#wip: glass shard

[skyward-floored]

Whumptober Day 22: Glass shard, “Watch out!”

Folks I’m ngl, this one is very intense. The first bit is the worst, but the end is kinda creepy too, and overall it’s just bad times, so uh, you know. There’s your warning. Per usual, if you think this needs more warnings, please tell me :)

Read on ao3

Warnings: see above, canonical character death (...sort of) blood, significant injury, brief mention of vomit, and creepy vibes

————————————————————

Somehow he knows it’s over.

His breath is coming short in his chest, blood dripping through his fingers as he tries to hold it in from too many injuries to count. The Master Sword was knocked from his grip ages ago, and he’s not sure what happened to his shield.

Something moves in the corner of his eyes, but there’s blood on his forehead and he moves too slow, Navi’s chime frantic in his ears.

“Watch out!” she shrieks, but Link can’t move fast enough, can barely breathe anymore, and when the huge sword cleaves his chest, he knows it is over.

He doesn’t know if it’s him or Navi who screams, or Zelda maybe, wherever she is. All he’s really aware of is the white hot agony ripping into him, the yellow eyes that stare into his, Ganon’s face upturning in a wild grin when he realizes what he’s accomplished.

A bellowing laugh of victory blots out any other noise, any cry Link might make as Ganon raises him into the air, still impaled on his weapon. His vision goes white at the edges as Ganon lets him hang there, and he knows he screams when the blade is ripped from his chest, dropping him to the ground with a sickening noise.

There’s a desperate wail he thinks comes from Navi, but all there is is light and sound and shattered glass beneath his broken body, only spilling more of his blood onto the floor.

You failed, his mind whispers, even as his eyes flicker and Navi wails again. You failed.

Something warm is spilling from his mouth, his chest, pooling rapidly beneath him. There is a new voice now, shouting something that makes bright lights appear in the edges of his vision, and he tries to turn to them, but can’t.

Zelda, his mind whispers. Trying to fix your mistakes.

He closes his eyes, grief and shame and horrific pain so intense that he can’t handle the weight of them. Something in his chest moves when he breathes, something that’s not supposed to, and it joins the rest of the agony pounding through him, breaking him into pieces like the shattered glass beneath him.

He wants to go home.

A cough bubbles out of his chest, something thick on his tongue, and wings suddenly brush his face.

“Link,” Navi sobs as she nearly falls onto his cheek, clutching at him with tiny hands, “Link no, I’m so sorry, I was s-supposed to protect you—”

Link lets out a sound somewhere between a cough and a sob, and Navi cries, her tears falling to his cheek like glowing snowflakes. He wants to reassure her, gently cup her in his palm, but he knows it’s the end.

Nothing can save him now.

Zelda’s voice sounds choked as it echoes along with six others, almost like she’s holding back tears. Ganon suddenly screams, and Link feels the tiniest wave of hope as his senses desert him, his ruined body failing.

He hopes that Zelda and the sages will take care of Ganon, that they’ll stop him, seal him, won’t let him destroy the kingdom more than Link has already allowed him to.

But he’ll never know for sure.

Link takes in one last gurgling breath, blood almost stopping him from breathing his last. Navi holds him tighter, and Link exhales, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth as his body falls still.

His fairy’s sob is the last thing he hears as his world disappears into nothing but velvety darkness.

—And Time bolts upright with a choked off scream before he even fully realizes what’s happening.

Images swirl in his head with such dizzying clarity he can’t focus on any of them. Blood and weapons, blue and yellow, stairs and music and the booming laugh that haunted his nightmares as a child—

Time clutches his chest, gasping in a shaking breath. He feels sick, horribly sick, phantom pain slicing into his stomach, terror sinking its freezing claws into him. Sweat pours down his face as the laugh echoes in his ears again, a shrill scream, and he tries desperately to reassure himself it wasn’t real.

That’s not how his fight against Ganon had happened. It wasn’t, he was fine, but his heart was pounding and his lungs were still straining like they couldn’t get in enough air—

(A trident, ripping through his chest, choking on blood, too much, too much—)

Time gags, and someone’s hand lands on his shoulder as he vomits into the grass, holding him steady while they wait for him to stop.

He finally catches his breath, head spinning, stomach still unsettled. The emotions from the dream sharply linger, failure and hopelessness and a fear so intense that Time is nearly sick again. The hand on his shoulder squeezes, and he finally looks up, meeting Warriors’ worried blue eyes.

The captain doesn’t say anything at first. But he hands Time a cloth to wipe his face, and steadies him when he gets to his feet, legs still trembling.

Warriors leads him to the fire, and Time sits down, forcing the shaking in his body to still. But it’s impossible, not when he can still hear Navi’s shriek ringing in his ears, feel blood pouring down his chin. Ganon’s triumphant laugh booms in his ears for the third time, and Time hunches down in his seat, mind unwillingly going through every single detail of the dream.

Just like he has for the past half a week.

The detail of the dream has increased each time he’s had it, but tonight’s was the worst yet. Time clutches at his forehead as his head pounds, and lightly rubs the bridge of his nose.

Nightmares rarely effect him to such a degree, but this... this time it had felt real.

What’s happening to me?

Warriors sits next to him without a word moments later, holding a water skin. A scarf settles around his shoulders, and Time nearly gives in to the childish desire to bury his face in it, hands still shaking.

“Time, are you... well?” Warriors asks finally, his voice gentle and worried.

Time sips the water he’s been given to give himself more time to reply, and lowers the skin with a quiet swallow.

“It’s not a sickness,” he croaks finally, hating how shaky the words come out. “I know it’s not. It’s...”

(Navi crying, Ganon’s roar, the rich tones of an organ as tears fall down his cheeks—)

He shudders.

“It’s the same dream. Every night,” he whispers. “Exactly the same, only they’re getting... worse. More real.”

He doesn’t explain what happens in the dream, but Warriors doesn’t push, instead staying silent as he thinks for a moment.

“Every night?” he asks finally, voice soft and worried.

“Tonight was the fourth in a row.”

Warriors goes silent again, the crease on his forehead deepening.

“Something must be going on,” he says finally, firelight shimmering off of the embroidery on his scarf. “Things like this... they’re very rarely a coincidence.”

“I know,” Time whispers, voice still terribly small. “This... this isn’t natural.”

“Could this be the work of the enemy?” Warriors muses, staring at the fire. “A spell? A curse?”

Time shakes his head, feeling at a loss. He knows the feel of curses, and the dreams don’t feel like that. They have more of a... heft to them, like anticipation before a battle, or the pressure before a rainstorm.

They feel more like the nightmares he had as a child, visions of Ganondorf’s attack, leading up to the day he left the forest. There’s a weight to these dreams, one that boasts of nothing good in store for their group.

But Time doesn’t voice any of this. Warriors doesn’t need yet another thing to stress about.

And besides, perhaps I’m wrong.

So instead of saying anything further, Time silently rests his head on his brother’s shoulder, scarf still warming his arms, and listens to the sound of his breathing, steady and strong.

He misses the look Warriors gives him, and at some point, falls back asleep, a hand carding through his hair.

(...)

The dreams don’t stop, their violence and clarity only getting more intense.

The others are aware something is wrong now, Time waking them all up with a bloodcurdling scream the very next night. They discuss ideas, but nobody has a clue what’s going on, what’s affecting him so deeply. Time sees several of them having conversations out of his earshot that day, furtive glances cast his direction, but he pretends he doesn’t notice.

If they want to talk about him behind his back, so be it.

They all generally give him space at night, but with the repeated nightmares, now his boys have take to sleeping much closer. And when Time wakes up heaving for breath, someone is inevitably there to calm him down.

After a week goes by with no relief, Time admits to Warriors and Twilight, quietly, what his nightmare consists of, in hopes it will aid in solving this. All it really does is make Warriors’ face twice as concerned when he wakes him from a nightmare, and Twilight’s eyes hold a nervousness when he looks at him now, like he’s afraid his dream might suddenly become reality.

Time debates not sleeping to escape the nightmare as it continues to plague him. He’s barely getting any rest anyway, he might as well skip sleep entirely.

He’s had plenty of practice, after all.

But after three nights of no rest, the others put a stop to it, several of them nearly shouting at him they’re so worried. Time nearly yells back, but he stops himself at the last moment, weariness settling upon him.

He does want to sleep. Desperately. But he can’t so much as close his eyes without the nightmare creeping up on him, blood and screams and pain pain pain—

Staying awake is almost more restful.

The others gang up on him that night though, and bury him in a pile of limbs and blankets, Wind settling himself right by his head. Time falls asleep feeling hopeful for once, but he still wakes up with a scream later that night, and Wind ends up calming him down as he tries not to sob.

He feels even worse after that (it’s not Wind’s job to comfort him, it should never be—), and pointedly moves himself away from the others at night, in hopes they’ll get the hint.

They don’t, really. In fact, they pointedly ignore it and continue to sleep by him, even when he wakes up thrashing and sick and nearly gives Hyrule a black eye one night with how frantically he’s moving.

He knows they only want to help, but he only feels like more and more of a problem.

They go through a portal and end up in Legend’s era, and Time wonders if the nightmares will stop with the changing of location. But if anything they get even worse, starting earlier in the fight, each slice in his skin burning when he wakes. He’s barely sleeping now, the shadows under his eyes nearly as obvious as the tattoos on his face.

No matter what he does, he can’t seem to break the grip of the nightmare, and he’s becoming a liability, slow in traveling, clumsy in fighting. They try everything to help him, healing, potions, magic— they even visit a doctor in a town they stop at, but he can’t tell them anything they don’t already know.

Time even writes to Malon about them, desperate to get his thoughts out to someone who understands, but he folds it up and doesn’t send the letter in the end, finding himself veering into questions even he doesn’t want answers to.

Has it finally been too much? All of what’s happened to me? he wonders as he tries his hardest not to cry in Warriors’ arms one night after the nightmare.

Am I going insane?

With the amount of sleep he’s been getting as of late, he wouldn’t even be surprised.

They make tracks for Legend’s house, hopeful that a real bed for Time to sleep in will help somehow. Legend also has a vast amount of magic objects and items, and he seems hopeful that at least a few have a chance of helping him.

And if not... well, perhaps the Zelda of this time will have some ideas.

But the night before they’re set to reach Legend’s house, weeks— has it truly been weeks? A month?— after the nightmares start, something finally changes.

Ganon stabs him and he breathes his last, Navi sobbing as Zelda and the sages desperately seal the beast away. He fades into darkness, simultaneously light and heavy, warm and cold, and knows without a shadow of a doubt that he’s dead.

But the dream flickers here.

It’s as if an impossible amount of time goes by, and yet equally mere seconds, and the darkness falls over him again.

It seems to last for an eternity, wrapped around him, coating him in its hold as it intensifies, and suddenly Time is aware this is a dream, and snaps to sharp attention, looking around at the void.

It’s pure black, deeper even than the night sky, and Time feels his heart speed up at the suffocating thickness of it.

He’s not injured anymore. In fact, he’s himself, not the version of him that fought Ganon all those years ago, and Time stares, looking frantically around at the void.

Why hasn’t he woken up? Why is he aware, for once, that this is merely a dream?

Why is it continuing?

He doesn’t have long to ponder this, as the darkness parts eventually to show a room, stone walls, stone floor. Time has only just begun to study it when a noise hits his ears and he turns, watching in horror as a body falls to the ground, bloodied and broken.

Something moves out of the shadows and grabs the body’s face, and Time squints, trying to make out both the body and the figure shrouded in darkness.

But he can’t make out any features, the room too dark, dream too uncertain and wavering. Time feels something tense inside of him as he makes out the three gouges that mar the body’s chest, and tries even harder to see the other figure as well.

All he can make out are robes swishing over feet, in a color almost as dark as the room.

The figure studying the body finally lets out a quiet chuckle, leaning back as a hand caresses a chin.

“Oh I’ve waited a long time for this,” the figure hisses in a voice that seems as if it could be familiar, and drops the head none too gently, blood still spilling to the floor.

Darkness suddenly snakes from the figure and trickles towards the body, thick and unnatural. Time has the urge to grab the body and pull it out of the way, but he’s unable to do anything but watch in horror and disgust as the darkness reaches the body, wrapping around it like only tentacles, holding it tight. It seeps into the countless wounds, and the figure lets out a laugh as the body gives a full-body shudder.

The figure straightens suddenly, standing up from where it had kneeled beside the previously very much dead body. Something moves by the figure’s face, and suddenly it falls to the ground, robes rippling as it collapses onto the floor with a very, very faint moan.

But whatever had moved by the face stays up, floating somehow, and bobbing very faintly up and down.

Time feels the slow horror he’d been experiencing suddenly increase, familiarity freezing him like a blast from an ice rod at the sight of the dark shape floating in front of him.

He knows what it is. He’s sure he does, but his mind won’t even let him entertain it.

It can’t be.

The hovering shape turns slowly to the bloody body on the ground, then floats almost leisurely towards it, watching as the tendrils of darkness continue to weave through and around it. The body gives another shudder, and the thing suddenly slips down and latches on to the body’s face.

Time can only watch in horror as the body’s back arches, like it’s trying to fight back, even just a little, but then it goes unnaturally still again.

Then it sits up almost calmly, facing away from Time as it looks at its hands and feet. The body gets to its feet then, shuddering slightly as more blood drips off of it and falls to the floor.

Time wants to look away, but he can’t, all he can do is continue to watch in absolute horror as the body straightens, dusting off its ragged tunic, brushing a hand entwined with darkness over the injuries gouged in its chest.

“I’ve always wondered what this body would be like,” a voice muses, even more terrifyingly familiar, and Time sees a flicker of yellowy-orange eyes. “And now I’ve finally got my chance. How fun.”

The yellow eyes turn and stare directly at him, framed by a heart-shaped mask.

“Isn’t that right, Hero of Time?”

And the dream shatters, Time jerking awake with a name and a scream on his lips.

#this will have a continuation #linkeduniverse #linked universe #lu time #lu chain #and three untagged characters #linked universe fanfic #whumptober 2023 #whumptober #day 22 #glass shard #watch out #tw injury #tw blood #ask to tag #writing from the floor #I read a somewhat upsetting book late last night so I was working on this and then I was like ‘...you know this is not helping’ #so I read some of my unpublished IAU stuff and I felt better lol #anyway #you know the one wip #yeah that one #...it’s coming

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

Rainbow Tag

I was ghost-tagged in @little-peril-stories tag, which you can find here. I feel inclined to do this one, because... when I started with Lies, I attempted to write 6 chapters, each with a title for one of the colors of the rainbow.

Unfortunately, overwriting struck again, and I ended up with 8 chapters instead, so I added teal and pink, which is why I am now using them for this tag. All of those are from their respective chapters as well!

Red

One last quick look at the street outside, and Laurent turned around. Out of the doorway stepped a woman clad in a short black dress. The skirt barely reached her knees, the sleeves wrapped around her upper arms in thin straps, and a soft dark red corset accentuated what didn’t need accentuating. Her long black hair was braided in four braids and pulled into a knot, leaving her neck and collar bones on display. Laurent swallowed.  “Erm. Hello! I’m looking for candy.”

Orange

“I marked the sections. I know everything I put here is red, and there orange. Of course, once I start moving them around and putting them together, I need to pay attention to what I am doing.” “Isn’t it impractical then to invite someone to look over your shoulder and distract you?” Aurelia took care not to turn into his direction. “I’m not that easily distracted,” she said.

Yellow

Her fingers slid over rolls of ribbons, looking for the marks that told her which color they were. She cut pieces of orange and yellow off and tied them around the bottle in a pretty bow. “That’s for you,” she said, holding it in his direction. Laurent’s footsteps approached, his fingertips brushing hers as he reached for the bottle. He took his time taking it, and she took her time letting go.

Green

“That first day you came in here,” she started while placing green apple candies into a small bag made of thin paper. “You said you were quite preoccupied. Have your worries eased a little?” “They’re… yeah. I think it’ll work out all right. I talked to a friend much wiser than me, and he told me not to worry so much.”  “I need to get myself one of those,” Aurelia muttered. 

Teal

“And what is that?” he asked. Aurelia counted to three in her mind. “You’ll need to be more specific, sir.” “Glass bottles filled with some green slug. Looks nasty.” Nasty. How rude. “That’s tealberry syrup,” she explained. “Tealberry, huh?” He snorted. “Shouldn’t that be purple?” That was not what teal… Aurelia took a measured breath. “I wouldn’t know. Sir.”

Blue

Exhausted as she was, Aurelia fell asleep quickly and didn’t wake up until the sun had already risen. Feeling refreshed and much less annoyed, she hummed as she changed her bedsheets and got dressed. Wearing her favorite black dress, she went into the kitchen to boil some water and was greeted by the smell of blueberry muffins.  Shit.

Purple

Finally, Cedric grinned again. “You can have the ladies all to yourself. Speaking of.” He reached under the counter and pulled a bundle wrapped in purple cloth out. On the counter, he unwrapped it, revealing two cylinders made of solid bronze. “You said the machine had the name Mills engraved, right?”

Pink

A new song began, slower than the last one. Laurent’s hands moved to her back again, and hers onto his shoulders. All the other people had long faded into the background. There was only the music and him, her heart floating on a cloud of pink cotton candy. “You know.” His forehead touched hers. “There’s one thing I still haven’t tasted.”

#salad-tag #wip: lies #It's one of those things no one but me will ever notice 😂😅 #Fun fact: originally i wanted to give the glass shards chapters color titles #I'm kind of glad I got that out of my system now because ho boy #It was a huge pain in the ass with 8 chapters already 😶 #and since I kinda #ruined the ROYGBIV theme #(for real indigo has no place there either >:( fight me) #I'm not gonna tag anyone

[mebis-art-dump]

kingdom Pathologia, part 2: Crystal Poisoning

Also known as "Gleamshell" or "Miner's jewels", this crystal growth mostly affects the workers of Crystal Peak.

It is caused by shards lodging into the shell, although it has been recently proposed that inhaling the dust from the mines can also cause it.

It does not distinguish between bug or beast of burden, thus daily checks are realized in the mine's exits.

As the crystals grow they cause more, acute pain. Other symptoms include:

- Prolonged lethargy

- Difficulty breathing

- High fever

- numbness

- Auditory hallucinations

- Stiffness

(Shards quickly grow and branch out)

..................................................................................

Crystal poisoning has no cure, and must be constantly taken care of, resulting in the classification of three stages of crystal growth:

1- Initial discovery. The growth is minimal. Checks in the mines are aimed at finding these, and treatment seeks for it to not progress past this.

2- Great Crystal Growth. Critical state. Extreme action must be taken and the survival of the patient is not warranted. Searing fever and hallucinations are to be expected.

3- If action is not taken in time, Great Crystal Growth can turn into Greater Crystal Growth —also known as "Glass Tomb" or "Gleaming Cocoon"— at any time. The victim is considered dead at this point.

..................................................................................

Daily treatment consists of the careful extraction of any visible crystals; it is custom for the entire treatment to be paid with the crystals extracted this way.

Afterwards it is suggested to balance out one's breath, soul and water to further reduce the growth speed. The assistance of a priest or sage is recommended.

The common method is meditation to spread the soul and to inhale incense to balance both water and breath.

It is not recommended to visit Hot Springs, for its heat and streams will quickly throw water and soul out of balance.

(There aren't any Hot Springs on Crystal Peak for a reason...)

..................................................................................

Unfortunately, there's a rather sad trend growing between miners: to hide away the sickness and let the valuable crystals grow on their shell, to sell the shards for some quick Geo; this practice has lately gained the disease the new monicker of "Greed's Glaze".

There are already many poorly made jewels on the city, even in noble houses.

They shatter easily, and crystal poisoning outside of the miner community is on the rise.

(so brittle...)

To avoid shame, affected aristocrats will refuse to be publicly treated, and resort to... unorthodox methods.

(so unsanitary...)

---------------------------------------------------

Previous chapter: Fungal Growth

Next chapter: Sleepwalkers (wip)

Directory/ Masterpost

#hollow knight #krita #digital art #fanart #mebi's art #Kingdom Pathologia #hollow knight fanart #crystal peak #crystals #hollow knight headcanon #hk fanart

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Quiet Ones 4

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You live a quiet life, but your peace is fractured by a chaotic man.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, short!shy!reader

Note: first draft of my final assignment is done, just need to do a few other things for class and I'm pretty much done.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

As night falls, you feel woozy. You don’t know how much longer you can hold out. The boxed macaroni and cheese only made your stomach hurt and you’re pretty much out of water. Tomorrow you might just have to venture outside and hope he’s not around. Somehow, you don’t think he’s ever gone. He seems to always be watching. 

You can’t focus on your book. The edges of your vision are hazy and your head is pounding. You close it and look for something to watch. You just as quickly forget what you’re doing and shut off the television. You’re too weak to make it to the bed. You're tired, you just want to sleep. 

You look at the window before you lay down, then glance down. The light isn’t there yet. Its absence unsettles you. You wouldn’t exactly prefer it was but it not being there makes you wonder if something else is coming. 

You’re too exhausted to worry about it. You close your eyes as you lay flat on the couch. You exhale and let your body relax. The tension is as tiring as anything else. You’re always wound up tight, always waiting, always watching. You just don’t have anything left in you. 

That familiar drifting sensation takes over you. Your eyelids itch and your muscles grow heavy. You slip into your unconscious little by little until your shrouded in a deep unbreakable darkness. You’re not scared or frustrated or happy or sad. You’re just tired. 

The shatter of glasses splices through your momentary escape. You groan as you eyes snap open and you lay in the dimness of your apartment. What happened? The light was on when you passed out. What was that noise? 

You push yourself up to your elbows and look at the window. There’s not green light but something worse. The window is broken. The jagged glass shines with moonlight as shards litter the floor. You sit up all the way and scramble around, unable to make sense through the darkness and your own sluggish perception. 

You reach for the lamp and try to turn it on. On, off, on, off. You shake your head, trying to free yourself from the clouds, and stagger to your feet. You go to the wall and flip the switch for the overhead light. Nothing. The power must be out. You can’t even hear the hum of the fridge. 

A tickle crawls into your throat and you cough. You smell smoke. You go to your desk and feel around for your phone. You wait for it to turn on as the dryness in your nose and throat build. You finally get the flashlight glowing on your cell and shine it around the room. 

The haze isn’t in your mind. The apartment is filling with smoke. You pull your shirt up over your nose and cough again. Your eyes burn as you try to see through the fog. There’s a dark shape on the carpet spewing fumes. What the heck? 

Adrenaline kicks in and instinct has you feet moving before you can think. You can’t breath. The smoke gets thicker as your eyes stream and you rack with coughs. You hit the door with your body, clawing at the lock, fingers aching as you twist back the latch. You waver as you step back, pulling the door inward and stumble into the hall. 

Your feet hit the floor clumsily, flat and thumping, thunderous in the hue of night. You hack again, hand on your chest, and tumble to your knees. You grip your head as the strength drains from your body, seeping away little by little. Are you dying? Is this it? 

You fall onto your side and suck in deep breaths. Your head lolls and your arm falls slack beside you. Your eyes roll up and a black silhouette appears above you. A tongue clicks and a whistle blows out. 

“I didn’t want it to be like this, baby cakes,” the timbre skews in your ears as your lashes close, “don’t worry...” the world shifts beneath you, “daddy’s got you.” 

👄

You don’t dream. You don’t think. You don’t feel. There is only endless black. 

A sliver of light pierces the void. It's too bright. Painfully so. Your eyes slit and you peek out from beneath heavy eyelids. You don’t recognise those walls, the bed is too soft to be yours, and this place doesn’t smell familiar. You take a deep breath and force your eyes open. 

Soft light glows through large panes to your left. The bed on which you lay is swathed in the dull tones of the morning rising just outside. You’re laid beneath blankets, several layers that make you sweat, and a cushy pillow cradles your head, many more litter the bed along the top. There’s too much of everything. 

The ceiling and walls are black, the bed frame too, the silky and dark, with a fluffy zebra print throw across the foot. You can’t see much more as you lay on your back. You might not know where you are but you can certainly figure who brought you there. 

On cue with your consciousness, the opposite the bed opens and you raise your head to watch a shadow enter. It reminds you of another figure, that one rippled with disorientation and impending darkness. He reaches to flip the switch beside the door and the two sconces mounted above the bet light up. 

It’s him. It wouldn’t be anyone else. That stranger from the cafe. Your personal tormentor. The man who calls himself Lloyd and a litany of ridiculous names. 

He stares back at you. You’re struck dumb with the dregs of you unconcscious and disbelief, meanwhile he looks almost giddy. A smile curves his lips under the line of hair and he rubs his palms together as he shifts his weight between his feet. He raises his hands appeasingly. 

“Jellybean, before you scream, please hear me out,” he pleads. 

You couldn’t scream if you tried. You’re too weak. This can’t be happening. Why would you be here? In a nice bed, in a nice room. You should be in some twisted torture chamber or out in the middle of the woods. If he’s going to kill you, he needs to at least be straightforward about. 

He turns and strides over to another door; a closet. He slides it open and tuts as he browses the contents. You can’t see past him. You barely even try as you let your head fall back against the pillow. 

“So, thoughts?” He turns to face you again as he holds up two hangers, “the navy is cute. I like the polka dots and the see throughness here and here, but the pink would bring out your complexion.” 

Your eyes flit down and you gape at the two dresses, one in each hand. You shake your head and blink. You bring a hand up and touch your forehead, a grumble slipping free. 

“You’re right, jellybean, it’s late,” he turns to put the dresses back in the closet, “we can deal with that in the morning. It’s not too far away... just a few hours.” 

He nears the bed and you shrink down, curling your shoulders in as you fold your arms over the blankets. He lowers himself next to you, an elbow in the pillows as he peers down at you. He reaches to touch your cheek and you try to move away. He barely seems to notice as he strokes your face. 

“I’ve just been so excited I can’t sleep,” he drags his knuckle around lightly, “but I didn’t want to wake you up. You need to rest. After everything you’ve been through.” He brings his legs up onto the bed and wiggles down to his side, “I know you don’t take care of yourself like you should, baby face, but that’s okay, because you have me now.” 

“Why... are you doing this?” You wisp out. 

He laughs, “you’re so funny...” he pets your chin, “and cute and...” he trails his hand down and squeezes your shoulder, “small. You’re adorable.” 

“Please,” you groan. 

“Why am I doing what?” He asks coyly, “why am I taking care of you? Why am I ready to give you everything? Why am I dying just to hear your voice and see your face and...” he stops and leans in, giving a deep sniff, “smell your hair?” 

You want to shrivel up. Your lip quivers as the daze recedes and the fear sets in. He’s delusional and you have no way out. You don’t even know where you are. It hardly matters, you doubt you could get very far. 

“You’re right. We should sleep. We have tomorrow to get settled in,” he reaches back to flip the light switch next to the bed, dimming the sconces back to black.  

He lifts himself to free the blankets from beneath him and sidles under them. He nestles close as you go rigid. He slips his arm under you as he nuzzles your cheek. 

“And every day after that. We have a whole lifetime ahead of us, jellybean. Me and you. Together forever...” he stretches his other arm over your stomach, “I never liked fairy tales before, babes. Not til you.” 

You close your eyes. You’re tired but there’s no way you’re falling back asleep. This is a waking nightmare. 

👄

The man, Lloyd, starts to snore. You feel his muscles relax and feel his breath steady against you. As much as you want to push him away and run, you can’t. You don’t know what it is. It’s akin to sleep paralysis. You’re awake but you can’t fight what’s happening. Something in your mind tells you it’s futile. 

The sun rise on the other side of the large windows. In any other circumstance, you would admire a place like this. The sleek furniture, the luxurious blankets, the expansive view. It’s a far cry from your cramped apartment and its small windows. 

You can only wallow in helpless self-pity. How did this happen? How did you let it happen? If you hadn’t been so indulgent, you would’ve never been seen. You should’ve known better than to go down to that cafe and splurge on something so menial. You could have made your own tea. You could’ve stayed inside, stayed safe. 

His closeness has you sweating. It’s uncomfortable and itchy. You want to rip your skin off. 

He moves and you hold your breath. He’s waking up. That can’t be good. At least asleep, he can’t do much. You curl your fingers into your palm and wait. 

“Mmm,” he leans in and brushes the tip of his nose against your cheek before planting a kiss, his mustache tickles, “this is heaven. I can’t...” he pushes himself up, planting his hand on the mattress, “I can’t believe this is real. You’re really here.” 

You look at him, almost glaring as you let your distress burn through. He doesn’t even notice as he rubs your arm and his blue eyes dance over you. Laying next to him as he looms over you, his size is more obvious. He’s much bigger than you. 

“Coffee?” He asks, “I got this new dark roast. All the way from Colombia. I haven’t even tried it. I’ve been waiting on you. Bet it’s much better than that InstaCafe.” 

You blink at him. All your fears are coming true. It’s not that he’s snatched you, it that he’s been watching you. You might never know how long but that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change this moment. 

“And breakfast, if you’re hungry. I know you usually skip that but--” 

“Please stop,” you croak, “please...” 

“What? Honey, I’m just trying to show you all I can do for you. You don’t have to do all the work anymore. Staring at a screen is bad for your eyes. And your posture.” 

“I... I didn’t mind...” 

“Ah, that’s just you. You’re a hard worker. Resilient. You do what needs to be done. You don’t complain and you don’t make demands. Baby, you don’t have to. Whatever you need, I’ll give it to you without you even asking.” 

“I liked... being alone. I want to be alone,” your breath hitches between words as panic pulses in your chest. 

“Do you want to be alone or do you not know what it’s like to have someone? Jellybean, I’m scared too. You’re the first girl I’ve had in my bed that made it past dawn. Hell, the first girl I didn’t... you know,” he gives a crooked grin. 

Your lips part as you stare at him, dumbfounded. Sure, he didn’t do more than forcibly cuddle you but it doesn’t change what he did do. You shake your head and sputter as you search for words. 

“You followed me.” 

“I kept you safe,” he insists. 

“You turned my water off. I...” 

“That’s what the IV is for,” he reaches over to touch your other arm. You don’t know how you didn’t notice the tubing before. “I brought you tea. All you had to do was open up--” 

“You threw something through my window... there was smoke...” your lashes flutter as the memories creep back in. 

“I did what had to be done,” his grin falls away and his expression turns stony, “what you made me do.” 

You stare at him, speechless. 

“I haven’t given you any reason not to trust you. I mean, all you had to do was have a coffee with me. Or even open your door. Honey, I should be mad at you. You hung me out to dry but I can forgive you,” his face softens again, “how can I not?” His eyes go doey, “you’re so beautiful.” 

You lay there, unmoving. You feel as if any suddenness might trigger him. He traces along your cheek and jaw and down your neck, “did you decide?” 

You narrow your eyes and frown. 

“A dress? Blue or pink?” 

You don’t answer him. You just look at him as he continues to touch you. Your skin speckles with goosebumps as a chill rolls through you. 

“You know what, neither. I get it. You want something more classy. Yeah, given the occasion, I think you’re right, baby face,” he leans over you and looks you in the eye, “we’ll have a look in the closet after breakfast.” 

Before you can react, his lips are on yours. You let out a surprised squeak as he holds your chin in place. His mustache tickles you again and his tongue flits across your lips, wetting them just slightly before retracting. He pulls away and sighs. 

“Wow.” 

#lloyd hansen #dark lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #the gray man #the quiet ones

[hellishjoel]

what happens after

2.9k / pairing: joel miller x f!reader

← masterlist | notifications blog

summary: A string that pulled you out of all the wrong arms, right into that dive bar. And what happens after. 

warnings/information: swearing, alcohol consumption, minor injury, blood, light angst, allusions to smut, one-night stand vibes, soft!joel (thank you kiwi!)

A/N: I have been working on multiple wips, but then this idea struck, and I wrote it in a day and a half flat! Thank you to @kiwisbell for beta-ing this one shot!! It would not sound as clean as it does without her <3 love you kiwi!! And thank you @thetriumphantpanda for being my cheerleader when I was screaming about this idea and obsessively writing it <3 Lastly, I've decided to start using banners because I was introduced to @saradika's blog and I'm OBSESSED! Please consider reblogging and checking out their masterlist!

**follow hellishfics and turn on notifications to see the next time I update!**

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Shit,” the first-name-only man named Joel mutters. 

You’re standing in his kitchen, feet circled in glass shards. The light above the kitchen sink spotlights a small droplet of blood that glides with vigor down your foot. You barely feel the cut, but the sting is underlying. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” you blurt, the reality of what’s happened finally hitting you. You were just filling a glass of water. Perhaps you were snooping inside the handsome stranger's home. You were curious about the older, southern-charm-filled man with the barely-there smile who took you home after an hour of casual flirting over drinks. 

Joel grabs your waist since your feet are frozen in place, afraid to move. He uses his upper body strength to hoist you up and out of harm's way, assuring that he doesn’t step on any spare shards himself as he rests your body to sit on his countertop. Your hands gently grip onto the breadth of his broad shoulders, fingers delicately pressing into his warm skin as your body lightly shudders from the chill of the counter.  

“Sit,” he barks. 

You nip at your bottom lip, soft and tired eyes glancing at the blood that trickles onto his floor. 

“Did you step on any?” he presses, wetting a paper towel, gathering the pieces on the floor, and carefully navigating them into the trash bin. 

“No, didn’t step on any. But when it broke…” You tilt your head down, Joel following your eyeline to see how a shard had nicked your skin after the glass had shattered into tiny fragments. He sighs quietly and flattens his hand to coast up and down his stubble-filled jawline in thought. You purse your lips and hesitantly meet his eyes. 

“Just a scratch,” you say, shrugging it off. 

Joel brings your foot up, heel resting on the edge of the countertop as he observes the two-inch-long scrape that barely breaches the surface of your skin. He grabs a tissue and lightly wets it, placing it over the scratch and adding pressure as you wince. He instructs your hands to take his place. “Stay,” he says before exiting the kitchen. 

“I’m not a dog, you know! I know more commands than just sit and stay.” You huff as you lean your head back, gently thudding your skull into one of his cabinets as you echo out your pain with a whispered curse. 

A light flicks on down the dark hallway, and you observe his quiet home in silence. The glass of water was your initial goal. After Joel fell asleep beside you, tuckered out after midnight activities, you caught a second wind of energy and found yourself staring at the ceiling in boredom. 

Sneaking out from under the covers, cupping your tits as you searched the floor for your underwear. Everything was a mess, socks thrown about and shoes a tripping hazard in the middle of the doorway. You pulled on his shirt he wore at the bar. It smelled of pine and a little bit of Old Spice deodorant. Attempting not to wake him, you quietly felt your feet meet the cold hardwood as you snuck out of his bedroom. You didn’t know much about him besides that he was a casual flirt. The southern accent gave his origins away. And god, did he know how to press you up against his truck just right. 

His body was perfectly chiseled marble. Broad body with a stocky torso and large, calloused hands that melted into the soft skin of your cheeks. His tongue licked your lips before he explored your mouth. Your hands were in his dark chocolate hair, those wispy curls that lined his forehead, and the perfect crow’s feet by his eyes. It was all a blur after that. The amount of times you came was damn near blinding, which made it all the more frustrating when you couldn’t sleep. You slept the best in your own bed, not a stranger’s. 

The hallway light flicks off, and Joel returns with a small first aid kit. He doesn’t look at you but rather focuses on cleaning the small wound with a little soap and more warm water. He’s controlled the bleeding; the cut was too small to make a real fuss anyway. You whimper as he adds an over-the-counter antiseptic cream to prevent infection. 

“Shush,” he whispers in false annoyance, brows furrowed in concentration as his body looms over yours, foreheads barely brushing as you both watch his hands carefully mend you. 

“You shush,” you counter, watching as a small smile breaks across his face. He playfully scoffs after he applies a small brown bandaid across the expanse of your foot. 

“What, were you sneakin’ out on me?” he asks, voice low and drenched with sleep. You feel bad for waking him. 

You tighten your lips in a furled smile, your soft hand gently cupping his rugged cheek. “I don’t do that. Anymore.” 

Joel scoffs playfully, his hand reaching up past you to the knob of the cabinet by your head. He slyly picks up a glass and fills it with water at the sink before offering it to you. 

“Thanks,” you mutter with slight embarrassment, the back of your neck catching some heat as you gently sip on the cold water. 

Joel crosses his arms, curiously gazing over you adorning his shirt. He had worn it earlier to the bar. He was meant to meet his brother, Tommy, but he never showed. Joel decided, since he was already there, that he could kick back an ice-cold beer or two. You were looking too pretty, silently staring at the flatscreen above the bar, playing with the straw in your drink. 

“Seat taken?” he had asked, to which you gave him that gut-clenching, glowy smile. The first thing he found himself sneaking glimpses of were your perfect lips. Whether you were grinning, speaking, or sucking on your straw, he wondered where else those pretty lips would look so perfect. 

For the next hour, his singular goal was to kiss you, to taste you. Anything after that was considered a bonus. He had never felt this feverish for a kiss in so long. To taste someone. To melt. So when you batted your eyelashes and gently landed your warm hand on his upper thigh, he was hooked. Luckily, so were you. 

After midnight and his head hit the pillow, he was out. Until he woke to a crash coming from further inside the house, and the other half of his bed was empty. He found a pair of sweats and, half-asleep, found the source of the noise. And there you were, bare-legged, shirt dangling by your upper thighs, and your hand outstretched, holding nothing but a figment of air. He looked down at your feet, seeing that a glass must have slipped through your fingers. 

“So if you don’t sneak out on men anymore in the middle of the night,” Joel continues as he helps you down off the counter, your feet still cautious as they hit the ground before you both exit the kitchen, “what were you doin’?” 

You follow him to his living room. He pulls the string to a standing lamp before he settles down in a large chair. From the looks of it, that’s his chair. He falls into it perfectly, like he’s probably done a million and one times after a long day of work or a lazy Sunday watching football. You settle on the taupe couch beside his chair and set your glass of water down on the side table. 

“I just had a hard time falling asleep. I thought maybe a glass of water would help.” 

Joel nods slowly, eyes grazing over your body: your bandaged foot, accompanied by bare legs and his worn shirt that hung oversized on you. He liked the sight. His eyes flitted back up to your own, watching as you slowly surveyed his living room with a hint of curiosity. 

You abandon your spot on the couch, walking up to a bookshelf with your hands lightly clasped behind your back. Despite being a tad quiet and very broody, he seems like a complex guy. His interests are scattered, from a manual on the birds of North America to a collector’s edition of Fitzgerald’s The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Your fingers stroke the old book's spine, turning to a small framed photo of him and a young girl. He has a daughter—of course he did. 

Joel looks younger, hugging the girl at his side with his arm wrapped around her shoulders while she dangled a set of keys in the air, an impossibly infectious smile on her face that made her cheeks glow. Joel’s hair was a lot darker. Thankfully, he still had all of its fullness. Pretty curls licking at the ends of each strand, no salt and pepper in sight like he has now. Aging suits him. 

“She’s beautiful. What’s her name?” 

Joel watches from afar as you admire the silver frame and its contents. That picture was from several years ago when Sarah was a teenager, and she had just passed her driver’s test. On her first try, too. They did lots of practicing in the shopping mall’s parking lot after hours. She was no natural, though. And Joel wasn’t the best teacher, with only a pinch of patience to his name. But she begged him to practice nearly every damn day after school. She wanted to be the first of her friends to have her license.

“Sarah,” he says with a fond smile, just happy upon speaking her name. “She’s at Texas U, studying…” He pauses and shakes his head, always forgetting the long and strung-out major. He closes his eyes and puts his head down to think. “Geosystems engineering and hydrogeology. What that means, don’t ask.” 

You give him a crooked smile before placing the photo back in its rightful spot. You picked up a few other pieces, Joel explaining them in a sentence or less. 

“Photography books?”

“Sarah’s. She does it as a hobby.” 

That explains the vintage camera one shelf down. Your fingers find the neck of an acoustic guitar that was resting against the bookshelf, playfully wiggling an eyebrow at him. It was beautiful, finished with a light wood stain, and the strings were just freshly tightened. He played, and often. Now you noticed all the small guitar picks of varying colors that littered nearly every shelf. He could play guitar, but could he sing? You decided it was a tad too personal to ask, but you’d keep it in your back pocket. 

You hum and hold up an old football trophy with his name etched on the nameplate, cocking your eyebrow playfully. 

“MVP?” 

Joel simply closes his eyes and shrugs as he purses his lips, his silent way of saying no big deal. 

You both sneer playfully, admiring the other little tidbits of Joel. And now you had his last name from that trophy. Joel Miller. He disappears into the kitchen while you keep exploring. Old southern cookbooks, more sports memorabilia, plant and nature guides, along with a hiking pamphlet for the local area. 

Tiredness sets in behind your eyes. You can feel it in your body, the way you’re slowly growing heavier, and standing is too much of a chore. Your eyes flick up to the window once you’ve sat back down on the couch, seeing the distant orange of a rising sun through his windows. 

Joel returns from the kitchen, two mugs in hand, with hot steam rolling off the top like billowing smoke. 

“You take cream? Sugar?”

You shake your head and take the coffee as it is, letting your fingers get accustomed to the warmth of the mug. “This is fine. Thanks.” 

Joel tips his head, chin pointing to the door. “I’ll grab you a blanket. We can sit on the porch swing. If you’d like,” he offers, to which you nod. Joel grabs the blanket that's folded at the end of the couch, and you follow him out the front door. It’s a little chilly. The grass is glistening with morning dew. Joel sits down first and puts his arm around the back of the porch swing. 

He puts out his hand, offering to take your coffee. You wrap the blanket around the top of your shoulders and pull it tight around you, small hands clutching it around your chest as you fall in beside him. You settle your head on his shoulder, and once he’s returned your mug, he gently runs his hand up and down your covered arm. 

Joel can smell distant perfume and the eucalyptus shampoo you’ve recently used. You can feel him set his chin at the top of your head, both admiring the sun starting to rise beyond the houses huddled around the street’s small cul-de-sac. The morning chill disappears once the sun arrives for its shift, humming as you feel the warmth that seeps through your stomach from the coffee. 

“You make one hell of a cup of joe, Joel.” 

He lets out a breathy chuckle through his nose. 

“Thanks.” 

As the sun rises higher in the sky, you feel that it’s time to go. Not because Joel is rushing you or things are feeling awkward after a one night stand. It was just time. 

After you finish your coffee, Joel walks you back inside. He sets your mugs in the sink, tiredly rubbing his eyes before he follows you to his bedroom. With his help, you’re able to piece together your wardrobe from the night before. 

He snuffs out a laugh as you turn your back to him to take off his shirt, changing into the one you came with. 

“S’nothing I haven’t seen already.” 

“Wouldn’t you like that, Miller,” you tease before you secure the top, grabbing your purse and assuring you have stuffed your cell phone, wallet, and keys inside. 

Joel pushes himself off his bed, a strange feeling inside him as he watches you get ready to leave. That’s how this sort of thing worked, one-night stands. But he enjoyed you and your company beyond what happened in the bedroom. You’re delightfully chatty and a tad clumsy, but there’s no denying that last night into this morning was one of the best days he’s had in a while. 

“Do you need a ride back to the bar? To get your car?” he asks once you’ve returned from the bathroom, vying for more time with you. Perhaps he could make breakfast, or you both could finally fall asleep after a long night. 

“No, thank you, though. My friend is on her way to pick me up.” 

Joel nods gently and stands silently with his hands stuffed in the pocket of his sweats. He walks you to the door, his living room flooded with the orange hue of early morning light. He sees a car slowly pull up to his driveway, to which you look up to him with a light, tired smile. 

“Get some rest,” Joel mutters quietly, his own voice laced deep with a need for sleep. “And take care of your foot.” 

“Thanks. Will do.” You playfully salute him, and he opens the door for you. He walks you down the porch steps, both of you casually smiling in an unsure way of how to say goodbye. Joel is the first one to make a move. His hand settles on your waist, stopping your movements as he pulls you into his front. His head dips down, and he shares one last kiss with you. The lips and smile that lured him in the first place. Soft and gentle, unlike the hungry and eager ones from last night, where he pressed you up against his truck.

You can’t help but smile and lace your arms loosely around his neck, kissing him back as a gentle thank you for everything and sorry for breaking your water glass. You smile as you pull away, just a few inches as one of the hands you had weakly resting on his broad shoulder moves to cup his grey stubbled cheek. 

He was so handsome, too handsome to only see just once. You place one last peck to his lips before he releases your waist with slight reluctance, sighing as you step inside your friend’s car. Joel watches as the car circles around the cul-de-sac, making their way down the road. Joel clears his throat and bends down to grab the newspaper that was tossed by the grass. 

Once inside, the house felt utterly empty again. No woman had been here in so long, looked at him the way you did in ages. He wouldn’t pull two mugs down from the kitchen cabinets for a while. He wouldn’t share his bed any time soon. He’d wondered if he’d see you again. And maybe you two could just talk because, frankly, he enjoyed that part too. 

Sex and the physical connection he shared with you was one thing, but what happens after might be what he’ll cherish the most. The banter, the conversation, falling asleep beside one another, or at least the attempt to do so. Joel would remember those fragments of happiness, the little things that brought him warmth that spread through his chest. Until then, or until he sees you again, he’ll revel in the memories shared. 

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#joel miller #joel miller smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal the last of us #pedro pascal joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller one shot #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #tlou #tlou fic #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #hellishjoel #joel miller x reader #joel tlou

[wolfjackle-creates]

Bring Me Home Arc 2 Part 6

It's Wednesday! (I'm ignoring the clock that says it's 2 AM. It's totally still Wednesday. I haven't gone to bed yet which means it can't be Thursday.)

So, since it's obviously still Wednesday, it's time for another WIP Wednesday. We're getting into the real meat of the plot of this arc with this update! And now you'll maybe start to see where I'm gonna take this.

Story Summary: Tim and Danny are both neglected by parents who care more about their work than their families. They deal with this by spending too much time online and find each other playing MMORPGs. They keep up their friendship as Tim becomes Robin and Danny becomes Phantom and don't bother keeping secrets from each other.

First, Previous

Word Count: 1.2k

-----

And that was when a large, swirling-green gash opened up in the night sky and dozens of ghosts started pouring through.

“Oh man!” exclaimed Sam as they watched the ghosts wreak havoc on the street. “I’ve never seen this many ghosts attack at once!”

Danny held out his thermos as he stared. “I’m gonna need a bigger thermos.”

The ghosts all appeared to be wearing uniforms and held batons as they attacked civilians and police indiscriminately.

“Uh, Danny?” asked Tim. “Should we call in back up?”

“No!” One of the ghosts got close to their group and Danny quickly sucked it into the thermos, dropping Jazz’s milkshake in the process. “Dammit. Absolutely not. It’s bad enough with three metas here. No more.”

Across the street, they saw a couple running from three of the invaders. One of the ghosts turned invisible and entered the body of the man who went stiff before sprinting to catch up to his partner and grabbing her to hold her still.

Then one of the other ghosts turned a garbage can over the both of them. The one overshadowing the man left his body, leaving the humans crying and covered in garbage as the ghosts laughed.

“I see,” said Tim. “How do we protect Bart, Cassie, and Conner?”

“You’re metas?” asked Sam.

Cassie nodded. “Yeah, nothing special, but… I don’t want to see what a ghost could do with my powers.”

“Let’s get back to my place. My parents might be crazy, but the ghost shield works. And then we can make a plan.”

Tim nodded. “I’ll lead. Kon, Bart, Cassie, you three need to stay in the middle. Sam, Tucker, you watch our sides and Danny, take up the rear. Capture any ghosts that try to approach us.”

Amity, even during a ghost invasion, was much easier to navigate than Gotham and Tim was able to lead them back to Danny’s house without getting lost. Every scream made him want to stop and help, though. He hated being useless.

Behind him, he could hear muttered curses from his teammates and knew they felt the same. But they needed weapons. Ones that could actually hit a ghost. And they needed to make sure they could fight off any overshadowing.

A TV was thrown out of a house through a window next to them sending shards of glass raining on the ground. Sam let out a string of curses.

“Sam!” called Danny. “Are you okay?”

“I think so. Just a slice to my arm.”

“We’re almost there,” said Tim. “We’ll check it out.”

He was flat out running now, could hear the others just behind them. They turned a corner and he could see the glowing FentonWorks sign. He grit his teeth and continued to run away from the mayhem, fighting every instinct he had. He wouldn’t be able to help if he stayed. He repeated it as a mantra with every step.

And finally they were there, he grabbed the door handle and pulled it open, ushering his friends in first.

Once inside, Danny flipped a few switches and metal slammed down over the windows, though no guns or lasers came out of the walls.

“Okay. No ghosts can get in now.”

“Danny!” Jazz came running down the stairs. “You’re all okay! Mom and Dad rushed out as soon as the attack started. What’s going on?”

“Jazz! Sorry, I dropped your milkshake on the way here. And not much, just, you know, a ghost invasion.” Danny’s laugh was bordering on hysterical.

“But you’re all safe?”

“Sam?” asked Danny. “How’s your arm?”

“I think it’s all right.” Sam grimaced as she held some tissues to the injury.

Jazz joined and led her to the kitchen. “Come on, let me clean that up for you. What happened?”

“A ghost threw a TV through a window. A piece of glass got me as we ran by.”

Tucker turned on the Fenton’s TV and switched to the news channel.

“I’m Shelly Makamoto and this is Ghost Watch,” an Asian woman said in a cheerful voice. “Ghosts, can you believe it, real ghosts are invading Amity Park right now. Emergency vehicles are struggling to get through the invasion, so if you are injured and in an area of high ghost concentration, help may be delayed. It is recommended you remain put and wait until first responders are able to get to your area. Currently, the ghosts are most focused on the downtown area, so the hospital is spared at this time. We can only hope this doesn’t change. Now, our weatherman Lance Thunder is out right now, so lets switch to him to get an on-the-scene report.”

They all watched in silence as a male reporter cowered behind an overturned car as he gave his report.

Sam and Jazz returned just a moment later. Sam had a large bandaid over her arm but shook her head when Danny shot her a questioning look.

“It’s fine. Clean cut.”

Tim relaxed as well. “Glad to hear it,” he said.

Jazz nodded. “Nothing to be concerned about at all. Thanks for getting the ghost shield up, Danny. I always forget which switch is the weapons and which is the shield.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. She was lying. Why was she lying?

“Yeah, no problem. We’re gonna go to the lab. Tim and his friends have self defense training, Gotham, you know? So I want to see if we have any weapons in the vault that they’d be comfortable with.”

“Great. I’m gonna be in my room. As class president, I want to try and make sure everyone is safe so I’ll be on the phone with my door shut. Knock before you enter!” Then she was running back up the stairs and slamming the door to her room.

Tim exchanged a glance with Cassie. That was weird.

But next to him, Danny let out a breath. “Okay, so she’s out of the way. Sam, you sure you’re okay?

Sam grimaced. “It stings a bit, but it’s fine. Jazz put disinfectant and antibiotic cream on it.”

“Great. Well, not great.” Danny grimaced and Sam punched him on the arm.

Tim cleared his throat. “You said something about weapons?”

Conner nodded. “Yeah, did you say you have a weapons vault?”

Danny laughed. “You saw the home defense system. Are you really surprised?”

Cassie shook her head. “Your parents are evil scientists, aren’t they?”

Danny led them down a set of stairs. “I wouldn’t call them evil. They’re just… a bit single minded.”

And then Tim was standing in their lab for the first time. It was all silver chrome and neon green accents. But worse, it was messy. Half assembled inventions were scattered haphazardly over every surface. And was that a half eaten sandwich on the bench? Ectoplasm dripped off one of the counters onto a puddle on the floor.

Sam, Tucker, and Danny walked in without concern, but Tim and his team held back.

Danny realized they weren’t following and looked back in concern. “What’s wrong?”

“No offense,” said Bart as his eyes darted around, “But, uh, is it safe?”

“What do you mean?” asked Danny, but then he looked around and noticed the mess. “Ah. Hang on a sec. I’ll get you rubber gloves and boots you can slide on over your shoes. That’ll keep you safe enough.”

Sam helped and soon enough they were passing the protective gear over. Meanwhile, Tucker sat down at a computer and pulled up the news report so they could keep tabs on what was going on.

“Can we get eye protection as well?” asked Tim once he had everything on.

“Sure. Mom and Dad have plenty of goggles.” Danny grabbed a few of those as well.

Still not entirely comfortable, Tim finally stepped into the lab. On the far wall, behind yellow and black doors was the portal he’d heard so much about.

Danny followed his gaze and put a hand on his arm. “Come on, Tim. The weapons vault is over here.”

-----

Next

This should be enough to figure out which episode I'm using as the base for this arc! It's not quite the Ghost Fight people were hoping for in the comments of the last update, but I think this is gonna be better.

Tag List Part 1

@gremlin-bot, @bonebrokebuddy, @britcision, @lady-time-lord-, @welcometosasakiworld, @akikkobara, @phoenixdemonqueen, @dolfay, @skulld3mort-1fan, @we-ezer, @markus209, @sjrose1216, @onyxlightdragon, @dragonsrequiem, @jesus-camp-the-sequel, @spidey29phangirl, @kyrianclawraith, @evilminji, @introvert-even-on-the-internet, @emergentpanda-blog, @lexdamo, @v-inari, @idontgetpaidenoughforthisshit, @longlivethefallen, @undead-essence, @xye-chan, @liandrin, @seraphinedemort, @kisatamao, @schalensitzbucket, @caelestisdreamer, @runfromthemedic, @nutcase8691, @channajen, @tonicmii, @ambiguouslyominous, @vythika96, @addie-lover-of-stories, @ironicvixen, @violetfox2, @pickleking8, @mysticalcomputerdetective, @ark12, @mygood-bitch99, @squirrel-wolf, @satisfactionbroughtmeback, @sometimesthingsfallapart, @automaticsoulharmony, @d4ydr34min9, @revnantdpxdclover, @midigeria, @raginblastocyst, @feral-bunny31, @lunaria618, @ghostreblogging, @ace-aro-as-shit

#dpxdc #dead tired #my writing #conner: whats that you got there? #danny: a weapons vault why? #he has no clue its weird so doesnt think to hide it #its just his basement #one weapon for you and one for you and two for you #rip jazz's milkshake #damn ghosts #i am very tired #and my tags reflect that

[martilyongabo]

the blade is your implement. you'll need it if you want to do this right. (04.17.2024-04.20.2024) [18hrs]

happy anniversary to FE13! i was drawn back to this game after getting into another, though completely different game, Slay the Princess. the conflict and shifting forms reminded me a lot of what had stuck out to me in FE13, so i decided to go back and play through it.

i also made a small doodle too of the vessels during the creation of this piece. you can find it below in the read more, as well as a small list of who's who :D

a last thank you to @anoldwishbone for helping me with the glass shards and effects!

from left to right: the beast (it/its), the damsel (she/he), the prisoner (she/her), the spectre (she/her) the witch (bottom, they/them), the tower (top, she/her), the razor (middle, he/him), the adversary (top, she/her), and the nightmare (middle, she/her).

tower, adversary, and nightmare's designs were pretty unclear to me even a day before the deadline, hence why they're pretty loose here.

i ended up giving the tower elice's clothes from fe11/fe12, and the adversary was given a mix of the dread fighter's outfits in fe13 and fe15. the nightmare's clothing is still a big WIP though, since fe13's story is still yikes. would still love to explore swana and central asian fashion for plegian characters.

#fire emblem #fire emblem awakening #fe13 #fe awakening #fea #gawang abo #ylisse #fe robin #fe chrom #slay the princess #stp #it's a little funny that tower and adversary's designs weren't designed even though i had the clearest idea of what their heads were to loo #idk they're both really handsome women ok </3 they deserve the best drip #it was also really fun to make up backstories on these vessels and the ways in which robin's mother #(or the grimleal) #could have raised them differently

[captainjunglegym]

WIP Wednesday - 06/03/2024

Tagged by the wonderful @nocoastposts and @sunnysideprince

Wow big day/week for nick stans amirite??? loved mary and george. seen it ALL. also stoked for the idea of you, looks cute n fun and i love the song.

ANYWAYS. Angst? I haven't written anything this week bc of the aforementioned nick apocalypse, so have something from last week.

Part of my Henry doesn't want children AU, and henry is really going through it. This fic has a name now and is called (subject to change):

If You're Not Made for Me:

The glass shatters on their kitchen floor. It breaks the fragile silence that has protected their home for days, for weeks. Henry bends to pick up the shards but draws his hand back sharply when he cuts himself. The blood, thick and rich, beads out of his finger and he watches as it stains a path down to his palm. He sits on the floor with his back to their cabinets and just watches his own blood. His eyes flicker up to see Alex. He’d not heard him come in, but he never hears him much. Alex is a phantom in their shared space. He’s sweeping up the glass and putting it in the trash. He moves with a calm grace that Henry despises. He wants Alex to feel how he feels inside. Like a churning anger and sadness that can’t be tamed. There’s something black inside of Henry. Rotting. Rotting. Rotting. Fingers take his palm. Alex runs a wet cloth over his wound, gently cleaning the blood before drying it and pressing a blue Band-Aid over the cut. He’s finished dressing the wound, but he holds Henry’s hand, his fingers pressing into his palm and feeling his bones and tendons. The touch is firm but gentle, like Alex is digging into his skin to find a pulse, to find fucking anything that’s a sign of life. “You should be more careful,” Alex says softly after a few moments. He looks at Henry, waiting for a response, but Henry offers none. Alex stands and walks away. You should be more careful. You. That’s Henry’s name now. He was darling and sweetheart and baby. He was Henry and Hen and H. Now he’s none. You. Rotting. Rotting. Rotting.

No pressure tags: @getmehighonmagic @eusuntgratie @bigassbowlingballhead @anincompletelist @firenati0n @violetbaudelaire-quagmire @littlemisskittentoes @wordsofhoneydew @sparklepocalypse @magicandarchery and im sure im forgetting people but if you wanna do it then please tag me so i can read and reblob!!

#my fics #writing tags #firstprince fic

[landinrris]

Snippet following Silverstone 2023 from the current pr fic wip!

Carlos calls Lando on Monday when he’s back in Maranello, if only to hear his voice. Collapsed into the sofa, fresh from the shower after his run.

Lando answers on the third ring, a warm, “Hey,” reaching Carlos’ ears.

It’s the single sweetest syllable Carlos has heard in the last forty-eight hours.

“Hey. I didn’t tell you yesterday, but congrats on the podium. You deserved it. You looked so good up there.”

Lando hums, an evident smile in his voice despite how hard he’s trying to fight it. “Thanks. It was pretty cool, not to rub it in.”

“It’s quite the view. I remember from last year.”

“Maybe next year I’ll be up on that top spot.”

“Maybe I’ll join you.” It’s quite the thought, one that has Carlos feeling more wistful than he was prepared for. They’re overdue a podium together— yet to fulfill their 1-2 wish from back at McLaren.

“You promise?” Lando asks.

It’s Carlos’ turn to hum, letting the conversation fall into a lull. He scratches at a spot on his neck he’d nicked while shaving and mentally curses when his fingernail catches against it.

“What are you doing right now?” Lando asks. Carlos would tease him about the suggestive nature of his question if he felt like they were at a place where they could.

As it is, Carlos feels like he’s walking across shards of glass.

“Just got in from a run and showered— in Maranello for now. What about you?”

“Spending a couple of days with my family before going back to Monaco. It’s nice to kind of just decompress for a bit. Log off social media.”

“Stay off the algorithm,” Carlos adds.

Lando sighs. “Suppose I should apologize for the last few weeks. My head’s not been great, and I’m trying to deal with it.”

“Lando, you don’t have to apologize.”

“No, I do because Max has already told me off about it. I’ve just been avoiding you without telling you why, and that’s not fair to either of us. I just kept thinking about what you said about the European leg and how she was just gonna be around all the time, and it's made me sick to my stomach. Fuck, it makes me sick just saying it again. But I don’t want this to ruin us.”

“Shit…” is all Carlos can say. He’s had a sneaking suspicion, but to hear it confirmed is something else. “I should’ve been more demanding about her not coming golfing.”

“It’s not just the golfing, Carlos—”

“No, but I should’ve been more demanding. I should have said I wasn’t going and done something else with you. This has already taken so much.” Carlos knew it was doing damage, but now it's different.

Their promises to each other are coming unraveled in real time despite how much they try.

“What are you doing this week?” Lando asks, an edge of hope palpable in his voice. “I could come to you or you could come to me, and we could kind of just reset? More than Canada. Just exist a few days and forget about the world.”

The proposition sounds like one of the best ideas Carlos has ever heard. He can practically picture Lando in his bed, sitting on the kitchen counter, pressed up against the glass door in the shower.

He thinks about Monaco back in May and the utter bliss those handful of days were when it was just them. They shut the rest of the world out. It would be so easy to say yes now. It would be so easy to buy Lando’s plane ticket for him with a couple button clicks.

Carlos’ brain slams on the brakes.

“I don’t think this week will be good. I think the plan is to let everything settle before the summer break. Either of us being spotted where the other lives will only raise Caco and Guzman’s hackles.” Getting them to agree to let him have this break in the first place was a lot. The last thing he wants to do is laugh in their faces and tempt them into something.

“Yeah, sure. That’s fine.” Lando’s tone is clipped— the opposite of fine, Carlos knows.

“Lando,” Carlos begs. “We can do things together on Facetime maybe. We can make dinner together tonight? Maybe watch something together even though you will fall asleep halfway through. It’s not that I don’t miss you, cariño. It’s that I am trying to finish this as quickly as possible.”

Lando sighs. “I know. I think I’d really like to do those things. I’ll be back in Monaco tomorrow night. We can cook dinner then?”

Something inside Carlos settles. “Yeah, that sounds good. I will figure us out a recipe. I can keep talking for now though if you are okay to.”

“I know I’ve been avoiding you, but I could still talk to you forever, you know.”

Carlos smiles to himself. “That’s good because so can I.”

They stay on the phone with each other for another hour and a half until Lando’s father evidently tells him dinner is ready. Carlos is morose to eventually let him go— he'd much rather choose to stay on the phone and talk about everything and nothing.

Carlos wants to hear more about the stack of old sketchbooks Lando found in the desk drawer in his room full of sticker designs. He wants to hear more about how when this is all over, Lando wants to bring Carlos home as his boyfriend and show him around.

Likewise, Carlos wants to keep telling Lando about the neighbors in his building and the people around town. He wants to talk about what color he should paint the living room because it’s too yellow as-is. He’s been spending more time there and has discovered he hates it.

Lando tells Carlos he’ll help paint it.

When they do hang up, Carlos feels better than he has in a while. It feels like something has shifted between them the tiniest bit. Not good or bad, but just different. It’s like they’ve taken a step back for a moment to something safer, and Carlos is oddly grateful for it even if he still wishes with every fiber of his being that he could have Lando here with him.

The next few days only reinforce the shift. Like taking a hit off an inhaler, suddenly Carlos feels like he can breathe again.

Sure, making dinner in parallel with each other feels silly, especially when Lando can’t get the peel off the garlic clove and he refuses to smash it with the knife because the instructions stated he has to slice the clove, and he can’t slice it if it’s crushed. If they were together, Carlos could help. Now, he just groans.

He feels less silly when they’re both lying in their respective beds the next night, the only light coming from each of their bedside lamps. Lando looks swamped in his hoodie, the hood pulled up and pushing some of his hair down onto his forehead.

“I want to kiss you so bad it makes my chest hurt,” Carlos murmurs. It feels like he’s shouting.

Lando gives him a sleepy smile. “I want to kiss you until my lips are so bruised it hurts. And then I want to keep going.”

“I want your name to be the first one I say when I wake up and the last one I say when I go to bed.”

“I want everyone to look at you and know I’m your other half.”

“I think the grid already does if I am being honest.”

“But I mean everyone. I want some random fan to think: Carlos Sainz? Oh yeah, he’s Lando Norris’.”

Just the idea sends a shiver up Carlos’ spine.

They go back and forth for an embarrassingly long time. Carlos doesn’t wish Lando was there any less. He wants to trace the dimples in Lando’s cheeks and on his chin. He wants to kiss each and every freckle and mole and memorize the pattern of color in Lando’s eyes.

Lando falls asleep on the call, his bedside lamp still on. If Carlos was there, he could turn it off for him. Instead, he just watches Lando sleep until his own eyes grow too heavy to keep open.

#carlando #writing tag #the pr fic is 32k so have a snippet #hell chaos summer 2023 #in which vibes are getting weird but they're trying really hard not to make them because they're together and they love each other #(even if they haven't said it yet) #they are each other's though and this ends very happily

[sunandflame]

Shards of Glass Masterlist

Summary: Kyojuro Rengoku, History Teacher on the Kimetsu Academy, is constantly having strange dreams about a Slayer who looks exactly like him. He thinks nothing of it until he recognizes a very specific person from these dreams and feels a very unique connection to her. Pairing: History Teacher Kyojuro x Teacher Fem!Reader Trope: Reincarnation / Sequel to Flame and Water (can be stand-alone) Warnings: slowburn, fluff, hurt/comfort, smut, nsfw, angst Word Count: 13087 Pinterest Board of Shards of Glass Crossposted on AO3

Chapter 1 • Chapter 2 • Chapter 3 • Chapter 4 • Chapter 5 • Chapter 6 • Chapter 7 • Chapter 8 • Chapter 9 (WIP)

#the poll decided for a multichapter fic so here it comes #sunnys work #shards of glass #demon slayer #demon slayer fanfic #demon slayer masterlist #kimetsu no yaiba #kimetsu no yaiba fanfic #kimetsu no yaiba masterlist #kny #kny fanfic #kny masterlist #kyojuro rengoku #kyojuro x reader #kyojuro x y/n #kyojuro x you #kyojuro x oc #kyojuro rengoku x reader #rengoku kyojuro #rengoku x you #rengoku x reader #rengoku x y/n #rengoku x oc #kimetsu gakuen #kimetsu gakuen fanfic #kimetsu academy #kimetsu academy fanfic #teacher kyojuro #teacher!kyojuro #teacher rengoku

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

Elli's Scribblings

Welcome!

This is my cozy little corner of this hellsite. Make yourself at home, have a look around, ignore the blood, that’s just... uh, anyway. Here you’ll find posts with a focus on writing and fictional suffering, but this is a main blog, so there will be a sprinkle of memes, queer stuff and everything else I feel like putting here.

An overview of my (published) writing is below the cut, more about me and my tags can be found on my about page.

My website where you can find most of my novels in free ebook/pdf format My ko-fi where you can support me if you like what you read

@elli-scribbles​ - all my original writing that was posted here @iridium-quality-salad - my video game side blog @cant-burn-the-ice-cream​ - random stuff (untagged; mostly cute things and memes that have no image descriptions)

About Me

Adult, at least on paper.

I curse quite a lot. Sorry (but not really).

I like tag games, but I have the attention span of a common house fly. Also sor— oh look a butterfly.

I run a queue, but I’m not tagging it. Good luck figuring out my sleep schedule.

Stuck between being a whump blog and a writing blog.

Fantasy books and video games are everything.

I will not reblog posts where important information isn't accessible, i.e. undescribed images or weird/small/colorful fonts.

English is not my first language.

My Stories

📖 General

Despite the focus on horrible things, my endings are too happy for dark fantasy, and despite the focus on relationships, I'm too ace for mainstream romance. This post contains extremely detailed (and extremely spoilery) content warnings for all stories that were posted here. All are set in the same universe, have a happy end, and are listed in chronological order below. My personal preferred reading order for Damien's and Merridy's story is Undeserved > Glass Shards > Nuisance > Fancy Boots.

🌿 Thorns and Jasmine

Synopsis: Healer Caldyn gets kidnapped and tortured by bad guys who want to claim his soul, and with it his unique magic. By the time he is saved, it is almost too late. Length: 150k words / finished Vibes: non-human / captivity, torture and recovery / old and new trauma / mostly whump Links: Masterlist

🌺 Twisted Thorns

Synopsis: Blinded and traumatized, Caldyn leaves his home, hoping the distance will allow him to regain control over his magic. But no matter how far he goes, he cannot outrun his past. Length: 98k / finished (eternally editing) Vibes: blind main char pov / dark magic / humans are the weird ones Links: WIP Intro

🪙 Nuisance

Synopsis: When Merridy is saved by the city’s most infamous criminal, she’s sure her life is over. Meanwhile, Cedric just wants to have his peace back. Set about 5 years before Glass Shards. Length: 48k words / finished Vibes: reluctant caretaker / misunderstandings / gay husbands / found family Links: WIP Intro | Masterlist | Ebook

🍬 Sweet Little Lies

Synopsis: When Laurent hides from the guards in a candy store, he falls in love with the owner. Despite his dislike for candy, he can't stay away. Standalone, set right after Nuisance. Length: 37k words / editing Vibes: blind main char pov / colorful glass jars / bloody handprints / dancing slowly at a grand ball Links: WIP Intro

☕ Second Chances

Synopsis: Valadan finds the love of his life, almost gets her killed, and then spends a summer making dick jokes instead of admitting his feelings. Standalone. Length: 46k words / finished Vibes: annoyances to friends to lovers / sword training (flirting) / lots of angst / perfect coffee Links: Masterlist | Ebook

⛓️ Undeserved

Synopsis: Trying to assassinate an ambassador, Damien gets caught and is made to pay for his crimes. The story of how he fucked up his life, told in three different timelines. Length: 47k words / finished Vibes: all hurt no comfort / dungeons ❤ / from bad to worse / shattered glass Links: Masterlist | Ebook

💜 Glass Shards

Synopsis: Merridy saves Damien from certain death. Leaving her life of thievery behind to make sure he recovers might turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to her. Length: 135k + words / finished Vibes: hurt/comfort / please don’t leave / quiet inn rooms / qpr ace love story Links: WIP Intro | Masterlist

👢 Fancy Boots

Synopsis: A familiar face shows up, disturbs Merry’s and Damien’s peaceful life, invites himself to dinner, and refuses to leave. Set about 2-3 years after Glass Shards. Length: 46k words / finished Vibes: enemies to friends, kinda / trauma / found family / homemade food Links: Masterlist | Ebook (part of Undeserved*) *Glass Shards is set in between Undeserved and Fancy Boots, but I decided to release them together due to recurring themes and characters.

🔔 Till Death

Synopsis: When wandering healer Finnian loses a patient, he is attacked and left for dead in the forest. Hermit Eilis finds him and nurses him back to health. Standalone. Length: 110k words / finished Vibes: falling leaves / so much torture / unreliable magic / self-sacrifice Links: WIP Intro | Ebook

🌈 Other Stories

Everything else that doesn’t fit one of the main story arcs, like background stories of side characters. Gwyneth: Hold On | Rescued The story of how Gwyneth met Raindrop The Rose A short fairy tale based on Beauty and the Beast April 1st I'm so sorry if you see what I did here

If you've made it to the end - have a cookie 🍪

#time for a new pinned post #because I 100% trust them to fuck up the old post editor in May (: #masterlist #lets see if I can keep fucking randos out of my “more like this” #Glass Shards #Nuisance #Heal my Wounds #Undeserved #Fancy Boots #Thorns and Jasmine #Second Chances #wip: Till Death #wip: Lies

[writingquestionsanswered]

Trouble with Act III and Villain Motivation

feelingthedisaster asked: I have some issues with my current WIP. The basics are: a guy wants to be a "soldier" (not exactly, but I won't get into worldbuilding), but because he's an outcast he's blamed for the theft of an object that goes missing. He learns about a witch who can help him find the object and they go on a mission to find it, but he learns it was the witch who stole it because she was bored and accepted the job to hang out with people. Here are my concerns:

[Ask edited for length]

Issue #1 - I feel the witch's motivation is not strong enough. There is backstory explaining her loneliness and wanting to have friends, but stealing an object to go on a bogus mission and hang out with someone doesn't feel realistic.

You could definitely go a little bit further to bolster this motivation. Since you mention using Save the Cat!, and since the witch sounds like she might be a redeemable villain, have you considered. her "shard of glass" (psychological wound) that's driving her? What happened in her past that makes her feel like she isn't worthy of making friends in the usual way? Fleshing that out and building upon it creates a little more logic to why she would go so far out of her way just to get some companionship.

Issue #2 - My plot sucks. Act I - the solider gets kicked out, Act II - he and the witch go on the bogus mission and he finds out she's the true thief, Act III - I have no idea. It feels shitty, boring, and I wouldn't want to read this. Honestly, I just want to write my characters and made up plot so it would make sense, but I don't like the plot.

Well, looking at Save the Cat!, in Act III you need to solve the problems created in Act II. In other words, we need to look back at your story's midpoint... what was the false victory or false defeat? How did things get progressively worse or progressively better for the hero after that? In what way was the hero pushed to rock bottom? Based on what you've laid out for me, I feel like a good route to go (if you haven't already) is for there to be a false victory toward the end of Act II, perhaps where the witch--sensing that the hero is losing faith in her ability to help him find the object--tells him they're really close. They've almost got it. Then, as the "bad guys close in" moment, maybe (because they've grown close), she admits that she was the one who stole the object in the first place and promises to take him to it. But... ALL IS LOST! They get to where she'd hidden the object and it's gone! Now neither one of them have the object! At the end of Act II is the hero's "dark night of the soul" where he has to contemplate everything that's happened so far... getting kicked out, finding the witch and trusting her to lead him to the object, growing close to the witch, being betrayed by the witch (she's the true thief). And maybe he even really hurts her feelings by ditching her because he's so mad. This guy has hit rock bottom...

So, your "Break into III" is the moment where your character realizes what he must do to fix everything... First, realizing he can sympathize with the witch and forgive her, he must find her and accept her apology and apologize to her, too. Next, he figures out what happened to the object and how they can get it back. And finally, he realizes how he can get accepted back into whatever he was kicked out of without causing problems for the witch. So, Act III will be him realizing all of this, finding the witch, convincing her to listen to his apology and accepting her apology, telling her what he figured out about who stole the object from her--and how they can get it back, strategizing that plan, executing that plan, facing off against whoever took the object from the witch and getting it back once and for all, then returning the object to its rightful owners and proving that he didn't steal the object. (And, maybe they can blame whoever stole it from the witch to keep the witch from getting into trouble?) And then maybe the hero gets reinstated, or maybe he chooses to go off with the witch on more adventures. It's up to you. And it doesn't have to be any of this exactly, but hopefully it gives you some ideas for what else you can do.

I want to change the entire plot but I don't know how. On top of everything else, my chapters are short.

Well, hopefully now that I've shown you how much more your second and third acts can be, you won't need to change your plot. I think you already have everything here for a great story. You just needed to flesh things out a little bit more. Hopefully this helps you get there.

As far as your short chapters, I just answered another ask about that. Chapters are either a single scene or a group of 2-3 related scenes. So, when your chapters are too short, it's usually because your scenes aren't accomplishing everything they need to. This post goes into detail about that, so hopefully that will help!

Happy writing!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

♦ Questions that violate my ask policies will be deleted! ♦ Please see my master list of top posts before asking ♦ Learn more about WQA here

#wqaadvice

[jtl-fics]

Dealer's choice for WIP Wednesday 👀😎

DEALER'S CHOICE: Pretty Boy | WIP Wednesday - Closed (9/20/23)

Andrew sighs as Neil turns to him and picks another glass shard out of his hair. "Kevin is fine. You're the one that took the beer bottle to the head." he reminds for the fourth time. "They said if you couldn't stay still they'd sedate you." he reminds again for the fourth time.

Neil flinches away, "I don't want to be sedated. What if-"

"Nathan will not be making an appearance. He's dead. Remember?" Andrew cuts Neil off and hopes that this memory issue is just related to the alcohol in Neil's system and not related to any sort of head damage.

< PREV | FIRST | NEXT >

#FIC: Pretty Boy #AFTG #AFTG Fic #Andreil #Kevin Day #WIP Wednesday Ask Game #9-20-23 WIP Wednesday #Pretty Boy - Chapter 1 - 02 #15

[forest-falcon]

Whumpy/Angsty WIP

Trigger warning for blood, angst, shock, whump.

OCs: Tamara Fielding, Jonesy and Mac who work with Captain Cass McCready as firefighters.

💚♥️🚒👨‍🚒👩‍🚒🧑‍🚒

As far as Virgil could tell, only two figures had stood in the direct path of the falling glass; Alan, and the firefighter who had pushed him to safety.

Alan was clearly unharmed; already scrambling to his feet, ready to assess the situation. He may be the youngest Tracy, but he was International Rescue material through-and-through.

The firefighter who had dived to save Alan, however, was still curled in the same position on the floor. Her fire jacket, and the settling dust, making it nearly-impossible to tell whether Alan's Good Samaritan was even breathing.

Please be alive, please be alive…

Maybe, by some sheer miracle, she had dodged the shards unscathed?

Maybe, she was simply lying and waiting for the immediate danger to pass?

Another second, and her ragged breathing became apparent.

Shit.

At least she was alive. He could work with alive.

"TAM!" Jonesy dashed towards his prone friend.

"Wait!" Virgil made a quick scan of his immediate surroundings.

Of course, the fire helmets were properly stored, and not immediately reachable in the decimated foyer. He'd have to improvise.

There was an upturned coffee table. That could work.

"Okay, with me" he gestured, using the table for cover from further debris.

Alan had followed suit, sheltering under the canopy of a firefighter's jacket.

Admittedly, the risk of further falling glass was relatively low - a large portion of the roof above them was now sky, but the wind outside had picked up, toppling the odd piece of loose rubble with a flurry of silt.

Virgil knelt whilst simultaneously removing his plaid shirt.

The casualty's fingers were hovering, quivering above a ragged piece of glass protruding from her abdomen.

"Tam, was it?"

"T-Tam-mmm-m," she nodded as she shivered.

"Short for Tamara." Jonesy offered.

"Tam, I'm Virgil. I'm going to need you to lie nice and still for me."

"O-k-kay…”

The firefighter gave a small laugh as a few rogue tears ran from the corners of her eyes.

“I'm o-kay. M'okay. M’kay. This is ..fineee!" Tam grinned against the tears, as though merely rejecting the situation would suffice

Virgil bunched his shirt and gently guided the woman's quivering fingers away from the wound.

What he'd give for his baldric right now.

"Tam, I know it's hard, but I'd like you to focus on your breathing for me...nice n' steady. Try to control the shivering if you can. We want this wound nice n' still."

"D... don't know...w-why... I'm...sh-shivering so m-much. Doesn't hurt that much...if-f-f I s-stay s-still."

Jonesy was staring at him. A silent conversation passing between the first responders.

Confident the risk of further glass falling was negligible; Jonesy set the desk down to shield Tam's eyes from dust. Sliding himself under the table, he reached for his friend.

"Hold my hands."

"M-M'okay" Tam's protest was feeble, and somewhat pointless, given that she conceded with a simple look.

"I'm sorry Tam, but this will likely hurt." Virgil apologised as he covered the wound (barring the glass) with his shirt.

"Alan, I need you to keep the pressure on this for me, while I set up an IV."

Fielding's sharp wail flooded the room, before fading to a choked whimper as the pain swallowed her voice.

"Ambulance should be with us in five." Mac called.

Five minutes? She'd bleed out in that time.

"Great, thanks," he mustered with as much positivity as his voice could muster.

Virgil rummaged through the medical rucksack for supplies. There must be something...anything, that could buy them some time. First thing’s first; IV.

He turned back to Alan, who was staring at the darkening shirt, his arms slack.

"Like this." Virgil manually guided Alan's hands back down to put pressure back on the wound. His brother's hands were surprisingly cold and clammy.

He's going into shock.

Virgil willed the thought away. Alan was a professional, he'd seen numerous rescues - some arguably worse than this. And right now, he could use all the help he could get.

Professionals aren't immune to trauma, though. She saved his life, possibly at the expense of her own. You need to watch him.

As soon as Virgil removed his hands from Alan's, the necessary pressure was gone again. Jonesy was quick to fill in for Alan, though his face wore a similar shade of grey.

Alan slowly stood, staring at the blood still slick on his palms. He continued to stare as he silently stumbled away in no particular direction.

Virgil tapped at his watch and dialed his emergency code.

Within moments, John's voice washed over him like a tonic.

"Virgil, you've activated your emergency beacon."

"Multi-casualty situation. Building’s unstable. Alan's in shock. Require urgent assistance."

"FAB, we're on our way."

"Your status, Thunderbird Two?"

"Uninjured."

"S-s-lot of-blood. M' S-scared." Tam continued to shiver.

"Hey, hey Tam. Look at me. Look at me."

Wide eyes fixed on his.

"Do you trust me?"

Tam gave a hesitant half-nod.

"You just saved my youngest brother. Do you think there's even a chance I'd let anything happen to you?"

The prone firefighter managed a weak smile.

"I mean, a feat like that's gotta be worth...oooh...at least two drinks at a London bar."

"Two whole drinks, huh?" Her voice was breathy.

"Have you seen London prices? Last time Scottie and myself were here, they charged him £35 for a small measure of whisky! £35! Even I needed a drink after that."

Tam's smile grew a fraction before her eyes suddenly rolled back, and her head lolled to the side.

"Tam? Tam?”

#thunderbirds are go #thunderfam #thunderwhump #thunderangst #virgil tracy #thunderbirds fanfiction #alan tracy

[aesopsharpmybeloved]

To Leave the Abyss

Professor Sharp hates to recognise himself in your eyes.

&

A thirty something Auror Aesop Sharp is failing to come to terms with his predicament.

This was supposed to be a part of one of my WIP. But then I got into it and thought; oof, that's heavy. So it's a standlone. Gif amateurly made by me.

Note: Sharp, Hecat and Ronen knew each other in school. Ronen was oldest, Hecat was youngest and they were in the "I hate PNB" club before it was cool.

TW: Depression, Self-harm, suicidal thoughts, swearing

Sharp wasn’t usually fond of going to the Astronomy tower - the amount of stairs! Tonight however, he felt a certain pull towards the place, and he was glad that he did. It took him a long time to finally climb that spiral staircase, but once he managed to do so, he immediately noticed that he wasn’t alone there. Standing just ahead was a student, and he didn’t even need to guess which student it was. You were shaking like a leaf, your hand holding the handle of your broom in a vice grip, and you stood with your back to him. “What do you think you’re doing here?!” he asked loudly, making you flinch violently and turn around to face him.

The look on your face terrified him, haunted him, because he knew it all too personally. That wide-eyed panic, tinged with chaos and madness. You reminded him of a wounded, caged animal and he could almost feel you considering whether to just throw your broom away and toss yourself off the tower without it.

He remembered that look so well. 

—

He saw it in his own eyes, shortly after he was released from St Mungo’s. He moved around mostly on a wheelchair, using his cane only when absolutely necessary - to dress himself, get into and out of bed, sit on the sofa, use the bathroom. He drank heavily that evening. Like he did everyday since he got home, actually. He was just washing his hands, trying to balance himself on his good leg, the strong liquor making it even more difficult, when he made the mistake of looking up. He saw himself in the mirror. He saw the look. He saw his scar, red and angry and fucking painful. He saw his face. His face was overgrown, scruffy, and his eyes were red, the circles under them so dark they were nearly purple. His hair was a mess. He was a mess. A cripple. He’ll never be able to do his job again. He’ll never see his partner again. He’ll be forever haunted by the memory of seeing her with her wife and son, together in an embrace. He lost everything. He lost everything.

The pain in his leg seared, raw and agonising, and Aesop screamed. He brought his arms up in unhinged madness and he lunged forward, bringing his fisted hands against the mirror. There was a cathartic sound of glass shattering and he nearly felt relieved when he felt pain somewhere else than his leg and face. Blood. Blood was falling freely from his shaking hands. A few hard hits later, he was covered in it. He was trembling. With a final hit, he let his head join in on breaking the mirror. He saw red. Hot wetness ran down his nose, his cheeks.

Pain. His leg cramped up and with a shout he felt it give up on him, sending him plummeting to the ground. He sat there covered in cuts, in shards, in blood. He screamed. Aesop screamed as loud and long as he could, tears streaming down his face, red from exertion. He screamed even as his throat began to hurt, screamed until he no longer physically could. 

He didn’t know how long he sat there, head hung low, shards of glass all around him, some of the smaller cuts having stopped bleeding. The blood was drying up, becoming crusty. Tears still streamed down his face. He was filthy, his clothes were beyond salvation. His leg hurt like shit, so much he barely felt the glass cuts anymore. His hands were a mess. Two of his fingers were broken, protruding in odd directions. He was still shaking. 

One of his hands picked up a larger piece of what used to be his mirror. He observed the sharp edge of it. How long would it take to die if he was to slit his throat? How long would it take to bleed out like the pathetic animal he was, if he was to sever an artery. He unconsciously lifted the glass.

“Aesop Theodore Sharp, you put down that shard RIGHT NOW! ” He startled so much, he gripped it harder, cutting it into his palm. He winced and his hand released. It took a while before it hit the ground, having got stuck under his skin. Fresh blood started running down his arm.

Dinah Hecat stood before him, the look on her face terrifying. Her work injury years ago left her looking like an old woman despite being younger than him by two years. However, Aesop knew very well that she would have been able to take him on when he was in full health and strength. This was not a woman to be trifled with. “What were you thinking?!” she roared. The former unspeakable, current teacher observed him. He must’ve looked positively pitiful. “We’re going to St Mungos. You’ll be staying there until term ends, even if I’m to personally shackle you to the bed. And I won’t let you out of my sight during the summer. Aesop Sharp, heed my words, you are going to hate me before September comes!”

He didn’t argue. There was no point. He was as weak as a kitten right now and whatever Dinah wanted to do, he wouldn’t be able to stop her. 

He could not speak, when a healer in the magical hospital inquired about his injuries, his sore throat only producing strangle gurgling sounds. He drank so many potions, he felt as if his taste buds were permanently burned away. Wiggenweld, Blood-Replenishing potion, Skele-Gro, Calming draught, Draught of peace and of course Dreamless Sleep. A dose larger than he ever had before. 

When he woke up, he realised just what he’d done. He remembered everything. He sat up in the pristine white hospital bed, his whole body sore, his leg positively pulsing with pain. He put his face into his hands. He wept again. A warm hand touched his shoulder. Watery brown eyes looked up into the kind face of his former ministry colleague. Dinah stroked his shoulder, before moving her hand up to his face, to his hair, petting him softly. 

He cried into her shoulder that day, his hands laying limp in his lap. He heard a clock ticking somewhere to his left. He heard Dinah’s soft shushing sounds. He heard movement on the corridors - nurses, healers, patients, visitors. He heard his own heavy breathing, and he heard the beating of his own heart.

“Listen to me, Aesop,” she spoke later. He wasn’t sure how much time passed, but the sun was taking on an orange colour. Her hands were on his shoulder. “I am choosing to believe that yesterday-” her breath caught, but she recovered quickly, “yesterday was a moment of madness. Never again do I want to find you like I did. You have to realise that your life is not your own to take. Once you do, you’re not the one who’ll hurt. Everyone around you, your family, colleagues, your friends, they’ll be the ones to bear that pain. Think of your mother. You would really make her bury her son next to her husband? 

“You would have her suffer all alone until the end of her days? You would have her, and me, and Abraham, and your partner’s wife stand at your funeral? How could you be so selfish?” Her words were harsh, but Aesop felt he needed to hear them. He felt them grounding him. He felt ridiculous and pitiful. He wept on.

“Aesop… you won’t stay in this darkness. I know you won’t, because you won’t be allowed to. You’re one of the strongest people I know and you never knew when to give up. And now, giving up so easily? That’s not you. Get yourself together. I want to see that Aesop I know, that witty, brave, sarcastic, strong man, who’d always find a way to do what he felt was right. Even if it meant breaking a rule or two.” The broken man held his hands together in his lap, rubbing them slowly. Old habits die hard.

“What if-” he started, his voice still hoarse from yesterday. His throat felt numb. “What if I’m not able to… remember that man?” A smaller hand closed around his rugged ones. “Then you’ll have me to remind you. I’ll do everything in my power to help you, and if I’m unable to help, then you can be sure I’ll stand by you, every step of the way.” Aesop could have cried all over again.

“Okay,” he said instead.

–

Dinah did good on her promise, and really checked in on him every day of the summer. She was driving him up the wall, actually. She threw out every bottle of alcohol she found, and regularly made sure he didn’t buy any more. He started eating more, because not doing so resulted in the former unspeakable giving him an earful. He decided fairly quickly that it’s simply less of a hassle to get something into his stomach, than having to endure her wrath every day. He gained back some of the weight he lost, no longer looking so gaunt. 

She forced him to start walking, using his cane for support. It hurt like hell. It made him determined. He was not going to give up. Slytherins don’t just give up. Dinah made him go outside, being so obnoxious he was almost glad to get out of his house. The first breath of fresh morning air made his sore body buzz appreciatively. He didn’t walk far the first day, choosing to just sit in his little garden. The DADA teacher appeared with tea and sat next to him, looking awfully proud of herself. With a flick of his wand, he disposed of the dead plants on his herbology table nearby.

The next day he walked around the little hamlet. He tried not to notice the stares he received from his neighbours. He tried even harder not to notice their pity. He pushed his chin forward, proud and defiant, as he made his way to the merchant nearby. He needed new seeds. 

—

He wasn’t entirely happy to be in the Three Broomsticks, if he was being honest. But, once more Dinah pestered him until he agreed. That is, until he gave her his worst angsty-teenager ‘Fine!’ . He knew people were staring. The curious glances were easier to handle than the winces. A girl appeared at their table, taking their orders. She could have been fifteen, maybe sixteen. She didn’t look at his scar, didn’t look at his cane. She observed him as if he wasn’t a cripple, who’s obviously in pain. She just smiled and took their order. He was grateful for it. “That’s Sirona Ryan, one of my Ravenclaws,” smiled Dinah, “wonderful girl. She really came out of her shell once she embraced who she is.”

—

Having grown tired of spending his compensation money and the little sick leave pay he received every two weeks on buying potions for his pain, he soon started brewing his own. Wiggenweld, for a start, but also various other potions, as well as salves, each of which have had various success in diminishing his pain. He forgot how much he always loved this subject. He started experimenting, too, trying new ingredients, new combinations. The healers in St Mungos may have been convinced there was no cure for his ailment, but Aesop wouldn’t give up. 

When summer ended and Dinah could only visit him during the weekends, he was equally glad and disappointed. He thought he looked forward to being alone again, alone with his thoughts, alone without her constantly pestering him to eat something, to go outside, to shave, to cut his hair, to dress in fresh clothes. He found himself slightly lonely now.  

However, he found a rhythm, a routine. He’d wake up in the morning and go about his day. Aesop would do his morning hygiene. He’d make and eat his breakfast. He’d tend to his plants. He’d have lunch. He’d go for a walk, leaning on his cane. The pain never went away, but it was more bearable now. On most days, that is. He’d be hunched over his potions station long into the evening, brewing and brewing. He’d run his experiments. He’d fall into his bed, but not without taking either Dreamless Sleep or Draught of Peace.

Rinse and repeat. 

He ate, he wore clean clothes, he took care of himself and his home. He visited his mother, who always fretted over him. Then there was Dinah who would also fret over him when she came over. He saw Abraham a few times, the jovial man always full of stories. He let his hair and stubble grow in defiance. He was offered a different job in the Auror office. Auror recruitment programme… the very thought made him shudder. To think he’d be buried under parchment, dealing with children straight out of Hogwarts, who thought they were some heroes who would save the world, only for them to soon realise how horribly they were mistaken… Often brutally. Bloodily.

He didn’t want that. Such a job held no appeal to him whatsoever.

Aesop Sharp retired from the Auror office at 34 years old.

He still received a small amount of monetary support from the ministry every month, and he started selling some of what he brewed. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for Aesop. In any case, it was enough until he found something better to do, some new job that could fill him with fulfilment. Dinah came around, sometime during April with a smug smile on her face. She found him the perfect job, she claimed.

Four months later, Aesop stood before Hogwarts.

He found it rather funny. He didn’t want to deal with children straight out of Hogwarts who pursued an Auror career, only to deal with them in the school itself. If anything, he could make sure they were well prepared, that they were humble, that they knew everything they needed. That they wouldn’t end up like him.

He also thought about the vast expanse of Hogwarts library, of the Greenhouses, of the ingredient stores. If he was to find a cure somewhere, it would be here.

With every limping step towards the castle, he grew more and more sure that this was the right decision. That this was fate. 

—

The worst time of his life flashed before Aesop’s eyes. He saw your sorrow, your desperation, your pain. He saw you, entirely, and he saw himself, too. It was raw and painful and he hated it. He hated to see someone so strong, so ridiculously brave, so kind and selfless like you feeling this way. Damn ancient magic, damn the keepers, damn Ranrok and damn Eleazar for leaving you like he did.

“Come here,” he said, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it. Not knowing why, you obeyed. Your broom hit the floor. You moved slowly, still shaking violently, tears already appearing in your eyes. It was Aesop who took the final two steps to you, and, without further ado, closed his arms around your smaller form, pressing you to him entirely, imprisoning you in his warmth. You’ve grown during the year, but being as tall as he was, he easily tucked your head under his chin. Sobs soon started leaving you. Gut-wrenching and raw like his screams were before. It seemed like a lifetime ago. 

He made it on time, he made it before you did something stupid. Like he did. He wouldn’t let you be like him. He held you tightly, stroked your hair, let you cry on his shoulder. He made soft shushing noises. In the distance he heard bells, it was midnight. You clung onto him, your hands gripping the fabric of his coat so tightly, your fingers went white. He was a solid, steady warmth against you, and you felt safe, protected, and you weren’t alone. When your sobs began subsiding, you felt utterly exhausted, numb, your throat was sore from crying so hard, and your head was starting to ache.

Two large lean hands grabbed your face, gently, yet insistently. The potions master pulled you back, tilted your head and looked into your eyes deeply. His face was so close, his large nose almost touched your own.

“You listen to me, (F/N)(L/N), and you listen well,” he started, his tone soft, yet very serious, “I know your pain. I know the darkness - you won’t stay in it. You won’t be allowed to. I won’t let you, your friends and teachers won’t let you, and you definitely won’t let yourself.” He remembered what Dinah told him, all those years ago, word for word. He never forgot. He never stopped being grateful to her. She pulled him out of that void and now he had to do the same for this young witch.

“You’re stronger than you know. I simply won’t accept you giving up, not after you single-handedly defeated Ranrok, after you saved this school. That’s not you. I want to see that absolutely brilliant girl, who excels in school by day and rescues beasts by night, who’s untamed and unafraid, and who’s always ready to defy anything and anyone, even me, in order to do what’s right. Whatever you need, I’m here. If you cannot bear to be alone, I’m wholly prepared to give you detention every evening until you graduate. I intend to pull you out of that abyss, even if you hate me for it.”

At some point your hands covered his own on your cheeks, and fresh tears rolled from your eyes. Aesop pulled you close again, grounding you, letting you fall apart in his arms and putting you back together with his quiet comfort. “I could never hate you,” you whimpered and clung on tighter, not wanting him to let you go. He wouldn’t. Just like Aesop was not alone, he wouldn’t let you be alone either. You were not alone. He was not alone.

Hello, I hope you enjoyed reading. You can also find this story on AO3. I appreciate your feedback!

#hogwarts legacy #fanfiction #hogwarts legacy fanfiction #aesop sharp #professor sharp #aesop sharp & reader #aesop sharp & you #reader insert #aesop sharp x reader #dinah hecat #aesop sharp & dinah hecat #hurt/comfort #sad with a happy ending #angst with comfort #angst with a happy ending

[prosperdemeter2]

WIP Wednesday - watermark

When I tell you I had to fight the GODS to get this posted, know that I'm telling you the truth. Accept this... not so kind offering 🩵🩵🩵🩵

He couldn’t stop shaking. 

It wasn’t even cold, but it felt like it. The air conditioning in the house had broken a week ago, and Eddie had dragged his heels all up and down their local Target complaining about the prices of a replacement, and he had only shut up about it when they had ended up at Home Depot and all of the units there were about a hundred dollars more. So it was working, and Buck could feel it settling on his skin like pinpricks of tiny, cold icicles digging into the parts of his body that weren’t covered in clothes. But it was about eight six outside, and the air conditioning needed to be on because, otherwise, Christopher would be complaining about how hot it was and Buck didn’t think he could handle hearing that, thank-you-very-much. Not on top of everything else.

So Buck was shaking, the air conditioning was on, and he had been home for approximately ten minutes and locked in the bathroom for nine of them. 

He didn’t know how he had convinced Athena to go home. He didn’t even know if he had convinced her. But she hadn’t gotten out of Bobby’s car to go after him, and Buck didn’t know if that was better, or worse, than if she had insisted on following him inside. 

Evan couldn’t do this, really. Eddie’s things were everywhere. The sink was his. The house was his. The kid was his. 

Evan was just… he wasn’t even Buck. He was Evan. But Buck was lost somewhere in hospital hallways, or maybe he had never been taken out of the hospital in the first place, or maybe he was still on that street, swimming in Eddie’s blood and -. 

The water was hot on his hands. A juxtaposition to the air conditioning on the back of his neck and goosebumps were instantly rising on the backs of his arms. 

When Evan was eleven, he had turned on the water in the bathroom so hot that the next day he had gone to school with a dozen sensitive red splotches on the backs of his palms. No one had said anything, but why would they when usually showed up to classes with new bruises and scrapes? You hurt yourself when you need to focus. 

Are you hurt? 

He shut off the water with a viscous twist of the knob and gripped the sink instead. 

Pull it together. He told himself and refused to look in the mirror. 

This might be a little big on you, it’s Bobby’s. 

On the back of the sweatshirt was Nash in big, bold, white letters. On the front was 118 at the bottom of the firefighter’s emblem, Captain emblazoned in red at the top. Just like his helmet. Too long at the sleeves, a pinch too big at the shoulders. It didn’t quite fit. It didn’t quite feel right. 

Evan was shocked he could even feel anything at all, anymore. 

He was well aware of delayed pain. It had existed within him long before the explosion that had nearly taken his life. There had been a time where little Evan Buckley hadn’t even known he had a broken rib for two weeks before he had been walking home from school and realized it hurt to breathe. Doctor Ocampo said that probably had something to do with safety. The neuropathways in his brain were all fucked up from the abuse he had suffered as a child that now his brain and his body didn’t know how to properly communicate anymore. He was in his bathroom, it was hours after what was rapidly becoming the worst day of his life, and his wrist was finally starting to pierce, his knee was finally starting to scream, and his neck was starting to pull. The doctor had walked him through his own list of injuries - bruising on the elbow, a shard of glass or ten had ended up all the way up his arm, but the piece that had lodged in his wrist had been the only one that needed stitches. His knee was twisted, the good knee, this time, not the one that tended to trip him up. The muscle in his neck was most likely just strained - a side effect of being tackled, quite literally, into the pavement without a helmet. 

Slowly, he lowered himself onto the closed toilet, one hand on the cold porcelain of the sink as if to brace himself, and his sleeve (Bobby’s sleeve) pushed up, the elastic around the wrist brushing against the white bandage obscuring the stitches. 

The laundry basket, full and stuffed right in the middle of the open closet door, mocked him. 

Eddie had said he was going to do it when he was done with his shift. 

Stupidly, Evan laughed and then slapped a hand over his mouth as if to quiet it and keep it locked inside. But, well… the laundry wasn’t getting done now unless Evan did it, huh? Just like he had said it wouldn’t. 

I’m just going to have to do it anyway. 

No, no, let me do it. 

You always forget. 

Okay, so let me remember. 

Maybe he’d leave it for him. Maybe it would just never get done. Maybe, if he left it where it was, it would… “Fuck.” Evan breathed, dug his bruised elbow into his bad knee and hid his face. It wasn’t wet anymore, no, Athena had taken care of that, and Evan knew he had a habit of making people worried when he didn’t have the correct emotional response to big, life changing events and he, really, probably should have been an emotional mess. 

Shock, Hen would have said and sat with him, her hand rubbing a warm circle in the middle of his spine. You’re just in shock. 

Shock, sure. 

That was… all it was. Shock made sense, medically and emotionally. Who wouldn’t be in shock after….

Prep an OR.

Sir, you have to let go. 

Please. 

“Buck?” Christopher knocked on the bottom of the door loudly with the bottom of his crutch. 

Are you hurt? 

“Is dad working late?” 

Buck stood up, the pain sliding from the front of his mind all the way to the back and cleared his throat. “Give me a second, Chris.” He washed his hands with lukewarm water and knocked the closet door shut on his way out of the bathroom, the laundry disappearing from view as it clicked closed. 

There were more important things. 

#rewrite #buddie #911 fic #watermark #buddie fic #Seventh times the charm???? #may the odds be ever in my favor #IT WORKED