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netherfeildren · 1 year

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FEAR OF GOD: Chapter VIII: The Fisher King

Series Masterlist ; Moodboard

Pairing: Joel Miller x OFC

Summary: Teach me how to ask for forgiveness, even when I know I don’t deserve it.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: angst; PTSD; very brief mention of infertility in the first section, description of injury

A/N: Art is Breach by Keith Perelli (2006-2007)

Word Count: 4.2K

Read on AO3

CHAPTER VII: The Fisher King

But still. Still.

Bless me anyway.

I want more life. I can’t help myself. I do.

I’ve lived through such terrible times, and

There are people who live through much worse, but… You see them living

anyway. When they’re more spirit than body, more sores, than skin, when they’re

burned and in agony, when flies lay eggs in

the corners of the eyes of their children,

they live. Death usually has to take life

away. I don’t know if that’s just the animal.

I don’t know if it’s not braver to die. But I

recognize the habit. The addiction to being

alive. We live past hope. If I can find hope

anywhere, that’s it, that’s the best I can do.

It’s so much not enough, so inadequate but

…Bless me anyway. I want more life.

-Tony Kushner, Angels in America

“Do you think you’ve been happy, so far?” you ask her one night.

“I think so, yes. Have you?” Her answer is immediate. She’d never been one for much indecision – that was always your role.

“Yes. At times. I’ve also been very sad.”

“Me too.” You can hear it now, that sadness, in the quietness of her voice.

“I hope we can be happy in the future. That we’ll be together, always.” The two of you are laying under the stars, hidden in the forest, in your old sleeping bags. She says the trees guard you, keep you safe. If you’d had more experience, you’d have felt very close to death in that moment.

“We will be. Don’t worry about that.”

“I don’t want either of us to die,” and you can hear how young you sound, how naive. Despite all you’ve been through, you’ve not been able to let go of that part of yourself. When you’re older you will think that, perhaps, that was not such a bad thing.

“We won’t. That won’t happen.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Yes, I can. I have a plan. If we stick to it, we’ll be okay.”

“Alright.” Your trust in her is implicit, after all.

She is very quiet for a while after that, you think she’s fallen asleep, but then suddenly: “You know, I can’t have children.”

“How do you know?”

“Things were off – Dad was able to run some tests.” That sadness is there again, echoing in her voice, and it is a very painful thing to hear from someone you love so much – someone you know would want that for themselves.

“I’m sorry.” For there is nothing else to be said in light of such a tragedy for her. She would make a wonderful mother.

“It makes me really sad.” There’s quiet again, for a long time, but then: “I know it’s a terrible world. Not safe – but still… It makes me very sad.”

“I’ll have one for the both of us. We can share.”

One of the last times you ever hear her laugh – you should have cherished the sound more – branded it in your memory. “I’d like that.”

Beth is dead two days later.

He sits by your sick bed for days. Shrouded in darkness, he lets his fear, his nightmares swallow him whole – the great gaping maw of a monstrous dream come to fruition. He thinks of Sarah’s mother, his ex-wife, for some reason – can’t understand why she comes to his mind in this moment, honestly. He hasn’t thought about her in decades, that woman he’d known so long ago – can hardly remember her face now. It makes him indescribably sad.

He’s trying to prevent his mind from dissociating. To keep himself present, in case you wake, in case you need him. But the sight of you, small and pale and broken. So still. It fractures his mind in a way he cannot understand. The days of you being lost – of his mad flight to find you, out with teams of hunters, combing the forest for any sign of you, the way he’d screamed at Maria and Tommy and Ellie and anyone else who got too close, spoke too loudly. He’d been extremely close to violence, of the unimaginable sort. That terrible last night, his own destruction, flashing over and over and over in his mind, the things he’d said to you. He could not compare the terror to anything else he’d ever experienced before. The pure horror of that being the last memory you’d ever have of him, of coming across your dead, mangled body, of never seeing your bright, unguarded smile again – in decades filled with fear, day in and day out, he now felt he’d been infected with the most unimaginable of diseases. A stabbing, bone melting pain to his mind, his heart, his flesh, again and again, all of his own making.

This is his fault. He did this to you. Pushed you away. Made you feel like you needed to flee, escape him. He wants to be angry with you for being so stupid, for going out there without him. But how could he not understand it – for what choice did he give you? That you’d prefer to face the monsters out there, rather than the one inside, the one in front of you – rather than him. He thinks he too would rather face the horrors out there, a thousand infected, than face himself. Face his own guilt, his own shortcomings.

He still isn’t speaking to Maria – can barely look at her. He’d told her if you were dead it’d fall on her head. That he’d blame her for it forever. It was a viciously unfair, nasty thing to throw at her when he’d been the one to push you away, the one to tell you to leave, when this was really all his fault alone.

He thinks of Tess – how he’d not been able to keep her safe either, all that time ago. A regret so profound, he’s sure he’ll swim in it for the rest of his miserable life.

Ellie had said sending you away that night had perhaps been the worst thing he’d ever done. The sight of you in this bed proves that fact, and he is filled with a rage so black, so all consuming, it cripples him, will send him to his grave if you don’t come out of this.

He hasn’t slept in days. Merely closing his eyes to rest his racing mind a few moments at a time. The baby you’d had with you has been with Maria. Tiny, squealing, rageful thing that she is. She only quiets when Maria brings her into your room, lays her beside your sleeping form. As if she knows already, even now, that the best place in the entire world is at your side. He closes his eyes in the quiet interminable moments of waiting and tries to picture Sarah’s mother in his mind. To remember her face. He cannot. There’s only a flash of dark curls. The sound of her voice, gone to time. All he can conjure with clarity is the image of Sarah’s smiling face that last morning he’d spent with her. His most precious memory. Something he exercises in his mind every morning when he wakes, lest, he too, forget that. He wonders if she’s still alive, what happened to her after the outbreak. He hopes she survived – hopes she lived a life not too full of terrible, painful things. Although, he isn’t entirely sure there exists any other version of this life anymore. He hopes he can find it, if it does, and give it to you, if you’ll let him.

He looks back at your resting form. The welts and scrapes that had marred the side of your face are healing well. The swelling receding into angry bruising. Nancy was worried you’d sustained a head injury, as an explanation for your prolonged unconsciousness, but neither the bones in your face, nor your skull were broken. Perhaps only a mild concussion, she thought. It inclined her to believe this was simply a side effect of the blood loss you’d endured from the wound in your side, the exhaustion and trauma.

Joel thinks he might become a religious man after this. Thinks he might start going to church, prostrating himself at the effigy of the cross to thank whatever higher power there exists for bringing you back to him, keeping you alive, allowing him another chance to see that smile, even if it’s never directed at him again. Because that is something else he is terribly afraid of. That his last words to you that night, will be the only thing you’ll ever be able to remember of him. All you’ll ever be able to see of him, going forward. He is so, so afraid of the consequences of his own terrible actions. Terrified that the moment he cast you away will be the only moment the two of you live in together for the rest of your lives.

And he thinks: Joel Miller, you are a man made up of fears.

The first thing you see when you finally open your eyes again are his hands. They’re scarred. Tiny, faded marks of a life past, marring the lines of a map of all his pain, his history. Your body hurts, one large throbbing bruise. But the fire in your shoulder, the muscles of your back and arm, has abated. You say a silent prayer of thanks that you’d been able to keep from straining it more. Any more damage and you’d have probably lost function of the limb entirely.

His eyes are closed, his temple pressed against his fist on the arm of the chair pulled up to your bedside. The house is entirely silent – dark and peaceful. You stretch your legs under the blankets, no terrible amount of pain, and his eyes spring open immediately at the subtle sound of your shifting. So attuned to you, that the mere rustling of the sheets brings him to wakefulness. You watch the dilation of his pupils, everything else frozen in place. Head still resting against his fist, he stares at you wide eyed and unblinking. You take in his face – his eyes are bloodshot and rimmed in the harsh purple bruising of exhaustion. His too long, messy curls lie limply across his forehead. He looks haggard, wrung dry. The most defeated you’ve ever witnessed him. Neither of you say anything as you study the other. He still hasn’t moved and the look in his eyes – afraid, resigned, like you’re a predator about to come in for the kill strike.

You feel indescribably sad for him, seeing him like this. Brought down low. It’s wrong. Not an image of the Joel you know that should exist in the world. You’re sure you mustn’t look much better. Broken, the both of you, in this shared moment. You slowly start to slide your palm across the bed towards him, and like a flip bringing him back to life, he melts onto the ground from the chair. Coming to kneel on the floor at the edge of the bed, he grasps your outstretched hand and presses his forehead into your palm, his grasp so, so gentle. His other hand snakes up, under the blankets to grip your bare knee in his warm palm, his thumb slowly sweeps over the bend.

His shoulders begin to jerk, in tiny little gasps. He’s crying.

“I was so afraid.” It is choked and guttural, a confession of the highest order, an admission of weakness, a supplication for mercy, for forgiveness.

You know that his words are all encompassing. He was afraid that night, when the two of you were attacked, when he told you he loved you, when he sent you away, when he couldn’t find you. He’s been afraid for decades, since the moment he met you, since the moment his daughter died. Your heart cleaves in two at the sight of his defeat. The hot slide of his tears through the spaces between your fingers, pooling in the cup of your palm, the liquid feel of them burns you, incites a violence in your heart to rise up at the sight of his suffering, of his pain. But you say nothing. Too weighed down by your own terror, your own pain.

By the prospect of having to tell him the truth. The secret you’ve been carrying with you, that you’re pregnant. Terrified of his reaction. Of his possible rejection. For it isn’t just you anymore that would feel the loss of him. There’s two, three, of you now. And you’re terrified of having to ask him to bear this with you. Don’t want to have to ask. And part of you knows, is positive, that he’ll be there for you without you ever having to even ask. That there would be no question of it. No other alternative. That if anything else, the man before you is honorable and good – despite his violence, despite his sins, despite his fear, he is good. He would never abandon you to face this alone. But still, you’re afraid. Just as he is, just as he has been. So you say nothing, simply bring your other hand up to cup the back of his bent head.

There are no words that could fit in the quiet space of your room in that moment – so swollen is it with all your shared fears, all the things left unsaid. You let him cry.

Ellie finds him sitting on his front porch, guitar in hand, strumming gently – a mug sits by his side. There is no fight to be had now, this she knows. Perhaps no reconciliation, either – not at this moment. But there is much to be said, still, or even perhaps, merely silence to be shared. This is her olive branch. In the days since your disappearance, and then since you’d been found, recovering, she’s had a lot of time to think. To consider her choices.

“Hey.” The look on his face as he watches her walk up guts her – so full of reluctantly glad surprise.

“What’re you drinking?”

“Coffee.”

Of course. “Where’d you get that?”

“Uh… those people that came through last week. A little embarrassed as to what I had to trade to get it, but … it’s not bad.”

“Oh,” she’s slightly at a loss for what to say, how to continue. Their once easy banter seems so unreachable with so much laying between them. “You need to stop harassing Jesse about my patrols.”

“Okay,” he says succinctly – like he’s not going to take her incendiary bait. He looks away, considering what he’s about to say next. “Dina. Is she your girlfriend?”

And nope, she sure as fuck hadn’t been expecting that one. “No! She – That was just one kiss. It doesn’t mean anything,” she denies, referring to the kiss he’d accidentally witnessed last night when he was on his way home from trying to see you. “She just… I don’t know why she did that.”

He tilts his head contemplatively, gives her a knowing look. “You do like her.”

“I’m so stupid.”

“Look, I have no idea what that girl’s intentions are, but I do know that she would be lucky to have you.”

And she knows she told herself she didn’t come here to fight, but he’s so damn aggravating and nosy, she can’t help it. “You’re such an asshole!”

“I’m not trying to –”

“Just – just leave it.” She snaps, looking out at the dark road. “Have you been in to see her today?” Veering towards less conflictive ground.

“Nancy didn’t let me in, said they were both restin’.” He drags his hand tiredly over his face, “Haven’t had much of a chance to talk at all.”

“But before… how’s she been?”

“On the mend – tired, I think. Nance said she’s recovering well. But quiet. She– she doesn’t much want to see me, to be honest …” Maria had said you’d been withdrawn. Not really wanting to see anyone besides Nancy and the baby.

“That was – When we couldn’t find her… Scared the fuck out of me.”

He looks down into his mug of coffee, his jaw shifting side to side, “Yeah… yeah. I– it was–” She knows he can’t discuss it, can’t even voice the terror that gripped him at the thought of losing you. Something about the confirmation of knowing how much he loves you, settles something within Ellie. Reinforces the resolve in her heart.

“Not just for her though. I was scared for you too.” The look he gives her then – she sees that flicker of desolation she was so scared he’d be lost to forever if you’d not come back – if you’d died. There isn’t much left in Ellie that’s overly sentimental, but she could cry at the relief of knowing you’re okay, the both of you.

“Kate’s cute as fuck,” she smiles.

“She is… got those big blue eyes.”

“What are you gonna do? With them?”

“Not much I can do, I guess. ‘Cept take care of ‘em. Keep ‘em alive. If she’ll have me…”

“Love them,” she adds, and he hums in agreement, tilting his head a bit. No point in hiding it, he’s gone soft, everyone knows now, might as well embrace it. Put up a sign. “Well,” she continues, “We both know you’re good at doing that, at least,” her eyes are full of laughter, full of memories. “Taking care of misbehaving girls that can’t ever do what they’re told.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, kiddo. You listened sometimes.”

“Yeah…” she chuckles, “You’re right, there was the rare occasion.” Her grin is roguish..

“Guess I’ve got enough practice ‘bout now, don’t I?

She goes suddenly serious, “Do you ever feel ashamed? When you remember what you did?” The question is abrupt, as if she wasn’t expecting herself to ask, but couldn't help it. She could be referring to so many things, so many sins.

He thinks about the day after Sarah died, when he’d been so ready to follow her to whatever end. His mind shies away from the memory – that is shame – a wound healed over, but still tender if pressed on too harshly. But he considers it now, in light of her question, how the overwhelming feelings driving that choice had been acceptance in that instant. A readiness to be done with all that continuing in a world without his daughter promised. Fate had granted him the opportunity to flinch, a chance he’d then passed on as a gift to Ellie. No matter how she saw it, he’d given her a chance to flinch. Something perhaps, one couldn’t recognize had they never consciously held that cold gun in their hand, pressed it to the tender nook of their temple and looked their own mortality in the face. But he’d given it to her, and not even an entire life of reliving all he’d endured as of yet, could ever, ever make him regret that choice. A parent did what they could to give their child the gift of choice. That was, in the end, the only thing one could do. The gift of choice, something he now had and so arrogantly squandered. Birdie was his choice. Fate had given him a gift once again, now he had to consciously decide to flinch or not.

“No. Never.” There is no doubt – no room for doubt. “I told you once, if I ever had the chance to do it again, I’d do it exactly the same.” There was a space where one could exist with their sins and not resent them. Joel knew it well now. There was only one road that had led him to this moment, to this place. He could not regret the decisions that’d brought Ellie to this life of peace and safety. That had brought him to your door. You had never felt like a sin. The sight of you, it made him calm, so free. There had been fear, too much of it, but never regret, never shame alongside your name.

“Do you feel ashamed when you hear my name?” he asks her, and he can see the question takes her aback, a second of shock crossing her face. It’s all the answer he needs – for the thought to never have even entered her mind. She shakes her head, sharp and quick, “No.” She pauses, and then says, “Fuck your fear, Joel. If that’s what’s keeping you from her you have to let it go. It’ll be the thing to kill you in the end. Maybe not dead in the ground, but in a worse way.”

“I know…I know, Ellie.”

And so what if he had been afraid? In a world, a life, overrun with the worst possible outcome playing out in real time, what was one more terror? He realized it wasn’t the fear of loss that held him back. It was the fear of himself. Of his own inadequacy, his own monstrousness. Because he’d already lost you. Could feel the current loss of you, your absence, acutely. Like a gaping, putrid wound. The days you’d been missing, that he’d been so fucking terrified that he’d never see you again, that you were dead, as he searched desperately for you – he was already experiencing that which for so long was the reason for his denial. And he could think of nothing now that could be worse than not having you. Of knowing his little bird was existing out in the world and that he couldn’t touch you, hold you, kiss you. Fuck his fear indeed.

What did it matter if the world was vast and cruel if, in the end, they had one another?

“I struggled a long time with surviving. And no matter what, you keep finding something to fight for, something to be brave for,” he repeats his long ago words to her.

“You keep going for family… And she’s family.”

“Yeah… she is.”

“All this, it can’t have been for nothing.”

“It’s not. It won’t be.”

Existing in a grave for all those years, only to be violently pulled awake by a forest fire of a little girl – it changed the nature of a man. His nature had been changed irrevocably. And he needed to give this new version of himself to you now, in its entirety. And what struck him most was that despite all this, despite all he’d changed, lost and grown, since the start of all this, since Sarah died – who he was hadn’t entirely been determined yet. There was still possibility within him. There was still hope for more. And you saw that, you’d always seen that.

In a sudden startling way, he could perceive what he was, what he lacked, what he could be. You shared that perception; your vision of him was another gift. What was it about this sudden acute sense of self perception that was so close to madness, and how was it that suddenly, when you realized you were in love, it was as if you were able to see the world as it really was? Cordyceps had blanketed the earth in a film of death that he now saw in spectrums. There was a spectrum to death as it existed in the world, as what you allowed it to shape itself, and you, as. How did you perceive death – loss? How did you let it affect you when it inevitably touched your life? Was it to overwhelm you – or exist alongside you as simply another phenomena of nature? He could exist on that spectrum set about by nature or he could break free from it. Cordyceps – and all humanities’ basest desires it catered to – could go on existing, could continue to subjugate the world to its will, but he would break free from that subjugation of fear, of death, of failure, he would live his life now as he chose to. He could perceive with such clarity now what was real and what was not. His little bird was real and alive and waiting for him. This was no delusion, no farcical whim; it was a glance down into time – into the realities he’d once known and lived in, a world before calamity and fungus and dead little girls – and it wore the staggeringly beautiful face of you, a glance at the woman he loved.

“She’s angry with me. I– I hurt her.”

“Hmm… True… but she isn’t like us… she’s good. Kind. She’ll forgive you. She understands you.”

“Perhaps,” he says, but he isn’t sure, is terrified of the alternative, will try and make it up to you for the rest of his life if you need him to.

“Maybe time’ll be the thing to heal this wound”

He pauses at that, “It wasn’t time that healed it… remember?” The memory of their past hangs, once again, heavy in the air, but perhaps now, in this moment, a bit lighter than before.

She shakes her head, gives him a small smile, “I remember.”

She’s quiet for a moment, pensive. He’d missed her so much. This easy casual nothingness between the two of them. Just being together, talking. And as he takes her in, her chin tipped to the breeze, eyes closed, he thinks: if he could have done it all again, he would have loved her better. Perhaps made better choices. But he could not have loved her more.

How broken, how small he must have been, just a short time ago, to have found that thought so difficult to confess, even just to himself.

“Go find her, Joel. Tell her what you need to tell her.”

Chapter IX

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

#FoG fic #joel miller #the last of us #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller/you #joel miller/reader #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller angst #joel miller imagine #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fic #tlou fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal

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bornchaos · 1 year

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small little thing before next week is jam packed with finishing up with school . here's just some things about pregnant!coraline i just been thinkin .

i feel like , pregnancy is really hard for coraline - i mean , it is for everyone , but i feel like she feels it on such another level because it's is the most human she's ever , ever felt - because of that , her magic takes a step back , doesn't numb it like it would other pains - especially because there's a part of her willing her magic away because she wants to feel it authentically , so where it could help , she's not allowing it to . her hormones are off the charts , constantly up and down in every which way and it makes her want to curl up into a corner . she is going to need so much help in the delivery room , probably one of those cases where she's so drugged up she's asleep for a good couple of days and the doctors/nurses need to keep an eye on her ISDFISFISHFSF she's a gangsta until she knocks her hip on the counter or ends up in this situation, other pains ? getting punched, hit, stabbed ? ez peasy, this ? AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

her morning sickness is bad , not enough to be diagnosed hyperemesis gravidarum , but damn well close .

working from home becomes a norm pretty early on , it helps not being out and about as much . luckily , it works out - coraline is a dedicated worker , when she wants something done , or wants something learned , it happens , maybe a little delayed than usual , but she does it and will still end up on top . it's also called not knowing when to say no and giving herself the rest she deserves . coraline please it wont kill you to rest you don't always have to be doing something .

smell aversions : coffee ( actually cries and wonders if its worth it when realising she has to put a pause on her caffine addictoin, it's been getting her through since stopping speed like fr ) , sweetcorn , peas , cheese , pickles .

food cravings : the same as when she's on her period tbh but its soooo much worse . loves her sugar and meats ; specifically , cookies , waffles and ice cream / whipped cream , fr needs to be handcuff because the amount of sugar cannot be healthy SODFHOSIFHSIODF and when it comes to main foods , beef , chicken , bacon and is an absolute nightmare for pasta .

becomes aware of how awkward she sits when her bump starts to get bigger ; cannot get comfy to save her life, wdym i cant sit side ways ? wdym i cant bring my knees up to my chest ? wdym i cant just hop up on the counter , that i cant raise my legs on the table top ? life is a fucking nightmare .

REALLY DEALS WITH THE LOSS OF BOOZE AND WEED . OH THAT SHIT HITS HER LIKE A TONNE OF BRICKS . towards the end , coraline is good at pacing herself . but god , they're still her vices - especially when she's in so much pain and wanting to just get the tinest bit of relief , the girl quit everything else , it's all she has - the backpain, the ever changing hormones, she's losing the will to live .

absolutely smokes late on in the pregnancy just to finally experience some relief then spends the next few days feeling like a horrible mother until she outs herself to the doctor and they're like ' is it the only time you did it ? ' '...yes but' 'it's not great but that's still good, lets work out some support system so you can fight the urge to smoke again' 'please give me drugs:('

despises maternity clothes shopping , holds off as long as she can before FINE, I'LL FIND NEW CLOTHES fuck you bolder in my stomach

100/10 experience . would do it again , wasn't all bad and what was bad it was the best thing she's ever lived through in hindsight .

#tw pregnancy #tw brief mention of smoking when pregnant #she does have fun and loves what it means. she just. a mother at heart and loves the experience #all the good and all the bad #shes sooooo <3 #anyway here have this <3 #headcanon.#might edit later but for now. this'll do <3 #SIHDFOSDHFIISOFSDF #JUST A LAZY THING THAT MAKES MY HEART GO BOOM BOOM OK

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obsessedwithegos · 2 years

Note

Giving Emil a plush but it's a haunted plush

Most of this is under the cut! :>

CWs: Haunted Familiar whumper, Self sacrifice for a comfort object, Creature horror, Death threat

Emil is unsure of your motives as you hand him the plushie but he still accepts it nonetheless. He holds it close but keeps his eyes on you until you leave.

Once you’re gone he looks down at the plush. It seemed like a near brand new tiger teddy bear. The orange of it’s fake fur reminded him of his friend Amanda and how vivid orange her hair is after it had been redyed.

He gently reaches up to the plush’s face to carefully move it’s fur out of it’s eyes.

He’s always loved stuffed animals, so holding one again brought back a sense of comfortable familiarity. A reminder that not everything is harsh and that it’s okay to be soft from time to time.

He didn’t know that there was a darker presence hiding within the plush.

The haunting was gradual with the first few days being still.

It would move to small things like inks left on top of boxes being knocked off, at which Emil would get up to go return them to their previous spot if possible.

Sometimes boxes would fly open, which he would then close.

He had no idea that it was due to his new friend. The plush friend that he adamantly protected.

Tael had slightly lightened up since Emil had been given the plush, however he now would try to shift his attention to it instead of the vampire.

Everytime without fail, Emil would put himself between the plush and the demon, willing to accept a much worsened punishment over his main source of comfort being hurt or damaged.

Whenever he would go to the plush to hug and hold for comfort, he almost never noticed the shadow that would dart out from it and away from him. If he did notice it, he assumed it was his mind playing tricks on him often from blood loss.

Never would he assume that his search for comfort in a plush would end up angering something else.

The haunting would become more aggressive.

The basement door would start opening and slamming shut when Tael was gone. When Emil would be close to falling asleep, the chain on his collar would be yanked forcing him to wake up. Sharp pains suddenly struck him with seemingly no cause. When he did fall asleep he would have worse nightmares than normal.

At the worst end of it, he was woken from a deep sleep as pain lit up across his face making him scream and reach for his face.

His face was wet and abnormally warm, pulling his hands away revealed they were coated in blood.

There were two large gashes across his face that were so severe that Tael had to get Dr Zerys to stop the bleeding as Emil’s saliva failed to stop it.

The haunting had reached it’s peak before Tael could get the now dried blood from the face gashes cleaned up off of the cement floor.

Emil was hugging his plush tightly and crying into it’s soft fur.

The white belly of the plush started to turn black as if a black liquid was soaking it from the inside out. A thick liquid seeps out, bubbling as if it was boiling.

As the mystery substance touches Emil, he lets out a yelp as it burns to the touch and drops the plush before pushing himself away from it.

The substance continued to pool around the plush, bubbling even faster as a viper esc head started to form, a long neck following it. A crown of horns grows from the top of the creature’s head, two of which continue to grow into ram-like spirals as eyes open up beneath the horns.

The eyes glare at Emil as two large fangs protrude from the creature’s mouth. The back of it’s neck hits the roof of the basement as the front of it’s body starts to crawl out, three large spiked tendrils protrude from an open rib cage and two clawed paws scratch against the ground as the creature physically cannot crawl out further due to the limited space.

Emil looks up at the beast with horror and fear in his eyes as he tries to push himself further into the opposite corner.

The haunted familiar flicks it’s tongue out to smell the air before it’s voice hisses out from it’s open chest. “You.”

He lets out a whimper as he hears it speak.

“You are undeserving of my vessel.” It says before narrowing it’s eyes. “Give me a good reason to not end your miserable life.”

Emil’s eyes dart around briefly as he tries to think. “I- Do you want something? I- I can try to ask Tael to get you what you want!” He attempts to bargain.

“Tael… Is the demon, correct?”

He nodded “Yes! Yes he is! And he has lots of friends so he could get you things I wouldn’t be able to!”

“Have him return me to hell. I have no desire to interact with pathetic beings like you.”

He swallows a lump in his throat “Okay! I can ask him to do that!”

The haunted familiar starts to descend back into the mysterious substance that soaked the plush tiger. “If you fail, he’ll be out of a pet to mess with.” It threatened before fully returning to the plush vessel.

Emil remained firmly pressed against the opposite corner of the basement, shaking as more tears threatened to fall. He would make no attempt to get close to the plush, instead choosing to try to stay as far away from it as he could until Tael returned.

~~~~~

General: @emmettnet @thebluejaysworld

Kira's story: @whumpsday

#owe answers #anonymous #emil tag #asker whumper #since you're the one that gave it to him :>#tael tag #dr zerys tag #haunted familiar tag #(a non specific one so it's not getting a name! :>)#haunted familiar whumper #nonhuman whumper #creature horror #ask to tag #prompted writing tag #whump #whump tag #if any of this is confusing PLEASE let me know! I'm having a lil bit of a difficult time keeping things in the right line rn jkdsfhgjksdfgh #edit to fix the 'roof of the ceiling' to 'roof of the basement'

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aggwaseon · 10 months

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Jaehwan couldn't stop the grimace, averting his gaze for a moment longer than had been necessary. Perhaps he should have smiled or felt happy and thankful that Joongi said he would remain by his side through all of that. And while it did, it seemed like his brain only processed the phrase of accidentally hurting him.

"Please don't say that. That's the very thing my nightmares exist of. But I do promise that I try my best to keep those not so glamorous days to a certain limit, it only tends to happen due to my own carelessness when I forget certain things."

He wasn't surprised at the facial expressions, having expected that much. Perhaps even expected worse. However, there was something he couldn't quite place just yet. Even though Jaehwan knew his own limits and had somewhat of a belief that he wouldn't be able to harm the other because of the amount of love he had for him. But it still surprised him, even confused him slightly, that Joongi seemed to possess a whole lot more faith in him than Jaehwan could ever have in himself. Especially since he'd done many regrettable things in his life, things he could never take back and some of them still haunting him to this day.

"I know that you cannot guarantee that, since you don't know what my less decent moments look like. So I can't expect that of you. And I don't want to expect that of you. I love you more than anything else and the love I have for you keeps me grounded, but I also don't really trust myself during those moments, so I don't want to make promises I might not be able to keep. But I will try my very best to not hide from you during those moments. I can promise that I will try. And you are my everything. My reason for living, smiling, loving. Everything."

Jaehwan held him just as tightly, hugging him close to him yet leaning his head back enough so he was able to look at the man.

'I love you, so much."

"As long as you keep trying your best, I believe in you and I know you can do this. I definitely don't expect you to change who you are, I don't want you to change. Just keep me in the loop, okay love? If you feel like you might be cracking.. that a bad day might be ahead, let me know please. From now on you can rely on me and come to me. I will always be here for you and even when it feels like I won't be able to assist you, still come to me and at least allow me to listen to you."

Joongi wished he could do more. This really seemed to be hard for Jaehwan and it pained him to see his boyfriend like that. Only reason he wasn't scared was the fact that he hadn't yet seen the bad side of him. Jaehwan had never hurt him and he knew, he just believed that wouldn't change.

Joongi makes sure his arms stayed around the younger this whole time. Still a little nervous, heart still racing in his chest from the amount of information he was processing right now. This was a lot to take in and even though he had seen the fangs already, it was still hard to believe what he had been told. His precious baby, he was a predator.. a predator who could probably kill him in seconds if he only wanted to. Joongi shakes his head to get rid of the thoughts, giving him a sweet smile. Joongi was doing his best to be strong, to not panic as that was not going to be helpful for either of them. He wanted Jaehwan to know he was there, because he was.

"I know you probably don't want to talk about this in detail, that you want to protect me from this.. but please tell me baby. You say this happens when you're careless? When you forget things? Is this anything I should know about so I can look out for it, just so I can help as well? Is it the feeding you forget about or something completely else?"

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loveymessup · 2 years

Text

thinking of my selfishness, thinking of you, how You were the most selfish choice I have ever made. I needed to write of you again. I cannot let you go. I understand the meaning of what I am feeling. I love you. I am hooks. Embedded into your back, you were mine. Listening currently to guns n roses and the eagles. Limitations didn't exist, I still think of you as lightning, this moment however is the only time I realized that it is you. The light in my darkness. I always tell myself... I was the bad girl trying to be good, and you the good boy trying to bad. We were trying to be someone we needed, but meeting you just you, Jacob your existence has brought me joy into this soul that was dead a dying thing. How sad some will think, they will try to continuously put themselves into my shoes without ever knowing my soul. And i will smile at the memories i recall as they lecture me. Telling me what i need, what is real. I despise this society, I wish for a blood soaked life. How can I ? When I love the beauty, the smiles, still the ignorance of us all gets to me. Its like rotting tree bark, getting soaked getting worse, turning to mold and moss becoming perhaps something beautiful or stinky and foul. Perhaps all that same time, when I hear this song I am no longer me I am the aftermath of strings being plucked, I am the sight of a vast desert, the mystery of how far it goes. Patience - guns n roses. My reality this body is lost in my imagination, but I think now as a nat comes into my face and close to my eye, I live in a dirty family shelter 9 months pregnant, with clearly the world against my every action. Continuously and perhaps forever feeling guilt for existing. "God's Joke" saying hey look at this bitch, laugh at her efforts, laugh at her heart, laugh at her trauma, laugh and feel good. Don't worry she did this to herself, she is the shit for your roses to grow. I have never felt more like nothing than living in the system, I have seen few efforts to be made to feel like I am anything but a number, a cog in this machine. I wanted to be a doctor a healer, a lawyer a savior, a computer technician grow on my abilities, a dancer to express how I felt, a vet to save the animals my dad let die like plants, a nutritionist to save and enhance and extend lives, but I am dumb. I choose pleasure, pills and booze. The steps i watched my father take as he stumbled into the deadbeat he is. My mother the cynic, cruel and abused. I smell salmon and shit currently as I struggle alone in this place, a man who denies his own child, I let him inside and he betrayed me. Betrayal is unforgivable, I tried but all I feel is hurt. Angry at myself for "choosing the wrong person" angry at myself for thinking "i choose the wrong person". Pitying with my abusers because I still think they deserve to be loved in the end. I think its my mind hoping someone will still love me despite myself. Some songs, simple songs tainted because of the ignorance I had. I am afraid, scared the only thing keeping me alive. My heart is squeezed as I write this, I only write now, because soon I will give birth soon. An ode to another past life, I needed to be honest even though i know the world is watching me, hiding, they watch me from cameras, through the computer, through my phone, trackers and hackers. No privacy and I think of this word and think safety and privacy are not real. I hate these people, yet don't wish the worst for the them, just for them to do something better with their time. This is why I wish for a blood soaked life, to watch these people fall and die and watch the earth thrive off another scum bag die. My pain is the only thing that feels real. Joy is quickly dispersed by others, its like they can sense it and know its illegal. Maybe this really is a fucking nightmare. I am trying yet its like trying to move during sleep paralysis. These seconds painfully being taken from me. I hate i hate and i hate. And all I want is for someone, someone who can understand me, understand i don't need to be lectured, given advice, to love in silence and watc

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inkskinned · 2 years

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i have been thinking about anger. i have been thinking about the way i suck my teeth when i’m holding back on saying something. i have been thinking about the veins in the back of my hands, and how i grit my teeth when i know i’m overreacting. once, in chemistry, my professor said - women are often angry differently. i have been wondering about that.

if i am angry, it is angry like hungry. if i am angry, it is angry like a closed door. three days ago, i sat through a seminar where a woman twice my age complained about how hard it is to find good help these days.

the man folds his legs over the extra chair and looks at me. “diversity hire, huh? how’s that feeling?”

i am trying to make my anger into a honed space, like turning iron from a bee storm. anger can be an effective protector. anger can be not-again and anger can be you-won’t-hurt-anyone. anger wins where sorrow loses. i get out of bed because i am angry how the administration’s policy is effecting my students - i go to sleep shaking, almost-lost-my-job-again, wondering what-the-fuck-i-think-i’m-doing. but i wake up angry.

if i am angry, it is angry like my mother. i hold the butter knife and pull my shoulders up and wash the dishes while he plays video games in my bed. i am angry like nagging. i am angry like: i just gave up and let him keep relaxing - i knew it was my job, both the cleaning and the remembering-to-clean. i am angry like i have been crying in the shower. i am angry like a raised welt. i am angry like - foolish.

the newspaper shakes out onto our kitchen table. she reads me the numbers for the dying and then has to stop because she gets too nauseous at the way everything is spiking. we sit in silence and read the same article - protests demand climate action.

i am angry at myself. i am angry i haven’t figured out how to teach better over zoom. i am angry i haven’t actually finished that project. i am angry that i haven’t worked out in a little while, and that i never got around to reading that book, and that i let any man touch me while laughing as if it was nothing. i am angry for all the ways i have failed and all the ways i am still failing and all the ways i am not-trying-hard-enough. i am angry like i am my own sapphired edge - i am the sluice of everything i wasn’t quite good enough to be, and i am worse. i am angry like my own worst nightmare.

i fold the pamphlet my doctor gives me. “i really recommend physical therapy”, she warns. “it’s just going to get worse, eventually.”

i cannot afford physical therapy. “i’ll look into it,” i promise. i am not going to be back. i cannot afford sickness or chronic pain - so i just deal with it, like navigating the razor of a fact.

i am angry like a bell. i am angry like a stampede, i am angry like a loose tooth. i am angry like a splinter or a burning church. i have been angry so long that i am worried there is nothing left in me but the rage; all-encompassing. i am the angry feminist that ruins the meeting and the angry relative that ruins thanksgiving and the angry bitch who ruins the joke he was making. so what. all this work i do, and the world keeps turning.

anger is a secondary emotion - it springs from another place, another need. it protects and divides and allows our softer sides to slip away tenderly. i tell him how she hurt me and i say - “i think she’s angry because she’s lonely.”

he rubs his jaw. “yeah. but angry people stay lonely.”

it isn’t a beautiful thought. but something in it it feels lovely.

#posting my drafts

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edenmemes · 3 years

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ghost of tsushima starters

❝ promise you’ll remain the good man i know. ❞ ❝ only fools have no fear of death. ❞ ❝ i am very much alive. but my patience is dying. ❞ ❝ i’ll make sure you are remembered. as a great warrior...a wise leader. ❞ ❝ the strength we need is all around us. ❞ ❝ the past cannot hurt you. ❞ ❝ this whole journey, and i never asked your name. ❞ ❝ fear drives you to be stronger. fight harder. ❞ ❝ sometimes...our only choice is to walk away from everything we know ❞ ❝ we do what we must. that is why you and i are both survivors. ❞ ❝ i can do good! i just...need practice. ❞ ❝ may your next life be more peaceful than this one. ❞ ❝ i knew it was too good to be true. ❞ ❝ i'll see what i can do. but if you’re lying to me... ❞ ❝ you’re too comfortable with that power. ❞ ❝ don’t ever try to kill me again. ❞ ❝ turn your back on a foe...and you will die with a sword stuck in it. ❞ ❝ youre not slipping away that easily. ❞ ❝ just stay closed. keep your sword sheathed. and let me do the talking. ❞ ❝ the things i saw still haunt my nightmares. ❞ ❝ i dont even know if you're real. ❞ ❝ victories don’t have to feel good. ❞ ❝ killing your own family...it’s harder than you could ever imagine. ❞ ❝ it’s safer for everyone if i just disappear. ❞ ❝ next time, leave some glory for the rest of us. ❞ ❝ peace doesn’t always come quietly. ❞ ❝ some people respond to kindness. others require a glimpse of steel. ❞ ❝ i am nothing if not honest. ❞ ❝ stop using people, and start thinking about how you can help them. ❞ ❝ you’ve had your vengeance. don’t stand in the way of mine. ❞ ❝ you don’t have to do it alone. ❞ ❝ not all words need to be spoken. ❞ ❝ there is time yet for revenge. i will savour their cries of pain when that time comes. ❞ ❝ i have learned to love the cool, damp dark. ❞ ❝ the last thing i saw was faces filled with hatred, rage... ❞ ❝ you didn’t think you'd get rid of me that easily, did you? ❞ ❝ we will celebrate when this is all over. ❞ ❝ what’s wrong with you? one moment we stand shoulder-to-shoulder, the next you’re ready to cross blades. ❞ ❝ a warrior learns from their mistakes, or they are buried by them. ❞ ❝ remember your training...and never leave my side. ❞ ❝ well...i guess this is goodbye. ❞ ❝ your visions will grow worse, driving you to madness and death. ❞ ❝ i can only pretend for so much longer. i’m not like these people and never will be. ❞ ❝ i loved you all my life, but i could never work up the courage to tell you. ❞ ❝ the proud do not last, and the mightiest of us perish like dust before the wind. ❞ ❝ you’re a vision of mercy. ❞ ❝ not bad, but only half-good. ❞ ❝ we make a good team, don’t we? ❞ ❝ an archer’s aim relies not on eyes...but on body, mind, and spirit. ❞ ❝ this is my fight. i don’t need your weapon. ❞ ❝ being right doesn’t always make things better. ❞ ❝ there is nothing easier than to prey upon the vanity of ambitious men. ❞ ❝ you weren’t looking so good. i let you rest. ❞ ❝ your intentions this time were...better than usual. ❞ ❝ what are you not telling me? ❞ ❝ trouble sticks to you like shit on rice. ❞ ❝ it’s strange being back after so many years...everywhere i look brings back memories. ❞ ❝ only a child expects perfection of their elders. ❞ ❝ when this is all over, what will you do? ❞ ❝ you are ruled by your emotion. ❞ ❝ is this how you want to be remembered? ❞ ❝ perhaps great men share all the aspects of their lessers, but more. great wisdom, but even greater cruelty. ❞ ❝ i cannot imagine the burden a leader like you must bear. ❞ ❝ our greatest enemies are the greatest teachers. ❞ ❝ death’s shadow embraces me. hand in hand we walk. ❞ ❝ breathe. you can’t fight if you hold your breath. ❞ ❝ i know you well enough by now, my friend. ❞ ❝ i can’t go back...to what i was. before this. ❞ ❝ i hope you one day forgive me for the choice i made. ❞ ❝ the wounds you dealt my spirit will never heal. ❞ ❝ why did you turn away from me? ❞ ❝ if you can keep moving forward, so can i. ❞ ❝ it’s a bad idea to sneak up on me. ❞ ❝ promise me something. don’t become like me. ❞ ❝ let me undo the damage i’ve done. ❞ ❝ ...and you want me to clean up your mess. ❞ ❝ the path ahead may take a lifetime, but i will walk it with you. always. ❞ ❝ whatever you believe i’ve become, i will always be your family. ❞ ❝ i wouldn’t be here without you. ❞ ❝ i’ll hunt you past the horizon if i must. ❞ ❝ can i count on you to do what needs to be done? ❞ ❝ that’s over now. you’re here. with me. ❞ ❝ i thought i’d lost you, i should’ve known you’d never give up. ❞ ❝ you can’t continue down this path. ❞ ❝ be careful. demons are everywhere and they fear nothing. ❞ ❝ corpses can’t answer questions. ❞ ❝ you deserve greater respect than this. ❞ ❝ it’s just like the stories my father told me. ❞ ❝ what you become tomorrow is your choice. ❞ ❝ just ask the last man who questioned my sincerity. you’ll find his head covered in flies out back. ❞ ❝ you shouldn’t have lied. i still would have helped you. ❞ ❝ we came this far. we’re not turning back now. ❞ ❝ how do we survive if we don’t trust each other? ❞ ❝ without my help, the fear and pain will overwhelm you. ❞ ❝ whatever happens, we don’t retreat. ❞ ❝ the stories are true. i’ve never seen anyone fight like you. ❞ ❝ see how the enemy fear you? you are a true warrior. ❞ ❝ you want to share a drink...with me? ❞ ❝ maybe you should’ve just ran away. like you always do. ❞ ❝ good people have nothing to fear from me. ❞ ❝ your promises are just like you. worthless. ❞ ❝ as you wish, since you asked so sweetly. ❞ ❝ i know better than to argue. ❞ ❝ i hope i can find quiet places like this one, untouched by war. ❞ ❝ we grew up together, but you threw it all away. ❞ ❝ it was so chaotic. i felt you grip my wrist and then nothing. ❞ ❝ desperation can bring out the demon in the best of men. ❞ ❝ i don’t want to leave without you, but...i can’t stay. i hope you understand. ❞ ❝ a grown man, and you still can barely sit still. ❞ ❝ and i heard you had no sense of humor! ❞ ❝ knowing and doing are different. ❞ ❝ trouble follows me everywhere. ❞ ❝ indulging violence weakens the warrior...like too much food or drink. ❞ ❝ i can always tell when you want to ask me something. out with it. ❞ ❝ i am proud to fight beside you. ❞ ❝ i didn’t nurse you back to health to watch you throw your life away. ❞ ❝ all i want...all i need is to start a new life. ❞ ❝ look twice and shoot once. ❞ ❝ i think they’re afraid of you. you can be...intimidating.. ❞ ❝ you don’t even try to hear me. it’s like talking to a stone. ❞ ❝ so you try to kill me? have you lost your mind? ❞ ❝ you’ve sacrificed everything. for revenge. ❞ ❝ we can’t let anger consume us. or blind us to our friends. ❞ ❝ there is only one way this ends. ❞ ❝ i gave you everything. and you threw it away. ❞ ❝ do not question my integrity again. ❞ ❝ your father would be proud. ❞ ❝ the worst one can do is take advantage of their own people. ❞ ❝ you follow trouble. you should ask yourself why. ❞ ❝ some of my favourite memories happened at this place. ❞ ❝ i told you this was a bad idea! ❞ ❝ keep fighting. we need people like you. ❞ ❝ are you the one who finally kills me? ❞ ❝ a warrior’s most important weapon is themself. lose control, and you risk defeat. ❞ ❝ first, get some rest. this is killing you. ❞ ❝ see that? i told you. there’s always hope. ❞ ❝ i hope the skills i gained through hardship can be of use to the people here. ❞ ❝ you have skill...but you nearly died rushing into battle. ❞ ❝ in the midst of battle, true leaders must stay rooted, stand firm. ❞ ❝ every time i get in a mess like this, i’m as scared as the time before. ❞ ❝ don’t be the next to disappoint me. ❞ ❝ save what we can, but know that everything passes away. ❞ ❝ i hope you understand, this is just a job. ❞ ❝ that’s a sad way to look at the world. ❞ ❝ seeing you like that...i’m still shaken up. ❞ ❝ sit with me a moment. ❞ ❝ doubt and indecision have destroyed armies. ❞ ❝ it’s so painful to...see you weighed down by sadness. ❞ ❝ on the slim chance some good comes of this...lead the way. ❞ ❝ you fought well, but we’re finished. ❞ ❝ the warrior’s mind is quiet but alive, like rustling bamboo. ❞ ❝ i’ve trained with a blade since i could walk. ❞ ❝ the visions...they’re still happening. ❞ ❝ in our world, being intimidating isn’t a bad thing. ❞ ❝ you have a talent. it’s time you use it, for the sake of our land. ❞ ❝ i've tried to teach you all i know...but you act more like a poet than a warrior. ❞ ❝ your path leads to madness and death. ❞ ❝ that’s twice you saved my life. ❞ ❝ these people stay because they believe in you. ❞ ❝ i didn’t choose this life. it was my only option. ❞ ❝ you came at me like i was your mortal enemy. almost broke my arm! ❞ ❝ i could use your help...in the fight ahead. ❞ ❝ you can be a little rough, but you have a good heart. ❞ ❝ i don’t want to kill you, stop! ❞ ❝ what’s wrong? afraid i’ll get more famous than you? ❞ ❝ war brings out who we truly are. ❞ ❝ take care where you place your faith. ❞ ❝ you seem lost in thought. ❞ ❝ i was getting tired of waiting for you. ❞ ❝ without my wisdom, you will lose your soul to madness. ❞ ❝ peace is an unattainable dream...but a dream worth fighting for. ❞ ❝ i’ve killed a thousand men. every death was sweet. ❞ ❝ what is the point of prayer when we are doomed? ❞ ❝ you’re like your father in more ways than you know. ❞ ❝ if you want my respect, earn it. ❞ ❝ and how many wars have you fought? ❞ ❝ you’re quite the butcher with that sword. ❞ ❝ people who sow chaos must be punished. ❞ ❝ i can’t help but wonder if you enjoy the violence. ❞ ❝ i kill only to protect our people. i think about that every time i reach for my sword. ❞ ❝ i'm sorry if my lack of skill offends. ❞ ❝ it’s the first time in days i haven’t felt like i was about to die. ❞ ❝ you fought like an animal...or a demon! ❞ ❝ there’s nothing more painful to me than a perfect bow...ineptly used. ❞ ❝ victory is won by warriors, not weapons. ❞ ❝ i couldn’t leave you to die. ❞ ❝ i made my choices. even knowing what they’ve cost me, i’d make them again. ❞ ❝ when’s the last time you slept or ate? ❞ ❝ you don’t get to give up. this land needs you. ❞ ❝ oh you pretend we are different, but we fight for the same thing. ❞ ❝ there are still places of beauty to remind us of what truly matters. ❞ ❝ true mastery begins where individual ego ends. ❞ ❝ a warrior faces danger with courage and resolve. this is how they endure. ❞ ❝ those stories...they're not entirely true. ❞ ❝ even the youngest warrior needs a full belly and a rested sword-arm. ❞ ❝ bad men are good at hiding their true natures. ❞ ❝ there is nothing left for me here. my hope is lost. ❞ ❝ i did what i had to. for you. ❞ ❝ forgive my manners. i spent all my time alone. ❞ ❝ is that any way to greet a visitor? ❞ ❝ if you continue down this path...you’ll be no better than the enemy. ❞ ❝ i am grateful for the times we share...but, i always want more. ❞ ❝ you lived your life in a castle. it made you soft. ❞ ❝ i used to know what i fought for... ❞ ❝ face them as a warrior with honour. not a monster. ❞ ❝ i don’t take lives, but i am not a coward. ❞ ❝ i wonder if i’ve crossed a line. ❞ ❝ you can’t expect everyone to understand what you’re doing, or why. ❞ ❝ your methods were brutal...impulsive...without honour. ❞ ❝ there’s plenty to fear without worrying about folktales. ❞ ❝ i hope you’ll find peace again soon. ❞ ❝ you do what you need to survive. and yet you despise others for doing the same. ❞ ❝ is that your excuse? your reason to kill? ❞ ❝ we have to keep pushing. even if it costs us our lives. ❞ ❝ cowards without honour deserve no mercy. ❞ ❝ i’ll fight beside you until the end. ❞ ❝ whatever happens, your forgiveness won’t change who i am. ❞ ❝ why should we settle for scraps when we deserve to be legends? ❞ ❝ only cowards strike from the shadows. ❞ ❝ the proud do not endure. the greatest of us fall in the end. ❞ ❝ perhaps some good will come of this. ❞ ❝ you will see nothing but death to the end of your days. ❞ ❝ legacy is more than a name. ❞ ❝ im sorry. i know what it means to lose family. ❞ ❝ one day we'll escape the endless wheel of suffering. ❞ ❝ is that a 'thank you'? ❞ ❝ i know what it means to be hunted. ❞ ❝ you personify fury and regret. ❞ ❝ that's all right. i want to hear you dig your own grave. ❞ ❝ either way, we’ve got nothing to lose. ❞ ❝ i’ve done what i can. the rest is up to you. ❞ ❝ forgive me, but you look fatigued. have you endured much hardship? ❞ ❝ i hope you find true honour in your next life. ❞ ❝ you deserve nothing less than death. ❞ ❝ this is foolish. surrender, and you can live. ❞ ❝ i too have pride in family. and i know what it’s like to live in their shadow. ❞ ❝ you were gone so long, i knew you were in trouble. ❞ ❝ so many of us here owe you our lives. ❞ ❝ what's wrong? what did they do to you? ❞ ❝ you’re lucky to be alive. ❞ ❝ i know your language. your traditions. your beliefs. which village to tame and which to burn. ❞ ❝ i cannot lose you again. ❞ ❝ i don’t seek revenge. but i will fight for peace. ❞ ❝ we will meet again soon. until then...travel safely. ❞ ❝ this is war --- not a test. ❞ ❝ we can save our home together. it doesn’t have to be like this. ❞ ❝ fear is a weapon. don’t let them use it against you. ❞

#rp meme #roleplay meme #roleplay starters #long post for ts /

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clouds-rambles · 3 years

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hello!~ o(〃＾▽＾〃)o

can i request headcanons for kaeya, diluc, childe, and venti on what they would while their s/o dies in their arms? (if thats okay with u <3)

thank u sm! :))

BESTIE THE PAIN I FEEL RN!!! Omw to make hurt some of my faves hope you enjoy <3

Also guys I’ve been here for a day how are there almost 50 of you following?!

Pairings; (Separate) Kaeya, Diluc, Childe, Venti x reader

Warning(s); hurt, big hurty, reader death, vague wound description, cursing, talk about dead bodies

Keep reading under the cut!

Kaeya

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. You were meant to live forever with him. You were supposed to grow old with him and become a parent to your future children. You were-

“Kaeya” you choke out smiling at your partner above you. The man shakes his head mentally pleading with you to not die “Kaeya I will always be on the wind” you tell him, a shaky, bloody hand raised to his cheek to weekly caress it

“Please” he pleads “Please don’t die on me [name]” you smile at him feeling the breaths in your lungs disappear

“I’m sorry Kae--ya” you apologise before passing away in his arms

He doesn’t move for a long time. He doesn’t feel for a long time. The one person he could share his secrets and his love to gone. Away with the wind

Kaeya doesn’t remember the last time he cried, but he’ll remember this one.

Your beaten, bruised, broken, dead, and beautiful body slumped in his arms as his tears fall from his face as he feels an absence in his heart

How is he supposed to live on if this is the pain he feels right now?

Jean eventually stumbles upon Kaeya out in the wilds, still clutched to your now cold and even more lifeless body

Jean manages to get the man up with your body held close to his chest

“Jean, I can’t, I can’t let them go” he pleads as if he’s waiting for you to simply wake up in his arms

“Kaeya...” Jean says in a concerned tone having never seen him in such a state, even he seemed to quickly recover from his fathers death

Eventually Jean coaxed Kaeya to go back to the city and leave your body in the hands of the sisters. Where they dressed you up and prepared a funeral service for you

The funeral was larger than Kaeya was expecting, you had affected a many more people than he realised from your small jobs around the city. Kaeya can’t help but be awed at how many people you’ve helped while you were in Mond

The usual chatter of Mondstat is quiet and in a time of grieving for about a week or so, many people have wonderful memories of you and Kaeya seems to be collecting them all, that and bunches of flowers. Many of which find themselves laying on your tombstone as Kaeya tells you about his day

A month passes and it seems like everything's back to normal, Kaeya is back to his outgoing self. He spends more nights at the tavern, but even Diluc doesn’t have the heart to cut him off.

Jean seems to pick up on the smallest things, goddamnit Jean, the extra nights at the tavern, the eyebags, the weeping she can hear from his room. In it’s own right is heart-breaking, the acting Grandmaster cannot imagine what it’s like to be actually experiencing that kind of pain

Diluc

No, not like this

You had both decided that night to join each other in your little vigilante escapade. Which was fine you had both done this before, but tonight resulted in something very different

Here you are, head on Dilucs lap. This could be considered romantic, and often was, were it not for the fact you felt like you choked up a mixture of your lung and your bloody supply

“Diluc” you speak with a much worse for wear voice, the red-head looks into your eyes, eyes already gaining moisture. A similar scene has befallen him before, a Diluc knows how this ends

“Please” he pleads his voice wavering “Please don’t leave me” he chokes back a sob and tears fall off his face the salt hitting your own

“I love you so much” you start, Diluc shakes his head. Must you hurt him so with last words? “Don’t blame yourse-” another set of hacking befalls you as you lose more blood

“Please” he pleads again as the grip you had on his arm goes slack indicating your loss of life

Diluc screams, he cries and he hugs you close. He screams into the air of Mondstat until his voice hurts and he cries until all he’s doing is dry sobbing and he holds you close until you’re broken body is pried from his own broken mind

A wondering Jean heard his screams into the night sky and hereby answered them. She never expected to see Diluc, still in his vigilante getup, crying over your body

She calls for more guards who take your body from his and Jean helps Diluc get back to the estate. At one point during the walk Jean can feel DIluc shaking and hyperventilating. So they stand for a moment, Jean holds and comforts the wine-master before they move again

Jean has never seen such emotion from Diluc before, and she wholeheartedly hopes she’ll never have to see it again. Seeing Diluc so raw and rife with emotion is enough to make anyone cry. And Jean nearly did on more than one occasion.

Your funeral is small, much to Dilucs request and really only were attended by the estate and Jean. Diluc didn’t want to cry again in such a large audience

Though the maids often hear pained sobs coming from Dilucs room as he contemplates and often blames himself for what had transpired. Maids daren’t speak up about what they hear though, Diluc’s pain is more than understandable

Diluc throws himself into work opting to man the bar most days of the week and fighting for the city as often as he can. People around him are more than concerned

Diluc’s stoic nature seems to be intensified now, not wanting to let another person in and die in his arms. He’s seen enough death for his life and wishes not to lose more loved ones

Everything seems to have moved back to what life was before you arrived in your life, depressive, monotonous, boring, mundane for the most part and sad. So very sad

He wishes for a day where his heart isn’t strife with grief, but he doubts that day will not be coming anytime soon

Childe

You grin up at him, feeling close to naught pain coming from the gaping wound thanks to the excess of adrenaline that’s pumping through your body

“Childe” you say the smile still on your lips in an attempt at not making the situation as dark and horrific as it is. Childe speaks your name in return

“I love you” you tell him mustering the strength to cup the mans cheek, who immediately nuzzles into it. The situation almost doesn’t feel real to him. He’s going to be shaken awake by a very unwounded you in just a moment and inform him he’s having a nightmare

But that moment doesn’t come. Nor do any words come from you. Your slow rhythms of your heart remind you that he’s still got time, but you’ve expended all your energy. Your smile you’re wearing seems to be dropping

“I love you [name], I love you so much, you are everything I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you” he rambles bringing your body to his chest

“Live for--- me” you sputter out into his chest, a dying wish that Childe isn’t too sure he can uphold. Is it really living if he’s an empty vessel.

You go limp in his arms and he can no longer sense your heartbeat. Death had finally laid claim to you

Childe sits with you for hours, you’d expect him to be wailing like a banshee if you knew his personality but that’s rather not the case. Sobbing quietly is a better word for what happens. Most of his sobs and hacks for air are hidden in your hair. He pulled your body to his shoulder just to weep

Eventually he finds himself mustering the courage to walk back to Liyue Harbour. You firmly held in his arms. He knows that if he walks too plainly the Millelith would pry and ask too many questions for his fragile heart to answer

Childe ends up barging into the wangsheng funeral parlour, which surprises Zhongli a little. He’s about to go on a rant to Childe about how he must book an appointment, until he sees your lifeless body in his arms

The funeral is arranged quickly and neatly. There aren’t many people who attend, Childe is okay with that, he secretly wants to see his family and cry on their shoulder a bit

Instead he opts for a letter, which arrives to the family tear stained and lacking the usual penmanship ‘I’m sorry, you won’t be able to see [name] after all. They passed away not too long ago...’ he basically writes your arbitrary in the letter. And his whole heart is in every word he writes

Determined not to let anybody in Childe finds himself in a pattern, when he’s not throwing himself into battles he’s doing paper work or yelling at his subordinates and when he’s not doing that he’s doing his weekly fight with the traveller. Childe gets next to no sleep and instead opts to reading and rereading every letter and note you’ve ever given him

If Childe passes out at his desk nobody bothers him either in fear of getting yelled at by the harbinger or an understanding of losing a loved one

They never said being a harbinger was fulfilling work. Yet, he let himself believe that he could be fulfilled and content with a lover. What a shameful lie

Venti

He’s awfully quiet. He hasn’t experienced death in so long. Especially one he thought would be forever.

He couldn’t even get to you to hear your last words. Ironic isn’t it? He hadn’t heard that guys last words either. And yet this pains him so much more

Sure mortal lives are fleeting but he was certain he had more time with you. More time to see you grow old, more time to put off your inevitable mortality. More time to-

He’s hyperventilating, Venti’s body shakes as he finds nothing to ground himself not even the person he loves so dear is there for him. He feels like he could explode, breaths caught in his throat refusing to surface and come up for air. Despite being an immortal archon, the breaths that refuse to surface don’t fail to make him feel like he’s choking

A bard he is. And one that knows every song from the past, present and future. Suddenly the pained songs from the future make sense to him. He knew what was written. A love lost

Suddenly he finds himself crying and hunched over your deceased form making promises to the wind that he’ll never forget you. Much like he’ll ever forget that bard

He isn’t sure how long has passed but he’s still sobbing over your form, there aren’t many tears left for him to cry but he can’t find himself stopping. He feels like they’ll never stop.

Maybe he could lay beside you and sleep for another thousand years. But that would only delay the inevitable. The inevitable sinking feeling.

Maybe it was his fault for letting himself fall in love with a mortal, but in the moment he could truly see you living life with him. He could see a marriage, children. He wanted you to have it all.

Damn celestia and all things above for not letting you ascend, at least when he inevitably ascends you’ll be there to greet him. Curse that and your mortality

Jean eventually stumbles upon him during a recon mission to find him covering your body in various flowers, a crown made of cecelias don your head. He’s quiet, but he’s saying goodbye. Who would blame him? Jean doesn’t interrupt him and only wishes you a farewell

News of your death spread around town like wildfire, your grave donned with more flowers than Venti can count. He almost feels bad about not doing a public service after seeing how many people are truly in mourning

Diluc doesn’t push Venti to pay his growing tab no matter how much he should. And Diluc doesn’t say no to Venti singing his happy tunes in the tavern

It feels like his life has retuned to normal. Though Jean can’t help but look out the library window to see Venti sat atop his statue with an expression, as Jean can only guess, of sadness.

Venti finds himself going back to an old schedule again but he can’t miss the nagging feeling of somethings missing. The something being you

Sometimes he half expects you to hug him from behind, or join him up at the statue, or kiss him on his nose, or-

Venti can’t quite comprehend how he feels, he just knows there’s a hole in his heart where you belonged. And he doesn’t want to let anyone find their way into there

He doesn’t want to lose again

It’s happened too much

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dromaeocore · 4 years

Text

I want to urge ya'll to make space for people with psychosis in your mental health advocacy.

Let me explain.

First off, psychosis in itself is an incredibly lonely and isolating experience. Depression and anxiety have made massive strides in general acceptance and that's wonderful, but if someone has hallucinations or delusions, we're still terrified to talk about them.

Isolation breeds alienation breeds suicidality.

If you don't even feel welcome in mental health spaces that are supposed to be meant for you, you're going to feel really, really fucking bad, man. Your brain is already collapsing in on itself and turning your sense of reality into a nightmare, and then you're afraid to talk about it and feel like an alien when you do.

Another example of this - you'll be hanging out in a group of other mentally ill people and they all start talking about how cannabis helps their symptoms, and insist you try it too, (weed is detrimental to psychotic people, no ifs ands or buts, it's like eating peanuts when you have a peanut allergy) and then you're put in the awkward position of either seeming like a shetered stick in the mud or outing yourself as a Crazy Person.

First of all, you're allowed to have boundaries no matter what, but second of all, I shouldn't be afraid to tell people about this aspect of my mental health.

I also really, really want to talk about those of us who suffer suicide-themed delusions. You cannot make blanket statements like "suicidal people don't want to die, they just want to end their suffering" or "this is a permanent solution to a temporary problem", and you can't paint all suicidal people with the same brush.

I've felt your stereotypical "I'm going to be miserable forever, so what's the point" suicidality. And it sucks. I'd argue that it's just as bad as what I'm about to talk about.

But it's an entirely different beast from when I'm convinced the universe has a target on my head, and I can see into a future where my continued existence sets off a series of events that ends in the deaths of my loved ones and innocent strangers. Or when I'm convinced I have some kind of psychic poison that excaberates the mental illnesses of anyone I spend too much time with. Or many years ago, when I was convinced suicide was the only way to enter the Matrix-like world I was Called To.

I know it sounds crazy. (It is!) But these aren't uncommon delusions to have, and newsflash: we're in just as much danger as any "classically" suicidal person, if not more, because goddamn, when the stakes are "everyone I love will die if I don't do this", you might get pretty damn desperate. In that moment, to you, what your faulty brain is telling you is your reality.

Keeping this shit a secret makes it worse. Delusions kind of feed off the fear of being found out; the more it's kept secret, the more it snowballs, at least in my experience. Some of my biggest coping skills include telling my support system (therapist, partner, close friends) when I'm Going Through It, and I'm lucky that I have people I feel safe enough around to even kind of vaguely talk about it with.

The stigma kept me from telling anyone for years, and most psychotic people will, sadly, have a similar story.

It's also intensely traumatic. Even when you're not actively symptomatic, the memories of the things you saw and Knew thought and experienced still haunt you. It took me over a year to open up to my therapist about the first break I had six years ago. I sobbed my fucking eyes out and was shaking so hard.

I know so many others who will tell you they suffered with symptoms alone for so long. Which is really traumatic in and of itself, but it's even worse when you feel like you can't even talk about it when it's over, because everyone looks at you like some Weird Crazy Person. You can't talk about it, because it's not #Relatable and people believe the stigma.

I want you guys to realize one thing: Psychotic people are human.

We have dreams and hobbies and loved ones and goals and histories and complex emotions just like everyone else. We want love and acceptance and contentment just like everyone else. We just have brains that like to Fuck With Us.

And it's lonely. I wouldn't wish it on anyone, but God, I wish it was okay to casually say "I had a bad break last night" or "I'm having a really scary hallucination right now" or "I went through a year-long psychotic break", just as much as it's okay to say "I'm just coming out of a depressive episode" or "I think I'm having an anxiety attack" or "I suffered PTSD for a few years".

Especially in circles meant to discuss mental illness.

When your friend tells you of their terrifying hallucinations, or their delusions that don't make any sense to you, or their paranoias, please, please, just be there and listen, if you can. Ask questions, check in, see how they're doing. Our struggles may look different, but we're still experiencing pain and fear and loneliness.

And if you need to be able to relate to someone to feel compassion, I urge you to relate to that.

#personal #psychosis #mental health #suicide #ask to tag #long post #hooooo. this has been weighing on my mind for a while.#greatest hits #Pseriouslypsychosis

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eyrieofsynapses · 3 years

Text

i’ll be your god of loss

(from “The God of Loss” by Darlingside, which will make you cry.)

so I was thinking about the trio and kids. Because these people, you know, they adore kids! they’re great with them! And they might not admit to that, they may not believe it, but we know it, we see it with Eliot and Molly, with Hardison and Trevor, with Parker and Josie, with the kids from The Stork Job and The Fairy Godparents Job and their clients’ children and so very many more.

Most of all we see it with Breanna. We see how they mentor her, how they provide advice, how they encourage her, how they build her up, how they laugh with her and speak of teaching her and telling her stories from the beginning. they unashamedly adore her. And they are so very good with her—they know how she looks up to them, they know they are always watched, and they behave like it. They are truly wonderful with her.

We know they love kids. We know, too, that they see the foster system’s flaws, and we know they fear for the children they save from bad situations. We see how they instinctively nurture the kids of the clients who have lost a parent. We watch how they will lift up the children of the marks who do not treat them well.

But they are not meant for white-picket fences.

These are not the kinds of people who settle down. They do not get tired of what they do one day and say “perhaps we’d best end this now.” They never get tired of it. They adore their work, they adore their life, they cannot imagine anything else. They will never willingly stop.

But there is a point where need eclipses want. There will be a day when they cannot do it anymore.

This is a known fact, but it is not a loved one.

The years trickle by. The time of Redemption comes and goes. They raise team after team, create an ever-reaching map of International, help people by the thousands and by the singles. And they are not the management. They leave that to the capable people they have trained, the ones they trust with their lives and more, and they keep doing the jobs, they stay involved, they get their hands dirty. Because there is nothing else for them. They began this doing what they loved, after all, and that love has not faded. If anything it has only grown.

Parker cannot sit still in an office all day, and Eliot cannot watch others fight and listen to them take the blows that he should, and Hardison will never be able to see all the things his algorithms raise and all the troubles that pass in the media and not do anything about it himself. This is against their very nature.

But the years go on and on, decades pass, and Hardison realizes one day that this cannot go on forever.

It is Hardison, because it is him who sits in the headquarters or the van or the discreetly close location with his laptop open and monitoring frequencies. It is Hardison, not Eliot or Parker, who can pay the most attention to the every soft grunt and caught breath and withheld noise of pain.

It is Hardison who realizes, one fateful day, that those moments increase day by day, job by job, and his injury logs have grown exponentially thicker in the last year. He watches their medical supplies drain away faster and faster even as he replaces them. More and more there are mornings when the other two linger between the sheets for longer than they used to.

It is he who watches Eliot squint ever more at the files and sees his glasses come out of his pocket with unusual regularity. There is a box full of spares in the bottom drawer of their wardrobe for when they break on the job. Hardison begins tipping the lid more often when he starts hearing the crunch of broken glass in his husband’s jacket pocket. They disappear faster these days.

(One day Hardison has had enough. He makes the toughest case he can and slips it into Eliot’s jacket pocket the night before a job. Eliot never says anything, but it lays on the bedside table sometimes when they’re off, and the glasses stop disappearing from the box so often.)

It is he who notices how Parker reinforces her rigs more and more, how ropes and straps support more than they used to and stretch further. The vents don’t thud so often these days. She has hung a hammock high in the rafters of their house, and he sees her less in the harness and more tucked away there.

(He adds padded bottoms to some of the vents and larger places to rest. Parker never says anything, but the vents rattle a little more often.)

It is he who observes how Eliot isn’t at the punching bag as regularly anymore, how he wraps his hands so carefully when he is, he who sees how Parker does not stretch quite as far as she used to, how she painstakingly plan jobs where she does not have to do a backbend or a particular contortion.

It is he who watches every time they step out—not jump out, no, not anymore—of the van, carefully holding on to the sides, and thinks to himself as he watches them walk away—

Is this the last time I will ever see you?

It’s Hardison who, whenever he finds a new job for them to do, eyes the circumstances and determines whether it’s something he can ship off to another team or not. His algorithms are prioritized now to chances of harm rather than potential jobs, attuned to the ever-growing injury logs. Their jobs begin to skew further to grifts and simpler building plans. But that never stops him wondering: Will this be the last job we ever take?

Will I send them to their deaths today?

For it is not his hair that fills with grey streaks faster and faster. It is Parker’s. When he sits behind her on the bed with her brush beside him, carefully separating her hair into strands for braiding, he finds more and more of them silvering.

(He watches her braid it every day, but some mornings she slips before him anyway. She was delighted when she discovered he could do it, courtesy of too many little sisters and not enough time in busy school mornings. It brings a grin to his face every time he thinks of her sunshine smile.)

It is Eliot’s, for there are late nights when Hardison finds him stretched out and half-asleep on the couch, and when he comes back with a blanket Eliot will be sitting up and waiting. He always sits beside him. Sometimes, Eliot lays back down with his head in his husband’s lap and lets him card gentle fingers through his hair. Those cherished moments become bittersweet when he finds that it is not so thick nor as deep in color as he remembers (though it is always soft).

And it is Hardison who bolts awake in the midst of the night with the ringing of the comms in his ears, clutching at the sheets to reassure himself he is not in the van he is not in the headquarters he is not on a job he does not have the earbud in his ear he is not listening to his lovers dying.

These nightmares plagued him from the beginning. He cannot count the number of times he has dreamt of sucking death-rattle breaths, the crack of spines, the sound of screaming in his ears, cannot count the times he has dreamt of searching and searching for bodies. Sometimes he does find them, staring eyes and crushed ribs and mangled limbs. Sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes they aren’t dead at all—but those times he never finds them. He can never figure out which is worse.

But the nightmares have never been so bad as they are now.

Other nights he does not sleep. Other nights, he sits awake and watches his lovers’ scarred chests rise and fall in deep slumbering breaths, and wonders when will I lose you? A year from now? Two? Or only months, only weeks?

What if it’s tomorrow?

He wakes to the others’ weeping often. But he thinks they are the ones comforting him more these days.

Finally Hardison has had enough.

They can’t do this any longer. He can’t do this any longer. Hardison cannot live without them, these two lights of his life, his sun and moon and bright diamond stars—but he knows he will die last, should they continue down this path, and he will die alone and many years from now.

For it is not he who takes punch after punch from men decades younger than himself, who climbs into stories-high elevator shafts where one wrong button-press could end it all, who stares down the barrels of guns without one himself, who hangs off the sides of buildings by his fingertips, who pushes and pushes and pushes his body day in and day out. His husband and wife are resilient. The odds say that they should have been unable to keep doing this a decade ago—and the odds are wrong.

But Eliot and Parker are not the kinds of people who can merely stop. There will never be a day, Hardison knows, when they will sit down with him and say we do not want to do this anymore. They will push and push and push themselves till they break.

Hardison knows what their breaking will look like. His dreams have told him so. Hardison will not, will never, let that happen on his watch. He will have to stop them.

If he asked, they would. It would take coercing, it would take shouting and arguing and probably many hours of the two of them off on their own and thinking, but they would.

But Hardison turns this over in his mind as he forges paintings and writes code and sends out emails to the teams, tries to picture stopping, and it makes him go nearly as cold as the thought of breaking does.

Stopping means no more jobs. No more jobs means…

Well, it means a lot of time spent volunteering, he supposes, and overseeing International’s teams. It means a lot more nights spent at home and not hotels. More of Eliot’s home cooked meals, he guesses, and more movie nights, more trips for fun. The medical kit wouldn’t have to be refilled nearly as often. Eliot’s box of glasses would never have to be replenished again. It means fewer days spent watching his partners hobble around and deny that they need to sit. Hardison wouldn’t have to plan jobs around the weather that makes their bones ache, or watch Parker wince as she drops out of a vent, or notice how Eliot needs the volume in his comm brought up higher than he used to.

There would be no heart monitors that spike and fall on the screens.

Hardison thinks of this, and then he imagines Parker and Eliot in their house, day in and day out, and it brings a shake to his breath rather than a steadiness.

Ever-moving Parker and Eliot, his never-stopping always-going wife and husband, for whom he has to fill the house with distractions to keep them from pacing and snapping and looking for trouble. Parker has vents and climbing systems and a room full to the brim of boxes of locks, safes, puzzle-boxes, books of riddles, absolutely anything and everything that could challenge her.

There’s a small gym for Eliot. Hardison always puts new gadgets and cookbooks in the kitchen, and he’s found that there are indeed some books that Eliot will spend hours reading (assuming he can find his glasses). A guitar found its way into the living room one day, and now books of music pile up on the nearby shelves. He keeps a closet specifically for outdoor gear.

But there are only so many meals that can be cooked. Parker is already bored of most of the puzzle room. More than that, they both have to move. Challenges from books and puzzles and games have never and will never be enough for them.

Hardison thinks of them in that house, day in and day out, growing wearier and wearier of what they have, growing tired of what life has to offer, and it sends a racking shudder through him.

He goes on, day in and day out, and he watches them, and they push themselves, and he worries and he wonders and he dreams and he fears.

And then, one day, it hits him.

They’re sending off yet another kid to the foster system. Hardison will track them and make sure they find the right place, but it always aches a little to watch them go. He’s been through that hell. There is nothing he wouldn’t give not to help them. The three of them always see them off, but it never feels like enough.

This time, though, he’s rushing, running to meet them. The kid is already leaving. Parker and Eliot watch them go, tension laced in their shoulders, and it occurs to him that he rarely ever watches them watch the kid.

They look with the same love in their eyes he saw so many years ago. In a moment he is struck with memories: listening to Eliot teaching Molly how to hit balloons with a dart in the mirror, Parker putting her hands over Josie’s ears as she taught her to break into a car, the worried love in his husband’s voice as he searched for the girl he had known for mere hours, the outraged passion of his wife’s protectiveness over the teenager she had seen so much of herself in.

There is the ringing of Parker’s half-choked declaration they’ll wind up like me. There is the way Eliot had spoken of Cory, a boy who still carried his father’s lunchbox while he worked in a mine for his family. There’s the kid from the boxing ring and the kid whose father was killing himself in the ice rink and the children tackling Eliot in the school and, and, and—

—and Hardison remembers teaching bright, precocious Trevor about hacking when they were trying to steal a goddamn potato of all things. And of course Breanna, wonderful, perfect Breanna, who leads International now. Breanna, whom he spent so many long, long days and nights teaching how to hack and how to build software and hardware and engineering and whatever else she asked of him. Breanna, who called even when it was four in the morning for her, just to hear his tales of the crew. She still calls. Half the time it’s only to hear their voices.

With her comes the loud, bustling noise of Nana’s house, the shouting echoing off the walls, the warmth of his little siblings on his hip, the attention and focus it took to put braid after braid in his sisters’ hair. Nana was forever busy with the kids. He still loves coming over as often as he can to help. One thing never changes—her house is forever noisy. There are always new kids around, and there are always lessons to be taught: how to fold laundry, how to dance along to a song without worrying whether you’re doing it right, how to complete all of your schoolwork for the night, how to speak kindly, how to work together, and the most important one of all:

Love yourself.

Nana’s work is never done. She is always busy.

Eliot and Parker cannot stand to be still. They need to be doing something. But most of all, they have to be helping someone.

The puzzle snaps together like a flash of lightning. As the thunder rolls, so does his mind: he knows precisely what he needs to do.

First there’s the matter of housing. Their house is big, but not that big, and anyway, the only home that matters to them is each other. Nana’s only one person, and she can manage plenty of kids on her own. Between the three of them, Hardison is sure they’ll wind up with quite the brood.

There are any number of mansions lying around the States. It’s shocking how many there are. They’re not small, either: most of them could fit a whole extended family in them, though most of the time they’re just bought by too-rich people who can’t hope to fill a quarter of the space. Hardison should know. The crew has infiltrated plenty of them. But he knows they’ll find a way to put one to good use.

He searches for the ones that are unlikely to be bought and only takes up space. There’s a lot of them, half too damaged to be good for anything, but one sticks out: secluded with beautiful grounds, an area with good (but not too good) schools, a half-decent price point, and a bit of a fixer-upper.

Standing on ladders and driving in nails isn’t not physical, but it’s a lot better than dodging punches or dropping two stories off a building. Giving Eliot and Parker a project right off the bat will help ease the blow of quitting the jobs.

Then he hunts down research. He already has shelves upon shelves of books on psychology and parenting and foster children and anything else that could be helpful, but there’s always more to read. A refresher course is important.

While he’s got algorithms searching for that, he sets some to hunting down more details on the local area as well as building renovations, then begins building a plan. He’ll have to introduce the idea slowly. Parker and Eliot won’t be opposed, per say, but getting them to completely agree will be a challenge.

It takes a few weeks, but it’s going well, and Hardison’s almost ready to present his idea to them.

Then his world shatters.

It’s another job, another day, another time when he watches his lovers head out the door and wonders will it be this time?

Except then will it be this time? changes to oh God, it’s this time.

Eliot’s breaths choke off at the same time something crunches.

Parker screams his name so loud Hardison’s ears ring. Or maybe that’s him—maybe that’s him screaming so hard that the taste of blood coats his throat—but it doesn’t matter because Parker’s cut off with a jerk and the comms go dead and they are dead dead dead and—

The world spins and drops out. The next few hours are black but for agonizing pain.

His only memory is not of sight or sound or hearing. It’s touch, the thready warmth of two pulses flickering under his fingers.

They tell him later that he found them in the nick of time: two unconscious bodies collapsed side-by-side in a back alley, and him, clutching their wrists with 911’s number still glowing on the phone beside them. Apparently he rode in the ambulance, because they couldn’t get him away from the other two without restraining him. Every time they tried they feared they’d hurt him.

What he remembers next is this: waking in a plastic chair, head dizzy (with sedatives, he learns later), an ice-cold knife of grief sunk into his heart and tears coating his cheeks, to the steady paired beeping of twin heart monitors.

They survive. Miraculously, they survive, somehow with only minimal injuries. Hardison knows it’s only because of the advancements made within the last few years. Three days later they’re out of the hospital and back home, Eliot on crutches and unhappy about it, Parker complaining at length over the stitches in her arm. Hardison can’t even be annoyed by it. They’re here and they’re alive and they’re still here.

He gives them the evening. But the next day he’s up even before them, spreading papers on the table and making breakfast at the stove (because you learn some things when your husband is a world-class cook) when the two of them come to the table.

When they ask, he doesn’t bother to soften the blow. This is the last time he’s doing that. They’re done.

Eliot and Parker look at each other, then at him. They nod.

He blinks. Just like that? he wonders, and then asks it aloud.

“We don’t want to hurt you again,” they answer, and his heart could break with relief.

When he presents the plans they answer with all the joy he had hoped for. They’re worried, of course—will they be fit to care for children?—but Hardison only rolls his eyes and reminds them of Breanna and Josie and Molly and Cory and all the rest, and they relent.

Two months later they move out to the mansion. It’s a difficult project. Even Hardison didn’t anticipate how long it would be (though Eliot grumbled at him about how much harder this would be than it seemed, dammit, Hardison, what have you gotten us into this time?) but it’s good work, hard work, busy work. He doesn’t have to watch them pace in a hotel room with boredom. There is no angry snapping born of too much time spent sitting around. They work and Hardison blasts music and the other teams chat with them over voice calls.

Some nights Eliot sits in the central hall, the ceiling four stories above them and laced with Parker’s rigs, and plays new songs for them on his guitar. They all sing along when it’s one they know. The acoustics of the room are perfect for echoing and strengthening their voices.

Other nights they curl up on a pile of king mattresses spread three-wide and two-deep, blankets heaped high, and whisper stories to one another before falling asleep to the songs of morning birds outside the windows.

Hardison still wakes screaming. Eliot and Parker do too. But it’s not every other night anymore, and now that they aren’t on jobs, his nightmares begin to recede.

(Of course there’s always the recurring one that did happen. Sometimes he sleeps with their wrists in his hands or his fingers pressed to their necks, just to reassure himself their hearts are still beating. If Eliot and Parker are still awake, one of them will pull him close and press his ear against their chest, and he falls asleep listening to their heartbeat.)

Some of the International people show up to help. They come with suggestions and ideas that get put to good use. Breanna delights in helping them pick out the tools for a massive workshop. His other siblings come too, and he puts them to work. Nana is too old for traveling these days (though he knows she’ll outlive them all), but she talks to them over video calls and gives them tips on how to make everything work.

“How on earth are you going to handle so many kids?” some of them ask. “You’re looking at a school’s worth.”

The three of them just smile. They’re up to the task—and besides that, there’s a number of people from other crews who are also on the brink of retirement. An entire section of the manor is planned for incoming helpers: they won’t be alone for long.

Finally the mansion is done. Or, well, done enough. It’ll always be a project. There will always be a room that needs repainting, or a sink that breaks out of nowhere and needs repairing, or a piece of roof that’s leaking. But it is more than livable—oh, so beautifully livable, the best home Hardison has ever found for them, filled to the brim with all they could ever want.

There is a library with shelves that stretch two floors up, filled with more books than he could read in a lifetime and skylights flooding the room with sunlight. The gym has endless features: a dance studio, a martial arts room, weights, gymnastic mats and bars, a goddamn ball pit because Parker loved the idea, and slides to go with it. Eliot has the biggest and best kitchen he could have ever dreamed of. There’s even a walk-in fridge and freezer.

(“The hell do you expect me to be cooking for, an army?” he asks once, and Hardison laughs.

“Worse. Kids.”)

They’ve made the bedrooms a little plainer than usual, though they have rooms filled to the brim with furniture and curtains and decorations of all shapes and sizes. It will be the kids’ home too. They deserve to decorate their own rooms, no matter how long they’ll be staying.

There are movie rooms, and rooms of pillows and couches and blankets, hidey-holes aplenty (Parker knows them all), games, puzzles, music (Hardison’s pretty sure a band could set up shop in there), art, writing spaces, closets and closets waiting to be filled, bathrooms with tubs big enough to be small pools, a real pool both indoors and out, and Hardison sometimes loses track of what else. They make sure all but some reserve rooms are used and functional. None of them will let this space go to waste.

Getting everything up to code is a job and a half, but there’s plenty of disabled International people (and Hardison’s siblings too) who give them pointers and let them know who the right people to call are. Hardison delights in picking out elevator music. Eliot informs him that programming them to play The Imperial March every time he uses them is not as funny as he thinks. Parker plans little puzzles in Braille and puts them in all sorts of places.

She, of course, has rigging all over the place. The high ceilings are her dream. There are hammocks everywhere. Eliot adores the greenhouse and gardens, spending hours mulling over plans and determining precisely what will work best. Hardison watches the lawn service mowing the massive yards and mulls over the best use for them. There are paths aplenty for running and walking. Eliot’s got a whole space mapped out for an orchard. Parker’s claimed a not-insignificant section of it for mazes and a high ropes course (which is going to be godawful hard to build, but he can’t wait to watch the kids on it).

Hardison’s read a lot of books and seen a lot of research supporting animal-raising as an excellent activity for kids. And he’s always wanted a dog.

When they visit the local shelter they end up with three (because Eliot’s a softie for them) and two cats. He plans a chicken coop in the back and goes to long-term planning for more farm-type animals. Parker has come to love horses over the years, and he knows Eliot’s fondness has never faded. Maybe a stable or two.

Their adoption and foster papers process not long before they’re done. (Hardison technically already had them, but they hadn’t been done the legal way, and though the law is pretty stupid about this whole thing he still wants to do it right.) Then it’s time to get to work.

They’re careful, of course. They begin with two siblings in the summer. Both are teenagers, that age where it’s hard to get them into a foster home, let alone to adopt. (Of course the three of them aren’t looking for adoption unless the kids want it. They’re human beings: they get to choose their own parents.) Both are quiet and wary, looking overwhelmed as they stare up into the manor’s heights.

Parker and Hardison exchange glances, wincing. They’d known from experience that this might be tricky.

They start small, relegating everything to a single wing. It’s around the size of an ordinary house, maybe a bit bigger, and while the three of them have their own rooms elsewhere they make sure to sleep nearby. (That’s something else the kids look at them strangely for: there aren’t many polycules who foster kids, after all. There aren’t many polyamorous couples visible in the media period, though that’s changing with Breanna’s generation. )

When Eliot loads one kid’s laundry into the machine (and oh, they need to go shopping so badly for these kids), he finds a worn dress at the bottom of a pile of boy’s clothes. The same kid, he recalls, who had shaken their head a little when he had asked them about haircuts, whose hair was already brushing their shoulders. It’s fraying at the edges, obviously well loved. There’s a hole in the skirt. When he brings the laundry up he takes out the sewing kit (well, a piece of it—there is a truly enormous area of the arts room dedicated to material arts) and makes sure to fix the hole before he puts everything in the closet. The dress goes first and foremost, hung delicately on a special hanger.

The days go by, the kids become more open, and a routine falls into place. They fill closets with dresses and scarves and put boxes of pins with pronouns in their rooms. Eliot teaches them to chop vegetables and shows them basic self-defense. He helps them walk the dogs, and when he offers they let him teach them meditation.

Parker takes them to therapy (a tricky conversation, but well worth it) and shows the younger one how to climb. The older one is more interested in puzzles, and she happily complies, bringing out a massive box full to the brim with puzzle-boxes.

Hardison, for his part, puts together movie nights and video gaming sessions. He shows off the library and makes sure they know where to find everything, as well as the rules of the house. When one of them shows an interest in fandom, he makes sure they know where the cosplay stuff is. One day he starts a DnD campaign with all four of his family members.

Four becomes five, five becomes seven, the school year begins and some choose homeschooling and others choose public. Homework is done, meals are cooked, dogs are fed, cats are befriended, lightsaber battles play out in the yards and Nerf gun fights are had in the halls (Eliot still prefers a shield), pillow fights go down, tears are cried and arguments ring out in the halls, the fridge doors and pin boards and walls are covered in artwork, kids eight, nine, and ten show up, conversations about queerness are had, a Pride parade is attended, there’s therapy and therapy and so much therapy, sports teams are joined, clubs are attended, problems occur and they handle it, they handle it, they handle it all no matter how hard it is.

Hardison isn’t sure he’s ever seen the other two so happy. He, for one, cannot contain his joy. The children are hard but they are wonderful, bright sparks ready to go out into the world with no one to dim them.

There is a baby one day that International directs to them. The rest of the kids dote on them. The work is hard, but they manage anyway, and there’s three of them to get up when the little one cries. There is nothing more endearing than watching Eliot asleep with a tiny baby crooked in his arm or Parker carefully climbing with them strapped to her chest.

One day, as he’s sitting on the porch with the other two at his sides and watching the kids play, he glances to the sides and realizes that his partners have gone fully gray. He himself finds his joints creaking more and more these days.

The International retirees are doing fantastic and Breanna is the perfect heir to their throne, directing teams with all her brilliance while getting her own work in on the side. She’s mentioned she thinks she might hand it off to one of her own proteges, just so she can go back to some of the old work.

We built a legacy, he thinks, and then, We built a legacy, and we are here now, and they did not die and leave me here alone, and we are happy.

He realizes Eliot and Parker are looking at him with that we know what you’re thinking expression. They smile at him when he notices. Parker kisses his cheek and Eliot pulls him closer on the porch swing, and though they say nothing at all, he knows they’re all thinking the same thing:

We got our happy ending, and we made sure everyone else will too.

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helbramstrauma · 3 years

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This is the result of a 2am manic episode. Enjoy <3

Nightmares

Feitan x GN!Reader

Quick note

You can consider this a parallel writing to DREAM, which was posted recently. You do not have to read it to understand this, but If you like this you can check it out.

Trigger warning

Angst, hurt-comfort, nightmares, vague description of an injury, second-person POV.

___________________________________________________________

The night wind howls through the open window causing a chill to come into the makeshift bedroom, although that is not what wakes you. The constant shift of and squeaking on the other side of the bed is what did. Feitan is tossing and turning next to you, you are not meant to wake up people when they have nightmares, it's dangerous. The most you should do is observe. Pressing your back against the wall to sit up you watch, his face contorts in the worst of ways, raw emotions he would usually hide are on full display. Despite the cool temperature of the room, Feitan is sweating profusely and his jaw is clenched. Feitan looks like he is in pain, the tenseness of his face is hard to watch, and his body begins to shake. How are you meant to just sit and wait for him to wake up?

You are no fool, Feitan could kill you if you woke him up right now without him even knowing. The familiar taste of iron enters your mouth as you realize you have been biting your lip. If he's asleep he won't be able to fight as well, right? You hope so at least. When you gently rub an area where an artery passes through it is the calmest way to wake someone. Taking one final deep breath before you begin to press your hand lightly to the jugular vein.

Snap

Sharp pain is felt in your wrist while the rest of your body is forced forward onto his chest. Your hurt wrist is under you, as the weight of your own body adds to the pain. The grip on your wrist falters swiftly after, however, your eyes are already watering by the time you hear your voice.

"y/n?" you hear in a hushed whisper, quickly followed by in a louder but more shaky voice. Using your other hand to push yourself up, you can see his face, his eyes are wide in the horror of what he has done. "it's my fault I should not have tried to wake you" a tear manages your way down your cheek before you wipe it.

"Let me see" Feitan carefully grabs your wrist and begins to examine it. "Broke" is said in a defeated tone. "I broke," his own guilt only adds to your heavy heart. You only wanted him to be taken away from his nightmares, not to be brought into the reality he is now facing. "I hurt... no" his sentences are choppy and after a while, you begin to hear his voice waver eventually to a whisper you can't make out. With your uninjured hand you bring his face up to yours, "I should not have woken you. I just didn't want to see you hurting from your dream. But now I just made it worse" His head shakes your hand away, "You didn't know what you were doing".

"But you wanted to help me, and I hurt you" He begins to leave the bed but you grab his hand.

"Please stay, don't blame yourself," you say but he keeps moving to break the grasp, "it's cold without you, come back" your second attempt makes him stop moving. "No one is at fault, I'll just take some painkillers and compress it tonight." Feitan turns are around to face you again, his watery eyes catch the dim light provided by the moon, as your heart breaks with the sight. "But I hurt you"

Desperately you reach out to him, "What was your nightmare about?" you ask hoping to get his mind off the reality, as you go into the supply bag to make a makeshift brace. The bed sinks down as he returns to bed, "Dark, it was cold. I was in a house, photos of us were on the wall. But there was no you." he lets out a sigh, "I could not find you and then I hurt you" you realized he was no longer talking about his dream at that point. Feitan's arms wrap around your waist pulling you into the familiar warm embrace, which you instinctively reciprocate.

"In your dream, that means we have a future together," you observe desperate to lighten the mood, "we had a house. We no longer had to move around from abandon building abandoned building". Feitan pulls away letting his hands rest on either side of your hips, "but you were gone"

"But I'm here now," you begin showing a shadow of a smile, "I'm not leaving you"

"I hurt you" he repeats for what feels like the hundredth time. "I love, but I hurt".

Your eyes light up slightly, before seeing his somber expression, he said the L-word. "I still love you, it was an accident with no malicious intent."

You feel his hands climb up to up your cheeks before pulling you into his own. The familiar sensation of his lips on your's somehow eases the pain in your wrist, even if it is just in your head. He then lays down with you still on top of him before turning you over to your side so your head was in your chest.

"Let us go back to sleep, and you better not let go of me"

"I will not, as long as you let me hold you". Feitan's grip tightens bringing you closer to his chest allowing your legs to tangle together. This is rare for him to initiate contact but you certainly cannot complain. With your face nuzzled close to his chest, you whisper softly, "sweet dreams".

#hunter x hunter #hxh #feitan porter #feitan #feitan x reader #feitan hxh #hunter x 2011 #fanfiction #Helbramstrauma #This was a manic episode

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waddlenut · 3 years

Text

Masterlist of the masterlist - Harry Styles

I HAVE WRITTEN NONE OF THESE FANFICS, CREDITS TO THE WRITERS!

This is a masterlist of my reblogs :)

ONE DIRECTION

Fluff -

He doesn’t want to take advantage of you while you’re drunk (5/5)

You fall asleep on hijm in front of the boys (5/5)

Angst -

You get mobbed by paparazzi (Harry and Louis preference)

The one where your house is on fire and you are asleep (Niall preference)

You pass out (Niall)

Tiger (Niall finds his girlfriend looking in the mirror, judging her appearance)

HARRY STYLES

Fluff -

Choosing her (y/n overhears Harry sticking up for her)

The one where you have a huge fight and you are sick

Not your fault (fav. y/n has epilepsy and Harry feels helpless. TW - minor graphic description of an epilepsy attack)

Y/N is in a wheelchair and she is grocery shopping with Harry

Just talk (fav. y/n has a minor speech impediment and one of Harry’s friend makes fun of her for it. She doesn’t know how to react, Harry does.)

Tea mugs and tear stains (y/n gets overwhelmed and Harry helps)

Harry jokes about your moaning

A white t-shirt (Harry find out about y/n’s scars. TW - mentions selfharm/scars)

Y/N vomits down Harry’s gucci suit and Harry couldn’t give a shit (TW - throwing up)

Y/N falling in the shower and boyfriend!Harry getting ultra worried

You’re deaf and Harry is besotted with you

Cus y’laugh is pretty (in which Harry gets his wiskom teeth removed)

Y/N is stressed and Harry makes everything just a little bit better

Coming out to Harry as bisexual (good ending, no worries)

Sweater (y/n cold and steals Harry’s sweater)

Periods, pads and pain (Y/N is on her period)

Holding him (just pure love and affection)

He’s just jealous (fav. a small kids thinks Y/N is pretty and wants to sit with her)

My muse (TW - camille)

My hero (Harry being protective)

You’re poor and he doesn’t know

The best doctor (Y/N has chronic migraines)

First class (the one when Y/N and Harry meet during a long flight, and Harry makes a new little friend too) part 2

Your best friend negatively talks about you and Harry’s relationship and he overhears

Your english is so good yet, and someone makes fun of it. Harry does not appericiate that

The best gift (fav. Y/N can’t afford Harry’s life style. angst w/ fluff)

Right place, right time (fav. When someone starts following the reader, Harry is the prince on a white horse)

Harry points you out at his concert part 2 part 3

Y/N has an asthma attack at Harry’s place

Y/N gets drunk and uses Harry’s dick as a microphone

Y/N is breastfeeding in public and a man started saying rude remarkt to her, Harry knows how te react (fav)

Families meet (one where Harry’s family and Y/N Mexican family meet)

Her good baby (fav. Y/N has been really busy with a family program and kinda forgets about Harry. That’s until he breaks)

Spill your guts or fill your guts (based on spill you guts or fill your guts with Harry and Kendall but instead of Kendall it’s you)

Harry think Y/N and the kids forgot his birthday (fav)

CEO!Harry bring this baby angel to work, all fun until she gets lost

Y/N accidentally eating Harry’s edibles

Harry just cannot believe how much he loves

Harry and Y/N’s first thanksgiving in their home and a little announcement

Candy Wrappers (Harry loves candy, that results in a house full of candy wrappers)

Harry dating a curvy girl

Y/N and Harry’s home birth doesn’t go as planned

Under the canyon moon (dad!harry blowing raspberries into bubs tummy but they get a rash)

Y/N is in London while he is LA during quarantine (fav)

Quarantining with dad!Harry and your bub

Harry feels neglected when Y/N spends lots of time with Anne

Pregnant (where you’re pregnant during the corona outbreak and Harry is super protective)

Sunflower vol.6: the fic (fav. Y/N has tourette syndrome and Harry falls in love)

Bad days and good days (Y/N has depression and Harry takes care of her. TW - mentions of depression)

Mornings with the Styles family

Y/N following Harry around the house because she got scared watching a movie

Better than melatonin (Harry’s songs help you sleep)

Harry doing baby bubs hair in the bathroom while she’s facetiming Mitch (fav)

Harry helps you through childbirth

Anasthesia and letting go (reader has gotten their wisdome teeth removed and Harry takes care of them)

Getting naked in front of Harry for the first time

Harry reads Y/N a story to help her drift off to sleep

Want a chicken nugget (you’re taking a shower and Harry, knowing your love for chicken nuggets, comes and gives you one)

Rainbow cardigan (Harry loses his favorite cardigan. You learn how to knit)

My shy little boy (Y/N’s son is too shy to play with other kids at Anne’s house)

Golden dancing (fav. Harry is on stage singing golden and little Artemis comes running on stage and starts dancing)

Daddy (Artemis calls Harry daddy for the first time)

The first meeting (Y/N and Artemis met a handsome (to Y/N) and intimidating (to Artemis) man)

Watermelon suger (behind the scenes) (Shots of long-term girlfriend Y/N in watermelon suger. TW - some strong language)

Roses and vanilla (in which Y/N and Harry aren’t really close until Y/N falls in the shower, and Harry falls in love)

Babbles (bubby crying during a show just to get Harry’s attention so they can go on stage and babble into the mic)

No kids (H and his partner deciding not to have children)

Toxic family (fav. The reader doesn’t have the best family, lucky for them, the Styles are basically their family)

Harry’s son runs on stage

Listen to me (fav. Autistic!reader has a difficult moment)

Angst -

You pass out backstage

You have paranoia disorder

Can you leave? (fav. ceo!harry)

Complains (In which Y/N heard Harry complainging about her)

Taken (your abusive ex tries to contact you when Harry’s away on your. (TW - name calling and slight violence)

Autistic!reader has an interview with Harry (fav)

You get into a car accident when Harry’s in the middel of a concert part 2

Too busy for a baby (TW - harry’s an asshole + mentions of pregnancy)

Y/N gets anxiety at one of Harry’s concerts. (TW - anxiety and guns are mentioned)

He kicks you out of the car. (fav) part 2

Long way down (the one where she tinks he’s being unfaithful, and he questions the trust in their relationship. TW - mentions of creating and pregnancy complications) part 2

The one where you have a huge fight and you are sick

There’s a rumor being spread about you

Remember me (Harry forgets your birthday)

Harry calls Y/N clingy and she leaves

Harm done (fav. Y/N makes Harry food but he doesn’t even like it)

Harry coming home to find Y/N locked herself up in the washroom

Don’t touch her (you’re in the crowd and somebody touches you while Harry’s performing. TW - sexual harassment and mild assault)

Why would you keep something like this from me? (In which she’s been feeling umcomfortable and doesn’t tell Harry. TW - mentions of assault)

Y/N and Harry get in a bad argument and Y/N gets a panic attack (TW - panic attack)

And I can’t give that to you (fav. In which Harry suffers from seasonal depression ands he doesn’t know how to help)

So tired (you join Harry on tour but he seems to have other prirorites. Angst w/ fluff on the way) part 2

You have self-esteem issues (TW - talking about low self-esteem)

Y/N has an anxiety attack at a concert and calls Harry (TW - anxiety attack)

Even if it was momentary (in which Harry is forced to watch his worst nightmare)

Little white lie (a television talk show host feels you up backstage and you don’t tell Harry. TW - sexual harassment) part 2

He hides the fact that he’s sick on tour form you and insults you when you try to take care of him

There’s an intruder in her house (Harry comes home to find his girlfriend is being threatenend by an intruder. TW - some curse words, mentions of sex & just in general subject of break ins and panic)

Narcissistic behaviour (Harry loves to talka bout himself, but it’s suppose to be Y/N’s special day)

Miss you (where Y/N loses Harry’s rose ring and he gives them the silent treatment)

Dizzy (Y/N gets hurt on Harry’s watch. TW - fainting/passing out)

Happy birthday (in which Y/N throws Harry a suprise birthday party, but Harry ends up making her cry)

Harry comparing you to Camille

Exhaustedly in love (Y/N passes out as soon as Harry comes home from tour because she has been studying day and night)

Go home (in which Harry is jet lagged and you’re completely humiliated) part 2

Get out (Y/N is done with Harry being busy with work all the time) part 2

Anesthesia and apologies (fav)

Y/N has a condition that makes her have seizures (TW - mentions of seizures)

Harry loses his baby angel while shopping

Harry complains to the boys about Y/N and his sex life part 2

You’re in love with Harry but your self-doubt won’t believe he’s in love with you

Don’t shout (Harry doesn’t know what to do after he lied to Y/N)

Make it up to you (Harry loses his temper and almost hits you. TW - almost being hit by a lover and swearing)

I’ll get there (Y/N has been struggling with her body image ever since she was a teenager, but now that she was becoming a big time model, it had only gotten worse. TW - mentions of eating disorders and symptoms similair to those of a panic attack)

Smut -

Harry comes home to Y/N being in subspace but he doesn’t realize

Needy baby (the one where Harry’s bakc from tour and his girl really just needs to feel him)

Shower head

Harry gets emotional because he loves you so much

Taste my lips, feel my touch (Y/N’s stuck in subspace and Harry helps her out of it)

Where Harry is an asshole CEO but Y/N is his little love

Happy anniversary

Y/N goes into sub space when she is overwhelmed, but now it happend in public

Then again sometimes I get really sweet (TW - belly humping)

This cutest thing ever

Crossing the finish line

Right choice (Harry has a moustache now and you want get it sticky. TW - swearings, sexual intercourse and a sticky moustache)

Timing (Harry cumming early and he is upset and disappointed)

Cause I’m high, chewing on your taste (TW - Sub!Harry, H in fishnets and pegging)

Out in the heartland (It’s Harry’s birthday and you have a very special gift for him. TW - daddy kink, pegging, anal fingering and rimming)

#one direction masterlist #harry styles masterlist

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iliveiloveiwrite · 3 years

Text

Bloom // H.P.

Summary: Healing doesn't happen overnight. It’s a process that can take months, if not, years to come to terms with. It’s been five years since the Battle of Hogwarts and the end of the Second Wizarding War. Harry finally feels ready to confront feelings that have long been sat, growing unattended in the recesses of his mind and soul.

A/N: This was inspired by the made-up fic title that I did a few weeks ago. I got so stuck on this, I couldn't get any further, but inspiration somewhat struck and here we are. I know this is long, but I am so so proud of this, I would love some interaction with this. Take a chance, please.

Warnings: feelings of sadness, grief, worthlessness, more visits to graveyards, talks of death. This sounds dark, and parts are, but there is so much fluff and comfort and pining in this.

Word count: 9.4k

Harry’s Flat, London, England, October.

For the fourth night this week, sleep evades him. Deciding to surrender this particular battle, Harry sits up in bed and reaches for his glasses on the bedside table.

With clearer vision, he turns to the digital clock next to where he places his glasses. He hangs his head in his hands when he reads the time. not even two hours of sleep before he awoke; his mind unwilling to alleviate him long enough for him to fall into a dreamless sleep.

He supposes it could be a good thing, or at least, that’s what he tells himself as he throws the covers off his body and swings his legs out of bed. As he sits on the edge of his bed, Harry gives himself a moment.

He gives himself only a single moment to give into the tidal wave threatening to drown him. A single moment simply to feel everything before he packs it all away into corresponding drawers in his mind.

A heavy sigh leaves him as he plods into the living room and through to the kitchen. As he boils the kettle, he thinks of you and your ingrained belief that everything can be put to rights over a cup of tea.

Settling in the living room, he grabs the remotes for the television. Turning it on, he switches the volume to mute, not wanting loud noises, but rather the comfort of monotonous moving pictures. Harry cannot tell what the programme is; a muggle show dedicated to archaeology, he thinks, but he pays it little mind.

He runs a hand down his face; feeling the tiredness deep within his bones. The insomnia had started in the months after the end of the war; beginning with repetitive nightmares in which he would suffer through the deaths of his friends countless times before being awoken by the sounds of his own screams. From there, it shifted into a fear of sleep, a terror of closing his eyes and seeing Hermione’s or Ron’s lifeless bodies. He knows – he knows they are alive and well, but the fear remains.

He wonders how long he’ll continue to feel like this should do nothing; how long he will deal with the sleepless nights and the nightmares that greet him when he does close his eyes.

However, as he watches the soundless pictures play on the television, he cannot help but feel an urge to get better. To do better and to be better in all that he does. At the age of eighteen, he defeated the darkest wizard to have ever walked the earth in the last century. At the age of twenty three, five years later, he feels close to laughter that he has let his life come to this.

But no-one warned him of the aftermath of the war. No-one readied him for the feelings of guilt that twists his stomach; leaving him unable to eat. No-one explained to him just how long the nightmares would last; seeing the faces of those that fell at the battle of Hogwarts and before as he tries and tries to dream of happy things.

Harry’s bottom lip begins to wobble. The tears won’t fall. It’s been years, Harry thinks, since he had cried in earnest.

As Harry sits on his couch for the fourth night that week, he readies himself to start putting his life back together again.

The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon, October.

The Burrow had always, to Harry at least, been a place full of happy memories. The home of the Weasley family physically exuded warmth and happiness. To put it bluntly, it was Harry’s safe haven; the place he could go where he would find no judgement for his state of sleeplessness or lack of appetite. He would catch Molly watching him worriedly, but she knew not to press, and for that, he was thankful. To appease her worries, or at least to lessen them slightly, he visits the Weasley matriarch once a week.

Immediately, Harry is wrapped up in hug after hug. Molly keeping her hands on Harry’s cheeks as she moves his head side to side, getting a good look at him. She clamps her lips together to keep the frown from forming on her face; worry rises in her gut, but she does not voice it.

The food cooking on the stove has Harry’s mouth watering as he walks through the kitchen to the large table in the dining area. There, he finds your eyes. They remain on the door as he walks through, as if you knew it wouldn’t be long before he entered.

“Mate,” Ron greets; pushing a drink into Harry’s hand. Harry nods at Ron, taking a swig of his drink before smiling at Hermione.

He moves to sit next to you; wanting nothing more than to sit by your side so he can tell his plan of which he came up with by himself. All around him conversation continues as if he had never walked in in the first place. He supposes that’s bit big-headed of him to think, but as he looks around those he classes as his family, he comes to realisation that they’ve all started to move on.

It hits him then and there; just how terrified he is of being left behind.

“How have you been?” You ask; voice gentle and caring as you lean into him.

Harry smiles at you; spooning vegetables onto his plate but feeling no pangs of hunger. “You just saw me last week,” Harry reminds in humour; his attempt at avoiding the twinges of fear ravaging his gut.

You roll your eyes, “That means it’s been a while since I’ve seen you. So, how have you been?”

Harry hears the meaning in your words; he hears the undercurrent of worry in your voice, and it only adds to the pit growing in his stomach. After his decision the other night, it was as if all the realisations hit him at once and he came to see just how much of a bad friend he had been to you all. He’d had been so caught up in his self-loathing that he failed to see just how much you were struggling with it all; he hadn’t even noticed that Ron and Hermione had also sought out help too.

Harry nods; reaching for his knife and fork, “I’ve been okay.”

Even he can hear the lie in his voice, and it makes him sick to his stomach. Thankfully, you don’t address it. You simply nod; patting his hand twice before turning your attention to your own meal.

Cutlery scrapes on plates as happy conversation lightens the atmosphere. It isn’t mentioned, but it is there – the absence of Fred’s laughter and his smile, the pointed comments, and his love for his mother. It is there, and it only adds to the guilt pooling in Harry’s stomach and invading his bloodstream.

It’s as if you sense it; as if you sense Harry starting to spiral, his thoughts turning to that dark place that he so often finds himself in. It’s as if you know; changing the hand in which your fork sits to free up your other hand so you can take Harry’s under the table and squeeze. A silent reminder if there is any.

I’m here, you remind him, I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.

Harry squeezes back; unable to do or say anything else, meeting Arthur Weasley’s pained eyes from across the table, and beginning to wish that he had in fact done and said more.

At the age of eighteen years old, harry defeated the darkest wizard in a century. Yet, he had lost a friend he had classed as a brother, and now finds it hard to look Molly and Arthur in the eye.

There is a lapse in conversation and Harry slips his hand free of yours, needing to leave the room before the guilt he’s sitting in drowns him. He smiles apologetically at each Weasley, eyes lingering on the empty chair across from George and promptly leaves the room.

The night air is cold against Harry’s bare arms as he sits on one of the many benches littering the Weasley’s gardens. It’s so cold that his breath is coming out in white puffs, but he doesn’t feel the need to fetch his coat. In fact, he would rather feel the cold against his skin. It reminds him that he’s alive and that he’s breathing. It reminds him of those are who no longer living.

He stiffens at the sounds of footsteps behind him; his hand immediately reaching for his wand kept in his back pocket.

Harry relaxes somewhat when he realises it was you who followed him outside, and not Ron or Hermione. He doesn’t turn, but he smiles when he hears you swear quietly, having tripped on a rogue stone.

You sigh as you sit down on the bench next to him; rubbing at your sore knee.

“How are you not freezing?” You ask; rubbing at your clothed arms, not happy with the chill seeping through to your bones.

Harry releases a breath; it puffs white, “I don’t feel it.”

You raise an eyebrow; running a finger over his arm which is covered in goosebumps, “I beg to differ.”

Harry doesn’t reply; he flashes a smile your way before returning his attention to the night sky and all that he can see of what the Weasley’s own. For a few minutes, no words are spoken between you both. Sinking into a silence that could only be described as comfortable; he doesn’t feel the constant need to reassure you that he’s okay. You check in on him every now and then, but no true pestering takes place.

Truthfully, Harry basks in your attention. He rather likes the fact that you do make a fuss of him when you check in on him because he’s sure that without you, he would be doing a lot worse than the nightmares and insomnia.

Breaking the silence, you broach the subject of Harry’s health, “Harry, can I give you the name and number of my therapist? I’ve made real progress since working with her, and I think you will too.”

Harry smiles at you; feeling grateful for your help but feeling like an awful friend for shaking his head and declining your offer. “I just… I don’t feel ready yet to speak to someone.”

You nod your head, “I get that, but Harry, it’s been five years since the end of the war, and you know how I worry.”

He nods, letting the conversation collapse into nothing in front of him. This is the time, he realises, to tell you his plans for getting better that don’t involve divulging his deepest and darkest secrets to a stranger, even if they are a trained professional.

“I have a favour to ask you,” Harry prompts, “And I’ll understand if you say no.”

“If I can help you, Harry, I’ll do anything.”

“I don’t want to speak to anyone, not yet at least, but I do want to start moving on.”

“So what’s the favour?” You ask; your curiosity piqued with his mystery.

“I want to visit the places where things have happened, whether they’re good or bad. I want to go back, and I want to see them in a different light.”

“That,” You pause; thinking of your next words, “That sounds like a really good idea, Harry. Where do I come into it though?”

Harry smiles at you sheepishly; running a hand through his forever messy hair. “I want you to come with me,” He states as plain as day.

“What?”

“I’d like for you to come with me,” Harry amends, “I don’t think I can do this on my own.”

“What about Ron or Hermione? I’m sure they would help.”

Harry shakes his head, “They’re both so busy, and they’re starting their lives together. I don’t want to dredge up bad memories for either of them if I can help it.”

You sigh, picking at an invisible thread on your sleeve, “How were you thinking of doing this? I have to work too, you know. Not everyone can inherit a fortune, Potter.”

Harry blinks, letting your words settle before a small smile breaks across his face, “You’d come with me?”

“Harry,” You start, “I don’t think there was any chance of me saying no to you. If I can help you in any way, I can. I’m always here for you.”

The familiar burn of tears starts at the back of his throat. Harry has to avert his eyes; glancing up at the night sky as he swallows past the lump in his throat. He should have known you would say yes; you’ve been by his side for everything since Third Year, but the small voice in the back of his mind had him doubting whether you would.

“Thank you,” He whispers eventually.

“So,” You begin, “Where too first?”

Grimmauld Place, Islington, London, November.

Upon the untimely death of Harry’s godfather, Sirius Black, the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix had been passed down to Harry through Sirius’ will. Sirius had no children for the house to go to, but Harry was as good as.

Standing on a residential street in Islington, you watched as the house appeared as if from nowhere. Appearing amongst number eleven and number thirteen as if it had always been there; as if it was part of the furniture at this point.

Thick dust covers each and every surface. Simply opening the door sends a cloud of dust into your face; leaving you coughing and sneezing as Harry battles the enchantments placed upon the home after the death of Albus Dumbledore.

Turning your gaze to Harry, you could remember the last time you had stepped foot in the ancestral home of the house of Black. It hadn’t been long after Sirius’ death; Harry’s gut-wrenching screams still echoing in your ears as you had bundled him up in any blankets you could find and sat him down at the kitchen table.

He hadn’t spoken much; he hadn’t even cried. Instead, his face set in steely determination, his desperate need to avenger his godfather overriding any common sense. That night, instead of comforting him and drying his eyes, it had been argument after argument, trying to make Harry see sense.

It took hours; the both of you tired not only from the arguing but from the grief sitting on your shoulders. It took hours, but Harry eventually agreed with you, choosing to sit back and wait for the right moment instead of lunging headfirst into attack that would surely get him killed.

Memory after memory washes over you, dragging you into its grips. If the memories are this strong for you, it was not hard to imagine how it must be for Harry.

You focus your attention on him, watching him warily as he wanders further down the hallway, heading for the kitchen where you still expect to hear Sirius’ raucous laugh despite years having passed since his death.

“How are you feeling?” You ask; running a finger across the now clean surface of the kitchen table.

Harry releases a shuddering breath. “I thought,” He starts, “I thought by coming here it would help me come to terms with Sirius and what happened in the Department of Mysteries but being here simply makes me hate his family more.”

“What makes you say that?”

Harry gestures to the large room. “He hated being here. He despised being locked up in the house that he left at sixteen, but he wanted to help the Order, so he stayed here and let it be used as the headquarters.”

“That… That is a very noble thing to do,” You murmur, eyes fixed on the man in front of you, taking in his tight fists and clenched jaw.

Harry laughs without humour, “The noble house of Black.”

Silence lapses and the tension in the room only increases. Biting your lip, you can only think that this was the wrong thing to do, that this is only pushing Harry further away instead of helping him come to terms with the last years of his life.

“We can leave, Harry,” You remind him, “We can leave right now and do this another day, when you’re more ready.”

He shakes his head, shaking himself out of his funk but also steadfastly refusing to go. He’s made this far; he’ll see it through to the end. He throws you a smile; it doesn’t reach his eyes and your heart cracks a little.

Holding a hand out to you, Harry states, “Come with me, I want to show you something.”

The room he enters is one he has told you about countless times; describing it with so much detail that as you enter the room behind him you feel as if you’ve already been inside.

It cannot be denied that the tapestry is nothing short of piece of art. It cannot be ignored that the depth of detail to the Black family tree is not breathtaking, but at the same time it is so utterly heartbreaking to see the scorch marks litter the walls. The consequence of turning against one’s own family, you think as you step further into the room, taking in its beauty but also its darkness.

“The noble house of Black,” Harry spits, gesturing to four walls, pointing at each scorch mark before settling on the one that once showed the portrait of his beloved godfather.

“He got out,” He states brokenly, “He left his blood family to live with his found family. He had a life ahead of him. He had my father, he had Remus. He had his family, and it was all taken away in one night. In one night, Sirius lost his best friend and then his freedom.

“And all I feel when I think about Sirius is anger. At how he was treated. He was good, (Y/N),” Harry states, his tone pleading, full of emotion, “He was good, and he was treated like shit. His real family didn’t care but his found family did and then he lost all of it.”

“He found you, Harry,” You remind him, “Sirius found you. You didn’t have half as long with him than what you should have, but he made sure to be involved in your life. After the Triwizard Tournament and you had come back with Cedric, Sirius would not leave your side in the hospital. I remember seeing him every morning and he would stay every night. He loved you, Harry – remember that.”

“And what did I do?” Harry laughs, “I got him killed. Some godson I am.”

“Harry, you are not to blame for Sirius’ death.”

He scoffs, disbelief and derision echoing off the walls. You stalk over the green eyed man, your determination growing with every step. You grab his face in both your hands, bringing his face to your level, “Listen to me, Potter. Are you listening?”

He nods, eyes wide and voice silent.

“Good,” You smirk before turning serious. “You are not to blame for Sirius’ death. He knew what was happening in the Department of Mysteries. He knew that there was a chance he was not going to come out of there alive and he still went in to find you, to protect you.”

“If I had paid more attention to what Voldemort showed me though… I could have figured out it was fake…”

You shake your head, “You were a sixteen year old boy, barely trained in occlumency and legilimency. You weren’t to know that what you had seen was fake. All you saw, Harry, was someone you care about being tortured. You acted on instinct.”

“Foolish instinct,” He argues.

You roll your eyes, “Not foolish at all. More brave than foolish.”

Harry remains silent; letting your words sink into his skin, binding them to his bones. It isn’t going to be as simple as one speech and all is forgiven, it is going to take time to forgive himself for the death of his godfather. There is always going to be an element of himself that believes strongly that he was the cause of Sirius’ death; if he hadn’t acted so rashly, if he had stopped to think things through, to go over exactly what Voldemort had shown him, Harry might have been able to delay Sirius’ death.

If, if, if.

If, if, if. He repeats that word; hindsight is a wonderful thing. If he had done this, if he had done that. Hindsight was going to be the death of him.

Harry focuses his attention back on you and the warmth of your hands on either side of his face. Gently, Harry places his hands on top of yours, “Can you let go of me now?”

You smile before pursing your lips, pretending to think through the answer. “I don’t know,” You ponder, “Are you going to continue to argue with me?”

“Probably,” Harry admits, “But I’m ready to go now.”

Harry lets his hands drop from yours, his eyes running over your face before stepping back. Your hands drop to your sides, clenching as if they wished to be touching him some more. His face feels cold now that you’ve let him go, as if all the warmth his body carried was in your hands.

“Do you think you’ll come back?” You ask, unable to help yourself.

Harry pauses, closing the door to the Black family tree behind him. He looks up and down the hallway; thinking of the memories he has cherished over the years. He had Sirius in his life for far shorted than he deserved, but he had Grimmauld Place to help him discover the man he idolised.

Meeting your stare, he nods. “I think I will eventually.”

Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scottish Highlands, December.

It didn’t matter how long it had been since your last visit; it didn’t matter how long it had been since you roamed the corridors of the place you once considered your second home, seeing Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry rise out of the Scottish Highlands would never be something you could get used to.

From your spot in Hogsmeade, you can just make out the turrets of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw towers. Slight unease spreads through your chest as you think back to the last time you had been at the school; still a student, hurling curses and jinxes at any Death Eater that happened by you.

Reflexively, you curl your hands into fists, your fingernails biting into the soft flesh of your palms. You gasp slightly as the pain; your mind becoming clearer and your focus becoming sharper. Harry’s hand takes yours; unfurling your fingers and replacing them with him, tangling your hands together.

“(Y/N), are you okay?”

You take a deep breath; mentally working through the exercises given to you by your therapist,. Shakily, you smile at Harry, “I’m okay, Harry, don’t worry about me. How are you feeling?”

His eyebrows furrow as he squeezes your hand. “I’ll always worry about you,” He says gently before continuing, “I’ll be okay though. I have you.”

You smile weakly; letting yourself be led through the well-worn path from Hogsmeade to the school. Small conversation is made; Harry bringing up happier memories of your education at the magical castle. The time when Ron received a Howler from his mother; the time when Hermione punched Draco Malfoy in the face.

Happier times now turned to memories; each one tinted with age.

Hogwarts soon looms in front of you both. Harry’s hand tightens on yours, fingers squeezing to the point of cutting off blood flow as he leads you into the grounds of the school.

It feels like coming home, but it also feels like facing your worst enemy. The Battle of Hogwarts had been hard on everyone who found themselves there; it had been hard for students and teachers. You would never forget the screams and the sound of breaking stone. It would be a long while until the sight of dead bodies could be scrubbed from your mind.

“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall greets from the stairs; voice warm and fond, “To what do we the pleasure of this visit with Miss (Y/L/N)?”

“I was hoping to walk the school and its grounds for a bit, Professor. If you don’t mind, that is. I’m trying to get better,” Harry states; sincerity ringing in his voice so much so that even McGonagall looked to be taken aback by his words.

She nods; finding her voice but needing to clear her throat first of all the emotion he had brought up, “Of course, Potter. Take as long as you need.”

Harry smiles at the beloved Professor gratefully, stretching out a hand towards you. You take it, resisting the urge to tangle your fingers together as Harry leads you to the Great Hall. “Where do you want to start?” You ask; eyes scanning the familiar walls, lingering on the Gryffindor table.

“I don’t know,” Harry admits, sounding lost as his eyes dance around the repaired room.

“It’s strange for me too,” You whisper, voice loud in the cavernous hall.

“It was entirely destroyed,” Harry recalls, sweeping his gaze over the large wall of windows by the Ravenclaw table.

You hope up on the closest table, crossing your legs as you watch Harry work through it all in his mind. He hadn’t been in the hall too long, but even that was long enough to have to branded into your memories.

“The tables were pushed back against the wall,” He states, gesturing to both walls before sweeping his hands above the floor, “And bodies were laid out on the floor, resting on blankets and towels,” Harry turns towards the staff table, pointing to a flagstone just in front of it, “That was where Fred laid – Molly and George crying over his body,” Harry spins, his finger now pointing back in the direction of the Ravenclaw table, “Remus and Tonks rested there. Teddy, my Godson, now an orphan… like me.”

“So many lives lost,” He whispers brokenly; eyes lined with tears that won’t fall, no matter how sad or broken he feels.

You slip off the table, going to his side and clutching his hand. “We lost a lot that day,” You whisper, “There isn’t a person here who doesn’t feel that same loss, Harry.”

“I was terrified of finding you laid out in the Great Hall,” Harry admits though not for his own good; he’s coming too close to admitting his feelings for you, but this is something he had never told a living soul, and he would be damned if he wasn’t going to tell you.

“What?” You ask, all thoughts emptying out of your head as you focus on Harry entirely.

“I was terrified of finding you in the Great Hall. I was so scared that I even hesitated at the door, wondering whether to walk in or walk away. I have dealt with a lot, and will continue to deal with a lot, but if there is one thing I cannot cope with the idea of, it is you hurt or worse,” He takes a deep breath, “The Battle of Hogwarts brought that out of me.”

“I’m here, Harry,” You reassure, “I’m here and I’m whole.”

“I know that now, but then I didn’t and even thinking of it drives me close to madness.”

“I wouldn’t leave without saying anything,” You laugh, “You know that Harry.”

Harry laughs, but there’s no heart to it. “I have you now, that’s something.”

Your heart skips a beat; thudding in your chest so loud you believe that it is entirely possible that Harry could hear it pounding away in your chest. You lean in, hiding your face in Harry’s shoulder – a rare moment of tenderness from both of you. Harry’s hand slips from yours to wrap around your waist, holding you to his body.

Hiding your smile in Harry’s shoulder, you murmur as loud as you dare, “You have me now, Harry. You have me forever.”

Neither of you make it further around the grounds of the castle; sticking to its interiors, wandering the corridors when students are firmly placed in classrooms, not wanting to be a distraction to their education.

Harry’s words continue to play through your mind; how he would not be able to cope if he lost you too. It makes this all more important for you, helping him come to terms with what he has experienced in such a short amount of time.

However, a small part of you rejoices in his admission, the words echoing in your head with a hint of hope. A hope that Harry may feel the same as you after all.

Hogwarts is left with a wave to McGonagall and a promise to write soon. Harry’s muscles relax the further he gets from the castle; the tension leeching away as he breathes in fresh air and Hogsmeade comes into view. He adored Hogwarts; it was his home, but he had to admit that it would be a while before he could face the whole castle without wanting to scream at the walls.

It’s a start however, Harry thinks as he grabs your hands and apparates the two of you back to his flat. It’s a start, he thinks, and now for the rest of it.

Little Hangleton, England, January.

Little Hangleton resides six miles from its paired village Great Hangleton. Little Hangleton was very much a village that was powered through gossip; the rumour mill only grew upon the deaths of the Riddle family. By the time an arrest had been made, the town had become judge, jury and executioner – sentencing poor Frank Bryce to a life of social exclusion even after being proven innocent.

Little Hangleton is made up of one main high street; five or six shops with a pub near the middle. It has a small village green where the local cricket team likes to practice every Saturday morning. It isn’t an extraordinary village; plain in comparison to other dwellings, but it’s history with the Riddle family would go down in wizarding lore until the end of days.

Harry continues to hold onto your hand long after you apparate into the village, landing in side street rather than in the high street as not to attract too much attention from the villagers. You refuse to be the first to let go; admitting to yourself that you rather like the way his hands fits in yours, how it feels like a steady anchor holding you in place.

Taking one look at the dark haired man next to you, you knew in your gut that this was going to be a hard day for him. Harry doesn’t talk about his nightmares often, but form what he has told you, this picturesque village features enough that you can see the tension line Harry’s jawline.

Nudging his shoulder, you smile softly, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry’s hand tightens on yours. He doesn’t reply verbally; nods his head and focuses on finding his destination. He can’t verbalise his gratefulness; he cannot put it into words just what this means to him because Harry is fairly certain there are no words to cover the scope of what he feels for you in this very moment.

He knew he was asking a lot of you to keep doing this; to visit these places and relive his darkest times with him. He knew it affected you more than you admitted, but he still was selfishly grateful you choose to come every time.

He thinks that he wouldn’t have been as half as productive with his feelings if it wasn’t for you. Harry’s feelings for you only having grown through these visits; he remains in awe of you, as he always has been, but now he can no longer deny himself the depth of his love for you. To deny himself that would be a grievous crime.

However, even Harry is aware that he is nowhere ready to confront the idea of a relationship. In the last few months, he has only been able to accept that Sirius’ death and your injuries at the Battle of Hogwarts were not his fault.

He has to keep working on himself; he has to keep healing so he can be worthy of a love like his parents had.

So for now, Harry is more than content to hold your hand with each apparition, to savour the way your hand fits in his perfectly and how each squeeze of your fingers sets his heart racing.

For now, Harry is happy to remain in the throes of puppy love, but still eager for the day when he can proclaim his love for you in the hopes that you feel the same.

Such thoughts are thrown out of his head when his eyes catch the sign for graveyard. His steps falter, before coming to a brief stop by the sign. Your free hand touches his arm and Harry turns to you, seeing the question reflected in your eyes.

“Are you ready?” He asks, voicing the unspoken question.

You nod, “Ready when you are.”

The graveyard looks just as it did all those years ago; dark and miserable.

You shiver as Harry pushes open the creaky metal gate. He holds the gate open for you out of politeness, but he does not return your smile of gratitude. Harry keeps his facial expression neutral as he turns to face the memories that still plague him all these years later.

His eyes run over the gravestones as he puts one wary foot in front of the other. You follow behind him timidly, footsteps slower as you too read over the names written in marble, granite, limestone.

It doesn’t take long to find the place. Harry’s feet take him there automatically despite the fact that the last time he was here, he had been apparated in and did not walk out.

The Reaper stands proudly among the gravestones; his scythe crossed against his body in readiness. Harry stills, coming to a stop in front of it. He tilts his face; staring into the faceless stone hood of the figure that had him trapped like prey all those years ago.

Harry doesn’t turn from the figure as he points directly behind him. “That is where he killed Cedric,” He states bluntly, hearing the thud the Hufflepuff’s body made as he landed lifeless at Harry’s side.

Your eyes leave Harry; body tensing as you make eye contact with the patch of grass that would be the last thing to touch Cedric’s body.

Harry finally turns; gaining control of the anger and upset that had been raging in his body since landing at the graveyard gates. He needs to approach this carefully; he needs to approach all of this carefully, so he doesn’t fall back into the dark pit he found himself in months ago.

Harry gestures to the centre of the small copse and then to the Reaper, “That is where I had to watch as Voldemort rose again.”

“Oh Harry…” You whisper, voice breaking as you say his name.

Harry’s eyes shutter closed, and his bottom lip begins to wobble. He had been fourteen years old; he had not had his first kiss and yet, he had to duel the darkest wizard to have been produced in a century.

“I thought I was going to die that night,” He confesses after a moment; opening his eyes to once again focus on the faceless depiction of Death himself. “I thought I was going to die, and there was nothing I could do about it.”

Resolve steels your nerves and once again, your feet find their way to Harry.

“You did make it out, Harry. You made it out alive.”

“Two of us went in, (Y/N).”

“It can’t be ignored,” You start, “Cedric’s death was an utter tragedy; completely unexpected and blindsided everyone in the school, but you cannot blame yourself for this, Harry. Cedric died at the hands of a madman – not you.”

“I could have done something!” He screams, finally losing all grip on his temper, “I should have done something. Instead, as Wormtail murdered Cedric, all I did was shout his name as if it was going to help. I did nothing, I as good as murdered him.”

Breath leaves your body in one fell swoop; you had never seen Harry like this. He runs both hands through his hair in frustration as he tries to get a hold on his temper, reigning it in. You remain silent as Harry works to control himself; you watch him pace the small copse, flattening the green grass under his feet.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers, breaking the silence, “I didn’t mean to shout at you.”

“Harry,” You sigh, “I am more than capable of handling you shouting at me.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong though, and I just take everything out on you.”

You laugh, short and sweet, “I think this is the first time you’ve ever shouted at me, Potter.”

He smiles though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I try not to make a habit of shouting at my friends,” Harry states, throwing you a look that states the obvious.

Wringing your hands together, you brace yourself for your next words. Meeting Harry’s stare, fixing your gaze on him, you politely demand, “Tell me more about that night, Harry.”

So he does.

It comes rushing out of him in a torrent; words flying so fast that his speech gets muddled up and he sometimes has to say his sentences again. For so long he has been holding this in; there are very few people who know what happened that night in this very graveyard and out of those, many are dead or imprisoned so Harry has been left to deal with the pain.

It feels like a confession. It feels as if he is seeking forgiveness from his crimes; seeking repentance from a priest of his choosing because he needs to get it out, he needs to know whether penance is possible for the sins committed that night.

Harry feels as if a weight is being lifted off his chest as he tells you about duelling Voldemort and the spell that had taken place beforehand. Harry seeks solace in your comforting gaze and reassuring smile as his voice breaks when he speaks of his parents, not having seen them in any physical form since that night with the Mirror of Erised.

Once he starts, he finds it hard to stop. He stutters over his feelings over Cedric’s death, pausing once in a while to let you interject a thought and for the first time since starting this exercise, since asking you to come along with him, Harry feels as if it is starting to work.

Eventually, his voice falls quiet as does his mind.

“How do you feel?” You ask; an expected question that accompanies each location visited.

Harry nods, “Better. Happy to have finally said what happened that night.”

“I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell you.”

“I trust you with my life,” He states honestly and plainly.

You bite your lip, averting your gaze to wander across the dark graveyard once more before finally turning to face Harry. “Are you ready?”

Harry nods: more than happy to leave this place and never return. What happened in Little Hangleton will always remain a heartbreaking tragedy; a life cruelly taken before it even got the chance to begin. The village would always be stained with such misfortune, but now, Harry feels that part of his life come to a close.

As Harry reaches for your hand, readying himself to apparate you back to your flat, his heart soars at the words you utter with conviction.

“You’re a good man, Harry.”

--------

Landing back at his flat, Harry takes a seat on his couch and hangs in his head in his hands. He had dropped you off at your flat; needing to be alone to deal with the emotions that had been threatening to suffocate him from the inside out. Whilst Harry had accepted that he played no part in Cedric’s death, he still had to confront the magnitude of what had happened to himself.

It hits him all at once; the scale of what he had been through throughout his education. From the ages of eleven to eighteen, Harry hadn’t seen a school year through without injury or battle. It’s as he sits there that he realises the extent to which he was used by the headmaster he looked up to; used as a pawn to further the game of chess being played by Dumbledore and Voldemort.

The waves never cease; his parents, Sirius, Fred, Remus, Tonks, Mad-Eye Moody, and Cedric.

No tears fall; he isn’t sure he has the capacity to cry anymore. Tears haven’t fallen since they fell out relief for the end of the war, but out of sadness for the deaths of Fred, Remus, and Tonks.

Sitting on his couch, shivers overtake his body. His teeth chattering as he reaches for the blanket kept across the back of his couch, wrapping it around his shoulders. Harry bites back the scream that is slowly crawling up his throat; he pushes it down as he fights for control of his mind.

Collecting his thoughts, Harry comes to a conclusion.

He needs to return to where it all began.

Godric’s Hollow, West Country, England, March.

Spring blooms real and true, and Harry feels ready enough to return to Godric’s Hollow. Harry could count on one hand how many times he has stepped foot in the village his parents once called home. He had been born in Godric’s Hollow; at the end of July to two loving parents who adored him just as much as they adored each other.

Out of respect for James and Lily Potter – murdered at the age of twenty-one – the house in which they lived had never been repaired. The thatched roof remains caved in; a large hole in the middle of it, letting the elements now batter the house.

It had been twenty-two years since Harry had stepped foot inside the house he was born in. It had been five years since he stood outside of it with Hermione; only beginning to feel the grief for the parents he never truly knew.

It was this that had plagued Harry from the moment he turned eleven and arrived at Hogwarts. How does he grieve for those he never truly knew?

As crass as it is to say, Harry didn’t know his parents outside his need for food, comfort, and love. The memories of his mother and father are so clouded; he can no longer tell whether they are his own or whether he’s simply simulated a story told to him by family friends.

He was fifteen months old when they were murdered. He was fifteen months old and barely aware of his own shadow.

Whilst he hadn’t visited the house much – it being too painful to see the sight of his parent’s murder – he had visited their graves in the years that have passed.

With you in tow, Harry leads you down the worn, familiar path. He slows his pace every now and then; warning you of an upcoming dip that may make you lose your balance.

All too soon, however, you stand in front of the grave of James and Lily Potter.

Quietly, he asks, “How do I grieve my parents when I never knew them?”

Your heart breaks for him; unable to stop yourself, you wrap an arm around his waist offering any form of comfort you can. Shakily, you answer, “I guess you can mourn what could have been or you grieve the fact that they were so young. Either way, Harry, they’re never going to leave you.”

“I know that,” He whispers; gaze fixed on the grave of his parents, “All I know of them is what I’ve been told. I feel as if my memories have been tainted, and I know that they all mean well, but sometimes-”

He cuts himself off with a huff; kneeling down and drawing out his wand. Silently, Harry conjures a bouquet of Orchids, Chrysanthemums and Lilies and then bows his head in silent prayer, continuing to grieve the parents he would never know.

You place your hand on his shoulder, “Sometimes you what, Harry?”

He sighs, “Sometimes I wish they would stop. I was so young when they died – any memories I have of them are practically gone but sometimes I have these flashes. I have no idea whether they’re real or not, but I feel as if they are. Yet, when friends tell me stories of what it was like to go to school with them or to fight alongside them, it’s like they’re pushing they’re version of James and Lily Potter onto me. Does that make sense?”

Squeezing his shoulder, you answer, “It makes perfect sense. The James and Lily you knew is different from what Sirius knew or what McGonagall knew.”

“I just worry that the more stories I hear, the quicker I lose what I know of them.”

“I don’t think that’s possible, Harry.”

“You don’t?” He asks, shifting to his feet and facing you.

You shake your head, “I don’t. I think you’re going to remember your parents for the rest of your life; their morals and values make up yours, Harry. You might not think, but you are a lot more like them than you realise.”

Harry bows his head, feeling the familiar burn of tears at the back of his throat. He clamps his mouth shut, begging the feeling to go away. Quietly, almost ashamedly, Harry asks, “Do you think they would be proud of me?”

Then and there, your heart breaks, cleaving itself in two for the man standing before you. It’s the only dream of a child; to make their parents proud, but what about children who do not have parents – who grew up in a home that did not cherish them like it should have?

Silver lines your eyes; tears threatening to make an appearance as you reach for Harry’s hands, pulling him into a hug. Against his shoulder, you state with conviction, “They would be extremely proud of you, Harry. So proud of you it would shine out of them.”

Harry sniffles; ducking down somewhat to tuck his head against your neck, hiding his face in the junction between your neck and shoulder. From the outside, it looks as if two lovers are embracing, unable to keep their hands off the other for too long. However, you know that Harry is trying his best to maintain his composure, to try and gets to grips with the emotions that follow never knowing the ones who were supposed to raise you.

Minutes pass and neither of you move; neither of you willing to be the one to break this moment, but for the day to progress, you need to step away from the only man you have ever loved.

Releasing Harry, you send what you hope is a reassuring smile in his direction, “Come on, Harry,” You prompt, “Show me the rest of Godric’s Hollow?”

Framing it as a question, you offer Harry the choice. He is in control of this moment; h can choose whether he shows you the rest of the wizarding village or whether the two of you apparate back to his flat and spend the rest of the day mooching about.

Harry smiles: it’s watery, but fixed as he nods, stepping around you to lead you out of the graveyard.

Hands brush every now and then as the both of you wander back to the high street. A simple brush of hands, a simple twitch of fingers and your heart would start to race, practically shouting for Harry to take your hand and tangle your fingers together.

“I think I’m going to live here,” Harry murmurs; eyes scanning the high street.

“Are you sure?” You ask; worried not only for the fact that you may miss him while you remain in London, but also for any potential setback this may cause him.

Harry nods; his eyes now focused on a small café straight across the road from where you stand. He gestures towards it with an open hand, “Let me explain over some food.”

The bell above the door tinkles as you follow Harry inside. He chooses a table on the left hand side of the shop; sitting at the seat that faces the window and the door. It’s with stark realisation that you come to see that he’s chosen this exact spot so he can have eyes on each entrance and exit point.

You sigh as you sit across from him; old habits die hard, you guess.

Menus are placed in front of you by a teenaged witch looking as if she would rather be anywhere else but here. Her eyes widen slightly as she takes in Harry’s form; the menu in her hand shaking as she places it down before him.

You bite your lip to repress the ever-growing smile on your face as you watch the waitress grow flustered under Harry’s smile and green eyes. She walks away in a daze after having taken your drink orders – coffee for Harry, Yorkshire Tea for you.

You shake your head fondly at the young witches departing figure; noting how she bumps into numerous tables before making it safely to the kitchen. Harry follows your gaze, wanting to know what’s taken your attention from him, “What is it?”

You shift your gaze back to the wizard, “You still don’t see the effect you have on people, do you?”

Harry frowns; his hand reaching up to touch his forehead self-consciously. He had grown his hair longer in order to cover the scar that mars the centre of his forehead; his black hair now fell around his head in curls he didn’t know he had until you had found an old picture of his father. The glasses and the curls along with the smile that could melt even the coldest of hearts; he was the spit image of his father.

“Not your scar, Harry, nor your name. I meant how you look; you have to know you’re handsome.”

Blush paints Harry’s cheeks as your words settle. The last thing he expected from today was to be told he was attractive; least of all, from you. He’s never had the chance before; to act upon his feelings for you. He realised just what he felt for you at the end of Sixth Year, and then the war happened, and he absolutely refused to let anything happen to you. He couldn’t tell you his feelings for you should it put a target on your back, and if anything happened to you, he would never forgive himself.

He laughs, shaking his head, “You’re a flatterer.”

You hold your hands up in playful surrender, “Only speaking the truth. You’ll see it one day.”

“One day,” He promises; eyes earnest as they gaze into yours.

It’s too much; just like that, it’s too much and you have to avert your stare before you end up blurting your inner most thoughts and scaring him away for good. Clearing your throat, you wait for the teenage waitress to place your drinks in front of you before you change the subject, “Why do you want to move here?”

Harry shrugs, picking up his coffee and taking a long drink, thinking over his words. “I think,” He begins, “I want to be close to them, but I also want to start carving out my life properly and this place is so peaceful. It’s so peaceful and it’s beautiful. I think it’s one of those places that if I don’t move here now, I’ll still move later on.”

You nod, “I get that. It is gorgeous here.”

Harry hums, “I’d still be in London every week.”

“You’d commute?” You ask, puzzled in terms of train schedules.

Harry barks out a laugh that turns into silent shaking of his shoulders as the teenage waitress returns, her pad in hand as she waits for your food order. Harry continues to repress his laughter throughout his order. As the waitress walks away, you fix Harry with an unimpressed stare. “Are you going to let me in on the joke?”

Harry smiles at you; as in, he really smiles at you. He beams as he whispers somewhat in awe, “I love you. You’re one of the smartest witches I know, and you still forget about the fact that we can apparate.”

You reel back in your chair, knees knocking into the table as the air leaves your body in a single breath. “What? What did you say first?”

Harry’s smile, if possible, grows as he shrugs his shoulders, “I love you.”

“Since when?” You demand, wondering how on earth he could discuss something as important as this as nonchalantly as one would discuss the weather.

“Sixth Year,” He confesses, blush beginning to paint his cheeks.

“That long?” You ask, voice hushed, “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

Harry finally frowns, finger tracing the lip of his coffee cup, “There was a war, and then I wasn’t in the right frame of mind.”

Of course he wasn’t. Of course he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to confess his love for you, you admonish yourself. He had defeated the Dark lord and then had to cope with the survival guilt for years. It had only been in the last year that he finally let himself let go of the guilt surrounding the casualties of war.

“I love you too,” You admit, chewing on the inside of your cheek from nerves.

“You do?” Harry asks, about as breathless as you were when he confessed only moments ago.

“I do,” You confirm, smiling.

It isn’t much in the way of confessions, but the look on Harry’s face says it all. His green eyes remain bright and the smile wide on his face even as the waitress returns with your food. He looks as if no wrong could be done in that moment; the food could be the worst he has ever eaten but it wouldn’t matter.

You love him.

You love him as he loves you, and suddenly it all makes sense. His motivations through the war; not only wanting to rid the world of Voldemort but wanting to secure a safe future in which he can love you.

The food is eaten quickly; the both of you rushing to make it outside where you can talk more, and in private.

The bill is paid. The waitress wanders back to the till; stunned at the sight of Harry’s smile – and you couldn’t blame her.

Harry stands from his seat, reaching for his jacket and waiting patiently for you. Electricity thrums between you; holding promises of more to come, the headiness of it having you gripping the table tightly as you rise to your feet. One look at Harry’s face and you know he’s feeling it too.

Pausing outside the small café, you hold your hand out for Harry to take.

A soft breeze blows through Godric’s Hollow, disturbing your hair and the trees around you. Harry holds onto your hand tightly as the both of you begin to wander down the high street; the blossoms of the trees fluttering around you as they fall to the floor. Harry inhales deeply; the floral of the blossoms mixed with the sweetness of your perfume providing the perfect backdrop to his future.

Harry’s Flat, London, England, September.

Healing is a process. It is neither quick nor slow; it follows its own pace.

Through this process, Harry has realised that he is in fact getting better. He has his bad days; days where he seldom leaves his bedroom and refuses to stare at anything but the wall.

However, those days are becoming scarcer. Harry can sometimes go weeks before he has an episode that leaves him bedbound, and for that, he is proud of himself.

He doesn’t do it alone; he has you by his side through it all as you both prepare for the move to Godric’s Hollow. For both the good and the bad days.

********

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moonagedaydreamohyeah · 3 years

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Hi!! Welcome back! I saw you'retaking prompts, so I hope it's okay for me to send a lil one 🥺 I have this idea where Bucky has nightmares constantly, and they get so bad he can't wake up. So after a couple of weeks, he's barely holding on, Steve tries something though. And now wherever he has a nightmare, he grabs his hand, to soothe him while telling him various memories of them, their wedding, their childhood. It works, Bucky calms down eventually and then wakes up. Telling Steve his dream shifted at a certain point and stopped being scary. I had this idea but I truly cannot write at all, if you choose to do it (it's totally fine if you don't though) I know you'll do a great job! Tysm

Hii Nonnie! Thank you soo so much for your prompt, I’m sorry it took so long! Here it is though, it turned out pretty long but I hope you like it!!🙏🌼💗

Trigger warnings for some angst and trauma related stuff and a close-to panic attack - I promise it gets fluffy before long☺️

_____________________________________________

The first thing Steve registered as he slowly became aware of his surroundings was the darkness of their room, suggesting that it was nowhere close to being morning yet.

He slowly blinked his eyes open and as he reached his hand out he came in contact with heated and sweat-clammy skin at the same time as he heard the tell-tale whimpering sounds from beside him, which instantly alerted to the cause of him having woken up in the first place.

As he sat up and turned the lamp at his bedside on, Steve looked at the distressed face of his boyfriend, at the way that his hands are opening and closing around the sheet in tight fists as if battling through a pain that was only a memory, but probably felt just as fresh and real as the approaching dawn.

Running a hand tiredly over his face, Steve suspected the bone deep exhaustion which is the product of almost two weeks of sleepless nights, for the fact that he didn’t realise what was happening the moment he stirred into wakefulness.

Steve took a deep breath in a lost effort to gather himself for what appeared to be another sleepless night with Bucky reliving the worst moments of his life while Steve sat helplessly beside him, unable to wake him up from the horror he was reliving and bring him back to reality.

When this specific brand of night terrors had first started, Steve had gone through any and all means that he and Bucky could come up with to wake him up, finding that not one of them was enough to tear Bucky from the deep sleep he was caught up in and the painful memories that came with it.

It wasn’t like nightmares were any kind of new experience for either of them, which of course couldn’t come as a surprise to anyone. They had both experienced stuff that would bring anyone nightmares, and Bucky’s mind especially only had to dig through what seemed like a bottomless pile of more than 70 years incomparable trauma and replay it, whenever it wanted to procure night terrors of the kind that would have most people opt for never sleeping again, if it meant they didn’t have to relive it - which is what Bucky would have preferred too, if it wasn’t for his therapist having put him on a strict sleeping schedule and medication to ensure that he would actually sleep within those set times, in a sympathetic voice ensuring him that the only road to recovery was through.

Usually the other would be there to wake up whomever of them were unlucky enough to run into a nightmare bad enough to wake the other up, and they would be able to hold each other until they could talk it out and eventually go back to sleep, until they were ready to go back to sleep.

They even had a ritual set up for the really bad ones. They would put on a pot of coffee and have a cup each, indulging in plenty of cream and sugar and drink them while watching an episode or two of Steven Universe on the TV.

As none of that was something they’d gotten to enjoy before waking up in the 21’st century, due to rationing and what not, that usually brought them had suffered right back to reality, reminding them that they had both escaped the pain of the past, and were now back together in the somewhat peaceful life they had managed to create for themselves in this new time and place.

But since these particular nightmares had started, none of that had been of use anymore. No matter what Steve tried, Bucky simply wouldn’t wake up and all Steve could do was sit helplessly by his side while the whimpers and cries for help rose in volume,

That didn’t stop Steve from trying though. Reaching out to try and shake Bucky out of it, Steve tried to keep the desperation out of his voice as he spoke.

“Bucky, baby, come on wake up. You’re dreaming sweetheart, you aren’t there anymore, you’re right here with me, all you gotta do is wake up.”

As he’d come to expect though, it was no use. If anything, the nightmare only seemed to be intensifying, if the full body shiver and increasingly loud whimpers of pain was anything to go by. Steve could feel his voice wavering as he shook him a little harder while he tried to speak over the devastating sounds coming from his love.

“Bucky, please. C’mon, baby, wake up. Sweetheart.”

It was when Bucky, still not showing any signs of waking up, let out a loud, high pitched cry of ‘please, no, no more, no more please, it hurts!’ that Steve suddenly couldn’t take it anymore. His breath hitched as the sob he’d been trying to hold back suddenly tore from his throat and without thinking, he was throwing the covers off and leaping out of their shared bed and into the living room where he braced himself on the back of the couch and took in gasping breaths as he tried to control the sobs that kept coming.

As his breathing only picked up the pace, Steve felt himself steer into what would no doubt become a full blown panic attack if he didn’t get a hold of himself. He slid down to sit the floor and placed his between his knees while back and forth to eight in his in a last ditch effort to slow his breathing; ‘breathe in for eight, and then out for eight’ he recited in his head.

Finally feeling his breathing start to even out, he remembered something that Mary-Ann, Bucky’s therapist, had stressed in one of their shared sessions;

‘You can’t cure another person’s pain or trauma, and the minute you catch yourself trying or beating yourself up over not being successful in doing so, you’re only making the situation worse by creating more pain for yourself along side with the pain your loved one is already in. Working through this stuff is only something you can do for yourself. The best you can do is be by their side to support them through it and try to diminish the strain of negative thoughts and other practical stuff that takes energy away from the effort that it takes to get better.’

Bucky and Steve both had trauma to work through, and figuring out to best help each other without putting too much strain on themselves and taking on the other’s struggles as well, had been a difficult balance to achieve when they had first been brought back to each other. But through therapy and conversations they had managed to get into a pretty good rhythm when it came to balancing their relationship and everyday life which all the baggage they each brought into it, by being there for each other in the best way possible.

That didn’t mean it wasn’t still hard sometimes, and these nightmares had taken a serious toll on both of them, so it wasn’t any wonder that Steve was at his limit. Had it only taken out on the nights, that would have been a different thing. But Bucky had been restless and tired in the day too, often staring off into the distance seemingly caught up in his own head. Steve, having been kept up by Bucky’s nightmares, had slowly felt the weight of Bucky’s struggles and the overall gloomy mood in their shared home, become to much to bear with his sparring energy resources.

Reminding himself once again of Mary-Ann’s words, Steve tried to shake off the feeling of inadequacy as he slowly got up from the floor. ‘The only way to get past this is through,’ he thought decisively, ‘and we will get through it.’

Even though Steve suddenly couldn’t bear to not be by Bucky’s side for one more moment, he opted to take a quick detour into the kitchen to get himself a glass of water, before he braces himself and returned to the bedroom.

By now whatever Bucky was reliving had sent him into a state of thrashing around on the sheets, throwing the covers halfway off to reveal his sweat soaked shirt, accompanied the sound of pleading, painful sounding whimpers that bordered on sobs.

Sitting himself back on the bed, Steve used one hand to grab a firm hold of Bucky’s that was now clutching the sheet hard enough that it was a wonder he hadn’t torn a hole in it yet, and started rubbing soothing circles over the back while he smoothed Bucky’s hair away from his sweaty face. Steve took a deep breath to collect himself before he started talking in a soothing voice.

“It’s okay, Buck, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere sweetheart” He didn’t know if he was still talking to Bucky or mostly trying to convince himself, when he continued, “I can’t take the pain away, but I can at least be here by your side through it, huh? Just like your Mary-Ann told us: that’s all I can do, and I’ll do it sweetheart, I’ll stay right here. I’m sorry I had to leave for a little while, but I promise I’m here now, okay? Just like you were always right there for me.”

Thinking back to the first of those awful winters when Steve had been so sick that not one doctor dared reassure his ma that he would be sure to pull through, Steve continued in that same, low voice, mostly just thinking out loud by now. He almost didn’t notice that Bucky’s whimpers had toned down a little bit and the thrashing was starting to calm down again into those god awful full body shivers.

“I guess I know how you felt now, going though those winters back then, huh? Oh god, how awful that must have been for you, baby, I get that now, don’t I? Sitting there, unable to do a damn thing but always reassuring me that I would get through even when everyone else doubted it. You always stayed, and I swear baby, that must’ve been what got me through at least the half of it.” Steve had to breath in deep again to keep the emotion out of his voice.

“Remember that first winter? We can’t have been that old, maybe nine or ten I think..” Steve mused, caught up in the memories. “Yeah, that must’ve been it. I remember ‘cause we had been playing all day out in the rain and we didn’t even notice how cold it was. Your ma gave us such an earful when we came home, soaked through and teeth chattering. I remember her going at us while we stood in the bathroom, naked as the day we were born and shivering, while she got the bath ready. She had that voice on, the one she used when we’d been exceptionally stupid”, Steve scoffed quietly. “‘You boys, I swear,’ she would always say, ‘it’s barely forty degrees outside and you run around in the rain like that; you’ll get sick, that’s for sure. You boys don’t think we have better things to spent all our hot water on?’ and I remember her voice soften when she told us, ‘you gotta take better care of yourselves, especially you Steve, with how skinny you are.’ I think she was probably more worried than mad though. God, I miss your ma sometimes. She was such a wonderful woman. Always had a thing or two to say about the shenanigans we got up to, but you could always tell she wasn’t really all that mad. She was right too, of course. I spent the entire winter in bed, doing my best to cough up half a lung while you sat by my side with that determined look on your face, like you were prepared to fight off death himself if he ever even thought of bothering to show up.”

By now Bucky was visibly calming down, the only signs of distress being the furrow of his brow and the occasional clenching and unclenching of the fist that Steve wasn’t holding onto, so Steve kept talking in the hope that that was what was finally doing the trick.

“And you never let me go out after that, without being practically bunched up in a hundred layers, even if it meant you had to freeze your balls off.” Steve chuckled to himself, suddenly recalling a very fond memory. “Oh, and then when it finally got hot outside again and we were out playing - we were with that girl, what was her name again..” Steve thought back, trying to remember. “- Laurel? Loraine? You know, the one with the pretty curls you were always pulling at when her family sat in front of us in church and no one was looking. Anyway, you found that penny on the ground and decided you were gonna buy us ice cream cones, but of course one penny turned out to only be enough for one. And I remember the look on her face when you said I should have it, god, she was so disappointed. But I had lost weight from being sick all winter and I was even skinnier than usual, and you were all like ‘look at him, he needs fattening up, it’s only fair, here you go Stevie, you have it’ and you wouldn’t hear any complaints about it.”

Steve was brought back from his reminiscing by Bucky rolling over onto his back and letting out a small sigh, any signs of the nightmare having disappeared from his features. Steve was flooded with relief as he smiled down at him and continued softly. “It was all there, right in front of my face, even back then, wasn’t it? I can’t believe I spent all those years being jealous of all the ladies who were always keen on dancing with you when we went out. You only ever had eyes for me, huh?”

Steve startled at the sound of Bucky’s sleep rough mumble. “‘Course, you punk”

Squeezing his hand, Steve checked to make sure he had heard right. “Bucky? Hey, you awake honey?”

Bucky squeezed back, letting out a grumbled “Mmh.. wha’s going on, why’re you up?” but he seemed to quickly rise from his sleepy state at Steve’s choked “oh thank god”

“Hey, Steve what’s wrong, huh? Look at me, what happened? You have a nightmare or somethin’”? Bucky asked, wiping away a single tear of pure relief that had apparently escaped and was trailing down Steve’s left cheek. His look of worry turned into one of realisation though, when it dawned on him. “Oh shit, it was me having a nightmare again huh? It happened again, didn’t it? Aww I’m sorry Stevie.”

“No no, please don’t apologise,” Steve hurried to reassure him. “It’s not your fault Buck. I’m just so relieved you’re back with me. It’s just hard, you know? Seeing you in that much pain and not being able to do a thing about it,” Steve sniffled.

“Yeah, I know Stevie, I know.” Bucky expression briefly shifted to one of confusion. “How’d you wake me up? I thought we’d practically tried everything by now.”

“I didn’t, at first,” Steve said, “I just starting talking to you and then when it seemed to calm you down a bit I kinda just kept going with like, talking about memories that came up, you know from back when we were kids.”

“Oh yeah.” Bucky furrowed his brows in thought. “I don’t really remember what the nightmare was about, only that it was awful and then the dream sort of.. shifted. Something about my ma giving us an earful and then something about ice cream cones and brown curls?” Bucky’s face shifted, as if he’d remembered something funny. “God, you remember that time I found that penny? And that girl, Loraine I think, she got so mad when I bought you ice cream instead of her,” Bucky chuckled.

“Yeah, that’s the story I was telling,” Steve smiled. “To be fair, that was kind of dick move, Barnes. Ain’t no way to treat a lady.”

“Hey! You were so skinny! You clearly needed it more than her!” Bucky defended himself. “And by the way, it wasn’t exactly her I was trying to impress.” Bucky said, waggling his eyebrows.

Steve snorted. “Yeah, alright, you’re a real charmer.”

“Don’t you know it,” Bucky said. Smiling more softly, he leaned in so his forehead was resting against Steve’s. “I’m really sorry for waking you up honey. It sucks that you have to be here through all that Stevie, I know it ain’t easy on you.”

“Nah,” Steve answered. “I’m right where I want to be. Till the end of the line and all that, remember? Not planning to go anywhere”

“Yeah,” Bucky sighed softly, and then in an almost whisper, sounding suddenly vulnerable, “I love you so much, Stevie.”

Sensing that Bucky was finally feeling some of the raw emotion that was left over from the nightmare he’d just endured, now that he knew that Steve was okay, Steve lifted up to plant a lingering kiss on his forehead. Rubbing a hand soothingly up and down Bucky’s back, he noted that his t-shirt was still soaked from sweat. “Me too, Buck. Me too. Hey, why don’t I go make a pot of coffee and turn the TV on and you come join me once you’ve cleaned up a little?”

“Yeah,” Bucky sighed, burying himself a bit closer into Steve’s embrace before pulling away and offering a grateful smile. “That sounds good.”

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saurexhas · 3 years

Text

Love is Blind - Part 3

We’re back to MC’s perspective with this one, and prepare for feels!

Fun fact, as someone who rarely writes xreader stuff, the sheer amount of times I write you or your is driving me crazy because I legit cannot replace them with some other descriptor like I would in third person to break things up XD

As always, mind the tags, you never know what I get up to when I’m writing angst :)

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Blinding pain was all you could recall as your mind drifted towards consciousness, hazy memories mingling with your dreams. You could hear Nightmare calling to you, his voice raw with so many emotions that it was almost overwhelming. The others could be heard too, though most of their voices had a somber note to them. Yet as you tried to recall what you could see, the only thing that came to you was the colour red.

With no means of making sense of the fragmented memories, your mind let them go only to be replaced with new sensations as you truly started to wake. Every little shift brought pain, your face feeling like it was still being burned by Ink. Your limbs felt stiff, like there was something restraining them, though at least your surroundings were soft. It felt like your bed, the same soft sheets and blankets that Nightmare had gotten for you. But as you thought of the dark god, you were made acutely aware of just how dark it was right now.

Nothing you did could alleviate the darkness; it was the same whether your eyes were open or closed. Considering how even your eyes ached and burned, it felt better to keep them closed for now since nothing could fix the crushing darkness. As panic set in, your movements became more erratic. Even if you knew you were safe within your room in the castle, that fear still gripped your soul with relentless strength. Blankets were nearly ripped off in your efforts to escape, and as you sat up in bed you hoped that your negativity would be a beacon to Nightmare.

The feeling of cool, slippery bones sliding against your cheek served to snap you out of your hysteria, your hopes answered in the familiarity of Nightmare’s presence. With his touch, you felt him steal away the negativity within you, leaving you calm if feeling a bit empty. He only absorbed your emotions whenever they were clearly out of control, so you were never too mad at him for doing so since they would come back after a while. And it served this time to calm you down from the panic that had consumed you, allowing you to relax as you leaned into the hand still resting against your cheek.

“There we go, little moon, you’re alright,” Nightmare cooed, his thumb rubbing against your face while his tentacles all moved to ensure you remained calm. While you couldn’t see them, they remained close enough that you could feel them crawling along, finding different places to rub against in a petting motion. “Just relax for me, okay?”

“A-Alright,” you stuttered out, melting under his precise touches. A sigh left your mouth as the previous tension within you let go, leaving you feeling truly relaxed. As much as you wanted to simply stay in the peaceful moment though, a thought kept nagging at you as you turned your head in the direction of his voice. “Night… why can’t I see you? E-Even if I open my eyes, it’s… just black. T-There’s nothing.”

The appendages currently touching you froze for just a second, and even as they continued their comforting motions, there was a stiffness to them that wasn’t present before. Silence filled the room for quite a time, all the while you waited with growing dread. Eventually, your partner spoke up, but his words weren’t what you were expecting. “What do you remember happening on our little outing to Outertale?”

“Outertale?” You echoed, thinking back on what you could recall. The two of you had been watching the stars, enjoying a moment of peace away from the crew. But that peace was shattered by the Star Sanses ambushing you, attacking Nightmare while he had nobody to fight alongside. You could recall Ink pursuing you despite Nightmare’s efforts to keep the Stars focused solely on him, and you remembered the joint attack that you saw coming from Dream and Ink. That attack would’ve crippled Nightmare if it didn’t kill him, and you clearly remembered your last-minute decision to save him despite the risk. Beyond that though, everything was a blur. “I… I remember the fight, and… I remember how the Stars were teaming up to take you down. I know I tried to save you, but… I don’t remember what happened after that…”

You trailed off, frowning at the gap in your memory that stopped you from answering any questions you may have had. The frown was quickly swept away though as you felt a gentle ‘kiss’ placed against the back of your hand, Nightmare’s teeth mimicking the affectionate gesture as they pressed against your skin. “Yes, you saved me, little moon. You saw right through my brother’s trickery, and you risked your own life to save mine. Part of me wishes to berate your foolishness for rushing into such danger, but… I’m more angry at myself for being unable to save you in turn.” The hand rubbing against your cheek shifted up to your temple, gently brushing against the underside of your eye. Yet you couldn’t feel his bones directly, merely the pressure indicating the presence.

Something was in the way, preventing him from touching you directly at that spot. Before his tentacles could stop you, your free hand reached up only to freeze at the far too familiar feeling. “B-Bandages? Night, w-why are my eyes covered in bandages?”

Your trembling hand was gently coaxed away from your face, a soft tentacle wrapping around the limb and pulling it back down. While you now knew why the world was dark for you, it only brought up so many more questions, and from the sound of Nightmare’s sigh, he didn’t want to tell you. “MC, you… Dream- ugh, this is harder to say delicately than I expected.”

“Then spit it out!” You almost growled, panic and desperation clawing at your soul. Until you had an answer, the feeling wouldn’t go away, even if your partner tried to force apathy upon you.

Thankfully, the dark god hadn’t resorted to attempting such, a groan of displeasure leaving him. You tightened your grip on his hand, silently begging him to simply be blunt if stepping around the issue was too difficult. Any answer would be better than nothing at this point… at least that’s what you thought.

Your opinion on the matter very quickly changed as Nightmare spoke up. “When Dream fired his arrow, you pushed me out of the way of his strike. Your actions spared me, but… his arrow damaged your eyes. That alone wouldn’t have been so difficult to deal with, however Ink, that chaotic little devil… his paint hit both of us. It did little to hurt me since my brother’s attack missed, but…” The dark skeleton trailed off, and you could’ve sworn that you heard him sniffle a bit. Such a “weak” display of emotion was uncharacteristic of him, even in front of you. “I’m so sorry little moon, but his paint got into your eyes. It burned them, and… we couldn’t undo the damage. You… I’m afraid you’re blind.”

“W-What?” Your voice was barely more than a whisper as you processed his words, finding yourself riddled with disbelief. There’s no way you could be blind, there’s no way the guys failed to heal you. Cross and Pyre had both taken care of your injuries in the past, and you knew that Nightmare’s preferential treatment of you made them too scared to fail for fear of his wrath. “You… you have to be wrong… t-there’s no way I’m suddenly blind!”

“MC, please calm down. You’re still recovering from your injuries, you could hurt yourself-”

“I’m already hurt, Nightmare! You told me I’m fucking blind!” You screamed, your eyes stinging as if they were trying to produce tears. Yet you couldn’t feel anything, not even the damn bandages growing damp. Growing furious, your hand shot up to rip them away, your arm pulling out of the tentacle’s lax grip with ease. The bandages had to be the reason you couldn’t see, it wasn’t that you were blinded!

Just as your hand managed to touch the soft fabric, the tentacle returned to grappling your limb with renewed vigor. “MC, stop this foolishness! You’ll only hurt yourself further!” Nightmare snapped, the tentacle continuing to wind its way around your arm and pull with increasing strength. Gritting your teeth, you dug your fingers into the bandages, determined to pull them away, and simply stopped fighting against the tentacle.

Your arm was yanked from your head, tearing bandages and damaging the still-healing flesh beneath. But despite the pain, you opened your now uncovered eye only for despair to hit you. “I… I-I’m blind,” you mumbled, feeling a sob build in the back of your throat even as your eyes refused to let you cry. They only continued to burn, the sensation growing worse the longer you held your eye open for. “I-I’m blind… I’m blind... I-”

Several tentacles wrapped tightly around you, bringing you closer to Nightmare as he hugged you to his chest. It managed to stop your spiralling thoughts, your hands digging into his jacket as you tried to come to terms with reality. Nightmare wasn’t lying; you really had been blinded by the Stars.

Some of your negativity was siphoned off, but most of it remained so that you could process your emotions and not simply run from them. Part of you wished to ask for the same emotionless bliss that Killer enjoyed, even if temporary, but you knew that your partner wouldn’t oblige. Still, he at least made the swirling negativity within you easier to handle, allowing you to have your moment with the god’s silent support.

It was only when the maelstrom within you calmed that he pulled away, his fingers brushing against the tender, burnt skin on your face. You couldn’t help the flinch, now keenly aware of the pain that your actions caused. The skeleton said nothing as he shifted, rustling being heard from what you assumed was the nightstand. It wasn’t much longer before the rest of the ripped bandages were stripped away, the air stinging your face until they were replaced with fresh ones that hid your injuries from the world once again.

“There, I’ll have to apply a cream to your facial burns a bit later, it seems you managed to rip open some of the blisters so I’ll wait until Cross can heal them.” More rustling could be heard from around the nightstand again, and you so desperately wished that you could simply see what was going on rather than trying to guess. “In the meantime, you should eat something now that you’re awake.”

One thing you were at least acutely aware of was Nightmare’s presence; the air around him was always a degree or two cooler, and there was a faint aura of dread that emanated from him. In your time together, you’d grown so used to his aura that it no longer bothered you. What did bother you was when you felt that aura pull away, your panic surging at the thought of being left alone. Without thought, you blindly reached out for him, managing to grab one of his slippery tentacles despite his movements. “P-Please! Don’t go! I... I-I don’t want to be alone…”

“MC, I’m just going to the kitchen to have Pyre prepare you something to eat,” he argued. Despite the fact that your eyes were hidden by bandages, you immediately tried to put on your best puppy-dog eyes, the one look that you knew he couldn’t resist. If it was from an actual puppy, Nightmare might’ve kicked the thing away out of annoyance, but you’d worn him down to where he caved to your begging almost every time.

This time was no exception, the god of negativity sighing as his tentacle wrapped around your arm and his presence returned to your side. “Alright, I’ll remain here for now. When one of the others comes to check in, I’ll send them to get your meal. Will that appease you?”

“Mhm,” you simply hummed, following the tentacle back to Nightmare’s chest where you proceeded to snuggle into it. He might’ve been seen as cold and cruel to everyone else, but he was nothing but a source of comfort for you. It would take quite a bit of adjustment and probably a few more meltdowns before you properly came to terms with your newfound blindness, but for now you felt surprisingly calm as you simply enjoyed the moment of rare peace in the castle.

“Hey Night, do they know we’re a couple yet?”

Just as your partner went to answer, the door to your room slammed open, causing you to jolt and pull back.

“Woah, not what I was expecting to walk into!” Killer’s voice echoed throughout the room, your face heating up despite your best efforts. “Didn’t know that you were into cuddles, boss! Guess it takes a certain special someone to make ya all soft~”

A groan left Nightmare’s mouth, and you could practically envision him pinching the bridge of nose at Killer’s words. “If they didn’t before, then they definitely know now.”

The two of you didn’t hear the end of it from Killer until Nightmare slammed the door in his face, though he could be heard loudly blabbing about what he’d seen to everyone in the castle. Yelling would be a more apt word. Still, it at least brought some of the others to check on you now that you were awake. Cross tended to your burns with some healing magic, dulling the pain and taking care of the blisters that you broke open in your earlier hysteria. Pyre rambled off something about cooking from the great Papyrus before darting off as quick as he came, returning with a bowl of soup that honestly smelled delicious right around the time Cross left. Nightmare never left your side the entire time, treating your wounds alongside Cross while one of his tentacles almost never broke contact with you. It was more reassuring than you would’ve thought it would be, allowing you to physically feel that he was staying with you just as he said he would.

It was strange having everyone fuss over you so much, though you guessed that might’ve been the fact that your relationship with Nightmare was now out in the open. It wasn’t as bad as you thought it would be though, as everyone except for Killer was respectful. Killer… well, there was only so much you could expect from someone who insulted others for the fun of it, so it wasn’t too surprising nor hard to deal with. It was almost… easier now that you didn’t have to hide your feelings for the lord of the castle, and it might’ve been your imagination but the others almost seemed to be treating you better than before. Pyre was always kind to you, and Cross was never difficult, but they seemed to be treating you a bit more carefully now than before. It was likely all in your head though, merely some of the castle’s nicer residents showing compassion to you in one of your times of weakness. Killer certainly wasn’t acting any differently. Regardless, the biggest source of comfort was your boyfriend sitting next to you, never leaving your side even as the warm meal, healing magic, and sheer emotional drain left you nodding off and relaxing back into the covers of your bed.

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