#its like lifting a rock up and finding a screaming sobbing shaking animal underneath

[panicbones]

i miss my meds for one day and have an absolute mental breakdown. the stress demons my meds keep at bay and make me seem calm and normal are incredible

[kgraces]

Any Other Canvas

@badthingshappenbingo

Bad Things Happen Bingo Prompt: Cold-Blooded Torture

For @iwhumpyou

Read it on Ao3 here!

Who is Jason Todd?

He is: the Red Hood, a merciless crime lord, one of the world’s best marksmen, a dead man walking, a skilled assassin, a former street rat, cold-blooded, the son of Bruce Wayne, no one’s son, Batman’s greatest failure, poisoned by the Lazarus Pit, partially insane, lethal. 

Robin. 

More importantly, Jason Todd is alive. 

Tim isn’t sure if it’s the waters of the Pit crawling through his veins, or if his anger is truly this potent, but Jason stalks closer with murderous intent, nonetheless. His hands shake; he feels the fury directed toward him as a bone-crushing weight against his chest, and his heart beats like a bird’s fluttering wings in a frantic rhythm. 

“Hello little cuckoo bird,” Jason says, and his voice is a low, soft growl through the voice modulators in his helmet. He snarls, and it sounds like a feral animal is clawing against his rib cage—a predator crooning at its prey. Tim stiffens, eyes going wide behind the domino mask. He’s done research on the Red Hood, even been shuttled off to San Francisco to keep him as far away as possible, but seeing him in person—knowing it’s Jason underneath that helmet—and hearing the darkness in his tone is jarring.  

“Jason,” Tim says warily. He backs up half a step, muscles tensing when Jason follows him. “Why are you here?” He has a few guesses, but stalling might give him enough time to come up with a plan. 

“You’re wearing a death shroud, Replacement, and that’s an invitation,” Jason replies, voice soft and almost condescending. “One I intend to respond to in kind.” 

Tim is alone in the Tower, and the comms are down. A sickening dread creeps through him, but he ignores the feeling to focus on finding a way out. Tim reaches for his bo staff, readying himself for a fight. Jason surprises him, though, by drawing a gun and shooting him in the thigh before he can even react. Tim lets out a shout, using the staff to keep himself upright. He can’t see Jason’s expression under the helmet, but the laugh rumbling from his chest is chilling. 

Tim’s mind blanks, plans deserting him as he switches into a primal fight-or-flight mode. He chooses flight, crippled as he is by the injury to his leg. He stumbles a little, shaking off the pain as best he can, and runs toward the stairwell. If he can reach his room, he might be able to get a distress call out with his personal panic button. He falters at the first step, leg shrieking at him, but Tim grits his teeth and glances around, frantic. He can hear heavy footsteps behind him—close, too close.  

It’s fine. He can do this.

Tim leaps, grabbing onto the rail of the landing directly across from him. He clambers up and over the railing. The door to the stairwell opens, and his breath hitches. Tim bolts down the stairs as quickly as he can with a bullet still lodged in his thigh. He hears mechanized laughter behind him, and a jolt of fear runs through his bones. Tim pushes himself to go faster. He’s almost at the bottom of the stairs now. If he can just make it to the door....

He stumbles again, falling down the last flight. He hears the snap before he feels the burn in his wrist, and he can’t stop the cry of pain. Tim picks himself up off the floor and hobbles to the door, but before he can open it, a heavy boot kicks him in the back. The bo staff clatters to the ground, and Tim crumples again. He rolls onto his side to see Jason looming over him. 

Jason picks him up by the collar and drags him out of the stairwell, heading for the training room. Tim tries to lash out at him, but with one good arm against enforced body armor, he’s fighting a losing battle. Jason drops him at the mats and digs his heel into the wound on Tim’s leg, laughing again when Tim has to visibly bite back a shout. 

“Don’t worry Replacement,” Jason coos. “I won’t kill you.” 

The next moment, he draws a knife from his belt, and the terror returns. He’s not going to kill Tim, but Jason’s certainly not going to leave him alone until he’s bled enough. Jason leans down and cuts the R off of Tim’s uniform. He holds the scrap of fabric in his hand for a long moment before shaking his head and tossing it to the floor. The knife descends again, carving not into the tunic but rather Tim’s skin, tracing the outline of Robin’s insignia, right over Tim’s heart.

He doesn’t scream, but it’s a near thing. He blinks up at the impassive red helmet, shuddering, and Jason pauses for a moment. Tim doesn’t bother hoping he’s decided to stop, and he’s proven right when Jason merely reaches up and removes the helmet, tossing it to the floor with a loud clatter. He removes his domino mask, too, just so Tim can see just how much he’s enjoying this. Then, he kneels down and tears off Tim’s mask, for good measure. 

Jason traces the knife around Tim’s eyes, outlining the mask. He drags it down, over his cheek and jaw, to press against his throat. Jason smiles at the sight of the scar he’d left the last time he slit Tim’s throat. He applies just enough pressure to draw blood, and Tim fights back a wince. He draws the knife away from Tim’s skin, smiling still, and then, he stabs him in the shoulder, twisting the blade. Tim does scream, this time, blinking back hot tears at the blinding pain. 

Jason leans back on his heels and laughs.

He pulls the knife out and wipes the blood off on Tim’s tunic before he places it back in his belt. Moments later, he has two other knives, serrated and wicked-looking, and he pins down Tim’s right arm with an iron grip, clutching the broken wrist so tightly he can feel the bones grind together. He only has a moment to wonder what Jason’s going to do next before one of the blades stabs through his hand, pinning it to the floor. He repeats the same process with Tim’s left hand, leaving Tim feeling like a butterfly encased in glass. 

His breathing is shallow and too fast, and Jason’s leering at him with sick glee in his eyes. Jason hums, studying his handiwork, and after a moment, he reaches for another weapon. This time, it’s Tim’s own bo staff. A tear slides down Tim’s cheek, and Jason rests his free hand on Tim’s face, gently thumbing it away. Tim hates himself for leaning into the touch. Jason’s hand drifts to his hair, pushing the dark, sweaty locks out of his eyes and combing his fingers through the strands. Tim’s eyes flutter shut, a confusing mix of comfort and horror swirling in his stomach. 

The bo staff cracks down against his collarbone, and Tim screams. The next swing hits his fingers, then his left knee, the fingers on his other hand, his right ankle. Tim sobs hard, trying to keep his crying as quiet as he can. He doesn’t want to give Jason the satisfaction of breaking him, but everything hurts, and he just wants it to stop. His ribs crack, and the scream is cut off by a harsh wheeze.

He must lose time, because the next moment he’s aware of, the knife is back. Tim turns his face away and catches sight of his staff on the ground, bloodied, a dark crimson. He whimpers as the tip of the knife digs into his broken collarbone. Jason cuts a path down Tim’s arm, a swirling pattern which could’ve been beautiful on any other canvas. Tim’s broken sobs have petered out into soft whines and hitched breaths. 

Jason uses his fists, next.

His torso will be a patchwork of bruises, yellows and greens and dark purples, if Tim does actually survive this ordeal. He has his doubts, at this point. Those hands wrap around his throat, constricting his airway until he sees black spots at the edges of his vision. Jason lets him go right when Tim is on the brink of passing out. Tim coughs, throat feeling like it’s been scrubbed with sandpaper after the screaming and strangling.

“Please,” he manages to croak. It’s a pathetic sound, but it’s all he can muster. “Jason, please stop. Please I-I can’t. It hurts.” He dissolves into tears, sobs painful against his broken ribs and raw throat. “I’ll do anything, Jason, please. Just stop hurting me.” He blinks up at the former Robin, tears falling freely.

“Begging?” Jason murmurs. “I’d expected better from you, Replacement.” 

“J-just kill me. Make it stop.” Tim lets out a wounded noise as he shifts, aggravating the injuries he has all over his body. “Please make it stop hurting.”

That seems to catch Jason’s attention. His eyes flare a darker green, and Tim flinches instinctively. 

“I’m not going to kill you,” Jason snarls. “No more dead birds. Got it?” Tim lifts his head, crying still but feeling a spark of defiance flicker to life. He lets it grow into a roaring flame before he opens his mouth.

“Does that make you feel better about yourself? It’s the only difference between you and your namesake, Red Hood.” Jason stumbles back, eyes wide. He opens his mouth, expression twisting into something Tim can’t place. He doesn’t have enough time to puzzle it out before everything goes dark.

Tim wakes up—and isn’t that a surprise?—in the medbay. Everything hurts, but he’s able to crack open an eye without further injuring himself, so that’s a win. He hears a soft gasp to his left, and he manages to tilt his head to the side. His vision is a little blurry still, but he recognizes his brother sitting at his bedside.

Dick’s eyes are red, with dark shadows pooling underneath them and a haunted look trapped in his irises. Tim offers him a weak smile, and the one he gets in return is watery. 

“Hi there Timmy,” Dick says softly. He cards a hand through Tim’s hair. “How’re you feeling?”

“Decidedly not great,” Tim rasps, sounding like he’s gargled with sharp rocks. He cringes at the sound of his own voice. “Where’s Jason?”

“Here,” a familiar voice says. Tim blinks and turns his head to look across from him. Jason sits in a chair directly opposite the bed, head in his hands. He’s wearing new clothes, Tim notes. His old outfit had definitely been much bloodier. “I...wanted to make sure you woke up.”

“I thought you would’ve left me there,” Tim mutters. Jason looks up, stricken.

“I was planning on it, but...shit Tim, I’m no better than him. I don’t want to be like that. You—-you’re just a kid.”

“You knew that the whole time,” Tim says coolly. “When did it start to matter?”

“When you said it,” Jason replies, voice dropping to a near whisper. “It made it real. I saw myself, crawling across that warehouse floor, but I knew at least I had hope someone would come for me. You were begging me to kill you, and the look in your eyes, I—” He shakes his head, like he’s shaking off the bad memories. “It snapped me out of it.”

“So he called me,” Dick says, gently breaking off Jason’s train of thought. “He’d already gotten you patched up by the time I got here, but he wanted to make sure you had someone you’d feel safe with when you woke up.” 

“Oh,” Tim says. “I...I’m glad I’ll at least have seen you one last time.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Robin.” His voice is a pained croak, and it’s not entirely because of the bruises wrapping around his throat. “Robin belongs to Jason, and besides, I’ve failed, right?”

“Tim, no.” Dick hushes him gently. He strokes Tim’s hair again, smiling so sadly at him it must hurt. “You won’t ever have Robin taken away from you. Not until you choose to move on, okay?” 

“I can’t take it back, anyways,” Jason says with a self-deprecating laugh. “Not with the blood on my hands. Not with your blood on my hands. I’m sorry. I know it doesn’t make any of this better, but it’s true.”

“Do you want to make things better?” Tim asks. He feels the heavy pull of unconsciousness clawing at the back of his mind, but he pushes it back. This isn’t something he can afford to pass out before he says. Jason nods, expression solemn and so very hurt. His eyes seem less green. 

“I don’t think I can, Tim.”

“You can,” Tim argues stubbornly. Dick’s hand in his hair is making him drowsy, but he pushes through. “I’ll ask you again. Do you want to make things better?”

“More than anything.”

“Then come home.”

[whump-town]

In The Woods Somewhere

Warning: country shit, you know? they kill a coyote...

this is just one long ass metaphor so...

Her scream pierces the warmth of the late autumn afternoon. Above her lazy ravens ascend to the sky, puffing little irritated calls to one another as they move away from the screeching child. At the commotion, the woods themselves seem to shift, annoyed with the agony-laced sound. Old tree branches splintering and the soft, unsatisfied chatter of life deep within.

She is seven, standing where the branches reach with hungry fingers out to her. Where her father tells her their property ends. The threat of what happens to curious children who trespass in the woods hums deeply in her veins. She’s drawn to the memory of the boy they found in the river last summer and standing around the campfire. Leaning into her father’s leg as he told stories about the beasts deep in the woods. Murderous, lustful things that will take carelessly. Going on even when her mother had hummed disapprovingly warning him with the simple mumble of his first name.

He’d turned to her hushed and high on the same adrenaline bucking her knees out from underneath her body. Foxes and Coyotes, he’d told her, they deceive the woods for what they truly are. “Smaller than what you think,” Roy whispered, smiling as she pressed closer. Curious but afraid, seeking his warmth as much as his comfort but begging for more. “Look like a wolf, you’ve seen a wolf haven’t you? Coyotes look an awful lot like them but brown and they’re ravenous little bastards.” There’s an intelligent glint to their eyes, unmistakable and haunting. It’s easier to conceive nature as consuming and destroying. But it’s simply untrue and to find yourself standing face-to-face with it is a daunting, demeaning task. To see in nature’s eye your own insignificance.

She hadn’t understood that word, ravenous, but had heard her father shout out into the field something about bastards before to know it was not good. He’d never meant it as any sort of compliment. He’d taken her hand a few nights later, guided her out to the porch, and held her skinny body against him. Shushed her when she’d tried to ask him what they were doing, trusting him blindly as a child does, but fearful of the depths of the night spread out before her. The clear sky above their heads hidden by the roof so she’d held him a little tighter. Heart pounding in her chest.

The first sounds just like a dog, her head swivels to identify exactly where it’s coming from. The second is shrill, sends a shiver down her spine and her fingers tighten on Roy’s shirt. It makes the hairs on her body stand tall, rocking her thin limbs in shivers. More erupt, some sounding so close she fears the creatures the sound emits from could snap and grasp her in its jaw from here.

“Coyotes,” her father rumbles, she can hear the smile in his voice.

They howl on and off, their presence so near. Feverish, she can feel it and knows there’s an untold but not inherently unused threat in animals that lurk just past the extension of the porch steps.

Despite the rolling cool air of September washing over Virginia, Haley is out in the backyard letting the sweater her mother had tucked around her fall off her shoulders. Jessica’s old overalls too short for her long legs, making them perfect for afternoons spent rummaging about in the dirt and grass. Her bare feet stomping against the cool grass as she runs, eager to just be. To feel the wind snap against her cheeks and the plush grass give under her feet.

Something rattles on the far edge of the yard, too far for her to see from where she is. It makes her pulse jump, but not pound as it does now in her little chest. A bird caged between ribs, beating its wings against her insides to make her stomach tighten with apprehension. It does not sing out, does not warn her of the danger she encroaches upon.

When she finds the live, snarling and snapping, creature ensnared in the fence but she’s not sure what it is. The sounds it makes, teeth barred but all mixed signals as it puts weight on its injured side and whimpers softly. Only to meet her every cautious move with a throaty growl but her curiosity is piqued and her ability to perceive the threat is diminished by it.

The animal, the size of a dog, snaps at her. Barring stark white teeth, sharp canines, covered in its own blood. It hunches low, pulled up on its front legs enough to distract her from the bangled sight of its left hind leg. To pretend to be every bit of a threat that it might be if not wounded. It moves too much and she cries out again, flinching when it whimpers as it falls limply back to the ground. Struggling to pull itself back up. The animal stills, laying on its side and heaving deep breathes.

That’s when she sees the blood.

She screams, oblivious to the ravens that take to the sky, black against the oranges of the sunset.

She’s played along this fence a thousand times, knows to not mess with it. The barbed wire won’t hurt her, Roy had struggled to explain this but she’d understood, in the end, that if she messed with it unnecessarily it could. Its intent is to keep the cows in the neighbor’s yard from wandering into theirs. She’d watched the cows brush up against the edges, scratching themselves against the edges that would tear through her pale, thin skin.

She’d touched the edges and, while they’re not inherently blade-like, she’d still marveled at how sharp they are. That was the end of it. But now she looks at the wounded animal at her mercy, succumbing to its fate be whatever it is. Sees the wire fence wrapped around the animal’s leg. The serrated flesh caused by the barbs and where the animal had been half-successful in chewing through its leg.

“Haley!” Roy runs to her, pulling her away from the animal but her eyes stay glued to it. The way it struggles to lift itself up to snap at the new threat, to bare its teeth and present itself as something it most certainly is not. Roy sighs when he speaks, placing his hands on his hips and shaking his head at the sight. “Nosing around where you shouldn’t have been,” Roy mumbles to it. He turns back to Haley, running the palm of his hand through his hair. “It’s just a coyote,” he explains, glancing back when the wounded animal falls back to the ground with a tired, pitiful snort.

“It’s hurt,” she says. She’s watching flies land on its back, moving over the blood. The wound is infected and the leg is useless. She knows what happens to lame animals. Feels the bird within her chest shake, beating against her lungs until they ache. “What are you going to do to it?” she asks but she already knows. Wild things aren’t tamed. They snip and bite no matter how you love them. She knows seeing the pink of the bones peeking through blood matted fur what her father will do but she’s blinded. She’s hopeful for this creature. Thinks of her kind father and the gentle way he bandages her wounds and knows he can save it. He can if he’ll only try

“Go back to the house,” Roy instructs

Haley shakes, “no.”

Roy turns around, caught off guard by the sudden conviction from his youngest daughter. The child that seems to follow him so blindly, her loyalty so deep it often scares him. But he remembers being her age, remembers looking at his father with that same look. Having curated this idea that he could save the world. It’s amazing to be on the receiving end of but it’s always a matter of time before every child learns the truth. That their fathers are just men. Horrible, awful men and feels a little light in him die. “Look away, Haley.”

She sees him reach for his belt, the belt he keeps on him while working outside. The only thing separating them from the creatures in the woods. She runs. Her feet hit the Earth hard and fast, screaming for her mother. Begging someone to see reason.

When the hammer strikes she falls as if the bullet has been lodged into her spine. Tears sting her eyes, pouring down her cheeks in rage, as she pulls herself back up. Her mother steps out onto the porch and Haley throws herself into her arms, sobbing and choking around the story. Missing details and so angry, so broken that he hadn’t even tried. Her father hadn’t even tried to help the coyote.

Her mother holds her, soothes her tears and they sit in the kitchen. Her sobs dissipating until she’s just hiccupping, face buried in her mother’s smooth skin. “Why didn’t he help the coyote?” she asks. Mothers always seem to hold the secrets of fathers and Haley knows this is no exception.

Her mother rubs her back, “sometimes, baby, no amount of help in the world can save something lost. Sometimes the only thing you can do is… mercy.” Her mother presses a kiss to her head, “daddy was showing the coyote mercy, Haley. That was compassionate. That was all he could do.”

She’d seen the blood on her father’s hands after he returned. Watched from the safe cocoon of her mother’s arms as he’d come in the kitchen door, letting it bang and clatter shut. “Daddy?” she hiccups. She presses closer to her mother, drowning out the memory of the snarl and hiss of the coyote with the sweet scents of her mother. Hoping the squeeze of her mother’s arms around her shaking body wrings her dry of the animal. “What did you do to him?”

Roy washes his hands, carefully working the blood off his skin and grunting to communicate he’s heard Haley but isn’t ready to respond. He doesn’t face his wife and child until he’s clean of it, the blood washed from his hands and from the sink. He dries his arms off slowly, taking his time to gather his response. Settling the back of his hips against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest, he looks at his daughter. Sees the tear tracks drying on her cheeks and that look in her eyes. He knows all too well the importance that will be placed on his next few words, sees the glint of a core memory forming.

She’ll base worth and sense off his next words.

He crouches down in front of her, taking one of her soft, small hands in his own. “What comes from the woods, must be returned.” All things must be returned. It’s why people are buried or singed to ash, to be turned back into the Earth. The way that Roy had dragged that Coyote as deep into the woods, as far he dared. Such is the way of nature, all things that are taken must be compensated for, and with his fingers curled into the cool main of that limp coyote, Roy had thought of his too curious daughter. Of the way she’d find herself back to that mangled heap of twisted fencing, staring at the animal's congealed blood. The curdled darkened crimson left on the cleared dirt. How long until she searched further? Sought to find better answers to questions she can’t form coherently with her tongue, little legs driving her to the trees.

They always talk back, the trees, and Roy had known what they’d say. Knew they’d beckoned her into their depths. He’d taken from the woods and they would take from him. With a sigh, Roy places the worn skin of his palm on Haley’s pale cheek. “I took him home,” he whispers. “Even wild things have homes.”

She’s fourteen when she meets a boy who moves like the coyotes that trot through the yard. The ones her father shakes his head at and tells her must be sick, they shouldn’t be out in the light like this. That familiar glint in his eyes, the impulsivity of what comes next is unknown to both but his shoulders flex. Long thin limbs waiting for her to move first, to establish if he’ll run or fight. Not the sort to turn his back to her. He’s looking at the crosshairs aimed at his chest and he knows any sudden movement will be his last.

She’s fourteen and found another wild creature she’s convinced she can change.

Sees that pink marrow, the dark crimson pooling and weaving through the tall grass. The fencing wrapped tightly around his lame limb, his dark eyes looking back at her and waiting to find what she’ll do next. If she’ll cut him free, withstanding his snarled bites until he falls limp with exhaustion and defeat. Heaving those panting breaths. She’ll wrap him in a blanket and drag him home. Shush his whimpers while she bandages his wounds.

She should have done what her father had and put a bullet in his head while it was still soon enough to call it mercy. Dragged his tired, broken body to the woods. Do as her father had instructed all those years before and return him to the woods. To his home because that is not her.

She’s seventeen, screaming for her father. Another mangled thing bleeding out in the field in their backyard, propped up against that old fencing. His blood soaks into the neck of his t-shirt, the material hardening, as he sits there panting. She’d seen him coming, his tall figure working its way through the woods. From her bedroom window, she’d waved at him, getting up to go greet him. When she runs out onto the porch she throws the light on, her beaming smile dying as she’d searched for him.

Roy tears through his backyard for his daughter trying to find the danger his mind buzzes with. He’s not surprised to find Aaron cradled to her chest, face a swell of wounds.

“What do I do?” she asks. She’s too old, knows better than to ask him to handle the matter. She knows what he does to wounded things and she knows he sees Aaron for what he is. He’s beyond saving but that’s a lesson she’ll have to learn on her own. That he’s no different than the coyote, in this very field, that had chewed through its skin. It would have taken its own leg off to escape the fence. How far into the woods would it have made it? On three legs, losing blood, and fighting an infection. How long until infection won out? Until something bigger, something stronger clamped teeth to its neck. Mercy. Not for the hunt but mercy.

Her father and Aaron lock eyes, just as that old coyote had before her father shot it. They share a wordless conversation and Roy turns away, taking with him that coveted mercy.

She’s too innocent.

She’s too hopeful.

There is no mercy in her love and she drags his aching, dying body up to her room. Looks past the infection set into his heart and corrupting his mind. She sees life in something dying so painfully slow, unable or unwilling to see desperation.

She brushes the back of his fingers against Aaron’s nose, watches his lips twitch as he slips into a fitful sleep. Lips falling and jaw relaxing under her touch until his breath ghosts over her cheek. He inches closer, making soft little noises. Wounded, punched sounds as he searches for something in his sleep. Finding it in her, wrapping his arms over her hips and pressing his face closer to her own.

She feels him relax in her hold and closes her eyes.

She’s taken something from the woods, knows this thing that aches so openly against her breast is not hers to have. It is simply a matter of time before the woods call him back. Before he slithers back to his tree and she’s left with the bitter mouthful of their actions. A sweet thing to undertake but soured as they lay with it.

He’s a wild thing she thinks she can tame. She can file down his teeth but it’ll be too late when he hurts her. He’s too big and she’s small and you just can’t change a man like him. He’s going to hurt her, kill her, and by the time he realizes what he’s done, it’ll be too late.

[sprnklersplashes]

I Can Be Your Hero (1/?)

To most people, Emma Snow is an assistant at West Co and the adopted daughter of Ingrid Snow. But in secret, she is the sole survivor of the planet Storybrooke, destroyed by an evil queen, sent to Earth for her own protection. Thanks to the Earth's yellow sun, she gains extraordinary powers and becomes the superhero The Swan.

AO3

The sky had turned from green to black with fire-red streaks running through from the bombs being dropped from the sky, which shook the ground each time they struck. The citadel in the heart of the capital was almost untouched; Regina and her Knights seemed to be working their way inwards from the outskirts of the city. Emmarae could hardly hear anything over the pounding in her own ears as she attempted to tighten her grip on her mother’s hand while she and her parents sped towards their home in an attempt to reach their escape pods.

No one had suspected her attack. Her parents had been scanning the sky for months and there had never been any sign of Regina’s ships and they had started to assume that Regina wouldn’t’ attack at all. That is, until today when her previously cloaked ships had revealed themselves and started bombing their major cities before moving on to the towns. Emmarae could see the flames lick higher in the distance and imagined the screaming that she would have heard if it weren’t for the sounds of the ships above them.

Emmarae’s father pushed open the metal white doors to their mansion and pulled her and her mother inside. She rested against the wall for a moment and allowed the cool metal to calm her. The walls shook as another bomb dropped and she jumped away from them, into her mother’s arms, who gave her a soft smile.

“Not long now, Emmarae,” she whispered. They ran down the hall and down a flight of stairs Emmarae had never noticed before. It got darker and darker as they descended; the orange-lit stairwell turning to almost pitch darkness. Her only comfort was her mother’s warm grip in one hand the feeling of the wall, which had stopped being metal and become a rough stone that cut into her skin, underneath the other.

Then a door opened and she found herself in a narrow room, lit slightly with dull blue lights. The family stood in single file on a platform next to a track that contained a single silver escape pod. Emmarae looked at it in confusion; there was no way her parents would fit inside.

“How will we all fit in there?” she asked. She looked up at her parents and saw the heartbreak on their faces.

“Emmarae you have to escape alone,” her father whispered.

“No!” she shouted. She grasped her mother’s jacket as tears made her way down her face, shaking her whole body. “I won’t leave without you.”

“Em, you have to.” Her mother bent down to look her in the eye, linking her fingers with hers. “My darling I wish we could go too but we can’t. There’s only one escape pod and you have to take it.”

“I won’t-  I can’t live without you!”

“Emmarae, you are so strong,” her father told her. “And so brave and resourceful. You will be okay. You’ll survive without us.”

“I won’t! I won’t survive without you!”

“Emmarae, please,” her mother begged, crying now. “You have to survive. You have to make sure our family and our house and our planet survives. You have to live.”

“I don’t want to live without you. Either of you.” Her mother pulled her into a hug which her father joined.

“I know, my girl,” her father sighed. “But it’s the only way you will live. When you were born we vowed to do whatever it would take to help you live and to be happy.”

Emmarae closed her eyes. She knew that when she was born her parents made special vows and meant each one with all their hearts. She knew how much they wanted her to leave, how much they must have put into building this place, the escape pod, in order to save her. If she didn’t go, her parents’ vows would be in vain.

“I’ll do it,” she agreed in a small, broken voice. With sadness on her face, her mother kissed her forehead.

“You’ll be sent to a planet called Earth. It has roughly the same make up as Storybrooke but with a yellow sun. And because of its yellow sun you will do wonderful things.  You will fly and have colossal strength and so much more.”  She took a necklace off and placed it in her hand. “This necklace will contain all the information you need on earth.”

Emmarae was unable to speak. She flung her arms around her mother again and then assed her and rushed to her father.

“I love you. I love you both so so so so much,” she sobbed. Another explosion shook the building.

“Emmarae you have to go,” her father cried. She refused to let go of him and so he lifted her up and placed her in the pod. “You’ll sleep most of the way. And we’ll be with you in your dreams.” Emma nodded. The glass was pulled over her.

A sense of immediate panic took over her. She pounded on the glass as she watched her parents take their final looks at her.

Realising it was useless, she settled back in the seat, looking at them out of the corner of her eye as she began to drift off.

She was running through the fields outside the city with her parents. Her father picks her up and spins her around, calling her his precious darling girl. Her mother tells him to stop being so sappy as she takes lunch out of her basket. Emma laughs and runs farther down the hill. As far as her eyes can see there is fields of all shades of orange and red and yellow. The wind picks her hair up off her shoulders and she spreads her arms so that she feels like she’s flying. Her parents laugh in the background.

She is happy.

                                                   *****

Ingird had urged Elsa to stay indoors after the earthquake moments ago that shook her house and yet here she was, sneaking out of the house via her bedroom window, onto the shed roof and out the back gate, at 10 o’clock at night. But she knew it wasn’t just an earthquake. Something had happened before; an asteroid or something passed her window, but it was closer than an asteroid should have been. And she had heard it and it sounded….. like an engine. And meteors are not meant to sound like engines.

She crept out into the woods just a few steps from her house where she had seen whatever it was flying. She could smell something like car exhaust fumes in the air. She wandered through the woods a while longer, shivering in the cold air, before spotting some kind of marks in the dirt in her torchlight. They looked like skid marks. Elsa did the one thing any sane human being would do; she followed them.

“No way,” she muttered in amazement, nearly dropping her torch. ‘Spaceship’ was the first thing that came to mind.  It was huge, and silver with black streaks she assumed was a result of the crash landing. Smoke was rising up from it. She could just about make out windows, which were cracked. She crept around, marvelling at the sight in front of her.

Until she heard soft whimpering some from the other side.

Without a second thought, Elsa ran round to the other side of the ship to see what was happening. She found a girl sitting against it, maybe thirteen, a year younger than herself. She was clutching her knees tightly and rocking back and forth with a fearful look in her eye, muttering something Elsa couldn’t quite make out. Elsa’s mind raced and she thought about going to ask Ingrid for help.

Instead she crouched down a few feet from her, placing her torch gently on the ground and putting both hands in the air.

“Hi,” she said in a soft voice, like she was approaching a startled animal. The girl didn’t move. When Elsa took a step closer, she jerked to life, screaming wildly and scurrying away from her. “Please, please don’t it’s okay! I won’t hurt you!” The girl kept screaming, her eyes wide as she looked around frantically. “Who are you? Where are your parents?” Those were the words that finally got her attention.

“My parents?” she choked. Elsa could see her mind working. Her face crumpled and she curled tightly into herself. “My parents are gone.”

“Gone?” Elsa looked around. There was no other signs of life.

She started to panic. She was out in the middle of the woods and it was dark and freezing and Ingrid was going to kill her and this girl was clearly freaking out. She had gone back to rocking on her heels, muttering something she couldn’t quite understand.

“Why don’t you come home with me?” Elsa asked softly. The girl’s terrified eyes lifted up to her. “My aunt won’t mind. We can help you find your family.”

“You can’t find them,” she replied. “They’re gone. When I said gone I meant-”

“Dead?” The girl flinched at the word. “Come home with me anyway. We could help you.” Elsa reached out her hand and the girl pulled back. “Please? Don’t make me leave you out here all alone.”

The girl stared at Elsa’s outstretched hand for a very long time, breathing heavily with tears spilling down her cheeks. She lifted her hand and hesitated.

“Don’t be afraid.” The girl reached up and wrapped her hand around Elsa’s. Elsa smiled, lifted her to her feet and half carried her home.

                                                                                               *****

“Elsa!” Ingrid came flying out of the house, her face both furious and relieve. She didn’t even seem to notice the other girl as she pulled Elsa into her arms. She choked back a sob and she ran her fingers through her hair. “Elsa when I checked your room and you were gone, I had no idea what to think!”

“I know, it was dumb and I shouldn’t have gone out,” Elsa muttered into Ingrid’s woollen sweater. Ingrid pulled back and dried the tears on her face.

“Elsa you almost gave me a heart attack!” Elsa’s face began to crumple now. “I told you not to go outside.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Um….” Elsa’s younger sister Anna looked out from around Ingrid and shone her torch on the girl, who flinched back again. “Who is that?”

“I found her in the woods,” Elsa whispered. Her cheeks started to go red as she didn’t want to talk about the girl as if she wasn’t there. “She’s lost her family.”

“You found her in the woods?” Ingrid echoed.

“She was….. well it’s a long story. But we need to help her,” Elsa insisted. “Please, Ingrid.”

Ingrid nodded and took a few small steps towards the girl. She started taking in quick deep breaths and stepped closer to Elsa.

“It’s okay,” Ingrid assured her. “I won’t hurt you.” The girl looked to Elsa of all people. Elsa gave her a quick nod. “Would you like to come home with us?” The girl nodded quickly. Ingrid took her sweater off and handed it to her. She smiled and put it on. “Let’s take you home sweetie.”

                                                        *****

The Earth woman, who had introduced herself as Ingrid on the way home, lived in a small home quite close to the woods. The main room had a large red sofa covered with a seemingly handmade blanket in many different colours and some pillows. Ingrid guided her to it and sat her down, rubbing her hands up and down her arms, smiling at her.

The older, light haired girl, the one who found her, handed her a cup full of some hot liquid. It tasted sweet.

“Are you all right?” Ingrid asked. She could only nod. “Can you tell us anything about what happened? About your family.”

She closed her eyes as tears stung them again. She could still feel her parents hugging her goodbye, see their faces as they watched her leave.

“It’s a long story.” Was all she could say.

“We won’t judge,” the dark haired younger girl promised. “I mean we’re not a typical family either.”

“It’s really complicated. You can’t understand.”

“Maybe not,” Ingrid whispered. “But we can try. Why don’t we start by introducing ourselves and explaining our situation? The older girl, who found you, her name is Elsa. And that’s Anna. They’re my nieces. They came to live with me after they lost their parents. Maybe they’re not so different from you.”

Emmarae just burst into tears. How could she possibly tell these people that she was from another planet?

“Please don’t cry,” Anna said. “It’ll be okay. We can help.”

Maybe Anna had a point. These people had been kind enough to take her in.

“I’m not from around here……” she began slowly.

“Where are you from?” Anna asked.

“I’m from….. I’m not….. I’m from a different…… planet.”

Elsa, Anna and Ingrid looked at one another. Their gazes practically screamed “this girl is insane”.

“Please, just hear me out,” Emmarae begged. “My home planet, Storybrooke, was under attack and my parents put me in an escape pod to flee from it to keep me safe. Elsa that’s where you found me.” Elsa shifted uncomfortably.

“Elsa?”

“I did find her in a ship,” she confessed. “Like an airplane.”

“See?” Emmarae said. “And I was sent here so I would be safe from the destruction of my planet.”

“How can you be an alien if you look human?” Anna asked.

“I don’t look human. You look Storybrooke,” she replied, attempting not to take offense. “Look I know it sounds crazy but I promise I’m not making this up.”

“I believe you,” Ingrid said. Elsa and Anna exchanged confused glances. “Elsa, Anna can you give us a minute?” The two looked at each other once more but obeyed, Elsa stopping on the way out to give Emmarae a sympathetic look.

“You believe me?” she asked in awe.

“I do, sweetheart. Ever since I was a young woman I’ve studied extra-terrestrial life.”

“You studied aliens? Is that your job?”

“No, no. It’s more of a hobby. But I do believe you. No one could make up such a story.” Ingrid pushed her hair away from her face and tightened her jumper around her shoulders. “Plus your clothes don’t help you to blend in.” For the first time that day, Emmarae smiled. “I know that you don’t have anyone. But if you want, you can stay here.”

“I can?” Despite the happiness, she started crying again.

“Of course. And I know I’m not your mother, sweetheart. And nothing can replace what you lost. But we can try.”

“I’d like that.”

Later, Emmarae was being given a tour of the house by Elsa and Anna. It was decided that she would share Elsa’s room and Anna could move into another room.

“I can move into the other room if you prefer to share,” Emmarae insisted. “I don’t want to put you out of your bedroom.”

“Its fine. It means I can have a bit of privacy for once.”

“And I don’t have to put up with Anna in the morning anymore.”  Anna continued to lift some things off her bed; soft replicas of animals and discarded clothes.

“Hey, whats your name?” she asked. Elsa looked somewhat embarrassed but she didn’t mind.

“Emmarae Nolwin of Storybrooke,” she replied.

“Okay well, if you’re going to fit in on Earth, you may need to change your name,” Anna told her.

“She’s right. You’ll have to pass for human.” Emmarae hadn’t thought of that.

“What about Emma?” Anna suggested.

“Is that a common name?” she asked. Elsa nodded.

“Ingrid, Elsa, Anna, Emma,” she said. “It fits.” Emma. She liked how it was a shortened version of her own name. She wasn’t truly leaving herself behind. She was just adapting.

“Emma.”

                                                                                      *****

24 years later

Ever since then, Emma continued to live a (for the most part) quiet, normal existence. She attended school with Elsa and Anna. Ingrid had told the principle she was her new foster child and, thanks to a “friend in a high place” managed to forge some official enough looking documents. She ended up attending university with Elsa in New York, majoring in Journalism and Elsa in Politics. She had it all planned out; she was going to join a top magazine and start her reporting career; interview top politicians, go to the sites of natural disasters, follow corporate scandals.

That last part didn’t work out.

Instead she became an assistant at West Co media, a high profile magazine and online news outlet. So at least there was journalism in that.

She was an assistant to Zelena West, West Co’s founder and CEO. A cyclone in green shirts and red hair who took no nonsense and gave no mercy. If Zelena needed a story that would take four days in three, you’d bet your ass it would be on her desk in three.

Emma walked briskly through the lobby and marched up the stairs-no one took Miss West’s private lift, hot latte in one hand and butter croissant with strawberry jam in the other, plus a huge file tucked underneath her arm with this week’s new edits.

“Morning Emma,” Graham greeted as she passed his desk. Graham had been one of her best friends since she started working at West Co. His quips across the room cookies brought up from the vending machine had saved her one more than a few occasions. “Rough night?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” she sighed as she sat down and placed Miss West’s latte on her desk. “The coffee shop on the other hand was a mess. Did you get your story finished?”

“Done and done.” Graham proudly presented a plastic red file. “Now I can just put up with 50 more rewrites until the Wicked Witch likes it.”

I don’t care if there are no seats Zelena sighed from her private lift. One of her new abilities was, when she concentrated, super hearing. Which came in handy working for Miss Mills, who wanted her latte in her hand the moment she stepped out of the lift and all her employees to rise to greet her.

“She’s here.” Every employee stood up, some fixing their skirts or ties.

“How do you do that?” Graham whispered as Zelena entered.

Emma shrugged and scurried towards her boss.

“Jemma, make reservations in the orchestra section for Les Mis this Friday my mother wants to see it,” she ordered in a cool voice.

“Again?” Emma had booked Les Mis for Miss West’s mother for the past 4 years.

“Yes again.”

“But wasn’t Les Mis sold out?”

“Use the company credit card and see if they object then.” Emma took Zelena’s jacket and purse from and put them in their usual place before running to her desk and placing the latte in front of her. “You have those edits I wanted in?”

“Yes, here.” She placed the file on her desk. Zelena flipped through them idly before stopping on a page and turning it towards her.

“There. That’s our cover. Get that down to the guy who makes the photos look better.”

“Killian?” she asked, adjusting her glasses. Emma had seen him around in the office but didn’t know a whole lot about him. He was handsome, English, missing a hand, quite a charmer apparently, according to the gossip around the water cooler.

“Yes, him. Now hurry, I have some stuff I need you to finish up when you get back.”

Once turned around, Emma rolled her eyes and headed down to where Killian worked, two floors down.

It was a spacious and brightly lit room, thanks to the large windows, allowing sunlight to bounce off the white tiled floor and white walls. There were some black desks with glossy looking photos placed on them and some rock music playing from a speaker.

“Like what you see?” A voice said from behind her. Emma turned and saw Killian leaning against the wall and smirking. He strolled towards her. Emma tried not to look at his prosthetic hook. “What do you have for me?”

“Um, the new cover, Miss West told me to come down and give it to you.” She handed him the file.

“How many different covers had she considered?” he asked.

“I had a whole file. I spent all weekend getting them off people, answering emails, et cetra. So I hope that’s a good one.”

“Oh I’d say it is. Not my best work by a long shot but it’s still pretty good.”

“You took this photo?” She stepped beside him to look at it. A shot of a young girl looking straight at the camera in a fancy dress. “She’s like some teen dancer, right?”

“Yeah, a prodigy. Went to Julliard when she was 10.” Emma laughed and started to take a look around the room at the photos scattered on the tables. One drew her eye; it was stuck to the wall. A picture of the New York summer sky with something flying across it. It wasn’t a place; the shape was too different, too round. “I got quite a bit of fame for that one.” Emma remembered a while ago; a photographer getting a lot of backlash for taking a photo of what they had claimed to be a flying saucer.

“You’re the guy who took this photo?” she asked. “The one who won the prize for it?”

“And who nearly lost his job for it, but yeah. Killian Jones.” He extended his hand and Emma shook it.

“Emma Snow.”

“Nice name. And to go back to this, it almost cost me my job back in the Weekly Mirror. Apparently it was too outrageous.”

“So how come you don’t work there anymore?”

“Needed a change. Worked in the Mirror for six years and that is more than enough for anyone.”

“What do you think it was?” she asked. He laughed slightly at that.

“You’re really asking me?” She shrugged. “I believe it was a spaceship.”

“You do?”

“I mean what else could it be?”

“So you believe in aliens?” He nodded and his eyes lit up with enthusiasm. He couldn’t stop himself from talking about it once he got started.

“Of course I do. Snow, we live in a big, infinite universe with thousands of planets and you really expect me to believe not one of those is inhabited?”

“Of course not,” she answered, shaking her head. “I mean like you said, there’s millions, billions of planets out there and any number of them could have intelligent life.” She’s know of course.  Not just about Storybrooke, but about the other planets she’d been to. One just next to Storybrooke, Neverland, where no one aged, and one called Arendelle where its people could create cold weather.  Her father had taken her there and allowed her to climb the ice stairs. She remembered him calling to her from down below as she stood on the cliff with icy winds whipping her hair around her face.

“Emma?” Emma jumped back to reality when Killian called her name. Concerned, he moved to touch her but thought better of it. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine?” she sniffed. She would not cry in front of this total stranger. “I should be heading back upstairs, Miss West will be looking for me.”

“Of course, sure. See you around I guess?”

“See you. Killian.”

                                                                                               ******

The rest of Emma’s day was fairly normal. She ran errands for Miss West, fetched coffee and sent emails and edited and sent stories and gave people orders directly from Miss West. Graham made jokes and got her a bearclaw from the canteen.

“Where have you been all my life?” she sighed as she bit into it. “And it’s still warm!”

The TV above their desks, which at the time had been showing some feature about schools, suddenly switched to a breaking news story.

“A bomb has gone off in the Wonderland apartment building, with many of its residents inside, unable to escape the blaze caused by the explosion,” the news anchor reported. “The initial blast went off merely half an hour ago on the fourth floor, causing debris and a fire now spreading towards higher floors.”

“Holy crap,” Graham muttered. The Wonderland apartments were only a few blocks down from West Co.

Emma’s heart dropped as the anchor continued to tell the story. On the TV there was footage of the residents who had made it out calling to their loved ones inside and Emma’s heart broke entirely. This planet, with all its wonders, still managed to make her blood run cold.

An idea sparked in Emma’s mind. She had lived on this planet for 14 years. She had soaked up its yellow sun. She had gained abilities from it. She had tested them before; she could fly, she was amazingly strong, among others.

And people needed her.

It was an insane, incredibly stupid idea.

And it could have worked.

With everyone’s eyes-including her boss’-on the screen, Emma slipped out of the room and crept quickly downstairs. She then sped in the direction of Wonderland, the streets getting more and more crowded as she made her way there.

She quickly backed out of the crowd and ran into a side street, her heart pounding as she considered the decision.

She hadn’t flown since she was a child. But surely it was just like riding a bike? It was inside her.

She closed her eyes. Took off her sweater. Clenched her fists. Blocked out the sound of everyone else and all the commotion around her. She thought back to the first time she did it; just her and the air. She was weightless. She was powerful. She was unstoppable.

She was…. Flying.

She was hovering just a few inches off the ground. Emma let out a triumphant laugh. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so comfortable. So close to home.

Then a roar erupted from the crowd and she snapped out of it. She launched herself up and flew towards the apartment block, not noticing how her glasses had fallen off. She hovered around the top floors to scout for survivors. Sure enough there was a small, fair haired girl inside, almost invisible in the smoke.

Emma smashed the glass and flew in, wincing in the heat. Still, it was nothing compared to what the girl was feeling; Emma’s body was much more resilient than hers.

“Hey, its okay,” she whispered as the girl flinched away. “Just take my hand.” She shook her head. “Are you alone? Where’s your family?”

“My-my dad was at work when the bomb…..” She didn’t even get to finish her sentence before she broke down in tears. Emma felt her own heart break, remembering her father’s face as she left him forever.

“I can take you to him,” she promised. “But you have to trust me.” The girl shook her head again. “I know you’re scared. But I’m begging you. I can take you back to your father. I can save you.”

“Are you a superhero?” she asked, coughing from all the smoke.

“No. But I can be one right now.” She still hesitated. “You won’t do your father any favours with breathing problems.” The girl took a few more steps until she finally took Emma’s hand.  Relieved, Emma smiled and lifted her into her arms with ease.

“How are you so strong?” she asked.

“Magic,” Emma replied, flying out the window and setting her down on the grass.  In the light she could see the ash on her face, mixing with tears and her bloodshot eyes. “You think you can get checked out while I help everyone else?” She nodded. “Good.”

With that, Emma flew up to see the rest. Once she was a few floors up she noticed a piece of debris coming loose. Going by the structure of the building, if that fell, the whole thing could fall, or at least a good part of it.

Wasting no time, she pushed the column back to where it was meant to be, it was a much more difficult task than carrying the girl but she had been given an extra push of adrenaline. She felt her muscles begin to ache, then burn as she pushed it back. She kept going, just a little more, a little more, until it was back in position to hold the building up again. Then using her ice breath she froze it in place.

Another idea when off in her mind. She found the place where the blaze was most concentrated and fought it with her ice breath. Heat raged against cold and she felt herself slowly drain, her energy fading only slightly as she continued to attempt to put out the blaze. When her shoulders fell she forced them up, when she lost height she pushed herself back up. She could still see the fires that engulfed her own world, her own home in the backs of her mind.

Eventually the heat died down and flames went from orange to yellow to nothing more than a pile of ash and smoke. Several more small fires were still burning, but the biggest had been taken care of. She flew inside, finding more residents and helping them get to safety. Once again with her ice breath she managed to put out enough fires to forge a path for the victims to get to safety; many leaning on one another.

And just like that, it was over. The building was practically destroyed but the people were safe and that was what really mattered.  After doing one last circle of the building she fled from the scene, back to the alley she had hid in before going in. Her glasses and sweater lay on the sidewalk.

Emma leaned against the wall until the adrenaline faded. Her heart pound fiercely against her chest in time with the pounding in her head but she found herself unable to care. She closed her eyes and took deep breaths, in and out, until her body managed to calm down.

She didn’t even need a mirror to know about the ash mixed in her hair and face in addition to the sweat. She could see that her shirt had a huge tear in it. Her legs began shaking. A metallic taste stung her mouth.

Then she realised exactly how much she’d messed up by using her powers in public.

“Oh god,” she muttered. “I am so screwed.”

[insomniaacs]

The Eye of the Storm - Benedict x reader

A/N: This came out way more angsty than I anticipated, but I hope you guys enjoy it :) I've suffered from panic attacks in the past, so I hope this expresses how truly terrible it is... I'm trying to work on my requests in a steady rhythm, and the goal is to post one story, like, at least every two days, but I guess we'll see what happens... Thanks for all the love, everyone! You guys rock ;D

Requested by anon: Benedict x reader. The reader is scared of thunder due to an abusive past. She calls Benedict just wanting to hear his voice. Not knowing he’s coming home already. Can they have a basset hound as well please. Xx

Word count: 1879 Warnings: mentions of physical, verbal and psychological abuse

Thunderstorms weren't unusual in London.

They were, in fact, quite common; the grey clouds gathering fairly quickly, forming a dark, unstable mass that hovered over the city and more often than not kept people stranded to their homes and made life just so much harder to the average tourist.

The weather forecasts also usually got it right. Mostly, you figured, because honestly, the odds that the sun would shine were just so little that there was almost no margin of error in their predictions.

That week, the news had assured the British population that London would, for the first time in quite a while, actually be graced with sunlight for the weekend, which had been quite a relief to you.

The thing was, you were tremendously afraid of storms.

Afraid in the sense that the mere prospect of it caused you to start feeling anxious and uncomfortable, and to the point that you wouldn't leave your house at least a day in advance, just as not to be caught unprepared.

So excuse you for feeling like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders after listening to the weather lady on TV.

You were feeling relaxed and at ease as you emerged from your room. You'd just gotten out of the shower, and was hoping to do a bit of reading before Benedict arrived.

He was at a press conference for his new movie and would probably be home much later at night, so you took your time to go downstairs and settled on the big leather chair of his study; the smell of him still on its cushions as you covered yourself with a warm blanket and opened your book.

The room surrounding you was perfectly cozy with its dark coloured furniture and big wooden bookshelves that went from one wall to another, and if you looked a little to your right you could see a big glass window that led to the gardens, allowing you a good view of the dog house at the very back, where your lovely basset hound was probably asleep.

You couldn't feel happier as you leafed through the pages of your book, revelling in the warmth and stillness of the room. You'd always loved the silence more than anything. It was peaceful and allowed you to concentrate on the little things surrounding you.

That was why you couldn't contain the scream that left your lips as soon as you heard the aggressive, voracious sound of a thunder coming from outside.

Your book fell shut in your lap as you sunk further into your seat, fingers already shaking as you tried to close your eyes and breathe.

The panic had risen on you without a warning, settling on the back of your head and making your heart leap on your chest and a dreadful feeling take over you.

For a moment, it was only ringing silence that followed. Then, the sky lit up with the fast and sharp strike of a lightning, and it was only then that you finally saw the huge storm approaching.

Another loud thunder echoed around the room as you kept your eyes fixed on the sky outside.

The clouds weren't grey; they were black. There, from your place at Benedict's chair, you looked outside and saw nothing but a pitch black mass approaching your house, and you felt a shudder run through you.

Your fingers came to brush at the slight raise on the skin of your arms, and you felt the verge of a panic attack threatening to take over you.

It had happened before.

The dreadful feeling of having an attack was carved into your memory like the scars etched across your arms. The dizziness had already kicked in, as had the tingling sensation at the tips of your fingers. Then, the heaviness in your chest; that constrictive feeling that made it seem like there was something pressing against it and making it hard to do anything but stay very still and try to breathe.

The rain came not soon after, its heavy droplets hitting the ceiling and windows of your house like several bullets.

You covered your ears with a whimper. They'd said it would be sunny... that there was less than a 5% chance of rain for the weekend. They'd said it, and you'd believed it and allowed yourself to relax.

All the other times, you'd been prepared. There'd been music, and a happy movie on the TV, and Benedict had always been there with you.

Now you were completely alone, and your eyes started filling with tears at the memories that came along with the sickening sound of the thunders.

'You useless piece of fucking shit-'

Another lighting.

'You move and I will fucking kill you, understand?'

The thunder that followed caused you to drop your book to the floor. Your palms were sweaty and your hands were shaking as you tried to get up.

You had to get to the table a few feet from you. You had to get your phone.

As soon as you managed to get up, you heard the loudest crack coming from somewhere above you, and you screamed again as all the lights went out in one quick motion.

Your crying turned into sobbing, and you felt lost and completely defeated as you sat on the carpet and gripped the armrests of the chair above you with so much force that your fingers became white against the pure black of the leather.

The memories kept coming, and you could do nothing but hug your legs and close your eyes to try and make them go away.

'What, you think you're entitled to speak up to me?'

The muscles on your arms started twitching; the scars carved in them catching the light of the lightnings and casting crooked looking shadows on your skin.

'Well, lemme tell you something, princess,' you could almost hear his voice speaking behind you; could almost sense his putrid breath fanning on your ear. 'YOU. ARE. NOT.'

He'd growled like an animal that night. His brown eyes had been completely black, and you'd stared into them and had seemed to get lost in their darkness.

Your eyes were still blurred with tears that never stopped falling when you crawled towards the table. You couldn't stand, so you merely lifted your fingers to search for your phone.

After a few tries, you managed to take it into your hands. They were shaking so much you couldn't even see the words written on the screen.

The room lit up again with another flash from outside and the walls around you shook violently, and you weren't sure you could take much more.

'I despise you, you hear me?'

Your fingers tapped the wrong password three times before you finally unlocked the phone. Benedict's number was on speed dial, and you clicked his name and put the phone to your ears. Your hands and face and hair were wet from your own sweat and tears, and you couldn't stop sobbing as the line beeped over and over again.

'I. Despise. You.'

It hit voicemail.

You tried again.

The sound of the beeping was silenced by another thunder, and your body jerked at the loudness of it.

You bit so hard into your lip that it drew blood.

Slash. The sound of a knife cutting through the air.

Your breath was ragged as your fingers dropped the phone to the ground. There was no use trying to do anything. Your brain had stopped functioning.

Another whimper escaped your mouth, and you curled up on the floor, crying into your shirt and your arms.

There was noise somewhere outside again, and you closed your eyes so tightly that you saw black dots from underneath your eyelids. The sound carried on through the house and reverberated through the walls until it finally reached where you were, and you felt something touch you and flinched away from it like it'd burned you.

"(Y/N)," a deep voice spoke from above you, laced with concern and desperation.

It took you a few long seconds to understand what was happening, and that the person touching you wasn't trying to inflict any more pain on you.

"Be-" you tried to say his name, but there was an acute pain on your throat that made you cough so hard you almost threw up. "Benedict..." your voice was wavering and laced with a panic you'd never heard come out of your mouth before when you spoke. It was pleading and at the same time wounded, and you felt the scars on your arms itch.

"I'm here, love," he said with the most gentle voice, offering you his hand. "It's alright." You looked up at him and couldn't help but deeply appreciate the fact that he hadn’t been the one who initiated the contact. Benedict always gave you a choice, which was perhaps what you loved most about him.

You threw yourself into his arms, desperate for his comforting touch. Your previously clean clothes were drenched in sweat, but he didn't seem to mind as he held you as close as possible; running a gentle hand through your hair.

Another thunder echoed in the room, and though you still flinched at its intensity, the panic had started to dissipate.

There were no more terrible memories or any kind of difficulty to breathe. Slowly, you started coming back to your senses. The storm begun to settle into a light rain, and though you weren’t exactly sure how long the two of you sat there on the floor, you couldn’t find it within you to let go of Benedict.

His hands were still caressing your hair and face and arms, and you looked up at him with reddish eyes and trembling lips. “I'm so sorry, love. If I’d known…” Benedict trailed off, and you only shook your head and gave him a tight smile as if to say ‘you don’t have to apologize’.

After that, Benedict helped you up. He turned on the flashlight on your phone and guided you back to your room.

You hadn’t realised, but you were extremely tired. Your eyes were threatening to close as you sat on your side of the bed and allowed Benedict to pull the covers over you.

He followed straight after you, finding your waist underneath the covers and bringing you closer to him.

Long after you’d drifted to sleep, Benedict allowed himself to look at you properly. Your hair was still damp from the sweat, and he cursed himself for not having arrived home in time.

His eyes traveled unconsciously to the scars on your arms, and he had to control his anger. He couldn’t bare even thinking about the horrible things that monster had done to you, much less the psychological damage he’d caused.

Benedict closed his eyes as well and tried to sleep.

He dreamed of a reality in which you’d never been abused or beaten or humiliated. In it, the both of you were together and happy, and there were no triggers or scars or any kind of reminder of the man that had taken advantage of you all those years ago.

Oh… he always thought, if only he had the power to make dreams come true…

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