#crawl til dawn
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psychopomp
Summary: psychopomp - a conductor of souls to the afterworld.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader, if you squint (it's really more of a study in grief/writing exercise)
WC: 972
Warnings/Themes: violence, general sad times, grief, etc.
A/N: Happy Friday! This has been rattling around my brain for a minute. Maybe it's something, maybe it's nothing. Regardless, have at it.
Please do not interact if you aren't 18+.
Nota bene: Reblogging, commenting, and liking my work is always appreciated; reposting, however, is not.
Enjoy! 💜
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He makes sure Robin gets out, and the kids too.
But not him.
Beaten black and blue, his luck could only go so far.
Months go by, and Dustin never stops listening. Turning the dial as if it’s a clock to be wound, running through the frequencies desperate for a sign.
It never comes.
Yet hope remains eternal.
Cold. Damp.
Belly to the concrete on the roof as the mark and his wife walk the streets of Stockholm.
Crackling and then, “инициировать цель.”
Eye to the scope, trained on the man’s back. A pulse of the trigger, a bloom of blood as he falls to the ground.
Another pull to the trigger, his wife stumbles.
“цель завершена.”
The headlines the next day will read: Prime Minister of Sweden, Olof Palme, Assassinated & Wife Injured. Suspect Still At Large.
Spring bleeds into summer. Hopper’s miraculous return from beyond the grave.
The first thing Robin says to this revenant of a man is,
“Steve?”
A slow shake of his head, pity evident in his gaze. Watches as she wilts like a hot-house flower, eyes glassy with tears.
Robin swallows a sob, nods briefly and turns toe before he can attempt to comfort her.
A year passes, slower than he’d like.
Dustin gets on well enough, Hellfire and Suzie to keep him occupied.
Occasionally, he’ll zone out for a moment or two. Dip back into the recesses of his memory and recall walks along the train tracks, well-intended advice, and pep talks in the car.
A can of Farrah Fawcett hairspray sits on the bathroom counter.
He can’t bring himself to use it.
“Hey Henderson,” Eddie nudges him with an elbow. “We lost you there for a minute, you good?”
Dustin nods, turning his attention back to the campaign. Attempts a reassuring smile.
It doesn't reach his eyes.
Muggy. Urban.
Vaguely familiar.
He sits in the dark as directed, and waits. Time passes, as it always does.
The jangling of keys, the door creaking open.
His hand wrapped around the grip, finger poised on the trigger.
Tick. Thunk.
A strangled gasp as the body falls to the floor.
He rises from the chair, steps easily over the man as he wheezes out shallow breaths.
Aims the pistol to the back of his head, pulls the trigger once more for good measure.
Wipes a bead of blood from his boot and walks out the door to disappear in the night.
Dustin’s running out the door when the phone rings from the kitchen.
He answers it with thinly veiled annoyance, “What.”
“You’ll want to be sitting down for this,” Robin says, voice tremulous.
“Rob, I don’t have time for—-"
“Dustin,” She pleads, emotion thick in her voice. “Please.”
Reluctantly, he sits.
And then his world is turned upside down, yet again.
Robin speaks in a stuttering staccato, because her brain is moving faster than her mouth, rewiring itself with newly gleaned information.
In California, Jonathan swears he saw someone who looked exactly like Steve— his mirror image, truly, but vacant behind the eyes. He attempted a wave, a greeting, but a hand clamped down on Steve’s shoulder like a vice and turned him down a side street.
He tried to follow, but when he got there, it was vacant. As if no one had ever stepped foot in that alley. Jonathan is adamant that he wasn’t high at the time, and was in such a panic that he called Nancy immediately from his house.
Who then, in turn, called Robin. Who was now speaking to Dustin in a frantic tone.
“And you know what’s spooky?” She says, voice falling to a hush, “When he called Steve’s name, he turned or was about to until that guy moved him away.”
Dustin can barely breathe.
It’s his senior year and Steve’s been gone since ‘85. He doesn’t have the time for this, there’s a gravestone in the cemetery declaring that Steven Michael Harrington was a loving son and friend, that’s he’s dearly missed.
Oh god, is he missed.
Dustin should know, the only people who visit it more than him are Robin and Max. Fresh seasonal flowers and the gray marble polished to a high sheen. Momentos and notes from the party, monthly check-ins where they tell him about what’s new in their lives.
“Robin,” Dustin says, brows tilting together. “He’s gone, you know he is.”
She sighs, “I don’t— I don’t want to know that Dustin.”
“I get it, I want to believe he’s out there too.” He shakily stands up from the kitchen table. "But if he was alive, Steve would’ve made his way back to us by now.”
“You’re right.” She eeks out, “I just wanted it to be him,” A wet laugh of disbelief. “I wanted to hope so badly, kid.”
“I know,” Dustin rasps, wicking a tear from his eye. “Me too.”
Hot. Cloying.
Dilapidated houses and ramshackle fences.
The grip on his shoulder remains, an echo to remind him.
Obey.
He stops in front of the house, loads the gun.
The man is paranoid, as he should be.
“You can kill my body, and you can take my life but you can never kill my soul. My soul will live forever!” He shouts into the early morning light.
Mechanically, he raises the gun and squeezes off two rounds into the man’s face.
The headlines the next day read: Huey Newton Killed; Was a Co-Founder Of Black Panthers.
Mission completed.
The metallic flavor of copper in his nose. The sweet humming from a raspy voice. The notches of a spine pressing against this skin.
Hard angles. Soft curves. A ruby red tongue brushing over a protruding bottom lip. Bloodlust sated and smiling at him like he’s finally come home.
But still, a sound haunts him. The man on the crowded street, pale in the sunlight, eyes blown wide.
“Steve!”
Who the hell is Steve?
#steve harrington fanfiction#steve harrington x you#steve harrington angst#stranger things fanfiction#steve harrington x reader#crawl til dawn#Spotify
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high beams in vain
#brave young cowboys#of the near north side#damn these vampires#all eternals deck#the mountain goats#mountain goats posting#tmg posting#tmg lyrics#the mountain goats fan art#tmg fan art#another banger#CRAWL TIL DAWN
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I can't help it, my favorite AUs are just "canon, but what if this One Thing were different"
I would love to write a sprawling gothic horror story completely divorced from the plot and genre of the source material but that's just not how I'm built. you're gonna get "it's still black sails, flint is just also a vampire now" and you're gonna like it
#bluh bluh#tcrw tag#see also:#sanguine tag#say it out loud tag#sanguine I literally tagged with 'canon divergence' bc it was genuinely canon-compliant through most of s2 lmfao#say it out loud far far less so but like it's still about an american moving to england to coach soccer he's just also a vampire now sldkf#... crawl 'til dawn is an outlier for a number of reasons okay#bc that one had uhhh extremely specific inspiration that could not be further removed from canon
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Y’all. I need some horror movie/book recommendations stat
Nothing that’s all cheap jump scares and gore. Or slashers. I can’t do gore. Unless it’s important to the story. Love me some story. (ex: Saw is Loathed. Don’t even.)
But I LOVE psychological or paranormal ones
If there’s any recent ones that you’ve liked, tell me. >:3
#taks speaks#but me and the partner of sorts are going to do some early spooky season shit when i'm around them#we're talking marathoning horror movies bc i can't handle them alone but REALLY want to watch some#and bc i keep reading horror and loving it but movies just don't work bc ew. gore. and cheap ass jump scares which Suck#the book ones are just for me bc i have been super into reading horror lately til like 3am#like my dad is trying to go on a ghost hunting tour while we're there#and now this#and i'm just having halloween in may thanks#also im still traumatized from this one movie my ex took me to when i was 16 and it was about a bunch of student researchers#who got stuck on an island with cannibals and it was fucked up#so whatever that one is is loathed too#btw she's also getting me to play until dawn so that's also a thing. we're gonna have a helluva time#esp in that haunted ass old city#love that haunted ass old city#btw the one person i know irl here: look up investigations of the fort. it's fuckin cool.#ghost adventures did one and my dad told me i crawled into one of the chambers where they tortured prisoners when i was like 2#we didn't know thats what the room was until we watched that and i just crawled right into that nondescript hole in the wall apparently#so that's fun. i was apparently in a torture chamber that was recently uncovered#like we're talking a room that had prisoners chained up and they BLOCKED IT OFF with fuckin coquina#they found BONES in shackles in there dude#honestly. kinda fucked up. but still. that's in the hometown. the haunted ass old city.#fun parts of having a town older than the country itself ig
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mourn. intro. (e.w.)
INTRO.
WORD COUNT: 4.1k
WARNINGS: streetracer!ellie, dealer!oc, backstory lemme cook, parental death, mentions of overdoses, funeral, baby ellie :), oc intro… cackles evilly
A/N: last post til eid lol
pay zakat. feed a family this ramadan. k!ll zios.
SEPTEMBER, 2009
ANGUISH floods Ellie’s chest as she witnesses decorative rosewood being lowered into the sopping dirt. It’s cinematic; watching herself from a bird’s eye view, floating above her own body. Her brain cranks at an alarming rate. Churning in attempts to convince her that she’s not actually here, staring dead at her mother’s casket. The grass sludges beneath her shoes with every unsteady shuffle of her feet.
There aren't many people around. Three of her mother’s former work friends, a service dog, and the officiant. They’re hardly acknowledging Ellie; no one would be able to stop her from leaping head-first into the ground due to the lowering clouds. Buried and suffocated by grass and mud, a feast for the maggots, but loved eternally. Every cell in Ellie’s body thrums with anxiety. Just when she trusted that her mother’s health was improving, she woke up, shrouded in ice next to a limp body and an empty pill bottle on the nightstand. The same ones her mother took to sleep throughout the night.
That was three weeks ago. She doesn’t remember calling 911.
Her best friend — her only friend is gone. And it’s permanent. This isn’t like how her mother used to scavenge the streets until dawn searching for another job before Ellie woke up. She’s not coming back to crawl into their shared, warm bed, sleep for half an hour, then help her get ready for school. No more oatmeal in the mornings. No laughter. No joy. No symmetry. Ellie’s life is forever scattered. Beaten to death until she’s leaking venomous, black blood.
There’s a man that keeps staring at her with pity: familiarity crushes her every time they lock eyes. She kind of remembers him. Somewhat. She almost forgot her shoes before coming here. He seems more upset than her. At least externally; Ellie’s rotting from the inside.
Her mother’s chamber is completely submerged underneath dirt within the next few hours. The man from earlier is much closer now.
She jumps when he whispers,
I owed your mom a favor.
OCTOBER, 2009
Ellie hates Joel. Hates her mother for leaving her with him. Hates herself for not being able to save her from the claws of addiction.
Joel’s home is always silent during the day. He gave Ellie the grace of letting her stay home until the Spring, but it’s too quiet. Music never plays and they never talk, and it’s driving her to madness. The silence makes her itch.
Until the sun sets.
She already has trouble sleeping. Her insomnia combined with the thunderous clanking that blares from the garage every night is enough to get her sobbing into her pillow until the sun rises the next morning. One night, the noise had gotten so uncontrollably loud that Ellie barged into the garage to shout every curse she recalled her mom screaming into the phone before bedtime.
She didn't expect, however, to see Joel’s legs extended out from underneath her mom’s wrecked ‘57 Chevrolet. Ellie could hear him grunting as cranking and banging of metal took over the space.
… What are you doing?
Joel rolls out from beneath the car on a creeper, face confused and smeared with dark sludge.
Why’re you up?
It’s loud. She snaps. Why is her car here.
Joel sighs. Just trying to fix it up.
For what. Ellie eyes the cracked windshield. She somehow remembers how a rock hit it on the freeway when she was six. Her mom was livid. She can’t drive it anymore.
Joel’s face twists uncomfortably. It’s almost comical; the seemingly boiling child stands at a whopping four-foot-three with her fists clenched, burning holes through her bright yellow Spongebob pjs. Her glare sharpens when he mumbles,
Kid…
So you stole her freaking car? Her eyes swelter, brows hauled downward and hands in fists. He sits up straight, palms up in surrender, wrench in hand. How’d he even get back into their old house?
No, I — He rushes, She asked me to try n’ get it started again. That’s all. I… I shoulda asked you —
Ellie’s not sure why she’s so enraged, but she’s hollering with a pointed index in his direction, berating him, degrading him with sobbed vulgarities. Pushes him hard when he rises to comfort her. Eyes him with so much disdain that he flinches.
She hates him. She misses her mom.
The guest room door slammed shut with the click of a lock. She screamed for her mother for hours. Voice shrieking so loud that the neighbors came knocking after the first fifteen minutes. Cops pounded on Joel’s door and proceeded to conduct a wellness check on the household after an hour.
Their presence made Ellie swallow her scorn. Ellie’s already received a small taste of what it’s like to be in the system. She vowed to never reenter as if her life depended on it.
NOVEMBER, 2009
Joel made Ellie chocolate chip pancakes for her birthday.
Breakfast is silent, per usual. Light clinks of utensils on silverware and breathing are the only proof of life in the room. Ellie refuses to touch the squared slices of pineapple. It was her mother’s favorite, despite her complaints of an itchy mouth after every juicy piece.
Your mom and I…
Ellie pauses, skeptic eyes connecting with Joel’s. He’s treading light, she can tell. The nerves in his fingers are evident; The sorrow in his eyes suffocates her. Joel’s gaze drops onto his plate at the scrutiny he receives from across the table.
She’s a good friend of mine, He mutters before his lips turn downward. Was.
Ellie snorts humorlessly, Way to rub it in.
Joel’s eyes flutter shut as he sighs, I’m… Sorr—
Were you the one she told? Her tone is sharp. Unforgiving. I heard her on the phone a few days before she did it.
A storm flurries in the man’s gaze. A familiar one; It’s identical to when she would catch her mother in the middle of night talking to herself with a bottle in her hand. The winds in his pupils take her back to one of the darkest times of Ellie’s life. Maybe they were closer than she assumed. They look identical when they’re guilty.
I didn’t—
But he did. He’ll never forget being on the other line with Ellie’s mother as she attempted to keep her cries to a minimum. Her croaked wails terrified him. Left wounds in his chest as his heart raced. I can’t do this to her, She’d said, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t! … Please… You owe me…
Joel did what he could over the phone. Made promises to her that he couldn’t keep, reaffirmed how much Ellie loved her. How badly she needed her mother, and eventually eased her sobs into pained whimpers. He believed the calmness she exuded prior to ending the call was a sign of understanding of her importance, but it wasn’t. Her mind and body merely accepted her fate. She was dead two mornings after.
And Ellie was a witness to it all.
Ellie’s eyes roll and sickness floods her, so she stands, You’re a liar. When you’re ready to tell the truth… You know where I am. She doesn’t bother to push her chair in, clean her dishes, pause at his calls of her name. Her feet stomp through the hallway, marrow searing beneath her skin. The guest room door slams shut and she breaks, guarded by the plainness of the beige walls while tears flow.
She knows he knew. Why else would her mother leave her with him?
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-
When Ellie got up to use the restroom hours later, she nearly tripped over a teddy bear holding a birthday cake. With candles. She’s never received a gift before.
She doesn’t tell him that she slept for an hour with it hugged to her chest.
The noises in the garage halt for a week. Ellie still can’t fall asleep. Joel has the same problem, she’s discovered. She finds him sprawled out on the couch one night, burning holes through the roof with a picture frame in his arms. She watches him silently for some time, perched behind the main wall of the hallway.
Hey.
Joel’s acknowledgement earns a gasp followed by scuffling, and he snorts. He sits up and sets the dusty frame on the cushion in front of him, noting how awful Ellie is at hiding; It makes him smile. Barely, but he’s endeared; Her entire arm was exposed. He can even see her duck-shaped slippers from where she’s tucked behind the wall.
Ellie.
She doesn’t come out, and he sighs. His heart twists painfully when he hears a wet sniffle. He’s up and moving when a guttural sob echoes from the hallway, crouching down in front of Ellie with her knees squeezed into her heaving chest. Joel’s heart cracks at her flushed cheeks drenched in salt. Talking won’t calm her, he knows it, but he’s unsure of what else to do. Ellie… isn’t an emotional kid, but he hushes her, attempts to cradle, apologizes softly.
But when her wet eyes pinch open, she unravels and falls into him completely. Her arms squeeze around his neck in a deadly grip and she cries and coughs and whines for her mother. Joel holds her just as tightly as she hangs off him.
We're gonna be fine, sweetheart. He mumbles, and he feels her head shake in denial, tucked in the crook of his neck. His knees wobble, and a soothing hand rises to caress the back of her head; He's never seen a kid this hopeless. It makes him wonder.
What the hell did she witness in that house?
Ellie’s always struggled to fall asleep alone.
Her need to be coddled to dreamland was always a mystery to her mother. Skin-to-skin was a normal trait for infants, toddlers, maybe even a little over, but at age ten? Eleven, and unable to fall asleep without the feeling or knowledge of a loved one present? There was only one time where she recalled her mother carrying her to her own room to rest, but the second the door clicked shut, she was up. Awake. Alert and exposed to harm. Or, at least that’s what she convinced herself.
She crawled into her mother’s bed minutes later and snoozed throughout the entire night. She didn’t hear the end of it when the sun rose.
Joel doesn’t berate her, though.
I can’t sleep by myself, she’d said to him after she calmed from her breakdown in the living room. They’d sat on the couch as he rubbed a comforting palm down her back, her small ones coming up to wipe her wet cheeks.
How come?
She scoffed, Scared of the dark, I guess? I dunno. I just can’t.
Joel hummed in understanding.
I’m like that, too. Sometimes.
Ellie snickered wetly, You’re old, though. It’s not the same.
Joel scoffed and snatched his hand away in mocked hurt. I’m not old!
The gray hairs say otherwise!
That night was the first time they ever laughed together. The first time Ellie laughed since her mother’s death, and it carried on until she knocked out beside him on the couch.
For Joel, though, he couldn’t rest. Not when Ellie favored his daughter that much. Whenever he feels as though he’s progressing, letting go of grief, something life changing — disastrous — forces him right back to square one. Meeting Ellie was one of those moments. He tried to keep his weeping to a minimum as he held her sleeping form, eyes glued to the picture of him hugging his baby after her first soccer win.
DECEMBER, 2009
It’s New Year’s Eve, and Ellie’s trapped inside the garage with Joel.
Watching him tweak her mother’s vehicle has aided her raging boredom… To a certain degree. When he starts getting nerdy and raving about car parts, she tunes him out, despite the slight interest she’s taken with underneath the hood.
The connecting wires, the bolts, the valves and cranks and this manual makes absolutely zero sense—
Can you stop dillydallyin’ around n’ hand me that?
Ellie’s gobsmacked reading is paused when she passes Joel the manual, dark sludge-covered hands staining the fading paper. She cringes.
Ellie watches silently as Joel inspects the contents, nodding to himself as his eyes flicker from the vehicle to the booklet, mapping out his next moves of attack. His eyes sparkle and curiosity sparks in her.
Did you fix it?
Joel only murmurs to himself, and Ellie’s eyes roll. She inches closer to him and waves a hand in front of his eyes. Hellooo? Is it gonna start?
… I think so, kid. His head shakes in disbelief, If I can get that transmission replaced, it might be alright.
Ellie’s brows furrow… What on earth is a transmission?
I’ve been workin’ on cars for a while. I can tell you now that finding such an essential part for a model this old is gonna be tough. Might cost me an arm n’ leg.
Ellie shrugs, You’ll figure it out, old man.
He stares down at her blankly, Gee, thanks. Hand me that wrench, assistant.
Ellie mocks glee on her skip to the rolling cart, Gosh golly dang, does this mean I’m hired?
He jokingly snatches the tool from her extended hand. Little bugger. And just like that, you’re not gettin’ paid. How’s it feel to be outta funds?
WAAAAAAA—
Ellie’s fake wails earn her a deep holler.
Ellie oversees Joel until the clock strikes twelve, following his line of vision on every rusted compartment of the vehicle. Stood attentively at his side as he pointed out the carefully crafted machinery, listing their parts despite Ellie’s protest of forgetfulness. There are so many names for everything; Building cars seems so complicated, but curiosity sparks in her. She starts to think: maybe cars aren’t so boring.
Another sleepless night for the both of them; Might as well commit to movie night. Fireworks are still going off in the small neighborhood hours later. The booming colors in the sky makes Joel's teeth grind. Reminds him of the time he took Sarah to Santa Monica Pier.
Joel?
Mhm?
… What favor did you owe my mom?
Thickness builds in his throat the second Ellie mentions her. He sets the large bowl of chocolate-doused popcorn onto the coffee table, reaching for the remote to turn the movie down. Not off, down. Ellie hates feeling like she’s being scolded.
Joel doesn’t look at her, but her eyes are glued on the side of his face.
Umm… He scratches his face, Did your mom ever mention me to you? Ellie denies with a hum.
Joel’s mind whirs back to the first time he met Anna: sophomore year. He was exhausted, drained, barely making it, but despite being miserable, he still cared deeply for his education. He studied until his eyes burned, jotted down notes until his hand cramped and the librarian was gently urging him to head home.
She… We were friends in college. He fonds, We met at an ice cream truck.
Weird. Ellie notes causally, She hates dairy.
… Yeah. She does. Joel coughs to mask the brokenness in his voice.
Anna was… a genius, to put it lightly. Academically gifted to an intimidating degree. Her mind was a camera; She’d scan one excerpt from the thickest novel once and still manage to repeat it word for word years later. They had comms together; Her voice sounded like tweeting birds whenever she recited her prepared speech like it was nothing. She was an emotional speaker, entranced everyone in the room, and always ended with a question that forced students and professors to self-reflect. Joel wouldn’t call it a crush… Merely admiration. Envy. He was motivated whenever he left comms.
He’ll never forget the image of her, sweating and worn, carrying what seemed like a twenty-pound backpack — all stuffed with calculus books — while ordering a can of Sprite from the humming, beaten down truck. Anna didn’t leave after the vendor handed her the soft drink. She simply turned to Joel, inspected him from head to toe, and turned back to the vendor.
I’ll cover whatever he gets, too. With a thumb aimed at him. He nearly choked.
A free snow cone couldn’t halt the racing in his chest.
I know what you are.
What, He questioned without a stutter.
You fix cars? Anna quirked a brow at him. Joel’s brows pull downward. How did she know that? He’s fixed one car since he’s been enrolled. His buddy pulled up in front of his dorm asking for a windshield repair. But he shrugs, feigning nonchalance. I dunno.
The green-eyed girl scoffs and sips from her nearly emptied can.
You down to replace a tire? Some jackass thought it would be funny to leave a rusty nail in our parking lot.
Our. She must have roommates… or lives where he does, he thinks. For how much? Not a beat missed.
Her shoulders lift, I dunno. How much does a tire cost?
Depends on the model. What d’you drive?
A chevy. Don’t ask the year, I’m not sure. It was a hand-me-down.
A slight pause between them before Anna suggests with a sigh,
Come see ‘er.
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-
-
Thar she blows.
Joel can’t help but snicker at the woman in front of him, posing right next to her teetered vehicle. It’s quite charismatic; the bright pink bumper stickers, the crisp turquoise paint job, the slight scratch on the trunk. It’s nice. Classically vintage; it suits her.
A beauty, he notes with his eyes locked onto Anna’s. She gives a hum in agreement.
Revive her, if ya don’t mind. I’m desperate and can’t sue, so. Joel nods and inspects the damage on her tire. The air is nearly fully gone, and it’s making her drive slump.
Tire shouldn’t be more than thirty-five… Gonna have to head home for some stuff. Willing to wait an hour? When he turns to her, they’re shoulder to shoulder.
Anna smirks, Whatever you need, mechanic.
My dad, Joel corrects, He taught me the basics when I was like… twelve.
Her voice lowers, Good on him… Earned me a discount, eh? A hand claps down on his shoulder and gives it an encouraging squeeze, and he revs to life.
He swears the tips of his ears are red hot, Sure… minus that deposit. I needa twenty for emotional damages.
Fuck off. Her eyes are soft, Might never go to the shop again. You’re officially my car fixer-upper. Fuck these grease-balls n’ their price spikes.
Joel snorts, You get into that many goddamn accidents?
She leans in closer, and his throat closes. Slams shut. Turns to dust.
You’ll find out, mechanic.
That’s why you’re spending so much time on it, Ellie notes at Joel’s retelling before a harsh gasp escapes her. Dude, were you in love with my mom or somethin’?
The man stutters and coughs, No — what? I told you she was a frien—
Ellie snickers with a judgmental point, Yeaaah, yeaaah, I know how these things go. You sucker!
What the hell — I’m not a sucker… And what things—
Anna and Joeeel sitting in a tree! —
A pillow smacks Ellie dead in the face, and she topples over in cackles. Joel rubs deep in his temples. Ellie would’ve loved Sarah. Two little bullies who feast on his suffering.
No more storytelling. I’m going to bed.
You can’t! Remember? Ellie hollers as tears fall from her eyes. She coos at Joel when he lifts himself off the couch and down the hall, trying to mask his small smile.
Aww! C’mon, old man, it was a joke!
I can’t wait for you to go back to school, ya vermin!
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An exhausted Ellie creeps into Joel’s room half an hour later. She sighs in relief when she doesn’t hear snoring. Her mom was the worst when she was tired. She tiptoes across the carpeted floors until she’s in front of the unoccupied side of the mattress, stealthily adjusting the blankets and pulling back the sheets.
She slowly manages to tuck herself in, fixing the pillows so her head rests on the cold side of the case, exhaling happily at the warmth defrosting her limbs.
The second she dozed off, she yanked to consciousness by raspy sarcasm. Her eyes roll underneath her lids.
You can’t, either. Joel croaks, Remember?
JANUARY, 2010
Five days until school. Five days until misery. Five days until… strangers. Ellie’s skin crawls whenever she thinks about being an enclosed space with snot-nosed boys and soggy lunches.
And math… Gross.
Joel has been more than willing to postpone Ellie’s enrollment whenever she becomes anxious, but she always denies his requests. She’s grown to like Joel, but… he’s not the best teacher, especially social studies. Reviewing one of her old packets nearly gave him an aneurysm. She can’t afford to be homeschooled by him.
What's been the best distraction from her impending doom?
Binge watching Cars for the billionth time… And helping Joel patch up that blue Chevy.
They celebrated their first victory last night for repairs, at least: Joel stuck and twisted the key to start up the engine, and it managed to stutter to life. For less than five seconds. The headlights barely came on and an old Foreigner record broke through the crackly speaker. They rejoiced with the brightest smiles as their hands slapped the dashboard before the vehicle crashed out once more.
A glimmer of hope. A chance for reconnection. Anna’s sending them messages. The joy in that car shifted to grievance; Joel had to cradle Ellie in his lap as she wept into his shoulder.
But there’s hope. Ellie wanted nothing more than to get this car working after that. Duty calls, though, and the alarm’s coming from a backpack.
You got this, kid. Stop stressin’.
Ellie, without a doubt in her mind, does not got this.
Screaming children, muddy slides, bloody band aids; they’re all on the other side of that office door. Her worst nightmare has come to life, and she desires nothing more than to hide out in her mom’s car forever. The bag strapped around her shoulders matches the weight of a body. She refuses to let go of Joel’s hand as he speaks with the giggly receptionist who’s too happy to see him (what the hell), but it's okay; he’s holding hers just as tightly. Just as paranoid, apparently.
She’ll be with Mrs. Lawson for the remainder of the year. Ellie hears the receptionist say over her pounding heart, She’s incredible! I’m sure they'll develop an amazing bond.
Ellie’s palms are sweltering. Joel must feel it because his thumb nuzzles into her wrist. She’s not built for this. Maybe returning so soon wasn’t a great idea. She can’t do this without her mom.
Cool backpack, Spidey, is said from behind her, and she stiffens instantly.
She has a Spider-man backpack.
Hush. An older man’s voice replies. Sounds strained. Stressed, but he only receives a light snicker from her in return.
Ellie watches with squinted eyes as a young girl gets escorted towards the front of the office by… the principal, she assumes? He seems fancy in his suit slacks.
You stay right here until I get your uncle on the phone, The suited man is stern towards the girl, who plops down on one of the waiting chairs. Backpack and all, You can explain to him how you swore at a teacher. I’m not dealing with this from you today.
M’kay, Mr. Harris.
Ellie observes the entire scene indiscreetly. Her stares are obvious, glued to the clearly agitated dean who stomps into his office.
Where’d you get your backpack?
Ellie’s stunned at your sudden whisper. She shocks herself when she quietly stutters,
Um… Walmart?
You smile, I like it. I want one.
Ellie simply nods, but gets paused before she can redirect her attention to Joel.
Are you new? Your voice grows quieter when you look over your shoulder. Right at the principal’s door. I am, too. I just moved schools.
This shocks the brunette. The new year just started, and you're already locked in the office with evidently angry staff.
Yeah… I’m new.
Something in your grin shifts. Ellie’s nails lock into Joel’s hand. … Interesting—
Young lady! Did Mr. Harris give you permission to speak?
You audibly ponder like the attendance clerk asked you to solve a riddle.
No, ma’am. I apologize.
Then hush. Not another word.
Ellie watches you fold your hands politely, twiddling your thumbs. Your eyes don’t leave her backpack.
Ready, kiddo?
Her eyes finally reconnect with Joel’s, encouraging and chocolate, and she nods. He guides her to the office exit where her new life resides. Before their departure, she can’t help but take one last respectful glance over her shoulder. She finds you staring with a quirked lip and your wrist outstretched like your shooting spider webs at her. Ellie jerks her head forward and releases the breath she’s been holding.
What a weirdo.
tagggiiiiessss :3: @inf3ct3dd @fleshunger @sawaagyapong @elliesbitchh @aouiaa @elliesatchel @williamellieslilho @elliewilliamgfooc @bready101 @myluvforstarz
#ellie williams smut#ellie williams au#ellie williams#ellie williams angst#ellie williams x reader#ellie williams x you#ellie williams tlou#lesbian#streetracer!ellie#works 𖧧࣪#ellie williams x f!reader
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Dreams
summary: You can’t sleep
a/n: got a bit carried away with english major tendencies and went a lil descriptive but i hope u like her anyway 🤭🤭
Most nights, you slept right through til morning. No interruptions, no tossing and turning. You considered yourself extremely lucky, especially given the amount of traveling you do.
Tonight though, your eyes just wouldn’t close. To make matters worse, and killing you with jealously, Harry was dead asleep next to you.
Looking at him, and how pretty he was when he slept, you supposed it wasn’t all bad insomnia was crawling around inside you. He always looked contented when he was asleep, and never really looked angry or too happy - he just looked like himself.
As you watched the soft cycles of his breath, you noticed the end of his nose twitch a little, his lips moving slightly. Too, his eyelids moved a little bit. Just subtly, but you noticed everything he did.
You remember reading that when a persons face moved like that in sleep, they were likely dreaming. You wondered what someone as consciously exciting as he was conjured up in his mind when he was unconscious. Slowly, just soft enough not to quite touch his skin, you moved a few of the stray curls his sleep has pushed into his eyes.
A small sound left his mouth and you quickly retreated your fingers so as not to put yourself right at the scene of the crime should he wake up.
He quietly said your name, eyes still closed.
You held a hand over your mouth, hiding your laugh.
“What’re you doing?” he said, giving a half-assed smile to you.
“You’re so pretty” you gushed, his eyes opening narrowly to shoot a glance at you.
“Look whose talkin’” he gravely spoke, pulling you into him, “Why aren’t you asleep, like I was before someone woke me, by the way”
You pretend to take great offense, giving an exaggerated gasp.
Settling into his frame, you adjusted your head on his arm. You sighed, getting back to his question.
“I just couldn’t, I don’t know”
“Y’worried about something?”
“Mm..No I don’t think so, just one of those days, I guess”
“Well, lucky for you, tomorrow is Sunday, which means I doesn’t really matter how much y’sleep tonight, since we’ve got all day tomorrow to make it up, hm?”
“Like you won’t be out running at the crack of dawn”
“It’s good for you! How do y’think I sleep so much?”
You laughed softly, starting to close your eyes.
“I’ll take a rest day tomorrow, how about. Jus’ me and you tomorrow, yeah?” he spoke again.
You nodded quickly, then leant your head back into the nape of his neck. You caught his eyes in the dark for a moment, that little iris light making its way through the lack of light.
Just as you had to him moments before, he brushed a few strays from the side of your face as you were killed off to sleep by your quick conversation. Just the light touch made your eyes grow heavy, drunk with sleep.
“‘Night, lovie” he hummed, closing his own eyes shortly after.
“Goodnight, H” you returned, flipping over quickly to give a small kiss to his forehead, him already half-asleep again.
You tucked yourself back to where you were before Harry was up, only now much closer to him.
When mere minutes ago, sleep felt ages away, now all it took was a few deep breaths and you were out like a light. Thoughts of the Sunday ahead happily resting on your mind, letting both you and Harry dream well into the morning.
#harry styles#harry edward styles#harrys house#hs3#harrystyles x reader#harry x reader#harry x y/n#harrystyles x y/n#one direction#harry fic#harry fanfic#harry blurb#harry imagine#harrystylesfic#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles fic rec#harry styles blurb#harry styles fluff#harry fluff#boyfriend!harry#husband!harry#dad!harry#fine line harry styles#hs1#love on tour
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I didn’t get to vote but it 100% been for dilf Bradley. Especially if it’s a live in nanny who’s crawling into his bed in the middle of the night when he’s sleeping… just imagining him waking up and she’s in bed in a scandalous nightgown 😵💫 I know this man would lose his mind
tw: for very slight, consensual hints at somno
no bc you know that dilf bradley does that thing where he startles awake in the middle of a snore and chokes a bit, so you’re already laughing at him as you’re creeping across his room after accidentally waking him shutting the door, and he’s frowning through the dark (definitely don’t think about how deep and rumbly his voice would be when he has just woken up) mumbling, “you okay? what time is it?”
“Mhm. Had to wait til they were both asleep to surprise you.”
you know what’s below the cut again …
“They were still up? — I put them down two hours ago?” Bradley frowns at the digital clock on his nightstand reading 10:53. He has to be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow for some work stuff. He rubs a fist into his eye socket and turns his attention back to you in the dark. He still can’t see you. Poor guy has no idea.
“One had to pee, the other wanted water, they both wanted another bedtime story.” You explain, waiting for your invitation. He seems to realise what you’re waiting for too, as he hums and pulls back the covers.
“Come on.” He gestures, dropping his head back down tiredly onto the pillow and shifting a bit to make room for you. On nights like these, when Bradley has to be out early, you can stay in his bed because he’ll wake you and remind you to move before the kids wake up.
He feels you slip into bed at his side and reaches for you instantly, curling one arm around your middle and pulling your bodies together. You feel his fingers still, and start to explore the satin covering some of your skin. Not too much of it.
His hands find the hem and feel for where it ends, making you turn your face towards his pillow to stifle a grin as he finds nothing but bare skin.
“You’re wearing lingerie.” He whispers into the dark, his touch rougher this time as he pulls your hips back into his. You feel his free hand reach for the lamp on the bedside table.
“Just touch.” You tell him, biting your lip to keep from smiling as he groans behind you. His hands travel your thighs, your stomach, across your breasts. “You can see me in the morning, when you wake me up.”
He presses closer, hard through the fabric of his pyjama pants, then turns his face towards your neck and kisses softly. “Yeah? Maybe I’ll wake you up teasing you, just like you do to me.”
“I don’t tease.” You tell him back as he paws at your breast, kissing at your neck. “You have me, don’t you?”
His fingers skim down your middle and stretch for the apex of your thighs. “I do?” He checks. He always checks.
Proving your point, your hand slips between your bodies and finds its place over the bulge in his pants, stroking softly along his straining length. “Mhm, however you want.”
and even though by the time his alarm comes around in the morning, neither one of you feel particularly well rested, Bradley does make good on his promise of waking you just as antagonisingly as you had woken him.
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Say Please
This will fill the Begging space in my @jacklesversebingo card.
Summary: Ben knows just how to torment Y/N.
Warnings/Explicit 18+: Smut. Pretty filthy smut. Dom/sub. Dom Ben (Soldier Boy) sub reader. Fingering. Rough fingering. Oral (m/f receiving). Cum shots. Facial. Slight humiliation. Demeaning language. Extreme orgasm denial. Extreme edging. Begging. Spanking (mentions of belt spanking). Semi-public sex. Waking reader with oral sex and fingering (so, slight somnophilia). Unprotected PinV sex. Mentions of punishment.
Pairings: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Reader
Word Count: 2,285
A/N: So, don't ask me what corner of my brain came up with this filth. I couldn't tell you. But I hope you enjoy the dirtiness.
It can be read completely separately or it can be read as a companion piece/sequel to Say Thank You. I envision it as the same reader, but there's nothing in either fic that says they have to be read together. They're both reader inserts, but Say Thank You is written with a second person POV (you), and Say Please has a third person POV (she/her).
Also, I promise not every entry for my bingo card will be complete smut. 😁 Incidentally, if anyone has any requests that spark in their mind from the bingo prompts above, don't hesitate to send me an ask.
Both the beautiful divider below and at the bottom were created by @silkholland .
“Ben, please.” Y/N’s voice was begging desperately, but she still whispered low enough to be nearly inaudible above the droning speech of the man discussing the latest polling numbers of Vought’s superheroes. It was all statistics, and percentages, and Ben was bored stiff, so he’d returned to his favorite distraction - seeing how much he could torment Y/N.
She sat beside him now at the far end of the room, and beneath the table, Ben was slowly pushing inside her, just giving her the tip of his middle finger while swirling his index around her clit.
He was simply continuing on with her torment from earlier that morning.
She’d woken up to the feel of him sucking her hard, aching clit between his lips while penetrating her deep and rough with all four fingers. She must have been moaning harshly in her sleep because her throat hurt. As consciousness dawned, she felt her orgasm cresting, seconds away from erupting. Her sheets were soaked beneath her and she screamed out Ben’s name harshly just before he ripped his hand away from her and left her bereft and begging him to come back and finish her off.
But Ben had simply smirked. “Come over here and swallow me down, princess, and maybe we’ll see.”
He crooked a finger in her direction as he shifted to lean back on his elbows so he could watch her crawl towards him and then slide her lips down his cock. She took him deep into her throat, hoping that making him cum would make him feel the need to reciprocate.
But she should have known better.
Instead, when he was close, Ben pushed her off his cock and back against her pillows. He stood up on the bed, towering over her like a Titan, and pumping his rock hard cock in his big hand only a few times before spurting white and hot onto her body. He covered her completely; her cunt, stomach, tits and face were all painted with his cum, and it left Y/N shaking for her own release. But he bucked his hips reflexively a couple more times, and then stepped down from the bed.
He sat down, naked, in the chair next to the bed and held a finger up as she started to rise. “Uh uh, my sweet little whore. You’re not going anywhere til you clean yourself up. Start by pushing some of my cum into your cunt.”
She looked at him, slightly confused, but he just smiled, his bright green eyes shining with the power he knew he held over her.
“Push it in.” He repeated. “Use your fingers.” His voice hardened slightly. “But you will not cum.”
Y/N felt her skin flush, burning hot - part passion, part humiliation - as she scooped his still warm seed off her lower belly, and soft mound, pushing it along her seam and into her pussy. She was a sopping mess as she continued to push his thick cum into her hole. Her body thrummed, and her clit was so sensitive she hissed every time she accidentally brushed against it.
Ben’s next command made her almost want to cry. “”Rub that cum around and around that pretty, pert little clit of yours. Turn towards me and spread your legs wide so I can watch you.”
Y/N whimpered, but did what she was told, pointing her feet towards him before drawing up her knees and then pushing them down toward the bed as she took more cum from her tits and pushed the rapidly cooling liquid towards her core.
“Spread that pussy wide for me, doll, and show me how you touch yourself when you think about me.”
Y/N bit into her bottom lip as she circled her clit with her middle finger. It ached and throbbed so hard she felt like her whole body might burst if she couldn’t cum soon. But as though he was psychically linked to her body, Ben knew when she was, once again, mere seconds away from reaching her climax and he barked at her again.
“Don’t fucking cum, little whore. You’ll regret it.”
He didn’t expand on his threat, but he didn’t have to. Y/N was all too familiar with his punishments. His hands were strong and heavy and they stung badly when they landed on her ass again and again. His belt was leather and it felt like it was licking fire onto her skin when Ben cracked it against her, leaving wide, red stripes across her thighs, ass, and tits.
But some of his worst punishments were based on denial. One time when she came without permission, he wouldn’t let her cum for a month. Her body had been just one, raw, aching nerve by the time the month was up.
So as she circled her finger around her clit, her need made tears fall, but she held herself back.
After a few more minutes of watching her, Ben was hard again and he ordered her onto the floor. She got on her knees but he lifted his chin towards her as he stroked himself. “No, lay down and fuck yourself with your fingers.”
She did as he asked, and he came to stand over her again. He stared down at her with a look of power and raging desire swirling together in his gaze.
“Do you want to come baby?” He asked as he thumbed over the head of his cock.
Y/N moaned involuntarily. “Yes, Ben, please! Please!”
Ben’s mouth quirked up in a cocky smile. “Say that again, slut. Beg me.”
Y/N nodded, willing to do anything. “Please Ben!” She cried out.
“Please what?” Ben asked, continuing her torment.
“Please!” Y/N practically screamed. “Please let me come.” Her breath stopped as she stared up at him, her fingers moving slowly in and out of her hole. She knew his answer by the gleam in his eye, before he even said it.
“No.”
Y/N moved her head back and forth in denial of his refusal. Once again Ben came hard, and spurted across her whole body, aiming more for her face this time. By the time he was done, she was a sticky, shaking mess.
“You can stop now.” Ben told her and she pulled her fingers out of her swollen body. She could feel her core muscles quivering, her clit was painfully swollen and throbbing with need.
He nodded in the direction of the bathroom. “Go get showered and dressed. I need you with me in this boring ass meeting I gotta go to and we leave in a half hour.”
That had been nearly two hours ago, and Ben had spent every minute of their time in this boardroom teasing and tormenting her fevered brain, and writhing body. He’d started with simple, seemingly innocent touches on her lower back, and then slightly higher, wrapping his hand around her upper arm and brushing his fingertips against the side of her breast. Her thin white blouse did nothing to protect her from the electric charge of his touch.
Eventually though, when they were seated, he’d begun moving his hand beneath the cover of the tabletop. He set his gloved hand on her bare thigh and then slowly moved it higher and higher. Soon the pads of his fingers were rubbing against the soaked cotton of her panties, and then pushing them aside to sink a finger into her, while circling her clit with another.
Now, she was doing everything she could not to come, not to cry out her desperation; she was biting her lip so hard she could taste blood. Finally Ben pulled his fingers out of her and stood up.
“I need the room, gentleman.” He said with absolute authority. The dozen men in the room just stared back at him where he stood at the end of the long table. They seemed surprised for a moment before he slammed his fist down on the table. “Now!” He barked, and the men couldn’t get out of the room fast enough.
When they were gone Ben clicked the lock on the handle and lowered the blinds in the small window beside the door. Then he leaned back against the door and folded his arms over his chest. Somehow, in his emerald green Super-suit, he managed to look even more intimidating than he had earlier. She hadn’t thought that was possible.
“Get on your hands and knees on the table.”
Unlike the men, Y/N immediately jumped up to follow his command. She climbed a little awkwardly onto the table.
“In the middle.” Ben directed.
Y/N moved to the middle and stayed there, waiting for his next order.
“Turn that gorgeous ass and pussy in my direction.”
She shifted around, trying not to disturb the paperwork that still sat there.
“Push your skirt up to your waist, then pull your panties down. Lean forward on your elbows, forehead to the table.”
Y/N complied; she could feel the way her slick ran down her thigh, and she knew she was dripping onto the table. Someone was going to end up with her cum all over his financial report.
“Fuck me.” Ben growled. “Those lips are just glistening, princess, just begging for attention.”
“Please, Ben…” Y/N mewled and she honestly wasn’t sure if she was begging him to fuck her with his mouth, or begging him not to.
“Say that again.” Ben’s voice was a deep rumble in his chest. She felt him come up behind her and she gasped harshly as she felt his palm crack down hard onto her ass cheek.
“Say it, Y/N. Beg. Fucking beg.”
“Please, please, please.” She chanted and she prayed he didn’t ask her again what she was begging for, because she didn’t even know anymore. She just needed him - needed him to end her torment, needed him to give her release, to let her let go; she needed to stop the ache.
With her forehead pressed to the table top she pushed her fist into her mouth to cut off her scream as he leaned forward and slurped his tongue over her, from clit to cunt. Then he stepped back slightly, and used his two hands to spank both her cheeks at once with a fiery, painful sting.
But the pain was nothing compared to the ache of need shuddering across her whole body. Her cunt ached, yes, but so did her nipples, throbbing with every beat of her pulse. Her skin ached to feel him touch her, her lips ached to feel him press his mouth against them.
He returned his mouth to her pussy again, continuing to slurp and lick, and then spearing her deep with his hard tongue. He pulled back a half dozen more times, continuing to redden her ass.
In the end, Y/N was just a sobbing, aching, dripping thing, pussy high in the air, ass decorated with bright red handprints, just begging and begging him to end her torture.
Ben stood back to admire his handiwork for a little while. He circled the table looking at her from all angles. He approached her from the front and lifted her chin in his palm, contemplating her tear-stained, flushed cheeks, her lust blown pupils, and her lips - swollen and puffy from biting them over and over.
Her body, her face, her shaking, quivering cunt, her thick, red, fleshy ass - all of it was a work of art. He’d molded and sculpted this beautiful woman into this new creature, this fuck doll who was entirely his. He knew in this moment that there was nothing she would deny him, there was nothing she wouldn’t let him do to her, and that knowledge was an incredibly powerful feeling.
His cock was rock hard beneath his suit and he decided to be merciful and end her torment and his. He dropped her chin and walked back behind her. He unzipped and pulled his cock out. He climbed up onto the table, on his knees behind her; then he turned her so that they were looking down the length of the table. Paperwork and stationery went flying to the floor.
He slid his fingers up through her slick and gathered it on his finger tips. With his other hand he yanked her head up and back before reaching around and shoving his fingers into her mouth. She gagged on them, but tried to swallow down her own cum. He shoved his fingers down her throat a couple more times just to hear that sound.
Finally he shoved her face back down against the table and slammed himself home in one hard, swift surge.
Y/N did scream this time, and then he could feel it, her cunt clenching around him, tight and then tighter, her climax milking him. She came and came, screaming and cursing the whole time. Her orgasm was long and intense. And Ben smiled as she started to come down, and he smashed his cock head against her cervix.
Y/N was shaking from head to toe, and he wasn’t sure if it was the lasting effects of her climax, or the knowledge that punishment was coming.
“You disobeyed me, my little whore.” Ben said, slamming into her one more time before he came deep inside her with a growl, bucking harshly and slapping against her ass.
As soon as he finished he climbed down off the table. Y/N turned her face to him, and he reveled in how wrecked she was, her expression begging pitifully.
“Please, Ben. I’m sorry. Please.”
Ben smiled, wickedly and without sympathy. “Not yet, baby, but you will be.”
1 - Jensen RPF + Any/All characters Jensen plays.
@lyarr24
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3 - Any/All Fics (regardless of fandom/character.)
@kazsrm67
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4 - Everything (includes fan vid/DOOL edits as well)
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#soldier boy#soldier boy smut#soldier boy fic#soldier boy x reader#jacklesversebingo23#heed the warnings
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crawl 'til dawn on my hands and knees
🩸🦷🖤
#sorry to jd for using your lyrics for evil i guess lol#steddie#steddie art#mine#stranger things#steddie fanart#steve harrington#eddie munson#kas!eddie#vampire eddie#the mountain goats
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Dream A Little Dream of Me (Part 1)
Summary: Your reality is different than theirs. But hopefully, you can use that to your advantage and help put a stop to the Clone Wars. If catching the eye of a certain captain is also in the mix, then that's also a plus, right?
Pairing: Eventual Captain Rex x F!Reader
Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI; Insomnia, Angst, alternate realty type of thing
WC: 2.1K
A/N: This is a bit different than what I normally write. But, hopefully in a good way! Also, it’s been a hot minute since I’ve written for Rex. Can you believe that????
Part Two
You hear your cell phone ringing from the living room as you make pasta in the kitchen. It’d been snowing all day so you’d had the lights in the living room off so you’d be able to see the snow fall over New York City. It’s your favorite thing living in a highrise in the Upper East Side. You’ve also had The Clone Wars playing all day. Your favorite show. The show that brought you the most comfort.
You sit the spoon down in the dublé and go grab your phone, bringing it to your ear and answering as you return back to the stove, turning slightly toward the tv in time to see Captain Rex tell the men of the 501st and 212th that they need to take down Pong Krell.
“Hello, mom.” You sigh, just hoping she hasn’t called you to fight with you.
“What are you doing up so late?” She chides you. It’s more lighthearted than critical this time.
Honestly, you’ve not looked at the clock all afternoon. But you glance at the time on the stove. Surely, it’s not that late- Oh. It’s 2:30 in the morning.
“You’re the one calling me.” You roll your eyes.
“Because I knew you were up.” Her voice sounds tired on the other end.
“How would you possibly know that?” You stir the pasta one last time before tucking the phone between your ear and your shoulder, going to strain it.
“Because I know you.” She chuckles. “What are you making?”
You sigh again. “Pasta.”
“Finish making it. Put it in the fridge and go lay down, sweetie.” Her voice softens.
You don’t sleep much… and when you do, it’s not restful sleep. You’d been diagnosed with insomnia at an early age of ten. The doctors had said it stemmed from your anxiety and ADHD. Now, you take all sorts of medication, but you’d stopped when the last one knocked your ass out for over 24 hours, causing you to miss an entire day of work and they fired you the next. You’d rather not sleep and have a job than let that happen again.
“Fine.” You murmur, grabbing a box and putting a bit of olive oil in with it and shaking it up once you close the lid.
“Do you want me to sing to you?” She asks as you click the tv off.
When you and your mom get along, which isn’t often, you really get along. She’s sweet, caring, kind… but if you’re fighting… well, let’s just say, you’d rather deal with Lucifer, himself.
“That would be nice. Thank you.” You murmur, putting the phone on speaker before going back to your bedroom and plugging your phone in, crawling under your fluffy comforter.
You try to get comfy, closing your eyes. “Alright. I’m in bed.”
“I remember when you were little and you would come crawling into-” She starts but you interrupt her.
“Mom. Sing.” You smile with closed eyes.
“Right, right. Sorry.” She chuckles before starting the tune that she would sing to you as a child.
Stars shining bright above you
Night breezes seem to whisper "I love you"
Birds singin' in the sycamore trees
Dream a little dream of me
You think of the warm glow of the moon. A comfortable bed of sheep carrying you away into dreamland, counting them as they pass by you in your mind.
Say "Nighty night" and kiss me
Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me
While I'm alone and blue as can be
Dream a little dream of me
There’s no way this is going to help you go to sleep. You made peace with never being able to sleep peacefully again a long long time ago.
Stars fading but I linger on, dear
Still craving your kiss
I'm longing to linger 'til dawn, dear
Just saying this
You yawn slightly, turning over to face your phone, getting comfier as you focus on the coolness of your pillow against your warm cheek.
Sweet dreams 'til sunbeams find you
Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you
But in your dreams, whatever they be
Dream a little dream of me
“I’m sorry, mom. I don’t think it’s working this time.” You open your eyes to pull your phone back up so you can end the call but are met with the unfamiliarity of a different bed than yours. In fact, it can barely be considered a bed. You realize it’s a bunk and when you turn to see the rest of your surroundings you’re met with… clones?
You know these men… You’ve seen them before.
“Morning, sleepy head.” The clone you know as Tup smirks. “You’ve been out forever.”
What? This can’t be real. You know this is just a tv show.
Oh. You’re dreaming.
Of course. Duh.
“Yeah, welcome back to the land of the living.” Hardcase chuckles.
You’re still not able to form words. This is a little too freaky. Why are you so aware?
“Hello???” Jesse waves his hand in front of your face.
You blink twice, feeling your lips move to say something.
Say something, dummy.
“H-hello.” You murmur, sitting up to look at the near identical men around you.
“Why are you being so weird?” Fives asks you, curiously.
“This can’t be real.” You stand up, suddenly feeling slightly panicked.
“Are you alright?” Fives comes over, putting his hand on your shoulder.
You can actually feel it. You pull away, even more freaked out than before.
“Hey, let’s get Kix down here.” Fives turns toward Tup, who nods and takes off out of what you now recognize as barracks.
Fives turns back toward you and as you look around at all the men, they all seem really concerned for you. Which is somewhat sweet, when you think about it.
“Hey, doll. Why don’t you sit back down?” Fives tries to guide you back down to the bunk and kneels in front of you, searching your eyes.
Unable to help yourself, you reach out and poke him in the cheek and he gives you an amused smile that you know so well from all the times you’ve watched him. His skin is warm and soft and you let out a breath that you’ve been holding in since you “woke up”.
“F-fives.” You look at him.
He nods, grinning. “That’s right, mesh’la.”
You look around. “Hardcase. Dogma. Jesse.”
They all nod when you say their names, the sweet concern never leaving their handsome faces.
And then you hear the doors open and all the breath feels like it’s left your lungs. The man you’ve loved since your first watch.
Captain Rex.
God, he’s even prettier in person… How is that even possible?
He murmurs your name and your world stops spinning just for a moment, your heart pausing with it. He knows your name.
Of course he knows your name. This is your dream.
“Tup said you might not be feeling well?” Rex asks and Fives moves so that Rex can kneel down in front of you.
The breath in your throat hitches and you get slightly dizzy. You notice that he smells like warm vanilla with a hint of the ocean, as he gives you the softest look any man or person has given you. It’s nearly intoxicating. He looks into your eyes and suddenly, you want to thank your insomnia for giving you this moment.
“Are you alright?” He’s still searching your eyes and you realize you need to get it together and play along with this dream or these men are going to think you’re crazy.
You rub your eyes and stretch. “Yeah, sorry, Captain. Just woke up from a weird dream.”
He lets out a sigh of relief, looking up at Fives who also seems to be okay with that answer.
“Good. Glad to hear that it’s nothing serious.” He pats your knee as he stands up and immediately you stand with him.
He looks to Fives. “We’re shipping out to Umbara in the next hour. Meet Generals Skywalker and Kenobi down in the hangar in 30.”
Umbara…? Umbara… Oh no.
“Um, Captain? Captain R-rex.” You stutter over your words, still not able to get over the fact that this man is standing in front of you.
You follow him out of the barracks. You feel like you need to say something. If you can warn them about Umbara… about General Pong Krell turning toward the dark side… maybe you can help them win this battle, right?
“What is it?” He smiles down at you.
Oh, wow. That smile really still has quite the effect on you, making your heart feel like it’s melting right through your body and you have to remind yourself to breathe.
“I need to tell you something. About Pong Krell.” You fidget with your shirt, nervously.
“Alright. What about the general?” He stops walking to give you his undivided attention.
“Um… He’s… He’s not who he says he is.” You struggle to find the right words, knowing that if you just outright say the general is a Sith, you’re going to look crazy.
You need proof. But you don’t exactly have any.
“What do you mean?” Rex asks you, tilting his head in confusion.
“Rex! There you are.” A familiar voice is behind you and you spin around to find Anakin Skywalker walking toward you and the captain.
“General.” Rex greets him.
“Are your men ready for the briefing?” Anakin asks.
“Yes, sir.” Rex nods.
“Good. Walk with me.” Anakin smiles then looks at you and greets you by name.
Does everyone here know you?
“H-hello… uh, general.” You give a weak smile.
Rex starts to say goodbye but you try to speak up again. “Dude.”
Then, you remember that you’re speaking to a general and a captain and that’s probably super disrespectful.
“Uh, apologies captain.” You try to keep up with them as Anakin’s commlink goes off and he steps away to answer it.
“We’ll talk about it when we get back.” Rex gives you a reassuring smile and you shake your head. “General Skywalker is the one on the mission with us. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“No. Krell is going to lie and send Anakin- the general away so that he can try to get the clones killed.” You tell him, firmly.
Rex looks over at Anakin and then back at you, clearly confused. “W-what… How do you know this?”
How are you even supposed to explain your knowledge of these things? You can’t just be like “Oh yeah, I know this because none of this is real and you’re actually just a tv show.” right?
“I’m someone you trust, right?” You murmur, looking up into the brown eyes that you’ve daydreamed about plenty of times.
“Of course.” He nods.
“Then, Rex… I’m begging you to trust me on this… please.” You sigh.
Even though you’ve technically just met this man, you feel like you’ve truly known him for so much longer. Does he feel that way about you?
“Alright.” Rex murmurs, glancing toward Anakin again. “I trust you. But what can I do?”
“Leave it to me.” You nod, smiling up at him. “Good luck. Be safe.”
“You’re not coming with us?” He asks, confusion painting his face again.
“Oh… Am I?” You still don’t know what your role is here.
“Kix is gonna need all the help he can get.” Rex winks, your stomach flipping at such a simple gesture as he joins Anakin once he gets off the call.
You’re a medic? Oh no… You don’t know the first thing about being a medic… What if you can’t help and these men get killed because of you? You’ll just have to stick next to Kix for the time being… Hopefully you can sort of learn as you go? Maybe you’ll get lucky and they won’t actually need your help.
When you wake up, you’re still not exactly well rested. If anything, you feel even more tired. But man… What a dream. You got to see your favorite clone captain, got to meet the clones you spend countless hours a week watching. Hopefully, you’ll get lucky and dream of them again.
Then, you remember that you were going to try to help them… and you’ve been pulled from their reality a bit too soon, your chest tightening at the thought.
Rubbing your eyes as you sit up, you pull your phone off the charger and shoot your mom a message:
You: Thank you for singing to me. That actually helped a lot. Think you could do it again tonight?
She answers almost right away.
Mom: Of course, sweetheart. Have a great day!
As you climb out of bed to get ready for work, you can’t help but think about what your next dream could possibly hold tonight.
TAGS: @twistedstitcher27 @rebel-finn @grievouus @madameminor @dumfanting @rain-on-kamino @corona-one @tecker @ladykatakuri @brynhildrmimi @the-sith-in-the-sky-with-diamond @zoeykallus @maulslittlemeowmeow @littlemousedroid @arctrooper69 @rexxdjarin @agenteliix @padawancat97 @hated-by-me @sleepingsun501 @quigonswife8 @idlenesses @redheadgirl @dnxgma @themcuwriter @ashotofspotchka @sunshinesdaydream @crosshairsimp73 @ariadnes-red-thread @rosmariner @heyitsaloy @starstofillmydream @high-ct5555
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crawl til dawn / getting her'd and she'd / god damn these pronouns / for what they've done to me
#i call this one 'transmasc egg in a jukebox musical about to crack.'#is this anything? is my mic on??? hello?????#the mountain goats#trick talks tag
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hiraeth
Summary: hiraeth - a Welsh word that has no direct English translation. It is likened to a homesickness tinged with grief and sadness over the lost or departed.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader, if you squint (it's really more of a character study)
WC: 693
Warnings/Themes: 18 +, MINORS DNI. Graphic depictions of violence and sex. Psychological horror/trauma, memory loss, body horror, dark and sacrilegious themes, and mutual corruption.
A/N: prosaic idolatry, smut, horror, and the sublime. please re-read the warnings/themes section above because this is not for everyone. if you can't watch a David Cronenberg film or have issues with any of the warnings above, please move along. and before you can ask, yes, this is a quasi-winter soldier!au
Please do not interact if you aren't 18+.
Nota bene: Reblogging, commenting, and liking my work is always appreciated; reposting, however, is not.
Enjoy! 💜
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But what Robin and Dustin and the party don’t understand is this: that every war story is a love story.
Surprisingly, his sole ally in his “cock-eyed fucking disaster” of an operation is Hop.
Didn’t bat an eye when Steve calmly stated, “There’s no future for me, not without her.”
Robin rolled her eyes and Dustin groaned, but Hopper gave him a curt nod of ‘say no more.’ Left with a promise to work his contacts, to see what could be done.
Which is how Steve found himself on a bustling subway platform during the afternoon rush. Was it stupid? Maybe. But he’d been around the block enough times to know the odds - he was made into a soldier and then a weapon for fuck’s sake, not like someone was going to get a drop on him.
The train has gotten crowded, typical for New York— nothing out of the ordinary. Steve attempted to give the little space that he could to an elderly woman and the young mother to his left. Someone behind him was pressed so close that—
It was you, he was sure of it.
But how could he be? Nothing ever came from Hop working his contacts and Robs flat out refused to be of any help at all.
He saw your hand, still delicate and unblemished despite it all, drift past his hip and your other hand grasp the pole to his right. He couldn’t help it: he reached down blindly and laced your fingers with his. He felt your breath on his neck, warm and soft pressed against him— close enough to kiss if he’d just turned his head.
“I looked for you,” Steve murmured over his shoulder. “I looked everywhere for you.”
Your mouth was pressed against the curve of his neck. “I know,” you said. “I was watching. I wanted to see how you were.”
“Turns out,” you continue, lips softly brushing against his skin. “I’m not the only one. I thought you were maybe with that girl, Buckley,” and Steve jerked helplessly but before he could say anything, you continued, “No, I know. But she’s relentless, that one. She won’t let me get near you.”
Steve tucked his head at that, not wanting anyone to see his reaction, not even you. Unfettered, you go on: “I thought maybe she was watching you the way I was, like she was in love with you. But now I know she has her own reasons.”
“It’s you,” Steve admits. “They want you. They want to— I don’t know, reprogram you.” He let the words fall from his mouth. “Reintegrate. Debrief. Think there’s a job offer in it for ya.”
“Work,” you scoff. “Kill is more likely.”
Steve swallowed down the acid working it’s way up his throat. He knew you well enough to hear the hesitation, the reluctance in your voice when you say, “I would if, if you—,”
“No, no,” Steve said through gritted teeth, and then: “You know that’s the last thing I’d want.”
A whisper of a smile against his neck, skin prickling at the familiarity. “Yeah, I’ve got your number punk.” You let go of his hand and a moment later, Steve feels a paper brush against his fingers and grasps it. “It’s no longer a ten minute window,” you say. “It’s a four minute window. I’d be flattered if it wasn’t so damn irritating. But it’s the hand we’ve been dealt.”
The subway car slows down, people start to crowd close to the doors. Your hand slips from his view, ready to disappear before his very eyes.
“Read your paper,” you advise. “Paper confounds them.” You pull away from Steve and exit the car, melting into the crowd as if you were never there at all. A selfish part of him envied that neat trick you’d honed and perfected over the years.
A specter and a soldier.
He found himself wondering what it feels like to be a ghost.
#steve harrington#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington x you#steve harrington fanfiction#crawl til dawn#Spotify
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AU of my own AU, inspired by this post: the Seven Sons of Feanor and their father are reborn much closer together, but not in nearly so advantageous a position. The year is 259 AC.
@blue-ink-pearls
Celegorm jerked awake, coughing and hacking. His tongue felt frozen in his mouth and there was blackness swirling in his eyes. The darkness, the cold, seeping ever closer, it clung to his sweaty skin. There were heaps of blankets on top of him and, despite the cold, he kicked them off.
Trapped, I can’t be trapped, he thought, panicky, I must fly.
But the evil thing in his dreams had ripped out his wings and he felt the wounds on his back like they were real. He felt grief for them. A sob crawled up his throat even as he heaved for breath, oh, it was was hard to breathe.
Celegorm was so cold and he had no wings. He needed fire, heat; he needed to fly! The evil thing was coming, he must-
“Cel?”
He was shaking as he looked over at little Curufin, seated next to him on the cot he, Celegorm, and Caranthir called a bed, which they shared.
“Finny,” he gasped out. He didn’t want- He couldn’t scare his baby brother. “Where- what time is it?”
Curufin had in his hands what looked like a quarter of an apple, and he was licking the juice off his fingers as he said, “Hm, morning. The bells rang for first service a while ago. But you’ve been in the fever sleep for two whole days! Mae and Maggie and even ‘Ran have been really worried, though they try to pretend they’re not.”
Two days. Celegorm should be hungry, but all he felt was a pit of nausea in his stomach. He put his head between his legs.
“Then there’s little hope old Mycah will let me keep my job.”
Maedhros had gone to a lot of trouble to get Celegorm work down at the docks; good work, too, because he was tall for his age and strong. But that job had come with strict times and rules to follow from the dock warden, Mycah, a salt old cur, who never really liked Celegorm to begin with. It was just a favor for Maedhros.
No, he wasn’t likely to be lenient.
The anger and frustration had such a clawing grip on him, Celegorm didn’t even look up when he felt a little hand touch his arm.
“It’s okay,” Curufin said, “Maggie’s been making good money, staying out all night.”
And now Maglor was walking the streets all night, singing from dusk til dawn, to make up for Celegorm’s stupid bullshit.
“Fuck,” he muttered, standing up suddenly. He threw his gross, soiled shirt and pants off and went hunting for better clothes.
With seven brothers, there was scarcely a stitch of cloth to share between them, but he managed to scrounge up some old items of Maedhros’s that were too big for Maglor; they were waiting for Celegorm to grow into them and repair them then, which was probably still a few years off, but they would do for now. Too long and wide and riddled with holes, but Celegorm really didn’t care.
Not right now.
“‘Suppose they’re both still at work,” he snapped as he tied a piece of rope around his waist like a belt.
“Aye,” Curufin’s tiny voice piped up, much meeker than before. Celegorm looked down at him as the boy- just seven- came closer.
He was looking at his feet when he said, “You’re better now. Right?”
The cold was still wrapped around his bones, but Celegorm said, “‘Course. Where ‘Ran and the little’uns?”
Curufin looked skeptical, but did perk up a little as he said, “Watchin’ the twins. I’m supposed to watch you!”
Celegorm ruffled his hair.
“You did a good job. Come on. Let’s you and I get some air. This room is foul.”
Forcefully, Celegorm grabbed one of Finny’s sticky hands. He was met with no resistance as he dragged his little brother out the bedroom all seven of them shared and into the rest of the house. As reported, Caranthir was seated at the table with Amrod and Amras, trying to play cards with them. How did you play cards with three year olds?
“You’re awake!” Caranthir squeaked when he saw them, grin massive. Amrod and Amras gave happy cries as well, but Celegorm didn’t stop to really greet them. He was too filled with shame and anger to let his brothers be kind.
“We’re going to the Sept,” he said, walking right past them, “be home soon.”
“Ah, but, Cel-“
He was gone before Caranthir could finish his protest. He didn’t feel too bad about abandoning Caranthir with the twins, not like he used to when he first started working all day. Caranthir had just turned ten then, forced to look after the two year old twins and six year old Curufin, but without Father, there really hadn’t been any other options.
Oh, Father… he would have been able to help Celegorm understand the dreams.
But Father was gone, and so was the life they used to live on the Street of Steel. They were in Flea Bottom now, the place the people who killed Father- if you can’t prove that, you best not be repeating it, Mae would always say, but Maggie would say, be smarter and more patient- said they belonged, Feanor’s gaggle of whore’s sons.
Gathered from six different mothers, all different brothels, if a woman asked him, ‘please take my son’, he did. No questions were asked about the real father. Their Father was very kind, and perhaps overly confident.
Seven sons just meant seven orphans, now. Maedhros did his best, but…
Make their lives easier, Celegorm thought, eyeing a burning pit that someone was cooking over, throw yourself on the flames.
He tightened his grip on Curufin’s hand and kept walking.
Their journey up Visenya’s hill was silent and felt tense enough to snap Celegorm in half. But his breathing eased once the Great Sept of Baelor came into view. The bells had just started ringing for noon service.
“Do we have to pray?” Curufin whined.
“Yes.”
The went inside and the smell of incense finally warmed Celegorm up somewhat. Started to melt the ice of his bones. The beautiful rainbow lights chased away the darkness. Here, he did not need to be scared that he couldn’t fly. The Seven would protect him.
Celegorm let Curufin go finally as he took a second to stand in the middle of the Sept and just breathe. His brother wandered off to the statue of the Smith, as he always did. Celegorm wasn’t nearly so partial to one aspect of the Seven but today…
Today he knelt in front of the Maiden.
He clasped his hands together and dug his nails into his skin and squeezed his eyes shut so hard that tears sprung to the corners of them.
Please, he thought, please protect my little brothers. Please tell me you’re looking. You see, right? It’s coming. I don’t know when it’s coming, they might not be children anymore, but please. Please keep this summer lush for a while longer. Please take care of us when the bad thing comes. Please cure of me whatever’s wrong with me. Please, please, please-
Eventually, he had no more words to beg with and started to recite every prayer he knew.
When he came up for air, much later, his knees ached and he was glad of it. Celegorm felt that if he hurt, the Maiden might see him more clearly. His words might be louder.
He kissed the statues robes before backing away.
Curufin was no longer praying to the Smith, but that was to be expected. He hadn’t gone far, though, no, he was talking to the septon who was equally partial to the Smith and thus always kind to eager Finny.
“An, young Celegorm,” the Brother said as he approached them, smiling, “Curufin was just telling me you have been ill and that is why we have not seen you recently. Is there anything we can do to help?”
The idea of admiting his horrid fever dreams to the blessed septon made Celegorm choke up with fear and revulsion and shame, so he shook his head.
He just held out his hand for Curufin to take, which his brother dutifully did.
“No, Septon, but thank you. I’m much better now. But, ah, if you hear anyone praying for a new worker who is strong…?”
“Ah,” the Septon said with a slight laugh, “yes, I see. Well, I’m sure the Seven will guide some soul here to receive precisely that sort of help.”
He winked, and it made Celegorm smile slightly.
He said his thanks again and made Curufin say his, then they bid their farewells. They started to walk home, and as they went, Curufin swung their joined hands.
Once they reached the bottom of the hill, Curufin said, “Happy Nameday, by the way.”
“What?”
“Your nameday, it was yesterday. You’re four and ten, now.”
“Oh,” Celegorm muttered. He didn’t feel four and teen. He felt like, whenever he dreamed, he lived decades in seconds. Thousands of years of waiting as the darkness and cold crawled closer, breathless with dread, helpless to stop it as his wings were ripped out time and time again. “Is that why you had an apple?”
Curufin grinned at him guiltily.
“Mae bought it for you, but he said ‘Ran, the babies, and I could share before it went bad.”
“Mae is smart,” Celegorm sighed.
“I thought you’d be mad,” Curufin said.
“I’m not mad.”
“I wish you were. The fever sleeps are making you too sad. You used to get mad.”
He did, didn’t he? But that was then and this was now. The night those jealous murderers burned the forge they called their home down changed a lot of things.
That was the first night he had one of his dreams.
“Yeah, well,” Celegorm muttered, “maybe I’m just more mature now, being four and ten.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Nuh-uh!”
Celegorm laughed. He squeezed Curufin’s hand and laughed through the exhaustion, thankful to the Maiden that at least he had such a silly little brother to lighten his spirits.
“Sure whatever you say,” he said, sticking his tongue out. “Do you know where Maggie is singing today? We can go bother him.”
With a wicked grin, Curufin pulled his hand from Celegorm’s and took off running. He ran after him.
Elsewhere, Summerhall burned.
#everlasting song#do I know what this is? no#I just had… a strong mental image that needed to be realized#I am compelled to kill off feanor in all versions of this au#Tribble post#fanfic
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Ghost Story
Jameson's masterlist (scroll down)
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CW: Traumatized whumpee/PTSD, references to past murder and torture, some dehumanization references, chronic pain, grief, a wee teensy bit of choking at the end
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He fell asleep on the couch with a movie playing, Vincent Shield and Nat settled into armchairs on either side. Shield holds his water bottles like they'll vanish if his knuckles aren't white from the effort, and Jameson had watched him off and on, catching the way one hand shakes a little, the bouncing of his knee. The nearly visible craving for a drink that he tries to drown in juice and water and coffee.
They were there, when the movie started. When he wakes, they're both gone and there's a heavy blanket laid over him. That'd be Nat, always taking a second to do a good thing when she could just ignore it and no one would mind. His crutches are still leaning against the wall, waiting for when he gets up.
He can, vaguely, hear Trash Cat trying to break into a the cabinet in the pantry where her food is kept. The sound of her little paw trying to force it open despite the baby-proofing cabinet lock Nat bought is a constant soft thunk. thunk. thunk. thunk.
"Fuckin' quit it," He groans. The thunking sound briefly pauses.
Rrrrrow? Her little chirp is barely audible, curious and surprised. She must've forgotten he was down here. He hears her tap-tap-tap her way into the doorway, look at him, and then tap-tap-tap her way back to the pantry again.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
His eyes barely blink, working hard to squint and see the time on the clock.
2:45 am.
"Jesus fuck." His voice is a mumble, heavy with his exhaustion, as he rubs a hand over his face. There's stubble around the spaces where scars stay smooth and hairless, the cockeyed lift of one side of his mouth pulled always where a knife had been dragged like cutting cold butter.
Even goddamn better: his legs won't unbend. They stay curled, bent at the knees, throbbing agony down to his toes and up into his hips when he tries to straighten them. He can damn near feel the buckles from the braces he hasn't worn since he stabbed Brute to death. He can damn near hear Robert's echoing, rasping laughter.
He can't walk. He could hardly crawl.
He doesn't want to crawl around like a fucking dog anymore.
Maybe he'll just stay here til dawn. Why the fuck not?
The house is silent around him, with that particular empty weight of a home waiting for its people to bring it back to life come morning. A place between something and nothing, and Jameson isn't enough on his own to fill it.
He's barely a drop in the bucket of what you need to feel alive, at a time like this. Absolutely alone in the darkness, staring up at an old popcorn-style ceiling where a fan spins lazily, barely moving air.
Hey.
His head whips to the side at the voice, wide-eyed, pushing himself up on his elbows, heart pounding. There's someone in the doorway between the entryway and the living room, where Trash Cat had been before, watching him in shadow.
You passed out on the couch again. Gonna go to bed any time soon, or am I going to have to tiptoe around your dumb ass in the morning?
His head hurts. Maybe from having woken up from dreaming at the wrong time, it pulses pain with the same rhythm as his heartbeat, at the throb in his knees. They pull up even tighter, and he has to bite back a whimper he absolutely will not let out.
"... who the fuck-"
Call Mom, by the way. You haven't called her in like a week. She says you have 48 hours or she's calling the cops.
He collapses back against the arm of the couch, breathing slowly. His headache is taking over, wiping everything away but itself. Jameson closes his eyes.
Is he still goddamn asleep?
He counts to ten, breathing more slowly and evenly with each number. Then, on the final, torturously slow exhale, he cracks his eyes open again.
The shadow is still there. It hasn't turned into a person, only sort of smudged outline of one. There's a hint of blue jean seams down the legs, the suggestion of hair very much like his own. Even the glimmer of dim moonlight and streetlight from outside against a pair of hazel eyes.
Not that he can see what color they are from here.
He just... knows.
Just like he knows the taste of that voice, even though he can't remember having ever heard it in his life. It's a taste he's known his entire life.
Did you hear me, dumbass? I said call Mom.
"... who the fuck are you?"
Hey, so, while you're here. It's like he didn't say anything, or like the shadow is acting out the words of a script, not actually present or hearing anything he says. It moves, and Jameson flinches violently backwards only to see a beam of moonlight pass right through it as it goes past him, to the window. One grayish-nothing arm lifts, like peering through the blinds. I wanted to say... fuck. I guess just... sorry. About the other night.
"Wh-what-"
It was stupid. I knew you liked her and I still asked her out. That was really shit of me to do, Johnny, I'm sorry about that. You're just way better than me at getting girls to, like, see you...
"I d-don't know what the fuck you're talking-... who's-"
His head.
The pain is like a flash of lightning, bright white and chilled ice behind his eyes. He can't hold this sound back and whines like a goddamn animal as he curls up, hands up over his head, pressing his palms against his eyelids like somehow he can force the pain out of him if he only tries hard enough. The flashes keep sparking, again and again.
"Oh, God-... oh fuck, jesus-"
I broke up with her anyway. So, like. Sorry. Again. Can we not fight about shit like girls, anyway? I hate it. Who am I supposed to talk to if I can't talk to my brother, you know?
Tears run hot like tracks of sun-soaked water through desert down his cheeks. He's sure they'll leave rising blisters in their wake, as he chokes back one sob, and then another. His heart is twisted up in his throat and his legs are bent and useless, his hands hurt where his fingers are twisted into his hair, yanking at it ineffectually, unconsciously. "Please, it h-hurts, fucking stop-"
It's not your fault, Johnny. I was the idiot, you know? We had a fight, fights happen. I didn't have to leave it like that. I shouldn't have left it like that. Still. You didn't have to leave it like that, either. Takes two to fix a fight, right? You could have apologized, too.
There's a long beat of silence.
His headache starts, finally, to slide somewhere further back in his mind. It's still there, still a throbbing immovable force, but he can just barely manage to open his eyes.
The shadow is an inch away, staring at him.
Why didn't you apologize first?
He flinches backwards again, and the sharp spike feels like ice picks right through his eyes as his back arches, a tense bow of pain everywhere. An electric shock, discipline for the wrong thoughts, false memories clawing their way to the surface.
He hasn't worn a shock collar since training, but his body knows what happens when he remembers the life he left behind.
It punishes him anyway.
Why did you let me walk off by myself in the dark, Johnny?
"No-... no-... I s-signed up, I don't want you, I didn't want you anymore, it was t-too much, fuck, fuck off, fuck you, I didn't want to hurt anymore they promised I wouldn't miss you anymore, go away go away go away they took you out of my fucking head go the fuck away this hurts-"
Everything would be okay if you had stopped me. But you just let me walk away, like an asshole.
The shadow of his dead brother watches him with unsettlingly calm eyes, the thatch of his dark hair, the glint of teeth straightened by years of braces.
You let me walk away angry at you. You let me walk right up to him, didn't you? You never even tried to stop me from leaving. Who would I be if you hadn't let me die?
"Please... please, Hank-"
I was still alive when he threw me in that ditch near the woods, remember? Do you think I was awake? For that last hour or so? Do you think I was conscious? Do you think I was thinking about you?
The shadow of his brother might be smiling.
Do you think that I was still angry when he slit my throat?
Jameson pulls the blanket over his head. He can't think of anything else to do but hide.
The shadow can't find him here. The reality of everything he did, everything that's his fault, can't follow him this far into the warm darkness. The murder he could have stopped by being a better brother just one night out of a thousand belongs to the cold and the light.
It can't find him here.
It's ridiculous and childish and yet the voice goes silent, then, and his tongue goes numb. Seconds tick by, tracked by a clock Nat has on the wall. The quiet is heavy and Jameson fills it with every single thing WRU ever taught him.
His lips move mindlessly. He's never forgotten a single sentence. Every chant, every mantra, every constant repetition of his own lost humanity pushes the reality of what led him to it further and further away.
He keeps his eyes closed tightly, shivers in the chill of a cold white room entirely in his own mind, and whispers I signed up for it for a reason, I signed up for this, I was a slut with no future, I didn't want to be a person anymore, I ruined lives, it's all my fault, I'm better off this way, I don't have to hurt anymore, no one else will die because of me, I was made for this I was made for this I was made for this again and again.
The sense of the shadow watching him doesn't fully fade until he closes his own hands around his throat and tightens just enough to feel like a collar, just enough that he has to fight a little for air.
How long he stays like that, he doesn't know.
But eventually he realizes he can hear Trash Cat again, still trying inexorably to find a way into the cabinet where her food has been maliciously kept away from her need to constantly eat at all hours of the day.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Rrrrrow? Rrrrow. Thunk. Thunk.
He had a nightmare, he thinks.
Thunk.
Some kind of weird-ass dream. Something that tasted like a voice, frightening enough to have his heart beating and his body feeling wrung out and aching, like he was throwing punches in his sleep. Fighting something. Or fleeing from something.
What did he dream about?
There was a shadow, and hazel eyes, and a voice...
Thunk. Thunk.
Trash Cat apparently gives up. He hears her little paws tap-tapping along the floor as she tries her luck at shredding the toilet paper in the bathroom.
The nightmare's gone. He can't remember what was bothering him any longer. Still, his heart races and fear is a cold stone in his stomach. Fear and the sense that he has done something terrible. Something he can never make up for or take back.
He doesn't go back to sleep.
He waits, watching the ceiling fan spin, for the safety of dawn.
#whump#jameson bb#grief tw#haunting#ghost whump#ghost story#a ghost story#haunted#wru#bbu#box boy universe#box boy#recovering whumpee#pain#chronic pain tw#self-loathing#choking tw#only a tiny bit but just in case#conditioned whumpee#creepy whumper#creepy#original writing#horror fiction#horror writing
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Crawl til dawn on my hands and knees. And goddamn these vampires (for what they’ve done to me). If you even care. Btw.
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Hands Full
Parties and social events are the worst. You never know what to do with yourself. At least, not until you happen to catch the eye of a certain fellow agent.
You x Dawn
You leaned against the wall, fiddling with your wine glass, eyes scoping the party. You weren't a huge fan of these sorts of affairs. You were good when it came to sleuthing, schmoozing was another story entirely. Your social skills were awkward at best and disastrous at worst. You take a small sip of your wine, just for something to do. You sighed, wishing you had a watch to check, but that might make the hour crawl by even slower.
As you scanned the room, you caught sight of a prominent figure amongst the crowd. He was difficult to miss, due to his literal build. He was not only sunny in disposition, but in appearance as well, with a pleasant smile almost always plastered on. Agent Dawn, a natural schmoozer, was as likable as they came. So, it caught you off guard, when his gaze found yours, as though his agent senses had sensed your stare.
Quickly averting your gaze, you fixated on the wine glass in your hands, feeling the temperature of your face rising. You felt silly. You'd think being an agent would have helped you to get over your awkwardness but... nope. Apparently, that was a skill on its own when it came to you. Just focus on getting through the party. Focus on that.
You heard footsteps approach and a sun-shaped silhouette appeared on the surface of your wine. You froze as you heard the gentle, “Ahem,” a mimicry of clearing a throat that he didn't have.
Taking a deep breath, determined not to make a total and utter fool of yourself, you tilt your chin up to see Agent Dawn himself standing before you. No animatronic should be able to make a suit look that good.
“Why hello there,” he greeted amicably. It was a gentle enough greeting, and he was keeping an unobtrusive distance for the moment. “Enjoying the party?”
“It's fine,” you mumbled. You cleared your throat, repeating it a little louder.
“You look bored to tears over here,” he observed. His stance was relaxed, at ease, as though chatting with an old friend. It helped put you a little more at ease as well.
“This...” you gestured at the party. “Really isn't my scene. Not a whole lot to do.”
“There's plenty to do if you know what to look for,” Dawn replied. He made a very gentle wave toward the ballroom floor. “Dancing, for example. I've found that's a fun way to pass the time.”
“Ha, is that your way of asking me to dance?” You immediately regretted your words, face heating. What the heck had even possessed you to ask that? Hello, foot, meet mouth.
However, Dawn's smile merely lengthened. “Well, shucks, you found me out.”
You stared at him dumbly and quickly looked down at your wine glass. Your hands were nervously fiddling with it, as that was the only outlet you currently had for releasing all your nervous energy. “I'm not a good dancer,” you said hurriedly. “Besides... why me?” Surely, he could have his pick of the litter with his despicably easy charms.
“Well, I couldn't help but notice you staring.” His shoulders gave a smooth shrug, head canting to the side. His smile had turned just a touch playful. “I thought perhaps you saw something you liked.”
Ah, so he had noticed that. You wished invisibility was a thing because you were certain you were ready to disappear now. Okay, well, you'd already made a fool of yourself, apparently. What was the harm of going for broke? “Maybe I did,” you said with far more confidence than you carried. But that was part of the biz, fake it til you make it.
You were rewarded at least, your comment eliciting a bubble of laughter from Agent Dawn. It was bright and gentle, and it brought a smile to your face. “Well, it just so happens, I see something I like too. In fact,” he leaned forward, just a few inches. His voice lowered, as though sharing a precious secret. “I'd very much like to see more.”
It was like someone had turned a knob and cranked your internal body temperature all the way to eleven. You vaguely wondered if it was possible for a person to spontaneously self-combust.
Dawn extended a hand to you, his smile warm and inviting. “Dance with me?”
You gazed at his offered hand and you wanted to. Of course, you wanted to. However, the fear of embarrassing yourself caused your insides to seize up and sent your brain frantically searching for any excuse to avoid it. “I mean, I would but… my drink.” You lifted it to show him your very obvious wine glass that you had, until this point, been holding in front of you like a shield. “My hands are full.”
Something happened in that moment. Your only warning was the crooked tilt of Dawn’s mouth before he fluidly stepped into your space. One hand slipped through your arm, and you were so distracted by the sudden proximity you almost missed his other hand very deftly slipping the wine glass from your hand.
“Well, look at that,” he said merrily and began guiding you towards the dance floor. “Problem solved.”
“W-wait, hold on a second,” you stuttered, still not fully mentally prepared.
“Mm, I would but…” He turned to face you, hand gently gripping your waist while still holding your drink in his other with incredible poise. “It looks like my hands are full.” A teasing throwback of your own words.
The next thing you knew, he was moving and instinctively your hands went to the needed positions to not fall flat on your face. One hand gripped his shoulder, the other holding the base of his hand that was still holding your drink. Somehow, he managed to not make it awkward, though now you were wishing to take the wine glass and smash it on the floor, if only so that his hand could be holding yours.
Okay, well, you were already here. May as well enjoy the ride. You did your best to follow his lead, but your steps were not nearly as confident as his. However, any time you had a misstep, his grip on you was sure and steady, keeping you from full-on stumbling.
“So, do you always steamroll people into dancing with you?” you remarked. “Or am I just a special exception?”
“I do tend to be a bit pushy when I want something. An old vice I’m afraid.” He flashed a sheepish look. “You just seemed to be having a dour night, and I wanted to brighten it a little with some fun. But if you’re uncomfortable, we can stop, and I’ll leave you be.”
It was hard to be irritated with him when he put it like that. He seemed sincere enough, and to his credit, it’s not like you had been outright rejecting his advances.
“No, it’s fine,” you assured him with a smile. “I am having fun, actually.”
“That’s good.” Your stomach lurched as you had the brief sensation of falling, but no, it was just Dawn taking you down into a low dip. You floated inches above the floor, very aware of his hand on the small of your back and he grinned down at you. “So am I.”
Your heart gave a small jolt and he pulled you back up with zero effort, and he still hadn’t spilled a drop of your wine. All too soon, the song was over, and Sun led you off the dance floor. You felt a little breathless and dizzy, but also weirdly giddy. This was probably one of the most exciting nights you’ve had in a while.
“Thank you for humoring me with your delightful company,” Dawn said, pressing your wine glass into your hand. He took your other and brought it to his lips, giving it a chaste kiss. The contact was light and innocent, yet it gave birth to a million and one butterflies in your stomach. “Please let me know if you ever want to take another spin on the dance floor.”
There was a moment when your mind furiously wrestled with itself. You weren’t usually the overly daring type but screw it. As his hand was about to pull away, your hand grasped his fingers, keeping him there. You were maybe a little too smug about the flicker of surprise that passed over his eyes.
You took your wine glass and drained it in one swig before setting it down. “Let’s try that again without the glass, shall we?” you suggested. “If you don’t mind having your hands full again.”
Dawn smiled, pulling you towards him, and the feeling of his fingers interlocking with yours was pure magic. “Not at all. You’re the best kind of handful.”
(This is a drabble that was inspired by @lavenoon's Under Cover AU as well as this amazing art by @zelda7999.)
#apologies if there are any typos#hope you enjoy this thirst quencher#sun x y/n#sun x reader#accidentally undercover#fanwork#agent dawn#fnaf sundrop#fnaf security breach#suave bastard#justfangirlwritings
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