cadnis oneshots so i can get some f*cking sleep

even more little drabbles

helloooo everyone happy wednesday!! welcome to this lil variety pack from yet another ask game on tumblr

this one is from a list of touch prompts and tw's will be before each!! enjoy :)

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anonymous asked: 35 w chansaw

chansaw, 35- kissing their bruises and scars
tw for death, mentioned violence, mentioned blood/gore

"Damn, Sawyer, what the hell happened to you?" Heather asks. Veronica glares down her ghostly form, but she knows it's withering at best and downright pitiful at worst.

"Can it, Chandler."

"Well, now, what did I ever do to you?"

Heather clearly isn't expecting Veronica to break down in tears. She freezes, floating aimlessly a few inches off the ground while Veronica practically rips her clothes off and throws them as far away as she can get with a shriek before stalking off to the bathroom.

"Jesus, Veronica, you're gonna scrub your skin off," Heather says when she sees how aggressively Veronica is trying to wash her face.

"Good," Veronica growls, scrubbing even harder. Heather watches in concerned silence as more tears stream down her face in rivers to replace the ones she's trying so desperately to wash away.

"Veronica, seriously, what happened?" she asks, using what little ghost strength she has to shut off the tap.

Veronica is forced to look up. She's violently confronted with her own reflection. Ash and blood and gore in her tangled, messy hair. More on her ears that she didn't manage to wash off. It coats her neck and her arms and legs and everything everything. The hollow, empty, dead look in her eyes.

"He's dead," she sobs.

"What? Who's dead?" Heather asks quietly. "Ronnie. What happened?"

"JD. JD's dead," Veronica chokes. It's the first time she's said the words since... it happened. She was fine helping the police look for everything that remained of her former boyfriend. Was fine filling out a witness report. Was fine watching the police tell Bud Dean. Was fine when Mac tackled her in a hug and cried in relief that she was okay. But now, all alone in her bathroom, is when Veronica Sawyer shatters.

"Jesus," Heather whispers. "Sit down."

"I can't-"

"I said sit down, pillowcase," Heather insists. Veronica is still probably too afraid of Heather even with her being dead. She obediently sits on the closed toilet and watches as Heather struggles her way through wetting and applying cleanser to a washcloth.

Her touch is cold, when she gently tips up Veronica's chin and ghosts (so to speak) her fingers across her cheek to tuck some hair behind her ear.

She gently scrubs away the dirt and muck, occasionally folding or bunching up the cloth when part of it gets too dirty to actually clean anymore.

"Why aren't you mad at me?" Veronica says, a disgustingly pitiful waver in her voice as she looks up at the ghost in red.

"Because you are," Heather says. "There are things you come to understand when you die, Veronica. As tempting as it is to be a bitch and fuck up your life, you're already doing plenty of that to yourself. And you're not the one who killed me."

"I gave you that drink! I knew he wasn't messing around, I didn't even look inside it-"

"Because you didn't think you needed to," Heather says calmly as she wrings out the cloth and leaves it to dry. "You might have known he wasn't totally joking, but you also thought you could trust him."