READ THIS - Blog Posts

Im a sucker for angsty fwb Bakugo and messy feelings.

!! Major spoilers for the manga btw !!

The two of you almost never meet like that. It’s almost pushing it to ten times a year in a never ending circle of non commitment and broken promises, words that are only exchanged during intimacy that none of you can’t help but utter and trutfully tonight shouldn’t have been different.

But he agreed to let you stay at his place for the night—you think it’s because he doesn’t want to drive you home and you settle on the couch, in a corner, not even wanting to wrap yourself up in a blanket. He takes none of it, preaching about how he’s not going to let you crash on the couch, that you can sleep with him in his bed.

As you’re given a change of clothes to sleep in and a toothbrush, you avoid looking right into his face. 

You know better than anyone why he doesn’t want to commit to you, he doesn’t want you to really see him, he’d rather shut himself away from you. You’re not someone he considers an equal, you’ll never even be close to leveling up with him. You know he hates that about you. That you’re weak. That you gave up on being a hero after the war because of everything that happened.

“Bathe and we can sleep” he says and he gives you a towel and a pair of his boxers.

He already had his shower, he already smells like that orange blossom shower gel and bitter almond shampoo that he has, he already smells like clean laundry and you reek of sinful non committal, casual sex.

You enter the shower and the water running is so hot that it could scorch your skin. You like it that way, feeling the water pierce like fire needles through your skin, stripping away everything in its collision with flesh. 

You try not to burst into tears— he’d think it’s bad manners, lecture you for it and you’re not in the mood for any of it. It’s overwhelming  and self distracting to think of him that way— your therapist says that you should make an effort to understand him and you really do, you do understand why he acts like he does but it doesn’t leave you with anything to do about it. 

You just want to go home, in your clothes, in your bed. The feeling in your heart is unbearable.

But your therapist has repeatedly told you not to sweep the problem under the rug; just talk to him. Don’t just sit in the comfort of the scent of his shower gel and his clothes. Confront him. Tell him you love him and that you’ll stick by his side no matter what.

And it all sounds perfect in theory. Really, it does. Except for the part where you can’t even look at him.

When you look at him, even almost ten years later all you can see is his lifeless fucking body laying under Best Jeanists hands.

So Katsuki knows better than anyone why you can’t accept him, why you can’t commit to him and it drives him absolutely insane.

He is always clothed around you, during sex, during coffee dates to catch up; he puts in the most exquisite effort to avoid showing you his scars. 

And when he can’t just hide the one on his face, you respond by not even looking him in the eye. That, as a fact, pains him more than anything. 

Frankly, he doesn’t think he’s strong enough to bear it.

But tonight— tonight he’s gonna do it — he’s gonna tell you that he loves you. And then his own feelings will be your problem.

When he hears the shower stop running, he sits on the edge of his bed, one leg bouncing in anticipation; is tonight the right time? Should he do it? And if not now then when? Can he really just let you slip away, or will his confession make you force yourself to be with someone you can’t even look at.

Why are the two of you even involved at all if you think he is so repulsive?

The bedroom door creaks open before he has time to actually process a sequence of words to tell you— and you step out, your hair damp, clinging to your neck in heavy strands. His shirt swallows you whole, draping over your frame, and his boxers sit awkwardly on your hips, a poor attempt at comfort that neither of you will acknowledge. You still don’t look at him.

Of course, you fucking don’t.

Katsuki clenches his jaw. His leg keeps bouncing—until he forces it still, pressing his palm hard against his knee. He’s getting sick of this. Sick of watching you shrink into yourself, sick of the way you refuse to meet his gaze, sick of the ghosts that sit between you, molding the shape of your relationship into something that barely resembles one.

You tug at the seams of his T-shirt to hide the scars on your neck and the ones on your stomach and torso sit hidden, snuggly, underneath the cloth of it.

He knows what you’re doing because unlike you, he is looking at you.

“…Come here,” he mutters, voice gruff, barely above a whisper.

You hesitate. You fucking hesitate. But he wants to kiss you. He wants to sit you on his lap and kiss your lips, your neck, your chest. He wants to kiss your scars, no matter the fact that they’re spread all over your body.

This is the first and most major difference between the two of you and that’s what pisses him off the most. He accepts parts of you you don’t accept about yourself or him.

But eventually, you move, each step slow, reluctant, as if walking toward him is some great act of suffering. You sit on the bed—on the very edge of it, like you’re prepared to run, not on his lap like he wants.

You play out of the premeditated scenario he’s crafted in his head for this moment.

Katsuki feels something inside him snap.

His fingers twitch, nails digging into his palm, the words crawling up his throat like acid, burning to be let out.

You won’t even look at him.

And yet—you still come back to him, time and time again, you come back.

“Sit on my lap” he says, patting on his thighs with one hand, coaxing yours with his other. “Want you close so we can talk”

You don’t answer. You can’t answer, just follow his lead and hover your legs over his, as you crawl your way onto his lap.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” he asks, his voice quiet, sharp and cutting through the thick silence between you. 

“M not doing anything” you mutter in response.

“That’s the problem”

Yet, he cradles you, the problem, into his arms, big, strong biceps pressing you close to him, holding your head right into his chest. 

His heartbeat is loud— too loud for someone who once died, too real. Technically there’s nothing you should be scared of, he’s here with you, holding you and all you want to do is run away. Something inside you screams at you to run home, that this isn’t real. That he died and wasn’t saved, that you’re imagining all this.

But right underneath his shirt is his scar. And the ones on his forearm are visible now that he’s wearing a T-shirt.

“Should I go ahead and laser remove the scars?” Katsuki asks while the two of snuggle against each other.

“Huh? Why?”

“Cause ya don’t like looking at em, I’ve noticed. So would you look at me then?!”

Your stomach twists at the mention of the words, even if they’re so soft spoken and without thinking, your eyes dart down—just for a second—before flicking away again. Just the thought of it, the way the skin is raised and uneven, makes your throat tighten.

You swallow hard, fingers gripping the edge of his shirt. His fingers trace circles on the skin over the band of your -his- boxers.

“That’s not—” You take a slow breath, trying to steady yourself. “I just…”

“You just think im ugly and you’d rather leave, that’s what you want to say isn’t it?”

“I don’t handle… that kind of stuff well.” You don’t say the word. You don’t want to. Just thinking about it makes your skin crawl. “It makes me feel sick to my stomach. And thinking about how you got them—” Your voice catches, and you look down again “It’s too much.”

Silence.

Then, Katsuki scoffs, but it’s weak. “Figures.”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

“Real fuckin’ great, huh?” He curses “I wanna tell you that I fucking love you and you’re here telling me I make you sick— what the fuck is wrong with me?”

You break free from his bear-like hug, only to stare at him, wide-eyed, heart hammering. You hate seeing him like this—hunched slightly, fists clenched, looking at his reflection in your eyes like it’s something disgusting. Like he’s something disgusting.

He isn’t though, he’s strong, he’s beautiful, he’s anything and everything you can’t lose. Nobody ever tells him, you don’t either, you just act like he’s made of glass and then leave as if he can’t or won’t shutter.

He just told you he loves you.

You love him too. You’re in love with him. 

Does he even want to hear it after the shit you just spurt at him?

You grab at his face like it's instinct and press your nose to his, locking your eyes into his, breath hitched in the back of your throat. You avoid making any noise, scared that you’re going to ruin this by just existing. 

If it’s been so many years and he’s still alive, you shouldn’t patronise his feelings because of your own trauma.

He’s here. He’s alive and he loves you and the pad of your thumb brushes over the scar on his cheek.

Your stomach still churns at the thought of his injury, but you force yourself to step forward, reaching out carefully. “Katsuki.”

Silence. 

It’s just like he wanted. His love for you is your own problem now. He can only beat and scar himself further over the fact that he said ‘I love you’ like a curse. 

Your stomach twists for a completely different reason now. “Katsuki, I love you too.”

Your lips brush against his, softly. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even stop you. 

He wants to kiss you. Lips, skin, soul. Everything that is yours he wants to put his lips on.

And he does. 

His mind goes blank the moment your lips touch his. It’s like a surge of electricity floods his body, short-circuiting everything logical, everything that was screaming at him to hold back, to keep his mouth shut, to not want this more than he already does.

But he does want this. He always has.

Your lips move against his—hesitant at first, unsure, like you’re still trying to convince yourself this is okay. That he’s okay. And that hesitation guts him. It rips through his chest in ways that no explosion ever could, because it reminds him of the truth:

You love him. 

You’re not afraid to keep your eyes open and he isn’t afraid to keep his eyes open too.

The two of you probably look like lunatics, kissing with your eyes open, but it’s only because you can’t get enough, it’s never enough, even when you kiss just to have sex it’s not enough.

Katsuki wants to melt into you, he wants to disintegrate into one person with you. He feels like his heart will combust— no, he fears that his heart will combust and he’ll leave you scarred forever.

But he’s done that once already.

His fingers tighten their grip on your waist, not enough to hurt, but enough to ground himself. You’re warm. Real. Sitting right here, on his lap, wrapped up in his clothes, wrapped up in him. It’s a fucking miracle.

He kisses you deeper, almost desperately, parting his lips to taste more, feel more, take more. Your hands are still on his face, trembling slightly, but you don’t pull away. Not yet. And he clings to that like a dying man, pouring everything he can’t say into the way he mouths at you, the way his tongue flicks against yours, the way he tilts his head just right to fit against you perfectly.

His heart is pounding—too fast, too loud. He wonders if you can feel it, if you notice just how much he’s shaking. Because Katsuki does not tremble. Never. He does not doubt himself. He does not need.

Except with you.

With you, he’s terrified.

He’s scared you’ll push him away after this, that you’ll realize just how broken he really is, that loving him is more trouble than it’s worth. He’s scared you’ll come to your senses and run.

Because deep inside he’s convinced himself you’ve been keeping your distance because you think he’s ugly. Disgusting. A byproduct of a rotten hero society.

So he kisses you like he can keep you here. Right in his arms. Like he can erase all your doubts, all your hesitations, all your pain. He kisses you like an apology, a plea, a confession—because maybe it is all of those things. 

Maybe it’s all of these things.

And when you don’t stop him,when your hands slide into his hair, pulling him closer, keeping him right here in your arms, he swears he could cry like a newborn.

“I know it’s stupid,” you say, breaking the kiss, only for him to whine against your lips, “but I can’t stop feeling like if I look too long, if I think too hard about it, it’ll happen again. I— I get panic attacks for hours when I remember the way you laid there, lifeless. Katsuki I don’t ever want to see that again. Im scared.” 

You don’t have to pull away to continue, you need him as much as he needs you. And so you speak against his lips. “But that doesn’t mean I hate you. It doesn’t mean I don’t want to look at you. I'm scared that if I look at you for too long you’ll stop being real. I wanna be with you always, I want you to be here so bad. All the time.”

Katsuki is silent, staring at you like he doesn’t know what to say. His fingers twitch again before he finally, finally moves, cupping the back of your neck and tugging you against him, sealing your lips in another kiss.

You let out a shaky breath, squeezing your eyes shut as you press your face into him.

His grip is tight, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away from his lap. “I’m here,” he mutters into you, voice soft. You’re not to be fooled with that patchy ass voice he pulls for everyone else “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

“But I still hate this scar,” he continues, whispering “Hate what it reminds me of. But if it means I get to stand here with you, get to hold you” He swallows thickly. “Then I’ll keep it.”

Your heart lurches.

A shaky breath leaves your lips, and without thinking, you reach up, gripping his face between your hands again. His skin is warm, slightly rough, chapped by the sudden change of weather, but real.

You don’t look at the scar this time. You don’t have to. Instead, you look at him as a whole; his furrowed brows, his slightly downturned lips, his tired, burning eyes, his blond lashes that you used to make fun of in high school.

It all makes sense now.

His breath stutters. His hands slide down to your waist, gripping you tightly, and before you can say anything else, he crashes his lips onto yours again.

It’s desperate. A little too messy. Like he’s trying to pour every ounce of regret and relief and love into it all at once. You gasp softly against his mouth, your hands tightening around him, and he groans low in his throat, pulling you impossibly closer.

He kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. And you kiss him back just as fiercely, because you need to remind yourself that he is real. He’s not going anywhere but here.

Katsuki’s breath is heavy against your skin, his forehead still pressed to yours, his fingers still gripping you tight. But something shifts. It’s something sharp, electric, crackling in the space between you.

He’s teetering on the edge of restraint.

Your own breath shudders as he exhales, hot and uneven. You’re still pressed against his chest, against the scar that used to make your stomach twist, but right now, all you can feel is him.

And then, he moves.

In a blur of motion, Katsuki grabs your thighs and yanks you, throwing you and himself into the bed before you can even process it. You gasp, hands flying up to steady yourself against his shoulders, but he doesn’t give you a second to think.

His mouth crashes against yours, hot and desperate, nothing like before. The trembling kisses from earlier can’t even compare to this one. This one is feral.

Like he’s been waiting for this moment to break and go berserk.

A muffled sound escapes you as his hands roam, gripping, squeezing, pulling you closer like there’s still too much distance between you. His fingers dig into your thighs, sliding up under your shirt, palms rough and searing against your skin.

You barely have time to process before he’s tilting his head, deepening the kiss, his tongue swiping against yours in a way that makes your stomach twist and turn.

He groans, low and hungry, and the sound sends a sharp, molten heat straight through you. Katsuki has always been intense, but this—this is something else.

This is unrestrained.

This is him. Losing control. And you’re the cause.

His hands move again, gripping the hem of your shirt and tugging it upward, fingers brushing over your ribs. His lips break from yours just long enough to drag hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—teeth scraping, tongue soothing, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, breathless, gasping, barely able to keep up with the way he’s touching you like a starved man.

He doesn’t just kiss you any more. He’s devouring you whole.

His breathing is ragged, his pupils blown wide, his lips red and swollen. His hands are still on you, still gripping you tight, but he doesn’t move or push any further. He just looks at you, like he could burn you, melt you into goo with his gaze.

And then he pleads, “Say it again?”

Tell me you want me. Tell me you love me and it’ll all stop being an amalgamation of emotions.

The unspoken words hang between you and all you can do is lay there, on your side, and watch him watch you like you’re a rough diamond in the making.

You don’t deny him of anything. You speak the words as if your life depends on them.

“I'm in love with you”

He tightens his arms around you, pressing you so close that it’s almost suffocating but he can’t help it. He needs you like this, needs to feel the warmth of your body, the steady rise and fall of your chest, the proof that you’re being for real as it’s written on your palpitating heart. That this isn’t some cruel dream that’ll slip between his fingers the second he wakes up.

His lips ghost over yours again, desperate, frantic. His breath is ragged, shaky, and his hands roam—your back, your sides, the dip of your waist—like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you, burn the shape of you into his palms.

“Say it again,” he hears himself crack as he speaks, and he hates how wrecked his voice sounds, how utterly pathetic he must seem right now. But he doesn’t care. He needs to hear it.

You hesitate, and that hesitation guts him. But then your fingers tighten in his hair, your lips brush against his cheek, over the scar he thought you couldn’t bear to look at.

You do something he never, not in a million years, could even allow himself to imagine. You kiss his scar.

And right now he doesn’t even think he can see anymore.

“I love you.”

He lets out a shaky breath, forehead dropping to your shoulder. His heart is a fucking mess, erratic, wild. His grip on you tightens, like if he just holds on hard enough, he can keep you here forever.

Katsuki has never begged for anything in his life, but if you tried to leave now, he thinks he would. He knows he would. On his knees, sprawled all over the floor if he had to.

“Again” he exhales, sharply through his nose “I swear,” he breathes, voice rough and full of desperation “I’ll die if you don’t”

Your breath catches, and he feels it, the way you go still in his arms.

“Don’t say that,” you whisper, voice barely audible.

He presses his lips to your temple, your cheek, your jaw. It’s feverish, aching, his heart is going to give up, caught between his greediness and insecurity. “I don’t wanna live in a world where you don’t love me back, so just say it”

It’s pathetic. Weak. Not the kind of thing he would ever say out loud. 

“I love you I love you I love you”

The moment the words leave your lips, the second you tell him you love him again, something in him absolutely breaks. He grabs your face with both hands, fingers digging into your cheeks, thumbs tracing over the curves of your jaw like he’s holding something fragile. Something irreplaceable.

Then he ruins you.

His lips crash into yours again, rough, needy, swallowing every breath, every little sound you make. But it isn’t enough. It’s never going to be enough.

He kisses your lips, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, your jaw. He presses frantic, open-mouthed kisses down your face like he’s starving—like he’s been denied of you for too long and now he’ll die if he doesn’t get to taste all of you.

“Love you,” he mutters between kisses, like the words are spilling out of him against his will. His lips drag over your nose, down your chin, along the curve of your cheekbone. “Love you, fuck—love you so much—”

He’s shaking. He can feel it in his hands, in the way his breath stutters against your skin. His lips find your temple, pressing there like a prayer, like if he kisses hard enough, you’ll understand—really understand—just how much he needs you.

He can’t stop.

He kisses the embers of the scar on your neck, then your forehead, then both of your eyelids like he’s blessing you. Then again, your cheekbones, your jaw, the corner of your mouth again—over and over, like he’s worshiping every single inch of you.

His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding up your back, tangling in your hair, holding you onto him for dear life.

When he pulls back, his pupils are blown wide, his breath ragged. “Tell me you’re mine,” he rasps, voice thick with something desperate, something wrecked. “We’re together after this, right? No more fucking sex on the low and then I don’t get to see you for god knows how long”

"Say you're stayin’," he mutters, voice raw. His fingers slip under the hem of his own shirt you’re wearing, pressing against your bare waist. His lips move to your ear, voice nothing more than a plea. "Tell me you’re not leavin’ me, baby."

Your heart clenches at the way his voice wavers, the way he sounds like he's afraid—like the very idea of you leaving is enough to unravel him completely.

“I’m staying,” you breathe, and before you can even finish saying it, his lips crash into yours again, cutting off whatever air was left in your lungs.

His eyes rake over you, wild and dark and fiery red and shaky, lips swollen and shiny from kissing you too hard. His hands are shaking as they run down your sides, like he’s never touched you before. 

“You’re mine,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, as if he’s finally letting himself believe it. His hands slide under your shirt, palms pressing flat against your stomach, up your ribs, his thumbs grazing the underside of your breasts. He swallows hard. “Mine.”

His kiss is messy, desperate, like he’s trying to fuse himself to you. Like he wants to crawl inside your skin and live there. And maybe he does. Maybe that’s the only way he’ll ever feel close enough to you.

“Katsuki” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his lips, slow and sweet.

“Fuck,” he rasps against your skin, voice wrecked, breath hot. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”

Your head is spinning, body burning beneath his touch, every nerve alight. “Then take it,” you whisper, nails digging into his shoulders.

His breath stutters and he hisses.

A growl rumbles in his chest as he flips you, pressing you into the mattress before climbing over you, caging you in with his body. His hands are everywhere—gripping your thighs, sliding up your waist, pinning you in place like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

He dips down, biting at your collarbone, at the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, dragging his teeth over your pulse before sucking hard enough to leave a mark. A reminder. A claim. One he wasn’t allowed to make until seconds earlier.

You’re his to have.

You gasp, arching into him, and he groans at the way you react, at the way you’re coming undone beneath him.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters against your skin, lips trailing lower. “All mine.”

His words send a sharp, electric jolt through you, heat pooling low in your stomach.

Your hands roam his body in return, tracing the hard lines of his muscles, feeling the way he shudders beneath your touch. When your fingers ghost over the scar on his chest, he stiffens for just a moment—then exhales shakily, like he’s letting you in.

He wants you to touch it. To feel that he’s here. That he’s alive. This is a reminder too.

You press your palm flat against it, right over his heart, and his breath shudders. His gaze snaps up to yours, pupils blown, expression dark and desperate.

Katsuki is fire—hot and consuming, searing through every inch of you, making it impossible to think of anything but him. And he’s explosion too, nuclear and annihilating, swiping away every ember of fear you could feel at this moment.

And right now, you’re ready to burn and get blown into teeny tiny pieces.

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally

As much as I LOVE TRC, this series might be my favorite. And normally I hate spinoffs, but Sinner was probably my favorite of the set. Cole St. Clair is one of my favorite characters ever. He reminds me so much of the person I love. 

Anyway, if you love werewolves but hate cliches and want to escape the twilight apocalypse of ruined monster fiction...this is for you.

The Shiver series Maggie Stiefvater 9/10

This series is about werewolves, which sounds pretty lame, but these werewolves change from human to wolf depending on the temperature, in winter they’re wolves and in summer they’re human. This series was actually recommended to me by my girlfriend and I really really enjoyed it. There are some really cool plot lines and all of the genetics that you find out about to do with the wolves are really cool. I definitely recommend this series to anyone into fantasy.

I gave the series a 9/10 because it is one of the best fantasy series’ I’ve read. It was interesting and had new catches in probably every chapter.

Favourite quote: “You’re like a song I heard when I was a little kid, but forgot I knew until I heard it again.”

Desperate times call for desperate measures 

Summary:  You leave your small twins with Dazai and Chuuya and hope the two of them can manage their fatherly-duties while you take an hour of much needed ‘me time’. Scratch that, you just needed long enough to take a shower in order to feel human again before going back to being a mom.

Pairing: Dazai x Chuuya xfem! Reader 

Inspired by Sweetober prompt 8: Napping together

Warning: Cursing, hints at depression/ postpartum depression, New parents/exhausted parents.

Enjoy~

______________________________________________________________

You were going to kill Chuuya. 

No, you decided as you paced back and forth around the house, rocking the fussing twins in your arms. You were going to kill Mori for dragging your Chuuya out of his parental leave to deal with whatever shit Dazai had gotten himself into. You had thought the suicidal maniac of a lover would have gotten more efficient on missions- or at the very least more considerate. Nope. Still, somehow, if one part of twin dark was sent on a mission, he’d get in sufficient shit to need the second one's assistance. 

Responsible adults, your ass.

You sighed as the wailing continued with no amount of rocking, hushing, singing and pacing doing much to ease the tears. You were also silently cursing Chuuya for getting you pregnant with twins, why couldn’t it have been one to start with? Though you admitted as you looked down at the two crying balls of ginger, they were adorably cute; both took after their father in appearance,inheriting Chuuyas ginger hair and stunning blue eyes. With the only seeming resemblance to you being in their chins and petit nose. 

You definitely picked the short straw you mused bitterly as another loud cry made your ears ring. 

The ginger haired girl was crying and waving her doll around every now and then, getting it tangled in your hair or hitting you on the head with it with a surprising amount of strength. Her twin, an almost identical copy of her with slightly fluffier hair and larger eyes, was just gripping onto you and crying. He wasn’t wailing as loudly as his sister but the teardrops that rolled down his cheeks were larger, almost comical. 

There was no doubt in your mind that they were setting each other off. And all this mess because you got distracted and missed nap time. 

God you could feel yourself reaching your limit. What you’d give for just a little bit of time to yourself- a few hours was all you asked for. Something you hadn’t seen much of- if any after giving birth. As soon as the twins were born you got to spend a month in the hospital recovering before you and the babies were allowed home. Then it went downhill from there. First the wonderful nanny that you had picked out had to leave your services. The agency you hired her through was quick to send a replacement, but that woman got killed in an unfortunate plane crash. Getting another replacement was proving more challenging. Then almost directly after, despite being barely at home Dazai pulled from parental leave due to ‘emergencies’; first several back-to-back abroad missions where he’d only come home for a few days tops and then his last one for which he left over two months ago. You had Chuuya but even he had to go back into the office several times a week.In the best case.  If that wasn’t making your existence miserable, suddenly Dazai needed backup out of the blue, forcing Chuuya to leave without warning in the middle of the night. 

For the last two months you were completely alone. 

You had to do everything; from childcare to household chores, to different parenting classes and doctors visits with the two. In the evenings after putting them to bed you’d be sitting and going through reports and reviewing mission statements to keep your lovers workload manageable and the department not at a standstill. It became your job to ensure subordinates were still sent out on missions and nothing critical, that couldn’t wait until their return, got missed. Then you’d get a little cleaning and food prep done,  shower if you managed to do that before the babies woke up for their nightly feedings. When you’d crawl into bed you’d shut your eyes for twenty minutes at a time, plagued by nightmares of your partners drying and being a failure as a mother. When you’d finally calm your demons, the twins would get hungry again so you’d be up to warm the bottle for them before changing them and rocking them back to sleep. Sometimes you’d fall asleep right on the soft carpeted floor with both of them cuddling to your chest, sleeping a few hours longer than in their own beds. 

Those mornings were your salvation. 

You let out a loud groan, looking up at the ceiling as you felt tears sting your eyes. You didn’t know if children were meant to scream and cry so much. You didn’t know if you were doing this right or wrong. You didn’t know what you were supposed to do. You just wanted them to be healthy and happy- why couldn’t you do that? You brought them closer to your chest and pressed a kiss to each of their foreheads. “ Mama’s trying her hardest” you muttered as you continued to rock them “Mama would really really need a helping hand though.” 

-

It seemed gods took pity on you just this once. 

You nearly broke down crying or screamed out in joy when you heard the car pulling up to your driveway. Then silence before a key pushed into the lock followed by the door swinging opened. 

“ Sweetheart we’re back!” Chuuya yelled as he kicked off his shoes. You heard Dazai’s voice muttering something to him, the bickering overshadowed by the twins' cries. You made quick way towards the hallway. The moment Chuuya and Dazai came into sight, new screams filled the house; excited cries of “ Dada” and “ papa” which bounced off the walls, a bitter reminder that you children were never this excited to see you. 

You could see Chuuya chuckling, a bright expression on his face full of love and happiness. He didn’t seem the slightest bit bothered by the yelling- if anything it seemed to fill him with contagious happy energy and an eagerness to get his damned coat off so he could come to the children. Dazai, dressed in completely white attire, which resembled something between a prison uniform and the dresscode of asylum patients seemed less happy about the screaming. But even he had a smile playing on his lips as he hurried towards you at the same time as Chuuya, who had given up on hanging his coat and just threw it on the ground. The two were practically tripping over each other, with each ‘papa’ and ‘dad’ cry getting more and more eager to get to you, limbs frailing; hands, arms and snappy remarks at each others inability to get out of the others way. 

Finally they seemed to remember how to walk and the bottleneck in your hallway was replaced by two adult men rushing towards you. 

“ How are my loves?” Chuuya cheered looking far too happy as he hurried pressed a kiss to your children's heads. First the boy then the girl. Dazai did the same in the opposite order, both ignoring you and your puckered lips. 

For a second a pang of jealousy hit your heart. You hadn’t seen your partners in over two months and before greeting you, their attention was on the children. Picture perfect fathers. Shitty lovers. And the second the thought entered your head you felt your heart drop to your stomach with guilt. In what sane world was a mother jealous of the attention her babies were getting? You should be happy and proud that both of your partners- not only the biological father- cared so deeply for the balls of joy you created. Though, you added almost bitterly, right now these two brought you anything but joy. 

“ Here” you stated in a slightly bitter tone as you pawned over one kid per partner “ Do everyone a favour and act like fathers for longer than 30 seconds.  I need some ‘me- time’ before I murder someone” 

Chuuya and Dazai shared a look of bewilderment between each other as you stepped away from them. They had expected kisses, hugs and a warm dinner but got a kid each and a blank stare in return. Dazai stared at your retreating form with agap mouth for a moment before he stretched the little girl towards Chuuya; “ Here Chuuya be a good dad, me and Y/N have some catching up to do.” 

You pretended to ignore what he said, the same way he ignored your comment about ‘me time’. Though you wondered if you should at the very least make them dinner before taking out that ‘me time’ moment. 

“ Heeh stop being so bitter and just hold her, Mackerel.” Chuuya snapped trying to get the boy to settle in his arms “if your swimmers could actually swim they’d be your kids” 

“ Don’t be such a slug about it” Dazai declared as he turned his attention away from Chuuya as the boy began sobbing again making Chuuya curse before attempting to pacify him. Zero attention to either Dazai or the girl in his arms. 

In the process the girl-child who had just settled down, amusing herself by pulling on strands of Dazai’s grown out hair, turned her attention away from him and towards her crying brother. Seeing him cry, her eyes began to water.

 In seconds Dazai’s attention was back to you; “ Ohh Belladonna you’d not be so cruel as to demand your newly returned partner whom you haven’t seen for months to be a father without sleep or proper meal “ Despite his dramatic words he shifted the girl to his other arm so her back was to her brother and began rocking her more quickly. His second hand was trying to keep her attention on the doll she had abandoned in favour of his hair. The very doll she had been hitting you with not even ten minutes earlier.  Scratch your earlier thoughts. They were adults and older than you- they knew how to order in or warm up leftovers! 

You sighed heavily before you went towards the kitchen and the fridge. “ Then you boys are in agreement that we stop at two right?” You questioned  when you returned with a cold rattle for the boy. He was quick to grasp it in his hands before beginning to chew on it. The relief it brought was sufficient to stop the tears. 

For now. 

When you got no reply, you motioned between the two of them and then to the children in their arms. If you weren’t so tired you’d have laughed at the look of horror drawing of Dazai’s face as he realized you were serious, and then the very hurt expression at the mere idea of not having any children of his own with you. That look melted a piece of ice around your heart.  “ Or can you manage to look after them for an hour while I take a shower in peace?” 

Your lovers nodded eagerly, both giving you a salute before shuffling off towards the baby proofed living room with toys, a playpen and floor covered in soft playmats. Your eyes lingered long enough until they were out of sight before you headed upstairs to your bedroom. Once there you dragged yourself towards the chair by your make up table which had a thin layer of dust over your make up palettes. Serving as a bitter reminder of just how ‘much’ time you dedicated towards yourself in the past months. The thought plastered a bitter smirk on your face; no wonder you didn’t get as much as a kiss-hello from either Dazai or Chuuya. 

You dropped in the chair with a heavy sigh and buried your head in your hands. You didn’t understand what was wrong with you. You didn’t understand where you were making mistakes; how could other mafia women manage to do so much more? More time with children, more work, more chores- many would even visit headquarters to spend lunch with their husbands. 

Husbands- the word brought a bitter taste to your mouth. How long have you three been together already? How many milestones have you celebrated? Missions, promotions, twins. Plans for extending the family with at least one more kid- Dazai’s. And still your ring finger remained bare. In fact after the icy greeting today you doubted your relationship would ever move anywhere positive from this standstill. 

You heard steps outside your bedroom, irritated and heavy before the door to your bedroom swung open with Dazai’s usual dramatic appearance “ Ahh my sweet Belladonna my heart-”

You didn’t need to turn around to know the look he was wearing.” One hour” you stated “ Or no more kids. Your choice” 

The door closed as quickly as it had opened. 

The peaceful silence didn’t last for long. Though you didn’t know how long you were sitting in your thoughts, salvaging a moment of being alone, you knew it couldn’t have been longer than five minutes before you were interrupted again. This time the footsteps outside your door were calmer and more confident. Their owner opened the door very gently. You closed your eyes biting back the frustration as you heard Chuuya’s half hesitant whisper “Sweetheart..” 

“ What is it, Chuuya?” You still didn’t have it in you to face him. 

“ If you want to soak in the bath, it's ready any minute now” You nodded, feeling a wave of guilt wash over you. Maybe you shouldn’t have been so cold to him. Especially when he went out of his way to do something nice for you. “ Also, do you know where the nursing bottles are?” 

There it was. 

“ There are some prepared bottles in the fridge; just place them in boiling water for a few seconds until they’re body temperature. Not too hot.” You rubbed your temple as you spoke, fighting off the want to cry and scream much like the children downstairs. These were things he as their father was supposed to know. Or at least be able to figure it out on his own. He could lead an entire faction on his own, why couldn’t he handle a baby or two? 

After your reply you heard Chuuya linger in the doorway for a few moments. You pictured him opening and closing his mouth, hesitating as he thought over what to do. A hopefully side of you hoped he’d come in and wrap his arms around you and just hold. Just fucking hold you for a moment without the children being present. Then another cry from downstairs and he was gone; the door shutting quietly behind himself. 

You waited for a moment, gathering your strengths before leaving the safety of your room, rushing quietly through the small hallway, trying not to waver at the sound of the children's cries. Once in the bathroom you closed and locked the door before leaning your back against it. Why did no one tell you that when you’d become a mother you’d become so alone while constantly surrounded by others? 

Shaking your head you stripped before climbing into the baths. You let out a low moan as the feeling of bath salts soothed your skin. Then salvaged the moment of humanity as you dipped your head underwater with the realization you didn’t need to watch anyone while you washed. Then you reached for the shaving blade and shaving cream, getting rid of the hair on your body that annoyed you more than you’d ever wish to admit. 

When you got out of the bathtub and showered off, you felt human. Like a sliver of being a woman was returned to you. Dressing in clean clothes only reinforce that.  Now then you were feeling more ready to tackle the rest of this cursed day.

Coming out of the bathroom you noticed how quiet it was. The silence filled you with dread; anyone with children knew that the only time they were quiet was either when something was wrong or they were up to something, while anyone acquainted with Dazai and Chuuya were very aware that the two together were constantly either bickering or yapping.

Silence like this filled you with dread. 

Throwing your dirty laundry carelessly to the side you rushed downstairs, heart in your throat. When you made it down the stairs you stopped, shocked as the sound of snores reached your ears. More carefully you made your way towards the livingroom being cautious to remain light on your feet. 

Once there you leaned against the wall, your eyes falling on the heartwarming sight before you. All four of them were on the soft playmat. Chuuya was lying stretched out on his back on his coat, an arm dropped over his eyes and loud snores resonating around the room. On his chest lay your daughter with his hat covering her head from the light. His hand was on her body keeping her close to himself. Dazai was lying curled up into a ball on his side, beside Chuuya. His messy head on his thigh. Your son laying in his arms, held close to himself through a make-ship baby-carry out of his bandages. Although he wasn’t snoring you could tell he was fast asleep by the rise and fall of his shoulders. 

Going over to the couch you picked up the warm covers before gently placing it over them. You saw Dazai stir, a sleepy eye opening just long enough to register that you weren’t a threat then he shifted slightly, creating a space between him and Chuuya for you. “ Don’t be a stranger Belladonna” he whispered as he beckoned you to lay down between them. 

Once you did, he wrapped one arm around you, the second one still holding your son in place, before he buried his face in your hair. He took a deep breath in and out, his hand finding yours and squeezing it once before interlocking your fingers together. “ I’ve missed you” he muttered, his eyes sliding shut in tiredness “ Lets rest now and when we wake up I wanna give you a proper greeting Bella” 

Before you could answer he was fast asleep. Which was probably good because it saved you the embarrassment of explaining why his one sentence brought you to tears.  

______________________________________________________________

Author note: Craving part 2?

Check out We need to talk for the sweeter version, and Happy Unhappy home! For more angst.

This right here is my love

my brain finds this incredibly just njrenvajinbvijebvaiefbvbijfvbjifvvf

This is yes

The Book Thief | Dream of the Endless/Morpheus x Reader

Summary: After the repercussions of Desire's machinations, Morpheus has yet to face another disturbance in his realm— a thief, stealing books from his library. So what will happen when the King of Dreams catches the book thief? Will he banish them from his realm or will they form an unlikely bond because of books?

Word count: 1.7k+

Morpheus noticed that Lucienne is deeply distressed these days, but still won’t tell him the root of her problems so, he decided to take matters into his own hands and inspect the royal library. As he starts to examine the shelves, he suddenly noticed that there are several missing books in the classics, romance, and fantasy sections – which of course, bothered him because the shelves are always complete and in order. He continued wandering in the royal library and to his surprise, he also saw Lucienne checking the shelves with a list in her hands.

“What are you doing Lucienne?” he inquired. And he observed that his librarian cringed when he asked her.

“M-my lord,” Lucienne replied, hiding the paper behind her back. He stared at her, waiting for her to tell him what is going on with the royal library. There’s something wrong, and he knows it, but Lucienne won’t tell him anything.

“I know that you are busy with other matters my lord…” Lucienne trailed. “But there has been a little disturbance in the library,” she told him, finally giving in.

“And what would that be?” Morpheus asked her, clearly disturbed. It has just been a week since the fiasco in his realm, thanks to Desire, so hearing that there has been a disturbance happening again distressed him.

“The books, sir. Some of them are missing,” Lucienne explained. “I do not know when it started, but as I checked the library’s catalogue, I noticed that some of them are gone,” she continued.

“I tried looking for them, thinking that they’re just probably misplaced. But they’re not and I noticed that there are just more books missing in the various sections of our library,” Lucienne sadly told him.

Morpheus was perplexed by the situation. Who would even dare to steal from the royal library? More so, from his palace and realm?

“Do you have any idea why the books are missing?” Morpheus inquired. After being imprisoned for a hundred years and then going back again to his realm, Morpheus started to value and listen to Lucienne’s input and advice. And even though not always, at least he’s trying to.

“No, sir. But I believe someone is entering the realm without us noticing it,” Lucienne told him.

Morpheus hummed in agreement and started to ponder where should he start looking for the suspicious occurrence that is happening in his realm.

“I shall check on it, Lucienne. In the meantime would you mind taking care of things while I work?”

“With pleasure, sir,” she replied, smiling softly at him.

­—

It has been a week since the incident happened, but Morpheus still cannot figure out who or what could even be the reason why the books are going missing. As he flips through the records of the dreamers to see if there had been a clue or an appearance of the missing books, he suddenly saw a figure going toward the royal library. This alerted him since he was sure that it was not Lucienne, and especially not something he created. He silently followed the figure and noticed that it was going towards the romance section of the library. He followed them discreetly, and then abruptly stopped when he saw them halt in front of the shelf and start putting back the books which were missing.

"So, this is the thief who has been stealing books in my library," he spoke coldly.

“What in the actual fuck—” you replied, clearly shocked, causing you to drop some of the books you were holding in your chest because of your surprise. You whipped your head aggressively to look for the source of the voice, and to your surprise, you see a man before you.

“Who are you?” you mumbled in a puzzled manner. You have never met this man ever since you started visiting the library and tonight is the first time you saw him. He was kind of tall, somewhat looking like a human but not entirely because of his mysteriously magical and strange countenance. He is pale, cold, and clothed in all black, and he is staring at you intensely. 

“I am the King of Dreams and Ruler of the Nightmare Realm, and this is my domain,” he drawled. Even his voice sounds so cold and strange— very fitting to the place you have been visiting for months now.

“Uhm, greetings?” you awkwardly replied. 

“Who are you?” This man certainly has an intense, piercing stare and it is starting to creep you out.

“I’m Y/N, uhm, of the Earth,” you replied. The man in black started going towards you in an agonizingly slow motion, his gaze unfaltering. You gripped the books in your hands so tight and started looking down because you could not meet his stare. He suddenly stopped just in front of you, his hands behind his back. He was so near you that his chest is almost touching your body.

“You are not a dream, nor you are a nightmare,” he concluded. “You’re a mortal and yet you have the guts to steal from my library,” he continued.

Steal? From his library? His accusations are way too absurd, so you decided to meet his gaze bravely. First of all, you just borrowed them and you're returning them right now. Second, there has been no owner in this library since you visited it. And third, he is being so annoying. 

"Your library?" you replied questioningly. "And me stealing? I suggest you stop accusing me of something I did not do since I am returning the books right now," you scoffed at him as you waved the book in your other hand to his face. 

“You dare... You dare to question my authority in my own realm?” he replied icily. That sentence alone sent shivers to your spine, so you decided to step back to get away from him. He seems to sense what you were doing so he just moved forward to close the distance. You tried walking backward to create more space, but suddenly you felt a wall, that seemed to magically appear, behind your back. There is no space for you to run now since the two of you were sandwiched between bookshelves and there’s a damned wall behind you. 

The man in black is now towering over you, hands still behind his back, and his cold stare regarding you from beneath a wild mess of dark hair. He told you earlier ago that he was the King of Dreams. You have read about his existence in novels and fiction, but you never believed that he existed. But with this encounter, you are starting to believe that he is real, and he has definitely a talent for intimidating people.

“Wait, wait…” you scrambled to your feet, gripping the books in your arms even tighter. “I am not questioning anything,” you clarified.

His head slants slightly, still staring at you coldly. Right, he is a king. “Uh, my lord,” you lamely added.

“I am just merely borrowing the books and I have no intention of keeping them myself. As you can see, I am returning them back to the library,” you carefully explained.

“How did you enter my palace?” he replied.

“I do not know, really. Uhm, I just slept and then I dreamt about this place and that’s it,” you immediately answered. “And then I saw your library, by the way, it was wonderful. How did you even collect all those books? Oh, and the rare hardcovers! They are so beautiful! I cannot believe you even have some of the unpublished books of my favorite authors how did you do that?” you rambled at him.

His impassive bearing didn’t even flinch or soften. And his eyes— so cold, ancient, and sad, you concluded distantly as you tried to stare back at him, are still staring at you intently as if he can see right through your soul. 

“I am sorry for rambling. But, believe me, I just slept, dreamt, and entered here. I do not have bad intentions or plans on stealing anything from you I just want to read the books,” you mumbled awkwardly. “And I am sorry for borrowing them without your permission,” you softly added.

“Do not lie to me, book thief,” he replied steadily. “You have been stealing books and entering my palace without me even noticing it. Leave now or I will have you removed,” he continued. He did not even raise his voice or show any expression. He is terrifyingly serene— like a calm ocean whose waves will definitely drown you if angered. 

“Borrowing,” you corrected him. “I was just borrowing the books and I am not lying!” you exclaimed at him.

“Do you take me for a fool? Return the books now and leave. Do not make me banish you,” he told you, still expressionless, serene, and terrifying. 

“I swear I just want to read the books,” you retort weakly as he starts to walk away from you. 

“Can I have a question before I go?” you hopefully asked. He paused mid-turn, not speaking. He did not answer you, but you took this opportunity to ask him a question. If he wants you to leave, then you will gladly comply. But he must answer the question that has been boggling your mind first before he kicks you out of his palace. 

“Do you hate me?” you asked him, hopeful of an answer. “If you are truly the Lord of Dreams, then why… why did you plagued me with nightmares?” you continued, your voice almost breaking as you tried your best not to cry.  

His stoic countenance flinched for a brief second, his pale stare snapping at you as he looked back. 

“This dream is over,” he told you, instead of answering your question. In a brief second, you are sent back to the waking world, your chest heaving as you gasp for air. You tried to sit upright in your bed to calm yourself and breathe properly. Your gaze went in the direction of your phone that is ringing loudly and you begrudgingly turned the alarm off.

“Book thief?” you scoffed, as you get out of your bed and recount the events that happened last night. “Then I shall call you an asshole,” you told to yourself. After that encounter, you are convinced that the King of Dreams and Ruler of Nightmare Realm definitely hates you and that you hated him too.

A/N: Here's another Morpheus fic that no one asked for! Part 2 is coming soon. Also, requests are open so you could send some of your requests and I will try my best to write them. For now, enjoy this fic, hope you like it! ♥

Sobbing this is the good Cush guys please read it!!!!! I swear to the gods above it’s amazing !!!

Sucked In Chapter Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Summary: You wake up in the world of Stranger Things before the events of Season 4. Are you able to help in the fight against Vecna, and save the man of your dreams?

My main Masterlist was getting a bit crowded so I wanted to create a few seperate ones for the big series!

Last Updated = 09/09/22 (9th September for those in USA) 

Series size = 32.5k words

Eddie Munson x fem!reader

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14 - next chapter link does not work for this one but Chapter 15 is up!

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Next chapter coming soon…

Currently 29 chapters planned.

Bonus: Music

Series Taglist:

@preciousbabypeter @snapped-chopstick @cutiecusp @sl-tfor-joseph-quinn @gobringmemyfood @munchabunch @empty-and-nameless @el1997 @gooblerstan @bigbundabucket @theprettyandthereckless @earthtokace @ifellinlovewithawarsblog @secretsicanthideanymore @blueberryhitosh1 @maryan028 @bakugouswh0r3 @loliakeoghan23 @gamorxa @stardustworlds @bakugouswh0r3 @taeddybearkim @azaleaitsgreen @eddiemunsonslips @awhoreforeddiemunson @strangerthingsstories5255 @queenotaku23 @sweetberry47 @sammararaven @anothermunsonsimp @megumimind @zephyrs-world

This fic right here is my everything I am in love!!!!

Pushing it (Eddie Munson x Cheerleader! Reader) completed series

Eddie is surprised when popular cheerleader Y/N comes up to him with a favour to ask; pretend to be her boyfriend. But will all go to plan when Eddie meets Y/N’s parents?

Part 1

Part 2

Chapters: 2/? Fandom: La Divina Commedia | The Divine Comedy - Dante Alighieri Rating: Not Rated Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Durante degli Alighieri | Dante Alighieri/Publius Vergilius Maro | Virgil Characters: Durante degli Alighieri | Dante Alighieri, Publius Vergilius Maro | Virgil, Gemma Donati, Giovanni Boccaccio, Giotto Additional Tags: Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Slow Burn, -Ish, Denial of Feelings, Dante is a mess, Virgil just wants to live in the countryside, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, Title from a Joy Division song, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Those tags are necesary with this guys I don’t make the rules Summary:

𝘋𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘩

Modern AU! in which Dante overworks himself in a publish company until he gets an special work assignment that allows him to work with his favourite author. While admiration turns into something he cannot describe, Dante starts to realise how he had given up on everything he had ever longed for.

(I promise this is more serious than this sumary, I’m terrible at them)

- - -

I haven’t posted anything in this account for so long my mutuals from years ago are going to be so confused. But obsessing over the divine comedy wasn’t originally on my 2024 summer bingo card, and this came out of nowhere.

Just wanted to say that I’m writing a Dante x Virgil modernAU! fic with lots of feels and homosexuality, so check it out if it sounds like your cup of tea!!

And I want to honour the divine comedy fandom I’m been secretly observing this last months, I love you guys, you seem to cool, can I join.

HQ characters + not actually unrequited love

Excerpts of requited romantic feelings between you and the person you’re in love with.

(Part one here.)

Pairing: fem!Reader x timeskip!character

Characters: Atsumu Miya, Hajime Iwaizumi, Issei Matsukawa, Kiyoomi Sakusa, Rintarō Suna, Tōru Oikawa

Content tags: timeskip manga spoilers, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, romantic fluff, kissing

Word count: mostly between 700-800 words for each pairing, one with around 1000

Keep reading

You are back

No pronouns, no y/n, no dialogue (only monologues), reader is a baker, reader is sometimes an asshole, reader is an outside observer, platonic love/hate, hints of mental illnesses, hints of FiddleMay (I guess), nightmares.

_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_

You're back. Back after almost thirty years to a once beloved town that has become completely unfamiliar. No one knows you. No one needs you. No one remembers you.

But you remember everything. And you remember the one who once ruined your life. And you want to end it.

Part 1

Someone once said that fate is a funny thing. You could say for sure that this person was completely biased in his assessment of Fatum's mental state. Fate is a sick, completely crazy thing. Otherwise, how can you explain that you were now riding in a completely empty bus, except for the driver, along a deserted road among the pine trees, to a town whose name you had not heard, not seen, not remembered for almost thirty years?

Of course, someone will say that you are already an adult, you made the decision to come back here yourself, and you yourself must accept the consequences. However, you didn't want to. You couldn’t admit that you WANTED to come back. Every time the voice in your head began to whisper this to you, you felt disgust. You rejected it. It couldn't be true. Your intestines twisted, tied themselves into a metaphorical knot, and your heart crawled into your throat, preventing you from breathing normally.

It wasn't your decision. No.

The bus pulled up to a stop in the middle of nowhere, and you tried to put on your favorite jacket. The nervous trembling was clearly bothering you, your hands just wouldn't fit into the sleeves, after a few minutes of pointless struggle that only made you angry, you gave up and simply tied the jacket around your waist. You ran your palm over your cold, sweaty face.

Disgusting.

When you finally tumbled out of the bus, the pungent resinous smell took hold of you. The smell of pine needles made your head spin, and for a moment you forgot where you were. The deep sounds of the forest, the quiet creaking of the trees, the rustle of needles rubbing against each other and the rustle of the wind lost high in the treetops lulled and calmed you. As if they were trying to tell you that everything would be fine.

The idyll was broken by a bus driving away with a loud exhaust, and the mood immediately fell to the same place from which nature had so diligently pulled it out. You sullenly watched as the "Speedy Beaver" ran away from you. Too many emotions and thoughts in your head, and unfortunately, you could only express them all with swear words, so you decided to remain silent.

The road to the town ran through the forest. The smell of resin, pine needles, damp earth, moss, grass and mushrooms enveloped you again, and the swarm of thoughts in your head stopped buzzing. Your heart reluctantly slid from your throat to its place, continuing to nervously knock against your ribs, but not as hard as before. You watched your breathing: deep inhale, long exhale, deep inhale, long exhale...

Everything will be fine, really... You have not been in the city for almost thirty years. You ran away from here as a teenager, and now you are a fully formed adult. You have changed. Gravity Falls has changed. No one will recognize you...

Because no one remembers you.

You stopped and pinched your cheek. The pain dulled the small feeling of fear that had rushed through your body. How many years have passed, it's time for you to stop thinking about it! Your heart decided to remind you of itself again with a nervous beat. Okay, that's it, that's it, calm down, breathe...

You glanced around, trying to distract yourself. A stump, a pine tree, a mossy hummock, a pine tree, a root, a pine tree, a sign with a question mark, a pine tree... Stop. You frowned, staring at the sign nailed askew to the tree right under the glowing mushrooms. Just a question mark. Strange. You didn't remember that.

Although, so many years have passed... a lot could have changed. You have changed, haven't you? The town has probably changed too. And the forest. It happens.

You noticed a lazy pink fairy dozing on a glowing mushroom cap, right above the question mark. Against your will, your lips curved into a smile, and your heart skipped a happy beat for the first time all day.

A lot has changed, yes. But apparently not everything.

***

As a child, you can always find something to do. It is known that many children are fond of, for example, catching butterflies, beetles, frogs... You caught beard cubs, plaidypus, gnomes, who periodically ran into your house, trying to steal your mother's homemade sweets. You were a curious and active child, you gathered a company of the same kids around you.

You had an unspoken agreement with the gnomes. They did not bother your company in the forest, and you did not always chase them with a broom when you saw that they were stealing sweets. Of course, if the gnomes caught the eye of your beloved mother, they could not escape punishment.

Now you think that all this was stupidly strange. Now you understand your mother very well, whom in childhood you considered too timid and even stupid. Stupid adults, huh? What a stupid child you were...

You tried to prove to your mother that all these funny creatures from the forest are absolutely normal, safe and real. You tried to catch the plaidypus - it seemed especially cute and harmless to you, and it also came to you very easily, smelling bread. However, the little animal was nimble and really didn't want you to touch it. With the help of your friends, you managed to catch it, and brought the plaidypus wrapped in a blanket to your mother. She looked shocked, and then forced you to let it go, and even scolded you for allegedly painting it.

You were offended then.

Another funny, as it seemed then, incident happened when you returned from the forest with a beard. You thought that your mother would be surprised and laugh, but for some reason she was upset.

Again, now you understood her completely.

Everything seemed strange to you then. In Gravity Falls, people often encountered what books called "magical" or "anomalous". Why then did many adults like to deny it so much? After all, such encounters were always amazing and fun! Every little encounter was a little adventure!

Why were adults so much more interested in an ordinary person who came to town? He was just a person. There were many like him.

However, you soon became interested in him yourself. Firstly, he settled in the forest, which was strange and mysterious. You and your friends often ran up to his shack, looked into the windows and looked at the strange antennas with interest. This man was clearly up to something, you really wanted to know what.

Secondly, and this was most important, - one day you saw him carrying... a gnome! He was not afraid of the gnome, did not ignore him, did not drive him away, he smiled at him! Then you thought, maybe this adult would be happy if you brought him something interesting?

So you decided to bring him a fairy. Fairies appeared in the city from time to time, but it was difficult to catch them – small, fast, flying. Just like mosquitoes, only they glitter and don’t squeak. And fairies were fragile – you saw them being accidentally killed with fly swatters several times. Catching a live fairy was difficult, and you took this little mission of yours very seriously. The hunt took several weeks, several times you caught fireflies, butterflies, flowers… You spent the rest of the summer like that, and finally you had a fairy sitting in a jar! Small, lilac, feisty – she was beating her fists on the glass and screaming something. You admired the beautiful tiny creature and proudly carried the jar to the mysterious adult in the forest. You felt so happy, so light, and at the same time something tickled your soul – you had a premonition of a future shared secret with someone who was also interested in all these amazing creatures.

Remembering it now, you wince. You were a very naive child. It’s good that you changed your mind then…

Almost at the shack, you noticed that the fairy had calmed down. You looked at her: she was sitting miserably at the bottom of the jar, hugging her knees with her tiny hands, her wings had grown dull and hung limply. She was crying and seemed so fragile, so lost… You looked at the shack, and then back at the fairy. And you opened the jar.

Then school started, you didn’t have time to catch other forest creatures. Maybe it’s for the best that the meeting with that mysterious weirdo didn’t take place? Who knows.

But you couldn’t leave that fairy in the jar.

***

The old house, surprisingly, turned out to be in good condition, only a thick layer of dust reminded that it had been abandoned for a long time. The silence here seemed sad to the point of pain in the chest. Once this house was your world, your quiet and safe place, it smelled of comfort and warmth, delicious home-cooked food and mom. That very familiar smell that gives you peace.

Now the house smelled of cold, dust, dirt, peeling plaster, old paper and even mold. There was no comfort, and this place had stopped seeming safe long ago.

You threw your things downstairs, not caring much about them. Walking through the silent house, you every now and then caught fragments of memories, carefully scattered by time. Mom loved to cook in the kitchen, and you loved to help her (although more to interfere). It was on this windowsill that you first saw a gnome. In this living room you loved to spend time with friends when the weather was too nasty. Here is the couch you loved to jump on, even though your mother didn't allow it. Here are the stairs, creaky, just like in the past. As a child, you often slid along these railings... The second floor hasn't changed either. You can still see the faded drawing on the door to your mother's room. And here...

You froze, fear crawling up your back, clinging to it with icy claws. Your heart froze in fear, afraid to move, and then began to pound furiously against your ribs. You clenched your teeth and tried to bring yourself back to normal.

Well, so what if the door to your room is ajar. Why does that scare you? No, no, it doesn't scare you, it just makes you nervous. You never know. The house is old, maybe something happened to the doorway...

You somehow lifted your feet off the floor, headed towards your former room and pushed the door sharply and... laughed nervously. You hadn't noticed how tense you had been all this time, but now your body had relaxed, it seemed like you were about to slide down to the floor because your legs wouldn't hold you up.

There was nothing scary in the room. Just unpleasant old memories and dust hanging in the air like a thick wall. There was the bed - it used to stand right by the window, but then you quickly pushed it into the corner. True, you hadn't slept on it for the last couple of years in Gravity Falls anyway. There was the closet - for a while you hid there from your nightmares, but you quickly realized that it was an unreliable place. The table, the chair with the crooked leg, the small nightstand, everything was still in its place. It seemed that after you ran away, your mother hadn't come here. Well, that's good.

Having decided that you could wander in your memories for an eternity, you gave up on it and spent the rest of the evening trying to tidy up the first floor. In the end, you even thought that maybe you could stop there, but your stubbornness kicked in. No, you would clean the entire house and rid it of the taint of memories!

You stumbled out into the street late at night, cursing the dust, cobwebs, and spiders. You felt exhausted, but you had no energy left for long, sad thoughts. All you wanted was to eat. And you clearly remembered one place where you could always get delicious food. On your way to Greasy's Diner, you glanced at the city. You tried to avoid people's eyes, not because it was unpleasant, but because now was not the time, you were tired... there were many excuses.

Gravity Falls... had hardly changed. And you weren't sure how to take it. On the one hand, returning you partly hoped that everything would be like in childhood, on the other hand, now you felt as if you had ended up in the past. As if you were stuck, never having escaped from here. The feeling was strange, and you could not describe it. Sadness? Longing? Disappointment? Everything was so familiar, and your mind understood that in principle, there were few changes, but the soul... the soul still contracted unpleasantly.

Familiar streets with unfamiliar flyers and graffiti. Familiar people with unfamiliar faces. Somehow it feels uneasy. Like you don't fit in. Like you don't belong here.

The latter was confirmed by the surprised looks of those you were lucky enough to run into. How glad you were to get to Greasy's Diner!

Susan Wentworth was still working here as a waitress. It was easy to recognize her, and you even felt a pleasant, homely feeling in your chest. As if at least something in this life was predictable and stable. Although even here there were changes - why is one of her eyes closed? Your memory may not be perfect, but she didn't look like that before... Oh, never mind. But the atmosphere in the diner was still pleasant, and Susan herself - you heard another customer call her Lazy Susan - was still as sweet and good-natured as ever. She even "winked" at you, as far as you could tell. Even if you were just a stranger to her.

The food reminded you of your childhood - nothing had changed, just as delicious. You tried to pretend to be part of the seat and ate calmly, hoping not to attract attention. Nasty thoughts began to break through the veil of fatigue again. It seemed that despite your unwillingness to analyze anything, your brain refused to idle.

In Gravity Falls, people have always been quite friendly and a little strange. The latter is understandable, after all, such creatures live here in the forest... Returning, you were afraid that the town would completely plunge into the darkness of madness. But this didn't happen. People looked like people, and not like crazy dolls. This calmed you down a little.

However, it was also weighing on you. It weighed on your conscience, on your sense of guilt. You ran away, abandoned absolutely everything you had, cut off all ties - even with your dear mother - and now you are sad because your fears did not come true? That everything was fine and you were just being paranoid? You chuckled nervously and rubbed the bridge of your nose. It was disgusting. Really. You were disgusting.

After paying, you practically ran away from the diner. You wanted to hide at home as quickly as possible, away from people, their interested glances and your dark thoughts. Indeed, you came here in vain. If you ran away, then you should have run away forever! Everything was fine in the town. Everything was fine. Everything…

A sudden symbol on the wall in the alley made you flinch, as if from a blow, press your back against some pillar. You hoped that you imagined it. You begged that you only imagined it. But no. No, the sign was there, so clear. You wanted to run, but your body didn't move at all. Ice sweat rolled down your body, you could not even blink, as if you lost sight of the sign for even a second, it would jump on you. Your heart was beating the alarm, it's beating against your ribs so hard that it hurts. There's not enough air, you felt like you're suffocating, like your lungs are tearing from the pain.

You wanted, you desperately wanted to calm down. Get away from here as far as possible. Run away again. You tried to take control of at least your mind, forced yourself to move, but nothing helped. Your brain refused to help you; your heart refused to obey.

Your hands were shaking.

A damn sign...

Your head was spinning.

A damn sign!

There was a huge lump in my throat, it was becoming even more difficult to breathe, and you wanted to rip my insides out.

The damn sign was painted recently! The red paint was so fresh! The crossed-out eye was looking inside you!

***

Children have a wonderful ability to quickly switch from one interesting thing to another. So you forgot about the strange scientist pretty quickly (especially since he almost never showed up in town) and switched to something more interesting. To the fairies who started flying to your home. At first, you didn't notice them. Then it became very difficult not to notice them. And then they started getting under your arms, laughing and periodically stealing all sorts of little things from you: coins, pencils, chewing gum... You were having fun, but your mother, who occasionally found fairies, was not so much.

You were completely focused on the fairies, friends, gnome thieves and your studies. At first, the fairies only played dirty tricks on you, then they began to accompany you around town, then they began to sometimes rest on your head, and then they loved to hide in your pockets. These little ones turned out to be quite cute, frivolous, but with character. Sometimes they were very kind, dragging you around the forest, showing you beautiful places, bringing you berries, and sometimes the fairies led you into clay ravines, from which you had difficulty getting out.

From time to time, you saw that scientist in the forest - he wandered in search of creatures familiar to you from the cradle and constantly wrote something down in some books. Of course, you were interested, but the fairies took all your attention. That lilac one, by the way, made fun of you more than anyone else. You even had a few scars from adventures with her.

Her name was Lullaby. You found out this only a couple of years after you met.

In general, your life was quite calm and colorful. Mom worried about you more and more every year, but you learned to calm her down, or at least better hide the consequences of your adventures. Over the years, there were fewer friends - but the closest ones remained.

It was with them that one year you went to the fair. It was ridiculous, but at least some entertainment in a quiet and sleepy town, right? You can't say that you were very disappointed then...

And it's impossible to say that you didn't regret it later.

You still think that it all started with that damn fair.

Having separated from your friends at some point, you, completely unexpectedly, ran into a scientist. The same one that interested you many years ago. You wouldn't have paid attention to him if there wasn't another person nearby. A new face, you thought then. Quite pleasant, albeit nervous. That person's eyes were big and kind. For you, this was a sign: a safe and friendly person had arrived in town.

How fucking wrong you were then...

You watched the men watching the pig races. Then your friends called you, and thoughts started to form in your head about how wonderful it would be if your good relationship, like those men, continued with you into adulthood. Too bad it never happened.

Aside from learning about the new man, you only noticed one odder thing at the fair (not counting the fortune teller who tried her best to lure you to her place). Ivan Wexler, the guy you, well, knew, was acting suspiciously. When you saw him for the first time, he looked really bad - paler than usual, shaking, with dark circles under his eyes, scared. You wanted to ask him what was wrong, but you were distracted. When you saw him for the second time, Ivan looked much more inspired. As if... he had found a solution to his problem.

You really wanted to know what happened (especially since you seemed to see Ivan talking to that new man), but you weren't close to him. You didn't want to impose yourself.

You did regret later that you didn't ask Ivan then. After all, he practically disappeared for a couple of days. And came back absolutely... calm and happy? And judging by the stories of those who talked to him more than you, he wasn't going to explain what happened. You thought it was strange, suspicious and exciting. Your friends thought you just needed an adventure. The fairies thought it was boring.

What both the fairies and your friends agreed with you on was that the red crossed-out eye signs that started appearing everywhere were not normal. No, at first it seemed like someone had just decided to draw strange graffiti, but the signs appeared more and more often. Some kind of danger emanated from those eyes.

You (who had obviously gone crazy for a while) convinced your friends to investigate this case. What an adventure! They agreed reluctantly, after all, the older they got, the less interested they were in the inexplicable. This upset you, but they were your dear friends! You couldn't be angry with them.

Soon you began to notice something was wrong - some people, mostly of the older generation, suddenly began to... forget all those interesting things they had lived side by side with all this time? Precisely forget, it no longer resembled pretense, as before. Again, your friends did not pay attention to this, but you could not get rid of the disgusting feeling somewhere in your soul.

The fairies were still uninterested. Only Lullaby agreed to help you with the investigation. True, she, you remember, said that she was doing it only to laugh at your futile attempts to find out at least something. But you were grateful.

Thinking about it now, you could only curse yourself. Why did you get into this shit? Why couldn't you live peacefully? Maybe you wouldn't have noticed all those horrors. Maybe you wouldn't have become a victim of a nightmare. Maybe you wouldn't have had to run, abandoning everything dear... But no, you were an idiot. A teenager, a maximalist and an idealist with an awl in his ass, dreaming of adventures.

You didn't even think about what the price of these adventures was...

***

You only managed to fall asleep that day with the help of a massive dose of sleeping pills. Then you spent the whole day in a devastated state.

Okay, you spent the next few days like that. You were ashamed of yourself. An adult, and you were so scared of one fucking sign! Although, who were you kidding. You weren't scared of the sign. You were scared of the understanding that this nightmarish cult still exists.

Well, of course this crap exists! Where would this hellish cult go? And even if they proudly call themselves a "secret society", it's nothing more than a damn sect. A sect that uses people's fears, their guilt, grievances, disappointments, everything they would like to forget, to manipulate and rule the town. Okay, the last one is mostly your speculation, but what else could these cultists need?

With the help of sedatives and your anger, a week later you finally crawled out onto the streets of the town, wanting to gather information (and this had nothing to do with the fact that you had run out of food two days ago). You had to remember your twenties, when you learned not to shy away from people and pull a mask of a normal person over your face. It helped. Maybe inside you were a curled-up whining something, but if you looked only at the outside, everything looked normal.

For several days you wandered around the town, periodically distracted by encounters with people. Your appearance caused a certain stir, so sometimes there were people who were just burning with desire to meet you. You felt a little awkward, but, in fact, each meeting was quite... pleasant. People behaved nicely, albeit a little intrusive, in your opinion.

However, after one of these acquaintances you almost ran back to the house, you felt so bad from the mixture of pain, disappointment and anger that poured into your soul. This was your friend. Well, now a former friend. A person who not only did not recognize you (it's understandable, so many years have passed), but did not even remember you after you introduced yourself.

He was one of your best friends. With him, you tried to unravel the mystery of the mysterious crossed-out eye. And now you are gone from his memory.

Damn. It's time for you to come to terms with reality: You really was a stranger to Gravity Falls. Your history with this place was only in your head.

And maybe on some official documents, yes.

Anyway, after that incident, you tried to focus exclusively on exploring the town. You decided to perceive this place as completely new. As if you had never lived in Gravity Falls.

It was a little easier that way. And a lot more painful.

You spent the next two weeks in Gravity Falls quite successfully: you found a job here (the salary is less than where you lived before, but quite decent); you found out where the strange signs with meaningless questions or just question marks came from in the forest and elsewhere - it turns out that for the last thirty years there has been a very famous tourist trap in the town - the "Mystery Shack", or something like that; you are convinced that the people here have changed. And they have not changed for the better!

No, of course, you may be paranoid, who knows. But the people of Gravity Falls have become strange. That is, much stranger than before. People were now more infantile, they paid less attention to some really important things... And they also did not remember a lot. For example, they really did not remember the creatures inhabiting the local forest. How's this possible? You didn't understand, because the forest didn't disappear anywhere, anomalous things continued to happen, and anomalous creatures continued to periodically visit the city, but for some reason people, not only adults, but also children, perceived them as urban legends, nothing more.

To be honest, this outraged you even a little more than the fact that you were forgotten too. You are an ordinary person, after all. It's not surprising.

But now you could make a disappointing conclusion: "Blind Eye" in Gravity Falls has taken root perfectly.

You hated this very thought. You were afraid of it. But you continued to persistently climb into the same loop from which you escaped with such difficulty in the past.

The next step you were going to take was another infiltration into the headquarters of the secret society. You knew, oh, you knew where it was, and if these damned sectarians did not change the mechanism on the door, then getting in there would be easy as pie.

As a teenager, you experienced a pleasant and wonderful excitement before such an adventure. Now you experienced a headache, nausea, and tried to drown out the panicked beating of your heart with medication.

You were driven there by anger; this was the only thing you understood for sure. Blind rage, boiling in your soul. It was this that drowned out both common sense and panic. You could not even formulate exactly what you were going to do. Burn everything to hell? Not a bad idea. You smiled sadly.

However, your plans were not destined to come true.

At first, you blamed your absent-mindedness. Then you began to panic. Things in your house suddenly started disappearing. You could not find your socks, money, wallet, pills, candy... Then suddenly there was salt in your tea, and sugar in your scrambled eggs. Sometimes you woke up with your face covered in dirt or toothpaste. The laces on your shoes were tied. Pebbles and clumps of moss appeared in your pockets.

You would have continued to think that you were going crazy, if one night you hadn’t managed to catch a fairy circling around your face… The pink prankster dropped a tube of your own toothpaste on you and screamed indignantly, waving her arms.

You held her tightly, but carefully, remembering the fragility of fairies. You didn’t know what to feel. On the one hand, your soul became lighter, because you finally understood who was behind the mess in your house, and in general, you were glad to see fairies again. On the other hand, you felt some kind of light, thoughtful sadness. The sadness that does not crush you with its weight, does not make you fall into the swamp of pain and sorrow, but the one that falls on your shoulders like a light, cool shawl, awakening pleasant, but slightly bitter thoughts.

The fairy took advantage of your thoughtfulness, bit your finger, slipped out to freedom, called you names, stuck her tongue out at you and retreated.

You laughed. It seems that you offended the fairies somehow. But it is so nice that at least they remembered you.

At first, you decided to ignore the capricious fairies and focus entirely on your investigation. But you quickly realized that you couldn’t do that: you didn’t want to be like the rest of the town’s residents. So you spent time looking for various sweet recipes and briefly turning into a pastry chef.

You found a thick old notebook in which your mother wrote down her recipes. To be honest, you sat with it for a couple of hours hugging it, looking at the yellow pages, absorbing every letter, every squiggle. Damn. Heavy thoughts filled your head again. Holding back tears seemed impossible – and, to be honest, you didn’t even try. Mom… You hadn’t seen her since the escape. You hadn’t even called her. And now what? All that was left of her were a few photos and a notebook with recipes. You shook your head. So much lost time…

Baking sweets according to mom’s recipes gave an intangible feeling that mom was nearby. It seemed to you every now and then that she would appear from behind you to smile tenderly and correct some mistake, to help, to guide. But she did not appear, and all you could do was swallow the tears that would not subside.

It seemed that the fairies noticed your condition, so they didn't interfere. And when you were finally able to make candies (crooked, ugly, just right to throw at enemies), the little creatures completely changed their anger to mercy. They happily carried off the sweets, fewer things began to disappear in your house, and you woke up with a clean face. The fairies still did not strive to spend much time with you as before, but at least they did not harm you now.

One fairy was especially angry. The little lilac fairy did not touch the sweets. Even when you made jam, this fairy did not come near you.

One evening, when you allowed yourself, for the first time in your entire time in Gravity Falls, to relax and have a drink in the yard, Lullaby flew closer and threw a ball of moss at your forehead. You offered her some ugly homemade candy, and she didn't refuse. You sat in silence with her. You did not know what Lullaby was thinking about, but you yourself were thinking about how wonderful these creatures are - so many years have passed, and fairies hadn't changed at all.

"How did you recognize me? People change over time."

This question had been spinning in your head since the moment you met that pink fairy who tried to paint your face.

Lullaby's light blinked. It was as if someone had turned a flashlight on and off. She sighed, threw away the ugly candy, flew up to your face and looked closely into your eyes. Then she slapped you on the nose.

You haven't changed, that's what she said. You're still the same, and you look at everything the same. Lullaby smiled weakly. She said she was glad about that.

You laughed. For a while, you felt so light and calm. As if a giant stone had been lifted from your shoulders, as if the vice that was squeezing your head had been released. Even your heart didn't fit in with its nervous beating - it was calm.

"Sorry that I ran away."

You brushed a tear from your cheek. Lullaby snorted and turned up her nose. Of course, it didn't upset her much. Who are you that she should be upset about it? You heard the other fairies peeping at you laugh. Lullaby flared up. She was just disappointed that you didn't even warn her.

"I know. I was an ass. But I was scared."

You are scared now too. You wander around the city like a sad ghost, you shy away from any rustle, you avoid people. Lullaby looked into your eyes. But now you're back, she said.

Your heart treacherously twitched in your chest.

Lullaby nodded. You're back, she said. You're back where you belong.

And the lump in your throat this time wasn't painful, but it was still bitter. You thought you were glad she said that. But you also thought she was very wrong. You were an outsider in this town.

After that evening, your relationship with the fairies more or less improved. They began to be even less mischievous (although you occasionally grabbed your head from their antics), and again brought you some berries and leaves. Lullaby sat on your head more and more often. Sometimes she mixed up the buttons on your clothes, tied the laces of your shoes and unscrewed the lids of the pepper shakers, but otherwise she behaved almost the same as before.

You were afraid to destroy the fragile world, the illusion of a pleasant life. But you were still haunted by the creepy cult. The past was knocking at your door.

You plucked up your courage and approached Lullaby with a question. When she realized that you were asking about the "Blind Eye", she frowned and refused to talk to you. You understood her and did not press her. A few days later, she finally decided to talk, and then you asked her to find one person. The same one you saw many years ago in a maroon cape, holding a scary memory-erasing gun in his hands. The one who became your nightmare.

Lullaby thought for a long time, but in the end she agreed. And demanded sweets from you in exchange for a favor. And a promise that this time you would not run away.

You decided to relax a little until Lullaby returned with news. You concentrated on work, and in your free time you again walked through the forest after fairies. After a couple of their pranks, you had to throw out two pairs of pants - clay ravines were still the favorite prank of little winged mischief-makers.

You were a little worried about your little friend, after all, even you were able to catch Lullaby, and still a child. But you could not just calm down until you sorted out all your past problems. All these nightmares did not let you go.

Lullaby found the right person quickly. It took you much longer to gather your courage. It seemed that this was it, you found the one you wanted, go and finish it. But no, your knees weakened treacherously, it was worth even thinking about it. You found a thousand and one excuses why today of all days you just couldn’t go and sort everything out.

But, in the end, you gathered your courage.

Lullaby was hiding in the pocket of your shirt, showing you the way. It seemed that she could hear the feverish hysteria of your heart. You didn’t know what you were going to do. Each step seemed heavy, as if your feet were getting stuck in clay. Your breathing was too loud and deep, and at the same time there was a catastrophic lack of air. You clenched your jaws so hard that your gums hurt. What did you want to do? This man had ruined your life. Maybe you wanted to kill him?

At that moment - perhaps.

Lullaby led you to the city junkyard. You even managed a small smile – ironic that this was where you planned to throw out all your fears.

You took a deep breath and clenched your fists. Okay, that was it. You were ready, there was no turning back. You would cope, no matter what happened. You stepped forward resolutely…

“…who is it?”

The fairy in your pocket growled. She claimed that it was him. The one you were looking for. The cold-blooded cult leader, the man who tore out people’s memories and hid them. The man who had haunted your nightmares for so many years.

“Who is it?”

A pathetic, skinny old man in rags sat on a pile of scrap metal, rocking and laughing madly.

***

You and your friends hunted for a mysterious sign for quite a long time. Of course, you couldn't watch the streets all the time, you still had to go to school, help your mother, sleep... but you tried. In addition, you watched the adults. The mystery captivated you, you felt so excited and joyful. You remember how your chest was bursting with inspiration. You were solving the mystery!

So, here's what you discovered over time: the signs are left mainly at night, several times you saw a man in a maroon cape drawing a crossed-out eye. You had to sacrifice sleep to see him, but it was worth it!

Another observation: most adults almost immediately forgot about encounters with creatures from the forest and the surrounding area. That is, for example, your neighbor: on Thursday he met that strange bald abomination that once tried to crawl into your house with the gnomes, smelling the candy. Naturally, he did not like this meeting. On Saturday, the neighbor completely forgot about this bald nastiness.

And so it was with all the adults! Unfortunately for you, you were a smart child. You quickly connected the sign in the form of a crossed-out eye with the fact that adults did not want to remember encounters with forest creatures. Something like "I did not see it, therefore it did not happen." The only thing you could not understand was - why? Why would anyone erase the memories of these creatures?

You also began to worry about your mother. After all, she was always nervous when meeting the same gnomes, for example. You really did not want your mother to get involved in this, so you had to go and make a new agreement with the gnomes: from now on they were forbidden to climb into your house, but you had to take them sweets once a week. You also had to talk to the fairies: you asked them not to run into your mother's eyes for some time. Lullaby was very upset about this.

Thinking about it now, you can admit: even then you were scared. But the desire to get involved in adventures pushed you forward. You tried to be brave. You imagined how you would figure out these strange followers of the crossed-out eye, how you would become a hero. But deep down, you were scared. You wanted to pretend that you didn’t know anything and didn’t notice.

You can’t blame only your desire for adventure. What else was there? The desire to prove to everyone that you were something more? Or just teenage stupidity? After so many years, you honestly didn’t even want to deal with it.

At some point, your obsession went beyond all bounds. Even your friends, who had previously supported you, began to fear your unhealthy interest in all this. You were angry. Then it seemed that they simply did not understand how important it was. That they were afraid, that they wanted to just leave you.

Lullaby was also unhappy, but you behaved more gently with her. It's embarrassing to admit, but you had a lot of fights with your friends back then. Shouting, swearing - everything, you almost even got into a real fight once... you didn't do that with the fairy, of course. You just waved her away in irritation.

Time was running out, and you never made any progress! You were so immersed in the investigation that you didn't notice what was going on around you. Now you remember that at that time, your mother seemed to have mentioned that a scientist from the forest had started letting people into his house... But back then, you didn't care. The mystery of the crossed-out eye! It overwhelmed you; you were drowning without even noticing it.

One day, you found the right person - a man at Greasy's Diner complained that he had met a monster on the lake, and it had scared away all the fish. You were overjoyed - all that was left was to follow the man and see those who were stealing memories!

And you saw them. People in maroon robes came to the man at night. You almost fell asleep waiting, but it was worth it. Your heart was pounding wildly, excitedly - then it was not yet spoiled by fear. You felt a nervous excitement, causing you to tremble slightly. Unfortunately, you could not get closer, so you could not hear exactly what they were saying. But then suddenly a bag was thrown over the man's head and he was dragged somewhere!

The man resisted. Well, they clearly did not agree. You chased them through the alleys of Gravity Falls, but at some point, one of the mysterious people seemed to notice you. He separated from the group, which did not go unnoticed by you. Then you felt it for the first time. Sticky, icy, lung-tearing and throat-squeezing horror. Horror that made you stuck in place.

You could have run away, but you simply didn't have time because of the terror. There was only one option left - to press yourself against the wall behind the dumpsters and try not to breathe.

He was walking there.

Your heart was pounding against your ribs so hard that your chest hurt.

He was muttering something under his breath.

Your breathing was so loud that you couldn't hear anything else.

He was very close.

You tried to hold your breath, but you were so short of oxygen that your brain hurt. Your limbs were frozen. You wanted to press yourself even harder against the wall, but your body wouldn't listen. Any movement could give you away.

He started to walk around the container...

You closed your eyes, as if that could somehow help...

A rat.

The man in the robe recoiled from the container when a fat rat jumped out of it with a nasty squeak and rustling. You jerked, hitting the wall, and almost gave yourself away. What a blessing that the man himself was scared. Didn't notice you. Didn't notice. Didn't notice...

You almost fainted then. He left, and you couldn't crawl out of your hiding place for a long time.

That night, your misadventures didn't end there - your mother was waiting for you at home. She was upset. She was angry. At first, you tried to somehow defend yourself in response to her reprimand, but what could you even say? Returning in the night, dirty, smelling of garbage, pale and clearly scared - what could you say? Obviously not that everything was fine and your mother shouldn't worry.

You are ready to admit it. That night, you had a fight. Maybe all the nervous tension just overwhelmed you, maybe it was the notorious teenage aggression, or maybe you were just a bad child, but that night you screamed. You accused your mother of not listening to you, of not believing you, of trying to pretend that there were no amazing creatures around. You screamed that your mother saw you as a little child and was bothering you.

Your mother then started crying, and you ran off to your room.

To be honest, today's you would gladly give your past self a slap in the face.

Hiding in your room, you were just angry for several hours. You were angry at everything, even for no reason. But then you were able to fall asleep. Before going to bed, you were angry at yourself.

The next day after school (part of which you shamelessly slept through) you decided to write down everything you found out about the crossed-out eye. Firstly, the sign and the people were definitely connected, the mysterious strangers had the same eye on their hoods, now you proved it. Secondly, they are among us. These - who, cultists? Yes, these cultists live in Gravity Falls and eavesdrop on people's conversations. They react to people's complaints about encounters with the abnormal. The cultists come to the victims, first try to negotiate (at least something good), and if that doesn't work, they just take the people with them. Since none of the residents disappeared, you can assume that they take away the memory, but generally do not touch the people themselves.

And you also roughly understood in which direction the base of the people in robes is.

You thought for a long time how to find this place. Keeping an eye on them yourself is not an option, it takes too much time, and the cultists have already noticed you, they will be even more attentive. All this confused you so much that you ignored your mother, who came to you several times and knocked on the door. Only when something rustled downstairs and your mother screamed, you flew out of the room.

It turned out that with all your plans, you completely forgot about the new agreement with the gnomes, and they climbed into your kitchen. Mom noticed them, and now she was clearly scared. You grabbed a broom and, throwing a piece of pie to the gnomes, drove them out into the forest. After making sure that no gnomes was home, you looked at your mother. She was pale, her hands were shaking, and her eyes were red. You wanted to hug her...

"...now you will also pretend that this does not exist?"

You said instead, threw the broom and went into the room. You felt disgusted, but you tried to hold on, you little idiot. You thought you were defending your rightness, which in reality was only your mistake.

Even the fairies scolded you then. Fairies! Little mischievous nasty things, constantly capricious and making ridiculous jokes! You were offended by them too. After all, they didn’t understand anything either.

You didn’t talk to your mother for several days. You felt bad. It got worse with each passing day. You wanted to hear her gentle voice, see her quiet smile, feel the soft warmth of her hands. At some point, you couldn’t take it anymore. Burning with shame and remorse, you came to your mother and apologized. At first, everything was even fine - of course, the words stuck in your throat like huge pieces of dried bread, but she forgave you. For your nighttime adventures, for the quarrel, for what you said. You hugged, for the first time in several days, and you felt so cozy and calm. So warm.

"And about the gnomes, sorry."

What do you mean, she asked. Your heart skipped a beat, but you brushed it off. She had always preferred not to think about things like that. You looked at your mother and said you were sorry about the gnomes in the kitchen. You said it wouldn't happen again.

She shook her head briefly, her brows furrowing in thought. What do you mean, she repeated. And you froze, as if you'd been doused with ice water.

Her eyes were empty.

She wasn't pretending.

She didn't remember.

***

How the hell did this all happen? No, you already knew that fate was absolutely crazy, but, damn, this crazy?

You were sitting on a three-legged stool, holding a chipped cup of boiling water with pine needles in it. The crazy old man was telling you about how he recently fell asleep on a miniature golf course and woke up because little people were trying to tie him up and drag him away. It wasn't weird, you'd heard about Lilliputtians from the fairies, but you'd never seen them yourself.

The weird thing was that you were visiting this crazy old man. At the junkyard. The man who once created and led the cult of the "Blind Eye".

Old Man McGucket. That's right.

How did this happen? Well, it's simple: the first time you met him, you got angry and went home. Yes, it was very childish, but you couldn't help it. Lullaby had a good laugh at your expense, but when she saw the state you were in, she just left you to ponder.

You couldn't accept it. How, how the hell did this happen?! How did the man you'd been terrified of for so many years turn into this? He couldn't... No, that's ridiculous! He couldn't turn into this! This was a mistake. This was definitely a mistake. You were so afraid of him that you ran away from this city, from this state, and he just turned into such a pathetic piece of shit?!

You barely calmed down. You still hoped that this was either a mistake or some kind of trick. You were so angry, so... disappointed? Fucking emotions, they were so loud, and there were so many of them, that your blood pressure eventually rose, and you still couldn't figure yourself out.

You were pathetic.

You decided that you needed more information. You couldn't act recklessly. You had to figure it all out.

You asked the fairies to keep a careful eye on the man. At first, they refused, they were bored and had other things to do, but you managed to persuade them to help you. Maybe the sweets you made were ugly, but at least they were tasty. You weren't sure, but it seemed like the fairies were bragging about the free sweets to the gnomes.

You hoped the gnomes don't bother you after this...

You also decided to try to find out about the old man from the junkyard from the people. You felt like a stupid teenager again, sticking your nose into things that weren't your business and collecting absolutely useless information, but what can you do?

And so, what you soon found out: the old man is the local madman. Harmless, according to humans and fairies, but occasionally makes some weird stuff out of junk, and sometimes you can hear explosions coming from the junkyard. Lazy Susan grumbled that McGucket occasionally tries to hide somewhere in Greasy's Diner before closing, and she has to throw him out. He has a son, Tate, who works as a lake ranger. According to fairies, McGucket is currently married to a raccoon (you surprised, but you decided that your interactions with fairies are much stranger) and dislikes a certain "old man in a basin".

You hated all this.

You yourself had observed McGucket. The old man was, of course, absolutely crazy, skinny and neglected, but you could only envy his athleticism. In your best years, you couldn't run as fast as he now ran on all fours! To your disappointment, you had to admit: for all his oddities, McGucket really was quite harmless.

No, maybe he could create some kind of doomsday robots, you heard about it from some people, but, other than that, he didn't pose a danger. McGucket could be scared with a broom, he would cower if you yelled at him, teenagers weren't afraid to draw offensive graffiti on his "house" (you couldn't help but think maliciously to yourself that this was revenge for his omnipresent crossed-out eye). McGucket could scare you only by suddenly appearing. And his voice could scare a child.

All of this made you feel miserable. You wanted to either lock yourself in the house and beat the wall up, or go to the old man, grab him, and shake the truth out of him. Shake out who he was. You were goddamn terrified! What now? This isn't terrifying, this is a laughing stock!

This is why you hung around the junkyard so often. It was because of these suffocating, migraine-inducing thoughts that you were caught one day. And because you were completely unprepared to meet McGucket, you got confused and said that you came to visit him.

And for some reason the old man was happy.

He didn't even ask your name!

You didn't want to drink the boiled pine needles, although McGucket himself did it with pleasure. It seemed that the old man was delighted that he had someone to talk to. He was very active in talking about everything that came into his head, waving his arms, periodically hitting his knees, dancing a jig and using clearly made-up words in his speech.

You had been watching him for some time. You wanted to gloat... You wanted to laugh at your enemy's misfortune. You wanted to feel relieved.

Instead, a single question stuck in your head: "What the hell happened to you?"

You felt awkward and strange. A mixture of pity, disgust, dull resentment and impotent anger. Holy shit, there was no reason to take revenge on such a person, because it was simply impossible to make him feel worse.

The raccoon tried to steal your candy. You automatically offered the candy to McGucket. He ate it along with the paper.

Good God...

You wouldn't wish that on anyone.

You felt awkward looking at this pathetic old man, he evoked too many emotions in you, each of which hit you in one way or another. It was painful and hard. You tried to switch to looking at his home.

It was hard to even call it a hut, but apparently McGucket knew something about construction even in such a state, because surprisingly, this place was in no hurry to fall apart, did not creak. You noticed a few blueprints here and there. Hmm, maybe you did not understand this, but to an unprofessional eye, the blueprints looked... well, good. It did not seem like a chaotic mixture of numbers, lines and other things. It seemed that the rumors about robots were true. Was "Blind Eye" trying to cover it up? The government would probably want to grab such an engineer for themselves...

You again stared at McGucket, who switched to arguing with his own reflection. Your fingers tightened on the cup. What happened to you? You wanted to ask the question, but you couldn't. Something was blocking your mouth, like it was taping it shut. What happened to you? How did it happen?

Is this all the cult? Did he bring you to this state, huh, McGucket? You wanted to gloat, but the thought of it filled you with self-loathing. Damn.

The old man turned his attention to you. He looked at you with those almost empty eyes, he had that absolutely good-natured expression on his face... You shuddered.

What brought you to such a miserable life, McGucket?

...and what brought you to such a miserable life?

The question hit you in the gut, and you were filled with anger again. Jumping to your feet, you loudly put the cup on the stool and, ignoring the old man, got out of this place.

What stupid questions. What stupid thoughts! Your life is not miserable. A normal life, like everyone else's. Normal, quiet, unnoticeable, lonely, cold, in eternal fear...

You stopped only at your house. The gnomes tried to climb into your window, and the fairies threw your own small things at them.

Damn it, your life...

Just like in the good old days, the broom helped you deal with the gnomes perfectly. You shouted after them that you were not against concluding a new agreement, the main thing is that they should not bother you without asking. After that, you entered the house, opened the jam for the fairies, and went into the living room to sleep on the old uncomfortable sofa. Sleep didn't come, but the thoughts, depressing, heavy, continued to swirl in your head. Holy shit...

You spent the next few weeks renovating the house - not everything, just changing the sofa in the living room, all the furniture in your room, and updating the kitchen a bit. The rest worked just fine or you just didn't need it. These household items helped to distract you a little, but you still continued to keep an eye on McGucket.

He was run over by a car three times in one week. You had no idea what this old man's bones were made of, but each time he just got up and ran away somewhere in fear. And then he came back and acted like nothing had happened. The first time he was run over, you wanted to rush to his aid, but you didn't have time. And then you realized that the people around you didn't react to it at all, as if it was the most ordinary thing. Maybe you're the only weird one here?

The small problem was that after you went to visit McGucket, he started noticing you around town. Well, he didn't approach you, thanks for that, but he kept waving at you (the hand that had the cast on it). You felt a little awkward, but over time you got used to it, and even occasionally caught yourself waving back.

Several times in town you saw a man you didn't expect to see. On the other hand, maybe you didn't expect to see him because in your past he almost never showed up in town? Stanford Pines, a strange scientist, and now, more like a fraudulent businessman. You looked at him, aged, with a pleasant dose of nostalgia. However, even here it seemed to you that something was wrong. As if he behaved somehow... differently?

Although, damn, so many years have passed, it's natural.

But why didn't he communicate with his friend? You thought they were close in the past...

Although, his friend went crazy and started a strange cult, or vice versa, or both. You probably wouldn't communicate with such a friend either.

So much time passed, summer was ending, the fairies went into the forest to find a place to hibernate. Only Lullaby stayed with you - she decided that there was no better place to hibernate than the top shelf in your closet. The gnomes tried to behave politely, came once a week for baked goods (and you were already tired of hearing from them that Lazy Susan's pies were better than yours).

Everything was great. Only now you were again visiting McGucket. For the third time. And listening to his very strange stories.

You brought him a meat pie.

Why on earth are you doing this?

You looked around his house again. Besides the blueprints, there were a couple of tattered photographs of McGucket's family. You were tired of feeling sorry for the poor guy, but damn, this made your heart clench again. His wife and son looked happy in the pictures. You noticed McGucket touching the picture with his finger a few times, and his expression was so sad at those moments that you wanted to go over and pat him on the back encouragingly.

Tate, his son, was a rare visitor to the city. It seemed he preferred to live by the lake, at his workplace. You hardly saw him interact with his father. And damn, as much as you hated the old man, you couldn't stand to watch it.

So you preferred to turn away.

There were also many newspaper clippings related to McGucket on the walls of his house. This confirmed your guess - apparently, the old man had destroyed his own brain. Probably used that gun on himself? But why? You didn't know that yet. But you knew that, collecting newspaper clippings, McGucket was desperately trying not to forget at least something about himself. As if he was trying to build himself as a person from scratch, to cling to at least some insignificant detail.

You no longer felt sorry for him. You already regretted him.

While you were sitting at McGucket's place, some teenagers ran to the junkyard and started writing on the walls of his house. McGucket ran out to chase them away, waving a twig, and you followed him. It seemed that your appearance shocked and frightened the teenagers more than the appearance of the owner of the house, although you only looked outside. You didn't even shout anything after them, just looked at the writing on the wall.

"Mc-suck-it"

Yeah, even you had a better imagination at their age.

For some reason you stayed behind to help McGucket wash that graffiti off. You were walking home with a strange feeling, but mostly pleasant. Like... You just did something right.

You were working, autumn was changing the landscape at its own discretion. The fairies weren't around, which was a little sad, but sleepy Lullaby was still keeping you company. You came to the junkyard a couple more times - you saw Tate from afar with some bags. Well, at least he still cares about his father?

You felt stupid and empty. Revenge on McGucket was gone from your to-do list - again, where is there any revenge here, he punished himself for everything. Anger was replaced by a crushing emptiness. It was as if a huge part of you had disappeared, and in fact, that was true – all these years, anger and hatred had been elusive in your life, along with fear, they had made a nest in you, and now they had just… evaporated.

What should you do now?

You hadn’t noticed winter coming while you were working. You just went outside one day and realized it was a bit chilly. And then you looked around and noticed snow.

Lullaby had fallen asleep in one of your sweaters. You had left a lid of water and a few sugar cubes next to it.

Winter in Oregon covered everything with snow, froze the squirrels, drove away the gnomes. It was freezing cold. And yet, you liked winter. Quiet, deep, mysterious. The creaking and glitter of the snow, the touch of prickly snowflakes on your face, even the harmful icy wind – you liked everything. You even felt a little better.

Until the moment you decided to visit the junkyard again.

This is some kind of masochism, right?

McGucket was still living here. It was cool in his house, and the wind kept blowing snowflakes in. Damn, didn't his son at least take him in for the winter? No, of course, it's none of your business, obviously, but still... It's cold here!

You hypnotized the cup of boiled pine needles for a long time. You felt disgusting. You felt like you wanted to spit out your feelings and trample them.

"McGucket? Do you want to come visit me for the winter?"

Your mouth was dry and you had a hard time tearing your eyes away from the cup.

"You can take your raccoon wife too."

***

After the cultists dared to take your mother's memory, the whole business of finding and exposing them became personal. You tried to get to the truth like a madman. You probably even spat saliva like a mad dog when explaining everything to your friends. No wonder your friends were dwindling.

Many left, considering it all nonsense. Others accused you of being crazy. And there were those who succumbed to the unpleasant aspect of growing up - they began to fear what they could not understand. They began to be suspicious of the creatures from the forest and the lake, they did not want to believe that there was some kind of cult in the city.

Should you tell that it was this part of your friends who eventually lost their memories first? You were angry then. Now you think that you should have helped them. That you should have been more attentive. But time has already passed.

Your investigation turned into a mad hunt, and you did not notice. You were so immersed in your obsession that you pushed everyone away. Only the fairies stayed by your side, and even then, it was more out of a desire to see how far you would go. For fairies, everything always looks different, their logic is not like human logic.

You practically abandoned your studies. With maniacal persistence, you tried to expose the cult. Your friends? Of course, they are just cowards! Adults? They never understood you! Your mother? It doesn't count; the cult has already brainwashed her!

Nothing matters, you need to expose the damn cult and that's it! And that's it! And everything... will go back to how it used to be? Sometimes this question crawled into your head. Will everything go back to how it used to be, calm and comfortable? Or will everything change? Could everything get worse?

You pushed these thoughts away. You thought: if you have such ideas in your head, does it mean that you doubt yourself? Does it mean that you are doing something wrong?

Such thoughts were frightening. Your idiotic maximalism drove you forward, you were like a mad dog that was let off the leash. Like a stone that someone pushed off a mountain.

However, your fears about the cult were to some extent justified. Even with all your paranoia, you tried to watch very carefully the people who were losing their memories. And if at first only adults became such people, then later teenagers also began to lose their memories. The worst thing was that now not only the memories of the lake monster, gnomes, fairies, ghosts disappeared. Many people began to forget some unpleasant events that happened to them. Quarrels, car accidents, reprimands at work.

Even worse was that now the cultists did not even try to negotiate with people. You witnessed this - people in burgundy robes now simply kidnapped people. They decided that they can dominate the minds of others? That they can decide for others? To be honest, this is what made you angry in the past, and it made you incredibly angry now.

Something doesn't change.

There was something else that scared you incredibly. People... became strange. Stranger than before. They became more and more careless, they forgot some obvious things, they talked strangely... Some people who used to communicate well with each other began to quarrel. Some got fixated on some ideas, thoughts, deeds. Some just started to do unimaginable strange things.

You were scared. It became even more scary when your mother started complaining about a very hard day at work. She looked so depressed. You tried to distract her, cheer her up, do anything, just so that nothing would happen. It helped only for a while.

At some point, your mother came home with a blissful smile. She didn't remember anything about her problems. And she tried to set fire to that lonely cactus that stood in your kitchen, because she wanted to cook dinner. You managed to stop her, and it seemed that she came to her senses a little, because she herself wondered why she wanted to burn the cactus.

You tried to talk to her. Of course, you couldn't talk calmly for long, you quickly broke into a scream, tears began to flow from your eyes. But it was all useless. It was like you were talking to a wall. Mom just smiled. She didn't have any problems.

Her head was empty.

You were angry. You were filled with rage. Mom was no longer like herself. Those bastards, those cultists took your city, your friends, and now your mother too! You couldn't leave it like that. Screw the plans, investigations, and hidden surveillance, screw it!

You called the fairies. You begged them to help you find the cultists' base.

Lullaby tried to talk you out of it, but you wouldn't listen. If the fairies don't help, you'll just run out to the main square and scream that you know about the cult, and wait until they grab you and drag you away!

It seems that you really were crazy then, and Lullaby, scared, finally agreed to help...

***

"That...what is that?"

Old Man McGucket happily explained that the thing striding toward you was your toaster. The one that broke this morning. You almost walked back outside.

Yeah, you were living with a crazy guy now. And his raccoon wife. You weren't sure which was worse.

You didn't have a plan when you first brought McGucket into your house. You actually almost kicked him out the first day, but you held back. Grown-ups are supposed to be responsible for their words, right?

You gave him the living room. He was supposed to sleep there (but you were sure you heard him sneaking around the door to your room to sleep), he was supposed to keep his raccoon there (you were sure he said her name a few times, but it was a different name each time), and basically...that's it. You didn't restrict McGucket in any way. Almost.

You forbade McGucket from doing just two things: cooking and coming into your room. You thought that was enough.

The experience was… very strange.

It was like living with two hyperactive children who were constantly climbing somewhere, doing something, unscrewing something, breaking something, fixing something, littering, making noise... McGucket was also constantly trying to invent something. Your living room soon turned into a junkyard, splattered with machine oil.

You didn't even know who was worse or better - McGucket or the raccoon.

The raccoon was just outrageous. She tore up bags and boxes, tore up furniture, tore up wallpaper, ate everything she could get her hands on, dragged small things into her house, littered and stole your food.

You were angry. Why the hell didn't the raccoon hibernate? Well, apparently, she caught the madness from her "husband".

Or the answer was simply that she had been living at home all this time. You don't need to hibernate at home. But even then, raccoons need to be lethargic, and this hyperactive animal didn't look lethargic at all!

However, despite all the problems, the raccoon was useful! She chased away the gnomes, McGucket taught her to wash clothes (you still preferred to wash your own clothes by yourself), and in the evenings, she, after all, was a little tired, allowed you to hold her on your lap and pet her. No worse than a cat, warm, soft and soothing.

You yourself didn't notice how you got used to sitting with her in the evenings.

McGucket... well, he was crazy. It seemed that this man could not sit idle at all. He was constantly assembling and reassembling something, drawing some plans on pieces of paper, sometimes cooking something (results were always horrific), dancing, shouting, talking loudly to himself, doing chemicals in your kitchen, making a mess no worse than a raccoon, playing the banjo loudly and just generally getting on your nerves!

And he smelled like a dead possum.

But with all that… You couldn’t be too mad at him. Yes, when you were home, he followed you around like a tethered dog and wouldn’t shut up, telling more and more surreal stories. Yes, he rebuilt your microwave so that when you started grumbling at it for not heating your dinner enough, it suddenly answered you. Yes, he made you a toaster that walks and spits out fried bread. Yes, he cluttered up your living room.

But most of the time, his actions were… harmless and kind of cute? He was trying to help. It didn't always work out, like he almost burned down your kitchen a couple of times, but he tried. You didn't want to admit it, but it was a fact.

McGucket made you coffee. He was much better at it than pine needle tea. And in the evenings, his banjo playing didn't seem so annoying. And even his stories sometimes made you laugh.

What the hell are you doing?

At some point, you made McGucket at least slightly organize the nightmare he created in your living room. And wash himself. And wash the raccoon. It all lasted for a whole week, but in the end, you were happy with the result. You even helped the old man comb his beard and peeled off an old bandage from it. With a relatively clean living room and a relatively clean McGucket and raccoon, life became a little easier.

You stopped McGucket from eating paper. You tried to wean him from nervous jigs. You at least tried to understand the made-up words and phrases he littered his speech with. McGucket tried to convince you that building weird robots was easy. He sometimes tried to teach you how to play the banjo.

And somehow that emptiness in your soul that had appeared with the disappearance of hatred began to feel less and less.

Sometimes, locked in your room, you tried to analyze the situation. What was happening, what you were doing... none of it seemed normal to you. You couldn't even answer yourself why you invited McGucket to live with you. Why would you bother with this old man, who was useless even to his own son?

Okay, okay, you admit that this McGucket and the one who lived in your memories are different. But even so... he's nobody to you! Why did you take him in? You couldn't find a homeless cat? You already have a fairy sleeping in your closet!

There were no answers. Not at all...

One day, you suddenly found yourself making snowmen with McGucket in your yard. Everything was fine until the old man suddenly said that it reminded him of something. You felt the cold not only on your skin, but also in your guts. Your hands shook, and you accidentally broke the snow globe you had just made.

What the fuck is he remembering?

McGucket's expression was strange. More clarity flashed across it than during your entire second acquaintance with him. And you were terrified. What should you do? What should you do?

The old man grabbed his head and suddenly began to babble some kind of broken nonsense. Something about fear, about snow, about friends, about memory. Something about "I don't want to remember this." You probably wanted to leave him huddled in the snow, but you still grabbed McGucket and dragged him into the house. He quickly came to his senses and said that he didn't remember anything else.

You didn't make snowmen anymore.

But from that very day, fear settled in you again. What if McGucket one day began to remember? What if his memory returned to him? What if the McGucket from your memories comes back?

What would you have to do?

You didn't know. You felt bad. McGucket's existence in your house suddenly became suffocating. The nightmares returned. The worst thing was that the old man somehow noticed your condition and tried to help. This only made everything worse.

You tried to distract yourself with work, but it didn't help much.

At one point, you even thought about trying to push McGucket onto his son - and it was logical, actually. You even thought that Tate would somehow come for his father himself, after all, the way you suddenly took McGucket to your place, as if he were a stray animal, seemed strange.

You met Tate by chance, in a store where McGucket for some reason wanted to go with you. At first you tried to make the old man stay home, but you quickly realized that he would most likely just run away and follow you anyway. Probably barefoot. Probably in the same overalls that you somehow made him wash with the help of a raccoon.

And, probably, following you in secret, he would get hit by a car again...

With a heavy heart and head, you allowed McGucket to go with you, but before that you made him at least change his clothes a little. As you understood, the old man did not change his clothes much, so the townspeople did not even recognize him, wrapped in your things and the blanket you gave him.

You thought that it was worth buying him some clothes...

So, in the store you ran into Tate, and he was the only person who immediately recognized McGucket. The latter, by the way, was very happy about this.

You thought that Tate might want to talk to his father, or start yelling at you, but the man surprised you: he practically ignored his father, only told him not to interfere, and wanted to talk to you. It's strange, but all the people here are strange. Even you are strange. You felt sorry for old man McGucket, he wilted and even somehow cringed after his son brushed him off so coldly, but what could you do?

Just talk to Tate.

You met later that evening at Greasy's Diner. You were sure that McGucket had followed you, but there was no proof.

Tate turned out to be a reserved, confident, and reasonable man. He clearly cared about his father, although for some reason he did not show it in his communication with that same father. But when he was alone with you, he asked only about him. How he eats, how he lives, how he sleeps, what he says, what he does... You tried to answer briefly and to the point, but inside you wanted to scream for Tate to take his father. Then everything would calm down!

But you could not scream. Only when Tate hinted that he could give you money to support the old man, you asked:

"Why don't you just take McGucket to live with you?"

Tate turned away (though why? You couldn't see his face anyway because of his cap) and said something unintelligible and as if he had memorized it. Like, he lives by the lake, it's inconvenient, there's not enough space, etc. Tate was good at maintaining the appearance of calm, but you weren't a fool either. You left the money for the pancakes and got up.

"It's none of my business, of course, but you're a strange son..."

Memories flashed through your head, and you smiled sadly. And it turns out you're hypocritical.

"Although I failed too, like a child."

You almost left when Tate, surprisingly not angry, asked why you took McGucket to your place. You answered without even thinking:

"Could I have left him in the cold?"

Well, it seems you accidentally found the answer to at least one of your questions.

After that, it seemed to you that the meetings with Tate had stopped. McGucket, of course, looked very depressed for a few days, and built a small robot that caught balls and threw them back to him, but he quickly came to his senses. Relatively. You decided that as a decent adult, you would endure until late spring. And then you could say goodbye to McGucket.

Tate began to appear in the town more often.

You thought that maybe he would take his father from your house, but no.

Tate himself came to your house.

It's good that he didn't come to live with you. He brought some food, clothes, tried to give you money (you still took it, as compensation for the raccoon), did not talk to his father and asked to use your kitchen. That day, you all ate the food he cooked, quite tasty, old McGucket said that the taste was very familiar to him.

The father tried to talk to his son. The son barely spoke to his father, looked at him like he was an unpredictable beast and spoke only to you. You prayed that it wouldn't happen again.

It did.

Tate, thank God, didn't come very often. McGucket was getting happier. The raccoon was getting fatter. Your headache was getting worse, as were the nightmares.

What's wrong with you, what are you doing?! Now you have two McGuckets around your neck! Why should you be the mediator in their strange family squabbles?

You were getting worse. You were increasingly afraid that McGucket would remember everything. That your nightmare would come true. And the worst thing was that you wouldn't be able to do anything about it.

Even the pills weren't helping much.

You remember walking home from work. It was evening, dark, and there was a snowstorm. You just wanted to get home as quickly as possible, warm up and fall asleep. You thought about what you needed to buy for tomorrow. You were thinking...

Your thoughts were interrupted by a scene that was familiar to the point of chilling your bones, although blurred by the snow. A man with a bag over his head. Maroon capes that stood out so brightly against the snow in the light of a street lamp. With a familiar, but seemingly long-forgotten movement, you hid behind the corner of the house. You felt how your clothes were soaked with icy sweat. Your heart pounded against your ribs again, screaming in agony.

Damn cultists... damn, damn, fucking cultists!

You froze, pressed against the wall. You were able to move only after some time - you couldn't tell how much time had passed; everything was so mixed up in your head. You almost ran home.

At home, you abruptly flew up the stairs and locked yourself in your room. Not seeing McGucket, not thinking about him, not thinking about the cult, not thinking about anything, not thinking, not thinking… You felt sick. Your head was splitting. Your heart was about to explode.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. You wanted to punch the wall. You wanted to disappear. You wanted to get lost. You wanted it all to go away!

You barely managed to fall asleep until several hours later…

***

You were tied to a chair in a pitch-black room. The belts cut into your skin, pulling and squeezing painfully. You twitched like a frightened rat cornered. You tried to free yourself. Scary, scary, scary! There was nothing around, only darkness, ever closer, more pressing, cold. But from the darkness, it seemed, thousands of cold, emotionless eyes were watching you. Absolute defenselessness. You jerked your head, but only caused yourself more pain. Horror pierced every muscle, every bone, it settled in your head, in your heart, it scratched and tore you from the inside.

Light began to appear in the darkness. You saw fragments of memories floating by: the first meeting with the gnomes, a walk with your mother, games with friends, your first excellent grade at school, swimming in the lake, fishing, cooking with your mother, hunting for plaidypus with friends…

The horror did not leave. On the contrary, it pressed harder and harder, squeezing your head, crushing your heart and poking around in your stomach. Suddenly, an electric crackle came from the darkness, and a bright blue beam, like lightning, shot into the nearest memory. You saw how it burst. How precious moments of the past burned in blue fire.

You wanted to scream, but your mouth was closed, you couldn’t even breathe, the scream was a desperate prickly ball stuck in your chest, breaking your ribs. You cried, cried and shook your head furiously, feeling how your brain is being burned through. The tears were salty, they reached those places where the belts dug into the flesh, mixed with the blood and burn, burn. You were on fire, you could do nothing, you dug your fingers into the armrests, you scratched with your nails, and the nails broke. You left bloody marks, continuing to scratch the armrests with pieces of nails.

A hand appeared from the darkness, holding a strange gun. The gun is pointed at you. And then a face appeared. The same, thin, even haggard, discolored, with a cold, cruel expression, with empty, indifferent eyes. McGucket looked at you, saying that you will forget everything. That you will be free. You shaked your head. The belts are were tearing you apart, you closed your eyes in the foolish hope of salvation.

A bright blue flash hit you, you felt pain and your eyes rolled back, you didn't want to, you didn't want to, you didn't want to, oh shit, oh shit, shit, please, please, begging no!!! Your brain was being torn apart, pieces were being ripped out of it, you were forgetting, painfully, quickly. You desperately tried to grab onto at least one memory, but they wouldn't let you.

Please, beg you, God, no, no, damn, fuck, please, no!!!

You felt something grab you with icy fingers, ripping you out of your own body. You flew along an electric beam, you waved your arms and screamed, you wanted to go back, but you were being pulled, pulled, pulled. You were thrown somewhere, you hited a hard, cold surface. You were in a glass flask. No, it was not a flask. You were in a gun. In a memory gun.

You turned around and pressed yourself against the glass. You saw your body and something inside you died. Your legs gave way and you fell to your knees. Your body was untied and sat there, completely blank-eyed, with this dumb, happy, blissful smile. Just a body, empty, without anything. You pounded on the glass, your fists broke, you kept punching, you screamed, you cried, but you are not heard. McGucket grabbed you and took out of the gun. You were thrown from side to side, you couldn't get a grip on anything.

McGucket handed you over to your body. It accepted you with a smile. McGucket told you to throw you. To smash you. To get rid of the memories and live free and happy. You screamed, you begged, you asked...

Your body threw you to the floor. You felt a second of free, icy fall, you screamed, you felt the flask fall and break, and you were cut into pieces. Your body was stepping on you, it was crushing you, and the last thing you heard is:

“You will forget everything"

You screamed and cried, your heart was bursting out of you, you were in pain and fear, and before your eyes was McGucket's face. You forcefully pushed the monster away from you, and only at the moment when he fell to the floor with a muffled scream, you realized that you were not sleeping. Your face was all wet. The door to your room was wide open, McGucket was looking at you.

He tried to come up to you and said something.

"Get out..."

It came out muffled. Your throat was dry. You did not look at the old man, but he said something.

"GET OUT!!!"

You screamed and swung. McGucket ran away, and you clutched your chest. Something rustled in your house, fear crawled up your spine, you pulled your knees to your chest and cried. Cried. Cried…

***

Once you found (well, the fairies found) the cultist base, there was no turning back. Well, that's what it seemed like to you then. In reality, there were many ways back, you just didn't want to see them. You convinced yourself that this was the only way available to you. An idiotic belief.

You decided to immediately go to the cultists' secret hideout. You... could hardly explain even then what you were going to do there. You didn't have a plan, not even a glimmer of an idea, you were driven by anger. A poor ally, but you couldn't help but admit: such strong negative feelings carry you away too easily.

You had no one left. You had no friends, your mother... was becoming less and less like herself, and, frankly, you were beginning to fear her. With her memories, even of what she considered "bad", "heavy", "disturbing" and "dangerous", it was as if she was losing part of her personality. You couldn't help but wonder what would be left of your mother if they continued to erase her memory.

Your only assistant was Lullaby, who, however, clearly didn't like this whole idea. However, the little fairy was still with you.

The cult's secret hideout turned out to be in the museum. It was quite easy to get there - you just had to hide among the exhibits and wait for night. You specially put on a hoodie to hide your face if something happened. When the museum plunged into darkness, you carefully got out of your hideout. You still managed to scrape together the remains of common sense, and therefore the first thing you did with the help of the fairy was find a window and open it, leaving yourself an opportunity to escape. Opening the window, you saw a group in robes approaching the museum. All your organs inside turned over in horror, and Lullaby pulled at your clothes, begging you to go home.

But you stayed. You hid behind the cart and waited for the cultists to enter the museum. You crept behind them, trying not to make any noise, hiding in the shadows, holding your breath. It seemed to you that even if a drop of sweat fell from your face to the floor, you would be noticed. Every movement you made seemed too abrupt, too loud, too noticeable.

You snuck into the secret room behind the cultists, wondering when they had time to create it? Or had it always been there and they were just starting to use it? In any case, a secret lever in the form of an ancient tablet with an eye? You just snorted then. It all irritated you.

Then... to be honest, you would not like to remember what happened next. However, you swore to yourself that you would never throw away even a part of your memories, so...

You saw a large dark hall. A chair with a man tied to it. You knew him - one of the avid fishermen, lived on the next street. People in maroon hoods with a crossed-out eye were around him. And one person with a strange gun in his hands. He was talking to a fisherman, asking what he saw on the lake. The fisherman, clearly nervous and scared, answered confusedly that he saw a gray-green long-necked monster.

The head cultist spoke with an accent. His voice was high and trembling. However, he held the gun firmly.

You saw how he turned the wheel on the gun.

Lullaby tried to pull you by your clothes.

Your heart sank.

The head cultist said that he would rid the "unfortunate" of terrifying memories.

You clenched your fists so that your nails dug into your palm.

The fisherman protested.

You swallowed hard.

The gun was pointed at the man's face.

It seemed to you that everything was happening too fast and too slowly at the same time.

The chief cultist said that the fisherman had nothing to fear. That he would forget everything and be free of fear. That he would be protected.

You bit your lip until it bled.

He certainly said it with a smile, you heard. But his voice still trembled…

A blue electric beam hit a man's forehead. He twitched, screamed, kicked. The hand holding the gun was firm and calm. And you twitched as if the beam hit you. As if you were tied up there.

Damn, it looked even worse in real life than in your imagination... The fisherman acted as if his brain was being ripped out with bare hands, as if his skull was being dug out and his memories were being torn out. You felt nausea rising in your throat, as your body stopped listening to you and became cottony.

Maybe you wouldn't be so scared if you didn't imagine your mother in the fisherman's place. Your fragile, quiet mother, who had to go through this nightmare at least twice.

When it was all over, the fisherman went limp, a quiet, blissful smile crawling across his face. It seems that this was the worst thing for you - in a few minutes the man turned into a doll. The appearance of a man, while the man himself had disappeared forever.

Lullaby again desperately pulled you along. You could not tear your eyes away from the terrible action unfolding before you. It seemed that your brain did not have time to react to your own actions. Everything seemed to be in slow motion. You carefully got up and backed away to the exit of the dungeon. The fisherman was untied. Your heart rushed against your ribs with despair. The fisherman was taken by the arms. You suddenly touched the step with your foot, you couldn't restrain yourself and quietly screamed, falling to the floor.

The cultists turned around sharply and noticed you. Everything stopped being excruciatingly slow, and further events changed terrifyingly quickly.

They screamed, broke away from their place, ran at you, their hands outstretched, they grabed the air. You ran upstairs, at first even forgetting to stand up. The steps were in the way, you stumbled. Someone's fingers almost grabbed your hood, you flew out of the dungeon.

Paintings, statues, exhibits, corridors, corridors, corridors, cultists. You almost crashed into them, slipping on the floor. You managed to dodge, run, run, run! Everyone was screaming, you didn't understand the words. Everything before your eyes was mixed into a dull mess, only occasionally appearing bright red crossed-out eyes.

They were looking. From everywhere.

You almost got lost in the corridors of such a familiar museum, but a bright lilac light looming before your eyes brought you to your senses. You rushed after the light, reached the window. A hand firmly grabbed your legs, pulling you to the floor. You hit and blindly kicked a cultist. He didn't let go. He was shouting something, through the haze you saw more and more crossed-out eyes appearing nearby. You couldn't squeeze a sound out of yourself, you just desperately twitched and fought like crazy, like a caught rat. A lilac light flew into the crossed-out eye, a man's scream rang out, in a couple of seconds you got up from the floor and flew out the window.

You fell, hit yourself, something crunched unpleasantly, everything didn't matter. You rushed away from the museum, but you knew that the cultists were also running after you. They were running, they were chasing you. They were breathing down your neck. Very close.

You ran into the forest and spent the rest of the night there, jumping back from every rustle, running among the trees. You returned home only in the morning, looking around like a robber, climbed into your room.

Lullaby flew in to check on you. But you didn't react. You hid the hoodie deep in the closet. You went to school to avoid suspicion, and every red robe, every hood, made your guts churn.

They know about you. They're looking for you.

You moved your bed away from the window - you thought the cultists' hands might grab you in the night. You tried sleeping in the closet, but realized it was an unsafe place.

You couldn't forget. The memory drain, the fisherman's blank face, the maroon robes, the electric beam, the chase. You couldn't forget.

When you fell, the lead cultist flinched. He turned around sharply, his head hunched into his shoulders. You remembered. You remembered the pale, thin face. You remembered the sunken cheeks and the uneven stubble.

You remembered the eyes, wide open, twitching, scared.

You remembered the primal, suffocating terror you shared with McGucket.

***

You took a sip of coffee and immediately grimaced, putting the cup away. What a shitty taste.

The house was quiet. Too quiet. It turns out that silence irritates you even more than noise. Who knew.

The little toaster seemed to be hiding from you. The microwave remained contemptuously silent.

You hadn't been to work for three days. It was lucky that everyone in this town was a little crazy, so when you called in the morning and said you were sick, they just took your word for it. Convenient.

McGucket left. And he took his raccoon. And it's not your fault. Yeah. You said he wasn't allowed in your room, right? You did. And he came. It's his own fault.

And you didn't tell him to leave your house. The fact that he took your scream that way is his problem. Not yours. Maybe you just wanted him to get out of your room.

Well, that's it, good, let's close the topic.

And anyway, it's better for you this way. It's quiet without McGucket. Nothing reminds you of the past. No one breaks dishes. No one builds weird robots. No one eats your food.

You ran your hand over your face. What's wrong, why do you still feel bad?

Lousy days. Lousy mood. You changed the lid of the water in the cupboard and felt a slight pang of irritation. Lullaby was sleeping, she's fine. You stared at the sweater, which was moving slightly, for a few minutes and smiled.

Let her sleep, you've driven her too hard already.

You dressed slowly, getting ready to go out. All these nightmares, this whole situation... you had to end it somehow. Of course, you had no illusions that you could destroy an entire cult on your own, you had completely given up on the idea. You could only hope that the cultists would erase their own memories so zealously that they would forget everything.

The weather was amazingly wonderful: the snow was crunching cheerfully, there was no piercing icy wind, the sky was blue, the sun... you wanted to slip at least once, but no, you reached the museum without incident. It seemed to you that the cultists could not be so crazy as to do their deeds in daylight. Besides, they had to, well, work? Or learn about new cases that could be erased from people's memories?

It's strange, but you felt practically nothing, no fear, no excitement, no anger. You just walked the familiar path, just pressed the plate with the eye, just went down the old stairs. No one even stopped you - on a weekday, there was practically no one in the museum, which people did not often visit anyway.

And yet, what an irony. The secret refuge of the cult that takes away people's memories is located in a place that memory preserves, so that people do not forget... Yes, you have never encountered greater irony in your entire life.

The hall from your nightmares was exactly the same as in your memory. Dark, unpleasant. A nasty chair with belts, you touched it without knowing why. And a small pedestal. You dug around in your memory a little and remembered that there should have been a chest here. Apparently, the memory gun was kept in the chest? But you were unlucky, the chest was not here now.

And why did you come here? You have nothing better to do. You wandered around the hall and came across several pipes sucking in air. Quickly running through the options in your mind as to what they were here for, you settled on the fact that, judging by their shape and location, these things must be here for moving memories. You chuckled. You shook your head.

Of course you went for that damn pipe, you're an idiot!

Alright though. Right now, you could easily explain to yourself what you were doing and why. Firstly, you came here to finally put an end to your nightmare and this whole story. Finding the taken memories - you thought that was the very step you needed. The last step. Secondly... if the memories are stored somewhere here, maybe you'll find your mother's memories? It was a momentary idea, full of hope and regret, but you couldn't throw it away.

You also found the Hall of Memories in the dungeon. The cultists had smeared the good door with the eye with their paint, and you were really sorry that you hadn't brought a rag, soap, and a bucket of water. Maybe it was stupid, but your hands were itching to wash that red cross off the door.

You touched the door with your hand. Well, here it is. Here is the last part of this painfully long, fear-filled, idiotic story. All that was left was to open the doors and go inside. But you did not dare. You stood there, sorting through the memories associated with all this in your head.

This damn story will end now, right? Finally, you will be able to let it go. And maybe after that, you will be able to leave Gravity Falls forever. Nothing will hold you in this town, you will finish all your business, put a big, fat period.

Once you swore to yourself that you will not forget anything. That you will cherish every bit of memory. Over the years, you sometimes thought that maybe it would be nice to forget at least something. Maybe if you forgot at least a little bit, you could live peacefully. Without fear, without nightmares, without eternal suspicions, without the inability to build a close relationship with anyone, without eternal mistrust. But you stubbornly kept remembering.

Now there is a chance to end it all. Here it is, right in front of you. And yet you hesitate. And yet you quietly ask for the door to be locked. You are afraid.

With a heavy sigh, you decide. You pushed the door sharply, just to end it all. How long can you stand in fear of closed doors, afraid of what you don’t even know? You were not like that once. And you did not want to remain like that in the future.

The first thing that caught your eye was a statue of a cultist with his arms outstretched. You were not religious, but this offended you greatly.

The second thing that offended you was the memories. They were everywhere! And, in general, you were not surprised by their number. But the memories were simply lying in huge piles here and there. Some, of course, were lying on the shelves, but still! So these creatures stole entire moments of people's lives to dump them like trash?! Even if they destroyed memories, it would be less painful!

You sighed. Okay, you won't be able to find your mother's memories today. To dig up anything here, you'll have to spend a week, and you didn't have a week. You walked through the hall, carefully trying not to crush someone's precious pieces of memory. Yeah... you expected some kind of sense of completion, but there was none. Resentment. Very much.

You found a strange device that resembled a TV. Having turned one of the memories in your hands (Manly Dan's memories. Of course, you have nothing against him, but seriously, why would they erase his memory?) You quickly realized that the device was apparently designed specifically for reading them. Interesting. Having carefully returned the memory to its place (namely, to the pile of others), you continued on. You stopped at the statue itself. You really wanted to break her nose off. Of course, you didn't, but the urge was strong.

There were memories behind the statue, too. They weren't scattered around, but rather stood beautifully, each in its own niche. You chuckled, wondering how anyone could deserve such a great honor to have their memories neatly arranged, but the grin quickly faded.

McGucket's memories.

You blinked. Of course, his memories would be here. And of course they would be in a separate place, the first head of the cult, after all. But still... you rubbed your neck. Yeah.

Yeah, you thought, reaching for the memories. Yeah, you thought, as the cold glass burned your hand. Yeah, you thought, as the giant eye above the statue opened and lit up, and you deftly threw the hood over your head. Yeah, you thought, connecting memories to the device for reading them.

How much time do you have to look through everything? Obviously, the alarm went off. However... the cultists need to process everything, ask for time off from work, run to the museum, buy a ticket, run here... and change clothes somewhere along the way. There is time.

Fiddleford Hadron McGucket. After all these years, you learned his full name. And not only his name.

You didn't feel bad looking through his memories. You probably should have felt like you were invading someone's privacy, but... you didn't care. You wanted to know. And you knew enough.

You managed to escape from the museum before you were caught. Of course, it was a shame that now you would have to hide your favorite jacket somewhere far away, well, just in case that eye was recording a video. But you didn't care. A sense of completion - at least partially, but you got it.

Even if the cultists caught you later - you were no longer afraid. You sat in your room, looking at the still cluttered living room. You felt calm and bitter at the same time.

Funny. Your whole life is one continuous funny cruelty. McGucket had originally created the Memory Gun just for himself, because he had been so scared that he thought the only way out was to forget.

And you believed it. You believed the scared, shaking, slightly pathetic man in the memories.

But the more you watched the memories, the less you believed him. He was lying. Damn it, that fear-driven man was lying to himself. He was lying that he only wanted to help himself, but then he started using the Memory Gun on others. He was lying that he wanted to help the people of Gravity Falls, but you remembered that he stopped asking if they needed his help pretty quickly. He had surrounded himself with such a cocoon of lies that he believed them, turning the lie into a twisted truth for himself. And the Memory Gun, so conveniently erasing everything from his mind that contradicted his vision of the world, helped a lot.

Damn it… you laughed. Fiddleford McGucket, you are terrible. You are a nightmare that created for yourself and only for yourself a semblance of a calm, completely controlled world. But even so, the truth broke through the lies. And you tore your brains apart more and more. And as a result, you turned into a simple old man McGucket, who had no truth left, no pain left, no nothing left.

"McGucket, congratulations. You erased your most terrible memory, the one that ruined your life. You erased yourself."

You said this to the empty living room, knowing that you could not say it to McGucket's face.

Your life was ruined because of one scared liar. Your entire beloved town was changed because of him.

Your nightmare turned out to be just a pathetic, shaking, truth-denying little man.

You covered your face with your hands and laughed louder. Here, here it is - a feeling of completion! Here, you have reached the end of this shitty story!

And you still felt bad. It was so bad that tears mixed with laughter.

McGucket was to blame for his own troubles. He was an adult; these were his decisions and his alone. Even if they were dictated by fear, it didn't matter. He brought himself to this. And let him be sorry, this is his punishment. He is not the best person.

You took your hands away from your face and looked at the ceiling. You are not a good person either. You are a coward too, and your actions are also dictated by fear.

You ran away. You abandoned your mother. And you did not take McGucket's memories from the cult's storage.

You will not show them to the old man. You were not going to bring that man back with your own hands. However, you did not destroy the memories either. If one day the stars align in such a way that McGucket finds them - so, be it. But you will have nothing to do with it.

You could say for sure, admit it, as not the best, but the most ordinary person: you despised that McGucket. Weak, shaking, trying to hide problems and throw them away, not solve them, controlling - he caused only contempt and irritation. Maybe you could understand why he started acting like this, but you could not accept it. And you could not forgive.

However, you were ready to admit: the current McGucket was not guilty of anything. Not before the town, not before you. But you were guilty before him.

You came to the junkyard only a week later. This time, not because you couldn't bring yourself to go, but because you were trying to make up for the days you missed at work. You weren't a good person, but you were trying not to lose what fed you. Besides, this week helped you calm down and pull yourself together. You also realized that the cultists weren't specifically hunting you. Lucky.

You also realized that the old man came to you, but he didn't try to get into the house, didn't knock on the door, but simply wandered around the yard like an abandoned garbage cat. Did you have to put up a sign saying: "McGucket, don't freeze outside, come inside"?

Incidentally, it's surprising that McGucket actually ended up at the junkyard. Why didn't Tate take him? Or is he only able to interact with his father under the same roof when you're around?

McGucket noticed you quickly. He invited you over, was very quiet and clearly out of place. He apologized for the raccoon not greeting you, because since it was cold at the dump, she had become very lethargic. You felt a pang of guilt.

You handed McGucket the pie you had decided to bake as a peace gift - the fairies had taught you that it was easier to apologize with food.

The old man was glad for the treat. And when you were about to apologize, he suddenly apologized first, slightly offending you. Hey, you were going to say that! McGucket apologized for barging into your room, although you had forbidden him to, for littering your house (you suspected that Tate might have hinted to him about it), for behaving badly, although you were so kind as to let him live with you. Your teeth almost wore down, you were clenching them so hard. Hell, he didn't need to apologize, you knew what you were getting into.

You interrupted the stream of apologies with one of your own. It was rather dry, but you spoke from the heart. And your heart wasn't used to wasting kind words, it had been trained exclusively in the art of fear for the last few years. But it seemed that this was enough for McGucket. He was so happy that he jumped on you with a hug. You didn't hug him back, more because it was too sudden than because of hostility or anything else.

As a result, McGucket agreed to come back to live with you. You didn't want to admit it, but it was like a weight had been lifted from your soul.

Your house became noisy, strange, and incredibly full again. McGucket was collecting some futuristic crap from the trash again, the raccoon had thawed out and was breaking dishes. Tate started visiting again. You tried to explain yourself to him, to apologize, but he stopped you, and, nodding towards his father, said that he understood. You weren't sure that he really understood, but decided to leave everything as it was.

Except for one thing: you felt power. And, using this very power, you began to force Tate to get closer to his father. You periodically drove them together to the store, somehow changed the topics of conversation so that this family finally began to talk... your efforts were not in vain: at some point, you noticed how Tate reluctantly and somewhat uncertainly helped his father with some robot. And once you accidentally caught him calling, apparently, his mother. Tate told her that his father had gotten better, and that it seemed that he could even talk to him normally.

You considered this your small victory. And with slight sadness and hope, you waited for spring. In the spring, you will let McGucket go (this isn't a hotel, after all), Tate will stop coming to you, the raccoon will stop breaking dishes, and Lullaby will wake up and be happy to know about everything that happened over the winter. And maybe the McGucket family will sort out their problems...

You tried not to think about the cult, hoping to leave it all in the past. However, two years later, you had to remember "Blind Eye" when they began hunting for the twins who came to Gravity Falls for the summer.

***

The hardest and most chaotic time in your life began with your last year of school. All you could think about was running away. You were afraid to go outside, so you basically stopped doing it unless you had to go to school. Mostly, you sat at home, shaking with fear.

The cultists were looking for you. You knew it for sure. A couple of times you noticed maroon hoods very close - although, perhaps, your brain, consumed by fear, only drew them. Scary. Scary. Scary.

Escape.

The only thought you clung to. You tried to fill your head with studying, to somehow straighten it out, but fear prevented you from concentrating. However, you were persistent, and since there was nothing left in your life except school and home, your grades were able to improve a little.

You hardly talked to your mother then. But you were sure that the memory gun was used on her again. She became more absent-minded, she forgot recipes that she used to remember exactly. She became a different person.

You graduated from school, not terribly, but badly. Although it was enough to get into a mediocre university in the middle of the country. You left the town as soon as you had the chance. And still, it seemed to you that the cultists would not let you go. You suspected the bus driver. You suspected random passengers. You suspected everyone.

You were afraid of people. Probably, everyone at the university decided that you were a little crazy. You could not sleep normally in the dorm, every sound, every creak, every voice - all this scared you. You were sick. You had nightmares. You shuddered as soon as you noticed a person. It got to the point that you could not even eat.

Finding a job was also difficult - you could hardly interact with people. You fell into a panic stupor at the sight of hoodies, you were ready to run away at the sight of red clothes.

Luck or something else was on your side once, so you found a job. In your second year, you were even able to move out of the dorm, although there was a catastrophic lack of money, you held on to your small, cold, cheap place and saved on almost everything.

Over time, you learned to take control of your fears. You tried to shove all the negative emotions deeper inside yourself, and this bore fruit - they began to dull. True, positive emotions also began to do this, but it was a small price to pay. You tried to rationalize everything that was happening to you. Why shouldn't you be afraid of the cultists now? Because they clearly settled in Gravity Falls and have power only there. They will not go further.

You were able to change your job to a higher-paying one. Of course, you still had to save, but much less. Things got better at the university. True, you could not name a single student, you did not even remember their faces. They didn't communicate with you, you didn't communicate with them. And even though loneliness began to weigh on you, you brushed it off, thinking that it was better this way anyway.

The only thing that really bothered you for a long time were letters. Your mother wrote you letters. And every letter brought back that scared, snotty kid. Brought back the nightmares.

You didn't read a single letter, and soon the flow of them dried up. You felt relief, grief, and anger all at once, and you couldn't quite say which emotion was dominant.

After college, you deliberately chose a job even further away from Oregon - you ended up on the other side of the country. You maintained the appearance of a normal person at work, but that was it. Your life was just work and home, and the occasional trip to the store, which, frankly, still terrified you. Sometimes, lying in bed, you thought about breaking away from this, trying something new... but in the morning you brushed those ideas aside every time. You were comfortable. You were convenient.

You were drawn to people. You might have wanted to communicate with them, have fun, you wanted to build relationships with them, but... you couldn't. You didn't trust them. You imagined how they would betray you. You mourned the loss in advance.

And then your mother died. You didn't even go to the funeral, some relative of hers organized everything. In fact, you remember that you had already bought a ticket to Oregon, got dressed, packed your things... but on the day of departure, you couldn't move. You sat by the front door and looked at her. Your arms and legs were so weak...

And later, you suddenly returned to Gravity Falls. And this whole amazingly fucked-up story began.

In your first spring in town, after you walked McGucket to the dump (Tate never decided to take his father with him), you started cleaning and opened the door to your mother’s room for the first time.

You found letters. Lots and lots of letters, folded into neat piles. She wrote to you until she died. She wrote, but she didn't send them. She asked how you were, worried, happy, told you about her life, about how Gravity Falls was changing. She sometimes went into memories, and you discovered with sadness that most of them, connected with you, were missing. Well, it’s not surprising, you were too active and interested in creatures as a child. Her memories with anxiety, fear, excitement and encounters with creatures from the forest were often directly connected with memories of you. You were simply erased from her mind.

But not completely. For some reason, she still cherished you, still loved you, her child, even if she barely remembered you.

In her last letter, she expressed hope that one day you would still return to Gravity Falls, that you would visit her at least once.

In the spring, you sat by your mother’s grave, and cried, smiling. You cried, trying to tell her something, but you couldn't. All you could say was:

"Here I am, Mom"

Feels like falling and snuggling in a bed made of poetry

The Art of Not Admitting a Thing (1/2)

Summary: Something's going on between Gale and Astarion... you're sure of it. So naturally, you decide to investigate. Who knew that one simple question would reveal such a mess of longing, denial, and a master class in emotional avoidance?

Rating: T Word Count: 1177 Pairing: Astarion x Gale Content: First Person Gale POV, interview format, mutual pining, yearning, denial of feelings, character study, Gale is bad at feelings, fluff, a teensy bit of angst but not much!

A/N: So here we have my first ever Bloodweave! I am both exceedingly nervous, and very excited about it. I've had ideas in mind for Bloodweave for months, but actually writing these ideas and sending them off into the big, wide world has been a rather intimidating affair. But we're finally doing it! And what better way for me to dip my toe into Bloodweave waters than by being incredibly predictable and writing yet another first person fic?

Chapter 1: "What do you think of Astarion?"

What do I think of Astarion? Well, that's a rather loaded question, is it not? Not that I don't have an answer, of course. No, quite the opposite, actually. I have too many answers, all vying for precedence. Because, you see, Astarion is not the sort of person one can sum up in a single sentiment. He is… how shall I put this? He is an equation with variables that simply refuse to behave. Utterly unsolvable.

Come now, don't look at me like that.

It’s just that Astarion is - well, to put it plainly - a lot. A relentless force of nature wrapped in silk and a layer of his own smugness. He walks into a room and suddenly you're aware of him. No, not just aware - attuned. It's all deliberate, of course. All part of the performance.

Yet, somehow, despite knowing it's all a performance, I still find myself watching.

And it's not just his presence. He's also clever, which is, dare I say, the most irritating thing about him. Not just sharp-witted, but… strategic. He understands people, knows exactly where to sink his teeth. Not just the literal ones - though those certainly warrant consideration - but also the more subtle. A smile, a look, a well-placed word. He plays people like instruments, plucking their strings just so, and I… Well, I have spent a great deal of time telling myself that I, of all people, should be immune to such things.

Alas, I am not immune. 

Which, of course, presents something of a metaphysical conundrum. Feelings, after all, are best understood when dissected. Laid bare and examined like lines in an ancient tome. One does not simply experience something without questioning its nature, its source, its… implications. No, the wise approach - the rational approach - is to study it with the same rigour that one would apply to any magical phenomenon. To categorise it, to determine whether it is genuine or merely some arcane anomaly. A peculiar resonance of the heart, if you will.

And so, in pursuit of intellectual honesty, I find myself studying Astarion with perhaps more dedication than strictly necessary. Any lingering thoughts are purely academic, I assure you. Elminster once told me that understanding the world means understanding its people, and what is Astarion if not a mystery to be unravelled? The way he moves, the way he speaks, the way he wields his beauty like a blade.

… Yes, he is beautiful, but that is besides the point. The point is–

…

I've lost the point.

That's what he does to me, you know. He derails my thoughts. I'm speaking perfectly rationally one moment, and the next, I'm somewhere else entirely, wondering if that grace comes naturally to him. If, behind closed doors, he rehearses those cutting remarks, those honeyed words.

Of course, I’m hardly special in that regard. I’ve seen him turn those honeyed words on just about everyone. He gives people what they want with such artful sincerity that they can’t help but believe him. He doesn’t mean it - not truly. And I would be a fool to imagine I’m any different. The world is his stage, and he is quite the performer.

And yet…

There are things about him. Real things. Beneath those rakish charms. I see them sometimes, in the quiet moments, when he doesn't realise anyone's watching. A weariness. A wariness. He's always aware, it seems. Of every room he walks into, of every person in it, of where the exits are. I recognise that sort of awareness. It's the kind you learn when you have been made someone's pawn for too long. When you've spent years convincing yourself that you're the one holding the strings, only to realise the strings are wrapped around your throat.

It unsettles me.

Dare I say, it even hurts me.

Not that I would ever say so. I doubt he would ever want to hear it. I doubt he would believe it.

And, anyway, it's not as if–

Not as if what?

No, truly, what was I about to say? That it's not as if I care? That would be a lie. That it's not as if I think about him more than I should? That would be another.

Perhaps I should stop talking.

…

You know, there was a time where I thought myself above this sort of thing. I thought I understood love completely. How could I not? I had experienced love in its most divine form - quite literally, in fact. My devotion to Mystra is… was… something transcendent. Something cosmic. I thought that was all love could be. All it should be. That anything less would be settling for a pale imitation of true devotion.

But lately, I find myself wondering if perhaps I’ve been rather short-sighted about the whole thing. Mystra herself appears in many forms; adapts to what her followers need. Perhaps love is similar - not always a grand, cosmic force that reshapes reality, but something more… subtle? The way a person looks at you when they think you aren't watching. The way their voice changes when you say their name. The way they make you feel like you are something more than what you were before. 

But if I did feel something - hypothetically, of course - it would hardly matter. Because what could I possibly offer him? A man who’s spent centuries under the control of another, only to find himself finally tasting freedom… What could he possibly want with someone like me? A wizard with borrowed time, carrying within him a responsibility so great that I am expected - destined - to lay down my life for it?

I’ve seen the fire in his eyes when faced with that which threatens to cage him. That fierce, burning defiance - the look of a man who has faced centuries of servitude and vowed never to be chained again. And what would I be, if not another form of binding? Another tragedy waiting to unfold? No. No, I wouldn’t blame him if he wanted nothing to do with such complications.

And yet… sometimes, I wonder.

If things were different - if I were different… If my fate weren’t already destined to end in sacrifice, would he look at me differently?

If he did - and that’s a big “if” - would I be so willing to accept that fate? To willingly embrace my end, if it meant never knowing what this - what we - might have become?

I was so sure the answer was simple. But then he looks at me, and for just a moment, I feel something I thought was long beyond my grasp. A foolish, reckless thing. It makes me hesitate.

And hesitation, well… that’s dangerous, isn’t it?

But stranger things have happened.

… Perhaps I have rather a lot to think about.

But I believe I’ve taken up quite enough of your time with these philosophical meanderings. No doubt you have better things to do than listen to a wizard ramble about matters of the heart. Besides, I have some rather important reading waiting for me. Something about… well, anything other than this conversation, really.

Masterlist can be found here!

No Pressure Tags: @roguishcat, @davenswitcher, @silverfangmarks, @sparrowbard, @chonkercatto, @stokzr , @trafalgarussy , @asterordinary , @bite-me-tonight , @transparentkittenheart , @vividiana (thank you for being so supportive with this one <3), @bg3-fanfic-reblogs

I'm writing this post because I don't want people in other countries to imagine an ever-present warzone when they think of Ukraine.

Think of your ordinary life. You go to work, go out with friends, build plans for a summer holiday. You have neighbours, maybe you don't know all of them well but they live next to you and you say hello when you see them. You live in a good apartment, with all amenities, modern appliances and stylish furniture. You pay bills for heating, water and electricity. Maybe you're renting out or it's your own place. You are a part of a globalized world although you don't think about it on such a scale.

And then one day there are explosions in your city. At first it seems shocking and unusual. But you hope it'll end soon. But they don't stop. They become more frequent. You witness your hometown get demolished. The places where you spent your free time or ran errands - the windows get shattered and the walls begin to crumble. It looks weird in the middle of a modern city.

Soon the explosions happen so often that you have to go and live in the basement. You, a person, who has a modern home, must move to a basement, with other people like you, where you don't get enough light or fresh air, let alone enough tap water or a decent place to sleep.

And then you witness death. In fact, many deaths, not just one. You get the news of people you knew, maybe your neighbours or relatives, getting killed. They are just gone. At some point you become so desensitized, the news of a dead body lying outside doesn't shock you. Sometimes you have to go outside and help other people dig out the bodies from under debris or bury them. Sometimes you see other apartments being on fire and you can't do anything. Nobody can and there's no point.

The shops are closed and you become so desparate that you start hunting pigeons for food. You share tiny portions with other people because, even though the conditions are terrible, you remain a human.

You lose everything that you owned and cherished. And it all happens in three months. You basically lose any sense of belonging to a modern society in three fucking months. That's what happened in Mariupol. When you see the photos and videos of people in dirty ragged clothes, looking like they came straight from the middle ages, in front of a ruined street - it's easy to think of them only like this. But they never lived like that before. They lived just like you. They had everything you had - TVs, computers, cars, internet, medical care, shops with stylish clothes. And then just in three months russia made them turn into dejected shadows of themselves who forgot what normal life feels like. That's a real tragedy and that's what russians have done and are still doing to us. They are ruining our normal life which isn't much different from your normal life.

Yakko usually puts his little siblings to bed, but what happens when he falls asleep first?

Collab with @cringetownusa! They made the art and supplied many of the ideas for this fic. This was done for the monthly art/writing prompt of their Discord server, Yakko's Ball Pit! We have a lot of fun there! Please come join us!

So I'm never going to recover.

Salt to the Wound

pairing: simon riley x fem!reader

word count: 8.7k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, sex being used as a coping mechanism, heavy angst, no use of y/n, unprotected sex, established relationship, complicated grief, mentions of death, displaced aggression, marital issues, panic attacks, religious speak, mention of calories, unhealthy coping mechanisms, mention of dead relative, simon being pretty aggravating, purposeful omission of tags to avoid spoilers, & did i mention this is all angst?

author’s note: oh my god, this has been such a bitch to complete! i’ve been working on this for months in between my nasty smut fics bc this truthfully made me so sad to write, so i had to take breaks in between. there is only angst; i cannot hold your hand…you must walk alone…i’m sorry. read at your own discretion.

divider by @plum98 & for my taglist click—>here!

Simon can't move on from Johnny's death.

"Johnny's dead."

You remember the line clear as day.

In fact, you remember almost every single detail about that day. 

The weather had been docile, a change from the feverish heat the day before.

The air was slightly damp.

The weatherman chimed that a promising stormcloud was brewing in the distance, which could bring a couple of inches of rain, typical of January.

Your neighbor's son came to your front door, meekly asking to retrieve his ball from your backyard. 

The postman had hand-delivered your new dress, complimenting the new planters Simon built in the front yard.

Your favorite body wash that smelt of fruit ran out. 

You had made pie, apple instead of your usual cherry.

You had accidentally poured too much cinnamon in the apple mixture, shooing Simon away when you finally pulled it out of the oven because it was a "bad pie."

Simon had never heard such ridiculous words.

No pie is a bad pie.

He shoveled a spoonful into his mouth as you went to answer the house phone, quietly laughing as he hissed at the hotness. 

Then it happened. 

"Johnny's dead," the voice on the other end of the line announced, shattering the tranquility of the moment.

They were the only words that flowed through the phone line.

The very words you had selfishly cursed for the past year.

The words that had single-handedly eroded everything you and Simon had built together.

Because that day, on every level except physical, the Simon you knew had died with Johnny.

His mind merged with the very soil Johnny lay in, leaving his physical body on the surface while his soul wandered beyond your grasp. 

So out of touch, so disconnected from reality. 

Simon had become a shell of a human. 

He wasn't living, merely surviving—going through the motions. 

It was devasting to watch the man for whom you gave your heart slowly disengage right before your eyes. 

Bit by bit, piece by piece.

Until there was no more man left to see.

Just mere flesh and bones.

It was such unfamiliar territory since Simon relied on you as he relied on oxygen to breathe.

You were his sustenance, his reservoir. 

An eternal flame that burned with an unyielding passion. 

Now it seems he couldn't get far enough away from you.

However, it wasn't always that way. 

The evolution of his disconnect hadn't been linear; it was ever-changing. 

Some days, he would act just like your sweet Simon before; other days, you felt like he resented you.

Resented you for what? 

You're not entirely sure. 

You didn't kill Johnny.

But with how Simon reacted to your mere presence, it felt as though you might as well have.

You can still recall Simon's noticeable change, apart from his defining silence, which occurred exactly two weeks after Johnny's death.

The bitter taste of anise, accompanied by the sharp taste of mint, coated your tongue; experimenting with new cocktail recipes had become something of a hobby for you.

Kept you occupied while Simon worked in his office.

You had insisted he take some time off, some real time off.

Price wouldn't let him return to work, so he supplemented by hiding in his office all day and doing paperwork and other such tasks.

It wasn't entirely what you had in mind, but it was the best he could give you.

He would have gone truly mad without his work to drown out his thoughts.

So, you bit your tongue every morning as he trudged out of the sanctity of the warm bed you shared, leaving you alone in the silence, and headed straight to the room across from yours that had him so consumed.

It was funny, really. 

You always thought that perhaps a pretty woman would eventually come around and attempt to steal your Simon from your hands, not a spare room with cream walls. 

Digression aside, you selfishly enjoyed the time alone. 

Simon would only speak a couple words to you daily, the silence between you growing thicker with each passing day.

You fault him none, though it was exhausting trying to help someone who despises being helped to any degree, even if they so clearly needed it.

That was why you enjoyed the alone time. 

Though it could be occasionally dull.

So, finding a hobby to fill your time was not just a choice but a necessity for your sense of fulfillment.

Even if it consisted of the occasion day drinking.

You'll repent later.

Now, you just needed the burning taste of rum down your throat.

Your face sourced at the combination before you scribbled, 'absolute shit,' on a small notebook you kept to keep track of all of your combinations and rated them in excruciating detail. 

Hearing his office door creak open, you shoved the notebook into your pocket. 

Not because you cared if he saw, but because his office door opening earlier than ten-forty-five startled you, abruptly shifting your emotions. 

You heard his heavy boots thunk against the vinyl flooring, inching ever so close to the kitchen where you stood. 

Your heart quickened from anticipation, and you tried to steady your breathing, not wanting to give away your guilt.

"You eaten?" His voice is deep and strained as he stands still across the island.

You stay completely still, refusing to budge even a little. Instead, you choose to shake your head from side to side slowly.

"Can pick up pizza?" He suggests.

His presence now stirred a strange mix of emotions within you.

He would never lay a finger on you.

It was the news that had thrown everything off balance, leaving you both in a state of discomfort and awkwardness.

Johnny was dead.

And you could feel his haunt everywhere.

"Pizza's good," you say softly, pretending to adjust a tilted bottle of tequila.

An uneasy silence lingers between you for a moment, and then you finally turn to meet his gaze.

He looks…like shit.

You let out a soft sigh as you take him in fully.

He has dark circles under his eyes, tinged with shades of purple and blue.

His once bright blue eyes have lost their luster, and his lids now hang heavy and fatigued.

His hair is unkempt, and his beard is starting to grow, giving it a scraggly appearance.

"You don't look so good," you find yourself saying without much thought.

"Just tired," he mutters, swiping his car keys off the counter.

You move to stand. "You've been working like crazy," you say, gently pressing your hand into his shoulder.

He tightens at your touch.

Whole body going taut.

You try not to take it personally.

You fail.

"Yeah…I, I'll get the pizza," he murmurs, moving towards the front door.

Then he leaves without a goodbye. 

You thought it was just bullshit.

What the articles said about coping with a loss.

Dealing with grief.

They all seemed like distant concepts.

But, he was so evidently disconnecting from you.

You felt your head swarm at the admission.

Simon was isolated, lost in a vast ocean of grief and despair. 

And you didn't know if you were enough to reel him back in.

Three weeks later, you're cozied on your sofa, a blanket draped over your legs, the soft cushions embracing you in their cozy warmth. 

The clouds, heavy with water, have transformed from soft white to an ominous smoky gray, a stark contrast to your cozy sofa and warm blanket. 

You have your favorite tea in your favorite mug, a book wide open though long forgotten on the cushion next to you.

Your eyes are now captivated by a trashy British reality television show, a guilty pleasure that adds to the coziness of your setting. 

Usually, Simon and you snuggle up and watch the show.

Always on the edge of your seats, eagerly anticipating the outcome.

Will the man stay on the island, sacrificing his share of the prize fund, to be with the woman he's grown close to?

Or will he choose the money over her?

It's always more enthralling with Simon.

Though, you're not sure where he is.

He didn't say where he was going when he left about half an hour ago.

And you didn't bother asking.

Maybe that makes you a lousy wife.

Or perhaps, you're just exhausted.

It feels like you're tearing your own flesh, trying to get him to answer anything. 

You guessed the latter.

The television crackles to life, the sound of synthesizers and strings filling the room, creating a sense of suspense.

"Henry's decision will be…" The host's voice begins.

You find yourself sitting up, the hot cup of tea between your hands, and your eyes glued to the television.

"…revealed right after the break," the host chimes as the camera cuts to a condom commercial.

You sink into the couch with a deep sigh as you hear the front door open.

The thud of heavy boots moves into the kitchen, near earshot.

You turn to see Simon grabbing a glass and slipping it under the tap for some water.

Your teeth dig at the flesh of your cheek, your foot steadily tapping on the vinyl flooring.

He takes a deep sip of the water, sucking it between his teeth and swishing it around his mouth before he spits it back in the sink, running the water to clean out the saliva now lining the metal sink.

You'd rather be shot than deal with the taciturn.

It was egregious.

You felt awkward in your own home.

With your own husband. 

"Simon," you say with nerves on your tongue.

He turns towards you, taking a proper sip of the water.

"Sit. Our favorite show is on," you chime, a warm small growing on your lips.

He shakes his head. "Not feelin' it tonight, sweetheart."

"Come on," you urge, pointing towards the television with your pointer finger. "We're about to find out if Henry is staying or leaving."

"I'm—I'm not in the mood," he mutters, only with slight annoyance.

You decide to push your luck. "Come on. Would be nice to see you." 

"Stop asking," he cuts sharply, setting the full glass in the sink.

You narrow your eyes slightly. "Why are you being so mean?"

"Christ, I already said I wasn't in the God-damned mood." 

Ice and venom coat his words as his hand slams into the countertop.

He didn't yell, but you wish he did.

So, you could get some type of God-damn emotion from him.

Instead, his voice was low, commanding.

A voice a lieutenant would use on his inferiors. 

Not on his wife.

His eyes widen as your lips purse.

"Well then," you murmur, eyes still on his. "Guess that settles it."

He releases a shallow breath, opening his mouth before shutting it promptly.

Your eyes squint as you take a deep gulp.

But instead of being a man and apologizing, he leaves for his office like a fucking coward.

You're left there, eyes still on the spot where he stood, cheek now bleeding onto your tongue as the television announces, "...leaving the villa."

And you can't even find it in yourself to care.

It feels awkward when you finally gather enough courage to slither into the bedroom.

You had been paralyzed to the couch even a couple hours after the whole ordeal.

Not a word was breached between either of you. 

He had shut himself in his office while you had become one with the couch.

What a match made in fucking heaven.

You slip into some soft pajamas, then into the bed, the heavy comforter offering you comfort.

You rest your weary head on the pillow, eyes already heavy with emotional exhaustion. 

Before you fall into sleep, you hear the same thud of his boots streaking along to the bedroom, where you catch a glimpse of him slipping something into his sock drawer. 

The warm brown of the book cover in his hand catches your eye.

There was no mistaking what it read on the front: large, gold Cardo font with a cross hovering above the text.

"Holy Bible."

He shoves some loose papers overtop of the Bible and shuts the drawer, moving the flick of the light switch off.

His boots came off in a thud as he slipped off his shirt and jeans, slipping into the bed far from you.

Not a word was shared.

You should sleep, but instead, your mind is tormented by what you saw.

Had Simon prayed?

Prayed to a God he didn't even believe in.

If he hit his knees, splayed open the Holy doctrine, and prayed within the hopes that, by some miracle, he should get to see his brother again.

"Simon," you murmur lightly, regretting breaking the silence as his name leaves your tongue.

"Yeah?" He asks, back to you.

"Were you...praying?" Your question comes out fatigued.

"Ye—Yeah," he mutters skittishly.

You say nothing more.

Your weary eyes drift closed as you pull your blanket taut against your face, peacefully drifting off.

That night, you're plagued by a disturbing dream. Your teeth fall out one by one, leaving only protruding gums. A looming figure stands behind you, tightening your throat with fear.

You spring awake at 3:37 am.

You are drenched in your own perspiration, eyes lingering over to where Simon should be.

He's gone.

You should feel slightly relieved, but you only feel overwhelming dread.

Your skin crawls with a sense of unease, as if something is lurking just out of sight, watching you.

You blink, and it's March.

Two months since Johnny's passing.

You thought the time would pass achingly slow, but time has unfortunately moved forward at an exceptional pace.

It always felt like time should stop.

People should stop.

Because why do they get to carry on and lead an everyday life as if you aren't getting swallowed, eaten alive by the confines of your own home?

It's not fucking fair.

You are not only having to mourn the loss of a good friend but the loss of your own husband, who's still breathing.

It felt like some cruel joke was being played on you that you found no humor in.

But, regardless of the loss, you had to keep moving.

For yourself.

Or you'd probably drive yourself into madness, and nothing good ever came from a mad woman, or so they say anyway.

It was a Friday night, and you had decided to try a new recipe from your grandmother's cookbook. 

You couldn't remember the last time you had a homecooked meal that wasn't full of M.S.G and far too many calories.

But tonight, you were about to change that.

With a simple button swipe, your groceries appeared at your front door, and you got straight into it.

The large russet potatoes were peeled and cut into chunks. They were then plopped in heavily salted boiling water and smashed along with many tablespoons of butter and cream.

Chicken thighs were seasoned and marinated for half an hour, not a minute less, before being seared on cast iron. 

The asparagus and parsnips were lightly oiled before being pan-seared, and then they were sprinkled with salt, pepper, and parmesan cheese.

And before you knew it, you had transformed a handful of ingredients into a feast that was elegantly presented on some fine china you snagged from the cabinet for you and Simon.

You took a seat, admiring your hard work and savoring the delightful aroma of the chicken as it filled the room.

Hearing the same thud of the boots you had come to ignore coming from down the hall, your head shot up to see Simon with his keys in hand. 

"Where are you going?" You ask, curiosity and a bit of disappointment evident in your tone.

"Out," his voice was snipped as he marched towards the front door, not sparing the dinner a glance.

You sit up with a frown. "I made dinner, Simon."

"Not hungry," he says mechanically, like he was planning on shooing away any plans you offered. "Don't wait up for me," he murmurs, shoving on his coat, moving out of the front door, and pulling it closed.

And suddenly, the optimism you had clung to like a lifeline died, wholly and truly, leaving you in a void of despair.

You sit at that comedically large dining table for what feels like ages, pushing your vegetables around with your fork until they're practically mush on your plate.

There's nowhere else to go.

You feel utterly stuck as if the weight of the disappointment has rooted you to the spot.

Your head flings to the front door, as keys get shoved into the keyhole, before the door is pushed open to reveal a flushed Simon.

"Where have you been?" Your voice is warm yet firm.

He doesn't respond, only throwing his keys the bowl and moving to the fridge to grab a cold bottle of water.

"Simon," his name comes off your tongue almost in warning.

"What?" He turns to you, face red from the cold.

"Where the fuck have you been?" You snap, the sound of your chair scraping against the floor as you stand up, adding to the tension in the room.

His eyes widen at your tone.

Your mind was ablaze with conflicting emotions.

Tongue hot with accusations.

"Were you with another woman?" You tack on, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Christ, no," he says immediately with a scoff. "Why would you even ask me that?"

You knew it was ridiculous.

He may be a fool, but he wasn't a cheater.

"I never have a God-damned clue where you go!" You step from around the table, voice rising. "You're my husband!"

"You're my wife!" He tosses the bottle of water into the sink. The plastic crinkles against the metal, as his voice rises with yours. 

"Then act like it!" You yell, throwing your hands in the air. 

You're both practically heaving with anger.

Seathing with so much untouched and unsaid verbiage.

The silence hangs between your two before you hurdling yourself into his arms, slamming your lips onto his with so much devotion and heat.

His hands grip your cheeks tight as his tongue slides over your teeth and any piece of flesh he can.

You pant into his mouth as his hands move to grip the backs of your thighs, quickly pulling you up to lock your legs around his waist.

He moves to place you on the dinner table, standing between your legs, and you reach out behind you, sweeping your plate full of mushy food and wine glass onto the floor to make space.

The glass shattered, and the china burst into a thousand tiny pieces with a loud crash.

Neither of you cares in the slightest.

His fingers fidget with the hem of your loose top as your lips practically turn blue from losing circulation.

It had been months since you and Simon had been intimate.

Well, since...

You didn't think you needed it during this time in mourning.

Hardly ever thought about it.

Because you two rarely exchanged words, the silence between you became a barrier.

How could you be expected to share such an intimate moment when your words seemed to fail you?

Somehow, you found yourself yearning for it, a deep-seated longing that you couldn't explain or ignore.

It felt like an insatiable desire you couldn't shake.

And when his teeth sunk into your lips, you felt the soft, erotic sting of your skin break; all bets were off.

"Simon," you mewl into his mouth. "Please."

He doesn't answer in words.

Just moves to remove his belt, tossing it to the side where the leather slaps over the broken china and mushed vegetables.

Strips himself of his jeans, boxers following suit.

His fingers move back to grip the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head, throwing it on the table, lips moving to skim between the dip of your breast as he moves to grip on the fat of your waist.

Your hands move to thread through the back of his air, earning a deep groan from him that rumbles against your skin.

"Shouldn't be touchin' you like this," he mutters into your skin, rough hand skimming down your stomach to slide under your pajama shorts.

"Why?" Your breathing is labored as his fingers push down into your cunt, underwear sticking to the skin due to your dripping arousal.

His finger presses into you further making you release a shallow moan.

He opens his mouth to speak before promptly shutting it, hesitating for a moment before finally speaking.

"Just fuckin' yelled at ya, bug," he grits out the first part, like he's angry at himself for ever raising his voice, no matter if you did the same thing, then says your nickname warmly.

"I yelled first," your voice is sweet like honeydew as your hand moves under his chin, gently forcing his chin up so he can look you in the eyes, and he wants to kill himself even more.

You're an angel.

A fucking divine entity, a wellspring of goodwill.

He doesn't deserve you now.

He's not sure he ever has.

"Needed to hear it," he mumbles, slipping your shorts and panties off in one pull, eyes taking in your arousal-soaked cunt. "Don't deserve ya," he murmurs, with a hint of despair.

"You do," you assure, sitting up more to kiss the corners of his mouth.

He turns his head to the side, almost in guilt; you don't have time to question why before he's lining himself up with your entrance, hand coming to rest on the back of your neck for support as he slips inside you gently.

There's no rush, no urgency to get off.

His movements are slow, unrushed.

This wasn't just a quick fuck.

It felt like he was trying to get a tangible connection to you.

Just bodies melting into each other with ease and familiarity. 

Your moans echo off the walls.

Fingernails digging into Simon's back through his shirt.

The barrier does nothing to meddle with your touch.

Nothing could ever diminish your touch.

He lets out a curse, baring his teeth as his fingers dig into the tender flesh on your hips.

His name comes off your sweet tongue in a plea.

You're about to fucking erupt.

Stomach on fire, skin slick.

He shoves his finger in your mouth, collecting some saliva before using that as a lubricant to stimulate your clit.

You let out a string of incoherent words as the stimulation hits you everywhere, all at once.

His head dips back as he comes inside you, eyes shutting closed.

Your breathing is ragged as you both come down from your highs.

However, when you breathe, you feel tightness in your chest.

A squeezing pain that only elongates.

"You okay?" Simon presses his hand into your shoulder.

You nod weakly. "Must have overexerted myself," you jest.

You suck in a deep breath, desperate for more air or something to suppress the pressure you feel. 

Simon quips a brow, opting to move away from you to grab you some cool water. "Drink," he commands, nudging the glass to you.

The water feels like a relief flowing down your throat and is so refreshing you can feel it move through every vein in your body. 

"Better?" He asks warmly.

"Better," you agree, nodding as water drips down your lip and onto your chin.

But you can't shake the feeling something is off.

It almost feels like an impending doom looming over you.

"Feel like a shower?" He taps your thigh in question.

You nod with a smile, forgetting what you were even concerned with.

You shake off the feeling of doom as you wander behind Simon to the shower.

But doom is inevitable, a fate that cannot be escaped.

The following month, April, brought fickle weather with chilly rain and bright blue skies.

Along with the fruition of tulips and daffodils came your plan.

To finally speak to Simon about Johnny.

Even just thinking his name made you feel like you were indulging in some dark code.

It felt wrong.

Even though it was far from.

You had planned to talk to him a week ago, but you chickened out at the last minute, your fear of confrontation winning over your resolve, instead opting for an awkward conversation about cats.

Safe to say he had no idea you had other objectives at play.

Just thought you were a little kooky.

He had been more receptive to conversations since your sex-capade.

Felt connected to you again.

What a perfect time to ruin it all.

He's sitting at the dining table eating a sandwich.

With no pickles because he despises them.

You smile softly.

You know him so well.

Approaching him slowly, you pull out a chair adjacent to his.

"Nice weather," he says, looking out the window at the blue skies.

"It is," you hum in agreement, shifting in your seat.

"Might go for a run later." He takes a bite of a sandwich, and you chew on your cheek. "You want to come?"

"We should talk," you blurt, deciding you need to cut the cord as soon as possible before you chicken out again.

He quips a brow, sets down the sandwich, and wipes the crumbs off a rag. "About?"

You chew on your lip nervously. "Johnny."

His eyes lock to yours in an instant, and his chewing halts.

And you can feel anxiety claw up your clothes.

"You just—you seem," you try, stumbling over your words.

You knew you should have practiced more.

"We aren't having this conversation." His tone is low and carries a finality.

"It might help if you talked to me." There's desperation in your words.

"Stop," he holds up his hand like he's giving you a fucking command.

"I'm not a fucking dog," you grit. "You can't just give me a command to shut up."

"I know you're not a damn dog," he mutters, his voice a strained whisper.

"Good. Glad you could clear that up," you sit back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest. "Since you can't clear up anything else."

You knew you shouldn't have said that the second it slipped off your tongue.

It's defensive.

You were supposed to sympathize, not defend. 

He stands up abruptly. "Not taking this shit."

"What shit, Simon?" You throw your hands up in a shrug. "Your wife asking you to speak to her?" You let out a dry laugh. "That shit?" 

He moves around to swipe his keys from the bowl, not uttering a word.

"Where the hell are you going?" You stand, moving over to him.

His eyes bore into your jaw clenched. "Anywhere but here."

And he was gone again.

Just leaves when times get too trying, apparently. 

You stand there, your eyes brimming with tears.

What was to become of you two?

You let out an anguished yell before going to your room, hands planted firmly into the soft mattress, before letting your emotions overcome you.

You sink onto the floor, head in your hands, as you prop yourself on your elbows.

Knees becoming bare from the shitty carpet while your shirt moistens from your tears.

This—this can't be it.

What was life to be without your husband?

You'd be subject to destitution.

A life of isolation, a terrifying prospect, filled with unbearable loneliness. 

Bile crawls up your throat, threatening to escape as the thoughts flood your mind. 

Your heart pounded violently, threatening to crack your ribs. 

You can't breathe.

Throat too tight to get any air through.

A stabbing pain erupted in your chest like it had before, but this was worse.

You clench your chest, tears spilling faster due to the physical pain.

You don't even process Simon hovering over you, hand clenching your shoulder.

Your head turns, and you see his mouth moving, eyes wide in concern, but you can't process what he's saying.

You can only focus on the crushing sensation in your chest. 

His eyes are scrambling, watching you push your mouth into the mattress to release a deep, tormented groan.

You were in unbearable pain.

He wastes no time grabbing and holding you in his arms, bridal style. 

You don't have it in you to scream at him.

You just sob into his chest.

This was surely going to kill you.

He grabs a stray blanket and tosses it on you quickly before swiping his keys off the counter. He then moves outside and places you in the car.

He drives in a rush, reckless.

His eyes darting over to you, curled up in a ball in the passenger seat, sobbing, hand resting over your chest.

He doesn't know what to do.

He can't crawl in your body and demand your body to be kind to you.

So, instead he brushes his hand over your wrist, attmepting to give you some comfort and he pushes the pedal further to get you to the hospital.

Desperate to heal you.

He pulls into the ER parking lot, not bothering to straighten his wheels, sprints around to your side and gently places you in his arms, all but sprinting to the ER door.

The receptionist greets you before she hears your cries and pleas.

"She, she needs help," Simon frantically says. "Please."

Nurses flood out from the large door that seperates you and Simon from the rooms.

"Sir, you'll need to wait out here," one of them says, helping you into a wheelchair and wheeling you back through the door.

"She's my fucking wife!" He shouts, though to no avail.

The door shuts in his face, shoulders dropping in defeat.

He doesn't sit, he can't.

The thought of him being comfortable while you're in agony disturbs him.

He instead stalks around the room, hands wiping across his face.

Surely, this wasn't...

Could it have worked so soon?

He grabs a trashcan, promptly puking in it at the thought.

It, it has to be a grim coincidence. 

Yeah, yeah.

Has to be.

He waits in the waiting room for what feels like ages before a doctor comes in asking for a Simon Riley.

"Is she okay?" Simon searches the doctor's face.

"She's stable," the doctor says, his voice steady and reassuring. "For now."

"For now?" Simon echos the question.

"We ran some blood tests and did an ECG on her heart," the doctor reads over his papers. 

"And?" Simon says impatiently. 

"Does she have any familial history of heart disease in her family?" the doctor asks, scribbling on the paper.

"No, no," Simon stutters. "Why?"

"The ECG results showed that your wife has coronary heart disease," the doctor says.

Simon's eyes widen, his fear palpable. "Heart disease? What—what does this mean?"

"The arteries in her heart have become too narrow, which reduces blood flow to the heart. There are treatments available to manage the condition and improve her quality of life," the doctor reassures Simon as he sees him start to get frantic.

"Are you talking about fucking surgery?" Simon's hands move through his hair anxiously, his body tense with worry.

"Not necessarily. We can start with medication," the doctor says confidently. "A standard dose of Atorvastatin daily can help manage her cholesterol and fat levels." The doctor messily scribbles the prescription on a paper and tears it off.

"Along with some lifestyle changes to help manage her condition. If needed, we can discuss other options, like angioplasty or surgery. But first, let's see how she does with the medication." He hands over the prescription to Simon.

Simon grabs the paper, nodding his head. "Alright. Can I, can I see her?" His voice is desperate.

"Of course," the doctor nods his head reassuringly. "Follow me."

The doctor leads Simon through the hallway until he reaches your room, carefully opening the door to let Simon step through.

His stomach drops, a wave of concern washing over him, when he sees you.

Eyes swollen and red from your cries.

They hang low from your apparent exhaustion.

"Simon," you greet him with a weak smile, the familiarity in your voice comforting him.

Your voice is weak and raspy.

You look sick.

And he can't handle it.

"Hey, I'm okay," you assure, as you see him examine you, worry written on his face. 

"I know you are, bug," tears brimming his eyes; he moves over to you, gripping your hand tightly. "I know you are."

To you, it felt like a source of comfort amidst the chaos. 

And that's why Simon said it.

But deep down, he knew.

Nothing could undo what he had done.

No amount of praying, begging, or bargaining could change that.

He had selfishly sealed your fate.

And now, all he could do was wait.

It had been two months since your diagnosis, July.

Things had been decent in that regard.

No better, no worse.

The medication proved helpful.

It reduced the pain you get in your chest, so that was nice.

Over the two months, you persistently urged Simon to join you in counseling.

For your sake.

For the sake of your marriage.

At the beginning of July, he finally agreed, a hopeful sign after a turbulent period that had you ready to leave him.

"What are you doing?" Simon roughly asks as he follows you to your bedroom, hands anxiously running through his graying hair. 

"I'm fucking leaving, Simon," your voice quakes, tears spilling down your face as you struggle to pack a duffle bag.

"Don't, don't do that," he stumbled over his words, moving over to you. "Just, just calm down," he placed his hand on your shoulder in comfort.

You shook his hand off before eyeing him. "Calm down?" You repeat his words. "You want me to calm down?"

"Yes. Please," he pleads, hand hovering on the drawer handle.

"You want me to calm down?" You repeat again, your voice dripping with anger. "Fuck you." 

His eyes widen; clearly, he's taken aback. 

You finish packing, wiping your tears with the back of your hand as you lean against the nightstand. "Simon, you need help," you say, grabbing your wallet. "You need to see someone. Anyone."

He exhales a sharp breath. "Fine."

Your head shoots up, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "What?"

He wipes his face with his hand frantically. "If that's what it takes," he shrugs, nodding. "I'll get the help. Just, just don't leave me, bug."

"Nice to see you again." You snap out of your daze as the therapist greets you.

"Likewise," you murmur, glancing over at Simon sitting beside you.

His leg is tapping a mile a minute.

He's nervous.

You're surprised he actually managed to get in the car and come here.

"Hello, Simon," she sticks her hand out for Simon to take. "I'm Doctor Shaw," she greets with a warm and inviting smile.

Simon takes her hand, giving her a firm shake, and nods in acknowledgment. 

"Please," Dr. Shaw brings her hands up. "Follow me."

You and Simon both stand, a sense of anticipation in the air, as you follow Dr. Shaw to her office.

The office looks the same as it has since the last two times you came by yourself.

Warm and inviting.

Only some outside light spilled into the room, opting instead for a warm orange hue from a small lamp illuminating the space.

It exudes a sense of calm, wrapping you in its soothing embrace.

"Please," Dr. Shaw gestured to the couch as she sat in her chair. "Sit."

You and Simon both take a seat and you grab a pillow to hold. Simon leans timidly, his shoulders hunched and his hands fidgeting.

"So," Dr. Shaw begins, eyes moving to Simon. "Simon." His eyes flick to hers. "Talk to me about some of your hobbies."

Simon sits back on the couch, shifting uncomfortably. "Like to run, I guess," he mutters. 

She nods with a smile. "Good, good. Exercise is good. It can help clear the mind," she scribbles some notes on a notepad. "Now, I would like to know more about you two and your marriage," she hums.

Simon takes a deep gulp, and now you're shifting into the cushions.

"How are we doing in that regard?" Doctor Shaw purses her lips as she fixes her pen to start taking notes.

You shift in your seat, glancing at Simon next to you. "It's been...hard," you breathe out nervously. 

"Interesting," she scribbles in her notebook. "Can you tell me when you think it became difficult?"

You gulp. "Um...a couple, a couple months ago."

"Can you think of any factors that may have caused difficulties?" She tips her head back, offering you a comforting smile.

You tap your foot against the soft blue carpet, finger tapping anxiously against your thigh.

"Simon's friend, um, passed away in January." You choke on your words halfway through before completely finishing the sentence.

Her eyes flick to Simon. "I'm so sorry. That must have been very difficult for you, Simon."

Her voice grinds Simon's gears.

Simon is pessimistic, a cynic.

Has an excruciating time finding sincerity in anything anyone says. 

This is no exception.

"Simon," she begins. "If you're willing, I would like to know more about your friend."

"Thought we were here to talk about my wife and I?" Simon's tone is dry without hesitation.

She nods lightly. "We are. It could be helpful for your wife to hear you talk about some of your feelings," she sits up in her chair.

"Did my wife tell you that?" He sits back in the chair, shoulders taut.

She quips a brow. "Tell me what, Simon?"

"That I don't share? Is that why I'm here?" He glances at you, already sinking further into the cushioning of the couch. 

You don't say anything, opting to stay silent. 

This was a setup.

A ploy to psychoanalyze Simon's psyche.

"You brought me so she could pick my brain," he voices plainly, pointing his finger lazily towards Dr. Shaw.

"No. I wanted you to come so we could fix our marriage," your voice is full of irritation.

"Because it's all my fault it's bad. Right?" His voice raises louder than he intended. 

His eyes soften as you widen in surprise, your waterline brimming with tears. 

"Shit," he exhales. "I'm, I'm sorry," he says to you with care, closing his eyes slightly as he wipes his face. 

"I understand this is difficult for you," Dr. Shaw begins, voice solace. "And I want to acknowledge your discomfort. It takes courage to confront painful emotions," she shifts in her chair, leaning forward.

Simon's eyes narrow. "Spare me the shrink bullshit, doc," his voice is critical. 

"It's important to express your feelings, Simon," The doctor urges, to Simon's dismay.

"Why?" He retorts coldly. "Because you won't get paid if I don't?"

Dr. Shaw sits up straighter as Simon lets out an irritated sigh.

"Look," he turns to you. "I know you think this is helpful, but it's not," he says with as much delicacy as he can muster.

"You aren't even trying," you murmur.

"Sweetheart, this is just...not for me. Never has been," he holds your hand softly. "If this helps you, keep coming. I'll pay whatever she charges, okay?" He moves to stand, pressing a soft kiss on the top of your head. "I just...I can't."

Your head flicks up to meet his as his voice cracks slightly, eyes glossed over, revealing his vulnerability.

"See you at home," he bid you goodbye, not sparing the doctor another look before stepping out of the room.

"There is no right way to grieve, and I can understand your frustration," Dr. Shaw says to you, offering a small smile. "Just be there for him when he needs you. He'll come back around," she affirms, turning to grab your receipt for the session.

"Thanks," you say meekly, hand reaching for the receipt.

"This isn't your fault," she confidently says before you step out the door.

You give only a small smile in response. 

It was strange.

You and Simon had fiery love. 

Two timid souls burning with such passion, desire.

A flame to a flame. 

It was a love that felt like sparks igniting each other, creating a blistering and rapid heat that was impossible to ignore. 

But in the end, the flames of love can burn each other out, consuming everything in their path, including the ones who ignited them.

Despite your prayers, you couldn't shake the feeling that this was your inevitable reality.

The rest of the summer and the beginning of fall blur through to September. 

You were seething with anger.

The kind of anger that has you near in tears. 

Simon had missed your sister's funeral, the one event that you had hoped would bring you both closer in your shared grief.

You had told him multiple times throughout the last week where and when to meet you.

He assured you he would be there for you.

He was a fucking liar. 

You practically spring out of your car, parked next to his idle truck, taking heavy steps up to the house door.

The door pulls open, slamming against the house's side, making Simon awake on the couch.

The sight makes your eye twitch.

He lay dormant, several beer bottles strung across the coffee table.

And to think things were going pretty well between you two, but this was beyond belief, unforgivable.

While you were crying over your sister's casket, he was here.

Sleeping his drunkenness away. 

"Don't tell me you're drunk," you ballistically say, tossing your purse onto the kitchen table with force. 

"I'm not tellin' you a thing," he monotonously says like this is some joke. 

"I needed you, and you were proper drunk?" Your voice rises. "I—I needed you, Simon," your voice shakes. "You gave up on me."

He says nothing, just lies there.

Your jaw ticks.

You rush over to him, forcing him to stand. "It's been—get up! It's been months, Simon!" You shout out, your voice filled with desperation. "Johnny is dead—gone," you snap out, eyes locking onto his. "He's been gone, and so have you. Except Johnny has an excuse. You don't," your chest is heaving. 

Simon's eyes widen, noticeably aggravated. "I—" 

"People die every day—and don't get me wrong, I am so fucking sorry, so fucking sorry, that it was Johnny—" You begin, sincerity in your voice as tears prickle down your cheeks. 

"Don't—" He starts in a warning tone. 

"Truly, I am. And I get it; you didn't need things from each other. But I need you. And I need to know you won't just abandon me when times get tough for you," your hands move through your hair, attempting to soothe yourself before more words flow out. "You need to grow the fuck up and talk to me like a grown-ass man and not a fucking pubescent boy!"

"Fuck, fine! Simon snaps. "It fuckin' killed me when Johnny died. I—he was my best friend, my brother. My only family. Gone." Tears spill down his cheeks as his arms flail around. 

You stand silently before your tongue comes out, wiping away the salty tears coating your lips. 

"Simon, I know you don't believe this, but we are family—me and you," you breathe out, trying to control your breathing.

"It broke me," he whispers solemnly. "Split me in half."

"I get that," you begin nodding your head, emotion clogging your throat. "But I need you to be whole."

"I, I can't," he stares at the floor, his hand closing into a tight fist. 

"Simon. You, you can't let it fester. It's consuming your life. Our marriage." Your desperate eyes drift to him, filled with fear. "Let me help you," you beg. "I can help put you back together again." 

"No. You don't understand," he lifts his head back to look at you, his eyes pleading for comprehension. "I think I'm broken beyond repair."

That was before.

It was December now.

You find yourself in the chilling hospital room, tears streaming down your face as you ponder the disintegration of your marriage with Simon.

You suffered a massive heart attack some days ago. 

A complication from the heart disease. 

It had weakened your heart muscle and lead to some brain damage. 

The doctor said treatment options were no longer available. 

So, instead of that, he switched his focus to comfort care.

Essentially, he's making it easier for you to die. 

It's strange. 

You know you're dying.

And you thought that death brings people together.

But you and Simon might as well be light-years apart.

You glance at Simon sitting in the chair across from you, anxiously tapping his foot. 

He's nervous.

But not about you dying.

About something else entirely.

You can tell.

You can always tell.

Your eyes flick to the hospital room door, opening wide before your doctor beckons Simon to come outside with him. 

Their conversation is muffled, but you catch the tail-end of it. 

"It would be best to take her home. Keep her comfortable."

Now you have the confirmation. 

You're going to die.

Just not sure when it will come.

You just have to sit and wait while slowly withering into oblivion.

"Hospice care can be provided to support and comfort her during this time," the doctor adds, his voice a distant echo.

A hot tear slips down your cheek, pooling onto your hospital gown.

You see Simon nodding his head along, finger resting on his chin in thought.

You want to scream.

And cry.

And punch someone.

And pray.

And move back home.

But you can't.

You feel utterly and hopelessly helpless in your own body. 

Life works in a mysterious, fucked up kind of way.

It's not fair. 

It's not linear.

And it's certainly not always kind.

All that's left to do is do what Simon did when Johnny died, go through the motions, the daily routine that feels like a never-ending cycle, and eventually, your physical body will leave you.

Your mind will wander far beyond anyone's grasp, yearning for a connection bond that cannot be.

MONTH ONE: January

You took up journaling.

Your hospice nurse suggested you take up the hobby.

So you did.

It wasn't as therapeutic as you thought.

It was just recounting what you ate that morning and what you planned to do the next day, the mundane details of life that seemed to stretch endlessly.

Boring, menial thoughts.

You didn't have much to say.

The only thing you thought of these days was what would happen in death.

Simon was kinder now.

Said he wanted to leave with you. 

You feel guilty for having to leave him alone.

Even though you have no choice in the matter.

You hope you don't see him in the afterlife. 

His life belongs here.

On the surface.

You've had some trouble walking.

Even fell in the hallway while trying to reach for a side rail Simon had installed.

You cried and pleaded for him not to help you up.

He managed to gather your heaving body in his arms and held you tight as you sobbed into his shirt about how you didn't want to die.

He didn't sleep that night.

Mind was too riddled with guilt; instead, he prayed.

With a cross to his heart, he hit his knees and closed his eyes, murmuring into the darkness to any entity who would listen. 

You thought it was nice when you turned to your side to hear his hushed whispers. 

He was praying for you to get better, you thought.

You didn't even realize he was praying for forgiveness for his own sins. 

MONTH TWO: February

Your journal hobby has quickly dissipated as quickly as it began. 

It's become harder to move.

You have to rely on Simon to do measly tasks. 

It's humiliating, to say the least.

"You okay, bug?" Simon asks as the warm, sudsy sponge moves across your back, shining you clean.

"Yeah," your voice is hushed as your lips flatline. "I can do it," you assure, reaching for the sponge.

"You sure?" His eyebrow lifts. "I'm happy to—"

"Just give me the fucking sponge," you grit, ripping the sponge away from him to scrub your arm.

You find you're weaker than you thought. 

You can barely hold up the light sponge to clean yourself. 

Your hand sinks down into the warm bath water before you attempt to pull it up higher, over and over, until you toss the sponge over the lip of the tub.

It hits the tile, releasing water and bubbles on the floor.

Your head drops into your hands, tears mixing with the bath water.

"It's, it's really happening," you heave into your hands. "I can't even lift a fucking sponge, Simon," you say, disgust coating your words. 

Simon leans forward, hand grazing your back. "I'm so sorry, bug," his voice trembles.

You turn to look at him, with red, puffy eyes and slick tears slipping down and into his beard. 

"Don't apologize," you affirm with a sniffle. "You didn't do this to me."

He almost throws up but chokes down the bile to speak. 

"Can I, can I finish?" He almost pleads.

You give him a soft nod and a gentle smile. 

He grabs a fresh sponge and repeats the same process, this time being more gentle.

Like he's purposely trying to remember the feeling of your body under his hands. 

It makes you feel loved again.

MONTH THREE: March

You were slowly withering away right before your own eyes. 

You didn't even recognize yourself in the mirror.

Your skin has gone pale and blotchy and started mottling.

It's cold to the touch, void of any warmth.

"I'll be right back, okay?" Simon cooly says, pressing a kiss on your head.

"Where are you going?" You ask curiously. 

"I told you I had to pick up Price's kid from school," he says warmly. "You don't remember?"

"Yeah. I, I remember," you nod your head, plastering a reassuring smile.

You really didn't remember.

Memory is a slippery thing these days, evading your grasp like a wisp of smoke. 

The moment something touches your brain, it usually escapes within an hour. 

It's a constant source of frustration, a relentless storm that rages within you.

Makes you want to throw a chair across the room.

He leaves, not even realizing the question has you spiraling.

Proding and pinching at your skull's skin to regain control of your brain. 

You must look insane.

But to you, this is the only thing that makes you feel sane and in control of your body.

The feeling of inability is one of the most haunting prospects.

The hunger for control gnaws at you, a ruthless creature that refuses to be sated.

But it's slipping through your very fingers like sand.

Fast and all at once. 

MONTH FOUR: April

By mid-April, your body feels hollow.

You can't do much of anything.

Though you did find some peace with your morality. 

Finally, you came to terms with your reality. 

And then, a spark of courage ignited, urging you to step out of the house for the first time in a while. 

There was an unusual, almost compelling, need to visit Johnny's grave.

You had only done so once, but it would be nice to leave some flowers.

Your hospice nurse drives you and waits in the car as you find his grave slightly disheveled like someone had messed with it.

Maybe even crawled out of it.

You're too tired to investigate.

You sit in the soft dirt, legs crossed as the sun beats on your head.

The lull of sleep licks your brain and makes your eyes close and unclose lightly. 

You yawn, stretching your arms out before the feeling of sleep becomes too strong. 

You find yourself lying next to Johnny, separated only by a few feet of dirt. 

You feel calm, peaceful even. 

Though when your eyes shut for the last time, you don't see the bright, ethereal light you imagined.

You see nothing but darkness. 

And smell brimstone.

It couldn't be. 

This wasn't the heaven you were promised, a place of eternal peace and joy. 

It was a cruel joke, a betrayal of the highest order.

You were supposed to be in a place of eternal love.

An incomparable beauty. 

This looked more like—

"Bastard sold you out, m'afraid," a voice croaked in the darkness.

The figure was indistinct, a mere shadow in the darkness, but its presence was suffocating, a palpable sense of doom that felt all too familiar, like a nightmare you couldn't wake up from. 

"Who—who are you?" You speak into the darkness, not paying much heed to what he said. 

"I shall not speak my name, my dear," the voice remarks. "You shall find out soon enough," he assures, pure humor coating his tongue.

Your voice trembled with fear, barely audible in the oppressive darkness. "How—how am I here?" You managed to stammer, your terror evident. 

A heinous laugh comes from the dark and shoots into your eardrum. "Your husband called upon me some time ago," he says. "He wanted his friend back, so he offered me your soul in return for him back." His voice is simple and casual as if it were ordinary. 

Your heart thumps in your chest, and your lungs deflate quicker than they inflate. 

"N—no. Simon...he loves me," you try to contradict. "He—he wouldn't do that," you speak into the darkness, voice tight. 

"Loves his friend more," he casually says.

Your eyes widen as tears begin to pour down in a consistent stream down your face; you try to move your arms but find your arms are magically constricted to your side. 

"Don't worry. We'll have fun—you and I," his tone is insidious.

Simon had bartered your life for his own selfish volition and damned you to an eternity in hell.

That—that serpent. 

What kind of diabolical monster would do something so heinous.

He promised you a lifetime of love.

A baby that you would share.

A tangible tell of your love.

He was a false prophet. 

When did he find time to do this deal?

Oh. Oh.

He did act skittish that night. 

That—that night that you asked about him praying.

You just assumed he was praying to God to help him cope by perhaps showing some signs of Johnny.

Help him deal with the trauma in any way he could. 

He was instead striking up a deal.

And it wasn't with God.

mini author’s note: do share your tearful thoughts in the comments!

BaBeee

english ver thnks to @amaikuraiworld Prev

Next