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scuttle-buttle · 3 years

Text

Chapter 2

Summary: Professor Laszlo Kreizler is a pretentious ass - that's the only way you could possibly explain the man. That being said, you needed a job to help pay for grad school, and the position of being his TA was the only thing available. You'll suck it up and deal with it, but the last thing you'll do is let this man get inside your head in the process.

WC: 1131

Rated: M

Chapter Tags: laszlo is very to the point with his expectations.

🧠

Monday morning came too quickly. There was no need to dress super professionally as a TA, but you still found that you wanted to at least look presentable on your first day with the devil himself. One less thing for him to judge you on, right?

The hall in the Psychology wing was quiet, only a few students could be seen shuffling to their early morning classes. A tall guy walked past you, offering up a pity-smile in your direction as he saw where you stood. If what you had seen on the professor over the weekend was any real indication, you felt bad for the psych majors. Even so, you would do your best to withhold judgement until you met the man.

You stood outside his office. The dark mahogany door was shut, a gold “Dr. L Kreizler” placard adorned the wood. Pulling out your phone you check the schedule for the tenth time this morning.

Schedule:

MWF 8am-12pm

TTH 3pm-7pm

You lick your lips and look at the clock on the wall - 7:59. The second the hands switch to 8 you knock on the heavy wood. There is a muffled “come in” from the other side.

You don’t know what you anticipated as you entered the office. Taking a minute, you examine the decor he has set up. It felt like walking through a time capsule; as though you were transported to the gilded age. Rich, dark colors of wood and tapestry filled the space. Large bookshelves had tomes that looked to be at least a hundred years old, well worn and rubbed off of their titles. Small artifacts, pictures, and old scientific instruments line the shelves. The room is massive, not something you would have anticipated. He does not use the fluorescent overhead lights, instead having a series of tall warm-toned lamps scattered around the room. There is even a couch along the back wall, decorated with swirling filigree carved into the arms and legs. A laptop and second monitor on his desk bring you back to reality.

In your admiration of the office you pay no mind to the man it belongs to. Finally, you notice him as he stares at you from his chair, looking annoyed at having to wait for your introduction.

Even with the less than pleased look he’s giving, you can’t help but notice how attractive the man is. The picture had done absolutely nothing to show off the depth in those brown eyes, the softness of the delicately styled hair, the fullness of his well-groomed beard. He was much younger than you anticipated too. If anything you figure he’s maybe early 40s. And fuck, he’s just your type. Too bad he’s an asshole… and your boss…. you think belatedly.

“Oh! Sorry, um, I’m the new TA,” you introduce yourself and tell him your name. “It’s very nice to meet you professor.” You reach out to shake his hand. He does not move to return the favor, but instead keeps his calculating eyes on you. The silence tics on as you wait, hand outstretched. Clearing your throat you drop it back to your side.

Finally, he speaks in an accented voice. “You may call me Dr. Kreizler. I have space for you there,” he gestures with a nod of his head to a desk in the corner. “I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a list of expectations for you. Should you have any questions or concerns I expect that you address them with me directly. You’ll note that I have included my personal number for work purposes only. I expect you to provide me with your own should I need you outside of contract hours. Do not contact me while you are intoxicated or you will be dismissed from this position.” To the point then, you blink at his directness. And presumptuous as hell to assume that you would even consider drunk texting him.

He briefly explains your role and clarifies some of the less detailed points on his list. The entire time he’s speaking his focus is on whatever work sits in front of him, not you. A beat passes once he’s done.

“Sounds great, thank you.” You had done your best to remain civil and polite, ignoring the ill-reviews in hopes to create your own opinion. Quite frankly, he wasn’t faring well so far.

He looks up at you; his eyes are piercing. Does he always look like he’s picking apart people like they are a specimen he’s studying?

“I suspect you have done your research on who I am, yet you are still present today. That is promising. But tell me, who are you?” he asks, sitting back in his chair.

You’ve never been good at talking about yourself when put on the spot. “Well I’m 26 years old, I graduated magna cum laude with a dual degree in history and political science. The last few years I��ve been working with the graduate studies program to get my doctorate in history. My thesis is on 1960s shifting cultural norms and the development and impact of countercultures on American society.”

“Have you considered the emerging role of sequence murderers in your studies?” He almost looks interested as he asks.

“Some, not as much as I would like yet, though. I suppose a perk of taking this position means you can give me some insight on that since you teach about it.” You give a little smile-shrug, hoping the statement will earn you some points with him.

He ignores it. “And what background in psychology do you have? Or do you even have any?”

You are a bit taken aback by his tone. “I took an introductory course with Professor Stratton during my undergrad years.”

“Hmm. That will have to suffice. In the meantime I would suggest you make haste with the reading I’ve left you. It’s best you spend this week with that so you can be most useful to me this semester.”

Looking through all the contents he’s left on your desk you see two books, a textbook, a few slide show print outs, and his syllabi - each marked up with his cursive and colored tabs to mark pages of importance. Sitting down, you give an inaudible sigh; this is going to be a long semester. You pick up the first syllabus and get to work.

Noon rolls around after what feels like a lifetime. Packing up all the materials he’s provided, you wish him a good afternoon. As you are walking through the door he calls out to you.

“Next time, do not be late.” You give him a confused look, seeing as you got there exactly at 8am. “On time is late,” he explains curtly.

“Noted.” You don’t catch the door as it all but slams closed.

Tag list

@hardlyinteresting @lorna-d-m @livvyshmiv @somethingthatsaysbubbles

#the interpretation of dreams #laszlo kreizler x reader #laszlo x reader #laszlo my love #laszlo kreizler #the alienist #daniel brühl #daniel bruhl #laszlo kreizler fanfic #scuttle-buttle

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delldarling · 4 years

Text

chasing truth | merrick

implied past male faerie x male faerie male faerie x gender/body neutral reader 5823 words note: Aodhfin is pronounced EY-f-hin sfw | prologue ; a task given chapter index?

⊱ ────── .⋅ 🜁 ⋅. ────── ⊰

“Merrick is an absolutely horrid name,” Roran says, without prompting. He sounds indifferent, dark eyes focused on a distant point in the room, long fingers curled carelessly around the sharp angle of his jaw. He would look indifferent too, if Aodhfin didn’t know him intimately. Aodhfin recognizes the sullen, downward tilt to Roran’s lips, the shadows gathering under his brow. And the tension in his legs, crossed awkwardly at the ankles, like he’s trying desperately to appear relaxed and uncaring? There isn’t hiding any of that. Roran is angry.

“I suppose what’s important is that I find it funny,” Aodhfin tells him with a shrug, tucking a trinket of a blade into his bag. “Merrick,” he says again, and then twice more, just to be sure. He tilts his head from side to side as he tests the rhythm of the name, white curls falling into his eyes. Aodhfin smiles down at his packing, small and sly, a hint of a dimple appearing at the corner of his mouth.

The levity it brings to mind, the joke of it, is worth having to take on another name. After all, he can’t take his current one to the human realm. ‘Aodhfin’ is reserved for the halls of the Court of Air, gifted personally by the King. It’s far too intimate for the mouths of quick creatures like humans, and hearing it on ill suited tongues would only make him long to be home all the sooner. “More amusement never goes awry on tasks like these,” he adds, fussing over a pair of sandals he knows he shouldn’t be taking. He’ll have no use for them. Aodhfin packs them anyway, ignoring Roran’s shuddering, in-drawn breath.

“I still think it unwise that you’re going alone,” Roran bites out. He hasn’t moved. He’s still staring at that distant point, ink-dark hair just barely brushing the tops of his delicately pointed ears. He’s losing his composure though, jaw clenched, thrumming with tension the longer Aodhfin stares.

“Questioning the King?” Aodhfin finally asks archly, abandoning all pretense with his bag and pushing it away from himself. He needs to nip this bout of temper in the bud before he leaves, or he’ll never hear the end of it. Roran is much too attached, despite Aodhfin’s repeated refusals, and the King will take issue if this goes on much longer. It would be best for the both of them to avoid a personal reprimand.

“Hardly!” Roran snaps, but he finally turns to look Aodhfin in the eye, pushing himself stiffly to his feet. His wings flare open to help him keep his balance, light catching the faint iridescence and casting wheeling prisms across the floor. “I question your judgement,” he whispers harshly, as if he’s worried about being overheard. “The King wouldn’t care one whit if you asked for a partner. Not only have we worked together before, we work well-”

Aodhfin crosses the room in two short strides and clasps Roran’s shoulder before he can continue. His fingers press just shy of too hard into the wiry muscle, a quiet, though regretful, warning. His heart is heavy - he doesn’t want to hurt Roran, but the idiot is going to become a nuisance for everyone if Aodhfin doesn’t do his best to make things clear. Which means it will have to hurt.

“I don’t need you,” Aodhfin says softly. The words come out clear and easy, and there’s no hint of sourness upon his tongue or in the expression on his face. They’re the truth. Anyone with eyes can spot it, clear in the straight line of his lips.

Roran tenses, wheezes, as if he’s been stabbed through the heart. His freckles are stark in his pale face, dark eyes void of any of their typical humor. He knows then, that Aodhfin doesn’t just mean on this task, but here. In his private quarters.

“You have your own orders to attend to,” Aodhfin follows it with, verbally distancing himself, “and I can complete this on my own. Now, when I get back and I find you passing time with Kiera or Muiren, or both-” and now Roran’s cheeks flame, as red as the blooms that pepper the mountainside of the Court. “Ah, you thought I didn’t know?” Aodhfin laughs, and pushes Roran away. The push is gentle, and not unkind, but the longer Aodhfin stares with a smile on his lips, the more tense Roran becomes. His eyes dart to the side, a guilty tell that he only ever seems to display with Aodhfin - though Aodhfin is fairly sure that Roran lets the tell come through, and… That’s the problem, really. Roran has never held any part of himself back, and Aodhfin has never been able to find a part of himself to give.

“You don’t-” Roran says softly and nearly flinches when Aodhfin lifts his hand to place it back upon his shoulder. His touch is much gentler this time, barely there, almost clinical.

“I’ve told you, Roran. My heart remains my own.” Sometimes Aodhfin wishes he felt even a hint of sadness in saying that. It would be easier for them both, but for Roran especially, if he loved him. He cares, but that’s all he can muster when he deigns to think about his feelings. Aodhfin rarely considers them anyway, not when he loves his work so thoroughly, loves the places it takes him, the secrets he learns- No. Not friendship, nor pity, can push him to change his feelings.

“When I find that you’re passing time with one or both of them - and I don’t blame you if you are,” Aodhfin teases, arching a brow in a jovial manner. Roran glances away again, shy, for all his bluster. “I would be perfectly happy to celebrate with the lot of you. As friends. After all,” Aodhfin says, straightening up and touching a hand to his chest, sketching out a bow that is all theatrics with fluttering wings. The floor is a dizzying array of color when the sunlight catches his wings, too. “When I get back, my work will have united the Courts. I’ll be a hero.” Aodhfin straightens as he finishes speaking, smile turned slightly pompous.

Roran’s chest rises as he sucks in a deep breath, but in the end he only exhales, whatever words he’d planned so carefully left unsaid. He already knows that nothing he says could ever change Aodhfin’s mind.

“I still hate the name. You don’t look like a Merrick,” Roran insists, glancing around the sparsely decorated room. There are a few useless trinkets cluttered together on a shelf, gifts that Roran had given him, mostly, but even those don’t quite make the place look lived in. Aodhfin is gone far too often.

“I feel like one though,” Aodhfin- Merrick - says. The name will settle, as much a part of him as the one he was born with, as every one given to him since, and with it will come widespread recognition of his accomplishments and accolades from both the King of Air and the Queen of Land. “Besides, can you imagine the traitor’s face when I tell him I chose it because of him? They rhyme.” Aodhfin tilts back his head to laugh, utterly delighted by the thought.

The laughter proves to be too much for Roran. His mouth quivers, eyes caught on the beauty mark on Aodhfin’s chin. For a moment, Aodhfin thinks he might cry.

“You’re idiotic,” Roran snaps at him, and his voice has gone sullen again, though his expression is back to his typical stoicness. He retreats back to his seat, hands clenching tightly to his knees, knuckles tense and pale.

“My humor is simply wasted on you,” Aodhfin laments with a sigh, turning back to his packing. He’s unable to stop the twitch of irritation zipping through his wings. “The King will appreciate the irony though. He thinks I’m funny,” he says, and tucks a pale curl behind his ear. His finger pauses, stroking, and then his hand freezes over the pointed cartilage, eyebrows drawing together in concern. The sudden stillness, the change that comes over Aodhfin, clues Roran in almost immediately.

“Have you seen the error of your ways, or is something bothering you?” Roran asks, tone sharp, as if he’s hoping to spite him by asking such an inane question.

“Too much glamour will be like a beacon to the traitor,” Aodhfin mutters, ignoring Roran’s request for him to speak up. “It won’t be an issue,” he throws over his shoulder, before Roran can truly get going with some kind of tirade. “But, as we were speaking of Kiera, send her my way, won’t you?”

The silence behind him is so rife with tension, with anger, that he wonders for just a moment if Roran is going to throw something at him. He doesn’t dare turn around and invite further ire. Roran is hurt already, there’s no need for Aodhfin to add fuel to the fire by pestering him. The atmosphere starts to ease- and then the door slams shut, rattling his lonely shelf and the useless trinkets lined up by size.

Aodhfin sighs.

Roran will do as he’s asked, if only because Aodhfin asked, and he asks for so little from him. Kiera won’t thank Aodhfin for the tide of emotion she’s going to be left with though. He’ll have to promise a favor for her help.

...Which will only make Roran angrier that he can’t lend aid somehow, though he doesn’t have any of what Aodhfin will need where he’s going. Roran has even less experience with humans than he does.

“He’ll get over it,” he muses and steps away from his bed to glance around the room. There’s nothing left that he needs to take, though his gaze lingers on the shelf and some of the items Roran’s given to him. If he takes one of them, no matter which, he knows that it will completely mollify Roran’s anger. And yet... If he takes any one of them, Roran will likely hold onto his hope that something will change. He swallows, knowing what his decision should be, will be, but-

Aodhfin looks away, choking down regret, just as the door swings open on creaking hinges.

“That was rather fast of you,” he says, pasting on an easy smile as he turns towards the door, expecting to see Roran in the frame.

The King stands there, a wry smile on his thin, pointed lips. Aodhfin has the chance to spy long, dark windswept hair and topaz gold eyes before he drops to his knees, one forearm across his chest, while the other is thrown out to help him to balance. His wings are laid close to his back in a subservient gesture, held utterly still so as not to offend.

“My King,” Aodhfin greets, barely daring to draw breath lest he risk his wings shifting with the motion.

“Expecting another?” The King asks, curious. A heavy dragging noise drowns out his footsteps, the King’s fair feathered wings brushing over smooth stone, until he comes to a slow stop in front of Aodhfin.

“Kiera, your Majesty,” Aodhfin breathes out, almost trembling when the King taps a fingertip to the back of his skull. The curved edge of a nail just barely pricks his skin before the King retracts his touch. Aodhfin lifts his head, slowly, heat crawling down his spine when the King laughs. There’s always been an echo when the older Fae speak, a shadow to their voices that gives hint to their talents. The sound of leaves rustling and wings flapping seems to trail after the King’s every word, frightening and awe inspiring, all at once.

“She’s overfond of humanity, isn’t she?” The King asks, and the way he asks, the unpleasant tone of his voice- Aodhfin… He may not hold any special love for Kiera, but that tone makes Aodhfin want to lie.

It’s the urge of every young being, mind wanting to supply words before thought can form, though Aodhfin can beat it down. There’s no use in lying to the King, and he’s no desire for the sourness of a lie to twist his tongue and stop his words.

“Fascinated, I believe. Fond of artisans, perhaps?” There is no fault in that, at least. The Fae as a whole have been fond of those who create for a millenia. “I thought to borrow some of her uncommon work. Glamour will hide me from humans, but draw attention from-”

“The traitor,” the King sighs, eyes closing, heavy, sooty lashes fanning across his cheek. “Correct. You think well ahead,” he says, and the compliment sings through Aodhfin’s veins. “I knew I had chosen wisely.” The words leave Aodhfin feeling as brilliant as the fire he was named for. His wings buzz against each other before he forces himself to be still. “I know you will do everything you can,” the King says, and there’s a sudden weight to his speech, golden eyes locked with Aodhfin’s dark ones, intent on getting his point across. “But I would like you to promi-”

“Merrick, now, is it?” Kiera barks out, slamming the door open with a swirl of skirts and tousled red hair. She takes a half step inside, and then chokes, promptly dropping to her knees at the sight of the King. She whimpers, frightened enough that her wings vanish into her flesh, hands shaking around the sack she’d been carrying. She clutches it weakly to her chest. “Your Majesty,” she manages to say, not daring to lift her face.

The King’s hands tense and curl into fists at his sides, his eyes blazing with fury. For a moment Aodhfin is sure that the King is going to strike Kiera. He’ll have to shield her then, no matter how much or little care he feels for her, he could never just stand by and watch. As soon as he tenses, ready to throw himself in the way, the King whirls away from them both, his wings and shoulders trembling.

“I’ve other matters,” he says, voice frigid, void of emotion. “Do as you’re told, Merrick,” he adds, wind echoing heavily in his words, and strides for the door. His wings are the barest whisper over the stone, and he doesn’t react in the slightest when Kiera has to throw herself to the side to get out of his way. He doesn’t close the door behind him.

Both Aodhfin and Kiera are still for likely far too long afterward, but it’s Kiera who finally gets to her unsteady feet, frowning. “How.. how long has the King been visiting your private chambers?” She asks idly, and then grimaces when Aodhfin says nothing, his expression unchanging. “Never mind. Glamour, then?” She asks, tone brisk as she opens the sack in her hands and starts tossing out clothes on the bed.

Aodhfin lingers in his kneeling position on the ground, suddenly wanting to put off using his new name for as long as possible. He’d agreed to nothing, and the King hadn’t even gotten the chance to explain - but something about the whole ordeal feels… Strange. This might not be the first time the King has given him a task, out of view of the Court, but it is the first he’s ever hinted at a promise.

He gets to his feet, wincing when they prickle, and glances at the bed. Kiera’s hands are still trembling, but Aodhfin won’t dare draw attention to it. Instead he let’s the clothing catch his attention, notes the cut of them and the plain brown, green, or fair colored shades. A single flash of brilliant red catches his eye, the last item out of Kiera’s sack. It’s a cap, laid out over the top of the pile and it looks… It looks like it should be his - Merrick’s. He’s Aodhfin no longer, then. The King had Named him, truly.

“What will this cost me?” Merrick asks, arching an eyebrow as he picks up the cap. The texture is soft, but the weave is heavier than most Fae use these days. He wonders if this is the product of those large wooden needles Kiera carried around with her for over a month, brandishing them like daggers whenever anyone teased her.

“What will you give?” Kiera asks sharply, crossing her arms over her chest when he lifts his eyes from the cap. Her gaze is razor sharp, expectant.

Merrick stares at her for a moment too long, and then his nose wrinkles. He knows exactly what she wants, what her and Muiren both have been desperate for, ever since Roran proclaimed his intentions to court Aodhfin, and Aodhfin alone. “You want me to swear him off?” He asks, pleasant mood fading. “I’ve already claimed my heart as my own, Kiera. I confess, I’m not sure what else I can do that won’t come off as-”

“I know,” she interrupts with a sigh, shoulders slumping, glancing down at the floor, guilt in the purse of her lips. “And he would never forgive me. I just want him to move on from you, even if it isn’t with me.” Her eyes trace over the paltry gifts on the shelf and then shoot back to Merrick. “He hasn’t been kind to himself,” she says quietly, worrying at her lower lip before she continues. “Not when it comes to you.”

Merrick does his best to ignore her words, and tugs the hat over his head. He willingly lets Kiera dart in close, adjusting it until his ears are covered and his hair isn’t matted around his face. His hair will always be a strange shade of white, but he’s heard that humans are fond of dyes these days. Or perhaps he can claim an illness.

“If nothing else, that is why I believe he would be happiest with you,” Merrick murmurs, grabbing at the next item in the towering pile of clothing. “I’ll be forced to wear my wings in my skin,” he says sadly, noting the lack of holes on the backs of the garments. “You have my blessing, not that I should give it. I am not, cannot, be what he wants,” Merrick says decisively, meeting Kiera’s reserved gaze. “I will not promise any-”

“I suppose that’s payment enough,” she says with a sigh, turning away and trying not to frown. She fails, refusing to look back at him, to see him witnessing her unhappiness. She’s twisting a lock of hair round and round her hands, worried enough that the emotion is fast chasing away the awkwardness. “Don’t die, will you?” She asks finally. “I would rather not pick up those pieces.”

Merrick says nothing at all to that. Nothing he could or would say in response to such a request will be the complete truth, and there’s no reason to give any of them, himself included, false hope.

“I do believe you’ll come back alive, if that helps any,” Kiera backtracks, sensing the dour mood overtaking him. From anyone else, the statement would be too much of a falsehood to even attempt to utter - but Kiera does believe it, and she wants it. If only for Roran’s sake.

Merrick wants to believe it too, though. That he will come out of this alive. The traitor is nothing more than one of the Queen of Land’s gardeners, spouting lies that might prevent the uniting of the Courts. Merrick has nothing to lose, and everything to gain, if only he does this one thing. It’s just that… The King’s visit had been a strange one, and he has very little time, if any, to seek the King out for clarification. He was supposed to be able to relax in the Court for a few more hours, but it doesn’t matter now.

“You’ll have to find more clothes while you’re there,” Kiera adds, when Merrick doesn’t show any signs of responding. Her hands have stopped their constant fidgeting. “Humans own more than two pairs of hose and a good shirt these days, and while I think these won’t draw unneeded attention-”

“Muiren says that humans once walked about bare,” he murmurs, lifting a long sleeved item up to his chest. They’ll all fit, of that he has no doubt, but his wings- It’s a shame he’ll have to hide them.

Kiera scoffs. “Muiren is only a few years older than Roran. Neither of them have any notion of what humans are like or what they’ve done. You should know that, Aodh- Merrick.” Kiera watches him in silence, likely recounting everything he’s done wrong with the clothing in front of him, but eventually she shakes her head.

“When do you leave?” She asks, gaze darting around the room. She’s likely eager to get back to Roran, to comfort him - or to escape the scene of her less than cordial encounter with the King.

“Today. Tonight,” he tells her, opening his bag back up and shoving a few of the clothes inside. He keeps out a long sleeved shirt and a pair of dark trousers. “Unless you have instructions for me, you’re free to go.” Merrick finally looks her in the face, noting the tight corners of her mouth, the concern still writ in her hazel eyes. “I won’t forget this,” he says, by way of thanks, reaching up to tap at the red cap on his head.

Kiera looks torn. She’s still facing him, but her eagerness to leave is palpable. “The only thing you can’t forget is this,” she says quickly, back to her usual self, “no dying.” Her eyes meet his for a single moment, and then she walks out. The door clicks shut behind her, leaving Merrick alone.

“Human clothes,” he mutters to the empty room and proceeds to strip off his things, arching his wings as far as he can to either side and relishing the stretch of his muscles. It’s not uncomfortable, wearing his wings in his skin, but he can’t say he’s used to it. The Fae he tracks are generally too frightened to leave Faerie entirely, and wings like his are common enough. He hasn’t needed to hide his wings in years, and when last he had, the task had lasted only a few short days. This one will likely last the month, at least.

He smooths his hands over his own shoulders, his wings following, leaving nothing more than ink dark lines behind before he pulls on the clothes. He adjusts his hat one last time, and snatches up his bag. “Be b-” Merrick starts to say idly, and then bites his tongue viciously, unused to the sour tang. Be back soon is too close to a lie, then.

It’s not as if there’s much he’s leaving behind anyway. Merrick sighs, shouldering his bag on his newly wingless back, and leaves. His hand might linger a fraction of a second upon the door handle, but he doesn’t look back.

And yet, every hall he walks down, Merrick finds himself pausing. His eyes trail over the fine details carved into stone pillars, they linger on the glowing cloud lights, bobbing down the halls with every breath of wind or flutter of wings. What memories he has of his parents are vague, so the Court is nearly all he’s ever known, but.. He’s always found himself more at ease outside the mountain. He drags a hand over the roughly hewn walls, caught in old memories, and then spots one of the King’s Pages. She’s a slip of a young fae, proudly sporting the heavy looking brooch of her rank on her small shoulders.

“The King,” Merrick blurts, rushing to stop her before she can leave the hall. Her wings flare, feet lifting off the ground for a moment in surprise. “Could you tell me-”

Her narrow eyed glare makes him pause, her feet touching back down when he keeps his hands to himself. “The King, last I heard,” she says, high voice gone haughty, “asked to be left undisturbed. I’ve little idea where he might be, but if you need an audience, you’ll have to wait with the rest two days from now. He’s much too busy to mitigate any kind of disputes right here in the hall.”

Merrick grits his teeth, but lets her snub him, tossing her hair over her shoulder and fluttering her fragile looking wings. There are four of them, opaque and frail without the sun catching their iridescence, and he rather thinks that she might put on a burst of speed to leave the hall behind. She’s coasting on the current of her status then, and is likely quite new.

Even when Merrick turns to other Court denizens though, he can’t seem to find pinion nor down feather of the King. If he pushed, if he made a fuss, Merrick might be able to track him down, but the thought doesn’t sit well with him. If the King has sequestered himself, has told his pages to leave him undisturbed, he’ll simply have to continue with the task he was given, promise unmade.

He heads for the cliffs on the Eastern side of the mountain, and the rippling Veil, almost visible if you look straight down over the edge. He’s tarried far longer than he should, and the sun is already fast setting, turning the Court of Air golden in its last rays. Merrick takes one last look, but his gaze is caught by the Veil and the shifting shapes beyond it. He concentrates on thoughts of the traitor, of the task he’s been given, and then steps off the cliff face, free-falling.

There’s a single moment of breathlessness, and then the Veil is crackling through his hair. Merrick slides into a roll, tumbling over the rooftop of a human building and coming to a stop in the middle of laundry lines, sheets snapping in the wind.

He sets himself up on the rim of the roof, a small scroll open on his lap so he can sketch out a rough map of the city. It isn’t until he’s half finished, ink leaf growing brittle and dry in his hand, that he realizes how little information he has to go on.

The traitor is a gardener, no one of consequence, normally. Perhaps he’d been given a distasteful task? Whatever the actual reason, something had driven him to tell lies great enough that it was threatening the uniting of the Courts. Merrick wasn’t sure how the gardener could - he’d over ever tasted the beginning of a potential lie, and he’d never been able to finish it. To say them repeatedly?

“Perhaps he’s human-born,” Merrick murmurs, mulling over the thought, and the brand new map of the human city. Even if the gardener is human-born, it likely won’t matter. Human parentage isn’t something terribly uncommon, but it’s generally ignored. The rumor though, is that those that hold even a drop of human blood are supposedly better at bending a truth to their own ends. He doesn’t need information about the gardener’s parentage, not really, but part of Merrick does wonder at the truth of it. He hopes the gardener hasn’t gone so mad with lies that he no longer makes sense or has become a danger to others. The humans will be cut down in seconds. Though if he has, it’ll be much easier to find him. He taps at one of the green areas he’d detailed on the map, thinking of gardeners and the proclivities of those Fae who reside within the Land Court, tracing the outline that he can just barely spy from the rooftop.

Merrick doubts the gardener will be there though. If it had been an easy assignment, the King wouldn’t have sent him in the first place. The gardener hid much too well, and had escaped someone from his own Court once already. His hand moves to what he hopes is the market district. If he’s masquerading as a human, he’ll need to pick up supplies, if only to keep up appearances.

He wishes that he were allowed to use his wings to help speed his search, but he’ll have to wait for the night to do anything of the sort. Those small squares of electricity the humans all seem to carry don’t guarantee he won’t be seen though. He’s been watching them from the building edge all afternoon, tapping away at the little things - taking photos. Merrick’s last memory of human photography involved great hulking cameras and frames of fragile glass. The humans truly change so fast.

A door scrapes open to his right, and a very human gasp reaches his ears. Merrick tilts his head, meeting an old man’s eyes through sheets and clothes fluttering in the wind, and arches his eyebrows.

“Son,” the man says, dropping his laundry basket and raising his gnarled hands, like he’s ready to reach for Merrick, to pull him away from the drop. “Could you- could you come away from the edge?” He sounds choked, rheumy eyes wide and scared.

“Ah,” Merrick says, sitting back up, one leg still dangling over the edge. “I won’t jump, if that’s what you’re getting at. Would you mind telling me where one might find gardening equipment?” He shakes out the map, pointing at a spot that seems likely.The panic on the elderly man doesn’t ebb, but he no longer looks ready to keel over. “I’m- I’m sorry?” He asks, hands only dropping very slowly.

The words make Merrick’s nose wrinkle. “Perhaps you are,” he offers, hoping he sounds proper. “A market, however. Where would we find one?” He swings his leg back onto the roof, not wanting to startle the old fellow more than he already has, and gets to his feet. He’s a fair bit taller than the man, so he keeps what he hopes is an acceptable distance, not wanting to tower over him, and displays the map so it can be easily read.

The old man blinks, glancing past Merrick to the building edge and then back to the map. “Son, how did you ever get up here?” His arms cross over his chest, but the motion doesn’t read as defensive or aggressive. The old man is still scared.

None of what he could say will make the man happy. The veil between your world and Faerie is particularly thin at the right corner, would only leave the man thinking Merrick crazy. I jumped, won’t help much either. There will be follow up questions that he’s both unable and unwilling to answer.

“You don’t know where the market is?” Merrick asks, letting his shoulders slump. Perhaps the man will assume he’s a very strange foreigner. He just hopes he won’t decide to call the local guard. That would turn things ugly fairly quickly. “Then could you direct me to someone who does?”

The panic is gone, though the confusion isn’t. “What kind of supermarket are you looking for? We have, we have too many shopping centers, if you ask me, but I still don’t see-”

“The largest then,” Merrick interrupts, realizing he’ll have better luck asking someone he hasn’t inadvertently frightened. Once the old man gets talking though, Merrick isn’t sure he’s going to stop. He has too much to say about parking structures and the state of traffic - but he is all too happy to give Merrick directions. He makes careful note of them, though he wonders at the length of steps he’s supposed to take, and then heads straight for the door the man left open, murmuring a hasty farewell.

Apartment buildings, Merrick finds, are confusing things. His elderly acquaintance has to give him another set of directions to the stairs in the end, and then mistakenly assumes that Merrick must be a new tenant.

It almost makes him laugh, though. Humans are all too quick to answer their own questions, and he doesn’t even have to attempt to circumvent a lie of any kind. It turns out that apartment buildings are less confusing than the market. The sheer number of the quick creatures is absolutely staggering, but the old man had assured Merrick that this was the largest market. He has his doubts about finding Garrick in this place - a gardener to the Queen of Land, amidst all this man-made material? But he supposes it will serve as a good place for research. At least there are clothes. He picks at the shirt Kiera gave him, noting that the copper buttons at the collar are of.. Much higher quality than what many of the humans are wearing.

He needs human currency then, and clothes. He turns on his heel, keen on finding a pocket to pick and just barely avoids a running child. He scowls at the little beast, brushing the curls out of his eyes and takes another step-

Straight into you.

You stumble, shimmering square of electricity flying from your hand, but Merrick snatches it before it can crash to the ground. You save yourself, unsteady, but still on your feet, arms out to either side for balance.

“Holy-” You laugh, apparently not caring about Merrick nearly knocking you to the stone - though you rub awkwardly at your shoulder. “That was a great catch!”

The device is heavy, he notes. Man-made, then, full of iron. He grabs your hand, shoving the device back into it and then takes a step back, eyes darting to either side of you. Some of the humans are looking, though the lack of yelling has several of them continuing on without comment.

“Not hurt?” He asks, because that’s the human thing to do, isn’t it?

“Maybe my pride,” you murmur, glancing yourself over. You open your mouth again, a small smile growing on your face as you meet his eyes, but Merrick wants no part of it. You’re useless as a mark - he’s made himself memorable, and you seem keen on continuing a conversation, which won’t help.

“Good,” he blurts and then sidesteps you entirely, ignoring the questioning noise you make as he walks away. He can’t afford to have any distractions: Currency, clothing, and studying the map of the city. That’s all he needs to think about for the rest of the day. He finds himself glancing back over his shoulder, just to check that you aren’t following, and sucks in a breath when he finds your eyes still upon him.

⊱ ────── .⋅ 🜁 ⋅. ────── ⊰

...turn the page?

#exophilia #faerie boyfriend #male faerie x reader #fae boyfriend #fairy boyfriend #fairy x reader #male fairy x reader

83 notes · View notes

slashthedice · 4 years

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Ko-Fi Commission: Michael x OC for @crybabyassbitch

Thank you so much for letting me write for Calliope again! I can’t say it enough, you are amazing for being so patient with my inability to practice time management and all the random speed blocks life has thrown my way in the past few weeks. The inspiration for this piece absolutely swept me away so it ended up being quite long. This hospital is definitely not OSHA compliant. Calliope belongs to @crybabyassbitch.

Word Count: 4,772

Calliope blinked awake slowly. Her head was pounding, and her body felt strange. Her skull was heavy on her neck, but she lolled it to the side to better look at her surroundings. She blinked again, baying her eyelids to clear away the hazy film that obscured her vision. The smell of cleaner and floor wax stung her nostrils, burning at her lungs. She coughed as her respiratory system rejected the sterile smell and her head revolted, bolts of pain flashing in warning behind her eyes.

She squeezed her eyes shut with a groan, waiting for the throbbing to dissipate. Once she no longer felt as though someone had buried an axe in her skull, she pried her eyelids back open. The room seemed clearer now, and moment by moment she was able to gain her bearings.

She was in a bed. Pristine white sheets had been tucked in about her body, cocooning her motionless form. The floors were a white linoleum flecked with reds and greys. The snowy color of the stark walls was only broken up by what may have been a handrail and an outlet here and there. A light wood door was shut tight, sealing her off from whatever waited on the outside. A narrow vertical window allowed only a sliver of artificial light to spill in a line across the linoleum.

She swiveled her head to look to her right, and found two uncomfortable looking arm chairs and a side table with a number of rumpled magazines stacked haphazardly atop each other. They were framed by a curtained window, but the gauzy curtains did little to prevent moonlight from seeping into the space. Calliope flicked her eyes upwards and noticed for the first time a monitor perched at the apex of a silver pole. She realized that it beeped slowly, almost cautiously, and was amazed that she hadn’t noticed the sound before. Following the lines of the wires that hung from it, she found that they attached to what appeared to be electrodes stuck to her chest.

Her jumbled mind seemed to click all at once as she came to the conclusion that she was in a hospital. How had she gotten here? Calliope racked her mind for a memory to explain her circumstances, willing away the pounding headache in hopes of achieving some mental clarity.

She gasped audibly as a flash of recollection overtook her.

Calliope had been driving, heading home for the day. She was running a bit late, and that fact had been weighing heavily on her. Her stomach was in knots, and her sweaty hands would have been trembling uncontrollably if not for her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. She would be in for it as soon as she walked through the door. Who knew what he would do? There was no way to predict what punishment was in store, because she couldn’t possibly predict him.

She had been distracted, distant, not paying attention to the road before her. On either side of the dark asphalt, reaching trees pushed their grasping branches towards the inky black sky, and she hadn’t noted the wailing of sirens or the lone figure that stepped out in front of her from the treeline. A deer? No, a man. A man with a bone white face. Or was it a mask?

She remembered swerving and the sound of screeching tires, and then the world had gone black.

Her heart beat stuttered as a sickening dread dripped through her insides. It couldn’t have been Michael. The thought repeated itself madly. He wouldn’t have been there, couldn’t have. Who found her? Who called the ambulance? She shook such useless queries from her mind. If it had been Michael, he would surely know where she was now,

Would he come to get her? If he did, would he take her back? Or was she too much trouble now? He would never simply let her go, but would he risk coming here to kill her?

She had to get out of there. Her best bet was to get home to him, to throw herself at his feet and to his mercy. Maybe he would still kill her, but it was her best and only chance.

Calliope pushed herself up on her elbows, and the room spun around her as if suddenly placed upon a merry-go-round. Her stomach lurched, and she choked down the urge to heave. She forced her body on, wincing at the tightening in her chest and the subsequent soreness. She hated to imagine the bruising that had no doubt been left by the seat belt.

The icy floor sent shockwaves up her legs when she swung them over the side of the bed and touched her toes to the linoleum. She felt unsteady, wobbly like a newborn deer. She tore the electrodes from her chest, and the heart monitor emitted a high pitched whining noise. She thought grimly that if she were to die tonight, there would be nothing the wailing machine could do to stop it.

She cast about for her clothes, but found nothing. She supposed the gown would have to do, and was only thankful that they had allowed her to keep her underwear on. However, a lone patient wandering the halls in the middle of the night would certainly attract attention. She couldn’t be caught if she wanted any hope of surviving.

Calliope placed her hand on the knob as she leaned against the door to peek out the window. She realized that the hall lights were out, a fact which struck her as odd but did not set off any warning bells. The only light came from emergency flood lights that were spaced equidistantly along the length of the hallway. Had the power gone out?

She turned the knob slowly, praying that it wouldn’t make a sound to alert any nearby medical personnel or security guards to her attempted escape. The door swung open soundlessly, and Calliope leaned into the hallway. She swung her head back and forth, but found the passage completely devoid of life. She was alone.

This was the only hospital in town, but it wasn’t very large. There was no way that there shouldn’t be a single solitary soul besides herself around. So as she crept onwards and rounded a corner to where the nurses station sat abandoned, she realized that something was very, very wrong.

She continued onward, her goal of escape now sidetracked by a morbid and dreaded curiosity. In her heart, she felt she knew what was happening, but she was far too scared to admit it to herself.

She felt all the blood drain from her face when she heard the first scream.

Despite being muffled by the hospital walls, it was shrill and strangled. The bloody sound of a prey animal alerting its companions with its final breath. Her heartbeat pounded wildly against her ribcage, a fluttering bird desperate for escape. One word blared at the forefront of her mind, a disaster siren that numbed her better judgement.

Run. Run. Run!

Calliope took off down the hallway, sprinting in the direction of the staircase as indicated by the illuminated exit signs. Her bare feet slapped against the polished floor, the sound deafening in her ears. He could hear her. He would find her.

In her mind, she could already feel him breathing down her neck. Were those his heavy footsteps behind her? Her frantic thoughts assured her that at any moment he would grab her by the hair and pull her backwards into her certain demise.

She stretched her arms forward as she approached the door to the stairs. Just a few more feet and she could run as quickly down the stairs as her wobbly legs would allow. She would run all the way home barefoot and nearly naked if necessary.

She shoved into the stairwell, nearly toppling head over heels down the flight before her. The silence had been broken by more than just her startled gasp and uncoordinated flailing. She heard the heavy sound of frantically labored breathing, and the slapping of sensible shoes as they ascended the stairs. Calliope watched with wide eyes as a woman rounded the corner.

The woman was pretty, with curly blonde hair piled atop her head in a messy bun. She was dressed in a nurse’s scrubs, the pale pink fabric splattered with blood. Her fear was tangible, and for a moment Calliope found herself unable to move beneath the oppressive weight of it. The nurse spotted her, pale as a ghost and illuminated by the emergency light that illuminated the landing. A brief spark of hope chased the terror momentarily from her eyes.

“You have to help me! He killed the others, he’s trying to kill me!”

He.

The air was sucked from Calliope’s lungs in one fell swoop. This poor woman couldn’t possibly know the depth of the situation. There would be no escape, not for either of them. Not now that he was here, bearing down upon them. She couldn’t move, and even as the nurse began to ascend the stairs towards her, she could feel his presence.

Like a ghost materializing from empty space, Michael separated from the shadows as he stepped into view. Calliope felt as if he had a hold on her heart even from afar, strangling it and halting its frenzied beating. The nurse wailed when she glanced back at him, the sound of her panic splattering against Calliope’s eardrums. Michael’s focus was fixed to his current prey, but she felt it in every atom of her body when his eyes lifted and found her.

She knew it. He was here to kill her. She had outlived her usefulness and he had come to rid himself of her once and for all. She didn’t want to die, there was so much of her life she had left to live.

No, she decided, she would live. She looked back at Michael directly, shaking off the blank, frozen posture of a deer trapped in the headlights. Maybe it was a feverish imagining of her own desperation, but she could have sworn there was an unfamiliar glint in his eyes. His head tilted downwards to the nurse once more, and a horrible understanding crashed down upon her.

Calliope could save herself, but it would cost this innocent woman her life.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. She saw the woman reaching towards her as she stumbled up the stairs. She could grab this woman and drag her with her, back through the door she had come in. She could lock it behind them, putting a barrier between them and Michael. Maybe that would give her the time she needed to escape and save this nurse whose only crime was having the misfortune of working at this hospital. Maybe they could outsmart Michael long enough to make it to safety.

It was wishful thinking.

Most likely, he would catch them elsewhere. He would kill the nurse first, make Calliope watch while he stabbed her in the belly and let her bleed out. He would show her just how futile her attempted altruistic disobedience truly was. Then he would wrap his hands around her throat and choke the life out of her. Escape was not an option.

She felt herself turning before she understood it was happening. She had made her choice without consciously realizing it. She took the first step away, and then time was moving once more and she was running through the door and into the hallway. The cries of “Wait!” and “Please!” from the nurse were like a punch to the stomach, but she did not slow.

Calliope slammed the door behind her. Despite the near violent shaking of her hands, her fingers found the lock and she forced the bolt into place. She took a step back just as the nurse threw herself against the solid wooden barrier.

She was close enough that Calliope could see the tears streaming down her face. She saw the fear and the confusion, the desperation and the bitter sorrow. The woman pounded on the door and screamed. The sound of it was indescribable, and Calliope thought it might shatter her.

A shape loomed over the woman and she screamed again, although this time it rang in her head like a death knell. The muffled keen ended in a choked gurgle. Calliope could not withhold the gasped cry that escaped her as the nurse’s body jolted and she coughed blood onto the thin window pane. The light fled her eyes. The tension in her form slackened. For a moment, Calliope held eye contact with a corpse, and then the woman she had sentenced to die slid to the floor and out of her view.

She was left watching the rise and fall of a familiar chest, tinted crimson by the film of blood on the reinforced glass. She knew she had to unlock and open the door, but the irrepressible primal urge to turn tail and flee nearly took hold of her. It was odd, but although fear made her hesitate, it was no longer a fear of Michael.

She couldn’t bear to see the evidence of what she had done. If she were to open the door, then she would be forced to look upon the accusingly empty face of the woman she had killed as surely as if she had been the one to wield the knife. The blood of this complete stranger was on her hands. Guilt dug its claws into her stomach, making her feel nauseous.

Michael shifted, a sign of his growing impatience.

Calliope stepped forward. Reached out. Grasped the lock. Twisted. Each and every movement was mechanical, slowed by her reluctance. She could have sworn the handle was slick with blood when she took hold of it.

She pulled the door open, choking on the bile the rose in her throat at the scent of death it released. She couldn’t look down at the corpse Michael stepped over so uncaringly. Calliope backed up to accommodate him, looking at the blank facade of his mask for any indication of his intentions. She had done what he wanted, dirtied her own hands and surely proven her devotion. It had to be enough.

He towered over her, looming in the low light of the corridor. The two of them were enveloped in darkness and the sound of Michael’s breathing behind the mask. A cold sweat had broken out across her skin. The paper thin hospital gown stuck to her back uncomfortably. Michael, like some horrific angel of death, was drenched in blood and viscera. A gory halo seemed to hang around him as a reminder of what carnage he was capable. Blood, fresh and shining, dripped from the knife in his hand and splattered in ruby droplets on the linoleum.

She wondered how many people he had killed that night. She wondered if she would be next.

Calliope took a tremulous, hesitant step forward. Her heart had finally begun beating again, and it did so with all the vigor of a runaway train. Entering his proximity felt like stepping into the jaws of a hungry lion, but she needed to show him that she was his. Always. She would not run despite every instinct she had begging her to flee.

She couldn’t remember him taking a step forward, but it seemed that he was suddenly overwhelmingly close. The energy rolling off of him was suffocating, and she found herself choking on every breath. He was just staring at her, but her knees shook beneath the weight of her body. Tears stung her eyes. This was the moment of truth. Michael was her judge, jury, and executioner.

She opened her mouth, hoping to explain that she hadn’t meant to get in the accident, that she had been trying to get back to him when he found her. No sound came out. She closed her mouth before trying again.

“Michael-”

The knife clattered to the ground and he lunged at her.

Calliope shrieked as his hands found her throat and he forced her bodily backwards. Instinct caused her to take hold of his forearms, to try to pry his iron grasp from her neck. This only spurred him on.

He squeezed and she began to panic. No, no, no, no. Not after she had all but murdered that woman whose body was cooling only a few feet awayl. Hadn’t she proved herself? Was it not enough?

The world went dark around her, dim shadow turned pitch black. She clawed futilely at the hands restricting her airway. They could have stood like that for mere moments or for centuries. As her consciousness slipped away, she could only focus on his eyes. They were barely visible, but she saw it. She saw the layer of ice that glazed them over. There was no feeling, not an ounce of compassion.

Calliope didn’t want to see anymore. She couldn’t bear to know how little she mattered to him. She closed her eyes, and accepted oblivion.

***

For the second time that night, Calliope awoke confused and in pain.

She was alive? How? Hadn’t Michael intended to kill her? If he was one thing, it was thorough when it came to the art of murder. If he had intended for her to die, she would be dead.

So he wanted her alive?

She rolled onto her side, taking in the space around her. She recognized it immediately, as it was her bedroom. She had somehow gotten back to her house, and the only viable explanation for such a circumstance, was that Michael had taken it upon himself to carry her here. Or had he driven? He certainly hadn’t taken her car, as she was fairly certain it had lost the battle with whatever tree she had crashed into. She supposed there must have been any number of choices from the vehicles that had belonged to his victims at the hospital.

Oh god, the hospital. The nurse.

The thought of Michael absconding with her unconscious body in the car belonging to the woman she had helped him kill made a guilt-ridden nausea pool in her gut. She gagged, but it had been so long since she had last eaten that there was nothing left in her stomach to expel.

She sat up with a painful slowness. She was naked, she realized, as the cool air of the old house ghosted across her skin. The room was dark, and if she knew anything about Michael, there wasn’t a single light on in the entire house. The moon was gracious enough to illuminate the space as best it could with its wan light. She spotted the thin hospital gown in a heap in the middle of the floor. It looked just as lost and out of place as she felt.

Calliope sat and stared at the article of clothing unblinkingly. She didn’t know what to do. Michael was surely somewhere in the house. He killed enough people at the hospital to have sated his bloodlust for at least a couple weeks. She did not even bother to try to imagine just what he might be doing. For all she knew, he was waiting for her to try to run, and when she did he would burst from a shadow and stab her until she was nothing but pâté smeared across the hardwood floor.

She sat there at the edge of her bed for an agonizing stretch of time. Her fraught nerves felt like they were dragged over hot coals with every heartbeat. Would he seek her out if she took too long? Maybe he thought she was still passed out and would leave her be, but she doubted she would be so lucky.

She took a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself before casting about the room for something to wear. There was clean clothing in a nearby hamper that she had told herself she would fold once she returned home for the day. Surely there was something in there she could throw on.

She stood, intending to head towards the promise of clothing, but as she did she spotted a shape in the shadows. She did not even have the presence of mind to make an attempt at withholding her startled gasp. Michael had been there the whole time. He had watched her sleep, had no doubt watched her war internally with her current reality and the weight of what she had done.

He stalked towards her unhurriedly, but she felt as though she was being circled by sharks. Calliope wanted to stay where she was, to face him and consequently her destiny with all the bravery she could muster. Unfortunately, that wasn’t much.

She stumbled backwards until her thighs hit the edge of the mattress and she tumbled onto her back. She scooted backwards until she could press herself against the headboard and curl her legs into her chest.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out, realizing just how raw her throat was.

She wasn’t sure what exactly she was apologizing for, and she also knew that words had never swayed Michael in the past, but desperation was kicking in and she was at the end of her rope.

He never faltered in his approach. She had to tilt her head back to look up at him when he finally reached her bedside. He didn’t make a move after that. He simply stood there, holding her gaze with a face full of pure indifference. There was none of the intensity she had felt from him in that cursed stairwell at the hospital. Gone too was the frigid emptiness when he had choked her. Now he just seemed… bored. She couldn’t parse what it could mean, and that fact scared her all the more.

He raised his hands, and for a breath she was certain he would choke her again, but instead he took hold of the edge of his mask. She watched as he peeled away his facade, revealing his all too familiar monstrously angelic features. Calliope was astonished every time she saw his face. He was perfect. Even the angry scar that had slashed through the left side of his face could not detract from his beauty. Had she not known what he was capable of, she would have been wholly unsurprised to see him in the pages of a magazine, modelling expensive clothes and perfumes. She had always wanted to kiss the soft bow of his unfairly cherubic lips, but knew that he would never allow such an act of intimacy.

There was the sound of rubber slapping against polished wood as the mask made contact with the floor.

Her breath caught as he made eye contact with her, holding her gaze until he bent forward, took hold of her ankles, and dragged her to the edge of the bed. His fingers dug into her thighs, squeezing the flesh with a pressure that bordered on bruising. He spread them with a painful slowness, and for the first time that night, Calliope felt a modicum of relief.

He still wanted her. She was still useful to him. She was safe. Or as safe as she could be.

Michael released one of her legs, using the hand to drag his fingertips over her inner thigh in a mockery of a gentle caress. His hands were calloused, their roughness standing in direct contrast to the softness of her more intimate areas. He paused, fingers mere centimeters from her bared sex.

She knew what he was doing. He was observing her. He probably wanted her to squirm. Begging him to touch her would do nothing, but he wanted to see her body weak with need.

Calliope stared at the ceiling. Even in the lowlight she could pick out the water-damage stains from when the roof had leaked last fall. Her life had been simpler then, when leaky roofs were the greatest of her concerns.

She sucked in a gasp between gritted teeth as he parted her folds and brushed his thumb over her clit. She was sure that at any moment he would pinch it, or bite her thigh, or do something else to cause her pain. She braced for what she was certain would come, but was left on pins and needles as Michael merely continued his exploration of her lower body.

Calliope’s eyes went wide as he slowly pressed a finger inside of her. This couldn’t be happening. There was no way Michael was being generous. He curled the finger experimentally and she choked down a moan. He repeated the motion and the wanton sound escaped her freely.

She could feel his eyes on her. She knew Michael was observing her closely as he pulled her pleasure out of her in increments. He wasn’t driving into her punishingly, but rather acting like a real lover might.

Enlightenment came to her like a speeding bullet.

This wasn’t punishment, this was a reward. He was pleased with her cooperation. She had allowed him to kill the nurse, and had only heightened the woman’s fear by offering her a glimmer of hope. She had made the game more fun for him with her inadvertent intervention.

Despite guilt insistently rearing its ugly head, she wanted to sigh in relief. But she didn’t dare. Just because he was pleased with her cooperation didn’t mean he wouldn’t shift to torturing her at the drop of a hat. Her life with Michael was a roller coaster and it was all she could do to strap in and hold on for dear life.

Michael pressed his thumb to her clit again, causing her hips to buck of their own volition. He used one hand to pin her pelvis to the bed and continued his ministrations. All of her nerves felt as though they were alight with electricity. She was unbearably wet, and his finger inside of her needy cunt felt like heaven. Long forgotten was the soreness in her body or the throbbing of her head. Calliope pushed aside her lingering nausea over her sins and culpability, and gave herself wholly to the once-in-a-lifetime feeling of Michael giving instead of taking.

Cautiously, she opened her legs wider, granting him easier access to her more intimate areas. He didn’t react at first, but then inserted a second digit to join the first. He curled his fingers inside of her, brushing against something that ignited fireworks behind her eyes. She bit down on her lower lip with such force that she was sure she would taste blood.

The feeling was overpowering, and made all the more intense by the knowledge that it was Michael doing it to her. She was alight and aflame, but she was happy to burn so long as she could prolong the moment.

He knew he could be her undoing, and he was all too unhurried in winding her up more and more until she would break. Calliope allowed herself to vocalize her pleasure, praying in the back of her mind that he wouldn’t stop, that he would let her ride it out to completion.

His thumb circled her clit in torturous circles and she arched into his touch. She was so close. So, so close. And she was certain that she would lose her mind if he stopped now. She imagined what it would be like if he replaced his hands with his mouth. She imagined those perfect lips on her cunt, imagined the feeling of his tongue. She could picture him looking up at her with a different kind of intensity. It was enough to finally push her over the edge into her climax.

Sparks continued to dance up and down her weak limbs even as she collapsed onto her comforter in an exhausted, sweaty mess. She closed her eyes and tried to bask in the afterglow, pushing away guilt and fear. She tried to simply be happy for a few minutes.

Michael pulled his hands from her sex, and she heard the rustling of fabric as he stood up straight. She could smell the copper of blood that still stained his clothes beneath the heady scent of sex. She pushed that away too, floating desperately in the remnants of bliss.

Distantly, she heard the sound of a zipper, and she knew that her reward was over. She was back to being a thing for him to use, and she was okay with that. It meant she was alive, and it meant that she would still be alive come the morning.

#kofi commission #Michael Myers #smut #crybabyassbitch

19 notes · View notes

peach-mangos · 4 years

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New Year’s Eve

☾ yoo kihyun/im changkyun ☾ holiday fluff/fluff/humor/meet cute/neighbors au...aka the changki new year’s eve au no one asked for lmao ☾ 2.6k ☾ can also read here

“What do you want?”

“Well good morning sunshine—at least you’re up, kind of surprised I must say” Jooheon chuckles on the other side of the line.

“Yeah well—pretty hard to get any sleep when the whole population on this damn apartment hall is up and about causing a ruckus” Changkyun grumbles, and just as he throws open his apartment door, a group of teenage kids zoom past him blowing party horns and leaving in their wake a trail of party tinsel.

“Kyunnie, it’s New Year’s Eve, lighten up. Of course people are excited and happy, they’re celebrating the end of a long ass exhausting year, new beginnings are always welcomed” Jooheon tells him, and Changkyun can’t help but roll his eyes.

He heads back into his apartment to retrieve a trash bag from his kitchen drawer and makes his way out once again.

“You know, in my opinion—every day is an opportunity for a new beginning—don’t understand why everyone and their damn mother lose their shit over this New Year bullshit”

“You know, you used to love celebrating New Year’s Eve until—”

“Whatever, I’m taking down all these damn decorations” Changkyun says cutting off his friend, “the regulations of our apartment complex doesn’t allow them for safety purposes”

“Dude” Jooheon laughs, “isn’t that a little too much?”

“I’m sorry, was there a reason for this call?” Changkyun asks shoving his cellphone between his ear and shoulder while trying to hold open a trash bag in one hand and ripping off “Happy New Year” decorations off the hallway walls with the other.

“Right, get showered, get dressed—we are going out tonight”

“Like hell we are” Changkyun chuckles bitterly and continues making his way down the hall ripping off decorations with a fiery purpose.

“Listen man, I know it’s been hard for you to celebrate New Year’s ever since Soobin—but damn it, we are doing something this year. We all let it slide last year because it was still pretty fresh, but not this year. You are not gonna sit in that apartment in your old man flannel pajamas and greet the year alone and bitter”

“Are you done?” Changkyun asks making his way towards the elevator.

“Yes” Jooheon concedes harrumphing at his friend.

With that, Chankgyun hangs up on his best friend and tries to close off the gate to the elevator.

“HOLD THE ELEVATOR PLEASE!” someone yells, and usually—well, usually Changkyun isn’t one to be an asshole— but he really isn’t in the mood to share an awkward elevator ride with some random stranger at the moment. So instead of holding the gate open as the unsuspecting stranger had asked, Changkyun rushes to close it.

As his crummy luck would have it though, the trash bag full of holiday decorations he was on his way to get rid of gets stuck between the gate, giving the stranger just enough time to reach the elevator.

“I know you heard me” the guy accuses, narrowing his eyes at Changkyun.

“Oh, sorry , I’m a little hard of hearing” Changkyun lies adjusting his hoodie and begrudgingly making space for the man to get in. He hates the fact that he has to do a double take because —upon closer inspection—his new elevator companion is quite the looker. Dressed to the nines beneath his cream colored winter coat in a silky red button up dress shirt buttoned down all the way to the center of his chest, nice black crispy ironed dress pants accompanied by shiny polished black dress shoes and hair slicked back.

“Are you a little blind as well, you literally saw me rushing towards you”

I wish, Changkyun thinks, a light chuckle escaping his lips. “You know, you’re kind of loud for such a small person” he muses, making the tiny handsome man blush.

“And you’re a little bit of a dick, but that’s none of my business, is it? Could you press the floor button now, please?”

Laughing at how easy it had been to ruffle the guys’ feathers, Changkyun obediently moves over and carries on with pressing the button to the apartment complex’s lobby.

Not even a minute into the elevator ride and the damn metal contraption begins to make a startling noise followed by staggering movements that cause both men to topple forwards in loss of balance.

“The hell was that?” the stranger asks, eyes wide and panicked.

“Think the elevator broke, genius” Changkyun sighs leaning against the metal wall.

“Broke? BROKE?!” Mr. Slicked Back hair wails, “it can’t be broke, I’m going to be late for work? Isn’t there an emergency button or something ?” he asks looking around franticly for the emergency button. He finds it behind a small door next to the button selection also containing a red emergency phone. “Hello, this is Yoo Kihyun from apartment 3B, can someone help us?”

Changkyun chuckles because of course, he’s the new guy that moved into 3B.

“Hey, 3B—phone doesn’t work, genius. Can’t you see it’s not even connected?” Changkyun tells him rolling his eyes.

“Well, do something, don’t just stand there!” 3B wails slamming back the phone into place.

“This happens every other week dude, they’ll get us out eventually” Changkyun shrugs, and the guy, Kihyun visibly deflates.

“How long do you think it’ll take?” he asks defeatedly.

“Could be a couple of hours, to be honest”

Kihyun staggers back into the opposite metal wall and groans, “couple of hours?” he whispers in disbelief. He runs a hand through his hair and gasps, as he looks up he notices an opening and walks over to slap Changkyun on the chest.

“Look, up there, there’s an escape door—you seem stronger I’m not even going to lie, and my shoulders are much narrower than yours—think you could maybe lift me up?” Kihyun asks.

“First of all, ow—your rings, asshole” Changkyun whines rubbing at his chest, “Second, I mean I guess I could, but that thing looks like it’s bolted shut man”

“Doesn’t hurt to try” Kihyun tells him already shrugging off his coat, and Changkyun can’t help but roll his eyes.

“This job so damn important you’re willing to squeeze out of an escape door in an old and faulty elevator?” Changkyun asks groaning as he awkwardly tries to lift Kihyun up. He isn’t that much taller than the guy, he doubts he’ll be able to reach the trap door even with Changkyun lifting him.

As Kihyun struggles to make his hands reach the ceiling, something slips out from around his neck and out of his shirt slapping Changkyun in the face.

“You’re a groupie ?” Changkyun asks, narrowing his eyes at the shiny VIP pass, voice full of judgement.

Kihyun freezes in his arms.

“Put. Me. Down” he bites out.

Changkyun is quick to do as he’s told and let’s Kihyun slide down and out of his arms.

Once his feet are back on the floor, Kihyun immediately walks away as far away as possible from Changkyun, hiding his VIP pass and crossing his arms across his chest.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to say it like that, I just wondered” Changkyun tells him truthfully.

“Why the hell do you have a trash bag full of party decorations?” Kihyun asks instead.

“Took them down from our hallway, we aren’t allowed to hang decorations like that. It’s against the regulations of the complex” Changkyun tells him as a matter of fact.

“Why is that any of your concern? Why is it up to you to police the way people enjoy their holiday? God, of course I get stuck in an elevator with the goddamn grinch of the apartment complex. Who hurt you dude?”

“Ex fiancé” Changkyun tells him, a sad smile on his lips, “two years ago, to the day, actually. Cheated on me the night of our engagement party with who I thought was one of my best friends”

“Well fuck” Kihyun groans blowing out an awkward breath and sits down on the little wooden bench lining one of the walls of the elevator. “Fuck, I’m sorry man—“

“It’s alright, it’s whatever now, you know? But yeah, you’re right. Did turn me into a bit of a grinch, which kinda sucks because I used to love celebrating New Year’s with my best friends” Changkyun confesses.

“I never understood the concept of cheating” Kihyun sighs, “if you feel like you no longer have strong feelings for the person you’re with, just tell them and set them free. Don’t hurt them and waste their time. It’s selfish and plain old mean” he tells him.

“Sounds like you have strong opinions on the subject as well then” Changkyun muses.

Kihyun smiles and stands up.

“You said it’d be a couple of hours right? Well then, I guess we’ll just have to have a party of our own. Rediscover your love for the New Year’s celebration. Come on, we’ve got decorations “ Kihyun says coming over to pull out the holiday decorations trash bag from his fingers.

“But the—” and the withering look Kihyun levels him with has Changkyun shutting up immediately and pliantly handing over the bag and it’s contents.

“Come on grumpy, start putting these banners up” Kihyun demands shoving an array of banners onto his arms. He then rummages through the bag and manages to find a pair of party hats. Making a small noise of triumph, he walks over to strap the red one on Changkyun, smiling when it earns him an eye roll.

“You are something else, 3B”

In comfortable companionship, both men decorate the elevator to their best ability with the few decorations they have, Kihyun occasionally humming random tunes.

“So what do you do for a living?” Kihyun asks as he strings tinsel around.

“I’m a comic book illustrator”

“Oh, is that so? Draw something for me then” Kihyun demands, pulling out a pen and paper pad from his bag, and Changkyun has begun to realize Yoo Kihyun from apartment 3B is quite the demanding fella.

“You’re so bossy” Changkyun says with a chuckle, he takes the man’s pen and pad nonetheless and begins to draw. “What about you? What do you do?”

“Well for starters, I’m not a groupie” Kihyun says pointedly. “I’m a singer, well back up singer right now. It’s why I have this pass, I’m supposed to be performing at the ball drop on New Year’s Eve in Times Square” he sighs sadly.

“Sing something for me then, so I can concentrate on your drawing” Changkyun laughs and Kihyun shakes his head furiously.

“No way man, maybe if we get out of this damn elevator you can come watch me perform instead”

Changkyun shoots Kihyun a look and both burst out in laughter.

They carry on talking for hours about the randomest things. From their earliest childhood memories to likes and dislikes to the reasons why they’re both in New York.

“Are we ever gonna get out of here?” Kihyun sighs defeatedly, “not that you aren’t wonderful company, but I’ve already missed the rehearsal. I’m sure it’s nearing ten p. m, god, I’m really going to miss my chance to perform at Times Square” he laments.

“I’m sorry dude—but hey, look we still have time before you have to go on, you said your performance is at 11:30, right? Perhaps by then” Kihyun gives Changkyun a, ‘thanks for trying’ look and smiles.

“You done with that drawing then?” Kihyun asks and Changkyun laughs nodding his head.

“Here, happy New Year’s” Changkyun laughs handing Kihyun his illustration of him frantically yelling for help earlier in the elevator clutching onto the emergency phone for dear life.

“You are insufferable, I hope you know” Kihyun laughs taking the drawing from his hands. “But you’re actually pretty good, this is so intricate, how do you do that?” he says voice full of awe.

Changkyun just shrugs rubbing the back of his neck bashfully.

“We’re supposed to be having a party” Kihyun comments, then stands up and begins to narrate his movements.

“The handsome young singer scanned the room, when suddenly, his eyes made contact with another handsome young man”

Changkyun tolled his eyes but stood up.

“They stared at each other for a moment, tentatively smiling at one another” at this point Kihyun shoots Changkyun a shu smile and he can’t help but birst out into a fit of laughter.

“Tentatively!” Kihyun exclaims laughing as well.

“Okay, okay—how about now?” Changkyun asks trying his best at a tentative smile.

“Eh, guess it’ll do” Kihyun teases. “We finally cross the room, just as everyone starts to count down…” Kihyun comes closer to Changkyun, smiling and begins to count. “Ten, nine, eight, seven” Kihyun’s words are barely above a whisper now, and Changkyun feels likes his face is on fire. He doesn’t know what to do with himself or where to look, so he settles for Kihyun’s eyes, which—kind of a mistake. A feeling of being able to lose himself in that pair of warm brown eyes settles over him and he really thinks, fuck it, it’s the New Year. If he were to kiss this man right here, it would be a perfect end to the year. “Six, five, four, three, two—”

Just as Kihyun is about to close the distance between them, the elevator shakes once again throwing both men backwards as it descends properly once again.

Both men clear their throats once the doors to the elevator open, and a group of tenants cheer.

“See, told you I’d get it fixed—and it only took what, leight hours” their landlord cheers, and several tenants erupt in a chorus of annoyed ‘shut ups’ and ‘took you long enoughs’.

“Oh my god, I can still make it, if I hurry”

“Then you should probably head out” Changkyun tells Kihyun clearing his throat.

“I uh—yeah, I’ll see you around. Happy New Year” Kihyun tells him as he rushes out the hallway.

“Yeah. See you around” Changkyun sighs making his way back to the elevator. “Hold that for me will you Mrs. Jensen”

And as Changkyun makes his way back into that damned elevator he notices a rubber pink balance bracelet on the ground.

Fuck.

He picks it up and rushes out of the elevator once more irritating a few dozen of his neighbors in the process and runs out hoping he can make it to Kihyun in time.

Turns out, he does make it to Times Square in time, he barely catches Kihyun on his way up the stage.

“HEY! 3B!” he exclaims.

Startled, Kihyun turns around, eyes wide and mouth hanging open in a silent gasp.

“You’re—what? What are you doing here?” Kihyun asks.

“I uh—well I found this, figured it might be yours. I don’t know” Changkyun laughs.

“How did you even get back here?”

“Security is actually so bad? They think I’m the band’s drummer” Changkyun laughs.

“You came all the way out here—in your pajamas, I might add—to hand me my bracelet?”

“It says it’s for balance, didn’t want you out there performing without it. And who knows, maybe it’s good luck. What do I know?” Changkyun mumbles, now blushing slightly.

“Thank you, that’s really sweet of you” Kihyun laughs taking the bracelet from Changkyun’s hands.

And he’s not sure what gives him the courage to do what he does next, but “ you also forgot this in the elevator,” he says. In one swift movement, he leans up to press a kiss to Kihyun’s lips, pulling him in by his dress pants belt loops. It takes Kihyun about 0.01 seconds to respond, clutching fiercely only the fabric of Changkyun’s hoodie.

“I’m—yeah okay, thanks for that” Kihyun says in a bit of a daze once he’s pulled away, “I’m glad you remembered that” he says clearing his throat.

Changkyun shoots him a million wat smile and presses a light peck to his lips once more.

“Go knock them dead, tonight, I’m your groupie” Changkyun jokes.

“Go!” Kihyun says laughing heartily and Changkyun supposes that maybe new beginnings really are welcomed.

#monsta x fic #changki fic #monsta x #changki #mine: fic #mine: changki fic #yoooo first mx fic #im so happy

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raendown · 6 years

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OKAY! THAT'S FINE!! I wanted to request a Fanfiction AU where Hinata Hyūga was only six years old when her twin sister, Haruko Hyūga, was kicked out of their home due to her rebellious nature. ( This takes place in a modern AU.) Their stern father and his daughter's attitude is what made them drift. When Haruko comes back after so many years, ( she's about nineteen), old wounds open once more.

Hinata was a good daughter. There were few positive thingsthat she could say about herself with any certainty but that was one thing shehad never doubted, had never let herself fall short on. Hyuga Hinata was a good daughter – because she knew whatwould happen to her if she were not.

“You are not to speak to her.” Her father’s voice was coldand sharp, even more so than usual, and just that extra bit distant which meantthat he had almost forgotten she was here in the room even as he continued tospeak to her. “I will be gone an hour to fetch the inheritance documents shewants and you, Hinata, will stay in your room while I am gone. I will not haveher infecting you with ideas and notions so unbecoming of a lady of yourstation.”

“And what if I am hungry, Father?” she asked quietly. Afterclass she had gone straight to violin lessons. From there she had attended herballet recital. It had been hours since she had eaten anything and she was usedto her guardian paying closer attention to what she ate.

The heir to the Hyuga line could not be any less thanperfect, after all. Heaven forbid she lose or gain an unwanted pound.

“You may ask the staff to bring dinner to your room, Isuppose.” Her father was already walking away and Hinata understood that theirconversation had ended. Most of their conversations ended this way, with awordless dismissal and the back of his coattails disappearing around a corner,always leaving her behind and never once thinking to explain to her why.

Hinata closed her eyes and went through one of the breathingexercises she sometimes taught to the younger ballet students. When she openedher eyes again she looked around the room and thought how beautiful her cagewas, how comfortable yet cold.

Soft footsteps approached from the opposite end of the halldown which her father had appeared. Thinking it was only the housekeeper, sheturned with her most polite smile and folded her hands demurely to present apleasant image. The house staff were always kinder about indulging her requestsif she could ask them with a smile. If she wasn’t kind enough, wasn’t poisedenough, wasn’t enough of a perfect lady, not a single one of them wouldhesitate to carry tales to her father.

As it turned out, it was not the housekeeper who arrived inthe doorway. Hinata’s polite façade cracked, her jaw dropping open withsurprise, when she saw who was there. Somehow she had forgotten what it waslike to look at another’s face and see her own staring back. Haruko was so farfrom the young girl she had been when last they saw each other and yet somehowshe hadn’t changed a bit. She wore her hair long and swept up in to a messybun. Her clothes were bright, colors Hinata herself could never dream ofwearing, and they looked more comfortable that anything the high-end fashionstores could ever produce.

None of that was what truly held Hinata’s attention. It washer eyes, bright and laughing like they always had been, a nearly-forgottencherished memory. Haruko was the spitting image of herself and yet Hinata hadnever been able to see anything of herself in her twin.

“He hasn’t changed,” Haruko remarked, jerking her head backtowards the hall. Hinata fought against the urge to sway on the spot with somany indescribably emotions.

“Welcome home,” was all she could say. Haruko snorted andHinata winced. Had she said the wrong thing?

“This isn’t my home,” her twin pointed out. “He kicked meout when I was six. Six. Just becauseI wanted to have a real childhood and play with the other kids. I don’t knowhow you’re still here, to be honest.”

Hinata lowered her eyes. “I know. I’m sorry. I should havefought for you more or m-maybe tried to find you. I’m sorry, sister, that Icould not be better.”

Gentle fingers grasped her chin and she jumped in surpriseto find Haruko right there in front of her with the gentle expression ofsomeone trying to calm a wild animal. It was the first time they had touched inthirteen years, the first time they had seen each other since her twin had beensent away to live with some distant relative who had abandoned theirtraditional family ways decades ago. Yet now that they were finally heretogether, now was when Hinata felt her heart yearning for her other half themost.

So close and yet so far, as the saying goes.

“You were also only six years old too,” Haruko told her. Unableto think of how to respond, Hinata frantically checked the doorway and fellback on what she knew best: behaving.

“F-father said that I am not to speak to you.”

“Well your father can suck a dick.”

“He is your father too!”

“No,” Haruko’s voice cracked like a whip. “He’s nothing to me. And I’ll bet he’s littlemore than that to you. Just answer me one thing, one question Hinata, and Iwill leave you be. Does he make you feel like he loves you?”

If Hinata had an answer for that it would not be a pleasantone. She stared helplessly at Haruko as her sister nodded in understanding, nojudgement in her expression but a strangely comforting sort of sadness in hereyes. Were she any less trained in the arts of suppressing herself she mighthave allowed herself to cry right there but Hinata had been the sole focus ofher father’s search for perfection since she was but a child. She wasn’t sureshe remembered how to cry.

“Don’t look so sad,” Haruko murmured, like it wasn’t herwords that brought this on. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to be sorry. You’re right.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes it sucks to be right. Look, I shouldgo before anyone catches us talking.”

Fear lanced through her and Hinata thoughtlessly reached outto touch her sister’s arm. “No, please wait…” Haruko caught her hand and heldit tightly, shaking her head but smiling in a reassuring manner.

“I don’t want to cause trouble for you right now but…HinataI swear. If you want me to – if it’swhat you want – I swear I’ll comeback for you. I’ll find a way for us to see each other again. Would you…do youthink you might want that?” For the first time since entering the room, Harukolooked unsure of herself. Hinata barely even had to consider it.

“Yes. I want that.”

“Oh thank god,” Haruko said with a quiet laugh. “I’ve missedyou, you know?”

Without giving Hinata any time to say the same, Harukoturned and hurried towards the hall, looking both ways to make sure the coastwas clear and then disappearing with a silent wink thrown over her shoulder.

Hinata stood alone in the center of the drawing room withboth hands outstretched and her mouth working soundlessly in a most unladylikemanner. It took several minutes for her to compose herself, something thatwould have brought her great shame if there had been anyone there to witnessher moment of vulnerability. Eventually she was able to pull her jaw back upand straighten her shoulders just in time for another figure to enter the room.

The housekeeper looked at her with both beady eyes narrowedin suspicion, her uniform as immaculate as befitting someone who served such anoble house. Hinata hated her. It wasn’t very often she allowed herself such uncouththoughts but by all the gods she hated this woman.

“My lady,” the woman greeted her with a grudging curtsy. “Doyou not wish to retire to your room?”

“Of course. I only worried that venturing in to the hallsmight bring me in touch with unsavory company.” A gentle smile concealed the truththat the housekeeper was that very company she had wished to avoid.

“Very well. The hallways are clear now, should you wish toretire. I shall have dinner brought to you as per your father’s instructions.”

Hinata nodded once then swept herself away, chin up head andthoughts racing ahead of her. Whether or not Haruko realized it, she hadoffered Hinata more than just a path towards freedom. She had offered a chanceto make up for the lifetime they had spent apart.

Because Hinata had been a good daughter for long enough. Itwas time she started being a good sister too.

#rae writes #hinata #oc babies #fanfiction

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jpat82 · 6 years

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Bad Plan

A/n: this fic that I’m adding into rotation is one I started well over a year ago. The original first chapter was over 5k words long so I’m going to have to break it up. It’s also Karl Urban, cause I mean, hello he’s gorgeous as well.

Summary: Renee had a fail proof plan to get rid of her nervousness for sending in her writing manuscripts. Audition for a movie, surely she'll get rejected.

The plan backfired and now she has to act, joining a crew of seasoned actors from Star Trek. Her quick friendship leads her down the rabbit hole with Karl Urban.

CHAPTER 1:part 1

Some of the dumbest things in my life I have done because of the phase 'meh, why not'. This however was more based on trying to get used to being rejected. You see, I'm a writer, I write fiction and screen plays. I have yet to send one to get publish or sent to be read by a director, mainly for the fear of being told 'hey, this sucks, so do your self a favor and stop wasting your time writing.' My bright idea was 'hey, let's audition for some movie roles, you'll surely be turned down multiple times and get used to it'.

So when I got a call back for a second audition my anxiety sored through the roof and I felt like relocating to Mexico. This is not how this was supposed to go, I'm not an actor. I was supposed to be laughed at and told to bugger off.

When I received the call after the second audition and was told I got the female co lead in this movie I about choked and died. I have massive anxiety problems when in new place, new situations, and around people I don't know. This was not the plan, and just like life has always done in the past it decided to slap me face and pull the rug out beneath my feet.

“So, Renee," my sister, Rosalyn inquired with a hint of amusement in her voice as I was breathing into a paper bag, "whatchya going to do now? Can't exactly back out."

“Says who?" I sneered into the bag, sitting on the couch.

“The fact you went through both auditions," she giggled, " how's your bright idea now?"

“Bite me, rainbow bright." I leaned back into the couch, pulling the paper away from my face. I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to think clearly. There was a couple saving graces about this movie set. A.) it was local, it was being filmed in and around the Oregon city area and B.) I was a no-body. I could blend in a lot easier.

“What's the name of movie? Who's going to be in it?" She pounced on to the couch next to me, I turned my head ever so slightly and just stared her. This month her hair was pale blue with hot pink roots, her ghostly colored skin was pinkened from just get done working out.

“I don't know, to either of those questions."

“How do you not know? What's was the script you read?"

“I wasn't paying attention and I can't remember. I was trying to get through the ordeal."

“Your going to make a horrible actress if you can't remember any of that." She stated, pushing up off the couch. "What about your normal job? Since it takes a couple of months to film."

“I already talked to my manager, I'm taking a leave of absence. And thanks for the ego boost."

“Your welcome!"

*****

The next few weeks after that were spent getting my rear end handed to me by a personal trainer. Who by the way, was adamant about a very strict eating schedule, which I was severely punished for daily by drinking Starbucks. I also had a trainer for learning how to fight, all of it choreographed of course but still. Most nights I came home very late and couldn't remember how I made it my bed. Just to wake up to my phone going off by Satan calling me two hours before I was supposed to work out.

My sister being the loving and caring individual she was would poke my sore muscles. Drink some wine and have her Starbucks all while telling me I couldn't have some. Yes, I knew it was revenge for the countless times I did things to pester her but still.

The first evening on set was a cast and crew get together. I learned that I was joining in on an established movie sequence. So everyone knew each other, except for me. Wonderful. Just my luck, I showed up in my ratty jeans and a nice top. I was told it was a casual occasion, no need to dress up. My short cropped hair was sporting a recent sun burn, first time I have ever had one but then again I didn't start buzzing my head till a couple months ago.

I was wandering around trying to find where we were all supposed to meet up. I found no security guards to help me out, which I thought was odd. I turned down a corridor and bumped into a gentleman.

“Oh, I'm sorry." His accent was heavy, he seemed hesitant on whether to say sir of miss.

“No, it's my fault. I wasn't paying attention to where I was walking. I'm really lost so i keep checking my phone and I'm rattling on, sorry."

“It's okay," he chuckled, my brain was trying to get my attention but I ignored it. "I'm lost myself. Where are you headed to?"

“Some hall, I'm supposed to meet up with a bunch of people I don't know. So it’s not like I can text anybody for help." I showed him the details on my phone.

“Looks like we are headed to same place, but I know everybody. And none of them are answering their phones anyway." He smiled, something about this guy. I recognized his smile, but not his voice. Which is odd for me, normally I recognized voiced first.

“Well, isn't that nice of them." I chuckled, he was a damn good looking man.

“I guess it would be better to be lost with someone then be lost alone." He stuck his elbow out inviting me to take it.

“Sounds like a wonderful plan, People look at ya weird when you talk to yourself." Open mouth insert foot. He let out a deep chuckle.

“That's for sure." We continued to wandered the abandoned building.

“Karl!" Someone yelled from behind us, he turned his head looking over shoulder. It was dark and couldn't make out the mans voice but I knew who it was right off the bat. He jogged over. "Where the hell have you been?"

“Lost." We followed Chris as he walked back the room where everyone was. It didn't take long to figure out who I was walking with or what movie this was now. "who's your new friend?"

“Actually I never got her name."

“My name is Renee Winter."

“Ah, your going to play the new ensing." Pine flashed his pearly whites. We walked into the large hall. Easily over a hundred people, slightly loud, and I felt like a panic attack was about to hit. I must of instinctively gripped Karl's arm a bit tighter. He looked over at me with a bit of concern on his face.

“Hey, your fine. Just breathe." He whispered into my ear. "Let's go get a drink and then I'll introduce to everyone."

He ordered two drinks, I was trying to gather myself back up. He handed me something, I took a sip, it was sweet and warm despite the ice. He made eye contact with me, and smiled.

“So what's your anxiety from? The amount of people or because of who all is in the room?" He asked, I turned my head to survey the room. Karl gently brought his knuckle up and turned my head back to face him. "Breathe, and keep looking at me."

“There's a lot of people here, and it's the complete uncertainty of the situation." I breathed out, breaking eye contact and looked down at the ground.

“You'll be fine, we can go and let you meet people one on one. Take a break and step out into the hall, get a breather in." I just nodded, slowly looking back up at him. "I have a couple close friends and family members who have anxiety. So don't worry about judgement."

He slowly lead me around the room, I faked being fine. Joking around while getting to know the cast. It was an hour into the shindig before we stepped out in the hall. I sped to the opposite wall and started to gulp down air like fish.

“No wonder they picked you. If it weren't for the death grip, I wouldn't have suspected that you any anxiety." He jested.

“Sorry, bout that." Turning, pressing my back against the cool wall. I stared at ceiling, wondering how big of an ass I was making myself out to be.

“So, tell me about yourself, Renee." He asked leaning up against the wall with me.

“Like what?"

“What other acting gigs have you done?"

“None, literally the first time auditioned."

“Seriously? Lucky break, most get turned down hundreds of times."

“I know, I was banking on that."

“Huh?" I could see the perplexed look out of the corner of my eye.

“I'm not an actor, I'm a writer. I was doing this to get used to rejection before I sent my stuff to get published. But seeing how I'm cursed, I ended up getting the part." I chuckled to myself.

“Wow, how's that going for ya?" He chuckled with me.

“You know, my sister asked me the same thing."

“Sounds like a smart lady, come on. Time to go back in there." I took a deep breath and walked back in.

“Sorry, I'm terribly late, I got lost in the building." I heard a very unmistakable British accent. Well, my sister is going to flip when I tell her this.

“No big deal, Tom. So did we." Karl replied, giving the man a hug.

“Glad to hear I wasn't the one." Tom chuckled back.

“Tom, this is Renee. She's also new to the Star Trek world." Tom took my hand a gently shook it.

“Pleasure to meet you." He smiled, yeah, my sister was going to murder me in my sleep.

“Nice to meet you too." The rest of the night was just greeting and making small chat. The end of the night Karl walked me back to my car. "Seriously though, thank you. I don't think I would of made it. I would of stood awkwardly in the corner the whole time, looking at my phone every two minutes."

“No big deal. So what hotel do they have you staying at?" We finally reached my car, I grin back at him.

“The beauty of this, I get to go home every night. I live local."

“Lucky duck." He laughed, "kinda jealous."

“Yeah, but I don't get room service. I mean I could try yelling at my sister to make me food but she's a chef and hates coming home to cook. So she would probably poison my food."

“Yeah, don't do that." I opened my car and sat in the seat. "See you tomorrow?"

“Yeah, I'm supposed to be at the make up trailer at 5am. So I'll probably be up earlier, knowing satan." He gave me a weird look. "The personal trainer they gave me."

“Ah." He laughed. I started my car and waved before I left.

*****

“So, tell me." I had just barely cracked the door open.

“Not even going to let me walk in." She was waiting on the couch like black panther.

“Nope, what movie? Who's it in? And no spoilers."

“The new Star Trek, the usual suspects. And I can't tell you all the crew with out giving you any spoilers." I smirked.

“Hang on, what do you mean you can't tell me all the crew without giving me spoilers?!"

“Because someone is in it that normally isn't. And you said no spoilers." I smirk walking into my room.

“Renee Abigail Winter! I'm not done talking to you!" She yelled following me.

“Rosalyn Amy Winter, you told me not to tell you." I flopped onto my bed, repressing my urge to laugh.

“Come on, Renee. Tell me." She pleaded, I shook my head.

“Oh, look at the time, it's midnight and I have to be at work at 5am. I really do need to get some rest now." I feigned a yawn, I was tired but this was far more entertaining.

“Please?!" She was hopeless, if I didn't tell I would get no sleep. If I did tell, well, I probably get no sleep.

“How about how this, I'll text you tomorrow when I get a chance. Because I really do have to get some sleep."

“Fine." Her voice was full of rejection as she slid off the bed. "You better remember."

@kitkatkl

#karl ubran x ofc #karl urban fanfic #karl urban #badplan #chris pine #star trek cast

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corvid-knight · 6 years

Text

Can't Stop Won't Stop

Hoo boy.

Instead of an attempt at a real summary, I'm just going to say a couple things here. One, this is an old fic. Either the second or third homestuck thing I ever wrote. Two, this was written when I was in maybe the shittiest mental state I've ever been in, so like. It's kind of straight out wish fulfillment ("hey I hate my life love me" kind of thing.) (Also I swear things have gotten a hell of a lot better since I wrote this. Like. Don't worry.)

There's self-harm in this.

There's also a rare instance of me writing Dave rapping. I'm still very proud of that even if it sucks.

Nobody dies and there's no blood spilt. I promise.

(Read it on ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14031870)

You are DAVE STRIDER. You're alone in your room, in the dark but for the glow of your computer screen. You're still wearing your shades, though—you always wear the shades, partly because your best bro John gave them to you, partly because you don't like people to see your eyes, and partly because your eyes are hella sensitive to light. Of course, if anyone asks, you wear them because you are the coolest dude on earth.

Not that that's saying much anymore. You, John, Dirk (not your Bro, no matter how much he looks and talks and acts like your Bro he's not), and Jake are probably the last male humans in this universe. And it's your fault, isn't it? You started the game that ended the world.

You push your shades up onto your forehead, rub your eyes, and settle them back into place again.

John's called you a hero, but you're...

You started the game.

You were too afraid to kill your own sleeping self and go godtier.

You were too slow and weak to help your Bro.

You started the game, and that's the one that repeats in your head, all the splintered versions of yourself murmuring it because in everything that you've done that's the thing that haunts you. You invited John into this, you entered as his server player, you were the one who didn't see the danger until it was too late, you were the one who ended the world. You were the one who killed everyone, really, John's dad and Rose's mom and your own Bro, and everything that followed was a result of what you did.

You are anything but a hero.

You shake off the dark thoughts, for a moment at least, and open a new tab in your browser, pulling up the question forum where you left a question. It was simple enough: Is suicide considered either Heroic or Just? In other words, if you're godtier and you kill yourself, will it take?

You went full-on anonymous. Plain black text, no username or anything. Nothing to show who you are.

There's a reply. Five words, in off-yellow text: dont bee a fuckiing iidiiot.

You stare at the words for a moment, then type in a placating reply: It's just a question. Don't get all uptight, dude.

You know who uses that color and quirk, but this forum seems to exist in a half-dozen timelines at once, and you've gotten answers from past and future versions of your friends before, so it might not be exactly who you think it is.

Before you even finish that thought, another message comes up: ii'm not beeing uptiight, youre beeing 2tupiid. death fuckiing hurt2, and the people you leave beehiind get hurt even wor2e.

Your fingers move across the keyboard, spelling out your thoughts and hitting the enter key before you can think about what you're saying: I deserve it, death can't hurt any more than living does, and no one cares enough to be hurt when I do it.

Reading your words onscreen, you realize that you wrote "when" instead of "if." It's really the first time that you admitted, even to yourself, that you're going to go through with this.

While you're still considering that admission, more words come up: 2top. just 2top, ok? ii dont care how much you thiink people hate you. even iif you think there i2 no one out there who care2, there ii2 2omeone, 2omewhere, who wiill cry when youre gone. dont you fuckiing dare hurt your2elf, 2triider.

You puzzle over the last word for a minute before you see that it's supposed to be your name. When you get it, you freeze for a second, then type: I'm not Strider. I don't know who you're talking about.

This time the reply comes back almost immediately: come on dude. we both know ii'm capable of traciing you back, and you diidnt exactly cover your track2. and ii mean what ii 2aiid. iif your hurt your2elf, youre hurtiing everyone who know2 you, and ii'm countiing my2elf iin that. ii dont have enough friiend2 to lo2e another one, dave.

"Damn it," you mutter. "Don't make this about you, Sollux." You type in: You don't know me.

You're about to close the tab and shut down your computer for the night, but before you can move the cursor to the X, another message comes up: 2triider, ii know you better than ii know my be2t friiend. ii know what iit'2 liike to know that your friiend2 are goiing to diie, and have to 2tand iidly by and do nothiing. ii know what it'2 like to 2ee your lu2u2—or parent, whatever—diie in front of you. ii know about your brother, ii know you thiink you kiiled hiim, and ii'm here to tell you that you diidnt.

You hit each key deliberately, but not as hard as you want to: dont talk about bro to me.

You wait for the answer this time, and it does come: you diid nothiing wrong. there wa2 nothing any of u2 could have done to 2ave hiim. to 2ave any of them. ii know, dave.

Your lip hurts from how hard you're chewing on it. It's a stupid nervous habit that Bro trained you out of when you were ten, and you've only started doing it again since he's been gone. You type: Shut up. You don't know anything about it, you weren't there.

The screen stays static after your text comes up, and you stare at it, biting your lip and praying that no more yellow text will come up, that you'll reach the point when you can shut down the computer and walk away. You think of walking into the bathroom, opening the cabinet in the dark and reaching up to the back of the top shelf, feeling around for the still-sealed box of razor blades—

But more words are appearing, under your last ones: ii kiilled my mate2priit wiith my own hands. my lu2u2 diied a2 ii watched. the giirl that could have been my mate2priit 2tepped iin front me and diied takiing a hiit that wa2 2uppo2ed to kiil me. ii wa2 almo2t 2 where you are now, and iit took a hell of a lot of repiitiion2 for my friiend2 2 get thii2 through my thiick 2kull: no matter what you diid or thiink you diid, you dont get to pa22 judgement on your2elf. you are not your own judge, jaiilor, and executiioner. you are not.

You stare at the screen. You honestly don't know what to say to that, what arguements you could use, because half of you can see the truth there.

After a moment, more words come up: 2triider? you 2tiill there?

"How can you know me this well?" you ask, leaning back and pulling your shades off, letting them dangle loosely from one hand, and in the same breath you say, "You don't know shit."

More yellow text comes up: goddammiit 2triider

"I killed everyone," you say, and every bit of your soul believes that statement. You let the shades slip out of your fingers, onto the floor, as you tip the chair back, finding perfect equilibrium and balancing it on two legs. "Every one of my friends, over and over again."

And more: dave fuckiing an2wer me

"I'm worse than useless." You close your eyes. "When I die, at least I can't kill them again."

You'll get up. In a minute, and you do mean in a minute, but suddenly you're tired and you want to sit for a sec. When you get up, you'll go into the bathroom. No need for the lights—you know where what you need is, and you know where the shower is. You can turn the shower on in the dark, that'll wash most of the blood away and make it a little less disgusting for whoever finds you.

Someone shouts—a hoarse inarticulate battle cry—and, from the sound of it, slams a battering ram into your door. Startled, you overbalance the chair. "Shit—" You swallow the rest of the sentence as you hit the floor, bite your lip, and taste blood.

The door's locked, but whoever's pounding on it doesn't seem to care, and after a second blow something splinters. For a moment, even the low light from the hallway is too bright, and you have to blink a few times before you can recognise who it is in your doorway.

Whoever it is short and dark, with nubby horns that almost hide under the artfully messy black hair. Karkat Vantas, you realize a moment before he starts shouting.

"Strider! Fucking answer me!" He sounds angry, he always sounds angry, but there's a current of worry underneath the anger that you've never heard from him before. "Dave!"

"Did you just break my door down?" You sit up, fingering your lip. It hurts, and there's blood staining your fingers when you take your hand away. "Haven't you heard of knocking?"

"You—" Karkat looks past you, higher than your head. At the computer screen behind you. "Fuck..." And he strides across the room and kneels next to you. "Sollux messaged me. He said he was afraid you were going to do something stupid."

"I'm fine." It's a lie, you can hear how bad a lie it is as you say it. You fumble around on the floor, looking for your shades in the faint light from the hall and from your computer. After a second, your hand brushes against them, and you scoop them up. Before you can put them back on, Karkat snatches them out of your hand.

"Don't you fucking lie," he growls, reaching back and setting them on the desk, out of your reach. "Don't you distance yourself like that. What the fuck are you thinking? You can't just die, it doesn't work like that. How the fuck do you think the rest of us are going to feel?"

You wipe your mouth again, and look at the faint streak of red instead of at Karkat. "I'm the reason you can count 'the rest of us' on your fingers," you point out quietly. "You'd be better off—"

"Fucking nooksniffer bulgebrain wriggler," Karkat mutters, and puts his hands on your head, the hollows of his palms at your temples. He pulls your head up, forcing you to meet his strange eyes, shockingly yellow and black with no sclera, framed by shadows darker than his grey skin. His hands are warm, further reminding you how alien he is. "Stop talking like you're fucking expendable. You're a person, not some piece in some cosmic fucking game, and you're not fucking killing yourself."

"I—" You have some arguement, you have it half-planned in your mind, but he runs his hands upward through your hair, like you're some small animal he's petting, and the strangeness of it—the amazing gentleness of his hands, so much at odds with his anger—drives everything else out of your head.

Karkat makes a noise that isn't anything like a word, just a incoherent expression of anger. "What do you humans even do without horns?" he mutters. "I don't fucking get how you people calm each other down. I...fuck." He takes his hands out of your hair—you find yourself oddly sad about that—and sits back on his heels, dragging one arm across his face. When he takes it away, you realize that he's close to tears. "I'm no fucking good at this shit," he says, reaching out with one sharp-nailed finger and wiping a last bit of blood off your lips. "I got fucking lucky last time, one time, and now Sol texts me...he knows how I feel about you, he knows I couldn't stay away and let you..."

"Wh-what?" Something about him is incredibly calming, it always is, even when he's shouting; it's like he's some soothing drug, making you feel like everything is almost all right. But sometimes, you find yourself listening to his voice so closely that you miss what words he's saying. He can't have implied what you inferred. "I don't—"

"You need a moirail, or a fucking matesprit," Karkat says bluntly, "and I wish it was me. And don't give me that 'not a homosexual' shit—number one, it doesn't make any fucking sense, and number two, I've seen how you look at Egbert." He shakes his head, meeting your eyes for a second and then looking down. "You...fuck, I don't know."

"I...this isn't about John. None of this is about him." You feel your face heating up, a blush that you know lights your albino skin like a traffic light. Karkat's right: you look at John, when he's not paying attention, and you had a crush on him, when you met him and before you met him, and you love him and always will, like a brother. But he isn't interested in you as anything else, and you know it, and the peeks that you sneak add up to nothing more than one more guilt to be thrown upon a pile already sky-high. "I never said I was straight—"

"I don't know what that means." Karkat shrugs.

"It means..." Staring at his lowered head, you get an urge to touch him, to feel the heat of his skin, and instead of finishing your sentence, instead of thinking of all the reasons you shouldn't, you reach out and run your fingers through his black hair. It's soft and a little tangled, and as you move your fingers you brush against one of his stubby horns.

Karkat makes a sound like a soft growl, deep in his throat, and his eyes snap up to meet yours. There's pain on his face, pain and sorrow and fear and hope and desire all snarled up together. He reaches out, laying his hands gently against your head again, letting his fingers get tangled in your white hair. He closes his eyes, growling so softly that it can't be called a growl, so softly that he isn't growling, he's...he's purring.

"Karkat," you say, connecting the noise that he's making with his name and forgetting everything in your life except this ridiculous coincidence, this lingual joke across two universes. "Karkat, like a fucking cat, you're a cat, oh my god—"

Karkat lets you go, brushing off your hands as you start to laugh. Fifteen minutes ago you were alone in this room, ready to end everything and force a personal game over, and now you're laughing at a dumb pun that no one in particular created. And that thought makes you laugh harder.

"You really know how to ruin the moment," Karkat grumbles, crossing his arms and looking away from you.

You're still laughing as you lean forward, put one hand under his chin to turn his face to you, and kiss him.

He hesitates for a second, barely long enough for you to fear that you're wrong to do this—and then he wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer and kissing you back.

Karkat tastes like salt and sweetness, like something foreign and exotic, something that you've been looking for your entire life and never found before now. His teeth are smooth as you run your tongue across them, nubby like his horns but wickedly sharp, sharp enough to make you feel like you're on the verge of cutting your tongue, that kissing him is flirting with danger like you'd love to flirt with him. He's growling—or purring—again, and it feels like your head is resonating with it, with him.

You slip your hands up under his shirt, touching his skin. Sliding your hands across his chest, feeling the ridges of his ribs, his heart beating faster than yours ever could.

Karkat moans, exhaling into your mouth, then pulls away. He doesn't let go of you, though. "Wait," he says, and you get an unreasonable flash of pride at how out-of-breath he sounds. "No...no pailing, okay? Not tonight. You...you need something to look forward to, and you need to sleep."

He shifts his grip as you're parsing that sentence, then stands up, lifting you like you weigh next to nothing. The pure shock of it holds you still for a moment—he's tiny, he barely comes up to your shoulders, how can he pick you up this easily?—and then you twist in his arms. "Karkat, c'mon, put me down—"

"Would you fucking cooperate?" The door to your bedroom is ajar; Karkat kicks it open and carries you through, depositing you unceremoniously on the bed. "There; you're down." He flicks on the light, then pulls his shirt off over his head, folding it in a few quick motions and laying it on top of your dresser.

"What are you doing?" You sit up, flicking hair out of your eyes.

"You think I'm gonna leave you alone?" Karkat glares at you, crossing his arms defensively in front of his chest. "And come back tomorrow morning, and find you fucking dead? No fucking way. Move over."

You don't, but he sits down on the bed anyway.

"Karkat—" You stop yourself. Take a deep breath, hold it for a second, let it out again. You don't know why you're arguing with him; you don't want him to go. "Okay."

And you do something that you wouldn't do if it were someone else sitting there, if it were John or Dirk or fucking anyone but Karkat—or if you hadn't seen the oh-so-faint scars covering his chest and back like spiderwebs, only a shade paler than his grey skin. You pull your shirt off, wadding it into a ball and tossing it off the end of the bed. It takes all of your self-control to keep your hands at your sides, to not cross your arms and try to hide what's on your skin.

"Wow." Karkat's tone is soft, not pitying but maybe a bit sad. He touches you lightly with one long-nailed finger, starting at your shoulder and following the tracery downward. "What are they from?"

Usually, you don't talk about your scars. Usually, you don't even admit they exist. Now, you take Karkat's hand and guide it to the worst and most noticable one, the thick vertical line dead center of your chest. "This one's from Jack Noir. When he...stabbed me. Killed me." You move his hand upward, to one running diagonally across your shoulder. This one's thinner, but longer as well, and you can still remember when it happened. "This one, I was sparring with Bro, and one of us fucked up. Probably me." To the other side, lower, a horizontal cut that's faded to almost nothing. "The first time I ever practiced with Bro, I didn't realize that blades bounce, and he...he didn't know I wouldn't know that."

Karkat pulls his hand down to your stomach, brushing his fingers against the close-set ladderwork of horizontal scars there. "How about these?" His voice is unspeakably gentle, so much so that he doesn't sound like the Karkat you know, and you know he already knows the answer to the question.

"Those—" You have to stop for a second. You've never admitted this, not to anyone, and as far as you know no one knows. "Me. Those are from me, okay?"

Every one of those cuts is for a memory of your Bro. After he died, after you knew he was gone, you sat in the dark and you went through your mind, searching out reasons you shouldn't miss him. For every one you found, you cut another line into your skin.

There were so many reasons.

When you turned the light on, you were kind of surprised by how much blood there was.

You're shaking.

Karkat growls in what sounds like annoyance, and stands up. You watch him, afraid that he's going to leave but somehow unable to call him back.

He steps over to the light switch and flicks it off. Your night vision is awful, and as soon as the room goes dark you are, effectively, blind, but you can hear the mattress creak as he sits down.

"Lie down, Dave." That strange gentleness is still in his voice, and as soon as you do what he says he rolls over next to you, putting one arm across your chest like an anchor.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, and you don't even know what you're apologising for.

"You didn't do anything wrong. It's okay. Go to sleep."

"I love you." You don't know why you say that. It's true, but you've never said it to anyone before, not that you can remember; you've always been too afraid to say it.

"Yeah. I love you, too, if it means what I think it does." Karkat sighs. "Go the fuck to sleep, Dave."

And you close your eyes, and you fall asleep, with Karkat lying warmly against you.

You are KARKAT VANTAS, and you can see a little better that Dave can in this darkness, which is to say that you can just make out vague shapes. You watch Dave in the dark, feeling the rythm of his breath slow and stabilize, fall into a calm pattern. He's asleep now, and you can stop worrying. For a minute, at least.

You're not going to leave him here. You're not going to go to sleep, either. Ever since this game started, ever since you first loaded that fucking game into your computer, you've been plagued with intense nightmares. Even before this all started, you had trouble sleeping sometimes; now that you're almost afraid of what waits for you in your dreams, you often stay awake until you physically can't keep your eyes open any longer.

And you don't like human-style beds all that much. Recupracoons make so much more sense.

You run your fingers across Dave's scars again, lightly enough that you won't wake him, starting with the worst one—Jack's—and working your way outward in a widening spiral. His scars show up so much worse than yours—human skin must not heal as efficiently as troll skin. Either that, or Dave's been hurt almost to the point of dying, over and over again.

You don't want to believe that, but you could—Dave looks and talks tough, seems cool and polished, but when he lets his guard fall, he's so fractured and fragile that it hurts your fucking heart. He's like no one you know; if he'd been a troll, he would have either been culled by now or been selected to train as an elite soldier. You'd like to believe the latter, but you honestly don't know.

And he's not a troll, anyway. He's human, uniquely beautiful and alien, different from you and from everyone you've always known. He is like a reflection of yourself in a cracked mirror, like the other half of everything you are.

You're barely awake, at this point. The realization alone should be enough to banish sleep, but all you can find the energy to do is mutter, "Fuck it," and squirm a little closer to Dave.

His skin is cooler than yours, you think as you close your eyes. Like a highblood's, or maybe not a highblood...Terezi? Equius? Not Gamzee, if you remember right (which you might not; it's been so long since you've touched Gamzee, and that though brings a pang of guilt), warmer than Gamzee's skin but only by a little...

You're still contemplating blood tempature when you fall asleep.

Sleep is as big a mistake as you knew it would be, fraught with blood like a liquid rainbow, pain that's only a shadow of what pain can be but still hurts like fuck, memories that are undeniably your own (no matter how much you'd like to deny them) and memories that are hellishly familiar and yet bewilderingly not-yours. Part of the time you know that you're dreaming, but you still can't force yourself awake.

When you do finally wake up, you do it with a stifled whimper, your hands closing convulsively on—

Flesh. Dave's shoulders. At some point, you moved even closer to him, draping yourself over him and curling against him, and now you're pretty fucking sure you just drove your fingernails deep enough into his skin to draw blood. And you're still in the grip of the nightmare, unable to breathe deep enough to apologise, unable to do anything other than shake and cling to him.

"Bad dream?" Dave's whisper is barely loud enough to be heard over your own heartbeat. "I know how that is."

You breath as deeply as you can, shedding some measure of the unreasoning fear, growl, "I'm fucking fine," and immediately regret saying it.

Dave is silent for a second. "Fine," he replies, thoughtfully. "I know I'm not fine, and I don't think you are, either. Not really. But that's okay." One of his hands comes up, stroking your hair but staying well clear of your horns—even though he's not troll, he seems to get that there are times when horns can be touched and times that they definitely should not be. "Right?"

You can feel the vibration that'll become a purr starting in your chest, and it makes you feel even more ashamed for snapping at him. "I'm sorry," you mutter.

Dave considers that for another long moment, fingers combing absently through your hair. When he speaks again, it's not in a whisper but in a low voice that has a cadence that you've heard from him before, when he's rapping with someone else. "So fine my line between loving and dying, in the nick of time you arrive and you strive to keep me alive, don't let me take a dive, you know you saved my life, broke me out of my strife, brought me relief and taught me belief with the words that you weave—" He runs out of breath, inhales sharply, and keeps going, although his voice goes a bit hoarser with every word, "Karkat, please don't leave, you're what I need and without you I'd bleed: words, blood, and pain, colder than death's reign, I would go insane, you're all that can tame the storm in my brain—"

Dave's voice cracks, and he stops rapping. You can hear his breathing, though, ragged and uneven, as he fights not to cry.

"Fuck," you say softly. You can feel your own tears on your face. "Oh, fuck, Dave, fucking..." There are no words, nothing you can find to say, so instead you reach out in the dark, finding Dave's face and wiping tears away as gently as you can. You're so bad at this, always have been, and you're afraid that you'll do something to hurt him worse as you try to comfort him.

Without even thinking, you run one hand through his hair, feeling for horns and not finding any. Dave sighs shakily as you mentally curse yourself.

"Don't leave me," he says quietly, and his voice breaks again on the second word. "Please—"

"You're fucking kidding me." You lean forward, pressing your lips against his forehead for a brief second. "I'd rather cut off my right hand than leave you alone, Strider, and don't you fucking forget it."

He exhales sharply, a gasp turned inside out, and pulls you down just a little, just enough that your mouth meets his. This kiss is even better than the first time, if that's possible. It lasts what seems like forever and like no time at all, and this time Dave's the one who breaks it.

"Are we—are we still on 'no pailing?'" he asks, and you can hear a wicked smile in his voice. "Because if we are, I might be about to have a problem—"

"Fuck that," you tell him, and find his mouth with your own again.

And he is smiling, and you swear on your soul that you won't ever let him stop.

#Dave #Karkat #Davekat #a fuckin' relic

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kinetic-elaboration · 7 years

Text

oh well, you’ve got me under your spell: chapter one

A Bellarke High School AU

Clarke is sophomore class president, assistant copy editor on the school paper, and a member of the debate team.

Bellamy is her best friend's tough, troublesome, protective older brother.

They barely even know each other. And yet for some reason he keeps showing up at her house.

For the prompt “this is the last time I’m letting you into my house,” from this prompt list, requested by @loreley02 (about a million years ago; technically the request for anything from this list for Bellarke).

Chapter One: ~8,900 words

READ ON AO3.

Clarke is in her living room, two-thirds of the way through a horror movie marathon with Raven and Octavia, when a knock sounds on the front door and she almost jumps out of her skin.   

It's past midnight, her parents are asleep, and all the lights in the house are off. Octavia's response—"What the fuck? What was that?"—is a fair one. So is Raven's: "Should I get a kitchen knife?" And so is the beating of Clarke's heart and the chill that runs down her spine as, silently and slowly on bare feet, she leads the trio of them down the front hall and to the door.  

"Who is it?" Octavia whispers, when Clarke leans up on her toes to look out through the peephole. "Axe murderer? Serial killer?"  

"Close." Clarke breathes out a long, relieved sigh as she settles down on her feet again. Then she starts to unlock the door. "It's your brother."  

Any comfort Clarke felt at learning she was not about to die at the hands of a chainsaw-wielding psycho melts away, though, when Raven hits the light switch and she gets a look at Bellamy's face. There's a bad bruise already starting to purple around his eye, his mouth is bloody, and his hands are even worse. His shirt is torn. He sways back a little bit too hard when Octavia jumps forward and wraps her arms around him.  

"Did you know your phone is off?" he asks her. His voice is gruff, parched with exertion and stress, but Octavia doesn't seem to notice. She just holds him out at arm's length, scanning over his face to catalogue every cut and every sign of blood.   

"Bellamy, what happened?" Clarke asks instead, and then Octavia's eyes snap to meet his and she asks, "Did mom's new boyfriend do this?"  

"What? No—no," Bellamy insists, a hard warning on the last word. "I was out, and I got into a fight. It's not a big deal but mom can't know."  

Clarke rolls her eyes when she hears that it's not a big deal and steps a little closer, her arms crossed tight against her chest. "There's obviously more to the story than that—"  

"No there isn't—"  

"Clarke, just don't right now, okay?"  

"Guys, hey."  

Octavia's voice was all plea, but the look on her face had as much warning in it as her brother's words did a moment before, and Clarke feels a defensive anger, made all the worse by how bone-deep worried and honestly, secretly scared she is, starting to boil to the surface—all of which is sure to make the situation escalate at top speed. It's only Raven's sudden re-appearance in the hallway that cuts the growing argument off at the head. She's holding up a bag of frozen peas, wrapped in a dishtowel, and staring at them with a combination of surprise, concern, and judgement that puts Clarke utterly to shame.  

"I know Abby has a real first aid kit around here somewhere," she says, "but I improvised this for your eye, just to start."  

She holds the peas out, but it takes several long moments before anyone thinks to take them. And then it's Clarke, at last, who steps forward and passes them off to Bellamy. He winces as he presses the misshapen cold bag to his cheekbone. It's weird, but not that weird, that Clarke didn't even notice Raven stepping out into the kitchen. And it's weird that Bellamy, under the single hallway light, looks so worn and exhausted, so secretly fragile, and maybe a little scared, too.  

But not that weird.  

"Clarke will fix you up," Octavia promises, slinging her arm through his and leaning against his shoulder. "And I won't tell mom anything, I swear."  

She still has questions, too many of them, crowding in her mouth, jostling together in her brain, but all Clarke does is nod. Yes, of course. She'll fix him right up.   

The first aid kit is in the downstairs bathroom, tucked in under the sink, and even though the room is just a tiny half-bath, not even the edge of a tub to perch on, they all crowd inside anyway: Bellamy seated on the closed toilet lid while Clarke kneels in front of him and Raven and Octavia stand awkwardly against the walls. Raven had the presence of mind, at least, to turn off the hallway light, so now the house is dark again. No need to alert any parents here.  

The light in the bathroom seems that much brighter, though, in contrast: a hard antiseptic yellow bouncing off the tile. Clarke can see too well every break in Bellamy's skin, every new lilac-colored bruise just beginning to deepen to purple and blue. His hands are in worse shape than his face, which she supposes means he gave worse than he got. But she's not really up for offering him any congratulations. For a long time, she doesn't say anything at all. None of them do, still scared perhaps, or still too tense, although Bellamy sucks in a sharp breath every now and then through his teeth, as Clarke cleans and disinfects his cuts and scrapes. "Just another minute," she murmurs, as she watches herself as if from far away, watches her hands that look like someone else's hands, caring for him with such caution and such gentleness.  

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#bffnet #bellarke fanfiction #bellarke #clarke griffin #bellamy blake #the 100 #mine #my writing #oh well verse

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jadehqknb · 7 years

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Tendou – Safe Haven

So, B over at @guessmonsta had a rough day and in efforts to draw up her spirits I present a slightly melancholy but overall silly piece featuring her fave boy: Tendou Satori. Hope you feel better B!

“Tendou, you’re Princess Peach, get your ass over here!” shouts Semi.

“Oh you are so going down, pretty boy,” Tendou exclaims hopping over the back of the second, or possibly third, hand couch in his dorm. He lands heavily next to Semi, his former teammate sending him a glare.

“Says the one currently playing a character sporting pink,” retorts the blonde.

“Tch, for your information, pink happens to be my favorite color! Plus, Peach is a badass! Make no mistake, she will fuck you up on the track,” Tendou quips, selecting the motorcycle as his choice for race vehicle.

Semi, Reon and Goshi all make their own selections, they being Mario, Bowser and Toad respectively.

“Heh, did you choose Toad to match the aesthetic of your hair cut?” Tendou asks.

“Screw you fire head, let’s just get to racing so I can wipe the track with your ass,” Goshiki shoots back.

Tendou laughs as the timer counts down to zero, each of their representative characters jumping off the starting line with the press of the green button. The race is fierce and filled with flying shells, mushroom speed bursts and loud curses from all participants.

“So where’s Toshi?” Tendou asks through a hiss as Peach barely dodges an oil slick.

“Couldn’t make it, practice,” Reon answers shortly, thumbs moving with practiced ease sending Bowser into a perfect drift.

“Shit, can’t that guy ever get a break?”

“You know him Tendou, it’s all volleyball, all the time. Especially after last year,” Semi comments, cursing a second later when he gets hit with yet another red shell from Toad. “How the fuck are you getting so many of those?!”

“They’re pity shells cause he’s in last place,” Tendou smirks.

“Oh yeah? Pity this!” Goshiki yells, launching a blue shell which takes out both Peach and by proximity Bowser, leaving just Mario as the last obstacle to his glory. There’s no way the others can catch up now and with one last screech around a bend, Toad emerges victorious with a perfectly timed mushroom boost.

“Damn it!” Semi shouts, throwing down the controller.

“Hey! Careful with those, I got this second hand you know,” Tendou complains taking a sip of soda.

A knock at the door draws all their attention, Tendou standing to open it since they’re in his dorm. “Probably the pizza guy,” he calls over his shoulder, unnecessary considering they’re in a single room together. When he opens it, it’s to find a rather cute, but annoyed looking girl standing in the hall. “Definitely not the pizza guy,” he comments lowly.

“What? You know what, never mind, I don’t care,” she snips. Fixing fierce eyes on him she goes on, “Do you think it possible for you to keep it down? There are some in this hall trying to actually get work done around here.”

Tendou leans against the threshold, crossing his arms. Smiling he replies, “Working is for classrooms and libraries, where else are we supposed to unwind?”

“The bar? A club? Hell, go back to your parents’ basement for all I care, just keep the noise down!”

Tendou’s smile widens; he likes her snark. “One, we’re under age still so no bars. Two, do we,” he points behind him to the guys now watching the proceedings, “look like the clubbing type to you? I think not. And three, as long as we’re throwing around stereotypes here, why don’t you take your self-centered, eldest child, type A personality and chill the fuck out? We just got out of high school, time to live a little before we hook on the ball and chains of responsible society, don’t you think?’

As he’s been talking, her cheeks have been growing steadily redder and redder with each point he nails on the head. Tendou likes a good battle of wits and insults and this little lady had no idea whose door she was pounding on when she attempted to exert a guilt trip. Her mouth opens to retort, only for the pizza guy to finally arrive.

“Order for Tendou Satori?” he asks looking between them.

“That’s me! Oi, you lot of losers! Gimme your penance,” he says, hand out to receive money from Semi and Reon after which he draws the remaining balance from his own wallet. Handing the guy the money, along with a small tip because he’s not a complete asshole, Tendou passes the two pizzas to Semi who takes them to his desk. Looking back at the girl still fuming outside his door he grins.

“I’d offer for you to join us but since you’re a no-nonsense type, I’m sure it will be a waste of breath. Have a good night.” He’s about to shut the door when her hand slams against it startling him. “You’re a dick,” she glowers. There’s a pause and he can’t wait to see what comes next. Taking a deep breath, she looks up into his eyes. “But you’re also right.” Tendou’s so stunned he almost falls over. With less hostility and a slightly shakier tone she goes on, “I…I’d really like that…if you’re serious.”

He blinks, unsure what exactly just happened but steps to the side, silently offering her entrance. A moment later, he’s introduced all of them, including himself properly, before they settle to consume their meal of cheese, carbs and grease.

“Being an adult, or at least transitioning into one, sucks,” she comments around a bite of pizza.

“Amen to that,” Reon replies toasting his slice with hers.

“So, what’re you studying?” Semi asks politely.

“Chemistry, it’s a bitch.”

“Shit, you must be a genius or something. I’m barely making it through my general ED, still tryin’ figure out what I wanna do,” Goshiki remarks.

“Hey! No gloom and doom talk here, guys! This is our time to shut out the rest of the world and just have fun! To forget our problems and worries,” Tendou proclaims. Deftly he slides the controller into their new companion’s hands, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

“You gotta earn your keep sweetheart, that pizza doesn’t pay for itself you know.”

Leaning forward, she bops his nose. “Bring it on, pretty boy.”

Semi laughs uproariously at the look on Tendou’s face as his cheeks heat up but the red head recovers quickly, sliding next to her with a controller of his own. The race is intense, but she emerges victorious, whooping and hollering about her win.

“Hey, you might wanna keep it down, I hear there’s a warden about these halls,” Tendou teases.

“Then we’ll just tell them to go fuck themselves. It’s our time to be young and alive, right?”

He grins, shoving his shoulder into hers. “You got it, warden.”

“Shut up and race, pretty boy.”

And for the rest of the night into the wee hours of the morning, Tendou, Semi, Reon and Goshiki provide what she never knew she needed. A safe haven away from the responsibilities and expectations piled on her till she can’t breathe. They let her laugh and curse and belch without judgement. They tease and mock her, treating her quickly like one of their own.

But most of all, they allow her to just be a “kid”.

#tendou #semi #reon #Goshiki #comfort piece #scenario

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sexygarbage · 5 years

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1:20am

Have I written about how I realized that I have a hometown murder???! I recently finished every episode of MFM that isn’t a live show and isn’t a minisode. So, now I’m going down the list of minisodes. Which, are just as entertaining, if not more so than the good ol fashioned shows. And every time I hear these hometown murders I am like so jelous that I don’t have a story to tell! I mean, people are writing about close encounters with famous serial killers or even unknown killers. Or like not even murder related but touching and thoughtful or about ghosts or the super natural. And I wanna be featured on it so bad. I was listening to them talk about a mother who had murdered her own baby or something and how it’s the lowest of the low in prison if you’re a mother who murdered your baby. And then it all came back to me. I had a middle school/high school friend named Barbara Ramirez Sufuentes who drowned her two twin babies in her bathtub like 4 years ago!!!!!!!!! I honestly thing I repressed this memory because at the time, she had started posting more on her facebook about them and also she had commented on a depressing instagram picture I posted of a bb gun to my head. She was like “are you okay? guns are kinda serious” And then she straight up murdered her two twin daughters!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! At the time, I just could not believe it. It was a numbing time, a depressing time. Me and Barbara had fallen out of touch. It was weird of her to even ask me anything about myself because we had not spoken for years. So, I’m sure at the time I just repressed it. I wasn’t into true crime shit just then. And when I was listening to MFM I re-remembered. I wrote to them but I doubt that it will get read because sometimes I feel as if I have to dumb myself down a little bit and I probably did that in the email, causing it to probably be boring and I don’t think it would make the cut :/

But! It was interesting to re-remember something from my past. Barbara was like one of those girls who were super intimidating and like really pushy. And you kinda just had to feed into their delusions in order to maintain peace you know. There was something about her that was always a little unhinged, or like off... I always thought that... which is why I wasn’t so committed to staying friends with her after middle school yanno. But upon my research, she was arrested on mothers day and she claimed it was a horrible accident. She started the twins bath and was listening to music very loudly and the next thing she knew they were dead... She was also seen smiling when she got arrested! She was found guilty and is serving a 6 year prison sentence. People in the fb comments were heavily debating. A lot veer into the side of it just being a crazy accident and then some people are too ragefilled about it. Also upon researching, I discovered a prison penpals website where she wrote an ad seeking friends while she was in prison. And it was very strangely written, she only said she was in prison for a crime that was due to recklessness on her part and that she hadn’t done anything wrong before that. She also used a lot of quotes and named the bands she listened to... It just seems so creepy to me. Because with all the red flags, it’s so obvious that she totally killed her babies and it was not an accident. But this was a girl I basically grew up with!! We might have even had a sleepover or she at least came to my house once or twice!! She was someone that I knew. Someone that I had study hall with, someone that influenced me as a kid and she totally fuckin murdered her own children!!!!!!! I mean, it’s crazy when I think about it now. Now that I am so invested in crazy shit like this and have heard so many fucked up stories. And the thing that baffles me is that when you’re in school, it feels already like a prison. And everyone around you can bond over the fact that you are all pretty much miserable. And Barbara was def not a student who stayed out of trouble. She was always in trouble. She was fuckin crazy! School is like baby prison. Prison is like real life adult serious prison!!!!!! Like, murderers, rapists, unfathomable, unforgivable crimes is where prison is! And I already empathize way more than I need to so when I realize the legitamcy of it all, it fuckin freaks me out. Ofc I didn’t write anything as poignant and personal like this when I wrote the email for MFM. But, I still shared the small barely interesting story.

I keep thinking about it and I just wanna know that they read it. But I can’t count on that outcome. I’ve just listened to like 5 minisodes in a row and they have all made me laugh and cry and scream and get goosebumps. They make me feel so many emotions, and they trigger me and I begin to feel genuine feelings which is so hard to come by especially because the people close to me are a majority of sociopaths. And when I listen to the stories and the carmraderie and the sense of belinging, it just warms my heart. I mean I hate to be so cornball about it. But shit, I’m mostly having a bad day and I’m mostly secretly struggling and feeling out of place and uncared for and this just totally turns me around and I become intrigued, I am put in a trance where things are just not so shitty and the hottest of tea is being spilt in the most twisted of ways! It is everything I live for!

So yeah, I’ve been emmersed in these crazy stories, I might be gong insane a little bit. I also wanna write about my thoughts on my therapist because I don’t write about it that often. Me hanging out with Coco so much and hating it is an indication that I, too, am quite insane. Because I have no where else to go. And so I keep going back to Coco when I know she makes me feel like shit. It’s not normal that every time I call Sas, we have to have a Coco complaints hour. I know it’s fun to talk about the dysfunction of others. But at a certain point, it is spilling onto me. And look, the situation is not easy for anyone. Idk if anyone would care, but I would be certainly sad if I just straight up ghosted everyone cus I couldn’t stand Coco. No, I love everyone else, that’s why I have to put up with Coco. And when I go to my therapist about it, I could be talking about so many other things... My committment issues, my daddy issues, so many other issues but all I wanna talk about is how many times Coco has rubbed me the wrong way within two weeks! And I tell my therapist how shitty I’m feeling, and it upsets him to know that I’m upset so then I feel even more shittier. And we know the only solution is to get rid of her but it’s not easy and it’s not realistic. And I’m kinda just looking for a scientific explination of my dynamic with Coco, of my reasoning for my own attachment. But we never get there. With my therapist, he never gives me a scientific explination as to why I am the way that I am with certain people. He praises me a lot, he tells me positive things about myself and shitty things about everybody else. And on one hand, I do need to hear good things about myself because not many people are praising me and I need validation. But on the other hand, I am uncomfortable about it and I don’t know how to make that clear. I just think my therapist is way too emotional. Way too empathetic. And way too on my side! I mean, I know I’ve been gaslighted to believe everyone should be mean to me, but I need someone who is unfeeling. Someone who will give me scientific explanations. I’ve been kinda wanting to break up with my therapist :/ Which sucks because I love him so much. And part of it is me. Because I just don’t know how to deal with someone who sees me for me. I only know how to deal with people who make me the butt of the joke or something like that. I’m not used to people being so nice to me and it freaks me out and it makes me uncomfortable. And I know I shouldn’t feel guilty about it. But idk what to do. Also, my therapist is good at taking this into accountability, but it is different to have a white therapist when I’m not white. And he’s like super aware of racial differences, super understanding. And sometimes I just feel like I need a person of color therapist you know. Maybe not straight up filipino because you know pinoys are judgemental and hella religious. But at least just another person of color and a woman, so we’re all on the same page. Like, my therapist is an openly gay trans man and you could not ask for a better sense of open mindedness and a radical stance on politics. But, I am already so emotional. My therapist cannot be more emotional than me. It makes me feel like I have to retaliate and so then I become unfeeling.

And also, the thing about therapy is that your therapist is always gonna be on your side. I was talking to Sas about what Coco’s therapy is like and it’s true, you can just straight up lie the whole time. And that’s probably what Coco is doing. She is doing her mother teresa act, crying her crocodile tears and her therapist has to buy it, her therapist has to be on her side and tell her the things she thinks she wants to hear. But her therapist is missing a huge chunk of Coco herself because therapists will only ever get your side of your story. I have probably hurt a lot of people too, and it’s not supposed to matter to your therapist. But sometimes I just wish it would so I could know how much of a shitty person I am. The way Coco’s therapist would never tell her. I wanna know all the bad things about me. A stranger just can’t know that about you because ofc I’m seemingly nice, and so are the thoughts that come out of my mouth and into my therapists’ ear. Ofc, he’s not gonna tell me all the bad things about myself. Ofc it’s just me finding new ways to hate myself even when I try to get better about it... Sometimes tho I feel as if I don’t even need therapy when I know so much shit already. But that’s just me being cocky and stupid... Anyway, idk! Imma just ride it out. I still have writing. And I still have my podcast and other creative endeavors.

Actually, you know what I think this is me just like dealing with the fact that therapy is really that hard. I mean, you tell everyone to go to therapy but it’s only if theyre willing to work at it. Because it is a constant constant battle. And it’s never gonna be easy. And it’s so hard for me to like not feel bummed out about it because life is so hard. And then sometimes I just feel like there is no hope at all. Even when I put myself in a position to see that there is..

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