Shiro has nightmares, Keith helps. Gen. Special thanks to @butteredonions for the proofreading <3
The needles stab out from the inside, pushing up through his skin, shivering and cold in the stale night. The blanket brushes against his toes and he can just barely see it through the hidden safety between his knees. He can feel it though, and it scratches holes into his bare feet.
Unbidden, his legs kick it away. He stares at his toes, and no, they’re not bleeding. It feels like they are but he can see them right in front of him and he’s fine.
He’s fine. If he’s fine, why can’t he breathe?
Some dusty memory reminds him to breathe. The memory speaks with his voice but he can’t remember who he’s talking to. He tries to count.
One, two, easy. He doesn’t even have to think for one and two. The next number, though, is gone. It’s replace by some guttural sound that feels like water in his ears that he is completely convinced comes after two. It doesn’t come after two, because something else does. Right?
He starts over, and this time, there’s nothing there but those sounds, in a specific order that he doesn’t quite understand.
Each one is accompanied by another sound, repetitive, the sound of air being broken by a jet plane that refuses to move slower than sound. It’s a crack, a snap, and then the air cuts through his back.
He chokes on a cry.
Keith stands outside the door, listening to the heavy breaths that woke him up. Shiro didn’t need to know how thin the walls were, and how much of the nightmares Keith heard. Keith normally laid in bed when the nightmares started, making sure that Shiro was able to wake himself up but ready if it got out of hand. Most of the time, he’d hear tossing and turning until Shiro finally woke up and went for a walk.
Tonight, after all the usual rustling, there were no sounds of Shiro getting out of bed, getting dressed, his bare feet on the metal floor.
Just the breathing.
It was wrong and off, even and clear for a few seconds and then stuttering like he was choking on the air. Something had pulled Keith out of bed, but now, standing in front of Shiro’s door, fist poised to knock, he is still.
Shiro would hate it. He would hate knowing that Keith heard him scream sometimes, that Keith knew that he wasn’t completely okay. He’d feel weak, and he’d hide behind his speeches and his optimism and would be ever more careful about where and when he let himself fall asleep.
The cry reaches him from behind the door. It sounds like a child, and god, that child is so afraid.
This time, Keith doesn’t hesitate to open the door.
Shiro is shaking in the center of the bed. His head is between his knees and between them Keith can just barely see the glint of fear in his wide eyes, like a horse who’s just seen a snake. A horse would rear back, run away, but Shiro is stuck, his fingers white where they grasp his leg, nails digging into the fabric of his sleep clothes. His right arm lies limp at his side.
Shiro’s voice jumps. He’s still shivering. It’s not cold but it looks like his muscles are trying to collapse in on him. Keith can trace every line of sinew that controls his jaw and each one is trembling.
“Shiro?” Keith asks. Shiro just shakes his head and pulls his shoulders even closer together.
He’s trying to make himself a smaller target, Keith realizes. He bites on his lip and refuses to cry for Shiro. Shiro deserves so much more than pity.
Keith almost misses it, the broken sound that slips from Shiro’s lips. “Keith.” Shiro’s lungs fill up and exhales the rest of the words. “Go home go home go home, it’s not safe, go home,” and then he’s out of air and has to swallow another quick lungful.
Shiro deserves so much more than pity.
Keith sees the blanket, discarded at his feet, and at his first move to pick it up, Shiro jolts.
Keith freezes, watches Shiro, and holds up one hand in placation.
The rest of his movements are slow, careful, his eyes never leaving Shiro. When he stands up, he’s careful to keep everything even. Everything slow. Nothing sudden. Shiro keeps forgetting to breathe, gulping everything in at once, and then coughing it back out.
Shiro was the one who taught him how to do this, before, when the occasional nightmare belonged to Keith.
Keith’s voice is a prayer.
“One, two, three, four in…” Shiro shudders and his shoulders fall away from his knees, allowing him to breathe a little bit easier.
“Five, six, seven, eight out…”
Keith takes a step forwards with every turn of air.
As he gets closer, he hears the sounds that Shiro is choking on. He recognizes rudimentary Galran.
He makes his own counting louder. He sees himself learning to count as a kid. One, two, three, four, easy. He hopes Shiro can attach similar images, to remind him that he’s not there. He’s safe. They count in English, just like they did when they were kids.
Keith repeats the numbers, over and over and over until Shiro starts speaking along with him. Keith clutches the blanket in his hand and just counts.
He’s never seen Shiro like this. He knew about the nightmares. Of course he knew. He heard them.
But Shiro always got up from the nightmares.
He looks so small, hiding in himself.
Keith wonders if he can touch him, but Shiro’s still shaking, he’s still coughing on the numbers, so Keith sits down. He holds the blanket in his lap and keeps counting, paying special attention to the fabric between his fingers and careful not to scare Shiro off with a stare.
“One, two, three, four in…”
Shiro falls into Keith’s chest and Keith only falters for a minute before continuing his count and wrapping an arm around Shiro. Shiro’s limbs are loosening up, legs not so tight against his chest, most of his muscles not trembling with self imposed strain. Keith brings his legs up on the bed and tucks the blanket over both of them. Shiro shivers and grips Keith’s sleep shirt.
Shiro’s whispering changes from the murmured numbers to something else. Keith can barely make it out.
“I’m sorry. Please don’t go.”
Keith fights the sting in his eyes. He blinks, and then blinks again, and bites down on the inside of his cheek.
Shiro deserves so much more.
Keith brings up a hand to card back through Shiro’s hair. Shiro’s relieved shudder at just the barest touch is enough to push the tears out of Keith’s eyes.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Shiro nods and lets himself nuzzle against Keith’s chest. Keith keeps up his quiet ministrations until the fist in his shirt goes slack and he hears the quiet snore that signals real sleep.
Keith lets out his own breath. Shiro must be exhausted.
He knows that Shiro will want to pretend it never happened in the morning.
Keith won’t let him.
That’s a problem for tomorrow.
Now, he closes his eyes and lets himself drift off, counting Shiro’s breath and timing his own to match.
AAAHHH i love your hcs/ideas so much, fear gassed jason never telling Bruce what he sees kills me in a good way. would you talk about their relationship? Honestly ur writing makes me weep I just love it so much
oh gosh, oh gosh every time i have to write them i lose a part of my soul….here u go anon i did my best!
Most times Jason can’t tell who he hates more: Bruce, or himself. He hates seeing Bruce because it makes him raise the question of ‘who’s right and who’s wrong?’ and going down that train of thought is…painful, to say the least.
Sometimes, Jason wished he didn’t know the truth. Sometimes he wished that he was naïve, or ignorant, or even stupid. He wanted to feel anything besides the all-knowing iciness of knowing the truth; the truth being Bruce looks at him and sees a ghost.
Bruce doesn’t make it obvious, at the very least. It’s packed into the small gestures; the passing glances, the longer stares, the clenched jaws. It’s in the calloused fingers brushing hair out of Jason’s eyes, and the quiet words the man wills himself to speak. Like a fool, Jason falls for it, of course.
One time, Jason stops by the manor to help Alfred out with something, and decides to head into the cave and take the back exit. He heads down, and notices Bruce is in the cave already.
Standing in front of the glass case holding Jason’s old uniform.
Jason, the real Jason, stops, his heartbeat stuttering. From his place on the stairs, he watches the old man lift a shaking hand into the air and press it against the sparkling glass, head bowing forward to press up against the casing.
Gestures much too tender for a dead memory. The husk of a man reborn, a lost son returned home, a loved one. The realization hits him like a freight train, nearly sends him sprawling onto the rocky floor in its weight. Bruce looks at him, looks at his murky green eyes and his tired smiles, and sees nothing. No, not nothing…a young boy. He sees his Robin from a past life, dressed in bright colours and donning a winning smile and speaking with warmth. He doesn’t see the scars, the effort Jason’s making, the strength he possesses. He doesn’t hear the sharp wit, the booming laughter, the drawled out words. He doesn’t feel the love, the trust, or the protectiveness.
Bruce looks at him and sees a grave.
Jason leaves, and time passes; he stays out of their way and they know well enough to stay out of his. He lets them keep their godforsaken glass case and their dusty memories
The next time they meet face to face is the night Jason goes after the mayor, intent on giving him the antidote he procured. He spits words about ‘trust’ at his father figure, all the while ignoring the real problem that kept them worlds apart: that glass case.
Time and exposure help heal the wounds they don’t speak about. Bruce may see him as a ghost, but his brothers do not: he teases Damian, shoots snarky quips at Dick, and offers sarcastic advice to Duke.
Him and Bruce…Jason understands the strength of an alliance between them. He tentatively reintroduces himself into their fold, joining patrol and accepting responsibilities. He and Bruce are on better terms, and everything is at ease.
But Jason can never forget that glass case, and Bruce can never take it down.
It’s funny how some days or moments are preserved so wholly into my memory. And funnier still how its not always the days full of action or the moments most objectively memorable. Sometimes it’s the quiet memories, though they may not seem exceptionally noteworthy at the time, that stay with you the longest. A familiar horse’s steady gaze across an empty paddock, or a chilly walk in an unfamiliar place at sunset, watching as the landscape is bathed briefly in gold before it’s sent off into the dusty blues of dusk.
w.c. just above 4.7k | angst + fluff+ a piece of my heart | kept thinking about choco / @choco-seventeen when writing this bc i remember reading somewhere that she loves woozi fics
Sometimes, there’s a song you don’t listen to for a while. It just manages to escape you, to float away. You don’t go and search for it either. It just is, at that point. And, when you stumble upon it again, by some chance of fate, it’s like hearing the song anew. It’s not as you remember, because your memory is dusty. The lyrics still come naturally in spite of the rust, however. The meaning associated with the song, the memories, they all come flooding back. The song is yours again.
Favorite memory with Dusty Rhodes? [x] Dusty Rhodes was always one of my favourite people in the whole world. He was always very nice to me, and he always took very good care of me, and he was like my dad.
Kissing. Sucking. Moaning. It was amazing. And Kara loved every second of it. Cat was here. On top of her. And it felt so good. Tangled limbs, mingling breaths, rustling sheets. Kara moaned as Cat came beneath her for the second time, and thrust a little harder, rubbing their bodies together, making Cat purr soft words eagerly, just as happy.
Sex. Cat Grant. Kara’s apartment. Heated bodies in friction. Clothing ripping. Moonlight streaming into the room over them. Kara’s supersuit lost on the floor.
Cat was back. After weeks of quiet Cat was back. And it was the best moment of Kara’s life. Kara moaned again as her own orgasm came hard through her, making her knees weak, and Cat whispered something Kara didn’t really hear as she shook and cried out, letting herself fall softly on top of Cat as her mind went blank.
Kara sat up in bed sharply, hearing a moan in her mind, and stared at her empty apartment, the sun streaming in through open curtains, and… nobody else. Kara stared ahead and panted, wondering…
Kara gasped and looked at her tiny balcony, and her mouth fell open at the sight. Cat. A plain blue blouse. Her blouse. Nothing else. Hair tied back loosely at her neck. A smile.
“You were dreaming. It sounded good.”
“It wasn’t a dream. I…” Kara stopped as everything came back in a rush, and looked around, clothing everywhere in a messy trail from the kitchen to the bed. Kara glanced around and then back at Cat as memories from the other night came flying back, and CatCo. Cat. Coming Back. As CEO. The kiss. The talk. And then… the sex. Kara felt like fainting, and tightened her hands into the mattress beneath her, to ground herself. “You’re here.”
“I am. That was a rather… enjoyable evening there, with those powers.” Cat said, turning towards Kara and leaning against the railing, crossing her legs as she spoke. “I can’t say I minded it, when you ripped my dress.”
“You’re here.” Kara repeated, happily this time, smiling as Cat walked towards her. “That wasn’t a dream.” Kara whispered again, bringing hands into Cat’s and tugging her closer onto the bed. “Cat.”
Holy hell, okay, this is not a drill. Goldie O’Gilt is making an appearance in a comic, and it’s not a cameo.
So, my drug dealer got me hooked with some
2017 Topolino, and I need to scream about it, because Goldie!
That’s right, she is back, and looks absolutely
So, this is an Italian comic, and therefore
it can be expected that the tragic romance™, that is more popular in the post-Rosa duck
comic tradition, has been toned down a lot. Now full disclosure, I’m shipper
trash and am fully committed to the tragic
romance™. I wrote a 50 000+ words fanfic about it. I am also known
sufferer of Brigitta MacBridge nonsense, so while this rant might be biased, I
try to be biased in a gentle way. It’s not your fault Brigitta, that you have
been written that way. Or that Scrooge and Goldie are soulmates. Ahem.
But to the comic itself. There are lots of
things I love about it, and then there are some things that make me side-eye it
in vaguely disapproving manner. I swear, not all of those reasons are shipping
reasons. Okay yeah they pretty much are.
follow me to the kitchen, you can throw a coffeepot on my face, and we can
roleplay our night together in White Agony Creek anew!)
The premise of the story is pretty much,
what if Goldie and Brigitta properly met? It’s…not a lot. There is no plot
beyond: what if Goldie and Brigitta had a girls’ day out. Which I guess is
fine, because that is all it is supposed to be. It is a slice of life character
study. Usually I’m all about those, but…well Goldie doesn’t really shine when
you don’t give her anything to do. In Rosa/Barks stories (which are the only
stories where we see Goldie as a character) the focus has never been solely on
anyone’s feelings. They have been very action-packed stories with any hinted
romance taking a firm backseat.
What I’m trying to say is, that I’m
disappointed that Goldie didn’t get to join in any of those silly Italian
adventures. Not even little bit of shenanigans. Aww, and it could have been so
“Anonymous said: Foggy Childhood Memory: dusty crowded cities, yellow, orange are the colours. Tanks and soldiers line the sandy sides of streets. Tapestries and small shops, Bilingual bookstores and spiced coffee. Noise everywhere, but it’s quiet inside.”
// This is perfect and I want to know more… Don’t forget, if you to drop an ask about me, my inbox is open :) I’m curious as to what you guys think of me! xox //
crawl, and they creep
Into this old place
Dusty memories sleep
fraught with terror
Leave then to their slumber
look not back
at them again
Let the past stay in the past
for now our time
Like all things, we will not last
too soon we’ll
Laugh, and rage
your time out in the sun
your night winds
Then your day
About 700 words of vague smut but ahh!!! I hope you like it if you read! I feel like it’s been way too long since I’ve written a Royai fic. <3
How is devotion measured? To Riza, it’s always been abstract, unspoken. As visible as moonlight but as tangible too. Roy’s fingers trailing the curve of her waist are all at once electrifying and terribly inadequate.
Closer, she thinks, stretching up on her toes, crashing her lips onto his throat. His arm wraps around her and she’s flush against him as if they are trying to break through the surface of each other’s skin and show their bodies what it means to know someone.
God, I think I finally got this little blurb written after initially having the idea in like May? >_< This is based on @thebananafrappe and @azulandrojo‘s horrifyingly beautiful creation, Axetale along with @mercy-monster‘s fantastic drawings crossed over with Repo! the Genetic Opera’s song, Legal Assassin.
I shared the idea with Banana and she wrote her take on it, which is fantastic btw, go read it. She beat me to the punch with some details, so if you see similarties, creative minds think alike sometimes? I tried to keep to the lore the creators made for this world, so if there’s something that doesn’t jive, write it off as creative liberties.
sometimes the poem is just
a girl biting her lip,
holding back sorrow and anger and pain.
sometimes the poem is just blood and bone and ashes.
the remains of a witch being burned at stake.
sometimes the poem is just shattered dreams and dusty memories.
a goodbye kiss you’d rather forget, a voice that sounded better than all your favorite songs, the promise of happiness that feels like the worst kind of lie.
sometimes the poem is just static.
a screaming emptiness, the sound of people trying and failing to connect across the distance.
History paves the way for the future. Our now stands on the rubble of glory days gone by. Each civilization a little stronger, a little smarter. Our waterways a nod to the ancient science of irrigation, feats of engineering based on the stunning columns of the Greeks, art and music descended from all the horrendous beauty and glorious pain that inspired life.
Our now will one day be another now’s history. We will leave behind-what? A legacy of a fading planet and a people who still fight for it. A legacy of connectivity and innovation. A world where hope still finds the cracks in a cloud of fear and hatred, where the small acts of kindness matter just as much as the new technology.
Our now is what our future is built on, another civilization that will fade into dusty memory, another to brick to build upon. Maybe not the best or brightest, but my god, what a world to leave behind.
And here we have it, all three parts of my Repo! the Genetic Opera/Axetale crossover completed! :D This was an interesting blurb to write and I can’t thank the Axetale creators, @thebananafrappe and @azulandrojo and noted artist, @mercy-monster for their inspiration to conjure this up. Be sure to tune into the @axetale blog for information and coverage on the up and coming fic, Fracture! Song lyric segments in italics and bold include Legal Assassin, Chase The Morning, Night Surgeon, and I Didn’t Know I’d Love You So Much