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gretavanmoon · 3 months ago

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an omnipresent force• ch 1

Chapter 1- DARK PHENOMENON

Jake x reader (we'll get there... I promise)

Words: 10.5k

A/N: Semi-AU// Set six years in the future, the world has decided to cast humankind aside, starting with the poisonous entities that are destroying her the most.

Warnings: Dystopian Horror Cursing, Smoking, Mention of Alcohol, Feelings of Fear and Uncertainty, An Apocalyptic World, Hunting, Violence (mention of firearms), Looting, Kidnapping, Wounds and Pain, Blood, Death & Dying, Burials, Lying, Deceit, Sadness

enjoy my dabbling in the sci-fi world

•

Cheatham County, Tennessee 2030

Y/N

It feels like only yesterday that I noticed that the hillside beside my garden seemed as if it had taken on a different shape, the sycamore tree perched at the foot of it tilted and stretching way lower than it normally did. I squinted in question at the sight, wondering if my eyes were playing tricks on me. The day was chilly and windy but the sun still shone, casting late-evening shadows across the garden ground. ‘Strange,’ I’d thought to myself as I realized. ‘A sinkhole?’

I stood from my knelt position, wiping my hands against one another as I cleared the dirt from them.

I wasn’t wrong, the ground was sunken and almost rutted, almost as if it had quietly shrunken itself down five or six feet sometime throughout the day. When my toes poked up to the edge of it, I backed away quickly, realizing that the ground could potentially give way again at any second, and take me right along with it. The wind had picked up as I skipped backward, putting as much distance as I could between it and me. A strange type of fear had taken over my body, one that I’d never felt before. ‘Sinkholes don’t happen here, do they? Don’t they normally occur in sea-level land, or near river beds where the bedrock is weakest?’

Hell, I didn’t know for sure. I’d never seen a sinkhole in real life before, nor had I ever really done much research on them. I made my way back inside as a light drizzle began to coat my face, letting the door slam behind me with the vacuum pull of the wind mixed with my open windows. I sat down at my kitchen table, pulling my phone from the charger as I searched up my grandfather’s contact.��

I pulled the phone to my ear and listened to the tone ring out, and his gruff voice greet me on the other end.

“Evening, youngin’! What are you wastin’ time with today?” he joked.

A smile cracked across my face. “Nothing, Papaw… was just cleaning up the dead weeds from the garden. Hey, I noticed something out in the yard, I think I have a sinkhole…”

I heard him inhale his cigarette smoke. “A sinkhole? How in god’s name…? You sure, youngin’?”

“I’m positive. Look, I’ll send you a picture.” I turned my phone and snapped a quick few photos out the kitchen window, showing the land he knew just as well as I did, and how it now sat very, very differently. “There. Should be coming through, now.”

I listened as he puffed his cigarette again and clicked around on the screen of his phone, still very uncomfortable with the thing, and why it was really necessary in his life. “Hell’s fire, you’re right. When’d you notice it?” he asked.

I sat back down in my kitchen chair, crossing one leg over the other as I peered up at the ceiling. “Just… Now…” My voice trailed off as I inspected the ceiling and wall in front of me, seeing that a giant crack had formed right along the load-bearing wall in the center of my small home. “Damn, Paps, there’s a crack in my wall, too…”

Suddenly, I felt panicked, standing up to run my hand along the fracture. It was big, almost a centimeter thick, all the way from the floor to the ceiling.

“You’re kiddin’ me. Go downstairs, go to the basement, see if there is a crack there…” he ordered, so I did. I kicked the old paint cans to the side as I rounded off the bottom step of my basement, trying to make sense of where the floor would line up with the walls above me. Sure enough, there it was, the old stone foundation that was holding up the footers of my little home had begun to collapse, sinking down into the ground right in the center of it all.

“Shit, it’s here, too. It’s bad, Paps, what do I do?!” I panicked, looking around for something as if I could prop it all back up.

“Get everything that you can, all your valuables, sis. Pack it all up and come here. Come stay with me and your Gran. Don’t be afraid, just be aware. I’ll call your Daddy and tell him what’s happened. Me and him and your brother will come out and assess it once’t this rain passes.”

I felt as though my chest was starting to heave, the sudden mind-bending fear that my whole home was going to cave in on itself and crush me now scaring me more than anything I’d felt in a long, long time. “Okay, okay I’ll be there soon. Thanks, Paps,” I said as I hung up the phone, making sure to snap another few quick photos before I dashed back up the stairs in search of my suitcase.

Little did I know that that would be the last time I would ever set foot in my tiny little cottage, the first home I ever had after I moved from my parents’ in Nashville after college. I’d bounced from apartment to apartment before I finally moved back out to the country to be near my grandparents. The cottage was tiny, and it wasn’t much, but it was mine. I’d stayed single for the majority of my life, never settling on any one man, finding flaws in damn near all of them that I brought home with me. I was 32 at the time, and settling down into a relationship or marriage was the absolute furthest thing from my mind. I’d cherished that home, filling it with antiques and spice racks and multicolored lace curtains… transforming it into the home I had always wanted while maintaining my steady work-from-home career.

I remember my head spinning like a top as I packed up my valuables… my laptop and my important paperwork, my toiletries that would last me a few days, along with a few practical outfits that would keep me warm with the changing season. Surely I didn’t need to pack for more than a few days, long enough for my dad and brother to come and see if they could fix the footer under my house and allow me to grab a few more things.

But I was so, so sadly mistaken.

I never got to set foot in my little cottage again. That home eventually got eaten up in what turned out to be the first sinkhole in Tennessee. Well, not the very first, obviously. But the first one that would spawn a series of many more across the state of Tennessee, and Kentucky, and all the way down into Alabama and into Mississippi.

That was so long ago, now, and the way of life I knew and loved changed forever that day, as the world as we knew it tilted itself on its axis, never to be the same again.

That day, that very day, the Earth had decided that she was going to rid herself of these heartless beings that someone had decided would inhabit her, stretching and breaking and destroying everything in her power to extinguish all of mankind and all that mankind had created in spite of her. The Earth didn’t need us anymore, and though we were all completely reliant on her, we had also created an invisible force of a blend of scientific knowledge and powerful mechanics that, inevitably, had drained her completely dry of her natural resources.

No one believed it was the end of days, there was no giant announcement that came across our radio waves and on our phone alert systems. There was no dark, biblical occurrence or seven plagues like those who believed in such things had predicted… it just… happened.

One day I was weeding my garden, and the next, I was coming to terms with the fact that I had no choice but to thrust myself into full on survival mode. Living with nothing more than what I had at that very moment, and watching as everything in my life dwindled down more quickly than anyone could even fathom.

Earthquakes shook the planet. The rivers all over the world had begun to overflow, the trees began to uproot themselves and fall like timber. Animals would be dead on the side of the roads, even animals that seemingly had absolutely nothing wrong with them. Birds, bears, wolves… lying and littering the hillsides as if they had just laid down to go to sleep.

Even the sun wasn’t the same. It just felt different. The normal heat that fell onto your skin seemed to sear it now instead of warm it. The wind, when it did blow, made a hissing noise as it’d pass by. The sinkholes continued, even some as big as lakes, swallowing up unsuspecting neighborhoods and taking everything with them in their wake.

In the weeks following that day, my father had forced my grandparents and I to come back to Nashville, given that there hadn’t been any disturbances in the land there, yet. So the three of us packed up what we needed, saying goodbye to the home that my grandparents had lived in since marriage, and loading everything into their old pickup truck. We made the short drive back home to my parents’ where they had prepared the guestroom and my old bedroom for our arrival.

My younger brother James still lived at home with them, still young but never having the want to move out and be on his own. He was eight years my junior, twenty-four years old and working on his master’s degree in engineering and technology. Truly, he was too smart for his own good. My parents had allowed him to live at home as he was a very quiet creature, devoting most of his life to his studies instead of being any type of social butterfly. He was strong, though, and never hesitated to be the one to come and pick me up after I’d had one too many drinks at the bar.

“Hey, sis. Sorry your house got swallowed up,” he’d said as he took me in his bear-hug embrace, patting the back of my head with his giant hand.

Though my body was reeling with fear of the unknown, James was the one to bring me back down to earth with his overwhelmingly warm embrace and matter-of-fact way of speaking. My only sibling, though much younger, always knew exactly what I needed, right when I needed it. “Thanks, pipsqueak. Kinda fuckin’ sucks, actually,” I’d replied with a defeated lilt. “Didn’t think I’d be living back at Mom and Dad’s during the apocalypse,” I joked.

I still remembered how his face had contorted hearing that word, still a shock to the system to hear it said out loud. It shocked me too, even as I said it. The two of us retreated to the living room as my parents assisted my grandparents in getting their room unpacked, which at the time seemed like nothing more than a menial task to mask the reality of what was happening around us. Menial actions to make the situation feel less threatening and more like something we could ignore.

“Is this shit really happening, Y/N? Like are we really going to have to–”

“Yes, James. You saw my house, you’ve heard the talks on the News… it’s happening. And it’s happening fast. Everywhere.” I was always a very straightforward person, getting right to the point of things instead of beating around the bush. I always thought it was a waste of time, ignoring the reality of things.

“Fuck,” he’d mumbled under his breath, his leg bouncing up and down as he hugged one of Mom’s old decorative pillows on his lap. My little James, always wearing his heart on his sleeve and possessing the inability to hide his emotions. Though his stature was monstrous, his personality never mirrored it.

My eyebrows furrowed as I pondered him, feeling that strange aura that only siblings share bouncing right off of him. “What is it, James? What’s wrong?” I’d asked, now really getting worried as I watched his eyes scan the room aimlessly.

He sniffed hard through his nose, scooting closer in the chair. He held his giant hands out to me, palms down, his knee still bouncing furiously. “What?!” I asked. “I’m confused… What is it?”

He swallowed and finally flipped his hands over, revealing to me something that I had never seen on him before. His palms and fingers were covered with some type of bruise-like rash, marks that resembled heavy birthmarks but a very deep purple as opposed to a light pink. “What happened? Did you burn yourself?” I’d asked, taking his wrists in my hands to observe him.

He shook his head. “No, they just… it just appeared a few days ago. It started out like weird bumps, then it’s turned to this. And it’s spreading, sis. I don’t–” his voice trailed off as my eyes met his, full of worry.

“Does it hurt?” I asked, not prepared to hear the truth.

“Yeah. It doesn’t feel good… I’ve been hiding it from Mom and Dad, I don’t want them to worry any more than they already are, ya know?”

I shook my head in agreement as I let my fingertips brush over the strange marks. “Anywhere else on your body?” I asked.

“No. Not yet, at least…”

“Care if I take a photo, just so we can try and look it up? I’d make you an appointment, I just don’t think…” I trailed off again as the same thought process flew through both of our heads. There won’t be any more going to the doctor.

“Yeah, sure, go ahead,” he muttered as he exhaled and I snapped the photo, my recent album now no longer full of my lavish boardwalk lunches and blurry nights out with friends, but instead screenshots of international news articles and how to tie paracord.

We’d holed up there with my parents for a month or so before our next greatest fear came crashing down over us. Suddenly, like a blackout in a storm, every piece of technology as we knew it ceased to do its job.

The big stuff went first– internet telecommunications and hubs… then went the cell phone towers and television broadcasts, little by little it all began to fail, thus cutting off communication between us and the rest of the world completely. There was no such thing as using your cell phone anymore, and those who still had landlines only were able to get them to work some of the time. Wind turbines, hydroelectrics, newer vehicles… all of it simply just stopped performing. Though the most intelligent scientists and blue-collar employees on earth tried as they might, nothing worked. Nothing held up. It was like all technology had forgotten its only purpose, the only reason it was created in the first place.

We knew things were bad when we caught word that the major hospitals had closed down and had already begun resorting to old medicine. A new sadness fell upon us as we realized that my grandma would no longer be able to just run out to the pharmacy for her medications, and the realization of that was almost harder to swallow than knowing that James’ hands were being eaten alive by something inside him.

But I would find them. I would venture out and get them for her, no matter what it would take. None of us had really bothered to leave the confines of our home, knowing that anything past our neighborhood was probably a warzone of greed and looting. Or worse, full of more sinkholes. We truly had no way of knowing, except for the quiet and quick conversations held with our trusted neighbors over the fence line. Everyone was simply terrified.

We’d already started to notice a strange amount of people walking the streets by my parents’ house; the normally calm and quiet neighborhood full of retired musicians and elementary school teachers was now teeming with sketchy foot traffic. My dad and grandfather wasted no time in resorting to armed protection, pulling out my dad’s arsenal of weaponry he kept locked away in the basement since my childhood. Never did he think he would actually think about using it.

The days were long, and the nights were even longer. Each day brought a new fear to us, a new way of questioning how we were going to survive, if we were going to survive. It was almost like we were sitting around waiting for someone to tell us what to do next. And when we expected to hear something from our government, all we got was silence. It was like they had left us all for dead, never once giving us even a sliver of advice.

There were days when my mother would have a complete mental breakdown, her fearful tears turning into full-on panic attacks that would leave her exhausted and still, my sweet father and grandfather by her side whether she needed them or not.

Next came the fall of electricity as a whole. The whole world, shrouded in darkness as panic fell upon everyone surrounding us. No longer did we have the simple luxury of being able to turn the lights on and off. Hot water had to be heated manually, and we learned to cook over a small campfire in the back yard.

One night, as the weather began to cool, the six of us gathered in our living room, cooking over a propane stove Papaw had thought about packing last minute. The wind was blowing a lot colder, now, but we managed to keep warm as the season began to change over into winter. Luckily, the almanac had said this was to be a mild winter, and we still had enough supplies to last us through, but my grandfather and I had noticed that it would be necessary to venture out for food, soon.

He and I were always on that same wavelength, speaking to and through one another and making decisions far ahead of time. We were both doers, and pretty smart ones, at that.

“We’ve got to go back,” I whispered to him after supper that evening as we did our best to clean the dishes. “You know that, right?”

His crows feet became more prominent as he winced at me. “I know we do. But the question is when? And how will we convince them that we need to retreat back to Cheatham?” It’d become obvious to me in the past week or so that it was time to go back out into the country to my grandparents’ home, away from the middle of the city where the dangers were creeping in around us at a quicker pace.

“There will be an argument, I’m sure. I know your mother won’t want to leave her home, and she will say that the city can give us more supplies than my farm could,” he whispered. What my grandfather and I both understood was that while that much was true, the supplies would only last so long before they’d be all gone, forcing us all to retreat anyway. Not to mention the stores have probably all been looted clean, by now.

“Dad and James and I will go into the city for last minute supplies. Gran’s medications and anything else we can get our hands on,” I decided as he dropped his dish, grabbing my wrist firmly in his, holding it steady.

“You’ll do no such thing, youngin’. I’ll go. You stay here, with your mother and grandmother.” His voice was stern, and though I was a full-grown adult, I knew better than to argue with my elders.

“But Paps, you’re… no spring chicken,” I said with a hint of warmth in my voice. One last attempt to make him stay, and let me go. He may have been old, but he was still stronger than any man I had encountered in the past few years.

“No matter. You’re stayin’ with them,” he said, picking up his dropped dish and rubbing the cloth over it again. Deep down, I knew it was because if it really was as dangerous as they said it was out there in the new public, he’d selflessly choose to put himself in the middle of it if it meant saving my life.

I sighed. “First we’ve got to convince them to leave.” And that was going to be the hardest part.

+++

The next morning, I awoke to the sound of my grandmother shrieking in pain. It woke all of us, actually. My family and I met in the hallway of the freezing cold home, all of us rushing to my grandparents’ bedroom to see what was happening.

We pushed the door open to find them both in the floor, my grandfather hunched over my grandmother’s body in the fetal position, her hands gripping at her chest.

“Dad, Dad what’s wrong with her?!” my father yelled as we all fell to the floor with them in a panic. “Is it another heart attack?!”

“No,” my sweet and timid grandmother was able to choke out. “My skin, it’s– it’s burning so–” just as her words stopped, her body lurched backward, her muscles tightening so rigidly that my grandfather had no choice but to catch her. Her hands still gripped at her chest, her fingers now scratching and ripping her pajama top off, the buttons flying all across the room. “It burns!” she cried.

My father and I crept closer, my brother helping my grandfather to hold her body. I ordered my mother to grab a flashlight, and when she returned, we shone the light on the area that my grandmother was grasping so tightly. And there on her chest, right below her breastbone, right where her heart was, was the exact same bruised rash that had overtaken the skin of my brother’s hands.

My eyes shot to him, both of us falling into pure panic as we simultaneously realized what we were seeing.

“Is it a heart attack, Jane, are you–”

“NO!” she cried. “My skin is on fire, right there, right here–” she pointed, and another look to my brother told me that the fire sensation was the exact same that he had been experiencing on his hands. Suddenly he shot up, rushing into the living room while the rest of us tried to console my grandmother in the pale darkness of the morning. He returned quickly with a cloth in his hands, soaking wet and sopped with water.

“Here, Gran. Let me… this will help,” he begged, kneeling beside her as he flattened the cloth over her rash. She yelped in pain again, her hands and legs growing stiff at the reaction as he forced the cloth to her. But after only just a few seconds, she relaxed, her once screwed-shut eyes finally opening to look at us.

A tiny cry of relief left her thinning lips as her muscles fell limp, obviously feeling somewhat free of the pain.

“James, how did you– How did you know that would help her?” my grandfather asked as we all stayed sat in the bedroom floor.

I watched as James swallowed, finally sitting up enough to bring his hands into the barely-there glow of the rising sun through the window. He slowly turned his giant palms upright, showing my family the wounds that he had been secretly hiding from them for some time, now. Except since he showed them to me last, they’d doubled in size. Exact same color, exact same shapes as the bruises on my grandmother’s chest.

“James, what on earth is that?” my mother cried, rushing to his side to hold his hands and inspect them more. “Why didn’t you tell us?!”

“Couldn’t worry you more, Mom, I just couldn’t add to the…” James shook his head, unable to finish.

“Do they hurt, son? Like Jane’s…?” my grandfather asked him.

James nodded, swallowing harshly. “Yeah, and they’re only getting worse.”

+++

A bit later that same morning, James found me in the hallway, bringing his face close to mine as he spoke quietly. “It was her pacemaker,” he mumbled.

His eyes avoided mine as they shot around, his words catching me off guard. “What?”

“Her pacemaker. In her heart,” he said. James had always been a man of few words, but right then was a time when I needed him to explain to me his thoughts in grave detail.

“Yes, James, but what do you mean? How do you know that?” I pressed, trying not to upset him.

“Think about it,” he said, grabbing my arm and twisting me away from earshot of the family. “My hands… All I’ve done my entire adult life is touch technology. Hold it, work with it… hell, I build computers, sis. I held my phone day in and day out. My laptop… My entire life was spent on them. And Gran, her pacemaker, right at the skin above her heart…”

His words didn’t make sense to me at first, and they honestly confused me even more for a few seconds, until he turned his hands over to me again. The rashes had begun to centralize over his fingertips, the places on his hands that made direct contact with the technology he worked with.

“James, you don’t think…?” I breathed, my heart suddenly falling. He maneuvered his hands to mimic holding a cell phone and how his fingers would hit the screen, the rashes sitting exactly where the phone would have touched his hands most. Then again, he moved them as if he was typing on a keyboard.

“Radioactivity?” I asked, still shocked and confused.

He shrugged. “I dunno, maybe. But, does it not kind of make sense?” he asked, leaving me unable to answer. “If I had to bet, I would say that Mom and Dad will be next.”

My heart had gone from swimming in my stomach to sitting in my throat, making my breathing chopped and anxious. My father had climbed cell phone towers and repaired them, and my mother was an x-ray technician.

“Fuck, James,” I said, crossing my arms. “It can’t be, what about me? Why haven’t I gotten any rashes, I’m around technology, too,” I argued.

He shrugged again. “Not really, though. Not as much as we are. Hell, Y/N, you spend more time in your garden and with a book in your hands than you do anything else. You lose your phone fifty times a day, you never even watch TV for Christ’s sake,” he blubbered, his voice also becoming pained.

I was left stunned, unable to disagree with him. But still, shouldn’t my parents and I be showing signs of the rash, if James’ suspicion was true? He pushed past me, grabbing his winter jacket from the hook on the wall as he carefully slipped his arms through the sleeves.

“We’re going into town. Stay here with Mom and Gran. We’ll be back tonight. Don’t come looking for us if we don’t make it back by dark,” James said.

“James, no! I will go! It’s too dangerous! Paps needs to stay here, plus your hands–”

“Fuck my hands, sis,” he growled, his face close to mine again as his jaw clenched. I could tell he was in pain. He rounded the corner and plucked his shotgun from its place against the wall. “We’ll be fine. Take care of them.”

JAKE

I’d never seen my twin look at me that way, before. We’d shared everything… every first, every win, loss, every new experience and every happy moment, we shared them all, together. Feeling the exact same emotions at the exact same time because our shared DNA told us that we had to. In our 33 years, I’d never seen his eyes so full of fear, so full of uncertainty that I was sure if I didn’t act, my chest was going to collapse.

And he’d only glanced at me for a second, maybe two.

We’d been preparing to wrap up the tour of our fifth album when the world shut down. Yeah, we’d all been through the whole Covid thing, but that was no match for this. A drop in the bucket compared to the entire earth as we know it ceasing to work alongside us anymore. It’d begun giving up on us, pushing us out as if it didn’t even know we inhabited it. Mother nature was fucking us, and there was nothing we could do about it.

Just those short ten-odd years ago, the four of us had gathered in that cabin out in the mountains to write what would come to be The Battle at Garden's Gate… running away from the infected world and hiding away from the virus to drown ourselves in our instruments and sound. The uncertainty was wild then, but now, fuck. This… this is something more wicked than any of us could have ever anticipated.

Josh’s eyes bored into mine, speaking a thousand words before he downcast them, then looked back onto the hands and arms of our sound engineer. Completely covered in purple bruises and blisters, his fingers swollen to the point that they looked like they may explode. He was the first one we saw with the rash.

We’d canceled the last half of our tour as shit went south, not like we’d have been able to do anything anyway, as all the technology falling to shit would have held us to strictly little acoustic sets. But we were stupid to even think about doing that. We were naive to think we could even go on. That anyone would even show up for the shows. There wasn’t even any point.

We’d heard the rumors about the rash, but we hadn’t seen one first-hand yet, until that day. It was the same day that our mother called and said our aunt and uncle’s home had been swallowed by one of the sinkholes. We were all terrified, no one even had any clue what to do. Where do we go? Back home? Do we stay together? Do we run?

I knew why Josh’s eyes were so cripplingly fearful that day. Not because of what was happening around us, not because of the bewilderment of being faced with a thousand situations at once, but because he was scared I would be next. I knew that, because after his eyes left mine, they shot directly to my hands.

Our sound engineer had only gotten on board with us less than a year ago, but he’d been in the business longer than any of us had been alive. Our hearts broke for him, as he explained his pain to us and how he wished he could stay along with us, helping to play around with our sound as we distracted ourselves from the world falling apart.

But we knew it was all for nothing. Things were only getting worse.

+++

“Tell me you don’t have any rashes. Tell me right the fuck now that none of you have anything on your hands…” Josh barked at Sam, Danny and I as we shut the van doors behind us, enclosing the four of us. We’d decided on doing the same thing we’d done a decade ago- retreating to the wilderness to write. Or, whatever the fuck. There was hardly any electricity… how I thought I could finalize anything without an electric guitar was beyond me. Shit was so fucked.

Sam and I glanced at one another from the two backseats, shaking our heads quickly as we both understood we’d be the ones most likely to show signs first, our instruments being ones with the most electricity pulsing through them. “No,” we both muttered, holding our hands up. “Nothing.”

“Good. Daniel?”

Danny mirrored our actions, holding his hands up after buckling his seatbelt. “No, I’m clean so far,” he said quietly from the passenger seat.

Josh put the old van in reverse, taking a deep breath as he backed from the space of the parking lot. Our decision to retreat like this was a quick one, none of us really knowing what the best route of action was. Everyone around us had dissipated, gone back to their homes and families, and apparently the outside world had truly begun to crumble. We’d been a little hidden away from it all, having just returned from a leg of touring in Greece where things hadn't hit too hard, yet. Things in the US were apparently much, much worse. And when we returned home, we found it to be absolutely true.

Luckily, our families had all decided to meet us there, and hunker down together as a unit. We were all we had left, at this point.

“The first sign of any of it, we tell each other. Got it? I don’t care if you think it’s nothing. If you see it, share it,” he commanded of us. We all nodded and agreed, knowing that if the rumors were true, the three of us would most likely be the ones to see it first thanks to our constant use of our instruments.

It was quiet in the van as we drove through the looted and abandoned city we once loved, people roaming the streets aimlessly as the pure confusion began to set in. There were no stop lights, no heavy traffic, hell, there weren't even any storefronts open. Luckily we’d filled up fuel tanks at one of the last remaining gas stations before the electricity had shut down, and hit the road running North, back home to Michigan to gather our families and go to Yankee Springs. Anything was better than nothing, and where better to be than away from the looting and rioting and hide in a secluded few cabins, able to fend for ourselves and worry about nothing more than taking care of one another.

+++

Naive, naive.

Little did we know that our rations would run out quickly. Little did we know that we’d quite literally have to live off the land. Fish for food. Mom had to re-teach herself to can. Dad and Sam caught fish and killed squirrels with his old BB gun.

There was no time to write. Fuck, there was no time to even play. We spent our time surviving. We’d had almost no contact with the outside world in almost a month. It was then that a few other families had gotten the same idea as us and joined us there, breaking into cabins and preparing winter camps.

We warmed ourselves with the fireplace, and we boiled our water to drink. We collected tools and stashed them away, and we hid every bit of food we brought deep in the basement of the cabin. Many nights were spent gathered around the fire talking and telling stories, trying our best to keep some type of normalcy about ourselves. But most nights we were all too exhausted to even care, crashing into our beds that we considered ourselves fortunate to still have.

I was scared. Of course I was scared. Things had happened so fast that three months felt like the blink of an eye. I hardly even kept up with what day it was. We'd gone from traveling the world and playing shows for thousands to hiding away in unmarked cabins in the woods, praying that we'd survive into the next day. I remember my mind being in a constant state of buzzing awareness, while at the same time feeling so numb and unable to grasp the fact that the world was ending that I could hardly see straight.

Ending? No, maybe not. I’d read enough books and was educated enough to know that the Earth goes through her changes. She doesn’t care for the fact that we’re here. She’s going to go through it whether we are here, or not. Her job isn’t to protect us. Her job is to stabilize herself through her ages, making sure she doesn’t implode from the inside out and return to stardust to join the other millions of stars of our universe as she’s simply unable to keep the life that lives on her, alive.

The Ice Age, the Pleistocene, Quarternary… all of it happened, and is happening. We’re just here to witness this one it as it does, and record it in history books.

“Holy fucking shit, man,” Danny exclaimed as we all had reclined on a hillside that night, passing around a bottle of Irish whisky. The wind was absolutely freezing, but luckily, we’d all become acclimated to it again. “Wait, are you saying… wait.” Danny sat up, his curls a mess as he’d long forgotten about his hair routine. “Josh, did you write…?”

I’d been drunkenly sharing my wise words and hypotheses about this supposed ‘end of the world’ with them all evening, accentuating my tales with my grandiose words to make them seem more intriguing. Just like I always did. Just to fit the bit.

“Did I write Age of Machine to go along with the literal historical changes that the earth makes? Yes, I did,” Josh replied matter-of-factly. “Though I wrote it to be inflicted by humans and not the Earth itself, but…”

“...Did you not know that, Daniel? Really?” Sam butted in with a slur.

Danny leaned back on his elbows. “I mean, yeah, I guess I kinda remember you explaining it as you wrote it, but god, that was ten years ago. And if I remember correctly, Sam and Jake were the ones that put in the work for that one because I had smoked a bit too much that night. But yeah, I guess I never really put two and two together…”

I smiled at Danny’s realization, and the fact that it took him nearly a decade to understand what Josh’s lyrics to that song had meant. And how eerily terrifying and ominous they were even still. I would have explained my hypotheses more in-depth had I known that Danny hadn’t ever put everything together.

A silence had fallen over us again as we watched the only constant in our lives these days– the moon gliding and rolling on her backdrop of stars. Without the filter of light pollution, every single one was visible, now.

“How did you know, Josh?” Danny finally whispered.

“How did I know what?” Josh replied, and I could tell there was a lump in his throat. He didn’t want to talk about this.

“That song… everything literally fucking happened, is happening… how did you…?”

“I didn’t, Daniel. Of course I didn’t fucking know this was going to happen,” Josh argued with venom in his voice. “Not in our lifetimes, at least.”

I heard Sam swallow hard. Finally, it was out on the table. The one thing we’d all been thinking, all too scared to bring it into the light. Except Danny, I guess. That damned haunting song we wrote ten years ago, somehow predicting the near future almost to a tee.

“Wait,” Danny rolled to his stomach to look at us. “This is insane… man, we… we wrote a song about this, about this exact shit happening… how in the fuck did we do that?”

Just then, a bright white and purple light lit up the dark night sky, a giant ball of exploding flashes so close it made us all jump to our feet in fear. It made no sound, of course, but the streaks of light burned bright as the sun for just a few seconds before fading away, the light burning down into blackness again.

“What the fuck was that?!” I yelled, looking to my brothers for confirmation.

“Satellite,” Sam said. “It exploded…”

We all stood for a few seconds and watched to see if anything else was going to happen, and I remember my heart was beating so hard that I swore everyone could hear it. There’s no time to fall into fear, Jake. Embers of burning metal fell into the atmosphere, floating in space to maybe one day hit the earth. A contraption created by man and thrust out into the universe to give us knowledge of things we couldn’t see, exploded and died right in front of our eyes.

Just then I watched as Danny lowered his head, turning toward Josh to shove the bottle into his hand. “God machine… really malfunctioned and blew, hm?”

Y/N

My mother’s rashes came next. Deep purple bruises and red blisters began covering her entire body, centralizing over her hands mostly, too. They ate away at her, sending her into an almost comatose state as her body shook and vibrated in pain. We tried to keep her in a cold bath, and it brought some relief, but the rashes spread so quickly that we were nearly unable to keep up with them. We found that basic Ibuprofen did help with their pain control, but as the rashes worsened, the drug was little help.

My father and grandfather and I were beginning to reach a point of helplessness as we were caring for my mother round the clock, my Gran and James doing whatever they could to help us, while still suffering with their own pain, too.

We talked to the neighbors, and they all had begun to experience the same thing. Some had even made contact with health care professionals in their families, all reporting the exact same things, with no care plan in sight. The government apparently was still silent about it all, causing riots in the streets and parades onto our public law buildings. People looking for answers, guidance. Anything to help us. There was no such thing as seeing police patrolling the streets anymore. No ambulance wails heard in the distance. Nothing. We were helpless. Confused, lost, and utterly at our wit’s end.

The day my mother finally succumbed to her rash was quite literally the worst day of my life. We all sat gathered in the bathroom, letting her body try and be soothed by the freezing cold water we’d submerged her in. We held her hands as gently as we could as she cried out in pain, my father nearly inconsolable as he crouched in the floor beside her.

“I’m so sorry, my love. I’m so sorry… If I could take this pain away from you, I would. I’d take it in a heartbeat,” he’d cried as his head fell onto the side of the tub.

I’d gone numb. I was unable to maintain and regulate my emotions as life had begun happening so fast. I cried into my pillow the day she finally passed, trying not to let my screams be heard by the rest of the family. I could do nothing. My father, my grandfather… none of us. The house sat silent for hours.

James had sat on the back porch steps as he was unable to grip a shovel handle, watching as Paps and I dug a hole in the frost-dusted ground of the back yard. None of us spoke. Hell, none of us really even breathed. Dad carried out the body of his beloved, his face straight and emotionless as he dropped her lifeless body into the cold ground. I tried not to think too much about the action I was performing, knowing if I did I would surely lose what little food I'd eaten the past few days.

The loss of my mother sat heavily on us as a few neighbors brought over what rations that they had barely been able to prepare, themselves. We allowed ourselves a few days to mourn her as the weather grew colder, and James’ rash spread to his arms.

It was a week later that James had become unable to care for himself any more, and a week after that that a rash appeared on my father’s chest and hands. Both of them, being eaten alive by the ravishing blisters, leaving my grandparents and I in a mental state so disconnected from reality that we were hardly surviving. No longer did we care for ourselves. No longer did we enjoy the simplicities that came with life. Round the clock care, constantly. Ice baths, unending doses of pain killers, preparing scrap meals, and trying to get them to eat and drink while they all were being blinded with pain.

Most of our neighbors had left. The street was nearly empty. Packs of wild dogs rummaged through homes that had been deserted, and what few people had stayed behind hid away in their homes in fear. Our plan of retreating back to the country had been put on the backburner when my Mother passed. And by some act of god, or maybe of sheer luck, my grandfather and I showed no signs of the rash, at all. My grandmother’s was spreading, of course, but at a much slower pace as everyone else’s, and her pain wasn’t nearly as horrific. James and I knew it was because she wasn’t exposed to technology, as much. His prediction had come true.

First we buried James, and then we buried my father. Right there in the backyard, next to the garden that was now a pile of old, dead weeds that we hadn’t bothered to clear from the soil as Autumn turned to Winter.

My grandfather cared for my grandmother as best he could, and I in turn cared for them both. Somehow, some way, I was able to compartmentalize it all, my brain going into overdrive as a trauma response, I guessed. I was the protector, now. The young and able one, stepping into the role of caretaker of my elderly grandparents. Truly, I had no other choice.

I packed up my hiking bag with everything that I could, and convinced my grandparents to do the same. Paps agreed, it was time to retreat. There wasn’t anything here for us, anymore.

There, we’d at least have a wood stove and firewood. Gran’s cellar full of canned vegetables, and a fenced-in yard with a barn where we could capture chickens and goats that were most likely still roaming the countryside of neighboring farms. Why we had ever agreed to come to the city in the first place was beyond me. Thought it would be easier, I guessed. Bigger house, close to the city and resources. Never did we think that things would get this bad. Never did we think that my grandparents’ homestead would have been the better option. But then again, never did we think we would lose three of our family in a matter of a month.

But now, as a cold and blistering wind blew across the shutters and creaked the house on its foundation, I made the executive decision to move my grandparents back to Cheatham County. Back to their farm, back to what they knew, in the house that they’d built.

At dawn that next morning, the three of us stashed as much as we could into my Paps’ old pickup truck, and filled the tank to the brim with the diesel fuel my dad had stowed away in the garage. We prayed that their house wasn’t eaten by a sinkhole, and we prayed that everything would be just as we had left it. The three of us bundled up and clambered into the bench seat of the truck, and I mentally prepared myself to see the city I once knew and loved in a state that was going to be no less than jarring.

I stuck the key into the ignition, hearing the old gears roaring to life. The sound was truly like music to my ears, a noise that none of us had heard in what felt like years. I pressed my foot to the gas pedal, revving the cold engine to come to life even more. We can do this… We can run away…

The sound of the engine ignited something deep in my chest, giving me an urge that I hadn’t felt in so long. It was the feeling of freeing myself, running away from all of the horrific scenes that my parent’s house had just been witness to. It was time to run.

“You ready for this?” I asked my Gran as my fingers sat on the gear shift, ready to thrust it into drive.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” she replied, her gaze downcast on the street ahead of us.

“Paps?” I asked.

“Hit the gas, sweetheart.”

He rolled the crank window down and let a cold gust of air fill the cab as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lighting one up as I pulled out onto the street, completely unknowing of what we were about to encounter. The smell of his smoke lit a new fire inside me, filling me with a newfound encouragement. And for the first time in months, I saw a glimmer of hope in my grandfather’s eyes.

JAKE

Josh hadn’t spoken to us in days. Only the necessary words needed to get us through the motions of preparing meals, cutting firewood, and the like. Danny had questioned him about it again, the same conversation that had happened a few nights ago, when we watched the satellite explode. Danny didn’t intend to piss him off or whatever, but he had just had time to sit and think back on it, and dig a little deeper into the caves of Josh’s mind while we wrote that damn record.

“This is the fucking New Age Crisis, isn’t it?! The one you wrote about?” Danny had said as mom cleaned up the dinner table one night. “You wrote about the fucking age of machine way back when we were writing Black Smoke, man!”

“Why in the fuck are you just putting all of this together, Daniel? Huh? Those words have been written for over a fucking decade, and you’re just now figuring all this out?!” Josh had retaliated, leaning his body across the table.

“No, I fucking knew it all, Josh! But don’t you think the fact that it’s kind of all coming true isn’t a little fucking weird?!” Danny replied, raising his voice. In the days since that first conversation, Danny had done nothing but appear to be in a constant state of thought. Deep thought. “It’s like you told the fucking future! And that’s just the tip of the iceberg!”

“God damnit Daniel,” Josh said as he shoved his chair under the table. “I’m not going on about this anymore, you don’t see anybody else caring about it.”

Danny looked my way. “Do you not think this is fucking weird, Jake? Seriously.”

I opened my mouth to speak, not wanting to further their argument. “I–I don’t think it’s that serious, I mean, there are similarities but…” I said calmly, running my nervous hand through my hair that hadn’t seen a wash in days. “Josh isn’t like, psychic or some shit…”

Danny slammed a fist onto the table, startling us all. “Why the fuck did you tell the video directors to make the whole Age of Machine video spin, hm? Did you want it to look like the viewer was being hypnotized? Just like you wrote about in Brave New World fucking years before? We fucking did what the literal lyrics said the other night, Josh. Outside, looking at the dark night sky and watching a satellite or a power of lies fucking die, just like you said. Kill fear. It all happened!”

“Daniel! Calm it the fuck down,” Sam said. “You’ve known this, we’ve all known this… he intertwines all his lyrics, he always has… why is this such news to you?”

Danny lurched himself to Sam’s face. “Because it’s coming fucking true Sam!” he spat, yelling in his best friend’s face. I raised my hand up between them, hoping to calm them before anything got out of hand. This was way out of character for Danny.

Danny stood quickly from his chair, shoving it backward as the rest of our families came storming into the dark, candle-lit room to see what all the fuss was about. “I’m not fucking stupid, Josh. I know you know what the hell is going on. And I want nothing to fucking do with it,” Danny grit his teeth as he spoke, pointing his finger into Josh’s face before turning and retreating up the stairs of the cabin.

“What in the hell is going on here?!” my mom asked, coming to Josh’s side.

“I’ll go talk to him,” Danny’s mom followed him up the stairs.

“I don’t think there’s any getting through to him,” I stopped her. I hadn’t said anything, but I wholeheartedly had picked up on Danny’s strange, obsessive behavior lately. “I think he’s…” I swallowed.

“He’s what, Jake?” she asked.

I slowly brought my finger to my temple, poking at it. “Getting in his head, a little,” I said gently. She gave me a sideways glare before her lips turned into a half-smile, and she finished rushing up the stairs.

Yeah, Josh hadn’t talked to any of us since then. And neither had Danny, really. He spent his days locked away in his room, practically freezing himself to death and ignoring all our knocks as he sat at his desk with a notepad and pen. It was so strange of him. Completely out of character and it honestly started to worry us.

One morning I woke and walked out onto the porch that faced the lake, looking out as a few random folks checked their fish nets and began their treks toward the woods to hunt. It had gotten significantly colder, and I could see my breath in the air. As I gazed out, something on the lake caught my eye.

It was Josh, out on the John boat, paddling further out around the bend of the water.

“Josh!” I yelled, signaling for him to turn around and come and pick me up. I needed to talk to him; Sam and I were going crazy without the two of them speaking to us. I bounded down the porch steps, rickety and soft from their old weathered age. “Josh!” I yelled again. Finally, I caught his ear. “Come here! Come get me!”

His shoulders dropped but he listened, paddling slowly back to the shore until the side of his boat tapped the grass. “What?” he asked.

“I wanna go too,” I said, kicking my leg around to step into the boat. The misty fog was just settling over the calm water as Josh huffed a breath.

“Why?” he asked as I made myself comfortable.

“Because, you won’t talk to me, and I don’t like it. Figured I gotta resort to forcing you,” I replied with a smirk. I could feel the tip of my nose getting cold.

Josh stayed silent but began paddling again, pushing us back out into the open water. We faced one another in the boat, my fingers interlaced as I watched him go stroke for stroke. Once we got to the middle of the water, he finally stopped, resting the paddle across his knees. I would wait for him to speak. No one could hear us out here. Just him and me.

“It was all based on a dream, you know,” he said solemnly, his eyes cast out across the water.

“What was?” I asked, already knowing the answer but wanting him to tell me more.

“All of that shit, all the stupid fucking lyrics. I had a dream when I was like, what, 15? A nightmare, actually. A bunch of them. It was like I had… built this world in my sleep-state, like once a month I would have another one that built on top of the last. I wrote them all down, as soon as I woke up. I’d go to these other worlds that felt real in my head, as I dreamed them. I created so much while I was asleep. And the fucking weed and booze didn’t help the matter,” he went on, using his hands to talk, now.

I was having trouble understanding. “...But, we all kinda helped write that stuff, Josh. Like, a lot of it…”

“Yeah but how do you think I was able to expand on that weird fucking world we built? You guys putting your two cents in, making me think so hard about it all, then going to sleep that night and having the most realistic dreams about it. Then waking up, and turning it into music,” he explained, biting his cheeks in as he gave me a devious smile. “Danny’s fucking right. All of it is happening. Maybe not really in the same context, or the same order, but. It’s happening. We’re watching it. I dreamed about the video we made for that fucking song. The setting, the context, all the weird props and shit…”

“The drugging?” I asked, remembering jumping from my skin as we filmed those scenes of saline being dropped into our eyes.

“Yeah. The fucking drugging. The big white building. The cots, us being held hostage there by someone… it’s exactly how it all happened in my dream. I made sure of it. And I’m fucking scared, Jake…” he said, leaning across the boat and pulling on the collar of my coat.

I looked into his eyes and swallowed. I knew why he was scared. If things kept going the way they were, the only thing that would come next would be an entity coming in and taking us… using us for some experimental bullshit like we’d had them do in the video.

“Starcatcher was a little bit of a break from the norm of my nightmare worlds… I tied it all in, but I really based it off of one of those side-story ideas that you and Sam got that one night. Cults and blind faith and all that shit,” he whispered, rocking the boat a little. “But this last album…”

This last album.

The one we didn’t even get to finish touring. We’d managed to fit one in right after Starcatcher had wrapped, continuing on with the world we’d built all those years ago. The world that I guess, now, came straight from Josh’s dreams. That one concentrated a little more heavily on love and romance and the freeing of oneself through intimacy, but this latest one, it was some of our darkest work, yet.

“Danny wasn’t kidding when he said that was only the tip of the iceberg. Shit got a little fucking dark with this last one, didn’t it?” he muttered, reminding me of all the lyrics we’d stayed up late writing just a couple of years ago.

Lies, deception, control, death… we really did get a little heavy with it. We wound lyrics into symbolism with governmental control and all that. We really tapped back in to lyrically beating around the bush. And unfortunately, things seemed to be moving right on par with life as we fucking knew it, right then.

“Yeah, it really did,” I agreed. “But listen, you don’t need to put that on yourself. Danny’s just… going through something I think. Getting in his mind too much. We’re isolated out here, Josh. Our lives just fucking stopped, now we’re out hunting to feed ourselves?! I think we all deserve to give ourselves a little grace right now, don’t you think?” I tried to reason with him as I felt my toes freezing in my boots.

He sat almost emotionless, staring at the water beside us as he tapped the oar in his hands. “I wish you could see into my mind,” he breathed, almost soundless. “My nightmares… Danny’s right." He sighed heavily. "It's only going to get worse."

"How the fuck do you know that, huh? How do you know that shit won't go back to completely normal tomorrow?" I pressed, trying to fight an unending battle.

Josh's face turned green. "Did you not hear me just now? I said I wished you could see into my mind...see those dreams that I had." His voice was raising, chopping up with enraged tears. "It's like I'm fucking watching it all come to life. Every bit of it."

He leaned in closer to me on the bench of the boat. "Remember those damned symbols we put on Garden's Gate? I'd stayed up late one night reading through old symbology books and finding runes and shit just because I thought they looked cool... I picked out the ones I thought might go along with what we had for the album. Hell, I didn't think it would ever end up like this..."

"Like what?!" I squealed, raising my hands into the air.

"I don't know, Jake. I swear, it feels like I knew this was going to happen before it ever even did. And that sounds crazy, but I swear on everything, I thought I was just writing about my nightmares. Using them as fuel for lyricism. Never did I think I'd watch it all play out in real time..."

My heart hurt for him. I could tell he was truly internally struggling. He looked like he hadn't slept or eaten in weeks. But this notion that he had seen all of this happen before? No. It made absolutely no sense.

"You can't feel responsible for this..." I muttered.

"No. I don't. But I do feel like I had a hand in perpetuating it. Like I could have stopped it or--"

"Stopped the fucking apocalypse? Yeah..."

He dropped his head into his hands. "Shit, this is all so fucked up."

I watched his shoulders rise and fall as he shuddered through deep breaths, trying to calm himself, trying to make sense of what was happening in his mind.

"So you know more?"

He lifted his head, his eyes swollen and dripping with tears that weren't there for sadness. He was terrified.

"Yeah. I know more."

+++

It was three nights later that all hell broke loose. I was awoken in the middle of the night to the sound of the front door crashing open, and loud, heavy footsteps barging across the hardwood floor. In my half-asleep state, I thought it was maybe Sam trudging back inside after a late-night smoke, knocking the snow off of his boots, but when my gut felt that feeling of uneasiness, I shot up from my bed. I threw my sweatpants and a sweatshirt on, shoving my door open to rush down the stairs of the cabin.

I was met with Josh already at my side as he had heard the commotion, too, and then we were met with the sound of my dad’s voice yelling and echoing off the wood walls.

My dad’s voice had always carried, and he tended to be a very lighthearted man, but we all knew the way his voice sounded when he was serious. Scared.

It was pitch black, but luckily I knew that cabin like the back of my hand, and Josh and I undoubtedly could navigate it even with our eyes closed. My shoulder was touching his as we finally hit the landing, my stomach churning with nerves to see what the hell was going on.

I was met with a scene that I was sure I had seen in a movie before– silhouettes of tall men in dark clothing, black masks covering their faces as the weapons they held illuminated the space with tiny red laser lights. One had his boot across my father’s chest as he lied on his back on the floor. My mom was shrieking, pushing against one of the men as they held her back from getting to my dad.

“What in the fuck is going on?! Who are you? Get the hell out of here!” I yelled as I pushed my way through in the darkness, tripping over chairs and rugs and Josh’s feet as I moved to shove myself into the man holding my father down. All I remember was chaos. Fists, yelling, darkness… my mind wanting to protect my family and Danny’s family but also wanting to protect myself. It felt as if there were six other people in the cabin with us. And looking back, I think my count was about right, though I could hardly see a thing.

I heard the sound of breaking glass, or maybe a plate or something as I caught a shadowed visual of Danny breaking a heavy ashtray across one of the men’s heads, but Danny was promptly thrown onto the floor, himself.

I felt the butt of a gun smack across the back of my head, knocking me forward to land in what I learned to be Sam’s arms, stumbling back as he caught my weight. It hurt, and I instantly felt a rush of blood to my skull and a metallic taste in my mouth. The red laser lights flitted around the room, only illuminating objects and people here and there. My vision was blurred and I felt like I could vomit; I saw quick flashes of Danny and my mom… Josh and Danny’s dad… But I couldn’t tell you a damn thing that happened from then on. The rush of confusion was blinding, my body on auto-pilot.

Some time thereafter, I woke up in the back of what felt like a truck, the walls high and metal around me. My arms were bound at my back, and my mouth was taped shut. I could hardly breathe, my head was pounding, and I could feel dried blood resting at the crook of my neck. The vehicle roared beneath me and I could hear the tires screeching around every turn.

Yes, definitely in a vehicle.

When I had finally gotten my wits about me again, I tried my best to look around and get my bearings, and all I saw were the painted black walls of the truck, and the rugged rusty metal of the bed of it below me. I was enclosed. I screamed from behind my taped lips, unable to make hardly a sound as my chest and lungs felt deprived of air. I looked, I searched- nothing. No one. I was by myself. My mind raced back to what had happened at the cabin, and my memory only gave me that same blurred chaos. Six men. Weapons. No words, violence.

And then, for the next hour, I was alone.

•

Tags: @gretavangroupie @britney-gvf @sacredstarcatcher @wetkleenex-gvf @farfromthehomelands @takenbythemadness @writingcold @builtbybrokenbells @ohgodthefeeling-gvf @fleet-of-fiction @milkgemini @gvfpal @ageofcj@dancingcarbon @highway-tuna @stardustjake @jakekiszkapunchmeintheface @gvfmarge @gracev0609 @myleftsock @literal-dead-leaf @peaceloveunitygvf @ageofbajabule @slut4lando @jordie-gvf @sadiechar @tinydancer40 @rosabellagvf @capnjaket @lyndz2names @thetroublegetssoloud71 @gretavanomens @spark-my-nature @josh-iamyour-mama @anythingforjtk @alwaysonthemend @danieljlmwagner @klarxtr @fortunatelytinybasement @demonrat444 @gretavansara @watchingover-hypegirl @hippievanfleet @digitalnomadz @raviolilegs @lipstickitty @hippievanfleet @klarxtr @strange-whorizons @do-it-jakey-baby @myownparadise96 @gvf-luna @starshine-wagner @cassiesgreta @joopsandjangs @whimsiliz @kiszkas-canvas @whimsiliz @joopsandjangs @broken0mens @scoreofinfantryvines @whereiskeara @do-it-jakey-baby @miravanfleet @heckingfrick @kiszka-canvas @whimsiliz @joopsandjangs @broken0mens @scoreofinfantryvines @whereiskeara @do-it-jakey-baby @miravanfleet @heckingfrick @jenniferkiszka

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farfromstrange · 6 months ago

Text

Carpe Noctem [Chapter One]

ONE: “All these spindly roots”

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Vampire!Matt Murdock x F!Nun!Reader

Chapter Warnings: Religious imagery & symbolism, mentions of rehab, crisis of faith, mentions of blood, the typical "animal attacks" aka vampire attacks, mentions of childhood trauma, stalker vibes at the end, Dead Dove Do Not Eat (the entire series)

Chapter Summary: You return to Clinton Church for the first time since Father Lantom saved your life, but what you first believed as an opportunity to start over reveals itself as a mountain of secrecy you have yet to uncover. Needless to say, your first week as a sister at Saint Agnes leaves you with more questions than answers, and an impending sense of darkness coming to get you.

Word Count: 6.8k

A/n: I finally got this done! I started with 3k words and it doubled in size. But I suppose it is enough to set the scene a little. We will certainly be diving deeper in a short while...

Read Me On AO3!

Sunlight streams through the colorful mosaic of stained glass. Red fades into magenta and violet, and blue fades into yellow. Innocence is a fleeting concept in this modern-day garden of Eden, and salvation remains merely a whispered promise.

Centuries rest on the shoulders of those hallowed walls; the knees of countless worshippers have left indentations on the wooden benches, too many to count, even, but a tragic beauty remains in the art of architecture that stands tall amidst worn-down brownstones in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen.

Catholics believe in the Devil. He preys on the innocent and makes them eat their souls like Eve bit the apple. He corrupts them, slowly, passionately, and intimately until they have nothing left. Then, and only then, does he take them by the hand, and he drags their lifeless bodies down to the fiery pits of hell.

You once danced with him. You met him, and you were charmed by him. You shared a bed with him. You loved him. But then the snake whispered about the forbidden fruit, and you had to taste it. You were already broken when he found you. You were shattered glass on white marble floors, bleeding wine into the cracks. The serpent didn’t have to try—you fell hard and fast for his blatant corruption. A silver tongue whispering the sweet promise of salvation to a broken soul, but you never saw the end of it.

Three years you spent surrounded by brick walls and sycamore trees. It was ironic, really. You, the least catholic person to have ever breathed, confined to the walls of a nunnery. For three years, you prayed your knees bloody, yet three years later, it still feels like you learned nothing at all.

You professed your first vows shortly after you returned to New York. It is a vivid memory. You thought you would never see the city again, not after everything the cold and dark streets put you through, but it was the only place willing to give you something to live for. To survive for.

The cold of the marble stairs before the altar will forever remain etched into your skin. Candlelight reflected in your eyes. When you lifted your gaze, you remember, you met the hollow eyes of Mary as she looked down on you. Like her inanimate features were suddenly overcome by a wave of shame for you. Her hands were clasped in prayer, as most of her statues are. A figure from thousands of retellings forever cast in stone. She was given no choice, but neither were you.

The church was alight with the wonders of early spring the day you took your first vows. Yet, when you met the dead eyes of the Virgin Mary, a shadow cast over her pale features like a widow’s dark veil. The sun disappeared behind a set of clouds with the promise of rain, and the kaleidoscope of colors from the stained glass faded into gray. The walls around you resembled more of an asylum, the priest before you reciting a Bible verse you still fail to remember even to this day. You weren’t listening. A voice was calling for you, and the darkness threatened to possess you with its magic.

The longer you stared at the statue, the more the stories set into the church’s window started to come to life. A window to the soul of Christianity: Mary and Jesus, and the apostles, and Judas betraying Jesus; God’s son dying on the cross for all of our sins before rising and ascending to heaven. Judas was greedy, or so they say. He gave up his friend for money, and in return, they both suffered.

The serpent that tempted Eve crawled out of the glass and toward you, the original sinner. Every story played like a bad movie before your eyes, coming at you inhumanly fast. The voice in the back of your mind kept getting louder, and louder and louder as it called your name.

Your sins hung above your head like a guillotine, the very fruits of your labor you had to bear far too young. A daughter, not a son. An inconvenience to those who bore you. You were forsaken from the start, you were told, and the day you took your first vows to become a child of God after being no one’s daughter for most of your life, the walls of the church seemed to know that even after hours of confessing all of your sins to the priest, no Hail Mary could ever take them away. They would always be there until the day you die. You could have done penance until your knees were bloody—you would always be a sinner in the eyes of the church.

You had the Devil inside you, they said. Because you let him inside. And he did not hesitate to steal your virtue from the source, forever tainting the well of your innocence.

“In the presence of God, the Blessed Virgin Mary, and all the saints, I humbly offer myself to His service,” you recited on those marble steps, but the shadow only continued to grow around you, wrapping its black wings around you. The fallen angel. Was it you or the Devil?

The people around you disappeared. You weren’t taking your vows that day; you were standing trial in front of God and all his disciples who came before you. You were taking a stand, and only the jury could decide if you were worthy of your title.

“I vow to embrace the holy virtues of chastity, poverty, and obedience, following in the footsteps of our Lord Jesus Christ and the teachings of the Holy Scriptures,” you said. “I promise to submit myself to the will of God and commit to live out these vows faithfully all the days of my life. Always.”

Amen.

You lay your broken soul bare, cuffing yourself to the congregation with unbreakable steel and throwing away the key. And there remained the voice, calling for you from the threshold to the darkness.

You thought you could ignore it. Until you returned to Hell’s Kitchen.

Until him.

Your heels drag over the stone floors of the seemingly endless hallway stretching through Clinton Church. The walls look different when you’re not running. When you can breathe without yearning for means of self-destruction that set fire to your lungs.

When you asked Father Lantom if you could come back to Clinton Church, he didn’t hesitate. You were unsure what it would be like. The last time you were here, the circumstances that led you into the arms of the empathetic priest were anything but conventional. The memories you have since tied to this place are a conflict between reaching your breaking point and begging for someone, anyone, to help you, and the overwhelming guilt that came with committing the worst of crimes, and a cardinal sin.

You were not a woman of God. You doubt you were a human being at all. If anything, you were a puppet.

Father Lantom said three years ago, “When you feel ready to take your first vows, come back. I will always have a room waiting for you.” And come back, you did—for he was the one who held your hand when you were falling into an abyss headed for certain death. When you were covered in blood and feared you would burn in hell, the past came back to haunt you with pitchforks and execute you at the stake for the entire town to see. He was there, and in that moment you knew you could not disappoint him. It was then you first started believing in the idea of God.

You gaze down at your habit. The tunic, the cincture, and the veil. You have never been more dressed up, yet you have never felt more naked in the eyes of another man. The fear of judgment for choosing a path you once thought you would only pick over your dead body is rooted so deeply within you that it nails you to an invisible cross.

“Three years,” the priest breaks the silence. You look over at him, walking beside you as he leads you around the hidden corners you’re not yet familiar with.

You nod. “Three years,” you repeat. “Doesn’t feel like that long ago.”

Sensing your conflict and the underlying insecurity that renders you speechless a lot of the time, Father Lantom clears his throat. “You look…better,” he says.

“Thank you, Father. My time at St. Anne’s was very… self-reflective. I learned a lot.”

“Good. I’m proud of you.”

Your wide eyes snap back up at him. Oh.

Pride is not the word you would have used. Proud of you, he said. He sent you away to cleanse your soul, and most days you are not sure if it even worked, but he is proud of you. The man who only knows the worst version of you looked at you and saw good instead of evil. It is a concept that had once been so foreign to you.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“For what?” he asks.

“This. Everything.” You shrug. “I wasn’t sure if you still wanted me here, so hearing you say that…it means a lot to me.”

“I promised you would always have a room here if you chose to come back.”

There is so much sincerity in his voice. In his eyes. You swallow thickly, feeling the tears burn behind your eyes. You don’t want to cry in front of him, but the words die miserably on your tongue. Instead, you nod. You just hope your eyes manage to convey what you want to say.

The priest leads you to a door that connects the church with the grounds of the orphanage next door. “You will be living with the other sisters at Saint Agnes,” he tells you. The change of subject is welcome. “After we had to close our convent because Tony Stark could not be bothered to fund our restoration, all postulants who have since wanted to join our order were sent to study at St. Anne’s. Like you. But most of them stayed there,” his tone changes slightly into hurting. “They offer a lot more than we can. Donations can only get us so far, and we barely get those anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” you cut in.

He sighs, waving your concern off with the flick of his wrist. “We make due, and now that you’re here… well, the sisters are going to appreciate the extra help.” Father Lantom puts on another smile like you would put on your veil. “We don’t have any separate living quarters, unfortunately,” he states, “so your room is a floor above the children’s dormitories. Sister Grace offered to show you around.”

“Sister Grace?”

“She’s the one in charge.”

Your eyes flick back to the walls you’re passing. Intricate details are carved into the stone even here, far away from the chapel. These hand-made masterpieces breathe a certain eeriness into the church. Not just life but a certain wave of mystique because even the stories from the bible are left open for interpretation, especially when they are turned into art.

A sense of doom falls over you like a dark cloud. “Does she know?” you ask.

Father Lantom raises his eyebrows. He studies your features. Your chin tipped toward the ceiling, observing. He notices the gentle shift in your breathing pattern as your heartbeat speeds up, and when you meet his eyes again after an agonizing bout of silence, he smiles at you once again.

“Sister Grace?” he inquires. You nod. “Well,” he says, “She does know. She’s the abbess. I had to let her in when I told her you were coming here, but I assure you, she swore to the utmost discretion.”

You breathe out. The weight rests heavily on your chest. “And everyone else?” You turn back to him.

The Father shakes his head. His eyes are so gentle. “It’s not my story to tell,” he says. “If there’s one thing I learned after years of talking to people—taking their confessions, listening to their fears, their anger, and their pain—it’s that we all suffer. We all have things we’d rather not talk about.”

The words penetrate your heart like a sharp dagger.

“And as humans, we tend to often see our burdens as sins, even if those apparent sins hurt us, or we had to commit them to protect ourselves from getting hurt. And sometimes, hurt people do stupid things. Objectively stupid, that is. It doesn’t mean we are going to hell for doing what it takes to survive. People suffer, and most of the time, that suffering doesn’t stop. That’s the truth,” he says. “Now, a lot of these people come to confession because they think it will give them a clear conscience, which it does, momentarily. They believe that God will make the pain go away with the snap of his omniscient fingers. A few Hail Marys, a few extra hours at Sunday mass, and your burdens will be dealt with. That is not the truth. Confession is not therapy because penance does not heal decades of trauma. If that were how it works, we would collapse from overcrowding.”

Father Lantom breaks off with a chuckle, but you can’t find amusement in his wisest insight. It’s real, too real. You can’t even muster a pity smile.

“Why do we do it then?” you ask.

“Do you want the Catholic answer or my personal opinion?”

“If those don’t intersect, I’ll choose the latter. Please.”

He takes a moment. “Well, confession works as a tool,” he explains then. “God knows the difference between an actual sin and human nature. Sometimes, these two are the same, but a lot of the time, there is a big difference, and He knows that. Confession helps regain balance where you’re standing with your faith. That’s why we do it. Because faith… faith can be a strong motivator. That’s why a lot of us—sisters, priests, and… and monks—are here now. Because we found a passion and a purpose in devoting ourselves to God. It’s not for everyone, of course, but it is a clean slate if you want it to be. Whether you tell the other sisters about why you chose this path, is up to you. Not me. Because that trauma is yours, and yours alone.”

The silence stretches between you, long, longer, as the church holds its breath. You absorb every word and every breath of his like a sponge. You swallow them. A bitter pill, that’s what it is. It goes down like hard liquor.

You walk a few more steps in that silence with his eyes on you and the world on fire within. “Father,” you whisper. The sound is not more than that. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he says. And this time, you smile at him.

Behind the door that leads to the orphanage, another hallway awaits. The walls smell faintly of moss—nature but a bit rotten. A woman in a similar habit makes her way toward the two of you from the end of the hall. She carries herself with a quiet air of authority. You can’t look through her.

Father Lantom may have vouched for Sister Grace and her discretion, but her judgment is not his to determine. She is her own woman, with thoughts only she can determine. You’re not sure if you are ready for that, either.

He greets her with a smile. “Sister Grace,” he says.

“Father. Good morning,” at him, she smiles.

He nudges you forward. “I have someone I want you to meet.”

Her gaze shifts to you then. “The uniform is unmistakable.” She nods. “Welcome, Sister.”

It’s a start, a small step towards finding your place within these hallowed walls.

“Thank you, Sister,” you reply. “It’s nice meeting you.”

“Likewise. Though it’s been a while since we had someone new here. So young, too.”

“I know. Father Lantom mentioned. I’ll try my hardest not to disappoint you.”

She nods. “Let’s get you settled into your room first before we worry about that. I believe Father Lantom has mass to prepare.”

Father Lantom gives you a reassuring nod. “I’ll leave you in Sister Grace’s capable hands. And remember, you are not alone. If you need help with anything, don’t hesitate to come and find me.” With that, he turns and makes his way back through the door you came from, leaving you with your fellow sister and a lump in your throat.

She leads you down the corridor. “This way,” she says. “Your room is above the children’s dormitories. Second floor. You’ll find it quiet enough for reflection but close enough to be of help when needed.”

Her tone suggests that you will be plenty busy, no matter where your room is in the building. More work means less time to think, and less time with your thoughts sounds like a blessing.

As you follow her, the faint sounds of children playing filter through the walls. It’s a comforting contrast to the silence you’ve grown accustomed to.

Sister Grace opens a door to a narrow staircase, and you both begin to climb. “The other sisters will be eager to meet you,” she says over her shoulder.

You nod, even though she can’t see you. “I am, too,” you answer.

At the top of the stairs, she leads you down another hallway, then finally stops at a simple wooden door. “This one...will be your room.” She pushes it open to reveal the small space behind, connected to a window with a clear view of the adjacent cemetery. “I admit, it is a little scarce,” Sister Grace says, “but you are more than welcome to add a few personal touches; pictures, curtains, maybe even a plant or two. Don’t worry, Father Lantom encourages it.”

The wooden floorboards creak beneath your weight as you step inside. You look around. A single bed, neatly made with crisp white linens and a worse-for-wear mattress occupies one corner of the room, a crucifix nailed above the headrest, and casting a faint shadow on the aged plaster walls. On the other side, a desk and a wardrobe offer some storage space that leads to a second door—the bathroom. It is scarce, but you came here with nothing but a cardboard box filled with your hopes and dreams and books and diaries; people have built homes from less.

“Our shared kitchen is downstairs. Feel free to store your food in the fridge, but don’t forget to label the containers if you don’t wish to share.” Sister Grace pauses, chuckling softly as her hazel eyes meet yours. “You wouldn’t believe it, but even nuns can be picky eaters, and very territorial about snacks.”

You smile, but your attempt at kindness falls into artificiality. “Thank you.”

“Nonsense. We look after each other around here.”

There has to be more to it, surely. Innocent may be a construct, but most of the sisters in the community were born into their faith. They started studying from a young age, always destined to dedicate themselves to the cause. You were far from religious before destiny found you dying in the flames of your old life. Whether destiny or a curse befell you that night remains open for interpretation. You have seen it both ways. An opportunity arose. You received a second chance from a very nice man, but the price to pay was your soul sacrificed to a God you once thought you would never believe in.

Do you have faith or do you not? It is a loaded question. You think you do. You want to know you do too, but you are never fully certain. In the eyes of God, you are a loyal soldier who studied the scriptures and did her due diligence praying for penance, but when you look in the mirror, all you see is Judas.

A heavy breath ripples through you. “You didn’t have to let me in,” you whisper. “Father Lantom didn’t have to offer me refuge, but he did. And you’re not judging me even though you have all right to… I just don’t understand.”

Her answer is a shrug. “When you were desperate,” says the sister, “God led you to us, and you found refuge at the church like so many before you. I don’t believe that was a coincidence.”

You were covered in blood when you came—your hands stained with the essence of another man’s life, clothes torn beyond recognition. You can still feel his hands on you, wandering, lurking… The crimson had seeped into the fine lines of your palms. It took you days to get rid of it, and weeks more to scrub the last remains from under your fingernails down the drain.

You grapple with their decision. “I, uh… I wasn’t sure. At St. Anne’s, they treated me like an outsider. Because I didn’t grow up Catholic, and—”

“And you found your faith in rehab?” Sister Grace smiles knowingly. “Trust me, it happens so often that it no longer comes as a surprise.”

“But there is still judgment. There will always be judgment,” you insist.

She takes your words into account, nodding. They digest for a brief moment until she breaks into a soft chuckle—a mere breath from her full-moon lips.

“A small piece of advice, if I may?” she asks. You hum. “If you spend all your time here questioning whether God has forgiven you for your sins, your lack of faith in the Lord, as tiny as it may be, will always stand between you and taking your final vow. And if you keep worrying about the judgment of anyone other than God, you won’t find happiness.”

You vowed to dedicate your life to religious service, and if you don’t close the last period of your study after taking temporary three vows with a solemn declaration to give up even the last of your possessions then the gap between you and God will be too big for you to ever be anything but a simple sister of the congregation.

But is that what you want? To close that gap and give yourself fully to a higher power? It would be a live sacrifice, you knew that from the start.

You believe in God and the Devil, and you believe in eternal damnation. And you believe that you are damned, too. Doomed, forsaken, and cursed. A scratched record. God’s wrath is not a match for the fear you instill in yourself; your mere existence is maddening.

You are drowning in a darkness you were born with, and possessed by demons you never learned how to exorcize. Not even studying a newfound faith in God to get on the right path could get rid of the monsters that are not lurking under your bed or in the shadows but in the dark corners of your mind.

The beast inside of you has gone to sleep, but God knows that he is a ticking time bomb, even in a comatose state. The Devil has planted his seed—all these spindly roots growing from your soul to the pit of your stomach, digging their claws into your fragile heart and tearing you to shreds. The protective poison ivy you grew over the years can only last so long without water before it starts to wither.

You look over your shoulder when the door shuts gently behind Sister Grace as she leaves you be.

The cardboard box on your desk holds an abundance of scriptures, books, and leather-bound diaries. Your diaries. They told you that writing your feelings on paper would help you heal. If you crave something you know you should and cannot have, you should write it down; you have been for years now, but with every pen wasted and every diary hidden in compartments around your room so no one can find them, the words you write turn into firewood, and your tears are the gasoline.

Outside, the wind brushes through the trees. It beckons you, its tendrils creeping into your consciousness like creatures of the night reaching for the last flickers of light.

With a heavy heart, you flip open the worn-down leather. Seconds turn into minutes turn into hours turn into days. Knees turn bloody from praying, and the joy of one child’s happiness dies at the hands of another’s trauma.

Dear Diary,

Yesterday, the groundskeeper dug another hole in the cemetery. Father Lantom will officiate the funeral on Sunday. Another addition to the bones and rotting corpses hiding under a shield of dirt, but does anyone know what happens after?

I tried to ask the Father, but he didn’t give me a satisfying answer. He told me what he thought I wanted to hear, but I did not. I can’t help but wonder if he is protecting me or keeping secrets. The latter would be highly unethical, I suppose.

Other than maintaining a religious belief in heaven or hell or rebirth while we are alive, what does happen to us after we die? Is it definite? Is it infinite or is there something else, something... more?

Is it the Devil? Is it God? Or is it heaven and hell?

And why do they keep digging holes in the cemetery? The children keep asking me every day, but I do not know how to answer them.

Dear Diary, where do we go when it is all over?

The clinking of porcelain and cutlery emerges from the kitchen like a mushroom cloud. As you approach the dining room through a long hallway, the soft soles of your vinyl shoes barely make a sound. The voices inside overlap, but a few rise from the masses, demanding your attention. Like a moth to a flame, you fly toward it.

“…and they found another one this morning. Washed up on the river banks after the storm last night,” one of the sisters whispers to another.

“It’s been fifteen this month alone,” another one says.

“What kind of animal does that?” a third cuts in.

“The kind that isn’t an animal,” says the nun you now recognize as Sister Marjorie, the oldest of the bunch. “It happens every two months for twenty years that bodies wash up on the shore, supposedly mauled by a bear or a baboon in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen, and then the city grows quiet again. I’ve been here for forty-five years, and it still happens like clockwork.”

The one next to her sighs. “Well, maybe it’s the changing climate. Lord knows it has humans and animals going crazy alike.”

“Can’t you see?” Marjorie raises her voice. “These aren’t the actions of an animal. It’s the Devil!”

It seems as though the mere thought puts the fear of God in them—your fellow sisters, usually so strong and collected, reduced to whispers of the rumor mill as the color fades from their skin.

Sister Grace clicks her tongue, interrupting them all at once. “That’s enough,” she says, trying to remain calm but there is still a sense of urgency in her voice. It’s not an exclamation but a well-concealed warning. Behind that façade hides a leader you would not want to cross twice.

Only one of Sister Marjorie’s eyes finds you standing there, eavesdropping like a misbehaving child. The other remains unmoving, caged in by a white scar across her cheek and an iris made of glass.

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Animal attacks?” you dare to ask.

Heads snap toward you. The table falls speechless, compelled into a sudden silence by your presence. The world stops turning.

“Oh, dear, don’t you worry about that,” Sister Grace, the first to find her voice again, reassures you. She ushers you from the doorway to the table, but the eyes of your fellow sisters suddenly feel like tiny needles all over your skin. “It’s just idle gossip,” she says, shooting the others a glare, “nothing for you to concern yourself with.”

But the silence starts to wrap around your neck like a noose regardless. Curiosity is only appreciated when they can answer it, you have learned. In the eyes of God, lying is a sin, and you spend each day teaching the children to believe the same, but is omitting not essentially the same as lying?

They’re scared. They don’t want to admit it; no one does. Fear does not fit under the veil of ignorance, so they try concealing it as idle gossip. The rumor mill is always spinning, and it is an outstanding excuse, but you will never forget the look in Marjorie’s eyes when you dared to ask—dared to question.

A thud from outside causes you to sit upright in your bed later that evening. The springs that are digging into your lower back creak when you move so suddenly.

Through the window, you can see the cemetery hulled into a fog where cold and warm air meet for the night. You put the children to bed, got them dressed in their pajamas, brushed their teeth, and told the little ones a bedtime story. They like it when you do it. Something about the way you tell them fascinates their little minds, so it has become a ritual in the week you have been here.

The more it strikes you as odd that there is noise outside. After bedtime, no one is supposed to be out and about, and if a sister has something to do out of schedule, they have to share it with the group. For safeguarding reasons, they told you.

Against your better judgment, you roll out of bed and into your slippers, wrapping a cardigan around your body. Your nightgown is not the warmest thing to wear on these cold walls unless it is under a thick wool blanket.

The door creaks when you open it. Father Lantom gave you a flashlight a few nights ago because he asked you to take care of something on the church grounds for him after the sun had set, so you kept it. You weren’t sure if you would still need it. Thankfully, you did.

You follow the noise to the back door one floor below. It leads out into the backyard, and a few more feet east, a fence and a gate separate the many acres of the cemetery from the rest of the church’s grounds.

The flashlight illuminates the path before you. “If it’s another stupid raccoon, I swear…” you mutter to yourself. It wouldn’t be the first time one of those critters found their way into the trashcans and caused mayhem in the middle of the night.

Somehow though, it always seems to be you who catches them. The night-owl. The one who is always on guard, always on edge, even when she knows she is safe.

You wander through the backyard, closer to the fence. You tilt your head. There is a small gap in the gate to the cemetery. The fog makes it harder to see.

“Hello?” you call out into the darkness. Nothing.

Through the rustling of leaves and the howling of an owl in the woods far beyond Saint Agnes, a small whimper breaks the silence like a hot knife. It is faint, but unmistakable nonetheless.

You strain your ears. “Oh no,” once again, you curse to yourself. “No, no, no…”

You follow the sound through the gate and into the cemetery. June Montgomery and her husband share a grave. They died over twenty years ago, but it is still well-maintained by their children and grandchildren. A few steps further though, the infestation of poison ivy begins.

The graves under the gigantic cherry tree are the most hidden, and the best hiding spots. You had to tell the children many times that the cemetery is not a hiding place, especially not for games, and never alone, even when the gates are open. The general public has access to it during the day, and if they wander too far, they will land on a populated street. It’s dangerous.

You were so careful. You did everything by the book, and someone still managed to sneak out.

Your heart pounds in your chest, the wet grass soaking your thin slippers until you come upon a small figure huddled behind one of the bewildered gravestones. Sara Mayfield; she died in 1945. Your sigh resembles a cry of relief.

“Timmy!” you exclaim. “Thank God!”

He’s curled up into a ball behind the headstone. Tears stream down his cheeks in bottomless rivers. Your flashlight blinds him, and his whimpers escalate to sobs. Your heart shatters at the sight.

“Hey there, it's okay,” you try to soothe him, crouching beside his tiny figure. “It's just me. Hi. What are you doing out here all alone?” You shed your cardigan, wrapping it around his shoulders. “It’s the middle of the night, sweetheart.”

From what you’ve learned about Timmy, his parents died in a freakish car accident about a year ago. He was in the car when his father fell asleep at the wheel and drove the car into a tree. His mother died instantaneously, but his father bled out right in front of him. He has been receiving therapy ever since he came to Saint Agnes, but he is a troubled child.

Timmy sniffles, accepting the makeshift blanket. He recognizes you, which is a good sign. “I had a nightmare,” he confesses. “I-I wanted to see the stars, but then I heard a crash, and I got scared.”

You wrap your arms around him. “It’s okay to be scared,” you say. “But you shouldn’t wander off by yourself, especially at night. You should have come to me, or Sister Grace.”

“I’m sorry, Sister.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m just glad nothing happened to you.”

His skin is clammy and cold. You don’t know how long he has been out here, but he is also in no state to be questioned.

“Come on,” you say and lift him into your arms. “Let’s get you back inside.”

Together, you make your way back towards the orphanage. But as you approach the gate, there it is again, that voice. Whispers of nothing in the chilly breeze. The air crackles with a certain, sinister something. A chill runs down your spine, and the back of your skull starts to burn as though someone is watching you. Listening. Lurking. And it is not a raccoon this time.

You set Timmy down on his feet. He whimpers again. “Go to your room. I’ll be right there,” you tell him.

He looks up at you with his innocent blue eyes. “Promise?” he asks.

“Yes. Promise.”

The boy lets go of your hand, quickly sneaking back inside. He knows better than to make any more noise. Any other sister would have threatened consequences. But he’s just a traumatized little boy, and the night is dangerous. It’s creepy. Of course, it would only add to childish fear and trauma that has had time to manifest for an entire year.

You turn around when he is safely inside, pointing your flashlight in the direction where you came from.

You scan the blanket of fog for any sign of movement. And that’s when you see it—a shadowy, obscured figure standing amidst the graves by the woods, behind the cherry tree.

Your breath catches in your throat, the whispers echoing in your mind once more. It could not be your name. It’s something else. Latin, perhaps. What terrifies you most though is that you're not scared; you feel strangely drawn to the figure.

You hold your breath. The figure tilts its head, and you do the same. Your heartbeat remains eerily steady throughout. You should scream. You should alert everyone that there is something—someone—out there, but they would call you crazy, surely. And maybe you are. No sane person hears voices and sees the darkness as a comforting presence. Not a nun. Not someone who is not supposed to let the Devil win. And what other explanation is there but for the figure to be a phantom of the Devil's making?

In the blink of an eye, the figure is gone. The hold on your lungs eases, and you gasp for air like a desperate woman.

Instinctively, you turn to the door and usher inside. Timmy is still standing there. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

You shake your head, trying to clear your mind. “Nothing,” you say, but when you lock the door to make sure no one can get in or out, your hands shake. A single drop of sweat runs down your temple. “Come on.”

Inside, you’re freezing. Like a cold hand touched you and set you on fire, but it had claws that let the ice age into your heart, and now you’re poisoned.

Taking Timmy back to his room, you can’t shake the feeling of unease that gnaws at your insides like a hungry beast. You tuck him in; you check under his bed for monsters, and you lock the windows. It takes a while for him to settle back into sleep, but when he finally does, you leave his room on your tiptoes and close it.

The other children are all peacefully asleep, and your fellow sisters seem to not have noticed the commotion you caused on your way in. Every door is locked—you check twice. Still, when you get to your room, your hands tremble once again when you use the key for the fragile lock for the first time.

Fear is not what compels you. Uneasiness, maybe, but not fear. The venom in your veins stems from something else entirely. You can’t explain it. The feeling is familiar somehow, but so foreign at the same time.

You clutch the rosary from the nightstand over your diary, facing the fog you yearn for so desperately. “Foolish, foolish idiot,” you mutter.

Dear Diary,

Did I force myself upon God out of… of guilt? Or was it a sign that He led me to Clinton Church that night? I thought penance would wash away my sins, that by dedicating myself to Him, I could erase the past. You know, like magic. But I was so wrong. Father Lantom… He told me that’s not how it works, and Sister Grace… She’s so sure that will stand in my way, and now I can’t help but wonder… Did I study scripture and Catholic rules for the past three years like a mad woman out of faith or because I was trying to make good for something I did by neutralizing myself?

I’m lost. I don’t know the path to righteousness, and I don’t know how to silence this… this darkness inside me. I can hear it calling my name. Every night… I’m scared that I’m not scared enough. I’m a flawed creature; I’m desperate and tired, but I don’t want to disappoint Him. But how can I?

How do I serve a God I have been lying to from the start, and how the fuck do I fix this?

You squeeze your eyes shut, the pen cracking under the pressure, and the ink bleeds onto the page, over the letters and your broken heart. Your blue fingers wrap around the rosary again as what you have written disappears under the chemical ocean.

In the heat of the moment, you tear the page out of its confines, but it has tainted all the ones to come. You ruined it like you ruined yourself. The page had been you once, being bled all over by an ink meant to stain for the rest of your miserable life, but you tried to glue it back in place. You tried not to fall apart like your diary just did at your very hands—as everything you touch rots or turns to ashes eventually.

You ball a fist around the paper, tossing it across the room. It hits the window. You catch your runny reflection in the glass. To think you were just looking to be loved, to be seen and forgiven ever since you were a little girl dreaming of being a princess, but instead, you are falling apart.

But no, you will not let the Devil win. You pull the curtains closed, and you hide the cemetery where it belongs—with the dead, both in heaven and hell and everything in between. The Devil can’t have you because God already does.

You have to seize the night before it seizes you. Anything else would be, for the lack of a better word, certain suicide.

Tag List: @luvebugs @mxxny-lupin @1988-fiend @bluestuesday @ghostheartbeat @cheshirecat484 @faesspace (if you want to be tagged or I forgot to tag you, let me know!)

#matt murdock #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x fem!reader #vampire!au #vampire!matt murdock #matt murdock x you #nun!reader #matt murdock smut #matt murdock angst #dead dove do not eat #daredevil #daredevil au #charlie cox #carpe noctem

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spookshollow · 1 year ago

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Dinner and a Dance

Jonathan Crane x Reader

A/N: I thought of this while I was listening to dream a little dream of me by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong. And plus I am so obsess with Jonathan Crane from the the dark knight trilogy lately and so I made this.

Masterlist

You had a very stressful day at work and didn't left work until 6:30 that evening. Mentally cursed yourself as you forgot to get some take out for you and Jonathan as you made it to the driveway of your shared home. But was so tired, 'Maybe once I'm inside I could ask for home delivery, Probably get a pizza' You thought as you slowly walked up to the door and opened it.

You were then taken by surprise by a delicious smell of food coming from the kitchen and 1950s love songs playing from the living. You didn’t want to disturb your husband from his cooking so you softly closed the door behind you before then placing your coat and bag on the couch,

"Oh My Love! How's was work, you were late home" I heard from behind me.

I turned around to see my handsome husband Jonathan Crane, wearing a simple black long shirt and black jeans, he was leaning against the doorframe of the living room, I didn’t say anything, but the silent response answered his question, "oh. Work was bad was it?" I slowly walked over to Jonathan and gently hugged him as he invited me in his arms.

"It was just so annoying, especially some of my co workers. But I'm happy to be back at home with you" I said as I slick back Jonathan's hair feeling his soft fluffy hair.

He then press his lips soft against mine before pulling away smiling "well luckily I made you dinner. Hope you like spaghetti?" I smiled wide and nodded my head, I then walked over to the kitchen to looked at the food and it's smell so amazing "here have a seat my love, dinner is getting ready".

You both finished dinner as you both sat in the living room drinking the wine you both had for dinner, just then as you both were relaxing a beautiful song you love started to play, Couldn’t help yourself you got up and asked Jonathan to dance with you as he accepted with a smile you love so dearly as you both sway to the music as you softly sang.

Stars shining bright above you

Night breezes seems to whisper, I love you

Birds singin' in the sycamore tree

Dream a little dream of me

He then gently spun me around before going back to just swaying back and forth, looking into each other eyes lovingly.

Say Nighty night and kiss me

Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me

While I'm alone and blue as can be

Dream a little dream of me

Then to my surprise he lean his head to my ear and softy sang the next part with me

Stars fading but I linger on dear

Still craving your kiss

Now I'm longin' to linger till dawn dear

Just saying this

"I love you so much (Y/N)" no matter how many times he say those words. It still make your heart swell with just love for this man in front of you as you held his face, and lean forward our lips barely touching and before I closed the gap between each other "I love you too, Jonathan, forever and always"

#jonathan crane x reader #cillian murphy #jonathan crane #dc comics #the dark knight #the dark knigth rises #batman begins

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tatumrileyslover · 1 year ago

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Shattered Unity

[Fragment One: I] [Fragment One: II]

Synopsis: Jill Roberts had everything, a perfect house, with a perfect family and a perfect little sister, who she cared for far more than she realised.

Pairings: Jill Roberts x Sister! Reader

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: nothing so far :) some sibling fluff

34 Elm Street epitomized the pinnacle of luxury in Woodsboro, an affluent community coveted by all. The neighborhood itself exuded an aura of safety, lined with sycamores and white picket fences. In the middle of it all stood the Roberts household, bustling with the loud sounds of a typical Monday morning.

Jill rolled over in her plush bed, pulling her pillow over her ears to block out the loud noise of her alarm. Letting out a deep groan, her arms fumbled around until they found the snooze button. Her eyelids fluttered shut again, aiming to steal a few more precious moments of sleep until a sudden crash echoed from downstairs.

"Sweetheart!" Her mother's voice reverberated through the house. "Are you okay?"

Jill could hear her little sister mumbling something in response, probably attempting to make herself breakfast. She always had this habit of striving for independence. Jill stretched, her long black hair cascading as she released it from the loose bun of the night before. Running her fingers through the tangles, she slipped into a pair of jeans and rummaged through her wardrobe in search of a shirt. As Jill swung her door open, the sound of small feet scampering up the stairs reached her ears. It seemed her sister had an uncanny sixth sense for detecting when Jill was awake.

"Jill!" Her little form came barreling around the corner, running toward Jill's feet. Her face lit up when she saw her sister. "I made you pancakes," she announced proudly. Jill laughed and asked if that was what the crash was. The little one hid her face in Jill's shirt, her speech muffled by the fabric. "I might have dropped the pan." Jill ruffled her hair before manoeuvring around her to start going downstairs.

The kitchen bore the aftermath of a culinary hurricane—flour dusted every available surface, eggshells added a crunch underfoot, and a symphony of pots and bowls occupied the sink. Amidst this chaos sat a plate of hastily assembled pancakes, syrup awaiting its inevitable deployment. As Jill cautiously surveyed the scene, her foot met an unexpected puddle of milk, sending a shiver up her spine as the sock soaked up the liquid.

Suppressing a sigh, Jill turned her attention to her sister, ready to issue a gentle reprimand. However, before she could speak, (Y/n) beat her to it with a spirited declaration. "Don't worry, Jill! I'm cleaning it all up after I eat. I just wanted to make sure you had something to eat before Kirby picks you up." Her bright smile melted any lingering frustration, reminding Jill why (Y/n) was her undeniable soft spot.

"You're such a little troublemaker, (Y/n)," Jill joked, pulling off her damp sock. She walked to the kitchen table, grabbing a few pancakes to smother in syrup. (Y/n) climbed onto the stool beside her big sister, looking at her intently. "Speaking of Kirby, do you think I can say hi when she comes to pick you up? I want to show her the picture I drew of us three!" Jill looked over, shocked at her sister, talking with a mouthful of pancake. "You drew a picture of me?" (Y/n) corrected her, saying it was all three of them together, but Jill's mind was elsewhere. All (Y/n) ever drew was puppies and rainbows—childish things. Never had Jill seen her draw a person, never mind her.

Jill's fork hovered mid-air, laden with syrup-soaked pancake, as she stared at (Y/n) with wide eyes. The surprise etched across her face deepened, a mix of disbelief and genuine awe. For a moment, she was caught in the realization that her little sister had moved beyond the realm of fluffy animals and sunny scenes, venturing into something far more personal.

"You drew a picture of me?" Jill repeated, as if the words needed confirmation. The syrup dripped slowly back onto the plate, forgotten in her slackened grip. (Y/n)'s innocent nod was met with an almost incredulous smile from Jill, as if the simple act of portraying her in a drawing was a revelation.

"(Y/n), that's... incredible," Jill finally managed, her tone carrying a mix of surprise and warmth. The thought that her sister had chosen to illustrate her, amid all the subjects she could have picked, lingered in the air like a sweet revelation.

"I'll show it to you!" (Y/n)'s syrup-sticky hands seized Jill's, leading her in an eager ascent up the stairs, their footsteps an echo of shared laughter. The little haven at the top, (Y/n)'s room, painted in every shade of pink. It was a sanctuary of innocence, adorned with unicorns, magical creatures, and the captured moments of their life.

The walls told stories in crayon and glitter drawings, tales of a childhood untainted by the complexities of the world beyond. Pictures of Jill and (Y/n), frozen in time, grinned back at them. Jill couldn't help but notice the subtle nostalgia woven into the room, a familiar echo of her own youth. The glow-in-the-dark stars overhead seemed to promise dreams as pure and boundless as the universe itself.

Most of the toys strewn across the floor were remnants of Jill's childhood, a nostalgic scatter of innocence now usurped by time. Yet, what tugged at Jill's heartstrings most was the teddy bear lying on the bed, a mirror image of the one resting in her own room. (Y/n) never ventured anywhere without that bear. It was a shared relic, a testament to a bond forged in the simplicity of happier times.

As Jill sank into memories, the room became a vessel of echoes. Most vivid was the recollection of a day long past, a shopping trip with her father to find the perfect gift for baby (Y/n). The brown bear, soft and fluffy, had captured Jill's heart. She pleaded with her father to let her have one too. That day marked the last fragment of happiness she could recall with him.

A small shake brought Jill back to the present. She found herself gently pushed to sit on the edge of the bed. (Y/n) darted to the desk by the door, the chaotic rustle of pages scattering in her wake. Amidst the flurry, a small sound of excitement at her discovery. (Y/n) rushed back, concealing a page behind her back, anticipation dancing in her eyes.

Jill was presented with a page, a kaleidoscope of waxy stripes in every imaginable color. Amidst the vibrant chaos, three figures took center stage. Two of them stood at a similar height, towering protectively over a smaller figure nestled between them. A soft smile graced Jill's lips as she looked at her younger sister, who returned the gaze with anticipation sparkling in her eyes.

Gently, Jill pulled (Y/n) into her arms, the paper the only barrier between then. She whispered softly in her sister's ear, "Kirby's going to love this."

Kirby's car rushed into the driveway of the Roberts household, letting out a loud beep that echoed in the quiet neighborhood. As Jill stepped onto the front porch, the car's blaring music masked the sounds around them.

"Before you get in the car, you need to promise not to kill me!" Kirby shouted over the music, quickly turning it off as Jill approached.

"Why?" Jill asked, walking closer to the passenger door, while her sister eagerly ran toward the car. "What did you do?"

"Trevor called me last night," Kirby explained, and Jill's face twisted in disgust. "Why is he calling you?" She leaned down, poking her head through the car window, while (Y/n) stood on her tiptoes to get Kirby's attention.

"Because you won't take his calls, he knows I have you here and he wants to know," Kirby said. Jill opened the door with a roll of her eyes, and Kirby shifted her focus to (Y/n), greeting her with a warm, "Hi pumpkin!"

Ignoring Kirby's attempt to divert the conversation, Jill pressed, "Know what?" Kirby's eyes darted away from (Y/n), who stood eagerly waiting to share something. "How upset you are." She finished.

Olivia hopped into the backseat of the car, engaging Jill in conversation about Trevor. While they chatted, Kirby shifted her attention to the younger Roberts sister, who stood patiently at the door. With an exuberant greeting, she handed Kirby a piece of paper, saying, "I drew this for you!" Kirby smiled at the young girl, touched by the fact that her best friend's younger sister cared enough to create a drawing. "It’s me, you, and Jill," she explained, her eyes lighting up with enthusiasm.

"It’s amazing, (Y/n)!" Kirby examined the drawing carefully before placing it on the dashboard. "When I get home from school, it’s going straight up on my refrigerator," she promised with a smile. (Y/n) beamed at this news. Kirby glanced at the time; if they didn’t leave now, they’d be late. “We have to go, pumpkin. Have a good day at school!” she called out as she watched (Y/n) run back into the house, waving back to the girls as she did and Jill shut the car door.

Olivia rolled her eyes from the back seat, letting out a scoff. She had something against Jill’s sister ever since she accidentally broke her cell two years ago. Olivia opened her mouth to state something when Jill quickly turned to face her, her stare cold and harsh, quickly shutting Olivia up. She huffed, “I wasn’t going to say anything about your sister!” Her arms raised in the air in defense.

Jill let a small smirk grace her lips; she could see Olivia was lying. “Really!” She turned back to the front, glancing at her through the rearview mirror. Jill wanted to see what kind of stupid story Olivia would attempt to create to dig herself out of the hole she made. “What was it you were going to say?”

Olivia stumbled over her words, desperately trying to come up with a story that would fit, but she couldn’t. “Fine!” She bowed her head in defeat. “But it’s not a crime to dislike your sister; she's just so...” She trailed off, seeing Jill's glare. “Clingy.”

The pulsating beat of a song jolted all three girls from their conversation. Jill's cellphone buzzed near her feet, prompting her to fish it out of her bag. As Olivia grumbled about the ringtone, Jill examined the caller ID.

"Why is Jenny Randall calling me?"

Both Kirby and Olivia shrugged, as Jenny wasn't someone they interacted with frequently.

"I don't know. I don't like Jenny Randall. She threw up on me at Tony Marshall's luau," Olivia interjected. Kirby rolled her eyes, and as Jill answered the phone, "That luau was freshman year!" Kirby turned to Olivia, who threw up her hands, “I didn't say my anger was rational!"

Both girls redirected their attention to Jill upon hearing her asking about the caller. Kirby returned her focus to the road, stealing glances at Jill's now irritated expression. "What does she want?" Jill ignored her friend's question, continuing to reprimand the mysterious caller. "Where’s Jenny?" Confusion deepened on the faces of Kirby and Olivia. Was Jenny Randall attempting to prank call Jill? Jill lowered the volume of the car's music. "Who is this?"

Kirby listened intently to the voice on the other end. It resonated deep and rough, like gravel on the highway. Certainly not Jenny Randall. Panic crept over Jill's face as she abruptly declared, “I’m hanging up.”

After a brief pause, Jill turned to her friends. "That was so weird. I just got a prank call from Jenny Randall." Olivia promptly interrupted with her own story, but Jill remained silent, appearing uninterested. "Jenny Randall is weird. Her and her little Marnie the Carny friend are freaks!" Glancing at Jill, who sat somewhat diminished in her seat and gazing out the window, Kirby sensed Jill might be anxious about her sister after such a peculiar call. Olivia continued to ramble on, it was very clearly not helping Jill. Kirby sighed before trying to reassure Jill.

"It's massacre week. People go looney, remember?"

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kaminocasey · 2 years ago

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Dream A Little Dream of Me (Part 1)

Summary: Your reality is different than theirs. But hopefully, you can use that to your advantage and help put a stop to the Clone Wars. If catching the eye of a certain captain is also in the mix, then that's also a plus, right?

Pairing: Eventual Captain Rex x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI; Insomnia, Angst, alternate realty type of thing

WC: 2.1K

A/N: This is a bit different than what I normally write. But, hopefully in a good way! Also, it’s been a hot minute since I’ve written for Rex. Can you believe that????

Part Two

You hear your cell phone ringing from the living room as you make pasta in the kitchen. It’d been snowing all day so you’d had the lights in the living room off so you’d be able to see the snow fall over New York City. It’s your favorite thing living in a highrise in the Upper East Side. You’ve also had The Clone Wars playing all day. Your favorite show. The show that brought you the most comfort.

You sit the spoon down in the dublé and go grab your phone, bringing it to your ear and answering as you return back to the stove, turning slightly toward the tv in time to see Captain Rex tell the men of the 501st and 212th that they need to take down Pong Krell.

“Hello, mom.” You sigh, just hoping she hasn’t called you to fight with you.

“What are you doing up so late?” She chides you. It’s more lighthearted than critical this time.

Honestly, you’ve not looked at the clock all afternoon. But you glance at the time on the stove. Surely, it’s not that late- Oh. It’s 2:30 in the morning.

“You’re the one calling me.” You roll your eyes.

“Because I knew you were up.” Her voice sounds tired on the other end.

“How would you possibly know that?” You stir the pasta one last time before tucking the phone between your ear and your shoulder, going to strain it.

“Because I know you.” She chuckles. “What are you making?”

You sigh again. “Pasta.”

“Finish making it. Put it in the fridge and go lay down, sweetie.” Her voice softens.

You don’t sleep much… and when you do, it’s not restful sleep. You’d been diagnosed with insomnia at an early age of ten. The doctors had said it stemmed from your anxiety and ADHD. Now, you take all sorts of medication, but you’d stopped when the last one knocked your ass out for over 24 hours, causing you to miss an entire day of work and they fired you the next. You’d rather not sleep and have a job than let that happen again.

“Fine.” You murmur, grabbing a box and putting a bit of olive oil in with it and shaking it up once you close the lid.

“Do you want me to sing to you?” She asks as you click the tv off.

When you and your mom get along, which isn’t often, you really get along. She’s sweet, caring, kind… but if you’re fighting… well, let’s just say, you’d rather deal with Lucifer, himself.

“That would be nice. Thank you.” You murmur, putting the phone on speaker before going back to your bedroom and plugging your phone in, crawling under your fluffy comforter.

You try to get comfy, closing your eyes. “Alright. I’m in bed.”

“I remember when you were little and you would come crawling into-” She starts but you interrupt her.

“Mom. Sing.” You smile with closed eyes.

“Right, right. Sorry.” She chuckles before starting the tune that she would sing to you as a child.

Stars shining bright above you

Night breezes seem to whisper "I love you"

Birds singin' in the sycamore trees

Dream a little dream of me

You think of the warm glow of the moon. A comfortable bed of sheep carrying you away into dreamland, counting them as they pass by you in your mind.

Say "Nighty night" and kiss me

Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me

While I'm alone and blue as can be

Dream a little dream of me

There’s no way this is going to help you go to sleep. You made peace with never being able to sleep peacefully again a long long time ago.

Stars fading but I linger on, dear

Still craving your kiss

I'm longing to linger 'til dawn, dear

Just saying this

You yawn slightly, turning over to face your phone, getting comfier as you focus on the coolness of your pillow against your warm cheek.

Sweet dreams 'til sunbeams find you

Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you

But in your dreams, whatever they be

Dream a little dream of me

“I’m sorry, mom. I don’t think it’s working this time.” You open your eyes to pull your phone back up so you can end the call but are met with the unfamiliarity of a different bed than yours. In fact, it can barely be considered a bed. You realize it’s a bunk and when you turn to see the rest of your surroundings you’re met with… clones?

You know these men… You’ve seen them before.

“Morning, sleepy head.” The clone you know as Tup smirks. “You’ve been out forever.”

What? This can’t be real. You know this is just a tv show.

Oh. You’re dreaming.

Of course. Duh.

“Yeah, welcome back to the land of the living.” Hardcase chuckles.

You’re still not able to form words. This is a little too freaky. Why are you so aware?

“Hello???” Jesse waves his hand in front of your face.

You blink twice, feeling your lips move to say something.

Say something, dummy.

“H-hello.” You murmur, sitting up to look at the near identical men around you.

“Why are you being so weird?” Fives asks you, curiously.

“This can’t be real.” You stand up, suddenly feeling slightly panicked.

“Are you alright?” Fives comes over, putting his hand on your shoulder.

You can actually feel it. You pull away, even more freaked out than before.

“Hey, let’s get Kix down here.” Fives turns toward Tup, who nods and takes off out of what you now recognize as barracks.

Fives turns back toward you and as you look around at all the men, they all seem really concerned for you. Which is somewhat sweet, when you think about it.

“Hey, doll. Why don’t you sit back down?” Fives tries to guide you back down to the bunk and kneels in front of you, searching your eyes.

Unable to help yourself, you reach out and poke him in the cheek and he gives you an amused smile that you know so well from all the times you’ve watched him. His skin is warm and soft and you let out a breath that you’ve been holding in since you “woke up”.

“F-fives.” You look at him.

He nods, grinning. “That’s right, mesh’la.”

You look around. “Hardcase. Dogma. Jesse.”

They all nod when you say their names, the sweet concern never leaving their handsome faces.

And then you hear the doors open and all the breath feels like it’s left your lungs. The man you’ve loved since your first watch.

Captain Rex.

God, he’s even prettier in person… How is that even possible?

He murmurs your name and your world stops spinning just for a moment, your heart pausing with it. He knows your name.

Of course he knows your name. This is your dream.

“Tup said you might not be feeling well?” Rex asks and Fives moves so that Rex can kneel down in front of you.

The breath in your throat hitches and you get slightly dizzy. You notice that he smells like warm vanilla with a hint of the ocean, as he gives you the softest look any man or person has given you. It’s nearly intoxicating. He looks into your eyes and suddenly, you want to thank your insomnia for giving you this moment.

“Are you alright?” He’s still searching your eyes and you realize you need to get it together and play along with this dream or these men are going to think you’re crazy.

You rub your eyes and stretch. “Yeah, sorry, Captain. Just woke up from a weird dream.”

He lets out a sigh of relief, looking up at Fives who also seems to be okay with that answer.

“Good. Glad to hear that it’s nothing serious.” He pats your knee as he stands up and immediately you stand with him.

He looks to Fives. “We’re shipping out to Umbara in the next hour. Meet Generals Skywalker and Kenobi down in the hangar in 30.”

Umbara…? Umbara… Oh no.

“Um, Captain? Captain R-rex.” You stutter over your words, still not able to get over the fact that this man is standing in front of you.

You follow him out of the barracks. You feel like you need to say something. If you can warn them about Umbara… about General Pong Krell turning toward the dark side… maybe you can help them win this battle, right?

“What is it?” He smiles down at you.

Oh, wow. That smile really still has quite the effect on you, making your heart feel like it’s melting right through your body and you have to remind yourself to breathe.

“I need to tell you something. About Pong Krell.” You fidget with your shirt, nervously.

“Alright. What about the general?” He stops walking to give you his undivided attention.

“Um… He’s… He’s not who he says he is.” You struggle to find the right words, knowing that if you just outright say the general is a Sith, you’re going to look crazy.

You need proof. But you don’t exactly have any.

“What do you mean?” Rex asks you, tilting his head in confusion.

“Rex! There you are.” A familiar voice is behind you and you spin around to find Anakin Skywalker walking toward you and the captain.

“General.” Rex greets him.

“Are your men ready for the briefing?” Anakin asks.

“Yes, sir.” Rex nods.

“Good. Walk with me.” Anakin smiles then looks at you and greets you by name.

Does everyone here know you?

“H-hello… uh, general.” You give a weak smile.

Rex starts to say goodbye but you try to speak up again. “Dude.”

Then, you remember that you’re speaking to a general and a captain and that’s probably super disrespectful.

“Uh, apologies captain.” You try to keep up with them as Anakin’s commlink goes off and he steps away to answer it.

“We’ll talk about it when we get back.” Rex gives you a reassuring smile and you shake your head. “General Skywalker is the one on the mission with us. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“No. Krell is going to lie and send Anakin- the general away so that he can try to get the clones killed.” You tell him, firmly.

Rex looks over at Anakin and then back at you, clearly confused. “W-what… How do you know this?”

How are you even supposed to explain your knowledge of these things? You can’t just be like “Oh yeah, I know this because none of this is real and you’re actually just a tv show.” right?

“I’m someone you trust, right?” You murmur, looking up into the brown eyes that you’ve daydreamed about plenty of times.

“Of course.” He nods.

“Then, Rex… I’m begging you to trust me on this… please.” You sigh.

Even though you’ve technically just met this man, you feel like you’ve truly known him for so much longer. Does he feel that way about you?

“Alright.” Rex murmurs, glancing toward Anakin again. “I trust you. But what can I do?”

“Leave it to me.” You nod, smiling up at him. “Good luck. Be safe.”

“You’re not coming with us?” He asks, confusion painting his face again.

“Oh… Am I?” You still don’t know what your role is here.

“Kix is gonna need all the help he can get.” Rex winks, your stomach flipping at such a simple gesture as he joins Anakin once he gets off the call.

You’re a medic? Oh no… You don’t know the first thing about being a medic… What if you can’t help and these men get killed because of you? You’ll just have to stick next to Kix for the time being… Hopefully you can sort of learn as you go? Maybe you’ll get lucky and they won’t actually need your help.

When you wake up, you’re still not exactly well rested. If anything, you feel even more tired. But man… What a dream. You got to see your favorite clone captain, got to meet the clones you spend countless hours a week watching. Hopefully, you’ll get lucky and dream of them again.

Then, you remember that you were going to try to help them… and you’ve been pulled from their reality a bit too soon, your chest tightening at the thought.

Rubbing your eyes as you sit up, you pull your phone off the charger and shoot your mom a message:

You: Thank you for singing to me. That actually helped a lot. Think you could do it again tonight?

She answers almost right away.

Mom: Of course, sweetheart. Have a great day!

As you climb out of bed to get ready for work, you can’t help but think about what your next dream could possibly hold tonight.

TAGS: @twistedstitcher27 @rebel-finn @grievouus @madameminor @dumfanting @rain-on-kamino @corona-one @tecker @ladykatakuri @brynhildrmimi @the-sith-in-the-sky-with-diamond @zoeykallus @maulslittlemeowmeow @littlemousedroid @arctrooper69 @rexxdjarin @agenteliix @padawancat97 @hated-by-me @sleepingsun501 @quigonswife8 @idlenesses @redheadgirl @dnxgma @themcuwriter @ashotofspotchka @sunshinesdaydream @crosshairsimp73 @ariadnes-red-thread @rosmariner @heyitsaloy @starstofillmydream @high-ct5555

#tcw rex #captain rex x reader #captain rex x you #tcw rex x you #tcw rex x reader

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tonibeltran · 11 days ago

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[ 171 SYCAMORE DR, BLUE HARBOR, IL ]

Located in Oak Gardens, this four-bedroom, three-and-a-half bath home is the picture of suburban luxury. Built around five years ago, the house was designed to embody a modern farmhouse style, featuring tall, exposed ceilings, rustic wood finishes, and a carefully curated mix of clean lines and traditional touches. Equipped with the latest appliances, the home combines functionality with its open, airy aesthetic, creating a welcoming yet polished atmosphere fit for those who appreciate both space and elegance.

[ THE BELTRAN HOUSEHOLD ]

Since moving in, Antonio has made several adjustments to reflect his tastes. He hired a stager to bring a sense of warmth and personality to the neutral palette by incorporating rich greens in the kitchen, calming blues in the bedroom, and other soft hues throughout the house. Antonio also converted the basement into his personal recording studio, allowing him to compose and work from home without the need to commute — a practical touch that accommodates his profession as a lyricist and composer. One of the smaller bedrooms serves as his “rec room,” a space he’s set aside for relaxation and reading, as well as a place to unwind privately with a smoke, where his cat, Moon, isn’t allowed access. The main living area is anchored by a large, plush couch, which Antonio chose with comfort in mind, ensuring it was supportive enough for both relaxation and, well, intimate endeavors. A weekly housekeeper helps keep the expansive space tidy, and a gardener maintains the neatly manicured front lawn, allowing Antonio to focus on his work. Despite his efforts to personalize the space, the home’s grand scale often leaves him feeling lonely, an emptiness he finds difficult to shake. While he admits it might make a perfect family home for someone else in the future, he jokes that his basement conversion may pose a minor challenge to that dream.

#task.bh #task 003 #this is a queued post!

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danpuff-ao3 · 1 year ago

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Eileen Recs

Eileen Snape (nee Prince) is a character I always find myself curious about and drawn to. There are so many questions. Where did she come from? Why did she leave? Who is this person who helped shaped Severus Snape?

So here I've collected a few of my favorite stories about and/or featuring Eileen, and the various versions of her I've fallen in love with.

The Seahorse

by Acid (@ac1d6urn, @humblenug.) Rated M. 21k. Lee (Eileen) POV. Trans Male Character.

Lee is used to winning his Gobstones matches, and he thinks he can come out ahead in the game of life. If only things were as simple as when he first met Tobias at that pub in Cokeworth. In a perfect world, he sure as hell wouldn't be pregnant and learning his way around a Muggle kitchen, but it's 1959, and he is all bones and weary mind, weighed down by the flesh that doesn't feel like his own.

Underneath the North Star and the Sycamores

by Femme (@femmequixotic.) Rated M. 5k. Eileen/Tobias.

I'm restless, eager for something I'm not quite certain of, something I never thought I'd want.

Not Your Trophy Wife

by hermioneclone. Rated E. 20k. Eileen/Horace. Eileen/Tobias.

After a chance encounter with Horace Slughorn in Diagon Alley, Eileen Prince Snape realizes that he just might be the key to delivering the Prince family heir to her estranged parents and securing her own future. Horace is more than happy to uphold his end of the bargain.

Triptych

by kelly_chambliss (@kellychambliss.) Rated M. 14k. Eileen/Tobias. Eileen/Sybill.

He hadn't married the girl for love, Tobias was the first to admit it.

No Room for the Weak

by perverse_idyll (@perverse-idyll.) Rated M. 10k. Eileen POV. Pre-Snarry.

There's a Boy Who Lived and a boy who didn't, and even a mother can't always tell them apart.

Ghosts of Christmas

by PinaNaponi (@vulnerasanenturmyprince.) Rated E. 45k. Harry/Severus. Found family. Mental health issues. Mentions of abuse. Hurt/comfort. Injury recovery. Postwar.

Prompt #53: Harry visits a recuperating Severus at Spinner's End at Christmas and ends up learning quite a lot from Eileen, who has been taking care of him.

The Fair

by titC (@titconao3.) Rated G. 2k. Poverty. Unhappy.

Eileen and Tobias Snape take their six-year-old son Severus to a fair in Cokeworth.

Playing for Keeps

by vissy. Rated M. 5k. Eileen/Tobias. Eileen/Severus. Non-con. Incest.

Eileen Snape, former Captain of the Hogwarts Gobstones Team, is losing her marbles.

#danpuff recs #eileen prince #eileen snape

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alphasunpup · 1 month ago

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Feedist Kinktober Day 5- Cannibal Campers

TW: Cannibalism, Darker feedism elements

You didn't think your job as a camp counselor would result in you ending up in a horror movie. You didn't think you would end up as a stereotypical final girl. But there you stood in your camp counselor uniform, soiled in the blood of your fellow lost camp counselors. Perhaps if you would get out of this alive you would throw them a party in their honor. And then check yourself into the nearest mental hospital.

The slasher, because of course you ended up in a slasher horror raised his machete at you.

Well if you were gonna die, might as well go out with a bang. "Come and get me bootleg Jason!" You screamed. He lunged at you, you lunged at him with your badminton racket in defense. But instead of some epic cut do or die battle before the two of you, you feel a twinge in your neck, and pass out.

When you wake up, you're tied up to a chair. You're still clothed, but it seems someone took the liberty of washing off the nightmarish blood and viscera from your skin. You don't smell like blood and internal organs but like shea butter and honey.

"You like? I couldn't find your regular body wash amongst your things. So, I bought some at the local CVS." A familiar voice said to you.

It was Jenny, one of your fellow camp counselors! You thought you had lost her to the mad slasher. She looked a different from before. Her brown box braids now had a red tips at the end. She was a lot thicker than last you remembered her... remembered her getting murdered.

She had a thick apron belly, covering the clearly opened flap of her shorts. Her boobs overflowing her small camp counselor shirt. She had thick beautiful dark skinned arms. Her skin the beautiful color of a sycamore tree. You felt suddenly hot. Like you need to feel her plushness, feel her pudgy hands sink into your pubis mon and touch you like when you first started exploring each other's bodies.

"Jenny?" You whispered. Unsure if this was a fever dream and if the killer had done away with already chopping your body up for pie.

She walked over and stroked your cheek. Her now apple round cheeks, accentuating her kind smile. "Yeah, it's really me."

"But how?! I saw you.. I saw you..." you froze at the memory. Of the killer with the mask, dragging her back into the kitchen. The sound of the meat grinder. The spray...

"Hey!" She yells. "I'm right here," she whispers lovingly into your ear, "right here."

You tear up and nod. "Right, right. Okay, untie me. We can probably find someone's car or maybe someone fucking listened to us and packed a battery pack and we..." she shushed you.

"Let's eat first," she smiled.

You were taken back. How could she think about food at a moment like this? The killer was still out there!

"Don't worry about the killer, I took all care of it." Your mind began to relax. Of course, of course Jenny took care of it. She was Jenny after all.

"Shepards pie?"

She ask, seamlessly pulling out the pie. It sounded like a question but you hadn't noticed she wasn't acting. A forkful entered your mouth, taking you back a bit, but you chewed obediently. She raked her acrylic nails through your now cleaned 3C hair.

"Good, isn't it?"

You nodded, not paying attention to the redness of the meat. Or how soft and tender it was. You were too wrapped up in Jenny's claws raking through your scalp. The taste of rosemary, onion, basil, garlic, and other delicious spices on your tongue. You weren't even paying attention to the swelling of your belly. All you knew is that you wanted more. More of Jenny's touch, more of the pie, but most importantly more of the meat. Her nails scratch at your portruding belly. You wince slightly.

"UUUUURP," you softly pant as the burp leaves you.

She grins. "I think you're ready for more." She drops the pie tin onto the floor. "Baby! She's ready for the real deal!" She calls.

Real deal? And suddenly the slashed killer appears. But it doesn't rush back towards you, you really couldn't care less. Not unless Jenny cared.

The killer took off their mask. It was another one of your camp counselors, Rochelle! Her entire head was shaved, her gold septum in tact. But now she had an eye brow scar/slit. She walked over to Jenny, kissing her deeply. Jealousy twinged in your gut. You wanted Jenny to look at you like that. Jenny patted Rochelle's gut and giggled.

"Oh, don't worry darling you'll be up to snuff, soon as you have some camp counselor pie!" She giggled. She snapped her fingers and Rochelle went towards the back of the cabin, holding different trays of raw meat with different bloodied name tag of your fellow camp counselors.

Rochelle stood there cockily, her gut forcing open her slasher jumpsuit.

"Trust me, you're gonna love Derrick." She burps to her hand, handing you a tray of indiscriminate raw meat with his bloodied name tag as his only identifier. "He's quite filling."

#did not expect this to be as long as it was #tw: cannibalism #tw: dark themes #tw: dark content #feedism kink #queer feedism #soft feedism #fat butch #fat femme #sapphic feedism #mutual feedism #feedist kinktober #feedist kinktober 2024 #black feedism

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hometoursandotherstuff · 8 months ago

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Would you spend $3.295M on a VERY rustic estate? It was built in 1810 and originally redone for singer Johnny Cash in Hendersonville, TN. Sycamore Homestead is currently the home compound of master builder Braxton Dixon. Main house, 2 guest homes, barn, tea room and smoke house reconstructed from pre-civil war log structures were relocated to this property. 6bds, 5ba.

It has sort of a broody type of appeal.

Open concept main floor includes the kitchen.

Look at the size of the dining table attached to the island.

Kitchen's okay, but not terribly impressive. The slate floors were mined from the site.

Another, less formal sitting room.

Stairs to the bedrooms.

Beautiful etched glass on the door to the primary bedroom.

Display loft above the bed.

Looks like the bath has folding doors to close off the window when you're using the toilet.

This room has nice shelving plus a loft. Like the fireplace and closet doors.

This room also has a nice fireplace and a built-in corner cabinet.

The sky is blue, so I don't think it's the weather, but the place looks dreary.

Guesthouse on the property.

This is a nice place. I'd rent it out.

I like this one better, it's more interesting.

It's smaller, but unique.

The largest one is very cool.

It has some cool features like a grindstone in the wall.

Beautiful ancient fireplace.

Lovely details.

The bath looks medieval.

Covered bridge leading up to the property.

The property measures 5.84 acres.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/42394403_zpid/

#rustic estate #compounds #celebrity homes #old house dreams #houses #house tours #home tour

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lanitaminaj · 9 months ago

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lolita ౨ৎ

in which the reader finds herself crushing on her dad's best friend, miguel o' hara.

cw: sexual themes

the first thing you noticed about him was how beautiful he was.

he was tall, for one. his body length towering over the silver-shining refrigerator in the kitchen. although he was fully covered, you could see the indentations of his pectorals and his abdomen muscles peeking through his royal-blue pressed t-shirt.

he was talking with your dad in the kitchen, the two men hunched over the marble-designed island as they casually talked. they held corona bottles with limes on the rims, the men occasionally taking sips in between their words.

they hushed, however, when they heard you pad across the sycamore-wood flooring as you halted just ten feet away from them.

"papi," you voiced to your father, yet your eyes took frequent glances of the taller man. "can i go out tonight?"

"en español, mi amor."

"ugh," you huffed, rolling your eyes right after to further show your annoyance. your father exchanged an "ay," but you didn't yet notice how your dad's friend's eyes darkened at your action.

"jessica quiere que yo salgo con ella." jessica wants me to go out with her.

"y tu tarea, te acabas?" your dad asked, taking another swig from the bottle. and your homework, did you finish it?

"si, papi," you nodded your head cheerfully.

your father sighed, another swig from his corona taken. "bien," he spoke, waving his hand as a dismissal. "pero te quiero que tu regresar a las doce. tu me oyes?" but i want you to return at twelve. you hear me?

you squealed, sprinting over to hug and kiss your father's cheeks. "gracias, papi!" you sung, practically running out the door as you heard your father screaming at you to "tranquillate!" calm down.

your father sighed once again, the man downing the last of his bottle as he looked up to stare his smirking friend in the eye.

"hijas," your dad said, shaking his head with a hint of a smile on his lips. "tú sabes cómo es, miguel."

miguel's eyes, which were mischievously squinted, had suddenly softened. his smirking lips pressed against the lip of his corona bottle had then been pulled into a frown.

"si, chamaco," miguel responded, his hand gently placing the half-empty glass bottle on the marbled island. "yo se cómo es."

yes, kid. i know how it is.

the second time you've seen him was on a hot summer day in queens.

you were sitting on the porch outside of one of your friend's houses, eating from a melting vanilla ice-cream cone as you watched the men at work. they were pouring and flattening cement on the potholed-filled road, the men all sweaty and gross and dying.

you, on the other hand, was adorned in the cutest outfit as you rested; a floral-printed sheer tank top, a sky-blue denim mini-skirt, and a pair of strapped white sandals.

miguel took a peak at you from across the street, a smirk growing on his lips as he watched the angelic vision of you resting peacefully on that porch. he approached you, the bubble of his gradual form growing closer and closer was obscured by the darkness of your blackened sunglasses.

"chamaca," he greeted once he approached you, a friendly smile growing on your lips. "what you doing here?"

"my dad didn't tell you?" you responded, taking another lick from your ice cream. miguel's eyes were trained on your tongue. "i'm grounded."

those words made miguel's eyebrows shoot into his wrinkled forehead. "grounded?"

"yeah," you waved your hand nonchalantly. "for some dumba- for some stupid reason."

"no, i mean, aren't you an adult?"

"what? oh, yeah," a hint of a laugh escaped your ice-cream coated lips. "i'm in college and everything but, you know my dad. he still thinks i'm still a little girl."

miguel's smirked softened into that of an endearing one.

"speaking of your dad," miguel crossed his arms across his chest. "you know he's not here, right, chula?"

the way he pronounced the nickname, like velvet slipping off his tongue, made a shiver go down your back.

"i know," you answered, your legs bouncing off of the porch as your shorter frame stood to meet miguel's impossibly taller form. "i'm not allowed to walk home alone for a while by myself, so..."

miguel laugh-snorted, before pointing his head towards the direction of her home. "cmon, kid," he spoke, his lengthy legs striding down the street as you followed behind him. "let's get you home."

you trailed him, the slightly-heeled soles of your sandals slapped against the concrete-pavement of the sidewalk. you burned your eyes into the back of miguel's figure. your eyes entranced by how built and muscular his trapezius muscle was. you felt yourself blush a bit, your conscious forcing you to blame it on the hot weather.

"how's school?" miguel questioned, an attempt on his part to stifle an awkward walk home.

"it's okay," you shrugged. you managed to catch up to him, the pair of you walking side by side now. "i finished my prerequisites, so now i'm just waiting on the next semester to start."

"congrats, kid," he spoke, a sincere, closed-mouth smile on his lips caused you to smile again.

it was there when you really took in his features. you could tell he was older, the subtle wrinkles on his forehead and the hints of silver-streaked tresses peaked through his cocoa-brown hair. but, that didn't take away from how beautiful he truly was. his hair had volume and was pushed back, reminding you of a 1960's hollywood actor. his eyebrows were thick and long, and sometimes they furrowed when he was heavily focused in a game in dominos with your dad. he had prominent cheekbones, and his nose. your favorite part about him was his nose. you loved how long his bridge went, and how slightly wide his nostrils were. you told him once that he had a nose "como una zanahoria," a carrot, but you hoped he knew you were just joking. and his lips, his full, salmon-pink lips.

you wondered if miguel knew how beautiful he was; how his chestnut-brown eyes could make grown women swoon at him, or how his voice could make even the most menacing tiger bow to him.

he watched you stare at him, not realizing how the both of you had stopped walking. you both stood in place, his almond-shaped, tired eyes meeting with your sparkling, adorning pair.

"what you thinking of, hm?" miguel muttered. you could see the playful twinkle in his eyes. "i got something on my face, nena?"

"no," you retorted, your voice barely above a whisper. you made yourself shake your head, an effort to shake off whatever trance miguel had unknowingly put you in. "it's just..."

"just what, chula?"

you stayed silent for a few beats, before you averted your eyes to look at the pearl-white straps on your shoes. "nothing," you eventually said, your legs resuming the stride to your home with miguel hot on your tail.

at last you made it to your house, your hand dumping out the little remainder you had of your ice-cream cone out in the garbage can just outside the buildings home.

"thank you, migs," you thanked the man, your body already ascending up the porch's stairs.

"no problem, mama," he shrugged off. "just be good." taking off, the man halted just as you inserted the key to the door.

"hey, kid. what exactly did you get in trouble for?"

with the most delinquent smirk on your face and an inkling of a laugh about to escape your lips, you answered miguel in the sweetest voice he'd ever heard.

"neighbors caught me fucking their son in their yard and told my dad. how stupid is that?”

the sexual thoughts didn’t arise until july.

your uncle, your father’s brother, was hosting his annual summer party at his long island home.

your father, your uncle, and some other men were gathered around the backyard’s pool. while your dad was grilling some hot dogs, you could see your uncle, from your inside view of the glass-pane sliding door, smoking weed on his pool-side chair.

meanwhile you, sitting inside the air-conditioned living room with your cousins, ate your cherry-flavored popsicle as you listened to them gossip about some recent family drama. you froze, however, when your bambi eyes landed on him.

apart from the maroon-red swimming trunks he wore, he was bare from any other clothing. the protruding abs that always peeked out from underneath his thin shirts were on display now, his stomach shiny from the pool water and from the sharp ray’s of summer’s sun.

he held a cigarette in his fingers, his canine-teeth on display as he laughed at whatever joke your uncle had made. telepathically, his cocoa-brown eyes seemed to find yours, a glimmer in his irises as he did so. he winked at you, the corner of his lips pulled up as he watched you shudder from his simple action.

“y que pasó, mami?” your older cousin, giselle, noticed the sudden shiver racing down your spine. “too cold?”

“no,” you shook your head, your eyes facing your ruby-red polished toes before they glanced up, miguel’s backside facing you as he conversed with another one of your uncle’s guests.

mariana, your second older cousin, trailed your sight of vision before she cracked a smile on her pink sugar summer friday’s lip-balm adorned lips.

“que guapo,” she purred, her tongue poking out from her teeth as she laughed. “wait, he’s not one of our uncles, right?”

“no, stupid,” giselle smacked her knee. “that’s the guy her dad brought. he is mad fine, though. where y’all found him at, hm?”

“ask my dad,” you simply shrugged, swallowing the rest of your cherry-flavored popsicle that you had left.

eventually, the three of you joined the men in the pool, laughter and screams erupted from each other’s lips as you splashed at each other all afternoon long. after the sky began to turn a shade of tangerine-orange, however, the party was soon called to an end.

your older cousins had disappeared somewhere upstairs, a majority of the guests all thanking your uncle for the party as they ventured away in their ford trucks and honda’s.

your father and uncle were conversing about whatever inside the house, while you leisurely laid underneath a baby-pink towel on the lawn.

“hey,” a familiar velvet, resonant voice called out from above you.

laying on your back, you pulled down your raven-black square-shaped sunglasses just to fight back a gasp.

there was miguel, of course, standing above you with an amicable smile on his full, pink lips. his abs were regrettably concealed by a baggy, white shirt. he was still wearing the maroon-colored shorts, but now there was an obvious, huge tent in them.

diós mio. you were sure from his smirk he noticed how your neck bobbled as you swallowed. he moved toward your side, crouching as you rested up on your elbows to meet his eyes.

"you tanning?" he questioned, an eyebrow raised as his eyes drifted towards the becoming sunset.

"drying off," you shrugged. "i'm working with what i got here."

he chuckled, before his eyes found themselves glancing at your father and uncle. he got up on his feet, the sudden action causing you to get up yourself.

"you're leaving already?" you slightly pouted, an act you didn't realize you were committing but an act that miguel's eyes refused to unrecognize.

"party's over, cariña," he uttered, his fingers slipping a piece of loose hair behind your ear. "and your dad and i got work in the morning."

"i know," you whispered. miguel's rich voice whispered back little shh, shh, shh's, the same fingers trailing from your ear down to your chin. he held your gaze, his eyes narrowing while your own pair softened.

"no te pongas así, mamita," he purred. don't be like that. "what's got you upset, hm?"

"i'm not upset," you let a little laugh escape through your teeth. "i'm just used to seeing you around now."

"yeah?" miguel puffed his own laughter out through his lips. "don't worry, nena. you'll see me around more."

"really?" your eyes twinkled. he playfully flicked your chin before he smoothly pulled away.

"really," he parroted. his towering frame strode toward's his navy-blue chevrolet truck. "tell your dad i said thanks for inviting me. see you, chamaca."

"bye," you waved off, watching him get into his truck as he drove off.

your dad came out from behind you, his hand shutting the glass door behind him shut.

"hey, amor. ready to go home?"

that night, after your long shower, you laid peacefully still on top of your bubblegum-pink silk bedsheets. your hands were rested on your slightly bare stomach while your legs were crossed.

you thought about the events from today. the party, your cousins' gossip, miguel.

miguel.

the memory of his abs shining from the sunshine, his bare shoulders and chest, his hardened print protruding from his swim-trunks.

you couldn't help it. it was all too much.

you didn't realize when your fingers started to trail downward, the tips of your nails trimming the pear-white lacy ending of your olive-black cami-silk top. your fingers slipped underneath your matching silk shorts, a quiet gasp escaping your lips.

the thought of miguel left you soaked, your mind racing with the reminders of the little nicknames he gave you, the way his voice deepened when he spoke to you.

your fingers traced the growing bud that was between your thighs. little breaths left your mouth as you circled around it, carefully applying pressure as you did.

blood rushed to your ears, your cheeks glowing in a hue of rosy-pink as your eyes squeezed shut. your thighs spread wider, your fingers rubbing faster as your unoccupied hand pulled down your cami top to let your tits be hardened by your room's cool air.

your mind was racing with pictures of you and miguel. you thought about his lips on yours, your hips sitting on his lap while his hands caressed your side. you thought about his mouth on your tits, the way he'd groan and curse when your cunt squeezed around his cock.

"coño," he'd whisper in your ear. "como una pinche zorra."

harder, you'd rubbed. your other hand raised up to play with your tits, your bottom lip caught between your teeth as a beg to yourself to not make any noise.

it didn't take long for you to unravel; slipping your middle and ring finger inside of you, your eyes went lax as your lips formed a little 'o'-shape. you pretended they were miguel's cock instead, his dick fucking roughly into you as he filled you up completely.

"take it," you pictured him growling to you. "eres mía."

"eres tuyo," you'd whine, your body going rigid as you came around your fingers. your chest heaved as deep breaths puffed out your lips, your thighs fluttering as you came down from your high. pulling your fingers out from you, you saw how they were coated with a mixture of an iridescent-shine and an eggshell-white cream.

fuck.

you didn't realize how bad it would hurt.

since your first trimester of your second year in college began, you've found yourself talking to this boy from your english class. he was sweet, of course, the boy taking the time to court you with baby breath flowers and two tickets to watch priscilla. you thought all was good, even taking the time to get dressed in a cute two-piece outfit; a linen-white skirt and cropped-vest top which you styled with a white bow in your hair, ankle socks, and some academia-inspired onyx-black loafers.

you found out just this morning, however, that he'd gone back to his ex.

you should've know. you should've know since he mentioned he just got out of a relationship, how he couldn't stop talking about his ex for fifteen minutes straight. but he was so sweet, so you overlooked the possibility of him seeing you as just a rebound.

so of course, it stung.

walking home, you opened the front door with tears prickling in your waterlines as you were consumed in your thoughts.

"hey, chamaca," you heard a voice call out from your dining room, but you were too distraught to even face the owner. you plopped your bag down near the sofa, rushing to your room as the same tears threatened to fall.

"chamaca?"

you practically jumped on your bed, not even bothering to kick off your shoes or unclip the bow which was stabbing the back of your head. you sobbed, your arms cradling your cotton-soft lacy trimmed pillow as you buried your face into it. faintly, you could hear rushed footsteps approaching your door, the sound suddenly halting before they resumed their way to you.

"oh, nena. qué pasa?"

you felt a dip on your bed beside you, a sudden warmth masking you as you felt yourself being rolled onto your back. through your watercolor eyes, you could see the silhouette of a familiar figure with broad shoulders and that signature pushed back, somewhat curtain-styled chestnut-brown hair.

"miguel," you hiccuped, letting yourself be pulled into the man's lap as his strong arms held you.

"what's wrong, baby?" he let slip, the affection going unnoticed by either of you. "what's got you crying?"

"a boy," you cried. "why are you here, where's my dad?"

"your dad's at the corner store and he told me to wait here until you got back safely. now tell me, a boy hurt you?"

"mhm," you whimpered. "he left me for his ex. i thought we were so good."

"i know," he soothed. his arms rocked you seamlessly, the action bringing him memories of him from a different life. "let it out, chiquita."

for a beat, you allowed yourself to be calmed in miguel's thighs, his arms lulling you to sleep as he hummed sweet lullabies to you. your tears subsided, your breath evening out as your heavy gasps came to a stop.

"i just wished they wouldn't leave me," you confessed, your voice minimized to a whisper. "no matter what i do, no matter what i give them, it's never enough."

miguel's rocking ceased.

you peered up at him, your doe, watery eyes pierced into his softened eyes. "please don't leave," you begged him, your wobbly, clear-gloss coated lips pleated. "i don't want you to leave."

for miguel, looking down at the little bunny in his lap; your cheeks warmed from crying and your body shaking in his lap, his answer came from that of his utmost sincerity.

"i won't leave, cariña."

"you promise?"

without missing a beat, "te prometo."

#miguel x you #atsv miguel #miguel spiderverse #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara #spiderman 2099 #miguel spiderman

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