#what i want. DESPERATELY. is edge of midnight but for ent. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

xticklemeemox · 5 months

Text

First ever Sleep Token fanfiction. Will be apart of a series detailing each Vessel's change to a vessel of Sleep. Eventual poly vessels. Vessel is not having a good time for a lot of this series. Also I'm not religious so Sleep has been a struggle to write.

This is about the characters, NEVER the real people. All appearance details are hc's of mine.

Tags for this part: hurt/no comfort, graphic depictions of self-harm, gore, suicide, suicidal ideation, religious themes. lemme know if I should tag anything else.

Word count: 9,047

Masterlist

The Love You Want: II

Link to ao3:

Fic under the cut.

The Love You Want: I

They came to him in a dream as he was teetering on the edge of life and death.

He had killed himself. Finally succeeded after various other attempts. It was everything he wanted, to finally end the torment of his everyday life and yet he regretted. Regretted that he never made anything of himself, never truly pursued music like he wished. Regretted letting his past lovers, his family, his peers, destroy him so completely that when he died, it was merely his body finally succumbing to the very darkness his mind had long since lived in.

Yet, broken as he was, They came to him. Asked him to be born anew as he floated in a vast expanse of stars, weightless as Their voice echoed around him, an amalgamation of every voice he had ever heard. "Will you be my vessel through which my message, my existence will be spread? I can give you everything you've ever wanted, if only you will accept me into your mind, your body, your very soul."

"I do not even know your name and you come to me and desire to give me everything. I am not deserving of anything."

"You are deserving of everything. I have watched you for your entire life. Witnessed your struggles and the few joys you managed to attain. I have seen others, witnessed their lives as I have yours, and there is no one better suited to be my First than you."

"But I am no one. If you've truly seen everything, you know how broken I am. Everyone I've ever loved has thought so, they've beaten it into me and made sure I would never forget it. I am broken beyond fixing."

"Your potentional, even as broken as you claim to be, is unlike any others' I have seen in millenium. As you are, you do not need fixed. As my vessel, you will be perfect no matter your state."

He wants. He wants more than he should, more than he deserves. He's always been so desperate for any sort of affection he let himself be used in so many ways, broken beyond repair but someone- something wants him. This God, a god, wants him to be their vessel. How many people could claim the same? This has to mean something. It has to.

He might bend, break, shatter beneath his desire to be loved. He is breaking beneath it. Resolve crumbling like the dust of the stars around him.

"I- I still don't understand why you want me but-"

With a blink of his eyes, everything changed. Above him, a moon shone brightly, larger than any he had ever seen before. Lain on his back, bright candlelight flickered around him in a circle, dimmer still than the stars he had been floating amongst what seemed like hours- seconds- minutes before. Time is dilated here, stretching out beyond his comprehension.

Sitting up, he noticed his skin had turned blacker than midnight. Sleep was all around him, every breath inhaled and exhaled a whisper of their name, a prayer echoed in his very soul.

"Be mine, my vessel, and I will give you what you most desire."

"And what is it I most desire, my God?"

"Love. I will give you love. My love, as my First Vessel, the love of your world, its inhabitants. You will be admired and sought after, revered, and in turn you will help spread my word."

"I will finally be loved...? But- Humans, my people are cruel. I have not been loved for even a moment my entire life. I have loved, but not loved in return. There is something about me that makes me unlovable. I will not make a good vessel for your message. Humans will see me and be deterred, as they have been all my life."

"A mask then."

"What?"

"A mask. To hide yourself behind, if you so wish it."

"Yes, yes, if I have a mask, then I, as myself, cannot deter them. A mask will allow them to connect to your message, to place their own experiences on your word without seeing me and guessing at my own experiences. I do not matter in this, it is your message and your message alone they need to receive."

"Yes, my vessel." Sleep agrees, but even they sound hesitant, despite offering up the mask as an option in the first place. "But I would not ask you to spread only my word. I will ask that you spread your experiences, your hardships. Humans dream so avidly of their hopes and desires, they do not process their pain as they should. Let them live their lives in the waking world, and as they dream, let them heal."

"If I can hide behind a mask, hide my true self and still share who I am, my pain, and still be loved as broken as I am then- I accept. I will become your vessel. I will bring you followers by baring my heart and soul. Humans love nothing more than to witness the pain of others, be it as a way to feel better about themselves or a way to feel not so alone."

"My first, my beautiful vessel." Sleep coos, "You will not regret this, I promise you. There is no one better to be my first than you."

The candles flicker out briefly, and when their light shines once again, a plate lay before him. Beside it, a knife whose golden blade gleams in the flames.

"Offer your heart to me, my vessel. Cut it out of your chest as your first act of worship."

Apprehension fills him, fear festering in the back of his mind. Pupils shrinking to pinpoints, he reaches for the knife with trembling fingers. He can barely hold its smooth wooden handle, his whole body shaking now. Bile rises in the back of his throat, but he swallows it down with disgust.

"Your heart, my vessel." His God urges, voices bouncing around in his skull painfully, "It will hurt. I will not lie to you about pain, not ever. It will hurt so badly and you will beg for it to be over, but you cannot stop until your heart is carved from your warm flesh and laid before me as an offering."

Steeling himself with his Gods words, he turns the knife's blade to face his body and without letting himself overthink it, plunges it into his upper chest. It hurts. It hurts like nothing else had before. Each suicide attempt was never without pain, but he thinks this most recent attempt- success may come close after he slit his wrists from wrist to elbow. That had burned like fire searing his flesh even as he bled out on his bathroom floor until finally, welcome cold as numbness settled over him like a final comforting embrace.

"Open up your chest for me, my vessel. Your ribs will not allow your heart to leave so easily."

Sobbing, he rips the blade from his skin, blood spilling out, and plunges it back in again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again-

He should be dead by now, with the mottled mass of muscle and veins and viscera that makes up his chest, but he supposes he really did die and this God is keeping his soul present enough for whatever this dream is to occur.

Dropping the knife at his side, he brings both hands up to grip a rib each on either side of his chest. They're slippery and wet, and his hands shake and struggle to hold onto the bone beneath whatever meat is still attached. A deep breath in that expands lungs that he just realized don't even need air, and he pulls with all his might. Screaming, screaming, screaming as his bones crack and every nerve in his body is aflame and all he wants is to die, to really die like he had planned, no matter what this God offers him-

"Good, my vessel. Your heart can be plucked now with far more ease. You just have to reach in and grab it. I know it hurts, I know. But you're almost done."

Sobbing still, tears streaming down his cheeks and snot dripping over his chin, hoarse moans and whimpers fall from parted lips as he reaches once more inside himself with one hand. Hunched over into himself, one arm trembles with the weight of his actions, struggling to hold himself up as the others hand grips the beating heart in his chest.

A sick squelching sound follows as he wraps his hand tighter and pulls, squeezing his own heart as it lets out weakening thumpthumpthumps upon its exit from his chest. He drops it on the plate, mind overloaded with nothing but pain as it feels like the heart he just offered up is still aching in his chest. His body screams that something is wrong, so wrong and he can feel himself devolving into a panic attack as his breaths come shorter and his heart- there is no heart in his chest- races like a stallion. His vision narrows and all he can hear is his own short breathing and static, such annoying, overwhelming static. Sand chafes his skin, fistfulls of it clumped in his hands as they claw at the ground in his panic.

Above him, the moon splinters, darkness hidden beneath revealed as the bottom shatters into pieces. Inky black tendrils claw their way out of the gaping hole at the bottom of the moon, seeming to reach out towards him. The heart is picked up with one of the tendrils, some caressing his face as others lap at the blood gushing down his front.

His body calms. The candles still flicker serenely, and in the distance, he can hear the ocean. He couldn't hear it before.

He forces himself to look, look at his deity that he tore his own heart out for. He can't look away, not even as six eyes blink open on the surface of the moon. He has to look away, he knows if he doesn't his mind will fracture and he will be lost to the void for eternity and there will be no first vessel of Sleep.

He looks down at the plate, desperately tearing his eyes away from one of what is likely many forms of his deity. Boneless, he sags, his deities touch having shoved the panic attack away at the mere sight and he knows it shouldn't be possible for something to look like that. This is real. He ripped out his heart, a God is going to love him, as long as he worships. In some corner of his mind, maybe he thought all of this was some dream, some last ditch desperate attempt from his brain so that he wouldn't regret anything when he passed. This is real.

An apple sits where his heart used to lay.

"Eat. Eat the apple of Eden, my vessel, and taste the divine."

With slow, pained breaths, he moves a shaking hand to grip the apple tightly. It's bright red, glowing brighter than the candles around him. Blood and drool drip down his chin, but he still brings the apple to his lips.

When he takes a bite, blood fills his mouth and spills over his lips at the corners. He knows it is his. The apple is chewy, like biting into an overcooked steak and he almost spits out his first bite at the nausea it causes in his stomach. He wonders if its his own heart turned into an apple, probably a small feat for a God. Then he tastes it, truly tastes it. The flavor is like nothing he could have ever imagined, so sweet he knows he could eat just this for the rest of his life and never tire of it. With every bite, every swallow, he feels more of his sense of being slip away. His past is slipping into the infinite; his pain, his self-hate, his capacity to love, to create, to feel, they are all that remains. Divinity is a bitter thing but Vessel never wishes to stop tasting it.

"Your mask, my vessel." His God speaks once more, as he is licking the blood from his fingers.

Before him sits a white mask, porcelain, with two eyes holes and cracks, and a sigil he couldn't name carved into it running down the middle. There was no mouth opening, but he finds he doesn't mind.

Picking it up, blood stains it in smears as he places it over his face. The mask, it feels right to have on. Like something had been missing his entire life, and he has finally found it.

"Rest now, my precious Vessel. Rest, and when you wake, you will be at the edge of my realm in your human lands."

His eyes slip closed to the gentle, soothing voice of his God. He can almost delude himself that there was a blatant 'I love you' in that nickname, and as his body gives out, succumbs to sleep, one of his deities words get caught in his brain in a loop.

Vessel. Vessel. Vessel.

When Vessel awoke, who he was before ceased to be. He couldn't remember his name. He didn't know how old he was. But he did know pain, could remember every moment something or someone hurt him emotionally or physically, like a scar upon his mind to match the ones he could remember carving into his own skin. He wonders if they still remain.

Vessel served Sleep. Sleep saved him from death and promised him his deepest desire in exchange for devotion and attaining more worshippers. And he agreed.

He remembered voices, faint echoes of thoughts and emotions, heartache and loneliness and self-loathing a constant. As he slept, he dreamt, feasted on the memories of his life leading up to spilling his lifeblood over his bathroom floor. Then they slipped away into the ether, yet the memory of his feast remained.

Opening his eyes, Vessel sits up. He lays at the edge of a dark forest, tall trees all he can see for miles as he gazes into the endless expanse. The moon shines above him, and he stands, something within him pulling his body further into the forest. The mask, his mask, sits securely on his face, and its presence is very quickly becoming comforting. He can hide himself away easier this way.

He cannot see much, stumbling over roots and falling into trees. His knees and hands ache with the scrapes and bruises he is sure he's gathered. Sleep lurks in the back of his mind, soft encouragement floating around his brain in a gentle murmur. Vessel trips on his own feet once, or perhaps twice if he were to admit it, but it doesn't deter him from his goal, not any more than tripping over the underbrush has. He walks for hours, never requiring water, or food. But he is slow, feet dragging as his body lags behind his mind. Accepting his God was an exhausting affair, and his body didn't rest like it should have, not like his mind had.

Soon enough, every step begins to feel like a leaden weight is attached at his ankles. His legs give out, and his masked face slams into a tree, nose beginning to smart. He forces himself to keep going as the pull in his chest has only grown stronger with every step further into the forest. Resting a forearm against a tree, Vessel pauses, finally taking notice of the long robe keeping his bare torso warm. It's open-fronted, black, with half-sleeves and a large hood that he pulls over his hair so that it covers the top of the mask.

"Faster, my vessel. Faster. You must make it to the manor before your transformation begins."

The voices of his God seemed to echo through the forest, trees shuddering with the power behind it. A migraine begins to pound behind his eyes like a battering ram, his vision whiting out at the sudden force. He stumbles, and when next he tries to get to his feet, he finds his knees aching and his arms barely able to push himself back up. Vessel finally stands, and in the distance he can make out a flickering light.

Hope blooms in his chest and spurs him to go faster. The light grows stronger alongside the pull in his chest and Vessel would be grateful if not for the migraine continuing to grow worse with every moment. His body begins to ache, every muscle burning, hands shaking where he grips his forearms tightly.

"Almost there, my vessel."

A gothic manor comes into view, a dilapidated thing covered in dark vines that seem to writhe on the outer walls- or maybe thats just his swimming vision. Vessel stumbles on the step up to the small rotting porch, fingers digging into the grey wood with the effort it takes to keep his body moving. Opening the door, he all but falls in, kicking it shut behind him before his body collapses. Everything goes dark before he can catch even a glimpse of anything around him.

Vessel is awake, and yet, he is also not. His body sleeps, or rests would be a better word but this could not be considered resting, not this agony that makes it feel like his entire being, body and soul, are on fire and all he wants is for his God to give up on him, to kill him so this torment will end and he'll finally know peace-

Vessel's mind is awake, but he cannot move his body. It lays on the floor, collecting dust as rats skitter over his splayed out hand. That simple touch sets his skin alight with agony as a headache pounds incessantly into his skull, never ceasing its attack. His heart would be racing as terror and confusion consumes his every waking thought, but he has no heart in his chest. Vessel's eyes are closed, but he can feel. Feel everything, hear everything. He wants to sleep, but his God will not let him.

Black sludge drips out of his open mouth, his skin itches and when it doesn't itch it burns. He can feel the changes being made to his body, how the skin of his hands and legs darken to pitch black, feel his ears begin to gain a point. Something is crawling up his spine and weaving over the skin of his ribs, over his shoulders and resting at his collarbone. He feels his nails grow out of his fingers and fall off, feels every single inch of new nails growing instead. He wonders fleetingly what they look like, in some shattered piece of his mind.

The transformation hurts, it hurts like nothing he has ever felt before. Not even ripping out his own heart felt like this. He is just a broken mess of skin and bones and meat, a puppet for his God to shape at their will. His God cares naught for how it pains their first Vessel, pouring more and more of their godly essence into his soul.

It could have been minutes, days, weeks, months, and he would never know. All he knows is pain. His whole body runs on it, its all he's known his entire life and now he fears that it is all his God will let him feel as long as he serves them. Did he make a mistake, pledging himself to a God he knows nothing about, just for the hope that someone will love him?

Transformation into a vessel of Sleep is not an easy thing. It is weeks trapped in Sleep's arms, aware of every change being made to Vessel's body as he slept, every atom that makes up his body screaming in agony.

Three weeks after arriving at the manor, Vessel awakens.

Getting up is a slow thing, rising on stiff limbs and noticing how uncomfortable it was to lay face down on his mask like that. His body still aches, but Vessel knows there is little else that could compare to the pain of his transformation. The first thing he notices is that his canines ache in his gums, feeling loose when he runs his tongue over them. When he reaches up to poke at them, the teeth fall out of his mouth. It startles Vessel so badly he stumbles back into the front door. Immediately the ache worsens and he feels two new teeth growing in at an alarming rate. Prodding at them with a finger, the tips are far sharper than any humans teeth and he realizes his God gave him fangs. For what purpose they serve, he doesn't know. Blood spills past his lips, mixing with the black sludge that he wipes away, spits out, desperate to rid himself of the taste. It's foul, rotten almost, but with a strangely sweet undertone, and the conflicting flavors cause nausea to roil in his gut.

Then he sees his palms, or rather, his entire arm. The skin until just above his elbow is pitch black and what looks to be tendrils of darkness crawl up about halfway up his bicep. His scars remain, a shade of grey instead of black that stand out against his inner arms. The nails he felt grow in are longer than his old ones, sharper, and pitch black like his skin. Idly, he wonders if its sanitary to use them on his own flesh, to dig in deep enough to draw blood.

He wonders if his legs look the same, or his back. Deciding to wait and see that later, Vessel looks around him. The inside of the manor is covered in vines just like the outside. The ceiling looks mostly intact, but there are a few missing floorboards, and cracks along the walls of the small entrance parlor. As he moves through the house, taking in the mostly furnished living room, the empty kitchen, and a large empty room, Vessel continues to find more vines and a decently sized bathroom. Most of the walls contain the same wallpaper, a lighter red with damask print that goes down about halfway from the ceiling where the print suddenly transitions to a dark wood that matches the flooring.

Moving on to the second floor, the wooden stairs creak under his steps and Vessel cringes, trying to make as little noise as possible even now, alone as he is. The staircase itself is a beautifully carved piece with swirling designs etched into the dark wood. A second, smaller living room sits at the top of the stairs, with two hallways branching off to the left and right. Heading left, Vessel finds three bedrooms and a bathroom, in the same state as the below rooms. Empty but not in terrible shape. Going back through the upstairs sitting room, he makes his way to the right hallway. Down this hall, there are two more rooms, but upon closer inspection, only one bedroom. The last room is empty except for a small coffee table placed against the middle of the back wall, and absolutely covered in vines. They seem to writhe under his gaze as he stares at them, moving further into the room.

The first thing he notices is his God, their presence is considerably stronger here, but he can tell they aren't truly in the room with him. A single red candle sits upon the coffee table, behind an offering plate, the same he placed his heart upon when accepting his God. It's a sad thing, burned down to about an inch of candle left, the wax having spread and dripped onto the floor. A large red sigil is painted into the wall above the coffee table, glowing gently and dripping deep red paint that seems to vanish before it can reach the floor. A strange thumping sounds seems to be coming from the walls, and when he leaves the room to see where the sound is coming from, he can no longer hear it. Entering again, the thumping can be heard once more. Listening closer, it almost sounds like... like a heart.

"Is that... my heartbeat?" He wonders aloud quietly to himself, feeling ridiculous for even suggesting it.

The small surge of approval from his God confirms his question and Vessel can't seem to make himself feel much of anything over the revelation. His heartbeat echoes in what looks to be an altar room. It must have something do with offering it up to his God.

Making a decision, Vessel makes his way back downstairs while he checks his pockets. He finds a wallet, pulling it out to check for money. Five dollars and three pennies is all he has. Shit. Not to mention he doesn't actually know where he is, or if there's even a town nearby. Deciding to save the idea for later, Vessel moves to begin cleaning the house. His body still aches, but he has the vague notion that it is a familiar pain and he can't quite place how he knows that. He finds a broom and dustpan in the closet which he sets aside in the living room to use once he's cleared out the larger bits of debris. Vessel makes no move to remove any of the vines, preferring to leave them as their presence is almost comforting somehow. He knows, as long as the vines are in the house, that he is safe here. He feels it in his soul, like he knows that sigil painted on the wall holds his heart, a symbol of his worship.

Its hard to move past the aching in his bones, the tiredness of his muscles, but Vessel manages. Time is far away from him as he works. Somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks he should have slept by now, or eaten, but there is nothing to eat or sleep on whether his body tells him it needs rest or not. It doesn't, his mind does, but Vessel feels he has rested enough. That stretch of time under his transformation process makes it so that Vessel doesn't want to sleep, even if he could.

After clearing out the living room of dust and debris and whatever else, he moves to the kitchen to see if there is running water or electricity. The thought of electricity causes him to pause, though, as he's reaching for the faucet attached to the sink. Vessel doesnt know how long he's been awake, but at no point did he need to light a candle or open the drapes in the living room. Quickly, Vessel opens the curtain on the small window above the sink, and upon looking outside, finds the moon shining dimly above the copy of trees surrounding the house. When he closes that same curtain, his vision doesn't change despite being able to visibly see the rays of light disappear.

Vessel can see in the dark.

Taking this change in stride, Vessel continues working into the morning (after finding out that there is running water and electricity) where he can see the sun rising through the curtains. Deciding to take a break, Vessel heads outside to watch the new day begin. Sitting on the top step of the tiny porch, Vessel watches through the canopy of leaves how the sun inches its way over the horizon, noting how his vision spans a further distance and is far clearer than his human eyes could ever see. Though, when the first sunray peeks over the trees, barely hitting his face, Vessel recoils. The light is blinding, sending pain shooting through his temples and behind his eyes.

Reaching up to cover the eyeholes of his mask, Vessel quickly makes his way back inside, a little sad that he couldn't continue to watch the beautiful sky above him. A small headache begins to pound at his temple, but Vessel ignores it with ease, giving up on his break and heading upstairs to clean there. He makes quick work of the altar room, sweeping, dusting, and mopping everything within a couple hours since the room was so bare. The vines move out of his way when he needs it, and Vessel assumes it is Sleep's doing, or perhaps the vines are sentient.

He is gentle when he wipes down the wall bearing the sigil, but even rubbing the old rag in his hand over one of the lines causes and uncomfortable feeling to burst into life in his chest. Gasping, he drops the rag and backs away. Okay, no touching the sigil on the wall no matter what. Vessel practically runs out of the room in his haste to get away from that feeling in his chest.

In the bedroom by the altar room, a leather-bound journal lays lit by a sunray that conveniently shines upon it. Still catching his breath, Vessel walks over to it, picking it up from the desk and opening its worn pages, warm to the touch. A name is inked onto the first page, but Vessel cannot read it, his mind unable to process the sprawling script. He knows it is a name. It is his, from before. Turning the pages with care, realization settles in slowly that this journal is filled to the brim with music. Lyrics, notes, chords, so many songs, and as he reads, the memories attached to the lyrics come back to him but still, he cannot remember who he was. He doesn't want to, if mere memories have shattered the heart he doesn't possess anymore.

He finds one titled 'Atlantic', and as he reads, tears well up in his eyes. He wrote this, Before, when he got home from his first suicide attempt. He'd tried to drown himself in the ocean after a fight with his boyfriend, fresh out of high school and in love with a man who couldn't love him in return. He'd failed, washed up on the shore unconscious and paramedics were called by some kind passerby. His boyfriend came to the hospital, saw his scars and fresh cuts and simply stood there. His face stone cold, unfeeling, uncaring as Vessel sobbed and sobbed and apologized and wished it had worked. The doctor talked him through his treatment and the healing process going forward, talked to him as though he was a child who knew nothing about the world and how he knows he could never understand the pain Vessel was going through to do this. When he went home, nothing changed and Vessel didn't know whether to be glad or devastated. His boyfriend didn't begin to love him, didn't even act like he was there at all. He became something less than before, in that small apartment, something less than human. Every attempt at affection was brushed off or met with yelling in his face. So he stopped trying, let his boyfriend take what he wanted and never receive anything in return until the man eventually got bored of him and left him sobbing in their doorframe.

Something splashes on the pages held carefully in his hands. It shimmers like liquid gold, staining the pages and blotting out a few words in the chorus. When he reaches trembling fingers up to the underside of his jaw to see why his face is wet, they come back dripping gold. He's crying golden tears. Another of Sleep's changes.

Vessel closes the notebook and places it back down gently, deciding this is to be his room. And so, he gets to cleaning it. Throwing out what little furniture there was that was unsalvagable, sweeping up the floors with the broom he found. Upon closer inspection, like the rest of the house, most of the furniture is completely trashed. A hint of apology pokes at the edges of his mind, and realizing now that it is Sleep, Vessel sends back a wave of reassurance, once he figures out how.

Asking aloud, Vessel hopes Sleep can hear him, "Do I need sleep, as your vessel?"

Sleep's voices echo around him again, "As my First, you do not require it unless it is related to your duties. The others, when they come, will need it, but far less than a human seems to need."

Anxiety fills his chest at his Gods words. Others? There were going to be others? Vessel doesnt know if he can handle others. How is he supposed to perform his duties if whoever these people are don't like him?

"Others? I thought it was going to be just us?"

Vessel should have known he would never be enough. Of course his God would need others, Vessel could never be enough by himself to appease the needs of a God. It is only right they take on more vessels to help worship and attain followers. Despite knowing this, the sting in Vessel's chest doesn't ease at the notion that even now, he still isn't good enough.

"Yes, I have my eye on four others at the moment. They're still alive right now, and I'm not quite sure if they'll be fit for what I require."

"Four others?" Vessel laughs bitterly to himself, a silent thing that barely shakes his shoulders, "Of course. Should I ready the other rooms? I'm not sure we'll have enough."

"No, my vessel. I will let you know when the time is right. I do not yet have the power to bring more vessels under my wing, but soon enough my decision will be made and an offering will be needed."

"Yes, my God. I await your word." Vessel replies quietly, wiping the last of his tears away that linger under his mask, careful of his new claws sharp points.

Cleaning this room is more work than the altar room, and Vessel's body tires easily, finding he still hasn't regained the strength needed to move the larger pieces of furniture. Giving up for now, he moves on to the rooms in the other hall, cleaning those as thoroughly as he is able. A day or two passes like that, small breaks being taken in between and Vessel finds he doesn't need to sleep, though his body grows weary from the work but slower than a humans would. He doesn't need to work by day to see, as his eyesight remains clear and bright.

It's on the second day, cleaning the kitchen as his final task, that Vessel asks a question that had been burning on the tip of his tongue for days. As he asks, he nicks his lip on a fang for the umpteenth time, reopening a cut he'd gotten the first day he woke up, wiping the blood from his lip absent-mindedly. He's so tired, and his body is telling him to sleep but his God said he did not need it, so he will stay awake.

"As a God, could you not just keep the house clean? Or magic away the mess yourself?"

"This house holds your heart, you will keep it clean. It is not a difficult task, my vessel. Do not complain about something so easy."

There's a bite to their words that Vessel has never heard before. He cowers back instinctively, as though struck, the tone reigniting some forgotten part of his brain, the same that demands he move through this house as though it isn't his own heart beating in the walls, quietly as if he would die if not silent. Fear rises up in him, all because his God took an unfriendly tone and his hands start to shake.

"Right, of course." Vessel hunches into himself, quieting his breathing as tears well up in his eyes, "I'm sorry, my God. I will keep the house clean as you've instructed. I won't ask again."

The vines and the walls shudder, wilting around him but Vessel pays them no mind, focused on making himself as small as possible, less of a threat. Sleep would be frowning if they had a physical body present, but instead allow their essence to gently brush against their First's mind. They find fear and sadness, regret and acceptance. Self-loathing is prominent as well.

Humans really are strange creatures. Devoted to worshipping their gods but so unwilling to really work for their own benefits, relying on murdering each other and toppling religions and cultures that don't fit their preferences.

"Keep the house clean, my vessel, I am soon to make a decision on my second vessel. Perhaps you should get to fixing up one of the upstairs bedrooms."

Vessel realizes this is why Sleep needs more vessels than just him. If he can't even do this simple task of cleaning the manor himself then how is he supposed to gather followers for his God? Fingers scratch at his arms in his distress, sharper nails digging in unknowingly despite the familiar action, though Vessel can't quite remember why its familiar until a wet sensation meets his fingertips.

Ignoring it, closing a palm over the open wound, Vessel says quietly, so quiet its a whisper, "I, um, I need to get furniture, Sleep, for the second vessel. I know you said I do not need sleep but they would, and the furniture here is too rotted and destroyed to use. And we have no food."

"Oh, yes, the vessel will need that won't they. A bed to sleep on, and clothes to eat. Very well then, go on into one of your human towns and obtain these things. I have other things to attend to, I cannot babysit you, my vessel."

Flinching, Vessel nod, but forces himself to speak up again, "I don't have any money, or know where a town is."

The voices of his God rattle in his skull as they sigh frustratedly, "Must I do everything for you? Here, take this thing for money. You will not run out of your human currency with it. Creating money is such a simple task for me, its almost laughable."

Vessel cringes as a card appears in his unoccupied hand, but Sleep continues speaking, "As for transportation and location, the forest will lead you out if you ask. Your car from before you were my vessel is there at the edge of my lands. I have erased all forms of identification from it and used a bit of my magic to make it seem less interesting to your human authorities. Do not drive like a fool. Oh, and a map with the manors location as well as the closest human town will be inside. Now, do not bother me again. I am busy searching for more vessels, it is important work. If you disrupt me, there will be consequences, do you understand?"

"Yes, Sleep." Vessel confirms, gaze downcast as blood dribbles down his arm and splash-splash-splashes on the floor he spent so long cleaning.

When Sleep is gone, Vessel sinks to his knees. Bone-deep tiredness has sunken into his marrow, and he wants to sleep, wants to never wake up. He digs his nails in a bit harder and his eyes shutter at the relief the pain, the blood spilling brings. Vessel is grateful his God was so lenient with him after he fucked up and asked a stupid question. He'll have to remember to think over what he's going to ask before he does it, if he asks anything ever again at all.

When the haze of his Gods disappointment in him lifts, terror strikes again immediately. Sleep, their presence, he can't feel it anymore. At all. This entire time its been a constant in the back of his mind, even when he could tell they were busy with something else, but for them to be just gone entirely?

Vessel fucked up. He didn't mean to, he really didn't. Now Sleep's left him alone. Vessel is not good at being alone. He's not sure how he knows but he thinks, in some locked away part of his mind, that his mental health takes a nosedive from bad to fucking detrimental. Maybe thats why he always had a lover, to keep the detrimental away. He couldn't remember- can't think- no, he does remember. Just this.

Vessel has tried to kill himself every time a partner leaves him, broken and beaten and at his lowest. None of his breakups have ever been amicable. If his God has left him, maybe he should just end it all for good. He wonders what would happen if he just took a sledgehammer to the sigil on the altar room wall. Its his heart, isn't it? Wouldn't deadly damage to it kill him? No, no, Sleep gave him a task. A task! For the second vessel. Vessel has to complete his task, and if his God doesn't return within the week, then- then Vessel can finally know peace and not have to live in this body of his alongside its fucked up mind. They have more vessels to pick from. He doesn't matter.

Ah, wait-

He's not sure he can die, like this, changed to the whims of Sleep. Not sure what it would do to his God. There's a reason his heart is beating in the walls of this manor, a reason even now that the vines around him shudder and writhe in response to his emotions. Vessel doesn't want to hurt his God, would rather chew off his own arm. His God saved him, promised him love, the love of the world.

Quietly, as tears run down his face, silent sobs shaking his shoulders only just, Vessel, in a desperate sort of plea perhaps, whispers, "They didn't notice when I ripped into my arm with my nails. Didn't notice or didn't care. I can- just do that. I'll feel better afterwards, I'll go into town and complete my task from Sleep."

Yes, that's what he'll do.

There is no other thoughts in his head as Vessel brings up his hand to his already bloody arm and digs too sharp nails into his forearm and pulls. A slice follows the action, blood beading up immediately, and Vessel sighs at the way his brain fogs up again but in a way that drowns out his thoughts. There is only this moment, the blood welling up and spilling over, and the silence of his brain. He does another, a little further up alongside an old scar. Vessel is making another before blood can even surface, then another, and another, and another-

He's not quite sure how he got to this many cuts, but finds he doesn't mind. Finished slicing up his arm, basking at the relief flooding his system, Vessel stares as blood drips steadily onto the floor he worked so hard to clean. There is a numbness that comes with this fog, and Vessel can't bring himself to care, no matter how his body aches from the constant work to clean up this manor.

He searches for anything to help slow the bleeding, finally calm enough to make rational thoughts despite the empty void where his Gods presence should be. Finding nothing, Vessel sighs in exasperation. He'll have to get a medkit from that town nearby, not just for his habit but Sleep did mention the other vessels would be more human. They'll need things to stay healthy, like medicine and bandages.

Taking another look at his arm, Vesssl finds he didn't cut too deep and that the bleeding is already slowing. By the time the bleeding stops entirely, he can barely see the marks on his arm except for the faint dark red stabbing. Looking down at his outfit, Vessel begins to make his way out of the house, wiping the blood off on his robe as he goes. Ah, he'll need clothing. And a washer and dryer but Vessel isn't sure he can do that part himself. Those machines are quite heavy and he'd rather die (that- is not saying much) than have something like that delivered to his doorstep. Glancing at the trees around him as he walks, Vessel isn't sure the forest would take kindly to unexpected visitors.

As for furniture, maybe he should just buy a mattress for the second vessel for now and then give them the card to go buy their own things. As it is, the thought of going to a brand new town, to brand new stores, with completely new people he's never met or seen in his life is causing anxiety to stir in his chest and panic to rise in the back of his mind. Taking a deep breath, Vessel focuses on the trees around him to try and calm down. Dark wood, deep green leaves that block out most of the sun hanging in the sky above him, sparing his eyes the pain of the light.

Soon enough, he comes to where he woke up and continues on past it. About five minutes more and he finally sees the car his God was talking about. The keys sit in the front seat, and Vessel opens the door with ease. Climbing in, he finds he barely fits his long legs in well enough to drive. The car starts but as Vessel moves to put it in reverse, his gaze catches on a black something-or-other in the back seat. Picking it up is easy, and Vessel finds it to be a hoodie with 'Alpha Wolf' written on the front.

He used to wear this all the time, Before. Vessel can't remember his name, or his parents, or the faces of any of his past partners, but he can remember music. The music he enjoyed, snippets of the music he made, could play. Without music, Vessel would be nothing.

Slipping off the robe, Vessel shimmies it out from under his ass and places it gently in the passenger seat. Removing his mask feels wrong, like a part of him is missing and he's quick to slip it back on once the hoodie is over his head, before his arms are in the sleeves even. The hoodie is loose, sleeves too long, but Vessel adores it immediately as the hood fits over his head nicely even with the mask. He's glad his love for it didn't fade with his name.

It'll cover his new cuts and old scars too, as well as his arms entirely. If he's lucky, no one will ask about the mask, or his hands. As his God said, a map is in the glove box marking where the town is and his current location. The drive is filled with the sounds of a cd he found in the middle compartment from a band called 'Evanescence'. The woman's voice is beautiful and Vessel finds he knows all the words, singing along quietly, memories of discovering them surfacing.

Not knowing his name, or anyone from his past is becoming less and less distressing. He remembers his pain, and these things that gave him some form of happiness and that's all that matters. Vessel doesn't need anyone but Sleep now, for as long as the God will have him.

Pulling up to a furniture store, Vessel tries to resolve himself to just walking in, buying a mattress and getting out. If he drives slow enough after getting the thing on top of his car, Vessel is sure he can make it back to the manor. Probably. He fucking hopes so. His God did not make this task easy for him. He wonders if They even knew what getting a bed for the second vessel entailed.

If he gets a mattress, thats one task done, as best as he's able. His God will be disappointed when they come back, if they come back after Vessel fucked up so thoroughly, but he thinks that would be better than not completing any part of the task at all. Groceries would be pointless without knowing what the second vessel likes to eat, or when they will arrive. Vessel wonders if Sleep thought of that, too.

Tears well up in his eyes and Vessel rubs at them through his mask, eventually just lifting up enough to get his hand under so he can wipe them off his face. Fuck. Fuck. He can't do this. He can't go in there and talk to a stranger, it was bad enough when it was his own face but the mask makes it worse.

Ripping it off, unease fills him, made worse when he catches sight of his eyes in the rearview mirror.

Black has crawled over the sclera to replace the white, pupils shrinking to nothingness and the blue of his eyes have turned into a blood red.

Vessel really can't do this. How is he supposed to go into any store like this? He could possibly say its tattoos, or contacts, but fuck, Vessel doesnt have the social capability. As it is, his anxiety is through the roof and he's shaking so badly its vibrating the entire car.

No, no. His breaths come out in shorter and shorter pants, lungs constricting in his chest. Shit. Shit. Not right now.

Vessel puts his mask back on, even as it makes oxygen even harder to bring in. Its soothing weight helps him get ahold of himself.

He'll simply punish himself for disappointing his God when he gets back to the manor. What are a few more cuts for being such a fuck up? His ankles should be open if there isn't any more space on his thighs, or maybe he'll do his hips instead. Taking in a shaky breath, Vessel pulls back out of the parking lot and heads back to the house.

He does as he said he would, bleeding all of the bathroom floor but feeling much better about himself. He hopes his God won't be too upset if they come back. He didn't complete his given task, not even a bit of it. Vessel thinks it would be better to have the second vessel help him pick their own furniture and food anyway. Not to mention Vessel wants to stop by and get some things for Sleep's altar. He hates how barren it is, devoid of anything truly worthy of his God.

As Vessel waits for word from his God, letting his wounds heal much quicker than he expected they would, and adding on more when the despair was too much, or if he simply felt like it, a week and a half passes before his God comes to him again. By that point, he had gotten rid of all of the old furniture that could be reused and cleaned up all of the rooms in the upstairs hallway opposite if his and the altar room.

Cleared of dust and debris now, the manor could almost be called an actual house if it weren't for the lack of furniture and the occasional missing floorboards. Or the vines covering most parts of the walls and along the baseboards and weaving between the balusters of the ornate staircase.

"My vessel, the second has been chosen and accepted me in turn. He will awaken within the hour. Be ready for him to arrive here." Sleep's voice booms in every corner of the house, startling Vessel at the sudden presence.

The stair he stepped on creaks under his uncalculated weight and he cringes, dropping his pen. "Of course, my God. I will be prepared."

It bounces down each step, clattering thr whole while and Vessel watches it go with reluctant acceptance. The new vessel will be here soon. He hopes they don't mind his presence too much. Vessel supposes he'll just stay out of their way unless duty requires it.

"My vessel," Sleep begins, and Vessel pauses as he picks up his pen. "How is your worship coming along?"

Gaze downcast, Vessel replies, "I have a couple songs written, but nothing to play them with except my voice."

"I will gift you an instrument soon, then. I recall you were quite adept at a, what was it... piano. Yes, that's it." Sleep's voices are kind, and there is the sensation of a gentle touch against his masked cheek.

Vessel leans into the affection though he cannot see his God. Elation fills him, happy to be acknowledged so kindly, and Sleep will even be gifting him a piano.

"Thank you, my God. It will greatly improve my pace and quality of worship. I appreciate it." Vessel says quietly, truly grateful.

"Of course, my Vessel. Now, I must make sure that the beginnings of the transformation aren't interrupted after they wake."

Gathering his courage, Vessel stops his God. "Sleep, can I actually make a request?"

"What is it, my Vessel?"

The vines closest to him wriggle and writhe, leaves leaning towards him and brushing against his ankles by the bottom of the staircase.

"Can you give me some time to help him pick out furniture and food? I couldn't get the furniture here myself," at his Gods scoff, Vessel cringes, bunching into himself, but he continues resolutely, "and he would be able to pick out his food himself. I don't want him to be uncomfortable here before his transformation."

"You did perfectly well on your own, my Vessel."

Vessel thinks back to his weeks-long agony, laying in the entrance hall for so long, as bugs and rats skittered over his prone form and dust gathered on his clothes. He could still feel the phantom of that black sludge that dripped out of his mouth, and shudders.

"Well, yes, but you said this vessel will need sleep and food unlike myself. There is nowhere to sleep but the floor, and no food to eat."

"Very well. You have twenty-four hours from now. Tomorrow, at midnight, his transformation will begin. Be prepared."

Sighin in relief, Vessel scratches purposefully at a fresh cut. "Yes, my God. Thank you."

Sleep doesn't reply, presence fading but not going away entirely. Vessel is glad he's not left entirely on his own, finding comfort in that small tickle of his Gods presence that still fills the house. Holding his journal to himself, Vessel smiles. Its a small thing, hesitant but hopeful.

The second vessel will be awake soon.

#sleep token fic #sleep token #vessel sleep token #poly sleep token #ii sleep token #sleep token iii #sleep token iv

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hains-mae · 4 years

Text

Flowers - Pt. 5 (The End)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5 (The End)

(Damian x Reader) Soulmate AU

The Flowers: @call-me-prodigy @annoylinglyaries @zphilophobiaz @comic-brew @biglilwing @awkwardspontaneity @lozzybowe @mariiecapo @distressedearie @diyosku @dracoaereum @thesuitelifeofafangirl @chims-kookies @blade-xingston @danicalifxrnia

Rating: T

Ages: Damian and you are 16, everyone’s ages follow after.

Summary: Soulmate AU where the wounds on your soulmate turns into a flower tattoo on your skin, if it heals with no scars the tattoo goes away, if it heals with a scar then the tattoo stays.

Notes: Wow that was a fun ride. But every story comes to an end, I hope you guys enjoy the final chapter! And thank you everyone who has taken their time to like, comment, and reblog. I appreciate it a lot <3

Disclaimer: I do not own DC. If I did, I wouldn’t make it as confusing as it is now.

Robin visited every other night after that. It was surreal to have a hero that you’ve so long admired become your frequent visitor. Then again, nothing seemed normal anymore.

“It’s past the convention week. How do you keep coming here?” I asked curiously one night.

Robin gave me a lopsided grin and tapped the side of his nose. “I have my ways.”

After Mom’s week long leave was up she begrudgingly had to go back to work. The hospital assured her that I was healing fairly well, and that I would be transferred to Gotham Hospital the following weekend.

I was never really lonely though. Besides the friendly staff, my midnight visitor always came right on time. I wondered why he would take the time. Maybe it was to get to know me better? Perhaps my speech that night managed to get through to him. I had hoped it was both.

If I was being honest though, I was a little more than glad he did. I had meant it when I told the boy that I found him intriguing. He was a tough nut to crack though. I couldn’t blame him.

During the day when I would shower, I’d trace the flowers across my frame and wonder just how much he had gone through.

Soul marks start to appear at 10 years of age. You could imagine the shock (and worry) my parents had gone through when they found me one day absolutely covered in flowers.

From a young age I would hide them. Always wearing my sleeves till my palms, my neck constantly covered with either my jacket, scarf or high placed collars. It wasn’t that I was ashamed, but Gotham liked to talk – and when you’re the subject of attention, then you’re an easy target for criminals.

As I got older, the marks around my neck forearms slowly faded. I had worried about my soul mate and their well-being. Now that I understood everything, it was a different type of worry all together. The kind that would sit at the pit of your stomach and tie knots, heavy enough to keep you on edge.

My T.V in the hospital room was always on the same channel, Gotham News. Every battle would have my heart clenching as the camera’s desperately tried to follow the fight. Most of the time’s they wouldn’t be able to capture the end, and I’d be left holding my breath.

That’s one other reason I looked forward to our nightly visits. I could relax knowing he was alright.

I still wasn’t sure what I felt for this enigma of a person. But I knew that I wanted to get closer.

“I have an idea.” Robin said one evening. There was a glint his eye, the mask was off since my mom wasn’t around anymore. ��And it’s got something to do with your invention.”

I arched a brow. “The bullets are complete but I still have yet to finalize the counter measures.”

He nodded understandingly. “Counter affect can wait. We don’t want to encase anyone in rock at the moment, but I’m putting it out there since you wanted to help.”

Intrigued, I urged him to continue.

Damian was quite brilliant in his own way. After much thought and planning, we had about 3 more types of chemically enhanced concoctions laid out. All of which were to go through Batman before beginning the experimentation process. He has assured me that I would be leading the research team for that under Wayne Ent.

I couldn’t wait to get out of the hospital.

“Do you like sweets?” He asked randomly.

Arching a brow I studied him. He was slouched on the couch with his leg dangling on one side and a book in his hands.

Charles Dickens.

“Yes.” I said, noting his obvious attempt to look natural. “Do you?”

“On occasion.” The boy shifted a shoulder to mimic a shrug.

The very next visit he had a black bag slung across his shoulder. His face gave nothing away but from the times I’ve spent with him, I realised it was his eyes that did most of the talking.

“Whatcha got over there?” I asked curiously, scooting closer to him at the edge of the bed.

“Patience.” He said and pulled up the make shift table that was attached to the side of my bed. Placing a medium sized box on top, he carefully undid the lid and opened it. “I present to you, baklavas.”

In the dim light I saw that they were flaky, almost like a croissant. There were some with a mix of nuts, from pistachios to almonds. Others were plain but still looked heavenly. They gleamed with a moistness, as if coated with a syrupy substance. I picked one up and popped it into my mouth.

It burst with flavour and dissolved much too fast. I squeaked at the exotic taste.

“Oh my gosh these are so good.” I said, licking my thumb.

Robin looked pleased.

“You should have one.” I pushed the box towards him but he shook his head.

“They’re yours.” He said.

“Nonsense. Food always taste better when shared.” I picked another one up intending to eat it.

“If you insist.”

I had barely managed to register the wicked glint in his eye before he took hold of my wrist and brought my hand that was holding the sweet close to his mouth. He took it carefully from me in one easy motion and lightly licked my finger.

“You’re right. It does taste better when shared.”

I felt the burn on my cheeks and ears before I heard the warning blare of the heart monitor. Immediately, Robin slipped behind the couch just as the nurses for the nightshift burst into my room in a panic. They fussed over me as I repeatedly tried to tell them I was alright. My heart finally calmed and once they left, Robin got up covering his mouth. He was trying to keep himself from laughing.

-x-x-x-

The weekend came much faster than I had anticipated. When the doctors checked on my progress, they gave the thumbs up for me to be transferred to Gotham’s hospital. Mom was relieved, and wouldn’t stop fussing over me when we got there. I let it be though, thinking it was more for her own peace of mind than mine.

After that it was a short two weeks before I was fully discharged.

Robins visits never wavered though. If anything, he had stayed for longer periods of time. I got to know the boy under the mask more than I had hoped for and opened up in return more than I had intended.

I found out his brothers were vigilantes too. He pointed them all out one evening with a family picture he’d secretly stashed in his wallet. They were a “thorn” to his side — as he had so eloquently described, but I could see just how much he loved them. That was another thing I learnt about him, his speech patterns were very posh. He liked to use formal names and slang was not completely in his vocabulary. I asked him about that one time, to which he only replied “another time”. It was probably a touchy subject, where he exactly grew up.

His favourite colour was green, and his adoration for animals was as deep as black hole. It was crazy how perfect my mind painted him to be, and the more I knew, the harder it was to ignore the feelings growing inside me.

He enjoys reading, but would gladly spend the day locked in his room with his tablet and pen drawing the day away. He is good both in traditional and digital art, and sometimes dabbles in graphic design when he feels like it. He prefers his tea without any additives, but would not hesitate to pour bucket loads of milk and sugar in his coffee during the rare moments he drinks it.

I could list everything down but it would just solidify my attraction to him, and honestly I doubt this was he needed right now. Juggling a double life sounded a lot more stressful than he showed it to be. He hardly ever talked about it but from the amount of flowers blooming on me, it was difficult to see it any other way but exhausting. He’d kick butt at night, get hurt, then go to school the very next day like nothing happened.

He arrived one evening like he normally did and I had rushed up to pull off his glove. I felt a sting earlier and found a Sakura branch littered with pink flowers. I was right, his arm was soaked in red, and the gash looked bad.

“It’s just a scratch.” He promised me.

I didn’t reply. Taking him straight to the bathroom, I rinsed out the remaining blood and addressed the wound. After bandaging him up I finally looked into his eyes and showed him just how worried I was.

That evening we sat next to each other, with our fingers intertwined and his thumb randomly brushing against my knuckles.

-x-x-x-

Finally I was able to return home. Being able to lie down on my own bed, inside my own house, I could let loose and properly relax. I threw myself onto the soft comforters that smelled like fabric softener and smiled to myself.

Home sweet home.

But not for long, I reminded myself that this evening I would be dining with the Wayne’s. Swallowing hard, I hurried my face onto the pillows. I can’t mess this up, not after everything they’ve done for me.

Damian’s smirking face suddenly came to mind, and all his welcomed visits. It made my stomach grow warm. Remembering us sharing the sweets he gifted – soft lips against my fingers.

I groaned into the pillow, the room was getting a little hot. Getting up gingerly, as to not aggravate the newly healed stitches, I manoeuvred my way to the window and pushed it open. The cold evening air felt good against my heated skin. I sighed in content.

If I were being honest, I didn’t know what exactly was happening between us. I didn’t know if I wanted anything to happen between us. Wouldn’t it be weird, considering that I’d be interning for his dad in just a couple of months. Possibly work there if my luck doesn’t run out first. Not to mention WHO he was.

You’re just a normal girl, I chided myself. Not someone important enough to stand beside such a prestigious boy and his ridiculously wealthy family.

But even then – I found myself wondering. Seeking. Imagining… What if we were to become something more? What if it works? What if we fall in –

“Y/n!” Mom’s voice broke through my reverie, waking me up from the needless train of thought.

Closing my window, I poked my head out the door and found her putting on a bracelet.

“Are you ready? The cab is nearly here.” She asked.

I nodded and took a step closer to her. Looking quickly at the vanity mirror in the hallway, I gave myself a once over to make sure everything was in place. I had on a slightly fitting turtle neck sweater, paired with a high waisted pleated skirt and dark stockings. On my feet I sported on my boots. It was safe to assume no one would be able to see my soul marks.

My mom grabbed her purse and headed downstairs. I followed close behind her, handing her her coat before locking up the front door.

The cab driver arrived a few minutes in, and we drove off straight to Wayne Manor.

“This is exciting isn’t it?” She said to me with a lift in her voice, as she exited the cab to get the gates opened.

Once we could enter, we were greeted with a very large land that was pristinely kept. The grass was cut evenly, and the trees lining the estate were trimmed to perfection. Bushes were perfectly shaped into different animals, and flowers systematically grown to create swirls and shapes beside the road. A big fountain was situated just in front of the mansion while a man in a black suit waited beside the opened doors.

We exited the cab after paying and did our best to take it all in without looking like fishes out of water.

“Ah, Mrs. & Ms. Y/l/n.” It was the man who I saw pick up Damian that one night in Metropolis appeared. I also remembered him in the family photograph. His accent was thickly laced with British poise. “My name is Alfred Pennyworth, I shall be you’re attendant for the evening.”

“Thank you.” Mom was quick to compose herself.

As soon as I entered the house I felt my breath stolen away. It was huge. Everything looked so new and polished.

I barely registered my mom and Alfred chatting away as he led her to the dining hall.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

I nearly jumped at the voice that startled me. Whipping my head around, I found Jason standing with his hands in his pockets.

“I remember my first time coming in here. Completely floored.” He chucked.

I waved a small greeting. “Everything looks so –“

“Expensive? Exorbitant? Grand?” He tried to guess.

“Beautiful.” I breathed out.

He laughed. “Not what I expected. But you’re full of surprises aren’t you.”

I blushed. “Ah, I’m not sure about that. I’m just me.”

“Hey, no stealing our guest before dinner.” Dick walked down the stair case with Tim beside him.

“Feeling better Y/n?” Tim asked as we grouped just below the stairs.

“Yeah, thank you.” I answered, suddenly feeling flustered as they surrounded me.

Stay calm.

“Don’t be nervous.” Dick said with an air of comfort.

I wanted to ask what made him think so, but he answered before I even began to articulate the words.

“You’re fidgeting like a college student during a thesis debate.” He said simply.

“You’re… very good at reading people.” I arched a brow at him.

“One of my many amazing abilities” He winked.

Jason let out an air of playful frustration and pulled Dick aside. “And now you’re stealing her. Can’t hold a normal conversation can you Dickie, always a flirt.”

“First of all – do I need to remind you who mostly does all the talking during dad’s parties. And second of all – I am not a flirt. I can’t help it if I’m charming.” Dick mocked a suave look and shot it as his brother.

Jason looked like he was about to gag and Tim was less than pleased. I laughed at their antics.

“What’s funny?” Damian appeared beside me. I jumped and held a hand to my racing heart.

“Jeez, do all of you have a talent for sneaking up on people?” I wheezed out, trying to gather my bearings.

They all grinned at me without answering.

Robins, my inner muse whispered. I brushed off the thought as quick as it had come.

We had made it to the dining area just in time for Alfred to begin serving the meals. My mother was already chatting up a storm with Mr. Wayne. A wine glass in hand and a slight tint to her cheeks. She looked happy.

I began walking towards the seat beside my mother when Damian pulled out the chair like a gentleman. I bit the inside of my cheek and mumbled a thank you.

He took the space beside me and the rest of his brothers seated themselves opposite us.

As we opened our plates for dinner, I was amazed to see how well it was presented. Mr. Pennyworth continued to serves other dishes, and once he was done he left the room.

The food tasted just as good as it looked.

Easy conversation wafted around us, the usual topics of school, and future plans. Mr. Wayne brought up the internship which I nearly gushed over due to my excitement. Damian held back a laugh with a cough when he noticed my little slip up before I composed myself again. I bumped his knee under the table and playfully glared at him. He smirked and bumped me back.

“My compliments to the chef Mr. Wayne.” Mom said.

“I’ll be sure to tell him.” He smiled through a glass of wine. How many glasses in were they at this point? Damian and I were the only ones who weren’t allowed so both our glasses were filled with water and juice.

“And, please,” Mr. Wayne continued. “Call me Bruce.”

“Hey, we should give the women a tour.” Dick suggested. “I’m sure you’ll both love it.”

Jason and Tim had excused themselves, and I had an inkling as to what they were up to. Patrols were a common thing, as Damian told me.

And so with Dick and Bruce leading, my mother and I followed as they showed off the grandness of the manor.

I couldn’t help but be awestruck all over again. The library was huge. Their shelves towered from ceiling to floor, and filled with all kinds of books. From novels to more informative documents. I recognised a couple of titles from the times Damian spent the night reading.

The sunroom was next. The glass was near invisible. I took in the sight of the gorgeous garden just beyond the panels, being able to outline a gazebo at the far end with flowers twisting around its pillars. I unconsciously touched my stomach where the stitches were, randomly pondering what kind of flower had bloomed from such a brutal wound.

“Are you okay?” Damian was beside me immediately and his hand supported my elbow. His voice was laced with concern.

“Oh.” I realised what he was talking about and pulled my hand down. “I’m okay, just a little tired.”

“Honey?” My mom’s face pinched in concern. “Is it hurting again?”

“I just need to rest Mom, I’m fine.” I assured her. “You should continue, I’ll just sit here for a bit.”

Mom was hesitant but there wasn’t much she could do, and she knew it. So they moved on, but not without Mr. Wayne asking for some painkillers to be brought to me.

After taking the medicine, I thanked ‘Alfred’ (as he had asked me to call him) before he left.

Damian was sitting on the arm rest of the couch. My hand was in his and he rubbed random circles around my knuckles. His brows were furrowed, and his features were set in a deep scowl. I could practically feel the guilt and worry radiating off of him.

“I have to be honest, I thought I’d see more animals around.” I said, trying to lighten up the mood.

“Father asked me to keep Titus in my room for the time-being, he didn’t know how you two would react to a Great Dane, or vice-versa.” The boy said simply.

“Great Dane?” I asked flabbergasted.

The corner of Damian’s lips turned upwards. “When you feel better I’ll introduce you.”

“It’s a date.” I answered before thinking. All at once I realised what I said and felt my cheeks burn. “Ah – I mean, not date. If you aren’t comfortable with that, people just use the word date as a meeting time or –“

“It’s a date.” He brought my fingers up and ghosted his lips over them. I had to hold my breath fearing that my heart would stop.

I was momentarily stunned by his forwardness and calm. Looking away I managed to slow down my heart rate to a regular beat.

“I still need to guess the rest right?” I asked coyly.

He gestured for me to continue.

“Let’s see.” I rested my head on the couch and closed my eyes to recall our conversation back in the ball room. “We’ve got a dog, a cat.”

“Mhm.” Damian nodded, moving from the arm rest to the empty space next to me.

My brain brought up an old song from the Princess and the Frog, when they had to ‘Dig a Little Deeper’.

A dog, a pig, a cow, a goat – the lyrics were sung in my subconscious before I could stop it.

“A cow.” I guessed.

Damian’s eyes grew a little wide, before a grin made its way to his lips. “Yes.”

“What seriously?” I giggled. “You actually have a cow?”

“Bat-Cow.” He chuckled. “I was a child, and that was the first name to come up.”

I was full on laughing now. “I cannot wait to meet them. But that was seriously a random guess, now I feel like my confidence is dwindling.”

“Then how about you wait till you see them?” He suggested.

I bit my lip and shifted in my seat, our knees brushed and I felt that warmth spread across my chest. We’re close. A little too close.

When I looked at him I found he was staring at the garden outside. I didn’t mean to be rude, but I couldn’t take my eyes off him. There was something about this boy that just drew me closer, making me want more. I traced the little moles across his cheek and wondered when I had let this magnetic pull take over me.

“Take a picture. It’ll last longer.” Damian commented. His intense green eyes bore into mine as he threw a deviously charming smirk my way.

I blushed and looked away, suddenly finding my shoes a lot more interesting than it was. “Sorry, I was just thinking.”

He turned towards me. And I made the mistake of facing him again, because now our faces were just mere inches apart.

I found myself gazing at his beautiful green eyes that contrasted so well with his tanned olive skin. There were so many different shades of green looping and mixing with one another, it felt like a maze – one that I would willingly get lost in.

My fingers rested in the spaces between his, and I marvelled at how everything in that moment felt right.

I tilted towards him, and he did the same towards me.

“What are we doing?” I whispered, stealing a glance at his lips.

Heart pounding.

Blood racing.

It left me dizzy.

“I’m… not sure.” Damian replied, his tone low. “But if you asked me to kiss you, I would.”

His thumb grazed the inside of my wrist with a feather-light touch and I burst into flames.

“Kiss me.”

And he did.

-THE END-

#My Fan Fiction #Damian Wayne x Reader #DC comics #dc universe #Soulmate AU #Batman #batboys x reader #Nightwing #Red Hood #Red Robin #Robin #Bruce Wayne #Dick Grayson #Jason Todd #Tim Drake #Damian Wayne #Flowers AU

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howterrifying · 4 years

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+molliarty: The Necessity of Colour: I & II

The title had begun from a single idea I had, an idea that involved how one character viewed the other. It was meant to be a simple, nuanced one-shot, but the pair kept growing as their conversations unfolded and so it evolved into this mini-series. I actually had a very hard time trying to complete this but when I finally saw where it was heading, I was so glad I'd persevered with it. I did not expect it to end the way it had, but once the final scene had made its home in my mind, I could not deviate from it. I hope this story isn't too chaotic and that you can feel the complex and yet surprisingly clear feelings between the two. x

The Necessity of Colour: Part I & II [Also on FF.net and AO3]

I. It was a foolproof plan. Then again, when had Jim Moriarty ever had a plan that was notfoolproof? The world is a circus of fools, was how he often defined the environment he lived in. In this case, he had decided it was best he undertook this particular operation himself. He had planned it down to the most random of details so as not to be caught off guard; from the title of Molly’s favourite musical to the brand of cat food she would buy for her cat, Toby. Jim learnt how the different ways she did her hair could offer him some insight into her mood. The shocking amount of colour she seemed to enjoy formed a stark contrast to his own very stark palette, but he had learnt to appreciate it. Jim had left no stone unturned.

Molly’s affection for Sherlock Holmes and their close working relationship had been the reason behind Jim choosing her for his plan. This affection she had for the detective, however, was both a blessing and a curse. It would offer Jim the insidious access to Sherlock he needed, but he knew it would take time. Jim was afraid that her infatuation itself would become an obstacle. To Jim’s surprise, Molly had taken to him far sooner than he had expected. Before he knew it, they were going on small dates; late night coffees after her shifts at the morgue, weekends at the secondhand bookshop and even a rare trip to the cinema. Jim had been pleasantly surprised to discover they shared the same popcorn preference – no popcorn at all. It had all been very warm and cordial, lots of laughter, shy smiles and free and easy conversation. Jim knew she was going to be easy to talk with but was genuinely surprised to find himself wanting to hear what she had to say. Needless to say, she was also remarkably clever and it earned Jim’s genuine admiration. They were at the tail end of another of these dates. It was a weekday night and it marked their first dinner date. It had only happened because Molly was famished after her shift and had not been in the mood for St. Bart’s refectory offerings. “That was a nice treat, thank you,” said Jim to Molly. The night was getting chilly and he used it as an excuse to stand a little closer to her as they took a slow stroll. “Well, it wasn’t the fanciest of restaurants but it was the best I could think of at this hour,” Molly replied with a laugh. “Besides, I should thank you for joining me. It’s not often I have company at dinner after a shift.” “I happen to like your company,” Jim said, throwing a most dashing smile in her direction. “Yes, I know,” Molly responded with a knowing half-smile. The pair stopped in their tracks, grinning at each other before bursting into chuckles. They had been dancing around the edges of their fascination with each other and it seemed they were about to enter slightly newer territory. “It goes without saying,” said Molly, looping her arm through his, “that I very much enjoy your company too.” Jim smiled at her words, except he was not sure where the smile stemmed from. As they walked on, he considered that perhaps her words indicated his plan was succeeding and thus brought him joy. No, that’s not it, he thought to himself. He knew it was going to succeed, so there was nothing exceptionally successful to smile about. Something was off about his own reaction and it puzzled him. He was interrupted by Molly literally snapping her fingers in front of his distracted face once they had reached the taxi stand where they would normally part after a late night out. “Fancy a midnight coffee?” asked Molly. She reached out to gently brush a small dried leaf that had fallen on his shoulder. “You know I’d never say no to coffee with you,” he said, reaching for the same hand that brushed the leaf off and kissed it. Molly’s eyes widened in surprise, but a smile grew on her lips. “That’s a first,” Molly said with a sly smile. “Well, we have to start somewhere,” replied Jim. “I suppose,” she said with a laugh, “Coffee at my place then?” It was Jim’s turn to be surprised, but he too, smiled in return. “Now that’s a first,” he said with a small chuckle. Molly chuckled along with him as the pair hopped into a taxi and made their way back to her flat. ++ “Nice place,” Jim said, carefully wiping his feet before stepping into her flat. “You’ve very well-mannered,” Molly said in turn, gesturing to her doormat, causing them both to chuckle. “Sherlock Holmes would just break in, much less wipe his feet.” “My, it’s been a long time since I’ve heard you mention his name,” Jim remarked, wondering why his heart gave a nervous thump in his chest. “It was to give you a point of reference, Jim,” Molly said with a wry smile, “A reference of the type of ‘manners’ I’ve had to tolerate.” “Well, you did like the man,” Jim said, wondering why he could not bring himself to smile at the irony. “He has his charms,” Molly remarked nonchalantly, “But they wear off very quickly.” Molly took Jim’s coat and hung it together with hers. She gestured to the sofa for him to take a seat while she went to make the coffee. “Make yourself at home,” she said, “Don’t do anything Sherlock Holmes would do.” “I wouldn’t dare. Wouldn’t want my charm to wear off,” Jim said with a cheeky glint in his eyes. “No, you’re too handsome for that,” said Molly, her eyes mirroring the light in his eyes. As Molly disappeared into her kitchen to make their coffee, Jim took a moment to take in his surroundings. It amused him to find a half-knitted scarf attached to a brightly-coloured ball of yarn, both items placed carefully atop the latest issue of an international neurology journal. Eventually, Jim found himself getting up from the sofa and wandering curiously around her living room, studying bits and bobs of what made her who she was. She was impossibly fascinating and it puzzled him as to why Sherlock Holmes had not fallen for her right away, especially once she had made known her affections. At that thought, Jim froze. Oh, Jim, you can’t have, he chided himself. No, this could not and, more crucially, should not be happening. Is that why her words from earlier had made him smile? I can beat this, he thought. It was just a feeling. Feelings were transient, disposable. He would get rid of it in no time, whatever it was that he was feeling for Molly Hooper. “Found anything interesting?” came Molly’s voice but in a tone he did not comprehend. He turned to face her, only to realise he was now staring down a barrel of a gun. A gun she was holding. “Molly?” he said, raising both hands instinctively. “Take a seat, please,” she replied, using the gun to gesture towards the sofa. With his hands still in the air, Jim made his way to the sofa and sat down carefully. He had not expected a night with Molly Hooper to take the turn it had and made a mental note to engage his snipers at all times in future.Molly sat on the small coffee table right in front of him, the gun still aimed towards his heart. “James Moriarty,” she said, slowly and evenly. Jim knew to be quiet in situations like these and tried desperately to read her face, except it was now absolutely unreadable. Whatever warmth or delight he always saw in her eyes seemed to have disappeared completely. Even the brown in them seemed to have faded into an icy, steely gaze he simply did not recognise. “It really is a pity,” said Molly with a blank smile, ‘I was getting rather fond of you.” “Then put the gun down,” Jim asked, “You know I’d never hurt you.” “Of course, you would,” Molly said with a laugh, “I know who you are, James Moriarty.” “I couldn’t hurt you, Molly. Look at me, I’m just—” “Jim from IT, I know…” Molly interjected. “The charade’s over, Jim.” Jim looked hard at Molly and saw that she was dead serious. The charade was over, both his and hers. The gun remained effortlessly in Molly’s hand, poised and ready to put a bullet through his chest at any second. “My boss has questions,” Molly began, “And you are to answer them.” “Your boss?” “She wants to know what you want with Sherlock Holmes.” “Why would she want to know that?” “She’s the one asking the questions, not you.” “All right, all right,” Jim knew not to push at times like these. “He’s been meddling, and I wanted to keep an eye on him.” Molly appeared to pause, as though listening to something, and it seemed she was awaiting her next instruction.. It was that split second that presented Jim the opportunity to push her hand away, producing a small knife which he pressed to the side of her neck. They were now interlocked, with Molly’s gun quickly repositioned, pressing against his stomach whilst he maintained the pressure of the blade against her skin. “It seems you’re two-timing me, Molly,” Jim remarked with a wry smile. “Well, we’d only just begun dating,” replied Molly, smirking in return. “God, I think I really do like you, Molly Hooper,” Jim continued, clicking his tongue. “I’m still undecided,” Molly said, chuckling darkly. “Still pining for Sherlock Holmes as well?” Jim retorted, wondering why he still could not properly joke about this. “My boss needed eyes on him too,” she said casually, “It was the best ruse.” A ruse. Unknowingly, Jim found himself lightening his pressure of the knife against Molly’s neck. He fought the odd rush of relief that entered his mind. This was no time for a feeling, much less newer, complicated ones. As though to remind him to focus, Molly pushed the end of her gun further into him, reminding him she was still in control. The blade on her neck hardly fazed her. Bullets were faster, after all. “You’re very good at your job then,” Jim continued, equally unfazed at the gun against him. “So are you,” said Molly, “But I am a little better at it.” The pair of them broke into a quick chuckle, just as they had at the taxi stand about an hour ago, but their gazes never left one another. “At least I can claim credit for being my own boss,” Jim said with teasing in his eyes. “Now who would give a fuck about that?” Molly answered with a cool, almost gentle smile. “Tsk. Language, Molly…” Jim tutted, amused. “Has my charm worn off then?” Molly asked, raising an eyebrow. “Not in the least,” he replied coolly. “Good.” With her gun still held firmly in place, Molly leaned forward and kissed Jim softly on the lips. There was a light clang as the blade he held fell from his fingers onto the coffee table and then bounced onto the floor. When she pulled away from him, Jim stared back at her, wide-eyed and for the first time in his entire criminal career, appeared to be at a loss. “Told you I was better,” she whispered, before kissing him once more. ++ II. When Jim finally stirred, the last memory he had was of Molly’s lips on his and it confounded him slightly. Surely he had not blacked out from a kiss? He blinked his eyes rapidly as his vision cleared and the room swam into view. Except he was not in a room. He had been lying across a bench at their usual taxi stand. Jim cricked his neck as he slowly rose from the bench. As he did so, he found himself wincing and the entire right side of his face was beginning to throb from excruciating pain. “Oh, that’s right,” he murmured to himself, hissing as he rubbed his bruised temple. He had been wrong about his last memory. The correct last memory would have been Molly raising the gun in her hand and bringing it down to strike him across the face. “I really should hire her…” he continued, now rubbing his cheekbone. Suddenly, his mobile phone buzzed with an incoming message. Jim reached into his pocket for it and swiped to open the message. I’ve decided you’re no longer a problem. At least not a big one. So you can go. But be careful what you do with Sherlock Holmes. I will be watching. E. “Who on earth calls themselves by a single letter anymore?” he scoffed, closing the message. Jim managed to stand up and dialed for one of his cars to come get him. In a matter of minutes, he was being sped off to one of his offices where he would get cleaned up and put on a fresh suit. Jim needed to work out who else wanted a piece of Sherlock Holmes but more importantly, who it was that had the good fortune of hiring Molly Hooper. ++ “Coffee’s here,” Molly chirped, “Black and two sugars.” “Just leave it there,” came Sherlock’s sharp reply. “Okay,” she said, smiling sweetly as she placed it at the edge of the lab bench the detective was working at. “So, any luck on those chemical traces then?” she asked, walking towards his hunched figure as he peered deep into a microscope. “I’ve narrowed it down to five possible sources.” “That’s good then, isn’t it? Let me know if there’s anything I—” There was a knock on the door followed by the soft creak of it being opened gingerly. “Sorry, am I disturbing?” came the shy voice of Jim, holding a box of hard-drives in his hands. Sherlock looked up and vaguely recalled seeing this face, a face connected with something to do with computers. The memory had neither been significant nor threatening, so Sherlock merely looked back down and resumed his work at the microscope. “I’m just here to collect the faulty drives,” he said, pointing sheepishly to the box in his hands. There was still no response from Sherlock. Jim took a gamble and stole a glance at Molly. When she returned his gaze, all the sweetness from before melted away. Those same blank, icy eyes were back and it brought back the memory of their faces being inches apart from each other, her gun against his body and his knife against her neck. Jim’s heart lurched from the memory and it made him flinch ever so slightly. Molly noticed and when she deduced what had caused it, the tiniest light returned to dance in her pupils. “The drives are there,” Molly said, pointing to a shelf across the room. The sweetness reserved for her ruse with the detective returned. “Do you need a hand? There are quite a few…” “No, no, I’m all right, thanks,” Jim said, trying not to smile in amusement from the honey in her voice. “Okay,” Molly said with a nod. Molly turned on her heels to exit the laboratory but could not resist one more look back at Jim. It had been some time since she had seen him. His bruises had healed nicely, leaving his handsomeness perfectly intact. In spite of her boss’ warning, it seemed his plan to hunt Sherlock also remained intact. Molly had to admit that this tenacity of his really was admirable. If her boss knew how much it thrilled Molly to see Jim again, she would probably have had her pay – or her head – cut. Nevertheless, she allowed that rush into her veins one more time before quickly vanishing from the lab. “She’s sweet, isn’t she?” Jim remarked to Sherlock. He headed to the shelf and began rummaging for the drives. “Who is?” Sherlock muttered, adjusting his microscope. “She was just in here a minute ago?” Jim pressed, hiding his amusement. “She’s not a sugar cube, so I wouldn’t know,” came Sherlock’s blunt response. “Ha, that’s funny. You’ve got a good sense of humour…” Jim said. That did the trick and the detective stopped to look up at Jim. He made the effort to look at Jim properly this time. “I’m sorry, who are you again?” asked Sherlock. “Ah, sorry. Jim…from IT?” “It’s obvious you’ve taken an interest in the pathologist. If so, why are you talking to me?” “Well, she seems to work with you. A lot.” “And what of it?” “I just thought maybe the two of you were, you know, a thing…” Jim said with a shrug. “I don’t have time for…a thing.” “She seems to like you though.” “Maybe someone’s paying her to,” Sherlock retorted, deciding to return to his chemical analysis. “You know, I take it back,” Jim said, popping the last drive into his box. “Take what back?” asked Sherlock. “She isn’t sweet,” said Jim, as he made his way out, “With a person like you? Someone’s definitely paying her.” With those words, Jim gave a quick nod and a wave to the detective, who had looked up sharply again, before walking out of the lab. As he strolled down the corridor back to his office, Jim chuckled softly to himself. He had meant to insult Sherlock with his parting words but it had ended up serving to comfort the criminal mastermind himself. Whoever this E was, Jim was almost grateful to her. Whatever her reason was for spying on Sherlock Holmes, it had led Molly to the detective, which inadvertently led Jim to her. “I really should thank her someday,” Jim murmured to himself, drumming his fingers against the box of faulty drives. ++ Molly was sat in a cab with a few packed bags as she made her way to a hotel. Being the dutiful employee that she was, Molly had reported her sighting of Jim back at St. Bart’s. For Molly’s safety and for minimal disruption to their operations, her boss had insisted Molly be away from her flat for at least a month. Now that Jim knew where she lived, her flat was now basically one giant booby trap. The hotel was expensive and exclusive. Its low footfall of human traffic meant easier surveillance at the hotel, ensuring Molly’s safety. Her boss, though terrifying, knew to value an asset and would never put Molly in harm’s way. A bellboy took her bags and Molly was ushered to her suite by another member of hotel staff. “Well, this is nice,” Molly said to herself as she explored the space. Her phone buzzed and she knew it was her boss checking in with more instructions. A different car will come every day to pick you up. They will drop you at various locations around St. Bart’s. I will handle Jim if he disrupts in any way. You are to remain focused on my brother. More information will be sent shortly. E. Molly smirked at the message and swiped it shut. She walked over to one of several ornate armchairs and sank into it. It was nice to know she could focus on the original operation again, but she did miss the temporary portfolio that had been keeping close tabs on Jim Moriarty. “He had such manners,” Molly sighed, leaning her head back, “And by god was he handsome.” Her moment of indulgence was interrupted by the sound of her hotel phone ringing. Reaching for it, she picked up the receiver and answered. “Hello?” “Ms Hooper, this is the Concierge. A package has arrived for you. Would you like us to send it up?” Her boss worked fast. Tonight was going to be a night of going through dossiers again, it seemed. “Yes, please,” Molly replied, a little crestfallen. She was hoping to at least have a night without work in this beautiful suite, but her boss did say she was going to send information. Moments later, the doorbell to her suite rang and Molly reluctantly got up to get the door. When she pulled open one side of the heavy, double-door entrance to her suite, what greeted her was not a brown envelope or a briefcase or anything she was expecting. Instead, she was presented with a bottle of red wine and those very hands that held them were the hands of one Jim Moriarty. “Did you miss me?” he whispered, smiling wryly at her. For a moment, Molly was stunned, but she soon regained her composure and could not help but smile back. It was then that Molly decided that if he had made it this far, her boss did not know he was here. At least that was what she was hoping. “You know what, Jim?” said Molly, retrieving the wine from him, “Yes.” [To be continued...]

#molliarty #it's finally done!!#i was hoping to finish it in one night #and it became a week-long saga #but yay it's donnnne #molliarty shots #The Necessity of Colour by Terrified

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