#teenage dream of a sunken city

[kittyplushy]

House Guest lore? Oh yes, House Guest lore <3

For context House Guest is the ship name for my Beneath The Trees Where Nobody Sees self ship! It's a fairly new self ship so this will be updated as keep up with the new content IDW has been releasing for it!

Ship name is based on Nothing Painted Blue's House Guest which is often covered by The Mountain Goats. You should listen to this song.

Also you should read BTTWNS. Thanks.

Basing around this interview, the timeline of these events take place a year after the murders in Woodbrook have been resolved. Sam now runs the hardware store alone and babysits Charlie's kids every now and then. For the longest time Lola and Charlie were what she considered as friends in the lifetime she's spent in town. But with both of them gone, there's an air of sudden loneliness in her life. She does like the peace but then that just makes her impulses louder. More slip ups. This lingering feeling of fear or anger still brews inside her- how can it go away? Thankfully the residents are understanding of her condition. They did after all frame her for killing their neighbors for a time.

It's fair she'd be mad at them somehow. She doesn't show the grudge but the lack of any real relationship with people dented her and so she makes more trips to the city to hunt.

On a particular field trip, she stumbles upon her old camp. The earth broken with messy bald sinks. Grass had started growing over the sunken ground. She scoffs, this obviously was a job done by Nigel. She cleans back up the land and patches up the uneven soil. As she does she contemplates why he did it. Love? Obsession? Admiration?

How odd that a guy she's seen since he was a teenager decided to make advances on her.

Maybe it's norm. Nigel is 27. He's got a life to live and around that time people start to think about marriage or moving in or starting families. Maybe he could have gotten a crazy girlfriend back at his university. Maybe if he was not so dedicated he'd have a wife and a child today. He used to be a nice kid. He could have done something better than to disrupt the natural order of things.

Sam is 45. She's lived her entire life alone but not without experience. That's unnatural. In her travels she has had flings with girls and only had a serious relationship with 2 when she had to prolong her stay in some towns. Nobody in Woodbrook mind that she was childless or not romantically involved. But there were occasional condolances or pity parties thrown for her by old ladies. Why didn't she? Well it's probably because she's never really found the need to. And second, she's been only interested in women.

But it's not like there was a demand for her to be in a relationship anytime. These little women and men were her playthings. They couldn't possibly tell her how to settle down. But maybe to ease the tension and break the ice after a year of grieving and moving on. Sam thinks about dating for the purpose that she'll appear better off. Happier. Maybe with the added novelty that she's a lesbian.

It's a lot more positive association, isn't it? Sam had gotten tired of the apologies that punctuated every sentence directed at her. Why yes, tell me about my wife. Tell me about how nice it must be.

But like the wild animals people migrate in and out of Woodbrook. The women she found interest in either had married or went to the city. But people sometimes come in as a tourist or as a permanent resident. One of those people is Julianne, an illustrator who moved across the country to live in a more rural area.

Julianne is a stressed artist who dreams of living slowly and romantically. She chose Woodbrook because of how local and tight knit it was and because not much people are willing to come and invest in it yet after the horrors of 1986.

She bought an apartment suite to live in with big ambitions or visions of how she wants it to look like. One morning she came to the Burly Brown Bear with a binder full of sketches and magazine clippings. It's a grounded concept, she said as Sam flipped through the pages of the bestrewed book. It's as grounded as a maximalist can get. Mostly wood. Warm tones. Unique carvings and custom European windows.

Oh but we don't need to do that part, she laughs.

It's an eye opening pitch, but Sam decides to help her anyway excited to do another full scale project after a while.

This is perfect. They work on the project together growing to be close friends. Then the relationship breaches past a project partnership and they find themselves in parks, taking strolls around the forest that covers the town, drinking cider in Sam's truck or sleeping on the floor of the half finished apartment.

The town pick up on how close the two are becoming. And it's welcomed and encouraged, warming Julianne into the community from merely just being city folk and supporting Sam's bold open secret.

Her prop is useful. So useful. Too useful. That she forgets this is to save face. She feels the same primal satisfaction she feels when she kills with Julianne. A warm soothing hand that muffles the mouth of her soul.

Well. Sometimes Julianne still visits the city. She needs to go to work when it physically demands her. Or she just goes because she oddly enough feels comfort being blended in a crowd of faces. She goes there to ponder. And this overlap in schedule happens with Sam's "business trips". Sam panics realizing they're headed out too but. I mean she's probably on another side of the city. She won't see at all.

So she goes and she asks a deer for help bringing in her groceries. She chokes the doe and begins her usual routine. Ties. Hangs. Nails. Grinder. It's all there.

Nearby is a cat with a canvas bag eating lunch alone. She brought herself a strawberry sandwich and bought a cranberry slice to gift to her girlfriend later. She looks for a nice isolated spot near a river, but across the river is a silhouette of someone familiar. Is it? What a coincidence! Come eat lunch with me, silly.

A ritual is performed across the water. It's quiet and precise. Curiosity gets the better of Julianne and she crosses that stream, locking eyes with a bear slicing an incision on a deer's artery.

There's a silence that deafens.

[richincolor]

New Releases

This week's an exciting one for new YA books! Quite a few of these books coming out tomorrow are at the very top of my must-read pile, like Transmogrify! and Venom & Vow. What's on your TBR?

Transmogrify!: 14 Fantastical Tales of Trans Magic edited by g. haron davis Transness is as varied and colorful as magic can be. In Transmogrify!, you’ll embark on fourteen different adventures alongside unforgettable characters who embody many different genders and expressions and experiences—because magic is for everyone, and that is cause for celebration.

Featuring stories from: AR Capetta and Cory McCarthy g. haron davis Mason Deaver Jonathan Lenore Kastin Emery Lee Saundra Mitchell Cam Montgomery Ash Nouveau Sonora Reyes Renee Reynolds Dove Salvatierra Ayida Shonibar Francesca Tacchi Nik Traxler

Fake Dates and Mooncakes by Sher Lee Dylan Tang wants to win a Mid-Autumn Festival mooncake-making competition for teen chefs—in memory of his mom, and to bring much-needed publicity to his aunt’s struggling Chinese takeout in Brooklyn.

Enter Theo Somers: charming, wealthy, with a smile that makes Dylan’s stomach do backflips. AKA a distraction. Their worlds are sun-and-moon apart, but Theo keeps showing up. He even convinces Dylan to be his fake date at a family wedding in the Hamptons.

In Theo’s glittering world of pomp, privilege, and crazy rich drama, their romance is supposed to be just pretend . . . but Dylan finds himself falling for Theo. For real. Then Theo’s relatives reveal their true colors—but with the mooncake contest looming, Dylan can’t risk being sidetracked by rich-people problems. Can Dylan save his family’s business and follow his heart—or will he fail to do both?

Hurt You by Marie Myung-Ok Lee

Moving beyond the quasi-fraternal bond of the unforgettable George and Lenny from Of Mice and Men, Hurt You explores the actual sibling bond of Georgia and Leonardo da Vinci Daewoo Kim, who has an unnamed neurological disability that resembles autism. The themes of race, disability, and class spin themselves out in a suburban high school where the Kim family has moved in order to access better services for Leonardo. Suddenly unmoored from the familiar, including the support of her Aunt Clara, Georgia struggles to find her place in an Asian-majority school where whites still dominate culturally, and she finds herself feeling not Korean ��enough.” Her one pole star is her commitment to her brother, a loyalty that finds itself at odds with her immigrant parents’ dreams for her, and an ableist, racist society that may bring violence to Leonardo despite her efforts to keep him safe.

Hurt You is a deep exploration of family, society, and the bond between siblings and reflects the reality that people with intellectual disabilities are far more likely to be the victim of a violent crime, not the perpetrator.

Last Canto for the Dead (Outlaw Saints #2) by Daniel José Older

Two gods-turned-teenagers wage simultaneous battles in the Caribbean and Brooklyn in this sequel to Ballad & Dagger.

Healer. Destroyer. Creator. Mateo Matisse and Chela Hidalgo are not just two teenagers in love–they’re powerful gods in human form. Powerful enough to have saved their Brooklyn diaspora community from the wrath of an ancient enemy and to have raised their once-sunken native island of San Madrigal from the sea. But soon they discover that their problems are far from over. On the shores of San Madrigal, two creature armies are battling for survival. And on the streets of Brooklyn, a once tight-knit community is divided, with two sides at each other’s throats. But worst of all, a heartbreaking prophecy rips these two young lovers apart, sending Mateo back to the city, where cops are now patrolling the streets, and keeping Chela tethered to the island, where chaos and death lurk around every corner.

Healer. Destroyer. Creator. As gods, their powers know no limits. But as teenagers–separated, desperate, grieving–what will become of them? And what will become of their people? Join their battle and witness their love in this thrilling conclusion to the epic saga that began with BALLAD & DAGGER.

Venom & Vow by Anna-Marie McLemore and Elliott McLemore Keep your enemy closer. Cade McKenna is a transgender prince who’s doubling for his brother. Valencia Palafox is a young dama attending the future queen of Eliana. Gael Palma is the infamous boy assassin Cade has vowed to protect. Patrick McKenna is the reluctant heir to a kingdom, and the prince Gael has vowed to destroy.

Cade doesn’t know that Gael and Valencia are the same person. Valencia doesn’t know that every time she thinks she’s fighting Patrick, she’s fighting Cade. And when Cade and Valencia blame each other for a devastating enchantment that takes both their families, neither of them realizes that they have far more dangerous enemies.

Rubi Ramos’s Recipe for Success by Jessica Parra Graduation is only a few months away, and so far Rubi Ramos’s recipe for success is on track.

*Step 1: Get into the prestigious Alma University. *Step 2: Become incredibly successful lawyer. But when Alma waitlists Rubi’s application, her plan is in jeopardy. Her parents–especially her mom, AKA the boss–have wanted this for her for years. In order to get off the waitlist without her parents knowing, she needs math tutoring from surfer-hottie math genius Ryan, lead the debate team to a championship–and remember the final step of the recipe.

*Step 3: Never break the ban on baking. Rubi has always been obsessed with baking, daydreaming up new concoctions and taking shifts at her parents’ celebrated bakery. But her mother dismisses baking as a distraction–her parents didn’t leave Cuba so she could bake just like them.

But some recipes are begging to be tampered with… When the First Annual Bake Off comes to town, Rubi’s passion for baking goes from subtle simmer to full boil. She’s not sure if she has what it takes to become OC’s best amateur baker, and there’s only one way to find out–even though it means rejecting the ban on baking, and by extension, her parents. But life is what you bake it, and now Rubi must differentiate between the responsibility of unfulfilled dreams she holds, and finding the path she’s meant for.

As Long As We’re Together by Brianna Peppins A heartstring-tugging, uplifting, modern spin on Party of Five — a love letter to family, hope, and finding strength in unexpected places.

Even though she has six siblings, sixteen-year-old Novah still knows what it’s like to feel lonely. Her friends never remember to invite her anywhere because they assume Novah will be too busy overseeing dinner, baths, and homework — tasks that fall to her when her parents are at work. She wouldn’t mind it so much if her “perfect” older sister, Ariana, wasn’t always excused from helping out. She’s the star of the volleyball team, and their parents don’t want anything to jeopardize the scholarships she’ll need to become the first member of their family to attend college.

Needless to say, Novah feels like she’s been given a raw deal, especially when she’s forced to cancel a maybe-date with her crush, Hailee. Then one terrible night, their parents don’t make it back home. A car accident takes their lives and leaves seven heartbroken kids on their own. The Wilkinson siblings have no grandparents, no aunts or uncles. Since Ariana has just turned eighteen, she manages to convince the judge to give her temporary custody. If she can keep her family running smoothly, they’ll get to stay in their home. If not, they’ll be placed into foster care.

Novah will do whatever it takes to keep her family together but finds herself in a constant power struggle when Ariana refuses to take her advice, even once it becomes clear that they are all in way over their heads. Will Novah find her voice and summon the strength to do the impossible? Or will she be forced to say the hardest goodbyes of all?

[progfessor-dyke]

First page of An American Odyssey

Hope you guys like it!

Los Angeles, the city of angels. The only angels there, however, are the long-forgotten, long-dead dreams. Of course, there's the random success story of a young person going out West, seeking fame and fortune, and actually stumbling upon it. Other times, people make it through connections, either from relatives, friends, or sex work. Both of these cases are far and few between. Most of the time, people go out there, expecting success to come to them due to a mythologized perception of Hollywood being a magical place, a myth that Hollywood perpetuates, and some grandiose feeling that they are somehow the lucky one. Instead, they end up doing endless openings at bars, performing on street corners, or doing commercials for products that end up being a sham. By the time their dreams are dead, they’ve been chewed up and spit out. Many end up becoming addicted to various substances, offing themselves, penniless, or some combination of the three. Some, if they’re still young enough, might attempt to make their way back to their hometown, or somewhere like it, to settle for comparative mediocrity. Octavian James, frontman of a psychedelic rock band that has long faded into obscurity, is one of the latter. 

The band, Bad Bodies, had spent ten years chasing fame out in Los Angeles, after Octavian dropped out of high school. They spent ten years opening for slightly less obscure bands at shady, seedy bars and clubs. Tens years packing in the backs of cars, along with the piles of heavy equipment, the smell of stale beer, stale sweat, and stale vomit, and the heavy miasma of disappointment, trying to cough up enough gas money to trek to their next gig. Ten years of trying to get record companies to notice them, of sucking up to older, blading producers, smoking Cubans, with the same old tired phrase: “Sorry, kids, you’re not what we’re looking for.” Ten years, with nothing to show for it except their worn-out instruments, the clothes on their back, and some new gray hairs. Octavian, his bassist Walter, and their drummer Rick, had finally gotten that little yellow eviction notice on their apartment door,  after missing rent and allowing their guitarists, Robby and Jack, to sleep on their couch after they had been kicked out a month prior. Octavian had long been sick of the L.A. heat, anyhow. He had been just waiting for a reason to get out of that town, to finally lay to rest his fly-by-night teenage dream, and that yellow, slightly greasy piece of paper might as well have been gold. He wouldn’t be leaving much behind this time, just a dingy, overcrowded apartment with a slight rat infestation (as if a rat infestation could be “slight”), some cheap furniture from Sears, and his dreams, washed away with time and sunken deep in the waters of the grand Pacific. 

The last time he left was quite different. The memories of afternoon sunlight, filtered through trees in the late summer, a creaky wooden porch, the sticky humidity of that last day in Ithaca… No, not the island of Ithaca in Greece, Octavian had never so much as had the chance to leave the United States, but of its namesake in western New York. That was his hometown, and despite ten years and roughly three thousand miles of distance, he could instantly transport himself there with a thought. What he had left behind then was two loving, supportive, albeit confused parents, a steady part-time job and another job lined up for him at his parents’ store, and a beautiful young lady, his high school sweetheart. Chasing the highs of Ashbury in 1967, he left that all behind, now sentenced to mere memory. Since the reality of his decision had hit him, he consistently chided himself on making such a foolish gamble. He found himself stuck with a druggie, a restless vagabond, a jester, and an emotional outcast. He was spent, and in some form or another, his compatriots were too. 

“Alright, buckle up you fucks, we’re going home,” he said, after ripping off the piece of paper and crumpling it in his hand. His voice was passionless yet firm. He was not to be swayed nor argued with.

[mistfm]

who is that we see, peering through the mist? it's seven ahn! welcome to the city of penson — how long have you been waiting to move in? never mind, you're here now, bringing the fc of lee taemin and the mythos of the revenant along with you! make sure you look over the checklist as you make yourself at home!

◟✧⡀ ( lee taemin. non-binary. he / they / it. ) … there’s a figure off in the distance, do you see it? wait is that … SEVEN AHN? how long have they been standing there? if that’s really them, i believe they’re 32. do i know them? no, but i hear they’re PERCIPIENT and ARTFUL, but also MERCILESS and CONNIVING. i do know that they’ve been in the City for 7 YEARS. it’s crazy that they’re just standing there … shouldn’t they be working at COPY OF A COPY OF A COPY as a CO-OWNER? maybe they’re off today, i couldn’t tell you. hope they get moving soon. i’m starting to feel like REVENANT is peering over at me … ( tee. 24. she / her. est. )

Rift Level: Legendary Available powers: Enhanced condition (speed, strength, and durability that is above that of the peak human condition) , Darkness manipulation (can bend darkness to his will as a whole, cloaking himself and forming shadow-like tendrils that can interact with the environment and attack targets with enough concentration) , Death Empowerment (death by his hand provides a temporary boost to powers listed prior and he can possibly induce fear in his next prey depending on their willpower)

How long ago did the Mythos Manifest: As nomads typically consider the vast roads they travel through the only home they know , settling down never occurs to them because to trade in a life of motorcycles , trailer homes , and the freedom the interstate provides , is to die . But children change things , your perception of the world being one , and suddenly you find yourself wanting that house with a white picket fence for them to run around safely in . Penson called Seven’s name , the city shrouded in mist and mystery drawing him in from a distance with a promise of adventure — a code to crack . 

He traveled with his teenage sweetheart and their six year old son with stacks of cash in their pockets from less than legal odds jobs from up and down the east coast . The city was never supposed to be the forever home his wife deluded herself into believing , but rather an opportunity for Seven to do big things with big money that lived within the strange mist . The past is hard to remember at times , almost as if his soul is trying to still the madness in his subconscious that wills him to snap . But his mythos is always there to remind him of how the rain felt on his skin as a man pushed his face into concrete — kicked his face in ; the dread in his bones from the sound of his child crying , screaming , choking on his own spit as he demanded they let go of his father who dared fight back ; the silence that came at the end of a gunshot ; then another ; then another — but this one doesn’t kill with an instant mercy . no , it leaves Seven in a coma he shouldn't have woken from , nothing but nightmares while stuck in his head — his reality , and the cold truth that he’s alone now . But the mythos had plans for him . It was quite easy for the revenant to break into someone as fractured as Seven , it was quite thrilling to tear a man apart by the sinews as he begs for death from sheer guilt of being alive . The revenant appeared to him as a small black crow in his dreams his first night in the hospital , toeing the line of death , and stared at him with bead eyes that showed a reflection of his rotting body : skin peeling and cheeks sunken , before flying away into the night . The nightmares were a never ending loop of the night his wife and son were murdered no matter what he did — while that same crow would watch with those eyes , and Seven would see himself rotting more and more each time , unable to help them nor himself . Nine weeks . Nine weeks trapped in his head , finding comfort in a crow that made him feel less alone , less insane for desiring a sweet and bloody vengeance for what he lost . This desire is the inch given to the mythos to take the driver’s seat and piece together a man without direction . Seven flatlined that night but the mythos that manifested in him seven years ago brought him back . It was only there after he realized that it was never the crow . . . but the rotted version of himself .

Main Desire: Seven wants nothing more than to find the three rifts responsible for the death of his family and himself so that he may finally rest . Revenant is very keen on aiding its host as the mere thought of the smell of death permeating its senses , warm and sticky blood splattering across flesh , and tragically beautiful corpses littering the ground is as fulfilling as taking over a body that was never its own . Somewhere between the years of walking aimlessly in the City , failing to fill the void in his soul his loved ones took with them into the grave , Seven gave an inch to the mythos deep within who then stole a mile . But rest assured that this human’s simple minded attempt at revenge will be met . . . just on their terms and time — they have nothing but that

Gang / Group name + Position: The Akheilos + Hammerhead

[confused-as-all-hell]

i am thrilled to announce the second installment in my idle series, focusing solely on jesper and wylan. i would simply like to remind everyone, however, that these are meant to be poetic and full of prose, rather than serious and solid fics, that's all.

tag list was removed for bewildering reasons, but anyways

Wylan Van Eck hadn't always loved him.

Once upon a time, he had only been a quiet boy from the largest city in the world, lips smudged with paint, copper lashes low over eyes bluer than the fucking summer sky.

Once upon a time, he had spent his days sequestered in his favourite studio, head tilted just so slightly, dappling the canvas in shades of green and gold, a spare brush between his teeth.

Once upon a time, his evenings were spent alone at the piano, slim fingers hovering over the keys as if he could wring his childhood from the notes, copper curls damp with bathwater.

Once upon a time, artwork meant slender brushes and sticky gouache and glass jars of paint; now he could only define it as eyes like dusty sunlight, soft lips that tasted of forgiveness, a grin to light the world aflame.

And Wylan was fucking aflame.

He was burning.

When he was sketching sleepily at his desk, the sun a dying cinder at his back, sharp angles and vivid coats and pearl-handled revolvers sprawled from the tip of his charcoal pen.

When he was laying alone in the bath, water lapping over the hard planes of his body, the room aglow in soft shades of bronze and green, all he could do was dream.

When he was sitting in a lecture hall, information and dates and names pounding through his ears, all he could see was the elegant figure before him, scrawling down his notes, one leg kicked up against a girl's chair.

Wylan couldn't help but track the careful movements of his hand, the graceful loops and lines of his writing, one finger braced against the metal spiral of his notebook.

His name was Jesper, he knew. Jesper Fahey.

A soft name, the sound a rolling wave on his tongue, rising and falling. It tasted like whiskey, smooth and sweet, every note rich and unfettered.

He wanted to find out how it would feel in his mouth, during the final hours of the night, how it would sound.

He wanted to hear his own name on Jesper's lips, a breathless gasp, a quiet moan, a pleading whisper.

He wanted to hear Jesper say his name, so simply.

He wanted to hear his name.

The very first time Wylan painted him felt like taking a drug. He was sprawled in his bed, staring dazedly at a dark spider clinging to the leftmost wall, and he was losing his fucking mind.

He couldn't get the image of Jesper's hands out of his head. In the chamber of his mind, he had locked away the sight as if to keep it safe and sheltered; those fucking beautiful hands, broad and warm, lines etched into the calloused palm, nails squared off, three rings circling each finger.

He wanted to draw them in charcoal and graphite and ink.

He wanted to paint them in gouache and acrylics and watercolour.

He wanted to line them in silver and bronze and emerald.

He wanted to lift those hands to his mouth and kiss them.

And so at three in the morning, still in his pajamas and hair utterly bedraggled, eyes swollen with exhaustion and limbs sore, he was setting himself up before a blank canvas.

"Just one painting," he whispered, touching a slim finger to a brush.

He promised himself a quick sketch, just the soft shape of his hands, or the lilt to his smile, or maybe even the blazing hue of his eyes.

One painting.

He made quick work of locating his favourite paints, a set of vibrant gouache his mother had gifted him, bottled neatly into little glass jars.

And, so fucking tenderly, he selected every single colour that he had likened to Jesper.

Rich gold and heady crimson, molten copper and softest ivory, prussian blue and clinging silver, dreamy amethyst and clear chrysocolla.

They stained Wylan's hands as he dappled the bare canvas in every prismatic hue, smudging over his wrists and fingertips and the limber handle of his brush.

When the sun rose, fierce and proud against a backdrop of blue blue blue, he only wiped a droplet of copper from his lip and kept going.

There was something utterly consuming about being locked away in that room, the strong scent of paint and turpentine, the haze of shades and light and quiet piano music, the blur of being trapped in lands one never wanted to leave.

He spent hours kneeling there on the floor, head bowed over the canvas as if the painting was his altar, reveling in every last detail. And there were Jesper's hands, soft and gentle, and the sight nearly drove him mad.

He wanted to feel those hands tangled through his hair.

He wanted to feel them on his bare skin.

He wanted.

"Just one painting," he echoed, and set down his brush.

But when he glimpsed Jesper laughing in the fields, snow dripping down his cheek like tears, he wanted to capture that indomitable joy in acrylics, brilliant in their beauty.

But when he caught Jesper downing a mug of his friend's coffee, he never wanted to forget the way he winked, the way his hand wrapped carelessly around the cardboard cup.

But when he saw Jesper dancing against a curvy girl in red velvet, he couldn't tear his eyes from the sharp set of his jaw, the lowered lashes, the vulnerable angle of his bare wrists.

He wanted to trace them in charcoal, wanted to preserve the sight in paper, never to be lost or forgotten.

Jesper grinned lazily at the girl, one corner of his fucking beautiful mouth lifting, and then he was pressed up against a different boy, head thrown back in laughter.

He whirled past his partners, leaving them with only a whisper or a slow, deliberate kiss. They grabbed for his attention, for the gift of his smile, reaching out with greedy hands.

Then Jesper was scanning the club, honey eyes roaming over the floors and walls and bars. They locked on Wylan, and something in his gaze lit.

A blazing match.

A building on fire.

A city burning, burning, burning.

And Wylan never knew how he found the courage, but suddenly he was striding up between the writhing bodies, and the ocean was roaring in his ears, and he was saying lightly, "Would you favour me with a dance?"

It was not graceful and elegant and slow.

It was stumbling and gasping and and breathless laughter.

It was drowning within the cacophony of pulsing music.

It was drowning within the steady depth of Jesper's eyes.

The flashing strobe lights were pulsing blue and green and red and pink, and the sounds of laughter and shuffling steps filled the club, and there was music echoing up the walls and skittering up the vertebrae of his spine.

It felt like being trapped in a prism where time did not exist.

Wylan's eyes fluttered shut, and he thought, I will burn as those cities burned.

And when Jesper lowered his head and whispered, "What would you say to a kiss, Wylan Van Eck?" he was fucking gone.

Jesper had never looked more handsome, his lashes low, the curve of his jaw sharp, every glint of gold in his eyes sparkling.

Wylan wanted to draw him bare and asleep in his own tangled bedsheets, the elegant lines of his body extended, every single angle and plane etched deep.

He wanted to draw the way he looked in that very moment, beautiful and brash and bold.

And that was a terrible idea for so many reasons.

It was a terrible idea because Jesper was raucous and brazen as the sun, and Wylan was soft and elegant as the moon, and neither of them could read the stars, but surely it was fated somewhere that dark and light did not find peace within one another.

It was a terrible idea because they were two fucking stupid collage kids who could never, ever find a life together.

It was a terrible idea because it was Achilles and Patroclus all over again, the boy who thought he could save his heart, the fucking idiot who believed love was indomitable.

Love would not absolve Wylan of the quiet terror that had sunken into his bones. Love would not ease the addictions that had crept upon Jesper like hungry vines.

He would not be the boy waiting, dishonored and broken, in the war tent.

He would not be the boy who watched as the world's cruelty took all that was dear to him.

He wouldn't.

But there was Jesper, with his lilting smile and the fierce look in his eyes, the scent of brandy clinging to him like smoke, and all Wylan could do was croak, "Yes."

And when Wylan staggered home at four in the morning, his hair a tangled copper halo, he couldn't help but think even Achilles and Patroclus might have hoped once.

They might have made out like teenagers and laughed in between kisses.

They might have been doomed, fated to die within the stars, but perhaps Wylan and Jesper would defy the odds. Perhaps Wylan could bear the magnanimity of his father's terrors, and perhaps Jesper could set down the playing cards and walk away from a bad hand.

They didn't have to be the heroes made history, legends turned legacies.

They could just be Wylan Van Eck and Jesper Fahey.

And in his paintings, they were.

In his paintings, they were very simply two boys kissing in the dark, all roaming hands and breathless gasps, shirts unbuttoned and sleeves rucked to their elbows, lips that tasted of redemption.

But as the days whirled past, and spring blossomed, Wylan came to realize life was so much more than soft, secret paintings. Life might even have been better.

Because life was Jesper asleep in his bed, one hand tucked beneath his cheek, limbs sprawled out across the silk sheets, sunlight gilding his bare body.

Life was standing at the stove with Jesper beside him, bickering over who got the first waffle, nearly doubled up in their laughter, exchanging sleepy kisses that tasted of sugar.

Life was laying in the fields with Jesper, leaning against him ever so slightly, their shoulders pressed together, the quiet brush of the wind lulling them to sleep, sweet as any melody.

Life was Wylan playing the piano in the midst of the night, cold moonlight easing through the blinds and slanting across the elegant notes, and Jesper's head was pillowed on his lap, and he was whispering, "I love you, I love you, I love you."

Wylan hadn't known love could be so simple.

He hadn't known.

And sometimes Jesper would read to him, the low cadence of his voice a melody sweet as sunlight, and Wylan would listen with his eyes fluttering shut, and he would think, If this is burning, I will spend the rest of my life with my hands in the fire.

There was the fierce freedom of open roads and summer air and vibrant artwork and daring kisses.

There was the quiet freedom of elegant piano music and large windows and scalding coffee and history books.

There was the unfettered freedom of them, of leaping across the broad rim of a water fountain, Wylan turning his face to the sun, warmth and light and the soft glitter of water, and Jesper's eyes were the colour of hope in the haze of dusk, and he whispered, "You look like a fucking prince, Wy."

Ice cream on his hands and seawater dampening his curls and blinding sunshine everywhere, and Jesper thought he looked like a prince.

What do I see, when I look at him?

Starlight slanting through their windows, grazing the idle curve of Jesper's lips.

Chocolate ice cream dripping down the cone, catching on Jesper's tongue.

Glittering rings of silver and amethyst and veined gold, looped around Jesper's fingers.

What do I find beautiful about him?

Was it his laughter or his smile or the way he buttoned up his shirt in the morning?

Was it the soft cadence of his voice as he read aloud, or the way he stroked Wylan's curling hair idly?

Was it the clever lilt of his smile or the quick wink of his lashes or the mocking shrug of his shoulders?

Was it the very simple fact that when the morning sunlight swept through the windows and slanted over the bed, Jesper looked as though he'd been crowned by the gods, a vision in bronze and gilt and amber? With his hair rumpled and his lashes low and the hard planes of his bare body clear as he knelt, Wylan had never seen anything so fucking wonderous.

What do I want to remember?

Their mornings, a sleepy haze of pancake batter and orange juice and tangled bedsheets, of rambling stories and dazed kisses?

Their afternoons, a blissful tangle of shared smiles and iced coffee and inside jokes, of hurried texts and chocolate bars?

Their nights, a frenzied blur of pulsing music and strobe lights and bedraggled hair, of breathless moans and fizzing champagne?

All of it. I want to remember all of it.

So what do you see, when you look at him?

Wylan saw love.

He saw salvation.

He saw soft lips and blazing eyes and broad hands.

He saw cities burning, burning, burning.

He saw Jesper Fahey.

[wangxianficrecs]

Follower Recs

There are nearly FORTY THOUSAND AO3 stories in the MDZS universe, and I am just a single person with limited time, so....  Here’s a bit of y’all doing my work for me!

~*~

Mojo, I know it'd probably be recced before, but I have to recommend stiltonbasket's Twelve Moons and a Fortnight. It has made me squee of cuteness, hold my breath with suspense, marvel over the worldbuilding and character interactions, and just awed me at how well every original piece of lore and HC ties back to canon. I cried over it, only to cry laughing the next chapter. it kept me going through an entire year of lockdown and is finally coming to an end, and the resolution was magnificent.

*[I’m subscribed to this and keep waiting for Part One to be completed, but instead later parts keep getting posted:  is it completed but not marked?  I am confused.  And eager to read!]*

Twelve Moons and a Fortnight

by stiltonbasket (G, 267k, wangxian, WIP)

Summary:  "Let me get this straight. You really want me to stand in for you while you help Jin Ling settle in at Koi Tower?"

"Who else do I have?" Jiang Cheng snaps, ears turning scarlet as Jin Ling tries to pretend he isn't listening. "Father trained you to serve as my deputy, didn't he? And don't say you don't remember, or I'll break your legs."

"Well, yes," Wei Wuxian manages. "Uh. I'll just let Lan Zhan know I'll be at Lotus Pier until you're back at home, then."

Or, the one where Wei Wuxian spends the year before his wedding as Yunmeng Jiang's acting sect leader, and the cultivation world's greatest love story finds its happy ending with the help of three juniors, a teenage romance, and one very involved (and exasperated) younger brother.

~*~

May I recommend fielty by milkpunch a sort of AU where lwj in order to save his sect from being destroyed by nine after wen rouhans assasination goes to work as a guard to Jin zixuan where he meets wwx the right hand of Jin guanguao... ~ @pastashouldbeeatenwithafork

Fealty

by milkpunch (E, 84k, wangxian)

Summary:  Before, there had been two reigning kingdoms. Both claimed to be blessed by the sun, but with vastly differing views. One, under the name of Wen, was washed red with blood and violence, its soldiers fierce and stoked with a fiery blaze. The other, under the name of Jin, was bathed in golden light and glory, its soldiers proud and heavy with coin and prestige. The two kingdoms went to war for the true honour of having the sun’s blessing, fighting for many long years with many lives lost.

Jin Guangshan, emperor of the Golden Sun Palace, found that the sun favoured him more.

To prevent his kingdom from being crushed, Lan Zhan, second heir to the Lan kingdom, exchanges his freedom for that of servitude to the Jin kingdom. He is appointed as Jin Zixuan's personal guard, but there's more on his plate than just keeping the Jin heir safe. The Golden Sun Palace is not all that it seems, and the dazzling lives of the royals are less perfect than they appear.

~*~

Hey, I was wondering if I could rec a fic to you. My bestie wrote it for the Lunar New Year Wangxian gift exchange and it definitely did not receive the attention it deserves. It's a really fun mermaid/arranged marriage au! ~ @leahlisabeth

More Than This Provincial Wife

by ApprenticedMagician (T, 6k, wangxian)

Summary:  The negotiations surrounding the Lan & Jiang alliance through marriage encountered a few snags in the beginning.

~*~

I love your blog! I saw a recent post where you listed some rec's from other people? [Thank you!  And yes, I always appreciate and am happy to share your recs!]  I just read the WIP A Corpse Called By Name jaemyun and LOVED it! It's a zombie apocolypse AU, where Wei Ying gets bitten by a zombie.... and I don't want to spoil anything from there, but it is amazing! No pressure to put it in your blog, but wanted to send a note just in case. Thanks for all you do!

A Corpse Called By Name

by jaemyun (not rated, 37k, wangxian, WIP)

Summary:  A continuation of zombie drabble!

She loses her brother in a hoard of the undead.

She finds a corpse wearing his face in a convenience store.

The corpse calls her name.

~*~

Hi! I was wondering if I could rec this short fic that I recently found and really liked! The narrative is an inner monologue and I think it captures lwj really well :)

binding me in spells (till my heart's devoured)

by gaysgaysgays (G, <1k, wangxian)

Summary:  His scars are a reminder of his hurt, a reminder that he had healed.

(or a study of lan zhan's scars)

~*~

I found a fic I had recently asked you about, so I thought I'd share it with you: Seasons of Falling Flowers by merakily (http://archiveofourown.org/works/28522326). I rediscovered it completely by accident after listening to spinifex's excellent podfic adaptation. This is the fic where Lan Qiren despises Wei Wuxian until Wei Wuxian catches a cold and Lan Qiren find out about his golden core. That part is about 3/4 of the way through. The fic is wonderful and shows a rigid but surprisingly introspective Lan Qiren. ~ @clmoryel [Oh!  I just read this one yesterday!  Here’s my bookmark.]

Seasons of Falling Flowers

by merakily (G, 40k, wangxian, lan qiren & wei wuxian, podfic)

Summary:  Like a parasite, Wei Wuxian has this way of growing on people when you least expect it.

Over the seasons, Lan Qiren slowly pieces back together his relationship with Wangji and learns to like Wei Wuxian in the process.

(“Will you rejoin your sect?” As soon as the words leave his mouth, Lan Qiren regrets his wording.

He is not surprised when Wangji’s eyes narrow, flashing with offence. “There is no need to rejoin what one has never left. I did not turn my back on my sect. My sect turned their backs on me.”)

~*~

Hi! Can I rec a fic? "bring you home" by Alasse_Irena on AO3 is a modern AU and is one of the most beautiful and atmospheric fics I have read. Thanks for you work running this blog! I have new Wangxian fics to read <3

bring you home

by Alasse_Irena (T, 28k, wangxian)

Summary:  Wei Ying rents a run-down cottage in a small town by the sea, looking for a quiet place to hide after the war.

Lan Zhan has always dreamed of the ocean. He returns to the town where he was born, and where his parents died, to find out why.

Instead, they find each other.

~*~

Good morning lady mojo, I hope you’re having a good day! I wanted to rec a fic, Breathing Firestorm by ladyshadowdrake. It’s 111k and great but barely has any love, which is unfair. You mentioned it in the last ‘in a mood for’ post but I think it should have more of a shoutout because it’s a lot of fun and I liked it a lot. Have a great day ♥️  [Oh!  I was subscribed to this one and saw it had been recently finished.  It’s def. on my list!]

Breathing Firestorm

by ladyshadowdrake (M, 111k, wangxian)

Summary:  After years of a mad quest, Wen Ruohan is finally given proof of a powerful creature living among mortals. He is delighted to find that it truly believes itself to be only a boy named “Wei Wuxian.”

While Wen Ruohan tries to unlock Wei Wuxian’s secret, the sects unite against him. If he can achieve his goal before they arrive, even the combined might of the cultivation world would not be enough to humble him. Meanwhile, Lan Wangji dreams of Wei Wuxian in the Cold Pond Cave, and works tirelessly to rescue him from Wen Ruohan’s clutches. No one is prepared for what awaits the allied sects in Nightless City at the conclusion of the war, and it very well might mean the end of the world as they know it.

~*~

Hi Mojo, firstly thank you for all the hard work you put into running this blog, I’ve found so many fics that I probably would have never come across if it wasn’t for your fic finders posts and your personal review posts.  [Aw, thank you!]

I don’t know if you’ve read this fic before or if it’s been mentioned before on your blog (I’ve done a quick search of your blog and couldn’t see it, so if I’ve missed it I apologise!) but if you’ve got a fic rec post coming up, I would suggest “The shapes a bright container can contain” by litbynosun.

It’s a case fic about 16k words long and set after canon. Whilst it’s not the main focus of the story it does delve slightly into chronic illness of wwx (the ailments of mxy’s body) and lwj (his continuous treatment of his scars) which might cover a few requests in the IITMF posts in future.

Thanks again for all the hard work you do! ~ @dulachodladh

the shapes a bright container can contain

by litbynosun

M, 17k, wangxian

Summary:  "Lan Zhan, look at this," Wei Wuxian calls. "They don't have organs, but they're all… fuzzy."

He gently strokes the corpse's arm -- it's covered in soft, pigmentless downy hair, like a rabbit. Lan Wangji crouches next to him and nods. "Lanugo," he says. Wei Wuxian raises one eyebrow. "They were malnourished for quite a while before death," Lan Wangji elaborates. Wei Wuxian scans the bodies again. Indeed, they both have sunken cheeks, and their abdomens are empty of both organs and fat padding. “That’s a question,” he says. “Did they starve to death, and have their bodies desecrated after they were already deceased? Or were they murdered, and simply starving at the same time?” "We should stay," Lan Wangji tells him. This is not an answer to his question. It is an offer to search for answers.

Or: Wei Wuxian and his family solve a ghost haunting. Wei Wuxain's old enemy, societal injustice, rears its head again.

[cultistortourist]

Teenage dream of a sunken city

Chapter 2 part 2 Every one started to get up. Helping each other not to fall or walk into things. Robert felt somewhat clear in his head, so he lead mom and Ida out of the church and towards the church hall. Lars and one of the other adults who had to skip the sermon were standing outside and helping the others get in properly.

 They had placed out a lot of chairs, pillows and bean bags around the main room. They helped their high family members and friends get something to drink and eat. Robert got a sandwich and a glass of water. He, mom and Ida found a good place to sit and eat.  Ida was mumbling random and unconnected things, Robert didn’t even tried to pay attention to her, but mom tried to chat with her and reel her back to reality. “Hello Lena!” Both Robert and mom looked up and saw Danielle coming over towards them, she had Pontus in tow.   Robert and Pontus used to hang out in middle school, but not anymore. At least not at school, and Robert wasn’t even sure that he wanted to hang out with Pontus on the weekends anymore. Having no friends was better than being the spare friend.      This could get awkward, and he was still seeing odd shapes and colors in the corner of his eye, and sometimes everything looked like it was melting. He didn’t recall seeing any of them at the sermon, so they were probably both sober. His mother smiled. “Hi, Danielle! I would get up to hug you but my legs feel weird.” “Oh don’t worry about it!” Danielle laughed. “I just wanted to invite you to my makeup sales party.” “What’s a makeup sales party?” “It’s a business model, based on network marketing. I’ve come in contact with a company that sells makeup, I’ll get a bunch of swatches, let people try them out and then order them through me. If other people want to get in on it they can do it through me. You can imagine it as a trickle down economy pyramid.” Mom nodded. “You’re going to have to re-invite me when I’m sober. But a makeup pyramid sounds nice.”  Robert and Pontus had been awkwardly staring at each other during the whole conversation. It was like they were having the most awkward staring contest. But Robert wasn’t going to lose this. He wasn’t going to be the one who talked first.  Danielle was the one who broke their silence. “Speaking of parties, Robert neither went nor RSVP-ed to Pontus birthday party yesterday.” Both Robert and Pontus froze. Mom tried to narrow her eyes suspiciously, but she still didn’t have completely control over her muscles so it mostly looked like she was squinting because the sun was shining in her eyes. “Paar-tyy?” she said and took a sip from her glass of water, spilling some of it on her chin. “I’m sorry but Robert never mentioned a birthday party, and we didn’t got an invitation card in the.. box… for mail.”   “I didn’t invite Robert.” Pontus said. “He doesn’t get along well with some of the other people I invited so we’re going to hang out on Wednesday. So we can celebrate on my actual birthday, with the rest of my family.” That was fucking bullshit, and Robert weren’t going to let him get away with it. He needed to come up with something to expose Pontus fake ass with. He heard someone laugh close to them, Robert looked that way and saw Amanda sitting and talking with two other persons just a few meters away from them. Perfect.   “Oh, you should’ve told me before. I can’t on Wednesday; I’m going to the youth group meeting.” Robert said. He had no idea which day the youth group meetings were on, but neither did Danielle and Pontus. Besides, he didn’t plan on actually going to go the meeting. If mom asked about it he’d just say he got the days mixed up and already missed it. “Oh, that’s too bad.” Pontus had the nerve to try to actually sound disappointed.   “A real shame.” Robert took a sip from his glass and spilled water over his shirt. Danielle picked up on the awkward energy going on and grabbed her sons had. “We have to help out in the kitchen. But I’ll talk to you about the makeup sales party.” Mom waved after them. “She’s a funny one, Danielle. Building makeup pyramids.” After maybe half an hour Robert started to feel restless and Ida started to feel nauseous. Mom and Lars took Ida to the bathroom in case she needed to throw up, Robert decided to get up and see if there were any sandwiches left. He was still a little bit disoriented, the colors and distance he saw didn’t exactly match up with reality, but he managed to get to the kitchen.  There were no sandwiches, but some cookies and juice boxes. He grabbed a juice box and some cookies and turned around to return to his bean bag. “Hi!” he had not expected Amanda to stand right behind him, and the hallucinations made her skin look like it was made out of slime. The surprise almost made him drop the juice box. “ Fu- Damn, you scared me.” Amanda just smiled. “I heard that you’re going to the youth group on Wednesday!” It really was a meeting on Wednesday? Shit. “Well. I guess so. I do-“ “You should go together with me, Moa and Anton!” Amanda said. “We’re going to go and hang out at Moas place after school and then her mom will drive us there.” “I don’t… know Moa that well?” he didn’t knew Moa at all, just who she was. If it was the Moa he was thinking of. They went to the same kindergarten, and Robert once stole her doll, but that was the peak of their interaction. “Well, then I guess I’ll have to introduce you!” Amanda grabbed his wrist and dragged him away from the kitchen. She led him to her friends who were sitting in a pile of bean bags. It was the Moa he thought she meant. Moa Poska. She was in the same grade as Robert but not in the same class. He had never seen her without her girl posse before.  Next to her there sat a boy. Anton Andersson- Larsson. Robert had actually talked to him a little bit, and been at his house. His little brother Simon was one of Idas classmates and she had been invited to Simons birthday party last year. The impression Robert had of Anton was that he was aloof and too cool to interact with other people. Or at least people like Robert; one year younger losers with no real friends. “This is Robert! He is going to attend a youth group meeting for the first time on Wednesday. Can he come over to your house with us too?” Amanda said.  Moa watched him without saying anything. It felt as if she was trying to determinate if he was worthy enough to visit her house. Then, she blinked rapidly a few times. “I’m sorry. It looked like you were melting for a second there.” She shifted her position in the bean bag. “Yeah, you can come over. I’ll probably have to double- check with mom first, but it’s ok with me.” Robert forced himself to smile. He couldn’t back out now; he had trapped himself in this. “Thank you.”   Amanda sat down in one of the bags and signed to Robert to join her, he was just about to when he heard mom calling for him. He saw mom, Lars and Ida walking towards him. It was time to go home. Robert excused himself and walked over to his family. It started getting dark outside. They got into the car and Lars started driving home. The vibrations and humming from the car’s engine lulled Robert to sleep. He dreamed about buildings dissolving into water.

[thesimblings]

Dream Home Decorator House

This home is built using mostly the dream home decorator game pack. It is fully furnished with a large living room, dining room, sunken tv room, kitchen, home office, master suite, and a bedroom furnished for a teenager or young adult. The decoration is modern and uses bold colors

If you like this, make sure to check out our YouTube channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCUOBCqt2ftg1Aah38LRne6g

Lot size: 20 x 30

Lot type: Residential

Price: 114k

World: Willow Creek

No CC

Bedrooms: 2

Bathrooms: 2.5

Packs: Dream home decorator. Apparently I added some objects from City Living and Cats & Dogs by accident but tbh I have no idea which. In any case most of the lot should load even if you do not have these two EPs

Gallery ID: fhcoutinho

Place with bb.moveobjects on

@maxismatchccworld @s4-builds @thesims4buildsgroup

[bluebellhairpin]

Fight or Flight, Rider [6]

Poe Dameron X Pilot!Reader

A/N: This took me too long to write, and it’s got the word count of Kylo Ren’s body count; so get ready for the long haul because I’ve got a bad feeling about this *evil laugh* - Nemo 

Summary: (y/n) doesn’t seem to like to make things easy for herself. Her mouth might give her about as much grief as if does blessings. 

Series Masterlist

Masterlist  

[Gif was sourced on Pinterest. Credit to thee maker!] 

“How does it feel?”

“The collar is too tight, and the fabric is itchy.”  Rey tugged on the hem of the jacket, trying to make it less itchy, stepping back to observe how you looked.  

“You’d ought to be thankful you’re not actually part of the First Order, and have to wear their uniform everyday.” she said, smiling at you as you moved over to the nearby mirror fragment. You mimicked her actions, tugging the jacket’s hem down, and then ran a finger around it’s collar.

“They’ll notice it’s not mine.” 

“No they won't.” She came up behind you, placing her hands on your shoulders, and looking at your reflection over your shoulder. “They’ll be too stunned at the pretty new Officer to notice your pant legs at a centimeter too short.” 

You looked at her, raising an eyebrow before shaking her off your shoulders. 

“If they manage to see me at all.” you added, bumping Z2 lightly with your foot, before continuing, “Let’s just get this over with, huh?”

“Couldn't agree more Rider.” 

__________

“- Any questions, Major?” Gareth said, stepping aside from the ship, after trying to explain whatever he thought was necessary to explain. 

“Um, yes? Where on earth did you get a First Order ship from?” You were stuck between feelings of awe and confusion at the ship in front of you. How you’d never noticed it before - considering it was sleek and black and First Order all over - was beyond your thinking right now, all you did know was that you were going to be lucky enough to fly it.

“Here or there. I can’t remember.” you looked over at Gareth, now uncertain. 

“You, one of the most informed people here, don’t know where this came from?”

“I said I didn’t remember. There’s a difference.” he shrugged. Running a hand along the ship’s hull, he looked over at you. “Excuse the pun, but a lot is riding on you now. Whether you’re ready for it or not, what you do in the next twelve hours will change how the war ends.” 

“If you’re trying to make me feel less nervous, it’s not really working Commander.” You flicked the collar of the uniform up, keeping it un-creased as you ducked around the ship to the door. “I appreciate the sentiment though.” you said, shooting him a wink and climbed into the cockpit. 

“Wait! Don’t go yet!” Poe yelled, practically sprinting out of the base and into the hanger, trying to make sure he caught you before you left. 

You’d already managed to say goodbye to the greater half of the base, including Rey, Finn, and Joon. Even BB, but no Poe until now. 

You had spoken to Poe again last night - after Rey rudely interrupted you - but it wasn’t for long, and it wasn’t about the almost-kiss. Honestly you couldn’t quite remember what it was about, Poe had fallen asleep not too long into the conversation, and you followed suit - leaving him in his dorm to retreat to your own. 

A single once-over of Poe told you he hadn’t bothered changing out of the clothes he fell asleep in. 

“Jeez, I’ve been trying to hunt you down all morning.” Poe said, climbing the side of the ship to bring his face level to yours. “You don’t like staying in one place long, huh sweetheart?” 

“You just woke up Poe.” you laughed, and your chest tightened. What if this was the last time you laughed with him? 

“You can’t prove that.” his said, words as soft as his smile.

Did he hear your unspoken question?

“Oh I can - whether anyone believes me or not, that’d be where the problem lies.” A beat passed before you spoke again. “What were you looking for me for?” 

“I felt I had a missed opportunity last night.” You quirked an eyebrow up at that. A smile tugging at your lips.

“Really?” 

“Yes. I need to clock-in that opportunity.” You learnt over to the ship’s control panel, flicking a switch and pressing a couple buttons to warm up the engine. 

“Sure you do Dameron.” 

“Does that mean I don’t get a kiss?” He said, his voice was joking, but one look and you could tell he was a little disappointed. He always spoke more with his eyes than his actual voice.

“Oh whatever.” you said, leaning over the space created by the ship to grab the back of his neck and pull his lips flush to yours. It was clumsy, and slightly rushed, but when you both pulled away your breath was taken away just the same. 

You both waited for a moment, your fingers toying with his curls ever-so-slightly, before you pulled away further.

“Thank you.” Poe said, smiling from ear to ear. You frowned, even though your smile mirrored his.

“What’re you thanking me for?”

“Well now I know what to look forward to more of once you get back.” 

____________

It wasn’t until about halfway through the hyperjump that your nerves settled in again. Z2 was no help. He kept beeping and buzzing as if he was nervous too, and that only unsettled you. You swore the day Z2 was open about his droid-feelings was the day you died.

In this situation it didn’t fill you with your much needed confidence. 

Back when you were on Nephimm you almost dared to dream you’d go up against the First Order one day. As a child your parents would occasionally tell you stories about the heroics of old, and that only spurred you on.

When you were a teenager and reached the age set by your planet’s authorities to move out of your parent’s home, they gave you a book to take with you. It was filled with stories and drawings of all those stories they’d told you. 

Space and the stars. 

Cities and the people in them.

Life and humanity.

Death and war. 

You ship jolted, and you prepared yourself to exit hyperspace. You shot a glance at Z2, looking into his camera where the Resistance was looking back. 

You might’ve been going into this mission on your own, but you weren’t alone.

__________

Never in his life was Poe as anxious as he was now.

Finn had noticed by the time they saw you’d exited hyperspace, and had tried to treasure Poe by placing a hand on his shoulder. That only worked so much. 

Through Z2, they could see both inside your ship, and the scraps of the one being built before you. The thing was huge, even if it was still unfictional, and Poe saw you shiver. 

“Since this thing is theirs, how about we do a little recon first Zee?” your voice came through clipped and fuzzy, but at least they could still hear you. The droid beeped at you, and you pushed the ship forward into the construction. 

Poe could just make out the ship’s fame though the screen, and he wouldn’t be ashamed to admit that it was a bit foreboding. Even for him. 

After a lap of the ship, you pulled into a completed hanger, landing as if you’d done it a million times before, and stepped out. Poe squirmed where he stood. It was almost eerie watching you like this. 

Not because it was through a droid’s perspective, but because of how easily you seemed to fit in as a First Order Officer. 

Watching you go from a gittery, nervous wreck to emotionless and completely straight-faced sent a shiver through half the people that were watching. It was like you just slipped from one reality to another. Poe almost wondered if he'd been wrong to trust you, to get you into the inderworkings of the Resistance, but looking up at your friend - Joon - told him half of what he needed to know.

The real you was with the Resistance. This you that was on the projection, that was you back on Nephimm. 

Each step you took, timed and precise, only made Poe remember. It made him finally piece together what you’d spoken about that night on your X-Wing’s wing - and everything after that.

Children being taught how to fly like professionals. 

Teenagers being kicked out of their homes once they’d reached ‘the age’.

Being out of bed or your dorm past ‘bedtime’ wasn’t accepted. 

You never having a nickname before you got here. 

He concluded Nephimm wasn’t a nice place, as much as you gawked about the greenery and sunsets. It was beautiful, but only if you followed the rules. 

Much like the First Order. 

__________

Saying your heart was now sunken to the pits of your stomach was a slight exaggeration. It felt more like it was down in your womb with how heavy it was. You had a phrase, a mantra, running through the back of your mind.

‘Act like you belong, they won’t think any different.’

It was a new base. It had new crew and new faces. All you needed to do was find a master board, get the plans, get out and destroy the ship. It was simple. The two Star Destroyers outside would just have to wait until later. Mainly because they were much less simple.

Turning down another corridor, you were faced with a duo of Storm Trooper. You almost froze in your stride, but brushed passed them without so much as a glace. They didn’t pull you aside for it, so you figured you did something right. 

As you passed another doorway, you realized you had no way to get in anywhere if it was locked. But then again, you could always pickpocket. You’d slipped cards in and out of Joon’s pockets since you met him, how different could that be?

Ahead two Officials turned into the hallway, flanked by two more Troopers. You have to make this quick. So you kept it casual, paying as little attention to Z2 as you could, and brushed past the left Officer just enough to stumble both you and him.

But the Officer caught you instead of the other way around. He fired questions at you, and your resolve cracked. It was slight, only the hesitation of a moment, but he saw it. And just like that it shattered completely. 

You guessed nothing was ever really that easy.

___________

The Officers pulled you between them, and the only thing stopping you from completely lashing out at them was the bonds on your wrists and the two Troopers with their blasters behind you.

At least Z2 still wasn’t detected. He’d been behaving himself, unlike you. 

Despite the Troopers behind you, it didn’t stop you from sending your worst and most venomous glares to anyone that dared look your way. It also didn’t stop you from making yourself the most inconvenient prisoner they’d ever have. 

As if you’d just go with them without a fight. 

Apparently a lowly Rebel was too unimportant to have the five-star treatment, and yet He had come all the way from one of the Destroyers to see you. 

The Mr. Evil Overlord, and Supreme Leader of the First Order himself -

“- You. Kyline Raymond.” 

“Kylo Ren.” the Officer corrected, holding onto your arm even tighter. 

“Kylie Reed?”

“Kylo. Ren.” You almost considered ceasing the sass. But you would never fail Leia like that. 

“Kyle Rey?”

“This rebel is defective. I don’t think she can hear you sir.” the Officer hissed, joliting your arm harshly in his grip. The Sith tiled his helmet down at you. Only slightly. It was as if you weren’t even worth that.

“She’s not defective,” he said, “Just like the rest of those Rebels, she just needs to be broken.” 

The Officer looked from you back to Ren.

“Well what are you standing here for?” Ren growled. “Break her.”

__________

Series Taglist: @demigod-dragonrider-schoolidol​ @writefightandflightclub​ @robindoesntloveme​ @kiaralein​ @danicalifxrnia​ @americasass-romanoff​ @morgannope​ @smolpeachees @afootnoteinyourhappiness​ @lonelydarlings​ @rae-rae-patcha​ @oakleyves @grincheveryday​ @seninjakitey​ @fanfin-glutton​ 

Poe Dameron Taglist: @p3nny4urth0ught5​ @m1rkw00dpr1ncess​

[hartigays]

“I’m in love with you." "Shut up and kiss me."

1. “I’m in love with you.”

4. “Shut up and kiss me.”

steve comes in from the cold with a shiver, knocking his boots against the doorframe to shake loose any remaining snow.

there’s a thin trickle of snot dribbling from steve’s nose, and he wipes it off with a gloved hand, sniffling. he doesn’t have to look in the mirror to know that his nose is red and chapped after the hours he’d spent outside clearing the traps.

“we get anything good?” hopper asks. he’s squatting by the fireplace, tossing some logs and sticks into the flames.

steve brandishes the belt of rabbits and squirrels he’d collected, smiling. “we did pretty good, all things considered.”

joyce is the first to jump up, examining their kill with a gleeful smile. it’s been a few weeks since they’ve gotten this much in the traps, and they’re in dire need of protein. steve wants to strip a rabbit clean and roast it over the fire to feed el right then and there, her sunken-in eyes concerning him more than anything.

“good thing, too,” joyce says, sighing happily. “we need it. help me in the kitchen, will ya, hop?”

the two disappear into the kitchen, and steve makes his way into the living room, crouching down by the fire to warm his hands. the kids are gathered around under an assortment of blankets; el is curled into max’s side, and will his mimicking their position with mike. dustin and lucas are huddling for warmth as well, curled up under the same flannel blanket.

“we eat tonight?” el asks, fixing steve with inquisitive eyes.

steve nods, leaning over to ruffle her hair. “sure are, kid.”

it’s been over a year since the world went to shit, every corner of the earth crawling with the living dead. they still aren’t sure how it happened, but they’ve managed to adapt as best as they can as a group, under the circumstances.

steve has been thankful since day one that he’d been with the party when this shit went down, rather than home alone in his big, empty house.

joyce and hopper had been holding a family dinner when the world basically ended, so steve had been in the company of them, all the kids, nancy, and jonathan when the first of the flesh-eaters staggered its way onto the porch. el had taken care of it quickly, but it was the first of many.

after that, they’d stayed at the byers house for as long as they could, but it’d been a matter of time before they’d needed to go on the move in search of food. along the way they’d come across robin and heather, trapped in robin’s house with the rotting corpses of her parents.

it hadn’t been more than a few days after picking them up, everyone parked in their cars in a vacant lot trying to ride things out, that a herd had passed through. the group had fought with all their might, but they’d been hopelessly outnumbered.

that is, until one crazy motherfucker with enough firepower to rival a small army came blazing through, blowing the head off of anything that had once been dead and since came back to life.

and that motherfucker had been none other than billy hargrove.

billy had survived the first wave of flesh-eaters by letting them overrun his house, using neil as bait. steve hadn’t asked too many questions about why billy had been so comfortable using his father as a tasty snack for the living dead; he’d met neil once or twice, he didn’t need to ask.

and one good thing about neil was his tendency to stockpile weapons. which, in any other situation, might not look so good. but in these times, it was nothing short of a blessing.

an unfortunate casualty of billy’s neil-turned-zombie-snack plan had been susan. according to billy, he’d tried his hardest to get her to leave with him and max, but she’d refused to leave neil’s side. even after neil turned into a flesh-eating monster, trying to rip her head off, susan had declined to leave her home.

it was only a matter of time before she became dinner for a pea-brained flesh-eater. billy had to pull max away as she kicked and screamed, initially not wanting to accept her mother’s fate. but it was too late - the moment susan had gotten a chunk ripped out of her neck by the thing that had once been her husband, max stopped fighting.

it’d only been a few days later that they’d swung in and saved the party’s collective ass, staving off the now near-inevitable fate of every living creature on this planet. that fate being the inevitability of being torn apart by flesh-eating monsters, only to be reanimated as flesh-hungry monsters themselves.

now, the group is holed up in a dilapidated home that had once been a bed and breakfast of sorts, just trying to ride this shit out without losing their heads. and they haven’t lost anyone yet, by some miraculous stroke of luck.

that isn’t to say that they don’t worry every day that each hour might be their last. but they’re thankful for the small things.

steve acknowledges this now, as he appraises the group of kids before him. although they’re more like teenagers now, having grown up far too fast during all of the chaos.

el opens up the blanket she’s sharing with max, gesturing for steve to come get warm. he accepts her invitation gratefully, curling up under the blanket as another shiver runs through him.

“cold,” el says, her eyes meeting steve’s. she has a hand covering his icy fingers, her brows furrowed in concern. “too cold.”

“don’t worry, kid. i’ll warm him up.”

the voice comes from the hallway, and a moment later billy appears at the threshold, leaning against the doorframe with a toothy smile.

steve can’t help but roll his eyes, even though his stomach does a little flip-flop. el’s eyes flit between them, her brows coming even closer together in confusion.

“ugh,” nancy groans from the kitchen. steve sees her shoot billy a disapproving look. “keep it in the bedroom, hargrove. there are kids here.”

“hey, we’re like, old now. we know what sex is!” dustin protests.

steve chokes on his own spit, his cheeks heating up. “we are not having sex! i don’t even - that’s not even - i can’t believe - that’s just - it’s just. it’s wrong - we don’t even -”

billy gives steve a look, his brows raised, and it effectively cuts off steve’s rambling protests. because, okay, it’s not like billy is wrong, per se. steve has seen billy’s dick more than his own in recent weeks. but really, can anyone blame him? like, it’s the end of the world, for fucks’ sake. it’s not like he has many options to choose from.

and it doesn’t help that billy is, like, disgustingly hot, even after having not showered in months.

maybe steve is just weak. or maybe he’d thought about riding billy into the sunset more often than not before the world decided to go and practically spin off its axis. either way, he doesn’t hold himself solely responsible for having fallen into bed with billy the moment billy had used a cheap pickup line when steve had taken a few too many sips of toilet wine, and had stayed there ever since.

steve heaves himself up off the floor, scuffling over to billy to plant a gentle kiss on his cheek. “quit it. they don’t need the details.”

“but i like the details,” billy protests, though it’s more to be annoying than to actually argue.

billy tugs steve in by the lapels of his coat, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. steve can’t help but smile into the kiss, his heart doing little somersaults in his chest.

“you did good with the traps,” steve tells him, bumping their noses together. “got enough to last us ‘bout a week.”

“told you they’d work,” billy says, sticking his tongue out. “and you said i was too much of a city boy. better pay up, princess.”

steve rolls his eyes, despite the fact that he’s pulling billy in closer. “i stand corrected. happy now?”

“ecstatic.”

billy leans in for another kiss, but steve steps back with a cheeky smile, backing into the kitchen despite billy’s disbelieving look.

steve helps joyce and hopper strip and clean their kill, stringing up most of it above the fire to form jerky in the smoke. the rest they cook up for their evening meal, finally having enough food for everyone to go to bed with a full stomach.

later, after a long evening spent laughing and eating around the fire, the group turns in for bed, sated and full. steve offers to take on cleanup duty for the evening, so he’s the last to make his way to his room, trudging up the stairs with an armful of blankets.

billy is already laying in bed, lounging in nothing but sweatpants, cocooned in their comforter. they’d originally shared a room with nancy and jonathan, but the two had switched to bunk with robin and heather once they realized billy didn’t care whether or not they were present when he wanted to get laid.

it’s not like steve really cared either - billy is tight and warm and all the things steve wants to bury himself into after a long day of trying to survive. and it can’t be said that billy isn’t a giver either - he has a dick and he knows how to use it. steve can attest to that fact. he’s experienced far too many days of not being able to walk straight to say anything less.

and billy’s appetites aren’t anything steve can complain about, because they now have a room to themselves. which is nice for reasons other than being able to pound each other into their mattress. they can stay up late whispering to each other, talking about the future and their dreams and how they feel.

turns out billy isn’t just busting it open for steve’s monster dick. he’s after steve’s heart, too, and steve is more than happy to give it to him. despite billy being an absolute tool in high school, he’s turned out to be a soft-hearted romantic in the midst of the apocalypse.

“you’ve gotta stop alluding to our sex life in front of the kids,” steve says as he crawls into bed, having changed into a warm set of flannel pajamas that he’d grabbed from a wal-mart on one of their many food runs.

billy just looks at him, his blue eyes big and innocent. “but how else will everyone know you’re mine?”

steve snorts, snacking billy’s bare shoulder. “i think you’ve made that abundantly clear. seriously, hop is gonna force us to sit down with him and have ‘the talk’ if you don’t cut it out.”

“sounds sexy,” billy says with a wink, and steve can’t help his cackle. “‘sides, they said it themselves. they’re not kids anymore.”

“it’s still weird,” steve groans. “and you act like they don’t hear us railing each other nine times out of ten. the walls here are like paper.”

“railing each other, huh? i don’t believe you. i think we need to test that out to see if that’s actually what we do.”

steve shoves billy with a groan that’s half a laugh. “oh my god, you’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“only for you, sweetheart,” billy tells him, tongue poking out between his teeth.

“shut up and kiss me, asshole.”

billy normally would challenge steve given the insult, but not tonight. instead, he rolls over, tugging steve in and sealing their lips together with a contented sigh. steve isn’t sure if it’s because he’d been gone for hours clearing the traps, or if billy is just in a cuddly mood, but steve certainly isn’t complaining. he just kisses billy until both of their lips are swollen and bruised.

it’s when they break apart that billy fixes steve with a wide-eyed stare, his chest heaving a little. “i’m in love with you.”

steve’s heart feels like it stops in chest, and his mouth pops open in surprise. “wait, seriously?”

it’s not what steve means to say, but it’s not innaccurate. he is in disbelief, just a little. billy looks kind of self-conscious, his eyes drifting up towards the ceiling. he rolls onto his back, putting some distance between them.

steve reaches out and catches billy’s hand, threading their fingers together. “hey, i didn’t - that’s not what i meant. i mean, i love you too. i thought that was obvious.”

billy’s head snaps over to look at him, his eyes narrowed. “yeah? you’re not just saying that ‘cause i’m the only hot piece of ass left within a fifty-mile radius?”

“you were the only hot piece of ass within a fifty-mile radius before the world ended,” steve mutters, his thumb rubbing across the softness of billy’s skin. “i mean, seriously. i didn’t need the dead to rise up for me to know that.”

“oh,” billy says, and steve can see him chewing on the inside of his cheek. “thought you were only in it ‘cause you didn’t have any options left. y’know, nancy having ditched you for stalker boy and robin liking pussy and all.”

steve shoots billy a disbelieving look, snorting softly. “billy, you literally had me getting hard for you in the showers after basketball practice. doesn’t bother me than you’re not a girl, if that’s what you’re worried about. i fucked tommy when i was fourteen.”

billy chokes out a surprised laugh, and it echoes around the room. “you’re fuckin’ kidding me.”

“nope.”

“well, shit. thought you were straight as an arrow before all this,” billy says thoughtfully. “would’ve paid to see you fuck hagan. bet he cries when he cums.”

“nah, he giggles. which is somehow weirder,” steve laughs. “wonder if he’s dead.”

“dunno, saw him with perkins at the school when everyone was gathering there for that refugee camp they kept talking about. got overrun, last i heard,” billy says with a shrug. “maybe he made it out.”

“i hope so,” steve hums, then shrugs when billy gives him a pointed look. “he was my best friend once upon a time, you know. just ‘cause you’re jealous doesn’t mean i hope he’s dead.”

“yeah, yeah,” billy snorts, rolling his eyes. “can we fuck now? i need to get the image of you pounding hagan out of my mind.”

“why, that get you worked up?” steve teases, poking at billy’s cheek with his index finger.

billy just catches steve’s wrists in his hands and rolls him onto his back, straddling his hips and pinning him to the mattress. steve can’t help but giggle when billy leans down to kiss him, tangling his fingers in his curls when billy releases his wrists.

the world is a bleak place these days, but steve has carved out his own slice of happiness despite it. smiling into billy’s kisses, the warm weight of billy on top of him, grounding him, steve knows he’ll do whatever it takes to defend his little piece of paradise.

and maybe it’s not what steve envisioned for himself back when he was an idealistic teenager. but he’s not going to argue it. it’s not like they have much left to find joy in, after all.

steve will take whatever piece of it that he can get.

send me super sappy prompts!

[drmthief]

WAKING IN A NIGHTMARE — PATH.

weeks have turned to months and your journey to olympus, your acceptance of your life as a demigod, has lead up to this moment. it's been brutal, wrought with pain and close calls, thick with loss, but you've endured. as you begin to get ready to sleep, winding down for the night, something inside of you feels different. there's a strength that grows that you only dimly knew was there before. you feel stronger, faster, more attuned to your senses and your own inner power. if you ever doubted that you might have divine blood in your veins before, now, more than ever, you feel it.

as soon as your head hits the pillow you fall fast asleep, exhausted from the events that have lead up to this point. who knows however long later, you "awaken". you're not where you fell asleep, nothing is as it was when you slept. you have to blink a few times but you realize that you're in a place that seems familiar to you. describe this place? what does it look like, sound like, smell like?

romeo opens his eyes and he's met with an endless, star filled sky. it's a sea of twinkling white stars, cloudless and ever reaching. it takes him a minute to get his bearings as he blinks his eyes—once, twice—and he recognizes the safe haven from his teenage years.

the roof top of an old apartment complex where the roof access door was thought to have been broken. he can see the buildings now, the tops of other apartment buildings and the streets that crisscross underneath his hanging feet like a maze. for a moment, he watches the cars go by, a blur of bright neon lights that almost match the luminescent stars ahead.

then it comes back to him, that feeling he constantly chased while swinging his feet over the edge, cigarette in hand, wisps of smoke curling around his fingers.

the fear. the heights. his stomach does a flip and he averts his gaze back toward the sky line, back to the stars.

for the longest time, this place was an escape from reality, a way to clear his mind and focus on a fear he can control, on a feeling he can beat away if need be. he digs one hand into the side of the building and brings the cigarette in his other to his lips and takes a long, slow drag.

despite the feeling of vertigo that overwhelms you, you find this vantage point to be an escape from your current reality. the cars whizzing by eventually blend together, the honks and cacophony of city life drowning beneath your feet. above you, the stars twinkle radiantly, each one seeming bigger than you remember them to be. it's a beautiful place, and as the passing breeze ruffles through your clothes, you feel a sense of relief and comfort you haven't felt in a while.

your gaze scours the busy streets below and then you see it, a familiar scarecrow, staring back up at you. fear, like a bucket of ice water, seizes your heart. it doesn't do much but stare ominously as the scenery around it goes on by. what do you do?

he freezes.

the scarecrow stares at him and all he remembers is the feeling of uselessness that girls his heart too tightly. his hand stops as he brings the cigarette to his lips and stares back at it.

he didn’t prove himself to the demigods he went along. the others had done so much more than him. was this a nightmare? it had to be.

but maybe it’s a chance to prove himself. if not to the others, to himself.

romeo reaches within himself and digs up the power he feels thrumming in his veins. the cigarette in his hand burns away, embers turning a brilliant gold before they whirl around his fingertips and coalesce into a chakram, perfectly rounded as sharp as one of the blades he has tucked away.

“i won’t be scared of you.” he says to himself, barely above a whisper.

and then he throws the golden chakram of dream dust.

the chakram, spun of gold dust, cuts through the air and beheads the scarecrow that's standing on the pavement. the straw head lops off and rolls into the street but the scenery around you, the passerby and cars, seem unfazed. it's as if it's not really there.

you feel an unwanted presence behind you, and turn, only to find the scarecrow standing behind you now, its glowering, sunken eyes staring right into your soul.

"fear will be your inevitable demise," it cackles.

for a split second, he feels like he’s succeeded. for a split second, he can feel a smile that doesn’t belong to him—as unwanted as he was—spreading across his face.

but the hair on the back of his neck stands on end and a shiver courses down his spine. romeo turns to see the scarecrow, what he thinks might be the real one, standing before him. he stares back into the glowing eyes and can remember the feeling of weightlessness when he fell to the ground, when he almost died.

panic slams against his ribs like a caged animal, he can almost feel himself splintering to pieces.

“no!” he lets out in a panicked yell, he can feel the golden dust trickle to his palm and he throws his hand forward, a sharp, golden dagger shooting forward toward the scarecrow as he jumps to his feet to put some distance between them.

your panic only seems to strengthen the scarecrow as it takes one intimidating step forward, cornering you between it and the ledge. the cars below honk louder, the sound of maddening traffic louder than your thrumming heartbeat. your fear amuses the scarecrow which bulks up, its physique made of straw fattening up, until it towers above you. the scarecrow, with an agility that you don't recall, grabs the thrown dagger and crushes it into fine sand.

"what's reality, and what's a dream, romeo?" the scarecrow taunts. "the boy who lives in nightmares; has he truly woken UP?" the scarecrow swings its arm, knocking you off the ledge. you fall, but like your close-to-death encounter, you feel weightless. you don't hit the harsh concrete below, but land... somewhere else.

where do you fall? where is the first place you think of when you're met with blood-curdling fear?

he thinks that this is going to be the end. a familiar weightlessness overtakes his body and numbs him. it's not in a way that makes him feel invincible, but a way that makes him feel infinitesimal. he closes his eyes as he plummets to the ground, arms flailing around him as if he can use them to brace for impact. he knows the concrete will hurt, but maybe this numbness will dampen the pain.

except that pain never comes.

nothing does.

he counts to ten in three different languages—spanish, english, greek—and then opens his eyes.

his heart drops. his blood goes cold. the hair on the back of his neck stands on end once more and he feels as if this is much worse than falling to his death.

this place is death a thousand times over, slowly, meticulously, methodically.

the navy blue walls seem too close for comfort and the large, metal bunk beds are just as he remembers them. stark white, rusted in places, with nothing but a bright orange mattress topper on the top bunk where he was forced to sleep. the tattered and torn blanket is still crumpled to the side and the single pillow he used looks lumpy and well used.

he turns and goes for the door. the holes from fists are patched over and painted, though the paint doesn't match and anyone who looks closely enough can tell that fists were the cause of the damage.

he inhales, exhales, and tries to think, tries to reason with himself. but this place feels too familiar to not be real. he grabs the folding desk chair and pushes it under the door knob to keep it from moving before he turns toward the bifolding closet doors. they're large, wooden, and broken in places. he opens them as quietly as he can and steps inside, closing it before he sits down underneath the row of hanging shirts and folds himself into a small ball, arms wrapped around his knees. he rests his chin atop them and closes his eyes.

he knows no matter how hard he wills it to be gone, no matter how hard he hopes for a different outcome, it'll always be the same.

this was where they tried to tell him was "home".

but for romeo, this was hell.

you hide in the bifolding closet doors. while it's not a fond memory, it provides you a peace of mind, or at the very least some brief comfort as the scarecrow stalks you.

you hear the chilling sweep of its straw feet brushing across floors. you hear it taunting you, calling out "oh, romeo, romeo, where are you, romeo?" you hear another door opening, then closing; it's looking for you. then, like the chair under the doorknob was just a hallucination, it opens the door with a slow creak. "romeo, i smell your fear. i smell your uncertainty. i smell your... sadness. do you think you can hide from me?" the light under the doors' crevice flickers as you see the scarecrow exploring the room.

"how long will you hide, romeo? run from your fears? wish it was all just a nightmare?" the voice seems to penetrate the closet's walls.

"is this your RESOLVE?"

he closes his eyes, willing his heartbeat to quiet down. it's a thunderstorm beneath his ribs, kicking and screaming against his chest. he can hear it drumming in his ears, a steady thump thump thump that slowly begins to dissipate.

is this his resolve?

the question catches him off guard and his heart stutter steps as he tries to form a coherent thought, let alone a string of words.

for so long he's been the product of fear. he took the abuse, the neglect, and endured it. he shoved it down and learned to live with it. he buried it so deep inside of him that not having it made him feel naked.

is this his resolve?

when he'd had enough what had he done? he ran. he ran from his fear and, no matter how far he went, no matter what new city he lied his way into, or whatever name he called himself to find a job, the fear caught up to him. the nightmares still plagued him when he closed his eyes, still gripped his hear too heavily.

is this his resolve?

when they'd found him and told him who he was, who he was meant to be, he ran to it because he had nowhere else to go. running was getting tiring, trying to find a place he belongs was becoming a feat he didn't think he could accomplish. every twist and turn since becoming a demigod, since accepting his birthright, has been to prove to himself, to everyone else, that he can make it.

he's fought tooth and nail for a scrap of recognition, for a reason to no longer run, and he's still not found it here.

but maybe he needs to stop asking for permission from others. maybe he needs to start demanding it.

he lifts his head up slowly and he can feel that familiar sensation course through him; the need to prove himself. this time, to himself. he stands up, careful not to make any noise, and closes his eyes. he counts again, inhales and exhales, and places his hands against the closet doors. he can see the scarecrow through some of the cracks, through some of the missing planks of wood that run across the bifold door.

"no, this isn't my resolve, asshole." he mutters under his breath.

and then he pushes. his eyes shift from hazel to a brilliant gold as the dream dust pours from his palms and his hands, exploding the door from the hinges and sending it flying toward the scarecrow.

"fuck you." romeo spits out. "that's my resolve. i can't run anymore. so i'll fight."

for what feels like an eternity, you sit encumbered in the closet, conflicted with your own demons. you reason and feud with yourself, and fortunately, the scarecrow is patient enough to wait as you come upon an ultimatum. as dream dust coalesces around your hands and shoots forth, blasting the door off its hinges, the scarecrow, too, explodes into a confetti of straw. it's almost anti-climatic, how easily it slumps to the ground like a rag doll.

"fear will always follow you, like a shadow, but you mustn't keel to it," a voice says, but it's not the scarecrow's. is it familiar, or unfamiliar? is it intimidating, soothing, or none of those? as it speaks to you, you see everything in the room disintegrating into fine, golden dust. your feet begin to sink into the dunes of sand, and a trickle of the same sand that sparks from your hands trickles from the ceiling, into your hair. you start to feel as if you're trapped in an hourglass, and a figure rises from the golden dunes, standing alone in front of you.

what does this figure look like? is it unfamiliar or familiar?

this is a different type of sinking feeling.

it's relief as he watches the scarecrow burst into thousands of tiny pieces. even if it isn't a firework of an explosion, there's a weightlessness to him now that feels less haunting.

the words, however, force a shiver along the mountain of his spine. it seeps into his bones, down to the marrow. there's a hopefulness to the words though, a sense of relief and comfort. a reassurance that, even when the nightmares plague him like the disease they are, that he can be strong enough to fight back.

he focuses and the voice is a mixture of gravel and silk, like sandpaper being brushes against something soft and velvety. it's smooth, but there's an edge to the words that reminds him of a knife waiting to slot itself between ribs.

as the sands shift, as he feels himself almost being entombed by them, he watches as a large fox begins to climb the dunes and look at him. it's large, golden tail wrapping in front of it as it sits there and stares at him. he's not too familiar with foxes, if he's honest. outside of seeing them here and there, but they've always been an animal he felt he could understand—weary of its surroundings, ready to react quickly if necessary, driven by a sense of survival and fear.

romeo stares back at the fox and furrows his brows. "was this a test?" he questions.

the stream of sand thickens above your head, spilling into your hair and getting into your mouth. the sand pools around your knees, and even so, the area around you spans out like a desert of glittering gold, the fox gracefully seated on top of its dune, like a throne.

"of sorts," the fox says as it licks its paw. "life is." it glances off, and you follow its gaze to the scarecrow's head buried pathetically in the sand. "fear will always follow you, romeo. in all aspects of life. i've come to test your resolve, see if you can remember to simply wake up when you are in a nightmare." it leaps off the dune and lands on another. "it's all too easy to succumb to your worst fears, insecurities, and selfish wants." as if it's painting a story, the golden sand turns a necrotic black for a split second, then shimmers gold again with a flick of the fox's tail.

"do you have any questions for me?"

romeo watches the sand shift colors, watches it seem to switch from dreams to nightmares in seconds. from brilliant gold to obsidian darkness.

he lickens it to the raging war inside himself, the teetering tightrope he walks between living life and living a nightmare. fear has always been a primal force that's pushed him further than ever.

fear of abandonment, fear of rejection, fear of being tossed aside like this week's garbage.

or this week's child.

it's made him try harder but also made him fail harder. it's made him chase impossibilities that he can never tangibly grasp, made him put limitations on himself to fit someone else's ideal of who he should be. even after he ran away, the fear still followed him around—like a shadow, as the fox said—and he let it.

he knows it's not something he can get rid of, not something that he can ever truly beat. fear, like his own blood, will always be part of him. nightmares, as much as dreams, will always be his destiny.

but the fox is telling him that all he has to do is wake up, that all he has to do is remember that he, somehow, can control it if he wills himself awake.

"just one," romeo says as he dusts the golden sand from his hand, spits it from his mouth before he attempts to climb on top of the dune's as if they, too, are his own throne. "are you here to help me wake up or to remind me that i have the power to do it on my own?"

are you telling me that i'm enough? he thinks, but doesn't voice it aloud.

the sands, whereas they were like quicksand before, feel solid underneath your feet as you climb them. the fox, pleased with your progress, bounds off, willing you to follow it. "i don't mean to turn your own question on you, romeo, but DO you?" it asks with a twitch of his ear. "do you have the power to do it on your own?" that's why it's here, after all.

do the sands around you take any shape? do they remain gold?

does he?

it's a question he didn't know he needed someone else to ask him. he's thought about it before, has questioned his own resolve plenty of times. he's been beaten down, left battered and bruised, and left for dead.

but he's never been fully broken.

he's somehow gotten up, even on shaky limbs, and kept going. he's gone against monsters while still bleeding from fresh wounds, without sleep, without thought or care for his own safety. he's fought battles just with his will power to prove himself alone. and yet, he's still never felt like he had the power.

but maybe he has all along, he's just been too blinded by fear to accept it. to consumed by the nightmares of his past, of the hands battering against him, of the taunts whispered and yelled into his face, to truly listen to what he's always been wanting to tell himself.

"i do." romeo says, nodding his head.

he holds out his hands and the sands begin to wisp around his fingertips, weaving through them like a flower on the wind. they're still gold, but not as bright as before, flecked with obsidian—a reminder that a nightmare is just a dream that he can wake up from. slowly, he curls his fingers and the sands swirl into a chakram, a dagger, an arrow, another blade—weapon after weapon he's created time and time again, a reminder that he has to fight, that he is strong, that he is enough.

he inhales and holds it and another fox appears from the dust, not the golden king of this desert dreamscape, but a smaller one flecked in darkness that reminds him a little of himself. a nightmare and a dream wrapped together.

"i do." he whispers, accepting it, and he sprints after the fox, a trail of black and gold dancing from his fingertips.

the fox looks to be smiling as it bounds over the golden dunes, and just when you feel like you've caught up to it, the golden fox collapses, its form pooling into the sand below. "keep going," the voice whispers, a breeze speckled with gold-and-black dream dust tickling and caressing your cheek. "i've seen your resolve, so keep going!" the little fox at your side sprints with you, nipping playfully at your heel as your feet feel lighter and lighter like you're skipping over the sands.

as you run into the light, you hear your guardian's voice in the back of your head:

"yes, you are enough."

you wake up, though strangely you feel as if you weren't sleeping at all. the air is light around you and for once you feel well-rested. as you gather your thoughts, you swear you saw the silhouette of a little fox flitting across your tent.

[nverletmego]

@mockiingjaysx // ford x mercedes

He’d fallen asleep on the couch for the mothers, all six-foot-too much of him, the final few practices before a state competition always grueling and running far into the night. This was unusual for Ford; sure, he’d fallen asleep countless times, but it was almost always upright, chin tucked into his palm doing his best to stay engaged while his sister danced in formation, though always managing to cave into the temptation of a good night’s rest. He’d get a gentle nudge from whichever mother sat beside him that night and a reminder of where he was, and he’d be good for the rest of the practice, busying himself with reading or planning out the topics for that month’s military support group meeting. But tonight, he just felt exhausted. 

It wasn’t like the day began unlike any other. He rose hours before the sun just like he always did to be on the construction site early, leaving a box of cereal on the table for Soleil to eat and her lunch packed in the fridge for school. He worked whatever road repair or new building he was assigned to, ate his daily hoagie, and was sent home at around 3 p.m. to pick his sister up from school in his truck. A quick early dinner would be had at home, maybe a $5 pizza on the way back to the apartment or some boxed mac and cheese, until they needed to take the 20-minute drive to her dance practice, and that would end their night. Ford would fall asleep watching baseball and, at some point in the night, crawl from the living room into his bedroom and then wake up for the next day. 

But the couch had just been so fucking comfortable. The mothers had left briefly, being brought down to the floor to go over the makeup and costumes for the girls’ routines. It would be a travesty to just say Ford was absolutely clueless about all that stuff; Soleil’s dance teacher, Mercedes, took over that part for him as long as he shouldered the fees for it. And he always did. He initially watched from afar, giving Soleil a tired wave, until the normally five-minute talk all of a sudden took ten, and he found himself splaying out on the couch, sunken into sleep. It was a wonder that his feet weren’t hanging off of it anyway as he laid his head on the arm of the couch, cushioned by a pillow. He’d accidentally kicked some pillows off onto the floor from the other side. He’d gone unnoticed, and honestly felt somewhat cozy, wrapped in the warmth of silence save for the muffled conversations going on in the floor, soundproofed by the huge glass windows that kept the rooms separated. Even the harsh white light of the dance studio didn’t bother him. 

He must have been tired.

This was nothing new to Ford, though, who’d essentially become Soleil’s guardian-- both by paperwork and by lifestyle-- ever since they left Louisiana for New York. He was maybe a couple of years retired from the military when his mother passed away, God bless her heart, from natural causes; and shortly after that, his father’s health started deteriorating, and so it was better for him to be admitted in a nursing home. All signs pointed to the two remaining siblings of the family to move on to a better life, with not much else keeping them at home. They had a new home now, this concrete jungle that Ford helped build; gone were the green pastures and replacing them were busy roads and miles of retail shops and restaurants. It was a different life, and Ford often found himself missing the farm, but he’d grown accustomed to being in the city now. 

Because the city gave Soleil opportunities she wouldn’t have had back at the farm, and that’s all that really mattered to him. If he needed to sleep on the couch just so she could live her dream, then he would do it. 

Ford had gone unnoticed for about forty-five minutes until an abrupt noise-- the sound of someone clearing their throat-- disrupted his sleep. He sat up, muttering a curse word, and rubbing at his eyes. When his vision cleared, he saw it was Soleil and Mercedes, Soleil all dressed up to go back home and clutching her duffel. “Ready to go, Ford?” she asked him. 

“Huh? Oh, yeah,” he said, clearing his throat, voice sounding like a cup of dark roast coffee right after he woke up. He stood up and stretched, the slightest patch of his stomach exposing, along with the waistband of his boxers, eliciting a chorus of gasps from across the room. The mothers hunched over and whispered, giggling-- they now knew he wore Hanes. 

He nodded and mumbled a thank you towards Mercedes, rubbing at his eyes for a second before turning to start heading out of the door, pulling his keys out of his pocket. 

“Actually, Ford?” Soleil stopped him in his tracks with her question. He turned with a slightly raised eyebrow. 

“I was wonderin’ if I could sleep over Mercedes’ tonight. The girls are havin’ a sleepover there and,” she licked her lips, “I forgot to ask you about it.” 

He took a deep breath, not exasperated, but tired and still reeling from being asleep, caught off guard. It must’ve looked strange, to see someone who held themselves like such a skyscraper to all of a sudden resemble a soft cloud, while still somehow carrying presence. “Soleil, I don’t--” 

“Pleaaaaaaaaase,” she whined. She could still get away with anything, despite being a teenager. “Some of the moms are stayin’, too. You should join!” 

Ford licked his lips in thought, shaking his head as he found a pillar to lean his elbow on. He looked over at Mercedes. “I don’t know if your teacher’s comfortable with a man--” 

[oforamuse]

i had a dream (i got everything i wanted) 1/?

mickey milkovich hasn’t seen ian gallagher in over 9 years, not since the day he broke his heart and they shipped him off to prison for a crime he didn’t technically commit.

the last place he expects to bump into him is new york fucking city.

or, the one where two broken puzzle pieces find a way to fit themselves back together.

au from 5x12/6x01 onwards.

read and comment on ao3

They’re out of fucking milk. They’re out of eggs, butter and even bread.

There’s not even a bag of chips in sight - what the fuck is this?

‘Fuck.’ Mickey curses, he’s hungry and there’s nothing in his goddamn apartment to eat. He could’ve sworn Mandy went grocery shopping only a few days ago, how did they already manage to finish the lot off? He swears someone’s been sneaking into their fourth floor walk up to raid their fridge - it’s probably that bitch who’s always yelling at the ass crack of dawn on the floor below, Mickey’s constantly having to stomp on the floor at 5am to shut the bitch up. His stomach rumbles angrily, he got in late last night from work and couldn’t be bothered to throw something together before he passed out on the sofa. Mandy’s not even home right now so he can’t even be properly pissed at her for eating all their food as much as he would like to. He rubs his hands over his eyes, already exhausted by the day despite only waking up 10 minutes ago. He slept in late, later than usual, since work had been a bitch the night before. Too many drunken handsy people having to be thrown out of a club on a friday night - he definitely does not get paid enough to deal with that shit.

He opens the fridge door again hoping for some sort of fucking biblical level miracle but groans, it’s still as empty as before. There’s not even a 20c pack of ramen floating about, only a bag of flour, a few beers and a lonely can of soup sitting on the top shelf. There’s no chance he’ll be eating that can of shit. He begrudgingly resigns, it’s 2pm on his day off and he just wants some damn eggs.

To the overpriced bodega two blocks down he goes, he fucking hates that place.

He huffs and stomps grumpily into his room to quickly throw on some proper clothes, hastily picking out a clean t-shirt and pairing it with yesterday’s somewhat clean jeans. He shrugs at his reflection in the mirror - he ain’t got no one to impress, especially not on a run down the road. He goes into Mandy’s room and grabs the twenty bucks he’d seen sitting on top of the dresser - telling himself that he’ll pay her back somehow, despite the fact she’s the greedy culprit who ate everything. He throws a jacket over his shoulders, grabs his keys off the hook by the door and bounds down the narrow staircase. Their apartment sits on the top floor of an overpriced but barely used laundromat on a busy cross street in the high east nineties. New York is loud, people are rude and it stinks 99% of the time, but it works for them. Besides, it’s not Chicago, that’s the important part.

That’s the really important part.

Mandy had moved in here originally with an ex boyfriend she’d chased all the way out here from Chicago, and they’d actually managed to stick it out for a few years before he inevitably ran off with another girl. By that point, Mandy had already gotten a receptionist job at a gym downtown and somehow managed to score a relatively low rent with the landlord, so she decided to stick it out instead of moving home. Mickey isn’t 100% sure there wasn’t a blowjob involved or something, but he ain’t questioning it.

He got out of prison just over 3 years ago on good behaviour and pretty soon after found himself following Mandy out to the East Coast. He never thought he’d see himself leave Chicago’s city limits but as soon as he completed his 2 years of parole and he was free to leave the state, he hopped on a bus without looking back.

There sure as hell wasn’t anything left for him there.  

His few years of parole had been lonely and even though he’d never admit it if anyone asks, the last thing you want after being locked up for years is to live alone. He mainly kept to himself, picked up some shifts at a local mechanic that his PO had managed to organise for him. Stayed out of trouble and mostly kept his head down - which wasn’t the easiest thing for a Milkovich to do but his heavy ankle monitor constantly reminded him that he was barely even out of the clink, he knew he couldn’t chance it to toe the line. It surprised him how relatively easy it was to stay out of trouble and it made him wonder how different his life could’ve been had he not been brought up by a sadistic criminal of a father and a nonexistent mother. If he’d had a normal childhood without the scrounging and the hiding and the beatings.

He didn’t try and reconnect with anyone he knew from before. What was the point? Svetlana had skipped town for some rich guy, she’d mailed him the divorce papers and they’d finalised it all around the third year or so of his incarceration. He didn’t even get to say goodbye to the kid, not that Mickey particularly minded, but he had been growing somewhat fond of the fucker. His brothers’ still lived at home, but he’d heard from some fellow inmates that his dad was out so he steered clear of his childhood home and any of his dad’s old local haunts. He bounced around dingy motels for the majority of the year, which was a fucking hassle since he had to keep asking his PO to change the radius on his montior, but it out weighed having to go and ask anyone for any favours. He avoided his entire old neighbourhood, willing every single time he got on the L or walked down a busy street that he wouldn’t bump into someone he knew.

Even if he wanted to reconnect with people he didn’t even know where he’d start, it had been 6 full years. It took him for fucking ever to track Mandy down, let alone…

No.

No.

He’s halfway to the store when he stops. He can’t fucking breathe.

What the fuck.

He can’t move, he can’t physically move.

His bones feel like they’ve interlocked in place, sticking together and solidifying him into an ancient statue and he can’t. fucking. move.

Because it’s Ian fucking Gallagher.

Ian Gallagher standing right in front of him.

Ian fucking I don’t love you enough anymore Gallagher.

He’s standing right in front of him on the sidewalk in New York city, right outside a goddamn Duane Reade, hundreds of miles from the Chicago South Side.

What in the fucking fucking fuck?

Mickey could be dreaming, Mickey must be dreaming, because this can’t be fucking real. He’s often seen the ginger boy, man - he corrects himself, in his dreams over the last few years. He’s always appeared as a shadowy figure or even as a whimsical idea echoing in his subconsciousness but this is way too realistic.

He’s here, he’s here standing right in front of him in the living and breathing human bodied flesh.

Yet he’s still the exact same tall, red headed guy that a teenage Mickey fell for over a decade ago and it’s like being bitch slapped by a bus, full force and full of impact. Ian hasn’t seen him yet, he’s talking into his phone, laughing at something that’s been said and Mickey’s heart hurts. It’s been over nine years since he saw Ian laugh like that. His hands start to shake and his breath picks up in short, small uncontrollable bursts. There must be somewhere he can go and duck into. He checks the distance to the entrance to the Duane Reade, wondering if he could chance it before the other man notices.

He should turn around, groceries be damned, he should go right the fuck now before Ian see’s him and-

‘Mickey?’

Oh, fuck. Even his voice is exactly the same. God, Mickey has waited 9 years to hear that voice again but right now all he can hear is rushing wind in his ears, his entire world turned on its axis.

Is everyone around him moving in slow motion or is it just him?

He looks up and Ian is staring at him with a wide eyed, what the fuck is going on, expression on his face. Yeah, Mickey would like to know too, if only he could get his fucking breathing under control.

‘Mickey?’ He repeats without moving closer, the phone call hangs abandoned in his right hand. He wonders who from his past is on the other end of the line, Lip? Fiona? Perhaps a new boyfriend? Husband, even?

‘Hi.’ Mickey breathes out harshly, panic rising up slowly in his throat. He still can’t move.

This is a dream, this is a fucked up dream.

‘What, what are you- you’re out?’ Ian asks, finally breaking the barrier between them and moving a step closer. His face is practically the same as he looked the last time Mickey saw him, but it’s been clear the time that has passed. He’s lost even more of the baby face he once possessed, his jaw now sharp and precise. His eyes are bright and alive, worlds apart from the dead and sunken look Mickey recalls from their last interaction - the one where Ian had told him he’d wait and never fucking visited him again.

‘Fuck you doing here, Gallagher?’ He hears himself blurt out shakily and he barely even realises he said it, only noticing Ian’s eyebrows furrowing together in a response. He looks so confused and concerned but also somewhat hurt and Mickey wants to. fucking. bolt.

All he wanted was some god damn eggs but instead he gets sucker punched by history and the feeling he’s about to spew his guts out onto the sidewalk.

‘I could ask you the same thing.’ Ian replies, dumbfounded. Someone shoulders grumpily past Mickey and he’s suddenly pulled back to the fact they’re standing, staring at each other in the middle of a busy sidewalk.

‘Fuck you, watch yourself asshole!’ He calls after the guy in the classic New York fashion he’s managed to perfect in the last few months, he’s getting quite good at blending in. People continue to shove passive aggressively past them, though neither men move. ‘Been here almost a year.’ He says without bringing his gaze back to Ian, staring just over his shoulder at the busy traffic.

‘What? You’ve been out for a year?’ Ian’s ask incredulously, bringing Mickey back to the shocked expression on his face. It’s almost as if he never even considered the possibility that Mickey might’ve made parole early instead of sitting his full sentence. Behind the confusion there’s a small smile playing on his lips, it reminds Mickey too much of those days and it hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

How is it still hurting after 9 years?

‘Almost three.’ Mickey replies, his attempt at nonchalance hardened by the bitter taste flooding his mouth. He feels like he’s about to choke, he has to get out of here. ‘Listen, I gotta go-’

‘Mickey, I-’ Ian interrupts, stepping a foot closer to him. His arm is raised in front of him in a way that looks like he’s going to try and touch him or hug him or something-

Mickey spins on his heel and gets the fuck out of dodge.

Groceries forgotten, Mickey practically sprints back to his apartment, the streets a blur around him as he shoulders through. He takes the four sets of stairs two at a time, not letting himself register the sharp ragged tightness in his chest until he gets to his front door.

His hands fumble as he pulls the keys out from his pocket, but somehow he manages to steady himself enough to let himself into his apartment. He slams the door behind him and slumps immediately down to the floor, his back against the wood as he tries, unsuccessfully, to steady his breathing.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fucking, fuck.

What on fucking God’s green earth is Ian doing here?

Here.

Here in this world that Mickey has so painstakingly created for himself, for him and Mandy. A world that is hundreds of miles away from Chicago, from the South Side, from them. From the porch steps where Ian stood blankly, rejecting Mickey’s heart and crushing it in his hands. Hundreds of miles away from the Kash and Grab where they’d fuck in the back room but laugh out front, from his broken childhood home that was made just that little brighter by Ian’s laughter, from the prison he sat in for 6 fucking years doing time for Ian fucking Gallagher.

Mickey’s hands are shaking, the tattoos on his knuckles blur as he shoves them underneath his thighs in an attempt to get something under control and closes his eyes. He breathes slowly, his stomach nauseous, his rabid hunger from an hour earlier long forgotten. He doesn’t think he could eat anything for another week.

There’s a quiet, hesitant knock on his apartment door, a foot or so above Mickey’s resting head.

‘Mickey?’

It’s Ian again, Jesus, he must’ve followed him here. He curses the fact that the main door downstairs is broken so any random fucker can walk in. He’s told their landlord so many times to get it fixed, and God he should’ve done it himself because he really could’ve used a proper lock right about now.

‘What do you want?’ Mickey grunts out, pulling himself off the floor to grab the pack of smokes sitting on the small table by the door. His hands shake as he pulls out a cigarette and it falls to the floor, fuck.

‘Mickey.’ Ian’s voice persists, and Mickey rolls his eyes because the kid was never good at getting the message of go the fuck away. His stomach jolts at the thought of that persistent teenage ginger freckled freak that buried himself under Mickey’s skin and tattooed himself there when they were just kids. He remembers 16 year old Ian’s earnest way of looking at him like he held the world in his hands, following him around and slipping into Mickey’s life almost seamlessly. He remembers the feeling of agony he felt every single day, sitting in that cell and willing to turn back time and change things. Mickey registers something flowing through him, something fiery and hot, it’s anger. He feels it swarm from his fingertips all the way down to his toes, it pushes him forward. He swings around, unlocks the door and stares at the man standing in front of him.

‘What the fuck do you want?’ He spits, years and years of pent up disappointment and heartbreak coursing fiercely through his veins and he feels like he’s about to explode. This isn’t how he used to imagine seeing Ian again would be, he always imagined warmth and floating and butterflies in his fucking stomach. He imagined kisses and tears and I love yous.

He stopped imaging seeing Ian again around the 4 year mark. 6 years of sitting in a prison, waiting, changes people.  

And yet, everything feels the same. His heart still fucking pounds in the same way and his knees feel like they’re about to give out at the sight of those eyes and that ginger hair.

‘It’s you.’ Ian breathes, the surprised expression slipping away from his adult and aged features revealing the same kid he’s always been, ‘It’s you, here.’

‘Yeah no fuckin’ shit Sherlock Holmes.’ he snaps, patting his pockets to find a lighter in an attempt to give his hands something to do other than shake. Fuck, he must’ve left it inside.

‘I didn’t know you were out-’ Ian starts awkwardly, almost as if he doesn’t know what to do now that he actually has Mickey in front of him, like the bastard didn’t follow him up here and practically demand his audience.

‘Are we really going to do the fucking sentimentalities?’ It comes out way more breathy and defeated than Mickey would’ve liked but he’s tired, overwhelmed and really just wants a smoke. They stare at each other, it’s awkward and clunky and full of history. ‘Like, how's the fucking weather been? Really?’

‘No, I just- you look good.’ Ian offers quietly, his eyes flickering down, following Mickey’s entire body to the floor. It should feel good, getting checked out, but it doesn’t.

‘Not a lot to do in prison other than work out.’ Mickey says firmly, puffing his chest out slightly. He doesn’t miss the way Ian’s shoulders slump as a response at the mention of his incarceration.

Good.

Truthfully, other than his heart hurting every minute of everyday, the majority of prison feels like a blur to him now. It was hours of working out, fucking and volunteering in the canteen, the library, the yard. Anything to keep his mind off of things. He’s managed to keep up with the working out though, regularly running around the top end of central park and he sometimes gets one on one boxing lessons from a guy down the road. It feels good, he feels strong. Ian was always the strong one between the two of them - not any more.

‘How ya been?’ Ian asks casually as if it’s only been weeks and not years, the ease at which he says it slaps Mickey, it stings.

‘Oh real fuckin’ fine and dandy.’ Mickey replies harshly and Ian’s eyebrows drop, his forehead creased by the words that hang unspoken. Mickey can feel a heavy scowl form on his face, it hurts with the intensity he’s holding it.

‘We could, uh, go for a beer? and talk, maybe?’ Ian presses earnestly, somewhat testing the waters. Mickey can’t help but bark out a laugh. Nine years of fucking silence and the guy wants to go for a beer. His stomach churns and he feels like he’s going to vomit. He stares at him, his silent answer glaringly obvious. Ian’s eyes fall, they’re heavy and sad and they’re burning right into Mickey’s skin. He shakes his head, exhausted by it all and goes to close the door, but Ian steps forward sharply and grabs the handle.

‘Don’t- Mick, please.’

The nickname stabs Mickey in the gut. He can’t do this.

‘Really, Ian?’ Mickey asks in disbelief, ‘Nine fucking years of nothing and you want to go for a beer-’

‘I know that-’ Ian tries but Mickey keeps barrelling through.

‘Act like I never went to prison for your ass?’ Mickey fires back sharply, unable to hold it all back, ‘And you never fucking visited me? Not once after that first time- six years I sat there like a bitch and nothing.’

Mickey’s breathing is ragged, his chest heaving. He's angry, he's so fucking angry.  

Ian’s face crumbles. He resigns and releases his hand from where he’d been holding the door open and steps back cautiously, shame hangs in the air between them.

‘I just want to talk to you.’ Ian says softly, his eyes serious but desperate. There’s a glimmer of wetness in them that makes Mickey want to both scream and take him into his arms. They’re the same green eyes Mickey filled into the 'IAN GALLAGHER' filing cabinet and locked away in the back of his mind - he doesn’t think he’s even slept with someone with green eyes since Ian. He’s fucked a lot of gingers over the years, a lot more than he would ever probably admit, but those eyes? They’re something you can’t just replicate.

Fuck those sad eyes, he thinks, you don’t get to be sad.

You don’t get to be sad when you are the one that did this.

‘We had six years to talk.’ Mickey bites back venomously, he’s not sure where this surge of confidence came from but he’s grabbing it by the reins and riding it out.

‘I know, I-’ Ian steps forward, his hands raised up as a peace offering. Mickey wants to push them far away but also grab them by the wrist and never let him go. His head hurts, he’s confused. He wants to throw up.

‘Ian?’ A voice calls out from down the hall, slicing through the red hot tension between the two men. Mickey breathes out heavily and glances down the hall at his younger sister.

Fantastic, just what he needs. He braces himself.

‘Ian!’ Mandy all but squeals, throwing her arms around him happily, her skinny arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders. He lifts her off the ground easily for a moment before dropping her back on her feet. God, they're like a bunch of school kids. Mickey shifts his weight from foot to foot awkwardly, not knowing where to put himself between the two old friends, and ultimately, he just wants to leave.

‘It’s so good to see you, Mandy.’ Ian says quietly, the corners of his mouth turned up into a small smile, his eyes then shift plainly over to Mickey. He looks away sharply.

Mandy steps back, throwing a slow glance between the two of them, Mickey standing in the doorway, eyes down, and Ian a few feet back. The atmosphere shifts as her slow realisation sets in.

It’s an echo of a moment all those years ago, Mandy standing in the doorway just before Mickey’s disastrous marriage to Svetlana after Ian had begged him not to go through with it.

‘Am I interrupting something?’ She asks awkwardly, and Mickey wishes his sister could just read the fucking room for once.

‘Uhhh…’ Ian begins, clearly unsure where to start but Mickey rolls his eyes because fuck this.

‘No, you’re not.’ He grunts, turning around quickly and slamming the door on the two of them - despite knowing fully well that Mandy has her own key and Ian could walk right in there anyway.

He stomps into the kitchen and paces, the filing cabinet deep in the back of his brain marked ‘IAN GALLAGHER’ breaks open like Pandora's box and decade old memories he’s tried so hard the last few years to lock up come flooding out. They fall out onto the kitchen floor and Mickey feels like he’s drowning.

I love you. What the hell does that even mean?

Shut up.

Don’t. Don’t what? Just…

Shut up.

You love me and you’re gay.

Shut up.

Ian what you and I have, makes me free.

Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up. He slams his fist into the wall, pain coursing through his knuckles and up his arm. It does nothing to relieve his anxiety, only leaving him with an inch dent in the wall he’s going to have to fork out for at some point. He can’t bring himself to care.

He pulls the fridge door open and reaches to the back for a knocked over beer. He opens it deftly and chugs it in one. It’s bitter as it goes down and does nothing to suppress the swarming unwanted thoughts.

Chugging beer in the dugouts, covered in blood, breathless. Kissing. Fucking. The taste of beer and blood and sweat lingering on each other’s lips.

‘Fuck.’ He mutters, he can’t even have a fucking drink in peace without his brain reminding him and reminding him and reminding him.

Reminding him that if Ian walked in right now, heart and arms open, Mickey would probably fall into them willingly, years worth of heartbreak be damned.

Fuck, he thought he was done with this. He’s worked so fucking hard at being done with this, but apparently, Ian Gallagher is allowed to just walk back into his life - without notice - and set fire to years of his progress.

He reaches for the fridge door and has his hand wrapped around his next beer when Mandy comes storming in, knocking it from his grip. It clatters to the floor, spinning slowly to a stop below the sink.

‘You’re a fuckin’ rude asshole, you know that?’ She spits, her face twisted and ugly.

‘Fuck off.’ He fires back, once again going to open the fridge without bothering to pick up the fallen can off the linoleum. He just wants to get fucking drunk and forget, but of course, Mickey’s not one to usually get what he wants. Mandy’s hand slams the fridge shut before Mickey can even inch it open.

‘You haven’t seen the guy in years, you could at least be fuckin’ nice.’

‘Can’t a guy have a fuckin’ beer in his own home?’ Mickey snorts, feigning nonchalance but fooling neither of them. He steps out of her glare and bends down to collect the fallen can. It’s gonna be a bitch to open, but clearly access is denied to the fridge right now. He needs another drink.

‘No wonder he fucking dropped your ass as soon as you got locked up.’

He stops. Mickey feels like he’s been slapped.

One hand grips the can and the other balls instinctively into a fist. He stares down at the floor, he can’t move, panic and anger and sadness all flare up in his chest, like broken fireworks spitting out against a dark sky. He was brought up to never use violence against women, but fuck, this is the first time in his life he feels like punching, slapping, or doing something to his sister. Making her feel even an ounce of the agony he’s dealt with for the best part of a decade.  He won’t, but his hands are shaking, his breath is rising up his throat and he wants to scream.

He doesn’t. He stays there, halfway bent down to the floor, staring at his shaking white knuckles wrapped around the Bud light in his left hand.

‘Fuck you.’ He grunts without looking up. Mandy scoffs and turns away, padding slowly into her room. Her door slams shut and Mickey’s knees buckle to the floor.

He lies on the dirty kitchen floor and breathes.

[faefictions]

Unrest

Pairing: Peter Parker x reader

Warnings: ENDGAME SPOILERS (like seriously don’t read ANY of this if you haven’t seen it yet), cussing, sad Peter

Prompt: “Go back to sleep”

Word count: 9k (I know, I’m sorry)

Summary: After getting dusted by Thanos, the reader tries to cope with what she missed in the five years she was dead and the aftermath of returning

A/N: This is part of @starksparker ‘s writing challenge! Also sorry it’s so long, I couldn’t help myself

Losing 5 years of your life takes a toll. Waking up one day to realize that half of the population had aged 5 years past you while you were turned to dust, wiped from existence, that was a hard fact to accept. Support groups for those who had survived were replaced with support groups for those trying to accept that their partners had moved on, whose younger siblings were now older than them, whose loved ones had passed while they were gone. A lot had happened in those five years, and being thrown right back into it was difficult. 

When you came back, you suddenly woke up in your apartment. You had remembered hearing a strange noise on the street below and rushing to the window, but you couldn’t remember losing consciousness. Your confusion only grew as you looked around your room. It was almost unrecognizable. Your posters, pictures, and bedding were missing. In their place was decor that seemed to belong to a toddler. You tried to recall any of those things being there before you had passed out, but nothing was familiar. The only thing that reassured you that you were still in your room was the small letters carved into the windowsill. You and your sister had carved them there, your initials all in a row. Those 4 little letters had earned you quite the lecture from your parents, but the memory never failed to bring a smile to you. 

You looked down at the street through the window that you had been heading for before you passed out, and you were met with the sight of confused people flooding the street, some seeming to appear out of nowhere. You thought your mind was playing tricks on you, and quickly turned from the window to find your family. You needed something to ground you and kill the confusion. 

The second you opened your bedroom door, the smell of your sister’s favorite pasta dish filled your senses. She used to make it for you when you were upset. You never liked it much, but the kind gesture wasn’t something you would turn down. You took a few steps towards the kitchen, but your breath left you when you saw her. She was at the stove, her back to you, but her hair was inches longer than you could remember it ever being, and she seemed to have lost a significant amount of weight. 

“Rosie?” You called, your shaking voice filling the quiet apartment. Instead of turning, she gripped the handle of the oven and you could faintly hear her curse under her breath. 

“Rose, what’s going on?” you asked, hoping this time she would reply. Your confusion was making you panic, a feeling you had grown to know all too well in your lifetime. Rosie had always been there to help you through anything, and her reluctance to even turn around to face you was unsettling you even more. 

As you were about to ask her again, a key started to jingle in the lock of the front door, and a child rushed through. You couldn’t recognize the boy, but his bright eyes and nose shape shared a striking resemblance with Rosie. 

You looked up past the child to see your mother in the doorway, staring at you with tears in her eyes. She seemed unable to breathe and the groceries in her hands dropped to the floor.

“Mom? What’s wrong?” you asked, as Rosie shot around to help her mother. When she saw that her mother was looking up at you, she too lost her breath. The boy ran up to you and tugged on your pant leg. “You look like Auntie y/n!” he called, just making your panic set in more. Rosie rushed over, but slowed as she approached you. Her hand slowly reached out and caressed your cheek. 

“Y/n?” she cried, looking you over, unable to accept that you were really there. 

The rest of that first night back was filled with tears as your family caught you up. You had been the only one who had been dusted, but your father’s survivors guilt had eaten him alive. He drank himself to death 2 years after you left. Rosie had become pregnant a year after you had left, and little Christopher was born a few months before your father’s death. 

Rosie had been so disturbed by the events that she had begun to hallucinate you coming back. Her dreams, when she had them, were vivid and just as disturbing as reality. She had gone into extensive therapy, but nothing could make her miss you less. 

Christopher had known you and your father only through pictures and stories, but that didn’t stop him from loving you and sitting on your lap for the entire first night back. Both your mother’s and sister’s phones were blowing up with messages about other returned loved ones, but they paid no attention to it. They only wanted to be with you. 

That night, you all fell asleep in the living room. They couldn’t imagine parting with you now that you were back, not just yet.

As they snored on the couch, you watched the news on low volume. Stories of celebrities and world leaders returning were flooding the news. Old news anchors were brought on with their families, all smiling and recounting their memories, or lack thereof. It wasn’t until 2 am that you heard the news the only news that could have made things worse for you. 

Iron-Man was dead. 

You had already had trouble sleeping, but there was no way you could rest knowing that your childhood hero was dead. Tony Stark was looked down on by your family. He appeared pretentious in the media, especially before his Iron-Man days, but you knew better. He was selfless and caring. You had met him once, just a brief passing. He gave Rosie an autograph, but you just looked up at him in awe. He chuckled at your dumbfounded face and knelt down to eye-level with you. 

“And what’s your name, kiddo?” he had asked with a grin. 

You stuttered out your name, causing him to try to fight back another chuckle. 

“No need to be so nervous, I’m not anything special.”

He had left you with a pat on the head, and you watched with a huge grin on your face as he walked away. 

Looking back, you knew that all he meant was that he was human, nothing to get too excited over. That wasn’t what you took it as when you were a child though. You took his words to mean that the greatest superhero alive was just like you, meaning that you could grow up and be just like him. Of course you had chosen another career path, other than caped crusader, but he remained to be a big inspiration for you. 

You went to different memorials held across the city for Tony. Vigils popped up on every street corner, and graffiti depicting him in his suit were on hundreds of buildings all over New York. 

Your mother begged you not to go out every night, but you insisted that you had to pay your respects. If it wasn’t for Tony Stark, you would still be dead. 

Heading back to school was the hardest step. All of your close friends had aged, which seemed to be just your luck. Everyone else around you seemed to have at least one person in their life that had been dusted, someone else to relate to, but not you. 

You only had one year left, but turning up to see faces that had been in middle school last time you had seen them was difficult to accept. You asked your mother if you could drop out, but she refused. It was, of course, ultimately your decision, but you couldn’t imagine disappointing her. 

Looking at her had only served to feed your growing mental health problems. The bags under eyes were sunken and her hair was almost all grey, and you knew that you were the cause of the stress that had led her to look that way. Seeing Rosie had the same effect, only reminding you that your disappearance had made her mind play tricks on her. 

Your guilt was accompanied by frustration and confusion, and it all caused you to have nightly panic attacks. Christopher came into your room one night as you were on the ground sobbing, and you didn’t have the energy to say anything when he ran out to tell his mom what he had seen. Rosie rushed in and wrapped you in a hug, telling Christopher to go watch something on the television while she calmed you down. 

That was the event that caused your mother to sign you up for your support group. You argued that it would just be more depressing to be surrounded by people who were just as sad as you, but she begged you to try, so you agreed to go once. 

You showed up to a somber room filled with young adults. You recognized a few faces from school, students you didn’t even realize were dusted, and you almost just turned around and left, but the image of your mother made you stay. You couldn’t cause her more stress. 

There were 12 members to your group, along with a young man who ran the group. You listened to each teenager speak of their families, their friends, and other loved ones aging without them. One of them had been in love before the snap, he was planning on proposing to his girlfriend after graduation, even had the ring, but he was dusted and she wasn’t. When he came back, she was 5 years his senior and dating a boy she had met in her second year of college. You thanked whatever powers that be that you hadn’t been in love before. Coming back to your life was already difficult enough, but you couldn’t imagine losing someone like that. 

The stories went around the group, and finally the man running the group came to a boy directly across the circle from you. His eyes were filled with tears, and he tried to ask to not speak, but the instructor insisted that he at least introduce himself. 

“Ok, uhm, I’m Peter. I was 17, and I should be 22 now. I’m lucky enough to not have really lost much more than I already have. My friends were mostly dusted with me. The only people I left behind were… uh, my Aunt May, and… and that’s it.” 

You could tell he was going to say someone else, but there was something holding him back. The instructor thanked him for speaking, calling him brave, which just made him scoff under his breath. 

After a couple more people shared their story, the instructor, who you learned was named Kyle, asked you to speak. You were too timid to do presentations in class, and you were never one for talking to strangers, but something came over you in that moment. 

“I’m y/n. I’m… or I guess I was 17. My birthday is in two weeks, and it feels weird to say I’ll be 18. I feel like I should be saying I’ll be 23, but when I think about it, it just… upsets me more.”

You were hesitant to really open up. In reality, the thought of your age would send you into panic attacks. But those strangers didn’t need to know about all the times you had collapsed onto your bedroom floor gasping for air as you tried to think about something, anything other than your reality. 

“Do you want to tell us about anyone you may have lost?”

You took a second to think. You didn’t like how Kyle put it. He hadn’t been dusted, he didn’t understand that using the word “lost” hurt you more than anything. You hadn’t really lost anyone but your father, but of course Kyle didn’t know about him. Everyone else was still alive, but Kyle’s question did nothing but remind you that you had been “lost” to them for those five years. You had “lost” the mother you had had before. Her smile would never be the same because of you. You had “lost” your happy and loving sister. She now had hallucinations because of her grief over losing you. Your temper was a moment away from getting the best of you, but you took a deep breath and shook your head. You couldn’t talk about that right now. 

After the next person shared, Kyle called the meeting for the night. He said that he would be holding the next youth support group on that Thursday, two days away. You knew right away that you wouldn’t be going back. 

You began to walk home in the dark, cruising yourself for forgetting to bring gloves to the meeting. As you walked, you spotted Peter from the group walking ahead of you. Just as you had had the courage to speak suddenly in the meeting, you suddenly had the courage to approach him and strike up a conversation. 

“Hey, Peter,” you called, instantly regretting every decision you had ever made that had led you up to that moment. Your mind blanked and forgot how normal conversations carried on. 

“Uh, hey… y/n right?” he asked, trying to sound calm and collected although his eyes were still red from holding back tears. 

“That’s me.”

“What’s up?” he asked, and you could sense that he was a little uncomfortable in the conversation. 

“This is probably over the line, but I know you were holding back in there.” Blunt, nice one y/n.

“What?”

Both of your paces slowed as a silence fell over both of you. 

“For me it was my dad.”

“What do you mean?”

“The person I lost. And I mean really lost. I know we all lost time with the people we loved, but… I think we both lost someone that we can’t get back.”

“How did you lose him?”

“Survivor’s guilt I guess. I mean, of course, I wasn’t there so I wouldn’t know. But from what I’ve been told, I gave him so much guilt that he drank himself into an early grave.”

“Shit… I-I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Well I mean not fine, it’s almost like the guilt just transferred to me. But nothing you need to apologize about.”

You tried to say it in the most humorous way possible, but it was obviously the truth. He just nodded, letting the silence fall back over you. He kicked a few pebbles as you walked and refused to look up from the sidewalk. 

“I understand not wanting to talk about it, especially in a God awful therapy group, but… if you ever need or want someone to listen, I got you.”

“Thanks,” he smiled, glancing up at you slightly. 

You took his phone and gave him your number before you parted ways to continue your walks towards your apartments. 

Peter had been just as nervous as you to go to the support group. Aunt May had begged him to talk to someone, but it was difficult for him to find someone who understood. Sure, his best friend, Ned, had been dusted too, but he had been at home and came back in his own bed. The only thing he had lost was the 5 years. That didn’t mean that he didn’t have some difficulties accepting it, but it was just different for Peter. 

He had come back on a foreign planet surrounded by people he had only know for a matter of hours. He had been transported to a battlefield where he had to fight for his life along with the fate of the Universe, for the second time, and that wasn’t even the worst of it. 

He had reunited with Tony for a single moment, one that under any other circumstance he would have loved to look back on, but now only caused him pain. He had gotten to finally hug his mentor, his idol, his father figure, just to have to watch him die moments later. And it wasn’t a fast, painless, clean death. The image of Tony sitting half alive as Peter cried and tried to tell him they had won, that was the worst of it all. 

Peter had been having vivid nightmares every night since he had come back. Some nights it was Thanos violently killing him, pinning him down and choking him or crushing him to death while he hopelessly tried to fight his way from his grasp. Other nights it was just Tony’s face, his sunken eyes boring into Peters skull were nothing to the uncharacteristic silence that came from him. No matter what it was, he would wake up sobbing, but always tried to keep quiet so he wouldn’t worry May. 

He didn’t want to go to a support group just to have to hear about other people’s same old story. It wasn’t like he could just say, “I was there when TONY FUCKING STARK DIED.” That would give away his identity, and he couldn’t have that. But May was practically begging him to try it out, so he had gone, promising he would go to just one meeting, just as you had promised your mother. You had both fully intended on holding up your end of your bargains and nothing more, but meeting each other made you rethink. 

Peter was almost happy (if you could call it that) to meet someone who had lost someone like he had. Sure it wasn’t the same, but there was a similarity that gave him some comfort. 

You were happy to meet someone that didn’t make you want to puke from nerves. Something about him made you feel like your life wasn’t such a terrible waste. 

You were a bit reluctant to go back that Thursday, but you found yourself craving interaction with Peter. It was exhausting dealing with people who pretended to understand, who thought that just because someone they loved disappeared, they knew exactly what you had gone through. Sure they had lived 5 years without someone, but that was just it, they had lived. You had been dead for five years, there was a big difference in the type of trauma you had experienced. 

You had also realized that you had given Peter the wrong number by mistake, and felt terrible enough that you had to show up at group to apologize and give him the right one. 

You stepped into the familiar room of the rec center and instantly recognized Peter from across the room. He was awkwardly standing near the circle of chairs, far enough from everyone else so he wouldn’t be pulled into a conversation. 

“So, I can explain,” you said, approaching him with a guilty smile.

“Explain what?” he chuckled. 

“I don’t know if you happened to text me…”

“I did.”

“Well, get this, I must have forgotten that I fucking died for 5 years, and in turn, my phone died 5 years ago. So I kinda gave you my old phone number, and didn’t get anything from you.”

He let out a genuine laugh at your light humor. He couldn’t recall anyone else making a lighthearted joke about dying, and he found it refreshing. It was nice to not have you tiptoe around him. 

You took his phone and gave him your number, the right one this time, but this didn’t stop him from teasing you about it until Kyle called for the group to start. 

The group mostly went the same way that it had the time before. Kyle helped organize who would speak when, asking if there was anything anyone was have troubles dealing with, anything anyone wanted to get off their chest, etc. 

Then he came to you. 

“Y/n, on Tuesday you were having some trouble speaking about who you lost. Do you feel ready to discuss it with us this time?”

There it was again. The word lost. And the reminder of what you had done to your family. You were the reason your father died and what family remained was miserable. 

“Not today.”

“Are you sure? We’re all here to support you. We all lost someone too.”

“Did we, Kyle? Did we all lose someone?”

“…What do you mean?”

“I mean, some of us in here really get loss. Some of us really lost someone that is never coming back, or lost the time that served to take away our loved ones, and you sure as hell aren’t one of us. So I’d appreciate if you’d use that term more conservatively.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know it would upset you. Is there a reason you don’t like it?”

“Holy fuck, Kyle. You really don’t get it do you? You may have “lost” someone, but they came back to you. You can’t make that time up with them, sure, but you got to live through those five years. You got to experience life while they were gone, and now you get spent the rest of your life with them. Some of us don’t get that, Kyle.”

You were visibly shaking when you finished. Some of the people in the circle were looking at you like you were about to beat them up. You had never had an outburst like that, and you were a little afraid of yourself as well. You made short eye contact with Peter, who was sitting right next to you. He just gave you a small, sympathetic smile. If it had come from Kyle, you would have officially lost your shit, but from Peter, you felt understanding. Whatever it was that he had gone through, it made him understand what you were going through. 

“Ok, I understand, and you’re right, I didn’t lose someone permanently. Maybe if you tell me about your experience, I can be better about that.”

Your breathing picked up pace, realizing that you had cornered yourself into sharing with the group. You didn’t know if you were ready to speak from your own experience, but you didn’t want your outburst to be the last image that group of peers had of you. 

“I didn’t lose 5 years of my life. I’m still 17. I lost 5 years of everyone else’s lives. And that is what I’ll never get back. And everything I lost, everything they lost, it’s all because of me. Sure they spent 5 years dealing with the loss of me, and they changed from that, but now they have me back. And now I have to live the rest of my life knowing that I’m at fault for everything that happened to them.”

“But nothing that happened is in any way your fault. It was random selection. Half of all life disappeared. None of that can be blamed on you.”

“You really don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me. I am ignorant to your experience, y/n. To all of your experiences. The only way I can learn to help you, all of you, is if you explain.”

“All I’m saying is that if I could have chosen, I would have reversed the order. I would have suffered through those 5 years alone if it meant I could have my family back.”

“I think she’s just trying to say that it’s hard to deal with the aftermath of the time we missed. We have been thrown blindly into the destruction of those five years,” Peter spoke up beside you. It was the first time he had voluntarily spoken. “I mean, my Aunt cried for a week even after I came back. She’s been through so much already, but even when my Uncle died, I hadn’t seen her so devastated. And it was because of me. I agree, it wasn’t our fault, but that doesn’t keep us from feeling guilty about causing them so much pain.”

Sure, that wasn’t all you were trying to say, but you silently thanked Peter for speaking up as a chorus of nods and murmured agreements sounded in the group. 

You actually thanked Peter after the group was over. You were surprisingly not on the verge of panic, but you still could feel the tears brimming your eyes trying to avoid the topic of your father. 

“There’s no need to thank me. I could sense you were drowning with that answer. It wasn’t fair of him to single your trauma out like that.”

You just nodded and smiled. 

Peter got into the habit of walking you home after group on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Every once in a while he would bring you a snack for the walk home, which you thought was nothing short of adorable. One observation was becoming overly evident though. Peter never spoke in group. When he did, it was just piggybacking off of other things, or to help you form your sentences (which you thanked him endlessly for). But you began to notice that you really didn’t know anything about what had happened to him, or his “experience” as Kyle would call it. All you knew about him was that he lived with his Aunt May and that his best friend was named Ned. Those were the only two things he would talk about from his life, but you were always happy to hear about them. Talking about them seemed to bring him joy.

And that was the other thing you noticed. Peter seemed sad. Sure, everyone was sad, it was a support group for people who had been dead for 5 years after all. But Peter took the crown for the saddest person there. He only smiled at your terrible jokes, and even then, they were small. You worried about him, but it became hard to worry about him and yourself at the same time. 

You tried to sneak in some questions during your walks home, but you were always met with a Politician level avoidance of your questions. He would always find a way to reroute it. 

No matter how much he trusted you, or how much he liked you, Peter couldn’t tell you about Tony. It was hard for him, he wanted to open up to you. He wanted to just break down and tell you everything. He sensed that you would know just what to say, or not say for that matter. He knew you’d be there to hold him while he recounted looking into Tony’s eyes as the life left them, but that would mean that he would have to tell you that he was Spiderman, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. 

That didn’t mean he wasn’t filled with guilt every time you tried and failed to get him to open up. He hated to watch the disappointment on your face when he would find a way out of answering your questions, something that he had perfected with everyone who had asked him how he was doing. 

About a month after you had started going to the support group, you started to have difficulty sleeping. Something about the dark suddenly terrified you. One night, around 3 am, you woke up from a nightmare about your family. Your initial instinct was to rush to Rosie’s room. She had always been there for you when you would have nightmares as a kid and you didn’t want to wake your parents. But now Rosie was an exhausted single mother that was still recovering from the mental health problem that you had caused. So you couldn’t rush to her. But there was no way you could be alone. Not now. 

You reached for your phone on your small nightstand and quickly tapped on Peter’s contact and called him. You only realized that he was probably asleep after the third ring, but you breathed a guilty sigh of relief when he picked up. 

“Hey, y/n? What’s wrong?” he asked, sounding fully alert, as if he hadn’t been asleep after all. 

“Were you sleeping?” you choked out. 

“Uhm… no. No, I wasn’t. Are you crying?”

“…Yeah.”

“What’s going on? Do I need to come over?”

“You don’t know where I live,” you giggled. 

You could hear him let out a small sigh of relief when he heard you laugh.

“Wouldn’t stop me,” he chuckled, “What’s going on?”

“I had a nightmare. I know it’s dumb, I shouldn’t have called. I just didn’t want to be alone.” 

Your sniffling broke his heart. He really wanted to come over and hold you. He wanted you to know you were safe with him. He was already out anyway, patrolling as Spiderman. But that was another reason he couldn’t go see you. He couldn’t exactly show up in his bright red and blue suit and not have you ask questions. So he did the most he could do. He put his night on hold to stay on the line with you. 

“It’s not dumb. And I’m glad you called me, so don’t apologize.” 

“Peter, I’m a 17 year old who cries after bad dreams. It’s a little pathetic.”

“No, it’s…”

“It is, Peter. God, I’m sorry, I should let you sleep. Thanks for picking up.”

“Don’t you dare hang up.”

Your heart beat a little fast at his outburst. It wasn’t with fear, like it had been before you picked up your phone. It was something else. 

“You called me for a reason. I don’t give a shit what it was. Just… just talk to me. Please.” 

You nodded your head, but stopped once you realized he couldn’t see you. 

“I’m tired, Pete.”

He had never heard you call him that. It was cute, but the circumstances wouldn’t let him dwell on the butterflies he felt when you used that nickname. 

“Do you want to try going back to sleep?”

“No, not that kind of tired.”

He instantly understood. Just a month into support group, there were only 8 people left. 4 of the others had decided they didn’t need it anymore. They had found ways to cope. But you two had lost something that cut you so deeply. It was hard to deal with. It wasn’t just a part of your life, it was your entire being, and it was exhausting to deal with the grief and guilt every waking minute. And now you were both having nightmares. Not even sleep was an escape anymore. 

“Do you want to talk about the dream?”

“Not really.”

“Okay, can I tell you about my night?”

“Sure,” you smiled, still sniffling but no longer crying. 

Peter went on to tell you some mundane stories about his dinner out with his aunt, and how he had managed to lose another backpack, which was apparently a problem he had had for a few years. After a few more stories about Ned and him at school, you were giggling and starting to fall back asleep. 

“Hey, Peter?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for picking up.”

“Of course. I’ve got you,” he chuckled, quoting the first night you had met. 

“I…I really appreciate you Peter. I hope you know that.”

“I appreciate you too.”

That was the closest you could come to telling each other you loved each other so early on in your friendship. 

“You sound sleepy. Do you want to go to sleep?”

“Can you tell me one more story about May?”

He smiled at your request. You had told him a couple times that she sounded like a strong woman and that you wished you could be like her. He had the same opinion, and loved that you looked up to her, so he was happy to tell you one more. He began to tell you about how she always dances when she makes him dinner. She wasn’t the best cook, and she sure knew it, but it always made him smile to see her happily gliding around on the tile. It was one of the things that reminded him that the two of them were going to be ok, especially after he came back. 

As he neared the end of the story, he could hear small snores from your side of the line. 

“Y/n?” he asked, just to be sure you were unconscious. He smiled when the only reply was a snore. 

“Goodnight,” he whispered, taking a few moments to listen to your peaceful breathing before he took the phone away from his ear to hang up. He was more than happy to have helped you fall back asleep. He had actually been awake because he had had a dream about Tony, and there was no way he could have fallen asleep afterwards. 

His nightmares about Tony had started to become peaceful dreams. It would just be Tony talking to him, making some dumb jokes just like he used to do. But the second Peter woke up, it was almost worse than the nightmares. The void in his heart was filled by the dreams, but the second he would gain consciousness, it was ripped out of him again. So he had gotten into the habit of sleeping for a few hours when May would go to bed, and when he would have the dreams, he would wake up and go out as Spiderman. He would usually perch next to one of the murals of Tony. He would just stare at the paint as he thought. Sometimes, when he was sure no one was around to hear him, he would talk to himself as if Tony was there to listen. Every once in a while Karen would ask if everything was ok, almost as if even his AI could tell he was falling apart, but he would always simply reply “No, thanks” and continue talking to “Tony”. 

That’s where he was when you called him, and when you hung up, he looked back up to the painting and smiled, his mask covering only his forehead at this point. 

“You would have loved her Mr. Stark. She’s got the same sense of humor as you. If I didn’t know better, I would swear you’re related,” he chuckled. 

Peter took a deep breath and pulled his mask back over his face, a little reluctant to go back home, but talking to you had made him feel more at ease than he thought was possible, and he wanted to get some sleep. The night was quiet anyway, no one needed Spiderman. 

After 2 months of walking you home twice a week, Peter didn’t show up to group. It was the first Tuesday of the month, and you would be lying if you said you didn’t almost walk straight out the door. Kyle saw you ready to leave and asked you to stay, and you felt too awkward to leave, so you took your usual seat. 

Suddenly group was a scary environment. You had spent 2 months with that group, whose members scarcely changed, but suddenly they were all strangers that you had no desire to be around. 

Kyle opened the meeting by asking you how you had been doing, and if there was anything you would like to share. 

“Not today.”

“Are you sure? You seem a bit anxious.”

Great, just what you needed, someone pointing out your anxiety in a group setting. Fucking superb, Kyle. 

You had learned that if you denied, Kyle would try to pester you into sharing. You knew he was just there to try to help you open up and deal with your emotions, but man did he annoy you. 

“I just don’t want to talk right now. Maybe later.” That was enough to satisfy him for another 20 minutes.

But after those 20 minutes he came back to you, and you still weren’t ready. 

“Y/n? You about ready?” 

You just shook your head. 

“Y/n, I know you’re hesitant about sharing, but I hope you know that we aren’t here to judge you in any way. We just want to listen. Why don’t you tell us a little about your family. I know you care a lot for them.”

“Kyle…”

“You have a sister, don’t you?” he asked, recalling the single time you had let her name slip in group. 

You let out a sigh, knowing you weren’t going to get out of it a second time. There was no way you were going to be talking about Rosie though. You hadn’t even told Peter about her. 

“I do, but there’s nothing to tell.”

“Nothing? In my experience, the more you avoid a topic, the more it’s hurting you. What’s the worst that can happen if you talk about her?”

Your breathing began to pick up as he pestered on. You tried to remind yourself he was just trying to help, just trying to make a breakthrough with the most difficult teen there. But that didn’t stop you from going over the edge. 

Your mind started to race, thinking of Rosie. You tried not to think about the first time you saw her when you got back. When you had said her name and she refused to turn around. Her ignoring you hurt a little, sure, but nothing compared to the little curses under her breath, the way her back tensed, or the tears you spotted when she turned to help your mother. You could physically see the pain you had caused her. You left her alone for 5 years. It was all your fault, all your fault, all your fault. 

Your mind kept chanting that at you as tears started to brim your eyes. You tried to get the image back out of your head, but Kyle had opened up the flood gates that you had successfully closed up weeks prior. You’d admit, you had started to feel a little numb, but you preferred that over the overwhelming panic that would take over your body any time you had a thought. But here you were, having yet another panic attack. 

“I’m sorry, I can’t do this,” you mumbled and grabbed your bag, rushing out the door as Kyle called after you. Nothing could have made you turn around though. There was no way you were going to ride out a panic attack in a room full of strangers. There was also no way you were going to walk home alone during a panic attack, so instead, you rounded the corner of the building and went into the alley. You had some pepper spray in your bag that you had readily available at all times, just in case, and you kept your hand on it as a security item, hoping it would calm you down. 

You sat in the alley, despite some shuffling noises coming from the other end, hoping that you would be able to slow your breathing and stop crying before the group was excused. You wanted to get far away from there before anyone could see you. 

Peter had been caught up on the other side of town. Despite the urge to hang up the suit after what had happened to Tony, he wore it every night. Sometimes he would go out before group, when he really needed to clear his mind. Most of the time though, it was just the late nights spent talking to the murals in his spider suit. 

That night was different though. He had been on his way to group, but caught a couple teens trying to rob a convenience store. He had decided to stay until the police showed up, and just his luck, the police ended up taking almost 30 minutes to get there. 

When he had finally arrived, he was quick to try to take his suit off and shove it into the backpack he always brought to group, but he only had his mask off when you had rushed around the corner and began to sob. 

Peter quickly ducked behind the dumpster he was next to, out of sight of you. He was going to wait for whoever had entered the alley to leave, but as he waited, he began to recognize the cries as yours and quickly pulled the mask back over his head and made his way over to you. 

In hindsight, the smart decision may have been to quickly change before he came up to you, so he could have approached you as himself and not Spider-man, but Peter wasn’t quick on his feet when it came to you. He just needed to make sure you were ok. 

“You ok?” he asked, standing a few feet away, trying to make his voice sound deeper than it really was. It worked to disguise his identity while you were still hyperventilating. 

You jumped when he spoke, almost pulling out your mace, but you eased when you saw the suit. You recognized him as Spider-man, the man who had been working with Tony Stark off and on for a few years before you had gotten dusted. You heard that he had disappeared as well, and people suspected he was dusted since he had been spotted a few times after everyone had returned. You were happy to see that he really was back. 

The most you could do to reply to him was shake your head. Words were a lost cause at the moment, and you weren’t even going to try. He knelt down in front of you, putting one hand on your knee. 

“Is this ok?” he asked, hesitant to touch you. All he wanted to do was wrap you up in a hug, but he knew it could be overwhelming. 

You nodded your head and closed your eyes, trying to calm your breathing, but it was hard. 

“Here,” he cooed, taking your hand and placing it on his chest so you could feel the rise and fall, “Just try to breathe with me, ok?”

You did your best to do as he asked you, and soon enough you had calmed down enough that you felt like you could walk home. You had begun to think clearly, and you suddenly realized, holy shit, Spiderman just coached you through a panic attack. 

“Uhm, th-thanks. I should be getting home.”

“Aren’t you going inside?”

“No, why would I….” and that was the moment you recognized the voice that had been calming you down for the last few minutes, “Oh my God, Peter?”

Spiderman grew flustered and tried to play it off, much like Peter would have if you had asked him any personal question. 

“No, don’t even try, I know your voice and your mannerisms too well.”

“I’m sorry, I really don’t know who you’re talking about.” 

You reached out and took his hand, looking into where you assumed his eyes would be, although you couldn’t tell with the whites blocking them. “Pete, please.”

After a few beats, he sighed, helping you to your feet and further down the alley, out of the line of sight of anyone who may have been passing the alley. He reached up and grabbed the back of the mask, pulling it over the back of his head to reveal the mess of brown hair beneath. 

“Holy shit,” you said under your breath. He tried not to laugh at your dumbfounded face. He knew he was supposed to be frustrated, devastated even, that someone had found out, but it was you. He had wanted to tell you anyway, he just knew that he shouldn’t. But now it was out, so, oh well. 

As he was accepting that you now knew, you were piecing it all together. Mainly just the fact that Peter refused to talk about his “experience”. He refused to talk about who he had lost, but never denied that he lost someone, and now you knew why. It was Tony Stark. You knew Spiderman had worked closely with him, but “Peter” hadn’t, so there was no way for him to truthfully tell you what had happened. 

You quickly wrapped him in a hug, tighter than you previously though you were capable of, especially after a panic attack. Peter was quick to reciprocate the hug, but his concern was still on you. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, holding your head tightly against his chest. 

“I’m so sorry,” you stated, trying to keep it together. Losing Tony, to you, was painful enough, but you couldn’t imagine coping with that loss if you had known him personally. 

“For what?”

“Tony,” you replied simply. The one word, that one name, was enough to break Peter, and it sure did, especially coming from your lips. 

He hugged you tighter, and you could feel a few tears hit your forehead. You had expected Peter to be upset, but when his knees started to buckle it surprised you. Despite his constant downcast demeanor, he had been your rock for the past 2 months. He rarely showed any signs of weakness. But you mentioning Tony had torn him back down and opened up emotional doors that he thought he had permanently shut. It felt as if he had lost Tony all over again, like it was real again. 

The visions of Tony were dancing around in his head, both the good and the bad. As he held you, he let himself think of Tony, let himself open up to feel that hurt, because with you, he knew he wouldn’t get lost in those emotions forever. 

You guided Peter to sit down, his back against the wall of the alley. You sat to the side of him, facing towards the wall and leaning over just enough for him to still hold you and rest his forehead in the crook of your neck as he sobbed. You held him close as you ran your fingers through his hair, whispering quiet affirmations and hoping he could hear you over his cries.  

You tried not to cry as you held him. hoping that you could give him the same emotional support that he had offered those past weeks. You tried to calm him as he tried his best not to scream. 

Eventually, Peter’s sobs turned into soft crying and sniffling, but your hold on him didn’t loosen. When he finally pulled away, you kept one hand on his shoulder, making sure he knew that you were still there for him if he needed you. He shyly looked at you out of the corner of his eye as he sniffled. 

“Can I… can I take you somewhere?”

“Sure,” you agreed with hesitation, nervous to go anywhere with him in that state, but you trusted him and hoped that going along would only serve to soothe him.  

You helped him up and you watched in confusion as he pulled the mask back over his face, but didn’t say anything as he awkwardly approached you and put one arm around your waist. 

“This ok?” he asked for the second time that night. 

“Of course.”

“Ok, hang on tight.” 

You wrapped your arms around his neck and within seconds you were in the air. Any fear or unease you had was left on the ground. You were squealing with excitement and, although you couldn’t see it, Peter’s crying had subsided into a smile listening to you. 

When you finally stopped on the top of a random building, you giggled as you let him go. He removed his mask and gave you an ambivalent smile. 

When you looked around to see where you were, you recognized the building opposite of you instantly. Of all the vigils, memorials, and shrines made out for Iron man, this one was your favorite. It was a large painting of him on an old building. It was vibrant and showed Tony Stark as you had liked to imagine him: confident and care-free. You had known, of course, that the carefree part was a stretch for someone who ran a billion dollar business and fought major crime at the same time, but you wished he had some peace in his life.

The third night after you had come back, you had been walking home after the fifth memorial service of that night. They had been popping up all over the city and you had made a point to attend as many as you could. You were lost in thought, dark scenarios consuming your mind, when you came upon the artist painting that mural. You were suddenly flooded with peace upon looking at the half finished painting of Tony’s face. You ended up sitting on the sidewalk across the street, a wistful smile peeking on your lips as tears filled your eyes. 

Peter had also come across that mural being painted that night. He sat 100 feet above you, on the edge of the building, sobbing as he pleaded with the universe to send the real Tony back. Both of you were oblivious to each other, but you had both shared the same experience with that mural. 

“What are we doing here?” You asked Peter. 

“I…I think I’m ready to talk about it.”

You nodded and walked towards the end of the building, sitting on the wide edge. Peter took a spot next to you, but his gaze remained on the painting. 

He recounted every single memory he had from that day, from fighting Thanos back in 2017, to getting dusted, and coming back on Titan in 2023 with no memory of the years he lost. He told you how he was transported back to Earth and how he had to fight Thanos’ entire army, trying his best to protect the fate of humanity, a responsibility that shouldn’t have been on anyone, especially someone of his age. He told you all of this with tears barely pricking at his eyes. 

Then he told you about the moment Tony saved everyone. He watched on the other side of the battlefield as he snapped, and as the opposing army all turned to dust, he kept his gaze on Tony. He watched as Tony’s body began to wither away. He told you that he tried to tell him, he tired to tell Tony that they had won because of him, but he was too weak to respond. He had no idea if Tony had heard him, but he had to back away to let Pepper say goodbye.  But he was still right there, watching as Tony died. Peter told you this, sobbing just as hard as he had that day. You did your best to soak up every word, but it was hard to catch it all between his gasps for air. 

You sat side by side, your arms around his shoulder as he slumped down to rest his head on yours. You wanted to hold him and comfort him, but you didn’t even know where to start. So you did all that you could do. You sat with him while he let out everything he had been holding in. 

“Pete, have you told anyone else about all of this?” you asked. The thought of him dealing with that trauma on his own for so long broke your heart. 

“I mean, May and Ned know about me being Spiderman. And they know I was there when he died. But I try not worry them with the details.”

“You idiot,” you said before you could really think about it. 

“Ouch,” he chuckled. 

“I don’t mean it like that. You just… You need to talk to someone Peter. You can’t just keep that stuff bottled up.”

“But I did, I just told you.”

“Yeah, I know, but you shouldn’t have kept it in for so long. I know you couldn’t have told me, but you should have told someone.” 

You held him a little tighter just imagining how he must have felt those past few months. You didn’t want to let him go. You were almost afraid that if you let go, he would fall to pieces next to you. 

“You know, the same sentiment goes to you.”

“What sentiment?”

“You need to tell someone. I mean, preferably me because I’m so invested at this point,” he chuckled, earning a small hit on his shoulder, “But seriously. I know there are things you haven’t said. Things that are eating you alive. And no one can make you talk, but I’m right here when you’re ready.”

You replied with a small yawn, and Peter immediately pulled away. 

“Are you tired, do you want me to take you home?”

“No, I want to stay here for a while. With you.”

He smiled and pulled you back into him. It was starting to get cold outside, but sharing your body heat was keeping you warm enough to remain looking at the mural of Tony. 

You knew that this was a pivotal point in your relationship with Peter. This night was going to be the start of an amazing friendship, and you hoped that would lead to even more. You also knew that in the morning, after you had rested, you would be ready to tell Peter some of the things you needed to get off your chest, and you hoped that that would be the next step in healing. But until then, you were content to drift off on top of the roof with Peter’s arms wrapped tightly around you. His heartbeat was the only thing you could hear as you began to fall asleep. 

When you started to snore, Peter glanced down at you and smiled. He hadn’t seen you look so peaceful in the few months that he had known you, and he was happy to see you rest. 

He looked up at the mural across from him and smiled. 

“Told you you would love her,” he smiled, a few tears coming to his eyes, “I think I love her too.”

You began to stir and mumbled out “You say something?”

“No, don’t worry about it” he smiled, tears still in his eyes. He was overwhelmed with all kinds of emotions from the events of the night, but overall, the happiness was what was consuming him. “Go back to sleep,” He whispered, combing his fingers through your hair. 

Tags: @embrace-themagic @fanficparker @baconlover001 @chloe-geoghegan1 @chonisberonica @spiderlingsweb @steviesbell

[saveyourblood]

Stolen Dance | Part 8

Summary: “Maybe this was a pipe dream, a delusion you’d soon awake from or a phase you’d outgrow. You didn’t really care. For a brief moment in time, you were in love. That’s what you chose to care about. That what you made matter.”

The one where you’re a paramedic, he’s an FBI agent, and the time you spend together is borrowed.

Word Count: 4.8k

Song: Moving On - Kodaline

Warnings: a few parts of this chapter (mostly, a single scene) are pretty disturbing. It's nothing worse than what is mentioned in Criminal Minds, but it's graphic. If it gets to be too much for you, skip to this: *** (the scene will also start with this symbol if you want to skip it altogether). Take care of yourself <3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

_____________________

Syria, 2014

“Are all girls from Colorado this rough, or is it just you?”

“Shut up, Austin.”

Austin laughed.

It was weird — soldiers buzzed around you like bees in a hive, but whenever you and Austin got the chance to talk, it was like you and him were the only people in the room. You just wished you could talk to him under better circumstances.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Austin continued. “The last guy you treated walked out of here looking like Frankenstein.”

“Without me, he would’ve been rolled out,” you retorted. You pulled at the sutures tightly, causing him to wince.

“Alright, alright,” he ceded with a chuckle, “I get it. But if you mess up my face, my mama will come after you.”

“I would never mess up a handsome face like yours,” you said sweetly as you worked at the cut on his cheekbone. “Why would I ruin a man’s only asset?”

“You wound me, Y/N,” Austin said, setting a hand over his heart. “You wound me to my core.” 

You snorted, laying a bandage over the sutures. You patted his shoulder. “You’re good to go, soldier.” 

Austin stood up from the gurney, grabbing his button-down digital camo shirt. He draped it over his arm, which you swore was the width of your head. As if that wasn’t enough, he towered over you: he was at least 6’4, and built like a tank. You once said he was the Army’s wet dream. You got a good laugh out of that remark.

Austin bowed slightly and tipped an imaginary hat. “Thank you, m’lady,” he said, accentuating his preexisting southern drawl. 

You shoved his shoulder with a smile. “Get out of here, Crow.”

He smiled, his white teeth contrasting his dark hair. “See you around, Y/L/N.”

“Hopefully not too soon,” you replied. 

“What, you don’t want to look at this pretty face?” He asked, fluttering his eyelashes.

“Not really, no,” you laughed. You cleared your throat. “Seriously, Austin: Don’t be a hero.” 

He nodded, respecting your change of tone. “Yes ma’am,” he agreed, before walking out of the triage tent and right back into danger.

You sighed, picking up and putting away your equipment.

Some days, you wished more than anything else that the two of you met under different circumstances. You wished he moved to Colorado with his family when he was a teenager, or that the two of you met in a small cafe in a big city. Hell, you’d even be okay if you met during Basic Training, the two of you fell in love, and he worked on a local reserve while you persued a different career. Really, you just wished you hadn’t met while serving in Syria, because no matter how you spinned it, it just wasn’t appropriate. 

Austin was a Staff Sergeant, which technically meant he ranked higher than you. However, the two of you worked in different areas; Austin was a combat soldier, while you were a medic. He fought on the frontline, you mostly worked triage. You took care of men like him. So, even though the Army may not forbid an affair between the two of you, that didn’t mean you thought it was okay. It felt like… corruption, like you were breaking the trust between you and your brothers. You didn’t want anyone for a single second to feel like they were less important to you.

So, you pushed your feelings aside. You savored the moments you spent with Austin, but you didn’t push it. You didn’t seek him out, you didn’t play favorites. You enjoyed the time you spent with him, but said time was brief, as it should be. 

You sighed again. He was a charming Texas boy with a heart of gold. How could a person not fall in love with him? 

“The longer this goes on, the worse it gets.”

You and Austin watched a new batch of soldiers go through training. They were already deemed fit for combat, so the next few weeks would be spent teaching them the ins-and-outs of living and serving in an active warzone. Today’s lesson? IEDs. 

“I know,” you agreed, voices low as to not distract. “It started as peaceful protests against a President, and now more than half a million people are dead.”

“70 airstrikes later,” Austin said with a sigh. “Sometimes… nevermind.”

“What?” you asked. When he didn’t respond, you nudged his shoulder. “Sing your annoying song, Crow.”

He smirked, but didn’t quite laugh; the sound he made was that of a scoff. “Sometimes I wonder what the hell I’m even doing here.” 

“Me too,” you said softly. 

_____________________

The two of you found some downtime; Austin wouldn’t be heading out with his team until later in the afternoon, and after a busy morning, your tent was hitting a lull. The two of you decided to eat lunch together in an empty triage tent lined with gurneys. 

You sat on the ground beside each other, boots sunken into the mix of dirt and sand that made up the ground. Austin sat cross legged, and his knee brushed against your calf as you bounced your foot up and down.

“You gonna use that cheese?” He asked, referring to a silver packet you set on the ground.

“No,” you said, dumping your chicken fajita mix into your cooked rice packet. “Shit’s disgusting.”

Austin picked up the packet and tore it open with his teeth. He spread the fake, overly yellow ‘cheese’ spread onto a weird, fake pork sandwich he was making. The bread looked more like play-doh than bread, and the barbecue sauce he used was almost black. MREs: the epitome of luxury dining.

“That is nasty,” you remarked.

“Sometimes, you gotta take what you can get,” Austin said. He picked up a packet of clam chowder that had been heating up in its bag for awhile. He opened it and stirred it around before taking a spoonful and plopping it right on over the cheese spread. He finally closed the sandwich and took a massive bite.

“I’m gonna gag,” you stated bluntly. 

He frowned. “Why?” he asked through a mouthful of food.

“That is vile, Austin,” you said. “You just put clam chowder on a sandwich! With barbecue sauce and cheese! That’s so gross!”

He offered you the sandwich. “Wanna bite?” 

You tucked your chin against your chest and leaned back, shaking your head. “Get that away from me.” 

_____________________

To say the night was busy would be more than an understatement; 4 men from the same troop were rushed to triage, all with similar injuries caused by IEDs. One of the men ultimately ended up a double amputee, one leg blown off above the kneecap and the other being so damaged that most of the calf had to be removed. Somehow, a man from the same troop ended up with only minor lacerations. War was strange that way; you step on an IED the ‘right’ way, and it’s something you can walk away from. If you don’t, you could die.

“Alright everyone, we have 6 more soldiers coming in!” Your Lieutenant Colonel shouted. “All non-emergent patients should be transferred. Let’s hope for the best, prepare for the worst.”

You helped ‘reset’ a few stations, making sure they were clean and ready. When the men still hadn’t arrived, you approached Colonel Todd.

“Colonel,” you asked, catching her attention. “What else do you know?”

“Best guess? Task Force 221,” she replied, signing a few papers when someone handed her a clipboard. “Crow and his boys were out patrolling, Folks don’t take too kindly to soldiers around here.”

Your heart sank.

The men from Task Force 221 came in at the same time, and they were loaded out of the truck and onto gurneys one by one. You got assigned to the first person, which happened to be Austin himself.

“Go, help them,” Austin protested, already trying to get off the gurney. “I’m okay, just help my boys!”

You pushed him down by his chest as you and two other people rolled him inside. 

“Can I get a dose of Lidocaine, please?” you instructed, cutting away Austin’s already torn pants. So far, you saw two GSWs: one to the left lower leg, and one to the right calf. You adjusted the light above you to get a better look. “Make it two doses.” 

“I’m fine,” Austin pushed, once again trying to stand up.

“Austin Crow, I swear to god, I will tie you down if I have to,” you threatened. “You’re not fine — you’ve been shot. Sometimes, to take care of your team, you have to take care of yourself first.”

He laid back with a sigh.

Three hours passed before you could properly speak to Austin. After pulling the bullets from both his legs, you ran around trying to help people wherever and however you could. Eventually, you found the sweet spot where no one was critical but everyone was still busy. You managed to slip away and pull the curtains around Austin’s bed.

“What the hell were you thinking?!” you hissed under your breath.

“...What?”

“I heard what you did,” you said. “Your lieutenants were more than happy to tell me exactly how you got shot.” 

“By doing my job?” Austin asked. 

“You put yourself in the line of fire!” you argued. “You ran right into danger!”

“To help someone,” he explained calmly. “No man gets left behind, Y/N. You know that.” 

“You could have died!” you said between clenched teeth. You were trying to keep your voice down, but his apathy was driving you crazy. “God, what is it with you? The same day I take out your stitches, you come in with two gunshot wounds. What’s next, Austin? You want me to plan your funeral? Write to your parents, tell them how you died a hero?” 

“Why are you so pissed at me?” Austin asked. He seemed more confused than angry.

The words fell out before you could stop them. “Because I love you!” 

He didn’t say anything, just stared at you. You laughed bitterly. 

“There,” you said, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Cat’s out of the bag.” You sighed, setting your hand down and looking him in the eye. “I think… I’m in  love with you, and I don’t want to see you dead.”

Silence fell. Austin looked away, looked back to you, looked away again, and clenched his jaw. You crossed your arms in self-defense, heart pounding as you waited for him to say something, anything.

Austin scooted over, then patted the space beside him. “Come here.”

You approached the bed, slowly and carefully sliding next to him. It was almost too small for Austin by himself, let alone with another person, so your weight ended up mostly on him. He didn’t seem to mind, though.

Austin’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer to his body. He buried his face in your hair, taking a long breath. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I’ll do better. I promise.” 

_____________________

This wasn’t supposed to happen. 

You were only covering for someone, a temporary replacement until a new combat medic was hired. Austin was hesitant; he wasn’t sure if you were cut out for the job. You assured him you’d be fine, that you went through the same training everyone else did, and that it wasn’t permanent.

You were an amazing combat medic. You tied every tourniquet tight, you took care of men until they could be shipped off the triage. The Colonel in charge of Task Force 221 commended you, said you could be a real fit for the field. 

Austin didn’t agree. The two of you had been secretly dating for about a month, and it was the first real fight the you got into. You said you were seriously considering accepting a job as a combat medic, and Austin disagreed. You could tell this fight wouldn’t be like the last one — you weren’t about to kiss him and tell him everything would be alright.

“What, only you get to do the dirty work?” you asked. “Only you get make some real change?”

“This isn’t about glory, Y/N,” Austin sighed, running a hand through his cropped hair. “It’s about keeping you alive.”

“Now you know how I feel!” you argued, laughing at the irony. “It’s scary, isn’t it, Austin?! You want more than anything to pull me off of the battlefield, put me somewhere in this godforsaken country were I can be at least somewhat safe?!”

He clenched his jaw and looked away.

“I’m gonna take that job,” you stated, “and I’m only quitting when you do.” 

Now, you were here, in a place you didn’t know, but you knew you didn’t like.

“Y/N?” you heard someone call weakly.

“Austin?!” you said, trying your hardest not to burst into tears. You couldn’t see anything, so hearing his voice was a massive relief. 

Your memory came back in pieces: you saw Austin walk ahead to secure the area, but he ended up stepping on and IED. Without even thinking, you ran ahead, despite the yells and other protests of the men beside you. 

“Hey, baby,” you said gently, looking him up and down.  It took everything in you not to gag or faint.

He stepped right on the edge of the IED, meaning his left leg was blown off to right below the kneecap.  The exposed muscle was shredded, and his bone stuck out like a morbid fence post.

“You’re gonna be fine,” you promised, taking out your tourniquet. Just like you had been instructed what felt like decades ago, you pulled it as tight as you physically could to stop any more blood loss. 

Austin moaned in pain and mumbled a few words you couldn’t understand. When you looked up to call for help, the butt of a gun connected with the back of your head, effectively knocking you out. 

You woke up here.

“It was a trap,” Austin said, voice rough and quiet. 

“We’re gonna get out of here, okay?” you promised. “Half of the fucking Army is probably looking for us right now.”

After what felt like hours, someone came in to remove your blindfold. You could finally get a good look at Austin, and it made your heart pound in your ears. He didn’t look good. Things would get ugly if he didn’t get proper medical attention soon. 

“Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you,” you said immediately. “Just let me help him.”

A man dressed in all black began to yell at you in Arabic. You could only make out a few words — work, plan, and money. He paused, most likely to give you time to answer. When you didn’t, he punched you across the face.

“No,” Austin said weakly. “Stop it.”

You spat some blood onto the floor, your entire head throbbing. “Don’t worry,” you said, then looked to your attack. “I can take it.” 

_____________________

Present Day

“They didn’t get anything out of me by punching,” you said, staring at the light above your bed. You sounded detached, like you were talking about a movie you watched rather than recalling the worst day of your life. You supposed that’s how you coped with it — you pretended it wasn’t real, that it never really happened. “Even when they brought in someone who spoke English, I didn’t talk.”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. You adjusted the bed to a sitting position awhile ago, but you still felt vulnerable.

“You can stop,” Spencer offered, gently taking your hand. It was taped up and gloved, as it was the hand they put an IV in, so his touch was more delicate than usual. 

You shook your head. “I want to tell you everything,” you promised. “It’s just hard to think about. It’s hard to remember.” You took in a breath. “When the punching didn’t work, they moved on to whipping. And when that didn’t work…”

_____________________

***

Syria, 2014

Your back stung and your head throbbed. You hoped that eventually, you’d pass out, but unfortunately, that didn’t happen. Either your pain tolerance was too high, or the breaks they took between the methods of torturing were enough to keep you conscious.

“Get her on the ground,” one man growled. 

You groggily put together that there were three men in the room, all of them equally pissed. They probably thought you’d be easy to crack. 

The fresh wounds on your back hurt even more when they connected with the dirt; you could practically feel the infection in your skin forming. You gritted your teeth, barely able to refrain from making noise. You didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. 

Just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, someone began to pull down your pants. In that very moment, you prayed for a heart attack, for your body to give out completely. This, on top of everything else? You wouldn’t be able to take it.

“That’s enough!” Austin shouted, so loud that it practically shook the walls. “I’ll tell you what you want to know. Just get the hell away from her.” 

Austin gave up the location of the base, as well as other details they wanted, like what patrols and other missions had been scheduled. Apparently, all they wanted was to get the upper hand, strike before Austin or anyone else’s task force could. It made you wonder what they did when information was time-sensitive.

They slammed the heavy door behind them, and immediately, you burst into tears. You rolled onto your side and curled into a ball, shirt in shreds from the whipping. You stayed in that position for so long that your arm and legs fell asleep, but you didn’t really care. You wanted to feel nothing right about now.

“Y/N,” Austin called, for what was probably the millionth time. You tuned out everything around you, only the sound of static filling your ears.

You sat up lifelessly, a blank stare on your face.

“Come here,” he said.

You crawled over to Austin, your concern for him trumping both the physical and mental pain you were in. It had only been a few hours at most, but he already looked worse. His face was pale, lips dry, and despite the tourniquet, he seemed to have lost quite a bit of blood. 

“What do you need?” you asked. 

“Can you take off my shirt?” He asked.

It was a weird request, but you obliged. You lifted up the hem of his shirt, and carefully, you pulled it above his head. You managed to get it off without having to lift his arms too high.

“Put it on,” Austin instructed.

You smiled through a few new tears. 

It was damp with sweat, meaning it was entirely sanitary, but more than anything, you appreciated the sentiment. You slid it over your head, slipping your arms through each hole. Unsurprisingly, it was massive on you — the sleeves were technically short, but they almost hit your elbow. 

“Sit by me,” he said, tilting his head to the empty space beside him. 

You did as you were told, careful not to lean back and inflict more pain.

“Closer.”

You laughed, wiping your nose as tears streamed down your face. You scooted closer to him, lifting one of his arms and slinging it around your shoulders. You curled into his chest, and despite the sweltering heat, you found comfort in his warmth. 

“Hey, Y/N?” Austin asked, voice raspy.

You looked up. “Yeah?”

“I’m in love with you too.”

It didn’t occur to you, but ‘love’ hadn’t come out of either of your mouths since the night you first admitted it. You spent countless hours in each other’s presence, but it hadn’t come up. You didn’t Austin to say a word in order to prove how much he cared about you — he showed it. It was implied.

And now, it was over.

_____________________

***

Present Day

“It took them 18 hours to find us,” you said. A few tears made their way down your cheek. You wiped them and continued on. “I think Austin died halfway through it.” 

The room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop; you thought Spencer was afraid to even breathe. 

“I stayed by his body until someone found us,” you said. “I managed to fall asleep a few times, and every time I woke up, mice were eating his skin. As if his leg being blown off wasn’t bad enough.” you paused. “I think his blood started to spoil. Is that possible? I don’t know. I think the heat was cooking him, though. It didn’t take long for his skin to start rotting.”

Your face contorted, and you stifled a sob. “I wanted to save him, Spencer,” you cried, clutching his hand. “I really did. They just wouldn’t let me.” 

Almost immediately, Spencer joined you on the bed. He pulled you against him, arms tight around you like a barricade. You gripped his shoulders as you cried into his chest.

“None of this is your fault, you hear me?” Spencer said. “None of it is your fault.” 

You weren’t sure how long the two of you stayed like that. Eventually, you stopped sobbing, but the occasional tear still rolled down your cheek. Spencer held you throughout it all.

Eventually, you felt Spencer lift his head from the pillow. You looked up to see the team standing at the nurses’ station. Any other day, you would have pushed him aside and invited them in. Today, though, you just sniffed and moved closer to him. 

Spencer kissed your hair and continued to hold you close. They’d get the memo.

_____________________

The hospital kept you overnight for observation, but by daylight, you were discharged with a clean bill of health. Sometime during the night, Emily and JJ swung by to drop you off a change of clothes, which you were eternally grateful for. 

Spencer didn’t leave your side the entire night. He waited outside the bathroom when you changed, he held your hand as you took the elevator ride down to the lobby, and he sat in the middle of the backseat on the cab ride home. You stared out the window the entire time, but you kept a hand on his knee. 

As you stared at the multi-colored, almost bare trees, you realized something: life goes on. People were waking up and heading to their 9-5, and their biggest concern was what to make for dinner later that day. Some of them had a violent or traumatic past, just like you did, but that wasn’t how they lived their life. You and everyone else alive did the same thing: you woke up, and you tried your best. Sometimes, that’s all anyone can do. And that’s enough. 

“The rest of the team is going over to Rossi’s tonight; he’s making spaghetti,” Spencer said as the two of you entered the apartment. “We can go, if you want. Or we can stay here all day. We shouldn’t have a case until tomorrow. Even so, I’m sure Hotch would understand if you took some time off.”

“Spencer?” you asked.

“Yeah?”

“I’m okay,” you promised. “Everything I told you is something I’ve been reliving for the past 2 years. Talking about it didn’t dredge anything up. Actually, if anything, it helped. It’s like… I don’t know, a weight was lifted off of me. I feel like I can start to move on, finally.” 

He smiled faintly. “Good,” he nodded, “I’m glad.” 

You set your arms on his shoulders. “I’d love to go to Rossi’s for dinner,” you said. “But first, I need your help with something.” 

“Anything.” 

You played with your hands. “Ever since I got back, I’ve been thinking of visiting Austin’s family. It took me 6 months to go back to work after what happened — I can’t imagine what it was like for them to lose a child. I thought they needed some time before I brought everything back up. I think I’m ready now. At least, I’m ready if they are.”

“And that’s what you need my help with,” Spencer concluded.

You nodded. “I don’t know how to get in contact with them. Honestly, I was just gonna start by googling them.” 

“Over 45 million members of Generation X use Facebook,” Spencer said. “I think we should start there.” 

_____________________

“I swear, I am never letting you go,” Garcia said as she hugged you. For someone who was normally so soft, in that moment, she could crush all of your bones. 

“Come on, baby girl,” Derek chuckled, “we all get a turn. And Y/N needs to breathe.”

With a pout, Garcia let go of you. JJ, who was standing next to her, extended her arms. You pulled her into a short but sweet hug. Spencer wasn’t joking: this team was a family. 

“We didn’t get to see you in the hospital!” Emily exclaimed as she wrapped her arms around you. 

“I wasn’t there for long,” you said, pulling away. “Besides, I wasn’t really in the mood for visitors. No offense.” 

“None taken.” 

Derek hugged you next. His massive arms wrapped around you, and as you briefly relaxed into his chest, his chin rested on top of your head. A small, warm smile crossed your face. He was like the older brother you never had. 

“Hey, can I talk to you?” He asked as the two of you parted. 

Though surprised, you nodded. “Yeah, of course. You wanna step outside for a sec?” 

Derek nodded. 

“Don’t be too long!” Rossi called from the kitchen. “The show’s about to begin!”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world!” you promised. 

As you followed Derek onto the porch, you noticed Spencer talking to Hotch. You gave him a small wave, which he returned with a look of confusion. You raised your index finger, a silent way of telling him you’d be just a second.

“What’s up, Derek?” you asked, closing the door behind you.

“Are you okay?” He asked. “And I mean really okay, not the ‘okay’ that gets you out of a conversation.” 

You took a few steps, resting your arms on the porch railing. “I think I am,” you said, looking over your shoulder. “Why do you ask?”

Derek moved to stand beside you. He pressed his palms to the smooth wood. “Maybe you didn’t see us at the hospital, but we saw you,” he said. “I’ve never seen someone who was so sad to be alive.” 

“It wasn’t that,” you promised. “I mean, it was for awhile, but not anymore.”

“What’s going on?” Derek pressed, bumping you shoulder with his. “Something’s eating at you. I can tell.” 

“I lost a friend,” you said simply, “when I was in Syria. I watched him die.”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, setting a hand over yours. “That’s awful.”

“It was,” you agreed, “and ever since I got back, I’ve been trying to figure out why I’m alive and he isn’t. He had a set of happily married parents and two beautiful sisters to come home to. I’m an only child, and my father was six feet under. He had so many people that cared about him — the only person who would have really missed me was my mom. It didn’t seem fair, ya know?”

He nodded. “I know. Believe me, I know.” 

Derek shifted his footing. You nudged his shoulder.

“Something’s eating at you: I can tell,” you joked.

He chuckled softly. “Fair enough.” He paused. “I watched my dad die. One day, he picked me up early from school. I asked him if we could go to the convenience store. When we got inside, there was a woman being robbed.  My dad was a cop, so he stepped in,  hoping he could diffuse the situation. The robber shot him.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, squeezing his hand. “How old were you?”

“10,” Derek answered. “It took me a long time to move on; I was lost without my father. I thought if  I had toughed it out until the bell rang, maybe my dad would still be alive. The older I got, though, the more I realized that it didn’t matter. What matters is what I do about it. So, I shaped up. I started solving problems instead of creating them. Maybe I’m biased, but I like to think I did an okay job.”

“You did an amazing job,” you said with a smile. “You’re a good man, Derek Morgan. Your father would be proud of you.”

“So would yours,” Derek returned. He slung an arm over your shoulders, pulling you close to kiss the top of your head. 

_____________________

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List of Free Horror Games (2019)

This is an updated list of free horror games. The other list is old because some of the links on it are broken or the games are no longer free. This time I’ve included a description with each one. Some of these games you can even play right in your browsers (just make sure you’ve updated your Abode Flash). 

1916 - Der Unbekannte Krieg

Nestled deep inside the deluged trenches of the German frontline, you play as a soldier desperately looking for a way out. Hidden somewhere in the sunken maze of passageways is a ladder, and finding it almost certainly spells freedom. The only thing that stands between you and safety is a pack of dinosaurs.

3 AM

The city has been evacuated, something sinister haunts it at night, only a single path is safe, but to find it you have to lose your soul. A game inspired by H.P. Lovecraft. Specifically the dogs of Tindalos.

5 Days A Stranger

Trilby, a cat burglar, breaks into an supposedly vacated manor of the aristocratic DeFoe family. He quickly finds that things are not that simple. Together with a group of strangers, he finds himself imprisoned by some invisible intelligence. A force prepared to do anything to keep them all there forever.

7Days

It's a psychological horror game done in first person perspective. The game has very little plot or background. All you know is that you are a person who wakes up in a bed in a house. Your goal is to to get out of the house, but of course things aren't that simple.

Alice Mare

The game follows an amnesiac young boy named Allen who was placed under the care of a man called Teacher who looks after four other children. One night, Allen investigates the rumor of a mysterious voice on the second floor and when he returns to his room, he finds a strange black cat who leads him into his closet.

Animal Village

It’s a short survival horror game with light dating sim elements made for the Pixel Horror Jam 2016. The game is about exploring the pit in the middle of Animal Village, a quaint little settlement inhabited by talking animals. Don't talk to the bird-headed man, don't acknowledge him and don't trust him.

Ao Oni (青鬼, lit. 'Blue Demon')

The player assumes the role of Hiroshi, a young teenager who enters a haunted mansion with his friends, Takuro, Takeshi, and Mika (Along with Kazuya and Ryota in the original). Shortly after entering the mansion, the doors lock behind them. Hiroshi doubts that the mansion is haunted, but soon finds himself being pursued by an enigmatic blue Oni. Hiroshi must now find a way to save as many of his friends as possible and escape the mansion alive.

Ascension

It’s a psychological horror game in which you play as Atticus, a groundskeeper who has brought his sick daughter to work on the day of a horrible accident in his building. Separated from his daughter, Atty must survive the hordes of monsters stalking him and make it back to her before something else reaches her first.

Baby Blues

You play as Tommy, a toddler that wakes up to a strange noise in the middle of the night with a bright light shining in his eyes. Realizing his beloved teddies are missing; he climbs down out of bed and start to look for them.

Backstage

Tom Keller is lost. He has gone astray, and become trapped in a nightmare world that is a twisted mirror image of our own, tormented by horrific aberrations, haunted by shattered memories. He is alone behind the world, and to escape, he must come to terms with all of his sins.

Bad Dream: Series

It’s a series of short point-and-click games. It takes place in a creepy, dark and sad land of dream. Some of games will be a cruel and painful as nightmare, and some will be disturbing and illogical. Gameplay will always look the same, but the dreams will be different.

Project Entities: Blame (originally simply titled Blame)

This is a horror survival game. You have to dig into the game, however, to piece it together. You might also have to uncover a lot of the hidden and secret material. Epileptics, as well as those who are sensitive to light play at their own discretion.

Bunny Man - Lost Souls

It’s a game made in Slender-style where you go around and save people's souls from an urban legend creature called Bunny Man. Your goal is to save as many souls as you can before he catches you.

Candles

It’s a 3D game where you have to light up your house, which has been invaded by dangerous imps. 

Corpse Party Zero

It’s a survival horror adventure fan-made game by Noraenu created using RPG Tkool XP. It’s a prequel which stars two sisters mentioned only in passing in Corpse Party, Kaori Hasegawa and Shiho Hasegawa, who try to escape from the cursed school.

Corpse Party -Rebuilt-

It’s the remake of the original survival horror adventure game in the Corpse Party series made by an anonymous member of a Japanese message board with permission from Team GrisGris. A group of friends unknowingly perform an occult ritual that traps them in an otherworldly elementary school. Here, the vengeful spirits of young children threaten their lives and their sanity, and the only hope of survival is to uncover the chilling details behind the murders of those trapped before them...

The Crooked Man

David Hoover decides to move into a new apartment during a rough time in his life. After some odd occurrences, he decides to ask about the room's former owner, but learns little. So he sets off in search of him, strangely compelled to know more about this man...

Cry of Fear

It’s a psychological single-player and co-op horror game set in a deserted town filled with horrific creatures and nightmarish delusions. You play as a young man desperately searching for answers in the cold Scandinavian night, finding his way through the city as he slowly descends into madness.

Daily Chthonicle

You take on the role of a Supernatural Newspaper Agency boss and editor. The world it takes place in is a dark and haunted one, with ghosts, zombies, monsters and even shapeshifting murderers, pretending to be human after they have stolen their victims' bodies or infiltrated the humanity. It was inspired heavily by the works of H.P. Lovecraft and it builds on the atmosphere of uncertainty and noir of the 1940s.

Dark Deception

It’s a story-driven first-person horror maze game. There's nowhere to hide and nowhere to catch your breath. Run or die -- it's your choice. Trapped in a realm of nightmarish mazes with a mysterious woman, your only hope of survival is to find a way to escape the darkness.

Dark Dread

A missing teenager. An abandoned hospital. You are a detective who has to find out what happened to Helena Greenwood.If you don't go insane while doing so...

Deep Sleep, Deeper Sleep & The Deepest Sleep

You are stuck inside a nightmare dream. Something lurks in the darkness... Something in the depths of your own mind wants to pull you even deeper. Someone will escape this dream for sure. The question is -- who is that going to be?

The Designer's Curse

The first chapter of an unforgettable survival horror experience. Solve puzzles and work your way through this terrifying place. You may be more familiar with it than you initially think.

The Devil Haunts Me

Survive, explore and discover the secrets of the woods. But be careful, there's something else in these woods...

Devil's Tuning Fork

It’s a first-person exploration/puzzle game in which the player must navigate an unknown world using visual sound waves. Inspired by M.C. Escher’s classic optical illusion and the echolocation of dolphins.

Dissolving

Her ex-boyfriend became a shut-in. The girl goes to visit him... then things start to go wrong. They always do, right? Experience two stories about digital gods and loss. And remember -- believe in the net.

Disturbed

Play as a farmer who struggles to manage a failing farm. You come to a point where there is no more hope, and you must do something.

Doorways: Old Prototype

It’s an immersive and twisted adventure created before the official development of the Doorways saga.

Doki Doki Literature Club

The Literature Club is full of cute girls! Will you write the way into their heart? This game is not suitable for children or those who are easily disturbed.

Don't Escape

I woke up in a room... It is not locked and I remember everything. I'm a werewolf. Tonight I will turn and people will die... unless I find a way to prevent myself from escaping this place.

Don’t Look Now

Don’t look at them. They will drain you of your last sanity if they catch you. Direct your consciousness and reach your happy place.

Erie

Erie begins in October 1966, when the Fermi 1 Nuclear Power Generator suffers a partial meltdown, and locals begin disappearing from a sleepy Michigan town. Oliver Victor is a Red Cross Investigator sent to find missing locals, but quickly finds himself trapped underground and being hunted by a product of forced-mutation experiments.

Eyes

If you like Slender, you'll like this too. You’re to search an old, abandoned house and collect any valuables but be careful -- there are rumors of a ghost haunting the building.

Exmortis & Exmortis 2

You wake up in the woods with no memory of how you got there. Nightmares of blood and screams still echo through your mind. It's late and it's cold - unless you can find shelter fast, you won't last the night. You spot a house in a clearing up ahead and left with no choice - you decide to shelter there for the night. Soon after you begin to realize that death is a welcome choice compared to what lies waiting for you inside...

Fausts Alptraum

It’s an single player, puzzle game created by LabORat Studio, an indie game team from Taiwan. The story is based on Goethe's Faust. Players will play as a troubled girl wandering around in a crayon-drawn world.

Forget Me Not Annie

It’s a first person psychological horror game. You play as a 15 year old girl Annie who is trapped within her own mind and has to use her telekinetic powers with the help of Howard who you are able to summon at any moment to surpass puzzles.

From Next Door

It’s a short mystery-horror game developed for the 2016 Pixel Horror Jam. It draws inspiration from the works of Junji Ito and games like Silent Hill, with the story focused on the eerie and the bizarre. It tells the story of a young woman who moves into a new house, only to experience weird occurrences from the seemingly empty house next door. Depending on your choices the outcome will change and could even grant her safety or not.

The Groundskeeper

After a horrific accident, you find yourself trapped in an unfamiliar place where no one can hear you scream. There's a dark presence... A dark secret that this place holds. Is there any way out? Is HE watching?

Hello? Hell…o?

It’s a Japanese RPG horror game by Ryuuichi Tachibana created with RPG Maker VX Ace. You play as a boy named Kazuki that is going through strain in a relationship with his girlfriend, Akari. It takes place in a strange room where you have to accomplish certain things in order to complete all the endings.

Hide

Play hide and seek with someone who hides in the mist. All you have is your ears.

The House & The House 2

It’s a point-and-click flash horror game. Built in 1970, and deserted some time after that, no one has entered the house since the entire family committed suicide due to reasons unknown. Your goal is to search through the house to unfold the mystery of what really happened to that fateful fictitious family.

Human

It’s a short psychological horror game which examines inherent, earthly, and otherworldly evils, and the forces which drive them. As you make your way through an Alaskan auroral research facility in search of employees it quickly becomes very clear that something has become alerted to your presence.

I Can’t Escape

You have fallen into a vast underground maze. Can you find your way out, or will you end up trapped in darkness forever?

I See You

You play as an unnamed protagonist waking up in an empty hospital. However, it soon turns out the hospital is not quite so empty...

Ib

A young girl named Ib visits an art gallery with her parents. While observing the many exhibits, she suddenly realizes she is alone. And in her search for others, she finds things awry in the gallery...

Ildefonse

In 1935, Mr. Ildefonse was betrayed by his wife who then fled with their children, Mr. Ildefonse lost his head and unleashed a massacre at his home involving employees, then he committed suicide. The rest of the story is completed with letters from tenants who lived in the building, which was later converted into flats but haunted by the things that happened in the past.

In the game, the year 1977, the player is a lawyer hired to collect the testament papers in the house, requested by a family member.

Imscared: A Pixelated Nightmare

The player must find keys, open doors and search for the exit to this nightmare.

Lamia Nox

It’s an indie horror game made with RPG Maker VX Ace. Laura, an 14-year-old who is pretty much a normal young girl. But her life is changed for the worse when she wakes up one day to find that her home is completely different. 

The Last Door: Episode 1, Episode 2, Episode 3 & Episode 4

Free episodic horror game, with original pixel-art visuals and a gorgeous orchestral music score. Surrounded by a thrilling sound atmosphere, player's will experience a really immersive environment thought the stimulation of their imagination, just like classic horror writers like Poe and Lovecraft used to.

Leave

The game begins with the protagonist waking up in her bedroom, but it's up to the player to search her house for the backstory.

Lucie

Lucie, a girl who, after waking up in a strange room realizes that she is stuck in a lucid dream. She encounters evil beings and traps while searching for her body.

Lurking

It’s a sound-based survival thriller gae, where sound is the only way you see, and they hear your fears.

Mad Father

Aya Drevis is a young girl living in an isolated mansion in northern Germany. Since her mother's passing, she's felt lonely living with just her father and his assistant Maria. What's more, she knows her father's secret...

Mermaid Swamp

Rin Yamazaki and her college friends have their car break down in the mountains on a trip. Fortunately, a kindly old man offers to let them stay at his house. But there's a legend about the swamp outside the mansion...

Misao

It's been three months since the mysterious disappearance of Misao. No one has any idea where she could have gone, but many believe she's dead by now. And when paranormal events crop up around the school, rumors spread that she's out for revenge...

Miserere

In Miserere you explore the dreams of a lonely space station occupant. The unnamed occupant have been on this station for years, all alone. Needless to say, this has taken its toll on our poor protagonists mind. This occasionally shows in the dreams. But there are still glimmers of hope.

Nightmare of the Snow

It’s a RPG Adventure Horror game developed in late 2013. The game centers on Yuuki Shinozaki, a shy middle schooler who is attending a farewell party, but before that, she is taken mysteriously to a lost dimension where a mansion that was supposed to had disappeared for many years exists. 

Ningyo Heart

It’s about a man’s journey through a nightmare, in search for his beloved and finding his true self. The main theme in this horror game is friendship, romance and horror. Game play will focus on puzzle solving & survival horror (run and chase event).

Nyctophobia

You have a job. That job is to be a security guard during the night shift at a local office complex. You and Marley do it every night. Get decent pay for it too. Enough to keep you going. But Marley's just called in sick, so you gotta do the shift alone. Shouldn't be bad, right? Well, the power's just gone off, and I don't think you're alone anymore...

OFF

It’s an 2003 RPGmaker created game. You take control of a mysterious person called “The Batter”, who is described to be on an important mission. The Batter, and yourself as his controller, are dropped off in zone 0, the first of 4 zones in a perplexing, unknown world about which you slowly find out more and more in the process of the game.

One Late Night

It’s a short immersive horror-game experience, starring an unnamed graphic designer employee, working late one night at the office, until strange things start to happen.

Pact With a Demon - Episode 1 & Pack With a Demon - Episode 2

You must survive on an island after a car accident and find a way out, while several demonic creatures try to attack you.

Palette

One night, the psychiatrist Sianos B. Sian is requested to counsel a girl called B.D., who has lost her eyesight and memory in an accident. Through conversations with her over the phone, the past that hides in her memories comes to light...

Phantasmal: Survival Horror Roguelike

Experience Terror that is Never the Same Twice with Phantasmal, a Lovecraftian survival horror that evolves every time you play!

Pocket Mirror

It’s a horror game created in RPGMaker VX ACE. You play as a nameless girl in the journey to find her purpose and memories within a mysterious world.

Port of Call

Imagine waking up on a small dock with no recollection of who you are or how you got there. The first person you find is a grumpy, old man who enlists you to work on his ferry boat which seems to have materialized behind you.

[REC] Shutter

It’s a horror game that you must progress through levels while avoiding the paranormal and solving puzzles. You take the role of a reporter named Connor, who will be investigating Pennyhill, a dark hunted asylum.

Re:Kinder

Third-grader Shunsuke goes to stay over at his grandmother's house. Upon his return home, he finds not his familiar hometown, but a ruined town of death. He meets his surviving friends and some other children their age, but a crueler reality awaits them...

Schuld

It’s a surreal, psychological horror game. This is an translated version of the German game. Schuld (Guilty) is about a man who finds himself in a dying world, without knowing how he got there and why he is there.

SCP - Containment Breach

It’s a survival horror game based on the works of the SCP Foundation community.

September 1999

Its a free, VHS styled, first-person found footage horror game, which runs exactly for 5 minutes and 30 seconds.

Serena

It’s a point-and-click adventure horror game. How long has it been? A man sits in a distant getaway cabin waiting for his wife Serena. Where is she? Things in the cabin evoke memories, and the husband comes to a disturbing realization... 

Shutter

You are woken up by a sudden loud noise in the middle of the night in your recently moved into apartment. Moving boxes are scattered all over the place, still things left to unpack. All the lights in the house are turned on, but you're sure you turned them off. You leave your room to investigate, your trusty camera in hand.

Silent Hill: Room 304

It’s a point-and-click horror game based on the popular video game series, Silent Hill by Konami Digital Entertainment.

Silent Santiago

It’s inspired by the popular Silent Hill survival horror series from Konami. This horror game is developed by students of a Chilean university. The streets in this game are inspired by the reality of the Santiago city, in Chile, going so far as to recreating the plazas and the narrow alleys. The atmosphere, however, is incredibly eerie and similar to the Silent Hill games, with a thick fog covering the entire city. The goal of the game is to navigate the maze-like streets of the city of Santiago and to reach the exit.

Slender: The Eight Pages

The game centers around an unknown character being chased by the Slender Man in the woods while seeking eight pages scattered about various landmarks.

Spooky’s Jump Scare Mansion

Can you survive 1000 rooms of cute terror? Or will you break once the cuteness starts to fade off and you're running for your life from the unspeakable hideous beings that shake and writhe in bowels of this house? They wait for you, they wait and hunger for meeting you.

The Night That Speaks

You don't remember how you got to the graveyard, but you know you've been meaning to visit.

The Static Speaks My Name

A dark, sad, weird, and funny first-person exploration game. You play a man on his last night alive as he obsesses over a mysterious painting.

Try to Fall Asleep

John Herrin survived a horrible accident and as a result, he damaged his brain and lost his memory. Only Dr. Rick Norberg and the friendly robot "AB" can help John to recover from his brain damage and restore his broken memory. 

By falling asleep and rediscovering the past in his dreams, John can restore his memory and remember what caused the unfortunate catastrophe in one of the most secretive laboratories of the "Revivel" company. But due to John's brain damage, falling asleep won't be as easy as it seems at first... 

Vanish

Thrown into a Labyrinth for reasons unknown, you must roam through the darkness to find your escape. Do you have what it takes to get out alive? Or will you be another feast for the walls that seem to live?

Which

It’s a short game in which you look for a way to open the door out of the small house.

The White Chamber

It’s a point-and-click horror adventure game. You play as a trapped young woman from 3rd person perspective as she solves puzzles and overcomes the twisted obstacles in her path.

The Witch’s House

The young Viola visits a mysterious house in the woods. She soon discovers its dangerous nature and must find a way out. But the house is ever-changing, and death could be lurking anywhere...

Within Deep Sorrows

A demon haunts you throughout your nightmares, as it gradually makes its way into the real world. The only way to prevent this from happening is for you, Johnston Barker to destroy your diary, which is hidden within your third dream. Each descending dream makes it harder to avoid the demon, allowing it to become stronger, and more aggressive. The time period is set in the 1990's, though when dreaming, it is set back in the 1950's. You are not alone however, as your conscious speaks to you during the process, giving you guidance as you deeply wonder within your nightmares.

Yume Nikki (ゆめにっき, lit. Dream Diary)

It’s a 32-Bit game created by KIKIYAMA, a mysterious Japanese game designer. It was made using RPG Maker 2003. The players explore the dreams of a hikikomori named Madotsuki, where they encounter a number of surrealistic horror creatures and locations.