#And Nightmare cannot concentrate on anything but The Horrors

[somegrumpynerd]

Epic would try to make a good first impression with his best bros boss, but nightmare is a little distracted with the smell(?) of nightmares and sleep deprivation on him

Anon you are so right, he'd wanna make a great impression on Cross's weird employer/ adopter situation but there's no way he can hide the terrible state of his mental health

Cross thinks the meeting didn't go well because Nightmare couldn't understand a word Epic said. Nightmare thinks the meeting didn't go well because he was so distracted by how much repressed negativity this guy was putting out. Epic thinks the meeting went great 👍

Honestly Nightmare wouldn't care anyway, he doesn't think it's any of his business who Cross is friends with as long as he's happy. His boys are adults, they don't need his permission for anything* as far as he's concerned, but he probably will ask about Epic from time to time after this...

[reidandweep]

Stitching

Spencer Reid x Reader (female)

A/N- Much like Adam Driver, I have been a huge fan of Matthew Gray Gubler and criminal minds for years. With quarantine, I decided to re-watch the show from the beginning and I had some inspiration. My writing tends to take a while but if you have any requests or idea for Spencer Reid, please send them my way.

Word Count- 6286 words

Warning- Angst, mentions of violence and torture, fluff, tears, and the usual criminal minds details.

If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge? -William Shakespeare.

QUANTICO, VIRGINIA

“Good morning my lover and friends. As of 8:45 am, yesterday morning, four bodies have been found across the Washington State area. Locations confirmed to be Pomeroy, Baker City, Salem, and Mill Creek. All victims were very similar in physical appearance; Caucasian, red hair, brown eyes, approximately 5ft 4’.”

Garcia swiped her tablet to display family photographs of the victims on the screen. The team watched, in the debriefing room, as they scanned through their own tablets; reading through the details. Spencer’s eyes flittered over the images as his fingers scanned across the words in his paper file; still adamant on not working with technology like the rest of his team.

“What about the cause of death? How were they found?”

Garcia shivered at Rossi’s question.

“It’s not a pretty image. Each victim was dismembered at the elbows, knees, neck, and stomach. Further cuts were made vertically down the stomach and across the face, arms, and legs. Not deep enough to cut through bone, but deep enough to bleed out. Where the unsub cut our victims, he then sewed them back together.”

Emily looked up at Garcia.

“Are you saying the lacerations were made before the victim’s died?”

“Precisely. Each autopsy report came back the same with the cause of death pointing to the direction of blood loss; specifically, from the throat.”

The team looked at the new images before them. Multiple pictures appeared on the screen, showing the bodies of the victims. The pictures showing the women laid out in the same pose, thick thread holding together the pieces of their corpses. All had their eyes closed, except one.

“Garcia, the last victim, zoom into her face.”

Garcia did as Spencer asked.

“Her eyes are closed.”

Spencer nodded, glancing towards JJ as she spoke.

“Meaning that he felt remorse for this murder.”

Derek scrolled through the pictures on his tablet.

“The other three victim’s eyes are open, indicating that he wanted them to look. To watch what he was doing, whatever it may have been.”

Spencer looked across the table at the questioning faces.

“So, what changed between the third and the fourth victim?”

Hotch stood from his seat, indicating the others to grab their belonging.

“We can discuss further on jet. Wheels up in thirty.”

WASHINGTON STATE

Being greeted by the local police department in Clagstone, Spencer and the team began their investigation into the murders. Spencer did not know what it was, but the stitching on the bodies felt familiar. Like he had seen them before.

Looking up from his files, Spencer watched as Derek walked into the room, ending a call with who he could only presume to be Garcia.

“Garcia has just completed background checks on our latest victim. Lily Trent visited local film screenings at the Southview Centre religiously, to watch horror movies in particular. Seems like the girl loved anything horror and Halloween; according to her roommate and her computer history. It seems that are other victims did also.”

Spencer stood from his seat and walked towards the whiteboard at the back of the room. Writing down the details Derek stated, his brain began to filter through the relevant information needed.

“Halloween is ranked the ninth most celebrated holiday in the world. With different interpretations of the holiday occurring according to country and culture. Wearing costumes at Halloween did not even become an occurrence until 1585, with the first instance recorded in Scotland.”

Derek chuckled at Reid’s excitement. He knew the boy loved Halloween.

“Well it all looks like they were pretty huge fans of the holiday and horror films. Maybe our unsub was too.”

Spencer looked down at the photos in his hand, scanning his memory for any correlation.

“Maybe, it’s not just horror, but a particular film. If all the victims were presented in a certain way, maybe the unsub is trying to replicate what happened to a character in a particular film.”

Derek crossed his arms over his chest.

“I’ll call Garcia to search through all the victims search history to see if any particular horror films come up in each one. Do you know of any films that the unsub could have replicated?”

Spencer shook his head.

“I can collate his actions to hundreds of films but, the method of torture and look of the victims, I can’t think of one horror feature that pinpoints all that the unsub has done.”

A thought unexpectedly popped into Spencer’s mind. Derek cocked his head at the sudden halt from the resident genius.

“But I know someone who might.”

UNIVERSITY OF WASHINGTON

“The importance of genre in film alters many of the other aspects. The characters and their narrative arcs, the music score, cinematography, the edit, and so much more. Sometimes genre even dictates the director who signs onto the project. Dennis Dugan would not have a directing career if Adam Sandler stopped making comedy movies. Because that is what he directs. He doesn’t direct comedies; he directs Adam Sandler comedies. Which, in my opinion, are a whole genre on their own.”

The class chuckled.

“Genre plays a part in everyday life. Sometimes, your day will be led by romance, or grief, or action. There may be drama, or comedy, or even silence.”

The class looked on in concentration as Y/N walked across the floor. If someone who did not attend the college walked past the classroom, they could’ve presumed that she was a student. She looked young enough.

“It controls the way the characters talk, act, and move. How the plot thickens and pushes forward and…”

The doors at the back of the auditorium opened. Y/N looked up at the sound of the intrusion to see figures that she could not recognise, and one that she did.

Clearing her throat, she continued.

“And how it even ends. We shall leave it at that today. What I want you to do in the meantime is research a genre in particular and come up with examples that counteract the stereotypes that have been enforced upon the genre itself. Hand it in to your professor first thing Monday morning. Thank you.”

Y/N watched as the students collected their things and filtered out of the room. The figures waiting till she was only left before they walked down the steps.

Coming to a stop in front of her desk, Y/N crossed her arms and waited. Spencer stepped forward with a crooked smile on his face.

“Hi Y/N.”

Y/N couldn’t help but giggle.

“Long time no see stranger.”

Spencer’s cheeks burned at Y/N’s words. The team shared looks between them at the unfamiliar display. They had seen Spencer blush at people before, but not for a long time.

Spencer cleared his throat, preparing himself to act professional.

“This is Dr Y/F/N Y/L/N. Y/N travels across the country to guest speak at different universities on her topic at hand. She specialises in film studies, more importantly the focus of characters and genres. If I can’t connect the unsub’s actions to a film, Y/N most definitely can.”

Y/N smiled at Spencer’s praise.

“Nice to meet you all. So, what are you here to talk to me about Doc? Obviously, you’re here on a case and if you are asking for my help, I’m guessing it’s going to be pretty gruesome.”

Spencer blushed at the nickname; caught off guard by the word slipping of her tongue.

Sending a raised look towards Reid, Hotch began to explain why they were there.

“Were looking into a case of connected murders. All victims were found to have been mutilated and tortured in the same way. As well as showing resemblances in their physical appearances. With research, we’ve found that each victim was particularly fond of horror films and Halloween. We would just like for you to take a look and see if you could recognise if the ways in which they were harmed stemmed from a film in particular.”

Y/N nodded her head.

“Of course, anything to help.”

She reached for the files from Spencer’s hands, ignoring the tablet pushed in her direction by JJ.

“Sorry, I prefer to use paper. I only really use technology for my lectures or to watch films if they cannot be purchased in physical form.”

Derek smirked, shooting looks to his team, as his eyes landed on Spencer. He never thought he would meet a technophobe like Reid.

Y/N scanned through the pictures and documents, looking in detail at the lacerations at hand. She identified the similarities between the victims, as her mind swirled through the images and characters from the films, she knew held similarities.

“What were the names of all the victims?”

Emily looked towards the woman.

“That information is classified.”

Y/N did not blink at her abrasiveness.

“Were any of them called Sally?”

The team looked perplexed at her question.

“No. Why that name in particular?”

Y/N continued to scan the pages as Rossi questioned her.

“Because the unsub isn’t replicating anything from a horror movie. The unsub is replicating the physical appearance and staging of a character from an animated movie. A Disney one to be more specific.”

A light bulb flickered in Spencer’s mind as he stared at Y/N in realisation. The hair colours. The stitches. It made sense now.

“The Nightmare Before Christmas.”

LOCAL POLICE DEPARTMENT

“The Nightmare Before Christmas is a 1993 American stop-motion animated musical Halloween-Christmas fantasy film directed by Henry Selick and produced and conceived by Tim Burton. It became a cult classic during the early 2000s with orchestral concerts occurring every year to celebrate the spectacle of the film.”

Spencer indicated for JJ to change the monitor as he and Y/N stood in front of the team to explain the information.

“Originally, the story began as a poem written by Tim Burton. Both narratives follow the protagonist, Jack Skellington, into his journey to Christmastown, and how he tries to make Christmas his own. The character in question that your unsub is replicating is the love interest of our protagonist. Created by Dr Finkelstein, Sally is a ragdoll-esque character whose body is covered with stitches to keep her together. The form in which all the women were found is identical to this scene in the movie.”

The screen changes to show the scene in question; paused at the precise moment to prover her point.

“All red haired, all Caucasian, all eerily the same. The stitches are exactly the same and the pose in which they are in the pictures are also.”

“We now know which film our unsub is mimicking, but how can we produce a distinguished profile of our unsub? All we can say is that between his third and fourth victim, he suddenly began to feel remorseful of his crimes.”

Y/N looked towards Spencer, waiting for him to speak as he knew more details about the case.

“Garcia checked into the victim’s computer histories and found that all four victims attended a horror convention in the Washington state area over the course of the past month. The convention in particular runs every other weekend, focusing on different horror films to highlight. However, they always make an exception for one film; The Nightmare Before Christmas. Whilst reviewing receipts for the tickets, they were all brought through the convention’s website, which is run by its board of organisation every year. Up until recently, the board has held the same members.”

Derek tapped on his tablet to the convention’s website.

“Last month, the website released details stating that a distinguish member was no longer part of the board due to unforeseen circumstances.”

It suddenly dawned on Y/N who Derek was talking about.

“Dean Faulkner.”

Spencer whipped around towards Y/N.

All eyes laid on her as her breath increased.

“You know him?”

Y/N nodded at Hotch.

“I guest spoke at a panel with him a few years back at a separate university. We were both there, amongst others, to talk about the works of a genre that are expertise were in. I was there to basically provide loose ends for what they could not answer. Dean’s specialised area was horror. The whole time he spoke about what he described as the true villains of horror and of the world.”

Y/N gulped, her mouth going dry.

“Women.”

The wheels began to turn in the team’s heads.

Spencer stepped closer towards Y/N in assurance, seeing that her thoughts were becoming overwhelmed. He quickly stepped back after he realised what he had done.

“He went on a raging tangent about the damsel in distress and the final girl. Going on and on and on about how women are weak and would never be the last one standing if faced against the monsters in real life. How they manipulated the men and made the monsters seem worse than they truly were. The only time he spoke positively about women was when we finally calmed him down and, during a Q&A session, a student asked him who the perfect horror movie character was. He said Sally because she was forgiving and would do anything for Jack; even if that meant falling apart and being sewn back together. I tried to justify that the film does not necessarily fall into the genre of horror. But he rebutted saying that it most definitely did, because of the fact that Jack’s dream did not come true.”

The room was silent for a second, taking in the information.

Suddenly, Y/N grasped the pen from Spencer’s hands. Her finger scribbling across the whiteboard.

“I need to know the names of the victims. Get Penelope on the phone and tell me the names.”

The team shocked at her erratic movements, sat in silence.

“Do you want to capture this guy?”

Spencer licked his lips and repeated the victim’s names.

“Susanna Cole, Alice Dawes, Liberty May, and Lily Trent.”

Y/N swiftly wrote the names on the boards. Each name below the other. Underneath the last name she wrote the letter Y.

“Can you ask Penelope to track any females with the first name beginning with Y who have purchased a ticket to the next convention?”

Derek quickly began to type to her. The rest of the team looking on in disbelief.

“There were twenty-three purchases, but with cross referencing with the similarities in the other victims, one matched. Her name is Yasmine Driver.”

Y/N wrote the name on the board. Circling all the first letters of each name, it became clear there was another connection with the victims.

“Their initials spell Sally.”

Y/N nodded at JJ’s disbelief.

“Reid, when is the next convention being held?”

Spencer diverted his attention to Emily.

“Their schedule every two weeks, so that would make it… tomorrow.”

The team swiftly moved into action.

“JJ bring together the police force for a debrief. Derek and Rossi, go to the convention centre and question the board about Dean. Ask them how often he visited and if they have any knowledge of the victims visits to the convention. Spencer and Emily, contact Penelope for Faulkner’s address. Once you have visited the home, if he is there, bring him in. We’re going to try and catch him before he gets close to his goal. I will locate Yasmine and bring her to the station for safety. We don’t know how far he is going to go and what the end goal of his fantasy is. But we are going to stop him.”

The team swiftly did as they were told, leaving the room with only Spencer and Y/N behind. Just before the door shot, Hotch leaned back in.

“Thank you, Dr Y/L/N, for all your help. If possible, could you stay here with JJ and look through the documents? You know this guy more than we do, so any more information that comes to mind, please let us know.”

Y/N and Spencer watched as Hotch left the room, the door shutting behind him.

As the silence engulfed them, Y/N and Spencer were hyper aware that they were now alone and had been for the first time in weeks.

Spencer swiftly walked towards Y/N and embraced her in a tight hold. Wrapping her arms around the slender man, Y/N breathed in his scent.

“I’ve missed you.”

Y/N chuckled at Spencer’s muffled words, as his head rested on top of her own. Pulling back, Y/N slowly released Spencer, letting her hands drop to her sides.

“I’ve missed you too Doc. We can catch up later, I will be waiting right here. Now, go and save the girl.”

Spencer chuckled at her words but did as Y/N said. Throwing her a smile, Spencer quickly walked out the room, leaving Y/N behind.

Y/N sat in the room, looking over the files as the time passed, waiting to see Spencer return with the rest of the team. A knock on the door startled her from her search.

Looking up at the door, Y/N saw JJ walk into the room with two cups of coffee in her hands. JJ outstretched the one hand, placing the cup in front of Y/N, as she took a seat and began to sip at her own.

“I didn’t know how many sugars you took so I estimated.”

Y/N smiled at the woman’s kindness.

“Thank you. Have you heard anything from the others?”

JJ sat up in her seat as she watched Y/N look over the documents. Her fingers moving across the pages ever so quickly. Her hand that wasn’t tapped continuously on the table in a rhythm.

“Spencer and Emily located Faulkner’s home, but it was vacant. They’re looking around the premises for clues for where he may be; as we speak. Hotch and Derek just called saying they are on their way down with Yasmine now.”

Y/N nodded at her words. Glad to hear that the girl was safe, but the main priority now would be to locate Faulkner. She wanted to truly help them, before anyone else could get hurt.

JJ grabbed her tablet and began to search through the files for any missed out information. Silence befell across the pair, until JJ could not help but ask what they had all been dying to know.

“How did you and Spencer meet?”

Y/N had been waiting for the question. She had seen the looks the team had shared throughout the day. The questioning gazes towards the pair.

“Spencer and I were both guests speaking at the University of California a few months ago. He must have finished his lecture early as he was wondering the halls when he came across the class I was teaching. I was stood on the desk, encouraging the students to do the same. Spencer thought I was a student causing trouble whilst the professor had left the room. He ran in sprouting facts about the percentage of people who fall and severely hurt themselves whilst standing on tables. Telling me that I should get down before he reports me to my professor.”

JJ chuckled at Y/N’s story.

“Sounds like Spence alright.”

Y/N giggled in agreement. As she spoke, Y/N couldn’t help but smile at the memory of their first encounter. JJ noticed the smile on the woman’s face. She knew what that smile meant.

“So, I told him that he better stay there to catch me, just in case I fell, as I was trying to teach my students about the importance of character actions, and how doing something as simple as standing on a desk can amplify the tone of the scene. Like in the film Dead Poet’s Society. Spencer finally realised that I was also a guest speaker and he actually stood there for the next 40 minutes of my lecture. I didn’t need to stand on the desk that long, but I wanted to see if he would stay. Once the lecture had finished, he apologised for jumping to conclusions. I apologised for making him wait for 40 minutes in case I fell. He told me I didn’t make him wait; he chose to. We’ve been in contact ever since.”

Just as Y/N finished her story, the door to the conference room opened once more. Looking towards the door, Y/N watched as Hotch entered, followed by Yasmine. The young woman looked scared, but unharmed.

Y/N stood from her seat, unsure of what to do as Hotch insisted for Yasmine to take a seat.

“Do you want me to leave?”

Hotch nodded his head.

“We shouldn’t be long. The rest of the team are outside in the bullpen. You can go ahead and join them. JJ and I will take it from here.”

Y/N nodded her head, leaving the room. She watched as Hotch and JJ questioned spoke to Yasmine through the glass, before she turned and walked down the corridor to find Spencer and his friends.

Turning the corner, Y/N failed to stop herself before bumping into a tall figure. Looking up to apologise, her eyes suddenly widened at the familiar face. Before a sound could leave her lips, a blunt force knocked her out cold.

Spencer and the team discussed where Faulkner could be when Hotch strode into the bull pen.

“How did it go?”

Hotch walked towards his team, ready to answer Derek’s question.

“It seems that Faulkner had been stalking the victims for some time. Yasmine detailed seeing him turn up at the conventions, even though he was no longer allowed. She had previously complained about his behaviour to the board before his dismissal. Stating that Faulkner had sexually harassed her. Rossi, did anyone at the convention mention anything about Faulkner that we don’t know?”

“It seems that Yasmine wasn’t the only one. The other board members went into detail about why he was fired. It turned out that all of our victims, including Yasmine, had filed lawsuits against Faulkner for sexual harassment. The charges were ultimately dropped and never recorded to keep the convention’s reputation clear. But they fired Faulkner and banned him from being able to attend any further conventions. Taking away the Nightmare Before Christmas dedicated stand was just a coincidence. They felt that the convention needed something new as they had been celebrating the film for over eight years.”

Just as Hotch was about to declare what the next step would be in finding Faulkner, JJ burst through the ball pen.

“Guys, you have to come quick.”

The team, in shock, watched as JJ ran back towards the conference room. All quickly on her heels. Entering the room, she took control of the laptop, streaming the image to the projector.

Spencer could no longer breathe as he looked at the image on the screen.

“Y/N.”

The screen showed Y/N tied to a chair and bent forward; clearly in pain. Her surroundings empty and dark.

Suddenly a voice was heard.

“I sense there's something in the wind. That seems like tragedy's at hand isn’t there Dr Y/F/N Y/L/N.”

The team watched in horror as Dean Faulkner yanked Y/N’s head back, her body letting out a strangled cry at the pain caused by his actions.

Spencer felt sick, he felt like he was watching himself when Tobias Hankel had held him captive.

“Emily, call Garcia to track his location. We don’t have much time.”

Emily did as Hotch told her to. Talking as quickly as she could on the phone.

“She can’t track it; he’s re-routing the IP address every thirty seconds.”

“She needs to track it. She needs to find her now!”

They all jumped at Spencer’s outburst, watching as tears filled his vision and his hands began to shake.

“Spencer, you need to calm down, we are going to find her. He can’t have taken her far.”

Spencer took in Derek’s words. Taking a breath, he looked back at the screen as he tried to distinguish any recognisable features of where she may be.

Faulkner moved his face to rest against Y/N’s hair, smelling the tresses. She tried to pull away only for him to yank her back again.

“Why did you kill them Dean?”

Faulkner let go of Y/N’s hair. Walking to her side, he grabbed her face in a vicious grip. Yanking her to look at him.

“Why? They ruined my life, everything I ever worked hard for. You all did.”

Y/N looked at him in confusion.

“I did nothing to you.”

Y/N’s breath increased at the vicious look he sent her way. Her eyes flickered to the camera, knowing that Faulkner was streaming what was happening to Spencer and his team. She had to find a way to tell them where she was.

“You made them question my authority. My position. My integrity as a member of the board. You ruined my reputation by belittling me in California.”.

“That’s because you know nothing about horror Dean. You think you know everything about it, but you don’t.”

Spencer couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Why was Y/N taunting him?

“Garcia’s looking to see if there’s any abandoned properties around the area that he could have taken her to.”

Spencer didn’t even acknowledge Emily’s words.

Faulkner reeled back at Y/N’s taunt.

“I know everything there is to know about horror. I’ve seen it all. I’ve lived it. I’ve created it. Ask me anything about it, I know the right answers.”

“But you don’t. You have an idea of horror, your own idea, that is wrong. You believe that women are the reason you lost your job and became the monster that you are. But they’re not. The reason you’re a monster is because of your sick and twisted fantasies. You made those girls feel small and weak, didn’t you?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

The team watched in apprehension.

“Garcia, the location, we need it now.”

Rossi looked between the screen and the phone in Derek’s hand.

“I can get the area he’s holding her, but not the specific building. The whole town is basically abandoned. She could be anywhere from a shop to a house.”

“Keep looking.”

Spencer chewed on his lips. He had to think rationally. If the unsub was upset about the changes and losing his job, what could have been the last straw?

“Derek what was the film they replaced Nightmare Before Christmas with at the convention.”

Derek and Spencer shared a look.

“Cabin in the Woods.”

Spencer ran across the rooms to the files at hand.

“In the location that Garcia has tracked her too, there are three cabins, all within a walking distance of the other.”

The team began to rush out the room, transferring the livestream to a tablet so they could monitor Faulkner and Y/N.

“You’re weak Dean. You’re just like all the horror movie villains. Ghostface, pinhead, jigsaw, all of them. You feed of fear and feeling in control. But the only thing you have in common with them is that you’re not going to win.”

Faulkner scream in rage. Pulling Y/N’s head back, he punched her in the jaw. Striding to the camera, he pushed his face to the lens.

“The party’s over!”

Spencer watched in horror as the feed went off.

“Hotch we have to hurry!”

Hotch sped up the car. Quickly arriving to the location, the team split up into pairs, taking a cabin each to inspect. Hotch and Derek, Rossi and JJ, and Spencer and Emily veered off to their targeted locations. Spencer followed Emily, trying to stay calm, as he slowly walked into the cabin to find it empty, when suddenly a gun shot was heard. Looking in the direction, the pair ran to the cabin that Derek and Hotch had been assigned. The rest of the team already there, looking into the cabin in shock.

“No, no, no, no. Y/N.”

Spencer pushed in front of them, tears pooling in his eyes as he a waited to see the horror before him. He looked in disbelief as Y/N stood from her position on the floor, the gun dropping from her hand as they shook. Faulkner laid a few feet away, in a pool of blood, no longer breathing.

Y/N looked towards the team. Raising her shaking hands towards Spencer.

“I didn’t want to kill him but he was going to shoot whoever walked through the door.”

Spencer rushed forward, grabbing her in a bone crushing hug. His hands stroking her hair as he soother her cries. Leading her out of the cabin, he allowed his team to sort out the rest as he continued to calm Y/N down.

The movement of the team were a blur as ambulances and police cars came. Taking them to the hospital as they sat in the waiting room as Y/N was checked over.

Spencer sat in the waiting room, his leg bouncing up and down with nerves.

Derek excused himself from the groups conversation as he went and sat next to Spencer. Clapping him on the back, Derek squeezed Spencer’s shoulder in re-assurance.

“She’s going to be fine pretty boy.”

“Physically, she has a concussion, bruising along her jawline, and needs stitches on her forehead. Mentally, I don’t know how she is going to handle this. When I suggested asking for her help in the case, I didn’t presume the risk of her being hurt. I should have.”

“Spencer, listen to me. We would have done everything to make sure she lived okay. She not only saved herself but she also helped save Yasmine and this team. Any one of us could have been shot if she had not thought fast and got the gun out of his hands. You know, better than anyone, how to help her deal with this.”

Spencer took in Derek’s words, nodding his head in appreciation, as he leaned against his friend in a comforting hug.

“Probably wasn’t the ideal way to introduce your girlfriend to the team though.”

Spencer stuttered at Derek’s teasing.

“We’re profilers Spencer. We’ve all noticed how you’ve been happier these past few months and seeing how persistent you were for us to consult Y/N, it gave us all an idea why. Seeing you together only confirmed our suspicions. So, how long has pretty boy had his pretty girl?”

Spencer chuckled at Derek’s words. Ringing his hands together as he spoke to Derek.

“Tomorrow is actually our six-month anniversary. She was going to be flying back today so we could celebrate; unless I got called on a case.”

“We can still celebrate.”

Spencer looked up as Y/N walked through the waiting room, fresh stitches on her forehead and an ice pack resting in her hands.

“The nurse said that there was no internal damage. That my body will just be sore for a few weeks. My concussion is light, so I am alright to travel home.”

The team gathered around to check on her. But her eyes could not leave Spencer’s as he rose from his seat. Spencer walked forward slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. Carefully he cupped her face in his hands, and to the surprise of Y/N and his team, Spencer bowed his head and placed a careful kiss on Y/N’s lips. Slow, protective, and full of love.

Pulling back, Spencer wrapped his arms around her as he looked at the beaming smiles of his teammates. Y/N couldn’t help the blush across her cheeks or the giggle that followed. Soon, everyone was chuckling at the pair.

“I would like to thank you Y/N. From the entire team. Your actions saved a young woman’s life, and what could have been one of our own.”

Y/N smiled in appreciation at Rossi’s words.

“You’re Spencer’s family. I would do it all again if I had to.”

“Statistically speaking, around 2,000 people a day are reported missing in the US. Approximately, 600 of those would be reported or considered kidnappings. It is highly unlikely for you to be put in a situation like that again.”

Y/N looked up at her boyfriend.

“I never thought I would say this, but your talk about me being kidnapped again is really attractive.”

The team laughed at the girl’s statement, seeing Spencer become physically embarrassed.

“Just to inform everyone, the jet will be ready to depart in forty-five minutes. As I was informed that today you would have been heading home, Y/N we have sent for your belongings to be collected; you can fly back with us.”

Spencer smiled at Hotch in gratitude, the older man knowing he would have only worried if she had flown home alone.

“Thank you, Mr Hotchner.”

Hotch let out a brief smile.

“Call me Hotch. Your part of Spencer’s life, that means your part of this family.”

BAU JET

It had been an exhausting few days for the team, and it showed, as they all were sporadically asleep throughout the jet. Silence encompassed the steel capsule, with only the sound of sleep filled breaths being heard.

Y/N laid fast asleep, with her head on Spencer’s shoulder, as the boy genius sat up wide awake. Looking down at the woman next to him, all Spencer could imagine was what could have happened if they weren’t quick enough. How many days he would have lost with her. All the things he wanted to tell her.

As though she could sense his deep thoughts, Y/N slowly awoke, rubbing her eyes as a yawn escaped her mouth. Blinking her eyes rapidly, she waited till she was fully conscious before she spoke.

“What time is it Doc?”

Spencer jostled out of his thoughts to check the watch on his wrist.

“It’s 2:36 am. You’ve been asleep for approximately 3 hours and 22 minutes.”

Y/N quickly sat up in her seat, wide awake.

Spencer turned towards her in worry, wondering what had made her so alert.

“What wrong? Are you feeling nauseous? Do you need some painkillers, as your due to have…”

Y/N grabbed Spencer’s face and placed her lips flush against his own. Their mouths moved in unison, as Spencer’s own hands moved to circle around her waist, bringing their bodies as close as they could be in the small space they had. They hadn’t kissed since the hospital, and before then it had been weeks. Spencer never realised until then, how much he truly missed her touch, her taste, her as a whole.

Coming to a point where they both lacked breathe, the pair pulled apart. Their eyes fluttering open as Y/N’s hands caressed Spencer’s face. Her one hand travelled to his hair, feeling the tresses that had grown since she had last seen him. She looked at him in a way no one had before. Spencer shared the same expression.

“Happy six-month anniversary Spencer. I love you.”

Spencer looked at Y/N in disbelief.

“Before you start spouting of facts about transference and how I am probably only saying this because you saved my life, you’re wrong. Because then I would be telling Hotch and Morgan the same thing.”

Spencer couldn’t help the watery smile that graced his face. For the second time in the past day, his eyes filled with tears. But this time, they were good.

“I’ve known I have loved you for a long time. For five months actually. I knew I loved you when we made pizza in your apartment and we ended up burning it, so we ordered one instead.”

Spencer laughed at the memory. It was the first time Spencer had initiated their make out. He had watched her cooking, in his apartment, and he had never found her more attractive than he did seeing her in his home.

“I knew that whilst you were spouting of facts about the invention of the pizza that I loved you and that I could listen to you forever. I love you Spencer.”

Spencer pulled Y/N closer to him as he rested his forehead against her own. The pair basked in each other’s presence.

“Past surveys show that men wait just 88 days to say those three little words to their partner for the first time, and 39 percent say them within the first month. Women, on the other hand, take an average 134 days. You knew after 31 days that you loved me. I knew after our first date that the way I felt when I was with you is a feeling that I could not even describe with my vast vocabulary. I knew after 8 days that the way I felt was stronger than liking you and that was a frightening thought. But its scarier to think what could have happened to you yesterday. That I could have lost you without you ever knowing. I made that mistake before. I will never make it again. I love you too.”

Y/N couldn’t help the smile and giggle that overtook her. Spencer, feeling high of the serotonin that was coursing through his body, couldn’t help his laugh either. Soon the pair were a giggling mess, unaware of the team who had all begun to awaken whilst the pair were talking.

The team congregated to the back of the jet, allowing the couple to stay in their own bubble.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve seen him truly happy.”

The group nodded at Emily’s words.

JJ smiled as she watched her best friend rattle of the possible movies that he and his girlfriend could spend their anniversary watching as she recovered. Her smile growing even wider at Y/N’s enthusiasm to watch the film’s in their original language. None of them could miss the look of adoration beaming between the pair.

“Yeah, it really has.”

Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage. -Lao Tzu

A/N- It isn’t the best but I really enjoyed writing this one.

[harpyhottie]

Horror Connoisseur // Eddie Munson Fic

Uh so myself, like many others, have an Eddie Munson hyperfixation because I cannot consume media in a normal manner. So enjoy ig.

Eddie Munson x femreader

Word count: 3k

1/?

Summary: Your friends went off to college after graduating, leaving you behind in Hawkins to work a lame job while still living at your parents house. Your mom didn't let you borrow the car for your shift so you're dreading the walk home until your last customer offers you a ride home.

Warnings: profanity

You tapped your fingers against the counter at your job. As a graduate, it was decided that you had to start pulling your own weight if you weren’t planning on leaving for college anytime soon. Your graduation party was weird, you could only fake smile and agree so many times when your aunts, uncles, neighbors, and parents’ friends told you that it wasn’t too late to send in an application for the semester. So you were in that weird existence of having the freedom of the world yet were still living with your parents. Even though you were an adult, you were still at the mercy of whether your mom decided to let you borrow the car or not. Unfortunately for you tonight, she chose no, and you were dropped off for your six hour shift at Family Video, where neither Robin nor Steve were scheduled. To make matters worse, there was no ride back home as your younger sibling had a basketball game. You got out of work at 9, but this was basically light-years away. Rolling your eyes, your current task was to reorganize the returned tapes pile. What a nightmare.

Hours passed as you begrudgingly put movies in alphabetical order on the shelves, something that didn’t need to be done but boredom drove you to desperate measures. It was unusually slow this shift and you glanced at the clock. 8:26 pm. Freedom was so close. The handful of customers today were just the usual suspects: kids with too much time on their hands, young couples who couldn’t decide on a movie, and parents that were looking to distract their children during sleepovers. While you were excited for the shift to be over, there was still one problem that was on your mind; you still had to walk home. While this wasn’t a particularly difficult task, it was a particularly cold day. Plus the sun had gone down hours ago and the sky was lonely without its moon. You’d have to walk close to the streetlights for safety. You were regretting playing Nightmare on Elm Street on the store T.V. 

Deciding to be brave, you just sighed and accepted your fate. So what if you were murdered? It’s not like anything else was going on. Your inner monologue was interrupted by the booming of a shitty car speaker. The headlights of the vehicle shined through the front door and you were too wrapped up in your thoughts to even look up as the bell door jingled. Feeling weird that you were just idly standing by, you decided to make it look like you were doing something productive. You planted yourself by a shelf and pretended to work, counting down the seconds that the customer would leave and you could stare at the wall again. But out of the corner of your eye you spied on the man standing in the horror section. His face was concentrated as he thumbed through numerous titles. Your eyes lingered on his rings, then his curled hair, then the familiar vest that he wore. You knew him! Eddie Munson! You had a class with him, 3rd period science, you sat in front of him. Were even paired with him for a project that you ended up doing 70% of the work for. But he was funny, you remember, super funny. And his smile was genuine. But then he heard he wasn’t walking at graduation yet again and he stopped showing up in the last month of the semester, which was a shame because you didn’t see him at any other point at school. 

Just then, the music blared on the T.V. as Krueger showed his ugly face yet again in a jumpscare. Startled, you jumped and wiped out the romantic comedy section while yelling.

“Fuck!”

Oh nice going you moron. Immediately you were flustered for acting like such a spaz. 

“Uh, you need help?”

“No, no, it’s all good.”

“Dude. There’s, like, a shit ton of movies on the floor.”

Your face was red with embarrassment. Usually you were able to skate by for shifts but you were jumpy for some reason. Your body was nervous for something that your brain had not yet recognized. He set some tapes on the counter as he came to the rescue. It was always so awkward to see a classmate out of school, especially one you weren’t friends with. Should you say hi? Should you ignore the fact that you know them and delete them from your memory, effectively acting like they never existed? The second was your go-to and you were going to just nod in acknowledgement as he helped you then go in the back room to scream silently. But he was not going to let you do that.

“Hey, I know you,” he said with a grin while pointing at you. “Yeah, yeah, Science! With that dipshit Mr. O’Connell. Damn I do not miss that school. But am I right? I’m right.”

You nodded. Why was he deviating from your personal script! You already planned out what the interaction would be! He’d silently help you, you’d ring him up and then you would prepare to fight for your life walking in the dark, most certainly screaming and crying the entire run home. He stared at you for a moment.

“I never forget a face, but I kinda do forget names, what was yours again?”

You told him and he then nodded and slapped his forehead.

“Damn, I was close! Didn’t mean to erase ya from my head. Think all the pot is finally rotting my brain,” he said as he pantomimed blood oozing from his ears as you giggled. You finished cleaning the tapes and took your place behind the counter to check him out, both literally and figuratively. He was taller than you remembered and his rings clacked against the counter as he rested his hand, the other subtly fixing his hair. His sleeves were rolled up to expose the tattoos on his forearm. Hot, you thought.

“So, you a connoisseur of horror as well?”

You scanned his stack of movies. The Shining, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, The Thing. Yep, he was definitely a connoisseur of horror. You shrugged and waved your hand in a manner that said ‘kinda.’ 

“So what’s your favorite flick then?” 

He folded his arms and leaned towards the counter, both elbows touching the surface. He waited for your answer, a slight smile forming. Honestly, he was making you more nervous than any horror movie ever could. 

“I don’t have one.”

“You don’t have one?! Lies. Everyone has one or they’re lying.” He rolled his eyes as you scoffed. 

“I’ll get an answer out of you one day,” he said, swiping up his tapes and heading towards the door. “Holy shit, it’s cold. Might be a blizzard coming up.”

Your heart dropped. Great. 

“That sucks! I have to walk home in this shit.”

He went to leave then stopped and turned around with a confused look on his face.

“Wait what? Walk? Out there?”

You nodded and told him about not having the car today but waved it off as being totally fine.

“Dude! It’s cold as hell out there. Or, uh, hell isn’t really that cold but you know what I’m saying. You’d have to be stoned to think you wouldn’t die of hypothermia or something.”

You told him you brought a jacket and gloves.

“Pshh. No way am I letting a former classmate of mine walk home. I’ll drive you.”

You froze. In all your years of life a boy had never offered to drive you home. This was earth-shattering. This was jaw-dropping. Your parents would die twice if they saw the guy, the accused satanist slash high school dropout roll up to your house with the music blaring and you jumping out of the passenger seat. Not only that, but just the thought of riding with this guy was making you sweat standing in the ice cold store. It was a scenario that not even the fates could have foreseen. But, you were game. Just half an hour you accepted that you might die on your walk home. If you were going to die, you would almost certainly want your last moments spent in the arms of Eddie, the freak of Hawkins.

“But I still have 20 minutes left of my shift.”

“Cool, that’s a 20 minute smoke break. I’ll be outside,” he said as he exited the store. For a couple of minutes you were expecting him to drive off. He’d laugh to himself as he pranked you, remembering the hopeful look on your face as you accepted his offer. But he didn’t. He just…stayed there. You saw him through the frosted doors take a cigarette out of his pocket and saw the glow of the flame from the lighter. Then you began to panic.

Fuck! Fuck! You were going to get a ride from a guy and you weren’t even sure how to act. Your social battery was pretty much shot. He’d have to lead the conversation. What would he even talk about? Oh god, what if he talked about some girl and you had to just sit and listen. Oh god, what if he asked if you had a boyfriend. Now you were circling around the back room, head in your hands until you stopped for a moment. Let’s calm down. Boyfriend? Girlfriend? Chill dude, you just talked to him for 5 minutes and you’re sure he’s in love with you? Delusional. Let's be rational. He’s just a guy, innocently offering a ride. A ride to you, a girl, who has never had a boyfriend or even a boy interested in you and you’re going to be alone in a car with him in the dark and okay now you’re panicking again. Chill.

Your internal meltdown actually ate up a bit of time. The clock read 8:51 pm and you decided that the store could survive being closed a couple minutes early, especially after your manager complained that the foot traffic stopped after the sun went down. You finished up the housekeeping and switched off Elm Street with a middle finger. Fuck you Freddy. You went to your locker to retrieve your things and eyed yourself in the mirror next to the bulletin board where Robin and Steve had requested the day off. You fluffed your hair a little. The stupid hairspray you decided to gamble on was a total waste of $8. Quickly, you put a bit of gloss on your mouth but not too much because what if he wondered why your lips were randomly shiny. For extra measure you put another piece of gum in your mouth to extra smell like spearmint. Actually it was kind of overpowering but nevermind that, just put on your coat and stop staring at yourself in the mirror before he really does leave. 

Locking the door to the store, you turned around to find the guy giving you a ride, even preparing a funny little quip to say to him. But he wasn’t there. His car wasn’t on either. You felt a little spooked. 

“Eddie?” You said cautiously. The only explanation was that he was kidnapped by someone while waiting for you. You weren’t built for that kind of guilt upon your shoulders. As you walked around his van, he jumped out and screamed. You screamed as well and hit him with your bag as he braced against his car while laughing.

“Oh that was, you should have seen, oh wow.” 

You put your hands on your hips and stared at him expectantly. 

“Oh okay fine, I’m sorry. Except I’m not.” 

“With an apology that sincere, I have no choice but to accept.” 

He opened the van door and motioned you inwards. Then he climbed into the driver's seat and scrambled to pick up the trash, a bit embarrassed. Fast food bags, candy wrappers, cans, even a hot dog laid bare on the floor.

“Sorry, uh, that’s my emergency hot dog for uh, when I get too hungry,” he said before flinging it into the parking lot. 

“But your emergency hot dog?!” you yelled as it rolled numerous times.

“It’s okay, I know where it is, one of many excuses to come back here.”

You weren’t sure if that was a hint or something but it made you quiet and stare straight ahead. You’re. In. His. CAR. Stay calm, cool, and collected.

“So what kind of tunes are you thinking? I’ve got many moods. Like angry, angry, and angry.”

“Hmm. I like angry, but angry is really calling my name.” He chuckled at your response.

“So it does, so it does.”

A bit of the ride was driven in silence while the music played. You could tell he’d glance over at you but you didn’t dare return it. His confidence was so alluring and the way he was looking at you felt so not platonic. You heard odd things about him but you were also thinking odd things about him that you felt if you pondered on for more than a couple of moments he’d somehow read your mind. 

“So why are you so nervous? Is it me? I mean I get it.” He continued to drive at an obscene speed and when you told him your address earlier, he assured you that he knew where it was. But 3 missed turns said otherwise and you didn’t really feel like correcting him. 

“Like, the hell are you supposed to do when the town pariah offers you a ride? It’s gotta be weird. I wasn’t thinking you’d accept. Usually girls try not to talk to me, which, understandable. I’m utterly insufferable.” You both laughed as he finished speaking. You debated diving into your personal life but it felt comfortable enough to say.

“My friends actually stopped talking to me after graduation. They’re all moved into university. No post cards, no calls. They’re all busy. So it’s nice to be talked to, even by the town pariah.” You decided to be a little more bold. 

“And girls run from you? Why? You’re like,” you fumbled the delivery a bit but tried again.“You’re totally good looking and funny! So what if you’re considered a weirdo. It’s even lamer to conform. You have your own style.”

He stayed silent for a bit, trying to think about what to say. Maybe you were a bit too bold.

“Wow. You totally want me!”

“No that’s not what I said!” you said laughing while burying your face into your hands. You kinda walked yourself into that.

“No you definitely want to ride the Eddie rollercoaster, well get in line baby. The park closes at 10 pm.” You rolled your eyes as he rambled on. You slapped him on the shoulder and he rolled down his window as he drove slowly through a neighborhood.

“I’m a wanted man,” he sang mockingly to the houses as you shook your head. A porch light came on.

“Oh hell,” he said as he sped out of the area, an old man opening his front door and shaking his fist towards disrespectful youth. Eddie turned up the music so loud that it blared, effectively disrupting the rest of the neighborhood and sang along. You looked at him with your ears covered and screamed along with him. 

After a bit of driving around, you checked your watch, noticing that it was nearly 10:30. Your parents definitely thought you were dead. 

“Not to spoil the fun but I’ve gotta get home or else my mom is gonna freak.”

“You break my heart, it’s shattered into a million pieces.”

“Yeah yeah. By the way, you passed my street so many times. You said you knew where I lived!”

“Oh I do, maybe I just wanted to have a conversation, I’m lonely you know.”

“So your solution was to kidnap me? That’ll hold up in court.”

“Maybe don’t get in the car with a stranger.”

“We’re not strangers!”

“Oh right, I forgot that you’re madly in love with me.” 

You groaned in exasperation. You were out of clever retorts, he drained you of all of them. He turned the music way down as if he were anticipating you to yell at him to do so. The van creaked slowly towards your house and he put it in park. You looked at your house, confused by the lack of lights on. You were expecting your dad to fly out and berate you then take one look at Eddie and berate him too. But there was none of that, and then you remembered that they would be staying out of town with your sibling since the basketball game was actually a tournament. Which meant that you could stay out with Eddie. Or if you really wished, he could come inside. But you had enough of feeling nervous for one night and could use a breather. Beside you, the seat shifted as he put his arm on the back of your seat. He subtly checked you out while he thought you wouldn’t notice.

“No really, I’d love to sit in your driveway all night while you stare silently at your house. Not creepy at all.” 

You shot him a dirty look as you opened the door and were shocked that your legs felt like jelly and hoped he didn’t notice. You cleared your throat and thanked him for the ride home and he waved his arm as if to say it was no problem. 

“Honestly, it was the... coolest night I’ve had in a while. My friends don’t really talk to me much either; the whole dropout thing doesn’t mix well with college students but whatever. I got all these movies to keep me company. Better yet, call me if you want to be lonely together. Oh and don't think that you're getting out of the horror movie question.”

You closed the passenger door and waved goodbye to him. He scrawled a phone number onto a wrapper and passed it to you. A part of you wanted to fake crumple it up in front of him but you didn’t. You smirked as you walked down the path to your house and unlocked your door, safe and sound. Taking a big sigh, you flopped onto your living room couch face down. You smiled again because you realized that you had a reason to talk to him again. The both of you were so enthralled in conversation that you never rang him up for the tapes and he left without paying. So much for the store inventory tomorrow, you had the day off anyways.

[addictedtostorytelling]

What do you think was going through grissoms head when Sara was kidnapped by the miniature killer?

this goes with the other question about the miniature killer (sorry, meant to add it in there) but how do you think Grissom cared for Sara after she got out of the hospital? I’m sure he was very attentive 🥺

hi, anon!

re: how grissom cares for sara during her recovery process after her abduction, i’ve got some old meta on that exact topic here, if you’re interested.

as for my fic-adjacent take on his thoughts during event itself, click the “keep reading.”

__     

as we learn during his s9 depression arc, though grissom is usually capable of extreme focus (see episode 09x03 "art imitates life"), in situations where he's feeling a lot of emotions, especially concerning sara, he is unable to rein in his thoughts.

that so, i imagine that during the events of episodes 07x24 "living doll" and 08x01 "dead doll," his mind is a mess, running a thousand miles a minute and jumping between various concerns almost constantly.

his most prominent thoughts are of sara—whether or not she's still alive and if she's hurt and where she could possibly be and what might be happening to her and how scared she must feel and if he'll be able to get to her in time to save her. she is everywhere in his head, with him more strongly than any obsession he’s ever had before.

he tries to stay locked in on the case: to follow the evidence so he can determine her location, recalling every potentially useful forensic skill he's ever learned and expending as much mental energy as he can so as to arrive at the correct conclusions. he’s marshalling his team. running their leads. exploiting every resource at their disposal. trying anything and everything that he can to get a lock on where to look for her and figure out how to bring her home.

intermittently, he remembers scenes from his and sara's life together. though he tries to compartmentalize these memories so he can focus on the case, it's impossible for him to completely stave them off. images of sara's face and many of their most intimate and significant moments keep popping into his head, interrupting his concentration on the investigation. he can almost feel her touch on his skin. taste her as if they had just kissed. their first meeting, her most recent birthday, a thousand private between-sheets moments, and a montage of every time she’s ever told him that she loves him play in his mind on a loop. as much as he tries to suppress these thoughts, he can’t help but remember so many of the infinitely precious things that he knows he cannot live without.

alongside the memories, worst case scenarios gather like storm clouds in his head: what if they don't get to her in time? what if she's permanently injured or killed? he (unwillingly) envisions all sorts of horrors, seeing flashes of blood and broken bones and death in his mind's eye; a pastiche of every awful serial murder scene he's ever processed before, with sara constellated in the middle.

somewhere in the back of his brain, he is vaguely aware that he might be having a heart attack, that he's going to be sick, that he feels like he is dying.

he tumbles down the darkest rabbit holes. blames and berates himself for everything. if he hadn't first pursued the wrong theory and gone after ernie dell—if he'd just found the right suspect to begin with—if he’d worked faster—checked himself—not been so careless with his touches at a crime scene, where anyone could see him—then natalie davis might never had targeted sara, and this nightmare might never had happened. he considers: if sara is hurt or killed, he'll never be able to forgive himself. he'd give anything to have her back, even to put himself in her place right now. kill or die for her, if he had to. if things don't work out, if he can't save her, if they don’t get to her in time, he'll never be able to live without her. he needs to be better. he needs to be smarter. he needs to bring her home. if he doesn't, it's all over. if he doesn't, he swears to god—

he's praying. praying to a god he's not exactly sure he believes in anymore. praying like he hasn't prayed since he was a little boy and his pleadings to have his father given back to him went unanswered by the uncaring heavens. he's bargaining: if sara can just be safe, he'll do anything. he'll be anything. he'll never ask for another blessing again. let him be miserable otherwise. let him lose everything. but not her. please, god, not her.

but his mind thrashes away from the divine, back to the science that is the only thing he knows he can rely on. he's got crime statistics running across his brainwaves like a stock ticker: every factoid he's ever learned about survival rates for serial killer targets and the likelihood of escape after the victim is moved to a secondary location. random trivia about flash flooding in the mojave. a full taxonomy of desert fauna, category: "most dangerous" (coyotes, cougars, rattlesnakes, scorpions, gila monsters, africanized bees, etc.). information about the average distances between rural towns in unincorporated clark county. how long the human body can continue to function without food or water. its heat threshold. symptoms of shock. he attempts to piece everything together into some grand equation that if he only works hard enough, maybe he can solve; that maybe might be the thing that saves her.

he also carries some small and trembling hope that maybe she can save herself, too. he knows her story—what she’s come from and everything she’s already survived—and also knows her heart, her mettle, what she’s really made of. she is the strongest person he has ever met. the most stubbornly resilient. part of him wonders if maybe after all the violence at the b&b, the deprivations of the foster care system, and the close calls on the job (the explosions and the shivs and the run-ins with lesser killers than natalie davis) sara does have it in her to come out on top in this latest face-off with death, as well. he wants to believe that she can. god knows she’s smart enough. god knows she’s a goddamn fighter. he’s never had faith in anything before, but he has faith in her—

but there is also a clock, tallying minutes and hours and then the better part of a day, always running, simultaneous to the rest of his thoughts. he knows each tick is a strike against his efforts. a strike against hope. a strike against sara. though he hates to admit it, the fact is that the longer he goes without finding her, the less of a chance there is that he ever will. time is his enemy, and yet he needs more time to solve the case.

he tries to remember the last conversation they had before she was taken. exactly what was said. what she looked like. when was the last time they kissed? his usually eidetic memory, here, fails him.

if he finds her in time, he’s going to ask her to marry him. he swears that right now. he never wants to be without her again.

the closer they get—when they find her abandoned vest under the washed out car, then her footprints in the sand, then the cairns leading away—the more his heart is in his throat. the temperature is so high, and the day has been so long. she’s got to be dehydrated. exhausted. injured. on the brink. for her to have survived the planned murder only to maybe succumb to the elements would be an outcome too cruel for him to bear.

when they overturn that dead hiker buried in the mudcracks, he almost loses his mind in the split second before he realizes it isn’t her.

catherine keeps telling him that they’re going to find her, but he swears to god, if they don’t get to her soon—

a sob gathers in his throat.

in the next second, when the crackle comes over the radio bearing word that she’s been located, he almost moves outside of himself. there is nothing inside of him except the overwhelming need to go to her, to see her. he can neither hope nor despair. think nor reason. he is holding his breath, suspended—

—until he sees her, lying bloodied and broken in the sand. at first, he can’t be sure if she is breathing. can’t focus on the words the medics are saying. can’t discern if she’s dead or alive. he hangs between all possibilities, his entire existence caught in the balance. only when he sees her ribcage move with the barest hint of respiration does he know that she’s still hanging on, if only for the moment. he on impulse moves to her. takes hold of her arm. helps to carry her to the chopper. ignores protocol and prudence to go with her. he will not leave her side and would fight anyone who tried to make him.

they’re halfway to desert palm before her eyes start to flitter open. he’s holding her hand, and he has never been more relieved over anything in his entire life. for the first time in hours, he feels like he can truly breathe. 

still. it isn’t until later that night, after she’s been rehydrated and treated for shock in the emergency room, undergone the first of what will be multiple surgeries on the compound fractures in her arm, and is resting in the icu that he is finally able to relax. in-between all of her medical procedures, she’s been “in and out” all day, in terms of her consciousness levels, sometimes completely knocked out, others technically up but so drugged as to be incoherent. now for the first time, she seems to fully awaken. she squeezes his hand. “hey, you,” she says, unable to fully smile because of the stitches in her cheek but doing her best to try anyhow. he starts to ask if she needs anything—if he should press the call button—but she preempts him. “can you come here?” she asks, her voice a rasp. he is already sitting right next to her bedside, holding her hand, so he isn’t immediately sure what she means until she indicates with a nod of her head that she wants him to climb up next to her where she lies. there are no nurses or doctors around at the moment, and so no one to ask if it’s all right for him to do so. he’s afraid of hurting her, and she can tell. “please,” she says. then. “it’s okay.” he can never deny her anything, even on a much better day than this one. he believes her. wants the same thing as she wants, anyway. carefully, carefully, so as not to jostle her arm or move any of her iv tubes, he fits himself onto the sliver of mattress at her right side, the same as if they were in their bed at home, and allows her to nestle into him. it’s not a particularly comfortable arrangement, and he knows he won’t be able to stay that way once visiting hours are over, but it’s the first time since he first realized she was missing that he’s felt at all right. she breathes against him, warm and alive, and he loves her with every atom of himself. she is finally safe in his arms, and all of his thoughts are of her.  

thanks for the question! please feel welcome to send another any time.

[samstree]

hi dear!! what about 37 for the pining prompts?? only if you feel like it 💞💞

37. "Characters cannot touch for plot reasons." Thanks for the prompt Chrysa!! Here's more empath!Jaskier!

Unfinished Story

Empath!Jaskier, 2.4k, soft geraskier, ciri has a nightmare, hurt/comfort, mentions of past violence

Part of the Empath AU 

Read on AO3

Ciri’s scream pulls Geralt out of his doze.

He springs up immediately, knocking Jaskier’s arm out of the way. The bard grumbles something incoherent on the bedroll before fully waking. “G’ralt, what is… Oh, shit.”

The scream continues, Geralt’s medallion thrumming because of the chaos carried by the sound. The ember is dying but the moon provides enough light for him to see Cir in a fetal position, her face buried in the crook of her elbow. Her ashen-colored curls obscure the view.

Geralt half-scrambles to her side, familiar panic seizing his heart. It’s been so long since she had a nightmare this bad, so long that it’s taking him a second to react.

“Ciri.” He shakes her shoulder gently, but she flinches away. The smell of fear rolls off of her in waves. “Ciri, wake up. You are dreaming.”

The sharp wail trails off to a quieter one, but her eyes stay shut, her brows agonizingly knitted tight. Geralt tries to soothe her by stroking her hair, only to have her snatch his hand and holding onto it for dear life. He squeezes, hoping it’s a comforting gesture.

Each of Ciri’s cries sends a pang of regret in Geralt’s chest. If only he could go back in time. If only he had found her earlier, before the horrors of Nilfgaard—

“Hey, let me help.”

A hand falls to Geralt’s shoulder, and Jaskier meets his gaze in the dim light, the bleariness in his eyes completely gone.

Please, he wants to say. The word gets interrupted by the girl’s writhing.

Jaskier takes over Ciri’s hand, despite her reluctance to let go of Geralt. She clings to him during bad dreams, even when she can’t properly wake up, but the witcher knows it’s important not to touch either of them right now. The wolf medallion vibrates more as the empath works, calming her through the touch.

“It’s okay…” Geralt murmurs helplessly to the girl still asleep. “It’s okay, cub. We are here.”

The empty space around Geralt is excruciating. Under the clear night sky, his witcher senses allow him to see the two of them basked in the silver moonlight—Jaskier kneeling at Ciri’s side, one hand clasped around her wrist and the other carding through her curls. The girl’s pained expression eases slowly.

“Oh… Don’t be afraid, sweet girl,” Jaskier shushes her, the flow of chaos buzzing in the air. “Let me take your fear away, all right? Don’t fight me. Let me in, so you won’t be scared anymore…”

The bard continues to murmur sweet nothings to the girl, easing her resistance to his empathetic powers. At this point, Jaskier’s magic is like a second layer of skin to Geralt, gentle and warm and weaving around their hearts. Even when it’s not directly used on him, he feels somehow pulled to their connection.

To Jaskier and Ciri.

His empath bard and his child surprise.

Two halves of his world.

Jaskier’s eyes are closed to concentration, taming the waves of Ciri’s distress. The action exerts him, Geralt can tell from his elevated heartbeat and the slight slump in his shoulders. The witcher catches himself before he reaches out subconsciously. The gnawing urge to help almost makes him scowl in frustration.

Inaction has never been Geralt’s strong suit.

Finally, finally, Ciri’s eyes flutter open. She’s holding back the tears, as always, even when she’s confused from these dreams, even when she’s reliving her past and desperately searching for her family in the present.

“Geralt?”

Her voice is so small and he has to lean in to hear.

A relieved sigh escapes Jaskier’s lips as he lets go of the girl’s hand. With the magic dissipating, so does the stench of fear. The air settles. As soon as the medallion stills, Geralt surges forward to put a hand on her arm, so she knows he’s here.

On Geralt’s periphery, he senses bard stand and walk to the other side of the campfire—the empath usually needs a moment to collect himself after absorbing someone’s emotions—but right now Geralt’s focus is on his child.

“It’s okay. You are safe, Ciri,” Geralt whispers.

“I dreamed—”

“You are not there anymore.”

“It was burning…I—there was fire… and the man.” She sniffles, stubbornly refusing to cry. His child is tough, probably too tough for her own good.

“It wasn’t real.”

“Because you found me?” There’s a sliver of doubt in her voice that Geralt wishes more than anything to remove.

“Because I found you, Ciri,” he reassures. She’ll need reminding tonight. “You are my destiny and more. I’m here so you’ll never have to be lost again.”

A tiny smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. Geralt tucks away a strand of hair on her face and watches her eyelids droop heavily.

“I’m not. Not now that I’m awake.”

He returns the smile, although she can’t see it that well in the shadows. “That’s because of Jaskier.”

“Oh.” She searches for the bard. When Geralt looks back at the empath’s silhouette, he’s leaning against a tree, a few paces away from camp. “Thank you, Jaskier. Again,” she says.

“Of course, princess,” Jaskier says softly, “I know how scary nightmares can be, no matter how long it’s been. Those things may have happened a long time ago, but sometimes…they come back and haunt when you least expect it.” He pauses, looking to the distance for a moment. “I’d chase them away for you any time.”

She murmurs another thanks before her eyes close with exhaustion.

“Go back to sleep,” Geralt tucks Ciri’s blanket in, before taking her hand again, his thumb tracing a little circle on her skin. “Sleep, cub. We’ll be here. Both of us.”

It doesn’t take long for her to fall into a deep slumber, peacefully this time. Geralt sits next to her for a while longer just to be sure. When he finally leaves Ciri’s side to see to his bard, Jaskier is still standing with his back against the tree. He seems to be miles away, his expression hidden in the shadows, distant and inscrutable.

“Jask?” They are far enough from the girl but Geralt keeps his voice low.

With a surprised gasp, the bard notices him approaching and almost flinches. “Don’t—”

“Don’t touch you, I know.”

Jaskier rests his head on the tree bark. “Just for now.”

Geralt’s fists clench and unclench at his sides. Using those powers takes a lot out of Jaskier, and it leaves him unbalanced. The empath is so wary of hurting him by accident when he’s like this, with raw energy still rippling under his skin.

But in truth, Geralt doesn’t care. He wishes Jaskier could let him in, let him share the burden. Right now, with the space between them, he’ll have to rely on words instead of action.

It really isn’t his strong suit.

“Another nightmare… ” he decides to distract the bard while he recovers. “It’s been too long since Ciri had an episode. I thought it was all over.”

“Time doesn’t heal all wounds, Geralt,” Jaskier breathes. “We should all know better.”

Geralt frowns at the haunted look on his bard’s face. The tips of his fingers reach forward again, but he quickly hides the movement by crossing his arms before his chest.

“You sound like you are speaking from experience, Jask.”

“Do I?”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s stomach turns at the way Jaskier speaks about the girl’s trauma. “You know if you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

Jaskier squirms, chewing on his lower lip. Now he’s truly nervous, tense even. The witcher sees the way his posture stiffens and quickly adds, “Or not. Uh—it’s okay if you don’t—"

“No,” Jaskier interrupts him, shaking his head, “No, I want to tell you. I should tell you everything, at this point.”

Silence hangs between them as the bard adjusts his breathing. In and out, like he would before a performance.

“Years ago, when you first identified my powers” Jaskier chooses his words cautiously, the moon shining in his eyes. “I asked if you would use silver on me.”

Geralt’s heart sinks. “I would never, Jaskier. I—How could you ever think that?”

“Oh, relax, my love. I know.” the bard chuckles tightly. “Even back then, I knew you to be a decent man under all the gruffness. You wouldn’t even harm those confused monsters who drifted to human territory on accident, remember? You claimed that your life was just coin and contracts, but to me, it was clear that you were so much more.”

“You are not a monster,” Geralt argues.

“No, but someone else might think differently.”

The leaves rustle in the breeze, the air cooling as the night stretches on. Without the blanket, Jaskier shivers with only a thin chemise on his back. Geralt’s body gravitates toward him of its own volition. Fuck it, if he can just hold Jaskier right now…

“I was thirteen.” The bard is lost in memory. “This man, a magic user, came to our door. It was just me and my mother. He somehow knew about our identities and asked for her help. You see, she had been keeping it a secret for so long, so she couldn’t trust this man, this mage, who somehow just knew that we were empaths.”

He lets out a shuddering breath before continuing.

“His request was… weird. Something about a king or a royal court. I remember thinking that whatever he said sounded so sinister, it couldn’t have been any good. Mum sent him away on the spot, but afterwards she got so scared, like he’d come back again or something. That night, she barred the door and told me to hide in a storage chest. I refused, so she made me. She kept me obedient the entire time.”

Geralt frowns. “Her powers were the same as yours?”

“Stronger.” Jaskier starts pacing, a few twigs snapping under his feet. “She didn’t need contact to manipulate someone’s emotions like me, and she could influence many at the same time. I’m not as powerful—my father was human.”

“What happened next?” Somehow, Geralt knows the story will not end well. A mage usually means trouble. Or in this case, the shadow hidden behind Jaskier’s bright smiles and chirpy songs.

“She kept me calm the whole night, even when she wasn’t with me, but I could feel her fear. It’s was like an undercurrent beneath my skin. I could feel her emotions change. Then I heard the sound of fighting, but I couldn’t get out. I couldn’t go and help her…”

The salty tang of tears assaults Geralt’s nose, but they don’t fall. Jaskier looks up to the sky to hold back the grief that makes his hands tremble.

“Everything got fuzzy after that, but I still remember the pain and the despair. It was like a part of me was hurting with her. Part of me still does, during some nights.” Jaskier closes his eyes in agony. “When I got out the next morning, no one was there. Our home was wrecked, ruined. There was… There was so much blood, Geralt. I—I couldn’t…”

“Oh, Jaskier.” Geralt watches as Jaskier’s shoulders shake, whimpers choking in his throat. Under the night sky, the bard retreats into himself, making his frame look so much smaller. He sways a little and Geralt extends his hands again, hovering by his elbow. “Can I please touch you now?” he pleads.

With a sniffle, the bard composes himself. He flexes his hands to see if his magic is in check. “I think so, yes—oh.”

Geralt pulls Jaskier in for the tightest hug, his arms wrapping around the bard’s frame protectively. Through the thin fabric of the shirt, he can feel another shiver running down Jaskier’s spine, so he rubs small circles into his back to get some heat back in.

He breathes in Jaskier’s scent, not knowing if the lingering stench of fear is from Ciri or the bard.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Jask…” Geralt keeps murmuring into the soft hair by Jaskier’s temple. Gradually, the bard sags against his shoulder, letting himself be soothed and supported. Geralt then places his lips to the skin under Jaskier’s ear, and then his cheek, his chin, all the while holding him impossibly close. He’s ready to help the empath restore his energy with all the brimming love in his chest. “Do you want me to…”

“No,” the bard shakes his head. “I’m good. For now.”

They stand there for so long, swaying gently while the world sleeps, before the bard speaks up again.

“I looked for her, and him, at so many courts.” Jaskier’s slightly colder fingers rest on the nape of Geralt’s neck, buried into the hair there. “No mage fit his description. No trace of her either. I think that deep down, I already knew that she was gone, even back then. Otherwise, I would have felt her in there somehow. No matter how far away she was, but all I had was just this emptiness. I was alone since then.”

“You are not. Not anymore.”

“No,” Jaskier pulls away, the tears have dried. Geralt brings the pad of his thumb to trace those streaks anyway. Under his touch, Jaskier smiles. “You see, back in Posada, I met this witcher, a dashing and heroic one. He fell for me so hard that he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving without me, so he begged me to become his travel companion.”

“And you agreed?” Geralt chuckles.

“Not at first, but he wore me down eventually.”

The bard is the most ridiculous man Geralt knows, and yet here they are. Shaking his head in amusement, the witcher steers his bard back to their bedrolls. As they settle back into their usual position, Geralt can’t help but pull him closer, making sure they are touching from head to toe.

The cover sets heavily over Jaskier's body, slowly warming up his skin. His heart beats against Geralt’s ribcage steadily, showing with solid proof that the empath has survived those horrors.

“I found you too, Jask,” he says, pressing a chaste kiss between Jaskier’s brows.

“Good.” The bard's reply is muffled by Geralt's skin. Not far from them, Ciri is still breathing evenly, sound asleep. Geralt has everyone he needs to protect right here with him, tucked away from their separate demons.

And yet, his mind drifts to Jaskier's story. It’s a tragedy with no end and no closure. There was never a body to bury, no vengeance to seek either.

Somehow, he doubts that an unfinished story will stay unfinished.

---

Tagging: @rockysstupidity​ @flowercrown-bard​ @alllthequeenshorses​ @mothmanismyuncle​ @theultimatenerdd​ @percy-jackson-is-sexy-​

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

[sirenprincess15]

Please Don't Leave Me Chapter 2

Title: Please Don’t Leave Me

Author: SirenPrincess

Description: What if Aleksander hadn’t answered the door when Ivan interrupted the war room kissing? What if Aleksander and Alina had a bit more time to get to know each other before Baghra told her his true identity? Alina is the only one who can comfort Aleksander through his nightmares. Will she leave once she knows who he is?

This story is based on the show version and features a soft on the inside, hard on the outside Aleksander with an emphasis on emotional hurt/comfort and angst. If you are looking for lots of hurt!Aleksander thoughts, then this story is for you. Mal exists but pretty much solely to cause Aleksander some angst. Don’t worry. It will be a Darklina ending.

Chapter 2 takes place alongside Ep 5 and then diverges from canon there.

Pairings: Aleksander Morozova/Alina Starkov, bits of Ivan/Fedyor

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Grisha are oppressed in this universe, and I don’t shy away from showing the horrors of that. There may eventually be mentions of canon-typical torture (Fjerdan pyres), death of family members, and cruelty to Grisha children. It’s not the focus, but that backdrop is definitely there and comes up as characters discuss their past.

Catch up on any previous chapters you might have missed.

Chapter 2

Seeing her in the black, his color, marking her as his, well, it was going to be his undoing. Aleksander could barely concentrate on even pretending to make small talk with the king or his court. As soon as the demonstration was over, their obligation fulfilled, he couldn’t wait to be alone with her. Or was it the power she had demonstrated that was driving him crazy? She was finally showing who she truly was, and now that she was no longer trying to hide who she really was, her strength showed straight through.

No longer caring who might notice, he grabbed her hand and led her to his war room. He’d intended to make it farther toward the bed chamber, but his body decided he’d been waiting long enough … hundreds of years, truly, for an equal. His lips found hers and the spark of electricity, power, warmth that shot through him was indescribable. He tried to go slowly, to kiss her softly as she had kissed him before. When she didn’t pull away, he could not stop himself from kissing her more and more, as if he had been starving all his life and she was finally providing the nourishment his soul needed. He lifted her hips straight up onto his strategy table. Who cared if they knocked a few army markers out of place? She was responding to him, arching up into him, and everything just felt right, as if this was always what was meant to be.

Suddenly, he stopped himself. He was losing himself too quickly, and he feared that if he went much further, he wouldn’t be able to get himself back under control. “Are you sure?” he asked.

A moment of confusion flickered across her face until he spoke, and then she smiled and nodded. That was all the encouragement he needed. Her hands were all over him. Every place her hands touched felt alive, as if her hands alone could burn away the shadows in him.

A knock came at the door. She laughed and started to pull away. “Go away!” He growled. The knock came again. “Not now!” He did not care if the king himself were on fire; nothing was tearing him away from her.

Once he sensed they were alone again, he began unbuttoning her kefta. Why did the fabrikators always add so many buttons on them? His fingers deftly removed each and every one from their loops until he had her to her undershirt. He left the kefta, though, over her arms. It would be a pity to remove the black so quickly, and she would look so amazing with the kefta and only the kefta on. He tore her shirt from her. There was no way to get it off properly with the kefta still on, and he hadn’t the patience for it anyway. He pulled back just a moment to appreciate her beauty. He could have admired her for days, but his body had other plans. He pressed himself to her and felt the power flowing between them, his body calling to the power within her, and hers responding. Her warmth washed over him, through him. It took his breath away.

“Aleksander?” He was so awash in pleasure that he almost didn’t notice except for that flicker of joy he felt in his heart at hearing her use his real name. He ran his hands over her now naked chest, but then there was this flood of anxiety from her. He glanced at her with worry.

“Aleksander, could we just stop for ...”

His heart crushed inside his chest. Of course she was scared of him. He had sliced a man in half using only shadows right over her head. She had made it quite clear how uncomfortable that had made her. There was a darkness to him, not just his power but all of him, that had always been there. He was sure if he could feel her warmth radiating through her touch, then she could feel his blackness. It was so stupid of him to think that just because she was becoming comfortable with her own power that she might accept his. Her smiles and her impromptu kisses had convinced him otherwise, but of course now that she could feel the power and darkness deep within him, she was terrified. He pulled back as he inwardly chastised himself for messing this up.

“It’s okay. I understand,” he interrupted. His voice was hoarse, but perhaps she would chalk that up to his difficulty stopping himself and not the pain he felt at her rejection.

She looked at him with confusion. “I don’t think you do …”

He had gotten so caught up in the potential of their destiny--finding her, her power, the Stag--he had forgotten that she might remain horrified at what he was. “I wouldn’t want to sleep with the monster of Ravka either,” he said, hoping to reassure her that he wasn’t mad. Maybe with time, once she saw how fragile mortals were, once she realized what it was like to see everyone die around you ... “This doesn’t change anything with our plan. Please don’t think that I expect …”

“That’s not what I meant,” she interrupted him.

Now he was the one confused. “What?”

She reached out her hand and caressed his cheek. The anxiety was gone, replaced by a feeling he could only describe as love and concern. “Aleksander, I want to. I’ve been signaling that to you all night. It’s just when we started to … I realized I’ve never …” She was nervous again.

“Are you a virgin?” he asked with surprise. Why hadn’t he considered that? Had it been so long since he had tried to woo a maiden that he had forgotten such things?

“No, not that. It’s …” She stopped herself abruptly. “Are you disappointed?”

“Not at all,” he said with certainty. He reached out and stroked her hair. “You are perfect as you are.”

She leaned into his touch. After a moment, she let her concerns tumble out. “I’ve never with a Grisha … or as a Grisha … and it’s just … is Grisha sex different? Am I supposed to do something differently? My power is so greatly affected by being near you. What will that do if we’re …? I don’t want to mess this up with you.”

He smiled. Such a small worry for him to have gotten so worked up about. Hadn’t she realized she could never disappoint him? “Ahh, that. It will be different. Because I can do this,” he said, brushing his fingers along her arm. “And your power will respond to my touch. Do you feel it like I can?”

She nodded, her breath catching as she shivered in pleasure.

He looked straight into her eyes. “And your body will do that. And I can feel it. And you can feel me responding to how you feel. Before we even bring in anything else, our powers touching alone could be enough to cause orgasm.”

She kissed him passionately, urging him to return to letting his mouth nearly devour her.

“And then, just when you think you cannot hold out a moment longer, I will carry you to my bed and make your body sing.”

[the-melting-world]

The Empress | Side A: “Promise”

Art by @markmefistov

~ In which a humble gardener is granted an audience with her patron Arcana… 

The Trio Appearances: Kipling | Khleo | Ozy

Arcana LI appearances: Asra | Nadia | Muriel 

Track Origins: “Promise” by Ben Howard

Not sure if this is the right track? The full album can be found here: The Empress

cw: mentions of death, monsters, slight horror, drowning themes, manhandling, some blood

~ 2.6k words

Kipling has made it to The Empress’ realm. Ozy hangs back in Vesuvia with Nadia, Muriel, and Asra. He opens a smaller Door that allows them to watch Kipling’s progress with her patron Arcana...

Asra and Nadia’s body language easily gave away their excitement. They crowded on either side of Ozy as he stretched open the portal to get a clear view on what was going on with Kipling and The Empress.

Abaco and Taro were excited as well. They both perched themselves on Ozy’s shoulders. Nadia withdrew to avoid getting a face full of the lemur’s bushy tail.

“Taro,” she said with a tight smile, “I’m afraid you’ll have to find a different spot. I cannot see past your charming purple coat.”

Ozy chuckled and pulled a contrite-looking Taro into his lap. Muriel, who hadn’t moved from where he was on the other side of the table, shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Nadia, Asra… you’re both okay with this?”

Asra turned his fluffy head and arched a white brow. “Why wouldn’t we be, Muri? Now we get to keep an eye on Kip and make sure she’s doing okay.”

Faust nodded enthusiastically. 

Watching is fun! Kipling is fun!

Muriel didn’t look convinced. “Ozy, this doesn’t feel like spying to you?”

Ozy shook his head, keeping his eyes on adjusting the portal. 

“Nope! This is for educational purposes. If I’m going to continue to teach Kipling about grey magic, I need to know how this goes. Feel free to leave if it’s making you too uncomfortable.”

Muriel took a long look at his friends and their familiars craning their necks to get a full view of what was happening in The Empress’ realm.

“I’ll stay, but I won’t watch,” Muriel decided. As an afterthought, he mumbled to himself, “I’ll just listen.”

***

Kipling did not feel so uncomfortable around her patron Arcana after she had taken a seat in the grass down by her feet and started scratching out a poem on a slip of paper. The gardener did, however, find it difficult to concentrate with so many animals occupying the same space. They made lots of interesting, but distracting noises. Not to mention there were saber tooth tigers and hyenas walking around with baby ducklings and turtles trapped between their maws – and the latter were very much still alive.

Kip glanced nervously up at the Empress. “Um. Aren’t you going to stop your children from eating… your other children?”

The Empress tilted her antlered head. “Oh, them? They’re merely practicing at being predators and prey. They can’t kill anything yet.” She plucked one of the berries from her antlers and flicked it to the back of her throat. “The killing and the dying will come much later. When they are grown.”

Kipling suppressed the shudder that threatened to climb up her back and returned to her poem. She channelled those unsettling feelings as best as she could onto the paper.

The Empress drummed her fingers on the leafy armrest of her throne. “Do you know why you’re here, umbra?”

Kipling didn’t answer her right away. She held off until she wrapped up the last line of her poem. Then she put down her pen, folded the slip of paper and looked up at her patron. “Well, I’ve already opened my third eye, so I’m guessing you’re going to show me how to do something else that will help strengthen my magic?”

The Empress snorted. “Magic? Think again.” With a heavy breath, she hoisted herself out of the throne.

Kipling stood up too and tucked the slip of paper between the flowering vines in the backrest of the throne. Then she followed the Arcana on her leisurely stroll through the garden.

“Did you know that every human cannot function without three things? Any guess what those things might be? I’ll give you a hint. You and your friends embody each of the three.”

The hint didn’t do anything except confuse Kipling. She shook her head. 

The Empress’ nostrils flared in amusement. “No? Every human needs... a heart. A body. A mind. Which one do you think you are?”

Kipling took a moment to consider. “Am I… the heart?” 

The Empress nodded. “You are. Perhaps I am biased, but I do believe the heart serves the most essential function.” She didn’t wait to see whether or not Kip agreed before elaborating. “It’s up to the heart to communicate what the body can’t. What the mind won’t…. Tell me, do you remember your reading with Small Hermit? Can you recall why you pulled me in the reversed position?

Kip shrugged. “I guess I’m just… too smothering.” She sighed. “And it’s causing me to neglect other things that are important to me.”

The Arcana lifted her chin. “Yes. When you are under pressure, especially one that calls upon your emotions for another, you tend to cling. Your friend, Khleo… they shut down. And as for Oz’mandias–”

“He detaches,” Kip said softly.

The Empress hummed her approval. “Humans. You all have weaknesses. Don’t look so ashamed, umbra. How you overcome these flaws is what makes your kind interesting and worthwhile.”

Kipling rolled her eyes. “What are you trying to say? That I should be less clingy? That I should just let Khleo go?”

“Interesting that you mentioned letting go. Let’s unpack that. Tell me, umbra, how do you expect anything to bloom, if you never give it a chance to grow? Imagine the relief that would bring. Once you’ve cleared all of the detritus from your heart, you can give new seeds room to germinate.”

Kip let herself say to The Empress what she wouldn’t with Ozy. “But I don’t want to let Khleo go.”

The Empress gave another one of her derisive snorts. “Letting go. You don’t even know what that means.”

Suddenly, Kipling and The Empress were no longer standing in a garden. Now they were on a rock that looked out at the ocean. Kipling recognized this rock and the sea that turned its waves below and far into the horizon. She bit back the urge to ask The Empress why she had transported them to a replica of the Melting World.

“Look, umbra. See yourself there.”

Kipling turned in the direction that the Arcana was pointing. Her breath caught in her throat as soon as she registered what was happening on the edge of the rock. She saw herself and Ozy arguing. They were so young. She was fifteen. He was seventeen. 

Kipling tore her eyes away from the bickering teenagers and searched for…

“Let’s practice letting go, umbra,” The Empress said just as Kip’s eyes fell on a young Khleo, who was standing before an enormous Door. “See if you can figure out the meaning on your own.”

The Door yawned and tugged roughly on Khleo’s body.

Kipling took off. She barely stopped to think before casting herself into the portal after them.

“Khleo–”

The gardener reached and grasped at nothing at first. Then something slammed into her, leaving her breathless. It took a moment before she realized that she had been caught up in a wave. She knew this feeling too well. All her nightmares in the past had been like this. 

Kip’s cheek was pressed to the rock. Her whole body hugged the rough limestone. It scraped her skin as she shifted to look around for Khleo. She found them. Standing before the Door again. Just like they were moments ago. She could hear the younger version of herself bickering with Ozy in the background.

The Empress’ voice came from everywhere and nowhere.

“Let go.”

Kipling fixed her gaze on Khleo and stood up. “No.”

She took off again, not caring that the wave from before had snatched off her shoes and now the limestone was cutting into her heels. She knew that if she just pushed harder, ran faster, she could get to Khleo in time.

WHAM.

Another wave crashed into her, followed by another sickening bout of disorientation. But Kipling had been there before. This was nothing new to her. 

She saw Khleo. Heard the arguing in the background. She ignored it, choosing instead to chase after Khleo.

She ate seawater. Her sinuses burned in brine. She didn’t care. 

She had to save Khleo. 

The gardener lost track of how many times the Door reset. 

How many times was The Empress going to force her to watch Khleo get taken away? When would she understand that Kipling could not – would not let go?

After a particularly violent wave, Kipling let the Arcana have her way.

“Fine!” She wheezed, cheek pressed to the rock, eyes shut against the painful images that kept replaying without her consent. “You win!”

When she coughed, it felt like torture because of how many times she had been caught up in the waves. It hurt to breathe. 

Water fought its way out of Kipling’s nose. She writhed in an effort to sneeze and instead swallowed a wet, salty lump. It made her sick. She wanted this to be over so she could go back to her plants and be happy. 

“I get it now. I should just be grateful for what I have.” She would love Asra and Muriel and Nadia. She would show Ozy the love he deserved. She would let Khleo go. “I want too much! I always have.” 

She opened her eyes, thinking she would see The Empress. Bending low to place a crown of flowers upon Kipling’s head. Murmuring something about graduating to the next realm of understanding and healing.

Instead, she saw the cascade of a monstrous wave.

“N-No!”

WHAM.

And so it went on. Kipling took the beating of the hurricane and the sea.

“What do you think it means now, umbra?”

Dying, Kipling wanted to say. It means to die.

“Do you think letting go means closing your eyes and waiting for it to be over? Do you think it means forgetting about that person? Do you think it means pretending like they never existed in the first place? It’s none of those things!”

When Kipling could speak again – and it was a long time before she could – with the back of her hand, she wiped away the salty drool mixed with blood from all the times she hit the rocks and said, “You’re killing me.”

The Empress bleated in laughter, her thin lips curling back over blunted teeth. 

“You cannot expect a strong body to rely on a weak heart. What’s more, Kipling, my sweet, a weak heart could never support a powerful mind! They need you just as much as you need them. So you must know – you will learn – when to hold on…” 

The Empress snatched Kip’s head off the rock and pried open her eyes. She watched Khleo’s mouth open in an empty cry as they were taken by the portal again.

 “And when to let go!”

The gardener screamed and jerked out of her patron’s grasp. She tumbled down the rock until she landed roughly before the great Door. There was no wave this time, but her senses still burned from the sound of her younger self and Ozy screaming just off to the side.

Look around. 

Kipling didn’t want to look. Not at those two. Not at herself.

Think about what you’re letting go of. 

“No. I can’t,” Kipling wheezed as she propped herself up on her elbows. “I don’t know that person.”

You can. Because you’re almost there.

It was Kipling’s own words that she was hearing. Not The Empress’, she realized. 

She turned and looked at her teenage self. Kipling stood up.

“I never forgave her.” She said finally. “I said I was sorry to Ozy. I accepted his forgiveness. I even let go of the guilt, but I never forgave who I was then for all the damage I had caused.”

She knew The Empress could hear her. Those dark ruminant features entered her periphery. This time her antlers were covered in seashells and barnacles. 

Plucking an oyster from one of the branches and cracking it open, The Empress said, “As a child, you were one who insisted on keeping everything to herself, letting nothing out, letting no one inside. Imagine if you had held onto her. Imagine who you would be now and the people you would not be able to keep in your company. You let her go a long a time ago.” She removed a fat pearl from the oyster and wedged it inside of one of her hollow eye sockets.

“But forgiveness is a different type of letting go,” Kip said, feeling as though she was talking to herself rather than a Major Arcana. “I forgive her. She was young. I mean, I was young. I know better now.”

Kip didn’t look, but she sensed a smile from The Empress.

“Watch out, umbra. Another wave comes.”

Kipling was ready. Her gauntlets hummed to life. She saw several waves stretching high overhead, intent on crushing her against the bedrock. She saw the glyphs in the framework that intersected the fabric of everything, felt the ones that lit up just for her.

“Taro.”

A tiny Door spiraled open by Kipling’s elbow. Taro chittered and glowed as she floated into view and whizzed around the umbra’s shoulders. Just like Kipling felt the Doors, she felt the tethers to her familiar – in all ten fingers. And Taro, who had always been able to pick up on the things Kip wanted quicker than she felt them at times, knew exactly where to go.

“Hmm.” The Empress mused. “You spin silk. Like my spiders.”

Kipling directed Taro, who passed her tethers onto the glyphs, where they knotted and secured Kip’s connection to them. She never had to leave the motherboard as she tugged with one hand and engaged the dials with another. 

Doors opened under her feet, dragging down the weight of the crashing waves. Kip closed her eyes, relaxing until the locks on all of the Doors clicked smoothly into place. The water rushed violently past her head, but only her freckled cheeks were kissed by the ocean spray.

When the sea had emptied itself, the umbra sealed off the Doors and called Taro back to her. The light dimmed from the lemur’s eyes and markings as she took her seat on Kip’s shoulders. 

The gardener was in the middle of rewarding Taro with scritches when someone came up behind her.

“If I go through that Door...”

Kipling turned to see Khleo towering over her.

“Will I die?”

Kip swallowed. The Empress was nowhere in sight. She took in Khleo’s features. Their height, the slightness of their bones and thin arms. Her eyes smarted at the sight of their ghost lock chasing the salty breeze.

Their face. It was the only thing that would stay the same. Everything else about them was going to change.

“Will I die?” Khleo repeated, their dark brown eyes flicking over Kip’s head at the great Door that yawned in their direction.

Kipling glanced over at where the old Kip was arguing with the old Ozy.

“It might feel like you’re dying at times,” she said honestly. Then she took Khleo by the hand. “But I promise, that’s just you becoming strong.”

Khleo blinked and looked curiously at Kipling. “Strong like you?”

Kip laughed a little. “No, Khleo.” She wiped her eyes at the memory of seeing them in Strength’s realm.

“Strong like you’re meant to be.”

And it was then that Kipling knew what she had to do. She gently pulled Khleo towards the Door.

“I’m scared,” Khleo said, their voice breaking as it often did in those days. 

Kip nodded sagely. “Growing up is scary sometimes.”

Khleo bit their lip. “Oh.”

They didn’t look as worried as they did before when Kipling guided them to the threshold. Khleo didn’t say anything else. They did, however, offer her a small smile and squeeze her hand. Kipling smiled too before she let them go.

Then she took a step back and watched Khleo walk through the Door.

[remsmoonlight]

— title : broken facade ( part one ? )

— word count : 2.6 k words

— pairing : john wick x reader

— summary : john thought he could keep his old world dead and buried, he was wrong

— warnings : mentions of death, blood, extremely minor swearing, kidnapping, mentions of drugging.. idk maybe a bit of hurt and angst? idk where i was going with this i spent so long on it lmao im very sorry

Nothing can be heard over the continuous shattering of the fractured pieces of a silent promise he repeated to himself every morning he woke and the last thing that ran through his mind before he would cease to resist the urge to sleep. It’s the only promise kept hidden from you and there was no going back from its state of shards, what kind of man is he if the one thing he kept close to his heart is no more.

Never let that life lay a finger on them.

Now, here he is. Knowing that the life he had previously led has wormed itself back to him, it has sullied your spirit and for that, he can find no forgiveness in his soul for himself. It’s him that is why you have been torn away from him so mercilessly, why you are in the situation you are in. He would give his life a thousand times and a thousand times over if it means you are safe, away from the harsh and cold blooded world he knows so well.

Although, the remnants of his old life is not a friend greeting him after an age has passed, but rather.. a  foe that wishes to lead him down the trail to its murky depths.

He assumes that the steering wheel that is gripped so stiffly by his hands only wish to buckle and crumble under the weight he is setting down upon it, though there is no other way to channel the highly agitated energy that swirls within him. Until you are back in his arms can he find the strength to completely calm the brutal waters that wish to overwhelm him, the only thing saving him is the objective that is removing you from the grasps of the Tarasovs’.

The same is unable to be said for you, the fear that you feel coursing throughout your entire being is the only thing that you can concentrate on. This is the clearest you have been for days, since you had been taken from your refuge from the world. You are sure that you’ve been drugged, though you can’t decide truly if that fact is a blessing or a curse. Being an unwilling participant in whatever you had found yourself in would prove difficult for those who held your life in their hands, and as much as you want to put up a fight, it’s impossible. You can see just how tense everyone in this cold, desolate room is. It’s not ideal to prod and provoke the Devil, especially as it has the power to rip you from the reality you know.

Your heart swells from the haunting image that plays continuously like an olden film, with the grit and burns. It’s a desire that you yearn so intensely for to rid your brain of the bloodied and battered John, you had never seen him so defenseless. You wonder if he is still breathing, if he is suffering from being so broken.

“ hey! why don’t you just let me go? “ you call out to anyone in the room, your fingers fidgeting anxiously with the threads of the scarf wrapped protectively around your neck.

“ shut the fuck up! “

You switch your gaze from the man who yelled, knowing that there is no point in arguing, to the one playing on the game console. Fear and self preservation that rules your body into silence battling with the confusion you find yourself experiencing at how one of the other men could feel so relaxed to the point he can play games.

Though he’s not the one who’s been kidnapped you think with a stern frown deeply painting your features, you simply wished you could be wrapped up in your duvet with a straight to dvd cheap movie playing.

The next moment a colossal bang erupted, spilling through the entirety of the room -- you have no idea where to look, your entire feeling as if it had been frozen in a moment of time. It’s not until a thud pulls you out of your cloud, and it’s one of the men who have fallen to the ground. Your eyes widen at the sight, you’ve seen such brutality in movies and television shows but never could they capture the true horror that lays in front of you.

The crimson liquid is never ending as it exits from the wound, you want to rip your eyes away from the repulsive scene yet you find yourself in a trance, with a magnetic pull that refuses to bend its will to yours. Only when your skin feels fingers digging deep into clothed flesh is your head able to turn, your feet already on the move. Your eyes refuse to acknowledge the further death that lay motionlessly on the floor, the bodies as cold as the temperature.

Rumbles fill your hearing, it’s hardly a chore to know that they’re under attack, by who you have little idea. Though a tiny spark of hope, so small it’s hardly noticeable, hums in your core. Perhaps it may be the authorities, here to put a permanent end to your newfound nightmare. Whatever it is, it has these men scared -- though, when you think back.. they have been on edge since you have had the unfortunate experience of knowing them. No matter how hard you previously tried to decipher some sort of idea, even a faded picture of what you have been caught up in, they were quick to respond with venom and hostility.

“ let go of me! “ words tumble from your lips as you try to dig your feet in further to the metal steps, hands clawing at the railings as if they could protect you.

Nothing is said to you, had it not been for the male’s grip on your arm, you could assume that they have no idea of your presence. Countless nights you had found yourself wishing for such, that they would forget your existence and you would be then able to escape. Never has that wish been granted.

Burns from the metal grasped so firmly scorch your palms, you can feel the need to survive driving yourself to fight and struggle.. opportunities to escape had been bare, the one presented now is one that you refuse to elude you so swiftly. Again, a body drops from a gunshot -- your shock proving more of a force than anything, because the hold that had been so secure on your arm severs without you comprehending it for a passing moment in time.

The leap your heart completes knows no bounds, the disturbance at seeing the violence occur at the man you have only known to be gentle and warm overwhelmed by your exhilaration that he is there and safe. John hardly acknowledges you as he passes your trembling form, his mind focused on one thing and one thing only. It’s no surprise when you decide to turn away, not wishing to have your image of him shattered any more than it has already. Though, you wonder how detrimental protecting your dream like depiction of him is.

A faze, it’s all your mind can think of describing the journey from the harsh confines of the barren property to where you reside currently. The journey from one place to the other mesh together, your memories betraying you in your inability to process everything that happened.

A hand grazes your skin comfortingly, though the suddenness pulls you out from beneath your thoughts.

“ i’m sorry. “ John speaks, keeping his eyes straight ahead on the road.

A frown sketches itself onto your brows as you turn to face him, you are unable to understand what he means by his words. The scenery passes by in a blur, stuck in a timeless state of thinking, you realise that you’ve not responded to him. How do you respond to something like? You wonder to yourself, loathing the fact that you cannot reply, a misunderstanding of rejection isn’t something needed for the moment. Against your better judgement, you need the opposite.

“ John - I - what? “

The feather like weight on your hand is still there, though now there is a contrast of tenderness and peace that had only known violence and blood exploring the expanse of his fingertips, only now a ghostly image not yet faded.

“ it got worse for you, because of me. “ he replies with a pitch as solid as stone, still refusing to make eye contact.

Though it’s not known to you that the reason he refuses to look at you is because he cannot yet come to terms with the fact that the two significant fractions of his life, the past and the present, have collided so effortlessly. He doesn’t yet want to acknowledge his part to play in the scars of his old word being the reason your surface now bears the brunt of being blemished by its cold, callous hands. He doesn’t want to have to bear witness to the tears that have stained your usually bright features, knowing the darkness that had once consumed his life wished to stretch its skeletal grip to you, threatening to eclipse the light of hope you unknowingly provide every chance he gets to set his sights on your form.

“ you’re not making any sense. “ you turn to face him now, trying to read his expression. Though, it’s at a loss. When he needs to be, he can be extremely hard to read.

“ that guy? the one I shot.. I used to work for his father. “

You blink, still failing to see the picture. You’re able to make a mental sketch, but you still need final pieces. Yes, he was connected.. but how is he at fault? Was it some sort of vengeance? Blackmail? The list is an endless trail your mind explores at the new piece of information, however it’s only John who can provide the key.

“ what does that have to do with everything that happened? “

“ there’s a reason why I’ve never told you much about my past. “ he replies softly, his mind wandering to find the most rational way to word the difficult tale, whose twists and turns trailed over it as if they were no more than a line of vines full of poison.

Though, the inner voice belonging to him knows there is no outcome that bodes well for him, the inevitable can’t be written off nor can it be denied.

“ so tell me, please? “ you plead with him, your nervous energy building and building in the tips of your fingers. They tap on the end of the car seat as you wait for his response.

“ before we met, I did things. I killed. “

It has to be quick John thinks to himself. There’s not a way that what he has to say, his past can be primped and perfumed into a pretty little picture, not when that picture is haunted by all the life that had been ripped from the world by his hand.

“ this is a joke, right? “ you laugh, incredulously. Gazing at his form it was as if the energy around him had inverted, there is no way that John, your John could do such things. The gentle smile of his, the thoughtfulness he demonstrates each day would battle his words, but the solidity and lack of humour being shown from him..? You’re tempted to believe.

“ I wish it was. “

“ there’s.. I don’t even know what to say. “ your brows furrow low, a bleakness setting itself into your expression as you try to come to terms with his answer.

“ you don’t have to. “ he speaks with difficulty, while he had expected more hatred from your eyes, he dares not to hope you will stay. Not after everything he has brought down upon you.

Fresh tears build up, until they are no more than a glassy barrier preventing clear vision. You will them to recede, to fade away until they’re nothing more than shadows. You have seen many horrors, more in the past week than your whole life and the man you love has had a direct part in that? You can’t erase the images of him gunning your captor, but you can’t erase all the sweet whispers after nights of lust and love, all the hours spent talking about life and what you would do. A stark contrast to the man you first got to know.

“ this isn’t something I can pretend to understand, but why hold something like this from me? Why wouldn’t you tell me eventually? “ you question, many emotions are clawing over each other to rise to your surface, preventing you from thinking straight.. yet it’s frustration that is victorious.

“ I never thought I'd be back. “

“ you need to understand, things like that? They don’t go away, they have a way of coming back and biting you in the ass. “

“ yeah, I see that now. “

A groan erupts from your parted lips, dropping your head in your hands. Your fingers drag their way across your scalp, this is something you argue would be seen in a movie.. not your life. The feelings you have are conflicted and inconsistent, any normal person would jump out of the moving care.. but a part of you can’t cast him aside so easily. What you have, that’s what you know is real.

“ John, I - I need time. At the minute.. I just don’t know what to think. With everything that’s happened. “

“ I get that. You’ll be seen to, for your injuries. “

A smile, small in size lifts the darkness from your eyes ever so slightly. Your injuries are bare, save for a few scrapes on your face. It’s the mental ones that begin to frighten you. They’re not so easily treatable. A smile that wishes with all its might that it is so easy.

“ to be honest.. I just want to go home. “ you lift your head up from its concealment as you share to him your one simple desire, your eyes imploring him to follow through with your request.

“ soon. “ he finally turns his head to look at you, to finally see you properly. All he wants is for you to be safely protected in his arms, as he mutters countless apologies that he longs you forgive him for. By no means is he a perfect man, but he can strive for such for you.

“ John, I’m not dead. I’m just tired. “

“ please, don’t. “

It’s curious, the tone in his voice as he replies to you. You can’t place it, though it’s very unlike him. Your left hand removes itself from the warmth of his palm to place yours atop of his, lending your warmth and comfort to him. The fact that both of you have fresh mental scars from the ordeal is becoming promptly evident.

“ I just want to make sure you’re okay. “

“ John, I don’t know what to think, what to feel. This is just.. the craziest thing. “

“ yeah, and it’s my fault. “ he exclaims lowly, as if he’s speaking more to himself than you. Berating himself for something that was never in his control.

You shake your head, hating the way he’s talking of himself. It’s enough to rouse some anger within you, though you know better than to make the situation between the two of you worse.

“ look, I know I can’t make you think otherwise.. but you never took me away. You never hid me from building to building, you were the one who saved me. “ you argue, ferocity cautiously coating your words. Your grip settled on top of his hand growing. “ I can’t stop seeing what you did, but you were the one who got me out. I need some quiet from it all. “

Your words, you hope, are strong. Trying to separate what you have seen that day is not something that will come as light as the clouds above your head do when they shower upon you, the thought that you fear you may never do is something you keep close to your chest for now.

To protect the both of you.

[whereflowersbloom]

Nightmares and donuts.

For a minute he can’t see anything, then he’s in this unknown place, a foggy forest, there’s some creatures lurking in the shadows. He couldn’t see them clearly, he didn’t understand. what was wrong with his eyes? There were monstrous creatures and they wanted him. They tried to catch him.

Then everything goes black.

Now he is running down a street at super speed, people surround him screaming desperately, he has no idea what’s going on. He can hear them crying for help, little children, civilians, he listens to their heartbeats pounding. Then he detects the figure of a girl, he cannot see her face, but he recognizes her. He only catches glimpses of her through the crowd. He pushes harder, his legs pumping. He knows her well. He panics and he’s sweating.

“Raven, wait for me” he tries to say, but nothing comes out. He cannot speak. She can’t hear him. He can’t reach for her, touch her soft skin. He needs to get to her.

Save her.

Panics swells within him. He runs faster, pushing his limits. She’s closer now. But she never looks back. Never looks at him.

He’s reaching, reaching, but the distance between them stretches too far and he can’t get close enough. Why he wants to know. He wants to punch a wall, his frustration and anger driving him mad.

She’s going to fall, she screams, crying out in desperation, fear, falling into the endless darkness. Taking her away from him.

There’s nothing he can and Conner knows with with an absolute and dreadful, sinking feeling, it’s his fault. He wants to shout, yell, his fury, misery, disappointment.

Then she’s on the floor, lying in front of him, unmoving. Her lifeless body. Empty eyes, her cosmic violet eyes he adores with every fiber of his body. There’s blood. Blood blooming across her torso, in rich and vivid red. The place is flooded with her blood. Everything’s red now. He can’t escape it. He holds her dead body in his arms, he wants to hold onto it, with all his strength. He feels like something was ripped off his chest, he’s sobbing, his emotions out of control , he sobs, agonizing, he’s broken. His dreams and illusions destroyed. He failed her. He wasn’t made to fail. He was supposed to protect her. No matter what or the cost. Everything was meaningless if she wasn’t there. Sobs tearing out of his throat, it’s too much, all the pain, the loss, it’s going to destroy him. As if he’s about to explode from all the torment.

He wakes up, gasping, breathing shakily. The emotions hitting him, and slowly, flowing away from him, slipping between his fingers like water as he’s awake. He’s disoriented, he feels heaviness in his chest. He tries to focus, looks around, attempting to discover where he was, but he’s too numb to think. Relax. Breath in, out. Someone squeezes his hand gently. Warmth. He wasn’t alone. He’s calmed down and he concentrates, he’s in his room. At the Tower. He seeks the source of warmth. He finds it. It’s her. He’s relieved. He relaxed as he takes a deep breath. It was a nightmare. He squeezes her hand to assure himself it’s real. She’s real.

“You’re okay now. It was a nightmare.” Her melodious voice whispers

“What happened?” He can’t remember anything, his head hurts,he was too affected by the dream. He massages his forehead, trying to regain composure.

“We were on a mission. But there was an ambush. They had Kryptonite. You were badly injured. Very” remarked with sadness and worry in her voice. “I had to heal you.”

Oh. He did fail. Was she injured? Immediately he studied her figure completely. Everything seemed to be okay. He stares, his stare expresses deep longing. She was safe was all he could think about and alive. Her violet, shinning-stars-in-the-sky eyes, full of life. He was so grateful but he had to be strong for her. For everyone but her specially.

“I’m sorry I made a mistake.” He whispered with remorse, guilt, reminding himself he had to be responsible of his actions. Be stronger. Be better. His throat was dry.

“Conner. You don’t have to be strong all the time. Nobody is. Not even me.” She confessed, she wanted to comfort him. She felt his agony and pain.

“Clark would sacrifice himself if he had to. He’s stronger and exceptional, worthy, a man I have no certainty I’ll become.” He clenched his jaw. Superman was invincible. But he was different, a clone. Only half the man Clark is, maybe less.

“That’s not true. You’re worthy. You’re so much more, things you can’t see. Things you’ll become. You’re only a year old.” Raven was looking for the right words. It saddens her immensely, the pain she felt, horrors she saw in his mind. She had to say it or he wouldn’t stop.

“Stop pushing yourself for my sake. We are partners, friends, growing and learning together.” She muttered serious. She bit her lip, she intruded his mind, oh no. “Sorry. Empath. Can’t help it sometimes.” She apologized but a part of her got the feeling he didn’t mind.

“How much did you see?” He asked her looking down. Afraid she had seen his worst fear.

“Enough. Enough to know that if I leave you alone, you’ll spend the rest of the night brooding and reproaching yourself over something you had no control over.” She folded her arms, giving him the ‘I know you ‘ look.

He exhaled, slowly managed to sit up on the edge of the bed. She was right. All the tension in the room. He had to say something to Change the mood.

“So you’ll act as my temporary nurse?” He joked, a grin spread widely on his face.

Raven crossed her arms over her chest. Suppressing a giggle but giving him a genuine smile. “I suppose, and I happen to know the cure for half-kryptonians. You’ll feel better in a flash.“ she said cheerfully.

“Oh. What is it?” His eyebrows raised, he didn’t expect that, curious about her magical remedy. His mind forgetting about that terrible nightmare.

Raven smiled mischievously “you and me. Donuts and the rooftop. So get casual clothes and get ready to go out.” This sparked Conner’s interest, his eyes sparkling. It was no secret he had a fondness for sweets.

“I was born ready.” He smiled, feeling the warmth in his chest. She always knew how to make it better.

Moments later he was sitting beside Raven, looking at the night sky, wearing civilian clothes. Conner says through a mouthful of pastry. “I love donuts and this.”

“I have to admit they are pretty good.” Raven picks a strawberry filled donut and tastes it. Delicious. Sweet.

They got four boxes of donuts. Conner was currently halfway finishing the second one. He was sitting on the rooftop, looking at the stars with the girl he likes. She hasn’t said much about his nightmare. His fear. They didn’t need words. Raven understands. It’s moments like this that makes everything worth it. Moments he joyfully treasures.

He looks at her again, even if he couldn’t tell her his feelings out loud. His eyes could speak the words he wanted to say with all his heart, human or Kryptonian. Whatever he was. He knew now he was capable of caring, loving someone. Raven didn’t judge him, she accepted him unquestionably.

“So how does the portal thing work?” He asked looking up and taking a mouthful of another donut. “If Krypton was still up there. Would you take me?” Half interested, the other half just wanted to hear her talk. He wished upon the stars, the whole galaxy if it was possible to stay in this moment, make it last, just a bit longer, or forever.

“If that’s what you wanted. Yes, of course.” And she gets into explaining how her powers work. And the infinite planets and dimensions in existence. Conner can’t hide his amusement.

The spend an unaccountable slice of infinity on the roof, until Conner is full, eating almost all the donuts, counting the starts, identifying constellations, talking about Azarath and other places, feeling at ease. At home. She feels like coming home. Conner thought.

I am home.

Thus is for @grassfour 😊😊😊💜💙

[mamacleo]

"We don't want to be doing this either."

CW/TW: Frank talk about borderline personality disorder. Can be triggering.

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What did they give you?

Did they give you love? Did they give you respect? Did they give you support?

Did they give you abuse? Did they give you disrespect? Were you on your own?

If it's both? Unpredictable? Nearly random? And constant?

Imagine being in Marine boot camp. That for no reason you can grasp, either everyone hates you or you think they do. Imagine every expression of respect or support is suspect because you know it carries conditions that can cripple you. Because there is never any knowing if a good word hides a fist or a knife.

Imagine, too, that when you screw up, you will be physically hazed for you don't know how long, how hard, and it is random. What got praise yesterday can leave you bruised today. Or scarred. Heaven help you if they should get creative.

It comes with brainwashing. Always. Being told you deserve what you get. Your self-worth being dismantled with verbal violence. Always with the voice of rage. The sound of rage. You hear it coming before it arrives now. You are powerless to stop it.

There are no rules. There are no guidelines. There are no patterns. Any time, day or night. In your sleep. While you're eating. While you're resting.

Imagine being on guard for all of this all day, every day. Your amygdala, lighting up all day and feeding you nightmares at night. The constant short breath, the constant flow of adrenaline. Always assessing your surroundings in the vain hopes you might escape.

Now imagine that Marine boot camp lasting for twenty years.

How would you come out? What kind of a broken person would you be if you went into boot camp and it didn't end? Didn't stop? Worse than you imagined? You had no idea how long it would last? Every day, hoping it's the last, hoping there'll be a break, but there isn't and no one will tell you when it's gonna end.

Waking moment to sleep, then the nightmares. Lather, rinse, repeat. Twenty years. Maybe more.

Could you do it? Could you do it without committing suicide? Could you?

Would the Geneva Conventions allow us to do that to prisoners of war? Could we stand before The Hague and escape judgment?

What would you be like if you went into the Marines as a young adult and were trapped in it, no escape, no hope, and didn't come out until you were middle-aged? Two decades of this? Can you imagine this being done by the Marines and there not being a Congressional inquiry?

Could you do this to an adult human being?

It happens to children. Every day. Every, every day. By parents. Teachers. Relatives. Schoolmates. Clergy. Youth leaders.

The results of this are, for most victims, devastating. For most of us, we end up with this thing that psychologists tagged "Borderline Personality Disorder." That's what BPD is, not bipolar disorder, if you were wondering. The pathology of it is complex. It's brutally hard to cope with.

It's emotions ratcheted up way past 11. The best word I have for it is "operatic." Every cruelty is Carmen, every battle is Ride of the Valkyries, every terror is Don Giovanni. The pain, and it is an emotional pain so severe you feel it all over your body, is excruciating enough to make you scream. (At first.) I could tell you how it usually goes, but there is no usually goes. That's the horror of it. It's devious.

It knows you better than you do, because it's fueled by your subconscious and knows all the secrets you won't consciously admit to yourself. It will not hesitate for a heartbeat to use them to crush you, because believe me, BPD is all about destroying yourself. In your mind, you're just finishing the job the world started.

You're easily triggered. It can be anything. It can be nothing. You may not know what did it. It might hit like a shot. It might build up. It might come over you like a tsunami. Once it starts, you can't stop it. Not usually.

For instance: I have been showing borderline symptoms since I was about 11. I've been like this for 49 years. Only in the last two have I made the kind of progress to where I can now either divert or resolve the episode without the usual damage.

It wasn't easy. Though I didn't realize it until just this very moment, I used it against itself. I worked hard on this, obsessively, compulsively, for close to 40 years, and my progress is phenomenal.

All the fierce concentration, the operatic fears, the delusional thinking--I've gotten very, very good at it--and I still can't always stop it. I have strategies, but they don't always work. Every time is different.

Think about that. EVERY TIME IS DIFFERENT.

If you have not gone through it, you simply cannot imagine it. And the exhaustion. Oh, holy Hera, the exhaustion. You cannot imagine the crushing weight of a lifetime of this. It affects your physical health. People who don't have this don't understand, *it's cumulative.* And like arsenic, you can't flush it out.

The best you ever do is manage it. It's a life sentence. There's no escape. Your brain was hardwired to be like this. Like John Mulaney says, "We don't want to be doing this either." With work, and it takes a LOT of work, you can make it better.

But not everyone has it. Not everyone is strong. Not everyone is brave. Not everyone can make the right decisions. Not everyone can think clearly.

Most of us don't even realize it. I didn't until I was 58 years old and a shrink diagnosed me following a suicide attempt. How can you fix it when you don't know that it's there? Shrinks don't want to deal with us. We take work, exhausting work. We're hard to live with. They'd rather just medicate us, and not all of us respond to what few meds there are.

Now allow me to blow your mind.

THERE ARE TENS OF MILLIONS OF US.

We're "the weird kid." The dork. The manic pixie dream chick. The ones who hated ourselves so much it showed. That doesn't change. It never changes. There is no therapy, no counseling, no medicine that will ever get rid of that deep, tenacious rupture that is BPD self-loathing. The best you do is come to terms with it.

The stigma must end. It's difficult. We have a long road. It's only recently becoming known and there is a lot of fear of us. It's not unwarranted, either. People get caught up in our emotional storms and get hurt. Occasionally even physically. I will tell you hard things, but I will not lie to you: we have deeds to answer for.

Mine is managed, at last, but it still can't be controlled. I just spent a week in a particularly cruel one. And went into one last night. I got out, but the shadow of it will linger a day or two.

The best you can do is come up with strategies. That is something I can help others do now, and it is going to make everything that has gone before worth it.

[yandere-society]

Obscure Twilight | Second Half

Synopsis: ‘It was that face you saw - those ghastly visions every time you turned to slumber that shook your core. It churned your insides with unbearable anguish until you were a hollow shell of a woman scorned by her family and mocked by her peers. And so you begged her with insanity in your soul. A fragile lady carrying her daughters on her feeble back - “Please Mother. Don’t let me fall asleep.“’

First Half

Pairing: FreddieKruger!Jimin x Female Reader

Genre: Inspired by Nightmare on Elm Street

Word Count: 18K

Admin: @roses-ruby​​

A/N: Finally It is done! I’m gonna cry. It’s very important that you read the first half before this. Alright two things: The eldest sister’s name has been changed from Idette to Ivette cause I like the other letter better, sorry ‘d’ enthusiasts, and two this was fucking 18k I have no idea if I left smthg out please let me know if you find a mistake! And I skipped work for this so please give me feedback🥺🥺 Okay luvs, enjoy!

Trigger warnings: Yandere, Gore, Horror, Mature, Infidelity, Sexism

You stood in front of the full-length mirror in Ivette’s room, staring at your gray church dress.

Full sleeves, narrowed waist, and a fitted neckline with a simple collar. The cloth was drab and lifeless, though comfortable. And it was slightly loose on your limbs, having been Lilian’s before it was handed down to you. Her dress was now a pretty mauve that she spent days stitching together, frills, ribbons and all. She would snicker at you when you stared at her a second too long as she was all dress up on Sundays. Jealous? She would say, with the most evil glint in her eye.

In return you would scoff, turn away from her like she was spouting nonsense. But what she spoke was not far from a lie. Lilian’s dress was the pretty new thing and you had to wear her old scraps. To church of all places! So yes, perhaps you were envious towards the carnivorous desires you had little to no control over.

“Are you done yet, you weasel?” There it was, what you were expecting since you stepped into this accursed room two minutes ago.

Mother had commanded you to get dressed, to put on your church dress so you could head out into town. You were not exactly fond of the idea, finding the church the last place you wanted to be after Jin’s warning. Though it was never easy telling mother no, she only ever asked you to do so much.

Away from your reflection, you turn on your heel to face the culprit of the sneer.

“Lilian, how lovely of you to be up for once while the sun is out.”

She tsks, “Of course, yet I would rather not see your face so early in the morning.”

You would have snapped back but she already appeared so pathetic in her wrinkled nightgown, her hair messy and fussed and dried drool on the side of her lip. Instead you turn back around and proceeded into fixing yourself up and straightening out any unevenness in your worn-out dress. There was a tear on the right side of the bottom which you were quite embarrassed of. Even though you tried to patch it together, the weak threads of your stitch were becoming undone.

You could feel Lilian glaring at your back with her arms crossed as you ignored her presence.

As you were about to turn to leave, Ivette stepped into the room.

“Mother’s calling for you, gremlin.”

With a scowl of your face, you brush past her. Disregarding the screechy snickering of the two sisters at your expense. Before you left her chamber, she called out to you.

“Because of your nightmares, mother has been worried sick. And just look at Mabel! You have been jeopardizing the health of this family over some ridiculous dreams. Spare an ounce of decency at least.”

You stand there for a while, staring at Mabel’s door right in front of the twin’s entrance. Then, without a word you proceed down the hall and turn into the dining room. Mother stood at the entryway in her simple washed tunic and skirt. A vest on her bosom and a bonnet covering her head. She held a bonnet for you in her hands. And you walked up to her to receive it.

“Thank you, mother.” You say, wearing it over your head. She silently helps you tie up the ribbons. With her face in such proximity, you take notice on how thin her wrists had become. Her hair was graying day by day and her skin was sagging.

Your insides burn in guilt. If it was not for you, she would not be under such stress. It was early in the morning and she’s having to make breakfast, take care of poor sick Mabel, work for 12 hours and then take care of you who should be up on your own feet by now. The twins were right, and you knew that. Although they were just rubbing salt in your wounds you could not blame them for it, not when you had left the wounds exposed to them.

“Mother,” You whisper lowly and she gazes up at you from under her lashes. “I bought you a dress last Christmas. The pretty yellow one with the frills and lace. Quite butter upon bacon it is. How come you have never worn it?”

She smiles at you like you were still five. “That dress is for a special occasion. I cannot just prance around wearing it every other week. It will lose its purpose.”

“And when will that be?”

“Why soon next month, at Lilian’s wedding!”

Right, that was still a planned event.

“I hope poor Mr. MacDonald realizes what a mistake he is making before it is too late.”

“Oh, hush now child.” You mother lightly taps your shoulder. “We should be grateful to God for providing Lilian with such a wonderful future husband. A scholar from Liverpool no less. How blessed she is.”

In irritant, you hide a scoff underneath your tongue as mother pulls the door open. Having Lilian as a member of your family is already a frightening. You cannot imagine the havoc she shall cause at the poor MacDonald’s estate. She was ready to get married as soon as possible and you were ready for her to leave. Lillian had always been a bit of a foozler. It was humorous to imagine her new mother shouting at her for ruining the custard once again.

You accidently laugh out loud.

“Is there something funny?” You mother questions to which you shake your head

With a light-hearted scoff, she opens the front door.

The bright sunlight hits your eyes, prompting you to squint. A cold breeze surrounds you and your legs tremble underneath your dress. With a small brrr escaping your lips, you held up the bottom of your skirt and began to shadow your mother who was already beyond the porch.

The walk was short and uneventful. And you could not be more thankful.

No sudden unwanted surprise or scary gentleman in the street.

Soon enough, the tall gray church was in your sight. Every brick held an ancient appearance, one of hard work and perseverance. The closer you walked to it, the queasier you became. What would happen if mother told the preacher about your dreams? You could not help but wonder. He was a man you knew well enough. After all, you had been acquainted with him since you were a toddler.

Back when he was just a rookie in the clergy, he had been your father’s closest friend. Often, he would spend Christmas or Easter with your family, huddled around the table and praying grace. You thought of him as a kind uncle, someone gentle and mature. Uncle John, you called him. Your father had been the louder of the two friends.

A smile graces your face as you recall the many silly antics they would complete together. Whether it was pranking men with a quid on a string or playing hooky in the governor’s office, they would always get into trouble. Mother would scold father, taking him by the ear her other hand on her hip. The preacher would be off to the side, cringing as he watched his friend be reprimanded.

Then one day he stopped coming over. Right after father’s death. He became more serious, working hard to rise up positions in the clergy, when he at first was more concerned with running off with father than about the ministry. If you could describe it well enough, you would say that the whole town had a shift in personality after father’s death. Or maybe it was that your young and sheltered-self had finally woken up from a sweet reverie to see what a cruel place this world really was. The expansive veil of lace was snatch from up top your head.

You and mother stood right outside the church like you did on Sundays. She stood silently towards the side, finishing a silent prayer while you observe one of the stained-glass windows in the far corner. It was a strange shape, yellow red and white colors which resembled blades that seemed eerily familiar.

As you were narrowing your eyes to concentrate on the odd colors of that glass, you were forced away by mother as she grabs your shoulders and turns you to her. She quickly commences into straightening your bonnet and collar.

“Be on your best behavior, child. We are not just attending mass but speaking with the preacher. A holy man and your father’s old friend. Do not say anything to upset him, do you understand?”

“Yes, mother.” You reply back diligently with a nod.

The preacher of the church was highly respected in the community. His preaching is taken as a command and while the power that came along with speech might have been typical within the male-driven society, he still stood above typical men. There was no casualness with the father, there was no friendship with the ministry – at least not one that you chose. It was them who choose you. Unsparingly, the same went for political figures as well. If the clergy supported a certain cabinet member then so would his whole town. They undoubtedly held a lot of political and communal power, so you understood your mother’s sentiments.

You did not want to do anything that would embarrass her or tarnish her image in this community that already regards you with decisive eyes and hidden remarks.

Mother gives you a long stare without emotion before she pushes open the large heavy door of the church and walks in with you in her trail.

As soon as you entered, you felt a warm breeze surround you which wrapped you up in comfort compared to the chill outside. When you were younger you thought that breeze was God himself. The church was beautiful, not very large like some of the churches you have heard of in the neighboring towns yet still larger compared to most of the houses in your town.

Although miniscule compared to Jin’s.

You walk along the red carpet passing the rows of pews. It was silent, quieter today than most Sunday mornings and you felt ease as you strode closer to the altar following behind your mother who took careful steps. 

And there he sat, the head preacher in his long black cassock. There was a presence around him, one of authority and ascendancy. You held your breath in response as he perched on the second row of the oaken pews, with his eyes softly shut and lips parted. Every Sunday you would see him speak on the altar, but now with his face so near you could truly see all his…imperfections. The dents in his skin, the wrinkles underneath his eyes and hairs that grew duller and silver. It reminded you of father…in his last days.

“Father?” Mother spoke softly, snapping you out of your daze

His eyelids opened, and he blinked once in the direction of the altar before turning to us. The man’s intense gaze then fixes on your frail mother. There was a moment of fond surprise before he stood up, the fabric of his dress shifting down, and turns to the both of you. Movements gentle and cautious.

“Helene, it has been years since we have last spoken. How have you been?”

Your mother returns his thoughts and you see a hint of a small smile. Old memories of a better past arising in her mind. “I have been well father. God has blessed us with his mercy, just like you said.”

Mercy of God. Did this mercy of God include the perishable and tarnishing death of an innocent soul? Did it include the countless hours mother, your sisters and you have slaved away cleaning the bums of the rich? Did it include innocent Mabel’s illness?

You clench your fists quietly as Father nods at mother, turning to you afterward.

“This young lady must be ___. My, have you grown so beautiful and sharp by God’s graciousness. Your father would be so proud.”

You met his unwavering regard and sense your mother’s burn a hole into the side of your head in the same moment. Within a second, you suppress every bitter thought – fingers stiff with ache and offer him a smile as well. The taut of your ingenuine lips felt nearly painful.

“Thank you, Father. I feel he would as well.”

Do not say anything to upset him.

There was a pleased aspect in his expression, so you knew you had succeeded.

“What brings you here today, Helene?”

Mother silently breathes through her nose, head facing the ground. She was having a difficult time in arranging the right words. Honestly, she seemed slightly embarrassed as she stood stagnant next to you with her neck bent and shoulders slump. Yet you could not blame her as asking for help from an old friend you have not seen in years would fluster anyone.

With an expulsion of a breath, she faced the preacher once again.

“___...she has been experiencing these terrible night terrors.”

Your body stiffens at her words as her previous embarrassment latches onto you. The father once again turns his eyes away from mother to give you a glance with an eyebrow raised. You wished to be swallowed whole by the ground.

“Night terrors?” The preacher questions in a tone of concern and confusion. You dare not meet his eyes this time.

“Yes, you see…I-” She halts in the middle of her sentence. A realization sparks within her. “___, please tell father what your dreams are about…”

She did not know, she realizes. You did not tell her.

In that moment, you thought of being truthful. Perhaps this man your father trusted really had all the answers to your grievances. He was kind enough to listen to your mother after all.

But Jin’s warning echoed inside your head similar to that of a bad nursery rhyme you could not get rid of.

Do not trust the church.

When you regained concentration on the preacher, you knew that your hesitation did not go unnoticed. He was sharper than you assumed, and you were not the best fibber.

“Go on, child. Do not be afraid, you are in the house of God.”

“Just darkness.” You lie through your solid front teeth, “There is an empty feeling, one of large dread. But I can never see much.”

“She awakens kicking and screaming at the top of her lungs.” Your mother’s soft voice captures your attention and you grab her slightly chill hand with your firm one.

He stares at you for a good minute, just leering into your orbs with an unfathomable expression. “In these dreams…are you afraid?”

“Yes.”

“In that darkness, what do you think is out there that makes you so frightened?”

“The dark itself just frightens me.”

“I see.”

“Father…why do you feel this is happening? I mean she is a good child! She attends mass and she prays every night! Should I perhaps consult a doctor?”

Your eyes leap to your mother as she was again speaking about a doctor. As if you have not seen enough of those quacks in your miserable lifetime.

“I am sure it is nothing.” The preacher pauses for a moment seemingly in thought. “Have you been keeping up your nightly prayers?”

“Most nights. There are days I come home exhausted from the bookkeepers and fall asleep without my knowledge.”

“I strongly advise you to pray every night, child.” He responds sternly and your mother squeezes your hand back. “And if you ever find yourself trapped in the dark again, pray as hard as you are able.”

“Call upon God and he will answer. However, if the problem persists, I will consult with one of our elders.”

Your mother's sigh crushes your heart. The preacher looks at her and moves closer. He places a hand on her shoulder, “Dear Helene, do not fret. Your child is safe in God’s hands.”

You distinctly recall him stating something similar about your father when you were younger.

Dipping your head towards the floor, you mope about in your own mind as your mother thanks the priest for his comforting words. That is, until you notice the sound of something leaking in the near distance. Drip, drip, drip. Each drip came a second after the next. Confused, you raise your head looking around for the cause of that sound.

The church was empty except for you three. It was a serene silence, the colors of the stained glass floating around the chamber.

And there it was in the dark corner of the church, the source of that irritating drip. Your blood ran cold and your heart convulsed. There was something your mother was saying but you could not comprehend – could not register the shock in her words as your gaze was gripped by the putrid scene before you.

There, in the dark shadow of the church stood Adam. He was inflamed and his eyes were hollow, you felt bile rise in your gullet. Adam stood there skinned, his guts exposed to the warm air and what was on him – whatever held him together bled ever so slowly onto the red carpet of the church. A pool of blood surrounded him, one that became larger with each drip. Yet he smiled, barring his uneven teeth at your expense with another sinister, otherworldly smile on his exposed face.

Your jaw numbed as he raised his right hand, the hand wearing the devil’s glove. He raised his right hand and he waved. The blades reflected the lights of the stained glass, red streaks gleamed in the otherwise bleak light.

“___!” You pulled away from the disgusting view by a shout and tug of your hand. The tug was harsh, and you stumbled upon your feet, crashing into your mother. Dazed, you blink and try to control your breathing.

When you are able to pull yourself together, you face the two others with you in the room, to find their horrified eyes staring back at you.

“Mother?” You say to the woman who held her hand as if she had been burned, her rattled posture increasing your adrenalin.

“I told you, you were hurting me. You were crushing my hand, child…”

“Ah…” You breathe, unable to form words. In a swift motion, you look back to where you saw Adam to find nothing there. “Mother, the paper boy!”

“What?”

“The paperboy, th- Adam!” You shout, grabbing her arms, “Has he visited our house today?”

“The paperboy?” She questions back, baffled at your query, “I do not think he has…no.”

“He hasn’t?” You ask, more to yourself as you stare down on the red carpet. “He hasn’t…”

While you stood there with heavy heaves, clinging onto your worried mother with dear life you tried to calm your erratic state, a flare of hot fire bursting through you.

For a moment you had completely forgot that beside you, stood a man of God. A man, suspicious of it all, a lingering stare. A stutter in your words. It was his job to find the sinners, to scorch out the liars and hunt the infidels. He was a man of God after all.

One as powerful as God.

-

It was near the afternoon hour when you approached your house. Meaning mother would have to leave for work soon. As you enter the house you could feel her grimace, her exhaustion to everything that occurred in the past month, the past hour. She was not even the person who could detach herself from this narrative, not when she was your mother.

“M-mother.” You call out to her, but she does not halt and continues to make her way inside her chamber by the dining room.

She must have not heard me

You wanted to speak to her. To apologize for the scene you caused in front of the preacher yet you did not know what to say.

With an exhale, you walk toward the opposite way and enter the hallway. You were about to open your chamber door when you heard a series of small coughs. Recognizing that tiny voice, your head turns further down the hall. In fatigue, you stretch your neck – back once to relive the ache in your stiff tendons. Then, with a small huff you tread past your door, up to little Mabel’s. Still you heard her sniffle and sneeze, as you stood at the other end of the door with a heavy heart.

“Mabel,” You knock twice, “Could I come in.”

When you recognize the question of your name, you smile, opening the door gently and peering inside. Mabel lies there, rigid on the bed and leering back at you from her position. There were scars of black under her eyes and her lips were thin white. The mark of sickness painted across her ghostly face.

“How are you, sweet child?” You marvel, quietly stepping inside the room

She giggles a bit, before bursting into a fit of coughs again “ahem, you sound like- ahem ahem- mother.”

You smile at the soft beam on her ill face, walking closer to her bed.

“I am sorry that I have not been able to visit for a while now.”

Mabel shakes her head in disagreement, “I know, I understand. I am not upset. Lillian has kept me great company.”

You scoff, “Well that makes one of us.” Prompting her to laugh once more. For a moment you just stare at her, enjoying the way her expression crinkles when she was happy. When she was just a normal child, not an ill one.

“Raccoon eyes. Looks like someone’s been skipping out on their share of sleep.” You tease to which she grins bright toothed

“Have not! I have been resting very well thank you…”

She goes quiet after cheerfully stating that and your eyebrows furrow in worry.

“Is something the matter?”

“Have you been sleeping soundly, sister?” She states without emotion

You pause, giving her a tilt of the head

“What do you mean?”

“I hear you, you know. I hear your screams when you wake up…and I get terribly scared.”

“Oh no, Mabel,” You rush up to her, sitting on the side of her mattress as her body cowered under the covers, “Why do you get scared?”

“Because you sound like you are in pain…you sound so troubled, I do not want you to be that way…” She whispers the last part and your frown grows at her concern. This is not what you wanted in the slightest. Her illness is already taking a toll on her

“Do not worry abo-”

You were interrupted with a loud bang in the room, startling you as you whirl towards where it resided from. It was Ivette, who had slammed the door wide open with her foot as she carried fresh sheets in her arms.

“Do you have to be so loud?” You scowled

She just scoffed, made her way to the nightstand and placed the sheets by the side.

“Unlike you, I am trying to take care of Mabel best I know how.”

“Oh, so unwittingly like with everything else.”

She clenches her teeth as she turns to you “Shut your mouth, you rotten gibface.”

Spitting on you with each syllable, she stomps towards the entrance before leaving out the door. Slamming it shut, of course.

“What a ratbag,” You sneer

Mabel shifts in bed until she places a palm on your hand sitting on top of the bed. You turn back to her in surprise.

“N-no, she only acts like that because she does not understand her own feelings. She worries for you a great deal, she even spoke to Lillian about saving her money to find you a doctor somehow.”

Her words shock you. Ivette was trying to aid you?

“Well a star queller she is.” You chirp to which Mabel once again breaks out into a giggle

“And Mabel,” You speak quieter, fingers intertwining with hers, “Do not worry about me, alright? That is my job. I will never let any harm come to you...not like what I saw with father. Alright?”

She nods, meekly, “I just want you to be safe. Always.”

“I will, I promise.”

-

He wrote with a steady hand in his rustic journal. Alone again in the late hours of the lonely night, with nothing but his oil lamp illuminating up his desk to keep him accompanied. It was not much but ramblings of vague ideas he wrote all jumbled together in a mess of blotchy black ink. You had always scolded him of his messy handwriting. Back when you were both young brats sitting fussy in your mansion’s lounge while Ms. Baker taught you your new lesson. To now, when you catch glimpses of it and his never-ending duties to the damned while you peer over his shoulder.

He smiles at the thought of you, he always smiles.

And though he sat lax in his leather chair, placed so close to the desk as if to confine him to something – probably reality, his mind soared with tension. The situation had gotten worse, Russian and England ties grew weaker by the second and war was imminent. To his great despair he had been the only member in the governor’s cabinet to vote nay on the deployment of young men from their town. Lackeys, the lot of them.

There they sat at the large ivory round table, most of the men pushing their chairs back to make room for their hefty bellies as children of the unfortunate starved on the street. It had him fuming, the way they would sit straight as a cock in front of the Earl. Each one laughing brasher than necessary when his majesty spoke about one of the whores he bedded that week. Jin found nothing amusing in his derogatory remarks or the way he uttered slurs every time he referred to the underprivileged.

It had been that way since he was a young boy just growing into his adult trousers when he first began accompanying his father to their assemblies. There was never anything he had in common with the cabinet members nor their children. He did not consider them up to par with his intelligence, his philosophies or even his handsome face.

Every son would accompany their father like an additional hand for the men to boast about. Not one of them caught his attention, even though the lads tried their best to befriend the governor’s oldest servant’s oldest son. Jin was passive to their clingy behavior, disinterested in these half-hour gentlemen that would slip as soon as their fathers turned their eyes. It came of no surprise that Jin excelled the others in everything and he took great pride in that. Because SeokJin, himself was raised to be perfect, Sir Kim made sure he instilled that idea in the deepest corners of his brain. He was conditioned, to sit up straight, to not talk back, to be the smartest, the wittiest. To act like he placed more gold in just his nightstand than most commoners had teeth. And who was young, fragile Jin to decline the flog that rested in the seniors crossed arms?

Sir Kim’s rules were simple:

Speak without being spoken to or talk back in a conversation with an elder, 50 floggings.

Become short-handed in your studies, 100 floggings.

Dismiss any order Sir Kim had given, 300 floggings.

Since the back of his thighs were still crippled from the thousands of hits he earned as a child, and his gait was still slightly limped and slower than his peers, he learnt to never speak up at those meetings. Never uttered more than a sentence or raised his voice, although he felt the words claw themselves up his throat. He held them back with tightly shut lips and a bare red face. Because there sat his father by his left hand, eyes only on the price that was the governor’s seat. Ready to smash his son’s knees in if he spoke out.

All that was left for him in those meetings was regret. Regret that he could not stop them from taxing the poor for just living. Regret that he could not say much as they stripped away respect from women, from mothers and sisters, from humans. Regret that he was just a lackey, a flunky that bet on illegal games or hunted living creatures for trophy when his father commanded. One who bribed the ministry members to complete their bidding when asked.

And if he was recalling upon regrets, how could he forget the one moment he regrets the utmost in his life?

Suddenly, there was a tapping.

His head snaps up into the darkness. The tapping sounding like it resided by his chamber’s entrance. It was pitch black and he could not even make out the doorway. The lamp that illuminated his workspace only further fed the shadows of the world outside and his studious mind compared the dark, austere obscurities to the ignorance a human awakens by lighting only the small area he deems necessary. There he sat, alone with nothing but his lamp to keep him company.

“Hello?”

…

Silence

When he ponders in it, what was it that he did before he began scribbling nonsense into his journal? Where was he before this? Though he furrows his thick eyebrows in concentration, he cannot for the life of him remember his whereabouts before this very moment.

His eyes travel back to the thick pages of his journal and for a moment he feels frightened. The ink. The once midnight black ink had now transformed into a deep dark red. His fountain ink seeped droplets of the red ink slowly onto the timbered pages as he hovered his hand above his journal.

As he realized the leak, he let go of his pen and stood up immediately.

Was it an illusion of the light? Was he perhaps too sleepy for this nightly scribbling? There was something wrong, something he could not pinpoint but the whole chamber was wrong. The shadows that confined him swam in hostility, drowning out even his masculine figure. With the urge of suffocation upon him, he quickly leapt towards one of the windows with his memory guiding him.

He flung open the curtains and sighed in relief at the sight of the moon. It gave his otherwise anxious and lonely presence great comfort. Thus, he gazed upon it for a while, letting his warm face bask in the pale light. As he stared up into the foggy atmosphere, he mindlessly rubbed the curtain’s fabric between his thumb and index finger.

The young man shifts his eyes to the fabric, its texture so velvety and smooth. This must be what your skin would feel like, supple and tender. He stares at the red drapes, mind wandering off once again to you. You who wore that red dress on that fateful, miserable day. The day you last smiled genuinely, care-free and unbound to the misery of this retched world.

*taptaptap*

There it was again that despondent sound. Jin swung his head back, once again met with the dark and slightly dusty study. The rapping at his chamber door was rapid, that for someone with great urgency.

He supposed he should be afraid in this very moment. But Jin was not a weak man. Never would he cower to someone who hid in the shadows like a coward.

“Who is it?” He called out. Voice filled with irritation and pride.

Once more, he was met with silence.

His annoyance grew, fed by the very tapping that begun again after a small amount of peace. With a scoff, he grabbed the handle of his oil lamp, approaching the entrance with a vigorous march. In moments he reached the door, grasping the door handle and whipping the hefty door open in one swift thrust.

And should he really have been that surprised to find no one but darkness?

Except when he stepped out into the hallway and faced right, it was not just dark he witnessed, no. There was life right in front of him in the thin white curtains that flew around the hall due to the wind from the unbarred windows. Unbarred windows. Jin felt the crawl of his skin. Who unbarred his windows?

And suddenly it all felt too unearthly, the stillness of the blue night and the crawling of his skin. Even that lifeless moon from before, just too unearthly, like something was not right, like something was horribly terribly wrong. What unsettled Jin the most, a man who was not frightened by small things was the blue hue that entrapped his pupils in its rich, overpowering tint.

Red was the color he preferred. The sky was clear, and the weather was quaint, as he hopped around the back yard, matching the pace of the fluttering butterflies. He heard a small shuffling in the distance and turned around, to find you walking his way. And he saw you wearing it, a red cottoned dress fitted on your small stature when you came over that day.

Jin was a mess of emotions, blushing immediately to his further embarrassment. You strolled your way up to him to play as you usually did. Except this time, he did not return the gesture, just gaped at you in your frilly dress with a huge red ribbon tied around your waist. Under the bright sun, you glowed like an angel. He could not say anything as you giggled at him in confusion. Not even when you perched down to some flower he did not pay attention to, gasping about how beautiful it was.

The only beautiful one was you.

He sauntered down the hall, unaware while passing the paintings that had ripped claw marks where his face should have been. With every step he took, the shadows crawled upon him further and he was woozy. The curtains of sheer silk blew on his face and his body causing him to shiver each time they touched. Still he kept his dignity, walked with his chest held forward and pushed his fear aside like the man his father raised him to be.

Jin had wanted to tell you how beautiful you were, how beautiful you always had been in his eyes. But he did not have it in himself to destroy the friendship he built with you over the years. He was not raised with the manners to show the woman you love respect. Instead he did what every young imprudent child does and lie a great big lie to save his arse.

 “I do not like it, your dress.” The 12-year-old him said to you in a serious and annoyingly high-pitched tone, “You do not suit red.”

Surprised, you looked up from the flower and into his orbs with a face full of hurt and God- in that moment he wished to take back every single word he had ever spoken. “Oh…Father told me I looked pretty.”

You did. Beautiful, in fact. Yet he was a mere stupid little boy in the presence of an angel, so he scoffed mockingly.

“When have you ever looked pretty?”

Those were the last words he said before he heard a deafening shout filled with rage from his Father.

It was his name. Someone had spoken his name in the blue twilight. Someone behind him, with a soft fleeting voice. He turns around with speed, holding up his oil lamp to see a figure. Jin has to squint his eyes, look through the shallow sheets that blew around, not sure that it was there or a figment of his imagination.

Yet the more he beheld, the clearer it became. Someone standing in the dark, on the opposite end of the hallway.

In an instant his adrenaline rose, the gears in his brain turning rapidly without him catching up.

“Who are you?” He yelled, at the silent man in the expensive suit, with a hat covering his head.

What a shame that his voice was not as powerful as his father’s. His father who shouted his name from the back porch, causing both kids to turn to him in fright. He stood there with his jaw clenched, shaking in anger that Jin knew of too well. Then he began to march. March towards the small children with tightened fists, stomping on all the flowers in his path.

The figure on the other hand began to laugh, how horrid and conniving this sound was. Like nails across a chalkboard, a sound to shelter your ears from. But he realized that his hands were frozen solid by fear. Fear that a random stranger was laughing manically in his house. This house that has shielded Jin from becoming like that of the lower cast, that has kept the secrets of his abused and neglected childhood, that protected his drawn-on identity.

Jin’s paralyzed condition deteriorated as the mysterious figure began to move. He held up his right hand and the young man’s panic surges at the shiny metal blades on his fingers. The figure had begun to walk in his direction, hovering his arm to the right as he began slicing the floating curtains with ease.

As his father came closer with every heavy stomp, young Jin’s eyes begun to well up. His little arms coming up to cover his head as instinct. He heard you shuffle onto your feet and prayed that his father wouldn’t hurt him here – in front of you.

Soon he would wish that it was him that he did hurt, as he blew past Jin hastily and came up to your trembling form. Jin held his breath as his father passed him by, uncovered his head and spun back. To see his seething father tower over you, who held the skirt of her red dress in her fists.

“What are you doing over here, accursed child?” The large man sneered

What was he doing here? Jin wondered. What could he want, money? Jewels? It did not matter, he could have it all. Humorous, that in this moment, the Jin that spent his lifetime crushing his own ambitions to follow his father’s goodwill had vanished. Instead replaced with the Jin who wanted to stop this war, who wanted to feed the kids of his town and of the world…who sought to just see you in his dejected days before he married to that governor’s daughter.

There were many times before where Jin had despised his father – every time he raised his voice at him or his mother, every time he bed another woman off the streets and his mother would lay in Jin’s bed crying while in holding him to sleep, and every single time he spoke badly about you or your father at the dinner table. But he has never hated him more than in this moment, where father forcibly held up your arm and had you wincing in pain. Soft tears left your eyes while the man yelled in your face.

About you, about your ‘insane’ father, about how you do not belong here, with his beloved son.

He knew of your father’s condition though you refused to mention it. Jin thought of him as a kind man, which is why his sentiments were also hurt to learn of the hallucinations that your dad would see. The whole neighborhood spoke of it, the man your father described. The burnt red man in a black suit with glove of blades in his right hand. But even if your father was ill, small Jin failed to see how this was your fault or why you should suffer the consequences of his father’s insults.

“Do not ever come near my son again! Do you understand me?”

He was frozen. With the laughing manic moving closer to him inch by inch, every slice he made had the sheets falling lifelessly to the hallways floor, and Jin almost laughed at the irony. His mind had surged without thought, trying his best to pry free of this unnatural hold. Jin never thought he was a man who gave up so easily, though in the arched corners of his mind he doubted he could defeat the man who had somehow made him immobile.

“How does thee feel to be the one trapped?”

Jin did not respond – could not respond.

He was frozen, lost in a restless gaze on your tear-filled face. 12-year-old Jin decided right then that he had never wanted to see that face on you once again. That he would do whatever it takes to protect you. However, in that moment he could do nothing but stare in horror as his father berated you.

“Answer me, child!” He roared

With a quick look of helplessness at Jin, you looked back at father “Y-y-y-”

“No.” Jin weakly muttered out as the figure came close

He could see it clearly now, the grotesque face of the villain. The man was seared in burns, his shriveled skin crawling in unnatural sore waves. There were pieces, of what seemed similar to seared skin hanging from the sides of his mold. Yet the freak of nature stood in front of him with a smile – such a sinister smile with his sharp, charred fangs.

Swine! Jin wanted to yell but he was barred. His legs and arms, he could not feel. He could not fight back now…but he never has been able to, has he?

The oil lamp from his sweaty, weakened grasp fell and the glass shattered amongst the floor, instantly encasing the carpet with a roaring fire. He could feel everything, the sweat dripping down his skin, the chilly airs of the autumn wind outside and the way his feet burned as the fire spread. It was a pain like no other, his father could not even come close. Jin wanted to scream in agony, cry with insanity but he was left just glancing at the floor and back to the scarred man.

Then too he burned when your father let go of your harm, only for you to scamper away from his back yard in lightning speed. He watched you go, unable to do and say anything in that moment. There was a drop in his young chest as soon as your figure disappeared. It was that day that kind, innocent SeokJin changed for the worse. When he realized there was no good in this world.

“Do not hang around that child again, do you hear me?” His father’s stern voice once again came to him clearly and he glanced back at the old man.

“Y-Yes father.” The 12-year-old him said without blinking. Without even questioning the crazy bastard or trying to protect the ashes of your dignity.

Without blinking, the stranger displayed his razors to Jin who could no longer concentrate on anything but the melting flesh of his leg. The smell in the room was revolting, the fire eating away the room at a rapid pace. And within a second, the devil pushed the blades inside him, right into the gut, through the stomach. Blood pooled around the five punctured wounds, until the man removed his blades and the red seeped out like water from a pipe.

The scorched man seemed to be in the state of euphoria, throwing his head back and whiffing the sweetly alluring smell of the fire. Then he stared right at Jin, who’s mind had snapped from the unbearable pain and eyes had lost all color.

“Thou were never the man for her.”

Was the last thing Jin heard before he was stabbed again and again and again and again, the man grunting as he pushed his blades deeper and deeper inside Jin’s pudgy flesh. Then it was that he fell to the floor, laying down on his stomach as the scorching fire immediately devoured his body. The man hovered over him and resumed his mighty laugh. He could move now, but there was no where he was in a rush to get to. Jin just wanted to sleep, he wanted the pain to stop, to use the fire searing his skin as a blanket to help him along the way. In its place, his split guts and gashing skin roared at him.

Ah, what a shame. If he thinks back on it, he has lived a sheltered and rich life filled with many regrets.

He regretted not having a closer bond with his younger brother. He regretted every time he shut his lips and held in his anger at those meetings. He regrets pushing himself into miniscule work he was never fond of. He regrets not holding onto his mother’s love tighter and letting her endure everything herself in that lonely summer mansion. He regrets every time he’s gone hunting or turned his cheek to an innocent person in need. He regrets letting his father who would have never gave a damn about him even if Jin pulled out his own heart as an offering dictate his life, his relationships and his happiness.

His biggest regret in life, however, was not telling you how beautiful you appeared - no how beautiful he found you on that day, in that moment, when he realized what his mother had told him about what love feels like and instead, he desperately denied it. He wondered how different his life would have been, if he let you in, if he had not said those hurtful things, if he protected you that day and he destroyed the hold his father had on him. Would you be with him now…and forever?

If he had just told you that yes indeed, how beautiful you were in that red cottoned dress.

If he became that good in the world he so desperately tried to find.

You were working the books, setting one on top of another on the side of a wooden shelf in the front center of the room.

“There are thousands of books left, you know. Be diligent and hurry along.” Scolded the bookkeeper.

Hidden from his sight, you scowled. You had already stacked a thousand and one books but he sat on his arse ungrateful, making bitter remarks at your efforts. It had been a quiet long week, no nightmares as you slept for the first time in a what felt like ages. Mabel too, had seemed to be healing as she was up around the table for breakfast and then again for dinner when you got home.

“I knew I should not have hired you just because that Kim child said to.”

You heard the old man mutter something and peered your head out from behind the shelf. What was it that he just spoke?

Suddenly a crash interrupt you both, one from the front door opening at lightening speed. It was the tall bell boy from the shop next door.  Out of breath and uttering rapidly-

“Come quickly, it’s the Kim’s oldest son he’s-

Your mouth was dry, lungs burning as you sprinted full haste towards Jin’s mansion. A couple of onlookers you bump into made noises of their disapproval, but you could care less. There was a crowd at Kim’s estate, people that were not the least bit concerned with Jin’s well-being all gathered up to witness an eye-catching tragedy. It revolted you, people revolted you.

You push through the stiff bodies of the bystanders, until their view comes before you. As you pass the crowd, you trip over onto the dusty path of Ferwin Lane. But It does not matter – none of it matters as your eyes shoot up to the movement in front of the house you cherished with your whole heart. There in the near distance, laid he, the child who you claimed as your dearest friend. The man who took care of you always, no matter how much he acted otherwise. The person who you love so greatly.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH”

It left you before you could stop it. They all turned to you, everyone in the vicinity, to the wailing women on the floor. His body was covered by a white veil, but through the tarp the nurse men laid him on, his hand fell off. And you could see it, the charcoaled skin, the dying red of the bleeding wounds. Missing fingers. Gray and black and bloody.

Colors skin should never be.

“What are you doing here, miserable wench?!”

You heard the loud growl of Sir Kim, who stood by the porch with his teeth barred and fists clenched. His words echoed the lane and the public held their breath.

“I though I had told you to never see my son again?” He made his way for you but SeokJin’s younger brother held him back, “I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO STAY AWAY!”

Tears left your eyes one by one as you stared blankly in his direction. No consensus to fight back.

“THIS IS YOUR FAULT! I TOLD YOU TO STAY AWAY! SEE WHAT YOU HAVE DONE? SEE WHAT YOU BROUGHT UPON HIM, YOU AND YOUR ACCURSED FAMILY?!”

You say nothing, for maybe he was right. This was your fault? Your fault your father died? Your fault your eldest brother never saw the light? Your fault Mabel was sick? Your fault mother was exhausted?

He was right.

So, you say nothing, just weeping on the floor as he becomes louder – rowdier and the venom of his words wrap around your throat.

“YOU DID THIS!”

And just maybe, you did.

-

There was a push on your shoulder in the dark. 

Once, then twice.

You sat up with a loud gasp. The first thing you saw was lumber. Stacked upon one another in a fashion you have only seen in your uncle’s house in the countryside. It settled inside you as your conscious grew, you were inside a cabin - a small, cozy, fire-lit cabin. A recognition of terror wallowed inside you, thinking you might be trapped in that nightmare again, but there was something off - something that differed about this dream.

It was as simple as the air. As you inhaled and exhaled, and the air wafted around you, it simply smelled different. And the sounds. When you shuffled underneath a soft thin layer of blankets, your ears tenderly captured the birds chirping so cheerily that even in your subconscious you could tell it was bright outside with the sun slowly peeking over the horizon. There was no blue, no mold, no blood. Not like in any of those dreams.

Those dreams you have been having no matter how hard you prayed every night. The ones where Jin stares at you, burning and charred. Yet you could do nothing but scream.

It all felt strange, your every movement, every breath you took, all the limits of your senses. You felt you, but not you.

Perhaps it was due to the fact that you have been living as a shell of a woman. Trapped inside her chamber all day – trying to forget the man you loved with each ounce of your being. You were torn apart from the inside out.

Sitting on the gentle springs, muddled by your surroundings, the creek of the floors and the slow steps approaching towards you were not your priority in that moment.

“Thou art awake?”

You jolt, but it wasn’t you that jolted you realize.

There, to your right, stood a beautiful man. A man with cat-like eyes, and sharp features. Such plush lips and black strands that fell over his brow. He wore a worn-out tunic, tucked into his black trousers with leather straps around his shoulders. It was such simple fashion – yet so divine. Why, he was as handsome as your beloved Jin.

But why did such an angelic face speak like that monster from your dreams?

“S-sir?” That sounded much like you, but you did not say that. Not when you were stunned by the man’s beauty.

“Art thee not restful these days?”

“I apologize sir, for I cannot recall wherefore I am here?”

He tilts his head, “Thee did faint outside mine own shop. I bought thee home- m-mine own home.”

“Ah,” Your person moves about, “I see...I thank thee.”

This was not you speaking, even though you could physically feel the words leave your mouth. You were a mere bystander, watching through the lens of your own eyes. It was not you who unwittingly trembled in bed, your heart erratic and face burning. It was not you who felt heavily attracted to the man before you.

“Are thee good now?” He asks softly and you look back up to see the concern in his eyes. This is how you felt when you saw the concern in Jin’s. “Wherefore were thee out alone?”

“Y-No-Yes, Yes, I am quite.” You stumble out, “I just…I s-should-”

As you say that, you remove the blankets off you. Your dress was expensive, tailored just for you in the color of the sky. But when you move your foot towards the wooden floor, a wave of painful shock pierces through leaving you to whine out loud.

The man is beside you in an instant, holding onto your shoulders as he lays you back down while you whimper. 

“Art thee sure thou art good now?” He shouts, frantic

“Y-yes..I...” You struggle to get the words out as the pain dims inside you. What was happening?

All you could do was feel further confusion and unsettled as tears began to prick the corners of your eyes.

“I am sorry, I cannot...I can-” You were crying. This was the one thing that did not feel foreign to you, as you have been repeating it all week...lying dead in your room. Refusing to sleep. Yet today it was that you lost yourself in a murky haze, let your mind wander off to the otherworld as pure exhaustion bore you down.

But why was whoever you embodied crying? Why could you feel every ounce of her horrible pain flow through you? Whatever she was dealing with hurt so much. It all hurt actually, your arms and legs, your shoulders and the back of your head. Your stomach.

You were surprised when you felt warm, calloused hands on your cheeks, gently wiping your tears away. 

“I want to know.” He speaks slowly, softly, perched on the side of the bed. “I want know to more about thee...What troubles thee, bid me.”

His gaze was so intense, you felt yourself blush again. The previous ache numbing the more you lost yourself in his orbs.

“Do thou have dreams?” You ask the handsome stranger

“Hmm?”

“Dreams...where thou art in another world...another life...someone else, someone better...do thee have them...dreams?”

The man stares at you in confusion before looking to the burning fireplace. 

“I do not dream. I like who I am and my life.” He states, “Haply I dream about wearing an expensive suit, expensive shoes and a coxcomb at times, but those art mere desires. My father wast a hardworking sir...he raised me alone. Left me his shop and did teach me the way of steel.”

He chuckles then, delicately. His smile was beautiful. “Folks say yond I am a fool. Yond being a blacksmith is a futile ambition and yond I shalt give my life to fruitless, hard labor. But tis honest work. I do not did hurt anyone, I do not did overstep mine own boundaries. I like it.” 

The man turns back then, watching you again. “Like this cabin. T is bawbling, not nourished with embellishments such as yours. But I built it myself and I take pride in every nook and corner.”

His cabin was filled with wood and steel. Warmth and comfort were spoken within the walls. Minor furnishments, handstitched rugs, rosy curtains. There was a fireplace on the right wall by the entrance door. One that held a held a familiar glove, covered with what seemed like soil and weeds above the mantel. But you had no time to digress for your person paid it no mind.

“Is yond wherefore thee hath moved out here, at which hour those gents couldst not understand thee?” Your voice is low, mind fully awake

“I was at each moment someone that preferred to beest alone,” The stranger once again looks ahead, this time out the window to the right of where you laid, “Here, in the forest outside the town, I am free to beest who I want. And there is something magical about the night in this forest. There is something haunting about the obscure blue twilight when the first ray of sun hits the creek.”

There was a distance gaze in his eye, one you were enamored with. One that raises the rhythm of your heart as he glances back at you. He smiled then, his face asking if he answered your question.

“I dream every moment I can.” You mutter and his smile slightly dims. Turning your head forward, you stare at the timbered roof, the lines of wood sturdy and stark. 

“I am with child.” 

A moment of silence lingers the walls of the cabin, shock from your own words hushing both you and the man before you.

You shut your lids then, as pain returns in full force. And it was all specific, you could feel it scourging through you. There were sore bruises on your arms and legs. Discomfort from someone hitting you in the head and stomach. Again, there was a leak in your eyes.

“I do not want...his child…I do not want it.”

“He is thy husband.”

Opening your lids, you turn to the kind stranger with fury in your bones. He seemed to have noticed your anger, slightly backing away from your glare as you clench your jaw.

“He is a monster.”

“I am sorry…”

Suddenly your limp fingers feel a warm fluttery touch and you see his hand, laying against yours securely. You see the regret swirling in his eyes, and you feel sorry, lowering yours elsewhere.

“What do thou dream of?” He asks cautiously

Sighing deeply, you shift with your back resting against the bed. His fingers softly rubbing your skin making your toes underneath the blanket curl.

 “I-I dream about a lot. What mine own life wouldst have been like if it be true I defied mine own mother’s proposal for the rich stranger. If it be true mine own husband was not married to the weapons upon his mure. If I were to say, love- beest betrothed to another sir.” You meet his eyes, “A better sir.”

“Is there such a sir in thy mind?” He spoke in such a hush that you wonder if he even said those words

“There is,” You respond in a similar tone, “A sir who works for my husband...who I catch glimpses of which hour mine own luck allows. That gent is at each moment bellowing on metal, I see the shards of fire more than I see his eyes. But that gent is so gentle- so gentle with such rough stone yond I cannot help but to imagine how he must hold a mistress-”

You hear him exhale sharply as his grip tightens stirring a foreign sensation in your gut

“I...I just I...He is such a mystery, residing hence from our town. And people gossip about that sir, about how careless that gent is. But I know yond they are daws. For he is liberated and so I dream of him. Of becoming like him. Of him holding me...of touching me in places my husband has never been…” You stop for a moment to collect yourself, “Which is wherefore I was wandering outside his shop, like a hopeless daw. To haply catch a glimpse of him who I dream of.” 

“I dream of him, but he does not dream at all.”

Silence follows your short speech, the atmosphere too thick to swallow. All that cuts through the silence is the breathing of the man.

“Perhaps,” He says carefully, “Perhaps this sir...who does not dream...wants the mistress too. The mistress who at each moment is lost in her own world when she visits his shop with her husband stuck to her side. Perhaps...although she could not see his eyes often, he watches hers the whole time she lingers. Wanting to hold her too, as if it be true she were his most precious stone.”

With his words that feeling in the pit of your stomach grows. You lay there, paralyzed by your body as your insides clench around nothing. He moves forward then, bending towards you as you watch as stiff as a board. His breath fans across your face and his eyes dance with yours.

“S-sir.” You squeak

“Jimin,” He replies, before he is upon you.

In that moment, when you breathe into his mouth and your skin raises with bumps, you wish to bathe underneath the sunlight forever, protected by its sparkle and radiance. If only the sun stayed up forever. 

Your eyes open with the call of your name in the distance. It was less urgent and less passionate then Jimin’s, but you reluctantly oblige. 

The face of your mother startles you.

“M-mother?” You say, eyes wandering around to your surroundings. It was your room. Your dresser, your window. There was no fireplace and no lumber. You were you again.

“You best get up child. I understand how important SeokJin was to you, I felt the same. But if you were to miss another day of wo-”

She removes the covers that were clinging to your neck off your body and halts. You watch as her eyes fill with pure terror.

“Mother?” You say again, pushing yourself up by the elbows.

That is when you notice it. Your completely naked torso.

As you register reality, your jaw slacks when you see yourself. Your exposed skin, littered with marks-purple, blue, red in places you were too shy to speak of. Then there was a substance, all over you. Over your breasts and your thighs, and your…your womanhood.

Shaking, you meet the orbs of your petrified mother who was trembling herself, gripping the white sheet in her hand. There was an expression on her features you have never seen before, but it terrified you.

“M-moth-”

“WHORE!”

You gasp at the strength of her voice, enough to let the whole neighborhood know. Immediately you began to cry.

“No, no I-”

“WHORE!” She screamed again, grabbing your arm with such force as her nails dug into your skin

“No, please no!” You cry as she pulls you, dragging you off the bed with both arms.

“YOU DIRTY WENCH! Who did you bed last night?!” She yells, voice like the devil as you shake your head feverously

“I did no- ow please mother!”

She pulls you to the hallway, where you see the twins and Mabel standing in front of their entrances, still in their nightgowns. Their faces morph from concern into shock and disbelief as they eye your vulnerable form. The embarrassment suffocates you as you hear your mother began to cry herself.

“Mother please listen to me! I-it is not as you think, please!” You shout as she drags you to the staircase and tugs you up. She does not listen to you as she beats her chest with her fist, crying hysterically.

“You disgraced me! Your family! How could you have done this? You are no different from the night women that litter the street!”

You follow her up the steps on clumsy feet, desperately muttering ‘no’s’ and ‘please’ as she pulls you to the attic door. She takes out a key from her skirt, unlocking the door as you beg her, plead with her not to.

Without a second thought she tosses you inside. You fall on your arse and she slams the door shut. In the next second you hear it lock as you get up and rush for the handle. Screaming and crying, you try to pull it open as you pound your fist against the heavy wooden door.

“MOTHER, PLEASE! LET ME OUT!”

“Let you out?” You hear her growl from the other side, “I will never let you step outside again! And any one of you that does, will have to answer to me!”

You could tell those words were directed to your siblings.

She stomps away as you cry, the wood creaking along with her. Falling onto your knees you whimper as your fist weakly thumps against the door, futilely.

You never wanted to sleep again.

-

“Lillian…Lillian…”

She fluttered her eyes

“Wake up Lillian, come to me…”

Laggardly she sat up, rubbing her eyes in the pitch-black of her chamber. Something had called out to her she was sure of it. Or was she dreaming. In a sleepy haze, she turns to her sister who slept soundly in the bed next to hers. A nightstand separated their beds, and she reached over it to find her paper box of matches.

But before she could, the voice called out to her again. More urgently this time.

“Lillian, come meet me! I do not have much time.”

“…William?” She called out in the dark

When she failed to receive an answer, she became anxious. What was going on? Why was William calling to her in the middle of the night?

Hesitantly, she pulled the covers off her body, gently placing her feet onto the cemented floor. The frigid, barren foyer ran a chill down her spine as she got up on her legs, placing her hands on her arms to rub warmth into her figure. Then she began to tread, in the blue gloomy haze, towards her chamber door.

But she stopped and turned. Headed for the dresser and pulled off her nightgown. Slowly she pulled open her dresser door and ran her fingers amongst the hung fabrics, to find her pretty purple gown. Grabbing it off the dressing, she swiftly wore her mauve dress, wanting to look as pretty as it made her feel. It was surreal even to her, she moved like a puppet – as if someone pulled strings for her every action.

Before her mind could recognize, she strode towards the door, dragging it open as it creaked and stepped into the hallway. It was dark, her house swam in the molded black and blue

She took careful uneven steps an she ventured further into the hallway. Soon, she arrived at the dining room and let her gaze wander to the dead house, the timber that laid bare, bent aberrantly and the overwhelming silence that surrounded her shoulders. It was then that she felt unnerved, a bit too vulnerable behind her own walls.

“Lillian!” Came the voice, a bit louder now

Immediately her eyes shot up to the source of the sound. A man who stood by the hall above the stairs. A man who she recognized too well.

“Oh, William!” She whisper-shouted, running towards the staircase, slowing her pace on the steps as the creeks would otherwise wake her mother.

Lillian halted on the last step, looking at William who stood 2 feet away with a small smile on his lips. He opened his arms and that was all it took for her to run up to him and into them. William encased her into his chest, and she whimpered at the contact.

It had been too long, her and her fiancé

“William,” She spoke muffled into his ribs, “What ever are you doing here? How did you get in?”

He did not answer her, instead just rocking her back and forth in silence. For now, she just reveled in it, the lull of the blue house and his sturdy arms. Strangely though, no matter how hard she concentrated, she could not hear the steady beat of his heart. She heard nothing at all in fact through his chest, nothing at all.

“Oh William, you do not know of the dire times we have been challenged with. Mother is tired, Mabel is terribly ill, a chuckaboo from our childhood died terribly and ___. That wretched ___ committed such a foul sin. She bed-…”

“It does not matter,” Lillian sighs against his chest, “She is my sister and I will pray for her…would you pray as well, dear William?”

He does not answer her; thus, she moves back confused at first before she beheld his eyes. Forgetting all her mild concerns.

“My love?” She whispered to the man with a shadow on his face, “Why are you so sad?”

There was hesitation. One of surprise in his rich, dark orbs. Before it vanished, into the depth of the night.

“Dear Lillian.” He uttered back as she tilted her head. With gentle fingers he moved the strands of her hair back, they felt warmer than usual and Lillian shut her eyes to repress a shudder.

And it was then that in a soft swift motion he wrapped his hands around her throat, Lillian’s eyes slamming open when she felt blades lick her fragile neck.             

“You shouldn’t have come”

You were dozing off, no matter how hard you tried to fight against it. Laying there on the hard wood floor, completely bare and vulnerable. The attic was filled with dust and had not been touched in ages and sadly you now knew why. It was filled with boxes of father’s memories. His portraits, the one’s where you could not find his dear smile, ones where mother was younger, prettier and ones where you all sat together in the furthest corners of the room. Letter and documents, he filled to the brim with material you could not understand, yet as the only minor window let sunlight into the attic, you would pass your time reading through them. There were even small pictures of scribbles he drew that had you laughing.

It had been three days. Three days since your mother locked you in here, not even offering you a blanket or cloth to protect your decency. She would march upstairs at times throughout the day. The whiny creek of the stairs announcing her arrival.

Then she would arrive at your chamber, unlocking your door and as swiftly as she could she would set down a bowl of porridge and one of water. And like that, she would leave as fast as she came, not even sparing you a glance. She even placed a chamber pot in front of your door, one that reeked because she had not cleaned it out.

You dared not to speak to her, frightened that she might react like she did when she discovered your naked torso three days ago. Although you tried not to, you could not help but cry at the oddest times of the day. It did more harm than good, as the dust would stick to your tears and further irritate your eyes.

Your condition was at its worst. The hard floor you laid on pierced through your soft muscles, straining them until they were sore and ironically you missed your stiff bed. It had become very cold in the late nights, and you would shiver uncovered, tightly holding your torso close to your heart. Time, you realized moves slower when you are counting it, fleeting only when you turn your head from it. What was there to do but to spend your time reading incomprehensible letters or cry over the memories of your father and Jin. Not a day went by that made his loss hurt any less. Every day you wished to go to him, to run into his arms and hear him banter about his good looks. You knew you would feel this gaping hole in your chest in place of him forever.

At times, in the middle of the night when you just stared off into the heavens, his corpse would appear before you. The charcoaled flesh, blazing spots of gore and his once beautiful and warm hand, now a gray limb of peeling flesh and bone. Other times, you would see him again…Jimin. For some reason you still found yourself remembering him, his lips, his skin. How good it felt for a moment to be in his arms and forget about everyone else. Think of nothing but his eyes as he pushed into you so delicately. Those nights you wish the earth would show you mercy by swallowing you whole. For you were a lustful sinner.

Today you laid there, with not an ounce of vitality in your body wishing for death so your sore back could find some comfort. You had not bathed in a while now, and you hated the stench of your own figure. All you desired was death as you laid with father’s portrait held amongst your bare bosom.

There was a scream.

In an instant you shot up, wincing shortly afterward at your immobile joints. With the least bit of adrenaline in your body, you pushed yourself off the wooden floor limping towards the door. You had expected to jangle the locked doorknob and call out for mother, but as soon as you turned the handle, it pushed open with ease.

Confused, you stand there for a good minute, hand tightly gripping the door knob until you hear shrieks and cries from the floor below. With no time to waste, you walk out the door into the hallway by the stairs and peek over the rails.

You wished you hadn’t.

Right beside the dining table wrapped in the blood-stained arms of your oldest sister, was the beheaded body of a girl who wore the familiar mauve dress. Your breath gets stuck in your throat, lung no longer wanting to function properly, and you were not sure whether the wetness between your thighs was the start of your monthly time or you lost control of your bladder. None of it mattered as you watched in utter horror at the wails that left Ivette as she clutched onto Lillian’s lifeless – headless figure.

“No,no,no,no,no.” Ivette chanted, crying her eyes out as she rocked Lillian’s torso back and forth.

Your mother was on the ground beside her, holding Lillian’s hand in hers. There was no expression on her face as she stared off into the distance. Occasionally she would make a humming sound, which you recognized as a lullaby she sang to you when you were a child.

And Mabel, young innocent Mabel stood by the inner room’s hallway entrance. Her small, weak form in tremors as tears left her eyes in a constant rate.

You on the other hand had not noticed the tears falling out of your eyes until they landed on your feet. When you look down, you yelp. Surrounding your sole was a pool of blood that dripped down the rails. Your bottom lip quivers as you look around the hallway’s wooden floor seeped with gallons of diluted red. Each time you moved, you could feel the sensation of wet gore stuck to the bottoms of your feet.

Bewildered and frightened beyond repair, you drop the portrait you held onto. The frame tore into a million shards as you tried to grab onto the corners of your slipping sanity. When you were able to calm yourself the slightest, you look back downstairs, almost falling into the sea of blood at the sight before you.

While your mother and Mabel remained in the same condition, Ivette had stopped crying. She was now staring directly at you, her orbs darker and more pulled than you thought humanly possible. Her arms still tightly secure on Lillian, she sat there, eerily still and unblinking, glaring at you from her spot below. Her eyes were wild, and you had never been more afraid, not even in your dreams.

She did not move. She did not blink. She did not look away.

There was nothing special she was doing, but it felt like she was telling you something with the way her eyes – wide and livid observed your figure.

You felt doom upon you.

-

The wind blew languidly with not a sign of another life in the near distance.

You stood motionless, staring at the rich brown dirt of the freshly dug grave that held a part of you. Beside you, to the right stood Mabel, her eyes gaunt and unresponsive. To your left was your mother, as quiet as a lamb. And beside her, stood the weeping Ivette.

Sobs and whimpers poured from her mouth as she stood on the safe patch of grass with the rest of her family. The graveyard was a sunken, spread out piece of land, on the far west down your street. Nothing felt correct today, not when you watched Lillian’s headless body, wrapped around the neck with table cloth be placed into the coffin. They were robust and silent, the gravediggers. Never spoke a word or gave an extra glance and you pondered, how many men and women – how many children they have had to dig graves for. No one ever found her head.

Mother did not wait. Not for your neighbors, not for her own relatives. She did not want to display her headless child to the world, and she did not want anyone to remind her, with insincere pity in their eyes that whatever happened to her child – was that of such severity. Your heart hurt when you saw her this morning, you did not expect her to wear black so quickly again.

Ivette was the worst of you all. Lillian was the other half of her and the way she gaited, it was as if she was travelling to the edge of a cliff expecting to fall every second. Contrary to the scare you had a few days ago, she did not utter a word to you, no one did. It was as if the remaining three members had acquired a new language, hidden from you at all cost. Through their secret form of communication, you would sometimes catch glimpses of what you thought was scrutiny.

How did she unlock that door? They were all wondering. And you wished you had an answer.

It was safe to say you had not slept. Therefore as you stood there, your body crawled with ache and you kept trembling, trying to be still. Be demure to pay your respects as your family stood around you. As your jittery limbs failed to stay motionless, you accidently bumped into mother’s arm. Immediately she winced under her breath, moving away from you a tad, and you turned to her. Did she not want to touch you?

You beheld your mother, not noticing Ivette to the left of her, who stood like a tree, rotten and infected from the inside just sobbing her heart out.

In her heart rung that infectious laugh of her minutes younger sister. The giggle she presented when they would chase father around the yard, the chuckle as they gossiped about one of their new admirers or the snicker she offered as they teased you. As she was staring at that ruddy brown dirt, she felt herself getting lost in memories. Memories where Lillian called out to her.

“Ivette.”

Yet-

“Ivette!”

The sounds were not just coming from her heart. Distant, but nearby…from underneath the dirt. As she quiets her strangled cry, to stare wide-eyed deep into the earth where Lilian was buried, her mind starts pacing at an exceled rate.

“Ivette, help me!”

“Lillian?!”

In a second she was on the ground, her black dress’ knees plowing into the fresh soil as she dug with her fingernails. Her eyes were filled in by insanity. Clawing the dirt towards her desperately as someone tugged on her.

“Lillian? Lillian are you in there?”

“Ivette, I cannot breathe…please help me!” Another painful moan resounded from her grave and Ivette screamed at the top of her lungs. Her fingers aching as she wrought into the heavy grime, fingernails dirty and bleeding from the exertion.

“I will! I will get you out! I w-”

“Child?! What are you doing, child?!”

Her mother’s voice made it into her ear as someone wound their arms around her waist and pulled her away from the dirt, from Lillian.

“Help me, Ivette!”

“MOTHER, NO! SHE’S IN THERE, SHE’S ALIVE!”

“She is dead!” Her mother screams, placing her on the ground and spinning her around to face her.

“No! I heard!” Ivette yells, whirling her head back to the grave. Within moments the color returned in her eyes while she eyed the scrabbled soil and heaved. You stood off behind mother, who was breathing heavily, holding onto Mabel’s trembling shoulders.

“I heard it…I…heard it…” She mutters, eyes lowering.

You watch as she cowers her head, thinking of something before she looks back up to you. With that same glint in her eye as before.

“It was you!”

In the blink of an eye, she was upon you. Shoving you to the ground and attacking you with her hands. Mabel began to cry loudly, as your mother shouted her name. You shrieked, trying to fight off her blows with your arms as she straddled you tightly. The dirt on her hands, you felt it mark your face each time she landed an attack.

“YOU DID THIS! IT IS YOUR F-FAULT! YOU SHOULD BE UNDER THERE! IT SHOULD B-BE YOU! NOT LILLIAN!”

She hit you over and over, though she was weakened by the current events. But so were you.

“It should have been y-”

You yelped loudly as she scratched your eye before you felt her weight lift off of you suddenly and a loud sound of skin hitting skin echo in the vast dead vicinity. Mabel rushed to your side, helping you stand up as you covered your injured eye with your palm. There you watched as Ivette stood with a red hand painted across her right cheek.

Mother stood in front of her, teardrops falling from her sockets like a leak as the hand she slapped Ivette with hovered in the air. “I will not hear you say those filthy words again. I will not have you make a mockery of your sister’s death; do you understand me?”

Ivette did not utter a sound, her own eyes filled with liquid as she pursed her lips. Her fists were balled up against her dirtied black dress.

“I SAID DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME CHILD?!”

Your mother yelled so loud Ivette flinched. With a quivering mouth, she stumbled out a yes.

“I…I-I-I understand…”

As she uttered those words your mother physically slumped. A grimace appeared on her face as she placed her hand back to her side. She glanced at Lillian’s grave with an expression that shattered your heart and turned, without a word. Began to walk away from the whole scene.

Ivette stared off at the place where she once stood. Then she glared at you, as Mabel held onto your hand for comfort. And just like mother, the next second, she turned and trailed after the older lady.

You and Mabel stood there, gazing off at their distant figures as the wind still blew on languidly. For a moment you eyed the messy, scattered up dirt. Was all of this…really your fault? Then it was your turn, with Mabel squeezing your hand, to follow after the two women in complete silence.

The grave never made a sound, not once.

-

Perched underneath your bedroom’s veiled window, you sat staring at the cemented floor.

It had been a week since Lilian’s burial and the whole atmosphere of your house felt dreary and inanimate. Your own home felt unacquainted, like a stranger holding you captive underneath its dingy roof. Mother had long forgotten about your punishment and you were wondering of her existence since you had not gotten to see her since the funeral.

It went without say that you were sacked from your work. Ivette too, you knew that she could not have possibly gone to teach privileged children in her condition. You could not even sleep, scared beyond reason at another encounter with that monster from your dreams. Mother however, you heard of everyday clattering about in the kitchen, shutting the door at noon and again just past midnight. How strong was your mother to continue on with her work for nothing more than a few shillings.

A few wretched shillings.

You could not even eat properly, munching on the bread mother would place by your doorstep without energy. Yet she managed it all, Mabel, Ivette, you…just like when father died. There was nothing you had ever done to deserve her. Agonized, you groan when you feel another set of tears sting your eye sockets. It frustrated you to know that you could do nothing but cry. Weep, weep, weep until your soul eroded away.

Your left eye had swollen, the skin had grown rosy, puffy and enclosed around the sclera. Everyday you felt the pain and irritation, but you had no vitality to get up and aid yourself. Not sleeping had took such a toll on you that you had begun to see hallucinations, one where Lillian would come to you and yell that this was all your doing, that you were evil. Another where your father pleaded with you to come help him from beyond the walls.

Yet you knew, this was the devil’s work. He wanted you to sleep, he wanted to take you into hell once more and you refused to let him. That was the one thing that kept you going in your dire time. Your absolute abhorrence for that man from your nightmares.

You really had gone insane like father.

Unexpectedly, you heard soft footsteps heading towards your chamber and you quickly wiped your tears, holding your breath as they stood in front of your chamber door. As they turned your door handle and pushed open your door, you could not stop your jaw from laxing. It was now that you realized that you did not want to face anyone, specifically not someone from your family.

 Specifically, not Ivette, who stood in the doorway with a blank stare as she looked own at you. She held Lillian’s wooden hair brush in her left hand.

You tightened your hold around your knees, as a small form of protection as she carefully came closer. When she sensed you were frightened of her she sighed, walking instead to your stiff bed and sitting down on its edge. Ivette appeared sick, like she had not been sleeping or eating just like you. Her hair resembled a rat’s nest and her shoulders sagged.

For a moment it was just silence, you observing her every movement as she numbly kicked her feet about. She mindlessly stared at the floor, at no place in particular and you saw how tired she seemed. A ghost living in a shallow body. As you were pondering on asking her what she needed, she gazed up at you and your heartbeat raised in morbid anticipation.

“H…How is your eye?” She asked cautiously. Her stare was shielded, almost as if she was disgusted by your appearance. But you could not blame her, for you could only imagine how you seemed with painfully hollowed cheek, black marks under your eyes that stretched out for miles, and a sunken face of a tired, drained girl in mourning.

You tried to reply to her, but your voice was hoarse and gritty. To which you winced before you cleared your throat, “It is alright…I am…I am alright.”

“I am glad,” She nods in response, “Sorry about before.”

“No it…it was not your mistake-”

“I just-” She interrupts your sentence by clenching her eyes and her fist, “I wanted answers to all this mess, you see. Why has Mabel been sick? Why have you been having your rotten dreams? Why did-” Her voice breaks midway and she sobs, “Why did Lillian die?”

Watching her become undone made tears fall down your face. “I wish I knew.” You reply tenderly.

Ivette once again senselessly contemplates the floor, the gaze in her orbs distant and muted.

“Ivette?” You softly call out to her and she turns to you, “Do you know what happened with mother? I…brushed her arm and it seems as if she got hurt…”

“…Mother was hit by Kim’s lackeys.”

“What?!” You say, placing your hands on the ground in surprise. “Wha-how? Why? Where?-”

“It was the day after his son’s death. He confronted mother on her way to work, calling you terrible names and blaming you for…and mother…she vouched for you.” She grimaces

Your heart feels like it has been hammered a thousand times over and you let out a strangled cry for your unfortunate mother. You could imagine it all, your poor mother telling them you were a good religious child, begging them to spare you as they kicked her helpless figure to the floor – hitting her with their sticks. Clenching your teeth, you muffle a scream, tears of pain pouring down your face. Why were you cursed with such a miserable fate?

Ivette sniffles at your broken state, getting up from the bed and stepping front of you. “If you want all of this to stop, you have to tell me what happens in your dreams.”

You turn your tear stained face to look up at her “W-what?”

In a swift motion she bends down, cups your hollow face with her hands and stares deeply into your orbs.

“___, please. I know you have been hiding the truth. Plain darkness would not make you thrash around in bed as you do. Please, please tell me what is going on!”

“Promise me, you will not tell the church of your dreams, you will tell no one. Promise!”

“I- I do no-”

“___, please! All of these situations – this misery began since the first time you woke up the house screaming because of your nightmare! Remember that gutted mutt we discovered on the porch two days after?”

“Y-yes but-”

“___,” Ivette stares at you with the watering eyes of a drowning woman. Your insides twist in anguish, face scrunching up in pain.

“I already lost Lillian. I do not want anything to happen to you now…”

With that you melt into her arms, crying as she cradles you close to her chest. “Hush, it is alright. I will protect you.”

You cry your heart out into her black nightgown, her bosom soaking with your tears. Everything had run beyond your grasp; all the death and pain was too much for you, just a simple if not fragile girl. What had you done to deserve any of this? Why had God decided to curse you?

“I-I- *hic* I-,” You struggle between broken sobs as Ivette holds onto you tighter, “It is not my fault, please b-believe me! I-I- did n-not-It was that man!”

“Man?” Ivette questions from above you

“There is this man…who comes in my dreams and he makes me see things…*hic* terrible things…and I think he is the one causing all of this!”

“This man…does he ever tell you to do anything?”

“I-I think…he tells me to run, to run as fast as I can an-and he has touched me…” You clamp your mouth shut, too horrified and embarrassed to go on further about that topic, “I think he is the devil…”

Ivette turns silent for a while and the only sound echoing in the walls of your chamber are the lenient sobs and whimpers that leave your mouth. Then, she softly moves you, till she was staring down at you with your face in her palms. She wipes away a few tears.

“Thank you for telling me this, ___. I know just what to do.”

“Y-you believe me?” You ask carefully, feeling your tears leak onto her fingers

“Of course. I will make sure that devil never hurts anyone I love ever again.”

Her determined proclamation leaves you somewhat complacent, a sense of peace settling into your bones. Finally, you would not have to suffer alone. You found someone to believe you, someone to protect you. A week ago, Ivette was the last person you would have thought to aid you. But fate works in mysterious ways, you realized.

“Thank you, Ivette.” You say, melting into her hands and closing your eyes for the first time in a while

“It is alright now. Sleep as much as you want.”

That was the last thing you heard before you felt a blunt object collide against your head, causing your already drained state to immediately lose conscious.

-

You could hear someone yelling in the near distance.

There was screaming and crying resonating in your ears.

Your vision was grainy, dull and somber. There was a circular frame of black around your sight, one you could not blink away but you saw them. The source of the chaos, although weak…you saw them.

There stood a woman, one who shielded her face behind her arms. And there was a man. A man who bore great resemblance to SeokJin, but he was older. He had a beard and a scowl across his face. It felt like you were standing by their window and peeping into their home. They were well embellished, furniture seemingly cut from expensive wood. And there, on the wall behind the man stood weapons. Gun and barrels with large, sleek designs mounted to the wall with pride.

As your conscious cleared slightly, you could tell he was hitting her. Smashing his fist against her arms as she backed up against a wall and cried in agony. He screamed curses loud enough for all the neighbors to hear. You wanted to help her, but you could not move. You could not do anything but watch.

“Whore! Vile mutt! If I drag thee across burning coals for hours and trample thee like ash beneath mine own feet, thou still couldst not repay for thy sins thee miserable wench!”

In return the girl wailed louder, apologies and prayers withering out of her as he pounded down on her. This seem to only enrage the man further as he grabbed a letter knife off the mantel beside them. With flaring nostrils, he gripped the back of her head, pulling it back from her arms for her to face him. The girl whimpered in pain as she seized the hand that imprisoned her and shook violently against the man. He held up the knife against her exposed neck.

But none of his actions concerned you in the least as you witnessed the identity of the woman in horror. Your blackened eyes, your bleeding nose, your cracked lips. The woman was you, you in every sense of the world. It was as if you were staring at your reflection.

“Bid me- giveth me one good reason I shouldst not cut thee up into bawbling pieces this instant, BID ME WHORE!”

The woman shook her head in plea, and you could only watch in terror as the man brought his knife against her skin, slicing the young layer. She screamed in pain as droplets of red poured from her neck and held against his hand fruitlessly. In the very last second, through cries and shrieks, she found her voice.

“Twas not m-my ughhh please, dear husband, twas that man, twas his doing!”

As her words left her mouth, the man halted. His eyes widening in anger as he detained her, bleeding and bruised.

The woman gazed into his eyes for a few seconds, before she closed them as if seemingly defeated. Droplets of tears fell down her face.

“That gent forced himself upon me…”

The man glared at her, her words seem to have struck something in him. Then he threw her onto the floor like a discarded rag, you could hear the bones of her knees collide with the hard wood floor. He did not waste any time dallying around as he grabbed what resembled a torch and headed for the door. Once he slammed the door shut, the woman flinched. She then stared at the floor she was on blankly, the blood seeping down her neck and staining the collar of her white dress.

Slowly, she brought up her thumb to wipe the blood on the corner of her mouth that appeared to be torn. The woman studied her thumb, quietly as if thinking of something. You then started to hear the soft sobs from the back of her throat once more, as she held her stomach with her arms. Coiling them around her abdomen she began to cry again with her jaw hung open, loudly pleading for something as she bended forward.

And you do not understand why but your own eyes felt the pain of tears.

Felt each ounce of her ache until you were woken by a large thud.

You gasp as your eyes split open and loud bangs make their way onto the floorboards of your room. There was no time to think as you were grabbed from the arms by two large, gruff hands. They sat you up with force – you who was on her bed, until you were facing your doorway. Your doorway where the preacher, wearing a purple stole and holding his Sunday bible stood.

“W-w-”

“Quit stalling and take her outside! We have to get this done quickly!” A loud voice resounded from behind the preacher. You recognized that voice…how could you forget a voice as powerful as that?

The two tall, burly men began to grab you, pulling you apart at each side off of the bed while you were still trying to understand what was happening.

“MY CHILD, PLEASE, WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO MY CHILD?” You heard your mother’s voice and that was when the panic set in. Immediately you try to pry away from the men.

“N-no, let go!” You yell, only for the men to drag you harder, off the bed and against the floor. The preacher gazed at you without an emotion and shifted to the side to allow the men to slog you out the room while you kicked your legs about. “W-what are you doing? Let go!”

 As you made it into the dining chamber you saw your mom who ran towards you,

“MY CHILD!”

Yet she was held back by a grip on her wrist. Sir Kim stood beside her with wild eyes, “Silence woman! That girl is a witch! She must be burned!”

You could not believe your ears. You? A witch? There was no sound that escaped your throat as the men continued to yank at you.

“NO! Please! You are gravely mistaken let me b-”

“Mother, please!” Ivette shouted, making her way to mother and everything halted. You all eyed your elder sister with anticipated breaths as she stomped into the dining room with a determined air. They no longer pulled at you and you sat there, your upper body being held up by their arms, skin sore from their tight grips. Your sister who wore a bonnet like she had just arrived from outside the house looked over at you and you silently begged her.

“I-Ive-”

“I called for them, mother. She is not your daughter, she is a witch.” Ivette spit her sentence with venom, glaring at you like you were some sort of heathen. It felt like someone had hit you in the head with a mallet, your lungs collapsed.

“Ivette, what are you saying?” Your mother yelped in disbelief

“She told me all about it! About the devil that comes to her in her dreams. The man she does the bidding off…he…he has touched her mother, she is no longer your child or my sister. Witches sacrifice animals, that is why she tied a dead dog to our porch! No child could reach that high! She killed Lillian which is why her blood was on the second floor! She got past a locked door…and many more instances I consulted with the father of. Mother she is a witch! She has been murdering the whole town!”

Your mouth hung open at her words, tremors of shock flowing through you, “N-no, you are wron-no-”

“What are you imbeciles standing off for? Get her to the cross!”

The two men resume in dragging your already frail body across the floor. Sir Kim lets go of mother’s wrist who falls to the floor and begins to walk towards you. Your mother screams for you as Ivette runs to her aid on the ground.

“No! No! Please, it is a grave mistake!” You cry, pleading with them as they carry you out the entrance and across the porch. In the distant dust path, you spot two men impaling the dirt with a large wooden cross. The next second you were on the dusty road, legs burning in friction against the ground. Sir Kim comes out of your house with the preacher.

As you were screaming and being pulled to where the cross stood, your mother barged out the entrance with Ivette trying to catch up to her.

“John!” Your mother shouted, running up and grabbing the preacher’s arm, “John please do not do this! This is surely a mistake; my child could never hurt anyone sh-”

“Helene!” The preacher’s stern voice made your mother go quiet. “Do you recall when she shouted for that paperboy? I had some men look into him and one of the night men found him skinned alive on the corner of the abandoned road. How would your daughter have known of his demise?”

“And she is no longer a virgin! She has committed a great sin before betrothal! She is meant to burn either way.”

The men hold you up to the cross, tying your wrist against the horizontal plank as you struggle against them.

“NO! I can explain-”

“Silence, witch!”

A large man on the right slams his calloused palm against your cheek and you lose your focus as a buzzing rings throughout your ear. The swollen eye stinging as your cheek burns. While you were disoriented, they manage to tie your wrists against the cross without difficulty and you look about to see a small crowd of men, women and children forming around you. They all just stood there, anticipating expressions on their faces, not one protestant or coming to aid you. Soon after, the men began to tie your feet.

You could see your mother, screaming and begging to get to you as Sir Kim and Ivette held her back.

“Mother no! She is a pagan. A demon who lied to us!”

Strangely, you could feel every single word Ivette spoke scar deep inside your heart and pretty soon you heard it all. The spectators yelling burn the witch while your mother cried, Sir Kim telling the preacher to hurry it along and the preacher who opened the bible he held in his hand and gazed right at you.

“Please, Uncle John do not do this! PLEASE BELIVE ME, IT IS ALL LIES!”

Something flashes in his eyes when you call him uncle. Sir Kim marches over to the preacher as he senses hesitation. Leaving your mother wailing against Ivette’s chest. “I have not paid you to stall father, hurry along or the governor will hear about this. He would not like to hear that you spared someone who’s the cause of his daughter’s slit wrists.”

With such a simple whisper, the preacher snapped back to his book, forgetting your presence all together-

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy spirit. God, whose nature is ever merciful and forgiving, accept our prayer that this servant of thy, bound by the fetters of sin, may be pardoned by thy loving kindness-”

It was then that your toes curled, and you gasped as your head shot up to the sky. Wrists and feet struggling and bruising against your binds. Your mother screamed your name, but you could not see her. You could not see anything but him-

That young man from the cabin, wiping down his wooden table when a hundred men kicked down his door. The vision painted your eyes as bright as day, how they barged into his small cabin and they attacked him. Hitting him in the head and again as he fell to the ground. They crashed his furniture, they shattered his windows. You could feel it all, their sticks, their kicks, their curses, their shouts.

In pain, the young man began to bleed, to plead them to spare him until he appeared. Blood from his face rushed into a river of blood tainting the floor, the floor Jimin had built himself. Limiting his sight as the smaller man withered amongst the floor. They all made room for him, the man from your dreams who resembled SeokJin. He held a torch, his expression lit next to the blazing fire steely and unrelenting.

“P-please sire, w-why art thou doing t-this?”

“Thou forced thyself upon mine own wife, fiend!”

His eyes widened, “N-no thou hast to believe I-I-”

“Silence!” Jin roared before he brought his foot down on the young man’s gut.

“Pu-ha-” The man coughed up blood

“I am the only man for her.” Jin growled before he threw the torch onto him

You scream, loud and piercing as the sight of his flaming skin and cries vanished into the light blue sky that came back before you.

-depart with all your deceits, for God has willed that man should be His temple. Amen!”

The preacher finishes his rites before Sir Kim shoves him to the side, “BURN HER!”

“NNNOOOO!” Your mother shrieks, but you cannot reply to her as you have lost your voice. Both from the strain on your throat and the horrifying sight you narrowed in on behind her.

Mabel.

Young, wide-eyed Mabel who stood on the last step of the porch. Her mouth hung open, bottom lip quivering as she cried staring right into your eyes. Everything moved at a turtle’s pace as the men lit a match. The world was spinning. Your mother violently shook her head and you wanted to reach for her, to be back in the safety of her arms. Beside her perched Ivette, eyes glistening in what you thought was justice. And Mabel stood behind to the side, breathing all of the chaos in.  

Look away, you wanted to scream, Look away! All you could recall was that faulty promise you had whispered to her and this was not what you wanted. What you went through with father.

Yet she gaped right at you, watched as the last words in your eyes pleaded with her innocent mind just before you exploded into a million galaxies.

Burned at the stake with a last cry.

_

Fluttering eyes and even breaths.

You woke to a dim place, pinched and blackened.

Or was it that you woke at all? Surrounded by the faintest shivers of embers.

Around you were sheets of black silks, you could feel them through the exposed skin of your arms and legs. A strange sense of similarity rested inside you. Why were you in one piece? In a moment you sat up, body moving amongst the air like a mechanical device. From your position, you stared at an off-white, almost gray wall, not feeling anything in particular – no happiness, nor sadness. Your room was lit, you realize, by a fireplace to your right.

There stood a man, in the same black suit, the black shoes you had seen for the past month. Yet this time he did not wear his hat and you saw his red scalp, absent of any strands as you placed your feet on the invisible floor. He was blocking the flares of fire from your sight, turned towards the small furnace like a worshipper. You stood up from the bed, approaching the man as the embers rung inside you like wilted petals.

You did not fear anyone or anything in that moment, there was nothing you felt as you stepped up to him. His face was covered in scars, scars you feel amongst the lining of your own casing. The fire illuminated the anger and pain in his expression like a permanent curse. He did not acknowledge you as you stood beside him, just made love with his eyes to the blaze in front of him. Eyes that you could never forget.

“Quaint, is it not?”

“Quite.”

Once your soft voice reached his ear, he looked over at you. You wanted to gasp at the violent burn marks, yet you felt no need. Instead you felt understood.

“Thou aren't bitter cold, art thee?”

“No, I…I am-”

Suddenly, you caught a glint from the corner of your eyes from above the mantel. You turn you head, to find a mirror reflecting your face. Ah, no wonder you felt at such ease, you reason as you gazed upon the similar rose color wounds, your bare cranium, your vacant pupils. The skin hung off your cheeks and your teeth blackened like coal.

“I am warm.”

You look up to the ceiling. There was nothing but an endless black void.

“Are we in hell?”

The man laughed, “No.”

“Why did you do all of this?” You uttered softly

“I could not forgive thee. Thee who let those heathens stand there and burn me alive, laughing at mine own screams.” You look back at him as he spoke, words spit with an uncontrollable rage, “Ripped me apart and tore away everything I loved. Therefore, I wanted you to like feel like me. Accused and accursed. And so, I waited. Waited there in the deep dark ends of the world for hundreds of years until the nightmares welcomed me and I was reborn again.”

“I dreamed for the first time, each moment. And I waited,” He looked into your eyes, “Until thou came back to me.”

“You earned what you yearned for. Now they have burned me. Stood there and watched. What will you do now?”

“I yearn for more than vengeance.” He speaks sympathetically, “I have yearned for thou since that day. Each moment I breathe with this empty heart. I dream. We were doomed from the beginning, meant to burn. We were meant to burn…” He took your fingers into his warm ones, his right hand empty of the weapon. “And so, it is said we shall burn them too, from this heaven below.”

You stare at his deformed hand, lost in the haze of his dimension. There was no where for you to go, no place for you to look back to. No home, no happiness, no sadness.

And there was no fear.

“I can think of one I want to burn tonight.” You say, to which he smiles that sinister smile.

That beautiful smile.

[har-rison-s]

children are the future

request: Can you do a stan it ch.2 imagine where you two have kids and he gets the phone call and the kids like ‘whats wrong’ and he looks at th kid and is like ‘gotta do it for them!!’ And doesn’t die and you guys go together or whatever

A/N: Yes, hello. Amazing, emotional request. Kids + Stanley,.... Oh boy. I'll try my best on this one, as I always do. Happy reading!

IT masterlist

heaven masterlist

main masterlist

gif credit goes to owner!

Jay is laying in her father's lap, her head on his chest, watching the TV programme whilst her brother is reading a book that lay on his father's leg. It's an ordinary Sunday evening in the Uris household, all of them lounging on the couch while the TV plays and they're doing each their little thing. 

Y/N is sewing decorations on Robin's new pillow, by his request, deeply concentrating on pulling her needle and thread through a bead. Stanley cradles Jay as she watches the TV and he reads a book. Robin's just like his father - prefers a book over TV, but also being with his family over reading alone in his room.

Stanley's arm is around Jay, holding her, and also holding the book. His other hand holds Robin's and occasionally runs through the little boy's hair. Curly, just like his own is, but has a lighter color. Even lighter than Stanley's ocher hair was. Now it's darkened intensely, and so have his eyes.

A telephone ring startles the peaceful family, they jump in their seats lightly, all in the same manner. Y/N looks at Stanley, and so does Jay and Robin, while Stanley reached over his shoulder for his ringing cellphone. What a weird time for someone to be calling him. He hopes it's a simple question from one of his employeés and accepts the call. 

“Hello - Uris residence?” Stanley speaks. He puts his book down on his tummy and listens. 

“It's Mike. Mike Hanlon.”

“Who did you say?” Stanley asks, his brow now furrowed and eyes searching for answers. His tone and facial expression confuses his children. Jay watches her father very noticeably, while Robin only looks at him sideways, not wanting to be too obvious about it. Both his parents told him once it's not very polite to stare at others. “You... you! Well, I'll be damned,” Stan says with a chuckle and sees his wife shoots him a stern look about his use of words. The man nods and closes his eyes for a second, “Mike! How did y—”

He stops abruptly, and Jay hears that the person on the phone is speaking, telling her father something. Stanley doesn't say anything for a while, listening closely. “IT's come back, Stanley. Disappearances have started happening again, a girl, then a man, his body found—it's nasty business, but one thing is sure. IT is back.” Mike Hanlon tells him. 

“Are you sure, Mike?” Stanley tries to clarify.

“Yes, Stanley.” Mike confirms. “Remember you made a promise? We all did. That if IT comes back...”

“Then we come back, too.” Stanley finishes his friend's sentence, nodding. Stanley sighs and looks at Robin, immediately thinking of himself as a kid. He clings to his youngest child. 

Stanley thinks what would he do if Robin or Jay were in danger. He thinks how he'd feel if IT was after them, if he'd know about it. He wouldn't, if they were living in Derry, none of the adults there knew what was happening. God, he'd know nothing. And he couldn't help. 

“Of course I remember. I still have the picture.” Stanley tells Mike. “But are you sure—like, really sure?” He tries to clarify more. Mike chuckles into the phone, having expected something like this from his old friend.

“Yes, Stanley, I'm very sure.” Mike confirms it to him again. “You need to come home.” He tells him, and knows it's hard information to process and execute. “How soon can you?”

“Well, I would need to take care of a few things first, but um...” Stanley drifts off, thinking of the logistics of him going back to Derry, Maine. 

“Tomorrow.” Mike decides and Stanley takes a deep breath. He looks over at Jay, who's been looking at him as he talks. 

“What's wrong, Daddy?” Jay asks him, her head falling against his shoulder. She's noticed the nervous and fearful expression in her father's eyes, and her young mind grows nervous, too. Has something bad happened? 

Stanley only holds her hand and sighs. He savors this moment with his children in his reach and embrace, thinking what if this is the last time he can have this? Hold and feel his children together with him, lay with them on the couch, talk to them. 

He cannot risk IT taking over the rest of his life. Stanley's afraid, oh dear God, is he afraid. He's not sure he will be able to face IT and actually fight IT again. Even though it feels like he'll be doing it the first time. Why? He can't guess. The memories haven't even faded. 

Stanley would never wish that his children go through what he did when he was a kid. Not one piece of it. His childhood was very wide in range, jumping from worst to best in short periods of time. Stanley would never want his children to be as scared as he was, see the things he saw and live with those pictures in the back of their minds for the entirety of their lives. 

He needs to stop this while he can. So that no child ever has to go through what he and his friends did. So that no one dies this horrible death or loses their friends or family to a mystical, malicious being. And, over all, he's doing it for his own children. So that they would grow up without fear and without monsters under their bed.

“Okay.” Stanley tells Mike, nodding. “I'll be there tomorrow.” He tells Mike finally.

“Can't wait to see you, Stan the man.” Mike says as good-bye and hangs up the phone. Stanley sighs, closing his eyes, and puts his phone back in its place on the night stand behind him. 

“Who was that, Stan?” Y/N questions, having set closer to Stanley and their children. The TV's volume has been turned down. Y/N reaches her hand out to Stanley's and grips it tight, noticing that her husband looks a little lost. 

“An old friend. From Derry.” Stanley finally says, meeting Y/N's eyes. “There's bad things happening over there. I have to help him.” Stanley tells his family. Jay puts both her arms around her father's neck, trying to hug him, comfort him. 

Y/N nods, realising it's serious what Stanley is talking about. “Okay. You gotta be there tomorrow?” She asks and Stanley nods. He rests his head on Jay's and pulls Robin in his lap, too. Wanting to embrace his children as tight as he can. 

“I don't want you coming with me.” Stanley says, then, feeling himself close to tears. “It's dangerous, very dangerous.”

Y/N wants to ask questions, she's always wanted to ask questions about his strange nightmares, the strange muttering under his breath or strange things that he'd say out loud here and there. It's always confused her, but she's realised with time that it's something Stanley doesn't understand to the fullest and is still afraid of. So she doesn't ask why it's dangerous now. But she knows that he can't go alone.

“No, no.” She shakes her head. “I'm coming with you, if it's dangerous. And we can take our birdies to Grandma's.” Y/N caresses Jay's cheek, moving her hair out of her face. “You haven't been to Grandma's in a while.”

“I wanna go with Daddy.” Robin says and looks at his father. Stanley looks at his son and almost starts crying on the spot. Stanley shakes his head. Oh, the horrors that would occur if he brought his beautiful family to the horrid dump that is Derry. He can't allow it.

“You can't, little man.” Stanley tells his son. “It's too dangerous for children there.”

“Don't kids live there?” Jay asks. Oh, God, Stanley doesn't know what to tell her. He can't lie, but he can't tell her the scaring truth about why she or Robin shouldn't come with him.

“They do, but they're all in danger. And I can't risk putting you in danger.” Stanley says, tears now streaming down his face, while he tries to keep quiet. This is going to be hard. He wipes his tears and sighs deeply. “So, my little birdies, Mommy and me will take you to Grandma's and we will be back in a few days.” Stan tells his children finally, having decided their plan of action.

“Promise you'll be back soon, Daddy.” Robin pleads. 

“I promise, Rob.” Stanley lays a kiss on his son's forehead. He gives the same to his daughter and pulls his children even closer to himself. “You're going to be safe after this.”

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I sure hope you like this! 

[iron--spider]

trigger finger (whumptober - gunpoint)

Tony moves into the next room in the warehouse, and this shit is bringing up a lot of unpleasant Ultron era memories. A lot of bullshit from back when Wanda got into his head, set him off, made him go a little crazy and spawn an evil murderous super bot. As one does. There’s no bot involved here, no, just a group of dickheads who, for some reason, are able to control minds. 

 He doesn’t know where the kid is, which makes finding him priority one. Not any of the so-called important information they were supposed to be protecting in the upper levels of the building, not the corporate big-wigs who are gonna have to answer for whatever the fuck kind of experiments they were doing here that caused this. No, finding Peter immediately, like right the hell now, is all Tony cares about. They’ve got Steve and Nat for the rest of it. 

 All Tony knows is that these guys need skin to skin contact to use their abilities. So the kid should be fine. He should be totally fine. Tony covered him head to toe for a reason. He isn’t wearing the iron spider tonight, though, which is—a little bit concerning. But Tony is always concerned, when it comes to Peter. Always jumping to conclusions. He has every damn right considering what the kid has put him through, what the kid has been through, what Tony put the world through to get the kid back in his life.

 So. Tony continues on in this labyrinth, looking for Peter. 

“Steven,” Tony says, on coms, watching as Friday lays out a grid of the building on the HUD. “Hey. Rogers. Check in. Chop chop, where are you?”

 Tony gets a response, but it’s not at all what he was expecting or what he wanted to hear. It’s Steve’s voice, that’s for sure, but it’s mostly static, cutting in and out. The doorway ahead of him is open, and he walks through, heading into a hallway. 

 “Friday, why the hell is that happening?” he asks, looking back and forth, scanning his surroundings. 

 “Unsure, boss.”

 “Gimme my little dots, huh?” Tony asks, heading to his left. “Where are my little green and red dots? Good and bad guys? Christmas? Huh? Let’s go, girl, c’mon.” He’s getting testy with his fucking AI, because where in the hell is Peter? He’s not here. Usually he’d be chiming in and chirping his every precious thought, and Tony hasn’t heard a comment from him for about twenty minutes now. Since a little after they all ventured off in different directions, on their own. He tries to remember the last thing he heard Peter say. Does Friday have a recording? Is he losing his damn mind already?

 The kid’s fine. He’s gotta be fine. He’s a superhero, he can pick up a whole bus, he’s fine. He’s fine.

 But this is mind control. Tony is familiar with someone digging around in his head, and he doesn’t want that happening to Peter. 

 “Any more luck honing in on Peter’s suit?” Tony asks, continuing down the hallway, trying to stay level-headed and unemotional. He wishes Peter hadn’t tagged along for this one. He kind of wishes Peter would retire when he’s twenty one.

 “There’s something jamming my signals, Boss,” Friday says. “I’m working on it. Along with your red and green indicator dots.”

 “Thank you, ma’am,” Tony says, with a shuddering sigh. At least he’s got the floor plan, and he sees that he’s approaching the loading docks. These dudes might be heading out that way, and Tony hopes he can cut them off, stop all this before it gets too big. 

 Well, it’s pretty big already. Considering there are three—no, four Avengers here. Jesus, he can’t tell the kid he was about to discount him as an Avenger.

 He wishes he could tell anything.

 “Alright, alright,” he says to himself, rolling his eyes.

 There’s two traffic doors up ahead, and Tony can see a figure standing inside, in the darkness, but he can’t make out a face. Alright, finally, he might be getting somewhere. He can’t exactly be too stealth when he’s wearing the suit, so he decides to rush in guns-a-blazin, or more like repulsors at the ready because he doesn’t wanna kill anybody—

 He stops. Brain empty. Hands shaking.

 Peter is standing there in front of him, without his mask. He’s holding a gun in his hands, and he raises it, pointing it at Tony. He’s trembling, and he grits his teeth.

 “Kid,” Tony says, panicking wildly now. 

 “I can’t—” Peter says, and it’s like each word physically pains him.

 Tony breathes hard, trying to think fast, trying to get his hands on a solution. “Did one of them do this to you?” he asks. “Did—did they get your mask off? Get skin to skin contact?”

 Peter closes his eyes for a long second, and the gun rattles in his hands. Tony takes one tentative step closer, and he sees the rip in the suit, on the kid’s forearm. Shit. “Okay, buddy, I see it,” he says. “I see it. But these clowns should know that bullets are just gonna bounce right off me.”

 Peter opens his eyes, and he looks afraid now, worse than before. He slowly, surely, raises the gun and points it at his own temple. Presses it there hard.

 Tony’s world shifts, all the air draining from around him. He takes another faltering step forward, and the helmet retracts down so Peter can see his face. 

 “No, no,” Tony stammers. “No, hey—kid, can you fight this? I know how strong you are, buddy. I know how strong you are.”

 “It’s—it’s really hard,” Peter says, his face contorting with emotion and pain. 

 Tony keeps looking at his finger on the trigger. Everything is on the line right now, all of it, all of it, and he can see what it would look like, the horror of it, the gore, and he tries to wipe it from his mind. It cannot happen. It cannot happen.

 “Are they around?” Tony asks, retracting his previous thoughts about not wanting to kill somebody tonight. He wants to kill somebody tonight. He wants to rip somebody limb from limb. 

 “I don’t know,” Peter says, softly. He looks like he’s trying so hard to resist, the veins in his arms standing out, his fingers shaking.

 Finger on the trigger. Finger on the trigger. 

 Tony doesn’t care what happened to these people. Not right now. Because they did this. They’re doing this to his kid. They put that look on Peter’s face. 

 “It’s gonna be fine,” Tony whispers, taking another step forward, and his whole chest hurts, pinpricks and a pinching tightness. “It’s gonna be fine, okay? Promise. I promise you.”

 Peter presses the gun harder to his temple, and Tony can see the indent on his skin. Peter sucks in a big breath through his mouth, and tears shine at the corners of his eyes. “I can almost—if I concentrate—really hard—”

 “He’s gonna hurt himself!” a voice yells, from one of the open loading dock doors.

 Tony’s head whips up, and he sees two men standing there, on the platform just outside the building. He feels like rushing into attack mode, but he knows he can’t. He has to be smart. “Nah, I’m gonna hurt you,” Tony says, his anger simmering. “This is not a way to make friends and influence people.”

 “Stark,” the voice says. “You need to be a little more in charge of your emotions—”

 “You need to be a little more the fuck out of here—”

 “Precisely,” the man says. “Everyone knows you particularly want to protect the Spider-Man. And now we know why—he’s a child!”

 “I—am not—” Peter cuts himself off by pressing the gun harder against his head, and Tony sees stars.

 “Just let him go,” Tony says, already feeling desperate as all hell, because this image in front of him is nightmare-inducing, for both of them, and it’s goddamn worse that he can see the kid fighting it tooth and nail. 

 “Let us go,” the man says. “And as soon as we’re a mile away, he’ll be able to drop the gun. Understand?”

 “A fucking mile?” Tony asks, cracking his jaw, shifting on his feet. “I’m ready to just start blasting, hoping I hit something—”

 “And I’ll make him shoot himself in the head,” the man says. It’s unnerving, just seeing their shadows out there. They should be fucking running, with the amount of fire running through Tony’s veins right now. “He’ll die in front of you,” the man continues. “Brains everywhere.”

 “Shut the fuck up,” Tony says. “Just go. Get out.”

 “Tony—” Peter starts, eyes wide. 

 Tony shakes his head. He can barely deal with looking at him right now, like this. With that gun to his own head. It’s something he never, ever wanted to see. 

 “Go!” Tony yells, and the two men jump down off the platform, into the settling night. Once they’re gone, Tony lets the suit retract back into his housing unit, and he steps closer to Peter on his own two feet. “Pete,” he breathes.

 “Okay,” Peter says, blinking rapidly. “Okay, okay.” His hand is still shaking. 

 “A mile,” Tony says, standing in front of him, afraid to touch him but longing to fix this, somehow. “They better run fast. They better run fucking fast.”

 “You’re cursing so much,” Peter breathes, looking at him with pleading eyes. “Right in front of me.”

 “I know,” Tony says, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I’m sorry.”

 “‘s okay, you’re just gonna have to put like, a lot of money into the swear jar when we get back to the compound—”

 Tony snorts, and nearly breaks into full, out and out sobbing, because he needs this to be over. Right now. Right now. He keeps looking at Peter’s finger, tight on the trigger. One false move, and it’s over. It’s over, and for all intents and purposes, they’re both dead.

 “Hey, wait, I—” Peter grits his teeth, groaning a little bit. “Hey, wait—”

 “What’s happening?” Tony asks, his eyes darting around. He glances back up where the two assholes were, but they’re not there anymore. “Kid, don’t hurt yourself, don’t do anything crazy, please—”

 Peter yanks his hand away from his head, and Tony leaps out of the way as the gun goes off, pointed at the wall. Peter tosses it away from him, stumbles back, his hand reaching up to grip his forehead. 

 “Hey, hey,” Tony says, catching him around his waist, making sure he doesn’t fall. “Hey—are they a mile away already? Did you break the mind control link or whatever? Holy shit.”

 “They’re definitely not a mile away,” Peter breathes, leaning hard against him. “Oh my God, my brain.”

 “Are you okay?” Tony asks, lowering them both to the ground. “Information needed, stat, c’mon, bud.”

 “Fine,” Peter says, wincing, still holding onto his head. “Peaches and cream.”

 “Mmhm,” Tony hums, through gritted teeth, because he’s feeling dizzy now, sick. He taps on his ear piece. “Steve,” he says. “Can you hear me?”

 “Tony! Lost you for a bit there! Find anything?”

 “Thank God, Cap,” Tony breathes, tightening his grip on the kid. “Dickheads heading due north, escaped about five minutes ago, tops. Go get ‘em.”

 “On it, you alright?” 

 “Will be,” Tony says. He directs his attention back to Peter, helps him sit up a little bit. “Hey, look at me, Pete. Look at me real quick.”

 Peter groans, shifting, and looks at him through narrowed eyes, swaying a little bit. “What?”

 Tony scoffs. “What, he says. They still in there? In that noggin of yours?” 

 “No,” Peter says. “No, it just feels like—ants in my head, now, when before it was like someone was holding my brain in their big, nasty hand.”

 Tony blows out a breath, brushing Peter’s hair out of his eyes. “Gross. Okay, did they seem to have...any real reason for taking your mask off? Do we have identity problems just in case Stevie doesn’t overtake them?”

 Peter shrugs. 

 “Okay,” Tony says, knowing he needs to think about that shit next. Just great. “Okay, I’m done with all this. We’re going home.” He considers how to tell this whole story to May. Considers not telling her at all.

 “Okay,” Peter says, which is a little concerning, considering he normally likes to see these things through. “And when we get there, I’m eating the rest of the salted caramel ice cream. I deserve it.”

 Tony nods, wrapping an arm around his waist and hauling him to his feet. Yeah, that’s more Peter. “Yup,” Tony says. “You absolutely do.”

 Peter leans into his space, and looks at him with wide eyes. “Really?”

 “Definitely,” Tony says. He glares at the gun on the way out of the room, and knows it’ll take a good week to scrub the mental image of Peter holding himself at gunpoint out of his head. “Let’s just find your mask. Next stop, ice cream.”

[stillness-in-green]

A Bitter Oasis (Fate/Zero)

Once and only once Kariya dreams of the true nature of his mad Servant. Neither of them enjoys the experience.

(Content Warning: It’s tame for being about Kariya and Berserker, but it’s still about Kariya and Berserker, so expect some references to wormy body horror and a bit of handsy violence.)

Kariya dreams.

His life is a dream, an extended nightmare.  He shambles through liminal corridors—visions of the past mixed with aims on the future, his days hazed and indistinct, his nights black and endless.  His body swings between chewing misery and livewire agony.  He feels forever observed by figures with scornful eyes—everyday Fuyuki crowds, yes, Zouken and that bastard Tokiomi.  But sometimes stranger figures, too, armored men who whisper in a language Kariya knows is not Japanese, nor any language that’s been spoken outside of historical reenactment in centuries.  

He dreams of madness, of Berserker’s teeth buried in his neck, hot breath and trembling weakness, of existence always on the verge of collapse.  He dreams of grief, paralytic and enervating, of unshed tears as hot in his throat as fresh blood.  He dreams of helplessness, of Sakura’s empty eyes and Aoi’s empty smile and his own empty hands.

He dreams (once, only once, and that perhaps worse than never at all) of a lake, placid and still, but with an edge of something other in the air that raises the hair on the back of his neck.  In the gray half-light of dawn, it seems like a photograph he could only touch the surface of, or perhaps a projected image he could reach for only to fall through.  Beautiful, but apart from him.

He sighs—feels the sigh in his chest, a chest far too broad to be his own, a tension in muscles that move with a poised, practiced grace completely foreign to Kariya’s stumbling infirmity.  He looks down at the arms crossing over his chest and finds, rather than the sleeves of his stained and reeking hoodie, plate armor gauntlets that gleam the muted dove gray of clouds after a storm.

“Why did you dream me this way?” asks a voice.  Not his voice, and not his language, either.  It’s harsher, with more fricatives in the consonants, but intoned with a low resonance that belongs to the mist and the lakeshore as echoes belong to a sea cave.  Not his voice, but the words roll off of Kariya’s tongue all the same.

When no one answers him—Kariya tries to take control of that stately murmur to as much effect as trying to climb sheet glass—the man sighs again.  He moves towards the lake as within him Kariya fights back tears of purest envy for the man's even paces and sure movement, the sound of his armor a hushed, melodic rhythm.  Dark hair slides over his shoulders in loose, finely-combed waves as he looks down at the misty surface of the water and the indistinct shape reflected there.

He blinks once, twice, slow and considered.  Without even a sense of disorientation, Kariya is, suddenly, huddled beside him at the water’s edge, frail and bowed, and it takes only standing in the man’s presence to name him.

“Berserker.”  The title twists his lips—twists the other’s lips, too, a mirroring bitterness.

“Not here,” his Servant answers, “though I would have preferred it so.”  He lifts his head, exposing the white line of his throat, the noble line of his profile, and looks upon the lake with grief rippling somewhere deep beneath the surface of his eyes.  His lips part again, then close.  Purposefully, he turns away, as if he can’t bear to speak the words out over the waters.

“I came to you because you called me forth as a madman,” he says at last.  “So I ask you again—why must you now dream of me thus?”

Kariya swallows, feeling shrunken and resentful beneath that hard, cool gaze.  His own companions, the worms burrowing in his flesh and nesting in his sinew, feel distant here, but only that—a tugging at the far end of a tether that holds him bound and collared, though it has at present decided to let him wander afield.

“I can’t control what I dream about.”  He answers in a voice of sand and grit to Berserker’s polished iron.  “It’s just the Servant bond.  Normally I dream about you attacking me.”

Berserker absorbs the words, unmoving, unmoved.  “Your dreams are violent.  As are your needs.”

“What do you know about my needs?  All you do when we’re awake is try to murder whoever’s in front of you, including me!”  The anger kindles—stupid, stupid, it’s just a dream, it won’t make a difference when I wake back up.  But the remote, aloof sorrow in Berserker’s eyes reminds him too much of Sakura’s distant stare, of Tokiomi’s—of mage society’s—egotism that masquerades itself as wisdom.

“I know you seek vengeance,” the knight pronounces.  “Salvation—for yourself and for another.  I know your desire to tear down he whom you cannot be.”

“He who I,” Kariya stammers as the image looms behind his eyes, Tokiomi with his arm around Aoi’s shoulders, Aoi smiling up at him, serene and at peace.  “Shut up—”

“You called me with a relic of mine, but it would not be enough if I did not see a likeness of myself in you.  You—”

“Shut up!” Kariya snarls.  “You’re not here to lecture me about my wish!  Just—just concentrate on winning!”

“When I take the field, I think of nothing else,” Berserker responds, face solemn.  “You would do better to go mad as well, my Master.  You will find things much simpler.”

“I don’t need to be—to be divorced from reality like you!”  

“We are happier in separation, reality and I.”  The knight smiles, a rueful curve of his lips, though the melancholy still hangs on his eyes.

Without warning, he turns away on a wince.  He sighs—the sound of it rattles at the end, a sword in a scabbard begging to be released.  With a jolt of fear, Kariya sees the way his armor is darkening, ink spreading over the brushed silver, the cape pinned over his pauldrons aging and rotting and falling away.  The knight of the lake is once more becoming the black knight, the Mad Enhancement of his summoning reasserting itself.  

“You are waking,” he says.  His teeth grit, discoloring and sharpening into a jagged, inhuman line even as Kariya staggers back from him.  “Go.”

Pain winds back its grip on Kariya’s leash, choking him, driving him to his knees.  Berserker looks down on him, his lips drawn back, breath shuddering in his chest.  His violet eyes burn red, the flames within climbing higher by the second as the mist on the lake roils, smoke-dark.  

“Go. Forget this,” he growls.  He stoops down, wrapping his hand around the back of Kariya’s neck to draw him close.  Terror swells in Kariya’s throat, croaking, keening, but Berserker only presses a whisper to his forehead, sour and hot.  “I do not wish to be remembered.”

A beat, a thrumming silence, and Kariya’s heart hammers against his ribs as Berserker’s hair falls across him like a shroud.  The knight’s breath pants against his throat.  His teeth, his teeth—

“I am sorry for the ways I will hurt you,” he rasps, and then those hands coil taut in Kariya’s sleeves and hurl him sideways into the lake.

The waters close over him like a throat.  Black and cold, they swallow him down, and there at the bottom of the lake’s gullet, he finds his pain waiting.

—   —   —

This was written for the Banned Together Bingo square "Happy Divorce." It's a reach, I know, but it put me in mind of the Livejournal purges, where whole communities were banned for the terrible crime of having too many words in common with The Forbidden Topic, regardless of those communities' actual activities or purpose. I can imagine this fic being caught in a similar sweep for "anything that talks positively about divorce." Algorithms don't make good censors, kids!

Anyway, I always wished I'd written more on these two back when I was in my big F/Z phase, so it was a pleasure to take them out for another spin.

[ithinkthingsaboutstuff]

Going Rogue:The Crow’s Nest

This is a fic series, that looks at the ecosystem of Arkham asylum, How the rogues interactions with one another and how therapy is or is not administered. The partnerships, the connections, the feud’s and the all the madness that rest inside the padded walls.

Going Rogue:

part 3: The Crow’s Nest

There is a saying in Arkham. first floor for the mad, seconded floor for the crazy and the third floor for the insane. Now obviously, this is semantics, but the inclination is rather important here. The mortals with the ailment of men are kept on the ground floor as to give the illusion to any haply soul that enters that this could pass as a simple house of nightmares. The seconded floor is the maze of madness, the corridors to the crazy, that gives the doctors more than enough reason to question whatever deity or deities they may believe in. The third floor however is where all hope of humanity leaves you, not just for the patients but for anyone who comes across it.

The third floor was filled with the more ‘experimental’ therapy's or ancient practices depending on who you ask, the politicians who are the same people who still classify Arkham as a ‘mental health facility’ will tell you that this is all a part of new cutting edge techniques and therapy's that help the poor inhabitants of Akrham. If you ask the first and second floor patients, its where monsters go to lose their fangs and claws, so that they can be tamed by lesser men. The doctors at Akrham would like to pretend that this is a last resort, that its only used on the hopeless cases and that they are beyond any other kind of help, but mostly each doctor in their quiet moments, still and clam when the screams fall silent and the eyes of men and women haunt their closed eye lids, they have one creeping, sinking thought,

This is madness.

But thoughts like that must be pushed down lest you let them take you. But that’s not to say all doctors at Arkham feel that way, but then again not all the doctors in Arkham are in-front of the glass are they. Dr Jonathon Crane was once a honoured and respected doctor, or that’s what people say now anyway, about Dr Crane’s earlier years in medicine and teaching, truth is if you had asked these same people back then what they thought of him they would all give to roughly the same answer. ‘He’s a quiet but an odd man,’ ‘there’s something not quite right about him.’ ‘little obsessive isn’t he.’ ‘Who?’

Not that any of their opinions are remotely of consequence, not back then and defiantly not now. Jonathon has been sent to the third floor for treatment on and off for years now, he never talks about what happens there, no one ever dose but Jonathon shows a particulate disdain when it comes to talking about anything that involves himself. Besides, Jonathon was not like the other patients on the third floor, unlike all the others in his unfortunate position, that position being that one is at any given moment an airs breath way from being a grotesqueness shell of human facilities, the difference is,

Jonathon enjoyed it.

The third floor had the thickest cells in all of Arkham. Unlike the second floor this layout was not a maze, it is much more straight forward but what it lacked it terrainle confusion it made up for it in being a hallway of horrors hellscape. The people sent here are jacketed and chained to their wall, and that’s how stay until a doctor tells them otherwise. Spending their days desperately trying not to piss themselves as they wait for their scheduled bathroom times, mind you at this point most of the occupants that make it to the third circle of this Halloween themed death-hole are more than willing to defecate themselves like zoo animals then most folks. The staff spends the bathroom times simply cleaning the zoo cages.  

In one of these cells, thick and padded. Jonathan sat on his bed, the walls were ripped exposing the wool that had become yellow with decay. The window was no bigger than a sheet of paper, the bars on them were thin and had rusted to the point that they had holes making it look like it had a termite infestation. Jonathon was not in a straight-jacket anymore but his right leg was still chained to the back wall. He sat on his bed or buck or canvas lined poles, Jonathon found the bed comforting, he often slept in his scarecrow mask and this bed made him feel like he was wrapped in it.

He was not in the best of places when he was brought in this time, not that he ever was in his right mind when he was brought in here, but this was different. This time the bat didn’t drag him in, this time he came willingly. October was not a good month for him with all the temptation about, the autumn air so sweet in his nose but bitter on his brain. Every crunch of the leaves and the air that sent a chill down his spine and vibrated through his very soul, all of it was getting to much, he felt himself slipping or rather he felt the scarecrow creeping up the back of his mind and skulking behind his eyelids. He then went to arkham of his own accord as to not find himself wrapped in burlap for at least one Halloween night. Jonathon was at this point in his treatment allowed some writing implements, this made his focus clearer and allowed him to make his notes.        

Medical log 29: Dr. Jonathon Crane.

Time, 1700 hours.

Date, October 29th,

Year, ...who the fuck cares anymore.

The screams coming from the north wall started at about 1130 hours and ceased at approximately 1450 hours.

As to what ‘therapy' was being administered in that time is up of speculation, however I have it on good authority and judging on the volume and intensity of the screams for such a period, they are most likely being caused by electroshock mixed with a high Diazepam concentrate.

As to the effectiveness of this treatment remains to be seen, the north wall has been having these sessions by my approximation for about 19 days now, with about 5 patients, four male and one female.

four of the screams are unfamiliar to me, but the fifths I am all too familiar with, well not screams so much, as this creature does not know fear at least not in a traditional sense.  

and I would know that ass-clowns giggles anywhere.

Most likely this treatment was done on him by the direction of his new doctor. They never learn, that his mind cannot be reasoned with, and most certainly cannot be saved. But youth is often unpractised in the ways of disappointment. They will continue the trials for the next two days ending it on three weeks. As to what will come from this, I will monitor for any overall behaviour changes in the third floor, but have not other means of conducting further analysed at this present time.

As for my own treatment, I am becoming more loseit by the day, I expect to be returned to the second floor by the weeks end. My doctor has been most helpful, in making the transition this time around, I will be having a session with them in a tomorrow morning. They do have some skill unlike most of the so called doctors in the hellhouse,

however their naivety is most troubling.

What will become of them in a place like this remains to be seem, I will monitor they decline for future reference.    

Log 29, End.

Jonathon then moved to the window. The tiny thing would have been at the top of most people’s heads, but Jonathon was a tall man. His body towered over most peoples, his body was lean and skinny, like his skin was a thin cloth that covered his skeleton to keep himself together. His hands where rough and callus from all those years of swing a large heavy scythe, his face sunken with dark bags under his eyes. His glasses were slightly cracked on the left side frame, on his right temple down to his neck was a thin but jagged scar as if someone slide the knife down his face before trying to slit his throat.

Jonathon was able to pier out the window and see outside into the grounds of Arkham. Not much out there at the moment as you could imagine, mostly just over grow weeds and underbrush. But the courtyard was filled with birds or rather crows. They would squawk and cry for all to hear, it was the only thing in Arkham that was more constant then the screams. One of the crows landed on the windows ledge and squawked in Jonathon’s face. Jonathon stared at it for a moment before it squawked at him again, he then let a smile slowly creep onto his face.

‘Alright, alright, easy now, I get the picture.’

His voice was low just about a whisper, is southern accent rumbled as he tried to use a hushing tone.

‘How was your day today little birdy.’        

The crow pecked at the concrete as Jon reached into his pocket. He then pulled out his hand and held it to the window, sprinkling out crumbs of food on the ledge. The crow pecked at the food and Jon moved his fingers to slowly stroke the birds feathers.

‘You had a hard day huh, me too, but its not so bad, is it little birdy, you got big sky's and lots of places to go, but here you are, sitten with little old me, not that I don’t like when you come to visit, just seems like you’d have better places to be is all. You came he to have rest before going off to do what you need do, I get that, why you stick around me I’m not so sure though. But to each there own I suppose.’

The bird bobbed its head and Jonathon continued to pet it.

‘You such a pretty bird aren't you, and smart bird, you got anything for me?’

The bird flapped its wings and flew off, a few moments pasted and the bird returned holding something shinny in its beck.

‘Well, what’s this now?’

Jonathon took the object out of the birds beck and examined it, it was a thin metal rod it looks like it broke off an old lighting fixture,

‘A little rusted by I can file it down some. Thank you little birdy.’

Jonathon petted the bird again as it happily cried. A noise came from the hallway, footsteps came closer to his door.    

‘You should be on you way now, Little birdy.’

Jonathon then shooed the bird away it bounced on the ledge a few times before flapping its wings and flying away. Jonathon then weaved the metal rod inside one of the holes in one of the padded walls, he moves the fabric to hide the shape of the rod sticking through the wall with the padding. Jonathon then moved slowly as to not rattle his chain, he sat back on his bed and made it look like he was still taking notes.

The footsteps made it to his door and the big heavy door began to unlock and with one strong push it came open.

‘Evening.’

The voice called from the door frame.

‘I must admit I was not expecting you.’

Jonathon said as they then shut the door behind them.

‘And why’s that?’

Jonathon looked behind the one in front of him eyes darting back and forth.

‘Here all by yourself aren't you? no guards, no back up. You might get into some trouble for that.’

‘Doubt it,’

They answered smugly.

‘Fair point, so what brings you here?’

‘What else, you.’

‘You came all the way up here to see little old me, all by yourself huh, not to bright.’

‘Well you are chained to the wall so I would like to see what you could do.’

They let out a soft quiet laugh. Jonathon then shuffled jostling his leg.

‘I’m only chained to the wall at your recommendation, Doctor Quinzell,’

The young women could not hide her smile at that one. She tried not to see her patients after hours but Jonathon was one of the few she could make lenience for on that front.

‘Now Jonathon that’s for your safely as well as mine.’

‘That’s Bullshit, and you know it.’

She moved over to a chair that was on the opposite of the bed.

‘No need for that language, Jonathon.’

‘No need for a god damn chain on my leg neither.’

Doctor Quinzell then pulled out a note pad from her bag.

‘Now, How have you been Jonathon.’

He looked at her for a moment and put his own note pad to his side and looked her in the eye again.

‘Fine.’

Doctor Quinzell tapped her pen to her pad.

‘Well, you’ve been fine, the last 28 times we’ve meet up, most be an in house record.’

‘Don’t sass me child.’

‘Jonathon, if you want to leave the third floor your going to have to work with me here.’

Jonathon let out a sigh.

‘Fine...I’m feeling things again, so that’s something.’

‘What things?’

‘Sensations...my face...the air.... beating of my heart, the screams on the walls.’

‘That good, better then last time, how dose that make you feel.’

‘Cold mostly.’

‘Right, anything else.’

‘I have been sleeping better,’

‘Good, why do you think that is?’

‘The birds maybe?’

‘Ok, is there anything else you want to talk about.’

‘Like what.’

‘Like the incident that got you moved up here from the seconded floor, about three weeks ago.’

‘I’m not sorry and you can tell Jervis that I said so.’

‘So you remember what happened now.’

‘Kind of, I remember the screams and Bolton flying across the room but not much else.’

‘Well better then nothing, is there anything else you want to talk about.’

‘Not really, how about you?’

Doctor Qiunzell moved in her chair. Jonathon tapped his glasses.

‘You seem to be looking and forgive my me, rather brunt out as it were.’

Doctor Qiunzell bit her lip for a split second.

‘Now Jonathon, let us keep this about you,’

Jonathon put his hands together and leaned forward.

‘Very well, do you remember, back in the day when I was still teaching and you sat in the back row taking notes like a bat out of hell, you wrote down just about every word I said no matter how unimportant it was.’

‘Yes, ok, um why do you mention that,’

‘You see when you and I first started having are sessions, It seemed to me you kept that habit, but as of the last oh, year or so you seemed to have lost that habit. In fact you have not written a single thing down since you came in here.’

‘Things change and its just was not necessary anymore,’

‘Necessary, interesting that you use that word Doctor Quinzell, wouldn’t you say.’

‘I think, its more about understanding what information I do and don’t need.’

‘But you said necessary, a need is done out of purpose outside of our own judgement, when we feel something is or is not necessary it speaks more of our own personal biases, the fact you no longer see it to be necessary suggest you have had a shift in your priorities.’

‘And what might that be Professor Crane.’

‘Well, what do think, what have you been up to lately.’

‘Well, I have been working on more patients lately. And I think I’m losing track of then,’  

Doctor Crane then took the note pad from his side and opened it.

‘such as,’

‘I had Victor Freeze the other day and I just could not listen to anything he had to say, he talks about his wife his, feelings and all I could do is look at my watch the whole time.’

Doctor Crane took down a note.

‘I see, why do you think that is.’

‘I had my other patient to get to,’

‘Which one.’

‘Joker.’

Doctor Crane took another note and underlined it.

‘I see do you have this problem with him?’

‘No, if anything I go over time. That’s why I missed my session with Nygma, yesterday.’

‘Edwards back, huh,  good to know, Is there a reason why you are spending so much time with Joker as opposed to you other patients, Harley.’

Harley Stated to play with her hair taking it down from a bun,

‘He’s just so open with me you know.’

Doctor Crane tapped his glasses and took another note.

‘Open, open how?’

Harley played with her hair more patting it down and straightening it out the best she could but to no avail.

‘Oh I can’t tell you that, can’t break the rules’

Doctor Crane took down another note underlining it twice.

‘Hmm,very well, so you do have him on a new treatment though, don’t you Harley.’

Harley looked surprised.

‘How do you know that.’

‘I may not always be in the best of mind, but my ears work perfectly. I can hear the laugh through the walls’

‘Oh, I see that makes senses. silly me, oops ’

‘That’s ok, I there any improvement in any of them so far.’

‘No not really Professor Crane, and honestly I don’t think we should continue...but.’

‘But what? Harley.’

She took a deep breath and leaned back with a wishful sigh.

‘He has such a beautiful laugh and its the only thing that makes him smile right now.’

Doctor Crane kept quietly taking notes.

‘I see, well Harley...’

Footsteps where making there way down the hall.

‘I think it be best if you were on you way now,’

Harley straighten like she had just been sobered up.

‘Yes, your right Professor Crane.’

She then started to tie her hair up again. The footsteps came closer and Harley had grabbed all her things and made her way to the door, she waited a moment as she heard the footsteps walk past the door. She then pulled the door open and she opened it wide enough for herself to push herself out, as she went into the hallway she was meet with a man, she yelped.

‘Oh, Mr Bolton, you scared me.’

‘Sorry about that Doc, what are you doing up here this late?’

‘Just catching up with my patients, goodnight Mr Bolton.’

Harley tried to fix her hair as she went down the hall, rushing to the elevator. Bolton then waited for her to be out of sight before opening the heavy door again. Jonathon was still sitting on his bed making notes and Bolton slammed the door shut behind him.

‘I am very popular today aren’t I.’

Jonathon said without lifting his head.

‘What did you do to that Doctor Crane.’

Jonathon snapped his book shut and looked to Bolton eyes over his glasses.

‘I assure you it is strictly professional.’

‘Is that right. Well then I assure you from professional to another, This is going to hurt.’        

‘What are you going on about Bolton.’

Bolton looked at the chain that connected Jonathon to the wall.

‘No where to run Crane,’

‘No where to hide neither Bolton.’

Bolton moved closer to him slowly as he prepared his fists.

‘Let’s see if I can get the scarecrow to be afraid,’

‘How much time you got.’

‘All night.’

Jonathon looked at Bolton unfazed by his actions knowing what is to come.The Crows outside squawked as they flew in circles outside, one of which landed on the window.

‘I guess I can pencil you in.’

‘I’m going to make sure you never get the chance to throw me around again, your staying in lockup.’

‘Haroo,Hraa.’

The crows cried the courtyard was empty, the screams where loud but tonight the crows where louder.

[hongism]

Jungkook Imagine: Nightmare

another imagine coming at you guys~

i hope you all enjoy it! lemme know what you think of it, and i apologize in advance for any typos or grammatical errors as i did a speed-read error check

this is another request for my prompt challenge celebration thing so again i wanna thank you guys for supporting my blog and reading my works, it really means the world to me! i love you all 💜💜💜

Requested

anonymous asked:

     “2, 93, 95. With Jungkook. 💜”

Prompts:

     2: “Hey, hey, calm down. They can’t hurt you anymore.”

     93: “I’m telling you. I’m haunted.”

     95: “Have I mentioned, I fucking hate Halloween.”

Genre: Fluff, mild angst? (it’s barely there)

Jungkook Centered

Words: 1680

Warnings: language

Summary: Halloween is coming up, and you’re already superstitious enough about the holiday, but Jungkook always insists on watching a horror movie in preparation for it. You suffer through it because you care about it, but that night, you can’t get the nightmares out of your head.

“Ready for the Halloween tradition, Y/N?” Jungkook asks as he flops down next to you on the couch. You want to say no and convince him to put on something else, but his eager eyes and smile are things you cannot deny. He grins up at you, sprawled out on the majority of the couch while you are tucked against the armrest with his head nearly encroaching on your space.

“Yea, go ahead and play it.” You sigh, propping your elbow up on the couch armrest and hanging your fist under your chin. Out the corner of your eye, Jungkook wears a lopsided frown. Perhaps your disdain is showing a bit too clearly. You shift your expression into a tight-lipped smile. “We shouldn’t stay up too late because you still have to go back to the dorm, remember?”

“I know,” he insists, snatching the remote off the table before you. “You just seemed upset with me. Is everything okay?” You reach out and pat his thigh in efforts to console him. His frown persists though, and he makes no move to play the movie, so you know that it isn’t working as well as you hoped.

“I’m fine, Jungkook. It was a long day at school, so I’m a bit tired. Sorry…I don’t want that to mess with the time we get to spend together. Plus, I know you’re probably ten times more exhausted than I could ever be, so I shouldn’t complain—”

“No, it’s okay. I like it when you complain. Makes me feel like it’s a competition to get you feeling happy again.” Jungkook drops his head against your leg (the only part of you he can reach thanks to his position), and even though there is a blanket between him and your skin, you can feel the pressure of his comforting kiss there.

“Just having you here is enough for that. Now play the movie so you don’t have to go home in the middle of the night like last time!” With your insistence, Jungkook presses play on the remote and lets the horror movie begin its run. You wish you could fall asleep, so you don’t have to see any of it, but these kinds of movies always get your heart racing to a point where sleep is not feasible. In the very least, you’re glad that Jungkook isn’t facing you, because otherwise, he would be able to see you flinch at even the most obvious of jump scares or hide your face when anything remotely scary pops up on the screen.

He’s engrossed; eyes firmly planted on the screen, and lips parted a bit as his brows furrow in concentration. At no point during the movie does he flinch or show a sign of fear, while you’re struggling to even glance at the shadow in the corner of your living room.

When the nightmare finally ends, you breathe a huge sigh of relief.

“Wow…” Jungkook trails off, rolling onto his back. “I wasn’t expecting that ending. It was a good twist though, even if it got a bit cheesy at times. What’d you think?” His words go in one ear and out the other.

“Huh?” You can’t peel your eyes off that dark corner, and your antsy state is telling you that something is hiding there.

“What’d you think of the movie?” He repeats, glancing at you upside-down.

“Oh, it was good.”

“Liar,” he accuses, and you look down at him. “You didn’t like it, did you? I’m sorry, Y/N, I should’ve picked something you would like.”

“No, I was happy to watch it with you. Besides, it’s a tradition for you, and I wanna be able to share something like that with you. We don’t have any traditions yet.” Jungkook shakes his head. As he sits up, something clatters against the floor, and you nearly jump out of your skin. You both look around for the source of the noise, but your mind goes straight to the possibility of a serial killer in your kitchen. Immediately, your hand latches onto Jungkook’s shirt sleeve.

“Don’t worry, it was just the TV remote. It fell off the table. I must’ve put it on the edge or something.” Jungkook bends over and collects the remote, waving it in the air as he holds it up. “Or maybe it’s the ghost that follows me around. I’m telling you. I’m haunted.”

“Don’t say that, Jungkook,” you whine, eyes still stuck on the kitchen doorway.

“Aw, did the movie scare you?”

“No!”

“You sure?”

“I’m just not the toughest when it comes to horror movies.”

“Do you want me to stay over and keep you company? I can sleep on the couch if you don’t want me in your room.” Jungkook leans closer to you.

“No, no. You should get back to the dorm because of schedules tomorrow. I’ll be fine. I’m fine.” The logical part of your brain notices how it sounds like you are trying to convince yourself more than convincing Jungkook.

“If you’re sure…” He cocks his head to the side as he trails off, and the uncertainty resides in the air between you. “I’m always a call away. Don’t hesitate to call if you need me. For anything, Y/N. It can be the stupidest thing on the planet, and I’ll still talk to you or come over if you need me.” You nod a few times even though you don’t think you’ll take him up on the offer. Not because you don’t want to, but rather because you don’t want to rob him of precious hours of rest and relaxation when he needs it more than you need him at your side.

Jungkook leaves you with a chaste kiss planted on your lips, then another against your hair as he hugs you goodbye.

His absence leaves a gaping hole of silence in your apartment, your ears, your heart.

“Calm down,” you whisper to yourself as you turn on the kitchen lights. “It was just a movie. No need to be freaked out.”

You stand in the middle of the kitchen for the better part of ten minutes, not doing anything except stare at every inch of darkness in your sight. Still, your heart refuses to slow its erratic beating, and it’s that sound – the thick, almost muffled feeling of your heart beating in your ears – that ends the silence throughout your apartment. It isn’t enough to offer any comfort as you walk to your bedroom, making sure to leave the kitchen light on (even though you’ll regret it when you see your electrical bill, but your safety and mental security demands it at the moment).

“Ugh, I should’ve told Jungkook to skip out on the stupid tradition or make a different one. I could’ve just said, ‘oh hey babe, have I mentioned, I fucking hate Halloween.’ But no, I didn’t.” You huff as you enter your room, flicking the light switch before you’re through the door. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” You slap your palm to your forehead and sit on the middle of the bed, not daring to let any limbs dip off the edge of it. You know you’re eventually going to have to get up and turn off the lights so you can sleep, but right now, fear has you frozen in place.

Despite the level of light in the room, your eyes still track every hiding shadow in each nook and cranny just in case the light misses something. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. After a few minutes of this rhythm, you muster up the courage to turn on your bedside lamp and turn off the overhead light. A yellow haze falls over the room, seemingly warm and comforting, but you find no solace in it. Instead, you curl up under the sheets and hide most of your face with them. Facing away from the light, you let your eyes fall shut and hope that sleep takes you quickly and peacefully.

No such luck.

You have no clue how much time has passed, but you wake in a cold sweat, jolted forward by the dream that haunted you moments ago. Hands are trembling, breath so unsteady that you have to gasp for air as you grab your phone off the nightstand and dial the first number that comes to mind. It rings once, twice, three times, and you expect to hear the prompt for a voicemail next –

“Hello? Y/N? Did something happen? Are you alright?” Your exhale of relief sounds like a sob, which only causes further concern for Jungkook. “Y/N? I’ll come over right away if you need me. What happened?”

“I-I…there was a horr—Jungkook, it was the most terrifying nightmare I’ve ever had. These men killed you right before my eyes, then they started coming after me, and I kept running and running—”

“Hey, hey, calm down. They can’t hurt you anymore. Deep breaths. Listen to my voice. I’m right here. I’m perfectly fine, and more importantly, you are too. Inhale, exhale. Easy, deep breaths.” You follow Jungkook’s instruction, easing back against your pillows as you try to steady your heartrate and breathing. He continues to talk you through your breathing until you reach a normal state again. “Do you want me there? I can come right away.”

“No, no, I—no, Jungkook. That’s too much to ask,” you insist, shaking your head even though he cannot see you.

“It’s never too much,” he counters.

“If you could…” you trail off into a mumble, a bit embarrassed by your pending request.

“Anything, Y/N.”

“Maybe you could sing me to sleep? Or talk to me until I fall asleep?” You’re still muttering, but at least now it’s somewhat audible and Jungkook can understand what you’re saying.

“Of course, Y/N.” The lilt in his tone brings his smiling face to mind. “We can make that our tradition, and I’ll save horror movies for the hyungs. What do you wanna hear? Any special requests?” You laugh under your breath as exhaustion begins to strike.

“Anything…”

“You’re the sunlight that rose again in my life~”

written by: jungtaeyoongles

gif belongs to its original owner

lyrics are taken from the first line of ‘Euphoria’ by BTS