#HIS DEAD STARE AND LIFELESS EYES ARE SO <333< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[foolbehavior]

Orb sketches

[onyourhyuck]

Dangerous Alliance. | l.hc (M) PT FIVE.

synopsis; bae sarang looks nothing special on the outside, has black thick glasses and wears her thick black hair in a raw clip. ‘typical nerd’ people would describe her. but when she goes back home bae sarang is a genius hacker with high level of IQ. one day, she ends up hacking into a mafia security breach. Boy, did she regret it because her life was about to change for the worse.

warnings; mafia au, hacker au, smut!! No minors, mature language, mention of bad health, angst is here, enemies to lovers, denial, slow slow slowww burn, bae sarang is a sarcastic bbg and we love that <333, sarang really doesn’t take shit from men LMAO, haechan is an ass, fighting scenes, action is a major genre here because mafia ayo. slight comedy to break the tension.

✧;── table of contents ──; ✧

╭      ⁞ ���. masterlist to other chapters.

┊      ⁞ ❏. next chapter: part 6 link.

┊      ⁞ ❏. previous chapter: Part 4 link.

── ⳮⷤ ── ⲇ ── ⳮⷤ ──

The night seemed endless and never ending. In the bad kind of way, not the good romantic kind of way.

Sarang turns around on the bed, however unable to do that because she’s handcuffed to a specific wrist who’s body was resting his back against the bed frame. She hears a protesting growl, a strong force pulling the stubborn handcuffs.

“Yah I need to turn so i can sleep!” sarang said, seriously for a mafia he can’t pick lock the handcuffs or something?

She earned herself a deep glare in the darkness, even if it’s so dark her eyes couldn’t adjust to the hue; she can feel his dead staring daggers ready to pierce her.

“You’re not the only one uncomfortable here, so stay in that position.” Haechan cajoles forward as he tugs his own wrist back, Sarang flying over the edge of the bed, a soft groaning heard. “Ah fuck, can you at least be gentle i’m not a rag doll.”

the man dismissed her words, closing eyes as he pretends to go to sleep. Maybe that way he can forget that he’s handcuffed to a literal thief that stole from him. sarang sighs, seriously what was she expecting? Him to actually listen? Tchhh, not in a million years would he.

An upcoming silence took over the shabby, half beaten down— poverty hotel room. Still. Nothing peaking a sound. All that became known were a large engulfing darkness, with a man slumped over the edge of the bed on the dirty floor half naked with boxers on only. A metallic object starting to shine under the warm moonlight reflecting light blinding the annoyed eyes belonging to the mafia man. A slouched over girl resting on the side in discomfort on the bed this time, with a white robe wrapped around the nude body.

Everything felt suffocating to sarang, even though the room was empty, lifeless and still. But something was suffocating her, as if it had a dangerous grip around her neck ready to squeeze and squeeze and squeeze…until no air was able to come through to the body.

She blames it on Haechan’s presence itself.

The man was making sure Sarang was walking on eggshells, walking on bullets or knives no matter where she steps she will get confronted and yelled at for. She feels like her life was walking on thin ice and then thinner ice in the next second.

Sarang’s thoughts went wild when her body indicated a slight intolerance to water. ‘Fuck, I need to pee.’

How will she go to the toilet though? Sarang looks down at the handcuffs, mentally cursing it. Sarang let’s out a gentle ‘fuck’ into the air realising she can’t hold it anymore.

“I need to go to the toilet.” Sarang admits loudly awaiting a word from the man, at this point she’s ready to admit that god hates her and even god can’t help her out. How does she end up in these most…embarrassing situations?

Maybe she did something wrong in her last life, surely that must be it.

…

…

…

…

“Yah, Mr mafia.” Sarang spoke this time with stern warning, sitting up on the bed as she tugs the handcuffs to gather Haechan’s attention. “I need to pee!” Sarang complaints with a groan. She’s bursting, any second now she will willingly jump out the window or something.

Haechan groans in disbelief, he thought maybe if he blocks out Sarang’s existence he could live peacefully.

He was wrong.

“What does that have anything to do with me?” The tan man response with jibs, his laze tone laid on top of Sarang’s pleading tone now. “What do you mean? Stand up and walk with me to the toilet.”

Sarang spat as she stands up from the bed, her legs trailing to the small bathroom door on the side diagonally. Haechan not moving so Sarang was brought back roughly where she stood previously.

“No hold it in!”

“Are you crazy?!” Sarang shouts with her hand covering her lips, he did not JUST tell her to hold something she can’t control.

Haechan’s head leans back in stress, he’s never been so stressed and frustrated with someone or something this much in his life of 22 years living. And he’s a literal mafia who’s dealt with terrible and horrible people… Sarang was the worst one of them all.

“Okay I’ll pee right here then, that’s it. I cant hold it anymore.” Sarang said as he sees the woman fiddle with the hem of the robe, about to undress the body so she can do her Mother Nature business. Haechan stands up quickly, dragging Sarang to the bathroom without a spare of words.

“Do your business god dammit.” He tells, going inside the bathroom as he looks away, Sarang wasn’t expecting him to cooperate.

She looks around nervously , god why was this so humiliating? Looking down at the toilet and then back to the man who tried standing as far away as possible, not looking back at the girl.

“Why aren’t you doing anything yet?” He calls out. Sarang stuttering over the words as she sits on the toilet, looking down to the tile bathroom flooring.

Sarang gulping roughly. “Can you…not listen?”

Haechan caught on quickly, letting out a scoff. “Yah, just pee already-“

“I told you to not listen!” Sarang shouts with humiliation this time, watching Haechan flinch with slight sudden fear, he sighs out loud holding his ears shut. Well at least one ear.

The girl felt the entire body heat up all from this embarrassing, humiliating and ridiculous situation that has unfolded. The ears were bright red, her cheeks were rosey travelling up to the nose, her lips were bitten every-time Sarang felt the need to replay this damn forsaken memory.

This will haunt her forever.

Sarang would finish the business quickly as she flushed, turning to the sink where she pulls Haechan’s body accidentally, as she washed the hands deeply. The man gave a shy expression to Sarang when she turns around making eye contact to him.

She bit the bottom lip looking down. “I swear If you mention this to anyone.” Sarang mumbles coming out of the bathroom, Haechan following behind leisurely.

He slightly smirks. “Or what, will you cry?” He replied. Sarang gave him a huff where she crawls on the bed. She can’t even scream or hit the pillow without seeming effected or showing that she is bothered.

“I might actually.” Sarang admits openly with honesty. He sits on the edge of the bed, rolling eyes at the response. Seriously, the girl in his eyes is so sensitive. She should build a wall to protect herself.

The man licks the bottom lip thinking if he should say this, it might come off as comforting to her though. But his intention was to tell Sarang not to worry about this, she has other things to worry about. “Well don’t cry. I won’t speak of this situation ever. It’s embarrassing for me too Y’know. It won’t benefit me anything if i gossiped this around.” He falters as he spoke, he felt Sarang’s surprise from afar.

“Are you, perhaps comforting me?” Sarang hesitatingly and quietly said. Haechan turns to the roughed up girl with messy-ish hair, squinting eyes because she needs her glasses, a white large robe that doesn’t hug her slim fragile body well enough. His voice exclaims. “No! I’m just saying you shouldn’t worry about me spreading this around when it’s twice as embarrassing for me as it is for you.”

Sarang leans back humming. “I think you’re comforting me.”

Haechan gave her a sting eye, not only is she annoying and a smart ass, she’s now delusional! Great!

“You’re wrong.” He tells Sarang, the girl shaking her head. She’s more than confident he’s actually comforting her, surprisingly.

“You know..you saved me at the pool. Why?” Sarang murmurs, this has been on her mind a lot. Why did he save her? For what reason?

Haechan went quiet when the question came into view, the shirtless man swaying under the moonlight as his honey brown skin glows, Sarang admiring the beautiful pigment he has. The girl looks up, the mullet boy humming the response with a laid back casual tone.

“You’re a thief who stole from me, I should keep you alive and punish you right?” He remarks and Sarang’s lips part, eyeing the enteral man. “I didn’t steal—“

He looks back at her giving her a serious glare, Sarang stopping her sentence as she muffled the last words silently. “On purpose anyways..I didn’t steal on purpose.”

“That’s what they all say, girly.” Haechan motions forward where he yawns in his free unhand-cuffed wrist. Sarang watches the tired mad, yawning exactly right after him.

He lazily adds. “I’m going to bed, don’t try to pull anything, I will kill you.” He says as he shuffles right into the bedsheets like a tired baby who’s never sleep for a while. Sarang scoffs eyeing him.

“No need to threaten me im not planning to run away anytime soon.” She mutters out loud. “‘Not like I can do that anyways.” Her eyes fall to the metallic handcuffs restraints, her body slowly fell into a tired state.

Maybe I should sleep too, Sarang thought to herself before falling next to the deep sleeping man, her eyes staring at the boring white shabby broken cracks wall, those eyelids slowly fell down.

Pulling Sarang into a heavenly bliss of dreamland.

✁- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“please refer from translating, copyrighting and plagiarising my work, thank you!”

╰─▸ ❝ @onyourhyuck has. . . . logged off.

˚ ༘♡ ·˚꒰ᥕᥱᥣᥴ᥆꧑ᥱ t᥆ Dangerous Alliance.꒱ ₊˚ˑ༄

[magicalmischel]

mischel!!! <3<3<3

thanks for joining the siken cult game <3

how about prompt 9? you've discovered something you don't even have a name for.

Thanks! <33 But be prepared for pain, fyre 👀 <333

It was more, wasn't it?

Not destiny. Not exactly friendship, or love. It was just more. So much more than that. Like his entire being -- body and soul -- was connected to Arthur.

And it was gone.

Merlin sat on the shore of the lake, Arthur's lifeless body in his arms, his fingers slowly carding through his blonde hair. He was staring at nothing -- eyes unfocused -- as the gentle ripples moved across the water, as every breath he drew was accompanied by dead silence.

Tears stained his face.

Because he'd discovered something he didn't even have a name for -- and it was lying dead in his arms.

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

what died didn’t stay dead

(originally posted by vormirjumper)

dedicated to @starsvck and @artipotter hope u enjoy this <333

summary: the last thing you remember was fainting in wakanda thinking you saw your own fingertips turn to dust only to wake up in a world where natasha romanoff no longer existed. inspired by marjorie by taylor swift

content warning: natasha romanoff x fem!reader, set after endgame, angst, mentions of death, trauma, their relationship ending on a bad note, trust issues & previous steve x nat, (WANDAVISION SPOILERS AT THE END)

‘моя любовь’ = ‘my love’ in russian <3

REQUESTS ARE OPEN! (please lmk if anyone written something similar to this! & if you want more nat content lmk!)

masterlist

PART TWO

You forced your eyes open.

Pulling yourself up from the ground you glanced at your arms in confusion. You swore you saw your own hands turn to dust before fainting. You glanced around to take in your surroundings eyes widening in shock as you saw the hundreds of Wakandan's you fought beside minutes ago appearing out of dust. You stared speechless as you watched people materialise out of thin air, the dust forming into fingers, then a whole hand and eventually becoming a person who's mirroring your exact reaction.

You felt guilty about the first thought that came across your mind.

'Is Nat okay?' You panicked while rushing to look around, ignoring how you spent the last few years loathing her to hide your heartbreak.

You were an avenger since the beginning. The two of you were on the same team during the airport fight which wasn't surprising due to your history together. Despite the slight age difference between the two of you, your personalities worked well together which is why you got along well, so well in fact that those platonic feelings you thought you had for her developed into something more and somehow you found yourself in her bed many times in her arms with your bodies pressed against one another's, struggling to catch your breath, bliss written all over your face. Your legs were intertwined with hers as you embraced the warmth radiating off her. You refused to acknowledge the unspoken tension in the atmosphere due to the fear of speaking out about your feelings and end up ruining what you had. You couldn't help but let the insecurities build up as you gently caressed her cheek, her eyes met yours back in adoration, full of what could've been love.

But you knew she once looked at him in the same way.

"I love holding you in my arms моя любовь." She muttered, as she stroked your hair gently, you hummed in response, not trusting your own voice. What you both had felt right, you didn't want to ruin it, you didn't want to label what you had together due to the job you both have. Being an avenger doesn't exactly mean stability, anything could happen.

You remember the panic you felt when Ultron took her, the chance of losing her filled you with dread, but you also had faith. You knew how strong Natasha was. Your faith gave you strength and it kept you alive, Nat admired that about you.

The two of you fit together well, whether it was on the field or outside of the field. You could predict each other's moves and although telepathy isn't either of your powers, you know what the other was thinking. You made her better. You helped her wipe out the red in her ledger and when everyone's files was exposed to the globe you were right there by her side comforting her as she feared the reaction from everyone. You were there for her when nobody was and you stood by her side no matter what. Those feelings were reciprocated, you knew Natasha would've done anything for you.

She would even sacrifice herself for the possibility of you coming back.

Then the Accords happened and Nat betrayed the Accords, ending up on the run with Steve, Sam, Wanda and Vision. You were left alone at the compound with an injured Rhodey.

"How could you do this?" You spat out, voice full of hatred as you watched Natasha let Steve and Bucky get away. Your pistol shook in the palm of your hands, pointed directly at Natasha who lowered her own onto the ground, allowing herself to be defenceless.

"It's not that easy моя любовь, you out of all people should understand that." She explained, and you scoffed in response. The pet-name which once caused a flutter in your stomach now fuelling the fire that's building up. All the insecurities you felt during your relationship suddenly turned to hatred. You should've expected this, you should've expected that after all this time she would've chosen Steve over you.

"I guess you'll never change." You responded flatly, admitting defeat. You silently walked passed her and climbed out of the rubble that was created, allowing a wall to be in between the two of you not knowing you tore a piece of her heart as you did so.

That was two years ago.

You thought you'd never have to see her for a long time. You hoped you wouldn't have to see her. Clearly things never go the way you wanted it to go as you found yourself staring back at the person who once owned your heart.

"Well, you guys look like crap." Rhodey teased, wrapping the fellow avengers in his arms as you stood to the side, awkwardly watching the scene in front of you while fidgeting with your fingers. The atmosphere in the compound was comforting, it's been a long time since you've heard so much laughter in one room despite the war that's brewing.

Natasha, who was now blonde but as gorgeous as ever, hesitantly approached you. The two of you stared at each other, waiting for the other to make the next move.

"Romanoff." You nodded, greeting her before moving away to greet the other Avengers, missing the way she muttered the now bittersweet name she specifically picked you.

"моя любовь..."

Did she really love you? Or was it just for revenge? You believed that love blinded you, you managed to convince yourself that your love wasn't enough for her and that's why she left you. Your relationship with her died. It was over. You thought you buried it all, all your feelings. But you were wrong, when your eyes met her green eyes all those feelings came back to life, flowing through your veins.

After all this time you still loved her.

But your feelings for her weren't the only thing you couldn't bury.

Within an hour of reuniting with the Avengers, the team found themselves on the quinjet travelling to Wakanda. You wouldn't have said this out loud but you had faith that everything would be okay, Nat was finally by your side after all these years.

You felt as though nothing could go wrong.

That was a couple hours ago you estimated, you glance at Wanda who appeared a couple feet away from you the tears were evident on her face.

"Where is he?" Wanda cries out, clenching her fists, you saw the scarlet red energy glowing around her. You knew she must've been talking about Vsision who should've been on the ground next to her. "Wha- why does everything look different?" You realised, noticing the damages caused by the battle has disappeared. The grass was greener as ever. The corpses of the creatures you fought were no longer on the ground.

It looked as though the battle never took place.

You ran over to Wanda, helping her up from the ground when you hear someone call your name out. "That sounds like Sam." Wanda points out as the two of you held each other up.

"Wanda!" Sam called out.

"Come on, we gotta go! They need us! The fights not over yet!" He shouts from a distance, the two of you made your way to the direction you heard his voice come from, you saw all the superheroes surrounding him and a man in a red cloak. "What about Nat? Or Rhodey?" You questioned, looking for them in the crowd. You missed the sympathetic glance the man shot you before waving his hands up in the air, creating a yellow ring in the air that transformed into a portal.

"We're going to fight beside them right now." Sam confirms before flying through the portal.

The compound was completely destroyed. Your home was crumbling apart. Thor looked completely different, Tony had grey hair and Natasha was nowhere to be seen.

You wanted to finally tell her, tell her that you loved her with all of your heart.

You fought beside hundreds of Avengers that day, but you couldn't help searching for one specific Avenger. You ran over to Clint who was on the ground struggling to fight off a bunch of creatures, saving him within moments.

"Thanks kid." He pant, out of breath from all of the fighting. You smiled at him in response, reaching your hand out for him to take which he gratefully took, lifting himself up. "Have you bumped into Nat on the battlefield yet?" You asked, hopeful. There were hundreds of people fighting so you didn't expect to find her easily. The smile on Clint's face fell.

In that moment he relieved everything that happened moments ago. Flying to Vormir with Natasha, climbing the cliff with her, reminiscing about Budapest. And the way he witnessed her body hit the ground, the crack echoing so loudly he managed to hear it more than just once. He glanced down the cliff and saw her lifeless body faced towards his.

His closest friend. The person he trusted with his entire life. The person he named his son after. The Godmother of his kids.

Gone.

Just like that.

"I need to do this for her Clint, she's моя любовь." Nat whispered to him before smiling back at the oldest friend she had, pushing away from the cliff and inevitably falling to her death.

You found out what happened to Natasha, hours after.

The Avengers won, but at the cost of the lives of the people you cared the most about, the person you'd do anything for and the person who owned your heart the minute you met them. Clint broke the news to you, he felt as though you deserved to hear it from him.

"She loved you till the very end." He finished after explaining what happened on Vormir. You felt as though you couldn't breathe, like your soul was crushed and pulled away from you.

Natasha Romanoff was dead and there was nothing you could do about it.

She never got to hear that you felt the same towards her.

"I didn't think the ending to be so soon." You struggled to hold back a sob, holding the letter Clint gave you tightly in your arms. Scott somehow found a letter on the ground while trying to save Clint, it was slightly damp and covered in mud. But it was written for you in Natasha's handwriting.

You couldn't bring yourself to read the letter even nine days after the blip. You had to live in a world without her, a world where people drag her name through the mud even though she is the reason they're still standing. You adjust to a world without Natasha Romanoff and reading a letter she wrote for you months ago wouldn't help.

You regretted everything. You regret spending those last few years in anger, you should've stayed with her, you could've told her how much she meant to you. You could've told her you loved her, you could've held her in your arms once more. You would do anything to have her in your arms once again.

Sometimes it felt as though she was still there, laughing at something she saw on the TV. You always felt her presence around you after she passed away, it felt as though she never died. It felt as though a part of her lives through you.

You sat in the passenger seat of Wanda's car, staring at the Sword logo plastered on the side of the building, you could feel the letter in your back pocket, dying to be read. Wanda made her way back to the car, face flared in anger, tears threatening to spill.

"Wanda?" You called out as she got into the car, turning on the ignition but not pulling out of the car park. She sniffled quietly, wiping her eyes before glancing back to you. "I saw him." She responded, her eyes glancing to the folded paper on the backseat of the car, she could see the faint colour of red that was in the shape of a heart. "But they're not letting him have a funeral." You realised, looking back at your friend, heartbroken. "I figured at least one of them deserved a funeral, it's not fair. It's not fair that the world can just go on like nothing happened and we don't get to mourn the people we lost." Wanda rants, pulling out of the parking lot and beginning to drive.

"They both deserve a funeral." You agreed solemnly, remembering the fact that Natasha's body is at the bottom of a cliff in space in 2014.

"Where are we going now?" You asked, wanting to distract yourself from that thought. You felt as though you and Wanda were left to mourn your loved ones alone as the rest of the avengers scattered across the country.

"To the only thing I have left of him."

The two of you sat in silence as Wanda drove, you stared at the shrubbery outside the window before closing your eyes and resting your head on the window, allowing yourself to drift off.

It felt like it was only seconds later when you felt the car turn harshly, you opened your eyes and glanced around in confusion when you saw that you pulled into a quaint town, you had only just missed the town sign plastered with the words "West View." You watched the pedestrians walking by, noticing how some of them sat on their own with no one to comfort them similarly to you and Wanda.

The two of you pulled up to a plot of land with the foundation of a house on the ground, it looked at though the house never had the chance to get completed.

"Stay in the car, I won't take long." Wanda reassured you before reaching towards the back of the car to grab the folded up sheet of paper and getting out of the car. You nodded, staring at the built house next to the plot of land.

Your mind wanders as you stare at the home. You think about Natasha. You think about the future you could've had with her, living together in a quaint home like the one in front of you. No stress about being an avenger, just the two of you and your family. You softly smile as you imagine Natasha's reaction to wanting to adopt 5 cats, knowing she was more of cat person. You imagine holding her hand while walking down the street and watching movies with her in your shared bed. You wanting to stay in for the day and watch movies to ignore the real world outside and her letting you.

You think about what could've been.

A heart wrenching scream snaps you out of your thoughts, you rush out of the car and look for Wanda but is blinded by a scarlet red light that knocks you unconscious.

Your eyes open on command.

The room you stood in was black and white. It was a nicely decorated living room with a dining room connected to it, you couldn't pinpoint which decade the interior was from, too preoccupied by the woman standing in front of you.

Although the lack of colour in them, you could recognise those eyes from anywhere, that smile that you've wished to see was right in front of you. The dress she wore matched the decade and decor of the room, her hair curled up neatly. Natasha stood in front of you, reaching her hand out towards you waiting for you to take it.

You hesitantly reach out towards her, happiness flooding your emotions. She pulls you closer to her, welcoming you into a hug. The palm of her hands are warm as they rested on your back, you could feel her heartbeat as you laid your head on her chest, melting in her arms.

"Welcome home моя любовь."

[charmingstrangeness]

Rating: Teen

Characters: Hashida Kanshichirou, Sakata Gintoki

Word count: 2105

Summary:

In which Hashida Kanshichirou seeks an escape from the weight of his new responsibilities as an adult - only to find a charismatic and suspiciously familiar silver-haired drunk instead.

[ao3 cross-post]

This idea was rolling around in my head since my first watch of the show, and a zine felt like the perfect opportunity to finally write it out. And so, here it is - my contribution to Samurai Heart: A Gintama Fanzine. You can (and should) check out the zine at @gintamazine  on both tumblr and twitter!

Huge thanks to everyone involved with the zine - it was a lot of fun and i'm super proud to have worked alongside such a talented group of people! Extra thanks to the zine mod, who put in a ton of work to make sure everything sailed smoothly, and extra extra thanks to the other fic contributors (Liatheus, UnidentifiedPie, corvidity and jackopancake) for your beta reading, edits, comments, and general conversation <333

Enjoy!

One foot in front of the other.

He tries to lose himself in the act of running – the sharp breaths that come as gasps more than anything else, the burning ache in his leg muscles, the way his surroundings blur and fly past him – until an errant rock connects with his foot, and suddenly Hashida Kanshichirou is sprawled in the dirt, panting hard and no further from escaping his own spiral of anxieties than he’d been when he began his desperate flight.

Now that he’s still, tendrils of the conversation he’d been trying to outrun take root in his mind – you’re an adult now, Kanshichirou, it’s time for us to talk about you taking over the family business.

Gritting his teeth, he picks himself up from the road. The fact of the matter is, he’s only sev— eighteen years old. An adult? He feels like a child still – a child being thrown into a lifelong responsibility before he’s ready to handle it. Kanshichirou snorts derisively; thinking of the Hashida corporation as a mere “family business” is laughable on its own, and his grandfather wants him to be in charge of it already? Kanshichirou isn’t ready for that yet. He’s not even ready to think about it. And he doubts he’ll ever be ready to give up his morals, either; he knows what kind of ethically dubious things his grandfather does to keep the Hashidaya going. Taking over from his grandfather, going against his own conscience for the sake of profits… That’s not the kind of life he wants.

Kanshichirou kicks at the rock that brought him down and watches it skitter down the road. He’s not entirely sure where he is – some seedy part of town, by the looks of it. The street is lined with bars and cabaret clubs, their colourful signs flashing beacons of hope in the night for those weary of their problems and looking for an escape. To his left, soft light spills through the doorway of a pub. The warm glow is inviting, beckoning even, and Kanshichirou shrugs. Eh, what the hell. He may still be two years short of legal drinking age, but according to his grandfather he’s enough of an adult to run a goddamn conglomerate, so why not? How else do adults deal with their problems beyond trying to drink themselves into oblivion, anyways?

The bar stool is a hair too tall for him; Kanshichirou feels awkward hopping up onto it, and he slips off gracelessly and has to try again. He tries to get comfortable, but no matter how much he adjusts himself on the poorly padded seat, it’s just not possible. Swallowing nervously, he silently thanks the heavens that no one seems to be paying attention to him, lest they immediately spot the fact that he really doesn’t belong—

“And what’ll it be today, sir?”

Kanshichirou jumps in his seat, one knee smacking painfully into the underside of the bar. Across the counter, the bartender stares at him expectantly.

What do people even order at bars? For a brief second, Kanshichirou forgets everything he’s ever known about alcohol or adulthood or life as a whole, and he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

“S-saké, please?” The quaver in his voice is unmistakable; surely the bartender is going to throw him out—

But no, the man only nods, and turns to the shelf of liquor behind him.

Kanshichirou exhales the smallest sigh of relief as the adrenaline begins to drain from his system. He’s passed the test – no one here will question him now. Satisfied, Kanshichirou leans his elbows onto the bar.

“Oi, aren’t you a little young to be drinking saké?”

Kanshichirou jumps a little less this time. He turns to the speaker, ready to defend his position as a proper adult of legal drinking age, and is promptly halted in his tracks by an overwhelming sense of familiarity; Kanshichirou thinks of framed photographs, in his own house and in his grandfather’s estate, of a different man – a man with a gleeful grin and sparkling eyes and the same wild, silver hair as the man sitting two barstools to his right in the present moment.

But Kanshichirou’s father is dead, and has been since before he was even born; he knows this, has always known this. And the man beside him shares no resemblance to the man in the photographs beyond that wavy silver hair, either – the face is wrong, and those eyes are lifeless, like a dead fish…

Kanshichirou shakes his head to clear out his thoughts. “I’m an adult, I’m allowed to be here,” he snaps. He didn’t come here to be plagued by memories, or to be belittled by strangers. He came here to drink, dammit – to drink and be properly irresponsible about his duties. Just like any other responsible adult.

The man snorts. “An adult? Barely. You sound like you still need to grow some hair between your legs, kid.” His face is flushed, and his words are a touch slurred.

Kanshichirou rolls his eyes. “Who are you to tell me where I still need to grow hair? Besides, the bartender is already serving me anyways.”

“Damn Kabukichou bartenders never check for I.D.,” the man mutters. “Irresponsible, really. I swear, I’m the only human being alive in this universe who actually gives half a shit about keeping our image family-friendly…” He trails off into indiscernible mumbles, glaring angrily into his cup.

What strange man, Kanshichirou thinks as he turns back to the bar, just as the bartender places a cup and a small flask of saké in front of him.

“Thank you,” he says with confidence. The bartender only nods before wandering off.

Some of that confidence immediately wanes, however, as he looks down at the saké. He knows it’s supposed to poured into the cup but… How much? And is there some secret pouring technique that only true adults know? What if he does it so incorrectly that everyone realizes he’s not supposed to be here?

“Never poured your own saké before, huh?”

Kanshichirou looks up – the man is smirking, and god Kanshichirou wants nothing more than to wipe that shit-eating grin off his face.

“Screw off, old man. Tend to your own drink.”

“Hey, who’re you calling a shitty old geezer?!” The man frowns. “Kids these days. What are you even doing here, anyways?”

“Having a drink, obviously,” Kanshichirou rolls his eyes.

“Damn you, you know what I meant. Why are you here, you shitty brat? Explain it in thirty words or less!” He gestures dramatically towards Kanshichirou, alcohol sloshing over the rim of the cup in his hand.

“I told you, I’m here to have a drink.” Kanshichirou’s voice falters a bit, and he glances towards the ground. “You know… to deal with stuff. That’s what adults do, right? They drink to fix their problems.”

The man raises an eyebrow. “Oh, do they now? Now there’s a mark of your age if I ever heard one.”

Kanshichirou frowns. “What, you think that just because I’m young I can’t have problems?”

“Nah, I just think that you’re naïve for believing that alcohol will fix them.”

The man’s words drive through Kanshichirou’s body like a nail. He’s right, of course; Kanshichirou knows he’s right (but he doesn’t want him to be right).

“What kind of problems are you running away from that have you looking to get drunk at a seedy bar, anyways?” The stranger shifts over a seat so he’s sitting right beside Kanshichirou. “Aren’t you too young to be doing this kind of thing?”

Kanshichirou winces. “It’s… a big responsibility. I don’t want to deal with it right now.”

“How big?”

“Really big… It’s, well. It’s kind of deciding on my future, you know?” Kanshichirou’s brow wrinkles. “I’m being pressured to make a big career choice, but I’m not really ready to make it yet.”

“Ah, I see.” The man nods sagely. “Who is it, your mom? Your dad?”

“My grandfather,” Kanshichirou corrects. “He wants me to take over the family business, now that I’m finally eighteen, and he wants me to start right away.”

“So what, you’ve got a steady career and some kind of fortune lined up from day one? Doesn’t sound so bad to me. Do you know how many people would kill to be in your position?”

“It’s a good opportunity, I guess, but it’s not what I want.”

“So what do you want?”

“I want…” Kanshichirou furrows his brow. “I want to make choices I can be happy with? I want… an enjoyable life, I guess.”

“Like a cherry blossom?”

Kanshichirou blinks in surprise. He’s heard that phrase before – according to his mother, it was something his father used to be fond of saying, back when he was alive.

I want to live like a cherry blossom.

It wasn’t something that had ever made sense, but… hearing it now… Kanshichirou feels like he finally understands the sentiment behind those words.

“Yeah… like a cherry blossom, I guess.”

The stranger takes a slow sip from his drink in response. Kanshichirou waits, expectantly.

“You know, kid… It’s true that sometimes, the things other people value aren’t always important. Being filthy rich, or living long enough to meet your great-great-grandchildren, or any of that. But even then… life is full of responsibilities, and you can’t just ignore them.” The man turns to face Kanshichirou. There’s something in his eyes, but Kanshichirou can’t tell what it is – it’s not motivation, but it isn’t defeat, either. “Maybe the way your grandfather lives his life doesn’t appeal to you, and that’s okay. But taking over the family business doesn’t mean following in his footsteps, you know?”

Kanshichirou cocks his head. “I… guess? I don’t know what you mean, exactly.”

“I mean, if you’ve got your own code, your own brand of bushido, you can still follow that. You can take over the company, but then run it the way you want to.” He gulps back the rest of his drink and slams the cup on the counter. “You don’t have to run from your responsibilities. You can meet them head on, and make the choices you want to make, and still live a happy life.”

Kanshichirou stares into his cup of saké and considers the stranger’s words. While the thought of following his grandfather’s legacy is certainly terrifying, the thought of changing that legacy…

Maybe I could…

A rustle to his right breaks Kanshichirou out of his thoughts – the man is standing up.

“Ah, wait! Are you going so soon?” There’s a silent plea in his words – please stay, you make me feel better about this, I want to keep talking to you.

“Sorry, kid. I’ve got my own responsibilities to deal with.”

“Oh…” Kanshichirou scratches the back of his head awkwardly and gazes at the ground. “Well… thanks for the advice. It helped.”

The stranger smiles. “Any time, kid.” He takes a few steps away from the bar, then stops and looks over his shoulder. “Listen, Kanshichirou—”

Kanshichirou’s head snaps back up.

We never—

“—in a couple years when you’re actually old enough to drink, come find me, okay? And we’ll share a drink for real.” He turns and walks away.

“W-wait!” Kanshichirou jumps off the bar stool. “Who are you? How do you know my name??”

The man raises his hand in a sort of farewell wave. “It’s a promise, okay? Remember, a samurai doesn’t make a promise he can’t keep.”

For a second, Kanshichirou sees it – sees the same man, walking away from him, only this time he’s walking away from a park bench, into a quiet spring night… Then he’s back in the bar, and the man is disappearing out the door, and Kanshichirou’s knees are buckling at the sudden memory.

Who…

“Hey, take responsibility for your tab before you leave!”

Kanshichirou spins around. The bartender is glaring at him from across the counter.

“S-sorry!” he practically squeaks, and stumbles back to the bar. “Here, let me get my money.”

“And I’m assuming you’ll be paying for your dad’s, too?”

Kanshichirou starts. “My dad?!”

“Yeah, that guy you were with? The one who just left without paying his bill.”

“He’s, uh, he’s not my dad.”

“Oh really? You too look exactly alike, you know.”

Kanshichirou laughs. “Yeah, that’s fair. And heck, I’ll pay his bill anyways. Just tell me who he is.”

“That’s Yorozuya Gin-chan. He runs the odd jobs place a few blocks from here.”

Yorozuya Gin-chan, huh? Kanshichirou can’t help but smile as he digs for his wallet.

I’ll find you again, Gin-san, he thinks. It’s a promise.

[meetmeatthecoda]

Waking: Part 1 - Waiting

Okay peeps, here it is, part 1 of the angst fest. It’s detailing Red’s perspective of the events of 5.8 and on, with a healthy helping of Dembe, of course. I’m calling the whole series “Waking” and part 1 “Waiting”. (And yes, the other two parts start with w’s as well. I like to work with a theme :) Anyhoo, this is angsty as shit but I loved writing it and I’m really looking forward to hearing what you guys think about it, especially once the other two parts are added, which should be within two or three days. So yeah, this will also be posted on my FF.net and AO3, as usual. Also, as a sidenote, I listened almost exclusively to Dawn Golden while writing this, specifically the track “Brief Encounter” from the album “Still Life”. That’s his only album and the whole thing is fucking amazing. It is my go-to Lizzington album so I wholeheartedly recommend the whole thing but if you’re the kind of person who likes to listen to a song while reading, I’m including a YouTube link to “Brief Encounter”. It was a huge inspiration while writing this. Anyway, so yeah, that’s about it, on to the fic! I really hope you all enjoy. Much love! <333

Here he is again, waiting. Waiting to hear whether Lizzie will live or die. He is here in this place far too often.

He has no one to blame but himself.

He couldn’t bring himself to go inside. He should have. He feels horrible, sitting out here in the car, Lizzie’s blood slowly soaking into his skin, but he can’t go in. He can’t watch if…if it happens. Not again. Once was one too many times.

So here he sits, cold and still, Dembe holding his hand. Waiting.

He’s not sure how long they sit there, completely silent. Not until Aram comes out to the car does Red realize that the sky is light. Does that mean it’s morning? Not if she’s…not if she’s gone.

Another day will not dawn for him if Elizabeth Keen is dead.

Dembe unlocks the door and lets Aram into the front passenger seat because Red can’t move, he’s been sitting here too long to unlock his frozen limbs, the absolute terror keeping him still, unable to flee from his panic and pain. And it’s just as well. If Aram has…bad news, Red would rather he not be witness to the break-down that he knows is imminent. Aram is far too fragile to see something like that.

But Aram starts to speak and darkness doesn’t wash over the sky, cold doesn’t shatter his heart, the world doesn’t end.

Lizzie is alive.

He picks out words like surgery, brain damage, inflammation, fluid, and induced coma through the roaring in his ears but he can’t properly focus on them, because she is alive. Red lets out a huge breath that he must have been holding in for hours and hours, somewhere in his chest where his heart is still beating weakly, holding out for Lizzie. And with that breath, the tears come.

Dembe quickly thanks Aram for the update and ushers him out, out of the car and into Samar’s waiting arms, before Red starts to gasp for air.

“Hold on, Raymond.”

Dembe starts the car and speeds off, not going far, just to a nearby parking garage, so that Red can have his overdue panic attack in relative privacy. Dembe parks the car, turns the heat on high, and climbs into the backseat beside Red, wrapping his strong arms around Red’s smaller form and coaching him through breathing, the way Red did for Dembe when he was young and his past came back to haunt him. The way Dembe has done for Red whenever he wakes from a particularly ghastly dream. And it makes sense.

The past few hours have been nothing short of a nightmare.

Once Red has had his fill, crying and gasping and shaking, he manages to calm himself enough to speak once again, thanking the man who fills the shoes of both a brother and a son. Red asks Dembe to take him back to their current safe house for a shower and change of clothes before they head back to the hospital.

“You should sleep, Raymond,” Dembe chastises him quietly. “Elizabeth may not wake for some time yet.”

“You don’t know that,” Red mutters, rubbing tiredly at his face, his eyes swollen and aching. “She could wake at any moment and I want to be there.”

Dembe purses his lips in silent disapproval. Dear Dembe. Always looking out for him, though Red has no earthly idea why. He doesn’t deserve Dembe any more than he deserves Lizzie. But his friend returns to the driver’s seat regardless and they are on their way.

Red takes his time in the shower, scrubbing all of Lizzie’s blood off his skin, though he irrationally wishes that some of it would stay. A physical representation of the metaphorical truth of his existence: Lizzie’s blood has always been on his hands, since the night of the fire. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed over these long years.  

He tries to his best to shake that thought off and wash it down the drain with all the filth he can feel on his skin but after forty-five minutes under scorching hot water, he comes to the awful conclusion that he will never get it all off. It’s far too late for that.

He stands in his bedroom, naked and staring into his closet of impeccable thousand-dollar suits, and grants himself five more minutes of pure self-hatred before he has to put on his cloth armor and face the world again.

Eventually, after going through all the different ways that Lizzie’s current situation is completely and utterly his fault, he decides that feeling sorry for himself is selfish and he should be with Lizzie right now.

Because what if she wakes up?

He is suddenly panicked at that thought, snagging a suit out of the closet and dressing quickly, not even looking to see if it matches, rushing out of the bedroom and calling for Dembe to start the car. He is almost out the door before he realizes he’s forgotten a hat. He only hesitates for half a second before he is turning on his heel and hurrying back to the bedroom to fetch one.

He needs every piece of armor he can get today. He must be strong for Lizzie.

They make it back to the hospital in record time, courtesy of Dembe’s creative driving, which is courtesy of Red’s pale face and dead-eyed expression. Red makes it to the correct room with no trouble. Apparently, Harold had told the agents guarding her door that he would be by and to give him no trouble. Smart man.

But Red stops.

Because here he is again, waiting. Waiting in front of Lizzie’s hospital room door, the entrance to a plain, private ward, courtesy of her government job, unable to go in.

He is afraid.

He has no right to be, obviously. Lizzie is the one who is here, in a hospital bed, having just barely survived brain surgery. He has to be strong, strong for Lizzie, because she can’t be right now and that is his job and what else can he do?

He swallows and tries to take a deep breath at the same time and that doesn’t help much but he has to go in now because this is Lizzie and she needs him.

So, with Dembe’s comforting presence behind him, he slowly opens the door and walks in.

He’s not sure what he expects to see. It’s not the first time he’s seen her in a hospital bed, he reminds himself viciously, and this time is no less shocking and terrifying to him than the other times. In fact, she looks perfectly normal, he thinks blankly, lying there, hand folded on her stomach, save for the bandages and machines. Almost healthy even.

But Red knows better. All the damage is inside of her.

After all, internal damage is rather his specialty.

He doesn’t realize that he’s crying again until he feels Dembe’s hand on his shoulder, steering him gently to the empty chair in the corner of the room. As he attempts to push him down into it, Red shakes off his hand.

“No,” he mumbles, drying his eyes hastily with the back of his hand.

He has to be strong for Lizzie.

He pulls himself up to his full height and sheds his coat and hat, tossing them carelessly onto the window sill, and pulls the chair up to Lizzie’s bedside, gritting his teeth against the next wave of tears that come from this close-up view of Lizzie’s pale, still face.

He has cried enough.

“It’s alright, Dembe,” he says softly, though he knows he won’t disturb her. “Leave us be, please.”

He doesn’t realize he’s spoken in the plural until Dembe pulls the door shut behind him, taking his radiating waves of concern with him.

Red lets out a shaky breath and slowly brings his hand up to lay it on the bed next to Lizzie’s lifeless one.

No, not lifeless.

Lizzie will wake up. He will make sure of it. Because if she doesn’t, neither will he.

He bites his cheek and ever so gently touches his fingertips to the back of her hand.

“Hello, Lizzie,” he whispers.

And here he is again, waiting. Waiting for Lizzie to wake up.