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h4venpha · 2 years ago

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↳ “𝐈 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖, 𝐈𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐊𝐀𝐘.” — vash the stampede

CW: angst, hurt and comfort, blood, bullet wound, mentions of panic attacks, slight implications of self harm, slight dissociation (like barely but just incase), a little more tristamp vash coded

pulled this out of my ass in 30 mins, i really enjoy writing vash angst i apologize

you frown silently as vash hisses in pain. blood running down his tense forearm as you finally pull the bullet from his shoulder. you can see his jaw unclench as the pain eases just a little.

“there, it’s out.” you say quietly as you drop it into the trash can left of the sink, a solid clank sounding out into the hotel bathroom as it hits the bottom. when you turn back towards vash, he’s leaning against the sink counter, watching the crimson blood make its way over his wrist and into his palm.

vash’s eyes start to unfocus and his breathing becomes unsteady. his blond hair cast over his face as he looks down, yet you can read him so clearly. and he’s either about to have a breakdown or go into a panic attack.

you reach forward with your clean hand and take his jaw in your hand, redirecting him to look at you. and he does, it just takes a few seconds to register your face. when he does, you can see his eyebrows twitch downwards.

“you did what you could, okay? she’ll be alright.” you say softly, referring to the little girl from earlier that he saved. luckily she left the scene with only a few gashes on her arms and legs. yet vash, with a bullet wound and a darkening spot under his eye, still feels guilt eating away at him inside.

“i should’ve grabbed her faster. the moment i saw that guy get up, i should’ve-“ vash blurts out.

“hey. it’s over. he’s being taken care of at the sheriff’s and the girl is fine— you saw her with her mother earlier, right?” you say calmly. you were trying not to throw vash into a breakdown. you could tell he was being raw and vulnerable right now, even though he couldn’t look at you, it was written all over his face.

as soon as the blood trickles down to his fingers, vash is staring down at it. the dark red against his peachy white skin. unconsciously, he rubs it with his thumb, feeling the wetness of it on his finger pads. vash clenches his fist and looks at you with hard eyes. none of his public act, his usual bright personality completely gone. yet you don’t waver.

“you don’t understand,” vash grumbles, his harsh woods rooted in frustration, “you don’t understand at all, i— i could’ve— should’ve stepped in front of her earlier.” he says louder, and you can’t tell if hes scolding you, or himself. “it’s my fault any of that— that happened— it’s my fault! someone was hurt because of me!” his voice is breaking and you swear there’s a tear running down his cheek. you can’t quite tell by the dim bathroom light.

you sigh as vash raises his voice in front of you. it wasn’t something he did very often —to anyone as a matter of a fact— yet when he did, you knew how to handle it. he’s in a bad headspace: his breathing is starting to pick up and his hands begin to shake a little. when he roughly swipes his bloodied fist over his face to wipe his tears away, is when you step in.

you take his hand in yours, his blood smearing on your palm but you don’t care. on the verge of a break down, whenever he balls up his fists, you can tell he’s close to taking his anger out on himself. with a hurt look on your face, you slowly intertwine your fingers with his.

“you know i don’t like it when you talk about yourself like that.” you whisper quietly as you lean in a little closer to him

“i… mmh,” vash holds his tongue, eyes softening, your words hitting him like a truck. you’ve told him this before and he knows it.

a small frown on your face, you reach up with your clean hand and wipe the tears and the smear of red off his face. you squeeze his hand softly in yours.

“it hurts me to hear you say those things about yourself. i… i know you’re not feeling well right now— i know you feel guilty but…” you choose your words carefully, “but, i want you to know that it’s okay. it’s okay, and you’re okay.” you say softly, stroking his cheek with your thumb. vash stays silent.

“you’ve done more than you think, and i know you’ll never believe me, but i’m proud of you. of— of what you do and what you believe in. but i just wish you’d give yourself a little more credit… okay?”

god and vash’s heart aches. your words shoot straight through him and he feels his skin is on fire. he feels himself caving in, both mentally and physically. vash drops forward and onto your shoulder, his hands finding their place around the small of your back.

it is true, the guilt was indeed eating him up inside. your words hit him where it hurts, where he needs it to hurt. if you say he’s okay then… he’ll believe you. it’ll be okay just for a little bit, just for tonight to be a little bit selfish.

you close your eyes as you feel him finally relax, his tired body slumped against yours. you wrap an arm around his waist as your other reaches up to pet his head, fingers gently coaxing his hair. you can feel him crying, its silent, but you’re glad he’s letting it out. hunched back hiccuping and shaking as his tears soak into the cloth of your shirt.

so you stand there, eyes closed as vash leans himself on you. you let him relax into your hold, letting him forget about his burdens and responsibilities for a little while. you hold him up when he needs it most, and he couldn’t be more grateful.

vash stops crying after a little while, just short, huffed-out breaths every now and then. he picks up his head from your shoulder and pulls back to look at you. his eyes are red and a little bit puffy, but theres this faint, real smile on his face. he doesn’t have to say anything for you to understand: i’m sorry. thank you.

vash cups your face with his clean hand, mimicking just like how you did for him. he closes the space swiftly. his lips meeting your welcoming ones as he gently caresses your face. vash kisses you softly, unspoken words passing through his mouth on yours with ease.

vash pulls back slowly just to rest his forehead on yours, his breathing turned even and calm.

“i’m sorry, i got my blood on you.” vash apologizes quietly, pulling back his hand from your back, a sheepish look on his face knowing there’s a blotch of blood on your shirt.

without hesitation, you press his hand back against your body and connect your lips with his again. “i know, it’s okay.”

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studiogrimm810 · 5 hours ago

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Speak of the Devil > Detour // Part 7

pairings: (established) sam winchester x gn!reader, destiel is there :D

summary: you are taken by lucifer for over a week and sam damn near looses his head. when you are finally rescued, the trauma of what was inflicted on you has left it's mark and it's up to sam and dean to keep you put together.overwhelmed by necessary steps to take next, you desperately search for just one moment of peace and quiet by yourself

warnings: torture, ptsd, flashbacks, hallucinations, graphic depictions of said torture, allusions to SA

word count: 3,439

A/N: sorry for so long without a part, it just took forever to figure out how exactly i wanted to proceed,, hope you all enjoy this part and i promise to be more consistent with the last few parts of this series :)

read other parts here

———————

“Now, wait-,” you scoff, lifting your head from its rested seat in your hand and looking at Rowena. “You want to just explore my brain?” Your face scrunched in dread but melted with exhaustion.

“No, dear, not your literal brain,” Rowena laughs like that’s what’s unrealistic. “Your essence, really,” she shrugs, trying to downplay it like it’s not as scary and invading as it sounds.

“Yeah, okay, my ‘essence’- whatever,” you lean back in your chair. Sam is still looking up at you from his crouched position on the floor. His hand is resting on your thigh as he observes you, letting you process the necessary steps to take next.

“And with Lucifer present, I’ll need protection,” Rowena looks over to Sam and he matches her gaze with a thoughtfully pained look.

“But if Lucifer’s there, wouldn’t that give him access to them?” Sam points out rising to his feet in a subconscious protective stance. His hand lands on your shoulder this time and you instinctively reach up to hold his fingers. The thought of purposefully allowing Lucifer to roam your essence, or whatever, makes your stomach plummet.

Rowena nods, considering that possibility and perhaps mulling over a solution.

“What if one of us can intercept?” Dean asks.

“Then he’ll know we’re there,” Rowena adds.

“He already knows you’re here to help, he’s expecting you,” you address Rowena. You feel all eyes on you but shrug them off as you straighten your posture. “Before I woke up, he said something about getting numbers quickly and he has heard us talking about you coming to help. I think he’ll be prepared for whatever we try to throw his way” the defeat in your voice weighs down the room.

Everyone is quiet for a few minutes and Rowena paces a few feet- back and forth- before halting and nodding as if she’s come up with a plan.

“This is what we’ll do. Dean, you’ll come with me, and once we find this- magic- I need you to assure that I’m unharmed as I crack it.” She looks at Dean, casting a quick glance up to Cas. “Samuel,” she turns to face him, “You and the Angel will search for my dear, here,” she smiles down at you, and despite the odds, it’s warm and assuring.

“How long is this gonna take you?” Dean asks, his arms crossed over his chest.

“I’m unsure, but I’ll work quickly,” Rowena assures, trying to remain optimistic but understanding the intensity of the situation.

You start to unfocus, thinking of all the ways Lucifer has hurt you or all the things he’s shown you. You aren’t really ready to open your ‘essence’ to a room of people, even if you know they would understand, it still puts you in such a vulnerable position.

Sam gently squeezes your shoulder and it startles you out of your thoughts. Your flinch causes Cas to look in your direction but the others seem to ignore it, pretending to at least. He offers a soft smile, hoping to assure you that it’ll be okay.

Your chest feels tight and the muffle voices of people around you dictating the plan to infiltrate your mind is too much. You still feel dizzy from the spell Rowena worked, but you force yourself to your feet, mutter a nearly incomprehensible excuse and dart out of the room.

You round a few corners, past your bedroom, down to the garage and out a side door. Air. Fresh, midnight air, encompassing your frazzled nerves. Your breath is quick and inconsistent. It’s too much. All of this, it’s too much.

You’re overwhelmed. Too much has happened in too little time. It’s unrealistic, unreasonable, completely irrational. Your skin itches and you pace the gravel lot, rocks digging into your socked feet but you ignore the sting and continue to pace. It’s nice out tonight, a sky pebbled with stars above and an almost full moon casting a warm, reflective glow on the foliage surrounding the bunker.

The air is crisp and refreshing, cleansing your nostrils of the pungent smell of what Rowena had burning for you inside. You don’t think twice about it, just welcomingly accept that it's no longer in your radius.

Your heart is racing but you’re calming, somewhat. You’re surprised no one has come out to look for you yet but you appreciate the few moments not feeling suffocated. They mean well- they’re your family and you wouldn’t give them up for the world, but space is necessary right now.

A snap of a branch draws your attention to the edge of the woods just as a figure rushes past. You spin to try and land on the object, but it’s too quick. There is a fit of giggles around you, comical and squeaky and you know instantly that it’s him.

No, how can he be here? You had the- fuck.

“A dreamwalk, huh?” Lucifer cackles, his voice booming in your skull. You continue to spin, trying to find the source of the fits. “And you think your witch is gonna get the job done?” He scoffs, but there’s something different about his voice. He’s tense, like he’s afraid it’ll work.

“I’m not afraid of your friends,” Lucifer defends. You spot multiple pairs of glowing eyes in the forest. “Your memory cuts off after Dean's distrust in the bitch, but I can just about guess he’s right. And once those boys see what I’ve put you through, they’ll never look at you the same,” Lucifer pouts, like he��s pitying you.

“Fuck you,” you hiss, your fists clenched.

“Just like you saw poor Sammy in the cage like a broken toy, they’ll see you,” Lucifer purs in your ear and you shiver, spinning around and stumbling back. The tickle of his breath leaves your skin on edge and you slap your hand over the tingling skin. “You can’t escape me,” his voice slithers over your body like a snake, leaving tingling skin in its wake. You can’t cover the skin fast enough to try and wipe away the feel.

You give up, curling into yourself and grabbing your wrists. Too much. Too much.

Snakes charged like electric eels are unleashed in the cellar, hissing and nipping at your skin as they pass by. Your eyes have been covered but your other senses are so heightened that you could place their location around you by the crackle of their skin. They wrap up your legs and constrict with dozens of tiny sharp fangs latching into your skin and electrocuting you.

The smell of burning flesh fills the room and snakes continue to lightly roam over your body like a weightless breath until they latch deep and emit the charge.

You try not to scream, because you don’t want them tunneling down your throat.

A breathy wind curls over your body and you tense, the rustling leaves being similar enough to convince you the snakes are near. Your grip is bruising on your own wrists and you have to run. You can’t do it. Too much.

Your feet carry you far in an unknown direction, stray branches scraping your face and uneven ground aching your legs. Your heart is pounding and Lucifer is still cackling, his voice echoing in your skull.

You start to slow, unable to catch up with your breathing. You look around you, only surrounded by trees and glowing red eyes everywhere. Lucifer is chanting your name, mocking you and degrading you. You cover your ears and screw your eyes shut to try and force it away but it’s of no use.

When your eyes reopen, he’s there.

He’s smiling as his body still ripples with small giggles, “tsk, tsk,” he shakes his head. “Do you even know where we are?” He looks around with a raised brow, awaiting your answer. You stay quiet.

“You can’t escape me,” he states. When you still don’t respond, he repeats, “you cannot escape me,” through gritting teeth and feigned patience. “Look at me when I talk to you, you pathetic-!” He snaps, stopping himself to whip around and pace.

You’ve found your way to your knees, damp mud soaked through your pj pants causing chills to run up your spine.

“Look at me,” he demands, towering over you. You flinch at his voice but reluctantly obey. There is barely a foot's worth of space between you and he’s glaring right at you. “Now the sky,” he points and you do so. He looks with you, pointing in all sorts of directions and doing some sort of calculations. When he looks satisfied, he glared back down. “They’re on their way.”

Your stomach drops because you know he’s not talking about Sam or Dean this time. “No,” you shake your head, stumbling up to your feet.

“Yes, the North star there gives me a good idea that we’re pretty far from the bunker- from the warding. You will be back with me soon, doll, and I’ll harvest exactly what I need from you this time since the witch as already located it for me.”

He poofs away. Your breathing is ragged but hushed as you listen out for anything and everything. Footsteps echo nearby but they lead to nothing. Your legs are freezing and socks soaked. Your hair is a mess and when you touch your face you find that you’re bleeding.

Red eyes bait your attention in your peripheral vision but disappear when you attempt to catch them. Owls hoot and a crickets chirp. Wind rustles electric leaves again and you shiver from cold fear.

Demons are after you and you have no way to defend yourself.

“C-Cas? Can you hear me?” You pray, hoping he’ll be able to locate you. Only a few seconds pass before he appears before you. A wash of relief makes you weak in the knees as you stumble to him. But his face morphs into the Devils own, burns and all. “No-.”

You spin to run away but another Lucifer wrapped in Cas’ trenchcoat blocks your path. They both disappear.

Too fucking much.

“Cas-,” you choke out in a sob, unable to hold back your pitiful fear.

The wind howls through the leaves and a thick flapping sound rings close, followed by crunched branches. You spin to the sound to find another Cas.

“Stop-,” you brace your trembling hands in front of you. Cas’ face hardens in concern and he steps closer but you beg him to stop. He does. It’s weird.

“What-,” Cas looks around, his own hands raised in defense. “What’s wrong? Is something here?” He asks.

A flash of red eyes hide in the forest and you flinch as you meet them. Cas looks behind him to see nothing. Giggles erupt in your skull and you whine another cry.

Another Cas appears next to him with an evil smile and red eyes, flickering in and out of existence like a ghost.

“Let’s get you home,” Cas reaches out to grab your wrist but you yelp, stumbling back and avoiding his touch. Cas’ eyes are wide and he doesn’t know what to do. “It’s just me. You prayed for me, remember?” Cas tries to coach you off of whatever edge you’re on.

You mumble to yourself that this isn’t real and you screw your eyes shut, back hitting a tree and you slump back into the muddy grass.

Wings flap again and you’re alone.

It’s silent now.

Your mind is blank.

You breathe, you look around, you uncurl from yourself.

Another set of wings causes you to curl right back up, knees to your chest and arms pressed between. You refuse to look up and grant him the satisfaction.

“Sweetheart?”

No, no, not Sam. Don’t be Sam.

You especially refuse to give Lucifer the satisfaction of tricking you with him.

“Look at me,” the voice sounds like Sam, he even sounds like he genuinely cares. His voice is a soft coo to pull you out from yourself. But Lucifer said the same thing to you just a few moments ago. You won’t.

“It’s me, honey,” slow footsteps work closer to you and from the peaking view past your fallen hair, you can see his boots sink into the mud that’s messy and uneven due to your scrambling. Fuck, you’re cold.

“Cas, get Rowena to make another spell to burn,” Sam directs behind him. Wings signal the angels' compliance. “It’s me, baby. It’s Sam,” he crouches in front of you. “You’re freezing, can you at least take my coat?” You lift your head enough to look at him properly and his breath catches, he looks so worried- so pained.

“Sam.?” You test, not trusting your own voice as it betrays you with a creak.

“Yeah, honey, just me,” he eyes simmer with hope at your response but he remains calm, not wanting to startle you. “Is he here?” You know who.

“I- I don’t think so,” you look around, straighten just enough to crane your neck to look around you both. “He played Cas and I thought he was…” your voice trails, the punch of anxiety halting your speech. Sam knew what you were going to say, though, and he had to force in a shaky breath at the idea of you not being certain that he can be trusted.

“Cas-, the real Cas,” he clarifies, “will be back with another spell and we’ll get you back. Rowena has a plan-.”

“No, don’t tell me. I don’t want him to hear,” you interrupt, scanning the area again for any red dots in the distance.

“I thought he wasn’t here,” he says, slipping off his coat, wrapping it around you. His warmth that was trapped behind the cloth radiating over your damp skin.

“He knows everything I know,” you say, holding onto the edges of his jacket to tug it around yourself more. Sam just nods, wanting so desperately to reach out and touch you but he stops himself, not wanting to startle you. A flap of wings signal that Cas is back. You look behind Sam and Sam follows your gaze. You wait for Cas to speak and light the spell.

“What is it?” Sam asks, returning to you. You look over to Sam and then back at Cas- not Cas.

“Smart,” Not Cas says, “keeping info from yourself to keep if from me,” he comes closer and you press into the tree behind you.

“Honey?” Sam looks behind him again. “Cas!” He calls out, needing Cas to get back here now.

“They’re close now,” Not Cas winks, flickering away.

“S-Sam, we have to go,” you tug on his shirt, making him jump and whip back to face you. You don’t have time to feel bad for startling him. “Lu-,” his name almost makes you gag, “he sent someone- here,” you shudder, the cold wearing you thin at this point. Sam’s eyes widen and he looks around.

“Shit, okay. C’mon, honey,” he snakes- no. He slips his arm around you to help you to your feet.

“I’m sorry I ran, I didn’t mean to,” you apologize. You’ve never felt as much of a burden as you have the last few days. Especially with your meltdown just now of not being able to tell what’s real, you felt crazy.

“Hey, don’t apologize,” he cups his free hand over your cheek, pulling your eyes to him with a quick kiss to your forehead. He surveys the area while pressing your head into his chest, keeping his other arm wrapped around you- doing anything to guard you and warm you. “Cas, dammit,” Sam says a little quieter than his first prayer. A flap of wings makes you flinch and Sam’s hold on you tightens. His palm is splayed over the side of your head, fingertips resting from your cheek to your temple, and his other arm strapped over your back like a seatbelt, somewhat covering your face with the bicep portion.

“It’s Cas, honey,” Sam assures. “Where is it?” Sam asks and you hear Cas sigh.

“Rowena used the rest of the ingredients in preparation for the dreamwalk,” Cas explains.

“What? I thought he needed to be present?” Sam’s frustration comes out in tone only and not volume.

“He does, it’s to weaken him,” Cas says, his tone very ‘well-apparently’ type of sarcastic.

“Fine, but we need to get out of here,” Sam holds back his name, “he sent someone to get them,” Sam’s thumb, from where his hand is placed, caresses your lower back but you can barely feel it through his thick coat.

Cas doesn’t wait, reaching out and touching yours and Sam’s foreheads, zapping you back to the outside of the bunker.

“I’ve got you,” Sam murmurs into your hair, repositioning you so it’s easier to hurry inside with him. It’s faint, but somehow you can smell the burning of the spell from here. Cas latches the door to the garage behind them. He goes to meet Dean and Rowena where they waited in the garage, ushering them out to give you and Sam a moment.

“Why did you run?” Sam is utterly flabbergasted, pulling away just enough to cup your face up to him again. His eyes are frantic with a yearn to understand why you just bolted.

“I-I’m sorry, I got so overwhelmed. I needed some fresh air and by the time I realized that I didn’t have the spell with me it was too late. I just panicked,” your words somehow jerk past your trembling lips, chopped up by stutters. His eyes go back and forth between your own, his jaw tense.

“I got up to follow you but you were so fast-, I couldn’t find you anywhere and when I saw the door was left open, I thought-,” he snaps his jaw shut, looking off to try and slow the quick glossing in his eyes. “I thought he got to you again,” he says through clenched teeth, shoving you right back into his chest. His hold on you trembled but never loosened and you could feel how fast his heart was racing.

Your guilt makes you sick.

“I can’t let him take you from me again. I won’t,” he wills, as if speaking of it will make it true.

His arms encompassing you warms you up quickly, but the damp, mud stained pj’s are uncomfortable. So, after collecting yourselfs, Sam leads you to your bedroom to get you a fresh pair of clothes.

“We should get started soon,” he says after you slip on one of his sweatshirts. You agree, just not readily.

Sam leads you out and to the infirmary, and while Rowena sets up her spells and Dean and Cas set up some cots for the dreamwalk, Sam cleans at your tree whipped face.

You’re sat on a cot of your own and Sam is gentle even with the shallow scrapes that don’t really even need much tending to. Seeing the room full of people ready to help you in any way they can makes your heart swell, but pumps a flush of heat up your back and to your cheeks in embarrassment.

Before you know it, it’s time.

Sam fluffs you a pillow and readies a blanket for you.

“Get comfortable, dear,” Rowena says, coming to your bedside with a bowl in hand. “First, you will go under and soon we’ll follow. You'll be okay okay, dear. You just have to wait for Samuel and the angel to get to you and they’ll keep you safe until I break the binds,” she says, explaining carefully.

“What happens if you can’t crack it?” You ask, scared of the likely.

“I can,” she assures, taking a pinch of powder as Sam covers your body so you stay warm and pressed a gentle kiss to your temple.

“I’ll find you,” Sam promises, “just hold on, sweetheart,” he whispered, because if he didn’t, his voice would crack.

He steps back and Rowena sprinkles the dust over you, sending you into a deep sleep.

———

Booming thunder rattled the chains surrounding your freezing cold body. Your shallow breaths came out as puffs of vapor before you. Your hands were wrapped in icy chains, leaving you suspended from the ceiling. You’re bare, toes barely scraping the ground from how high you’re suspended. You try to use your tiptoes to hold some of your weight, but the cold bites back.

The rigid temperature aches you to your core and you search the cage for any sign of Lucifer but come up short.

You force deep breaths to fill your lungs, all you have to do is wait for Sam. That’s it.

Please, that's it.

———————

thanks so much for reading!! <3

>pictures are not my own, i have the originals linked here (pinterest) >>check out my other works here

>tags: @internallysalad @blossomingorchids @bobbdylan @areswasneverhere

#supernatural #sam winchester #dean winchester #fanfiction #fandom #supernatural fanfiction #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester angst #sam winchester x you #supernatural hurt/comfort #hurt/comfort #sam winchester hurt/comfort #supernatural lucifer #lucifer supernatural #angst #supernatural angst #hallucifer

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she-posts-nerdy-stuff · 4 months ago

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Don’t Go Blindly Into The Dark

Summary:

To hide that he can't read, Jan Van Eck has been forcing his son to pretend he's blind since he was eight years old. Wylan is now attending Ketterdam University, and meeting Jesper Fahey may very well be about to change his life. But is he safe to tell Jesper the truth? And what will Jesper say if he does?

Jesper is struggling to weigh up his life in the Barrel and his life at the University of Ketterdam, and there's a good chance that his growing debt is about to make the decision for him. He hasn't attended class consecutively for months, but maybe that will change when his newest project includes partnering up with Wylan Van Eck. But can he really leave the Barrel behind him? And how long can he keep up the pretence of who he thinks Wylan wants him to be?

Meanwhile there is a darkness growing in Ketterdam, and it seems a killer may be stalking the streets of West Stave. An unknown evil is closing its jaws over the city, and it’s starting to feel like nowhere is safe.

Tags: @justalunaticfangirl @lunarthecorvus @i-need-help-this-is-my-obsession @devoted-people-hater

If anyone else would like to be tagged let me know :)

Content warnings for this chapter: implied past sa references, ptsd, death, violence, injury

AO3 link

Chapter 63 - Inej

“And you spoke to Bolliger?”

He’d already asked her that. Inej nodded, glancing at Kaz from her perch atop his windowsill. She’d pushed it slightly open and the wind was loud beyond the pane, cold on her skin where it rose as though creeping into the room like the tentacled sea creature of a bedtime story. It was almost enough to tempt her into closing it. Only almost, though.

“He agreed,” she said, her voice lilting in the air, “Twelve bells?”

“Twelve bells,” Kaz nodded.

He sat behind his desk, though he didn’t appear to be doing much work. They were both a thrum of nerves, she knew, for the parley that would take place in just a few hours; they were just both too good at hiding it, as well. Kaz had few tells that she had noticed, but since she came in he’d read the same page three times so either he hadn’t looked at it for the first two, it would have been stored inside his head with a bear glance, or he wasn’t actually reading it at all. He glanced down again, and Inej felt inclined to believe the latter even as he turned the page. His dark eyes, catching glimmers of sunlight as they moved down the page, were almost glazed in their unfocus. Inej found her gaze tracing the shape of him where he sat, as though she were etching him into place to last forever. He flexed his free hand and reached without looking for where his cane was leaning against the desk next to him, wrapping his gloved fingers over the ornate crow’s head.

“You shouldn’t go,” Inej blurted, unexpected even to herself.

Kaz looked up slowly, his jaw set, one eyebrow slightly raised, his eyes deep and dark and endless.

“It doesn’t feel right,” she breathed, cursing herself internally and trying to restrain the disturbing quake that seemed to be trying to push its way into her voice, “It’s a trap,”

“This is the way Per Haskell wants it,” he said, simply, “And if you think there’s a trap that can hold me, then I’d have to say I’m disappointed in the lack of attention you’ve been paying,”

Inej didn’t bother to contain her huff of frustration as she hopped down from the window. She landed on the balls of her feet, bobbing herself briefly back and forth to test the pain in her leg. Non-existent. Nina ought to be proud of her work.

“It doesn’t matter whether it can hold you if you’re dead,”

Kaz gave her a short, coarse laugh, but Inej felt no humour in return. The Black Tips weren’t playing a game, and they would be well-prepared for the meet tonight.

“Go to the safe house and see if you can get anything more out of her before tonight,” said Kaz, tracking her with his eyes as she crossed towards the door, “and tell Jade to be on alert in case the Black Tips try anything whilst we’re distracted by the parley,”

“Do you think-?”

“It’s unlikely,” the low burn of his voice grated in the air, the scraping of stone against stone, “but let’s not make Jeluna and Elodie pay for that assumption,”

Inej said nothing as she paced towards the door, her ears tuned in to the tiny irregularity in Kaz’s breathing until it swung shut behind her and she reached the top of the stairs. For the briefest moment she paused, tracking the sound of Kaz’s cane and footsteps. It took a moment for her to figure out what he was doing, but then the soft thud of the window closing reached her ears and Kaz’s footsteps traced slowly back towards his desk. Inej shook her head, then kept walking.

The safehouse wasn’t too far from the Slat even by the streets, but carrying herself up a drainpipe and over the rooftops to reach it as the crow flies made Inej’s journey even shorter. She felt the slightest, brief twinge of pain behind her knee as she sprang up onto the tiles, but it died down within moments and didn’t bother her again. As the building came into view ahead of her, Inej’s mind quickly flicked through the best approach - she'd be fastest going in above, but she couldn’t go into the flat directly and if she came through a window into a hallway she might risk someone seeing her. She also wasn’t sure where Jade had stationed herself; in the corridor upstairs or nearer to the entryway below. So, instead of her usually preferred method, Inej slipped down the side of a building two streets away and approached the safehouse from the ground.

She wondered if anyone was watching her. It was a disconcerting feeling, and one she was less comfortable coping with than she would have cared to admit. If Riesen had Black Tips watching the safehouse, trying to prove Jeluna was there so they could damage the Dregs and strengthen their relationship with Kaatje De Waal in one fell swoop, would they even hesitate to pounce on her? I ain’t offering that bitch terms anymore. Inej’s hand drifted to her knives as she glanced in every conceivable direction. Would they attack her right here, out in the open? How many could she take on alone? She wanted to believe they were no match for her, but one thought too many and she was pinned against the paving slabs all over again, Oomen’s body pressed against her own, the press of the blade into her thigh, the panic rising and claiming her senses as its own.

She could still feel Liesbeth - Lizabeta - in her arms. Her eyes, the fear that lived inside them and danced like a roaring, endless flame, had bore deep inside Inej and found purchase; she could not imagine it ever relinquishing its hold. Inej remembered looking up at her, seeing the trace of tears that trapped within them a mixture of candlelight and moonlight, stars trapped in a looking glass.

The Black Tips knew what she had done. Inej knew what she had done. It didn’t matter that Lizabeta’s knife was raised above her heart. It didn’t matter that she had held her as she died. It didn’t matter that she had let her hear her name again, or that she’d let a Saint’s tale carry her into the next world as though she were telling her a bedtime story. None of it meant anything. She was still dead. Inej had killed her.

She had been so scared. Of him? Of everything? She had been terrified. And Inej had murdered her.

Someone could be watching her. Inej a nervous prickle in her spine, the hairs on the back of her neck raising to alert. Would they kill her, out here beneath the distant, yellow moon? Or would they drag her back to Riesen, so he could finish the job for himself?

No. She wouldn’t let that happen. If the Saints had decided that Inej owed her life for Lizabeta’s, she would at least die here: in the open air and beneath the sky, with the stars above her and the wind in her hair. She would die on her feet with a knife in her hand.

“Wraith?”

Inej spun; the blade was out of her hand and hurtling through the air before she’d even had time to lay eyes on her target.

“Saints!” Jade swore loudly, throwing herself back around the corner she’d just emerged from so that Inej’s knife made clattering contact with the bricks instead of her head.

If someone had asked Inej what the most typical Kerch girl she could think of would look like, she would have pointed to Jade. But despite having been born in Zierfort to two Kerch parents and spending her first year in the Ketterdam Zelvar District, Jade had lived almost all of her twenty three years in the Wandering Isle, only having returned to Kerch a few months ago. It was often quite jarring, particularly if you didn’t know her well, for tall, blonde, Ketterdam poster girl Jade to speak with a stronger Kaelish twang to her accent than half the girls working at the Emerald Palace could’ve managed if they’d tried.

“It’s me, for Saints’ sakes,” she grumbled from the other side of the wall, waiting for silence to fall and no more knives to fly at her before she stepped back out into the street, “What’s the matter with you?”

Inej caught hold of her breathing as Jade picked up her knife and held it out for her to take, giving herself a harsh internal shake.

“I thought you’d be inside,”

“Dirtyhands said to stay out of sight,” Jade told her, “I’m just watching the building, seeing who comes and goes, all that. You alright?”

Inej felt her spine straighten, apparently of its own accord.

“Fine. Kaz wanted me to tell you to stay alert during tonight; he thinks there’s a chance the Black Tips will try to make a move on the safehouse during the parley,”

Jade nodded, one hand drifting as though to play with her hair before remembering it was neatly pinned into its updo; her fingers danced for a moment before she began to play with her earring. The earrings, Kaz had told Inej barely two days after Jade had joined the Dregs, were steel replicas of real silver ones that he’d seen on the black market not two months ago. Inej had not been able to help raising an eyebrow - no-one would have described those earrings as small, nor subtle, and if Jade had gone to the trouble of having replicas made before she flogged her own they must have meant something. Or maybe she didn’t know - Inej didn’t know exactly what had happened for Jade to end up slumming it with the Dregs, but apparently whatever money her family had once had was now run dry. Whoever she’d lived with in the Wandering Isle might have sold her earrings and swapped them for replicas without telling her a long time since; they could have coincidentally made their way to one of Kaz’s contacts in more recent timing. Now, Inej watched Jade twist the edge of the metal for a moment and then let her gaze drift to her pinned up hair. She wore it like the merchant wives did.

“Just me?” she asked, and Inej could tell she was hiding her nerves.

Inej hesitated. It might make sense to get more feet on the ground over here, but if the Black Tips hadn’t already been on to them at the safehouse then setting up a full guard around it would definitely get them talking. And besides, they didn’t need the neighbours running for the stadwatch when half the Dregs showed up on their doorstep.

“Just you,” she said, “Maybe Milo, or one or two of the others, if I can get hold of them, but we don’t want it too busy out here,”

She glanced up towards the window behind which Elodie and Jeluna were staying.

“We don’t want to attract attention,”

Jade nodded.

“Alright,” she smiled, dropping her earring, “You going to the Exchange, then?”

“I will be,” Inej’s hand drifted towards her knives, “I have a job to finish upstairs first. Keep an eye out,”

She began to walk towards the apartment building, but Jade called after her:

“Can I - What’s he keeping up there? What’s he doing?”

Inej paused, looking back over her shoulder. The wind tugged at her hood, playing with the loose pieces of hair at the front of her face.

“Believe me,” she said, “I wish I knew,”

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apoptoses · 2 years ago

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What does your editing process look like? Asking because I tend to just try to get everything perfect as I’m writing and then I’ll proofread before posting, it hasn’t really occurred to me to edit after I’m done

Editing as you write, for me, means getting nothing done. I've tried it and I spend ages on the same paragraph and then I get frustrated and quit haha

I use the Stephen King method of writing and editing. I sit down, start writing, and just keep going without stopping until I'm done with the scene or just mentally drained and done for the day. No going back and reading when I just put down, no pausing. If I don't know what I want them to say immediately I just type (SOME STUFF HERE) and keep banging away with what I know will come next.

Then once the whole thing is done (and I mean the whole thing, if it's gonna be a 50k fic I want all 50k out and DONE) I go back. I read the thing from start to finish without changing a single thing, just reading. That's how I figure out where the plot holes are, or if some theme doesn't get carried through to the end.

I also do this thing where I kinda sit back and unfocus my eyes and look at the shape of the text. Do I have like five huge blocks of writing one after the other? Do I have a ton of super short 2 sentence paragraphs all in a row? I check the 'shape' of the text to see how things flow, and if there's a super huge chunk of heavy reading I note that I need to either add some short stuff in between or edit those paragraphs down.

Any ideas I have at this point I make notes of but I don't start the edit immediately. I walk away for the rest of the night and then come back the next day.

THEN. Step 3. The REAL edit. I read and edit as I go, adding stuff in, taking stuff out, deleting scenes or noting where I need to add a scene/transition. Again, super important, go through all the way from start to finish and try not to jump around because that only leads to confusion.

Once that's done I walk away from the thing for at least a few days and try to forget about it until I feel about ready to post.

The night before I wanna post it I'll scan through one more time, make any last second edits and fix any typos. Paste it into AO3. Save as a draft.

Now if it's truly done, then the next day when I want to post it hitting the post button will be a breeze. If I feel any hesitation? I do one last pass, because that's my gut telling me something is missing/wrong. My gut has always been right.

It sounds super involved but on a fic under 10k it's no problem, it's a matter of taking little one hour chunks over the course of a couple days.

For something big like Blood Sanation, scrivener has been a godsend (THANK YOU everyone who bought me a ko-fi, I got the program and I love it ♥) Putting each scene into its own document keeps me from getting lost in the fic and lets me edit the scenes one at a time.

It's all about making the process small manageable chunks! I'm just burnt out on it from dealing with Blood Sanation and having like four other wips ready for edits at the same time haha

Lemme know if you have any other questions! I love sharing and helping with writing stuff.

#apoptoses answers

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nakahras · 11 months ago

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God. Your Chuuya fics are so good, I have to share with you my favorite lines of "Fireworks"

the port mafia executive is observing you. he watches as shadows of colors provided by the fireworks dance across your face, causing you to look 10x more strikingly beautiful than you already do. you’re quite literally the most stunning thing chuuya has ever laid his eyes on. he wants to tell you so. he wants to gush over how much he missed you. he wants to hold you. but he needs you to acknowledge him first and he knows you have an opinion about meursault that you deserve to voice. the problem lies in getting you to open yourself up. next to being the most stunning, you’re also the most stubborn person he has ever met. he has his work cut out for him. (this whole description is so well written, i love the way he thnks about reader)

and god how unfair. it’s so incredibly unfair how handsome he sincerely looks. his face isn’t covered by his hat and hair is tied by an ornamental string. the reds and greens and golds of his outfit really bring out the duel colors of his eyes. even frowning like he is, he is still a shining star in a sky full of clouds. (LOVE HETERCHROMIA CHUUYA BTW)

you let out an appalled scoff. “you thought of me? i find that hard to believe considering you made the decision to go along with dazai’s plan without warning. do you know how messed up i was? thinking you could be dead upon hearing you had been turned into a vampire. i thought i was never going to see you again because you didn’t tell me- i didn’t know. and then when you do return i don’t hear a single thing from you? not even a text saying ‘hey, shit is crazy at the port mafia but i will see you as soon as i can. just wanted to let you know i was safe.’ i would have been happy with that, chuuya.” (So well deserved ahahah)

you’re cut off again, this time by a sob that you can feel throughout your entire body. you choke again, feeling like you can’t breathe. your eyes unfocus, your hearing goes fuzzy and your limbs begin to feel numb and tingly. in your panicked haze you briefly note that you’re reaching out and latch onto some sort of soft material. the colors igniting the night sky become overwhelming so you squeeze your eyes shut. you wish you could drown out the booming noises created by the fireworks. it’s all too much, it’s been too much. your ears are ringing and your hands are trembling. the emotions swirling inside of you begging to be let out but you hold them in, not wanting chuuya to be affected. you’re nauseous, you feel as though you could throw up at any moment. (The way you write her emotions is just so >>> wow, it's so intense and vivid)

it’s absurd how calming just his presence is to you, even when you’re this irate with him. (love at its finest. i love love)

“my pretty doll, i can’t understand you when your face is covered like that. c’mere…” “now, what was it you were trying to say? i think i should be able to here you clearly this time.” (THE DIALOGUE, SO DREAMY)

it was only chuuya: chuuya’s velvety hair chuuya’s blazing warmth chuuya’s soft lips chuuya’s heavenly scent chuuya’s gentle touches chuuya. (GOD I LOVED THIS WHOLE SECTION. I DON'T KNOW WHY IT STRUCK SO HARD WITH ME BUT IT DID)

Anyway, I'm in love with the way you write Mister Nakahara Chuuya, if that wasn't clear

nonnie this is so sweet I’m actually crying :( tysm for reading my works and the kind words. i could kiss you you’re so sweet（>﹏<）i was so nervous posting for him for the first time i really am happy to hear that you and other enjoy the way i write him.

sending you all of the love and hugs and kisses i have to offer (o´〰`o)♡*✲ﾟ*｡

#᯽. 1 new message!#᯽. unknown number

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somelonelywordmonger · 2 months ago

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In reverse order, my speech tends to be slow, and when I am especially struggling with my autism or even just my chronic fatigue/illness/pain, then my voice can become flatter. Although it is arguably already dulled in its tone.

I hate crashing out. After school as a kid, after going to a doctor's appointment, after being out for even an hour, or hanging with friends. It makes me feel useless and pathetic.

I have no idea about the gastrointestinal issues, but they are all probably connected because my ankylosing spondylitis and fibromyalgia also cause gastrointestinal issues.

The emotional regulation is beyond infuriating. Zero to sixty swings if something really rocks me. To feel emotions like a big and intense ball that builds and drops in your body or to feel the weight on your frontal lobe when depression waves peak. Or the tingle down your face and chest from someone shaming you and the burn in your eyes as your face tingles and numbs from shame. Or this one small part of my brain that sometimes itches when I have genuine flat-out fear or anxiety. To feel the sudden suppression of all positive feelings when I dissociate to somewhere not happy. It is obnoxious having such intense feelings and half the time not even being able to really name what you feel. Half of those emotion charts out there don't help because they are limited in expression when my emotion ball is complex.

Interoception can be a weird one for me. So I feel pain all the time. I am incredibly sensitive to pain. But often, I don't know if I am thirsty, hungry, or needing to pee or poop until right at the last second. Until I am rushing to the bathroom, my throat and mouth are dry, and my brain says, "need water," or my stomach finally growls, or I just feel sugar drop or hangriness set in. Yet, I am also incredibly sensitive to hot and cold temperatures. It makes about as much sense as my emotions half the time.

I have safe foods or food I gravitate towards or feel most comfortable eating. They aren't the best, but they hardly vary, and I usually know how my stomach responds to these foods. It can be frustrating and limiting and sometimes causes unnecessary anxiety, but I can't seem to help it much.

I have a trick for "looking into someone's eyes" where I look between their eyes. But to make it seem like I am not staring them down or trying to anyway, I also look under their eyes and above them. I've noticed non-autistic people blink and move their eyes quite a bit. And sometimes I even unfocus my eyes and look them directly into their eyes because it is fuzzy and easier to look. But I risk a lazy eye moment if I do that. Occasionally, I wander to their mouths and try to take in the whole face to see if I can read any emotions, vibes, or hidden languages. There are other social things I am hyperaware of, and it often never goes as planned, so I crack many jokes. I've been told I am charismatic which is a feat for someone who goes into social situations like they are preparing for battle. It really sucks when I focus too much on my strategies and then lose track of the conversation. Then I have to deploy the diversion tactics, which are monosyllabic answers until I can get back on track, LOL.

7 Lesser Known Autistic Experiences

Neurodivergent Lou

#autism #actually autistic #neurodiversity #my autistic experiences #autism is a spectrum

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likesomekindofcheese · 4 years ago

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Hii! Can I request a male marvel and harry potter (golden trio or marauders era please) ship/matchup if you’re still doing them?

I am 5’7”, cancer, Slytherin, ENTP, enneagram type 8, very thin body type (i got nothing😭) hecking pale, brown hair and red highlights, and hazel eyes that change color. My main traits are chaotic, sassy, sarcastic, dramatic, and according to people I know, mean af. I’m a straight female and a raging feminist. I am secretly touch-starved and a hopeless romantic. I am pretty social but love being alone to have time to myself for reading, writing, drawing, playing video games, and listening to music. Some of my worst traits are selfishness, stubbornness, and jealousy. Some of my good traits are my intelligence, logical thinking, creativity, and humor I guess. My strongest emotions are rage and excitement. I am Pagan/Wiccan and have an unhealthy obsession with collecting rocks and shells (and reading fanfics but let’s not worry about that🥴) I’m Moldovan and Romanian is my first language. I get like either no sleep or sleep until noon and I’m a big over-thinker and have anxiety. Believe me or not, but I can in fact see auras (if I concentrate but also sorta unfocus my eyes kinda; it’s weird) I’m a pretty chill person but if you anger or provoke me the only advice I have is to run🙂

Well that was a mess. I hope it was good enough, no rush!

Some sparkle for you✨✨✨

Oh lord!!! Let me send sparkles back!✨✨✨🥺

For Harry Potter, I can see you with Sirius Black!!

First of all, when he initially notices that you are in Slytherin and he is in Gryffindor, he is hesitant. You might be super attractive to him with your eyes with a magic of their own, your thing body that looked amazing in the robes and clothes you chose, and especially with your skin and hair, but he tried to resist it.

It was when he found you in the library listening to music somehow on a muggle device that curiosity got him.

But your chaos and sass as you got over the House rivalry deal made him fall. In one of your later years (this is a slow burn, I know), you sassed off a jerk doing something awful in the hallway. And that was the moment he decided he wanted to kiss you.

So one evening, he asked you out. And you had your first kiss as a couple on a winter’s evening, as the snow trickled down. You turned red and your breathing almost stopped. You were so unused to physical touch and you explained that to him. He understood.

Sirius would cuddle you all the time, holding your hand-just to make you smile. When you have trouble falling asleep, he will plop you on the couch and you will write and draw and cuddle until you snooze away.

When he finds out about the auras thing, he asks you about his. He then has you look at the auras for everyone else and he stands amazed. He brags about you to the Marauders and even they are shook (tm).

Plus even beyond school, both of you are the Chaotic, cute couple. You dress in silly costumes and laugh a lot. Even if you stay up late goofing off, he will still dance you around the room and kiss you like that love struck Gryffindor boy from years ago.

For Marvel, I thought of a couple guys, but my gut is telling who it should be and I trust it, for Marvel, I ship you with...

Loki Laufreyson!!! (however you spell that last name!)

hahahahha after that season finale he needs someone really nice to get with after he gets some therapy after those events hahhahahah hahahahha *distant crying*

Anyways, but both of you sound very similar. Plenty of chaos and sass in your personalities. When he comes up with a prank, you just...roll around with it. Then you go to him (if you are a Midguardian, let’s say you hang around the Avengers somehow and get to meet him through Thor) and go “hey...can you do this?” So you wind up becoming a prank duo.

But the thing that is different is that you don’t put up with his bullshit. He got an asshole idea, and the second you found out you pulled him out of it with a tug on the ear (you’re tall for a woman, but he is still pretty big next to you) and he goes “OW, what was that for?”

“Don’t you realize what this is doing?! Stop it, now!” you insist, and he does. Because he respects your anger and your strength.

And it struck him that he was moved. Moved by a mere mortal...and in fact, he keeps trying to be a better man, er, Frost giant/demi-god...because you make him want to be better. Cut to Thor finding a pile of self-help books on Asguard and his brother walking around with one in his nose.

But he is surprisingly sweet with your anxiety. When you have an attack when he’s around, he takes your hand and shushes you. He even uses a bit of magic to conjure something relaxing, like rain or the odd mug of tea.

Thor ships it too. So finally he sets you up by tossing his hands in the air when you are together and says “Loki, you love her, and she’s crazy about you-court already before I shove you both together, dammit!” (he was never one for subtlety) while pushing you two close as if to kiss or dance while you both blush. Publicly admitting your feelings with the god of thunder watching.

Although being a mortal dating a god had its odd challenges. Like, having him turn into a fly so your friends or family wouldn’t catch him in your room. Or dealing with Odin and Frigga at the dinner table. Both of you learned so much about the other’s lives that you could respect each other.

Plus, being a god and having access to knowledge around the world, he would be able to talk with you in Romanian. Calling you all sorts of sweet pet names like iubi or sufletel.

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louiseleblancdiggory · 5 years ago

Text

Once Upon a December

Chapter 1: A Song Someone Sings

A/N: I can’t believe that there are people that are actually interested in this... I hope it’s not a complete hot garbage. I had to change some aspects to fit all characters and their personalities but I hope you guys like it!

Prologue // chapter 2

---

“Are you fucking shitting me?”

The slap came only a few seconds later, stinging her left cheek and undoubtedly leaving a reddish mark. Shit shit shit.

Clarisse’s rule number one: no fucking swearing, especially at her.

It was one of the rules that mostly got Lin in trouble, causing the orphanage’s master to leave a series of bruises throughout her body during the ten years she lived in that hellhole. Minor swearings usually earned her slaps or pinches, and if she continued to say them afterwards, Lin would probably receive a full beating. It was absolutely miserable.

Until the year before, however, she wouldn’t be receiving those slaps alone. Until a year before, if Lin was swearing from the top of her lungs, Lysandra was definitely there with her, saying things just as filthy. Sometimes they would get caught, but sometimes not even Clarisse could find them when they sneaked off the orphanage to steal alcohol from the market and then went to a rooftop to drink their asses off.

Lysandra. Remembering her name, her existence was the only thing stopping Lin from finally lashing out against the orphanage’s master. She needed help and information that only Clarisse or Arobynn would possess, and she was smart enough to know that Clarisse would always be the better alternative.

Even if being pleasant to the woman who made her life hell for ten years made her blood boil.

“Pardon me, Clarisse. I wasn’t swearing at you, it’s just that you caught me by surprise.” It was an understatement. What Clarisse had said completely shattered her plans and hopes. Her throat tightened and her vision started to unfocus. Shit shit shit. “Could you repeat it? Please.”

“I could not care less why you did so.” She spat out, and one of the kids that was coming down the stairs took one glance at the two women standing by the door, at Clarisse’s tone and wisely went back up. “You are finally eighteen, you are not the orphanage’s problem anymore. Just as Lysandra has not been our problem for almost a year now. I will repeat what I have already said: Lysandra was taken to Inish a year ago, and as we do not keep tabs on the adopted children, we do not know if she is still there.”

Lin had to hold her snort and sarcastic remark. Adopted. Clarisse said adopted as if Lysandra had found a beautiful family to sit by the fire during Yulemas and drink hot cocoa, but both women knew for a fact that what had happened to Lysandra had been more of a buying than an adoption. Her blood only boiled hotter, her hand itching to hit the woman across the face.

“And what I said about the railroads and regular roads is true. Adarlan has cut off relations with Fenharrow and Melisande as a political strategy or something like that, I honestly do not care. They will most likely be opened again in a few weeks or months, but currently you are incapable of traveling straight from Rifthold to Inish. Crossing the border on your own is suicide and you will get caught, girl, so do not do anything stupid.” As Clarisse pronounced the last words, she opened the door and the fresh summer air swept in, causing Lin’s golden braid to whip around a bit. “This is my last warning and piece of advice. Now leave, you are not a child here anymore, Lin Sirota.”

Lin clenched her jaw, grabbing her little sack of belongings and walking right out of the door. She raised her chin as she passed Clarisse, and kept it raised as she crossed the orphanage’s iron gates, and kept it raised as she did not look back at the place that had treated her like shit for the entirety of her teenage years. But even as she felt the relief of finally leaving that place, of not being chained to Clarisse and Arobynn anymore, she could not help but feel the weight of her new life crushing her.

She was homeless. Poor, having only the money that should supposedly be used to buy one ticket to Inish. She had no connections, no family and nowhere to go.

-------------------------------

She went to the docks that same day. She went to the taverns in which she knew the riders would be. She went to the railroad offices. All answers had been the same: we do not want to risk Adarlan’s wrath by crossing the border to Fenharrow or Melisande, even for the money you are offering or because of your pretty face. In all three places, she put an extra effort into masquerading her accent. It was widely known that immigrants were not welcomed in Adarlan, especially in its capital. In all three places she put on smiles and adjusted her braids, hoping to look just like an innocent girl who needed a ride. Nothing worked.

Lin was tempted to start crying when she sat down in a bench just outside the railroad office. She used to do that a lot once she arrived in the orphanage. Lin had been eight, and terrified of her own shadow. She had cried when she realized that she could not remember anything from her past, all memories just a thick black canvas in her mind. She only knew she was from Terrasen due to her extremely heavy accent, which also pointed to the fact that she must have grown up in the northern part of the kingdom. It wasn’t unusual for kids of Terrasen to end up in orphanages after the kingdom was seized during a winter night. The memory loss, however, had been a rarity. The only moments that Lin got close to remembering anything was during her nightmares, but once she woke up all the information that the bad dreams contained just turned into ash. It was like being trapped into an iron box inside your own mind. Sometimes Lin would curse the new Terrasen’s conqueror, as if the new queen herself had put her in that coffin. Lin did not even know her real name, had just been given a commoners name and that had been that.

She could feel the thick tears swelling in her eyes, but she refused to let them drop. She hadn’t cried in a long while, and it would not help her right then. She needed to think and be smart. She needed a new plan, a new route and a way to get to Lysandra and save her the same way her friend had saved Lin ten years ago when she was drowning in fear and despair.

That had been two weeks ago.

Lin was now seated at the rooftop of a shabby old house by the central square in Orynth, taking a swig of cheap vodka. She had decided that since she could not go straight from Adarlan to Melisande, she would need to take the long way. Terrasen’s relations with Adarlan were stable enough that the borders hadn’t been closed, so instead of buying a ticket to Inish, she bough one to Orynth. The city had a series of extensive railroads, a particular one that would take you through the Wastes on the west side of the continent and then straight into Melisande. That’s the train she would need to catch once she gathered the absurd amount of money she would need to buy the ticket and food for the next weeks unless she wanted to starve.

She had gotten two copper coins today and a bottle of Terrasenian vodka, all stolen. She had to admit, it was a new low point even for her.

She watched the people come and go, all of them wearing clothes as shabby as the house she was on top of. Orynth, the City of Learning, had once been booming with life, a beacon to all of those who wished a better life. Its people lived in peace and harmony, and even the slums were better than some Adarlanian cities. Once the kingdom was conquered, however, everything had changed. The new queen had raised taxes so much that even most of the city’s elite became poor, and most of the population had to give up everything they had to not suffer under the queen’s wrath. Access to libraries and theaters was limited only for the new nobility and officials, very few merchants also allowed. There were curfews and censorship, laws prohibiting people from even speaking the name of the old rulers. A city that was once beautiful was now a ghost town, much like the rest of the kingdom.

Not that Lin would be able to know the difference between now and then. She did not remember ever being here, but she had read in books. Part of her wanted to wander around, maybe try to awake old memories in case she did indeed come from Orynth, but she decided against it. It must be an unimaginable pain to remember a beautiful past just to realize it had been ripped away from you.

A silver flash caught her eye. She looked up at one of the cathedral towers at the other side of the central square, narrowing her eyes at one of the windows where she had seen the movement. It was a darker shade of silver, so it couldn’t have been lightning or even a trick of light. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she felt an incessant pulse. She stared at the window for a few more minutes before shaking her head and rubbing her eyes. She was going insane. Running low on food and sleep and then getting drunk, she was probably on the edge of actual insanity and now her mind was playing tricks at her. Sighing, Lin slowly eased from the rooftop and into the colorless streets. She would need a place to stay tonight, especially if the summer rains in Orynth were as strong as people said they were.

Lin wandered around a bit, her eyes always involuntarily going back to the cathedral. She mindlessly walked all the way to the old castle. It seemed like it was once beautiful, all built from marble and quartz, the towers so high that it seemed that you could touch the clouds from there. But once the new queen decided to build her new castle with the money she tore from the people, this castle had been left alone, vacant. It looked more like a mausoleum than anything.

It could have been a crypt if not for the whimpers she heard coming from one of the sealed doors. Against her best judgment, Lin walked closer and closer to the castle, the pulse in the back of her head as strong as it had been when she looked at the cathedral. She should go back, find some alley to spend the night. She was currently drunk, alone and unarmed. She was a fucking walking target and she should know better. Maybe the whimpers weren’t even true, just another sign of her madness just like the silver flash.

Sighing, she stopped in front of the wood panel covering one of the doors. From up close, it looked more like a window that had probably been shattered and then covered with wood.

Lin was about to go back, snorting at herself when the wood panel moved and another whimper sounded. Maybe she was just imagining things again.

Although you are probably a godsdamned idiot, you are not that crazy yet.

Setting the bottle down, she approached the panel until she could glance around it. It was thicker than she imagined, and when she bent down to try to look inside the castle, something moved, brushing her fingers. Lin yelped and fell right on her ass, staring wide eyed at the dirty golden tail waggling. Only the tail was on the outside, as if the animal had been entering the castle the moment the wood panel closed again. She looked around, realizing that there were new screws and a hammer on the floor. Someone had purposefully let the little animal stuck. Had personally closed the wood panel again. Her blood was boiling and she was half tempted to hunt that person down and pin them to a wall with those same screws.

Instead, she grabbed the hammer and carefully opened the wood panel. Lin hoped there weren’t any screws directly into the animal’s— most likely a dog— tail. After what seemed an eternity, the lower part of the panel gave away and the dog sprinted forward, going deeper into the castle.

“Fuck. Wait! Hey puppy, come here. Let me check your tail to see if you’re hurt.” She called after the pup, grabbing the vodka bottle from the floor and half entering the castle in all fours. “Hey, come here!”

She groaned and entered a little bit more.

You are broke, drunk, most likely crazy and in the other side of the continent from your destination. What’s a little breaking and entering into an abandoned castle?

Grunting, Lin fully crawled into the castle.

If it looked like a mausoleum from the outside, it was worse on the inside. It wasn’t only the appearance, but the feeling. Everyone knew what had happened ten years ago, and it seemed as if death and despair decided to make this their home. Lin took a step forward, her boots sounding way too loud in the empty entrance. Tables had been turned, vases had been broken and sofas had been ripped apart. Trash littered the floors, and the only source of light was whatever could enter through the holes in the wood panels covering the windows and doors. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes and, despite the terrible condition of the castle, something eased in her chest.

Lin’s eyes snapped open when she heard the dog’s steps from another room in the palace. She started jogging after it, whistling in the hope that the dog would come in her direction. It led her up and down stairs, through corridors. The palace was a maze, and she navigated it as if she knew the way like she knew the palm of her hand.

She finally caught up with the dog when they entered a ballroom. The destruction in this room had been worse than in any other, and even as Lin bent down to pick up the puppy, her eyes could not leave the dance floor, the destroyed thrones, the blood stains in the walls and floor. No one had bothered to clean up, it seemed.

The pulse in the back of her mind became almost unbearable for a few seconds, until it was transformed into a lullaby that she knew in her heart she had heard before, even if she could not recall where. Her eyes became blurry, colors that were not there a minute ago appearing. It was like watching from inside a glass box splashed with oil paint. The colors were vivid, moving around in the rhythm of the lullaby that was so loud in her mind now that there could have been an orchestra by her side. The oil paint figures were dancing, she realized with awe. They were misty figures sweeping around a destroyed ballroom floor according to a song long forgotten by her.

It was like a real party, one that had happened so long ago that blurry memories were everything she could invoke when thinking of it, but the feeling of being home, the beating of her heart along with the music were reborn that moment.

She took a step forward, as if in a daze. As if she could go to the dance floor and sweep around with her eyes closed to the destruction and her mind providing the music. As if she could join those fake memories, go to a better place where she did not know pain of hunger or despair.

She might have done just that, if she hadn’t caught the movement of three figures from the left side of her eye. Immediately the colors disappeared, the lullaby becoming an incessant pulse once more. Her heart rate picked up, and she held the dog closer to her.

Lin turned to the three figures, all of them unbelievably tall, muscular and with their faces hidden by cloaks and shadows. She took a fighting stance, her eyes narrowing and cocking her head. She could swear one of them smiled.

“So what do we have here?” A male voice straight from Hellas’s realm spoke.

From behind her.

There are more.

Fucking stupid.

Shit shit shit.

I’m going to die.

It was all Lin could think as she hardened her grip on the cheap vodka bottle and swinged back, hitting the male behind her straight across the face. He and his companions-- the three she had first seen and other two flanking his side-- were shocked enough by her reaction that they froze.

Although her stupidity was obviously arguable, she certainly did not have a death wish, so instead of fighting her way out, Lin took their seconds of hesitation and used to her advantage.

She ran as if Hellas was trying to fucking murder her.

It took only seconds for them to recompose themselves before they started running after her. Lin tightened her grip on the dog who was thankfully quiet and obedient. If she got to the wood panel she came from, she could crawl out and they would still be inside. They were too big to follow her through that hole, even though she had the feeling that they could easily knock the wood panel down if they wished.

Please, Lin pleaded to Mala for the first time since she could remember, give me protection. Please, please, please.

The last please sounded inside her mind when she felt a hand around her elbow. She was instantly against a man’s chest, and then before she could blink she felt the cold floor against her back. All the air whooshed out of her, her grip on the bottle and dog faltering. The little pup got up and started growling in the direction of the five men now watching Lin, the one that had stopped her still behind her.

They were going to kill her, and then probably the dog.

At least she could take some comfort in knowing that it couldn’t get worse.

But then a deep male voice chuckled from the shadows behind her.

Tags:

@morganofthewildfire @alyx801 @ladywitchling @westofmoon @rolltide7

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ashintheairlikesnow · 5 years ago

Note

I was thinking, what if Jake accidentally triggered Chris? Like maybe Jake casually says something that sir would say when he was about to punish Chris. He’d probably feel so guilty.

So this isn’t exactly what you asked for, but it hits on another ask I received and is very similar! (sorry, other asker, I ended up losing your ask because Tumblr sucks)

CW: References to past whump involving a minor. PTSD/trauma response to stressful stimuli. Includes description of stimming including head banging. VERY vague references to past implied noncon.

Chris’s mind runs fast. Not as fast as his mouth, but that’s okay, he can mostly catch up to himself if he works at it. His mind runs fast but it also derails and crashes on tiny details when he’s trying to finish his chores, and he never had chores before he came to live here but he doesn’t mind them - it’s just hard to get them done when there keep being so many other things to look at.

He’s supposed to be cleaning the living room, and it takes Jake maybe half an hour to do this but Chris has been at it for nearly forty-five minutes, he thinks, maybe longer… and he’s still just trying to finish dusting all the shelves.

The thing is - the TV is on, because he likes the background noise, but words keep catching his attention, little phrases and bits of information his brain wants to add to the constant loop of his thoughts. Plus - plus, on top of the TV and the swirly letters he can’t read on all the books, and the way the throw pillows have kind of a cool texture - on top of all of that, there’s a chipmunk outside.

He knows it’s a chipmunk because Jake told him about how they chirp, which he didn’t know before he came here. Chris mostly didn’t know anything before he came here, but he’s learning, piece by piece.

The chirping keeps catching his attention, drawing him away, slowing him down. He’s no good at cleaning, he can’t think about it long enough, cleaning is too slow and too methodical for his brain. But he likes doing chores, because chores mean he belongs here.

He fluffs a throw pillow, then runs his fingertips over the rough braided texture right down the center, a change from the silky-touch feel of the sides. Silk, rough, silk, rough, silk, rough.

His eyes start to unfocus, go slightly blank.

Silk, rough, just like-

“How’s it going, Chris?” Nat calls from upstairs. She’s turning over all the mattresses and changing the sheets today, Antoni is with her, while Leila works on cleaning the bathroom upstairs and Jake’s down here, in the kitchen, just a few feet away.

“It’s, it’s, it’s it’s it’s good!” Chris calls back, jerking himself into motion, but he can hear the chipmunk outside still, calling and calling and calling. Is it missing someone?

Do I miss someone?

The thought breaks in, strange and uncertain, hardly his own. It’s plaintive, sad. It’s a thought that belongs to Baldur in the dark nights, and to the numbered boy before that in the flat white room. It’s not a thought that belongs to Chris, who stands next to the window and looks out into sunny day. It’s not a thought he wants.

So he ignores it.

Thoughts like that come with headaches that leave him shaking in the dark, and he’s very good at ignoring anything that might bring on the pain again.

He moves to clean around the windowsills, which - who ever heard of doing that, but it’s on the list she reads out to him, and he tries to remember everything. He’s getting better.

The chipmunk chirps outside the window, a kind of throat-swallow sound, and Chris finds himself echoing the noise, making a high-pitched eep-eep-eep sound. It doesn’t sound like the chipmunk at all, but the little animal goes silent outside when he does it, and Chris feels a thrill.

It understood I was trying to talk to it. Maybe it’s listening to me.

That’s a silly thought, and he tries to tell himself it’s stupid, but when he thinks awful things about himself he can kind of hear how Jake would respond if he said them out loud. You’re smart, Chris, you’re smarter than you think you are - you’re brilliant in there, we’re just bringing it back out. Don’t talk down about yourself. The way you think about yourself is how you think about the world.

Chris mostly loves the world, now. So he tries to love himself.

The chipmunk starts back up again, and Chris moves closer, a smile on his face. Slow, and careful, step by step, cleaning forgotten, he tilts his head and-… there it is. Tiny body no bigger than a mouse in a movie, reddish-brown with the black and white stripes across its head and down its back.

Jake says they have stripes like that because the things that eat them don’t see color like people do, and the stripes help them hide.

I wish I had stripes to help me hide.

But the thought doesn’t matter, because Chris doesn’t have to hide anymore. He puts that thought away, too. Lets it sink into the revolving mix of things going on inside his mind at any given moment. Right now it’s mostly the chipmunk.

His hand keeps moving with the rag in it, wiping back and forth across the windowsill, spraying the glass cleaner and wiping at that, too, but it’s half-hearted and he knows he’s leaving streaks. He just… can’t quite stop thinking about the little chipmunk he can just see, hardly a breath of an animal, sitting in Nat’s grass under the white birch tree in her front yard.

If you go to the tree you can peel strips of white and black bark away, easy as cake, like peeling away all his skin to find the real him underneath.

There’s a voice, behind him, from the TV. Smooth, genial, warm and slightly arrogant, the voice of someone who has total and perfect confidence in themselves.

Chris drops the glass cleaner, the plastic bottle bouncing off the floor. The chipmunk catches some hint of the sudden movement and takes off, disappearing in the blink of an eye.

“Of course, Deborah. But I don’t think it’s fair to remove this right that’s been enshrined in our laws since 1952 just because a few protesters get their, well, I won’t say it in polite company. But just because a few protesters are bothered, that’s no reason to get rid of an entire system that’s working just fine. We need to crack down on abuse, of course, and these nasty rumors about illegal acquisition - which, I know the head of WRU personally, I can tell you that’s all a bunch of nonsense-”

Chris’s constant running barrage of thoughts comes to a stuttering halt.

He turns slowly around, cleaning rag still clutched in his other hand, his heart somewhere trapped around his knees, to stare at the TV.

There’s a woman on the screen right now, with blonde hair shellacked in a kind of circle around her head, wearing bright red lipstick and a dress to match. She tilts her head at a practiced angle, and Chris unconsciously echoes the motion. His free hand twists, fingers twitching in a kind of dance, before they tap against his own side. Tap-tap-tap-tap, the motion soothing him, calming him, a rush of something pleasant that fights the fear.

“Of course, Governor Branch-”

“Oh, how do I love to hear myself called that, still,” The man replies. He sits back, the slight shine of the light off his hair makes Chris dizzy. He can almost smell the hair product that’s in it, can almost feel the smooth fabric of the suit Sir is wearing slipping through his fingers.

That’s the one he wore the night Miss Megan saved me.

“Speaking of illegal acquisitions, there’ve been persistent rumors surrounding WRU and its competing corporations about pet abuse, abductions, even minors being put into the system. What would you say o the protesters and pet liberation groups asking for better, more thorough investigations? Would you support the call for a Congressional investigation?””

Sir laughs - it’s a lovely laugh, pulling a smile onto the woman’s face, it’s a laugh Chris has dreams and nightmares about - and Chris lets out a choked-off sound.

Baldur, darling, you do know how to make a man laugh, don’t you?

His fingers twist faster, tap harder into his side. He steps away, stumbling gracelessly, until he can find a hard surface, the wall. He taps on it as fast as he can, a constant barrage of tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap, holding back the worst of the fear, keeping it at bay.

The rush of the sensation isn’t enough to beat back the fog in his mind. He’s buying time but not enough. He can hear Jake singing to himself in the kitchen, and his mouth opens to call, to say, that’s him, that’s my Sir, that’s him on TV, but no sound comes out.

Outside, the chipmunk starts chirping again.

Chris slides down to the floor, curling himself up into a ball, staring fixedly at the screen.

“Deborah, I have spoken to my good friend Timothy Rahm - current CEO of WRU, sorry, not all your viewers are going to know that, are they? - and he has assured me again and again that WRU has absolutely no minors in the system. They have strict physical examinations and quality control checks that ensure every single pet is of legal consenting age.”

Sir smiles, flash of bright white teeth. Chris thinks of whitening strips laid out in a little stray next to Sir’s sink. He had to look good for cameras. He does look good, in his suit with his tan and his sparkly amused eyes.

Darlin’, don’t look upset. You’re going to stay right here in the basement for the party, can’t have anyone getting too good a look, can we?

But, but, but but I don’t like the, the basement, Sir I don’t-

Baldur. You’ll stay in the basement. No arguments.

Yes, Sir.

Chris leans his head over, until it thumps into the wall. Briefly, he feels a burst of better, a wash of something like adrenaline, but soothing, calming. So he does it again. And again. And again.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

The chipmunk is silent, listening outside to the sound of Chris as his thoughts revolve and focus around the man on the TV.

He can’t hear what they’re saying any longer, he doesn’t try to. He lets the sound of Sir’s voice, melodic and warm, wash over and around him, but if he keeps thumping his head on the wall - if he keeps tapping, too, if he can just do both - he won’t let him in.

Get him to stop doing that thing with his hand, it’s annoying as hell. I don’t care how, tie his fucking hands down. Teach him not to do that anymore.

The voice wants to trickle under his skin, but a good thump - it’s not painful, it doesn’t hurt, it’s only a shake out of his freezing, it’s holding back the sounds that would hurt if they made it too far in - knocks it back out.

Not yours. Not yours. Not yours. Not yours.

He chants along with the thumps of his head, the taps of his fingers. He whispers without sound.

Better now. Better now. Better now. Better now.

His eyes go unfocused, and Sir is gone, but Chris can’t remember quite how to find his own way back. He doesn’t know how long he floats there, waiting. He doesn’t even know what he’s waiting for.

Someone crouches down in front of him and Chris flinches - no, no, he’s not supposed to touch the walls any longer, he has to stop or he’ll be in trouble again - only to feel Jake’s warm hands on his shoulders, up his neck, on either side of his face.

Jake’s smell, simple clean shower-smell, nothing like Sir’s heavy cologne. Jake smells like soap from the shower and fresh-cut grass from mowing the lawn this morning and the sun that shone in his hair when he did it, while Chris watched from inside.

“Chris?”

“I, I, I, I… I I I saw, I saw, I saw-”

Jake’s eyebrows furrow in concern, a hint of worry lines across his forehead. “What did you see, man? Can you tell me what you saw? Can you tell me what’s in your head right now?”

Sir isn’t on TV anymore. They’ve moved on to talk about something else. Chris swallows, looking up at Jake, then shoves himself forward to push into Jake’s chest, tap-tap-tapping on his side. Jake doesn’t stop him, Jake never ever stops him, he understands the tapping helps. Jake only puts one arm around him and holds him tightly, leaving the other down so Chris can tap, twist-fingers-tap-shirt, again and again.

The simple, clean rush of calm, bit by bit, building a wall to fight back the waves of awful things that want to dig under his skin.

“Chris, I need you to talk to me. What did you see? What happened?”

Chris closes his eyes, thinks of Sir’s smile, just like it always was. His laugh.

Thinks of being good in the dark.

“I saw a chipmunk,” Chris whispers. “Saw, I saw, there was a, a, a-a-a chipmunk, saw a chipmunk, saw-… then the TV, I-… on the, the TV on the tv there was, um, on the TV-”

“Okay. Okay, I know that wasn’t it, but… do you need me to turn off the TV? Would that help?”

Chris nods into Jake’s shirt, clutching hard onto the fabric, tapping his fingers. Hold it back, hold it back, push back the fear and the noise. “Heard, on the TV, I-I-I heard, I heard-”

“It’s okay. Look, I’m going to-… there, if I stretch I can just grab it-” Jake reaches out with his free hand, shakes the side table next to the couch until the remote drops off of it onto the floor within his reach. He turns off the TV and the sudden lack of sound fills the room with a new kind of weight. “No rush, buddy.” Jake squeezes Chris’s shoulders with one arm. “No rush to tell me. Take your time. You’re okay, you’re right here with us, this is Nat’s house. Nobody’s here but us, and we’re safe. I’ve got you, man.”

“You’ve, you’ve got me,” Chris whispers. He feels an urge to thump his head on Jake’s shoulder like he did on the wall, but manages not to. Only just. He can still hear Sir’s voice, like music that won’t stop playing, like when you get a song stuck in your head.

Sir would hate him wearing Jake’s big T-shirt, would hate the silky-mesh basketball shorts he wears all the time. Would hate his knobby knees sticking out from them, his sharp elbows that dig when he doesn’t mean them to. Sir hated his cold feet under the covers.

Jake doesn’t mind any of those things. Jake gives him the shirts he likes, and holds him, and doesn’t stop him from doing the things he has to do to keep his mind from running away too far for him to catch it. Sir was on the screen, but Jake has him here, and only one of those things is real.

Outside, a bit of bark peels away from the white birch tree in the wind, slowly revealing soft, easily-damaged wood the color of pale human skin underneath.

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strawberriestyles · 5 years ago

Text

Chapter 10

(Banner made by sweet sunshine @harry-nofookingway-styles)

Harry X OFC (AU)

Sequel to Brutality: In which Melody and Harry must relearn how to navigate one another among a flurry of changes.

Read previous parts here.

Author’s note: Hope y’all are doing well, taking care of yourselves, and continuing to fight the good fight. Here is a post containing links to petitions and donations regarding Yemen. Help out where you can. I love y’all so much. Xx

Harry made sure that Melody slept soundly the next few nights, but she moved as though she were still tired, haunted. He wondered if this was how she’d passed the months without him.

The bruise on her jaw yellowed quickly, but the split in her cheek took longer to begin knitting itself back together. She cleaned it twice a day and Harry dabbed ointment on it before bed. She no longer winced when he came into contact with the swollen skin at its edges.

Melody was staring out her bedroom window on Wednesday morning as she chewed toast, sitting wrapped back up in the sheets. Harry watched her eyes unfocus while he picked at one of Bea’s raspberry muffins—they weren’t half bad.

“Mel, yeh sure yeh’re all right?”

She glanced at him and took another bite of her food before she nodded.

“Yeah, I’m just trying to figure out if Vanessa has the morning shift today.”

“Why don’ yeh just ask her?”

“Right.” She reached for her phone and nearly flipped the plate holding the rest of her toast. Harry shook his head.

“Are yeh tired? Did yeh get enough sleep?”

“I slept fine.”

“Then wha’s wrong?”

Melody’s thumbs danced across her phone screen and she threw the device across the bed before shrugging. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Mel.” Harry placed the last few bites of his muffin on her plate and ran a hand down her spine. “C’mon now.” He watched as she began peeling apart the wedges of an orange and saw her fingers shake.

“I—” Melody cut herself off and bit into a piece of fruit, biding her time. She tugged restlessly at the edges of orange peel when she’d finished chewing. “I keep having these nightmares. And Colton’s in them.”

“I know, love.” Harry leaned in and pressed a kiss to her clothed shoulder. “What happened would give anyone nightmares. We’re okay, though. And—”

“No, it’s not just memories it’s—“ She drew in a long breath to prepare herself. She never talked about her nightmares. Not even with Bea, who had been the one to comfort her when Harry wasn’t here. But if anyone deserved an explanation, it was Harry. “There are two different dreams. The one I’ve been having ever since— Um, for months. It’s partly a memory. I’ve got your head in my lap and you’re bleeding, but I can’t move my hands, and I can’t scream, and the blood just keeps coming—“

“Melody,” Harry interrupted. Her voice was growing thicker, her words slurring together. He felt like there were pieces of him splintering in his chest the longer he listened, the more hysterical she became. “Stop it. Yeh’re freakin’ yourself out.”

She’d never talked to him about the day he was shot. He hadn’t known she’d been so close, had held him, thinking that he was dead or dying. His entire body ached when he thought about holding her like that, feeling helpless, void of hope. His eyes stung, and he hadn’t cried in years. He forced himself to blink away the pain.

“No, I need to tell you,” Melody insisted, choking on a sob. She didn’t pause before trundling on, afraid that she’d begin crying too hard to speak. "You keep bleeding and there’s so much that it starts to flood the room. I feel like I’m going to drown in it. And I still can’t move my hands, and I can’t get up, but somehow I can turn my head and the closet door is cracked open and Colton’s just standing there. Just watching.”

“He was still there?”

“No, not really. Just in the dream. He was gone by the time I found you.”

The space between them grew quiet. Melody’s lips were trembling, tears flowing freely down her cheeks.

“The other one just started. In that dream, I wake up in the middle of the night and you’re fine. You’re right here and you’re sleeping, but I look up and he’s just standing there again. He’s here. And then I can’t move again. I’m stuck. I just have to lay there until I wake up."

Melody sounded winded, but relieved to have spilled her nightmares. Harry watched her gasp in a steadying breath, swiping the back of her hand over her wet cheeks, and then lift another orange slice to her mouth. He could feel the muscles in her lower back twitching, as if she were winding up for a fight, or remembering the adrenaline that accompanied a good hit.

“He wouldn’ come here, love.”

“How do you know that?”

“Doubt he’s been within a hundred miles of us since April,” Harry assured her, “and he wouldn’ come back here just to find me. Or to find you. He doesn’ wanna go to prison, Mel, no matter how fucked up he is, and the cops have been looking for him for months. Yeh’re safe, okay? We’re both safe.”

Melody swallowed down her orange and the lump that had risen in her throat. She turned her head away from Harry so that he wouldn’t see the tears continuing to fill her eyes. She’d had enough vulnerability to last a lifetime just within the past few weeks.

“Nothin’s gonna happen to either of us,” Harry whispered, feathering kisses over the bared skin of her neck while he waited for her to respond. When she didn’t, he sighed against her hair. “Yeh haven’ been sleepin’? I didn’ think yeh were wakin’ up.”

“I have been sleeping,” Melody assured him, swiping viciously at a fallen tear before she turned to look out the window and let Harry see her face again. “I just feel like my sleep is more exhausting than actually being awake.”

“Maybe we should start druggin’ yeh.”

“Ha ha.”

Harry shifted until he had a clear view of her face, of her puffy eyes and gnawed lip. He tilted his head until he could touch his cheek to his shoulder. “‘M serious. Helped me sleep when I was younger. Could get rid o’ your dreams completely.”

Melody’s frown deepened. She shook her head and scooped up her plate, crawling over Harry’s outstretched legs. “No, I’m fine.”

“Mel, yeh’re tired.”

“I’m fine.”

He watched her shuffle out of the room and scratched at the prickly scruff that was beginning to shadow his jaw. He heard dishes clinking in the kitchen and cupboards being rifled through. Then there was a considerable silence before Melody reentered the room. She avoided his eyes as she chose clothes for the day.

“Hey.”

Melody paused and picked at her lower lip.

“Please, come here,” Harry murmured.

She stepped gingerly across the room until she stood beside the bed, and she looked reminiscent of a child about to be scolded. Harry’s fingers drew her closer by her thighs.

“Love, ‘s ridiculous for yeh to be embarrassed by somethin’ like a nightmare. Yeh think I’ve never had a fuckin’ nightmare?”

“I’m not embarrassed, Harry.”

“Then yeh would’ve told me already.”

She held her breath, formulating words that she didn’t make coherent enough to speak. Harry tugged her down to sit on the edge of the mattress. He thumbed the teeth marks in the corner of her lip and watched her eyes flutter closed.

“When,” he whispered, “did yeh start thinkin’ yeh couldn’ talk to me? Love it when yeh talk to me.” He felt Melody’s shaking fingertips graze his wrist as he kissed her. She drew in a staggered breath when he gave her another quick peck.

“Sorry.”

“Wish yeh were meaner.”

Melody laughed as she opened her eyes. Harry tugged on a lock of her hair and ran his tongue across his lips.

“All right, get dressed. ‘M not waitin’ around all day. Wheel myself all the way to the hospital if I have to.”

Melody sank her thumb into the space Harry’s dimple usually occupied. She leaned forward once more to plant a kiss of her own on his lips, to sigh against his chin.

“I love you,” she whispered. Then she set her feet back on the floor and went to get dressed.

***

“Is this a joke?” Aiden’s brow was furrowed, his hands frozen, outstretched. He was silent for a moment and then he let his arms fall back to his sides. “It’s gotta be a joke.”

“What?” Melody asked.

“What do you mean, what?” Aiden motioned incredulously toward Harry and then crossed his arms. “That.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Melody,” Aiden began, “I have never seen someone improve at this rate. This is how they make it look in movies. It’s not how it actually happens. Not in real life. Coma patients don’t just wake up after months and start walking this fast.”

“Yeah, well, he is an athlete.”

“And hard-headed.”

“Rock hard head, yes.”

Harry shuffled the last couple of steps to the end of the short track and then leaned his bodyweight into one of the sidebars. His nostrils flared with every breath, but his skin seemed to glow, sing. He was proud and Melody could tell. It radiated off of him like steam off of asphalt.

Aiden stepped forward to help Harry sit, but all he did was spin around and start walking back the way he had come. Melody watched his steps, so much more natural than they had been even a month ago. His toes no longer dragged across the floor, his knees bent at more extreme angles, his ankles rarely ever twisted. When he reached the beginning of the walkway, he paused for breath.

“Think you’re about ready for a cane, my man,” Aiden rewarded, stepping in front of him in case he was ready for a break.

“‘M not your man,” Harry corrected, “and yeh can keep your canes far away from me, yeh freak.”

Aiden snorted. Melody had never heard him make that noise before.

“Seriously, Aiden,” Harry continued. “‘M not walkin’ around with a cane. Who am I, Lucius Malfoy?”

Melody’s lips parted at his reference. “Harry Potter?”

“Yeah, yeh made me watch a few of ‘em.” Harry glanced at Melody and then looked quickly away. She seemed stunned. “Tha’s the one, right? Asshole with the elf?”

“Yeah.” Melody’s astonishment was cut short when she felt a sharp poke to her side. “Ow!”

“Oh, don’t be such a wimp. I thought you had to be tough for boxing.”

“Yeah, for boxing,” Melody snapped back, spinning on her heel to face Vanessa. “Not for nurses who can’t keep their hands to themselves.”

“Boohoo.”

The pair grinned peevishly at one another and then Vanessa lifted a finger to examine Melody’s cheek and her smile melted away. “Ouch,” she hissed. “I’d be surprised if that didn’t scar.”

“Don’t tell me that,” Melody bit back. “Tell me I’m pretty.”

“You are pretty. Especially with those designer bags under your eyes. What is going on?”

Melody glanced behind her to be sure Harry wasn’t eavesdropping. He was struggling to hold himself upright while Aiden stretched and rolled his ankles one at a time, and he didn’t seem aware that Vanessa was even in the room. Melody took a deep breath.

“It’s nightmares,” she blurted, spinning back around. “Horrible nightmares. And I wake up and it’s like I’m more tired than when I fell asleep. I’m an absolute mess.”

Vanessa’s lips screwed up into a grimace of pity. Her eyes softened. She glanced over Melody’s shoulder. “He doesn’t know?”

“No, he does. It’s just—he doesn’t know how bad. It’s almost every single time I close my eyes.”

“What brought these on?”

Melody had been trying to discern the answer to that question herself. And she still didn’t know. It wasn’t Harry—she’d slept like a rock for weeks after he’d left the hospital. And she couldn’t remember anything that might have triggered this. But she wanted it to stop.

“I don’t know.”

“Have you tried melatonin?”

Melody let out a quick lungful of air. Vanessa sounded just like Harry.

“No, and I’m not going to.”

“Okay, fair enough.”

Behind her, Melody could hear Harry’s weight settling into his wheelchair, could hear him rolling across the room to work on different exercises. She rubbed at the puffy, raw skin around her eyes.

“What about your art?” Vanessa asked after a brief lull. “Or writing?”

“What about it?”

“Well, do you think getting your nightmares out on paper would help?”

It was a good thought. But Melody hadn’t picked up a paintbrush or a pen in months. She’d barely even cracked open a book outside of the hospital. But if it might help her sleep, she would spill over a thousand pages, a thousand canvases. She would drown her darkest thoughts with ink.

“Maybe,” she said with a confident nod.

***

Melody scratched out an entire line and then clicked the end of her pen. The words felt scrambled in her head. Whether it was because she was tired, or because she hadn’t written in so long, or because she just couldn’t phrase her fears, she was unsure. Two abandoned canvases lay flat on the floor beside her. One was merely a shapeless, flesh-colored blob, the other was indiscernible beneath a splatter if frustrated black paint.

Harry appeared in the doorway, wobbling, trying to support his weight with the new cane he’d been gifted. He clung to the doorframe with his free hand as he examined the room. There seemed to be only one or two paintings that he didn’t recognize displayed on the walls, landscapes and empty rooms in muted blues and grays. The mysterious green eye that he’d seen when he first stepped foot in this apartment still hadn’t been hung up. It was leaned against the far wall where it had been on Melody’s birthday. A thin layer of dust coated her desk now, dulling the wood. The plant which sat on the desk’s shelf looked parched and withered. And Melody’s fingers twitched around her pen, her hair spilled into her face from the loose knot she’d tied it in, and her eyes blinked too slowly, as though each time she closed them they resisted opening.

“Mel,” Harry muttered. He could tell she heard him, but she didn’t turn her head. “Lay down an’ try to sleep.”

“It’s the middle of the day,” she protested.

“All the more reason. Maybe yeh’ll sleep better when ‘s light out.”

Melody was silent for a minute. Then she began to click her pen. “It’s too quiet.”

“I’ll turn a movie on. Yeh can sleep on the couch.” Her pen clicked twice more. “C’mon, love. My legs are gettin’ tired.”

Melody slid her things to the back of her desk and climbed out of her chair. Harry began the short trip to the couch, knuckles growing white around his cane. Melody was there to catch him when he stumbled over the edge of the rug.

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered beneath his breath.

“It’s fine.” She lowered him onto one of the cushions and sat down beside him as he dropped his cane. “It’s a process, Harry, you can’t be perfect.”

He grunted and she settled her cheek on his shoulder. Harry pressed a gentle kiss to her scalp. “Why don’t yeh lay down, love?” he suggested, plucking the remote from the arm of the sofa and turning on the TV.

Melody slid across the cushions until her head rested in Harry’s lap. She watched the screen change as he flipped through channels until he found a movie that he didn’t recognize. And then she felt his fingertips in her hair, brushing her ear, sliding along her neck. Of all the times Harry had touched her, so gently, so forcefully, so methodically, she had never felt him like this. This touch was thoughtless and casual, almost subconscious, and it made her very skin ache because it felt like an unexplored side of him. He was always so in his own head, sort of confused by the way he wanted to act around her and the way he felt like he should be acting. She could usually see the wheels working in his mind, but he didn’t seem confused now.

“Christ, I can feel your pulse,” he muttered, his fingertips stilling at the side of her throat. “Wha’s wrong?”

Queenie hopped out of thin air, a flurry of snow that sent newfound adrenaline pumping through Harry and Melody. The cat settled into the space between Melody’s knees and the back of the couch. Harry gave her a withering look.

“Nothing,” Melody eventually said, pressing her cheek more firmly into Harry's thigh. Already, she could feel her eyelids growing heavy, curtains prepared to fall. But she didn’t want to miss this moment, this unguarded glimpse of Harry.

“Then go to sleep, love. I’ll stay with yeh.”

Harry watched the movie that was on, though Melody wasn’t sure if he was absorbing any of it. As it was, she couldn’t keep track of the plot or the characters, but she felt Harry’s eyes fall to her every other minute. His hands continued to slip through her hair and tickle at her shoulders. And she didn’t feel herself slipping out of consciousness, she just fell without warning.

Chapter 11

#harry styles #harry styles writing #harry styles blurb #harry styles drabble #harry styles x ofc #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles au #boxer!harry #boxer!au #harry styles ferocity

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shih-coulda-had-it · 4 years ago

Note

74 ,96

74 (Huddling for Warmth) & 96 (Scars) | [Nanahiko]

Timing their investigation into All for One’s operations in Hokkaido for winter?

Absolutely terrible idea all around. Who suggested that?

Nana hauled Sorahiko from the river with her arms locked around his waist, teeth gritted against the biting chill. He shivered violently and clutched at Nana for support in standing upright. She did not have the opportunity to stop moving and marvel at the wintry landscape, or break down and punch the frozen earth to reveal their mole.

It was paramount that she get them to the rented cabin. The closest hospital or clinic was at least three hours away on foot, and Nana didn’t trust herself behind the wheel in these conditions.

She made a note to send Chiyo a gift basket; being forced to study the emergency first-aid scenarios was turning out to be more helpful than anticipated.

With brisk efficiency, Nana made it to the crest of the floodplain. Sorahiko couldn’t get a comprehensible word out yet, but at least he seemed aware of their surroundings; Nana didn’t even struggle on the way to the cabin.

“In we go,” she said with forced cheerfulness, wrenching the door open and dragging her ice-cube of a best friend inside.

It was a two-bedroom, one bath affair, with the living room, kitchen, and genkan all in one place. There wasn’t much in terms of furniture, but there was a fireplace with a working chimney, so Nana couldn’t complain too much.

She flicked the switch. It remained dark.

“B-b-blackout?”

“Eh,” said Nana, flicking the switch repeatedly, as though increased force would spark the power back to life. The fireplace was the safety net. Nana knew how to light a fire, but she would rather have the electric lights humming away with the generator warming the space. “Eh-h-h-h-h.”

“Nana,” Sorahiko said piteously.

“I know,” she soothed. “Keep moving, okay? And try and take off your gloves and cape. I’m going to get the fire started, and I’ll help with the rest of your gear.”

He made a small agreeable noise and slowly, painfully shed his cape. Nana removed her own boots and gloves, then staggered over to the fireplace and peered at the stacked bundle of wood, the firestarter, the poker—aha, she thought, grabbing the handheld lighter.

Sorahiko grumbled to himself as he wrestled with his gloves. Nana parsed out a few words, like, ‘stupid’ and ‘freezing’ and a fervent ‘I hate Hokkaido’ that was muttered under his breath several times over. It was a strange relief to hear him mouthing off; it was a weight off her shoulders, seeing the little flame catch onto its fuel and burst into life.

“Ha!” Nana cheered, and left it to burn, turning around in time to catch Sorahiko crumpling against her.

“Fire,” he cheered into her collarbone. She maneuvered him flat on his back onto the wooden floor, as close to the fire as she dared, and started peeling Sorahiko out of his gear.

It was like peeling shrimp. Like parting the sausage meat from its casing. Like picking out a ripe tangerine and jamming a thumb into its core, thinking that it would be an easy snack, except the thin skin hadn’t yet separated from the flesh, so time was devoted to scrabbling the peel off.

Nana was hungry.

“We’re gonna make a nest,” she relayed to Sorahiko. “All the sheets and blankets and pillows, just for you to burrow yourself into. And then in the morning, we’re going to get hot tea and miso soup and a train ticket straight home.”

“Hot springs,” he said.

“Hot springs,” Nana echoed, a few seconds late. “Yes. Hot springs. You… you wanted to visit the hot springs?”

“Stress relief.”

“That makes sense.” Two gloves off. The boots, surprisingly, went easier. He was lucky that water couldn’t leak through the soles; they were lucky, she supposed, given that Nana probably would have panicked and shoved his feet in the fire to melt potential icicles. In any case, it unnerved Nana to see his bare hands and feet.

The belt was a little fiddly, but Nana’s dexterity was nothing to scoff at. What finally made her pause was, well, the whole jumpsuit.

“I need you to roll over.”

He rolled over.

Nana exhaled sharply and committed: she unzipped the suit from the neck all the way down to the small of his back, her eyes drawn to the slope of his spine and the contracting of muscles as unmarked flesh was exposed to air.

Sorahiko didn’t scar easily. Where the history of his injuries remained, they tended to be on the front.

“You’ve got underwear on, right?” she said, aiming for levity. “Skin-to-skin contact is supposed to be the most reliable route to getting warm again, but I think we’ll be blurring boundaries if your junk meets my junk bare. Which it wouldn’t, because I have a sports bra and underwear on.”

Sorahiko groaned into the floor. Not an especially sexy groan, just one of resignation.

“That better be a yes.”

“I’m wearing boxer-briefs,” he said to the fire. “Please get the blankets.”

“Right!” She got to her feet and bolted for the bedrooms. It took two trips, bundling pillows into blankets and sheets from each bedroom and then lugging it all to the central area. The first return, Nana caught Sorahiko wiggling his way out of the suit, legs sticking in the air as he shoved the rubber composite past his thighs.

After laughing at his plight, Nana retrieved the rest of their building materials and tomorrow’s clothes. They situated the nest a meter away from the fireplace. First the thin sheets were stretched out, then a comforter, then a half-ring of pillows, and as Sorahiko nestled in under the second comforter, Nana tossed their clothes in too.

“You know,” she said, “it’s a good thing that water doesn’t actually soak into our jumpsuits. We’d be in the danger zone of hypothermia if that was a thing.”

“I’m lucky my head didn’t get submerged,” he responded, his voice muffled. Only the top of his fluffy silver hair was visible.

“It would be pretty tough getting in bed with you, if you had the sniffles.”

Sorahiko peeked over the comforter, pale eyes following her step everywhere except the nest. She hadn’t joined him yet because she had the presence of mind to gather their gear and leave it in a pile by the genkan.

Also, because Nana needed to muster the willpower to slide under the covers and face the possibility of clinging to him like a barnacle for the rest of the evening. She shifted her weight from side to side. Goosebumps were rising, and not just because of the cold.

“If you press your cold feet to my shins, I will scream,” Sorahiko threatened.

“Pot, kettle,” she said, and Nana crawled under the covers. It was not the pocket of warmth she’d been anticipating; she scooted further in until she bumped into Sorahiko, and at that point, she sprawled on top of him like a sea star.

“Feet!”

“Deal with it!”

A great deal of squirming ensued. The result of the scuffle still had Nana’s chest pressed against his, their legs tangled, and his hands loosely holding her by the waist. So overall, Nana was pleased, and she luxuriated in the unspoken victory.

Sleep, however, was not coming as easily.

As steady as their breathing was, Nana knew Sorahiko was awake. She tried to unfocus; she could do nothing more about their situation. All that was left was to rest and wait for the morning.

The fire crackled. Sorahiko shifted beneath her, and finally Nana propped herself up, hands folded under her chin, eyes tracing the angles of Sorahiko’s face, softened by their flickering light.

“Did you know,” she said, “I forgot we had some matching scars.”

“First and only time I stayed on the ground for close-combat,” he responded. “Yours healed up better than mine.”

“My abs are made of steel.” The familiar boast elicited a familiar laugh, one that rumbled pleasantly through Nana’s bones.

“What’s that make me?”

“Some softer metal,” she teased. “Gold? How do you feel about gold?”

“Gaudy,” Sorahiko pronounced, but his hands tightened at her waist. “Also, way too valuable. Downgrade me to something cheaper. People still use tin, right?”

“Tin,” Nana echoed. “Like, a tin-man.”

He squinted past his beaky nose at her, rightfully suspicious. “... Yes?”

“Does that make Dorothy me or Toshinori?” Over the sound of his splutter, Nana continued, “Do you need some oil for your rusted joints? Oh! Are you looking for a heart?”

“Tin doesn’t rust,” Sorahiko said, ignoring her last remark.

“It’s about the continuity, Sorahiko.”

“And you’d be the Cowardly Lion. Toshinori’s the kid who keeps landing himself in messes.”

“The Cowardly Lion?” she protested. “What!”

She could see him smirking. “Go to sleep now,” he said, his eyes deliberately snapping shut and his body easing the tension away. “Nighty-night.”

Nana huffed, but relented. It wasn’t that grave of an insult, to be labeled as the Cowardly Lion; she vaguely remembered Dorothy’s friends as wanting things (or wanting to be things) they already were. The brainless Scarecrow was already smart, the Tin Man was already empathetic, and the Cowardly Lion was already brave.

So! Sorahiko had given her a compliment! It was just like Sorahiko to deliver one that sounded like an insult.

Rebelliously, she turned her head, resting her ear right over his steadily thumping heart.

“You don’t need to look for a heart,” she mumbled, snuggling as close as possible, despite their bodies having reached an optimal temperature already. Nana needed to say it out loud, because Sorahiko was simply terrible at reading between the lines when it came to this. “You’ve got mine now.”

#bnha #nanahiko #shimura nana #gran torino #torino sorahiko #shih.txt #asks #anon #sorry this got back late! I’ve been... vegetating

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gwessing · 5 years ago

Note

i know what those words mean separately, but the moment i try to read them together my eyes unfocus and i feel blind

So the lazytown kinnie drama. I was in this groupchat with a group of fellow robbie rotten kinnies. I was also friend with this person who kinned sportacus (specifically a version of sportacus from an old play version of the show). I was shown this icelandic musical about fish by the sportacus kin. I joked about one of the fish being hot. Later found out that the sportacus kinnie was talking shit about me behind my back to my friend from the Robbie Rotten Group Chat. I got INCREDIBLY upset cause i have a past with people doing shit like that, decided to call them out for backstabbing me.

But then a plottwist happened, one of the friends of the sportacus kinnie, some 13 year old got involved. They started attacking me and my friend who told me, along with everyone i was in that groupchat is. Specifically accusing my friend about not being actually abused and that was my friend was terrible for telling me about being talked shit on behind my back. This kid then proceeded to doxx me, find out about where i live and info on my mother sending me threatening messages. Also making a full on hate blog accusing me of being a terf. It got so bad that I ended up deleting the blog I was on then and remaking under the blog I have now.

Its something i find quite funny since it was years ago now, but still incredibly fucked considering it started over me calling a guy dressed as a fish hot

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h-sleepingirl · 6 years ago

Text

Scenes from a Hypnotic NEEHU10 (feat. MrDream)

((I don't usually put CW on these but there is just a lot of likening the sexy things to evil abusive stuff which is super good for me but may not be good for you. YMMV.))

Scrolling up and down our chat logs from the whole weekend, eerily quiet, so much just “where are you” or “I’m heading over”. I can tell where the evenings were, early hours of the morning, threads of me typing novels to him about how hot our play is, how much I miss him already despite the fact that I will see him when we wake up.

Then Monday morning, getting ready to meet at the after-munch, we’re both eating yogurt in our separate places, and I get a “Thinking about your pussy” and I remember tossing the phone down almost like it physically hurt me, and the distance feels like it’s widening back to 100 miles.

We were so on when we were on together. We were rockstars. There were so many wonderful people that we met and taught to, and I’m thrilled by the thought that some of them met us as sleepingirl-and-MrDream, partners who meshed effortlessly together and made sparks fly.

I went in to this NEEHU as I try to go in to all events when I’m going to see him -- as sexually frustrated as possible. I hadn’t masturbated for a couple of weeks, which is a feat for me, and was taking its toll. A week before the con, I had a dream about masturbating, and it just felt so good in the dream that I couldn’t stop, but as I started to reach the point of no return, I remembered my ultimate goal and despaired, unable to stop but completely shutting down, ruining my orgasm into something feeble and unsatisfying, and waking up.

A day before the con, I had another one that went exactly the same way.

Needless to say, I was excited to see him.

And he was excited to see me, too. When I arrive at the hotel room with him and his partner, it feels so good and right, and it doesn’t take too long before our giggling conversations turn, and his finger taps me square in the forehead.

Teaching and demoing in so many classes with him is such a treat. The 101 goes smoothly and after that is the fractionation class I am demoing for. I remember looking up at him, transfixed as he talks about Vogt, bringing out large graphs to show his hypothetical patterns of up and down. That sense of being so proud of him as my partner, as a teacher.

The room is packed and I feel like a peahen, fluffed and all pretty as he drops me deep down then up and talks to me about what I was experiencing. I answer as best as I can, and then he says I am going to go really deep, and it is just as simple as that.

When he brings me up and asks what I felt the differences were, I try to be as objective as possible, but as sometimes happens with me and deep trance, there is a hole in my memory. I am a little surprised at how pronounced it is, and so quickly into the class.

Shortly after, he takes me quickly and deep and leaves me there, profoundly gone, and my sluggish mind begins to wander as I am just left as a fixture of a pretty, deep girl to admire while he teaches.

My dreaming mind conjures up fantasies of him, whispers of control, him turning around and fucking me up right here, or later how he'd make me feel completely helpless with trance and manipulative words…

The demos get more intense as the class goes on. I am responding instantly, and it is so gratifying that everyone is getting to see how impressive we are together. We have nearly two hours, and we use all of it.

It is good. It is really, really good.

But there is an itch, something that feels missing from our dynamic.

It’s hit upon in the Inductions and Intimacy class, which we did at Charmed as well -- and indeed, he plays with the memory of that, using the crystal I gave him then to torture me sweetly with my own emotions. Each demo is powerful, sexy in its own way.

The control bubbled up quickly, a moment where I truly felt like the audience was an afterthought.

“It smiles,” he says to me, and instantly, my mouth turns up into a grin while the rest of me wrestles with it and almost panics at my own responsiveness and the humiliation of this particular thing.

I’m so focused on him, so desperately not wanting to look at the class, not wanting them to see my distress.

“It is excited,” he says, lowly.

Heat and arousal flares up inside of me, still with that awful smile plastered on my face, and my body stiffens, shakes.

He freezes me with my own responses, and I’m a trapped, horny doll, frozen and on display.

He uses his finger to finally tilt my head towards the audience, and there is nothing I can do about it -- not even my eyes can move to look around or close and hide. I am not at peace, but I can’t do anything but start surrendering to it.

“If that’s not porn, I don’t know what is,” he says.

I hear murmured agreement from the class.

“I want you to be mean,” I say, lamely. I am not used to asking for what I want with him, but I need it. “Like, really mean. You know…”

“You don't think I was being mean during the classes?” he asks.

“I mean, yeah, you were being mean, but not like…” I shift my eyes down. “Evil.”

“Oh,” he says, grinning. “You don't want that hypnosis shit. You want mind control.”

My chest tightens. Yeah, maybe that’s it.

“Yeah,” he says, answering for me. “OK. Let's go find a space.”

We set up chairs in the main dungeon and I sit across from him. I am having a hard time looking at him, but all of his attention is focused on me, and he only has to raise his finger in front of my face for me to unfocus completely, hypnotized.

He's talking about how it's different when we're alone, and it is, it is exactly what I've been feeling; I love being a preening demo bottom plaything but I miss being an emotionally abused, brainwashed victim --

“I mean, you forgot things during the fractionation class,” he says, heated, like a warning, like a suggestion, like a fact, “and you will never remember them.”

My world spins with how bad that is, given so much power by my unwavering belief in my own weakness to him, ultimately harmless, but a tease of something that could be truly awful.

It's exactly the helplessness I crave, exactly the evil I’ve needed since I was a little girl.

Sunday night, back at the hotel, socializing and having a little bit of partying.

We’re getting to be more on, getting to do these drive-bys where the room can see.

My eyes already fluttering is such a tricky time to pull out his pocket watch; I’m helpless to the way that it swings in front of me, even though every part of me wants to resist the trope that I’m so weak to.

I drop deep as he brings it up and over my head, rolling my eyes back manually.

As I stand, swaying, I can feel him start swinging the watch again, between my breasts, gently hitting each one in a methodical pattern, making them tingle... I’m hit with how humiliating it is, that I already see an inanimate, mundane thing as a sex object, and now that I’m literally having it stimulate me --

It’s too much, but it feels so good and I am so deep that I just stand there, hypnotized.

When he wakes me, I hide my face and whine, turned on, looking around guiltily.

“That was awful,” I say miserably, predictably.

“Mm-hmm,” he agrees.

Finally, we walk into the bedroom, just the two of us, and take off our shoes, wrap ourselves in one another on the bed.

“Oh, fuck,” I whisper, holding him, both emotional and needy.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, and touches my forehead, blanking me out.

Even like this, heating up, there is a difference in tone. There is no audience. There is no teaching. There is just me and him, and I feel like we can finally let go and be as terrible as we are together.

He exerts control with no effort, saying as he often does that it takes nothing for him, that it's so easy, that he can just say things on whatever whim he's feeling and they just happen to me. My fucked up brain just keeps grasping, chanting “yes”, pouring itself into his hands.

He ruins me and shames me and I throw myself into it, just going deeper, just getting more mindfucked, losing more of my sense of self.

“You were leading that discussion, and you were getting turned on by all the risks,” he says, confidentially, not a question, lilting to a mocking tone. “They would say something; oh, not remembering what you were like before; oh, dependency and loss of identity, and you were like, ‘I want it, I need it…’”

My body is shaking, twisted up against him, moaning, deep.

“You are so desperate for me to control you,” he says darkly, to my fluttering eyes and slack jaw, “that you are ruining your fucking orgasms in your sleep because you want to cum with my name on your lips.”

I make an unconscious, pained, choked noise and feel everything tighten at the horrible truth of it: how far gone I am, how sexually dependent.

How wrong and how raw, and how much I truly need it.

“Even when you are completely gone,” he says, “even when there is nothing left of you and you are so empty, this is still there. This need.”

He is right. I can never escape this core sexual part of me, the need to have my mind taken away.

“‘Take it away, take it away,’” he says to my hypnotized, silent body, imitating my desperate tone, reading my mind more acutely than he has ever done.

He turns me into a girl who wandered into a hotel room with a strange man, helpless on the bed. Being molested. I am tranced beyond belief and so turned on by his hands running over my breasts, touching me like I'm a sex toy, murmuring to keep me subdued.

Talking to me about how under the influence I am, drugged, not knowing what I'm drugged with, Rohypnol, something else. My eyes have been rolled up for so long, and I can feel it pumping through my veins on each word, each suggestion of what it might be.

He lifts one of my hands, and that's the kick for me, because I am completely and utterly limp, unable to make my brain connect with that arm if I tried. It flops easily down on the bed as he drops it.

The shift of the bed as he gets up, socked footsteps on the carpet. Camera shutter sounds. I can't do anything. He opens my mouth. More clicking.

I am not me, but a fucked sense of relief floods through nevertheless -- I'll have this, I'll see this later.

He removes even this identity, leaving me a blank, horny slate, completely new. Barely a person, more just a collection of responses. A very verbal collection of responses -- to him.

“My -- my -- I need, oh, please, I need it,” I am saying, pressing my body up against his, shamelessly. I don’t know who I am, but I know who he is, or rather, I know what he represents, I know his name, I know who he is to me in this moment. “Please touch me, please, I can’t explain to you -- I don’t know --”

His hands run down the length of my body, down my sides, groping and touching, humming as he lets me babble.

“Oh -- oh…”

His fingers are dipping under my panties, and the touch is a more rare, sexual one, and my legs part submissively… A finger slides against my pussy, and he and I feel it at the exact same time -- I am so, so wet --

“Oh,” he says, a sort of low, satisfied moan, and I squeal, breaking.

“You did this,” I moan, accusing, adoring, exalting, exasperated: “You did this -- it was you, it’s you, it’s all for you, this is for you --”

I feel pitiful and broken, ineffectual in everything and anything.

He takes what I give him.

@hypnokinkwithmrdream

#my writing #hypnosis #hypnokink #neehu #neehu10 #FUCK THOUGH #DO YOU EVEN UNDERSTAND

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