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*tagging!: @underworldmarkusgirl1 , @the-badass-penguin , @shifterbee , @lunashifts if you wanna join in! I hope you don't mind the tags!
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Tags: @cutekindacrazy @katiawidow @valeriasdream @auroraaura-11 if you wanna!
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ethel (20) was reported missing by mary-anne cain in early march, 1991. while she had been spending a lot of time with her new boyfriend, logan harvey phelps (23), she still made time to talk with and visit her mother at home and it was irregular for mary-anne to go without hearing from her daughter after more than a day or so. the pair were staying at a hotel for some time, often spotted by other residents as they came and left their room at late hours, often times noticeably inebriated by alcohol and/or illegal substances (heroine, psychedelics, etc), or caught in domestic disputes. the evening prior to ms. cain’s report was when the two set out to rob the first national bank of alabama with ethel in the getaway car and logan with a duffel bag he’d managed to shove roughly $50k into. phelps shot an officer in the shoulder as he made his exit from the bank; this officer would chase phelps down the sidewalk and into an alleyway where his vehicle was located, ethel in the back. she witnessed him get shot twice in the back as he attempted to enter from the passengers side, dying almost instantly. later, the same car was found 10 miles from the cain residence, abandoned, and the money recovered.
ethel was still spotted at the hotel, this time with an unidentified man, with whom she engaged in illicit acts involving drugs. the last time she was seen in person was the evening of march 15th in a winn-dixie parking lot in arlington, texas, said to be kidnapped by an unidentified man — standing at roughly 6’2” with blonde hair and blue eyes — who “knocked her unconscious and shoved her into the back of his black pickup truck.” nothing more was heard about ethel in shady grove until a newspaper in madison, texas was faxed to their police department. the article spoke of a recent raid on a gentleman's club in aldine called "the red velvet swing," already seedy and a health inspector's nightmare, which ran a secret prostitution ring out of its back rooms. and ethel was part of it. pictures of her in compromising positions were found all around the building, advertising her as a "filty, dirty slut who would do anything on her knees -- among other things." her conservative hometown thought it pitiful that someone so virtuous and full of promise could fall into a black hole of putrid fornication with anyone who would show her a good time; they put it together that after her father had died in a fire, ethel had given in to despair, feeling disgusted and betrayed by one once considered to be a town role model -- now a pariah.
why? the plea of her voice echos at the back of his mind. whispering, shouting, SOBBING. ethel's is not the only voice that implores to know WHY. ethel is not the only one that has asked it of him. different eyes blend together behind his, different mouth shapes all curving in that same, fearful way. when isaiah looks at her now he sees them, all of them— the VICTIMS girls that had come before. once inviting, warm, almost loving. . . he is now nothing but cold. the rage which embodies him means to bite and burn. if they would just FUCKING OBEY this wouldn’t happen. this wouldn’t keep happening. why? why must they always stray from him? why must they always betray him?
disgust twists his face as trembling hands make contact; rather than shove her away, a bruising grip finds her wrist as he yanks her toward him. his gentle facade is one she’s lost the right to. “you wanna touch me now? thought you were sick of it? huh, isn’t that what you said?” with the PUTRID LOATHING in his voice comes a violent shake of her already quivering form. his free hand at once rises, fingers pressing into her jaw, thumb applying pressure to her throat. isaiah’s teeth bare, the mask having slipped too far to be recovered. “I LOVE YOU, and you deny me. and you have the nerve to ask me why? maybe you should have said YES TO ME.”
she should have known better than to ask , it's true . greedy girl , nothing is ever enough for you , is it ? you should be so lucky to have him at all , ungrateful lamb . this is what happens when you ask for more than you deserve & soon you will be left with nothing at all . isaiah reaches out & she's foolish enough to think that , just for a moment , he's going to give her what she wants . no . this is your punishment . he squeezes a pained yelp from her & ethel draws back against his strength -- against the touch she'd been stupid & selfish enough to deny , only to crave it in its absence like the spoiled child she is .
pathetically , her lip wobbles when she's forced to meet his gaze . attic walls shift around her , wooden floors rocked by invisible waves which knock her right into him . ethel looks him in the face , her voice small : ❛ i jus' wanted you t' hold me . ❜ desperation turns to horror as handsome features contort before her ; he is her father , burning alive . the faint smell of charred skin stings her nostrils . he is logan phelps , a bleeding corpse , just as she'd left him . he is god , bringing down his almighty fist . she chokes on air with his thumb jammed in the hollow of her throat & an aching sob tears through . ❛ isaiah -- ! stop , please stop , 'm sorry ! 'm sorry ! ❜
fuuuuck i just realized that the future idealized version of myself cant exist without current me being the catalyst for change and doing hard things. has anybody heard about this
“It was like walking into the sun, being with you. It was like walking into the sun for the first time after a terribly long winter.”
Azra.T., "You are the warmest place I've ever lived in."
summary. your daughter says her first words.
pairing. dad! henry winter & daughter. huband! henry winter x wife! reader.
warnings. canon divergence, fluff
The living room was warm with late light, one of those crisp spring days when the sun hung low and golden, catching in glassware and gilt frames. The windows were open just enough to let the breeze carry in the scent of wisteria from the garden Henry had cultivated with cold precision over the past five years.
It was the first time they'd all been in a room together in what felt like lifetimes.
Francis curled in an armchair with a drink that had started as wine and drifted somewhere into whiskey. Marion sat on the rug cross-legged, looking oddly serene. Richard leaned against the bookshelf, flipping aimlessly through a volume of Baudelaire. Bunny, never one for silence, was rifling through the snack tray, making comments about the merits of the olives (“Too salty, but the oil’s good. Greeks knew how to preserve a fruit, I’ll give them that.”).
Camilla and Charles were on the loveseat—he too rigid, she too distant. Camilla wore a long ivory cardigan that looked soft enough to be expensive. Charles had already had two glasses of wine and was working quietly through a third, his eyes glassy, his mouth tight.
And in the center of this odd constellation: Henry, in his armchair, with his daughter beside him on the floor.
She was small—chubby-kneed, in a little cotton dress, absurdly neat—and she was hovering around his feet like a planet circling a sun. Her hair was tousled from a recent nap. Her focus was fixed entirely on him.
“She’s going to be terrifyingly smart,” Camilla said suddenly. Her voice was soft, but it carried. “Look how she watches him.”
Henry didn’t look up. He was watching her, too.
“She already is,” he murmured, brushing a lock of hair from his daughter’s forehead as she climbed into his lap without ceremony.
The others had gone quiet.
It had been like that all afternoon—a strange kind of watchfulness among them, as if they were all collectively trying to understand this new version of Henry Winter. One who let a toddler muss his collar and wrinkle his shirt. One who smiled—smiled—when she clumsily handed him a coaster like it was an offering.
And then, clear as day, she looked up at him and said:
“Dad.”
There was a pause in the room. You could hear the glass Bunny was lifting clink against the table.
Charles turned his head just slightly.
Francis blinked. Richard’s eyebrows lifted. Marion smiled.
Henry went perfectly still.
His daughter looked up at him, expectant and unaware of the small rupture she’d just caused in the atmosphere.
Camilla’s expression changed almost imperceptibly. She reached for her wine but didn’t drink it.
Bunny, as always, broke the silence:
“Well hell, little genius! Say Bunny, come on—‘Buh-nee,’ huh?” He crouched down, extending a bit of fig. “Say Uncle Bunny. I’ll take you out for gelato. None of this no-sugar crap your dad probably feeds you.”
The baby ignored him entirely and climbed into Henry’s lap, nestling into his chest as if she'd always belonged there.
Henry—visibly moved in the smallest, most private way—touched the back of her head with something between wonder and disbelief.
“That’s new,” he said, to no one in particular. His voice had that rare break in it, that breath-catching pause like something raw had risen just under the surface.
Charles raised his glass slightly, without a trace of irony.
“To new things, then.”
Francis looked between them all and muttered, “God, are we all old enough for this now?”
Richard laughed, the sound surprised out of him. “Apparently, yes.”
Camilla looked at the baby again—then at Henry. Something unspoken passed between them. A trace of the old world, the long corridor of what they’d been through. Blood, snow, secrets. And now this.
Henry caught her gaze. For a moment, his expression opened in a way almost no one ever saw.
“She doesn’t know anything,” he said softly. “Not about any of it. She just… chose me.”
Camilla nodded. Her eyes were slightly glassy. “Of course she did.”
The light had gone gold. The room had gone quiet again after the baby settled in Henry’s lap, the word still echoing faintly in the air—“Dad.”
A word so small, and yet so enormous. It had dropped like a stone in a pond, rippling through each person differently. Especially her.
Henry’s wife sat just behind them on the edge of the couch, legs tucked beneath her, her body turned instinctively toward the moment. She hadn’t moved—not when the child said it, not even when Henry spoke back. Her expression hadn’t changed dramatically, but her stillness said everything.
She was watching the two of them—father and daughter—together in that suspended silence. Something soft passed across her face. Not jealousy, not quite. Something more nuanced. A quiet awe. A little ache.
She loved that her daughter loved Henry. She always had.
But there was a particular loneliness in realizing she was witnessing a bond that was uniquely theirs—not shared, not triangulated. Just the two of them. Her child had chosen him—instinctively, deeply, with that primal simplicity children possess. And Henry, who had never let anyone in without a labyrinth of conditions, had responded like a man waking up to light.
She swallowed once and smiled, softly.
“Well,” she said, finally, gently, as though trying not to disturb the moment, “I think she’s been saving that for you.”
Henry glanced over his shoulder at her. There was something unguarded in his eyes—grateful, almost. Which in Henry’s world was seismic.
“She chose her moment,” he said quietly. “As always.”
Their daughter, now fast asleep against his chest, shifted slightly. Her small hand was clutching the fabric of his shirt in that unconscious, possessive way infants do. Like she knew exactly who she belonged to.
Henry’s wife watched the two of them for a long beat, then rose from the couch. She crossed the room, stepped past the stunned-but-softened Greek class, and stopped just beside Henry’s chair.
She reached out and touched her daughter’s back—slowly, tenderly—then let her hand rest lightly on Henry’s shoulder. She didn’t say anything right away.
But the contact said what words couldn’t.
I see this. I see you. I’m proud of you. And I love you, even if she loves you first.
Henry looked up at her.
She smiled, brushing his hair gently off his forehead.
“You don’t have to do anything. That’s the whole point.”
Then she leaned down and kissed the top of his head. He closed his eyes—not in submission, but in some strange, unfamiliar peace.
Behind them, the others had begun to talk again—softly, carefully, the way people do after witnessing something holy. Francis made another dry joke. Bunny was trying again to get the child—who had just woken up—to say his name, now whispering to her like a conspirator. Camilla was watching everything with that still, cathedral-like calm she always had, while Charles poured another drink and watched the floor.
Fuck it I'm nostalgic for the old creepypasta fandom.
The Mansion AU made no sense world building wise, despite that there were two distinct genres.
1. Slenderman was this deep woods eldritch deity, his thoughts, feelings and motives were only something that could be guessed.
He entertained and held his minions captive, letting their most violent urges manifest in an antagonistic environment, because all blood they spilt would vicariously feed him.
And if his will wasn't heeded, he would contort the human form into unnatural angles, and rearrange them just to prove a point.
2. For some reason this ancient entity entered his retirement era and got empty nest syndrome.
He took in those who had been (reasonably) outcasted from polite society, and gave them a safe albeit antagonistic place to live, because obviously the mental health services had already failed these people.
And sure, most of them have a casual almost romantic relationship with murder, but whose children are prefect?
The most reliable way to tell which genre of fic, was if Jeff getting choked slammed into a wall was a credible threat to his health or the comic relief gag mid chapter.
Either way, it was peak escapism for me when I was a teenager, and now as an adult I'm asking if anyone can recommend me some fics, cos I high key miss the nonsense.
Also fanon Hoodie and Masky were so ooc you could palette swap the fuckers and they would be legally distinct characters. In fairness that was everyone and it was a vibe, but those two got it the worst.
ellievsbear
areudirty
2087
tangentwithtanner
romaincrisis
yousharknotpass
titsay
dailybridgerton
