#but at least I moved on from attempted self drownings to just constant terror and attempted exorcisms!

[goldkirk]

anyway, when I was a kid I tried to perform a lot of demon exorcisms on myself. I had tried every other way to cleanse myself of the evil neurodivergence, queerness, and other sinful aspects of my being and my conclusion was I must’ve been possessed and if I could just get myself free then I’d be good enough and stop being in trouble and stop HAVING so much trouble feeling holy feelings and thinking approved thoughts. I was like 13

[iliveiloveiwrite]

Bloom // H.P.

Summary: Healing doesn't happen overnight. It’s a process that can take months, if not, years to come to terms with. It’s been five years since the Battle of Hogwarts and the end of the Second Wizarding War. Harry finally feels ready to confront feelings that have long been sat, growing unattended in the recesses of his mind and soul.

A/N: This was inspired by the made-up fic title that I did a few weeks ago. I got so stuck on this, I couldn't get any further, but inspiration somewhat struck and here we are. I know this is long, but I am so so proud of this, I would love some interaction with this. Take a chance, please.

Warnings: feelings of sadness, grief, worthlessness, more visits to graveyards, talks of death. This sounds dark, and parts are, but there is so much fluff and comfort and pining in this.

Word count: 9.4k

Harry’s Flat, London, England, October.

For the fourth night this week, sleep evades him. Deciding to surrender this particular battle, Harry sits up in bed and reaches for his glasses on the bedside table.

With clearer vision, he turns to the digital clock next to where he places his glasses. He hangs his head in his hands when he reads the time. not even two hours of sleep before he awoke; his mind unwilling to alleviate him long enough for him to fall into a dreamless sleep.

He supposes it could be a good thing, or at least, that’s what he tells himself as he throws the covers off his body and swings his legs out of bed. As he sits on the edge of his bed, Harry gives himself a moment.

He gives himself only a single moment to give into the tidal wave threatening to drown him. A single moment simply to feel everything before he packs it all away into corresponding drawers in his mind.

A heavy sigh leaves him as he plods into the living room and through to the kitchen. As he boils the kettle, he thinks of you and your ingrained belief that everything can be put to rights over a cup of tea.

Settling in the living room, he grabs the remotes for the television. Turning it on, he switches the volume to mute, not wanting loud noises, but rather the comfort of monotonous moving pictures. Harry cannot tell what the programme is; a muggle show dedicated to archaeology, he thinks, but he pays it little mind.

He runs a hand down his face; feeling the tiredness deep within his bones. The insomnia had started in the months after the end of the war; beginning with repetitive nightmares in which he would suffer through the deaths of his friends countless times before being awoken by the sounds of his own screams. From there, it shifted into a fear of sleep, a terror of closing his eyes and seeing Hermione’s or Ron’s lifeless bodies. He knows – he knows they are alive and well, but the fear remains.

He wonders how long he’ll continue to feel like this should do nothing; how long he will deal with the sleepless nights and the nightmares that greet him when he does close his eyes.

However, as he watches the soundless pictures play on the television, he cannot help but feel an urge to get better. To do better and to be better in all that he does. At the age of eighteen, he defeated the darkest wizard to have ever walked the earth in the last century. At the age of twenty three, five years later, he feels close to laughter that he has let his life come to this.

But no-one warned him of the aftermath of the war. No-one readied him for the feelings of guilt that twists his stomach; leaving him unable to eat. No-one explained to him just how long the nightmares would last; seeing the faces of those that fell at the battle of Hogwarts and before as he tries and tries to dream of happy things.

Harry’s bottom lip begins to wobble. The tears won’t fall. It’s been years, Harry thinks, since he had cried in earnest.

As Harry sits on his couch for the fourth night that week, he readies himself to start putting his life back together again.

The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon, October.

The Burrow had always, to Harry at least, been a place full of happy memories. The home of the Weasley family physically exuded warmth and happiness. To put it bluntly, it was Harry’s safe haven; the place he could go where he would find no judgement for his state of sleeplessness or lack of appetite. He would catch Molly watching him worriedly, but she knew not to press, and for that, he was thankful. To appease her worries, or at least to lessen them slightly, he visits the Weasley matriarch once a week.

Immediately, Harry is wrapped up in hug after hug. Molly keeping her hands on Harry’s cheeks as she moves his head side to side, getting a good look at him. She clamps her lips together to keep the frown from forming on her face; worry rises in her gut, but she does not voice it.

The food cooking on the stove has Harry’s mouth watering as he walks through the kitchen to the large table in the dining area. There, he finds your eyes. They remain on the door as he walks through, as if you knew it wouldn’t be long before he entered.

“Mate,” Ron greets; pushing a drink into Harry’s hand. Harry nods at Ron, taking a swig of his drink before smiling at Hermione.

He moves to sit next to you; wanting nothing more than to sit by your side so he can tell his plan of which he came up with by himself. All around him conversation continues as if he had never walked in in the first place. He supposes that’s bit big-headed of him to think, but as he looks around those he classes as his family, he comes to realisation that they’ve all started to move on.

It hits him then and there; just how terrified he is of being left behind.

“How have you been?” You ask; voice gentle and caring as you lean into him.

Harry smiles at you; spooning vegetables onto his plate but feeling no pangs of hunger. “You just saw me last week,” Harry reminds in humour; his attempt at avoiding the twinges of fear ravaging his gut.

You roll your eyes, “That means it’s been a while since I’ve seen you. So, how have you been?”

Harry hears the meaning in your words; he hears the undercurrent of worry in your voice, and it only adds to the pit growing in his stomach. After his decision the other night, it was as if all the realisations hit him at once and he came to see just how much of a bad friend he had been to you all. He’d had been so caught up in his self-loathing that he failed to see just how much you were struggling with it all; he hadn’t even noticed that Ron and Hermione had also sought out help too.

Harry nods; reaching for his knife and fork, “I’ve been okay.”

Even he can hear the lie in his voice, and it makes him sick to his stomach. Thankfully, you don’t address it. You simply nod; patting his hand twice before turning your attention to your own meal.

Cutlery scrapes on plates as happy conversation lightens the atmosphere. It isn’t mentioned, but it is there – the absence of Fred’s laughter and his smile, the pointed comments, and his love for his mother. It is there, and it only adds to the guilt pooling in Harry’s stomach and invading his bloodstream.

It’s as if you sense it; as if you sense Harry starting to spiral, his thoughts turning to that dark place that he so often finds himself in. It’s as if you know; changing the hand in which your fork sits to free up your other hand so you can take Harry’s under the table and squeeze. A silent reminder if there is any.

I’m here, you remind him, I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.

Harry squeezes back; unable to do or say anything else, meeting Arthur Weasley’s pained eyes from across the table, and beginning to wish that he had in fact done and said more.

At the age of eighteen years old, harry defeated the darkest wizard in a century. Yet, he had lost a friend he had classed as a brother, and now finds it hard to look Molly and Arthur in the eye.

There is a lapse in conversation and Harry slips his hand free of yours, needing to leave the room before the guilt he’s sitting in drowns him. He smiles apologetically at each Weasley, eyes lingering on the empty chair across from George and promptly leaves the room.

The night air is cold against Harry’s bare arms as he sits on one of the many benches littering the Weasley’s gardens. It’s so cold that his breath is coming out in white puffs, but he doesn’t feel the need to fetch his coat. In fact, he would rather feel the cold against his skin. It reminds him that he’s alive and that he’s breathing. It reminds him of those are who no longer living.

He stiffens at the sounds of footsteps behind him; his hand immediately reaching for his wand kept in his back pocket.

Harry relaxes somewhat when he realises it was you who followed him outside, and not Ron or Hermione. He doesn’t turn, but he smiles when he hears you swear quietly, having tripped on a rogue stone.

You sigh as you sit down on the bench next to him; rubbing at your sore knee.

“How are you not freezing?” You ask; rubbing at your clothed arms, not happy with the chill seeping through to your bones.

Harry releases a breath; it puffs white, “I don’t feel it.”

You raise an eyebrow; running a finger over his arm which is covered in goosebumps, “I beg to differ.”

Harry doesn’t reply; he flashes a smile your way before returning his attention to the night sky and all that he can see of what the Weasley’s own. For a few minutes, no words are spoken between you both. Sinking into a silence that could only be described as comfortable; he doesn’t feel the constant need to reassure you that he’s okay. You check in on him every now and then, but no true pestering takes place.

Truthfully, Harry basks in your attention. He rather likes the fact that you do make a fuss of him when you check in on him because he’s sure that without you, he would be doing a lot worse than the nightmares and insomnia.

Breaking the silence, you broach the subject of Harry’s health, “Harry, can I give you the name and number of my therapist? I’ve made real progress since working with her, and I think you will too.”

Harry smiles at you; feeling grateful for your help but feeling like an awful friend for shaking his head and declining your offer. “I just… I don’t feel ready yet to speak to someone.”

You nod your head, “I get that, but Harry, it’s been five years since the end of the war, and you know how I worry.”

He nods, letting the conversation collapse into nothing in front of him. This is the time, he realises, to tell you his plans for getting better that don’t involve divulging his deepest and darkest secrets to a stranger, even if they are a trained professional.

“I have a favour to ask you,” Harry prompts, “And I’ll understand if you say no.”

“If I can help you, Harry, I’ll do anything.”

“I don’t want to speak to anyone, not yet at least, but I do want to start moving on.”

“So what’s the favour?” You ask; your curiosity piqued with his mystery.

“I want to visit the places where things have happened, whether they’re good or bad. I want to go back, and I want to see them in a different light.”

“That,” You pause; thinking of your next words, “That sounds like a really good idea, Harry. Where do I come into it though?”

Harry smiles at you sheepishly; running a hand through his forever messy hair. “I want you to come with me,” He states as plain as day.

“What?”

“I’d like for you to come with me,” Harry amends, “I don’t think I can do this on my own.”

“What about Ron or Hermione? I’m sure they would help.”

Harry shakes his head, “They’re both so busy, and they’re starting their lives together. I don’t want to dredge up bad memories for either of them if I can help it.”

You sigh, picking at an invisible thread on your sleeve, “How were you thinking of doing this? I have to work too, you know. Not everyone can inherit a fortune, Potter.”

Harry blinks, letting your words settle before a small smile breaks across his face, “You’d come with me?”

“Harry,” You start, “I don’t think there was any chance of me saying no to you. If I can help you in any way, I can. I’m always here for you.”

The familiar burn of tears starts at the back of his throat. Harry has to avert his eyes; glancing up at the night sky as he swallows past the lump in his throat. He should have known you would say yes; you’ve been by his side for everything since Third Year, but the small voice in the back of his mind had him doubting whether you would.

“Thank you,” He whispers eventually.

“So,” You begin, “Where too first?”

Grimmauld Place, Islington, London, November.

Upon the untimely death of Harry’s godfather, Sirius Black, the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix had been passed down to Harry through Sirius’ will. Sirius had no children for the house to go to, but Harry was as good as.

Standing on a residential street in Islington, you watched as the house appeared as if from nowhere. Appearing amongst number eleven and number thirteen as if it had always been there; as if it was part of the furniture at this point.

Thick dust covers each and every surface. Simply opening the door sends a cloud of dust into your face; leaving you coughing and sneezing as Harry battles the enchantments placed upon the home after the death of Albus Dumbledore.

Turning your gaze to Harry, you could remember the last time you had stepped foot in the ancestral home of the house of Black. It hadn’t been long after Sirius’ death; Harry’s gut-wrenching screams still echoing in your ears as you had bundled him up in any blankets you could find and sat him down at the kitchen table.

He hadn’t spoken much; he hadn’t even cried. Instead, his face set in steely determination, his desperate need to avenger his godfather overriding any common sense. That night, instead of comforting him and drying his eyes, it had been argument after argument, trying to make Harry see sense.

It took hours; the both of you tired not only from the arguing but from the grief sitting on your shoulders. It took hours, but Harry eventually agreed with you, choosing to sit back and wait for the right moment instead of lunging headfirst into attack that would surely get him killed.

Memory after memory washes over you, dragging you into its grips. If the memories are this strong for you, it was not hard to imagine how it must be for Harry.

You focus your attention on him, watching him warily as he wanders further down the hallway, heading for the kitchen where you still expect to hear Sirius’ raucous laugh despite years having passed since his death.

“How are you feeling?” You ask; running a finger across the now clean surface of the kitchen table.

Harry releases a shuddering breath. “I thought,” He starts, “I thought by coming here it would help me come to terms with Sirius and what happened in the Department of Mysteries but being here simply makes me hate his family more.”

“What makes you say that?”

Harry gestures to the large room. “He hated being here. He despised being locked up in the house that he left at sixteen, but he wanted to help the Order, so he stayed here and let it be used as the headquarters.”

“That… That is a very noble thing to do,” You murmur, eyes fixed on the man in front of you, taking in his tight fists and clenched jaw.  

Harry laughs without humour, “The noble house of Black.”

Silence lapses and the tension in the room only increases. Biting your lip, you can only think that this was the wrong thing to do, that this is only pushing Harry further away instead of helping him come to terms with the last years of his life.

“We can leave, Harry,” You remind him, “We can leave right now and do this another day, when you’re more ready.”

He shakes his head, shaking himself out of his funk but also steadfastly refusing to go. He’s made this far; he’ll see it through to the end. He throws you a smile; it doesn’t reach his eyes and your heart cracks a little.

Holding a hand out to you, Harry states, “Come with me, I want to show you something.”

The room he enters is one he has told you about countless times; describing it with so much detail that as you enter the room behind him you feel as if you’ve already been inside.

It cannot be denied that the tapestry is nothing short of piece of art. It cannot be ignored that the depth of detail to the Black family tree is not breathtaking, but at the same time it is so utterly heartbreaking to see the scorch marks litter the walls. The consequence of turning against one’s own family, you think as you step further into the room, taking in its beauty but also its darkness.

“The noble house of Black,” Harry spits, gesturing to four walls, pointing at each scorch mark before settling on the one that once showed the portrait of his beloved godfather.

“He got out,” He states brokenly, “He left his blood family to live with his found family. He had a life ahead of him. He had my father, he had Remus. He had his family, and it was all taken away in one night. In one night, Sirius lost his best friend and then his freedom.

“And all I feel when I think about Sirius is anger. At how he was treated. He was good, (Y/N),” Harry states, his tone pleading, full of emotion, “He was good, and he was treated like shit. His real family didn’t care but his found family did and then he lost all of it.”

“He found you, Harry,” You remind him, “Sirius found you. You didn’t have half as long with him than what you should have, but he made sure to be involved in your life. After the Triwizard Tournament and you had come back with Cedric, Sirius would not leave your side in the hospital. I remember seeing him every morning and he would stay every night. He loved you, Harry – remember that.”

“And what did I do?” Harry laughs, “I got him killed. Some godson I am.”

“Harry, you are not to blame for Sirius’ death.”

He scoffs, disbelief and derision echoing off the walls. You stalk over the green eyed man, your determination growing with every step. You grab his face in both your hands, bringing his face to your level, “Listen to me, Potter. Are you listening?”

He nods, eyes wide and voice silent.

“Good,” You smirk before turning serious. “You are not to blame for Sirius’ death. He knew what was happening in the Department of Mysteries. He knew that there was a chance he was not going to come out of there alive and he still went in to find you, to protect you.”

“If I had paid more attention to what Voldemort showed me though… I could have figured out it was fake…”

You shake your head, “You were a sixteen year old boy, barely trained in occlumency and legilimency. You weren’t to know that what you had seen was fake. All you saw, Harry, was someone you care about being tortured. You acted on instinct.”

“Foolish instinct,” He argues.

You roll your eyes, “Not foolish at all. More brave than foolish.”

Harry remains silent; letting your words sink into his skin, binding them to his bones. It isn’t going to be as simple as one speech and all is forgiven, it is going to take time to forgive himself for the death of his godfather. There is always going to be an element of himself that believes strongly that he was the cause of Sirius’ death; if he hadn’t acted so rashly, if he had stopped to think things through, to go over exactly what Voldemort had shown him, Harry might have been able to delay Sirius’ death.

If, if, if.

If, if, if. He repeats that word; hindsight is a wonderful thing. If he had done this, if he had done that. Hindsight was going to be the death of him.

Harry focuses his attention back on you and the warmth of your hands on either side of his face. Gently, Harry places his hands on top of yours, “Can you let go of me now?”

You smile before pursing your lips, pretending to think through the answer. “I don’t know,” You ponder, “Are you going to continue to argue with me?”

“Probably,” Harry admits, “But I’m ready to go now.”

Harry lets his hands drop from yours, his eyes running over your face before stepping back. Your hands drop to your sides, clenching as if they wished to be touching him some more. His face feels cold now that you’ve let him go, as if all the warmth his body carried was in your hands.

“Do you think you’ll come back?” You ask, unable to help yourself.

Harry pauses, closing the door to the Black family tree behind him. He looks up and down the hallway; thinking of the memories he has cherished over the years. He had Sirius in his life for far shorted than he deserved, but he had Grimmauld Place to help him discover the man he idolised.

Meeting your stare, he nods. “I think I will eventually.”

Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scottish Highlands, December.

It didn’t matter how long it had been since your last visit; it didn’t matter how long it had been since you roamed the corridors of the place you once considered your second home, seeing Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry rise out of the Scottish Highlands would never be something you could get used to.

From your spot in Hogsmeade, you can just make out the turrets of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw towers. Slight unease spreads through your chest as you think back to the last time you had been at the school; still a student, hurling curses and jinxes at any Death Eater that happened by you.

Reflexively, you curl your hands into fists, your fingernails biting into the soft flesh of your palms. You gasp slightly as the pain; your mind becoming clearer and your focus becoming sharper. Harry’s hand takes yours; unfurling your fingers and replacing them with him, tangling your hands together.

“(Y/N), are you okay?”

You take a deep breath; mentally working through the exercises given to you by your therapist,. Shakily, you smile at Harry, “I’m okay, Harry, don’t worry about me. How are you feeling?”

His eyebrows furrow as he squeezes your hand. “I’ll always worry about you,” He says gently before continuing, “I’ll be okay though. I have you.”

You smile weakly; letting yourself be led through the well-worn path from Hogsmeade to the school. Small conversation is made; Harry bringing up happier memories of your education at the magical castle. The time when Ron received a Howler from his mother; the time when Hermione punched Draco Malfoy in the face.

Happier times now turned to memories; each one tinted with age.

Hogwarts soon looms in front of you both. Harry’s hand tightens on yours, fingers squeezing to the point of cutting off blood flow as he leads you into the grounds of the school.

It feels like coming home, but it also feels like facing your worst enemy. The Battle of Hogwarts had been hard on everyone who found themselves there; it had been hard for students and teachers. You would never forget the screams and the sound of breaking stone. It would be a long while until the sight of dead bodies could be scrubbed from your mind.

“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall greets from the stairs; voice warm and fond, “To what do we the pleasure of this visit with Miss (Y/L/N)?”

“I was hoping to walk the school and its grounds for a bit, Professor. If you don’t mind, that is. I’m trying to get better,” Harry states; sincerity ringing in his voice so much so that even McGonagall looked to be taken aback by his words.

She nods; finding her voice but needing to clear her throat first of all the emotion he had brought up, “Of course, Potter. Take as long as you need.”

Harry smiles at the beloved Professor gratefully, stretching out a hand towards you. You take it, resisting the urge to tangle your fingers together as Harry leads you to the Great Hall. “Where do you want to start?” You ask; eyes scanning the familiar walls, lingering on the Gryffindor table.

“I don’t know,” Harry admits, sounding lost as his eyes dance around the repaired room.

“It’s strange for me too,” You whisper, voice loud in the cavernous hall.

“It was entirely destroyed,” Harry recalls, sweeping his gaze over the large wall of windows by the Ravenclaw table.

You hope up on the closest table, crossing your legs as you watch Harry work through it all in his mind. He hadn’t been in the hall too long, but even that was long enough to have to branded into your memories.

“The tables were pushed back against the wall,” He states, gesturing to both walls before sweeping his hands above the floor, “And bodies were laid out on the floor, resting on blankets and towels,” Harry turns towards the staff table, pointing to a flagstone just in front of it, “That was where Fred laid – Molly and George crying over his body,” Harry spins, his finger now pointing back in the direction of the Ravenclaw table, “Remus and Tonks rested there. Teddy, my Godson, now an orphan… like me.”

“So many lives lost,” He whispers brokenly; eyes lined with tears that won’t fall, no matter how sad or broken he feels.

You slip off the table, going to his side and clutching his hand. “We lost a lot that day,” You whisper, “There isn’t a person here who doesn’t feel that same loss, Harry.”

“I was terrified of finding you laid out in the Great Hall,” Harry admits though not for his own good; he’s coming too close to admitting his feelings for you, but this is something he had never told a living soul, and he would be damned if he wasn’t going to tell you.

“What?” You ask, all thoughts emptying out of your head as you focus on Harry entirely.

“I was terrified of finding you in the Great Hall. I was so scared that I even hesitated at the door, wondering whether to walk in or walk away. I have dealt with a lot, and will continue to deal with a lot, but if there is one thing I cannot cope with the idea of, it is you hurt or worse,” He takes a deep breath, “The Battle of Hogwarts brought that out of me.”

“I’m here, Harry,” You reassure, “I’m here and I’m whole.”

“I know that now, but then I didn’t and even thinking of it drives me close to madness.”

“I wouldn’t leave without saying anything,” You laugh, “You know that Harry.”

Harry laughs, but there’s no heart to it. “I have you now, that’s something.”

Your heart skips a beat; thudding in your chest so loud you believe that it is entirely possible that Harry could hear it pounding away in your chest. You lean in, hiding your face in Harry’s shoulder – a rare moment of tenderness from both of you. Harry’s hand slips from yours to wrap around your waist, holding you to his body.

Hiding your smile in Harry’s shoulder, you murmur as loud as you dare, “You have me now, Harry. You have me forever.”

Neither of you make it further around the grounds of the castle; sticking to its interiors, wandering the corridors when students are firmly placed in classrooms, not wanting to be a distraction to their education.

Harry’s words continue to play through your mind; how he would not be able to cope if he lost you too. It makes this all more important for you, helping him come to terms with what he has experienced in such a short amount of time.

However, a small part of you rejoices in his admission, the words echoing in your head with a hint of hope. A hope that Harry may feel the same as you after all.

Hogwarts is left with a wave to McGonagall and a promise to write soon. Harry’s muscles relax the further he gets from the castle; the tension leeching away as he breathes in fresh air and Hogsmeade comes into view. He adored Hogwarts; it was his home, but he had to admit that it would be a while before he could face the whole castle without wanting to scream at the walls.

It’s a start however, Harry thinks as he grabs your hands and apparates the two of you back to his flat. It’s a start, he thinks, and now for the rest of it.

Little Hangleton, England, January.

Little Hangleton resides six miles from its paired village Great Hangleton. Little Hangleton was very much a village that was powered through gossip; the rumour mill only grew upon the deaths of the Riddle family. By the time an arrest had been made, the town had become judge, jury and executioner – sentencing poor Frank Bryce to a life of social exclusion even after being proven innocent.

Little Hangleton is made up of one main high street; five or six shops with a pub near the middle. It has a small village green where the local cricket team likes to practice every Saturday morning. It isn’t an extraordinary village; plain in comparison to other dwellings, but it’s history with the Riddle family would go down in wizarding lore until the end of days.

Harry continues to hold onto your hand long after you apparate into the village, landing in side street rather than in the high street as not to attract too much attention from the villagers. You refuse to be the first to let go; admitting to yourself that you rather like the way his hands fits in yours, how it feels like a steady anchor holding you in place.

Taking one look at the dark haired man next to you, you knew in your gut that this was going to be a hard day for him. Harry doesn’t talk about his nightmares often, but form what he has told you, this picturesque village features enough that you can see the tension line Harry’s jawline.

Nudging his shoulder, you smile softly, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry’s hand tightens on yours. He doesn’t reply verbally; nods his head and focuses on finding his destination. He can’t verbalise his gratefulness; he cannot put it into words just what this means to him because Harry is fairly certain there are no words to cover the scope of what he feels for you in this very moment.

He knew he was asking a lot of you to keep doing this; to visit these places and relive his darkest times with him. He knew it affected you more than you admitted, but he still was selfishly grateful you choose to come every time.

He thinks that he wouldn’t have been as half as productive with his feelings if it wasn’t for you. Harry’s feelings for you only having grown through these visits; he remains in awe of you, as he always has been, but now he can no longer deny himself the depth of his love for you. To deny himself that would be a grievous crime.

However, even Harry is aware that he is nowhere ready to confront the idea of a relationship. In the last few months, he has only been able to accept that Sirius’ death and your injuries at the Battle of Hogwarts were not his fault.

He has to keep working on himself; he has to keep healing so he can be worthy of a love like his parents had.

So for now, Harry is more than content to hold your hand with each apparition, to savour the way your hand fits in his perfectly and how each squeeze of your fingers sets his heart racing.

For now, Harry is happy to remain in the throes of puppy love, but still eager for the day when he can proclaim his love for you in the hopes that you feel the same.

Such thoughts are thrown out of his head when his eyes catch the sign for graveyard. His steps falter, before coming to a brief stop by the sign. Your free hand touches his arm and Harry turns to you, seeing the question reflected in your eyes.

“Are you ready?” He asks, voicing the unspoken question.

You nod, “Ready when you are.”

The graveyard looks just as it did all those years ago; dark and miserable.

You shiver as Harry pushes open the creaky metal gate. He holds the gate open for you out of politeness, but he does not return your smile of gratitude. Harry keeps his facial expression neutral as he turns to face the memories that still plague him all these years later.

His eyes run over the gravestones as he puts one wary foot in front of the other. You follow behind him timidly, footsteps slower as you too read over the names written in marble, granite, limestone.

It doesn’t take long to find the place. Harry’s feet take him there automatically despite the fact that the last time he was here, he had been apparated in and did not walk out.

The Reaper stands proudly among the gravestones; his scythe crossed against his body in readiness. Harry stills, coming to a stop in front of it. He tilts his face; staring into the faceless stone hood of the figure that had him trapped like prey all those years ago.

Harry doesn’t turn from the figure as he points directly behind him. “That is where he killed Cedric,” He states bluntly, hearing the thud the Hufflepuff’s body made as he landed lifeless at Harry’s side.

Your eyes leave Harry; body tensing as you make eye contact with the patch of grass that would be the last thing to touch Cedric’s body.

Harry finally turns; gaining control of the anger and upset that had been raging in his body since landing at the graveyard gates. He needs to approach this carefully; he needs to approach all of this carefully, so he doesn’t fall back into the dark pit he found himself in months ago.

Harry gestures to the centre of the small copse and then to the Reaper, “That is where I had to watch as Voldemort rose again.”

“Oh Harry…” You whisper, voice breaking as you say his name.

Harry’s eyes shutter closed, and his bottom lip begins to wobble. He had been fourteen years old; he had not had his first kiss and yet, he had to duel the darkest wizard to have been produced in a century.

“I thought I was going to die that night,” He confesses after a moment; opening his eyes to once again focus on the faceless depiction of Death himself. “I thought I was going to die, and there was nothing I could do about it.”

Resolve steels your nerves and once again, your feet find their way to Harry.

“You did make it out, Harry. You made it out alive.”

“Two of us went in, (Y/N).”

“It can’t be ignored,” You start, “Cedric’s death was an utter tragedy; completely unexpected and blindsided everyone in the school, but you cannot blame yourself for this, Harry. Cedric died at the hands of a madman – not you.”

“I could have done something!” He screams, finally losing all grip on his temper, “I should have done something. Instead, as Wormtail murdered Cedric, all I did was shout his name as if it was going to help. I did nothing, I as good as murdered him.”

Breath leaves your body in one fell swoop; you had never seen Harry like this. He runs both hands through his hair in frustration as he tries to get a hold on his temper, reigning it in. You remain silent as Harry works to control himself; you watch him pace the small copse, flattening the green grass under his feet.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers, breaking the silence, “I didn’t mean to shout at you.”

“Harry,” You sigh, “I am more than capable of handling you shouting at me.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong though, and I just take everything out on you.”

You laugh, short and sweet, “I think this is the first time you’ve ever shouted at me, Potter.”

He smiles though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I try not to make a habit of shouting at my friends,” Harry states, throwing you a look that states the obvious.

Wringing your hands together, you brace yourself for your next words. Meeting Harry’s stare, fixing your gaze on him, you politely demand, “Tell me more about that night, Harry.”

So he does.

It comes rushing out of him in a torrent; words flying so fast that his speech gets muddled up and he sometimes has to say his sentences again. For so long he has been holding this in; there are very few people who know what happened that night in this very graveyard and out of those, many are dead or imprisoned so Harry has been left to deal with the pain.

It feels like a confession. It feels as if he is seeking forgiveness from his crimes; seeking repentance from a priest of his choosing because he needs to get it out, he needs to know whether penance is possible for the sins committed that night.

Harry feels as if a weight is being lifted off his chest as he tells you about duelling Voldemort and the spell that had taken place beforehand. Harry seeks solace in your comforting gaze and reassuring smile as his voice breaks when he speaks of his parents, not having seen them in any physical form since that night with the Mirror of Erised.

Once he starts, he finds it hard to stop. He stutters over his feelings over Cedric’s death, pausing once in a while to let you interject a thought and for the first time since starting this exercise, since asking you to come along with him, Harry feels as if it is starting to work.

Eventually, his voice falls quiet as does his mind.

“How do you feel?” You ask; an expected question that accompanies each location visited.

Harry nods, “Better. Happy to have finally said what happened that night.”

“I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell you.”

“I trust you with my life,” He states honestly and plainly.

You bite your lip, averting your gaze to wander across the dark graveyard once more before finally turning to face Harry. “Are you ready?”

Harry nods: more than happy to leave this place and never return. What happened in Little Hangleton will always remain a heartbreaking tragedy; a life cruelly taken before it even got the chance to begin. The village would always be stained with such misfortune, but now, Harry feels that part of his life come to a close.  

As Harry reaches for your hand, readying himself to apparate you back to your flat, his heart soars at the words you utter with conviction.

“You’re a good man, Harry.”

--------

Landing back at his flat, Harry takes a seat on his couch and hangs in his head in his hands. He had dropped you off at your flat; needing to be alone to deal with the emotions that had been threatening to suffocate him from the inside out. Whilst Harry had accepted that he played no part in Cedric’s death, he still had to confront the magnitude of what had happened to himself.

It hits him all at once; the scale of what he had been through throughout his education. From the ages of eleven to eighteen, Harry hadn’t seen a school year through without injury or battle. It’s as he sits there that he realises the extent to which he was used by the headmaster he looked up to; used as a pawn to further the game of chess being played by Dumbledore and Voldemort.

The waves never cease; his parents, Sirius, Fred, Remus, Tonks, Mad-Eye Moody, and Cedric.

No tears fall; he isn’t sure he has the capacity to cry anymore. Tears haven’t fallen since they fell out relief for the end of the war, but out of sadness for the deaths of Fred, Remus, and Tonks.

Sitting on his couch, shivers overtake his body. His teeth chattering as he reaches for the blanket kept across the back of his couch, wrapping it around his shoulders. Harry bites back the scream that is slowly crawling up his throat; he pushes it down as he fights for control of his mind.

Collecting his thoughts, Harry comes to a conclusion.

He needs to return to where it all began.

Godric’s Hollow, West Country, England, March.

Spring blooms real and true, and Harry feels ready enough to return to Godric’s Hollow. Harry could count on one hand how many times he has stepped foot in the village his parents once called home. He had been born in Godric’s Hollow; at the end of July to two loving parents who adored him just as much as they adored each other.

Out of respect for James and Lily Potter – murdered at the age of twenty-one – the house in which they lived had never been repaired. The thatched roof remains caved in; a large hole in the middle of it, letting the elements now batter the house.

It had been twenty-two years since Harry had stepped foot inside the house he was born in. It had been five years since he stood outside of it with Hermione; only beginning to feel the grief for the parents he never truly knew.

It was this that had plagued Harry from the moment he turned eleven and arrived at Hogwarts. How does he grieve for those he never truly knew?

As crass as it is to say, Harry didn’t know his parents outside his need for food, comfort, and love. The memories of his mother and father are so clouded; he can no longer tell whether they are his own or whether he’s simply simulated a story told to him by family friends.

He was fifteen months old when they were murdered. He was fifteen months old and barely aware of his own shadow.

Whilst he hadn’t visited the house much – it being too painful to see the sight of his parent’s murder – he had visited their graves in the years that have passed.

With you in tow, Harry leads you down the worn, familiar path. He slows his pace every now and then; warning you of an upcoming dip that may make you lose your balance.

All too soon, however, you stand in front of the grave of James and Lily Potter.

Quietly, he asks, “How do I grieve my parents when I never knew them?”

Your heart breaks for him; unable to stop yourself, you wrap an arm around his waist offering any form of comfort you can. Shakily, you answer, “I guess you can mourn what could have been or you grieve the fact that they were so young. Either way, Harry, they’re never going to leave you.”

“I know that,” He whispers; gaze fixed on the grave of his parents, “All I know of them is what I’ve been told. I feel as if my memories have been tainted, and I know that they all mean well, but sometimes-”

He cuts himself off with a huff; kneeling down and drawing out his wand. Silently, Harry conjures a bouquet of Orchids, Chrysanthemums and Lilies and then bows his head in silent prayer, continuing to grieve the parents he would never know.

You place your hand on his shoulder, “Sometimes you what, Harry?”

He sighs, “Sometimes I wish they would stop. I was so young when they died – any memories I have of them are practically gone but sometimes I have these flashes. I have no idea whether they’re real or not, but I feel as if they are. Yet, when friends tell me stories of what it was like to go to school with them or to fight alongside them, it’s like they’re pushing they’re version of James and Lily Potter onto me. Does that make sense?”

Squeezing his shoulder, you answer, “It makes perfect sense. The James and Lily you knew is different from what Sirius knew or what McGonagall knew.”

“I just worry that the more stories I hear, the quicker I lose what I know of them.”

“I don’t think that’s possible, Harry.”

“You don’t?” He asks, shifting to his feet and facing you.

You shake your head, “I don’t. I think you’re going to remember your parents for the rest of your life; their morals and values make up yours, Harry. You might not think, but you are a lot more like them than you realise.”

Harry bows his head, feeling the familiar burn of tears at the back of his throat. He clamps his mouth shut, begging the feeling to go away. Quietly, almost ashamedly, Harry asks, “Do you think they would be proud of me?”

Then and there, your heart breaks, cleaving itself in two for the man standing before you. It’s the only dream of a child; to make their parents proud, but what about children who do not have parents – who grew up in a home that did not cherish them like it should have?

Silver lines your eyes; tears threatening to make an appearance as you reach for Harry’s hands, pulling him into a hug. Against his shoulder, you state with conviction, “They would be extremely proud of you, Harry. So proud of you it would shine out of them.”

Harry sniffles; ducking down somewhat to tuck his head against your neck, hiding his face in the junction between your neck and shoulder. From the outside, it looks as if two lovers are embracing, unable to keep their hands off the other for too long. However, you know that Harry is trying his best to maintain his composure, to try and gets to grips with the emotions that follow never knowing the ones who were supposed to raise you.

Minutes pass and neither of you move; neither of you willing to be the one to break this moment, but for the day to progress, you need to step away from the only man you have ever loved.

Releasing Harry, you send what you hope is a reassuring smile in his direction, “Come on, Harry,” You prompt, “Show me the rest of Godric’s Hollow?”

Framing it as a question, you offer Harry the choice. He is in control of this moment; h can choose whether he shows you the rest of the wizarding village or whether the two of you apparate back to his flat and spend the rest of the day mooching about.

Harry smiles: it’s watery, but fixed as he nods, stepping around you to lead you out of the graveyard.

Hands brush every now and then as the both of you wander back to the high street. A simple brush of hands, a simple twitch of fingers and your heart would start to race, practically shouting for Harry to take your hand and tangle your fingers together.

“I think I’m going to live here,” Harry murmurs; eyes scanning the high street.

“Are you sure?” You ask; worried not only for the fact that you may miss him while you remain in London, but also for any potential setback this may cause him.

Harry nods; his eyes now focused on a small café straight across the road from where you stand. He gestures towards it with an open hand, “Let me explain over some food.”

The bell above the door tinkles as you follow Harry inside. He chooses a table on the left hand side of the shop; sitting at the seat that faces the window and the door. It’s with stark realisation that you come to see that he’s chosen this exact spot so he can have eyes on each entrance and exit point.

You sigh as you sit across from him; old habits die hard, you guess.

Menus are placed in front of you by a teenaged witch looking as if she would rather be anywhere else but here. Her eyes widen slightly as she takes in Harry’s form; the menu in her hand shaking as she places it down before him.

You bite your lip to repress the ever-growing smile on your face as you watch the waitress grow flustered under Harry’s smile and green eyes. She walks away in a daze after having taken your drink orders – coffee for Harry, Yorkshire Tea for you.

You shake your head fondly at the young witches departing figure; noting how she bumps into numerous tables before making it safely to the kitchen. Harry follows your gaze, wanting to know what’s taken your attention from him, “What is it?”

You shift your gaze back to the wizard, “You still don’t see the effect you have on people, do you?”

Harry frowns; his hand reaching up to touch his forehead self-consciously. He had grown his hair longer in order to cover the scar that mars the centre of his forehead; his black hair now fell around his head in curls he didn’t know he had until you had found an old picture of his father. The glasses and the curls along with the smile that could melt even the coldest of hearts; he was the spit image of his father.

“Not your scar, Harry, nor your name. I meant how you look; you have to know you’re handsome.”

Blush paints Harry’s cheeks as your words settle. The last thing he expected from today was to be told he was attractive; least of all, from you. He’s never had the chance before; to act upon his feelings for you. He realised just what he felt for you at the end of Sixth Year, and then the war happened, and he absolutely refused to let anything happen to you. He couldn’t tell you his feelings for you should it put a target on your back, and if anything happened to you, he would never forgive himself.

He laughs, shaking his head, “You’re a flatterer.”

You hold your hands up in playful surrender, “Only speaking the truth. You’ll see it one day.”

“One day,” He promises; eyes earnest as they gaze into yours.

It’s too much; just like that, it’s too much and you have to avert your stare before you end up blurting your inner most thoughts and scaring him away for good. Clearing your throat, you wait for the teenage waitress to place your drinks in front of you before you change the subject, “Why do you want to move here?”

Harry shrugs, picking up his coffee and taking a long drink, thinking over his words. “I think,” He begins, “I want to be close to them, but I also want to start carving out my life properly and this place is so peaceful. It’s so peaceful and it’s beautiful. I think it’s one of those places that if I don’t move here now, I’ll still move later on.”

You nod, “I get that. It is gorgeous here.”

Harry hums, “I’d still be in London every week.”

“You’d commute?” You ask, puzzled in terms of train schedules.

Harry barks out a laugh that turns into silent shaking of his shoulders as the teenage waitress returns, her pad in hand as she waits for your food order. Harry continues to repress his laughter throughout his order. As the waitress walks away, you fix Harry with an unimpressed stare. “Are you going to let me in on the joke?”

Harry smiles at you; as in, he really smiles at you. He beams as he whispers somewhat in awe, “I love you. You’re one of the smartest witches I know, and you still forget about the fact that we can apparate.”

You reel back in your chair, knees knocking into the table as the air leaves your body in a single breath. “What? What did you say first?”

Harry’s smile, if possible, grows as he shrugs his shoulders, “I love you.”

“Since when?” You demand, wondering how on earth he could discuss something as important as this as nonchalantly as one would discuss the weather.

“Sixth Year,” He confesses, blush beginning to paint his cheeks.

“That long?” You ask, voice hushed, “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

Harry finally frowns, finger tracing the lip of his coffee cup, “There was a war, and then I wasn’t in the right frame of mind.”

Of course he wasn’t. Of course he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to confess his love for you, you admonish yourself. He had defeated the Dark lord and then had to cope with the survival guilt for years. It had only been in the last year that he finally let himself let go of the guilt surrounding the casualties of war.

“I love you too,” You admit, chewing on the inside of your cheek from nerves.

“You do?” Harry asks, about as breathless as you were when he confessed only moments ago.

“I do,” You confirm, smiling.

It isn’t much in the way of confessions, but the look on Harry’s face says it all. His green eyes remain bright and the smile wide on his face even as the waitress returns with your food. He looks as if no wrong could be done in that moment; the food could be the worst he has ever eaten but it wouldn’t matter.

You love him.

You love him as he loves you, and suddenly it all makes sense. His motivations through the war; not only wanting to rid the world of Voldemort but wanting to secure a safe future in which he can love you.

The food is eaten quickly; the both of you rushing to make it outside where you can talk more, and in private.

The bill is paid. The waitress wanders back to the till; stunned at the sight of Harry’s smile – and you couldn’t blame her.

Harry stands from his seat, reaching for his jacket and waiting patiently for you. Electricity thrums between you; holding promises of more to come, the headiness of it having you gripping the table tightly as you rise to your feet. One look at Harry’s face and you know he’s feeling it too.

Pausing outside the small café, you hold your hand out for Harry to take.

A soft breeze blows through Godric’s Hollow, disturbing your hair and the trees around you. Harry holds onto your hand tightly as the both of you begin to wander down the high street; the blossoms of the trees fluttering around you as they fall to the floor. Harry inhales deeply; the floral of the blossoms mixed with the sweetness of your perfume providing the perfect backdrop to his future.

Harry’s Flat, London, England, September.

Healing is a process. It is neither quick nor slow; it follows its own pace.

Through this process, Harry has realised that he is in fact getting better. He has his bad days; days where he seldom leaves his bedroom and refuses to stare at anything but the wall.

However, those days are becoming scarcer. Harry can sometimes go weeks before he has an episode that leaves him bedbound, and for that, he is proud of himself.

He doesn’t do it alone; he has you by his side through it all as you both prepare for the move to Godric’s Hollow. For both the good and the bad days.

********

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[anarchy-n-glitter]

Nothing to Fear

Summary: Lake County, Colorado 2011

Dr. Catarina Crane arrives at Mount Massive asylum to check on a patient who happened to be working there. She’s offered a job instead.

(Warnings: more uncomfortable flirting, minor stalking, gore, illegal experimentation)

CHAPTER 1

Chapter 2

Screams filled her ears and echoed in the halls. It was her work at its finest, though her victims probably wouldn’t agree. She was sure their cells had morphed into some hellish realm, with their worst fears surrounding them. One was screaming about spiders, which was amusing to Dr. Crane, and the other muttered about water. She was more intrigued by the water inmate.

He was huddled on his bed, looking down at the floor with wide, glassy eyes. He was sobbing, begging for help. She wondered how long it would take for him to realize the water wasn’t real. Another doctor was standing next to her, she was shorter than her, with long blonde hair and bright green eyes. She was young, and she just finished her residency at another nearby asylum. She was sweet, but Dr. Crane suspected that she wouldn’t last another few weeks. It almost felt like she didn’t know what she was getting into when she accepted the job.

Her name was Lillian Dawes, and she wouldn’t last longer than a year.

“Is that normal?” She asked, placing her hand on the glass and stepping closer. Dr. Crane grabbed her shoulder and gently pulled her away.

“I wouldn’t get too close, Dr. Dawes. I’ve seen people break through observation glass like it was nothing. Fear is such an interesting thing, but the mind can only take so much. Let’s see how long this’ll go on for.” Dr. Crane stated, watching intently as the man stood on his bed and reached for the ceiling. He was definitely panicking now, and he was calling for help.

“Shouldn’t we send someone in?” Lillian asked, clearly distrubed by the scene in front of her. Dr. Crane shook her head.

“No, check on the other subject.” She nodded and walked toward the other observation cell. The scene before her, however, was gruesome. Blood covered the walls of the cell as well as the floor. The man had clawed the skin off of his arms, and now he was laying on the floor unconscious. Lillian gasped and jumped away from the glass, shocked by the scene before her. Dr. Crane practically rushed over, a little too excited about the situation. She peered into the room with a sickening smile before looking back at Lillian.

“Get security. Tell them to take this man to the medical center immediately,” she turned back around as Lillian ran past her, “if he isn’t dead already, that is.” She finished, watching the man lay there motionless. Sometimes, the toxin was so potent the person dies, but she wanted a strong reaction without the death, and Murkoff wanted the same. They believe that her fear toxin would help in Project Walrider, but she needed strong doses to keep the subjects in a terrified state for hours on end. Most of the time - with the stronger doses - people only lasted five minutes. At this rate, she’d go through the whole damn asylum and not even be able to perfect the toxin.

She moved back to the water patient and, just as she predicted, his heart gave out. The stress of the constant terror (and the brain believing he was drowning) put enough strain on him to kill him. Depending on the fear, they either die from self mutilation, or they have a heart attack. She suspected the man didn’t realize it was his heart that gave out, and she had a feeling his last moments were far from pleasant. He was lying face up on the floor, with wide, blank eyes staring up at the ceiling. She was surprised he didn’t pass out from holding his breath, but she figured his heart stopped before he suffocated.

She quickly wrote down the results of the tests, and felt disappointed. She knew she could do better than that. Fear toxin that lasted hours normally created hallucinations that came and went in waves, what she needed was something strong enough to create a panic even when the hallucinations died down. They needed to be aware of their surroundings when they weren’t hallucinating, but afraid of what would come next.

Dr. Crane decided to take a break and return to her office to try to figure out where to go from there. She ignored the guards rushing into the cell of the mutilated man, and ignored Lillian as she asked a slew of questions. All she wanted to do was lock herself in her office and think for the rest of the day; do a little problem solving.

She rushed through halls full of screaming patients, not bothering to stop on her way to her office.

Yet, when she got there, a familiar face was waiting by her door. She’d worked there for weeks without running into him again. Bright colors seemed to be his thing, though this time he wore a blue shirt and a white sweater over it. Instead of khakis, he wore black dress pants, and black shoes that shined under the lights of the hallway. Dr. Crane stopped in her tracks and gritted her teeth.

“What are you doing here? You’re not in this division.” She asked, daring to step a little bit closer. He smiled widely, but there was something off about it. It looked like a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and that was just one of the many things about him that was off-putting to her.

“Relax, doc, I was just coming to congratulate you on the job!” Rick explained in his usual cheerful tone. Dr. Crane couldn’t help but glare at him. He was in her space now, even if he wasn’t exactly in her office. She wanted him to go away, and when she accepted the job nearly a month ago she figured the facility was big enough so she wouldn’t see him again, but she didn’t account for him seeking her out. The fact he did seek her out sent shivers up her spine.

She hadn’t felt fear in a long time, but when she was around Rick Trager, she was terrified.

“Thank you,” she responded, “I’d like to get into my office now.” Rick nodded and stepped aside, letting her step into her office. She didn’t stop to close the door properly, instead she let the force of the door shut it for her. However, the door didn’t slam shut like she thought it would. She let her shoulders drop and let out a small sigh of irritation. He was still there.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than bother me, Mr. Trager? After all, I assumed you worked here and had actual stuff to do rather than wait outside my door.” She asked, not even attempting to hide her disdain. He let out an airy chuckle and took a step toward her. He towered over her, despite the fact that she was rather tall herself, and while he was jovial in tone there was almost something sinister about his action. It felt like he was trying to intimidate her for whatever reason. She wanted to act like she wasn’t afraid, but too many things about him didn’t add up. He scared her more than anything.

She took a step back before turning around and sitting at her desk. She hoped she could get her act together and seem calm when she was sitting down and going over various medical records. He didn’t follow her - not right away, at least. He watched her walk behind her desk and sit down, much like how a predator would watch its prey. He would learn though, sooner or later, that Catarina Crane was not some small, meek creature to be devoured. She was much more than that.

She wasn’t completely aware of how he had her picked out from the moment he walked out of his office to see her asking his assistant a question. Murkoff might’ve known about her before him, but he was going to take what he wanted from her eventually.

“So, Cat, I was wondering,” he began, leaning over her desk and peering at the documents in her hand briefly.

“It’s Dr. Crane.” She interjected, speaking through gritted teeth this time. He ignored her obvious annoyance.

“I was wondering if you wanted to go out to dinner sometime this weekend?” He flashed her another smile, but she could only stare at him blankly. In spite of all the signals she gave off that she wasn’t interested, he still pushed forward. This time she was cornered in her office, but she wasn’t afraid - not this time. She was frustrated. She was borderline angry.

“I’d rather have my fingers cut off. Let me put it this way, since you ignored my multiple signs that I wasn’t interested, no. I don’t want anything to do with you, Mr. Trager. Please, get out of my office, I have work to do.” She looked back down at the documents in her hand, refusing to spare him even another glance. He scared her, yes, but she was repulsed by him even more. It wasn’t like he was particularly unattractive, but his persistence and refusal to read the signs she put off made him unattractive. He couldn’t seem to grasp that she was uninterested, and that was what frustrated her, and this was only their second meeting.

She didn’t see the dark look that came over his features at her rejection. He knew she would be tough to get, but he wouldn’t give up. He had Blaire to cover his ass, or at least he hoped Blaire would cover for him. He half scoffed, a smirk immediately made its way to his lips.

“Damn, Cat, I didn’t think you could be that harsh.” He stated, this time he stood straight. His hands were buried in his pockets, and despite the fact that she wasn’t looking at him, his eyes were trained on her. She didn’t bother correcting him this time though.

“Perhaps you were more incompetant than I thought.” She muttered, though she didn’t think he could hear her. He did, and it struck a nerve. He turned around and all but stormed out. He stopped at the door, feeling the need to have the last word.

“See ya around, Cat.” He said, but Catarina thought nothing of it. He left without another word spoken between the two of them, though she could have sworn she heard him greet someone happily outside of her office; a faint ‘hey buddy’ that slightly concerned her. She wasn’t entirely sure that he wouldn’t spread nasty rumors about her - not that she cared if he did - but after their conversation she could see him doing it.

Little did she know, he had bigger things to worry about than her.

Shortly after that uncomfortable exchange, Catarina decided to actually go to lunch. She locked up her office, but deep down she wished she could double up on security to keep creeps like Trager out. She really didn’t feel like getting ambushed again, though she doubted he’d do it twice in one day.

The walk to the cafeteria was almost as tense as the walk past her father’s office when she was younger. He always had frightening masks and other scary things hanging in his work space, and chances were he would try to get her to understand why she feared those things. He’d try to make her feel better about it all, but there was always one mask that terrified her, and that terror never faded. It was a burlap mask with straw coming out of the top and various stitches around the mouth. It had blank button eyes that stared down at her, much like the blank eyes that would stare up at her in her career. It was a scarecrow mask, and nothing sent shivers down her spine more than scarecrows. She was lucky to grow up in the city, the same couldn’t be said for her father. It was an interesting case, the fact that they were both afraid of scarecrows, but it was enough to get her interested in fear and phobias, like her father before her.

The line in the cafeteria wasn’t too long, with only a few members of staff waiting on line to order something. The man in the front of the line was staring at the menu on the wall and placing a seemingly long order, which had Cat mentally rolling her eyes. She wondered if there was another place she could get something to eat in the building. Going to lunch off the premises wasn’t allowed, so it was eat at the cafeteria or bring something from home.

In front of Catarina was a short, plump woman with red hair. She wore a light blue dress and a string of pearls around her neck, she was dressed nice, though Cat doubted she was an executive. The woman glanced at her nervously, and it was obvious to Cat that she was getting impatient too, but she doubted this woman would speak up about it. She smiled awkwardly, letting out an airy chuckle.

“If I knew he’d be ordering for a whole circus I would’ve brought something from home.” She joked, prompting a small smile from Cat.

“Sorry, it just feels like I’ve been standing here forever.” She continued, turning completely around this time. Now that Cat could see her completely, she came to the conclusion that this woman was pregnant.

“I’m Michelle, by the way.” Cat smiled at her, and while normally she’d formally introduce herself with her title and whole name, she decided against it.

“Catarina.” She introduced, and for a moment she swore she saw something short of recognition flash in her eyes. If she had heard of Cat, she didn’t mention it to her. Instead, she went the more predictable route, recognizing her as the new doctor and welcoming her, even if she had been there for nearly a month.

The line had finally moved up, but Michelle hadn’t noticed. Cat smiled awkwardly and pointed behind the woman, who promptly turned around and moved up a little. This time the line was moving faster, with people knowing exactly what they were ordering unlike the man who held the line up. After ordering and paying for her food, Cat was going to walk to her office, but she was stopped once more by Michelle.

“Hey, just let me know if you need anything. I work down in IT, so just call that line and I’ll probably be the one to pick up.” She stated. Cat smiled and nodded, but deep down she knew she wouldn’t really go to her if she needed something. Michelle seemed nice enough, but it looked like she was hiding something just below the surface, like she wanted to reach out to her and tell her something. Cat wouldn’t pry, she wasn’t one of her patients and even then it was up to her to tell her. It was intriguing, and she couldn’t help but see it as a mystery for her to solve. Maybe one day Michelle would open up about what was bothering her, but Cat knew she couldn’t count on that. At least she knew she wouldn’t lose sleep over it.

[screamingmadvoid]

My eyes fought to stay shut against the bright light as I swiftly woke up with a harsh gasp of air. Wake ups for me tended to be hard and fast, especially the more violent and abrupt the death was. And that last one was a rough one. Getting run over was never fun, no matter how many times I make that joke about getting the license plate. Ralphie always hates when I tell it though, so I’ll never drop it. The only reason I wasn’t making it now was because there was something very, very wrong.

The texture I was lying on was wrong. It wasn’t the rough blacktop of the street, and it definitely wasn’t the leather of the cushions Ursa used in the medbay. It was… softer. With a firmer surface underneath. I slowly crack my eyes open to a familiar periwinkle sky, not a cloud in sight. I realize I’m lying on grass, but not just any grass. This is the clearing Nikki and I spent our summers in. But… this was impossible. Wake ups took a while, but not long enough for us to get from Mistrinda to Ozam. And moreover, this clearing burned with Dashwood Manor.

My creeping sense of unease grew as I took in my surroundings. It was quiet like it had always been, but now it was oppressively silent. It lacked the familiar noise of the pests. We’re loathe to be separated, and we aren’t the quietest bunch. If I can't hear them, something was not right and I was on the verge of panic now.

“Guys-” I called out and immediately slammed a hand to my mouth. That wasn’t the soundbytes I was used to stringing together. That was something I hadn’t heard in millenia, and never thought I’d hear again. Tears threaten to fall as I realized that I just spoke in my own voice for the first time since that fateful day, when everything happened. “I’m dreaming, that’s the only explanation” I said, not wanting to even entertain the alternative.

We knew it was possible, permanently dying, that is. Most of the Mechanisms were gone by this point, fallen for the final time. But we didn’t really think it would happen to us till Leslie. It was supposed to be a routine mutiny, one like any other day. Leslie was yelling about some perceived slight, a moved trinket or a broken mug. It was normal, how we kept track of time. I thought nothing of it beyond ‘oh it must be 10 am’. Everything was as it always was, the yelling, the threats, the gunfire. Nothing out of the ordinary. Leslie fell that time. It wasn’t unheard of, we would just shrug and wait for them to roar back to us in a blaze of fury. But as the hours ticked away, as 10 AM changed to 10 PM, we realized how not routine this mutiny was. Because our captain never made so much as a peep, not a twitch, not a single hint of renewed life. It was then, I think we realized we were on a countdown clock, with an unknown timer on our hearts.

I pinch myself in an attempt to wake up, or ground myself, or… I don’t know. I needed a distraction from the growing panic in my chest. I’d be no good to anyone, least of all myself, if I couldn’t breathe. I get up off the ground and look around, desperate at this point to see any sign of life, to know that I wasn't alone here, wherever this is. As I searched for any evidence of another soul, I thought about the last things I remembered.

It was just a regular rampage. Well, as normal as it could be without Leslie and her inevitable flock of devotees. The whole crew was there, for a change. Ursa finally left her medbay, Eshen crawled out of the vents for once, it was great. I even broke out my favorite rampage dress,all black and roses, and got all dolled up with my pearls. The 11 of us were like a comet, running wild through that city, causing mass mayhem and planet wide panic. It was the most euphoric I had felt since Leslie left us behind.

My mood quickly soured into terror when I saw it though. A truck, headed right for an oblivious Eshen. They didn’t see it. Otherwise I doubt they'd be moving so slow. He was in his Musician form right now, and while I didn't fully understand it and still don’t, I did know that he was squishier in this form. Esh and I may not have always seen eye to eye on everything, but I wouldn't want him to experience what 15,000 kilos felt like going over your water balloon of a body. I guess… i figured if it was anyone else’s time to go, it would be me.

I'm not the most self preservative type, never really was, and being mechanized certainly didn’t help. Why avoid danger when it can’t actually do lasting harm? But now it could. And maybe it was selfish, but i couldn’t stand the thought of losing anyone else. I wouldn’t survive it. The waiting, the constant thought of “this could be the last moment i ever spend with them”. I'm starting to believe it doesn't matter now tho.

Slowly, almost afraid of what I might find, I move my hand to my chest, hoping to hear and feel that strong thump-thump. My senses remain undisturbed however, as the lack of heartbeat seems to drown out everything else. I sink to my knees as the realization hits me: I didn't make it.

‘Oh, bell dragon forgive me,’ I think as the tears begin to flow freely and unrestrained. ‘Let them have lived’ I beg, as though the bell dragon cares, ‘let Eshen have been uninjured, do not make them pay for my mistakes.’ As the sobs and keens foreign to my ears begin increasing in volume, I think of my crew and how they must be taking this. All the gods, please let them forgive me for this, let Nebula keep xemself together and not fall apart, let Ralphie keep us together as long as they can.

As my tears begin to die down for now, I make an oath. I will see them again. Each and everyone. I may have failed this family in this way, but I will be there in whatever way I can.

[yourdeepestfathoms]

The Blood Inside Of Ewe

I’m had this idea for So Long and I’ve finally written it!!!! Except it’s not how I wanted it to turn out. It feels rushed and the ending is abrupt and ughhhh- I may rewrite it at some point, but for now, enjoy this heavy joyride!

TW: Implied drugging, stalking, self harm

——————

When Joan left for Glasgow because of a new job, nobody expected her to return within a week. Maybe she was just visiting early? She may have gotten homesick! That was normal.

However, the disheveled appearance of the ex-SIX pianist was not.

See, Joan had gotten a better paying job up in Glasgow and, despite not wanting to leave get friends and family, she took it. It was the best thing to do. And so, she left.

But here she was again. Standing in the middle of the backstage wings. And something was very, very wrong.

Her skin was an unnatural milky-yellow color, for one thing. And her eyes were so wide- too wide. Her hair was knotted and greasy and in patches upon her head like someone had ripped random clumps out of her skull. Scrapes and cuts litter her knees from where she must have fallen on the pavement.

There were dark purple bruises encircling her thin wrists.

Joan responded to no one when she staggered through the theater. When someone from the crew tried to grab her to get her to explain, she stiffened and scratched them across the face like a terrified animal. Then, she took off up the Stairs of Doom, nearly falling and busting her head open in the process, and sprinted for one of the dressing rooms.

Having her barge in was a little startling, to say the least.

Jane, Cathy, and Katherine were sitting around inside, waiting to go on. Katherine was snuggled up in Jane’s lap while the woman brushes her hair out and Cathy told them about the climax of the latest book she was interested in. Then the quiet moment was ruined when a mangy version of their old music director came tumbling in like there were demons on her heels.

“Joan?!” Jane shouted in shock. She nearly threw Katherine off when she leapt up to her feet.

“What are you doing here?” Cathy asked before really taking in the appearance of the ex-pianist. “Are you okay?”

Joan says nothing. She put a hand on the door frame for support.

“Joan?” Jane took a small step forward. She knew that look in the girl’s eyes... “Joan, what’s wrong? Talk to me, sweetheart.”

Joan stared at Jane for a long moment, then moved directly into her arms. The minute she was clinging to her queen’s costume, her knees buckle and everything goes black.

———

Joan didn’t get better. In fact, she seemed to get worse.

At home, she ignored her roommates and stayed cooped up in her room. She stayed huddled up in her bed for three days.

For three days, Joan shivered, burned, and cried. For three days she was almost completely helpless, unable to function correctly at all. She even had a seizure, once.

She didn’t eat, didn’t drink, as almost everything put in her system was thrown up. Her body refused medicine and water, so she quickly became severely dehydrated, which only added to her misery. Her constant crying and sweating didn’t help, either.

She drifted in and out of consciousness for most of those three days, always waking up to a daze of heat and pain. She remembered dragging herself out of bed to take a bath and had considered drowning herself. She didn’t, only because she wanted to die in a less painful way.

Jane came over quite often, but Joan could barley remember anything they did. Her brain wouldn’t process the memories, or maybe she just hadn’t been awake in the first place.

The fourth day came forth as slow as half-frozen molasses. After the routinely agony that came with waking up, Joan noticed Bessie sitting beside her bed, reading a book.

And, dear God, her head suddenly hurt. She had to shut her eyes for a moment, but when she opened them again she blearily looked around the dimly lit bedroom that smelled of illness. How long had she been out? She didn’t know. An unbidden whine escaped her dry throat.

Joan rolled over onto her side and squinted at Bessie, who eventually looked up. Her eyebrows raised in surprise.

“You’re awake!” She proclaimed, setting the book to the side.

Joan made a small, confused noise. How long has Bessie even been here? When did she get here? She couldn’t remember. Not that it really mattered, though. She probably wouldn’t even remember this because she was just going to pass out again soon.

“You woke up a few times before,” Bessie informed. “Only for a few minutes, though, then you blacked out again. But you didn’t throw up! So good job there, sweetheart! I’m proud of you.”

Joan managed to give Bessie a weak thumbs-up.

“Here,” Bessie took a glass of water off of the nightstand. “Drink something, love. You must be thirsty.”

She didn’t miss how scared Joan became when she held the cup out to her, noticing the way she flinched away and whimpered. It was as if she thought the glass was full of poison.

“It’s just water, honey.” Bessie said softly.

Joan shook her head.

“Please? Just a few small sips?”

She shook her head more rapidly.

“For me?”

She whimpered at that, hunching her shoulders in. Her dull, sunken in eyes cast towards the ground, avoiding Bessie’s sad gaze.

“Joan...”

Another whimper bubbled up, which turned into a noiseless sob. Bessie’s heart broke as she watched the poor girl break down, and she quickly wrapped her up in her arms, setting the glass of water aside for now.

“Shh, shh...” Bessie rubbed up and down Joan’s spine. “It’s okay... You’re okay, baby girl, you’re okay...”

Joan didn’t even cry for five minutes. By two she was out again, slumped limply in Bessie’s embrace.

Not even unconsciousness can make her features look peaceful.

Bessie pressed a soft kiss to Joan’s hot, clammy forehead before laying her back down. The girl has already started to whimper in her sleep (nightmares and terrors have become very frequent for her), so Bessie strokes her sweaty hair to try and soothe her. She’s about to pick up her book with the other hand when the doorbell rang. She went to go get it.

“The mother hen has arrived!”

Bessie raised an eyebrow at Jane’s statement as she walked inside the lady in waiting house. She appreciated her attempt at lightening the situation.

“How’s Joan?” Jane asked, her lighthearted tone switching to a maternal and concerned one in an instant.

“Shitty.”

“Details, please.”

“She can’t stomach anything- not even water, her fever is burning her alive, she can only stay awake for a few minutes before passing out again, she’s completely sore everywhere, she’s starting to cry in her sleep, and she won’t speak at all.” Bessie said, nervousness lacing her voice. “To sum it up: whatever is going on is kicking her ass.”

Jane winced. She had been hoping that her daughter figure had gotten a little better, but to no avail.

“Maybe we can make her something,” She suggested. “Like, soup. Something easy on the stomach.”

Bessie glanced at her then nodded slightly. It was worth a shot, even though it would probably just get thrown up if Joan didn’t refuse it.

They ended up making oatmeal, which they somehow managed to complicate and nearly made a huge mess of in the kitchen. They both laughed, which was a nice change to the grim atmosphere, but that somber mood quickly returned when they approached Joan’s room.

“Joan?” Jane knocked on the bedroom door, “It’s me and Bessie. We’re coming in, sweetie.”

Joan was surprisingly awake, which was a change, but it didn’t make her any better. She was curled up under her thick blankets on the edge of the bed, shivering. Her face was very grey, eyes still traumatized and scared. Her gaze momentarily flicked to the two older women, then returned to the floor.

“Hey,” Jane said softly, hurrying over to the girl’s side. “Feeling any better?”

Joan made a weak hum. If her not being able to speak still was any indication, then probably not.

“Do you need anything?”

Joan shuts her eyes. Jane takes that as a “no.”

“We have oatmeal if you’re hungry,” Bessie said, holding up the steaming bowl.

Joan made a bitter face. Even though she was hungry, the thought of trying to stomach anything sickened her. She shook her head.

“Sorry,” She tried to say, but produced no sound and could only mouth it pathetically. Jane smooths out the hair on her head.

“Nonsense,” Bessie waved a hand dismissively, hiding an oatmeal stain on her pants. “It was no trouble.”

The girl nodded slowly, then pressed her face back into her blankets.

“You’re going to be okay,” Jane said, rubbing her back comfortingly. “You’ll get better soon.”

Joan did not answer.

Bessie and Jane lingered in the room for a long time after Joan passed out again, with Jane rubbing the girl’s back and murmuring sweet, loving things in her ear, and Bessie loitering by the door, staring dejectedly into the hot bowl of oatmeal she was still holding.

Eventually, Jane pressed a loving kiss to Joan’s forehead and stood up. She walked to the door, placed a wry hand on the door frame for balance, dipped her head, and then began to weep. Bessie couldn’t get to her in time to catch her before her knees buckled and she fell to the floor, now openly sobbing.

“Jane,” Bessie said in alarm. She darts to the older woman’s side and set a hand on her back, which makes her crumple completely into her lap. She tensed in shock, watching the usually-very-reserved queen cling desperately to her pants and cry against her thighs. “Jane, Jane, hey...” She gently began to stroke her hair, hoping it may soothe her. “Shh, it’s okay...”

Jane shook her head and loudly choked on a sob.

“She’s not getting any better,” She forces out in a shaky voice. Her body shudders in a way that scares Bessie. “What...what if she...- Oh god-”

“Don’t think like that.” Bessie said firmly. “That’s not going to happen.”

“I can’t- I can’t lose her, Elizabeth. She’s my baby, I-I can’t-” Jane broke off into unintelligible crying.

Bessie opened her mouth, but only a whimper came out. She had been worrying about the same thing, Joan not getting better, but, until now, she had pushed those thoughts away and hoped for the best. But seeing Jane Seymour break down in fear makes her own anxiety rise up and, suddenly, there’s tears rolling down her cheeks.

“That’s not going to happen,” She whispered. Her hands clench in Jane’s shirt and she keels over to bury her face in the queen’s silky blonde hair. A soft sob rattles her body. “It’s not...”

There, on the floor, Jane and Bessie weep for their ill daughter.

———

Two days pass. Joan has still not said a word. Jane and Bessie taking off again to watch over her while the show goes on- the director is getting antsy with their constant absences.

Right now, Joan is sleeping relatively peacefully beside Jane, who is dozing in her bed. She has one hand on the curled up girl’s waist, waiting for her to flinch or whimper so she could leap into action and soothe her. Bessie soon appears in the doorway. Jane looks up and smiled softly.

“Hey,” She whispered.

“Hey,” Bessie replied. “How is she?”

“A little better,” Jane said, looking down at Joan, “I got her to drink some water and eat a piece of toast. Poor little thing was so thirsty.” She gently moves a strand of oily blonde hair out of her daughter’s face.

“That’s good.” Bessie sat down on the edge of the bed. Hoping to lighten the mood, she jokes, “We need to get her a bath. Her hair is a mess.”

Jane laughed quietly and picked through a few locks of Joan’s greasy hair, causing her to stir and whine into her pillows. She quickly stops as to not disturb her.

“It is,” Jane said. “Maybe when she wakes up again.” She paused. “How are you?”

“Fine.”

“Don’t lie to me, Elizabeth.” Jane said, “You let me cry on you- you can tell me things.”

Bessie looked down at the bed sheets, suddenly sheepish. She shrugged slightly.

Jane purses her lips, then covered Joan’s ears, despite her still being asleep. Quietly, in a hushed tone, she asks, “Did you cut again?”

Bessie is silent.

And then she nods very slowly.

Jane got up and took Bessie’s hand. The bassist doesn’t fight her- she lets the queen guide her to the bathroom and press her down on the toilet seat.

“You we’re asleep,” Bessie whispered as Jane started getting out antiseptic and a rag. “I-I didn’t want to wake you...”

“Oh, Elizabeth,” Jane cooed, smiling sadly. “You’re sweet. But you should have woken me up. Promise me you will next time.”

Bessie nodded silently.

“Say it. Please.”

“I promise I’ll wake you up next time.”

(It’s sad that they both know for a fact that there will be a next time.)

“Thank you.” Jane pressed a soft kiss to Bessie’s hairline before kneeling in front of her with an antiseptic-soaked rag. “I’m going to lift your shirt and clean your belly, okay?”

Bessie wrinkles her nose in disgust. “Never use that word again.”

Jane laughed and then pushed up Bessie’s shirt. Her flicker of a faint smile disappears and morphs into a wince when she sees the amount of fresh cuts on the bassist’s midsection.

“Oh, sweetheart...”

“I’m sorry,” Bessie whispered. “I’m- it’s just- there’s a lot going on right now and...”

“Shh,” Jane hushed her, “It’s alright. I’m going to touch you now, okay? It’s just me, darling. Nobody else. Remember that.”

Bessie took a deep breath and nodded. She closed her eyes, doing her best to not flinch or whimper at the sting caused by the cuts getting cleaned.

“You’re doing so good,” Jane murmured sweetly.

“Thanks,” Bessie grunted.

The cleaning continued for several long minutes in silence. Jane’s movements were so gentle and careful; it was relaxing for Bessie to feel against her bare skin.

But that relaxation was demolished when they went back to check on Joan and found her phone lit up with a notification. When they checked it, everything was flipped upside down.

“If you don’t come back in the next 24 hours these will be posted.”

That was what was sent by an unknown number. With it, a link was pasted. Filled with morbid curiosity, Jane clicked on the link and she and Bessie watched it open up to a PDF.

On it were tons of photos.

At first, they were innocent. One was a selfie of Joan sitting at her work desk flashing a peace sign and sticking her tongue out like a cat. Another was of a picture of her with Maria and then another selfie in her work room. Then, things got weird. There were shots of the theater, a doorknob, a window, a license plate, a back door. Other photos were of random scenery and it took Jane and Bessie a moment to realize these were pictures of Joan.

Pictures that she didn’t know were taken.

Joan in a room that nobody else was in, Joan at a restaurant sitting a few tables away from the photographer, Joan during the show, Joan in a hallway, Joan in her bedroom. Jane and Bessie both didn’t want to keep looking, but they couldn’t stop themselves.

The first shot that changed everything was of Joan on a grey stone floor, curled into a little ball. Her face was covered by her hair.

The second was the same scene but at a different angle. She was lying in a dimly light, but nicely furnished and lavish room. Bessie and Jane prayed that this was just a project for Joan’s new job.

But, oh were they wrong.

The third was a close-up of Joan, who had rolled on her other side over some amount of time. Her mouth was half open and her eyes...oh, her eyes. The stare she was giving the camera was not one even the greatest of actors could possibly convey. It was unfocused and dazed. Mortified. Her pupils were dilated unnaturally wide. She didn’t even appear to be looking at the lens. Then, Jane and Bessie noticed the cables tied around her wrists.

The fourth photo was a zoomed out shot. Joan appeared to be more awake, but she didn’t seem to have all her senses together. It was like she was awake, but doped up on Novocaine. She wasn’t staring at nothing anymore, rather whoever was holding the camera. You could almost see the reflection of whoever was doing this because of how glazed over her eyes were.

The fifth was of Joan raising her legs like she was fighting against someone that wasn’t there. She was twisted slightly on her stomach and looked like a fallen fawn trying to lamb from a carnivore.

The next few shots were blurry and out of focus, as it looked like the camera was moving a lot. In the haze of terrible quality, Bessie thought she saw Joan staring up with one leg fully outstretched. It seemed like she had kicked the cameraman. That made Bessie and Jane want to cheer, but then the photos after the messed up ones were of their daughter figure looking utterly terrified. And angry.

After that, there were more blurred photos of the room, some black shots, and then one of Joan sitting up against the wall in the mix. She had her knees pulled to her chest, bound wrists at her face, slightly obscuring it. Tear tracks etched trails down her cheeks, but she looked livid.

More blackness.

Finally, the horrible blowups ended and there was a image of Joan with her shirt unbuttoned. She was on her back and her knees were propped up. Her eyes were glassy again and it didn’t take long for Bessie and Jane to piece together that the girl was probably drugged on god knows what.

Joan looked terrible. Her hair was a mess and she was drooling with mucus mixed with blood dribbling from her nostrils. She didn’t look scared anymore, just completely out of it. The poor thing probably had no idea what was even going on. Not anymore, at least.

Finally, Bessie and Jane got to the images that made them feel horribly sick. They were snapshots of their naked daughter figure. Multiple of them. Blood, saliva, and other bodily fluids created a sheen on her skin, and it’s worse that Joan had no idea what was going on.

There’s a gag behind Jane’s ear- Bessie is sprinting to the bathroom.

Jane stays rooted in place, silent tears running down her cheeks. She can’t bear to look at the photos any longer, so she looks at Joan, but she doesn’t know if that’s any better. In fact, it was worse.

The phone clatters to the floor. The resounding thud makes Joan stir in her bed and slowly wake up. When she sees Jane just standing there, she flinches backwards in fright.

Finally, Jane understands why.

[almostrealdudes]

Bliss

A/N: Oh well, you know, whenever I have unfinished stuff, I just like writing something completely new and unrelated lmao. Just finished UA, didn’t really liked the show but LOVED Klaus sooooo there you go ahahahahaha Pairing: Klaus Hargreeve x female!S/O Word count: 1k Warnings: light smut-ish, but nothing explicit and very brief Summary: Since the moment she appeared, Klaus’s life has changed. And he couldn’t be any happier.

Klaus already figured he was an addicted man. Without going into details, it was clear he was meant to depend on something. Or somebody. Despite his pompous façade, he had a weak heart, way too wounded for his young age. Drugs were but a way to escape the torture that was his abilities, which got absolutely insufferable when he was sober. Blunting his senses made him a useless attempt of a human being, but at least it muted those countless voices of dead people. He hated himself quite a lot and attempted to go sober many times, but he was never strong enough to maintain sobriety: all he felt was helplessness and loneliness, eating him on the inside. While being high he sometimes got scared that he couldn’t feel his heart anymore, but every time after cleaning himself all he wished was to never feel it again as it was the most terrible pain, worse than any withdrawal. It was easy for people to tell him what to do: “get sober,” “stop wasting your life,” but in the end, it was only him to actually do it. Alone, scared and broken.

And then, there was her.

It didn’t happen fast, of course; among other problems Klaus had, there were trust issues and he certainly wasn’t planning to let her in. He would have to explain his hearing voices of the dead thing, which already was a handful to take in. Andre after that, which was only the top of the iceberg, there were issues, and wounds, and cracks. Klaus himself had no wish to deal with them, let alone somebody else. Yet, there was something about her: tenderness, softness. The very view of her changed him. At first, it was terrifying, Klaus felt like he was sinking in quicksand after making an unfortunate trust fall. He snapped on her, of course, out of absolute terror, urging her to get away from him, because her presence made him feel things he was mortified of. He became his worst self, trying to scare her away. But she stayed.

She just took his face in her hands and kissed him on the forehead. And he lost it. All her actions, topped by this kiss, broke him in the best way possible, cracking him open and exposing his soul to her regard. He feared this revelation the most, but it was simultaneously the best thing that happened to him during his life. No one has ever loved him like she did. And god, how much he loved her: with his entire being, on the verge of desperation. Klaus was indeed an addicted man: the drugs faded away, he was now several months sober, yet she was now his absolute source of life, his air, his heart. Klaus was sure he would cease to exist if she ever was to leave his side and the thought of it was dreadful; he started having panic attacks when thinking she wasn’t close when the voices were too much to handle, but she always appeared when he needed her most.

It’s so stupid, he kept telling her as she was holding him.

It’s not stupid, she kept disagreeing, it’s love. She then confessed to him that she often cries after he falls asleep because his suffering is tearing her heart into pieces.

Well, then we are a true crybaby couple.

The best one in existence.

Klaus was still anything but serious with everyone else, after all, it was a big part of his character, but now, there was one person who knew his hidden secret sensitivity. At some point, his family noticed the change; to say they were shocked is to say nothing at all. They couldn’t believe he was the same Klaus who dropped his father’s ashes on the floor, drank or snorted all his money, Klaus who was unable to put together two coherent words. Because this Klaus was now tightly holding his lover’s hand in his, instantly leaning into her touch, a sobriety pin dangling on his jacket.

Your surprised faces are really helping my self-esteem, my dear family, he smirked. He couldn’t care less, however.

He loved sharing baths with her. Washing each other, feeling each other’s skin, it was so intimate, even more intimate than sex, he’d argue. It was the most vulnerable they were, exposed to each other in their nudity. He adored the sight of her. She always pressed his back to her chest and washed his hair. Her hands moved smoothly around him, her touch was soft against his curls and skin, and he swore it felt more orgasmic than any blowjob or penetration. They couldn’t break away from each other: the feelings they had were beyond earthly, it was something magnetic, cosmic even.

She handled the voices too. There were still times when they were driving Klaus insane, it was haunting. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t hear anything else but the moaning souls. And then, she would come and cover his ears gently, and suddenly, there was silence. She always knew how to bring him back, how to rescue him from this all-consuming void.

Look at me, she cooed softly, listen to my voice. You are safe.

His breath slowly returned to normal as he closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, comforting as always. Klaus never thought it was possible to feel something so strong. Drugs were one thing, they gave him a temporary elevation, but they always dulled his sensors in the end, and it never lasted longer than that. But this was something completely different: it overwhelmed him, made him dizzy. He always longed to touch her, their bodies constantly sought to be closer to one another, it was never enough. They were always so close they could start dissolving and merging together. She loved mentioning it from time to time.

I wish I could melt into you, she mewed, lying on top of him, listening to his heartbeat.

If we proceed to leisure, the chances are high, he answered.

There were times when they couldn’t get out of bed, enclasped with lust. Their hands and legs intertwined, they were drowning in heat, moaning, panting. Their kisses and thrusts were sloppy, but infinite, in a constant cycle. Positions changed, but the motion was constant.

I love you, I love you I love you, he repeated like a mantra, thrusting in and out of her, holding her tightly against his body, tracing his lips over her features.

My love, yes, yes, she sobbed in return, digging her hands in his hair, holding his face close to hers, buckling her hips towards his.

It was heavenly, all of it.

“Please die after me,” he told her once. “I won’t bear to see what will this world be without you.”

“Well, I won’t either,” she countered, connecting their noses. “We’re gonna have to die at the same time.”

“You mean, in a psycho-dramatic double suicide way?”

“No, silly,” she giggled, “in a spiritual destined way.”

“You say ‘silly’ as if it is an obvious available option.”

“Not for everyone,” she pecked his lips lightly,” but for us.”

He smiled sentimentally, catching her lips and bringing her into a deeper kiss.

“I would love that.”

[theflowersofdoom]

gonna talk about my spooky side account lore bc its unabashedly my favorite

sam and his sibling max lost their parents to to the bringer when they were really young. they were freed from terror mountain when the hannah thing went down. sam had trouble adjusting and stayed in terror mountain for awhile while max eagerly went out into world. the two kept in constant contact, until max suddenly stopped replying after he traveled to the haunted woods. sam decided to leave for the haunted woods to look for his sibling, and had a pretty terrifying time of it until he met lonnie

lonnie is a ne’er-do-well grave robber squatting in an abandoned house in the middle of the haunted woods. he found a very afraid and confused sam stumbling around and took him in with the intention of using him to help in illegal activities. sam, being cut off form the world for 10000 yrs and being generally too trusting, enthusiastically goes along with him. the two run around causing trouble and eventually lonnie finds himself actually CARING about this  sweet bori

paix was born to a terrestrial aisha and alien aisha couple and was raised exclusively on the virupets space station. her childhood had a backdrop of constant and oppressive paranoia of sloth. her family had several connections with the resistance and as a result knew several ppl who either disappeared or were seriously negatively effected by the sloth empire. she even lived through the sloth takeover of virtupets, which while thankfully was relatively uneventful on the part of the station her family lived in, it was still pretty terrifying for 10-or-smth yr old. while all this died down when paix grow up to adult, her parents were still very protective, not allowing paix or her little sister to travel unsupervised and helicoptered pretty bad. paix prided her self in being very level headed, but then one of her only friends disappeared while tracking down a sloth aligned organization and is presumed dead, paix is absolutely devastated, and in the months following his disappearance she quietly takes a small, former resistance ship from a family friend. she intended on flying it to neo central and parking it somewhere visible where the authorities would find it and return it with her apology note sitting in the seat of the cockpit, meanwhile shes in faerieland or mystery island, she doesnt know where just anywhere she’ll figure it out when she gets there. 

what ACTUALLY happened was a little more dramatic than she intended

paix initially and rightfully doesnt trust lonnie much, but he IS nice enough to let her stay at his house after she  crashed into his back yard  (is this even his house? i looks like its been run down for a while). sam was amazed in meeting a real alien and paix liked him well enough, hes a very kind guy, but still the whole situation was suspect

she probably wouldnt have stayed for long if lonnie hadnt up and died on them

paix suspected murder, from what sam says lonnie wasnt the most liked person around, but its not like theres any laws this is the haunted woods. as far as sam knows lonnie doesnt have any family, he thinks once there was a sister mentioned but he didnt even get a first name. the only family sam had left was a missing sibling he had been trying to find for a year now. so paix helps sam bury him in the back yard

paix takes on a lot of the responsibilities, like get food and telling people that lonnie is in fact dead, he wont be bothering you anymore. she even starts helping sam in his attempts to track down his sibling (shes not super optimistic but its not like shes going to tell sam that). 

at first paix thinks that sam is just very, VERY upset. he hasnt been very tired and acting a little strange, but his friend just died in front of him, its not like she has any room to judge. but as time goes on, things seem increasingly off. theres breif moments where sam seems to be his old self, but more and more he seems confused. paix finds him standing in the middle of the hall, staring at the wall. theres times where sam doesnt remember where hes been or what he was doing just moments ago. paix goes to the attic to get sam, finding no one, only to remember that sam is asleep in the in the living room, and when she goes back down staris of course hes still there, passed out on the couch like he has been all day, why was she so sure there was someone in the attic

when it becomes clear that lonnies been possessing sam, paix has a weird mix of terror and relief, though its drowned out by how PISSED she is at lonnie. she yells at him in portuguese for WHILE before he explains that he really wasnt trying to hurt sam or steal his body or anything else paix is accusing him of, hes been trapped in the ghost zone since he died and nothing he did could get their attention (he had gotten SO CLOSE with paix, she seemed to almost hear him. paix remembers all the times she felt she was being watch or heard someone screaming and just shrugged it off as a side effect of the haunted woods) 

paix could absolutely kill him AGAIN when he goes on to explain that hes now stuck in sams body. she begrudgingly agrees to help lonnie not be stuck, using a ritual from one of the weird creepy books littered around the house. it works and paix is incredibly relieved to find that sam is alright, but then immediately un-relieved to feel someone standing behind her and turned around to find lonnies spooky ghost standing there, menacingly 

the tension was immediately broken as sam  scrambled up screaming YOURE ALIVE and attempting to tackle-hug lonnie only to go through him and crash into the wall

and after paix gives lonnie a peice of her mind and lonnie profusely apologizes to both her and sam, things fall back into normality. paix and sam have found ways to make a living without doing anything illegal. lonnie is somewhat weirder as a ghost, hes taken a liking to scaring the heck out of ppl and is back to being a menace, but he seems to be more sincere with sam and paix at least 

zaf generally doesnt like photos, meko probably caught them by surprise 

zaf was a unfortunate victim of one of the many sloth-aligned splinter groups, and while they have made an amazing recovery, they remember nothing before waking up in the hospital. they were told that they had been kidnapped and eventually were found and taken in by authorities before being treated and successfully reverted to the physiology of an average mutant kacheek. zaf knows theres more to the story that authorities and their friends arent telling them, and has vague memories, but zaf isnt sure if they want to remember them. they were told by their friends that they had been a zafara before, that they were kind and generous and everyone was devastated when they went missing. zaf, surrounded by people that they cant remember, felt incredibly guilty. they hear stories about themself that they cant remember or even relate to. they ask for descriptions of themself that dont feel like them, least not anymore. zaf looks at pictures of this person that doesnt even look like them, and they cant help but feel like that person isnt here anymore.

zaf distances themself and eventually leaves neo central, taking a job at a hotel in the haunted woods. they have trouble finding a place to stay, and on their way to look at yet another apartment, they mistakenly knock on the door of a spotted bori who has THE friendliest face theyve seen since they moved to the woods

the two talk until its dark out and sam insists they stay the night bc its not safe to be out are you kidding me its the haunted woods. paix, given her past, is suspicious before zaf mentions what happened to them and she straight up offers for them to stay indefinitely (good thing too bc sam was pretty confident the place they had been on their way to see was a scheme to murder people, which seemed way more alarming to zaf than it did sam)

it takes 3 days for zaf to meet lonnie bc hes busy being an ass, slamming doors and leaving creepy messages in the mirror, culminating into jump-scaring zaf in the hallway at 3 in the morning. paix had tried to warn them but its still a spooky ghost in your apartment. sam mentioned that lonnies body was buried in the back yard and zaf looked like they were about to cry. just two sweet kids living in a dilapidated old house thats haunted by their dead friend, whose body they had bury in the back

zaf seems to be the only one concerned about the skulls in the living room, and the strange books, all of which, at least the ones zaf can make sense of, contain what appears to be spells. they mentioned where they lived to their boss and some coworkers and all hell broke loose and zaf had to leave the premises. paix apologized and said that lonnie had a reputation with the hotel staff and it kind of extended to everyone esle in the house. lonnie zipped through the ceiling and stated that they had ALWAYS had it out for him even BEFORE he stole that golf cart and the two start up another argument and the initial point is lost. 

but even months afterward, zaf cant forget the the moment of panic in their former boss’s eyes when they mentioned the house

mini is a witch living in the woods. sam and the gang think shes their neighbor, but no one is really sure where she lives. she comes by the house every now and then. sam, paix, and zaf have invited her in but always stated that she cant come in. has started to come around more frequently after zaf showed her one of the book they had found, wondering if she could make any sense of it. usually cryptic mini straight up said it was incredibly dangerous in the wrong hands. the two have since working through the books to see if any of more of them had spell theorems that could ‘potentially warp the fabric of reality’ as mini had put it