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flameohotwife · 3 years

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Safe Harbor

Summary: After everyone has safely returned from their own battles, Katara realizes she's been having trouble sleeping if she's not near Aang and decides to confont her fears with a late-night talk. Written for @kataang-week day 5 prompt: healing.

WC: 1.7k | ao3 | ffn

The sky was dark around the Fire Palace as Katara tossed and turned in her overly large bed. She was relieved to have her brother and friends back safe from their own battles, and after an afternoon full of healing and hugging and even some tears, she was exhausted, but she was still struggling to find sleep. It had been this way for almost a week, if she were honest with herself. Ever since Aang had disappeared before the comet.

Katara sighed as she sat up in her bed, giving up for the time being, and pulled her robe over her shoulders. The floor was surprisingly cold when her feet touched down, despite the near-suffocating heat in the air. She quietly turned the knob on her door and poked her head out, checking for guards. They still made her a little nervous, even if Zuko assured her that any remaining staff was on their side, now.

Finding nothing but silence in the empty hall, she slipped out of her room and padded across to the room she knew Aang was staying in. She could still see candlelight flickering under the door, and breathed a sigh of relief that he was still up, too. During their travels, they had often sought each other out in the middle of the night, either due to nightmares or just to talk through things that had happened during the day, and she hoped he wouldn’t mind her showing up now. Despite the awkwardness that had grown between them since their kiss on the Day of Black Sun, and then again on Ember Island, he was still her best friend. And deep in her heart she knew he was more than that, too. Maybe talking with him would help.

She knocked on his door as quietly as she could while still hoping he could hear her. Before she could finish her third knock, the door was opening, revealing a tired but smiling Aang on the other side.

“I felt you coming,” he said quickly, when he noticed the quizzical look on her face at his almost immediate response. “Earthbending…” His hand was on the back of his neck and her mouth pulled into a smile of its own accord. Spirits, he was cute when he did that.

“Is it… is it okay if I come in?” Katara asked, glancing down the hallway again to make sure nobody else was coming.

Aang’s face reddened a bit--or was that just a trick of the candlelight? “Oh! Oh, yeah. Of course!” He opened the door wider for her to enter, and then shut it quietly behind her, leaning his back against it and looking anywhere but at her.

Katara placed a hand on his, which was still resting on the door handle, and smiled encouragingly at him. He finally met her eyes and returned the grin. She had always been able to bring him out of whatever emotional turmoil he was in, even those times, like now, when she was the cause of it. When their eyes connected it was always just the two of them, in that moment. She took his hand off the door and gently laced her fingers through his, pulling him towards the cushions that were in the center of the room. She noticed his room was much more spacious than the others she’d seen, but Aang deserved it, even if he would never want or ask for special treatment. He deserved so much more than that.

“I missed you so much,” she whispered, pulling him into a quick hug before sitting down on the plush red cushions. She knew she was blushing a bit, but for some reason it no longer bothered her. “I… I haven’t been able to sleep since you left.”

Aang’s eyes widened to an almost comical degree as he sat down himself, and she would have laughed if she didn’t feel like she was bearing a part of her soul to him that she hadn’t fully explored herself, yet.

“I just… I think I got used to us sleeping all together while we were traveling, but it was more than that, too. After…” She took a deep, steadying breath. She needed to get this out without dissolving into tears. She needed him to know. “After Ba Sing Se, I was so scared I would lose you again. And… when you were unconscious I stayed in your room every night, and then we were all camping together again in the Fire Nation and at the Temple and… and I think I got used to being able to hear you breathing. I think I needed it. To know you were okay. But then you were gone, and…” she couldn’t help the sob that broke through there, but she didn’t need to. Not anymore.

Aang’s arms were around her and she was finally able to let the tears flow freely. He had never, ever judged her for expressing her feelings, even when everyone else seemed to think she was going too far. The safety and overwhelming love she felt in his arms was something she hadn’t felt since her mother was alive and her family was happy together; since she was young enough to be unaware of the horrors of war. It was like his hug was squeezing the various pieces of her heart back together, where they were meant to be all along. Like he was healing her.

“I love you,” she whispered, when she had finally caught her breath again. She kept her face pressed to his shoulder. She wasn’t sure if she could look at him yet; she felt so exposed. But she also felt… lighter somehow, now that it was out in the open. He was her safe harbor in the storm of her emotions. So many times she had brought him calm, but now he was doing the same for her. “I know the world needs you, but I want you to know that I need you, too. And I don’t… I still don’t know what this is--what we are--but I… I know I can’t be without you again. I just want to stay here, in your arms, forever. I feel so safe.”

Aang’s head was reeling from all that she had just admitted to him, but he was trying to will his mouth to speak. He knew the soft circles he was tracing on her back weren’t enough to convey what she meant to him, but for some reason all the words were stuck in his throat, with his heart, which had floated up there when she told him she loved him.

Finally, just when she was beginning to think she’d said too much, he found his voice again. “You can stay here as long as you want,” he said, pulling back to look at her watery eyes. He kept one hand on her shoulder and the other lightly bent her tears from her face with a smile. “I love you, too, Katara. I’ve been trying to tell you for so long, but…”

“I’ve known,” she interrupted him when she saw his eyes turn from her and the worry lines start to appear as he crinkled his forehead. “I’ve always known. And… I’ve always loved you, too, even if I didn’t know what this feeling was, at first. I was just so scared of losing you.” Her hand came up to cup his face and his eyes swung back to hers like magnets. They had always been connected like this. She wondered if they had been connected from the moment she was born, or maybe even before. But she knew without a doubt that she was destined to find him; to help him; to love him. That she would always stand by him, whether as a friend, or as something more.

“Is it… is it okay if I sleep here?” she asked, a little hesitantly, despite her earlier admission. “I can just stay here on the pillows, and you can sleep on the bed, if you’ll be more comfortable. I just… I just need to be near you, tonight.” And maybe every night, she thought, but she kept that to herself for now.

“Here,” Aang took a moment to adjust the cushions around them into a little nest, before laying back and pulling her to him. She rested her head on his chest and listened to the soft thump-thump of his heart. The sound was like the glue where his earlier hug had been the clamp; her heart felt whole in places she hadn’t realized had been broken, before. She sighed and melted into him, then turned her face up to meet his stormy eyes, trying to discern what he was thinking. She didn’t see any of the apprehension or awkwardness that had been present for weeks, so even though she couldn’t read his thoughts, she still felt overwhelming relief.

Aang smiled again before pressing a quick kiss to her hair. It was the first time he had done something like that; usually Katara was the one to initiate all their physical contact, but where his words had failed him tonight his actions seemed to be enough. He saw her eyes close as a contented calm painted over her face.

There would be time for them to sort out everything, and for him to find the right words, but for now… she loved him. Katara loved him! And he’d finally told her the same, after months and months of failed attempts. Even if this was the extent of their relationship--sleeping next to each other and sharing the deepest secrets of their hearts--he would be extremely happy.

His chest felt warm and fluttery and his cheeks were beginning to hurt from smiling, and there may have been some happy tears welling in his eyes, but he didn’t care.

She had always been there to heal him, both physically and emotionally, from the various pains and griefs that he seemed unable to escape from. He hoped that he had been able to offer her some of that back, tonight. That they could continue to heal each other from whatever came their way. Forever.

#kataang week 2021 #kataang #kataangtag #kataang fanfic #prompt: healing #post-comet/pre-balcony #late night talks #and literal sleeping together

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decks-writing-blog · 3 years

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Mute Buddies

This is a Dead Cells and Hollow Knight Crossover fic.

All the crossover art, especially the two pieces I drew, got me thinking about Ghost and Beheaded interacting and how they would be friends. And then I started thinking about ways they might've met and this fic is a result of those thoughts.

Also, because this is pre-game for Ghost they don't go by 'Ghost' since they're dubbed that by Hornet. They don't actually have a name at all in this fic because I wasn't sure what they would think of themself as.

By the time they spotted the island it was almost too late despite how close it was. Their sailboat, not ever meant to be out in the open ocean for so long, wasn’t faring well in the seemingly ceaseless storm. It had been battered and tossed around by the waves and wind until it had sprung a leak. And while dealing with that might’ve been easy under different circumstances the flood of rain pouring down complicated things quite a bit. Their one single bucket, despite being almost half their size was barely enough to bail out the water fast enough to keep the boat afloat. It was a losing battle though, they were only one little bug after all. So the island was a blessed sight indeed. All they had to do was get the boat to it, easier said than done of course but there was hope now at least and they had a goal.

As they drew closer it became ever more apparent that their vessel wasn’t the only one to suffer in these waters. Seems it was actually pretty common if the wrecked ships littering the bay were anything to go by. Only intermittently visible between flashes of lighting and waves pulling back to reveal bits and pieces of them, how many there were was impossible to guess. Not that it mattered beyond steering the sailboat through as safely as possible.

It was tough work; they couldn’t bail and hold the rudder at the same time and thus just had to hope that the boat would be able to reach shore before it sunk. Luckily there seemed to be a current pulling them towards the island. And the water filling the bottom of the boat now served to weigh it down, stopping the waves from pushing it around as much; another blessing even if initially it hadn’t been.

And thus after only a few minor collisions, the hull was grinding up onto the rocky shore with a scraping sound that couldn’t mean good things. Hopefully it wasn’t as bad as it sounded. Not that they actually cared a whole lot right now regardless because they were on land. No getting tossed around helplessly in the ocean for them today.

Putting one hand on the boat’s railing, they vaulted over the edge and onto firm land for the first time in fartoo long. The world seemed to sway and rock around them as if they were still aboard the boat and being pushed around by waves. They’d been stuck on it for a very, very long time indeed. Far longer than they’d thought would be the case. Word around the port town they’d acquired it at was that there was nothing out here, just lots and lots of ocean before the edge of the world. They’d wanted to see that supposed edge of the world but instead they’d found this island. Given how sick and tired they’d grown of sitting in the boat with nothing to see or do, that was perfectly fine. The edge of the world probably wasn’t all that exciting anyway, certainly not worth such a voyage to get to it.

Now even with the rain still pouring down on them they could’ve easily just laid down and fallen asleep right then and there. But it wouldn’t be wise and… They turned back towards their vessel. Its sail was old and tattered, held to the mast with a fraying rope that doubtless wouldn’t last much longer and its creaky hull had a minimum of at least one hole in it. Overall, in even worse shape than they’d acquired it in. But it should be repairable, right? And thus they grabbed hold of its edge and pulled it up further up onto the rocky shore. The thought of getting back onto it and heading out into the ocean once more was thoroughly unpleasant but there was no way they’d want to stay forever on this island so preserving their most likely way off was a must. As soon as it was well out of even the highest waves’ reach, they turned away. Leaving it there, they went in search of a place to rest.

The shore was wide and rocky. Off to one side was a large building, visible in between flashes of lightning. Closer by was a large cliff face. It wasn’t sheer though. There were many holes of various sized cut into its face and further up what look like whole caves. It didn’t take them long to find a little nook not too high up that would serve as a good enough hiding spot. They wouldn’t be completely hidden within it, anyone really looking would probably be able to spot them. Not ideal but they were too tired to search for something better. And it would get them out of the rain and that’s what mattered most right now. Though how much did that really matter when their cloak was so thoroughly soaked through already?

They pulled themself up into it and curled up, pressing back against the rear wall. … They ought to be more wary and should probably patrol the area for potential danger before letting themself rest. It would be the smart thing to do but… they were far too tired to bother, especially since they’d already laid down. It’d probably be fine though, few bugs would care to be out in such weather regardless.

***

Beheaded started for the beached sailboat as soon as they spotted it shortly after reaching the bottom of the Undying Shore’s cliff. While the island seemed to be in constant flux – something to do with the time loop probably – rare was the day something that different popped up.

Off to the side and just out of the ocean’s reach, getting to it was easy. After a quick glance around to ensure no monsters were around, they leaned in to examine it.

A small sailboat, nothing all that exciting really other than the fact that despite its visibly battered state it was still the most intact vessel they’d seen anywhere on the island. Left out in the rain without a tarp its hull overflowed with rainwater. Barely seaworthy for sure. Where had it come from though? Had someone dragged it out here thinking to escape the island in it? … No. Even as small as it was, there was no way anyone carried it out here, down the cliff, over the rocky terrain and past all the blood thirsty monsters even if they had had help. And given the way its bow was pointed away from the ocean – if even Beheaded knew what the front of a boat looked like then surely anyone experienced enough with traversing the sea to even consider risking such a voyage would’ve pointed the boat towards the water – it seemed to have come from the ocean. Hmmm… curious.

Well, most often where there was one interesting thing to examine there were more. So, turning away for now, Beheaded set to looking for other clues.

It didn’t take long to determined that there wasn’t much of anything within the sailboat’s immediate vicinity so they expanded their search along the shore a bit. Still nothing but the usual bit of boat rubble that occasionally made its way to shore before being pulled back into the sea. Quite lame but… still just the sailboat alone was an interesting find. So oh well, they had monsters to get back to killing. Perhaps they’d find something more about the boat and its occupant later.

They paused halfway in their turn back towards the way they’d being going before. There was something in one of the cliffside’s crevices. Tucked up deep inside only a small flap of dark fabric was visible poking out and flapping in the wind. Ever wary of all the different hidey holes those dang exploding bats liked to nest in, Beheaded crept closer for a better look.

It wasn’t a bat, exploding or otherwise – thank all that was still good in this world – but instead a… creature? No, a doll. Its head looked like it might’ve been made of porcelain and was clearly hollow. Or at least, whatever was inside was tucked in far enough that it couldn’t be seen through its large eye-like holes from this angle. And it had to be a trick of the light, or lack thereof, but underneath a tattered blue-gray cloak was the darkest black material Beheaded had ever seen. So yeah, no way was it a living creature but instead a large weird doll. It wasn’t even breathing.

They put a hand into the crevice to poke it. The instant their finger made contact with its body through its cloak, it moved. Its head snapped to look directly at them with its empty eyes.

Beheaded sprang back, scrambling to draw their dagger. They fumbled and almost dropped it but had a firm grasp on it by the time the creature had finished sliding out of the crevice silent grace. It had a weapon drawn now too. Pointed at Beheaded and vaguely swordlike it was visibly dull, nicked and scratched, showing signs of frequent and hard use. Given that, the fact that it was dull meant little; Beheaded was no stranger to being utterly destroyed by unsharpened blades. Same with small things; the fact that it was only half their size if one was counting its horns didn’t mean it wasn’t dangerous and couldn’t ‘kill’ them in an instant.

Despite all that it didn’t attack immediately, implying that whatever it was, it wasn’t animated by the Malaise. It would’ve attacked mindlessly and without hesitation otherwise. That didn’t mean it was friendly though even if it seemed to be waiting for them to make the first move. Which they weren’t going to do against something they’d never seen before; they’d made that mistake far too many times already and their pride still bore the resulting scars. So for once they were going to be patient and let it make the dumb impulsive move for them to take advantage of. The perfect plan!

Except it wasn’t moving, not even to breathe. Which was just plain creepy. Despite that it was kind of cute even if its eyes did look like big gaping black holes in its face. Assuming that was its face, could be a helmet. …. Beheaded was starting to get reallybored of this waiting for it to attack first thing.

They relaxed their battle-ready pose, though they didn’t sheath their dagger and remained alert as they took a step closer. It lowered its weapon but otherwise didn’t move, only titling its head a little further to keep looking at them as they stepped right up in front of it. Still didn’t attack though so they sheathed their dagger and crouched down in front of it, remaining poised to leap back in an instant if need be. This was similar to how they’d befriended Mushroom Boi though so it’d probably be fine.

But unlike Mushroom Boi when they reached out a hand to poke it on the top of its indeed quite hard head, it didn’t make a sound. Instead it lifted its own little pitch black hand to poke back, first their hand and then forearm and then, stepping closer further up their arm. Its hand was cold and somehow seemingly without texture or so little texture Beheaded couldn’t feel it through the rain. A very odd being indeed but seemingly not dangerous for now even as it stepped close enough to allow it to lift its hand up and put it into the magic fog that took the place of where the Beheaded’s head would’ve been if their body still had one. No one had ever done that to them before so it was hard to say if the resulting cold and unpleasant tingly sensation it created was just what it felt like to be touched in that way or specifically because of the strange being.

Regardless they quickly pulled away, straightening. The being didn’t seem to mind though. It continued staring up at them with its large expressionless eyes. It didn’t have a mouth and still didn’t look like it was breathing but there was what felt like intelligence in its… no, their gaze. … Or perhaps Beheaded was just so lonely they wanted to read this creature as another being similar to themself in that they both lacked a voice and ability to communicate via facial expressions like every other sapient creature Beheaded knew. So this was either a neat find or a depressing wakeup call about how lonely they’d become. … They were going to believe the former until given reason to do otherwise.

They stepped to the side to point back towards the battered sailboat. Then, looking back down at their horned being, they pointed at them before lifting their arms in as shrug, making it a question. Had they come on the boat?

The being looked over and then back up at Beheaded before nodding. Just a single small nod but still undoubtedly a confirmation that not only were they from the boat but also that they intelligent. That also meant they were from off the island!

Beheaded hadn’t ever stopped to consider what might be beyond the seas surrounding this place but if they had they certainly wouldn’t have ever thought something or someone from out there would ever end up here. Oh, the things they would’ve asked if either of them were capable of speech.

Though this was probably bad for the being, huh? With the whole Malaise being such a prevalent thing. If they weren’t already infected then they would probably be soon. … Unless they were immune like Collector and some of the others seemed to be and Beheaded for sure was. That wasn’t super likely though, was it? So… what an unlucky fellow to end up on this island of all places. But, alas, there was nothing that could be done about it now.

The being turned their gaze away to glance around. They looked up at the cliff for a bit and then over at the Mausoleum before looking back up at the Beheaded again. Only for a few seconds though before with a slight shrug in started in the direction of the Mausoleum.

Well, with no way to talk to each other and nothing else to do, they might as well move on. And since Beheaded had already been heading in that direction anyway, they followed. They could hang out with their new mute buddy for a while. Even if said buddy was unfortunately not likely to last long on the island.

#my writing #hollow knight #dead cells #the beheaded #the prisoner #the knight #little ghost

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byunbaekby · 3 years

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title — bloom again (teaser #1) pairing — racer!jaemin x female reader genres — angst, fluff, racer au, slight college au, strangers to lovers, mutual pining, love triangle, hurt and comfort overall warnings (to be updated) — language, cheating, mentions of abuse, depictions of a toxic/abusive relationship (not between jaemin and the reader), optional smut, illegal street racing, mentions of drugs teaser warnings — none teaser word count — 1.7k words summary — the world has never been kind to na jaemin. left alone with a deadbeat mother, he's learned how to survive on his own. now twenty and a college student whose life and vitality (not to mention his rent) relies solely on his success in his career as an illegal street racer, he runs alone. everything he has, he’s fought for with his own hands and grit. he’s never asked for anything, which is what makes the world so cruel: when he finally meets someone who he desires for more than a night, you already belong to someone else. additional — for the racer collab, created by the wonderful @ickjun and managed by the one and only @lucas-wongs !!

projected release — may/june 2021 projected word count — 20k

send an ask to be added to the tag list!

CASIA APARTMENTS [8:12AM]

It’s an early Saturday morning. It’s laundry day, and due to Jaemin’s affinity for avoiding unnecessary social interaction as much as possible, he wanted to be first in the laundry room.

As he pushes open the door to the laundry room, basket of clothes in hand, Jaemin catches sight of a lone figure, wrapped within the confines of a fluffy white blanket. His first thought is that this person, whoever they are, resembles a marshmallow. Choosing not to comment, he walks over to an available washer and begins piling his clothes inside.

“Oh?” He hears, uttered in a muffled yelp. “Blue.”

Though he initially places his focus on his clothes, his attention is piqued by the sudden calling of a nickname. He finds himself face to face with you once again, your visage hidden between two fluffy white sheets. Your lips are lifted into an inevitable smile, stripping yourself of the blanket to stuff it in a washer.

“I might have to think you’re following me around now,” you joke.

Seeing who you are now behind the blanket, a comfortable smile makes its way across his lips, smooth as butter as his gaze falls upon your familiar face. “It might seem that way.” It seems his usual antisocial disposition has faded away in the presence of this marshmallow-like girl. “I actually have reason to think it’s you following me.”

“Is that it? Well, enlighten me, Blue, because I can assure you it’s the other way around,” you say dramatically, reverting back to your goofy demeanor. The two of you press the buttons upon the machines, beginning your washers at a similar start before you make your way to a vacant bench on the sidelines.

“Hm.” A playful look of deliberation makes home across the male’s visage, and he tilts his head slightly for good measure, as though he were in thought. “Well for one, I didn’t trip on anything last time, but you happened to be there when I did. Maybe…” He trails. “You tripped me just so you could hang out with me.”

You gasp, shaking your head profusely before placing an entirely harmless smack on his shoulder. “I believe you’re framing me. For you tripping, I think you’re underestimating just how clumsy you are.”

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say, marshmallow.”

“Marshmallow? Is that your nickname for me now?”

It wasn’t that he had been trying to find a fitting nickname for you recently, but it had crossed his mind. “Yeah, you’re a marshmallow. It just came to me. Now we both have nicknames for each other.”

“That’s cute, I like it.” You nod. You could get used to him calling you that, much like he could with your choice of nickname. “Marshmallow and Blue, us against the world. Laundry buddies.”

“We sound like a lame superhero team,” he comments.

Your hands raise out of defense, teeth now sinking in the plushness of your lower lip in a feeble attempt to hide your ever-growing grin. “No one was supposed to see me in my marshmallow form. Superheroes gotta hide their identity, y’know? I’d like to say you aren’t very slick with yours,” you say, gesturing up to his full head of blue tresses. Your palms slightly rub at your face, and as a yawn slips through your tiers, you fail to confine it.

“Tired?” asks Jaemin.

“Mm, a bit,” you tell him. “I was up late last night studying.” Suddenly he stands, and your gaze follows him. He makes his way over to his basket, and with curiosity brewing you ask, “Any plans for tonight?”

“No, not beside studying and maybe Netflix,” he responds as he pulls out a blanket from the bottom of his basket (which he had planned to wash in a second load). He pulls to him one of the laundry carts and meticulously lays his blanket over it, creating a cushioned nest.

You didn’t need to know that he had a race sometime tonight, and would likely nap in a couple hours after completing his laundry to prepare for the long night he had ahead of him. His typical Friday night race had been cancelled due to tip-offs from the police, but he had caught word of an unfamiliar race a little bit out of town. Instead, he gestures to the makeshift bed he’s made, a playful smile tugging at his lips. It’s an attempt to help the fatigue that drapes over your eyes.

“Get in.”

First confusion adorns your features before realization sinks in, and you stand with an enthused smile. Climbing in with a laugh, you ease in, frame fitting inside.

“Here, push me. Like a speed racer!” One step further, you place your hands onto each side of the laundry cart, exuding sheer eagerness and no longer that exhaustion that had shown moments before.

“I thought you were tired and wanted to sleep,” he comments at your willingness to be pushed around, as though he were some kind of amusement park ride.

“I thought I was too, but this is better.”

“I’ll tire you out so you can sleep well later,” he says, preparing to push you around in circles through the laundry room. Nonetheless, he starts to move you, pushing you alone. First, he starts out slow, trying his best to maneuver your large conjoined figure about the small room.

Deliberate chuckles leave your lips, subconsciously leaning against his chest without meaning to. As he relishes in the sweet euphoria of your giggles, all he wants to do is keep hearing this sound.

So to pleasure his own desires, he runs a bit faster, picking up the speed whilst also trying to avoid crashing into the large machines. He was a racer, after all. Though this was surely a much smaller scale race than he was accustomed to. Smoothly, he drifts into a circle, spinning the two of you whilst an unfamiliar laugh pours from his lips. This earns him a mellifluous guffaw from you. It’s unlike him; you bring out a new side of him.

You attempt to muffle your chortles into his chest. The blue-haired boy is caught off guard by the sudden action; this shock, instigated by the pressing of your flesh against his, causes him to nearly pummel into the machine before you.

Luckily, Jaemin’s fast instincts from collective years of high speed racing causes him to turn before the collision, narrowly avoiding a disaster. He comes to a slow stop, breath accelerated.

“Sorry,” you laugh, pulling your face out to laugh once more. “I’m giving you a workout.”

Your face is contorted into a bright expression, sparkles lighting up your eyes as you gaze up at him mid-laugh. Jaemin gulps.

Even if he’s never been subject to a committed relationship, Jaemin is no fool to attraction. And that is where he feels wrong: there is someone else in your life, someone who deserves you much more than he.

This is wrong. Not because it feels wrong, but because Jaemin knows it is.

There’s a moment, a prolonged period where the two of you stare at each other. Having been caught in a joyous laugh, your eyes still sparkle as you gaze at him from where you sit in the laundry cart. You’re looking at him so fondly, and without thinking, Jaemin’s hand reaches up to guide a few stray strands of your hair behind the shell of your ear.

You’re blinking, seemingly dumbfounded at his gesture. Your head angles slightly, barely leaning into his touch.

For a moment, likely the shortest sliver of time to ever exist in the universe, time is stilled. All that lives in the moment is the two of you, alone in this laundry room. Fingers lingering so softly against the gentle fabric of your skin, Jaemin can do little but stare. It’s comfortable, fleeting.

Until the two of you realize just what you’re doing. It hits the both of you at a hundred miles per hour.

Red flag.

You straighten suddenly, and Jaemin immediately retracts his hand. As if on cue, the noises from your washing machines come to a stop. For a moment, you don’t speak. “Come on, let’s… put our stuff in the dryer.”

A cough sounds from Jaemin’s throat. “Yeah… let’s.”

Without his help, you prop yourself out of the cushioned cart and flutter over to your machine, unloading your clothes with your back to him. It’s clear what is going on in both your minds: Replaying the scene. Reminiscing the other’s laughter.

No, this is wrong—on a multitude, absolutely endless stream of levels. You have a boyfriend, someone for you back home.

The best thing you both can do is… ignore it. Yeah, that’s the better option.

Jaemin finishes stuffing his load into the dryer first, and because he cannot look at you, he turns away to place his focus upon the laundry cart which was once your object of amusement. Now, he grabs the blanket he had placed inside and folds it meticulously. He cannot suppress these feelings.

But he has to, and the only way he knows how to is to eject himself.

“I’ve actually uh… got a lot of assignments to do.” Looking around the virtually empty laundry room, he looks to you, offering an apologetic smile. “I’ll probably leave this here and come back when the hour is done.”

You don’t respond for a moment.

“Oh,” you say after a prolonged pause, and even Jaemin can hear just how evident the disappointment is in your tone. “Alright. Well… Have a good rest of your day, Blue. Thanks for spending some time with me.”

He resents that. That you’re still so kind to him, despite him running away. But he knows himself, and the only way to ignore whatever these… feelings are, he needs to avoid them. The feeling of guilt that rushes over him upon seeing the deflated change in your demeanor, like a bucket of ice cold water poured upon him, is almost enough to make him stay.

Almost.

“You too, Marshmallow,” he responds before exiting the room with his folded blanket, leaving you with the sickening feeling that he no longer wanted to be in your presence.

#neowritingsnet #nct-writers #dreamwritersnet #jaemin angst #jaemin fluff #jaemin scenarios #jaemin imagines #nct fluff #nct angst #nct dream fluff

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sweetsmellosuccess · 4 years

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The Best Films of 2020

The 15 Best Films of 2020

Normally, when I assess a full year of cinematic offerings, I consider both sides of that coin — the outstanding entities, and the least successful — but the year of our lord two thousand and twenty provided more than enough misery for all of us, I do believe. Ergo, in my own small way to bring better vibes into the universe, for this year’s round-up, I’m staying solely on the positive tip, highlighting those films whose unfortunate release date during the Year of the Hex shouldn’t preclude them for being fully appreciated. Let’s take a year off from negativity and schadenfreude, shall we, and just stroll amongst the poppies and bright sunshine of some of the best releases of the year.

15. The Invisible Man

“Leigh Whannell’s film is thoroughly modern in approach and sophistication, but the film it most reminded me of was made back in 1944. George Cukor’s Gaslight starred Charles Boyer as a loathsome husband who attempts to convince his already anxious wife (Ingrid Bergman) that she’s going insane by secretly rearranging things in their house and taking things from her so she thinks she’s always misplacing them. He preys on her emotional vulnerability in order to mask his own pathology and emotional detachment. The effect is absolutely enraging: Onscreen, he’s one of the more hateful villains ever committed to celluloid.”

Full Review

14. The Killing of Two Lovers

“From the opening sequence, with a distraught, estranged husband standing over the bed of his wife and her new boyfriend with malice in his heart, and a gun in hand, the film spirals out into incredibly well structured compositions, taking us inside and outside of David’s recurring psychosis, utilizing a bevy of techniques: The framing shrinks down around him, the sound gets muffled, as if underwater, save for the incredibly unnerving metallic sound of cables being stretched taut, and the sickening kathunk of a heavy car door slamming shut.”

Capsule Review

13. Another Round

“Typically, Vinterberg avoids simple conclusions — and God help us all if this film gets picked up by a U.S. studio and remade with, say, Vince Vaughn, Kevin James, Steve Buscemi, and Chris Rock — providing more or less equal examples of the delirious fun drinking with your friends can be (the film opens with a group of high schoolers gleefully doing “lake races” whereby teams compete to drink a case of beer while running around the nearby body of water; and closes with the same teen crew, and some of their teachers, whooping it up in celebrating their graduation); and the horrorshow it can become (one teacher ends up peeing the bed, and on his wife in the process, another wakes up bloodied and out of it in front of his neighbor’s house), leading to very real and horrible consequences.”

Capsule Review

12. Soul

“Co-director Pete Docter is the creative force behind many of Pixar's best titles, having a hand in the Toy Story franchise, WALL-E, Up, and also directing Inside Out, a brilliantly moving treatise on the subject of emotional upheaval. This film, which he co-wrote and made along with fellow co-director Kemp Powers, is his first film back at the helm since that high-water mark, and he has again dug into the fertile earth of our mortality and come back with a particularly vibrant crop.”

Full Review

11. The Burnt Orange Heresy

“Based on the novel by Charles Willeford, the film briskly moves through its paces, clouding the waters with the schemes of duplicitous men, who have sold out any love of art for their greater obsession of cash and prestige. A literary thriller in the vein of The Talented Mr. Ripley, it’s become a genre all too rare in the era of blockbuster bravado. This film will remind you what a mistake that is.”

Full Review

10. Lovers Rock

“In the course of the party, the fuses blow while the house DJ is spinning Janet Kay's "Silly Games," a fan favorite at the time. Undaunted, the guests continue dancing away, singing the lyrics a capella in delirious unison, as McQueen's camera swirls around the living room as if nothing happened. Such a heartfelt moment of unbridled togetherness, putting into distinct bas relief the sense of community we've been denied as a species in 2020, feels like a benediction, an epitaph for the year, and a salve for what we've all been so desperately missing.”

Capsule Review

9. Time

“Ostensibly, it’s about the strain of incarceration on even the most grounded of families (an experience naturally disproportionate for POCs); but, on a deeper level, it’s also about the manner of our use of the limited number of revolutions we get to enjoy situated on this earth. It is a profound knock-out.”

Full Review

8. New Order

“Meet the new boss, only in Michel Franco’s damning portrait of a society locked forever in cycles of oppression, revolution, and new oppression, it makes no difference who you are, what your belief system is, or whether or not you subscribe to a moral set of ethics.”

Capsule Review

7. Dick Johnson is Dead

“Utilizing stunt people and special effects, Johnson kills her father off a number of different gruesome ways, as a means of softening the blow of actually losing him as his mind slowly slips away. This eventually culminates in a final gambit, both acutely painful and deeply moving, in which our sense of things gets seriously upended. As Johnson put it during the post-screening Q&A, the film serves as a “doomed experiment trying to keep my father alive forever.” This film won’t make him immortal, alas, but it does make him indelible.”

Capsule Review

6. Martin Eden

“Marcello packs the film with offbeat bits and pieces of other films, including strips of what appear to be vintage home movies, sometimes in juxtaposition to what Martin is feeling — a group of kids swinging wildly from the bar of a fence, to a full galley ship taking in water and suddenly sinking like an iron ingot – which adds a more winsome, timeless element to the narrative. It’s clearly set in the past, but avoids being too dependent on that particular sense of place and time. Martin is a young man, at first, just coming into himself, and the actions he takes, what he goes through, the film seems to suggest, would be similar in any age.”

Full Review

5. Minari

“The film is certainly charming, but that’s not to diminish its straightforward approach to its characters’ plight. It doesn’t shy away from their difficulties, and as a result, it doesn’t cheat towards smarmy emotional closure.”

Capsule Review

4. Collective

“The breath of hope in the film, when the inept Minister of Health resigns, leading to the placing of a new, emboldened director who works quickly to clean the quagmire left by his predecessors, is just as quickly expelled after the next round of elections, in which the Social Democrat party — the very ones in charge of this catastrophe in the first place — gets re-elected with an even greater majority than what they had before. A perfect reflection of what happens when a government is allowed to exist without any meaningful oversight, other than from a bedraggled press and a disenchanted electorate.”

Full Review

3. First Cow

“Reichardt, a naturalist at heart, is not known much as a humorist, but there is a lightness to her screenplay -- co-written by Jonathan Raymond, her frequent collaborator, who wrote the original novel upon which its based -- that keeps it as sweetly airy as one of Cookie's fried confections. The two friends are so out of step with their surroundings -- the party of men Cookie initially travels with are little more than brutish thugs, and the fort upon which they end up is no better -- they almost had to find each other. They are reunited in the local bar of the fort only because literally every other patron runs out to egg on a brawl between two loutish combatants.”

Full Review

2. Never Rarely Sometimes Always

“Hittman’s eye for detail and emotional complexity — her characters can rarely articulate anything they’re experiencing — is incredibly acute, and she pulls tremendously understated performances out of her two leads.”

Capsule Review

1. Nomadland

“Perhaps no American director since Terrance Malick has made more of the collapsing light of dusk and twilight than Chloe Zhao. Much of her new film, which stars Frances McDormand as a transigent woman (“not homeless, houseless”), who traverses back and forth across the west in her beat up live-in van, doing seasonal work, takes place in that particular kind of vibrant half-darkness that shrouds the desert and its mountains with a magic kind of mystery.”

Capsule Review

Other Worthy Mentions: 7500; Assassins; Bacurau; Beanpole; Beginning; Black Bear; Bloody Nose Empty Pockets; Boys State; Come Play; Emma; Gunda; His House; Horse Girl; I Am Greta; Jacinta; La Llorona; Let Him Go; Limbo; Mangrove; Mayor; MLK/FBI; One Night in Miami…; Palm Springs; Possessor Uncut; Red, White & Blue; Relic; She Dies Tomorrow; Shirley; Shithouse; Shiva Baby; Some Kind of Heaven; Spring Blossom; Swallow; Tenet; The Dissident; The Invisible Man; The Nest; Sound of Metal; The Vast of Night; The Viewing Booth; The Way I See It; Vitalina Varella; Welcome to Chechnya

Inexplicably Underrated: 7500; Shithouse

Biggest Welcome Surprise(s): The Vast of Night; His House; She Dies Tomorrow

The Best Two Films I Saw This Year, Period: Satantango (1994); Harlan County, USA (1976)

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arse-crack-thistle · 4 years

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rwrb winterfest - day 18 - music

@rwrb-fests

in which my dear princess bea needs a little comfort at christmastime (ace rep)

Bea always has a hard time around Christmas.

Part of it has to do with her father. She seems to find new pieces of him to miss every day. Today, it’s his laugh—the deep chuckle he lets out when David jumps on his lap and licks his face or when he’s had a little too much brandy and Bea says something sarcastic and rude about her grandmother.

She misses how the family used to gather around a table in one of the sitting rooms in Kensington and play gin rummy at Christmastime. The tree would stand tall in the corner. Their father insisted they decorate it themselves, despite Philip’s disapproval. It looked sloppy covered in tinsel and an assortment of colorful lights and ornaments. The star at the top tilted towards the left, but at least the tree filled the room with a delicate pine scent. The fire burned at a soft glow, and everyone around the table laughed and wore paper crowns from their Christmas crackers. It didn’t matter who they were, they were just a normal family.

Now, the room feels cold, even though the fire cracks across from her. In the corner, the bare tree sags. She hasn’t had the energy to decorate it herself since Henry’s been in New York, and while she and Philip have reconciled their differences, he’s never really liked this part of their family’s traditions. Her mother works a ton since stepping up as the heir apparent, so Bea didn’t want to bother her either. Her cat meows next to her on the couch.

Christ, she wants a hit. She wants something to wipe her memory and just let her be. She just might reach for the brandy on the liquor cart. Why did she convince Henry she could handle it being here? Or that she could handle him leaving?

No, he needs to live his life without her, even if she misses him. The hardest part about being ace is watching her people find their person.

She’s happy for Henry and she loves Alex, but she’s lonely when they’re gone. And with loneliness comes dark thoughts. And the chance she will relapse multiplies.

Bea should call her sponsor. Or Henry. Or literally anyone. She knows they’ll answer. She knows she’s loved. But the only person she wants to hold her and make Christmas special again can’t.

She really misses her father.

Bea leaves the room. She puts as much space between her and the brandy as she can. When her fingers itch for something, she must fill them, and the best remedy is music.

Her favorite room in this place looks exactly how she left it the day before. The piano sits, awaiting Henry. The mismatch of rugs were her idea—benders with musicians in Galway inspired her, or what she remembered of them did. The cat finds her way to her spot on the brown settee.

Before picking up a guitar, Bea passes tchotchkes from their travels on an antique side table. Nesting dolls from Russia. A Statue of Liberty figurine from their first trip to the U.S. A toorstag from Henry’s month in Mongolia. A coconut bra from Bea’s drunk cruise in the Caribbean. She’s since become a more sensitive and culturally-minded traveler.

She sits with the instrument on the floor, her back against the settee. This particular guitar was a gift from her father on her fourteenth birthday. It was handmade for her, and her initials sit just below the artisan’s label under the sound hole. The koa wood has a rich, dark finish; Bea likes to drag her finger across the wood grain when she’s deciding what to play next or when she’s lost in her thoughts in between songs. When her father first gave it to her, the sound was bright and lively, but in the time since, it’s become mellow and warm. Perfect for fingerpicking.

She plays a few chords as she tunes it. Her cat purrs behind her ear. Crystal from the chandelier above her twinkles. She settles in the quiet moment and plays.

But there’s no heart in it.

Bea thought if she changed her scenery, if she gave herself something to do, she’d get out of this riptide. But every song, every passing minute, pulls her further and further out.

If no one’s around to hear her play, is it really music?

Is this her safe space if no one’s here to create its harmony with her?

She’s so lonely.

And the tune is as frozen as she feels.

It’s times like these she wishes she wanted her grandmother’s happily ever after—marry a man, pop out a couple of kids, and be a dutiful royal. But she can’t. The thought of marrying someone, of making and raising children, of being a mindless princess puppet actually nauseates her.

If only she had her own community of people like her, she might be able to rely on Henry less. Her other married friends wouldn’t feel so bad for her. She could just go on ignoring her grandmother and Philip, when he gets to be too much. Her mother wouldn’t worry as much.

And not that she wouldn’t miss her father less, but maybe she wouldn’t feel so empty without him here.

Maybe the soul could find its way back into her music.

So Bea snaps herself out of it just enough to text Pez and ask for his Instagram login. She has a plan that her handler—and her grandmother, for that matter—would definitely disapprove of.

But fuck the crown.

Bea needs to take her life in her own hands and demand more for herself. She needs help to feel better, but she has to be the one to initiate. If Henry could do it, so could she.

Part of the AA mantra is to have the courage to change the things she can.

She’s got it, and she can do it.

Pez responds quickly and without question, of course. She sets her guitar to the side and downloads the app. After she logs in, she leans forward and rests the phone against the floor pouf in front of her.

Bea takes a deep breath and starts a livestream, and the viewer count immediately skyrockets. Her grandmother is really going to hate this.

“Um, hello,” she says. “I’m sure you all weren’t expecting to see me, but our friend, Percy, was kind enough to lend me his account for a short while. I hope that’s all right.”

She shifts a little uncomfortably. She never minded the spotlight as long as she could control it, but even now, she feels more venerable than ever. Last year’s Christmas pajamas hang loosely on her. Surely, her reindeer bottoms will go viral, as she sits with her legs crisscrossed in full view of the camera. Her cat mews.

“Yes, thank you for that, darling,” She says to her and then looks to the camera.

“I just wanted to come on here to talk to you all. See, as we’re in the holiday season, it’s all a bit overwhelming, isn’t it? And in all of this hustle and bustle, one finds they get a bit lost along the way.

“I’ve noticed this in myself every year, but this time it’s more frustrating. I’ve just been feeling rather lonely lately, as one can during this chilly time, so I thought maybe you lot have experienced that as well. I wanted to connect with people like me. I don’t mean, like, I want to wallow in my problems—or that I have especially difficult problems—I mean I know I’m very fortunate—I just—um. Let me—let me straighten this out.”

She sighs. This could be a disaster. She could come off entitled and whiny if she doesn’t focus more on her words.

“It seems the people in my life all have a partner, and I am so happy for them, truly. But I don’t want a partner or a relationship of any nature other than friendship. And so during this time of year—and, I suppose, other times as well—I find myself the odd woman out.

“For example, here I am, alone in this place, with only my cat, with whom you’ve already become acquainted. Now, I know I’m very lucky to have this, but it’s empty houses that can lead people down a dark path, isn’t it?”

Bea needs to say the words. She needs to make it very clear. She watches the screen flood with comments and hearts. Hundreds of thousands of people are watching, and tomorrow she’s going to be on every media outlet.

“I’m aromantic and asexual, if that wasn’t clear. I can’t and don’t want to fall in love, and not that it’s anyone’s business, I’m not even faintly interested in sex. And that may be confusing for some of you, but for me, it makes my life, my mind, make sense.”

She’s slowly but surely finding her way back to shore now.

“For years, I thought there was something wrong with me, but there’s not. I thought the only way I could be happy was to be in a relationship, but it’s not. And if you yourself are ace as well, I want you to know you’re not alone.

“This is the real reason why I did all of this. I was lonely and sad tonight, and I wanted you all to know that if you feel that too, it’s okay. I hope I can learn about and grow in the ace community—not to replace my happily coupled friends, but to explore new friendships with people who can understand what I and some of you are going though.

“We’ve been taught that there’s one way to be happy, and I just don’t think that’s true. And I’m willing to prove it if you’ll help me. Starting now.”

Bea reaches for her guitar and places it in her lap. She finds the first chord of “Horchata” by Vampire Weekend. A text notification from Henry pops down.

HOLY SHIT I LOVE YOU!!!!!!

A smile creeps up her cheeks.

“Something I love to do when I’m down is to pick out a little tune. If it’s all right with you, I thought I’d play a round for us. Maybe answer a few questions if you’ve got any.”

Bea picks the first note, and the tone is perfect.

She feels warmth grow in her chest and travel around her arms and down her back.

Like her father hugging her from behind, arms crossed over her shoulders.

Just like he used to do many Christmases ago.

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peppersonironi · 4 years

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Batfam Whumptober Day Six

{Read on Ao3}

No.6: “Get it Out” | No More | “Stop, please”

Summary: A soft whimper came from behind the door, which would have been noticeable if it hadn’t been for the still night. Tim pursed his lips, and made a split second decision. He grabbed the handle and tested it. Unlocked. He eased it open and slipped into Damian’s room. The boy looked small in the large bed, curled in on himself.

Tim frowned at the sight of his brother, at his wet face and trembling limbs. At the way he began to claw at his back. He was having a nightmare, and it must be bad.

AKA- Damian dreams about his time in the League and is comforted by the only brother awake at the unholy hour: Tim.

A/N: I have a thing or Tim & Dami hurt/comfort. I'm not sorry. They're just too cute!

TW: child abuse (both physical and emotional), whipping (I'm not sure if this is graphic or not, I have warnings for both).

*****

“You are an utter disappointment, Ibn al Xu'ffasch.”

Damian looked down at his feet. The test the eight year old had just completed had not gone as smoothly as his Grandfather had hoped, so now the boy had been brought forward for reprimanding.

“An Al Ghul does not accept weakness, an Al Ghul completes whatever task is set before them promptly and without error,” Ra’s Al Ghul continued, “And yet you allowed yourself to be overwhelmed by your adversaries. No matter how many stand in your way, you should have succeeded. CUt down whoever stands in your way to greatness.”

“I understand, Grandfather.” Damian said quietly at the completion of the lecture. He lifted his head to look at Ra’s’ reaction.

“No,” Ra’s said, with steely confidence. “I do not think you do.” He turned his back on his grandson. “To truly understand your defeat, you must be aware of the consequences. I believe seventy-five lashes will do.”

Damian’s eyes widened ever so slightly. It was expected, of course, but seventy-five? He’d never had that many before, his mother would always step in before that happened. But she was in Paris now, there was no one to save him.

Ra’s signalled a flock of League initiates, and Damian was instantly swarmed. The darkly clothed bodies pulled him down to his hands and knees, stripped him of his shirt, and held him steady. There was a moment of stillness, and Damian found himself struggling to keep from tensing his muscles. Then the whip made it’s first landing.

His back screamed in pain, the sharp crack leaving a line of burning agony down his spine. It was as if his back had been split in two, with a canyon of ruined flesh between the two.

He let out a gasp of pain, but didn’t allow himself to produce any more weak noises. He didn’t have much time, however, as the whip returned with a vengeance, a few centimeters to the right of its first passing. This one hurt just as much as the first, though Damian was more prepared for the sensations.

The whip dropped viciously again and again and again. He felt the blood begin to slowly drip down the wounds and onto the sparse sections of unruined skin, down further till it dripped on the backs of his bare feet.

Then, the whip’s master changed tactics. Damian let out a surprised scream as the whip landed on an already existing slash. The pain cut deeper than before, and was twice as painful.

“Hmm.” Ra’s said, sounding uninterested. “For that, twenty more.”

Damian whimpered silently, hoping that the whipper hadn’t meant to hit the same place, and it wouldn’t happen again.

It did.

The whip repeated the same tactic, choosing a lighter slash this time, driving the wound deeper than before. His whole back felt like it was on fire, the burning intense and blanketing.

A few more lashes and they had made it to fifty.

It was on the fifty-first that the whip first hit bone.

Damian cringed harshly and was brought down to his elbows. The whip didn’t let up. A few more blows and he felt a spot on the bottom right section of his back peel away. If he could see it, he would have sworn that pearly white gleamed out of the red.

No more , he thought desperately. He hadn’t taken much more than this before, the torture was usually switched to some other technique.

But no one heard any of his silent please - and even if they had, his Grandfather would have just increased the number of lashings. The whip kept dropping with a steady rhythm of pain. The cracks came one after another. The blows came.

Again.

And again.

And again .

He wanted so badly to beg. Beg for the pain to stop. Beg for his Grandfather’s forgiveness. Beg or his mother, who so rarely showed the affection he craved.

But he didn’t.

Damian bit his tongue as the whip kept coming. He tasted the blood in his mouth soon enough, and tried to use the metallic tang to ground himself. It didn’t work. With each crack he was brought right back to pain that his world had become, there was no calming space in his mind he could retreat to.

It was at the eightieth strike that he finally broke.

“Stop, please.” he cried out, tears breaking through his once firm resolve.

His Grandfather turned back to him, and Damian knew with all his heart that he was going to regret those words.

*****

Tim sighed down at the empty coffee mug in his hand. He’d been working on a case for the past few hours, and coffee had been his one true love for the majority of the time. But now his love was gone.

Time for a refill.

Tim stood up from his nest of papers atop his bed and grabbed his three different mugs. Might as well get stocked up.

He walked out of his door, closing it quietly - if Bruce caught him, he’d be sent to bed immediately, and this case needed solving - and slid down the long corridor that the bedrooms took up. It was quiet - most people were out of town or staying at their own places. Tim paused at the doors whose occupants were present. Bruce, who was at the end of the hall, was still; he seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Or he was at Selina’s. Duke’s room was quiet, he’d been asleep for longer, pros of having a so-called ‘normal sleep schedule.’

Tim continued down till he reached the hall connecting the current wing of the house. As he walked past Damian’s door, however, he froze.

A soft whimper came from behind the door, which would have been noticeable if it hadn’t been for the still night. Tim pursed his lips, and made a split second decision. He grabbed the handle and tested it. Unlocked. He eased it open and slipped into Damian’s room. The boy looked small in the large bed, curled in on himself.

Tim frowned at the sight of his brother, at his wet face and trembling limbs. At the way he began to claw at his back. He was having a nightmare, and it must be bad.

He rushed forward as quietly as he could, and eased himself onto the bed. Tim reached out his hand and, praying that he wouldn’t get stabbed, rustled Damian’s shoulder.

He wasn’t attacked.

Instead, Damian scrambled back, his eyes wide and unseeing. Tim’s heart broke as he saw his brother in such a state. Whatever he was seeing had to be horrible for him to flee rather than fight.

“Dami, it’s me,” Tim called quietly. He wanted to reach out and hug the little brat - crap, what had Dick done to him? - but wouldn’t dare for fear of startling him again.

Damian blinked slowly, still shivering. “Timothy?” He asked, tucking his knees up to his chin.

“Yeah, Dami,” Tim said, leaning slightly closer. “I came in to check on you. Are you alright?”

He clearly was not alright, but Tim knew his brother was a prideful little chicken nugget, and wouldn’t dare admit he’d been crying.

But then the kid surprised him.

Damian launched forward and into Tim’s arms, wrapping around his torso and tucking his tear-stained face into his chest.

“I’m in the manor?” he asked timidly.

Tim blinked for a moment. “Yeah, we’re in your room. You’re safe here.”

He slowly wrapped his arms around Damian, but froze when the boy flinched. Tim searched his mind for what he’d done wrong, before remembering the sight he’d seen just minutes before.

Damian clawing at his back.

Tim eased his arms around again, pulling the younger boy into his lap, while trying to avoid his back.

“You’re okay, Damian.” Tim whispered when Damian began to tremble again. “We’re home.”

“Grandfather …” Damian began and Tim had to resist the urge to stiffen. Of course he was having nightmares about Ra’s, the b*astard still had his hold on the kid, despite not seeing him for four years now.

“Shh,” Tim said, stroking Damian’s hair, “he’s not here. You’re safe.”

“But I failed,” Damian choked out, the tears returning.

Tim scooched further onto the bed, grabbing some blankets from where they’d been haphazardly thrown off in the child’s panic.

“You don’t need to be perfect anymore, Damian.” Tim spoke softly as he readjusted himself and began to wrap his brother in a cocoon as best as he could with him still wrapped around Tim. They’d found out a while back that the pressure calmed boy significantly. “I know it’s not fair what happened to you. What Ra’s did. But it’s over. You’re home.”

Damon sniffled and pressed harder into Tim’s chest.

“Come on,” he whispered, “get it out. It’s alright to cry.”

He wasn’t sure if the small Wayne believed him, but Tim kept whispering into his ear. He wished he could tell his brother that none of it was real, that he would be safe forever, and nothing could ever hurt him again. But that wasn’t their lie. And Tim didn’t want to lie.

So instead he told his brother what he knew was true. That Ra’s was gone. That the League didn’t have him anymore. That right here, right now, Tim wasn’t going to let anything in. That Damian could sleep, that he was safe here in the manor. In his room. In Tim’s arms.

Damian gradually relaxed, the tense muscles loosening. He didn’t stop holding onto Tim, but the older boy didn’t complain. It was nice, honestly.

“Shhh,” Tim said when the tears had calmed down to slow hiccups. He stroked his brother’s dark hair, before pressing a kiss into it.

A few minutes later, and even the hiccups subsided. Damian sighed and nuzzled Tim’s now soaked shirt. He chuckled softly, the kid could be such a cat sometimes. Selina would be proud.

Tim slowly shifted till they were both laying down on the bed.He pulled the rest of the blankets up and settled underneath them. Work could wait, he wouldn’t dare leave Damian now.

After a while, the smallest bat’s breathing evened out, and Tim let loose a sigh of relief. Damian was asleep.

Tim let himself relax only then, now that he was sure Damian could get some rest. He didn’t move, finding the cuddling quite comfortable. He just closed his eyes, pushing thoughts of cases and deadlines from his mind.

Damian was the most important. He wasn’t going to worry about anything other than his brother.

Tim sighed contentedly. He spoke once more, before sleep overtook him. Using the arabic word for brother that Damian strictly regulated the use of - for both himself and others. Tim didn’t learn arabic - which regretted now that it was his youngest brother’s first language - but he’d picked up a few small words here and there, which Damian seemed to find comforting.

Tim kissed his brother’s forehead one last time.

“Goodnight, Ahki.”

Tagging: @starrystories2

#whumptober2020 #no.6 #get it out #no more #stop please #batam #dc #fic #child abuse tw #whipping tw #damian wayne #tim drake #ra's al ghul #hurt/comfort #snuggles #crying #comfort #good brothers #nightmares

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snarkythewoecrow · 4 years

Text

hanging on while the world crashes in

by: Snarkymuch

Word count: 5.2k

*TRIGGER WARNING for SELF HARM*

I tried to approach this subject with sensitivity but it is still triggering. There are discussions of the guilt and shame around self-harm.This was written for an anon on Tumblr, who wanted more Peter coping with self-harm, using a rubber band. I hope you like it.

AN: Big thank you to @justme--emily and @thelostweasley77 for checking the ending out and making sure it sounded good. I appreciate it!

Summary: Peter is struggling after coming back from the snap. He starts to fall into old habits, ones he thought he was over. He uses a rubber band on his wrist to cope, but eventually those close to him notice. Tony misses nothing.

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The battle fell silent, and Peter saw Tony collapse against a piece of rubble. He fought invisible hands as he tried to reach his side. It was like he was moving through molasses. When he reached Tony, he fell to his knees, reaching out unbelieving as his mentor, his friend, laid dying. Empty eyes looked off into nothingness, glazed and unseeing. A scream built in Peter’s chest as he reached for Tony, but he couldn’t touch him, his hands passed right through …

He woke himself, panting and clutching the sheets. It was just a dream. Tony was alive and well in his lake house with Pepper and Morgan. It was the same dream he’d had nearly every night. Instead of Captain Marvel using the gauntlet, Tony had, and he’d died in the process.

A thin sheen of sweat coated his skin, and his clothes clung to him. He tried to steady his breathing. It has felt so real.

To the outside world, he’d done his best to put on a good face and pretend that he was okay, but he was far from it. It was all too much to lose five years, having people who were younger than him now older. He felt lost in a sea of emotion, drifting in the currents and struggling not to drown.

It had been a long time since he felt so lost, without a tether. Like when Ben had died, and he’d fought hard against the waves of grief. Nothing had felt stable then, just as nothing did now.

In those times, he’d turned to less than acceptable means to ground himself and find control. A blade offered solace where nothing else could. He knew it was wrong, but the pain was like a lifeline in a stormy sea, stopping the choppy waters long enough to catch his breath.

Like everything, though, May had found out. Maybe Peter wasn’t hiding it well on purpose. Maybe he wanted to be discovered. Part of him had known if he didn’t stop, he’d keep falling down the slippery slope.

Therapy had become a thing, and he’d learned skills to cope. Holding ice cubes in his hands until they burned, drawing on his arms, but the one that stuck and worked the most was the rubber band. It couldn’t be a thin one. It needed to be one with weight and strength. He’d wear it like a bracelet, drawing it back and snapping it hard whenever the storm inside him became too rough, and he felt the urge to cut.

At first, he’d seen the pain in May’s eyes when she saw him snapping it, but eventually, it just became part of them. When he fingered the band, May would ask if he was okay. He didn’t open up at first, but he soon found himself snapping it less and talking more. The churning sea of emotion became more settled, and he moved on, but he kept his bands in a drawer, just in case he ever needed them again, which now, maybe he did.

So much grief and hurt swirled in him, mixing with loss. He should be happy everyone was okay, that the vanished were returned and Thanos was stopped, but he couldn’t change the twisting emotions that wrenched at his heart.

For the first time in a long time, Peter wanted to cut. It wasn’t a pretty feeling, and it wasn’t okay. He wasn’t okay, though. He was spiraling and needed something to stop his fall. He couldn’t focus, and everything felt like too much. He craved the feeling of it all being driven down to a sharp point, real physical pain he could control.

With clumsy movements, he pushed himself up, throwing back the covers. His heart was still beating a bit too fast, and his breaths a touch too shallow. The walls felt like they were pressing in, and his chest ached selfishly for everything he’d lost.

He plunked down in his desk chair and pulled the drawer open with single-minded focus. The little pile of rubber bands gave him pause, and he brushed over them with his fingertips, but that wouldn’t be enough, and he knew it. Or maybe it could have been, but he was weak and wanted the real thing.

Pens and paperclips rattled around as he dug to the very back of the drawer, his bottom lip between his teeth. His fingers brushed the plastic outside, and his prize shifted out of reach, but Peter doubled his efforts. His nail caught it, and he dragged it, scrapping, toward the front of the drawer.

The small yellow utility knife sat amongst the clutter with a power that it shouldn’t hold. Like a siren call, it drew Peter closer, never taking his eyes off it. His fingers brushed over it before picking it up, turning it in his hand, weighing it, and finding it worthy of the task.

A piece of him knew he shouldn’t be doing this, but it was suffocated by the need for an anchor, for something grounding. He told himself that as he looked at the blade that it would be just once, he would use the bands after, but even as he told himself that, he knew it was a lie.

He felt alive as he held it to his skin, and the storm raging inside him quieted as he pressed the blade to the surface of his arm. He drew a stuttering breath through his teeth at the initial sting and then breathed out a sigh. He didn’t feel like he was drowning anymore. He felt in control for this first time since Titan.

Blood bubbled up from the cut and dribbled down the side of his arm, weaving a haphazard path until it reached the pale underside and beaded there, ready to drip onto the floor.

He watched it with fascination, grabbed a dirty sock on the floor, and dabbed up the blood with the cleaner looking end. The immediate rush he felt was already fading, and the line the blade had drawn was already sealing over, no match for his super-powered healing.

Adjusting his grip on the knife, he licked his lips, glancing once at the open drawer and nest of rubber bands. He shoved it closed, not wanting to see evidence of his failings staring him in the eye.

With more pressure than the last, he carved a deeper line into his arm, a cut that, unlike the previous, bled free and fast. The blood did drip onto the floor this time, hitting it with tiny splatters. Some landed on his leg and more on his barefoot, running down under his heel.

The only thing he could feel was the burn of the wound. It muted all the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. For a moment, he could just breathe. Sitting in his room, the world made a little more sense, and everything he couldn’t understand before was in focus.

The flow of blood had slowed, but it was still running in rivulets down his arm. He pressed the soiled sock to the wound, relishing the stab of pain that came with the action. It would heal in a few hours if it even took that long.

Peeling back the sock, he examined his work. The skin was neatly split, but the blood had stopped.

There was no point in bandaging it, so he cleaned up the blood on the floor and changed his pajama pants. Then, he went into the bathroom and washed the blood from his arm. When he got back to his room, he slipped the knife back into its hiding spot.

The next morning, he hesitated by his desk, eyeing the drawer. Two very different but connected things were in there. The rubber bands and the knife. He wondered what it said about him that he couldn’t decide which to take. Maybe he should take both.

Part of him began to reason that healing his factor protected from real harm, so where was the danger? The small piece of plastic and metal had given him more peace than anything else had in months. After giving in and letting himself have that moment, he’d been able to sleep without dreams of turning to dust.

But then he thought of May and the look she had in her eyes the first time she saw the cuts healing on his arms after Ben, and it felt like the air was sucked from his lungs. She’d trusted him not to cut, and he’d broken that unsaid promise.

Guilt crashed over him at what he’d done, eating him alive like a thousand flesh-eating beetles. There was no going back, though, no pretending he hadn’t done it. Even if he didn’t tell her, he’d know, and that was enough.

He needed to do better—for himself and for May. He yanked the drawer open and grabbed one of the bands, still unsure what he’d say when May saw it. He stretched it over his hand and let it circle his wrist. He gave a small snap and then shut the drawer and went about getting ready.

May was in the kitchen when he went to grab something to eat before school. She greeted him with a warm smile, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him down to kiss his cheek.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” she said, turning to refill her abandoned cup on the counter. “How’d you sleep?”

“Good,” Peter lied, the word tasting chalky in his mouth. Unconsciously, he rubbed the band that circled his left wrist. “How was work last night?”

“You know, a nurse’s job is never done. It was busy, but I guess it could have been worse. At least the AC was working.” She leaned against the counter, taking a sip of her coffee, but paused and lowered the cup, her eyes locked on Peter’s wrist. “Do we need to talk?”

Peter dropped his arm, like that would somehow hide what he’d done. “It’s—I’m okay.”

May’s brows drew together, and she studied him for a moment before setting down her cup and crossing the short distance to Peter. She took his hands in hers, warm and dry against his cold and clammy. She squeezed them, and he did it back.

“You’d tell me if it was getting bad again, right?”

He nodded as the guilt over what he’d done filled his lungs, stopping his breath. He didn’t want to lie, but he couldn’t tell the whole truth either.

“It can’t be easy for you. You’ve been through a lot. There’s no shame in struggling.”

He couldn’t move his head to nod, so he stared at a point to the side of her face and tried to swallow some of the emotion he was drowning in.

She stayed silent, holding his hands, and after a moment, he chanced a look at her face. The understanding he saw in her eyes just made the pain all that much worse.

“I’m sorry, May.” His voice trembled. “I’m so sorry.”

“Whatever happened, it’s okay. It’ll be okay. I know you didn’t mean it. And this here”—her thumb touched the band—“this tells me that you want to do better, and that’s enough for me.”

xXx

The rubber band became part of his very existence again, just like it had years ago. He found himself constantly touching it and reminding himself that it was there. When the world became too much, and he felt like he was drifting away, he would snap it and let the sting ground him, reminding him where he was.

It wasn’t what he craved, though. It was a cheap replacement for the real thing, but the guilt over what he’d done was enough to keep him from cutting again. Almost.

Over a month had passed since the incident as he called it, where he fell back and reset his count to zero. May asked him every day how he was. Sometimes she would ask him to rate it, the need, from one to ten. Some days were lower than others. Most days, he hovered near a six. A few times after waking up from a nightmare, he’d been higher, but the band brought it back down to a reasonable number, if there ever was such a thing. What was reasonable about wanting to cut your own skin, to watch yourself bleed?

Tony had invited him to spend the weekend at the lake house, and May didn’t let him say no. She thought it might be good to get out of the city. If he was honest, it scared him a little, thinking about going. Tony was perceptive, his eyes were sharp, and he rarely missed the details, no matter how hard Peter tried to hide them. Tony didn’t know about the cutting or the band. It was the one thing he’d kept from the man. Maybe he was a coward, but he didn’t want to see the disappointment in Tony’s eyes when he told him. Even though it hurt to lie, it was a necessary evil, a small price to pay for peace of mind.

Peter began to pack a bag, and he paused at the desk, his eyes locked on the drawer, and it wasn’t the bands that were calling him. Swallowing a lump of guilt, he opened it and reached into the back, finding the knife. Wrapping it in a sock, he tucked it into his bag, feeling a sickening twist of relief.

The ride to the lake house went quickly, and soon Happy was pulling into the secluded driveway. The weather was hot, so he was wearing short sleeves. Thankfully, there was no scarring from what he’d done before, and to anyone looking, it seemed like he’d collected a random rubber band. There was no hint that it was something more profound.

Morgan greeted him with a hug around his legs when he got out of the car, and Tony stood from the rocking chair on the porch and smiled. He had a glass of something that looked like lemonade in his hand.

Peter grabbed his bag and then let Morgan lead him into the house. The few times he’d stayed over, he was given the guest room near Tony’s and Peppers. He wiggled out of Morgan’s hold long enough to drop his bag and then followed her as she showed him her bug collection, something that he imagined Pepper wasn’t too excited about.

Pepper swept in with a smile and greeted Peter and collected a very disagreeable child for a bath. In all the chaos that was Morgan, he hadn’t thought of the band on his wrist, and maybe that was a good thing. He liked to think it was.

The sun was casting long shadows as it set against the trees at the end of the lake. Peter hadn’t seen Tony yet, other than to say hi as Morgan dragged him past. He thumbed the band on his wrist and walked out toward the garage, where Tony was probably hiding.

He knocked on the door to the garage, and Tony’s voice came from inside. “It’s open.”

Peter opened the door and blinked a few times at the dimmer lit room. His eyes didn’t really need to adjust much—spider powers and all. Tony wiped his hands on a shop towel, draping it over his shoulder after.

Peter might not have been avoiding him, but maybe he was scared to be around him. Between his memories of his nightmares, and fear Tony would somehow see through him, see how broken he was. He shouldn’t be depressed or struggling. He should be thankful and happy that he’d been given another chance and saved, but the only thing he felt was wrong. He didn’t feel like he fit like he used to. The world felt like it moved on without him. Perhaps it had.

Without thinking, his index finger hooked the band and snapped it. The little jolt brought him back into the moment, and the sting grounded him there, pushing away a bit of the storm that was brewing inside him.

When Peter blinked, he noticed Tony looking at his wrist, and Peter dropped his arms. He rubbed his palms against his jeans and tried not to shirt under Tony’s scrutiny.

“So, what you working on?” Peter asked, hoping to break the tension.

Tony seemed to shake himself out of whatever was on his mind and motioned to the workbench where Pepper’s Rescue armor lay. “Just upgrading a few things. Never can be too careful. Could come in useful again someday, though let’s hope not.”

Peter tried to hide the flinch at the mention of the final battle. “That’s cool. Do you need any help?”

Tony’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Yeah, of course. I can show you what I’ve done.”

They worked together in silence, Peter more watching that helping. He hadn’t been sleeping well, and it was finally wearing him down. He tried hard not to touch the band. It was already stupid to snap it once in front of Tony. It showed too much of his hand. He knew the man would begin looking for answers where Peter didn’t want to give them. He reassured himself, though, that at least he wasn’t cutting. He’d been doing well.

But not using the band in front of Tony or the rest of the family put him in a bad position. He couldn’t keep the urge in check and keep himself grounded. He felt a little like he was floating away. Tony’s words drifted past him, not really connecting. Maybe it was tiredness, or perhaps it was something more. Either way, he was having trouble pretending that he was okay and that his world wasn’t tilted and off-balanced. He knew the smile on his face rang hollow, and it scared him that Tony was too perceptive to miss it.

“Why don’t we go see what Pepper’s wrangled up for dinner?” Tony’s voice pulled him from his head.

He hadn’t noticed it, but he was thumbing the band again, so he stuffed his hand into his pocket.

“Yeah, yeah, that sounds great. Morgan’s probably looking for me again by now.”

Tony smiled, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “You’re a good brother, Peter. Thank you for that.”

Peter shook his head. “I should be thanking you.”

And he really felt he should. Tony had created time travel to bring them all back. It wasn’t his fault that Peter was broken and didn’t come back right.

Tony clapped a hand on Peter’s back. “I guess we should just call it even.”

Dinner went well. It was lasagna with garlic bread and a salad. Morgan ate the soft part of the bread but refused to eat the crust, she nibbled the lettuce like a rabbit, and spread her lasagna across her plate. He wasn’t really sure she ate much, but her giggling and chatter eased some of his nerves.

Every time he looked down at his wrist, though, he saw the band and thought of what he’d done, then looked at Morgan and felt a wave of shame and guilt. She deserved better than a brother who hurt himself because he couldn’t cope any other way. And he was scared, too, worried that his darkness would somehow rub off on her, contaminating her. What if she learned what he did and followed down the same path?

Dinner sat heavy in his stomach after that thought, and he excused himself from the table, earning a concerned look from Tony. Peter tried to give him a weak smile and reassure him, but he knew it fell flat.

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay, honey?” Pepper asked, looking ready to stand and press a hand to his forehead. He appreciated the kindness.

Peter nodded, his lips stretched in a thin smile. “I’m just drained. I haven’t been able to sleep the last few nights—no, it’s nothing to worry about—just been up studying. My own fault.”

Tony’s eyes searched his face for something, but then he let out a breath and nodded. “Get some rest, kid. We can go swimming tomorrow.”

“I can do a cannonball!” Morgan announced.

Peter’s smile got a little warmer. “That’s great, Mo. I can’t wait to see.”

“You sure you don’t want to stay up with me? We’re gonna watch the Lion King again.”

Peter ruffled her hair. “I’ll watch something with you tomorrow. I promise.” He waved at the table and excused himself.

When he got to his room, he closed the door, leaning back against it as his shoulders fell. He sagged against the wood, running a hand over his face. Coming to the lake house had been a bad idea. He should have stayed home, where he couldn’t spread his disease. He didn’t need to infect others.

The worst of it was that he wanted to cut, and his day hadn’t been that bad. Maybe that made him even weaker. He couldn’t even handle day to day life without feeling like he had to hurt himself. It wasn’t how healthy people reacted. He was a freak.

He didn’t want to snap the band, he just wanted to be better, but what else could he do? He glanced across the room at his backpack, and the knife he knew was wrapped up inside. Tony would never know. If he was careful, he could hide it. They weren’t expecting him to leave him room until morning, and by then, everything would be healed.

No, he couldn’t. He crossed the room to his bed and laid down. He would sleep through the urge. He needed to be better.

Peter kneeled on the ground, his knife in his hand, pressing to his arm, blood dribbled down his wrist, and dripping on the grass. He was at the lake house, in front of the porch, and Morgan was watching him, a knife of her own held in her small hands. She watched his movements, then looked at her arm and began to cut like Peter. He wanted to stop her, to scream no, but he couldn’t find his voice.

Peter woke with a start, clutching the sheets and panting for breath. It was dark except for the crisp moonlight cutting through the window. His stomach churned of the memory of Morgan’s chubby little fingers wrapped around the knife. The edges of his vision began to darken as he struggled to breathe, spots dancing. Bile rose in his throat, bitter-tasting on the back of his tongue.

He blindly felt around his wrist for the band and began snapping it, but the sting wasn’t enough to ground him, though it did help a little. The skin started to get sore, but he kept going, finding a steady rhythm.

His heart began to slow, and his breathing settled, but he needed air. The walls still felt too close, too confining. If he were back home, he’d go to the roof. Tossing back his blanket, he slipped from the bed and walked barefoot out of his room and down the stairs. He was careful to walk quietly so as not to wake anyone up. He went out the back door and onto the porch, sitting down on the bench and looking out over the water. The moon’s light reflected over the surface, causing ripples of light that stretched across the lake.

Instead of snapping the band, he began to dig his thumbnail into his arm. He needed it, just for a minute. It would stop the spiral and let him breathe. The pain grew, the harder he pushed, and blood started to bubble up. It looked black in the moonlight and oddly satisfying.

His eyes fell closed only to snap open when he heard the door.

“Pete?” It was Tony. He was dressed in sweats with a tank.

Peter tried to shift his arm and hide the blood trail that marked his arm, but it only made it that more obvious. Shame crashed over him, and his heart began beating out of his chest.

“It’s not what it looks like.” Peter’s voice broke over the words.

Tony’s eyes were on the small river of blood leading toward his wrist. His gaze broke away from it to meet Peter’s, and it took everything Peter had not to shrink under the intensity. He didn’t look angry. That would have been easier. No, Tony looked worried and hurt, which was so much worse.

Maybe seeing Peter struggling, Tony’s expression softened even more, and he sat down beside Peter, looking out over the lake.

“You did it to yourself.” And it wasn’t really a question. Tony was telling him.

Peter looked at the water, frowning. The blood on his arm was drying, and the small wound was already closing. There was no point in lying, and if Peter was honest, he didn’t want to lie. He carried enough—he didn’t have room for lies, too.

“Yeah,” Peter breathed, feeling a weight lift.

He could see Tony nod beside him, and they sat in silence for a little longer, the water lapping the shore the only sound.

“How long?”

That wasn’t an easy question. Had he ever gotten better, or had he just tricked himself into believing he had? Was this something he would ever heal from?

“After Ben.” Peter’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “And then after the battle, after coming back. I—I don’t think I came back right, ya know?”

Tony looked at him, and Peter dared a quick glance. Tony’s eyes dropped to the blood, and then he looked out over the water again, so Peter did, too.

“Why didn’t you come to me? I should’ve—I knew something was going on. The rubber band, right?”

“Yeah, uh, it’s a coping thing?” It came out like a question, and he wasn’t sure why. Maybe because it failed to work when he needed it. “May knows,” he added, not really sure why.

“Do you we—what do we do here? Do you need to talk? I feel like I should be angry, but I don’t want to be, kid. I just want you to be okay. I feel like I dropped the ball. Can I ask—can I ask why?”

Peter sucked in a breath, fisting his hands in his lap. “I don’t know, I guess. It wasn’t something I set out to do. It just happened one day, and then I couldn’t stop, but it’s not like before. I used to be worse, I guess. I’ve only really done it once since coming back, for real anyway.”

Tony sucked in a breath. “Is it always just scratching? That’s what you did tonight, right? It looked like you did it yourself.”

Something inside Peter tightened. He didn’t like talking about this, but he didn’t want to lie. Maybe it would help to talk about it. “Um, no, I mean, sometimes—I have a knife.”

Peter chanced a look at Tony and saw he had gone still.

“Did you bring it with you?” There was something Peter couldn’t place in his tone, and it made his stomach knot.

“I, uh … It’s in my bag. I wasn’t going to use it here.” He felt like he should explain. “I wouldn’t do that. I just—it made me feel better having it. Just in case.”

Toy made a noise of acknowledgment, then sucked in another breath. “Okay, well. I’m going to need that.”

Peter swallowed; his palms were sweaty now. “Yeah, I understand.”

“And I’m talking to May about this. We are going to get you some therapy, something. I lost you once. I can’t—I won’t lose you again.” There was a finality to his tone, and Peter knew better than to argue.

“I really am sorry.”

Tony looked at him, then wrapped his arm around his shoulders, pulling him into his side. “Don’t apologize for this. Yeah, I don’t want you hurting yourself, and I don’t really understand, or maybe I do. I don’t know. I just—it’s not your fault. We’ll figure this out. You’re not alone.”

Tears blurred Peter’s vision, and he slipped his arms around Tony’s waist, burying his face in his chest. “I don’t want to be like this.”

“I know, kiddo. I know. I promise we’ll figure this out. We just need to take this one day at a time.”

Tony rubbed a hand up and down Peter’s back, and they stayed huddled together until the sky began to lighten, and Peter’s neck started to ache. He rubbed his eyes, sitting up and looking out over the lake.

Red and orange painted the horizon as the sun crested the mountains in the distance. Morgan and Pepper would be up soon, and he needed to clean himself up. The dried blood on his arm was still there, flaking away, but the crescent-shaped cut from his nail was gone.

Tony rubbed his back a little more and took his arm from around Peter and rubbed his eyes. Peter couldn’t help but notice how tired he looked now.

“I think we know what we need,” Tony said, looking away from the sunrise to Peter. “Waffles. Iron Man waffles. They’re like magic, can fix anything.”

Peter knew waffles weren’t going to fix anything, but he still found a smile tugging at his lips. “I can’t believe you buy your own merch.”

“I’ll have you know, Rhodey bought the waffle maker.” He tipped his head to the side. “Now the shower curtain, that’s another thing. I can’t help it. I like how I look.”

Peter huffed a laugh, absently fingering the band. “I should probably go get washed up before Morgan wakes up.”

“You okay?” Tony’s eyes were full of concern.

He looked at the blood on his arm. “You know, I don’t think I am, but I’d like to be.”

Tony nodded, nudging his shoulder into Peter. “It’s okay not to be, but, Pete, I need you to bring the knife down.”

He looked out at the water and then at Tony. “Yeah, that’s probably for the best. Do I really need to talk to someone? What about, you know, Spider-Man?”

“Let me take care of that. I’ll find someone we can trust. You’ll tell me if it gets bad, right? Until we find someone, I need to know you’re safe.”

“Yeah, the, uh, the band helps, but if it gets bad, I’ll try to tell you. I just—it’s not always the easiest thing. I don’t always think things through.”

Tony drew a deep breath. “Okay, I guess I’ll take what I can get. Enough with the heavy stuff. Why don’t you go clean up and get the thing we talked about, and I’ll go warm up the waffle iron.”

Peter nodded. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

He knew things wouldn’t be instantly better, and he knew waffles wouldn’t fix the pain, but maybe it was the first step to making things better, a soothing balm over a raw wound. He didn’t need to hide anymore, and he wasn’t alone. Help was waiting. He just needed to reach out and take it.

#tw:self harm #irondad #peter parker #tony stark #marvel #hurt/comfort #snark writes

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terrorhqs · 4 years

Text

This is a laydown of what went down during our last closed event — THE HUNT. It will mainly focus on what went down on the island itself, as plotted with the original ghost trekking breakfast club: Jonathan, Ayla, Jaya, Emma-Rose, Iskender & the late Philippa. For the bulk of the action, you can find all the events here: (x), (x), (x).

The initial grand conspiracy for the hunt happened on 27th of July, in The Promethean’s otherwise empty sickbay, between the six people mentioned above and sergeant Jack Fox (dragged there by their date, we presume). All conspirators agree the trek back to Devon Island is necessary in order to find more information about the creature. Jack Fox thinks it’s an insane idea, and, over the rattling sound of six empty skulls, his brain agrees to stay back and coordinate the (eventual) rescue party.

By this time, THE NEVERNEDING DARKNESS has already fallen over The Arctic, but its first victim, THE LOVER, had not yet been claimed.

The Lover’s death, THE SONGS INSIDE THE DARKNESS, coincides with the departure of the cryptid hunters in the middle of the following night: 28th of July.

In the turmoil, their disappearance takes some hours to get noticed. Thankfully, some thought it was a good idea to leave letters behind, just in case they had any chance of getting away scot-free with this. Peak brain synergy, that. So, yes, in the course of the next day, their escape is noticed, and all tracks lead to Devon Island. Like, the place they just escaped. Grand, says Malachy Dowling, and begins to gather the rescue party. They set out on the 29th of July. Both treks, the saviors and the doomed’s, take 10h one way.

It should be noted: the air? Freezing. The visibility? Pitch black. The lanterns they brought? Feeble. The hotel? Trivago. So this is what takes place on the island:

Jonathan and Emma manage to collect a few soil & vegetation samples. Iskender takes a moment to chastise them both, while he is quick to write down as much as he can from the physical impressions of the party.

Ayla and Pippa are scattering lamplight every which way, working to illuminate the path of the other three. Jaya has her guns cocked, and her feral frown down pat. Everything is in place. Now all they have to do is wait for this creature, or one of its manifestations, to make its demands known, to make contact.

What happened instead is that, ever so slowly, in the seamless mapping of one’s own dreams and fears, the crew starts to experience slips of visions. Or so they called them, because one must call the unspeakable something. Yet they were not external; they were not projections coming from without. Rather, this was an immersion to something inward, something always waiting but never trodden before. A realm and a shoreline. Some of the trekkers can later be heard claiming they were actually transported. That the sightings were born from their own selves, and no other possessed them. That it led them to different places, gaps in the fabric of the earth and sky.

They were awake for all of it... and yet they were not, because all their senses, anything they might wield to engage with the other world, existed in another place.

Jonathan saw: A creature trapped in this place, hungering for help, its head nested in a bed of soft flowers. In his mind, he was approaching to save it, to save them all; the stillness of a statue was actually the urgency of a child in a meadow.

Ayla saw: Green rolling hills, an endless undulation of grass and movement, that when they tried to touch it withered below their feet. Seaglass skies, seaglass human faces. They try to stick their own mouths to them, but only meet death and dearth instead.

Emma saw: A savage garden teeming with thorns, with plants that have grown not only teeth, but claws, pincers, and mouths, all crooning in the voices of dead friends. Is this what led her to walk to Philippa? To lead all of them by the brook, the river of soot?

Iskender saw: Stepping through a valley of sand, a valley of dead kings, and wading in a river. He knew the river was blood that belonged to him, to people like him. Its warmth had more of home than he’d ever felt before. He remembered wanting to go under.

Jaya saw: A finger floating in a barrel of brine, a pair of eyes torn from their sockets. The inside of ship’s hull, no hatch for its closings, no stairs for the exit. The trapping of wood, of salt, of things that have grown stale and untouched inside the darkness.

Philippa saw: A furl of white dress, linen on a round shoulder. She had the weight of a hand in hers: nothing has ever carried so much presence for her, such tangibility. She thought it was a child’s hand - the child she once was, the child she’ll never have.

The dreams spool on, the closest thing to endless the mind can endure.

Emma kills Philippa by the small stream. Her eyes are focused, attuned, turning sharp over the bones. Bending down in her blood, she begins to watch.

Iskender and Ayla kneel for the ritual, kneel for the things that wait in the sky.

Jonathan speaks to creatures that have never needed forgiveness, never needed song. He is begging them to come here, come back. At one point, he begins to cry out apologies, cry out to names both human and inhuman. It lasts for hours before everything falls silent.

The salvage crew arrives.

#thqevent #thqadmin

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diarrheaworldstarhiphop · 5 years

Link

Five years ago, while a student at Columbia, Sulkowicz lugged a dorm-issue, extra-long twin mattress around campus for as long as she had to attend school with her alleged rapist. This was Mattress Performance (Carry That Weight), a globally viral art piece that made visible the weight of campus sexual assault. It transformed Sulkowicz into an icon. Since then, her artworks have regularly roused the internet: a video of her reenacting her assault, a bondage performance at the Whitney that doubled as institutional critique. This past spring, she tweeted an image that was perhaps even more provocative: a photo of her grinning alongside two of her libertarian critics — not performance art, she insists, but a byproduct of her new curiosity about other views.

“All my clothes are in boxes,” she tells me, gesturing apologetically to her oversize charcoal hoodie. She’s in the midst of moving from a sublet owned by a tantra instructor (mirrors surrounding the bed to create an infinite regression — that kind of thing) to an apartment in lower Manhattan whose location she asks me not to reveal, since “there’s some really scary people who are obsessed with me.” Her hair is short-cropped and coffee black, its natural color after years of bright dyes, and her voice is buoyant, laughter always bubbling underneath. Since 2016, Sulkowicz has identified as gender fluid, and she sometimes uses they/them pronouns. When I ask what to use for this article, she texts me, “Lol I’m not clear about it either,” before settling on she/her.

During the summer of 2018, Sulkowicz tells me, she was single for the first time in years. Swiping through Tinder, a man she found “distasteful” super-liked her. “It smelled like Connecticut,” she says of his profile. “He was very blond, law school, cut jawline, trapezoidal body figure, tweed suit kind of vibe, but something inside of me made me swipe right, I don’t know.” They began messaging, and she found him witty. “He was actually way more fun to talk to than any other person I matched with.”

Eventually, Sulkowicz stalked him on Twitter and realized that he was conservative — “like, very conservative.” At first, she was repulsed and considered breaking it off. But then she thought, “Wait, actually, that’s kind of fucked up because he’s the most interesting person I’ve come across, shouldn’t I be open to talking to him?” After dispelling her initial fear, she texted him that it would be “interesting (progressive? Powerful?) for two people who might be the antithesis of each other to go on a Tinder date.”

Ahead of this date, they traded reading assignments: Sulkowicz gave him the password to protected areas of her website, and he sent pieces he’d written for conservative magazines, which she printed, annotated with her critiques, and brought to their date. This man expected Sulkowicz to be “the patron saint of wokeness,” but when he met her, he found that she wasn’t actually trying to litigate the issues — she was mostly just “curious about this different perspective that she had not been as familiar with.” The two “sort of dated” for a while and then realized that their chemistry was more conversational. They became “amazing friends.”

Not having known conservatives before, Sulkowicz had to play catch up. Early in their friendship, she asked him to recommend one book to help her understand him, and he picked Jonathan Haidt’s The Righteous Mind. It’s a book that explains, in evolutionary terms, the human tendency toward political tribalism and the importance, in light of that, of learning from one another’s beliefs. She calls the book “mind-opening.” Its resonance with her new friendship did not escape her.

Shortly after, Sulkowicz attended a book talk of Haidt’s. This was for The Coddling of the American Mind, which diagnoses the campus left with the kinds of cognitive distortions that addle the chronically anxious and depressed: a tendency to blow everyday problems out of proportion, or to believe that one’s negative feelings reflect reality. This book kicked a hornet’s nest on the left, and when Haidt learned that Sulkowicz was at his talk, he didn’t assume she was a fan. “I expected her to be the sort of person who sometimes asks the angry question when I give lectures on campuses,” Haidt tells me. “And when I first saw her and she had blue hair, that fed my assumptions and expectations about what her views and values would be.” But Sulkowicz surprised him. “It changed the way I think about politics,” she said about The Righteous Mind, “and I wanted to thank you for it.” The two became friends.

Soon, she began attending house parties and happy hours with conservative and libertarian intellectuals, reading Jordan Peterson and articles from the National Review. In the past, Sulkowicz dismissed opposing views without understanding them, but now she sees intellectual curiosity as intertwined with respect: she wants to disagree with people on their own terms. This is an ethical position, but one with personal resonance. “I’ve always been upset,” she admits, “that there are people out there who assume that I’m a bad or mean person without ever having met me.” When she describes her political journey, she fixates on the experience of surprising people, of walking into a group who might otherwise dislike her and “disrupting their expectations.” At these parties, she reflects, “I can become fuller to certain people rather than staying the same caricature. I’m going from flat to round.”

- - -

A couple weeks after our lunch, Sulkowicz brings me to a book party at a dark bar on Bleecker Street. Here, she introduces me to her friend from Tinder, who asks that I not use his real name for this article. (It might be a distraction at his white-shoe law firm and, besides, “Emma is inured to online hate, but I am not.”) When he asks if he can choose his own pseudonym, I tell him sure. He picks Chad. It’s a reference to the incel term for men who, due to serendipitous genetics, are attractive enough to have oodles of sex. All of us laugh, but Sulkowicz laughs loudest, her voice tinkling, bell-like, and leaping between octaves.

Chad is a Chad, by the way, and he does “smell like Connecticut”: he has cornsilk hair, a shieldlike chest, and a jawline that an incel might show his surgeon for inspiration. But Chad is also a different kind of conservative than I imagined. Rather than a bowtie-sporting William F. Buckley type thumbing his nose at populism, he finds Reaganism laughably passé and aligns himself with Tucker Carlson’s anti-elite drive to regulate markets. He says that he would support some of Trump’s policy agenda, if only the president were competent enough to achieve it.

This party is for Robby Soave, a libertarian reporter on the snowflake beat whose new book, Panic Attack: Young Radicals in the Age of Trump, is — per Soave’s own description — “a book that is extremely critical of [Sulkowicz] and that I don’t wish her to read.” Soave met Sulkowicz a month or so before at another libertarian happy hour. Initially bewildered, he warmed to her, finding her to be inquisitive and even fun to talk to. “We exchanged contact information,” he tells me later, “and talked about maybe becoming, I guess, friends or something?” He laughs incredulously as he says this, sounding a bit on edge.

As Sulkowicz swirls around the party, her presence stirs an obvious question: whether this is performance art. Soave brings it up twice when we speak on the phone afterward, acknowledging the possibility that he’s being set up. While he’s inclined to believe that Sulkowicz is moved by earnest curiosity, he’s aware of her background in “elaborately planned performance art” and her reputation as a provocateur. Since graduating from Columbia in 2015, Sulkowicz has done around a dozen performances touching on issues like consent, anti-institutionalism, climate change, trauma, wellness, and female sexual desire. It’s natural to wonder if she’s currently breaking bread with this crowd to lampoon civility politics or to expose views she hates. Honestly, it might be harder to believe that she’s simply trying to learn.

But Sulkowicz is adamant that this isn’t performance. In fact, she insists that she’s quitting art altogether. After one of our lunches, she bikes off to return the keys to her studio, which she’s emptied and swept clean. “For many years,” she explains, “I wasn’t interested in listening to other points of view. I was very emotional and making performance-art pieces that were very reactionary and fiery.” Without disowning them, she describes these artworks as something she “got out of her system.”

Having found the art world humorless, narrow-minded, and grotesquely competitive, Sulkowicz says she stopped making art about a year ago. She quit a fellowship at a museum, ceased teaching art classes, and was essentially unemployed for a time, drawing income from occasional speaking gigs, mostly about campus sexual assault. (Her remarks on Me Too have been fewer; she supports it, but wants a clearer path to forgiveness.) She has been working on a memoir that draws on her diaries from Mattress Performance, and last month, she started a full-time, four-year master’s program in traditional Chinese medicine. There, she’ll learn skills from acupuncture to herbalism, which have been her “personal healing modality” for years. Sulkowicz has parried assumptions that this is performance art, too. It grates on her. “I’m a human and humans can change,” she says, insistently. “I’m telling you that I don’t want to make art anymore.”

But in some ways, it’s easier to assume that Sulkowicz’s political posture is performance art: this provides a clear motive, one that’s politically straightforward. If Sulkowicz is not making art, then it’s much harder to grasp why she’s doing this and what it means. Part of the confusion, Sulkowicz assumes, springs from a pervasive misunderstanding about who she is, rooted in the dissonance between her public image and private consciousness. While many assume she’s at Soave’s book party for some admixture of art and progressive politics, Sulkowicz says she’s mostly there for fun.

#emma sulkowicz #profile #mattress performance (carry that weight)#politics #power

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peppersonironi · 4 years

Text

Batfam Whumptober Day Six

{Read on Ao3}

No.6: “Get it Out” | No More | “Stop, please”

Tim frowned at the sight of his brother, at his wet face and trembling limbs. At the way he began to claw at his back. He was having a nightmare, and it must be bad.

AKA- Damian dreams about his time in the League and is comforted by the only brother awake at the unholy hour: Tim.

A/N: I have a thing or Tim & Dami hurt/comfort. I'm not sorry. They're just too cute!

TW: child abuse (both physical and emotional), whipping (I'm not sure if this is graphic or not, sry).

*****

“You are an utter disappointment, Ibn al Xu'ffasch.”

Damian looked down at his feet. The test the eight year old had just completed had not gone as smoothly as his Grandfather had hoped, so now the boy had been brought forward for reprimanding.

“I understand, Grandfather.” Damian said quietly at the completion of the lecture. He lifted his head to look at Ra’s’ reaction.

His back screamed in pain, the sharp crack leaving a line of burning agony down his spine. It was as if his back had been split in two, with a canyon of ruined flesh between the two.

Then, the whip’s master changed tactics. Damian let out a surprised scream as the whip landed on an already existing slash. The pain cut deeper than before, and was twice as painful.

“Hmm.” Ra’s said, sounding uninterested. “For that, twenty more.”

Damian whimpered silently, hoping that the whipper hadn’t meant to hit the same place, and it wouldn’t happen again.

It did.

The whip repeated the same tactic, choosing a lighter slash this time, driving the wound deeper than before. His whole back felt like it was on fire, the burning intense and blanketing.

A few more lashes and they had made it to fifty.

It was on the fifty-first that the whip first hit bone.

No more, he thought desperately. He hadn’t taken much more than this before, the torture was usually switched to some other technique.

Again.

And again.

He wanted so badly to beg. Beg for the pain to stop. Beg for his Grandfather’s forgiveness. Beg or his mother, who so rarely showed the affection he craved.

But he didn’t.

It was at the eightieth strike that he finally broke.

“Stop, please.” he cried out, tears breaking through his once firm resolve.

His Grandfather turned back to him, and Damian knew with all his heart that he was going to regret those words.

*****

Time for a refill.

Tim stood up from his nest of papers atop his bed and grabbed his three different mugs. Might as well get stocked up.

Tim continued down till he reached the hall connecting the current wing of the house. As he walked past Damian’s door, however, he froze.

Tim frowned at the sight of his brother, at his wet face and trembling limbs. At the way he began to claw at his back. He was having a nightmare, and it must be bad.

He rushed forward as quietly as he could, and eased himself onto the bed. Tim reached out his hand and, praying that he wouldn’t get stabbed, rustled Damian’s shoulder.

He wasn’t attacked.

Instead, Damian scrambled back, his eyes wide and unseeing. Tim’s heart broke as he saw his brother in such a state. Whatever he was seeing had to be horrible for him to flee rather than fight.

“Dami, it’s me,” Tim called quietly. He wanted to reach out and hug the little brat - crap, what had Dick done to him? - but wouldn’t dare for fear of startling him again.

Damian blinked slowly, still shivering. “Timothy?” He asked, tucking his knees up to his chin.

“Yeah, Dami,” Tim said, leaning slightly closer. “I came in to check on you. Are you alright?”

He clearly was not alright, but Tim knew his brother was a prideful little chicken nugget, and wouldn’t dare admit he’d been crying.

But then the kid surprised him.

Damian launched forward and into Tim’s arms, wrapping around his torso and tucking his tear-stained face into his chest.

“I’m in the manor?” he asked timidly.

Tim blinked for a moment. “Yeah, we’re in your room. You’re safe here.”

He slowly wrapped his arms around Damian, but froze when the boy flinched. Tim searched his mind for what he’d done wrong, before remembering the sight he’d seen just minutes before.

Damian clawing at his back.

Tim eased his arms around again, pulling the younger boy into his lap, while trying to avoid his back.

“You’re okay, Damian.” Tim whispered when Damian began to tremble again. “We’re home.”

“Shh,” Tim said, stroking Damian’s hair, “he’s not here. You’re safe.”

“But I failed,” Damian choked out, the tears returning.

Tim scooched further onto the bed, grabbing some blankets from where they’d been haphazardly thrown off in the child’s panic.

Damon sniffled and pressed harder into Tim’s chest.

“Come on,” he whispered, “get it out. It’s alright to cry.”

Damian gradually relaxed, the tense muscles loosening. He didn’t stop holding onto Tim, but the older boy didn’t complain. It was nice, honestly.

“Shhh,” Tim said when the tears had calmed down to slow hiccups. He stroked his brother’s dark hair, before pressing a kiss into it.

A few minutes later, and even the hiccups subsided. Damian sighed and nuzzled Tim’s now soaked shirt. He chuckled softly, the kid could be such a cat sometimes. Selina would be proud.

Tim slowly shifted till they were both laying down on the bed.He pulled the rest of the blankets up and settled underneath them. Work could wait, he wouldn’t dare leave Damian now.

After a while, the smallest bat’s breathing evened out, and Tim let loose a sigh of relief. Damian was asleep.

Damian was the most important. He wasn’t going to worry about anything other than his brother.

Tim kissed his brother’s forehead one last time.

“Goodnight, Ahki.”

Tagging: @starrystories2

#whumptober2020 #no.6 #get it out #no more #stop please #batfam #dc #fic #child abuse tw #whipping tw #damian wayne #tim drake #ra's al ghul #hurt/comfort #cuddling & snuggling

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atlas-of-a-human-soul · 5 years

Text

Αιώνια αγάπη (DT. AU) pt.2

02: Pledge

Summary: Getting to know her Kappa sisters, Y/N is silently suffering as the world around her changes, unaware of two brothers who are preparing to enter a race of a lifetime - a race to win her heart.

Warnings: angst

Word count: 2500

Αιώνια αγάπη (DT Modern Greek god/frat! AU) MASTERLIST

Thank you for being in the story: @graysons-thumb as Perry, @daddygraysonsbitch as Sara Howell, and @mutuallynotmutual as Alyssa!

Y/N takes a deep breath, holding it for two seconds longer than usual before releasing the pent up air in three short exhales. Her mind lingers on a frat guy right on the other side of her curtain, one she has yet to truly see. Though he's Ethan's twin, Grayson looks different. His entire aura feels other-worldly, flashy even.

"I can still see your silhouette!" She hears him add, shaking her head vehemently.

"GOOD! WATCH AND SUFFER!" Y/N throws back at him, not giving into his incredibly attractive laugh. Instead, she turns up the volume on her phone and cranks up the first song that comes on.

Singing to herself, she looks around the room assigned to her. She can't help but wonder if her mother ever came in there. Y/N wraps her arms around her body, hugging herself for comfort. It's something she's become accustomed to, the loneliness and lack of affection.

She was never the popular kid with a lot of friends, but even the friends she had she has lost while mourning her mother. She was lost and devoted to school only at the time, resulting in a lot of alone time. She quickly learned that while you're stuck in the hell of losing a loved one the world seems to stop moving, but it doesn't. Not really. It keeps on spinning without you, no matter how hard you try to slow it down just a little, just enough to not fall of the edge of the world.

Sighing, she shakes her head and eyes the room carefully.

Three walls are olive green, the ceiling and the forth wall - the one across from her bed, are both pearl white.

The green walls all have intricate art, paintings of scenery that take her breath away. They're all signed with different initials, signifying who they belong to.

The white wall, that one's filled with signatures of all past Kappa Delta pledges who lived in this particular room, forcing Y/N to glue her eyes to each and every name in search of her mother's.

Her fingers crossed every letter, desperately clinging to her mother's memory. Just being in the house makes her heart hurt less, but if she got the same room - it would feel like she's right there with her on this journey.

However, no matter how many times she checked each name on that wall, no matter how hard she strained her eyes, the name wasn't up there.

Dropping her gaze to her feet, Y/N leaned her forehead on the wall in resignation. Her lungs struggled for a dash of air as her throat closed up with tears welling in her eyes. Her hands began to shake, troubled by the growing grief that spread from her brain to her heart in a split second it takes for a beat to quicken with anguish taking over.

Coping. She's coping with the hurt, but she's a long way from being healed. She's not whole anymore and she hasn't been herself in a while. She's come undone, picking herself up every day since the funeral.

Writing had become her escape. Her mother was artistic, always playing the piano or having paint stains on her clothes from her attempts to get into painting again. Y/N was more of a realist, thriving in biology and chemistry. After a long time of her mother insisting she take up any form of art, Y/N found writing to be therapeutic - her safe place.

Grabbing her notebook from the top of a box labelled - BOOKS, she opened the first page and clicked her pen to write.

'What I once treasured is now a memory, a shadow lingering in the depths of my mind. It's a strange thing to lose something which you once had, like a limb torn from your body without the chance to save it. The door that was once open and welcoming was locked and disinviting. She had left me; I was alone. I had hoped I'd find her once more, feel her spirit linger in the chambers she resided in. I was wrong. Though her life force remains in small pieces on the walls of this house, it feels empty without her. Would she have been proud? Would she have been here today? I'll never know.'

Wiping the tears away with the back of her hand, Y/N closed the notebook and leaned back against the wall that brought her such disappointment. She pressed her lips together, using her index finger to clear residual tears from her left eye.

Pushing the palms of her hands into the white carpet, she got up and unpacked her clothes. There wasn't much of a dilemma when it came to what she'd wear to the pledge initiation - a simple white dress was a must.

She slipped the dress on, observing herself in the mirror. The dress clung to her body, revealing her chest more than she was willing to show. The straps of her dress cross in the back, leaving her back slightly open as well. It flows freely from the waist down to just above her knees, snowflakes scattered across the fabric in silver glitter. Glitter lines the waistline as well, accentuating her rather skinny form in comparison to her usual built. She had never been so thin before, but yet again - grief does things to your appetite and you either gain or lose weight and for Y/N it was the latter.

She glides her fingers over her frail, now visible hip bones, her eyebrows furrowing in concern. Gaining weight is added in her mental check list, right next to getting some colour in her pale face.

A knock on the door interrupts her thoughts.

"Are you ready?" Perry and Sara peak inside, their jaws dropping when they see her fully dressed.

"Oh my God." Perry steps into the room, eyeing Y/N up and down.

"You're literally breathtaking." Sara exclaims, raising her right hand. Her fingers form a fist, the pointer remaining raised as she twirls it - demanding Y/N do the same.

"What's going on?!" Another girl walks in, catching the end of Y/N's twirl only to clap in excitement.

"I love you already." She squeals, jumping in her spot. Her hair is long, about halfway down her back and wavy - the colour a beautiful brown - subdued earthy tone, perfectly matching the colors of autumn.

"Uh, not to sound rude or anything, but who are you?" Y/N asks timidly, her right hand crossing over her abdomen and to the other side, grasping her left elbow as her nerves seap in once more.

She's definitely the closed up type and having so many new people around her is getting overwhelming, even if everyone is being so nice.

"Sorry." The girl laughs, nodding to herself like she's remind herself to slow down, whispering she should have known better than to barge into someone's room without proper introduction before speaking again.

"I'm Alyssa." She offers a small wave instead of a hand shake and although Y/N would never admit it out loud, she's thankful for it. Physical contact would only make her social anxiety spike and it's the last thing she needs this night.

Alyssa's right hand flashes a golden ring on the ring finger, an emerald stone nested in the middle. It matches the house color perfectly, making Y/N wonder if the girl is already a member or a pledge. Curious, Y/N's eyes flicker to the left hand as well, noticing two more silver rings - one on her thumb and the other on her ring finger.

"Earth to Y/N!" Sara ends her curious glances, pointing to the door.

"Time to go." She rushes her out and down the stairs among at least ten other girls, all dressed in white.

The stairs are lined with current members, all wearing green with a white bow in their hair to signify seniority and power.

Y/N takes her place among the pledges, looking around uncomfortably as her heart pounds inside her chest. Crowds are definitely not on the list of her favorite things either.

She looks up and to the girl standing at the very top of the stairs, a lit candle in her hands as she slowly descends - but only half way down, remaining there for her speech. Her hair is long and blonde, almost silver like a Targaryan, her pale blue eyes not helping Y/N's initial thoughts.

The last of the Targaryans went mad in the show, making Y/N wonder if this one is any different.

"Welcome sister pledges. I'm Blair Serenity, the current head of Kappa Delta Delta, at least until the official vote is taken once pledge week is over." The girl giggles, the sound coming out like a strangled dolphin instead of human-like, making the pledges frown and members actually cover their ears.

"In the week to come, you'll all be tested to prove you're worthy of being a Kappa Delta sister. We will test your knowledge, teamwork and honor. Fail one test and you're out. Once the week is done, we'll have the annual party with our", she rolls her eyes, "brother frat at our house - simply so you know who to avoid for the next year."

A smirk appears on her lips and Y/N can't help but roll her eyes at the speech.

She met two of the frats she's supposed to ignore and hate, yet all she can do is imagine licking ice cream off their abs on a warm summer day. Neither of them gave her a reason to hate them, but she'll certainly stay away - she has to.

"Your first test will be tomorrow after class, so sleep well and good luck to everyone."

Y/N believed the girls would leave, but she was quickly aware this would turn into a small party of its own.

Sneaking out, she runs up to her room, locking the door after. It's not that she didn't want to meet her future sisters, it's that she needed a breather - a break where she could be alone with her thoughts as the simple act of being in that house drained her energy.

Peaking under her curtains, she found the bedroom opposite hers dark, meaning there would be no more interrupting frats. She changed into her pajamas, opened the curtains completely and sat at the bay window with earphones.

Music always relaxed her, almost as much as the sky and stars above that made her feel small, but important as well. She truly held onto the belief every star represented a soul and she liked to imagine her mother watching over her. Stars alone were a light in the darkness she’s surrounded with, leading her through life when she finds herself lost in the never-ending abyss.

Closing her eyes, she crossed her outstretched legs - feet planted against the wall. She wept silently, listening to a cello instrumental of Stay with me by Sam Smith - the song her mother played last before passing. She liked to listen to it when she missed her mother, helping her emotions slowly work themselves out of her system instead of bottling them up until they explode.

She stayed like that for hours, enjoying the solitude.

Little did she know, she was never truly alone - completely unaware of centuries old mythical men watching her from the window across from hers, shrouded in darkness.

"I'm not sure. Not until I check for that birthmark." Apollo leans into his chair, taking a sip of his water.

"I'm telling you, she's the one." Hermes insists, tapping his left foot nervously. Holding her in his arms earlier was enough for him to recognize the pull. It's undeniable and unfabricated, rare and mystical - but true.

“I had her in my arms today and I’m no fool, brother. Her soul is made of stars and her mind overflows with ancient magic like all those before.”

"If that's true, she's our last chance. She's the last of her kind." Apollo reminds his brother, looking at him from the side with lips pressed together in a firm line.

"I'm aware of that, Gray." Hermes sasses back, annoyed with his brother's condescending tone.

"DON'T call me that. Don't use my mortal name when it's just us, Hermes. Don't forget who we really are." Apollo warns, his voice scratchy and dark, tone low and menacing, almost growling.

"Maybe we should." Hermes leans forward, resting his head in his hand as he stares ahead at the girl so engrossed in the music she's listening to that it's almost hypnotizing.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Apollo throws his water bottle onto the wooden floor, hearing a scrunch when the plastic slams down.

"Our previous attempts didn't work. Every single soul saw through us because we schemed!" Hermes points out, speaking fast, but speaking sense.

“You mean you schemed.” Apollo retorts, shaking his head.

"So you want us to do what? Be Ethan and Grayson? The Dolan twins? That is scheming! Again! It's why we fail! We need to remember who we are and we need to let this girl know as well. I'm done pretending, brother. I want to go home and I want my powers back." Apollo sighs, rubbing his forehead in thought.

"We'll be Ethan and Grayson until she takes a liking to us. When she sees we're trustworthy, she'll be more inclined to believe the truth. And we WILL tell her the truth." Apollo stands, approaching the window slowly as his arms sway beside his body with the moves he makes.

The moonlight falls to his face, illuminating the teary-eyed god fully for the world to see - everyone, but her. She's in a world of her own, trapped in the sorrow Apollo can feel exuding from her pores.

Leaning on the windowsill, he bows his head and closes his eyes, catching a distant whimper coming from the bay window he watched only seconds ago. He looks up fast, almost pulling a muscle in his neck.

"She's in pain. Suffering terribly." Apollo cocks his head to the side, trying to read her better but to no avail.

"She's also a Kappa Delta, meaning she's programmed to avoid us. How are we going to get her to fall for one of us when she won't spend a moment of her time with us?" Hermes leans his left forearm on Apollo's right shoulder, gnawing the inside of his right cheek.

"We'll figure it out. And once we do, it’s over. For now, we're a team. Once the game starts, we’re on our own. Adversaries once more." Apollo chuckles, turning to his brother so Hermes is forced to drop his hand.

Apollo outstretches his hand for Hermes to shake, a small smile on his face.

Hermes accepts, shaking Apollo's hand firmly.

"May the best god win."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Tags: @mutuallynotmutual @lanadeldolans @xalayx @accalialionheart @gia-kerks @historyheart @heeydolan @heyits-claire @daddygraysonsbitch @godlydolans @fallinginlove-16 @lanadeldolans @beautifulfound @thearachna-kid @dinnerwiththedolans @graydolan12 @justanotherfangurl272 @dxlansfxck

#ethan dolan #grayson dolan #dolan twins #ethan dolan x reader #grayson dolan x reader #dolan twins greek god au #dolan twins au #dolan twins fic #dolan twins fanfic #Greek Mythology #GREEK GOD AU #apollo #hermes #grayson dolan fanfic #ethan dolan fanfic

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leximpwrites · 5 years

Text

Seeker 2

The second chapter of the project I’m working on! After this, I will be posting new chapters at least once a week, but as I said in an earlier post, if I get possessed by a writing gremlin and bang out three chapters in a week, then that’s how many you’ll get! Lol As always, I love to hear what y’all think, so please feel free to leave a reply!

@officialleehadan @kitvinslakte @nox919 @dierotenixe @stuck-in-theclouds @gyvorn12 @apenvssword @wildforestferret @krceramics @starsdreaming @wordsdreaming

We eat at the Silver Star. Its one of the few taverns in the city that understands how much food a Skeer needs to eat, and feeds us well. After, we head back up the hill in the general direction of the Seeker barracks. I've never liked that name; it sounds so military and austere. The reality is much different.

Our barracks are a sprawling estate in Hightower that provides all the space we need to live, train, and study. After centuries of Seeker occupation, the estate is appointed with luxuries from all over the world, carried home by the Seekers who live here. I've added many myself, in fact. Call it sentimentality, but there's something to be said for making a place feel like home.

And if anyone is touchy about our owning the place, well, it's no more than we're due, if you ask me. We put our lives on the line every day for the sake of the people. I'd say a little luxury isn't an unreasonable reward.

We make our way through the wrought iron gate and head up the gravel path. All around us, fellow Seekers go about their business. The salle and training yards are off to our left. I share a nod with the weaponmaster on our way past, but don't keep his attention as he barks orders. There are more than a dozen foundlings drilling under his watchful eye, their purity charms glittering under the light of the torches. To our right, the riding fields and the stables where we breed and raise the huge striders that Seekers use in place of horses.

“Shall I come with you to report, sir?” Jax asks, pausing inside the grand entryway after we walk through the immense bronze doors. I shake my head.

“No, that’s alright, lad,” I tell him. “I’ll report to the Old Wolf for the both of us. You go take care of your gear and then get yourself a bath.” He nods and smiles gratefully, heading off in the direction of his rooms in the east wing, whistling an old farmer’s tune. I turn and head in the opposite direction, towards the marshal's office in the east wing

The floor is carpeted with deep black, the wood paneling of the walls a rich walnut, polished smooth. The place always smells clean, with hints of incense, woodsmoke, and the oils we use to clean our weapons. Shelves piled high with scrolls and books of all kinds line the walls at regular intervals. If there is a system for their organization, it’s not one that I’ve ever seen before.

“Enter!” comes the gruff order when I knock politely, and I step through the door before coming to attention and saluting sharply, right fist over my hearts.

“Sir,” I say, looking at a point just over the head of High Marshal Imtaral. “Seeker Second Class, Alchanic reporting in.”

“At ease, Zepara,” he says distractedly, and I immediately relax offer a smile.

Djared Imtaral was my mentor back when I was the same age as Jax, and I credit much of my success and skill to the lessons he taught me. He’s known among the Seekers as “The Old Wolf”, and it’s a very apt moniker. He looks like one. An old, tired, grey wolf, though one that is still more than capable of putting the young pups around it in their places. He’s nearly three hundred years old now, and may well hold his post for another sixty years or so before he retires, barring mishap or illness. He trained scores of us over the years. I was his last apprentice before our previous High Marshal, Lord Barray, retired and Imartal took his place.

As always, his desk, an old wooden monstrosity he keeps threatening to burn, is covered in papers. He has half a dozen piles before him, and a larger stack at his right hand. Some he sets aside, and others get a quick, scrawling signature.

Some he glares at, hoping they might simply burst into flames and leave him in peace.

My old teacher does not like paperwork.

“So, how is the youngster doing?” he asks me, gesturing to one of the chairs across from him with his pen. “Luteno, is it?”

“Jaxus Luteno, yes,” I confirm, taking a seat “We found a shade nest that had recently taken root in the Whitebone District of the Outer Ring. Completely purged, got the queen and the nest guard all in one go. I let him take the lead on it, and I’m proud to say that he did spectacularly.”

“Do you think he’s ready for advancement?” he asks, shuffling through the stack of papers on his desk, absently reading and signing off on things as we’re talking. "I've kept an eye on his progress, and he seems to be doing very well."

I consider his question for a few moments before replying. “I would say that it wouldn’t be inappropriate to advance him.”

“But?” he prods, raising an inquisitive brow at me.

“But I would feel less uneasy if we gave it a little more time,” I admit, feeling a little uncomfortable. “It’s not that I have any doubts about his skill, it’s that I’m worried I may not have taught him everything that he needs to know.”

Imtaral chuckles, giving me a look that is both sympathetic and proud at the same time. “Welcome to the reality of being a teacher, my young friend. We just do the best we can and hope that it’s enough.”

I sag into my seat. He's right. I know he's right. I don't even disagree with him, but... Jax is my first apprentice, and I want to make sure I don't screw him up.

“However,” he continues, recapturing my wandering focus. “Yours is not an uncommon sentiment, so I will do what has been done numerous times before now. I will authorize him to advancement from Initiate to Seeker First Class, and assign him as your partner from this point forward until we have need of him elsewhere. Will that suit you?”

I breath out a quiet sigh of relief and nod, feeling a profound rush of gratitude towards my old mentor. “That will do fantastically, sir,” I say, getting to my feet and saluting again. “With your leave, oh wisest of leaders, I would like to go and give the good news to my apprentice and then get out of this gear and into a bath.”

He laughs and flaps a hand at me. “Go, you rogue, out of my sight before I have you thrown into the dungeons!”

I grin as I turn to leave. “You don’t have a dungeon, master.”

“Then I’ll have one built just for you!” he calls after me as I exit his office, completing the old joke between us.

I snicker to myself and head off down the hall to find Jax so I can deliver the good news.

*******************

Three weeks later, and we finally receive our first assignment. During this time, Jax and I have been patrolling the city, mainly in the Outer Ring. He's been doing well since his promotion to Seeker First Class, now more confident in his abilities than he has ever been before. He's an excellent partner; we work well together, and he's bold enough now to make his own decisions, while still being smart enough to defer to my greater level of experience when I offer advice.

I'm proud of him.

My only qualm is that I still haven't gotten him to stop calling me 'sir'. As soon as he gets distracted, he slips back into his old habits, and the 'sir' comes back.

I guess I shouldn't judge. I do it to Imtaral, myself.

A message runner finds us on our way out of an apothecary, having just finished putting down a stalker that the idiot was keeping for fresh ingredients. Naturally, it got loose and killed him along with three of his customers.

"Why would someone think that was a good idea?" Jax complains, wiping his silver-edged broadsword clean of viscera under a nearby fountain. He's limping; the stalker managed to get in a good bite on his calf. "Graaah that stings! Of course it got loose! It's a bloody stalker!"

Stalker venom is nasty stuff, able to kill a normal human in minutes. Seekers are highly resistant to poison though, so he’s not in any danger of dying. He will, however, be miserable for the next few days while the venom works its way out of his body.

I chuckle and pat him on the shoulder. "You did well in there," I say, crouching down next to him and inspecting the wound on his leg while pulling my aid kit out of my coat. Seeker long-coats are quite possibly my favorite piece of gear besides my coach-gun, Sophia. Essentially a collection of pockets sewn into a knee-length overcoat, the heavy leather is treated with both oil and magic to repel water, acid, and insects. Strips of fine chainmail sewn into the sleeves, shoulders, and chest offer protection that I've needed more often than I like to admit.

A tap on my shoulder makes me turn, one hand going to my blades as I curse myself for my own distraction. When a young page jumps away from me, eyes round with fear, I curse again and bare my empty hands to reassure him.

"Sorry, lad, I didn't hear you," I say gently with an apologetic smile, keeping my hands where he can see them. He's more startled than properly afraid, but I take care to keep from frightening him again. Gods above, but we must be a sight after dealing with the blasted stalker. "We just finished a nasty fight in there, so I'm still a little keyed up."

The boy nods once and grins, showing two missing teeth. "Aye, sirrah, no harm done," he says, then holds out his mark book. "Gots a message for ye here, if'n ye'll sign for't."

I scribble down my signature and hand him back the book along with two silver regents, which he takes with a pleased grin.

"Thankee, sirrah!" he says with delight, and hands me the tightly furled message scroll. "Ye be have'n a good day now!" He gives me a little salute with two fingers and then dashes off up the street to deliver his next message.

I unroll the parchment and quickly scan the contents. What I read chills me. Jax picks up on my mood instantly.

"Trouble, sir?" he asks, more curious than concerned.

"Aye, trouble," I agree, catching his attention. Without preamble, I hand him the scroll as I return to dealing with his leg.

"By order of High Marshal Djared Imtaral, Commander of Imperial Seeker Operations," Jax reads aloud. "Seeker Second Class Zepara Alchanic and Seeker First Class Jaxus Luteno are hereby ordered to proceed with all haste to the city of Strovostgard. A high priority target has been identified in the area. You are to rendezvous with an additional five Seeker teams that have been dispatched and then report to Deputy Marshal Singaren. Additional details will be made available upon arrival."

Jax's eyes have gone round with surprise, and he turns to look at me. "Six Seeker teams, including us? Depending on the size of the team, that's anywhere from twelve to sixteen of us! The amount of force that many Seekers could bring to bear–" He trials off.

I nod grimly, tying off the bandage with a careful tug.

"What on earth could require so many of us?" he says quietly, more to himself than to me, but I answer him anyway, knowing that he's badly shaken at the thought of such a dangerous creature. I know I sure as hell was, the first time.

"The worst kind of monster a Seeker can face," I tell him, getting to my feet and collecting my gear. "Come. This isn't the kind of thing to talk about in the street. Let's head back to the barracks and I'll tell you about the kind of creature that can haunt a Seeker's nightmares."

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oracuelum · 4 years

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@goblnking //

The White Witch. A peculiar name for her peculiar little shop. Tucked away between the towering masses of steel and glass, it was a modest little thing made of brick that didn’t go higher than a single story. To find it one had to look for it, nestled away out of sight through the many turns of a back ally. It greeted visitors with a solid oak door and bay windows, both adorned with iron gates that curled and twisted like pumpkin vines. A humble, weather washed sign hanging outside read, in faded cursive, the stores' name.

As a purveyor of oddities, the inside of Aleinas’ shop was filled with an all manner of strange, marvellous and even frightening things. What she sold ranged from antiques to objects of magic the occult; statues, scrolls, books and charms and ancient objects of myth. Things she sourced from dusty rooms and darkened cellars.

It seemed her latest delivery had been stored in such a place. It arrived, a series of crates stained with age and their contents, much like the exterior, were caked in layer upon layer of dust --- It burstIt upwards in a cloud as soon as she cracked the first box open. The scent of dank and musk prickled her nose and chafed her throat when she inhaled.

Nothing but faded papers in the first, unreadable pieces of parchment and books with contents that were of no value. She discarded it immediately. The second was much of the same, Aleina near cast it aside as she did the first if her fingers had not graced the surface of something else among the crumpled papers. Reaching in she found the edges of something harder, fingers followed the edges and counted four corners --- A book.

Aleina pulled it from the box and blew a layer of dust from its cover. It was an old thing, delicately crafted by hand. Etched in the dark leather were swirls of silver and gold flora, tiny fairies with every detail cast so perfectly were frolicking among them. A curious thing, turning it over in her hands she studied the spine and back, tracing the winding florals with her fingers. The was no title and no author, which was nothing particularly unusual, most of the books she acquired had neither origin nor name.

Sitting crossed legged on the floor of her shop, Aleina nested the book in her lap she opened it --- It was a children's book, that was her first thought. The illustrations on the cover were matched on the books pages, framing the text and as she skimmed through the pages, she found more drawings of strange creatures --- Goblins and fairies and wondrous beasts. The book was worthless, she had came to that assumption almost immediately. Yet she found herself entranced by it, she flipped back to the beginning and began to read. It was the story of a girl and a fae king, a king of goblins. As she turned the page an illustration was presented to her. An image of black ink sketched onto the delicate paper, a fair haired man --- Handsome, all things considered. Sharp features were matched by piercing eyes, with a gazed fixed on her with an intensity she found almost compelling. Aleina lingered on the page for a moment longer than necessary, catching herself and quickly moving onto the next. Magic words, “Hmmm---” She mused to herself, always were there some kind of magic words in these stories. Some incantation or phrase that would launch the protagonist into an adventure, or strip them of their troubles. At the girls request, the king had stolen her brother, all because of some simple words. She had wished to be free of her life, her responsibilities, the girl in the story --- Did not everyone? Even Aleina often longed to be transported elsewhere, to leave the pain and the memories and the mundaneness of her modern life behind. Closing the book she set it to one side and moved onto the next box, her shoulders laxed and she sighed with frustration. It was empty. Sitting back she glanced to a clock hanging on the wall, it was almost midnight and she was tired, another night of sleeping in the back of her store was on the cards. Taking to her feet she picked up the book and set it down upon her desk at the store front, fingers lingering on the cover.

“I wish the goblins would come take me away.” A whisper, followed by a soft chuckle to herself and she shook her head. Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the inside of her shop in a brief and sudden flash. It startled her and she jumped and knocked the book to the ground, it had fallen open on the kings portrait --- and there he was, looking up at her with the same intense and fierce stare. Only now, he was smiling. A frown furrowed her brow and she reached down, hesitantly picking up the book she set it back down and inhaled. Outside the rain had started, it beat down heavily against the windows. There came another flash of lightning, followed by another almost immediately and then another. The lightning flashed in rapid succession until she could not see, with a hand raised to shield her eyes from the blinding glow she stepped backward --- she stepped backward and FELL. She had braced herself to hit the floor and hit it hard, but instead she had carried on falling. Down, down she fell continuously as the light engulfed her whole. It feels as though she falls for an eternity, spiralling downward in an the endless tumbling flurry, that when she finally hits the ground it’s so sudden she can initially do naught but lie there.

Dazed, she did not notice it at first --- how the air had changed. The scent of earth and fresh flowers lingered, the sound of water echoing softly. As she rolled over and propped herself up, she caught sight of the ground beneath her, plush with grass. “What ---?” In the dawning light her eyes adjusted, the walls of her shop were gone, the sun above shone down upon her and around her was an unfamiliar place. A ruined path outstretched ahead, dotted with withered patches of flora broke through the decaying stone, leading down in a zig-zag to a great stone wall.

“What in hel.”

#Verse: Never Go Back #goblnking #Thread: goblnking #WOOPS NOVELLA #You don't have to match the length.

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ain-t-bovvered · 5 years

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Epiphany 11

read first ACT 1

EDIT: @waywardbaby

Summary: Less than two years later, you finally passed the men of letters’ initiation and, finally, you now set foot in America eager to be reunited with the Winchesters. But if Dean thought that you spent your days only with your nose in books and hands in monster’s guts, he was dead wrong. Your mission? Something that the British branch tried and failed miserably, or at least that’s what they told you anyway.

Pairing: Dean X Reader

Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel and Jack

Warnings: slow burn guys…slow burn. Also, some fluff, humor, feels and angst.

You were testing the sharpness of the blade of your machete after strapping on your thigh holster, filled with dead men’s blood darts.

“I thought you were going to stay back and give me cover,” Dean asked, as he put his usual gun in the back of his jeans.

“Changed my mind,” you said curtly, swinging the blade and swiftly sliding it back in its sheath, on your hip.

Dean’s critic eyes studied you. You were dressed lightly, arms and neck completely exposed, armed only with that machete and those darts. His blood boiled.

He grabbed your arm as you were moving past him.

“Hey! hey! Where do you think you’re going?”

“To make some vamps’ heads roll.”

“The hell you are! Not like that!” he barked, putting himself between you and the door, arms crossed.

“Dean…” you rolled your eyes.

“Do not fucking ‘Dean’ me.” he hissed and you blinked surprised. “Look at yourself!” you followed his hand which was pointing at your attire.

You felt your cheeks burns and bit your lips in shame. You had gotten carried away. What a rookie!

Dean’s tone and eyes softened as he saw some sense washing over you. “I know you’re angry and all you wanna do is go and kill every single bloodsucker son of a bitch in there. Believe me, I do too!”

You lifted your eyes at him. “Oh hell, I wanna kill them slowly and painfully. But if I let you go with me like this, we are going to be their next meal, because I’ll be busy not letting them take a bite out of you. You know I will.”

He paused to see if you were listening. “You asked for trust, and against my better judgment, I’m gonna give it to you. But you gotta ask yourself if, right now, you’d trust you.”

You wanted to avoid his gaze, but it held yours, unwavering and your eyes watered. “….No.”

Your hand unfastened the sheath, letting it fall on the floor. “I guess, I’ll wait for you here then,” you said, voice cracking.

“No…” he signed, bent down and grabbed the machete. “I want you with me but first, I need you to get your shit together.”

Taking a big breath and tightening your grip on the machete handle, you looked at him, dead in the eyes. You both nodded.

Getting up, you changed into something appropriate and also fastened Darcy on your back.

Standing side by side, in front of the motel door, you searched for his hand.

“Let’s go kill some vamps” he squeezed back, grinning.

You have never seen Dean fight.

He moved like a machine, a perfect killing machine. Every blow seemed calculated and precise. Each move, smooth and natural like he was born with it.

That was Dean Winchester.

Hunter.

Legacy.

Michael’s true vessel.

A descendant of Cain.

One half of the Winchesters that had saved the world more times than you could count on your fingers.

You were transfixed. He didn’t even need your help, actually. You were already down to the three last bastards. The difficult ones, you guessed. Got the one that flung from the head of the stairs with your darts. You quickly run to him as he wobbled, weakened by the poisonous blood and you swung your blade.

While Dean was fighting the one to his right, you noticed one that was watching the scene. That must have been the ‘father’ of the nest you thought. Knowing the hierarchy of the nest, that must also be the one that gave the order on the attacks.

“You son of a bitch” muttering under your breath, you were ready to run blindly towards him, uncovered and purely on instinct. Without a plan. But Dean’s words resonate in your head. Halting yourself, you quickly took cover and instead fired at him. The bitch was quick enough to dodge the dart, but you already expected that. In fact, you just wanted to distract him, as Dean, who you saw had already killed the other, charged him from the blind side you had provided him with.

As Dean, with some trouble, pinned him to the wall, you shot again, this time hitting him on his thigh. Once weakened, it was not difficult to keep him in place. Dean’s elbow nearly crushing his throat.

He looked at you as to offer the kill. You shook your head.

“ All yours.”

You knew the little girl’s death had shaken him too. He needed this more than you, now.

He nodded and turned around, slowly lifting the blade, raising it to the vamp’s neck. “Look at me, bitch!” he said, in a tone you’ve never heard from him. You felt shivers.

He bent forward putting pressure on the blade and the vampire began to squirm in pain.

“She was just a little girl, you sick son of a bitch!” and with not so much of a single noise the edge of the machete blade, hit the wall behind.

A single thud was heard as the body detached from the head and fell on the floor followed by your labored breaths which were the only sounds left in that disgusting place.

“You okay?” you asked, as your fingers traced his chest. The hand that was grazing softly your shoulder stopped and went to rest on your head. He bent down a little and kissed you.

Sighing contently, you closed your eyes. Tangled in your bed, showered and tired, both just wanted to sleep, but the adrenaline buzz was taking its time to wear off.

He hummed and you looked at his face. His eyes were closed, the red neon lights sharp on his features. He looked more relaxed now, the crease between his eyes smoothed down a bit. Sensing your gaze he opened an eye.

“I am, now.”

“You’re thinking that if we had left sooner, that girl might be still alive,” you said matter of fact. He closed his eyes and sighed.

“I did, but ...even if we had left the instant I found the case, we still couldn’t have been here to save her in time. Nothing we could have done.”

You rested your cheek on his chest. “Sorry I freaked out.”

“Don’t…!” he turned on his side, curling around you. Your arms sneaked behind him, “I saw you back there…” he mumbled in your hair. He sounded tired. “... you were ready to jump on him, but you stopped….”

He squeezed you tightly.

“You stopped and made the right call”

“Yeah, well…I didn’t want your insults to be the last thing I heard before dying.”

You laughed.

He didn’t.

Dean pushed you back to look at him, his face dead serious.

“I don’t want to lose you, and let’s be real. In this line of work ...” he let the words float between you.

“Dean…” he buried his face in your chest, keeping you tight against him.

“You did good, kid...”

His words were slurred against your heart, “…really good …” he said, so low you almost didn't hear it.

His body went limp, his breaths slowed down and he was asleep.

You looked at the window above his shoulders, seeing the red neon lights reflecting on the thin curtains. You felt your heart squeeze and your chest constricted. Words were wrapping around your throat like ivy.

“I love you...” you whispered at the night.

The next day you drove all the way to Florida. You were starting to understand what could be classified as a long drive. Before, a journey of 4/5 hours seemed long to you. Now, you just ate 9 hours on the road in a vintage car.

Kudos to Dean that made the drive hilarious.

“Dean…I like classic rock. I just can’t name all the band members or know what year a song came out! You are being unreasonable!”

Your lack of classic rock knowledge sparked an outraged gasp, and a long, very long explanation. At least it kept you busy for an hour or two.

Then came songs with guitar solos longer than the lyrics, and the way he drummed his fingers and knuckles was endearing and entertaining.

“You have a great sense of rhythm.”

Your head tilted watching him. “Have you ever tried karaoke?”

“No!”

“That….. was waaaaay too fast!”

Squinting your eyes at him you mentally promised to get him drunk enough one day.

“‘Sure you wanna go alone?” he asked slowing down next to a little cabin in the middle of a little run downtown.

“Yep, it’s my job. And anyway you’ll get bored. Go and eat some pie and I’ll call you once I’m done.” you said, checking the address. You began to chew on your lips as your hands smoothed out your dress skirt.

“Just ask for coffee this time” he shouted at you as you took your trolley and headed to the front door. You stopped, turned around and stuck your tongue out at him.

“Y/N, are you even listening to me?” Dean waved a hand in front of your face.

“..Eh?” you blinked, refocusing your sight on him.

“You’ve been chewing on that straw for half an hour and you didn’t even finish your fries.”

Looking down at your half-eaten food you pushed the plate towards him. He gladly switched his empty one for yours.

“‘Shouldn’t take it so bad. I’ve warned you and anyways, there are plenty of hunters.” he said licking the salt from his fingers, your eyes following his tongue.

“…I know. But you are all so …..so American!” you huffed, falling back heavily against the worn backrest.

He shrugged, squirting the ketchup on the fries. Your stomach rolled, making you feel queasy. Looking out the window, you lost yourself in your thoughts again. This time you had other orders. All guns, firearms and other little fun toys. But they had quickly dismissed all that regarded your department. They seemed skeptical at your attempts to explain your products.

'Hunters don't use all those ...things.' they had said.

Dean was right though. There were others. Still, it had stung, seeing your work dismissed as not better than witchcraft and that put you in a foul mood.

“So now what ?” you asked bored, swirling your straw, the ice cubes clinking.

“You are done with your thing, I’m done with mine so... I guess …” he began tentatively,

“Home?...yeah, I guess.”

You blushed as you realized what you had just said. “…The bunker, I mean.”

Dean studied you for a moment “It is your home now. That is if you want …well um… I mean if …you can think about it as your home …err…as long as you want it to be.” he said scooping a big blob of ketchup with a fry, not looking at you.

Shit, you hadn't thought of that. Your time here was not permanent, and you hadn't expected things to ... get complicated like this. What were you going to do once HQ called you back? Just the thought of going back, leaving Dean here, Sam, Cass, and Jack too, caused a knot in your throat and a throb in your head. This was something you would have to face when the time came, though but for now…

“I’d like that!”

“Damn, it’s hot,” Dean groaned while walking back to the car. He shrugged off his light jacket and tossed it over his shoulder as his hand searched in his pocket for the keys.

“It’s like you are naked, “ you said, eyeing him pleased.

He looked at you strangely, as he slid into the driver seat, you following on the passenger seat.

“Just two layers? Aren’t you showing too much skin for an unavailable man?”

He grinned mockingly and rolled the grey Henley up his forearms. You could see the veins and how his muscles twitched and moved under his skin as he drove. You rolled down the window, feeling your face hot. Not only your face, everything else felt hot and uncomfortable so you took off your leather jacket and threw it on the backseat where it joined Dean’s. Sighing, you slid a bit down the seat, Led Zeppelin blasting again, Dean talking to you over them. You weren’t really listening but nonetheless, you were staring at him. He was a bit tanned, all those hours driving with the sun high in the sky.

He looked good… he looked really good…glowing almost. His hair was made lighter by the sun, freckles more visible, lips pinker, the shadow of the beard on his jaw and those striking green eyes which now, in contrast to his tanned skin, looked even lighter. Good, God! He is gorgeous ...and yours.

The thing he could do with those li-

“Hey!”

“What?” you asked, startled.

“You're staring…..and for some reason, it’s making me uncomfortable.”

You scoffed and turned to him fully.

“Oh?.... I don’t believe for a second that you aren’t used to being checked out.”

“Well…no …but… ” he said, his voice low as a hand slid up your thigh. You could see the difference between his tanned skin and yours.

“I can, literally, see what you were thinking!” he winked at your blushing face.

“You can not! “ you said laughing. God, you hoped he couldn’t.

He side glanced at you again and slowly smiled.

“You…my little minx…” he began, and his hand slid up, the skirt ruffling around his fingers. You used all our willpower to press your knees together since they now decided they wanted to be as far from each other as possible.

“…You were thinking about what I could do …” his hand, now under the skirt, reached your upper thigh, thumb circling your skin and your legs relaxed under his silent order. It was enough for Dean to gently but also suddenly shoving them apart, “… when my head is right here!”

Reaching his goal, your hips jerked and you involuntary kicked the box full of tapes near your foot.

“...Guess I was right… judging by the situation here!”

He licked his lips and you made a sound between outrage and a surprise when he moved those fingers the way only he could.

“Dean...” you tried to say, clutching his forearm. “... you are driving, you need…” He managed to slide under the soaked fabric. “...ah…you need to …need to look ...Dean, the road!” you breathed out gasping, trying to push his arm away and parting your legs more at the same time. “Oh don’t worry sweetheart, “ he said, his gaze never leaving the road “I don’t need my eyes on you...”

One of your hands gripped the door handle and the other slammed against the car ceiling.

“I can feel you just fine!”

Baby never swayed.

“What’s up, Sammy?” Dean chirped, very pleased with himself as he glanced at your dreamy expression. Still, in a state of blissful afterglow, you barely heard him. Lazily you turned your face at him and he chuckled passing you his phone.

“Yes..?” you whispered.

“Y/N, it’s Sam…you okay?”

“…eh?”

“Were you napping?”

Sam sounded confused and his brother tried to conceal his amusement.

“…Ah no…NO!..I mean, yes!” you shot Dean a stern look. “Sorry…I’m just a bit…tired”

“Oh…well, maybe...”

“Something happened?”

“No...well yes. One of our contacts. She just came back on the job and heard about you. She’s on your route if you want to check it…but if you are tired ...”

“No, no, I’ll take it. Text me the address.”

“Ok, it’s a small detour but you may need to take another day to be back.”

“It’s alright. More customers. It’s great. Thanks. What about you ...found something?”

“Maybe ...Dean will brief you” You heard Sam moving the phone and saying something then some more sounds. You waited. “ …Jack says hello.”

You chuckled, “ Tell him I said hello, too.”

“…Yeah…Cass, hey...ok...ok… Cass says hello, too.”

“Hello!”

Sam snorted, once in control of the phone again, “Well, safe journey guys. See you in a day.”

“Bye!”

You handed the phone back to Dean and you stared at him waiting.

“What?”

“I’m waiting for you to tell me about your mom. Is there something else I don’t know

He squeezed his hands on the steering wheel and you definitely didn’t miss that.

“…Dean?...please tell me.”

You gently put your hand on his. He relaxed, took your hand and squeezed it, lowering it down on his thigh.

“ I said that Mom punched the devil into the other universe and the rift closed behind her…”

“ …yes… and that she was trapped there.”

“Thing is ...she's dead, Y/N! I know she is!”

He looked at you, his expression haunted. “She trapped Lucifer too, and I really don’t think he let her live.”

It made sense you thought. Never met the devil but you guessed he wouldn’t be too pleased. Your thumb rubbed against his skin, trying to give him some comfort.

“…but…Sam…” you began, trying to find some way to give him hope.

“Sam’s convinced she’s not… but …come on, even you don’t believe it.” He smiled sadly and bitterly and you lowered your eyes, feeling guilty.

“…You are indulging him…” you concluded.

“It’s my baby brother. I don’t want to crush his hopes... just yet.”

You nodded. “…But there is news now…?”

“Dream walkers.”

“…Oh.”

“We could use them to find that world, and maybe…maybe we could…I - I don’t know…”

You could see that Dean’s faith wasn’t big on this and you searched for the right thing to say. “Dean…don’t you at least want to be sure? If there is even a small possibility, wouldn’t you want that? You’ll mourn or you’ll have another reason to fight. One way or another, you need to know.”

He stayed silent and you glanced nervously back and forth between the road and him until he lifted your hand that was still in his, kissing it softly. You smiled and laid your head on his shoulder. Disentangling your hands, he passed his arm around you and brought you closer.

“So…Sam’s said her house should be in the suburbs, just outside Wichita Falls.” Dean said, slowing down and passing from house to house checking the numbers.

“I’m trying really hard…” you said, looking out the window to check the other side.

“I know you want to…come on, spit it out!!” he said with amusement.

You inhaled and let the words spill out of your mouth like a waterfall, “Oh my God, oh my God… it looks just like I had pictured it. I’m just waiting for the newspaper boy with his bicycle or some dad having a barbecue in some yard, drinking beer. Where are all the soccer mums going for a walk all together throwing shade on the neighbor's gardens??? Where is the cul-de-sac??” you said, excitedly.

The car stopped abruptly in front of a big house with red bricks, perfectly mown, green lawn and a white painted fence.

You both looked at each other, confused.

“Well…this is …different!” you said, being accustomed to run-down houses, run-down dirty lawns, menacing barking dogs and warning shots... You walked on the perfect footpath made of carefully placed flat stones and stopped in front of the front door. With some hesitation, you knocked while Dean was, not so subtly, peeking through the window. You quickly pulled him beside you by his shirt, right before the door opened.

In front of you was the perfect soccer mom, like the ones from TV shows. She even had a pastel cardigan around her shoulders and pearl earrings adorned her ears.

“Yes? “ she said, balancing something on her hips. Your eyes looked down at the toddler she was holding, who looked back at you with big questioning eyes.

You were still frozen on the spot and she was staring at you, suspiciously.

“‘Morning ma’am. Sorry, we must have the wrong house.” Dean began, pulling you back.

“Wait!” she called back, “Are you the hunters?”

You both turned slowly and nodded.

“Well, you are definitely in the right place. Come on in, come on in!”

You slowly entered the cookie smelling house, stunned.

“Dean…” you whispered, leaning into him. “What the fuck?”

He was at a loss for words too. She turned back and you both tensed and plastered a tight smile on your faces.

“Oh, don’t just stand there! Sit down! I just baked some cookies. Would you like some? Coffee? Lemonade? Sweet tea?”

She asked chirping as she put the babbling toddler in those…play jail thingies.

“Anything is… fine…” you managed to say.

“I know what you must be thinking.” she smiled while sipping her lemonade. “Someone like me couldn’t possibly be a hunter.”

You both nodded, you sipping your coffee and Dean slowly chewing on a cookie.

“Well …I was a hunter, met my wife on a hunt. She’s in life too, mind you. Got married, still hunted and then we decided to have Avery. I thought that was it. Nail the shotgun and machete to the wall kind of situation. But you know how that thirst never leaves you, right?” she took a cookie and chewed happily.

“So there we were, struggling to go back into life when my old friend Jacob - you know the one in Topeka - called us about these new toys going around. He was at one of your first ‘parties’ when you sold some stuff. Anyhoo, he told me about some of the things you sell and I must say… big fan. So… whatcha got for me?”

Dean poked your side with his elbow. “Ah...yes ...well...here-”

You spent the rest of the hour advertising the variety of the products. She was indeed a big fan because she made a huge order and emptied your last reserves. You were distracted though by that thing babbling and drooling in the room, though. Especially, when she started crying. Hunter soccer mom, rocked her while still talking nonstop. Not hearing a word, you interrupted her. “Wait ...wait ...I'm sorry but I gotta ask…what… how … why?” you stood up from the couch, Dean’s eyes following you. Stuttering, you gestured at her and the toddler that was drooling on her cardigan.

She looked confused “ Why… hunting is who I am. I knew we couldn’t stay away long.”

“But…the..?”

“Oh, honey. We don’t hunt like before, just simple cases. Some salt and burn, maybe some vamps but nothing more. We are very selective. There are other hunters too around here, anyway.”

You opened your mouth to say something when a ‘ping’ coming from the kitchen was heard.

“Oh sorry. Here, can you take her? I need to check on that pot roast.” She put the toddler in your hands and vanished in the kitchen.

You stood frozen on the spot, a drooling tiny human in your outstretched hands, your eyes fixed on her as hers were on you. Studying each other for a few seconds, she slowly raised her chubby fingers, grabbing a lock of your hair and pulling sharply.

“Ow!” you exclaimed, causing a fit of delightful, baby giggles. You felt like something had just punched you in your stomach.

Dean stood up quickly, wanting to take the baby from you, but stopped midway when you brought the squirming bundle to your face. Her giggles grew louder then and Dean resumed his steps, coming to stand in front of you. You were making the stupidest, ugliest face he’d ever seen, Avery still pulling the lock of hair in her fist and the other slapping gently on your cheek. Dean’s eyes widened and his chest felt tight when a hearty laugh escaped your lips, a laugh he never heard you make before.

As a bit of drool threatened to spill out of the toddler, you giggled through your nose, snorting adorably, and used the cross-stitched bib, around her neck to clean her mouth. Dean was transfixed on the image before him, watching you both interact, as you placed her on your hips like her mother had done before and pried your hair out of that steel grasp, replacing it with your crystal pendant which she promptly put in her mouth. Only then did you remember that Dean was there, too. Blushing, you shifted your eyes on him. “Mmm… sorry I…I look stupid…” you said, tucking the lock of hair behind your ear and out of reach.

“I...I think you look magnificent...” he said, before clearing his voice.

“Oh, my…aren’t you two absolutely adorable!”

Soccer mom chirped, entering the room again, a pair of oven gloves still on her hands. “Where were we?”

She refused to take Avery back since she seemed happy where she was and you continued your work, trying not to be too distracted. Once the check and the documents for shipping were signed, you noticed that Avery had become heavier and slack against you.

“She doesn’t usually fall asleep on other people,” she said amazed. “You must give out the mom vibe.”

Before she could see you grimace, she stood up quickly, “Well, I’m gonna pack you some leftover cookies for the road!” and without waiting for your response, she disappeared again.

You looked down at the sleeping child in your arms, and your heart squeezed, as a lump formed in your throat. Without looking away you gripped Dean’s arm, to get his attention.

“….can you…” you gulped, “ can you take-....” you placed the sleeping child in Dean’s arms, “I…I’ll wait in the car,” you said, quickly picking up your stuff.

He wanted to follow you the moment he had seen your eyes, but the sudden movement rouses the child, causing it to whimper. Dean stopped himself and sighed bitterly, looking down.

Your expression and laughter had shaken him deeply.

That…that had been something else.

It almost looked like a possibility that he had never dared to look at. Thinking about it was a thing, but seeing it right in front of his eyes, touching it…. He pressed his lips together and looked out the window, searching for you.

You were putting away your phone and leaning on the side of the car. He watched as you lifted your head, searching for the sun as a gust of wind moved your hair, trapping it in your aviators. Annoyed, you swatted them away, only to worsen the situation. He laughed softly almost hearing the swears that were passing through your mind, as you tried to disentangle the sunglasses from that mess.

“You two together? Because if not, you better tell her soon. That look on your face is ridiculous!”

Startled Dean turned around, finding soccer mom staring right into his eyes, smiling brightly.

“ …Err…” was the only thing he managed to say before handing her back her sleeping kid. He glanced back at you as your hands were still busy in your sunglasses- hair mess and he smiled, “…yes...yes we are together…”

He closed the door behind him and walked down to the car. You were turned around, facing the other way.

“ That went great, right? And look…” he said, lifting the plastic plate, “...free cookies!!” You let out a shaky, sniffling, soft laugh. Dean’s eyebrows furrowed worriedly and he turned you around with one hand.

“…Sorry…I…this damn thing! I can’t …I can’t disentangle it.” you were on the verge of tears as the sunglasses dangled in front of your eyes.

He gently put the plate on the roof of Baby and started freeing your hair patiently. Murmuring ‘thanks’ as he handed you the glasses back, you both slipped into the car, Dean glancing at the house on more time before taking off.

“What kind are these?” you asked, eyeing the cookies.

“Don’t know…they look like chocolate chip.”

“I sure hope so. If they turn out to be oatmeal or raisins I’m gonna throw them out the car like a Frisbee!”

“Sam might want them.”

You looked at him pausing, “...ew!”

#Epiphany 11 #Epiphany #reader insert #Sam Winchester reader insert #reader fanfiction #dean winchester #dean x reader #dean x you #dean x y/n

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yourhorrorhusband · 6 years

Text

He Seemed Nice

Hello everyone, I’m back! Apologies for the wait! I hope you like it.

CW for Halloween-typical violence. Also this one’s just a touch more... risqué than the last one, so keep that in mind!

You met him at a bar at the tail end of August. You were at your usual haunt when you spotted him from across the room. He sat alone in one of the corners, idly sipping a beer and staring at nothing in particular. He’d been there for hours before you paid him any real attention; lonesome men were a dime a dozen in seedy bars like this, and besides, if you took your eye off of your game of pool for even a minute, you know your buddy would use the opportunity to cheat. So you didn’t notice him until well into the night, when you heard the smack of his bottle against the table and you looked up to check the noise.

Your eyes met then. Your breath hitched just slightly when you noticed the nasty scar over one of his eyes, whiting out what you assume had been as bright and blue as his other. There was a softness in those eyes, one that was rare in people his age, especially men. Instantly, despite the rugged look of his scars and clothes, you were at ease. You smiled at him. He smiled back.

You quickly finished your game of pool and hung up your cue, telling your friends to keep going without you. Then you sauntered over to the man in the corner.

In the dim lights it had been hard to tell from a distance, but up close you could see that he was quite handsome. His age-- which you guessed was somewhere around forty-- shown in his face, but despite the weather of middle age that was evident in his dark eye bags and the slight puffiness of his cheeks, his features were still chiseled and handsome. With his button nose and his nest of curly brown hair, you would guess that he had been quite a ladykiller in his youth.

You couldn’t help the warmth that rose in your cheeks. You think he noticed it too, if that confident little smirk meant anything. Yeah, still got it.

“Is this seat taken?” you asked as you tugged out the chair beside him.

He shook his head, making a sweeping motion with his empty hand. No, no, feel free.

“Thanks.” You sat down and introduced yourself, reaching out your hand to shake his.

He took your hand-- (the way he shook and squeezed yours made your toes curl)-- but he hesitated to speak. He looked you up and down, as if assessing you, before he finally decided to say anything. Maybe that should have struck you as odd, but any inkling of suspicion you might have had was killed on the spot when you heard his voice.

“Michael.” There was a gravel to it, and though you initially thought it was a smoker’s voice, you dismissed it, since he was about the only one in the bar who didn’t stink of cigarettes. Maybe the growl was just natural-- it suited him after all. Between his beard and the peek of chest hair displayed beneath his oh-so-subtly unbuttoned shirt, he seemed the rugged type. Like the love interest from a romance novel, perhaps.

The two of you exchanged pleasantries for a while, settling in, ordering drinks, laughing. You completely forgot about the pool game and your buddies until they announced their departure.

“Get home safe!” You remember one of them calling as the group shuffled out the door. You had found yourself laughing at that at the time-- your house was basically next door, how did they expect you to get into trouble?

After you waved them off you returned to your new friend, continuing your interrupted train of thought. You were in the middle of talking about something trivial, some odd little anecdote about your job, when it came to your attention just how little he had spoken. Other than the occasional bit of commentary or affirmation, he hadn’t said more than a handful of words. He certainly hadn’t contributed as much as you had.

You apologized for dominating the conversation and he shook his head. “It’s all right. I prefer to listen. Keep going.”

And listen he did. He listened tirelessly, never seeming to grow bored of you or your petty little problems or your uninteresting trivia knowledge. He simply nodded when appropriate and sipped on his bottle of beer.

Closing time arrived before you even knew it. You balked when the bartender announced final rounds and frantically checked the clock. Two A.M.! When had it become two A.M.? Had he really made you lose track of time that badly?

Your new friend sighed, knocked back the last of the beer he’d been working on for the past two hours, and stood. You stood along with him and gathered up your coat. You were about to bid him farewell when he asked if he could walk you home.

You felt your entire face flush, and not from the alcohol. You nodded, afraid that if you tried to speak you might say something embarrassing. He shrugged on his jacket, waved to the bartender and corralled you out the door.

The summer air had broken that night, giving you a welcome reprieve from the unforgiving heat. Soon it would be autumn, and the chilly fall air would sweep away any remnants of the hot and humid hell that Illinois tended to be.

The pair of you walked in silence, the only sound the chuckle he gave you when you peeked over at him. You looked away, and to cover for yourself, you quietly thanked him for his company. In return, he thanked you for yours.

Too soon, your little walk was over and you stood at your door. “So this is it?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you confirmed. “This is home.”

His brows furrowed. “You don’t live here all by yourself, do you? This place looks too big for one person.”

“No, no,” you assured him. You suppose you shouldn’t have given out that sort of personal information to a man who was basically a complete stranger, but you’d been feeding him details about yourself all night, so what was one little cherry on top? “I have a couple of roommates. I’m never by myself, even when I want to be.”

He nodded and he seemed relieved. “That’s good. There’s a lot of messed up people out there these days. It’s not safe to be alone.”

You sighed in agreement. Not wanting to end an awesome night on a bad note, you decided not to dwell on that. Instead, you patted his arm and gave him one last smile before you went inside.

“Good night.” You said.

“Good night.” Michael replied.

As you hung up your coat and kicked off your shoes you thought to yourself, he seemed nice.

Luckily for you, that wasn’t your only encounter with your mysterious new friend. Far from it, in fact. It seemed that every time you went back to your usual haunt he was there, sitting in the same corner, drinking the same beer. He always looked so bored whenever you first saw him, but the moment he caught sight of you he would light up. You couldn’t deny that you enjoyed the attention and the warm feelings he put into you.

Weeks passed. October strolled in and brought with it that familiar mischievous chill. Your new friend seemed to grow more excitable as the month passed and Halloween began to show its head. You wished you could share his enthusiasm, but lately you could only feel skittish and scared.

You were being stalked.

Right as the month turned you had begun to notice a man following you everywhere. Outside of your workplace, outside of the grocery store, outside of your home-- no matter where you went, you always seemed to catch a glimpse of the same man. He was probably average height, average weight (though his baggy clothes obscured his body, so it was hard to tell). He always wore the same thing-- a workman’s jumpsuit, which seemed to be blue or green depending on the light, and a pair of heavy black boots.

He also always wore the same deathly white mask, which initially lead you to believe this was simply a premature Halloween prank. He never did any of the things stalkers did in movies-- never called you to leave threatening voicemails or to breathe in your ear, never seemed to dig through your trash cans, never hurt you, never cut your hair in your sleep, never harassed your roommates--so that’s all it had to be, right? A prank? That’s what the police had said when you tried to talk to an officer.

But even with the assurances of the authorities, it took its toll on you. Most nights you were too scared to leave your house, opting to rush straight home after work. Even on the nights you did go out, you were tired and paranoid. You tried to hide it from Michael, but he noticed right away.

“Something’s wrong,” he stated. He didn’t ask you if something was wrong, he simply knew. He’d gotten so good at reading you.

You initially resisted telling him. You knew what kind of man he was, and you didn’t want him threatening some stupid kid over a harmless prank. But the weight of the past few weeks had begun to take its toll on you, and you wanted so desperately for him to comfort you. Before you knew it, you were spilling every detail.

He took a long drink of his beer and he muttered, “It’s like I told you-- there’s a lot of sick people out there.” You nodded solemnly in agreement.

“And you said he always wears the mask and the jumpsuit?”

“Yes.”

He hummed, his brows knit. “In the late seventies, down in Haddonfield-- that’s in Hardin county, deep in Little Egypt-- there was this man who attacked a bunch of teenagers one Halloween night. His name was Michael, like mine is, but they called him the boogeyman.” He waved his hand, dismissing it. “Silly, I know. But the thing is… the entire time he was following these kids around, when he was terrorizing and killing them-- well, he wore a white mask and a worker’s jumpsuit. The mask was stolen from a general store, along with a 13-inch kitchen knife. The ‘suit, however…” He leaned in close, eyes wide. The beginning of a grin tugged at his lips. “Was taken from the first ever man he watched die.”

You couldn’t help but look horrified. Michael seemed almost contented by your shock.

Then he sat back quickly, serious once more. “It wasn’t his first kill, of course-- men like that never wait that long to kill something. No, the bastard stabbed his sister when he was barely out of diapers. Can you imagine?”

You didn’t bother to ask why he knew so much. If you’d done even surface level research you would have learned that half of what he’d said hadn’t even been public knowledge and that there was no way he should have known what he did. But you were enraptured.

“You don’t… think it’s the same guy, do you? I mean, a guy like that had to have been caught!”

“He was caught, but he got out. They let him out.”

“Why!” you shouted. Your face grew red as you noticed half the bar peek over at you.

“Fuck if I know.” He itched his wrist. For the first time, you noticed the presence of a strange rune tattoo there. “For the fun of it, I guess.”

Both of you stewed in silence, lost in your own thoughts. When he noticed you biting your nails into stumps, Michael leaned across the table and put his hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry. I don’t think it’s actually the same guy. It’s probably just a prank, like the cops said.”

You nodded at him. Still scared, however, you asked him to walk you home.

You made it home safe that night. No masked man in sight.

You didn’t see him, the masked man, at all after that night. Not at work, at your window, at the store. You had hoped that maybe he’d seen Michael walk you home and had been scared off. Briefly, the thought of your friend as your protector flickered in your mind and warmed you from the inside out. It was more fodder for that little fire he’d begun to stoke inside of you.

You were just about to launch into another daydreaming session about tall, dark and curly when you heard a knock at your door. It was one of your roommates.

“Hey,” he said, peeking in. “We’re leaving.”

“Where are you going?”

He looked annoyed. “Halloween party? We’ve been talking about it for like two weeks now. Did you forget?”

You shrugged. With the whole stalking thing going on, paranoia had kept pretty much everything else out of your brain. “I guess so.”

He asked you if you wanted to tag along but you politely declined. The rest of your roomies were going to be out making their own trouble, and you’d be angry at yourself if you missed out on a rare chance to have a night alone.

“I have my pager, so ring me if you need anything, okay?” With that, he left. You listened to him shut the front door and drive off in his car.

You listened for a moment, just to make sure the house was really empty. You heard no shouting, no slamming doors, no girlish giggling, no television, no nothing. All was quiet on the western front.

Yes! You shouted as you jumped up and danced around your room. What should you do? The possibilities were endless! You could take a nice long bath, and you could sing along to the radio as loud as you wanted without being made fun of. You could cook whatever you wanted without having to share it with three other hungry mouths! You could masturbate and moan until your throat was raw! You could even invite someone special over.

You bit your lip and sighed. You wished you had Michael’s number. You’d love to invite him over and see what he’d do to you while you were all alone and helpless.

(Come to think of it, did he have a number? You never thought to ask for one because you’d never had any trouble finding him before.)

God, rubbing one out really did sound good… No, no, in due time. Right now, the bath was calling.

You stripped and, bathrobe draped over your arm, strutted naked across the hall to the bathroom. (You really could get used to this no-roommates thing.) You drew up the bath, humming as you lazily ran your hands through the warming water.

When it was right, you slid in with a sigh, spreading and draping your legs over the lip of the tub. Any other night there’d be no fewer than two people banging on the door by this point, demanding to be let in for their hair curler or their deodorant or so that they could take a shit. But now you were on your own; not only was there no one banging on the door, there wasn’t a need to shut the door at all! Truly this was the height of luxury.

Your muscles had all relaxed and you were on the cusp of napping when a curious thing happened: the lights went out. It startled the shit out of you, and you sat up suddenly, legs slipping and banging on the tub.

You stood up slowly in the bath, murmured out some complaint about someone forgetting to pay the electric bill. You lit one of the candles in the bathroom, quickly dried yourself and pulled on your robe. Just as you exited the bathroom, you heard the sound of footsteps downstairs.

For a moment your breath caught in your throat, but you quickly realized what was happening: Your roommate had come back to play a little trick on you. Oh, wasn’t he clever, waiting until you were naked and vulnerable and then pulling this shit. He probably thought you hadn’t heard him either, the bastard.

Well, you could play along. Loudly, you walked down the stairs, making bold declarations about how dark the house was and how scared you were. As you made your way into the kitchen and down the stairs into the basement, you loudly declared your intention to flip the breakers back on.

“I hope no one’s down here waiting for me!”

The basement was dark as shit, as basements tended to be. Luckily you had been down there a million times and knew exactly where you kept the emergency lights. You plucked one up from the box beside the dryer. You gave it a small shake to make sure there were batteries inside and flicked it on.

Ugh. The beam was tiny and weak; the batteries must have been going dead. (You reminded yourself to change them later.) Whatever, it was enough to work the breaker with.

Whistling to yourself, your terrified façade quickly abandoned, you walked over to the electrical box. You pulled back the cover and flipped the main breaker.

Nothing.

Okay.

You flicked it back and forth a few times. No response.

Okay.

You tried a few of the other switches, but nothing changed.

Weird. Okay. Maybe someone really did forget to pay the bill. But companies don’t come out and shut the lights off this late, right? It was way past business hours.

With the flashlight still clutched in your hand, you ascended the stairs. You called your roommate’s name, asked him what the hell he’d done to fuck shit up this badly. In the kitchen, you heard something stir.

You called his name again. His footsteps grew louder.

Again. Louder.

Again, more frantic. Louder, more rhythmic.

“This isn’t funny,” you told him, your voice betraying you. You shined the light up the stairs you now found yourself stuck to.

He took a few more steps, cautious, before he entered the beam of light. The weak light made his white face glow unholy.

He peered down at you with black, empty eyes.

You couldn’t scream.

Not thinking, you chucked the flashlight at him before flying down the stairs. You heard a dull, connecting thump but you didn’t stop to admire your work. Escape, hide.

You ran to the furthest corner of the basement, narrowly avoiding knocking over baskets and stepping on discarded scraps of junk. You found the discarded pile of sports and gym equipment that had been pushed into a corner and, to the best of your ability, weaved into it. You flattened yourself against the wall, lowering yourself just slightly. You cupped your hands over your mouth to muffle your breathing, for surely that was the only way he could find you. If you couldn’t see him, how could he possibly see you?

He found you in no time at all, having followed the sound of your feet on the hard concrete floor. You listened to him breathe, low and slow as he circled around your general area. He knew you were there, he simply couldn’t pinpoint you. So he made a few idle laps around the edge of the area, then simply stopped, waited. He held his breath, listened. You held yours.

There was a pause in your game. He all but had you. One wrong move and you were in checkmate. The right move, however, and you could survive long enough to come back. Your brain raced a hundred miles an hour as you considered every possible course of action.

You exhaled, no longer able to hold it in. You whimpered when you realized what you had done. He approached.

When he was, you assumed, within arm’s reach, you jumped up suddenly and pushed the equipment in front of you onto him. Skis, bicycles, and all sorts of other knick-knacks clattered to the ground, making him stumble back. You took off in a run.

Up the stairs, onto the main floor. You should have run out the door and you should have gotten help. But you wanted to find out who this fucker was and you wanted to make him pay for tormenting you.

So rather than be sensible, you stayed in the kitchen, grabbed the biggest knife you had in the drawer and lit as many candles as you could before he returned. You managed to light one per stair he climbed, which was rather impressive, if you did say so yourself.

Quickly, he made himself known. Survive.

You pointed the knife at him, gripping it with both hands and keeping it as steady as you could manage. He spotted the knife and stopped, frozen on the spot.

“Don’t come any closer, you son of a bitch! I’ll kill you! I mean it!”

You thought you did, anyway. Whether or not you had the guts to actually do it, you’d never know.

He raised his own knife, looked it over. In the dull candle light it looked old, sad, poorly maintained. Your confidence foolishly flared-- if this was a knife fight, you had brought the sword and he had brought the butter knife.

He threw the butter knife at you.

You hadn’t been expecting that. You gasped and just barely avoided being hit. Your feet, still a touch wet, slid on the kitchen tile and you crashed to the floor, your shoulder knocking the wind from you. You watched as he plucked up the sword and the butter knife.

He loomed over you, head slightly cocked. Angry, you spit up at him. As a reward, you got a boot to the stomach. You felt the impact on your guts, hot and crushing, but also… oddly nice. For a brief moment, you found yourself wanting more. Proving himself quite the sadist, the man denied you.

Instead he brought your sword down, thrusting it into your shoulder. You screamed as it tore through your muscle, severing the tissue there. Blood rose up, almost sleepily, from your wound, hugging the knife before trickling down your skin.

He grabbed you by the hair then, pulling you to your feet. He had ripped out a good chunk of your hair in the process, but the pain was so minute in comparison, you would have hardly noticed.

He raised the butter knife, his hand rigid and ready to stuff this dull-looking thing into some other fleshy part of your anatomy. A sharp knife was safer than a dull knife-- of all the things your mother had rambled to you in your youth this was one of the few things you remembered-- so if the sword had hurt and torn that much, what would the butter knife do?

You refused to find out. With a strength you didn’t know you possessed (and with the aid of good old adrenaline), you yanked the knife out of yourself and thrust it at him, slicing his hand. He seemed unfazed, but released your hair anyway. Pressing the fabric of your robe to your wound, you bound up the stairs and into your room.

You slammed the door behind you, locking it. In full panic-mode now, you scoured your room, desperate to find anything you could use as a weapon. Despite your best efforts, you were unable to find anything harder than a hair brush and nothing deadlier than your dirty gym clothes.

You screamed out in frustration, but the sound stuck in your throat when he began to bang on the door. You jumped back from it.

“Go away!” you shouted. “I’ve got my gun, so if you don’t fuck off I’ll re--” The words wouldn’t come out. “I’ll really kill you!”

He didn’t pause, not for a second; the man could smell a bluff a mile away. Bitterly, you wondered if the masked man would like to join you and Michael for a game of poker. What a time you would have had with a couple of stony-faced tricksters like them.

Soon you heard the strain of the door, the splintering of the wood. You dashed to the window and went to throw it open, but it was sealed tight. You cursed yourself for locking it (“Have to keep the weirdos out!”) and you fumbled with it. It stuck-- of course it stuck! You pulled (thump!) and you pushed (thump!) and you begged (tunk!) and pleaded (crack!) and finally it gave, in perfect synchrony with the door.

You had your palms up against the window frame, ready to throw it open and throw yourself out of the second story when he burst into the room, grabbed you by the throat and flung you onto the bed. You opened your mouth to scream, praying that there was someone nearby; he plucked your pillow up and smothered you with it.

You flailed! You wouldn’t lose! You slipped your leg out from under him and you thrust it up, kicking him square in the stomach. He leaned back and tumbled, his head slamming on the wooden beam at the end of your bed with a nasty crack.

Without thinking you pounced on him, grabbing fistfuls of his jumpsuit and shaking him. “You fucker!” you shouted. “You motherfucker! How dare you!”

You dropped him, letting him hit the beam again. Then you grabbed that stupid mask of his by the hair and you tossed it away.

All the anger melted out of you then.

In the dim glow of the moon and streetlights, you could see that he was quite handsome. His age-- which you guessed was somewhere around forty-- shown in his face, but despite the weather of middle age that was evident in his dark eye bags and the slight puffiness of his cheeks, his features were still chiseled and handsome. With his button nose and his nest of curly brown hair, you would guess that he had been quite a ladykiller in his youth.

You couldn’t help the warmth that burned your cheeks. If he noticed it too, he said nothing.

“Michael?”

He blinked at you, but did not respond. His eyes seemed almost glazed over, and he looked right through you.

Suddenly, he sat up and you sat too. The pair of you stared at each other.

“I don’t understand,” you muttered, tears running down your face. “Why are you doing this? I thought you liked me.”

He didn’t answer. He grabbed for the mask that rested on the bed but you pulled it back. A brief flicker of anger passed across his face.

“Say something, stupid! Don’t play dumb with me. Tell me why!”

Nothing. His lips were sealed. You’d get nothing from him, so you’d had to figure it out on your own.

This wasn’t a prank; between the stalking and cutting the lights and, well, stabbing you, that much was obvious. Had you slighted him? You couldn’t have, you’d been nothing but reciprocal to anything one might call an advance. You liked him, and you were certain he knew that.

But maybe he got off on that.

Maybe he liked getting little things like you all worked up before he cornered them and turned them into mincemeat. You’d heard plenty of horror stories about men like that, both in the papers and from your closest woman friends. You’d never thought this sort of thing could happen to you, but maybe you were just dumb enough to fall for it. Maybe you were just dumb enough for him to lure in.

No, no-- there were no “maybes” about it. You had to be as thick as a wall, because despite everything, you couldn’t make yourself stop liking him. Being followed, attacked and nearly killed by him didn’t make him less appealing to you.

On the contrary, you found yourself… interested.

The knife still lay in his hand. Your eyes laser-focused in on it. You’d used it a hundred times to chop vegetables, slice chicken, open the occasional stubborn bit of packaging. But now you found yourself thinking about it being used on you-- chopping you up, slicing you, opening you up as easily as a box or a wrap of cellophane.

Your heart began to race now, even more than it had before.You’d had these sorts of fantasies before-- violent, romantic fantasies-- but now the opportunity to make them reality was presented before you. The part of your brain that clung stubbornly to survival screeched at you, begged for you to run down those stairs and fling yourself at the next person who could protect you. But what did that inane, ape-like part of you know?

It couldn’t understand that you’d fallen for this man hook, line and sinker. It couldn’t understand that he was just the kind of man you’d been waiting for-- kind, respectful, handsome, thoughtful. Overwhelmingly violent. Someone who had left you metaphorically breathless and now, if you were lucky, would leave you literally breathless as well.

You wanted him. You’d wanted him for weeks now, but rather than simply wanting to fuck him, you wanted him to plunge a different tool into you. You wanted him to thrust it into you again and again, filling you with his warmth and bringing you over that edge. La grande mort.

Tears in your eyes and a smile painted on your lips, you held his mask back out to him. He took it, the sight of his face bringing him from his docile stupor. He eyed you. You nodded. He cocked a brow and you laughed.

Do you know what this means?

Of course I do!

He moved to put the mask back on but you stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Can you leave it off?”

His expression darkened and his mouth set into a harder line. Your stomach leapt.

“Please?” You asked, as soft as you could. “Could you do that for me? That’s all I’m asking.”

You wanted those lovely features to be the last thing you saw. You’d let him do whatever he wanted to you, for as long as he wanted to do them, but you needed to see that it was him, not whatever he was with that mask on.

He thought about it for a long moment, but with a long, annoyed sigh, he stood and rested his face on your desk. You thanked him but he didn’t acknowledge it.

He returned to your side and pushed you down onto your pillow. With no finesse, he ripped open your robe, exposing you to him and to the chilly air of your room. You shuddered; something in his face twitched.

His eyes trailed down your body, perhaps making a mental record of your scars and your freckles and the other marks life has bestowed, perhaps planning the most efficient places for his knife. Perhaps, you hoped, he was admiring, enjoying, lusting for you as you had for him. Perhaps, though you knew it was nothing but a fantasy, he had begun to think of you so highly that he would drop this whole thing and simply take you. As much as you liked the idea of his knife inside you, you couldn’t deny you would have accepted the alternative.

The feeling of the blade in your gut quickly cut through that dream.

(Along with cutting through your small intestine.)

You choked, your hands flying up to tangle in his jumpsuit. He retracted the knife.

You lay there, trembling, your body wracked with pain. The open wound on your gut bled with fervor. Try as it might, your body could not scab up the gash fast enough, and so you bled freely. If you had worked up the courage to stare at your own wound, you might have seen the peek of pink-grey that emerged from the wound as you shuddered. Your insides, like your hidden fantasies, were eager to come out and meet your man of the night.

He gave you just a few moment’s reprieve before the knife came down again, higher this time, right in your belly. You felt your stomach burst upon impact, felt the caustic acid free itself to rain terror on your body. Your body twitched at that, the burning, though it was nothing compared to the raw pain the knife brought you. The raw, completing pain.

Something bloomed inside of you: gratitude. You were so thankful to him, for him, that you felt like you couldn’t contain it. This man had to have been an angel (perhaps he was the angel Michael), for he had looked upon you-- filthy, lowly, human-- and knew immediately what it was you had needed. Then he had spent his time, his energy, his graces to follow through and make sure you got it. Now you were being given that which you needed most, that which all your friends and family would have shunned you for if they’d even caught a whiff of your desires. He gave it gracefully, freely, and without judgement. If you could will yourself to speak, you might have told him you loved him.

But you couldn’t speak-- at first simply because of the pain, then because he had ruptured your lung with his blade. It was such a clean and methodical attack, a simple turn of his wrist and a thrust down; why, he didn’t even scrape a rib! He had an almost surgical precision. Maybe he was a doctor in his day-to-day. You found yourself picturing him in an operating room, and you envied all the people who got to have him inside of them and live.

He made one-two-three-four! more punctures to your lungs, each one making it harder to breathe, until retaining air was impossible. You, both unsure of what to do and knowing you needed contact, clawed at his jumpsuit. He leaned in over you and your arms found his neck; you clung, gurgled, wept and you smiled. Perhaps it was simply the blur of tears in your eyes, but you swore he smiled back.

He let you pull his face down to your throat, where he pressed his nose to your skin and took in the scent of you. Oh, how embarrassing. You weren’t exactly filthy but you wished you’d gotten to finish your bath first. You wanted to smell of soap and candles for him, not of the day’s grime and sweat. Still, if he was bothered, he made no comment. He simply took in long lungfuls of you.

The two of you stayed intertwined like that for, what was to you, an eternity. He stayed close long after you’d given up trying to breathe, long after you’d felt the wetness of your own blood soaking your sheets; long after you’d stopped seeing colors.

You choked out once more, your death rattle. As a final hurrah, one last gift, he sunk his teeth into your neck. Deeper, deeper, harder-- animalistic. You could feel nothing but the pressure and you loved it. You’d wished he’d done it sooner, so that you might have been able to relish in that feeling of being marked.

He stopped just shy of breaking your skin; then, all at once, he left you. He hovered over you for just a moment and then he left your side. Your vision, which was milky now, followed him as he walked to the desk and retrieved the mask. He slipped it on, his second skin. Then he was gone.

He did not give you a last look. He did not, and would not, linger on you. He shut the door; in the distance, you heard the quiet descent of his footsteps.

Your eyes remained trained on the door.

#Halloween #John Carpenter's Halloween #michael myers #The Shape #Self Insert #Self Insertion #my own writing #gender neutral character

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