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themadauthorshatter · 11 months

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... I'm not apologizing at all😆

Recently, I've been checking back in with Welcome Home and have had my fancy caught buy an AU called Greyscale Wally AU by the superbly talented @sweetest-honeybee (I highly recommend it, it's AWESOME) and got this idea after seeing some spoilery endgame stuff that was posted

This will contain some spoilers for the AU, so you might want to check that out first before reading this, and this is purely speculation based off of what I've seen

This doesn't really have a title, but Trigger warnings/content warnings for abuse, manipulation, swearing, and humanoid Home being mean and scary

With that out of the way, ENJOY!

Sleeping was steadily becoming something that Wally was familiar with, along with the feeling of nearly unbearable discomfort in his entire body that rarely faded. The only real time it left was when he slept, thanfully.

But he also dreamed when he slept, and he resented it with every fiber of his being.

Each night, he would be haunted by a horrible visage of one of his friends shouting at him, hurting him, turning on him as if he had caused the desaturating plague that slowly, seemingly spread to the neighbors.

It had gotten to Barnaby, at least.

And Home won't tell me why.

Wally burrowed deeper into his blankets, letting sleep overtake him.

And he saw Barnaby and Sally, their colors muted and their demeanors drained and skittish.

Barnaby seemed more agitated than fearful, but kept his eyes averted.

A hand clapped onto Wally's shoulder, covering it entirely as a shadow loomed over him.

"What's the matter, Darling?" Home asked, speaking clearly rather than using the creaks and clatters Wally was used to. "Aren't you happy to see your friends?"

Words failed Wally in that moment, even when he craned his head up and saw Home.

Or, at least, some twisted visage of Home that had a face, one that was... rubbery as it moved, being stuff and movable all at once with enough edges and shapes making up his face to make Wally's head spin.

It would have been better to see Home as a body with Home The House on its shoulders.

But Home doesn't love you. He hurt you, remember?

"You're not," Home surmised, his tone light, but disappointed. "Well, I shouldn’t be surprised, should I? Ungrateful as you are, you're never satisfied with anything I do for you."

Wally stumbled back as his eyes locked on Home's, Home towering over him.

He also managed to find his voice.

"I.. I'm not," he quivered. "Why should I be? You hurt them."

Home followed him, easily keeping up with long legs and an even stride. "I wouldn't have had to, if it weren't for you."

Wally cringed and flattened his hands against the sides of his head; foolish as it was, he couldn't stand hearing the careless tone Home used to say horrible things. "I didn't do anything!"

"But you did."

Home held Wally's hands on one of his own and caught Wally by the jaw, forcing the smaller of the two to meet his now dark eyes.

Wally pulled and twisted to try and break free, but Home shook him, adjusting his grip to grab Wally just under his cheekbones, nearly crushing Wally's face.

"And you just can't learn your lesson."

Wally whimpered when Home pulled him close and snarled loud enough to make Wally kick at the ground to get away.

"You have all of this because of me, you miserable mound of cotton!"

Home all but threw Wally into a turn, wrapping his arms around him, one trapping Wally's arms at his sides as he grabbed a fistful of blue hair.

Wally yelped at the sharp tug at his head, but it quickly numbed when he saw Barnaby and Sally, both with their mouths stitched shut as they gazed brokenly back at him.

Black fluid-like tendrils crept up and around their bodies, and both of them withered the further it climbed.

It wasn't like the discomfort he'd grown used to.

Instead, it hurt.

"Stop it," Wally begged, his voice quiet.

"I didn't want to do this, Darling," Home said ruefully, too close for Wally to bear. "But you left me with no other choice."

The inky black covered both Barnaby and Sally completely and shrank into the ground, then flattened against it.

He killed them.

A burning grew in Wally's eyes, one followed by a trailing dampness that ran down his face.

He killed them. They're my friends! He killed them, but they didn't do anything!

"I can always remake them," Home remarked, "it'd be easy."

He moved closer, forcing his poisonous words to drown out Wally's rampaging thoughts.

"But that means it would all happen again, if you keep being disobedient."

"Please," Wally sobbed, grasping onto Home's arm in order to stay standing. "Please, Home, stop it."

The harsh grasp on his hair turned gentle, long fingers with sharp nails combing through blue threads.

"Have you learned your lesson?"

Wally only cried harder, burying his face into Home's upper arm. "What did I do, Home!? Just tell me!"

The hand in his hair lowered to his back, rubbing circles and occasionally patting Wally's shoulder.

"None of this would have happened, if you'd just listened to me," Home mused. "All of this can go away, Darling, and all you have to do is accept that what you did was wrong."

A tugging at his ankles caught his attention, and a scream ripped through Wally as the black tendrils climbed up his legs.

"Home, stop! Please, Home, make it stop!"

The corner of Home's mouth curled upward before falling once more, his arms loosening as he stood and stepped away from Wally.

"I want you to apologize," Home said sternly. "And I want you to accept that you wronged me. If you can do that, I'll let you come back, I'll take all the pain away, from you and anyone else I gave it to, and everything will be the way it was before."

The tendrils continued to rise, trapping Wally's hands and dragging him into the ground.

"But I don't know what I did!" Wally shouted as he thrashed and clawed to keep himself above the ground. "What did I do to make you do this!?"

Home smirked and crouched down as Wally was dragged further down, cupping his face with one large, clawed hand.

"Think about it, Darling."

The tendrils wrapped around Wally's mouth and eyes, silencing his screams, but also intensifying them.

He only knew how intense they were when he opened his eyes and saw Frank and Eddie over him, both shaken and wide eyed, but overly relieved to see he'd awoken.

Even if they'd done it in the dead of the night.

"Easy, bud," Eddie murmured as Wally shakily sat up. "Just us. Just came to check on you."

Wally hugged his knees to his chest, eyes brimming with tears.

Frank lightly placed a hand on Wally's forearm. "You wanna talk about it?"

Wally only lunged and threw his arms around Frank's torso, and Frank carefully hugged him back.

"It's okay," Frank soothed him. "You're gonna be okay."

Wally barely heard him, not with two raging and terrifying thoughts tearing through his mind.

I hate this.

I hate Home.

#welcome home #greyscale wally au #wally darling #fic for an au #not my au #humanoid home #abuse tw #manipulation tw #nightmare tw #i love this au

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darkkitty1208 · 6 months

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Entry for day 17 of Whumptober 2023, prompt no. 17: Touch Aversion & "Leave me alone."

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Doctor Strange (Movies) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Stephen Strange & Wong Characters: Stephen Strange, Wong (Marvel) Additional Tags: Post-Doctor Strange (2016), Aftermath, Healing, Trauma, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Nightmares, Touch Aversion, Stephen Strange has PTSD, Wong is a good bro, Mentioned Dormammu (Marvel), Dissociation, References to Depression, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Sort Of Series: Part 15 of Whumptober 2023 Summary:

He did it. He defeated Dormammu.

The world is saved.

He should feel triumph, or glee, or at least relief. But he doesn't.

All he feels is exhaustion. A bone-deep, spreading tiredness that leaves his knees weak and his head spinning. He feels like collapsing.

Post-DS1, aftermath of Dormammu, because MCU has the audacity to not show how it affects Stephen.

#whumptober2023 #no. 17 #touch aversion #leave me alone.#marvel cinematic universe #doctor strange #fic #depression tw #nightmare tw #ptsd tw #fanfic #stephen strange #wong #my writing

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gollldrush · 27 days

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@exquisitexagony sent: [ fears ] sender talks to receiver about their fears & [ blood ] sender notices that receiver is bleeding | arthur and leo.

The gentle waves lap at the shore, sand cold beneath her body as she stares at the stars. One hand is twined with Arthur’s, both engulfed in silence. The only light trickles down from the moon, reflecting hauntingly across the water. Behind them, the dune grasses dance in a soft breeze.

She had been to the beach plenty of times, both as a child and as an adult. Summers spent on yachts, trolling boardwalks, and getting kicked out of bars for being underage. A completely different life than the one she was living now. This life where she had somehow found peace even if on the surface it was more chaotic than the previous.

Her hand releases from theirs as she props herself up on her elbows. She looks at them once, then back out across the sea – back again, except,

They’ve become taller. Their curly hair replaced with a short, side-swept style – no longer Arthur at all, in fact. Eric rolls on his side, a wicked smile on his face. His hand closes around her neck so quick there’s little time to react. He drags her under him, choking, choking, choking –

Leo wakes up gasping for air and hideously clawing at invisible hands on her throat, catapulting herself backwards and off the bed. A few kicks have landed against Arthur’s skin – a terrified scream peels from her mouth as she hurriedly shoves herself into a corner. She flails against the wall, hitting a nail head that’s jutting out and ripping her skin. She doesn’t notice the blood – only thinks she sees Eric when her eyes pop open and Arthur is in front of her.

“No, no, no, NO!” She kicks at them, terrified – trapped in the throes of her nightmare. “Don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me.” Eyes are wide and wild, feral almost. “Eric I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

#leoxarthur #answered memes #nightmare tw #ptsd tw #violence tw #fear tw #fight tw #domestic violence mention #blood tw #injury tw

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fili-lionofdurin · 8 months

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Fili had been awake and sitting at the dining table since early that morning after a nightmare. Much earlier than his usual, and it showed on his face. Though, when Kili comes out of his room, Fili sits up, trying to look more alive. "Oh hey, good morning. Did you sleep, alright?" @coreofgold

#i belong with my brother - kili #closed starter Kili ♥️#nightmare tw

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wildcstwinter · 2 months

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closed starter: @faiirytalcs !! location: pacifica's place

dipper felt like he couldn't breathe, and he wasn't sure if it was from the cold air he had been deeply inhaling during the walk here or the fact he was definitely on the brink of having some kind of meltdown. he didn't know where he was going when he had first stepped outside, but his feet had taken him across town to where pacifica lived and... now that he was here, he couldn't will himself to walk away. it was the middle of the night, he was sure she was sleeping, but that hadn't stopped him from knocking on the door anyways. he needed to see her, he couldn't do another night of this by himself. dipper had tried to keep her out of this, but with nightmares involving her every single night, he had to see her — to make sure she was okay. ❛ can i stay here ?? ❜ dipper asked, almost begged, the moment the door was open — emotion and anxiety gripping his throat and interweaving into his words as his eyes met pacifica's. he didn't even have it in himself for formalities, but it eased him to see pacifica was alive unlike version of her that existed in his nightmares, tugging on the sleeves of his hoodie and looking more disheveled than normal. ❛ — please ?? ❜

#& 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗿 : DIPPER PINES #& 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝘀 : DIPPER PINES #& 𝗱𝗶𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗿 𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘀 ft. PACIFICA #nightmare tw #panic attack tw

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movedto-bunny-lovers · 2 years

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Imagine comforting your f/o after they’ve had a nightmare. Maybe they startled you awake when they woke up, or maybe they woke you up out of fear, or maybe they wanted to be strong and not wake you up but you woke up anyway. Maybe they need a certain food or activity to comfort them, or maybe they just need some hugs. Even if they choose not to tell you about their dream, they feel protected and warm when they’re with you

#f/o imagine #f/o imagines #imagine your fictional other #imagine your f/o #self shipping #selfshipping #self ship community #selfshipping community #selfship community #self shipping community #self ship imagine #nightmare tw #tw nightmare #nightmare mention #food tw #tw food #food

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distinctlywhumpthing · 9 months

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In League — Nightmare

Masterlist

Summary: August still feels out of place in the house after trying to escape run away but a nightmare has him seeking Wyatt's comfort...

(This was in the Google Drive Black Hole until @peachy-panic's This Could Be The Moment and @hold-him-down's Not Ideal inspired me to polish it in the spirit of Bad Nights. If you haven't read these pieces (& entire series) yet, you should plan on getting zero work done this week because you now have more important things to do.)

CW: Late-19th century, indentured servitude/classism, explicit language, past-noncon implied, power dynamics, carewhumper/sympathetic whumper. Beta read by @alittlewhump!

August didn’t like sleeping alone.

He missed being allowed to sleep in the chair, knowing all night that Wyatt was near, working at the desk or asleep in the bed. He would’ve kept to the chair forever if it had meant he didn’t have to be alone at night, in the dark where Keats could still find him.

The nightmare hadn’t been anything novel. He was always struggling to regain some ground, all the while only digging himself deeper. Sometimes Fionn was there, hurting. Keats would lay a trap and August would walk right into it. Without fail. Hopeless, thoughtless, thankless. He was too slow, too dim-witted not to fall for the tricks every time, even in his own dreams.

He’d awoken to his heart beating like a drum between his ribs. Chest both gnawingly hollow and achingly tight. The room was pitch-dark, with no moon or stars shining through the window. Even the fire had died in the hearth like the night was snuffing out all light. He’d played the unwitting accomplice, banishing any chance of warmth by casting all the blankets and even the pillows to the floor in sleep. He wrapped his arms around himself tightly, shivering.

There were still many things he didn’t understand or trust about his place here and the older boy who had given it to him. But Wyatt had a way of making Keats feel like a small, distant memory and that was exactly what August needed right now.

When he’d asked to stay—or rather, accepted Wyatt’s invitation to stay by way of needlessly asking his permission, Wyatt had insisted August take his bed. A laughable stipulation, considering how much worse he’d had than an armchair by a warm fire, but Wyatt had insisted. So, August had Wyatt’s room and bed to himself at night while Wyatt slept in the spare bed in Theo’s room down the end of the hall.

August paused at Theo’s door, leaning around the frame, the corner of the wood pressing into his collarbone. Wyatt was alone, sleeping with his back to the open door. Theo’s was probably among the voices that occasionally rose from downstairs, a sliver of bright electric light seeping from under the parlour door and trying to climb to light the stairs. It was just enough brightness that August had been able to avoid the creakier of the floorboards in the old house. After hovering in the doorway uneasily for five full minutes to confirm Theo wasn’t coming upstairs, he tiptoed in, chilly air nipping at the strip of bare skin between his stockings and underbreeches. The rest of the house was always freezing in comparison to Wyatt’s room. August had eventually learned that none of the others ever bothered with fires, a realisation that had made heat spread through his chest like the very warmth Wyatt kept him in.

It was hard to distinguish Wyatt himself from the bedcovers, fabric from skin, where one stopped and the other began, in the darkness. The bed itself and the man on it a single unbroken silhouette, carved from shadow marble. His even breath the only sign he wasn’t stone. August felt even more obtrusive standing over him. He crouched instead, not sure if he should sit on the edge of the bed without being invited and reluctant to kneel on the cold floor.

He hesitated countless times, hand hovering in the open space between them, heart sprinting in his chest. What if he was given more than a hand to hold, the warm embrace he sought? Even in the face of the vows Wyatt made during the day, August had never met a promise that didn’t have a trap door. And coming to Wyatt’s bed like this in the middle of the night was as good a reason to use it as any. His nerves rose steadily until it was like his heart beat between his ears and it was all he could hear or feel, swaying in the darkness to the tide of his own pulse.

A clatter from downstairs almost had him bolting back to his borrowed bed, ill dreams or not, lest someone else catch him out of it. If there was one thing he was certain of, it was that he’d rather it be Wyatt than anyone else, when the tables finally turned.

Now or never.

He reached out, brushing his fingertips over Wyatt’s bare shoulder. As faint as the hope he clung to that this would be no different than any other time Wyatt had comforted him. “Wyatt?”

Wyatt grumbled, turning onto his side to face August but not opening his eyes. He let his arm fall open, extended out toward August.

His heart hammered on in his chest as he held his breath waiting for more of an indication from Wyatt. More of an invitation or a dismissal.

Was that space meant for August? Or was Wyatt only reaching out his hand?

They’d never lain side by side before but Wyatt was always looping an arm around his shoulders during the day, swift to pull him into an embrace in those embarrassing moments when he lost his composure.

Or was Wyatt simply fast asleep?

August twisted his fingers in the fabric of the nightshirt Wyatt had given him, knees starting to ache from crouching. He’d disturbed Wyatt enough thusfar. He ought to leave him in peace. But the thought of leaving had him swallowing a lump in his throat and blinking away tears, as though Wyatt were truly sending him away, rejecting him. An unwarranted, invented ache.

It was for the best that he hadn’t roused Wyatt fully. He should feel lucky that he hadn’t gotten more than he bargained for. That Wyatt wasn’t the sort to thrash him simply for the disturbance. At least, he hadn’t shown himself to be that sort yet. August uncurled his fingers, pulse throbbing in his fingertips from how tightly he’d bound them in the fabric in his fists. He swiped at his cheeks with the back of his hand and rose.

Wyatt sighed, fingers at the end of his open arm curling away from August, beckoning him closer.

August’s heart faltered in his chest and against all reason, his tears fell with renewed urgency. He sniffled and fruitlessly wiped at them again before ever so gently, lying down at Wyatt’s side.

He settled on top of the bedcovers since Wyatt hadn’t lifted them. It wouldn’t matter anyway once he was closer to Wyatt, in his arms. His heart still felt like it was beating too heavily in his chest. As though he were stealing something he didn’t deserve, hadn’t earned. He took a deep breath, forcing the air in past his galloping heart and chased away the memories of his nightmares and of Keats. Wyatt was nothing like him, had only ever welcomed him with open arms.

August inched closer, resting his forehead against the older boy’s shoulder, hands tucked up between them. Wyatt’s breath tickled through his hair, in and out. If August flattened his hand, he could feel Wyatt’s steady heartbeat, its comforting metronome. He—

Wyatt drew in a sharp breath and shoved August back. He crashed to the floor, yelping as his head cracked against the corner of the solid bedside table.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, scrambling off his back as Wyatt’s shadow sat up in the bed, looming over him.

Wyatt didn’t move, didn’t dignify his feeble apology with a response. But he had to be furious for how hard and fast he was breathing, for how rigid his shadow was, as though he truly was stone.

August’s heart carried on beating erratically in his chest. It didn’t feel right. It felt like it would swallow him, end him from the inside out, compounding his fear with each consuming beat. “I’m sorry,” he repeated lamely, voice shaking. He didn’t know what else to say. When Wyatt still didn’t acknowledge him, he inched forward, reaching out—

“Don’t fucking touch me.” Wyatt stood and August cowered back with a whine, hands coming up to protect his head. He couldn’t do anything right, perpetually reduced to crawling back like a puppy who’d been kicked but was too stupid to learn its place.

It was all he was, broken, desperate. Exactly as Keats had made him. “Please, sir. I beg your pardon.” He hadn’t called Wyatt that in weeks, had been able to rise just a little bit in his esteem, and even his own. Until now. He started crying in earnest, the tension from his uncontrolled heart and the open fall of failure overtaking him. “I’m sorry, sir. Please—”

Wyatt skirted away from him, bringing his hands up to his head in his rage. As far as possible from the pathetic mess of a boy who’d overstepped his welcome. He would have run if Wyatt hadn't been blocking his way to the door. Sobs halted his apologies so he pulled his knees up to his chest and waited, never taking his eyes off Wyatt.

But crying would not constitute an apology, hiding from punishment even worse, and he needed to fix this. If he wasn’t dead in a day on the streets, Keats would find him. To remain in this house, even chained in the basement, was preferable. He would offer anything, surrender any part of himself, to stay with Wyatt. Make himself smaller, bend, break to counterbalance this fault, to regain what standing he’d had. He had brought this on himself and he would face the consequences. Prove––

A light in the doorway silenced his undeserved tears and he held his breath.

“Wyatt?” It was Theo. And no one behind him, which was a small mercy, though it didn’t promise anything about what was coming for August. Theo lifted the candle, scanning the room until his gaze fell on August.

A whimper escaped his lips and before he could sort himself to make some attempt at apology, Theo was moving. He couldn’t help himself, he covered his head again.

Only Theo paid him no mind, just went to the chair at the foot of the bed and gathered Wyatt’s clothes in his free arm. He thrust them at Wyatt with enough force that August heard the impact, pushing them at the unmoving statue that used to be Wyatt until he was forced to take a step back and finally brought his arms up to cradle the clothes.

“Go on,” Theo said, keeping his voice low.

Wyatt didn’t move. August couldn’t see his face from this angle but after a moment it became clear that something was transpiring. Something excluding August.

“Get some air. Don’t worry, I’ve got him.”

His stomach dropped. He didn’t want Wyatt to leave when things were like this, when he hadn’t told him that he hadn’t meant to be so much trouble and that he would face the consequences well. But he couldn’t find his voice.

With one more moment’s hesitation but not a second glance in his direction, Wyatt left and August was alone with Theo.

First thing he did was set the candle on one of the posts of his bed. A precarious placement that had once lost August the privilege of candles for an entire month –of bruised shins and stubbed toes– at Elmwood. But Theo didn’t have to worry about things like that. None of the other boys here did. At least, August didn’t think so; even if they didn’t have much, they were all equal. Theo bent down a few paces away, resting his forearms on his knees.

“August, you all right down here?”

He wasn’t sure what to say, or if he could say much of anything without just crying some more. He swallowed, to see if his throat was clear enough for words. It wasn’t.

“I know you’re frightened,” Theo said gently.

That only made the lump in August’s throat worse, sobs closer to escaping his lips.

Theo watched him carefully, as was his wont. August fought shy of meeting his gaze. It made him nervous, how heedful Theo always was. What might he observe and, worse, what might he tell Wyatt?

“You’re not in any trouble.” August couldn’t help but look straight into his eyes now. Watchful as they were, he didn’t find them deceitful. “I promise, everything will right.”

He hoped Wyatt would agree.

“Why don’t you let me help you up? We’ll sort you out, too.” He held out one of his hands. “It’s all right, I’m not going to hurt you.”

When August reached out, his palm shone crimson in the candlelight.

To be continued...

@whumpy-writings , @writer-reader-24 , @deluxewhump , @no-whump-on-main , @maracujatangerine , @painsandconfusion , @wolfeyedwitch , @briars7 , @gala1981 , @redwingedwhump , @whumpflash , @poeticagony , @annablogsposts , @fleur-alise , @melancholy-in-the-morning , @crystalquartzwhump , @magziemakeswhatever , @neverthelass

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bridgetxjames · 2 months

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closed starter for @tylerxday location: Bridget's Apartment

Since the wind storm, Bridget had been having nightmares about it. Not only was Quentin hurt worse in her dream, but she was having them about Tyler and him being hurt worse as well. She kept seeing it over and over and most nights she was able to get the dreams to stop and be something else. Tonight, however, wasn't the case and they kept getting worse. She was tossing and turning on the air mattress before she jumped awake screaming, "Tyler!" Looking around her room, she realized she was out of the nightmare and she laid back against the mattress with a sigh, wiping the sweat off her forehead.

#interaction ;; tyler day #tyler;005 #nightmare tw

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avastar-thelastfirebender · 3 months

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[REBLOGS > LIKES]

I really, really REALLY wanted to put this scenario down on paper for a while.

Character Warnings: Timekeeper Cookie, Roguefort Cookie (Pursuit of Lost Time)

TW: Early Stages of memory loss, gaslighting(?) and manipulation, severe sleep deprivation, nightmares

Other notes: In my fanon, Cinnamon is Roguefort's little brother. Remember this. (Also it's literally 1 AM so no beta we die like goombas)

It wasn't often that Roguefort would remain awake for days on end for anything but a heist. Well, this was a heist, just not one for gems. No, no, the target this time...it was far more precious.

"You're twitching. Perhaps you should get some rest." Timekeeper's voice snapped Roguefort out of their thoughts. Truth be told, Roguefort hadn't slept in days, weeks...actually...what day was it? Something that started with an F? It didn't matter.

"I don't think I've ever recalled you caring for my wellbeing." Rogueforf wouldn't make eye contact. Something in the back of their mind was telling them not to, but they just couldn't place their finger on why, exactly.

"Your moms weren't the ones who said they could help you find the watch, were they?" Timekeeper's tone had an edge of sugary malice to it as she continued to operate the aircraft. She didn't even need to look to know that Roguefort had flinched at the mention of their mothers.

"You and I both know damn well why they didn't." Usually, Roguefort would've done everything in their power to hode their anger. But a lack of sleep, grief, timeline jumping, and a misguided attempt at closure (for lack of a better term) all did a number on their mind. "You said yourself that I'd be able to fix the family if I went with you, so don't even go there."

"I did say that, didn't I? I'm sure Cinnamon is in total agreement with your decision. After all, he looked up to you the most, so I bet he trusted you to make the right choice."

Okay, that was the last straw.

"You know what? I'm going to bed." Roguefort sounded angrier than they woumd've liked, but at the same time they sounded exasperated. Understandably so.

"Yes, yes, goodnight to you, too." Timekeeper feigned a yawn as she heard Roguefort storm off in annoyance. And as such, they would totally miss the little smirk growing on her face as they left.

Roguefort wasn't sure how an entire guest room could fit in an aircraft, but they had learned to not question Timekeeper's bs a while ago. They wouldn't feel themself flopping down on the mattress, they wouldn't feel their eyes closing. All they'd be able to hear before drifting off was the sound of their own voice humming Für Elise. They knew it made Cinnamon happy...they just wished they could remember why...

When Roguefort opened their eyes, they were in a dark, empty void. It wasn't cool or echo-y like voids in sci-fi movies, just one where Roguefort was truly alone.

That was when their eyes landed on Cinnamon.

"Cinnamon...hermanito....is that really you?" Roguefort's voice was shaky with tears and desperation, but Cinnamon wouldn't say a word, only continuing to stare at his big brother.

"Cinnamon...it's me!" Roguefort was met with more silence.

"Hermanito...please..." Silence. The silence made Roguefort feel something they couldn't describe. They just knew they didn't like it.

"Cinnamon...Cinnamon, come on! S-Say something, damn it!" But Cinnamon wouldn't say a word.

"CINNAMON!"

Roguefort sat up in the bed with the speed of a rocket, breathing heabily as they tried to regain their bearings. They had definitely had nightmares in the past, but this one felt different. Roguefort sighed, knowing there was no way in hell they'd be able to go back to sleep now. With a sigh, they left the guest room and returned to the main control panel, unsurprised to see Timekeeper still there.

"I thought you were going to bed?"

Roguefort hesitated.

"I'm not tired." They sat in the passenger side of the control panel, seeming determined and bored at the same time.

"We need to find that damn watch."

#my writing #cookie run #cookie run ovenbreak #pursuit of lost time #Timekeeper Cookie #Roguefort Cookie #Cinnamon Cookie #memory loss tw #manipulation tw #nightmare tw #sleep deprivation tw #gaslighting tw #< just in case #first fic wooo

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starlit-hopes-and-dreams · 10 months

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Chapter 16 ~ In the dark

Hidden Depths

Previous ~ Masterlist ~ Next

Also on ao3

Genre: Fantasy whump

CW: nightmare, panic attack, flashback, unreality, low-level recounting of past tortures, angsty angst w/ a side of more panic

WC: 1930

Tagging my HD crew: @kixngiggles, @dont-touch-my-soup, @clairelsonao3 (if you want to be added or removed, let me know!)

AN: In which Carr freaks Resh the fuck out on multiple levels 😅

This is a bit of a short one. Don't worry, I'll make up for that next week by almost doubling the word count lol.

Resh

The encounter with that man had shaken him badly. He’d barely been present for Orla when she’d come to eat with him and had decided if he was going to be useless, he might as well try to sleep.

That had been a mistake.

Resh woke, sweat-soaked and trembling, in an unfamiliar room. Moonlight streamed in through the small window, but it didn’t touch the bed, leaving him swathed in shadow. The blanket was rough, the fibers coarse beneath his fingertips as he pulled it up to his chin.

It had taken him weeks to acclimate at the palace. To get to the point where he’d wake from a nightmare and latch on to something, something that he’d unequivocally tied to ‘not the torture room, not a dream’.

He’d failed to take that into account for this journey. Nothing looked right, so nothing could tell him he wasn’t still there. That he hadn’t had another cruel dream that tantalized him with hope, only to have it yanked away, time and again.

Was this real, or was this the nightmare? His throat felt tight, swollen, allowing only a trickle of air into his aching chest. The rapid thud of his heart almost drowned out the faint scuffle of a boot outside the door.

His heart stopped, then kicked back up at triple speed. It wasn’t real. None of it had been real.

The prince was back. He was back, he would take more skin, burn him, cut him apart, allow him to choke and choke and choke until–Resh scrabbled at his neck, scratching it with his nails as he wrestled with the scarf, finally, finally! ripping it free.

But his fingers didn’t feel scar tissue underneath, they felt that wretched vine, and his breaths wouldn’t come and the door opened and he fled.

Don’t see me don’t see me don’t see me, he chanted over and over in his mind, curling up in the corner as small as he could get.

A dark figure stepped into the room, hand hovering over a thigh sheath. Resh pressed harder against the wall, teeth clenched together to keep them from chattering.

But the figure heard and spun around, so fast the motion blurred–no wait, that was the tears blurring his vision when the moonlight reflected off steel.

It would be the knives this time, then. More, more practice, more cuts, more tearing, more pain. A sob caught in his ruined throat, emerging as nothing more than a huff of air, and he pressed his head to his knees. Don’t see me don’t see me don’t see me…

Hands lifted his face, and he cried harder, his whole body twitching as he fought off the desire to pull away. Don’t hurt me please don’t hurt please don’t please please–

And then, he was pulled into an embrace, arms wrapping around him, head pillowed on a soft chest that… vibrated? He held still, so so still, holding his breath, holding the sobs, wondering what the fuck the prince was playing at. He liked to mock Resh with gentle touches, a gentle voice, but he’d never… never…

Side to side, his body swayed with the barely there movements of the person holding him. Sound filtered through the blood roaring in his ears, a soft… melody? Singing? No, there were no words, just humming, but… it sounded like a… lullaby?

Resh dared to take a shallow breath and nearly froze again as the coppery scent of blood invaded his sinuses. A broken-sounding exhale left him, his fear reigniting, muscles clenching taut enough to snap. He wanted to push away–he couldn’t push away, that would make things worse when he could barely take the regular torture and he couldn’t do this anymore…

But the rocking never stopped, nor the humming. Minutes passed, and nothing changed. Nothing happened. Nobody hurt him.

Gradually, he calmed enough to notice the hand rubbing his back felt too small to belong to the prince. The chest his cheek rested against too soft. The humming too high-pitched, too… feminine. His fear-muddled mind finally pieced it together.

Carr.

Reality snapped back into place, and he relaxed fully against her, feeling near boneless with relief. Until he took his next breath.

Blood. There was blood on Carr.

Oh gods. Resh pulled out of her hold, his hands going to her arms, her chest, her abdomen, feeling for injuries until she batted him away with a muttered curse.

Where are you hurt? he asked frantically, but he couldn’t see anything–

“Resh, stop!” Carr said.

He couldn’t see anything and he tried to turn her face into the moonlight but she pulled away so he jumped up, knocking his hip painfully against the bedframe as he searched for a lamp. Ah! There! On the desk. Now where was the flint–

Carr grabbed his gloved hands, stopping his harried searching. “I got it, Resh. I got it.” She made quick work of finding the flint and lighting the lamp, then stepped back.

His heart was beating far too fast as he ran his eyes over her, not daring to touch her again. Not quite believing he’d dared to touch her in the first place, but he couldn’t think straight with the smell of blood so strong.

Where are you hurt? he asked. Who hurt you, what’s happened, I don’t see anything– He cut off when she held up a hand.

“Too fast,” she said. “I can’t catch what you’re sayin. Are you alright?”

Resh shook his head violently, slashing a hand across his chest before pointing at her. Who gave a shit about him; she was the one who stank of blood!

She stepped closer, peering at something. “You’ve scratched your neck, let me get–”

He reached for her arm as she moved to turn away but stopped short of grabbing it, clenching his hand into a fist and drawing it back against his chest. It was enough to capture her attention again, though.

“Alright, what is it? Speak slowly, the light isn’t that great for lip readin.”

Where. Are. You. Hurt? he asked again, gesturing with his hands as well. He kept searching her form, but her clothes were too dark, and he couldn’t see anything that might resemble a wound.

Carr’s brow crinkled, and she brought up a hand, touching her chest with a frown. “You think I’m hurt? I’m not, I’m fine, Resh.”

His eyes locked onto her fingers, to the dried blood caked around the nails. He couldn’t breathe through the pain that stabbed through him. Had someone tried to… tried to hurt her again? And this time, he hadn’t been there? His hand went to his throat, sweeping over the scars.

She caught where his gaze landed and snatched her hand away. “It’s not… it’s not what you think.”

He stared at her helplessly, flooded with questions he couldn’t ask because he couldn’t fucking speak, and the light wasn’t good enough for her to lip-read anything more than a short sentence or two. It was enough to make him want to scream. Instead, he forced himself to say something.

Were you attacked?

Her eyes slid away from his. “No. I… need t’ clean up. Are you okay now?”

Resh pinched his lips together, relief and despair mixing together into an unrecognizable tangle of emotions. One thing was clear, though; she didn’t want to talk to him. Again. Tears threatened, but he blinked them away, nodding. Before she could go, he held up his hand, asking her to wait.

She worried her lower lip but kept her attention on his mouth.

Can we talk in the morning? Before we leave?

Carr eyed him warily but still inclined her head. Then she shifted her weight, clearly antsy. “Is that all?”

He sighed, one worry draining away only to be replaced by a different one, and nodded.

She couldn’t get out of his room fast enough. It made him wonder if he’d imagined her rocking him while he panicked, humming a lullaby his mother had sung to him as a baby.

Once he heard the door to the room next to him close, he picked up his discarded scarf and sat on the bed. Staring out the window, he ran the silken fabric through his hands, wanting to put it back on but also unable to bear the thought of anything around his neck right now.

He wouldn’t be getting any more sleep that night.

~~~

Dawn’s light had barely touched the sky when Resh’s door banged open, and Carr appeared, a sleepy-looking Orla on her heels.

“We need t’ go. Now,” Carr said, sweeping in to grab his travel bag, shoving in any loose items she found.

Alarmed, he straightened, hastily tying on his scarf before grabbing his notebook. He’d prewritten several common phrases at the front, and he flipped to one now, jabbing his finger by the words ‘What is it?’ as he showed it to Orla.

“I don’t know,” Orla said, then covered her mouth as she yawned. “Some girl woke the innkeeper, who woke his wife, who woke Carr, telling her we needed to leave. She got me first. Said I could finish sleeping in the carriage.”

What the fuck? Carr finished packing his bag and swept from the room before he could ask her anything directly, leaving him and Orla no choice but to follow.

The stable was a flurry of activity while a baggy-eyed groom hitched the horses. Their driver stood nearby, grumbling about eccentric passengers. Carr shoved him and Orla in the carriage, then darted away.

Resh ducked his head out to find her speaking to the innkeeper and a girl with soft blond curls dressed in a slightly ragged skirt and blouse who kept twisting her hands in her apron. He was shocked when Carr placed a hand on the taller girl’s shoulder, leaning in to whisper something. The girl nodded, then hugged Carr, who actually allowed it, even though her spine stiffened. He leaned back in his seat before she could see him, and a few minutes later, she joined them.

The lamps he’d taken the time to light flickered, illuminating the cabin enough that she should have no trouble seeing his lips, despite the sun having not risen.

Resh made sure he had her attention before speaking. What is going on?

“Ummm,” Carr hedged, her eyes flicking over to his sister. “I might’ve… umm… we should talk about this later, maybe?”

Orla huffed. “When are you two gonna stop treating me like a baby?

When you’re older.

“When you’re older.”

“Oh my gods, you two!” Orla threw herself back in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m gonna assume Resh said something along the lines of what you said, Carr, by the way you’re looking at each other.”

Resh blinked, feeling a little guilty.

“I’ll have you know that just because I’m young doesn’t mean I’m stupid. I know–” Orla cut herself off, wiping at her eyes. “I know more than you think. I wish you didn’t think you were doing me some almighty favor, leaving me in the dark.”

With that, she kicked off her boots and snatched a book out of her bag, burying her nose in it.

Okay. So Carr was hiding something, scratch that, several somethings at this point, Orla was upset over being excluded, and Resh… Resh couldn’t fucking communicate unless someone was looking at him, which both ladies were now studiously avoiding doing.

The carriage started moving, and Carr let out a relieved-sounding sigh.

Resh wished he could do the same.

Image Description

[ID: The banner is a blue-green background, with tree branches arching over a set of blue-green eyes, forming an approximation of a face. The words Hidden Depths are written in white above the eyes. Any other images are purely decorative lines. end ID]

#hidden depths #whump #whump writing #original writing #original characters #fantasy whump #warnings above the cut #nightmare tw #flashback tw #unreality tw #angst

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wearejericho · 7 months

Text

plotted starter with @awak3andal1v3 from markus.

❝ we've tried everything. we don't know what to do. ❞

it's been almost a month since the androids were freed from the camps; humans are coming back into the city. laws are being passed, new rules are being integrated. it's a lot more of a process than anticipated — but at least it's gaining momentum.

it's so much change. so fast. markus was trying to keep busy. he knew if he slowed down, it'd hit him. and he wasn't ready. but after 2 weeks, he was finally able to go in and out of stasis. he tried to do it daily. it helped with his scatter-brain. his anxiety. and he'd been lucky enough to avoid what was referred to as night terrors — until now.

it'd been a particularly stressful day. markus met with the mayor and the city council to discuss some segregation laws. it went fine, really, until he stepped outside: blinding camera flashes just inches from his face. four different microphones shoved in his direction. going out in public wasn't easy — in fact, it really wasn't safe for him to be alone. everybody knew his name.

'markus, is it true that you came back from the dead?' 'tell us about the moment you realized you had special abilities!' 'do you hate humans for what they did to you?' 'can you confirm the rumors that you had to kill other androids to replace your own parts?" markus doesn't have a problem with answering a question here or there, but it's too much today. he breezes past them, shoves his way into a taxi.

"how did it go?" is what markus is greeted with when he returns to new jericho. ❝ um. it was... okay. it was okay. i just need a moment. ❞ and with that, he closes himself behind a door. it's quiet here. dark. relax, markus. just take a rest. he lowers himself onto one of the mats. androids could enter stasis standing up, but markus had gotten used to laying down. carl always preferred him not to stand - it was unsettling, he said.

so he lies flat and lets his eyes close. what feels like seconds later he is awoken by the sound of screeching in his right ear. he feels weak. he can't see. he can't— oh, fuck. his legs are gone. no. this can't be happening again. but it's so real. he can feel the cold, wet ground. he can hear the distant sound of thunder.

❝ i need help. ❞ called out, alerting the android who had spoken with him just moments earlier. markus rolls himself over, grasping at the floor to drag himself forward. the moment he feels a hand on him his mind fills in the gap: the hands, reaching for him from both sides. this time, he screams. he bats at them as he feels that same arm around his neck. "where are you going?" ❝ stop. please, stop. ❞ markus begs. but the hands keep reaching for him. he's stuck: half awake, half in a nightmare. every time he's touched in reality, a fictitious being is touching him. his eyes stay closed, but any time he does open them it's the junkyard. he's there again. he knows he is. ❝ help! ❞

#segregation tw #ptsd tw #night terror tw #nightmare tw #listen i know this is very long pls don't feel pressured to give me a long reply lol #i'm just building the scene. my replies will probably be 1/3 of this once we get going

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