#but goddamn if there’s not something chemical that just makes me feel sick and scared and I’m having a doozy of a time living with it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

darkbluekies · 2 months

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never trust a cupcake

Female!yandere x male!reader

Summary: mean boy yn got too popular for Hedwig's taste, so she took him

A/N: started to write this oneshot back in August/September but never finished, so I'm releasing what I had done as a drabble instead :)

Warnigns: hedwig goes insane, poison/drugs, knife, kidnapping, throwing up

You can't remember what happened. You were eating the cupcakes you got from Hedwig and suddenly … you felt sick. You must have fallen asleep. But where are you now? You look around, head pounding. You're in a … kitchen? A very fancy kitchen. Whatever Hedwig put in the cupcakes, you still feel sick and as if you're about to throw up. You try to stand up from the chair you've been placed on and quickly notice that your hands are tied behind your back and your feet to the legs. Confusion starts to fade into anger and you tug at the ropes harshly. One thing leads to another and you end up on the floor. The loud sound of wood hitting marble echoes through the large room. You manage to lift your head in the last second before it smashes against the floor.

Suddenly, a familiar face runs in. The anger runs off. Confusion is back.

"Hedwig?" you pant.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize that you were awake!" she apologizes quickly and pulls the chair up with you on it. She cups your cheeks and she lets her hand wander into your hair. "Are you hurt? You didn't hit your head in the fall, did you?"

You turn your head back and forth to get free from her grip.

"What have you done?" you ask harshly.

"W-What do you mean?" Hedwig asks unsurely.

"Did you kidnap me?!"

"Y-Y/N, please don't say it like that! I didn't kidnap you! I brought you home!" She sighs and lets her shoulders slump, voice grow small. "I couldn't watch you be swarmed by all the girls in school … I had to have you by myself. It doesn't matter if you're mean to me … I still love you."

You stare at her in disbelief. Hedwig has always been clingy and suffocating, but you could never have anticipated that she would kidnap you.

"Hedwig, what the actual fuck?" you breathe out. "Untie me. Now."

"Not yet", she answers hesitantly. "You have to calm down first."

"Calm- …?" You snap. "Who are you to tell me to calm down?! You fucking kidnapped me! How sick in the head do you have to be in the head to do such a goddamn thing?! Untie me now!"

Hedwig’s just standing there … listening. You can tell that something shifts behind her eyes. She's trying to hide that she gets sad. As if she's telling herself that she doesn't care if you're mean, when in reality she does. Telling herself that you can be mean makes her feel better about herself.

"You don't need to be scared", Hedwig says carefully. "I'm not going to hurt you. I didn't mean for us to start our relationship like this … but you got too popular for your own good."

You scoff. Fear has started to creep into your heart.

Hedwig walks over to the kitchen isle where a glass dome covers a neatly stacked tower of cupcakes. She picks out one and walks over to you. The sight of it causes your stomach to turn.

"Here, I think you should eat", she says.

"I'm not eating anything from you", you almost growl. "Do you really think I trust you?"

"This isn't dangerou. It's a normal cupcake." She breaks off a bit and puts it in her mouth. "See?"

You watch how she breaks off another bit and moves closer, close enough for you to smell her perfume. It's sweet enough to make your head spin.

"Open your mouth", she says softly.

"Hedwig …", you say distantly. "I feel sick."

Hedwig suddenly becomes alert and runs for a bucket. She returns and holds it up to your face. The bucket smells of strong cleaning chemicals and that is enough to awoken the beast in your stomach. It spurs out of you like a waterfall.

"Good boy", she says softly, running her fingers through your hair. "Get it out of you. You're doing so good. My good boy …"

Finally, you're cleansed. Hedwig puts the bucket in the hallway and gets you a glass of cold water. You hesitate before gulping it down. She tries again to feed you the cupcake.

"I'm never going to eat cupcakes again", you mutter and glare at her.

"Alright … I understand", she sighs and walks over to the fridge. "Cheese?"

You don't answer. You'd rather have cheese than the cupcake, but you'll not tell her. Hedwig returns with a charcuterie board. She picks up a cheddar cheese.

"Open your mouth", she smiles.

This time, you obey. She places the cheese on your tongue and watches how you chew.

"You're such a good boy", she says dreamily and caresses your cheek. "My boy."

She feeds you some more pieces.

"Can I untie you now?" she asks. "I want to change you out of your school uniform."

You nod frantically. Hedwig sits on her knees to untie your feet and sneaks behind your back. As soon as you're free, you jump up and run.

"Y/N!" Hedwig gasps.

You run over to the front door and grab the majestic handles, but it doesn't matter how much you drag, they're as locked as can be.

"Y/N", she says disappointingly, walking towards you.

"Don't!" you shout and run past her, towards the living room.

You grab the TV remote and throw it towards one of the tall windows. The glass doesn't budge.

"It's not cheap glass", Hedwig says behind you. "You won't be able to break it."

"Let me go, you psycho", you hiss and turn around.

She stands with her hands behind her back and watches you carefully.

"Please stop trying to get out, it won't work", she says. "Even if you get out of the house, you won't get out of the garden. Please stop before you hurt yourself." She takes a step forward. "If you just accept your fate you will be happy. I won't hurt you. I will worship you."

"I don't fucking need that. I don't need you."

You can see that it shatters something in her. She stumbles back a step and gulps.

"Don't say that … please", she says weakly, tears entering her eyes as she shakes her head. "You're just scared. I understand. I don't mean to scare you, but-"

"I'm leaving. Open the front door."

"No! No, you can't!"

You push past her and storm towards the front door. You turn around to tell her to hurry up, but you're met with her holding a knife in her trembling hands. The very hands she hid behind her back. You flinch.

“I want you to go upstairs”, she sniffles and nods at the staircase to your right. “I want to change your clothes a-and tuck you in.” She wipes her runny nose with her white sleeve. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You glance at the knife, at the locked door and at the staircase. Slowly, you move up the marble stairs, head spinning. You’re not angry anymore … only terrified. Hedwig isn’t just annoying … she’s insane.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere drabbles #yandere oc x you #yandere oc x reader #yandere fics #yandere stories #yandere female #male reader

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33max · 1 year

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Lucy Lucy Lucy, can we have Max regressing after Silverstone last year?

I had multiple requests for this and I struggled with it at first but… finally I have something for you! ♥️

cw crash mentions, hospitals, food mentions, nsap/age regression, angst but also a lot of comfort, 1544 words

(because I refuse to write max’s dad into turkey dinosaurs, pretend he wasn’t at silverstone 2021!)

It’s not something they ever really talk about, as drivers they both push it down, ignoring the reality that at some point one of them might get into a quite serious crash.

There have been times when Daniel has seen Max’s car in the gravel, or tangled with another, and he’s felt momentarily worried until he either sees Max walking away from it, or his engineer lets him know that everything is all good.

After that, it’s all about shutting it out. Not thinking about it. Not letting it stop them from doing this one thing that they both love.

Silverstone is different.

Daniel sees Max’s car in the tyre wall and he knows it’s bad. He knows it will be a red flag before it even shows on his steering wheel. That’s one of the fastest corners on the calendar, a huge impact. But Max gets out of the car. He looks dazed, but he’s fine. He’s always fine.

Until he’s not.

It’s during his goddamn media duties that he finds out Max has been taken to the hospital, and Daniel feels sick. He cannot shake the thought of Max alone in a hospital bed. Having test after test and having absolutely nobody there with him.

His boyfriend is strong. He’s brave. But he’s also soft, and sweet, and he’s probably scared. Daniel doesn’t even know if Max would be able to fight a drop if he’s hurting.

The thought of Max regressed, alone, and potentially hurt in a foreign hospital has Daniel nearly tearing his hair out. Demanding Michael drive him to the hospital. Ignoring his press officer when she tries to direct him into another interview.

He can’t do another interview. He can’t do an engineering meeting. He can’t do anything until he sees Max and knows for certain that he is okay.

Michael breaks the speed limit. Not that Daniel even cares, he’ll pay the fine if Michael gets one.

“I’m here to see Max Verstappen, what’s the room number?” Daniel says to the receptionist, speaking so fast he’s not sure she will actually understand him.

“Are you family?” She asks, barely looking up from her computer. Daniel wants to shake her, how can she be so calm when he feels like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin?

“No, but he’ll want me here,” Daniel says, his voice on the edge of pleading. Trying to make her understand.

“Can I take your name?” She asks. “Then you can take a seat while we get him to confirm that.”

Daniel doesn’t take a seat. He can’t sit right now. He stands, hovering a couple of metres from the desk.

When they finally let him through he has to navigate through the maze that is Coventry Hospital until he finds Max’s room. They’ve found him a private room, but even a private room doesn’t make up for the smell of hospital food and chemicals that permeate the air.

“Max,” Daniel says as he pushes the door open, “Max, I’m here.”

Max is not a small guy. He’s bigger than Daniel now, but he looks small sitting up in the hospital bed. Looking up at Daniel with big glassy eyes as he rushes into the room, reaching out for him as soon as he’s in touching distance.

“You okay?” Daniel asks him, taking Max’s hand in his. Lacing their fingers together, feeling Max’s sweaty hand hot in his own cold one.

“Yeah,” Max sighs, closing his eyes and resting his head back against the bed. “I have a concussion.”

“Just a concussion?” Daniel says, pressing a kiss against the back of Max’s hand.

“Bruising too,” Max admits, and Daniel takes a moment to really study him. The way he won’t keep his eyes open, the way he’s barely moving underneath the white crisp bedsheet, the way he’s gripping Daniel’s hand so tightly.

“Max?” Daniel asks, “Baby, are you in pain?”

“A little,” Max tells him, still with his eyes closed. “It’s… I’m struggling right now, Daniel.”

“Do you want me to call the nurse? Get you some more painkillers?” Daniel suggests, trying to fix it, trying to help. He hates this.

“No,” Max whimpers, “The bed isn’t comfy, this gown is touching me weirdly, I don’t have my blanket and I feel like I’m going to fucking scream if I have to stay here any longer.”

“Ah, shit, Maxy,” Daniel says, stroking his thumb against the back of Max’s hand, trying to provide whatever comfort he can. Daniel knows what Max needs right now though, and he can’t have it.

“I’m trying my best,” Max says, face crumpling slightly when he can’t hold back his emotions any longer. “I want to get out of here. I want… I want to get on the plane. I want my Daddy.”

“I know,” Daniel assures him, “As soon as we are out of here, okay?” ————————

The doctors tell Max he can’t fly home straight away. He’s free to leave the hospital, but he probably shouldn’t fly.

So, they have to book a hotel room nearby. Daniel has to monitor Max, make sure he doesn’t spend too much time on his phone, and make sure any dizzy spells don’t end badly. Daniel doesn’t really want to know what that even means.

Daniel barely gets Max through the door of their hotel room before he’s leaning into Daniel, clingy, desperate for affection. Halfway to a different headspace.

They don’t have any of Max’s things. No Mr Roar. No blanket. No binkie. Nothing. It’s a fucking disaster.

But they can’t avoid it now. Max has waited this long, and now he needs it.

Daniel calls Michael. He has to, he knows his friend will be nearby, he couldn’t come into the hospital but he will be around. He wouldn’t leave Daniel on his own in Coventry without a way back to the paddock if he needs it.

“How’s Max?” Michael asks as he answers the phone, not even a hello.

“He has a concussion, we have to stay in a hotel for the night,” Daniel says, straight to the point. “I need you to do me a favour.”

“What is it? I’ll do whatever, mate,” Michael tells him, and Daniel believes him. Michael will help them.

“I know it’s late but I need you to run to a store. I need some stuff.”

“Is he… is he little?” Michael asks, still not one hundred percent sure of the language he should be using. Daniel doesn’t care though, all that matters is that his friend supports this. His friend doesn’t judge Max.

“Nearly,” Daniel sighs, knowing this is going to be a difficult night for both him and Max. Max is going to be extremely clingy, because he’s hurt and he fought this for a long time. It’s also the first time since they started this dynamic that Daniel feels too tired for this, too frazzled from the stress of the day, he wants to hold his boyfriend, not his little counterpart.

“I went to the shop in the hospital earlier,” Michael says, “I was worried… worried he would need all the stuff that you guys leave on the plane.”

Daniel closes his eyes. Takes a moment to breathe. He’s filled with gratitude, appreciation and love for his friend. “What did you get?”

“I already got him a bear, a blanket and one of those kinder chocolates in the shape of a hippo,” Michael explains. “I was worried this would happen.”

“You got him a happy hippo?”

“Yeah,” Michael says, annoyed that that is what Daniel picked up on. “Where are you staying? What’s the room number? I’ll bring the stuff.”

—————————

When Daniel holds out the teddy bear to Max, he sobs. Big heaving sobs. But he takes the bear into his arms and buries his face into the soft fur. Overwhelmed.

“Max, did you see his bandage?” Daniel says, referring to the bandage between the bear’s ears. He’s stroking Max’s back, trying to offer some comfort. “He’s got a sore head just like you.”

Max doesn’t say anything, and that’s okay, Daniel knows he’s too overwhelmed to communicate with words right now.

They lay together in the unfamiliar bed, Max’s back against Daniel’s chest, and Daniel loads up Disney Plus on his phone. Holding out his phone so the two of them can watch together, it’s late and they should be asleep, but Daniel can sense that Max needs some time before he’s going to be calm enough to settle down. Daniels hoping The Lion King will help. It usually does.

The new bear is tucked into Max’s arms, his head resting on the blanket, and Daniel is holding him close.

It might not be great right now, but Daniel knows everything will be okay. Everything will be fine. Max is fine.

When Daniel wakes up the next morning, Max is sat up in the bed, eating something and dropping crumbs everywhere.

“Maxy?” Daniel asks, groggily. He’s so tired. Bone tired. Yesterday has taken it out of him.

“I found a hippo,” Max giggles, and Daniel is delighted to hear that sound again, “He’s happy and I’ve eaten his butt.”

Daniel can’t help but laugh, “I don’t think he’s happy that you’ve eaten his butt, baby.”

#answered #anonymous #turkey dinosaurs au #writing

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scuttling · 3 years

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Animals

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 2,766 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Insecure reader, Crushes, Some very public secret touching, Fingering, Pool sex, Unprotected sex Summary: Based on this prompt from anon: "Reader in a red skimpy bikini at one of rossi’s pool parties trying to get hotch to loosen up….what happens when she gets a little too close when they’re swimming in the pool?" I uh 🥵 Link to A03 or read below! Going to Rossi’s for dinner as a team has to be one of your favorite things in life. There is always good food, good drink, teasing and grinning and laughter; you all get to decompress, destress, enjoy each other’s company as people and not because someone’s life depends on it.

You get to see Hotch as a person, too, and that’s kind of the best part. He’s the one who needs to relax and unwind more than anyone, so when he’s there with you all, casually dressed, softer, and quick to smile, it’s no wonder you… feel things.

You’re not an animal. You can feel things without acting on those feelings; you are more than your instincts. So what if you get butterflies in your stomach when he offers to pour you more wine? So what if your breathing picks up when he’s so close you can feel his breath on your neck? So what if you end these nights at home, alone in your bed, wishing he was beside you, inside you? He’s still off limits.

Your body’s reactions to him are normal, chemical, biological, and pointless, because he could be standing half naked in front of you and you would still be able to control yourself. You are a brain that happens to be in a body, not a body that happens to have a brain.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself when Rossi invites everyone over, not for dinner, but an evening pool party.

A pool party. Fuck.

You are one hundred percent apprehensive, but for two different reasons. One is that you are a little self-conscious, and you prefer jeans and t-shirts over any other clothing; wearing a swimsuit in front of your coworkers seems extremely daunting. The other reason is that seeing Hotch in his swimsuit might actually be more terrifying, because you talk a big game about being able to control yourself, but if presented with his hot body, dripping wet, maybe his hair slicked back, a drop of water on his nose...

You take a deep breath, blow it out slowly. You’re just going to tell them you feel sick and can’t make it. Probably no one will care anyway.

You’re just gathering your things to leave work for the weekend, preparing to smile sadly and tell your lie, when Hotch appears at your side, his bag slung over his shoulder. He’s leaving work on time for once; it’s a freaking miracle.

“You’re coming to Rossi’s, right?” he asks softly, and you get those goddamn butterflies. You smile, not sadly.

“Yeah, definitely. I need to go home and get my swimsuit, though. I think I have one... somewhere.” It’s been a while since you had a vacation; wherever it is, you hope it still fits. He swallows, nods.

“Right, of course. I’ll see you there, then.” He brushes a hand carefully over your shoulder and passes you, heads for the door. You take another deep breath.

You are not an animal.

Right?

You arrive at Rossi’s house last, because you spent so long looking in the mirror, trying to convince yourself to just accept the way the swimsuit fits.

The only one you could find was from college, a little red string bikini, and since your body is obviously different now, it’s a little too small. You’re mostly covered, though, except for your ass, and no one is going to be paying much attention anyway. These people are like your brothers and sisters—or in Rossi’s case, your fun uncle—with the exception of Hotch, but you know he’s not going to be looking.

You walk into the backyard in your coverup, a cute black and white tunic, and everyone is swimming but JJ and Hotch. JJ is standing off to the side, phone at her ear, and Hotch is sitting on a lounge chair, not lounging at all. His spine looks rigid, but you can’t imagine why.

“Beer, my dear?” Rossi calls, holding up his own Corona. “Over by Hotch.” You smile and head toward him, bending to reach into the cooler for a drink; he looks a little more comfortable when he sees you, and says hello. You reply, then lift the bottom of your tunic to try to twist off the bottle cap, to no avail.

“Here, let me,” he says, reaching for your bottle, and he wraps his t-shirt around it, pops it open and hands it back.

“Thanks.” You take a long sip, your head tilted back; after all the self-scrutiny, you feel like you earned this one. “Why aren’t you swimming?”

“I will; didn’t feel like it yet,” he says, looking up at you, and you put a hand on your hip.

“Only you would come to a pool party and not swim, Hotch. Live a little.” You take another long sip, if you can call it that—the bottle is half empty already—and then set it down on the table, pull your tunic over your head. Might as well undress where fewer people are paying attention. “Come on,” you say, reaching out a hand. “I will if you will.”

He looks you over like he thinks you’re crazy or something, staring at you for a long moment, and then nods, lets you pull him up to standing. He tugs his shirt off too, and you do your best not to stare, because he is even hotter than you’d imagined, his chest broad and strong, arms strong too, and there’s a trail of hair disappearing beneath his swim trunks that you would like to explore with your mouth. You take a calming breath, turn to head for the edge of the pool, and he follows behind you; Derek looks up and whistles, and you feel yourself flush hot.

“Okay, Baywatch,” he calls with a grin, “come toward me again, but this time run in slow motion.” You roll your eyes and remind yourself not to try to cover up. If he sees you nervous, it’s just going to get that much worse.

“Shut up. It’s the only one I had,” you reply, and you look back at Hotch, who’s just standing there behind you and not saying anything. It’s like he’s afraid to get too close to the pool, or something; no way a big bad FBI guy is scared of water, right?

You get in the pool, and it feels blissfully good on this 80+ degree day, even though the sun is down; you dunk your head just to get it over with, before someone does it for you, and when you come up, you hum happily and rub your wet hair back out of your face.

You look at Hotch, who is sitting on the edge with his feet in the pool. It’s a total cop out, and you swim over to him and carefully put your hands on his legs beneath the water. He looks down at you seriously and doesn’t move.

“Come on, all the way in. For me.” He wets his lips, and you’re about 80% sure he’s going to ignore you, so you just let go of his legs and back away; he absolutely surprises you by dropping into the water with a splash. He goes under, pops up and shakes his wet hair, droplets clinging to his shoulders. You laugh out loud and give him a shove, glad, again, that you’d chosen to submerge yourself already.

“Are you happy now?” he asks, voice dry, but with a playful smile, and you nod and smile as well. Yes, you’re happy, maybe a little happier than you should be: you can feel that your nipples are hard beneath the thin material of the bikini top. Your stupid body is sending signals, and you’re entering the danger zone, your brain and body fighting for dominance; your stupid body may be winning.

Do not engage, your brain repeats when you look at wet Hotch, a sight to behold, all big and drippy and firm; your body whispers in your ear like the devil on your shoulder, just go for it—he will feel really good—what’s the worst that could happen?

“Yes,” is all you say, moving closer to him even though there’s a warning bell going off in your brain. Do not engage!! “All I wanted was for you to loosen up a little, to relax.” You’re less than a foot from him, and no one is paying either of you any attention, busy playing with an inflatable beach ball or singing along to the radio or drifting around on a lounge float. You two might as well be the only people in the world, or at least that’s how it feels.

“I’m… loose,” he says, his voice low and rough, and something about it makes you feel less inhibited, like maybe it’s not just you who wants this; your hand brushes his waist, and then his hand brushes your hip, and then you lean closer and your leg brushes…

Very loose indeed, if loose equals horny, because that’s definitely not a gun in his trunks and he’s definitely happy to see you.

“Sorry,” you breathe, but you don’t feel sorry. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, and you brush him more purposefully this time: your thigh against his bulging cock.

Do not engage!!

“Don’t be,” he replies eventually, and then it’s your hand moving of its own accord, palming him, big and hard. He closes his eyes, wets his lips. You want to bite his throat, to lick it, to get your hand down his shorts and feel him; you’re about to do that, your fingers slipping past the elastic, his breath hitching, and then the beach ball smacks down in the water right beside the two of you and you jump apart, startled.

“Sorry!” Emily calls, and Hotch bats the ball back over to them, and then you just look at each other. Was that a close call you never mention again, or…?

Now or never, your body says. He was about to let you put your hand in his pants. Try it again.

You are not an animal.

You try it again.

This time, you make it past the waistband, and you wrap your fingers around his dick. It’s thick, and hot, and smooth, and he reaches out a hand to grip your waist hard, his eyes boring into yours. You wet your lips, move your fingers to the head, rub it, and then you stroke him three times just to see what he looks like when you do.

He’s gorgeous, unsurprisingly, his eyes lidded and his chest heaving, and you rub him softly one more time and then withdraw your hand; apparently you’re cool with groping your boss in the same pool as the rest of your coworkers, but an actual orgasm is where you draw the line.

You are also breathing heavy, so turned on you’re almost shaking with need, and then Hotch reaches down and slides his hand inside your swimsuit bottoms, rubs the pads of two fingers along your slit. It takes everything you have not to moan at his touch, especially when he dips lower, prods at your opening where you are already slick. He takes a deep breath, and it looks like he’s fighting for strength too, which makes you feel a little better.

At least you’re both animals, now.

He pulls back only to get his hand on your ass, to squeeze it so hard your body shifts forward. You look up at him, and he looks down at you, and everything that needs to be said is said with your eyes.

You drift apart a little bit, but you still feel the ghost of his touch and maybe always will.

You float around, and talk a little; you get out to finish your beer, to grab you both another, and now that you know he’s into you, you maybe make climbing out look a little sexy. When you ease back in, hand him his bottle, he makes eye contact while he wraps his lips around it and takes a long drink.

Eventually, the others interact with the two of you, and it feels so strange to pretend that you and Hotch didn’t just fucking fondle each other fifteen feet away. It also feels really dirty, and that only serves to make you wetter. The glances he’s shooting you don’t help that situation much, either.

Garcia and Emily are the first to leave, and then Reid, until the only ones left are the two of you, Derek, and JJ. JJ says goodbye, heads out, and then Derek gets ready to leave. Rossi says he’ll walk him out, that he’s going to turn in, but that you and Hotch are welcome to stay as long as you like, and to just please lock the front door when you go.

“Couldn’t get you to get in, now can’t get you to get out,” Derek teases Hotch; you preen a little, because you know you’re the cause of both, and when Derek and Rossi leave, the air becomes thick with tension again. You open your mouth but don’t know what to say.

It’s Hotch who actually speaks first.

“I’ve thought about doing that for a very long time,” he murmurs, and you move closer to him, get your hands on his waist again. “You are so fucking beautiful, all the time, but in that bikini… were you just trying to tempt me?” he asks, a sincere question, and you shake your head.

“It’s really the only one I own. I got it in college, so it’s a little small now,” you explain, and he chuckles, soft and low.

“Well then, I guess I’m glad you don’t swim much, because you’re absolutely breathtaking. I was having a very hard time keeping my hands off of you, so I’m glad that you… initiated.” He puts his hands on your ass, pulls you closer, and you wrap your legs around his hips, your arms around his neck.

“Me too. I’ve wanted you for longer than I can remember, you’re so fucking perfect.” You bring a hand to his wet hair and guide him down for a deep, steamy kiss, rubbing against his hard-on and moaning softly, since you can, now. “I want you, Hotch.”

“I need you,” he says, and that’s so much hotter; you reach between you to push down his shorts, taking him in your hand and stroking him again while he holds you up, and then you ease your bottoms to the side and guide him inside you, moaning and tipping your head back when he presses in. “Oh, fuck,” he pants, and you cling to him, kiss him harder, and move in his arms.

“Oh, god, Hotch,” you breathe against his lips, working your hips against his thrusts. “You feel so good, so big and hard and good.” He groans, buries his face in your neck, and pumps up into you roughly, like he’s getting close already.

God, this is amazing, pure fucking, the outcome of being up to your eyeballs in sexual tension—you’re connecting the dots now, seeing how some things you thought were innocent between the two of you were absolutely not—and when he comes he pounds hard inside you, and you dig your nails into his neck and bounce on him until he groans and slides out, sensitive.

“Oh, wow,” he exhales, and then he turns so you’re up against the wall of the pool and lets you go, holding out his hands so you know to stay there. You stretch your arms out on either side of you, breathing hard, and he leans in, moves your top out of the way and sucks on a nipple, then reaches down and pushes your bottoms aside again, presses his fingers deep and fucks you with them.

“Hotch, oh, fuck.” He looks up at you through dark lashes, nips at your breast, and then lifts his mouth off and begs you to come until you do, practically strangling his fingers as you clench tight around him.

He pulls his hand away after getting you through it, fixes your suit and then his, and then pulls you back into his arms and kisses you for a long time, full of yearning and passion and satisfaction. You sigh against his mouth, touch his face, and offer for him to spend the night at your place.

He does, and you have sex on the kitchen counter, and in your bed, and then on the floor the next morning.

You animals. Taglist ❤️: @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnnnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal @g-l-pierce

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfic #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x female reader #hotch x female reader #hotch x reader

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brotbrotbrotlamb · 3 years

Text

22:38

warnings: mentions of burns??

word count: 1.2k

“bread… bread, did you try to grab the tray, in the oven, while it was baking? with your own bare hands?”

[22:38] as lamb entered the house, she was met with the sight of bread in an apron, lying spread eagle on the kitchen floor.

“bread!” she shrieked, nearly dropping her bag as she rushed to her boyfriend’s side. luckily, he was not out cold like she had thought, but he was staring blankly into space with abnormally wet and red hands. “holy crepes, you scared me so bad for a moment. why are you on the kitchen floor?”

he only acknowledged a few seconds after her question. he turned his head, saying dazedly, “have you ever baked cookies?”

“baked cookies?” she repeated. it was only then that she caught sight of the open oven door and the bowls stacked messily on top of each other on the counter. a slightly acrid smell that comprised caramelised sugar, burnt plastic and burnt chocolate assaulted her nostrils as she stood up and walked closer, causing her to involuntarily scrunch her nose. “bread, is that what you tried to do?”

“yeah,” bread still looked like he was in a trance. “i wanted to do something nice for you for once.”

“you know you didn’t have to,” lamb told him, grabbing the mittens from the bottom left drawer and pulling the cookie tray out. the cookies looked severely undercooked, which made no sense considering the smell. “are these chocolate chip cookies?”

when bread didn’t reply even after a few seconds, lamb set the tray on a coaster of sorts and turned back around. he wasn’t lying on the floor anymore, instead choosing to sit up, but his expression still made her stop short.

“bread,” lamb was starting to feel genuine concern for her boyfriend. he was staring at the pair of mittens on her hand with astonishment, as if he had never seen the pair of cotton that protected your hands from heat. “bread, you’re acting really weird. are you okay?”

“i didn’t see those mittens,” he said, reaching for the drawer they had been in and hissing when his hand touched the metal. he dropped them, staring at his red palms, covered in what lamb quickly realised were forming blisters. “i wouldn’t have tried—”

“are you kidding me?” lamb shrieked, quickly piecing together what had happened. slipping the mittens off, she took her hands in his to inspect them. there was no doubt about it; hee had definitely tried to grab the cookies with his bare hands. by the look of the angry red patches on his hand, he had tried to grab the entire tray by pressing his hands against it. “bread… bread, did you try to grab the tray, in the oven, while it was baking? with your own bare hands?”

bread looked away and mumbled something.

“bread,” lamb deadpanned, forcing him to look at her. “did you really— did you really try to grab a burning hot tray at like two hundred and twenty degrees celsius?”

“it wasn’t two hundred and twenty,” he tried to argue, “more like two hundred and five?”

“that’s,” lamb exhaled in exasperation, trying to tug him to a standing position by pulling on his wrists. “that’s really not much better. how are you not screaming or crying? and what in the world made you do that? like… are you okay?”

“shut up, okay,” he told her, though there was no bite behind his words. “i looked inside and it looked like it was burning—”

“and your first instinct is to grab it with your bare hands? even when you thought it was on fire??”

“i panicked!”

“you’re literally so dumb,” lamb shook her head, holding bread’s hand under the running tap water. “how does it smell like burning chemicals if it’s literally undercooked? i swear you are talented, just not in the way people want to be.”

“i think, uhm,” the guilt and embarrassment on bread’s face was overwhelming. “it was the cling wrap? i like put it over the remaining butter, you know, the one you put in the small bowl, and like, i think it partly melted now that i think of it—”

“you put potentially plastic-infused butter into the cookies?”

“it looked completely fine when it came out! it’s just that now that i think about it, it could have been that—”

“bread! did no one tell you not to put plastic in the microwave, like, ever?? do you even know not to put cooked eggs in the microwave?”

“you can’t?”

“oh my god,” lamb facepalmed, partly splashing water on her face and hair, but she didn’t mind. “are you kidding me? bread, you know i love you and all, but i think you should just let me cook from now on. actually, i think we should just takeout more often or learn to actually cook together.”

“you’re not much better,” bread tried to argue back, looking mildly put out. “you nearly set the pasta on fire after accidentally dropping it on the stove just last week!”

“key word, nearly. you burnt your hands that bad in a state of panic and turned the kitchen into a mess and you’re trying to tell me i’m bad?” lamb gestured to the bowls and plates that littered the counter, filled with either a liquid or powder of some sort.

when bread didn’t reply, she looked at him only to find him staring miserably at the running water. sighing, she nudged him slightly with her shoulder. “hey, but i appreciate the effort, though. everyone’s bound to fail at some point and yours just happened on the first try. we can bake the cookies fully and try a bit… who knows, it might be good!”

the look bread gave her was scathing. “you want food poisoning, lamb?”

“and i was trying to be nice as well, humph. you wanna waste all those ingredients?”

“if we might get sick from that, i think i’m fine throwing it away.”

lamb shot her own withering glance at him. “this is why i told you not to cook on your own, you food waster.”

silence ensued as lamb wrapped the burns with sterile bandages. a few minutes later, they turned to the now cool batch of raw cookie dough on the counter. it had sunk into itself, looking particularly pale and cracked on the surface. lamb inspected it before sharing a look of mutual disgust with bread.

“yeah, we should throw it away. not only did you not refrigerate your dough, you also used all white sugar. i don’t know what tutorial you were looking at, but this is not it, chief.”

“how can you even tell?” bread asked, to which lamb replied, “i just watch a lot of videos.”

“and i wasn’t, uh,” bread continued, “looking at any tutorial…”

lamb just gave him this “are-you-goddamn-serious-right-now” before showing off her incredible lung capacity in a long sight.

“we’re going to clean these bowls and crap up, but before that, we’re getting takeout.”

“japanese takeout,” bread suggested.

“you’re lucky i even love you enough to listen, bread,” lamb warned playfully, before picking her bag up from the top of the shoe cabinet. “and for once, i guess i’l drive.”

“and we’re getting chocolate chip cookies,” looking at the bin mournfully, bread struggled to put his shoes on without using his hands. “to make up for the opportunity of eating cookies being stripped away from us.”

“and that too.”

“i think i love you.”

“humph, you’d better. i love you too.”

taglist: @danishmiilk @slippinglasses

#breadandlamb #fluff #timestamp #baking #gonewrong #random

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arinmelnikov · 4 years

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❝𝕴 𝖉𝖔𝖓'𝖙 𝖈𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖎𝖋 𝖎𝖙 𝖍𝖚𝖗𝖙𝖘 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖋𝖚𝖈𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖋𝖊𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘.❞

– – an Arin Melnikov playlist.

1. “Trashed And Scattered” Avenged Sevenfold

Trashed and scattered again, I’m feeling so low You waste your breath while fucking with me, my blood is so cold My destination’s always unknown, I’ll find my way there But you goddamn motherfuckers always wasting my time

I wont be the a victim, but the first to cast a stone Sedated nights to the bar room fights as metropolis takes its toll And don’t you try to stop me, it’s a place you’ll never know Don’t try to judge or take shots at me, I’ll never let you seize control

Play your game and walk away, your integrity don’t mean shit Crawl on me, you fucking parasite, and I’m gonna take you out

2. “Spit It Out” Slipknot

Did you never give a damn in the first place? Maybe it's time you had the tables turned 'Cause in the interest of all involved, I got the problem solved, and the verdict is guilty Man nearly killed me, stepping where you fear to tread Stop, drop, and roll, you were dead from the get-go Big mouth fucker, stupid cocksucker, are you scared of me now? Then you're dumber than I thought Always is and never was, foundation made of piss and vinegar Step to me, I'll smear ya, think I fear your bullshit? Just another dumb punk chomping at this shit Here’s another way to break through the noise Was it something that I said that got you bent? Gotta be that way if you want it Sanity, literal profanity, hit me

Spit it out All you wanna do is drag me down All I wanna do is stamp you out

About time I set this record straight, all the needlenose punching is making me irate Sick of my bitching falling on deaf ears Where you gonna be in the next five years? The crew and all the fools and all the politics Get your lips ready, gonna gag, gonna make you sick You got dick when they passed out the good stuff Bam, are you sick of me? Good enough, had enough?

Fuck me, I’m all out of enemies Fuck me, I’m all out of enemies Fuck me, I’m all out of enemies

3. “Dust To Dust” Misfits

Hate you, father, for you have sinned Why did you let this life begin? I’m not your savior, I’m not your son A forgotten boy, abandoned creation

Oh, mother, father, answer me Your soulless son, your thing that should not be A brilliant demon, a monster god You gave me life, but took the soul away

With these final words, I pull the switch, we turn to dust Dust to dust My name is like the kiss of death And we embrace, we turn to dust With these final words, I pull the switch, we turn to dust Dust to dust My name is like the kiss of death Ashes to ashes, dust to dust

4. “Walk” Pantera

Can’t you see I’m easily bothered by persistence? One step from lashing out at you You want in, to get under my skin and call yourself a friend I’ve got more friends like you. what do I do?

Is there no standard anymore? What it takes, who I am, where I’ve been Belong You can’t be something you’re not Be yourself by yourself Stay away from me A lesson learned in life Known from the dawn of time

Respect, walk, what did you say? Respect, walk, are you talking to me? Are you talking to me?

5. “Lights Out” Mindless Self Indulgence

Who the hell said any of you get a taste? Do you ever wanna get up all in your face? And nothing you can do could ever make me go away Poor baby, I’m gonna make it all okay

Punch your lights out, hit the pavement That’s what I call entertainment Causing problems makes you famous All the violence makes a statement Punch your lights out, hit the pavement That’s what I call entertainment Causing problems makes you famous All this violence makes a statement

6. “Dead Ringer” Des Rocs

Oh, my reflection's from a time when all the worst was a game Nothing like the shake of life Stuck up in a race, race, race, race, race Hell caught a shadow of a guy Can’t find him one little break See, there’s a gap in his smile For fitting all his pain, pain, pain, pain, pain

Oh, lady I’ve got my hand on the trigger And it’s pointed at the dead ringer

Hold my cigarette while it’s lit And let it burn you, baby Oh, dead ringer, you’re so sick But you look amazing

7. “Are You Dead Yet?” Children Of Bodom

I kiss the ground with love beyond forever Flip off the sky with bleeding fingers till I die

Enemy, take one good look at me Eradicate what you will always be Tainted flesh, polluted soul Through a mirror I behold Throw a punch, shards bleed on the floor Tearing me apart, but I don’t care anymore Should I regret? Or ask myself Are you dead yet?

8. “Blood On My Hands” The Used

You felt the coldness in my eyes, and something I’m not revealing Though you got used to my disguise, you can’t shake this awful feeling It’s the me that I let you know ‘Cause I’ll never show, I have my reasons I hate to say that I told you so, but I told you so

There’s blood on my hands like the blood in you Some things can’t be treated, so don’t make me, don’t make me Be myself around you

9. “Absolute Zero” Stone Sour

The bloody angle, the symmetry Your cheap adhesive isn’t holding me My mouth is a gun I can shoot, I can show you the truth And I don’t need a reason to lie to you

No pun intended, no punishment If I offended you, you needed it Ideas are the bombs in your mind A fissure in time If you don’t have a weapon, you can’t have mine

I can bleed if I wanna bleed I can fail if I feel the need This face is my last confession This life, it feels like a prison

I am not afraid I’m giving in to grievances again You’re looking at an absolute zero I’m not the devil But I won’t be your hero

No fucking quarter, no premiums The world is stuck in delirium Man is a four-letter word, it’s really absurd The hate isn’t fake It’s just inferred

10. “Thank You For The Venom” My Chemical Romance

You’ll never make me leave I wear this on my sleeve You wanna follow something? Give me a better cause to lead Just give me what I need Give me a reason to believe

So give me all your poison, and give me all your pills And give me all your hopeless hearts and make me ill You’re running after something that you’ll never kill If this is what you want Then fire at will

11. “Rather Die” Barns Courtney

I can touch the planets through the roof of my car You’re reaching for the heavens, only bark at the stars Now, all your hundred thousands best remember my name I’d sucker punch an army if it got in my way

I came to kill ‘em Now I’m wiping the spit from my eyes I’ll take a beating But I, I’ll never give up I, I, I think I’d rather die I think I’d rather die I think I’d rather I think I’d rather die

12. “Burning Flag” Marilyn Manson

I’ll join the crowd that wants to see me dead Right now I feel I belong for the first time Multiply your death, divide by sex Add up the violence and what do you get?

We are all just stars and we’re waiting We are all just scarred and we’re hating We are all just stars on your burning flag

You can point your gun at me And hope it will go away But if God was alive He would hate you anyway

13. “Bitter” Anarchy Club

I’m sick and tired of the sick and tired Because what it is just ain’t the thing it was before You’ve heard the stories all before But they’re all true What’s in the mirror, clearer Staring back at you

Set it, set it, set it Set it, set it, set it Set it, set it, set it Set it, set it, set it Set it off

14. “Bang” Empires

Well, I’m sick of banging with your skeleton You were gorgeous till you gave out all your skin Now I can never really take it to the heart again I still got yours blowing up inside my head

At least I’m waking up At least I’m waking up with you hiding in my bones At least I’m waking up I’m waking up You’re dying a legend, darling And I’m dying to touch you, baby

Oh wait, oh wait, before I let you go There’s a thread or two still left between our souls But you went messing with the gods and never fell away You’re still burning off the angel on your face

Oh, this is love Bang up my heart to get your love Bang in my heart to feel you, love Bang, bang up my heart to get your love Bang in my heart to feel you Gonna bang, bang up my heart to get your love Bang on my heart

15. “Flames” R3HAB, Zayn, Jungleboi

Well, well, you better run from me You better hit the road You better up and leave Don’t get too close

‘Cause I’m a rolling stone And I keep rolling on You better run from me Before I take your soul

If I go, let me go Don’t you follow me, let me go I will let you down, let me go Even if your heart can’t take it Light me up in flames

16. “Die MF Die” Dope

I don’t need your forgiveness I don’t need your hate I don’t need your acceptance So what should I do?

I’ll be sorry, so you’ve said I’m not sorry Bang, you’re dead

Die, motherfucker Die, motherfucker, die Die, motherfucker Die, motherfucker, die

17. “Bodies” Drowning Pool

Push me again This is the end

One, nothing wrong with me Two, nothing wrong with me Three, nothing wrong with me Four, nothing wrong with me One, something’s got to give Two, something’s got to give Three, something’s got to give Now

Let the bodies hit the floor Let the bodies hit the floor Let the bodies hit the Let the bodies hit the floor Let the bodies hit the floor Let the bodies hit the floor

Skin against skin, blood and bone You’re all by yourself but you’re not alone You wanted in, and now you’re here Driven by hate, consumed by fear

18. “No Money” Kings Of Leon

Won’t you give me something I need? Won’t you peel me off of the street? Go and wet my tongue Or spit me up and break me a fever

Give me something I can believe in Give me something to walk me away I’m a waste of time And all in all a waste of a living

Can't you see me walking alone I've been down to the haunts and back And I'm way too tired Of blowing out the burning candle

And all this pissing around Cut loose in this fucking town I ain't coming back I got my ticket on to the next one

19. “Parasite Eve” Bring Me The Horizon

I heard they need better signal Put chip and pins in the needles Quarantine all of those secrets in that black hole you call a brain Before it’s too late

Really we just wanna scream something Only pretend to believe something I know you’re baying for blood I wanna turn you around

You can board up your windows You can lock all your doors But you can’t keep washing your hands of this shit anymore When all the king’s horses and all the king’s men Don’t know their asses from their pathogens When life is a prison and death is the door This ain’t a warning This is a war

It’s a parasite eve Got a feeling in your stomach ‘cause you know that it’s coming So you leave your flowers and grieve Don’t forget what they told you When we forget the infection Will we remember the lesson? If the suspense doesn’t kill you Something else will

20. “Dig” Mudvayne

I would love to beat the face of any motherfucker that’s thinking they can change me White-knuckle grip pushing through for the gold If you want a piece of me, I broke the motherfucking mold

Dig Bury me underneath everything that I am rearranging Dig Bury me underneath everything that I was slowly changing

Let me help you tie the rope around your neck Let me help to talk you the wrong way off the ledge Let me help you hold the glock against your head Let me help you tie the rope around your neck Let me help to talk you the wrong way off the ledge Let me help you hold the glock against your head Let me help to chain the weights onto your legs

21. “In Waves” Trivium

Do I end this all for the world to see? Do I take everybody else down Everybody else down with me?

I know that death approaches fast What’s the purpose if this life won’t last? Pulling everyone down with me

Perpetually Perpetually, we’re igniting it in waves Incessantly Incessantly, we’re sinking in flames

#soundtrack #( happy birthday arin :///// ily )#( no particular order to these songs so feel free to shuffle if u listen )#( fair warning it's full of metal )#( read more for lyrics™ )

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trashpandaorigins · 4 years

Text

The Body Keeps the Score Ch.18 Repentance

"You said it yourself bitch, we're the Guardians of the Galaxy." Gamora is finally a part of something. But the past always follows you, eats at you and she must come to grips with her deeds as she tries to build a future. Meanwhile Rocket has never cared much for anyone or anything. Together the two of them discover they are more alike than different and try to heal themselves by befriending the other.

*Content Warnings: Mentions of child/animal abuse, trauma, character death, physical torture/pain*

Title of this fic is taken from the book of the same title "The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma," by Bessel van der Kolk

It was a lie when they smiled, and said, you won't feel a thing

And as we ran from the cops, we laughed so hard it would sting

Yeah yeah, oh, if I'm so wrong, how can you listen all night long?

Now will it matter, after I'm gone? Because you never learn a goddamn thing

You're just a sad song with nothing to say, about a life long wait for a hospital stay

And if you think that I'm wrong, this never meant nothing to ya

Disenchanted - My Chemical Romance

Blood pooled under Rocket’s tongue, his sharp teeth biting down trying to staunch the contents of his stomach from erupting out of his stomach.

“Where are we?”

Behind him Nebula followed with a staunch stride, in fact he was surprised she hadn’t shot him and fled the moment they touched down. He almost wished she had. They crept through the concrete landing zone, though all the ships that once pulled up to this planet were now dashed to smithereens. Pieces of crumpled metal lay like tombstones. Rocket tried to calm his breathing, he shuddered, eyes darting about. In all the years he’d been gone it appeared no one had come to this abandoned planet, not either the ravagers had attempted to scavenge the wrecked buildings.

“Halfworld,” he struggled to speak.

He hefted his gun, one of many he’d brought with him. Nebula stepped beside him, glaring about with an ire he would normally appreciate. Now however, he just trembled. Entire body wracked with shaking, adrenaline, ready to fight anything that might come out of the shadows.

“So it's a lab, a zoo?”

The raccoonoid’s stomach curdled, Breathe...just focus...get to the building….3C just….just get inside, fix her and….g...get the fuck out.

“Stay close.”

Nebula grunted but continued on. Some part of him was glad for her presence. Shame and self-loathing twisted inside of him.

They’ll come straight here, they might be here already. No! You’re doing this for Gamora. You fucked up. This is how you fix it, and you can fix Nebula too even if you can never fix yourself. You fucked up. You lied, spied on her...you hit Groot. Tears threatened to streak his eyes.

“T...there it is,” he pointed to the large concrete building, a husky shell of a thing. Clearly unused. Rocket halted in his steps….. the doors…. the doors were still broken open. In the darkness he made out the torn rents of metal where he’d blasted through the bolts with an improvised bomb. Screeching, fire and blood, smoke, choking smoke, stinging in his lungs.

The raccoonoid sniffed, wiping a paw across his face and leveled his gun, stepping across the threshold into the bowels of the building.

“Stay close, if you hear anything shoot it.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” the woman growled, she bent her arm and Rocket watched a series of clicks and mechanisms come together, turning her hand into a firearm. In any other situation he would’ve admired it but they came to a cross section at the end of a long hall and he stopped, looking around. Paneling from the ceiling had fallen down, hanging by a chord. Dried crusted blood smattered the wall, filling his nose with a scent of rotting flesh and stale chemicals.

Needles punctured into flesh, straps too tight, pinching. The stiff metal table. Their masks, their laughter, their tools. His body opened, the feel of the fetid air brushing against organs and tissues that were never meant to know a breeze.

One paw went to his stomach on instinct. His ears swiveling to pick up any sound. Only Nebula’s heavy foot falls. He gathered himself, stomach still roiling.

“Fox!”

His head snapped up, blinking hard, he ran one paw over his face.

“W...what?”

“Which way?”

Rocket swallowed the lump in his throat, the metallic taste of blood still on this tongue. He shook his head, which way….I came from...down there...shot that one, his eyes rested on the dusty remains of a body, now nothing but bone.

“G...gimme a sec.”

Before she could object he stumbled off down the hall, leaned against the wall and vomited. Here he was again, just a sick animal surrounded by other sick, dying, drooling, decaying animals. Or so they were, before he had escaped in a bloody spectacle of gun fire and rage.

She can see you, his pride warned. But the raccoonoid hardly registered, pinching his eyes shut against the involuntary force of his gut, synching and surging painfully. He wretched again, trying to breathe between spouts of puking.

Pull yourself together! How the flark are you gonna get anything done if you can’t walk down a d’ast hallway?! They ain’t here no more. No one’s here, you made sure of that. How else are you gonna make it up to Gamora? Or Groot….? The image of the scared little flora, reeling from the blow Rocket dealt him branded in his mind. He swallowed another round of vomit, acid burning at his throat.

“What’s the matter fox? Eat too much garbage?”

Rocket wiped his muzzle with the back of his paw.

“This way,” he steadied his grip on his gun, holding it with two hands and shuffled forward, around the bodies. Down the dark corridor, doors evenly spaced on either side. He knew better than to look up into the shattered windows of the various laboratories. They crept along, through the double doors and down a flight of stairs, deeper underground through the vast labyrinth of rooms filled with cages, testing chambers, operating theaters, chemical testing labs. Rocket’s hair stood on end, remembering the menagerie of agonies.

Just keep going, you got out of here with thousands of guards you’ll be in and out quick as a rocket with no one to stop you. Ha, rocket. He allowed himself a bemused smile, that was the reason for his name after all.

“Agh!”

Rocket spun, bristling, gun aimed, chest pounding, his breath caught.

“I stepped in something,” Nebula yelped, lifting her foot out of whatever it was.

Still shaking with adrenaline the raccoonoid hurried forward, and halted.

The broken skeleton of some small creature lay dispersed and crumbling in the dusty hall. The empty sockets of its eyes staring at them both. Its skeleton had only been partially enhanced as detailed by the odd bending of vertebrae and rusted metal. Rocket crouched, sniffing, whiskers twitching and squinted at the metal panel still fused into the base of the skull. Shining a light on it, he drew a quick breath, realizing.

“You recognize him?”

“Her,” the raccoonoid corrected.

She was in the cage below mine.

Nebula made no retort, but he could feel her eyes on him. He forced himself back up, clearing his throat and sniffing.

Breathe….in...out...you’re doing this for Gamora. You’re not gonna fuck up again. You can’t...you owe Gamora that much.

“We’re almost there,” he wheezed through the fight to keep his breath steady. Nebula shook her head curtly, motioning for him to move forward. Rocket slid his back against the wall before the next corner, holding his gun close to his chest, holding his breath, knowing what he was about to face.

The double doors of the room had long since broken, lying like two more bodies on the hard floor. Beyond the threshold the procedural room yawned like a black hole. He could make out the single ominous table, the five large oversize lights hovering above like demons ready to spirit someone away. Those bright piercing lights illuminating a subject’s insides, penetrating light into everything, exposing things meant to be left in the dark. The fur on Rocket’s arms rose, the cybernetics in his shoulders and spine clenched with tension. He picked at his fur with tension.

“Ah,” he bit his tongue once more, forcing down the high pitched whine that nearly escaped him. The raccoonoid forced himself closer, each step heavy as led. His tail twitched, legs tensed ready to bolt. Though the mind may forget, may block out certain memories, the body remembers everything.

You do this, she won’t hurt Gamora no more. She’ll stop. That was the deal. Gamora won’t have to run...won’t have to be so scared. Tears pricked his eyes as he picked over the broken double doors, and crossed into that dank, room. The last time he was in this lab, he’d escaped. Killing the scientists and orderlies and bursting out the door. Groot was with him. He longed for the flora now, not the little thing who had emerged from a pot but his old best friend. Groot had been the reason for a majority of the rotting skeletons he and Nebula had passed. He wanted the large tree with him, that towering presence. If anything happened, if the Halfworlders who were out there looking for him did come, Groot would be there to protect him. But no...Groot was dead.

At least Groot didn’t die in here, Rocket thought bitterly. A stabbing pain in his gut. Tears ran down his furred cheeks. He sucked a painful breath, the sterol scent of chemicals still lingered in the air, burning him with memories. He longed for those tight wooden arms now, that gentle soothing place he had risked his life to get to just down the hall where their cages sat next to one another. He’d learned to bypass the security and slip passed the bars into the flora’s holding cell, spending the sleepless nights therein.

“So this is where you’re going to fix me?” Nebula asked, looking around the dark room. She surveyed the monitors and equipment, still hanging from wires, there were medical tools scattered about. Computers, carts of liquid vials, an array of needles, restraints, scalpels, a saw. Everything just where they left it. He thought with a shuddered breath.

“Y...yeah, I think I got everything I need..r..right...h..here.” Rocket gestured lamely around the room. Nebula looked up at the large overhead lights, two of which were out, bulbs shattered. Rocket turned the remaining light on, wincing at the white flash of memories slapped across his mind.

He wiped his eyes hastily before turning around and looking at her as she hoisted herself up with ease onto the fated cold table. Rocket sighed, rummaging around for the clear, anesthesia liquid that the scientist kept locked away. He found it easily enough following the sharp scent of it, familiar and immediately bringing him back to the day’s he’d been the one on that table.

Focus, focus. Breathe….you’re the one with the scalpel now. Not them. They're dead. A small smirk escaped him.

“What’s that?” Nebula glared at the needle poised in the raccoonoid’s paw.

“It’s an anesthetic,” Rocket explained, slowly looking at it as though it were about to come to life and prick him. “I told yah I could undo what Thanos did to yah, and I can but it ain’t gonna be pretty. You want to be knocked out for this, trust me.”

The cyborg woman eyed him, her own gaze much like his. Solid black eyes, with no iris or pupil. Foreign and unnerving. A chill ran down his spine, and not from the hollow breeze blowing through hallowed halls.

“I’m trusting you to not use it,” she countered, though she spoke uncommonly soft. Rocket opened his mouth to press her but stopped. If Gamora’s past was any inclination, there was no doubt Thanos had not offered the younger sister the luxury of anesthetic. The raccoonoid knew well what happened to those who had felt the scalpel one too many times. The body, animal or humanoid did what it did best: adapted. After enough procedures freakish panic turned to heightened panic, heightened panic to fighting, fighting to exhaustion, exhaustion….expectation and finally, grim resolve. If Nebula’s procedures were any like his own then she had grown to expect anguish. Never desensitized, but accustomed to the dance of fight or flight, survival and eventually resolve. At this point she had probably grown more used to that than the uncertainty of falling into a chemically induced sleep not knowing who or what she’d be when she awoke. He looked her over, then set the large needle down.

“Your body, your choice.”

He heard her whisper a ‘thank you’ while he back was turned but did not acknowledge it.

“Alright lay down.”

She obeyed, reclining on the metal slab, face tight. She fidgeted into the most comfortable or at least neutral position possible. With shaking paws he reached for the restraints.

“I won’t move,’ she snapped, voice cracking. He let go of the cuffs. Waiting.

“I won’t move,” she repeated. “Trust me.”

Rocket looked her over, she was more metal than flesh. He finally nodded, climbing up on the table beside her, crouching over her arm. He held his breath, holding the scalpel tight and got to work.

---

In some ways it was easier, in other ways it was harder. Rocket refused to look at her face. If he did, he’d stop and if he stopped the deal would be done and she’d go after Gamora. He worked diligently, it's just another gun, another bomb, another machine. No. It’s not, she’s a person. An evil person but a person. Don’t be like them. They’re the really evil ones. Steady, stop shaking, don’t vomit. Not one’s here, no one’s coming.

He pulled the taunt faux flesh over from her elbow down to the wrist. It didn’t take long to find the storage, to dye it and measure and cut. He never bothered ransacking the supplies of the place and he knew where to find whatever he needed. Even reduced to abandoned disarray the labs of Halfworld itself were always happy to provide tools of ingenuity and suffering. Art, the scientists had called it. Never saying what their ambitions truly were, butchery. Torture.

Nebula let out a hiss of pain here, a bite of her lip there, but she kept her word and kept still. Only arching her back off the table twice and quickly righting herself. Expertly clenching her muscles and sucking in the pain.

Like sister like...sister. Rocket thought bleakly.

“Almost done,” he tried to assure her, fixing the fake flesh to her wrist. The hand was already done, each finger neatly covered with the skin like material and dyed to match her natural tone. She requested he keep some modifications in place, like the ability to turn said hand into a gun. He did this by leaving her palm alone, the small gun therein could come out if she willed it, covered by what would look like a black fingerless glove.

“T...there,” he finished, examining the arm in its entirety. She flexed it experimentally and eased herself up, dizzy at first. “Easy...it's gonna take a few hours to heal, even with the laser seal.”

Nebula nodded but bent the arm back and forth watching the flexible flesh move with her. Rocket spied the smallest inclination of her lips.

“Told ya I’d make it better.”

She looked up, glaring at him.

“You said you’d fix all of it,” her voice fell to a snarl.

“I will, I will,” he assured, sniffing and rubbing his eyes. Fatigue ached his eyes, suppressing the frenzied urge to run stole any strength of concentration from him, and the arm was the easy part.

Nebula lay back down, adjusting herself slightly and took a deep breath.

“You don’t wanna….a...break for a sec? You were just lying down for like….eight terran hours.”

Rocket looked around, chest heaving in preparation as he peered down the dark hall the way they had come, nothing.

“Well? What are you waiting for Fox?”

The raccoonoid tried to breathe, looking over the metal plating in her face and skull. His stomach summersaulted, the room going darker, head spinning.

Just...concentrate…

The raccoonoid hopped down from the table, on to the floor and dragged over a nearby stool, up to her head and hovered directly over her face.

“If you try anything,” she seethed, “I’ll kill you.”

Even in his delirium Rocket recognized an empty threat when he heard one.

“Just….hol….hold still.”

Maybe this was his repentance, sort of. If he were worthy of it. Rocket gingerly lifted the main panel from her head that curved over the dome of her head to just over her right eye.

“Stars,” he breathed, eyes widening. “What’d he do to you.”

“Everything he didn’t want to do to Gamora.”

The venom in her voice was plain. For once Rocket did not form a rebuttal. Staring into the inner workings of Nebula’s cybernetically enhanced mechanized brain was staring into the one part of himself he could not see during the procedures. Is this...what I look like...on the inside? His insides curled in on themselves, the chronic pain in his cybernetics ached and pinched.

Use the pain, channel it.

He did, the noxious nervous energy wracking him to the point of near mania. Mania he forced into working on Nebula’s cerebral enhancements. Wire by wire, snipping things there, modifying things here.

“A’right,” he sighed, setting down the tongs he’d been working with. “Almost done. Now come the memories. What you want me to get rid of?”

He waited for a moment, taking the time to run his paws through his fur, shaking his head. Once again he forced himself to look up, down the empty hallway. Expecting the Halfworlders to come charging in, or one of the corpses on the floor to leap to life.

“Leave it all,” she whispered hoarse. He frowned, staring down at her.

“Yah...sure?”

Nebula’s eyes shifted, her hands knotting together.

“Yes.”

“You really are a masochist,” he grumbled.

“I never knew my true parents. I was an urchin on Wresreenia before Thanos found me. I have nothing else. If I don’t have the rage of those memories...I have nothing.”

“Yeah,” Rocket agreed. He would have laughed with the ironic similarity between them. The scientists effectively erased all memory of anything before Halfworld. What he was before he was made he did not know. All he knew was that he wasn’t always like he was now.

“Alright, last part. Hold still I’m gonna put the plating back and cover it with that same fleshy covering. The laser seal will leave a small scar but it’ll heal.”

Almost done...you’re almost done...just close her up and you’ll be outta here.

Rocket measured and set the fleshy covering that would go over the panel, already dyed to match her skin and stretched it, shifting about her shoulders and reaching as far as he could to pull it down, hold it in place and close it up.

“Okay, the eyes the last bit,” the raccoon flexed his fingers, aching from the tools and precision. His back wracked with kinks from trying to get the tools at the right angel wherever he needed them. The metal in his skeleton grind against his bones.

The cybernetics around her eye were tiny, nearly imperceptible with enhanced optical cables for enhanced night vision. The raccoonoid hunched over her face, carefully extracting the machinery that made her eyes into scopes, immediately able to identify a target’s weaknesses and anticipating their next move. He left the night vision per her request.

“Is that it?” He could hear the begging in her voice, thin and hopeful.

“All we gotta do is jumpstart your system again,” he answered. A black pit forming in his insides, he eyed the busted generator typically used to start up cybernetic systems. Wires and cables all fell around it and spilled out like guts, several pieces missing.

“How are we going to do that?”

Rocket searched around for any inkling of an idea, spare parts, batteries, something, anything.

“Uhh….”

“You don’t know?!” Nebula cried, clearly fury almost hiding her fright.

“I’m thinkin’, I’m thinkin….” the raccoonoid paused.

It worked with Gamora’s arm...I could use my own cybernetics as the jumpstart….but with Gams it was just a simple set in her arm. I’d have to boost Nebula’s entire system….

He glanced behind her at the port in the base of her head. Unlike her sister’s meticulously placed cybernetics, each fixed with precise care, Nebula’s were shunted in every which way, haphazard.

Even if my wiring were enough to do it….I’d have to maximize electrical output to her...it’d be risky. I could fry my whole system…. he didn’t know what would happen. Still, he jumped down, scavenging through the drawers and store closets for any spare cables. A restraint staff with electrical prongs lay on the floor in the hall a few feet away.

“I thought...we were a family...Groot taught me that. That’s what his sacrifice meant to me. I thought....I was sure it would mean something to you too. I thought if anyone could get through to you it would’ve been him.” Gamora’s voice howled in his mind as he grabbed a bunch of wires, sizing them up.

“What are you doing fox?”

“Shhh, lemme think!” He hissed, pulling one of the blue wires from the bundle, this would do. He took his gun from his holster and crept slowly into the hall, resisting the urge to pull at his fur.

Gamora was right. You sold your teammate for money...Groot would be ashamed of you. His sacrifice taught Gamora something. What will it teach you?

“Gamora is worth it,” he whispered through his tears of fear. He seized the electrical staff, scurried back to Nebula and stood beside her on the table.

Groot thought we were worth dyn’ for…Gamora’s worth this. Even if it goes wrong. I always knew I’d die in this shit hole anyway.

So what if he did kick the can in here? What would that make him? No better than any of the other sorry subjects who met their end against the tests or under the chemicals.

He yanked his jumpsuit down and shoved plugged the cable into the back of his head, twisting it in until he heard the click.

“What?” Nebula demanded, she sat on the edge of the table now, ready to leap off.

“Nothing. I’m gonna jumpstart your system with my own.”

Gamora is worth it, you little monster.

“This is gonna hurt for both of us, but once your cybernetics get back online you’ll know. When they’re back and you can move, unplug this from my back okay?”

The cyborg woman nodded curtly, dark eyes flashing.

“You remember your parta the deal?”

“Yes.”

“A'ight then smurfette.”

Rocket hooked the other end of the cable into her, then glanced down at his own implants and picked up the electro restraining staff. He sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his paw, tears now staining the fur of his face. He grit his teeth, switched the electrical staff on and pushed it against the bolts in his clavicle.

White hot bolts of static stabbed through his chest, expanding out his entire body, through his limbs and to his writing tail. The body remembers. He curled inward on himself, dropping the staff to the ground and gripping the edge of the metal, scraping his claws against it. Someone was screaming. Rocket’s body vibrated with the energy of electricity, his pain receptors firing off all at once. He tensed, nearly levitating off the cold slab. The thing inside his skull vibrated.

S….sorr...Gams...b...breathe...just...b..brea…

“AAARRRGGGHHHH!”

He couldn’t tell who was wailing, him or Nebula.

Roving eyes fell on the cyborg woman. He clawed to get to her, though she herself was haunched, biting her lip so hard it bled. The wire between them sparked and fizzed with electric activity.

“Mora…” he gasped, reaching out through the pins and needles in his limbs and grasped for Nebula’s shirt. He crouched on her chest, balling his fist around her collar so tight it tore.

“Gime. Your. Word.” He seethed, choking through the pink of foam and blood and filled his mouth.

Nebula forced her eyes open, her mouth in a tightly pressed line. Like him the electricity beneath her new skin glowed with purple light.

“I….w...won’t...k...kill her. I...i'll g...give h...her...a...c..chance."

Maybe Nebula never wanted to kill Gamora in the first place, maybe she just wanted someone to listen. Rocket felt his insides shaking harder, the machine in his chest he wished was a heart jumped and started. His muscles seized, tightening, paws shaking. He tried to breathe, lungs spasming with shards of glass. Everything swam, the lights above became dull, his mind clouded, unable to think, to reason. There was no thought, only feeling and non feeling . He couldn’t feel the cyborg lady’s shirt anymore, or her chest on which he crouched. He could feel jets of agonized burning pulses tore through him, heating every piece of metal inside of him.

His mind gone, his body adapted, trying desperately to protect itself by straining to curl into a ball. If only his motor function would cooperate.

“Subject 89P13 is nearly complete…..

“I’m kinda disappointed, I thought it’d be better, this one’s kinda weak.”

Stabbing, clenching.

“You were awake...when they did this to you.”

Gamora

“Thank you.”

Her hand, warm and friendly, holding his.

“Nebula!”

Something somewhere shouted, muffled, like hearing someone speak underwater.

“Let him go! Our feud does not concern him!”

Rocket tried to move his head towards the noise, but it was so heavy, his body would not obey. He curled, tightening, vision turning to black. Pressure builded against his back, at the base of his skull and down through his spine. Pressing and restricting and then….everything stopped.

#the body keeps the score fic #gotg #rocket raccoon #gamora #nebula #peter quill #star lord #drax the destroyer #gotgfanfic #Guardians of the Galaxy #my writing

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punk-mentality-blog · 5 years

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Never Happy Enough

Chapter One, I guess:

Some people can never truly be happy. I have a friend who has recently started taking medication. I support her because I understand that some people need to have meds in their life. I personally do not believe taking medicine will fix my issues. But just as people need God to get through life, some need medication. However, when my fiance to-be suggested I could go on Anti-Depressants and/or Bipolar medication, I had to explain that I just couldn’t. He’s concerned for my deteriorating mental health and I know he means well. I just don’t believe that pills will solve all my issues. All medication is is a placebo that people profit from. You are told that if you’re filled with these missing chemicals that you’ll be happy..but it’s just a pitch, a means to an end.

You are told time and time again what to do to achieve happiness. People say that with the right amount of exercise, a healthy diet, keeping around your loving family and friends, and if you keep on top of your goals in school or work, you’ll be happy. Then it leaves people like me wondering why it’s too exhausting to try even one of those. You just don’t have the motivation and energy to work out today, tomorrow, or the hundreds of days that may follow. You can’t afford the over priced fruits and veggies your body aches for but make you sick to your stomach; because you’re too full of enough food as it is. Your family has their own issues at home and you can’t pull away their attention for something that you know they can’t fix; So why bother them with it? Your friends have lives outside of you, and because there’s only two of them, you run out of places to turn. You run out of loved ones because you’re too scared to surround yourself, knowing that no matter how many spots are filled, it’s never enough. So, it’s better to isolate yourself and say there are plenty of places to be taken, plenty of other peoples to fill them and tell you that you matter. But it’s still not enough. Isolating yourself is so much easier than letting yourself be vulnerable, than sitting around everyday, wondering everyday when they’re going to leave and why. You can’t keep up with your grades because when you’re at home, all you can think about is how badly you’re doing and have been doing since the beginning. You tell yourself you’ll get better, but let’s face it, you’re nearing on 19 years old and you’re already out of that childhood hope that you can be anything you want to be. You can’t just be that person, you can’t just be happy, and healthy, and successful. You have to work for it, but how are you supposed to stay motivated long enough to get your life together when it’s exhausting to brush your teeth in the morning or take a shower at night?

I know what to do to be happy, at least what people tell you is that will make you happy, but is it? Can I ever be happy? When I was 16, I thought my life was the worst it could possibly be with the people in my life and who came into it, destroyed everything I had, and then left without a goodbye. Then I graduated high school, and I was so lost. I didn’t plan on living passed 17, let alone making it long enough to say that my 19th birthday is this month. Then when I realized I didn’t know what I wanted to do because I never planned on doing anything, I was scared all over again. And how the hell is that fair? Why did I only ever give myself the one option? I’m all about planning for every terrible situation that could ever come to mind. So, why didn’t I think of the worst outcome? That I couldn’t go through with it. That I was too scared of the endless list of possibilities after I take that final breath. When you’re born, you’re given a script of different events that must happen by the end of it all, but that everything in-between was filler content. You are expected to improvise with the characters, props, costumes and personalities that will come into the shot. Some characters are pre-cast, such as yourself and family. Then the other characters will be cast as the show is produced. Some will be fired, others will quit, and for some.. it’s decided that they would be leaving the show for another, whether by whoever is behind that camera making decisions as Director. Or if they just got tired of the same old episode structure with less pay off the more it happened. The ending just isn’t close enough, and they hate the wait. They’re too impatient for what it takes to make the happily ever after. You are the main character, living between the pages of a book that’s empty. You don’t get to read ahead, or skip to the ending so you know how it ends up. You live through every imaginary page from the end of one chapter to another. Because that’s how life is. You’re the writer of a book that has no set ending, so you try and figure it out, but life isn’t like writing a book. Not at all, because as an author, you can manipulate the story in any which way you so please. While everyone tells you that you can, it’s not really true. You have co-authors you never agreed to take over, but they want to write this chapter, so they steal the pen from you and who are you supposed to tattle to now. You have reached a point in your life where you would rather let the co-author control your book while you waste away your life in the slowest way possible. You convince yourself they’re the better writer, and it’s just easier this way. Then the day will come where you either gather up the courage to fire them because you remember that you’re the Boss around here. Or, they leave like everyone else because even someone who is obsessed with every detail of your life can get tired of looking too hard at this worthless book that should just be scrapped for ideas and throw out the unimportant details like their identity because it was a shitty character anyways. Nobody wants to read that it doesn’t always get better.

So, why do you live through life even though you’ve convinced yourself that it’s pointless? Who knows, it’s different for everyone and you think you’re the only one with this special case. Special case? That’s laughable, what do you even have to be depressed about? Sure your dad was hardly there, but your mom was a goddamn rockstar who loves you more than you thought anyone ever could. Then you tell yourself she had to. But hey, what about your wonderful friends? They choose to have you in their life, right? Sure, but that doesn’t always mean they love you. You’ve had a toxic best friend who show you how much better they are wearing your skin. Which sounds more fucked up if you actually see her as the Devil incarnate who tore your identity from you and wore it like a trophy. But she didn’t, she just wore the same clothes that she didn’t even personally like so that you would shame yourself for the body you’ve let yourself be happy with even though you’re just a blob. Then again, you were strong enough to tell her to get fucked and risk living life without her. Finally you realize, hey, I didn’t need this girl to guide me around and pretend that you’re the one staying at her heel like a sad little dog who’s been shown affection for the first time since it gave up hope. No, you don’t have to let her wrap that leash around you. She doesn’t have the power to hold you back unless you let her.

When you realize that you are worth so much more than you let yourself believe, you know that you couldn’t have done so without help. You finally let someone into your heart to stay, and holy shit that’s scary. This asshole that you thought came into your life to teach you the same lesson you’ve learned for the last 3 years on a loop: That you deserve to be used. He hurts you like every other guy has since you moved to this shitty town. He teaches you that it’s not the town, or even the people in it who have come in and ruined everything you thought you knew. It’s you. That’s the hardest lesson to learn. You, and you alone, decide how this is all going to happen. You know that you can strive for greatness, and great things will happen. But he wasn’t thrown into your life to teach you the same cheesy message they slap on motivational posters so they can say they tried to reach out and help you.

No, he comes into your life to teach you that none of that shit matters, and it’s okay to not be okay. It’s more normal than people let you believe, and even if the details are different, the feeling is the same. He opens up your mind to the peace that comes with knowing that you can change yourself. He teaches you how to love yourself, that some people really do stay for the long hall. He teaches you that sometimes your soulmate isn’t always supposed to play a romantic role. There are people in the world who so perfectly understand you that you can not speak a single word and they’ll know that you’re in pain. He teaches you that soulmates are real, and the connection is something you can totally ignore if you’re too scared to feel it.

Unfortunately for you, he was also a lesson in not wasting time on trivial details.. Because the day you found out that he died was the worse day of your life so far. You don’t hear much on the grief felt when losing a best friend. You hear about losing family members, and significant others, but you’ve hardly been made to understand the grief that plagues your heart when your best friend is gone. It’s a pain so raw that you can feel every tear in your Soul like the expose roots of teeth. You can feel it getting worse the longer it goes untreated. It hurts in the cold. It hurts when you pay too much attention to it, not being able to leave it be so it can try and heal a bit on it’s own. Soon enough it hurts to breathe. You have to admit you need help, and it’s a vulnerable position to put yourself in. There are no root canals for the Soul. There’s no easy fix. You find yourself even more lost when the one person you had to go to, isn’t there anymore. Not just because you made the mistake of dating again. Not because you’re in some petty fight that you will move passed in a day or two, depending on how pushy he is at the time. No, you can’t turn to him ever again, and your left filling in his half of the conversation hoping for guidance. You have to restart from the beginning, only now you won’t have him to hold your hand.

It’s like some sick joke that just keeps getting worse. Suddenly there’s an actual reason to be sad, and all you feel is… Empty. You thought the worst was behind you and then a part of your Soul was ripped away and you were expected to move on without it. Time doesn’t stand still because suddenly one of the most important people in your life is gone. You must again realize that co-authors exist, not just for you but for other people as well. He didn’t have life figured out either, he just showed you a better perspective to live by. He was just as lost as you. Just as lonely, depressed, and empty as you. You knew that, of course you knew that, you were what he was for you. At least you hoped you were..

Hell, were you? How could you ever know if you helped him as much as he helped you. His co-author butted in with the idea of spicing up the story with a great tragedy on a secondary character they’ve shown sudden interest in. So they mixed a little binge drinking and depression with a loaded shotgun and told you that you were invisible. You find yourself glad that he died like a drunk idiot rather than think about how he messaged you two days before he died asking to hang out with you but you turned him down because you were isolating yourself like a moron. You find yourself glad that you weren’t the one who let him down. You have nightmares about his last moments and wished that you’d taken more pictures with him. Grief is a funny thing when you’ve gone through life, blissfully unaware of how those funerals you had gone to in the past had affected the people who cared. Until now, you’d never lost someone who you loved. You don’t have close family, and going to your grandmother’s funeral was just another day for you. Just like when you found out this extraordinary person was taken away forever, life went on for everyone else around you because they didn’t know him like you did.

So what if you finally learned you deserved love? What kind of lesson ends with killing off the person who taught you it? No matter the number of words you scribble down and type out, you know it won’t bring him back. How are you supposed to move on when you’ve never known such a unique love as your Soulmate being your best friend and nothing more. Fuck, but wasn’t he though? He wasn’t your True Love, but he was your Soulmate. You believe that, he was more than a friend, and more than a lover. You connected with him in a way that was scary to feel, but he showed you that it could be so beautiful to be vulnerable.

After you’ve finally found love, he has to watch you break over a relationship he doesn’t understand. He understands that this boy in your life is important to you, and that you have no romantic feelings for, he’s gone now, and it hurts. He doesn’t know how to fix it, and neither do you. Your best friend understood you more than anyone ever could; Especially you. You love him for holding you when you found out, because news like this can be dropped like an Atomic Bomb, it shows no mercy and stops everything around you. You have to move on, and for a while you live in denial. You convince yourself that your best friend’s sense of humor has gotten a hell of a lot darker than usual. Then the day comes when you have to sit in a church and listen to story, after story about how he was an amazing person, and he was really gone. For the first time in your life, you see him without the goofy fucking smile that is engraved in your heart. But you move passed it and eat your feelings.

There’s something about this idiot that makes you want to be better though. Not your best friend, but your boyfriend. He’s the sweetest guy you’ve ever met, and you think it’s too good to be true. He loves you, he’s been with you for a little over two years now, and that’s the craziest thing. Of course, you wouldn’t have been able to remove the filter that insecurity and anxiety put over him because of people from the past. No, you did that because of your best friend showing you that you’re just a paranoid idiot who is just falling back into self destructive tendencies. So, you finally just let it happen, you let someone love you and treat you right without panicking that he has some ulterior motive.

No, for once you’ve actually met a guy that both makes you happy, and treats you right. You never thought you’d find him. Hell, you didn’t even mean to. You had every intention on killing yourself before this asshole said ‘I love you’ first. You didn’t think anyone but your mother was capable of such a thing. He proves you wrong when he tells you he loves you, and you find yourself blurting out ‘I love you, too’. Such a simple phrase you’d only ever been on the receiving end of up until now. The hell are you supposed to say after something like that? I usually panic and insult him afterwards. As if he’ll react differently than giving me that big stupid grin of satisfaction knowing that I’m being a bitch because I’m still adjusting to the whole ‘being happy’ thing.

He’s pretty phenomenal himself and you think that this could finally be your happily ever after. However, you are once again reminded that there are no time skips in real life. Love stories don’t end after the two main idiots finally decide to let another person love them. They work at that ever after or it won’t ever come. Just because you’re in love and you finally have happiness, doesn’t mean your happy. Okay, now how the hell does that make sense? Why is it that no matter how much your heart swells when he tells you how beautiful you are, or when he plans your future while you sit there and listen to him preparing to live with you for the rest of his life; Willingly, like some idiot. Why doesn’t that fix it? You didn’t realize that you were filling your life with meaningless relationships.You don’t go around sleeping with everyone, but you serial date because you’re afraid to be alone.. God, you’re a love-whore.

You have depended on this idea that being in love will help you heal. You convince yourself that this person is the reason you’re better. Just like when you let people control you before, only this time instead of depression, it’s supposed to be hope. Hope is just a spiritual drug you develop an addiction to because it’s easier that way. You need a healthy dose of hope in your life, so why not take it? All this hope can lead you to becoming better. Never even realizing that it’s not because of this person that loves you, through no fault of your own. It was you. You are the reason you are happy. You are the reason you are depressed. You are responsible for everything you feel, it all started with you. It all ends with you. You’re not happy because you’re in love. You’re happy because you believed you couldn’t be without these pre-set goals crammed down your throat from the very beginning. When you realize that this thing you thought you needed your whole life isn’t what changed you? You change again. Like an idiot, you’ve questioned why you are allowed to be happy again.

You realize that you aren’t fixed.

You’re just as broken as you were a year ago, if not more so, only you had love to depend on, to distract you. No, you haven’t changed. You’re the same sad loser you were before him. Once again, you feel empty. Hope, love, and happiness are the same as taking medication. Yes, I actually remembered where I was going with this.. Medication doesn’t change you anymore than being in love changed me. His love isn’t what changed me. Medication isn’t the reason people change. You just have a new sense of hope that you can change. So, you swallow a pill because you think you need to, or you steal a kiss because you know you can. It doesn’t change the way you are, just the perspective you live by. Whatever it is that you let yourself get tricked into fixing yourself with, it helps you be you. Not because you needed something else for help, but because you needed to remind yourself that you’re capable of doing it. It just takes a really long fucking time, and you’re an impatient person.

Signed, A Depressed Goth Loser.

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mcrmadness · 6 years

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Bit of anxiety related stuff once in a while...

It’s been a while since I’ve written here and I think the next time is now.

WARNING: Long post is long........................................ *sigh*

It’s the worst time of the year for me here in Finland atm. The seasons change, the darkest time of the year. Here during the darkest months (basically) the day is is just a few hours long (like... 6-8?) and the rest of the day is just dark after dark. The worst part for me is always the time after Christmas and before the days start to really get more bright and when we start to finally get those sunny days. So it’s rare to even see the whole damn sun during this time even tho it’s light outside. It’s still not bright. (And when February and the sun finally arrive, it’s good for my mind but bad for my head as I start to get more headaches and sometimes also migraines just because of how bright everything is.)

Seasonal Affective Disorder is a thing over here and that’s what affects me also, I treat it with “bright light therapy” which mean I have this bright light thingy at home and I have to sit in front of it. It really does help (it simulates sunlight) but the polar night is never easy for me. Especially when I don’t have enough time for that light as I ALWAYS start to sleep less even tho I’m more tired than during summer. I guess getting up in the morning just annoys me so much that I think to myself the morning comes slower if I go to sleep later. And it’s also making everything worse as I’m so tired 24/7 yet I feel like I just don’t have enough free time in 24 hours and I just keep procrastinating everything.

This also always makes my health anxiety worse and atm it’s pretty bad. I’m really anxious and tense 24/7, the darker it gets, the worse it gets. It does not leave me alone during the daytime either, but somehow the nights are just the worst. I have this congenital heart defect that was operated when I was 3 years old, it’s fine and I don’t need meds but I just need to have it checked every two year. And this is exactly the same situation as it was 2 years ago when I had the check last time. It always gets so worse because I feel like 2 years is so long time and anything is possible. I can’t trust my own body because in my mind I live my life as if I was sick at some part of my body. It changes over time and by whhere I’ve feeling these “symptoms”. But right now my heart is the number one. It has always been somewhere back there in my life and I’ve been to therapy for a year now and now we talk about it as a possible post-traumatic stress disorder caused by my heart surgery. I feel like it defines my whole life. In reality, competitive sports are the only thing that is prohobited for me but it’s okay because I’ve never liked sports. And I start to feel bad about just normal sport (nothing heart related, just the overall feeling of it. I can’t stand heat and I hate sweating and it makes me feel sick. There’s been only one time in my life when sports have caused me to feel the rush of endorphin but usually it just feels bad as I’m a HSP / Higly Sensitive Person.) But the problem here is that my mind doesn’t understand the difference and it thinks I’m mortally ill. Like, I constantly feel like I shouldn’t do this or that because I’m ill and it could kill me. When in reality I’m not ill. Hypochondria, you could say...

It’s really tiring to be this sensitive about your own body functions. And even if I don’t feel anything different I still WAIT for something to happen. I’m just alarmed 24/7, ready to panic and do something if needed. Usually I just go to my parents’ house “to be observed” or try to talk to my siblings and so. I feel like it’s mixture of everything. Bit like OCD but instead of being afraid of illnessess I could get from somewhere, I’m afraid of illnessess that appear out of nowhere _inside of you. The idea of not being able to control your own body is so scary. Your own body could kill you and it’s scary as hell. It’s so scary that I procrastinate about shower and sleeping because I feel like those places are where I’m the most vulnerable. I haven’t showered in couple of days because only time to do so is in the evening (except when I have a day off) and that’s when I get tired and also most anxious and I can’t take a shower because I’m so afraid of my own body and those panic attacks that it’s easier to not go there and just sit here waiting for the possible panic attack, than take a shower and have a panic attack and then try to be as fast as possible because how embarrassing it would be if I needed emergency and I’d be naked when they find me. It’s easier to be fully clothed if needed to leave fast than to be in shower. I’ve also slept couple of days on my cough because falling asleep is scary, or the moment when everything is quiet and it’s just you and your own body and you feel every damn heart beat, every palpation and every beat that is normal, but for some reason it feels through the whole body as if the whole body was shaking to those beats. It’s easier to watch tv and fall asleep “accidentally” when you’re concentrated on something else.

It’s bit like the years 2006/2007 all over again. I had really hard time because of my heart. Only way to me to deal with it was to concentrate on My Chemical Romance’s music and dvd. I shit you not when I tell that I listened to them and watched that goddamned dvd every damn day, literally I heard them 24/7. It helped me to concentrate on something else than my own anxiety. It was all heart related, I was 15 and it was my last class at school and I was so burnt out because of the whole school, I had really hard time sleeping because I was afraid to fall asleep because I was so afraid that I would die in my sleep, I slept with light on so it’s was not only darkness I saw with my eyes closed. In the end I got over it in one night when I realized I was so burnt out and stressed out that I started reacting to that with my body. It tried to tell me to clam the fuck down, to sleep and take days off, I felt it in my heart because it was the only way my body felt it could tell me to stop beating myself up. Even tho I had already given up, I didn’t go to school or anything but it was so bad every day because every morning I knew I SHOULD HAVE GONE and I knew the next day someone would say me that I should go to school, they would call us from the school to tell how I really should be there. I don’t think I got any sick leave either so it was really hard for my diligent personality to have again and again and again one day off school when I basically did that “illegally” and it made me feel even worse even tho I was so tired that my mornings started when I couldn’t sleep anymore as I had already woken up and my heart said hello to me so I got up and with my blanked I always sat down next to the living room’s radiator and I just kept crying because I wasn’t able to leave to school today either.

This is not so bad as back the whole situation was, as now I’m not forced to do anything, but just the way the seasons change affect my mood and anxiety is pretty annoying. It has always changed over time, some years are worse than others but it always gets better somewhere around February or March. January is always really dark month for me, figuratively as well as literally.

I think one reason this gets this bad every second year is the fact I probably start to stress the heart check. (It’s just EKG and ultrasound so nothing huge.) At the same time I’m relieved it’s finally here but also I’m afraid to hear if there’s something wrong. It’s really hard with this type of health anxiety because I don’t really know what I even except. I hope everything is okay but... when it is, it feels good for a while but I know the anxiety will always come back so at the same time it’s not actually that relieving because I know the physical/psychosomatic symptoms will come back eventually. Sooner or later I start to experience palpations and in my head I start to live as something was wrong inside of my body. When everything is okay it’s relieving but I can’t help it, in my head I also always immediately start to question the doctor. What if they just missed something serious? The ultrasound was so quick, how could they see everything in that time? Also my heart NEVER skips a beat or has palpations during EKG or ultrasound. NEVER, I always tell them I have them but they never show up during those tests!!! Atm another big thing for me probably is the fact this time there’s different doctor than what I’ve had ever since I started seeing cardiologists specialized to adult hearts. And as I haven’t seen this cardiologist ever before it of course scares me to hear her thoughts on everything and also I’m afraid if she will notice something the other one never did. If she uses the ultrasound for longer time? What if she sees something new there? What if her opinions differ from the other’s opinions a lot? It’s so scary.

For me, I have trust issues. I feel the same about my heart as I do with my car when I’ve took it to checkup: it was okay by now but did they check everything properly and few months before the next checkup I’m terrified because I’m afraid something might have broken up after the previous checkup and what if my car randomly catches fire or explodes. With my heart, I start to feel “symptoms” that could be severe and with my car I start to smell smoke when there’s no smoke. Nothing is more terrifying than driving long distances and sensing something that causes so horrible panic attack that you will sit so tensed for the rest of the day. Last week I had one, this time about my heart and I was so afraid something would happen and it was dark and in Finland there’s forests between cities and I was so afraid something would happen to me while I’m in the middle of nowhere when it’s pitch black everywhere and if no one finds me. I felt better everytime I saw someone driving behind me because I knew they would notice if something went wrong. But as soon as they drove past me, my anxiety got worse. It’s this “need of eyewitnesses” I have, I need someone to be around when I’m having a panic attack so there would be at least someone to do the emergency call if I can’t do it myself. So far I’ve never done one and I’ve never been to hospital because of my “symptoms” because I’m too deep into this mental illness shit that I keep telling me everything is me just being mental yet at the same time I’m afraid of the thought “what if it is not?” I don’t want to go to hospital just because of my psychosomatic things, it’s be so embarrassing and also there’s real sick people that need their help and I don’t want to waste their time with my bullshit when someone could actually die over there.

I so hope I get to see a psychiatrist soon enough. I still haven’t got any of this diagnosed but I feel like I need SOMETHING because right now I kinda can’t fully believe it’s all just psychosomatic because I has this belief in my mind that I can’t be mentally ill if I don’t have papers for it. Havening it written down would be best thing in the world. I think it would actually make me feel much better than a cardiologist saying “everything is alright”. When obviously SOMETHING is not right SOMEWHERE. Maybe in my body there’s nothing wrong but in my mind there’s so many things so fucked up that I feel like a complete mess. I guess it’s like having papers all over your desk and floor but no one gave you the empty folders where to put them into. I feel that I need those folders so I can arrange my papers and finally have some kind of peace when I know at least something in my mind might finally be in order. I don’t know if it would work like this but I believe it would help, even a little. Actually I think it would make me feel better about myself because right now I feel like I have no right to be who I am because I always am told that I can’t be this and that if I don’t have it diagnosed. Or people ask why you always have to have something wrong when I say something about wanting to have a diagnose. It’s not me wanting something to be wrong but me wanting to name something I already have. Imagine that legs and arms didn’t have any names and try then to tell people that you have these four things, “maybe two of them could be legs but I’m not really sure as no one has really told me what they are so I guess they’re legs but I just hope someone would name them so I didn’t feel so weird walking on two sticks that might or might nor be called legs...”

At least in my country being mentally ill is kinda... taboo? Like, here’s LOTS AND LOTS of us but people are easily ashamed of it and it’s something you don’t really discuss. People don’t wanna talk but even less they wanna hear. For some reason it’s something that is really... awkward subject. And often it feels like people start to see you through their prejudice even if they had known you for years. As if it would change the person. Only thin there has changed is that this other person now knows something they didn’t know 2 seconds ago. Yet the whole person can turn very awkward as if they no longer knew how to act around you. I just would like to have things diagnosed and to be able to tell people about these things that are part of me without being judged by something they don’t even know any facts about.

So my point here was that I meant to take a shower today but I'm too tired and tensed and overstimulated (HSP) that I couldn’t do that even today, so I have to take a shower in the morning. I anyway have therapy tomorrow, so... This Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) has also got to this point now where I wouldn’t bother washing my dished either. I should cook something tomorrow but I don’t really think I can manage and do that tomorrow. I should do the dishes first and... nah. But with days like these I always try to tell myself it’s okay to not feel good everyday. It’s okay to be tired and if I don’t manage the dishes, then I don’t. Then I do it the other day but I don’t make it somethig to stress about because it’s just bunch of tableware and not so big deal. I’ll do them eventually but if today’s not the day, then it isn’t and it’s okay.

Btw, talking of MCR, bit over a week ago they uploaded outtake versions of each of their music videos to YT and I watched all of them of course. Well, some of them actually made my anxiety to go away. But some of them, those who I associate with the dvd Life on the Murder Scene the most, actually caused the anxiety to get worse. For the next couple of days I felt the crippling anxiety in my stomach every time I thought about the videos. I guess it was because the last time I’ve actually seen anything about those videos was when I had this rough break down when I was 15/16 and even tho it felt bad watching those, I still watched them. I guess it was bit like violently tearing open the old (mental) wounds. And I have a lot of mental wounds, tbh. I think there’s a lot I have never actually dealth with any of them the way they should be taken care of. I just got so used to negative experiences I took them but just... buried them somewhere and now they’re popping up as memories like some old haunting ghosts. I feel like my whole life is like a sea of old ghosts and that I should go and talk to each of them separately to make them feel better about themselves...

Idk. There’s just so many thoughts right now. Or that’s bit wrong actually, I have always too many thoughts goind around in my head. It never stops. I don’t really know how to start dealing with all this but I feel like by writing this, some of those “papers” in that metaphor back there have already found their places. It’s possible that the shelf containing all those “files”also will be never ending shelf, but I still feel that it’s be better to have those papers in files in a shelf than to have them piling up around you until you drown in them.

Now, I think I go and try to sleep. This wall of text actually made me feel a slightly better already. I just hope somewhere in this world would be something or someone who would have time for things like these. In therapy there’s never enough time. Not even if there’d be some 24/7 therapy and if I get to be there for a week straight, I still think I’d feel like that I’ve not done yet. But anyway, this is enough, for now.

Thanks for reading, if there’s still anyone after this text ends.

#personal #mental health #mental disorder #ocd #gad #health anxiety #hypochondria #congenital heart defect #tetralogy of fallot #mental illness #seasonal affective disorder #panic

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herdustisverypretty · 7 years

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Question tag for AO3 writers~~

I found the original questions on AFF a while back, and I thought since I’ve been tagged in so many meme things lately, I’d also tag a bunch more people in this one XD Since the questions were designed for AFF, I’ve reworked some of them to fit for AO3 writers. I also removed two questions rather than trying to translate them to AO3 terms. So, I’ll fill out my answers first, and then put the blank questions again at the bottom for you to easily copy and paste!

1. How did you come up with your username and what does it mean?

'Her dust is very pretty' is the last part of a Dorothy Parker poem called Epitaph for a Darling Lady. Dorothy Parker is the only poet I’ve ever liked. I usually detest poetry and find it stupid and annoying. But I like most of hers. I used this as my first tumblr URL too. It’s just kind of my name now. I’ve been using it since 2010.

2. Which fanfic of yours has the most feedback? (bookmarks/subscriptions/hits/kudos)

Subs is Chemicals with 177, bookmarks is Neko at 116, hits is Chemicals at 18600, and kudos is Chemicals again with 694. Stats are weird.

3. What is your AO3 profile icon and why did you choose it?

It’s ahegao Kuroko lmaaaaooooo. I chose it cause I love slutty Kuroko.

4. Do you have any regular/favourite commenters?

Quite a few actually. Maybe too many to list even... I’d say High_Noon and Goldfasan are the ones I recognise or see the most?

5. Is there a fanfic that you keep going back to read again and again?

I don’t actually read that much fanfiction? Which might be odd for someone who writes a lot of fanfiction. Idk I tend to find a few really good ones and then reread them for eternity and never look for anything new. Though tbh I haven’t read fanfiction for a number of months now. I’ve been too busy, or too stressed (and definitely too autistic).

6. How many stories are you subscribed to? How many do you have bookmarked? Subbed to 7 fics (most of which are really old and will never be updated, or are friends’ stories). I have 231 bookmarks. Apparently. I have no idea what they all are, because only 30 of them are my OTP, and I only started bookmarking last year, and again, I don’t read much. I think AO3 is lying to me. Likely, as it lists my subs as 67, but I counted them and there’s only 7 in there plus 2 author subs. Conspiracies.

7. Which AU do you find yourself writing the most?

I define AU as ‘completely unrelated to the main plot’ so, if the KnB characters were in fuedal Japan. I use UA (universe alteration) to define things such as if a KnB story followed the general main plot (basketball) but had changes to it, such as omegaverse (though I don’t consider ships UAs). With that said, tbh I don’t think I have one? I write a whole range of stuff. I don’t think I lean towards any particular AU or UA.

8. How many people are subscribed and bookmarked to you in total? (you can view this on the stats page)

Total bookmarks: 1285 Total subs: 504

9. Is there something you'd like to write about but are afraid of people judging you for it? (Feeling brave? If so, share it!)

Honestly I don’t think I’m ashamed of anything by this point. I’m probably one of the most non-judgemental and open-minded people you’ll meet, so I kinda have no shame with that. Like, I won’t judge other people for having weird interests, and therefore don’t feel any shame for my own because I see no reason to have a problem with it. If people don’t like my writing they don’t have to read it. No one’s forcing them to.

10. Is there anything you would like to be better at? Writing certain scenes or genres, replying to comments, updating better, etc.

I’m mostly okay at replying to comments, sometimes I won’t reply if I don’t know how to respond or I’m busy/tired. Unless I feel like there’s no reason to further reply to a comment, I’ll usually try to reply later (sometimes months....). I need to get better at putting description in instead of just rushing through something and shoving it at the internet saying “I’M SICK OF IT JUST TAKE IT HOW IT IS”. Ideally it would be nice to update more frequently and consistently but that’s something that will never change due to my mental and physical health sooo. Whatevs.

11. Do you write rarepairs or popular ships more often?

tbh I think it’s arguable if even the more popular ships I write are even that popular. The most popular ship I write is Akakuro I guess? I do write a bunch of rarer pairs (Mayumibu hghghghgh also Aoaka yes) occasionally though.

12. How many stories have you posted on AO3 to this day (finished and unfinished)?

87. Which I feel like is a lot considering I did about 50 of those in one year.

13. How many stories do you have saved in/with your writing program?

39 in Google Docs. Possibly. I’m half asleep and may have missed some. I have a crap tonne more in MS Word, but I don’t want to count them all. Oh, fyi, these are only for my current fandom. I have other stories in Docs and Word that are original or other fandoms.

14. Do you write down story ideas, or just keep them in your head?

Write everything down. Either in a document or just in the notes on my phone.

15. Have you ever co-authored a story?

No, but I’d like to. It sounds interesting.

16. How did you discover AO3?

An uh, ex-something found it in 2013 and showed it to me. I liked it more than FF.net, which always gave me a headache with it’s shitty UI and layout, and Livejournal, which was either dead or didn’t exist for my fandoms back then. Does anyone still even use those 2 sites as their main story platform?

17. Do you consider yourself to be a popular or famous author in your fandom(s) on AO3?

Not at all. I might say I am possibly known or recognised, but I definitely do not think famous or popular at all. Far from it.

18. Do you have a nickname or fandom name for your readers?

Does anyone? I’m not published yet lmao and neither am I a Korean idol so uhhh, no, my readers do not have a nickname or fandom.

19. Was there an author who inspired or encouraged you to write?

I would say no. No one prompted me to start writing when I was little, I just did it cause I liked it. Even when I started writing seriously, and when I started writing fanfiction, it was all me. I guess there have been writers who have inspired me to get better though? Namely Mikssi and goseum-dochi.

20. What writing advice would you give to a beginning author?

I was once told that if you can't think of anything to write just put SOMETHING on the page. Be it a date or a title or an idea. Just get something on the page. I now start every story by dating when exactly I started it (yes even the exact time). It's less intimidating that way. Writing down my ideas also helps me plan.

21. Do you plot out your stories, or do you just figure it out as you go?

I often have a general idea or at least ideas for future chapters. But mostly I just bullshit my way through it lmao. It often backfires.

22. Have you ever gotten a bad comment on a story? If so, what did you do?

The only negative comment I've gotten on a story that really upset me was once being called insensitive when referring to sexual abuse. It really offended me because. Um. You... do not know my past experiences. At all. And I'm not going to bring them up because of that. But wow. And it bothered me too that they called me insensitive when I was just writing from experience. Like ok. Sure. Cool. I mean I could see where they were coming from, but I’m going to take a guess and say they had never experienced what I was writing about. I’ve gotten a couple of other negative comments, but they didn’t upset or ‘get to me’ so much as just piss me off due to the stupidity of them.

23. Is there a certain type of scene that you have a hard time writing? (action, smut, etc..)

Action.

24. What story(s) are you working on now?

Uhhh, I guess mostly right now I’m working on Nano, and one other story. I have unfinished and ongoing things, but they’re on the back burner right now.

25. Do you plan your next project(s) before you finish your current ongoing story(s)?

To a really problematic degree.

26. Do you have a daily writing goal set for yourself?

Definitely not. Way too much pressure. Do not need.

27. Do you think you've improved as a writer since you first started?

My god, yes. From my early original (shite) stories of 2007-2009, to my really early (also shite) fandom fics in 2011-2012, to my explosion in the VIXX fandom (at least 80% shite), to now... My goodness. I’m actually in the half-hearted process of editing old AO3 fics to be easier on the eyes. Mostly that’s relatively minor changes. If I went back to AFF. Hoo. I’m highkey scared of looking at some of those again.

28. What is your favorite story that you've written?

I guess I’d say Chemicals. It’s a story I always wanted to do, and I’m happy with how it turned out. I also have to make mention to NMT, since that thing was my life for like 2 years, and writing it helped a lot. I also am quite fond of what I refer to as my ‘cat vampire story’ aka this. I also don’t mind my story Wanderlust. I think I put more effort into that one than I do with most things I write.

29. What is your least favorite story that you've written?

MMMMM I can think of it and I don’t want to acknowledge its existence at all. IT NEVER HAPPENED AND IT WAS A MISTAKE. Also NMT.

30. Where do you see yourself (as a writer) in 5 years?

Probably not published yet but goddamn will I try (not very hard though)

31. What is the easiest thing about writing?

For me it's writing dialogue. Chat room/text message based dialogue is especially fun.

32. What is the hardest thing about writing?

Starting and ending the story (or, if it’s a chaptered story, ending the chapter). Also liking your own work. And not comparing yourself to others. And holding onto the hope that maybe one day you’ll actually be successful and you should keep going.

33. Why do you write?

idek. It’s fun? Satisfying? It arguably sometimes entertains people? Gives me something to do. Unleash all that creativity bopping around up there. idk. Do I need a reason?

Anyways that’s all the questions, so I’ll put them here as well without the answers to easily c+p.

1. How did you come up with your username and what does it mean? 2. Which fanfic of yours has the most feedback? (bookmarks/subscriptions/hits/kudos) 3. What is your AO3 profile icon, and why did you choose it? 4. Do you have any regular/favourite commenters? 5. Is there a fanfic that you keep going back to read again and again? 6. How many stories are you subscribed to? How many do you have bookmarked? 7. Which AU do you find yourself writing the most? 8. How many people are subscribed and bookmarked to you in total? (you can view this on the stats page) 9. Is there something you'd like to write about but are afraid of people judging you for it? (Feeling brave? If so, share it!) 10. Is there anything you would like to be better at? Writing certain scenes or genres, replying to comments, updating better, etc. 11. Do you write rarepairs or popular ships more often? 12. How many stories have you posted on AO3 to this day (finished and unfinished)? 13. How many stories do you have saved in/with your writing program? 14. Do you write down story ideas, or just keep them in your head? 15. Have you ever co-authored a story? 16. How did you discover AO3? 17. Do you consider yourself to be a popular or famous author in your fandom(s) on AO3? 18. Do you have a nickname or fandom name for your readers? 19. Was there an author who inspired or encouraged you to write? 20. What writing advice would you give to a beginning author? 21. Do you plot out your stories, or do you just figure it out as you go? 22. Have you ever gotten a bad comment on a story? If so, what did you do? 23. Is there a certain type of scene that you have a hard time writing? (action, smut, etc..) 24. What story(s) are you working on now? 25. Do you plan your next project(s) before you finish your current ongoing story(s)? 26. Do you have a daily writing goal set for yourself? 27. Do you think you've improved as a writer since you first started? 28. What is your favorite story that you've written? 29. What is your least favorite story that you've written? 30. Where do you see yourself (as a writer) in 5 years? 31. What is the easiest thing about writing? 32. What is the hardest thing about writing? 33. Why do you write?

Fill out the questions and tag more authors you know ^^

#self #writing

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ofwolvesandshatteredshields · 7 years

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Glint

Blackwatch era Gabriel Reyes, 2.7k words, violence warning

Borrows from my other OW stuff in re: timeline and what’s going on with Gabe’s body.

——

“Fuck,” Gabriel snarls, ducking back down below the window.

Across the room Genji sits leaned up against the side of a destroyed couch, twirling a knife through his human fingers. “I would have to agree.”

It’s not that they’re being shot at. That’s very annoying, yes, but it’s nothing new. Hong has enemies, more so since Gabriel and Genji have been helping him expand his business ventures.

The people shooting up Hong’s second-largest factory complex right now aren’t Chinese underground. They’re Overwatch. Which means Gabriel isn’t allowed to shoot them, and also he might feel bad. Not quite sure on that latter point.

“What do we do, Commander?” Genji asks mildly. A line of bullet holes cracks into the crystalcrete above his head.

“Well, we can’t fucking let them get Hong, because that’s gonna massively fuck up our op, and we’ve been on it for six fucking months and I’m not gonna go back and tell fucking Stockman that Overwatch fucked up the op while I just fucking sat back and let Jack fucking Morrison take our fucking guy.” Gabriel exhales through gritted teeth, then sticks his rifle out the window and fires a quick salvo of bullets.

“Mm.” Genji nods thoughtfully. “So we are going to aid Hong’s escape.”

“Basically, yeah.” Gabriel holds his hand out. “Give me your grenades. I’ll slow ‘em down, you get Hong away from here.”

“Understood.” Genji leans across the small room, handing over his collection of five cap grenades. “Would you like me to send you help?”

Gabriel stows them. “No, because Hong’s guys will be shooting to kill and we should probably try not to kill any of Overwatch’s people.”

Genji frowns. “Then I should stay to help you.”

“No, you should follow my fucking orders and get Hong out,” Gabriel snaps.

Genji’s jaw tightens in irritation, his enhanced red eyes locked on Gabriel’s; then his mask extends to shield his face. “Fine.”

Shit. Gabriel rubs his forehead. “Sorry. I just…” He waves a hand. “Never mind. I’ll be okay on my own. You get out of here.”

Genji rises, the setting sun catching his red gaze. “I will meet you later.”

“Right. Be careful.”

Then Genji is gone, out the back window of the office. Gabriel trusts him to get Hong out, at the very least.

He starts switching the grenades to mine setting, dials up the sensor radius as high as it’ll go and spools down the force to its second lowest value. That should scare them without killing anyone. Some of Hong’s guys are still exchanging fire with Overwatch. Gabriel uses it as cover, darting between the garages and assembly lines and storage sheds to plant the grenades at strategic locations. Ones that’ll give the Overwatch agents pause when they start pushing through. Wishes they’d waited another goddamn hour or two so he’d have some better cover in the dusk—listening to bullets ringing off the tin walls as he hides behind corners—but nothing in this goddamn life has been easy for him, so why would that change now?

The gunfire starts to trickle off. Hong’s guys are retreating. That’s good, at least. Now Gabriel just has to not get killed. Or caught. That would be worse.

A muffled explosion from the far garage. His work. Gabriel sticks his head out from behind a storage container and starts shooting. Still blind—can’t see anyone outside the building. But it’s better that way. It wouldn’t be good if any of these agents died by friendly fire.

A white flash from the garage window. Gabriel swears and heaves himself around the corner again.

A series of thuds. That’s a pulse rifle. Not that Blackwatch gets a chance to play around with those, but Gabriel’s done his research. Nasty weapons. He’s too exposed here, has to get inside the big central factory where there’s plenty of cover. It’s maybe a fifteen-yard dash in front of him, and with this tin box at his back he should have some protection.

Gabriel takes a deep breath and runs.

His legs pump, strength flowing into them like spicular crystals tumbling through his veins. He flies over the asphalt, boots grinding on the granular surface. The metal door approaches and he yanks it open. A scattering of shots thump liquidly into the wall beside him. He ducks inside—

Only to be thrown forward by the kinetic impact of plasma fire slamming into his shoulder. Gabriel tumbles to the ground, hissing. Fuck, that’s painful. He heaves himself to his feet and staggers forward—around a conveyor belt, a heavy pallet trundling past him. God damn, that arm hurts. He tacks right and sinks down behind a pile of empty crates, grasping the wound. Can’t stay here. Overwatch will be closing in. But he just needs a second to recover—

The door clangs open. Gabriel freezes, trying to quiet his harsh breathing. The scuff of footsteps. A wave of pain from the arm that makes him want to throw up; he chokes back a groan, squeezing his eyes shut. Sweat breaks out over his forehead and back. The footsteps draw closer. The edge of a blue uniform, a red glint. He reaches out, groping for his rifle—

“Gabe?”

The red tactical visor retracts. Fuck. “It had to be you,” Gabriel growls.

Jack Morrison, pulse rifle in hand but lowered. Looking tired but strong and uninjured. “What the hell are you doing here?!”

“Trying to salvage my op,” Gabriel retorts. “From you and your people fucking it up. Which you’re doing a pretty fucking good job of, by the way.”

“Your op?” Jack is comically flabbergasted, like he couldn’t even fathom that someone else might be trying to do some good. “Gabe, we’re on Hong. He’s been getting too powerful, we’re taking him out.”

“Oh no you’re fucking not,” Gabriel snaps. “We’ve been backing him, Jack, we’ve brought down a half-dozen of his competitors and now those strings he was pulling on in Russia and Korea are gonna help us reel in some more nice, juicy targets. You can’t take him in yet.”

Jack stares. “Are you nuts? He’s destroying the goddamn city!”

Gabriel shrugs. “It’s not a whole lot worse than it was before. And it’s only temporary.”

“No. Sorry, Gabe, but that’s not acceptable. Hong goes down today. You can help us or get out of our way.”

Gabriel can’t help but chuckle. That’s no choice at all. “Or I can tell you to fuck off.”

“Gabe. I’m serious.”

“And shortsighted. Let us work. We’ll get a way bigger haul if you leave him with us.”

“I already told you no!” Jack takes a step forward, real anger breaking through on his face. “You can’t just—screw over a bunch of innocent people just to make your bust! That’s not how it works!”

Gabriel tips his head back against the crates, exasperated. Should have known better than to try and reason with him. “You know how many more people we’re gonna help by waiting? Use your fucking head, Jack.”

Jack’s eyes are narrowed, his mouth set in a hard frown. “Get out of here, Gabe. We’re going in. If you stay and get yourself shot, just remember it’s your own goddamn fault.”

Then the red tactical visor descends again and he turns his back, leaving Gabriel sitting on the floor alone with a burning hole in his arm. But the wound feels…strange and Gabriel is afraid of what he’ll see but peels his hand away anyway.

Under the melted clothing something black and turbid seethes. Gabriel looks away, gathers up his rifle, and runs.

Another muffled explosion. Gabriel dodges around towering machines, pits filled with congealed chemical waste, mechanical limbs suspended and waiting. His arm is filled with insects. Or that’s how it feels, at least, and that might be preferable to the truth. Long splashes of orange light spill through the tall windows, and he avoids them; there’s a clang far behind as the door bangs open. Still a couple of grenades left at his belt, and as he exits the other side of the factory he leaves one as a gift.

Gunfire from behind, getting closer now. That means Hong’s guys are still pulling back. Around the corner Gabriel spots more magnesium-white muzzle flashes, hears the strange, blunt reports. How many of those goddamn rifles do they have?

Time to fall back. He slips into a warehouse and sprints. Maybe he can find a spot to hunker down and buy Genji more time.

He bursts out the door. To his left the fence with the forest beyond; to his right a small cluster of storage sheds, so he picks one and slips inside. The window sticks in the track but after some tugging it lurches open, and he sits below it, sticks his rifle out, and fires off a blind burst.

An answering burst of plasma slugs thud into the outside of the wall, warming the metal at his back. Gabriel shoots again, the rifle jumping in his hand. He hopes the wall doesn’t melt.

A shooting star arcs through the window and explodes.

Gabriel ducks his head as he’s thrown sideways across the room, back slamming into a rusty container. The breath is punched out of him all at once. It burns. His stomach. He cracks open his eyes.

Raw plasma is spattered all over the floor, glowing white, misting slowly as it evaporates into the air. It burns. Gabriel looks down.

White droplets hiss on his bulletproof vest, outlining the plasma splash sinking into his middle. Something bubbles in the mess of melted Kevlon and flesh.

Oh.

Gabriel touches it gingerly and for some reason that’s what sets the pain off, a hot, liquid agony roiling in his gut and making him sick to his stomach. If he still has a stomach. His legs jerk, flooded with pins and needles as he tries to drag himself back behind a storage container. It burns. It burns so badly. A moan of agony issues low and animal from his throat. Behind him he leaves a broad swath of red and black, a wide paint-stroke marking his trail.

Fuck. Dying for Qian fucking Hong. What does it fucking matter at this point? Jack hates him for good. Genji and McCree will be fine on their own, now that he’s pretty sure he’s made them hate him too. He didn’t want to end up here but here he is.

Another wave of agony. His body shudders, and he heaves up a thick glut of blood, bile, and black, the sour metallic fluid coating the inside of his mouth and nose. He scrapes the back of his sleeve across his lips and coughs, curling up behind the container. As good a place as any to die.

His face feels cold, his head fuzzy. Blood pumps from his ruined stomach, soaking his pants. Not long now. Maybe he should say something to Genji over comms. But no, that might make him turn back. And it’s dangerous here.

His brain is shutting down, he can feel it. Losing blood to the blackened pulp that’s left of his gut. The shining surface glimmers in the light of the setting sun, pulsing with the frantic beating of his heart as it strains to compensate for all the blood burbling, tortured, out of him. Maybe they’re coming to finish him off. That would be nice. The searing heat in his middle is awful. He coughs and comes up with another mouthful of bile. Tastes like stomach acid and slag.

A figure beside him, a red glint at the eyes. Gabriel blinks slowly. He is lifted and carried over someone’s shoulder. Doesn’t know where they’re taking him. Won’t do much good either way. If they want to save him they’re too late. If they want to interrogate him, same deal.

What were his final words? Who was the last person he spoke to? Jack, that was it. In the factory. Probably said something in anger.

He doesn’t have words—hardly has the breadth of thought to encompass how much he wishes that none of it had ever happened, that he and Jack were still okay or more. Instead he’s in Blackwatch and Jack is king of the world and everything they had is ash smeared underfoot. It didn’t have to be like this but Jack made it that way. Or they both did. If only he could fix it, right now. There must be something left. Something that wasn’t completely burned away.

A grunt. Gabriel’s grimy vision comes up with a chain link fence. Climbing. Then a thump and a stumble as they land on the other side. His rescuer lays him against a tree.

Gabriel’s head lolls forward, and he finds himself peering down. His stomach looks like a roiling black sea. “Jesus,” his rescuer breathes. The faint clinking of—what is it? A can of flexfoam being shaken, and the hissing as the pale green foam sprays out over his middle. Gabriel laughs and then chokes on the bloody, metallic bile sitting at the base of his throat. A little flexfoam won’t help him now.

Then there’s an explosion somewhere and leaves scrape on leaves, his rescuer rising and running off.

Where did the burning go? Gabriel is cold all over. Doesn’t like it. He feels sick but can’t throw up. With a great effort he tips his head back, staring up at the canopy. The fir trees are shifting shapes of black in his fading vision, creasing and fluttering with the wind. No longer shapes. Their outlines ripple and swim together slowly, and they recede above him in shadow, shimmering as he sinks beneath dark water. If he’s going to die he wishes it would hurry up. But there’s someone, somewhere, telling him, this won’t kill you.

Gabriel isn’t so sure about that. A quart of raw plasma to the gut will kill just about anyone.

He shuts his eyes.

——

When he wakes again he’s being dragged through the forest on his back by what’s left of his bulletproof vest.

“Hm.” He reaches out and grasps at nothing; his hand falls and he catches leaves between his fingers.

“Commander. You’re awake.”

Genji glances over his shoulder, red eyes glinting in a fluttering shaft of sunset light. Oh. It was him. Gabriel takes an experimental breath. Cold air rushes into his lungs. He pats his stomach gently—the flexfoam still there, and not even leaking blood around the edges. “Thanks,” he croaks. “For coming back for me.”

“You are welcome,” Genji replies.

“You get Hong out?”

“Yes.”

“Hey.”

“Hm?”

“I think I can walk, actually.”

“Oh! Of course.”

Genji releases him and he rises gingerly, one hand on the flexfoam. It moves with him, bending and straightening. Still no leaking of blood, although his pants remain soaked with it.

Genji is staring. “Commander…”

Gabriel waves a hand. “I’ll be fine.”

Genji watches him for a moment; then he nods. “As you say. Did you find out why Overwatch is here?”

“Yeah, Jack wants to bring in Hong now. Thinks he’s gotten too powerful.” Gabriel cracks a smile. “I told him that was our fault. He wasn’t happy.”

Genji comes over and grasps Gabriel’s arm, steadying him as they walk. “Was he the one who did that to you?”

“Don’t know.” Gabriel scratches his beard. “Doubt it, though.”

“Are you sure?” Genji murmurs.

“Yeah,” Gabriel says. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“I hope this is not too forward, but I have heard you two fighting—“

“I’d still take a bullet for him,” Gabriel interrupts. “If that tells you anything.”

Genji sighs. “Actually, I think I understand.”

“Hey. We gotta move Hong. Overwatch is gonna be looking for him.”

“That will be difficult. They have many agents here.”

“I know, I know. Leave Jack Morrison to me.”

They walk in silence for a time. Gabriel’s middle is still cold and numb, and his legs still weak, but the sense that he’s going to die isn’t there anymore. Christ. Who takes raw plasma to the gut and lives?

Him, apparently. Great.

“For what it is worth,” Genji says. “I hope one day the two of you can become friends again.”

Gabriel press a hand to his face because he feels his eyes pricking and that pisses him off. He’s got other people now. Jesse, Genji.

But he misses Jack still for some stupid fucking reason. No, he knows the reason. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I hope so too.”

#overwatch #gabriel reyes #reaper #overwatch reaper

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ecotone99 · 5 years

Text

Shhhh...

This story takes place when I was in elementary school, back in the early 90’s. I was six or seven, I can’t really remember, or rather I try not to remember. I haven’t told anyone of it since then… Because he told me not to.

I was in school on a crisp fall day, and the leaves had just started falling. The grassy green pigments I was used to had now turned into all different shades of yellow, brown, and red. My friends and I used to always dive right into the leaves and we’d play hide and seek ‘till the sun went down. I was super excited that day, because the piles of leaves were massive, like mini autumn mountains. Those were some of my favorite memories from my early childhood. As soon as the clock struck eleven-forty-five, I anxiously awaited my teachers’ approval to unlock the shackles keeping us in that confined classroom. And like the start of a horse race, we ran like bullets to our favorite time of day; recess. Unfortunately, our playground was confined at that point, as a girl named… oh God, what was her name again? Oh yeah, Laurel. She was in my class the year prior, but I never really got to know her because she was always by herself. A lot of kids heard different stories about what happened to her. The night earlier was Halloween, so some kids said she wasn’t missing, but instead was sick from eating too much candy. Others were convinced of her disappearance because of the tight knit information being disclosed from us by the adults. But where’d she go? No one could quite agree on this part. The most popular theory was that she ran away, as she seemed to be a loner anyway.

But none of these urban legends deterred us from playing our favorite game, manhunt. For those of you who don’t know, manhunt is like the next level of hide and seek. There’d be two teams, one would have a given amount of time to find a good place to secure their location, while the other team would count down until the time was right for them to hunt us down. The goal was for the hiders to make it back to home base without getting caught. Everyone chipped in some Halloween candy into the winners’ bowl. That day, I made sure to be a runner; I knew the perfect place to hide.

3…2…1…GO!!!! Before I knew it, I was bolting through the battlefield. I ducked under swings, and flew past teachers as I made my way to the edge of the pigpen I was fenced in. But, this particular fence had a secret; a hole: one big enough for a tiny kid like me to crawl through. No one would even think to look for me out in the woods behind the school, and when the time was right, BAM, I’d be back at home base before anyone would realize they hadn’t found me yet. I already tasted the sweet and sour candy in my watering mouth. I checked my left and right to see if anyone followed me, but I was in the clear. I dirtied up my white shorts as I dug my way out, like one of those army men training in the movies. Making it to the other side, I picked myself up and looked around for the perfect pile of leaves to disguise myself in. And there they were, right under a larger-than-life oak tree, one of the grandest heaps of leaves I had ever seen. I couldn’t help but smile as I quietly made my way into the pile. I was afraid I’d somehow alert the seekers of my where-a-bouts if I crunched too much as I snuggled myself inside the cocoon. And there I lay. Still smiling, I put my hands over my mouth to hold back from giggling. I had the kind of overwhelming joy a kid gets the first time the tooth fairy visits them, or meeting Goofy at Disney World. I was ecstatic. This feeling soon turned to disgust as I started noticing my surroundings. It smelt... atrocious. I could only imagine hundreds of bugs both living and dead inside this home I’d made for myself. I wasn’t too scared of bugs, but for some reason, I felt utterly disgusted being in there. It felt moist and sticky and intoxicatingly gross. My eyes started itching… no burning, as I viciously rubbed at them in a fruitless attempt to make the pain go away. The scent seemed to make it’s way into my lungs and started relentlessly stabbing at them. I couldn’t take it anymore. I squirmed around in the nest trying to find my way out, but I could barely see through my fort, as red became the primary color shielding my vision. I didn’t know whether my eyes were bleeding or if it was just the color of the leaves rubbing against my face, but what I did know is that I wanted out of there, and I wanted it fast. Wiping my eyes against my dirt stained shirt, my vision cleared and I saw another set of eyes staring back at mine. I squealed at first, thinking it was some sort of animal that was going to bite my face off, but than I realized that it was just Laurel.

I whispered to her, “Hey Laurel, what are you doing in here? Everyone thinks you ran away from home.” She kept staring at me, but never gave me a response.

“Are you hiding in here from someone too?” I asked anxiously. “Um… come on, let’s get out of here.”

I reached around for her hand and finally got hold of it. Her hand was small and gentle, yet chilly and, once again, sticky. Too many lollipops, I assured myself. I finally made my way into the refreshing sunlight and took in an enormous breath of air. I was still holding Laurel’s hand, but something didn’t feel quite right. She was a small girl, but she felt almost weightless. I slightly tugged at her arm, only to look back and see that it was just an arm. Before I could even let out a yelp, a large hand wrapped around my mouth. It was rough; I felt as if it was cutting my face with each slight movement. The hand was white as snow, but was covered in filth that stood out due to the almost plastic coloring of the skin. I then heard a soft and relaxing whisper flow past my right ear. It was a man’s voice; a voice that sang like a siren.

“Shhhh… It’s all right.”

My breathing became increasingly heavy and I knew he could tell.

“Your friend and I were having a play date, but you can’t tell anyone. It’s our little secret.”

I finally managed to free my mouth from his grasp and let out a shriek of terror. I heard someone in the distance ask what that sound was. I knew they were coming to look, and he knew it too.

“I have to go now,” he told me, “but you have to promise me that you won’t tell anyone about me. Not your mom, not your dad, not anyone. And if you do,” his final words seemed to linger for what felt like hours, “I’ll know.”

And with that I heard his footsteps walk away crunching though the leaves, making his way to the shelter of the dense woods. But he wasn’t even running. His motions were so innocent. Even when a teacher and a couple of other kids found me, I knew he was still there. Still watching. Eyes wide open. I then became distracted by the blood curdling howl of a scream the teacher let loose. One of the kids even threw up from the sight; the kind of sight no one should ever have to go through the horror of witnessing.

Sirens and yelling from cops and parents flooded the schoolyard. Kids wondered what was going on as there moms and dads desperately picked them up. But the ones that were crying… they knew what happened. A burly police officer with a moustache too big for his lip approached me and tried getting any information he could. But it didn’t matter how much they asked, because all they knew was that Laurel was found hacked and slashed in a pile of leaves outside the school after having disappeared the previous night. And that’s all I knew. That’s all I could tell them. Further questioning throughout the next few weeks wouldn't change anything. There was nothing else for me to say. He made sure of that…

Every night I looked out my window I saw him. His ghost-white skin haunted the darkness itself, as he stood in my driveway. Most of the time he’d just be standing there, staring at my window. If we made eye contact, he would occasionally wave and sometimes put his index finger against his mouth, signaling for me to remain quiet. So every night I’d turn the other way to face the never-ending hallway outside of my room. The one lamp my mom made sure to always keep on out there illuminated his shadow against the wall. If I stared too long, his head would cock sideways like a dog hearing an unfamiliar noise. He was always there watching over me like a demented angel.

My secret admirer led to severe emotional stress that doctors pegged as PTSD from finding Laurel. Agony is the only way to describe the feeling I get when I wake up every morning, just trying to get my gears going to make it through another day. There was neither chemical-twisting medication nor a four-eyed friendly shrink that could cure what I had. I got to an all-time low and hung a noose around my neck. But the pain wouldn’t end… they just cut me down and stuck me here, in this goddamn mental institute, strapped down like a feral fucking animal!

“I know what you’re feeling. Through my many years of social work, I’ve encountered so many lost souls that have been shattered from traumatizing events such as the one you went through.” The soothing psychologist told me.

“I-its… hard to take in, but this man… he’s all in my head… I guess having a staring contest with a dead girl can really spook a kid huh?” I chuckled with the slightest hesitation.

“I think you could use a nice, long rest.” He says with nurture.

“Yeah… I suppose some shut-eye could help.”

With that, Dr. Lotus gets up to shut the door. The sounds of beeping monitors and sassy nurses are slowly drowned out. All I can hear are the clinks and clanks of the doctor rummaging through a cedar cabinet. He calmly turns back to me holding some sort of gas mask.

My body tingled with relief as he strapped the mask on around my head. As my eyes become heavy and I start drifting away, I see him pick up something. It’s a scalpel. No… it’s too sharp to be a scalpel…

“I told you not to tell anyone…”

I squirm in my chair, fighting against my inevitable nap.

"Shhhh..."

submitted by /u/DoorGuy99 [link] [comments] source https://www.reddit.com/r/shortscarystories/comments/c97oce/shhhh/ via Blogger https://ift.tt/2NwPNNF

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