled form showing up on the bunker doorstep, Dean greeting him with equally bloodshot eyes, bleary from hours spent emptying bottles of liquor and shooting errant bullets at the walls.

Cas hadn't managed a word, collapsing into his arms like a frail, wet autumn leaf. Dean carried him to his bed unceremoniously, more akin to a bag of sand than a bride over the threshold.

The night itself was spent sleepless. Cas pressed into Dean's neck, his dry sobs echoing in his ears. He'd held back his own waves of grief to comfort him, stroking the angel's hair.

When he grazed a hand over his back, Cas winced, a tremor running through his body.

"I'm okay. They'll grow back," he whispered. The sound of it was so broken it immediately plummeted Dean's heart into the pit of his stomach.

"Sweetheart..." was the only word Dean could manage after Cas, in a series of shuddering breaths, explained the extent of the damage to his celestial wings. A scar left behind by the Shadow as penance for Cas' escape.

Dean's fists twitch menacingly just thinking about it.

So, no. Dean's not really dying to remember that.

And that's why they head to the park on a random Thursday and Dean absolutely forgets to check the fucking weather forecast beforehand.

He spares a moment of mourning for the soggy slices of cherry cheesecake, having foregone his beloved pie for what he knows to be Cas' favorite, despite Cas always letting Dean pick the dessert.

He watches a bird feast on the wet hunks of bread, doused by the streams of rain pouring from the sky, their glittering strands like glowing streamers in the sunlight.

At least someone gets to enjoy it, Dean sighs despondently before turning to Cas.

And seeing them.

They're still not back to full capacity, little tufts of regrowth sprouting along the joints, the lines of the feathers uneven and ragged. But the raindrops dancing across their surface reflect the sun in myriads of dazzling lights, tiny rainbow prisms filling in the gaps the Empty left in its campaign of destruction and ruin.

Cas' face is turned up to the sunlight, eyes closed against the water streaming down his cheeks.

Wetness clings to his lashes when he turns his gaze on Dean.

Cas smiles, tentatively.

It's the first smile Dean's seen in weeks that's not tinged by sadness or fear.

Embarrassingly, this leads to Dean bursting into tears like a damn thirteen year old girl.

Cas is at his side immediately, arms holding him tight. Dean tries to steady the breaths ricocheting through his ribs, his stubble catching on the wet cotton strings of Cas' soaked gray t-shirt.

"Fucking stupid," he mumbles into the indentation of Cas' clavicle, shame flowing out along with the warmth of his breath.

"Nothing about you is stupid," Cas says quietly.

Suddenly, there's something surrounding Dean's body, a small bit of shelter from the rain.

Oh.

Dean strokes a feather gently with a finger, fist of his other hand knuckling at his eyes.

"Why can I see them?" he says, and dammit his voice is hoarse from the crying.

Cas gently tugs them both down to the ground, managing to arrange Dean face to face on his lap easily, like he's some sort of rag doll.

"I don't know," he remarks. "Maybe they want you to. It appears they have a mind of their own."

Dean blinks up at him. "Huh. Castiel, Angel of the Lord and his Wayward Wings." he cracks, the lump in his throat slowly dissolving. "Sounds like a weird graphic novel."

Cas rubs his back a little, like he knows Dean's trying to joke himself past the tears.

'I'm sorry it took so long," he says. Dean jerks his head up quizzically.

"To get home to you," Cas clarifies. His chin dips.

Dean shakes his head tightly. "Should've gotten to you first," he mumbles, the pricks back in his eyes again, sonofabitch.

Cas bumps his forehead to Dean's.

"Shhh," he whispers.

The rain stops, and Dean can see the clear blue of the sky through the spaces in Cas' wings.

Cas follows his gaze. "They'll heal," he murmurs.

Dean thinks the words he wants to say - "So will we."

He pulls Cas close instead, letting his lips do the talking.

The wings glisten around him, bits of light winking across the feathers like they understand.

#sorry Bri you asked for a cute summer rainstorm and what I have to give is #angst and wing fic #with a happy ending #smooch #you-cant-spell-subtext-without-asks #omittedcastiel #writing prompts #tequila asks #scribbles

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super-novatuna · 2 years

Text

deathday (MXTX Reverse Trope Fest day 7: free day)

(unsolicited fun facts: prompt is deathday because the 19th is my birthday and it is a reverse trope fest. i decided this like the first day i planned out the prompts and stuff. my first thought was "angst? on my birthday?" then the second thought was "indeed, angst on my birthday" post-canon, wwx's third death anniversary since he came back. pain. also fluff)

(cross-posted on ao3 and twitter)

Wei Ying is not next to him when he wakes up.

Naturally, Lan Wangji starts panicking.

It has been two years since his beloved’s resurrection and everything else that came with it, but the fear that strikes him whenever Wei Ying suddenly disappears is still sharp as ever.

He quickly gets out of bed and searches the Jingshi, panic rising the longer he goes without finding his husband. Finally he opens the door to check the front yard, and relief like no other floods though him when he sees Wei Ying sitting on the porch.

Relief which is replaced with worry, because Wei Ying is up before him outside the Jingshi, staring at nothing.

“Wei Ying?” he tries to make his voice as soft as possible, but Wei Ying startles anyways as he turns to him.

“Lan Zhan!” he exclaims. “Ah, sorry, I’m not... “

“Come back to bed?” Lan Wangji gently inquires. “It is cold outside.”

Wei Ying smiles. “Alright,” he agrees, picking himself up and tucking himself into the crook of Lan Wangji’s arm as he leads him back into their bed. They do not lay back down, but sit up on its edge. Wei Ying edges closer to him, but his eyes do not look at him and stare unfocusing once more.

“What is wrong, Wei Ying?” he prods, kissing his hair. “You can tell me.”

“I-” he squeezes his eyes shut. “I think... today is the day I... died.”

The realization drowns Lan Wangji in a chill not unlike the water of the cold springs.

Today is the sixteenth anniversary of the Yiling Patriarch’s death at the Siege of the Burial Mounds.

To Wei Ying, it has been three years since he’s died.

At this realization, a familiar mourning passes over him. It is routine and ever-present on days like these, days where he’s reminded that he lost Wei Ying. It is lighter and easier to forget after Wei Ying returned, but it has only been three years since he did and Lan Wangji had spent thirteen years in what he had thought to be eternal grief.

He pushes that feeling aside by squeezing his arm around Wei Ying, a reminder that he was here, beside him, as his husband. And today’s priority was to keep Wei Ying in or close to the Jingshi, because the past two anniversaries had let them to a silent agreement to stay home whenever these days occurred.

The first year, Wei Ying had a nightmare of his death. He did not talk about it, no matter how much Lan Wangji pried and persuaded, but it left him stilted and almost silent for the rest of the day as they went about their normal business. When he was free, he disappeared, and Lan Wangji found him later in the bunny field.

“I died, Lan Zhan,” he had mumbled, eyes on the bunny underneath his stroking hand. “It wasn’t pretty, and it was painful. And with everything that happened after coming back, I don’t think I’ve really thought about the fact that I died and... how being dead felt like. How different it is, to being alive. Should I think about it? Should I leave it behind? I accepted my death wholeheartedly, but coming back afterwards, that messed all those feelings up,” he frowns. “I was dead before, and now I’m alive. Happy, with you. And I’m glad. But I guess I’m only coming to terms with it now.”

Lan Wangji had hugged him close and patiently waited for Wei Ying until he was done. That night was peacefully dreamless for the both of them.

The second year, they had gone out farther on a nighthunt, only to be greeted by celebration of his death’s anniversary. There were people here and there praising another year since the eradication of the Yiling Laozu, and even as Lan Wangji desperately tried to stop them, they carried on without care. “Evils should be eradicated and that Wei Wuxian deserved it!” they yelled, not realizing, for their town was large enough to hear rumors but not see enough faces, that they were speaking to “that Wei Wuxian” and his husband.

After the hunt was completed, Wei Ying made to set off for home immediately, and insisted that they camp outside instead of at an inn in the nearest town when night fell. They did not talk about it, and simply held each other close when they went to sleep. Wei Ying’s behavior did not improve until they returned to the Cloud Recesses and the delighted chirps of “Wei-qianbei!” from his beloved junior disciples.

So this year, they will stay in the Jingshi, together, alone. Today has no decided schedule, and if Wei Ying wishes he can go teach the disciples, and if he wishes to be in the Jingshi alone Lan Wangji will leave him be, and if his beloved will follow him around as he does his duties to help his uncle, Lan Wangji will let him.

As long as Wei Ying is alive, as long as he is happy.

#i'm so indecisive on where to place the cuts lmao #mxtx reverse trope fest #mdzs #wangxian #wei wuxian #lan wangji #novatuna's brain writes #novatuna's brain at work

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unexceptional-broken · 2 years

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( @wnterslder ) « :') young bucky giving becky a cheek smooch back ofc. a smile wide enough to cause his eyes to crinkle at the corners || ALWAYS ACCEPTING STUFF LIKE THIS

SHE’D BEEN LOST inside of herself. At seventeen years old, it already felt like the world was on her shoulders more often than it didn’t. She missed their parents so much that it felt like her bones had gone hollow with the want of them back, and today just made it feel... worse.

It wasn’t an anniversary of their deaths, or one of their birthdays, or even any other day that marked something important to them. It had come out of nowhere, and that almost made it worse. That the grief could come and pull her marrow out from inside of her at any time made sorrow feel insidious. She didn’t want it. She didn’t want to hurt like this again.

Suddenly, her brother’s kiss pressed onto her cheeks. At just-turned-nineteen, his cheeks were more often scratchy than they were smooth, but she’d gotten used to it, growing as he did — well, not growing. she hadn’t gotten any taller than she’d been at about thirteen — and with him, all at the same time. She turned, catching the easy way he could pull his smile between his cheeks. His eyes crinkled in the same way their Pa’s had. She had their Ma’s eyes, and in Jimmy, their Pa shone out from his face. She was so sick with wanting them that the dam behind the strongest of her feelings very nearly broke.

She sucked in a quick breath, inadvertently shaking just for a moment, and didn’t try to give him a fake smile. Instead, she leaned on him, putting her head against the spot where his arm became his shoulder, not quite tall enough to be on his shoulder properly.

“I’ve got work in about a half hour,” she commented, doing what she did so well and pretending like her emotions weren’t written right across her face. “I’ll be real late tonight.”

#me? being extra enough to make a whole banner for younger becky inbox stuff?#more likely than you think #ii. ( ic ) — inbox reply #wnterslder #i. ( verse ) — back to basics #i. ( arc ) — in the calm before the storm #i. ( arc ) — with wnterslder

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evermoreparker · 3 years

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Last Words

A/n: Hey :) so this fic has been in my head for way too long, I plan on turning this into a series, so this is the first part of my next work. Reblogs are extremely appreciated!! 💖💖 Hope you enjoy reading this!!

Warnings: major character death, grief and I think that's it?

Word count: 1.4 k

Last words are overrated, it doesn't matter what someone said to you before they passed away, what really matters is their actions when they were alive. That's something you could never forget.

For Peter they were perfect, not the usual kind of last words people wanted to hear from their loved ones, but it was the last he heard your voice.

It's funny how we never know when our life is about to turn upside down, it's funny how it's so easy to believe in love when you are just a kid, but then you grow up, and it's like they've been feeding you up with lies the whole time. And it's funny how you two hadn't the slightest idea about how your lives were about to change the moment you sat next to a cute guy at the movies.

Having just broken up with your boyfriend, you find yourself wandering the streets of Manhattan in hope of anything that doesn't remind you of love, or your ex.

The universe has a way of putting two people in the right place at the right time, and that was what happened when you chose to watch a movie with zero love, a horror one, with gruesome details, that shit it's not for everyone, at least that was what you thought.

It was a boring monday afternoon, so it was normal that there were just four people watching the movie with you, but one of them caught your attention at first sight. The butterflies in your stomach were begging you to talk to him, but you convinced yourself that love wasn't for you, not for now, at least. That's one of those stupid things you say before meeting "the one", it's like the universe telling you: "ok, now that I know you can't handle more shitty relationships, here's this person that you've been looking for your whole life."

And honestly, it was worth it. You didn't have to talk to the cute guy looking as miserable as you were because he did that for you.

"Hey" he smiled. "Having a bad day?" And if he didn't have the sweetest eyes you've ever seen, (yea I'm quoting Your Song and what about it?) you would've punched him in the face, considering that every guy in NY has a lame pick up line that they read on facebook when they were thirteen. But the cute guy seemed genuinely concerned.

"Yea, just thinking that the world hates me" you shrugged while drinking the rest of your soda.

"I get that. Sorry though, mondays fucking suck" he giggled and you could've sworn it was the sweetest sound in the world. You'd give everything to hear that noise again.

After that Peter invited you for a drink, at 4 p.m, because, well, mondays did suck and getting drunk with a hot guy couldn't go wrong. Actually, it can. But that was not the case here, since we are talking about the best listener in the world and the most talkative person on a date, just like you.

Time goes on, and it's crazy how you never know when what's about to happen next in your life. And for you, it was his proposal, first time you found out you were pregnant, the second time you found out you were pregnant... But for Peter it was all that and having to deal with the pain of losing the love of his life.

When he got your voice-mail asking to pick up your daughter from school, he would've never guessed that that was the last time he would ever hear your voice.

"Hey babe, please pick up Anna from school today. Also, Ben needs to do the dishes like he promised me he would. Oh, and before I forget, I love you so much." He could see your smile saying those three words he loved so much. "And get your socks out of our bedroom floor, seriously Peter, you are lucky you are cute."

That was the sound he replayed more than his favorite song.

The day you died he was so angry at the universe for bringing him this amazing girl and taking her away from him way too fast. But he wasn't on his own anymore, he had the two best things you had given him, and they gave him the strength to carry on. No matter how many months went by, he would always go to a quiet place and talk to you, like he knew you were there, it’s like you were everywhere he knew you loved.

"Funny how you are usually the one doing all the talking, but now it's me" He tried to laugh through his tears while sitting on your favorite bench,(well, now his too), at entral park.

"Shit, I wish we could've done so much more together. Wish you could've changed the world, like you always wanted you. Wish that we could go on road-trips with Anna and Ben." Peter says as he looks up at the sky, just wishing he had just a little more time with you. Just one more smile, one more kiss and he would feel better. At least he thought so.

"I have no idea if I sound crazy talking to the wind, but for me it's like you are always here. I don't think I've told you about why I was at the movies when we met. And you didn’t ask, not even when we started dating, because you always respected my boundaries." Peter says while trying to dry his tears that keeps blurring his vision. "It was my uncle Ben's death anniversary and it was the worst date of every year for me. I hated myself for what happened. Yeah, yeah I know it wasn't my fault’’ He says like he knew what you were gonna say if you were there. You always showed and told Peter how amazing he is, and that’s ok not to carry the world on his shoulders. ‘’But anyway, I had to stop thinking about that, horror movies did the trick for me. And there you were" he smiled while looking at the horizon imagining you were there with him. "I saw your puffy eyes and I knew I wasn't the only one having a bad day, and as you said, 'It's not a bad life, it's just a bad day', pretty sure you stole that from Louis Tomlinson but that's okay. And I had that feeling when you are on a roller coaster and the drop is about to come, but I had no fear of falling. That's what you made me feel, that’s what you still make me feel, whenever the world was cruel to me, I had you. Yes, I stole that from Queen.’’

Peter laughs knowing that you’d have loved how he quoted your favorite song, but now it was his. Basically every single thing Peter had before being with you was now yours, including his heart. And you were his. Fuck ‘Til death do us part’. You both were sure that what you had, what you still have, wouldn’t be gone so easily. It was like you two were destined to be together, maybe you still are in another life.

‘’And I miss the way you would wake me up with kisses all over my face, unless we had a fight the night before." He laughs. "You looked so cute when you were angry, I just wanted to hug you and kiss you because, fuck, how did I get so fucking lucky? And eventually I did, it was impossible to get mad at you, I blame your puppy eyes for that. That was my thing, you know? But I would let you steal anything you want from me, because we were even, you had my heart and I had yours. That was all I could possibly need." Peter says while crying even harder. "I miss you so much. We all do. And you'll always be in my heart, you know that."

Peter picked the kids from school, and it was like you never left. There were little pieces of you in Ben and Anna. For example, the way Anna always fought for what she believed was right, or your beautiful eyes in Ben and the way he had your smile. He was not alone, and he knew he could always be with you in his dreams.

#peter parker × reader #peter parker angst #peter parker × you #peter parker fluff #tom holland angst

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