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scentedpepper · 7 months ago

Text

Embered Metamorphisis

JASPER HALE X WEREWOLF!GN READER

● gif by @goodomcns

Summary: The aftermath of transfroming into a giant, raging wolf isn't kind to you --yet, your sworn enemy is.

Content Warnings: Uhhhh, descriptions of bones cracking, hair sprouting and such werewolf things.

Other Pairings: Sam Uley x GN Reader, Wolf Pack mentioned, Carlisle and Edward mentioned.

AUTHOR NOTE(S):

Slowly slipping back into my twilight phase...

We didn't get enough struggles of being a quileute shapeshifter content so heres your stuggles of being a quileute shapeshifter content

Yeah I'm changing up my format but does that mean that I'm going back and re editing all 8 parts of leon kennedy series —lol

I have a marvel fic written and I literally have no excuse as to why its taking me so long to edit but yk

Heres twilight instead?

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You pulled your eyelids closer to your waterline, the splash of water against your searing hot face felt dull compared to the tear shaped lava dripping down the curve of your back, meeting at the waistband of your boxers and leaving a sour, pungent smell within the fabric.

Your body shook with such agony, that had you been the fragile, human-esqu being that you posed as, your bones would have liquified; bones that turned a delicate peach flower shade of cream.

If you looked up into the mirror in front of you, you were sure, at this rate, you'd see steam floating off the very skin that had stretched and molded itself and grew hair the length of a beanstalk all over your body. But this wasn't the pain that tore apart every neuron in your brain, and rendered you to nothing but a shivering, aching mess.

It was something else, and even with your mind so sluggish, so disoriented and tired that you could easily sleep for several days and your stomach, pouring out gurgling noises of bregrudement that you could barely hear over the own ringing in your ears, ached with its hunger.

You seemed to be grunting to yourself, atop the linoleum flooring of your bathroom that you felt as if your feet were burning holes into. You made your own noises out in passing, brief, in and out moments where your ears tuned back to your surroundings. Huffs. Whistling. There was faint cursing.

Stupid. Fuckin stupid. The voice ran through your foggy mind, an echo of rage.

Your entire body shook with such a powerful force, so dolorous in nature, that your eyes held heavy purple bags beneath them. You squinted them ever further closed, yet the light seeped out from the crevices like tears.

You didn't dare look to the light, it'd be like blinding yourself to the sun because everything now was 10 times brighter, clearer, intense. You heard each beat of your pulse right behind your ears, it wasn't as much 'thump, thump, thump' as a constant noise that felt more like you were vibrating.

It was all the more aggravating, all of it.

Your muscles were spasming beneath you and the longer you stood the more you couldn't feel your toes. The longer you locked yourself in your bathroom, huddled into the furthest corner, the closer you felt death crawling along your own skin.

What are you? That question held such power to pull the rug beneath your feet. Objectively, you knew. Sam had crossed borders to ensure you didn't break the treaty anymore than he already was. And your mind held such a haze that not even now you could clearly decipher what exactly had happened.

The haze acted as a wall between your mind and Sam's, even as he commanded you, tumbled with you through the woods, wrestled you to the forest floor, leaves and broken branches caught in your fur as he snapped and snarled above you; he couldn't see clearly what happened. Let alone explain to you the precise point that your wolfy instincts -because apparently that was a thing you held within your very being- reigned.

All you could recall was a few faces.

Jasper's visage, etched with both horror and regret, staring back at you with rubies -as if you were the monster and not him.

At some point, you could faintly remember him speaking to you from below as his hands fiercely held your snout, telling you to transform back into your usual self. But his face...it spoke volumes at how ready he was to run if not needed, to flee. Like in that moment, the only difference between life and death were the few inches separating you both.

Then there was Carlisle. You don't remember what happened in between but you remembered seeing the struggle in his and Edward's faces as they attempted to hold you down without hurting you and having themselves killed in the process.

With Sam, the memories were clearer, sharper. They kept surfacing like bubbles on a swirly tub.

He too spoke but the difference between him and Jasper was that his were demands, not pleas.

Each plea was so faint against his normal voice -shockingly enough- and you could always recollect his words like a chanting, mantra of those just told a horrific, traumatizing tale.

"Concentrate. " Was what he said.

Your name. Sometimes the shortened version with his southern drawl etched in at the edges.

But your bones didn't ease themselves in molding, twisting, grinding back into their shape until Sam got there. More importantly, that uncomfortable heated feeling of hair pushing itself out from your flesh faded to a shiver.

And your faint memories did not aid the man, who you'd previously held an unimaginable grudge against, in easing you into the subject. So, he stuck to what he knew, what he was sure made the most sense to any half-man, half-wolf in your situation.

Quileute blood. This. That.

Each time you gritted your teeth, clacked them, your canines jarring against each other as he droned on about the treaty, about the vampires, about your time around all of them at once probably being the source of your trigger.

The magic in your blood lit ablaze like gasoline poured onto a pile of wood inside of you. And you didn't understand. Wouldn't for a while until you were coherent, not like this. But the idea of you simply being the one to blame had your mouth pursing shut, biting hard enough to draw that salty copper smell across your tongue.

Subjectively, as you stood in your bathroom, eyelids stapled shut, brain still muddled, body hotter than hot itself. Shaking. Teeth, sharper than usual, still dug painfully into the open wound in your mouth, pulling your lips back harshly.

You didn't know what to call yourself.

Werewolf.

Shapeshifter.

Monster.

They all seemed to mean the same thing.

Vampire.

Cold ones.

Blood sucker.

Those all meant the same too.

Enemy.

Your heart stung at that; painful. Sharp. There was something wet coming down your cheeks but you didn't acknowledge it. Barely registered the sound of your bones cracking from inside, the stretch and pull as tendons and ligaments reformed to shape your humanoid form.

Your teeth didn't let go of your lip as your body continued to reform itself in the correct places, your feet dirtied from the bottoms after you stalked through the woods behind your house, naked and scathed from your only 3rd transformation in counting.

You were not yet adjusted, that much was obvious as the rest of the wolves watched you stumble into your home before you were out of sight. Not because they could smell your shame or the pain you were in, not because your face was still smeared with mud and slobber. But because something struck their ears just then, the sound loud enough to echo from miles behind you and they recognized it for what it was.

A whimper. Pain, so visceral and agonizingly immense you almost keeled forward and gasped for air as soon as the shuddery whine passed.

You'd found your bedroom floor before you clung to the bathroom sink as you were now, the bite doing little but help rid the bitterness and tang on your tongue. The pit of your stomach tightened for a moment as your ears began picking up on your mother's soft shuffling noises and you could tell her exact location, how she fidgeted around on the couch.

But you were again drawn back into yourself and the memories seemed to flash once more as your body convulsed and twisted, feverously hot and unbearably sticky. But each pain felt like pure acid seared against a wound.

There were some parts that you noticed as things changed within your entire human psyche. For instance, the room, your room, smelled differently; it tasted differently. Your eyes, what were usually able to scatter quick glances about yourself yet it came off as completely relaxed and indifferent, your pupils darted as if you had a million things to look at.

This time, your lungs felt small, compressed and with that came each bit of scent the bathroom provided. All of it.

The hint of floral perfume that resided with your sister, most likely used the bathroom beforehand.

The watered-down aloe essence of a bottle of SPF that you guessed to be your brothers because it was strong, closer than the rest.

Then the sweetness of your mother's strawberry cream soap she splashed onto her hair in the morning and onto her skin not long before her eyes were drooping.

The musk of cologne, the sweatiness from the summer night. Some aftershave and others, toothpaste. The mint lingering from it assaulted your olfactories like the taste of charcoal briquettes did your dry throat.

It was everything all at once yet, each scent, noise, sight, touch was distinct. Picked out and pinpointed. You could hear your own heartbeat. You could hear how loudly the door caved a centimeter in its frame when the air from the fan swirled into the vent.

And when the sink began to crumble under your grip it was loud, deafening. A tidal wave and snap made entirely of your own anger. You couldn't bear to look in the mirror. You couldn't bear to lift your head and see a monster looking back at you.

You'd been in this state for hours, every minute, every single second, you could feel the warmth of the blood pumping through your veins, moving each muscle slowly, one by one. You knew the bone structure had settled as you curled in on yourself, facing the wall by the sink.

For the first half hour -though to you it felt like two- your mother had banged against the door, concerned by the slight creak and the heat you emitted through it. She cursed, cried. Stomped. After a while it became nothing but background noise to your ears, the vibrations going ignored against the center of your back, directly underneath her hand.

You heard her steps across the floor and the buzz of the phone line and then Sam but the searing hot pain encapsulating your muscles blocked you from hearing what he was saying; the only two words you picked up was 'let' and 'normal'. In short, he was barking reassuring sentences that were more mumbled than articulated in your ears.

More importantly, you could faintly sense just how long Sam had been on the line with your mother. Time kept going and the more it did, the clearer everything was from the white paint chipping off the door frames, to the noises in your own body.

But the heat never ceased, you couldn't find any salve that stenched and wouldn't flare your instincts even further, and any attempt to scratch yourself in frustration and ease the sting left a burning in your arm and no relief.

You were hot.

Hot.

Wet.

Hot and wet and burning.

You were burning, literally burning. Every nerve, every bit of skin was put on a sensitive scale against the brightest scalding iron fire and it fucking hurt. It fucking hurt so much, the longer it went on, and the longer it did go on, the quicker the seconds ticked by and you dripped and dripped in sweat and you couldn't seek any salvation of cold even as you continue to drown your face, your hair, your seething skin in cold water.

Your body reacted in the worst possible ways, taking every inch of your willpower to not lash out at your family members as they fussed over you in complete and utter worry, turning up the AC to arctic like degrees as they all bundled underneath quilts and heavy sweaters as the rain pattered harshly against the metal roofing.

It took an angry snarl, snapping from your teeth clacking together aggressively in the general direction of your family as their constant pacing, their buzzing over your conditions that they had finally settled. Tried to act like you weren't being tortured by your own cells, membranes, nerves and veins.

Your muscles cramped on multiple occasions in their adjustment and every time, Sam would be through the screen door, speaking loudly over the crashing of thunder and lightning, spouting off nonsense to assure you that, 'it gets better with time, it'll pass, focus on what it feels like to transform back faster'.

And you would cry out to him in rage, telling him to leave, go back home, to shut up, that this was his fault, his doing, and, for a moment, you seemed to scare yourself with just how animalistic your words were, sounding more like a literal wolf than actual human speech.

He was wrong.

Wrong.

All wrong.

This shouldn't be happening.

With nothing to help ease the pain, you'd found yourself, wrenching the knob of the faucet off of the handle and it had shattered with a small zap that you felt against your searing hands.

Again, your body convulsed, your muscles twitched and you heard a shriek in your ears at the piercing stab, the fire that licked your insides in a vicious inferno.

You sat against the flooring of the tub, breathing quick and wheezy, knees bent upward as your arms wrapped around yourself.

Hot. Hot. Hot.

It was always hot.

It was so hot.

So fucking hot that you didn't hear the slight creak of the door opening. Or the light footsteps that moved behind you.

Burning, burning, burning.

The freezing water felt like pebbles poking at your flesh until you could feel the fat beneath your skin being boiled.

You swallowed thickly, hard around the growl gathering in your throat.

Though you were drowning in what would normally feel comfortable and ease the fever swelling your skin, leaving it hot to the touch, instead it felt the same; you held no relief.

But this had worked before, or the pain eased enough that you were able to think without feeling your mind split.

On those occasions, you'd have a single moment of coherent thought before your body began trembling from an aching heat that came over you like a summer fog.

Last night had been the worst of it. Unbearable. Intense. It made your stomach do flips, threatening to spill out what little contents there were. Not even two hours ago you retched up a gallon of stomach acid, black tar-like muck. You shook through another shiver.

Ceramic shards clung to your nails like glue.

You had no care for them as you pressed your face into your knees, hoping, yearning that the water from the shower would return you back to how things were. How they should be. Normal.

A body that wasn't sore, seething. Uncomfortable.

Normal skin. That didn't catch every hue of light in the bathroom or smelled like nothing but the strong detergent used to wash away the bloody pieces of bark from the night before.

You remained with your eyes screwed shut, but you felt how quickly they blinked with need for more water. A need for something below freezing.

You waited.

Hoped.

Prayed.

You wished so hard on your breath that what was supposed to be a chilled drip instead fell like globs of goo, coating your head and shoulder blades.

You waited.

Waited.

Each second ticked and like yesterday, everything was loud again.

You heard the shower curtain crinkle slightly under the water falling freely atop you, it also made an abstract splattering sound as it hit the floor tiles but no longer fell in waves of droplets like it did before, no longer providing the soft chill to your inflamed skin.

Waited.

For your body to cooperate.

To fix itself.

You shouldn't have had to focus.

Focus.

That's the one thing that rattled your brain, pulled back and forth between each, as Sam continued with that word; he spat it out to you like it meant everything, like it should have you focusing. Yet.

Nothing.

Your muscles had ceased in the cramping but you assumed that was the first step in returning to normal.

It was still hot.

Furiously hot.

A raging wildfire.

Tears swam down your cheeks, across your lips, dipping in your mouth and clacking against your teeth and you remained as a lump of nothing in the dark room.

Waiting.

It wasn't the water that did it for you.

It was the loud, bitterly cold, small and circular patch of coolness that soon turned to multiples that struck you. You didn't feel it at first, couldn't decipher what it was you felt, but all the same, you tensed up.

Focused.

In annoyance, your muscles rippled and it put a gasp in your chest as the ice chips -or so they felt like- clanked in onto your back.

Ice.

Someone was putting ice on you.

Someone was touching you.

Someone who wasn't Sam.

It wasn't your mom.

And they were speaking.

But you couldn't hear.

Couldn't make your ears focus just on the voice.

Couldn't force your neck to twist and look as the muscles spasmed beneath the movement.

You couldn't find who spoke to you as they ran their fingers softly along your back.

From your neck and spine to the small of your being.

You couldn't make out a simple sentence either.

You couldn't make out what had happened moments before, only that the water was ceasing and your body was scorching again at the lack, only to abruptly lower to a simmer when you felt something enveloping you entirely. Something cold.

Something that must have smelled familiar yet, sickeningly sweet.

Softer than the air moving around, swishing and swaying as the curtain slid back further.

Something soft.

Something familiar but not quite within your reach yet.

You could almost remember it but in doing so your head began to pound.

Everything was loud; if it weren't you were almost certain that it would be deafening.

But then, with the last drag of each blink, you could feel the anger in you being gradually drowned out by something else, something unfamiliar. An intruder. It made your body jerk, jerk away from the cold source of salvation, jerk from the very thing that was keeping you grounded and your memory on track to forming; it made you feel weak in doing so and at the same time, scared, horrified, but calm. It put you at ease.

Almost.

And again you could smell a sweetness that flooded your nostrils and set the hairs inside teetering away from the rot, the decay. Your body jerked again. Instinctively. Out of your control.

But the cold, the cold that you slowly came to recognition with, held you firm. Limbs they were. Your vision was clouded in and out but they were limbs. Chiseled, scarred arms that felt like an ice statue come to life. Pressed so tightly against you that you began to slack. You began to hear.

"There we go... That's it..." A voice cooed softly, a dulcet soothing tone that rocked through the room and filled your ears; smooth, deep and enticing.

You swallowed harshly, a snarl stuck in the pit of your gut that stung and left you winded the moment your eyes were directed upwards. Your sight blurred instantly but the more you blinked they began to regain life. The wolf of you was being pushed further beneath the surface and the whine of protest inside went ignored for a few seconds.

"Breath and just relax. "

It was him.

Jasper.

It was Jasper.

And this time you could get a better look of him.

There were two, thick lines between his eyebrows that pushed and bulged the skin as he stared down at you in concentration, as if he were attempting to figure out the world's greatest puzzle.

His pupils were a hazy gold.

Almost a yellow.

A pale yellow, mixed with orange.

Red orange.

Almost sunset like.

"It's just me. " Jasper spoke quietly. So quiet, so gentle. Unlike his kind. Something stirred and growled inside you but in doing so Jasper's shoulders tensed and his eyes were narrowed just the slightest. "Just me. " His voice came and wafted.

You hadn't the strength to pick your limp body off of him, only to relish in the cool feeling of his skin against you and when he saw the dark pools of your black eyes clear from the threatening growl the lines above his eyebrows disappeared.

Some sort of moment had passed, a moment where he seemed to have returned to a child-like manner and focused in on you to the best of his capabilities.

"You're burning up. " A cold finger against the heat at your forehead and you jerked back but not roughly enough to leave his arms. Though the wince on your face did.

For the first time since your eyes adjusted, you met his gaze.

Slightly crumbled, Jasper's face relaxed as he offered a slow nod. "Healin' nicely. "

That's right, healing. You hadn't noticed that they were sore until he mentioned it. Scars along your face were slowly going away. "It shouldn't leave a mark. "

But what concerned you was how rough your skin felt. There was a sharp stinging as you slowly relaxed against him, and it stung like needles, and prickled like spines and thorns, the feeling was still dulled despite his cold flesh and the layer of cloth between his and your nearly-bursting skin.The white button up shirt was completely drenched, droplets slid off of the stark creams like shimmering diamonds.

"It's hot. " Was all you could get out, voice hoarse, grating against your tender flesh, torn and pulled in dozens of different directions. You wondered if talking was wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Your instincts bubbled to the surface but never quite breached to the point where you snapped and growled.

"I know. " You heard the drop in his throat, the way his breath rolled with his mouth and he bent forward, hand to your forehead, through your hair, pushing the wet strands away from your face.

He watched you intently, gaze scanning for signs that gave hint to your pain.

You closed your eyes tight but his hand slipped lower, down your cheek, and coming to just about your chin. His hand cradled you, making a cold burning under your bones, under your flushed flesh and a wave of want spilled over you that you couldn't wipe away.

"I didn't know it was like this. " It was a whisper.

Your jaw hurt but you tilted to look at him more clearly. It was his touch. His hand.

"This wasn't what I felt from you when you first changed. "

"This is the aftermath. " Another voice. Booming. Louder than his. Slightly indifferent. And both your neck and head pounded painfully as you snapped to see the owner. It was Sam. Standing in the doorway.

Your mind cleared. "You shouldn't be here. " You choked on the second word. Heard a rumble in your head but it subsided when Jasper's large, cold hand pressed firmer to your cheek, bringing you back against him.

He was so soft to you. Too soft.

Sam addressed you. Tone even. "It's forgiven. " His eyes cross Jasper's.

"Just make sure the boys don't find out. " He paused. Thinking. Then. "Be careful. " He repeated. Sam turned to take his leave. His tall frame filled the doorway almost entirely with his size but you thought nothing of him leaving, as there was yet another tremor in your stomach.

Pain, a horrible stabbing type of pain, began shooting from underneath your skin like needles and for a second you forgot of Jasper's existence, forgot of your situation, and curled into yourself in hopes the pain would go away.

It was then you felt his hands encase you, one of your shoulder blades, the other pressing to the small of your back. His fingers dug into the bare flesh and you held onto that as you shook. He felt how the veins rippled the flesh around them and an ache came to him as he reached and tugged you up, the material of his clothes catching against the shower curtain when you finally, after several minutes, allowed Jasper to pick you up, your body pressed entirely to his, and he whispered to you with his usual calmness, brushing away your hair that dripped, and gently told you to breathe.

"In and out. "

If it weren't for the fog swarming your better judgment, you might have found your resolve, snapped and jumped at the sweet gesture. But nothing was going to fight through the high fever, and aching, pungent sting from the very needle pricking every inch of your skin at once.

Jasper tried again.

"Just breathe. "

You sucked air, a short gasp and it was like broken glass sliding down your throat. Painful and nauseating but the moment Jasper's skin dug deeper into your body, holding you tighter than before, easing his embrace by stroking a cold hand along the length of your arm and slipping further downward.

"In and out... Slowly. "

The burn on your skin stopped abruptly and you heard him say "there" but it felt weird.

At ease, the moment you began breathing slowly, his cold digits like magic against your arm, traveling gradually, in circles, all the way up to the bend of your neck and just the very corner of your jaw, and then falling to your thigh and repeating the same motion. It was soothing. Like your muscles didn't know what to do with themselves.

"Are you better? " The voice bounced against his chest and you weren't quite sure how, but you managed to nod, the action causing the world to spin. Jasper nodded back at you, gaze in that constant look of concern, as if he'd never been worried a day in his life. "Do you want to stay here or do you want me to take you somewhere else?"

A low and rather aggressive growl surfaced in the back of your throat and you felt your limbs all come to a standstill and tremble. Jasper's body tensed as he looked to you. All the muscles that were massaging the sting in your body hardened, no longer soft as you wanted.

"Alright, " his eyes didn't waver from you and the golden depths had you staring, he swallowed and sighed out a heavy breath, "it's just me again. Remember that. Okay? Only me. " His voice rumbled his chest and made you feel comfortable again, easy, the boiling in your bones all began to settle.

Still, that anger you felt inside continued with that growl that made him ever so tense, ever so weary. You could feel his body lean back, situating into the curve of the tub. "I'm alone. " Jasper whispered now, lowering his head to yours, cheek to your forehead and your eyelids slid half-way down, pupils dilating just the slightest, "Breathe. " He said. "Deeply. " The tip of his cold nose brushed along the space of your skull and for a moment it appeared as if he contemplated his actions but continued on.

There you could smell the strength of his scent with an underlying sweetness to his dead flesh, the scent of a vampire; still, you didn't jump or shove him off. And he exhaled the biggest breath you had ever seen a vampire take.

He did this several times, took several deep, calming breaths. As if it were to sedate your beast within, that monstrous, ravenous hunger that lay buried beneath the confines of your now flesh and bones, but far beyond control of your own.

Eventually you caught the air without it stabbing into your lungs like those needles and his arm moved to become wrapped, almost entirely, completely around your chest, and pulling you firmer to him, moving from the crook of the bath to the center of the room, sliding in a motion so inhuman and smooth, past the wash rack and the closet, to the wall, leaning your sore back against the plaster. You leaned. Not just leaned, but collapsed against him as your body relaxed.

So strange, so inhumane and entirely disgusting at the fact that a vampire, an immortal, the vilest, putrid stench to nature, could make you feel so comforted, so tranquil, and ease all the pains you had felt.

As if the moon had begun shifting its cycle of phases while in his arms, you found yourself staring into his eyes, watching the shadows of darkness become your savior.

The pressure in your head was gone, the aching and pinching in your bones were coming to a comfortable stand still, leaving you numb in parts, and full of an incredible urge to drift off into the darkness, where you felt more... At ease.

Jasper's gaze swept over your flushed features and he slowly reached to push the loose strands of hair from your face, fingers caressing your cheek bone and over the prickled skin on your neck and slowly, down to your left shoulder.

Your collar bone.

"Is it any better?" A whisper to your ears. Rough, jagged along his cold tongue and you fought the urge to show your teeth back.

"Yeah. " It was the first word that came to you, coherent, but the word itself sent a sharp pain up the muscle and you winced visibly. Jasper's eyes searched your face once more but never directly met yours.

When your heart began spazzing for his affection, you bit your tongue.

"Don't try to talk anymore. Rest. " His voice was soft and the muscles below your flesh rippled as he acted as a crutch on the way to your bedroom. It was at the end of the hall and to the right.

At the door his nose wrinkled, as did the skin along his upper lip, but he said nothing of the burning smell of wet dog.

His steps were swift as he carefully positioned himself through the threshold.

You stumbled to your mattress and fell weakly at the foot of it, Jasper's grip loosening and fingers unfurling from your flesh.

You settled into the cooled sheets and watched him intently as he carefully closed the door behind him. You only lifted your torso and crawled on your knees up to the pillows and got lost in there. They hid your flushed, irritated body against the rough surface.

Jasper stood for what felt like a long time near the door, standing by your closet and watched. You were too exhausted to think, it was nearing the start of daylight outside, and your eyes shut involuntarily, each blink longer than the last.

You were so tired but the anger persisted even when sleep took you. You dreamt not.

Unintentionally, you fell asleep.

For Jasper, however, he stood for several minutes just staring at your still body.

All was quiet and peaceful, the world outside was just wakening with the sounds of the birds, and the leaves were still, unmoving, but the air was dry. Just a couple of hours ago and this same place was like a cave. Smelling of beasts, of fur and musk, the woods themselves had a strong scent in this area, yet it changed suddenly.

To normalcy. And he wasn't quite sure how he felt, what the rest of the family, of his brothers and sisters, his mother and father would say when he returned smelling of dog.

The type of dog that sought to cease their existence.

Their natural doom.

The very dog that'd nearly tore their heads from their bodies days prior.

However, being this close to you and noticing the increase in hormones among all other smells, though, for the most part, the odor was horrendous, more specifically, that you were feeling better, not dying or in any more pain, was enough for Jasper to ignore anything else.

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crguang · 8 months ago

Text

cw: panic attack, mentions of death

Thump. Thump. Thump. Each beat is the tick of a clock waiting to announce your inevitable demise. Darkness suffocates you, curls its tendrils around your windpipe and regards you with the indifference of a god; paralyzed in the palm of its hand, you are meaningless. There is no one, there is nothing but your thundering heart expanding in your chest and crushing the bones of your ribcage under its weight. You are not falling, merely stuck in place with deflating lungs and trembling limbs. You think you are crying but you cannot feel your own skin, your senses are muted to amplify the booming voice in your head, crystal clear despite its shaky words.

I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die.

You don’t comprehend that it is your own, only that it speaks truth. Despair fills you with lead and once nothingness has had enough of you, you sink. You make no sound as you’re buried beneath infertile soil. Your own hands throw the earth over your immobile body because there is no one to do it for you, no one to handle you carefully and whisper their tearful goodbyes. Your end is not beautiful. It is not consequential. It is mundane, like you are, and leaves behind traces of your regrets that no soul will pick up on. You can’t breathe, because you are dead. You cannot feel your skin, because you are dead. In front of you is an ocean of impenetrable black, silent and unmoving. Faint sounds come to you so distorted, you might be imagining them in a desperate attempt at staying afloat. They cut off, fade away into the void that envelops you and then, a voice.

“Listen to me, breathe.”

It cuts through your hopeless, muddled mind like the first rays of morning light. Tender palms swipe the soil from your eyes and wash away the dirt over your mouth, and fresh air enters your body with a loud gasp. You don’t recognize the owner of those words yet every inch of you feels compelled to obey. Your lungs stutter and your chest heaves with the effort, you are suddenly aware of your brain drumming inside your skull from the lack of oxygen. The new sensation breeds a dozen others; the tremor in your legs, the warm tears drenching your cheeks, the lump in your throat. Soft fingertips over your knuckles make their way to the back of your hand in a slow caress, back and forth, gently coaxing your fist open. Your muscles relax bit by bit as the kind touch traces the lines of your palm and the length of your fingers. The same motions are done to the other hand, just as lightly.

“That’s right. In and out.”

Despite it all, you follow these instructions to the letter. You are less heavy with each passing minute, your heart decreases to an average size and the ligaments of your bones mend together like they were never apart. Without your heartbeat in your ears, you can make out the quivering breaths past your lips and the rustling of clothes as the other person shifts, most likely changing positions next to you. Their words reach you much clearer, and you understand why when you feel silk on your cheek.

“Listen, you feel confused and afraid right now, but you’re okay. You’re not alone, I’m right here. You recognize my voice, so you cling to it and let it soothe your mind.”

Kafka. The comfort of familiarity washes over you in the next instant, chasing away any lingering despair. Your breath comes easier now, negative thoughts gradually swept away as your mind believes her sweet reassurances. The dark sky shatters as you sluggishly blink open your eyes and they adjust to the lighting of the room— the bathroom, you come to realize. You make out the toilet seat across from where you previously slid to the floor some time ago, and next to you, the sharp pinks and lilacs of Kafka’s contacts. A small smile slowly grows on her face when your lidded gaze meets hers, though the gesture lacks its usual ease, it seems forced somewhat. She withdraws her hands from you and you avert your eyes to the clean bathroom tiles. A sense of shame grips you. If she resorted to her Spirit Whisper, it means nothing else was effective to get you out of your head. You must’ve been an unpleasant sight, curled in on yourself in your bathroom. You’re embarrassed that she’s seen this part of you because she’ll never truly understand why. In some ways, her lack of fear is a blessing. Her unwavering composure makes you feel weak on days you can’t keep those particular thoughts at bay.

Kafka stands on her feet and leans her back against the sink, arms crossing over her chest. She stares at the wall above you. The silence that stretches between you is uncomfortable; you bring your knees to your chest and she quietly debates with herself, neither of you daring to look at the other. This is the first time either of you has shown this much of yourself and you have no idea how to go about it. Kafka’s never seen you so afraid. You didn’t know she could be this gentle.

“You know,” you’re surprised she speaks up first, and so nonchalantly, “I don’t think you’re weak. That’s what you were thinking, right?”

You don’t reply, and that itself is an answer. It’s easy for her to stand upright since she doesn’t feel any kind of fear, but you’re haunted by paralyzing thoughts that don’t come and go, rather they flare up periodically like a permanent wound. How can you not think yourself weak compared to her?

“To be afraid is to be alive, no? I’m told it’s a gruesome thing.”

You don’t want to discuss this with her. You appreciate the effort she makes to reassure you, however.

“What would you know?”

Kafka hums pensively. “Nothing.”

It takes a moment for you to speak again. You remember her grounding touch all over your hands, its tenderness as it smoothed out your tense muscles. You sneak a glance at her hands and notice she’s only wearing one glove. The fingertips of the other one stick out of her front pocket. You realize a little late that she’s fully dressed despite the late hour, her coat is still on and so are her boots. She must have just come back and found you like this. She calmed you down so easily, it makes you wonder how she knew what to do.

“…Have you done this before?” You ask in a quiet voice. Kafka doesn’t need you to specify what you’re referring to.

She shakes her head. “Not at all.” ‘It came naturally with you’ goes unsaid.

You’re grateful for her honesty. Kafka lets out a long sigh and finally looks at you, an unmistakable fondness in her eyes and her practiced smile on her lips. She offers you her bare hand.

“Time for bed.”

When your fingers lace with hers, you know that your fears of dying alone are unfounded.

#sat babbles #projecting hard asf rn so have this drabble idk #honkai star rail #hsr kafka #kafka x reader

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drstonetrivia · 1 year ago

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Chapter 231 Trivia

"Aaaaaaaah primitive technology noooooooooooo!"

This is definitely worth looking at closely: we have post-America-arc Chrome shedding a tear, young Suika again, Ishigami Village, the Soyuz capsule…

Oddly, Senku's chest piece is missing and Byakuya's name may be incorrectly spelled in Cyrillic (Б НШНГАМН vs Б ИШИГАМИ)

We get some insight into how the Medusas see things: we already know they can sense EM waves from chapter 229, and especially radio waves, but they may be able to selectively filter which wavelengths they see.

If they could only see radio, then it'd be impossible to see bones as the waves pass right through us. Given the image, it's very likely they're using x-rays to examine the people, but if that's true then the gun would appear as a bright white rather than partially transparent.

It's possible that they can see all wavelengths at once, and they're able to parse what would be "pure white" to us in such a way that they can selectively see the "layer" they want, but even picking a specific wavelength to view would result in the gun blocking the bones.

Alternatively, they only emit a specific range of waves at once and see what gets returned (like radar), but they'd have to know which wavelengths to use without knowing anything first. This echolocation seems slightly more likely since we have panels of them emitting waves.

It's possible that that's why they interpreted the humans as skeletons: they chose to see in x-rays rather than in the visible spectrum (=our vision) and thus only saw bones.

Maybe they assumed both the space suit and "meat suit" (skin, muscle, organs) were the same thing?

It's amusing how the Medusas scanned Senku, but then didn't bother making a perfect copy: the skull is more realistic/less manga, and his hair is upright, despite it being flattened against his head because of the helmet.

Not even they can make his hair look good though…

By mimicking Senku here, the Medusas effectively fulfilled all the previous depictions of Whyman.

Senku uses "me" and "us" here, but he does only mean "me"— the time between his revival in April 5738 and this date* is 10 years, not counting the 7.5 years he spent petrified. Apart from maybe Xeno, no one else shares the same timeline.

*(~Sept 5755, if it's exactly 10.)

List of weapons on the moon:

Grenade-net launcher.

Stone axe.

And the latter was the one that drove them away, haha!

Xeno was one of the ones most excited about what the Medusa tech could mean for humanity, which is why he looks especially grim when they decided to call humans pea-brained one last time before fleeing the solar system.

I have no idea how they retrieved the capsule since it and the Medusa inside seemed to disappear into the swarm, and the one that chose to stay didn't bring it back. It's also definitely the same capsule (with a few new additions) because the broken string is the same.

The capsule got a little upgrade to make it easier for the Medusa to communicate: the speaker was moved to the outside, and was replaced with a tiny Yagi–Uda antenna!

The antenna type is mostly for clarity, because at that range a monopole would have worked, or even none at all.

I'd like to think this Medusa has an affinity for Kohaku, since it chose to give itself up to her. They also had a nice conversation together! :)

(I'm sure it had nothing to do with the fact the other two were holding things at the time & Kohaku is the least busy one onboard…)

This piece coming off the main rocket is the ascent stage of the lunar lander. Similar to how parts of the rocket come off when leaving Earth, the ascent stage only gets the astronauts back to the rocket before it is discarded, destined to fall back to the surface of the moon.

The moon bunnies have a little 'x' for a mouth, and the capsule's face has a mouth shaped like that too… Coincidence?

I wonder who drew the face:

Senku, because he had a marker and likes drawing faces on things?

Kohaku, for fun?

Stanley, for the gap moe/Xeno 'x' (and because it seems like something he'd do somehow)?

Ryusui, to welcome his new crewmate?

If we'd gotten a name/species as an answer, then fans would inevitably be disappointed by not meeting them after they'd been hinted at, or been angry at how "unrealistic" whatever they got was.

This may not be a satisfying answer for some, but the alternatives are much less so.

I love this admission of Kohaku's, does she not have anything to think about!?

#trivia #dr stone #chapters #231

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cicidarkarts · 1 year ago

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Blood Defied - 10: Mudblood (& 11 + 12)

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Ominis stood before Cree.

“Pl-please, Ominis,” she said, quivering.

But her voice was drowned out by a sharp, nasty susurration. Generations of Parselmouths envenomed him with their ideals and hatred. The sound formed together in some sort of coherence. It sounded like his mum, hissing in distinguishable parseltongue.

“Put an end to it.”

As if something mad had claimed him, he shoved Cree to the ground. She hit the floor, yelping in terror. He knew she was unarmed. He knew she was helpless against him. The tiniest part of him that begged for this to stop was quashed by his madness.

“Don’t do this,” Cree begged.

He lifted his wand, expecting his voice to call out the Killing Curse. His heart dropped into his churning stomach when his mania forced out,

“Crucio!”

She screamed. It sundered his ears and ravaged his mind. His younger self accompanied her, cacophonous, overwhelming. His lucid part cried out for it to stop. The hissing laughed, sneering and wheezing in its joy. His own lungs expelled a laugh—cackling that turned to uncontrolled and venomous hissing.

When he stopped, Cree panted and sobbed. The static of the curse and smell of tears drenching Cree’s flesh pierced his nostrils.

“Why?” she begged. Generations within him hissed, “Kill her.” “I trusted you, Ominis.”

He struggled against himself. But this was simply how things were. She was nothing to purebloods—to him.

“Shut your mouth, mudblood.”

The word assaulted his tongue. His coherent side pleaded for her to release him from his madness. But that umbral half only held contempt for the helpless mudblood. He lifted his wand. He felt the words bubble up in his chest, ready to spew from him and destroy everything.

“Avada Kedavra!”

Bright green flashed across his blind eyes. Then Cree’s breaths halted. Her silence rang in the air like the tolling of a thunderous bell. Her sobs and voice were gone forever. Her arms would never again hold him tight. And she could no longer reassure him that he was sane.

Ominis jerked awake. Shooting upright chilled his damp and clammy skin. A dream. A nightmare. His lungs burned with heaving breaths. He felt his heart pounding against his bones. Warm tears burned at his eyes and new sweat trickled off his forehead. He still felt that atmosphere—cold and dark and oppressive, swelling in his lungs and fogging his mind. That insane half of him ripped apart his brain, picking out things he was sure rested deep within him; things that prepared to burst forth one day when he least expected it.

Sebastian mumbled from his side of the dorm. “Ominis…? Are you all right?” “Y-yes, I’m fine.” “Actually speaking to me?” he mumbled again with a hoarse voice, stirring as though he sat up. “You sure you're all right?” Ominis sighed and pulled his cover over him. “Come off it.”

He rolled to face the wall. Sebastian groaned softly and collapsed back into bed. After some sheet rustling, the room went quiet again. All that was left was the sloshing of the Black Lake.

Dirt scraped Credence’s legs. Her muscles burned, desperate for respite as she hurried out of the Great Hall. She’d been running for who knows how long, yet she was still going to be late! With her food in hand, she practically tackled the Floo Flame.

Her feet hit hardwood flooring. She panted and looked around the common room entryway. Ominis sat on one of the benches, surrounded by the usual Ravenclaw books and clutter. He held his own plate. A few bites had been taken from it already.

“Credence, where have you been?” he asked. “Sorry,” she said between breaths. “I don’t— Mean to be— So late.” “All right, what insane story do you have for me this time?”

She walked toward him, kicking some of the dirt clumps out of her pant leg. One of his brows cocked in response.

“I was in the Forbidden Forest,” she said. “Uh-huh.” “Looking for pearl moss.” “Right.” “And I fell.” “....” “In a niffler den.”

He paused and she watched a smile forming across his lips, though he tried to push it back down.

“Oh. Well, I’m glad you’re—” He forced away his giggles. “I’m glad you’re okay.” “It was so not funny,” she said, though she was also giggling. “I was stuck for ten minutes!”

She opened up the door and they headed inside.

“And what do you mean I have insane stories?” she demanded. “At least several times a week,” he said, nodding. “You’re exaggerating.” “Don’t you remember the last time?” “Hyperbole.” “It was three days ago.”

He reminded her of the time she’d come into the Great Hall, feet slapping wet against the floor. She’d sat next to him with a loud smack of sodden clothes.

“Why are you all wet?” he’d asked. “Remember that transfer thestral we got? The one that’s been following me everywhere?” “Ashes, yes.” “I had to go out near Lower Hogsfield to get some supplies. When I got there, I realized I also needed some leech juice. Well, those leeches were running from me, I swear. Getting really close to the lake and everything. When I was chasing one, Ashes bowled me over. Right into the lake. I guess he saw me running and wanted to get involved.”

“And you laughed at me then, too!” she said in the present as they headed toward the rooftop. “Oh, let’s not forget that other time just last week, when you came into the Great Hall reeking of dungbombs and swamp water.” “It was the hinkypunks!” “How did you and Regalian get lured in by hinkypunks?” “We were searching for them!” she said, flustered and indignant and dramatic. “They didn’t ‘lure us in’. It’s not that we’re just stupid! Well, maybe Regalian is, but I’m not!” Ominis clutched his sides in laughter. “Okay! Okay, I’m sorry!”

She recounted that day again, having to go into the Forbidden Forest with a sneering and snarky Regalian. By the time they’d found the three escaped hinkypunks, she’d just wanted Regalian to shut up. While arguing and chasing the hinkypunks to catch them, the ground had suddenly disappeared under Credence’s feet. She fell right off an embankment.

The noisome mud of the bog greeted her. Regalian cackled at her for that one. She’d glared at him, belly-first in the muck, eyeing up that small, unsteady outcropping on which he’d stood. She took great pains to ensure Ominis and Sebastian knew that she’d kicked the ground out from under him, which sent Regalian tumbling into the mud.

Ominis was cracking up as they reached the roof. “That one was definitely not funny!” she said, also laughing. “Regalian also smelled so horrible that day, I bet he was bloody pissed!”

He took the lead up the stairs to go at his own pace. As their giggles quieted, they breached the cool air of the rooftop. Outside with them was another Ravenclaw huddled with her Hufflepuff girlfriend on one side of the roof.

Credence and Ominis took the other side. They enjoyed the last bit of warm sun before Christmas as they ate. Right when they finished their plates and got comfortable, a frigid gust of wind blew along the rooftop. Credence nuzzled closer to Ominis. The two girls squealed at the frozen air. They giggled together and jogged back inside. Credence relaxed knowing she and Ominis could talk without interruption.

“Are you signing up for that winter tournament Brattleby wants to hold?” asked Ominis. “Can't. Lucan says I'm not allowed to participate in tournaments with my Protego. It still sometimes can't tell the difference between a friendly competition and an actual threat.” “That's fair,” he agreed. “Too bad. I would've loved to see you participate.” “See me?” He nudged her. “You know what I mean.” “At least I'll get to see you in the tournament, right?” “Yes, I'm already signed up, actually. There’s a surprising amount of participants. I guess they want some excitement before heading home for the holidays.” “I'm guessing you-know-who is in the tournament.” Ominis, despite having never seen it done before, gave her the most impressive eye roll. “You don't have to call him that; he's not a blight, even though he feels like it sometimes. But yes, the bloke with whom I'm not on speaking terms is joining. Wouldn't surprise me to know Garreth is already getting bets on Sebastian winning.” “Have you guys talked about what happened?” “I can't get him to shut up about what happened. He's been pestering me ever since, constantly apologizing.” “Sebastian really doesn't know when to quit,” she said. “Yes, he's under the impression that if he just says sorry enough times that it'll make it all magically disappear. He brings to mind a toddler throwing a fit rather than a sincere adult.” “Yeah, I know. I don't think he really understood what he was doing. I mean, he's so caught up with this Anne thing.” Ominis stiffened and his hand upon her hip grasped her. “He acts like he's the only one being affected by that. We're all hurting over poor Anne. It's been a truly horrible situation. I’d find it admirable he won’t give up, if he wasn't stepping on everyone's toes in the process. But he thinks he knows better than everyone else. Not even the experts at Saint Mungo's know how to help Anne. I'm sorry to say that even I've given up— Oh.” He put his fingertips over his mouth. “Oh, I shouldn't have said that…” “It's okay,” she assured, massaging his deflated shoulders. “It's a hopeless situation. It's okay to feel like you've tried everything and there isn't anything left.” “I feel so awful about it.” “I understand.”

She knew it had to have been weighing on him for a long time. At least as long as the semester if not longer. Ominis so tightly held onto guilt and negative thoughts that she wondered when he'd last remembered good times with Anne and Sebastian.

If she ever thought about her brother, she tried to remember his smile; his excitement (and confusion) about finding out she was a witch. She thought about him telling off one of her schoolmates for making fun of her for being muggle-born. How Kameron promised to keep her safe as war stained their backyard.

If she ever thought about her father, she thought about how he fought for his family. She thought about him twirling her about when her magic schooling letter came in. How her father held all of them tight as bloodshed knocked on their door. Surely, Ominis had similar memories of Anne.

“What's Anne like? she asked. “I've only heard a little.” “Oh, she's great,” said Ominis, a soft smile upon his lips. “She's always so energetic. It was usually Anne coming up with pranks and silly stories. She's really intelligent, even though her humor is like a twelve year old boy's. I think she does that to appear less smart than she actually is, but she's hilarious. Between her and Sebastian, I've never laughed so hard in my life.” “She sounds wonderful, Ominis.” “Yes, she is.”

Credence tried to keep her smile up but there was a little twinge in her gut. That couldn't possibly be—jealousy? The moment the realization hit her she tried to beat the beast back into the recesses of her mind. Ominis brushed his hand over her knee, getting her out of her thoughts.

"Thank you for listening,” he said. “You're the only one who does. Sebastian is so wrapped up in his own life, and Anne… Well, I haven't spoken to her ever since she fell ill, I'm afraid.” “Why not?” “I just… Can't bear to see her like that. Then my worst fears will come true—I'll know for sure that she'll be gone soon. Her and Sebastian were the only people who didn’t judge me for being a Gaunt, before you came along.” “I bet Anne would love to see you again.” He sighed and frowned deeply. “I know. It's so selfish of me.” Credence put her arms around him and held him close. “You need to do what's best for you. If seeing Anne is too much—” “I should see her anyway.” “I'll support whatever you want to do, Ominis.” This eased his frown. “Thank you, Cree. Would you come with me if I went to see Anne? I feel like I'll need you there.” “Of course. You and Sebastian just let me know when.” His face went quite cold, frown returning with a vengeance. “Right. Sebastian. I'm sure he'll be there as well. If there's ever an opportunity to get up to Feldcroft and see Anne, he takes it.” “Well, better to face him in that Crossed Wands tournament first, right?” “I plan to.”

Chapter 11: Culmination

Credence groaned as Lucan lined the roster with names that weren’t hers. It was so unfair to be left out of the tournament. Well, for her anyway.

“Don't worry, Credence,” said Lucan. “Once you get better control over your Protego, you'll be able to join.” “Thanks, Lucan,” she said, though she doubted very much that she'd be able to.

With a final wave of his wand, the roster was filled. It was quite far up on the wall, its large letters looming over the battlefield. Ominis aimed his wand high.

“Damn,” he spat. “My wand can't pick it up from so far away.” “Looks like you're paired with Leander Prewett first,” she said. “Sebastian is on the other side, against Charlotte Morrison.” “That means I'll need to win all my matches to face him,” said Ominis.

His eyes wandered down and his features hardened. Three victories in order to face Sebastian. Credence put her arm around his waist and nuzzled into him.

“You can do this.”

Since Ominis was paired up on side B, they'd need to wait on side A's match first. In the middle of the clocktower was a raised ring—large and dark blue, an obvious outline of the battlefield. Those thrown over the edge or disarmed for longer than ten seconds officially lost. Participants couldn’t use wandless or non-verbal spells, but could use a wandless Accio to call the wand back to them if disarmed. The crowd gathered around, hungry for the first fight to begin, roaring and hooting.

“Final bets over here!” called Garreth Weasley.

Credence and Ominis headed out into the courtyard to get away from all the noise. Once either he or Sebastian were to fight, they would head inside. Until then, Ominis’ clammy hands couldn't stop fiddling with his wand and he needed fresh air.

“Need me to get you anything?” she asked as they sat in their usual spot. “No, I'm all right.” “Okay, just let me know.”

He smiled and brushed his hand over hers. But his face soured and his eyes hardened when someone interrupted them.

“Figured I'd find you two out here,” said Sebastian. “Sorry to hear Brattleby banned you from the tournament, Cree.” “Yeah, but he had to do it.” “At least I'll get to fight you, right Ominis?” Ominis’ lips twitched but he didn't respond. “You can't seriously still be angry with me,” said Sebastian. “Of course I am,” he replied. He snapped shut his mouth. Credence figured he'd bitten his tongue before saying something nasty. “I already told you I'm sorry.”

The words hung in the chilly late autumn air. Sebastian stared at the ground, lips pulled back, but didn't harp any further.

“Leander Prewett versus Ominis Gaunt is up next!” Lucan announced.

Ominis stood and walked past Sebastian. “We'll discuss this later. In the dueling ring.”

As Credence kept up, she was sure that Sebastian had smiled.

“Bets over here! Quickly now!” Garreth called. “Ten sickles on Prewett!” “No way, a galleon on Gaunt!”

Credence gave Ominis’ hand a squeeze before he climbed into the ring. From the front of the room, with his wand up to his neck, Lucan spoke loud and booming.

“Prewett versus Gaunt is about to begin! Combatants ready?” “Ready!” called Leander, brandishing his wand. Ominis spun the hilt around in his palm. “Ready.” “Three, two, one— Duel!”

“Levioso!” called Leander.

The yellow sparks raced toward Ominis, but his calm and muted Protego bashed the bolts away. He retaliated with an Accio. Leander was torn across the ring, but halfway through cast a counterspell. He thudded to his feet and flourished his wand.

“Expelliarmus!” “Galinn Maxima!”

Ominis’ spell was much faster. A force of wind burst from the tip of his wand. Leander staggered, throwing his spell randomly toward the ceiling as the wind battered his body. His wand nearly slipped out of his hand as the gale made him stumble backwards. The crowd went ballistic. Ones who bet on Ominis hollered with glee while those who bet on Leander grumbled and called out their distress.

“Woo!” Credence screeched over the crowd, hoping she wouldn’t be drowned out. “Go, Ominis!”

Before Leander could regain himself, Ominis flicked his wand up at him.

“Flipendo!” “Protego!”

The shield battered Ominis’ spell away. Spells blasted back and forth, and Protegos glinted in the streaming sunbeams. Leander couldn’t quite get the timing right—his shield always ricocheted spells in wild directions. Ominis cast a perfect Protego, absorbing the force of Leander’s Descendo.

His powered up Stupefy bashed Leander’s chest. Leander swayed on the spot, eyes dazed and unfocused. A final Galinn Maxima threw Leander out of the ring.

“That's the match!” called Lucan. “Gaunt wins!”

While half of the crowd groaned their favorite had lost, the other half roared with joy, yelling and high-fiving. Credence leapt into his arms the moment he was out of the ring.

“That was awesome, Ominis!” He held her close. “I heard you going off in the crowd.” “My throat is gonna hate me.”

Though Credence thought she was screechy and loud, she didn't compare to the small group of girls that squealed and cheered for Sebastian in the following round. They held a sign up for him: his name etched in pretty handwriting, little doodles of pink hearts and colorful flowers all over it. For a second, Credence thought she should make a sign for Ominis. Until she realized she was dumb. At least Sebastian could see his sign, judging by the light pink tinge of his cheeks and overly confident smirk.

“Looks like Sebastian has some fans,” said Credence. “Hear them losing their minds?” “I’m sure the barmy nonsense is going straight to his head.” Credence giggled. “What?” “Barmy,” she said, laughing a bit louder.

They had to calm down and be quiet, though, as Sebastian took the stage for his match. Ominis’ face stiffened into concentration as he listened. Sebastian caught Credence's eye and gave her a goofy and excited thumbs-up, his eyes smiling alongside his huge grin. She grinned, shifting a bit as she returned his thumbs-up.

“Sallow versus Morrison!” Lucan announced. “Combatants ready?” “Ready!” called Charlotte, giving a little jump of delight. “Ready,” said Sebastian, assuming his typical fighting stance that resembled a fencer, his wand as the sword. His fans squealed with delight. “Three, two, one— Duel!”

“Accio!”

Sebastian snatched her up before she could move. She yelped as she was torn across the stage by her Hufflepuff robes. She hardly even stopped when Sebastian shouted,

“Descendo!”

The poor girl was smacked into the ground and given no time to regain herself before Sebastian called yet another spell.

“Everte Statum!”

Charlotte flipped, feet over head over feet again. She hit the floor and scrambled and clawed to stay in the ring. Her leg had fallen out but she pulled herself back in. Her wand nearly fell out of her hand. When she got to her knees, she was finally able to cast a Protego, blocking Sebastian's oncoming Arresto Momentum. She panted behind her shield, which stayed up for quite some time. Credence couldn't blame her. Getting tossed around by Sebastian's fast wand work was no joke.

She glanced at Ominis to see his concentration deepening—his brow slightly furrowed, his jaw clenched. The rest of him was unmoving, full effort put into listening and observing in his own way. She kept her hands to herself so she wouldn't distract him.

“Incendio!” cried Charlotte.

Before Credence could look back, a sudden blast of flame flew toward her. She grabbed Ominis and ducked down with him, as did the rest of the crowd.

When Credence looked back up, Sebastian had absorbed it with a perfect Protego. He aimed a Stupefy right at her chest. Charlotte staggered, eyes glazed and unfocused.

“Got a pretty strong Incendio there!” said Sebastian. “Too bad you have no control over it! Flipendo!”

Flipendo threw Charlotte right out of the ring.

“Victory goes to Sallow!” called Lucan.

Screams and joyous cries erupted from the crowd. His little group of fans giggled and squealed and called out Sebastian's name. One of them was gutsy enough to shout,

“I love you!!”

Sebastian's face glowed as he sauntered out of the ring. He winked at the girls who about died and went to heaven.

Ominis stayed quiet, pondering. Credence tried not to bother him too much. She knew he was taking great pains to come up with a decent strategy for Sebastian's insane offense. They fought through the crowd so he could sit outside and consider his next move.

“Want me to get you anything?” she asked at the threshold. “Please, if it's not too much trouble.”

She gladly went to the refreshment table and picked up a couple of things for him—a sandwich, some water, chips (or crisps as they called them), and a few things for herself as well. Most of the afternoon, she spent either chatting with Ominis about his strategies, or watching him or Sebastian duel. With each round, Ominis refined his techniques and found patterns in Sebastian’s dueling style.

By the end of the evening, when the final duels for the day took place, Ominis and Credence relaxed in the fresh air of the courtyard. Rather than talking about the tournament, Ominis listened to Credence talk about the thestrals and other beasts.

He cuddled against her, his arm tight around her waist. She’d just recently had to make a very complex potion to heal one of their sick kneazles, which got her chatting about how well Jane was doing after they retrieved the bloated fungal caps.

Throughout her stories, his hand would brush her hip or he would place a tender kiss upon her hair. The more she carried on, the closer he drew. He nuzzled against her neck, kissed her forehead, ran his hand along her thigh.

“A little excited, are we?” she said with a giggle. “Far more than just a little. You’re stunning, you know—how much you care about Jane and the others. Hearing you smile gets me very excited, angel.” She paused, her senses shocked by that pet name. “That is the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me.” He ran his fingertips along her neck. “Mm, you like when I call you angel?” “I love it.”

He kissed her lips. The fingers at her neck cupped her jaw and pulled her near. He took control, deepening their kiss with his tender tongue. His opposite hand caressed her curves, down the dip of her waist, tingling her flesh as he dug his fingertips into her hip. She explored his chest and shoulders, feeling their broadness against her palms, his slight build pleasing to the touch. She squeaked into his mouth when his hand decided to explore her chest as well.

She pulled back with a surprised, "Ominis, we're in public." His erotic flushed face and soft smirk made her groin twitch. "So you're saying if we went somewhere private,” he said, “we could continue?" She bit her lip and her heart fluttered. "I don't see why not. As long as we get cleaned up first." "And just what are you suggesting, darling?"

Stifling their giggles, they snuck off out of the bell tower and toward the nearest Floo Flame. Ominis kept groping at her hips and waist, and placing featherlight kisses upon her hair and cheek.

In the Ravenclaw common room, there were only a couple of people around with their noses in books. Most of the others had gone home for the weekend. One of the stragglers, Amit, was heading out with his astronomy books in tow. He passed by them and gave them a wholly innocent look of confusion. She didn't get to see if the realization dawned on him as she took Ominis toward the girl's side. On the middle floor was the communal girl's bath.

Credence peaked inside and coaxed, "Hello?"

No answer. She took him inside and locked the door behind them. At the end of the bathroom beyond the sinks was the deep inground bathtub. Credence had just enough time to point her wand at the faucet and turn it on before Ominis distracted her with kisses. His gentle fingers ran through her hair, moving it aside to grasp for her school tie. Ominis stripped her down, releasing the sweat and dirt from all her layers, dropping her clothes casually to the floor.

She took opportunities to relieve him of his burdensome clothes here and there, between letting him run his fingertips along her skin and admiring his build. His undershirt relayed vague hints of his body, tight in the shoulders, flowing gently down his stomach. She watched his deft fingers release the buttons, shedding off his shirt and tossing it to the heap of soiled and weary clothes.

He held her hand as they entered the hot, steamy water and led her to the stone benches on the sides of the tub. He took a moment to ensure the bench was under him before he sat, then pulled her toward him. Their nude flesh connected as she straddled his lap, sending gentle pleasurable ripples along her skin.

He lathered his hands and ran them across every inch of her, learning how she reacted to his touch; at first amateurish and making her giggle or squirm, but quickly intuiting what she wanted and needed. She hoped he felt the same about her clumsy and unpracticed hands. She soon found all the right ways to tease and delight him.

"Feeling good, darling?" he asked. "Very. This is really nice, isn't it?" "Mm," he hummed, moving toward her throat. "Very nice indeed."

His lips pressed against the sensitive skin, making her murmur and grasp his shoulders. With her graces, he continued deepening their intimacy. The water rose higher up their hips, enveloping them in tender warmth. He placed another passionate kiss upon her lips, leaving her in a blissful haze through the steam. When he took his lips and tongue away, she begged for the culmination of all their passion.

"Please, Ominis," she said, breathless. "Tell me what you want, Cree," he urged, voice soft. "I want to hear it." "Make love to me, Ominis. Please."

Nothing could take away the passion and memories of the first few moments—out of their elements, inexperienced; longing to serve one another, bathing in the ecstasy of unfamiliar sensations. Credence had heard that her first time would be painful, but Ominis was gentle and safe, and the warmth between them kept her calm. He buried his face in her chest as he found a soft rhythm.

She tried to stay quiet, latching onto him and holding him tight. Trailing kisses along his head and cheek quelled her rising excitement. After the water had stopped running and its steam settled, Credence said,

"Let's continue in my room, before someone walks in."

They gathered up their things in a hurry, tossing on only a few things for cover, before jogging up a floor to Credence's dorm. Ominis' starved hands were all over her, caressing her in the ways he learned she enjoyed. They hurried inside her dorm and rushed to her bed. A discarded pile of things quickly hit the floor as they climbed onto her pillowy soft mattress.

Now Ominis was above her. His dominant position made her bite her lip and quiver in anticipation. His damp hair was tousled, locks hanging down upon his forehead, cheeks flushing red as he felt her body once more.

"Let me know if I'm being too rough," he said. "I will."

But he wasn't even close. She held him tight, occasionally pleading for him to go harder, move faster. He obeyed her wishes, only being as hard or as soft as she asked. Their fevered breaths intertwined. The more excited he became, the more he hissed serpens to her. He spoke fervently, but she could only pick out a few repeated words: šchaëƒ, hàseƒ.

She tried to keep up with whispers and murmurs of encouragement as they furthered their union. She moved so in-sync with him that she felt they were one, as though something higher than them had willed their love into existence, as though she knew exactly what to do despite not having a clue. Every motion, every appreciative moan, somehow felt perfect. Her nails ran along his back as he marked her throat with his lips in turn.

By the time it was all over and she was drinking up the fruits of their labor, she wasn't sure what time it was. Her body's climactic shockwaves still surged through her, releasing all her tension and worries, making her a cuddly melty mess. They settled under the covers. He put his arm around her so that his hand could grasp her breast.

"That was amazing, šchaëƒ." "Yeah," she agreed, still catching her breath. "That felt so good." "You're quite loud," he said. "Were you trying to alert the whole common room?" "I couldn't help it, I was trying not to." He snuggled against her, kissing the back of her head. "I loved it, knowing you were enjoying yourself." "What did that one word mean?" "What one word?" "When you were speaking serpens, you called me something a couple times." His grip on her tightened. "I… I was?" "Yeah. I mean, it was no big deal, I'm just curious." "Oh… I didn't even notice, I guess." She heard the frown permeating his voice. "Are you okay?" "I don't know, Cree. I mean, I don't mind speaking parseltongue around you when I want to. At least, I thought maybe I didn’t. It's a little disconcerting to know I don't always have control over it." "Why? It's just us here." "I know, but… Losing control like that—what if it happened to the rest of my shitty genetics? Imagine losing control over my Legilimency." "God forbid you have unfiltered access to my mind."

This coaxed a laugh from his tense body, which relaxed against her once more.

“That word,” he continued. “Hàseƒ. I was calling you angel.” She embraced his arms, relaxing against his tranquil, warm chest. “That’s beautiful, Ominis. Even when you lost control of your parseltongue, you were still you: sweet, gentle. I never felt unsafe. I just wanted you to know that.”

They went silent, Ominis' usual contemplative air resting upon them. He snuggled against her back, face resting in her hair at the nape of her neck. Somewhere in the midst of his blustering thoughts, their rhythmic breaths, and the peace of her dorm, she fell asleep.

Chapter 12: Reprieve

The next morning snuck up on her. Its light streamed through a crack in her curtains, falling across her eyes. She heard the hushed rustling of Fran's closet, waking her further. Her body ached a bit. As Credence stirred and stretched, so then did Ominis.

"Sorry, Credence," said Fran. "I hope I didn't wake you." "Um, no, the sun woke me up."

The drapes around her bed hid their still nude bodies, giving them privacy to shake off their sleep and collect their clothes. When Ominis grabbed his pants, his wand holster fell upside down and sent the wand rolling across the floor.

"Throwing your wand at me?" Fran teased. "Hey, wait a minute, this isn't your wand. You got someone else in there with you?"

Fran's shoes tapped upon the floor. Credence and Ominis shared a moment of panic as they pulled on their shirts and pants. Once Ominis buttoned his final button in tandem with Fran's final step, Credence snagged the drapes in her hands and pulled them open. Fran's playful "you've been caught" expression dropped when she saw Ominis.

"Ominis Gaunt is the guy you slept with last night?" She asked, mouth agape. Credence rolled her eyes. “Is that a problem?” Fran cleared her throat and handed Credence his wand. "No, of course not, I-I mean— Way to go, Credence. Ominis is pretty handsome." Then her face turned red. "Not like I'm interested in your— Your boyfriend? I guess? Just that he's handsome and I'm gonna shut up now." "Thanks," Ominis said. "I think."

Fran scuttled back to the mirror.

After ensuring they gathered up all their things, Credence and Ominis said goodbye to Fran and headed out to the common room. The moment they exited her dorm, a couple of girls were passing by. They giggled as they passed. Ominis fiddled with his wand, cheeks pink. She put her arm around his waist and followed the girls to the common room.

The longer they walked, the more Credence's groin ached. Trekking the stairs rubbed everything together in such a grating way; she tested different gaits to alleviate the pain. Her uneven steps attracted Ominis’ attention.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his hand caressing the small of her back. “Just a little sore,” she said. “It's no big deal.” “You can lean on me if you need to.” She cuddled closer to him. “Or just because.”

Being the weekend, the common room was fairly empty, so they used the kitchenette to scrounge up some food. The house elves kept their cabinets stocked with basics and they had a small stovetop to boil water. Ominis wanted tea with his breakfast.

“Brits and tea,” Credence said, “what's up with that.” “Americans and coffee,” Ominis said back, “what's up with that.” Credence almost put the coffee back.

They had to split off after breakfast. Ominis headed back to his dorm to get ready for the tournament. In just a couple of hours, Ominis and Sebastian would settle their argument. Ominis made it quite clear a duel was the only way Sebastian would truly hear him. Credence's heart raced thinking about it all—so lost in her thoughts, she nearly combed her hair with her toothbrush.

As she headed for the Floo Flame, her groin screamed at her for a break. Ominis had been gentle and safe with her, to the point where their sex hadn't been painful in the moment, but she still limped around the common room. A few of her fellow Ravenclaws would snicker or blush at her.

She limped a little faster to the Floo Flame and used it to meet Ominis in the clocktower. There was an immediate bustle as most of the losing participants stuck around to watch and socialize. Charlotte chatted with Sebastian near the refreshment table. Sebastian had Charlotte giggling as she touched his shoulder. Credence could've rolled her eyes if Charlotte’s face wasn’t aglow—at least she was enjoying herself.

Others passed in front of her and Garreth was already taking bets by the lineup on the roster. Credence took only a single step forward before Ominis appeared beside her in a small flash of green flame.

“Looks like everyone's still excited,” she said. “The semi-finals will be starting soon,” he said, putting his arm around her. “Don't worry,” she assured as they walked to their usual spot. “You're going to do great.”

Some people spotted them and talked behind their hands. Others blushed or avoided eye contact. Two girls they passed giggled rather loudly. But Ominis was too busy keeping her steady to mention it.

"Think you'll be able to stand for the matches?" he asked. "I'm sure I could get you a chair." "I'll be okay. It's not like my leg is broken or anything."

He held her hand and waist as she sat beside him on their bench. She went slow and soundlessly winced when her bottom connected with the hard stone. But it was cool and soothing after the initial shock.

“Do you need anything from the refreshment table?” he asked. “No, I'm okay.” “Just let me know, then.” “Oh, trust me, I will be milking this for all it's worth. Not everyday you have someone to wait on you.” He leaned against her. “You act like I wouldn't happily do so anytime.” “Of course. It's not like you're just excited to walk past yet another group of giggling girls. Right, Ominis?” He chuckled and his cheeks tinged pink. “An added benefit, not my primary goal.”

She rolled her eyes but her grin only grew.

“It's been so nice, though,” he said. “What has?” “People have been treating me differently. In a good way. Ever since primary school, people haven't wanted to talk to me or even pass by me in the corridors. Remember how terrified Samantha Dale was of me when we were paired up for that project in Potions? But after I brought you up in conversation with her—well, I got to see firsthand how obsessed with plants she is. A lot of other people have been doing the same this year. Neither Sebastian nor Anne could convince people to change their minds about me, but you have.” “Me? What did I do?” “I guess people see me with you and realize that I'm not some violent supremacist like so many purebloods are. They don't treat me like a Gaunt anymore. They treat me like I'm normal.” “Ohh, so that's why you like me? You get kudos cuz I'm muggle-born,” she teased.

But rather than laugh, Ominis’ face fell and his blush disappeared. His eyes widened in horror. He threw his arms around her and embraced her tight.

“No, of course not,” he said softly. “That's not it at all, Cree. I could never use you like that—” “I was just kidding,” she hurried before he felt worse. His tense body relaxed a little, though he was still quite stiff and holding onto her with a strong grip. “Oh. O-of course.” He forced an extremely uneasy laugh. “I suppose I should've— I mean, I wasn't trying to take it so seriously.” She caressed his back. “No, I went too far. I know that kind of thing is heavy for you. I shouldn't have tried to joke about it. I'm sorry.”

He kissed her forehead a couple of times, as if in way of his own apology and acceptance of hers.

“I'm glad people are finally seeing what I do,” she said. “You're wonderful, you know that?”

Before Ominis could respond, Sebastian plopped down on the bench beside her.

“You two are so sappy,” he said, “always holding each other and kissing. It’s like watching a play. Melodrama to the extreme.” He didn't try to get Ominis to speak with him. Instead, he tossed a wink at Credence. “And I heard some things about last night. Are you actually walking with a limp?” “It's highly exaggerated.” “Let's see, then.” “No, you pervert.” He sighed and shrugged. “You'll have to walk sometime, Ravenclaw. And when you do, I'll be sure to see for myself.” “Just because I've got a small limp doesn't mean I won't also kick your ass,” she said, kicking at the air. When she winced, Sebastian laughed. “Don't hurt yourself trying to prove a point, Amata. Speaking of, I think the semi-finals are about to start up. Did you need a chair?” She tossed her hands into the air. “I'm not an invalid!” He laughed harder. “Okay, okay! Sheesh, sorry I asked.”

“The semi-finals are underway!” announced Lucan.

Sebastian stood up. When he gave a great stretch, a few of his joints cracked and he breathed a sigh of contentment.

“That's my cue,” he said. “I'll be up first. Kick some arse in your duel, Ominis. Would be a shame to fight some tosser in the final.”

Sebastian had no issue mopping up his final opponent. Ominis chose to sit it out but Credence wanted to watch. She had no shortage of respect for Sebastian’s prowess. Despite that Eric Northcott had gotten as far as he did, and that at least several dedicated fans had gambled on him winning, Sebastian’s rushdown and efficient wand movements were too much for him to handle.

Sebastian’s movements were graceful, flowing into one another with practiced precision. But he could improvise as well. If his rhythm was ever interrupted, he recovered without breaking stride.

When Ominis faced his opponent, Constance Dagworth, in the semi-finals, the stony concentration on his face made her flinch. She put up a decent fight but Ominis had too strong of a defense for her to break. His Protego was unmatched, perfect nearly every time, powering up his Stupefy. He could trace someone's footsteps with striking accuracy and lead her with a boosted Stunner. It stopped her mid-step, causing her to stagger and trip. Disoriented, she couldn't stand up in time to defend against his wind charm.

That left Sebastian and Ominis to face one another. During the intermission, Ominis retrieved a plate of food and drink. Though Credence shoveled hers down like a starving woman, Ominis picked at his food. Most of his half was left behind. She offered him a bite from her sandwich but he refused.

Then when the countdown was announced for the final fight, Ominis was given leeway through the crowd as people bunched against Garreth Weasley to place their final bets.

“Bets over here!” Garreth called. “There's still time!” “Two galleons on Gaunt!” “What?” another questioned. “You really think the quiet girl's boyfriend can beat our dueling champion?” "Hey!" Credence snapped. "Why am I still the quiet girl?" "Because you only ever talk to about three people," said Ominis. "And two of y'all are too much work." "I think you just answered your own question, darling."

Lucan called for order, standing upon his shoddy little box tower. With his wand to his neck, he boomed over the crowd.

“Gaunt versus Sallow is about to begin! Combatants, take your places!”

Sebastian already climbed onto one side of the ring, eager, gripping his wand tight. Ominis headed for the other side. Just before he took his place on the battlefield, he embraced her.

“You can do this,” she said. “Kick his ass.” “I'll do my best.”

When he kissed her, she relaxed against him at first. But his lips parted hers and his tongue dipped into her mouth. Her fingers instinctively grasped his shirt. His fervent display was brief, though still earned them at least one wolf-whistle. He pulled away, caressed her cheek, then made his way up to the battlefield where Sebastian awaited.

Ominis and Sebastian faced each other. Sebastian's fanatics screamed from his side of the field. It was no surprise that most of the bets went Sebastian's way—though some decided to bet on Ominis—given how loud his side of the field was. Sebastian was the favorite no doubt, but Credence tried to match the energy and even it out.

“Combatants ready?” Lucan asked. Sebastian assumed his fencing-like stance. “Ready.” Girls in the crowd went nuts. Ominis kept his normal, loose stance. “Ready.” Another girl in the crowd squealed joyously for him alongside Credence. “Three, two, one— Duel!”

As expected, Sebastian started with a bang, using a spell to control his opponent’s movements.

“Levioso!”

But Ominis was ready the moment the duel started. His Protego absorbed Sebastian’s spell but he didn’t return with a stunning charm. Instead, he kept his shield up, goading Sebastian into a shield breaking counterspell. Just as the incantation was leaving Sebastian’s lips, Ominis flourished his wand.

“Obscurum!”

No spell seemed to come from his wand, but Sebastian stopped his attack. He grasped at his face. Nothing was there. Sebastian staggered back, rubbing his eyes, blinking furiously. The crowd paused, staring in silence.

Ominis said, “I thought we’d duel on an even playing field.”

Sebastian whipped his head back and forth as if trying to shake off intense vertigo. Credence squeezed her clammy hands together, going over the next steps of the plan in her head.

Ominis shouted, “Descendo!”

Sebastian didn’t recover from the shock in time to put up his shield. He slammed into the ground with a loud grunt and his wand slipped out of his grasp. His hands groped the ground for it. Though it had only rolled a few inches, Sebastian’s frantic hits were nowhere near it. He held his hand out randomly.

“Accio wand!”

His wand hit his hand from the side and his fingers flailed to grab the handle. Once it was in his palm, he gripped it tight.

Ominis called, “Galinn Galcius!”

His wand produced a strong gust of wind. Unlike yesterday, this wind set an intense wintery chill upon the battlefield. Credence hugged herself in the midst of the frozen air. Goosebumps raced down her arms and her breath formed a cloud that was whisked away by the ongoing charm.

Sebastian brought forth a desperate Protego. The shield struggled against the gale. Ice formed at its sides only to be battered by the wind and slip past. His feet slid across the ground despite his dug in heels. He called out Protego Maxima and his shield glowed a brighter blue.

The more powerful ward absorbed Ominis’ charm but Sebastian didn’t aim back at Ominis. Instead, his shield burst and fired the counterspell off in all directions in a frantic attempt to hit him. One ricochet flew at Ominis but Protego blocked it. Sebastian panted and sweat rolled down his face. His unfocused eyes stared at the ground.

“I’d like to think I make it look easy,” said Ominis. Sebastian whipped his wand in the direction of Ominis’ voice. “Confringo!”

Ominis sidestepped the blasting curse. Its fireball exploded on the wall of the clocktower. The crowd screamed, breaking their silence since the beginning of the match. The blastback whipped Ominis’ robes as he took aim.

“Confringo!” Ominis cast.

Sebastian was looking some ten feet to the side of Ominis. He put up his Protego just in time to absorb the fiery curse. He charged up his Stupefy and cast it too far off to the side. Ominis didn't need to move or put up his shield. Stupefy hit the wall beside the singe marks of Sebastian's previous Confringo.

“Damn,” Sebastian spat.

He paused, waiting, listening. No one dared to breathe. Sebastian turned his head from side to side, trying to pick up on any movement. Ominis aimed his wand. The moment he flourished, Sebastian whipped toward him. Ominis called,

“Diffindo!” “Protego!”

The ricochet bounded wildly.

Sebastian called out another, “Confringo!”

Ominis waited. The fiery blast raced toward him. As usual, it looked like he wasn't going to put up his ward in time—

“Protego Maxima!”

The bright blue shield absorbed Sebastian’s curse. The stronger ward amplified his counterspell. Stupefy flew faster and hit Sebastian with such force that it threw him to the ground.

He was only on his back for a second before shooting to his feet. His brow was furrowed hard against his eyes and his jaw clenched down on his teeth. But Sebastian now looked directly at Ominis. Despite his heaving breaths, he cast a clear,

“Accio!”

He yanked Ominis across the field, drawing him close. When Ominis broke through with the counterspell, he stood mere feet from Sebastian. He glared in Sebastian's direction as Sebastian stared him down. Sebastian had his wand directly at Ominis’ chest, his shoulders tense upon his neck. Ominis kept that same loose stance, his wand at his hip. Even the crowd held its breath.

Credence watched them, hands clenched together until her knuckles went white. There was still a slight chill in the air. She couldn't decipher if it was from after-effects Galinn Glacius or their standoff. But the only thing left was the inevitable end.

“You got pretty far in this tournament,” said Sebastian. “I needed to. Worked my arse off. Gave you a run for your money.” “You sure did. Don't go soft on me now.” “I wouldn't dream of it. After all the strategizing Cree and I did to get this far? I couldn't let her down like that.” “Her? What about me?” Sebastian teased with a smirk. Ominis smirked back. “Fuck you.”

“Depulso!”

Their casts exploded in unison, throwing both of them backwards. The force burst out into the crowd, flinging hair and robes, and someone's glasses hit Credence's automatic Protego.

Both Ominis and Sebastian had landed off their feet. Ominis hit his back, dangerously close to the edge of the battlefield. Sebastian hit his side, head nearly hanging over the end of the ring. Disoriented, they staggered to their knees. Sebastian didn't wait to stand.

“Arresto Momentum!”

Ominis didn't have his wand up in time. His body slowed as he lifted his arm. His sluggish movements made it all too easy for Sebastian to hit him with another spell.

“Expelliarmus!”

Ominis’ wand went flying and the countdown began.

Ten seconds to get his wand. His fingers were still reeling from the hit. Nine seconds. His knee finally hit the ground to push him up. Eight seconds and Arresto Momentum wore off.

“Flipendo!” Sebastian called.

Ominis had to sidestep the spell. It caught his sleeve but brushed past him. He reached out for his wand. Five seconds.

“Accio wand!”

It flew toward him. But Sebastian led it with a basic cast and flung it away. Three seconds. It clattered to the floor again and Ominis called his second Accio.

“I don't think so,” said Sebastian. “Galinn Maxima!”

With a huge gale, Ominis slid farther back, closing the gap at the edge of the ring. His heel went over first, throwing him off-balance. His fingers missed his wand by only an inch or so. He stumbled and tried to catch himself, but he fell backwards. He and his wand landed on the floor outside of the battlefield.

The stunned silence from the crowd continued for a few moments more. All Credence heard was her own footsteps hurrying over to Ominis. She snagged his wand on the way. Just as she knelt down to help him up, the crowd roared in excitement.

“The battle is over!” Lucan boomed. “Victory goes to Sallow!”

Ominis got to his feet, rubbing his arm where he’d fallen on it. Credence handed him his wand.

“You okay?” she asked, close to him so he could hear her over the roar of the crowd. “Yes,” he said, “just a little beat up.”

Despite his loss, Ominis smiled. His plan had come together. He hadn’t much intention of winning anyway.

After he dusted himself off, they headed out into the courtyard, then kept going, farther away from the accolades and excitement of the clocktower. The rickety south bridge creaked underfoot. Ominis had his arm around her, steadying her from her limp much as she steadied him from not using his wand.

“How are you feeling?” she asked. “A bit better now,” he said as they headed down the brushy path toward the beach. “I doubt it’ll be the last scuffle we get into, though. He’s always finding ways to provoke people.” After a pause, he said, “Speak of the devil.”

Soon after, she heard running steps catching up to them.

“Hey!” called Sebastian. “Thought I saw you guys go this way!”

They continued walking. Sebastian slowed to their pace when he was beside Credence. He panted a little but grinned at them.

“That was a hell of a battle, Ominis,” he said. “I seriously thought I was— Well, you had me on the ropes, for sure.” “Just admit it,” Credence said as their feet hit the sandy shores, “you thought you were gonna lose.” He playfully puffed up and gave her a stern look. “You watch your mouth, Ravenclaw.”

They sat on the beach as the waves rolled ashore.

"We’ll get you back for this, Sallow," she said, plopping down on the sand. "Mark my words—whatever that phrase means." "Ooh, threatening." "Just don't freak out if you see me standing over your bed at three AM tonight." "Now why would that freak me out? I'd think I'd be rather excited about it." "Hey!” She elbowed him. “Stop perving today. I don't approve." "Being more realistic you probably just showed up at the wrong bed and need me to point you to Ominis." "You really have a one-track mind," Ominis finally spoke up. "It's a weakness," Sebastian agreed. "And it's that same thing that got us all hurt in— Well, where we found ourselves. I'm really sorry, Ominis. Truly. I would've gladly taken your place. I never wanted it to turn out the way it did." "It's not just that," Ominis snapped. "You left us there to pick up the pieces. You didn't even check in on us after your harebrained schemes went awry. That's the part that hurts. That’s why I’m still angry with you."

Sebastian’s frown deepened. They sat in the quiet of the Black Lake.

"Look," said Ominis. "We have to promise each other: that was our last time. No more dark magic or Slytherin or Unforgivables ever again." Sebastian nodded, staring ahead at the sloshing water. "I understand, Ominis. You’re right. No more." As Credence watched for Ominis' response, she swore she saw a sneer for a fraction of a second. But Ominis said, "Good. Then we're settled." "Phew," said Sebastian dramatically, leaning back and wiping his brow. "Good, I wouldn't have wanted that weighing on my mind when I head to Feldcroft this weekend." "Read the room, you big galoot," said Ominis, cracking a small smile.

Sebastian let out a chuckle to melt some of the tension. Judging by Ominis' expression, the contemplation hiding behind his waning grin, Credence had a feeling there was much unsaid on his mind. He took her hand, its warmth enveloping her as he gave her a confidence-boosting squeeze.

"Sebastian," he said, his soft voice in harmony with the tides. "Hm?" "I've been thinking. I want to go visit Anne with you." Sebastian sat up straight and his eyes sparkled with ill-contained glee. "Really? That's wonderful news! Oh, Anne is going to piss herself in excitement when she sees you!” “God, I hope not.” “Would you like to come, too, Cree?” asked Sebastian, beaming at her with those big puppy dog eyes. “I think Anne would just love you." She fidgeted. "Um, yeah. I'll go if you think it’s a good idea." Sebastian's gaze shimmered as though he was on the verge of tears. "Absolutely it is! I've told Anne a little about you and she really wants to meet you. She'll be so surprised!"

Sebastian tossed his arm around Credence's shoulders, jostling her as he included Ominis in his bear hug.

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deathbydarkelves · 9 months ago

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Oh my godddd the body horror potential of thor’drinn just hit me. You know how your brain limits how much you can exert your muscles so you don’t break yourself? And during fight-or-flight it can lift that limit so people can temporarily lift whole cars off of loved ones and shit like that? But afterwards they might have totally destroyed their muscles or something? You know how zombies in movies are really strong because their brain is no longer limiting how much they can exert their muscles?

Thor’drinn is just a troll’s berserking (brain lifting that exertion limit) and because night elves can’t regenerate they could literally tear themselves apart if enough things go wrong during an episode and fuuuuuuck dude.

Wardens get called in to investigate a freak murder and when they find the culprit he’s dead, bleeding from burst blood vessels out his eyes, ears, and mouth, skin torn along muscle contours, teeth cracked from clenching his jaw, bones in his wrists dislocated from grabbing onto things too hard, and more. Fucking horrifying. If I could make thor’drinn canon I would.

#gore #it’s not the hardest gore i’ve written but it might squick someone out lol #au lore

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ace-and-ink · 1 year ago

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yours is the ache i hate the most

so frequent, so familiar

you come and go so much like you own my brain

you are a constant thrum within me

that in all my masochism

i hate to love sometimes

once you crawl into this broken, wretched body of mine

i can’t drive you out

not with all my screaming and crying

beating myself to the point of bruises

and trying to drink you away

no, you torment me until you waltz away

like you never touched me

leaving me reeling in the climax of midnight

and you leave me there for days

writhing and sweating and clutching my sheets

grumbling and muttering curses i know you don’t care about

i can’t even register your absence

until it drives me to let those cold hands drag me from warm blankets

you leave me there until you get bored again

but when you’re here

it’s agony beyond adjectives

you dig yourself under my skin

scraping up beside my skull

and you trap yourself there

and i can’t drown you out

the tapping of my fingers

matching the prattling of my bones

the tears down my cheeks

never soothing my stinging eyes

i need to let you out

i need to get you out

i could scratch and pry

over the spot i know you’re hiding

but you’d never budge

unstitch me thread by thread

untwine my body

release the tension you build in my muscles

i slip off my skin

in the hopes you’ll finally slip out of me

but you don’t

i could be twirling my own veins in my hands

and you’d still linger inside of me

i’d snap open my bones

one by one

split my skull on my desk

because only then would you flow out of me

spilling out with my blood

only then would your pain leave me

leave me reeling

seeing red, seeing dark

you might finally get the hint

and leave me for good

but that’s too much to hope for

so i sit with clenched fists

drawing blood from my palms with my nails instead

as you buzz annoyingly consistently

beneath the bone

knowing you will continue to come and continue to go

get louder as the sun gets higher

whisper to me instead

then shout again when the moon takes her place

i will sit and i will wait

i will not tear apart myself for you yet

let you gnaw at my bones

eviscerate the marrow

leave me hollow in the rawest sense

for you to seep in and fill me further

because that’s what you want the most

i know it

i pick it up from your buzzing hum

every night when you come crawling back

— buzz

#i never get normal headaches. they’re always the worst thing imaginable. on and off all day like twice a month. shit is not fun.#the patron saint of asexual poets #poetry #poem #poems #original poems #original poetry #original poem #original writing #creative writing #poets on tumblr #writers on tumblr #lgbtq poem #lgbtq poetry #lgbtq poet #lgbtq poems

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k--havok · 2 years ago

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Day Seven: Serenity

Fun fact: This was originally gonna be for Day 6, but thought it fit Day 7's prompt more. I know it's not completely typical when it comes to serenity, but that's just how it is.

Day Seven: Serenity

Meatsack. Bag of flesh. Chest of organs. The confines of tissue and blood.

Dehumanizing terms of humans. Ones I used on a daily basis myself.

Because that is what I was; a fleshy sack of organs, full of secretions and absorptions. Trapped within a prison of bones, tissue, muscle, blood, and flesh.

Scientifically, true. Scientifically neutral. And a way to separate myself into little pieces. Scientifically accurate and true pieces.

I had wanted to rip all of my flesh apart. Take scissors to my skin and cut out each pore. I had wanted to tear my veins out. Rip every single organ out and toss it to the side. Unstring my intestines and wrap them on the coat rack. Toss my liver and kidneys into a bowl filled with junk. I had wanted to tear out chunks of my brain and chunk them into the trash can.

Rip out my body. Rip out my mind. Until I was the only one left. Me. Truly, utterly, wholly, perfectly me.

No body. No thoughts. Just myself.

I had wanted that. And a part of me still does. Every day, a part of me wishes to unzip my skin, take out my mind and hang it up for a time, so I could finally, truly, be myself.

A magical dream not even a child could wish upon.

But I am older now. Not smarter. Not wiser. But with more experience filling the spaces between my organs and bones.

Perhaps I do not want it anymore. The violence of change. Perhaps I could just be content with being me. Perfectly imperfectly me. Itchy flesh, uncomfortable thoughts, and all.

#pride month drabble challenge #writeblr #writers on tumblr #bisexual #nonbinary #pride month #my writing #lanx writes

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fandom-stealer · 2 months ago

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Consume me

Centerpiece at your table

Laid bare before your eyes

My body sits there waiting

Knowing soon comes my demise

You lift the cover on the tray

And from there on out, I’m on display

Something I’ve wanted from the start

A wish to be looked at like a piece of art

Except that’s not the stare behind the eyes

That watch me, that look in close

The feeling they show is hunger I fear

The one I hate the most

They sit up their knives and forks and spoons

And my screams are heard as just a tune

As the knives cut down deep into my flesh

The searing pain reaching the deepest depths

My skin is slowly peeled off and apart

Why won’t they kill me, why must I be alive?

Then one of the feasters leans in and whispers

“Thank you for helping us survive”

And now my fate makes so much sense

I’m living out my life’s purpose

To give to others and expect no return

No matter if helping them makes my skin burn

So I silently lay there and let them dig in

My muscles a divine taste in their mouths

My mind grows weaker as I accept my fate

Besides, there’s truly no way out

As they dig down past the muscles and reach my bones

I realize that they won’t leave even those alone

As their blades cut the tendons and scoop them onto their plates

I start to wonder if giving up was a mistake

Yet it’s too late now, so I stop those thoughts

As my head is cracked open like an egg in a pan

My last thought before they consume my brain

Is the hope that my heart somehow escapes their hands

My heart, the last pure part of me

Slowly being poisoned by their spice and amenities

As my eyes fall shut, a tear runs down my face

Truly, is there no way to escape this place?

After the hungry are done with their meal

My blood licked clean from their trays

The leftover pieces of me are dumped in the bin

And left to rot for days

As my body slowly reforms itself

To be used to help boost another’s health

A new group of hungry gather around

Their gnarls meeting my ears, a terrible sound

If I am just used for their survival, am I not still loved?

For spoiled food is never eaten

If I keep reforming, giving myself up as a meal

Will those who threw me away first be beaten?

If I all I am is something good to taste

Then I won’t let that part of me go to waste

Maybe one day something else will be in store

Though for now all I can do is wish for more

This endless cycle, is that all life is?

People eating their fill when they never give

But it’s fine, this life, I’m used to it

Even if others tell me it’s no way to live

For this is the only way I know how

Giving up my dreams to be used as chow

So don’t look at me like I’m something worthwhile to keep

Cause I know all I am is a piece of meat

#my poetry #my poem #poetry #original poem #tw: cannibalism

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anotherwonderfulmistake · 4 months ago

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Sometimes, I'm jealous of babies. I'm jealous of how they're nothing but a mess of emotions, emotions as big and devastating as tsunamis. Kids feel everything so damn deeply, viscerally. I'm envious of that. Here these assholes are, parading their feelings around like it's nothing, while mine stick to my lungs like a boa clings to its victim. I've choked them back so long that I've forgotten how to feel them. My happiness sits at the edge of my words, always just out of reach. My sadness resides in my throat, pushing against my airways, straining my vocal cords; and my tears hang stubbornly from my eyelashes, frozen, suspended in time, waiting for a sun that will never come to melt them. My anxiety is coiled around my chest, squeezing, tightening, cracking my skin, boiling my blood, splintering my ribs, wound so tightly that my heart struggles to beat. My fatigue is a fog, blurring the edges of my vision, blurring the edges of my brain, making me question my every step, am I even still on the path, or will my foot meet engulfing emptiness the next time I put it down? My anger stains the inside of my lungs like cigarette smoke, pushing against the anxiety keeping them prisoner, pulling air in again and again despite the sadness choking me, fuelling me with spite and defiance, forcing my muscles to work, to drag my feet forward, one after the other, in a never-ending race away from the overwhelming pain that threatens to tear me open the second I slow down.

I hate my anger. I hate the only part of me that loves me, that refuses to see me giving up, that knows I deserve so much better than what I was given. I hate it because it bites and it snarls and it's ugly and it keeps yelling at me to get back up, that I'm stronger than this, that I have to keep going, because I don't want to anymore. I don't want to fight anymore. I want to sink to rock bottom and get cozy in the ruins of who I should have been. If I climb back up, I'll just get knocked right back down, so why not just... get comfy? It makes sense in my head. It might not in yours. But who cares what you think, right?

Right?

How come I only care what you think when I'm feeling better? Being at rock bottom is strangely freeing. It feels like I'm saying fuck you. Fuck you to all of you who made me feel small. Shackled. Silenced. Broken. Alien. Fuck all of you. You wanted me down? Well, here I fucking am. Congratulations. I have become nothing more than a carcass, so come feast, vultures. Rejoice in the knowledge that this is your fault. Pick the flesh of my bones, tear apart the ligaments of my failed potential, of my worthless brilliance, of my not-quite-good-enough resilience. Choke on the poison of my resentment. Choke on my rotten emotions. Choke on the venom and vitriol of the words constantly swirling around my head, poke out my eyes and watch the maggots erupt out of them, and know that each and every one of them was put there by you. By your parents, by your parents' parents, and by their parents before them. Understand this. I am angry at you. Not for what you did to me. Not for what your parents did to you. I am angry because you closed your eyes and let the maggots fester.

My anger loves me because it knows. It knows that this is not my fault. That I never asked for any of this. To be who I am. To be set apart from society by damn near every part of my identity. To be the result of generations of mould and poison and fear. To have my destiny written before I was even born, to be chosen as the warrior when I would rather be the poet. It knows and it will not let me stop until I have reached the end of the line. The edge of the written. Until I can carve my own path, choose my own destiny.

So fuck you, and you will not find me amongst the shadows of what I could have become. I will keep walking, and I will peel off my skin to hack away the rot in my bones. I do not know how much of me will remain afterwards. I do not know if what stays will be better than who I used to be.

But I will be alive.

That's something, isn't it?

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sbcrmtjvno · 7 months ago

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Not sure if it was too gruesome but I couldn't get an image generated but I did get a cool zombie profile(s). You had to see the zombie images Meta AI on WhatsApp almost generated but then gave me text. Also shared on Reddit.

My input: Imagine the most grusome zombie from a radioactive warehouse looting for fo

Meta AI: Let's conjure up a terrifying image!

Meet "Glowbie" - a hulking, irradiated zombie emerging from a radioactive warehouse. Its flesh is a mass of grotesque, pulsing sores, and its eyes glow like embers from the depths of a nuclear reactor.

Glowbie's skin is a deep, greenish-black, and it seems to shift and writhe like a living thing. Its mouth is a twisted, toothy maw, frozen in a perpetual snarl. As it moves, its body seems to leave a trail of faint, eerie radiation, like a malevolent spirit.

Glowbie's eyes are fixed on one thing: food. Its twisted brain is driven by a constant, ravenous hunger, and it will stop at nothing to feast on the flesh of the living.

As it shambles through the ruins of the warehouse, Glowbie's very presence seems to warp the air around it, creating a sickly, pulsating aura that seems to draw in the unwary. Its very existence is a blasphemy, a mockery of life itself.

And yet... Glowbie is also a pitiful creature, a monstrous aberration created by human folly. Its existence is a reminder of the horrors that can be unleashed when science goes wrong.

Now, let's hope Glowbie doesn't find its next meal...

Meet "Toxic Terror" - a gruesome, irradiated zombie emerging from a radioactive warehouse in search of food.

Toxic Terror's body is a twisted mass of bulging, greenish-black flesh, with exposed muscles and organs visible beneath its translucent skin. Its face is a grotesque parody of human features, with glowing red eyes and a mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth.

As it moves, Toxic Terror's body seems to shift and writhe, as if its very cells are mutating and changing before your eyes. Its presence is accompanied by an eerie, pulsating glow, and the air around it seems to distort and ripple with an otherworldly energy.

Toxic Terror's search for food is relentless, driven by a constant, ravenous hunger that cannot be satiated. It will tear apart anything in its path, leaving a trail of destruction and death in its wake.

But beware - Toxic Terror's bite is not just deadly, it's also infectious. Those who are bitten will soon find themselves transforming into grotesque, irradiated creatures like Toxic Terror itself.

Can you survive the horrors of the radioactive warehouse and escape the clutches of Toxic Terror?

My input: Imagine the most gruesome zombie looting a warehouse

Meta AI: Let's paint a vivid picture!

The zombie, nicknamed "Retch", is a decaying, flesh-hungry monstrosity. Its skin is a grayish-green, with gaping wounds and exposed bones. Retch's eyes are sunken, with milky white pupils that seem to stare into the soul.

As Retch shambles through the warehouse, it leaves a trail of putrid slime and decaying flesh. Its twisted arms grasp for anything edible, while its jaws drool with an otherworldly hunger.

The warehouse, once a hub of activity, now lies in ruins. Shelves are overturned, and crates are shattered, spilling their contents onto the floor. Retch feasts on the rotting remains of what was once stored here, its moans echoing through the desolate space.

Every step Retch takes seems to make the air thicker with the stench of death and decay. Its very presence seems to corrupt the environment, spreading a noxious aura that repels all living things.

As Retch continues its gruesome search for sustenance, the warehouse grows darker, as if the very light itself is being consumed by the zombie's malevolent presence.

Let's hope no one crosses paths with Retch in this forsaken place!

The warehouse, once a bustling hub of activity, now lies in ruins as the gruesome zombie, "Carrion", shambles through its aisles. Carrion's body is a twisted mass of rotting flesh, with exposed organs and bones visible through its torn skin.

Its eyes are empty sockets, filled with a dark, tar-like substance that seems to seep into the air around it. The stench of decay and death follows Carrion like a cloud, making it hard to breathe.

As Carrion searches for food, it knocks over crates and shelves, sending debris crashing to the ground. The sound of shattering glass and crunching metal echoes through the warehouse, accompanied by Carrion's guttural growls and moans.

Carrion's fingers, long and bony, grasp for anything edible, leaving behind a trail of slime and putrid residue. Its mouth is a twisted, gaping maw, filled with jagged teeth stained with the remnants of its last meal.

The warehouse seems to grow darker with each step Carrion takes, as if the very presence of the zombie is draining the light from the world. The air is heavy with malevolent energy, making it hard to imagine anything but horror and despair.

Let's hope no one crosses paths with Carrion in this forsaken place!

My input: Can you generate me an image of the zombie gruesome looting a warehouse

Meta AI: I don't have the ability to generate images yet, but I can describe the scene in vivid detail!

#meta ai #zombies #zombie thriller #thriller #character design #ai character #ai chatbot #ai chatting #artificial intelligence #reddit #creepypasta

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eternallymillenial · 9 months ago

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I wonder if I'll ever be free of this incessant itching behind my skin. Of feeling like there is a monster that lives beneath a calm surface. I can feel it tearing away at my skin trying to get out, leaving behind nothing more than shredded pieces of skin and muscle and bone.

I'm so tried of choking on my own anger like vomit, of the way it sits like a heavy stone in the center of my gut.

I hate how clearly my brain can paint out images of the disaster zones that would be left behind if I allowed myself to explode in the ways I so badly long for. There is no release in my anger. It sits and festers and boils and bursts all inside of me like an infected organ that I have to hide.

I don't like ugly emotions, so I allow them to consume me from within. Like acid it eats away at me leaving away nothing but shame and sadness. A bitterness that blisters on my tongue. An ulcer consuming me from within.

I have dreams where I tear myself apart with my own hands - no nails, just skin digging at skin until I am left raw and bloody.

I used to look at myself in the mirror sometimes and practice different faces and smiles. I have worn so many different masks throughout my life that it feels like none of them even fit me anymore.

I don't think I've ever really known who I am at my core. I tell myself that I am kind and loving and good. That all I want is happiness, but is that even who I am, or just another mask I've learned to wear so well.

I wonder if the people who I've condemned as cruel in my mind think of themselves as kind, as loving, as good.

#a read more? oh no

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danielforshort · 1 year ago

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Physickers Were My Saints

"Physicians are like saints to me; holy." The realization hit me like an earthquake. I had replaced my Catholic saints with doctors. Perhaps I had simply included them in that communion of holy people, and when the catholicism faded from my bones, it was only the healers that remained.

The decay of my body has been creeping its way into my life for almost a decade. I remember laying propped up in my twin sized bed, my parents pointing the fancy family camera at my face. I rant my tongue over my fat lip. I gnawed at it and they scolded me. They took me to the doctors a handful of times where they pricked my skin and shrugged.

I remember being fifteen, laying on a carpeted cabin floor, feeling the taut dull pain in my hip, willing it to slide into place, willing the pain to fade away.

I remember grimacing as I turned a corner a little too quick, the pain now sharp and quick, a kind of plucking pinch that lasted no more than a moment. I remember an aching, stomach turning tingle, running down my shoulder, making my head swim.

I remember my doctor at the time instructing me to bend over and touch my toes, watching me painlessly pull my arm from its joint, showing off my elastic doll divet in the space between the humerus and the scapula. Listening to me turn and roll my femur in its cradle on command, making a grating noise.

I remember her shrugging a little and saying "ligament laxity" and ordering a quick x-ray, some physical therapy, and no suggestion of any follow up, leaving me with a medical bill and no answers.

The physical therapists shrugged at me a little less, but still had no answers. Unusual weakness in some of my muscle groupings, uneven leg lengths from scoliosis, causing gait difficulties. They suggested I see an orthopedic surgeon.

I was twenty when my childhood hives came back in full force. Raised, itchy, red wheals blossomed all over my body, twenty four hours a day. The university nurse practitioner glanced at my chart and shrugged. She prescribed me a few days of steroids that did not work to tame the wheals and an anti-anxiety medication, for my digestive issues "I think you're an overachiever, you see, and that your anxiety is causing the stomach problems", that gave me so much brain fog I could have become part of the sky and not noticed.

I was twenty one when I sat on the floor, alone, felt my world melting and vibrating around me, unable to move, to think, to be. Terrified. Six months of testing: MRis, EEGs, neurology appointments. More doctors shrugging at me. "Don't stress yourself out so much. A kind of sensory overload perhaps. A kind pseudo-seizure maybe. A seizure, possibly."

Shortly afterward the nerve pain began. I was sitting in the spring sunshine. A beautiful day. My skin felt like it was on fire. I stood too quickly and winced when I felt the heat tingle, bite, burn at my scalp, my face, my neck.

At twenty two I was finding myself limping around my apartment after walking about too much (a single afternoon). The orthopedic surgeon ordered a new x-ray and an MRI, and shrugged. "A labral tear, probably. We'll do a quick surgery and it'll be fine."

"What if it's not that?"

He shrugged. No answer.

They didn't find any sign of a labral tear. Some asymmetrical strangeness in my range of motion, a cyst in my abdomen, but nothing explaining the pain. Another medical bill with no answers.

When I was twenty three I fainted on my couch. Later I found myself hunched over my counter, so lightheaded I couldn't be sure of what was truly up or down. The itchy red wheals found their ways onto my body again. Realizing the coinciding symptoms; the fainting, the racing heart, the lightheadedness, the red wheals, I immediately found my antihistamines and made an appointment for an allergist.

I begged the staff to test me for mast cell activation syndrome. I begged them to listen to me seriously. They gave me another skin prick test and shrugged. "Chronic idiopathic urticaria". They ordered a few blood tests but forgot to give me instructions with them, and the tests came back negative. I doubled the amount of antihistamines and prayed it was enough.

I found myself with more days unable to get out of bed. Days of rolling myself around my office, unwilling to chance the racing heart. I found myself leaning on more tables and walls, walking less, counting my energy levels like loose change for the vending machine.

My friends who had been fortunate enough to be blessed with legal diagnoses gave me advice. I had friends who urged to me push the doctors some more, to seek new saints, to "advocate for myself". And I looked behind me at all the sins I was carrying and shook my head in shame. I could not bear it. I could not carry my crosses, my illnesses, my burdens, and beg my saints to bless me any more.

I spent thousands of dollars and probably my entire life, adoring physicians. Thinking healers were good, holy, people, who loved me, who wanted to heal me, who wanted to know me. Every doctor who shrugged at me was just "the odd chance". The rage I felt at the medical system was at "systemic problems but I know individually, these doctors want to help me".

And now I am twenty four and my body is still decaying. My bones still click and creak, and my heart still races when I stand, and my skin blooms red wheals whenever it feels like it, and I am afraid of my next seizure, and now, daily, I deal with unexplained nerve pain that flares when I am too warm, when I am embarrassed, when I am angry, when I stand too quickly, when I am frustrated, when I think too hard...

I don't know what to do. I don't know who I am supposed to turn to, when the healers only shrug and turn me away.

#chronic illness #actually autistic #ableism #word dump #dealing with grief

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havroth-traveler · 2 years ago

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Updating the Jumper to real life

My bunk in PokePrison dissolved into smoke as the 10 year mark passed. I stood as gravity lessened and everything fadded to black.

"Well, how's was it?" The greater part of myself asked?

"You know how it's been, you were watching and guiding me the whole time. Prison sucked. I noticed you stopped watching for most of that."

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that. I didn't think you would end up there. I thought an exciting chase and then some time as a hiker or survivalist would be a nice way to wind you down from the jump."

I started to protest, but before I could > continued, "You should know, our mother is dying. We made a trip out to see her. It was bad. She was all skin stretched over bones, and bloody, grey phlem. All of the great story points fell apart after that. Here let me share." Everything rushed over me, the 10 years in pokemon land faded as I rejoined into a whole being for a while. I poured through the memories, of our estranged sisters reuniting with Father, of Mother hudled under the hospital blanket, of tears and dreams as the brain tried process such stress. It made my frustration at spending a few imaginary years in boredom feel petty. I could feel myself being separated again. I transformed from The Whole into <.

I understand in a way I didn't before that my going through these jumps is important, not just for flexing creative muscles and entertainment, but so that I as a part of The Whole could offer relief from the stress and the worries that > was dealing with.

As the thoughts condensed in my mind, a stack of papers appeared before me. The first line read "Essential Body Modification Supplement"

#jumpchain #cyoa game #cyoa #real life

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dxckgrxsonx · 3 years ago

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Your Love is a Riptide

Fandom - DCU - Titans (TV Series)

Pairing - Dick Grayson x Reader Warnings - Graphic Descriptions of Violence - Blood - Swearing - Mentions of Injuries (Stab Wounds) - Heavy Angst - Hurt/Comfort - Fluff - Happy Ending. Word Count - 6.2K Prompts -“I’m fully capable of kicking your ass.” & “it’s because I’m so attractive isn’t it?” “I say this. and I cannot stress this enough. I find you completely repulsive.” Notes - Hello!! This is my first time writing something for the DC fandom. I hope I've not gone wildly out of characterisation for this fic. I'm basing this version of Dick from the Titans series and not the comics. I've had a lot of fun writing this and exploring Dick's character. Please let me know if you enjoyed reading!! 💕

‘My eyes ache with the weight of unshed tears. You are my home, do you not understand?’

’** You scatter into consciousness in the dark.

It’s cold and wet and the dim flickering light from a nearby streetlamp throws your blurry vision into an awful contrast of black and red and hideous yellow.

There’s a continuous pulse of warmth radiating from your side and your hand pats clumsily at your clothes, fingers trembling over your ribs. Your brain shouts that something is wrong, that you’re hurting and in pain. But half of you is underwater, your own thoughts trapped behind a wall of exhaustion.

The panic breathes into you slowly.

It rises like water in a trapped room. Bubbling up higher and higher until it flows in through your mouth, down your throat and into your lungs where it catches on every nerve ending in your chest. It burns and twists like a thousand needles along your spine, poking and prodding until it hits that one single nerve that catapults you into fight or flight.

Your fingers trip over something hard, something unyielding, something wrong.

Under the endless darkness of the Gotham sky you tremble, gasp open mouthed and desperate for air. Your breath won’t come and the act of expanding your chest sends agony rippling through your bones.

Crumpled over on your side against a dark brick wall you feel the rain wash over your face, clothes soaking up the water like a dry sponge. You’re shivering and as your muscles contract to generate heat you moan lowly on the edge of passing out from the pain. Everything around you shudders and ripples, the rain falls heedlessly into your eyes blurring everything into nothing at all.

If you focus–if you listen hard enough, you can hear the rush of cars, black tires splashing through puddles across the roads. There’s voices echoing not far from where you are and you’re immediately torn between asking for help or hiding.

You correct yourself within an instant.

It’s Gotham, you say to yourself. There’s no help to be found here. Anyone with half a brain knows that you stay out of danger by keeping to yourself. Ignore anything and everything that doesn’t involve you. Keep your head down. Don’t stay out after dark. Always have an escape route planned no matter where you are.

The constant need to catalogue an escape is exhausting.

Everything about the city is exhausting.

You’re so tired.

There’s blood in your mouth and the taste makes you want to be sick, stomach rolling and rolling and you force back the bile rising bitter at the back of your throat; you don’t have time for this.

Blood slick fingers press along your ribs, searching for the thick blade wedged between the curved bones. You vaguely recall the flash of metal before it punched through your skin, remember the lightning fast ‘oh shit’ feeling in your gut.

With a shudder, you remember the wild look in the eyes of the one who did this to you, remember that crazed smile tugging at thin lips before they twisted the blade to shove your ribs apart. The sound you made echos in your head, that high, thin wail of pain. That desperate wet gasp for air that followed.

You should have stopped it before it happened. You’re trained better than that.

Nudging the handle of the knife you choke back a sob. The miniscule shift scrapes the sharp edge of the blade against your bone and your vision whites out at the edges. Blood leaks from the wound with each breath and you know that removing the knife is a horrible idea but your brain shouts and shouts and shouts.

It shouldn’t be there.

Take it out, take it out, take it out.

You have to fight every snarling impulse not to reach for it. If you take it out you’ll bleed to death. You’re already dying, it howls. It shouldn’t be there, it’s killing you. You’re going to die. Tears stream down your face, mixing easily with the rain. You want to swipe them away, but you feel almost boneless–maybe even drunk.

In your pocket your phone starts to ring, the shrill chime of it grabbing you hard by the shoulders and shaking you back into awareness.

Reaching for it with your free hand it takes three attempts to hold it without dropping it. Staring at the screen you blink away the water in your eyes to focus on the name, to see who’s calling you.

NW.

Your finger swipes to accept the call and you refuse to think too much about the long streak of blood you leave across the screen.

“Hey–” You slur as a greeting, eyes slowly drooping shut, “Did you know that–uh–” Swallowing back the blood in your mouth you wheeze, chest burning, “Gotham fucking sucks.”

“Where are you? Are you hurt?” Nightwing questions immediately, hardly pausing to take in a breath, “You were supposed to report in twenty minutes ago.”

The sheer relief at hearing his voice threatens to split you in half. There’s always been something about his voice that files the sharp edges of your fears smooth, chases away the unease clouding your head. He’s always kept you safe, never once faltered in keeping you away from danger.

And you had to go and fuck it up.

A sob catches hard in your throat, “I–uh–shit…I’m sorry.” You heave, fingers skirting around the edges of the blade between your ribs. “I fucked up, this wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m s–” Your legs jerk as you knock the handle of the knife, a low moan of pain escaping your lips, “I’m sorry, please, you’ve gotta know, I didn’t want this to happen.”

The world spins through your eyes, edges of your vision darkening. Everything feels so far away, you’re not even cold anymore. Your hand drops, phone moving away from your ear. Distantly, you can hear Nightwing shouting your name through the tiny phone speaker.

“--ang on, okay? I’m on my way.”

He’s coming, you whisper to yourself, fingers swiping through the rain and blood pooling around you. The light of your phone draws your fading attention, he’s still on the line, he hasn’t hung up. For a brief moment you wonder if he knows where you are. In a fit of panic you reach for the device, only to whine when the movement pulls on your wound.

He calls your name again, something hard and unyielding in his voice. The tone is demanding, relentless, it kicks part of you half awake, a soft, submissive side you didn’t realise reacted to him like that.

Dragging the phone to your ear you exhale heavily, “I don’t know where I am–oh god, I don’t–where am I?”

“Breathe,” Nightwing orders, “Can you do that for me? Just breathe, I’m almost there.”

A weight sits on your chest, you struggle to inhale. The mere act of breathing forces the metal between your ribs to shift and you want to scream, want to yank it out and just be done with it. Adrenaline continues to ripple through your veins, you’re shaking very finely all over. Your clothes are soaked all the way through, you feel disgusting.

“Ho–how do you know…” You trail off, it’s too much effort to speak.

He’s always been clever, smart mouth and an even smarter mind. That quick, blinding spark inside his chest making everything dim in comparison. He’s almost electric, a raw flash of lightning in your hands. All blue and bright and powerful.

“Tracker in your phone,” He answers, always quick to catch on to what you mean, “As long as you keep it on, I’ll know where you are.”

A sweeping wave of tiredness washes over you, each blink gets longer and longer until you feel yourself drifting off. Starling awake your entire body flails, muscles jerking. A heaving wail rips up your throat, the pain feels alive inside you, something conscious searching for what makes you tick.

Movement blurs through your peripheral, you almost smile before realisation dawns.

You could recognise the way Nightwing walks anywhere. In life, in death and everywhere in between. You know his gait, the weight behind each step, the smooth, effortless way he shifts from heel to toe. Practised, rehearsed, overwhelmingly efficient.

The person approaching you isn’t Nightwing.

“Oh fuck.” You whisper into your phone, trying to move into a more defensible position.

Above you, someone snickers, an amused drawl tightening around your throat. Using the wall behind you for leverage you attempt to pull yourself into a sitting position, try to face the threat head on. But your body fails you as soon as you try, muscles far too weak to support yourself.

The figure crouches down, pale fingers reaching towards your phone.

“I’ll be taking this.”

Your body stiffens as soon as you hear his voice. That cruel undertone bleeding into every word. It’s the sound of someone who wants to hurt, who actively seeks it out. It’s the wet sound of your breath as you try to breathe around the knife in your chest. It’s the satisfied chuckle as you slump to the dirty ground, body halfway into shock.

He fiddles with your phone before dropping it onto the ground, shattering the screen and silencing the sound of Nightwings voice.

“I’m honestly surprised you’re still alive, sweetheart. Thought you would have bled out by now.”

You grin, “Fuck you.”

Rage twists his face into a sneer seconds before he backhands you in the mouth, hard. Your bottom lip splits on impact and the resounding jolt it causes makes you flinch. There’s pain everywhere, your whole world won’t stop spinning;

His hand is reaching for the knife.

“No!” You shout, hand moving to bat his own away. “Please—don’t…please.”

Leaning over you he curls one hand around your neck, holding you down. Thrashing beneath him you cry out weakly, desperately trying to shove him off. In response he tightens his hold and you gasp, air dragging horribly through your throat.

You’re shaking, the lack of control you have over the situation almost makes you sick.

“Don’t move too much, you’ll only make it worse.” He coos, breath fanning over your cheek, “You know, it’s such a shame you got caught sticking your nose into someone else's business, but maybe this will teach you a lesson, huh?”

In one single move he grabs the ridged handle of the knife and yanks it out. The thick blade scrapes against your ribs as it’s pulled out and you scream, legs kicking out violently, vision folding black at the edges. Tightening his hold around your throat he cuts off your air and your screams trail off to a strangled wheeze.

“There you go,” He murmurs, eyes alight with glee, “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Slapping at the hand around your neck you try to pry his fingers loose but he doesn’t budge, just stares down, eyes wide and unblinking, thin lips stretched into a grin. You think that if you survive this, every time you close your eyes you’ll see him. Hear his voice carving itself into your skull.

Your pulse pounds in your ears, you can feel the blood thrumming through the thick vein in your neck.

You’re going to pass out.

Dying in a back alley in the middle of Gotham was never really something that crossed your mind. Naively, you didn’t really think you’d die at all. Always set on the idea that death couldn’t touch you. Whether that was because you thought your training made you invincible, or because you thought that wherever you went, Nightwing would be by your side.

You’re such a fucking idiot.

Maybe dying isn’t such a bad thing.

The streetlamp flickering at the edge of the alley suddenly explodes in a hail of glass, plunging the alley into darkness. The man above you releases your neck and you suck in a full breath before dissolving into a coughing fit. Reflectively shoving him away from you, you throw your bleeding body into gear and heave yourself into a sitting position.

“What the fuck?” The man whispers, blood slick knife clenched tight in his hand.

Inside the darkness is a quick flash of blue, a sizzle of crackling electricity. The hair at the back of your neck stands on end. There’s something buzzing under your skin, you want to blame it on the rush of blood to your brain but somehow, you don’t think that’s it.

Pressing a hand to your side you attempt to staunch the flow of blood. It oozes between your clenched fingers, dribbling over your hand and down your clothes. With how heavily you’re bleeding, you’re surprised you haven’t fallen unconscious.

“Stay the fuck back!” The man yells into the dark, pulling your attention back to the rippling pulse of blue light. “I’m warning you, jackass!” He flips the knife through his fingers, settling it into a more aggressive hold.

You wonder why he’s so afraid, why he’s so aggressive and defensive and holding that knife like it’s the one thing keeping him alive. He was choking the life from you seconds ago and now he looks like he’s staring death in the face. Your head spins and spins until your eyes find him through the dark.

Blue light highlights his silhouette, the black of his suit bleeding into the shadows.

Nightwing looks like something out of a nightmare.

When you first met him–back when he was Robin–you lay witness to a certain type of anger bubbling under his skin. A quiet, endless fury that stemmed from some horrible, wounded part of him. A part that on the surface didn’t look like much, but as you got deeper, it turned into a gaping open wound; all festering and weeping and painful.

He was so young and in so much pain and it took a long time to find out the cause of it, to find the centre of that crippling hole wedging a dagger into his chest.

It was grief.

You look at him now, through the rain and the tears and the blood sliding warm over the backs of your knuckles and you see that rage return. It sits along each vertebrae in his spine, almost like it’s a part of him;

Like it never really left at all.

Nightwing unsheathes both ecrisma sticks and twirls them through deft fingers. The crackling burst of light forces your heart to skip a beat, you never tire of watching him wield those sticks like an extension of himself. The talent and skill that goes into every single move makes you lightheaded.

He’s incredible.

The fight is quick and bloody and no matter how many times you hear it, the snap of a bone makes your skin crawl. It’s something about the unnatural crack of it, the fact that something that’s not supposed to bend, is forced to until it breaks.

It’s about the burst of blood, and the flash of white and the gut wrenching howl that chases.

You remember the first time you heard it, that ugly break of a bone. You were young, and scared and ripped halfway into fight or flight before you knew what a panic response was. Violence was something you grew up with, something that settled in the back of your head as normal, maybe even expected.

Towards the end, you could pick out the sound of fists to flesh better than the echo of your own voice.

Part of you thought you could handle it, that defiant ‘I have to prove myself’ part was set on the idea that it would be easy, that it wouldn’t mess you up from the inside out. You’re no stranger to being wrong, to having the rug pulled from under your feet. But that haunting snap follows you and has done since you were a child.

You’d caused it after all.

You snapped the bone, forced it to bend when it wouldn’t…shouldn’t. Did it for approval, for praise. For that fleeting moment of control before it was taken away again. Every time you hear that sound, hear the wet punch of bone through flesh you remember.

You would have done anything they asked of you.

Maybe that’s why your skin crawls when you hear it.

Your eyes roll into the back of your skull.

Cold hands cradle your face, tense fingers sweeping along your hairline, down your cheeks, over your jaw. The sensation startles you hard enough to jolt forwards, fists coming up to hit anyone close enough. A flash of that cruel, thin lipped smile appears in your head. Pain bursts around your throat, over your ribs, in your mouth.

You slam open your eyes and swing without waiting for your brain to catch up.

“Woa–woah.” Nightwing breathes, catching your fist in the palm of his hand. He keeps his full attention on you, not once wavering despite the rain and the cold. “I’ve got you. It’s okay, you’re okay.”

There's a lump in your throat, you try to pull your hand back but he doesn’t give, just holds it there; firm and warm and steady. You’re crying, tears track down your cheeks, your lip is bleeding. Nightwing darts his eyes over your face, you can’t actually see his eyes through his domino mask but you can read his body language well enough.

“M’sorry,” You whisper. Shame settles heavy between your shoulder blades, you feel less like a friend and more of a burden. “I never wanted this to happen…I should have been better. They tra—I was trained to be better than this.”

Dark hair sticks to his forehead, rain sliding along his temples and down to his chin. The amount of focus in his posture makes you uneasy, you’ve never handled his full, undivided attention well. Nightwing has always been clever, even back when he was Robin he had this uncanny ability to just know what you mean, to understand the little tells your body gives away without you knowing.

It used to scare you.

To be known is to be predicted, and being predicted can lead to failure.

But over time and through the years you’ve known him–as both Nightwing and as Robin. You’ve come to appreciate the skill behind his eyes, to understand that not everyone is a threat. Sometimes, you think that Nightwing knows you better than you know yourself.

“Shh, you don’t have to explain.” He says, low and gentle, head moving to get a look at where you’re clutching at your side. “You’re bleeding, can I take a look?”

Your first instinct is to pull away, refuse, hide your wounds so they can’t be used against you. There’s always that lingering sense of ‘you can’t trust anyone’. It was beaten into you as a child and even now, years later, you can’t really seem to let it go.

But it’s Nightwing, you reason with that wounded child inside you. It’s Nightwing and he’s never once hurt you.

“Yeah, okay.” You finally answer. His shoulders drop just a fraction, a miniscule movement most wouldn’t catch. But you know him, and that slight shift reveals everything. “M’sorry if I bleed all over you.”

“Well…” He smiles, still holding onto your hand. “It wouldn’t be the first time you’d bled all over me, right?”

Tugging up your clothes the wound comes into view. Jagged slices of skin split apart under a thick metal blade. Blood seeps steadily down your side, the wound is almost gaping from where the knife was twisted to shove your ribs apart.

Letting go of your hand he shuffles forwards, fingers prodding at your side and over your ribs. His focus increases tenfold and a frown twists his face when you jolt, body trying to run from the pain.

“I know, I know.” Nightwing mumbles, trying to reassure that alarmed look on your face. “Let's get you somewhere warm and dry, huh? I’ll need to put a few stitches in you but the good news is nothing seems broken.”

Reaching out one hand, you touch your shaking fingers to his forehead and swipe away the wet strands of hair settled there. Nightwing sags forwards under your touch and you notice then, just how tired he looks. Adrenaline is an incredible response to danger, but you know that sometimes the come down is worse than the danger it protects you from.

“Okay, let’s go.”

Shoving open the door to the safehouse you collapse onto your knees.

Pain radiates throughout your ribcage, blinding heat and endless stinging pulling at the very edges of your sanity. It would have been easier to pass out, you think, head pounding. One hand claps around the wound and presses down hard, trying to give your body something else to focus on rather than the repeated, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

Behind you, Nightwing locks the door before sweeping in at your side. He slings your free arm over his shoulder and shoves you to your feet.

“Almost there.” He reassures as you hiss in pain, side pulsing and burning, blood sticking to the inside of your shirt. “Gonna drop you at the sofa then grab the first-aid kit, okay?”

Glancing at the side of his face you raise a questioning brow, mouth twitching into a slight frown.

Catching your eye through his mask he sighs, loudly, “Don’t fuckin’ look at me like that, I know you don’t like it when someone doesn’t explain what they’re doing…especially when you’re injured.”

Darting your gaze away to throw a glance through the safehouse you feel heat rise in your cheeks, “Didn’t realise you caught onto that.”

“Of course I did,” Nightwing mumbles, readjusting your arm over his shoulder. “If it makes you feel any better, I like to know too, helps with planning out contingencies in case something goes wrong.”

Not for the first time, you think that Nightwing knows you better than you know yourself. The thought should make you feel uneasy, should fire up those specific alarms in your head that warn you of attachment, maybe even fondness. But instead, the only thing you feel is endless relief.

“Fuuuck.” You whine, breath coming out in short pants. Your feet scrape over the floor and briefly, almost in a haze, you realise how much of yourself is resting on Nightwing. The strength in his muscles throws your brain into a loop it can’t quite get out of. “You do remember where the first-aid kit is, right?”

Huffing on a short laugh he drops you onto the sofa, “Under the sink–where I left it. Second one is wedged between the bed and the nightstand.”

“Show off.”

Giving you a quick smile he spins on his heel and moves to find the bathroom. Watching his back as he leaves you rove your eyes over the tightness of his shoulders, the heavy way he clenches his hands into fists. Even his steps seem louder, like he can’t contain something inside himself.

He’s still angry.

You wonder, for a split second, if the man who did this to you is still alive.

Struggling to your feet, you swallow back the groan of pain rising in the back of your throat as your stab wound pulls. Kicking off your shoes you tuck them away around the edge of the sofa and move to grab at the hem of your shirt. Lifting it up the hem brushes the bottom of your wound and you can’t fight the tiny whimper that slips past your clenched teeth.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Dropping your shirt to settle back where it was, you shift to face Nightwing–still in his mask. “Taking my shirt off.”

His jaw tightens and you sigh, body quickly succumbing to exhaustion. You’re ready to sleep for a solid ten hours after this. Adrenaline sucks after the fight is over. Stepping forwards, Nightwing drops the first-aid kit on the sofa and then moves to stand in front of you, fingers twitching at his sides.

“You should have asked me to help. Moving too much will cause more damage.”

The sarcastic retort twisting on your tongue dissolves as one hand comes forwards and he starts playing with a loose thread at the bottom of your shirt. You wonder for a moment if the action was intentional. If he moved into your personal space and did an act so mundane, so tender, that you would give without a fight.

You wouldn’t put it past him, he’s always been tuned in to people's weaknesses, knows how to get his own way.

“Can you help?” You ask, smothering a yawn into your fist.

Trailing the tips of your fingers over Nightwings hand you wait patiently as he goes silent. Sweeping down each of his fingers with your thumb you twist to stroke over his inner wrist. Finding his pulse point you press gently and count in your head, mentally calculating his heart rate.

Slightly higher than normal.

Tapping your finger at his pulse point your mouth quirks at the edges when his breath hitches.

“Hmm?” He finally answers.

“Can you help me take my shirt off? Y’know, so you can stitch up this stab wound that’s still bleeding.”

“Shit–sorry, yeah of course.”

Warm fingers skirt up your sides as Nightwing lifts your damp shirt. The fabric drags over your skin and the sensation makes you shudder. Revealing the wound all over again makes you want to shrink away. Under the warm light of the safehouse you can see it for what it really is.

An ugly mess of skin tinged red.

You’re no stranger to wounds, or scars, or blood. Growing up within an organisation that places the success of an assignment over everything else does that to you. Your body is littered with scars, blemishes, patches of skin stitched sloppily together. Some from when you were a child. Others from your time trying to find your place in the world.

And now, you’ve got another to add to the collection.

“He really got you good with that knife.” Nightwing says under his breath, pausing in his movements to look at your side. “I’m surprised it didn’t puncture your lung.”

Humming quietly in agreement you smile bitterly, “Guess I got lucky.”

He gives you a funny look, something unreadable written in the lines of his face. It fills you with unease that sometimes you can’t get a single read on him. Can’t look at him and figure out what’s going through his head. If he doesn’t want you to know what he’s thinking, you won’t ever know.

Once again, his skill blows you away. Every time you think you have him pinned, he shows you another way he has control.

Your shirt hits the floor with a wet smack, water quickly seeping into the carpet. Kicking it towards the kitchen, Nightwing moves to grab the first-aid kit. Pulling out a thick wad of gauze and saline he kneels at your side so he’s at eye level with the wound.

Methodically cleaning the area you fight the blinding urge to flinch each time the gauze swipes over your skin.

“This is gonna hurt.” Nightwing advises, looking up to catch your gaze. In his hand is a tube of saline, the cap twisted off and hovering at the opening of your wound, “I need to make sure there’s no debris caught inside before I stitch you up.”

You think of the times when you were a child, sobbing and bleeding and trying to fix up your wounds as best you could. Needle and thread shaking in your tiny fist as some part of you bleeds and bleeds and bleeds.

They never cared much about tending to wounds that weren’t life threatening, always leaving you to fix yourself up under the guise of a lesson. Like they taught you how to do anything other than hurt.

‘The only way to survive in this world is to be self-reliant.’

Grabbing the saline straight out of Nightwing’s hand you close your eyes and flush the wound. The pain ignites inside you, almost like you’re being stabbed all over again. All the nerves fire collectively and your knee wobbles, dangerously close to collapsing out from underneath you.

A warm hand circles your shaking knee, holding it in place and offering temporary stability as you tremble. A soft noise of surprise escapes your mouth at the feeling and you open your eyes to see Nightwing already looking up at you, mouth pinched into a frown.

His free hand mops up the saline running down your side and he dumps the ruined gauze into a heap on the carpet.

“Why’d you do that?” He asks.

You can’t quite look him in the eye when you answer, “I–They never really cared much about–uh–minor wounds. Anything that wasn’t immediately life threatening was left to us to sort. I guess over time it was just easier to deal with it alone.” Tapping your fingers against your thigh you finally meet his gaze, something bitter lodging itself halfway up your throat, “Pain means nothing–they made it nothing–you should have just flushed the wound.”

Breaking eye contact you tip your head back and stare at the off white ceiling. There’s something wounded cutting up your insides. Even after all this time, you still can’t shake off what they taught you. You still can’t properly trust anyone besides yourself.

“They might not have cared, but I do.” Nightwing says after a careful silence. “You don’t have to deal with everything alone, you know?”

Opening and closing your mouth you search for the right words but they refuse to come. You’ve been trained on how to respond to things like this, they drilled it into your skull to ensure no one comes close enough to form an attachment. There’s sentences rolling around in your mouth, practised, rehearsed sentences that are easy and safe.

But Nightwing deserves better than that.

“I don’t—” The words stick to the roof of your mouth, your chest heaves with the weight of them. It feels like cutting yourself open with a dull blade. “Sometimes, I don’t know how to be anything other than what they made me.”

Nightwing taps your thigh, his fingers settling just below where your own drums against the muscle in an anxious rhythm. Peering down you watch as he removes his hand to peel open a clean dressing and stick it over your stitched up side.

You didn’t feel a damn thing.

You wonder for a split second if you’re broken.

Cleaning up the first-aid supplies he smoothly gets to his feet, standing close enough that you feel the comforting heat of him even through his suit. His domino mask still sits on his face, covering his eyes and keeping that barrier between you. Your fingers twitch at your sides, breath shallow.

Swallowing thickly at the weight of his gaze you wince when your throat flickers with discomfort.

Raising his hand, Nightwing sweeps his fingers over your neck, cataloguing the bruises settling there. The featherlight touch makes something inside you ache. Tenderness isn’t something you come across often, it's always been about finding your opening and striking and relishing in the pained noises that follow.

It’s never been about warm fingers tracing the marks left behind from someone else. It’s never been about watching Nightwing’s hand shake like he’s touching something forbidden, something precious.

Your hands move of their own accord, fingers finding each side of his mask and pausing, waiting for him to tell you that this is okay. That he wants this too. Part of you feels selfish for wanting to remove his mask, to see him under the soft light of the safehouse.

But another part is yearning, pleading to see him. To see the face of the man who cares, who said you don’t have to be alone anymore.

He slides his fingers to the back of your neck, twisting his fist into your hair and just holding you there. Face to face, close enough that his exhale brushes your cheek. The close proximity makes you dizzy, you want to sway. Your eyes flutter closed for half a second when he tugs at your hair, bliss settling along each notch of your spine.

You feel weightless.

“S’okay,” Nightwing whispers, his voice lower than you’ve ever heard it. “You can take it off.”

Opening your eyes you peel the mask from his face and–

Oh.

There he is.

“Hi.” You smile, like you’re seeing him for the first time all over again.

Dick ducks his head to break eye contact, a bashful little grin lighting up his face. When he looks back up his eyes are glittering, all soft and electric and filled with something unspoken. You try to turn your head, try to focus on something other than the way he looks at you, focus on anything but the heavy fluttering of your heart behind your ribs. It’s hard to look at him when he looks at you like that.

His fist tightens and your breath hitches, a soft moan balancing on the tip of your tongue. He won’t let you move your head away from him, the control he has over you makes you weak in the knees. You wait for the panic, the horrible wrench in your gut when you realise you’re not in control. But it never comes because Dick Grayson is safe. He’s safe and in control and you don’t have to be afraid anymore.

Resting your arms over his shoulders, your free hand plays with the damp strands of hair at the nape of his neck. A small shudder rocks his sturdy frame and you fight to keep the coy smile off your face.

In retaliation he gives your hair a sharp tug and you gasp, pupils blowing wide.

Studying you quietly a smirk plays at the edges of his mouth, “Never would have guessed you like having your hair pulled.”

Heat crawls up your neck, “I’m fully capable of kicking your ass.”

“It’s because I'm so attractive isn’t it?”

Dropping his mask to the ground it lands with a muffled thud. Cupping his cheeks with both hands you press your thumb against his lower lip. Darting your eyes over his pretty mouth you wet your lips and lean in close, ignoring the quiet hitch of Dick’s breath and the firm hand that circles your hip.

Lowering your voice to a charged whisper you exhale, “I say this, and I cannot stress this enough. I find you completely repulsive.”

Raising an eyebrow Dick pulls back and you swallow, stomach fluttering at the wild look in his eye. A calm focus overtakes his features and you know from experience that whatever he does next will take you apart. Dick is nothing but prepared and meticulous. Always in control and ten steps ahead of anyone else.

Opening his mouth to no doubt say something that’ll leave you on your knees his phone starts to ring.

“Fuck.” Dick growls under his breath, one hand reaching for the phone to stop it ringing. “I’m gonna have to go.”

Nodding quietly you run your tongue along the backs of your teeth, “Yeah, I know, crime doesn’t stop, not even for one night.” You smile, “Uh–thank you, by the way, for…for saving me. I’m not sure what would have happened if…” You trail off, the words won’t come.

Grabbing your chin between his thumb and pointer finger he holds you firm, unwavering. Something dangerous ignites in his eyes, something furious and protective, “He won’t ever hurt you again, okay?”

Looking away you focus on the wall over Dick’s shoulder.

“Look at me.” He orders, his voice is unyielding. He squeezes your jaw until you meet his eye, “He won’t ever hurt you again.”

Relief almost splits you in half, tears well up along your lower lashes and you try to blink them away before they trail down your cheeks. There’s a lump in your throat and not once, in all the time of knowing him, have you ever felt so thankful to have Dick Grayson in your life.

Tipping forwards he releases his hold of your jaw and you throw your arms over his shoulders. Without missing a single beat Dick winds his arms around your waist and holds you close. He’s strong and warm and safe and even though the harsh material of his suit irritates your skin you’ve never felt more at home.

Tucking your face into the crook of his neck you sigh, one hand gently combing through his hair. Placing your lips at the shell of his ear you whisper a soft little thank you, the words only audible to you and him.

Leaning back after a comfortable silence Dick presses a tender kiss to your forehead and your heart swells at least three sizes.

“You don’t need to be what they made you.” He says, looking you in the eye. “You just need to be you. That’s enough.”

Placing the palm of your hand on his chest–right over his heart, you hope he understands how much he means to you. You can’t quite give a name to the blinding warmth in your stomach. You’re not sure what love feels like. But in your head, you think it feels a lot like this.

Looking up, you trace the lines of his face and his soft little smile washes over you like the dawn–

Oh.

There he is.

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