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janekfan · 4 years

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aah i just sent this prompt but tumblr told me it didn't send so if it sent twice ignore this!! so prompt: how about early s2, where jon is pulling away a bit but the others are concerned about it more than angry, getting a horrific migraine. like "has to leave a team meeting early" horrific. and the others know he wants to be left alone and try to respect it, but eventually they can't just ignore it anymore. <3 if you don't like this i can try again!

Oof, migraines. Amiright??? This is based on a personal experience of mine I had in college :D

My whole floor thought I was dying and almost dragged me to the hospital.

Thank you @taylortut as always for giving me such great ideas! :D

Looking back, Jon felt incredibly foolish.

Insisting that he could persist through his day without taking medication for headaches when it resulted in the same outcome every time was the very definition of insanity.

But, in his flimsy defense, they never started out badly and he got so caught up in his work that by the time he realized what was happening, it was far, far too late to do anything but suffer it out until it ended. Which is how he found himself here, now, nearly completely blind in his right eye while Elias droned on about workplace safety and considering recent events it seemed laughably mundane because yes, back strain from lifting incorrectly certainly outweighed a sentient worm queen trying to devour your assistants.

Filled with a desperate desire to rub away the disorientating blind spot, Jon let his focus slip over his employees.

Tim: bored. Not doing anything to hide it and Jon supposed he was at fault for that too, because he was certainly not paying Elias any mind.

Sasha: attentive. Most likely thinking of something else entirely while she nodded along to the lecture notes at the appropriate places.

Martin: engrossed. Despite his suspicions, mostly due to the constant checking in with him about how he was feeling, and really, maybe that was on him because maybe that’s what coworkers did after bravely surviving an onslaught of supernatural entities together. Despite them, he found it. Pleasant? Pleasant. That he would commit the effort to pay such careful attention.

Jon: quickly realizing this meeting would not be finished by the time the majority of the pain struck him like an oncoming lorry. By his estimations, based on when he first noticed the aura as a funny spot in his peripheral he tried to see around, he had roughly three minutes left.

Elias continued to endlessly intone while the buzzing lights continued to beat down on him and Jon fought against closing his eyes against them both and their ceaseless stabbing. Two minutes. Probably less and the anxiety which accompanied knowing almost exactly when he was about to be incapacitated rose like a tide and threatened to drag him under. Jon began to shake minutely as the agony manifested like an icepick in the back of his head and spread its grasping, greedy fingers. It took the rest of his very limited restraint to stay silent and keep breathing; shallow and slow, controlled and careful because the nausea was beginning to set in and throwing up during a staff meeting was at the very least, unwise.

But oh he needed somewhere silent, somewhere he could hide in total darkness and not move until he was able to force himself to sleep, to sleep, to sleep because that was the only way he’d found to make it through to the other side.

“Jon?” He was standing, blinking unevenly, fighting with himself and his desire to shield his face with both hands. The sound of his name was too loud. So loud and the murmuring of the others in the room created a beautiful sensory nightmare and if they knew his head was about to split open would they really be speaking so loudly? Doubtful. Martin. Martin wouldn’t at least.

“I’m leaving.” Inadequate, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to elaborate even if in his right mind he wouldn’t. And this wasn’t even the worst of it.

Each step was a rung up the ladder of agony and he’d taken to trailing a hand against the wall, not trusting his quickly dwindling balance and equilibrium. Rudely, without his express permission, a sob snuck past his clenched teeth and he just had to make it down the stairs, into the archives. Into the dark. The cot was still in document storage and the room would be dim and quiet and he could sleep. Please, let him sleep. Trembling so badly he could barely work the door handle, desperation doing its level best to claw its way through his ribcage, Jon began to panic. Gently, gently, gently, he closed the door behind him, trying to breathe because not breathing would make it worse. The buttons at his throat were so tight, the vest, while comfortable this morning was strangling him and he fought his way out of it like a tiger before all but tearing open his collar.

Sh. Shh. You’re alright. Shaky. Ill. But alright and you will be alright. Jon collapsed to the cot, sighing at the momentary relief laying down provided but there was still so much light and it was like glass behind his eyes even though they were closed as tightly as he dared close them. The blanket that had been left behind was very contradictory, too much and not nearly enough, and when it brushed the bare skin of his arms it felt like sandpaper but he wanted more of it. More weight so he could relax without feeling as though he was going to drift away because who even knew which way was up anymore? If he hadn’t left the meeting, he could’ve asked.

Don’t cry. Do. Not. Jonathan Sims. It made it worse, so much worse so he kept his tears trapped behind a false calm. Each time he’d thought he would die from one of these or at the very least prefer it and each time he woke the next day groggy and sore and exhausted, useless for anything except more sleep. He dropped his glasses on the floor, hugged his middle with one arm and threw the other over his face.

Please, please, please.

Just go to sleep.

“I’ll thank the rest of you for continued attention.” Martin nodded absently, worried. Jon didn’t just walk out of meetings. And he’d been so pale, rubbing his temple and wincing. A bad headache? He got those sometimes.

Didn’t like to be bothered about them either.

He caught Tim staring at him over the table, done with his paperclip sculpture for now it seemed, and he nodded just slightly toward the door with a questioning look. Martin just shrugged discreetly, now too distracted to pay attention to whatever Elias deemed important enough to waste their time with after an attack on the archives. Needless to say, the rest of the hour passed excruciatingly slow and as soon as they were released, Martin headed straight for Jon’s office, momentarily confused when it was empty.

“Not there?” Martin shook his head and Tim frowned in concern. “The cot? Maybe he needed a lie down?”

“You’re probably right.”

“Still strange.” He nodded in agreement, already headed to check, knocking quietly on the worn wood.

“Jon?” Martin swore he heard something suspiciously like a whimper before his voice floated through the door.

“Yes, Martin?” It was strange, off, wavery? The tail end of a gasping breath.

“You just, you left in such a hurry.” He’d give anything to open the door and see for himself. “Are you feeling well?”

“I’m. Yes, Martin, I’m, I’m alright.” Jon was many things, a good liar was not one of them, but he was the type to lick his wounds alone, preferring not to show any vulnerability and Martin would respect it. “Bit tired.”

“Okay, I’ll. Check on you in a bit then. Bring some tea.”

“Yes, alright.” Despite his worry, Martin smiled at the tiny familiar spark of frustration.

When Martin spoke his voice seemed to echo in the hollows of Jon’s bones, reverberating into his head and only exacerbating the throbbing pain, not even really aware of what he was saying, just trying to get him to go away so he could be as still as possible in silence. The more he moved, the more it felt like his stomach was trying to turn inside out and the fear of moving, of being sick, of causing himself more hurt, made tears sting at the corners of his eyes, made him itch where they slipped down his face.

If it would just stop for a moment. If he could just fall asleep. Calm down. Stand to have anything against his skin right now.

He wanted to be alone and not be alone. Wanted Martin or Tim or Sasha to, to, he didn’t know, just wanted. The strange disconnect from his physical body was maddening, confusing, and he wanted so badly for it to please stop.

When Martin looked up, Sasha was so close to his desk he startled. He hadn’t heard her but she looked worried.

“I don’t think Jon is feeling very well.”

“I don’t think so either.”

“He’s been in there all day.” Tim joined them. “Maybe we should check on him again?” Martin looked at the clock. It had been hours since he’d talked to him and he had yet to reappear.

“You’re probably right.” This time, it was definitely a hurting sound and Martin decided it was for Jon’s own good to let himself in. He’d only just recovered from Prentiss, what if the stress had made him ill? “Jon?” He was curled into himself on the cot, clothes in disarray, vest discarded and half the blanket piled atop his face. When the door closed, Jon clapped his hand over his ear, the other tangled into his button down so tight Martin was afraid he’d pop the buttons. “You’re shaking.”

“Mmartin…” the barest exhale, pleading. “S’loud…so...so loud…”

“Okay, okay, what’s wrong?” He knelt beside him, resting his hand over Jon’s. “How can I help?”

“Jus’...jus’ need t’sleep.” Shuddering, his breath caught, was released, uneven, fast, gasping. “Can’t.” He decided at that moment that sound should never come from Jon again, not if ever he could help it and the fingers that had been digging into his greying hair were now clutching Martin’s.

“Okay. I’m coming back.” Jon seemed to collapse inward like a star and it was hard to leave him but he’d seen migraines before and it had been hours since what he guessed was the onset. “Tim, do you have any paracetamol?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Jon’s not well, of course.”

“Figures.”

“This time I really think it wasn’t his fault. These things sometimes come on suddenly.” Tim grumbled, digging through his desk and heading with Martin to the breakroom for some water, waiting while he brewed a strong black tea.

“He gets a pass. One time, Martin. This one time.” While the tea cooled Martin retrieved a few cloths from the drawer and a bowl of water.

“He needs quiet. Everything is really overwhelming right now. A lot of input and nowhere for it to go.”

“You’re the boss, Marto.” With a jaunty salute, Tim followed, staying calm and quiet, kneeling down to Jon’s level before whispering a greeting. “Hey. Gonna get you fixed right up.”

“Nnng…okay.”

“Jon? We’re going to help you sit up.” With no refusal forthcoming, Tim and Martin shared a look of alarm before lifting him as though he were made of spun glass and he buried his face in Martin’s soft, well worn jumper. “Good, Jon.” Martin pressed his palm against his forehead and found it cold and a little clammy, his clothes clung slightly with sweat and it seemed like he had trouble coordinating his limbs.

“Hur’s…” trembling, his muscles spasmed randomly, and Tim had to help hold his hand steady enough for a dose of paracetamol while Martin followed quickly with the bitter tea, washing the taste away with a sip of water.

“Okay, love. Doing such a good job. Almost done.” More tears. He went to nod, instead ending up with his head hanging, neck too tired to hold it up any longer and Martin eased him back down onto the pillow. “Let me know if this is too much.” He wrung out a flannel and smoothed it over his eyes, pleased when Jon groaned in slight relief. Tim stroked his hair, soft and slow, and together they waited, watched his shivering gradually stop and his breath deepen into sleep.

Sasha met them outside the door and Martin stepped further down the hall, just in case they were loud enough to wake him.

“Well?”

“He’s asleep, bad migraine.” Martin winced in sympathy, “and hopefully he’ll sleep through until morning.”

“That’s a relief.” Collectively, they agreed. Jon had been under a lot of pressure lately and while he’d never been one to confide in them often even those moments were becoming rare

Jon felt heavy, tired and slow, and when Martin opened the door with a mug of tea in one hand and a plate of toast in the other, he reasoned that he hadn’t dreamt the entirety of the day previous. Which meant he did sit through most of Elias’ dry speech about safety.

Embarrassing. To have walked out like that.

“Martin.” The memory of gentle hands and a soft voice made him flush.

“Jon, how’re you feeling?”

“Better, uh, much better. Thank you.” Sitting up was only somewhat a chore, the dizziness faded into the background for the most part. The fogginess was expected and would last a few days but for now he accepted the tea graciously, eyed the toast suspiciously, and settled on another round of painkillers and a few mouthfuls until he thought he might be pushing it. “Thank you, Martin.” He’d been in a bad way and at his wit’s end before he and Tim essentially rescued him. Passing back the empty mug and setting the remaining toast aside, Jon decided he deserved a lie in especially considering he was in that fragile inbetween where turning his head too fast would trigger another one. “If you see Tim before me, would you pass on my gratitude?”

“‘Course I will” Martin retrieved the dishes and turned back before closing the door. “Sleep well, Jon.”

#TMA #The magnus Archives #Jon sims #Tim stoker #not sasha #migraine #nausea #caretaking

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lovely-little-whumpee · 4 years

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Yuliy Morrow - Auction

Okay I finally finished this chapter, I don’t know why it took so long, sorry.

Wordcount: 2.2k

Taglist (let me know if you want to be removed or added): @king-ivory @shigar4kifuck3r @whumphours @whumpzone

Cw: Drugging, human trafficking, non-consensual touching/manhandling, little bit of violence. Please let me know if I’ve missed anything.

Yuliy groaned as he started to regain consciousness, a pounding headache warning him early that it was probably best to go right back to sleep. He’d been getting ready to do just that, when he remembered the events that led to his hurt head -kidnapped-they-took-me-away-they-drugged-me- in the first place. He shot up, only to yelp in pain as his forehead connected with something metal. The headache only got worse, and he felt nausea building in his stomach, though he didn’t know if it were a result of the pain or whatever it was they drugged him with.

Swallowing back the bile Yuliy opened his eyes, catching the sight of a metal lid over top of him, and the metal bars surrounding his sides. He was in a cage, and a rather small one at that. Sitting up—this time being much more successful— he realized that he’d have to stay hunched over or curled in the fetal position to be able to fit inside the small prison. Where was he? Why had he been taken? He tried to remember the words the broad kidnapper had spoken over the phone, but everything was a blurry haze. He couldn’t even remember the faces of his assaulters.

He vaguely remembered the weeping woman, who in retrospect he shouldn’t have approached at all. Hindsight 20/20, Yuliy. Just as he began searching for a weak point in the cage, a door somewhere slammed open, and the lights to the room he was in flicked on. He flinched from the sudden noise and the flooding of the fluorescent lights, hating what they did to his head. He didn’t have the time to lament long before he was taking in as much as he could of his surroundings, what little he could see anyway. Because of the short height of the cage and the lid overtop, Yuliy could only see the bottom half of the room, if that. Still, he did his best to commit it to memory, not knowing whether or not it’d come in handy later on.

“Alright newbie, you’re a bit of a latecomer, so you’re the last one being sold out of this batch.” Wait, what? Yuliy was certain that he’d heard the words wrong, that his headache was making him imagine things. Sold? Him? Why? How?

His tongue sat heavy in his mouth, but he was eventually able to pry it open enough to speak. “Why… why am I here?” He asked, his voice sounding weak and hoarse, his throat dry and feeling like he’d swallowed sandpaper. How long had he been out? The man chuckled, and Yuliy could only see the man’s knees and below, and he doubted he’d see the other’s face for the time he was here.

“Aren’t you a dumb one,” the man snickered, kicking Yuliy’s cage lightly and causing him to flinch as it rocked. “I’ve just told you, have I not? You’re being sold to the highest bidder. With any luck, we’ll never meet again.” The man’s voice sounded so flippant, and Yuliy opened his mouth to yell at him. “And I suggest you don’t speak anymore, unless you want someone to have to come in and gag you,” he threatened. Yuliy decided to ignore him on the off chance that they were close enough to civilization that he’d be heard by someone outside.

“N-no! You can’t keep me here! People will— people are looking for me, right now probably! Just, just let me go!” He shouted, hating the fear in his voice and the way his words caught several times. The man outright laughed, having to take several moments to regain his composure, and Yuliy felt more of that budding fear begin worming its way up his chest.

“You think we didn’t do a little research on you before we grabbed you? You’re Yuliy Morrow, nineteen years old and no remaining family. You live in a rundown apartment in the shadier part of your town. The perfect catch.” Yuliy’s jaw fell slack as the man recited the facts about him, hating how quickly his odds were beginning to fall. “Sad to say this kid, but no one’s gonna look for you.” No, that wasn’t true, was it? Certainly his boss would look for him when he missed work on Monday, right? Maybe his professors would think he’d just dropped out, but perhaps his landlord would check in when he didn’t receive his monthly rent?

Would the trail be cold by the time someone realized he was missing?

Yuliy felt the nausea creeping up once more, and this time, he wasn’t able to swallow it down, and his back hunched from the force of the first retch. By the second, burning stomach acid wormed its way up his throat. By the third, the mouthfuls fell onto his clothes and the floor of the cage. By the fourth, the smell of it hit the air, causing him to cringe in repulsion and try not to retch again. He was unsuccessful, and by the time he was finished, he was gasping for air, his chest burning from the effort.

“Gross kid, I mean we were gonna clean you up anyway, but you didn’t need to go and make our jobs any harder.” Yuliy wanted to curse at the man, to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, and that if they hadn’t kidnapped him in the first place none of this would be happening. The words got caught in his throat though, what with him still heaving for breath an all.

Suddenly, the lid to the cage was pried back, and how hadn’t Yuliy noticed the extra pairs of feet in the room? The vomiting probably had something to do with it. Before he was able to take in anymore than that, Yuliy’s head was wrenched back so hard that he could feel several strands of his hair loosen. A blindfold was then yanked over his eyes -it's-dark-I-can’t-see-what-are-they-going-to-do-to-me- and tied so tightly he groaned from the pain. His world went dark and he wasn’t able to balance properly, though he didn’t know if it was because of the general sluggishness he was feeling or because he wasn’t able to see.

It didn’t matter to the strangers though, as they simply dragged him somewhere for several minutes. Without being able to see anything, Yuliy tried to rely on his other instincts, but he wasn’t practiced in doing so, and really was only able to hear shoes slapping against tile. What did they plan on doing to him? “Please… please just let me go,” he whispered, knowing that his chances were slim but still wanting to try anyway. Even having a one percent chance of getting out of his situation was better than none. Predictably, he hadn’t been answered at all, and he whimpered softly as the hopelessness of his situation continued to crash down on him.

When they finally came to a stop, Yuliy could hardly tell up from down, much less how long they’d been walking or what type of room he was in. He was let go of by one of the bodyguards, but the other grabbed his wrists painfully and cuffed them. Yuliy tried to pull them back to his chest as a layer of protection between him and the invisible man, but a loud clanking sound and thud stopped him. “W-what?” He mumbled, trying to wrap his hands around the object in which his hands were tied to. It felt like a simple metal pole, rather thin but sturdy, as evidenced by it not moving a single inch no matter how hard Yuliy tugged on it.

He only stopped his tugging when he felt hands pulling at his clothes, and then the unmistakable sounding of cutting fabric. He panicked, trying to jerk away but only managing a couple of inches because of the handcuffs. “Get off me! Don’t touch me!” He yelled at the top of his lungs, kicking out blindly but never being able to connect to anything. Without successfully being able to fend off the attacker, Yuliy’s shirt was eventually cut off. Despite his shouting and protests, his jeans were eventually cut off too. He could feel tears forming behind the blindfold because of the invasion -They’re-touching-me-stop-I-don’t-want-you-to-why-are-you-doing-this- and he yelped as the cold air hit his skin, causing the fine hairs on his body to raise.

A gag was suddenly shoved inside his mouth, tied behind his head before he could comprehend much more than what it was. Belatedly he realized that it must’ve been a piece of cloth cut from his clothing. Someone then fisted the hem of his boxers -please-please-don’t-why-can’t-you-just-leave-them- before cutting them off in one smooth motion and in the sudden onslaught of panic and his hyperventilating, Yuliy didn’t realize he’d fallen to the ground, curling in on himself to protect the barest parts of him. The man didn’t care though, and Yuliy heard the turning of a faucet before he was sprayed with a powerful stream of water that was sure to leave bruises.

They hosed him down like he was nothing more than an object, and when they’d finally finished, Yuliy was shaking and sobbing quietly. Something soft was then thrown at him, hitting him in the chest before falling on top of his legs. He’d flinched, having not known what it was before, but now he was simply confused.

“Put it on.” It wasn’t the same man from before speaking, and Yuliy burned in shame and embarrassment at how many people were seeing him so vulnerable, so -naked-they-took-all-my-clothes-and-hosed-me-down-they-all-saw-me-they-still-see-me-naked-they’re-looking-at-me- bare. It took several long minutes— filled with his quiet sniffling and blind fumblings— to find out that it was a pair of boxers they’d thrown at him. He quickly pulled them on, uncomfortable at how well they fit, like they’d known his size beforehand. Still, he wasn’t going to just not wear them. Any covering was better than none.

He was hauled to his feet, and his hands were uncuffed and re-cuffed behind his back. Though he tried to resist, even digging his feet into the concrete, he was still dragged along to another room. Little noises involuntarily bubbled up his throat, but with the gag most of them were almost completely muffled.

Despite being blindfolded, the route they were going down seemed familiar in its length and the amount of turns. Yuliy knew that they were probably throwing him into the same room as earlier for convenience sake. He knew he was right when he was forced into the -too-small-I-can’t-move- cage as before, the metal cold and wet, like they’d hosed it down as they did him. “They show his pictures and information to the crowd yet?” One guard asked another, and Yuliy listened as intently as he could. They were showing people his pictures? What pictures? Had they taken them while he’d been unconscious?

“Yeah, boss said they already started bidding and everything. Say he might be the highest sell tonight.”

“Thank fuck, I’m trying to get home.” Yeah me too, Yuliy thought, but he couldn’t say anything with the gag. With his hands tied behind him, he couldn’t really shift to get comfortable, and his shoulder dug painfully into the hard metal where he lay. Less than before, but still noticeable was the drug that must’ve still been in Yuliy’s system. Either that, or the blindfold was really messing with his perception of time, as it seemed to by quickly after that— which was the opposite of what he wanted.

Eventually enough, the same door as before slammed open, and Yuliy flinched from the noise. “Alright get him prepped for our dear client here.” It was the man from earlier, the one who’d made the initial threat of gagging him. He hadn’t even realized the man had left. Was he the boss the guards were talking about?

The man’s words then dawned on him as he was violently pulled out of the cage, his arm feeling as though it were going to be pulled out of its socket. He screamed and kicked, shouting the words “no”, “stop”, and “please”, most of it muffled and garbled, but the meaning was clear all the same. With his struggling, he managed to get a few hits on the two guards trying to wrestle him down, and then there was a strange limbo where he was suddenly weightless and floating, before gravity came back and he was slammed against the concrete floor, his head cracking painfully on top of it. Oh, that was gonna concuss.

His blindfold slipped up a bit just as he felt the needle pierce his neck with an awful feeling of deja vu. When he glanced over, he saw two men standing by the door, although he didn’t know who was the boss and who was the customer. Which one held his life in their hands? “Alright Bram, he should be out long enough for you to get him home. If you’d like a refund, be sure to contact us within a week, or else it will be void.” The man named Bram didn’t look like he’d heard the other at all though, his eyes never moving from Yuliy.

Bram leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, looking like he owned the place instead of just being a customer. He smirked before he began speaking, eyes boring into Yuliy’s, “Silly pet, you weren’t supposed to see my face yet.”

Oh.

Masterlist

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#whump #pet whump #manhandling #human trafficking #whumpee #Yuliy Morrow #i'm in here whump series #drugging #dehumanization #this is such a mess yikes #whump writing #my writing #we finally get a peek at the whumper #Bram Caddel #emeto

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glumpiglet · 4 years

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Close Encounters of the Beej Kind (F!ReaderxBeetlejuice)

Uh hi everyone.. K This started as a request but then i took another look at it.. And it didn’t even do what was asked and I was like … i might just post this as a fic.. So here we are! Many apologies to that person, hopefully this could be a bit of a compensation and it WILL be answered I promise!

To anyone asking for a pt 2 to my ghost s/o I definitely have more to do with that one…we got a WEDDING TO PLAN MY DUDES….. Eventually..i'm trying to get these requests done (which are Always Open ;) ) and I want to do a second date to my Dew fic. I’m very a stop and go writer, I like to try and keep these to a 3-4k length...sometimes that can take me 2 days… sometimes 2 weeks. Lol you know the struggle. hope you enjoy this one. Stay lovely out there hotties.

Warning: Beej is a voyeuristic, thieving little trash boi and there’s some swearing… That’s all.

It started out an average day when you officially met Beetlejuice.

Moving into a new place alone was always so much work. The organizing, the packing, the stress. It would be ultimately worth it, you realized. This would be the first time you lived alone, no roommates, no family. You were a real, genuine adult now.

Laughable, you thought, as you shoveled the spoonful of cereal into your mouth before returning to your controller. There might still be unpacked boxes around you, but sometimes video games were just higher on the priorities list.

The whole ordeal was almost over with. What was left was pictures to hang up, you bought a bookshelf that needed to be built… Nothing crazy. Lucky enough there wasn’t too much of a headache.

That came surprisingly after the move-in.

It wasn’t something you voiced out loud, but you were sure the place was haunted.Believing in ghosts was a difficult subject for you. Having had… Things happen to you when you were a child, whispers of your name in the basement where your mom would do laundry. You had an argument once on New Years at a friends house because you were certain you were hearing someone in the house.

Ghosts were like Religion or Big Foot to you: Not a firm believer but definitely had some ‘need more answers’ kind of person. The human mind was a confusing piece of machinery. It came up with all sorts of insanity.

Still, a list was started to be compiled of odd occurrences in the short time of living here.

One day, you had been binging a couple Buzzfeed Unsolved episodes ironically enough when you should have sworn you could hear low-pitched laughing in your living room. Not from an adjacent apartment. Like it came from right beside you on the sofa. Pausing the video you listened for any more sounds. Complete silence greeted you and couldn’t tell what would have been creepier: if you had heard the laughing again or the quiet. Deciding to not finish the episode, you turned the t.v off and sat there in the quiet room for a long time

There was an odd smell in your apartment. You didn’t notice it when viewing the place but every morning you woke up to a pungent, musky odor that almost made you think your neighbours were smoking weed or living in garbage. The smell came and went throughout the day, sometimes wafting over you so unexpectedly you swivel your head to see what was behind you. Nothing was ever there.

Things were disappearing. At first you thought it just got lost in the mix of moving. Some cheap jewelry. Old photos. A hairbrush. It wasn’t until your clothes just started disappearing that you became troubled.

As you were for sure your panty drawer was being raided, you couldn’t figure out what the fuck was going on. You checked the dryer to see if you accidentally left any behind, you were a forgetful thing. It wasn’t impossible that your underwear had simply.. Disappeared. You tried to chalk the whole thing up to paranoia. You had been celebrating with the new apartment and was drinking a bit more than usual.

Blame the alcohol. Blame yourself. Anything to not think about the possibility of an actual haunting.

Not until a hot autumn night did you get any actual proof.

Sleeping nude has always been a thing for you. Your parents would scold you as a child for walking around naked. Leaving your windows wide open as you changed. They basically had to force you into pajamas. You didn’t want to be a nudist or anything, there was just something constricting about wearing clothes to bed. Pants were unbearable, anything with long sleeves suffocated you and god forbid if you ever wore socks. Even in Winters.

Living alone meant you slept nude nightly, even had the insight to splurge on some silk sheets finally, it was literally the best sensation you had ever felt. It was still unbearably warm in September and you had not been wearing much clothing since you moved in. You were saving up money for an A/C unit but it would probably be snowing by then. Slipping between the cool covers, you sighed as you drifted as you usually did, that space between sleep and dreams where your brain was beginning to shut off….

In a split second, the desire to open your eyes overtook you. Hovering above you was a large, dark figure. Clear as day. No mistaking it for something else.

Struck still with terror, the intruder didn’t see your wide, open eyes apparently, leaning down over your vulnerable body. In your restlessness, the sheets had been kicked off, leaving way too much exposed skin. Looking horrified, your skin began to break out in goosebumps, perking your nipples. The air to scream wasn’t finding you.

You heard a sound. Growling, like a dog. Vulgar, nasty sniffing noises were blowing from the beast, like the bellow of a forge. This was a nightmare, you clamped your eyes shut. If only you could pinch yourself… Striving to find the will to move your arms, fingers. Anything.

The shadow spoke. It was like gravel hitting the pavement. Striking and rough.

“MMmm.. So sexy...”

That was it. His voice snapped something in you and you felt yourself come alive. Jumping up in bed, you had screamed in panic, stumbling to your light to reveal an empty room.

In the terrified state that found you, pacing, in your robe, in your kitchen. Waay to wired now to return to bed. You had decided that night it was a dream, a type of sleep paralysis. No way in hell did your new apartment have a poltergeist.. Some demon?! No fucking way.

The idea of buying something: smudge the house, a ouija board, had crossed your mind. Before you realized what a terrible idea that was. If this was real, you weren’t communicating with it.

You weren’t thinking about it. Not at all.

Fate was funny, however. Destiny or kismet, whatever you want to call it. With every weird occurrence, it never occured to you that slowly but surely it was getting worse.

Not one week after the whole night terror debacle, did you catch someone in your bedroom.

As you said, average day. Meaning you stayed out in the living room, trying to find the energy to be productive beyond sitting on the couch, playing. Glancing at the clock intermittently, watching as the morning shifted into afternoon. You sighed and put the controller down, compromising with yourself.

Okay, get the boxes out of the closet. Put the shelve up and unpack three boxes then you could return. Sounded fair.

Walking into the room, reaching the closet, you leaned your head in to find the boxes, and heard a bump. Thinking the sound was just coming from something you hit in the closet, you continued reaching further in… Clothes shuffling made you pause. Turning towards the sound of an impulse, you gasped aloud as you took notice of a man opening your dresser drawer.

“Holy Fucking Shit!”

The first thought in your mind was he was a burglar. Afterwards, you had to chuckle at the idea, he was definitely not dressed for a B&E; terror made funny things make sense.

Grabbing the first thing in your reach, the contents of your vanity. You began hurling them at the now stunned creature, hands up on his chest, eyes wide in surprise.

“Get out, Get out!” Practically shrieking in the small bedroom, you backed up to the wall, trying to find the courage to escape. In your hysteria, you failed to notice something.

The items were flying right through him.

Adrenaline pounding through your body, making your head throb. He wasn’t doing anything, just standing there, confusing you through the panic.faintly you looked down and saw what he had in his grip. One of your shirts.

You had broken out in a cold sweat. Feeling like you were going to be sick.

“I’m serious guy, I’m gonna call the cops!” The booming voice you tried was being to sound more wilted, your heart was about to burst from your chest. Tentatively stepping a few more steps towards the door, brandishing the thing in your hand like a weapon, no matter it was just a mascara bottle.

“Uh-....yo-...” He continued to blunder through a breath, like a match striking against sandpaper.

You didn’t notice him pocketing your clothing. You dropped the thing in your hand.

The voice... That deep, dark rasp. You had heard it before. In your living room… In your bedroom.

Great timing, you couldn’t catch your breath. Gasping for air you slid to the floor, clutching at the ground for some balance.

This was not happening. This couldn’t be happening.

Every ration, logical, scientific part of your brain screamed for solid facts. The Afterlife wasn't proven real. Death was unknown. This wasn’t a movie and he wasn’t Casper. This was NOT a ghost. This was a human being, totally alive, uninvited in your home.

Watching with sight blurred around the edges, he was approaching you slowly. Clenching your eyes shut, you cowered in on yourself as you waited for the attack.. This was it, this was how it ended.. You could see the headlines now.

‘Local Girl Found Dead: No Witnesses. No Suspects.’

Family would never know what actually happened to you. Search for answers until they found this creature and the vicious cycle would continue.

The stench got infinitely worse as he approached, and your eyes began to water with more than fear.

“Hey, hey.. Breathe, breather.”

His voice was calm… Forced but calm and you didn’t take the bait. He was just playing with his prey and soon would sink his fangs in.

“You can actually see me?”

His voice was incredulous. A happy tone that made you look up, he was doing something odd. Not acting frightening in the least, not attacking. He was talking to himself. Angled away from you as he gave himself a pep-talk..What?

“Okay calm down… Play it cool….”

His eyes met yours. He rearranged his features to appear to be.. Smoldering.. He looked to be trying for suave.

“Heyyy.”

Not what you expected. In any other circumstance, you would have laughed. The air wasn’t found to make the sound. Instead you choke on your tongue. “..I-...Wh-”

That was all you could get out. It seemed his speechlessness had traveled through the room and now possessed you.

There was a knock on your door. It was the sound that brought you back to reality. The normalcy of a knock meant you had to interact with a human. You raced towards the door, ready to cry out in panic.

Retching it open, your breath caught in your throat.

It was your attractive neighbor. You had talked to them a total of three times including the time the landlord introduced you. In your hyper aware state, you couldn’t even reach in your mind for their name.

“..Hi.” You said breathless, wondering how much of a mess you looked. Attempting to discreetly pat your hair down, the neighbor explained their hearing you screaming, wanting to make sure you were okay.

On the tip of your tongue was ‘No, actually. There seems to be a poltergeist in my bedroom. Do you have the number of any good priests?’ But what came out of your mouth was surprisingly calm and normal. You were so sorry, you were playing and sometimes could get a little loud and competitive, you’ll try and keep it down.

Feeling the back of your head prickle, it seemed now you had obtained the power to tell whenever it’s eyes were on you. Great.

Seeing the ghost peeking from around the corner, not subtle at all in the ordinary background of your apartment, his contrite countenance almost making you smile. The words left your mouth before you could catch them.

“..Can you not see him?”

Your neighbours' confused silence answered. You took a deep breath, savouring this human interaction. Alrighty then.

“Gotcha! Sorry, I get spooky around this time of year.” It wasn’t even October, six weeks until Halloween, but it seemed to do the trick.

Sharing a laugh with the neighbor, you expressed your desire for them to enjoy their weekend, and bid them goodbye, promising to be quiet. Hoping they didn’t notice how fast you closed the door.

You turned back around to regard the ghost.

It.. Certainly didn’t look how you imagined it.

He looked worse.. Dirty and disheveled in a striped suit, you tried to picture how he might have died and carefully watched as he shuffled forward. Wide, yellow ambers glittered at you.

“Listen.. I know we didn’t get off on the right foot, but… You can see me.”

“Yes.” You had to clear your throat, the voice that came out of you was dry and cracked.

“Stop saying that, please. Why can I see you?” He stepped closer to you, head tilting and you had the space to break free into your living room, walking backwards as he stalked you.

“Beats me, sweetheart. Breathers are usually so self centered they never notice the dead.” You plopped down on the sofa, processing that bit of information. So it was all real. Ghosts were among us. Unbelievable.

He began to fiddle with the cuffs of his jacket, you almost wanted to ask him to sit down, the nervous energy you felt from him not helping with yours. What do you offer to a ghost for comfort? Smooth as always you blurted out the first thing.

“So… You’ve been haunting me. You were-”

Sudden, potent anger flushed over your skin. It came together. Your underwear. That night. This pervert!

“Have you been watching me sleep?!” You felt yourself screech before trying to lower your voice, remember the promise to the neighbor. Shooting up from your seat, the ghost floundered under your glare, eyes flickering towards the ground, refusing to look at you.

Lowering your voice to a dangerous whisper, the anger was making you brave. You began to advance on this deviant spectre. Realizing you had the daily source of your misfortune in front of you fueling your fire.

He had been around the whole time, through your daily routine like… He was your boyfriend or something. As uncomfortable as that was, maybe he couldn’t help that, but you drew the line at theft.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?! I don’t care, ghostly apparition or not, that’s just rude! Stealing my clothes?! What do you have to say?”

“Woah-woah.. I-I’m sorry! I just… You’re so…Hey!”

Continuing your pursuit despite his stuttered protests, you found yourself standing up close. The closeness was pungent, but it was becoming kind of bearable as the minutes passed on… Up close he was..

Strangely handsome, your brain chimed in for you. Not the fucking time!

Arms crossed tight, you glowered at him. Unexplained, you waited for his answer. Obviously he wasn’t going to hurt you. This stupid, smelly, handsome ghost had had plenty of opportunity, you thought sourly.

“Look, this really isn’t going the way I wanted it to. You’re the most interesting breather in this hellhole……. I’ve been stuck here for so long, but if-if you want.. I’ll stay away...”

Deciding to proceed with the first bit of what he said: going the way he wanted? You watched as he began to slump away. He was muttering to himself again.

“Probably go down and haunt Mrs. O’Reilly in 2B. Heard she got a new pacemaker...That could be fun”

Viewing the sad spectre slink away, the rage was strangely dissipating. Maybe it was the down tilted head, the kicked puppy expression, the idea of this dude with poor little Mrs.O’Reilly. Something made you call out.

“Wait.”

He perked up almost comically, twirling back towards you, having to bite your lip to keep from smirking. Maybe this ghost wasn’t so bad, he was certainly interesting. Entertaining. Handsome. Shut up brain. Didn’t mean you forgave him yet. He was giving you every piece of clothing back.

“Did I tell you to go away?”

“Yeah.. Earlier..” His fingers twitched together and now taking notice of how open and earnest his expression was, it was making you smile. Right, when you were freaking out. Could you be blamed? Now it seemed implausible you were ever scared of him.

“Okay, well that was then, this is now. Let’s start over, I’m (Y/N).” On reflex you held your arm out, and kept it there before you thought better of it. Why you were attempting to shake hands with a ghost was beyond you, but as this was of course the weirdest thing to ever happen, what else could be done that didn’t make sense?

He, with rapt attention, reached forward and you watched in astonishment as his hand drifted slowly through yours. The sensation was an icy buzz shooting up your arm, tingling through your neck into your brain, even your scalp felt the jolt. You felt like you just been electrocuted.

Both of you shivered at the contact. The air was filled with a growl and once again you were transported back to you in bed and him above you. For the first time.. You felt yourself throb in pleasure at the memory rather than fright. This was slowly becoming dangerous, you could feel it.

“Ooo… That’s different.”

Studying him as he glowed green, he began to lewdly run his hands down his chest...Down his thighs.. Your eyes snapped away, suddenly very interested in your own hand..Certainly different.

“I like it.”

“So…. Have you been here the whole time?” You asked, desperate to change the subject in a strangled voice, turning away so he couldn’t see your burning face. This was dangerous. Impossible. Not healthy. Deciding to let this ghost stick around perhaps wasn’t the best instinct.

“I’m not sure you’re gonna like the answer to that, babes.”

Revolving around to ask him what he meant, you paused at him... Flushing pink. Definitely not.

#beetlejuice the musical #beetlejuice broadway #betelgeuse #beetlejuice musical #beetlejuice fic #beetlejuice x reader #beetlejuice #lydia deetz #charles deetz #delia deetz #adam maitland #barbara maitland #reader x beetlejuice #beetlejuice x you

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poisxnyouth · 4 years

Text

bad influence dave part 5 (d.d)

A/N: I KNOW 3.8K ISN’T SHORT BUT I FEEL LIKE I’VE CONDITIONED MYSELF TO THINK IT IS. ANYWAY. ENJOY. LMK WHAT YOU THINK. TALK TO ME WHILE YOU READ. I LOVE YOU. LET’S CHAT. -HAILEY

Word Count: 3.85K

“David,” you whine his name, bucking up into his touch and grabbing at his hair, “We have thirty minutes before we have to go.”

“Hush,” he says gruffly, fingers twisting inside of you and grunting slightly, “You’re going to cum before we leave this house.”

Neither of you are even dressed, still in pajamas, and yet: you woke up late, kissed each other good morning, and you barely had a second to think before he was sliding his hand down the front of your sweatpants.

This behavior of his seems to be routine on weekends, now. You stay over at his place Friday to Sunday; every Sunday, he attempts to make you cum before having to leave for church. It’s an increasingly frustrating task for him — he knows he can, and he knows he knows how to do so, but you’re not complying with him. It’s not your fault, either:

Sexual repression is fucking difficult to fix, apparently, and David wants to kill himself. He cannot count on both of his hands the amount of times he’s been between your legs and had to tell you, “Stop putting pressure on yourself to be able to cum. You do that, and you’ll never cum. Knock it off and let me do this. I know how to. Shut up.” It seems as though his words are finally beginning to click this time, and he can tell by the way you’re tugging so tightly at the roots of his hair as he works his mouth and fingers against you.

After pushing his sexual ego to the side, David got the balls to buy you a bullet vibrator – an amazing decision he couldn't regret even if he wanted to. Now, he pulls away from you before you whine again, tugging him closer.

He continues to pull away, harshly pushing your hands off, “Stop it. Let me do this.”

David grabs the vibrator and flips it on, settling back between your legs and starting his work again: vibe on your clit, fingers inside, and mouth on you. As far as he’s concerned, for any other woman, this is the Holy Trinity of what it takes to orgasm, and he feels you getting so close beneath him that his heart begins racing in excitement. He watches your face twist up and you pull tighter at his hair, bucking up against him.

This is the closest he’s gotten to making you cum so far, and he wishes he was surprised when you exhale deeply and groan, gently pushing his touches away. He knew it was too good to be true.

You cover your face with your hands, wanting to cry of frustration and embarrassment as David switches off the vibe. He haphazardly (and grossly) wipes his fingers on his t-shirt, wiping at his mouth before lying back down next to you. He sighs, too, pulling you into his arms and moving to grab your chin, “Look at me, babygirl.”

“It’s okay,” David promises and presses a gentle kiss to your lips, even though he’s just as frustrated as you are, “That was the closest we’ve been. Progress, honey. Baby steps.”

“I’m so mad at myself,” you say dejectedly, rolling over to get out of bed and begin getting ready, “I feel fucking broken.”

“Noooo,” he drags out, shaking his head and tugging off his t-shirt, “Don't feel that way, my love. Patience. It’ll come! I promise. We can always try again later.”

David’s been trying so hard to remain optimistic, and he still is, but it's mentally draining, and he's spreading himself thin. He gets out of bed and lazily pulls out his Sunday best clothes: wife beater, t-shirt, dress shirt, slacks, dress shoes. At first, he had hated wearing church clothes again – as the weeks pass, though, and however unfaithful he remains, it’s his routine now.

He’s moving more drugs than he ever has now that he has the guise of salvation; so, to him, two hours every Sunday morning and Wednesday night in stuffy clothes is worth the extra ten grand a week. David’s already made fifty racks since being with you – a little over a month – and he has more money than he even knows what to do with. He never thought the Catholic church was his answer to being able to deal more.

“Babygirl, have you seen my raz – Nevermind,” David has exactly ten minutes to shave his face and pull his clothes on; he’s stood in front of his mirror in his tank top, crowded next to you as you both attempt to hurriedly get ready at the same time. From his cheeks down, he’s covered in shaving cream, quickly running the blades across his skin. He leaves the faucet on as you lean over the counter next to him, in your bra and underwear, attempting to do your makeup as quickly as you can.

“What time is it, honey?”

��Seven-oh-five,” you reply, checking your phone in the middle of your mascara, “Ten minutes.”

It’s a forty-five-minute trip into the city, and David hates waking up so early on one of his two days off – but God, is the money worth it. Church is practically a job he gets paid two and a half G’s per hour for. Call him a priest.

You brush your teeth simultaneously, his arm draped around your waist as you rest your head against his shoulder. You spit, rinse, and spit again at the same time before you’re both racing to tug on your clothes; David tucks his dress shirt into his slacks and slips his belt through the loops, quickly buckling it and flipping his collar up, reaching for his tie. He wraps it around his neck, not bothering tying it yet as you ask him to zip up the back of your dress.

He does, slipping his shoes on and tying them as you gather your belongings. God, he hates church.

David stashes the vibrator in his pocket when you’re not looking, grouping it in with his wallet, keys, lighter, and cigarettes. Somehow, you manage to make it out of the house and into his car on time – and you’re both exhausted.

He makes a mental note to himself to never do an eight ball of cocaine by himself the night before church again – his throat’s raw, and every time he speaks, it feels like he’s getting facefucked by a hundred and eighty grit sandpaper.

You did not participate in his festivities, but you had been all over him, drunk, in the bathroom of his friend's house as he cut himself a few lines on the granite countertops with his debit card. You watched him as he pulled out his wallet for the second time, precisely rolling up a hundred-dollar bill and bending over the counter, shamelessly snorting a line at a time. Half-way through, he stopped, tipping his head back and rubbing at his nose, sniffling and groaning quietly.

Someone had attempted to come through the door without knocking, and David quickly shut it on them, locking the door, “Go the fuck awaaaay, dude.”

Handle of his pistol peeking out of the back of his shorts, he bent over again, finishing the rest of his lines and running his fingers through the numbies. David rubbed the excess dust into his gums, wiping the dampness on his fingertips on his shirt aimlessly.

You drunkenly hung off of him, arms wrapped around his shoulders and kissing at his neck as he tipped his head backwards again, sniffling and wiping at his nose. His fingers reached for the baggy, hundred-dollar bill, and his debit card, slipping the items back into his wallet before tugging you closer and kissing you sloppily.

Of course, David doesn’t regret it – he regrets very little, after all – but he does feel like a hot, steaming pile of garbage, and he knows you must be hungover. He wants nothing more than a cigarette and a blunt, but God forbid-

“Hey, are we dealing today?” You snap him out of his own head as he drives, sunglasses over his too-sensitive eyes – a result of the liquor he also put in his body the night before.

“Um, yeah,” he nods, one hand on the wheel at six o’clock and the other laced with yours. “I’m moving two ounces of coke upstate today. You’re just tagging along. Fuck, everything in my body hurts. I need coffee or something. Do we have time?”

“I think so?” you reply, digging through his center console for an aspirin, a Tylenol, a Motrin, anything to ease the headache that the sunlight’s presence is making a million times worse. “The traffic is worse than usual, so maybe we shouldn't.”

David’s mouth and fingers are itching for a cigarette, but he knows the stench is immediately recognizable – he untangles your fingers as he gets stopped at a light, leaning over you into the passenger side and opening his dash. He rifles through it quickly, placing the spare Glock in your lap as he feels you rub at his back affectionately. He finds a pack of mint toothpicks – he knew he had some somewhere – an aged relic of when he attempted to quit smoking two years prior, opens the package, and places one in his mouth.

David's oral fixation momentarily relieved, he hits the gas and tells you to put the gun back. He's yet to give you a full tutorial, supplying you with sporadic explanations here and there; but you do, very carefully and very slowly, before he interrupts you.

“Jesus, baby, it's not a bomb. You know the safety is on,” he takes it from your hands, tossing it into the dash and telling you to shut it.

David chews on the toothpick until the flavor is gone, rolling it between his lips as he drives, fingers laced with yours again. You speak, entirely too hungover to be going anywhere, but wanting to appreciate him, “Thanks for never judging me with the whole orgasm thing, babe. You’re too patient.”

He tuts, squeezing your hand and hoarsely replying, “A judgmental man is a weak man, sweetheart. Gotta do what you gotta do. I’ve got you, regardless.”

You don't know what to say to that, going silent at his words and leaning over to put your head in his bicep, shutting your eyes. “Ugh, God. Can we call in sick?”

“Oh my God, can we?” he replies, mentally crossing his fingers, “Please say yes. I didn't know we could do that.”

“Oh, fuck it,” you move from his arm and reach for your phone, quickly texting your family and fibbing you and David don’t feel too good. It’s not a complete lie.

David quickly tosses out the toothpick and reaches for his cigarettes, lighting one and rolling his window down. He gets stopped at a light again after making a U-turn, subsequently rolling his sleeves up, loosening his Windsor knot, and undoing the top few buttons of his shirt, cigarette loosely between his lips.

He looks so hot, and you tell him so. He scoffs and doesn't acknowledge your compliment, smile playing at his lips as he takes a drag and untangles your fingers, free hand sliding up the inside of your thigh.

“We need to talk, sweet girl,” David says vaguely, side of his knuckles rubbing gently against your underwear, “Don’t be a stupid whore and make yourself a target later today. Do as I say and nothing else. I’ll leave it at that.”

“I always do as you say,” you reply, spreading your legs slightly, “Why wouldn't I?”

“Because,” he shrugs, index finger hooking at the hem of your underwear and tugging, “Some part of you has a death wish, babygirl. You don’t like to listen to me. Get these off.”

He tosses his cig out of the window and pulls the vibrator out of his pocket, rolling the window up and spreading your legs further apart as he continues driving. David ignores you when you ask the reasoning behind him bringing the vibe as you push the clothing down your legs, flipping the switch and placing it on you.

“David!” you exclaim, going red in the cheeks, “We’re still in public!”

“My windows are tinted,” he replies coolly, throat still scratchy, “Just let me.”

He presses it harder against your clit, before ordering you, “Hold it there for me, sweetheart.”

You listen to him and do as he says, as he previously requested, just to slip his middle finger and ring finger inside of you. There's only so much he can do as he drives; his limited mobility is a struggle, but he glances between the road and between your legs as he moves his fingers with a certain finesse you can't quite do by yourself.

“Come on, sugar,” David presses, feeling the way your fingernails are sharply digging into his biceps as you get closer, “You can do it. Do it for Daddy, baby.”

He tries his hardest for a few minutes before you make a louder noise, crying out and finally releasing, and he can't believe it – he didn't think it would actually work. He always waits until you give up on yourself, sighing heavily and nearly crying of frustration.

You push his hands away as you catch your breath, eyes looking up at the ceiling of his car as he chuckles slightly, both hands on the wheel and another toothpick between his lips, wagging slightly as he speaks, “How was that, honey?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you curse, groaning quietly, “They’re all like that?”

“Pretty much,” he shrugs, rolling the stick between his lips, “Proud of you. Good job, babygirl.”

David has a genuine look of indifference on his face as he gets a gun pulled on him after asking for a higher sale price of the two ounces coke, cigarette between his lips. His eyes roll as he exhales the smoke carelessly down the barrel of the gun, speaking, “I carry. My girl carries. Don’t try it. You’re outnumbered. You’re not a big boy yet, man. It’s okay. Just give me the extra cash.”

“I won't shoot you if you don’t give me a reason to,” he promises, taking a drag as he pulls out his Glock, “Point that at her, though, and I will. Give it.”

“Fuck,” the man curses – David’s nonchalance is one of his best attributes – eyes rolling and taking the gun off of him, “Fine. I hate you. You’re a little shit.”

David gets in the car with five grand more than he thought he would come back with, casually sucking his teeth and tossing the gun in the backseat. He places a toothpick between his lips, tutting, “That guy’s an asshole. Fifteen bands, though. You want something nice?”

“Don't spend your money on me,” you say, “Not worth it.”

“Liar,” he chuckles, beginning to drive, “Sweetheart, I’ve made seventy-five thousand dollars in the past month and a half. I have almost four hundred thousand dollars to my name in cash. I have more money than I know what to do with. Let me buy you shit.”

“I’m not going to ask you for anything,” you promise, “Not with you for the money. I don't give a shit. I like when you're successful.”

“Riiiiiight,” he says doubtfully, “Okay, so when you come home to expensive packages you 'didn't want,’” he air-quotes mockingly, laughing slightly, “I want a picture of you and whatever I buy you and you saying, ‘No, thank you, Daddy. I don't want this Versace dress, I promise.’”

“I hate you so much,” you shove playfully, “Of course I’ll accept...but is that shit worth getting a gun pulled on for?”

“Ha,” David actually says, glancing between you and the road, “Anything for my girl.”

“God, baby. What are you doing?” David gripes in a whisper, eyeing the bong in your hands, “Putting that shit through college? Light the bowl and get on with it.”

You’ve had David in your life for three months now, dating him for one, and somehow, there are still things you haven't been taught how to do. Unfortunately, this includes how to use a bong, and now you’re under pressure, sitting in his lap. You’re both squoze in a shitty plastic chair, everyone arranged in a circle in one of David’s jerkoff friend’s backyards.

David is the only man in his friend group who has a girl.

David wipes at the corner of his mouth quickly before his hands are on your waist, mouth by your ear, “I’m telling you how to do this once, and only once.”

“Thumb over the carb. The back hole, baby,” he clarifies, “Mouth in the top hole. Seal. Light. Now, pull.”

You do as he says, his voice quiet as his friends make small talk with each other, eyeing the way he aids you, “Pullpullpullpull. Take off your thumb. Inhale all of it.”

You do, inhaling as much as you can, cough-free, quickly exhaling before he’s clearing the chamber for you, wiping the mouthpiece with the sleeve of his t-shirt before passing the glass to his buddy next to him. No one is saying it, but all they can think of when they watch you two is a charity case. They would never dare speak it – David would probably kill them – but he was never the type for good girls.

He’s sweet, for the most part, sure – but he’s also fucked every other girl sitting in that entire circle and none of them come close to being the same species as you. David’s wearing his cross again, something he stopped doing years ago, and you’re wearing one too. They also know he’s moving more coke and MDMA than he has in his entire life – it’s no coincidence.

He’s not manipulative, never has been, so it’s not that. He’s truly interested, and they can’t figure it out; you’re an odd match for him, and David seems especially enamored as you light his cigarette for him, eyes on his. He exhales the first drag quickly before kissing you, wholly on display for everyone who cares to see as he shamelessly tugs you closer after taking another drag. He shotguns the cigarette smoke with you, and judging by the way you’ve got your arms wrapped around his neck and the hickeys on his skin are peeking out from under his wife beater tank top – you’re enamored with him as much as he is with you.

They’ve all seen this man rail lines of ketamine and cocaine right after one another off of a random broad’s ass and continue his night doing shots, girls at his fingertips wherever he went; so, to see him so voluntarily committed to one woman – a woman who’s good for him and a woman who’s not like him at all – is staggering. They understand David well enough to know he doesn't force himself into anything; if he’s in a situation, it’s because he puts himself there, and if he wanted out, he would leave.

The most substantial evidence of this thought process of his is every girl’s experience with him in the bedroom behind closed doors. Not bad, performance wise, of course – but he’s selfish. One particular anecdote cites him pulling out, tearing off the condom, getting dressed, and asking said girl to leave. ‘Fuck, this sucks. You can go home now, sugar. Thanks, anyway, though,’ he had supposedly said, bathroom door shutting and shower turning on before she was even able to get her bra back on. He ended up cumming down his shower drain to the thought of Blake Lively’s tits, free hand holding himself up against the wall of white porcelain tiles as his free palm and fingers worked over himself, not feeling one inkling of guilt for that poor girl – who’s now bitterly sitting across from you and David in the circle, watching you cluelessly kiss the taste of Coors Light off of his lips.

You and David are hardly paying attention to anything besides each other, and it’s been this way every time he's visited, and you’ve tagged along. Cigarette between his fingers, he whispers comments to you to make you giggle, resembling rebellious teenagers at a shitty house party as the fingers of his spare hand creep up the hem of your (David’s) t-shirt.

It comes as a shock for everyone, including you, when David pushes your hair out of your face and murmurs a quiet admission without thinking twice about the meaning of it, “I love you, my sweet girl.”

Even while stoned, you feel yourself go breathless in his hold as he continues to nonchalantly play with the ends of your hair and kisses your forehead, ensuring, “Say it back whenever you want to. No pressure, babygirl. I’m just saying.”

A quiet but not unnoticed interaction, it’s painfully obvious to everyone how beguiled he is with you – a scarce but not entirely unfamiliar feeling for him to experience. He’s a grown man; he’s been in love before. David’s best quality is his self-awareness; he knows it’s too early, and he knows himself well enough to understand that he will be wholeheartedly, emotionally fucked if something, however much unanticipated, goes wrong with your relationship.

It’s a chance he’s willing to take, and he’s not ashamed of it – he’s too comfortable with himself to be ashamed of any of his desires. That being said, it doesn't take the surprise out of him when you reciprocate his words following a moment of silence, leaning in to kiss him.

David’s previous projects look on amid their conversations, covetous eyes rolling while he smiles into your kisses and lets you affectionately run your fingers through his scruff. Adorning one of his t-shirts, his signature scent of weed and sweet cigarettes is slowly becoming engraved into your skin and your hair, scarlet and plum hickeys almost always smattered against your collarbone and shoulders as evidence of his residency in your personal life.

At the recognition and confirmation of your mutual attraction, David’s ready to go home, heart eyes taking over his desire for social company as he flicks his cigarette and stands with you, murmuring a quiet, “You wanna get the fuck outta here?” into your ear.

You nod, and David quickly bids everyone goodnight, leading you by the small of your back to the car, sighing, “Fuck, I’m glad to be outta there. They were on some other shit tonight.”

“They seemed pissed at you,” you comment as he turns the key in the ignition, lacing your fingers together and resting your head on his shoulder, breathing him in, “Why?”

“I don't give a shit,” he shrugs, absentmindedly driving, “I don't think about them at all anymore.”

“I love you,” you say randomly a few minutes later, squeezing his hand, “For real. I’m so grateful for you.”

“I love you, too, my sweet girl,” David promises, eyes switching between you and the road, “You make me so much nicer.”

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littlewitty · 4 years

Text

The Dizzy Feeling

Ship: Leonardo x MC

Genre: fluff

Warnings: descriptions of sickness

————————————————————

He knew, right?Leonardo had to know. If he did, I felt grateful how he ignored it like I wanted. My head pounded with an unforgiving pain and my body felt light and airy wherever I moved.

“The plates and cutlery, can you place them?” Sebastian queried even though he knew I wouldn’t refuse.

“Yes, definitely, what residents will be eating today, do you know?” I replied, paying no mind to the pain that scratched my throat like sandpaper.

“I believe that tonight Master Vincent, Herr Mozart, Monsieur Napoleon, Sir Issac and Sir Arthur are eating now.” He said casually whilst I grabbed the stack of plates from the cupboard. Tracing my finger up the side of them, I counted quietly, the sound of skin on glass sung like swarm of bees to my overly sensitive hearing. “Vincent’s on his own tonight, then, where’s Theo?” I asked over my shoulder. I could hear Sebastian moving around, back-and-forth, to-and-throe. I could even hear the fabric of his finely tailored suit stretching as he reached out to claim the wooden spoon.

“I do believe he’s at a meeting to set up another exhibition,” he declared as I turned around swiftly. Holding the plates in my arms, I stabilised my self and stepped forward.

Wow.

A spark of dizziness. It stabbed through my mind as little colourful squiggles started to invade my eyesight. Taken back, I took a step backwards slamming my back up against the counters. everything seemed to slow down and all I heard was an ever growing squeak in my ear and the drumming of my heart. Sebastian’s head whipped around and saw my semi-panicked state.

"Are you okay?... ” he barely uttered, whether that volume was him or my failing hearing was left up to me. I could feel heat slither up my body and leave in waves causing me to sweat dramatically. The heat just kept throbbing out of my body as a new enemy appeared. Nausea. I felt sick. Really sick. The pain in my head stole my attention. I kept on imagining someone hitting me on the head again and again, making me panic even more.

“Hey!” A hand on my shoulder started to shake me. A firm, proper grip ,Sebastian, I think...

Letting a shaky breath exit me, I finally regained some sense of sanity. “I need fresh air Sebastian , I -uh- yeah... ” plates still in my arms, I made my way into the Dining room to place them before regaining oxygen. As I entered the room, the casual chit chat consisting of Arthur, Issac and Vincent who were all happily seated at the table waiting for their dinner like hungry children, ceased. I placard the plates down with a small clash and started handing them out, head down. I could feel six pairs of eyes on me, staring at my poor, sorry self. I didn’t want to feel weaker than they are, but most of all I didn’t want to ever be sick. The medicine and health care of this era is questionable and I didn’t want to die from being diagnosed Lead or Mercury or even worse, need Blood-Letting! So I refused to acknowledge my ill state. A Dutch accent was vocalised, ending the silence.

“Hey, MC, are you alright? You seem kind of .... pale.” He stated in a gingerly way. The other two just stared, attempting to deduce my state for themselves. Me? I just wanted to lay the table quickly and retreat outside. “I’m fine, Vincent. It’s just a bit hot in the kitchen right now.” I lied, almost as easy as I could breathe.

“Now, now, my dear MC, I know an ill person when I see them, and you seem to be suffering a lot at this moment in time.” Stated Arthur, so matter-of-factly. All the respect to the man, but damn can that detective in him be annoyingly accurate.

Now with only three plates being cradled like my life line, I came to Issac who had a look of ‘I won’t say anything because you don’t want me to’, at least someone understood. That sudden jab of dizziness caught up to me and I slammed the plates down on the table, feeling it completely consuming me. My heart throbbed and my head felt like it was smashing into a million bricks at one time. A burning feeling rose in my throat.

NO! I can’t be sick in front of them!

I attempted to run to the door, but realised it was impossible, so I scrambled to the farthest point I could get. I got to the end of the table when my weak, shaky legs gave up on me. Still clutching the corner of the table, I forced myself to swallow the nausea. The doors gently opened and the Lord of the mansion walked in and upon inspecting the room, rushed over to me.

“Ma Chérie, what’s wrong?” He crouched down to my level, but I knew it was too late. I attempted to shove him away and turn behind me, but Arthur and Vincent were blocking that way out. Issac remained seated but ready to leap out of his chair if needed, and amongst the commotion, Sebastian had meandered his way back in too, all just staring at me in bewilderment.

I coughed hard. A cough you get before you’re sick...

I hunched over, gagging visibly, knowing I was going to be sick, I turned forward and ...

Silence

Finally, I opened my eyes to the horror. The reason for the silence was instantly justified. I stared down at the floor to Comte’s expensive shoes, which I had just thrown up on.....

SHIT!

Guilt and nervousness, made me gag again. I was going to immediately apologise when a hand on the back of my neck held me in place and another hand was stoking my back. Arthur behind me went all doctor mode and started barking orders...

Soon a felt a comforting and on my shoulder, and I sneaked a peek to see Leonardo’s understanding but stern gaze. It’s that gaze that told me it was going to be alright, but that gaze also questioned why I didn’t tell him about this.

“Shush, Cara, it’s okay Comte understands so save the tears, sí?” The tears of pure guilt rolled down my cheeks. It wasn’t just him. I felt sorry for everyone having to see that. I felt so disgusted by myself. Over Leonardo’s shoulder I spied confused Napoleon and a very disgusted looking Mozart who obviously walked in because of the noise.

Sniffling some more, I leaned into Leonardo as he opened his arms and enveloped me. All I could hear was the silence again as they all stopped and heard my soft whimpers. Then I let the nice feeling of relaxing take me over...

My eyes gently eased open, and the muffled voices soon became clearer. A cold droplet of water ran down my face, and then another one, and again. I slowly raised my hand to feel a cold, wet cloth on my forehead to keep my temperature down most likely. Arthur’s face above me as well as Leonardo standing behind him came into view.

“You’re awake Cara Mia, that’s good, how do you feel?” That Italian accent that I adored so much filled my ears.

“Like I’ve just been hit by a train..” I mumbled, doubting he could hear me.

“Hmm, I see, and with that I suppose that headache of yours hasn’t subsided either or the possible pain in your stomach?” Arthur’s Scottish accent took my focus.

“How did you know about the headache and the stomach pain, I didn’t tell you did I?”

“No, MC but they’re common symptoms for people who were violently sick, especially on Comte’s shoes, hehe,” of course he would tease me. I sighed, I knew I would never live that one down.

“Right, at least a week in bed and obviously no working at all, understood? It’s Dr. Doyle’s orders, you remember that!” He said as he tapped my nose and left the room.

“Huh, why didn’t you tell me Cara?” Asked Leonardo who had recently lit a cigarillo and held it to his lips.

“I was scared,” I whimpered.

“I’ve realised, come here..” lifting the covers behind me, he gently placed himself and wrapped his one arm around me whilst the other held is cigarillo. I closed my eyes and just listened to the sound of him blowing out the smoke, creating this godly good scent to resonate in the room.

“Comte’s shoes, what happens after I.. err, Comte’s reaction?” I awkwardly questioned. A breathy laugh erupted from him, a breathy annoying laugh.

“Yeah, through out all the centuries of knowing him, I’ve never seen shock like that on his face. And you realise how it wasn’t just his shoes right?”

Huh?

“It was the bottom of his trousers too, and he just , heheh, stood there, absolutely frozen hahah,” well at least he found it funny, I guess.

Pushing my back into him more, I let the sleep and illness seep in and finally claim the girl it had spent days to conquer.

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikevam #ikevamp sebastian #ikevamp vincent #ikevamp arthur #ikevamp isaac #ikevamp comte #ikevamp count #ikevamp leonardo #ikevamp leo

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stevesharrlngtons · 6 years

Text

hey.

steve harrington x reader

summary: he was such a staple piece in your life, that as a child and young teen, you never saw your life without him. late night promises and pinky swears were made in blanket forts that you two would be friends until the day the sun burned out in the sky. it was just a given that’d he be there, that you never worried about the two of you drifting apart or being separated. he promised he’d always be there, and you had believed him. you now corrected yourself, foolishly believed him.

word count: 5.4k

a/n: holy shit? chapter nine! 38,000 words later and it’s done!!! this is such a sentimental piece for me. i started working on this in november, right after st2 was released, and was just writing it for myself to read. but as time went on, i was four chapters in and decided i wanted to share it with other people. posting your writing online is terrifying, even if you do it all the time. so posting this, which i consider my baby in a way, was super scary. but i’m really happy i did. i’m glad that the few people i reached with story, really really enjoyed it. everytime i get a message saying that someone loves this story it always brightens my mood. for those of you who have been there from the beginning or just found this story, thank you for all your love and support! i love you all. i know i mainly write for billy now, but thank you for sticking around anyway! hopefully i can get some inspo for more steve in the future. my love for him and joe is not gone, so here’s hoping! and if you are still here, thank you for your patience while i took the time to write this, i hope it is enjoyable and worth the wait.

here is chapter nine, please let me know what you think! and thank you for letting me share this story with you!

chapter i / ii / iii / iv / v / vi / vii / viii /

chapter xi

The next morning you woke to your pillowcase cemented to your cheek from died spit, and a splitting headache. Remnants of last night were coming to you in bits and pieces but nothing too concrete.

Shit. Concrete.

The pain from your skinned knees started to become prominent, and your eyes felt red and puffy. Fragments of conversations came and went in your head. You vaguely remembered a fight with Derek, then Jonathan tucking you in, but everything else was a blur. You glanced towards your alarm clock, the red numbers brighter than usual, reading 11:46 AM. You sighed and placed your head back on your pillow in a huff. As you did, you started to feel all the old makeup, sweat and blood that caked your skin. As much as you just wanted to lay in bed all day waiting for the screwdriver in your head to dislodge itself, a shower was definitely needed.

Peeling yourself up from your sheets, you trudged your fatigued legs towards the bathroom, and once you were inside, the mirror above the sink was anything but forgiving. Black smudges painted your face, forgotten tear tracks in their wake. Your hair was knotted and matted, and your eyes were bloodshot to hell.

Rolling your eyes and shrugging, you discarded your wrinkled clothes, got into the shower and turned the water on to a blistering heat. Standing under the stream, you ran your hands slowly over your face, breathing in the already accumulating steam. The water soothed your tense muscles and eased your headache, and you were starting to feel human again. But as you calmed, more memories came up. Derek’s harsh words, calling Jonathan, making up with Jonathan, telling him you were in love with Steve, weeping after Jonathan left your room. You tried to push the thoughts to the side, they were causing your stomach to ache and your head spin. Right now, you needed to focus on shedding the layer of grime you had accumulated over the past twenty-four hours.

When you were sufficiently clean, you turned off the faucet and climbed from the bathtub, taking the two towels from under the sink and wrapped one around your hair and the other around your torso. At your vanity, you wiped away some steam that clung to the mirror with your hand, revealing a window of your broken, tired self.

Your head was still throbbing and your skin felt like sandpaper, so in the fruitless effort to make yourself feel better, you put on a face mask. Wiping the green goopy substance on your face, you were officially turning into the Hulk for the next fifteen to twenty minutes.

With nothing but your mask and towels, you went downstairs to get a cup of much needed coffee and possibly a slice of toast if your mother had been to the store. Thankfully she had. So, with two pieces of bread in the toaster and coffee brewing, you debated calling Jonathan. Not to harass him to pick you up in the middle of nowhere, but to thank him for the night before. You could be a fun drunk or emotional one, there was no in between. And last night you had definitely been emotional. If anyone was best equipped to take care of you in that state, it was Jonathan. But you would always call the next day with a load of apologies and appreciations and promises of a donut and David Lynch at a later date.

As you buttered your toast, you wondered if donuts and Lynch were enough to mend this wound? Not only yours but Jonathan’s as well. You both had been sucked under the Harrington and Wheeler ray of false feelings, but you always had a thicker skin than him. Maybe not when it came to Steve, but you would still put on your best face when you would inevitably console Jonathan about this situation.

Just as you were crafting the words you were going to say to your best friend, the phone started to ring. Thinking that it was Jonathan with some newly achieved ESP, you paused eating your toast and went to answer the phone.

“Hello?”

“How’s it hanging?” The unexpected voice asked.

“Perry?” You furrowed your brows, surprised he was calling.

“Yeah, you expecting someone else or something?” He chuckled.

“Well, kind of. But this is a happy interference.” He laughed again.

“Dad ran out for the afternoon, so I thought I’d see how things have been.”

You laughed humorlessly under your breath, “Things have been things. How about you?”

“Things have been things?” Perry repeated with skepticism.

“Yeah, things have been things.” You sighed and shook your head.

“Fuck that cryptic shit, how have you really been?” His tone grew serious.

“Just drop it, okay? How are you?” You tried to push past his question.

“I asked for first. Now tell me, (Y/N/N).”

You leaned your head on the wall next to the phone and shut your eyes to have a brief moment of clarity before you told Perry what was happening. You couldn’t lie to him. You had that weird sibling connection that could always detect a lie.

“Remember Steve? Steve Harrington?” You said slowly.

“Yeah, last I heard he was dead to you.”

“Well a lot has happened since then.”

“Like?” Perry asked.

“Like, I sorta, kinda, maybe fell in love with him? And I thought he loved me, which he didn’t and it broke my heart. I don’t know…A lot can happen in a month…” You crinkled your forehead. You hated how naïve and young you sounded.

“How the hell did this happen?” Perry was trying to keep his anger at bay, but it was still peaking through.

“We ran into each other at a party, he had just broken up with his girlfriend and I guess I felt guilt or pity, I’m still not sure... He was sad and even though I hated him, I still cared about him, y’know? So, we ended up spending more time together after that and one thing led to another and I dumbly fell for him. He made it seem like he felt the same way. Trust me on that, he was very forward with saying how much he liked me. But I was scared. Scared because all the asshole men in my life, present company included, have screwed me over.” It was a low blow to Perry, but he knew how much his leaving hurt you. This wasn’t anything new. “So, I told him I needed the weekend to think about if I was really ready to be in a relationship, he was totally against it. Wanting me to stay and telling me all this shit, but I knew I needed some time. I thought about it a lot and talked with mom and realized that I really did want to be with him. When I went to tell him, I caught him with his ex, so…”

Perry was silent on the other end for a long moment.

“Steve Harrington did this? Are you sure?” He asked.

“Why the hell would I lie, Per?” You rolled your eyes.

“That just, I don’t know. It doesn’t sound like him.”

“A lot has changed around here. We aren’t playing superheroes in the backyard and drinking Yoohoo, anymore. It’s been years since you saw him.” You toyed with the telephone chord as you spoke.

“Yeah but he was so into you when we were kids. I always thought something would happen with you guys. I always told him he had my blessing. He seemed really thankful for that.” Perry said nonchalantly.

“This is new fucking news to me.” You said straightening your posture.

“What? He was a nice kid and you two were attached at the hip! I told him when you were like ten that if he ever wanted to be with you, I was okay with it.”

“So, even through all the shit talking I’ve done for the past few years, you always thought that we would end up together?” You scoffed.

“Yeah, I always figured it was just hormones or something.” You could practically hear him shrugging on the other end.

“Hormones? Are you fucking kidding me?” You roared.

“See! Right there! Fucking hormones!” Perry said.

“I’m going to kick your ass, I swear.” You mumbled.

“Try me!” Perry laughed, but stopped when you didn’t join in.

And when you stayed silent on the other end, he knew he needed to step up his big brother duties.

“Whether it sounds like him or not, he’s a piece of shit. He doesn’t deserve you. If I was there I’d beat the shit out of him and revoke my blessing! I would!” This earned a laugh from you and Perry knew he’d done his job.

“If you were here, I might have to take you up on that.” You sadly smiled.

“But I’m not. So what are you going to do, kid?”

“Mope, get over it. Move on.” You sighed.

“Fuck that!” Perry scoffed, “You need to tell that asshole off! Who does he think he is?”

He always knew how to work you up.

“He made you love him twice! Not once, but twice! Fool you once, shame on you, but fool you twice…”

“Shame on him.” You said tightly.

“Exactly. You need to make him feel like shit. You need some good old fashioned revenge.” Perry cursed.

“You know what? You are so right!” You nodded dramatically.

“Steve fucking Harrington doesn’t get to march into people’s lives just to destroy them! I need to tear him a new one!” Perry was putting you over an open flame, and the more he spoke, the more you bubbled over with anger.

“Now there’s the (Y/L/N) in you! Go tell that fucker off!” He cheered.

“I’m gonna!” You raged. “I’m going to go now before all this anger and hype wears off.”

“Yes! Call me when you’re home and describe his tears, okay?”

“Deal.”

Hastily, you had ran up the stairs, wiped off your mask and threw on a pair of jeans and a sweater. Your hair was still mostly damp and you looked an absolute hungover mess, but you had just enough momentum and energy to drive over to the Harrington residence. Thank God your mother had left her car this time she had gone out of town, because walking in the freezing weather would have no doubt made you turn back and sulk in your bedroom.

You had a lead foot on the gas pedal as you vibrated with anger. Your music loud enough to cover your insane rambles as you whipped around corners and California breaked at stop sighs. Soon, Steve’s house was coming into view, and your adrenaline was spiking.

The car lurched as you came to a quick stop. You yanked on your emergency break and took the keys from the ignition, the music cutting out and leaving you in a tizzy of silence. Upon exiting the car, your nerves began to set in. The cold attacked your damp hair and sent a chill through your bones. The cloudy Indiana sky was creating a grey mood that made you think that the universe was trying to warn you.

Turn back.

It isn’t worth it!

You don’t want to hurt him, you love him!

And yet, your legs did not stop as you stomped your way through the morning dew on the Harrington’s grass and approached his front steps. The large double doors seemed taunting and terrifying, but you paid no mind to this as you slammed your fist hard on the wood, your other hand relentlessly ringing the doorbell.

The surface for your fist to hit was ripped away so fast, you almost pounded Steve in the chest, but your arm stiffened when you saw him standing in front of you.

You did the best to ignore the flutter of your heart at the sight of his bed head and astonished gaze. This wasn’t the time to falter, this wasn’t the time for weakness.

“(Y/N)? What are you doing here? I was just about to come over and see you.” Steve said in a gentle voice.

This was half true. He had woken up at nine, gotten dressed, driven to your house, had a panic attack when he arrived, then came home and decided he needed more sleep before he confronted you. Even with being up all night trying to craft what he was going to say to you, nothing seemed good enough. Steve had wronged you before, and with you thinking he had again, that was how he was going to have to approach you. And it terrified him. It wasn’t going to be easy.

“I have some things to say to you, Steve Harrington!” You boomed, moving you arms down to your sides stiffly.

“I, um, me too.” Steve said, nodding.

“I want you to know that you are a two timing, pig! Who I hate by the way! You manipulative, piece of shit!” You screamed in his face, pointing an accusatory finger in his face.

Steve just stared at you and said nothing. These words were all expected. He was surprised you hadn’t called him anything much worse.

“You come back into my life and make yourself seem like I’m your savior! You make me let you in, you made forget all the rules I had set up- that you fucking made me set up in the first place! You make me fall in love with you and you fucking make me believe you loved me too! Just to see you feeling up Nancy Wheeler in the school parking lot? You are a Class A asshole, Harrington! I hope you rot!” Steve was sure by the decidable of your voice, that you had drawn attention from all of his neighbors by now.

After your speech, you stood on his doorstep, heaving with an enraged look on your face, your body slightly tilted forward. It must have happened sometime during your heated words and violent hand gestures.

“Can I speak now?” Steve asked calmly.

“No! I don’t- no! You can’t. I’m leaving. I have nothing left to say.” You said, going to turn around.

But ever the rule breaker, Steve spoke, “Nancy and I aren’t together. She saw us the night you left when she was coming to get some of her things. Monday we were just talking… mostly about how much I love you. I told her that we are soulmates and she agreed. We lost track of time and when I realized it, I freaked. She told me to wait for you, but you never showed.”

As Steve explained, he stepped closer to you. You were still fuming, but Steve could see the subtle changes in your face as he spoke. But he knew you wouldn’t let your guard down just yet, and he didn’t expect you too.

“I called your house and your mom cursed me to hell and back. I waited the rest of the day in the parking lot, hoping you would show but you never did. I thought, I don’t know… that you decided you didn’t love me after all. That’s why I stayed away. I thought you were avoiding me because you couldn’t face me after realizing that feelings were only on my end. It wasn’t until Jonathan showed up here last night to scream at me, that I connected all the dots.” He was in front of you now.

The information he was telling you was making your resolve of anger and revenge dissolve. Your mind felt like a static television screen, you couldn’t think or act- just listen.

“But that’s why I didn’t call or come to your window or bang on your door and fight off your mother. Because I couldn’t bear the idea of you telling me to my face you didn’t love me. It happened with Nancy and it broke my heart, but with you,” Steve placed a hand on your frozen cheek, “I would die. The pain would consume me, and I knew I would never be the same again. Because I love you, (Y/N). And you’ve got to believe me when I say that, and that I always have.”

Your jaw was tense as tears brimmed your eyes. You were hesitant and apprehensive to believe the sweet words he was crooning to you. It all seemed a little too good to be true. And you didn’t know what to think in this moment. Expect about how much you wanted everything Steve said to be the honest to God truth.

“How can I know? Because you have to understand my side of this too, Steve. You have to put yourself in my shoes.” You said sadly, a giant contrast from your tone just minutes earlier.

“You’re just going to have to trust me,” Steve’s other hand now made its home on your other cheek, “Trust me when I say that you are the only one for me. From now until forever. We will be the testament that movie love exists, our kids will know true love because we will be the example! And you will be my best friend from now until the end of time, because I will never let you go again, (Y/N) (Y/L/N). I love you. And I know its going to take time for us to rebuild, but it’ll be worth the wait.”

If you thought his words weren’t completely truthful, you knew by his eyes that he was. It was clique, but the eyes were the window to the soul, and Steve’s was screaming at you that this was real.

But that didn’t mean it scared you any less.

“Steve, I,” Your breath hitched.

Both of your eyes were glassy, Steve’s nose was inches from yours as he begged you silently to say everything he had been wanting to hear since childhood. He had just cut himself open to you, bleeding in front of you in the vain of forgiveness. He was in a vulnerable state and he needed your kiss for comfort and reassurance.

“I need a minute…” You gasped quietly, stepping out of Steve’s grip.

Before his hands felt like weights, keeping him grounded to the only thing that mattered to him, but when you stepped back, they fell from your skin like feathers. He felt like he could hear his heart breaking.

“But, I…” Steve choked out.

“So much has changed in just the past ten minutes, let alone the past month! I feel like I have whiplash.” You breathed heavily.

All of this was hard to digest. You had just been on the phone with your brother, plotting the best way to cut off Steve’s balls; but then this happened? Steve’s sincere words and heartfelt glances. It felt like you were spinning.

“I feel like I’m in a Twilight Zone episode or something…” You heaved, placing your hands in your hair, trying to find a way to ground yourself.

“Like, I came over here to tell you to never speak to me again and you just threw a huge wrench into that!” You rambled, Steve’s face was sullen as you did.

“This has to be more than a crazy misunderstanding, right? This has to be a sign or something?” You felt like your air way was going to close off as you spoke manically. You had never been this flustered in your life.

“Why can’t this be the sign? Why can’t Jonathan coming to me last night and you showing up here this morning be the sign? Or who cares if it is or if it isn’t! Because at this point, frankly, I don’t.” Steve said back to you.

“We have been in this round about for years, (Y/N). Getting close to our happily ever after, but always missing the exit. This,” He motioned between you two, “This is the exit. This is the moment where we decided to go out separate ways, or finally just be happy. To be in love with each other.”

You let a shaking breath and stared at the broken boy in front of you. He was right, this was the exit. This was one of the pivotal moments in your life that would set the course for everything. Drive off into the sunset or let your fears and haunted memories send you for the hills.

Steve was offering you a grand gesture, he was saying life is a fact, that people do fall in love. And you knew that was true, but you were still scared. A stupid feeling you were sick of always coming up.

“Steve, I’m such a mess… look at me today! And this past week. I just spiral and I just…” You shook your head as your throat choked up.

You wanted to give him one last out.

“I don’t care, I don’t care! When has it ever seemed like I did? I want you, all of you. I know you, every part, every chapter, every subsection and footnote. I have the PhD in you! I love you, nothing else matters. I know I hurt you. I know Jonathan and Perry and your dad have too. I know they fucked up. I know I did, too. But I am going to work every day for the rest of our lives showing you that I will never hurt you again. I can’t lose you, and I’ll do everything I can to prove that. You just have to let me.”

Steve’s words made your knees weak and your stomach flip. He really did love you. With tears peeking from your eyes and gracing your cheeks so said sweetly, “Really?”

“Yes,” Steve said with a small smile, “Really.”

And you believed him. You believed every word he was saying because your heart wouldn’t let you not. You loved him, and he loved you. You were ready to exit.

You took a stride towards him and slotted your lips with his. It took Steve no time at all to fall into your kiss, his hands flying to your waist as you gripped his neck. He was ready to stop wasting time and to make up for every kiss he was too afraid to give and every chance he had missed. The kiss made you feel electric, the cold fall air no longer affecting you. Steve was enough to keep you warm in this instant, and you guessed, for many times after this one. His lips felt like they were made for yours as you kissed him with passion and meaning. Steve pulled you as close as he could, wanting every section of his body to know you were there, that you were finally his. His heart had mended itself in no time and was working overtime beating out of his chest as he licked your lips and your nails grazed the nape of his neck.

Breaking apart briefly to catch your breath, you laid your forehead against Steve’s. His eyes were still shut as he stroked your sides and grinned wider than you had ever seen. You thought he looked so classically beautiful in this moment and smiled too.

“Steve,” You whispered, unable to hold back you words any longer.

He opened his eyes and separated just enough from you, so he could look you in the eyes.

“I love you, too.” You spoke softly.

You finally had said it. Not to Jonathan, your mother, or your mind. Finally, to the person who desperately needed to hear it. The second you said it, it felt like a weight had been lifted off your shoulder. One that had settled itself there over years of repression and grief.

“Good.” Steve said, laughing lightly and you joined in.

You rested your forehead to his collarbone and he pulled you flush to his body. Steve couldn’t wipe the smile off his face if he tried, and he knew you couldn’t either. He was about to speak, when he felt something hit his head.

You pulled away and you both looked up and saw rain start to sprinkle down and hit your skin.

“This couldn’t get more cliché.” You shook your head playfully, looking back at Steve who was looking up at the sky with a happy expression.

“I told you,” He said, looking back down at you now as well, “Just like Holly and Paul.”

And as he kissed you again, rain falling all around you, you swore you could hear Moon River ringing in your ears.

It was cliché, perfect, and somehow, just like the movies.

It was all thanks to Steve Harrington.

Six Months Later

You stood outside the banquet hall, cigarette between your fingers as you watched the ash fall to your feet. You were leaning against a brink wall and listening distantly to the muffled pop music that was playing inside.

It was Dustin Henderson’s Bar Mitzvah, and you and Steve had been asked to be in attendance.

You had been his babysitter throughout your high school years, and always had a fondness for the curly headed kid. And when you were both roped into the police station on behalf of a giant monster and an evil lab, it caused you two to grow closer. You cultivated a protective nature over him, and even after his mom decided he was too old to be babysat, you would still drive him anywhere he needed if he called and asked. During some of these drives over the past six months, Steve had tagged along, and Dustin had grown to enjoy his company. Which earned you both not only an invite, but seats at the birthday boy’s table.

The night was a good time. Steve was in a great mood, chatting with Dustin and his friends, and even Nancy and Jonathan a bit- The four of you have reconciled nicely after you and Steve got together. Throughout the night, Steve’s hand was either around the back of your chair, fingers brushing over your bare arm, or planted on your thigh. You loved his soft lovely touches and how he always insisted on giving them to you in public.

After the kiss, that was now known as infamous to you, your mother, Steve, Nancy, Jonathan, and anyone else who desired to hear your story, you and Steve had started dating. Confessions of undying love and eternal happiness weren’t swept under the rug or forgotten after that night. Yet, they were choice reminders of how devoted you were to each other. You couldn’t imagine not being together after something like that.

And things were great, and every possible synonym of the word. It was strange at first, to be so happy with the person you had always wanted, but now it felt like second nature. It didn’t feel weird to plan your future to together or look into housing options for you two when you went off to college. It was an agreed upon thing, both verbally and nonverbally, that neither of you planned on losing the other anytime soon- if ever.

You had found the love of your life, your soulmate. Some people never had a great love, let alone found the person they were supposed to end up with. And you had gotten lucky on both fronts. For some, this all would seem far too soon, the two of you were only eighteen. But the road to you two still felt like an eternity. You both had had enough waiting in that regard, so no moment was gone unappreciated or taken for granted. You were both just excited to have a lifetime of memories to make with each other.

“I wondered where you slinked off, too.” A voice said a little ways away.

“Just needed a minute.” You said holding up the hand with your cigarette in it, turning to watch Steve approach you.

“I would have snuck out here with you, y’know?” He smiled, leaning his shoulder against the brick when he reached you.

“You were chatting, I didn’t want to pull you away.” You replied.

“I missed you,” You smiled and playfully rolled your eyes at his remark, “I did! When you’re not next to me, I feel like half a person.”

“You are so cheesy.” You shook your head, your grin widening.

“Yeah, but you love it.” Steve smirked, shrugging his shoulders.

“Yeah, I guess I do.” You sighed dreamily, turning to your adorable boyfriend.

You went to drop your cigarette, but Steve caught your wrist, taking the small smoke from your fingers and inhaling deeply before stomping it out himself. He blew the smoke over your shoulder before stepping closer.

You placed your hands on his chest and migrated one of them of his thin tie to smooth it.

“God, you’re so beautiful.” Steve said under his breath as he watched you.

In gentle moments like this, Steve could only stop and stare at you. And thank the universe and every God in existence that you were his. In these moments, sometimes his overloading thoughts of adoration would slip out.

You looked up at his through your lashes and blushed, moving forward to bury your face in his chest. Something you often did when Steve would swoon over you.

“Wait,” Steve said, catching your cheeks before you could nuzzle into him.

“What?” You asked.

Steve looked down at you, pink cheeks and small dainty smile. It felt like he needed to take a beat and memorize this quiet moment, music humming in the background and your happy, tranquil expression. He was a giant sap when it came to you and he made no effort to hide it, but sometimes, when your beauty astounded him in such a way that made his knees weak, he kept to himself. He didn’t let these thoughts slip out, he just wanted silent reminders for himself about how wonderful you really were.

“I love you.” He said, moving slowly to your lips.

“Mm, I love you, too.” You said, smiling growing as Steve placed a gentle kiss to your lips.

“Ready to go back in?” Steve whispered to your lips after he pulled away.

He silently hoped you would opt for a French exit so you two could fool around in the backseat of his car, but then you would both miss the little trick up his sleeve.

“For a bit longer, we haven’t seen the chair dance yet, and I know Dustin would kill me if he was up there and didn’t see us singing along and smiling.” You said, moving your hand up to your cheek to take Steve’s and hold it down by your side.

“Okay, let’s go back in.” Steve nodded.

He shifted your hands so he could lace his fingers between yours and you both headed back to the entrance. As you rounded the corner and got closer to the double doors, the music became clearer, and you noticed the song change to a familiar one.

“Oh my god! You are so cheesy.” You stopped in your tracks, laughing.

“What? This wasn’t me. Dustin loves this song.” Steve feigned innocence.

“Oh, yeah. I’m sure he loves the Carpenters.” You rolled your eyes playfully.

“Well, this sure is a coincidence. We better head in so we can appreciate it.” Steve said as you watched try to hide his knowing smile.

“Fine.” You said dramatically, and Steve began to pull you inside.

“Actually,” You stopped him, changing your mind, “Let’s appreciate it from here.”

You closed the small gap between you, setting your hands on Steve’s shoulders as his instinctively were placed on your waist.

He smirked, “Who’s cheesy now?”

“Still you, but I have my moments.”

“I guess I’m rubbing off on you.” Steve puffed out his chest as you two slowly swayed and you laughed.

“Yeah, I would say so.”

A comfortable silence fell after that, as you were pulled closer to Steve as you danced, swaying to the soft beat of Close To You. Steve knew that it may not been playing at your wedding, but for now, he knew it was enough.

Because obviously, he would make it up to you later. He was going to make sure that this song was the song you first danced after you both said I Do’s.

And like the silent language lovers have, you knew this too.

And you were looking forward to it.

tags: @kaliforniacoastalteens @tanovic54321 @chels-nyc @hoebliss @remorsefuul @keejan-turtle @captaintightpants58 @fandomsfavorite @comefindmesomeday @random-ffandom @thingsweneverhave @nowvoyagerruinedme @rachrose8 @midgardiansworld @cats-on-the-beach @secillyj @kyaramaya

#yep.they done.#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington imagines #steve harrington x you #steve harrington headcanon #steve harrington headcanons #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington agnst #steve harrington series #stevesharrlngtonswrites

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i-will-physically-fight-you · 6 years

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Crescent Scrapped Scene

Now that I released Chapter 6 onto Tumblr, I wanted to share the rough draft of the event that took place in that chapter. In the beginning, Crescent was only supposed to be an one-shot, and this scene before took place after what became chapter 1.

The reason I scrapped it was that I felt like the scene was too rushed and left no time for Virgil to really interact with the others. I really wanted there to be a build-up to the character conflict that wasn’t really present in this draft. which of course this led to me writing like 15k+ to get to the finalized version of this scene, lol.

The main reason I wanted to share this with you guys, is to show how invaluable rough drafts can be, even if they don’t make the cut. There’s a lot of elements from this scene that I borrow to use in other chapters for the story. Never feel bad about writing a rough draft that ends up being unpublishable because there’s always things that you glean from it ^^’

The next thing Virgil is aware, is that he’s in an unknown bed with a splitting headache. Oh, and there’s three voices loudly arguing something at the foot of his bed. He’s half-attempted to throw a pillow at them to shut up, but he’s wake enough to realize that might not be the best idea.

“Patton, it’s one thing to bring a stray kitten or baby bird into the den—but this? Is something else entirely different!” A man huffs, adjusting his glasses in frustration.

He reminded Virgil of a school teacher with the way based on his attire; black polo with a blue tie and khaki pants. The man towered over the two, with sticks for arms and legs.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I agree with Logan. We can’t keep him—he’s a human!”

“He’s just a pup—I couldn’t leave him alone, not after what happened to him!”

To say that Virgil is bewildered and absolutely terrified out of his mind, would be an understatement of the century. Maybe he really did die back there in that alleyway. Or maybe he’s in coma, close to brain-death. G*d, he hoped that the latter wasn’t the case. He did not have enough money to cover that hospital bill.

“Wh-what,” He croaks, his voice cracking from disuse. The others turn to face him, startled, as he wets his lips and tries again, “What’s going on?”

“Oh thank goodness you’re wake!” The one with the grey cardigan squeals, rushing towards his bedside, “I was so worried you’d wouldn’t!”

The man has apparently never heard of personal space, as he embraces Virgil in a hug. Virgil yelps a bit from the man’s surprisingly strong hold.

“Opps, sorry!” The man chuckles, loosening his hold a tad.

It’s then that Virgil notices that the stains on his shirt aren’t dirt, but blood. He starts shaking, which only causes the man to hug him longer and that causes Virgil’s heartbeat to quicken—

“Patton stop it, you’re scaring him,” Logan reprimands, placing a hand on his shoulder, and guiding him off Virgil.

Logan looks down at him and coughs awkwardly.

“I apologize on Patton’s behalf, his heart is in the right place but he has a habit of making…decisions without thinking things through.”

“I did think things through!” Patton whined, high-pitched and squealing, “He was all alone—what if he got attacked again? He needs protection!”

“You could’ve taken him to the police station or the hospital, for that matter.” Logan growled.

“Besides, he can’t join our pack—he’s a human.” The other spoke up, his eyes flashing with suspicion as he strolled closer.

There is something about the way he said human with such disgust snaps something inside of Virgil. He hates pompous stuck-ups who viewed themselves higher than everybody else.

“So what if I’m human?” Virgil spat out, “You guys are human, aren’t you?”

Patton avoids eye contact while Logan adjusted his tie as if suddenly finding the room too warm. Roman chuckles, resting his hands against the bed as he leans down to look at Virgil.

“Hardly.” He flashes a wide grin, and Virgil jolts backwards.

His teeth resemble fangs more than they do…well, teeth. Sharp and elongated in ways that isn’t natural. Virgil’s heartbeat raises. They can’t be real--they must be fake, right?

Virgil glances over to the other two, who don’t make a move to renounce Roman’s claim. Which, great. He thinks he might’ve preferred the mugging over this. At least that was rooted in realism. Everyone knew that muggings were common in closed-off places like that.

This, however was something else entirely. Of course, that was assuming these three weren’t off their rockers pretending to be vampires or some sh*t like that.

“Sooo what, are you..going to suck my blood or something?” He eventually asks, attempting to hide his panic under a layer of heavy sarcasm.

“What, no?!” Roman shrieks, looking indignant at such a suggestion, “We’re not vampires!”

“Then what are you?”

“We’re lycanthropes,” Logan says. At Virgil’s questioning stare, he clarifies, “Werewolves, essentially.”

“Right.” Virgil deadpans, “That makes complete sense.”

“What, is my teeth not proof of enough?” Roman snarls, and Virgil jolts once more.

He regathers his composure, desperate everything in him screaming to get up and flee—he needs to escape, he’s in danger, oh g*d he’s going to get his throat ripped out by three weirdos who think they’re werewolves.

But he ignores those thoughts. Today has already been effed up, what’s a little more at this point?

“How do I know those aren’t surgical implants?” Virgil points out, “I suppose you’re going to tell me that you can’t transform to prove you’re werewolves because it’s not that time of the month?”

“Actually, that’s a bit of misnomer. While the moon cycle does effect our transformations, we can transform at will.” Logan says, as if rattling off a highly known fact.

Virgil raises an eyebrow at him.

“Prove it then.”

“Oh-oh well, I would but I’d rather not ruin my clothes,” Logan muttered, “Roman, why don’t you?”

“Excuse me, this is designer clothing!” Roman exclaimed, “Why can’t you? You own like twenty of the same black polo!”

“I just thought that it should be you since—”

“I’ll do it.” Patton says, silencing the argument.

“Patton, you’ve already transformed once—”

“I’ll be fine.” He says.

He looked over to Virgil, smiling, “Please don’t get frightened. It will still be me inside there.”

“Okay,” Virgil says, staring at Patton as if he’s ready for the man to whip out a fur-suit. Fangs or not, there’s no way they can turn into living wolves.

Patton exhales and clenches his fists. At first, there’s nothing. But then he lets out a scream and drops to the floor, convulsing. Virgil immediately reaches out towards him, but a hand stops him.

“He’s transforming.” Roman said, keeping an iron grip on Virgil’s shoulder, “It’s not wise to try stopping a transition.”

Virgil wants to yell at him that this is ridiculous, there’s no such thing as werewolves and that Patton is obviously in need of medical attention. But one look at his face, and Virgil’s words die in his throat. Roman’s eyes avert towards Patton, and Virgil follows their gaze.

He exhales sharply, realizing with horror the figure on the floor was no longer Patton, but something else entirely. It’s hands were adorned with sharp claws, the fingers merged together to form paws, likewise with its’ feet. The head had become elongated—and it was still growing, along with the ears, as hair sprouts all over the body. No, not hair—fur. Snowy white fur. The creature screams in pain, sounding more and more animalistic as time let on. It’s skin seems to bubble as the bones shifts and morphs, as if rearranging framework to create a new creature entirely.

Virgil’s never seen Hollywood’s attempt at creating a werewolf transformation scene. But he’s sure whatever this is, is ten times more horrific to watch. His heart beats loudly against his chest, as if trying to drag his whole body away from the horror. He can’t tear his eyes away from the scene, knowing it’s his fault that this is happening.

He’s the one who egged them on, convinced them to show proof of their claims. He could’ve just pretended to go along with it, just enough for him to be able to escape when their backs were turned. He could still have a shred of reality left in him. But it’s too late now.

He’s so stupid. It isn’t until he watches the transformation that he realizes with a start how dangerous werewolves are. Isn’t it literature always portrays them as out of control creatures with no sense of humanity left in them. Raging creatures on the scale of Godzilla or King Kong. Or if they were sympathetically potrayed, they couldn’t control it, they lost their humanity to the beast inside them. Perhaps it wouldn’t kill Logan or Roman, but it was going to kill him. He can’t believe this is lot in life.

As he watches on, he realizes that Patton isn’t going to turn into a wolf-man hybrid, but an actual, living wolf. With more bone cracked into place, it sits up, silver eyes piercing into his soul. Virgil moves his mouth to say something, but no sounds come out.

The wolf lunges towards him, and Virgil screams, closing his eyes shut. But instead of sharp teeth sinking into his skin, wet sandpaper brushes against his face. He slowly opens his eyes to see it’s the wolf assaulting him with tongue kisses, tail whipping around excitedly like a dog.

“Wha—”

The wolf jumps onto the bed, shaking it with its’ massive weight. He lays his front paws over Virgil, his head rest between his paws against Virgil’s chest.

“So,” Roman grins, “still think we’re off our rockers?”

#kat talks #werewolf au

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piecesofscully · 6 years

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The After: ch. 14

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13

Somehow it never crossed her mind that she would be here someday.

The fabric of the gown rubs at her skin like sandpaper, feeling as if it is exfoliating the first and second layer of her sensitive skin. Behind her eyes throbs with the force of nuclear blast after nuclear blast, and she wants so desperately to find a more comfortable position in this hospital bed, but dying sounds more appealing than the sharp ache that follows even the most subtle of movements. She swallows the bile building in the back of her throat, yet another side effect of the chemotherapy.

Deep down she was vaguely aware that her end would find her eventually, but this isn’t what she imagined.

A call light rings faintly somewhere down the hall, it’s methodical ding-ding-ding stabbing at the base of her skull with the strength of a gorilla armed with a butterknife. She turns her head away in an attempt to guard herself from the noise, then gasps. The sensation floods her body with the ferocity of first kiss excitement, but instead of the rush of lust, it’s the creeping, bone-deep ache of impending death.

She didn’t anticipate death being this painful.

“Scully.”

The sound of his voice is distant but bright like the beacon of a lighthouse, guiding her through the rough sea of her terminal cancer, bringing her home.

“Scully.”

“I’m here, Mulder,” she says through gritted teeth. “I’m still here.”

“Scully, wake up.”

A groan gurgles in the back of her throat as she opens her eyes, disappointed that the discomfort from her dream has followed her into her waking. Mulder kneels, hovering over her, brushing the hair from her face.

“It’s freezing in here,” she says and pulls the blankets to her chin.

He leans down and presses his lips to her forehead. “You’re warm. I think you might have a fever.”

“I’m fine,” she says as she squeezes her eyes shut and nudges him away. “I’m just tired. And cold- did the fire go out?” She shivers. “Throw more wood on the fire.”

“The fire’s still going,” she hears him respond, then feels the loss of his presence for only a moment before a sudden weight settles next to her, signaling his return. “Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s get you dressed in some warm clothing.”

She pulls the blanket over her head, huddling further into the cocoon of warmth her body has created.

“Check it out, I even found you a clean sweatshirt in the master bedroom.” When his lame attempt at bribery falls flat, he tugs at the blanket, but she holds it in place, balled in her fists. “Scully, we really need to get going. The snow finally let up a bit, and we need to get on the road while we still can.”

With a huff, she shoves the blanket aside and grabs the sweatshirt, quickly pulling it over her head before her teeth start to chatter. Mulder gathers what is left of their belongings and packs her backpack as she takes her time getting dressed. She turns her back to him, trying to hide her exhaustion. The fabric of her pants skim over the swollen bruise that blemishes her hip, and she hisses, wincing.

“You ok?” he asks.

“Yes.”

She isn’t sure when Mulder snuck out to start the truck, but warm air is blasting out of the vents by the time he’s helping her into the passenger seat. He barely grimaces as he lifts her into the seat, hiding the sharp pain he’s surely feeling in his ribs, but he cradles his side as they back out of the driveway and head back through the winding roads of the subdivision.

Snowflakes fall heavily outside of the truck, sticking to every surface that they land upon, whining and grating under the truck’s tires. In just the few minutes it had taken them to get out and on the road, the weather picked up into whiteout conditions,and Mulder curses as they fishtail onto the main road. Scully leans forward and peers through the swipes of the windshield wipers, squinting her eyes in an attempt to find any indication of the edges of the pavement. Heat from the defrost rushes in her face, the warmth heavenly on her skin, and she sniffles.

She feels Mulder’s sideways glance, but ignores it, turning her face to the passenger window to dab at her nose with the sleeve of her jacket. Her sickness has wedged its way between the two of them like a third passenger that has no respect for boundaries, stretching out in the vacant space, taking up too much room. There’s no reason for discussion, she tells herself. There’s nothing to be done about it; cold medicine and antibiotics are a luxury of Before. She pulls her jacket tighter around her chest and burrows into it, staring out the window as the world passes by at thirty miles per hour, her eyelids growing heavier the further they drive.

Within moments her consciousness lingers in that fuzzy place between awake and asleep, and somewhere beyond the lullaby of the humming engine and the rushing frigid wind she thinks she hears snippets of a familiar song.

I see the bad moon rising. I see trouble on the way. I see earthquakes and lightnin’. I see bad times today.

She doesn’t remember the last time she heard a radio play anything other than static. A chill burns across her skin and if she had the energy, she would whimper.

Don’t go around tonight, Well, it’s bound to take your life. There’s a bad moon on the rise.

The quality of the melody sounds off, as if Creedence Clearwater Revival were playing while three sheets to the wind in a tin covered shed. But the guitar continues to strum the chords, and the band, off-key, carries on with their warning of the nearing end.

I hear hurricanes ablowing. I know the end is coming soon. I fear rivers overflowing. I hear the voice of rage and ruin.

She hisses as she rests the side of her face against the cool window, praying the coolness will numb the headache she wears like a crown.

Hope you got your things together. Hope you are quite prepared to die. Looks like we're in for nasty weather. One eye is taken for an eye.

The metallic sounding melody fades as the shadows of sleep overcome her.

---

Baby powder, Johnson and Johnson shampoo, and antiseptic. Beeping monitors, muffled footsteps, and shallow breaths. Two tiny hands, ten toes, and dark blonde hair.

They say that in times of extreme emotion, people tend to have lapses in memory. But as she looks upon her sleeping daughter tucked into the pediatric hospital bed, she is absolutely positive she will remember every moment, every detail. Her barren womb aches as she’s drawn to the side of the bed, her heart splintering as she brushes the hair from her daughter’s face.

Button nose like her Aunt Melissa, her grandmother’s bone structure, Great-Aunt Dorothy’s chin. Mr. Potato Head, coloring books, a gold cross necklace. An experiment, a mistake, a miracle.

Emily wakes. The jagged cracks in Scully’s heart spread when they lock eyes, and a shard breaks free leaving behind a gaping hole.

“I’m so sorry,” Scully whispers. “For-”

“-give me.”

“What?” Mulder asks.

Scully blinks away the remnants of sleep and takes in the sound of his voice, the brightness of the snow, the subtle jostling of the truck as it ambles down the road. Emily’s eyes haunt her even after she becomes more alert, their grey foreboding like the skies of the Wash.

Mulder throws the truck into park, and she asks, “Why are we stopping?”

He leans forward into the steering wheel and rubs his sleeve across the windshield, clearing the bit of condensation that had collected. His eyes narrow as he stares for a moment, then settles back in his seat with a satisfied nod.

“Mulder, where are we?”

“What used to be a Sunoco, I think,” he replies as he pulls his jacket on. “I’m just going to run inside, see if there is anything we can salvage.”

“We should just keep going,” she insists.

“I’ll only be a minute,” he says and flashes her a quick smile before exiting the truck. A gust of wind rushes through the cab before he closes the door, and Scully hisses as goosepimples ripple across her skin. She watches as he trudges through the foot of snow, his figure shrinking until finally vanishing into the darkness that lay behind what was once the door to the gas station.

Her eyelids grow heavy as she repeatedly sweeps her gaze back and forth across the landscape, surveying the area for incoming danger, and her stomach flutters with what she’s determined could be either nervous energy or hunger. Hoping it’s the latter, she nudges the backpack with her foot, trying to recall what little food they may have left. She had watched Henry stuff most, if not all, of their canned goods into Mulder’s backpack. No food, no vitamins, and she’s fallen ill in the beginning of what will be a months long snowstorm. The odds are stacked against them.

Mulder emerges from the gas station and hurries to the truck.

“Find what you were looking for?” she asks as he climbs back in.

He brushes the snow from his hair. “No luck.”

“Did you really think that an abandoned gas station would carry antibiotics?”

“I was hoping for some Motrin or Tylenol,” he says with a shrug, “but the over the counter meds were picked over long before we got here. I grabbed you this, though.”

Scully’s brows furrow. “A Twinkie?”

“I figured this was the next best thing.”

Scully chuckles, then turns the sponge cake over in her hands, examining it. “My God, Mulder, it looks fresh, like it’s just been pulled from the box. It’s in perfect condition.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I don’t think that’s a good thing-”

“Just eat it,” Mulder says. “Your stomach was growling the last hour of our drive.”

“I mean, the amount of preservatives in this-”

“We are surviving the apocalypse, and it’s preservatives you’re worried about?”

“I’m not sure this,” she says, holding the Twinkie up for him to see, “qualifies as edible.”

“Scully.”

“I’m too tired to argue, Mulder-”

“Then stop arguing and eat the Twinkie.”

Scully rolls her eyes, and after a moment tears open the wrapper. She holds it to her nose and sniffs the snack cake. “It even smells fresh.”

“Eat the damn Twinkie, Scully.”

“I am!” She pulls it from the wrapper and dramatically takes a bite. “I am currently eating the Twinkie, Mulder,” she says around the food in her mouth. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” he says with a forced smile. “How is it?”

“Delicious, actually,” she replies seriously before taking another bite. “Better than I remember.”

Mulder purses his lips and shakes his head, but doesn’t say a word. He celebrates his victory silently as the truck crawls down the road. “There’s a settlement a few miles ahead. I figured we could stop for a while, get out of the truck, stretch our legs a for a while.”

“How do you know that?”

“There was a man who had taken up residence at the gas station,” he replies. “He told me about it, said it wasn’t too far. He also gave me the Twinkie.”

Scully’s brow rises. “What did you have to do for the trade?”

“What... are you implying?”

“You were gone for awhile,” she says with a shrug.

Mulder smiles. “I told him my wife was sick and that we were out of food. It was that or a can of sardines.”

“That was very kind of him.”

“He also mentioned that the people in this settlement might have medicine. And gas.”

“Are we low on fuel?” she asks.

His eyes flick to the steering column, then back to the road. “Getting there.”

The wrapper crinkles as she stuffs it into her pocket, and she turns to stare out the window, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. She doesn’t ask how far they can make it, or tell him that their luck seems to be taking a turn for the worst. No food, no vitamins, and now no gas.

A tickle forms in the center of her chest, nagging with each breath that she takes until she can take it no longer and coughs. But once she starts she can’t stop, her ribs contracting as a coughing fit wracks through her weak body, and she grips the dash for support.

“Are you ok?” Mulder asks, and she can feel his worry permeating off of him.

She tries to tell him that she’s fine, but the coughs persist until she gags, bile burning the back of her throat..

“Scully, you need to breathe.”

Finally, she gulps in a full breath and exhales with ease. The fit subsides leaving her weaker than before, her body heavy with exhaustion and her skin freckled with perspiration. Mulder grips her arm and pulls her to him, tucking her into the warmth of his side. She doesn’t argue, instead snuggles further into the crook of his arm. She’s asleep within minutes.

---

“Scully, you gotta see this. Scully,” she hears him say.

Don’t think. Just pick up the phone and make it happen- Five years together, Scully. How many times I been wrong?- Why did they assign me to you in the first place, Mulder? To debunk your work. To rein you in, to shut you down- You've kept me honest... you've made me a whole person. I owe you everything, Scully, and you owe me nothing.

The Antarctic wind nips at her cheeks and her toes have lost all feeling. She grips Mulder and tugs him into her lap, holding him close. As far as she can see, the snow shines blindingly bright under the sun, and the crater gapes just a few feet away.

Pulled from the pod, crawling through the pipe, crawl, crawl faster.

Mulder groans in her embrace, and she holds him closer, trying to will her body heat to him. It’s so cold, she thinks as they both shiver. We’ll both die out here. Lord, she prays. Give us strength. Please give us the strength to make it out of here alive and survive.

It’s so cold.

She wakes to movement, her body being jostled as if she were a ragdoll. His arms wrap around her waist and swoop under her legs. She’s being lifted. “Cold,” she utters.

“I know, Scully,” she hears him say. “We’ll get you inside in a sec.”

She rests her head on his shoulder and everything fades away.

---

Pulsating. The slow, steady footfall like a heartbeat. The brown walls are the color of over-baked brownies, and, like a lazy pendulum, they wave back and forth. She’s caught in the eye of a tornado of whispers as murmurs swirl around her, and she feels the vice around her chest and legs constrict. Two, three, four times a light shines in her eyes, its bright white traveling from the far left of her vision all the way to the right, only to start over again, it’s motion making her stomach turn.

---

The glow of an orange light blinks above her and she squeezes her eyes shut. Hushed voices. Need to remove some clothing. Hands on her forehead, her neck, her belly. Fever dangerously high. She feels the warmth tugged from her ankles, then slowly peeled down the length of her feet, as if someone were sucking the heat directly from the lower part of her body. She gasps at the stark coldness she feels applied to her feet, burning the skin of her arch, and then it’s everywhere. Her armpits, her forehead, her neck, between her legs. Her breaths quicken as she’s overwhelmed by the freezing.

---

Nobody else I’ve contacted will listen, and I have nowhere else to turn. It’ll begin with an intense heatwave, the letter reads. The temperature will rise many degrees rapidly, unsettling the earth’s surface. The heat will provoke instability, initiating the first of many earthquakes.

Scully reaches across their desk for her glasses and continues reading. Cloud seeding, evidence of large-scale weather manipulation, weather weaponry for murder.

How has Mulder ignored this?

One false move, the letter warns, and it will end catastrophically, marking the extinction of all human life.

“Dana?”

Scully glances up to see her mother standing in the doorway, and the view of their office melts, shifting, morphing into a hospital room. Her mother’s smile is warm but laced with sorrow as she crosses the tile floor and seats herself next to Scully’s legs on the edge of the bed.

“It’s time to wake up, sweetheart.”

“I’m awake,” Scully says.

Her mother reaches over and runs her hands down the side of Scully’s face. “Listen to my voice. Open your eyes, Dana,” she says, then grips her shoulders. “You need to wake up. Wake up!”

Scully stares at her mother, her brows pinched in confusion. “Mom, can you hear me? I’m awake!”

“Miss Dana? Come on now, look at me.” Scully’s eyes flutter open and a figure hovers over her, dabbing a cool, damp washcloth to the side of her face. Scully leans into the touch. “There you are. Good morning.”

“Mom?”

“No, hon, my name’s Joan,” the woman says and slowly comes into view as Scully’s vision clears. Her dark hair with streaks of grey sits piled high into a bun atop her head, and her deep brown eyes sweep over Scully. “But you can call me Joanie, everyone else does. Here, sit up just a bit and take a sip of this.”

Joanie cups the back of Scully’s head and holds a glass of water to her lips, tipping it gently. The water cascades over her tongue, catching in the back of her throat, and she turns her face to the side, coughing.

“Oh, oh no. Sorry about that,” Joanie says. “There ya go, get it out. Good girl.” She holds the glass to Scully’s lips. “Here, let’s try again. You need your fluids.”

Scully obeys, and successfully takes a few sips, slower this time. “Where’s Mulder?” she asks.

“I’m here,” she hears his voice come from somewhere behind her, then feels his hand in her hair.

Joanie steps aside. “Don’t keep her up too long,” she warns Mulder as he pulls a chair to the side of Scully’s bed. “She needs her rest.”

He nods and seats himself, taking Scully’s hand between his.

“Mulder, where are we?”

“At a settlement just a few hours outside of Winnipeg.”

A weak smile spreads across her face, and she stifles another cough, breathing slowly. “We’re so close,” she whispers.

He squeezes her hand. “Joanie says you should be feeling better soon. Another day or two and we can hit the road.”

“Another-” she starts, but the tickle in her chest returns with a vengeance and she turns to the side to cough into her pillow. “Another day or two?” she asks one she catches her breath. “How long have we been here?”

He hesitates, watching her.

“Mulder?”

“About three days.”

Scully’s eyes widen. “Three days?” She looks around the room, searching for any sort of familiarity. She must recognize something after staying here for so long. But the walls, the furniture, all of it is new to her. She glances down at her body, groaning when she doesn’t recognize the clothing she now wears or even recall changing. The exhaustion, the nausea, the loss of time, the raging fever- her symptoms are worsening, she admits to herself and feels her chin quiver. “Mulder, I’m not getting better.”

“You will,” he says simply, and brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’ll get better soon, and we’ll finish the trip to Canada. You’ll save the world, Scully.”

“I need antibiotics. There is an infection somewhere in my body, and my immune system is too weak to fight it. I-” she pauses, hot tears stinging her eyes. This is the end. Her mind trails back to West Virginia, to the old woman who lay on a cot, moaning through her last breath. Grandma Vic had died so quickly after falling ill, and Scully is stunned to realize that she is destined to suffer the same fate. “I’m so sorry.”

“Why? Scully, you have nothing to be sorry for.”

She winces as she shifts her body to face him, the sharp ache from her fever ricocheting through her limbs. She takes a deep breath and holds it, waiting for her discomfort to subside a bit. “After everything we’ve been through, our journey together,” she says, “this is where it ends. Mulder, you need to go.”

“I can’t…”

“Take my journal,” she insists. “Take it, go to Winnipeg and stop this. Please, Mulder, this needs to end.”

Mulder shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere without you-”

“You’ve seen this before,” she says as she gestures to herself in the bed. “You’ve seen what a simple cold can do to people in this world, Mulder. Let alone an infection. We both know the chances of my leaving this settlement are slim at best.” Her tears burn like acid as they trail down her face, and she grits her teeth. “Go. Please.”

She watches as the fight leaves his body and his shoulders slump, her words finally sinking in. She watches as his face twists into a frown, the moment he finally comprehends what she’s said. Mulder ducks his head, defeated, and pulls her hand to his lips. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to end.”

“I know,” she whispers. “When you opened that motel door and I saw your face,” she continues as her voice breaks, “that was the first time I truly felt hope. In that moment, I knew then that if I could find you, then I could stop this, too-”

The wind is knocked from her chest. A coughing fit rips from her throat so violently that her vision swims, and pain sears through her cranium. She hears the panic in Mulder’s voice as he begs her to calm down. “Breathe, Scully, breathe,” but the spasms in her chest won’t cease. Her lungs are burning and her brain screams for oxygen, and just as quickly as the fit began, her world simply stops.

#the after #the after chapter 14 #my writing #txf fanfic #msr fanfic

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rrenkyle · 6 years

Text

BNHA Mirrors LoV Angst Preview

Heyall, I’m so glad to be a part of the @bnha-mirrors! This is the LoV angst pinch hit and companion piece to @jackoboltrades‘s LoV fluff, and both are illustrated by the awesome @bracari

I hope everyone will like the completed piece! :D

You can order the zine here: https://bnha-mirrors.tumblr.com/store.

Wanna get a free Kirishima bookmark? Just type “UNBREAKABLE” on the store’s promo code area and you’ll get one when ordering a physical copy of the Mirrors Zine (it’s over 600+ pages)!

The Red Queen’s Garden

The first noticeable thing was the fragrance of flowers—overwhelmingly thick and cloying. There were sounds too, but they were a distant reality, warped and submerged underwater. Everything felt muddled, grey crawling at the edges with pinpricks of color spinning in and out of focus. There was something bittersweet at the tip of the tongue, gritty yet cottonlike.

Clarity returned in slow spurts, the blur slowly melting away—shapes regaining definition and a pained voice (voices?) fading into something familiar. The world was a tiny garden that barely fit five people together, a multitude of flowers with clashing colors and scents. Rust ate away everything: the round glass table at the center was on the brink of collapse, and the empty wiry chair at the “head” looked like it would fall apart any moment.

A few feet away, Toga Himiko hummed, dirt streaked from her hands to her arms. The sharp snip of the scissors she held echoed in the tiny garden, her eyes trained on a sunflower as she cut the imperfections away. There was a cluster of violets tucked behind her ear and a crown of gillyflowers, zinnias, and even more sunflowers atop her head. She looked peaceful—almost angelic—if not for the splatters of blood on her beige cardigan.

She took a deep breath and spun on her heel with a girlish giggle. “Oh! It looks like everyone’s waking up! I’m so glad all of you could see how pretty my garden is!”

It was, if not for the withered heart in front, half-buried with a sapling peeking out from a ventricle.

Words were impossible now, tongue heavy and throat feeling like sandpaper. Focusing was impossible, concentrating on a single thing was a monumental task. Pain lanced with every rhythmic pounding behind half-lidded eyes. The headache turned into a dull ache, but looking at bright lights turned it into something sharp.

Toga cannot be ignored, it would be suicide. She knew this.

“I have the best violets in the world, see?” She plucked the flower from behind her ear and presented it close. The fragrance was heavy and thick. It smelled too sweet. The overwhelming joy in her eyes turned into something softer. “He didn’t have a name, but I loved him all the same. He was a very good boy.”

“See ya Mom!” Himiko shouted at Toga Himeno as she pulled the door to their house closed. Her backpack was heavier than the usual, but she didn’t mind. For her friend, she could carry any weight.

The four-year old stepped over the uneven patch of road past the front gate. Himiko ducked under a pole snapped in half, its top caught against a wall. She nearly stepped in a puddle, wondering when the roads would dry up.

Himiko’s day brightened as she rounded down the corner.

She shifted her backpack and opened it, grabbing a plastic container with last night’s leftovers. A cheery bark greeted Himiko, and she knelt down and placed it open the ground. Under a pile of displaced pavement and roadblocks was a yappy puppy. Himiko didn’t know what to call it, but it was hers.

It was a mangy thing—brown, about as tall as Himiko, with matted fur, bald patches, scars, and fleas—yet Himiko loved him.

“Here you go,” Himiko giggled as the puppy stuffed his snout into the container. It ate as fast as it could and made a mess as it got food all over Himiko’s clothes. It’s alright, though. Even if the puppy acted like a pig, it was a very good boy. Then, Himiko grabbed a bottle of water from her bag and poured its contents on the plastic.

“I’m going to school now, see ya!” Himiko hummed, straightened her skirt, and left.

“Heroes had always been ruining stuff for me, you know.” Toga pouted as she adjusted the crown in her hair. “They don’t care, and they always look down on everybody—and that’s why Stain is soooo amazing! He’s doing stuff to make things better and I’m just sad that he’s in prison now. Maybe we could get him out?”

She tapped her chin in thought, the dirt contrasted with her pale (almost translucent) skin. The longer she didn’t talk, the sooner she’d stab people—so the best way to deal with Toga was to have her yap away.

“What happened, then?”

Toga’s eyes focused to the left and her lips stretched to expose all her teeth.

“See, our neighbourhood’s like this weird villain hotspot, so there were like encounters every week. Some big, some small—but there was this big one and well …” Her brows furrowed together. Toga frowned. “Well, it started acting weird.”

“We have Tako and Jubi—they’re very good boys, aren’t they?” Himiko scowled at her mom. Himeno gestured at the shiba and akita inu dogs lying on top of each other in the living room. They were clean, free of fleas, and smelled like shampoo—which was boring because that meant they didn’t need as much extra love and care like the puppy under the rubble did.

“But I want him!” Himiko crossed her arms. “He’s hurt! And we can help him!”

“Himiko, sweetie.” Her mom knelt down and put a hand on her shoulder. “There’s been an incident in that area and no one’s cleared it up for the last two weeks; I don’t think your friend would still be there.”

“Nu-uh!” Himiko stomped off. “I just gave him some water! He won’t drink it cuz he’s hurt and keeps throwing up! I’m bringing him here and then we’ll help him!”

“Himiko!” She didn’t want to hear any more of this. She left. She didn’t check to see if Himeno followed. Himiko’s thoughts focused only on her puppy and his safety. She slammed the door as she ran.

Street lights flickered overhead, the whole street cloaked in silence and Himiko’s ragged breathing. Ducking under the pole hurt, and Himiko was wiping away tears when she reached the other side. The dog was on the ground, eyes unfocused and tongue lolled out its open mouth, foam dripped and pooled around its head. It didn’t notice Himiko arrived, and the container of food next to it remained untouched.

“Mama said that we can’t keep you.” Himiko crouched down and crawled close. “But mama can’t see you just need some love and care, so I’m gonna take care of you, okay?”

The puppy let out a low whine and raised its head. Its eyes were dark and its gaze went past Himiko. It was thinner and had more scratches gouging its skin.

“Do you want some water?” Himiko didn’t bring anything, but if she bought it home though … “Come on.”

She reached out, flinching when he growled, but Himiko continued. She jumped when the dog barked harshly when she petted him.

“See? You’re a good boy.” Himiko’s heart beat loudly in her chest as the puppy snarled at her.

One moment, Himiko was petting the dog, and the next—

#league of villains #toga himiko #bnha zine #mirrors zine #anime zine #zines #previews #pre-orders are open #zine previews #toga #LoV Angst #Angst #there is only hurt from here on out

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tommoholland2013 · 7 years

Text

Sick || Tom Holland

Word Count: 1.3k Warning(s): Fluff fluff fluff Pairing: Tom Holland x reader Request: Sorry if this is weird but could you do an imagine if you were super sick and you and Tom were supposed to fly back home after shooting iw together? He just takes care of you throughout the flight and checkin :) lol sorry I'm sick af rn A/N: So, anon is definitely feeling okay now, since this request was made almost three weeks ago (whoops!) but I wrote it anyway and I hope you enjoy it. Again, so sorry for the delay.

Y/N had been feeling a little off of late. She felt lethargic, warmer than usual, and her head had been causing her incredible pain. Tom and Y/N had been set to leave for Tom's home in England the next day as they had just wrapped up shooting a film together. They had packed and picked out their clothes for the next day when they crawled into bed. Y/N's nose was stuffy and she felt overly hot half of the time she was asleep. She would throw the covers away from her body, only to later come back and wrap herself up as best as she could in them. Upon waking up with a shivering Y/N in his arms, Tom knew something was wrong. She had caught something during their last week in Atlanta and it was just now making its presence known.

"Come on, love. We have a flight to catch." Tom said softly as he gently shook Y/N awake. Y/N let out a groan as she was pulled from her sleep. Even in her dazed state, Y/N felt cold. She shivered and pulled the blankets further up her body. Her teeth chattered as Tom sat beside her on her side of the bed with a warm cup of tea. "Made you a warm cuppa." Tom said as he handed the cup to Y/N, who happily took the cup into her hands and allowed its warmth to spread throughout her palms.

"I feel like shit." Y/N stated after taking the first sip of her tea. The warmth of the tea made the sandpaper like texture of her throat slightly less harsh. Tom chuckled a little at Y/N's comment as he put the back of his palm on Y/N's forehead.

"You're burning up." Tom stated before his lips pursed. He stood suddenly from his spot beside Y/N. "I'm gonna cancel the flight. We'll leave after two days."

"No. Nuh uh. Thomas, we will do no such thing." Y/N said sternly, using Tom's full first name to put emphasis on her level of seriousness.

"But you're sick. And I don't want you feeling absolutely miserable all the way there."

"I'll be fine. I can take care of myself. Please, Tom. Don't make this a bigger deal than it really is." Y/N pleaded. Tom thought it through before deciding instead of a cancelling the flight, they could just take a private jet instead. That way, Y/N wouldn't have to be surrounded by people and Tom could take better care of her.

"Fine. You're lucky I love you." Tom mumbled as he placed a lingering kiss on Y/N's warm forehead. Y/N smiled with triumph.

"Thank you!" She called after Tom as he walked out of the room.

During the entire process of leaving the rented apartment to getting into the air, Tom did everything in his power to ensure Y/N was absolutely comfortable. She'd taken some medicine before they'd left and was feeling a little lighter. And although Y/N insisted she was okay, Tom still felt like there was so much more to ensure total comfort for his girlfriend.

"I'm fine, Tom. Really, I'm all right." Y/N reassured as she kissed Tom on the cheek. "All I want right now, is for you to cuddle me. I could really use some cuddles right now." Y/N requested. It was the only thing she'd asked for, but it was what she needed most from Tom at the moment.

Tom reclined the chair as far as it could go and patted his lap. Y/N pulled the blanket around her shoulders tighter around her before happily sitting in Tom's lap. She leaned back and Tom wrapped his arms around her body while he rested his head on her shoulder.

"Comfortable?" He mumbled into the skin of Y/N's neck.

"Very." She hummed back. "Thanks, Tom, for taking such good care of me and for being the best boyfriend to ever walk this planet. I love you so much." Y/N mumbled in a sleepy daze.

"Anything for my girl. And there's no way you love me more than I love you."

"There is so a way." Y/N giggled back.

"Nope. Doesn't exist." Tom answered back stubbornly. They talked about anything and everything. Y/N just talked to hear Tom talk, the sound of his voice coated in his beautiful accent providing Y/N with a level of relaxation that was unparalleled. She was lulled to sleep as Tom continued to talk.

When they landed, Y/N was extremely tired. The medicine she had taken before they got on the jet was beginning to wear off and she could feel a dangerous headache coming on. Tom looked worried and Y/N assured him that she was all right. The soothing tone in her voice calmed him right down.

Once home, Tom offloaded the car with all their luggage. Y/N offered her help but was sternly turned down by Tom.

"I'm gonna sleep early today so that tomorrow when we're at your parents' place celebrating Paddy's birthday, I'm not a weight dragging you down.

"You're never a drag." Tom said before he kissed Y/N's cheek. She smiled widely before walking into their shared apartment. She took a nice, long, warm bath. Her fever had gone away and she was slowly starting to get better.

One week later

They had a regular morning routine. The first hour of the day, they spent together in the same room drinking their tea in a comfortable silence, save for the first ‘good morning’. Y/N would read a few chapters from the book she was immersed in at the time and Tom would scroll through his social media. Y/N turned the page in her book and began to read the writing, until she heard it.

A sniffle.

Then another.

Y/N set her cup of tea down on the table and lifted her head up to look at the source of the sound. It was then she noticed the tip of his nose; red, and his cheeks were flushed a light red as well.

Y/N stood up from her seat and walked over to Tom. She put the back of her hand against his forehead and he slapped it away defiantly.

"What're you doing?" He chuckled.

"You're burning up."

"No, m'not. Just a little warm is all."

"You have a fever." Y/N said before she took his arm and pulled him up off the chair.

"Where are you taking me?" Tom laughed.

"To the couch, of course." Once there, she placed her hands on his bare chest and pushed him into the couch.

"Y/N, darling, you're being dramatic. I feel fine, I'm fine."

"Well, you can feel as fine as you'd like, but the truth of the matter is, you're not fine. You took care of me, now it's my turn to take care of you." Y/N said with a smile before she kissed Tom's cheek.

"Give me a proper kiss." Tom demanded childishly.

"Nuh uh. Not while you're sick." Y/N laughed as she walked to get the medicine.

"I'm not sick!" He called after Y/N.

A/N: Yeet boi. That's that. I hope that this is how you wanted this to turn out. Sorry I’ve been gone and haven’t posted in a hot minute. School is kinda just having a ball kicking my ass so I don’t have as much time to myself as I did before. But once I catch up from the week of work I missed I should be able to post more for sure.

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sunset-wishes-upon-hill · 7 years

Text

Pandora Chapter 6

Pandora: FF l Wattpad l Quotev

Pandora (Original):

Pandora (chapter 1-18) (WITH REVIEW FEEDBACK)

Pandora (chapter 1-18) (WITHOUT REVIEW FEEDBACK)

A/N Please note when this chapter is uploaded on my story sites (FF, Wattpad, Quotev), they may or may not be modified. This is not a finalised version until it’s uploaded on other sites.

Coughs, sore throats and headaches, were the first warnings that your defences are being weakened. When Jessica woke up the next morning, she felt the dry aches in her throat like a skin raw after rubbing it against 50 grade sandpaper. She let out her first tickly cough soon after, temporarily alleviating her itchy, irritated throat. Maybe deciding to stand out in the rain wasn’t a bad idea. She touched her forehead with the back of her hand and suspected she was coming down with a fever as well.

“Great…sick too..out of all times I get cold, I get it now.” Jessica rolled her eyes to herself before giving herself a sarcastic pat on the shoulder, “Well done, Jessica. Just great. Why are you like this?”

She wondered if she packed any cold medicines her mum told her to before she left. Dragging her heavy, protesting body along to her suitcase inside the closet a distant down from her bed, she opened the bag and searched through her half unpacked bag.

Of course she hasn’t! As expected from Jessica Stanley! Yay! She was torn between towing her half unconscious body down the stairs, to the drug store or just staying in bed all day and suffer through the pain. Neither sounded appealing. Her body never did handle well with something as simple as cold or flu. Ever since she was young, once she became sick – which was not that often – but when she did, the illness went on for a long time.

Within an hour later, her body grew hot and feverous; the little clothes she wore did nothing to help to cool the sweats forming on her skin. Her fever would still rise. She should quickly go to the drug store before it became too much for her to handle. Donning a hoodie over her shirt and shoes, she staggered to the near drug store, paid for the medicine and back into her bed.

It had taken her half an hour. The time lost in many times she had to stop and gather her balance before moving off again. It wasn’t worse like this and she, in her hazy state, suspected being in another country had something to do with the fast deteriorating pace.

The bed sheet underneath her was already becoming sticky and moist with her own perspiration. Maybe if she just sleeps for a while. Just close her eyes for a moment and rest.

Alec wondered what was so interesting about a flower. His sister, after all these years, still held onto her peculiar fondness for flowers.

“What a pretty flower.” Jane mused, noticing the new bubs of blue rose blossoming. Blue roses had existed, long ago, before they became extinct but Jane had a habit of collecting rare flower seeds and watching them grow which resulted in the castle’s only floral garden with the most rarest and one-of-a-kind specimens that became a favourite among female residents.

“Don’t you think so, Alec?”

“You’re the pretty one, sister.” Alec commented with a smile.

Jane turned away from the rose she had buried her nose in, looking at him with a smile, “We all know you’re the pretty one out of us two. Our mother always said so.”

“I’m not pretty.” He pressed, Jane’s voice overlapping with the human’s.

Jane raised a brow; her brother always took the phrase well.

“Alec, you won’t ever lie to me, would you?” She asked after a moment of ponder.

He slid down from the handrail he had been resting upon with his back against the column of the Victorian style gazebo to approach his sister. Cupping her cheeks and a kiss to the forehead he looked into her eyes, “Never, sister.”

Jane studied him before asking, “Where have you been going these past days?”

A normal person’s reaction would have been caught by Jane’s sharp, discerning stares but Alec hid his true thoughts and emotions well. Always have. Ever since they were child, the only one Jane always found it tricky to read was her own brother.

“Do I worry you?” He asked.

“Answer the question, Alec.” Jane never did like to prevaricate around a topic.

“Out.” He told her.

“Where?”

“Exploring the Volterra.”

Jane stared at him from under her long lashes. She would always give someone half-lidded look if they were wasting her time or irritating her.

“Alec.” She warned, brows furrowing with irritation.

“Don’t frown, Jane. It’s unbecoming of you. Smile for you look most beautiful.” He teased, “Do not worry about me. That’s my job.”

“Alec, you’re my twin therefore one half of me.” Touching her brother’s cheek, she muttered, “We’ve been together since in our mother’s womb. How could I be so selfish as to burden my brother with all?”

But Alec refused her offering, gently bringing her hand down from his face, “Jane, you don’t have to worry. I promise nothing will come to harm.”

“You’re leaving.” She stated knowingly.

“I am not.”

Jane didn’t believe him – a thought that he could see in her eyes.

“No, not now.” She said, “But later you will.”

He did not deny nor confirm her retort.

Jessica let out another barking cough for the hundredth times that day. Two days had past and while it seemed to be getting better, the aches and soreness of her throat, head and body was a huge pain in her ass. Everything she touched and touched her hurt as if her skin became overly sensitised to pain.

That morning, she had turned on her phone and instantly she was bombarded with missed calls, messages and emails. Most of them were from her parents or friends and she took time to answer them each. Lastly, she turned her attention to Bella. As expected, ten missed calls, one was just a few hours ago and twenty messages, some short and some long.

She read them all as attentively as she could before typing out her reply. Few messages stood out.

Bella: Alec was the one who gave me the choice to either have you killed or turned. I know it was wrong of me to decide but I just couldn’t let you die. I’m sorry.

Bella: You know how I’ve been telling you Mike’s fine? Yeah, he’s not actually fine. He’s been moody and angry ever since you left.

Jess: Hey Bella, I’m still alive. But not for long. I’m sick. Like real, bad sick. Got cold. Or flu. I don’t know – what’s the difference? Don’t blame yourself. I’d have done the same. I’ve been meeting with Alec ever since and I think we’re OK. My throat hurt so I can’t use my voice for a while until it passes but yeah, I’m alive. Half alive. Might not reply immediately.

Jess: Fuck Mike.

The message was sent and read almost straight away. The speech bubble appeared in Bella’s section and series of full stops suggesting she was replying back.

Bella: Do you think it’s wise to get close to him? I’m not sure if he explained to you about the difference between Edward and his family and Alec’s coven but he’s dangerous. I’m worried he might not be able to control himself around you since you’re a human.

Bella: Don’t be so mean to Mike.

Jess: Well he’s doing well with his controlling his thirst since I’m still alive and breathing. I’m pretty sure this cold is going to kill me before he does. He seems alright; not a bad kid.

Jess: Fuck Mike.

Bella: ‘Not a bad kid?’ I’m not sure if I should tell you about his coven but I think I shouldn’t. Edward told me not to say anything more than you already know but he’s not a kid and he’s dangerous. Like lethal dangerous.

Bella: You can be such a savage sometimes.

Jess: Well he’s a vampire, of course he’s lethal! I know he has a gift of taking away your senses – I experienced that and it’s not a good feeling to have your senses taken away. I don’t know how people who are deaf or blind or mute can do it; huge respect for them.

Jess: Thank you. Fuck Mike xx

Bella: How do you know about his power? What do you mean you experienced it? JESSICA WHAT THE HELL?!

Bella: I’m not even gonna comment.

Jess: Well he offered and I was like sure why not? Hardest challenge of a lifetime.

Bella: …Jess..why? WHAT THE FUCK?! YOU DON’T DO THAT! OMG

Her phone screen changed from text chat background to an incoming phone call from Bella. Jessica picked up and she swore she lost her hearing for a second or two.

“JESSICA, WHAT THE HELL?!”

“Are you trying to deafen me?” Her voice came out as a hoarse whisper, “I’m still alive aren’t I?”

She heard Bella take a deep breath before saying in a composed tone, “W-what are you talking about? What do you mean he offered?”

“After I turned off my phone, I went to find him and I told him to kill me because I don’t want to turn into a vampire. And he said that I had to pay the price of my action and few days later we got talking and I said I wanted to die in my sleep. He said he could give me that option and I was like ‘sure why not?’ and yeah. Not a nicest feeling in the world but I’d rather go through that again than see Mike’s face.”

She heard a heavy, frustrated sigh from the other line. Jessica could almost imagine Bella rubbing the bridge of her nose.

“Y-you don’t DO THAT! What if he killed you?! Or what if he turned you then?!”

“Well he didn’t!” Jessica countered, voice straining at the slight increase in loudness, “He doesn’t look like someone who’d stab you in the back.”

“I don’t even know what to say Jess.”

“Don’t.” Jessica said, “Beside, I’m gonna really lose my voice soon so I’ll speak to you when I get better, okay?”

“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay? If you want, me and Edward could come and get you right now. We can tell him that we’ll turn you after we take you back to Forks.”

“Bella, don’t worry about me – well not too much, just enough. I made all this happen, I’ll take care of it.”

“..But–“

“Bella.” Jessica stopped her before finally saying, “Thanks for everything. Really.”

The end of the phone was silence. But Jessica knew Bella had a smile in her face.

“I’ll talk to you later. Bye.”

“..Get well soon.”

“I will.”

She hung up and leaned her head back against the bed headboard with a small, grateful smile. For better or worse, this whole situation seemed to have brought them a bit more closer.

“What did she say?” Edward asked with a tender touch on Bella’s shoulder.

“She’s alive.” Bella said, worried, “I mean, she said she’s doing fine but I-I don’t know.”

“She will be fine.” He said with undoubted confidence. Something Bella found strange. Not too long ago he was just as equally worried about Jessica’s safety but yet he seemed to know something she doesn’t.

“How do you know that for sure?”

Edward sheepishly smiled, glancing sideways amused, “You’ll find out soon.”

Bella rolled her eyes and inwardly decided going to Alice would be a faster route. In the meantime, Bella deeply prayed for Jessica’s safety.

Jane knew something was occupying her brother’s mind. Distracted. Her brother had always been reckless and curious. Even as a human. The troublemaker of the two and, often, the root of their mother’s ire with his little mischievous ways. He always carried the air of confidence and apathy; he could care less about anything – even what others thought of him. Mocking and always ready to take aim. Independent. She envied that. Sometimes, a little resentful. Always wondered why she had to be opposite when they were essentially one being. Even their powers were on the extreme end of the spectrum. Why was it that her brother fared better with the circumstances? Why was he happier? Why was his gift more benign than hers’? Moreover, he didn’t mind his eternal adolescence, stuck in the body of a fifteen year old. Forever. Although she wondered to what extent that was true and a façade.

Despite their closeness, she sometimes found it difficult to understand him. That older-brother-maturity persona which meant he always had to be the bravest, strongest, secretive, protective one. Even though she was older by few minutes.

“Demetri.” She called and few minutes later, the tracker appeared. His amicable expression never betraying the apprehensiveness simmering beneath.

“Yes, Jane?”

“I need you to do something for me.” She said while remaining with her back toward him.

“What is it?” He asked courteously.

“I need you to track Alec.”

“Alec?” Other than a slight downward twitch of his brows, his countenance remained composed.

“He’s been distracted.” Jane said, “I need to know why.”

“Of course, Jane.” He nodded before backing away.

Sitting on a small round table chair in a balcony outside her room, Jessica eyed the mountain the back of the hotel was facing. The slight cool wind was doing well cooling her body down but not enough. Closing her eyes to feel the forest air breezing through, she slid down from her chair so that her back was comfortably resting on the seat in C position.

“This is horrible.” She groaned, staring at the mocking blue sky that seemed to laugh at her fate.

“What’s so horrible?”

Jessica jumped, startled, and she’s thrown out of her chair and her backside painfully collided with the hard, wooden floor. The chair clacked loudly as it fell to the floor away from her. Her head was aching and dizzy and there was loud ringing in her ears from the fall. A black, polished shoe came into her double vision and settled there until she could regain her balance.

“Alec, you scared the shit out of me.”

He didn’t say anything although he continued to stare at her.

“Are you not getting up?”

Jessica brought herself on all fours before gently, using her left knee and a hand on the chair as anchor, brought her right knee to her chest and heaved herself up.

“You’re ill.” He stated.

“Yes, well done for the excellent observation, Alec.” She sardonically replied as she righted up her fallen chair and heavily collapsed into it. “Everything hurts right now.”

“Is it serious?” He questioned.

“It’s just a cold.” She explained, “I always come down with illness more worse than an average person I suppose.”

“You’ll die then.”

Jessica shook her head hastily, “No, no, no, humans don’t die from cold that easily now days. Unless you can’t afford medical care or other reasons, but I’ll live. It’s just mean that I’ve got few more days to suffer.”

“I see.”

“Great timing, Alec, I was becoming so bored. I can’t go out because I don’t wanna infect everyone with my germs. Glad I’ve got a vampire pal I don’t have to worry about.”

“You shouldn’t trust me too easily.” He warned.

“Well for now, you didn’t do anything to break my trust.” She countered wittily, “Unless you’re planning to, then it’d be nice if you can tell me 5 working days beforehand. It’s Sunday today so I’ve got one more day.”

“How fortunate.”

“Right!” Then, “Alec, where are you from?”

“Here.”

“No, like where are you from as in did you live here as a human too?”

“England. I was born in the Dark Ages.”

Jessica let out a low, impressed, ‘oooh’.

“That’s so..ages ago! I can’t imagine how it must feel to be born at that time and see the world change so much!”

“The world changes but the humans within remains the same.” He answered.

“Okay, Mr. Realist.” Jessica laughed, “I’m sure you’re right but I also hope you also meant it the good way.”

“Same old avarice. Same old selfishness. Same old malice. They’re boring.”

“Not all humans are like that.” Jessica said, “We’re all innocent at birth. But at one moment, some become evil. They might mistake it as happiness – the good they seek or scared or something like that. Evil turns people into monsters. But I want to believe that good will prevail.”

“That’s naïve notion.”

“Sometimes I think so too. But you never know. If a vampire can exist, what else is out there?”

“Those thoughts will only bring you despair.” He warned in a dejected tone. There was something gleaming underneath his usual stoic demeanour. Was it melancholy? Sympathy? He almost seemed disappointed like watching someone shatter his expectation with avoidable mistakes.

“Maybe.” She shrugged, agreeing with him, “You can call me stupid or naïve, but some people need that second chance.”

“A fool’s hope.” He named, “It would be interesting to see which expression you make when that time comes.”

“Me too.” She agreed. “If you don’t mind me asking, but what makes you think my belief is stupid.”

He shifted in his seat, hinting that their little debate was finished. She didn’t try to push on it more and left it at that. Although she was nosy, she knew when to back off.

Using her hand, Jessica fanned her tomato red face boiling with heat and sweat. Even with this chill weather and wind, her body heat didn’t seem to cool even slightly. The ice that she brought from the kitchen had already melted into lukewarm water from the heat. She wished she had a never melting ice cubes. Then her eyes landed at Alec. Then to his hand. Then to his face again.

“Yes?” He tilted his head, noticing her intense staring.

“You’re a vampire.” She thought out loud.

“Yes.” He answered with confusion, not realising her statement was rhetorical.

“No, no, I know you’re a vampire. Your skin is ice cold.” She muttered slowly, “Do you mind if I ask you a teeny tiny favour.”

“Depending on what it is.”

“Well, I have to be comfortable.” She stood up and gestured him to the inside of her room, “Do I have to give you permission to come in?”

“No.” He wearily stood up, “Myths.”

“Good.” She said, “Well, don’t just stand there, come in.”

It was only when she had arrived by her bed that he stepped inside. Jessica dragged a chair from the table inside to beside her bed.

“Well, what is it?”

“Can you seat here?” She pointed toward the said chair.

He did. The image was almost comical. Dressed in expensive looking pearl grey suit on a small dingy chair in a budget hotel room plastered with tacky orange coloured wall papers that was peeling apart, half faded rusty oak wood tiles and cheap polka dot bed sheet; he was laughably out of place.

He didn’t suit light, bright colours. She can imagine his room to be adorned with dark, rich colours like burgundy or dark emerald and probably draped with expensive silk and wool.

Jessica got in her bed, pulling up her blanket, “I haven’t slept properly in like a week now.”

“What does that have to do with me?” He replied stoically, void of mocking intention.

“Well, I thought since you’re here, you can help a sick friend.” She smiled then reached out for his hand. The touch startled Alec who immediately flinched back but Jessica patiently waited until he relaxed and she had the permission.

“What are you doing?”

“Just trust me.”

“No.”

Jessica rolled her eyes, “Stop being childish.”

“I’m not.”

“Then give me your damn hand.” This time she was successful in grabbing his hand and bringing it toward her temple and sighed in bliss as coolness pierced through the heat and spread down her body.

“It’s so nice to have something this cold that won’t melt.” Jessica said, looking up, “Do you mind just staying like this for a while? Just until I could fall asleep. Do you think you can use your power on me? Just take away my senses for a while – just until I fall asleep. I just need some sleep.”

“This is absurd and ridiculous.”

Letting out another bout of hacking cough, Jessica tiredly met his eyes, pleading.

“Please, Alec.” She said, “Just for ten minutes. I just need undisturbed rest.”

He didn’t move for a long time. Jessica couldn’t help but think he will leave. Mock her fragile morality; angry at suggesting to use his gift for something as trivial as this. After all, they certainly weren’t friends; she liked to think they were although Alec might have a clear sense of what they actually were. In the end, she was a pig. A pig with a name, yes. But it still did not make any difference.

“You’re a peculiar human.”

“Thanks – people tells me I can be weird sometimes.”

“Are you not afraid?” He asked, “Afraid of me – afraid of what I’ll do?”

“You didn’t give me a reason to be afraid of you.” She said then added, “Other than the time you tried to eat me but you didn’t.”

More silence.

Then…

Alec held up his other hand hovering away from her face. The familiar shimmering smoke oozed out from his fingertips, stalking toward her with deadly obscurity. Her desperate mind was begging for the thief that would steal her senses. Quick. Quickly. Take it away. The pain. The heat. The tiredness.

And soon, numbing nothingness enveloped her. This time it was more comforting than gripping panic she felt the first time. Don’t fight it, she said to herself, go with it.

Soon to the sound of her own thoughts, Jessica Stanley fell into deep slumber.

A vampire. A human. In a sparse, confined room. It was a disaster waiting to happen. Yet one of his hand still remained on her forehead while his other free half was propped on his thigh in an uncharacteristic show of mercy and tenderness. He stared at the fluttering curtains at the balcony door that was ajar.

Jessica’s eyes fluttered open with refreshed, charged up energy only a deep, recovery sleep could afford. Immediately, she could sense her body was lighter, cooler and limber than the night before. This time she didn’t wake up to the soaked sheet and sticky skin. The soreness that irritated her throat seemed to have gone and her blocked nose could taste the dry air again. Oddly enough, her forehead seemed to be much more chilly than the rest of her body.

Then she saw a dark figure sat on the chair beside her bed that made her eyes go wide in surprise.

“Alec?!” She gasped in unexpected shock. She had expected him gone.

“You’re not as feverous as yesterday.” He said as he turned to her and removed his hand.

“You’ve been here all night?”

“Yes.”

“Why? You could have gone?”

“You wouldn’t let me.”

Jessica blinked rapidly. Then frowned, confused as she desperately searched through her absent memory to answer his statement.

“W-wait, what do you mean?”

“Whenever I try to take my hand away, you would not let me and grip my hand back.” He revealed in a story-telling tone. She searched through his eyes to see whether he was irritated by her mortifying sleeping habit. He didn’t seem too bothered by it so as much as eager to tell her this which he undoubtedly knew would embarrass her.

“And it has only been seven hours I believe.” He nodded toward balcony where she could see the sky was completely dark and a full moon was at its peak.

“You could have just slapped my hand away or something.”

“I didn’t want to break a bone or kill you by accident.”

Jessica’s lip made a perfect ‘O’ shape, having a cold was already torturous; she didn’t want to imagine how it’d feel to have a cold and a broken hand, “W-well…uh, thank you for not breaking my hand or killing me in my sleep. I feel so much better now. Thank you, really.”

He stood up to leave, walking toward the open balcony and disappeared in flash that her human eyes couldn’t catch.

Beneath the hotel, behind the tree across the balcony, Demetri watched as Alec landed on the floor with feather-like ease and headed back to the castle. An amused smile curved his sculpted mouth, enhancing his alluring magic.

A/N Please note when this chapter is uploaded on my story sites (FF, Wattpad, Quotev), they may or may not be modified. This is not a finalised version until it’s uploaded on other sites.

#pandora story

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neverending-hurt-comfort · 7 years

Text

Another Random Riverdale Sickfic

(Author’s note: So this took me 5-ever but it got done eventually. Some really shameless angst to follow with more Jarchie overtones than usual! P.S. Wolfstar whump to be posted tomorrow)

Fred Andrews sat on the couch, nursing a beer and staring dejectedly at the late night news. He was exhausted, but he couldn't even contemplate going up to bed. His oldest friend was in jail and his son's oldest friend was now sleeping in the garage. The poor kid had now been abandoned by both his parents and Fred had gone and basically told him to get out. Suddenly, there was a light tapping on the backdoor. He glanced over just in time to see it open. Jughead Jones came shuffling in, beanie missing, black hair mussed, trembling from the short walk to the house. "Hey Jug," he turned and forced a smile, acting like nothing had happened, acting like nothing had happened. "Need something?" He shook his head. There was something not quite right in his face. His eyes were wide and shiny. His eyes were wide and shiny. Fred patted the cushion next to him. Fred patted the cushion next to him. "Come sit with me." Jughead walked over and sat. His posture was hunched and stiff. His posture was hunched and stiff. They sat in a still, heavy silence for a long moment. Then Fred heard a sharp sniffle and a shuddering inhale. He whipped his head around. Tears were running down Jughead's face, rushing down his cheeks and dripping off his chin. "Hey," Fred turned and clamped a firm hand on Jughead's shoulder. "What happened?" What do you think happened? He scolded himself. He leaned closer, trying to make eye contact. Jughead's breath hiccupped and he tried to choke something out. "It's-I-just," he stuttered out, before dissolving in a kind of frantic sobbing that was almost frightening that was almost frightening. Fred had never seen Jughead that distressed and he had no idea what to do. "O-okay, just try to breathe, alright? Take a deep breath and then tell me what's wrong." Jughead was gasping, only becoming more panicked. Fred wrapped his arms around the young man, pulling his head down into his shoulder. He placed a firm hand on his back and held him tighter. Jughead's cheek was burning against his neck. His breath ghosted across Fred's skin. With a harsh gasp and sniffle from right beside his ear, he heard Jughead trying to explain. "It's just-there's no one left. There's nobody left whose obligated t-to care. And then-soon everyone'll decide they're done with me-" Fred could barely follow what Jughead's disjointed words. "Jug," he tried to keep his voice even, pulling back just enough to look at his face. His cheeks were blotchy and his eyes were perfectly round as he stared blankly ahead. Moving slowly, he place a hand on the kid's cheek, before gently cupping his forehead. "I'm sorry you're upset and I'm sorry if I'm the one who made you upset. But I think you're pretty sick and I need to grab a few things. I am not leaving." He kept his voice calm and even, despite the fear rising inside him.

Fred extracted himself from Jughead's grip and rushed into the bathroom. After a bit of digging, he found an old ear thermometer, left over from when Archie was little. He also found a bottle of extra-strength Tylenol and brought both back to the couch. After a bit of fumbling, the device blinked to life. 'Hope this thing still works,' he thought as he reached out. Jughead's squirmed as Fred stuck the thermometer in his left ear. 103.9. Crap. "Okay, okay," Fred nodded. "Come here." He pulled the boy down, so his head was resting in his lap. Jughead shuddered and gasped and Fred sat, absently rubbing his back. "Dad?" Archie's sleepy voice called down the stairs. He shuffled into the living room, eyes widening at the strange sight. "Jug?" He spoke quietly, kneeling down next to the couch. Jughead sat up slowly, his weak arms groping out. Archie wrapped his arms around his friend, rubbing his hand up and down Jughead's shuddering back. Archie leaned closer, letting his chin rest in the crook of his neck. Fred wondered, not for the first time, if his son's feelings for his best friend went beyond the platonic. He and FP had discussed it more than once, jokingly at first but more seriously as their boys grew older. FP had claimed that he would prefer Jughead marry Archie, claiming that he needed an Andrews man to keep him from driving himself completely insane. "Should I take him up to bed?" Archie whispered eyes sad as he glanced up at his father. Fred hesitated. "I don't know," he finally said. "He might need to go to the emergency room?" Archie just nodded calmly, moving to embrace his friend even closer. "Or maybe I'll just take him to the doctor tomorrow. But let's get some medicine in him. And he should stay down here. Where it's cooler. I'll put the fan on him too." Archie had to help Jughead take a sip of water. His hands were shaking too badly to hold the glass. But he managed to swallow the pills and said nothing when Fred started up the ceiling fan. The older man hovered, unsure what else he should do. Archie was still tangled up in his tight hug. "I'll sleep down here, too. He shouldn't be alone." Fred sighed. "I'll stay. You go back to bed." Archie's face went hard. "No," he spoke firmly. "I'll stay." Clearly, their argument was far from forgotten. Fred hung his head and nodded. "Fair enough. Yell if you need me?" Archie nodded, taking the blanket from the back of the couch and wrapping it around the shivering boy on the couch.

Jughead did not seem any better in the morning. In the harsh light of day, his skin was almost grey and the dark circles around his eyes shone dark purple. His movements were sluggish, every action performed in slow motion. Archie was doing everything he could think of, grabbing Jug's clothes and shoes from the garage and pouring him a cup of coffee. Now the two sat at the counter, Archie gulping down his breakfast and Jugheas sitting with his arms crossed and face down. He pulled his beanie low over his ears and ignored the steaming mug in front of him. "I called your doctor, Arch. He'll see Jughead first thing this morning," Fred spoke, sipping his own coffee and leaning against the counter. "Want me to come, Juggie?" Archie asked, staring anxiously at his best friend. Jughead's shoulder rose and fell slightly and whispered a quiet "Whatever." "You go to school," Fred spoke firmly. Archie glared at his father, tension rising between them once again. "Are you just gonna leave him home by himself after?" "Doesn't matter," Jughead muttered, still not lifting his head. Archie finally stood, running his hand over Jughead's back. "Text me and I'll come running, okay?" Jughead just shrugged again. After another moment of anxious hovering, Archie was out the front door. Fred slid into the now empty seat and turned to face the young man sitting face-down at the counter. "What's wrong, Jug?" He spoke suddenly. Jughead shrugged, finally turning his head and opening his dull, unfocussed eyes. "Is your throat sore? Do you have a headache? Does your stomach hurt?" He grew almost desperate, looking for anything he could fix. "No," Jughead spoke dully. "What does hurt?" He sighed. "Everything," Jughead whispered, closing his eyes again. "Here," Fred placed another dose of Tylenol on the counter and retrieved the thermometer from the coffee table. He stuck it in Jughead's ear, angling it slightly to work around his slumped posture. The boy didn't even react. Fred sighed at the reading. 103.3. "Let's get going, bud," he spoke quietly. The doctor was less helpful than anticipated. There was nothing. Not strep. Not mono. Not meningitis. Not appendicitis. Not bronchitis. Not an ear infection. Not pneumonia. The doctor had taken about a gallon of blood and promised to call if anything turned up. Jughead didn't seem particularly bothered by any of this. He seemed...tuned out, just staring into space and not really responding when spoken to. Jughead went straight to the couch when they got home. Vegas trotted after him. He wrapped his arms around the big yellow dog and closed his eyes. "Want to head upstairs? You can sleep in my bed if you want. You'll be a a lot more comfortable. "No," Jughead tucked his face against Vegas' neck and went quiet. Fred hovered. "Want me to stay with you?" "No." Fred sighed and walked into the kitchen. He set the phone, the remote, and a bottle of water within easy reach of the couch. "You can call me if you need anything," he spoke quietly. Jughead just nodded. He hesitated for another long moment. "I'll get you some more medicine but then I really need to get to work." "Okay," was the only response he got. So, he set out another dose of painkiller on the table and hunched down to give the poor kid a quick hug. "Feel better, alright? And call me if you feel even a little bit worse." Jughead just nodded again. And then Fred really had to leave. Guilt twisted up inside of him. If it were Archie, there was no way in hell Fred would leave him alone. But Jughead wasn't Archie. Jughead did not like to be coddled. Or to be touched at all really. So Fred left, with a deep nagging feeling that screamed at him to stay. Jughead slept all day. Every time he managed to claw his way into conciousness, the bone deep ache of his body made him simply roll over and go back to sleep. He jerked upright in late afternoon. His eyes felt like some had rubbed them with sandpaper. Everything blurred and swayed around him. His heart was pounding in his chest. So fast he couldn't breathe. His dream was had set him on edge. He'd wandered in an infinite and pitch black darkness. Every moment that passed, his panic grew exponentionally. He couldn't see, hear, or feel anything. All he knew for sure was how completely and uttetly alone he was in that endless space. A fresh wave of tears filled Jughead's eyes and slowly spilled over. His eyes stung and the sudden wetness burned his already raw cheeks. He couldn't even bring himself to care. He groped out blindly until his hand found the cool plastic of the remote. The TV glared to life. He didn't even bother to look at what was playing. It was sound and light. That was all that mattered. He curled up again, huddling into himself. Archie Andrews jogged up his front steps. He'd bailed on football practice, giving some bullshit excuse about having a migraine. But he needed to get home. Jughead needed him. Archie had spent the entire day in a state low key anxiety. Watching his stoic and wonderfully cynical best friend cry and sob and cling to him was more frightening than he could've imagined. Fumbling his keys, Archie threw the door open, realizing a second too late that slamming into the house at top volume when a very sick boy was trying to sleep was not his best plan. But Jughead didn't make a sound. Archie found him hunched in the fetal position on the couch. His paper-pale skin was blotchy and raw. His eyes were irritated and red, fresh tears still shinning on his face. Like he was crying even in his sleep. It made Archie want to cry too. But he held it back and leaned forward, touching his knuckles to Jughead's scorching forehead. Archie really should have shaken him awake. Given him water and medicine and maybe even a hug. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. Archie simply laid down on the floor, right next to the couch. He was suddenly so, so tired. Jughead opened his eyes again. The light had changed. It was growing even later. Something red flashed in the corner of his eye. He looked down and saw Archie, still wrapped in his lettermen jacket, slumped on the floor next to him. "Arch..." his voice was a hoarse whisper. Archie's dark eyes opened and he smiled sleepily. Jughead reciprocated with a wavering smile of his own. Without a word, Archie reached up his hand, offering it out gently. Jughead sat motionless for a moment before weakly reaching out gripping the offered hand. Archie squeezed tight. Jughead squeezed back. His eyes shone but there was something more than the expected sadness.

#riverdale sickfic #jughead jones #fred andrews #archie andrews #sickfic #fever #crying #fanfic #riverdale fanfiction

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firmamential-blog · 7 years

Text

Ataxia Pt. 2

part one

He is in-between.

Nothing is tangible, as it turns out. He can feel it. It feels like a gentle touch, like being cradled, held. He isn’t moving through the darkness; no, the darkness is moving with him, holding on to him, protecting him. He does not know where they are going, but he is too exhausted to care.

Movement gives way to stillness jerks in to movement again. Muffled pops penetrate through the silence, like fingers through black wool. Bright light flashes and fades. From the void, a wave of voices washes over him, pushing him over, pulling him under, drowning him.The angel of death is in his ear.

“It’s going to be alright, Mr. Graves,” it says.Those cool points of starlight are on his hands again. There is shouting and clamor. “I’m sorry,” it says, and everything is narrowing down, blurring. “It’s going to be alright… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

He is in the infirmary. He blinks his eyes open. It is white and filled with soft sunlight.

He tries to sit up, to see who is on duty. If it’s Madame Gloria, he might be able to flirt some sweets from her.

He feels a hand on his chest, pressing him back into soft sheets. He looks down at it, follows a slim arm up to a familiar face. It’s Seraphina. She’s come to visit him.

“Sera,” he says, and he can’t help his smile.

She looks older, somehow. There is something like fear in her eyes.

“What’s that look for?” He says, teasing. His throat hurts, and his breath comes out as a rasp. He must have caught some sort of cold from one of the other students. “You feelin’ bad for me? Don’t tell me I only had to get sick for you to go soft.” He laughs, and it turns into a wracking cough.

Seraphina scoffs, rolls her eyes, hides a smile. That’s more like it.

She’s out of uniform, he notices; dressed in clothes way too formal for both of their tastes.

“What’s with the getup?” he says. “Where’s your uniform? And don’t you have class?”

Her smile freezes on her face. Her eyebrows wrinkle like they do when she’s upset. She closes her eyes.

“Sera?” He says, and reaches for her hand. “What’s wrong?”

He sees the blackness behind her, and remembers how he got here.

“Am I dead?” he asks quietly.

Then Seraphina is drawing her wand, and he is falling backward.

He’s not dead.

When he wakes up for the first time, his eyes are already open, and they focus on the disaster that is currently heaving around him, wild magic flowing through the air like an ocean in a storm.

It’s his own, he discovers, as a short, burly man with dark skin and darker hair whips his wand at a lamp that’s spinning like a top and Graves feels it. It takes another moment for him to register that the violent screaming splitting the air does not belong to the ghosts, but to him. He gasps, lungs burning with the stretch of needed oxygen. Two more nurses and an orderly fall into his room, frantically shouting spells.

His heart is beating like a hammer in his chest, heavy and double-quick. He looks down. He is in a bed, white sheets with hospital corners rumpled over his lap. He rips them away. Thick, curling bruises, black and purple and yellow, wind over his arms and legs, disappear into his hospital gown. His ankles and wrists burn; they are wrapped in bandages. He can feel more of them criss-crossing his torso, restricting, suffocating.

“What’s happening,” he says, and his voice is a husk. He brings his hands to his lips and they come away bloody. He swipes his hands over his eyes and the skin there sings with pain. He moves upward; his hair is shorn to the scalp.

“What’s happening,” he says. “Where am I?”

A nurse, the stocky one, is right next to him, grasping for his hands, quick, strong. “Where am I?” Graves asks him, and does not hear a reply.

A furious flower of hot pain blooms in his shoulder, and it whites out his vision. He lurches against the arms of the nurse, heaving bile up over the edge of the bed frame.

He gasps for air. His vision comes back, coalescing in spots. The air is cold on the sweat that has broken out over his forehead and back. From across the room, Graves sees a wand levelled at him.

“Where am I?” he asks.

Darkness swallows him again.

Cool water slips down his throat, soothing the burn there.

He opens his eyes to see the stocky young nurse from before. Deep eyes settle on Graves’.

The man’s lips move. Graves watches them, trying to focus. The young man is saying something.

The sounds wash against his ear like a warm ocean, swirling and heavy.

He tries to listen, to read that young face. He can feel his brow muscles ache as they furrow, a reflex of concentration.

A woman is there behind him. She is pale with a ruddy complexion. Her hair is a smudge of red in Graves’ blurring, unfocused vision.

Her piercing green eyes are on him. She speaks, and her voice is low and sturdy. Graves can hear the words, clear and articulate, but he has to grasp at them one at a time to understand them, and as soon as he lets go of one, it is gone, its meaning lost, as intangible as smoke.

There is a pause. She says something else. The nurse’s voice rumbles back. Then she is fading away.

Graves is suddenly struck with a panic. There’s something that he should do, but he doesn’t know what. The adrenaline pushes a groan from his mouth, and both the woman and the nurse pause.

“…ster Graves? Can you under…”

He heaves his breath, trying desperately to form thoughts coherent enough to make words, desperate for them to not leave him, to stay. “Ah… I…”

A cool, bony, freckled hand rests on his chest, soothing it down from its pitching. He tries to bring his eyes into focus.

“…an you understand me, Mister Graves?”

Her voice is coming through clearer. Blurred outlines are coalescing into features. He breathes deep.

“Mh… y… yes,” he nods as much as he can, to make sure that the message comes across.

“Good. That’s good to hear,” The woman – the Healer says. He can see now the trim white hospital uniform that she’s wearing, the gold bar of her office winking at him from her lapel.

She continues speaking.

“Mr. Graves, My name is Oreane Winkle. I am your Healer. You are in Mercy Municipal Hospital in Pendragon Square. Do you understand?”

He tries to push enough air through his throat to say yes.

“You can nod and shake your head, for yes and no,” Healer Winkle says. He nods.

“Mister Graves, it is my responsibility to inform you of why we are keeping you here, our methods of treatment, and how long your projected stay will be.” She pauses. “…However, given your current condition, perhaps we will wait until you are more lucid.” Graves tries to keep his gaze from sliding out of focus. When he gives a small nod, she smiles.

“In the meantime… rest assured that we are doing all that we can to… quickly as possible, and…”

Her face is sliding out of focus. The effort of keeping his eyes open is suddenly immense. An acute ache is beginning to form behind his left eye, and he squeezes them both shut reflexively. He swallows hard, and his throat clicks drily.

The straw is back on his lips, and Percival pulls on it gratefully. A cool hand is on his face, drawing his attention.

Forcing his eyelids open feels like lifting a boulder over his head. When he manages it, Winkle is there again, smiling still.

She says something else. It washes against Percival’s ears uselessly.

Then she is walking away. He looks to the man. The straw nudges against his chin, and he takes it, drinking deeply. A warm hand covers his eyes, inviting the darkness to come back and drag him under.

His hands are shaking. They’ve been since he woke up. Sometimes the tremors are barely there. Sometimes they’re so bad he has to bury himself under the covers, lock his arms around himself, hold on.

He can feel his father’s gaze on him from across the room. That sneering face.

“Get up,” he snarls, and Graves flinches, turns into the sheets. He hears it like it’s at a great distance, like it’s right in his ear. “Get up, Percival, dammit.”

His eyes twitch with the growing pressure of a piercing headache as that voice sinks into his mind, into his bones.

The frame of his bed is quaking. Cold sweat sticks his hospital gown to his skin.

A tsk, a sigh that grinds at his ears like sandpaper.

“I always knew you would bring shame to this family. It was only a matter of time.”

A hundred memories of standing in his father’s study, hearing how ashamed he was, how ashamed Percival should be. Striving for acceptance and being met with rejection.

His head throbs.

“You’re weak,” His father says. Graves shakes his head into the sheets, burrowing away from the accusation burning in that voice and the unignorable ache. He should get up.

He can’t.

All he can do is lay there.

The voice stops abruptly, as it has every other time. But the pain stays.

Weak, weak, fuck, I’m weak…

His father is gone. Has been for years. Only memories visit him here.

They’ve brought him an atmo-sphere.

“Since you can’t go out into the gardens yet,” Danvers explains. “We thought we’d bring a little of the gardens in to you.”

The clear orb is about the size of his fist. It floats evenly above his bedside table. When Graves reaches for water, it moves out of the way.

He’s lying in bed, burrowed as deep as he can into the sheets. The hospital room is dimmed, with cloudy light glowing around the pulled curtains on the window. It is, blessedly, quiet.

Right now, the atmo-sphere is showing a large, sprawling garden. English, from the looks of it. Green grass spreads as far as the eye can see one direction, and bumps up against the brick of a homestead in the other. A small flowerbed hugs the edge of the building, full of red and yellow tulips and a massive lavender bush. Bees bustle through it. Graves can almost hear their buzzing.

There are voices nearby. Outside of his door. They sound angry. Graves wants to hush them, concentrating on the orb. He wishes he could reach in to it, disappear through it. Leave this place.

As he watches, a breeze picks up, and storm clouds form on the horizon. The voices fade away, walking down the hall. A small headache threatens to begin behind his eyes. Graves breathes.

It’s been two months so far, he’s told.

He doesn’t know for sure. Time has been lost to him. Only recently has it begun to come back, in fragments of trackable memory. Yesterday the tall orderly told him that it was raining. Before that, he’d heard familiar voices echoing heatedly outside of his door, though he didn’t remember how long it had been before. This morning, he’d spilled water on his sheets because his hands were shaking too hard. Danvers had just smiled his gentle smile and said it was alright.

That was at 9:00, he thinks, and looks at the clock. It’s noon now. This is one of the ways he knows that time is coming back to him: he is starting to realize when he’s lost it. When he’s been sleeping, or sleeping awake. Staring at the wall or at the ceiling or into his palms. Thinking about anything or nothing at all. Oblivious to the world around him.

His episodes of disconnection were long and profound; like a radio tuned to static, with only brief interludes of received programming. He could be undressed, bathed, redressed, and tucked into clean sheets, without registering that any of it was happening or remembering it at all afterward.

Graves’ stomach pinches. He’s hungry. Lunch is at 12:30.

When the cart rolls in, it’s the taller, thinner nurse pushing it. Caroline.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Graves,” She says, businesslike, bustling the cart through the door.

He waits for her name to resurface in his mind, hoping quietly. He breathes in. “Good afternoon,” He replies, and her head snaps up. She looks at him like he’s a dead man come to life. He tries not to grimace.

“Well,” She says, and a huge smile parts her full lips. “It is a good afternoon, isn’t it? Good to see you up, Mr. Graves. You hungry?”

That smile is infectious, Graves thinks. It curls his own lips even as shame burns in his stomach. How many times has she walked in here to see him gaping at the wall, insensate even with his eyes open? “I must say that I am, Ms. Caroline,” He replies, and he can see the approval on her face.

“Stop,” He says quietly, over the conversation. They are murmuring to themselves at his bedside, bickering. He has to repeat himself twice before they hear.

“I won’t go back there,” he says. Not today, he thinks. Not ever.

“Mr. Graves,” Bolnov says, reprimand in her voice. As though she’s talking to a child. Graves grits his teeth. She’s set her ledger open; it’s levitating next to her, an ornate silver pen floating over it, ready to take notes. They are both tilted tastefully away from him so that he cannot see what she is writing down. “You must know that it is extremely important that we have this information.”

Lamouette nods, face serious. “There’s to be an internal investigation. Your testimony is vital. President Picquery herself requests it. “

“Seraphina can stuff it,” He says, ignoring their shock at his blaspheming. He fists his hands in the sheets to stop them shaking. “And so can you. I’ve said it once already. No.”

“Sir,” Bolnov pushes, and he sees a bare glint of pity in her eye. “I understand that you were kept under duress for a very long time. But it’s been four months, and even without added stressors, our memories of events have already begun to diminish after they…”

Her voice fades into the background as Graves’ ears start to ring. No, he wants to say, no, you don’t. You could never understand.

“I won’t,” he says, again.

“-likely that Grindelwald’s followers are still at large and capable of creating plenty of disaster without his direct instruction-“

“I won’t, stop-“

“-and all of the crimes regarding magic usage that he has committed, especially pertaining to the use of the Unforgivable-“

“…stop it, shut up,” And she’s still talking, “Shut up, I won’t, I WON’T DO IT, STOP!”

Yelling, at least, has the desired effect… even if he lapses into coughs around his dry throat. The room comes to a deafening halt, so fast Graves feels like he has whiplash. Bolnov and Lamouette are staring at him. If only he still had his wand, could Apparate away. He feels like disappearing, he feels like storming out, he feels like cursing these uppity aurors until they run away with their tails between their legs.

“I can’t- go back there,” is what he grinds out instead. Pleading. He used to strike the fear of God into these two, back when they were lowly probational officers. Now he has to plead with them from a hospital bed.

Pathetic, a ghost says in his ear, and a dozen echo it. Pathetic, pathetic, they think you’re pathetic-

“No,” He whispers. He’s looking at his hands. The tremors have moved up his arms, lodged in his torso, chilling his bones. His ribcage feels hollow. Something clutches in his chest. “If you want my memories, you can take them from me,” he spits. He sees both Bolnov and Lamouette twitch as his meaning lands home. “But I won’t go back there, do you understand me? I won’t.”

His eyes blur, and there is a soft splash against his arm. He looks down.

“Fuck,” he says.

Lamouette and Bolnov are silent.

There is a sudden shift in the room. When he raises his eyes, there is Seraphina Picquery, outlined in light, standing in the doorway. He can’t tell if she’s real or not, this time.

He gambles on yes.

“I can’t,” he says, and it’s getting harder to squeeze words out with the way his throat is closing up, air whistling through it on the inhale.

Her face is impassive, as it always is. He feels a throb of pain at the root of his skull.

Pathetic, pathetic. “I can’t, I can’t, please,” he says, and that makes something in her solid stone mask shift.

“Sera, please,” he says again, pushing, “don’t make me.”

Something snaps. The skin over his scalp prickles, every hair standing on end, and that voice comes back to him as if it had never left.

Director Graves, it calls, and he can see that smile behind his eyes when he squeezes them shut.

“No,” he says, bringing his hands up to rub his eyes until they explode with stars. “No, not again. Oh, Merlin, fuck – “

The ghosts are back. They swirl above him. The ringing in his ears grows, narrows to a point, and he realizes that it’s just the sound of their voices, echoing off the ruined walls of his mind. From their midst, a young girl with raven black hair and half a face materializes, sits on his bed, her remaining eye frozen open in terror and agony. He cringes away, a full body jerk that pulls his knees to his chest, ripping up the sheets from their careful hospital corners.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, because she is there, demanding an apology, demanding a reason. “Merlin, I’m sorry-“

A man with sagging skin gasps for breath next to his ear. His son is with him, and they are both writhing, heads thrown open, jaws practically unhinged as their swan song sears into his mind over and over again.

Graves claps his hands over his ears, but he sees the green flash, and he hears the mothers’ wails being choked out of her, and they are all whispering, shouting, pleading, and they surround him, pinching cold and heavy around his chest until he is gasping for breath.

And then the door squeaks on its hinges, and he hears his shoes on the floor, and feels his hands on his throat, and his own voice, familiar and strange in his ear, murmuring those words, Unforgivable.

There is nothing but the pain. No part of Graves exists without it, every nerve ending branded by a white-hot poker, every cell engulfed in flame but never burning out. And now only one voice is screaming, and it is begging for death.

Caroline is with him, when he wakes up.

He is exhausted. She is furious.

“Don’t you worry, Mr. Graves,” She says, glaring at the blood pressure gauge around his arm. “Those two will not be coming back. Winkle says so herself. Coming in here like that, asking you all those questions,” she rages quietly. “Hooligans, the pair of ‘em. If I wasn’t a nurse, I woulda socked ‘em both in the mouth.”

“You probably would have been arrested,” He deadpans, and Caroline lets out a laugh.

“I’d like to see them try it,” She huffs, drawing herself up righteously. She slips the thermometer under his tongue. “They must be some kind of crazy, thinking they can treat a patient like that. I don’t care what the President has to say about it. It’s not right, it’s just not right.”

Graves is embarrassed and slightly gratified by her protectiveness.

Lamouette and Bolnov do not come back again.

#percival graves #fbawtft #fantastic beasts and where to find them

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luffysfakebeard · 7 years

Text

The Dials of Life; 1800ish words Continuation of the Isak with Asperger’s headcanon. Isak is having a bad day for hypersensitivity. [AO3]

The world was too much for Isak today. It felt like someone looked at the dials for life and turned them all up to 1000%.

The colours are almost blinding, the noises near deafening, and worst of all the feeling of everything touching him is making him want to pull his own skin off.

He hadn’t felt too bad this morning. More than anything he had felt relieved that the mock exam he had been most worried about was over and that he’d recovered from all the Red Bull he’d drunk the day before.

But then the anxiety crept back in.

He had half a dozen more mocks to do as well as assignments to write and he and Even needed to look at their food budget and plan their next week’s meals and-

Nope, nope, nope.

He didn’t even pick up his rucksack as he made his swift exit from the table outside where he had been trying to eat with the boys. It’s such a nice day, we should eat outside, Mahdi had said and so that’s what they’d done and Isak couldn’t even manage that today.

His sandwich simultaneously felt like tar and drier than a cracker in his mouth. He spat it out into a bin as he made his retreat to the first quiet place he could think of.

He locked the toilet cubicle door behind himself and slumped down on the toilet seat, sucking in ragged breath after ragged breath trying to get his shit together. He could feel his hands trembling as he unbuttoned his over shirt and tugged it off.

He buried his face in it, effectively blocking out all the light. Plunging himself into darkness immediately felt like it took half the pressure off his lungs.

Thankfully, no one else was in these particular toilets so the only noise touching Isak’s ears was the muffled sounds from other parts of the school that travelled through the vents. It was almost like being underwater.

So much better than being outside, where everything was so loud that Isak felt like each individual sound rattled his teeth and vibrated violently through his bones.

Slowly, Isak felt himself start to calm down.

He kept the material of his shirt tightly over his face, slowly breathing in and out the familiar smell of the detergent Even liked to use, and rested his forehead on the cool tiles of the bathroom wall.

His skin felt about a hundred degrees. He was only wearing his jeans and his vest now, but all Isak could think about was shucking his jeans off to free himself from the fabric that felt too confining and too much against his hypersensitive nerves.

“Isak?” He could feel the reverberation from Even’s voice in the wall. It was oddly comforting.

“In here.” Isak mumbled. He wasn’t sure if his voice carried through the shirt he was still buried in, but he was too tired to care.

“Can I come in?” Even’s voice was closer now, but Isak didn’t want to uncover his eyes yet. He wasn’t ready to be bombarded with the overwhelming visual stimulus that was his Adonis of a boyfriend. It felt like too much effort to even talk, so Isak just stuck his hand out and blindly groped at the cubicle door until he found the lock and slid it open.

He felt like such a twat. He was huddled up alone in a toilet with his face hidden in his plaid shirt and his heart hammering almost painfully in his chest.

All because his stupid brain had been turned up to 1000%.

“Can I touch you, Issy?” It sounded like Even was kneeling in front of him, which Isak thought was a terrible idea in the school toilets. He shook his head minutely, guessing Even was watching him, and pressed the shirt harder against his closed eyes in embarrassment.

“It’s okay, Is, it’s okay.” Even murmured, and the slow and low sound of his voice helped calm Isak’s racing heart. “It’s okay for it to get too much, sometimes. No one’s judging you.” Even promised. Isak knew the words were meant to be comforting, but they just made his heart hurt even more.

“It’s stupid, Ev.” Isak muttered into his shirt. “It’s stupid that you have to whisper in here. It’s stupid that being in my jeans right now is killing me. It’s stupid that I don’t want to take this stupid shirt away from my eyes because I can’t-”

“Isak.” Even’s voice was so firm that Isak’s voice died in his throat midsentence. “It’s okay that you get sensitive sometimes. I know it must suck, but no one’s judging you for it. We’re here for you, baby. You just need to say the word and we’ll do whatever you need us to.” Even seemed to hesitate at that.

“What do you need from me right now, Is?” Even asked gently. Isak wished he could ask Even to just wrap him up in a hug and kiss his forehead and turn his brain down, but he knew if Even hugged him when he felt like this that it would feel like being in a vice and those familiar chapped lips would feel like sandpaper against his skin.

“I- I want to go home.” Isak stuttered. He had three more lessons after lunch ended, but he couldn’t do it. He needed to go lie somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe. Somewhere that wasn’t going to stimulate the fuck out of his sensitive brain and have his heart racing like a hummingbird having a heart attack.

Somewhere like their bland white flat.

“I’ll take you home then, angel.” Isak could hear Even standing up.

“That sounds like a bad pick up line.” Isak tried to joke, getting a quiet chuckle from Even.

“Like I need to use a pick up line on you to get you home anymore!” Even teased. Isak just rolled his eyes behind his closed lids. He took a deep breath and lowered his shirt, his eyes still squeezed tightly shut as he shrugged the shirt back on. He opened his eyes slowly, and was relieved to find that things didn’t feel as grotesquely bright as they had before.

Even was stood a few inches in front of him, a sympathetic smile on his lips and Isak’s rucksack slung over one shoulder and his own balanced on the other.

“You want my sunglasses to go home with?” He offered.

Isak didn’t think he’d ever been as in love as he was right there and then stood in a toilet cubicle.

“Please.” He nodded. Even took the sunglasses from their perch on top of his head and slid them onto Isak’s nose easily and Isak pretended to strike a pose, pouting up at Even.

“Very stylish.” Even laughed, backing out of the cubicle so Isak could get out.

“I’m the most stylish.” Isak nodded, as if it wasn’t clear as day that between the two of them Even was the one who looked like he walked straight off the catwalk.

They stood next together, so close their arms were almost touching, looking at the bathroom door.

“You ready?” Even asked and Isak took a deep breath, ready to face the onslaught.

“No. But the sooner we go the sooner we get home.” Isak was learning, slowly, to be honest about how he was feeling and he was pleased to say that it wasn’t as terrifying as he had always thought it would be.

Even nodded, knowing that feeling of the sooner the better all too well, and he and Isak walked out of the toilets together. Even weaved his way through the crowds of students moving to their next class so that he cleared a path for Isak, allowing Isak to walk behind Even and not be jostled by passing students.

Isak was incredibly grateful for that.

Once they made it outside the noise died down a lot, which helped ease the frantic pace Isak’s heart was beating out. They walked to the tram stop without saying anything, content to walk side by side in the early summer sun (although Isak would have much preferred a cloudy day today).

Thankfully they didn’t have to wait too long for a tram, and they were home within the hour. While Isak frantically tore his clothes off, Even closed their blinds and pulled the duvet up the bed so Isak had something to lie on.

In other circumstances Even might have laughed at the trail of Isak’s clothes leading from the front door to their bed, but the sight of Isak curled up exhausted on the middle of their bed in nothing but his boxers and his face mashed into the mattress was too sad to warrant any humour.

“You got a headache, baby?” Even murmured and Isak nodded silently. Even went into the kitchen and got Isak some painkillers and some water and made him sit up to take the pills. Isak flopped back down almost immediately and curled up on his side.

Even couldn’t help but notice that the backs of Isak’s knees were both scratched red from where he’d been itching at the offending fabric. Fabric that usually didn’t cause him any strife, seeing as Isak was careful about what clothes he bought.

Even wished so badly that he could do more when Isak felt overwhelmed. He wished there was a way to turn down his boyfriend’s anxiety, seeing as that was almost always what triggered his hypersensitive episodes. He wished that Isak wasn’t the sort of student who worked themselves to death to maintain their grades.

He wished a lot, if he was honest. Mostly he wished that he could make everything better.

“Get some sleep, Issy, you might feel better afterwards.” It was killing him not to be able to touch Isak when he looked so desperately lonely, but he’d never do anything that would cause Isak pain. He had made that mistake once, of trying to touch Isak when he was feeling like this, and the way Isak had shuddered and yanked himself away was seared into Even’s memory.

“Wish you could sleep here with me.” Isak mumbled, looking at Even through half closed eyes.

“Later.” Even promised, watching the exhaustion slowly take Isak over. “Later, I’ll cuddle you like you’ve never been cuddled.”

At that, Isak smiled.

“My boyfriend, the master cuddler.” His words slurred a little with sleep, but they warmed Even’s heart.

“You just wait.” Even nodded, watching as Isak’s eyes fluttered closed. “Sleep tight, baby.” He wanted to badly to kiss Isak’s forehead, but he refrained.

There would be plenty of time to smother the love of his life with kisses and soft touches after he no longer felt like the world had been set to maximum volume.

It wasn’t the end of the world.

After all, Even would wait an eternity for Isak.

#Gael writes #G writes Evak #Skam #Isak Valtersen #Even Bech Næsheim #Evak #Isak with Asperger's #supportive boyfriend Even

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an-anaemic-pen · 5 years

Text

Project Phoenix Chapter 5

The Alternative

The Manifestation || The Power Play || The Green-Eyed Fly || The Middle of The Night

Summary: Kate’s a normal teenage Midgardian girl; except there’s a Loki in her attic, and now S.H.I.E.L.D.’s after her, and also, she has powers. Apparently, she’s meant to save the world. She just wanted to finish school and maybe fall in love—at least she’s accomplishing one of those.

Relationships: Gen, F/M (Loki/Original Female Character)

Rating: M (Graphic Depictions of Violence, Underage if you squint bit—nothing occurs while characters are underage, Sexual Content)

Mood: Wolf King (Orchestral), Battlecry

Kate woke up to the sun shining through her curtains. She yawned and rubbed her eyes, looking at her clock. It was almost 9 o’clock.

She glanced over at her door, which was still shut. "Loki?"

There was no reply. Not even through her thoughts.

Kate blinked. "Well, that’s slightly alarming." She got up, covering Jake back up and putting on her glasses. "Loki?" she whispered again.

Still, there was no sign of the God of Mischief.

Kate ran through everything she had learned in the night as she fixed her hair and washed her face. While she rinsed the soap off, she felt something land on her back and coil around her waist. She froze and reached for her towel, not finding it. She rubbed her eyes, opening them and wiping water off of her face. A snake was coiled around her like a belt, its beady eyes staring at her. "Give me my towel," she said through gritted teeth.

The snake’s tongue flickered in and out of its mouth before it pointing its head down at the space behind the toilet. There sat Kate towel.

"Really?" she grumbled and pulled the snake off of her, staring at it. "What was the point of that?"

To annoy you, the thought whispered through her head.

Kate glared and bent down, picking up her towel and ‘accidentally’ dropping the snake into the toilet. She cringed as the dirty water splashed up on her neck, but soon got over it as she watched Loki writhe in the generally-unclean waters as a snake. Get me out of here, you awful child! he screamed in her brain.

"Fine, fine," Kate sighed. She casually reached down into the toilet and pulled Loki out, immediately dropping him into the tub. "Would you like a shower, Sire?" she asked, washing her hands.

He turned back into the cinematic version of himself magically. He was dripping wet and wore a glare with the fury of all of Asgard. "Never in my life have I felt so vile, you rampallian!"

"Not even when you are covered in blood?" Kate asked earnestly.

His voice sounded threatening. "That would be the blood of my enemies, mortal. One can’t possibly be disgusted when all who defy him are dead."

Was she one of his enemies?

He immediately began to unclothe himself, dropping the clothes onto the tile floor as if it were nothing. Kate’s sleepy head kicked into high-gear and she mentally scrambled. She ripped the curtains shut moments before his pants were off. Loki laughed and she was thankful for the fabric protecting him from seeing her fully-flushed face and her from getting much too personal with him. Overnight, something had changed. She had known him for a little over 12 hours, and yet she felt what she could only describe as a bond. It was like two friends who were meant to travel their lives with arms interlocked had finally met.

Kate was ripped from her thoughts as Loki spoke, annoyance clear in his voice. "How does that water start on this device?"

"Hold on, let me make sure there’s no other water running first." Kate stuck her head out of the door. "Mom! Can I get a shower?!"

There were a few moments of silence. "I guess!"

"Ok, thanks!" Kate turned back around. "Gimme a second." She left the bathroom and pulled a couple of towels and a washcloth from the linen closet. She came back inside of the bathroom and hung the larger navy towel on the rack, closing the toilet and putting the still-folded, smaller pink towel on the lid as a seat. She threw the washcloth inside and sighed. "Okay, the dial on the left is for hot water and the dial on the right is cold water. You don’t need to mess with the middle dial. Just turn the dials until the water is to your pleasing. Also, warning: you’ll only get about 20 minutes of showering if you use just hot water."

"Child, I am a Frost Giant. I do not care about cold," his voice echoed the slightest bit, his condescending tone biting her. Kate didn’t like it, but sometimes words got to her. Over years of never being good enough compared to her siblings and being the "gifted" idiot who got C’s and B’s in her honors classes that were two grades above her actual freshman-ship, and yet being told to work harder despite her fatigue, it had thickened her skin. And yet the words of strangers hurt most.

Kate shook her head. She needed to stay out of her mind.

The water started, and the slightest bit of steam filled the room. "Save some water for me, I’ll need to wet my hair when you’re done." Kate picked up her phone and began mindlessly swiping through various social media as she always did in the morning.

She wanted to question as to how she got to the position of sitting, waiting for a "god" to finish cleansing himself of toilet bowl water, which she had dropped him in. Where did he come from? Why did he need her help? Why did he care about her of all people?

She had to admit, he was most certainly Asgardian, with the magic and the muscle she had seen while he had casually derobed. Was it commonplace on Asgard or something? Kate doubted it had been a joke (she assumed his rage would prevent him from teasing), but he was the God of Mischief.

Time was moving too fast. She already had a connection, and she didn’t like it. When he said he could make her someone, a little spark had flown from the dead embers of her hope of happiness. Recognition was something she never received, but being someone—having her name in shining lights, even if only for a moment, that would mean the world to her.

Kate felt something brush against her thoughts. It felt like a feather against sandpaper, dainty and soft, almost unnoticed, but Kate had noticed it, and she instantly thought of cows & cows & cows again, and a thud from behind the shower curtain told her Loki had been caught.

She held the barrier at the front of her forehead, thinking towards the back of her mind and multitasking between the trains of two thought. Why won’t he just leave me alone?

The sudden urge to cry swept over her. Why had a simple thought of wanting to be alone triggered waterworks? She blinked a few times, swallowing back the tears. He must be doing something to her brain. Her emotions were never this fragile.

The headache that had begun to form spiked as Loki forced his way past her barrier of cows, pushing it back and squeezing her brain until she was forced to break. Do not shut me out, illr kveisu-nagli! It was a yell, despite having no actual volume.

Kate’s mind receded in pure confusion. She did not necessarily block Loki out, she merely curled herself into a small corner. If he went near her, he could not pry her face from her bent knees and wrapped arms. Yet, she was ripped free of her safe-haven. She was a washcloth, and Loki was wringing out any privacy she still felt she had.

Do not shut me out, he said again. This time, it was quieter, calmer—maybe even sweeter.

Kate’s face crumpled in pain and anger. Her chin quivered, but she refused to believe she was on the verge of tears. Why not? I don’t know you! Tears dripped out of her eyes and fell down her cheeks. She buried her face in her knees. She hated wet anger, it always made her feel weak for crying when she was angry. You turned up and scared me! You hurt me! Then you expect to say sorry, which you didn’t even do might I add, then have me just forgive you?

You committed suicide!

All she could hear was her now-racing heart. It was as if a song had ended on an audio program, and the lines showing the beats and noise just cut off for the straight line of silence. Dull, pure silence. Her tears ceased and she wiped them away with her sleeve. They were gone as fast as they had come. What? She imagined herself, maybe a little prettier and a little less flat, facing Loki, who was thankfully still clothed, standing in a grassy field. His breath was quick in anger and her eyes were empty and red.

I’ve gone back in time five times now. Each time other than the first, I’m here for a few years, and I go along with you through your life. In the last two timelines, you committed suicide at age 17.

The only word to exit her imaginary mouth was: Why?

The first two timelines, your powers surfaced in front of cameras, and S.H.I.E.L.D took you captive. I don’t know what happens when they have you, you stay in a locked room that not even I can break into. Eventually, you reemerged a new person. You were like the winter soldier, reprogrammed to act as they wanted you to. You went on to be on part of the television program for S.H.I.E.L.D agents. You and I met one day by chance, during one of your missions Thor was visiting is wretched mortal girlfriend, and he insisted I come along. He practically dragged me with him and while the two of us were out in some cafe, a terrorist attack occurred. Of course, the bomb did no harm to me, but a concrete pillar was going to fall on me. I would have been marginally unaffected, but you ran at us and tackled us both anyway. We landed on the floor and you froze the pillar moments before it would have hit us. Then, you shattered into dust. You saved not only us, but four other civilians.

Why’d you go back in time?

Thor ended up forcing me into a date. Even when I asked to go back via Bifröst, Heimdall didn’t allow me to return. The Agent named Coulson got you to agree somehow, and Thor and Jane joined us on a “double date” in an attempt to make things less awkward. It didn’t work since all they really did was make out like some common folk, and the only thing we seemed to have in common was our mutual complaining about them. Apparently, you thought I was funny. S.H.I.E.L.D arrived to pick you up, you couldn’t stay out for too long unsupervised apparently, and just as you were about to leave, you kissed me.

Seriously? I made the first move?

Well, I certainly wasn’t going to kiss you, especially with how bad you were at it.

Hey!

Well, it true. You were horrid.

In her mind, she crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows. Her hip stuck out as she shifted her weight. Says the one who screwed a horse.

That makes you worse than a stallion.

Kate’s lips pursed. She couldn’t think of a comeback. No u, she thought, her mental words even saying ‘u’ rather than ‘you.’ Before Loki could question her, she continued. By the way, are you showering and talking to me here at the same time? Cause all my focus is here and I’m just sitting still.

She wanted to tune out and focus on the outside world, but she was worried as to where Loki would mentally pry without her permission. Yes, she was a mainly-clean good child of God, but her brain made some very... odd images while she dreamt whether she wanted them or not. Besides, she had her secrets like every other person.

Yes, girl, I’m above you in all ways, remember?

Kate stuck her tongue out at the shower curtain, switching back to her conversation too quickly for him to have found anything within her memories. Look, why don’t we have a Q and A? I’ll ask a question, you answer it, with no off-topic conversation? There’s too much I don’t know.

I don’t see as to why not. If anything, it will keep you from running your mouth.

Kate mentally snarled. He was the only person she had ever met that could match her snark. Question one: why do you need my help? Aren’t you like the most powerful sorcerer?

In all the Nine Realms.

Then why do you need my help?

Loki’s shifted his weight hesitantly. Kate sighed, causing a breeze to blow through the field in her mind and lift his hair the slightest bit.

You assume it to be a physical need.

What’s that supposed to mean?

The thing I need your help with is not physical. It is not a goal that can be reached from killing certain being or destroying a certain item. It is internal.

Well, then stop avoiding it and explain what it is.

Very well. Magically, Loki waved his hand and summoned a device, most likely Asgardian, that presented a main, thick line, with two branches at the end. More lines began to branch off to create a weird sideways tree of sorts. He pointed at the main line, which was red. This is the original timeline, where you and I first met.

Mentally, Kate walked up to the device. Her eyes flickered around. I’m assuming the other lines are different timelines?

Correct, mortal, I colored it in the order of your Midgardian rainbow, so you hopefully know which timeline is which.

Kate smiled. Honestly, that was really thoughtful of him. People didn’t usually go out of their way to make her life easier. In fact, she was the one bending over backwards just to account for people’s needs. That was the joy of having a mental disorder that came and went, while others’ were always around. Are we the purple line?

Well, I don’t recall there being a color after purple, is there?

I was just making sure. Kate carefully lifted her hand up, touching the red line where it abruptly ended.

She felt like she was falling while her feet were planted on the ground. Cold electricity zipped through her, and she opened her eyes. She was no longer surrounded by her bathroom, and the sound of the shower was a thing of the past.

Surrounding her was heat. She had never felt so hot before, it was like she was burning from the inside out as the smoke filled her lungs. She coughed and tried to move, but found herself unable.

Black hair fell into her field of vision. That was wrong.

Kate blinked as she ran as fast as she could away from the fire. “Loki!” She heard the tell-tale sound of Thor call Loki’s name and she spun. He spun his hammer and flew into the air, grabbed her across the chest, and flew away from the lava consuming the place she was in–wherever that was.

Thor narrowly carried her out of the building, the giant golden doors melting moments after her escape. Her mouth opened without her intent and words exited her throat. “Where is Kate?”

Her voice was low and hoarse.

“She was with Frigga in the gardens.”

She nodded and began navigating the burning ruins as best as she could. The fire had not yet spread to this part of the golden castle but it most certainly would. She only had a few moments.

She climbed up a balcony and was running across the marble and around furniture when she saw it out of the corner of her eyes. Someone was freezing the lava, or at least attempting to, in order to allow the people to escape across the Bifröst and to most likely Earth, where safety lay.

Kate stopped and jumped off the balcony and ran towards the Bifröst. As she grew closer, she saw herself, older, yelling at the Asgardians to “get their asses into high gear unless they want to die a fiery death of pain and suffering.”

“I am your reckoning, Asgardians!” A voice boomed above her head.

Kate’s eyes went wide as a giant sword of fire and magma swept across the land. How she–well, Loki–had escaped the castle was a miracle, but getting everyone out would be even more of one.

An entire wave of lava the size of one of the now-melted doors was frozen in place, the rock rapidly cooling in an arc. It was only useful to an extent, however, as the lava heated the rock below it and melted the ice. It began to drip as Kate continued to freeze it. Icy sweat dripped down her forehead as she gritted her teeth. If this giant wave broke, no matter how slow the lava moved, people would meet their demise.

From the aerial angle, Kate could see a giant crack break through one of the top layers. She narrowly avoided a burning tree and reached herself. She tackled herself and narrowly saved her from a giant chunk of ice that would have fallen on top of both of them. Lava spilled from the hole and cracks echoed through the thick ice.

“Loki! Get them out!” the Kate below her barked.

The crowd was beginning to thin into safety, some people escaping on spaceships most likely from the castle.

“No unless you’re coming with me!” she said, scrambling off of herself to get away from the hot lava. It burned her even from the distance they were at.

Kate wanted to puke. It sounded like something from a dystopian novel where the world was coming to an end.

Oh, wait.

Kate was ripped from her thoughts as herself kicked her in the gut and pushed her towards the people fleeing. “If I come with you, that flaming sword is going to kill all of us! Stop being selfish and go!”

There were tears in the eyes of the women in front of her, and her own vision was a little blurry.

“Go!”

Kate turned and ran off. Her throat felt thick. She reached the people and helped lead everyone into the Bifröst and ships. Once everyone was safe, she turned to get herself. Where was she?

Her eyes flickered across the fiery world that used to be her home. A small dot was running from the sword of magma, no, running along it.

What the Hel was she doing?

“Thor!” she called, her hair flying in her face and getting caught in the sweat on her forehead. Thor ran off the ship, following Kate’s gaze until he found her target.

Thor spun his hammer, flying off into the air to get her to safety. In the distance, Kate saw herself running along and jumping to and from the rocks that weren’t burning. The humid air was being sucked into her hands and transformed into ice on her fingertips, allowing her safe travel through the heat.

The sword swung through the air and just as Thor was about to catch Kate, a fiery hand slapped her like a mere fly.

Squish.

The hand of magma rose. Kate was gone.

Pain spiked through her chest, and her chin shook. She didn’t know whether the tears were from the pain in her chest or the immediate and strong sensation of loss in her heart. It was like Jake had just died and she couldn’t do anything to stop it. She was completely powerless and so… small. The feeling was going to consume her, just as the giant wave of lava above her head would have if not for Thor, who scooped her up and took her through the Bifröst too fast for her to resist.

Kate opened her eyes to find tears streaming down her cheeks. She could barely breathe through the snot clogging her nose and throat. She hiccuped and sniffled, wiping away the salty droplets from her chin. She stared at the wall in front of her. What was she supposed to say?

Kate decided his name would be good enough and whispered: “Loki?”

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