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songbirdsingingthings · 3 years

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Heartbeats - Levi Ackerman x Reader

WARNINGS: Season 4 Spoilers, Mentions of Blood, Stitching up Major Injuries, Somewhat Angst, Ending In Fluff, FLOCH SLANDER

Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters, they belong to Hajime Isayama

AOT Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Word Count: 3.6K

A/N: I REPEAT - SEASON 4 SPOILERS!!! Okay, so basically in this, you replace Hange in the little ride that she, Floch, and the rest of his little group takes out into the wilderness when they end up finding the remnants of the cart explosion. This also means you find out what happens to Levi (poor bby). I hope you enjoy, I had a lovely time writing this!

To put it simply, you were pissed off. If anyone could do a deep dive into your brain, navigate your nervous systems, and land themselves straight into your amygdala, they would find out just how livid you are. Being betrayed by your comrades was one thing. You’ve seen corruption in the military before whether it be in the Military Police or in the Garrison, so you knew it was only a matter of time that a seed of deceit sprouted within the Scout Regiment. However, you didn’t think that there would be so many to purposely go against their oath and betray the core values and people who helped the Scouts become who they were. But the real kicker was that you and Hange, two of the highest ranking people in the regiment, were being led out by gunpoint by Floch. As one of the last remaining captains of the Scouts, you were almost humiliated at the thought of cadets technically holding your life in their hands as the group of you rode on horseback.

“Move along Y/N, we don’t have all day.” Floch said. You didn’t have to turn your head to see the power hungry grin donning the red head’s face. Instead, you scoffed and moved one of your hands up to tug the hood of your cape lower over your face. The rain was pelting your back relentlessly and you shuddered a little at the chill that ran down your back. Of course the rain had to come to make this experience even more miserable than it already was. You wished that Hange was by your side on this little outing, but of course, the little group headed by Floch would only take one of you out at a time. Pay no mind, just try to get through this, you tell yourself, gritting your teeth. You turn your focus onto happier thoughts to try and propel yourself through this little “mission”. Your mind flitted to random, somewhat material things; a freshly washed and dried long sleeve shirt, a cup of soothing tea, and using your ODM gear just for fun. But, like all thoughts of yours tend to do, they all turned onto the man that had been stationed out in the woods for weeks. Levi Ackerman. Four, maybe five years ago, you never would have thought that the gray-eyed man could become anything closer to you than a colleague, much less a boyfriend. But, things just fell weirdly into place, setting up your relationship. Oh, what he would say when he finds out what has been happening back at HQ, you muse, your mouth twitching into a small smile. However, your somewhat appeased expression morphed into one of confusion when a sudden cracking noise reverberated through the air and landed on the ears of you and the group of traitorous scouts.

“Uh… Floch?” You hear one of the scouts say, their voice laced with concern.

“What the hell was that?” Floch asks.

“Thunder maybe?” Another scout chimes in, not sounding confident in their answer. Your eyebrows knit in perplexity as your eyes narrow in the direction the sound came in. Then, it all comes together. A Thunder Spear. You conclude. A lump in your throat forms. But why? The only people out in the woods would be… Levi.

“Let’s head in that direction.” The redhead concludes. The group wordlessly kicks their horses into a canter as everyone heads toward a more northern direction. It’s only when you get closer to the forest’s tree line that you see where that sound came from. In the short distance, a somewhat mangled titan was laying down on its stomach, but closer to you was the wreckage of a wooden cart. Planks of wood were sticking out haphazardly, and to your sorrow, so were two horses. You heard the murmurs of confusion from Floch’s group, but your focus remained on one of the horses. Why was your attention captured by such a sad sight? This poor, jet black horse was on its side. It almost reminded you of Levi’s… no, it looks exactly like his horse. Hurriedly, but not so fast as to draw attention to yourself, your eyes and head dart around the surroundings of the wreckage. Over the drenched plains and tall grass, nothing was out of the norm. Until your eyes landed a green Scout Regiment cloak with its hood up, definitely covering a person’s body that you recognized immediately. Oh no. Oh no, no, no. Without hesitation, you hopped off your horse - your feet almost getting tangled in the stirrups of the saddle - and sprinted towards the cloak-wrapped body.

“CAPTAIN Y/N, DO NOT RUN OFF!” Floch shouts over the downpour of rain. Paying no mind to the mud that caked your boots and the stinging of the tall grass as it cut and pricked your face. You reach him and flip him over immediately. As soon as you see his face, you audibly gasp. A long, slightly deep cut stretched from just on top of his right brow, over his right eye, over his mouth, and then finally stopped at his chin. Substantially sized wood chips were buried into his left cheek. What made your hands shake, though, was the fact that all over his pale face and stuck in his silky black hair was his blood. You jostle him once, then twice, and then finally a third time to yield no movement from him.

“ARE YOU ALIVE?” You shout into his ear, your voice trying to reach his eardrums. “ANSWER ME, PLEASE!” You feel your heart breaking as his lips don’t move and his eyes don’t flutter with movement. Never did you think that your time with him would run out. Humanity's strongest soldier, the captain of the special ops squad, and the love of your life taken out of the world just like that? No. He was too stubborn, too hellbent on avenging Erwin and making sure that you don’t get yourself into ‘dumb predicaments’ as he likes to say. You hug his limp body close to you and press your ear to his chest. You knew that Floch and his cronies would be surrounding you soon, but you just wanted one last moment with you and him alone. Your eyes closed as you nestled yourself into him in a last ditch effort in order to find some final comfort from him. All you could hear was the rain and the faint squelching of the “Scouts’” boots coming towards you. But then, as light as a feather, a heartbeat. Your eyes shoot open as you press your ear against his chest closer to his chest, trying to make sure what you heard wasn’t a hallucination. Another heartbeat, although faint, was there. You didn’t have time to react when you heard a voice from behind you.

“I don’t know what happened, but we got lucky. Our biggest threat, now covered in his own blood.” Floch’s words pierced your heart. How he could be so insensitive, so disrespectful of a human life.

“I’ll send a shot through his head.” Another one said.

“He’s dead.” You quickly say, earning silence from the rest of the group. If he’s going to stay alive, I have to act fast. I have to make up stuff on the fly. You say to yourself. “He must have been hit by a Thunder Spear explosion at close range,” you say, incorporating the cracking noise that everyone heard. “I saw something similar in a training accident when Hange was in the developing stage with prototypes. He might not look dead, but his vital organs are in shreds. He died immediately from the internal bleeding.” You say, trying your best to convince them that Levi was, in fact, ready to be buried six feet under. You look up to Floch, forcing tears to spring from your eyes in order to fully sell the effect.

“Well, I know how to take a pulse. Lemme see him and I’ll check to make sure that he is, as you say, dead.” Floch said, nonchalantly. Shit. But, like some higher power was looking down on you, the titan near the treeline produced a strange smoky-like substance, gaining the attention from the group.

“What’s going on?”

“I haven’t seen anything like this before.”

“What do we do?” Comments from everyone in the group were voiced, everyone’s eyes - including yours - trained on the origin of the smoke. And there, like he emerged from a phoenix’s ashes, was Zeke. Your eyes widen, and then narrow. They’re obsessed with Zeke and Eren. This is my chance. Gripping Levi as tightly as you can and putting all of your energy into this exact moment, you launched you and Levi into the river that ran right next to you. You could hear the warped voices of the traitorous scouts as you plunged into the freezing water, but you couldn’t and wouldn’t turn your head. They had the guns, they had the manpower, and they had the higher ground. The only way you and Levi would survive this is if you swam down the river. So, you swam, and swam, and swam.

You gasp and cough up water as you resurface, immediately putting your efforts into getting Levi out of the river water. You manage to push his body and roll it a foot away from the riverbank before you get swept under the water again. FIGHT, DAMMIT! You scream to yourself, clawing your way out and onto the land next to Levi. With another cough and hack, you grab hold of your unconscious boyfriend and somewhat drag, somewhat carrying him into the woods to find what little shelter you could get. You whip your head around quickly to survey your surroundings, finding solace in the fact that it’s just the two of you.

“O-okay,” you waver, your mind strained and your body exhausted, “there’s no one here or after us right now. We’re safe for right now.” You say, hopeful that Levi could hear you. You quickly make a camp out of the supplies that you had on your back as well as the things you could find in nature. Thankfully, every scout - captain or cadet - was required to carry a full tent and sleeping pack, so as quickly as you could, you set those both up. From when you were hammering in the little pegs of the tent and unfolding and rolling out the sleeping pack, you kept a watchful eye on Levi. Finally, everything was set up and a small campfire was roaring. Now, you could officially tend to him. You peel back the cloak from his body and set in near the fire to dry it off. Pulling Levi gently over and onto the sleeping pack, you brush back his hair from his face so that you could fully assess his injuries.

“Oh Levi…” You murmur, taking in that big scar again. There was no doubt that he had gone blind in his right eye. All you could hope was that there is no infection. So, quickly, you take out your first aid kit and get to work. First, you start to remove the wood chips from his face with tweezers. “You know, you would be furious if you saw how Floch treated Hange and the rest of the leading officials within the Regiment. Probably would’ve ended him right then and there.” You blab, trying to distract yourself and talk to Levi at the same time. Pulling wood out of your boyfriend’s face was not something you loved doing. Thankfully, there weren’t that many chips and they didn’t splinter, so that work was quick. Now came the monstrous task of stitching up those gashes stretching across his face. The one on his cheek didn’t worry you, but the one stretching across his eye and mouth most definitely did. So, to try and fuel your confidence, you start with the smaller and less dependent one. After a couple of shaky tries, you finally thread the needle and tie a knot at the end of it to prevent the stitch from coming undone.

“Okay, you can do this Y/N. It’s just like when your mom used to stitch up your clothes, right? Just nice and slow…” you say to yourself, bringing the needle to his mangled skin. “Levi, I can’t believe you’re making me do this you asshole!” You whine, a few tears falling from your eyes as you finally stick the needle through his skin and stitching it together. You got into a steady rhythm, messing up a bit here and there, but eventually getting the job done. You grab the little thread scissors and snip off the end of the thread, tying the little thread at the end of the gash tightly, but not as taut as to rip the stitching.

“Now onto the big one.” You breathe, prepping yourself. With a deep breath and a scrunch of your eyes, you begin at his chin and start making your way up. It was a short distance to stitch to his bottom lip, but you hated to sew that part up. Those lips were always so soft against your skin. From pressing butterfly kisses to your shoulders when you would wake up in bed, quick ones to your forehead before leaving for a mission, and passionate ones to your lips when you would finally get back, those lips comforted you and helped you through the tough reality of living. Now, you had to leave a permanent reminder on his lips that he wasn’t as invincible as he might’ve once thought. You tie that part off before starting at his top lip, making your way up to his eye. This was the part you were dreading. Those silver irises drew your attention in whichever situation you were in. Whether it be a meeting of the minds or just a quick glance his way, you would get absolutely lost in those gray pools. Now, he would have only one and his vision would be used through a single eye.

“Come on L/N, you’ve got this.” You whisper while starting to stitch his eye. It was a rough, uncomfortable experience, but finally you made it over his eye and to his forehead. And, with one last tie and a snip from the scissors, you were done. The last thing you had to do was wrap his right hand. You discovered, when dragging him through the river, just how far his injuries extended. Two of his fingers, his middle and index, were cut clean off. It pained you to know that he would have to relearn how to use ODM gear again. The tool he was a master and artist at using, making himself look graceful and deadly at the same time, he would have to relearn. You just covered his hand and wounds quickly, and let your mind veer from that. You cleaned his face again, swiping a clean strip of your shirt, a piece you ripped off, and went carefully over his stitches and took extra care in the more tender areas. Then, you threw it to the side and plopped down at his side, staring at the grass in front of you.

“What the hell do we do now…” You say, your voice dry and void of life, your eyes sullen. “We can’t stop Zeke between you, me, and the rest of the scouts we have on our side. Eren’s on this weird and insane rampage, ostracising Mikasa and Armin from himself, as well as the rest of us. The Yeagerists are becoming this crazed cult by seizing control over everything… I just do not know what to do.” You confess, laying all of your feelings out for him to, hopefully, hear. Glancing back at Levi, you see he’s still motionless. However, you see the shallow rise and fall of his chest, and that comforts you for now.

Levi is still unconscious when you begin formulating ideas on how to get him back or get help in general. Armin, Mikasa, and the rest of the 104th cadets were being kept somewhere, you knew that much. You had no way of knowing where they were keeping Hange or how she was doing, and the other top ranking officials of each of the different regiments were either colluding with the Yeagerists or being beaten to a pulp by them. Even Hitch, a member of the Garrison that everyone had taken a large liking to, was probably still guarding Annie who was stuck in her crystal for four five years and counting. Your thoughts were put to a hold, though, when a beam of light and a booming sound erupted from the walls. You spun around to face the light, absolutely dumbstruck at the sight. You had seen something like this before, for example whenever Armin or Eren changed into their respective titans, but this was something different.

“Oh my-” You begin to say, but then a strangled sounding groan was voiced. Levi. Whipping your head to face him, you find the black-haired man sitting up slowly and grumbling.

“The Beast… That piece of shit… where is he…?” You quickly make your way over to him, pressing a gentle hand to his stomach.

“Hey, easy, lay back down.” You order softly. To your surprise, he complies. “Zeke went back to Shiganshina with the Yeagerists.” You explain, trying to answer Levi’s question. You see the absolutely defeated look in his eye, but was not able to see his frown through the wrappings you had placed around his head to dress his wounds. “Levi,” you ask softly, bringing your hand to lightly hold his left hand, “what happened?” His gaze left yours to look beyond yourself, maybe towards the sky.

“I screwed up. I didn’t take into question whether Zeke was ready to die or not. I guess he was since he triggered that thunderspear I had aimed towards his neck. I let him get away. Again.” His eyes went back onto yours.

“I… I know you’re upset and you want your revenge, I really do. But, for right now, I think that we-”

“If we keep running and hiding, where the hell will that get us.” Levi interrupts. You press your mouth into a tight line and look away from him.

“I know, I agree.” You say, sighing. “We’ll get back there, back into the action. We’ll make things right.”

“My goal is to kill Zeke.” He says. You know that killing Zeke has been on his mind ever since Erwin, and you know it will never leave it. However, you can’t stop the worry that rises within you when you think about how that may be Levi’s only goal. How after he completes it, he won’t make new goals or find new dreams to carry out within life. Your body goes a bit rigid and now you turn away from him completely. However, if you could see Levi’s face, you would know that he realizes how his wording found a way to hurt you, and he hated that. He hated the thought that you had to risk your neck for his, take care and stitch him up, and now put up with him. “Y/N-”

“No, I understand.” You say, turning your face back to his and pressing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes onto your face.

“Y/N.” He says more forcibly now, causing your fake smile to drop. “Killing Zeke is my goal. It’s not my entire life's purpose.” Tears start to well in your eyes as you bite your cheek, willing them to stop.

“Okay.” You croak, grasping onto his hand tighter. You feel his grip on you tighten as well. “Levi Ackerman, we will get through this, do you understand me? You are not allowed to die on me until we are both old and gray and on rocking chairs outside on the little patio in front of our house, got it?” You say, letting the tears flow freely.

“Until we’re old and gray.” He repeats, nodding. You sigh out of pure exhaustion and lay down next to him.

“It fucking sucked stiching you up. I don’t understand how medics do that.” You say, trying to change the subject.

“Yeah, well, I could tell the stitches are shoddy at most. You’ll probably leave me with an ugly ass scar across my face.” He bites back. This earns a smile from you as you turn your head, pressing a kiss to his left cheek.

“You could prove to be a whole lot nicer to me. I had to drag your ass through a river.”

“I would’ve paid money to see you swim.” He muses, earning a drop of the jaw from you.

“Hey, I can swim fine!” You reason. A few beats of silence pass.

“Thank you. For dragging me away from those little shits and cleaning me up.” You nod and let one of your hands fall on his chest, feeling his heartbeat. It’s steady and consistent this time, causing a smile to spread across your face as you close your eyes.

“I love you.” You say, grasping onto his shirt.

“I love you too. And I promise, for the rest of your life, I’ll be there for you too.” Unfortunately, the last part of confession falls upon deaf ears on your part since you passed out into a much needed sleep. That’s okay to him, though. He would be there by your side to tell you that again, and again, and again.

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missgirlnoname · 4 years

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I DO NOT SHARE WHAT IS MINE

Anakin Skywalker x Naive!Reader

WARNINGS: smutty?, rough Anakin, manipulation, masturbation, forced orgasm, daddy kink, choking kink, slightly young reader¡.

HEADS-UP: This is my first time writing anything remotely...inappropriate, per se. I am sorry if it’s not to great, but I’m trying my best. I feel so wrong for wanting to read let alone write fanfics like these, but I can’t help it! LORD FORGIVE ME

ANOTHER NOTE: I will say with complete honesty, that I have only watched the Star Wars films because I have an unhealthy obsession with Hayden Christensen. So some things I write may seem a little off and I’m sorry for that. Because I don’t have a full notion on everything Star Wars related, unless it’s Star Wars-anakin related.

(If you’d like to get to the “somewhat smutty” part of this story, then simply skip to where it says smut up ahead. This is quite long. I won’t judge you. 😏)

SUMMARY: (y/n) has a heated argument with her Jedi Master: Anakin skywalker, right before dinner time. Upset and emotionally drained, (y/n) leaves him, and heads to lunch on her own, meeting a friendly new padawan on the way. They take quite a liking to each other. Far to much a liking for anakin. He plans to show (y/n) just how much. Nobody gets in the way of anakin and what is his. Nobody.

(Y/N) POV:

“ Are you being serious right now!”

“Deadly.” He hissed.

“Until you learn how to properly yield that weapon in your belt; take my commands and respect me. You will not be accompanying me on any missions, is that understood!” Master skywalker, chided at you.

No response. You only glared intently at him, your fists trembling at your sides. Chest heaving eradically with a blind fury. You couldn’t believe this man!

“I said is that understood, young padawan!” He asked once more, his voice rising. Glaring right back at you with the same intensity.

You continued to stare at him defiantly.

This seemed to only further his anger, he narrowed his eyes as they darkended. You suddenly felt nervous. He began toward you from across the room in a quick fashion. Your heart began to race rapidly.

Would he hurt you? You thought.

No he-he wouldn’t...would he?

Not a moment before you could collect your thoughts, there he was. Right in front you. Towering over your small frame. You could feel the heat radiating off of him. So intense.

“Answer me now, (y/n).” He growled. You’d never made your master this angry. He growled at you like a ferocious beast. Now, all confidence once instilled, had quickly evaporated, you felt very small.

“I understand...” a whisper.

“I couldn’t quite hear you?” Master replied, with an eerie calm, for someone who seemed like they were too burst in a fiery rage only seconds ago. You looked down at the ground, defeated.

“I said I understand.” Loud and clear, he heard you.

But he needed to hear it again.

“I understand, who? (Y/n).” Master skywalker, asked once more. You then felt pressure beneath your chin. His thumb and forefinger gripped it gently, bringing your head upward to face his hard gaze.

Sighing, you finally said what he wanted to hear. How he wanted to hear it.

“Yes. I understand, master skywalker.” You replied gingerly.

A wide grin spread across his angelic face.

“That’s more like it. This little attitude of yours is only a faze, and I realize that. But there is point where it is expected and tolerable, and when it is you simply doing all you can to get on my nerves and defy me on everything I ask of you. I don’t tolerate such insolence little girl.”

As he said this, his grin had completely vanished, turning into a stoic expression. However, his eyes remained dark and dangerous, black as night.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t afraid of him at this very moment. He’d feel it either way. But as scared as you were, that anger had slowly began to resurface. As you remembered everything he had said on your way back from a meeting with the council. Every harsh dig, every patronizing word. You glared at him once again, holding eye contact for a few more deafening seconds; then ripped out of his grasp, making your way out of the room. You could feel his eyes burning holes into your back as you walked away.

‘Asshole’

You knew he’d heard your thoughts. But you didn’t care.

...

You were heading towards the dining hall, still quite irritable over the dispute you and your master had only minutes ago. As you walked down the empty corridor, you suddenly felt like you were not alone. You turned to your right, then your left. But there was not a soul in sight. Simply, you let it roll of your shoulder. That is until you felt a large hand wrap around your your waist, while another clamped over your mouth.

Yank!

You felt yourself being pulled back by something or someone. All you could do was try to wriggle out of their grasp, your cries of help muffled by your captors large hand. Squealing and squirming against this unknown being. Unknown, that is, until a burst of hearty laughter erupted into the air. The hands that once held you, realeased you from their hold.

You whirled around, anger written all over your face. But as you looked at the stranger before you, it somehow seemed to fade away.

“Oh my stars! You should have seen *panting* you should have seen your face!” The stranger, a boy, possibly around your age; said through gasps.

After a few moments his laughter died down, and he composed himself. Standing straight, and adjusting himself, he then held his hand out toward you. As if expecting you to take it after he nearly gave you a heart attack.

“If that is the way you normally introduce yourself to someone, I’d hate to see how you excuse your self from a conversation.” You commented squinting at the young boy, while still debating on whether you’d shake his hand or not.

He smiled a soft smile. His eyes twinkled in the light. His fair skin quite flawless, and a fluffy nest of golden locks sat atop his head. He looked warm and inviting. Yet you still denied him the pleasure of knowing who you were. Seeing as you were still annoyed that he snatched you up and whisked you away, out of sight from others; to get you alone, as a way of saying ‘hello, who are you’

Huffing, you rolled your eyes, twisted right around, and attempted to walk away. Forgetting all about dinner, you just wanted to return to your quarters.

But of course, that wasn’t to happen. Nope not at all.

“Wait! Look, I’m sorry. I realize that was quite wrong of me to do. I had no right to grab you the way I did. Seeing as to you have no clue who I am, nor I you. But I’d like to get to know who you are.” The boy explained, frantically trying to catch up with you, as you were already halfway down the hall.

“My name is Roman. I’m master yoda’s new apprentice. I arrived here from tattooine not long ago.” The boy called Roman, continued on.

You on the other hand, went treading along quietly, not serving him a second glance.

“Please don’t hold any grudge against me, I’d really like to think I’d make at least one good friend here.” He pleaded.

Nothing.

You heard a defeated sigh, and footsteps beginning to drift away from yours. You couldn’t help but turn back the slightest, watching the disappointed boy walk away, slump shouldered. Taking a deep breath in, you let out a sigh, having no idea you were holding it in.

“It’s (y/n).” You finally said.

Roman turned back around, and a small smile slowly crept unto his face.

————————————

A FEW DAYS LATER...

(Time Skip yes, because I drag)

“We shouldn’t be doing this.” You whispered

“No, I completely agree with you, we shouldn’t be doing this.” Roman replied.

The two of you had snuck into a forbidden area of the Jedi temple. No one was allowed back there. However, the two of you had been doing this for a few days now. You’d both bring along snacks, blankets and pillows; just to lounge around. Away from responsibility, away from everyone.

But it wouldn’t be as great, if it wasn’t a challenge going back every time. What with many droids keeping guard of the place. Pulling little stunts, throwing objections, and creating foolish distractions to get by. And it’d worked each time.

You too had arrived to your “spot” but what you found was displeasing to say the least.

All of your snacks, knocked over and scattered around the floor. Your pillows were slashed right down the middle, with what could only have been a lightsaber. The little lights you had hung up on the ceiling where ripped away, swinging back and forth, the ends brushing against the ground. It was a complete mess. You looked over at Roman, who was just as nervous and as stunned as you were.

“Force, we are in so much-“

“Trouble? why yes you are.”

Your eyes widened as you felt your stomach drop. You knew exactly who’s voice that was. Fear had overtaken your body.

I’m really in for it now. You thought.

You have no idea. You heard him that chilling voice speak through the force.

Both You and Roman had slowly turned towards the direction in which, the voice you knew to well, had come from. There, in all his intense glory, stood Master skywalker. Your master. He stood towering over the two of you. You could feel the heat radiating off of his body, if you could cut the terrible tension with a knife, you certainly would.

hell.

You didn’t need a knife, your lightsaber would do just fine; anything to rid yourself of this moment. Master skywalker held a harsh gaze, intently staring directly at Roman. It seemed as if all his anger was directed only towards the poor boy. He continued this painfully one sided staring contest for what seemed like forever. Roman visibly trembling, doing everything he could to avoid meeting the furious dark ocean eyes, that bore holes into him. You could hear romans heavy breathing mixed with yours. You couldn’t handle the deafening silence in the room any longer. You looked directly at your master, and attempted to find the right words.

“Sir?” You quipped softly.

He ignored you, still staring at Roman. All his fury seemed to focus solely on the kid. He payed you know attention. You weren’t even their.

“Master, please look at me.” You tried for his attention once again. Still nothing.

“Master skywalker?”

Nothing.

“Please answer me.”

Nothing.

“This was not all his doing, I was an accomplice. I helped bring us here. I’m just as guilty as he is. And shall except my punishment accordingly.” You went on, hoping he’d look your way and hear you out.

Nothing.

“Master, I’m begging you. Please! Say something, anything. Curse at me, yell at me, tell me how much of an insubordinate childish brat I am. Something is better then your silence.” You pleaded, your voice going a bit hoarse.

Nothing.

You were just about ready to burst. You had enough. If you were childish, he was being as such, going along with this silent treatment.

“ANAKIN! ANSWER ME NOW! DO NOT IGNORE ME. YOUR ACTING LIKE A FOOLISH CHILD, FOR FORCE SAKE. I AM JUST AS RESPONCIBLE AS ROMAN FOR WHAT HAS GONE ON AROUND HERE. AND QUIT LOOKING AT HIM LIKE A MADMAN! YOU ACT AS IF WE HAVE COMMITED A TREASON. WE HAVE NOT! WE ONLY WANTED TO FIND A PLACE FOR US TO HANG OUT. IS THAT SO WRONG?

For the first time since we’ve all been here, he had taken his eyes off of Roman, and now looked over at you. The same amount of anger and intensity as he had with Roman, could not possibly compare with how he felt with you. You could see his eyes glaze over. But, with anger? I’m sure, but their was something else you couldn’t quite describe; as he stared you down. (GIF ABOVE)

“Leave..” he said, his voice must’ve dropped, because it seemed much deeper, much huskier than before.

Confusion was written all over both Your’s and Roman’s face. Leave? Just like that? After everything that has taken place. He’s just going to let us leave? You both look at each other, with equal skepticism. When a low chuckle breaks your thought process. You turn back toward Your Master. He looked at Roman once again with an icy glare, then slowly looked back at you.

“Oh? Did you think I meant you could leave?” He cooed mockingly at you.

“No-no-no! I meant him.” Master, added.

The boy stared bewilderedly at anakin. Still frozen in place, not really sure of what to do. Roman simply could not tell if he were serious or not. But you could.

“Leave now boy! or I’ll drag you out myself.” Master skywalker said, through gritted teeth. His rage quite clear now. Roman jumped slightly at his harsh tone. He turned toward you, seemingly asking you for permission without needing to say it out loud. You nodded. “I’m sorry.” He whispered. You smiled weakly as you watched him slowly walk out of the room, careful not to meet anakins firey gaze. He then proceeded to have the doors slam shut harshly and lock. Finally looking back at you.

“And you. You won’t be going anywhere, anytime soon.”

( SOMEWHAT SMUTTY AHEAD)

“I truly am sorry, Master skywalker. I-.”

“Oh you will be, I’m certain of it.” Anakin cut you off.

Within a matter of seconds, you felt your small body collide against a wall. You groaned at the contact. A searing pain worked its way up your spine. You attempted to move, but were stopped abruptly as a pair of strong hands gripped your shoulders. Slamming you against the wall a second time. You hissed at the terrible pain consuming your body. Your eyes were screwed shut, head lolling back and forth; as you waited for the pain to disappear.

“You really know how to piss me off, don’t you little girl?” Anakin sneered at you. His face inches away from yours. “Who do you think you are, huh? Going around with that boy. Disrespecting me in front of that boy! Not using my proper title?, no such right was given.” Anakin growled. You looked him in the eyes, shaking with fear. They had darkened tremendously, and had once again glazed over. With what? You still weren’t sure of. “I only did that to get you to pay attention to what I had to say.” You attempted to speak through quivering lips. “Well, you certainly have my attention now, don’t you?” He snidely replied; his face even closer than before. You could feel his minty hot breath brush against your face. You needed to get away from him, you attempted to break free, which in turn, had him grab hold of your wrists and pin them at your sides. “Please master, let-let go.” You stuttered. “No I don’t think I will, (y/n).” Replied anakin, with a nasty grin. He then dragged a long finger, sliding it down passed your cheek bone, ever so slowly. Until he placed it on your lower lip, rubbing it gently.

What is he doing? You thought.

A smirk spread across anakins glorious features. “You see my dear apprentice, you’ve been a very bad girl, such behavior must be dealt with. You constantly disobey your master. You must learn to hold me with the utmost respect. Right here, right now. You will follow my every order. Is that understood?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, sir-master skywalker.” You corrected yourself.

That devilish grin had reappeared unto anakin’s face. He enjoyed you like this. At his mercy, following his every order. The control he now possessed of you, was exhilarating. You continued to pant heavily, afraid to look him in the eyes once more. He had you under a magnifying glass, squirming. And he loved it.

“One more thing. You will not converse with that boy any longer, do you hear? He will not talk to you, he will not go anywhere near you. Is that understood.” He added, his voice cold and unfeeling. You looked up at him.

“What! But-“ No Buts.” He interrupted.

“You are mine and mine alone. I do not like to share (y/n).” He hissed, one of his hands coming to wrap around your neck, giving it a light squeeze. Your eyes widened. What’s going on? You thought. Anakin laughed, it was as beautiful a hearty laugh as Romans. But it was dark. Nasty. An “up to no good” kind of laugh.

“ these are mine” he rubbed your upper lip, then bottom lip softly. before planting a soft yet searing kiss upon them. Stunning you.

“These are mine.” His hand slid down passed your neck, stopping right at the top of your small, but firm breasts. Giving one a light squeeze, you squeal at the sudden touch. Anakin grinned at this. His hand continued its journey downward, running past your stomach, to your hips; reaching around to grab at your bottom, roughly squeezing it. You continued to stare dumbfoundedly at him. His dark eyes bore into your light ones. His grin had completely fallen into a serious expression, biting his lip, then releasing it slowly from between his teeth.

“this is fucking mine.” Growling, his hand released your ass, reached around the front and brought his hand to cup your mound. Panic set it in, breathing heavily, you managed to push your master away from you. You stumbled forward, a bit dazed and completely confused. You felt heat radiate off of your body, but it didn’t seem to be of anger. It seemed to come from your womanhood. The heat was pooling in your panties?

I-I don’t understand. Force, what is going on?!

“I’ll show you.”

You then felt anakin pull you roughly towards him again. Your back now flush against his lean, well built frame. You could feel his arm wrap around your chest; while the other held your hips, hard. You could feel his fingers digging harshly into you. Even through your robes, you felt his nails pierce your soft flesh. Wincing and whimpering. You wanted to go back to your room, you wanted him to leave you alone. Yet you didn’t want to lose the warmth his body brought to you.

“Please anakin. Leave me alone.” You pleaded softly.

You then felt a strange feeling. A very strange feeling, in your lower abdomen. You felt pressure, a pressure that made you feel good. It slowly stimulated you.

“What are you doing, ani-

Harder

A gasp elicited from your lips. Your hips bucked slightly at the feeling.

“That’s master to you, slut.” He hissed into your ear.

Slut?

Anakin’s deep throaty chuckle in your ear, vibrated along your body. The pressure building up much quicker than before; an odd sound left your lips.

Harder.

Faster.

Another sound, much louder then before, had your face flushing in embarrassment. Why does that keep happening?

“Because your enjoying this. Go on, moan for me baby.” Anakin, cooed. The pressure increased rapidly and you began feeling some sort of knot in your stomach. It tightened, and tightened. You thought something might be wrong with you.

“Master, s-stop, I-I- don’t feel right.” You whined, trying to free yourself once again. But the more you struggled, the more the odd sensation built up. You began squirming, doing everything you could to stop what ever was to happen.

“It’s alright, Come on baby girl. Cum. Cum for daddy.” Anakin growled once again.

“Wha- I- don-.” Your incoherent babble only seemed to fuel whatever had its hold on you further. You felt as if you were hyperventilating, your chest heaving up and down. Gasps and moans fell from your mouth at every second. You then felt another kind of pressure. Around your neck. Anakin had wrapped his hand around your throat.

Is he going to kill me?

another deep throaty chuckle.

After a few more seconds, your legs began to shake, your muscles all seemed to tighten. The pressure was unbearable.

“Cum for me, Angel. Daddy wants you to cum.” He whispered huskily into my ear, giving it a little nibble. His hand still wrapped around your throat, giving it a slightly harder squeeze. And that was it. You felt everything shatter within you. Vision a blur of white light. A sound so unflattering to your ears shot out of you.

“Fuck.” Anakin groaned. Did he enjoy that too?

Your breathing had slowly gone back to normal, beads of sweat glistened along your face. Then, you fell limp. Absolutely numb, weak as if your very life force had been sucked right out of you. Anakin laughed at this, while he ran his fingers through your hair, and planted a soft kiss to your temple.

“You did wonderfully, angel.” He complimented you. You couldn’t help but smile. As for what you did wonderfully, you still didn’t know.

...

A/N: oh my god! It was so long, I literally drag and I’m so sorry for that! Again, this isn’t written that well, I know. I don’t know to much about how to write “dirty” nor am I good at dirty talk. I literally stepped out of my comfort zone, adding in a few curse words 👏. But oh well. I hope you somewhat liked this. I really wanted to help feed the thirsty anakin community. 😂

#anakin skywalker #star wars #revenge of the sith #hayden christensen #young anakin #anakin smut #smutty #anakin x reader #omgpage #fyppage #daddy k!nk #choking #movies #naiveasf #tumblrgirl #fanfiction #fanfic #imagine

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sunflowerseedsandscience · 4 years

Text

Something different.

Most of you know I’ve been devoting all my free time over the past three years to writing original novels. Here’s the opening chapter of one of them.

Sundays at the local skating rink are my secret pleasure. Most of the week, the ice is devoted to hockey practices and private lessons, but on Sunday afternoons, the rink is available for a three-hour public skating session, and it's always crowded. I like to buy myself a latte from the cafe across the street, climb into the stands, and camouflage myself amongst the crowd of parents dividing their attention between their children, making slow, laborious laps around the rink, and their phones. I don't doubt most of them are hoping their kids will tire themselves out, thus making the last few hours of the weekend quieter. The faces change from week to week, but the categories the skaters fall into are the same. The youngest glide along between the feet of a parent (who looks with envy at the adults relaxing in the stands), while their older counterparts grip the boards, moving forward inches at a time. There are rambunctious teenagers, chasing each other on unskilled feet, occasionally crashing into unsuspecting skaters. Couples hold hands as they totter along, gazing at one another, like they can't imagine anything more romantic than spending a few hours in uncomfortable rented skates, on a badly-groomed sheet of ice, surrounded by screaming kids slamming into their legs every few minutes. There's always, of course, the requisite show-off, the young figure skater in their first year of lessons, dreams of Olympic glory filling their heads, earning the slack-jawed admiration of every child present with scratch spins and sloppy jumps. Most of them will quit within a year or so, driven off by the increasing difficulty, by the endless (and painful) falls that come before mastering each new skill. One or two will persevere, at least until high school, when they'll be faced with the choice between adhering to the demanding practice schedule, or getting to have a social life. But they're not who I come to the rink to see. The precise skater I'm here for isn't immediately obvious. She typically begins her session on the ice clinging to the boards, like the other first-timers, but she won't stay there long. Before she's gotten halfway around the rink, she'll discover she doesn't need as much help balancing as she'd thought, and she'll tentatively release her hold on the boards. Instead of choppy, uncertain steps, she'll start to glide, managing to hold her balance on one foot long enough to push off with the other... and then for a bit longer... and longer... until she's moving faster and more smoothly than most of the skaters around her. Her face will light up with one realization- Hey, this is easy!- followed quickly by another- Hey, this is fun! Emboldened, she'll see how long she can balance on one foot, or she'll try skating backwards, or she'll possibly even manage a shaky two-footed spin and emerge from it as excited as if she's landed a triple axel. This skater will be disappointed to the point of tears when her time on the ice is over, in sharp contrast to the rest of the children, most of whom abandon the ice in exhaustion long before the session is up. She'll rush up to her parents, not stopping to remove her skates, and she'll beg them to please, please, please let her take lessons, because this is so much more fun than ballet or piano or softball or whatever other activities currently take up her afternoons. Within a year, she'll have graduated to being one of the Sunday afternoon show-offs, and not long after that, she'll most likely have quit... but that doesn't matter, because where the skater goes from here isn't what interests me. What I come here to see is that all-important moment, that instant when the little girl or boy falls in love with skating. I come here to see the beginning of an obsession, the realization dawning on a child's face that they could do this all day, every day, and never get bored. I think, sometimes, if I witness it often enough, I might start to remember the time when I felt that way myself.

But inevitably, the public skating session ends, the rink empties, and I'm left to climb down from the stands, toss my empty coffee cup in the trash, trudge out to my car, and drive home, feeling more lost than I had when I'd arrived. Even though my father's farm is less than three miles outside of Kasson, Minnesota, I drive into town twice a week, at most- on Sundays, to visit the rink, and on Mondays for my weekly grocery run, which I make in the middle of the day when most people are in school or at work. These past three years, ever since the Sochi Olympics, I prefer to avoid conversation as much as possible... a difficult feat in a small town where everyone seems to know who Emma Lautner is, and how irredeemably I've humiliated myself. There's no sign of life at the farm. Dad's probably at his office in Rochester, trying to squeeze as much productivity out of the weekend as he can, juggling a caseload that would break most people. And even if he is home, he's probably out walking the fences, checking whether any are in need of repair. It's not like we can afford to pay someone to do that for us these days. We might not keep livestock anymore-- the last horse was sold when I was sixteen-- but Dad's a creature of habit through and through, and he likes to keep things in the best shape he can. I drive past the garage and the imposing seven-bedroom house-- noting that a few more shingles seem to be missing after the most recent storm-- and pull up alongside the one-bedroom guest cottage I call home. I park, cut the engine, and make my way along the path I shoveled for myself earlier this morning, when a February snowstorm finally blew itself out after three days. The cottage isn't locked; there's no need for security out here. I'm more likely to lock the door for privacy when I'm home than I am for safety when I'm out. Once the door is shut behind me, I sag against it, taking a deep breath, enjoying the warmth and solitude of my little home. Well... for about thirty seconds, that is, which is how long it takes for my cell phone to start ringing. I yank the phone out of my coat pocket, glance at the name, and groan. I silence the phone and stuff it back into my pocket, shrug off my coat, and hang it on the wall by the door. I slouch into the living room, where I flop down on the threadbare couch, closing my eyes. Five minutes later, someone pounds on the door, which, I remember with another groan, I haven't locked. It's thrown unceremoniously open, and my coach, Barbara Parker, a reed-thin former ballroom dancing champion, strides in on a gust of frigid February air. She slams the door behind her, and her brisk, determined footsteps announce her approach. "I need you out at the rink," she says, skipping right over her unanswered phone calls. "There's a surprise waiting for you." I roll onto my back and glare up at her. Barbara's "surprises" tend to be things like new, ridiculously hard exercises she's devised solely to torture me, and I'm not up for it today. "Barbara, I literally just walked in the door." "I know, I saw you from the house. That's why I called." I throw my arm over my eyes. "Look, if you didn't want me to know whether or not you're home whenever I need to talk to you, you shouldn't have invited me to move here." "I didn't invite you to move here," I point out, sitting up. "That was my father's idea." "And what an excellent idea it was." Barbara is infuriatingly unflappable as always. "Speaking of which, he asked me to tell you he had to drive up to Minneapolis for a couple days. He'll be back Wednesday." She nudges me with her knee. "Let's go, Emma. Time's wasting." Barbara isn't likely to leave me alone until she's revealed whatever the surprise is... so with a heavy sigh, I relent. I climb off the couch, shrug back into my coat, and follow her outside. About fifty yards from my cottage is a mammoth structure that once housed stables for the horses my father's family bred for generations... at least until, at the relentless urging of my mother, the entire operation was shut down, the horses were sold, and the stables were remodeled into a regulation-sized ice rink. The change did not endear Carolyn Lautner (already dubbed "that California bimbo" by my extended family, though they tried not to say it around me) to the Lautner clan. Even though my mom's been back in Los Angeles for three years, and even though I've been without a skating partner for most of that time, Dad's made no move to return the skating rink to its original use. And when it comes down to it, I'm just as much a creature of habit as my father, and I still come out here to train five days a week, partner or no. Inside, the rink has a slight air of neglect, though it remains serviceable. There's an ancient ice resurfacer, which I operate and which my dad's friend repairs when needed, parked at one end. Near the center of the rink's sidelines, where the judging panel would sit during a competition, is a raised plywood platform, where Barbara likes to perch and bark out instructions. I've got no idea what sort of "surprise" Barbara has planned, so I don't know what to expect as I follow her into the building and up to the edge of the ice... but whatever I'd expected, it hadn't involved a young man, whose face I can't make out at this distance, skating around on the ice I groomed myself this morning. I squint at him, trying to see if I recognize him from town, but he's at the far end of the rink and all I can tell is that he's tall, lean, and has dark hair. I turn to Barbara. "This is my surprise? Barbara, you shouldn't have." Across the ice, the skater catches sight of us and glides down the rink in our direction. He's graceful, at home on the ice, and watching the way he moves, I start to understand. "I thought you said you'd given up trying to find me a partner this close to the Olympics." "I did." "You said any senior male ice dancer would either already be paired up, or would have decided to wait until Beijing in 2022." "I thought I'd try branching out." Frowning, trying to puzzle out what Barbara means by that, I turn back to the ice. The young man skates to a graceful stop in front of us... and all the breath leaves my body. He's handsome, with large, green eyes in a narrow face, and his smile is cheerful, open, friendly. It's a smile, however, that I have no interest in ever seeing again in my life, no matter how gorgeous the face housing it might've grown to be. My chest grows tight, constricted, and I'm terrified I'm about to have my first panic attack in almost six months, right here, in front of both of them. "Emma," says Barbara, feigning total indifference to my sudden distress, "I'd like you to meet your new partner, Adam Murrow." For a moment, I can't bring myself to say anything. All I can do is stand here, hoping desperately this isn't happening, that he's not here, not standing in my ice rink as though he belongs here, as though he hadn't- "What the hell are you doing here?" I demand, my breath returning in one furious rush. I want to punch Adam Murrow right on his narrow chin, to wipe the infuriating cheerfulness out of his bright green eyes. But I've got a good idea of how Barbara would react to that, so I content myself with clenching my fists, confining the punch I'd like to throw to my imagination. "He's here at my invitation." Barbara's tone is a warning. "I contacted him after New Year's and asked if he'd be interested in coming out for a trial period." "And you didn't bother to mention this to me?" Barbara shrugs. "I didn't see the need to tell you until I knew for sure he was coming. I told him to take a few weeks to think it over, and here he is." I open my mouth, intending to demand she explain how, knowing the history between me and Adam, she could possibly have thought it would be a good idea to bring my former partner out here. Barbara's face, though, tells me exactly how that would play out, so I whirl on Adam, instead. "You're a freestyle skater now. And not even a pairs skater. What, you found out getting onto the Olympic team as a solo skater wasn't as easy as you thought, so you decided maybe you'd come running back to ice dancing?" "Um... not exactly," says Adam. "I mean... yes, I have decided to try ice dancing again, but it's not because I didn't think I could get named to the men's team on my own." He looks down, shuffling his feet. "What, then? Did you lose a bet?" I ask scathingly. "Or maybe you couldn't hack it in the big leagues? Couldn't manage the quads?" Barbara shoots me a warning look. "Adam has made the decision to give up solo freestyle skating and come back to ice dance because of some minor knee issues." She gestures for him to exit the ice. He steps out onto the rubber flooring and stands before me, shifting his weight from one foot to the other in a way that, years ago, would have told me he was nervous. "Nothing serious, not yet, but his doctor has told him if he wants to be able to get around without a wheelchair by the time he's forty, he needs to cut back on physical stress." "By which he meant, no more jumps. No more triples, and definitely no more quads," says Adam. "And since I'm not likely to qualify for anything at all, much less the Olympic team, with a program full of waltz jumps and single loops...." He shrugs. "There wasn't much point." "So, what, you thought you'd make the switch back?" "No, actually, I called him," says Barbara. I stare at her, aghast. "You contacted him and invited him to skate with me?" "I did," says Barbara, still completely calm, which infuriates me further. "And it never occurred to you to... I don't know, ask me what I thought about your brilliant idea first?" "It occurred to me, sure. But I knew you wouldn't go for it, so I decided to just do it. Adam very graciously flew all the way out here from New York on short notice, so I think you should at least give him a shot, don't you?" "Here's something else that probably should've occurred to you by the time he got here, since I've had enough time to think of it and I've only been clued into this insane idea for five minutes," I retort. "If his knees are too shot for jumping, what makes you think he'll be strong enough to do any lifts? Or are you going to suggest I be the one to lift him, instead?" "It's a completely different kind of stress on the body and you know it," says Barbara. "Lifting a one-hundred-thirty pound woman isn't exactly the same as putting six hundred pounds of pressure onto one knee for a quad jump." "And my knees aren't shot," interjects Adam. "They will be, sure, if I'm not careful, but she's right. Lifts aren't gonna be a problem, unless you've put on a hell of a lot of weight since I last saw you." He looks me up and down. "Which it doesn't look like you have." I glare at him as ferociously as I can. "You left this sport," I remind him. I want to remind him he left me, as well, but I bite that bit back. With difficulty. "I know I did." "And don't think I haven't seen the interviews you've given since then. For instance, the one where you said ice dancing is just freestyle skating with all the hard parts taken out?" "Jesus, Em." I bristle at his familiarity, the way he talks to me as though it hasn't been seven years since we've last spoken, as though he hadn't disappeared from my life and left a mess behind him. He doesn't notice. "I said that at least five years ago! I was being flip, going for an easy laugh!" "But you do think it's less difficult, don't you?" Adam rolls his eyes. "Of course not, Em." "Don't call me that." "Fine, Miss Lautner, then," he says. I keep glaring at him. "Your royal highness?" I actually take a threatening step towards him before Barbara puts a warning hand on my shoulder. "Emma. I don't think it's less difficult. I promise. It's not like I forgot everything about ice dancing the moment I switched to freestyle." You certainly forgot about me, I think, but I content myself with crossing my arms tightly and looking away. I can't stand looking at his stupidly handsome face for another second. "Adam, you can feel free to stay on the ice if you want," Barbara says. "Or if you'd rather go finish unpacking, that's fine, too. I'll have dinner on the table around six o'clock." Adam's eyebrows shoot up. "You're the coach and the cook?" "Yes, I'm the cook," says Barbara agreeably. "At least for tonight. Our budget doesn't exactly allow for a professional chef." She doesn't, thankfully, mention the other reason we take turns cooking and always eat dinner together: when she first got here, my relationship with food had been tempestuous, to say the least. "Tomorrow night, it's Emma's turn. And on Tuesday, it'll be your turn." Adam's cheerful expression falters. "I'm, uh... I'm not much of a cook." Remembering his difficulties with the simplest of recipes when we'd been younger, I can't help taking pleasure in his nervousness. "It doesn't have to be anything fancy," Barbara assures him. "It can be spaghetti with sauce from a jar, if that's all you know how to make. So once you've decided what you'll be cooking, check in the kitchen and see if we've got what you need, and if not, write it on the shopping list on the fridge." She takes my arm. "We'll see you at dinner. For now, I need to speak with Emma in private." And without waiting for a response from Adam, Barbara pulls me firmly away from the ice by the elbow. I glance over my shoulder before we leave the building. Adam's back out on the ice, gliding gracefully in slow circles, his arms held out, encircling an imaginary partner... and briefly, lost in memory, I can almost feel his hands on me, holding me firmly, but tenderly. Exactly the way his hands always had. Before. Back inside my cottage, I fall onto my couch without taking my coat off, leaning my head back, staring at the ceiling. "Why didn't you ask me what I thought before you contacted him?" I don't look at Barbara. "Because I had a pretty good idea of what your response would be." She lowers herself into my beat-up armchair. "So why go ahead with it, then? If you knew I'd be against it?" "Because, Emma, there are no viable options left at this point. There aren't many male ice dancers looking for partners only a year from the next Olympics, and any who are, well...." Her voice trails off, and the silence following her words is awkward. At the unspoken reproach in my coach's voice, a sudden stab of resentment makes me borderline nauseous. "What happened with Grant wasn't completely my fault." I lift my head, glaring at her. "Most of it wasn't your fault, kid. And as for how it ended...." She sighs. "The person who storms off the ice is always going to look like the one at fault to everyone watching. And if I'd been your coach when all of that got going, well...." She shrugs. "Let's just say, after a few days of coaching Grant, I would've known enough to advise against letting it begin in the first place." "I don't see how that's any different from blaming me for all of it, since what happened in Sochi never would've had the chance to happen if Grant and I hadn't--" "It's always a risk you take, getting involved with your partner. Even if the ending isn't as... volatile... as yours and Grant's, there's still the chance it will end. And an amicable breakup doesn't guarantee you'll still be able to skate together. If I'd been your coach, I would've told you that as soon as I suspected things were heading in that direction." "Instead of encouraging it, like Edgar did," I mumble, pulling my legs up to my chest and pressing my face into my knees. Barbara sets her mouth in a thin line, probably biting back the things she'd like to say about Edgar Fellig, her predecessor... but, as always, she holds her tongue. "No point living in the past" is one of Barbara's favorite personal affirmations. Except now, thanks to Barbara, my past will be living with me. "How do you know he won't bail the second something goes wrong?" I demand. "Last time, I'd been injured barely a week, and that was long enough for him to start auditioning new partners. Jesus, Barbara, he was skating with someone else the day after I left the hospital!" "You might want to remember you weren't completely innocent in what happened," Barbara cautions, and I bristle. "I can't think of anything I could have said that would justify abandoning your partner of eight years just because she got hurt." I'd like to say something much more cutting, but I can't risk driving Barbara away. Plus... it's not like she's completely wrong. "In any case," Barbara sighs, "you've got two choices. You can give Adam a chance, and have a shot at being ready in time for Nationals and getting selected for the Olympic team... or you can wait five more years for the Beijing games, and hope the gossip dies down enough by then for you to find someone else to skate with." "Wait for the gossip to die down? In this community?" I shake my head. "Fifteen years wouldn't be enough time for that, let alone five." "Then I guess you can either give my idea a try... or give up." I glare at her. "I am not giving up. If I never skate again, then Grant wins. Edgar wins. My mother wins." I shake my head. "Giving up isn't an option." I drop my feet heavily to the floor, leaning my elbows on my knees. Barbara's right: as much as I would've preferred never to set eyes on my former partner again, giving Adam a second chance is my only viable option. But being around him, day after day, spending hours on end together, in near-constant physical contact.... I promised myself, years ago, that if I ever got the chance to confront Adam over the way he'd walked away from me, I wouldn't do it. It would be an acknowledgement of how much his desertion had hurt me. Hurt me? Hell, it had destroyed me. But letting Grant win? That would destroy me even further. I look up at Barbara, resigned. "Fine. But I don't want him given any slack, okay? I'm sure he's got it in his head this is gonna be easy, and I have no interest in holding his hand and comforting him when he finds out how wrong he is." Barbara nods, satisfied. "Good." She stands. "I'll see you at the house for dinner, all right?" I wince. The idea of sitting across from- or worse, next to- Adam is the least appetizing thing I can think of. What the hell are we supposed to talk about? "I think I'll skip eating with everyone else tonight," I say, even though I know exactly how well that's going to go over. "Not an option and you know it." "I've got food in my fridge." "And you can eat it later, if you need a snack. But dinner is at the house at six, every night. That was one of my conditions when I agreed to be your coach, and I'm not letting up on it because you're in a bad mood." Sullenly, I nod, and Barbara, zipping her coat back up, lets herself out. I lean back and close my eyes. Somehow, even though I haven't done much today, I'm exhausted. The thought of going to my room, collapsing into bed, and napping until dinner is tempting, but if I do that, I'll probably end up lying awake for hours later tonight when it's actually time for bed. There's nothing to be gained by putting off the inevitable. I trudge outside and return to the rink. Adam's still on the ice, skating slowly, only now, instead of practicing partner holds on his own, he's frowning down at his feet as he moves. When he glances up, catching sight of me, he looks nervous, but he skates over all the same. "You don't look too sure of yourself out there," I tell him bluntly. "Moving pretty slowly. I thought you said your knees weren't that bad?" "They're not. I'm getting used to the different blades again, that's all." I follow his gaze down to the smaller toe pick and shorter blades of his ice dancing boots. "I've already fallen over backwards once. I keep expecting there to be more blade back there to catch me." "That's not encouraging." For the first time, Adam looks irritated. His mouth turns down and his eyes narrow. It's an expression I remember well from our teenage years, though he rarely aimed it at me. "Look, I know you don't have any reason to be excited I'm here," he says. "I get it. I'm obviously not your first choice of partner, and I don't blame you, but I do think you have to get over yourself at some point. Especially if we're gonna be skating together." I'm so furious, I can't speak. I close my eyes, breathing deeply, trying to master my temper, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing he's gotten to me. "I have to get over myself?" "I'd say you do, yeah." "No, Adam, I don't think I do. What I need is a partner who actually wants to be here, not someone who sees this as a last resort if they can't get to the Olympics any other way. I need a partner who knows how much hard work is in front of him and isn't afraid to put in the time." "And what makes you think I see this as a last resort? What makes you think I'm not ready to work as hard as I need to? You think I spent all my time as a freestyle skater slacking off and joking around for TV reporters? I worked my ass off trying to get onto the men's team." "Why haven't you yet, then?" I'm verging on being truly unkind, but I don't care. "Why's this going to be your first Olympics? You were old enough to go to Sochi in 2014, so why didn't you qualify then?" Adam glares at me. "Why didn't you?" he retorts. For a second, I see red. How dare he? "You know damn well that I did go." "That's right, I do," says Adam coldly. "I know you qualified, I know you went to Sochi, I know why your short dance was a disaster, and I know why you didn't finish the competition. Everyone knows. So I'd appreciate it if you could knock it off with your holier-than-thou attitude. We don't have to like each other, but we do have to work together, and that's gonna be hard to do if you're spending every minute acting like I've somehow insulted you and everything you stand for by trying to have a skating career of my own." He turns away, skating back towards the center of the ice. "See you at dinner," he calls over his shoulder. I contemplate shouting some scathing retort at him. I debate storming out there after him and giving him a good, hard shove, knocking him on his ass on the ice. I think about maybe climbing on the Zamboni and running him over... but in the end, I do none of those things. I whirl on my heel, stalk out of the rink, and stand outside in the darkening Minnesota afternoon, allowing the frigid wind to cool my cheeks, reddened with fury... and with shame.

#Opening chapter #I wrote the first draft of this novel in three months #Then rewrote it six times #Got as far as a revise & resubmit offer with my dream agency #Shelved it when that didn't work out #Moved on to other projects #Contemplating self-publishing it now #Would anyone buy it?

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thinkyoureholy · 5 years

Text

The Phoenix [3]

Pairing : Park Chanyeol / [Fem] Reader

Genre : Angst, Violence, Language, Fluff, Smut, Character Death?, Fantasy! AU

Words : 2.2k

Pt 1. Pt 2. Pt 3. Pt 4. Pt 5. Pt 6.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

-Chanyeol’s P.O.V-

I groaned as I leaned forward, grabbing onto Jongin’s arm tightly, “Man, I hate doing that.”

He chuckled as he watched me swallow the bile that threatened to spill from my lips, “We could always just ride back on our horses but you’re adamant about using me as your means of transportation.”

“Using you is faster…”

“Yeah well then stop complaining.” He said, slapping my back.

I gagged when that simple slap had me wanting to throw up the contents of my stomach. I clutched my stomach and clasped a hand over my mouth, refusing to let anything out as I glared up at him, my crimson red eyes glowing. He grinned at my silent threat, knowing he’s the only one that could get away with virtually anything. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, opening my eyes once the nauseating feeling finally went away.

“So what do you make of her darkness?” He asked, knowing that had caught me off guard the most.

I sighed heavily, straightening out and combed my fingers through my hair, “What do you mean what do I make of it? I don’t know anything about it, it seems more dangerous than all her other powers combined. It had him twisting around in there…”

I trailed off, placing a hand over my heart. My phoenix was still restless and we were as far away from her as we could get, her darkness couldn’t touch us here so why was it still so restless? Just knowing that that darkness of hers had it wanting to hide away in fear had a sinking feeling fill the pit of my stomach. The image on my back began to burn at the thought of that darkness coming after me one of these days...that’s why I had to get rid of her before she even got the chance.

"It didn't seem that intimidating to me," Jongin said, his voice sounding nonchalant about this whole thing, "Besides, I'm sure that phoenix of yours could destroy it with relative ease."

I said nothing, staring down at my hand as a small flame ignited in the middle of my open palm. At least someone believes in my power…

“Why do you want to train all of a sudden?” Jongdae asked, dragging his feet as he walked over to me.

“I thought you said you were all powerful and didn’t need to do such trivial things like train.” Baekhyun said, running his hand through his hair, leaning back against the tree behind him.

“I still stand by that.” I said, shrugging my shirt off and rolling my bare shoulders, loosening up.

“He just doesn’t want to be out done by the ice queen...isn’t that right, brother?” Jongin asked, a smirk etched onto his face.

“Oh shut up you brat. I just think it’s important to stay in shape, okay?”

Jongin snickered, crossing his arms over his chest, “Uh huh.”

I rolled my eyes, cracking my knuckles, “Alright if you’re all done let’s get started,” I said, beckoning them over with a wave of my hand.

“All of us?”

“At the same time?”

I smirked at Jongdae and Baekhyun’s words, nodding my head. They shared a look with each other, Jongin being the only one that immediately got into a fighting stance, “You heard the king boys, let’s give him our all.”

My eyes glowed when they nodded at each other, their powers beginning to manifest themselves. A grin spread across my face, the wings that had been engraved into my arms spread out wide, my phoenix showing itself. The bird let out an ear piercing screech, towering over me and staring down at the others. While it’s fire consumed my right arm sparks of lightning came off my left, a lightning bolt striking the ground by my foot. My eyes glowed brighter than before, my light shining blindly as I stared out into the field, noticing that Jongin had already disappeared. He suddenly reappeared behind me, ready to strike but my phoenix cut him off, throwing him back with a flick of its wings. While my phoenix was preoccupied with Jongin I focused on Baekhyun and Jongdae. Jongdae’s left eye glowed a bright yellow, lightning forming on his fingertips just as he dug them into the ground, the ground rumbling underneath me, multiple bolts of lightning raining down over me. I couldn’t hide the smile that pulled at the corners of my lips, he probably thought that was enough to subdue me. I bent my knees and waited for the right moment before jumping up into the air. When I did this my phoenix engulfed my entire body, it’s wings providing cover for me. With it covering me I put the entirety of my power into it so it could burn hotter than before. Its flames were so strong it consumed Jongdae’s lightning strike, the sheer force of the fire knocking them all off their feet. I grinned almost maniacally, spreading my arms out, the phoenix doing the same as I opened my eyes wide, a blinding light casting over them. In those seconds that they were blinded I let a lightning strike of my own rain down over them and just as it was about to hit them the bolts of lightning vanished into thin air, the light dimming. My phoenix let out one final screech before setting me down, my fire slowly burning out as it took its place on my back and arms once more, its wings engraved into my arms as his body took residence on my back.

“Have you ever heard of holding the fuck back?! I didn’t even get to do anything! There’s no point to training if your use up all your strength from the very beginning!” Baekhyun shouted, his tone turning more into a whine the longer he spoke as his iridescent rainbow colored right eye glowed brightly, changing colors every time he moved his head.

“You’re too slow, Jongdae and Jongin both got to show something.”

“Well maybe because their powers are more suited to fighting long range! Mine is for close combat!”

“Uh...so is mine…” Jongin said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m pretty useless for long range attacks…”

Baekhyun glared at Jongin, Jongin smiling timidly under his gaze. I chuckled at Baekhyun’s countless excuses. He never wanted to admit defeat...even when there was nothing he could’ve done against my attack even if he had launched an attack of his own it would’ve been useless. I opened my mouth to tease him some more but instead of words coming out a groan fell from my lips. I stumbled back, falling to my knees as I doubled over, shit, I must’ve pushed myself too far. I tried to suppress the memory that tried to resurface, memories I had locked away years ago would crawl they’re way out every time I used all my powers simultaneously. I clawed at the sides of my head, their shouts of worry being drowned out.

……

I brought my knees up to my chest, curling in on myself as I covered my ears with my hands. I was shaking violently, my father’s voice thundering in the enclosed space. He knelt down and grabbed at the collar of my shirt, pulling me up off the floor, my feet dangling in the air helplessly.

“How could a child as weak as you possibly be my son?” He asked through clenched teeth, his crimson red eyes drilling holes into my own eyes, “You’re a disgrace to all phoenixes that came before you. At your age I was already able to use all three of my powers at once but you can’t even summon your phoenix? Pathetic.”

“Father, please, I-I can do it...just--just give me one more chance.”

He scoffed, his grip on my shirt tightening, “One more chance? I’ve given you more than you deserve already and you’re begging for another? You’re brother shows more potential and he’s still a toddler. You are six already, Chanyeol, if you don’t show improvement by the end of the year then so help me-”

“I will! I will I promise! I promise…” I cried out, the tears that I had been holding back falling.

He set his jaw at my words before letting me go. I fell to the floor with a thud, a whimper leaving my lips. He didn’t say a word as he turned his back on me, pulling a key out of his pocket. My face paled at the sight of the key, my heart plummeting to the pit of my stomach as if caught the light. I scrambled to my feet, running after him before he could close the door but I wasn’t fast enough as he closed the door in my face. I began to sob at the sound of the lock clicking into place. I banged against the door with my fists, desperately wanting to escape the dark room. I cried and screamed to be let out but my screams were unheard. I sank to my knees, sob after sob shaking my entire body.

“Let me out.”

“P-Please.”

……

“I’m scared.” I let out under my breath, my voice barely audible.

I felt a pair of warm hands clasp onto my face, forcing me to look up into a pair of onyx colored eyes, “Hey...Chan...you’re okay...deep breaths okay?”

I followed the way he inhaled deeply through his nose and exhaled slowly through his mouth until I got my breathing back under control. My heart rate slowed down as well as I finally came to my senses. I looked around to see Jongdae and Baekhyun hovering over me, worried looks in their eyes, their glowing eyes now dim. I bowed my head in embarrassment, pushing Jongin’s hands away from me as I rubbed my hands over my face roughly. A low grown resonated from deep within my throat, my ears burning red. I stood up without a word, turning on my heel and walked away from them. Instead of heading for the palace I headed for the forest, ignoring their calls.

I couldn’t bring myself to face them after showing them that brief moment of weakness. I tried so hard to bury all those memories down so deep they’d have no way of coming back up but every time I used my power, all of my power a new memory would be unlocked. It’s like I was playing a fucking game of toss up every time, bracing myself for whatever memory happened to come up.

My father was a ruthless man...you’ll never see me step up to defend the man that scarred me emotionally and mentally. He was a good king but he was a lousy father. He was obsessed over creating the perfect phoenix, going and on and on about how the perfection has yet to be reached and he was hell bent on making it so his oldest son was that perfect phoenix he had envisioned since he was a child. He locked me in that damn room until the day before my seventh birthday, my phoenix having manifested by then. My phoenix...it was the biggest phoenix my father had ever seen, bigger than his and bigger than my grandfather’s. It was powerful as well, its mere presence had people shaking like a leaf on a windy day. No one could believe that a child could hold that much power, praising me for finally reaching my true potential but they had no idea. They had no idea that my father would lock me in a pitch black room for days on end. They had no idea how, as a child, I was terrified out of my mind in that room. They had no idea that my phoenix was only that strong because I had to survive. They didn’t know how weak it was when it first showed itself to me. They didn’t know how hard I worked to get it to be as strong as my father wanted it to be. These thoughts clouded my mind as I walked through the forest aimlessly, losing track of time.

Just as I thought to head back to the palace after hours of walking around I heard the sound of leaves and twigs snapping from behind the treeline. I froze at the sound, finally looking around at my surroundings. I cursed under my breath at the unfamiliar woods that surrounded me, this wasn’t my side of the forest anymore. I had unknowingly crossed over into her territory.

I tried to backtrack and leave before she saw me but I stopped as soon as I saw her pure white hair shining in the moonlight through the trees. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from her as I watched in silence, the wind blowing through her hair perfectly. The moon highlighted her stunning features, my heart racing the longer I stared. The moment I caught a glimpse of her eyes and of that smile that pulled at the corners of her lips I clenched my hands at my sides, the wind knocked out of me. I could hear my phoenix screeching at me from the back of my mind but it was useless, not I really couldn’t bring it in me to leave. Instead I did something stupid and said something even dumber.

I gave myself away as I spoke from within the cover of the trees, watching as he eyes zoned in on the place I was hiding in, “I wondered who was walking through the forest this late at night but that white hair of yours is a dead give away,”

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imaginedisish · 5 years

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Heroes (Stefan Butler x Reader) (Bandersnatch)

A/N: Alrighty...here it is...the long awaited Stefan x Reader fic...the last imagine of the weekend! I LOVE DAVID BOWIE SO AN ANON REQUESTED THIS AND I ACTUALLY SCREAMED NGL. Also, I just wanted to thank everyone for the love so far. I’ve written fanfics before, but never like this. I don’t feel forced to put out things…and I feel much better getting requests as opposed to having to think of everything on my own. Tumblr has a much different vibe than fanfic.net and wattpad, and I love it sooooo much. Stefan x Reader was heavily requested so I figured I needed to feed da people. While I’m super into writing for Bandersnatch, and love writing for Bandersnatch the most, my next two fics will most likely be two anon requests: one about Donnie Darko, and another about Alex Turner. (DON’T WORRY MY FELLOW BANDERSNATCH LOVERS, I’LL WRITE HEAD CANONS TO KEEP YOU ALIVE…and i have an idea for my first multi-part Bandersnatch fic sooo…get ready for a “BIZARRE LOVE TRIANGE”….) For now…enjoy this Stefan x Reader imagine, guys…

Summary: Your an art student, and you have chosen to paint a portrait of Bowie for your final project. However, things go horribly wrong…that is until Stefan is there to help :)

Warnings: Panic attacks, minimal to medium angst, lots of language, fluff!

Word Count: 1,688

Your brush dances ever so carefully across the bright, white canvas. David Bowie’s “Heroes” blasts throughout your flat.

Outside your window, the rest of South London decided it was time to turn in for the night. You imagine small children crawling into bed, begging their mothers or fathers for one more story…just one more.

But not you, you wouldn’t be sleeping tonight. Your eyes struggled to stay open as you began to add more shading to your portrait of David Bowie.

You fell in love with Bowie’s music and his entirely fantastical persona at a young age. Maybe it was his voice, or his lyrics, or perhaps his message of artistic integrity and being yourself regardless of what others say that made you so obsessed with the Starman.

Regardless of what exactly made you love Bowie, he was the reason you had the confidence to make your move to the UK. He was the reason you decided to apply to art school in the first place.

So, when your professor announced that your final project of the year would be a portrait of someone that has impacted your life greatly, Bowie instantly came to mind.

Without Bowie, where the hell would you be? You most likely would be back in the States, going to a university you had no interest in, pursuing a major you hated, in a relationship with a boy you could never love as much as you love…him.

Oh yes, him. Stefan Butler. Without Bowie, you couldn’t have ever met Stefan. He was your Moonage Daydream, your Modern Love, he was yours. He was so kind and soft and caring.

When Stefan needs you, you’re there in an instant. He needs you quite often, to be completely honest, but you never mind. You understand that his past traumas plague him, and you want to help him more than anything else in the world. And, naturally, without Bowie, you would never be able to do so. You owed so much to that magnificently talented man.

And yet this painting of him was slowly becoming a pain in the ass.

I need to get this done, You remind yourself. Tomorrow is just hours away.

Unfortunately, you feel as though your hours of painting have led to absolutely nothing. You step back from the painting in an attempt to see it better. However, the more you step back, the more wrong things seem to be.

“This…this just isn’t right,” you mutter under you breath. A feeling of distress creeps under your skin and eventually pushes itself into every part of your body. You reach for the grey paint, and apply it forcefully to where you think you need it.

You don’t realize it isn’t actually grey paint until you remove the brush from the canvas.

“What the fuck?” Now you’re fuming with anger. “This can’t be happening…no no no no no!” You fall to the ground sobbing, your head smashing into your hands.

A large, vibrant, pink slash of paint displays itself in the middle of your grey, “Heroes” album cover painting.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go, and you know that. You simply sob on the floor of your flat, as the creativity you had earlier in the day leaves, and replaces itself with total and utter sadness and disappointment.

Then, for some reason, you decide to look over to the alarm clock next to your brass, queen bed.

2:00 am

“Oh no, god no!” You shout, expecting your neighbors to be at your door any second now to complain about all the noise.

Your throat quickly begins to close up, and your heart beats out of your chest. You haven’t had a panic attack since you left the States, but the feeling was familiar nonetheless. You try to scream, but you just can’t.

A million thoughts race around your mind at once. Every bad experience, relationship, argument, and situation you’ve ever gone been in or gone through resurface in your mind. You simply don’t know how much you can endure before you fall apart, or worse…

“No, no I can’t think like that, I just can’t,” you whisper to yourself.

Before your old, depressive thoughts begin to come back to haunt you, you reach for your phone, and dial the number you know will fix everything.

“(Y/N)? It’s two in the morning, is everything all right?” Stefan’s voice is hurried and panicked. He knows something is wrong.

“I fucked up, Stefan, so terribly terribly bad,” You’re voice is unsteady and hoarse. You struggle to get your words out as you sob to Stefan.

“(Y/N) tell me what happened.” Stefan was beyond worried now.

“It-it’s my p-painting. I-,” you take a deep breath before continuing, “I n-need you, n-now.” You sniffle audibly.

“H-hold tight, k-keep breathing. I’m on m-my way.” Stefan hangs up. You try to do as he says, but it’s no use. You feel your depressive, almost suicidal thoughts begin to push through the barriers you worked so hard to put up.

No, stopping thinking like that! You think to yourself, squeezing your eyes shut in attempt to free yourself from your intrusive thoughts. You throw your head back into your hands.

Less than five minutes pass by, when a soft knock echoes through your studio flat.

“C-come i-in,” you croak. Stefan slowly pushes the door open. His fluffy brown hair is a mess, and his dark circles highlight the emerald-ness of his wide, puppy dog eyes. He’s wearing black shorts and a baggy black sweatshirt. His long, bright yellow socks pop out against his black converse.

You obviously woke him up, and now you felt like you were being a bothersome girlfriend. You are the one who is supposed to help him. It isn’t supposed to be the other way around. Guilt begins to fill your stomach.

“(Y/N), m-my god,” he paused, looking at your beet red face and puffy eyes, tears streaming down your cheeks. He rushes over to you, and holds you tightly in his arms. “I’m here now, let it out, it-it’s okay.”

You sob violently into his chest. You don’t know what else to do. In fact, you realize there is literally nothing else you can do.

You separate from him for a moment, and nod towards your now adulterated painting.

“L-look at it. I’m going to fail, Stefan. It’s due tomorrow. It’s worth 70% of my final grade and I’m going to fail,” You say in a soft, factual whisper. He shakes his head.

“I see nothing but amazing artwork, (Y/N),” Stefan replies. You grow angry again.

He’s just lying to you, you think to yourself. It’s absolute shit! Anyone could see that. Yell at him, scream!

“Bullshit!” You cry out in a rage, scooting away from him and getting up. You want to punch something, a wall maybe.

“(Y/N), s-stop,” Stefan pleads softly, getting up from the floor as well. You ignore him, and start to pace the floor. You can’t stand yourself now. Your hands begin to shake. You wish everything would just disappear.

“Fucking hell I hate thi-,”

“I said STOP!” Stefan screams this time, cutting you off. Stefan was usually so soft, so timid. In this moment, he was the opposite.

You stare at him with wide eyes. He nervously reaches up to pull on his ear lobe. His emerald eyes become glossy.

“I-I’m sorry I-I didn’t m-mean t-to-,” Stefan starts to apologize, but you quickly cut him off.

“No, n-no I am. You were just trying to help and I screamed at you. I’m just so sor-,” the second half of your “sorry” is muffled into Stefan’s chest as he rushes towards you and captures you in his arms.

He smells like peppermint and roses. His scent relaxes you and you practically fall limp in his embrace. He kisses your forehead lightly, and rubs your back gently. You stay that way for what feels like hours, even though it was most likely only a few minutes.

“We can figure this out, things are going to be fine, I’m going to help you,” Stefan coos in your ear. You melt to the sound his voice.

Feeling much more calm now, you and Stefan separate. Stefan makes his way over to the painting staring at it for a few seconds.

“Aladdin Sane,” is all that comes out of Stefan’s mouth.

“Hmm? What about it?” You weren’t sure what he meant.

“The pink streak it reminds me of ‘Aladdin Sane' record cover,” Stefan states rather factually.

Then, it hits you.

“Stefan, you’re a genius! An absolute genius!” You scream, but happily this time. You run over to him, cupping his cheeks and pulling him into a kiss.

“I should be a genius more often then,” Stefan says smiling widely, blushing intensely.

Stefan stays with you as you continue your painting, watching you, making sure you don’t overwork yourself. He checks in with you every now and again to see if everything is okay. Of course, now that he was with you, everything was completely fine. Your confidence and inspiration was back.

Around four in the morning, the painting is finally complete. You step back and smile as Stefan joins you by your side. He wraps his arm around your shoulder.

“Its absolutely, stunning, (Y/N),” Stefan says, his eyes twinkling even in the low, poor lighting of your flat.

The painting was a fuse of the “Aladdin Sane” and “Heroes” album covers. You felt fulfilled and happy with your work, and it was all thanks to Stefan, your hero.

“I love you so much,” Stefan says, pulling you closer to him.

“I love you more,” You say in return.

Stefan simply shakes his head.

“Impossible. It would be impossible even in an alternate timeline, in-, in an alternate universe, (Y/N). That is infinitely and eternally impossible.”

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themostcleverandwittyname · 5 years

Text

There’s Power in Pain

CH1 CH2 CH3 CH4 CH5 CH6 CH7 CH8 CH9 CH10

CH11 CH12

Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess

(LinkxOC)

Summary:

A farmer with a troubled past had found a fallen hero on a riverside and makes the decision to take him in. With Ganondorf gathering power by the minute, there is no time to delay in his defeat however there is a time and place for everything as well as a lesson to learn. Link will have to do the hardest thing he has ever done and that is wait until he is ready to defeat Ganondorf.

But will Link ever truly be ready to rely on help to do the impossible? To accept that even heroes need support even from the most unlikely of people?

Meanwhile, a group of thieves organize to steal the sacred sword of the Hero of Destiny for themselves.

Chapter 12: Canteen

Chapter 12 on AO3

Annette was laid over her horse, her arms dangling at the sides. The sun had set and they had been on horseback for over an hour. She was certain that a bruise had already formed on her back from being slammed into the table. Link hadn’t said much after that, quietly playing his flute on the ride, exploring different songs that he knew. Several of them were so unique and she had never heard them, but when she asked where he learned them, he just responded that his mentor taught him and went back to playing. She had hoped that their outing would be a good one, and for several reasons it was.

Link had gotten his clawshots back, crossing off another item from the list. Seriously, she wished she had half his luck. They had no hitch in running errands and she was able to hustle some arrows out of Beedle, something she counted as a personal victory. But at the same time, the ache she felt from their little tussle in the cafe was enough to sour just a part of her day and she was certain Link was no happier about it than she was. She was still impressed that he knocked that guy out with a punch, yet she hoped for Link’s sake that he hadn’t overdone it.

One of the worst things, if she had to categorize, was learning that Ganondorf had not fully been vanquished. She almost felt silly, naive for thinking that such a hateful man could be snuffed out so soon. Yet, she believed the worst part of it all was the guilt smeared on Link’s face as he had told her. As if he were to blame for the return of Ganon when no one else dared to do anything about it.

It made her think on the horse ride, her doubts coming to full circle. Link’s behavior was now fully explained.

What if, by insisting that he rest up and being concerned for his health, she was tampering with fate. Was his fate just to be a tool? A weapon? She wondered if she was doing the world an injustice by treating him like a person instead of a hero. Was that so bad? Still, she would feel to blame if he ran off and fell in battle because he didn’t fully recover. She began to wonder if anyone from his home urged him to rest, insisted that he stay safe. He had never mentioned anyone and she realized that she had no clue what his life was like. She didn’t know who his friends were or what he did outside of hurting himself. He had mentioned a friend once, but he never went into it in any depth.

The soft notes of the pan flute ceased and Annette looked up, seeing her house in view around a bend of trees, the gas lantern that she kept lit outside glowed a dull yellow. A beacon in the night. She was grateful to Cordial, who knew the way home and had led them there even in the dark. She was a smart horse and sometimes Annette wondered if she took her for granted. Evidently, Epona was equally as loyal, following along without diverging. Link hadn’t exactly been tugging on the reigns, but his horse still knew where to go.

Putting his flute away, the blonde gathered himself and was ready to dismount his stead as they came to the small stables. Straightening up, Annette prepared herself to hop down and take care of both of the horses, but Link had beat her to it. Although the crescent moon didn’t offer much light, she could still see the firmness of his face. He didn’t look particularly happy.

“Let me board the horses. I’ll be inside in a bit.” He spoke quietly, and Annette could already tell that no argument could be made. He probably wanted alone time and she couldn’t say anything against it. Without acknowledging his words, she took a breath and hopped down from her saddle, taking the accumulation of bags from the day’s shopping as Link took Cordial’s reins. With another glance at the blonde, whose back was turned as he headed towards the stables, she walked inside and set the bags down before she lit a lantern to illuminate the kitchen.

Busying herself with putting away the various bread, farm-fresh veggies, and smoked meats, she felt the exhaustion fall onto her shoulders and each movement strained at her sore back. She scowled to herself and put the kettle over a new flame, cherishing the heat of the burnt-out match in her fingers. Some tea and the cookies she had bought would help her to relax, she concluded, and sat at the round table waiting for the familiar whistle of her kettle, having to sit at an odd angle as to not hurt her sore back. Thoughts of the day spun through her mind as she got lost in thought.

Her heart dropped when she recalled the conversation at the restaurant, despite wanting to shake it from her mind. It wouldn’t help her relax but no matter how she tried, it resurfaced again. Everything Gerudo had worked for in the past fifteen years to renew what had been destroyed by the evil king and now there was the possibility he could come back and finish his wreckage. It was the decision of the Gerudo people to ultimately have him executed, and she was sure that a betrayal like that wouldn’t leave his mind.

She jumped when she heard the side door shut behind her and immediately felt silly for being startled. Under normal circumstances, in her fright she may have uttered some smart remark or insult but her scare drew attention to her back and she instead bit back a groan. The blonde gave her a look and glanced over at the kettle. Hoping that he wouldn’t say anything, she opened her mouth to ask him if he wanted cookies, but he was quicker.

“Your back hurts doesn’t it?” He asked, but from his inclination, she could tell he already knew. There was no way he could watch her get shoved into a table like that and not wonder if she was sore afterward, but she was surprised he brought it up. She looked at him in contemplation on whether or not she should admit that it hurt or just chalk it up to being nothing more than a little bump.

Scoffing aloud, she got to her feet and slid the chair under the table as she headed to the counter to fiddle with a teacup, as if preparing it further.

“Of course it hurts. It will be sore for a few days, but I’ll be fine. Now, do you want tea and cookies or should I count you out?” She answered short and anything but sweet, but she didn’t want sympathy for it.

There was a moment of silence and she wondered if she should have been more sensitive, yet the blonde behind her spoke again, her focus on the teacup.

“At least tell me why those guys were looking for a fight. It can’t be just because they were bored and “asses”, as you put it.” he asked, folding his arms and wincing a bit at the movement, his broken arm still bothersome to him. Annette shut her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. What was she gonna say now? After a deep breath, she began to give her vague, detached response.

“There are a lot of things in Termina to do and it is more dangerous than Hyrule is, especially Clock town. Let’s just say that along with an unhealthy obsession with swords, my brother also had bad friends who unfortunately thought that by extension I was also their friend. Nothing more than a conflict of interests.” She explained and was ready to shoot down any further prodding. She didn’t want to get into it this evening and she was sure Link didn’t want to hear it either. Their day had held enough bad news and foul situations.

“A conflict of interests, huh? I know about that but none of mine ever ended with smashing a teacup on someone’s head.” he said, and she could tell he was trying to deflect the mood. He gave her a little smile and then motioned with his hand. “Can I have a look at your back? It’s only fair considering you’re always on my case about my injuries.” He said softly and she looked away, feeling guilty for being so harsh with him about his concern. It wasn’t a bad thing that he wanted to make sure she was okay, so why was she so defensive? She couldn’t answer it for herself. Since when was it okay for her to worry about him but be mean when he did the same? Under any other circumstances, she would be quick to accept her own hypocrisy, but she was too tired and felt they both needed to relax. Arguing over letting him help her wasn’t on her agenda this evening.

“Fine, if you must. It’s hardly an injury so you can’t compare it to you.” she began and then mentally scolded herself, finding herself do it again. “Thanks for your concern anyway.” she concluded, hoping the addition would soften her statement. The swordsman approached and taking a cue, she folded the back of her shirt up for him to take a look. He hummed to himself in his inspection. “What’s the status back there?” Bruise?” she asked, not really liking the uncomfortable judgment of her injury.

“Bruise.” He confirmed. Before anything else was said, a prodding finger poked at her back and the pressure was a little more than uncomfortable. She took in a breath and was about to say something scalding before a question fell from him, “Does that hurt?”

“Of course it does! What did you thi-” she was cut off with another question, her sarcastic remark stunted before she could get into it.

“Do you have a canteen?” his question left her dumbfounded for a moment. Letting her shirt fall back over her bruise, she gave him a look.

“Canteen? What do you want that for?” She asked, as he looked over her shoulder at the countertops for what she assumed was a canteen. He, still searching, gave a small response as he stepped forward and began to rummage through the cabinets. She stood back and watched as he explained himself.

“For your back. Filling it with hot water and pressing it to your back will help some. I used to do that when I would go on journeys and got hurt. You’ll see.” he stated, things that he moved around clinked and clanged in the cabinets and Annette herself was trying to recall where she would have put a canteen.

“It’s not really worth all the trouble, but I admit it is a nice thought. Knock yourself out.” she resigned, giving an unseen wave of the hand as the kettle whistle began to rise in volume. As she pulled the kettle from its perch, she heard a quiet aha from Link. He had found a canteen. As soon as he had found it, he spun around and took the kettle from her, not asking for it by any means. She huffed and waited for the kettle to return so she could make her tea, Link focusing to pour the boiling water through the mouth of the metal container. She was half expecting him to miss the mark and spill hot water on his hand, but he was accident-free.

With the canteen filled, he handed her the kettle and took a step back to secure the cap nice and tight. Without a word, he left the room to go fetch something and she, having never gotten an answer on whether or not he wanted tea, waited for his return as she stirred sugar into her drink.

Returning with a towel wrapped canteen, he presented it to her and all she could offer was a small thanks. With his care done, he tried to subdue a yawn and she knew what he would say next.

“It’s been a long day, so I’m going to bed. What about you?” he asked, stopping in the kitchen doorway. Balancing her tea, cookies, and warm canteen in her hands, she shook her head.

“I don’t believe I can sleep yet. You were up early so I bet you’re beyond sleepy. Goodnight and thank you for the, er, canteen.” she said, setting her cup and saucer down with a clink next to her armchair. He hummed in acknowledgment and almost looked as if he was going to ask her why. She settled herself down in her comfy seat, paying more attention to the call of her cookies than to whether or not he’d ask.

“Don’t stay up too late.” He said, finally, slinking off to bed, the sound of the door clicking behind him left her mind to shift into her thoughts. With some inspection of the canteen, the warmth nicely insulated in the towel, she decided it was worth a shot and placed it under her back, letting the warmth dwindle there.

Cherishing the tea and cookies, she could now cherish the steady warmth of the canteen as it helped her soreness fade. It was a different kind of warmth than that of evening tea because this time she hadn’t done it just for herself.

...

The soft chirps of birds outside greeted Link as he stretched, pulling himself up to sit on the bed. Rolling his shoulder, he had decided that after some time of lying in bed and soaking in the comfort of the pillow it was time to get up. His injured arm was stiff and sore, but it was no where close to as painful as it had been the previous morning.

In his time of lying around, he had heard no clinks or thumps from Annette in the other rooms and he wondered again if he had woken before she had. Judging by the light that streamed in through the windows, the clear and bright light was not golden enough for it to be dawn. In other words, he had slept late. Taking to his feet, he continued to stretch his arms and the pain of his left was more bearable. A good sign.

Taking his arm as a signal, he pulled his shirt over his head and unraveled the bandages around his torso. Slowly but surely, they came off and he used the mirror to help him inspect his chest. The gashes were now healed and only in smaller, diminished spots were streaks of scabs. None that would be affected by movement. The bruises from the bublin incident by the creek were faded, yet still tinged his flesh blue and purple hues. The only thing that remained so clearly was new, pink scars and older, lightened scars from previous injuries. Part of him didn’t mind so much the scars that littered his body, yet some of them still felt painful through the memories he had with them. They were earned out of dark times and harsh battles. One scar, in particular, was particularly soured by memory, as it was at Ganondorf’s hand. A paled scar just under his collarbone.

Trying not to dwell on it too much, he happily threw the bandages aside and looked through the dresser and scrutinized the many shirts he had pushed aside of Annette’s brother. Some of the things didn’t match his style, if Link even had a style. He wore what he liked and it was that simple. Finding something suitable for his taste, he pulled a sleeveless blue Hylian style shirt on and brushed his fingers through his hair before casting a glance to his sword, which lay atop the trunk in the room. He had never opened the trunk, as he didn’t feel like sneaking around when the brunette woman had trusted him without much effort. Taking his sword in hand, he made his mind up how he’d spend his day if he were stuck here until his tunic was tailored.

Stepping out of the room, he looked around the living room and peered into the kitchen, finding no trace of the brunette. He stepped to the window and looked out to where the stables were, her horse was present. Scratching the back of his neck, he stepped over to the door to her bedroom, where he had never entered. Giving a knock, he heard no response. After not enough deliberation, he cracked the door open and looked inside to find her bed absent. It was the first time he had ever looked in her room so he took a moment to give it a fair sight.

Her bed had not been made and she had an abundance of pillows. It was not a traditional bed, with a frame and bedposts like Nal’s old room was, but rather more of a large round and fluffy cushion that was perhaps twice the size of a normal bed and it was decorated with pops of color and woven blankets. A yellow and red quilt covered most of it. If he had to guess, it was a Gerudo thing. He noted that with the number of pillows and cushions, it had to be cozy. Among the very odd bed, she had a vanity with loads of golden jewelry, wooden knobs held necklaces and earrings. Given that the odd bed took up nearly half the room, it was understandable that she didn’t have more clutter, but he supposed that what the bookcase in the living room was for.

He reasoned that if she were not inside and had not left the property, she must be just outside. Stepping into the kitchen, he found a handwritten note on the kitchen table along with a cake in a glass cake stand. He picked it up and read the writing to himself.

This is a gift from my mom. You can help yourself with a slice for breakfast or you can attempt cooking again with the smoked sausages that I bought yesterday. Of course, I trust you can make yourself tea or coffee if that’s what you’d like.

That was all that the note said and he was unsure if she was away or close by, as the note had not provided any answers. Maybe she had gone out with her mom for the day? But if that were the case, he would think that it would be in the note.

Taking it upon himself to figure it out, he placed the paper down and with his sword slung over his shoulder, he headed out the side door and into the side garden. Immediately, he was greeted with voices from a conversation just around the corner, but the tones were not friendly and mirthful. Given this, he felt more inclined to be careful and not just jump out and ruin an important topic between Annette and whoever it was she was talking to.

“But vabai , that’s the problem. Apparently, it’s not that easy. He described it as a “phantom”, like some kind of spirit. I don’t think that a normal army could do much.” Annette’s voice rung out and Link peered around the corner of the house to get a quick peek at the brunette. She sat at and ironwork metal table with a very tall and muscular woman. Her skin was darker than Annette’s and she held her arms over her chest, a scowl on her face. She looked twice as tall as he was and her blazing red hair was pulled into a high ponytail. The oddest thing, if he could pinpoint, was the mundane and average Hylian style clothes she wore, a simple skirt and a loose top with flowing sleeves. She was scary looking and immediately the resemblance was clear. She was Annette’s mom and they both had the same angry face.

Ducking back behind the corner of the house, he thought it best to turn back and go back inside, that is, until he became interested in what the larger women had to say. The rose bush provided a proper shield from anyone’s eyes.

“Gah, how do you even know that boy tells you the truth? He may just be telling you that to escape responsibility. There is nothing that a well-aimed Gerudo spear cannot pierce.” she said and he could hear the signature sigh from the brunette.

“No, mom, I don’t think it’s like that…” she trailed off before the topic shifted. “My main concern is our people. What if he comes back to ruin everything? He’s not above holding a terrible grudge and if someone who has that sword couldn’t stop him outright then… what are we going to do? I doubt the queen will listen to any warning like this, especially from an outsider like me.” she said, her voice dropped.

Link knew exactly what they were talking about. He knew her reaction to him admitting Ganon’s return wasn’t as explosive as he thought it would be. He understood now. She didn’t want to discuss it with him. Her worries were kept to herself. Taking a deep breath, he listened on.

“Oh, vehbi , don’t worry about that. If he comes back, Gerudo can handle him this time. You should worry about the more pressing things, like that boy you have harbored here. He’s too dangerous and he needs to go.” she said, sharpness in her voice. Link held his breath. Was that true? He hadn’t thought of it that way.

“Harbor? He’s not a criminal. It’s Link. I’ve only known him for a week, sure, but he’s not dangerous to me. Every time I yell at him he looks like he’s about to cry.” she said, a chuckle from her pushed her point. That also wasn’t true...was it? It was nice to hear her take up for him, but not like this.

“It may not be him personally that is dangerous, even though I still wouldn’t trust him an inch, but it’s what he has that’s dangerous. That book is enough to keep in your home, but that sword? Honey, do you realize what Volmar will do it he finds you with it. I don’t care how much of a soft spot he has for you, he’ll kill you.” her words were laced with a stern warning. Volmar? He didn’t recall Annette ever mentioning that name. The thought of someone killing someone over his sword was awful and he felt his heart drop.

“He won’t find out. Besides, Link will be leaving in a few days when his armor and tunic are restored and all I’ll have to conceal is that book.” Annette said matter of factly, but her mother continued on.

“I say you should burn that book and kick Link out as soon as you can. Don’t speak to him after this, if you know what’s good for you.” she advised and he could visualize Annette’s face, even though he couldn’t see her.

“I can’t just kick him out. Besides, it’s just a few more days and-” her mother interrupted her

“Oh, you think he’s your friend, huh? Friendly or not, boys cannot be trusted and he’ll disappoint you one day. They all do.” she stated and there was a small period of silence. What would Annette say to that? Link closed his eyes and listened extra hard.

“Yeah, I kinda see him as a friend, but I don’t think I’m being careless. He’s… not up to anything bad and I don’t think he’d ever betray my trust.” she said finally and her mother scoffed aloud.

She thought he was her friend? The thought had never really occurred to him, but he considered her a friend too. He certainly wanted her to be safe and feel content, so he wasn’t surprised that she was a friend to him. However, he had a small impression that he was a bother to her and all she wanted was for him to leave. Not all of her actions said this, of course, but she may have just been nice about it, despite her usual rude exterior. He wasn’t sure if it was reassurance or just the thought, but it was warming to hear that, even if he had to hear it from behind a rose bush.

“Oh, but you’re not sure? You don’t think he’d betray your privacy either do you? But let me tell you, I know he already has for sure.” the woman paused and he could hear the sound of the chair slide back from the table.

What did she mean by that? Before he had a chance to figure it, a sharp and directed remark broke out from the woman.

“That Link is an eavesdropping little rat!”

...

CH1 CH2 CH3 CH4 CH5 CH6 CH7 CH8 CH9 CH10

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#loz #loz fanfic #loz twilight princess #loz link #loz fanfiction #legend of zelda #legend of zelda fanfic #legend of zelda tp #Legend of Zelda Twilight Princess #legend of zelda link #twilight princess #link x oc #link fanfic #link x reader

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goliath-de-senfina-sango · 5 years

Link

Fight Fight Fight, Talk Things Out?

Danny gives a firm talking to to his best buds, has a fight with an old lady, and then a talk with said old lady.

A cow float, a stage, a ‘meat on a stick’ stand, kids in steak and hot dog costumes, a guy with a grill that couldn’t possibly be legal to just put on school property, and a sign that read “United we eat meat.” These were the first things Danny saw when he got to school. Then he looked over at the other side of the schoolyard. A replica of the Mystery Machine, the biggest fake sunflower he’d ever seen in his life, and yet another stage were set up with people that Danny could only identify as hippies surrounding that stage with picket signs with “It’s easy being green,” and “Tofu for you” written on them.

“Literally, how?” Danny groaned as his friends both approached him, looking furiously determined and holding megaphones. He could feel the cold burn of his eyes flashing brilliant green once they were both in front of him. “ No. I don’t give two shits about the pettiness of your arguments right now. No .” His voice echoed and the teen watched his friends stop in shock. “I have had frankly enough of this argument. Here’s how it is. Sam, we need vegetables, yeah, we need healthier food than the school was giving us. Strong-arming them into switching everyone onto your diet, however, is the wrong way to go about it. What about other people’s dietary needs? What about people who need as much protein out of the lunch they get here as possible?” Sam had no answer for that.

“You coulda just gotten a list from everyone on what they thought should go on the menu, compile it with what was most common, and then have them change the menu to the healthiest versions of that so that everyone’s needs are met.” Danny huffed. “Respect other people’s needs and wants before just deciding what you think is best for them Sam. Isn’t that what you hate having done to you?” Sam looked struck, then guilty, and sighed, nodding.

“Yeah, ok, I guess I went overboard.”

“And you .” Danny whirled around and pointed his finger in Tucker’s face. “This is going to ridiculous extremes. How did you even do this? Don’t answer that, I don’t wanna know. This is only a week long change, you know that. Parents would’ve complained to the school about their kids being forced into someone else’s diets and the school would never do this again. More importantly!”

Shiver, mist. The sky darkened, the wind whipped up, and Danny swore he could hear cackling from everywhere. He looked over at the truck that Tucker had brought in and grabbed his best friend’s shoulder. “I’m going to punch you later for bringing a stars damned meat truck when we’re fighting a ghost who’s focusing in on meat .”

“That was my b,” Tucker admitted meekly. As the meat ripped out of the truck and flew through the air, Tucker and Sam slipped their wrist rays on and Danny ran to and slid under Tucker’s stage. The sound of something huge hitting the ground shook it, and Danny reached inside of himself. That humming ball of cold and void and out of reach stars, he plunged into it, and light washed over his body. The world changed, colors turning vivid and bright, strange colors he had no names for other than non-visible light raced into his eyes. The shadows were no longer black but silvery grey, the vast emptiness between molten starmetal and the blazing suns. Sounds and smells and feelings hit him that were all too alien to process. He reeled, nearly dropping the form. But he had something to do, he had a job to do.

Danny phased into the ground and popped up in front of the meat monster. It towered over him, so large Danny could barely see anything else. A check of his wrist showed that his ray was now pretty much melded into his hazmat. “Weird, question later, ass kick now.” Tuck and Sam were firing off rays while everyone else ran, and Danny charged forward. He lashed out with his foot to the… head, he supposed, of the meat, and it staggered backward away from the student body. She swung at him with a hand that moved faster than he’d anticipated, and Danny went flying. The world faded into unreality and he passed through what he vaguely knew were trees and the ground before stopping and righting himself. He flew under the ground, legs merging into a tail - also to freak out over later - and he zoomed. He emerged right under her and missed his uppercut as she stumbled backward from the rays that Sam and Tucker fired. Another fist grabbed him and Danny was slammed into the ground.

After a failed kick to the hand, Danny concentrated on his wrist ray and lined up the trigger that was sitting comfortably under his glove. Pull and - Agatha screamed from within her monster host, and Danny flew free. His ray was clearly bigger than the others, but he also felt drained. “Reserve for bigger fights.”

Danny weaved around her next few blows, kicking and punching the construct of processed meat backward away from the fleeing students and his friends. Flying in circles to orbit the monster, Danny picked up speed and slammed his foot into the head of the meat pile and it toppled to the ground.

Danny took a moment to breathe, glad to find he could if he didn’t think too hard about it. A fist came into view and Danny went soaring up and up and up. He saw a plane fast approaching and moved into that safe spot between the world and everything else. He passed through the plane like it was a thin cloud of smoke before managing to stop. Then he dove, turning solid again when Agatha was in sight from within her meat construction. “Not a lot of mass but anything with this kind of velocity should do the job.”

BOOM

With how deep in the ground Danny ended up it was a wonder he hadn’t splattered. Picking himself up, the teen rolled his shoulder until it ached a bit less and saw Agatha there, staring at him. “Oh dearie, are you ok?”

“Surprisingly.” Danny rolled his neck. When he focused in on Agatha - he really could just see everything couldn’t he? - her face was warped and stretched larger than the rest of her.

“Tough! You being ok isn’t part of my balanced breakfast of death!”

Smaller chunks of meat came together into constructs about three-quarters of Danny’s size, five of them in total, and they grinned at him. This was when Sam and Tucker caught up with everything, apparently. Danny spun, heel tearing through the creatures like a knife, and landed to see Agatha being pushed back by Sam and Tuck’s wrist rays. “Fuck yeah!”

Danny’s celebration was cut short by his grasp on that deathly cold void slipping in the excitement, light washing over him with the warmth of being alive again. “This is inconvenient.” The meat monsters grabbed onto Danny’s limbs, reminding him that they were mere extensions of Agatha’s will. “This is even less convenient, how about no?”

As Danny was dragged through the air, something smacked him in the face. Catching it before it could fall out of reach, Danny felt a minor bloom of relief. “The Thermos! Maybe I can get it to work!” Seeing his family below, Danny hoped to all the stars in the sky that he was just going for a ride.

The ride stopped. Danny was dropped. A scream flew from his lungs, and Danny reached deeper, desperately grasping, to pull himself into the chill of the grave. The abyss met his call at the same time that his family looked up at the blur fast approaching. “Thanks for the thermos!” He shouted as he dove into the ground. Not waiting to see how that was handled he resurfaced to find Sam and Tucker bound in mounds of meat. “Work. Please work.” Danny aimed the thermos, poured his own cold into the thing, and hit the button. A flash of blue light, a scream of defiance, and he capped the thermos. Gravity and heat washed over him again and Danny let out a sigh of relief, running over to pull Sam and Tucker out of the meat piles. “You guys ok?”

“I have meat and blood everywhere and I was nearly crushed to death.” Sam shuddered, even as Danny phased everything off of her. “I am the very definition of not ok.”

“My nightmares are scarred for life after that,” Tucker said. “That was freaky. What do we do with her?”

Before Danny could answer that he heard footsteps and turned the thermos invisible. As he thought, his parents thundered toward him with the Ghost Finder in hand. “Just missed em, guys.” Danny pointed behind him and was relieved when his mom and dad jogged off after a nonexistent ectosignature. “Well, that was a shitty start to the day. We should go inside before someone makes something out of the crater here.” Danny, Tucker, and Sam all headed off to the nearest entrance to the school, thoughts going south. “What if the security cameras caught all that?”

“Oh, no, that you don’t have to worry about,” Tucker said. “I’m all over that in like, a couple hours tops.”

“Good.” Danny waited until they’d gotten to their lockers, and stuffed the thermos into his bag before punching Tucker in the arm. “ That is for bringing a stars damned meat truck when there was a food obsessed ghost flying around!”

“Alright, yeah, that was stupid of me.” Tucker nodded. “I shouldn’t have done that. But uh, we all agreed not to do stuff that affects literally everyone without consulting each other?” Tucker and Danny both looked to Sam, who glared at them heatlessly.

The goth sighed and leaned heavily on Danny. “Alright, fine, ask people what they want first. Lesson learned. Can we talk about what we’re gonna do with Agatha though?”

“Well, I don’t think she’s a mindless monster or anything,” Danny started slowly as they walked toward their homeroom. “I think we can reason with her. Show her that change can be a good thing when it’s done right.”

“Alright, we can do that once we’re sure she’s not gonna try and kill us though, right? Tucker tried to go for a neutral, slightly teasing tone but Danny could hear - could feel a shakiness to him. “ We are meat if you didn’t notice Danny, and I don’t know if her control over food extends to a cannibal’s diet. I don’t wanna find out.”

“I’m horrified and grossed out,” Sam groaned. “I’m all for not getting cannibalized. That’s the wrong kind of macabre for me.”

Danny shook his head, made some crack about how bad either of them might taste, and promised to let Agatha cool down before releasing her.

That cooldown time happened to be the amount of time it took for the veggie week thing to run its course and be done with. The school was cleaned, though all the vegan students who’d showed up for the rally were questioned about any kind of explosives they may have tried to sabotage the meat truck with and the news settled in on a gas line story. Saturday arrived, and the trio all met up in the park. Away from all the dog walkers, readers and normal people having fun outside, Danny Tucker and Sam stood in a small clearing of trees, a few chipmunks shifting around above their heads and in the bushes.

“Tuck, you got the reports?”

“Roger. Sam, got your wrist ray ready?”

“Of course. Danny, remind me to tell your parents they’re awesome for making most of their stuff solar powered.”

“They hadn’t figured out how to tap the afterlife for energy yet, it’s the most efficient thing we got.” Danny shrugged. He pulled out the thermos, which hummed beneath his fingers with the contained energy of Agatha inside. Sam and Tucker couldn't feel it, so he chalked that up to another ghost thing. “Alright, Agatha, if you’re ready to talk to us, I’m gonna let you out now.” The thermos offered no response. Danny opened it anyway.

The bark on the trees darkened, the leaves turning grey and the branches and bushes rustling as birds and squirrels left in a hurry. The air turned colder and sharper, and the sunlight dimmed as green spilled out of the thermos and stained the air. Agatha took shape quickly, though her glow was dimmer than it had been before. Her eyes raked across all three of them and narrowed. “Well, children? You kept rambling on and on about talking whenever I tried to get out. What’s so important that you didn’t put me back in the astral plane?”

Tucking the name of the other side in the back of his mind, Danny offered his best-placating smile. It disarmed most teachers back when he wasn’t having as many problems, he was hoping it’d work here too. “Agatha, hi. I’m Danny, this is Tucker and Sam. I feel like we got off on the worst foot before, what with you trying to kill us and all.” Tucker elbowed him in the ribs and Danny shoved him back. The buzzing in the air grew louder, his skin tingled, and some small part of his brain kept screaming to shoot, to run, to do anything that could get this thing that did not belong away from him. “So, I understand why you were angry.”

“You, Sam, changed the menu to just one food group!” Agatha’s voice was rising to those terrible echoes in the mind, and the tiny voice got louder. Still it was ignored.

“I understand now that it was probably a bad idea. No one’s been going to the line in the cafeteria all week except fellow vegans,” Sam grumbled. “Still though, some change needed to happen. The cafeteria wasn’t giving us any healthy foods!” Sam was a good actress when it came to her voice. She sounded unafraid, ready to argue for hours. Danny could feel something off though, ripples of yellow in her night grey, black and purple self.

“And healthy diets aren’t exactly easy to come by if you don’t put a lot of effort into it nowadays.” Tucker held out a sheaf of papers. “This, Miss Reece, is a report on the various health crises around the country because of the food they’re feeding us.” The papers were taken and Tucker let out as subtle a breath as possible. “I don’t agree with changing the menu to just one food group, no one in their right mind would. But I think we should still change things up. Is there any way you can help us do that?”

There was a long beat of quiet, where all that Danny could hear was the sizzle of patties on a grill, the crunch of lettuce being pulled apart, the chopping of a knife on a cutting board the came with Agatha’s presence. It was in the background of everything unless he focused. It was still there though, and it was so distracting with everything else happening. Agatha read, frown deepening as she did before she handed the reports on obesity and diabetes increasing in children of their ages and lower back to Tucker. “Alright,” she started, then stopped. A superfluous breath. She looked to Danny. “Well, I suppose that I was a tad extreme about everything. How about this?” She held out her hand, and above her glove, the green light that seemed to shine in all directions from her coalesced into the form of a burger. “I’m not sure they’ll accept me in the school kitchens again but I’m certainly able to make a meal for everyone.”

“That’s amazing!” Tucker crowed. “I’ve already sent a few texts and set up some online polls to find out what most people actually want out of their lunch, maybe you can help us with finding ingredients around Amity? Do you have a food sense?”

“Even if they don’t let you into the school’s kitchen you could still probably find a soup kitchen that’d definitely let you in,” Sam offered. “If you can create food from basically nothing, then I see no reason for them to turn you away.”

“Plus, since ectoplasm draws energy from heat and electricity, you can probably just relax in the sun and be able to pull out a full course meal.” Danny took in his friends’ curious looks and scratched the back of his neck. “My parents are the world’s best ghost scientists. I just asked them.”

“I’ll certainly look into that soup kitchen idea dearies,” Agatha said with a bright smile on her face. “For now though, I should be getting back to the Astral Plane. Sunlight is a nice substitute but after all that fighting I need a quick break.”

“I can get you back there without my parents noticing,” Danny offered.

“I only need to be invisible for that, dear,” Agatha assured them and faded out of sight. The chill and fading of the clearing dissipated, and Tucker and Sam relaxed visibly.

“Well,” Danny said as he pulled his notebook out of his bag. “That’s one ghost down.” He hoped it wouldn’t be too many till he convinced his parents.

#Danny Phantom #Danny Fenton #Tucker Foley #Sam Manson #Jazz Fenton #Jack Fenton #The Lunch Lady Ghost #Agatha Reece (Lunch Lady)#Fanfiction #Phanfiction #Rexy Writes

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silverfootstepswrites · 6 years

Text

Butterfly [34]

summary Bright days

“Where’s Uchiha?” asked Kiba, settling on the sofa. He leaned forward to open up a bag of potato chips. The crinkling drew Akamaru’s attention. He wandered over, tail wagging.

“Just one,” Kiba warned before he fed Akamaru a chip. LIke he wasn’t going to keep feeding him throughout the night. And Akamaru seemed to know this as he chomped it down.

“Said he had some family matters, I think,” Sakura replied, checking her phone. She nudged Shikamaru with her foot. He grunted in response.

“Man, I can’t believe it’s November already. And it’s still so hot,” sighed Sakura. She fanned herself with her hand. Holding a chip in his mouth, Kiba swiped the remote off the coffee table. He reached it back to turn on the air conditioner. Popping open a beer, he handed it off to her.

“Actually, it’s almost December,” Kiba pointed out once he finished eating his potato chip.

Shikamaru grunted again, rolling onto his front. A throw pillow hugged to his chest.

“What’s up with you?” asked Sakura, tapping Shikamaru’s back. He groaned into the floor, ignoring her.

Sakura glanced up at Kiba who only rolled his eyes.

“Nara’s bummed that it’s almost Christmas and he has no girlfriend,” Kiba sang the last two words.

“Die, Inuzuka,” Shikamaru growled.

Sakura leaned over, resting her arms on Shikamaru’s back.

“Aw, cheer up, Nara. We’ll celebrate Christmas together this year. American-style. We’ll throw a big party,” Sakura suggested. She patted his back a few times, rocking them back and forth. And then she paused.

“Does that make you feel better?” she asked.

“No,” he replied.

Scowling, Sakura slapped both her hands down on his back.

“Was he always like this?” Sakura queried, looking up at Kiba.

At this, Kiba leered. The way he only did when he was about to embarrass the hell out of somebody. He took a sip of his beer before he pointed at Shikamaru.

“When we were kids, we were all single. So Christmas was, like, whatever. But then we moved away. And we both had people. While our poor little Nara-kun was all by himself,” Kiba declared.

Sakura nodded as she considered this. And then she froze. At the same time, Shikamaru sat up. He looked at Kiba’s smug expression. And then looked at Sakura. Something passed between them.

“Wait,” Sakura said.

“You had someone?” Shikamaru demanded.

Kiba laughed. He scratched his ear, eyes suddenly shifty.

“Well, for a little while. We weren’t that serious,” he mumbled. Shikamaru held out his hand, making a grabbing motion.

“Dude,” sighed Kiba.

Shikamaru made the grabbing motion again.

Kiba bent his head over his phone for several seconds. And then he held it out. Shikamaru snatched it out of his hand before he could change his mind. He and Sakura huddled together, studying the photo.

It was a selfie of Kiba with a very pretty girl with straight brown hair. She wore a fluttery white and pink sundress, a homemade bento held on her lap. One of her arms was linked through Kiba’s.

Sakura’s eyes narrowed. She questioned, “She broke up with you?”

And then, as she scrutinized his expression, she gasped. “You broke up with her?”

“Why?” Shikamaru almost interrogated him. As if in disbelief that someone would break up with such an attractive girl.

Kiba grimaced. When Akamaru nudged his hand, he fished another chip out of the bag and fed it to him.

“Well... she was obsessed with cats,” Kiba confessed.

Sakura’s jaw dropped.

Shikamaru pointed at Akamaru. Kiba followed Shikamaru’s finger. And then started. Kiba rubbed the top of Akamaru’s head.

“Oh. Dude. C’mon. Akamaru’s awesome,” Kiba protested. Shikamaru rolled his eyes.

“Well, yeah. We know that Akamaru is great. But you’re obsessed with dogs! So what’s wrong with liking cats?” asked Sakura.

“They’re all...” Kiba mimed claws with his hands and made a hissing noise.

“Dude. What do you do when people bring cats to you? You’re a vet,” Shikamaru questioned. Kiba shrugged.

“I’ll treat them. But I don’t have to like them. It’s like, what do you do when you have an ugly student? You don’t like them, but you still teach them,” Kiba responded.

Sakura gasped, hands flying to her mouth. Shikamaru’s eyes widened.

“Inuzuka, you can’t say that!” Sakura scolded him.

“Why not? There are good-looking kids. There are ugly kids. Tell me I’m wrong!” retorted Kiba. Shikamaru turned his head to the side, shoulders almost touching his ears.

“Stop talking,” Sakura said.

“I’m just saying that you can’t drop-kick the ugly ones, right? You have to deal with them all the same,” he went on.

“Stop talking. Stop talking,” Sakura said over and over again, clapping her hands over her ears. Shikamaru covered his face with his hands, shoulders shaking as he laughed.

“What? You’re telling me you’ve never seen an ugly kid before?” Kiba demanded. Sakura began giggling too. She at least attempted to hide it.

“There are some kids that come in. And they go ‘excuse me’. And when I turn my head it’s like ‘Yes, can I- OH NO!’” Kiba went on, miming jumping.

Sakura lost it. She began howling with laughter, collapsing against Shikamaru. Shikamaru held his stomach as he cackled. Tears welling up in the corners of their eyes as Kiba kept going on and on. He only stopped when he saw that Akamaru had managed to wedge his entire muzzle into the bag of chips.

“Good morning, everyone!” Shizune said as she walked into the faculty room. It was a little early, but she saw that the lights were already on. She nearly walked into Orochimaru, who stood with a hand held in front of him. A finger pressed to his lips.

What’s going on? Shizune mouthed.

Finger still pressed to his lips, Orochimaru turned to gesture toward Sakura.

She sat at her desk, phone held up in a bright blue stand. Her earbuds were plugged in.

They both started as Sakura slapped her hands down on her desk.

“That’s your problem! Who cares what everyone else is getting?” Sakura exclaimed. She leaned forward, pointing at the front-facing camera.

“You listen up. It doesn’t matter if everyone else’s technical score is 1,000. You just need to get 1,000.01. You hear me?” she snapped. And then she leaned back in her seat. Arms folded over her chest, she nodded a few times. Her eyes flickered over to the TV.

“What’s the starting order look like?” demanded Sakura. Her gaze focused back on her phone. She nodded a few more ties.

“Good. Yeah.... uh-huh,” she said.

Then, her expression softened. She leaned forward to take her phone.

“I’ll be watching the whole time. Yeah. Okay, give the phone to Coach. I’ll be right here,” Sakura promised.

It wasn’t like Haku to sound so nervous. Not before something minor like a qualifier for the Grand Prix.

She could hear the crackling as Haku handed his phone over to Kisame. She turned her gaze to the TV.

“What’s up with him, Coach?” Sakura asked.

The pairs skaters had finished their short program earlier in the morning. Now that the ice was resurfaced, the first group of men’s singles athletes prepared to perform. The TV cut to the athletes in the second group. Some were listening to music. Others, like Haku, were pacing back and forth.

“Says his boot is feeling tight. And that his stomach doesn’t feel good. I haven’t seen the kid this wound up since his Junior days,” replied Kisame in her ear. She glimpsed him standing on the side of the rink, arms crossed. The camera moved across the room, showing the people in the audience. Quite a few held up signs and banners with Haku’s name on them.

Sakura was aware of her coworkers moving around the faculty room. And part of her brain reminded her to thank them for being so considerate. Some waved at her as they walked in, but others just nodded. She knew it was partly because Orochimaru used gestures to ask everyone to stay quiet that they only spoke in low voices. He sat beside her, a silent companion as she analyzed each of the programs.

Haku was one of the last to compete. Which made sense, given his world standing last year. The higher ranking skaters always went last.

But when it was time for him to perform, Sakura sat on the edge of her seat.

“Oh. That’s Haruno-sensei’s friend,” Kurenai remarked. She set down her books and sat on the edge of Sakura’s desk. Sakura could sense the other teachers settling in to watch too. There was a little bit of time left before the first classes began. It wasn’t like there was any rush, and they had seen this person walking around in their town.

Haku’s costume this season was deep blue, fading to white towards his neck and shoulders. The crystals glued on the fabric almost looked like silvery flames burning up his torso.

Haku lingered at the edge of the rink to blow his nose. She could vaguely hear Kisame’s voice in her earbud. But then the camera moved. And Haku appeared on her phone screen. He looked a little pale.

“Say something nice,” Haku requested. Sakura smiled.

“Why bother? You’re going to win, right?” she answered.

He smirked in return. And then he turned to skate off to the center of the rink.

Haku’s short program was beautiful. But of course it was. She knew every little turn, every gesture. If she closed her eyes, she could tell by the roar of the crowd each time he landed a jump or spin. But she didn’t dare. Her eyes stayed glued to the screen. Heart pounding as she watched him take off in quad. The perfect crack of his skate hitting the ice before he threw himself into a second spin.

“Wow,” breathed Asuma behind her. She hadn’t even noticed him walk into the room.

As the beat built up, the strings and piano rising in a crescendo, Sakura held her breath. The husky vocals belted out. She leaned forward as his left toe pick hit the ice. Elbows tucking in as he threw himself into the air. Rotating. Rotating. Rotating. Rotatin-

Snow sprayed up as he landed. She watched the blade scrape out the rest of the rotation. Sakura listened to Orochimaru groan. Her hands clasped together. Knuckles going white.

“Huh? He landed. That was good, right?” Kurenai whispered.

“He under-rotated. That’s going to affect his score,” answered Orochimaru.

Haku ended the program, both hands extended above him. Clasped high over his head. His chest heaving as the song finished. And then he dropped his hands, already smiling for the crowd. He waved with both hands as he headed toward the kiss and cry. Sakura’s earbud crackled as Kisame moved.

“He-” Kisame began.

“Under-rotated. I know,” Sakura finished for him.

The bell rang for first period. Everyone ignored it as they waited for the judges to announce the score.

Haku sat beside Kisame. It took him a second before he remembered that his coach was holding onto his phone. He took it, shoving the other earbud into his right ear. He looked down at her, trying to smile. The angle gave him a double-chin, but she wasn’t about to make fun of that now.

“Remember, you still have the free tomorrow,” Kisame whispered.

“The short program score for Haku Shimizu from Japan,” the speaker blared.

Haku’s head snapped back up.

“97.12. He is currently in first place,” the announcer stated to a roar of applause. The TV showed fans jumping to their feet, waving their signs around. The cheers rose all around the room.

Haku smiled with his mouth. But his eyes darted to Kisame. Then down to his phone.

“I broke 100 in China,” he told her. Needlessly. Like she wouldn’t know all his season’s scores by heart.

“Like Coach said. You still have the free skate tomorrow,” Sakura simply said.

It was only then that she remembered the other people in the room. The teachers were chatting in regular voices now as they got to their feet. They were already a few minutes late for first period. Holding their folders and books, they began heading for the door.

“Wow. He did a great job,” remarked Asuma. None of them seemed to notice that neither Sakura nor Orochimaru were moving.

“Huh? C’mon. Let’s go,” Asuma called as he lingered in the doorway.

“You go ahead, Sensei. There’s still one person left,” Sakura replied, not looking at them.

There was a pause. And then the door slid shut.

Sakura heard Haku talking as he and Kisame moved out of the kiss and cry. The last skater was already on the rink. A cheer rose from the audience.

“That toe loop,” she heard him sigh.

“You better fix that toe loop or coach’ll be breaking all your toes at the end of the season,” Sakura muttered. She heard Haku chuckle.

Sakura jumped a little when someone sat down to her left. It was Itachi.

“I don’t teach first period,” he told her, not looking at her.

The skater from America had a flawless program. Positive grades of execution across the board. Landing a beautiful triple axel towards the end of his routine. Sakura already knew before he was finished. And Haku seemed to sense it too.

“105.04,” the judges announced.

Sakura let out a long breath.

“Sakura,” Haku called. She looked down.

“Men’s free starts at 3:55 pm tomorrow,” he told her. And then ended the call.

Orochimaru and Itachi looked at her when she got to her feet. Chair scraping across the linoleum. She walked out of the faculty room without looking at either of them. Because Haku was right. As long as he did well during the program tomorrow, he still had a chance of winning gold.

The time difference between New York and Konoha made it difficult to wake up in time. But Sakura was awake by 5:40 in the morning. She sat in front of the TV in her pajamas, eyes barely open. The warm-up was just ending. The starting order in the bottom of the screen told her that Haku wouldn’t be up for a while.

Haku didn’t call her this time. Kisame sent her a couple texts, checking to see if she was awake. And she asked him to wish Haku luck for her.

She left the TV on as she went about her morning. Brushing her teeth and washing her face. She had breakfast standing in front of the TV, crunching through the last of her cereal, which meant that it was more crumbs and powder than pieces.

When Haku came out, she could tell from his face. He didn’t feel good.

And this was confirmed when he popped his first big jump. A quad Lutz became a single. Her brain started doing calculations right away to see how many points his mistake would cost him.

It was overall a lukewarm program. Far from what she had seen him manage in China just a month ago. But nothing that would lose him a spot at the Grand Prix Final. At the end of the four minutes, when she got a clear look at his face, she already knew what he was thinking. He didn’t even manage a smile for the audience. The disappointment etched into his tired shoulders.

Haku placed second overall at Skate America. And he would be advancing to the Grand Prix without a problem.

But their deal.

All gold meant that she would come watch him.

That silver medal around his neck may as well have weighed a million pounds.

Sakura turned off the TV. She sat on the living room floor, heavy-hearted. She only allowed herself to wallow for a couple minutes. Then she was on her feet.

Because Akamaru would be waiting for her on her doorstep so they could run. Minato, Naruto, and Kushina would be expecting her at the rink. And the weather outside was so beautiful.

She had so many things to do, so many people to see. That it seemed a waste to sit there sulking for too long.

#writing #butterfly #this is an itachi-lite chapter #sorry y'all #he'll be back soon

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ambivalentman · 7 years

Text

AN ATHEIST KING: THE LOSS OF BELIEF AND CHARACTER IN MUSCHETTI’S IT (2017)

This essay features several spoilers for IT (2017). You have been warned.

A DISCLAIMER BEFORE WE BEGIN

I was, at one point, a hard core Stephen King fan. When I entered my 20s, I owned every book written by him in hardcover -- with the exception of special edition stuff like My Pretty Pony -- including several first editions (like a beautiful first of The Shining). My copies of George Beahm’s The Stephen King Companion and The Stephen King Encyclopedia were already dog-eared and annotated. My prize possessions were the four issues of Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction I had which featured the first publication of The Gunslinger, and the other I had which included “The Moving Finger.” My parents thought I was weird, most girls thought I was scary, and at one point even my grandma suggested I seek therapy.

This was until about 2000. Then, an event took place which caused me -- like those in the Loser’s Club -- to abandon childish things. It was a bad decision, but I gave up my Stephen King collection.

I didn't rediscover my love for King until recently. Sure, I dabbled a bit these last few years, reading Under the Dome and 11/22/63, but I never fully re-embraced the hero of my youth. Until I decided to re-read IT, his 1986 masterpiece about a group of wounded people forced to face a truly terrifying force as both children and adults. I saw that Andy Muschetti was adapting the novel for Warner Bros., taking over for Cary Fukunaga, who -- despite being a true auteur -- fell out of Warner’s graces. All news surrounding the new adaptation was overwhelmingly positive, and it had been a long time since we last saw a great movie based on King’s work.

Back in April, I broke my right hip. After two surgeries, being fairly immobile has given me time to read more, so I picked up IT. Revisiting IT transported me back to that time when I was obsessed with King. The experience was overwhelming, like when adult Bill Denborough gets back on his enormous metal steed, Silver, and recalls how he once raced the devil on that bike to save Eddie Kaspbrak. A flood of joy came from reading King’s pulpy prose again. Going back to that tainted town of Derry to hang with the Losers helped make my rehab a little easier. And though I am still on the mend, I am ready to rekindle my love for King.

Which brings me to my other love: cinema. I don't write much about the movies anymore, but I am chomping at the bit to discuss and evaluate IT. There hasn't been a more anticipated film this year for me.

And no film has both pleased and disappointed me more.

WHAT MAKES A GOOD KING ADAPTATION?

Because of The Dark Tower, IT, and the forthcoming Gerald’s Game, there have been lots of clickbait “Stephen King Movies . . . Ranked” lists popping up online. Nerdist had a particularly interesting one, in which their top 10 looked like this:

10. Creepshow (1980)

9. IT (2017)

8. The Dead Zone (1983)

7. Dolores Claiborne (1995)

6. Stand By Me (1986)

5. The Mist (2007)

4. The Shining (1980)

3. Carrie (1976)

2. Misery (1990)

1. The Shawshank Redemption (1994)

Despite the ranking, most King fans and movie lovers alike will agree with this list (although Creepshow over Pet Sematary or Christine? Really? Sincerely?). Two of these films are directed by Frank Darabont (Shawshank, The Mist), and two by pre-what-the-f-happened Rob Reiner (Misery, Stand by Me). And the new adaptation of IT made the cut. So, if we can acknowledge these are the canonical King adaptations, what makes them the best? It's a pretty steep drop off in quality after the top 10. There's Pet Sematary, Christine, 1408, and The Green Mile, meaning that out of 44 movies based on Stephen King’s novels (not including TV mini-series), there’s really only about 14 good-to-great ones. If this were baseball -- King’s favorite sport -- Hollywood would be batting a respectable .318. Be that as it may, this is not baseball, and producing only 1 solid movie for every 3 is pretty awful.

This suggests that adapting Stephen King is tough. Why, though? His books are packed with memorable characters, scenes, and visuals. You could almost say he writes movies. His dialogue is colloquial and specific, and he has a great sense of pacing. While you could easily point out that lots of his stories share only a couple variations for endings -- destruction or aliens -- he is a strong storyteller with a keen understanding of cause and effect and narrative fairness. There's a reason, after all, that he inspired a generation of writers and filmmakers like JJ Abrams, Damon Lindelof, and the Duffer Brothers.

My theory is that King's greatness resides not in his ideas or execution, but in the spirit of his writing. King's voice is the soul of his work. When you read him, it feels like you are sitting down with a friend, listening to him share a great story. King feels familiar, like family. And the filmmakers who get that make films which reflect it.

Take, for example, the number 1 film on Nerdist’s list, The Shawshank Redemption. The use of Red’s voiceover narration immediately brings us into the tale of Andy Dufresne. Stand By Me and Dolores Claiborne also use great voiceovers. But in films like Misery, Carrie, and The Dead Zone, we are given protagonists who become our friends. We find Paul Sheldon to be kind and thoughtful, Carrie White to be sweet and misunderstood, Johnny Smith to be tortured and alone. These films understand deeply what King was aiming for with his characters. So, when Reiner changes events in Misery, it doesn't matter because not only did he truly “get” Paul, he also truly “got” Paul’s relationship with Annie Wilkes. Each of the films on this list, with the exception of IT (and Creepshow because it was an original script), truly grasped the core of King’s characters and their relationships to each other.

King is often considered a humanist author. His characters, including his villains, are often subjects for sympathy. In his work, there is a lot of insight into human nature, both light and dark. King is an observant author, grounding his most supernatural stories in a real world, with real people. This is best illustrated in his character relationships and interactions. Red and Andy develop first respect, then admiration, then deep friendship over their years in Shawshank. It is a relationship founded on honesty as they are the only honest men in the prison. Their mutual trust is what establishes the foundation for Andy’s escape plans, and ensures his success. In The Dead Zone, Johnny’s broken relationship with Sarah is haunted by lust and vitality, the very qualities Johnny loses touch with after his accident leaves him with a power which zaps the life from him with each use. Carrie White’s naive hope she can actually fit in is fulfilled by the compassionate Tommy Ross, which makes the tragedy of her coronation that much more devastating. The films capture these ideas to profound effect, which is why they endure. Once the novelty of plot dissipates, you are left with characters and their connections to each other and yourself. We enjoy a movie for plot; we love a movie for character.

King writes wonderful characters, and the best films based on his work never fail to capture those characters ideally.

Except IT.

Sigh.

THE PART WHERE I EXPLAIN WHY THE NOVEL IS A MASTERPIECE

It is not hyperbole to call IT “King's masterpiece.” Lots of critics have done it. By its publication in 1986, IT was the purest, most ambitious distillation of themes and ideas King had explored since Carrie in his fiction (and even in non-fiction dissertations like Danse Macabre). If you're reading this, chances are you know the story:

Every 27 years, the seemingly quaint hamlet of Derry, Maine becomes the feeding ground for an entity that has dwelled under the town’s surface for centuries. In 1958, after 6-year old Georgie Denborough is murdered by the creature -- assuming the shape of a murderous clown called Pennywise -- big brother Bill and his Losers Club come together to put an end to the evil. They are only marginally successful, as 27 years later, the Losers are called to return to Derry to kill IT for good.

IT is a multi-generational horror novel, spanning hundreds of years. We meet the Losers first as adults, all of whom (with the exception of Mike Hanlon, who chose to stay behind in Derry and become its resident historian and librarian) no longer remember the events that took place during the summer of 1958. Mike’s ominous phone calls, reminding the adults of the promise they made -- to return if IT ever resurfaced -- unlocks each adult’s dormant memory. As the novel unfolds, so does their collective remembrance of summer ‘58 and all the horrors it contained. King uses the flashbacks to highlight the differences between childhood and adulthood.

As with any epic sized novel, there are a myriad of themes to unpack. IT dives deep into ideas about childhood trauma, the power of personal shame, community corruption, racism, generational sin, and the coming of age ideas expected from a novel about kids becoming adults. For me, where the novel finds its most compelling thematic territory is in its exploration of belief. King wants us to recognize it is the purity of innocence, and the simplicity of belief that binds these kids together, and that the jaded cynicism of adulthood, with all its fears and anxieties, is what threatens to destroy them.

This theme hinges on the role of Pennywise. He is a shapeshifting, Lovecraftian monster, tapping into the fears of his quarry to exploit during the hunt. He appears to Ben as his dead father, to Mike as a pterodactyl-like bird, to the germaphopic Eddie as a leper, and to Richie as the lycanthropic Michael Landon in I Was a Teenage Werewolf. When Pennywise goes after Bev, it is by turning her sink into a geyser of blood which only she can see. Bill is tormented by the memory of his dearly departed brother, whose school photograph Pennywise animates and makes bleed. Children have very primal fears, and that which adults see as fake or absurd, kids often embrace as real. Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, chupacabras, zombies . . . children do not reject fantasy outright as adults do, making them susceptible to both profound fear and hope.

We see this in the Losers’ response to IT’s attacks. They are terrified, but never stop seeking solution. They find their weapons in objects. Even after he learns his asthma inhaler is a mere placebo, Eddie still uses it to calm his nerves, and later fires it at Pennywise, believing its contents to be battery acid. With Bill’s help, Ben melts down two silver dollars into bearings for Bev to shoot at the monster with a slingshot. When Stan gets trapped by Pennywise after finding himself alone in the house on Neibolt Street, he manages to escape by chanting the names of every bird contained in his field guide. The kids build an underground fort, which they convert into a smoke house to go on a Native American “Vision Quest.” It is during this dangerous endeavor that Mike and Richie seem to travel through time back to a primordial era where they witness IT’s arrival. The Losers’ passionate adherence to ritual and talismans give them a collective power. This power keeps them unified, and even frightens their tormentor. Belief is their truest weapon, especially belief in each other.

The other themes King addresses throughout IT are compelling, but it is this idea about belief that gives the novel its soul. There is no cynicism in King's approach -- he captures the imagination of these children with remarkable affection, and this results in each kid winning our hearts over. Pennywise may be the allure the book needs to attract its audience, but these kids are what inspires guys like me to re-read a 1,000+ page book.

They are also what inspired me to struggle with a movie engineered for my celebration.

IN PRAISE OF MUSCHETTI’S IT

Before I tear apart IT, which is very popular, having made over $200 million domestically in its first two weekends, I want to praise it. Despite having some huge issues, the film does some things very well. There is a good reason why this movie works for so many people.

The major reason IT works is because of its energy and general nostalgia. While these elements often fade on repeat viewings, they are so engrossing during a first one. Being set in 1989 puts the setting during a period Gen Xers remember fondly and for which Millennials pine. Movie theater marquees are showing Batman and Lethal Weapon 2. A poster for A Nightmare on Elm Street 5 is a coming attraction. The kids ride Schwinns, use Kodak Carousels, don’t have cell phones, and wear denim cutoffs. The aesthetic is perfect. Producer Seth Grahame-Smith revealed in an interview with Birth.Movies.Death that he prepped nostalgia lists for all of the child actors, from music to movies to video games to fashion as a way to show them what summer ‘89 in New England was like for him. The work paid off, because the town of Derry is authentic in its nostalgia. It is impossible not to be drawn into this world.

And this world is scary, even without Pennywise. As with all idealized nostalgic perspective on days long gone, there is a darker undercurrent (as if we punish ourselves for embracing such idyllic memories). Perhaps the darkest element are the adults of Derry. Kids go missing and the “Missing Persons” posters are simply papered over as new children are added to the list. A leering pharmacist flirts with Bev. In the library, as Ben investigates Derry’s ugly history, the Librarian lingers in the fuzzy background, grinning maliciously. Not one adult exhibits empathy for these kids, including Bill’s dad or Stan’s rabbi father. Certainly not Bev’s father, who inhales his daughter’s hair like she’s fresh out of the oven, and obsesses over her virginity with a fervor that would make even President Trump uncomfortable (or envious, if we're being honest). In some ways, the more visceral nature of the film captures Derry’s innate badness more clearly than the hundreds of pages King devotes to the subject in his novel. Sometimes a picture is worth a thousand pages.

Muschietti and his casting director also got the casting perfect. As with the films of JJ Abrams, criticize all you want, but it's impossible to trash the impeccable casting choices. Each of these kids perfectly embodies the characters they portray. Kudos especially go to Jeremy Ray Taylor, Sophia Lillis, Jack Dylan Grazer, and Finn Wolfhard as Ben, Bev, Eddie, and Richie. Ben’s beautiful sensitivity, Bev’s intense devotion and passion, Eddie’s passive-aggressive resolve, and Richie’s unending stream of bullshit are as sharp and resonant here as they are on the page. Even Jaeden Lieberher, as Bill, and Chosen Jacobs, as Mike, look and feel right. Unfortunately, the script makes some poor choices with their characters that nearly derails the film. But more on that in a bit. Without a doubt, these kids are legit actors. No scene better proves this than the swimming scene in which everyone is stripped to their underwear and dives into the lake from the frighteningly high cliff. The scene could have been incredibly exploitative as the boys ogle Bev, but instead the quality of these performances makes their pubescent sexual discovery innocent and real. Consider this a great contrast with the perverse exchanges Bev has with the adult world. It is both ironic and terrifying that Bev is perceived more as an object by adults than by teenage boys.

While the film finds many of its most effective scares in the presentation of Derry, and the juxtaposition of innocent and corrupt images, the advertisements promise that we will be scared senseless by Pennywise the Dancing Clown. As portrayed by Bill Skarsgard, this Pennywise bears little resemblance to the seductive, menacing clown Tim Curry created for the 1990 ABC television miniseries. Skarsgard’s Pennywise is serpentine, alien, with dead eyes and a slithering voice. His costuming suggests his age, and the cracks in his makeup reveal a facade. This Pennywise is less playful and charismatic, and hungrier. He drools as he corners the kids in the Neibolt house. And his shapeshifting is frightening, especially when he presents himself to Eddie as a relentless leper. Skarsgard’s performance is wonderful and wholly his own. He will invite comparisons to the iconic Curry, but ultimately his Pennywise will stand alone.

IT’s success as a film can be broken down into these three elements: Derry, the kids, and the creepiness of Pennywise. But its failure can also be broken down into three parts, too.

1) The absence of a thematic soul

2) The abandonment of characterization

3) The confusion of style for substance

A LOSS OF SOUL

A great adaptation isn’t necessarily about doing the book, but about capturing the soul of the book (or finding a soul no one even knew existed, ala The Godfather or The Shining). A movie can look the part, but if it fails to reveal that essence of spirit, it will eventually crumble. In the case of IT, the movie is about as hollow as the space behind Pennywise’s eyes.

The soul of this story is the children's belief. Outside of a generic, “We gotta believe in each other!” idea to which much lip service is paid, these kids are bereft of belief in anything. This is an atheist interpretation of Stephen King's story, in which our Loser’s Club prefer brute force over imagination. In the film’s climax, Bill leads the charge against Pennywise by picking up a bat and swinging at the clown’s head. All the Losers join him. The result looks remarkable, as each strike causes the clown to transform into each child's fear, but it is a graceless, uninspired physical solution to a metaphysical problem. It also ruins Pennywise. How evil can he truly be when all it takes is an angry mob armed with sticks to bring him down?

Throughout King's novel, the Losers seek many ways to defeat the demon. They melt down the silver dollars. Eddie’s inhaler becomes a chemical weapon. Stan’s bird book is a shield, the names of the birds his mantra. And the kids buy into Native American rituals, like the Ritual of CHUD, to confront IT. Obviously, the shift in setting from the 1950s to 1980s meant losing some of these talismans. After all, the 50s Wolfman, when compared to the 80s Freddy Krueger, is a flaccid nightmare. But every monster has a weakness, even human ones. The Losers spend no time thinking on this.

Indeed, Muschetti strips them of their creativity completely. Gone is Ben’s architectural acumen, which nearly flooded the Barrens and provided an underground club house. Bill’s storytelling, which keeps the group focused, is generically spread amongst all of them. Even Bev's love for fashion and art is lost. It's shocking to me how Muschetti removed the core elements from each of these characters, leaving only their gimmicks -- Bill’s st-st-stutter, Ben’s girth, Bev’s cigarette smoking, Richie’s humor, Eddie's hypochondria, Stan’s Judaism, and Mike’s blackness. In the need to appeal to every demographic, these characters were stripped for parts.

It is a testament to the strength of the performances by this group of kids that the Losers have any flavor whatsoever. The script provides them no depth, only set pieces and surface sentiment, yet they are convincing for awhile in the dark. But like Pennywise’s many facades, eventually they slide off and there's nothing remaining.

The soul of King's story is belief, imagination, and the collective power of childlike purity. Andy Muschetti’s adaptation is more in love with Halloween maze scares than it is with pursuing these ideas. His vision of defeating our fears involves angry children with sticks, not wounded children with imagination. Audiences may like the cathartic release that comes with beating the shit out of the monster, but it does nothing to feed their souls.

WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?

I already alluded to the surface qualities that pass for characterization in IT, but it goes a bit deeper than this. Character interaction is essential to building great characters, and this is where IT fails epically.

To prove this, let’s take a closer look at Bill Denborough.

Bill is arguably the most important of our protagonists, especially in King's novel. The story begins with him making a paper boat for his brother and sealing it with wax so it will float in the gutter water outside. The death of Georgie becomes a source of guilt and shame for Bill. And since his parents pay little to no attention to him, Bill is made to face these overwhelming feelings alone. It is his determination and inner strength that propels him to lead the Losers in their quest to put an end to IT. But, this quest, while certainly obsessive, is rooted in shame and love. Bill loves each of his friends and often goes off alone because he fears their fate will be his fault, as he believes Georgie’s fate to be his fault. This is the source of Bill’s maturity, which sets him apart from everyone else in the club. Because of Bill’s maturity, the Losers follow him without much question. They are devoted to him as a leader and friend, and willingly choose to lay down their lives if need be.

This is far from the way Bill is presented in the film. He is a Captain Ahab, chasing his white clown into the sewers of Derry. He likes his friends, but often doesn't concern himself with their feelings. In fact, at one point Richie throws a punch at Bill and the two fight over their pursuit of the monster. This Bill is not a leader; he is a dictator. He lacks empathy, and mostly cares for himself. Even worse, his quest is no longer rooted in shame, but in pure vengeance. Bill doesn't express his self-loathing at what happened to Georgie. Instead, at the end of the film, when Pennywise presents Itself as Georgie, Bill just punches IT in the face.

The shift in Bill is a subtle one, but has huge consequences for the story. By changing his leadership style, it makes the other Losers look more like followers of fear than a group of equals. In many ways, Bill is no different than the crazy bully Henry Bowers, whose friends follow him out of fear. Like Henry, Bill is on a mission to destroy, has little regard for the consequences of his actions, gets others involved who don't necessarily want to be, and doesn't listen to reason. Yet, we like Bill and hate Henry because Bill stutters and Henry likes carving his initials into the bellies of defenseless fat kids.

This is not to say Bill isn't the hero, but that Muschetti misfires with Bill by removing his core empathy and giving the character over completely to obsession. While the rest of the characters don't fare as badly as Bill does, each loses something, mainly through the cutting of interactions. On a basic level, we see this in the fact that Bev only interacts with Bill and Ben through most of the movie, yet is presented as the symbol of group unity. She can't even be bothered to share a smoke with Richie, or have a conversation with Stan and Mike.

Bill and Bev certainly present issues in characterization, but no character is more problematic than Mike Hanlon. There have already been several insightful thinkpieces about the treatment of Mike that there is little I can add, but the gist is this: Mike is presented as a token black character for no reason. Granted, most of these characters are tokens in their own way, so it stands to reason Mike would receive no better treatment. It was a struggle for me to watch one of my favorite characters in the novel reduced to a handsome black face that has to face the racist white bully. It was harder to watch Mike's love for history handed over to Ben. Mike deserved better.

All of these wonderful characters deserved better. This is what happens when style trumps substance.

THE NEW HORROR AESTHETIC

IT is the culmination of the trend in cheap seat horror to rely on the jump scare as the source of terror. No horror film of this variety has handled this trope better than Muschetti’s film. Arguably, Muschetti has perfected the jump scare. His film is a maze at Knott’s Scary Farm or Universal’s Halloween Horror Nights waiting to happen. The soundtrack is pitched to screamtastic levels. Put a camera on audiences and every 5-7 minutes, prepare to see people grabbing each other or jumping like William Castle had come back from the dead to put a tingler in their seat.

This reliance on the jump scare is aided by a color palette washed in sepia tones and deeper reds, which enable the clown to do his Jack-in-Box routine in darkness that can't elicit laughter. Muschetti and his postproduction team nailed the look of this film like mad scientists.

The beauty of this is that audiences love IT. This is a horror movie that feels like a horror film. Yet, IT remains safe, like those scary carnival mazes. When you're creeping your way through one, every darkened corner promises danger, but behind all that tension you know none of the masked employees can touch you without legal repercussion. Sadly, IT isn't allowed to touch you either. Promises of danger lurk around every shot, but it is all bark and no bite.

Take the Neibolt Street House sequence. There's a clever moment in which Bill and Richie, separated from Eddie, try to find him before Pennywise gets him and are presented with three doors to escape. The doors are labeled “Not Scary,” “Scary,” and “Very Scary.” Of course the boys take the first one, and are presented with a frightening image. You would imagine they would be forced to take the third door, but instead they double down on the “Not Scary” path and are rewarded for their cowardice. This is the ultimate in style over substance. The scene looks perfect, but says and does nothing.

Still, the aesthetic is convincing. This is how we want horror movies to look, even if they have nothing to say.

THE IMPLICATIONS OF IT

Since Warner Bros.’s sinks are exploding with dollar bills right now, IT will have a seismic impact on the popular culture landscape. Some things are inevitable: we will get a “Chapter Two” featuring the adults returning to Derry for a final showdown with IT. We can also expect more horror movies. Will we get more clown flicks? I'm sure there's plenty of those being prepared for VOD as I write this.

What I am more concerned about is the state of horror film. Over the last decade, we have seen a renaissance in indie horror. Get Out, It Follows, The Babadook, The Witch, The Invitation, Cheap Thrills, Starry Eyes, Goodnight Mommy, and Raw are a few of the most notable titles. This movement has brought a variety of styles and an emergence of new voices unlike anything we’ve seen since the 70s. Even a big budget haunted house franchise like The Conjuring reinforced the brilliance of James Wan and reminded us of the power in the traditional horror story amidst all the rebels.

IT feels like a sea change, though. The Conjuring made tons of money, but it didn't make this kind of money. And while The Conjuring felt traditional, IT is being presented as something new. People are talking about it like it's different. Joe Hill, King's son and respected novelist, called IT “one of the five best horror movies I've ever seen.” This movie is a hydrogen bomb on pop culture, especially as it arrived on the heels of the poorest performing summer box office in 20 years. This movie isn't just new, it's a savior.

So while we can expect more Stephen King remakes and adaptations, we can also expect less money for horror indies. Studios will want more movies to look and feel like IT, and in this narrowing marketplace, that has the potential to choke out the little guy. This is the true horror.

I hope I am wrong. Horror films are cheap to make. That is their appeal for young filmmakers looking to make a mark. Hopefully this doesn't change.

The Stephen King fan in me celebrates the love IT is receiving around the world. The cinephile in me is afraid of what this means for horror cinema going forward.

#IT #Stephen King #Film Adaptation #Horror Movies #Finn Wolfhard #Sophia Lillis #Jeremy Ray Taylor #Chosen Jacobs #Jack Dylan Grazer #Andy Muschietti #Bill Skarsgard #Film Analysis

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jasontoddsreanimatedcorpse · 7 years

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I can distinctly remember a time in my life where I felt constantly empty.

Music has always been a great passion of mine, right from when I was 5 years old dancing around my living room to a kid’s compilation of music that my mum had picked up at the store up to now when I’m fifteen years old and I live off of rhythm and melody. I sleep best with music playing, and it can help me focus as it provides this complex but calming background noise for my brain to keep itself busy with. It helps me with whatever mood I’m in, whether that means listening to classic rock to hype me up or drowning out my thoughts with electronic beats, or even collecting together a playlist of the most beautiful songs I know to help me feel everything when I feel numb.

Music has always been a great passion of mine, which means that my greatest fear has always been losing that passion. The worst day of my life so far was when I realised that I had lost that passion.

Under the cut is the story. I must warn you that there is talk of anxiety (including panic attacks and minor OCD behaviours), paranoia, a difficult relationship with food (I wouldn’t call it an eating disorder as it wasn’t nearly that bad, but just in case), depression, suicidal thoughts, plans of suicide, thoughts and actions of self harm.

I want to spread my story, but, please, if you could be triggered DO NOT READ.

To those reading: if you come across anything at all that triggers you because I missed it in the tags or above warnings, please stop reading IMMEDIATELY and contact me so that I can add the warning for others.

I was pretty depressed during year eight and nine, due to how rocky the past couple of years had been for me. Long story short, I went from a small community in a city and a tiny private school (class of 7 students) to a slightly bigger community in a town and a large public school (class of 30 in a year of 90). The move meant that I had no friends for a couple months, though I eventually found a couple. I was then unfortunately bullied by people who I considered somewhat friends during most of year six. They spent a month or so gaining my trust, only to systematically destroy my confidence and sense of self-worth, which only decreased when starting secondary school (class of 27ish in a year of 210). I wasn’t a good person to be around because of it, but luckily my wonderful friends kept by me and tried their best to support and help me despite the fact that we were only eleven and had no clue what was out there in this great big world.

During the end of year eight/beginning of year nine, I hit rock bottom. What would have been a slow spiral turned into a lightning fast plummet as I realised my sexuality and didn’t get to see my friends for the whole six weeks of summer holidays. When I came back, I could tell I wasn’t good, but I tried to keep it up for my group of friends that was now 3 + me.

I came to terms with the fact that I am bisexual and now, two years on, I am out to everyone except my family (excluding my sister, who was the first person I told). However, that didn’t help that my self-esteem was completely shot to hell. I’d wake up every morning and see myself in the mirror and think “how could anyone, guy, girl or whatever, look at me and want to be with me?” I was disgusted with myself.

And then, one day, I woke up and thought that maybe listening to some music might cheer me up, as it had so often before. I unlocked my phone and realised that I hadn’t changed around the albums on there in a while. I then put on an album which I remembered finding quite uplifting before and was surprised to realise that I had forgotten all of the songs which I used to know so well. I then started to feel a sense of despair as I realised that this music, my last resort, did nothing to make me feel anything. Which then caused me to feel slowly worse. I started to feel numb even as I kept up pretences - singing along to songs I barely listened to anymore, smiling and laughing with friends and family, eating on a relatively normal schedule, etc.

I decided that I wanted to die.

I considered my options, and, once, I tried testing out to see if I could handle drowning myself. I run a bath and got in once it was deep enough. I then pushed my head underwater and breathed out. I lasted a whole 40 seconds before I panicked and resurfaced, immediately jumping out of the bath and draining it. I wondered if my reaction meant that I really wanted to die. I haven’t managed to answer that so far, but I do know that I have stuck to showers and avoided swimming pools ever since (however I do still go in the sea to a limit because I know that my family is watching). This did cause me to have a panic attack during a school trip in which we went into caves and had to swim through some rapids very briefly.

The next thing I considered was a slow, steady starvation. I am mentioning this one specifically because I gave it more thought than others and actually didn’t eat more than a cereal bar in the mornings for three days. I then dismissed the idea because I decided that it would be extremely difficult to get away with during the highly attentive family meals (“Why didn’t you eat all of your potatoes? Are you feeling okay? Are you sure?”). This idea still lingers in me even now, and sometimes I can’t even think of food without feeling nauseous or I have to distract myself and eat bland foods just to get my body the nutrients I know it needs. I am still quite a picky eater, and I’m still not sure whether that is due to this lingering thought of food being bad sometimes or just because that is who I am.

By this point, I was the lowest of the low. I was spending most of my time doing meaningless activities just because everything else seemed so dull and boring. Nothing held any enjoyment for me. I felt completely empty. So, one day, when I was home alone sick and felt worse than usual, I went downstairs and retrieved a small knife. For two days, I obsessed over it, not hurting myself purely because I knew it would be hard to explain away. However, I had previously harmed myself in year six, and I wanted to feel that again. I don’t know whether it was because I thought I deserved it or because I just wanted to feel, but one day I pressed the knife to my thigh and cut myself so shallowly that the blood could be wiped away with a tissue and the cut was gone within a few days. I remember not liking it as much as I thought I would, deeming it not worth the trouble of explaining away the cuts, and cleaned and returned the knife without anyone noticing.

But this wasn’t the end when it came to my hurting myself. I purposefully put myself in mentally compromising positions (reading graphic stories about depression and suicide, watching a movie called ‘@Suicide Room’ a lot, deprived myself of water to cause illness, and depriving myself of sleep). The deprivation of water and illness that resulted caused my immune system to weaken to the point where I have had about three or four viruses in the past two years alone, and I still significantly struggle with keeping normal sleeping patterns, especially after an incident in which I did not sleep for two days but still forced myself to go to school and do physical activity which I may have struggled with on a full night’s sleep. I also came up with a game where I would light a match and watch it slowly burn down, challenging myself to hold it longer each time. Thankfully the matches soon ran out, which stopped that habit very quickly and effectively.

Now, that was the worst of it. However, little did I know was that over this time I was starting to develop anxiety. It formed in a couple of ways, including some very minor OCD actions (light switches were a thing up until a couple months ago, but I still sometimes return. I also struggle with a routine of having to repeat sentences until I pronounce them right [not helped by the fact that when I get nervous I develop a slight stutter] and being unable to enter a room first unless I am on my own or leading a group in a specific order), and slight social anxiety (thankfully mostly gone now. I only get nervous with authoritative figures and the rest of my awkwardness is just due to the fact that I was very recluse during the period of my life that I was meant to develop a lot of those skills). It mainly manifested, however, in Generalised Anxiety Disorder (GAD). I have personally worked a lot on this since which has been helped along by my sister dealing with her own stress-induced anxiety and her and others sharing their techniques with me.

Unfortunately, I have started to develop mild paranoia, which is especially present at night time when I am most vulnerable. This comes from something that I started to do because it helped me to experience stronger feelings: horror films and tv shows. I still watch these, though mainly for enjoyment, though they can cause me to be extremely tense. However, it is less so than before, meaning that I think that I am managing to nip this in the bud by using reminders and calming techniques whenever I feel unsafe.

Now, back to the music. The jump-start that the horror genre gave my emotions has had amazing results. I now enjoy music to the same standard as, if not more than, before. Sometimes I can listen to music and feel so strongly that I am overwhelmed with emotion. I would describe it as a tingly wave that spreads through me like a cold breeze - it always starts on my right side and spreads throughout the rest of me, often bringing tears to my eyes. An example would be the songs ‘Disappear’ and ‘You Will Be Found’ from the Dear Evan Hansen soundtrack. Like chills, but stronger.

Music helps me a lot these days. As mentioned before the cut, I often use Jack Garratt or Avicii to drown out my thoughts if they are getting too intrusive and threaten to take me down that path again. I also like listening to artists such as Gabrielle Aplin to wind down, and I especially love Panic! at the Disco and Neon Trees to work too. I’ve also found that Bastille and You Me At Six are good for me to listen to after a panic attack (which are all very minor and are decreasing in frequency - I haven’t had one in two months or a serious one in over a year).

After hitting rock-bottom and regaining some of that love of music, I started to rise anew from what was, metaphorically, the ruins of my life. I have since gained another two friends for my little group, and instead of thinking it as 5 + me, I think of us as 6 (I also have other groups of friends that have built up around me - I recently counted over 30 people who I would consider close enough to me to invite to a party and around 15 who I would ask to go wherever with). My group and I have been endlessly supportive towards each other in all of our own personal battles with mental health, gender and sexual identity, difficult decisions and jarring life changes. Together, we have helped each other to rise from however far we’d fallen with bonding sessions, brutal honesty, and a lot of hugs. We may not be where we want to be, but we’re helping each other get there.

See, the crazy thing is, is that I don’t remember quite how my life became so much better. I just slowly inched along, drowned in stress and throwing as many punches as I’ve been given, and somehow grown into someone who fights for what she believes in, is mostly comfortable with herself, and has the ability to roll with the things that are not yet in my power to change or control. I may still have my breakdowns and crises, but I am still growing and developing and becoming stronger (hell, I’m only fifteen). I rediscovered passion and what it’s like to feel genuinely, completely happy in a way that I never thought I would. I may have days when those dark thoughts don’t feel so long ago, but I also have days when they seem like an evil long defeated.

I am stronger, and smarter, and happier than I have ever been, and things are only looking up. I am hoping to go into a career of psychology, more specifically helping teenagers like me to heal and return stronger. The future is mine.

I can distinctly remember a time in my life where I felt constantly empty, but I can also see myself filling up more and more with every day.

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beautifulramblingbrains · 7 years

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Crush - Chapter 2. Florist.

Pairing: Eric/OC *Abbey* Fandom: Divergent Rating: M

A memory from Eric’s past plays tricks on him. And it’s all about the girl, Abbey Ainsworth.

A/N: Thank you for support on the last chapter. Updates will be pretty quick as most of it is just editing on my behalf and finding the time to post it.

Tags: @iammarylastar @badassbaker @pathybo @mimigemrose @frecklefaceb @beltz2016 @ariwolff14

Two weeks. That was all he was given to productively try and get the girl that seemed to run a mock in his mind.

"You look like shit." - Not only that, but it appeared she now ran a mock on him physically as well. Max casually strolls into Eric's office, a flowing mix of witty criticism in his perfectly timed steps. The door slowly creaks to close behind him and Max runs his eyes over him for a little while longer before sighing and bringing his lips to a fine line. "You been up all night?"

"Something like that." Eric doesn't stop rummaging through the bottom drawer of his desk, then busies himself onto the paper in front of him. His pen flicks ferociously and papers get signed in the same fashion as that of an electronic machine. "You got those reports?"

"You mean, the Amity reports? That you requested? The faction you couldn't give two shits about any other time of the year?" Max leans on the back of the chair that sits opposite Eric's desk and finally, he lifts his head to meet his questionable gaze.

"I now have business at Amity. So yes, I am talking about the Amity reports."

"This wouldn't have to do with that little brunette would it?" Max rounds the chair and plops himself loosely in it, rubbing the side of his head animatedly and Eric guessed it was another one of his migraines resurfacing. "Don't deny it, I saw what I saw."

"What you saw, was an old friend of mine. And she wanted me to go to her wedding..." He's already said too much and catches himself before he says anything further.

"Fuck that, I went to Johanna's and -"

"If you have the reports, can you hand them over and show yourself out." Eric divulges himself back into the stacks of paper and bites the inside of his cheek obsessively. He really wasn't in the mood for Max's rundown of Amity weddings. It only seemed to solidify something in his chest further thinking about it. Right now, the distraction was paperwork and nothing else. He peers up briefly, not moving his head from the hovering position and catches Max's tense expression.

Max nods, three times, very slowly, while all the while narrowing his eyes. "I just came to a conclusion, Eric. I know you very well. And right now, you are furthest to anything but feral. You're pissed she's getting mar-" He doesn't get to finish before Eric pushes himself up from his desk haughtily, cluttering his pen pot from the force and the computer screen wobbles slackly from the jolt.

One hand is at his mouth while his free arm crosses itself instinctively over his body. All is heard is his sharp, annoyed exhales of breath while he tries to control the inner urge to hurl obscenities. "Get out, Max. If you know what's good for you…" He rounds the desk to the window and opens the blinds to the concrete jungle below him.

He couldn't fathom why, after so many deliveries and so many times Amity had been mentioned, that for some reason yesterday she clams up his mind and appears in the same day. He didn't really believe in fate, but that was close to it.

When he first joined Dauntless, and throughout his initiation, he'd cut his losses and swept Abbey into a small box stacked into the back of his head with an iron padlock. He had moments where he would fleetingly slither back upon a recollection, but never in so much detail. When he was conscious of himself undertaking it, he would snap himself back to reality without any qualms in doing so.

Yesterday - he'd let himself wander too far, reaching the furthest, blackest part of his mind that he knew he shouldn't have divulged himself to. But it was too late. The feelings he'd tried to push away, his humanity, his heart; had painstakingly resurfaced and it hurt. The very things he'd denied himself for three years had come stampeding back into his fucked up array of emotions, and he knew for certain that it didn't mix very well.

But he also knew for certain that he had to have her, and nothing else would do…

Max clears his throat, still unmoving from the plastic covered chair and leans back on an audible breath. "I can help, you know. If you'd just ask." The tone he uses is legitimately sincere and rumbles deeply within his throat from the sense of meaning he tried to shift behind it.

Eric just glances at him, regarding him with high suspicion. But anything right now would help with the tangled web of his brain. "What are you talking about? What's in it for you?" He snaps his head back to the view outside, not willing to show the small inkling of embarrassment that had begun to bristle through the base of his back. Weakness wasn't an option in front of another senior member of Dauntless, and especially not someone who he worked alongside in the runnings with Jeanine.

"Well, to put it quite simply, I know how you're feeling right now."

"You have no idea how I'm feeling. Don't try to patronize me."

"Give it rest, Eric. I've known you for far too long to be put-off by your blasé attitude. You haven't been right since yesterday with that little Amity who showed her face – for once you're actually working on your paperwork, you fucking hate paperwork!" Max kisses his teeth and shakes his head with utter annoyance.

"You know what I hate more, people getting in on my business."

Max stands, irrationally perplexed and closes the few steps Eric's created between them. He speaks to the back of his head, as he still hasn't bothered to face him. "Whatever, but I'm sorting a few arrangements and checks with Amity. I was going to send Lauren, but, if there was someone far more suitable for my job, then I'd like to know now…"

The silence in the room is deadly. Max leaves his words to linger, still hovering himself, waiting for any bodily cue that Eric has for once let the words sink in and forced himself to actually listen to the underlying reason that he's mentioned it.

Eric turns, dodging eye contact and tracing an invisible line on the floor. "How long?"

"I can process the arrangements today. They will believe it's any other dutiful visit. And…and I can place you there for as long as we need… I mean, you can work back and forth, but it's a free unquestionable pass for your movements."

Meeting Max's hopeful eye, he debates internally for a while. But he'd already, besottedly, made his mind up yesterday after the small run-in. He was just too god damn stubborn to bring himself to openly admit it so eagerly. "Okay."

"Okay you are going, or just okay…"

"I'm going. But I don't want to hear any more of it." As much as the words were cold, he could actually feel the electric white buzz of excitement for once. "This stays between me and you."

"Like I said, I know what it feels like, and I wish someone had given me the opportunity."

Sighing, he felt like he really should ask seeing as Max had relatively gone out of his way. "What are you talking about?"

"I lost someone close to me through my pride and it's too late for me now to go back and change that." Max turns to leave, causing Eric to wonder if he's temporarily covering his sorrow for his random exit. "Just don't fuck it up. Do the job, as well as your own…" The door doesn't slam like he anticipated, just gently clicks.

Eric stares after him for a little while longer. Quite simply thinking about what the actual fuck he was doing.

One truck rolls up, kicking dirt and grass into the thick humid air surrounding Amity while Johanna gazes out to the devilish approach surrounded by her peers. Her face drops a little when her least favorite person appears from the cab and hops down to a stiff stance just feet from her position.

The dust from the tires drifts through the air and solidifies the sheer and also bleak annoyance that she tries to stifle through her painted smile. "Eric, Amity welcomes you."

"And so they should, Johanna." He smirks at the uncomfortable pose and shifting stares from her right-hand men standing around her.

Eric remembers one of the guys to her left as a man he'd met briefly while counseling the Amity deliveries for Dauntless. The guy was a fake ass rat and pretended that his fear didn't run deep when faced with the reputable members of Dauntless. "Mark," he greets him, just as stand-offish as his sharp incline of a nod he receives back.

Johanna shares a look between the two and stands forwards a little more. "I'm glad you two know of each other, saves for the introductions that I know you so characteristically hate, Eric."

"You cater for me so well, Johanna. Extremely thoughtful." He motions towards her office "Shall we?" and she extends an arm reverently. He doesn't wait for her and simple strides towards the barns doors and covers the entwining steps in a matter of seconds.

The thought of Johanna's office is abysmal, and he can't understand how someone habituates in such a horse-shit, fly-covered, hot box that she seemed to redeem as a place worthy enough to be called an office. He lets his lack of fondness show predominantly on his face while he scans the room, finally settling on her sweaty, unfit form as she plonks herself behind her desk.

"Max has ordered a routine check, I see." The annoying woman gasps out between labored breaths.

"Yes, that, and to check with the small team we have that resides here. There has been no problem with the factionless I hope?" But his tone is bored and he still eyes the room disinterestedly instead of politely acknowledging her.

"None at all. Dauntless have treated us very kindly." She peers up to Mark having finally made the stairs and he walks passed him, taking his bitch-like place next to Johanna.

"Careful, Johanna. I think somebodies looking for a promotion." Eric leans forwards on the desk and raises an eyebrow to the man who seems to give him a frown of displeasure. He knew he didn't really like him and he wasn't going to sugar coat it and pretend he didn't notice it so obviously. "I'm only joking, buddy. Didn't mean to offend."

"So, how many days are you staying Eric?" Mark graces him with a fake smile. The voice is mocking, but he also doesn't care.

"I haven't quite decided. Been a while since I've been to Amity. Was going to take my time, you know. Take some of the old scenic views and fresh air in…" Eric lands himself in the chair opposite her desk and flicks at a piece of straw towards Mark. "I hope that's not a problem."

"Of course not. Everybody is welcome."

Fucking hippies.

The chair legs scrape on the floor as he pushes himself back and up again, swirling with absolute arrogance. But to be fair, he was eager to run a report on the Amity systems and check Abbey's status. "I gather you've received Max's email, so I presume there is nothing else to discuss?"

Johanna purses her lips, throwing a draw open on her desk hurriedly as she gets the notion he's about to leave. "Keys. Unless you want to sleep in your truck?"

"How kind of you."

Johanna and Mark watch Eric's head disappear from the steps and Mark throws a look down to her. "Seriously, him?"

"We don't question, we don't provoke. Everybody is welcome at Amity, especially Dauntless. We need their protection."

"I understand but he never-" She throws her hand up to silence him before removing herself and taking the steps. "-he never comes to Amity…" Mark says quietly to himself.

Having spent time batting the cob-webs and disposing of the sickening flowers that sat too freshly in a vase in his room. Eric felt two percent happier being in his small wooden hovel with the camp bed and small desk, quietly enclosed to the bright colors and nerve-popping Amity folk. If he got one more well-wish he was about to snap somebodies neck and laugh insanely while doing it.

But right now, it was quiet. He was far away from everything Amity and Dauntless and completely lost in a computer search on his electronic pad. He'd easily hacked the Amity database and could read Johanna's emails if he really wanted to - there was no time for that, as interesting as the idea sounded.

In his mind, he was thinking of the thousand ways he could 'accidentally' find Abbey. And when he did, what exactly would he do… Apologize? Say he'll go to the wedding to start a conversation? Ask her to walk with him for a while? A drink?

Fuck.

He wasn't sure how Amity folk sufficed with stuff like that and whether she would just tell him to fuck off after what he'd said. He was an asshole, much more so now than he ever used to be. But to get Abbey back he was going to have to work on it, play a piece of the dead-and-burnt charm he once had, piece it back together and form something extraordinarily old-school that she would wake up and smell the horse-shit to exactly what she was about to do.

Just as the boxes of numbers, names and locations begin burning into the back of his irises, Abbey Ainsworth appears.

Eric actually laughs to himself. At first just a quick snort and exhale, then audibly. Of course, what else would Abbey be doing – Floristry – just like the shitty white roses he threw out the moment he stepped foot inside. He hated flowers, they reminded him of her… their first kiss… No, now was not the time.

Eric's disturbed by a loud knocking on the door.

He's only just aware of his tranquilized state, the loose legs under the desk, the arm bent at the elbow towards the electronic pad sitting upright in front of him. He'd ultimately lost his ferocious attitude, because of her… again.

The door knocks another time, and Eric comes to the conclusion that knocking is one of the most meticulous aggravations on this earth. "Fucking wait you impatient dick."

"I hope you don't kiss your mother with that mouth."

Eric crosses the screen out and turns the pad off quickly. Standing rigidly, a clammy feeling begins to rise.

It was her. She was here. Of course, she was here…

Taking a deep breath, he opens the door, leaning on the frame with a side-smirk on his face while he crosses his arms… A complete picture of composure; a little something he'd trained himself to do even on his worst days.

Abbey smiles up at him, even if he's leaning overconfidently towards her in the doorway. And even though she doesn't waver in her stare, he can't help but roam over her white summer dress and small straps running across her shoulders, really noticeably in front of her.

"Abbey…" He says, rather hypnotically, and he practically prickles in joy as she blushes somewhat. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you same! Why didn't you say you were coming?" She rubs a hand on her forearm nervously while double checking her surroundings – or maybe distracting herself, he was unsure.

Eric shrugs, walking away from the door casually, leaving her at her will at whether she would enter or not. It was great that he didn't have to go searching for her after all, she willingly turned up at his door. Did he expect it or not? … Now that was the question.

"I'm a busy man, Abbey."

"Eric… why are my flowers out by the door?"

Shit.

"They stank…" Double shit. Why does he have to be such an ass? "They made me sneeze." Now he sounds fucking pathetic.

"You're not allergic to flowers! Christ sake. …Did they offend your masculinity?"

He sits back at the small desk, leaving his legs wide but keeping his composure, even if his thoughts were a mess. Instead of answering, he deciphers to avoid. "Fuck the flowers. How'd you know I was here?"

"Word gets around quick…" Her voice is almost lost as she scours the room and sheepishly places her small frame onto the bed opposite him. "Plus, there is only one Eric I know."

"Should've guessed." He places an arm over the back of the chair as he talks. "Let's go for the question why you are here?"

"We used to be friends, Eric. And I still feel that we are, no matter what's changed over the years."

"Does your fiancée know you're here?

She shifts uncomfortably. "No." A wry smile forms on her face. "But what he doesn't know, doesn't hurt him." At least she hadn't lost her sense of adventure.

"Does he know about us?"

"About us? You say as if there's some hidden secret between us."

"Does he know we're friends?" He rolls his eyes, still impatient as ever for swings and roundabout ways of talking.

"Are we friends?"

"We can be if you want to be?" Eric smiles at her and she blinks a few times from his husky voice. Her hand finds her knee and he can see the knuckles whitening as she grips onto it for some type of support.

Fuck it.

Eric stands and then proceeds to sit intimately close to her on the bed, their thighs touching, and he can feel her heat and frigid stance that forms from the movement.

"…I …I …." She stands abruptly, but he grips her wrist and pulls her back to him. "I shouldn't have come here." As she talks he stands, they're almost chest to chest and she has to crane her neck to look up at him.

"You damn well should've. Who's stopping you?"

"Nobody… it's just… if someone sees…" She bites her lip and Eric resists the urge to kiss it, his fingers digging further into her wrist in distraction.

"You're not pissed off with me?" He tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear and she avoids his gaze, roaming down his chest or elsewhere that seemed enough to bestow some other form of thoughts in her jumping mind. Her hands brush up his chest and lay palm-side against him, small and familiar. The spark is still crucially there, begging to reignite.

"No, I know you too well…" She peers between each of his gray eyes, then briefly to his lips in the close proximity. "…to take anything you say…" She barely flinches as he snakes a hand to her hips, then on the small of her back as she tries to lean away in some form of defiance that he practically wanted to laugh at. "…offensively."

"Good," Eric says cockily, moments away from her mouth, and her lips part, whether in anticipation or not he couldn't tell. He snaps his head back. "You got flowers to pick, hippy? Or are you just going to stand around here all day?" He smiles in his win.

Abbey's hands push at his chest and she releases his grip, tripping over her own feet as she takes a step away. "Er… yeah…" She catches herself, standing straight and inhales deeply. "I have lots to do… Yeah, loads, actually…"

"Yeah looks it…"

"Goodbye Eric. I hope you enjoy your stay at Amity."

"Mmm-hmm." Eric still smirks unabashed of any actions he's made towards her. She walks backward, not willing to turn her back on him in some sort of prey instinct and he leans one hand up against the door as she witheringly steps out and onto the dirt path, eyes still glued on him.

He guffaws when she trips further up the track, throwing him one more look and he shakes his head in amusement when she disappears.

Poor Abbey.

Not just the old boy she remembered, but a testosterone filled man with power easily at his fingertips. She'll be back.

This won't take long…

#crush #chapter 2 #beautifulramblingbrains #abbey and eric #eric coulter #eric divergent fanfiction #fanfiction #divergent #insurgent #jai courtney

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island0f-misfit-toys · 7 years

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a personal confession//TW: self harm, anxiety, depression, self hatred, perfectionism, suicide//

for an outlet where i am mostly anonymous, i am still somehow terrified of what posting this here means for me. i don't know many people on this forum, yet i still feel the permanence of posting something so personal on the internet. /

i think it's time that i do. /

these images resonate with me on a personal level that i tend to keep hidden from most people. something that has become increasingly important to me over the past few years is my social media presence. this is something i really dislike about myself; i hate the focus i put on coming across as a put together, well rounded, young woman. i am afraid to post my mistakes and my fears because they make me vulnerable. i am afraid that one day new friends or new bosses will look me up online and judge me on my past (and present) flaws. this fear is something that keeps me focused on creating an image for myself on social media that is through a rose colored lens. showing my vulnerabilities is terrifying. this post is my first step toward overcoming those insecurities. /

something i am incredibly vocal and passionate about online is being true to yourself and recognizing that it is okay to have flaws. this, combined with my desire for a glossy online image, has driven me to feel like a hypocrite. i preach self love, self care, and self acceptance, but i do not practice what i preach. i am incredibly sorry that it has taken me so long to say this to all of you. /

i have always struggled with perfectionism. growing up as a gymnast, my life was always under intense scrutiny. i remember being in 8th grade when i finally began to feel the intense pressure i had grown up placing on myself. i hated going to the gym because looking at my less than perfect body in a leotard disgusted me. my friends, i thought, were all so much prettier than i was. they were thinner, stronger, more flexible, and more powerful. i had fat on my stomach, and no longer had the 6 pack i had worked so hard on for so many years. if you were to look at pictures of me from this time, you'd think i was crazy to hate my body. i was 100 pounds and worse size 00 jeans. i was the strongest girl in my grade, and could out work anyone in gym class. there was nobody that could beat me in a push-up contest, but that didn't matter to me. i still spent more time sucking in my belly at practice than i did pointing my toes. 8th grade was the first time i felt fear that was so palpable that the physical sensation of dread took over my entire body. i cried every day that year, for hours. there wasn't a practice that didn't end with me in tears. i hated failure. not preforming to my fullest potential every time i attempted a skill was devastating. i hated disappointing my coaches and my parents, but more than anyone else, i hated disappointing myself. gymnastics was my entire life, and without gymnastics, i had no purpose. when things went south in the gym, i didn't know what to do. i didn't know how to cope with such significant failure and suffocating anxiety at such a young age. /

i was in 8th grade the first time i took apart a razor and dug the blade into my skin. i was 13 the first time i cried so hard i couldn't breathe and didn't think it was ever going to stop. i was 13 the first time i felt like there was not a place for me. i was isolated by my peers at school for not being feminine enough - i was a tom boy, through and through. i didn't care about boys, makeup, or impressing anyone. i just felt like a complete and utter failure. /

my freshman year of high school, every day i had practice i would feel sick to my stomach. i could barely eat by lunchtime. i couldn’t focus in lectures because the pre practice anxiety i felt was so strong. i joined the high school gymnastics team to relieve some of the pressures of club, and i ended up feeling more alone than i ever had in my life. my so called friends at school stopped talking to me, the popular boys made fun of me, and i had no place in the gymnastics world anymore. /

by the time i was 14, i became the “strong” one. nobody knew about my devastating insecurities, and my faux happiness led everyone to believe i was doing alright. this is when i had to set aside my own thoughts and hold everyone else up. i had to be strong for everyone else. this is when i started telling myself i was stupid for feeling so sad. i didn’t have it so bad. i made things worse for myself. i told myself to just “be happy”, but there was something stirring inside of me and slowly pulling me further and further under. /

sophomore and junior year came with a whirlwind of emotions. i was forced to grow up very fast, faced with my first few real life crises that i will not be going into here. i had quit gymnastics and had been learning to exist outside of a world that had been my solace for 12 years. i had no idea where to go from there. my head got scarier and scarier, until i finally succumbed to the demons that had lived inside of me for so long. /

i was 16 when i started cutting every day. i kept this buried inside and was terrified that someone would find out my biggest secret. i was still everyone else's rock, i was still not allowed to break. i would pick up my phone to send a text talking someone off the ledge, telling someone that they deserved to be happy. telling another that they didn't deserve to slit their wrists wide open. then, i would walk into the bathroom and pull out my own razor. i felt like the biggest hypocrite in the world. i didn't think i deserved to hear the same things i told everyone else. i read suicide notes while i cut myself open, preached self love and happiness while i told myself i was stupid, lazy, ugly, and that i would never make it. i cried so hard i shook. i couldn't control the things that happened to me. /

i was also 16 when i realized i was romantically and sexually attracted to the same sex as my own. i had never been more embarrassed of myself. growing up in the catholic school system instilled a strong sense of guilt and shame in me for these thoughts i had stifled for many years prior. i had never felt like such a failure. i hit an all time low. i was in the deepest depression of my life. i stopped talking to nearly everyone, i stopped studying, stopped going to off season workouts. i stopped sleeping at night and started sleeping in class, instead. i stopped going to the cafeteria because i was afraid to face my peers. i had dreams of my own suicide, and the deaths of the few friends i had. i woke up crying more days than i could count. i felt like a black hole; i was filled with negative energy. i didn't believe i was worth anything and i never saw it getting better. but like every night, the sun rose. and things got better. i pulled myself out of the pit, kicking and screaming. but i did it. /

things were okay for awhile, until they weren’t. in college, my 8th grade anxieties resurfaced. my depression ebbed, but the pit in my stomach grew and grew. i had physiological responses to anxiety unlike anything i had ever experienced. i had anxiety about having anxiety. i was afraid to go to practice because i was afraid i would have a panic attack on the field and not be able to leave, regardless of the fact that i had never actually had a panic attack. i had anxiety about my depression coming back. i couldn't do anything without feeling like there were hands grabbing my neck, slowly suffocating me to death. /

things continued to get worse, and my sophomore year i started cutting again. i was so embarrassed. i didn't know what was wrong with me. i was never actively suicidal, but i laid in bed every day and wondered how i would tell my team i had attempted suicide. i wondered what they would say when i texted the groupme that i couldn’t make practice because i checked myself into a mental hospital. i thought about who would find me and how i would do it. i never would have, but these thoughts intruded my psyche constantly. the only way to get them out of my mind was to cut. so i did. i cut until the thoughts of suicide left. i cut to stop the anxiety from swallowing me whole. /

i tried to fix myself pill by pill. i tried to get better, but i was alone. i didn't want anyone to know about my struggles. i didn't want anyone to know that i wasn't okay, that i was so weak i needed medication. i was, and still am, so incredibly embarrassed to admit that i rely on medication every day to keep myself going. but it helped. it helped so much, in fact, that i convinced myself i didn't really need it. i decided i must be crazy. that i had made it all up. that all those thoughts in my head were nothing but attempts at getting attention, regardless of the fact that i suffered alone. rationally, i know something i keep hidden can’t be something i do for attention, but i didn’t believe that. i told myself that i must've gone on meds, deep down, to make myself look cool. so i stopped taking them. i felt so good these days that there was no way i needed them in the first place. but, like clockwork, i crashed. i stopped taking my meds and i broke down. /

i thought about cutting all the time. i had obsessive, intrusive thoughts of suicide. anytime i had obsessive thoughts or felt slightly out of the ordinary, i was convinced i was developing another mental illness. i was sure i was going crazy. i was terrified that this was it for me. that i could never be okay again. that this time it would never get better. i couldn't handle it anymore. i was so shaky with anxiety at work that i couldn't look at the knives on the tables without envisioning myself bleeding out on the floor. i started counting the ways i could steal a knife without anybody noticing. i went through the motions. then the panic settled in; i couldn't shake the thoughts they way i usually could. i spent most of my shift in the bathroom fighting off a panic attack. i knew once the tears started flowing they wouldn’t be able to stop. i tried so hard to make the thoughts go away, but nothing helped. so i cut, over and over again. i walked out of the bathroom with a smile on my face; i had finally gotten the release from the racing, horrible thoughts that i had been craving all night. nobody knew, it was my secret. again. /

every day, i post on social media about self love, self care, and the freedom to not be okay. i'm ashamed to admit that i have not lived that way for some time. i'm ashamed that i'm losing it. i don't know how to be okay. when the depression ebbs, the anxiety tells me that it will never stay away for long. when the depression swells, i go so deep under that i can't feel my blood pulse under my skin. it feels like my body is completely hollow, and i feel like i'm falling into a pit i could never climb out of. that's what brings the anxiety back. the fear that i will never come back out. that this spell is different. that this spell is the final one. that this is the spell i don't come out of. /

anxiety and depression have been with me as long as i can remember. i'm terrified of what that means for the rest of my life. i don't think i know what it's like to feel okay. i know that i don't want to be a hypocrite anymore. i want to let my flaws be visible. i want to let my walls down and show everyone that it's brave to suffer, it's brave to not give up. i want to be real. and some day, i want to get better. i don't remember a day when i felt like i could escape my mind. sometimes, i feel like my insanity is home. i don’t want to live that way anymore. /

thanks for taking the time to read this / i know it was long, but it took everything in me to say this.

#self hate #self harm #trigger warning #cutting #suicidal thoughts #fear #anxious #depressed #i want to be okay but i don't know how #confession #reflection

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somebodyhelpthenotdeadfreds · 7 years

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Day 8: The Swan Princess

@thesilverqueenlady this one is a good one :) more Black Swan inspired, actually please read the rest of my series here. oh, and listen to this video when you reach that point in the fic. you’ll know which one. enjoy!

Jack hadn’t been the same since Will and Hannibal went over that cliff and never resurfaced. They were alive, he just knew that they were, even though they were declared dead. Purnell told him to drop the case or else finally retire. He chose to drop the case.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

He had borrowed Will’s imagination and he had broken it. Then dragged him back when he finally got out of this life, dragged him away from Molly and back into Hannibal’s clutches.

And now he was gone. If he wasn’t dead because of the fall, Hannibal was probably torturing him wherever they were. He shuddered to think of what Hannibal would do after Will tried to kill him this time.

Jack owed it to Will to find him. To set things right.

It had become an obsession that ate away at him, day after day. It interfered with his other cases, it gnawed at him as he tried to sleep. So many fuzzy photos, so many grainy videos.

His biggest break was finding Dr. Du Maurier in a classy apartment in upstate New York, in a nondescript neighborhood, not thrilled at the prospect of an interview. Her long blonde hair was shorter now, in a jagged cut, and there was also the small matter of the fact that she only had one leg. She downed two painkillers with a glass of Chardonnay as he sat in front of her.

“It still hurts,” he asked, but phrased it as a statement. She only scoffed at him cracking open a fresh bottle and pouring another glass, even if she refused to offer him a glass as well.

“Amputate a leg, you can still feel it tickling, twitching where it once was. An itch you can never really scratch, there’s nothing there. I still remember how it tastes,” she said passively, staring into her glass. “Nothing washes that taste out.”

“Dr. Du Maurier-”

“It tasted like pork. Isn��t that funny? Like pork. He did it Kalua style, roasted ti leaves and all. I think there was some pineapple juice in the marinade for it, some roasted peppers, something tangy. Maybe that was just my flavor, though. You know, women eat pineapple so that they taste better, that probably has something to do with it, I ate garlic before that dinner.”

Jack interrupted her, uncomfortable with how blasé she was about her situations. “Bedelia,” he stated firmly, using her name to get her to look up at him. “Hannibal- where is he?”

“Don’t you mean they?”

“I-”

“You don’t want to admit it,” she sighed, taking a long sip. “You don’t want to admit it to yourself, Jack Crawford. Will Graham’s not eating oysters for Hannibal, he’s eating pineapple and drinking cranberry juice.”

“What are you-”

“I was still high after dinner, but I’m pretty sure they christened my guest room, I heard it,” she groaned, taking a slug right from the bottle. “I’m hoping I can wreck my liver and poison my blood so I taste real bitter if they come back.”

“You’re not making sense, doctor.”

“I’m not, Jack?” she snapped. “Get it through your skull, and give up on them. The Will Graham you knew was never real. And you will never catch them. You found us in Italy because Hannibal wanted you to, he wanted Will to. You think he’ll let you find him now, with his ultimate prize finally in his arms? It’s like a shit ballet, going round and round the stage but we all know the ending anyway.”

Jack said nothing. “...I have to find them.”

“I’ll send flowers to your funeral, then. Goodbye, Jack.”

***

“Jack?” Brian asked hesitantly, knocking on the doorframe to his office. Jack only glared from behind his laptop. Brian knew what he was doing, he was searching the crazy conspiracy side of the Internet looking for pictures, videos, any sort of proof of either Hannibal or Will’s existence. It was getting scary, watching stoic Jack Crawford stand on the precipice of mad obsession.

“Jack, we found something on the Lance case, could you-”

“I’m busy, Brian, I’ll be down later.”

He couldn’t hold back. “Jack, please, you need to stop doing this. Just - just let them stay dead. Maybe - maybe they deserve each other.”

“Out,” Jack growled. Brian bit his lip and nodded, leaving the room. He shook his head to Jimmy outside, who had sent a questioning look.

“He can’t let them go, he’ll look at every grainy photo and video there is. I’ve seen better pictures of Bigfoot than the ‘proof’ he obsesses over.”

Meanwhile, Jack had received a new email, with an attached video and a note:

Stop looking, Jack.

Angry, and with nerves jumping, he clicked on the video crudely titled Rothbart and the Black Swan.

The screen lit up with a scene of a costume ball, elegant in nature, probably no more than a hundred people in attendance. It was apparent that the camera was placed up in a balcony above the ballroom, and was scanning over the crowd. The timestamp dated it. Two weeks ago today. From the muttering of the cameraman, somewhere in Italy. Tuscany? Venice? It was unclear.

The camera chose to zoom in on a man in an fancy crimson suit jacket, a cape and mask to match, his hair back in a slight ponytail. There was a fencing sword in a scabbard by his leg. Maybe it was real, maybe it wasn’t, none of the guests seemed to not notice or care. He was finishing his drink, handing the glass over to a waiter before crossing the room, in search of someone. The camera zoomed in and out of focus, obviously trying to avoid detection until it finally stopped on the man bowing to another man, offering his hand for a dance.

Jack examined this new player carefully. Short brown hair, left long enough for it to curl. The black feathered mask covered his features well, and he had what appeared to be an engraved hunting knife strapped to his thigh. But what really struck Jack was how the man was dressed all in black, complete with a cape that looked as though it were made of raven feathers.

He accepted the man’s offer as the orchestra struck up the next song. Jack found that he recognized the song, and it tugged on painful memories.

It was Scène: Allegro, Tempo di valse, Allegro vivo, of Swan Lake.

When she was alive, Bella had loved the ballet. One of Jack’s fondest memories was taking her to a production of Swan Lake for their anniversary, and seeing her eyes light up with the stage. And he would admit, it was a beautiful performance, and no performance had been as memorable as the first time he saw it. He remembered Bella gasping at the ending, where the prince and his love, the White Swan-

lept into the lake together to avoid being separated.

Jack’s eyes widened in horror and realization as he watched the mystery pair danced so in tune with each other. It was uncanny. They flowed together as though they were two halves of one person. For a while the man in crimson led, then his partner took over, and they switched back and forth over and over again with no discernible pattern, always changing, always turning, but never stepping out of place.

The song. The song. Scène: Allegro, Tempo di valse, Allegro vivo. It was the song of the Black Swan’s dance of deception.

And the man in the crimson suit was dancing with his own black swan. They were fooling the crowd, all of them.

The black swan looked as though he was being led, but instead was leading with such obvious, controlling ease it was though he was born for this role. He was composed, lithe, but - but he felt dangerous, almost as though he could turn around snap at any moment.

The man spun his black swan around when he was leading again, twirled him away before bringing him back even closer. A hand possessively gripping his partner’s lower back, as the partner had an arm around his neck while holding the other’s hand.

When the crimson prince spun the black swan out again, the swan stared directly into the camera. Jack looked back and saw deep, piercing, familiar blue eyes.

If you stare long enough into the abyss, eventually the abyss will stare back into you.

He spun back into the arms of his crimson prince, clutching his shoulder with his black glove tight enough to rumple the velvet. It was passionate, it was carnal.

Will.

(Odette could only turn back into her true self if she won the love of one who had never loved before.)

Will was never the white swan, with the darkness fighting to take over. No. Will was always the black swan, and now he had shed his white, downy feathers for long, thick black ones.

It felt as though the dance went on forever, they danced around the room in hypnotic circles, twirling in time to the music, faster and faster, only focused on each other. Jack’s vision was blurring with black feathers, the music sounded like wings flapping, tearing at his skull. Will was transforming before his eyes as they spun faster and faster. He was becoming a real black swan, his arms became wings, embracing his darkness along with - with - Hannibal.

Hannibal was never the damn prince in this story. He was Rothbart, he had transformed Will, but not into a pathetic little thing. A helpless little swan became a confident, horrifying force. He was his.

And then, just like that, the music stopped on the crescendo. The prince dipped the swan into a final pose and held it. Then he pulled him back up, only for the swan grip him by the collar and yank him down into a hard kiss.

Around them, the crowd clapped, and Jack felt like clapping as well, as his veins filled with cold dread.

The swan broke the kiss first. Blood was smeared across his lips, and the prince’s lip was bleeding from a bite. But he was smiling, looking proud. The swan was smiling as well, leaning close to his prince, not even turning as he snatched a piece of pineapple off of a waiter’s tray. He slowly ate it, slowly dragged the toothpick out between his teeth. He winked.

That was enough, Jack couldn’t stand it any longer, he pressed ‘pause.’

He closed his eyes to try to calm down. He took a deep breath and reopened his eyes, hitting the play button again.

But there was no prince. There was no swan.

They were never there. They were never there.

He was losing it.

But then he heard choked sputters and the camera turned around. The cameraman’s eyes rolled back and went cold, his body jerking like a dying fish. The engraved knife from earlier was removed from the man’s chest. Jack squinted in order to make out the face of the killer, but all he saw was the Black Swan staring into the camera as the prince pressed kisses down the hollow of his throat. The Swan smiled, a gloved hand tousling the other man’s hair and murmuring something in French.

He smirked into the camera, before suddenly reaching out and sending the camera smashing into the ground, causing Jack to physically jump out of his chair. He swore loudly, slamming the laptop closed, slamming that chapter of the case closed.

La commedia è finita. The comedy is finished.

Jack’s dreams were filled with images of black feathers and crimson velvet and bloody lips and blue eyes, with Swan Lake playing in the background.

Tomorrow: a excuse for me to write Will with a southern accent.

#hannibaleverafter #hannibal #hannigram #jack crawford #bedelia du maurier #will graham

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