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moriiartist · 2 years

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HUNTER’S MOON

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PAIRING: Werewolf!Punz x GN!Reader

SUMMARY: You’ve always been fascinated with the stars ever since you were a kid, despite how people may have judged you for it. Sucks to be them, though, because they can’t cuddle with their werewolf boyfriend on a stargazing date.

WARNINGS: Language, implied/referenced child abuse, death mention

A/N: Werewolf Punz holds a special place in my heart, even if I don’t really like the way that I wrote this. I hope you guys like it more than I do!

It was rare to find someone with a hobby like yours where you lived, sequestered between mountain peaks that scraped the sky and a hundred miles from the big city.

Since you were a kid, you’ve always been a little different from everyone else. Not enough that you were labeled a ‘problem child’; you always played nicely with the other kids, were invited to birthday parties, post-prom bashes, went on dates, and the like.

Rather, it had always felt like you were disconnected from the goings-on in your hometown. You floated through life, head in the clouds, feet firmly planted in the earth, and your eyes affixed to the brightest star in the sky.

Since you could speak, your fascination for the heavens had blossomed like cherry blossoms in spring. Glow in the dark stars? Plastered across every inch of wall space in your room. Astronaut stickers? The bane of your mother, who found them stuck in increasingly improbable places throughout the house. Star Wars? Played on almost every family movie night.

You consumed space documentaries with a rabid hunger that could only be quenched by Neil Degrasse Tyson’s calm voice. Every weekend your dad made a point to drive you out to some remote point in the wilderness, indulging your fantasies happily. There are probably pictures of you in your little astronaut costume, decked out for career day, rotting away in the attic of the old house.

Which, of course, is all just a long way of saying you thought stars were really cool.

‘Daddy,’ you’d asked one day as you’d lain in the backyard, staring up at the limitless expanse of the night sky. Your mother had put the kibosh on your father driving at so late an hour, so you had to make do with what you had at home.

You pointed towards a certain star that’d caught your attention, glowing brightly despite the light pollution from town. ‘What’s that one called?’

‘Sirius’, your father had told you, as you lay on your backs in the yard. ‘It’s the brightest star in the sky, besides the sun.’

The long summer grass had tickled at the exposed flesh on your arms and legs, but it was easy to ignore the sensation when you could watch as the Milky Way spread her arms wide across the sky. Fireflies danced through the air, thick with the cool, sweet scent of crushed plant life, and the playful breeze whipped the trees into a rainstorm of sound.

Your father had grinned, cheek pressed to the earth, crow’s feet as deep as crevasses crinkling at the corners of his eyes. All fondness. The stars had glimmered like diamonds in the sky. Even the wind seemed to laugh. For one shining moment, you had been, perfectly, incandescently happy.

Then he died, and everything changed.

It was difficult, even now, for you to recall the months that passed after your father’s death. There were no words that you could express that could capture the pain, the longing, the pure, unadulterated grief that had consumed you. Even the stars that had guided you for so long had lost their appeal.

It was even more difficult for you to recall what had happened with your mother.

You may have been young before, but you were far from stupid. You understood that, while your father may have been thrilled with your hobby, your mother was more critical.

To her, it was a distraction from what you needed to be doing: studying, forming bonds with your peers, and getting a good night’s sleep so you wouldn’t nod off in class. Although nobody acknowledged it, she’d always looked… disappointed, whenever she watched the other parents with their ‘normal’ children. Like she would easily trade one of them for you.

After the funeral, there was no one left to protect you when the dam finally broke.

You sighed heavily, the warm rush of breath doing nothing to assuage your body’s protests as heat coiled through your aching muscles. Shouldering the bag strapped to your back, you winced as you heard the heavy metal clink of the parts inside knocking together, and forged onwards; the winding forest trail ahead lit only by the sun’s dying light.

It had been many, many years since that day, and although you hadn’t seen your mother for the better part of a decade, the half-healed scars she’d left behind still smarted. You had made a point not to think about it too much anymore- what’s done is done, and living in the past only served to ruin your future.

(You would know.)

No- rather than digging up the long-buried interpersonal issues you would like to keep buried, thankyouverymuch, today you were hiking out into the woods to see a rare meteorological phenomenon that you had been looking forward to for the past year: the hunter’s moon.

You bit back a grin at the thought of it, unconsciously picking up the pace. Your second most favorite thing in the world was still looking at the stars and all the celestial bodies found in the evening sky, no matter how much your mother had tried to beat it down with harsh words and a cookie-cutter mold to force you into.

Sometimes you had to remind yourself that she hadn’t won. In the end, the only thing that she succeeded in was driving you further away from the ‘ideal child’ she wanted you to be- the ‘ideal child’ that she wanted to own.

Now? You belonged to nothing and nobody except the wilderness.

The wind raked icy claws through the trees overhead, the rush of leaves a rainstorm of darkening autumn colors and sound. It grabbed at your jacket, your bag; it pushed your body forward, almost as if it was as impatient for you to get where you were going as you were.

Birds flitting through the trees had already begun to transition from the day-dwelling species to the nocturnal- the simple two-note song of the chickadee replaced with the low, sonorous hoo-hoos of owls.

The singing of crickets that you had grown so used to in the summer was notably absent, though not surprising. It had already begun to get colder as the earth drew near to the end of its cycle around the sun, and most of the bugs had either died, migrated away, or started to hibernate.

You scratched at your arm with a scowl. Except for the mosquitos, apparently.

It didn’t take long for you to see the break in the line of the trees, and you stepped out into an isolated rock outcropping that jutted out of the mountainside, looking out over the valley below. No clouds obscured your view of the sky, leaving it an unbroken swathe of blood-orange, amber, and roseate hues.

The sun was already beginning to sink below the horizon line, swallowed by a cragged maw of cliff peaks and finally illuminating the moon’s face as it marched westward towards its zenith. The moon hung in the sky like the pendant of a queen’s necklace, large, pale, and uncharacteristically grapefruit-like- almost as though it had been stained by the last remnants of sunlight.

Gravel and drying grass crunched under your feet as you made your way closer to the edge of the point, where a large, weathered stone was wedged deep into the earth. You were glad that you had chosen to wear pants. As you stepped carefully around the mountainous scrub bushes, tall grasses, and wildflowers that dotted the clearing, prickly vines snagged at the fabric, foiled in their plans to mutilate your legs.

You sighed, a small, secret smile playing at the edges of your lips as you stopped just shy of the drop-off, letting your bag roll off your shoulder and onto the ground with a metallic thump. You could enjoy the scenery later- you had work to do.

Before you could begin to assemble your telescope, however, the sounds of the forest that you had grown so accustomed to vanished. The birds, the gentle swaying of the greenery in the breeze- even the stars just beginning to dot the sky seemed to hush.

And then, a howl.

It echoed through the valley, long and musical, and you felt your breath catch in your throat. Your heart began to race in your chest, pounding against your ribcage like a trapped bird might a glass window.

However, you were not afraid. You did not bolt from your spot on the hill, or cower, or even shiver as the sound died out into a whisper of an echo. Nor did you flinch at the dry sound of branches snapping rang out from behind you.

The wind picked up, whipping past you to blow in the direction of the line of bushes and brambles that bracketed the treeline.

You dropped your shoulders and tipped your head back. Sighed breathlessly. Then turned around, hands fisted against your hips.

“Now, I may be human, but I’m not deaf, y’know.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of air whistling around you. Then, a lone figure stepped out from underneath the shelter of the forest’s shadow and into the blueness of the night; a wolf.

It was much larger than any other wild animal that you’d come across on hikes (including the black bear that you’d stumbled into once), towering up to a height that you estimated as a little over a meter, even as it stood a good distance away at the edge of the plain. It was gangly in the way that all young things are, marking it as a half-grown pup instead of a full adult.

Although moonbeams painted its outer coat- the guard hairs- silver, you knew that the pelt underneath was a tricolored mixture of pale gold, dusky brown, and the faintest hint of dark grey. It rippled as the wolf moved closer, shoving its ears forward until they strained against the muscle.

The wolf’s eyes were startling- clear and blue as the alpine flowers that dotted the clearing, and unerringly fixed on yours. What was all the more noticeable, though, was the uncanny intelligence that gleamed within their depths; an intelligence that demanded to be recognized for what it was, and not just explained away as an animal’s predatory gaze.

Your eyebrow ticked up, lips pursing.

The wolf’s tail wagged once. Twice.

You blanched.

“Purpled, no.”

In a blink, you were knocked flat on your back, and you wheezed as a heavy paw pinned your ribcage to the ground. You could barely even begin to fend off a barrage of happy wolf licks as a wet, slimy tongue swiped across your face.

“What the fuck-” you wheezed, spluttering as the young wolf made another attempt at your face. “Dude!”

He licked his jowls smugly, then yelped as you shoved his face away with a hand, wiping the drool soaked into your hands onto his pristine fur coat. Purpled growled without any heat, whuffling at the shiny trails that your fingers at left.

“You’re so gross. I’ve never met a werewolf as singularly gross as you,” you muttered, wiping at your mouth with the collar of your shirt. You glared. “Happy now, asshole?”

Purpled grinned wolfishly, tongue lolling out of his mouth. He was, indeed, very pleased with himself.

Pushing at his broad chest, you managed to heave the furry menace off your body and send him tumbling to the dusty ground. Content with the havoc that he’d wreaked, he let you, perfectly happy to lie on his back as you brushed yourself off, grumbling about ‘stupid werewolves and their stupid puppy faces.’

If you hadn’t clued into it by now: yes, werewolves exist. The information isn’t exactly new to you, given that you’d been enduring Purpled’s wolfish assholery for the better part of two years- though, it was certainly a shock the first time he’d decided to straight-up tackle you.

“Every time I see you, you pull shit like this,” you sighed dramatically, tipping your head back. “Makes me feel bad for Punz. I only get to see you like, what? Once every month or so? And I can barely stand it.”

The young wolf made a sharp noise of protest, and, before you could blink, a teenager had appeared in place of the beast. Although he was still eighteen, he was all long limbs and no filling. His dirty blonde hair was ruffled, sticking up in every direction. His signature purple hoodie was rumpled. He was wearing basketball shorts in the middle of Autumn.

You pressed a fist to your mouth in an attempt to stifle a laugh. He looked like he had just rolled out of bed.

Purpled stretched, popping the vertebrae of his spine one by one until he was on his tip-toes. Then, and only then, he regarded you with a cool blue gaze.

“Excuse you, I am a fucking gift.”

“Where’s your brother?” you asked, completely ignoring him. “I thought you two were supposed to travel together.”

Purpled rolled his eyes. “And spend the rest of my night watching you make moon-eyes at each other? Uh, no thanks. I wanted to avoid the romance as much as I possibly could.”

You stared at him, deadpan.

“Then why did you insist on third-wheeling?”

He coughed, the tips of his ears going red, but you were distracted as your gaze flickered behind him, jumping towards the movement of another body emerging from the woods.

Punz halted a foot away watching the both of you with a mischievous expression. They were wearing their trademark hoodie, the one that was always suspiciously spotless despite them basically living in the woods, and a pair of ripped jeans and hiking boots.

His face was flushed slightly, and his breathing was heavier than normal, almost as though he’d been running recently. Which, if you had to hazard a guess, he had, given the knowledge that his pack’s territory encompassed the entire valley. He could’ve been in any part of it and had to hurry to make the meetup time.

You grinned helplessly, your heart doing that giddy little hop-skip stutter it always made when you saw them, and shyly tilted your head to the side as they approached. Their long stride allowed them to cover ground quickly, and before you knew it, they were winding an arm around your shoulder as you sunk into the heat radiating off their body.

“Hey,” you said, aiming for something cool, composed, and collected- and failing miserably. He grinned, all sharp teeth and teasing eyes, and chuckled. “Hey yourself.”

Punz hummed, the sound rumbling in his chest, and pressed a kiss to your cheek, stubble scraping against the tender flesh. Before he could pull away, quick as a snake you grabbed his jaw and pulled him into a proper press of mouth-on-mouth, feeling his lips curl into a grin against yours.

Purpled made a gagging noise, and the two of you pulled away. You stuck your tongue out at him.

“The both of you seemed like you were having fun,” Punz said idly, a hand coming up to cup the nape of your neck.

The teen shot his brother a disgusted look, still somehow able to maintain the impassive facade that he always seemed to wear. You snickered.

“Sure, let’s go with that.”

It took only a few minutes to assemble the telescope that you had lugged all the way into the wilderness, but by the time you finished, the moon was already riding high in the sky. The slight color distortion that had turned it from its usual white to pale orange hadn’t faded- rather the opposite.

Looking through the lens, even the craters appeared to be a deep pumpkin color. Fitting for the season, you supposed.

The boys had settled a little bit away from where you crouched, staring up at the sky. While Purpled had pulled out his phone, Punz’s gaze was focused solely on you as you worked, the beginnings of a smile turning his eyes into little crescents.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you so excited,” he mused, tilting his head. His hair, so similar in color to his brother’s, shifted with the movement, and you found yourself suddenly overcome with the urge to run your fingers through it. You shook your head minutely. Stars now, snogging later.

You chewed on the corner of your lip. “Really?”

Punz grinned. “Yeah, you’re bouncing all over the place.”

Feeling your face heat, you scoffed. There was no malice in the action, however, and by the stupid, smug smirk on Punz’s face, he knew it.

You hesitated, settling your fingers on the grooves of the telescope dials.

“Come on, tell me about the stars,” he goaded gently. “I know you want to.”

It was easy to give in. It always was.

The air was cool, and the ground had long lost most of its daytime warmth, but you felt perfectly fine as Punz tucked you under his hoodie, face just barely able to peek out of the neck hole. He rested his chin on your head, and you felt his whole body rumble beneath your back; you thought it was an awful lot like a purr, but knew that he would be offended if you compared him to a damn vampire.

“Well,” you started slowly, eyes large and glossy as you watched the stars turn overhead. “I know that full moons are already special to werewolves, but this one is even… more? If that makes sense?”

“How so?”

“You know the autumn equinox? It’s one of the only two times of the year when the day is the same length as the night. The other one is the spring equinox.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, this moon is the one that comes right after the autumn equinox moon, but because it's so close, it’s still affected by it. Haven’t you noticed the color? And how the sky is waayyy brighter than usual?”

Punz shifted, and you know that he was looking for what you’d pointed out.

“Huh,” he murmured after a pause, the hand on your hip squeezing slightly. “I guess you’re right.”

You snorted. “How could you not notice? It’s normally pitch black out here.”

“Maybe to your puny human eyes.”

You turned around (as much as you were able to, anyways) and smacked him in the chest. He made a mock wound of hurt, then a startled laugh as you wriggled out of his hoodie, stumbling away on giddy legs.

Darting away, you ran around the edge of the clearing, taunting him. Like always, Punz was quick to follow, the shift to his wolf form instantaneous.

Purpled looked up from his phone, taking in the scene. Punz nipped at your jacket playfully, each of his teeth about as long as your pinky finger. Unafraid, you bopped him on the nose and danced away.

He wrinkled his nose.

“God, you two are disgusting.”

@blufr0st @itsonlydana @amearla @bapthadapper @redactedsouls @sina-the-idiot @icarusthefoolish @blockyshieldmaiden @lunarheartsposts

#mori's monster series #a meal for the children #dream smp x reader #dream smp x you #dream smp x y/n #dsmp x reader #dsmp x you #dsmp x y/n #mcyt x reader #mcyt x you #mcyt x y/n #punz x reader #punz x you #punz x y/n #c!punz #c!purpled #tw: language #tw: implied/referenced child abuse #tw: death mention

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cherrydreamer · 2 years

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(NOTE: This isn’t my usual fluff!

Some mentions/implications of Neil Hargrove’s awful parenting, and some daddykink and light pain play including choking.

I wouldn’t say it’s super healthy, but there are hints that Billy and Steve HAVE discussed this sort of play, so it’s not the worst etiquette.

Please let me know if I’ve missed anything!)

Steve's getting used to Billy seeking him out.

He thinks he likes it, being sought. Makes him feel like prey, sort of, hunted and toyed, body fizzing with eager anticipation when Billy whips the Camaro through Loch Nora, pausing outside Steve's house only to rev the engine and then roar right off again, ricocheting like a pinball around the town with Steve on his heels like it's a game of cat and mouse, only Tom's gonna fuck Jerry when he catches him.

Or vice versa.

They're not picky, either of them. 's long as they both get off, no one's too precious about how it happens.

And sometimes Steve feels more like a prize, a trophy worth striving for, when Billy screeches through the neighbourhood and then pulls into the driveway, parking like he owns the place; his tyres encroaching on the empty space reserved for Mr. Harrington's shining red mid-life crisis on wheels, and the rear of the Camaro butting against Mrs. Harrington's dainty pastel runaround, dirty rubber pressed right up against clean paint. Just Billy finding yet another way to stake a claim over all the prettiest things in the Harrington household.

Nights like that are easy. Steve doesn't have to do much other than put on little mood music and make sure he's brushed his teeth, and Billy'll pull himself into the house through the upstairs window of Mrs. Harrington's gift wrapping room, then stride out five minutes later with a ribbon tied in his hair and a matching one tied loosely around the base of his dick, thrusting it proudly towards Steve’s face as Billy makes him guess the exact colour, taunting him with words like chartreuse and vermillion and technically it's periwinkle, Harrington, and it's gonna look so damn pretty pushing up against your lips, so open up, baby.

But some nights Steve feels needed. Craved.

Those are the times when Billy tucks his car neatly into the visitors' space, the one round the side of the house that the handyman uses. Hidden.

These nights need a little more work. Not much, not really, just that Steve has to splash on some of the expensive cologne he swiped from his Dad and make sure he's wearing something smart, something sensible and mature, ready to answer the door when Billy knocks oh so politely and waits until Steve's ready. Until Steve comes for him. Opens the door and reminds him to take his boots off in the hall and then ushers him upstairs for what he needs.

It's a fine art now.

Billy sits himself on Steve's desk chair and Steve takes a minute to look him up and down. He draws it out just a little because he needs to be sure.

They both do.

And then Steve walks over, slow, deliberate steps until he’s close enough for his hand to cup Billy's face, palm covering the red skin, stretching over the scarlet handprint still warm to the touch. Steve presses in and feels the burn, soothing the clench of Billy's jaw with a stroke of his thumb.

"He trying to teach you a lesson again?" Steve asks, and Billy nods, one tear falling down his cheek as he blinks.

Crying's normal, Steve knows, just a stress reaction, adrenaline comedown, pain, whatever. It's normal.

So, by that token, the clench in Steve's chest is normal too.

"He's doing it wrong," Steve murmurs, wiping away the wetness with his fingers, smearing it over Billy's heated skin, "Asshole. Doesn't know what he's got. Doesn't know you need, does he?"

Billy doesn't answer. Steve's not expecting him to. Not yet. He doesn't slip under right away, and Steve doesn't mind drawing it out of him.

It's always worth it.

"That's ok, baby” Steve’s hand taps Billy’s cheek lightly before he moves away, giving Billy space, “I know. Show me what else he tried to teach you.”

It's Billy's cue to stand up and strip off his shirt. To reveal everything to Steve, every bruise or welt or burn. To lay himself bare in every way.

"It'll be OK," Steve murmurs, smiling when Billy obeys without question, "Let me make it better, sweetheart. Daddy's got you."

The first time they did this, Steve had stumbled over the words. They felt weird on his tongue, wrong. He didn’t know whether to keep his voice reassuring and warm, or if Billy wanted him to sound filthy, wanted them purred out like one of those shitty pornos they’d watched together, ones with burly leather clad men and simpering, wide-eyed blond boys. So Steve had just gone with his instinct. With what felt right. And it turned out that, when it comes to things like this, like Billy, Steve’s a quick study. A natural at knowing what makes him shiver with pleasure or shut his eyes with shame. At knowing what to hold back until later. Making sure Billy knows he's earned it. Deserved it. So the words come naturally to him now. As do the moves. He’s tuned himself into the scale between rough and tender and found the notes that harmonise so well with Billy. With what he needs. Steve guides Billy backward, until he's against the wall, held up by something solid as Steve presses his mouth to Billy's skin, ghosting his lips over the first bruise he sees, giving it a soft, barely-there kiss before be opens his mouth and sucks the skin harshly between his teeth. It makes Billy hiss, makes him squirm and gasp and push himself back against the wall, but Steve can feel Billy's dick getting hard against his leg, straining behind tight denim, and he moves his leg closer, lets Billy rut against him for a minute before he pulls back again.

Because that's for later. Maybe. Not always. Sometimes Billy needs to be told no. Needs to have something that isn't easy for him to obey, so that it's better for him when he does. When he proves he can.

And Steve has more pressing matters to attend to anyway.

Underneath him, Billy's body is a catalogue of hurt. Of what he's endured, of why he's here, like this, tonight, and Steve takes his time over each inch, sucking or biting then lapping at the mess he's made, soothing the burn with kisses and words of praise that have Billy keening and shuddering, his hips twitching desperately. Steve keeps it up. Works his way from Billy’s collarbone all the way to the hard muscle of his stomach, then right back up to the vicious patch of bruising around Billy's throat, the fat finger-print shaped splodges that Steve has saved for last. He carefully maps his hand over them, taking pride in the way that his hand stretches further, reaching beyond the marks, his fingertips resting lightly against unmarked skin. He feels Billy's pulse jumping, thrumming against his thumb, as Steve leans back and rakes his eyes over Billy's body, looking over what he's done, making sure there's no residue of Neil's touch left on Billy's skin. He’s done a good job. He always does, with Billy. Everything that bastard did has been overwritten by Steve, bitten and sucked raw, the marks of punishment turned to marks of passion.

"There. That looks better," Steve murmurs, watching in delight as a delicious flush spreads over Billy's face, reaching right to the tip of his ears when Steve runs his other hand all the way down Billy's chest, his fingernails scratching a white path to his hip, which Steve grasps suddenly, squeezing possessively as he pulls Billy in for a heated kiss, Steve’s tongue licking into his mouth before he pulls away and whispers, "Beautiful."

The word has Billy gasping, more than Steve's hand on his throat ever could, and Steve can't help but grin at the reaction.

"You've been so good, haven't you, baby?" Steve keeps his voice low,

Billy nods. His eyes flick down once, but a deliberate press of Steve's thumb against his pulse has him looking back up.

"I couldn't hear you," Steve says, firm now, "Have you been my good boy?" Billy still doesn't answer. He tries to swallow, and Steve's hand tightens around his throat with just the slightest pressure. The lightest touch. It's all that's needed.

"Yes, Daddy." Billy's voice is rough, words rumbling against Steve's palm.

"You have," Steve doesn't let up. His fingers tighten. "Say it."

Billy's pulse races against Steve's palm.

"I've been your good boy, Daddy," he whispers. His voice catches on the last words, breaking a little, but Steve allows it. He smiles in satisfaction, loosening his grip without pulling away, and he feels Billy relax into his hand.

"That's right, baby,” he murmurs, running a hand through Billy’s hair, raking his nails against Billy’s scalp, “So good for me. And you know what good boys get?"

Billy nods again. "Show me," Steve says, lifting his hand away as Billy falls to his knees.

#harringrove #cherrywrites #last time i tried to post this something glitched and i got shadowbanned!#so let's see what happens today #tw: implied/referenced child abuse

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theburninggalaxy · 2 years

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Tfw you hang onto any and all Azula redemption and recovery content cause you and your sister have almost the same dynamic as Zuko and Azula and I dunno man I just want my little sister to be ok and to know that she can exist outside of our father

#zuko #azula #azula deserved better #tw: abusive father #tw: implied/referenced child abuse #i just want a relationship with my sister #atla

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comment-exchange · 2 years

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258. Jordy's Bakery (Six of Crows)

Title: Jordy's Bakery Link: Jordy's Bakery - ptork66 - Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo [Archive of Our Own] Platform: AO3 Creator: ptork66 Work Type: Fic Fandom: Six of Crows Rating: Gen Pairing: N/A Word Count: 2,519 Warnings: canon-typical badness; child homelessness; implied/referenced child abuse Number of comments: 3 Completion Status: Complete Short summary/description: Months after Jordie's death, Kaz wanders, hungry and alone, around Ketterdam. A bakery almost bearing the name of his brother sells delicious treats that an undeserving urchin like him can never have, even if it is his birthday.

#submission #ao3 #ff #soc #gen #2k #3c #complete #one shot #potork66 #kaz brekker #tw: canon-typical badness #tw: child homelessness #tw: implied/referenced child abuse #archive of our own #six of crows #fanfiction

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luke-o-lophus · 2 years

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TW childhood abuse

Sometimes I'll be scrolling through Moon Knight posts and thinking of all the connections between their childhood and mine. And it suddenly hits that the abuse I remember happened to ME. Like I know that's obvious but sometimes it hits out of nowhere that all that happened to this very body. This very mind. Which bears little physical marks but.... I'm not in a new body or anything. This is it. Where it all happened. And I'm gonna be in it forever.

#moon knight #luke shares #childhood trauma #tw: implied/referenced child abuse

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dwoality2123 · 2 years

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There was no clear time to be told. No exact date, exact time, exact moment that would be able to tell people. It was this...

Poison.

This slow killing poison that settles in the gaps of your jonts, the spaces in your muscles. It flows with your blood, following the set trail set by the veins. Until it reaches your brain.

If you asked, you would not be given a clear answer as to when everything cleared up and the thought came.

It was something that was planted long before the time came. It slowly blossomed, the poison as its water that tarnishes the soil it growing on.

It seeps into your being, poisonous, inky black blob of venom that crawled into the crevices of your body, your orfices and settled into you. Blending in with the crowd in your system until it leaked into your soul, painted your heart, manipulated your mind.

It was the blueish, the purplish, the disgusting array of colors that appeared on your skin as the bruised formed from another hit from an unloving and unlovable and disgusting and cruel and demonic hand. It was the bright and angry red that shaped itself as a hand that cupped the entirety of one half of your face.

It was the leakage of dark red blood that tasted like iron and smelled like it from your nose or your split lip or a cut from a bottle shard. Or the torn walls from where it slipped outside and slipped back once more.

This poison.

It takes several forms. It could be that droplet of blood that fell on your desk with a "plink". It could be the next person you talk to. The next hand that slots itself in your hand and it feels so so so wrong. It could be that stripe of saliva somewhere on your skin. It could be that look of a parent so unlike a parent's.

It could be the glinting of a silver blade that blinds you and cuts you with it's sharpness, and that blood that drips from your hand to the matress. And another. And another. And another. And another. And another. And another. And another.

Until.

Until it forms that big wet puddle of red. Like wet paint leaking across the surface of the canvas and spreading. Or blood on a tissue that spreads and leaks onto the bottom.

It could be that void in your chest as you stare at the opened and lifeless eyes of an abuser. Eyes that opened a minute before the final breath was taken. Fear etched onto them. That same fear you saw in your reflection. That same fear you saw reflected into those cruel, cruel orbs.

It could be the steps you took as you walked out.

Or it could be the tiny splash of water from when you dropped the bloody knife.

Or it could be that feeling in your chest you can't identify as you watch the crime, your crime, your sin, reported in the news and printed in the papers and talked around.

Or it could be that sickeningly sweet feeling you felt as you moved forward. Or the faint regret as you looked back.

Or that happy, giddy feeling as you left and started new.

Or that ghostly, cool touch of a hand that explores your every part with a burning, seering, hot pain.

Or that feeling of fear and relief when you woke up and your heartbeat's loud beating of thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thumo, thump...

#writing #short writing #short fiction #random #trauma #tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon #tw: implied/referenced child abuse #tw implied abuse #author:#Dwoality

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yusuke-of-valla · 9 months

Text

An Allegory Of The Vanities of Human Life

AO3

On a trip to Tatsumi Port Island in 2009, Yusuke overhears something he shouldn't.

Yusuke can’t sleep. He’s been having strange dreams ever since they got to Tatsumi Port Island. He looks at the clock and sees it’s a few minutes to midnight. For a second he’s tempted to go find Sensei, but he knows Sensei will simply scold him and say he’s too old for this sort of behavior, so instead he tries and slips into the kitchen to make some warm milk to help him sleep.

He leaves his room and sees a sliver of light from the conference room. The suite they’re in is large, paid for by one of Sensei’s friends, and he must still be up talking.

Yusuke doesn’t know what possesses him to head closer to the open door, but he can smell alcohol and hear Sensei laughing.

He should go, he’ll be in trouble for being up so late.

“I can’t believe you did it, you old coot,” Sensei’s friend says. “After all these years, you really found the perfect business plan.”

“It’s all thanks to The Sayuri,” Sensei says, clearly drunk.

The Sayuri? What was–

“If the woman who painted it hadn’t dropped dead in front of me, I wouldn’t have anything.”

“You’re still stuck with her kid though, right?”

“Who? Yusuke? Sure kids can be annoying but he knows how to behave.”

Yusuke backs away from the door, his entire body shaking. Sensei stole The Sayuri from Mama? Sensei had been there when Mama died? He’d said that she was alone, that there was nothing anyone could do.

He barely registers as he crashes to the floor and curls up into a ball.

And then everything stops.

Yusuke doesn’t notice at first, too wrapped up in his sobs to notice that the laughter in the other room has gone silent, or that the moon has gotten impossibly large, or the sickly green hues lighting the apartment.

All he knows is that everything he knew was a lie.

Finally he’s run out of tears and notices how everything’s wrong, and he tiptoes back towards the door. Instead of Sensei and his friend though, there are coffins.

Yusuke’s always been told to not make too much noise, especially late at night, so he doesn’t let the scream that’s crawling out of his chest escape his throat, but he feels sick.

Is this all some sort of weird nightmare? Is there anyone else even here?

Footsteps from the outside hall answer his question. Yusuke is quick to curl up behind the couch and hide, and someone breaks open the door.

Yusuke’s pretty sure she’s the angel of death. That has to be the only explanation, with her porcelain skin, pristine dress, and axe.

The angel of death looks around and heads into the conference room. Sure enough Yusuke hears Sensei’s friend let out a scream that’s quickly cut short. The angel of death walks out, her dress still perfectly white. Yusuke tries to get a better look at her, but accidentally knocks over the lamp.

Her head snaps over to him and she stares at him impassively.

“Well, that’s odd.”

“U-um are you going to kill me?” Yusuke asks.

She tilts her head. “I’m not sure. I don’t think it’s a good thing you saw me. Takaya would probably consider you a loose end.”

Yusuke looks down. “Can you at least take me to see Mama after you kill me?” He asks quietly.

“You’re not scared of dying?”

“I-I dunno. I just–” Yusuke’s not a stranger to death. He always knew Mama’s health was bad. That was something she wanted him to know. Mama didn’t want him to be unprepared when she died, so she spent a lot of time talking about it with him. It had helped soften the blow when Sensei had told him. He hadn’t even cried at the quick funeral.

But now that wound’s been ripped right open. Sensei had lied about Mama’s death. Sensei had lied about everything. If nothing he knew was real then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to die?

“I want to see Mama,” Yusuke says.

“What happened to your mother?” The angel of death asks.

Yusuke’s eyes turn toward the door. “Sensei… he said she died when she had a seizure and he couldn’t do anything because he was in the other room, but he lied.”

“Oh, so he killed her?”

“I don’t.. I don’t know that. I know he lied. I don’t know why.”

“Why don’t we ask him?” The angel of death walks over and offers out her hand, and Yusuke takes it. Then they head back into the conference room. The dead body of Sensei’s friend is there, along with a massive coffin.

The angel of death opens it up, and Sensei comes out.

“What? Who are you? Yusuke, what’s going on here?”

Yusuke grips the angel of death’s hand tighter, and she looks at him.

“I’m not going to do this for you.”

Yusuke swallows. “What did you do to Mama?”

“What?” Madarame laughs, “Yusuke what are you talking about?”

“You said she dropped dead in front of you, did you do something to her?”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to insinuate, but you’re being very ungrateful after everything I’ve done for you.”

“You stole The Sayuri from Mama. You said it was lucky she died! What happened?”

Sensei makes his scary face, and Yusuke instinctively opens his mouth to apologize when the angel of death squeezes his hand.

“I didn’t do anything,” Sensei says. “She had a seizure in front of me and let it happen.”

“You killed her,” Yusuke says, barely above a whisper.

“What was that?”

“You killed her! If Mama has a seizure you’re s’posed to get her the medicine in the green bottle and call the ambulance! You didn’t even try!” Tears are streaming down his cheeks.

“You can think whatever you want, but you won’t be able to prove it,” Sensei says. “I don’t know who your friend is, but she’s trespassing. My private security will–”

Faster than anyone can react, the angel of death pulls out a gun and holds it to Sensei’s head.

“N-now, let’s all be calm,” Sensei says. “Yusuke, what happened to your mother was an unfortunate accident. I couldn’t have done anything! Besides, I’ve been good to you haven’t I? I raised you as my own!”

The angel of death looks at Yusuke, silently asking a question. He thinks it over for an eternity.

“Did Mama beg you for help too?” Yusuke asks.

The anger on Madarame’s face is answer enough.

Yusuke nods at the angel, and she points the gun at her own head.

“Come, Medea.”

With the pull of a trigger, something…. terrifying and beautiful comes out of her and starts glowing.

Madarame starts screaming and Yusuke closes his eyes and turns away. He doesn’t look back when the screaming stops.

“So, now can you take me to see Mama?” Yusuke asks the angel of death.

“I can’t take you to see her now,” she says, “but you can see her soon. If you’d like to come with me.”

Yusuke nods. There’s nothing left for him here now.

#alto writes #yusuke kitagawa #persona 5 #persona 3 #chidori yoshino #vain art bastard #sad art boi hours #wordcount: 1000-1500 #death tw #idk persona 3 adjacent stuff?#ask to tag #implied/referenced child abuse

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crymeariveronceagain · 2 years

Text

SOMETHING. HAPPENED. WITH KEEFE SENCEN AND CASSIUS SENCEN. BETWEEN BOOKS 2 AND 3.

SOMETHING HAPPENED.

KEEFE WENT FROM MENTIONING HIS DAD'S NASTIENESS 1/15 CONVERSATIONS TO 1/5 CONVERSATIONS.

HE WENT FROM MENTIONING IT ONCE EVERY SO OFTEN TO DOING IT WHENEVER HE CAN AND STRETCHING IT OUT LONGER.

THAT IS A CRY FOR HELP IF I'VE EVER SEEN ONE.

IT'S A FRICKING TACTIC ONE OF MY FRIENDS USED TO USE TO STRESS HOW BAD THEIR PARENTALS WERE. I REMEMBER ONCE THEY BROUGHT IT UP FOUR TIMES IN ONE NIGHT, AND THE SILENCE THAT WENT AROUND THE ROOM BECAUSE WE WERE ALL TEENAGERS WHO DIDNT KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH THAT STILL HAUNTS ME TO THIS DAY.

THAT'S HOW YOU LET PEOPLE KNOW THAT THINGS ARE VERY NOT OKAY. UNDER THE RADAR. BECAUSE PEOPLE CAN BRUSH IT OFF IF THEY WANT.

I HAVE STRONG FEELINGS AND THEY INVOLVE WANTING TO SHAKE KEEFE BY THE SHOULDERS AND ASK HIM WHAT HAPPENED

#TW CAPS #tw caps #caps #hi so what happened #real questions #implied/referenced child abuse #keefe sencen #real questions here what the HECK HAPPENED #can i take my boy's face and gently caress it and ask 'darling what happened to you'#kotlc cassius #cassius sencen #kotlc everblaze #kotlc exile #exile #everblaze #kotlc #tw child abuse #cassius sencen's a+ parenting

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runelocked · 6 months

Note

❝ you passed out, i carried you here. ❞ — vanessa @hazardess , but she’s bitter about it

FEVERISH MUTTERING HAD HAUNTED HIM ALL NIGHT, ALL DAY, AND THE LAST MEMORY HE HAS IS LEAVING THE PIZZERIA, still shivering uncontrollably in the heat of the sticky summer sun. Head aching, angrily waving off his daughter’s questions: I’m fine, he remembers snapping, more of a groan than anything else, I just need air. Don’t you even think about. . .

The rest is a sliding, slippery blur. Despite everything he’s done and the lengths he’s gone to, it seems he’s still just as human as ever.

That’s the really terrifying part.

He can barely even face lifting his head from the makeshift pillow Vanessa has propped under him, the whole world tilting precariously on an axis of its own bearing. But he does: persists in rising, his pale face ghostly and off - color. Even trying to keep his daughter in focus hurts. She blurs in front of him, fades in and out between the little girl he’d initially doted on and the young woman he knows logically that she is. Is this his fever - addled brain trying to offer him a reprieve from the disappointment he feels his daughter has become ? – Clumsily reaches out for her, words heavy and absent.

“ ‘S a good girl, Ness. Always so helpful. ” Her father’s right hand man, through and through. Remembers getting her to hold his tools as he’d painstakingly built that old Spring - Bonnie suit, his pride and joy; remembers more recently handing her his knife to wash. Clean that up for me. We’ve done well today. Both killers. Nobody suspects him, of course they don’t. Confident words and faux charming smile keeping him out of public scrutiny, the loss of his own son only years before at the hands of his daughter.

He smiles that same smile now, but it’s pathetic. Laden with the sudden realization he feels helpless for the first time in a long time. If she’d wanted to kill him, she could have. Ended it all. He wouldn’t have even known. Maybe that’s why he addresses her now, in an exhausted facsimile of love he’d once shown her as a young child. “ Help me stand. [...] How long ‘s it been ? ” How long has he been lying there, human, vulnerable ? How long has she been watching over him; how long has she served her duty to him loyally today ?

#(( I THINK I REMEMBER SEEING YOUR VANESSA USED TO HAVE A YOUNGER BROTHER SO I INCLUDED THAT !!! if it's wrong tho lmk :3 ))#(ii) man behind the slaughter — roleplay thread.#(ui) original: standard.#tw child death #tw child murder #tw mental instability #tw sickness #tw hallucinations #tw illness #tw child abuse #tw dysfunctional family #( most just referenced / implied ! )#a; hazardess #(oxo) rabbit in the headlights: william & vanessa.#(xi) ‘the owner was pretty sentimental i guess 🤭’: movie verse.

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legends-of-time · 3 months

Text

Strength of a High and Noble Hill (Outlander Story) - Masterlist

Timelines:

19th and 20th Centuries

17th and 18th Centuries

Fraser Descendants (family tree)

Warnings:

Major Character Death, Minor Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism, Period-Typical Racism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con

Summary:

May 1744

He wriggles his toes, feeling his environment. He quickly realises how much his surroundings are constricted, his legs are tightly bound and he is being cradled in someone’s arms. He opens his eyes and sees a woman leaning over him and realises she must be the one holding them. She’s humming softly with a warm and happy smile. He can see that her skin is clammy and there are bruises under her eyes, the eyes that are amber, golden-brown as well as smoky topaz, but that doesn’t dim her smile as she gazes upon the person in her arms. She’s white and her brown hair surrounds her face in messy curls.

——

What if Claire and Jamie’s first baby survived and what if it had been a boy. How will the story change?

Chapters:

Chapter 1: Birth

Chapter 2: First Months

Chapter 3: Peaceful Family Life Disrupted

Chapter 4: Goodbyes

Chapter 5: New Beginnings

Chapter 6: A Fish Out of Water

Chapter 7: Conflict

Chapter 8: Sister

Chapter 9: Returning

Chapter 10: The Truth

Chapter 11: The Loss of Hope

Chapter 12: Coping with Change

Chapter 13: Finding Him

Chapter 14: Moving to the Past

Chapter 15: Loss

Chapter 16: Lost Family

Chapter 17: A New but Old World

Chapter 18: Reunited at Last

Chapter 19: Big Brother

Chapter 20: Coming Together

Chapter 21: Fathers

Chapter 22: Dreams

Chapter 23: Fathers and Their Archaic Ways

Chapter 24: River Run

Chapter 25: A New but Old Face

Chapter 26: Caught in the Act

Chapter 27: Family Time

Chapter 28: New Beginnings

Chapter 29: Waiting

Chapter 30: Old Dreams

Chapter 31: Inferiority Complex

Chapter 32: Community Swelling

Chapter 33: Purpose

Chapter 34: First Sight

Chapter 35: Is it Happily Ever After?

Chapter 36: Gifts and Awkward Conversations

Chapter 37: Unravels

Chapter 38: Lay Up Trouble For Yourself

Chapter 39: War Wins Land, Peace Wins People

Chapter 40: Life Goes On But The Threat Looms

Chapter 41: Building Arsenal

Chapter 42: Romeo and Juliet

Chapter 43: Baggage Weighs You Down

Chapter 44: Misunderstandings

Chapter 45: Should auld acquaintance be forgot?

Wattpad access

fanfiction.net access

Ao3 access

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ollieofthebeholder · 9 months

Text

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev. || AO3 || My Website

Chapter 41: October 1998

“You can’t stay in the closet forever.”

“Says you.”

“Are we talking literally or in metaphor?” Gerard asks.

Melanie glares at him. At least he thinks she’s glaring at him. It’s hard to tell under the fake fur glued all over her face. Gerard understands, kind of, why she doesn’t want to wear a mask, but he still thinks she maybe went overboard just a tad.

Not that he’s going to say that. Melanie may be small, but she is vicious, and even if her claws are made of rubber she’s more than capable of tearing him to shreds.

Turning back to the firmly closed door in front of her, Melanie presses against it and says coaxingly, “C’mon, Martin, we’re waiting on you. Your mum even says it’s okay if Gerry takes us alone this year. It won’t be any fun without you. Please?”

There’s a long, long silence. Finally, Martin’s muffled voice comes from the other side. “Okay, but you have to promise not to laugh.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye,” Melanie promises.

“We’d never laugh at you,” Gerard assures him. “You can laugh at me instead.”

Melanie shoves him as she steps back from the closet door. “You don’t look that bad.”

It’s Halloween, not one of Gerard’s favorite holidays—the idea of a whole festival surrounding the things his mother studies and borderline worships is not his idea of a good time, and he’s a bit keener on the inherent mischief of Bonfire Night anyway—but Melanie loves it. Actually, what Melanie loves is dressing up in costumes and having fun, and Halloween is one of the few excuses she gets to do so, especially since they’re all beginning to get leery of the theater and its implications. This will be the third year running that one of the mothers in the support group for single parents holds a party all the children are invited to, and since Gerard strongly suspects this will be the last year Roger and Aunt Lily are members of that group, he’s agreed to go with Melanie and Martin. He’ll do just about anything for them.

Including wearing fancy dress.

The closet door opens slowly, and Martin steps out, very hesitantly. Gerard is shocked—not because it looks bad; on the contrary, the outfit thoroughly suits Martin—but because he knows Martin pulled this together himself.

“Oh, Martin,” Melanie says, sounding delighted. She claps her hands—paws, whatever. “You should’ve told me you were going as Dmitri, I’d’ve gone as Anya and we could’ve matched.”

Martin’s cheeks turn pink. “I wasn’t sure I could pull it off.”

“You did.” Gerard adjusts Martin’s cap—he thinks it’s called a flat cap—so that it sits at a slightly more rakish angle, then nods approvingly. “You look great. Ready to go?”

“Yeah.” Martin tugs at the front of his vest a bit self-consciously. “You both look great, too.”

Gerard thinks he’s being generous, at least on his behalf, but doesn’t say so. Martin will just insist that no, really, he means it. And it has to be admitted that Melanie’s Beast costume is very convincing.

“C’mon,” he says instead. “Let’s go before we miss the train.”

It’s not that easy. Of course it’s not that easy. Roger insists on taking pictures of the three of them, both as a group and individually, and then Gerard has to fetch the encyclopedia—fortunately the Blackwoods have the same one he pulled from the library—to show him the entry on Veles he used as inspiration for his costume. They don’t get all the way out the door before Roger realizes Melanie’s tusks are still in the car, they only get as far as the stoop before Aunt Lily presses an umbrella on them, and they’re halfway down the block before Gerard’s mum calls after them that they’ve forgotten their train fare. By the time they finally get away, they have to run to catch the bus that will get them to Paddington in time to not have to wait a whole hour for their train.

For some reason, Gerard can’t figure out why, the party is in Oxford. He isn’t sure if the woman who’s part of the support group just comes all the way to London because there isn’t anything closer or if her family lives out there, and he’s not sure if Martin or Melanie know the answer either. This is the first year he’s gone, since he and his mum pop in and out of town so much and she left the group, and he’s not quite sure what to expect.

“It’s fun,” Melanie says when he asks. She’s popped the tusks out of her mouth again, as they make it difficult for her to talk effectively, and Martin has them folded into his satchel along with the bauble he found somewhere that somehow looks exactly like the music box from the film. “There’s treats and games and dancing, and there’s always a costume contest. I bet Martin’s going to win this year.”

“Yours is better,” Martin says. “Judith said they were going to maybe do one of those murder mystery games this year, too.”

“That’ll be…interesting,” Gerard says. He’s not sure if fun is the right word, and he doesn’t think he’ll be very good at it either. Martin will, though. Melanie, jury’s still out.

Fortunately, they’re not the only ones going to the party on the train, so not only does Gerard not feel particularly self-conscious about his costume (or about Melanie’s, for that matter), they can tag along with a parent who knows the bus routes well enough to get them to the house, which is on practically the other side of the town. Good thing the buses are running, too; the rain seems to have followed them up from London and all the way to the street, which is aptly named Hill Top Road. The site of the party is an enormous house, bigger than the others on the street, bedecked in crepe paper and cobwebs, and while Gerard looks slightly suspiciously at the cobwebs, Martin quietly assures him they’re fake. Since Martin has a way better sense of the Fourteen than even Gerard does, he trusts him.

Mrs. Bradford is plump and jolly and welcomes all the children with open arms and doesn’t even mention the absolute gouts of water pouring from the fake fur of Melanie’s costume because she wouldn’t stay under the umbrella, only showing her to the bathroom and offering her a towel to dry off. There are a couple girls dressed as Anastasia, eyeballing each other from across the room above identical store-bought costumes, and one or two dressed as what Gerard assumes are other popular characters, but most of the kids are dressed as witches, goblins, skeletons, or vampires. Food is laid out in the living room—popcorn balls, caramel apples, bowls of candy, cookies shaped like bats and pumpkins, and a gigantic crystal punch bowl—while the study has a metal tub in the center filled with water and apples to bob for. Another room has had all the furniture pushed against the walls, with music playing for kids who want to dance; still another is set up for games. A room filled with pillows and beanbag chairs seems ready-made for storytelling. All the rooms have the lights turned off, lit only by flickering, guttering candles, the perfect counterpoint to the rain still lashing at the windows.

Gerard has to admit, as far as spooky kids’ parties go, this one’s not bad.

He circles the rooms once or twice, just to see what’s going on. He declines to participate in the apple bobbing because of his false beard, but he joins a game of Cluedo and another of Beggar-My-Neighbor, tries to learn a party dance (made a bit awkward by the fact that his teacher is Melanie, who is somewhat hampered by her still-damp fur), then drifts into the storytelling room. Mrs. Bradford’s father, who was probably a schoolyard chum of Robert Smirke’s he’s so old, does an admittedly good job of telling a proper spooky story and making it sound real, about something that supposedly happened in one of the houses on this very street. It’s so convincing that Gerard might be tempted to go and investigate himself if it wasn’t still raining.

Choosing not to offer up a story himself—he knows plenty, but he lacks Martin’s way with words to tell them properly—he wanders through the kitchen. Mrs. Bradford is preparing something she calls a “snap-dragon”—Gerard isn’t sure what that is—and assures him she doesn’t need assistance, then kindly directs him to the washroom when he asks. He’s had more than a few cups of punch and he really needs to pee.

He manages to maneuver his costume such that he can relieve himself, then carefully washes his hands. After taking a moment to study himself in the mirror to make sure he still looks presentable, he reaches for the doorknob and starts to exit, then freezes when he hears a conversation in progress just down the hall. “—why you would even want to invite that one, honestly.”

“I didn’t.” The disgusted voice belongs to a girl he’s pretty sure is Judith, who’s Mrs. Bradford’s daughter. “Mummy insisted we couldn’t leave anybody in the group out, and certainly not just one person. Besides, they’re a matched set these days. Melanie comes with Martin and that’s all there is to it.”

Gerard bristles. Who do these brats think they are? Martin’s worth ten times any other person in this building, Gerard included, and they have no right to act like he’s a, a burden or an inconvenience or worse. He also knows that Martin would be perfectly happy to stay home and let Melanie go to things without him if he’s not wanted, because he feels like he’s making things less enjoyable for her. And really, considering there are more girls than boys among the children of single parents, it probably wouldn’t take much convincing to get him to stay home.

He’s about to step out and say something to that effect when the other girl, the one who’s not Judith, sighs heavily. “I don’t know what he sees in her, honestly. She’s so annoying. Always stepping in where she’s not wanted, and she never shuts up. And those clothes she wears.”

“Yeah,” Judith says with a nasty laugh. “Even a clown would be embarrassed to dress like that. And, ugh, her hair.”

“Good thing she’s covered in fur tonight. It’s less ugly than her face.” The other girl laughs, too, in a very mean way. “She definitely picked the right costume. Who could ever learn to love something like that? Martin’s just too nice to tell her the truth, that’s all.”

They’re talking about Melanie. Gerard feels suddenly lightheaded. Melanie, outgoing, vivacious Melanie—Melanie who’s the first to chat up the new kid on the playground or volunteer to sit with the person on their own at lunch, Melanie who tends to do the talking whenever they’re in shops, Melanie who actually likes people instead of just wanting them to either like her or not notice her like Martin and Gerard do—they don’t want Melanie here? Not that it was okay when he thought it was Martin, just that it was…typical. It shouldn’t be like that, but it is. But Melanie?

“It’s always good when the costumes fit the people,” Judith is saying, and then she jumps as Gerard flings the bathroom door open hard enough that it clatters against something and steps out into the hallway. “Who—oh, Gerard, is that you?”

“What did you say about Melanie?” Gerard demands, drawing himself up to his full height—which isn’t much, but is at least over Judith and the other girl—he recognizes her now as someone called Helen, who’s always very cagey about where she and her mother live but spends most of her time with the better-off kids in the group. Judith is dressed, aptly enough, as a witch, whereas Helen is one of the Anastasias, the one who didn’t bother with a wig. Something about that seems vaguely important, but not enough to bother about. They’re both, he remembers now, closer to his age than Martin and Melanie’s, evidently old enough to be in the catty stage.

Judith looks a bit flustered, but Helen wrinkles her nose. “You got stuck coming in with her, didn’t you? I’m so sorry. Maybe we can shove her outside, what do you think, Judith? If we convince her to reenact that scene from the movie, she might even go up on the roof and we can lock her out there.”

For a second, Judith actually looks like she’s considering that. Fury grips Gerard like a vice. “Don’t worry. We’re leaving.”

“You don’t have to go,” Judith protests, blinking very rapidly and clasping her hands in front of her chest.

“If my sister isn’t welcome,” Gerard snaps, “neither am I.”

“She’s your sister?” Judith blurts.

Helen frowns. “I thought her mother was dead. Or are your parents…divorced?” She says that like it’s the most horrid thing she can think of.

Gerard doesn’t bother explaining. He shoves past the girls and stomps down the hall in a blind fury. The rest of the kids are rushing towards the kitchen, giggling and chattering excitedly; Gerard snags the Beast and Dmitri as soon as they get close. “Martin, Melanie, come on, we’ve got to go.”

“Already?” Melanie sounds disappointed, even through the fangs. “They were just about to do a snap-dragon.”

Martin tugs Melanie’s sleeve. She doesn’t seem to notice. “That’s not safe with your costume. Come on, let’s say goodnight and go. I didn’t realize it was so late.”

It’s not, or at least it’s not so late that they have to leave, but Gerard doesn’t tell them that.

Mrs. Bradford tries to dissuade them from leaving when they (well, Martin and Melanie at any rate—Gerard can’t bring himself to be nice to someone whose daughter is so poisonous and nasty, and he finds himself bouncing on the balls of his feet and mentally urging them to hurry up already) thank her for the lovely evening; she brings up everything from the lateness of the hour to the rain and says that if their mothers can’t pick them up they’re welcome to spend the night, but Gerard simply says no and hustles Martin and Melanie out the door before anyone can say another word.

It really is a nasty night; the rain is pouring even harder than before, obscuring what little moon there ordinarily would have been, and it’s the kind of rain that chills to the bone, but Gerard is so hot he can barely feel it. He also doesn’t care that he doesn’t know Oxford well—or really at all—and only has a vague sense of which direction to head in to get to the train station. They’re also almost certainly going to have to wait for the next train, but it’s better, he tells himself, than dealing with…that. Melanie doesn’t need to be around people that hate her. She deserves so much better than that.

At the intersection at the end of the road, he starts to turn left, but Martin catches his sleeve. “Cross here and cut through the park, it’ll save us time.”

“We don’t—fine.” Gerard takes Martin’s hand on one side and Melanie’s on the other and practically drags them across the street, despite their protests. In a tiny part of his mind, he realizes he just put their lives in danger and what if a car had come along, but they make it to the other side in one piece, so who really cares.

The park is almost certainly closed by now, but nobody really stops them as they cross through a small copse of trees that offers a little shelter but is definitely not an official entrance by any means. There’s a rustle and a pop, and then Gerard is vaguely aware that he’s not really getting wet anymore. Melanie says, a bit anxiously, “Slow down, Gerry, we’ve got to bunch up together or we won’t all fit.”

“I’m fine. You two be under the umbrella,” Martin says. “This old thing’s keeping me plenty dry and warm. You guys are the ones that are never going to dry out.”

Gerard automatically takes the umbrella’s handle when Melanie presses it into his hand, then takes off again, as fast as he can. He’s only vaguely aware that Melanie is stumbling to keep up with him. Now he’s even angrier, and not just with Judith and Helen—are they the only ones that feel like that? Does every kid in the group think Melanie isn’t worth being friends with? He’s angry with himself, for not thinking this through, for not telling Mrs. Bradford why they’re leaving, for not telling Melanie and Martin why they’re leaving, for dragging them out into the rain, for not bringing a second umbrella, for making his costume out of velor instead of something that won’t hold onto the moisture like the robes are currently doing.

One thing’s for sure, he’s never growing real facial hair if it feels anything like this fake beard feels soaking wet.

Christ, it’s hard to see out here. Gerard sincerely hopes they’re still heading in the right direction, because visibility has dropped to just about nothing and there’s nobody out here. He imagines it’s probably a popular enough spot, during the day at least, maybe even usually on Halloween night, but this late and especially in this weather, they have it to themselves. It’s easy to believe it’s just them in the whole wide world, really, and it would be easy to lose track of Melanie if the sodden fur of her costume wasn’t tickling his hand.

“Martin? Martin! Gerry, stop, we lost Martin!” Melanie practically screams in his ear.

Every thought and cell in Gerard’s body comes to a sudden, screeching halt.

They’re in, so far as he can tell, a completely open field. There are no trees, no statues, no fences. Hell, it suddenly hits him that they’ve been climbing a hill, and that they’re probably standing at the highest point in the park, which would be dangerous if there was a thunderstorm going on but isn’t so dangerous when it’s just rain. The point, though, is that there’s nowhere for Martin to hide, no way they could possibly have lost him.

And yet, when he spins around, nearly losing his balance in the wet grass, he can’t see Martin. He can’t see anything.

“Martin!” he bellows. He’s afraid, suddenly, to let go of Melanie’s hand and cup his own around his mouth, afraid that if he does so she’ll get lost too even if she’s standing right next to him, but he tries to make an effective megaphone with his single free hand. “Martin! Where are you?”

Gerard feels the sudden shift of weight on the umbrella as Melanie lets go. Suddenly panicked, he drops it and reaches out with both hands to where she was a second ago—oh, Christ, please let her still be standing there—and gasps in relief as his hands make contact with sodden fur.

“Martin!” she yells, and then screams in what sounds like genuine fear as Gerard grabs her and pulls her close.

“Christ, Neenie, don’t let go of me!” he bawls back at her. “I’m not losing you too!”

Gerard can just make out the shape of Melanie’s face in the dark, but her eyes are so huge they’re practically luminescent. “He’s here, he has to be here!”

“We’ll find him,” Gerard promises fiercely, and he doesn’t know if he can really promise that, but he’s going to anyway. God, this is all his fault, if he had only thought a little harder about this…

Melanie grips his hand so tightly it hurts, and they start back down the hill, both of them yelling Martin’s name. There’s no answer but the rain, and the further down the hill they go, the harder it gets to be able to see. Everything feels…far away, somehow, and Gerard can’t even see the faintest hint of the city on the horizon.

Fuck, no, no, no…

“Neenie,” he says suddenly, coming to a stop. “This isn’t natural.”

“It’s rain,” Melanie says, but he can hear the hysterical edge in her voice. “It’s just rain, and—and it’s after sundown, and there’s no moon, and—”

Gerard pulls her closer and tries to quell the fear in his own voice. If it knows he’s scared, it’ll come for them too, and they’ll have no hope of getting Martin out. “Melanie, I know you can feel that too. How could we have lost Martin so easy if—if he didn’t have help getting lost?”

“No,” Melanie says, her voice cracking. “No, we can’t, it can’t—Martin!”

Gerard echoes her cry, but it feels…hopeless, somehow. Like he’s not going to be heard. It occurs to him then that their voices should be echoing, at least a little bit, but there’s nothing. The sound’s being swallowed up…or maybe it’s like it’s coming from all around them. There’s no way to tell, no way to be sure…Gerard isn’t even sure anymore that they’re going back the way they came, or that he’ll be able to find which way they’re supposed to be going if he does manage it.

Panic takes hold, and this time it’s not letting go. He cannot have been so feeble as to lose Martin to something like this…

He’s aware, suddenly, of music. Someone is singing, loudly and a bit off-key, but with a sincere feeling, like whoever is singing really means the words. It takes him a second to catch on to the fact that it’s Melanie singing, and he tightens his grip on her hand, letting the words filter into his brain. It sounds familiar, but he can’t place it.

And then he hears another voice, a bit faint but steady and clear, singing the next part of the song—at least he assumes it’s the next part, it’s the same tune anyway—from somewhere just ahead of them, and he gasps, because it’s Martin singing. He runs forward, Melanie dragging along with him, as she jumps back in with another line, and then she and Martin are singing together.

And then there he is, directly in front of them, what of his hair isn’t tucked under his cap plastered flat against his head and his hands tightly clenched, but it’s Martin and Gerard can see him. He gives a little cry and reaches out for him, just as Melanie does the same, and they grab his hands and pull him close and hug him tightly, and he hugs them back just as hard. For a moment, probably a too-long moment, they cling to one another in sheer relief.

Finally, Martin pulls back, just a little, and blinks up at them. “Can we go now?”

“Yeah. Don’t let go,” Gerard says. He’s still hopped up on adrenaline, and he tells himself that’s why he’s shaking.

It’s awkward to walk with his arms around Melanie and Martin’s shoulders, and their arms around his waist, but he doesn’t care, because it’s better than not knowing where they are.

They somehow make it to the train station, and Gerard manages to get their return tickets just in time for them to make the train—it probably isn’t the last one to London, given the hour, but he finds he doesn’t want to hang about in Oxford any longer than he has to. Unsurprisingly, the train is largely empty this time of night, so it’s not hard to find somewhere isolated they can sit huddled close to one another.

For the first several minutes, none of them speak. Then, after a bit, Martin eases back, fishes a handkerchief that’s somehow managed to remain dry out of his coat, and begins wiping his glasses, shoulders hunched and head bowed as he concentrates very hard on them.

Melanie bursts into tears.

Martin’s head jerks up, and he only just has time to shove his glasses back onto his face before Melanie crawls into Gerard’s lap and throws her arms around Martin’s neck. She’s not just crying, she’s full-on sobbing, and Gerard, who’s never even heard her sniffle before, admittedly panics a little again. He wraps one arm around her and another around Martin and pulls them both close, and it’s a bit like hugging a sponge in the middle of doing the dishes, but he does it anyway, because now his mind is running all the possible scenarios of what could have happened if he hadn’t been able to find Martin, if Melanie had got a little further away from him, if he hadn’t held either of their hands and hadn’t noticed them falling behind. Surprisingly, very few of them are concerned with what Aunt Lily would say.

“I’m sorry!” Melanie wails. “I’m sorry, I th-thought you were holding my hand, I d-didn’t realize you’d l-let go until we were so far away and then we couldn’t find you and it almost got you and it’s all my fault…”

“Melanie. Melanie. It’s okay. It’s okay.” Martin squeezes Melanie tighter, and Gerard too. “It’s not your fault. I should’ve said something before I let go, I just—I couldn’t see anything, my glasses were too wet, I was just trying to clean them off and—” He breaks off with a gulp, and it’s a second or two before he’s able to continue. “I-it was just—everything seemed so faraway. Like I couldn’t find my way out. I, I didn’t know It was there or I would’ve…”

“Not your fault, either,” Gerard says, and he’s a little surprised to hear the hitch in his own voice, but he doesn’t care. “I’m the one that made us leave early. I’m the one that dragged you two through that park instead of waiting until everybody else left so we could go in a group and be safe. I’m the one who didn’t hold your hands, and I’m the one who was too angry to sense the—”

He doesn’t say its name. He can’t. He doesn’t want to invite it onto the train, doesn’t want to risk it trying to take Martin away from him again, even with both him and Melanie clinging to him as tight as they can. What if it’s stronger than he is?

“It almost got you,” he chokes out. “And now it’s going to be looking for you again.”

Martin sighs. It’s too weary a sound to be coming from a ten-year-old. “I’m pretty sure it was already after me, Ger. I—I think I ran into it when I was little. I dunno. Maybe I’m wrong, but…I think that one tried to get me a long time ago.”

“We won’t leave you alone ever again,” Melanie says fiercely. Her voice is still as waterlogged as her costume.

It does make Martin chuckle, at least a little. Gerard rubs his cheek against his hair, dislodging the hat slightly, then looks down at Melanie. “Well, the other kids already think you’re a matched set, so that shouldn’t be too much of a problem, yeah?”

“We’re not getting married or anything.” Martin sounds slightly appalled, and Gerard can’t help but laugh. “And I don’t—Neenie deserves to get to have fun with people.”

Melanie finally gets her knees off Gerard’s lap and wedges herself in between them. She’s shorter than they are, so they can see each other over her head. “You’re people. And you’re fun. Why wouldn’t you get to come and have fun with me?”

“I don’t think many people want to invite us both.”

Gerard winces. “Um. That’s—that’s kind of why I made us leave.”

Melanie’s eyes darken, and her chest puffs up under the sodden costume. “Did someone say something mean? Who said it?”

“Probably a lot of people,” Martin mumbles.

“I—I only heard two,” Gerard says carefully. “Judith and, um, Helen, I think her name is? The Anastasia without the wig.”

“Yeah, that’s Helen.” Martin makes a face. “I knew she was just trying to play a joke on me.”

For a second, just a second, Gerard is tempted…but no. After the night they’ve just had, he needs to be honest. “It’s not you they didn’t want around, Martin. It’s Melanie.”

“Melanie?” Martin repeats, dumbfounded. “But everybody likes Melanie.”

“No, they don’t,” Melanie mutters. “They think I’m annoying. Like everybody at school. I—I thought maybe they were different, since they were inviting me to the party, but…I guess Mrs. Bradford made Judith invite me, huh?”

Martin holds onto her tighter. Gerard’s heart lurches. “Yeah,” he admits. “That’s what she said. That’s why I made us leave, that’s why I got so angry. You deserve better. You both deserve better.”

Melanie looks up at Martin. “I don’t want to leave you alone, but—what if I just walk you to hang out with people and then come back and get you? That way the people who like you can spend time with you, and—”

“They don’t like me either,” Martin says matter-of-factly. “They like the person I pretend to be so they won’t be mean to me. That’s all. I didn’t set out to be liked. I just wanted to be…”

Safe.

The word lingers in the air unspoken and stabs Gerard deeply. Martin certainly deserves to be liked, he deserves people who enjoy his company and want him around, just like Melanie does. He deserves friends. But Aunt Lily’s made him believe he doesn’t, and she’s made him believe nobody likes him if he’s who he really is, and so he tries to put himself into a tiny, tiny box and tick off all the right things on the list and be what people want, or at least what they expect, and he thinks if he does that he won’t get hurt.

But if Martin is right and the thing that just tried to hurt him—they’re not saying it, but they all know it’s the Lonely—has tried to hurt him before, the worst thing he can be is alone. And if he doesn’t have friends, real friends, he will be, even in a crowd. Sometimes the loneliest place in the world is in the middle of thousands of people and knowing that not a single one of them cares whether you live or die.

Gerard should know.

“We like you,” he says, yanking Martin’s cap off with one hand and ruffling his miraculously still dry hair with the other, teasing a grin out of him. “We love you. We always will. No matter what, don’t you ever forget that—you’ve always got us. Always.”

“Always and forever,” Melanie echoes.

Martin scoots a little closer, squeezing Melanie tighter between them and accidentally wringing water all over their laps, and for once he doesn’t immediately apologize. “I know. Just like you’ll both always have me.”

#ollie writes fanfic #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest)#tma fanfic #gerard keay #martin blackwood #melanie king #halloween #panic tw #paranoia tw #bullying tw #implied/referenced emotional abuse #darkness #brief scenes of missing child

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theburninggalaxy · 1 year

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Don't get me wrong I love found family as much as the next guy

But holy fuck it's hard to see all these fictional characters with shitty biological dads get real father figures when I know I'll never have that

Like, where is my found family that is all siblings and they acknowledge there isn't a parent and there's angst over it and they learn how to deal with it without getting a mentor father figure

Cause every single time I see a character who has a dad like mine they only get to be happy when they get a good father figure. And I'm never gonna get that.

#uhhh #tags?#tw: vent #vent #imma just do it as if this was ao3 lol #tw: implied/referenced child abuse #implied abuse #found family #i love it but please just 1 where the kid with the shit dad doesnt end up with a good dad #please #i wanna know i can be happy too yk

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faofinn · 1 year

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DAY 16: semi-conscious

@febuwhump

Everything was…hazy. Nothing really made sense, and he wasn't entirely sure where he was, or, if he was honest, who he was.

He was warm though, and rarely in much pain. There were people around, talking to him, but their words were fleeting and he never managed to make them out.

They’d been trying to get Harrison out for a long while. He’d been known to them from a young age, but his family were difficult and without formal social services intervention, their hands were tied.

And then they got news that things had truly broken down with the family, that Hars was in hospital critically unwell, and that he needed the support of ARCC. A young wolf all alone, he needed a pack. Needed people behind him. Fred and Sheila had a lot on their plates, and so they spoke to Steve and asked him to reach out to the kid. He’d been doing such a great job working with the more troubled kids, and they knew he’d be a good fit to give Harrison the support he needed.

So he headed to the hospital, intending just to touch base with Harrison’s care team, get some more information, and speak to the kid if he was up to it. He understood how critical things were, that he was still somewhat sedated amongst other things, but it would be good to at least see him.

He’d bought a little stuffed animal, too. He knew it was daft, the kid was 13, after all. But it felt right, somehow, to offer him a little bit of comfort amongst it all. Hospital was a scary place, no matter how old you were. It was a little ginger tabby cat, the softest toy he’d found in the shop, and he hoped it would bring the kid some comfort.

After a nice conversation with Harrison’s nurse, they let him into his room. It was quiet, aside from the soft noises of the medical equipment, and he took a careful seat next to the bed. The boy in the bed looked small, asleep under the sheets, pale with his hair a mess. As so not to disturb him, Steve carefully tucked the cat up next to him. After a moment’s deliberation, he took his hand, squeezing it gently. He wasn’t sure how aware the boy was, how much he’d remember, but he wanted to make an effort.

“Hi, kid. I’m Steve.” He said, his voice soft. “You’ve really been through the mill. I’m really sorry it happened, but you’re safe now. Got a whole pack looking out for you.”

His words were gentle, as was his touch. He fought against the sedation, squinting at the man. He didn’t recognise him, though he doubted he would have anyway. The scents were all wrong, mixed with the sterility of the hospital.

Steve hummed. “Hey. Didn’t expect you to wake up. It’s okay, you’re safe.”

He blinked slowly, taking a moment to just try and figure out what was going on. He finally noticed the new arrival on the bed, and frowned. It took a little longer for him to manage to reach for it with the hand not in Steve’s, a small smile playing on his face.

Steve smiled back. “Thought you might like a friend.”

"Mine?"

“Yeah, he’s for you.”

"Oh."

“He’s not got a name though, you’ll have to think of one.”

He almost gave a shrug. That was too much to think about.

“For later.” Steve soothed, aware the boy would be struggling. “Are you in any pain?” He asked gently.

He shook his head. It wasn't pain, just…uncomfortable.

“No pain is good.”

Harrison hummed, shuffling slightly to get more comfortable. He instinctively pulled the cat closer, giving Steve's hand a soft squeeze.

“That’s it, you get comfortable.”

It didn’t take much for Harrison to fall asleep again, and he soon drifted, safe and content. He woke a little while later, and couldn't quite believe the man was still there.

Steve let him sleep, glad he was getting some rest. God knows he needed it. When he woke again, he didn’t move for a minute, letting him adjust to being awake again.

He gave a small smile, trying to clear his throat. "Hi."

“Hi.”

"It hurts a little."

“Here, where’s your button? We’ll call a nurse in.” Steve said softly, standing up.

"I don't know."

“I’ll have a look, is that okay?”

He nodded, his lip trembling slightly. "I'm sorry."

“It’s alright, you’ve not done anything wrong.”

"I have." He whimpered quietly.

Steve easily found the buzzer, and pressed it to bring the nurse in. He sat down afterwards, not wanting to intimidate him further.

He pushed the cat away from him, worried he was going to be told off. "I'm sorry."

“Hey, it’s okay.” Steve said gently. “The cat is yours and you don’t need to be sorry.”

"No."

“It’s alright, I’m not going to hurt you.”

"Why?"

“I’m not that kind of person.”

Despite the pain, Harrison struggled to stay awake, stuck somewhere between conscious and the past.

Hesitantly, Steve moved the little stuffed cat closer to the boy. “It’s alright. Nobody is going to hurt you now.”

"I wasn't bad." He murmured. "I wasn't."

“You‘ve not been bad.” Steve said, his heart breaking. “You’re alright. Going to get you some painkillers.”

"I didn't say anything." He looked straight through Steve, focused on something, someone that wasn't there.

“It’s okay. You’re not in trouble.”

He gripped the cat absently. "I was good."

“You’ve been so good.” Steve told him. “You’re okay.”

Harrison gave a tiny nod, finally hearing Steve. "I was good."

“You’ve been so good.” He repeated.

"Oh, Steve, you're still here?" The nurse asked, finally answering the call bell. "Is everything okay?"

“Hi, sorry. Wanted to stay until he woke again. He was saying he was in a bit of pain, I wondered if he could have anything extra?”

"Yeah, of course. I'll go grab him something. Bless, he's just getting used to being awake again, isn't he?"

“Yeah, he is. Trying to be a consistent person for him. Thank you.”

"He definitely needs that."

“Yeah, exactly.”

They weren't long, returning with some pain meds. She shook Harrison’s arm gently, speaking softly to him. "Hars? Sweetheart? Got your painkillers."

He gave a quiet noise in acknowledgement, too deep to do much else. She took that as his recognition she was there, it was more than most would usually get anyway. It didn’t take long to give and she hummed, stepping back.

"There you go, I'll leave you two alone."

“Thank you.” Steve said gently.

Harrison whimpered softly, reaching out for the older man. "Steve?"

Steve was surprised he’d remembered his name. “Yeah?”

"Thanks."

“Oh, you’re welcome.”

Harrison smiled then, still semi-conscious, everything still hazy. And for the first in a long, long time, he felt safe.

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