#Like whenever you try to scream into those voids you just end up feeling worse and ruminating even more and have no outlet for thag | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

harry-writings · 3 years

Text

We’ll Be Alright

The one where Harry and Y/n have a hard time coping without one another, and Harry finally understands what it means to be a husband

Part 1

Part 2

Masterlist

How to support me <333

Y/n knows she’s hit rock bottom when she pours her fifth glass of whiskey at three in the morning, lighting up her seventh cigarette on her bedroom balcony, as if furthering herself away from her right state of mind will somehow bring her closer to all the answers she had been looking for.

She doesn’t even smoke.

The last time she came this close to a cigarette was five months before she found out she was pregnant with Topher. It was the third time Harry didn’t show up to marriage counseling, and Y/n was so upset and so angry and so hurt that she couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop crying until it was in her hands.

This time, though, the shaking and the crying don’t stop.

She’s sitting on one of the balcony chairs, her elbows propped up on her knees, one hand resting at the roots of her hair and the other holding her glass in her palm and her cigarette between her fingers. Her leg is bouncing and her eyes are wet, zoning herself out from the rest of the world, trying to get as far away from herself as possible.

She hasn’t seen Harry in thirteen days.

Not only has she not seen Harry, but she also hasn’t talked to Harry or had any ties left to Harry for nearly two weeks now and Y/n can barely hold herself together anymore. She’s surprised she’s even gotten this far without him.

They aren’t divorced — the papers were left on the courtroom table practically untouched, and though she hates to admit it to herself, Y/n was the first to leave them behind — but they might as well have been.

He wasn’t even the one to pick up Topher today. And she didn’t realize how much she’d miss their traditions — even the ones they’ve made while being separated — until she saw Mitch standing at the other side of her door and watched as he buckled her son into the same carseat Harry once had in his car.

It was at that moment that she knew that even though they weren’t divorced, they really were over, and it was enough to push her over the edge.

Now she’s so drunk she can barely remember where she is. The skyline and the buildings look familiar, but everything is so out of touch she can’t find the same peace and comfort in it as she once used to.

Everything has faded to nothing.

And whether it’s from the alcohol, or the revisitation of bad habits, or if it’s from grieving the loss of somebody still alive, but everything to her feels numb. All that’s left is pain and sadness and the fear of living the rest of her life exactly like this — lost, hopeless, and alone.

She thinks back to the day she slept with Harry — as she does, she throws the last bit of whiskey down her throat and swallows it down without a flinch — and how that day was forever going to be the last day she had ever held him, had ever kissed him, had ever told him that she loved him.

If she had known — really, really known — it was going to be her last chance to do any of those things, she wouldn’t have pushed him away. She would have done all the things Harry wanted — would have spent the rest of their day in bed, drinking wine, celebrating all that once was and what always could be.

Because that’s what she wanted, too. That’s what she’s wanted since the beginning of this mess they’ve made of themselves, she just didn’t ever want to admit it.

This feeling that burns in her stomach at the thought of not being with Harry makes her want to scream. She can’t escape it, even as the alcohol seeps into her bloodstream and takes away every other feeling in her body.

She sobs, her chin tucking into her chest and her palms pressing to her forehead, agonizing and inhumane cries falling past her lips.

Her Harry is no longer hers.

She squeezes her eyes shut, a puddle of tears falling down her cheeks as she does so, her hand dropping the whiskey glass, her cigarette left sparked on the balcony floor as her fingers twist and pull at her hair. She hunches over her knees, trying so desperately to put herself back together again.

But it’s impossible. She knows it’s impossible because it’s him that makes her whole — him that holds her and keeps her together, even when everything else around her is falling apart.

She’d do anything to feel his arms around her now.

And it’s all she can think about — how lonely and cold and frigid it feels without the feel of his touch, and how loud the silence is without the sound of his voice in her ear, telling her how in love with her he is, giggling at her blush.

And she’s had so much to drink she can trick her mind into believing that he’s here, if she thinks about it hard enough. She mistakes the wind for the feel of him walking past her, smells his cologne in the liquor, but it’s still too quiet for her to really, truly believe it.

And she just wants to believe it. For once, she wants to pretend that he’s here with her, loving her, wanting her the way he always used to. Even if it’s the wrong thing to do.

Her hand shakingly reaches for her phone.

“‘Ello, this is Harry! I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to your call, but I promise to return to you whenever I’m next available. Thank you, talk soon! Bye.”

And oh, how good it feels to hear his voice again.

It brings her back to all the times she’d call Harry while he was away on tour and how every phone call lasted at least two hours. Whether it was to check up on him, or to wish him goodnight, or to have phone sex, he never failed to make every second they were spending apart feel so worth it.

She calls him six more times just to hear his voicemail.

By the seventh and last phone call, Y/n is so low she’s tempted to just finish it off — down the pack of cigarettes and the bottle of whiskey that have kept her more company than her husband. Maybe filling her void with vices will be enough to last her until the blackout, where she will finally be free.

But what will she have left if she does?

The loneliness and the sadness and the hopelessness will all still be there. She will still wake up to a cold bed, in an empty home, with nobody to share her life with. She will still have this sick and twisted feeling that happiness doesn’t exist outside of her Harry — that happiness doesn’t exist within these walls, miles away from him, with only herself to hold.

She can’t keep waking up without him anymore. She can hardly keep living.

So, she does the first and only thing that comes to her mind.

She calls Mitch.

The clock nearly at four in the morning doesn’t seem to strike her as her drunken fingers struggle to tap on his contact name, knowing that this is the only way.

“Mitch.” Y/n hiccups when he answers her call, watching as everything around her starts to spin out of her control, instinctively reaching her hand beside her to hold onto Harry’s — the way she always did whenever she got too drunk. Her heart hurts even worse than before when she’s met with nothing but the ache of what once was. “Come get me, please.”

Something in the air shifts around Mitch.

He has known Y/n for years now, yet he can barely recognize that it’s her voice on the phone. He has to look down at the name on his phone twice before pressing the speaker to his ear, his heart nearly still as he wonders the reason behind such a disturbing and unexpected request.

“Y/n… is everything alright?” He asks tentatively, carefully, because she’s never awake this late at night and has never sounded so hurt. “What’s happened, love?”

She wipes her nose with the back of her hand, sniffling, almost angrily.

“My husband’s been ignoring me for the past two weeks and I’m not —” She stops, sucking in a broken breath, not even believing the words she just spoke because she never believed he’d leave her all alone for so long. “I’m not taking it so well, obviously.”

Mitch sighs.

He should have known, from the second he saw the look on her face earlier that evening, that her night was going to end like this. The love she and Harry share is a kind he’s never seen before — something so far from ordinary, something he couldn’t even understand despite the love for his own girlfriend, who lays beside him so peacefully now.

Their love is more than love. It’s deeper, more soulful, as if they have found each other in every past life and every after life. They truly are, in the most unexplainable of ways, made for one another eternally. Forever, they are theirs.

It’s both a blessing and a curse — their preexisting connection— because they are everything together, but absolutely nothing apart.

“Y/n, love... he’s not ignoring you. He wouldn’t dream of it.”

Oh, how she wishes it was true.

“He didn’t even want to see me tonight. He sees me two days out of the week and he didn’t even want that. There was a time he’d do anything just to look at me for even a second.”

He wishes he knew what to say.

It’s not that Harry doesn’t want to see her — all he does is cry and whine and sulk about how he hasn’t — he just believes leaving Y/n alone is truly what’s best for her right now.

She has barely had any time away from him. Surely, she did have the weekdays to herself and Topher, but she still had to see him every weekend — still had to face him at her doorway; still had to be around him, even on her worst days; still had to be reminded of everything that had gone wrong.

Being around him confuses her. He knows that now, and so does Mitch. But Mitch always knew. Y/n has always been too in deep with Harry. One proper look at him would be enough to send her to her knees.

He’s her greatest weakness.

She needs to be alone.

Or, so he once thought.

“Have you been drinking?”

Y/n laughs in an almost sarcastic way, the side of her wrist pulling at the corner of her eye as she wipes away at her tears.

“Drinking, frying my brain with nicotine, crying my fucking eyes out.” Her lips tremble as she stuffles away a cry. “All of the above.”

Mitch frowns.

This behavior isn’t unusual for her — it hasn’t been since her marriage with Harry started to turmoil — but it never gets easier to witness.

It’s when she’s in the depths of her own hell that she depends on the intoxication to get her by, as if it numbed her from all the pain she’d be living with without it. And as hard as it is for him to admit it, she only ever feels this way whenever it comes to Harry.

This side of her never existed until she met him.

“You want to see him, don’t you?”

To see him. To touch him. To talk to him. To hold him. She wants it all, everywhere, for the rest of the night — for the rest of her life if he were to let her.

But she can’t get ahead of herself. She won’t be able to survive it if she does.

“Even if it’s just for a second.”

His heart falls.

“Will it get you to put down the drugs and alcohol?”

Her eyes linger at the nearly empty bottle of whiskey, and though it still calls for her just as strongly, she knows it’s not what she truly wants.

“Yeah.”

She can hear him smile softly through the phone.

“Then hang tight, love. I’m on my way.”

Harry hasn’t been able to sleep all night.

And if he wanted to get technical, he supposes he hasn’t been able to sleep since he and Y/n nearly signed their marriage away, but tonight is far, far worse than anything else he’s ever felt.

His body senses his good days. The sun somehow brighter, the rain lighter, the clouds thinner — he sees it all so differently on the days he goes to see Y/n. He’s used to the routine, he looks forward to it all week, even if it is just to see her for a couple minutes at her doorway.

So to say his body feels the loss of her is an understatement.

He caught himself reaching his hand over to her side of the bed one too many times, only to shiver and whine when met with the emptiness of it. His fingers would squeeze at her pillowcase, hugging it closer to him, fantasizing about her smell and her feel as he tried to drift into his dreamland — that only, of course, consisted of her.

But it was helpless.

He moves to the living room couch, where he finds himself flipping through the photo album of their wedding day — the same one he claimed he had thrown out when Y/n asked if she could keep it, moments before she was about to move out after he had brought the divorce papers home.

Of course he hadn’t thrown it out, but he could never tell Y/n about the lies he only told to make himself feel better about his decision.

He was angry and he was hurt, both of which consumed him in the scariest and most dangerous of ways, leading him to sink his teeth in a lie and spitting it in her face just to make her feel all those things, too. Though he’s sure she already did.

But as he flips through the pages now, reliving that day torturously in his head, remembering how beautiful she looked and how in love he was, he can’t help but feel like these moments weren’t his to take.

He had kept their home — had kept the furniture they bought together when they first moved in, kept all the movies and cd’s they’d play together each night, kept all the pictures she had chosen for the walls and tables he hadn’t had a clue on how to decorate.

He stayed so perfectly in their past while she was forced to move on, away from him, when she wasn’t even the one who wanted to leave.

He had truly taken everything from her — her love, her trust, her marriage, her home — and he didn’t even have the decency to give her the one and only thing she had asked for before she left.

That day was hers, it always has been and it always will be. She never once gave up on it the way he once had, always holding it so close to her, always cherishing its moments.

This simply doesn’t belong to him.

He presses his forehead down to a picture of Y/n wildly smiling at the camera, her hair styled up, makeup slightly smudged, as if holding her to him. And he rubs his thumb along the laminate, right against her cheek, in the same way she always liked.

“I’m so sorry.” He sobs out before he can try to reason that it’s not her, that she can’t hear him, that she can’t feel the way he’s holding and touching her right now, that he looks like a lovesick idiot for thinking this is anything close to the real thing.

None of that matters to him right now, though, as he holds the picture to him and realizes this is the closest he has been to her in so long. And she needs to know.

She just needs to know.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Harry must have cried himself to sleep because the next thing he knows, his front door slams open against the foyer wall, julting him off of the photo album and leaving him with dry and confused eyes.

Without much of a second thought, he throws the photo album off his lap and stands frantically from the couch, his head twisting around in an attempt to follow the footsteps scurrying towards the living room.

He knows it’s her just from that sound alone.

“Y/n?” He calls out in question, still delusional from his sleeping state, wondering if he had even woken up at all.

But it’s when he sees her stumbling toward him with soaken and beaten eyes that he knows this isn’t just a dream — that she really is here, back in their home, with him at last. And he would be happy, would be so goddamn happy to have her in front of him again, if she didn’t look so broken.

He can’t stand the sight of her like this.

“Y/n?” He asks again, devastated.

But she doesn’t answer him. Rather, she does the one and only thing her mind can make sense of now that he’s in front of her again.

Her trembling hands cradle the back of his neck before pulling her to him, their lips meeting for a sloppy, drunken, frenzied kiss — one that nearly has Harry falling to his knees before her.

She pushes him onto the couch, barely giving him any time to compose himself before she sits herself down on his lap and kisses him again, hard — harder than before and harder than she ever has, she thinks.

Teeth clattering, tongues battling, mouths opening, lips smothering. It’s desperate and messy and sloppy, but she doesn’t want it any other way.

She knows this feeling. She wants this feeling. It’s what she keeps going back to because it’s safe and warm and familiar. She could be in the middle of nowhere, lost with no direction or any sense of belonging, yet the feel of his lips on hers would somehow make her feel at home, just the way she is.

She moans against him, her hands splayed on the back of his head and neck as if to keep him there — on her, with her.

His hands, however, don’t know where to go. They switch between her arms and her thighs, setting boundaries for himself because he’d give into her in a heartbeat if he were to touch her just right. And he’s already doing so much he shouldn’t, he’d ruin himself if he were to go any further.

So as a subtle way to slow it down, he drags his lips down to her chin before leaving open-mouthed kisses along the shape of her neck — devouring her taste, savoring the sweetness.

He’s missed this. He’s missed her, so much so he can’t even remember the reason he let it all go. Right now, in this moment, nothing seems worth it enough to ever give this up.

He can hardly think straight.

“Y/n, please don’t do this to me…” Harry whines against her collarbone, her touch and smell and feel overwhelming him beyond all forms of comprehension. “This isn’t you. We’ve been here before and —”

“And I want to make it right this time.”

He nearly cries.

He bites down gently on the base of her throat, nibbling at it, a strangled whine falling from his lips as his hands slither to her back, pushing his body up against hers as if to bring her closer. And he growls silently to himself as she starts grinding herself against him.

“Y/n —”

“Stop calling me that!”

“Baby…” He tries again, to which she giggles and smiles as she nibbles on the lobe of his ear. He gets lost in it for a moment — to hear her laugh, to feel her hands rub along his chest and up his neck, to have her so close, like nothing ever happened — but he snaps himself out of it just as quickly as he fell into it. “You’re drunk.”

He tries to reason, to make her see that he does want this, more than anything else in the world, but he can’t. Because if it were to happen again, he wants it to be real. He wants her to mean it, to need it, to be all in it with him the way he’s all in it with her.

He wants her to stay.

“I’m only drunk because I miss you so much.” She confesses breathlessly to him, to which he groans and throws his head back, as if he were in pain. “So give me what I want and nothing else will matter.”

His hands find purchase to her hips, his fingers squeezing at the flesh of them as he tries to steady the movement of her groin against his, desperate to hold himself together. But she makes it so hard when she knows exactly where and how to touch him — when she knows that he can never resist her all over him, begging for more.

His eyes are pinched forward and closed, his head still hanging off the edge of the couch, words seeming to fail him as she moans against his shoulder, sinking her teeth into the flesh of it as she works herself harder against him.

“Fuck, you know I want to.” He croaks out, his hands giving into their urge to wander every dip and curve and inch of her, even the places he shouldn’t. “You know I do.”

Good, she thinks. I want you to want it. I need you to want it. I want you to want it so bad you give it to me all night, all morning, all day. I need you to want me.

She lifts her head up from his shoulder so that she can look at him with a winning smirk, both of her hands fisting at the collar of his t-shirt to steady herself upon his lap, her movements now smooth and effortless, giving him everything he needs to give in.

He lets out a proper moan at this, allowing himself a moment of weakness to feed his undying greed.

His mouth hangs open and practically drools as he touches her in ways he’s been aching to, rubbing himself against her, allowing her lips to wander anywhere and everywhere they craved.

It all feels so good and all so right, he wishes it was enough to make things work, but he knows in his heart that it isn’t.

Not now, at least.

“But I can't — I can’t take advantage of you. I — oh, fuck!” He yelps from below her when her arm sneaks between them so her fingers can scratch at the skin of his upper inner thigh, mercilessly giving him everything that has ever made him feel good.

And it’s all too much.

One more right touch in the right place and he’s done for, as pathetic and weak as that makes him. But it’s only for her. Only for her does he find himself shuddering and moaning and creeping on the edge for, one push away from falling off, waiting to be caught by her.

After all this time, after all they had been through — all the fighting, all the tears, all the downs and lows they’ve lost themselves in — she still consumes him whole. She still is and forever will be the only person he’ll ever love like this.

There is nothing and nobody else. There is only her.

Which is why he can’t let himself do it. He can’t let her do it.

So right before he reaches the end, his hands frantically grab onto hers and pin them down against each side of his legs, her forehead meeting his shoulder, her body collapsing onto his.

“No!” He bites through clenched teeth and shut eyes, his hands squeezing hers as his body ricochets back to reality, yet still holding her close. “No, no, fuck. No.”

And whatever remained of Y/n’s heart burns to a crisp at that one godforsaken word.

Harry never denies her.

Even at their lowest and darkest moments, her simple touch made him powerless. He succumbed to her even when he told himself he wouldn’t, gave into her touch like a drug he couldn’t get off of no matter how hard he tried, drowned in her love even when he swore he no longer craved it.

It’s the very reason Y/n found herself pregnant in the midst of their downfall. Harry never stopped wanting her.

She should have known that everything was different now, but she never expected it to be like this.

“Oh.” Y/n’s lips tremble, her eyes wide with woe, glossy with burning tears as she looks at him through slow blinks. “I get it, I —”

“Y/n…”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have — I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry.”

She’s nearly sobbing now, her breaths heavy and frantic as she pushes herself away from him, practically falling off of his lap. And if his head wasn’t so clouded from what had just happened between them, he wouldn’t have let her go.

She’s a mess, a kind he’s never seen in her before and it breaks him in two when he sees her face soaked in tears, her hands trembling as they push her hair back, her eyes looking at everything but him.

He is just so sick of her looking away from him, and so tired of watching her cry.

He never wanted this.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Harry speaks softly, his hand reaching out to grab ahold of hers before she has the chance to walk out on him again. And the shock of his touch is enough to bring her right back to him. “Baby, this is your home more than it is mine. Your son is here, I am here, don’t ever think you have to be sorry for wanting to come home.”

She’s silent for a moment, trying to make sense of his words and what they mean. But it’s so hard to focus on anything other than how good it feels to be holding his hand, and how that’s all it took to get the room to stop spinning around her.

She trusts him.

Whatever he wants out of this and whatever he’s thinking, she trusts. Her body wouldn’t be so reliant on him if she didn’t. And it’s been years since she’s felt this feeling she feels so fiercely now, but she could never mistake it. It was once the most familiar feeling in the world to her.

He rubs at her knuckles, patiently waiting for her to respond. But she doesn’t, her gaze just drunkenly fixated at their intertwined fingers, a hint of longing in her eye.

Even when he’s right here, holding her, convincing her to stay… she still feels as though he isn’t all hers. She wants more of him, as if she hasn’t seen and touched and loved every inch of his body and claimed every last beat of his heart.

She is the only one and yet she feels as though she’ll never be enough for him, after all this time, after all these years spent together. It makes him feel like the worst person in the world.

He lifts her hand up to his lips, as delicate and gentle as possible, just the way she likes.

“And as for kissing me.” He adds, eyes looking up fondly at her as he kisses at her knuckles one by one. “You’re my wife, it’s what I want. I just don’t want us to make the same mistakes we once did.”

He settles her fingers against his mouth for a moment longer before pulling her closer to where he sits, looking insistently in her hopeful eyes.

“If we sleep together… it’ll only drive us more apart, just like it did the last time. And I swear to god —” he hangs his head off the edge of the couch again, his fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose, trying to fathom the idea of it. “If I have to go another day without seeing you, I’m going to fucking lose it. I’m fucking miserable.”

She knows it’s true. Whether she wanted to hear it or not, sleeping together without speaking to one another would only bring them back to the same dark, numbing cycle they’ve been through for far too long now.

But she wants to milk it — wants him to do whatever he can to get her to stay because she needs to know he really wants it, needs to know he really wants her, before it’s too late.

And when Harry lifts his head back up to look at her, his heart nearly explodes from within him.

“Come here.” He tugs softly on her hand, a small smile playing on his lips when he sees Y/n pouting down at him with furrowed brows — the same face she used to make whenever she wanted to be angry with him, but couldn’t. It brings him back to all their happiest times. “Come here!”

He pulls her down to him until she lands on his lap, both of them laughing as she nearly trips over her own two feet.

The moment stills when their eyes meet, however, the giggling dying down and their smiles falling as they captivate each other with just a single look.

His fingers move her hair out of her face, his palm resting on the side of her cheek, his thumb rubbing along the skin of her blush as he admires just how beautiful she’s gotten since the last time he had seen her.

And she does the same to him — her fingers pulling at his hair, dancing along his scalp, humming in admiration as her eyes wander every dip and curve of his face. He is just so perfect, it endlessly mesmerizes her.

“I’ve missed you.” She confesses softly, her gaze trained on his lips, her tongue poking out to lick her own.

“I’ve missed you so much more, my love.”

And they meet for a kiss — a real kiss this time. Not the hungry, desperate, fevered kisses they’ve been sharing since their separation. It’s slow, their lips just settling against each other’s, refusing to move, only leaning in deeper when desired.

It’s how he kissed her on their wedding day.

She remembers how different it was, now, as she feels it again — full of vows and promises, hopes and dreams, a hint of sorrow for all the times he had let her down, and how he’d never wish to do it again.

Quite truthfully, she never wants it to end. She could stay pressed against his lips like this all night and never once get tired of it — would probably beg for more if it ever came down to it. But she doesn’t have to anymore, she knows that now.

They both pull away together, dopey and loopy smiles painted on their faces. And it doesn’t get better than this.

“Can I show you something?” He whispers to her, his thumb pets at her temple, circles and circles. “And know that when I give it to you, it’s me trying to make this right again? No matter how much it hurts?”

His breath falters when her lips press gently against his wrist, humming a small “mhm” against the skin of it.

She always did that whenever she could. Whether he be holding her cheek, or rubbing at her head, or running his fingers through her hair, her lips would seek just the smallest bit more of him. And it always warmed him to feel it. It reminded him that yes, she did in fact love him and want him and need him with the same burning he has for her.

It always felt too good to be true.

And to know that she’s feeling it all over again makes every worry in the world collapse around him, leaving him with nothing but the life he had always desired with her, and the hope that it only gets better from here.

He smiles in endearment, his own lips seeking the sole of her cheek before he turns his body to the fallen photo album, his fingers shaking as he reaches for it.

She gasps before he even has the chance to sit up fully.

“Is that —” she stops before she finishes, her hand flying over her suddenly trembling lips because it is.

He looks at her with eyes full of regret as he holds the photo album out for her to take, but she’s in too much shock. All she can process is that it’s here, still alive in the home they once shared, not shredded and burned and broken like she always thought it was.

And it just doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that over a year ago, he told her a lie that ripped her apart from the inside out every day since he’d spoken it. It doesn’t matter that all she had left of their wedding were the moments captured in her memory, to which she went back to every night before bed.

It just doesn’t matter because she’s just so happy to see it again — so, so, so fucking happy that she can’t help but sob into her palm, admiring it, somehow at peace with the idea of reuniting with it with her husband right beside her, shedding the same tears as she is.

All she has ever wanted is happening all at once, and she couldn’t ask for more.

“Can we look through it?” She sniffles, her fingers graciously running along the cover of it.

He pulls her in closer, his head nodding, a breathy laugh of euphoria falling from his lips.

As if she even had to ask.

It was the next morning that Harry decided he couldn’t do it anymore.

Upon waking up to an empty bed, there wasn’t this overwhelming sense of sadness rippling through him, or loneliness drowning him to his duvets, refusing to set him free. It felt… right, and warm, and safe, and like it had always meant to be this way.

He was weightless as he carried his naked body over to his dresser, where he slipped on a new pair of briefs and one of his plain white t-shirts. He even found himself humming a tune he only ever sang to on good mornings.

And it was when he made his way downstairs that he started to hear his company.

He found Y/n in his day old t-shirt, holding Topher at her hip, flipping pancakes at the stovetop, humming and bouncing to the beat of a song they played during their wedding ceremony.

Her hair was unbrushed, her nail polish chipped, one of her socks pulled too high and the other too low, in her most hungover state. And the world stopped turning then, it seemed. Because it was the most simple and most casual sight to see, yet something he was once so blinded to.

He finally felt at home.

And it was as if nothing else had ever really, truly mattered. His world simply revolved around the two littles ones in his kitchen, getting their hands messy with pancake batter, giggling with every other step they took.

And he knew he couldn’t do it anymore.

Which is exactly how he ended up here — seven hours later, standing on one knee in front of his wife, whose hand fits so perfectly in his.

She sits cross-legged upon the kitchen chair, her plate half empty and on her second glass of her mocktail. And if he had more preparation, he would have taken her out instead of settling for her favorite home cooked meal. But something about doing this here, in the home they once shared together, at their happiest hour, feels much more real to him.

“H? What are you doing?” Y/n asks with wide eyes, looking down at their intertwined hands, squeezing onto his tighter.

“I know we’re already married, but I needed to do this anyway.”

He sucks in a breath as the pad of his thumb passes through her knuckles, slightly flicking her engagement ring in the process.

“When I left earlier, it wasn’t for work. I mean, it was for work but not — but not in the way you may think.”

Y/n tilts her head down at him, her eyebrows furrowed. Her heart races with all the endless possibilities, the pit in her stomach falling with it. And she really does try to not seem worried, but she can’t help but let it crash over her.

She had just gotten her husband back. Finally, she’s his and he’s hers and that’s all she ever wanted. That’s all she ever needed, so how is she expected to say goodbye so soon?

How would she ever survive it?

“I terminated the contract.”

Her heart stops beating.

Her body sits frozen still as Harry bites at his bottom lip, where he hides a smile.

This truly is it — the beginning of their forever, the start to the life they always wanted to share alone, with no distractions, no obligations, no anything besides each other and their child — and he doesn’t want it any other way.

“I’m done with having a career that takes me away from you. And I’m so sick and tired of pretending like this is the life I wanted to have with you. It wasn’t, baby. It isn’t.”

But she just can’t believe what she’s hearing.

The words had translated yet somehow, she can’t make sense of them. She can’t make sense of anything as her mind twists and turns around what they could mean and what it could mean for them as a couple.

“You — you terminated the contract? I don’t — I don’t understand. I —”

"If it were ever to come down to you or my music, I’d choose you in a heartbeat.” The fingers of his free hand twist at her wedding band, hypnotizing her. “I did it all for you — the writing, the touring, the traveling. My future with you was all I ever cared about and yet, I had somehow convinced myself that my music meant more to me, when it never really did.”

Her breaths get deeper and deeper, completely and utterly overwhelmed. And if it weren’t for the tears of happiness leaking from her eyes, Harry wouldn’t know what she’s truly feeling inside.

But he knows. Oh, how he knows.

“I choose you, Y/n. And I choose Topher and I choose our Alaskan home everyday for the rest of our lives. That’s what I choose. That’s what I will always choose.”

It’s those words that make her really start to lose it.

How long she had been waiting for this moment, she can’t even remember anymore. So much time has passed and yet everyday, she dreamed and hoped and prayed and died to hear him say that to her.

She had been waiting for so long, she once believed them to be impossible.

But here he is on one knee again, sacrificing his entire life and heart and soul just to make their marriage right. He wants to leave the music behind rather than leaving her to be all alone. He wants to move away from the life he had built for himself and rather spend the rest of it with her.

He wants her, for the first time in what feels like centuries, he finally wants her.

“But — but you — how? How did you — what did you do?”

“Don’t worry about the how, okay? What matters is that I made it work and I have more than enough to last our family a lifetime. I promise you that.”

One of her hands reaches forward to cup at his cheek, pulling herself closer to him because she needs to feel him, all of him — needs to feel the heat of his skin, the beat of his heart, the warmth of his breath.

She needs it all, all around her, until she drowns in it.

“Don’t care about the money, just — just want to make sure you’re okay.”

His wife is reaching for him, pulling him in, wanting and loving him despite everything he put her through… how could he not be okay?

He’s on top of the world right now.

“Baby, I’m so much more than okay. I have you, don’t I?” She nods her head as she wipes her tears away, sniffling with trembling lips and shaking hands. “Then that’s all I need.”

She sobs against him, her face tucked in his shoulder as he holds her hands between them, kissing at her head.

And sometime in the near future — when Harry and Y/n have found everything they had lost, have grown to be better together than ever spent apart, and have become the best parents they could ever be to their son — he’ll rent out a small venue in the outskirts of town and renew his wedding vows to his wife, whom he plans to never be parted from, even in death.

“So, Y/n, baby love.” They both giggle at the pet name, her head lifting from his shoulder and meeting his eye halfway. “Will you please do the honors of being my lawfully wedded wife, and the mother of our disgustingly perfect child, in our home in Alaska? Forever?”

She nods her head, her thoughts clouded by euphoria, her hand still in her husband’s.

As if he even had to ask.

#THIS REALLY TOOK ME FOREVER #THE WRITERS BLOCK WAS REAL HERE #BUT I HOPE YOU ENJOY IT ANYWAYS :D #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles imagines

775 notes · View notes

rcksmith · 3 years

Text

Spring breeze part.2 — Spencer Reid

Gif by @ssadrreid

Sumarry: Spencer never thought about falling in love with someone, but he certainly didn't expect that he would fall in love with Gideon's daughter. — season 3 —

Part.1 Part.3 Part.4

A/N: I was very happy with the return you guys had in the first part💖. I hope you guys like.

English is not my first language, so I so sorry if have a mistake.

Requests are open. Love you ❤️ Couple:Spencer Reid / Gideon's daughter!reader.

Warnings: nothing, just very fluff.

— — — — —

Spencer straightened his tie for the hundredth time in front of the mirror, in several unsuccessful attempts to exhibit his best that day. It was funny and ironic how, after so many years wearing dress shirts and a tie, the universe seemed to handpick that day to do - no matter how much Spencer tried to fix it - his tie looked weird. The fabric was too far to the left, or too far to the right, or too wrinkled in the folds. No matter how much he undid the knot or changed his tie, still looked strange.

What a nightmare.

Reid was barely able to sleep with the notion that he would see you today, his body being whipped assiduously by unsettling waves of euphoria, his mind whizzing like a propellant, anxiety screaming in his mind and sending his sleep for miles away. That morning, the world seemed to be more stuffy, hot and torrid, and for a second, Reid felt himself under the heat of Egypt instead of autumn in Washington.

He could feel his heart speeding up with the steps of the clocks, his breath running away from his lungs, a thousand and one speeches being revised in his head to try to lessen the likelihood of speaking some bullshit near you. Because he couldn't ruin that chance.

Spencer knew he was not the type of guy to have dates whit women like you every day. In fact, Laila had been the only stunning woman who had looked at him a second time. But, well, to be honest, he knew that all that affection she had directed him had been side effects of the transfer. He had been her hero and it clouded people's rationality. And, to his disquiet and to the dread of his insecurity, you were above the beauty of Laila on stratospheric levels.

To make matters worse, the damn tie wasn't good! God, he was screwed.

Spencer gave up on that impossible mission, settling for and conforming to what the tie looked like after the twentieth attempt. He wanted you to see him as a handsome person, a man worth wasting time with, not a boy who only served to be your friend. You were beautiful on so many levels that... well, Reid wanted you to be attracted to him, too, to simplify.

He stepped away from the mirror and slung his work bag over his shoulder, trying to control the pounding of his own heart.

On the way to work, trying hard to avoid thinking about what him looked like in that damned imperfect tie, Reid wondered, for a moment, if you too were under the same emotions. Did you change your clothes several times because you also felt anxious too? Could it be that, like him hands, yours also trembled? Or, if he was lucky, was your heart beating as hard as him?

He hoped that was yes.

As soon as he entered the BAU headquarters, with anxiety as his chaperone, Spencer sat at his own table while pouring a “Good morning” to his colleagues.

“Arrived early.” Derek narrowed his eyes at him, in that suspicious look.

"I am never late." He was quick to hit and that caused his friend to raise an eyebrow.

"But you never be anxious to get here earlier."

Sometimes Spencer hated that his friends were profiles.

“I just like my job.” Reid started to unpack things of bag, trying to avoid the look of Derek who was still burning his back.

“Oh, I'm sure you like.” The double meaning in his friend's tone did not go unnoticed by Spencer, but he did not want to delve into the truths of that argument, much less think about it.

Emily and JJ arrived after a few minutes, with Garcia following behind and making their point that she was not to blame for buying those pairs of shoes, since they were practically begging her to take them. Normally, Reid did not look at the glass door whenever he heard someone approaching, or had a strong desire to see Gideon pass through them as well.

But that day... that day, seeing Gideon meant seeing you. And seeing you meant that you would go through that door. And going through that door meant that Spencer would see you come in. That was enough to make his gaze turn to those doors from minute to minute.

But time passed. Fifteen minutes flew by, then twenty, then thirty. Anxiety increased and now his agitated heart was tuned to his right leg, which did not stop quietly, shaking from top to bottom assiduously.

“What do you look for at the door so much, Reid?”

Prentiss asked the last question that Reid would like to answer, and that caught Derek’s attention, who, as expected, laughed amusingly and sank further into the chair, a sly, playful smile on his lips.

“Oh, he is expecting a member of the Gideon family.”

Spencer swore and, in that moment, he was never so jealous of ostriches for being able to stick their heads underground. If he were one of them, he would definitely do it.

“I'm not expecting Y/n.” he said, whit voice higher and thin than usual.

“But I didn't say it was Y/n.” Derek laughed and Spencer felt his cheeks go red.

This time he gave up hitting back, his let out a bad mood murmur and turned forward, forcing himself not to look at the door anymore. From that moment on, Spencer focused on focusing on the pile of reports in front of him, forcing his brain to disconnect from the things around him and concentrate on matters that demand his all attention.

The hours went by, faster this time, the case-free day was being used to finish late reports and giving the team time to recover the nerves and breath of the last case.

After noon, Gideon still hadn't arrived and Spencer started to feel slightly fearful. He was about to take his phone out of his pocket and dial Jason when JJ appeared, handing over more piles of reports to they that required to be finished today.

Derek gave a loud curse of annoyance, muttering something and back to writing again. Emily was used to the paperwork bureaucracy, but from the bittersweet and dissatisfied look on her face, Spencer knew that no one there shared the same delight him had with paperwork. He also knew that Morgan was exhausted because he had remodeled a property yesterday and was barely could to sleep, and Prentiss felt overwhelmed because she was dealing with problems with her mother and with the bureaucracy policy that Strauss pressed against her.

Then Spencer looked at the file stack itself. There was a lot of paperwork, but the amount of reports he would finish in two minutes was three times what his friends would finish in an hour. He leaned forward, looking over the table to see Emily and focusing Derek better in his field of vision.

“Do you guys want to give some reports? I finish faster anyway”

They agreed without hesitating or pretending modesty. Reid laughed, saying that his friends would owe him one, and went back to work.

After that, when Spencer finished the reports and lifted his head from the paperwork, the light in the world had dimmed to a dark blue hue, streaked by small, bright stars.

The breeze coming in through the large glass windows was fresh and invigorating, the scent of the night's wonderful promises was reminiscent of your perfume. And then he realized that neither you nor Gideon showed up all day. Something about him withered, the euphoria diminished until it became as small as the stars outside. The clock struck seven at night when Spencer got up and put his things away, millions of feelings buzzing in chest.

The unsettling sense of concern began to take place than had previously to been emotions of anxiety and excitement, and he pondered whether to ask Hotch about Gideon or to call himself. Reid looked around, looking under his colleagues, who were packing up to go home, and going up to Aaron's office. He could still see his figure under the marble table, the light from the room underscoring the serious and concentrated expression he directed to the documents. The air in that room looked different, maybe more dense, maybe more serious. But Spencer knew it was best to let Hotch do his own thing.

He ran the tip of his tongue over the corner of lips, reaching into his pocket and reaching for his cell phone.

“Hey, Reid." he turned toward Morgan, that signaled them to go to the elevator.

“Did you speak to Gideon today? Or did you hear Hotch say something about it?” The question came after he reached Derek, both of them walking out the glass door.

"Is it Gideon you're worried about or... his daughter?” He laughs shamelessly, pressing the elevator button.

Spencer stumbles over the words when says: “Wh-What? No. I'm just worried about him. It has nothing to do with… ”

As soon as the sentence was about to end, the elevator doors open. Instead of the usual void or presence of someone from the FBI, Spencer felt catatonic when he saw the female figure inside.

You.

In a burst, like a strong wind that blows and pushes things away, Spencer was struck by all the feelings and sensations that had been bubbling in his stomach all day. Euphoria, anxiety, insecurity and... animation. Suddenly, he was worried again about how he would look, what he would say, if he was presentable enough for you to look at him with... Well, Spencer didn't know how he wanted you to look at him, but he wished it were something that guarantee your affection.

He wanted to be something that excited you, that made your heart race. Just like his was now.

"Y/n...” He did not recognize his own voice. The intonation.

"Hey." You smiled genuinely, and it was able to make Reid's heart beat so fast that he feared you could hear. “I'm sorry I didn't show up and neither did my dad.”

“No problem at all.” He was sincere “Did something happen? Are you two okay? ”

The concern in Reid's voice was so palpable that you losing your breath. God, that man couldn't be real.

“I just remembered that Garcia is call me." Morgan tried to swallow a big smile “It was good to see you, Y/n.”

“Me too, Morgan.” You gave him a hand gesture that, for Reid, was lovely.

Spencer put his arm in the elevator door, preventing it from closing.

“Will you want to leave?” Always as solicitous as a gentleman.

“Oh no.” Now it was your cheeks that were softly red. “I came to see you actually.”

If nothing that had happened before was not enough to steal Spencer's breath, your sentence completed the mission. He put himself in an elevator, pressing a button and letting the doors close.

"I was going to bring my dad today, but ... well” You laughed “To put it succinctly, my dad has a list of things he wants to do before he dies, and one of them was rollerblading”

You and Spencer laughed. Half because he would have laughed at anything you said to see your smile, and half because he couldn't see Gideon having such a list. But he liked it. The feeling of knowing that Jason was having fun, enjoying life, not letting that job rip off all of his humanity, was comforting, joyful.

“Why do I feel this is not going to end well?" He joked too and you laughed.

“Because it doesn't end.” Your fingers ran through your hair “We ended up going to a place that had this, before he have work today, and he ended up twisting his ankle when he fell.”

You tried to no laught, because it was not something to play with, but after the fright passed and your father and you were entangled, they both burst out laughing. And now, reliving that, you didn't remember the hurt itself, but how great the fun between the two of you had been.

“He is fine?" But Spencer had a worried flash in his eyes.

“Oh, yes, the doctor said there was nothing much. He just needs to get some rest.” You smiled “I was going to call, but one thing led to another and when I saw it, it was too late to call. So I thought about coming in person.”

Spencer was known to have a photographic memory and a very high IQ, but at that moment, if then asked what you had just said, he would need a moment to remember. For the only thing he was concentrating on at that moment was the certainty that your smile could light up the whole of Washington. How your eyes held the stars' syntax and how the energy that emanated from you was... cheerful.

He realized that you were a cheerful person, outgoing and with an innate ease of making friends. You had that special touch that made people and the universe orbit around you. And Spencer knew it was one of the planets captured by your gravity.

"It is very sweet of you to come here to tell me that.” He smiled, but then realized what he had just said “N-not that you owe me any explanation! I just-I think it's cool that you worried and…n-not that I waited for you but… not th-that I didn't expect you too and...” Spencer stopped talking, giving up trying to find the right words to get him out of the mess he got himself into.

At times like this, Reid was used to people just dropping an embarrassed nod and leaving, or ignoring the avalanche of things he said. But as soon as the tone of your laughter echoed through the elevator and snaked through him body like a wave of energy, Reid looked at you more closely. You didn't give that embarrassed look, nor did you look sorry for him. You laughed lovingly and touched his arm.

"I was also looking forward to seeing you.” You summed up all of him thoughts in one sentence and freed him from all fears.

"Serious?" But disbelief was still present.

The elevator door opened and the two of you got out, walking to the exit of the building and being greeted by the cool, comforting breeze of the night.

“Yea.” You said as if it were obvious, “What do you think about going to a movie? It's not too late. ”

If Spencer had been told a few weeks ago that in a few days he would be on a date with the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, he would have scoffed. He would have thought it was a joke with a background of evil. Going out with girls was not on the list of things Spencer did regularly, but he was thanking any confusion or mistake the Universe had made to accidentally placed you with him.

To be honest, with you on his side, with you with him, Spencer felt like he had won in life. That all those years of school and university, when he only saw beautiful girls from afar and dreamed of what it would be like to have one this girls interest in him, had dissipated into the air. Dissolved in the breeze like smoke. During all the hours of film, the joyful and ecstatic conversations you both had after, Spencer could feel the connection in the air. Naturally, kind of magical.

Did he know you two days or two decades ago?

You told all of your adventures, all of stories, and listened carefully to every ramble and phrase Reid had to say. He felt, for the first time, completely important. As if everything he had to say was valuable as a diamond, rare as a tropical treasure.

He felt comfortable, relaxed, cheerful.

And when, at the end of the night while the two of you were walking along the lively and vibrant streets of DC, you took his hand and intertwined yours fingers, Spencer never felt so alive.

He had been born twenty-four years, but only now did he really feel what it was like to be alive.

tagged: @gublersuvula @peculiarinsomniac

#spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid #dr.spencer reid x reader #dr. spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds fluff #derek morgan #spencer x reader #spencer x y/n #spencer reid fanfiction #mgg imagine #mgg fluff #mathew gray gubler #mgg x reader

293 notes · View notes

riathedreamer · 3 years

Text

Zero is Null

A discussion of Zero’s love-hate-relationship with RvB and struggling independence; including a hotdog too big for the bun, tragic backstories, a single bow-chicka-bow-wow, and a cookie at the very end.

Welcome to what will be a lot of text. Basically, it will explore why Zero fails as an RvB (with emphasis on RvB) season. I will not be the first one to bring forth some of the points, and I promise to be fair and civil and fun. This isn’t supposed to be a piece of hate – in fact, I’m writing this because I love Red vs. Blue.

Okay, first of all, to increase your fun – take a guess on just how much of Zero is spent on fight scenes. You see, I’ve calculated the exact amount, and I will reveal it later, but for now, take a guess and remember the number. Maybe you are the winner!

Alright, time to share my thoughts. Wait! Since I suffer from anxiety and have this one annoying voice pretending to be all those critical statements my opinion could be met with, let’s give it an actual voice and address the points throughout this review.

“Why would I care about your opinion, Ria?” – I don’t know, you’re the one who clicked Read More.

“Your opinion doesn’t matter!” – Of course, it doesn’t! Geez. Do you think your opinion matters, though? Listen, we’re on Tumblr, the actual equivalent of screaming into the void. And it’s fun, too!

“If you don’t like it, don’t watch!” - *activates Uno Reverse Card* “You can’t talk about something you haven’t watched!”

“You’re just a Hater” – Actually, this is a point I’ll come back to. Like a cliffhanger. Also, at the end of this, there’ll be a cookie. But this will also include me talking about the stuff I like, because, surprise, Zero is not without talent!

“You just don’t like it because the Reds and Blues aren’t in it!” – Actually, that’s a good point, so instead, this review will start with a sole focus on Zero and discuss the problem that lies within that story. Then we can address why the lack of OG cast is understandable and problematic and weird.

But first! Backstory.

When the first 5 second teaser dropped back in spring (you know, when we were young and innocent and the world didn’t feel like an apocalyptic movie yet), I held onto that one image of what I thought (hoped) to be Grif and Simmons in the sunset, hopefully addressing Grif’s hateglue arc, but boy was I wrong because a) that’s not Simmons, that’s Sarge, and b) the image was from a PSA since the Reds are not in Zero.

Actual face-reveal of me below:

Admittedly, when I heard that the Reds and Blues were not going to be the main characters (or even show up), it felt like a gut punch. However, I actually found myself getting excited due to the creators’ hype. I want to praise them for this. It’s been a while since an RvB season was talked so much ABOUT before its release; it had advertisements, it had creators and voice-actors talking about it. Please. More of that in the future. Their passion rubbed off on me, and that deserves recognition. So it pains me that this was clearly a passion-project, and then when I gave it a try, I didn’t want to touch it again for weeks.

Here’s the thing. I cannot whole-heartedly say that Zero is bad. It’s not gonna melt your eyes. It’s not even so-bad-it’s-good. For me, it’s meh. It’s a Saturday-morning-cartoon aimed for a younger audience with a rushed plot and clichéd characters. The problem is that it calls itself RvB, and with that title comes something to live up to – but more importantly, something to continue.

My main issue is that Zero forces its story into existence by ignoring established content rather than adjusting to it. Let’s call this for the hotdog-too-big-for-the-bun syndrome solely for the sake of the bow-chicka-bow-wow that’s coming now. Bow-chicka-bow-wow. Many of the separate issues I will dive into all add to this hotdog-issue, so I will scream “Hotdog!” whenever this is the case so we can all keep track of my argument.

You can continue the story of Red vs. Blue without the Reds and Blues. While that would personally crush my heart, it can be done. There’s a story of Red vs. Blue that can be continued. The world can be expanded, the previous actions of the Reds and Blues can be explored from another angle.

So.

How does Zero do this? It doesn’t.

I just want to make it clear that new elements can definitely be added when it comes to worldbuilding. That’s literally the point of sequels. But Zero’s settings are presented with so little grace and with no connection to previously established worldbuilding. We get Alliance of Defense and GLASS thrown in our face as very big important organizations – yet we’ve never heard of them before. A big central plot point of RvB is the UNSC and Project Freelancers, and those were introduced naturally with the plot. We already have big established intergalactic organizations. What is AOD’s connection with those? We aren’t told. We are just told they exist and expected to accept it, no questions asked. If this was a whole new world and story – fine. But when you need to build on an already established worldbuilding, you need more grace than this. Chorus was a whole new setting, but it was explained, and it was connected to the previous plot. Same with Iris. Same with Desert Gulch. In Zero, it feels lazy. It feels forced. These organizations are just there because the story is built around them (HOTDOG).

This vagueness when it comes to wordbuilding is also reflected in the settings - we have a desert, a training base, a lab, temples, Tucker’s workplace, and we do not know if all those are set place on the same planet. If that is the case, what is this planet’s relationship with Chorus? Is it Earth? And most importantly, what is the deal with the temples? Why are they connected to Tucker’s sword if it isn’t the same planet. Are they made by the same aliens? Are people okay with this? Why haven’t these temples been explored before? Chorus makes sure to establish this, while Zero doesn’t, adding to a growing amount of confusion.

Okay, so no connection with previous worldbuilding. What about characters? I mean, we got Wash and Carolina and Tucker! So we have RvB characters, it gotta be RvB! Technically – yeah. But it feels dirty. These three characters are not here to be characters. They are here to be props to the new cast. They are not given any development. Their presence isn’t even that important, and if this was a whole new show, they could easily have been replaced with an unknown face. Worst of all, they feel miswritten.

Carolina and Wash are working at a new military organization? Leaving the Reds and Blues behind? To help people? First of all, fucking bad idea, Carolina, the last time you left the Reds and Blues alone, they changed the timeline. But most importantly – Carolina and Wash just joined this new super elite military organization? After being mistreated and manipulated by such an organization in the past?

Carolina is there to introduce the characters. That’s it. We are force-fed their personality by having her literally read out loud their personality. There is no gentle introduction to the new cast. We are not allowed to get to know them naturally. Why show when you can tell, huh? That’s Carolina’s role. That’s why she is there. To introduce the cast and explain their story. That’s it. (HOTDOG).

How about Wash? He is there to get beat up and be a damsel in distress so that the new cast has a reason to explore the plot. Oh, and that brain damage that was the consequence of previous seasons – gone now. The guy who literally has trauma from having an AI explode inside his head is fine with having a computer inserted into it instead. Because that’s needed. To explore his brain damage wouldn’t work now when his role is to be a prop to lure the new cast for one episode and then be put onto the bench for the rest of the runtime (HOTDOG).

And Tucker – he is there to die for a second and have his sword taken from him. That’s literally it. And for the few moments he is there, he feels like old super flirty Tucker, which erases the character development he went through in previous seasons. Okay, so Tucker dies, and then not dies, and then he is put on the bench with Wash where they can sit and talk or whatever (‘cause holy shit, the new cast is not allowed to that), because he isn’t important. The sword is. Tucker is just a prop, even more than his sword is (HOTDOG).

Damn. Wash gets beat up. Tucker gets beat up. Dies. Gets his sword taken away. Almost seems like a Red’s wet dream. Sorry not sorry, Blues, you were done dirty.

So there are miswritten old characters. Even worse is the retconning. The plot needs a “normal” Wash, so, bam, magic computer solution. Never mind Wash’s trauma and character traits. Never mind the logic of the new worldbuilding which also includes a character suffering for years to heal an illness. But the brain damage that was such a big consequence that it became the main part of the plot of the last two seasons – gone. I mean, a gunshot to the head can be healed by CPR. That’s canon. But no one gave Wash CPR so it’s a big thing, okay. It was canonically a big thing, and Zero erased that. This is not me saying that a Cerebral Enhancer couldn’t work in the RvB universe. Imagine it being done right. Wash struggling with the choice of getting used to his disability or accepting the possibility of help - at the cost of reliving his trauma. The struggle between what to choose - what should he choose when he wants to help as many as possible, the sacrifices he thinks he has to make, the way it could have been used as a part of his character growth. But in Zero, the enhancer isn’t a part of Wash’s character. It’s there so the story can work without having to deal with the previous plot’s consequence (HOTDOG).

Same with the sword thing. They sorta explain it by having Tucker flatline, but it’s weak. Honestly, I find it sorta offensive. What about Locus’ sword as well? It’s twisting previous lore to make the new plot work (HOTDOG). (Also, are we not gonna talk about the ultimate power being Spencer Porkensenson’s helmet? Have the writers forgotten Spencer Porkensenson? Have we as a community forgotten Spencer Porkensenson?)

If you have Red vs. Blue in your title, you cannot ignore what you inherit from it. You need to respect the worldbuilding, the established characters, and the previous plot. Zero does not do this.

Let’s talk about the Triplets. No, really, let’s do it. I don’t think I’ve ever talked about them before, because season 14 was a mixed bag for me (that I have now learned to appreciate. Thank you, Zero.) because I have heart at the size of the Grinch and can only love a few characters at a time, and that did not include the Triplets. Can’t even remember their names. Well, I can, but I can’t for the love of me remember which state is which, and my tongue is twisted every time I try to say Ohio, Iowa, and Idaho, and I know it’s on purpose. I know it is. And it got me good. That being said, the fandom actually embraced them really, really well! Seriously, I’ve seen more content for the Triplets than for Zero as a whole.

Why talk about the Triplets? (Was Iowa the lesbian? Or was it Ohio? Fuck.) Because like Zero, they introduced new characters with a story of their own. The Reds and Blues didn’t play a role. But here’s what I feel like the Triplets got right. They didn’t change the settings to force their narrative. They used stuff already established (Project Freelancer), added their own story as a continuation of that. They even included old characters in the beginning (Wash and some other Freelancers) but it felt natural and it didn’t feel like it happened at the expense of the old characters. Wash’s writing felt natural, and his presence wasn’t needed to tell these new character’s stories. He wasn’t a prop to them. He was there to establish the setting and to establish the relationship with these new characters, and then he and the other familiar faces (helmets??) left, and we as the viewers were left with these new characters. And the new characters told their own story by themselves. It felt like, hey, here’s something you know – remember Mother of Invention, and remember Wash’ lower rank, but now, try to imagine being even lower rank than him, aren’t you curious about those fates? Now let’s hear their story! It was new, it was something else, but it didn’t wreck what came before it, and it stayed true to the classic vibes of RvB.

As I said before, the hotdog-issue is my biggest problem with Zero. It infuriates me. I will return to this. But there are more issues, even if we try to look past the title-related problems.

If we try to imagine Zero as its own story and universe (as it should be, in my opinion), it still earns the meh review from me.

These isolated issues include awkwardness, the writing, lack of self-awareness, and pacing. First of all, holy shit, this is a tell, don’t show. Nothing is subtle, nothing is allowed to develop. It’s like the show thinks you are six years old with an attention span of a goldfish. You are not just led by the hand – they have literally pulled off your arm by the end of the show. We are force-fed every bit of information, every bit of personality from these new characters.

The voice-acting is a mixed bag for me. Sometimes it’s pretty good, sometimes it’s not. Some of the problems can definitely be blamed on the dialogue that you can only do so much with. It’s not good. I can’t remember any good jokes (the one joke I really appreciate was the cast on armor, and that was freaking visual humor. That was so RvB. Kudos to that. It was fun. More of that, please.), and RvB is known for having memorably good lines. This is a show built on good, clever, funny dialogue. Zero does not deliver. You have to sit through clichéd lines – “You’re not my dad”, “I trusted you”, “Come with me”, “It can’t be!”, “She’s way too powerful”, and “We have to do this together” – performed unironically. I cringed more than I laughed. Worst thing is that Zero could be a good parody. Sometimes, it feels like it is. One-dimensional characters, a villain wanting ‘the ultimate power’, very overpowered characters, bad one-liners, etc. But Zero takes itself seriously, and I was one of the people rooting for Jax to show up at the end and yell “Cut”. That would have been a funny-as-fuck twist. A spin-off parody. If I can’t have “Sarge the Movie”, I would have taken that and loved it. I would have forgiven everything. “We put so much info into finding that power, but we had no idea what it was” is really a line in the finale, and I cannot believe this is real in a show that somehow still tries to present itself as serious. What a plot.

We have to talk about pacing. God, first of all it should be stated that RvB is a mess when it comes to pacing. I honestly get what they were going for. Sometimes, RvB has come across as a bit boring when you get three episodes stretched over three weeks without much going on. I know season 11 did not have the warmest welcome because it was seen as boring until the finale. But when you see season 11 as a whole, as a movie, as a part of a trilogy, it works so well. Zero is more focused on being episodic. They want something to happen all the time so we will stay tuned. The thing that will happen – a fight. Oh god. The fight scenes.

I have done the math. I have run the numbers. I deserve a freaking cookie for this. Are you ready?

If you put all the episodes together, you have a runtime of 106 minutes. HOWEVER, with the introduction of credits in every episode, you gotta account for this. Removing the credits, this gives us 94 minutes of actual runtime. Out of that, 45 minutes are dedicated to fight scenes. That means 48% of the show is fight scenes.

If I wanted that many fight scenes, I’d watch Death Battle. Except the actual RvB Death Battle episode has a runtime of 20 minutes, and out of that, 5 minutes is dedicated to the actual battle. For the people who hate math – that’s 25% of the actual runtime.

RvB Zero has more fight scenes than a show called Death Battle. Take that in.

The pace suffers from this. Where’s the time to explore the characters? Where’s the time for good dialogue? All I can think of is this:

I get that RvB is a show that’s literally making fun of itself by acknowledging all their characters do is stand around and talk. I get that you want characters to do more than that. But for the love of Church, would it kill the new characters to stand around and talk? For just a minute? Stop fighting, I am begging you, stop fighting! Am I a pacifist now? Am I purple? Have I joined Doc’s team? What has Zero done to me?!

The good thing though is that fight scenes are very good. They’re entertaining. However, they seem to deconstruct themselves when we need to get a fight scene in every episode. Usually, the few fight scenes in an RvB season were in some of the most climatic episodes. In Zero, I can hardly keep up with the pace because they won’t stop moving. Fight scenes aren’t plot. They aren’t character development. You need more than just fight scenes. They entertain, but there’s a limit to that.

Noël Wiggins, the co-writer, stated the inspiration was a Saturday-morning cartoon. They nailed that vibe. If that was their goal, hurray, they have accomplished something! Because of the poor plot and constant fight scenes, it feels like you could just switch on the TV and drop in at any moment and let yourself be entertained by the cool and colorful soldiers punching and kicking each other. I will admit that the fight scenes entertained me. But they don’t make it a good season.

If I were the six-year-old with the attention span of a goldfish that the show believes I am, I honestly would enjoy it. The stiff dialogue and the constant tell-don’t-show makes you feel like an audience that’s not supposed to do anything else but admire the flashy fight scenes. I miss the cleverness of RvB. I miss the characters I get to connect with as I see them grow.

I miss the tone of RvB. Because this isn’t RvB to me.

It’s not that RvB hasn’t changed its tone before. Holy shit, I sorta do want to experience the absolute shock the RvB fandom went through when s6 aired and they were given new characters and serious plot. I would have loved to experience that, but I was too busy being ten years old. The Freelancers seasons also introduced a new tone and more fight scenes with very talented fighters compared to the Blood Gulch gang, but a balance was kept by having half of the season still revolving around the Reds and Blues. But Zero – Zero is so much change. And it’s on purpose. At least this has been made very clear from the beginning.

They constantly seem to appeal to new fans, rather than be directed towards older fans of the show. If you want an entirely new audience with a season with a new cast, new worldbuilding, and new tone, I’m confused as to why they don’t just make a new show. The hotdog-problem begs for this solution. This story and environment and characters feel so out of touch with the original RvB, that with a few rewrites and lack of Halo-armor, it could just be a new show. Problem solved.

If not this, then present it as a spin-off. In all ways, it feels like a spin-off (again, see everything marked HOTDOG). But the creators refuse to do this, and I don’t understand why. I could forgive many of these issues, had they officially separated themselves from canon.

Ah, what’s the idiom? You can’t both swallow and blow? (You can hear the Bow-chicka-bow-wow in the distance). Something about eating cake and having it. Forgive me, English isn’t my native language. POINT IS why are you calling yourself RvB while actively fighting against the core essence of RvB? In my humble opinion, you can’t be both. Marketing it as a spin-off would have granted it some defense when changing, well, literally everything, and I just, would someone please properly describe why it isn’t a spin-off? Isn’t this season marked by its association with the plot of RvB rather than a continuation of it? Zero presenting itself as not a spinoff feels like a toddler clinging to the hem of its mother’s dress while forcefully running away from her, ripping the dress in the process.

When they do connect with the original RvB, it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. When they let Carolina, Wash, and Tucker appear for a moment, it feels like luring viewers in with the RvB title. Look at me. Look at me! I’m not saying this is the case. I say that it gives me the annoying vibes of being lured, rather than letting the characters be a part of the show for their own development, rather than having RvB in the title to continue its story. I should not be getting these vibes at all. But I am.

If you want to use RvB in the title, something from the core of RvB needs to be embraced. Things can be changed. They should. Something new should be brought in. But there’s a limit to how much you can change and replace and twist until it would have been better with an original show. As a season of RvB, it should tell the story of Red vs. Blue.

From my perspective, Zero fails to do so.

It pains me that the old cast has been replaced, but as stated earlier, a season could have worked without them. However, I do not like the take that one should be excited about all the new characters. That it isn’t a big thing that the OG cast got replaced. That we should just deal with it. Just, try to imagine another show suddenly replacing the main characters with characters we’ve never met before. Imagine RWBY suddenly only focusing on a new team of huntresses with the previous main characters reduced to an Easter Egg presence, or Camp Camp suddenly being about a new team of campers, no warning given. Can you imagine the outcry? So maybe let’s agree that a replacement of the main cast is a big thing and should be addressed and it’s valid to be upset about this change.

Could Zero have worked? It’s hard to answer this. How can I accept something as RvB if the season actively pushes away the core of RvB aside for an isolated story that could have been told in any other media? As a spinoff, I could have ignored it. To enjoy Zero, I have to fully separate it from RvB in my mind, and then it’s alright. S’not good. But it’s not bad. It’s entertaining enough. I really ended up liking Raymond and Tiny, and there were a few good jokes, and the fight scenes were admirable (but too much) and I love the creators’ passion. But it’s not RvB. I also wish that the new characters had been attached to previous worldbuilding, for example soldiers on Chorus or agents from Project Freelancer. That way we could build on familiar lore which would have decreased the confusion and added a much needed connection with the previous seasons of RvB.

God, the anxious voice is back (by the way, it sounds like Tutter from “Bear in the Blue House”).

“You’re racist” – I hope not. Literally, I do not want to be. Tell me if I’ve ever crossed some lines, because I swear, that is not my intention, I will apologize and most of all, change and do better. I included this because I’ve seen this take thrown around in the big ugly mess that is the fandom clashes regarding Zero. And racism is problem within RT community (this includes AH and RvB, sorry, I just use RT as an umbrella term for the latter), and I’m not saying it hasn’t been a problem with this season. Writers should never be harassed, and never-fucking-ever because of their skin color, and voice actors shouldn’t be treated like they are responsible for the choices of the show. But I was legit nervous to post this review, and I hope it’s been factual without feeling like personal attacks on the creators because that has never been my intention. I was delighted to hear about the diversity behind this project, and Torrian’s passion legit blew me away because it’s been a while since I’ve seen that for an RvB project. I’d hoped for it to be good, and when I feel disappointed, it’s for the reasons stated in this analysis. That said, Zero is made by a diverse cast and it’s made with love, and both of those things are so, so great, but it does not mean that Zero cannot be criticized. It can, and it should. It’s a product, just like all the other seasons, and fans are allowed to discuss it – both what they loved, and both what they found troublesome. And to repeat previous points, and be respectful, always, fuck racists, and never-fucking-ever harass the staff behind a season, what the fuck is wrong with you if you do this.

“Don’t you get it, it’s different because it’s trying something new!” – Hey, remember the philosophical question: if you replace all the parts of a ship one-by-one, is it still the same ship when you’re done? If it doesn’t include the Reds and Blues, if it ignores previous plot, if the old characters feel miswritten, if it values animation over dialogue, if it values fight scenes over comedy, if it wants to be Fast and Furious instead of Red vs. Blue – is it still Red vs. Blue? Because it doesn’t feel like it to me.

“It's been 17 seasons, it’s time to let the Reds and Blues go so someone else can shine!” – I simply do not understand us having been with the Reds and Blues for 17 seasons should be an argument to let them go, rather than be an argument as to why their absence hurt like hell.

“The Reds and Blues ran out of things to do!” – Did- did they, though? I mean, if we were discussing pretty much any other show, I’d probably agree that they were running out of content. But for the Reds and Blues… I think the PSAs nailed it this year! I’m not kidding, I had more fun watching the Reds and Blues discuss how to do laundry than watching Zero. You could literally give me an hour of the Reds and Blues trying to bake a cake or clear a gutter or simply settling down with an ordinary life, and I would trust them to make it worth the watch.

“The flaws were due to the fact it’s only 8 episodes long!” – Look, I can only judge a product the way it’s presented to me. I cannot come up with excuses for it. If they had 8 episodes to work with, they need to come up with a plot that works with this runtime. Seriously, this excuse cannot work when 48% of the season is spent on fight scenes. They could have used more runtime, sure, but the show needs to be able to pace itself and be planned accordingly.

“The OG cast couldn’t be a part of this year, hence Zero!” – That might be true. But. Would one year without RvB kill it? Is Zero necessary? Again, I just can’t judge excuses for the show. But trouble with the cast has been an issue before. Season 15 solves Geoff’s sabbatical by actually making Grif’s absence a part of the plot. Zero’s lack of Reds and Blues just feels like this excuse to tell a story that needn’t be a part of RvB.

Am I a hater? I guess? I greatly dislike Zero for the critique stated above. I do, however, not harass the creators and no one should ever do that. However, I have to admit that I feel there’s been this weird rejection of any critique of Zero where everything’s been brushed off as haters gonna hate, including the critique stated above. And I think that’s a problem because critique, as hard as it can be to hear (and I know this. I’m an author of original works. Weird flex, I know), is valid and necessary and shouldn’t just be shrugged away. As always, both sides of the fandom should always be respectful, but my own opinion is that addressing the flaws of Zero should not be controversial.

Does this super long rant/critique/whatever mean you cannot enjoy Zero? Gods no! I almost envy you if you enjoy this season, but holy shit, feel free to love it and tell the creators that you love it! Me pointing out the issues I have with the season shouldn’t be stopping you. I loved (and still love) s15 when it came out, and it was majorly rejected by the fandom. There were many, many critical posts, people were going on about how RvB should have ended with s13, and it evolved into the writer receiving death threats (me, once again: never ever harass the creators, assholes). But I didn’t tell people to stop being negative. I actually agreed with many of the flaws that were pointed out, and I enjoyed the season despite this, because that is possible. We, as RvB fans, should agree that RvB, is... I mean, it’s not the greatest, most flawless of shows, but we love it nonetheless. So go ahead and love Zero. This is not a stop sign. This is my opinion that you chose to read.

Wait, I promised you a cookie, didn’t I? Well, you’re not getting one. Why? Because I’m a Red and this is my chance to piss off a Blue. As Caboose wisely said: “Well, at least I don't go around... knocking on people's non-doors... and promising them cookies... and then NOT. GIVING. THEM. COOKIES!”

Blue Team sucks.

End speech.

#rvb zero #rvb #rvb zero critical #rvb critical #rvb0 #my rvb stuff #pls dont hate me for this #this is my honest opinion that people apparantly wanted to hear #as a standalone story zero isnt totally bad #as an rvb season it is

273 notes · View notes

feanorianethicsdepartment · 3 years

Text

more thoughts about the homecoming au, the au where maedhros and maglor get brought back to tirion after the war of wrath to be prettied-up trinkets on finarfin’s shelf, with painted-over scars and muffled screams. it is dark, it’s full of all kinds of emotional and caretaker abuse, and the brothers weren’t exactly in a good state of mind before any of this happened. @sunflowersupremes wrote the initial au that wasn’t even meant as horror, @outofangband - this au is as much theirs as mine, several of the concepts here were originally theirs, and a lot of this originally came out in dms with them. part 1 is here. this part contains gaslighting, loss of autonomy right at the end, more suicide mentions (thanks mae) and just general abuse from people who care more about their own comfort than the people they’re supposed to be caring for. it’s worse than the first part, honestly

most of the stuff the fëanorians had on them when they surrendered got taken away pretty fast. which is honestly understandable; some of it was cursed, a lot of it was weaponry, all of it stank to the high vault of the stars

but they both managed to hold onto some personal effects, or get them back before they went in the incinerator. a broken locket, a torn-up book, nothing fancy, nothing large, but things that still mean a lot to them

the valinoreans aren’t entirely comfortable with this. they find a lot of the brothers’ comfort items mildly disturbing, stained with darkness and (occasionally literal) blood as they are. maedhros had this dessicated finger he refuses to explain anything about that got disposed of very quickly

maglor has a few strands of brightly coloured thread, spun around each other somewhat inexpertly. he tends to pull it out when he’s feeling depressed, working it between his fingers until he feels like he can face the world again

one day, one of his minders who gets along better with him asks where he got it. from the twins, maglor admits. it’s part of some embroidery elrond abandoned when they left -

and it’s snatched out of his hands. his minder looks down at him compassionately. ‘i know you miss them, but you caused those boys a lot of pain, you know? you shouldn’t romanticise your relationship with them’

which - maglor’s relationship with the twins was complicated, and while it wasn’t nearly as hellish as elwing fears, it wasn’t entirely healthy. maglor was dependent emotionally on the kids a lot more than any adult should be to children, and vice versa

because the twins were the last people he had left. when maedhros executed celegorm’s servants with no warning at all, this rift began to grow between the sons of fëanor and their followers. they’d always been terrifying, but they’d also been comradely and inspiring, the white-hot stars around which their people orbited. but when they turned their fangs on their own host, all that started to fall away, leaving only the fear behind

it got worse after sirion. by the time vingilot rose in the sky, maglor’s only real remaining relationships were with maedhros, who he hated as much as he loved, and the twins. watching over them, talking to them, not hurting them - it kept him grounded in reality, kept him sane

he knows, he knows, he knows, they’re better off without him. but his time with them is the only happiness in his memories that still feels real

but the valinoreans can’t accept that. the exile was an awful time with nothing in it worth keeping, and the sooner he can recognise that the faster he’ll be back to his old self

besides. their caretakers don’t like being reminded of their more... unpleasant deeds

(elwing sidebar: elwing and eärendil are having an easier time, because the teleri have experience dealing with trauma and are also just more accepting of the right to have your own take on your own experiences. still, though, elwing occasionally hears that a proper telerin mother would have stayed with her children, even if she had to give up the treasure her people died for to the monsters of her childhood nightmares)

(elwing was a young adult in a horrendous situation with no obvious way out, elwing is dealing with her own damage as best she can, elwing is valid, we stan elwing. she’s also one of the few direct-ish sources the noldor have for beleriand and what the fëanorians did there, and her (perfectly reasonable!) perspective colours a lot of their treatment)

in general the valinorean noldor are quite sure they know what beleriand was like and how it felt to be there, and aren’t particularly interested in being proven wrong

it was miserable, it was harrowing, it was nothing anyone should want to think about. it was a long nightmare maedhros and maglor are so fortunate to have finally woken up from

and you can kind of see why they think like that? the ones who have seen the hither shores saw them when ash rained from a void-black sky and almost everything was dead, and the survivors told stories of a long hopeless defeat and cruelties beyond imagining

but that deep black image blots out the genuine joy they felt in those five hundred years, the chance to prove their own greatness, the knowledge they were doing something good, nights when music echoed across the gap, warm hands in a cold fortress. there were things in beleriand worth remembering, aspects of the people they became there legitimately worth keeping

and even if there wasn’t - five hundred years. the scars on their bodies make it plain to see, every little piece of who they are was shaped by beleriand, for worse and for better. they just can’t leave it behind

their valinorean caretakers find this horrifying

maedhros likes to exercise. it keeps him calm, gives him something to do. it’s not something nelyafinwë was super into - he was more the peripatetic type - but it’s a feasible hobby for a noldorin prince to have, so he’s allowed to do it

sometimes, though, he’ll unconsciously shift into the old combat forms, precisely timed drills ingrained into his bodies. the first few times he does this, his minders are bemused more than anything, but then one day he happens to have a stick in hand to use as a mock-sword

then every time he starts to slip away into that meditative trance, hands reach out to stop him and hold him in place. ‘there’s no need to fight here, maitimo,’ an elf he knew before the unchaining tells him ever so gently. ‘you’re safe now’

... they say that, but maedhros’ nightmares keep getting worse

it’s like that with everything that makes the valinoreans uncomfortable. whenever they try to speak of their time in beleriand, no matter what they say, they’re told that oh, they know it was hard, but it’s all over now and they don’t have to dwell on it

but even after they’ve spent years in paradise, maedhros and maglor still won’t let go and allow themselves to heal

they just can’t come to terms with the truth of their ordeal

the narrative the valinoreans have constructed erases all of the bright spots, but it also bleaches out the true darkness

certainly they did horrible things, but did they really have a choice? in such a harsh world, they always had to be on guard, lest they themselves be killed. these poor boys never meant to harm anyone, but their father’s cruel madness and the painful chains of their oath and the vileness of beleriand forced them into atrocities they never wanted to commit

(surely the monsters the sindar spoke of wouldn’t cry. they wouldn’t lose themselves in waking nightmares or curl up shivering in well-hidden closets, they wouldn’t jump away from a casual touch or watch every new person like they might be a threat. they wouldn’t convince themselves the children they stole were happy, or talk to the shade of a dead kinsman they abandoned. surely they wouldn’t. surely)

(because if they are, and they’ve let a couple of orcs loose into the royal palace...)

(maglor and maedhros’ movements are pretty restricted. this is mostly for their own protection, but it’s partially - well, just in case. just in case)

this rankles at maedhros, though he tries not to show it. terrible they might have been, but his choices were his own

he was a warlord, he was a king. he expected to be hated for the things he had done. he didn’t expect to be pitied. he didn’t expect to be dismissed

sometimes, when he’s surrounded by people earnestly telling him that he’s not a bad person, he never was, it was all pressure from his father and the oath, he wants to scream that he chose to attack sirion because he was so, so tired of diplomatically dancing around problems he knew he could solve with his blade

but he stops himself, always. he knows how much what little freedom they do have is based on them not being a threat

and he will not wash this peaceful, innocent land in blood. he’ll kill himself first

maglor has lost all such scruples

it’s not often, but when they’re behaving themselves and no one who’s likely to take offense is in town, the brothers get taken out to court events

they paint makeup over their scars (which still won’t heal, everyone is concerned by the implications of this) dress them up in finery, string them with jewels, and show off how well they’re doing

(even if maedhros rarely says anything, and they never leave each other’s side)

tonight, it’s a feast. a minor celebration, nothing too crowded, nothing too loud. there’s revels and merrymaking and all kinds of fun

and after the food has been cleared away, there’s music

would his nephew like to play something, finarfin asks. it’s hard to tell if it’s a request or a politely phrased order

maglor decides he doesn’t have the patience to be taken aside and tell how much everyone wanted to hear his music, and accepts

finarfin smiles kindly. he’s thinking about how maglor’s minders have been talking about how he’s finally stopped trying to sing depressing or horrifying songs and how his voice grows more melodious by the day

maglor is thinking about how they won’t even let him sing about his wife. he wrote no odes to her beauty or her skill in the forge, but he sang ballads about the swiftness of her spear and her laughter after a battle

none of which the valinoreans want to hear. they want to pretend that love never existed, that there could be any joy found in darkness, that she’s at all worth remembering -

he gets up to play, and launches into the most vicious, most hopeless, most painful part of the noldolantë

they try to stop him, but he’s the greatest warsinger the world has ever seen, he’s sung with blood in his lungs over the roaring of dragons, there’s little they can do to block out everything they’re trying to ignore. he wails defeat and death and grief and death and despair and death

when they finally manage to knock him out, their whole petty festival in tatters, shock on their faces, tears streaming from their eyes, all he can think is that if they understand now, even a little, it’ll have been worth it

for the first time, but not the last, he wakes up in a cell

finarfin comes to visit, and starts giving a very disappointed lecture maglor is in no mood to hear. instead he just snarls that nothing they’ve been doing is helping him at all, and he’s so sick of false sympathy and no one listening to what his actual problems are

finarfin shuts his eyes, says ‘i’m sorry to hear you feel that way’ and leaves

a few days later he wakes up with a collar around his neck

it’s demeaning, but he gets released that morning, so he rolls with it. he gets told to never do that ever again, first by his minders and then by maedhros

his minders he nods at until they leave him alone. maedhros he snarks back at that it’s not like he’s doing anything to improve their condition

only he can’t

the words don’t just freeze in his throat, they can’t even form in his mind. what’s happening, he can’t say. what did you do to me, he can’t say. he can’t even scream

as maglor is clutching at his neck (he can’t get it off he can’t get it off) and all the colour is draining out of maedhros’ face, the minder in the room smiles

‘see? this way you’ll stop making yourself and everyone around you miserable. you can still talk about happy things -’

‘they did this in angband!’ maedhros roars, a statement that provokes his first actual fight with their minders. he’s harder to pin down than maglor. bigger

but their caretakers are becoming annoyed with the brothers’ obstinate refusal to let themselves get better. they may be content to wallow in the misery of their past, but inflicting it on others is a step too far

they clearly aren’t going to move any further down the road to recovery on their own volition, so it’s become clear they need a gentle push. is it a little distasteful? yes, but such things are sometimes necessary in medicine

the bright cheerful princes they will be again will thank them for it

oh god how did this end up so long. the last one should be shorter, it’s mostly clearing up some loose ends. why did i write this

#maedhros #maglor #homecoming au #my terrible fic #finarfin #noldor #late stage feanorians #abuse //#mental health issues ///#suicide mention //#gaslighting //#eeeeeeeeesh #i am not sure what i was trying to get across actually comes across in this #i ran out of unova pokedex before i ran out of fic #(the long one from b2w2. no i'm not explaining that)#it is three am!#and i'm not trying to start anything with that section about how the noldor minimise the feanorians' deeds #other people have their headcanons and that's cool. i have mine #i don't see them as 'entirely evil' (whatever that means) but i have felt like my own imperfections mean i don't deserve help before #... can you tell this is a vent fic yet #mags gets more focus because mags is the character i project onto #i've thought about him more; i have a more solid grasp of what i think his character is #'s why i got nelyo in on this. they're the creme de la creme at bad shit happening to maedhros and i wanted someone to cover his corner #this au is awful why am i writing it

30 notes · View notes

hpalways · 3 years

Text

Lyrical Mess || Venti

BARD Venti was someone you looked up to. Words would spill from his mouth like a waterfall, for he never ran out of lyrics and rhymes alike to sing about. You aspired to be like him, to one day have talent in bringing people together through music. Unfortunately, your mind was a little underwhelming in the creative department. Phrases and sentences jumbled up like a mess, trapping you in a sea ridden of any motivation whatsoever.

"The distant lands, the people, the trees, they all truly resonate in me!" he sang, filling your ears of the melody. He was currently sitting on the huge tree in Windrise, rocking back and forth on the branch. Meanwhile, you were on the ground and leaning against the bark, trying to write down anything that could be worth mentioning. However, the page was as blank as it could be, an empty void of nothingness. The quill in your hand shook and squeezed, because the frustration was beginning to take its toll.

"Venti, I can't think of anything! Don't you have any secrets that could help me?" you whined, pulling the ends of your [h/c] locks. Grabbing the lyre that was brought everywhere with you, you thrummed the strings of it, playing an ugly chord that halted his own singing. The golden instrument glimmered against the sunlight, nearly blinding your eyes. After spending almost all your savings on it one day, it easily became your most treasured item.

The male leaned forward from the branch, his two aqua ombre braids waving along with the wind. Green eyes on you, they crinkled as he grinned in excitement. In his usual white top and teal shorts with stockings, his style was enough to make him recognizable. Not only that, but he was as adorable as when you first met him. To have him by your side... well, you certainly looked like a nobody. "Well, why are you sitting there on the ground? Come up here and you'll get loads of more inspiration."

"Really?!" you exclaimed. Your gaze brightened as if you had met God and you quickly scrambled to your feet. He nodded, putting his hands on his hips in pride. "Okay. I'll go join you then." Rolling up the sleeves of your shirt, you knitted your brows together in perseverance. Readying for the climb ahead, you lifted your foot to take that first step.

Goodbye. You were ready to die. Venti had made it look so easy with those fast and flexible limbs of his, but you were trembling to the core at this moment. The tree was much taller and wonky than you expected, gnarly and dangerous for someone with no balance like you. Panting heavily, you tightened your hold on your lyre as you heaved yourself upwards one last time. You crashed on the spot beside the bard and hit the hollow trunk in annoyance. Flinching at the pain inflicted more-so on you, you rubbed your hands as you tried to settle down.

The view surely was nice. Mondstadt, the city of Freedom, could be seen from here. Meadows and small hills laid out across the board too, luscious and full of natural beauty. The color of it reminded you of Venti.

"I can't do this," you groaned, rubbing your face in weariness. "I'm too tired to even think."

"You quit too easily," he said, frowning. Feeling all ashamed suddenly, you drooped your head and sighed. There was nothing worse than getting critiqued by someone you looked up to. "Oh, I know! I have a few other secret spots to show you. What do you say, my friend?"

"Alright. I'll give it another shot."

Before announcing to you what he was about to do, he scooped you up with those nimbly arms of his and jumped straight off from the branch. A scream threatened to leave you, but you kept quiet as you held onto him for dear life. He was crazy! But that might just be the reason why he was so popular in Mondstadt.

With a thump! at the landing, Venti smoothly reached the ground with two legs still working. Carefully releasing you, he took out his own lyre from under his arm. It could not be said the same regarding you. Wobbly support below, you kneeled down and calmed your racing heart.

Once you gained your grounding again, that was when it was time to set off. Following the bard on his tail, you watched as the dirt path turned into pavement and then into bricks. "Mondstadt...? Are you sure this will be helpful?" you questioned, squinting at the mundane scene in front of you. Living here your whole life, it was all too familiar for you to believe you'd find anything here.

"Just trust me, [Y/N]!" he said, turning his head over his shoulder. Giggling softly, he returned to look ahead and marched onward.

You assumed it would be an unknown spot that could exhilarate you instantly. But of course, reality bit the dust. Standing in front of you was the local tavern, crowded of drunken adventurers. "You just wanted to stop by for a drink!" you said, whirling around to glare at the male.

He stuck a tongue out and winked, leaving you more infuriated. This was the guy you idolized so much? He was such a sham. "Trust me... trust me..." he repeated, pulling your arm with him. The door opened up and he slipped in, with you stumbling after him. His grip never once loosening, he waltzed towards the bartender and dropped coins of mora. "The usual, please!"

Securing a table to sit at, he set you down and sat directly from you. As you were about to spew words of insult, he beat the punch.

"I'm serious. This is one of my secret spots," he explained. He nudged his head at the back of the tavern, where an empty space cleared of tables took place. "I sometimes perform here and so whenever I come here, I would get a good amount of ideas."

He had a point. You had been there too when he performed here, intrigued and immersed by a new world introduced by him. Slumping your shoulders slightly, you mutely nodded in agreement, tapping the quill against your chin. He grinned at your reaction, as if he was relieved to have escaped your wrath.

As he sipped his drink in peace, you began to write down some ideas. It was silent at the table, but it was not uncomfortable or awkward. You had known Venti for quite some time... and though you still admired him tons, he became a dear friend. Ink met the parchment and you scribbled them down quickly, as if your life was on the line. This proceeded for a while until he slammed his first empty glass down. When showing the notebook, you fidgeted in your seat as you waited for his thoughts.

"Whisking her away, he drowned the walls. She said he said to come to the dock..." he read it out loud. His features tightened and he let out a nervous laugh. "Um... er... it's not bad... How about this?! Why don't you perform a song from Teyvat! Singing a song always inspires me. You can use the stage over there! I'm sure the customers would love a lovely song sung by the beautiful maiden [Y/N]."

"So it's bad," you deadpanned.

"It's not!" he argued, panic shown in his eyes. "It could use some improvement, but anything can be improve, you know?"

"You don't need to lie to make me feel better," you sighed, pulling yourself up from the seat. Lumbering up to the stage, you strummed the strings of your lyre, catching the attention of a few customers. Breathing in deeply, you closed your eyes and started to sing a song. The song you heard Venti sing a few times. The song your parents sang as they lulled you to sleep. The song that wasn't yours, but everyone's.

You were a fake. A lyrist who couldn't form her own words. A singer with no direction to turn to.

When the song ended, a round of applause exploded from the audience who were smiling in approval. They all enjoyed it, except you. Giving them a quick bow with a smile plastered on your face, you then exited the stage and rushed through the tables, passing Venti and straight out the door. Running to the gates and not stopping once until you were out in the wilderness again, you slumped to the ground in shame. Angry tears blurred your vision and you crumpled the poor grass upon your hands.

"You performed it perfectly..." he whispered, his small figure crouching down next to you. When did he get here? "What's upsetting you?"

"I messed up," you told him, glancing at the lyre in your hands. "I can't do a single thing right."

"No one noticed it."

"But... I did. It doesn't matter if no one else realized it, I know of my mistakes. And I'm so sorry Venti. I've been such a hindrance towards you today. You don't deserve listening to my complaints. Nor do you deserve cleaning after my mess." More tears slid out, slipping down your cheeks. "I just wish I was you."

A thumb swiped the droplets from your face, his skin warm to the touch. Startled, you watched him grow slightly sad. Why was he making that face? It looked so... empty... hopeless. He knew of something you didn't. "You don't want to be me, [Y/N], trust me. And I like you the way you are... so please, don't say that ever again." He straightened up and all traces of any misery was erased from his expression. "Let me cheer you up a bit! I can go sing a tune for you! I think that should do the trick for some inspiration."

92 notes · View notes

sunshinecrashed · 4 years

Note

“Don’t you hurt a single hair on her head.” “Don’t ever leave my sight again.” “You scared the shit out of me. I’m never going to stop hugging you.” With Hanako? I’m filled with so much love for protective Hanako i’m- 😔💕 💖

ʟᴏᴄᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ᴋᴇʏ

𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗄𝗈-𝗄𝗎𝗇 (𝗒𝗎𝗀𝗂 𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖾) 𝗑 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌, “𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽”, “𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇”, “𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾. 𝗂’𝗆 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗁𝗎𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎”.

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: 𝗮𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗴𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘂𝗻𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗰𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗺𝗮𝘁𝗲𝘀, 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗮𝗸𝗼 𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗽𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗼 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝘁𝗲𝗰𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂.

word count: ~1.3k

↳ warnings: severe nice-guy syndrome, harassment, degrading name-calling, unwanted attention, toxic behavior, threats made against the reader, mild aggravated assault, cussing, happy ending tho :)

a/n: this is slightly different from what i usually write, so please keep those warnings in mind! i dont condone this behavior in the slightest, and if u need someone to talk to, feel free to msg me <3

⋆──────☆──────⋆

Interesting.

Hanako observed you curiously while you put a small vase with a rose on the bathroom windowsill.

“Oh my~ who is that from, [Name]?” he asked with a sly tilt of his voice. Pushing away the slight pang in his chest, he genuinely wanted to know who this secret admirer of yours was.

Was it someone that you were madly in love with? Maybe it was a dreamy forbidden lover who was going to ride off into the sunset with you?

“Hmm?” he floated around to your face so that he could see your reaction.

Then the smirk on his face immediately dropped.

Your body language was telling him everything he needed to know. From the frown on your lips, to the fidgeting of your hands, and finally the anxious glances towards the bathroom door. . .

Something was clearly distressing you.

You took in a deep breath and stared at the rose you were gifted. Unease swam in your eyes.

“I’m sure it’s nothing..” you said carefully. “...Hey, Hanako?”

He was all ears. “Yeah?”

“Is it okay if I stay here more often during the school day?” A quizzical look flashed onto Hanako’s face. He didn’t even have to think about the answer.

“Of course..? But only if you promise to tell me if something is bothering you, okay?” He held his pinkie out to you, giving you an empathetic smile.

The tension slowly seeped from your shoulders, and you couldn’t help but crack a smile back at him. “Okay. Thank you, Hanako.”

Over the next few weeks, you seemed to be in and out of different emotional states. Some days you would be eager to talk to your favorite bathroom ghost, excitedly telling him about whatever came to your mind. Other days, it was difficult to even pull a couple of questions out of you.

Lately, he couldn’t help but notice that you seemed to be a lot more... on edge? For example, if you found yourself speaking too loudly, you would cut yourself off and scan your surroundings, before continuing with a much softer tone. Or you would flinch whenever you heard the sounds of certain footsteps.

Hanako tried to bring it up to you, but you insisted that you had “everything under control”.

‘What exactly did you have under control?’ he wondered.

It wasn’t until the day you were late, that he truly understood.

‘Is she not coming today?’

He peeked around the corner of the doorway, jumping slightly when he heard two voices a little bit down the hall. Unable to suppress his curiosity, Hanako followed the voices until you came into view.

But who was the person next to you?

The mystery person was leaning on the locker next to yours, trying to strike up a conversation with you. At first, Hanako eased up. ‘It’s just her classmate. I’ll wait for her back in the bathroo‒’

As the ghost was turning away to leave you alone, he heard your locker door smash shut with a force that you never would have used.

Hanako whirled back around with wide eyes, and he heard the classmate say,

“Why the hell are you ignoring me? Huh?”

You were shaking as you held your textbook in front of your chest. ‘For defense,’ Hanako thought bitterly.

“Leave me alone! I’m not interested in being in a relationship right now‒”

Your classmate put both of his arms on either sides of your head, caging you in successfully. “Who cares about that? What will it take for you to be my girlfriend?” He leaned in closer to your face sneering at your fearful expression. “You are a greedy, selfish bitch. Even after all of the gifts I’ve given you, you still won’t give me a single chance?”

Even despite your shaky hands and trembling legs, you still managed to stare him directly back in his disgusting eyes and say, “You can’t buy someone’s affection, dipshit. Now, let me get by, or else I will‒”

“You’ll what?” He seethed, proceeding to slam his hand over your mouth. He shoved his knee between your legs to prevent you from running, and he used his other hand to pin your wrists together. “If you try to scream‒”

And just as it began, it ended.

The pressure on your wrists disappeared and you opened your eyes with confusion, looking around to see what happened to your assailant.

Your bewildered gaze stopped at the sight of Hanako dangling your classmate dangerously out of the hallway window.

Hanako was only holding him by the back of his uniform.

“Don’t you dare hurt a single hair on her head.”

As you covered your mouth with shock, you realized that you had never seen this side of Hanako before. You couldn’t even see his expression, but you’re sure that it would be something that would chill you to the bone.

“Oops! A drop from this height would lead to several broken bones, or maybe worse!” he snickered, his laugh void of any humor.

Hanako let one of his fingers go, only holding onto your classmates collar with four.

“W-W-Wait, please!! I swear I didn’t mean any of it‒”

“Like hell I’d believe that.” Hanako pulled out his knife with his other hand, pressing the blade to the front of his neck.

“If I ever see you bothering [Name] again, I will personally make sure that you are given no chance of mercy or forgiveness in the afterlife.”

The ghost leaned a little closer, whispering ever so quietly, “And the fact that you can see me in the first place is telling me that... you’re not too far off from death yourself. I would spend these last few days wisely, if I were you.”

With those final words in mind, Hanako threw your classmate back into the building, causing his body to tumble along the floor until he crashed into a locker.

Your assailant threw you both one last terrified look before scrambling away like the little insect that he was.

Once he was out of sight, you let your strong facade crumble. You took in one, broken breath, before your body shook with the sobs that you had been holding in for weeks.

“Crap‒!”

In a flash, Hanako was in front of you, holding you tightly to his chest as you broke down.His hat blew off in the midst of rushing to you.

“H-Hanako, you scared the shit out of me!” you choked out, your hands grasping onto his coat as if it he were your last lifeline.

He weakly laughed as he rubbed soothing circles along your back. “Dammit.. I’m so sorry I didn’t notice what was happening sooner. You shouldn’t have had to go through that..!”

Hanako pulled away for a brief moment as he looked into your eyes, searching for any remaining signs of pain. His hand gingerly reached up towards your face, wiping away your tears with his thumb, and letting it linger there while your tears slowed down.

“God, don’t ever leave my sight again. I don’t even want to think about what could have happened if I got here too late‒”

“Hanako,” You pulled him back into your embrace, which he was more than eager to accept.

“Thank you. I didn’t mean to worry you over those past few weeks.. I just didn’t think he would escalate the situation to that.. extent.”

Hanako’s voice was slightly muffled as he spoke into your hair. “No, don’t you DARE blame yourself. It’s not your fault at all. That asshole is the one to blame.”

His embrace tightened for a moment. “From now on, I will always be here to protect you. I swear it.”

“Can we just.. keep hugging for a little bit? I don’t really want to move... and I think my legs are falling asleep.” you laughed, the lovely sound bringing a smile to Hanako’s lips.

Even through his cold body, he could feel the warmth radiating from you, effectively dusting some blush across his cheeks.

“You’re kidding, right? I’m never going to stop hugging you.”

#hanako x reader #hanako-kun x reader #amane x reader #yugi amane x reader #amane yugi x reader #hanako-kun #hanako #toilet bound hanako-kun x reader #toilet bound hanako-kun #tbhk x reader #tbhk #jibaku shounen hanako-kun x reader #jibaku shounen hanako-kun #jshk x reader #jshk #x reader #protective hanako

690 notes · View notes

zickmonkey · 3 years

Text

'The Lazarus Pit seems to like Anger'

(Jason Todd x Dinah Lance platonic one shot)

During Lian's funeral Jason has a breakdown in which he and an understanding Dinah bond over unexpected life experiences. (Mentioned Jay/Roy, mild angst, platonic relationships, one-shot)

Dinah was used to funerals, of course she was. So many people died in their line of work. Ollie had, she had (though she kept that one as much of a secret as she could) and Jason, had, she was reminded by his noise across the room.

"I just! I don't want that for Lian! There's a hole! It takes something! Lian wouldn't be back, she wouldn't be her she'd be- she'd be empty!" Jason was screaming, as he slumped to his knees, and sobbed.

Dinah watched him, she stayed away, at first. They weren't close, by any means. She knew him, he knew her, they'd talked and they'd met. But they weren't at a take-care-of-the-other-person's-breakdowns spot.

For Jason those people would probably be Dick, maybe other people on his vigilante team. More of his family. But the only one of them that was there was Dick, and he only looked appalled. So did Hawkgirl, though Dinah didn't think she knew Jason that well, just that she had been on the receiving end of his agony-induced screams.

Dinah made her way to Jason, carefully. Towards where the couple people around him looked appalled. How could he act like this, how could he scream and cry, at a little girl's funeral?

She knew he didn't hear her coming. She didn't wear heels to funerals, despite the way wore them everywhere else. To her they were too loud, they made a noise that wasn't appropriate, even when could walk in them silently.

"Jason, maybe we should go outside." She was careful to keep her voice quiet, and not to fully touch him. Though her fingertips brushed against his shoulder before she spoke. But they didn't linger.

"Should we?" It was almost an angry spit. If she didn't know better, if she didn't know that he was a good kid, and this was just pain and grief- that of herself and everyone else in the room- she would've half flinched away from him physically spitting in her face too.

"We should," Dinah kept her voice gentle. Hoping that maybe it would persuade him to come.

He nodded, his head slumping so that he looked at the ground as he followed her out.

She imagined to Dick and Kendra she was going outside to scold him. That very well could've been what he was thinking too.

But she didn't. That was never her attention.

As they found their way outside they were quiet, passing past different people that stared at Jason for his outburst.

They passed Roy, who looked up at Jason, and watched Jason, but his expression was blank. He hadn't said anything since Lian died in anything other than facial expressions, but right now even that was silent.

And Mia, who's face was streaked with heavy tears but glared as though she would hurt Jason if Dinah didn't.

Dinah wouldn't. And she hoped Jason wasn't seeing the way everyone was looking at him.

The door clicked shut behind them as they were finally outside.

The sky was too bright, for the day of her four year old granddaughter's funeral. The weather too nice.

"Sit down,"

"Are you going to hit me? You can hit me. I shouldn't have said that." Jason didn't sit down. And he didn't look up. His black hair was falling in front of his face, the white streak the only thing really identifying him as himself, when he was dressed in a suit and his face was hidden.

Dinah shook her head. "No. Sit down." She sat down first, just onto the grass infront of the church. Her legs crossed underneath her.

"Jason," Everytime she said anything she was more careful than she ever had been that it was kind.

Finally he sat. But he didn't look at her.

"Were you asked to bring Lian back through the pit? Genuinely?"

He nodded.

"By who?"

"It doesn't matter. You're just going to be bad that I didn't. Like everyone else."

"Who asked, Jason?"

He sighed, the sound accompanied by half a whimper as though he were about to cry, and tipped his head back. His hair falling behind it, as it states directly at the sun.

"Ollie. Mia. Connor. Roy, and..." He stopped, when he'd said Roy's name his voice warped. It had been scratchy all day, presumably from crying, but now it broke, like a teenager in puberty. "And me. I've asked myself. But I can't- Dinah. I can't."

His tanned face left where it was staring up, and looked at her. Honestly looked at her- not in the far off way most people looked at others during funerals. But in way that said he saw her, and he wanted her to now see him, and his words, in turn.

"I know, I would never ask you to."

He stared at her, his hand moving on the grass while the rest of him was still. "You wouldn't?"

"No," she shook her head. "I know why everyone else is. But no. I heard you, about the Lazarus pit. About feeling empty. I understand."

"I know that you think you do, everyone thinks they understand what I went through. But there's a pit. An empty, gaping void that has been there since I came back. It takes something from you. I act like I can fill the emptiness with anger, and it works in the moment but then later- when ever I'm not blindingly angry, I'm empty. But- for Lian to have that? She can't- she can't be that."

His normally smooth voice was clear, empty of all the cracks, and scratches that came with talking about Lian- until he mentioned her name. Until he started thinking about what that feeling would do to her.

"For me it's always been love." Dinah replied. Now it was her who tipped her head back. She didn't stare into the sun, but she stared close enough it had begun to hurt.

"What?"

"Filling the hole. For the most part I don't. I just let it sit there. But sometimes, when the emptiness gets too heavy," she looked towards him, breaking her contact with the sun, "I fill it with love. I think about Ollie, Roy, Babs, Sin and Lian. I force the emptiness to take that, to take my love and affection for all of them and hold it, until it eases up, and I can live with it again.

"but sometimes I can't, and sometimes it's filled with Anger."

"The lazarus pit seems to like anger," Jason murmured.

Dinah nodded.

"It was filled with Anger when I saw her. When We got to the rubble, and I saw Ollie holding her, in the middle of all of it."

"What did you do? How did you- how did you avoid the anger?" His eyes now, were wide. Like this was the only advice he would ever need.

"I stood still. I made sure that I didn't move, because if I did I would kill someone. Prometheus, obviously. But not just him. I'm sure I would've killed Mia, too, she was supposed to be watching her.

"But I didn't. Because I couldn't reach her. And I let myself feel every other emotion. I forced myself to really take in the future, one without Lian, so that there was too much grief in me for the anger to take up as much space. And then I thought about Lian before, all of her little babbles. Everytime I saw Roy taking care of her, the little smile he had whenever he looked at her. And the one that was too big for Lian's face everytime she saw her father."

"And it worked?"

"It did." He nodded. And he looked at his hands- scarred hands from all of his late night activities. The same ones most of the people still inside had. Part of the reason Lian was dead at all.

Dinah felt angry again, for a second, the emptiness trying to catch onto it, but instead catching the love she quickly focused on- this time love for Jason, who had hurt himself, and his boyfriend, just to make sure Lian was as safe as she could be now.

There were things worse than death. But you didn't know that until you felt them yourself.

"Are you ready to go back inside?"

Jason shook his head. "No,"

"Okay."

#jason todd #fanfic #fic #red hood #lian harper #dinah lance #writer #writing #dc comics #comics #dc universe #mild angst #jayroy #lazarus pit #fanfiction #death tw #death mention #birds of prey #black canary

23 notes · View notes

theonceoverthinker · 3 years

Text

Oh Gods, They ARE Roommates! (Fair Game Week Day 1 Submission)

Summary: When a leak springs in Qrow’s bedroom, Clover offers to share his room in the Ace Ops’ suite while the repairs are being done. Follow the shenanigans they and their friends get into as they navigate a scenario that just about everybody but Qrow and Clover themselves swear is straight out of a romcom and see if Qrow and Clover have such an ending in store for them.

AO3

A/N: Here it is! My Day 1 Submission for @fairgameweek2021!!!! I figure a roommates story gels pretty well with the dual themes of sun and moon so here we go!

Shoutout to @drbtinglecannon who I’ve been screaming about this fic with for months now and who requested it as her gift for her 400 HC sweepstake prize!!!! I know it took nearly 100 days, but here you go!!!!

()()()()()()()()()()

CHAPTER 1

A leak.

A gods damned leak.

And a leak that he’d later learn only hit his room on top of it all.

Bad luck semblance or no bad luck semblance, that just wasn’t fair.

But regardless of whether or not it was fair, what it was was real and Qrow needed to do something about it.

From what Qrow gathered as he simultaneously observed the situation, got dressed, and tried to salvage anything previously left on the floor, the leak likely started last night while he was sleeping. Qrow slept right through its start and only realized it the next morning upon rising from his bed and feeling the very odd sensation of cold water greeting the heels and balls of his feet on the now wet ground.

Qrow was fortunate that most of his personal belongings had been spared the unwanted water’s wrath and those that were hit could be salvaged easily enough with some towels and just good old-fashioned sunlight. It still didn’t make the matter of his room flooding good though, just a bit more tolerable.

He couldn’t live like this.

Well, he probably could, but he sure as hell didn’t want to.

Qrow had slept in damp or even flat-out wet beds before under worse circumstances, and the smells of mold and mildew were not ones he ever wanted to make repeat appearances in his nostrils again.

Besides, it took forever to get the grime out of his hair.

No, Qrow needed a new living arrangement, and he needed it fast.

There was only one man he could go to to get that particular job done -- or at least get it done quickly -- and Qrow had no reservations whatsoever about paying that man a visit.

What a day this was shaping up to be...

It was a shame -- Qrow was actually getting used to his personal little corner of Atlas Academy. It was a comfortable enough space, not to mention private. He actually had a bit of space from the kids and while he enjoyed their company to some extent -- or at least, that was all he was willing to admit to anyone apart from himself -- after traveling side-by-side with them for weeks on end, the privacy that he gained from having a room to himself a little ways away from them was more appreciated than it wasn’t.

Well, maybe he’d get lucky and get a similar living situation again.

Of course, he often knew better than to hope for such things, but hey, he was trying to embrace optimism.

His nieces must have been rubbing off on him.

Perhaps someone else was, too.

Qrow found a custodian down the hall from his room and informed him of the leak on his way up to one of the academy’s elevators. An almost imperceptible movement jostled below Qrow’s feet as the elevator made its way up to Atlas Academy’s top floor.

Faces of varying degrees of familiarity met Qrow as he left the elevator and approached the likely location of his intended target. Qrow did what he could to starve off his own grouchiness, but by the time he had just one corner left to pass, the desire to do so had eroded away like footprints in a sandstorm.

And just in time to meet that grouchiness, James Ironwood was exactly where Qrow figured he would be.

James stood in the hallway right by his offices’ door, presently speaking to a couple of his soldiers. Whatever they were talking about, based on his slightly less rigid than usual posture and tone, it didn't seem like it was very important and probably wouldn’t keep him busy for too long.

That was good for the both of them, because Qrow intended to fill that void of business as soon as he could.

Qrow stayed by a nearby corner of the hallway while they continued talking, but the moment that the soldiers left James’ company, he struck. James gave him a small smile upon taking notice of Qrow, though it didn’t last long once he saw what was likely to Qrow a still very annoyed look on his face.

“Qrow,” James said, hesitantly, yet not without that professional tone he wore like a suit. “Always a pleasure.”

“Speak for yourself,” Qrow grunted. “A leak sprung in my room.”

A beat passed. James’ right brow raised.

“Bad?”

“I wouldn’t be here if it was good.”

“Fair enough,” James said right before releasing a sigh. “Come inside. I’ll see what I can do for you.”

Qrow nodded, and followed James as he led him into his office.

Once inside, James brought up on his projector a cubic holograph-like projection of Atlas Academy. From the other side of the hologram, Qrow could see that each and every room was outlined in a minimalistic way, with letters and numbers along the tops of them and the cube’s top and bottom squares greyed out. Qrow watched as James’ eyes surveyed each visible room on the square of the cube closest to him, muttering things to himself that were too low for Qrow to hear. Once done with the first visible section, James swished his hand so that the hologram would go to the next square of the cube, and then the third not long after it, and then the fourth not long after that. However, James' expressions and the tone of his muttering didn’t change at all across the four sections from what they were during the first one.

Honestly, Qrow couldn’t help but find that just a bit concerning.

When he was at last done, James moved his finger so that the second square on the cube he visited was brought up. While there was a look of unease on his face, Ironwood gave the screen a decisive nod.

Finally, frowning and seemingly just a tiny bit nervous, he turned to Qrow, took a deep breath, and spoke.

“There are no other single rooms right now, unfortunately,” James said.

Looks like Qrow’s instincts were right again.

He frowned. Qrow had expected as much, but the news was still annoying to hear all the same.

“So what are my options?” he then asked, coming out more as a sigh than a question.

“What I can do is place you in one of the dorms, like where the kids are staying. You won’t be alone though. You’ll be with some of my other Huntsmen, but it’ll only be for a couple of weeks, at most.”

Great.

Two weeks rooming with up to -- and, knowing his luck, likely -- three of Ironwood’s men, hearing them go on and on about Gods knew what, dealing with the small dorm room’s litany of smells, and never getting so much as a moment to himself.

And there was, of course, always the chance that they could figure out the truth of his semblance.

Qrow hadn’t told that particular truth to a lot of people in Atlas, and though those he did hadn’t given him a hard time about it, he frankly was hoping the number of those who knew wouldn’t increase. However, Qrow knew it inevitably would come up sooner than later -- it always did, especially with Huntsmen -- and he was decidedly not looking forward to the reactions from his roommates over it, nor their treatment of him afterwards.

Wasn’t that just the perfect cherry to put on this pain of a sundae?

Still, Qrow reminded himself, it was something, and something was better than nothing.

Qrow was about to begrudgingly accept the offer, but was interrupted before he could do more than open his mouth by the sudden sound of a man’s clearing cough from behind him.

There was no need to wonder who it was -- the voice had become to Qrow as distinct as the feeling of the sun in the sky, and honestly, about as welcoming of a sensation.

Qrow turned around and lo and behold, just as he expected, there stood Clover Ebi -- bravado, charm, cheery disposition, and all.

Why did Qrow always seem to find his soul suddenly starting to feel just that smallest bit lighter these days whenever he showed up?

Eh, that was a question for another day.

For now, Qrow just wanted to know what it was he had to say.

If nothing else, it would at least make his day a bit more interesting rather than just the irritating mess it was turning out to be.

“Ah. Good morning, Clover,” James greeted.

“Good morning James, Qrow,” Clover said, walking up to them and shooting Qrow a tiny, yet kind glance as he did. “Sir, if you’ll allow me to interject, I don’t think that a dorm’s the best option for Qrow. Those beds are fine enough for the kids and some of our younger soldiers to be sure, but they’re none too kind on the back after a certain age, and I don’t think I need to tell you that like it or not, that’s an age we’ve all hit as well as surpassed by now.”

James sighed, giving Clover a slight nod. “You’re not wrong. So, what do you suggest we do? I’ve no other rooms to put him in.”

“That’s true, but thankfully, I do.”

James’ brow furrowed for a second, clearly puzzled, before settling to something of a reserved curiosity.

Clover gestured towards the holographic model that James visited a few moments ago, as if silently asking permission to use it. James nodded, and Clover took to the model, zooming in on one of the upper floors of the cube’s second square. Finally, he pointed his finger at one of the larger rooms.

“The Ace Ops’ suite has two beds per room,” Clover went on to explain, “and the bed across from mine is empty. They’re better built than those in the dorms, a bit larger in size, and I think Qrow will appreciate the privacy of only having one roommate as opposed to three. So, Qrow can stay there, if he wants, that is.” Clover then turned to Qrow. “What do you think?”

Qrow paused for a second. As Clover posed to Qrow his offer, Qrow heard a small, but unmistakably present twinge of hesitance in Clover’s voice. However, Qrow couldn’t figure out for the life of him why it was there. Whatever was the reason, it definitely wasn’t regret on his part about offering the room to Qrow -- James had clearly either forgotten or never heard of Clover’s extra bed, and Clover was more than smart enough to know that if he didn’t want to share his room, he wouldn’t have had to breathe a word about it, let alone offer it to Qrow, but he did.

So then what was the deal with the hesitance?

Well, there was one way to find out, and that opportunity was presently standing right there in front of him.

Besides, it didn’t take a genius to see that compared to three strangers, rooming with one Clover Ebi was a far better option.

It didn’t hurt that he was a pretty decent guy either.

“Yeah,” Qrow finally said. “That sounds good.”

Clover smiled. That bit of unease was still there, now in his eyes, but Qrow could tell that the smile itself was as genuine as it ever was and hard not to look at because of that.

“Great!” Clover said. “Why don’t I help move your things from your room to mine and we let James get back to some slightly more pressing matters?”

“That would be preferable,” James chimed in, answering for Qrow and smirking back at Clover.

“Always a pleasure,” Qrow snorted, calling back to James’ initial greeting as he followed Clover’s lead out of James’ office.

As they headed towards Qrow’s room, Qrow noticed that as it often happened, by this time of the day, much of the hustle of the morning had settled down, now just a student or a soldier here or there making their ways to their respective classes and drills.

Qrow liked the Academy at this part of the day for that, but always felt the least bit unsettled by the quiet of it. There was this weird echo the hallways had as they carried the sound of just his footsteps for just a second longer than he felt they should have.

Clover’s presence alleviated things somewhat, as if a bit of noise somehow subconsciously radiated off of him like heat off of a fireplace. He turned to Clover who gently met his eyes with his own while sporting an easy smile.

“Thanks, by the way,” Qrow said, “for the offer.”

“Happy to help,” Clover said.

“How’d you hear about it anyway?”

“I was walking by your room to see why you didn’t come down to grab your morning coffee, and saw a custodian working there,” Clover answered. “He told me what had happened and from there, I figured that you’d probably gone to speak with James.”

“And so you came to save your boss from a cranky old Qrow?”

Qrow smirked, both at his comment as well as its underlying meaning. Maybe one day, he’d tell Clover the truth about his other form, but that would be on a day when he had so much as a single clue as to how to even start that conversation.

Then again, given the very nature of that confession, that might be a long time’s wait, though it was time that Qrow couldn’t help but feel like they had.

“And to save that Qrow himself,” Clover responded.

Qrow’s smirk melted into a snarky smile as they entered the elevator.

“Should I be swooning and calling you ‘my hero?’” Qrow nudged his head in Clover’s direction, clasped his hands together, and batted his eyelashes a couple of times just for good measure.

“If you’d like,” Clover said, punching in Qrow’s floor number just before letting loose another one of his winks, winks Qrow was simultaneously well-used to by now but still caught off guard by. “I certainly wouldn’t object.”

The elevator door closed and the two of them started laughing.

Clover’s laugh was infectious -- deep, attractive, casual, yet spirited -- and it made Qrow’s last a little bit longer than it otherwise would have for a joke like this.

It also reminded Qrow, as their barks of laughter settled down into rumbling chuckles, of how much Clover’s laughter contrasted that bit of hesitance in his voice he had at James’ office.

Well, Qrow figured that before they started the process of moving him into Clover’s room, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to clear that up.

“Everything okay, Clover?” Qrow asked. “Couldn’t help but notice that you seemed a little strange back up in James’ office.”

Clover's smile receded, not completely, but all the same into something more neutral. “By offering you the bed?”

“No, that was normal for you. I just noticed you just had this weird look in your voice as you were offering it.”

“I see.” Clover snorted. “You’re far too observant for your own good. You know that, right?”

A wicked smirk took over Qrow’s features. “Absolutely.”

Clover sighed. “I just didn’t want you to feel pressured into taking the room because it was me offering it or because James was there. I could only take a guess at what you wanted, but if I was wrong…” Clover seemed unable to continue, but able to tell that Qrow could understand his logic from there.

Qrow smiled at that bit of vulnerability Clover let him have. He’d received fragments of those bits here and there, and they had a way of sticking themselves onto Qrow’s heart like syrup on pancakes and feeling just as pleasant.

“You made a good guess,” Qrow assured, “and I appreciate it -- really, I do. Thanks, again.”

Clover’s smile brightened. “You know, you’re a lot better at giving compliments than you are at receiving them.”

“What can I say?” Qrow shrugged. “That’s just how I work.”

“Then I’ll just have to work that much harder to change that,” Clover challenged.

Qrow was starting to suspect that if anyone could accomplish such a feat, it would be Clover, and as they exited the elevator and continued towards Qrow’s room, Qrow realized that he wouldn’t have it any other way.

#fair game #qrow branwen #clover ebi #rwby #lucky charms #luckbirds #luck birds #fairgame #qrow x clover #qrover #fairgameweek2021

28 notes · View notes

firefly464 · 4 years

Text

The Real World - Chapter 11

Ok so this ones a bit more of a slightly slower chapter and kinda does a bit more world building sooooo yeah. BUT ALSO THERES SOME WHOLESOME FRIENDSHIP MOMENTS SO THATS GOOD

Made in collaboration with @i-have-this-now Thank you to @rivys for beta reading and editing!

Master Post

First - Previous - Next

~~~

Silence. Complete and total silence fell over the call as both Tubbo and Wilbur tried to process what Tommy was saying. The moment was tense, and loaded with unanswered questions.

“Fuck…” Wilbur muttered. He didn’t know what else to say. He was in a state of shock. What was he supposed to do? He had just learned that two of his friends were trapped in another dimension, and that said dimension was going to be destroyed because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“Yeah. I feel like that sums it up pretty well.” Tommy had no idea what he was supposed to be doing, or even feeling. There were so many emotions raging through his mind. Anger at Wilbur for talking to Dream. Relief that Tubbo and Wilbur weren’t screaming at him. Fear that his home was going to be destroyed.

God, he was sick of being afraid. He had felt nothing but fear and terror for a week straight, and thought that he had grown numb to it. He had thought wrong. The raw terror that coursed through his veins in that moment was nothing like he had ever felt before. It was cold and numbing. It made him want to just crawl into his bed and lay there. He felt completely and unbelievably hopeless. At least during the war there had been a small sliver of hope. A tiny beacon of light in all the darkness. It had been what kept him going. Now, there was nothing. He had no way of fighting back. No way of even contacting his friends and seeing if they were safe. He hated it.

“So. What’s the plan?” Tubbo’s voice shook Tommy from his intrusive thoughts. He couldn’t help but feel grateful for Tubbo’s optimism, despite the fact that he knew it was hopeless. “How are we gonna stop him?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice quiet.

“We’re not just going to let him kill all those people, right? There's gotta be something we can do. Some way that we can stop him.”

“Tubbo, I-” “No, he’s right.” Will interjected. “We aren’t just going to sit around and do nothing. Besides, if what you said is true, then our Tommy and Dream are stuck there as well. We’re not just going to let them die.”

“You guys don’t get it, do you…?” Tommy muttered. He knew his friends were trying their best, but the hopelessness of the situation was suffocating. It was like he was standing in a pool of quicksand, slowly being dragged down. Each time he struggled and tried to resist, he was only dragged down farther. He was tired of fighting it. “You can’t stop him. We don’t even know where he is.” Tubbo was silent for a moment. “What if we switched you guys back? We could figure out the command that swapped you in the first place and just run it again.”

“I mean, you can try. But wouldn’t you need Dream’s computer?”

A sly grin spread across Tubbo’s face. “Who says I need access to his computer to access the server? Just give me a few minutes.” The sound of typing echoed through Tommy’s headphones.

He frowned, confused as to what was going on. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to access the server.” He didn’t offer any more information.

“While he’s doing that, maybe you could tell us more about what happened to you. How did you even end up involved with Dream? From the sounds of it, he's fucking terrifying,” Wilbur asked. He figured that the more they knew about what was going on, the easier it would be to try and solve their issue.

“I… He used to disappear for really long periods of time. Eventually I got curious. I saw him leaving and tried to follow. He caught me pretty quickly. He… he said that he would kill everyone in L’Manberg if I didn’t go with him and do what he said.”

Wilbur’s eyes narrowed. That didn’t make any sense. Why on earth would Dream force Tommy to go with him if he hadn’t gone far? Something wasn’t adding up. “What-”

“I’M IN!” Tubbo yelled out, cutting off Will’s question.

“You’re in?” Tommy asked.

“I have access to the server.” Tubbo explained. “Maybe I can try and contact them.”

“Wait, what do you mean you have access to the server?” Wilbur said.

“I have the console open, wait- here.” Tubbo started sharing his screen on Discord.

A black background filled with white text that neither Wilbur nor Tommy could understand appeared on the screen. It was filled with coordinates and commands that were constantly being updated every couple of seconds. A waterfall of white text was filling Tubbo’s screen. He could see a grayed out command that read ‘/msg TommyInnit hello?’.

“Hey, wait a second,” Wilbur said. “Tubbo’s commands aren’t working.”

“Do you think it could be some sort of activation key?” Tommy asked, but it sounded more like a statement.

“...Exactly. How did you know?” Tubbo asked.

“I think I may know where that is.”

~~~

“What the fuck?” Tommy held the wooden bow in his hands, staring at the blinking light. “Have either of you ever seen this kinda thing before?”

“Why the hell would I know anything? I’ve been here as long as you have,” Dream remarked as he took another drink from the glass bottle.

“I dunno, maybe because you’re the server owner?”

“Just because I’m the server owner doesn’t mean I know what's happening.”

“Well, maybe you should.”

Dream only rolled his eyes. Tubbo squirmed a bit. Seeing Dream acting so casual was… unnerving. The lack of a mask only made it ten times worse. Until an hour ago, he had never even seen the man’s face. It was always just the blank mask, cold and emotionless. Seeing the raw emotions on his face was somehow scarier than not seeing them at all. A shudder ran down his spine.

“Tubbo? Any ideas?”

Tubbo jumped slightly, caught off guard by the sudden question. “Huh? O-oh! No, I don’t know. Sorry man, I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

A sigh escaped him as he ran a hand over the leather wrapped grip. The blinking light stared up at him, almost taunting him in a way. That was when he felt it. A small raised section of the grip, right where his finger would sit if he were holding it normally. He frowned. “what the fuck?”

“What? What is it?” Dream asked quickly.

“I dunno. It’s just a weird bump…”

“Oh. That's it? It's probably just from the other Tommy making his bow wrong or something.”

Tubbo shook his head, quick to defend his best friend. “No… Tommy was really good at making weapons. He wouldn’t have done something like that. It’s not like him.”

Tommy’s brow furrowed as he ran his finger over the strange button. On a whim, he pressed down.

A scream was torn from his throat as a robotic voice played in his ears. “Hello?” it said.

“What the fuck?!”

“Tommy?! Tommy are you ok?! What happened?!” Tubbo was instantly on his feet, trying to check on his friend. His instincts kicked in. Everything that had kept him and his friends alive during the war came rushing back to him as he frantically checked Tommy for any wounds or injuries. Nothing. No visible cuts or bruises. Maybe it was mental? Or a type of potion. Or maybe even-

“Tubbo, Tubbo! I’m fine! I promise. Just a bit startled.” Tommy’s voice brought his train of thought to an abrupt halt. Tubbo sat back down, his face burning with shame.

Dream stared at them in concern. “What happened?”

“Did you not hear it?” he furrowed his brow, trying to put the pieces together.

“Hear what?”

“That weird voice thingy. I pressed the little button and the robot lady started talking.”

“You’re hearing voices now? Are you alright?”

“Yes, Dream! I’m fine!” he cried out in exasperation. The blinking light on the grip of the bow had gone dark, leaving nothing but a regular wooden bow.

~~~

“How do you even know that they’re in your world?” Wilbur asked. Tubbo had already set the command in the server, and now the three of them were just waiting for some sort of results. Now, they were all just sitting around, trying to get more answers out of Tommy. “I mean, for all we know they could be floating out in the empty void of nothing.”

“No, I’m sure that your Tommy and Dream are in my world. Dream seemed really confident about it. He said something about it already being tested or whatever.

“Tested? Tested on what?”

“I don’t know. He never told me. All he said was that the test had worked.”

“Alright, I’m just gonna be the one to say it, thats sketchy as fuck.” Tommy couldn’t help but jump. Tubbo had been so quiet while they were talking, he had forgotten that he was even there. “I mean, I get that he’s a sketchy guy, but that's just weird.”

Tommy took a deep breath to try and calm his racing heart. “Yeah… It really is. I learned pretty quickly not to question him though. He was fucking terifying whenever he got asked too many questions.” A shudder ran down his spine as he remembered the blank, emotionless mask. God, he hated that fucking mask. Every night, he was plagued with nightmares about it.

“Tubbo, I think your command went through” Wilbur said, his voice cutting through the fog that was starting to build in Tommy’s mind. He looked at the screen. Sure enough, the grayed out text was now gone, replaced with a blank text box.

“Someone must have found the trigger. Hopefully it was your Tommy and Dream. I’m not sure what would happen if someone else managed to get their hands on it.”

“Either way, it should have only sent the message to Tommy, right?” Tubbo asked.

“I don’t fucking know. I wasn’t allowed anywhere near the console.”

“Probably because you’re a little gremlin child.” Will couldn’t help but make the snide comment. Maybe he just wanted to pretend, if only for a moment that nothing had changed. Maybe he was searching for a way to lighten the mood. He wasn’t sure.

Either way, the comment earned him a cry of protest. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?!”

“It means that you are a little gremlin boy. What else would it mean?” Despite his best attempts, he couldn’t quite keep the smile out of his voice.

“Alright, you son of a bitch, you listen here. I could beat your fucking ass in a fight, no questions asked.” Despite the harsh words, Tommy couldn’t help but grin. The friendly banter was familiar to him, and he couldn’t help but be thankful for it. In a world where everything was strange and foreign, it felt nice to have something that stayed consistent.

“Oh yeah? Prove it”

“Alright. Next time I see you, how about we 1v1? Me versus you.” “Uh, I don’t think that's a really good idea,” Tubbo interjected.

“What? Why not? I’ve beaten him before, I’ll do it again.” Tommy’s voice was dripping with confidence. He may not have been nearly as strong here as he was back in his home world, but he still knew how to fight. Not to mention, he had spent most of the past week trying to get his strength back.

“I don’t doubt it, it’s just that fighting someone is generally considered not good here”

“Are you serious? That's so lame! Back at home we used to spar all the time!”

“Yeah, not here. Unless you’re in a fighting style sport, sparring just isn’t something that you do here”

“Ughhhh, that’s so dumb.” he grumbled.

“So, uh, what’s the plan now?” Tubbo asked. On the screen, another /msg command was pulled up, ready to be sent. The message section itself was blank, but it was clear that Tubbo was itching to try and communicate with his best friend.

“We just input the command, right? We swap you back, you guys could go home, and we get our Tommy and Dream back. Boom, problem solved.” Wilbur couldn’t help but feel slightly confused. Hadn’t that been the plan from the start?

“I uh… I don’t know the command that he used,” Tommy admitted.

“Fuck.” The three sat in silence, trying to figure out what to do. Tommy couldn’t help but feel like hopelessness starting to drag him down again, pulling him down into the pit of quicksand.

“What if we brought them to the console? That way they could actually respond and we might be able to come up with some sort of plan?” Tubbo suggested.

He weighed his options. On one hand, it was the best bet they had. Hell, he was about 99 percent sure that Dream would have left some sort of clue as to what the command was, if only because he enjoyed the thrill of the danger. On the other, who knew what kind of trap Dream had set up. Knowing him, he would have expected them to do exactly this. No. No he couldn’t think like that. This was their one chance. It was his only chance at saving his home, at saving his friends.

Swallowing his fear, he nodded. “Yeah. Alright, that sounds good.”

~~~

“What the fuck?! Why is it blinking again?!” The small red light was back, blinking up at the blonde teenager annoyingly.

“Press the button again?” Dream offered helpfully.

“What? No! I’m not pressing that fucking button again! You press it if you’re so curious!” he tossed the bow onto the table carelessly, the loud noise making Tubbo flinch.

Dream grabbed the weapon and looked over it. “Alright, maybe I will. Where did you say it was?”

“On the grip, right next to the little light. It's really small though, you have to feel it.”

“Got it!” with a soft click, Dream pressed down on the button.

Instantly, the robotic voice echoed through Tommy’s mind once more. The voice was cold and metallic, with no emotion whatsoever. It reminded Tommy of pretty much every computer generated voice he had ever heard, only this time, it echoed through his skull. He could feel his teeth vibrating from the sheer volume of it. His eyes shook, causing the world to vibrate and jitter. It reminded him of when the bell had been rung, only this time he was the only one could hear it.

“Hey Tommy, it's Tubbo. This other Tommy just told me and Wilbur everything that’s been going on. Don’t worry, we’re gonna get you out of there, alright? Apparently the other Dream is going to really fuck everything up if we don’t stop him. And by that I mean he’s going to delete the server and most likely kill all of you and I really don’t want that to happen. So we’re gonna stop it!”

The voice continued for a bit, explaining what the plan was and where he and Dream needed to go, and Tommy did his best to keep track of Tubbo’s directions. “... Anyways, we really miss you man. I swear, we’re gonna figure something out and get you guys home. Yours truly, big T.” The voice stopped, and Tommy blinked. Tears pricked at his eyes.

He didn’t really understand what was going on, but he did understand one thing: there was hope. He might be able to go home. Tubbo and Wilbur were going to bring them home.

~~~

Master Post

First - Previous - Next

#if you cant tell i wrote this over two days #and i forgot what i wrote #so theres a bit of repetition #but whatever its fine #its still fun #wilbur soot #wilbursoot #tubbo_#Tubbolive #dreamwastaken #mcyt #mcyt au #The Real World #The Real World AU #my writing #dream team #dream smp #fanfiction #tommyinnit

124 notes · View notes

91percentpynch · 3 years

Text

kevin day as a singer/ songwriter

IT‘S KEVIN DAY BITCHES YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS - originally this was supposed to be a kevin day writing songs, soft wholesome au thingy, it ended up in kevaaron angst with a happy ending. but i put conan gray songs out of kevin‘s point of view as a bonus??? so it‘s still singer/ songwriter kevin??

kevin day has always loved music. he loved it when his mother sang him lullabies when he couldn‘t sleep, when they danced around the kitchen screaming the words to the song from the radio on the top of their lungs, loved it when she taught him how to play the piano and the guitar.

but like every other good thing evermore took this from him, once they snatched him and burried him alive. riko hated music, so naturally it was forbidden for all of them. no happiness, no light. only ever exy, exy, exy.

don‘t get it wrong, kevin loved exy. he was the son of exy. kayleigh found exy, kayleigh gave it to him, it was in his blood. it was in his soul. and it brought him closer to his beloved mother, to the woman who made his life good, who gave him light and happiness and left him back alone. gave him to them.

however just as exy was in his blood, so was music. so whenever he was alone with his partner he would quietly hum or sing a song his mother used to sing him.

when jean moreau arrived at the nest hell broke out. riko was jealous because kevin would spend more time with the new kid than him. kevin wouldn‘t give the king enough attention so all of his subjects had to suffer.

it got worse with every passing day, with every look that lasted just a second too long, with every conversation whispered softly in french, with every lullaby kevin would sing for jean when he was scared, with every embrace and late night talk. with every stolen kiss, they had to pay. well, jean had to pay. kevin had to remain untouched, no scar was allowed to be visible on his perfect face, on his hands or any body part visible. jean however? jean was never allowed to leave the nest, he was riko‘s, he belonged to riko like some doll he could stab or kick or do whatever he felt like to.

the day kevin told riko to stop, was the day riko lost his patience. kevin day got better in exy, he took his favourite toy away from him, he had the audacity to talk against his king.

kevin always knew riko was unpredictable when he was angry, that the world was just black and red when he was mad with anger, but he never in a million years thought that this anger would ever be against him. that he would have to feel what jean felt every single day.

but he did this day, when riko broke his hand. it was also the day when kevin decided that it was time for them to leave. for both of them, jean and him.

„we‘re going“, he whispered in french when he came back to their shared dorm room. „we‘re leaving. you and me. my father, wymack, he has an exy team on his own. the foxes. we‘re going to join them. because i will not leave you here, understood?“

„we can‘t go, he will find me and while he cannot kill you, he certainly can kill me. no one really cares about me, anyways“, jean replied.

„oh is that so? well i for that matter care about you, you beautiful french bastard and now take your five things and we‘re going“

„kevin, we can‘t. not both of us. that‘s way too suspicious“, jean tried to reason.

„darling, it‘s more suspicous when i go alone, now come. we don‘t have much time. riko will look for you soon, if he doesn‘t already. i know the way out, maybe, if we‘re fast we can go to a more growded place before he catches up on us, maybe we can even reach the bus or a taxi before he comes. we have to try, we cannot stay here. i for once must go to the hospital, the bastard broke my playing hand“

„i‘ll make sure he won‘t come after you, you go. go and forget me. go and leave me alone. it‘s only a few more months before i go, only a few more months before it‘s all over. you don‘t have to watch that. just, go“, jean said, his voice tired and filled with emotion.

„i will get you out of here and you will give live a chance. i promis you will see the sun again“, kevin replied, tears running down his cheeks as he leaned in for one last kiss. „i love you“, he whispered into the darkness as he turned to go. kevin never heard the reply, he wasn‘t sure he wanted to.

so kevin tiptoed to the backdoor and left. just like that. until this day he didn‘t know what jean had to go through for him to be able to leave like that but he was thankful for it nonetheless.

somehow he made his way to psu and found his place in the team. well, not exactly found a place. more like got adopted by a scary 5“0 tall, stabby boy, who promised to keep him safe, his twin brother and their cousin who scared the living crap out of him.

„what is our routine? do we have 16 hour days as well here? when is practice? and do we choose our majors ourselves or does the master choose them for us?“, kevin asked the others when they were alone in their dorm.

„do we have WHAT now?“, nicky asked. „dude, no we do not have 16 hour days, we, you know, want to like surive?“

„oh, are we allowed to listen to music or does the king not approve that?“, kevin asked instead.

„dude i don‘t know what fucked up shit they did in evermore but you‘re allowed to do whatever the fuck you want here. and dan would more be a queen, but we just call her dan or captain?“

„oh, okay“, kevin said before turning around and leaving the room. his chest tightened, his arm hurt, he just wanted back on the court. but he wasn‘t allowed on there until his left arm was doing alright, and as long as he wasn‘t on the court he couldn‘t train his right hand to play.

the only other thing that could calm him right now was music. the sound of a piano, the strings of a guitar against his fingers, the scratching of a pen against paper as the notes are written down on it.

kevin wandered through the fox tower, more lost than ever, and somehow found himself in a music room. a dusty piano stood under a bright window, an old guitar was in the corner next to an alomst ancient drum set.

almost automatically his feet brought him to the piano and he began playing. he played and played, as if his life depended on it and kevin felt calmer and lighter than he did in years. the voice of his mother was in his head, singing lullabies and placing a kiss on his forhead.

his right hand was playing the old lullabies he remebered while the left hand rested on his tigh

„that was good“, a voice said, bored and unimpressed. he turned around to see one of the twins watching him. it was the one who couldn‘t hide all of his emotions like the one with the knives.

„aaron, right?“, kevin asked, voice hoarse from crying.

„how do you tell us apart? not even nicky can tell us apart like 90% of the time and he‘s basically our mom“, aaron replied.

„well, it‘s a 50/50 chance, isn‘t it? i was just lucky“, kevin replied.

the music room became his place of safetey and calmness after that day. he would return whenever he felt lost or sad or upset. be it 2 am or the middle of the day.

and aaron would join him more and more often, may it to study because „your music helps me concentrate“ or just to watch kevin play while the sunbeams chased over his pretty face.

and if kevin slowly fell in love with aaron in those shared hours it was nobody‘s business

however it didn‘t look like aaron was into him anyways, as the joining kevin in the music room got less and less, and the time spent with kateyln from the vixens got more and more. and suddenly all of the songs kevin wrote were about aaron. all kevin thought about was aaron. he joined him in his dreams. the nightmares from evermore were replaced by kevin dying alone in a dark void while aaron laughed at him with katelyn by his side.

it was one of those late nights, one of the 2 am sessions where emotions took over and the truth was just easier to take. it was one of those nights that aaron decided to go into the music room, he didn‘t konw why. maybe it was katelyn telling him she wasn‘t into him anymore. it‘s not even been a month. or was it two? aaron never was good with telling weeks apart from days or hours. it was all the same blur of colors and voices and the ever so present need to be perfect. nothing less was acceptable.

„why would you ever kiss me? i‘m not even half as pretty. you gave her your sweater, it‘s just polyester, but you like her better, wish i were heather“, it was kevin‘s voice, like an angle, filled with pain and sadness. aaron sat down on the floor, just listening, wondering who the fuck heather was. and who the fuck would ever break his heart.

„watch as she stands with her holding your hand, put your arm ’round her shoulder, now i‘m getting colder. but how could i hate her, she‘s such an angle. but then again kinda wish she was dead, as she walks by, what a sight for sore eyes. brighter than a blue sky. she‘s got you mesmerized while i die. why would you ever kiss me? i‘m not even half as pretty. you gave her your sweater. it‘s just polyester, but you like her better. wish i were heather. wish i were heather. wish i were heather. why would you ever kiss me? i‘m not even half as pretty. you gave her your sweater it‘s just polyester, but you like her better. wish i were katelyn“, the last word was barely audible and aaron would have missed it if he wouldn‘t have moved closer to kevin while listening to his song.

„why would you want to be katelyn?“, he asked kevin as before he could stop himself.

as kevin turned around the moon let shadwos dance around his beautiful face. aaron could see that he was batteling with himself. that he was about to say something he wouldn‘t normally allow himself to say. show weakness and vulnerability when strenght was all he knew.

„because you like her better. because i want to be the one you kiss“, kevin whispered, looking at the ground. his hair falling into his face, hiding his expression.

aaron moved closer and closer. there were only a few inches between them now. softly he took kevin‘s chin in his hand and lifted it, forced him to meet his eyes. „well, what if you were heather?“, aaron asked, a small smile dancing around his lips.

„but- but katelyn is heather“, kevin whispered.

„well, kately found herself a girl. thea. she dumped me. and i‘m actually glad she did, i wanted you anyways. i just couldn‘t admit it. i thought it was wrong, unnatural. but if something this beautiful is sinful, i understand how adam was able to make the sin. if a fallen angle is wrong in god‘s eyes i have no answer what is right“

he closed the distance between them and placed a soft kiss on kevin‘s lips.

kevin, confused and drunk on the smell and taste of aaron, kissed him back. hungrier. needier.

the taller boy softly put his arms around the waist of the smaller one and pulled him closer. „you do not understand how long i‘ve been waiting to do this“, he whispered against aaron‘s lips.

„believe me, i do“.

the next day kevin took a guitar and a blanket after exy training, took aaron‘s hand and told him to come. together they went to the roof (where andrew and neil were making out, as usual) but they didn‘t mind they went to the other side, andrew‘s death glare on them but what‘s new, and filmed an accoustic version of heather kevin would then later on youtube. heather became their song (weird choice i know but it‘s the song where they kissed for the first time) and so so kevin‘s music career started.

kevin kept writing songs - mostly about aaron - throughout his exy career and published them. his fans loved his songs. his fans loved making conspiracy theories about who the songs are for. they‘re losing their shit when they found out it was aaron. after kevin retires he becomes a fulltime musician and eventually even goes on tour.

BONUS - CONAN GRAY SONGS OUT OF KEVIN‘S POV

grow - years, after evermore. after he starts therapy (and takes it seriously) and he feels like his life slowly but steadily becomes better. aaron and him have been dating for a year or two. he is ready to grow, to become his own person. to be himself and do whatever he wants. he is ready to go into the world. he is ready to show them that he queen of exy is not afraid anymore. that he is worthy and he knows it.

comfort crowd - aaron comforting kevin. aaron knowing when he needed to be with the foxes and when he needed some alone time. or some aaron-kevin-time. i do believe that the foxes becomes his comfort crowd, because they‘ve all been through shit and i refuse to believe that they wouldn‘t care about kevin as they did with neil once they learned what that poor boy had to bo through.

the story - kevin wrote that song about him and jean and the nest. the boy and the boy are him and jean. it‘s the story of their time there and the second verse is kevin‘s story of fleeing from evermore. and the refrain is a metaphor for life, because his life wasn‘t funny. or sweet. or pretty. and the „it could work for you and me. it‘s not the end of the story“ is about him and aaron. the last song verse is about jean and that he hopes that he finds his happy end with jeremy.

maniac - kevin wrote that one when katelyn came back to aaron and asked him to take her back cause the girl she thought she was madly in love with broke her heart. but aaron refused to take her back, told her to go back to her ratback and leave him alone. he‘s with kevin now and he doesn‘t need her anymore. she can‘t get him back.

affluenza - kevin wrote that for allison. i don‘t know the deep story behind that, the song just gives me allison vibes.

wish you were sober - kevin wrote that after the first party he went to with the foxes after he joined him and it‘s obviously about aaron. drunk aaron to be exactly. drunk aaron has a special place in kevin‘s heart.

the cut that always bleeds - that one was when aaron dated katelyn and told kevin about it and kevin just died a little bit inside whenever he did.

fight or flight - he wrote that before aaron told him how he felt about him. he just didn‘t know how to put his feelings into words so he just wrote that song.

lookalike - kevin wrote that before aaron and him started dating, but when jean and jeremy started to become closer. he didn‘t take that well at that time as he had a massive crush on both jean (who refused to talk to him) and jeremy (who never looked at him twice but still). and he just daydreamed about dating jeremy so much it almost felt like a betrayal when he started dating jean.

the king - honestly? aaron dating katelyn but nonetheless always coming back to kevin. kevin knows that. that‘s why he wrote the song.

(can we be friends?) - this is about jean/ jeremy when kevin didn‘t really have friends. jean/ jeremy at the time of the nest probably.

(online love) - this one‘s about jeremy. cause let‘s be honest, at least one of those songs is about jeremy.

crush culture - that one is the result of an angry 4 am song writing session when aaron dated katelyn and jj was just starting to date.

generation why - this one‘s for the millenials. his generation in this au.

heather - heather is aaron, basically he‘s talking about having a massive crush on aaron but aaron would never feel the same cuz he‘s obviously straight and madly in love with katelyn (= heather) who is just stunning and gorgeous and beautiful and so much better than kevin

overdrive - this one was written after the first time the twins and nicky took him to eden‘s. the time when kevin started to catch feelings for aaron.

#all for the game #the foxhole court #the raven king #the king’s men #kevin day #aaron minyard #ship: kevaaron #kevaaron

36 notes · View notes

tsuraiwrites · 3 years

Note

Welcome to the DADWC! For the pairing of your choice, feed the angst machine: "Don’t cry.” <3

thank you for your prompt! I thought about cutting it off after the first scene but can’t resist happy endings. for @dadrunkwriting

Fic: Keeping Pressure

“Don’t cry, it’ll be okay,” Anders tries to reassure Hawke, doing his best to put on a smile despite the pain of being separated from the Fade and the deep, aching agony radiating from the stab wound in his side – it worsens as Hawke puts more pressure on it, trying to stem the tide of blood with a handful of bandages.

“‘Don’t cry’? Fuck you, ‘don’t cry,” Hawke snaps, hands glowing with blue light for a moment before it flickers and dies from lack of mana. “Fuck, I don’t have any more lyrium!”

Anders grimaces, tries to breathe but coughs, his mouth filling with the unpleasantly familiar tang of blood.

It was supposed to be a quiet smuggling job; another part of the Mage Underground had brought the child from the Gallows to Darktown, while he and Hawke took them the rest of the way to the Wounded Coast to a ship waiting for them. They’re lucky the Templars caught them when they did, on the way back from delivering the young mage to freedom. Anders, leading the way across the coast, was caught by a Silence almost immediately.

The only upside to this Void-damned mess – that their thirteen-year-old charge wasn’t stuck in the cross-fire. But with his connection to the Fade cut, Anders had been forced to fight with his staff in close quarters, quickly going through his health potions as a result. Hawke downed all their lyrium protecting them both with magic, but a Templar still managed to stick a blade in Anders, and here they are.

Spirit healing can do nothing when neither of them have the mana to power it.

“One of those Templar bastards has to have lyrium on him,” Hawke mutters, but Anders can barely hear him over the pulse in his ears, his heart trying harder to pump as he loses blood. “Anders!” Hawke shouts, and Anders’ eyes snap open, not remembering when he’d shut them. “Stay with me, sweetheart,” he says when Anders blearily meets his eyes. Hawke sucks in a harsh breath, his broad shoulders tense as tears finally begin falling, disappearing quickly into his beard.

“I’m with you, love,” he murmurs, and coughs again, his stomach cramping with nausea. This time he can’t swallow down all the blood, and it trickles out the side of his mouth. Even with the blurring corners of his vision he can see his lover go another shade paler, his mouth twisting in a grimace.

“Good, that’s… good. Now, I need you to help keep pressure on.” He grabs one of Anders’ hands, then the other, pressing them to the bandages at his side. A lance of blistering pain stabs into Anders, nearly worse than when the original wound was inflicted, and he bites back a scream that has Hawke babbling: “Maker’s breath, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, sweetheart, but you need to endure it, just a few minutes. It’ll be okay, I just need to grab lyrium.”

All the while his calloused hands firmly arrange Anders’s hands and arms until he’s able to brace against the sandy ground to put more pressure on the wound. Anders groans, but does his best to comply with his shaky, quickly waning strength. As soon as he’s braced, Hawke is scrambling off his knees, taking off at a dead sprint to the nearest Templar corpse.

Anders waits, staring up into a sky going grey as dawn approaches. Despite this, his vision starts to darken.

Not like this, Anders wants to scream. Wants to rail at how much more he has yet to accomplish – mages are still imprisoned, turned Tranquil for no reason at all, are suffering under countless abuses–

He reaches for Justice, but the Fade is still far out of his grasp, his spirit companion the same.

He breathes, presses his hands harder when he notices they’ve started to slacken, and waits for Hawke to come back, for his magic to return, or for unconsciousness to take him. He blinks slowly. The breeze is cool on his sweaty brow, but Anders can’t muster the strength to turn into it, and he realizes he’s panting, can’t seem to pull in enough air.

His head swims, and Anders pulls in another harsh breath, trying to call out, but there’s blood in his mouth and he has run out of time.

The black blooms across his vision and swallows him whole.

When Anders comes to, it’s to the sight of a familiar, deep red canopy hanging above him – he groans the next moment as a headache hits, making him squint with the pain of it.

“You’re awake!” a voice exclaims, and when Anders finally manages to peek one eye open, he finds Hawke sitting in a chair beside his bed. Anders opens his mouth, but only succeeds in making a dry rasping noise. Hawke takes that as his cue, fetching water from the nightstand. He doesn’t offer it to Anders right away, helping Anders sit up against the headboard first. Anders manages to do so with only a few twinges in his abdomen, and he touches his side, lifting his shirt to reveal mostly-healed skin with only a red, puckered scar where the knife went in.

Anders takes the proffered cup of water and after nearly draining it in slow sips, asks:

“We’re back at the estate. How…?”

Hawke sighs, and for the first time Anders takes in his rumpled appearance, his flyaway hair and red-rimmed eyes.

“Carried you back, after I healed what I could.” Hawke’s face crumples. “You nearly died on me, Anders,” he says, voice cracking, and it strikes home. In the back of his mind, Justice rumbles, a wash of feeling reiterating the point and making his heart squeeze.

“I’m sorry, love–” Anders starts, but Hawke reaches out, clasping one of Anders’ hands between both of his own.

“You don’t need to apologize, it’s… working with the Mage Underground is getting more dangerous and I’m worried.” Before Anders can form a response, he continues, “I’m not asking you to stop, just… take me next time, too, and we’ll both stock up on potions.”

It’s the best Anders can possibly ask for, and he sags against the headboard with a thankful sigh, grateful he’s not about to lose Hawke’s support because of the close call.

“Sounds like a good plan, love,” he says with a tired smile.

“Excellent. Now, how about a late breakfast? Orana promised it would be ready whenever you’re able to eat it. No, no, stay in bed!” Hawke orders when Anders moves to swing his legs off the mattress. “Come on, you know not to move around so much after a stomach wound like that.” Flushing with embarrassment and not a little petulance, Anders sinks back into the bed.

“So the student healer becomes the teacher,” he grouses, but he can already feel the way exhaustion is pulling at his bones. “Any more words of wisdom from our dear Champion?”

“A kiss a day keeps the healer away?”

Anders laughs, and turns to meet Hawke’s kiss obligingly.

#fic #dragon age #anders/hawke #handers #cartadwarfwithaheartofgold #dragon age drunk writing circle #not beta read

17 notes · View notes

ickle-ronniekins · 4 years

Text

duet | the fire in his veins

DUET MASTERLIST

desc: it’s the final year, and george wants to make things happen. but there are a lot of feelings hanging in the air, aren’t there? he’s stressed to the max, and it’s not helping that you are, too. your schedules don’t match up, umbridge is on his tail, and hormones are raging. he finds himself spreading himself far too thin and eventually things boil over and explode. he worries if you can both recover from it all. but when he holds you in his arms, he wonders if staying angry at one another would even be possible.

a/n: hello! it’s been a bit, sorry, i've been rubbish at writing this chapter. i had no inspiration. but then it struck! so sorry for the angst, except I'm not sorry at all -- it was needed. we’re back to the final year at hogwarts this year, loves, so we’re backtracking a bit, but we hope you enjoy. remember when y/n had visited the burrow the summer before seventh year and everything had seemed so perfect? l o l. enjoy, and please don’t hate me! ps: full masterlist is linked above if ya need a catch up!

word count: 5.3k (sry nt sry)

warning(s): angst and things

The corridors seemed weirdly empty as he strolled slowly through them. But they weren’t empty -- not in the slightest. Excited second and third years were scooting past the very nervous-looking eleven-year-olds on the steps leading up to their newest and greatest adventure. He found himself reminiscing, because how could he not? It was his seventh and final year, after all.

George found himself feeling a mixture of emotions as he entered the Great Hall -- sadness. Fear. Relief. Exhilaration.

But there was one thing he seemed to feel that was stronger than everything else. Stronger than the anxiety he was feeling that it was his final year at his favorite place. Stronger than the happiness he felt at the thought of him finally being able to pursue his dreams. Stronger than the fear he felt of the unknown that awaited him after leaving school.

He found you standing near your table with your usual smile painted on your face, the yellow ribbon tied in your hair, your hand on your hip. You threw your head back in laughter at something a fellow Hufflepuff had said, and he relished the thought of hearing it again. Not that it had been long, really. You’d only left the Burrow a week before the start of term in order to go home, grab any last minute belongings you might’ve left, and were about to take your usual spot next to him and Fred on the train, but much to George’s dismay, you were dragged away by your very dramatic housemates who had pulled you away, prattling on about it being the final year. You’d looked so painfully beautiful when you frowned at him, he couldn’t help but smile a bit. “Sorry”, you’d mouthed at him through the window of his compartment. George had just shrugged and smiled brightly as you were yanked by a very distraught looking girl with curly black hair, and he turned back to Fred who had been feverishly working on their inventions in the boxes placed at their feet. George had loads of work to do before the train arrived at Hogwarts. But he still couldn’t shake that painful twinge of jealousy that had overtaken him. Dramatic, yes. But couldn’t he just blame it on the love he felt instead?

When you looked up from your conversation and met his gaze, you dropped your arm and your eyes immediately softened. He felt the all too familiar butterflies begin to dance in his stomach -- the feeling he got whenever your lingering gaze had locked with his across large rooms. Yeah, he could absolutely blame it on love. Because that’s what this was, right? That’s all he seemed to feel for you. Love. Nothing but pure, genuine, head-over-heels, massive feelings of love. He noticed that grin he knew all too well spread itself across your face, and you began scooting your way through students to get to him. “Erm -- ‘scuse me -- sorry, love, trying to get to someone --” George’s heart had nearly constricted when you’d said the word love. He wanted you to call him that. He felt his cheeks flush cherry red at the thought, and thanked Merlin that neither you, nor Fred, nor anyone else could hear his embarrassing inner monologue.

“Okay, okay, so what did I miss on the train?” you asked, finally getting to him as you pushed your way past a group of Ravenclaws. “A hug, for one!”

You locked your arms around his shoulders, and he noticed you were standing on the tips of your toes in order to be able to hug him. It was so adorable, he could scream, but he reckoned that wouldn’t be the best thing to do in a room of crowded students. He slung his arms around your waist and breathed in the scent of your hair.

“Nothing too exciting,” he lied. He did not like the fact that Fred had sworn him to secrecy about their products and the fact that they’d be opening up a shop after graduating school -- or, perhaps, even sooner. You can’t say a word to anyone, Georgie! He’d shot Fred a quizzical look, with an eyebrow raised, and Fred had pointed a finger at him threateningly. No, not even Y/N. Not until the products are finished and we start testing them out on the first years. George had scoffed dramatically while Fred had fallen into a fit of laughter at his own joke. So keeping his word he’d made to his twin, George swallowed down all the words he wanted to say, and instead just said, “We missed you, though.”

“I’ve missed you too! Merlin, all the girls did the entire train ride is complain about it being the final year. They’re so silly! I will admit, I was sad at the end of last term,” you threw your hands up in surrender as George cocked his head to the side and smiled at you. He knew how much you’d cried thinking on it being the last and final year, “but I reckon we’ve got to make the most of it, haven’t we? Which is why --” you teasingly poked him in the ribs and echoed yourself from the conversation you’d held with Fred at the end of last term, “-- we’ve got to spend as much time together as we can!”

George felt his throat tighten a bit. Could he? Could he really spend as much time as possible with you while also focusing on the inventions, on the shop, all while keeping up his studies and staying out of trouble, and more importantly, detention? Bloody hell, he’d make himself do it, wouldn’t he?

Before he could answer, a very pompous ‘hem-hem’ came from a plump woman dressed obnoxiously in all pink as she scurried her way through students and over to the main table at the front of the hall. You and George both exchanged a look of disgust, and suddenly he didn’t feel so confident about this year anymore.

“Why,” you breathed, raising an eyebrow, “does she look like an advertisement for one of those medicines you take when you’re feeling ill?”

George could not help the very haughty laugh that involuntarily escaped his lips. A few students peered over at you both, and the sheer fact alone that you’d made him laugh just a few minutes in seemed to lighten his spirits tremendously.

The crowd of students in the middle of the Great Hall seemed to part like the red sea at the arrival of this woman. She shot incredibly fake grins at a few of the older students, who did not return her welcome, and she carried herself with such an air of arrogance that George swore he saw Dumbledore roll his eyes from next to McGonagall.

“Who is she?” you asked, crossing your arms in front of your chest and jutting out your hip. Both of you did not take your eyes off of the pink lady, and watched as she took her place at the Headmasters table. Oh, no.

And the laugh that had escaped George just a few seconds ago felt as though it was lightyears away. He shook his head and groaned audibly, thinking that there couldn’t possibly be another professor as awful as Professor Snape. Little did he know, she’d be even worse. “Think she’s our new worst nightmare.”

-- -

You were positively peeved, for lack of a better word. You were seventeen -- you were allowed to be dramatic, weren’t you? You flopped back onto your bed in a huff and placed a pillow over your face to muffle your scream -- and you screamed. Why was George being such a bloody idiot? Hadn’t you told him, multiple times, how much time you wanted to spend together this year? Your unwavering love for him aside, he was your best mate, and for Merlin’s sake, it was your final year at school! You’d both be off in a few months time, doing adult things and seeing one another significantly less, and this stupid boy could not comprehend what “hanging out” seemed to mean. Ugh.

“Heading down for lunch,” your dormmate said to you, “care to join?”

Begrudgingly you agreed, but only because you couldn’t stand the hunger that overtook you. You would’ve stayed there and yelled the entire afternoon if you could.

You felt a pang in your heart at the sight of him, surrounded by his siblings and his friends at the Gryffindor table. It was moments like these, moments of pure jealousy, that made you want to be a Gryffindor. You resented that very much. You loved being a Hufflepuff, but still. The idea of being able to see him in the early hours of the morning in the same common room, groggy from sleep with his (undoubtedly) adorable bedhead intrigued you to no end. You’d be able to see him more often than not, and you knew, with how the two of you got on, that you’d stay up until the late hours of the evening, sharing silly stories and joking until the sun rose.

But no. Instead, he was joking around with them, and you’d been yelling into the void in your dormitory.

You noticed that he and Fred were busy fiddling with something in their hands, as their fellow Gryffindors looked on in pure admiration. You rolled your eyes and made your way to the Hufflepuff table.

You sat down, willed yourself to not look and began to scoop considerable amounts of food onto your plate. You weren’t sure if it was the hunger that was overwhelming, or the jealousy. The anger. Regardless, you bit into your sandwich rather aggressively.

You let yourself be weak, just once, and turned to peer over at him again, hoping he’d meet your gaze, just like he always did. But this time, he didn’t. He was busy chatting animatedly with a few other seventh years -- you recognized a few of them from the Quidditch team, but most of them you didn’t know. The jealousy inside you spread through your bones like a rapid fire. You gulped down the rest of your pumpkin juice in a rage, swung your bag across your shoulder, and sauntered out of the Great Hall without making any eye-contact. It’s not like he’s looking anyway, you thought dramatically.

Little did you know, George watched you storm out of the Great Hall, and his heart and mind followed you all the way to your Transfiguration lesson, aching terribly along the way.

You hoped you wouldn’t run into him on your walk from Transfiguration to Potions, but luck didn’t seem to be on your side today.

“Hey!” he called out to you. A bright grin was painted across his face. He seemed far too happy for someone who’d just come from a lesson with Umbridge. You ignored his calls and made your way swiftly toward the dungeons, but he was quicker. He was panting when he finally caught up to you. Familiar hands grabbed your shoulders and you sucked in a breath. You turned to face him and scowled. He peered at you questioningly. “You alright? Why so glum?”

“Why d’you think?” you asked coolly. You pointed flatly toward the staircase. “Heading to Snape’s lesson.”

George furrowed his brows at you, seemingly taken aback by the irritated tone to your voice. You tried to soften, but you were still pretty angry. “Is everything alright? Haven’t seen much of you..”

“Well whose fault is that?” you snapped. You didn’t mean too, but the resentment was bubbling up inside you like that of a volcano -- you couldn’t help if you exploded. For years, you’d always felt tiny next to him, especially because his 6’3 frame could easily swallow you whole. But now, as he looked down at you with concern and guilt whilst you seemingly boiled over, you felt bigger and better. “I’ve tried spending time with you, George, but all you seem to want to do is be with other Gryffindors. I’ve tried to make plans, tried to sit with you at lunch, but Umbridge doesn’t let us..” your voice trailed off and you huffed a bit, “that’s besides the point. It doesn’t help that we’re both on completely different schedules and the DA meetings are the only time I get to see you, and even that is barely anything because we’re so bloody busy trying to learn!” Most of his lessons were different than yours, since you were now en route to becoming a Healer. “I told you at the beginning of term that I wanted to try and spend as much time as we possibly could together, but apparently to you, that just means insignificant chats in the corridors between lessons and smiles across classrooms and not much more than that.”

You were actually pretty impressed with yourself that you’d been able to say that all in one breath; you breathed in deeply and looked up at him, a very childlike pout on your face, and watched as he uncomfortably adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder and shifted his eyes toward the floor. You knew you’d hit home. Guilt. That was always his look for guilt.

“I’ve been a right awful friend. I know.”

And just like that, all feelings of aggravation seemed to subside and your temper seemingly calmed down a bit, just by the sheer fact that his voice sounded so small. So innocent. So pained.

You shook your head and scoffed at yourself. A few passerby stared at the two of you. “Look. I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have blown up at you. That was wrong of me. Think I’m just dreading this Potions lesson.” You let out a sigh and the two of you laughed softly at one another. “I just -- I just miss you, is all.”

“You don’t have to apologize -- you’re right. I miss you, too. We haven’t spent nearly as much time together as I would have liked. I’m the one who’s sorry. The fault is completely my own.” You hated how adult he sounded, but you couldn’t help but grin at him -- not when you were nearly swimming in the innocence of his chocolate brown eyes. In a quieter voice, he continued, “I’ll explain it all tonight. You free?”

“Erm --” you looked around you to make sure nobody was listening. You gave him an answer that sounded more like a question. “Yes?”

“Meet me near the Architect of Hogwarts statue after the feast.. I’ll sneak you up to my common room. I’ve got something to tell you. To show you.”

Your heart soared at the thought. Maybe luck was on your side. You tried to push all hopes and wishes of him confessing his love to you aside. It was probably something else. And yet, you couldn’t help the very bright smile you gave him. To think, just seconds ago, you’d been so angry. It was difficult to stay mad at George Weasley.

“Yeah?” you asked, trying to hide the eagerness in your voice.

He placed a kiss onto your cheek when the bell signaled the start of the next lesson in exactly two minutes. Merlin, you needed to get down to the dungeons, but how could you now that your feet were cemented into the ground? Your breath hitched at the feeling of his lips softly grazing your skin. The upturned corners of his mouth made the butterflies in your stomach swirl. To think that Gilderoy Lockhart had won Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile Award, when George’s was far more charming, more intriguing. So much easier to melt in. “See you later?”

“Yeah,” you replied breathlessly. He then squeezed your shoulder and headed off in the opposite direction toward his next lesson. Maybe you could tell him, perhaps, if the theatrics of the night were exciting enough. You relished the thought of sneaking him up to your dormitory and cuddling up next to him in your bed, instead of another night yelling straight into your pillow, crying over the boy you loved so very deeply.

He turned around at the other end of the corridor and winked at you before vanishing completely down the next hallway.

Somehow, the prospect of spending the next hour and a half in Potions didn’t seem so awful after all.

-- -

The Quidditch grounds were really cold. So much so that you were certain you couldn’t feel your fingers. You pulled your hat tighter over your head and breathed into your hands. And yet, you were there, because you needed to be, didn’t you? You needed to be a supportive Hufflepuff for Gryffindor in this match versus Slytherin. For Fred. For Harry. For George.

It had been a few weeks since George had told you all about the inventions he and Fred had been working on, and how they were going to open up a shop after graduating. It was thrilling, the entire idea of it, and you noticed a change in him when he’d animatedly told you everything there was to know that night in the bustling Gryffindor common room. His eyes were wide with electrification. The fire in his veins set him aflame.

“This is wicked! Which one is your favorite?”

“Love potions, I think.”

“You guys are bloody brilliant! I’m so proud of you!”

That sheepish, childlike grin crept onto his face as a feeling of warmth flooded him at your compliment. “Thanks, Y/N.”

And it really was brilliant -- it was unfair, you thought, that people only saw George and Fred as pranksters. As the two blokes who always make people laugh. As the ones who always end up in detention. They were so much more than that, weren’t they? They were so incredibly brilliant -- not to mention the type of magic they needed to understand and manage to do in order to create some of these inventions was beyond some of your other fellow seventh years. It was incredibly advanced, especially for two seventeen-year-olds. Why didn’t more people understand this?

You were so proud. How could you not be? You relished the thought of one day being able to visit them and their booming business. It was such an exciting endeavor that you simply felt nothing more than pure adoration toward them both.

And here, now, watching them impress you yet again with their incredible Quidditch skills, you wanted to yell. Look! Look at them both! Look at Fred and his fantastic flying skills as he zooms between other players, leaving dust in their wake! Look at George and how he’s able to pummel a bludger across the length of a field and barely break a sweat whilst doing it!

You grinned at the thought; they really were both more than just the surface of their personalities. They were so much more than just twin brothers. You wished people would notice their differences the way you did.

Things had still been tense, though. You now understood why George had been so occupied and not able to spend as much time with you as you’d both wanted. You kept on apologizing -- you felt so bloody awful about snapping at him that one day in the corridor -- and he kept placing his hand to your knee and telling you to not think on it anymore.

But he’d made an effort, and so did you. Lunches near the Black Lake even in the cooler autumn air, late night strolls throughout the castle, choosing seats closer to one another in lessons to share those smiles you secretly thought about nearly every moment of every day. You loved them far much more than you’d let on.

You were pulled from your thoughts when Ginny gently elbowed you in the ribs. You felt your face flush and thanked Merlin that she couldn’t hear your thoughts. When you turned to look at her, though, her face was flooded with worry. You followed her gaze and noticed a very angry Harry, Fred, and George making a beeline right toward Draco. They looked so incredibly different. So angry. So animalistic.

Before you could register what was happening, Ginny grabbed your arm and tugged you down toward the field.

-- -

George found himself yelling swears he knew his mother would most certainly not approve of, and if she’d heard him, he’d be on the receiving end of a very angry Howler at any moment.

He couldn’t help himself though. A new, dangerous type of fury took him over. How dare someone as misguided as Draco Malfoy insult his family? He’d taken the insults before. He’d heard them and let them roll off his back. He’d ignored the snickers. He’d ignored the gentle pokes and prods people had tried to make to piss him off. He hadn’t wanted to be a bad influence on Ron and Ginny, especially when they were younger and first starting out. He’d warned Fred not to let it bother him, either. But now, with his stress levels through the roof about his studies, and the shop, the inventions, his over-the-top emotions when it came to you -- he felt like he was about to explode. And unlucky for him, Malfoy was in his line of fire.

He felt his blood boiling. He didn’t know where Fred was and quite honestly he didn’t care -- he grabbed Malfoy by the collar of his shirt and lifted him right off of the ground. “How dare you?” he yelled -- his voice sounded foreign and ferocious in his own ears as it echoed across the pitch. Next to him, Harry was red faced and vibrating with rage. For the first time in his entire life, George felt nothing but pure, genuine hatred toward this despicable excuse of a human. The very terrifying and unnatural feeling of wanting to inflict pain and hurt coursed through his body. He wanted to punch Malfoy straight in the jaw, he wanted to kick him in the ribs enough times to break them, he wanted to watch the blood trickle from his mouth.

He felt nothing but loathing.

It was before George could fully register his own actions that you were there -- in front of him -- your eyes flooded with concern and worry as you ripped his hands off of Malfoy’s chest.

“George, calm down,” you said. Next to him, Ginny and Hermione were attempting to tame Harry, as Ron watched, wide eyed and scared. Fred was just barely being held back by Katie, Alicia and Angelina, the veins in his arms were pulsating with rage. You grabbed the collar of George’s uniform and he seemed to come out of his trance. “It’s alright -- you’ve got to stop, this isn’t you --”

He felt as if his angered self had stepped completely out of his physical body when you brought your hands to his cheeks. Your eyes were bloodshot and he felt a pang in his heart to know that you might’ve been crying at this whole exchange. He immediately began scolding himself, especially when he felt a firm yank on his sleeve.

He was dragged immediately toward the castle, with Harry on the other side of him, leaving you standing shrunken on the field amongst a shocked group of students. He turned around once and locked in eye contact. There was a look of disappointment in your eyes and he felt his heart sink quite quickly into his stomach.

Your eyes were the last thing he could focus on before preparing himself for a severe punishment that no doubt awaited him and his ridiculous actions.

-- -

You were sitting on Ginny’s bed, twiddling your thumbs and tapping your feet melodically against the hardwood floor beneath you, waiting for her to return with any sort of news.

It had been a strange, terrifying ordeal, watching the boys nearly throw themselves at Draco like that. They’d looked like they were about to commit some type of murder. You felt your heart begin to pound at the sheer thought of it all. The animalistic look in his eye, the subhuman way he’d grabbed Malfoy by the collar of his uniform, like he wasn’t really here. He wasn’t really present. It made your skin tingle in the worst of ways.

Just then, Ginny popped her head in. “They’re here.”

By the time you got downstairs to the very desolate looking Gryffindor common room, Fred had already huffed his way up to the boys dormitory. George, though, was slumped in an armchair, rubbing his temples generously and ripping away parts of his uniform. He was incredibly disheveled looking.

“Georgie?”

You wanted to yell at him. You wanted to scream at him so bloody terribly. How could you have been so stupid! You could’ve been expelled, you silly boy! You could’ve been hurt! But when he looked up, his eyes distant and exhausted and painted, all you saw flooding through his expression was pure guilt. He’d probably gotten enough tongue lashings for one evening. You sighed and slid yourself next to him on the couch.

He let his head fall into his hands. “I’m a bloody idiot. I know.”

“Not what I was going to say.”

“No?”

You sighed again and placed your hand gently to his knee. You could’ve sworn he’d sucked in a breath at the exact moment of contact, but you ignored it. “What.. what happened out there?”

“Draco and his bloody comments,” George snapped angrily. You jumped a bit at the harshness in his voice and he immediately retreated, placing his hand gently on top of yours and apologizing. He took in a deep breath. “Just -- couldn’t handle it anymore. ‘m sorry if I scared you.”

“You really did, you know.”

He fell backwards onto the couch and shut his eyes tight.

You continued when he didn’t, “I’m just glad you’re alright.”

“Wouldn’t it have been better if I’d come out of it with a black eye, or something?”

You both laughed a bit and you traced your fingers across his cheekbones slowly. He swallowed thickly. “No. It wouldn’t have been better. Don’t like seeing you hurt.”

“I know.”

You were both silent.

“Got banned from Quidditch.”

You shot up straighter, shocked. “What?”

“Remember when I said the first night that Umbridge was going to be our worst nightmare?” he sighed, shaking his head. “Never knew I was going to be so bloody right.”

“George, I’m -- I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s my own fault.”

You both sat uncomfortably in the very thick silence that hung in the air between you. George sat up and straightened himself out. He ran his hands very quickly through his messy hair and took a few deep breaths as if he was still trying to calm himself down from the events that had just transpired. You reckoned he should be more upset about being banned from Quidditch. It was his favorite thing. Why was he not bursting at the seams with anger? Deep in your soul, you knew this was different. This wasn’t about Quidditch, or the fight with Draco, or the tenseness of it being your last and final year. This was more.

“George,” you breathed, preparing yourself for whatever was to come, “just tell me.”

It felt strange when he took your hands in his. You weren’t a couple. Not even close, no matter how many nights you dreamt of it, no matter how much of your days were spent imagining it, no matter how much you tried to will it into existence -- he wasn’t yours and you weren’t his. So this, him holding your hands and peering at you on the couch in the desolate common room, felt fraudulent. Selfishly, though, you wanted it to last forever.

“You know,” he started, and his voice sounded hoarse, “the plans that Fred and I have.”

“Of course I do.”

“About the inventions. And the shop.”

“Yes, yes, I know all of this.”

You tried not to let your anxious mind meander whilst he took his sweet time telling you what he needed too.

“We’ve been talking a lot lately. Fred and I. Which I suppose is why I’ve been so bloody stressed and just… lashed out at Quidditch today. We’ve had a change of plans.”

You narrowed your eyes at him and swallowed over that all too familiar lump in your throat that appeared each time you got nervous. Your hands felt like ice. “What kind of change?”

He squeezed your hands. He took a deep breath. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. “We’re leaving sooner than we thought. End of April. Right after the Easter holidays.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing -- not really, anyway. Which is why you felt so embarrassed when his facial expression didn’t change as you laughed. You shook your head and smiled at him, because this had to be a joke, right? You’d been talking with him about graduation since the day you met one another. He wasn’t really planning on giving that all up?

“You’re.. you’re serious?”

He just nodded and bit his lip nervously.

“Um..” you hated the fact that you were brought to tears so quickly. If you hadn’t been so emotional you would’ve been able to notice just how wobbly your voice sounded and you would’ve been able to scold yourself. “I’m.. so happy for you guys.”

George reached out to try and pull you into an embrace. “Y/N--”

“No, really, I am,” you bit down hard on your lip to try and push back any tears rising to the surface of your eyes. You didn’t want him to see you cry. You couldn’t. But you could only do so much before the tears were escaping you without any effort, and you were letting George pull you into his chest as he traced gentle circles into your back.

Through a few choked sobs, you tried to tell him how you felt, truthfully -- that you’d never been more proud of him than in this moment, that this endeavor was just the beginning for them, that you would support him and Fred with every ounce of your entire being, that you were so thrilled to watch as their business would no doubt boom and their inventions would take the Wizarding World by storm. That he doesn’t know how bloody brilliant he is. That he doesn’t know just how much you love him and believe in him. But you couldn’t seem to find the right words. You couldn’t seem to speak coherently. All that seemed to trickle from you were tears. Somehow, though, you had a strong feeling that he already knew all of those things. “I’m really going to miss you,” you cried.

You felt him tense up in your arms and you just held him tighter. You rolled your eyes at your own dramatic self. He sniffled a bit when he breathed, “I’m really going to miss you, too.” But when his voice sounded just as wobbly as yours, you reckoned it was okay to cry if he was going to cry, too.

The two of you stayed there like that for a while. Gryffindors seemed to flood in and out, not questioning the tiny Hufflepuff girl in the middle of their common room. And for the rest of the evening, as the two of you had both calmed down a bit, you reminisced. You both shared stories about your first thoughts on Hogwarts when you’d arrived as a first year. You both talked about the last seven years. You both told one another what had been your favorite parts of your years at school, and what you’d disliked about the castle and curriculum. What you wouldn’t miss at all. What you’d miss the most.

One another.

That night, when you went to bed, it was restless. Disturbed. Nothing, if not very, very awful. But when you did finally catch some sleep, you dreamt very vividly of the thirteen-year-old boy who caught your attention in Charms class with that silly paper swan, and how you’d continued to fall in love with him every single day since that chance encounter.

tag list: @georgeweasleyx @seppys-return-to-madness @fopdoodledane @fredd-weasley @iprobablyshipit91 @darling-details @laneygthememequeen @lupinsx @keoghans @helloallthethingsilove @waschbiber @dreamer821 @feffffffy @the-hufflepuff-of-221b @62442-am @wtfweasleyy @obsessedwithrandomthings @sleep-i-ness @shadowsinger11 @harrysweasleys @shadychaoticcollection @haphazardhufflepuff @afriendlyneighborhoodhufflepuff @hood-and-horan @geeksareunique @insearchofnewdreams @notstandingstill-imlyinginwait @lumos-barnes @thatfuckingliardavidtennant @slytherinqween @xinyourdreamsx @skiving-snackboxess @wildfire-whizbangs @dwarfwizard-from-panem @diary-of-an-onliner @answer-the-sirens @woakiees @black-widow-fangirl @theheirofnightandday @summerstardust @whysoseriouspadfoot @chocok22 @myhopesareanchoredinyou @siriusblackisme @illusivedaydreamer @zeeneee @writingwitchly @wolfpotter12 @obsessedwithrandomthings @carolinesbookworld @shadowsinger11 @pit-and-the-pen @summer-writes @peachesandpinks @gweaslvy @alpinewinchester @letsfightsomeorcs @theweasleysredhair @purpleskiesstorm @hxfflxpxffs @wand3ringr0s3 @finecole @angelinathebook @highly-acidic @90shermione @zreads @susceptible-but-siriusexual @parker-potters

#george weasley #fred weasley #fred and george weasley #weasley twins #george weasley x reader #george weasley reader insert #george weasley imagine #george weasley fanfic #george weasley fanfiction #weasley twins imagine #weasley twins fanfic #weasley twins fanfiction #hp fanfic #hp fanfiction #hp imagine #this takes place in appleton wisconsin shoutout 2 ma discord gurls

126 notes · View notes

aka-indulgence · 4 years

Text

Your Nightmare

Commission for the amazing @someseriousthot!

Thank you for commissioning me >u<

Ao3 Link!

Warning: Kidnapping, and some *close call* stuff... Think “Lime”. (More specific warnings tagged in ao3 because I don’t want the platform to get mad at me -v-)

(Nightmare Sans/Reader)

You’re an ordinary human. A decent person, if anything. Kind, and gentle.

He should’ve hated everything about you.

But... he doesn’t. The fact couldn’t be further away from that.

He’s obsessed with you, and he lets you know through the countless nightmares he feeds you every night he visits.

And soon... You’re going to become his.

It was dark.

Darker than the night, darker than black.

It was void where you stood. You can’t move. You don’t know where you are- but it feels like you’ve been stuck here forever. You try to move your legs, your hands- tried to look around, call for help, anything- but you couldn’t so much as to wiggle your fingers. All your efforts only seemed to succeed in making you tremble. You try to breathe, but it felt like a ton had been weighed on your chest, struggling to get air in you. The fear seeped through you as you realized…

You were paralyzed.

You stand there, struggling until you see something- someone forming in the distance.

There… Appears a figure that had been haunting you, one that fills you with dread every time they revealed themselves. If you weren’t already paralyzed where you were, you would’ve felt like you’ve frozen when you saw… him.

A skeletal figure materialized before you, his whole body black- somehow darker than the void you were in. Black like the emptiness of space and worse, save for one blue light illuminating his left socket. Tentacles were writhing behind him as he watched you, a wide, eerie smile plastered on his face, devoid of kindness or mercy. His entire body is drenched in with what looks to be black sludge, covering his right eyesocket completely, the ooze dripping off his tentacles as they continued to twist and turn behind him.

Your nightmare begins.

He stares you down, and when he takes a step forward, the instinct to flee immediately takes over you, breaking yourself out of your paralysis. You twist your body away from him, quickly breaking into a sprint. Your breath escapes you too fast, and you feel tired, your chest still feeling as if something’s constricting it.

Every movement you make felt like it needed so much effort, and though it looks like you were running in a vast emptiness, it felt like non-existent walls were closing in on you.

The figure doesn’t even have to do much. When you look behind, you see him walking at a leisurely pace, yet every step he makes brings him closer and closer to you. Your desperate running feels like it’s taking you nowhere. The closer he gets the more excited he looks, that blue eye of his glowing brighter, almost electrically so, while his tentacles start to move rapidly, making increasingly excited movements.

You start to scream.

———————————————————————————————————

Nightmare stands by your bedside, staring down your sleeping form. A single inky black tentacle is imbedded into your head, making soft, wave-like movements as he fed his nightmare into you. Even though he’s out here in the waking realm, he was also inside your nightmare, watching you as you desperately try to escape him, his grin widening both in nightmare and reality as he closes in on you.

It always was exciting the closer he got to you, to have you tangled up in his tentacles.

You toss and turn in your bed, an occasional whimper escaping you. His blue light dilates while his grin sharpens sadistically.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the view.

This is a common scene in Nightmare’s day-to-day. He’s been quietly feeding on the negative emotions of humans and monsters alike, visiting them in their sleep and giving them nightmares to feed on their fear and horror. But for some reason… he’s been especially drawn to you, and Nightmare keeps finding himself standing in your room like he is now, pleasuring in your listless, restless sleep.

By all means, Nightmare should be repulsed by you- your soul glowed the brightest in the area around you. You were happy, pleasant, gentle. Always looking for the best out of life, a smile always seeming to grace your face. You saw the best of people. Everything good Nightmare could list was a part of you.

You were brave, fair, kind, patient. You had a stable and strong moral ground, and you persevered when life gets you down… Determined to go through your life as a decent person.

It was everything that Nightmare hated.

Yet…

Somehow… Those were the exact reasons he found himself so drawn to you. Pull him in to keep coming back again and again to your room, where you were sleeping peacefully in his absence.

And when he entered your dreams and turned it all into a nightmare… He’d revel when that peaceful face of yours turns into that of agony and panic.

Every time he inflicted his nightmares on you… It’s the most thrilling nights he ever has.

When he first found you, he hadn’t directly made an appearance in your nightmares. He was just a shadow- creeping along the edges of your consciousness, letting you feel his presence. Watching every one of your reactions as he twisted your dreams into something horrifying.

But even from the first night, already Nightmare had become curious about you. And as he became more and more interested, the thought of letting you see him… It made him excited like nothing else. To let you meet the entity that terrorized you so, to see your eyes on him, and only him- unable to look away out of sheer terror.

It sent a pleasurable shiver down his spine.

He’d appear to you in the dream, forming out of a puddle of black in the ground, slowly making himself apparent. Sometimes, he wouldn’t appear immediately. Creeping around, letting you get more and more anxious as you traveled the dreamscape, unable to shake off the feeling that you’re being followed. When you notice him, the fun begins- your face contorting to panic once you see him. If Nightmare had a heart, he’d say it was pumping hard while he chased you down through the abstract architecture that formed his nightmares.

Sometimes, he’d give you a head start. Letting you run away for a while after you’d see him. It always brought a smile to his face when he sees the look of terror in your eyes, suddenly seized by his squirming tentacles, having appeared directly behind you.

Whenever he chased you through your dreams, something predatory seemed to awaken in him…

There was a thrill whenever he chased you down- his prey. He’d play around with you, make you think like you could escape him, only to let you know that you couldn’t escape his nightmare. Every time he got closer to you he could feel his smile widen while his tentacles swerved and turned- craving to have you in them. Most dreams he’d let you go- leaving right before he got to you. But sometimes he’d catch you, and he’d take sadistic glee when you find to your horror that you couldn’t wake up from your nightmare.

Being able to turn someone with so much positivity in them, who’s soul shone like a bright light in a sea of others, into such a fearful and anxious little thing gave him a sense of immense power. He felt so much control over you, it was addicting. So satisfying to turn someone’s joy into fear, and yours was particularly delicious to him because of how drastic the change was.

But it wasn’t just that sense of power that’s brought him back to your room night after night… It’s exactly your glowing soul that’s got him hooked onto you.

Nightmare is an entity of darkness- someone who’d get hurt if he was exposed to the light. Even if it didn’t, it was in his nature to be disgusted by it, to have the urge to extinguish it.

But…

Because of the nightmares he inflicts on you, all that powerful positive energy could be turned negative. And so, he could spend time with you without having that urge to snuff out your light. And even when your nightmares ended, your soul turning back from a dim, fearful one into that soft glowing light, like a firefly in the night… Nightmare found himself drawn to it.

He doesn’t understand why. Maybe because he’s gone so long without the light, always filled with the need to get rid of it whenever it’s near, that when he finds something… Someone that didn’t repel him, Nightmare isn’t willing to let go. He’s spent so long without the light, he’d forgotten about why it was such a good thing in the first place.

And he basked in your light.

Nightmare takes a deep inhale, groaning as he feeds. You were screaming in his nightmare, and it’s then that he’s had his fill. He retracts his tentacle, a shlorp audible as it finally pulls out of your head.

After a few more gasps and whimpers of you collecting yourself, you calmed down. You returned to a peaceful slumber, breathing in relief when you realize the nightmare is over.

Because you had so much positive energy that Nightmare could convert into something negative, he’s always able to satisfy himself in one night from feeding on your fears alone. And so Nightmare could spend some time just with you for the rest of the night.

He didn’t need anyone else.

Your soul slowly starts to gleam again, filled with relief and calmness.

Nightmare doesn’t just find it tolerable… He finds the soft glow of your soul beautiful.

Now that his nightmare is over and Nightmare’s had his fill, he should be able to retreat to the darkness and rest himself.

But he just couldn’t tear his eyelight away from your sleeping face. The way the moonlight made it look like your skin glowed… That silky hair.

You look so calm and serene… Oblivious to his presence.

So innocent… So pure.

He wanted to touch your light, keep it to himself.

He gives in to his temptations, and slowly, he peels the blanket off your sleeping body, curled up from the fear that took over you in your nightmare. Now, you’ve considerably relaxed, no longer clutching onto the blanket, your muscles lax. The nightgown you wore draped over your body in such a way that made his breaths quicken, make him want to run his hands up and down you, feel every curve and inch of your skin. Two tentacles move forward, circling around your chest and your legs, gently lifting you off the bed. He slides into it, right where you slept with his back to the headboard, and slowly lowers you on top of him.

He exhales as his tentacles retract, placing your head on his chest while your legs laid between his. So close to you, he could smell your hair, a soft sweet scent.

Vanilla? Or… Caramel?

It was the scent of home. Of morning sun in your hair.

Whatever it is, Nightmare enjoyed it, taking deep breaths of it. He put his skull on top of your head while he smelled more of you, his arms coming around to embrace you. One hand rested on your waist while the other came up to your cheek- hesitating for a moment before he ran his phalanges along the soft skin, sighing as he leans back. His tentacles come closer, instinctively drawn to you, to your warmth. His breaths start to slow as he pulls you closer, pressing you in the slightest to his chest as he buries his face in your hair. His tentacles tenderly wrap around you without his conscious thought.

One winding around your arm up to your wrist, another twisting around your waist, down your left thigh, to your calf. Another climbed up your right leg, and another circles around your chest drawing near your center, above your soul.

He gently cups your cheek as he presses his skull to your crown, reveling in the closeness, the intimacy of your position on him. He could feel your quiet breaths brush against his neck, a pleasured rumble building in his chest.

He always enjoyed whenever he managed to have you to himself in these quiet nights. It was many nights ago that Nightmare had found himself staring down at your sleeping body, having no intentions on leaving so soon. He watched your glowing soul, his eyelight roaming all over you, tempting him to touch you, pulling him into your bed, to entwine himself around you.

Nightmare found himself addicted to yet another part of you- the softness of your body against him, your face so close to his when he holds you.

He was at ease when he held you… And it had a calming effect on you too. You didn’t fight him off when he picks up your sleeping body, nor did you flinch when his tentacles wrap around you. It filled his chest with a feeling of want, like you weren’t afraid of him, that the sensation of his tentacles and sludge against you didn’t disgust you. His breath comes out shakily at the thought. He holds it when he feels you nestling up against him, unafraid, unaware of the sinister entity that was holding you.

He lets his phalanges slide down from your cheek to your neck, stroking it thoughtfully. You make quiet whimpers and mewls as his phalanges traces over your skin, sounds that excited him. Make him want you closer- to cover you up with his inky black gunk and claim you as his.

There were no nightmares. No fear, no anxiety. He’s just… Resting with you, letting himself roam over you, feel you- his leg brushing up against yours. Just a quiet moment that Nightmare could indulge in. He never had quiet moments- something was always going on. Whether it’s causing corruptions in a universe so he could feed, or fighting off those intervening Star-Sanses, Nightmare had always been on the move. And so he savors these quiet moments.

Just him and you. One small human in his embrace as he rests through the night. Something… Someone positive he could indulge in.

During the nights when he’s in your bed like this, his tentacles coiled around you… He gets the most tempted to just take you, to bring you back with him. He’s become obsessed, with this human that wouldn’t seem special to anyone else. A normal human in a mundane universe.

His other hand trails down your stomach down to your leg, slipping under the gown to touch your thigh. Feeling the warmth on his phalanges, his breaths becoming heavier…

He wants to take you back to his domain, his pocket dimension where his castle resides. He’d be able to keep you all to himself, where no one would disturb his time with you… Where he could spend as much time as he wanted with you.

He’s wanted to do that as soon as he realized he’s become obsessed with you. But he grits his teeth, knowing he can’t do that just yet.

The irritable Star-Sanses had driven him away from his territories, managing to have the upper hand recently. They managed to take Killer away from him- one of the most useful members of his group, someone who had no emotion and could kill easily because of it. They somehow got way too close to his “kingdom” for his liking, and it drove him to hide away. With his castle under “surveillance”, the so-called Sanses looking for him to turn up again, he couldn’t return to it lest he gets pulled into another battle with them.

He’d jump from universe to universe, eventually losing their pursuit, when he found your universe. There was nothing outwardly special about yours, which was exactly why it was such a good place for him to hide and lay low for a while. Biding his time, storing his energy… When he meets them again, he’ll give them one hell of a fight.

Soon, however… He’ll be able to take you. Something else is happening in the multiverse, causing corruption and destruction. Another universe-hopping entity running amok. The Star-Sanses had stopped looking for him, their attention pulled away. Soon, Nightmare will be able to return to his realm.

And when he does… He’ll bring you along with him.

He holds you for a bit longer, letting his tentacles smother you, his phalanges stroking your chin. He closes his socket, savoring the moment… When he notices the first few rays of sun reaching the floor of your room. His calm grin turned into a frown, his phalanges curling up around your face.

It was time to leave.

Reluctantly, he pulls back all but two of his tentacles, picking you off of him, gently laying you back down once he’s gotten off your bed. His tentacles linger for a few moments longer before finally unwillingly pull back from you.

Night after night, his urge to have you grows.

Nightmare remains where he was beside your bed, his single eyelight watching your restful face, the morning light bouncing off of your skin.

Even though he always took pleasure in your pretty, fearful face… When your face isn’t distorted by fright, peacefully resting like this, you look beautiful.

He pulls the blanket back onto you, tucking you in. He wanted to make sure you’ll have a comfortable rest.

Because soon, you might not have anymore of those.

He leans in near you, putting his teeth close to your ears, and whispers.

“Sleep well, my dear… Soon, we’ll be able to meet.”

———————————————————————————————————

The sound of scrubbing filled the air as you brush your teeth, spitting the foam into the sink soon after. You cup your hands under the faucet and splash your face with water, feeling the droplets trickle down your chin. You wash your face and spray more water, looking at the mirror as the suds clear away from your face.

… You look horrible.

You hadn’t had a restful night in a long while. You couldn’t- you’ve been having nightmares lately, and they only seem to get worse. They all had one thing in common- a dark skeletal figure, oozing with darkness, with twisting and thrashing tentacles that looked like they were always searching for you.

It was always the same. As soon as you notice, you were running. You’d run as much as you could, hid the best to your abilities, desperate to get away from him (you always assumed they were a he…). But he was relentless. Every bit of running you did never seemed to deter him, and there was always a way for him to stay on your heels while his tentacles reach for you. Sometimes you’d wake up right before he got to you, or when you manage to fall into a pit.

Then there are times when his tentacles would find you…

Thinking about it just gives you shivers. It’s as if you could feel the ooze on your skin as they squirmed all over you- grabbing you by your leg when you were hiding somewhere, screaming as you were lifted into the air, face to face with your captor. The figure had a sadistic smile present whenever he heard you screaming, struggling to free yourself of his bonds. His laughing only got louder and more manic as more of his tentacles grabbed you- and you couldn’t stop screaming. You’d think that you’d be able to wake up once he’s caught you, but there are times where you’d stay in that position for so long. Where all you do is try to break out of his hold, only to have more of those dripping black tentacles cover over of you.

… It was always the worst when he caught you.

Sometimes he’d speak to you. His voice was deep, something dark lying underneath it. Like the devil trying to coax you into giving him your soul. He’d taunt you as you were running, telling you to

“Run away, little girl. Run away from your monster.”

It sounds as if he spoke to you both from where he was and inside your mind. It reminded you how no matter what you did… He was always behind you.

He spoke to you while he caught you as well, his voice dripping with false sympathy, saying how “What a poor thing you are, trapped and hopeless…” while you struggled to keep his tentacles away from you.

You started to dread going to sleep. It used to come by every week or so, then it became twice a week, then every other day, and eventually every night… You would be visited by a nightmare. When night falls you’d get anxious, and you wonder… Why was it always the same entity that appeared in your dreams? They were the most vivid dreams you’ve ever had, feeling every inch of his slimy, horrid tendrils when you became entangled in them.

You’ve told your friends about the recurring nightmares and even went to a psychologist once. You told them about the skeletal figure that chased you relentlessly throughout your nights, making your mornings feel tired and restless. You don’t know where he came from- you’ve had uncomfortable dreams before he suddenly appeared, and he kept returning ever since. It always felt so real, and you were terrified of him.

But most of them have told you the same- it was just a dream. “He’s not real,” They’d say. “He can’t hurt you,” They’d say. It may be a form of something bad in your life turning into something awful in your mind when you slept. He can’t get to you.

You laughed it off then- feeling like a child. It was just in your dreams, in your head. Probably some kind of manifestation of your subconscious. You might be having terrible night terrors, but he isn’t real and he can’t catch you when you’re awake and conscious.

… But… Sometimes, late at night when you’re in between sleep and consciousness… When you peek out of your eyelids, you swear you could see a shadowy figure in the corner of your room, watching you unblinkingly with that glowing blue orb as you fall asleep. And every time you managed to jolt your self awake, searching for him- he wasn’t there.

You don’t know what to believe- sometimes you fear that you might be going insane.

But as much as you dreaded those nightmares, you knew you needed sleep.

You’ve tried avoiding it once. Try to keep yourself awake, sitting in your bed, only to end up falling asleep anyways. You had the nightmare again- but it felt worse. Even in the dream, you felt lethargic and weak, and your anxiety felt ten times worse. The skeletal figure had again appeared and had easily caught you, pulling you close to him and laughing at you when you can’t even struggle against him, wishing for your nightmare to end.

You couldn’t avoid it, so you didn’t try to anymore. It was just something you had to go through your nights now.

You slip into your nightwear, walking towards your bedroom. You do your best to ignore the uneasiness creeping up on you as you enter, locking the door. You turn off the lights and slip into bed, thinking of good thoughts to calm yourself down, preparing yourself to sleep.

As you slowly slip silently into unconsciousness, your mind is suddenly alert when you see him. A dark corner of your room, grin flashing on his face.

You’re lying on your side, an arm dangling off the bed when you saw him. The dread you felt earlier comes back with a vengeance as you try to scream, but your lips barely move. You try to get away, to hide, but your utmost efforts only bring a twitch to your finger.

You’re in sleep paralysis.

The realization hits you like a truck, and through your unmoving eyes, you see him start to come closer. Your heart hammers in your chest, your mind screaming for you to move but your body doesn’t obey. You feel your breath quicken as you’re forced to watch his approach. Eventually, you manage to get your dangling arm moving, throwing it on top of the blanket. You grab it and with what little control you have, pull it up over you, hiding you.

You try to control your breathing as you peek out of the blanket.

He isn’t moving anymore, and when you look twice- you notice he hadn’t even moved from the spot in his corner. Your eyesight wavers and the figure just turns into static shadow in the corner of your room. Your heart continues to thump in your chest as you stare out, fearing if he was going to return, but you don’t see any movement. Eventually, you tell yourself that this is enough, giving in to your exhaustion, and your eyes close.

…

You’re… Somewhere else.

You were still on a dark landscape, but standing in front of you was a black castle. Darker than the rest of where you were, reminding you of him.

But as you turn around, looking in all directions, searching… He was nowhere to be seen. And something you noticed very quickly was the fact you could move at all.

Having nothing else to do, you walk through the entrance, grand, reminding you of royalty. As you moved through the black hallways, running your hand along the walls, feeling its smoothness, you wonder.

Why are you here?

It didn’t feel like your usual nightmare. It felt more like a surreal, weird dream. You could think much more clearly, and you didn’t feel fear building inside of you. But even so, something about the castle made you uncomfortable. Like something’s not right.

… Like you’re being watched.

You spend what feels like hours just exploring and turning around the winding hallways, climbing up and down ebony stairs, when you finally reach an opening in what seems to be the heart of the castle. Its entrance is grand as well. Not as big as the one you used to enter the castle, but it felt more… regal.

When you enter, you see two chairs pressed to the wall.

This is probably the throne room.

One of the thrones is huge- tall and imposing, fit for a ruler. Somewhere where they would be able to look over the room and address anyone in it. Next to it is a smaller throne.

Even though it was smaller and black like everything else, it was adorned with decorations. Some patterns swirled and winded along its back and top.

You couldn’t stop staring at the smaller throne. It felt… Right, for once. It set your chest at ease. You wanted to keep looking at it, feeling an inexplicable draw to it, like you were being pulled towards it. A voice inside your mind tells you

Sit. Sit on it. You want to sit on it, it looks so pretty and nice. You want to sit on it.

Without making conscious effort, your body obeys, your feet bringing you closer to it step by step. It felt like it belonged to you… It felt like you belonged there. Like that’s where you’re supposed to be. It brought you a sense of rightfulness and a sort of strange joy in you.

A smile tugs at your lips as you approach.

You want to sit on that throne.

But as you draw nearer… You stop yourself, your smile falling. Where are all these feelings coming from? It is a beautiful chair, especially now as you stand closer you could see more of the intricacies on the patterns that adorned the throne- but you don’t understand why you felt so drawn to it.

You stand in front of the throne, thinking- only to start screaming a moment later when abruptly, tendrils shoot out of the throne, grabbing you by your limbs. You get tossed and turned, and you lose your “breath” when you’re yanked into it, your back hitting the throne with such a force that you cry out. You shriek as the black tentacles coil tighter around you, fighting to get out of the seat. To your horror, you realize the familiarity of the black appendages holding you down, reminding you of something… Someone else. Your efforts in struggling doubles, shutting your eyes as you pulled against the tight grasps, managing to stand up a bit- screaming again when a pair of bony hands clamp down on your wrists, jerking you back.

You immediately open your eyes. The castle’s gone, and you’re back in that void you’ve become so familiar with- with the same entity that had been haunting your nights. He holds you to him, his head next to yours, watching you with one electric blue orb. His grin is sharp and wide, so close to your face as you cry- he’s tightened his grip on you, and it’s starting to hurt.

“You can’t run from me anymore, (Y/n).” His voice spreads throughout the void and booms in your head, full of mania. “You can’t run away from your Nightmare.”

“No! No- let me go, please!” You shout and sob, but no one else hears you. He only laughs in your face and you start to drown in his black sludge as it fills the void. It rises with an alarming rate, coming from your legs up to your chest and neck, finally reaching your face. It covers you and spills into your mouth, and you start to choke-

…

You gasp as you shoot straight into sitting position, throwing your blanket off the bed. You pant and gasp for air, your eyes wide with fright as you look around the room frantically. You could feel beads of sweat rolling down your temples, the damp cloth sticking to your back.

… That’s new.

Your frantic breathing eventually turns quiet, and you take a deep breath, swallowing thick saliva.

Another nightmare.

But this one felt… Different. It was always somewhere dark where the nightmarish entity chased after you, and it certainly wasn’t the first time he’s caught you- but you’ve never seen that castle before. It sounds silly considering it was a dream, but usually, you were running on that vast plain of darkness that threatened to swallow you whole, or someplace with abstract shapes where he’d play “Hide and Seek” with you. You’ve never been somewhere with clear-cut features.

And you’ve never had a moment of calm before your nightmare. It always started quickly- as soon as you were there, the figure would make himself apparent to you, and his hunt would begin.

This… This was something new.

Tick… Tick… Tick…

But still, it was another nightmare.

You look to your side, to the clock hanging on the wall of the room. 3 AM. You could still go back to sleep. You felt groggy, sluggish, tired- and afraid. So, so afraid. But now that you’re awake, knowing it was just another nightmare, you feel your nerves settling, feeling the cool air on your skin.

You spend some time just gathering yourself. You breathe long and deep, pressing your palms to your face, giving yourself a moment.

It’s ok. It’s just a nightmare. You’re ok, (Y/n).

You gave out a loud exhale, emptying your chest of air before breathing again, staring at your room. It’s quiet, the air only filled with the sound of your ticking clock. Your eyes wander to your window, hanging ajar. The curtains flew gently in the wind, and as you look longer at it you think the moon must be full because it lit up your floor a soft blue. You enjoy that your room wasn’t pitch black- something that’d remind you of the void in your mind. You smile, yawning, filling your lungs with cool, soothing air, feeling drowsiness creep back into you. You blink your eyes tiredly, deciding to go back to sleep.

… But then… You see something moving in the shadows.

Your eyes move from your window to the floor, where the shadow of your curtains moved along the wind.

… There’s something else that peeked out of the corners of your room, slowly swaying.

A shadow of one lone tendril, waving in the air. Your breath gets stuck in your throat, and your eyes widen. Your mouth turns dry as your eyes trail up to the tentacle casting the twisting and writhing shadow on the floor, glistening under the moonlight.

You follow along the tentacle, and you see more, moving in similar patterns, curling and uncurling as if they were restless.

Time seemed to stop when you see a grin in the shadow, one blue orb glowing above it, slightly lidded.

… No.

His eyesocket widens and the orb glows brighter when you make eye contact. He takes a step out of the shadows, and you see him- A skeleton with a jacket and shorts, glistening and drenched in what looks like black sludge, taking slow step after slow step closer to you.

… No no no!

This can’t be happening! You’re still dreaming, it’s not real!

“Oh, but my dear…” He speaks, his grin turning malicious, apparent that he’s enjoying the look of terror that must be on your face. “This isn’t a dream…”

“I am your Nightmare.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, clamming up once you’ve heard him speak. But as he gets closer and closer, whatever spell you were in breaks and you quickly turn your body away, jumping off your bed and heading for the door- when black tentacles grab at your arm and legs. You squeal and kick as you’re picked clean off the ground, the slimy members coiling around tightly until you couldn’t move more than a jerk here and there. You’re abruptly pulled towards him, pressed chest to chest, feeling the inky black substance cover your skin.

Your breathing turns rapid and shallow, realizing you can smell him. He smells damp and musty, like something old and forbidden. Of untouched crypts, of rain on hot tarmac. He smelled bad, and not in the sense that he smelled bad- He smelled wrong, like a bad memory tugging on your mind, of something bad that’s about to come.

In all your nightmares not once have you smelled him.

This is real.

Your nightmares had always felt scarily real, but when you feel his tentacles now, on your arms and legs, feeling its slime rubbing off of you and soaking you… Your heart feels like it’d jumped when you come to the terrifying realization that this is real.

He is real.

You immediately open your mouth to scream, but just as quickly, a tentacle wraps around your head and covers your mouth. The skeleton laughs darkly as you feel another tendril slowly glide around your neck, staring at him with wide eyes.

His blue eye lights up with glee as he sees you fight against his tentacles, your sounds of struggle muffled by them as it felt like more and more of his tentacles kept wrapping around you. His sludge covers up every surface of your body until you’re completely drenched in it, save your eyes.

His manic grin takes up all your attention as a skeletal hand cups your face, almost tenderly so, surprising you. His sockets lid while his smile starts to look drunk, the blue light of his eye dilating. “No more running away, (Y/n)…” He murmurs, eyelight watching you unwaveringly.

The expression on his face turns intense as he seems to lose solidity, losing his form and sinking into the ground, taking you with him.

“I’ve caught you.” He growls, “ And you’re mine.”

He sinks into a puddle in your room, as more of your screams are muffled, your tears pooling in your eyes as you try desperately to escape. One hand manages to reach out of his muck before he grabs it. He pulls you down with him until you’re completely engulfed by his slime, disappearing into the floor, leaving no trace behind.

…

Tick… Tick… Tick…

The clock in your room continues to run, the curtains gently swaying in the wind. Your room is empty with only a messy bed while moonlight filters into the room… It’s as if you weren’t even there.

Your nightmare begins.

#someseriousthot #commission #sans/reader #nightmare!sans/reader #female reader #hohoho :)#there are some *close call* scenes in this fic #so be careful before you read it!#I post this on tumblr but ao3 tags are much more helpful...#-v-;

352 notes · View notes

coraxaviary · 4 years

Text

Never Done

EUGENE SLEDGE X READER

Preface: My first Pacific thing! More notes at the end.

Summary: There is a bomb and then they say there is peace. You do not feel it.

Word Count: 3.4K

Warnings: Canon-typical profanity. Depictions of major character death (kinda).

Taglist: @keoghans @papercinders @junojelli @notmykirk (ask to be added; please notify me if you prefer to be taken off the x reader taglist)

He repeats it, but you don’t react as he expects you to. All the other men positively erupt, but you can’t do anything except clench your teeth, rock back and forth, and try to quell the stinging of the tears that are springing up unbidden in your eyes.

You feel a tear slide down your cheek, and you swipe it away roughly. They are tears of shock – the type that spring forth when artillery is so bright the night flashes a phosphorus white and your retinas feel positively sandblasted.

It can’t be done. It can’t be over. Of course it isn’t over – these Japanese are gonna fight until the very last man. The very last woman. The last child, in the street, you suppose, if it comes down to it. Victory means the eradication of every single one of those goddamn Orientals, and you intend to finish the job.

Instead of dropping your rifle, your grip tightens around the barrel, and you are momentarily steadied by the solid metal and wood of the thing – this weapon, this machine, that has followed you throughout your entire godforsaken three-year stint in the mud and mosquitoes. Wading through the corpses and the bloody waters – thickened with suffocating rot and guts spilling out and shells scattering deadly and bright overhead with a noise that could deafen.

It’s not over; of course it’s not. As long as there are still people on that island, the war is not over.

You grip the rifle tight, and you can’t say anything, except you absently hear this kind of keening animal-ish noise, until there’s a hand on your back and a voice telling you to calm down. The hand moves in slow circle and the unpleasant sound stops, and you close your own mouth, and there are sobs ripping from your chest and you are shaking your head no in disbelief.

You are shaking so badly that you can see the tremors in your own hands even though they’re tight around the gun.

“Easy,” says a gentle voice.

You do not give in to whatever is easy, but you do recognize that someone is trying to calm you down. It’s a bit like stroking a dog, whenever someone from the company tried it before, and then after Peleliu it eventually evolved into a “shut up” and ultimately hands closing around your throat if a dream turns out too loud.

This one is not a stranglehold. It comes to rest very lightly on your shoulder. You are crying in earnest now, and the surrounding universe fades away until all you can feel is the disbelief. And then the injustice. The countless bodies littering the shore after every beachhead invasion; the bodies forgotten facedown in the endless jungles; the mutilated, tortured corpses left behind by the Japanese; the ones who are missing a leg or an arm or a couple of fingers; the ones with no more sanity left to spend in the civilian world. The ones with soul torn out of their bodies too soon, bullets puncturing flesh and releasing sprays of lifeblood. And just like that, they bleed out and pile on top of the others, dying in dust.

Returning to the earth, just as Adam was raised from it.

You wish you could dig all of them up with your hands, grasp their souls and drag them back to solid ground with sheer willpower, clutch their faces between your palms and tell them it’s over, and it almost occurs to you to crouch down and start scratching at the ground before you are yanked back to reality.

Were they all for naught? For the Japanese to just surrender? It was that easy. Just issue an announcement.

Too soon and too rough.

“What’s after this, huh?”

You don’t answer. Burgie won’t mind. His boots – all you can see of him – retreat a few moments later when your mouth opens in a silent, agonized scream and another sob rips forth. You fold yourself over your rifle where you are sitting on the ground, and you crumple inwards, holding your head between your hands.

Sledge keeps rubbing you on the back until you relax halfway. And then he sits back, languidly packs the pipe with that routine normalcy, and smokes it. You appreciate the presence. It’s comforting. And he doesn’t ask anything or say anything – he just sits.

Maybe, you think, as you regard him secretly when he’s looking out over the water, he is considering what he’s going to do when he gets home.

Maybe, like you, he just doesn’t want to face it. You have no idea. He’s different like everyone else, including you. Two years ago, you might’ve been overcome with joy.

Now, sudden changes make you grim. No matter if it’s moving out to retake an airfield or a declaration of the surrender of the Empire of Japan.

–

You are correct. It is not over. In fact, it’s far from over, you realize, standing an entire year later in the back of a transport vehicle as it roars and revs through the Chinese country. You sit back down, jam the rifle between your legs, and try to get some sleep. It doesn’t come, though, no matter how hard you try.

It’s the trouble with sleep. It doesn’t come when called. Instead, it becomes increasingly evasive.

Sleep becomes an elusive figure in the night, and a spectre burning off with the morning overcast in the day. You can only get some if your body has to beg for it, and so you work yourself to the bone with pointless tasks while all the other Marines kick back and mess around in the city.

Sledge looks at you from his seat beside you, and his elbow brushes against your arm every time the truck hits a rut. It’s almost like looking at an entirely different person from the one you met at the beginning of the war. He doesn’t smile now. When he laughs, it’s harsh and sardonic. It’s a little like you, but it was just more dramatic seeing him change. He’d been an optimistic one once. But like everyone else, he’d gotten his insides chewed up and spat out. He was absent at times.

He is absent now, and it’s not a bad thing, necessarily, to be absent in the peace of Chinese occupation. His eyes are closed and his shirt is flapping in the breeze – instead of being soaked through with sweat and jungle moisture, clinging to his frame. He needs a haircut, you think, as his strands flutter almost delicately off his forehead.

Absence is comforting. You can feel the world gearing back up again – the world-ending possibility of bombs, the liquidity of the international borders, the cold reaching hands of the hard vengeful nation up north. It’s nice to retreat inwards. Forget your duty as a part of the war machine. You signed up for it, after all. Detachment permits you to momentarily separate from the accumulated, crushing thing that is much more than guilt.

Sledge cracks an eye open, squinting into the bright sun, which is a white-hot disk behind heavy fog. He catches you staring, and raises an eyebrow. You’re comfortable enough with him to just shrug and say nothing more, and he leans back against the bar. His head is bouncing slightly off the metal, and it looks far from comfortable, but at least it’s almost like peace.

–

You’ve cleaned your rifle already that day, but your fingers are itching to be occupied again, and you bring out the cleaning supplies and the rifle, nudging snaps apart and prying locks apart. There are worn calluses on the sides of your fingers that have grown there over time. You distantly remember basic training, when you were told your rifle was your life. It ain’t a gun. It’s a rifle, the sergeant had said. You sleep with it, train with it, fight with it.

It has done you well over the three years. You had clutched it to your chest under your soaked poncho, vainly trying to keep it dry as artillery exploded around you in miserable, mud-filled foxholes. You had run with it, crawled through the gritty sand with it under tank fire, scooping dust into the air and down your shirt, leaving a trail of blood that had spattered onto you from someone close by under threat from Japanese bunkers waiting up the hill. It had come with you all the way from the motherland and it was with you on the ships, in the waters, on the islands, in the jungles, and now in the east Asian lands.

China’s foreign, to say the least. Everyone looks different. You are suddenly the foreigner, barraged with foreign sights and sounds and smells whenever you go off-base. You tire of it, eventually, but some of the other men go after the opium, girls, and questionable food. You stay inside, and sometimes – too often – there are empty moments alone in the barracks when you stare out the window, wondering when the pain will bleed away.

In the battlefield, it’s unsafe to have loud and boisterous nightmares. So no one had them. They were suppressed by pure instinct or something deeper. Ingrained fear, you would like to say, but it’s not like the fear ebbs away when the sound of gunshots recedes. You are still fearful. It’s a different kind of fear. A strange one. It smells of the open air and the crashing sea – the sickening, swelling, desert of a sea – and of the infinite blue sky vaulting into the beyond. Cloudless and suffocating in its volume, grandiose and terrifying in its broad might.

But the loud nightmares commence, because the vice-grip of fiery fear has faded away. Arguably, this new void-mouth of time’s progression and the future of the unknown is even worse.

You are back again, standing on the precipice of one of those coral cliffs in Okinawa. The black ones, rough and abrupt; there is nothing and then everything all at once – the shells and the rifle fire and suddenly there are intermittent flashes of light every time they send up another illumination flare, the shadows spreading and turning with each spark of a sensory flood.

There’s a growing presence in the swimming, churning mixture of hypnotic black and white as darkness folds and bright light ignites and dies in the lifespan of a second or three. Time stutters and flies and then turns around on itself. You are back again.

You are back again in the fields of heat and rapturous metal and death. And you are crumpled into a ball behind a jut of coral.

The firefight is deafening, you realize, as you become rooted in the memory. A man from your platoon beside you catches a bullet straight in the helmet, and with a dull metallic ping, he jerks back violently by the neck and then his entire body falls back heavily into the deep, sucking mud with a tremendous splash, without a word or a groan. The only reason you’re sure he’s dead is because of the red spray that almost aerosolizes from the hole in his head as he is hit – a little like a perfume spray, you observe, as you watch him die silently and quickly in the mixture of rainy black silt in a scene that is a dime-a dozen. A few bubbles come up from where his head is submerged, and then nothing. You have more pressing things to be concerned with.

It’s not really clear who the man was, but the replacements cycle so frequently and men are replaced so often that it’s not really a priority to know, and you crunch into a smaller ball around the cold firmness of your rifle – your friend, your wife, your salvation.

When it’s all over, you have a strange urgency grow in the back of your mind. There are still ricocheting bullets in the distance in another part of the battlefield – there is artillery booming and the sound of rocks hitting the ground, and machine-gun fire. But this small section of the area is clear for at least one or two breaths of air, and the luxury of thought and emotion slams back into your body from where it had dissociated during battle, hovering somewhere out of reach in the sky. It’s a soldier’s best friend and their worst enemy. You become suddenly conscious of the body lying in the caking muck.

Their head is buried deep in the brackish soup. It feels almost like confirming reality to check the tags, like somehow knowing the identity of whoever used to reside in this body would make their death official. It’s acknowledgement from the living, you think, as you bend down, reaching under the sodden folds of dungarees to fish around for the tags against the body’s cold, foul chest. If acknowledgement of the living is required to release a soul, you think, maybe there is some reason to slink off and die alone like a wolf.

You catch them between your shaking fingers, and you manage to grip them in your palms, yanking the tags and their chain out from below the dungarees. You blink, trying to force your eyes to readjust to reading the minutiae of the engravings instead of taking in bare images for the purpose of reaction.

You grip the tags in your hand, pulling harder to bring them into the watery marine-fogged light of dawn, the chain probably cutting into the neck of whoever it was hard enough to cause discomfort if they were still alive.

You blink several more times. The tag reads Eugene B. Sledge.

You yank harder on the chain, squinting at the tags in irritation. Of course it wasn’t Sledge. He was one of the eternal living who never seemed liable to death. He wasn’t here at the start of the battle, was he? You didn’t remember him moving to get next to you.

“You’re gonna cut ‘is neck off,” mutters the guy next to you irritatedly, and he smacks your hand to make you let go of the tags. They fall with a jangle, and somehow the light metal tinkle spirals deep into your mind like a key in a lock, and the last dregs of your own self trickle back into place.

“Sledge?” you whisper, staring at the body. Its face is under the mud, so you fall to your knees and plunge your hands in to the wrists, taking hold of the body’s head and wrenching it out of the heaviness of the mire.

“Sledge?” you repeat, not comprehending. You forcefully swipe the grime away, like clearing dirt from a watch or blood from your eyes so you can see.

It’s him, alright, or what used to be him. By now he will be long gone, sailing off to the halls of Valhalla or the gates of hell – wherever they put soldiers, you guess. Wherever they get stored.

Sometimes you wonder if even God knows what to do with soldiers. You are all walking, talking, battered, miserable, and sinful contradictions.

If you were God, you’d give Sledge a place within the golden streets, or the pearly gates or whatever he believed in.

But you are not God, and all you can do is keep wiping water from his face and trembling and staring emptily at his open eyes, where there are bits of soil resting wrongly in them – and why isn’t he clearing them out? Why won’t he blink?

You are not God as sure as the Japanese ain’t human and as sure as Okinawa ain’t home. You’re just a soldier. And you have no control of the fate of the universe, even something so small as one tortured soul and one bullet lodged in a certain, singular brain. It is out of your hands, because you’re a soldier.

–

There is shaking and turmoil, and someone is trying to tear you away from behind.

No, you scream at no one in particular. There are other incoherent sounds coming from your throat, maybe they are words and you don’t really pay attention to that – but you do claw and scratch and fight your way back to the empty vessel wearing Sledge’s tags.

“No, no, no!” you shriek. “Come back!”

The body lies motionless, the sky is gray, and the rain starts up again. The hands around your waist get stronger, and you are being born away – the coral falls away and you are still clawing for the body because it’s him.

You awake fully in a sweating, writhing mess, and the body is there. You scream wildly, pushing him away and kicking at the sheets, and he looks at you with a look that somehow mixes the most extreme inexplicable extent of empathy and helplessness. His eyes are bright and open and very, very blue.

You are panting and shaking violently and you dart nervous eyes to check your surroundings, making sure you didn’t wake anyone. You are not sleeping below an open sky, and there are actual army cots in the room, and they are all empty. The ceiling is wildly and strangely foreign, even if you’ve been in China for a while now.

And he is there, very much alive.

“Sorry,” you choke out uncomprehendingly, wiping an exhausted arm over your damp face. Tears or sweat, you don’t know – maybe a mix. Probably a mix. Sudden shame comes over you as you look at him and realize you probably were bothering whatever attempt he had made at catching some sleep in this typically empty afternoon.

He shakes his head a few times.

“Ain’t got nothing to be sorry for,” he says quietly.

You are still trying to take in the vitality in his face because a moment before you had come to the conclusion that he was dead.

“I get ‘em too,” he says.

“I know,” you get out, and then swallow in reflexive regret. “I- I didn’t mean that you bother–”

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “Best of us, you know.”

All you can do is nod a few times. He’s leaning over the sheets, you realize, in a position he hasn’t changed since you awoke and jerked away, and your eyes trace his arms until you see the deep scratches in his forearms. There is a small amount of blood beading up in some of the streaks.

You look down at your own hands. There is a hint of fresh red staining your nails, and your mouth opens in shock and more shame and regret.

He was trying to wake you up and you had hurt him. You feel his eyes tracing your own hands as he sees you realize what you’ve done.

“It’s okay,” he says. “Don’t hurt none.”

“I’m sorry,” you say again, because there’s nothing more you can think to say. The shame is beginning to get suffocating, and you can’t look him in the eyes, and you stare at the scratches on his arms, looking like they were put there by an animal instead of a human. You’ve never clawed someone before. You’d always had your M-1 to do the hurting for you.

“I’ve felt worse.”

Something about that statement makes you feel suddenly like crying. Because it’s true. Both of you have weathered the worst of humankind. Whoever had coined the term battle angels didn’t know what they were talking about. You both were floating in a purgatory between learned savagery and a desperate impulse to try and shed the violence.

You haven’t shed it yet. You probably would never.

You heave with sobs. He moves his arms around you, and you lose sight of the scratches and are pulled close.

He is alive, and you are, too. It’s over, you realize, with a heavy weight of realization and grief and a guilty gush of relief.

It’s over and you and Gene are alive.

It may never be exactly done for you or for him. But in this moment, you can pretend that someday this hell will fade to a version where you have time occasionally to breathe.

Moments like this, where the only thing in the world is warmth and proximity.

This work previously contained a shortened form of "Japanese" which was intended to communicate cultural (and era) immersion, but my views have now changed and I don't believe hateful speech or slurs has any place in my fics, especially when I never felt right writing them in the first place. As always, I am open to conversation on the subject :)

#the pacific #the pacific fic #the pacific imagine #eugene sledge #eugene sledge x reader #the pacific x reader #reader insert #hbo war #writing

44 notes · View notes