Chaos and Calamity (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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rainbowfic2017-02-08 10:56 pm
rootsofthestories) wrote in rainbowfic2017-02-08 10:56 pm
Fog Grey, Valentines Day Pink
Name: Sebastian
Story: This City's Got Grace
Colors: Flint: Valentine's Day Pink: 1. Red
Fog Grey: 3. flash of lightning
Supplies and Styles: N/A
Word Count: ~1,250
Warnings: anxiety, electrocution, flashbacks.
Summary: Cillian is still adjusting to being in a safe place.
Notes I need to do some more work with the group that had raised Cillian. He was bread in captivity, meant to be an all purpose weapon and did not actually work as that. Instead, he learns how to break all kinds of magical and non-magical locks, wards, shields and all that stuff. He's very good at it actually, it's just that Carlene does not put him to work that way. Instead she cuddles him and makes him feel better when things like storms and flashbacks happen.
He’s not been here long enough to know the rules. He’s trying, he’s trying so hard, but things are different here. Things don’t make the kind of sense he’s used to.
She calls him Cillian, calls him a name he’s never heard before. She says he deserves one, says that everyone deserves at least that. It confuses him, makes him tilt his head but she feeds him and lets him stay in her apartment, so he doesn’t argue.
030701 may not be a name but he knows it, knows to respond, to come when ordered and wait for instructions. He knows when his number is called, he’s got to be the best he can be. Anything less and bad things happen.
He can smell the electricity in the air, feel the hum of it around him. A part of him wants to whimper, to crawl under the bed or the table and not come out until the storm passes. It doesn’t have the same feeling as his memories, not exactly but it’s close enough.
His body is reacting to his fear, shifting back and forth between human-like and fae, leaving him in an awkward half-state. Everything is fading to the background, his self control included.
Memories rise up in his brain, the familiar ghost of electricity coursing through him, the blood in his mouth as he seizes. Whimpers try to spill from his mouth but he knows better than that, knows that will only make things worse.
Be a good dog, be a good dog, be a good dog….
He wants to be good, he does. He’s trying so hard but his hands are shaking, fingers trying to shift back and forth to paws. He’s fumbling with the locks in his hands, even though they’re the simple ones, the ones he could unlock without even trying.
But people are mad at him, he can smell it, and the shocks keep coming and everything is going red in his vision. His eyes squeeze shut and he lets a soft noise come up from his throat, a mixture of a whimper and growl, more aimed at himself than anyone else.
But that’s not good, that’s not good at all. Bad dogs talk back and he’s reminded of that with more shocks, more blood in his mouth, more ringing in his head.
“Cillian?”
He opens his eyes, not at the name but the tone of voice. She wants his attention, wants him to look at her. He knows better than to disobey.
Somehow he ended up on the ground, his body pressed against the floor, claws digging into the carpet.
“Hi there,” she greets, her voice gentle, soothing even. “Are you with me, love?”
He whimpers again, the noise too loud in his ears. Pushing himself upright, he crawls to her, pressing his side up against her leg. The smell of her is soothing, stronger than the storm outside and ten times more reassuring.
She crouches down, touching his face which is still shifting somewhat between his two forms. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
He doesn’t say anything, just ducks his head and lets himself sink tot he floor again, exposing his stomach.
He hears her sigh, then opens his eyes to see her settle on the floor next to him. “Come here, darling.” She gestures with one hand for him to get closer.
Swallowing hard, he feels himself waiting for something to happen, for her to punish him, for the world to be the way it has always been.
Instead, when eh rests his head on her thigh, she runs her hands through his hair, making soft, soothing noises. The thunder grows louder outside and he tenses, the noise echoing in his head.
“Not a fan of the storms, then?”
He looks up to her but doesn’t say anything. Admitting his weakness is not allowed, it is only to be acknowledged in private and when he is overcoming it. He’s not allowed to have faults like that, he’s supposed to be better, smarter, faster than anything that could pull him down.
“It’s all right, you know.” She moves her hand from the top of his head down his neck and spine. “I didn’t much care for them when I was a little girl. I was never scared but it rained quite a lot and I wasn’t allowed outside when it was. The whole thing was really quite annoying.”
She keeps talking, telling him stories of what she was like as a little girl, then what she got up to as a teenager. She told him about when she was his age and the mischief she got up to.
Her world was so much different than his, it’s hard for him to understand what half the things she did even were, nonetheless what they felt like or how they shaped her.
He was kept in cages, in collars, but she never was. She grew up in a way he didn’t even understand and didn’t know what to do with. It was strange and scary and makes him press his face against her even more.
She makes a shushing noise but it’s meant to sooth, not quiet. Still, he bites his tongue as she makes it, knowing it’s better safe than sorry.
The storm is on top of them now, the thunder going full force and the smell of electricity and rain and dirt and all of it deep in his nose. It’s making his mind wander all over again, even with her touch there to anchor him to the present.
It’s too hard, it’s all too hard. He just wants to be a good dog, to be anyone’s good dog and he can’t, he can’t, he can’t do that if he’s drifting, if he’s lost in his own head. If he…
If he can’t remember who he belongs to now.
“I can’t do it, I can’t do it, I can—”
Her hands are on his face. She’s touching him with care, with kindness, with promise.
“Cillian. Come on now, look at me?”
He’s shaking when he does it but he picks his head up, makes himself meet her eyes.
“There we are, that’s a good boy.” She hums her approval at him, running a hand over his forehead and through his hair. “You’re all right, I promise you. I’ve got you now, you’re such a good boy, you know.”
She keeps going like that, assuring him he’s going to be all right, assuring him that he’s good.
There’s a lump in his throat and something pricking at his eyes but he sits up enough to brush it away.
The storm is still there but she sits with him the entire time. Her hands move up and down his back, play with his hair and silently promise him that he belongs here, that he’s hers, that it’s going to be all right.
It’s hard, keeping that in his head, but things get easier when she’s right next to him. Things get fuzzier when she walks away to get tea, waves of memory rising up to drown him, but she comes back again and they sit on the floor and she reads and drinks tea and lets him eat cookies from her hand.
And every so often, when the thunder roars or he starts sinking to the ground, a whimper on his lips, she presses a kiss to the corner of his temple.
“You’re with me now,” she tells him. “You’re mine. It’s all right now, you’re mine.”
Story: This City's Got Grace
Colors: Flint: Valentine's Day Pink: 1. Red
Fog Grey: 3. flash of lightning
Supplies and Styles: N/A
Word Count: ~1,250
Warnings: anxiety, electrocution, flashbacks.
Summary: Cillian is still adjusting to being in a safe place.
Notes I need to do some more work with the group that had raised Cillian. He was bread in captivity, meant to be an all purpose weapon and did not actually work as that. Instead, he learns how to break all kinds of magical and non-magical locks, wards, shields and all that stuff. He's very good at it actually, it's just that Carlene does not put him to work that way. Instead she cuddles him and makes him feel better when things like storms and flashbacks happen.
He’s not been here long enough to know the rules. He’s trying, he’s trying so hard, but things are different here. Things don’t make the kind of sense he’s used to.
She calls him Cillian, calls him a name he’s never heard before. She says he deserves one, says that everyone deserves at least that. It confuses him, makes him tilt his head but she feeds him and lets him stay in her apartment, so he doesn’t argue.
030701 may not be a name but he knows it, knows to respond, to come when ordered and wait for instructions. He knows when his number is called, he’s got to be the best he can be. Anything less and bad things happen.
He can smell the electricity in the air, feel the hum of it around him. A part of him wants to whimper, to crawl under the bed or the table and not come out until the storm passes. It doesn’t have the same feeling as his memories, not exactly but it’s close enough.
His body is reacting to his fear, shifting back and forth between human-like and fae, leaving him in an awkward half-state. Everything is fading to the background, his self control included.
Memories rise up in his brain, the familiar ghost of electricity coursing through him, the blood in his mouth as he seizes. Whimpers try to spill from his mouth but he knows better than that, knows that will only make things worse.
Be a good dog, be a good dog, be a good dog….
He wants to be good, he does. He’s trying so hard but his hands are shaking, fingers trying to shift back and forth to paws. He’s fumbling with the locks in his hands, even though they’re the simple ones, the ones he could unlock without even trying.
But people are mad at him, he can smell it, and the shocks keep coming and everything is going red in his vision. His eyes squeeze shut and he lets a soft noise come up from his throat, a mixture of a whimper and growl, more aimed at himself than anyone else.
But that’s not good, that’s not good at all. Bad dogs talk back and he’s reminded of that with more shocks, more blood in his mouth, more ringing in his head.
“Cillian?”
He opens his eyes, not at the name but the tone of voice. She wants his attention, wants him to look at her. He knows better than to disobey.
Somehow he ended up on the ground, his body pressed against the floor, claws digging into the carpet.
“Hi there,” she greets, her voice gentle, soothing even. “Are you with me, love?”
He whimpers again, the noise too loud in his ears. Pushing himself upright, he crawls to her, pressing his side up against her leg. The smell of her is soothing, stronger than the storm outside and ten times more reassuring.
She crouches down, touching his face which is still shifting somewhat between his two forms. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
He doesn’t say anything, just ducks his head and lets himself sink tot he floor again, exposing his stomach.
He hears her sigh, then opens his eyes to see her settle on the floor next to him. “Come here, darling.” She gestures with one hand for him to get closer.
Swallowing hard, he feels himself waiting for something to happen, for her to punish him, for the world to be the way it has always been.
Instead, when eh rests his head on her thigh, she runs her hands through his hair, making soft, soothing noises. The thunder grows louder outside and he tenses, the noise echoing in his head.
“Not a fan of the storms, then?”
He looks up to her but doesn’t say anything. Admitting his weakness is not allowed, it is only to be acknowledged in private and when he is overcoming it. He’s not allowed to have faults like that, he’s supposed to be better, smarter, faster than anything that could pull him down.
“It’s all right, you know.” She moves her hand from the top of his head down his neck and spine. “I didn’t much care for them when I was a little girl. I was never scared but it rained quite a lot and I wasn’t allowed outside when it was. The whole thing was really quite annoying.”
She keeps talking, telling him stories of what she was like as a little girl, then what she got up to as a teenager. She told him about when she was his age and the mischief she got up to.
Her world was so much different than his, it’s hard for him to understand what half the things she did even were, nonetheless what they felt like or how they shaped her.
He was kept in cages, in collars, but she never was. She grew up in a way he didn’t even understand and didn’t know what to do with. It was strange and scary and makes him press his face against her even more.
She makes a shushing noise but it’s meant to sooth, not quiet. Still, he bites his tongue as she makes it, knowing it’s better safe than sorry.
The storm is on top of them now, the thunder going full force and the smell of electricity and rain and dirt and all of it deep in his nose. It’s making his mind wander all over again, even with her touch there to anchor him to the present.
It’s too hard, it’s all too hard. He just wants to be a good dog, to be anyone’s good dog and he can’t, he can’t, he can’t do that if he’s drifting, if he’s lost in his own head. If he…
If he can’t remember who he belongs to now.
“I can’t do it, I can’t do it, I can—”
Her hands are on his face. She’s touching him with care, with kindness, with promise.
“Cillian. Come on now, look at me?”
He’s shaking when he does it but he picks his head up, makes himself meet her eyes.
“There we are, that’s a good boy.” She hums her approval at him, running a hand over his forehead and through his hair. “You’re all right, I promise you. I’ve got you now, you’re such a good boy, you know.”
She keeps going like that, assuring him he’s going to be all right, assuring him that he’s good.
There’s a lump in his throat and something pricking at his eyes but he sits up enough to brush it away.
The storm is still there but she sits with him the entire time. Her hands move up and down his back, play with his hair and silently promise him that he belongs here, that he’s hers, that it’s going to be all right.
It’s hard, keeping that in his head, but things get easier when she’s right next to him. Things get fuzzier when she walks away to get tea, waves of memory rising up to drown him, but she comes back again and they sit on the floor and she reads and drinks tea and lets him eat cookies from her hand.
And every so often, when the thunder roars or he starts sinking to the ground, a whimper on his lips, she presses a kiss to the corner of his temple.
“You’re with me now,” she tells him. “You’re mine. It’s all right now, you’re mine.”
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This is awesome. Thank you for writing it!
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I am so glad you like him.
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