my fingers belong in the dirt

Panic Sets In...

Pairing : Newt Scamander x Reader

Rating : M

Word Count : 548

Warnings : Violence. Mention of Torture. Swearing.

Request : Reader and Newt are together. Newt had a bad nightmare, he wakes up… However, Reader is not in the case or home. He is looking for her, thinking that nightmare is real and has a panic attack; Reader is walking home from walk and calms him down.

She was right there.

She was close and yet she slipped through my fingers.

Falling, falling, falling.

To the dirt she fell.

“Grindelwald” I hissed the name as he stood behind her, his hand gripping her arm tightly.

“Ah-ah-ah” the spoken man tsked and held onto your arm tighter. Tears streamed down you face as you looked at Newt.

‘Newt, please” you pleaded.

“Let her go!” Newt shouted as he started to move towards you.

Grindelwald scoffed and black mist surrounded Newt. Grindelwald’s laugh echoed around him and then the screams started. Newt knew; he knew those screams belonged to you.

“Y/N! Don’t you touch her you monster” he yelled turning in circles trying to locate you.

“Newt!” you called his name again and the screams grew louder.

“Oh is that so” Grindelwald appeared behind Newt and the screams ceased. Confused Newt turned around only to let out a scream himself. There you were at Grindelwald’s feet covered in blood and your Y/E/C eyes glazed over and open.

“Y/N no!” Newt made a mad dash towards you when he heard Grindelwald call out an all too familiar curse.

“Avada Kedavra”

Newt shot up in his bed breathing heavily, sweat was pouring off his body. The panic sets in. Where were you?

“Y/N?” Newt called out shakily as he made his way out of his room into the dark corridor.

“Y/N?” He called again but you did not reply.

“Y/N!” Newt was running through the house now calling out to you, but he couldn’t find you.

He sobbed as he fell back against a nearby wall. He sunk down the wall and brought his knees to his chest.

“Y-Y/N” he whispered as his breathing became irregular and his eyes widened in panic.

Newt had zoned out so much so that he didn’t hear the front door open or you calling out his name until you were kneeling in front of him.

“Newt” you asked concerned, the man did nothing but stare blankly at you and raspy breaths escaped his lungs. You recognised the symptoms instantly.

“Newt? Newt, look at me. Come on breathe with me Newt” you grabbed his hand and placed it on your chest to steady his breathing.

“Come on Newt. Come on love” You embraced him and held him tightly. Newt finally regained his breathing and now looked at you sorrowfully.

“Y-You’re here, you’re alive? I’m so sorry” he whispered gripping onto your shirt tightly.

“Of course I’m alive and why are you sorry?” You asked.

“You died and there was so much blood and-” you cut him off with a kiss.

“I’m alive Newt, I promise” You hugged him tighter understanding that he was panicking over a nightmare.

Newt sobbed into your shoulder and you rubbed his back whispering comforting words into his ear.

“I love you Newt I promise I’m not going anywhere.”

Tag List - @carmineofmidgard @dumbleshook @fantastico-beasts @abirosebrowne @cherryskies13

link, whose hands shook for every particular reason (and yes, especially that one), skin stretched tight against an abstract skeleton, a golden band running anxiously up and down and around the fourth of his digits (sharp and attractive things you’d want to weave into your own), deft and delicate, halting at elegant points – less “manly,” more man.

link, whose lips bore the product of a painter who’d never bothered to blend the spaces between the colors, a sharp V that attracted any complimenting pair, most often pursed in confusion or yanked up by strings to play a fleshy border for commercial-white canines – the perfect puppeteers for competitive coyness, pretty and pink-lemonade-sweet.

link, whose hair glossed up and down and around again, framing and then revealing smooth, airbrushed skin which tanned respectfully beneath its soft dark-chocolate border, rarely changing, never seeking risk, slick and similar every passing day, soft at the graces of a sweet-intentioned brush of a hand –  contemporary and part of him.

link, whose eyes refuged deep and shadowed beneath his brow, and yet did not care to be modest in their brilliance, hue a distinct beryl sea, flashing whenever they wanted to, twinkling as they smirked, shimmering amongst the glare of square caramel frames – frames which often admitted to housing dust or standing on the verge of compromise, frames which provided him a label, frames which distinguished him in comparison to his companion.

link, who belonged to his companion in every way, a metallic moonshine at the risk of an aurelian, curling sun. link, who resembled the gray tide, a cliche flirt against the plush and twinkling shore. link, who could be sour and sweet in the same bite, twirling sticks of orange rock candy between his fingers. link, who’d leave a room’s air electrically conducted and a spool of blond thread tangled, altering the chemistry of the space. link, who’d be shaking later, plucking a dirt-yellow strand from between a golden band and the fourth of his digits.

link, who’d never felt like that before.

link, who couldn’t possibly feel anything but like that ever again.

link, who would now belong to his companion in every way.

link, whose hands shook for every particular reason.

(and, inevitably, this one.)

The End - Part 3

*Soon to be adapted as an original novel by Tristen Ross, called Exitus*

You’ll need to read  The End -  The End - Part 2

Warnings:  Angst, very dismal setting, apocalypse, language, reference to character death, alcoholism, injury, blood, 

After Dean left I stood there paralyzed by uncertainty. The whispering crowd outside was dispersing with the arrival of their leader, all just as quick to turn their back on me as he was. I watched as each shadow retreated and left the tent in dead, familiar quiet. My knees were beginning to ache from where I had landed on stones. I wondered why Dean needed so badly to talk to Cas, and whether or not Cas would tell him about the can of peaches. 

The heavy breathing behind me reminded that none of that really mattered anymore, at least not in comparison to the task at hand. The prisoner was quite still and calm. I watched him from a distance as I gathered what little medical supplies we kept in the house. His scarecrow-like face let my imagination run wild. I was sure the face behind the burlap was gruesome and terrible, something reflecting the illusive sin he had commit. When the faceless head turned to follow my movement across the room I froze in my tracks and felt my heart lurched foreword in its bony cage. My breath was just as heavy as his now and all the more terrified. It took me a moment to realize the less than sinister cause of his action. The fabric around his nose rustled gently and as I straightened up. Of course, he can see through the bag

I chastised myself for being so jumpy and tried to shake the tremors from my fingers. While staring back at the prisoner I noticed the dark stain that marred the side of his shirt, with fresh redness still blossoming around the edges. He was bleeding profusely, but the real oddity was the condition of everything else on his body. His clothing was in near perfect condition. It wasn’t dirt smudged or torn like everyone else’s around here. I chalked it up to a lucky steal from some poor bastard, maybe even belonging to the unnamed victim of his crime. 

The few supplies that weren’t shared by the camp, that actually belonged to Dean and I, were stored carefully inside a wooden box in the corner. The cover was engraved with sprawling script from all languages and spells. The only thing I could read was the message printed above the lock. “A cohores fratres viventem in aeternum.” From the little latin I had been taught by Dean, I knew that translated to something along the lines of “a band of brothers lives forever.” I traced my thumb over the inscription and tried to imagine Sam carving it. Dean didn’t talk about his younger brother much, not since Detroit anyway. I retrieved the sewing kit from inside the box and tore away some of our clean sheets to be used as gauze. On a hunch, I found a half empty bottle of whiskey tucked in one of Dean’s old boots. It looked strikingly similar to the ones he promised to take to the infirmary. I sighed and carried the supplies to the table. The once comforting quiet was making my skin crawl, so I resorted to engaging my captive audience in a rather morbid form of convocation, which was really just thinking aloud. 

“Your side, is it a bullet wound?” Silence followed, as expected. I pulled a chair to sit across his and pushed my sleeves to the elbow. 

“It looks quite large…” When I reached for the hem of his shirt I awaited a flinch or some kind of restrained reaction, but none came. The man breathed steadily, his chest expanding in large ragged breaths as I peeled away his shirt. The half-dried blood clung to his wound and for a second I saw the muscles of his stomach wince. Those same abs were a mess of scars, each a different age than the last. This man was no stranger to pain. Dean had similar silvery marks on his own body, but they were overshadowed by each fresh scrape and tear he received.

“Sorry, I know it hurts. It’s going to be a lot worse too.” The injury left open to my gaze was no mere bullet hole. A large, shapeless laceration left his side gaping. Blood trickled steadily outwards every time his ribs struggled to expand. 

“Holy shit…” The ribbons of flesh left to hang suggested some uneven blade was used. If I had to venture a guess, I’d say it was made by a shank of razor or glass. “Who did this to you?” After speaking I grit my teeth tightly in regret. It was hard to remember that this man was the predator, not the victim. I poured the amber alcohol over my hands and needle, aware that his veiled eyes watched me closely. The fingers I moved to hold the skin of his side taut could feel every muscle contracting in anticipation of searing pain. 

“Sorry for this.” Throughout stitching the stranger shut, I found myself flinching on his behalf. The handcuffs securing his hands to the back of the chair rattled slightly as he clenched his firsts and groaned through whatever gag stuffed his mouth. I could imagine him snarling at me for the hurt I was causing, but something about his body language said otherwise. He never lunged closer to me like a rabid and wounded man would. Instead, he bore the agony to the very end, when his head finally fell forward in exhaustion. There was still a shot or two of whiskey left in the bottle on the table. I considered drinking it, but it didn’t seem right anymore. I couldn’t enjoy that sort of thing when the world was going to hell around me. On the other hand, if I left it, Dean would know for certain that I had found his hidden drinks. I wasn’t terribly eager to explain my sneaking around his belongings. I was too tired for another fight. 

My patient’s breathing was slow and shallow now, edged with weak will. His chin rested heavily on his sternum. He would be well enough soon, but the pain was probably like nothing I had ever experienced. Suppressing the pity I felt was nearly impossible. “Innocent till proven guilty” flitted through my mind, as with memory of better days and better law. As sad as it was, this man likely wouldn’t have a chance at justice. If as many people as Dean said wanted him dead, he’d disappear in the night and show up on the wrong side of the compound fence in the morning. The least I could do was ease his suffering now, in what could be his last day. 

I unscrewed the cap on the whiskey and cleared my throat, but he didn’t respond. He was probably too busy wrestling with consciousness. I could hear Dean chastising me already, and maybe that was what pushed me to untie the cords around the burlap covered neck, although it could be blamed on pure curiosity. I pulled at the strings very gently, like one would undo a bow tie. The weathered knot slipped loose easily. I swallowed back nervousness and reassured myself that the man’s hands were still hopelessly chained. 

I hooked my fingers under the material that bunched around his collar and inched it upwards. My hands moved with the trepidation and care of a surgeon. Very slowly a chin came into view, a chin that tilted up at the realization of what was happening. My fingers grazed skin that was freshly shaven and soft. Dean never did shave anymore, not now that razors were so precious. And his hunting knife did a poor job of removing his ever growing scruff. I wondered how this man came across so many of the things we struggled to secure. 

My fingers lifted higher, revealing two chapped lips parted by a rag tied tightly around his mouth. It was strange, examining someone’s features in pieces. It was like a Van Gogh painting being created in fractured segments. He must have thought me crazy, to be staring at his lower face so intently. I paused, concerned for what might come out of that surprisingly attractive mouth. Without seeing his eyes I couldn’t truly tell what kind of man he was. 

“I’m going to take your gag out. Please don’t make me regret it, I’d really hate to see what Dean does to you…” My threat wasn’t at all empty. I leaned closer to the man than I had been yet, and over his shoulder to remove the rag from his teeth. He smelled so clean, like soap and mint. I found myself inhaling deeply when near his shirt. He didn’t just wear new things, he smelled like a new thing. I’d have to ask how he had been so lucky over these past few months. Probably at the expense of others. I leaned back before taking the gag with me like ripping a band aid. The independent mouth gasped open and immediately sucked in dehydrated lips to wet them. 

“Here, have some of this. It will help with the pain.” The stranger greedily  drank of the bottle that I tipped, droplets escaping down his jaw in the frenzy. “Sorry there’s not more.” There would be if my husband wasn’t a functioning alcoholic. The man licked his lips again and again, till they were raw with chafe. Even in their red, swollen state, they reminded me of someone. I couldn’t take my eyes of his mouth, the only real clue I had to his person. 

 "Thank you.“ It was startling to hear him speak. I furrowed my eyebrows at the striking familiarity, but I couldn’t pinpoint who he resembled. 

 "It’s fine. Just please don’t tell Dean.” In a bout of of maternal instinct, I wiped my thumb along his chiseled jaw to catch the liquid slipping down. The action felt hauntingly reminiscent… I shouldn’t have been so close to him, holding the chin of a man who the entire camp seemed to believe was a murderer. But a stomach churning sense of deja vu kept me from removing my touch. When his lips moved I was barely able to focus on listening.

“That’ll be difficult.” That voice, that deep, gritty, lazy voice…  I didn’t have time to question the statement before I was analyzing that all too familiar noise again. 

It’ll be difficult, because you’re telling him right now.”

anonymous asked:

Erwin talking longingly about children and you can just....HEAR Levi breaking inside? Thanks Senpai!

senpai do u mean senpain

“When I was eight,” Erwin’s tie was loose and the emerald hung unwillingly - perhaps this lack of restriction caused this uncharacteristic indiscretion. He leaned back in his chair, resting his muscles as Levi sat opposite him, legs on the small coffee table. “When I was eight, I used to make a fortune in King Cards. They were the only sort of ‘collectible’ permitted in town, you know, as everything else was blasphemous - these tin badges with King Frietz’ face on them. And I charged exorbitantly for them to the neighbourhood kids, made a considerable amount of wealth for an eight year old. Until of course - my father found out…. the walloping he gave me that night….”

Erwin laughed extensively, the tops of his cheeks turning pink - Levi wonders if he should sell his soul to the Devil just to see this laugh. He wants to take this pained laugh and kiss it, and kiss it - and he wonders how differently the world might flow if he did that right now. 

“Fuck,” Levi tried to excuse the smile on his face. “You’re the only bastard I know who laughs like this at the memory of getting spanked.” 

“It was possibly the last time I got disciplined.” Erwin’s smile ticked away like the last prodigal ticks of a broken clock. Levi wants to laugh at this conversation - talking so longingly about getting walloped - what had they become, oh, what had they seen? “After that my father was taken in to be tortured. I grew up. No more King Cards, and my mother was too grieved to spank me for anything.” 

“I grew up at six.” Levi frowned slightly, the line between his eyebrows furrowing. “Kenny. And I got taught how to hold a knife, and how to kill so that the fucking guts fall out. Not clean, but impressive. After he left of course, I taught myself a less messy way.”

“We were far too young.” Erwin murmurs. “To be adults.”

Their voices close in on themselves. 

“Levi?” Erwin’s head is bowed, and Levi dared not ask him to raise it. “Levi, what if -”

“What if we had children?” Levi finished, because Erwin was not allowed to ask that question. He was not allowed to ask any such question, and only look forward, look ahead, look to humanity - not look down at smiling brats with sticky fingers. “What if, huh, Erwin? Is this part of your all-encompassing, grandiose-ass plan for this shitty world? To have kids?”

“No.” The Commander’s voice is muted, so unlike the loud speeches with burning heart that he gives. “Children, Levi, belong in another world. But there are days…. very seldom…so seldom… that I think I could have been a good father. To hand out sweets when I come home, and to lie on the dirt floor and let them crawl all over me. To take them out in the weekend, their fat legs on my shoulders. Making sure my girls were not teased by the leery neighborhood older children, spanking my boys if they steal, or lie. Teaching them how to write. And then I comfort myself, saying -”

“Saying that children are not for this world.” Levi finishes the sentence for him. He finishes so many things for Erwin, sentences, contracts, missions, that he just wants to grab the large, calloused hands and give him children. Finish the final dream. “And they fucking aren’t, don’t let yourself think of that shit.”

“Yes. They are for another world.” Erwin stares down at his boots. “One that does not involve choices - with regret or with no regret. Without decision. Without the murder of soldiers from the same hands that will pick up the child. Nile’s world. Yes, Levi - they do not belong here.”

“This is the part,” Levi rises and turns. Swallows. “That I dispense good advice. But I don’t fucking know what to say. This world is a mess. And you deserve so much more than those shitty scraps you’re getting thrown.”

The silence hangs heavy - so Levi finishes it for Erwin, as usual. 

“I fucking hate sticky children, and their shitty whining and complaining. So why the fuck, Erwin - do I wish so hard now, that I could bring them to you?”

I got $7 and change
and pen and paper in my pocket
dog tags around my neck 
ragged Converse stuck to my feet
and bit-up fingertips
I don’t look like much
just another face that blends
into the crowd
I am city streets that you have walked on
decrepit buildings you have passed
I am the nature you neglect to see
because you’re too busy searching for beauty
I am one in like… three
average and kind of boring, really

at least on the surface.

I am telling you to give me a chance
to tell you my story
paint you a hundred hues of blue
until you feel so sad you don’t realize
I’m delivering a punchline
let me show you I exist in 
approximately twenty dimensions
one for every single adventure that
can fit into my fingers and my toes 
I am an artist
I turn words into butterflies
and dragons
spit fire like I belong in a circus act
turn air into prose and dirt into poetry
I am a magician
I craft feelings out of every day situations
you tell me about your heartbreak and
I give you another reason to cry
you tell me about love and 
I make you wish you had nothing
I like to turn you upside down
flip your world inside out I want to
melt your heart so I can grow accustomed 
to a warmth that isn’t mine.

I am not someone you would notice
I’ve only ever received zero second glances
and I don’t talk much,
never needed a reason for others to look,
but when they do
I am ready to give them a museum
from the paper and pen I keep in my pockets.
—  My favorite thing about artists

There are days when I don’t belong to anyone.
Only to the sound my old ceiling fan makes
as it fills the bedroom with finger-sized twisters.
Under my bed are empty water bottles
I refused to throw away,
caps with stains from my mouth,
carrying a message of an apology to the world
for the dirt I’m leaving behind even after I fade.
I want my future kids to see what I see now.

The rice fields are giving birth to millions
of golden seeds as though it borrowed
the color of sunlight, and sunlight
giving parts of itself endlessly, still.
The curtains on my windows are dressing
themselves with pollen and spores from
my grandmother’s garden of petals.
And I’m lying on my bed, counting
how many times I blink in a day,
completely missing point one five seconds
of a certain piece of the world that goes unnoticed.
And of a certain piece of myself
that I keep forgetting.

—  Ceiling Fan Memories by Kharla M. Brillo