#tw: claustrophobia

[alcorianight]

I did not realize this got so long, so rambly word vomit under the cut

I do think more attention should be paid to the absolute horror Jason must have felt after coming out of the Lazarus pit like a foot taller and built like a damn fridge.

Like he died at 15, tiny, still small due to malnutrition and then the leading theory is that the Lazarus pit cures that and beefed him up. For one, that's gotta mess with his motor control a ton, especially when you consider that normal growth spurts cause a period of clumsiness (think jarring steps, toe stubbing, knocking your elbow on doorknobs or whatever), so a total body overhaul -Lazarus Edition™ - might be enough to keep him from even walking properly, let alone fight skillfully and gracefully.

Even if you say he got his coordination back from training or comic book science meant the pits didn't fuck that up, being small was probably a major part of his identity. Consider Jason before Bruce. He was tiny, but still resourceful and strong enough to jack tires. But being tiny was useful. Being tiny meant more hiding spaces were available. It meant he was unassuming. It meant people's eyes skipped over him. It meant avoiding attention. It meant safety.

And sure, Jason probably complained about being small when he was Robin. Probably even dreamed of being big as a street kid because being big meant having power, but being big on the streets meant being noticed and he knew that. It was something to dream about when he was older but not what he needed then.

I've also seen people headcanon that Jason is claustrophobic from the coffin, and I kinda vibe with that, and being bigger also screws with that because things feel so much bigger when you're small. If you think about it, elevators and the like probably felt a lot more spacious when you were a kid. So not only has his body been drastically changed without his consent (and I haven't really touched on that here, but also consider how it has to affect Jason Todd (who champions consent and autonomy and personal safety of the little guy) to have experienced nonconsensual body modification first hand like that) but it can actively cause him more mental distress.

And I think, coming out of the pit, the memory of his death still fresh in his mind, and stuck in the League of Assassins, maybe being small would have been comforting. He could still access all the same hiding places he would immediately clock. And while the image of a big man hiding somewhere clearly too small for him might be funny, it's also heart wrenching because he's lost so many safe places in a single moment.

Of course when Jason does go back to Gotham he's learned to use his new body and the fact that it makes him intimidating as hell, but I think there's another negative there as well. Because as Robin he comforted people. No Robin is ever soft but they are all almost definitely better at comforting victims than Batman (maybe not Damian, but he's a baby which is simultaneously more and less comforting) and a big part of that is because they're kids. Kids just aren't as intimidating as giant ass adults and I can imagine that this probably messed with Jason when he first got back to Gotham and tried to talk to the street kids or the working girls because those are groups of people who are going to be suspicious of men built like a goddamn fridge. He can't come up to them like he did as Robin, and I'm sure over time he's won their trust and they find him a symbol of safety, but the first few interactions have to hit hard because it feels like he doesn't belong in a place that's been his first home. That somehow he no longer fits right where he always did before.

I also can't imagine how disconcerting it must be to not recognize your reflection for like every part of yourself. Like, this one time I had makeup done for an event (not my idea) and it was so heavy that I didn't recognize myself and I felt so uncomfortable with that and that was just my face. My hair, my height, my build - all of that was still familiar, comfortable, but can you imagine being unable to recognize even that? And if he avoids mirrors to avoid seeing his reflection, he might not even be able to recognize himself in pictures and videos. (There's a fanfic with this idea and it definitely inspires this post because I honestly never considered this before and I thought it was so well written and such a good point that we don't pay enough attention to. You should totally check it out if you got this far.)

The last point I have for this post has to do with his relationship with Bruce. So typical timeline (I think) for Jason is he dies at 15, crawls out of his grave about 6 months later, is catatonic for 3 years, and then spends a year mentally present training with the League of Assassins on his world tour or whatever. I am fuzzy on the details here but basically from his birthday, Jason can't be older than 19-20 when he comes back to Gotham (I think 19 is the accepted age) but mentally he's 16 and for some fucking reason DC artists like to draw him like he's over 30. THIS IS A PROBLEM! Like this is an extremely fucked up 16 year old kid that should be trapped in a 19 year old's body but instead it's so much worse because (and I've seen someone describe him like this before) he's actually trapped inside the body of a 35 year old divorcee AND THAT IS NOT OKAY! Like even if we're gonna say that the Lazarus pit alters the body to peak physical health that would be like 22 or some shit. Past 30 is not a physical prime. You can be fit for sure at 30 but that doesn't change the fact that your ability to build muscle and heal and whatever else are probably better in your early to mid 20s and hey guess what that's still younger than Dick's accepted age (or maybe about the same (I have stayed up too late writing this to keep proper track of numbers)). But Jason looks older than Dick more often than not (the Gotham Knights game will never be forgiven for whatever the fuck happened to Jay's character design).

Okay sorry for the sidetrack, but Jason looking older is gonna fuck with Bruce because Bruce is gonna have a real hard time seeing his tiny, malnourished, never gonna top 5'4 Jaylad in this giant hulk of a figure, especially when the age is so off. Like imagine you have a kid who goes to college and does a ton of internships or research so you don't really see them for 4 years, you're still gonna expect your kid to look like they're 22-23. If they look like they're 35 you sure as hell are not gonna pinpoint that as your kid. So Bruce sees Jason and it makes sense that he doesn't think that's his kid BECAUSE THAT DOESN'T LOOK LIKE HIS KID! (I'm ignoring the moral differences in this post) So Bruce doesn't see a kid when he looks at Jason but Jason is mentally 16 and, despite everything he says to the contrary, he sees his dad when he looks at Bruce. Jason doesn't see an equal, someone who is just another adult. This is his dad, an authority figure in his life, someone whos opinions and words hold power over him whether he wants them to or not. But Bruce can't see that. Because Bruce doesn't see a kid. He doesn't see his son. He sees an equal and that's tragic because you're always supposed to be your parents' baby. Even when you're 50 with your own family and nearly adult kids, you're still gonna be your parents little baby. Because parents see their kids at all the ages they've ever been and it's the fact that Jason doesn't have someone who looks at him and sees him how he was when he was 2 and 7 and 10 and 13 and 15 when he still feels 16 that makes this so sad. Because no one's been his parent for long enough to really build that and Bruce can't see Robin!Jason in the Jason that came back.

Wow, uh, I'm really sorry to anyone who reads this. This really got away from me and it's super unorganized and I just kinda word vomitted all over this. This was just supposed to be about how his body was different. How did Bruce end up in this?

#jason todd #red hood #robin #lazarus pit #bruce wayne #batman #gotham #body disphoria? #i think #not sure if that's the right word #if someone knows the right phrase #please tell me #but basically weird relationship with body #tw: death #tw: claustrophobia #tw: body issues #tw: body modification #parents #parent child relationship #Jason is drawn way to old #this is a problem #for REASONS #jason todd is my comfort character #and it shows

[see-arcane]

I’m glad it isn’t someone else.

I’m glad it isn’t another loss of the desperate, the poor, the threatened, the forsaken masses scraped off the consciousness and consciences of those steeped in wealth and power who couldn’t be bothered to care as they drowned.

(Thousands have died and disappeared in the waters of migrant routes. Some make it to the shore. Some are sequestered in camps. Some of them are forced back out and abandoned on rafts in the middle of the sea. Where are their spotlights after the flavor of their misery fades in a day?)

I’m glad it isn’t a brave group there for a good cause rather than a VIP in-person death tour of a submerged mass grave of the unfortunate and abandoned, a trip embarked on only for the sake of its exclusivity.

(Any commoner can look at the pictures of the site on a screen. What’s the point if just anyone can do it?)

I’m glad it isn’t people who had no idea what they were risking, who didn’t have a slew of repeated ignored warnings from experts, repeated ignored signs of danger, repeated ignored near-misses leading up to the sight of the vessel itself, sat inside a tin can that bolts from the outside and steers with a shoddy knockoff of an outdated toy.

(They paid enough per person to save lives. Enough to cover a year’s expenses for whole families. Enough to do something, anything better, for personal pleasure or for the paupers. $250,000 a seat. On a whim. For a little jaunt. In that. Which they saw with their own eyes before ever taking off their shoes and crouching inside. With the ink still wet on the waivers.)

I’m glad it isn’t the story of five people who didn’t know better, who were on a mission, who did not make their respective livings on monetizing a tragedy with exorbitant fees for a ride in a vessel proven again and again to be unsafe and cheaply built, or selling private jets to those wealthy parties who see personal planes as a little treat that’s well worth the cash and carbon emission, or being a billionaire and his college-age son sitting at the head of a company with a stranglehold on energy, fertilizer and chemical production, or being an apparent expert on deep dives and submersibles and having an entire career built around being ‘Mr. Titanic.’

(Five whole lives in that sinking can. Five lives untouched by any of the hundreds of pains and evils and clockwork despair that afflict the majority of the world’s population simply because they did not have money or privilege enough to be permitted a life that isn’t a constant struggle, let alone one of safety or happiness on demand. (No, of course you can’t buy happiness. But the items and actions needed to get to happiness all seem to come with a price tag.))

I’m glad it isn’t yet another update on how yet another group of people who luck never bothered with are suffering and dying for no other reason than their own disposability in the eyes of those who could simply cease to worsen the lives of anyone not themselves, and choose not to.

(Prince Prospero and his friends are safe in the palace and its endless party. The poor are locked out and the Red Death—all Death!—is barred with them. Life has proven they are blessed. Wealth has, anyway, which is just the same. Have enough of it, and nothing can hurt you. Nothing at all. (Who is that gauche man in the bloody mask?))

I’m glad it isn’t someone else.

(It is horror in itself to imagine. The most merciful thought is that implosion made it quick. The unfit window gave way and the crush of the ocean took them all too fast for them to know what happened. Painless. They’re already so much whalefall and the opportunists in the water will leave no scraps of them. But if they are alive?

(It’s too much. Far, far too much.

(No contact, no response. Perhaps even a power failure. It could be they’re sitting in perfect darkness. Even the vacuum of space has starlight. But there’s nothing down there, where they remain too deep for the sun, too high for the twinkle of bioluminescent fish to trundle by the glass.

(Can they steer? Can they move at all? They would come up if they could. They haven’t. Forward, then? Back? Or just endlessly down and down and down until they meet the carcass of the ship they risked their lives to visit up close? Would it be better or worse if a current knocked them along and away from the site? Irony might be a knife too many down there, their lives dwindling away in the extravagant paupers’ graveyard the sea has kept private to all but those endowed enough to come and gawp.

(Even if they reached the surface, even if they survived the nigh inevitable attack of decompression sickness, even then, the only way out is bolted shut from the exterior. They could sit like a bottle on the waves, peering out at the sky and the air and the seabirds, still waiting. Still dying. Clawing at a door that will never budge without somebody to open it for them, as doors have always been opened for them.

(The air is thinning. How much have they dared to waste on talk? Screams, shouts, sobs? Can they even muster the nerve to void their bowels in the convenient plastic baggies that stand in for a toilet when it risks the stench of waste crowding the oxygen? Did they eat before they descended? Or did they hold off, daydreaming of an ample seafood buffet when they returned to shore, filleted and steamed and ringed with little dishes of sauce and butter? Is there food aboard, or was that disregarded as too much clutter, too much risk?

(If they are alive, they are stranded. They are suffocating. They are starving.

(And if they are very desperate, very angry, and very aware, all at once, of what their host—the CEO wielding the off-brand toy with a history of defective operation as their controls, who sued the employee who tried to warn them of the vessel’s faults, who insisted that safety was a waste, who bolted them in a coffin he himself must have trusted to bend the rules of physics and regulation and reality itself in his favor as every other factor of life had bent for him before—has damned them to, perhaps there’s at least one less set of lungs to worry about.

(It's a horrendous idea, of course. Unthinkable. It always is until it isn’t.

(Just like it would be unthinkable to be in the situation those five are in, if they’re alive enough to have any situation now.

(Just like it would be unthinkable to have anyone else in that situation.

(Except.

(Who would that anyone else be, if not these million-and-billionaires?

(Other wealthy travelers lost under water and waivers? The ship up top waited hours before contacting the Coast Guard after they lost contact with the submersible, and that was with the CEO onboard. How long would they have waited for others? Would they have told anyone if they didn’t know there was important kin and associates waiting onshore for news?

(Or perhaps it would be those passionate enough to save and save and save for the chance, for one single extraordinary moment, burning what would be a fortune to them and pocket change to the sunken five, just for all that patience, work, and frugality to be repaid with this? Another handful of nobodies lost to a tragedy born of carelessness and callousness. A lawsuit would ensue, perhaps. No less, no more.

(And the world wouldn’t have batted a lash. Not for lack of care, but for it’s very mundanity. 

(Every day. Every day. Innocent people, good people, people living on tightropes and tripwires of varying levels of menace just because they exist in circles that have never and will never graze the gilded impenetrability of the 0.01% who own and choke the planet, they fall to pain and destruction like meat into a grinder. All while that blessed 0.01% rarely, if ever, have a brush with silly things like hardship or consequences or consideration. There are no real Ebenezer Scrooges.

(Though I would like there to be. I’d like a whole miraculous gaggle of them to be rescued from the sea. I want them to come stumbling from their carbon fiber casket, alive and altered. I’d like to see the CEO, the architect of said death trap who has sent multiple people down to those depths without thought to safety or science, to be skewered by his passengers, by the press, by a lifetime of reprisals for all he dared to tout as an enterprise far too innovative to bother with regulation or care for human life. I’d like to see revelations and second thoughts blossom in the survivors and the naysaying corporate heads who sneer at the lag and cost of proper safety measures, of the well-being of people other than themselves, of the powerful reality of nature.

(I’d like a miracle. But if there isn’t?)

I’m glad it isn’t someone else.

#I’m sorry if this is too much. I can’t stop thinking about it and I had to scrape it out of my head. #oceangate #tw: thalassophobia #tw: claustrophobia

[mayasdeluca]

STUPID WIFE: COLLEGE SERIES Luiza and Valentina Episode 2

#stupid wife #luiza x valentina #valentina x luiza #priscila reis #priscila buiar #mine #tw: panic attack #tw: claustrophobia #this was so 😭 #i can't with them

[clivesdale-protectors]

The Box

[The Box is both big and small]

[The maze inside seems to stretch on forever. That's the first thing Sweetie realises when she first enters]

[And yet, it's so, so small at the same time. The walls feel too close together, and she feels like she can't breathe]

[Usually Sweetie likes her human form, but now it feels too constricting and too tight.]

[It's only then the situation hits her]

[She's made a really, really big mistake]

(OOC - @tedspankoffskifan42069 if you want)

#hatchetfield oc #hatchetfield rp #sweetie #The Box #tw: claustrophobia

[idontknowreallywhy]

Estera Ch 3 - Shoes

In which Scott deals with some Situations. All of which can be considered “light duties”. Honest…

(Prologue, Chapter 1 & Chapter 2)

(Given this is basically a fanfic of it, you should definitely read Recrudesence by @sofasurf first because it’s AWESOME)

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The little life signs, initially green and wriggly had grown still and shifted to amber. He knew what that meant and there was no way he was wasting a second in getting the oxygen through to them. It was the right thing to do. And he *was* still the Commander, even if his presence on rescues was still probationary according to IR’s Medic and Chief Fusspot, Virgil. 

Ok, sure, his stamina wasn’t yet back to what it was and, yes, his muscle tone required some work. He subtly stretched out a slightly twingey trapezius. Ok… quite a bit of work. But he could climb through a hole and assess the situation perfectly well, thank you. More’s the point, he could do so much quicker than his broader-shouldered brother could have. 

So, he did. It was the right thing. 

And also, Commander.

It really wasn’t fair that Virgil had to be proven right *quite* so quickly about the structural integrity of their hastily-dug tunnel.

As in, literally the-moment-after-he’d-slithered-his-way-out-of-it quickly. Slightly embarrassing, but he’d styled it out and the kids were definitely pleased he was there. As was the teacher who had obviously been having a nightmare of a few hours and probably needed some adult back-up. 

And they could all breathe now which was the important thing.

His tapped his comm unit and sent a concerned-brotherly enquiry as to Virgil’s health.

“I told you that would happen you absolute…”

He coughed loudly and started talking over his brother “We’re all ok in here, Virgil, including all of the many children that are here… listening and uh, being impressionable.”

The line went quiet. Possibly mutinously quiet.

“Get a stable exit route in place. I’ll close comms for now. Ping me if you have any updates.”

He didn’t need to see his brother’s face to know the eyebrows were likely to be in full apocalyptic mode. He considered contacting John to warn him to watch out for gravitational anomalies in the area.

Who was he kidding, John was probably Concerned already what with Oh-So-Fragile-big-brother-who-must-be-watched-at-all-times now being stuck the wrong side of a cave in. He’d be leaping into the elevator any minute…

Ahh, he was being unfair - both of them had been an incredible support the last couple of months and he was more grateful than he could express. But he was also so… SO tired of feeling caged by their caution, of his wings being clipped. Light duties, indeed. Well his heart felt lighter now, and he was more than ready to move on from being an invalid and be Scott again.

If he was honest, the next however-long of being in the company of people who solely viewed him as protector rather than protectee was going to be a blessed relief. Speaking of which, less thinking more rescuing, Tracy!

“Is anyone hurt?”

There was a chorus of “Noooooo” and then:

“Alex’s leg is stuck, Mr Scott!” a small red-headed child grabbed him by the arm and pulled “It’s not hurty but you hafta rescue him because the floor is hard and he’s annoyed and he really really really needs a wee”.

“Reuben, Alex might not want you to give ALL those details you know” the teacher chided in a slightly embarrassed tone.

“It’s true though Miss!” groaned the small child lying on his face in the corner, presumably stuck-Alex.

“And that’s a very serious matter” Scott knelt down next to the lad and patted his shoulder “We’ll sort that out in a minute but first I’m going to have a look at what’s pinning you, is it ok if I touch your leg?” Having received a vigorous nod of consent, he prodded cautiously at the debris around the trapped foot and then worked his fingertips in between the fallen slab and Alex’s ankle and smiled to himself. An easy fix for once! Having worked the Velcro fastenings of the shoe loose he sat back on his haunches.

“Alex, I think you can finish this rescue off all by yourself.”

There were literal gasps from a rapt audience and he grinned. Little kids were easily impressed and, to be frank, that was exactly what he needed right now. And if he was hamming it up just a little… well, none of his brothers were here to see…

He leant down and whispered an instruction and watched the kid’s eyes widen as he pointed his toes and slipped his foot out of his shoe and through the gap in the rubble.

Scott helped him to stand, whereupon he threw his hands in the air and did an exuberant victory dance. 

Then looked down at his feet and burst into tears.

Okay, did not expect that one.

The teacher who had materialised, ninja-like, at the child’s side patted Alex’s shoulder and looked up at Scott apologetically whispering “Brand new shoes, quite a big deal at their age, don’t worry he’ll be ok”. She turned back and made an array of comforting noises as the little boy cradled his remaining red rocket patterned trainer and sobbed his heart out.

Well, that wouldn’t do.

He nudged his comm and quietly requested an update.

“…Yes I’m Fine, John.” 

It turned out Virgil had gone back to Two to configure a pod, the rock being too unstable to make a safe passage through from the service tunnel they’d started out in.

“Just as well I got in with the O2 while I could then huh, John? Who knew? Oh… hi, Virgil. Yes, yes you knew. I’m fine. Yes, actually fine.”

They had to come in at a different angle. How long? Maybe half an hour? He squinted at the display on the oxygen tank, trying not to draw attention to it. Should be ok.

“F.A.B. See you when you get here.”

Back to the more immediate problem. He took out a small pocket knife and an unused grapple pack and started chiselling away at the fallen slab. Fortunately it was some kind of cement composite rather than natural stone so it crumbled away fairly easily. Another stroke of luck! Looked like today was his day. As he worked he found his mind drifting back to how excited Alan had been the first time he’d got light up shoes. Come to think of it those had probably had rockets on them too. A sudden sense of loss sidled by and nudged him. Time was beginning to race by. He tapped the knife slightly harder than he intended and a larger chunk came away. Bingo.

He approached a sniffly Alex and his teacher with his latest rescuee hidden behind his back. Squatting to approximately 7 year old height and resolutely ignoring the creaks in his knee and ankle joints, he slapped the bottom of the shoe to activate the flashy lights and presented it with a flourish. And a “TaDah!”

And maybe a touch of jazz hands. Because today felt like a jazz hands day.

The resulting hug nearly knocked him over.

A muffled voice emerged from his armpit 

“Where’s the toilet?”

Oh yeah, That Situation.

Fortunately this was not his first school-kids-in-a-cave/mine/collapsed-building rodeo. The small cubes of highly absorbent powder designed to neutralise small chemical spills had an unintentional but actually way more frequently employed secondary use. A couple of those crumbled in a corner and a swiftly organised human privacy wall later, Alex and several of his classmates were looking a lot more comfortable.

As he stood in the one spot tall enough for him to straighten out his back and tried to explain hygroscopy to a couple of rapt Science Fans who introduced themselves as Xanthe and Rozi, Scott noticed Reuben and Alex walking around him, carefully appraising his suit. The pair huddled in the corner for an intense discussion followed by rock paper scissors which Reuben apparently lost because he shuffled over and looked up at him, wringing his hands while clearly pregnant with a question of great importance.

Scott crouched down to his eye level and waited. The little boy blushed and looked at the ground and mumbled “Me and Alex were wondering how… how you and the other International Rescuers um… how you…” he trailed off and gestured vaguely at Scott and then the corner and back at Scott again. OH. Scott’s eyes widened and he let out a short burst of laughter.

“Sorry, that’s top secret information. If I tell you, they’ll fire me.”

Nodding seriously, Reuben returned to his conspirator and the speculation clearly continued in hushed tones.

His knees began to object vigorously to the prolonged crouch, so Scott sat himself down and stretched out his legs, focussing on not letting out the kind of old man groan Gordon would mock him relentlessly for. The teacher, cross-legged beside him, tilted her head and raised a skeptical eyebrow he found himself unable to resist and so he leaned over and whispered conspiratorially:

“Borderline pathological level of bladder control” and gave her a mock salute.

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Estera snorted in a most unladylike fashion and covered her face with her hands in an attempt to stifle the giggles, her shoulders shaking as some of the tension of the last few hours escaped. 

He chuckled, clearly pleased to have amused her. He stretched and sagged against the side of the cave in a way that hinted at more fatigue than his demeanour would suggest.

“Long day?”

“Something like that.”

She leant back against the wall and pulled her knees up to her chest. Was that more vibration she could feel through her shoulders? Hopefully just the rescuers doing their thing. Trying to shut out the sensation that the walls were getting closer she relaxed her shoulders and took a deep breath. It was shakier than she’d intended and she found herself irritated by the fact that she could tell the man sat next to her had picked up on that.

They sat and watched the kids argue passionately on either side of a welly boots vs trainers debate. It didn’t look like she’d need to intervene yet, thankfully. She did a quick tally of the ratio of wellies to trainers in the room and tapped the result as a rhythm on her knees. A slight tilt of his head revealed he’d noticed that too.

Not taking his eyes off the impending civil war he murmured:

“You doing ok?”

“Yeah. I’ll admit it’s been a bit of a trying day and I’m… not great with confined spaces at the best of times.”

The confession tumbled out of her mouth before she was consciously aware she’d even thought it. Appalled, she tried to claw the words back again - you don’t just admit things like that to complete strangers!

“I mean, not that it’s very confined down here, we were lucky with how things fell and there’s actually quite a lot of space given the circumstances and nobody was hurt which is brilliant and you guys will get us out and…”

Brilliant, now she was rambling. Too many “ands” Miss Hermaszewska, need to think of some more interesting connectives.

Fortunately she was prevented from any more demonstrations of her linguistic inadequacy by the more verbally competent Jeff who yelled over “Miss, what’s your favourite type of shoe?”

At least she could answer this one without any too much controversy.

“My running shoes from a special shop in London. I love them because they are decorated with stars, have bright blue laces and are so comfortable they feel like clouds. I’m also quite convinced they make me run faster.”

Identify, describe, impact, interesting fact. A classroom-quality answer. The questions didn’t *always* take her by surprise.

“Sounds like I need some of those” Rescue Man lifted a leg and let it drop again “these have many qualities but cloud-like is not one of them.”

“Not wellies then, Miss?”

“Not wellies, no. You can’t run in wellies but they are good for muddy walks with Bez.”

“Awwww I love Bez!”

“He’s the hugest cutest floofiesf!”

“I love Bez the most!”

“No I DO!”

She chuckled and went to explain “Bez is my…”

He wasn’t listening but was frowning at the ceiling intently with his hand raised to the radio unit near his shoulder. “Virgil… what’s your status?” She could only hear static in response. He stood.

The vibrations had definitely became more noticeable. She got to her feet and did a quick assessment of where each of the children was and felt her heart leap into her throat as an entire section of the cave wall opposite shifted downwards by half a metre. 

Astra and Bee lay on their bellies just in front, fully engaged in a thumb war.

There wasn’t time to get them off the floor and out of the way! Acting on instinct, she threw herself over them and pulled their heads in under her body, bracing herself for the bone-breaking impact of cold unforgiving stone on her back. 

It didn’t come. 

There was an impact but it wasn’t a rock. It was warm and wrapped tightly around her as the wall disintegrated above her and debris rained down.

Panic seared through her veins and the whistling in her ears drowned out every thought but 

NO.

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[Link to Ch 4]

[AO3]

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #scott tracy #Estera #idontknowreallywhy fanfic #Tw: implied trauma (subtle) #tw: claustrophobia #TB Estera

[jinxquickfoot]

@badthingshappenbingo prompt: "You said you would let them go" Find the fic on Ao3

"You said you would let him go.”

Peter squeezes his eyes shut—the only part of his body he can move—at the sound of Tony’s voice. He’s lost track of how long it’s been since he’d woken strapped to this table, the scents of chemicals and ocean heavy in the air.

“That’s when I thought I was ransoming an intern,” Osborn replies, running a finger down the side of Peter’s cheek. Peter manages to glare at him—the most he can do when he’s unable to pull away. “But he’s more than that, isn’t he, Stark?”

“Whatever narrative you’re trying to spin to wring more cash out of me, save it. You have the money you asked for. Now let him go, or I’m going to stop being civil about this.”

“Civil?” Osborn muses. Even from this end, Peter can hear the distortion from the tech Osborn is using to disguise his voice. “Civil would be returning what’s yours, Stark. Which was the plan before I realized that you stole this specimen first.”

“He’s a high-schooler. Only thing he’s been stolen from is gym class.”

Osborn bends his finger, causing the nail to catch on Peter’s skin. “A high-schooler, yet you gave him access to your personal labs. He must be very special.”

“Rumours, and half-baked ones at that. Get better sources.”

“Don’t lie to me, Stark. It wasn’t hard to run some blood work. This kid isn’t human, not by a long shot, so the price just tripled. Have the money in the same account by midnight, or I’m putting him on the black market in pieces.”

“Or,” Tony counters. “I figure out who you are, come pick the kid up myself, and you can face me head on. How does that sound?”

“Is that an UN-approved mission, Stark? Heard you’re on a tight leash these days. Good luck getting a rescue mission signed off in time to save the kid.” Osborn grins down at Peter, the expression all teeth. “Either way, I get paid for him. How much pain he goes through during the interim is entirely up to you.”

“Listen, you do not want to—”

But Osborn has already hung up. “So, Peter. Looks like we have a few more hours together. How do you want to spend them, huh? Shall we have a little more fun while your dashing hero decides if you’re worth paying for?”

Not being able to throw quips at bad guys sucks. Peter tries to move his tongue, but it’s as immovable as the rest of him. When he’d first woken up, he’d been terrified that the paralysis might be permanent. But he regains feeling every couple of hours or so, just enough to strain his limbs against the restraints, which is exactly when Osborn gives him another dose of whatever drug is keeping him immobilized.

“I’ve got all the blood I need,” Osborn is saying, moving over to the table that Peter is trying very hard not to look at. “But if we have time, why don’t we go a little deeper?”

If he could move, Peter would flinch at the sudden whir of what sounds horribly like a bone saw starting up. He might not be able to move his body, but the past few hours have certainly proved that he can feel it.

“Aw,” Osborn coos at him, the sound of the saw growing closer. “Don’t be scared, kiddo. You heal quickly enough. And after all, I’m only taking back what was mine in the first place—” He breaks off, turning to a bank of monitors that Peter can just see out of the corner of his eye. There’s a green dot traveling towards them at breakneck speed. “Well, would you look at that? I guess Stark isn’t as stupid as that goatee makes him look.”

A breath punches out of Peter as the saw switches off, hoping Osborn’s words mean the one thing he’s been praying for since he first woke up here. Tony’s coming.

Osborn sweeps Peter’s hair off his forehead in a mock gentle gesture. “Looks like I’m about to have an unexpected visitor, which means I’m going to have to put you away for a while.”

Peter narrows his eyes at him, trying to look as intimidating as possible while unable to move on a surgical table.

Osborn just laughs. “I see. You think he’s going to find you. Ah, Peter—where I’m about to put you? No one will even think to look.”

Somehow, getting cut open with a bone saw might have been preferable to this.

It’s freezing. If Peter’s body was cooperating, he knows he’d be shivering violently right about now. It’s pitch black, the oppressive darkness making him want to scream. And none of that compares to the overwhelming claustrophobia of being chained to an anchor deep, deep underwater.

Peter’s not sure a normal human would have survived the plunge into the ocean’s depths, even with the diving suit Osborn had stuffed him into. He can breathe, at least, but he’d caught a glimpse of the oxygen tank before Osborn had tipped him overboard. It had already been half-empty.

He’s tried to slow his breathing, to make whatever air he has last, fighting the instinct to panic and attempt to strain against the chains. Logically, he knows it’s no use. He’s still paralyzed. Even if the drug wears off, he’s not going to be strong enough to swim to the surface. He’s down here until Osborn pulls him up or until Tony finds him. If Tony finds him.

“Wow,” Osborn’s voice crackles in his ear. The earbud had been jammed in before Osborn had secured the diving mask purely, Peter knows, so that Osborn could keep taunting him. “He got here fast, little spider. Guess he really cares about you. Too bad he’s not going to find you, though.”

Peter closes his eyes, even though it doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference to what he can see. If anyone can figure out where Osborn’s hidden him, it’s Tony Stark.

It’s the thought he holds onto as he hears the distant roar of thrusters, right before Osborn whispers over the comms, “Show time.”

A stomp of boots and the crack of a door being kicked open. “Where is he?”

“Stark. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Don’t bullshit me, Osborn. That line about a stolen specimen? I know you have him.”

“I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about. And I’ll have you know that there are security cameras all over this boat. It would be a shame if the UN saw the Accords’ greatest defender attacking without so much as a warrant.”

“I don’t need a warrant if I have probable cause of harm.”

A surprised laugh. “Probable cause of harm? I am merely out here alone, enjoying a little me time.”

“Uh-huh. So you won’t mind if I search your toy boat, then?”

“Go ahead.” Osborn is all confidence. “Search away.”

More sounds—footsteps, mostly. The sounds of doors opening. The noise of a search.

Please, Peter sends up to the boat, as though if he projects through sheer force of will Tony’ll hear him. Please think to look down here, Tony. Please.

“I have to say,” Osborn speaks up, and Peter wants to punch him for the undisguised glee in his voice. “You must have lost something very important to go to all this trouble.”

“Don’t play the ignorant card, Osborn. It’s not a cute look on you.”

“Simply making an observation.”

“And you know what I observe? The room you have hidden below the ship.”

Peter’s heart skips. That has to be the room he had woken up in, where the surgical equipment, where Peter’s blood is.

“Not hidden,” Osborn corrects him. “The door is simply an aesthetic design, I assure you. I’d be more than happy for you to take a look.”

A sudden ocean current sweeps past Peter, knocking him hard against the anchor. It steals the wind from him, and there are a few terrifying moments where he can’t catch his breath, he can’t breathe, he can’t—

“Interesting space you’ve got in here. Very… clean.”

Peter latches onto the sound of Tony’s voice, using it as a much kinder anchor than the one he’s bound to. He doesn’t know how much oxygen he just wasted. He doesn’t know how much he has left, either. It belatedly occurs to him that if Tony can’t find him, then the more time his mentor spends searching, the longer Peter’s going to be stuck down here.

“I hardly use this space,” Osborn says. “The previous owners used it for fishing equipment, so I had it scrubbed to get rid of the smell and have barely touched it since. And I believe you’ve now seen the whole boat. Satisfied?”

I’m not on the boat, Peter thinks desperately. I’m below the boat.

“Not really,” Tony answers. “So, he’s not here. You’ve got him somewhere else.”

No, no, no, I’m here, come on Tony, please figure this out.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Stark.”

There's an ugly pause before Tony says, “Don’t make me make you tell me, Osborn. You won’t enjoy that.”

“Go ahead,” Osborn challenges him. “Threaten an innocent man on camera. Let’s see how that holds up under the Sokovia Accords.”

Peter’s breath catches. At first, he thinks it’s just the tension burrowing its way under his skin from the dark, the cold, the oppressive weight of the water. Then he takes another slow breath. And another.

He’s not imagining it. The air feels a little lighter than before. As though he’s already scraping the bottom of the oxygen tank.

“I paid what you asked for,” Tony snaps at him. “Tell me where he is, Osborn. Now.”

Peter slows his breathing, trying desperately to make whatever is left in the tank last as long as possible.

“How many times do I have to say it? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not leaving here until you tell me. I’ve got all night.”

Barely an hour ago, those words would have been music to Peter’s ears. Now, they’re a death sentence.

“All night, huh?” Amusement radiates from Osborn’s words. “Sure, I’m not busy. Can I offer you a drink?”

“I’m taking a second look around the ship.”

“Please, be my guest. Take all the time you need.”

Peter’s next breath rattles in his lungs. He’s definitely on dregs, and it’s not as though Osborn can pull him up while Tony’s still there. Osborn doesn’t need him alive, either. He’s made it clear that Peter’s body parts will sell just fine.

Peter listens helplessly as Tony continues to search, refusing to leave without answers that Osborn isn’t giving him. This is it. Peter’s going to die down here.

“Sure I can’t get you that drink, Stark? You did come all this way.”

Even over the comms, Peter can pick up Tony’s frustrated sigh. “This isn’t done with, Osborn.”

No, be done with it, Peter pleads with him. Go, Tony. Please just leave.

“I’m not sure what this even is,” Osborn replies, his tone all congeniality. “Of course, you did just invade my private property, which I will have to report. We all have to do our bit to keep the community safe.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” Another sound of frustration, and then Peter hears the joyous sound of an Iron Man suit starting up. Tony’s going to leave. Osborn is going to pull him up.

And then cut him to pieces and sell him.

Peter barely has time to register that last thought before he tries to take his next breath, and finds that he can’t.

“Goodbye, Stark,” Osborn is saying. “Hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Peter forces himself not to panic—to preserve the last molecules of oxygen he has left.

“Oh believe me, Norman. I will.”

Just go just go just go just go just go—

There’s silence for far too long before Peter hears Osborn speak again. “Just making sure he’s out of sight, kiddo. Can’t take any chances.”

Peter’s lungs are on fire. Instinct finally kicks in and he jerks in the chains, the paralytic drug wearing off far too late. A very different kind of darkness from the undersea depths is creeping in around him, and he can’t hear Osborn anymore, and the anchor isn’t moving, he’s going to die down here and he doesn’t want to die he doesn’t—

The last thing Peter’s aware of before he passes are strong arms on his, and the sensation of rising, rising, rising…

“Peter? Come on, kid, don’t do this to me.”

When Peter’s eyes open, he doesn’t see darkness. He’s not strapped to a table either. He experimentally shifts his arms and legs, breathing a sigh of relief as they move, only to realize that they’re shaking beyond his control.

“That’s it, Pete. Hey, look at me. Peter.”

The blurry shapes around him finally coalesce into the face of one very worried-looking Tony. “Oh, hey Mr Stark.”

“I need to stop pulling you out of freezing waters, kid.”

“S-sorry.” Peter can hear his teeth chattering, trying to wrap his arms around himself, only to realize that they’re oddly heavy. He peers down at himself, realizing he’s encased in red and gold metal. “Woah, that’s so cool.”

“Don’t get too excited, the suit’s a loan. Just getting you warm.”

Peter frowns. “Don’t feel warm.”

Tony’s brow creases. “We’ll get there. Don’t want to shoot your temperature up too quickly with your funky thermoregulation. Once you’re good I’ll fly us home.”

“Home sounds good. Away from…” Peter suddenly tries to sit bolt upright. It’s more of a half-sit-up before he collapses back with a groan.

“Woah, kid, take it easy.”

“Osborn, he’s here, he’s—”

“I got him. You’re safe, kid. I promise.”

Peter stills. “Really?”

“Really really.” Tony places a hand on Peter’s forehead, and Peter sighs at the warmth. “Sorry, kid. This one’s on me.”

“But you found me.”

“Yeah, that was one of my better brainwaves. Still, I don’t need villains kidnapping my intern because they think it’s an easy payday. We’ll work on it.”

Peter’s beginning to feel something other than completely frozen, the violent shivers abating a little. He pulls in a full breath, savoring it. “Yeah, that sucked.”

“Agreed.” Tony checks his forehead again. “I think we’re okay to turn it up a bit, FRIDAY.”

Heat suddenly bursts from the Iron Man suit’s interior, and Peter sighs in relief. “Thanks.”

“Any time, kid.” Tony lays his hand on Peter’s arm, finally seeming to relax as Peter’s temperature climbs. “Any time.”

#irondad #tony stark #peter parker #hurt peter parker #protective tony stark #kidnapping #hostage situatons #tw: claustrophobia #bthb card #bad things happen bingo

[chrisevansdaughter]

Hi! I saw ur recent post and I hope that ur feeling okay I had a panic attack recently and I thought of an idea about it lol, could you do smt where Chris and the reader get stuck in an elevator together and the reader is really claustrophobic? Thanks sm

He was the safety you needed no matter what.

——————

Paring: Chris x Sister! Reader

Warnings: claustrophobia, anxiety, panic attacks, bring stuck in an elevator ( worst nightmare for me)

Summary: Chris and Y/n were leaving the mall to go to the parking lot when her worst fears come true.

——————

Everyone in your family knew you anxiety over many things one of those things was small spaces i.e elevators that you had a deathly fear of getting stuck in one from that little nugget of anxiety it manifested into claustrophobia. Which at the best of times didn’t help at all mix that with a panic attack and we’ll see what happens.

Chris and yourself were having some quality time together going room shopping for some new decorations since you decided you wanted to change up your room a little he was completely down with helping you with that.

Already bring on edge with normal anxiety from how busy it was at the mall only amplified your claustrophobia and Chris could see that I mean you were basically finished anyways, one last step was going in an elevator down to the parking lot, which we all know you hated.

Knowingly Chris was hugging you when you got in the elevator to keep you grounded for the short trip knowing how bad you could get. Suddenly all you hear was a thud, nothing was moving, nothing was opening. You were stuck. Your worst nightmare.

Panic bubbled more than before, the claustrophobic feeling came in full effect, Chris was still hugging you, reassuring you were okay and that you were both safe and making it paramount you knew someone was coming to help them.

All he got as a reply was a whimper and the soft sound of crying, it pulled on his heart, he started to rock you gently, telling your brain to ‘shhh’ the noise away. Magically it worked, it usually always didn’t he’d usually have to try another one of your therapy techniques but he wasn’t complaining nor were you.

A couple minutes later the bing noise of the elevator started again and soon enough you were in the safety of the parking lot, proud of you Chris pulled you in to another hug for one last time before walking to the car reminding you it’s okay, and that you were safe.

He was your safety blanket.

Your blanket from your thoughts.

All he’d say if it got really bad was ‘shhhhh’ to quiet down your brain, your thoughts it worked amazingly.

He was the safety you needed no matter what.

•••••••

Hey anon, I hope your okay after you panic attack that you had recently l, and I’m feeling better now thank you. I hope you enjoy this lovely. I hope you all love it too

Don’t forget to like, reblog and send in your asks :)

#chrisevansdaughter #chris evans #chris evans daughter #chris evans x y/n #chris evans x reader #chrisevansdaughter anons #chrisevansdaughter online 💖 #chrisevansdaughter answers #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans fic #tw:panic attacks #tw: claustrophobia

[lluiscarrasco]

[ TRAPPED ]

"God, what do you want?" he muttered to himself, as his phone screen lit up; a name, he rolled his eyes at, popping up. He was too focused on the message, when the small, metal box he was in stopped midway with a clang. Confined space, metal doors - fuck. This was only supposed to be a short trip to the fifth floor. He wouldn't dare be caught on those glass ones, that fly up to the 50th floor; but at least the idea of a glass one, wasn't that bad; he would focus on the sky, and his breath would eventually even, and his chest would stop aching, and - It took him a moment to notice the other person with him; familiar features, yet he couldn't put a name to the face. The face didn't matter anyway, because in a matter of seconds it would turn blurry and distant. "What the fuck?" Luis rushed to push the emergency button, but ended up clicking frantically all of them, over and over again. "Is this a fucking joke?" His voice had risen slightly, hitching; eyes aimed at the ceiling, as if someone could actually hear him. "Fuck, I'm gonna be sick - " his forehead hit the metal door; sweaty palms resting on the surface, drops of cold sweat rolling down his neck.

#ft kirin #winging it pal <3 #tw: claustrophobia

[friendlyneighborhoodhorrornerd]

"Choke" Part 1

tw: blood, claustrophobia

Kathrine MacDowell, much to the frustration of her son, continued to hold down the horn.

She might have been marginally more patient with the traffic jam she found herself stuck in (although not much more) if her own car had not seemed quite so claustrophobic. The aging SUV was packed to the backs of the front seats with everything they had removed from Rory’s dorm room after his freshman year. Her own seat had had to be pushed up uncomfortably far, and her knees ached from the lack of legroom. Somehow, despite renting storage at the university to hold half of his things there over the summer, the car seemed even more full than it had been in the fall.

“I don’t think that’s going to do much at this point,” her son, Rory MacDowell, a spaced-out music major with shaggy, ruddy hair who she raised alone after leaving his dirtbag father, said from the seat next to her. They had, for the most part, a very good relationship, and while she could not for the life of her understand the music he wrote or listened to (what the hell is hyperpop and electroswing??) she was nonetheless very proud. Occasionally, when their tempers turned towards each other (which seems to happen more and more lately) she couldn’t help but see the shadow of his father in him, but was unable to tell how much of that was her own emotions getting the better of her. After nearly eight hours on the road and having exhausted every possible conversation topic about school and work and their personal lives, it was beginning to be one of those times.

“Well, we don’t have a lot of other options, do we?” As her frustration rose, she let slip a hint of a Scottish accent. “We’ve been stuck in this traffic for God knows how long—”

“Three and a half hours.”

“—Three and a half hours, and we’ve barely moved a mile. The sun went down when we got into this mess, and now we’d be lucky if we can get home before morn’n.”

Rory shrugged, sinking further into his seat and pressing his feet against the dash in front of him. For the first half of the trip, she would have chastised him for this, but at this point it seemed the least of her worries. Instead, she tried to focus on the traffic ahead, but was faced with thick Connecticut fog, barely able to see more than one car in any direction.

Bill Crabtree leaned back in the seat of his truck, letting the noises of frustration outside fade to the background as he read the paperback he had packed for exactly this purpose.

He had been a long-haul trucker most of his life; he started in his early 20s, and now he was the spitting image of his grandfather—at least, as far as he’d been told. He wasn’t quite as old as his grandfather had been when he was a kid, so he had to shave a decade or so off of the image he remembered, and even then he could only ever see a passing resemblance. Even if he couldn’t see it, he always took the compliment—he had always admired his grandfather as a kid, and always found him a comforting presence, so he liked the idea that he might take after him. He hoped, though, that in inheriting his grandfather’s looks, he didn’t also inherit the cancer that took him before Bill was a teenager, but that was a worry for later.

At this point, he was about halfway through Dancing on a Tripwire, a pulpy spy thriller he picked up at his last rest stop. It wasn’t a book that most (even him, truth be told) would exactly describe as good, but he didn’t particularly mind—the writing was anything but boring, and when trying to keep his sanity on long drives like this, that was about the only standard he had. At the moment, the protagonist, Agent Chris Ransom, was running through a Siberian forest from soldiers after breaking out of prison. It struck Bill as odd that the guards would be as invested as they were—by all measures, Ransom wasn’t ever really a prisoner there; he just broke in and disguised himself as one to talk to an informant. As far as the soldiers were concerned, he was a waste of their time, unless he had been sold out and they knew that he knew about the secret compound located in the mountains of Idaho—

A thought passed through Crabtree’s mind, and he picked up the microphone for the CB radio on his dashboard. “Idaho.”

Laughter came from the other end, and immediately he knew he had made a mistake. “No, shit, not Idaho. What’s the other one? Iowa? I always get those two mixed up.”

After a second the laughter died down, and was replaced by a jovial voice, cutting through the static. “Either way, not quite there yet, sorry, bud. You gonna guess again?”

The voice, who he had come to know as Teddy, had a thick accent that he was sure was some kind of midwestern (a sharp contrast to his own Tennessee drawl) but for the life of him he couldn’t place from where. Rather than simply telling him, Teddy turned it into a game, and he was currently batting five-nil. It didn’t help that Bill could never remember states off the top of his head. This wasn’t to say he was stupid, or didn’t know geography; on the contrary, Bill could draw a path along the interstates between any two points in the country and would know half the terrain off the top of his head, but if asked to remember the state borders themselves, he was usually at a loss.

Teddy was another long-haul driver, in his case shipping lumber (although he wouldn’t specify from where, as he said it would spoil the fun). He and Bill had been the only people on the radio during the nearly four hour jam, and despite the difference in demeanor, they seemed to get along quite well.

“What made you guess Idaho, anyway?”

He waved a hand dismissively, only realizing after a second that the gesture would be lost on Teddy. “Got mentioned in my book. Thought it might be something, but, eh.”

Teddy clicked his tongue. “Don’cha know you’re not supposed to be reading while operating a moving vehicle?”

Bill looked up and raised an eyebrow at the radio. “You gonn’ tell me you’d call this a ‘moving vehicle’?”

Uproarious laughter came from the speaker on the dashboard (far more than Bill thought was warranted), followed by a coughing fit. “You’re right in that department, I gotta say!”

As the conversation died down, the truck was once again filled with the sounds of the outside, and suddenly Bill became aware of a near-constant horn that had previously faded in the background. He glanced outside his window and saw a cramped silver SUV, and through the window he was next to he could see an older teenage boy resting his feet on the dash. His outfit reminded him of his favorite niece when she was explaining to him the exact differences between various goth and emo subcultures, although he could never remember which one she actually belonged to.

He pulled down on his horn a couple of times, hoping to send a message.

“Well, looks like you got someone’s attention.”

Katherine looked over through her son’s window, seeing only the bottom section of a truck, before turning back to the wheel slightly more sullen. “I’m assuming he’s just flipping me off or something?”

He craned his neck up a bit, trying to get a good look. “No… it just look’s like he’s just trying to get our attention.” He waved a bit, the driver in the truck next to them responding in kind.

“Whatever. Just ignore him, I guess.” She tried to keep her eyes on the road, but after a second was pulled away by the sound of Rory opening the window. “What—”

Ignoring his mother, Rory stuck his head out, shouting at the driver of the truck. The driver’s window was also open, and he seemed to be responding, but over the din of the herd of cars Rory couldn’t make any of it out before being yanked back inside by his shoulder.

“Why the hell’d you do that?”

Eyes wide like a deer in headlights, Rory shrugged. “I was just trying to say hi…”

She sighed.

“It’s not like there’s much to do while we’re stuck here, might as well talk to some of the other people here.”

“I get that, but it’s not a good idea to just go talking to random strangers.”

Rory shrugged again. “What’s he gonna do? We’re separated by the cars and everything.”

“That’s not the point. The point is—” She stopped, looking out the window, suddenly scrunching her face to one side. “Your friend’s got something for you.”

Rory looked back out the window to see the driver, a large, heavily bearded man, leaning dangerously out of the now-open truck door, holding in his outstretched hand some kind of small black device. Rory opened his own door a crack, prompting annoyed beeping from the car’s speakers, and reached out his hand, just barely grabbing the thing and pulling it back in the car.

Even if Rory didn’t know exactly what it was, he could guess its function pretty easily. It had a detachable microphone held by a curly black cable to a rectangular unit, the front of which held a number of dials and a small basic display, and it didn’t take too long to piece together that it was a two-way radio of some sort.

While she knew her son could almost certainly figure it out, the opportunities for Katherine to possess some kind of tech knowledge that he didn’t were getting fewer and farther between, so she didn’t waste a second. “That’s a CB radio, I think. They used to be more common, but truck drivers still use them to talk to each other.”

Almost on cue, the device lit up, first as blaring static and then resolving into a voice as Rory frantically turned down the volume knob. “Y’all there? Wanted to make sure you hadn’t fallen asleep on the horn.”

Rory wanted to say something snarky at his mother’s expense, but before he could she grabbed the mic out of his hands. “We’re fine, thanks. Now, is there anything we can help you with? We’re kind of in a hurry, and we don’t really have time for chitchat.”

After a second, the voice in the radio laughed a bit. “Pardon me, ma’am, but it seems to me like you’ve got plenty of time. ”

Katherine looked out at the thin strip of unmoving cars, obscured by fog, finding herself forced to concede the point.

“Anyway, I was thinking, since we’re seemingly gonna end up becoming permanent residents out here, I might as well try to get to know my new neighbors. You can call me Bill.”

After a second of mulling it over, she turned the microphone on again. “Kathy. And this is my son Rory here with me,” she said, holding the microphone up to Rory so he can offer a greeting, before bringing it back to her own mouth. “Considering the circumstances, I wouldn’t exactly call it a pleasure, but it’s certainly more so than the rest of the drive has been.”

Another chuckle. “Can’t argue with that. So, where’re y’all headed? Anywhere fun?”

Kathy (a name Rory almost never heard used to refer to her) hesitated for a second. It could be a bad sign, maybe he was some kind of creep trying to tail them. Maybe the radio he gave them had some way to track their location and he would start stalking them. She had always been taught to be wary of strangers, and while she never had anything too bad happen, she always felt more comfortable with an abundance of caution.

Still, somehow it didn’t seem terribly likely that he had any bad intentions. He could want to follow them, yes, but he wouldn’t need to know their destination ahead of time, all he’d have to do was take all the same turns they did. Besides, he probably had to schedule to keep, and stalking single mothers in vans filled with college supplies somehow didn’t seem to her like it’d just be a quick detour.

She settled on a compromise, keeping things vague but polite. “No, just home for us, he just finished his freshman year of college.”

“Well, hey, I’d say that’s something to be proud of! What’re you studying?”

Rory, rolling his eyes a bit, took the microphone and started mentally running through the script in his head for these kinds of questions. “I’m a music major, mostly electronic music. My first year went pretty well.”

“That sounds pretty interesting!” Much to Rory’s relief, Bill quickly pivoted topics, apparently running out of questions to ask him. “What about you, Kathy? Whatd’ you for a living?”

Kathy took the microphone back, but then hesitated, although not out of nervousness this time.

“You there?”

“…you’re gonna laugh.”

“Oh, nonsense.”

“No, trust me, you’re gonna laugh.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

She paused once again, before pressing the button on the top of the microphone once more. “I’m an accountant.”

Immediately, Rory twisted his head around, hoping to get a glimpse to confirm that Bill was, indeed, not laughing, but unfortunately couldn’t see the driver from his seat.

After a second, the speaker turned on again, and while Kathy could’ve sworn the voice was a bit more cheerful than before, she wasn’t completely sure. “Hey, that’s nothing to be ashamed of! That’s a plenty important job!”

“Yeah, but it’s also the most stereotypical ‘boring’ job there is. It’s like saying my favorite show is The Office.”

“Well, is it?”

Kathy thought for a second. “I like mystery shows generally. I think my favorite is probably Columbo? Or maybe Law & Order.”

“Both solid choices. Rory?”

Rory, who had zoned out a bit looking out the window, snapped back to reality and took the microphone from his mother’s outstretched hand. “Um,” he paused, a bit caught off guard, “probably Breaking Bad, actually. I just got into it with some of my friends.” While this wasn’t strictly accurate, he reasoned it was probably the only one of his top 10 or so shows that Bill (or his mother, for that matter) would actually recognize, given that the rest were web series or some kind of obscure anime.

“Ooh, I’ve heard good things about that one, never gotten around to it myself, though. If I had to pick one, I’d probably say… Survivor, maybe. It’s cheesy, I know, but I like the drama.”

After a pause, the radio lit up again, this time with a new voice. “I’m an X-Files man myself, usually. Or The Twilight Zone. The original, although the Jordan Peele reboot is pretty good.”

“Ah, sorry, forgot to introduce y’all. This is Teddy, he’s another truck driver about… how far ahead are you, Teddy?”

“Oh, a little under half a mile or so. Hold on,” He stopped, and a second later returned, triumph evident in his voice. “Exactly half a mile as of now! Someone must’ve gotten through at the end of my lane.”

“Hey, that’s great! Good on whatever soul got through.”

Kathy picked up the microphone again. “Y’know, I’ve had friends who are really into The X-Files, but I’ve never been able to get into it. The plot always seemed really hard to keep track of.”

“Eh, that’s fair. I mostly just watch for the monster-of-the-week ones anyway. I’ve always had a thing for spooky stories, heh.”

At that, Rory was struck with an idea to make the drive less boring, and asked his mother for the microphone again. “You’ve got any good ones?”

Without ever seeing the man, they could perfectly imagine the grin on Teddy’s face as the radio lit up with his voice. “Oh, do I.”

It was with a mix of frustration and resignation that Jed viewed his current circumstance.

Jebediah Cameron-Johnson (a name he himself considered somewhat unfortunate, but never could find any way to change it that would fit, apart from appending his wife’s name on the end) had spent the last two weeks on a five-day business trip that continued to elongate until he, much to the frustration of his boss, put his foot down and started the drive home. His stepdaughter Mary’s 13th birthday was the next morning, so while the timing of the original trip hadn’t been an issue, the elongation had begun to pose quite a problem.

The issues continued as he had tried to leave. First he had to wait another night to actually be able to get out of there, since he had told his boss he was going home the night before, and the hotel’s checkout ended at 12, and it wouldn’t let him do it online. Then, he nearly missed that day’s checkout because of a misplaced key, and then he had to wait another half an hour for the hotel’s valet parking to find his car due to a computer error. By then, the traffic had been terrible, and now he was stuck in a seemingly endless jam. He reasoned it was still likely that he’d be able to get home before tomorrow, but not necessarily at a good time, and he wanted to not be a complete wreck for his stepdaughter officially becoming a teenager.

The good thing about the conference, though, was that it gave him ample time to finish putting together a birthday present without having to do so in secret. Sitting in the backseat, seatbelt on and everything, was a very carefully wrapped RC drone. Last year she got a small helicopter from one of her friends, and for the next few months, until he and Leslie banned it inside, she flew it around the house constantly. She had been asking for something bigger ever since, and every night for the month before the conference Jed had researched the best drones for kids until settling on the one he ordered. Technically, the recommended age was a couple of years older than she was, but he reasoned if she really wanted it, it would help to get something she wasn’t likely to grow out of immediately. Besides, he was kind of looking forward to helping her with some of the more difficult parts.

It would’ve helped his view of the situation if he could see the source of the jam, but the fog obscured anything but a few cars ahead. He had grown up in Connecticut, a little north of where he was, so he wasn’t any stranger to it, but it seemed to be thicker here. The mist swirled around his car, blocking the view of anything more than a few feet ahead of him. Eventually, it seemed to dawn on him, although his usually rational mind did its best to push the thought away, that it almost seemed to be singling out his car specifically.

He caught a glimpse of movement out of his right window, disappearing before he could get a look.

His grip tightened on the steering wheel. He didn’t actually think there was anything out there, just like he didn’t actually think that the mist was thicker near his car than others. He knew it was just stress or sleep deprivation playing with his head, turning a trick of the light into something more. Maybe someone’s headlights had flickered, and the fog turned that into the appearance of movement. That had to be it, he was sure.

He took a deep breath and flicked on the radio, hoping to distract himself. He settled on a channel replaying vintage radio shows, and leaned back into his seat listening to an old episode of Suspense.

“I didn't know who this man was - or what he wanted of me. I only knew that from now on—I mustn't let myself alone on the road for one minute.”

He saw another flash of movement outside. Just a trick of the light, he told himself again.

“Like a ride?”

“Well, what do you think? How far are you goin'?”

“Uh, where do you wanna go?”

“Amarillo, Texas.”

“I'll drive you there.”

He flipped on the heat in his car, hoping some might radiate out and disperse the fog. It seemed to move in response, vortices forming in the gas, but it remained steadfast.

“What would I do? If I was a good-lookin' fellow like yourself? Why, I'd just enjoy myself, every minute of the time. I'd sit back and-and relax. And if I saw a good-lookin' girl along the side of the road—Hey! Look out!”

There was a loud thump from outside of the car. Jed’s grip on the steering wheel tightened.

“Did you see him, too?”

“See who?”

“That man, standing beside the barbed-wire fence.”

He peered out of the window in the direction of the noise, and for a second caught another glimpse of movement—this time, managing to see what appeared to be the shadow of a body slinking underneath his view, with spines along its back swaying slightly as it moved.

“Watch for him the next time. Keep watching. Keep your eyes peeled on the road. He'll turn up again. May be any minute now. There, look there!”

Another noise, as the car seemed to lurch forward a bit. Jed slammed on the gas pedal, not even thinking about the car in front of him, but he quickly realized that something was lifting the back tires off the ground. He felt something crawling along the roof, leaving an indentation where it sat.

“No, I didn't see him that time! And, personally, mister, I don't expect never to see him! All I want to do is go on livin'! I don't see how I will very long, drivin' with you!”

He fumbled with the door, managing to get it open for a moment, but something in the fog pushed it back closed. He turned around, wrestling the headrest until it disconnected.

“You can't go! Listen, how would you like to go to California? I'll drive you to California!”

He slammed the metal pegs into the window frame and pulled back, throwing all of his weight onto it.

“Seein' pink elephants all the way?! No, thanks! Uh uh! Thanks just the same!”

The car reverberated with a crunch as, at the same time as he managed to break open the front window, something constricted the back half of the car, crushing it in a ring. He saw the gift for Mary bent and twisted, a propeller sticking out of the torn cardboard like a broken bone jutting through flesh. His eyes fixated on it as something moved outside, scraping against the roof.

“You know what I think you need, big boy? Not a girlfriend, just a good dose o' sleep.”

“Plea—”

The radio cut off, as the thing started to constrict more and more of the car.

He struggled with his seatbelt, trying desperately to get it open. As soon as he clicked the button to release it, his hand got caught as the seat gap started to close from the pressure. He put his foot on the dash, trying to pull it out, and a second after his fingers made a sickening crack audible even over the discordant harmonies of both the metal’s screaming and his own, they popped out. He wasted no time and clambered out of the window just as the front seats caved in on themselves.

He landed on the ground with a thud, feeling another few bones break. The asphalt under him was burning, and he could feel his skin start to stick to it as the pitch melted. Even through the smog, which was so thick it hurt his lungs more than the rib that pierced through them, he could see he was face-to-face with the back wheel of the car next to his, and he wondered for a second whether he’d prefer to have whatever it was that crushed his car finish him or to have the wheel do the job.

His question was answered as he felt something envelop his legs, sharp teeth biting his midsection, and start to drag him away.

As he began to descend beneath the melting asphalt, he feebly held up his broken hand, hoping that someone, anyone might see him.

But he knew that he was utterly alone.

A moment later, the oppressive fog lifted from where Jebediah Cameron-Johnson’s car once was, leaving nothing behind but a single spot of blood that was quickly smeared by another car’s tires.

#tw: blood #tw: claustrophobia #original story

[mothgodofchaos]

Ink

I sense I’m going to get murdered for this, but it’s fine! Surely! I want black and red roses at my funeral. /hj

The Host x GN!Reader, TW: angst, claustrophobia, blood, death, gore Words: 1411

The ink swells around you, treading just to stay afloat, keeping your head above the murky, sticky, staining liquid. Your arms are starting to give out, as tears begin to roll down your cheeks. You close your eyes, the ink thickening around your body. It becomes harder to move, but harder to sink. You decide to go limp, hoping you’ll float at the top instead of being pulled further down into the void below. Images flash through your mind as you try and recall anything positive, and your mind seems to wander back to him, every time. The way his hands would carefully hold you as if you’d break, fingertips exploring, feeling the various textures of fabric that you’d wear. Sweaters were his favorite to both wear and have you wear. The elaborate knit patterns that trailed down, following along your sides and front. Or the corduroy overalls that you’d layer with them, textures mixing against skin. He also enjoyed the candles you’d light for him, filling the room with scents of home. Cinnamon, clove, coffee, mixing with the ink and old paper that his library offered to the air. It was cozy, it was warm by the fire, cuddled up with a blanket as he would narrate his stories into the microphone on his desk. You’d glance over as he’d tap in spurts of threes, quiet so the microphone wouldn’t pick it up, but pronounced enough for you to see. You’d come up behind him, kissing his head three times, quietly to not mess up his recording. It became a ritual for the both of you. Three taps, three kisses. Soon it started working in the reverse. He’d wander over to you, hands searching for you, before placing three kisses on your forehead. You’d hum, before guiding him to your lips, giggling with him as you’d cuddle up together in one of his arm chairs. “The Host would like to snuggle now, please~” “The Host can get whatever he wants, inkwell~” Inkwell… How ironic, isn’t it? Those days of holding his hand, the ink stained onto his skin, the calluses on his hands rough against yours. But he was so gentle, so caring, soft with you. Like he was scared of hurting you… He did, once. It was during one of his episodes. He had locked you in the library. He said he was going away for a little bit, but he needed you to stay hidden. To stay safe. You thought there was going to be an attack on the cabin, but nothing happened. For days, you were alone in there with the books. It wasn’t the same without him. Such a big room for one person. You foolishly opened the door, looking out for him. He was there, but it wasn’t quite him. His eyes glowed gold as he stalked towards you, speed increasing with every step. He swung his bat, the calluses rubbing rough against the well used instrument in his hands. Blood and ink stained the worn wood, chips taken out and long splits down its sides. It was clear that he had used it recently, blood splatter across his face. His fangs shone in the candlelight from the sconces on the wall, maintaining eye contact as he flies at you. You barely dodge, the bat smashing into the wall, right at head level for you. Screams echo against the walls of the cabin as you run away, a low cackle countering your terror. He pounces, pinning you down as his eyes start to bleed, dripping down onto you. He screeches in pain, crawling off of you, clawing at his face. You had grabbed the bat, now discarded, trying to defend yourself from whomever he had turned into. You hear disgusting squelches as he’s turned away, falling limp into a puddle of blood, holding onto something in his hands very tightly. You didn’t want to know what it was, and you sure as hell don’t know now. You run to the bathroom, grabbing bandages, wrapping his eyes like he did every morning. Propping him up against the wall, you swap out his clothes, replacing all the blood stained fabric that tugged tightly against his frame. You swore you only looked away for a moment, and when you look back, the crimson turned a midnight black. It no longer acted like blood, but a liquid that sparked with life, moving along the grooves in the wood on the floor. You should’ve known better. Every day after that was fine, you told yourself. He didn’t remember everything, but he remembered the look of terror on your face as you looked at him, him looming over top of you, about to smash your head in with his bat. It got back to your sense of normalcy, and you never left the library during one of his episodes ever again, no matter how much you missed him. What you didn’t realize was where all the ink was going. The basement moved and sloshed, shaking the floorboards whenever a sliver of fear or frustration ran up his spine. It was no longer safe for you, either of you. Something was coming, going to revolt against him. You can’t keep your emotions bottled up forever… …or locked up in your basement, slowly seeping into the walls and frame of your life. Back to your present situation, floating on top of the ink, not sure where he is anymore. It reached the tops of the windows, of the bookcases, you knew there was only a matter of time before you ran out of air. You’re afraid, but tired. Tired of it all, of swimming, of feeling like you both have to walk on eggshells, of everything that gave him the sense of unease sharing a living space with another human being. He was so lonely before you. You listened to his broadcasts every day, and finally got the chance to meet him one day. It was supposed to be a simple meet up at a local bookstore, but then he invited you to his cabin to see his set up. You started making more trips out to see him. He asked you to be his partner formally, and you stopped making the trek out to the cabin. You could work from home anyways. You missed his smile, something you very rarely saw nowadays. The way his lips curled softly into a grin, only to grow bigger when you’d kiss his cheek or hold his hand. He was such a happy man, you wish-

You scream as something grabs you, you try and swim away before you’re held in the arms of someone. A sense of familiarity… …he’s alive.

You sob in his hold, both of you slowly sinking into the ink as you hold onto each other desperately. But you sensed him trying to pull away after a while, so you allow yourself to move back, to look at him in the low light. “His dearest, The Host needs them to listen very carefully to what he is about to say-” “Host, please. No, this sounds like goodbye-” “His partner quiets as he speaks, he holds their hands tightly in his own, tears welling up in his eyes. He knows what he has to do, to save them. Because for him, knowing that they’re alive even if he may not make it would be his last wish. He wishes for them to stay safe. He loves them-” And with that, he dives under the ink, screaming for him to come back. You try to follow him, but the ink keeps you from diving under. You scream his name, trying to find any trace as the room gets darker, the ink getting closer to the ceiling. And then, everything stills. The ink slowly lowers, retreating into the walls, until there’s not a single drop of it left. Your clothes and skin are untainted, feeling yourself all over to make sure you’re all there. You lived. You survived. You run through the house, calling for him, searching desperately through the cabin. You don’t find him anywhere, even the basement is completely empty. You’re alone. Alone in the library, you hold your bat, eyes glowing gold as a rage spurred by loss flaring inside you. You will find him, or everyone you come across will pay dearly for it. Tears flow down your face, and you look down to the floor, seeing where it dripped. Ink.

#the host #the host markiplier #the author #the author markiplier #markiplier egos #the host x reader #the author x reader #gn!reader #TW: angst #TW: claustrophobia #TW: blood #TW: death #TW: gore #I might die for this #ink machine #chaoswrites

[mrsdulac]

So while doing the ‘What Was Lost’ side quest with Kotallo, he mentions how Varl told him they found Beta in one of the 236 pods inside the research facility and Kotallo says,

“I would hate to be locked up inside such a thing. There’s barely room to breathe.”

I think he’s claustrophobic. 💔

#his voice tremors on the second sentence too… #understandably #i am too #i don’t do small closed spaces #i can just barely handle elevators #i got trapped in a closet one time #genuinely thought i was gonna have a heart attack and die #it’s not fun #horizon: forbidden west #kotallo #tw: claustrophobia

[omori-ethereal-route]

“Now now, I’m sure she wouldn’t appreciate a comment like that. …But it has been a few hours or so now. I should check to see how she’s doing.”

“… … …!!!”

[MARI is having a Claustrophobia + Atelophobia Panic Attack]

“KLAUS!? KLAUS!! W-WHAT’S GOING ON!? G-GET ME OUT OF HERE!! I-I’M SORRY I-IF Y-YOU’RE MAD AT ME FOR GETTING SICK!!”

“D-D-DADDY!! P-PLEASE…!!

… … …

“Shh shh… Daddy’s here sweetheart… you’re okay, you’re okay…~”

*Sniff hic hic* “I-I-I’m sorry… a-and t-the whole… “Dad” thing j-just k-kinda slipped out…!”

“Don’t you worry about that. It’s alright.~ You just focus on getting yourself all calmed down…~”

“O-Okay… T-Thank you, Daddy.”

#omori #omori game #omori fanart #omori spoilers #omori: ethereal route #omori mari #omori oc #omori klaus #tw: claustrophobia

[silverdragon-imagines-blog]

Distorted Reflections - Chapter 1 - Waking Nightmare

[It's finally here and ready! This fic takes place pretty much immediately after Counter Clockwise. In this fic, I will try really hard to list every possible warning at the start of each chapter with any spoilers related to the tag/chapter summaries at the end of each chapter. That’s gonna be more the case with AO3 than Tumblr as this site is not super easy to use. I can't promise perfection tho, so if I make a mistake in tagging here or on AO3, feel free to correct me. With all that said, I hope you enjoy this chapter ^u^]

Read it on AO3

Warning(s): referenced character death (from Counter Clockwise), referenced/implied claustrophobia, referenced/implied violence, some spoilers for Phantom Hourglass, Dark Link being creepy and manipulative, some more major spoilers for Hyrule Warriors, and the antagonist for this fic is creepy and implied to have done messed up shit. The antagonist is the whole reason that this fic is going to be far darker and more intense than Counter Clockwise.

For a more complete version of tags and content warnings for the whole fic, see the AO3 link at the top of the post.

Warriors could feel the change in the air as he exited the portal, the way it pressed down on him and made him tense. He looked up to see a sky full of stars, though it brought no comfort. All around him were Keep walls and the smell of dust and decay from a familiar battlefield. He stood near the entrance, watching as his companions exited the portal and curiously looked at the decrepit walls. No one spoke, Warriors only acknowledging each hero as they appeared. Minutes passed, and he almost assumed that the portal would close and leave three of their companions behind, but as soon as the thought entered his mind, Hyrule and Four stepped through with Time close behind them. 

The Smithy didn’t say anything, just kept his eyes fixed on the cracked ground, but that was fine. He had gone through a lot. Warriors cleared his throat, most of the group flinching and then looking his way.

“We’re in my Era. I recognize this area,” he explained, looking over the group, “unfortunately, we aren’t safe here. This Keep is too open.”

“Is there a better place for us to set up camp for the night?”

Warriors looked out at the barren wasteland that made up the valley, mapping the battlefield in his mind. Most of the keeps had three entryways, and it would be difficult to protect the camp adequately and allow the others ample opportunity to rest and recover. Only one was easy to defend from inside, though the chances of the Great Fairy letting them seek refuge inside her fountain was very low. At least, it would have a cost he was unwilling to pay. They were in the now-abandoned allied keep, the next safest one was hours away at most, but it would be safe.

“There’s a Keep to the Northeast that may suit our needs. It has two entrances, easily defensible, but we’ll need to double up on watch shifts,” he explained, fidgeting with the strap of his sheath, “it’s a bit far, though.”

“Wars,” Time spoke up, the Captain snapping to attention, “we’re all exhausted. How long do you think it would take to get there?”

He paused at this, going over the map in his head again.

“It would take maybe two hours to reach. If we hurry, we could cut that time down, but,” Warriors bit his lip, glancing at each hero’s face and how they practically sagged with exhaustion, “I don’t know if we’d be able to make it there fast with everyone dead on their feet.”

“We’ll have to try.”

There was no argument over the long trek; everyone gathered their belongings and made their way out of the abandoned Keep. Warriors stayed behind, counting heads as they passed. Two, then four, then six, then eight, and he followed behind as the ninth. He made his way to the front, leading the way to the safe place he had mentioned. The battlefield was just as he remembered it, dusty and barren fields with weapons strewn about in a mockery of a gravesite. He led the way past the gnarled and decaying trees and over a rickety bridge that spanned a small canyon, purple mist concealing the bottom. A second bridge was across the small expanse of land where a few small patches of grass clung to life. He tried not to pay attention to how the other heroes whispered amongst themselves as they observed the oppressive land around them.

Everything was near-silent, only adding to the uneasiness they all felt in the air. Each step through the dusty red ground echoed, leaving some heroes to pause and listen for foes. It was eerie as Warriors recalled the massive numbers that had once littered this area, and the lack of even a footprint kept him on edge. No monsters ever appeared, not even a grunt or groan of the bokoblins or bulblins that had been here, and it left everyone on edge and tense as they trekked onward. A sudden weight settled on Warriors’ shoulder, the hero flinching as he reached for his sword and faced the threat.

“Whoa, Wars, relax, it’s me,” Time stepped back, holding his hands up in surrender.

It took a minute to register the absence of a foe, and Warriors thanked whatever deity was listening that he hadn’t fully drawn his blade. He glanced at the rest of the group, making sure that all was well, then fell into step beside Time.

“Are you alright? You seem on edge.”

Warriors sighed, fully expecting that question at some point. 

“Later, okay. Not now,” Wars spoke quietly, inclining his head toward the rest of the group.

Time nodded, and they continued in silence. They crossed through a dilapidated tower, inside hollowed out and flattened, and to a Keep near the bottom of the looming valley temple. The heroes all filed into the space, some immediately beginning to set up their bedrolls for the night. Warriors counted heads again, first two, then four, then six, then eight. Everyone was accounted for, and relief filled him. He glanced at the open gated entrances, hinges rusted from a long period of neglect. He wasn’t surprised, but he had hoped there would have been a way to make the camp easier to defend, but this was bound to be the outcome. As he looked toward the tired heroes beginning to set up camp, he came to a decision.

“I know everyone is tired, but we’ll need to set up watch shifts. I’ll take the first one. Who wants to join me?”

No one answered, exhaustion weighing them down as they only spared him a glance. Time approached him then, armor still on and sword drawn in front of him, the end of the blade stuck into the ground. With no one else standing, Warriors nodded.

“Time and I will take the first shift. Who wants to take the next one?”

“I’ll take it,” Twilight spoke up, raising a hand slightly as he set his belongings down near his bedroll with the other.

“I can take it with him,” Wild responded.

Warriors took up position next to the open gate leading out to the open field in front of the stone structure. He listened closely as the heroes’ breathing became heavier as sleep pulled them down. It was relieving knowing that despite the difficulty they had faced back in Termina, they could all still sleep relatively peacefully. As time passed, Warriors could feel Time’s focused gaze on the back of his neck as time passed, making him fight the urge to make himself smaller. 

He knew that the older hero wanted to talk about what was happening, and he usually would be okay talking about what was happening so that there wouldn’t be any surprises when there was information that could help them all. And yet, being here in this place only weighed him down, binding his tongue and unable to speak. Truthfully, Warriors was sure that Time knew more than he let on if he had been there during the war. The hero approached, standing next to Warriors and leaning against the gate’s hinge. It was quiet between them for a moment, only the wind kicking up dust and the soft breaths of their sleeping company.

“Do you think you’d be able to speak about what’s been bothering you, Captain?”

He didn’t reply, watching the field before him as the wind threw red dust into the air. The shapes they made in the air created scenes from the past. He could almost hear screams of soldiers and monsters, weapons clashing, and their foe’s laughter from the highest point in the valley. He shivered, dragged out of his reverie by a hand on his shoulder. Time held a question in his eye, though he seemed concerned as well. Warriors sighed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Sorry, got caught up in memories.”

“Nothing happy, I imagine.”

He chuckled humorlessly.

“You’d be correct. This place only holds bad memories for me, unfortunately. Normally I’d have us head for the nearest village or city, but I’ve had a bad feeling since we’ve gotten here like there’s something we need to do or see further in.”

“I see…” Time trailed off, and Wars glanced at the elder to where he was looking toward the sleeping heroes.

They stood silent for a while, watching the other Links sleep. Sky and Legend were further away from the group, almost propped up against the wall, but angled toward them, hands never far from their weapons. Wild and Twilight were similarly faced toward the others on the opposite side, closer to the group and each other with weapons not far away. Wind was near the middle, with Hyrule and Four behind him. Wind was curled up, small, and closed off from the others, far from how he usually slept sprawled near one of the other heroes. Hyrule and Four cling to each other in their sleep, offering comfort to keep the nightmares at bay. Warriors tried not to pay too much attention to the swelling and red-colored skin under the Smithy’s eyes.

“I know I did wrong by him,” Time spoke, almost reading Warriors’ thoughts and breaking the silence between them. Warriors saw how the older hero looked guilty, slumping over slightly as he continued, “But we had very few options. I just chose what I knew would work. And he paid the price.”

It was quiet again as their conversation ended. Time returned to his post by the other entrance, standing stalwart facing the outside of the keep. Warriors stood at attention, keeping his focus on the field. His ears twitched every so often, catching small noises that weren’t the white noise of the wind shifting dead plants and dirt or the quiet breaths of the slumbering heroes. He glanced over his shoulder, a frown making its way onto his face. A soft whimper met his ears, and he abandoned his post, carefully making his way toward the sleeping heroes to find who was having a nightmare. 

“It was a bad situation. I don’t blame you for that. You did what you thought was best.”

A louder cry and the shifting of fabric led him to Wind’s side, the Sailor trembling as he was caught in his nightmare. The Captain kneeled, gently placing a hand on the Sailor’s back to rouse him from the night terror, to no avail. He could hear the mumbling of a name, but he ignored it, trying once more to wake the youngest hero.

“C’mon, Sailor, it’s just a dream. You gotta wake up.”

Warriors could feel helplessness building as he failed to wake the other hero, frantically looking between the heroes for someone to help him, to tell him what to do. Time stayed in his place, seeming to be equally unsure what to do. At that moment, a soft groan met his ears, whipping his head around to see Legend starting to sit up and make his way over to him. He said nothing, but Warriors moved out of the way, watching as Legend leaned over Wind and gently ran his fingers through the sleeping boy’s hair.

“It’s just a nightmare, Bambino; it’s not real,” the Veteran spoke quietly, patiently as he continued his gentle motions, “Come back to us. Everyone is safe, I promise.”

Wind slowly came to, opening his eyes yet not seeing what was in front of him. He reached for Legend’s hand in his hair, holding it for a moment and feeling the rings on his fingers. He breathed in, moving his hand up Legend’s arm as if searching for something, then breathed out when his hand met the other’s shoulder. He sat up, blinking as tears fell from his eyes and looking at Legend’s face. The Veteran looked at him softly. Gone was the usual snark and sass that often appeared on his face; instead, a kind smile took its place.

Wind seemed to regain awareness, rubbing his eyes with one hand and moving the other on Legend’s shoulder back to his hand now at his side.

“Everything’s okay now, I promise,” Legend said.

Wind shook his head, moving toward Legend and wrapping his arms around him as tears trailed down his face. Legend ran his fingers through Wind’s hair again, keeping the young hero close to him. Warriors could only watch as Legend was able to do what he couldn’t. He could feel something building in his chest at the sight, jealousy perhaps or envy at the ease that Legend was able to wake and comfort the youngest of their group. Legend looked up at him briefly, face not betraying whatever he thought before he looked back to the Sailor.

“I’ll take the next shift.”

“What?”

“I have a feeling that I’m not gonna be sleeping anytime soon, and I’m sure the same is true for our Sailor as well,” Legend nodded toward the Sailor, the hero tucked under his chin, “You can tell whoever was supposed to go next that they don’t need to anymore.”

“If you say so…” Warriors trailed off, looking up at Time as the older hero started to approach, “Our watch shift is done. They offered to take over for us.”

Time nodded, starting to take off his armor and putting the Gilded Sword within reach of his bedroll. Warriors sighed, leaving the two heroes where they were and setting up his bedroll in the corner of the Keep. He lay on his back, staring at the red sky, knowing that sleep would not come easy. 

So he listened to the hushed conversation between the two on watch even if he couldn’t make out their words. They created a lull, whispers mixing with the whistling wind outside their small safe space. He could feel himself drifting slightly, and he tried to fight it, to stay at least somewhat awake in case of danger. But he was fighting a losing battle as his eyes closed and his thoughts went quieter.

The darkness was comforting, quiet. He felt safe for the first time in what felt like so long. He wanted this moment to last forever, to simply be . Away from all the responsibilities of a hero, away from the heavy burdens of an army leader, and away from the thoughts that invade his mind and memory. He was safe here, and it was the best feeling in the world. 

Of course, the darkness couldn’t last forever, and a sudden feeling of being watched forced him to his feet. He was in a void, yet he could feel the ground beneath his feet. At first, nothing seemed to be near him, yet he could feel eyes on the back of his head.

“What do you want with me?”

“Feeling nervous? Powerless?” Dark's voice echoed.

Dark appeared before him, smiling.

“You’re in your own era, aren’t you happy about that? Finally home after so long. Don’t you just love how all the memories start rushing back?”

He stiffened, images and memories flashing before him. Feeling claustrophobic as glass walls restrict his movements. Looking over his shoulder every night when traitors started to show their true colors. The smell of fire and brimstone mixed with blood as he fought for his life. The vile taste of dark magic as he watches dark mirrors of himself rise from the ground. The sounds of screaming, yelling, pleading for their lives as he killed those who wanted him dead and countless others who did not.

Warriors bent forward, heaving for breath as the assault on his senses faded. He flinched when a hand met his back, stumbling back and onto his rear as Dark stood over him.

“Aw, I thought you would’ve enjoyed a trip down memory lane. Maybe it wasn’t to your liking? Here, I have something you might enjoy more.”

Dark smirked as he waved a hand in front of Warriors, new images flashing in front of him.

The stage of his greatest downfall was before him, doors opened to a dark void, yet it beckoned toward him. He was drawn to it, though all of his instincts screamed at him to run away. Hands came from within the dark, encircling his wrists like shackles. He tried to pull away, back up, and tear their hold on him, only for them to grow tighter and start dragging him into the darkness. He felt fear pool in his chest, the urge to scream for help building and building. Cries and screams that sounded all too familiar echoed as the hands dragged him inside.

Warriors woke up with a gasp, shooting upright and reaching for his blade next to him. He had fallen asleep, yet he felt the need to go back to bed, pulling at his limbs and beckoning him back down. He shook it off, standing to survey the campsite and see where everyone was. Wild had set up a small fire in the center with wood that he must’ve had previously, cooking fruits over a low flame. Twilight was standing near one of the entrances with Time, though the two didn’t seem to be talking. Wind and Legend sat together, leaning against the wall and looking through their bags. Hyrule and Four were in a corner, not talking but enjoying each other’s company. Sky was approaching him, rubbing at his eyes as though he had just woken up himself, and Warriors stood up from his bedroll to meet him.

“You alright, Captain?”

Warriors grit his teeth, steeling himself and burying the lingering fear and unease that clung to his mind. He tried to seem calm, as though he hadn’t had a nightmare.

“I’m fine. What’s going on?”

“Wild is trying to cook us something to eat before we head out, but there isn’t much left stored in his bag, according to him. We might need to stock up the next time we get to a town or village.”

Warriors nodded, making his way over to the cook.

“How are you holding up?”

Wild glanced up at him, smiling slightly.

“Doing okay so far. Food supplies are a bit lower than I’d like, but we should be fine for a few days.”

“That’s good, at least. Once everyone has had their fill, we should start heading out.”

Wild nodded, pulling bowls out of his bag and spooning portions of the fruit into them, handing Warriors a few to pass out. It was a quiet affair, giving Hyrule and Four one each with quiet thanks from both. The other heroes gathered by the small fire, taking their bowls from Wild and beginning to eat in silence. When everyone had a bowl, Warriors took his meager meal to the gate leading out to the large field, leaning against the post as he ate. 

Truly, he couldn’t feel the slightest bit hungry, thoughts swirling in his mind about the strange nightmare he had the night before. If it even was a nightmare. There was a reason he felt off as soon as they ended up here, and he had a feeling that what he saw while he slept had to have something to do with it beyond just bad memories. He was trapped in a way, with no good options and worse outcomes if his fears of the past were to be realized once more. He snuck glances at the group, and images of what could happen to them all filled his mind. But she was dead. She had to be. So then, why did he feel as though they were all in danger? It was maddening, and yet, it was necessary. Dark was crafty, and he would bet that they would not be able to leave until they made their way there, even if every instinct screamed at him to stay far away. 

As the meager meal finished in silence, Warriors stood and cleared his throat, gaining the attention of everyone present.

“I have a feeling that we’ll need to reach the Temple of Souls that is past this valley. While we haven’t run into any enemies thus far, stay vigilant. I wouldn’t be surprised if we met resistance on our way there.”

“Any idea what we might run into?”

“Bokoblins mainly, but there have been Moblins, Lizalflos, Dinoflos, Darknuts, and Stalfos previously,” Warriors listed off, starting to reequip his sword, shield, and other gear, “Stay on your guard.”

There were nods of understanding, and then Wild started the clean-up process, taking everyone’s bowls and scrubbing them down as best he could. They figured they would wash them properly when they got to a patch of clean water. Everyone quickly gathered their gear, equipping swords and shields as they left the Keep. Warriors led the way through the open field, dust swirling at their feet as they trekked onward. Past tall twisting trees, strange lights settled in their branches, and strange formations of rock resembling hands poised to grab any moment. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Warriors could see the entrance to the fountain, doors ajar with a brazier burning away near the mouth of the small cave. He shuddered as he passed, though no one seemed to notice as they looked all around the barren battlefield and began to climb the first set of stairs that marked the entrance to the Temple. It was still unbearably quiet as they passed through the open gates, only the wind causing a howling noise to echo through the neglected stone sculptures around them. He directed the group left, across the worn brick path, and up another set of stairs that led to another empty Keep. Warriors noted that not even the bomb flowers that had once surrounded the Keep had grown back as he led them out and then up another set of stairs to the right. Then he led the way to the right again up a final set of stairs. He chuckled a bit as a few group members started panting as they climbed.

“What’s with the stonework?” Warriors flinched at the sudden question, looking behind him to Wind, looking up curiously at the arches above the top of the Temple, “Why does it look like an eye?”

“I’m not sure, to be perfectly honest,” Warriors shrugged, falling into step with him, “When the war was happening, and we fought here, it was just sort of like this. It could have something to do with magic and focusing it, but that’s just a guess.”

Wind hummed, glancing at the area around them as they reached the top. It was quiet once again as they all stood in the center of the central room, looking around on edge at the still quiet area. Legend cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably as he observed the site.

“I would’ve thought there’d be something at least.”

“You and me both, Vet.” Warriors sighed.

There wasn’t much at all at the summit, not that Warriors was complaining. He was relieved that it had been easy to get to this point, but he was still on edge despite that fact. He pushed on, gesturing for everyone to follow him as he walked past the center of the eye and toward a series of small mountains. There was not much of a path, but they made do with Wild and Twilight helping others along over the more challenging terrain until they came to a pathway between two rose bushes.

And then they caught sight of the statues.

The statues of a younger Sky, sword raised in a skyward strike, and an even younger Time, posed with an ocarina raised to his mouth, came into view as soon as they crossed through the bushes. He could feel questioning gazes on his back as he led the way through the garden. He knew that the others could tell that something was off about this place, and he was thankful that none approached him to ask about what they saw. But Warriors still braced himself as the statue of Wolfie came into view. When Twilight caught sight of it, he could hear a quiet gasp and a pause in movement. He could hear the whispered words of Wild checking to see if Twilight was okay. He didn’t wait to listen to what the others had to say, instead leading them up the stairs. 

The Temple was just as he remembered it. However, without the presence of corrupted magic, it seemed more like a several-stories-tall mansion than a jumbled mess of buildings. It did little to calm his racing heart as he stood before the doorway, his hand twitching with the instinct to have his sword in hand as he approached danger. He resisted, and as the group joined him at the door, he took a deep breath and opened it.

At first glance, the entryway looked the same, a portrait of himself placed front and center at the base of the staircase leading up with a single light from above illuminating it. Hallways that led to different rooms were on each side and what little Wars could see of the upper level looked the same. Warriors motioned for the group to enter, and as he stood in front of them, he felt a shiver run down his spine. The door slammed shut behind them, and he knew something was wrong.

A figure he hadn’t seen at first moved into view, the light above the portrait catching the silhouette and causing Warriors’ blood to run cold. She looked the same as she had before, dress hanging off her in a way that would have been seductive if not for the slightly unhinged way she stared at him. Warriors acted on instinct then, unsheathing his sword and dropping into a readied stance.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise,” Cia laughed as her eyes moved over each of them, taking in the sight of the group.

“You were dead,” Warriors spoke, fighting the waver in his voice. 

Cia laughed, covering her mouth with a hand.

“Oh, dear hero,” she sighed, smiling as she stepped closer to the group, some of them drawing out weapons, “I hate to disagree with you, but I am very much alive.”

She summoned her staff to her side, twisting it around and opening two portals. Nine dark links stood at her side, and Warriors felt himself move as she extended her staff to point at them. He rushed at Cia, dodging the dark reflections that moved to attack him and bringing his blade down upon Cia. She easily blocked his strike with her staff, the force and weight behind the attack changing nothing. Warriors bared his teeth at her, forcing his weight to move the staff away from him, but Cia only smiled. He could hear the sounds of fighting behind him, but he didn’t turn to help, intent on ending the problem at its source. But when the clashes turned to cries, he knew they had lost, and the sorceress’ smirk only further confirmed his defeat. 

A hit from behind caused him to gasp, and Cia smiled wide as Warriors fell to his knees before her. His sword was knocked away, arms pinned behind him and a hand keeping his head still. She leaned down to tilt his face up toward her, forcing him to face her with a predatory grin on her face.

“Now then, isn’t that better?”

Warriors was stuck looking at her, fear threatening to overwhelm him as he was held in place. She seemed satisfied, and Wars could see her looking over the rest of the group as though she had won the greatest prize. He wouldn’t be surprised if that was exactly what she thought. She stepped past him then, and he craned his neck to look back, fearing for them all, making him watch his mistakes unfold.

She stood over Wind, the Sailor glaring up at her from the floor. He had been knocked on his stomach, his sword just out of reach, and pinned by one of the Dark Links kneeling in his back. She hummed, turning away from Wind to walk toward Legend, the Veteran hero laid out on his back with a blow to his head, rendering him unconscious. Then to Hyrule, who had been forced to his knees and restrained in much the same way as Warriors. And finally, Four was on his back with his sword out of reach, and a Dark kneeling on his chest and holding his arms in place. She huffed, twisting the staff in her hands to point toward a hallway, the dark links responding by moving the four heroes at her command.

“I have no use for damaged goods. Take them away.”

Wind started yelling and cursing immediately as he was hefted up to his feet, his arms pinned behind him in a way that made Wars wince. Hyrule and Four made no sound as they were herded away, though Hyrule kept glancing at Legend, worried now that he had not reacted to being dragged along. 

Warriors saw Wild struggling to tear his arms away from the dark at his back, growling and kicking at the shade as much as he could. The rest of the heroes struggled then, trying to break free and follow after them, but a loud slam of Cia’s staff on the ground stilled their movements. Warriors held his breath, worried she would take out her anger on them. Instead, she walked between the heroes, making her way to Wild and tilting her head at the sight of him. 

“L-let them go!”

“I’ve never seen you before, but you must hold the Hero’s Spirit as well, correct?”

Wild opened his mouth as though to speak, but no noise left him. He looked frustrated for a moment, then tried again.

“W-what’s it t’ you?”

“Hm,” she looked at him consideringly, then waved him away, gesturing toward the same hallway where Four, Legend, Wind, and Hyrule had disappeared. 

Warriors tried not to focus on how the Champion didn’t struggle as he was led away. She then walked between the heroes, humming to herself as she looked them over. Sky cringed under her gaze while Twilight glared harshly. Time’s face betrayed nothing but stoic silence, but Warriors could tell he was masking his true emotions as he was appraised like an object. She nodded to herself, pleased with whatever she found.

“Well, I don’t think I care much. You can go.”

“Very good,” she smiled and gestured with her staff to the other hall, the Dark Links following unspoken orders to lead them off.

Warriors felt the air grow tenser, and he couldn’t help but shiver as Cia turned to look his way.

“And now it’s just us,” Cia chuckled as she sauntered over to Warriors, glee casting her face in an unsettling light, “Did you miss me, my love? I can tell you can’t keep your eyes off me.”

“Not even the Wind Fish would grant you that dream.”

“Hm, pity. I thought we’d be able to spend more time together, but no matter. We have all the time in the world now,” Cia smiled wide at the thought.

“You should go get ready, dearest. I wouldn’t want to be late to our first dinner together after so long apart,” Cia hummed, directing the Dark Link pinning Wars’ arms to his back to lead him away toward where Cia sent Time, Sky, and Twilight to, “But don’t worry, the others will be allowed to join us too.”

Her delighted laughter and humming echoed in his ears as he was led away, a pit in his stomach as he mulled over her words.

All the time in the world.

He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

#linkeduniverse #linked universe #implied violence #violence #tw: emotional manipulation #tw: claustrophobia #mentioned/implied death #nightmares #referenced character death #trauma from previous adventures #dark link being creepy and manipulative #HW Cia #linkeduniverse fic #linked universe fic #threatening darkness #distorted reflections #distorted reflections fic #silver writes

[deviilswitch]

𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞.

@cursedsiight​

𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒄𝒂 && 𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒆.

tw: claustrophobia, small spaces, being trapped alive.

fight. it’s what’d she’d been doing her entire life and she knew that veronica was no stranger to the battle herself. how had they managed to end up in this position? what made it worse was that she could not even see her. steel walls enveloped her in a confined space, one that marie had fought against since she’d been locked in. “ this isn’t fucking funny anymore guys, let us out! “ marie screamed despite the lump forming in her throat. she did her best to steady her shaking breath and trembling hands as she moved to beat against the locked door of the morgue cabinet. the temperature was dropping as she heard the motors begin to start, “ vera! “ marie cried out. 

one night out, that’s all the two wanted and after meeting up with some ‘friends’ at a local bar, their adventure had strayed from the city and into an abandoned asylum. “ vera are you okay? “ marie whimpered though she wasn’t even sure she could hear her, marie certainly couldn’t hear vera. her breath hitched as she tried for another breath of air but she swore the lump in her throat was choking her alive. “ please, please, please. “

#cursedsiight #tw: claustrophobia #tw: being trapped alive

[dialnoisenow]

Fictober 2022

Day 2 Prompt “Nobody warned you about me?”

Orignal work, Rating: General, Warning: for panic attacks, claustrophobia maybe

   The clock ticked on towards six, sunset. Travis bit his thumb, getting his teeth under the nail and gnawing nervously. His mouth made a cluck cluck cluck sound as he tried to rip into nail.  He watched. Needle hand counted down seconds. Any minute now. It waved onwards past the 12 and he started to sweat.

   Small miracles, the cell’s seat was cold and brought him some solace in his rising panic.  He suspected most folk would find this cage unforgiving. A place to wallow away and think about all the trouble you were in. Were the bars too close? Was the space too constricting? He swallowed. His eyes darted back and forth through the iron bars. From the new guy with his feet on the desk and the paper in his lap, to the door. Waiting.

   Come on, he begged, Where are you? His leg started tapping, rhythmically and fast. Travis hugged himself, tucking his hands into his armpits to keep from gnawing his skin off. He let his head fall back onto the painted cinder blocks. Blissfully cool for a moment but then it passed. He exhaled, long and impatient. He closed his eyes and tried counting backwards from one hundred like Lore had told him. 

    “100, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95…” Travis tried, getting louder with each number until he was almost shouting. 

    “Hey, simmer down in there!” New Guy said loudly, not looking over his paper. Travis’s eyes snapped open, wide and wild. He sucked his lips in and turned his attention towards New Guy. 

     New Guy was new. He could be academy new with that haircut. He wore the uniform. His uniform was ironed, creased in the right places and his shoes were clean. New Guy brought coffee from home in a thermos and didn’t fill the coffee pot in the waiting room for visitors. Travis could smell the sulfur remains of the egg and onion sandwich New Guy had eaten earlier. New Guy didn’t go into town and dine with the locals. New Guy wasn’t from around here. New Guy was placed. From the rumor mill the story had spun that he was gunning for the big town sheriff spot but had lost and went on a bender, among other unmentionable things.  He was put on a leave and then probation because he was related to Some Other Guy of importance in the chain. Probation just turned out to be here. 

     Travis’s leg continued to tick and he felt like a spring wound up. He wiped the sweat from his palms on his jeans and pushed away from the cool embrace of the bench. Now he was pacing. Back and forth, left to right. Was the cell getting smaller? Were the iron bars closing in? You’re safe, he reminded himself. This is where you want to be. “Everything will be just fine,” he promised himself aloud. 

   “Yeah. Sure. Just keep telling yourself that,” New Guy said with a short chuckle as he began to neatly fold the newspaper. The audible crinkle of the newsprint was suddenly so loud, Travis bit his lip and flinched but New Guy didn’t notice.  “Breaking and entering is a misdemeanor but not for you. I’ve seen your file,” New Guy declared and slapped a manilla folder on his desk. Travis’s file. Must be. He blinked his eyes in disbelief. He was sure Pa had destroyed that. “So you’re just going to rot in here and wait for the sheriff and we’ll go from there.” 

     That was fine. He was safe here. He could sit here and rot and wait for the sheriff. It’s what he wanted. He wanted to get caught, that had been the plan. He got caught every month. He had also wanted to be completely blackout drunk when it happened but you don’t always get what you want. Blackout drunk allowed him to quietly pass out as soon as he was safely in the cell. He’d wake up in the morning and carry on with his life. He’d go to the liquor store or the bar, whichever he broke into and pay off the damages. He was clean about it. He usually just picked their locks, drank what he needed and then tripped their alarms on purpose. But he left his lockpick at home. A rookie mistake. Pa would have words. 

     Travis flexed his hands until they started to lightly clap. He felt the skin stretch over bone, his hands were dry. There were still some scratches that hadn’t healed from punching that window in. He could feel the tiny pin prick glass shards in places they didn’t belong trying to rip into him.  He grimaced and shook his hands. His stomach started to flip flop. Nausea grabbed him just as the hunger pangs hit. This is why the alcohol was key. It numbed everything. He should have eaten before coming in but last time he threw up all over himself and the cell. Pa would have words. 

      He swallowed but his mouth was dry and his tongue felt hairy. His pacing started to feel heavy like his feet were sinking into wet concrete. Maybe the bars were getting closer. Maybe the ceiling was going to crush him-

   “Hey hey. Can I get some water please?” Travis asked. He stopped his pacing suddenly and held onto the bars tightly. Cool solid metal greeted him and he sighed, coming back up.  He felt his eye twitch and hoped New Guy wouldn’t notice. New Guy didn’t or didn’t care and fixed Travis with a calculating stare. “Please? I’m really thirsty.” 

     New Guy reached into his desk drawer and pulled out an unopened bottle of water. Of course it would be bottled water, Travis thought with disappointment.  Not even town water and definitely not the water that ran in the underground river below filling up their wells and their bellies, Bottled water is better than no water.  

     New Guy approached the bars. Up close he had a mustache that was shaved wrong. It was too perfect. Too symmetrical, sitting above his thin lips. Travis decided New Guy was a prick. New Guy’s thick eyebrows, mini mustaches over his eyes,  were not friendly. They were trying to figure Travis out. If Travis wasn’t on the brink of a panic attack he’d have something to laugh about.  

    The desert in Travis’s mouth was expanding into his throat and would soon hit the raging sea in his stomach. He felt the growl of frustration after it escaped him. A warning. New Guy caught that for sure and eyebrows shot up in disbelief. Here he was doing this kid a favor. Giving him his water. 

    Travis bit his lip again and shook his head, stuffing his growing impatience aside. “Pppplease?” he stuttered on the verge of tears. 

    Reluctantly, New Guy handed the bottle through the bars. Travis took it, trying not to be too eager, fighting every cell in his body from ripping the plastic apart and guzzling the water down. Instead, he nodded his thanks and calmly drank his water. 

    “Are you…on something boy?” New Guy asked slowly, his eyes narrowed. 

     Boy?! Travis choked, his salvation going down the wrong tube in surprise. He coughed, sputtering water down his black shirt and into the cell. He put his hands in the air and coughed it out, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes had watered from the coughing fit but he felt the impatience circle back this time with its friend, rage. 

    Travis glared at New Guy and took another sip, his amber eyes blazed with warning. He shook his head and rolled his eyes upward. “Did they-” he started, trying to knit together his words. He needed to know but he was already sure of the answer. “Nobody warned you about me?” He waited.  

   New Guy looked thoughtful like he was going over every interaction he had with the sheriff in his memories.  He looked around the room. He looked at Travis’s folder. He looked back at Travis and shrugged. Travis sighed, Of course they didn’t.  Everyone knew Travis. This was a small town built on generations of a small town. Everyone was in each other’s business and probably, distantly related somehow. 

   “I’m not “on” anything sir and I would appreciate it if you didn’t call me “boy” Travis said with annoyance. His impatience was a full flare up now but at least his throat wasn’t dry. He started to pace again. Trying to stuff that aside.  

   “I think you should sit down and cool off, boy.” New Guy commanded. 

In a fluid motion quicker than he had intended Travis was at the bars again, his face pressed into them and his amber eyes glowing fiercely. He bared his teeth in a grim smile, all jagged and sharps. His knuckles crackled as he held onto the bars and he felt his gnawed nails retract for claws. “Make me,” he snarled, his voice deep and almost growling. Warning time was over, Rage was here. Impatience had won. 

    New Guy jumped back in surprise, knocking into his desk and sending paperwork flying. 

    Travis barked a laugh, deep and dark. He held his chin up and smiled again, feeling his bones start to rearrange themselves. It hurt. It hurt like hell. Rookie mistake forgetting the alcohol but he wouldn’t let this prick see how much it hurt. He tapped his claws on the bars. 1 2 3. 1 2 3. 1 2 3. His heart beat in his ears and the dull pain in his teeth, he let out a low growl just for fun.  

    “That’s enough now Travis!” A voice barked from the doorway. 

#fictober22 #day 2 #tw: panic attack #tw: claustrophobia #original story #my writing #werewolves my dudes #its late but its here

[vinylroadsjunction]

If possible, will you mind telling why Mayday went through her last time-out which caused her to run away? Thank you!!

TW for Claustrophobia and emotional/psychological abuse.

Imagine being trapped in a tiny square cell with no light or any means of escape for days, months or even years. And you'd painfully awake throughout this imprisonment, wondering when (or if) they'll ever let you out again.

Gems don't need to eat or sleep, and Mayday was very awake and aware during all that time Scapolite kept her shut in the cell after her latest misstep. With no light or any way to count the time, Mayday was left by herself in a small cramped room shrouded in darkness, far longer than Scapolite ever left her, and she started panicking that her 'master' may have forgotten her there. Mayday heard the stories... Damage to a Gem psyche can vary, with several having been trapped for so long until they just gave up and comformed. Others went insane. Others poofed themselves from despair or even ended up shattering themselves.

Mayday lived in fear of that outcome for an agonizingly long time, until Scapolite finally, finally, let her out.

Of course, nobody ever bothered to tell Mayday just how long she was in the cell, but Scapolite made it very clear the next time Mayday stepped out of line, she'd make sure the rebellious Zincite would never see the light again.

Mayday spent some time afterward as a 'perfect' Zincite. Not a complain. Always prim and proper. Poised as a servant is meant to be. It made her miserable, but still less miserable than the cell.

It'd be many years before Mayday gathered the courage to escape. She was either going to be free or get shattered trying.

#no gem roads #no straight roads #nsr #nsr au #no straight roads au #gem au #nsr mayday #tw: learned helplessness #tw: claustrophobia #tw: emotional abuse #tw: emotional trauma #tw: emotional manipulation #man i love to make my favorite character suffer #mayday i'm so sorry sweetie #(hands cans of gasoline in apology)