#I know & am aware some of these are probably a stretch & the order of events isn't exactly the same; but hear me out okay? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

alpacahat67 · 2 years ago

Text

Idia Shroud is Autistic-Coded; Here's Why

Hello! Happy Autism Awareness Month! In celebration, I will be posting a wholeeee load of autistic traits I have found in Idia. This is coming from a person who, while undiagnosed, is most likely autistic.

If you have any additions, please tell me in whatever way is most convenient (comments, reblogs, asks, dms... whatever.) This list will likely be evergrowing as more events, vignettes, and story content are added to TWST. Some of these may be a stretch but ya know.

This is organized by trait for your (and my) convenience. Begins under cut!

*Warning, I am not a medical professional. I'm just autistic and for a while got fixated on autism itself. Which is why I call myself autistic... I've been researching this shit for many years lol

We'll be starting with DSM-5 requirements in order to be diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder. Then, we will move to common experiences (things that most autistic people experience, but aren't a tell-tale sign that you're autistic and aren't a requirement for a professional diagnosis.) Finally will be disorders that Idia shows symptoms of that tend to co-occur with ASD.

Numbered list will explain the traits Idia demonstrates. At the end, the diagnostic criteria specified will be stated in parentheses and quotation marks.

A) Persistent deficits in social communication and social interaction across multiple contexts...

Generally, Idia is seen to have trouble communicating with his peers if not behind a screen or while interacting with something he enjoys (such as talking about anime or playing a board game.) ("Deficits in social-emotional reciprocity, ranging, for example, from abnormal social approach and failure of normal back-and-forth conversation...")

Idia's way of expressing emotion is difficult to pin down. He will go from speaking very quietly (and stuttering usually) in a near-monotone voice with an "emotionless" expression to talking loudly, quickly, and with a HUGE smile on his face. We don't quite get to see how he responds to nonverbal communication or how he portrays it himself (probably because it doesn't come up, or because of live2d restrictions), but we do learn that he hates eye contact I believe in his Birthday Boy vignette when he claims to hate having to laugh and make eye contact with normies (masking right there buddy go to a doctor) ("Deficits in nonverbal communicative behaviors used for social interaction, ranging, for example, from poorly integrated verbal and nonverbal communication; to abnormalities in eye contact and body language or deficits in understanding and use of gestures; to a total lack of facial expressions and nonverbal communication.")

This is where it could kinda get stretchy, partially because I for the life of me am having trouble understanding A.3. BUT. Idia is often very blunt, to the point where he's straight up rude, especially in situations where that kind of attitude is... not very helpful. See the Phantom Bride event when he chastises the boys coming to rescue him for looking disheveled after fighting for their lives, which makes them not want to rescue him despite his life being on the line (I think Ace even goes off on him for this lol.) Furthermore, the only people amongst his peers that he will indulge are Azul, Ortho and (unknowingly, and only online) Lilia. The rest he has zero interest in, whether he despises or is scared of them. They're all normies. Finally, it's shown that throughout his life he has had very little if not zero friends in real life aside from Ortho. To be fair, I don't think there were many kids his age back home lol. ("Deficits in developing, maintaining, and understanding relationships, ranging, for example, from difficulties adjusting behavior to suit various social contexts; to difficulties in sharing imaginative play or in making friends; to absence of interest in peers.")

Part one of an autism diagnosis down! Idia shows persistent deficits in each social and communication area specified through A.1-A.3. In order to be diagnosed, you also much show two out of four of restricted, repetitive behaviors specified through B.1-B.4 below.

B) Restricted, repetitive patterns of behavior, interests, or activities, as manifested by at least two of the following, currently or by history...

Due to live2d restrictions, we never exactly get to see Idia physically stim. (Well, I'd argue we get to see Floyd physically stim with his constant swaying back and forth, but not like they can flap their hands or anything.) This one's a stretch, but his form of verbal stimming could be the little sound effects he makes at times, mostly in book 6 actually. Specifically, his "DA DA DA DAAAAA" after explaining the plot of Star Rogue to the overblot victims in Styx as well as his "BOOM BADA BOOM BOOM BOOM! HAH!" after finishing Ortho in the flashback sequence. Other than that, the only other ideas I'd have for repetitive movements or sounds are headcanons. I don't know if I'd count this one. ("Stereotyped or repetitive motor movements, use of objects, or speech")

This is another one I don't think we ever see in-game. I don't know... the things I could consider part of this criteria would better fit as sensory things~! Again I'm an Idia connoisseur but if you know anything about this please tell me I will update this one. ("Insistence on sameness, inflexible adherence to routines, or ritualized patterns of verbal or nonverbal behavior")

Idia is shown to have MULTIPLE very strong interests. Whether this might be a special interest or hyperfixation... it's hard to tell, but I can sure guess. The longest-running interest we see him show to have, originating from way back when Ortho was still alive, is Star Rogue. Because he seems to know nearly everything about the game and has also maintained the interest for a long time, I would consider this a special interest (along with engineering and technomancy, which he's said to have excelled in since a young age.) Idia does talk about certain specific animes and other games he enjoys, but not to the degree of Star Rogue (yes that's my basis here), so I don't know if that's a special interest or just a hyperfixation. It's the same situation with idol groups, particularly Premo (or Fates on the Edge). This isn't even it. That man is fandom trash and I love him. ("Highly restricted, fixated interests that are abnormal in intensity or focus")

Idia is shown on multiple occasions to have sensory issues. To the point where, similarly to his strong interests, I don't know if I know half of it. During the Phantom Bride event and his Union Birthday vignette, Idia complains about his neck feeling cold due to his hair being brushed behind his hair (PB) or up in a ponytail (UB). He also complains about his Phantom Bride suit AND his Birthday Boy suit being "stuffy", but that one could also be a stretch. In the Harveston event, Idia says that he only eats his apples canned or peeled, which I'd chop up to sensory issues once again. (Although, that one could also be under B.2) Idia constantly has his headphones around his neck to listen to music. A bit of a stretch, but they're also noise canceling, so there's a chance he uses them to avoid overstimulation. Finally, Idia states that he doesn't like fish because it's smelly and slimy. I get that Idia raw fish is texture hell. As far as I know, there's no point in which Idia under-reacts to sensory input (e.g. pain) or becomes very invested in it (like staring at a moving wheel.) ("Hyper- or hyporeactivity to sensory input or unusual interest in sensory aspects of the environment")

And there we have it. Autism diagnosis. Idia demonstrates persistent deficits in all three sections under A and at least two sections under B. BUT WAIT! We still have C-E!

C) Symptoms must be present in the early developmental period (but may not become fully manifest until social demands exceed limited capacities, or may be masked by learned strategies in later life).

Really, the only point in which we see Idia demonstrate autistic traits in early life is his interest in Star Rogue. This is probably just because of how the storyline is. We actually don't know very much about Idia OR Ortho when they were young. However I would argue that Idia does mask because of the multiple times where he immediately just gets upset prior to talking to someone (something he probably hides during conversation). And ofc that one time he complains about talking to normies in his Birthday Boy vignette (? it could've be a voice line.)

D) Symptoms cause clinically significant impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of current functioning.

Idia's symptoms in fact significantly impair his life. I think that alone is obvious enough. We see it every time that man's on screen.

E) These disturbances are not better explained by intellectual disability (intellectual developmental disorder) or global developmental delay...

Symptoms that Idia experiences could very well be explained by other mental disorders such as social anxiety, but these are not intellectual disabilities. Explaining away ASD for Idia falls into a trap many autistic people do in real life with medical professionals who just can't believe that their patient is autistic for one reason or another; these people will sometimes receive a dozen different diagnoses that all could be better explained by autism spectrum disorder. That's not very cool. Therefore, this does not apply.

Specifically, Idia would likely have ASD co-morbid with social anxiety and most likely clinical depression. (I HAVE done some minor research into Idia and bipolar disorder, but that's a situation for another day and far more of a stretch than ASD ever could be.)

DSM-5 requirements cleared! Next stage, common experiences.

This is another thing I will need help for because it's not like there's scholarly articles on "things a lot of autistic people experience but it's definitely not something a doctor will ask you about." So please share. This is the list that will never stop growing.

Abnormal posture (Crewel gets onto Idia for not standing up straight, he often is portrayed sitting in chairs with his knees to his chest, and he's seen doing "dino hands" or "T-Rex arms" in battle mode on occasion.)

Target of bullying (Many autistic people, especially autistic girls, tend to be bullied more often than their allistic peers. While not always to his face, people do tend to talk bad about Idia behind his back, Ortho even has a 'Don't Talk Shit About My Brother' beam for the bullies lol.)

More tone + social stuff... (Things that the DSM-5 thing didn't quite fit. In book 6 he jokes about torturing the overblots and when everyone's like 'dude wtf' he's like 'what it was a joke dumbass.' Could be written off as just an odd sense of humor, or it could be difficulty reading the room lol.)

A love for lists and organization. (When Idia speaks autonomously in your guest room, he mentions having things exactly where you need them and how it's 'convenience'. He also seems to have a knack for practicality. It's not too much of a stretch to say it ties into a need for organization.) (Idia has every NRC student organized into multiple tier lists on the R-SSR rating system like the in-game cards based on certain factors, such as most social.)

Easily startled. (Self-explanatory. HieEh.)

Preference for connection through interests. (Another reason why he is disconnected from those around him, aside from the whole trauma thing, and calls most other people "normies." They don't "get" his interests, so he has no interest in being friends with them.)

Difficulty with processing time. (Remember when he had apparently been working on Ortho's uhhh starsender gear? For like 12 hours straight?"

Relaxes through interacting with interests (In the vignette I referenced in 7, when Ortho tells him to take a break, he decides to play Star Rogue. Ortho meant to sleep.)

Putting off needs until one can not longer ignore them. (Idia often gets so engrossed in what he's doing that he forgets to do basic self-care tasks like eating.)

Infodumping. (Shown a lot in book 6. Namely with his like 2-3 minute long rant about Star Rogue. The rest, such as him rambling on and on about Styx, seems to be used so the audience knows what the HELL is happening. He does go on rants outside of this book tho.)

Gifted kid (Yeah he was called a "boy genius.")

This is not a complete list by any means, I could go on for DAYS.

On the topic of co-occurring disorders, the two most obvious disorders Idia clearly is dealing with are social anxiety and depression. Both of which are often co-morbid with ASD.

While social anxiety and ASD have a lot of overlap, they aren't the same thing, but often autism can contribute to the development of social anxiety through masking and the general difficulties in socializing that come with autism. Allistic people tend to react negatively in response to an autistic person doing something that the allistic person deems unorthodox. This reaction can often cause a lot of internal turmoil for the autistic person due to rejection-sensitive dysphoria. Furthermore, masking requires a high level of awareness of one's environment as well as the judgment of others. Thus, social anxiety can often develop.

While I don't know how exactly autism might affect depression as it does social anxiety, I do know that depression is VERY common in autistic adults. 5 in 10 adults with ASD have depression, and living in a world built for those who are neurotypical is hard for anyone who is neurodivergent, which definitely does not help. And it sure as hell has to make it worse for Idia of all people.

Additions made by others (tysm!): @hey-haven mentions in a reblog Idia's low empathy towards other people. I recommend heading over to their blog to check out what they said because they do make an amazing point and it's probably far better than anything I could explain (lol). But to paraphrase, they cite specifically Idia making fun of his classmates who just fought for their lives to rescue him during the Phantom Bride event and his attitude towards the overblot victims and their reactions to being essentially kidnapped during book 6, in which he seems to not really "get" why they're so upset. Generally, when it surrounds emotions that aren't his own, he's pretty oblivious. They also bring up his little "whee-hee-hee" laugh! It brings up an observation I've seen of autistic people (seemingly) laughing at "random" or generally inappropriate times because we tend to express laughter in a voiced manner (like laughing out loud because you find something genuinely funny) rather than an unvoiced manner (like the little exhale you do at a funny photo on your phone). Idia laughs a lot, I don't know if it's realistic to connect it to autism or if it's better explained by him just being a weird guy (which I love about him don't get me wrong lol.) Although the study about this was with specifically autistic and non-autistic children though... it's food for thought I guess.

And with that, my essay comes to a close. Again, happy Autism Awareness Month! Share some of your favorite autistic, canon or otherwise, characters and boost autistic creators! And remember to not support Autism Speaks :)

Thank you for listening.

-Alpaca (autistic Idia Shroud enthusiast)

P.S. this post is so long that it's making my PC lag LMAOOOO

#Malleus is autistic too btw #So is Leona but that's because I said so he isn't autistic coded #twst #twisted-wonderland #idia shroud #autistic experiences #autistic pride #autistic headcanon #autism awareness month #idia shroud twst #idia shroud twisted wonderland #idia shroud is my babygirl i love him

66 notes · View notes

mariana-oconnor · 1 year ago

Text

The Silver Blaze pt 2

We venture further into the web of intrigue, murder and horse theft.

I have decided that the funniest end to this story is if Silver Blaze is just never seen again. Like the horse just ran off onto the moors and is now living in sin with a herd of Dartmoor ponies and frolicking all the livelong day.

Although it would be funny, but tragic, if Silver Blaze ends up being killed offpage in a random shipwreck. I don't want that to happen, but there would be a certain black humour to events.

In every other direction the low curves of the moor, bronze-colored from the fading ferns, stretched away to the sky-line, broken only by the steeples of Tavistock, and by a cluster of houses away to the westward which marked the Mapleton stables.

Watson was secretly being paid by the Devon Marketing Board because this makes me want to go to Dartmoor. Go to Devon, have a nice cream tea, see some Dartmoor ponies, experience the terrifying and exhilarating awe of witnessing untamed nature? God I need a holiday.

And a cream tea.

But mostly a holiday.

I didn't realise the other stables were so close you could literally see them from the main house, though.

“I think that I should prefer to stay here a little and go into one or two questions of detail. Straker was brought back here, I presume?” “Yes; he lies upstairs. The inquest is to-morrow.”

Just got the body of a murdered man upstairs, nbd.

I know they have nowhere else to put him, but damn that's unsanitary. Don't keep him upstairs, at least keep him somewhere cold and not part of the main house. Although I suppose you could be keeping him in the pantry, so we're all grateful you're not.

“I presume that you made an inventory of what he had in this pockets at the time of his death, Inspector?”

Also, the American spelling of aluminium... like we had the American spelling of grey a week or so ago. That always throws me out a bit, but I acknowledge that that is probably because it is literally my job to localise things from US to UK English and vice versa, so I am trained to notice them.

"This other is a milliner's account for thirty-seven pounds fifteen made out by Madame Lesurier, of Bond Street, to William Derbyshire."

Back to the trusty inflation calculator, thank you Bank of England website, that's more than £3,500 in today's money. And while Holmes says 'a single costume' as far as I'm aware, milliners were hat makers, not full on tailors, although maybe they did both. 3.5 grand for a hat is... insane amounts of money. Could this be a secret payment for a horse? Or for stealing a horse? Money laundering?

“Dear me! Why, I could have sworn to it. You wore a costume of dove-colored silk with ostrich-feather trimming.” “I never had such a dress, sir,” answered the lady.

Guessing that's the £3.5K dress, then. Ostrich feathers are pricey.

So... so... what if the guy had the cataract knife in his pocket, which was super sharp, right, and the cork fell off the blade, right... and it cut his leg as he was walking? and in the confusion the horse stomped him to death with its hooves. And then Silver Blaze ran off into the night, met a nice Dartmoor pony, settled down, fathered a few foals, and lived happily to the end of his days.

“In this bag I have one of the boots which Straker wore, one of Fitzroy Simpson's shoes, and a cast horseshoe of Silver Blaze.” “My dear Inspector, you surpass yourself!”

Another competent police officer! Will wonders never cease? Although the last one did arrest the wrong man deliberately and have racist articles published in order to lure out the true suspect.

The horse is a very gregarious creature. If left to himself his instincts would have been either to return to King's Pyland or go over to Mapleton.

Or... or... or... to the Dartmoor ponies. Freedom! Pony friends. Thundering across the moors together.

"It was Holmes who saw them first, and he stood pointing with a look of triumph upon his face. A man's track was visible beside the horse's."

OK, working theory, which I absolutely cannot remember if I'm right or not. Straker steals the horse because he has debts/an expensive mistress (£3.5k for a dress yikes), but as stated before, the cork comes off the knife, he cuts open his thigh and panics. Man panicking makes horse panic, because horses are scaredy cats. But they are heavy scaredy cats with hooves. Silver Blaze unintentionally kills his own kidnapper and runs off into the night. Then one of the grooms from the other stable sees him says 'ooh, free horse' and leads him back to the stable.

The double track turned sharp off and took the direction of King's Pyland. Holmes whistled, and we both followed along after it. His eyes were on the trail, but I happened to look a little to one side, and saw to my surprise the same tracks coming back again in the opposite direction.

So they were going to return him... then they decided not to?

“I've no time to talk to every gadabout. We want no stranger here. Be off, or you may find a dog at your heels.” Holmes leaned forward and whispered something in the trainer's ear. He started violently and flushed to the temples.

Not a horse whisperer, but a horse-trainer whisperer.

Silas Brown seems like a pleasant fellow, doesn't he? Love it when people threaten to set dogs on me just for stopping to have a chat.

“Oh, and old horse-faker like him has many a dodge.”

I do know how the horse has been hidden. That is like the one thing I remember. I think Enid Blyton used the same trick in one of her stories at one point. Either that or she just wrote another story about a stolen horse and I smashed them together in my mind.

"That is the advantage of being unofficial. I don't know whether you observed it, Watson, but the Colonel's manner has been just a trifle cavalier to me. I am inclined now to have a little amusement at his expense. Say nothing to him about the horse."

Colonels, you can't trust them. I'm trying to remember a single colonel in these stories who has been a good guy and I'm struggling. Even the one who died was a traitor. Colonels should not be trusted.

We had only been a few hours in Devonshire, and that he should give up an investigation which he had begun so brilliantly was quite incomprehensible to me.

Yeah, my dudes, stop for lunch. Find a nice little country pub or cafe somewhere. Have a tea, have a scone. Please allow me to vicariously live through you.

The Inspector opened his eyes, and the Colonel's lip curled in a sneer. “So you despair of arresting the murderer of poor Straker,” said he.

Colonels are terrible. This is clearly the hidden message of these stories.

Wouldn't put it past him to be race fixing and have bet against his own horse, then arranged for Straker to get Silver Blaze out of the way for a little while so he can rake in the dough.

But maybe he's just a horrible person. That's also possible. Not all horrible people are criminals. We must remember this.

Until next time. We've solved where the horse is (which is the bit I already sort of knew. I knew it was in a stable and I knew how it was being hidden), next step the mastermind behind the failed theft.

I really think that Straker might have accidentally sliced open his own artery and caused all the problems. This is why you don't keep knives in your pocket. Bad idea. Lots of arteries and veins right there.

Alas, Silver Blaze did not choose to roam the moors with a herd of wild ponies. Still kind of wish he had, though.

#Letters from Watson #Sherlock Holmes #The Silver Blaze #long post #I really want a cream tea now #Mmm scones

22 notes · View notes

ignitification · 4 years ago

Text

Dissecting What-thefuck-Ever is Happening in Jujutsu Kaisen

Am I crazy? Am I going mad? Is this manga making me delusional? All of this are valid hypothesis. However, onto the content, because I'm confused and trying to give shape to whatever my mind is thinking.

The last couple of chapters really put my English comprehension skills to test: not because I don't get it, but all the different details and the shades which Gege uses to describe and entwine things is so subtle that sometimes I am afraid that the translation does not give it justice. And kudos anyways to those who put this into words, because this is one big mess on 'insert weird jujutsu thing'.

This New Arc (The Culling) is probably one of the most difficult, in terms of events and storyline, arcs in the story. Fair enough, Shibuya was pretty complicated, as events were happening at the same time - but in the end, Shibuya lasted about five hours and that was it. The Culling has origins which go back in centuries, and only that makes it interesting, dangerous and maddening to think about.

One thing which I want to mention before anything else, because I know that I will forget otherwise, is the sentence which Tengen repeats twice in Chapter 145.

Per his saying, he cannot read the Human Heart, once in reference to Yuki, and the other in reference to Kenjaku. The weird thing is that this makes it clear that despite everything and the implications, Kenjaku - is still human at the end. He is physical, material and therefore he is not invincible. I am not sure if this was the intent behind this words (to let them know how Kenjaku is as human as them, and therefore it it possible to stop him) - but I still it has some sort of relevance. Also, this makes me question, whether Kenjaku's technique is limited to the brain and its knowledge, and what generally his technique is.

Tengen tells the Six Adventurers that Kenjaku is at least as old as Sukuna, and the two have been involved somehow. His objective is so force human evolution. And in order to do, he wants to boost up Japanese individuals (likely because of the amount of immense cursed energy present) - and to merge Tengen, who is now more cursed spirit than human, with humankind.

This is because the next stage of sorcery (and humanity, intrinsically), for Kenjaku, lies in optimising cursed energy. But in order to do so, the potential which human retain needs to be exploited fully. Therefore, people have to be aware that there is still potential to be discovered (next stage of human evolution).

The objective of the Culling Game therefore splits into two currents: cull the potential vessels to fuse with Tengen and spread cursed energy like wildfire (with the end goal being a new golden era, Heian Era) by applying the natural law of the survival of the fittest (searching for the one who could completely fuse with Tengen) and making Japan the cull of all cursed energy - which would potentially attract other cursed energy, from other countries (even if as we know it is extremely lower compared to Japan) and as Yuki potentially already guessed in Chapter 136 to make Japan a monopoly on cursed energy.

Another things which gets mentioned, but at the same time I am not entirely sure has anything to do with the things I am thinking of (and specifically Sukuna's fingers and the remains of the clan ancestors - if this is even a thing), however boundaries and restrictions (f.e. Heavenly Restriction that both Toji and Maki have) are a very big thing in Jujutsu Society and Sorcery. A blatant example is the pact that Sukuna made with Yuuji (and that neither can break). However, according to Tengen the bond of fate between The Six Eyes, Tengen and the Star Plasma Vessel has been broken thanks to Toji Fushiguro, who killed Riko Amanai 12 years ago. (Also, the choice of words that Toji escaped cursed energy is very interesting, and worthy of further looking into). This allowed for Kenjaku to carry out his plan to weaken and further let Tengen evolve into an almost cursed spirit, which he could manipulate through Getou's technique (which explains why he seized his body) to finally let the ritual of breaking into the body and finally merging begin (the culling game). To allow this however, Kenjaku had to make different restrictions, one of which is not not be the Game Master of the Culling. But in this case, two questions come up: who is the Game Master and what are the other restrictions? Can this be used as an advantage by Yuuta, Yuuji, Megumi and Maki to beat Kenjaku, free Gojo and stop the Evolution?

And this also prompts the question of, if Kenjaku would merge with Tengen in Getou's body, what would the consequence be? Also, does this merging occur after the end of the Culling? What if Kenjaku finds another body to take advantage of and this way, the vows he made when it Getou's body are not worth anymore? Would that play in his favour? Could it even be possible?

However, in order to do so, and since Tengen's barrier optimises cursed energy, and at the same time protects itself, Kenjaku is striving to eliminate Tengen's barrier. In the end, if the cursed energy is dispersed, yes it would mean chaos, but as well it would mean endless possibilities to evolve. Furthermore, if Is stretch this into unknown territory, what the picture could be is: since for Kenjaku the only ones able to successfully merge with Tengen and have a use out of it are Japanese people (for reasons stated before), and from the things we know of Kenjaku (old as they come, acquainted with Sukuna and Uraume, mad scientist who tampered with the Womb Paintings - creating Choso among the others, and most likely having tampered with the Itadoris') it would create the picture of a mad scientist in full gear striving for innovation, evolution, creating by destruction.

It gets cleared with the content on these next two panels:

Kenjaku wants a chaotic world, one that even he cannot control, in which Cursed Energy is a limitless source and has no possibility to be put down. The question that comes naturally with it is definitely why, because I am afraid that merely 'evolution' is a downplay of the real intentions of someone who experimented so much and has survived different centuries, under different names - all of which (known for now) are of 'evil' jujutsu sorcerers (both Kamo Noritoshi and Getou Suguru), who did not conform with the will of jujutsu society.

Does Kenjaku want the whole to end, to go berserk - because if there are no barriers and one individual goes mad, everyone does? The creation of 'Trascendent Being' which are more than jujutsu sorcerers? To see what's over the threshold of jujutsu sorcery? To have the world as the scene for a new Shibuya but with the possibility to influence and kill more people? Territorial expansion extendable over a certain barrier?

Anyway, I am not sure what the point is, just that Gege's plot is absolutely amazing and I can't wait to know more.

749 notes · View notes

walkerwords · 4 years ago

Text

“Lookin’ Out For Her” Daryl Dixon x F!Reader

GIF CREDIT: MTV/AMC

Request from Anonymous: Hello! I loved Walker Words, it was so well written! Could I request a Daryl x reader where the reader gets hurt and Daryl is the one to patch her up? Give her stitches and bandage her up and the like. If you wanted to keep going and have him take care of her and help her with everyday things while she heals that would be super sweet. Just craving some super fluffy care! Thank you!! Xoxo

Word Count: 4516

Warning: Swearing, Injury, Blood

Song I Wrote To: “Is This Love" by Corinne Bailey Rae

Note: And we are BACK. Thank you for requesting this!

---------

The Virginian sun was beating down on everyone’s necks as you worked in the lumber yard just outside of Alexandria.

Abraham had recruited you to help the Alexandrians build up their community. You didn't think it was that important but you said "yes" nonetheless. You had been travelling with your group for a while now. Meeting them on the road, Carl, Rick’s son, had saved you from a Walker that had pinned you to the ground. According to the young man, they had just lost their farm to a horde and were looking for a new place to stay.

It was then that you noticed his pregnant mother and wanted to help.

You hadn’t wanted to be near other people since the beginning of the end, but you had a good feeling about the Grimes family and their people. You were with them when Rick discovered the prison and you hadn’t looked back.

While you were close with Rick, Carl, Michonne, Rosita, and others, Daryl was someone that you had connected with unexpectedly. Daryl Dixon was an enigma, but one you loved to try and figure out. He was someone who you never would have bonded with if it hadn’t been for the end of the world, but everyday you were grateful for him and the way he always seemed to be looking out for you.

There was something unspoken between the two of you and any time that you were apart, you were constantly looking over you shoulder in hopes of spotting the archer. Just as you were now as you worked near Abraham, cutting into the timber that would help reinforce the walls of your new home.

“Who would’ve thought?” Ford said as he called out to you.

“What’s that, Red?” you called back, looking at him through the bright rays of sun that shone down on you.

“You,” Abraham said. “Who would’ve thought you’d be into all of this?”

“Construction?” you asked, raising your brows.

“No,” he said with a shit-eating grin, “helping.” Your mouth opened in shock at his jab, not finding it particularly funny.

“Hilarious,” you said with a roll of your eyes. Abraham just began laughing, enjoying himself. You began to ignore him as you tried to hide your own smile when the sound of growls reached your ears. “Fantastic,” you said with a sigh as you leaned over to pick up your weapon, an extra-sharp machete that Rick had given you after the events of Terminus.

The Walkers came from the South in a group, all meandering towards the site. “Stay sharp!” Ford yelled as he grabbed a knife in one hand and a hammer in the other. While you had your guns, nobody wanted to use ammo if they didn’t have to. The Alexandrians were worried, shuffling back as the Walkers approached, but you and Abraham moved to the front.

You began taking them down quickly with a few slashes of your blade. Two larger Walkers backed you up until your back hit a pile of stacked lumber. You took out the first, but the second moved too fast, falling into you. You fell back, hitting your head on the edge of the wood as you went down. The Walker landed on your arm, pressing it into the metal stake keeping the wood tied together. Groaning out in pain, you shoved your blade into the side of the Walker’s head and shoved it off with disgust.

“(Y/N)!” Abraham yelled as he ran towards you. He took out the last Walker with a swing of his hammer before arriving at your side. “Ya alright, girl?”

“Fine,” you grunted, taking the hand Abraham stretched out for you to grab. Abraham pulled you to your feet and you ignored the pounding behind your eyes as you brushed sawdust off your jeans.

“Are you sure that you are okay?” he asked, slipping into his sergeant mode.

“Abe, I am alright,” you said, reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder. “Few bumps and bruises ain’t gonna keep me down.”

“Well, just head back alright? We’re gonna be headin’ inside any minute now,” he ordered.

“I can help clean up,” you said, but he was shaking his head.

“(Y/N), go,” he said and with a sigh, you saluted the man, picked up your machete, and turned back towards Alexandria.

-------

Arriving back home, you tried to keep steady on your feet, but it was becoming more difficult with each step.

Nodding to Rick and Glenn who were speaking to Spencer, you continued on towards the house that you were sharing with the Grimes, Michonne, and Daryl. In the distance, you could see Judith being carried around by an amused Tara who swung her around on her hip, trying to make the little girl laugh.

The ache in your head was the only thing distracting you from the searing pain in your arm. You could also feel thick blood starting to saturate the sleeve of your shirt, but you did your best to ignore it. If you could manage to get home and up to the bathroom unseen, everything would work out. The last thing you needed was for one of your friends to clock your injuries.

Climbing up the steps to the house, you relaxed as it sounded empty. Dropping the façade, you let the pain show on your face for just a second, but a second was all it took for him to notice.

“What’s wrong with ya?” Daryl said from a quiet spot on the porch. Still not used to how silent the man could be, you jumped out of your skin at his deep voice.

“Fucking hell, Daryl!” you exclaimed, grabbing at your chest with your bad arm which only made you wince further. “Way to scare the hell out of me.” Daryl, who had been cleaning his bow, got to his feet and approached you, his brows drawn together.

“Are ya gonna answer my question?” he asked, looking you over. Suddenly feeling somewhat shy, you took a step back from him, turning so your bad arm was further out of sight.

“Walkers came up on us at the lumber spot,” you explained. “Everyone’s fine, but I got knocked down. It’s nothing.”

“Is it also nothin’ that you can’t keep to stand still without staggerin’?” Daryl noticed, gesturing down at your feet. Glancing down, you saw a dizzying pattern of dirty bootprints as if you had horribly failed at a field sobriety test after a night out.

“I…” you tried as the pain increased. “I may have hit my head on the way down.”

“Mmhmm. Come on,” Daryl said as he took your arm to keep you steady and led you into the house.

“I can walk, Daryl,” you complained.

“Yeah, into a wall maybe,” he said with a scoff. You frowned, but didn’t pull away as he took you to the room that he had claimed on the first level.

Daryl’s room was quite neat, but considering none of you had many belongings, it shouldn’t have been that much of a surprise. Clothes were strewn across a single chair in the corner while his leather jacket was thrown on the unmade bed. Bolts for his bow, old and new, were on a table in front of the window, and tools for the bike Aaron had given him were tossed on top of the dresser.

It was very…Daryl.

“Sit,” he ordered, helping you to the edge of the mattress.

“Yes, Sir,” you said with a roll of your eyes. Daryl mirrored the motion before leaving the room quickly. You sat there awkwardly as Daryl went to fetch the medical kit. Being in his room alone, you felt as if you were in high school and in a boy’s room for the first time.

“You’re being ridiculous,” you chastised yourself. This was Daryl, your friend, your partner when it came to runs or watch. However this was also Daryl, the man that had bewitched you body and soul. “Easy there, Darcy,” you said, shaking your head, trying to dislodge your Austen fantasy.

“What?” Daryl asked as he returned with the supplies.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, averting your eyes. Daryl just hummed a response before sitting next to you and then gesturing for you to remove the flannel shirt you wore over your tank top. Carefully, you pulled down the sleeve and then slipped the shirt off your shoulder, the blood sticking to the fabric. The fresh wound snagged on the threads, causing you to hiss out in pain, but eventually you got it off. “Damn,” you swore, finally getting a look at the cut from the stake.

“Not exactly shallow,” Daryl said, examining the wound. “It’s gonna leave a scar.”

“What else is new?” you said as a ringing entered your ears. You rubbed at one of them, trying to dislodge the annoying sound.

“That’s what I thought,” Daryl said.

“What?” you asked as Daryl began wiping away the extra blood with a towel.

“Ears ringin’, right?”

“Maybe…” you said, very aware of how his fingers moved across your blood-speckled skin.

“Probably a concussion. The dizziness, ringin’, headache that I know ya got… irritability,” he said with a look and you swatted at him. “All shit ya get from a concussion.” You sighed deeply, not liking how the day was going. The last thing you needed was to be benched with your family in a new environment. You weren’t the best fighter, but you were damn good at surviving and you had to stay sharp.

Daryl finished removing the blood before grabbing the needle and thread. Looking away, you stared at your boots as he tugged your skin back together. “Needles make ya sick?” he said with amusement in his voice.

“No, but watching you stitch my flesh back together ain’t a walk in the park,” you said and then Daryl had an even softer touch.

“Almost done,” he said softly, rubbing his thumb above the wound, trying to soothe you and you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t working. “If you don’t tell people when you’re hurt, how are we supposed to help ya?” he asked.

“It’s not your job,” you said, not really thinking it through.

“Like hell it’s not,” Daryl shot back, but his tone remained calm. “We look out for each other, (Y/N). That’s what we do.”

“I know,” you said, letting out another deep breath. “M’sorry.” Daryl tied off the last stitch and cut it before reaching for the bandage. You looked back just as he smoothed the sterile gauze over your arm, pressing it down firmly. “Thank you,” you whispered.

Daryl didn’t respond. Instead, he ran his hand down your arm until it got to your hand. Slipping his fingers into yours, he intertwined your hands together, rubbing his calloused fingers against your own.

You sat like that for a while, just listening to each other breathe, feeling the pressure of his hands in yours. This happened occasionally and you weren’t exactly sure what it meant. Daryl would sit next to you, press his leg into yours or even reach down and take your hand.

Back at the prison, he would just enter your cell and sit next to you. Even on the road, sometimes, he’d take your hand as you walked, letting it swing between the two of you. Daryl never spoke, but he always made sure to add some pressure, as if letting you know that he was there. A part of you never wanted to look into it further. You all had seen some horrible things and you knew everyone needed to feel grounded.

Daryl gravitated towards you to feel...something, you just weren’t sure what that was yet.

“You know,” you whispered, leaning into him a bit, “there is a doctor here.” Daryl’s grip tightened then, almost as if he was afraid you were about to run. Looking up at you, his eyes were blue fire as he stared into your own.

“And you ain’t goin’ anywhere near that son of a bitch,” Daryl said. “He ain’t layin’ a single hand on ya, not after what I know what he does to that wife of his.”

“Daryl,” you said, trying to keep him calm, “Pete’s not gonna hurt me.”

“I know he’s not,” he said. “Because I’d kill him if he did, I don’t care who the hell he is.”

“Is that you lookin’ out for me?” you asked, reaching up with your other hand to brush a strand of hair from his eye.

“Just don’t go to him, (Y/N),” Daryl said. “Alright?” If he was one to say “please”, you figured he was about to.

“I could have a concussion, remember?” you pointed out, still feeling the blooming migraine.

“You’re gonna be alright,” he said. “Herschel told me how to handle that. You’re gonna stay here with me tonight. I gotta keep wakin’ ya up so you don’t end up in a damn coma.”

“Is that the only reason?” you asked, testing the waters. Daryl looked at you with a raised brow.

“It’s the one I’m giving ya for now,” Daryl said.

“Just for now?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he said with a quick jut of his chin. You nodded and then leaned against him, feeling the pain echoing through your body. Daryl looped his other arm around your shoulder as you began to drift off. “I got ya, (Y/N),” he whispered as fatigue finally took over and you slumped into the man at your side.

-------

Daryl kept his word and made sure that he woke you up throughout the night.

Any time his hand shook your shoulder, pulling you from your dreamless sleep, you awoke to his gentle face aglow by the camping lantern. He’d ask your pain level and make you drink water.

Afterwards, Daryl would get you to lay back down, smooth his hand over the side of your head, and you would fall right back to sleep. When he woke you up for the third time, you noticed a makeshift ashtray sitting on the window sill of the open window, the smoke filtering out into the night. Having known Daryl for a while, you knew what it looked like when he was taking watch.

“Get some sleep,” you whispered as you rolled over to face him as he walked back towards his perch.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I got hours yesterday.”

“Liar,” you mumbled, already fading. The last thing you saw before you fell asleep again was Daryl leaning back against the window frame, his eyes on you as he flicked his cigarette in his fingers.

In the morning, your head felt a bit better, but your arm was killing you. Hissing in pain, you opened your eyes and rolled onto your back. Shadows danced on the ceiling from the sunrise and the breeze that floated through Alexandria.

“Mornin’,” Daryl said from his spot by the window.

“Were you there all night?” you asked, sitting up.

“Nah, took care of Judith a couple of times,” he said with a shrug.

“Daryl…” you sighed, shaking your head.

“It’s nothin’,” he said, waving you off. Getting up, he walked over to where you were and sat down next to you. From his pocket he pulled a pen light of all things.

“Where did you find that?” you asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Carl grabbed it from asshole’s office,” Daryl explained as he clicked it on and raised it before your eyes.

“Do you even know what you’re doin’?” you asked.

“Just follow the light,” he said with a huff and so you did. Daryl checked out your pupils to make sure neither was blown and then stowed the light away. “Arm,” he ordered, grabbing the medical kit from the side table. Moving your arm felt like moving a ton of bricks. Then pain was bad from the wound, but your muscles felt as if needles had been going in them for hours. “Swelling went down a bit,” Daryl said as he gently prodded the skin. “Maybe we can find some meds for the inflammation. I’ll see what we got here.”

“Who would’ve thought?” you said as he changed the bandage on your arm.

“What?”

“Doctor Dixon,” you mused with a grin. Daryl rolled his eyes, scoffing.

“Shut up,” he said, but you could tell he found it funny.

“Guess I’m banned from helping with the lumber for a bit,” you said with a sigh.

“Yeah,” he said. “Ford’s orders.”

“Well, I ain’t about to sit here all day and do nothin’,” you said as he finished his task. Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you stood up, testing your balance. When you were satisfied enough with the results, you went in search of your own room, desperate for a change of clothes.

“Don’t fall!” Daryl called as you exited the room. You sent him a rude gesture over your shoulder, making him laugh. After only tripping twice, you managed to get to your room, grab some new clothes, and hit the shower. It was a hassle keeping your arm dry under the constant spray of water, but you managed well-enough.

Once you were dressed and feeling somewhat human again, you headed back down stairs to only be met with Daryl. “You need to take it easy,” he said.

“I’m not going to go hunting Walkers, Daryl,” you said, carefully pulling on your boots. “Maybe Olivia or Aaron could use some help. I know Gabriel has been wanting to get the church back together.”

“Great, let’s go,” he said, leaning against the front door.

“You taggin’ along?” you asked, pulling yourself up.

“I gotta make sure ya don’t collapse and take someone down with ya,” he said. With a quick laugh, you placed your knife in its sheath and approached him. Grabbing him by the shoulders, you moved him out of the way.

“Mmhmm,” you said with a smirk, “well, come on then, Doc,” you teased.

“Oh my god…” he said, but followed you nonetheless.

-----

For most of the day, Daryl was by your side.

No matter what you were doing, he was there. Once you had convinced Gabriel to let you help him, he had you moving some things from Scott’s garage and into the church. Daryl, however, wasn’t on board with all the physical activity you were doing. So, instead of letting you carry the heavy boxes, he was there taking the weight himself.

Daryl helped you carry anything over a few pounds and if you were being honest with yourself, you were rather enjoying him being so protective. He continued to help you the entire time you were doing errands for the priest and even when Deanna asked you to help move some files from the basement for Maggie to review, Daryl was there.

He never once complained, but he was talking more than usual. As you completed the tasks for the day, Daryl was asking you questions about your life before the Apocalypse. He wanted to know where you grew up, if you had any siblings, and even what your parents were like. You knew a lot about his upbringing, but you never really spoke about your own. Still, with every question, you answered him honestly and it actually felt nice to talk about your family.

When he asked about what those first few months after the firebombs dropped on the cities were like, you began to grow quieter. As with everyone you had met in the new world, you had lost people from the first day the Dead began to rise and it hadn’t stopped. You told Daryl about the first people you had met on the road, the ones who had been slaughtered by a group of the Dead as you were escaping the city. It was then that you had decided to take on the world alone if possible.

That is until the fateful day in which you met Carl Grimes.

When Daryl asked about any fears you had, you began to laugh. “What’s so damn funny?” he asked as you sat next to him in Aaron’s garage as he worked on the bike. He didn’t want to let you out of his sight and you knew he needed to get some grease on his hands before the day was over.

“I guess I just never thought we would ever have to talk about our fears again, ya know? Aren’t we all scared of the same thing these days? The Dead, assholes with guns...each other.”

“Each other?” Daryl echoed. “What do ya mean by that?”

“How well do we really know each other? Eugene lied to us for weeks, Tara was with the Governor, and even the people here are unknowns. I don’t know, Daryl, I guess if I had to talk about any fears it’d be that I’m scared that I don’t know how to trust anyone anymore.”

“That ain’t a bad thing,” Daryl said. “Best to always be on alert, that way ya don’t end up dead or worse.”

“It’s exhausting,” you admitted, rubbing at your temples.

“Pain?” Daryl asked as soon as he noticed.

“I’m fine,” you said.

“(Y/N),” he said, wiping the grease from his hands and crouching down in front of you, gently lifting your chin to look in your eyes. “Tell me.”

“About a seven,” you admitted.

“It was lower a few hours ago,” he said with a frown.

“Guess I’ve been working harder than I thought,” you said, resting your head in his hand. Daryl reached back and grabbed his canteen.

“Drink,” he ordered and you did, sipping the water slowly. Reaching out, he smoothed a hand over your hair gently. “Better?” he asked.

“Bit,” you admitted. Daryl withdrew his hand then and left you to finish the water, trying to get your hydration back to where it should be. Leaning back against the workbench, you watched as he worked, his shoulders tense as he pulled at gears or unscrewed bolts.

Daryl was always in his element when he worked on mechanics. You remembered the first time you saw him working on one of the cars at the prison. He had seemed so absorbed in everything he was doing, happy to be providing for his new family.

You knew enough about cars to get by, but you could always learn more and so you observed him whenever you could. Watching Daryl rebuild cars or work on Merle’s bike was one of the main reasons you began to grow closer to each other.

He looked up from his work then, feeling your eyes on him and he gave you a crooked grin, one that was rare, but one you loved so much.

-----

As day turned to night, Daryl helped you get home.

The dizziness was back in waves and so he had you by the arm as you walked through the streets of Alexandria. He had tried to carry you, but after refusing over and over, he had relented to just holding you up, keeping a firm grip on you.

As soon as you entered the house, Michonne and Rick were in the kitchen, making food for the house. “Long day?” Rick asked as you moved past him.

“Too long,” you said, slumped against Daryl.

“Come on,” Daryl said, “you’re about to crash and burn.” You waved at Rick and Michonne as Daryl all but dragged you back to his room. As soon as you saw the bed, you nearly wept in relief. Daryl had been right, you should have stayed home. “Hungry?” he asked.

“No,” you said as you sat down. Daryl kneeled down and began to unlace your boots as you held your bruised arm to your chest, trying to relieve some of the pain. “I should get hurt more often if this is the kind of treatment Daryl Dixon gives me,” you said with a lazy smile. Daryl looked at you with an exhausted look.

“Let’s not, alright?” he said as he finished with your boots.

“Yes, Sir,” you said as you flopped back onto the bed. Daryl got up and joined you, sitting next to you. With your good arm, you reached up and tugged him down beside you, his body lying alongside yours. Turning your head to look at him, he was already looking at you through messy strands of hair.

Slowly, you lifted up your hand and offered it to him. Daryl took it in his own and laced your fingers together, his eyes never leaving yours. “Your hands are warm,” you said in the low light of the room, your voice barely above a whisper as if it would crack the tension.

“Yours are cold,” he said back, rubbing your knuckles with his thumb. “I should check your arm,” he said, but you shook your head.

“It can wait,” you whispered, looking into those blue eyes of his as he pinned you to the planet with his gaze. “Thank you, for lookin’ out for me today,” you said, tightening your hold on his hand.

“Always,” he said. “I’m always gonna be there for ya.” You gave him a small smile then as a shiver took over your body. “Cold?” he asked, his brow furrowing.

“Bit,” you said with a shrug. Daryl reached behind him and grabbed one of the blankets and draped it over you, careful not to let go of your hand the entire time. His other arm was pressed to your side as he tried to adjust the blanket, but it lingered, adding pressure to your body. “Stay,” you whispered to him.

“This is my room,” he said, looking down at you.

“Smartass,” you said, trying not to break his gaze.

“I ain’t going anywhere,” he said as he sat up a bit higher and then pressed a kiss to your forehead. It was gentle, but warm, his lips leaving a spot of heat on your skin. When he pulled back, you locked eyes with him again before slipping your hand out of his and reaching up to drag your fingers through his hair. Getting to his neck, you pulled him down to you and he met you there, capturing your lips in a soft kiss. His lips were heavy on yours and he tasted exactly as you had imagined.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. “Your head needs to heal,” he whispered, not wanting to move any further away from you.

“My mind has never been more clear,” you said, grabbing his face again. “Kiss me, Doc,” you said and with a chuckle, he did.

Daryl lay with you, kissing you, holding you, and never once leaving your side as you finally succumbed to sleep, your body desperately needing to heal. Looking down at you in the low light of the lantern, he promised that would never let you go, not now, not ever.

He had asked you about your fears, but you hadn’t asked him about his. In truth, he was only scared of one thing and that was losing you.

TAGS: @thanossexual @felicisimor @yes-sir-hotchner @lucillethings @stark-dreams @huffledor-able541

#Twd imagines #the walking dead #twd #daryl dixon #daryl x reader #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon imagines #daryl dixon x reader #walker words #twd fanfiction

743 notes · View notes

doctorbunny · 3 years ago

Text

MILGRAM theory time: Haruka!

This isn't going to go super in depth (famous last words) but there's a few heavily debated parts of Haruka's MV I want to share my findings/thoughts on because I think this is my new special interest and during my quest to get best boy's song to 1 million views I have been looking over his first MV with a fine tooth comb so to speak.

Disclaimer: As the Jackalope said in the "This is the MILGRAM" trailer, we don't necessarily know everyone's crime from just the first video, its possible that a lot of things will be re-contextualized in the second MV, however I am not psychic or bilingual and thus will only be working with content released before August 20th 2021 and translated into English (which could cause some language/cultural details to be lost on me as translation is not a 1 to 1 process).

TW for discussions of ableism, child abuse, murder and animal death. Also this is really long so sorry to all the people that follow me for non-MILGRAM stuff

Firstly, I want to start on the topic of Haruka as a person. He is disabled. He does not have 'the mind of a child' (although he is 17, making him legally a minor in both North America and Japan). He is not just 'child-like'. And he is not mentally ill (well he might be, in the sense that many disabilities like Haruka's have strong comorbidities [where a person has two or more conditions but neither directly causes the other] with anxiety, depression and PTSD, but usually when I see people talk about him 'struggling with mental illness' they go on to refer to aspects of his disability). Sometimes on tumblr, people like myself, will see canonical traits written into a character and identify them as being traits associated with our disabilities/mental illness and headcanon them as such. Sometimes this even involves saying things like "It's basically canon!" Although we understand that these characters were probably not the result of a writer intending to write a disabled person. When I say that Haruka is being written as a person with a neurodevelopmental disability, I mean the writer intended to write a disabled character and wrote them in a way that they wanted the audience to pick up on. As an autistic person (which is one of many neurodevelopmental disorders and also something I probably didn't have to specify because who else would be writing an essay about a series they got into a few days ago at 11 o'clock at night) I really like how Haruka has been written so far. There's definitely some parts of him that have been exaggerated so abled normies can pick up on his disability (namely how his MV 's main motif is really child-like drawings) but the writers also included a lot of smaller details I appreciate like how it is noted he avoids eye contact when talking to other people and is depicted as nervously pulling at his sleeves in official artwork, or how he says he finds his prison uniform (which has tight straps) 'relaxing' and when he gets nervous/tense, he will dig his fingernails into the palm of his hands. (These last two potential being examples of 'self stimulation' [aka stimming] where a person seeks out specific sensory stimuli in order to help regulate their nervous system/emotions, in this case the tight uniform creates a comforting, secure feeling [you may have heard about some people preferring to sleep under weighted blankets for this reason] and digging nails into his palms sounds uncomfortable/painful but is done in an attempt to deal with a greater sensory discomfort caused by the situation/environment) I also appreciate the depth he is written with, he struggles to communicate verbally but in his MV and interactions with other inmates is shown to have insecurities, opinions and a consistent thought process (this is all basic character stuff but unfortunately not always present in disabled characters)

Also I want to add that (in terms of what we've been shown so far) Haruka did not kill anyone because of his disability/mental illness. Disabled people are not inherently more innocent than abled people. But there is no disability/mental illness where a symptom is that you kill people and real people have to live with the stigma when you speak carelessly and suggest things like "Haruka is the kind of mentally ill person who kills people as a cry for help" 🧂 (or at the very least real people have to read BS like that and cringe). TL;DR Haruka is less child-like and more onion-like (as in, he has layers) 🧅🧅🧅

Now is the actual theory stuff, oops:

Every prisoner in MILGRAM is supposed to have committed murder in some way, obviously considering Yuno just had an abortion (which i personally do not consider an act of murder) whilst Mu literally stabbed someone to death, this definition is stretched a bit. But it is not agreed upon yet who Haruka killed/how many people he killed or why he killed.

In his MV he is shown to have chased after his dog into a forest, seen something off-screen, then beaten something into a messy pulp with a rock. Some people think the dog is a red herring and that Haruka actually killed his mother/the girl from the fireworks show/his brother. I do not agree.

First: I believe Haruka when he says he doesn't have a brother. The MV literally starts by Haruka looking in the mirror and then switching between the him now

and a really similar looking younger child who just so happened to be a key feature of his memories (I don't have the vocabulary to explain it but its like cinematic parallels that establish this is the same person at different points of their life)

Its not impossible that this is Haruka's secret younger brother, but i think its unlikely. I saw someone saying they had to be different people because Haruka looks less happy than the child but like, most 17 year olds are less visibly happy than when they were 7 (or however old the child is meant to be). Life happens.

So when Haruka is shown pushing the child around and eventually strangling him, this isn't meant to be literal (homicide or suicide), but a representation of how conflicted Haruka feels about his younger self, who may have committed the murder (if you've ever been kept awake cringing at memories of something you said in the past and wishing you could go slap some sense into your former self, this is like that but 10 times more self loathing). The lyric "I am always repeating yesterday," implies he might think about this specific past event a lot.

Moving on, its pretty well accepted that Haruka's parents were abusive in some way and Haruka internalised a lot of it: he constantly apologises, he says in his interrogation questions that his one wish come true is that "[he] want[s] to be loved" and describes in his MV how when he couldn't find the words he was looking for ("you're unfair") one of his parents "would get angry at me and say “You’re hopeless.”". He seems to know its unfair but also still says he 'loves' his family, possibly mistakenly believing it is his fault, but also showing an awareness of his situation (and how his parents might behave).

Now, the MV is stylised in a way that makes certain details unclear, but there is one clear detail showing that Haruka's dog was killed

This is the first close up of Haruka and the dog. Haruka's mother is just out of frame supervising, but they look pretty happy. Notice how the puppy has a silvery chain for a collar. Somehow, this dog gets out of the house but only Haruka is shown chasing after it (whether his mother was searching elsewhere or didn't bother following her disabled son into the forest is unclear). Either way, young Haruka is now in the forest, unsupervised.

By the time he finds the dog, there is already blood, suggesting it was initally attacked by something else.

is this a sigh of relief from a boy whose finally found his beloved pet or a jealous weakling glad that nature took its course and he is finally free of that meddling mutt stealing all his mummy's attention? /j

I think this shock at the discovery that 'there is blood on his hands' could imply that rather than literally getting the blood from his dog, Haruka has seen his already injured dog and realises that if the dog got out because of him (he is previously shown to be aware his parents seem to blame him for everything) then he is the reason his dog is injured/dying and will be blamed for it. (this scene plays over the lyrics "It’s fine, though it’s really not It’s really fine, though I don’t really think so When I tried to understand it, You’ll make that disappointed face again" suggesting he is trying to avoid making his parents disappointed and letting the family pet escape into danger is something that could make them very disappointed)

now we get into rock murder (this is present-day Haruka implying that this is either: not how the scene really played out; the writers really wanting the audience to know that this was Haruka's doing and not someone else's; or this turns into a separate incident that happened much later [although note that the red sky and blue moon is the same as when young Haruka first appears at the start])

b the corpse is beyond mangled now, but its clearly the dog because the silver chain collar is still there, to the right of the body. (circled in red for your convenience :3)

My hypothesis is: Haruka didn't set out to kill his dog, but upon finding it injured (we don't know the severity aside from bleeding and also it not being able to run away from Haruka kneeling down above it w/ a big rock so it could range from treatable with a lot of vet help to already on death's door, TBH I don't think Haruka would know the difference) He knew he'd be blamed for this; made into a villain who let the poor puppy come to harm. He panicked and killed the dog out of some idea that it would make him the victim here (since he'd be found crying over a dog corpse, which might make a parent go comfort him rather than getting angry about what could've happened to the dog). This is over the lyrics: "I cried, I screamed I wanted to be a pitied and loved weakling I was in denial, I was in denial I just had to make sure I’ve become a victim, I’ve become a victim" (there's another theory that he was also jealous of the dog, which could work here too, since this is not some calculated plot; rather its a rash decision) This ties in with his Japanese song title (translated as Weakness) which is a play on a phrase sort of like "The strong eat, the weak do not" to become "The weak are eaten by society" or "The weak eat each other to survive" [once again I am reminding everyone this is based on second hand information from the youtube comments section (from users mitchki and Alphaistic) because I do not speak Japanese] This second meaning (The weak eat each other to survive) makes sense under the reading that Haruka killed his dog in order to 'survive' making his parents disappointed for the dog escaping.

Miscellaneous points:

We don't know where Haruka's necklace came from yet, it must be a gift since the most expensive thing he's ever bought was cotton candy. The younger child in the video isn't wearing it and neither is his mother or the girl in the purple dress.

Haruka's home seems quite big, at the start we can see a large flower garden outside the window and there's a forest in walking distance. This might suggest his family is quite wealthy

Haruka probably did go to school at some point as homeschooling is not a legally accepted as an alternative to public schools in Japan. (However it is estimated that up to 5000 families homeschool, this is uncommon) A lot (about 62%) of Japanese schools apparently have a 'special needs' classes and there are about 505 schools focused on educating intellectually disabled students (although I do not know which sort Haruka would've needed as whilst intellectual and development disabilities can be comorbid they aren't the same). Now, if children aged 7-14 don't go to school, their parents receive a fine, but its possible that if Haruka's parents are wealthy, they just paid it to avoid sending him to school. (This might imply they wanted to hide him or were generally ashamed of him in some way) However high school education (for students over 14) is not legally required and its likely that even if Haruka went to elementary/middle school, he hasn't been around people his own age in at least 3 years. As he seems quite lonely and glad that the other prisoners give him attention.

I don't think Haruka's parents are divorced and if they are, its not his father who left. Haruka mentions in the 30 questions that he thinks he disappointed his father. But still includes him as part of his family ("My father and mother and me"). A theory I've seen is that his father was disappointed by his son being disabled and left. but developmental disabilities (especially in non verbal and semi verbal children like Haruka) can be diagnosed before the age of 3, so I feel it is unlikely that Haruka would bring up his father if he left that early in Haruka's life

All MILGRAM prisoners have covered one of DECO*27's older vocaloid songs (DECO*27 is a well known producer who composes the music for MILGRAM) Haruka covered 'Two Breaths Walking' (https://youtu.be/puXLfVWrz2Q) which is about a boy's first relationship and how his mother's jealousy set him up for failure as the relationship becomes toxic (specifically it has some very funny out of context lines like "Whose breasts are you sucking on now?") so yeah, mommy issues: the song (Also: some people say in the song, the boy kills the girl at the end, but this isn't literal, TBW is the first of a trilogy of songs about the same relationship, it is followed by Android girl then Two Breaths Walking: Reloaded and the story resolves with the couple reuniting as adults and getting in the relationship again, although its not necessarily as abusive as before, its still implied to be codependant ending on the line 'We should live like oxygen tanks, sucking breathe from the words each of us exhale, until our last breathe')

In all seriousness, the scene where younger Haruka is walking through the city with his mother but it keeps repeating until older Haruka pulls the younger one away might indicate an attempt to focus the happier memories of his parents (since this is also over the lyrics "Why is it breaking? Tell me why? Please don’t change If I tried and couldn’t say it, You would get angry at me and say “You’re hopeless.”" which depict a worse scene) I think both his parents are still physically present but have become far more emotionally distant, not giving him as much attention, which exacerbates his loneliness from not having any friends his own age to talk to

And if one of his parents did leave? I think its likely his mother since she is shown disappearing out of his reach after the dog-incident (inferring she got angry/disappointed in Haruka anyway) This could also be where he got his necklace from: Its something his mother used to wear (although this is 100% a guess) and that's why its shown to be important to him

This one is just me, but i didn't realise until a rewatch that when Haruka is watching the younger him and the girl running together, the background has fireworks. Haruka mentions fireworks being a key memory to him so I wonder if this was one of the first/last times he got to make a friend...

On three separate occasions in the interrogation, Haruka mentions not liking animals. Despite this, he is depicted as sleeping with a rabbit plush and on his birthday art (I'd include that too but tumblr only allows 10 pictures per post, so here's a link) he is standing next to a giant blueberry and strawberry cake with two bunny themed biscuits at the side. Through my experiences of seeing Japanese fandom art on pixiv, sometimes rabbits are used to insinuate a character is cute and timid in fanart.

Meaningless details: Haruka sleeps with his necklace on; he sleeps on a bed and not a futon; at first I thought he woke up holding his plush's hand but his hand is merely next to the toy; and considering the state of the pillow and blanket, I wonder if he moves a lot in his sleep or if the is just because in this case he seems to be waking up from a nightmare about the dog incident...

Final note: I've spent so many hours writing this I don't remember if i was building up to any big finale or not but I hope you enjoyed reading this! Feel free to add on in the comments/reblogs.

#haruka sakurai #milgram #milgram theory #001 #text post #essay #long post

71 notes · View notes

chrispychiken · 2 years ago

Text

Let's get this out of the way. First and foremost, there's always two sides to a story and there's always more that is always shown. There's some parts that haven't even been and never will be shown. Also excuse my Tumblr profile, I haven't used it since last year.

I am speaking from my pov, and recalling the events as I remember them. I have written things down as I went, in the order that I remember them. I also have examples and proof of certain instances. This is only for clarification and remembrance purposes only.

This is for you, and you only. I don't want any discourse, so I'll do my best to not sound rude.

I'll start off by saying that I do not "talk shit" about you on the internet. What I assume you call the "internet" is mainly Twitter because I blocked you on all forms of social media (except Tumblr because I don't use it and I forgot I even had one) where I use it (Twitter) as a diary/journal and just a place to vent (like most people) who use social media as an avenue to express themselves and to share memes and such. I don't do it for anyone but myself. I have a few friends who follow me and will sometimes interact with my posts and comment but that's about it. It's not for you or anyone else. It's for me and me alone. What I do on my social media is not your concern anymore which is why you're blocked. If I really cared, I would have reached out a long time ago but I'm not like that. The only time I'm reaching out is because I saw your post. To call it reaching is a stretch as it's more of a clarification.

You don't tell people about us? I don't find that believable. Why? Because why would you not? Isn't it healthy to have a group of family/friends who will listen to you vent? Isn't it healthy to have someone to talk to? Here's a recommendedation: You should. Whether that be a therapist, your parents, your sisters, your husband, etc. It's a good thing to have. I'm sorry that I have a friend group that were my thick and thin even before we met that stayed with me during our time together. They usually know me and who I am as a person and what I deal with. While we were together, I rarely spoke about us but when I did, it was only when it was convenient or when I needed advice. They're my go-to and I wouldn't be who I am today without their help. I've seen a therapist for over a year now because you know, you said I should? It helped tremendously. It was hard in the beginning because I hated that you couldn't tell your side and I hated how I could only tell mine. I like to have all the facts before jumping into conclusions.

I know you tell others about us. Want to know how I know? A few assumptions of course but the first one is a fact: 1. Your then-boyfriend at the time now-husband stalked me on Twitter and called me a clown for expressing myself over something terrible that happened to me that you did in regards to my clothes that you kept (which by the way you had no right to get rid of them. That was my property) and 2. I'm not sure you were aware, but a friend of yours (I think Greg? I don't remember his name) sent me a friend request on Twitter; probably to spy on me for you (only assumptions). That AND I keep my Twitter privacy open. Another example could be 3. That post you wrote but it's only assumptions unfortunately (because how are else are you to know I talk about you). Also 4. Your father, whom was very nice and actually gave me SOME closure, messaged me the same day I assume you received your clothes back last year. I assume you all probably had a hay day when you read my letter out loud and exchanged laughs. I felt like I had the common decency and respect for you to send your things back AND write you a letter explaining myself because you know, who likes ending on bad terms right?

To back-peddle on your statement that I "conditioned" you to push everyone away, is false. I have MANY examples through exchanged texts how I wanted you to have friends and family to support you and to talk to so I wasn't holding up the weight all the time. You didn't want to. I also DID NOT condition you to cry every night and I did my best to not upset you. Seeing you cry was something I hated very deeply. I'm sorry, but that's on you and your own emotions how you interpret things. Let me recall all the nights that you kept me up because you didn't like anything I said, hence the crying. Lord knows I reassured you every chance I got. You never accepted my reassurance. It was a problem through the whole relationship. And what's this about it being all your fault? We had discussed on MULTIPLE if not COUNTLESS occasions that it was neither your fault or mine, but OURS and the situation we were in. Keyword: Ours. I never said anything was your fault, you assumed everything was. Since you want to think I made you think it was, let me ask, do you remember you over-thinking? Remember me also over-exemplifying and detailing scenarios of plans to you and in-detail, telling you my thought process to help you? Remember me staying up past my schedule and losing sleep just to make sure you were okay? The only time that I didn't is when it was getting close to the end because nothing was changing. We weren't growing. I guess it went all over your head. At some point I got tired of talking and wanted you to talk to me like an adult instead of saying "no it's fine" whenever I asked you if you're okay or you answering "Yes. It's nothing" when there was clearly something wrong. I was tired at that point.

There's nothing wrong with your accomplishments because they are your own and they're well deserved. I really do hope you have the best success in life. (That's not sarcasm by the way and I hope you know that.) You've worked hard your entire high school and college careers, jumping over to Basic Military Training and getting Honor Graduate and doing amazing in tech school and I'm sure whatever you're doing now, you're excelling at so, kudos to you. I remember watching you graduate BMT with your mom on live broadcast last year. It was a good time.

Again, you not talking to me is your own fault. I don't know how you weren't able to communicate with me when I was so open about us talking out our feelings. I remember you telling me that you were afraid of me at one point and that hurt. That really fucking hurt. I never ever even ONCE physically hurt you or yelled at you and I did my best to explain things as much as possible to you. I never meant to hurt you emotionally or at all for that fact. There were times where it got heated, but I was transparent as glass with you about everything. Where it went wrong, I still ask myself these questions every day.

Now, I was hurting yes. Taking it out on you is something I regret and I could have done better to avoid. I was hurting not just in our relationship, but in my day-to-day life at that time and I did my best to make that perfectly clear back then. I was being overworked, paid not nearly as much as I would have liked, barely survived off of one paycheck when I lived on my own (which is why I asked for help but I know you weren't living with me yet so I said no for asking money from you) and COVID was a huge issue so I couldn't visit and take leave. No one on active duty could leave during COVID and you took that personally for some reason. Being in the maintenance field, I would work sometimes 14 hour days and not have my phone on me and when I would get the chance (which wasn't often) I would check my notifications from you. I couldn't respond as much as I wanted to, but I tried. I remember telling you that I would at least look at your messages because that way you could see that I saw them. I don't understand why it was so hard for you to grasp that I had huge responsibilities at that time. I just wanted us to grow and understand that we didn't have to talk every second of every day but at least we had it at night. I wanted some trust from you and time to myself once and a while so I could focus on these problems. That's all I wanted from you, and I never got it because whenever I asked for it, you thought I didn't want to talk to you or that I was mad at you and that's far from the truth. To this day I stand by that statement(s).

The big issue was that I was upset because when I said I didn't want you to do something, you did it anyway. It upset me from the time you said you'd do it, to the very end. You've heard this before but I'll say it again: What kind of person would I be if I said "no." to you? What kind of person/significant other barricades something from the person they love? That to me IS manipulative. That's not someone I wanted to be. I didn't want you to join NOT BECAUSE you wouldn't be successful, BUT BECAUSE I KNEW how even MORE difficult it was going to be for us. And on top of that, I STILL helped you through it because it's what you wanted. It was rough, and I didn't like it, but I LOVED YOU so I toughed through it. Does any of that sound familiar? It's almost like you went through the same thing with me right? Through all of that, you told me that I didn't support you, AND THAT IS FALSE and that hurt me when you said that. If I didn't support you, I would have left a long time ago but I stayed. I even gave you the idea to shave your head remember? Because I wanted you to be strong and be a good role model for your family and sisters. AND I EVEN DID IT WITH YOU. I even said BEFORE YOU LEFT FOR BMT, that I COULDN'T write you letter every day because of my schedule and you got upset. I even helped you get through the early stages before BMT, I helped you with the process of enlisting and getting through BMT like you did for me too. I was there every step of the way with you and did I quit? No! Even when it was hard, and I had even thought and said about breaking up (even though I didn't want to) AND I still stayed. It seems like you forgot all of that...

Remember me saying that I didn't want an Easy Relationship? Well I DID NOT MEAN, MAKE. IT. HARDER. I wanted us to get through challenges together but also to think about each other. Is that so hard to ask? I asked and said that many MANY times. Before I left and even when I was in the early stages of my contract, I gave you the option on multiple occasions if you wanted to leave and you could have. I also knew that you would leave me if you joined because I saw that happen to others in tech school and basic training and I didn't want that to happen to us. I even said that to you as well WHILE I WAS IN TECH SCHOOL. I knew exactly what was going to happen and low and behold it did. I was not trying to manipulate you into not joining but I was trying to mitigate everything. I was hoping you would think of me and us before jumping head first into a long-term commitment such as the military.

Going back to the breaking up part, unfortunately breaking up felt like the only option at the time because even though I wanted you so badly and I wanted us to work out, I knew it wasn't going to work. I felt like I wasn't being heard anymore. You were doing your own thing and that's great and all, but it wasn't about us anymore. Eventually I just stopped talking about it because it wasn't going anywhere. Nothing was changing your mind. It came off really selfish to me and I felt like there wasn't a bigger picture in your head at the time.

You can correct me on it, but I don't ever recall a time that I said you didn't deserve anything. I don't know where that comes from but that doesn't sound like anything I would say. I could be wrong and if I ever said that I'm sorry. I would need to know context. You can say what you want, but I prioritized us first and foremost. Me enlisting, was not just for me but for you. I wanted to provide for us and that was something I took pride in. You really made me feel like what I was doing wasn't worth it. I felt like I couldn't provide and my choices didn't matter. I could only do with what I had at the time and I can't change that. My biggest challenge was trying to get you to see that and to this day it seems like you still struggle to see my point of view. On what reality were you in? Because I remember trying to not be so naive and to bring us back on to the same page on multiple occasions. I wasn't going to live in a fantasy forever.

I've definitely thought long and hard about what I've done but can you say the same? If we happened to meet again, would you be able to explain to me what you did wrong? Would I ever get a real apology? Because I have a detailed list of things I've done wrong that I could have done better. But I also have a list of things that you did to me that were wrong that can make a huge difference. It's all about perspective. It's easy to sit across the table and blame someone for what they did but it takes a lot to recognize what we've done and own up to it.

Could I have said things differently? Absolutely. Could I have responded timely and accurately to your needs? Sure! Hindsight is always 20/20. Coulda-shoulda-woulda doesn't help entirely but it's what the actions that follow that matters. So, I have a few choice words for you:

Frankly, your actions towards me speaks way more than what I ever did. You coerced me many times to do what you wanted. I had to bend over backwards on occasions just to please you. I had to cut out time with friends and family to make you happy; and that was even before I left for BMT. I had to ask for permission to even see family. I lost sleep, I was late to work on multiple occasions, I missed out on concerts, get-togethers, parties and social events because of you. Something I don't talk about is I even dropped out of college because I couldn't focus on school because you took priority. Since you want to talk about manipulation so much, you also coerced me into getting married when although I wanted to and I had no money. It lead me to flip-flop a lot over a decision becuase I had to think of ways to come up with money I didn't have (and I know how much you hated it because trust me I hated it way more). As a first term airman in the dorms, I didn't make much and I had made that clear more than once. I had bills and responsibilities that I had to attend to also. Remember how I defaulted on my own funds to travel to Spokane because I had to pay for a hotel when I got here and I had no money after our trip? I was in debt until pretty recently to pay it back. My credit dropped and I was running on one paycheck every month which is why I wanted to deploy at the time because I would at least make more money tax-free. And you know what? I didn't because you told me you didn't want me to deploy so I didn't. There's a lot of contradictory statements that are prevalent in that post that frankly sound one-sided and narcissistic to me with a lack of perspective. I wanted to do so much for you and there's a lot that I did that you didn't see. I was prepping to spend a life with you and I got the latter only because you didn't listen to me and assumed I didn't want you which is entirely false. Those are just a few examples of what I had to deal with.

And last year in 2021, I had bought a ring for you. I took out a small loan for an engagement ring to give you and I was planning on asking your family if it was all right to propose. I had to skip on meals to scrounge up the funds necessary to pay for it. Unfortunately I didn't have the time to talk to them because of work and personal responsibilities and I felt so bad. I couldn't even call your family like I wanted to because of conflicting schedules. The ring wasn't much but it was all I had at the time. I was burnt-out mentally and physically and I was not all together but I really wanted you to just listen to me even if you didn't quite understand what I was going through. I was going to surprise you and I didn't want to tell you even when you wanted me to tell you. If you would have just talked to me about everything, maybe it would have worked out different. I ended up pawning off the ring that weekend I found out you cheated on me.

NO ONE deserves to be cheated on regardless of how bad the situation was. You had your reasons, but I also had every right to know what was going on in your head. I had no idea you went through all this and it was because you didn't talk to me. Remember when you told me that you cried that mother's day weekend when your family came to see you at Vandenberg? I didn't know until after you told me once it was all over. I never knew you were going through any of it. All you had to do was speak up. I didn't deserve any of that. I was never mad at you, but I was mad that you couldn't talk to me. Communication is a huge part in any relationship.

After it all I wrote you a letter explaining a little bit of my side in hopes that maybe it would have been more insight into it all. I packaged it in with your things I sent back. What I thought was a good send-off, instead I ended up losing my dignity and was stalked and made fun of (I assume). And I'll never get my stuff back either. I hope you got your things all in once piece by the way. I couldn't get rid of your things because you deserved them back and I didn't have the heart to do so.

Talking about introspection, how about that and a bit of retrospective on your actions as well. I've done a lot with the time I've had to myself. I'm not married and I don't think I ever will be. Every relationship I've ever been in, I've been lied to, cheated on, and mistreated. You were the only one I thought I'd spend the rest of my life with. And about those things I said that you did? It's not manipulative. It's calling you out for what it is/was. You've ruined future relationships for me and I will now forever have a hard time forming connections. I still have a hard time accepting who I am and I feel unlovable. I'd rather be single than have to go through another fallout like our relationship was. I don't ever want to have to keep explaining myself over and over and over just to not be heard. I can talk all day, but if you're not willing to see it from my point of view and at least try to understand where I come from, it's pointless. I don't ever want to have to deal with the loneliness I had to deal with even if I've got used to it now, ever again. The past three years of my life haven't been that great but it's been looking up this year so I can't complain.

Let me also remind you that I forgave you and gave you another chance only for you to fuck it up and turn it on me saying that it was all my fault for the way you acted and me acting accordingly to your actions. That's not right. It's not for you to decide if you stay or go if you're the one who left me. Don't leave me wondering if you're going to stay only to leave me anyway. I'm not an option and I'm not going to wait around for you. You didn't even give me enough time to process it all and when I finally wanted to come back, you decided to talk to him again and said that you weren't given enough time. THAT'S manipulation to me so I had enough. I was done. I'm also not going to stay "your friend" only to sit and be made fun of by people who I once loved and wanted in my life.

So look at yourself and your situation and be thankful that you're back home, married, and doing something great with your life and I'm sure doing well.

Never did I think you were out to get me but like I said previously somewhere in this, I felt like you undermined my success. Yeah you said I was "doing something" but when I needed you to sit down with me and see it from my eyes, you couldn't do it. And like I said previously, your actions afterwards there after show the lack of respect you had for me. I was so proud of you for doing amazing and what you wanted but to take an idea that I gave you, and run with it and say it's your own isn't right. I talked about you and what you were doing to others and they were chearing us on. Only a few times did they ever say they were confused on what you were doing but oh well.

I'm not saying you're a bad person and neither am I. We made bad choices and a lot of them were over miscommunication, misconceptions and assumptions.

It takes two to be in a relationship so I'm willing to take part of the blame. But calling me a manipulative victim is something that I won't accept. I don't call myself a victim. You can think what you want though. I would hope me writing this maybe changes your view a little bit but I can't control what you think or your emotions.

Regardless of all of that, I still have everything we did together. I have your blanket you knitted for me, and all your notes and pictures. I have it all and I don't ever want to throw them away like I'm sure you did for me. Maybe I should because it's not going to do any good for me anymore.

But most of all, through everything, through the hardest times of my life so far, you're still on my mind. I will always love you and I wish you and your husband well regardless of what turned out. I hope you get the best things in life and all the success you get. You deserve that much.

And wishing you the best is something I don't say lightly. I mean that wholeheartedly and respectfully. I'm not being sarcastic at all. It's hard to tell sometimes through a screen.

I hope you read all of that with an open mind. I own up to my mistakes. Can you do the same?

Lastly, I hope your family is doing well. I miss your family a lot and I wish you all the best. I think fondly of them all the time. I wish things would have worked out differently.

Wishing you well is not gaslighting or manipulative of me to make you feel bad. I'm saying all of that because I was raised better and I like to think I'm a good fucking person. I pick and choose my circle of friends carefully and who I choose to be with even closer. I'm sorry that I have had an impact to make you feel negatively when all I've ever done is try to make sense of it all and to make sure our interests were good at heart.

That's all.

5 notes · View notes

whump-town · 3 years ago

Text

The Blood That Haunts Me

post-scratch fic

no pairings

Hotch has a bad heart

word count 6k

In Savannah Hayes’ experience, Saturday’s are typically for parents with screaming toddlers looking for emergency medicine to soothe their fears about whatever toy their child has shoved up their nose or to ask an aged nurse what to do with this croup that just won’t go away. It’s scrapes and bruises from a fender bender with kids just learning to drive and roughly two to three broken arms from seven-year-olds learning to ride a bike without training wheels. With any luck, there will be only one underage kid in a banana bag and the college kids will be in and out for stitches and gone as quickly as they come. There’s always the regulars - older men and women that buzz with the opportunity to be out of their houses even if it’s to withstand the pain of stitches and staples on their thin skin.

Rarely has Savannah faced a Saturday where she knew someone being pulled into her emergency room. Virginia isn’t the biggest place but her friends are young and healthy and Saturdays are for squirmy children and stupid teenagers. When she sees him with his ankles stretched out over the end of the stretcher and a large hand weakly fighting with the paramedic to hold the oxygen mask over her face she’s certain of his identity. She’s good with faces and his is unmistakable.

“You shouldn’t be on break yet, baby.” Derek picks up on the first ring, the sound of Hank babbling loudly in the background making him chuckle deeply as he moves. The phone pinched between his shoulder and cheek, she can hear him pick up their son. Talking back to the baby.

Savannah is sitting in the emergency room, camped out behind the desk as she catalogs patient information. Despite it being a Saturday, the hospital is startlingly pretty timid (knock on wood). When there is a new patient the clatter is noticed. So when Hotch came in, supine but weakly fighting against the oxygen mask pulled down over his mouth, Savannah noticed. Even drugged and combative, he’s distinctly himself.

And as Savannah tells Derek, describes the man she’s quite fond of, he doesn’t believe her. Hotch doesn’t go to the hospital and no one’s heard from him in forever, he’s probably not even in Virginia. Garcia said Jack started high school last fall and if they were home and situated again with no contact then… Well, what are they supposed to do? “Derek--” Savannah can hear the pitch change in his voice. Derek goes from dismissive to genuinely worried and now pulling at strings because no one has talked to Hotch in months (nearly two years) and the idea of seeing him now is terrifying. “I am positive that it’s Hotch.” She leans around the monitor, frowning as she watches some nurses she knows buzz around him. Throwing out words she can’t make out entirely but she can see what they’re doing and it makes her heart jump a little to hear medications that they put orders out for.

Hotch makes a noise - it has to be loud for her to hear it from the distance she’s at. “Baby,” she stands and it makes her heart do a weird clenching thing when she catches a glimpse at his face. Sees that he’s crying and clearly upset. “Derek, he’s getting all kinds of agitated. I’m gonna call you back in a second, okay?” She doesn’t wait for an answer and tosses her phone down on her chair before calling out for one of the nurses she recognizes with a wave.

The nurse smiles when she sees Savannah - she’s got a particular gift with patients like Hotch.

“I know this one,” Savannah says, approaching the bed. “What have you got?”

Savannah doesn’t have all the details on the accident that occurred in 2009 with George Foyet. It’s not Derek’s story to tell and it’s not exactly the easiest one to bring into conversation. She’s aware of vague things like his collapse a few years later from scar tissue that caused him to bleed internally and that Hotch's ex-wife was killed by a serial killer. Mostly, she knows that Hotch is dependable and secure and that when he went into witness protection nearly two years ago his absence had crushed them all. Even if the likes of Emily Prentiss and her just as stubborn as hell husband would never admit it.

“Mild tachycardia and respiratory depression -” The nurse tells her about Hotch’s underactive thyroid, something he’s supposed to take medication for ever since the stabbing damaged the organs function. How it’s throwing his heart into tachycardia and it’s getting worse, not responding to medicine yet.

Savannah may not know what happened with George Foyet but she knows Derek regards Hotch as this infallible wall of a man. One she’s come to understand he thinks can’t ever fall down and one that, despite how fondly he’ll speak about him, annoys the hell out of him. Personally, Savannah thinks Aaron Hotchner is just a sweet man. She likes him and his little quirks. He’s quite the odd pairing when he gets together with Emily and Dave but they’re a funny crowd.

What she isn’t expecting is the mess of scars littering his chest. Experience allows her to date some of them by sight - their distinct shape and coloration clustering them into the same time frame and she can’t imagine how someone gets over half a dozen wounds like that at once. They don’t end there. On his right side, there’s a nearly faded out of existence scar from a chest tube. A puncture wound- something blunt she’d assumed by way of its roundness. Even a few rougher-looking, jagged scars that she assumes are shrapnel because Derek has nearly identical ones.

Savannah is a few moments too late to prevent Hotch from being pulled down by a sedative but he’s fighting it, blinking slowly to try and remain awake. “Hey,” she greets softly, turning his wrist over so she can see IV sight in his elbow. It’s secure and there’s nothing special to note but it’s going to bruise. “Long time no see Agent Hotchner.” She squeezes his fingers, smiling at the recognition behind his eyes even if his lips only form a silent mouthed version of her name.

With a smile - remembering the first time they met and how gently he’d taken her hand before shaking his head and admonishing “everyone calls me Hotch” - she reaches down and fixes his hair. He’s let it grow out since he left the BAU. Derek had been livid when he got word that Hotch wasn’t coming back despite the fact that he too left the unit. “How are you feeling, Hotch? Can I call someone?”

His eyes slide shut and for a moment she thinks he’s given in, sunk down low where his pain and his ailments can’t get him. He taps a finger against her palm and she understands he’s still here. “Morgan?” he rasps.

She nods, “Derek already knows you’re here. I imagine he’ll have the whole crew here in no time.” He grimaces, cracking an eye open to give her a look she understands entirely. She’s only ever faced their smothering worry once when Hank was born but she knows it’s a lot. It’s hard to imagine they’re going to somehow be less present and attuned with him than they with her. He’s not looking forward to that and it’s understandable. “Don’t worry,” she promises, “I’ll have your back when they get here.”

He nods, dull eyes sinking back under his eyelids. She holds his hand until she’s certain he’s fallen asleep.

“So,” the nurse asks softly. She moves and tubes and wires around so that they’re not laying against his bare skin. Folding the blankets over Hotch’s hips and leaving his chest bare. He’s still tachycardic, breathing laboriously through inflamed lungs. “How do you know this guy?”

Savannah sits down on the edge of the bed, taking Hotch’s hand into her own. Working her thumb in gentle, hypnotic motions between his knuckles and smiling sadly at the relieved rasping sigh that leaves his parted pale lips. “Family,” she answers because she’s not sure what the answer really is but in some way… yeah, family.

The nurse nods, going about what needs to be done while Savannah stays on the edge of the bed. She does what she can until she clears her throat. “Hey,” the nurse smiles, sympathetic to the soft faraway look in Savannah’s eyes. “Doctor Hamilton admitted him so I need to take him up to the--”

Savannah stands immediately, nodding. “Yeah,” she lays his hand back down on his chest. Stepping away from the bed, “sorry.” She shakes her head, stepping back as the brakes come up and he’s set into motion. “Second floor?” Savannah assumes.

The nurse nods, “he’ll be in room one seventeen. I’ll let the desk know he’s one of yours.”

Savannah watches him disappear down the hall, met at the mouth of the hall by other nurses and staff nodding as they take him to the right floor. She’d been there long enough to see his heart monitor and to identify the ventricular tachycardia plaguing him. He’ll likely need a pacemaker and she’s already racing to a solution. He’ll need to be monitored after surgery but can go home. Hank’s a little too small still but they have the guest room. If Derek cleans up the mess he lets Hank make in there--

Savannah’s heart sinks to the floor and she turns around. Hit with the sudden memory of the last event she saw Hotch at and remembers slowly that Hotch has a son and someone needs to find him.

All morning something had been off, Hotch didn’t have to say it for Jack to know. The oatmeal was made oddly, Hotch’s hands trembling so much he’d gotten the measurements wrong. Too much brown sugar but Jack hadn’t seemed to mind it being too sweet. He’d been distracted by his oatmeal and unalarmed by signs he hasn’t learned to be aware of. If Hotch had gotten up late or made breakfast and then laid down on the couch then Jack would have noticed. Bad days come frequently and like most storms look and sound distinct.

High anxiety days are an early rise, the sound of lights being turned on and off as Hotch fails to get comfortable in any room. Coming out of his room and finding his father curled up on the couch. His knees drawn up and a pillow pressed into his chest, a heated blanket wrapped around him like a cocoon. It’s lightly tiptoeing around the house so Hotch stays asleep and avoids him once he does move and allows his aching back to stretch out. Jack knows to keep his music down and to call Jessica if Hotch locks himself away.

Though time has dampened it’s severity it’s not impossible to find his father trying to work through untreated PTSD or ride out an intense wave of depression. Leaving him immobile or desperate for a distraction. Jack knows those things. He understands them and, like the blasting siren that screams out before a tornado, Jack knows when to duck for cover and ride out the storm.

But Jack had no idea what a heart attack would look like. What to expect or even if a heart attack had been what he’d seen.

Hands over his ears, Jack Hotchner sinks into the emotionless walls surrounding him. Trying to find the place past his body where everything ceases to exist. Insistently, against his will, he’s pulled back to a decade ago. To the sound of gunshots tearing through the only home he’d ever known. To Emily wiping his tears away with the palm of her hand, their backs to the carnage his father created in the fall. To a hospital not unlike this one where his father was patched up - open wounds covered and drugs numbing his rough edges - until Jack had finally been able to see him. The feeling of his father’s chest, broad and forever, solid as he’d curled his legs into his lap. His father cried softly as he explained what happened, what he’d done.

“Mommy isn’t coming home, buddy.”

Pinching his eyes shut, Jack rocks himself back and forth. He can’t go there. Not alone. He can’t go back to Foyet. He’s too old for those silly games. Too old for nightmares and monsters hiding under his bed. Unaware of the ones still crawling out of his father’s closet, wrapping their cold fingers around his ankle and threatening to pull him into the darkness with them.

You’re never too old for monsters.

Spencer had found the time to confide in Jack about being raised by a mentally ill single mother. His intent was to demonstrate to Jack that not only did he understand the pre-teens intense fury with his father but that the emotions would abate and Jack would have only a few moments to decide what to do next. How Spencer had turned eighteen and had to have his mother committed to an institution. A decision that haunted him but that he ultimately understood it was simply the only option. One day, Spencer clarified, Jack would understand the way his father worked.

Until that moment, Jack had been more or less paying attention. When it came to all things Uncle Spence, Jack typically has a longer attention span and all the patience in the world but the moment Jack realizes this was a one-on-one sort of deal he was done. He wanted out. But Reid stuttered. That one day, and the words had come out so quickly if he’d had a chance Reid would have stopped them, Jack would realize just what that meant. He’d look at his father and all the magic of his childish love would fall away and Jack would be left with his father’s bare bones. And it would be terrifying but, often, that’s all love is: all the bits bleached down to their true forms.

He gets it now, okay? The nutty academic parent with bouts of deep depression, an obsession with their jobs, and no idea how to say I love you like everyone else. He gets the comparison now. Can he be done? He wants to go home. He’s done learning this stupid lesson about love or whatever bullshit this is supposed to represent. When does it end? It’s going to end, right?

Derek Morgan falters in the doorway, stalled like an engine as he stands at the edge of the messy room. Hank hums in Derek’s left ear, bouncing his foot against Derek’s hip as he stands stationary and trying to wrap his head around everything happening. It’s overwhelming. Derek hasn’t seen Hotch in two years and if the sight of him alone - laid out right here - doesn’t bring its own intense wave of anger and longing then the sight of his uncovered chest is it’s own thing as well.

Hotch is on the bed, curled slightly to his right with the blankets leaving his pale chilled skin open. Even with his face turned into the pillow behind his head, he looks deathly pale in comparison to the white bedspread. Entirely too limp, too still as he lays there pulling in breaths audible over the hiss of the canal running under his nose. Nearly drowned out, consumed by the natural hums of the hospital and constant motion of the monitors to his left and the dissatisfied beep of the blood-pressure cuff around his right arm.

Savannah warned him of what he’d find once he got inside in case she got called away to a patient when he got there. She told him the buzz around the staff, what Hotch’s cardiologist thought and it stung to hear her warn him ahead of time what Hotch looked like, worse, she imagined, than what Derek was imaging. Weaker, she’d said as if the word was some sort of betrayal. He’s weak and Derek can’t push him and he’d wanted to advocate for himself but he couldn’t.

With tears in his eyes, he’d promised to be on his best behavior and Derek realized just how awful he and Hotch could be towards one another. How everyone sees it. He’d wondered if… Well, if Hotch hated him for it. They’d been close once. Partners. Haley used to joke she half expected he’d steal Aaron away from her. That old joke used to make Jason laugh so hard, the two of them together were the cause of all his worry and stress. Now…

Well, now Derek is standing in a room that can’t be more than a 120-foot space with far too much equipment in it feeling like he’s never been so far away from Hotch. So disconnected.

Hotch makes a soft sound from the bed, twitching his nose and flexing his fingers. There are more drugs than blood in him, keeping him weak and tired and unable to pick apart his surroundings. Hazy eyes blink open, peeled apart like they each weigh twenty pounds, and the simple act of keeping them open burns. He can’t make out the world around him very well but he sees the empty chairs on his left and the expanse of white all around. The hospital, he knows, and no one showed up.

Maybe they finally got wise and are leaving him to his own devices. Leaving him to rot where he won’t be missed. Sinking into the fibers of the bed and disappearing. They’ll stop pumping him so full of drugs and just let him wilt away. He wants it, craves the nothing he knows he’ll find. No masks or deception or this anger he feels burning and rearing its ugly head. Just nothing.

Derek steps into the room, sniffling to draw in some noise before he steps into Hotch’s line of sight. Hoping not to startle him, as he clears his throat, meeting Hotch’s gaze for only a moment looking down at his shoes. “Just me and Hank,” he offers. He tucks his hands into his pockets. He can feel Hotch still looking at him, hearing those painstakingly slow, labored breaths. He wishes he hadn’t come. To escape all this restless vulnerability.

Hotch’s eyes sink back shut, pale lips parting to mumbling, “Derek,” under his breath. Savannah told him Hotch wouldn’t even likely know he was there. The drugs are affecting his mental facilities, sedating him to keep him calm while they run tests. When he can remember what’s happening he’s scared and when he can’t… he has a baseline memory that hardly differentiates friend from foe. It’s the latter of which Savannah needs him to be aware of because Hotch’s heart can’t handle the stress. His mind is too clouded and his body too weak, he just needs someone to hold his hand. Someone to distract him.

Derek’s expecting a conversation. For Hotch to say something. To apologize for running off or to pay Hank some sort of mind. There’s not even a stiff silence, Hotch looks so weak, so pliant Derek isn’t sure he can even speak. He realizes that despite all the hefty warnings, despite everything that he was told he still walked into this room expecting Aaron Hotchner. He wanted, he needed the man in the suit, with that stern scowl, and gravelly voice. He’d needed the mask and instead he got the man. The man without the armor, just blood.

And it scares him.

It scares Derek that Hotch can’t put up his shields, that he can’t hide and play their cat and mouse game of anger and misunderstanding. They only have blind defeat.

Derek sits down in the visitor’s chair, shushing Hank when he squirms with agitation. Hank immediately starts touching everything in sight. Reaching and leaning dangerously out of Morgan’s lap, to touch the bed and smack his hand against the rail. A sound that makes Hotch’s eyes peel open to slivers before they shut again, unbothered. “Don’t touch that,” Derek pulls Hank into his lap, redirecting his attention.

He knows, from the low whine Hank lets out, that this isn’t going to work for very long. Mercifully, there’s a knock at the door and Savannah peeks her head in. Waving at Hank who fights his limbs out of Derek’s hold to be placed on the floor so he can propel his body in the direction of his mother.

“Hello baby,” Savannah scoops him right up. Grinning at that way he toddles, that quick toddler pace because he doesn’t know how to pump the brakes. How to set himself into motion that isn’t just guided by leaning forward and running.

Derek stands from his chair, clearing his throat and glancing down at Hotch before looking back to his wife and son.

Savannah can see his hesitation, his worry. “Why don’t we go to the cafeteria and get a snack? Hmm?” She jogs Hank up in her arms and he brightens at the offering - knowing pudding or a cookie is coming his way. “Derek?” She offers out her hand to him, “come on. I’ll explain everything to you downstairs.”

“Ugh--” all he can see is Hotch shivering. His skin slick with sweat from the strain on his body but the way he’s curled into the side. Trying to produce warmth where it isn’t. “Just give me a second.” Derek knows he can’t just throw the blanket over Hotch and he works himself up, gets upset just thinking about the mass of awful scars keeping his friend held together. All the old scars are bare for anyone and everyone to see. If Hotch had the presence of mind for it, he’d be upset.

With a gentleness born with great amounts of stress, Derek gently works the lower half of the blanket over Hotch’s leg. He folds the lower half over and hesitates, stares at Hotch, and wonders just how much he’s allowed. Hotch is cold and Derek knows that means his arms too but that crosses their line. They’re never spoken out loud, only shot through glances about trust and touch but Hotch is asleep or maybe lost to his haze of drugs (and Derek’s not really sure if there’s a difference between those two things). So, he picks up Hotch’s hand, swallowing against the uncomfortable swell of his throat when he feels just how cold the other man’s skin is. He tucks Hotch’s hand carefully against his chest.

Hotch’s face twitches, a grimace that makes him jerk his head but he doesn’t move his hand so Derek leaves it. Carefully, still watching and waiting for some explosive reaction but none come. Derek turns the heated blanket up to the highest setting, making sure even Hotch’s shoulders are covered. Tucking the blanket just under his chin.

Hotch groans from the back of his throat, a startling noise that comes with blinding panic. His eyes fly open, darting around the room and to Derek but not seeing. Derek can’t tell if it’s pain or fear but the machine over his shoulder picks up pace, reflecting Hotch’s distress. Hotch swallows thickly, mouth opening and eyes flicking around the room. Twisting, fighting his body in a futile battle where he loses no matter the outcome. Kicking out and dislodging blankets as he’s blinded by his pain.

“Step back Derek.” Derek just stands there, frozen. Savannah grabs him by the arm and pulls him back, allowing other people to come into the room. “He’s okay,” she mumbles, eyes glued to Hotch. He’s fighting blindly, anything and everything. His heart can’t take it, her eyes flick from his bare skin to the monitors. To the staff also taking note. “Derek, we can’t be in here.”

They pull the crash cart close, preparing vials of medicine before their eyes.

“What’re they--” Derek can’t move. He stands there watching them move blankets out of the way. Listening as they pull open a drawer and settle a machine on top and he knows what it is. Doesn’t need to be told what’s happening next. “Savannah.” He stumbles back, shaking his head. The machine wines, a high-pitched squeal that makes Derek’s heart pick up.

He doesn’t see, doesn’t watch.

He’s standing in the hall when the machine fires off. Can close his eyes but can’t unhear the sound of Hotch’s low groan, a punched-out sound but he’s alive. Still pulling in breaths.

“Morgan?”

He was still a baby the last time Morgan saw him. Quickly trying to climb to his father’s height but every bit as graceful as a colt, and angry. Angry with his father for falling into this same repeated history and questioning what he knew. How much of his father’s strength is something else? What does he really know about the man who raised him? Because he got himself a chunk of history, started to understand the man he’d always blindly turned to. His hero. Instead, he got glimpses, stories about the boy his mother knew and he could no longer recognize him.

But standing here now is a whole teenager. Blonde hair grown out and even taller, built unmistakably like his father with all height in his legs and pale.

“Jack.” Morgan stumbles back when Jack collides into him, long arms wrapping around him. “Oh my God,” he whispers. “When the hell did you get so big?” He’s standing there, a whole armful of the kid he used to give piggyback rides to.

Jack pulls away and wipes his eyes, furiously wipes his eyes so that Morgan can unsee the tears streaming down his face. “My-- My dad,” he asks. “Did you see him?” Jack looks at the room, alerted by the sounds coming from within, but Morgan steps in the way. “Morgan is he-- is he in there?” Jack worms his way out of Morgan’s arms, a whole tangle of long limbs.

Hotch would be proud to know Jack is exactly like him, real scrappy. A lot of fight for such a lanky person.

“Jack,” Morgan pulls him away from the door. Despite how much he wants to go to Hotch too, that’s not where Jack should be. That’s not what Jack should see. “Come on, kid. We can’t go in there. Come on.” The fight leaves him easily enough, he’s really just a kid standing there looking for someone to tell him what to do. Anyone to point him where he’s supposed to be.

Jack still wants to turn, as if pulled by strings.

“I called Rossi,” Morgan offers. Something to distract him, something good. “Everyone else? Reid and Garcia and Emily? They’re on their way, okay?” And even with loaded promises Jack can’t find the nerve to respond. Their names used to be a solace. Someone to call when he needs help with his math homework. To show up with books on whatever cool thing he’s into this week. His family.

People he hasn’t seen in forever.

They do come.

Hank’s ambling about, babbling to Morgan as he pulls his father around the waiting room. It’s his excited squeal that alerts them to the other’s arrival. To Reid holding the door open so the others can pass. The pile-up that happens, shocked inhales and silence as they stand there and look at the carnage. At Jack’s tear-stained face and Morgan going where Hank pulls but empty, fearful.

“Uncle Dave?” Jack stands up, wiping at his face with the back of his hand.

Dave smiles, “hey kiddo.” He doesn’t argue against the armful of Jack he gets, just closes him up. “Christ,” Dave whispers. “You’re a giant.”

“What is he feeding you?” Jack turns around and finds Emily and all she can do is laugh as he hugs her too. Finds herself all wrapped up in his long arms. “I’m going to give him a piece of my mind,” she whispers, “letting you get so big.” She squeezes him tight, cups the back of his head.

There’s not much more time for reunions, never much time for anything.

“Aaron Hotchner?”

Never get used to this part either. The sitting. The waiting. The calling.

Savannah was right about the tachycardia.

“With your permission - ” and it’s important that detail be added. That Hotch can’t make this decision for himself anymore and it’s resting entirely on the shoulders of Jessica or Dave and Emily alternatively. That doesn’t mean it’s not like a kick to the gut. A cruel taunt. “We would like to prepare him for the surgery now while he’s stable.” Stable? Is that what he is? Laying back there with defibrillator pads on his chest and sedated to the point that Morgan wasn’t sure Hotch could even recognize him.

Jack sniffles, ducking his head and whispering to Emily. Attached to her hip, clinging to her. She shakes her head and brushes his hair back, “it doesn’t work like that, Jack.” Jack’s lower lip trembles and it breaks Emily’s heart so she interrupts the doctors. Despite the voice at the back of her head telling her this isn’t a good idea. Despite the sour twist in her stomach. The way she knows Hotch wouldn’t want this. “I know there are strict rules,” and that alone should be enough to know they’re likely to be shot down. “Is there any chance he can go back before the surgery? This is his son, he’s fifteen. He’ll be sixteen soon. You’re hardly breaking the rules at all.”

Soon is a bit of a stretch. Jack’s an October baby.

The doctor looks at Jack and sighs like this is really putting him off but nods. “Yeah, quickly. Five minutes, do you understand? You can’t be back there long,”

And Jack thinks he’s won something grand. That he’ll be faced with the same mirage Morgan was expecting. His dad will be sitting back there tall and strong, probably just tired like he’s sick. But he takes one step into the room and wishes he hadn’t come. Hadn’t asked.

They haven’t removed the defibrillator pads on his chest just pulled a blanket over his stomach but that only minimally covers the damage. There are still visibly warped bullet wounds and jagged surgical scars to be seen. But Dave has seen all that. He’d been there to watch the blood spray out when the scar on Hotch’s shoulder took place. Shouted as the gunshot sprayed out and Hotch grunted, being sent back into the wall behind him. But that was… God, that was a lifetime ago when Hotch was just a kid.

Dave turns behind him and sees Jack frozen in the doorway, eyes wide. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Jack nods but he can hardly move, can’t force himself to move further into the room. He’s seen his father shirtless, not enough times to really gather anything but he’s seen the damage of years of this job has caused. But this is different. Jack isn’t six, isn’t watching him shave. He’s standing there watching him pull in laborious breaths, struggling to keep living.

“You know,” Rossi sits down in the visitor’s chair. “When you were born he cried so hard that Gideon had to call me.” He looks back at Jack, watching his face for some inclination that he’s going to either come into the room or run away. “Haley was exhausted but… She was beautiful, always was. No matter if she was showing up at the office to haul your father home by the ear in her pajamas or crying her make-up off in the waiting room waiting for your knucklehead father to get out of surgery.”

But he’s missed the point.

He chances a glance to Hotch, watching his pale face twist in discomfort. “You were born at eleven at night and by that point I was already in bed and done for the night by ten kind of guy.” He can still remember sighing and almost ignoring his phone when it had gone off. “I got to the hospital and your dad was sitting on the floor just outside the room, sobbing so hard I thought he’d pass out.” It’s still pretty surprising he didn’t pass out. “Didn’t think he could do it. You were so small, small, and pink and screaming your little head off.”

Jack huffs, smiling as he kicks at the ground. Looking everywhere but his father or Dave.

“But I picked him up,” grabbed him by his shirt and forced him to his feet. Managing the tough love Gideon couldn’t bring himself to enforce. “I don’t think he stopped crying until he fell asleep. Just sitting there with you in his arms crying.” Rossi sighs shakes his head. “Honestly, you were tiny. Had a-- Had a thing with your heart and…” Rossi had held Jack after Hotch and Haley finally managed to catch some sleep. A nurse had figured he or Gideon one had to be a grandfather, why else would they be there? They’d sat there with Jack for about an hour just gushing over how small and cute he was. Trying to keep the baby content so Haley could get some sleep.

Drowsily his voice cuts through the silence, nothing but a ghost of a whisper. “An atrial septal defect.” It’s all he can manage but it’s enough to get their attention. Jack had been born with an atrial septal defect and they knew about it in advance just after Haley’s pregnancy got tricky. It was just a tiny little hole in his atrium, closed before he was a whole year old. That doesn’t mean it didn’t scare the hell out of them first. Leave them to check his bassinet every few hours. To make sure he was okay, still breathing.

“The doctor said I shouldn’t play soccer because of it.” Jack manages a few steps and comes to the very end of the bed. His fingers just barely touching the bed frame. “But you let me play anyways.”

Hotch clears his throat, shakes his head. “I didn’t. Jessica did.” He grimaces, shifting uselessly to find a position that doesn’t hurt. “Said-- She said if you were anything like me you’d find a way.” He’s talked himself breathless, gasping and fighting to breathe. “Might as well-- Might as well make it easy on myself. Just let you do it.” So he had. He signed Jack up for soccer despite his own fears and went to every match he could. Every practice. Until he was the only parent paying attention.

He coughs softly, setting off a weight and ache in his lungs. “Jessica--” he cuts himself off, coughing until he holds his breath and fists the sheets in his hand to keep from still.

Jack looks away, fixes his eyes on the floor.

Dave calls it. Hotch won’t admit he’s not okay and Dave would venture Jack has that same stubborn-streak, doesn’t want to think that Hotch isn’t okay.

“Come on,” Dave motions for Jack to follow him. “Times up, better get out of here before they kick us out.” Five or so minutes, that’s all they had and that’s passed. “You’ll be fine,” Dave promises.

He struggles to get his breath, to say something coherent. “Wait,” he grabs Dave’s shirt. Hospitals are so cold, they’re scary and miserable and he doesn’t want to be here. He wants to go home. “I’m sorry,” he manages. “I’m sorry.”

Dave pulls Jack on, can’t leave him behind, and can’t stay any longer.

“What did he mean?” Jack asks. He keeps looking back, looking over his shoulder to the room. “Why’d he say that?” He has to run to keep up with Dave’s pace. “Dave, please. Why’d he say he was sorry?”

Dave stops and just stands for a moment, looking at the hall before them. “He’s scared,” Dave answers, finally. “He’s just scared, that’s all.”

He doesn't think he’s going to make it. That’s the horrible ugly truth. That’s why he apologized. Just in case.

“Come on,” Dave holds out his arm. Smiles a smile that doesn't even try to make it to his eyes and wraps an arm around Jack. “It’s going to be okay. You know that?”

Jack looks back over his shoulder once more, to the room. He doesn’t buy it for a second but he nods anyway. “Course,” he answers.

“Good. That’s good.”

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #savannah hayes #derek morgan #hank morgan #jack hotchner #david rossi #emily prentiss #spencer reid #penelope garcia #jennifer jareau

67 notes · View notes

cherrywoes · 4 years ago

Text

dark sun. (ryoumen sukuna x fem! vessel! reader x oc.)

iii. yugen.

— a profound awareness of the universe that triggers feelings too deep and mysterious for words.

rating: mature.

warnings: mentions of forced child bearing, violence.

YOUR NEW HOME was small, but much larger than the tiny closet that you had been sleeping in for the past several years. A bed with a mattress lay in the center of the room, the headboard pushed against the wall, and a desk and nightstand were the only other furniture to occupy it. It was much more modern than you had expected, but still kept to the traditional layout that most of the campus had to begin with. It smelled of wood polish, cleaner, and a faint incense that was making your stomach roll unpleasantly.

“They burned sage here,” Sayaka explained quietly. She stood behind you right before the threshold of the door, holding your bag while you scoped out your new abode. The rest of the ten minute walk had been silent between the both of you, filled with Ama-no-Kagaseo’s malice, Sayaka’s worry, and your disturbing apathy at the event. She kept running her fingers over the rope handles of your bag, working at each stray strand until it fell apart. “The previous tenant passed away violently and had lingering energy in the room.”

It was a convenient lie. Sorcerers didn’t ‘haunt’ in the same way that humans would haunt their homes, families, or killers; they did not remain behind at all. Wherever they went, there was no trace of them left behind. You knew that much from a book you’d snuck from Yaga when you were younger, before you were ever a vessel. Sayaka likely didn’t know that you were aware of that fact, nor would you allow her to be. You had to be clever now; you weren’t going to lose your freedom so easily now that you had it. And if that meant hiding things from Sayaka for now, then so be it.

“I see.” Ama-no-Kagaseo’s energy swept through the room and extinguished the incense burning in a corner. The smoke dissipated as quickly as it had appeared, floating up between the slats in the ceiling and encouraged to vanish by an incorporeal hand. You would have a headache later because of the smell, but you already felt better because it was gone. You, like Ama-no-Kagaseo, had an extreme sensitivity to anything purifying or cleansing in nature—although it couldn’t kill you, it could severely cripple your senses enough to the point where you would black out. Whether or not Ama-no-Kagaseo took over was his choice after that. You had discovered that little factoid after accidentally touching a blessed object in an elder’s office. “What am I to do here? I know they wouldn’t just let me stay here without some caveat in return.”

Sayaka followed you inside and set your bag beside the door. “There were whispers of having you keep an eye on Gojou and Itadori Yuuji, but I don’t know if they ever came to an actual decision over it.”

Oh, it was too convenient—in the off chance that Gojou would wield Yuuji to take down the elders and crooked system of clans and power, you would be there to keep them in check, to counterbalance the scales into neutrality’s favor. It was a good plan, a smart one, but you highly doubted they had factored in one thing: Ama-no-Kagaseo did not follow orders.

“Right. Of course not.” You pressed your fingers into the mattress, testing the softness. Beneath the fabric, your fingertips gave way to springs, hard and slightly broken in from where someone else had slept in a specific position. It groaned beneath your slight weight and you pulled back, eyes darting around the room to search for a futon—that would be infinitely more comfortable than this bed. “So, if I’m not going to do that, then what am I going to do? Sit here and rot until they call for me?”

You were bitter, and understandably so. Your freedom was on the leash of the elders who held the other end, usually with an iron fist and heavy hand. You were always raised to never bite the hand that feeds, but it was looking far too tempting right now. You could understand Gojou, just a little bit, and his frustration with the way things worked among the sorcerer society, but it did not make you feel guilty for what Ama-no-Kagaseo did to him. Not quite.

“Just…” Sayaka sighed and sat down on a cushion at the foot of your bed. She hid her hands in her pockets, fiddling with something that sounded vaguely like a chain or chain links clinking together like windchimes. She didn’t seem nervous, for once, but more exhausted—lethargic, even. The dark circles under her eyes were more pronounced than usual, her cheeks sunken and a little wan in the light. You hadn’t paid much mind to the changes in her appearance, but when she let her guard down it was apparent that she was tired. “Be careful. The president of the Kyoto campus is coming soon for the events—no, I didn’t ask—and he’ll want to see you, presumably.”

For just a moment, you had thought she would open up to you. Your gut tumbled with disappointment.

“When am I ever not careful?” With a slight scoff and a roll of your eyes, you evaded the cushion next to her and opted for sitting at the windowsill instead. It offered a perfect view of the courtyard and a small garden out behind it, flowers just barely peeking out over the stone paths. The wood was rough and unsanded, but you tolerated it just to maintain distance between yourself and Sayaka. “My entire life has been nothing but ‘careful’. You don’t have to tell me that, Fujiwara-san.”

You could feel her flinch at the sound of her last name. You never used her last name, at least not in private, much in the same way she only ever used your last name and never your first. It was new, bizarre, and foreign, because she knew, just like you knew, that the tiny chasm that Sayaka herself had made was starting to fissure into something bigger, something that wouldn’t just close on its own.

“Right. What was I thinking?” The sorcerer rubbed her face and exhaled a long breath. With a second glance at you, she got to her feet, shrugging off the vulnerability she had shown and replacing it with the Sayaka you knew. “I’ll leave you to unpack. Dinner is at five; you can join Gojou, Itadori-san and I if you’d like.”

With that offer lingering in the air, she stepped outside your room and shut the door behind her with a quiet ‘snick’ of the lock. It wasn’t locked, but the idea was there—after all, there were no tumblers on the inside of the knob.

“Indecisive.” Ama-no-Kagaseo manifested before you in a bright spurt of black flames, stars writhing inside each individual lick of heat. You reached up to allow him to hover over your palms to which he did so gladly, the fire oddly cold against your skin in comparison to the heat in the air around him. “She knows not what she wants.”

You huffed a breath. “I know. It’s her choice to make, though.”

“Mm.” A brief flash of fire and he was reaching for his human vessel against your chest. He lingered close to it for a moment, but you could feel his thoughts churning in the connection you shared, ponderous and curious. “Interesting.”

“What is?” You inquired, watching as he allowed his human body’s eyes to slide open for the first time in decades. They were completely black and enveloped with stars, much like you had been told how you appeared, and a single blue dot appeared beneath his eye.

“Nothing. For now.” The eyes slid shut and the flame retreated back into your open palms. “Hungry?”

Your stomach was rumbling, but a glance at the clock on your new desk revealed it was just four-thirty. You wondered if you could get away with eating early and retreating to your room again without ever having to run into Gojou or Itadori, although that was highly unlikely. Avoiding anyone here was as impossible as the moon rising before the sun.

“It’s a bit early,” you said instead, leaning against the windowsill and tucking your knees to your chest. You rested your hands on your knees, watching Ama-no-Kagaseo flicker curiously at your denial for food. “It’s okay, I’m not that hungry.”

A quick rush of flames indicated he didn’t believe you, but he went incorporeal afterwards, reverting back to a cool breeze that lingered in the air around you. He likely had nothing else to say or nothing on his mind that was important; he had a habit of doing such lately, though you could never pinpoint why. You supposed that it was not important for him to retain some physical manifestation while he was thinking, or that it was not his priority if he was too deeply in thought.

With a sigh, you sat back and stretched out your legs. You weren’t sure what to do now; years without freedom had put limits on your movements and hobbies. To now be handed that freedom on a silver platter, probably with later conditions, you almost wanted to go back to being stuck in that closet room all day and night. But you couldn’t do that, not when opportunity was already in your grasp.

What did people your age do? You stared outside the window at the stone path, eyebrows furrowed in thought. You were certain they didn’t have a Curse, that’s for sure, and they definitely weren’t a vessel for the world’s most evil being in creation. They also dressed differently from you—you, who looked like you had stepped out of a mystical, traditional Japanese fantasy novel—even when they were required to wear uniforms. Their sense of style and overall mood, just from meeting Itadori Yuuji, was different from yours. You wouldn’t fit in in modern society, or even the sorcerer’s carefully monitored one.

You were stuck, in a sense, in an era that you weren’t born in.

Ama-no-Kagaseo lifted a strand of your hair with an invisible hand in comfort. He was not quick to offer a solution and merely left you to ponder on all of the possibilities within your combined power. After all, they had to be your decisions to count to the council, not his. Any hint that he was persuading you in any way would force them to lock you up in a sealed room and execute you on sight.

But that was the issue, wasn’t it? There weren’t any other female descendants. You were the last remaining female Shiraishi. The men in your clan, while unrelated to you and having married in, were too old or uninterested in obeying the whims of the elders, as was their right. You had no choice in the matter. If you wouldn’t produce an heir willingly, they would make you do it by force—you had been told that they would sweep the women away to a clinic in Tokyo and create a child artificially, guaranteeing a female offspring. You weren’t, but your father was nonexistent in your life and may as well be as dead as your mother.

“Then I’ll just have to end it,” you mumbled to yourself. It was the only right conclusion. You would stop subjecting innocent girls to being vessels and you would simultaneously release Ama-no-Kagaseo in the process. But to do that, you would need help and information from Ryoumen Sukuna. He was, after all, the one who developed the technique to seal Ama-no-Kagaseo into a human body in the first place. He would be gone as soon as all twenty fingers were found, anyway, so there was no risk for him to be resealed again. You would just have to bide your time and wait carefully until the time was right. “What do you think, Ama-no-Kagaseo?”

In your connection, you felt him full heartedly agree—but there was also reluctance there, hesitation.

“What is it?” You inquired softly. He surprised you by completely manifesting—a childlike version of his personal form, indicative of his tumultuous emotions because, even though he was a god, he experienced emotions on a childlike level, experiencing them for the first time—and pushing himself into your arms, uncaring of his actual physical form against your chest. “Amatsumikaboshi?”

His white hair, turning a dark blue and then black towards the ends, brushed against your arms as he further wormed his way against your side, just small enough to fit on the window seat with you. He wore a drastically oversized yukata decorated with a dragon scale design, expensive, and of the same fabric as your kimono. A golden eye, as gold as doubloons, peered at you from behind a fringe of snowy white strands, and atop his head sat two sharp horns, each as white as his hair and darkening to blue towards the points. He was not as intimidating like this, but you still held the same respect for him, and he you.

“No.”

Amused, you raised an eyebrow and rested a hand on his head, combing through the strands soothingly much in the way he would yours when you were tired. “‘No’, what?”

Amatsumikaboshi—not Ama-no-Kagaseo, for this was no normal representation of a false identity—fixed you with a determined stare. He was of so few words that you only understood him through his emotions, new and unexplored as they were, and he was keeping them from you for some reason, fixed on the idea that he was going to tell you himself.

“No separation.” He frowned, then, and reached for your heart, and traced it back to his. “No split.”

“Oh.” You blinked at him, then, tilting your head to further meet his eyes. His pupils were unusual slits now, some link to a dragonic form you didn’t know of. “But we will part some day, Amatsumikaboshi. I’m only human.”

He seemed angry at that fact, eyebrows furrowing at being reminded of it. He never liked being reminded of your very finite life, at risk every time you got sick or ate something that could have been laced with poison. He glared—glared at his human form—and all at once, seemed to come to a conclusion. Some invisible future began playing out in his head, all of his own creation, and whatever it was, it made a smile appear on his face. It was the first time you’d ever seen him smile out of happiness, at least in a physical body you could see. You’d felt the others against your skin or hair, but seeing it was a different thing entirely.

“Do not worry,” he said after a few moments of silence, meeting your concerned gaze once more with disturbing intensity. “I can fix it.”

“Fix it?” You echoed. You reached forward and adjusted a fold of his yukata that threatened to crease, usually out of habit of doing it to your own. He grabbed your hand and placed it back on his head instead, waiting patiently for you to resume petting him. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Yet.” He rested his head against the juncture of your shoulder and chest, a hand creeping up to rest against your heart and feel the gentle beat against his fingers. “For now.”

Blinking, you were about to question him further when your stomach interrupted you. A loud growl tore through the momentary silence and Amatsumikaboshi snickered, sitting upright, all questions and thoughts forgotten—or at least ignored.

“Eat,” he said, a hint of a smile still on his face, and leaning forward, brushed a kiss against your cheek. And then he was gone in a rush of blue, black, and white sparks, as incorporeal as he was before.

You sat on the windowsill, a blush creeping up your neck, and touched the tingling skin on your cheek in slight shock. You knew he was watching you, amusement rushing through your connection, and something else—so fast you couldn’t even guess as to what it was—and probably laughing to himself.

Embarrassed, you got to your feet and slipped on your shoes, heading down the hall towards the room where Sayaka had invited you to eat with her, Gojou, and Itadori Yuuji. Hopefully they didn’t mind you being a little late.

Before you could even turn a corner, a man was staring at you—dressed entirely in black and wielding a dagger in his right hand.

“Who are you?” You demanded. He didn’t answer.

Instead, your vision went white, and before you knew it, you were back inside your consciousness, inside Ama-no-Kagaseo’s domain, except you were keenly aware of your physical body hitting the floor and Ama-no-Kagaseo’s true form standing right beside you.

“Ama-no-Kagaseo,” you whispered, shock weaving into your voice as he carefully enveloped you into his arms, much like you had earlier. He was two heads taller than you in this personal representation of himself, warm, and lean. “What happened? Why am I here?”

He hummed against your head thoughtfully, dark and insidious. “Someone is trying to break my connection to you.”

“What?” You pulled back to stare him in the face, watching those golden eyes flicker over your face as if memorizing a dream. “What do you mean ‘break’ it?”

“Don’t worry.” Ama-no-Kagaseo smiled indulgently and pulled you closer again, your ear pressed against his chest—and to your shock, the steady beat of a heart sounding against your ear. “No power in this universe will ever separate us.”

And for once, you didn’t really believe him.

< back | masterlist | next >

taglist: @picturethosesmiles (open)

#ryoumen sukuna x reader #sukuna x reader #jujutsu kaisen #gojou satoru #gojo satoru #itadori yuuji

94 notes · View notes

loverspersonas · 4 years ago

Text

the most beautiful moment in life | viii

pairing: ot7? x reader

genre: hyyh au, high school au, angst, drama, fluff, smut?

length: 5.5k

summary: Eight strangers with different stories happen to meet one day, by fate or some kind of cruel, exquisite happenstance, and realize that they’re not as different as they thought.

a/n: i realize i’m updating really slowly and the reason for that is online school which is taking up pretty much all my time BUT it hasn’t stopped me from writing at all. i actually have many different scenes written already, they’re just not in order, so i have to kind of make myself write the scenes that are happening first before any of those, which is hard sometimes cause i have so many ideas :)

i realize that the pace of the fic is also kind of slow and that’s because i don’t want to have such a big overarching plot (like some kind of mystery to solve or a big villain) but rather small subplots happening at the same time. it feels easier to me to develop characters and relationships and i get to include a lot of different plot ideas that way (and there is so much happening in hyyh). it’s also hard writing this cause the bangtan universe is really complicated when you think too much about it, and we don’t even know everything about it, so i have to work with what we have and what i know.

so thank you guys for liking what i’m writing! i hope i can do the hyyh era some (even if it’s the tiniest amount) justice, and i hope you guys enjoy it too. and if you have feedback or ideas, i’d love to hear it!

↳series masterlist

Remembering details from a dream was a lot harder than a nightmare. Nightmares had you waking up in a cold sweat, sometimes plaguing your mind throughout the day if they were intense enough. Dreams, however, were only alive while you were asleep, and then they slipped away from your mind like they never even happened.

For the past few weeks, you’d been getting dreams that you could mostly or somewhat recall more often. Vague, obscure scenes or flashes that changed sporadically because even in your dream state, you had no control over your mind.

But you noticed that they tended to involve people in your life. Your mother, Sana, your old friends, and the seven boys you’d unconsciously formed a friendship with over the past month. Of course, it didn’t have to mean anything. But some of them strangely stood out more than others.

One time, you saw Namjoon standing in a dark area with a single white light illuminating his silhouette from above, and a cigarette slipping from between his fingers. Another time, there was Hoseok at what looked like a train station. He was walking along the train tracks at night like he couldn’t see you watching him. And then, there was a scene of Jungkook walking on to the road, changing almost immediately before a car swerved right into him. That was one thing you couldn’t forget. Because you remembered it had been you driving that car.

“Y/N?”

The voice of the exact boy you were thinking of broke through your string of thoughts. When you looked up, you suddenly remembered where you were.

There were a lot of nice vast areas of green fields that belonged to the Academy. With iron benches and tables and the smell of oak trees, it was an ideal setting for many fundraisers, picnics and outdoor events. You were currently sitting cross legged on top of one of those gray metal tables right beside a tall tree that cast a shade over you and the seven others sitting around you. Judging by the way some of them were looking at you, you must’ve missed something in the conversation.

“Hmm?” you asked, glancing at Jungkook who was sitting beside you, also on top of the table.

“See, I told you she wasn’t listening,” Taehyung said to the two taller boys on either side of him. “Face it, Namjoon. The books were boring.”

While Seokjin seemed thoroughly amused, Namjoon’s expression was just the slightest bit annoyed, so you could tell this argument might have been going on for a while. But his patience with Taehyung and the some of the other boys was astounding to you.

On the opposite side of the bench, Yoongi was sitting with Jimin and Hoseok, and quirked a brow in Taehyung’s way. “You literally said that you watched the Lord of the Rings a month ago.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So?” Namjoon repeated, and the tick in his jaw represented the snapping of his patience. “They have the exact same plot!”

You found yourself drifting from the rest of the conversation again, as some of the other boys began to chime in. On your lap was a notebook you realized you’d been scribbling in with a pencil while the others had been talking. It was hard to decide which was more concerning— the fact that you’d so effectively tuned out the boys, or that you were only vaguely aware that you’d been drawing at the same time.

You felt someone studying you in your peripheral vision. Jungkook decided to finally nudge you. “Not interested in fantasy novel series?”

“No, I—just spaced out for a second,” you answered lamely.

His earlier grin morphed into a slight frown. “Are you okay?”

Am I okay? “Yeah.”

His gaze dropped to your open book, widening a little in mild surprise. “I thought you said you couldn’t draw.”

“I don’t. Art class was an ironic choice that way.”

“What are you talking about?” Jimin said as he leaned over Jungkook to get a better look. Slowly, the others turned their attention towards you too. “This is pretty good.”

Hoseok, who was one of the ones in closest proximity to you, stretched out his hand so you could pass him the book. “Woah.” He went through a few various facial expressions, a lot of them where he scrunched up his eyebrows. “What’s the inspiration behind that?”

“Probably not those dry as hell books,” Taehyung retorted.

Namjoon didn’t hesitate to shove the loud mouthed boy off of the bench, earning more than a few laughs from everyone. Taehyung shot him a glare with an offended hey!

“Nothing,” you answered him. “I just got distracted.”

The notebook was now in Namjoon’s hand and his expression was contemplative as he fixated his eyes onto the page. “You got distracted and absentmindedly drew this? With no idea in your head?”

“I had a dream.” You gave a shrug, stealing a few potato chips from Jungkook’s snack. “So, I drew it.”

“A dream like this?”

You looked back at him, trying not to frown. “Why, is it that weird?”

“Not weird,” he assured. “Just… a little unusual. I’ve never met anyone our age who would come up with stuff like this from their subconscious.”

“Who’s the boy supposed to be?” Yoongi asked after the book got rotated to him.

“I don’t know,” you answered. There hadn’t been a real chance to glimpse the boy from that scene. All you remembered was the black hair and the white shirt he was wearing as he stood looking out the only window in a plain room with only a mattress and white flower petals scattered on the floor. “Some random guy, I guess.”

“Everyone we see in our dreams are people we’ve seen at some point in our lives,” Namjoon said.

You gave this a considerative hum. Though you knew maybe thirty people who could fit in that description. “Well, I don’t remember then.”

“Let me see,” Seokjin said, taking the book in his hand. A moment later, his face morphed into something you couldn’t quite decipher. But it was like for that moment, he had understood something without realizing it.

“Why the hell are so many people out here at this time?” Jimin spoke up as a few students or groups of them began to appear on the field or pathway, spilling out from the building. “This is when it’s supposed to be the quietest here. I was looking forward to not seeing… pretty much everyone.”

“It’s not like we own this place,” Jungkook reminded him.

Jimin shrugged nonchalantly. “As long as the bright young things don’t show up…“

And just like on cue, the group of cheerleaders and jocks were walking on the opposite side of the field. You didn’t let your attention linger on the old group of friends you didn’t want anything to do with anymore. But as you glanced away, Yoongi caught your eyes as though he knew what you were thinking.

“Way to go, Jimin,” Hoseok said, giving the boy a light shove. “You just manifested it.”

Taehyung leaned back in his seat. “Seeing them this early in the day is really bad for my digestion.”

“Who told you to shove two chocolate muffins down your throat?” Yoongi said to him, referring to the now empty plastic container sitting beside you. You’d made a large quantity of them the other day and after recalling how Hoseok had liked your baking—and all his following requests over texts to make more— maybe the others would like something too.

The younger boy didn’t acknowledge the harmless judging tone he’d used. “My inner subconscious, which by the way, I have no regrets about.”

“It’s great how you can say that so confidently about something in your life,” Namjoon said with slight skeptical wonder.

“Y/N made those muffins for us with all her heart and soul—“

“Actually, it was just flour and sugar...” you mumbled though your voice was mostly lost under theirs.

“I was just displaying my gratitude,” Taehyung said finally.

“The muffins were actually really good,” Seokjin said to you as he closed the sketchbook and handed it back to you. You made a mental note to ask him about it later.

“Y/N’s a good baker,” Hoseok affirmed before looking at you. “How long did you say you’ve been at it for?”

“Not that long.” You twisted your dyed blonde hair into a bun and slid the pencil you’d been drawing with through it to hold it in place. “I just picked it up this year.”

Taehyung looked at you with a grin. “I guess I’ll have to annoy you enough at work to get stuff for free.”

You returned it with an exaggerated smile. “You come to work during my shift, I’ll have security ask you to leave for harassment.”

His mouth fell open. “B-but I’ll tip!”

You shook your head, chuckling a little. “You’re ridiculous.”

With his arms folded over his chest, he glanced around sombrely. “This is how brittle friendship is, I guess. Like a dark chocolate bar.”

Namjoon, hiding his amusement with an arched brow, said, “Taehyung, remind me to never ask you for poetry recommendations.”

“Hey.”

Everyone seemed to fall into a silence, realizing that voice didn’t belong to any of you. They turned their heads towards the new arrival, but you didn’t have to look to know who’d approached the table. At first, you thought you could get away without saying anything, but the rest of the boys were casting imperceivable glances in your direction. Finally, one of the others did what you didn’t want to.

“Hi,” Namjoon said to the boy who’d once been the closest to you.

Min-hyuk stood there, as though expecting you to eventually say something to him. Then he looked around the group, smiling his friendly, star quarterback smile. “Sorry to interrupt. I’m Min-hyuk.”

“We know who you are,” Yoongi said, the cold undertones in his voice not going unheard by anyone. Leave it to him to keep things harsh but real.

Min-hyuk, probably not used to hearing that kind of tone with that sentence, stared at the boy, a little dumbfounded. “Oh…”

Namjoon—you reminded yourself to tell the guy what a blessing he was— stepped in again. It was probably good that it was him who was leading the conversation. You’d learned by now that none of the others were quite as sensible and level headed when they needed to be. “What he means is, do you need something?”

“Can we talk, Y/N?” Min-hyuk asked finally, the question you’d been dreading, because now it was explicitly directed at you.

You held back a defeated sigh and said, “I have class in a few—“

“It won’t take long, I promise.”

He seemed to be somewhat satisfied when you looked up at him and nodded just imperceptibly. He started to move away from the table, and you made a move to follow when a hand gently closed around your wrist.

“You know, you don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to,” Jungkook said quietly but firmly. His eyes held something like concern, and gazing around the table, the others wore similar expressions.

“Yeah,” you said. “But he won’t stop until I do.”

Jungkook released his hand from yours, watching as you got up and walked over to where Min-hyuk was waiting.

You put your hands in your pockets, right away saying, “Let’s get right to point this time, shall we?”

“I left you a note the other day,” he said, not happy with your attitude, but not able to say anything to it either. “You didn’t reply.”

“That was you?” you asked, dumbly. “I didn’t realize.”

“Come on, Y/N. Who else would write you that?” He paused. “My mother said she saw you at the hospital yesterday. Is everything okay?”

You didn’t meet his gaze, instead mostly looking at the ground. If your eyes drifted around too much, you were afraid to see that other students were watching you like a movie scene. You knew that the seven boys you’d just left were certainly doing that. “Uh huh,” you answered, without any emotion.

Min-hyuk held back an impatient noise. “Look, I know you don’t want to talk to me, but I just want to know you’re doing fine.”

This time, you did look up to meet his eyes. “Why?”

“Why?” He was partly taken aback with surprise at your response. “We might not be together anymore, but it’s not like I just don’t care all of a sudden.”

“You didn’t care before.”

He stared at your expression, like he was wondering if you meant it. “Do you really think that?“

“You were never on my side.”

“What?”

Before, this would’ve been hard for you to talk about, because you’d only ever avoided it. To think about it would make you think about all the times you knew you should’ve walked away, the times that you stood there and just took everything when you knew you deserved better than that. But maybe it was time to rip the bandaid off. How long were you going to go back and forth like this? How long was he going to try to hold on to you when you wanted out?

“You wanted to know where it all went wrong,” you spoke. “How about when you stood there and let everyone, even our own friends, say all those things about me. And when I asked you to trust me, you didn’t.”

“It wasn’t that simple.” He shook his head. At least he had the decency to look apologetic, to sound like he meant what he thought. “I–I wanted to trust you—“

“I think I see it now.” It was taking a lot of courage for you to finally say what you needed to say, and now that you finally found it, you didn’t even care that other people were watching or listening. “We were both so good at acting like everything about us was perfect. And as soon as I stopped, things changed. The difference between us is that one of us still pretending.”

“Min-hyuk!” One of his friends from the football team—one of your former ones— came up beside him, tapping his shoulder. He looked at you with the kind of friendliness that was reserved for any random student in the hallway. “Hi, Y/N. What are you guys talking about?”

Min-hyuk seemed to have nothing to say, his gaze on you fixed, but his mind on the words you’d spoken. You were glad you had the ability to leave him speechless, to see him actually opening his eyes to a world outside that bubble he lived in. The bubble that you’d also been a part of, but were now glad to have found a way out.

“Well,” you said to both of them. “I have class now.”

With your bag over your shoulder, you turned and headed for the building without paying attention to any of the stares that followed you.

By the end of the day, that courage and energy that had allowed you to speak up to Min-hyuk had dissipated. Hopefully, he wouldn’t approach you again any time soon. Was it asking too much to not be approached by anyone else at all?

Now, you were standing in front of the doors to the pool once again, looking inside, but not having the courage to go in. It was almost a metaphor for your life. You were standing on the outside of a part of your life from the past, not being able to actually go in and see it properly.

Yoongi’s figure materialized next to you, not saying anything at first as though he could tell you were deep in thought. So, you broke the silence first and asked, “Long day?”

“You have no idea,” he answered. “Guess which asshole of a teacher decided to assign us a 10 page paper due in less than a week?”

Glancing sideways at him, you grinned. “The one who probably has hypertension from having to teach you?”

He shot you a dry look, but the corners of his mouth twitched a little like he was also holding back a grin of his own. “You’re hilarious, princess. But also probably right.” He noticed your attention on the pool on the opposite of the doors. "What, are you not allowed to go in or something? Weren’t you on the swim team at some point?”

Instead of answering, you turned away from the doors and started walking down the hallway. “Weren’t you on the basketball team?”

As Yoongi walked alongside you, subtle surprise appeared on his face. “It’s been a while since anyone’s asked me that.”

“You were captain of the team too, right?” you asked. “That’s how I knew you.”

Something else flickered across his face, though you didn’t know what it was. To you, it was probably the face you wore when you were briefly and vaguely recalling something in your mind. “Well, it’s always nice to hear that my reputation precedes me. And not just as a gothic, underground rapper.” He ignored your subtle roll of eyes. “I played shooting guard actually.”

You hummed, remembering all the basketball games you attended in the gymnasium with your old friends. As part of the cheerleading team, you’d had an obligation to be there, but some of the games actually got interesting to watch. The first time you’d noticed Yoongi was when one time you’d been running late and had been trying to not fall behind the rest of the team. You remembered dropping one of your pompoms while trying to tie your hair up, and in passing, he’d picked up and handed it to you. You didn’t think he remembered it, and maybe it was a little embarrassing that you did.

“You were good too.” You stopped near the front doors, most of the students walking around you with no interest since it was the end of the school day. Yoongi shot you a slightly puzzled look. “I was a cheerleader, remember? I’ve been to a bunch of games.”

“I remember,” he said after a moment, and it didn’t sound like something you’d say to someone just to blindly agree with them, so that was why you ended up meeting his gaze. There was something underneath those deep gray eyes that you didn’t really understand, but somehow, still found it startling to hold eye contact.

You half forced a chuckle to move the attention away from you. “Besides, it’s kind of hard to miss the only guy on the team with dyed blonde hair.”

He chuckled. “I almost forgot about that.”

“How could you forget? You were literally my inspiration,” you said, gesturing to your own bleached hair. When he threw you a dubious side eye, you shouldn’t have been surprised. Surely, that would’ve tricked one of the other boys. “Alright, fine, you didn’t. You know, I definitely do not miss the 5 hour practices, or the tiny uniforms or Yuna screaming at some younger, clueless girl to stop slacking.”

“But the outfits were so cute,” Yoongi teased, and though you were glad the topic changed, you shot him an unamused glance. “It was a joke. On a related note… what did the ex-boyfriend want earlier?”

You arched a brow and held back an amused grin. “You can say his name, you know.”

“Yeah, but that would give him too much significance. Unnamed means unimportant.”

You hummed in agreement. “Nothing really.”

“Is that why you ditched us afterwards without so much as a word?” he asked skeptically.

You tried not to sound irritated about it, but you’d hoped you could make it through the day without having to talk about it. “I ditched you, because I wasn’t in the mood to be interrogated about it.”

“How quickly you assume we would interrogate you.”

“Well, wouldn’t you?”

“Fine,” he grumbled after some seconds. “At least 3/7ths of us might. Can you really blame us for being curious? It looked kind of intense.”

Folding your arms over your chest, you looked at him with a grin forming on your lips. “Remember how you said you didn’t care? Well, it’s starting to sound a little like you do.”

He scoffed. “Please. You mistake my blind curiosity for something it isn’t.” He watched you a little longer as you shrugged before saying, “Remember when you said I was good at deflecting? You’re not so bad at it yourself.”

A part of you thought that this was a good time as any to actually talk about it. About how you’d cut things off with Yuna and Min-hyuk, and why you’d wanted to. By now, you felt like you could tell any of the seven boys and they’d listen—actually listen—and Yoongi, despite coming off as aloof and indifferent, wouldn’t judge you or anything. But this recent bond with them felt like a new and good thing, and you just didn’t want to jeopardize it, like you did with most things.

"Do you a need ride home?” Yoongi asked when he realized you were too deep in your head to say anything else about it. “I’m giving Jungkook one too, so I can drop you off after.”

“You go ahead,” you answered. “I have some stuff to do first.”

At first, he seemed almost reluctant to leave you alone, but you had a feeling he wouldn’t insist or comment on it. It would contradict his indifference to most things. Only after he left did you turn and start aimlessly walking down the other side of the hallway. It wasn’t like you had anything to do. You just weren’t sure if you wanted to be around anyone with curiosity like Yoongi’s lingering above your head. Talking about yourself and your personal life was never fun.

Eventually, you ran into another familiar face.

“Hey, what’s up?” Namjoon said as he approached you in the hall.

“If this is about this morning, I’d rather not talk about it,” you decided to say immediately because if anyone could get answers from you by asking the right questions, it was probably Namjoon.

Fortunately for you, Namjoon could’ve read that from a mile away and wasn’t one to pry. He nodded in understanding. “I figured as much. Oh, hold on a second.” From his backpack, he drew out some loose papers tucked into a notebook. “I went through some of these to find whatever was legible enough.”

You scanned the writing briefly. “Your English notes?”

“Yeah, I remember you said the last class went over your head.”

“I just don’t understand why it’s bought and not buyed, but it’s walk and walked? Like why can’t they can’t follow the same rule for every past tense conjugation?” you complained, but still a little touched that he remembered something you’d probably said in passing. “But thanks.”

“Also, if you see Taehyung, can you let him know I can’t walk home with him today?”

You nodded. “Sure. Staying back for extra work?”

“No, I—I have a shift today.”

You wondered why he sounded reluctant to answer. “Where do you work?”

“It’s a library,” he said with a small shrug. “It’s on the other side of the city, so I like to leave a little earlier.”

You shot him an amused grin. “Were there no libraries nearby hiring? Because I know if they saw your GPA, they would not hesitate.”

“Uh, this one has a nicer collection.”

“Alright,” you said, deciding not to question his responses since he hadn’t questioned you. But for some reason, it felt like he was trying to hide something. “See you tomorrow then.”

Smiling, he said, “Thanks, Y/N.”

As he walked away, you had to stop the curiosity from getting to you. It truly was an ordeal to be so curious and not want to intrude upon things that didn’t concern you. You had to remind yourself that it was better that information came to you at the right time rather than forcing it. At first, the reminder was about other people, but sometimes, you thought it was also about yourself.

After exiting through the west doors, you noticed Taehyung at the bottom of the staircase right outside the building. He was leaning against the railing, hood over his head and concentrated on whatever game he was playing on his phone. You slowed your steps, approaching the stairs. “You’re still here.”

Taehyung glanced up at you, slipping his phone into his pocket as you came towards him. “Waiting for Namjoon. The kid’s a genius, but his punctuality could use a little improvement.”

You quirked a brow. “Kid? He’s older than you.”

Folding his arms over his chest, he said pointedly, “And I’m older than you. So how about you don’t question me?”

You had to bite back a smile at his antics. It was hard to believe sometimes that most of these boys were older than you. “He told me to tell you he has work today, so he can’t make it.”

He let out a loud and dramatic groan, practically cringing at himself. “For real? I probably look like some idiot, waiting on the stairs for his even more of an idiot boyfriend.”

You shrugged, not hiding the smile this time. “Just a little.”

He looked back at you. “How are you getting home? I’ll walk with you.”

He already started walking, expecting you to follow, so you didn’t get a chance to reply. With a defeated sigh, you decided to go after him.

Your first mistake was choosing to walk all the way home instead of taking the bus. Your second mistake was letting Taehyung take the lead, because that boy looked like he’d never had a plan a day in his life. While you somewhat admired the spontaneity, you were used to routine or a plan of some kind. Although you did suppose that this year, everything that had happened, and was happening now, was not planned at all.

“I’ve never gone this way before.”

The buildings were older and a bit worn away, but almost in an intentional manner, posters and signs on the gray brick walls. You passed several small shops and restaurants and cafes that despite appearing quaint seemed very cute. The people that walked by were all in their own worlds, not so much as glancing at you or anyone near them. It was something like a secret tourist spot or a hidden gem.

“Really?” Taehyung said. He walked on your right, but a little ahead. You wanted to say it was because he was leading the way, but that presumed he knew where he was going. “This street’s pretty cool. Hidden away from the centre, though, so you don’t really know about it until you come yourself.”

You removed your eyes from an old bookstore with a chalkboard sign outside. “You must do a lot of exploring, huh?”

“Whatever gets me out of the house.” He stopped walking abruptly. When you stopped to ask what was wrong, you saw a mischievous smile form on his face. “I just had a brilliant idea.”

“Why am I kind of doubtful?”

Despite the many, many questions you asked, Taehyung didn’t answer any of them. He could try and be mysterious if he wanted, but you wouldn’t buy it, was what you said to him. Instead, you waited outside while he went into a convenience store for a few minutes. You shouldn’t have been so surprised when he emerged with a plastic bag in hand, full of bottles of spray paint. You opened your mouth to ask what he was planning, but he just tugged on your arm and made you follow him around the corner.

The street you stopped at had to be somewhat of a visual arts scene, because you recalled passing arts and crafts places and small galleries, and the wall that stood in front of you now was a graffiti wall.

“This is so cool,” you said in awe, all thoughts of skepticism at Taehyung’s actions gone. Your gaze roamed over the various artwork and writing, painted on by different kinds of paint and people and minds. It was like an anonymous outlet for creativity and self expression, something like in the olden days when things like freedom of expression was outlawed, so people had to get creative around it.

“I love all kinds of art,” Taehyung said, dropping his backpack and crouching near the ground. “But graffiti has become more interesting recently. Here.”

You looked to see that he was holding out a can of spray paint for you. “This is vandalizing.”

He half scoffed, half laughed. “This is an artistic statement.”

“They’re not mutually exclusive, Taehyung.”

“Relax, Y/N.” He placed the can in your hand himself after he decided that you wouldn’t take it, then took another out of the bag for himself. “I’ve done this billions of times. You won’t get caught.”

Despite yourself, there was an urge in you to just do it, get your hands a little messy. That was why you liked to bake after all, wasn’t it? That was why you chose art class. You could make a mess and make something good out of it. You could control something instead of being controlled. But turning back to the wall of art and messages and stories, you hesitated. “I can’t paint like this,” you tried lamely.

Taehyung shot you a look. “I saw your sketch today. It was far from shitty.” After a minute of waiting, he sighed. “Fine, I’ll go first.”

The way he walked up the an empty section of the wall with confidence, how he shook the paint can and effortlessly began to draw strokes in red paint told you that he wasn’t lying when he said he’d done this a lot.

When he finished, he stepped back to where you stood, briefly appraising his work before saying, “Your turn. Don’t think too much. Just whatever’s on your mind, let it out.”

So, you found yourself closing your eyes briefly, and releasing a breath before stepping forward. You pushed on the paint can’s nozzle and let your mind take over for your hand and for a few minutes, all that was heard was the faint car engines in the distance and the spraying noise of the paint. Finally, you let your arm drop to see what you’d made. It was a pair of blue wings like a butterfly’s.

Taehyung studied the wall for a moment before humming, “Interesting.”

“By interesting, you mean awful.”

He shot you a look. “By interesting, I mean interesting. You and Namjoon might like to have second meanings to your sentences, but I’m a simple guy.”

“Uh huh.” You watched him move back to the wall and start painting something else. It was funny how before you’d known him, you had him pegged for some kind of reckless skater boy with a rebellious streak. He was actually more of an artsy boy with a rebellious streak. “I guess it would be easier if everyone wasn’t always pretending to be something they’re not.”

“Was Min-hyuk pretending to be a super nice guy again?” He only glanced over his shoulder at you when he didn’t get an answer. Of course this topic would’ve inevitable come up although you’d also assumed Taehyung would avoid uncomfortable conversations whenever he could. “None of those guys are all what they show. It’s good that you hit one of them. You might accidentally activate some part in the brain that knocks some sense into them.”

You nodded at this, slightly amused. “If that was how neurobiology worked.”

“Let’s experiment. Hit me over the head really hard and tomorrow, let’s see if I pass my math test.”

You were holding back a laugh when your gaze fell on part of his drawing. “Is that your signature?”

“Oh, that... it’s kind of like my alias,” Taehyung said almost like it was embarrassing for him to say. This must have been the first time he’d told someone about his side hobby. “For when I’m out painting.”

“For when you’re out vandalizing,” you remarked.

He mocked the face you’d made earlier and said, “They’re not mutually exclusive, Y/N.”

You let out a scoff, but couldn’t hide your amusement. “What does it mean? The V?”

“It’s short for Vante.”

You hummed. “Interesting.”

“You mean interesting good or interesting bad?”

“I mean interesting,” you said, deepening your voice a little to mock him.

The side of his mouth curved into a grin. “Touche.”

Returning your attention to the wall, your eyes began to study the various drawings, fleetingly going back to another wall and another drawing. “You haven’t seen anything like the hwa yang yeong hwa we saw before, have you?”

“No,” Taehyung answered, then gave it another thought. “Not that I’ve been to a lot of graffiti places outside of this area. But from where I have looked around, it’s made me think that maybe this... Smeraldo person isn’t a regular graffiti artist.”

“As in, this was just a one time thing for them?”

“Maybe.”

“I guess that means it’s not just graffiti we should be looking at,” you speculated. “It’s definitely a start but could be any art form.”

“Or maybe the art is just a way to get it out there.”

You frowned. “Meaning what? Someone’s trying to say something? To send a message?”

He shrugged. “It’s possible, yeah.”

His attention refocused on the drawing he’d started, but your mind began to run through possible explanations. What if somehow someone was trying to say something? More importantly, what if someone was trying to say something to you?

The sun was beginning to lower by the time you reached Taehyung’s place. You didn’t even realize the two of you had been out for a while with his detour idea.

You tilted your head up to observe the apartment building complex. Since you’d never been to this part of the city before, you couldn’t say much about it. But by the oldness and the obvious low maintenance of the building, you guessed that the rent was affordable. Taehyung, like you, wasn’t one of the richer kids of the Academy. You supposed that the talent that had gotten him in was art related, if not painting specifically.

“Is this where you live?” you asked to break the silence.

“Yup,” Taehyung said, popping the sound at the end. “Home sweet…” He trailed off a little as his faraway gaze crossed the building, instead turning back to you. “Do you live close by? I can walk with you.”

You made a dubious face. “Are you sure you want to walk there and then all the way back?”

“Hey, I may be lazy, but I’m not that lazy.”

“I don’t need protecting, if that’s what you were going to say.”

He scoffed. “Obviously not. You broke a guy’s fucking jaw!”

“It wasn’t actually broken,” you muttered before shaking your head. “Wouldn’t you rather go home? Your parents are probably waiting for you.”

“No one’s waiting for me.” Before you could say anything, he waved it away, his long hair hiding the expression on his face you were trying to read. “It’s fine. Forget it.”

But he didn’t make a move to walk towards the complex’s stairs that led up to the first floor. Even as you stood there for another minute and he just stood with you, you realized he wasn’t about to head home regardless of if you left now or stayed. And for a moment, you wondered if this was what he had meant that day weeks ago. No one’s waiting for me. It was a thought that had held a place in your mind for a long time too.

It’s better not to force information you don’t even need to know, a voice in the back of your head reminded. Finally, you said, “Are you hungry? I could go for some coffee, and the Brew’s not far from here.”

Taehyung turned to look at you. If he was grateful for the chance to avoid going home, he didn’t show it. “Will you give me a discount?”

“If you stop talking, I’ll pay for your entire order.”

The carefree smile that stretched across his face as he started dragging you towards the next street was enough for you to know that he was, in fact, at least a little grateful.

chapter vii // chapter ix (coming soon)

97 notes · View notes

ruewrites · 3 years ago

Text

Thrones are Built on Lies Chapter 4: Little White Lies

AO3

Ship: ???, Diavolo/Lucifer

Word Count: 3083

Warnings: None

A/N: Hey guys! I hopy you’re continuing to enjoy the story so far! I love hearing your feedback especially when it comes to theories you might have about the story.

The magic of Arcadia runs deep in her roots. Legends tell of deep underground caverns filled with guardians and traps which prove perilous to anyone who dare venture into the deep. It is also said the royal family has their own connections as well. The gods had entrusted the first Kings and Queens to the magic in order to both protect it and the land which it sleeps beneath. Magic then became a part of the family bloodline. It is unknown whether or not it skips generations and no one is exactly sure as to how it shows itself within different family members. Some believe that this (magic) is also the reason that the Arcadian kingdom became an empire, as it allowed Kings and Queens to emerge victorious from battle time and time again.

Regardless of whether these tales are fact or fiction, it is undeniable that Arcadia holds power in one form or another. Many sources point to magic, yet none have substantial proof due to the fact that if it does indeed exist the royal family would certainly be rather protective of it. This may also be why they are peculiar about who they let into the family.

Furthermore-

That had been the last of Solomon's summary before he had collapsed onto his parchment. The wax from his candle slowly dripped downwards towards the tin holder below. He functioned incredibly well as a king, but not so much as a human person.

Low knocks on his door roused him, grumbling from his slumber. He stood from his chair, allowing his vertebrae to crack as he did so, and trudged over to the door.

"Good Morning," Simeon's all too cheerful voice rang out, "You have ink smudged on your face."

"Aren't you a little cheery this morning Simeon?" Solomon asked, attempting to wipe the ink off of his face.

"You've never been a morning person have you? Perhaps it's a good thing the princess ran into me so she wouldn't have to see you like this," Simeon lifted a tray stacked with eggs, pancakes, and a variety of meats and cheeses, "She wanted to bring you breakfast since you weren't at the table. Apparently there's something she wants to speak with you about."

"Something?" Solomon repeated, ignoring the jabs aimed at him and eyeing the food in front of him.

"She wouldn't elaborate, but she did seem nervous. Incredibly so."

"Really now?"

"The entire tray was shaking in her hands."

So her mood hadn't improved from last night. If anything, it seemed to be worse now. Taking the tray from Simeon, Solomon moved to sit on his bed. Yet another problem added to his list.

No. He shouldn't think of her as a problem.

That wasn't the way to approach this, grumpy or not.

"I should probably seek her out then," he sighed, starting to work on his breakfast, "If she really is that anxious it'll be easy for her to lose her nerve. The sooner we speak, the less time she has to dwell on it."

Simeon stared at him for a moment. Solomon tried to ignore the look on his face. It was one he'd become familiar with. He only ever saw it when Simeon felt the need to be brutally honest with him.

"Are you sure you should go through with this marriage?"

There it was.

He set down his fork and sighed.

"This family seems, what's the word, unfit for someone like you. They're disjointed and rather chaotic. I'm sure the death of their father doesn't help things, but," Simeon sighed, "I just don't want you stuck in something like this."

Solomon mulled over Simeon's words in his head. Dinner with the family certainly had been quite the event. If Simeon was saying something then he must have also witnessed something. Surely, marrying into the royal family would prove to be more of a commitment than he originally thought. But he couldn't give up on his ambition. Not when he was here.

"Simeon, we're in Arcadia. Opportunities like this don't just hand themselves out! To give this up would be ludicrous!" Solomon said. Though he still saw the doubt swimming in Simeon's eyes, so he continued, "Besides, if her family is always like this, marrying me will bring her a sense of normalcy."

"Solomon-"

"Am I wrong Simeon?"

Simeon didn't say a word.

Solomon ate the rest of his breakfast in silence, said silence stretched into the time it took him to walk to his clothes, "Where is Luke?"

"With Lord Diavolo's butler. Barbatos made quite the impression on him yesterday."

"Really?"

"Really."

And Luke had been so set on not trusting any Arcadian. Though, to his credit, Barbatos wasn't Arcadian so to speak. So the child had found a loophole. Sweets and cakes were the way to a child's trust it seemed.

"Who knows Simeon, you may lose your apprentice to a butler."

"Oh I highly doubt that."

Solomon decided on something a bit more relaxed today. Perhaps if he wasn't wearing his kingly attire Lilith would be more incline to open up around him. He needed her to feel comfortable around him. How were they to make this work otherwise? Solomon refused to live a miserable life.

He stepped out from behind the curtain in a loose shirt that left part of his chest exposed and black slacks. "Well?" he asked, turning in a circle around himself, "What do you think? Is it enough to make a princess swoon?"

"I do believe so. Maybe even enough for you to start your own little family tonight."

Solomon flinched, "I wouldn't go that far."

"And why not?"

Oh why not? For starters he wouldn't be able to devote time to his research. Solomon was a busy man, he had things he needed to do before he was too old to meet his goals. A child he wasn't prepared for yet would put more than a damper in his plans. Not to mention, stress he wasn't prepared for. Then there had also been Lilith's reaction to the very mention of fertility.

No.

A child right now wouldn't be the right thing.

Not for him.

"You are aware her brother already seems to despise me right? He already doesn't want me in her room, I don't think I'd live to see another day if I added to his family tonight," he said. It was a partial truth. Not his main concern, but a partial truth nonetheless.

Simeon only chuckled in response.

After his trusted friend left to find his apprentice, Solomon went after his fiance.

He had to wonder if she was hiding from him. He figured he wouldn't run into her right away, but he at least figured that it wouldn't take very long to find her.

Surely he expected to see someone, anyone, to ask where she might be but every hall was oddly empty.

Just like the streets of Arcadia.

The first person he ran into was none other than Azazel. Well, it was better than running into the crown prince himself. At least Solomon could assume that Azazel didn't despise him.

He appeared to be inspecting each of the thrones, moving them ever so slightly in one direction or another. His fingers caressed the throne in the center, following its every curve and bend. Focus consumed his eyes. Perhaps he was inspecting them for the upcoming coronation? Under his free arm, there was a book. It was thick, leather bound, and from what he could see it also looked worn.

Solomon had to wonder if Azazel looked up by chance or if he sensed his presence.

"Solomon, good morning! I was hoping to run into you. You slept well I hope?"

"I did. I'm enjoying a bed to myself while I still can. Thank you Azazel."

He'd have to share one for the rest of his life in a short time. Cool sheets would turn warm and Solomon would lose the comforting familiarity of solitude. He could always have his own room he supposed, but he wasn't sure how his fiance would feel.

"I do understand what you mean. Speaking of my niece, I do want to apologize for last night."

Solomon tensed. This was already a conversation he didn't want to have.

"I assure you that she's usually polite. We had to work hard to break some of her more stubborn habits, but it appears there was a slip up last night," he frowned and clutched the book tighter, "I had a talk with her this morning, and I can assure you that it will not be happening again. "

"I didn't think she did anything wrong," Solomon's words came out quick and sharp, "In fact, I quite enjoy how she reacted. I would have liked to see her take it farther. After all, she was dragged into the whole thing. It wasn't like she orchestrated it herself."

Azazel seemed stunned, but he didn't say any more. Instead, he studied Solomon. His fingers drummed against the book in his possession and a low hum left him.

Solomon had said what he said.

He wasn't going to regret it.

"I see. That certainly isn't something I would have expected you to say," he said, "I would have expected a man with your reputation to be a bit more strict in nature."

Certainly he wasn't implying what Solomon thought he was implying. Strict with Lilith? She was an adult, not a child.

"She can make her own decisions," Solomon's voice became lower, darker, "I'm not her guardian."

"Whatever she does reflects your reputation as well," Azazel countered in a similar tone, "Keep that in mind when making your decisions."

Solomon hated the way something within him twinged.

He did want to control how he was remembered.

He wanted to be praised across the ages.

Azazel's smile returned to his face. "But of course that's something you can do to help curate your own legacy. And speaking of legacies," he held the book out to Solomon, "I've been informed that you took a trip to my nephew's library. I think you and I have similar interests from what I've heard, and I thought you would take interest in this book."

Solomon didn't make a move to take it.

"It's focused on magic, specifically Arcadian magic, and more in depth than anything else you'll find here. I'm sure such a talented scholar as yourself would thoroughly enjoy it."

It was tempting.

How could he resist?

Any lead he could get when it came to Arcadia's secrets was one he needed.

"I was hoping we could chat together at some point over tea? It would be a shame for you to be left out of family secrets when you're about to become family" Azazel slipped his arm to Solomon's back and gazed down at the book in his hands, "I'm sure we'll have plenty to discuss."

When had been the last time Solomon spoke with another scholar? Someone who was on his level of intellect? When had he found the time to do such a thing?

Never.

The truth was that Solomon couldn't remember the last time he'd had a back and forth conversation. Usually people would listen to him as he rambled on about his studies and interests, but they couldn't contribute to the conversation. It was frustrating and often left Solomon feeling as if he was lacking something. Yes he had knowledge, but he wanted to share it and build on it.

Solomon gripped the cover in his hands.

"I've been meaning to speak with Lilith, but I certainly can start on this book. I'll be able to read enough to discuss with you soon."

His fingers were itching to start digging into the pages.

Would it be as enticing as Azazel was promising him?

"Good! Good. Let me know whenever you wish to speak and I shall be waiting for you," Azazel patted his back, and started to leave, "Now I must leave you. I have to speak to Lucifer about the matters of the day. He always has tea with his husband at this hour."

"Wait, do you know where Lilith is?"

"What for? I already said I spoke to her about last night."

"That's not- I was under the impression she wished to speak with me."

Azazel paused for a moment, "Well, I do believe she is busy at the moment."

"With wh-"

"With tasks she must attend to. She also needs to review a few of her lessons, as is evident from last night."

Solomon thought he'd already made it clear how he felt about last night.

"Now how is that-"

"Listen to me," Azazel snipped, turning his head to look at Solomon, "That innocent looking doe-eyed fiance of yours will bleed you dry and ruin your reputation if you don't watch yourself. Take it from a man who witnessed other reputations ruined. These descendants of my brother will ruin you. They are nowhere near fit to rule alongside the crown prince."

He turned away from him, "I am their uncle. I think I would know when discipline is the correct form of action."

He had some point Solomon supposed. He had just met the Morningstar family. He knew nothing of them. Yet he couldn't help but want to prove Azazel wrong.

Yes he was a fellow scholar and Solomon would appreciate his company when fit, but that didn't mean he had to agree with him in all of his methods. And Lilith seemed to be one of those things that they'd have to disagree on.

Lilith couldn't be that bad. How could she be that bad?

No one seemed to be able to tell him when her lessons would be done or when he could speak with her. Not a soul. He thought that he might be able to catch her that day, but he was wrong.

Not that day.

Nor the day after that.

He kept missing her.

It was driving him insane.

Maybe he should have gone to breakfast the day she'd said something to Simeon.

He tried to pour himself into his studies, tried to finish his other books so he could get to the one Azazel had entrusted to him. Yet even when he did finish his other books, he couldn't bring himself to open it, not yet.

This one would require all of his focus, and he couldn't focus when he knew that Lilith had some sort of thing to ask of him.

Something that seemed to have her incredibly nervous.

It was evening, Solomon sat at his desk, pouring over his notes next to dripping candle wax when a knock came from. His door.

Simeon stood slightly behind Lilith who was twiddling her fingers and desperately trying to avoid his gaze.

"They don't know I'm here," her voice was soft, as if she was afraid of speaking any louder lest she summon one of her brothers (or all of them), "I asked your friend if he could take me here… I hope you don't mind."

Solomon shook his head. He wasn't exactly dressed for the occasion, but he opened his door a bit more, "Not at all, I've been looking for you actually. Would you like to come in?"

No sooner had he motioned for her to come in than her eyes widened in horror and her hands quickly shot up. Nervous laughter spilling from her lips, "Oh no. I was um, actually hoping we could go outside the palace. Somewhere a bit more private…"

Solomon looked at Simeon who shrugged his shoulders. With a snap of his fingers Solomon extinguished the candle and stepped outside of his room.

"Lead the way."

Leaving Simeon behind, the two made their way outside and away from the town that surrounded the entrance. Solomon supposed he should have been a bit more wary when they left the gates and the wall that surrounded them, but he wasn't.

He couldn't help but notice how Lilith kept him at an arm's length away. Could she be worried about his intentions? Maybe he had done something to offend her during her bath, or maybe he shouldn't have followed her in at all. In hindsight that was rude of him. Perhaps there was some way he could reassure her and have her feel safe around him.

Finally, she came to a stop at a small clearing and sat down, still avoiding his gaze.

It was a warm night, and fireflies danced around the two of them bursting into light every now and again.

Solomon sat a little ways down from her, and looked up at the sky.

"I don't know how to start," she said after a moment.

"Take your time, there's no need to rush," he said, "Besides, I'm not usually on the best of sleep schedules anyways."

"Stop that."

Solomon furrowed his brow. What? What had he done? He hadn't moved from his position. He hadn't reached out for her.

What had he done to upset her?

"If you don't mind me asking, what is it that I did?"

Lilith made a small noise of frustration while wiggling and gripping at her sleeves, "Being so nice to me. And charming and funny and attractive- You're making this harder."

Solomon was stunned, "I? I'm? Excuse me?"

Was she planning on calling off their union? No. No no no. Not when he'd come so far. Not when what he desperately wanted was right in his grasp. He couldn't let her go. He had to find some way to fix it.

Standing up, Lilith started to walk towards the other end of the clearing. She was tense and her body was shaking. Honestly, Solomon thought she looked like a scared rabbit.

A scared rabbit who'd been caught nonetheless.

"You're making this so hard for me."

He almost missed her words.

The snuffles came before the hyperventilating, and that's when Solomon came to her. Had he really been that horrible to petrify her in such a way?

He could figure that out as he went. For now, he needed to calm her down and figure out how to keep their union together. She was his ticket to Arcadia, to new knowledge. He wasn't going to lose her.

"Lilith, I-" he reached out to put a hand on her shoulder.

She smacked it away and quickly turned on her heels to look him dead in the eye. A new sense of fire in her eyes.

“I’m not Lilith.”

#ruewrites #TaBoL #obey me #obey me solomon #obey me asmodeus #obey me lucifer #obey me diavolo #obey me simeon #solodeus #asmosolo #soloasmo #asmodeus x solomon #dialuci #diavolo x lucifer #arranged marriage!au #royalty!au #slow burn

20 notes · View notes

nurseofren · 4 years ago

Text

Keeping Your Promise - Chapter 27 (NSFW)

Read on AO3 | Read on Wattpad

Read Chapter twenty-six

Title: There is No Redemption

Words: 7.4K

Summary: Happy trail worship? Happy trail worship.

ST Rambles: Hello readers, I hope you enjoy this part. I am in my final semester for my ADN and cannot promise even monthly updates at this time. Please, please, please comment your thoughts because I don't want to produce content that is not enjoyable. Thank you for your patience and understanding.

[MASTERLIST] || BANNER / @elmidol

Stress enveloped your skull in throbbing pain, Karmen’s six-hour rundown stinging your senses and drawing you inward. Halfway through, you had already begun to feel the excess of information take its toll; Zag’s voice – unpleasant in small doses – grated into you, each word coming too fast and leaving too soon. Thankfully, no doubt to cover herself, she had left you with a thumb drive; it summarized everything she’d mentioned.

After the ordeal, when she left by the sharp click of her heels, you understood why it was recommended to arrive two days prior to the initial hearing: you were utterly and dreadfully exhausted. After unpacking – ensuring easy access to your favorite socks and keeping Snoke’s letter tucked into the back drawer of a desk – you had sat in bed for an hour trying to refresh with the thumb drive’s contents; you’d were determined to be prepared for tomorrow’s shift at Canto Bight’s recovery wing. If nothing else, you would not make a fool of yourself during your practice here. This you swore to yourself.

At some point you had drifted to sleep, waking to find your cheek stuck to the datapad that’d been propped up before you. The sunset woke you with a searing ray of light, screaming fuchsias and hazy purples warming your outstretched arm as they cast through open curtains. The breeze rolled off of the bay and tickled loose hair over your nape, a deep breath stretching your lungs awake before you unfurled from yourself.

The radar at your wrist indicated Kylo Ren was near but not in his quarters, probably not inside the building. It was a confusing feeling – the unsteadiness you felt when revisiting your earlier interaction, the vagueness of his words contradicted by the certainty in which they’d been delivered, but simultaneously this calm in your chest since you had left him. Although you had no idea what he’d gone on about, or what in time meant, his mere presence – the fact that he was near and would continue to be – allowed you these glimmers of peace.

Not since Starkiller. Not since Snoke. Not Mason and his baseless confidence, no matter how much you wished to latch onto it; not Talia, who had helped you back from your darkest moment. The only things that stilled you were the known proximity of your master, and the nature of the words he’d earlier spoken. You’d felt it that recent night on the Finalizer, how it lingered in your muscles just before you’d dozed off, how it seemed his presence had scared your nightmares away.

However ridiculous and backwards, Kylo Ren – the one whose pain is printed on your skin, who led a slaughter just strides away from you – had become a constant. It was never what you had expected, but when you thought of the trial now, what eased your nerves was nothing less than the raven-haired warrior whose face was slashed with midnight hues of pain.

Much like you, you’d come to realize, he had survived Starkiller, and the event changed him. Though you could not know for sure, you began to wonder if what had gone on had not only left him with the wounds that’d wet your skin, but perhaps ones that were deeper – ones that were not so visible. Something happened before that explosion, something more than whatever fight had earned him that scar.

You shook your head; this was too much to think on right now. With a throw draped over your back, you trudged through the room and out into the chill of your side-balcony. This sky held more beauty than any you’d ever seen; you watched the sun descend, spying a domed, octagonal pavilion at the far left of the side gardens. It dripped with violet-petaled ropes and emerald ivies, was supported by scalloped columns entwined with twinkling blooms welded from gold, the whole stage centered around a sunken fire pit.

Considering for a moment, you saw it would have a better view of the sunset, and you’d been cooped up since arriving. It was a quick decision, catching view of a spiral of stairs that led to the grounds, but only after noting the pair of doors a few paces left of your room’s. They were closed, and the inner curtains seemed to be shut, the room behind them dark. Empty.

No, Kylo Ren was not here, but – a thumb over your radar – he was not far. Somewhere off on his own business. Training, maybe. At least, that’s what you supposed kept you from traveling with him, the thought frustrating. Maybe – no, undoubtedly – he would never admit to it, never show it, but he was still recovering.

Ten days ago he was in a medically induced coma talking about someone named Ben and how he’s dead. Bacta works wonders, but it means nothing if a patient is noncompliant with post-operative restrictions, like swinging around a plasma sword for hours on end, or doing trial runs with the Force – which, although you knew little about, one could easily assume it put strain on the body.

Maybe you were wrong and your master was completely fine, maybe the Force aided in healing. No matter, you worried; for him, mostly, never forgetting how he appeared in that medbay, but also for yourself. It was clear that you cared for him – for fuck’s sake, when you thought you’d never see him again you wanted to tell him you loved him – and you knew his pursuits could very likely be the death of him. Stubborn as you might be to acknowledge it, so long as he was okay and not recklessly shredding through healed wounds, so long as he returned to you, you could rest somewhat soundly.

Hugging your blanket, tighter when the wind blew, you wandered down to the courtyard’s trim lawn, along the overflowing flowerbeds that brimmed with brilliant colors, until you met the few steps that led to the pavilion’s stage. Flames shocked you when you stepped onto the eight-sided base, your presence triggering a hidden system. The rectangular pit exploded into a rainbow of fire, thin veils of flames ascending elegantly into an ordered myriad. The pit was massive, consuming the base but for a few paces from each support.

Much like everything else, the pavilion was grand in size and decoration; the hearth’s hues danced along the draped flora, at least ten paces separating each gold-threaded pillar. Everything here was explicitly luxurious, so big and gorgeous. You wanted to settle into it, but it was temporary, and you would not know how fatal that fact was until it was too late.

Farther out, flames rippled over the bay; the sinking heat of the sun endeared your skin, the warmth at your back growing in distance as you gave in to the silent call of the scorching sky. First tracing the tip of one of the gold leaves woven to a pillar, admiring the detailed stems and ridges, you curled up against the column’s wide base. Head caressed by the smooth, cool stone, knees curled close to your chest, you were glamored by the water’s rhythmic sway, wondering if you would ever have the chance to feel it on your skin.

It took little effort to keep Karmen’s lecture from your thoughts, too lost to the burgundy of dusk that bloomed as the sun wilted toward the bay. A stillness surrounded you, and then you tuned into the chirping whispers of bugs that remained hidden with the fall of night. It did not bother you in the slightest, their distant songs a reminder of your life before the academy. A passing thought, fond amusement lazily humming in your chest – there are no crickets in space.

You remained folded against the pillar for some time, watching night creep over the city, more grateful for the heat on your back as warmth waned, the moon climbing higher with each lulling minute. The stone iced into your cheek. You went to leave, but your commlink buzzed at your waist, and you knew it would be wiser to keep this particular conversation outside.

Elbows to your knees, you ruffled a hand through your hair, closed your eyes, and answered Mason’s call. “How’s your day, McCarty?” There was no use in starting an argument if he had moved on from earlier.

“Probably better than yours, if I had to guess.” He sounded chipper. It was a relief.

“Well, what went on? Where’d you go? Who’d you see? What’d you eat?”

“I’ve really just been hanging out at the house since getting here. Caught a nap, which was nice. Soto sent me a transmission detailing updates on a few patients.”

He wasn’t hostile at all. Hopefully it meant he was done being weird. “I also got a nap. Which, agreed, is definitely nice. Especially after being kept in a room with Zag for six hours and trying to keep my head from exploding.”

“Six hours? With Zag? Are they trying to get you convicted of murder?”

You shared a laugh, scooting along the stone floor and peering up to the ceiling. It was tiled with mosaics, the fire’s vibrant colors reflecting off of it and shifting along the intricate designs. The view of the city was wider from this position, distant lights shimmering in windows that peered into whatever parties were undoubtedly happening.

“She isn’t that bad. It’s just her voice. And I barely have a handle on anything other than the fact that I have my first shift tomorrow, and then two days after that is the initial hearing. And I don’t even want to think about that to begin with, so…”

“Well,” he sighed your name, “I’ll be there. Bright and early, just like you. Wearing my second-best attire, saving the very best for the official trial, of course.”

“Jeez, that’s another thing, right? They fly us out here, put me up in some military-grade villa, but they give me nothing to wear, are aware that my residence just exploded on Starkiller, and then still say I can’t wear my uniform. I just find that a bit unfair. But that’s what I think, which we both know has not mattered since the very beginning of all this. I don’t even know why I expected anything different. I’ll just have to request transport to the shops or something. And then make credits appear out of thin air to pay for it.”

With notably increased enthusiasm Mason said, “Actually, I, uh, I was going through the house earlier and there’s actually a lot left over from my family’s recent trip. You’re free to come over and take some stuff back to your embassy if you want.”

“Alright, first – not my embassy, and if we’re calling it anything, I vote palace. Seriously—” you stared at a trellis that overflowed with wild blooms of every shade of red, the dead, fallen petals mocking you in the familiar way they pooled beneath. “—this place is too beautiful for any of the old businessmen who stay here. It’s actually ridiculous.”

“So it’s not homey, after all?”

A bellowing laugh came from the center of your chest, echoing up to the domed roof and into the growing dark. “No. No. Not homey. Not quaint. None of that. Just giant and spectacular.”

“Well, whatever it is, do you want to come over and grab some clothes?”

“Oh! Oh, yeah. That’s a lot better than spending credits I don’t have. Although maybe I’m worrying for nothing? Don’t they forgive your debt when you die, anyway?”

Mason did not laugh, did not even speak, and your amusement fell into alarm. An edge menaced along each pointed word when he spoke; “Maybe they’ll forgive your debt, but I won’t forgive you for dying.” He grunted in rejection. “You’re not dying, so I don’t know why we’re discussing this.”

Silence swallowed you both, and for a moment you could hear him trembling, hear the shakiness of his breath. A sharp exhale startled your hand from your ear. And then it was quiet again. He cleared his throat, and you noticed how thick it had become. Was he crying?

“Mason, you need to tell me what’s going on. And don’t say-,”

“Nothing is going on. It’s fine. We’re fine.”

“Funny, because when you say that, when you tell me we’re fine when I didn’t ask, it makes me think the exact opposite.”

He sighed, but at this point there was a good chance it was more exasperation or fuming than anything else. “I’m not having this conversation when I can’t see you.”

“Well, I’ll just turn my transmission on and we can-,”

“No.” Clipped, barked. Final.

It concaved your chest. Mason had never spoken to you like this. Your teeth scraped at your bottom lip. “Should I be worried?”

He paused. “No,” as it gritted through his teeth, your name was contoured with wisps of ire. An ounce less of restraint and whatever he was holding back would crack this hardened, taut façade.

The worst came to mind. All you could manage was a terrified whisper, “Are you revoking your seat to testify? Is that what this is about? Am I about – fuck – am I about to- I can’t lose you. I can’t-,”

“I told you. I told you I will be there.” Frosted fury swept through his following pause. His flat tone was laced with quiet hurt when he next said, “Do you really think I could do that to you? Leave you in the dust like that?”

“No. I guess not.”

“You guess not,” he thought aloud, a long drag of breath crackling into your ear. “I’m glad that you’re settled in, and… good luck during your shift tomorrow. You don’t need it, I know, but nonetheless.”

He was dismissing you. You hated it. “I’m not hanging up until I know we’re okay.”

“We’re okay,” he said simply, too fast. Mason cleared his throat. “Request transport for the morning after your shift. You can shop around the closets and after, we can order lunch and… and we can talk. About things. Everything.”

It was apparent he would not give anything more away, but you knew from his flat tone that whatever it was, was detrimental to him. Or you. Or both.

“Yeah. I’ll put in the request after shift tomorrow.”

Another long, aching silence. You listened to his breath, trying and failing at ignoring the knives in it. The line remained silent, the hanging static a backdrop to the hidden, harmless creatures humming in the night.

“I love you, Mason,” you prompted, teeth catching your trembling lips, time choking you with every halved second that trudged along.

It killed you, every inhale adding to the weight in your chest, every empty, wordless moment he spent cutting into you with a silent blade.

Another second and you turned back to the heightening tide of the bay, the clear night sky dying it a deep navy. Even as you tried to focus on the waves that foamed along the distant shore, there was no sound louder than Mason’s nonresponse.

“Goodnight,” Mason said, small, far enough away that it splintered through your heart like ice wedged through rock.

“Good-,” the line went dead, the static dying, a night-kissed wave crashing in your periphery, “-night.”

The iridescent veils of hearth rippled before you now, turning away from the seemingly infinite expanse of water. Even so, you shivered, and you were sure it had nothing to do with the weather. Tucking your commlink into your waist pocket, loosing a long-kept breath, you stood from the stone and clasped your blanket over your shoulders. With a final glance, chin to your shoulder, you appreciated the beauty of your first night here.

Whatever awaited you tomorrow, the next day, and in the weeks to come? It would remain. For now, just this one moment alone, you could pretend that everything was okay. Just for a moment.

A soft touch brushed your shoulder, but when you turned to meet whoever it belonged to, you found there was no one around. But a light caught your eye, one that had not been there before. Maybe that interruption to the dark captured your attention, but not at all was it what kept your gaze above the gardens.

Through the clear night, a breeze danced through the flora, glittering scarlet petals into the shadows. Above those dwindling rubies, leaning over the balcony’s curve, was Kylo Ren. Behind him, the golden light of his quarters caressed his back, small fragments draping over the sharp, toned muscles of his shoulders. He was staring down to you, his gaze laving along your figure, eyes those of a predator aware their prey was no match for them. The ever-heightening moon was all that lit his front, but it was enough. No, so much more than enough. Entrancing. Captivating. Beguiling.

Light cascaded along the taut strength of Kylo’s abdomen, his broad, thick chest emanating with the smooth white of the dusk’s sun. Once more, like it always did, the scar skating through his features kept your attention. From a distance it was less intrusive, but its presence sank your heart like the sun had wandered into the sea.

A whip of night air pushed his hair back to tease his ears, his head slightly cocking to the side when you found his eyes again. There was no color to them, none that you could see so far away, but you felt their heat slink along your lips, then your neck, over your chest, and lower still. When they claimed yours once more, they were sculpted with steadfast steel, strong and slithering, ordering your compliance to the smoking promises beyond.

Without noticing, that chill from earlier had left you, and you gathered the blanket so it hung from your forearm. Kylo held you with his eyes, the fire’s warmth falling away when you stepped off the platform and wandered, in leisure, down the steps and into the plush lawn. A dew was readying to form on the grass beneath your bare feet, the coolness welcome under his blazing attention. One step, two, another, and a final; small, shuffling, like you were hypnotized – truthfully, you could have been, but there was none but your own intent in the steps that carried you closer to him.

Only when he straightened to his full height, standing away from the balcony’s edge, did you halt your advance. He paused there, watching you, so gracefully still you were unsure of his breathing. From his new position you could no longer see his hands, but – you could feel them. A pressure along your cheek, your heart stammering at how its span so completely matched his own, and then around your throat, dizzying when it teased your carotids. Breath shivered from your slack mouth, catching when that – his – ghosted touch skimmed down your sternum and pushed into your rib cage.

Kylo made no sound, but when the night’s quiet scattered around your faint, gasped moan – feeling the whispered hands smooth over your hips, around the front of your thighs – you saw his jaw flutter, darkness and moonlight tangling when he gave you one final glance. The phantom touch left, a feline smirk flickered along his lips, and when his brows descended and veiled those deep, deep eyes, Kylo turned and sauntered out of sight.

But you understood his message, the silent one that only his body spoke, and you knew that his leaving was not goodnight, but an invitation. One you fully intended on accepting.

The trees swayed above you, the beds of perfectly spaced flowers blowing with the gentle breeze and combining with the sea behind to fill your head with the salty, fresh aroma of a Canto Bight night. Each step you took along the patterned grass shimmered anticipation through your veins, heady, wanton thoughts brimming in your mind.

The cold stone that marked the ground level’s patio shocked through you, wet crimson petals that had pooled below the trellis now clinging to the soles of your feet. You did not have time, or at least were desperate to not waste any, to pluck them off, allowing them to travel with you as you led them up the curved staircase. As you climbed the steps, you stole a fleeting glimpse of the bay; from this height the city’s nightlife sheened along the shore, a few private ships zooming above the skyline and carrying their passengers to events unknown to you.

Events that you could not have cared less about, not when you arrived to the second-level balcony, not when you saw the swaying curtain beyond Kylo Ren’s open, waiting door. No, those events meant nil, exceedingly so when you found the beginnings of a trail leading into his room, the first crumb that of pooled, discarded athletic pants.

Instant, overwhelming chills clamored about your skull, the blanket draped over your arm joining the black bottoms when your limbs went wobbly. Through the wind-swept gossamer you spied the second addition – one long, impossibly large, black sock – and when you came closer, the cool of night waning as you met the threshold, your heart thrummed louder at the nearing shaft of light that fled the refresher’s entrance.

Heated tiles warmed your first steps into Kylo’s room, the coquettish curtain kissing the tip of your nose before the door at your back locked shut in near silence. You brushed past the veil of fabric and took in your surroundings, quite different from what they were earlier. The golden rays of morning had since been overridden by soft panes of night, only the moon reflecting onto the light tile, not a single star to join it. The bed’s canopy remained shut, its thin sheets cascading around the bed so there was ample space to walk within its soft confines. And from that canopy, from the circular track above, bloomed delicate, mild light; it melted midway down the canopy, fading to nothing before it breeched the polished ivory below.

Another step and you noticed the trail of scarlet, dew-drop-covered petals you were leaving in your wake. On the step up from the bed’s level lay a second sock, so you padded to it, and tuned into the sound of heavy, rushing water that became louder as you delved further into the dimly lit room. This level was dark save for the glow of the open refresher; you followed that light like a lost vessel in space, hands trembling as you passed through the sitting area with soundless strides. Finally, as you’d calculated at the earlier bareness of his chest, you found the piece of clothing that signaled your final destination lying at your feet.

Atop the refresher’s threshold lay a pair of black boxer-briefs – unfolded, just as they’d appear fresh off the heated, muscled body from which they’d come. A smile played at your lips, remembering how the pair he’d so generously provided you the morning after you’d first slept next to him had hugged your hips with subtle compression. Those, unfortunately, were undoubtedly obliterated with everything else that had exploded with Starkiller.

Kylo Ren was nowhere within view, but running water tucked behind a corner to your left, and when steam swirled around an inlet that bordered a sleek, unbroken wall of ash-grey tile, your lungs lit with need, with want, your thoughts only focused on the body and man that waited for you just beyond view, just out of reach. Suddenly you became aware of how overdressed you were, so you turned to your right and found a mirror that ruled its own wall and plucked open the top button of your uniform.

The fogged silver expanse provided a blurred, softened outline of your near-bare body, scalding goosebumps scraping up your neck at the thought of Kylo’s slicked, dripping body. Hands hooked behind your back, you loosed your bra and smoothed the straps down the sides of your arms. And then all that covered you were the lack-luster panties the Finalizer had provided all those months ago, but they soon joined the small pile at your feet, leaving you naked and anticipatory and adamant.

Plopping your watch onto your clothes, you squared your shoulders, fixed your posture, and approached the heat of the hidden shower. Its warm embrace evoked such a calm through you, first loosening your shoulders, then steadying your breath.

Beyond the smoke hued barrier was a chamber of luxury, the water cascading from above like it came from an invisible storm cloud; its volume suggested a harsh pressure, but, stepping beneath the jets that seemed to span the entire stall, your skin was graced with the pleasant fall of a spring shower. Looking up, blinking through the misted warmth, you found the navy night sky peering down at you through the clear glass ceiling.

All light but that of the moon left the stall, and when your attention shifted down, you saw him through the sheets of water that kept you apart. The air was thick with fog and mist and night, but he remained the most devastatingly gorgeous person you’d ever seen, ever known. You needed him to be closer, you needed to be closer to him. No matter if you’d been with him those few nights ago, and though you’d spoken just hours ago, there was a tautness that tightened as your steps brought you to him.

Arms at his sides, stance strong and confident, Kylo Ren was a stride away from you, and you stopped. Inky black hair dripped down his neck, and his mouth was set in a flat, unreadable line, but all you could think of was how it felt you were seeing him for the first time all over again. He was different now, body scarred and worn from the passing of time. You did not stare at the red and black that had only been there for such a short time now. You appreciated it.

Kylo observed you, and a measure after your gaze followed the ebony ribbon rested in his countenance, you lifted a hand to it. He tensed and you caught his eyes, giving him a small nod before the very tip of your fourth finger kissed the start of his scar. You watched him, vaguely aware of your hand slipping along the marked path through his brow and down his cheek. Breath pushed from him in eased waves, his eyes danced between yours, and when you reached the line of his jaw and tapped your finger to the raised, pinking skin there, you closed your eyes and leaned up on your toes so you could press an aching kiss to it.

That tenseness that’d clanged into him at your touch was instantly gone, the heated streams above not a match to the stifling relief that fogged from his nares. So near to him, a second hand pushing through wetted, onyx locks, you remembered how he’d stared up at you on the Command Shuttle, how unreadable his expression was when his new scars had still been fresh wounds.

Your touch found the tail end of his healing flesh, and you swallowed down a thick, betraying sob. “Why did you believe me?” you whispered, not looking up to him. “When I told you I hated you and I wanted to quit. When I said,” you winced, “when I called you a bastard and said I wished I could forget you. Why didn’t you fight it longer?”

Kylo was quiet for a moment, body still but not reluctant to the steady meandering of your fingers. Something haunted him when he said, “Irredeemable bastard, if you’ve forgotten.”

“No,” your throat bobbed, “I haven’t. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that day. Any, any part of it.” Looking up at him, you smoothed your hand over the scar settled into his shoulder. “After that morning, after everything, why did you believe me?”

“You were saying goodbye,” he murmured, like he’d mulled over that day time and time again and never considered the possibility. “Before Takodana. You knew. He’d gotten to you by then.” A note of betrayal sharpened his tongue, a snarl lighting when he referred to Snoke.

The hand that wasn’t tracing circles along his scarred muscles now toyed with his ear, the tip of your index finger molding to the curved pinnae. “Kylo,” just a breath, nearly drowned by the water ricocheting at your feet, “answer me. Please.”

Smooth, low, he began, “Because who could-,” he swallowed, considering you before starting over, “Because I’ve never known anyone who didn’t hate me. And I’ve always been a bastard. So when you said those things, after that morning, after you’d ran through Starkiller to tell me and kept saying them…”

Memories fluttered behind his eyes, and as their burning brown centered glittered against the navy night, you lifted your hand so you could hold his face, hold it like a parent would caress their child’s tear-sodden cheek. Kylo blinked back to you and you comforted the purpled skin beneath his eye.

He did not want to voice the answers you sought, but you watched as, piece by piece, you dented one of those walls he’d erected in that time-stained interrogation room. Perhaps it was a hopeful thought, but you swore you felt him ease into your hand.

“I stopped fighting because only a fool counters the truth of his life.” Kylo’s throat bobbed, his deep, shadowed gaze swallowing you whole. He caught your hand and led it flat along his broad chest, and then to the panes of his abdomen, placing it over the bruised, raised flesh of the scar you’d yet to explore. “I believed you because there was no reason to doubt you.”

The showering heat from above shielded that which was blurring your vision. He believed you because he believed those things of himself. After seeing him wear so many masks, physical or phantom, you saw it in his eyes that he still thought those things and had for his entire life.

And then it made sense, and the realization dragged jagged, thorn-wrapped talons through your heart. You whispered through the water, wondering if you were speaking only for yourself when you said, “That’s why you didn’t look inside my head. You didn’t think it would show you anything different. You didn’t think I could ever feel differently.”

You ran your thumb along the uneven ridge of the scar forming over his side and tucked your other arm around his waist. With the force that kept moons anchored to their planets, you pulled him in and nestled into the notch of his breastbone.

Through your teeth, “You are not a bastard. Or irredeemable,” your fingers dipped to the center of the healing tissue, “I’ve learned that we make the choices we think are best, and if that’s true, if I believe it? What do either of us have to be redeemed for?”

Kylo said your name, clear as the night that loomed overhead, and a patient finger tipped your chin up. “Nothing. Because there is no redemption for those who do not want it.”

Intensity hardened his face, and once more you felt that sense of equality between him and you. Long fingers smoothed into your drenched hair, and you found a prompt in his brow. Sighing, lungs stuttering, you asked, “What, then, if not redemption?”

The hand that he’d set over yours shifted to your hip, thick fingers prodding at your flesh. Kylo’s touch left your chin and the pad of his thumb rolled over the faint scar that cut into your hairline, a twinge of pain lighting at the memory of its origin; it had healed days ago, but you would never forget the sound of it cracking open when Robbie knocked your skull against the durasteel door.

Kylo stopped musing when he heard you wince, his eyes meeting yours in a stark, unwavering gaze. He smoothed over the blight a final time and proceeded to skate his fingers along your jaw, his thumb coming to rest over your bottom lip. Similar to this morning, yet colder and with a quiet fury breathing beyond his eyes, he looked at you with solidarity.

Calm, sure, adamant, Kylo said, “Retribution.”

A moment to process was spent in his gaze, studying how unbreakable it was, swimming in the shadowed hazel that poured into you. Kylo’s eyes flicked to your lips, and before he could look away, you leaned up so you could reach his own. The swirled hair at his nape slithered through your fingers when you swept you hand from his abdomen and up his torso. Massive, enveloping hands trailed praise along your body until they were mirrored under your breasts.

Exploring his skin, your fingers took residence over the small of his back, digging red trails along the slick surface. You moaned into Kylo’s mouth when a capable hand claimed your supple chest and kneaded into you. He growled in response, a predatory sound that rippled through your nerves and tightened deep, deep in your belly. The pliant pads of his thumbs circled your nipples, the very tips of his nails flicking upward before he added his forefingers and pinched the sensitive peaks to his will.

Kylo mouthed the hinge of your jaw, the bridge of his nose slipping along the bone until you surrendered your neck to him. He hummed against your artery, sucking away the beaded moisture that’d collected for the past few minutes – or had it been hours? Time evaded you further when the schemes of his tongue at your throat delved deeper, revealed themselves further when he laved at your clavicle, shifting between kissing and biting and marking as he made his way to your breastbone.

His muscled back flexed as your fingers routed to his front, dipping low until you found the haze of soft, wet hair that grew from his pelvis. Kylo continued his endeavors and pulled you in by the curve of your back so he could bare your chest to him and run his nose under the base of your breast. His need for your body was evident in the way he bent you to his will, cradling your back so he could have you, but also permitting a sense of safety in the relentless strength that flowed from his forearms through to your marrow.

Near limp in his hold, you tread your fingers down his pelvis and savored the feel of that patch of hair, feeling his pulse beat beneath it, reveling how water collected and fled in such a slow, teasing manner. His chest was to yours, so you felt, rather than heard, the pleasure vibrate from him, deepening when you grazed the very foundations of his hardening shaft. He breathed into your skin, mouthing at your breast and sucking painful paths as he went. The heat of his mouth melded around your nipple, and he bit, and even when you winced and writhed with satisfied hurt, Kylo kept on; not until you were sure he’d drawn blood did his teeth – their unique ridges now throbbing into your breast – leave you, replaced by the salve of his plush, scorching lips. The body of his tongue was structured with adamant, laving over your pebbled peak until poems of pleasure groaned from the depths of your chest.

He leaned you back up and shifted his attention to the remaining half of your body, but you needed him just as much, and you wanted to litter his body with the same pleasure he’d given yours. So, snaking your hands to his jaw, you kissed the hinge opposite to his scar and pecked harder and longer, sucking at his skin like the blood that bruised would grant you eternal life. Falling to your knees in a steady, unrushed descent, you kissed every inch of his abdomen, every bump and ripple of skin that was present around the mending injury. With eyes peering up, hands cherishing the fronts of his thighs, you tongued the scarred tissue and watched him shutter with ecstasy, eyes half-lolling, mouth slackening for a second before he swallowed down whatever satisfaction would have left him.

You teethed at the soft, raised skin, watching him, content when a guiding hand pet down your slick hair. Shifting to his middle, you hummed from one hip bone to the next, feeling the tickle of hair that fled from his naval and dispersed in an even, thick layer of black atop his pubis. Hunger ravaged your throat and you nuzzled into the soft bed of obsidian hair. A kiss to it, then a nip, and then the tip of your nose swirled around the dark patch, his cock twitching at the side of your face.

Anchoring your eyes to his yet again, you dragged the flat of your tongue through the maintained, drenched hair and pushed both your hands along his inner thighs. The muscles beneath your touch sang, streamed just as fluidly as the droplets that were trickling down your spine. Pulling away from him, you faced his cock and observed how it bobbed with your eyes on it, watched it strain for friction when your hands teased both sides of his base, sifting through the dark curls beneath.

The moonlight painted his shaft with subtle, breathtaking contours – a shadow cast under the spongey ridge of his head, light glinting off the misted moisture that’d caught on his flushed shaft. Each prominent vein cast a winding whisper of darkness just a measure from the next. It hypnotized you, the way they overlapped and crossed at points, bulging out from his cock and shifting with each throbbing pulse of blood that clamored through him.

Curious fingers flitted along the heavy, hot column of flesh, tapping it and listening to the thickening breath from the man watching you through ravenous eyes. A smirk curved your mouth, and you peppered a light, whispered kiss to his slit, pushing his cockhead just so it met your teeth, and leading your lips away so the teasing burned through him. You pulled a hand away from his leg and sat back on your calves, taking a breast into it and kneading as he had before, plucking your nipple through each space between your fingers.

“A teasing little whore tonight,” he purred, voice thick.

You hummed, pleased you were getting to him. “I’m your little nurse, remember?” The tip of your tongue teased circles into his frenulum. “And you are my master. Isn’t that right? Master Ren?” Fuck, the title even got to you, cunt fluttering with the hope to be overflowing with him.

“Good girl, teasing whore, nasty slut? Little nurse? You have so many names now.”

“And all of them belong to you.”

You teased his tip and finally laved a flat tongue on the underside of his shaft, flicking it side to side and gripping into his structured, rippling thighs. Something animal, completely primal, roared in his throat, and sooner than you knew, Kylo Ren had joined you on your knees, the weight of his cock slicking down your middle and slapping up to your slit when inertia bounced through it.

A masterful tongue slipped into your mouth and licked your hard pallet, next dropping down and pushing against the side of your own tongue. A muffled moan – one that you were unsure was his or yours or both – clouded through the shower’s downfall. But then a throat-thick huff, aggressive and impatient, gnarled through the air and you were spun on your knees so your back was flush with his chest.

“Yes,” he rumbled, “they do all belong to me.” A possessive hand pushed you into him with might, taking residence in the valley of your breasts. “Your names, your body. Everything.” His hips canted, and the tip of his cock knocked against your clit, fire billowing in your belly, quicker and deeper now.

“Everything,” you echoed, finding his free hand and guiding it so it lay over the permanence etched into your thigh. “I’m- everything. It’s yours. I am yours.”

Unrelenting digits bruised more marks around the one he’d made prior, and when you felt his cock fall in line with your entrance, you thrust into him as he did the same, and you took all of him, at once, in one, fluid, aching motion. An unabashed cry echoed euphoria throughout the moonlit stall. Before you could fully recover from the first thrust, his hand – the free hand that didn’t remain under your own, clutched to your thigh – dipped into your folds and that blooming fire from earlier mushroomed at the graze of his thick digits against the buzzing nerves.

Thrust after thrust after thrust, fucking into you and filling you to the brim and then some each time, knocking the air from your lungs and burgeoning those sweet spots within with each paced, violent pass. All of that pressure combined with the winding circles and strokes he racked your clit with, you felt the breath of climax rise first in your chest, and then upward into your throat.

Kylo was panting by your ear, sucking the skin behind, clutching you to him so it became uncertain where his body ended and yours began. You hooked your arm above your head and clutched at his drenched tresses, flailing for a better grip and settling on clasping your hand onto the back of his neck.

“I feel you,” he groaned.

“Feel me,” you huffed.

“I know you.”

“know me.”

“You’re mine,” your name was laden with yearning claim, lilting from his tongue so it caressed your mind, body, and soul all in one fell swoop.

“Yours,” you heaved, “all, yours.”

You came. Simple. Body swimming in the schemes his fingers and cock and tongue and voice forced into you until it became too much. A few thrusts more and his pace faltered, cum spurting against your walls and dripping out of you as more and more left him. Full lips pressed fleeting, lulling praise into your nape, your shoulder, until he angled your head to his and branded his lips to yours.

Spent, emotionally and physically, you fell into him and enjoyed the image of his legs framing your own. But then your eyes lolled shut and you simply breathed, settling into this moment as best you could, and tried to memorize the tide of his chest slicking against your back.

Barely aware in the vague, misty stall, you only realized that Kylo had begun cleaning you when he guided you back to your feet to rinse you free of soap. Even then you just leaned into his chest and let the jets spray silken streams down your skin. And then you were wrapped in a heated towel and cradled in his arms, leaving the steamy refresher and coming into the gentle atmosphere within the golden gossamer canopy.

With less than a word, maybe a breath, the light from above waned to nothingness, and the room was black save for the glinting eyes that studied your own. The towel discarded to the floor, you now lay beneath the thick comforter and linen sheets of Kylo Ren’s bed. Both naked, you huddled together in the center of the expansive mattress, legs wrapped together in an impossible knot, each breathing in the other’s warmth.

Ease trickled into your muscles, and you shifted so your forehead could rest in the heat of his chest.

“What changed? From the other night?” you yawned. “What convinced you? About Snoke.”

He was tired, too, you knew, the hand tucking you into him tracing lazy, distracting circles into your back to keep him from sleep. “Perspective, really. Seeing things clearly for the first time in… Seeing things clearly.”

For now, fatigue caressing you, that was an answer you could accept. He’d given you more of his mind tonight than ever before, and you did not care to mar that fact with a half-wit interrogation. Perhaps you would listen to him this time, given how little you potentially had left, and do as he’d said this morning.

Trust me first.

It was sound advice, and not worth questioning on the eve of your first shift on Canto Bight. So you nuzzled into him and giggled when the tip of your nose nudged that black healing ribbon over his collar bone.

“I like your scars,” you hummed.

You could not be certain, sleep plunging you into its riptide, but just before it pulled you under, you swore you heard the fatigued rumble of Kylo Ren’s voice whisper, “I like yours too.”

#keeping your promise #st kyp #kylo ren #kylo ren fanfic #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren x you #kylo ren smut #angst #fluff #ao3 #wattpad

43 notes · View notes

detectiveidiotboy · 4 years ago

Text

His Time In The Commonwealth IV: Danse

so as my beloved fanfiction, The Black Widow’s Waltz, comes to an end, i’ve decided that i am going to re-release the backstory chapters as their own stand-alone fic, since they read well as their own story. before that, i thought i might do a fun little thing where i release each of the companions backstories as their own post here on tumblr under the tag #his time in the commonwealth.

i had to take a break from posting for mental health and to deal with some things in my home life, but i'm back now! and with me comes the continuation of this mini-series. now, on to part 4!!! Danse's story.

The walk from Listening Post Bravo to Nordhagen Beach took three days. Had Danse been in top shape and traveling in his power armor, he was certain he could have made the trip in less than two, but speed wasn’t a priority in this mission; this was a pilgrimage.

It had been twelve weeks since his banishment, eighteen days since he’d last had contact with Nate, and seven since the Prydwen had been destroyed.

Danse had only learned about the attack the day before his journey began as he was attempting to trade with a nearby settlement. Nate had been his only source of supplies since he’d begun his self-imposed isolation, and since Nate had stopped showing up to visit, Danse had been left to ration his dwindling supplies until there wasn’t anything left to eat. He had considered allowing himself to starve to death down beneath the earth - continuing his existence was a waste of resources now that he wasn’t even able to serve Nate or the Brotherhood - but that plan only lasted two days after his last meal.

Nate had told Danse to stay alive. Nate had given him orders to care for himself until he returned because Danse was special to him. Danse understood what he was: he was a tool, a synth, a man-made creation meant to serve and obey humankind. If he could not be of use to the Brotherhood directly, then the next best thing he could do was dedicate himself to serving one of their best. Really, if he were honest, the idea of being Nate's personal synth wasn't unappealing to Danse. If anything, it wasn't fair to Nate that Danse be kept around to tempt him into violating Brotherhood rules. Sexual relations with machines was strictly prohibited, as was homosexuality, but Nate carelessly disregard both rules when it came to Danse, and Danse couldn't be more grateful. He was an abomination, therefore it wasn't his place to question a human such as Nate; Nate wanted him alive, and in good health, and because of that Danse had packed a bag with the few things he had to trade and walked to Tenpines Bluff.

As soon as Danse arrived, he was met with guns and suspicion.

“Stay back,” The settler warned, warding Danse back with the barrel of a rifle. “We don’t want nothin’ to do with you or your freak of a friend.”

Danse had been aware that Nate had a… reputation around the Commonwealth. He’d been a witness to several violent (bordering on psychotic) outbursts from the man. However, he had accompanied Nate several times to this particular settlement, and the people there had never been hostile before.

“I… am sorry for any confusion,” Danse said, licking his lips. He was severely out of practice after two weeks of near-total solitude, “Paladin Nate is not accompanying me at this time.”

The settler narrowed their eyes at Danse. “You… don’t know where he is, do you?”

“I have not had contact with Nate in weeks,” He confirmed. The sights came down after a moment of deliberation and the settler sighed.

“Jesus, I’m sorry,” They stretched their head with a hand. “Look. You just missed your buddies, but you should probably keep clear of them - they seemed to think you might have teamed up with Nate when the ship was attacked.”

“Ship? Which ship?” Danse felt his stomach drop, the pieces of the puzzle having presented themselves yet he dare not assemble them.

“The big one you lot got up by Nordhagen,” They said, expression turning from tired to something almost pitying. “You really don’t know what happened? The whole ship was blasted out of the sky. Damn near everyone in Boston had to have seen it - what, have you been livin’ under a rock for the past week?”

“There was an attack on the Prydwen?” Danse asked, taking a panicked step forward. The settler adjusted their grip on the rifle and Danse reminded himself that even without power armor, he was a large and unfamiliar man to these people. “When? Who?”

“About five days ago, I think,” The settler said. “We just heard about it when the survivors came through and raided our supplies - grilled me and my wife for hours about everything we knew about Nate.”

Danse’s heart stopped beating, he was certain of it. Why would the remaining Brotherhood want to know about Nate? The answer was obvious, blindingly so, but Danse couldn’t bring himself to even think it. Nate was Brotherhood, through and through - it was not the place of an Institute machine to question the loyalty of a flesh-and-blood human dedicated to the betterment of humanity.

Swallowing, Danse forced himself to put on a brave face and ask his question. “Was Paladin Nate there at the time of the attack?”

The settler actually laughed, though the question wasn’t funny and neither was his answer. “Was he there? I’m sorry but if what your pals said was true, he was the one that blew the damn thing up.”

Danse had ended up leaving his supplies with the settlers. There was at least 250 caps worth of ammo and scrap in the sack, but it would just weigh him down on his journey. The settlers insisted that he at least stay for dinner and leave in the morning, but Danse saw the state of their garden after the Brotherhood had been through and politely declined. It would be a waste to force humans to part with anything valuable to sustain the functionality of an obsolete machine. He had completely forgotten his hunger anyways; all that mattered to Danse was finding out if what he’d been told was true.

By the time he was close enough to see the empty spot in the sky where the Prydwen should be, he had his answer. Travelers, settlers and raiders alike had confirmed the story with identical depictions of events. According to the few witnesses left, Nate had walked onto the bridge of the ship with a gun and, without speaking to anyone, began assassinating high-ranking members of the Brotherhood, starting with Elder Maxson. The bloody massacre ended with Nate walking into the engine room and detonating an explosion - one that most likely came from the very mini-nukes that Danse had helped Nate secure.

Danse had tried to withhold judgment - he should wait to hear what Nate had to say. The descriptions all came second hand, after all. The Brotherhood survivors had all either retreated or were being treated in what was left of the major settlements. And the description of Nate that he was being given didn’t sound like his friend, his trainee, his partner one bit.

Except…

When Paladin Danse first met Nate, he had been backed against the wall by several hundred feral ghouls threatening the lives of his scouting team. While he would likely be fine so long as the fusion core in his armor held, Hayen and Rhys were vulnerable. He’d already watched the ghouls descend on Keane, tackling the knight in waves. Danse had shot them down, but it was too late. Keane never came back up.

So when Nate walked into the scene, rocket launcher in hand, and blew half of the mob to dust before Danse could finish warning his team to check their fire, he had been inclined to ignore the sinister, psychotic look of glee that Nate wore as he ripped apart the ghouls. Hell, Danse had delighted in it, feeling his men had been avenged. The moment the battle was over and those steel-blue eyes locked onto his, Danse knew he had found someone special.

Nate’s reputation hadn’t quite formed yet, but from the handful of missions that Danse accompanied him on it was clear to tell he would make a fine soldier. He was resilient and a fast shot; anything that stood in his way he took down. It was as if the man was made for the Brotherhood.

Danse offered Nate knight-ship several times before he was taken up on his offer. Nate rarely came to visit when he was in Cambridge, and when he did it was almost always to trade or ask for spare jobs to make a few extra caps. It was only when the Prydwen came rolling through that Nate seemed to seriously consider Danse’s offer. It was strange - Danse feeling honored for Nate to join his ranks rather than the other way around.

Nate made him feel a certain way, something he hadn’t felt since Cutler. Danse could watch Nate fight for hours, muscles flexed under his vaultsuit as he clubbed in the head of a ghoul or gunning down a cluster of synths. His nights were often spent imagining exactly what it would look like if it was his neck that Nate was crushing between those smooth hands and not some random raider. It was foolish, and wildly inappropriate behavior as Nate’s sponsor.

Maybe that was what made him overlook some of the man’s more obvious flaws.

By the time Nate was inducted into the Brotherhood, his reputation as a ruthless and cunning man had become fairly well known. Maxson was willing to overlook Nate’s violent past thanks to a combination of Danse’s vouching and the fact that most of Nate’s targets were shared with the Brotherhood. He had infiltrated and collapsed the Railroad, dismantled the Institute's hold over Diamond City, and struck down the mayor of a mostly-ghoul city in east Boston. His methods were harsh, but they were necessary - at least, that’s what Danse told the Elder.

“Still,” Elder Maxson had said. “It’s best we keep an eye on him. I’m not sure if our new recruit’s heart is in the right place.”

“Believe me, sir,” Danse had told him, “I would trust Knight Nate with my life.”

“That may be so…” Maxson said, “but I still have my doubts. It’s best not to take the word of a known liar at face value, and Nate has quite the reputation of betrayal.”

The truth had been there the entire time. Danse recalled the first time he had met someone who knew Nate outside of the Brotherhood, a young woman by the name of Curie. It had been shortly after the destruction of the Railroad and just before his induction into the Brotherhood. She had seemed nervous around Nate, agreeing a little too quickly to what he said and keeping her eyes on him the entire time. Haylen had taken to her rather quickly, both girls having bonded over shared medical knowledge, and Danse remembered well what she had to say when asked if she liked traveling with Nate.

“Oh- o-oui… I mean…” Her fingers tightened around the cup of tea she had been sipping at. “Monsieur is… complicated, in his motives. I am sure he has good reasons for what he is doing… I simply must trust him. He has done so much for me already.”

Danse had felt her words were foolish. She was lucky to have so much of the man’s attention, and it seemed strange that she didn’t recognize that. Less than a week later Danse watched as Nate dragged her into an abandoned shack, barred the door, and set the house on fire. Later, Nate informed Danse that the girl had been a synth and that he was only doing as the Brotherhood instructed of him. Danse had been forced to agree - despite the vast wealth of knowledge that Curie held, her existence was far too dangerous to be tolerated.

The screams that came from the house as the woman burned alive haunted Danse no matter how many times he reminded himself they were from an artificial being. For a while he wondered if synths could simulate humanity so closely as to feel pain; he had his answer now, he supposed. That girl had died in agony.

The Nate described to Danse during his expedition to the beach was far closer to the Nate in those memories than the idealized soldier that Danse had stuck in his head. The Nate who had eyes like Cutlers and spoke to him as if he were human, even after his synthetic nature was revealed. The Nate who had kissed him in the center of the old radio station on their first official mission into the Commonwealth. The Nate who would disappear for months at a time and then reappear at a moment’s notice, ready to drag Danse along on whatever new quest had taken his fancy. The Nate who never slept in the same bed as Danse after he came around for a quick fuck. The Nate who was rumored to have murdered his girlfriend a year prior. The Nate who had set his previous partner on fire when he was done with her, then walked across the field to press a loving kiss to Danse’s lips as she died. The Nate who had promised Danse to be there for him after his exile only to leave him to waste away in solitude. The Nate who had destroyed the Prydwen.

They were all the same Nate.

When Danse finally made it to the airport, he was surprised by just how familiar it seemed. The carnage had been mostly scraped away by local settlers, leaving behind only the hollowed out remains of training camps and supply stations. The opportunity for a new settlement hadn't been lost on the local population; by the time Danse arrived there were already the makings of several homes under construction. Upon arrival Danse was recognized by his uniform and a handful of the new settlers offered him their condolences. He was shown the way to the resting place for those who had been recovered - little more than a mass grave dug behind the airport marked with scattered crosses and hung holo-tags. It was more than Danse had been expecting. The locals he had met in this area before had despised the Brotherhood with a passion - the fact that they hadn’t just left the bodies to rot while looting everything they could hold from the abandoned stores was a genuine surprise. He walked along the grave sights, checking the tags for names he recognized. He found several, but Haylen and Rhys weren't among them. Whether that meant they were still alive or among the hundreds of nameless casualties, Danse would never know.

Danse turned away gifts of food and offers for a place to rest. His body was at its limit, exhausted and starving, but anything put into it now would be a waste. All of this destruction and death was because of him; he was not the victim, but rather the perpetrator. Danse intended to answer for his sins against humanity.

After politely asking for a moment alone from the concerned settlers, Danse left to walk through the empty airport. He had hoped that there would be something left of the Prydwen on land for him to do this in, but the majestic ship was resting with many of her inhabitants at the bottom of the bay. So Danse found the next best place - the first-story storage area that had been cleared out. He retrieved his pistol from his jacket pocket and knelt down before pressing the end of the barrel to the hollow of his temple.

“I am asking for you to do the human thing here, Knight,” Danse pleaded, knees on the cold, damp ground of the listening post.

“And I’m telling you I don’t want to,” Nate had argued, stubborn as ever. “I like you, Danse, synth or not. I’m not ready to give you up just yet. I need you to stay alive.”

The words had felt so kind at the time. Danse, who was nothing more than a machine lamenting the loss of what it had never really owned, had leaned into those words. They became his anchor, his world, his reason- no- his excuse to keep on living. Looking back on them after seeing the graves of his fellow soldiers - some hung with the hats of squires who were too young to have been given tags yet - he saw those words for what they were: selfishness. Nate acted for his own sake. He served no one but himself, and he had used Danse in every conceivable way. What else should Danse have expected? It was the nature of a machine to be useful to those who took advantage of it.

Danse was a foolish, treacherous, malfunctioning thing, but the very last act he would commit would be a human one. If reincarnation was something that existed for synths, he hoped he would get a chance someday to be more than just a cheap imitation of humanity.

“You know, I’m not an expert with pistols or anything, but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to put that end there.”

The gun dropped from Danse’s forehead. He unclenched his eyes and turned to face the newcomer.

“Mind your own business, Scavver,” Danse said wearily, though still managing to push through some of his commanding tone from a previous life, if only so he didn’t prolong this longer than necessary. He could already feel his resolve wavering.

“Aw, come on, man,” The person in the doorway stepped into the room, arms stretched out behind his head in a relaxed pose. A pair of mirrored sunglasses reflected Danse’s haggard appearance back at him. “Haven’t the guys around here had to bury enough bodies this week? Why add to the trauma?”

Danse’s eyes narrowed, but he did stand up and put this pistol back in his pocket. “You make an excellent point,” He said, headed for the door. “I will relocate myself to a more remote location as not to disturb the population.”

“Thaaaat’s not quite what I meant,” The man blocked the exit with an arm and refused to stand down, even as Danse towered over him. “Actually, I have a proposition for you - nothing weird - I promise-” He said, holding out his hands in a show of good faith. Danse used the opportunity to sidestep the stranger and walk out of the old hanger and into the hallway. The man scurried behind him. “So, I can imagine what is going through your mind right now - who is this guy? How did he get to be so handsome? Why doesn’t he want me to blow my brains out in an old-world aircraft hangar?”

Danse ignored the man, which did nothing to stop his ranting.

“In order - My name is Deacon, I moisturize daily, and I want you to join my super awesome resistance movement to take down the rat bastard known as the Sole Survivor of Vault 111-” Danse stopped dead in his tracks. “-though I suppose you were close enough to know him as Nate, right?”

Danse turned to look over the man - Deacon, as he claimed to be. He was bald, as evidenced by his ill-fitting wig sagging just enough to show his absent hairline. He was dressed like a civilian, but up close Danse could see the ballistic armor plates hidden under his flannel shirt. There was a look about him that Danse recognized from some of the scribes, specifically the ones who had been tasked with recon. His eyes twitched at Danse's every movement, and the slight tremor in Deacon's fingers pointed him in the direction of a pistol tucked into the stranger's pants line. In short - Danse’s summary of the man was that there was more to him than just a scavenger with delusions of grandeur.

Still, he turned back around.

“Even if what you are saying is true, I cannot in good conscience accept your offer,” Danse said, continuing his long walk. Deacon kept up pace beside him.

“Really? You’re still loyal to him even after he turned half of your buddies into flaming corpses?”

Danse felt rage hit him in a wave, but years of emotional control stayed his hand. Still, he faltered in his gait. “Nate is dead to me," He said with all the contempt he had left in him. "Should I have the opportunity I would gladly put that monster down myself. My issue is not with your cause, but rather with myself. I am a synth. Taking me into your organization would be too great of a security risk.

“Oh, right, that. Yeah, I already know about that, don’t worry,” Deacon said flippantly. Danse pushed open the double doors leading to the exterior of the airport, and despite letting the doors fall back on Deacon, the man kept following. “I asked a whole bunch of the Brotherhood guys if they wanted to join up, but most of them turned tail and headed back to the capital. But there was always this one guy who they kept mentioning, yeah? A pal of Nate's who turned out to be a synth. The guy was supposedly still running around in the Commonwealth, one M7-97.” Danse took a deep breath, hating every second he spent listening to this man speak. “That’s you right? See, I figured if I hung around here long enough I’d see you. Nate isn’t exactly… good to his friends when he’s done with them. And I’d say blowing up the Prydwen was about as done as done gets.”

“As stated, I am no longer affiliated with him,” Danse said, pausing at the water’s edge when he realized there was no shaking the persistent little pest. “If you are looking for intel on his current location, I have nothing to offer you. Last contact was precisely eighteen days ago at Listening Point Bravo.”

“Oh nah, I didn’t expect anything like that,” Deacon said, coming up beside Danse. He reached down for a rock in the sand and skipped it along the bay. “I just figured joining up with us might be a decent enough alternative to suicide.”

“It is not suicide, it is turning off a broken machine,” Danse clarified. He couldn’t see the man’s eyes, but he was almost certain that Deacon rolled them behind his glasses.

“Well, when that machine is sentient, we call it suicide,” He said with a sigh. “Look, man, I know what you’re going through, believe me.”

Danse’s eyes narrowed, no longer able to keep his contempt from his face. “How could you possibly know that? The Brotherhood was humanity’s best hope for a better future, and because of my malfunction its ranks have been compromised, possibly irreparably.”

Deacon fell down onto his ass, stretching out so his bare feet were caught by the waves as they lapped the shore. “I know 'cause you’re not the only one he’s stabbed in the back,” Deacon said, looking out across the water. “I was part of the Railroad.”

Danse’s neck snapped to the side, looking down at the man. His mouth opened in a prepared lecture about the folly of mistaking synths for human beings and the role of the Railroad in humanity’s doom, but he saw Deacon remove the sunglasses from his face and for the first time he was looking into the other man’s eyes.

“Nate took us out in the dead of night. No one saw it coming,” Deacon continued. “He was a new agent, but the higher-ups put a lot of faith in him, because someone they trusted had recommended him - me.” Deacon looked back towards the waves, propped up with his hands behind him. “Look, I’m not gonna sit around and babysit you. If you want out, there isn’t much I can do to stop you. But right now, I’ll be honest, the only thing keeping me going is revenge, and that’s a hell of a lot better than being dead.”

Silence fell between them. Danse had no idea what to say to all that. On the one hand, he was perfectly happy with the destruction of a dangerous underground movement such as the Railroad, and on the other, the parallels between his and Deacon’s story were not lost on him. Danse knew that the right thing to do was to decline Deacon’s offer - possibly even take the synth sympathizer down with him before he caused any more harm - and continue with his plan to terminate his existence.

But Danse didn’t want to die, or whatever one would call it when a synth ceased to be. And more than that, he didn’t want Nate to keep on living. There were hundreds of people on that ship - men, women, children . Not all of them were good, Danse was well aware of the unsavory types that were often attracted to the military lifestyle, but none of them deserved to die the way they did only to end up buried hundreds of miles from home in a mass grave.

Maybe it was selfishness, maybe it was revenge, maybe it was raw, human (or at least human-like) emotion, but Danse finally came to his decision with a decisive nod of his head.

“Okay.” He said. “Tell me what you need me to do.”

15 notes · View notes

botwstoriesandsuch · 4 years ago

Text

Welp Mystery Clown Exists so that’s nice

Ok it’s 3am but I got new shots of Mystery Clown over here and I need to put down some thoughts before I collapse for the next five hours so Let’s Just Jump Into It™️

Here’s the latest shot I got of the guy

Now here are the other shots we got of this mystery clown. These are from his first appearance in the Kohga trailer

And this one is from an article releasing various gameplay and cutscene screenshots

Ok so few things:

1) His hair [I’ve mentioned this before but incase you’re just tuning in, mystery clown over here is confirmed male so rip female villain dreams] changes color. Two out of three of his appearances, mystery clown’s got dark/black hair. However, in the shot in the Lost Woods, with the two Yiga foot soldiers, his hair is undeniable lighter, some blondish/white thing. Even without me brightening the photo, you can see in the original that his hair is very clearly not black.

Could some magical events have transformed him? Dare I say it’s an entirely different character? Probably not the latter, and literally everything else about them is still the same. However, it’s still interesting to think about what exactly lead to their hair changing color. I’m going to assume it was some magical bullshit about like selling a piece of yourself to a demon to become more powerful so your hair gets all spoooopppy and pale but eh, who knows. For all I know, their hair is original white, but then turns dark! But I doubt it as that leads to my next point for number

2) I am going to order these events as the third one coming first, then the first(because hair), then the second.

This one first because firstly, you’ll notice that this is the only instance of Mystery Clown NOT holding his fancy little Ancient Core in his left hand. And from their expression, I am one to infer that this is the first instance of mystery clown receiving this item. They kinda have a smile or at least some form of surprise on their face.

Innnnnn addition [read that in Robbie’s voice ha] I can 100% [probably] place this shot in Hyrule Castle because that’s literally the only place I can think that’s fancy enough to have wooden accents around stone square tiled floors.

And before I go further, NO this is not the Royal Ancient Labs I check floors for hours as a hobby ok

[Thank you to @muffinbuttonfan for giving me Hyrule Castle references at 4am just so that I could show that Hyrule Castle is the only area with the wooden accented floors]

Now the reason why that information is so important is that means that Mystery Clown over here couldn’t have gotten his little device from the Labs or anywhere else but the castle. And Hyrule Castle, mind you, has a very important location.

For you see, as I was planning to make a small post just talking about THIS new screenshot

I instead happened upon a greater revelations that had to do with these stars....

Ok now firstly, I’ll note again that I think this shot comes second chronologically because the hair is dark, and mystery clown here is actually using the magic ancient core thing

BUT BUT BUT, THAT is the aspect in which I might be wrong. For you see, those stars are of SHEIKAH constellations. You’ll have seen them in THREE places, and THREE PLACES ONLY.

The Shrines

The Towers

And....

THE GOD DAMN MOTHER FUCKING ASTRAL OBSERVATORY BITCH

I KNOW I JUST CHANGED THE TONE DRARASTICALLY BUT THAT’S BECAUSE I LITERALL HAD THIS REVELATION AS I WAS WRITING THIS AT EXACTLY 3:13 EST AM ON THIS NOVEMBER FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH this post will probably out much later tho cause I have to sleep

What is the only instance of malice infest Sheikah technology other than the Divine Beasts? Babam. Astral Observatory. What is the only other spherical object that maps the stars? Baboom. Giant Ancient Core thing cause guess what fuckers it’s an astrolabe.

So while I don’t doubt that the magic object that mystery clown is holding has connection to Ancient Cores, I am very very very certain that it is actually an Astrolabe because of the connections between the Astral Observatory (again, located in Hyrule Castle which is the place that Mystery Clown seems to have received this thing) along with the story element in of itself of having a fortune teller that reads the stars. I mean, the guys gotta have some sort of high ranking job given his attire

Now as for what exact this astrolabe does? (Besides charting the stars that is...)Well I’ve got a few theories

The creation of the Time Gate™️ kinda looks like stars and all sheikah technology has a connection to the stars and constellations and all that so maybe Mystery Clown has the ability to travel to different timelines or something like we see eggbot do. Or perhaps at the very least is aware of other timelines, consider it’s a strong possibility they’re a fortune teller, such an ability much be...useful.

Although I think the more likely possibility is that this astrolabe controls/contains malice. Think about it, if I’m correct and this thing is an astrolabe, then it has the ability to chart the positions of the sun, stars and moon. Perhaps it contains knowledge to the countdown to the bloodmoon/Calamity? It is also very clearly festers with malice given it’s purpley/pink appearance. And you’ll note that in Age of Calamity...

This is the only game where malic is strategically used, actually being directed places, rather than just the Calamity waking up and infecting every Guardian at once.

Especially concerning that example at the Breach of Demise. IT would have been impossible for Calamity Ganon to have done that him(it?)self. Plus, only certain high ranking people would even have knowledge of the Princess’ exact whereabouts. Ergo, this was a planned and calculated move by someone

AKA Mystery Clown has the ability to send infect machines with Malice thanks to charting shit with his astrolabe that he got from Ganon? at the Astral Observatory.

Oh also this is a bit of a stretch but his robe pattern is the same of that of the Royal Library so that’s nice

And the library excavation site is one of the only areas where you could access the pillars that release the Guardians. (That is, Pre-Calamity Awakening of course)

#hwaoc spoilers #hwaoc theory #hwaoc #aoc #age of calamity #hw age of calamity #hyrule warriors age of calamity #do i tag #yeah #mystery clown #listen this guy will always be mystery clown now in my heart #just like that other dude will be backflip benny forevermore

42 notes · View notes

ktheist · 4 years ago

Text

twenty-eight

chapters: 27 / 28 / 29

knight!jungkook x princess!reader

“Your majesty,” Yoongi’s monotonous voice bounces off the walls - you can never truly tell whether he abhors you, pity you or didn’t care enough to harbor any sort of emotion for you, “the king is threatening to slay through the Northern Kingdom’s knights to see you.”

The sound of droplets splashing into the water in the tub is your only response as you run your hand down your arm, “he won’t kill anyone,” you say before halting mid-action, eyes trained on the man with the blankest canvas on his face, “unless he’s had a change of heart.”

“War changes people - if he did have a change of heart, then it is for her majesty to guide it back to the right place,” Jungkook offers you a towel, leaning on the edge of the tub with a somber smile on his face.

It’s been two nights since Yerin brought the news of Taehyung’s return - in a normal setting, it would take three days to get to the Glass Palace, where you’ve retreated to, fleeing away from your enemies that seem to litter the main palace’s ground like vermins.

“Does her majesty not speak for herself?” The sharp tone from the man across the room forces you to take your eyes off your knight and to him.

For the first time since you know him, Yoongi’s eyes are clouded with a sort of distaste as he stares at his comrade. If your sword was anywhere closer to your grasp, you could have sliced through the tension with it. Jungkook is the leader, the middle man between you and your ghosts - though you didn’t expect them to get along, it was a given that they should trust the shots his calls.

“Of course her majesty does,” the younger man tears his gaze to meet yours, a faint smile tugging on his lips as he caresses your cheekbone, “your majesty, should you help spare the lives of your former brothers in arms?”

The knights Seokjin had sent were those who’d fought with you against Taehyung and survived the war. When you heard it was your own division that he sent, you almost told him to take back the order. Because it was cruel to send him to a nation that murdered their brothers. To protect their princess against the man whose army they’d fought to the death for, thinking they wouldn’t have to face such a monster again, but ended up having their nightmares come true.

They are strong willed, that much, you admit.

But didn’t mean they do not feel fear.

And if there was any ounce of sympathy left in your hollowed vessel, it was better directed for the ones who’d die for you - a severely lacking concept in the Northern Kingdom.

“Very well,” you agree, pushing yourself up and hearing the sound of water splatters echo off the walls.

Yoongi keeps his head lowered as Jungkook drape a robe over your shoulders before you tied the sash around your waist. With droplets still trickling down your hair and footprints dot your steps, you walk past the elder man and down the corridor where Yerin stands at the end, staring at something beyond the balcony with a troubled frown.

“Your majesty,” she greets as soon as she sees you.

With a dismissive wave, you order her to stay back while you step onto the moonlight poured balcony, hands placed on the railing. There are at least a hundred men standing guard, with their spears pointed at a familiar tall frame and the black horse next to him.

“___,” his sharp gaze softens when he spots your figure looking over him, voice gentle, “tell these men to stand down.”

“Frustrating to talk to someone who won’t listen, no?” Not waiting for his response, you curtly lay out your terms, “execute her.”

Your name falls off his tongue like a heartbreaking hymn, “it’s not that easy- there must be a trial first.”

“Was that what Lord Park ‘advised’ you?” The word drips off your tongue like venom, the man’s scheming smile burning at the back of your mind.

Ever since you’d been poisoned, he’d been leading the other ministers in opposing you and taking over your job. They probably had complete control in the palace for the two weeks you’d fled, leaving your post and duties without someone to stand in - then again, there was no one you could trust to fill in the job of both the Queen and King that you’d been carrying on your shoulders since Taehyung left.

“You’ve just lost a child,” you know where this is going, “you’re not thinking st-”

“I know what I heard, Taehyung,” your heart palpitates a little faster, the chilly air doing nothing to ease the fire burning deep within the pit of your stomach, “she said if only i had kept my head low, I would have at least been able to keep my child.”

“I know my mother, ___.” He counters, voice straining with tension, “she may dislike the way you do things but she would never-”

“I’m sure Claude would have thought the world of me too,” it’s a surprise how your voice hasn’t cracked at the mention of your son, your baby, “if she didn’t take him away from me.”

Just as you thought the man you gave half of your heart to is lost forever, you watch his heart break through the windows of his souls as he whispers to himself “...it was a boy?”

“He died in the womb because of the poison she fed me,” you force out, “did Lord Park not include that in his reports?”

“You...” his throat goes dry before he can even finish his words.

But you already know what he was about to say - it only consists of a repetition of your words with a more surprised undertone to them. As though it was news to his ears. A sad one, it seems, but still news.

It had been over two weeks and your heart had been broken far too many times. That was possibly why you didn’t wait for him to process anything when you put your foot down, shoulders squared like a woman scorned, “I may have left with a luggage, a lady-in-waiting, a maid and a cook,” you pause, watching as the realization sinks in his eyes, “but I made sure I brought the divorce papers with me in the event that you made a poor choice.”

Before he has a chance to say anything more which only serves to fuel your resentment - to whom you’re not quite sure anymore - you give out one last order for the night, “his majesty shall stay at the storage room,” though it doesn’t look like he’ll willfully follow any attendant you sent to guide him there, “or on the ground in front of the door, I don’t care - but nobody comes in or out without my permission.”

You don’t hear as much as a protest from the king as you walk back inside, Yerin and Jungkook who were standing behind the door frame, following you to your room with the exception that the first halts at your bedroom door, head lowered as she echoes back your ‘good night, Yerin.”

Yoongi isn’t anywhere to be found especially after challenging Jungkook’s position.

You wonder if he’ll be disciplined.Considering this is the first time a ghost has ever voiced protest against Jungkook, there wasn’t any need for such harsh treatments - but then again, no one ever admitted his leadership. Just his role to communicate what the ghosts want to you and you them.

The thought disappears as soon as the door closes with an echoing click - and yet the demand tugs on your conscience, “___, why didn’t you tell me that you brought the divorce papers?”

“I’m not going to go through it,” is all you say.

But instead of leaving it as it is, Jungkook presses on - or at least, his tone doesn’t seem like the comforting one that you remember it to be, “I’m disappointed you’d hide such plans from me.”

For the briefest moment, Yoongi’s emotionless face crosses the back of your mind.

“Am I to consult everything with you?” Whirling around, you see nothing but a silhouette within the shadow but you have an inkling that his eyes aren’t as soft and gentle as you wish they would be.

And perhaps, that’s what keeps you going, “you’re nothing but a ghost. Who are you to demand things from me - the Queen!”

You can’t hear anything but the sound of your own blood rushing in your ears. Feel nothing but the throb of your heart through your entire body. The seconds seem to stretch on for hours but there is no trace of the earliest ray of the sun. Not even the sound of birds chirping.

“You’re right, your majesty,” Jungkook finally says, but for some reason, your heart doesn’t stop thrashing in your chest, “forgive my impudence.”

“That’s fine,” you clear your throat, wishing to assert dominance but all you are is a palpitating mess because it would have been better if Jungkook just shouted back. If he’d throw just as painful words to you as you did him.

But he doesn’t.

And you can’t help but compare him to the man you sent to the storage room to spend the night at. Whilst Taehyung anger is hot, burning flames that bursts without so much as a warning, Jungkook’s is molten lava that turns everything he touches to ashes.

And for the first time since you’ve known your knight, you’re afraid of burning yourself.

“Let’s go to sleep - I’m tired,” you announce, climbing into the bed on your side before feeling his arm snake around your waist like it would for the amount of time you’ve spent at the Glass Palace together.

As much as you feel the remaining pieces of your heart being crushed into dusts by the very man you hold dear to, you’re also painfully aware that he’s the only thing you’ve got here in this foreign land.

taglist: @fanfuckingfic @apurpledheart @koochiekoo

#bts smut #jungkook smut #taehyung smut #bts fic #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfic #taehyung fanfic #taehyung fic #jungkook fic #jungkook scenarios #bts scenarios #bts imagines

65 notes · View notes