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realm-sweet-realm · 3 years ago

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First-Time Meeting

This is a request for creepyalienghost- a story about Sammy and Norman meeting for the first time in high school.

I’m using her Sammy and Norman for this (with her permission, of course!), so their backgrounds and characterizations will be different from those of my own.

I hope you all enjoy this!

Oh, and content warning: there will be talk of abuse and depiction of bullying.

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The date was August 31st, evening, and Norman hid as some teenagers his age were playing in the lake- the popular boys playing King of the Dock as the smaller ones kept a hundred yards of distance and gave them the occasional glance. No one saw Norman watching from the brush. He was new in this little rural town, having only lived there a month, but he was quite sure that he knew the dynamics of the local youths as well as one who had lived there all their life.

Norman’s 15-year-old life hadn’t always been pleasant. Having grown up in foster care, he’d lived with six different families in four different cities, and had learned that nothing lasts. He’d also learned at his last school that teenage boys are cruel. At every prior school, he’d gotten along fine on his own, spending most of his recesses wandering alone or drifting in and out of friend groups as he felt like it. His last school- which had also been his first high school- had been different. He remembered being ganged up on and beaten bloody for looking too long at the wrong girls and for generally being unpopular.

Not this time, he promised himself. This time he was going to be a top dog. He might not have been the most sociable, but he was as big and strong as most grown men, capable of being crude and mean, and if the world of high school boys was eat or be eaten, then by God he was willing to eat. Just three years and he would be able to get out of here, settle somewhere, put down some roots, and be kind.

The next day, Norman arrived at his new high school for the first day of class, running in five minutes before the bell and thankfully before the teacher. In a stroke of luck, he saw an empty desk beside one of the popular boys and took it. His name was Brady- Norman knew that from his watching. He was big, he was a football player, and Norman had seen this guy beat smaller boys to a pulp. Definitely someone Norman wanted as an ally.

“Hey, do they let us drink in this class?” Norman asked him casually.

“Nope, but the teacher’s a pushover,” Brady replied without even looking at him.

“Sweet.” With that, Norman dug two cans of Coke out of his backpack. He knew that Brady loved his Coke. “Want one?”

“Tch. You fuckin’ tryhard,” the boy said, but he took a can. “Name’s Brady. Yours?”

“Norman.”

“Wanna have lunch with me and my friends today?”

“Yep,” Norman said. Mission accomplished. The two boys chatted a bit, but a minute or so into that, another boy stepped in that demanded Norman’s attention.

Norman’s first thought when he saw him was that someone’s younger brother must have wandered in. A few inches shorter than the shortest girl in the class and far too thin for a fifteen-year-old, the kid looked ten years old at first glance. Looking closer, though, Norman realized that his facial structure was as developed as anyone else’s there, and his bone structure was too big and too prominent to be a little kid’s- he looked underfed, not young. Most telling, though, were the cigarette burns on his wrists and arms. Was this another foster kid, recently pulled from an abusive home? Was that why Norman hadn’t seen him until now? He had to know. When the teacher did attendance, Norman learned the boy’s name: Sammy Lawrence.

The first three classes came and went without issue, and Norman sat with the bullies at lunch, using the knowledge he’d stored up on them to befriend them with relative ease. Unfortunately, Sammy wasn’t in any of Norman’s other classes- he’d found the kid mysterious in a way and felt the urge to know more about him.

It wasn’t until three days later that Norman had a serious run-in with Sammy. He and his friends had been walking to the beach together after school when Brady saw Sammy and decided they liked the look of his book bag.

“I’d like to make it mine,” he said.

“You’re gonna steal from a little runt like him? Come on, dude,” Norman replied, in a tone that implied that that was just such an unthinkably lame thing to do. Hopefully, Norman thought, that would repel him from the idea.

“I’m not gonna steal it,” Brady specified, “he’s gonna give it to me. Watch this.” With that, the group broke away from Norman and headed over to Sammy. Norman followed close behind. When Sammy turned to face the gang, he looked terrified.

“Hey, kid. Nice backpack you’ve got there. Can I have it?”

Sammy’s mouth moved, but no sound came out.

“I said, can I have it?”

“No,” Sammy whimpered.

With that, one of the larger boys grabbed Sammy’s arm and another took out a pocketknife. “Hand it over or we’ll cut it off you,” the Brady threatened.

On instinct, Norman came up and slapped Brady’s hand away from Sammy. “Don’t,” he asserted.

“Are you serious?” Brady demanded.

Nothing to do, Norman supposed, but dig himself deeper. “Yeah. If you want to do this, you’ll have to fight me for it.”

Brady’s face twisted in disgust. “No way are we doing this where everyone can see us. I’ll see you in the parking lot tomorrow after school. Then we’ll settle things.”

With that, the three boys passed them by. One of them used his knife to cut a slit in Norman’s shirt as they went.

Norman stood in stunned terror. One week, and he was already making powerful enemies. This would not be a good school.

“You okay?” Sammy asked, “Thank you for saving me.”

Norman forced a smile. “It’s okay. You want to go get slushies or something?” Hey, any friend was better than none.

“Sure,” Sammy replied.

The two started walking together in awkward silence. “Are you a foster kid?” Norman asked, unsure how else to bring it up. “Like me?” he added a little too late, so not to offend him.

“No,” Sammy said, not looking at him.

God, Norman thought, I’m getting into a fight for this kid and I’m still blowing it with him. “You got any hobbies?”

“Yeah,” the boy said with slightly more enthusiasm, “back in the city where I used to live, music was my thing. I sure hope that they’ll at least have a school band or something here, even though it’s really small. Do you want to see something I keep in my bag?”

After the two had bought their slushies, they sat down at the park next to the corner store, and Sammy took out what looked to be a regular notebook. The pages fluttered open to reveal page after page of musical notes, all written in blue pen ink on the lined paper, along with lines of blue self-created meter to contain them. It was full to the last page.

“Wow. Man, I wish I were that dedicated to anything. What inspires you?”

Sammy shrugged. “Other music. Things that happen me, or things I see happen. Writing music just makes me happy.”

“Is that why you wouldn’t hand over your bag?”

“Yeah. I always figure that since I’ve survived long enough to write all of these, I can survive whatever ends up happening to me.”

A sudden desire to hug the poor boy came over Norman, but before he could say anything, Sammy dug another notebook out of his backpack. “Wanna see some of my newer stuff? I’ve gotten better!” Sammy said, cheering up again and, for the first time, meeting Norman’s eyes.

The boys ended up spending the rest of the night together, and became great friends after the fact. The fight with Brady came and went without fanfare- it ended in a draw after they’d exchanged blows, bruises and black eyes. A week later it was only a memory, and Norman did make other friends despite the rocky start. Sammy gradually opened up to him about his abusive home life, and their friend group tried to protect him the best they could.

Three years after Norman and Sammy had met, they graduated and then scattered to the winds. Sammy was determined to put himself through college and find a career in music, so he moved back to Manhattan while Norman stayed put. With no real idea where his ambitions should lie, he found himself spending a few years drifting between menial jobs and spending his nights with his friends and boyfriends. He drifted to New York when he could find no work at the lakeside village. He was hired as the cameraman for Joey Drew Studios. Not his first choice, but as good as any.

And on his first day, Norman took his place at the Projector booth and saw someone unmistakable: Sammy. He looked so much healthier, dignified, even, now that his face and body had filled out. The wounds on his arms had healed to be barely noticeable, and he was overlooking the band with an unshakable confidence and composure. He’d made it! He was having a bad day, if the scowl and the eyebags told Norman anything, but he’d made it! He had a musical career like he’d wanted.

Norman was overjoyed to see him again until Sammy turned to face him, and Norman saw his black eye, hiding beneath a too-thin layer of makeup.

#Bendy and the Ink Machine #norman polk #sammy lawrence #norman x sammy #my fanfiction

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bluegarners · 3 years ago

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By popular demand, I have written a Part 2 for mainstay for @viceturtle. Thank you so much @newsical for being an immense help with this!!

Part 1.

This chapter was inspired by this conversation between @bigskydreaming and @fuyunoakegata

ao3

There’s a lot to be said about his stubbornness.

He thinks everyone has at least some degree of it within themselves. A refusal to move or consent to something. Sure, some don’t hesitate long. They give. They bend. They break. But the stubbornness is in that hesitation. That moment of ‘Am I really doing this? Should I be doing this? Why in the world should I do this?’. It’s about the pause, is what he’s trying to get at, that makes stubbornness so inherent to each individual.

It breathes in the form of grudges. Arguments. Games of she-said-he-said-they-said. Right or wrong. I told you so’s and I’m not sorry’s.

Jason does all of those things like it's second nature. He’s not going to pretend like he’s some saint who can understand the other side and reason with them. If he thinks he’s right, it’s not a matter of if the other person is actually right or wrong. He knows he’s right, so it doesn’t matter in the end. He knows what he knows, and if he doesn’t— whatever. Immovable object and all that.

So, yeah. There’s a lot to be said about his stubbornness.

He calls Red Robin anyway.

“He’s gone.”

“Sorry, what? I need context for this. There’s a lot of people this could apply to—”

“Dick. Dick is gone.”

“Oh. Like, just now he left?”

“I don’t know. Some guy came and took him.”

“As much as I love vague conversations, this isn’t helping me and I don’t understand why you’re calling in the first place.”

“Dick is fucking. Gone. What do you not understand about that.”

“Jesus, I don’t know, Jason. What, is he not supposed to be gone? He said he was going to leave again. He already said ‘hi’ to Damian, so I don’t see why he would stick around any longer.”

“Hm.”

“Fuck me, didn’t you know? This was all just- just some visit for him. Sure, he’ll be back eventually, but fuck knows if he’s actually—”

He hangs up. Pockets his phone. Listens as the rain continues to drench the world outside of his little apartment. His shoulders hurt. There’s a bruise on his chest. Right between his fifth and sixth ribs. He has a split lip. He put ointment on it earlier but it still stings. His knees ache. He has a distant memory of his mother complaining about her knees too. Something about the weather making them act up.

He’s twenty-three.

He’s getting old.

On the table next to him is a box of cigarettes. Low-tar. Filtered. In his right pocket, there’s a lighter he got from someone years ago. He doesn’t know. Maybe he stole it. Found it.

He pulls it out. Shakes a cigarette out of the thin box. Holds the paper wrapped nicotine between his lips, lifting the lighter and thumbing the flink strike.

Click.

He shakes the lighter. Tries again.

Click.

Gotham hasn’t had this much rain in a long time. It’s nearing October. Maybe it’s in season or whatever weather does. He doesn’t know the term.

Click.

It’s raining outside. Jason can see it. There’s raindrops on his window. He can hear it clattering against the fire-escape. Gray and black and mixes of yellow from street lamps below. Jason is inside on the comfort of his couch. Sure, it’s not the best apartment, but it doesn’t leak. The ceiling is fine and he hasn’t had any problems with it before. His face is wet though. He doesn’t know why.

Click.

The cigarette falls from his lips and lands with a thud on the stained carpet. The T.V is on. Says the storm over Gotham will last for the next few days. An unprecedented seven inches of rain predicted. The GCPD is advising everyone to stay indoors. Crime is expected to rise with the water levels.

Click.

His clothes are still soaked. He’s probably ruining his couch. He can’t remember if he took his boots off or not.

Click.

Jason sighs. His chest feels heavy, like someone is sitting on top of him. It’s just him though. Only him in his apartment. He likes having his own space. The neighbors get loud sometimes, but it’s not as if he’s a five star resident either. It’s always been like this. He is…. Alone.

Click.

Dick was gone. Came back. And now, Dick is gone again. Did he do that? Did he drive him away? Is this his fault? Jason doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. Doesn’t know if he doesn’t care at all, but at least the rain is nice to listen to. Yeah. The rain is really nice. Consistent. Steady.

Click.

He didn’t take off his boots.

~oOo~

One month is all it takes.

One month and Nightwing is out spotted in Bludhaven, his photo splashed across every news outlet from Gotham to Metropolis. New Jersey missed its boy in blue and cheers at his return.

Nightwing stays in Bludhaven though. Red Hood stays in Gotham. Just as it used to be. Back to normal. Yeah.

The rain stopped a week ago.

Jason misses the noise.

~oOo~

“Won’t you come?”

“No.”

“Please, Master Jason? We would love to have you here. It has been too long.”

“I can’t.”

“I thought you loved turkey. There’ll be plenty of leftovers and I know you’ve been meaning to return the tupperware from last time. It’ll be good for you to leave that apartment of yours.”

“I have better things to do than play nice and talk politics in Brucie Wayne’s mansion. I’m not coming.”

“I know you have your own quarrels with Master Dick, but—”

“It’s not about him. I don’t give a fuck about what he’s doing or what stick Bruce has up his ass this time. I am not walking into the line of fire just to save everyone else an evening of beating around the bush. I. Am. Not. Going.”

“. . . Then won’t you at least visit? I miss you. I worry about you.”

“I’m sorry, Alfred.”

“I am too, my boy.”

Click.

Jason spends Thanksgiving out in the Narrows. He’s not rich, doesn’t want to be, but he has money. Plenty he doesn’t need to spend on himself. He goes grocery shopping. Fills two, three carts worth of canned food and rotisserie chickens. Goes home, carries the bags in all at once. Organizes them.

Single. Partners. Family.

He leaves his apartment. He is not Jason Todd. He is not Red Hood. He’s just some guy out in the Narrows.

He hands out the bags. Has the decency to look the people in the eyes, knowing he was that street kid once. Seeing his mother in each dirty, beaten face he comes across. Pitying the drunken men and the addicts. They accept his offerings. It would be stupid not to. No one says thank you. He doesn’t need them to.

He goes home. His arms are sore. The bruises have completely faded.

The apartment is empty.

Click

Sometimes, there are days where he doesn’t know why.

That’s a big concept: why?

He thinks it carries too much weight. Maybe if he had survived past tenth grade, he could’ve signed up for a philosophy or debate class, maybe shed some light on that particular question, but he didn’t. Survive. So, he only has his own mind to ponder the concept. He’s read a couple books. Never fully understood the words he read though. He would’ve liked to, but he didn’t. Understand.

But it’s up to interpretation right? So, here’s where he’s at.

Jason doesn’t understand or know why sometimes, and it becomes a problem.

He doesn’t understand why he got such a bad hand for parents. Why Bruce didn’t grieve like Jason wanted him to (so desperately yearned for, screamed for, died for). Why someone thought it was a good idea for him to live out a second-still-the-same life. Why he came back so different. (Was he? Different? He doesn’t think he came back wrong but he doesn’t know a lot. Well, he does. But, if he came back wrong then that means he wasn’t right to begin with and he’s always right and if he’s wrong then—).

He doesn’t know why he punched Dick. He didn’t want to. Not really. But he did. Want to. Badly so. Wanted proof, wanted penance, wanted forgiveness, wanted retribution, wanted that sting that comes with reality and the regret of a little something called mortality. Horse drawn carriage alongside Death, patting the seat next to it.

Okay, he knows why .

He doesn’t understand why, though.

Jason doesn’t understand why he gets so angry sometimes. It doesn’t feel good, doesn’t feel right, like he’s supposed to be feeling something else but he’s just flipped upside down so there’s no point in trying to right himself. He’s always right anyway. Yeah. Yeah.

He doesn’t understand why he says things, why he opens his mouth at all when he regrets them so quickly after. He yells a lot. Raises his voice and spits mean words and cusses worse than anyone else he knows and regrets it as soon as it leaves his mouth. But he doesn’t learn. Doesn’t rethink it, doesn’t look back and remember the lesson he taught himself. You can’t be taught if you’re always right anyway, so what’s the point? Why regret it when he’s just going to do it again?

That’s a big word: why.

There are answers attached to the word. Reasons for the question being asked. Explanations and solutions and resolutions.

Jason is good at solving problems, is quick to work around it and get the job done. And a question is just a problem being asked, right? It’s verbal, that’s the only difference, so if he’s such a good problem solver, if he’s such a goddamn good thinker and understands things like philosophy and literature and great big concepts and words—

Why did he do that? Why did he say those things? Why can’t he make up his fucking mind? Why is he the way he is? Why does he just push and shove and drive away everyone and everything? Why did he come back different? Why did he come back wrong? Why didn’t Bruce love him enough to end things? Why was he worth a second chance when he screws up and regrets so much? Why do people still fucking try with him? Why can’t he get one goddamn thing right? Why is he always—

Click.

“Why didn’t you come to dinner?”

Click.

Red Hood is in Gotham. Nightwing is too. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. The air is cold and there’s ice in the wind. It’s a clear night. A quiet frost coats the rooftop and Jason can hear his brother’s footsteps.

“We missed you, you know. Here, Agent A wanted me to give you these.”

Jason turns. Dick is holding out a duffle-cooler. He stands six feet away.

“They’re just leftovers. Turkey, sweet potatoes, casserole, pie; the fixings.”

Jason doesn’t move. Neither does Dick. To anyone else, it would look like a stand-off between Nightwing and Red Hood, neutral ground tensions. They both know it’s not.

It is cold and there is ice in the wind and the rainy season is long past. When they breathe, it erupts out of them in the form of white vapor and Jason can only think of the fact that it looks like smoke. His lighter still doesn’t work. It sits in his right pocket. He wants to take it out. Hear the click.

“There’s some beer too,” Dick adds softly, voice carried away and twisted in the sharp air. “I have a bottle opener.”

Nightwing walks a few paces away to sit against an A/C unit, shielding himself from the wind. He sets the cooler down beside him, unzipping the duffle and pulling out two bottles of a brand Jason doesn’t recognize, and pats the space next to him. Horse drawn carriage.

Why is a big concept. A big word. Maybe one of the bigger questions in the repertoire.

He doesn’t know nor understand why he takes the offered seat. He just does. It feels right to do so. Jason takes the offered bottle too and opens it himself. Hands back the blade. Takes a sip.

It’s cold. It warms him.

He doesn’t understand:

“Why?”

Dick swirls the alcohol around, bubbles rising to the surface. “Why, what?”

There’s a lot of things Jason could say. Could ask. He’s had two months to think about a question that would fit the answer he’s trying so hard to get; one that would satisfy the cavern that just keeps getting wider and wider, this empty presence that digs deeper inside him. He likes to think it would be a really intelligent question, one that would stump his all knowing brother; the one with all the answers in the world and a smile to accompany it. Dick had been on this pedestal for as long as Jason can remember. Had been placed so high above himself, even now, it’s impossible for him to reach, fingers a thousand miles away from ever grazing the top.

A lot of people would tell him he’s done this to himself. That the things he decides to do, his actions, what he says to other people and what they do as a consequence; all a product of his own creation. Even the cavern inside of him, filled with stalagmites and cobwebs and so many empty boxes, perhaps he did that to himself. He— He did that. To himself.

But Jason doesn’t like being wrong. Doesn’t like the fear that invades every nerve in his body when faced with the possibility of being so far off from the mark that it comes back and strikes him in the face. He’s paid the price for being wrong, has the scars and the memories and the stories to prove it, but he’s also been right, over and over again, and it feels so good to be right.

It felt good to punch his brother.

It felt good to have a reason to do so.

The anger, the fear, the possessive guilt that clung to him in those months where Dick was dead and he was at the wheel, knowing he was going to crash and burn eventually and probably take everyone with him. He played the long game and knew the end result. Jason had fooled himself with the thought of taking Dick’s place, thinking he could climb up that enormous pedestal he had placed there himself all those years ago. Torn down and resurrected today.

He doesn’t have a question though. Not a singular, all encompassing question that would piece together every missing hole inside of him and fill the void. His mother used to tell him he talked too much, that a big mouth like his would one day get him into trouble. She also told him that he was smart and curious and kind and so much more than anything she would ever be able to give him. Jason doesn’t understand why she said so many contrary things. Wishes he could ask her, have the opportunity to finally get the answers he wanted from her when he left everything behind just for a chance to do so. He can’t though. She died. He died too.

Dick didn’t.

“Why did you leave?”

His brother stops swirling the contents of his bottle, choosing instead to release a heavy sigh that travels into the air in a thick cloud of tired gray and remorse. “I wasn’t in a good place at the time. Leaving felt like the only good thing left I could do. Batman gave me the mission and I… I took it.”

“What part of letting us all think you were dead was ‘good’? How does that translate to ‘good’ in your world?”

“I wasn’t a part of that decision,” Dick says pointedly, setting down his beer and thunking his head back to rest against the unit. “I was still comatose by the time Batman had broken the news to everyone else. I told you, Hood, I had no choice. Leaving was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but it was all that made sense to do.”

He pauses, a hand coming up to scrub at the sides of his face. “Robin had just… died. Protecting me. I got captured by people with faces I’ve known my entire life and couldn’t escape them. I let myself get hooked up to that- that machine and exposed my identity to the entire world. Do you have any idea what that would’ve done to you all, had I stayed? Everyone knew who Nightwing was under the mask. It would’ve— People would have figured the rest out soon enough. When Batman offered me the opportunity to at least make something right, I took it.”

Something unsettles inside Jason’s chest. Leaking, fracturing. It feels wrong. He feels- “So, what? You left because you felt bad ? Gallivanted off as soon as the opportunity was presented? Oh, I’m sure you’d love to do that again. Hey, Nightwing, tell me, are you feeling bad right now? Would you like a one-way ticket to Spain? I bet that’d make you feel much better.”

Dick frowns, head swiveling to look at Jason. “If that’s how you’d like to picture it, then fine. Yeah, I felt bad about exposing my entire family’s identities. I felt bad about letting down Batman and getting myself taken. I felt bad about dying and not being—”

“Quit fucking saying you died! You didn’t. You put on a good show, I’ll give you that, but having a model that looks just like you being buried in the ground doesn’t qualify as you dying. Get the fuck over yourself.”

A sharp crack meets his words and Jason snaps his head over to see Dick’s bottle broken against the ground, the older man having knocked it over with his hand.

Nightwing’s white lenses are staring at him and Red Hood meets his gaze unflinchingly, if only for the reason that he can’t see his brother’s eyes. There was something to be said about clear eyes in a city full of smog and endless voids, and Jason has looked enough people in the eye to know when to blink and walk away. The dark does not have a gaze to collapse within and yet there is empty white surrounding them.

“Come with me.”

Why is too big of a word.

Jason follows anyway.

He’s at the end of his rope in asking questions he knows no one will be able to answer. Knows that the answer he wants is not one anyone is willing to give, or even can give. See, Jason knows why. Has an understanding with the concept in a personal way unlike anyone else will ever have. He knows, understands, gets exactly what the question demands with all of its little fallacies and conundrums and ever so many follow ups. If he could, Jason would shake hands with it, an agreement to never speak a word of its existence ever again. But, how could he ponder the question when he himself cannot bear to fathom his own existence?

Nightwing is already scaling down a fire-escape, duffle-cooler slung over his shoulder, and Jason watches his head disappear below the roof line. He stands up, feet numb and hands feeling bitten, and side glances the broken bottle and the one he’s leaving behind. Even with the bleak, gray weather, the glass twinkles and shimmers in the ice, and, just faintly, Jason can smell the alcohol in the wind. Gotham is a city filled with muck, grease, scum, and litter. There is no difference in adding their own to the ever increasing pile, and yet Jason cannot help amend himself with the thought that at least their trash is beautiful in the cold.

He walks over to the edge of the roof, peering down to where he can see Nightwing traveling up a different, rusted ladder, ready to seek a new vantage point for wherever it is he’s decided to lead Jason. He doesn’t have his helmet on tonight, just a plain domino to hide his face, and the frost cuts against his nose and lips. A shiver runs through his body and Jason slides down into the alleyway below, keeping his brother in eye-sight. Nightwing launches a grapple, clinging to another building about 200 meters away, and Red Hood follows suit, the chill buffering inside of his jacket.

They arrive at one of those motel looking buildings, the outward appearance completely abandoned. Bruce had built this many years ago, one of the first of several safe-houses, and for all intents and purposes, it served to only attract the kinds of people that knew how to keep their mouths shut. The “general office” is where Dick walks into, a separate facility from the boarding rooms. He waits for Jason to enter, having taken a back door of four inches of solid steel, and locks it behind them once the younger has entered as well.

Dick throws the duffle onto one of the chairs inside the room, and rolls his shoulders in a circular motion, a long sigh escaping him. Somewhere, Jason can hear the heater kicking on.

He thumbs his lighter.

Click.

He isn’t sure what he’s supposed to be doing, waiting by the door for Dick to make the first move. His brother says nothing though, continuing to move his joints around and rub his hands furiously together. He doesn’t even glance at Jason as he leaves the main room, entering another side door and into, what Jason assumes is, a bathroom. Left alone, Jason keeps his boots on and sits down.

Click.

He waits. Peels off his mask and winces at the pull on his skin. Rubs at his eyes and forehead. Sighs.

Click. Click.

He stares at the domino in his lap, regretting having taken it off. Dick could look him in the eye now. He didn’t— He doesn’t like that. You only look people in the eye when you want to convey something, be it emotion, honesty, or purely how much you don’t give a shit. Jason doesn’t know what it meant when he looked at all those people in the Narrows a few days ago. Doesn’t know what it meant when they looked at him. Who was he, then? He was no one. No one.

Click.

The bathroom door opens and Dick steps out wearing a thick tank top and a long pair of joggers. Just beyond the cracked doorway, Jason can see his Nightwing suit hung up against a rack. The remnants of irritated skin also pepper his brother’s face, red and splotchy.

Dick looks up and meets his gaze.

Click.

“This the part where you try to argue yourself right?”

His older brother frowns. “No, it’s not.”

Jason looks away.

Click. Click. Click.

“What’s that in your pocket?”

“Just some old lighter. It doesn’t work.”

“Ah.”

The stiff silence reverberates between them. Normally, when conversation isn’t invited, Dick would go off somewhere and find something to do; something in his head urging him to seek out an offering. It was a tactic the older man used often, something to hold or something else to focus your attention on making an otherwise shaky atmosphere comfortable. When he was still Robin, it was a ploy Jason found himself enjoying sometimes, where Nightwing would meet him on some pre-designated roof carrying hot chocolate or donuts and Jason would gripe to the older man about Bruce’s latest restriction or Batman’s newest growl. Their conversations would last well into the night and it was their secret they kept together, a fall-back to go to when things were too uncertain or days were too long.

Those memories were nice. Fond, even.

Dick does not have an offering this time.

“Did you believe I was dead?”

Jason sucks in a breath, fingers stilling against his lighter. “Yes.” Pause. “I wanted to.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” Jason fires back. “It was on live television for Christ’s sake, Dick! Half the world watched you die.”

“It’s not as if doctored film has never been done before, even if it was live. At some point, it cut off too. I’ve watched the video myself. My death wasn’t shown on screen.”

“There was audio. I could hear your heart stopping on the machine.”

“There was a lot of fighting going on. It was chaos.”

“Fine, I didn’t see you die and the video was shit. But Bruce told us you were dead. Batman told us you had died.”

“And Batman doesn’t lie.”

“Fuck you.”

Dick sighs, leaning back against one of the walls. “Look, I’m not trying to pick another fight with you. I don’t want to.”

“Then what. Do. You. Want,” Jason grounds out, rising from his chair. “I’m sick of this. I am so sick of not knowing what the fuck is going on with you and Bruce, with all of your little secrets and fake-deaths and—”

“It wasn’t fake,” Dick interrupts, standing his ground. “It may not have been for long, but my heart did stop. I died in that machine, Jason, and I’m upset you guys accepted that.”

“Well, what the fuck else were we supposed to do?” Jason erupts, flinging his arms wide. “Fucking poke at your body until you were alive again? Wait next to your corpse in the morgue with your suit on hand, just in case you decided to wake up?”

“You could’ve at least doubted, ” Dick hisses. Jason can hear the heater still humming. The room is cold though. Bitter. “At the very least, you guys could’ve looked into it. Bruce isn’t the perfect, untouchable beast we’ve made him into. He left a trail. A trail that would have led right to the fake body he created while I was comatose. A trail that would have shown the Batmobile needing repairs it shouldn’t have needed. A trail that would have shown the documents he forged to get me into Spyral. There were so many things, Jason! So many goddamn things that would have shown you guys I wasn’t dead!”

“If you wanted to be found so badly, why didn’t you tell us?” Jason snarls, that leaking fracture in his chest pooling into his lungs. “Why didn’t you say a single word if you were so desperate for someone to notice?”

“I already told you,” Dick says quietly. “I needed to make things right. Bruce offered a way to do it and I needed that; the space, away from everything, everyone, in my life that I knew I had failed. I don’t regret it, and I am sorry it caused so much pain, but—”

Click.

“—was it really so wrong to want someone to save me?”

The leak implodes and Jason stops breathing.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

“I know it sounds ridiculous. I should be able to handle these things, but I— there was this moment where I convinced myself that none of what was happening was real and that it was all some nightmare I was watching.”

The blows had stung and burned in the way only rusted metal against bone and flesh could. His left eye was bleeding and his nose had been broken long ago. After the thirtieth strike, Jason had somehow convinced himself it wasn’t real. That he wasn’t there, in that old warehouse, and that he wasn’t some child-soldier-hero being beaten to death by a maniac who laughed and giggled at his pain.

“When I woke up, I really believed that. I-I was so convinced and then Bruce showed up and gave me this mission and, god, Jason, how could I have ever said no? I had failed. Bruce told me I failed. ”

He remembers that sadistic clock in the corner. Silent up until the last ten seconds. It had its own little tick, a click, and it was the stupidest looking bomb Jason had ever seen, bright red and just any old alarm clock with a few extra wires. A nightmare. All just a nightmare and Jason had begged the universe for him to wake up. For someone, anyone, to save him. For Batman to come swooping in and rescue him from his stupid fucking mistakes but—

Click.

Dick breathes out, a shuttering exhale that rocks him to his core. “Spyral, the mission, everything after… It was my penance, I think. Bruce’s way of forgiving me for failing. There was just no other way, Jason. It was all I had left. I guess I had just hoped someone was still in my corner, even after fucking it all up, you know?”

He does. Jason does know with a clarity that haunts him every morning he wakes up and finds the events unchanged. There are cobwebs and old boxes inside his cavern, the place where his soul used to be, but he knows. He knows he came back wrong. That he came back different. That something inside of him was missing when he opened his eyes to mystic green and an emptiness that plagued him until he came back to Gotham; rage, fear, and a deep sadness taking up that empty space inside of him. He doesn’t know how many times he’s asked himself ‘why?’ only to ignore the answer given to him. Too many.

And maybe Dick has asked that same question as well. Maybe he has his own cavern deep inside of him, filled with his own fragmented cobwebs and starved crates, ghosts that continue to follow his every step, and whispers that forever ring in his ears. Perhaps the dead carry memories and questions wherever they go, and perhaps that is their sole purpose. They only stay to recount and wish and want and only breach the word “if” and “maybe”.

But they are alive now. They live. They breathe.

Jason thought death connected himself to his elder brother, but perhaps it was the voids inside of them both that bound them together. The desperation that clung to their beings, seeking approval, seeking retribution, seeking out anything that’ll make them feel whole once more after having been stripped bare and left in the throes of Death's carriage. This was the tie that bound them together. It wasn’t Bruce. It wasn’t Robin. It wasn’t death.

It was simply the missing pieces inside of them. Brothers not by blood, but by the very nature of their search for meaning. And that was all.

“Yeah,” Jason says, the molten gravity of this answer leaving him boneless. “Okay.”

Dick stares at him with the same clear eyes he’s looked at his younger brother with since day one. Something passes behind those eyes, a shift in the monumental focus that is Dick Grayson’s ever present gaze, and the heater continues to thrum in the background, just as ubiquitous as Gotham always was and always will be for them. There was a fundamental alteration inside them both, something taken from them that can’t be replaced, and Jason feels as though he is not alone anymore. There is another presence, another existence, in his life full of betrayal that shares the same scars and the same emptiness that has captured him since the day Bruce stopped hoping for him.

“Okay?” Dick repeats quietly, and Jason can hear the echo inside his chest. “Is that all?”

“No,” Jason murmurs, easing back into the chair he had left. “No, it’s not. But I… I can’t do more of this right now. I don’t want to.”

“I don’t either,” Dick sighs, the exhaustion from his own ordeals weighing down his shoulders and causing him to slide down the wall. “It’s— I never wanted to, Jason. You know that, right?”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. I guess- We deal with it, right?”

Jason wants to laugh. Maybe give a little less weight on his back to the warm air around them, but it sounds like a lot to do. He exhales instead, something maybe interpretable as a tired grin lifting his mouth. “Another time, then?”

Perhaps that is a statement that can’t be guaranteed nor promised. Time is scarce in their world, more so than anyone else's, but it is a scarcity they are well accustomed to. Death had departed in Its carriage, the seat left warm by their presence, but for now, they had left and that was all that really mattered. Why they left, why they need time they don’t have, why the caverns inside of them exist. All questions that have been answered before. Maybe when the sky isn’t gray, or when the rain isn’t pounding against fractured ceilings, they can begin to make amends and go from there. But the safe-house is warm.

It is warm.

“Another time.”

#dick grayson #jason todd #spyral #agent 37 #nightwing #red hood #hurt/comfort #bad things happen bingo #what have i done?#part 2 #my fic #fanfic #txt #yes there will be a part 3!! i am not leaving this unresolved- this was just another conversation i wanted them to have

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imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl · 4 years ago

Text

Stay With Me (Pt. 08 of 09)

Pairing: Daryl Dixon X Reader

Word count: 3 K

Summary: Daryl found you surrounded by the dead, stuck in the backseat of a car. You were wishing for death to take you away for quite a while now, but, as you slid back and forth into consciousness, there was only one thing keeping you alive. Him, the man with blue, worried eyes and kind voice. Your beaten up body was ready to give up, too wounded and broken to keep going. But this man, who went out of his way to save your life is the only thing in the world holding you up. And, because of him, you feel something you haven't felt in a very long time: hope. Wherever he's taking you, you want to get there, and not only to be buried. For what it feels like the very first time, you want to live. He takes you back to Alexandria, but even there, the nightmares and the terror from all the torture and pain you've been through keeps creeping closer, and Daryl, your hero, is the only one who can keep that all away.

Warnings: Mentions and description (not graphic) of past abuse; post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD); some violence at the end of the story (a little bit graphic, but not so much); blood.

<- Previous part (07)

Next part (09)->

{The Walking Dead Masterlist}

I want to thank my awesome friend @jodiereedus22, who helped me (and still does) a lot to get this story done. She's also a writer and she's amazing so please go check her work!!

Nightmare

It's amazing to know you're excited about the party. Luke is two months old, and since you had a welcome party in-store, you turned it into a birthday party. It'll happen later tonight, by nightfall, and you're enjoying the last moments before you have to leave the bedroom and start organizing things.

After brushing your teeth and hair, you leave the bathroom, smiling to see Daryl still lied in bed. He seems peaceful, eyes closed, so handsome in the morning light. You've been wanting to tell him something, it's been a while... But you never get the right time. Or maybe you're just a little scared...

But looking at him now, it just fades away. You and Daryl have been in a solid relationship, and despite the short time, things have been amazing. Perfect. Carol is even talking about moving out, so you and Daryl can have your own space, but you don't want to push her to it. In the privacy of your bedroom, you're fine. And living with Carol is nice.

“Hey, D.” You say in a soft voice, going to the bed and climbing on top of him. Daryl grunts something, his eyes opening, hands coming to your hips and waist. “Are you awake?”

“I am now that a kitten came to lie down on me.” He mumbles as you move up until your face is at the same level as his. You place your legs around his hips, hands sustaining your weight on each side of his head.

“Sorry.” You mutter, moving to stand up. But Daryl's grip gets tighter, and you let yourself fall, collapsing against his chest, giggling. “Alright, alright. But listen up now...”

“What is it?” He brings a hand to your face, fingers caressing your chin.

“Uhm...” Blushing a little, you clear your throat. “I... I think... No, I do.”

Daryl raises an eyebrow, and you can tell he's trying to figure it out on his own. “Ya wanna break apart?” He bursts out suddenly. “ ‘Cause if that's what ya want, I–”

“Oh, yeah. Definitely.” You say in a sarcastic tone, rolling your eyes. “I'm literally on top of you, Daryl Dixon. How can you possibly think I want to end things?” Moving to sit up, straddling his hips, you cross your arms. “What do you have in this pretty head of yours? Only hunting skills?”

“Yer very funny.” In a sudden motion, Daryl pulls you down again, switching positions so he's on top of you instead. “What is it then?” He asks, his face way too close.

“Can I kiss you first?”

“Nah. Ya got me curious.”

“Alright...” Taking a deep breath, you gather up some courage to push the words out. “I want a baby.” Shrugging your shoulders, you giggle at Daryl's funny face. “What?”

“Don't ya have one already?”

“Yeah...” Mumbling, you wrap your arms around his neck. “Daryl?”

“Huh?”

“I want another baby.” Smirking, you place a kiss on his lips. He's fast to kiss you back, a hand cupping your cheek. “So. What do you think?” You ask when you pull away.

“How are ya plannin’ to get one?”

You're not sure if his intention was to make you blush, but you're blushing anyway. “Uhm... First I need to get married.”

“Get married? People don't care about these things anymore.” He answers quickly, and you wonder if you went too far. Maybe it's way too early, and these thoughts should be kept inside your heart for a while longer.

“I know but... That's exactly why I care.” Sighing, you avoid his eyes. “I'm sorry, we haven't talked about this and I don't even know if–”

“Hey, calm down.” With his thumb and index finger on your chin, he makes you look at him again. You always appreciates Daryl's touch, it doesn't matter how small it is. It took a while for him to get comfortable enough to do this so easily, and you never take it for granted. He's always gentle as if you're a porcelain doll. He's never rough, never violent, not with you. Loving Daryl happened fast and strong, and it's a feeling that only grows, every passing day. “Ya wanna talk about it we'll talk about it.”

“It's just that... I-I love you. With all my heart and... It does feel like we already have this family thing going on and...” Daryl has fallen into this father role, and he's absolutely amazing with Luke. He can make him fall asleep in minutes, and you love to watch as he rocks the baby to sleep. And those moments always get your mind racing. He's already being such a good father so maybe he'd like a baby of his own... And you'd like to give him that. “...It got me thinking.”

“I love ya too, babygirl. But marriage... It would bound you with me on a whole different level.” Daryl sits up, and you follow his movement, your arms still around his neck, keeping him close. “I wanna make sure ya have the choice ta’ walk away when ya want to.”

“I won't walk away, Dixon. I love you.” He needs to be reassured of that from time to time, but you don't mind. You want to spend the rest of your life making sure Daryl knows he's loved. That he's desired and wanted. “I want to be with you for the rest of my life and if that's what you want too... You know, I'm a girlish girl, I'd like to get married someday, and honestly, if not with you then I won't marry anyone else.” Shrugging your shoulders, you look down, a shiver rolling down your spine, feeling his fingers caressing your bare thigh.

“Ya sure ya want this? With me? Are ya sure about what yer talking about?”

“I am.” You mutter in a low voice, blushing. “I am.” Repeating in a low voice, you kiss him, slowly at first, but soon enough his taste overcomes everything, and you think he feels the same since he deepens the kiss. Pulling him down again, you smile when his hand touches a ticklish spot on your side.

“Hey, you two!” Carol calls, knocking on the door. “Wake up. There's a lot to do today.”

Daryl grunts in response, not pulling away from the kiss.

But Carol is right. It'll be a long day and both you and Daryl have stuff to get ready for the party.

The day passes by quickly since you're helping everyone a little. The only thing you can't do is lift heavy stuff. Daryl forbade it, with Denise backing him up, you have no idea for how long. The party will happen at Rick's house since the living room is the biggest, and you spend hours there decorating everything. You try not to think too much about all the people who will be here tonight. You know them, you befriended them, they won't hurt you.

When it's finally time to go, you're impressed by how you feel. Happy, not scared, and actually excited. You never thought stuff like this would ever happen again. It's silly, but it keeps people sane, said Deanna. The sun is making its way to the horizon when you're getting dressed. You chose to wear a dress Daryl brought you from one of his runs. It's a light shade of blue, with thin straps and a nice cleavage in the back, reaching a few inches below the mid of your thighs. You never wear anything that will show the scar on your leg, you don't like it. Nor what it represents. You're putting on your flats when Daryl comes out of the bathroom, hair still damp, but completely dressed. He's wearing what he usually wears, always dark colors, but you don't mind. You really like it.

“Are you ready?” You ask, turning on your heels to face him. Daryl doesn't answer, eyes locked on you, lingering for so long it makes you blush. “D? Cat got your tongue?”

“Nah, it just...” He looks down at his feet before making his way over you. “Ya look beautiful, that's all.”

“Thanks.” Smiling shyly, you tiptoe to kiss him. “But I'll need a coat for when the night falls... Mind if I get one of yours?”

“Won't ya ever stop stealin’ my clothes?” Daryl fakes an annoyed tone, but it takes two seconds for his lips to break into a smile.

“Well, you stole my heart, Dixon. I'm just looking for revenge.” Winking at him, you search on the wardrobe for one of his jackets. “Now let's get going. Maggie and I baked this brownies and I'm dying for one.” Grabbing the jacket, you take his hand and leave the bedroom.

Carol is already there, so you just have to take little Luke and head out. He wants Daryl this time, so he's the one carrying him to Rick's place. As you walk there, the wind messes with your hair, and you try to keep it from your face.

“Who are the new residents, by the way?” You just remembered them. If the day wasn't so hectic, you'd ask Daryl to introduce you to them, just so you could know their faces before having to meet them at the party.

“Two men. Aaron found them starving to death a hundred miles Northwest. They're alright I guess. Since Deanna allowed them to stay.” Daryl reassures you, his free hand taking yours. “Ya ok?”

“Yeah... I'm excited, actually.” As you climb the few steps to the porch, Luke giggles, you're not sure why. “Right, little one?” Stopping by the front door, you step closer to the baby in Daryl's arm. “Are you excited too? For your party? Two months old already, you're growing up so fast.” You're still baby-talking when the door is opened, a smiley Carl gesturing for you to get in.

“C'mon, let's get ya those brownies,” Daryl says as you step inside.

It takes no time for people to come to talk to Luke, him becoming the center of attention. He throws himself on Maggie's arms, who happily welcomes him.

“(Y/N),” Rick says and you turn on your heels to talk to him. Daryl remains close, and you know why. But you feel fine, comfortable around these people. “Judith said a funny word this morning. I wonder where she learned it.” He has his hands on his hips, and you innocently shrug your shoulders.

“What word?”

“Damn it,” Daryl answers, not a hint of doubt in his voice. Rick nods, raising his eyebrow.

“Oh my gosh. Where could she have heard such a thing?” She learned it from you because that's what you exclaim almost a hundred times a day and that's not really a secret anymore. “I'm sure she said something like ‘dang it’ so I don't see how that's my fault. ‘Dang it’ it's not that bad is it?”

“Well, I think–”

“(Y/N). Daryl.” Deanna calls, and you give Rick a smirk, meaning you're happy to be saved from this conversation. Turning around, you focus on Deanna. “Come, you're the only ones who haven't met Michael and Daniel yet.”

“Ok.” You can't help but feel a little anxious to meet new people, so you grab Daryl's arm as you follow Deanna through the living room.

“Over here.” She gestures, a kind smile on her lips. “This is Daniel, and Michael, they were found–”

Her words fade when both men turn to look at you. Their faces are unmistakable, and you feel yourself sinking, skin burning, head spinning as it all comes back.

Their voices, touches, and threats. You're suddenly back there, in the darkness, starving, freezing, waiting, wishing for death to come before they did. You're in the basement where your screams used to echo. All of your wounds start hurting, pulsing, as if they were reopened, all over again.

You never got the names, but you'll never forget the faces. One of them, the you thought looked like Rick, has a smile on his lips. The same sick, wicked smile, the same he had every time he went to see you, never failing to draw some blood.

“Hi, (Y/N).” He says, in the same tone he used to. Low, dark, more animal than human.

What happens next is a blur. There's yelling, and Daryl suddenly isn't by your side anymore. He's a blur, moving towards both men, drawing punches. You're pulled back by someone, you don't know where, but you know it isn't Daryl. You know his touch by heart, and it's the only touch you want.

“Let go of me!” You yell, pushing whoever that was, sinking, falling backward until you hit a wall. You want to disappear again, to vanish from existence. With both hands covering your ears, you push yourself into the wall, hoping it'll absorb you, hide you.

“Take them. Now.”

“The trial happens tomorrow.”

“Lock those assholes up.”

“Enjoy your last night on Earth.”

The words have no meaning, they just keep echoing. The low chattering, the many footsteps... Why are you still here? Why can't you be strong for once and just run? Run where? If they're here... Where else could you go?

“Babygirl,” his low, calming voice is like a beacon, lighting up the darkness, bringing you back, pulling you into consciousness again. Into life.

Moving just a little, hands off your ears and muscles relaxing, you look at him, immediately running to his arms. “They're here. They're here, they... They found me.”

“Alright, calm down now.” He holds you tight, a hand rubbing your back. “Let's get ya outta here.”

Nodding, you offer no resistance when he picks you up. You keep your eyes closed, face hidden on the crook of his neck as you float away. It feels like the first time, when he was carrying you from the infirmary into what's now your house.

You flinch a little when you're pulled down, suddenly recognizing your bed and curling up, pulling the blankets over your head.

“How is she?”

“I don't know.” Daryl sounds angry, furious. “I'll kill them right now.”

“No, Daryl. The trial will be tomorrow. You know they'll die for what they did”

“I don't care!”

“You need to stay with her now.”

You know it's Carol, but still, you want her to go. You need everyone to go away now, you just need Daryl. You need to... Go away. Alexandria isn't safe anymore. You rather face the dead.

Silently, moved by fear, you get up, taking the dress off, and struggling with the first pair of jeans you find.

“(Y/N),” Daryl calls, but you ignore him, sight blurred by the tears as you put a shirt on. “Hey, (Y/N).” You don't know what to take... You just need to leave. These walls won't keep you safe anymore. If you stay... You know they'll find you again.

“I'm leaving.” You mumble, looking around and finding the white sneakers you left by the edge of the bed and putting them on.

“What–”

“I'm leaving! I can't stay here. If I stay here it'll happen all over again.” You're yelling, sitting on the bed, sobbing. “They're here, they'll take me again, they-they–”

“Shh, yer ok.” Daryl pulls you up, into his arms, and you melt. The sobs are muffled by this jacket, and your tears are certainly soaking the fabric. “Look at me, babygirl. Look at me.” Slowly, you raise your head, his blue eyes acting immediately, like a medicine made only for you. “There's a place I can take ya for the night. But ya need to be here tomorrow. To officialize their crime so I can kill those–”

“Take me away, please.” You beg, holding onto him as if he's the only thing keeping you sane. Alive. Because he is. “Please, if I stay here I'll–”

“Alright, alright.” He nods, a hand caressing your cheek. “Let's go then. C'mon.”

Everything happens in the background, you feel. Carol stays by your side in the porch, guiding you to the car Daryl took to drive you away. You barely feel your body now, out on the street, feeling their eyes on you... Their eyes, evil and disgusting, as they lust over you. You know they're not here, but still, you feel them. Wanting you to cave in, to agree to fulfill their needs in the most vile, degrading ways. You're hyperventilating when the gate opens, the woods before you suddenly looking far safer than these walls.

When Daryl crosses the gate, you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, lungs burning. The sun is coming down, so there are a some shadows creeping in... But it's better out here. The wall will keep them inside, you hope.

“Babygirl,” Daryl says, getting your attention. “We're almost there, alright?”

“Ok.” You mumble, and Daryl puts a hand on your knee.

“Nothin’ will hurt ya. Never again. M’ gonna keep that promise.”

Holding his hand, your eyes meet his when he gives you a glance.

Around ten minutes later, Daryl stops the car. You haven't noticed before, but he parked in front of a small, wooden house. It looks like it was some kind of cabin in the woods since there are no other constructions around it. “C'mon.” He says when he opens the passenger door for you. Your legs feel a little weak, but you manage to stand up, immediately looking around. “There's nobody here, I promise ya.”

Nodding, you let him guide you inside, a flashlight on his hand. Daryl unlocks the door, and you wonder why he has the key to this thing. When you step in, the light coming from in between the planks on the windows helps you see the interior. There is a cough and a coffee table, you recognize it despite the dark plastic covering both things. Walking further in, you peak at the kitchen. Everything is clean and has a plastic placed over them. It kinda looks live someone used to live here not too long ago.

“I found this place a while ago.” Daryl starts, placing his backpack on the floor. “Was fixin’ it, cleanin’... So I could bring ya here every once in a while.” He gestures at the whole place in general, and you take another look around. He did say he'd try to find a place he could take you outside Alexandria, but you never thought it would be this good. “Still has a lot to do. Gonna put electricity, runnin’ water will be more complicated but I'll do it.”

“You're doing all that for me?” You whisper, hoping the dim light will hide your blushing cheeks.

“Yeah... Wanted to bring ya here under different circumstances but...” He takes the bag again, gesturing at the hall. “First door to the right it's our bedroom.”

Following his direction, you open the door to a small bedroom with a double bed, also covered with black plastic. The windows have wooden planks on it too, but there's enough space in between them so let some light come in.

“Here, lemme’–” Daryl drops the bag, walking over the bed and removing the plastic. Underneath, the light green sheets seem comfortable and you get it now why everything is covered up. To keep it clean. “Ya can lie down it ya want to. Brought some blankets.” As you move to the bed, Daryl searches in the bag, picking up two blankets and fixing them on the bed. “Ya hungry? Or thirsty? I brought–”

“I just need you, Daryl.” You whisper, drying off some tears that are still rolling down. “Can you come here?”

“Of course, babygirl.” Quickly, he leaves the bag behind and joins you in bed. Daryl pulls you close, you head on his chest as his arms hold you tightly, keeping you safe.

“I hope this is just a nightmare... That I'll wake up tomorrow and it'll all be gone.” Mumbling, you push yourself even closer to him, if that's even possible.

“I'll kill them myself, I swear.” There's a fire in his voice, hate. You've never heard him talking like that, his chest vibrating powerfully. “I'll wipe them off the face of Earth.”

Involuntary, your hand finds its way to your leg, to the scar. The pain is a vivid memory today, and for a moment you feel like you should lie down, as motionless as you can so it won't hurt. So the stitches won't rip again.

How is it possible that all the horrible memories came back all at once? On one second? “I-if I didn't have you, I... I'd die today, I know I would.”

“Nah, ya wouldn't.” Moving, he brings his index finger to your chin, making you look at him. “Yer stronger than ya give yourself credit for. Ya don't see it, but I do.” Then, he places a soft, sweet kiss on your lips, which is sadly, too brief. “But I will protect ya. Always, until my days are over.”

“Daryl, I–”

“I wanna marry ya.” He bursts out, his low voice burning through your head as you wonder if you heard him right. “When this is over and those monsters are dead... I wanna marry ya.”

Despite the terror, creeping through your skin, the darkness threatening to swallow you again, you smile. Everything fades away, and a different kind of happiness washes over you. A type of bliss you didn't even know existed. Unable to control yourself, you climb over him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I love you,” you mutter, not giving him the chance to answer, connecting your lips on his in a loving, passionate kiss.

@funeral-7 @heyyy-hey-babyyy @twdeadfanfic @soraitmnt @winchester-angel @bvbwestfall @shawtygonemad @cameronsails @pulplorrd @browneyes528 @btsiguess-kpop @a-dlv @bibibeauelle @lightning-butterfly @yttricuz

#daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon x reader #imagine daryl dixon #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead imagine #imagine the walking dead

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maruzzewrites · 4 years ago

Text

Every breath you take. - 10

cw for a bit of gore in this one.

Driving with tension in your arms and legs proved to be dreadful, the anxiety of not knowing what was happening to your darling felt like a sharp pain that disappeared at intervals, only to return more intense and barbed a few seconds later.

It was always a possibility, but never a reality, the fact that one of them would have enough of your obvious love for someone else, someone better than them and that they couldn’t beat with simple courting or vile obsession. Your fiance was an obstacle, even when not in the picture as your husband-to-be, and you wanted to vomit at the mere thought of being the cause of his problems with them.

Your drive, while filled with the desire to be short and quick, was slower than usual. No cars passed you on your way home, no one directed towards the city from the same direction of the house. Even when someone was behind you, you would check through the rear-view mirror to see who was driving. Men, women, old and young, with families or friends, alone or someone in the backseat; no one seemed to match the physiognomy of those men.

At some point, the anxiety grew to the point of being unable to even take gulps of breath. You were driving exceptionally slow, slower than needed, and cars upon cars would honk at you or yell at you from open windows. But you didn’t care, you wanted this. You waited for them to surpass you and give you a better view inside their cars to check thoroughly, methodically, and then switch to the next vehicle in line.

At some point, the terrible strain on your body and mind of hypervigilance made you almost steer to the side of the road. And you had to stop, pull over, and let your limbs tremble and shake with more violence than they ever did in your life. Despite your need to relax, you found it impossible to control your eyes, raising every time a car passed by.

The answer was always the same, no one was following you. Nowhere those men could be seen. Yet, it didn’t help the hollowing fear enveloping your actions, making you lean into the window to watch closer, and closer. You spent like that a good hour, you assumed, but you couldn’t estimate an exact time because you didn’t check the clock of your car when you stopped. The sun shifted, so did the shadows, so you could only presume.

You wondered if you could try again. You picked up your phone from the seat, gripping it with more force than necessary, and you could imagine it breaking between your tense fingers. Cancelling any possibility to call for help, but getting rid of their torment at home. The way your entire life was a puzzle of choices that carried both good and bad consequences, always walking hand in hand, always ready to hit you when you least expect it.

If there was the probability to have something your way, there was also something ready to push you back into the dark corner and keep you there, one inch closer to the wall than before. The negatives were always too great to even be brightened by the vague light of positivity an action could bring. So you stopped holding the phone so strongly, felt your hand ache less as tension left the muscles, traveling back up your arm, in your shoulder, all over your body. Settled in your chest, and you felt almost like your lungs couldn’t contract properly.

You dialed your darling’s number slowly, keeping an eye on the road and any direction that could provide them with easy access to you. The ring in your ear came once, twice, then you heard his voice confirming he was listening. Cordialities, but immediately he questioned if you needed help somehow, and it was implicit he would run to help you however he could.

And he did. Even if he was still away from you, still waiting for your answer, he really did ease your mind. It was only temporary relief, you knew, but your mind held the possibility to feel at peace for once for dear life. Because it really felt like you needed it to keep going, or everything would come down crumbling around you. Having blood on your hands, on your conscience.

You could hear your own voice shake, struggling to crawl out of your throat, but you managed to let him know you were well and you just needed to hear a familiar voice, that you were glad to be talking to him. He didn’t question you, but you could detect a hint of wonder and worry in his next words.

He was in class, he was doing his last bits of project before the exam session. And that made you understand how much you lost in those months, when you would face this part of the year with a bit of loneliness because of his attention to studying. Soon enough, he would have a degree and maybe, just maybe, you could ask him to move away from this city. Move as up north as possible, maybe even leave Italy altogether.

There, you could be happy and shielded by those monsters. In a cozy little cabin, without anyone bothering or threatening you both, ready to pick up your life where you left it. The fantasy in your head only made the return to reality even worse, a drop from a high too sweet. That was how you were reduced, to exorcize and refuse any attempt at happiness only because the cold feeling growing in your chest was crushing to bear.

You made small talk with your former fiance, but he figured soon enough you weren’t in the mood to speak too much. You were really forcing yourself, not wanting to bother him more than necessary, but he reassured you that he would pick up the phone later. He was about to go to another class anyway, the last for the day. By the time he would be on his walk back home, you would have probably been in your room for a while.

You said your goodbye, and then there was only silence. Before your brain could regress into the compulsive inspection of whoever passed by, you started the engine again and drove off into Naples. You were uncharacteristically slow, and drivers would continue to honk and yell at you to do faster, but you wouldn’t dare when your mind was as fogged and overworked as that moment.

When you arrived under your apartment building, you turned off the car and waited in the new stillness. You slumped down, curled up almost, as much as the narrow space in the vehicle would allow. Despite taking this defensive stance, your ears and your eyes were on guard; to notice anything, a step or a voice, a figure or an outfit, anything out of the ordinary that could signal their presence around you.

When enough time passed and you were feeling yourself spiral into darker and darker places, you stumbled out of the car and were careful, like you often did now when returning home, to check every corner of the shared inner space. Not as obviously and thoroughly as you wanted, because otherwise you would seem suspicious and, in the eventuality they were actually observing you, they wouldn’t be as convinced about your changed feelings.

Everything in your life had to be orchestrated around their actions, their thoughts and the possibility of both of those things, because at this point your very existence was put on hold. It didn’t belong to you until you could shake off those chains for good, and you couldn’t wait for the moment they would turn on each other or spit you out after chewing you into dust.

Even as you climbed the stairs, you were jittery. You had to take several attempts at opening the door between them slipping from your fingers or you would miss the keyhole due to the shaking of your hands, still too tense. You even let the door slam with how clumsy you became with the electricity shooting from one end to the other of your brain, too many emotions and information traveling your exhausted head.

Rest called upon you, the sweet embrace of your bed and the secure bubble of sleep, where you could be absent from the world, simulate a reality where nothing ever happened. But you couldn’t retire in your room just yet, you had to go through the motions of a simple and normal life: shower, talk to your family, have dinner, and some downtime. A perfectly average evening for the least average of lives, you assumed.

When your mother was busy watching frivolous programs filled with mundanity and pettiness, you declared how tired you were and wished her a goodnight. It was bitter how seeing those examples of ordinary events, for how much everyone acted as if their problems were so much bigger than reality, would leave an ache inside of you. You were turning into something you didn’t want to be, something filled with resentment and antipathy for anyone suffering less than you.

The ways those men’s influence snaked into your life to poison any aspect of it, how they managed to leave an indelible mark on your psyche and your mentality to the point you couldn’t even imagine how you were before; it hurt, it stung worse than you could put into words and thoughts.

They refined the smooth marble surface with sandpaper until it left nothing but edges and ruined colors, dull without possibility to restore it. You wanted to hope that you could come back from it all, repaint your skin with colors even brighter and even more beautiful, but the muted doom hanging over your head prevented you from keeping up those thoughts for long. The only positive note in the drone that became your life was the plan you were hatching, even if it would take you long enough for everyone else to forget about you and abandon you to fight for yourself.

And even then, what were you to do after? Beaten into a broken shell, ready to release the waste boiling inside and corroding the feet of those around you. If they wouldn’t leave you before those men were gone, they would after the fact: because you would shatter and have to put the pieces together, for no apparent reason to those outside.

Yet, you persevered. You had to, because the alternative was losing yourself. Losing friends and family could burn your soul, but not having one to begin with couldn’t allow you to build your life again. If they’re gone, one day, you would be free. And that meant the freedom to collapse, to be torn apart, to wail and cry until your throat was dry, but it would be your freedom.

You closed the door behind you as you thought. You had been in your mind so long those past months, you built a world made of horror and left everything else outside to be picked up on your way back, when everything would be alright. You laid on the bed with exhaustion cold on your skin, crushingly heavy on your bones.

You didn’t know the exact moment when you fell asleep, but you could swear you rested awake for several hours into the darkness and the silence. But for all you knew, you could have been dead to the world the moment your head touched the pillow, into something dull and aphonic that parodied the ease of sleep.

All you knew was that you were awakened by the filtering light pouring inside, warming you up into the spring air and the early summer notes it carried. You had a week of masks ahead of you, dense, impenetrable, but to endure to the best of your capabilities.

One day it was shopping with your mother, the other talking to friends. One evening it was going to meet family members you had neglected to visit, and the following morning you would walk around the beach to experience something long gone from your life. And every night, it was talking to your fiance and listening to him talk about his studies, forgetting about what your existence was and being everything you wanted to be again.

“What do you want to study?” He asked, once. And you stayed silent for a long time, indifferent to the way your mind couldn’t work on thinking about yourself as someone in a future that belonged to you. You could conjure the hope for it, overwork your spirit until you could put on a façade for everyone, but the concrete result of your plan and all its consequences were alien, distant, and nothing but the damned apple in the coils of a snake.

Your fiance asked again, you blinked the disbelief away. Or so you thought, because the words still wouldn’t come and your brain was failing you with violent rapidity. He wouldn’t suggest anything else, just wait and wait, and your head was a blank slate void of ideas in those seconds. When he assumed enough time had passed, he came to fix the situation a bit, “You remember when we talked about you going to university?”

You did remember, suddenly. You confirmed your memory and felt relief in his voice when he continued with his thought, “I wanted to know what you would like to study.”

You had to think about something, yet you couldn’t find a single spark of life that could guide you. You lost so much time to demented tormentors that you couldn’t even consider the possibility of pondering on that question. Your fiance did propose, long ago, to support you through school, and you remembered dreamingly waiting for him as you admired the building where he took classes.

When you still felt a bit more control, when autonomy wasn’t something so foreign and unfamiliar yet. Maybe that was the start of the end for you, when their presence started to spill even more into your mundanity that it replaced it. When you started to think about them from morning to evening, even when you were far away from their cove.

You stammered, he noticed. He didn’t fault you for the indecisiveness, as he explained, because he was nervous the months before his enrollment as well, unsure if he would pick the right path for himself. However, he didn’t care if you would change your mind once, twice, three times in your first year; you would need time to settle into a future, because it had to fit you as you wanted, not as others demanded.

And despite the desire to have everyone else shut up about their normalcy, so that you wouldn’t be reminded of your plight, you accepted what came from him. Maybe it was because he knew what he was saying and he was choosing his words with attention, with all the concern of someone intent on staying. He was taking an oath, with light words and solemn intent, and you were conflicted between your desire to cave to your need for comfort and your crave for his safety.

But what was the point in demanding from him to forget you along with everyone else? Loneliness and lack of options were deadly in this battle, and even if he was merely a man with no connections and no power, it was still soothing the way his voice could mend your soul and calm your mind. It made you hold that mask with less belligerence, cracking it less between your fingers.

You spent the hours of that evening talking about faculties, classes and possibilities, and your heart could beat again in that atmosphere. Made of risk, opportunity and the allure of everyday that you lost like sand between the fissures open along your body.

It was corrosive, scraping along the burning flesh and leaving tears in its wake, but you wanted it. You wanted that ache, you wanted to feel the white-hot anger along with the fear. You wanted to hate them for what they were stealing from you, or you may end up forgetting how to feel that resentment. There were times when it melted, escaped the confines of your brain, and you were left numb to their actions; and you didn’t want that, you desired the depths of hatred in your soul, the disgust and the anxiety, the pit under your feet as you walked.

And thinking about that lost future with your beloved, drawing the lines smudged by the side of your hand, it served you well in that intent. Because when he handed you a brink, it would fall, and leave the wall incomplete. Because when you were about to rebuild it, they were there to stomp on your hard work and tear down anything else.

Menaces, menaces, there on Earth to torment you until your mind would break and your muscles would give in. And even the soothing sound of your darling’s voice wouldn’t shoo away the whispering enveloping your being, their voices echoing, thundering, bouncing on a wall, on another, splattering on the floor and leaving behind a mess.

It was as if something cracked, letting everything pour and flood the husk left behind by their attentive, meticulous carving. If you had to carry their scars, their markings, may they be reclaimed with the bile and the scalding blood levigating them. Until those men’s passage was nothing but a memory, and then nothing anymore.

You closed the call with the flames of rage licking at the edges of your body, burning you, burning their images. It sealed the pact you made with yourself, of enduring whatever stretch of torture you were left ahead of you. Freedom was your goal, however you would obtain it – be it death, be it abandonment.

That night, the first one in a while in which you wanted to be awake, you observed the sky with new eyes. Not hopeful, not resigned, but incensed and mad. And your quest may be doomed, you may be the pitiful man screaming to the heavens and challenging those impossible to fight, but you needed it. You needed to find the motivation, the motion in your steps, and the force inside your performance.

Your workday came, the usual routine: get ready, take your car, drive to the house. Each moment was a bucket of gelid water over the fire you tried to preserve, with your own breath as fuel, the oxygen alimenting it to height you couldn’t even imagine before.

Your weapons were lousy, meager, worthless, and you hoped they would stay like that – because they weren’t to be used. But until you could, until that flame roared, you begged yourself to resist and fight with what you were given. If you did, you could return.

The day morphed between morning and afternoon, the men around you buzzed and pried. A request, a demand, nothing new and nothing odd. They continued to bother you for your entire stay, and you were ready to jump to attention. There was still rigidity in your steps, you had to summon all your willpower to even look them in the eyes, be cordial, act like you cared or like you even considered them.

Your fervor dimmed in their presence, returned to its glory in the few moments of calm you could make for yourself between one order and the other. Constant, always on your feet and never thinking too long, or you would lose your nerve and let it all slip away.

Your triumph was close, though. The door was a promise made by the end of the day, by the pink hues of the evening waiting beyond the threshold and down the road to your house. You survived another day, you survived with your spirit intact and still burning, even if it was but the minute sparkle of a match struggling to keep alive.

Only a handful of steps separated you from the first victory you could consider your own, the first drop in the vase after the drought. An outcome to keep close to your chest, let it warm your poor limbs, guard and shield with jealous frenzy from the tendril of those jackals. Yours, and only yours, digged up between your hands withered down to the naked bone.

But to that light, there was a shadow imposing itself from behind. It didn’t touch you, it didn’t demand, but you knew you had to stop when you acknowledged it; and it was aware of you knowing, because when your movements stopped, his started.

It was as if everything else fell down, into a void. It was you and it was Risotto, the only two being who ever existed. You breathed in, deep but controlled, to not alarm him and to feed that dying flame, those last ribbons of warmth deep inside your stomach. Air in, air out, slow as you could as Risotto arrived right in front of you.

Despite your knowledge about his involvement with the entire plot and obsession they had with you, you could hardly picture Risotto curved on his desk to watch picture after picture of you, listening to every hushed secret of yours the others were to confide him, scheming the next move and the future he wanted with you. But when those hollow eyes stared down at you like judgment was nigh, you could at least believe the demented corruption that mind held.

He bowed his head in pretend gratitude, in mocking politeness. Yet he was imperturbable, and cold, a glacier on your way to the sun on the horizon. His mouth was bringer of nothing, but misery; in that moment too, he could report nothing but foreboding omens, “Thank you. For everything, today.”

Each word was a pause, each syllable a meaning. Spoken with caution and with perfect delivery, an old actor basking into the applause of the public for his last exhibition. And like the bow to finally depart, Risotto’s arms raised and reached for you. Fangs ready to bite and tear the tender meat, leave it raw against the air.

He held you, more than a hug. It was a famished, desperate clawing at your soul to make it bleed, and bleed, and bleed dry. Head against his chest, calm heartbeat in your ears, drumming away against the membrane until it was as symbiotic as that of your mother the day you were born.

Your blood rushed to that rhythm, and the tide extinguished the last attempt to live on of that match. As if Risotto reached into the depths of your soul, and his fingertips closed around the head until the flame was suffocating around the lack of oxygen.

It ended there. Like every other time, you were left boneless and without yourself, between the arms of a man you didn’t want to see as human. Warm, and you hated it, that he was flesh and blood and brains and bones, that he was there and that he was breathing what you couldn’t gulp down as you were suspended between life and hell.

He left you shattering on the ground, wished you a good evening, and pushed you towards the door. The fragments breaking, hitting the floor, you on the carpets of that house. You looked behind into the hall, some of them there to watch the scene like critics, like judges, like birds of prey ready to hoard what you were leaving behind. You hoped with everything in you that those shards left cuts on their hands.

The drive back home started as badly as you could imagine: halfway, you had to pull over and double down to dry heave at the side of the road. Your throat contracting, releasing, tight and bound as your ribs felt like they were closing in to shield you further. On hands and knees on the dirty, long enough that someone stopped near your car to help you.

What could you do? How did you end up sobbing and step back from a stranger with concern deep inside their eyes, a hand on their phone ready to call for help? You begged, begged, down where you were. It was a simple, sudden illness that would disappear as soon as it came; you staggered on your feet, let them hold you up and leave you on your car seat.

After countless questions, to be sure you would be fine, they drove away. You watched the rear of their car pass, not before they slowed down near your position to check on you. Then silence that came after the asphalt was grinding under the wheels, cracking in the emptiness.

Only then, only in solitude, you fell apart piece by piece. Your head between your hands, between your knees, fingers tense and red for the strain to pull at your hair. The stress against your hairline, tugging once then twice, just to feel something else than the humiliating frustration and bottomless despair brought by that one, single embrace.

It took so little, so very little, and they could destroy any prospect or plan you wanted to build. For days took out of your life to pose as a monument, they came and raided and pillaged, left beaten earth under their feet and you to rebuild the incomplete ruins of what was left. Nothing, as usual, and each time the houses were a bit more crooked, a bit more bare, a bit more empty and useless against their attacks.

The problem was that, was it not? That you invited those barbaric acts inside your life, you didn’t stop and you couldn’t stop. You would have to endure invasion after invasion, in a lone effort of rebellion, unheard and unseen. You could do nothing to stop them efficiently, so you had to simply deal with the consequences and hope they found greener pastures.

However, you hated it with all your might. Because it was easy for them, it was impossible for you, and you deceived yourself in an everlasting instinct of seeking hope and reason to that chaos made of fear, impotence and resignation. An eternal struggle between wanting to keep that nature, that humanity behind a lock, but wanting to get rid of it to feel it pass and go, so that you would not be drowned anymore.

In your desperation, you truly wanted help once more. Who else could do so, if not the man who was there with you for the entire way. Sharing your pling, feeling it with you, your former fiance was a few keys away from you, in the palm of your hand. You dialed his number without thinking, with all the intention, as a second nature now that you could count on no one but him, and yourself, and whoever is beyond you looking down.

The line is hooked, it rings. You never noticed how long, resounding and echoing those sounds are, atonic and dragged to travel from one end of your mind to the other. Finally, the sound of the phone being picked up and your beloved’s voice greeting you with a yawn and a sigh.

It anchored you slowly, the exchange you had with him was calm and measured. You never vented or let your emotions take over when you were talking to him, but he was aware of the heavy note behind your words. He was aware of what you were carrying on your shoulders, but somehow he knew not to push a conversation about the topic, to just talk to you normally as he did months and months ago, before everything.

It was selfish to demand anything out of him, you should have done the most graceful act of care towards him and let him go towards a brighter future, but you craved so much the only feeble light like in that void. If you couldn’t ignite those flames inside of you for long or ever again, at least you wanted to rely on the external source of guidance. No matter how lost he was too, at least he was with you.

As your mind returned to progressive stability, you heard the weariness in his voice. He talked about projects and groups of students awake until the early hours of the morning to complete assignments and study. It wasn’t the substance that interested you, as much as the simple thought that he was fine and well, still living and still growing.

He would be there with you, in that growth. It wasn’t like the others, because he stuck around and he would share it. It wasn’t like those who simply flaunted normalcy, who craved abnormality and would remind you of the spiral of events, of circumstances and complete, utter, all-consuming horror you were in. He was different, he would lull you back into everyday life when everything ended; one in the arms of the other, ready to rebuild or renovate as you both changed, and grew, and matured – with this tragedy too.

“I have to go,” the conversation ended there, with a soft departure. You blinked exhaustion and daydreams away, just to listen once more to that calming voice, “I’m tired, sorry. I don’t think I can talk more tonight. Can we meet tomorrow to catch up?”

Your heart was beating in your throat, suddenly aware and awake. It had been a while since you met up with him, since you allowed that piece of your life back in its rightful place. Were you truly so egotistical to indulge that request of his, put him in grave danger only to satisfy your own need for reassurance? But then, who were you to deny it, who made you decisor of everything and anything?

You accepted, told him you would meet him in front of his house. He giggled with the tune of your early days, when you were still young and only starting to know each other. When you were naive, and happy, and unaware of anything that would come – be it a prosperous relationship or a declining situation.

With the promise hanging over your heads, you both said your goodbyes.

Despite the call, it took more time to recollect your complete calm, reconnect the wires. You couldn’t allow yourself the recklessness of driving without paying attention to the road and the other drivers. When you were ready, you adjusted your place inside your car and drove off.

That evening, you didn’t force yourself into any type of conversation and your mother understood you were more tired than usual. She didn’t insist, leaving you to sink into a deep sleep as soon as you were done with dinner. As always, your rest was devoid of anything.

You woke up unrefreshed, but pushed forward so that you could see your sweetheart. There was no special effort in your preparation, but each brush of your hair and each step closer to his home brought a sense of freedom and apprehension together to weigh down your soul. Even when you called to make sure he was still willing to meet you, you could feel something gripping your airpipe until you weren’t conscious.

It was ringing. Ringing, ringing, still ringing, and he didn’t pick up. You assumed he was showering or getting ready, maybe having breakfast and forgetting all about his phone for the time being. You retried a few times before deciding that it wouldn’t matter anyway, he was a man of his words.

You walked with somber silence, despite the rumble of the city all around you. You knew where he lived, he knew who you were looking for, yet your brain didn’t register much when you arrived at the right place, seeing the right man.

You moved as if everything was slowed to an almost-alt, just like those past few months felt. You unable to make sense of it all, struggling to even twitch, while the world moved on around you and without you. And despite it all, there was someone right behind you to walk in your steps and reach out to you.

A man, with a skull cracked open against a wall, a few steps right of the door to his apartment building. A man, with vacuous eyes staring ahead of him into the mob all around him. A man, cold to the world and stiff on the ground as he fell ungracefully on the floor with his brains spilling.

Someone was moving to cover him up, so that the public wouldn’t see the spectacle of macabre. But you continued walking over the scene, until a policeman stopped you in your tracks. He was young, evidently so, but he already carried hair white as snow. Besides that, you couldn’t catch any other detail of his appearance.

You raised your eyes to his face, then dropped them back down to the mass under the cover. You moved slowly, your hands holding onto the uniform of the person right in front of you, your knees giving out right under you.

You didn’t cry or wail, just vomited all over his shoes, on the floor and under the eyes of everyone present. You were sure some reached the corpse mere feet away from you. The policeman was not as concerned at the mess as he was at your weakened body collapsing right in his arms.

You didn’t know what to feel for a while, despite the questioning around you. You felt like you were walking under the rain, torrential, frustrated and furious about ruining your clothes and your hair and your bag and everything else that could be ruined. And you wanted to seek nothing but shelter, a place where you could feel the rain growl and rage, then dim and fade.

And you reached it, a shelter. Under it, you stopped for solace, only to find a gelid wind outside that fuming rage and that sustaining energy. Cold, unforgiving, aided by the roar of the thunder and the flash of the lighting, the rain progressively louder and stronger.

You felt cold for the first time since your climb towards a solution. It was always a possibility, it now became a reality. They had to eliminate him, and they put in your mind that dread of the potential – the potential to hurt those around you, for real and without remorse.

And when it clicked, you were aware of how to feel. You screamed enough to empty your lungs of air, until you couldn’t breathe anymore.

#jjba #jojo's bizarre adventure #Jojo no Kimyou na Bouken #risotto #yandere x reader #yandere

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whump-town · 4 years ago

Text

Come Down

You know, I have no idea if this is actually good. I find myself combing over it and it’s confusing, no doubt. It makes no sense. I might take it down. For now, I just submit myself to this. I wrote it... more or less. So, lets just ignore how it makes no sense plot wise and just enjoy that I have managed to write words—

Warning for suicidal ideations

Hotchniss

Takes right after Emily’s funeral

---

He buries her in the fall.

Surrounded by the team, he shivers as the breeze picks up the leaves littering the ground and scurries them across the dying grass. Each step that is taken, each uncomfortably cold shift of their bodies, is enunciated by the desolate crunch of the leaves under their feet. Of death in the air.

Emily always said there was a strange kind of beauty in death.

He hates that he can see that now.

“Aaron?”

He looks down where JJ clutches his left hand, her bright eyes searching for something in his own. Something lost, probably. He doesn’t feel very human now, she can see that. In all honesty, he doesn’t even want to hear the sound of his voice. He wishes he could tuck himself into this dirt and die with Emily. To stop feeling and breathing and living because his lungs feel heavy and his life having passed long ago.

So, he doesn’t respond to the way JJ says his name. Even though he can hear the desperation, the pain. She’s afraid they’re going to lose him and he’s too tired to lie to her.

JJ tucks herself into his side and for a moment he just blinks down at her. Something has been off about her since Emily’s death. As tears sting his eyes and he’s forced to look up and away so that they don’t fall, he lets it go. He doesn’t want to push. He doesn’t want to know.

They know everything now.

They know enough.

He’ll keep as much as he can for himself. He knows it’s selfish.

“You shouldn’t go home alone, Aaron.”

As sick as he feels leaving her behind, he can’t stand the thought of them in his home. In the spaces that they shared. The mugs that she touched last and the blankets that only she curled into. Even now, as JJ touches his hand-- he doesn’t want to be touched. He doesn’t want to be perceived.

All he has left are ghosts. The shampoo sitting on the rim of his tub because she could never manage to remember to put it back on the shelf. The glass of water on her nightstand. The three pairs of leggings kicked under his bed. His flannel that smells of her because she's worn it more in the past few weeks than he has in the years he's owned it.

The ghost of her that haunts his body and lives within his head. Catacombs.

“I would prefer to be alone, please.”

He doesn’t look up but he sees their darting eyes. The way they doubt him, already. What does it say about him that whenever anything bad happens they always assume he’ll kill himself? He’d seen it in their eyes after Haley’s death and Foyet’s attack. Fearful that the moment someone wasn’t around to watch him he’d end his life. Abrupt, right there for them to find.

Were they afraid to lose him or to find him?

A fire roast within his mind. Sickness like thick timber logs, cracking, and popping. The heat makes his skin melt away and his brain browning to slime. His eyes remain open as if propped open by sticks, not by his own accord and not because he wishes it so. Machine more than man. Autopilot.

His heavy wooden legs lift and with head full of sludge, he walks away. Ears deaf to the soft call of his name. The cold no longer stings. His skin no longer feels.

He is numb.

There is nothing.

In his apartment, he expects to find her there. Another cruel joke played out at his expense but there is nothing.

A heating pad still plugged into the wall behind the couch. Her voice in his ear and if he closes his eyes, body swaying with exhaustion, he can recall the warmth of her fingers across his forehead. Her breath on his cheek as she’d leaned over him-- “Just sleep, now. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

What he would give to feel that pain. Something. Anything.

She hadn’t meant to lie.

When he woke on the couch some hours later, brain still burning and skull crackling, she had been long gone. Half-way to wherever it was she thought she could get to. Almost to safety. Ian Doyle had still found her.

Until two days ago, he’d never even heard that name.

Now, it’s all he thinks about.

Ian Doyle.

What else does he have to lose?

“Where are you going?”

He steps out on his front porch, two guns strapped to his body. There is nothing in his eyes, not even a hint of the flickering consuming knowledge of before. All of the edged sharpness, the intelligence has dulled. Absent is the swift movement of his anxiety. The man dressed as Aaron Hotchner is just his murderer.

With Aaron’s voice, the hallow man answers, “for a walk.”

Dave frowns. Yes, he could have safely assumed that answer. JJ had taken his keys at the funeral. Morgan was due to swing by soon and take his guns. They can not bring Emily back but they can keep him here.

“Mind if I join?”

Hotch looks at him. Frowns.

“It’s raining,” Dave points out. “Perhaps you would prefer a drive?” He motions back to his own car, hidden mostly by the lack of street lights and it’s dark color. Night has fallen, even though it is only four. The cold seeps into their clothes but Aaron does not shiver.

“I wouldn’t.”

Dave huffs, his breath measured out in front of him. “Is that so,” he chuckles with a shake of his head. “Alright then,” he caves. “Go on,” he nods his head in the direction Aaron had stepped in. “I’ll wait here for you. Mind if I start some coffee, I assume you’ll be back in time for a cup?”

Hotch simply hums, neither the truth nor a lie.

Dave goes into his house and Hotch leaves.

He doesn’t expect to return for that coffee.

-------------------------

Emily Prentiss had not intended to die.

Very few, ever do. Desperate souls, those most akin to the ache of loss like her Aaron, they crave it. There is something about the way the fabric of our lives decay that drives us so eagerly to the edge. Seldom successful. The point is to never focus on the failures. Only what lies ahead or, rather, what doesn’t.

Icarus bounding off the ledge, do you think he had feared what stirred behind him?

Had he longed to be tucked into the waves, nestled by their arms?

What does it matter?

All that matters is that Aaron Hotchner has strapped his wax woven wings to his back and jumped. The back she’d played, fingers digging into the bones and tasting the flesh. Drawing beautiful little sounds from his pale lips. She knows every inch of his body. From the pink flushed scar across his spine or the patch above his right hip, that aches with every rain fall.

He has jumped and expects to find her at the bottom of the ocean.

“Lauren.”

It has been a long time since she’s heard that name. One rooted close to her own. Lauren shivers down her spine, causes her heart to jump in her chest. Lauren is the name the shadows call to her. The corner of her room where only a plant resides but the breezeless room still beckons her closely. A name not quite her own but a part of her. After pretending to be Lauren for so long, she had become her. Quant, lilac scented, curly-haired Lauren.

Lauren Reynolds will always be a better woman than Emily Prentiss.

But, unlike Emily Prentiss, Lauren Reynolds is dead.

“Don’t ignore me, love.” Ian in all of his charm has never been able to shake his anger. He spits that little moniker at her now “love” but it’s bitter and twisted. It’s meant to make her feel possessed. His.

Her lips part to speak, to say something sharp and harsh but she’s beaten.

Rather, someone else is.

She hears the tired cry of pain from his lips. Aaron. It draws on, for as long as Aaron breathes the sound until it’s cut off with a whimper. “Ian!” She cries desperately out to him, to draw her attention back to her and away from Aaron. Raggedly, she can hear their breathes mingling. Breathless, both of them. The sound is plucked, she can picture his back bowed like a sting. His piano keyed spine arched to draw that cry. How long as Ian had him? What has he endured? Men like Aaron Hotchner do not sing for anyone. He requires training and discipline.

Not unlike the cello she had received for her ninth birthday.

Aaron had curled across her body much time and as her fingers had grown rough with the frequent use of her cello, she learned how to play his body. To draw sweet sounds from such big, monstrous figures. Both had bent to her will.

“Tell me,” Ian requests. “Do you think you’ll be fast enough? Will you save him?” He can not conquer her so he will take what she has left behind. With a tsk, Ian lowers his body closer to Aaron’s. There is no reason to fear the other man may catch his bearings. It has been three days and no one at home even knows he’s gone missing. He has lost too much blood, slept too little, and eaten even less. The strength of Aaron Hotchner has long since left his body.

Not that it would be of much use here.

Be it the strings of fate or the silly mistakes of a woman still very much a girl, this has nothing to do with him. Not his mistakes or his guilt, they have no place here no matter how he may fathom to be. This is about the Ambassador’s dead daughter, a woman conceived by the mind, and an Irish mobster.

“No.”

Long ago she had learned how impossible it is to think you can save the world. God, there are times when she found herself certain this damned Earth had condemned itself. Let it, she’d found herself sobbing. For the love of everything, let this damned soil swallow itself whole. He had reminded her of the goodness. Aaron Hotchner in all of his anger had shown her the soft places in her heart. Then she could see it all more clearly.

“No,” she can hear the trembling in her own voice. Love and fear, something she has felt for both of these men. She had fallen in love with Ian and grown to fear him. Aaron had scared her with the amount of love she felt for him. She had never been overwhelmed in her love for Ian and Aaron had never made her fear him. They are not the same.

“I don’t think I’ll save him,” she answers as truthfully as she can think to. “I’m afraid to know what that will be like, Life without him.”

With more conviction than she holds, perhaps with someone else’s body entirely she continues, “but if you kill him if you take him from me--” Her eyes close, as she pulls in a breath through her nose. Within her chest, her heart chips away at thinning ribs. She does not fear what will happen if it escapes. “I will kill you. I will take your reputation, your name, and your men. I will not stop, Ian, until every part of you that has ever been known on this damned planet is gone. I will kill your memory. I will make Ian Doyle a ghost that no one can even name. I will make you no one.” The final threat comes out a low rumble, she’s someone else entirely. Neither Emily nor Lauren. “That is all you have ever been, nothing. Nothing and I will make you remember that even in death.”

For a long moment, there is nothing. Just the truth of her words.

“I had thought us to be the tragedy to endure time,” his voice scoffs. A foul, nasty habit that has always betrayed him. As simple as Aaron’s tightening fists or worrying fingers, Ian’s dismissive noises have always given the true meaning of his words their proper light. As he now speaks with an inflection of dismission but he is hurt. “You, my Persephone in all her vibrant love and youth.” His sigh is wistful, turned mournful. Twisted with the vision he sees lost. “I, your Hades. Dark and jaded but for you, my love, oh by God I could have been life itself.”

He had not been life. In those first days, had Lucifer been life? The snake high in the bows of a tree curled fat and lazy with the sun. Tongue sharp and knowing. Ian had been looking for what was his own. As Lucifer guided that apple to Eve’s supple lips, Ian curled his body to hers. Men seeking their absolution. They’re own pleasure and wants and desires. And now, do we not speak as if Eve had created this atrocity on her own. Her hand did not create the apple and Emily had told them she was in too deep. She begged them to pull her out of the mission.

Time and time again men prove to be the cheapest thing in a woman’s life. Cowards.

Running her tongue against her bottom lip she dares speak. Ian’s silence has spanned long and leaving him waiting will only invoke his rage. “We were a job,” she speaks of their love. As that had been what it was. Not a romance. Not steady and sure but love. The hurricane it often is. “I was a womb and a mole,” her bluntness is unkind but not untrue. He is lying if he refutes these facts. He does not speak. “Lauren loved you Ian, not me.” Now she is the lair.

Ian hums and she understands that he knows what she does: that today makes them both lairs. “But you love him.” Not a question, a statement. “You love his boy as you loved mine but--”

Lauren Reynolds loved Ian Doyle.

Emily Prentiss loves Aaron Hotchner.

“I love him,” she caves. Foolishly, she hopes the truth will save them from the web of lies so artfully created between them. “I love him and killing him will not bring me back. It will not save us.” It will kill them all. She’ll make sure of it. For as long as history stretches, there is nothing but proof of the misfortune that befalls humans. Cain and Abel. Odysseus and Penelope. Achilles and Patroclus.

The last strangles the thought from her brain.

Too cocky for her own good. Ready to let ambition burn its ugly whole into her. Selfishly, she ran from them. Foolishly, she thought this all to be a problem she alone could solve. Ego and pride. As Cain had killed Abel, as Penelope was Odysseus’s perfect match, as Achilles’ pride had brought Patroclus to his doom-- Emily Prentiss will be the death of Aaron Hotchner.

Lauren. Cain. Odysseus. Achilles.

All wrapped into her.

And as she will end her story just as they had theirs. With bloodshed.

“Will you come for me, Lauren?”

Emily closes her eyes, “yes.”

Her arrival had not come with the stench of brimstone and fire but silence. The men that envelop her, do not speak a word. They seem disappointed, perhaps, but are not brave enough to accuse her of what she has done. Love burns a madness into the soul and Ian has become consumed.

“Oh, my love.”

She forces her eyes to Ian. Away from her broken little soldier in the corner. So stupid. So brave. Now, she sees the flickering heat of Ian’s madness. His voice had been wrong and now she can place it for the whine that it is. A child without his milk and cookies.

“Ian,” she greets but not as coldly as she wishes. There is a sadness in her voice. Mourning everything they have lost.

Softly, from the corner, she can hear Aaron dragging himself up. Those deep eyes searching, never sightless but disconnected. “Emily,” he rasps, surprised to find her flesh and bone and not just the haunted screams he has left in his mind.

Ignoring the pained call of her lover, she cups Ian’s stubbly cheek in her palm. Her eyes race between his, terrified to find this some illusion. To find that he has bested her once again and this time she won’t be his only victim. Most of all, she fears what will happen to Aaron. “You will forgive me?” she asks.

Ian nods, thickly swallowing around the thick of his arising emotions. “How could I not?” he asks. He returns her soft touch, brushing a finger across her cheek. “My Lauren… They said you were dead.”

You killed me, she thinks but knows better than to say. “They lie,” she whispers, instead. “I am here, now.” A part of always has been. With him, for better or worse. For whatever that means.

Her broken soldier shirks away from this. Aaron, head bowed, and steadily growing too weak to hold his body up lowers himself back to the cruel concrete. Too tired, too lost to care about the cruel lies Emily now tells. He has been stupid, he knows, but perhaps she will forgive him.

It had been foolish to come looking for Ian. What revenge had he thought himself capable of? Marching in the darkness to death, that is what had done. Searching to do right by a lover and found himself at the end of a gun. Some henchmen of Ian’s.

Dragged here. Tortured here.

He doesn’t feel himself drifting away. Dying. Not hopeless but weak.

Emily will save him, he has no doubt of that.

Eyes opened to slivers, light brown iris’ darting from left to right as he places himself. Frantically, her palm shifts on the back of his neck. Wet with sweat. More pertinent, he sees the swollen flush of her lips. She kissed Ian. He can’t feel his limbs but he moves them blindly, trusting that his left hand moves. It comes into his field of vision and though it does not feel like a part of him, he swipes his thumb across her lip.

It is better to have some disconnected part of him on her than any of Ian Doyle.

“Aaron.”

He smirks, teeth coated with the crimson of his blood. Aaron. Only for her. “You’re here.”

She nods, smoothing the tear that falls down his cheek. “I am.”

So she had been what JJ was hiding the cemetery. “I missed you,” he slurs. Eyes sliding shut, he turns his head into her touch.

“I’m here now,” she promises. “You don’t have to miss me anymore.”

He knows. It is not like before. Once again, he feels pain and underneath all that pain love. The place where Emily Prentiss has curled herself around his cold heart. He feels it all.

“I’m here, Aaron.”

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #hotchniss #stupid drabble thing #vague #mentions of suicide #suicide ideations

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storiesforallfandoms · 5 years ago

Text

too good ~ tommy shelby; peaky blinders

word count: 1625

request?: yes

@pachuh “Hello, can i request a tommy shelby x wife reader or sister reader with all of the shelbys, whatever you prefer, in which the reader is extremely kind, caring, always smiles and helps everyone in the family and people keep telling tommy how is she with him/how is she part of the family and he gets mad or self conscious idk you take it from there🙃 thanks! Sorry if its so specific”

description: in which tommy’s wife is much different than he is, and it gets to his head

pairing: thomas shelby x female!reader

warnings: swearing

masterlist

Tommy watched as his beautiful wife served drinks to her adoring customers. He couldn’t blame them, she was the most beautiful and sweetest woman in all of London. She always had a smile on her face, very little ever upset her. Not even the work of the Peaky Blinders. She was a beautiful woman with a heart of gold, and everyone could see that. There was no surprise that the nights she was bartending the Garrison was full of men who came just to see her smile.

For once, Tommy didn’t feel jealous of the way those men looked at her. At one point, he would’ve killed any man that even looked at his woman the way these men looked at her, but (Y/N) was different. She was true, loyal. She had love in her heart for one man, and he was lucky enough to be that man.

As if feeling his eyes on her, (Y/N) glanced at him across the pub. He smiled brightly and raised his glass to her. She smiled back and winked at him before getting back to work.

“Some woman you got there, Tommy,” commented a man as he sat across from Tommy. He was a regular at the bar recently, his name was Henry or something. Always managed to get (Y/N) laughing.

Okay, maybe Tommy was a little jealous.

“She’s one of a kind,” Tommy agreed, not even trying to hold back the glare he was giving Henry.

“I heard she was down helping the homeless Veterans or something today,” he continued. “Heart of gold, that one.”

Tommy just nodded, glaring over his glass as he took a swig. What did this slimy fucker want?

“Wonder what she sees in you, ay?” Henry questioned. “She’s the polar opposite of you and your family, after all. She actually has a heart, a good one too. She cares so much about everybody. What does a good woman like her see in an evil git like you?”

Tommy jumped up before he could stop himself and grabbed Henry’s collar, his fist raised to hit the man. Before he could swing, (Y/N) raced over to the two men and grabbed her husband’s raised fist.

“Okay you two, that’s enough!” she exclaimed. “Honey, let Henry go.”

Tommy was shaking in anger, but he couldn’t beat this shit out of this waste of space in front of his loving wife. Not when she was looking at him with those beautiful, innocent eyes that he loved so much.

He shoved Henry away, nearly knocking the man over. “Fuck off.”

Henry looked between Tommy and (Y/N), who was also giving him a disapproving look. He huffed at Tommy, fixing his collar before leaving. (Y/N) turned to Tommy, putting a hand on his arm. “Are you okay, love?”

“Fine,” Tommy responded coolly, shrugging her hand off of him. “I’ll see you at home.”

(Y/N) watched as her husband stomped out of the bar, confused and hurt by his tone. But she didn’t have time to go after him, she was the only barmaid currently working and she had plenty of customers waiting to be served. She sighed, putting back on her signature smile and continued on with work.

~~~~~~

(Y/N) arrived home late that night. All the lights in the house were off, except for the dim flickering light of a candle in the living room. When she entered, she saw her husband sitting on the couch with a cigarette in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. Not his first glass, judging by the nearly empty bottle sitting on the coffee table in front of him.

Tommy didn’t even look up as (Y/N) entered. That’s how she knew something was really wrong. Even when Tommy was having a bad day, he always greeted (Y/N) with a kiss, on particularly hard days he’d just hug her without a word. He wasn’t even acknowledging her existence right now.

Ignoring the slight annoyance and frustration that was bubbling inside of her, (Y/N) crossed into the living room and picked up the bottle of whiskey to get rid of it. Suddenly, Tommy leaned forward and grabbed her wrist.

“Leave it, I want to finish it,” he half slurred. (Y/N) crinkled her nose in disgust at the smell of alcohol on his breath. She thought she’d be used to it from working at the Garrison for so long, but there was just something different about when Tommy reeked of alcohol.

“I think you’ve had enough, love,” (Y/N) told him in a gentle voice.

Tommy rolled his eyes, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “My loving wife thinking about what’s best for me as always.”

(Y/N) looked at him, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Did I do something to offend you, Tommy?”

Tommy ran a hand over his face, shaking his head. “No, no, no, of course you didn’t. You could never do anything to offend me. You’re so bloody perfect, you could never offend anyone.”

Now (Y/N) was very confused. She sat down next to her husband on the couch. He looked away from her, not wanting her to see how he was feeling on his face.

“What happened at the pub earlier, Tommy?” she asked him. “I know this all has something to do with that, what did Henry say or do to make you so angry?”

Tommy didn’t want to think about that fuck face. Just hearing (Y/N) say his name made Tommy want to go looking for Henry and finish what he didn’t even get the chance to start back at the bar.

It wasn’t just how Henry looked at (Y/N) and how he spoke of her that made Tommy angry. It was the fact that Tommy knew that he was right. Everyone had said it to him his entire relationship with (Y/N). Even his Aunt Polly had made a comment about the juxtaposition between (Y/N) and Tommy.

“She’s such a sweet angel, Thomas. She’s the exact opposite of us, how did you trick her into joining this family?”

And Tommy knew that everyone who made those comments were right. (Y/N) was the sweetest person he had ever met. She was the polar opposite of Tommy. He didn’t even understand what (Y/N) saw in him. Every day he worried that she would finally realize she could do so much better than him, that she could find a man who was the same as her, and would leave Tommy.

(Y/N) took Tommy’s hand in hers, making him finally look at her. “Tommy, you can tell me what happened. I want to know what Henry said that made you this upset.”

Tommy sighed heavily. He had never told (Y/N) any of this before. But she deserved to know. It was wrong of him to revert back to his old ways of bottling everything up and trying to drown his sorrows in alcohol.

“He told me that you’re too good for me, called me an evil git and asked how a woman like you ended up with a man like me,” he finally said after a prolonged silence. “I’ve heard it a lot since we’ve gotten married, from many different people. Hearing it today, I just snapped. If you hadn’t intervened I probably would have beaten that fucker within an inch of his life, which would’ve just proven his point.”

(Y/N) looked at Tommy in shock. She couldn’t believe anyone would have the guts to say that to Thomas Shelby. Of course, long before they were wed, (Y/N) was well aware of who Thomas Shelby was, and who the Peaky Blinders were. That would intimidate anyone, but it didn’t intimidate her. She treated Tommy the way she treated everyone else, with a genuine smile on her face and an attitude that would make even the saddest dope smile. Tommy always said that’s what attracted him to her.

She cupped Tommy’s cheek in her hand, making him look at her. “You know that’s not true, right? There’s no way that I’m ‘too good’ for you, Tommy. What other people say about us, about our relationship, means nothing. All that matters is you and me, and I love you more than anything in this world and nothing will change that.”

Tommy pulled away from her, standing up and pacing around the room. “You don’t understand, (Y/N), I am a bad man. I’ve done bad things, things that you have even witnessed. You’re so much different than I am, you’re so good. You’re too good. You should be with someone who is good like you, not a bad man like me.”

(Y/N) quickly stood up and stopped Tommy, cupping his face with both hands and forcing him to look at her again. “Maybe I should be, but I don’t want to be with someone like me. I want to be with you, Thomas Shelby. You may think you’re bad, but I think you’re amazing. You’re smart, and you’re caring for your family, and you’re so protective over them as well. You do what you have to do to make money, I’ll never judge you for that. I don’t want to be with anyone else, I want you Tommy. Only you.”

A smile came across Tommy’s face. (Y/N) pulled his face closer and pressed her lips to his. Tommy relaxed into her kiss, holding her close to him and never wanting to let her go.

“I’ll fucking kill Henry if I see him at the pub tomorrow,” Tommy mumbled against her lips.

(Y/N) giggled and responded, “I’ll be sure to look the other way.”

#Thomas shelby #Thomas Shelby imagine #Thomas Shelby x reader #tommy shelby #tommy Shelby x reader #tommy Shelby imagine #cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy imagine #peaky blinders #peaky blinders imagine #peaky fookin blinders #imagine #request #one shot

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eddiemxnsons · 4 years ago

Text

INTRÉPIDE — Nate Fick

Requested by: @bbysugarpink

hello, i would like to request something for nate from generation kill :) with the fluff prompts: “is there a reason you’re blushing like that” and “i’m not a damsel in distress. i’m a damsel doing damage” thank u so much! 🤍

To whatever sexist douchebag termed damsels — women — as always being in constant, unwarranted distress, Y/N Y/L/N could run laps around them with her intellect, physical build, and sharp tongue. She was a living illustration of an army disciplinary booklet, the words alive in calculated steps she’d approach a soldier with.

The men of the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion of the Marine Corps vexed egos could attest to the goldenly shrewd behavior of their lieutenant. She was a great shot with her rifle, but her words walloped anyone with a more profound wound than any bullet could. Superiors would tease that if science could decipher the wonderstruck complexes of her mind and bottle it, they’d give it to every trooper to fortify some manhood in them that vanished with the diaphanous sand of the desert each dawn.

With the exception of First Lieutenant Nathaniel Fick.

The duo could forge a bickering storm within seconds of a misstep in strategy, a blazing crimson error of position that had a target pinned to their asses. The remainder of their platoon would settle in the beaten leather of their humvee’s, ears perked to open windows to listen to the rather amusing strings of hisses. They’d only interject if the woman was teetering on ripping the other lieutenant a new one, and it wasn’t for the paralyzed ego of their male superior, but for the sound discipline that should be happening.

Yet, as the cruel sun beat down on one afternoon, it's one malevolent eye unblinking, the sky it's co-conspirator with not even a wisp of cloud to obscure the unrelenting rays, there was no sound discipline to be enforced. Therefore, the feverish dispute erupting with a febrile existence as hot as the weather itself, was either eavesdropped by weary troopers or entirely disregarded by those who forced slumber.

Y/N stood in front of a glowering Nate Fick in a recognizable stance, arms folded sturdily across her chest and her jacket and pants littered with palpable burns from a imprudent stunt in the early morning. He was now ripping her a new one before a few other fellow lieutenants for the chaotic strategy that had her eluding a lethal shootout by her teeth.

“You were sent on a mission to collect intel, not engage in a fucking dogfight with Iraqi soldiers, Lieutenant Y/L/N. Lately, all you’ve been leaving is a trail of collateral damage wherever you go and I have to clean it up before any higher-up flames your ass,” Nate essentially snarled in her face, his gaze fervid with fluttering chaos and madness, whetting the edge of his cerulean eyes.

“If you’re going to chastise me for doing my job, I think you should be looking at yourself and everyone else in this damn platoon! We were ambushed and I merely retaliated to save the asses of my men like any lieutenant would do. I got the fucking intel for you and spared you from writing a few condolence letters,” she sneered in retort, beckoning an offending serpent of anger into their conversation with a spark of anger igniting in her chest, “And I would appreciate if you allowed me to do what I need to do to save my men—”

“And what if I had to write one for you?!” He interjected furiously, the rustle of the adjacent map indicating that his miffed outburst startled a few of the others. Their exasperation stood equal now, black marks on their consciousnesses. When it came to her — this brazen, shrewd female lieutenant — the stagnant, usually composed first lieutenant was easy to set off, almost like flicking the top off a grenade. Scrap the usually when it came to the woman before him now.

Y/N merely scoffed, a few sputters of laughter hissing from the rifts of her lips, “Besides a loss of a lieutenant, what is it to you if something happened out there? You could give less than two fucks about me, Fick.” She peered at him with frustration radiating, aghast that he would reprimand her recklessness.

Nearly everyday did he let Death almost beat the shit out of him, and it was always her that had to save his ass and dispel its clasp. The one day she didn’t duck for cover, demand them to fallback, had a momentary lapse of judgement was the day she was endlessly ridiculed. Her hand twitched at her side as she anticipated a reaction — an excuse — from the crimson-cheeked man, an identical grimace scattering out from beneath both of their helmets.

She sobered her tongue to her cheek for the sake of hearing this argument through and through, savor in levity the first thing the blonde could spare from his humiliated ass,

“Maybe if you pulled your head out your ass, you’d realize that there are some people in this platoon that give a shit about whether or not you live or die.”

“Like who?” she beckoned in challenge, true to her haughty dispotion, and her chest mere inches from seething against his own now.

She could taste the poignancy of his despair that fragilized in his light blues, the acidity of his wrath, and the blazing of his anguish, yet shook her head despite it all gradually soaking into her chest, “Like who, Lieutenant Fick?”

He was a man that knew no fear until he met this woman. He had met every dread of his in her heedless behavior. Certainly, she tends to sprint into danger on more instances than he could count, but managed to extinguish every flame of danger that lurked as a menace to her each damn time. Numerous wondered, even him in some moments, where Y/N’s tenacity emanated from, yet it could never really be pinpointed. Yet, that was just another aspect of the cumbersome girl he had spent his army career attempting to unravel.

And Nate Fick is a gritty man. He has strived for a while to not get his feelings for her entangled in the requisite of war. Love doesn’t belong in a war, where there’s a constant dance with Satan that would desecrate anything as vulnerable as love. Yet, there it was, keen as ever despite the uncertainty of the next few minutes. He loved her like there wasn’t a war occurring.

“Like me,” he admitted with his mouth abandoning all moisture for an arid wasteland of desert like his surroundings.

His whole mewl of a rant moments prior had fucked things up for sure. Even as he was blustering and calling into question her competence, he was aware how he was stirring an unspoken pot of exasperation between them. But she had scared him that morning. And Nate Fick thought himself a fool whenever he fussed in fright over something — someone. But, as he flanked position in the aforementioned dogfight with his own men, his peripheral — keen as always — had caught her dropping to the ground after a deluge of bullets mangled the metal of the humvee she had tucked herself behind. He had been certain that he had just bystanded her death and nearly got himself shot in the abyss of numbness that bittered his nerves.

“Well, of course, because who else would you bitch to about every damn problem you have?” she eclipsed his concern and amused the response, “Anyone else would simply kiss your ass and agree with your complaints — you’d never get your desired response and then the cycle repeats itself. I may as well be your therapist!”

“Would you just shut up?!” Nate let her have it, tearing into her steadfast role of a bitter disputer, eyes temporarily locking with her own.

Any other soldier at the brunt of his outburst would flinch, unravel in whatever mock confidence they tossed between them at the start of the quarrel. She was a pistol of a woman, and there is everything right with that as could be for regard to her character. You fired at her, you could be damn certain you’d get fired at in return.

“Are you issuing an order to me, lieutenant?” She ventured a step between their already existing close proximity, “Someone of your own rank that you’re belittling on account of your questioning of my sanity? Well, let me deal you back a taste of your own medicine — I question you on your clear defiency to keep a cool head whenever something, involving me, occurs and you lose your temper! The line between your professional life and whatever personal thing you have festering in your mind is blurring, lieutenant. And I question if you can execute your rank’s duties appropriately...”

“You make it rather difficult to when you stick your ass in every dangerous situation that comes wandering your way,” he ruefully sighed, abating his zealous tone and plucking her elbow to shift them into a quieter corner away from probing eyes. And, much to his surprise, she permitted the abrupt veering off and the linger of his hand on the bend of her elbow.

“And why is it so difficult?” she aligned her tone with his own, still a searing and acrimonious murmur in the shaded corner.

Nate’s frustration tensed with a clench of his jaw, eyes drowning with something deviating between anger and lust — the latter glimmer being one she regarded before he was even genuinely aware it had erupted to the surface. And her heart fluttered.

“You know why,” he indifferently stated, words slicing rather than tumbling through the dry air.

A hollow feeling bloomed at the center of her chest almost immediately as the words registered quicker than she would’ve preferred.

“Nate,” there was no agitation in her voice as if her heart beat so steadily now, the pistol-shot flare diminishing beneath a vulnerable facade. Certainly, she knew. She’d be daft to beat around the bush of his implications — the connotations of their intimate, clandestine relationship. “If the others — if our superiors — found out...”

“It’s been a year and they’re none the wiser,” Nate tread a few fingers through her messy, disheveled hair, her breathing almost instantaneously steadying with the slight yanks at the stray tufts of her ponytail brushing her neck. They rebounded to a silence with balanced inhales of arid desert air for a few moments, the din of adjacent soldiers in their makeshift tents curving around the flaps of the one they concealed behind. She glimpsed briefly through the heavy brush of her lashes, pressing a whisper of a kiss on his lips, lingering there with the ardor igniting her veins and no doubt his, defusing the ticking bomb of fury from minutes prior.

“Now, is there a reason why you’re blushing so profusely like that?” she mused with a curl of smirk in their departure from the kiss, her fingertips skimming the camoed cloth of the rear of his helmet while amused eyes adored the earnest crimson of his cheeks.

Nate chuckled with an eye roll spared for her radiating levity, his spur of mirth hindered by the dispute that anchored in the abyss of his stomach, “You could have died, you know.” He is vulnerable now, novel territory for Nate Fick to venture into, and he's found himself astray in the shallow waters of a defenseless position.

“You would’ve done the same,” she uttered through a throat she could’ve sworn was temporarily haboring jagged rock shards, “Besides, we both know that I’m not a damsel in distress needing you to swoop in as if you always need to do something to save me. I’m a damsel doing damage a majority of the time ‘round here.”

“Unfortunately,” Nate chuckled wryly, “And you leave it all to me to clean up.”

“It’s rather entertaining to watch — for everyone.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

#hbo war #hbowar #generation kill #hbo war imagine

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years ago

Text

Rise: Killan

The universe of Killan’s story belongs to @wildfaewhump. If you haven’t read their Iesin and Talvos or Pathverse stories, go! Go read! Read them or face my wrath. I have so much wrath to share.

CW: Referenced past torture, scarring, referenced dehumanization and briefly referenced pet whump, but this is not a piece about any of those things

Killan stopped, just at the edge of the rock along the riverbank, taking in a deep breath. The air was thin here, where the trees became scraggly pines that clung to rocky soil, hints of snowfall still littering the earth even this late in spring.

Leather boots covered his feet, he’d made them himself. It had taken forever to make the kill, tan the leather, cut it around his foot, sew it together. But he’d done it. Coated against the water, they kept his feet warm, but he wouldn’t have needed them, anyway.

He just never lost the habit of wanting to feign humanity, no matter how clear it was that he wasn’t human at all.

Not anymore.

Not a man.

Before, he couldn’t have stood here like this in just a shirt and pants without freezing. His fingertips should be blue, but when he looked down they were the same as always. Pale skin, roughened and scarred, but still skin - feeling only a faint chill. The dark talons on his right hand didn’t feel cold at all.

Killan lowered his eyes to look at them, clicking them together a little. The place where they’d been attached to the knuckles of his hands still held faint scarring where they’d been stitched on even as his bones blended, accepting with each addition parts that had been someone else’s body a little more easily.

Killan was so many people now, most of them fae. He was the only human left in his body but he could have told anyone who asked - cut his skin now and the blood ran pale, a pearlescent shimmer in what had once been a flat dark red when oxygen met wound.

Break a bone and find it hollowed inside, lighter weight easier for his wings to carry.

Make an incision along the wicked scar down his side and you’d find he lost a kidney and some ribs but gained other organs that weren’t there before. Killan would tell you - the wings were one life he stole, it took two for the eyes because the first set didn’t take, my hand was one along with some air sacs, the other air sacs and the lungs were another…

He was so many fae who should be alive, but instead there was only Killan Josta left to wear their parts, a child’s nightmare hiding under the bed, in the dark woods, a set of glowing eyes in the dark.

Not fae, either.

Watch Killan Josta open his eyes and see the pale color was replaced by a saturated, overwhelming blue, a black slit-pupil, eyes that would never sit in true comfort in his skin. They weren’t meant to be there. He still bled instead of crying.

Monster.

Hurt the creature and make it cry out in pain and hear two voices, two sets of vocal chords operating simultaneously, a shrieking fae scream alongside the lower human voice. Calon Nie had loved to hear both screams at once. So had the humans who had chained him down for entertainment.

Everyone was a monster, when given power over something new.

Everyone but... everyone but the ones who had saved him.

Buachaill del. Pretty boy.

Calon Nie’s pretty human, left alone to wander and stumble and plead, to make the mistake of asking for help. Captured, bought and sold, beaten and bled and sold and bought again, until there hadn’t been anything in Killan’s life but survival.

Until there had been no Killan left, that name held and hidden deep within himself. There had been only the creature, the monster, the pet the piece of fascinating conversation start the thing.

Not man or fae or boy or anything but organs and skin and wings to be bruised, broken, bloodied. Not even a favored animal.

Just a thing that knew how to keep living.

Raise your chin at the four-count whistle, hold up your hands at the three. Let them touch your talons, your wings, run their grubby fingers through the feathers you can never get clean. Feel the lash against the skin you were never meant to have for your own when you disobey. Fingers prodding and pressing at your scars. Chirp and trill for the men, the women, the children who call you the unnatural offspring of degeneracy when you were never that.

And it wouldn’t matter if you were, no one could deserve this. No one could earn this.

But this is life, this is all you’ll ever be, guard what’s left of you as deeply as you can and give them the mindless animal doing tricks for their coins, their hands, the promise that if you’re good it won’t last forever.

Feel the press of the muzzle keeping your jaw locked while you weep and beg to be seen as human again. See them lock up your voice and laugh when you try to speak and you can beg all you want, it won’t happen, they’ll never see you as a boy again.

It will never happen, and then one day…

One day, stop begging.

Slide away, into your own mind. Live for the moments where you’re fed for being good, the soft velvet of a horse nosing a carrot right out of your hand, the warmth of their breath curling up in winter stables with them. Curl up on straw and hold the chain around your neck and learn to stop crying.

Until he gives the five-count whistle.

Then you cry on cue.

Live for nothing but the hope that this day will end, because it has to, and then begin the next day living for the end of that one, too. Pray for the night because you are never alone until then.

Pray that it will one day end, and know that you are not praying for salvation, only darkness.

Until someone looks you in the eyes and takes a risk and you end up saved anyway.

Next to him, the river rushed by, swollen with a winter’s melt. The roar of water was deafening, and he couldn’t even imagine how loud it would be at the bottom of the waterfall, hundreds of feet below.

Somewhere further up there were fae courts hidden, deep inside the mountains. They didn’t want him either, but at least he wouldn’t be sold there. He wasn’t a curiosity to the fae, but an abomination, a warning, something to be feared. Something to be sent away as quickly as possible, but for all Calon Nie’s cruelty, it was only one fae that had held him captive and carved into his skin.

It had been a dozen of his fellow humans-

No. Not human anymore.

It had been a dozen or more humans who had bound his hands, forced muzzles on until he bled, sliced his skin to show the change in blood and marvel over his reddish tears, buried their hands in his feathers until he could not help but scream at the violation.

They loved to hear him scream.

Fae rejected him - but humans overwhelmed him.

Not fae either.

Killan looked down at his hands - fingers and talons, a madman’s puppet tossed aside, a piece of decoration in a human’s receiving hall, a pet kept hidden away until they tired of cutting him, a dirty slave for sale in the streets, keep him as a pet or the same way you keep a painting on the wall.

I promise you, messire, you’ve never seen anything like this! Show the man your hands, creature.

Even now, just remembering the whistle, Killan’s fingers twitched with unconscious need to obey.

The sun was rising, the sky a brilliant scattering of pink thrown up against the gathering clouds and a growing golden light finding its slow way along the world he could see below. The forest ran to the curve of the earth, and he could, with sharp fae eyes, see the smoke of chimneys in a village that would have taken him a day to climb down the mountain and walk to, but with wings…

Killan slowly flexed his wings out as wide as they would go, closing his eyes as his back straightened instinctively to balance the weight. The chill air ruffled along his reddish-brown feathers, a playful hint of breeze.

You know how to do this, the breeze whispered to him. You knew the moment he gave them to you.

He wasn’t meant to have them, but he did. They were blended into his back in a mass of scarring and changed bones, shoulder blades shifted out. On fae, the transition was seamless. On Killan, every inch of his skin told the story of screaming agony.

But the fae who had owned them was dead, along with every other one sacrificed to Calon Nie’s game. If they were anyone’s wings now, they were Killan’s.

I don’t have to be ashamed of what he did to me. I didn’t ask to be a monster.

The water burst from the confines of the earth next to him, tumbled and rolled into the air before it fell and fell and fell and crashed back down to earth below. Killan sighed softly, watching breath puff out before his face, and then turned away from the dawn.

He walked, step by silent step, back along the riverbank, watching the water running the other way, chasing the flight back down to ground. He stopped next to a thin pine tree, reaching out to touch the needles, crushing them between his fingers to release the scent, closing his eyes and breathing it in.

I didn’t ask to be this. It’s not my fault.

It’s not my fault I have new parts.

It’s not my fault I can fly.

Against his back, the breeze slipped around him again, dancing air that ran along the edges of feathers, beckoning. Beneath that, a faint shimmer of mystery. While fae and humans both looked away, Killan could call and have starsong reply, if only faintly, to his cries for help.

The mysteries recognized him as a mystery himself, not a monster. Not understood but not entirely turned away.

And he wasn’t alone, either. There were others out there who had been broken and bent to someone else’s will, who could see beyond the way he had been stitched together and know there was still a whole person inside.

Eitilt.

The breeze called again, and Killan stopped to look over his shoulder at the dawn. Farther than the sun’s light could reach, stars still shone, visible in the blue as brightly as they’d been in the black the night before.

Fly.

Killan took off running, back towards the cliffside, racing with his wings curved against his back and his feet pounding on rock. The roar of the river alongside felt like it ran with him right to the edge, where instead of stopping Killan flung himself out into space, the spray of water beside him.

Wings curved, he fell.

The air flew past his ears as he plummeted towards the earth, mysteries a song that wound around hollowed bones and filled the places inside him with air. The bottom of the waterfall came closer and closer, a frothing white spray where the water was wearing the earth down beneath dirt, beneath stone, to bedrock underneath it all.

Instinct told him things that human experience never could, and he let his body - bent and broken and twisted and remade, rebuilt, created by a fae who named himself Killan’s god - tell him when to stop.

Down and down and down and-

Now.

His wings snapped out, catching the breeze and slowing his descent, sending him forward instead of down and he trilled, beating wings heavily to head back up again. His back ached a little but he caught a current that helped carry him up, air that rested under his feathers like hands slipping around a small child to lift them up onto a mother’s hip to be carried.

The sky was not his mother, but she would be here to lift him where his own mam could not.

He burst upwards, spinning, breathing thin air as though he’d always been able to do so, human and fae lungs filtering every ounce of oxygen he needed in tandem. The sun warmed his face, and he closed his eyes against its touch. Sun on his face, stars at his back, Killan let the currents carry him a little further.

And then he dove again.

Fly.

He dropped like a stone, rushing downwards, spinning in the air before he snapped his wings out again and cut a hard left. Around him the air itself celebrated with him everything his broken body could still do, all the things he’d been given alongside what he had lost.

Sharp talons could tear apart a rabbit and defend him from attackers just as easily.

Rise.

Fae eyes saw far, farther than even the keenest human sight, and kept him safe. He could see in the dark, he could see them coming before they could see him.

Rise.

Hollowed bones let him fly, kept him lighter, along with the places added to him to hold air, to bring him higher and higher, to help him-

Rise.

Fae blood carried oxygen more easily, let him climb higher into the air, the currents under his feathers like a friend lifting him up. As high as he could go, not quite so high as a full-blooded fae but he felt the air thinning and thinning and the stars were ever closer, their song welcoming him even if the fae did not.

Ardu th’uas. Rise above.

He slowed, spinning in the air, letting starshine and sun wash all his ruined skin clean.

Leanh na realtai. Child of stars, you, too.

His heart stilled, here where the air was thinnest, with the question he never voiced. Even ruined, I am?

And every time, the certainty returns.

Even ruined, you are.

Iron and earth may be blind, but the stars see you.

Killan dropped again.

He spun with his wings pressed tightly, speeding to earth so fast the air was a scream and he couldn't find the breath to laugh. The forest below him, the sky above him, the sun and stars.

Killan Josta, as he was, should not exist.

He did, though, and in this moment with his wings snapping out to slow his descent, catching an air current that pulled him back around towards the mountains, he feels them.

Something like friends.

They were calling him back to the waterfall and the cliff and the camp in the woods where they will be waiting for him, the ones who saw beneath his skin to the boy still hiding under a monster, the man half-buried by cruelty but still trying to break free of its legacy.

They were waiting, with breakfast probably already ladled out for him.

First, though…

First Killan Josta, who had a name again, wanted to fly. One more time he climbed the currents, found the pockets of air to push him higher and higher and higher, until there was a half-breath of pause as high as his broken, remade body could go.

He let that pause draw out, listening to the stars whisper in human ears.

Sing, Killan Josta.

He trilled, a cry as much of gratitude as it was of joy, and wrapped his wings around himself to plummet to earth again.

Rise.

Killan fell, and fell and fell, and then just when he could fall no further without breaking on the earth, his feathers caught the air and he flew.

-----

Tagging Killan’s crew: @astrobly @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @slaintetowhump , @quirkykayleetam , @whumpallday , @whumppsychology, @doveotions, @broken-horn, @moose-teeth, @whumpfigure, @spiffythespook, @oceanthesarcasamfox, @whump-only(if you would like to be added to an OC’s tag list, please send your request via an ask! Those are easier for me to keep track of and I tend to lose requests in comments, reblogs, tags, or PMs!)

#trauma recovery #fantasy setting #fantasy whump #winged whumpee #wing whump #referenced torture #scarring #wildfaewhump's world #trauma recovery whump #killan is babey and saddest boy #wings #dehumanization reference #pet whump references #magical whump #magical setting #if you're thinking I wrote this to a single song #you are correct

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zevzevarainai · 4 years ago

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Hey! You ever end up doing essay on the kazumaji gifs? (I'm highly interested because it's always majima o' clock where I live)

it’s always majima o’clock here too; maybe we live in the same area... but lmao i didnt write the essay on my kazumaji gifs because i didnt think anyone would want to hear it so i meant it more as a per request kind of deal. and you’re requesting. I want you to know you did this to yourself, my friend

below the read more for everyone’s well being. welcome to my first official majima analysis essay

ok so in those tags i said something like majima is softest with kiryu because it is absolutely the truth (unless you count makoto, which i love them too, but majima has moved on or at least is making an effort to. and that was pre-tacky snake skin jacket and pre-mad dog persona.)

the prompt for the gifset was “maybe something about majima being stupid and unhinged but like, in a sweet way” and the whole point of this rambling is that kiryu is really the only one we see who causes the mad-dog persona to slip. kiryu says he can never get a read on majima but just because he is unpredictable doesn’t mean he doesn’t understand that he isn’t just batshit crazy. he trusts majima, and finds comfort in his lack of predictability, keeping kiryu’s life exciting and providing distraction from the insane amount of tragic shit that happens to kiryu. and majima has a similar experience of idolizing the yakuza lifestyle as teens/young adults only to have the yakuza drag them through hell. But this is supposed to be about Majima.

ANYWAY what GETS ME is again that mad-dog vibe slipping around kiryu. the only time we really only see it again is with Saejima when he comes back from jail. i’m gonna talk about that later too. LET’s GET TO THE GIFS i’m going in chronological order not the order i put them in

Ok so as an audience, we don’t really know what happened between Kiryu and Majima between Yakuza Zero and Yakuza/Yakuza Kiwami. Yes, we get that tiny ending scene of Majima going KIRYU-CHAN for the first time and Kiryu smiling at him. But we are given nothing as to how they met or why Majima started calling him Kiryu-chan. It is left completely to the audience’s interpretation. Because then it goes straight to the first scene with Majima in Yakuza/Yakuza Kiwami after Kiryu gets out of jail. It implies that they already knew each other, and arguably that they were somewhat close -- close enough for Majima to “miss him.” (What was majima doing for those 10 years, i don’t know, but he clearly wasn’t in a great place, missing both kiryu, makoto, and saejima, we ignore y5 lore in this household or make up shit to fill in the giant gaps) You could argue that Majima missing Kiryu is just Majima being “crazy haha woah” but his character is so much deeper than that, and it’s proven in this gif’s scene. Yes he is fighting Kiryu with all his men. But if you are reading this you understand that them fighting physically all the time is a secret love language. They never intend to severely hurt each other. Fighting is how they know that they have an equal, someone else who was modeled into a weapon because of the Tojo Clan.

And yes, “He belongs to me!” is an extremely gay thing to say. He doesn’t even need to say that, though. One of his men didn’t understand that he doesn’t actually want to hurt Kiryu. The guy picked up Majima’s knife and tried to actually hurt Kiryu. Majima willingly gets stabbed so Kiryu doesn’t get hurt. That’s a handful of gay subtext right there. Majima’s first scene in y1 is about how the world is a horrible, shitty place that will chew you up and spit you out if you care. Then he goes and gets stabbed. Self-sacrificially. He cares about Kiryu, even if it hurts.

This one isn’t as deep. It stems of the same concept of them fighting each other as equals. Majima explicitly says more than once that strength is the most admirable trait, Goromi says that it only matters that a man is strong. Kiryu is the only person who presents a challenge to him. He admires him.

(As a disclaimer, I know a lot of people are uncomfortable with Goromi. I’ve also seen a lot of non-binary, gender-fluid, etc. people project on Goromi and Majima, and I feel like that can only be a good thing. Obviously they deserve more and more quality representation. I think the people who dislike Goromi are valid as well, but for the sake of this argument we are going to see Goromi as the people who project on her do and I’m going to use she/her pronouns when talking about Goromi.)

Regardless on your stance on this whole little side quest, the player has the choice to go along with Goromi which creates actually a lot of subtle connecting between the two of them. Even in just talking to her, we see the mad-dog mask slip. She talks about how much she cared about the girls at Club Shine and wonders how they’re doing. Literally says “all part of my tragic-ass backstory.” And Kiryu sympathizes with it. Says he sees through the “i hated it” bullshit and sees Majima/Goromi’s true self, which is that the cabaret job was hard for Majima because he cared about the women and didn’t like using them as a source of income and knew it would be his fault if they got hurt.

Also, Goromi says that "When I’m with a guy, it’s all about if I’m having enough fun. That’s why he’s gotta be strong.” Sound like someone we know? Someone who we are talking about in the last gif with i-just-got-the-shit-beat-out-of-me-and-it-was-awesome bliss on his face?

Anyway, the scene in the gif is near the end of the session. Kiryu is talking about how he’s been in prison for 10 years, and Goromi says that now that he’s out he should try to relax and and a little fun. Arguably, “since you’re so lonely right now, I’m gonna give ya a hand!” is most of Majima’s role in YK1. Kiryu gets out of prison. Majima wants to fight him all the time and says it’s because he’s gone soft and needs to train. Majima Everywhere presents excitement in his life when everything else is hard and shitty and traumatizing. Yes, Majima kidnapped Haruka. But there isn’t a lot of info on that. Majima says he did it so they could fight but it very likely could have been an order from the Tojo Clan or even Nishiki. Until he develops a bond with Haruka, Majima is, in a way, all he has. Nishiki is mean now. Yumi is ???. Kazama is i don’t even remember but he certainly isn’t any emotional support. He’s lonely. Majima is the only person he has from before prison, and quite possibly the only person who understands what he is going through.

YK2, Kiryu has yeeted out of Majima’s life as Kiryu does, but he’s trying to protect haruka so I’ll let it slide. And what does Majima do now that Kiryu’s not there? Leaves the Tojo Clan. Yes it’s because he doesn’t like the 5th chairman’s style and to make up for Kawamura, but the point is he’s bored. The use of “MY Kiryu-chan” is obviously written there because “haha majima he’s crazyyy” but come on. Majima left the Tojo Clan after Kiryu stepped down as the 4th chairman. Because he was bored. Because he couldn’t trust his own men. The only person he considered an equal just wasn’t there anymore and he found it difficult to adjust. (That’s YEARNING, fellas)

So yes, HIS Kiryu-chan came home, but what is home in this context? It clearly isn’t the tojo clan, so I guess it could be Kamurocho in general. But if the clan doesn’t make it home, what does make it home? Perhaps a certain triangle shaped man??

Oh boy silly Majima wants to fight Kiryu again hahaha weeeeeeeee NO listen, LISTEN, he does want to fight kiryu again, because 1) the man has been bored for a year 2) FIGHTING IS THEIR LOVE LANGUAGE 3) Majima is once again surprising Kiryu in a world where nothing surprises him anymore, where kiryu expects people to be vile and only want him for gain. Every single goddamn game it’s “Kiryu plz save the Tojo Clan plz” and Kiryu NEVER gets anything in return unless you count, i don’t know, Daigo and Haruka’s safety? But Majima doesn’t give a shit about any of that. Majima is one of the only people who consistently does things for Kiryu (even if they’re presented in an abnormal way). Majima is really the only one who makes sacrifices for Kiryu. But this fight, it kicks off YK2 of “hey, i missed you but i won’t admit it because we’re manly yakuza, please let me try to make you smile.”

THE kazumaji scene. Going off of Majima being the only one to make sacrifices for Kiryu, here’s a perfect example. Majima first aids the Tojo Clan which he swore to leave literally only because Kiryu asked him to. Then, here, he get beaten within an inch of his life because he promised Kiryu he would protect Kamurocho from Ryuji. Majima does not give a shit about the Tojo Clan at this point. Yes, Majima LOVEEESSSS beating people up, but he’s fatally wounded. This is not a Majima who would die for the Tojo Clan. This is a Majima willing to die for Kiryu. After warning Kiryu about being to trusting, too.

And of course, we get the Majima collapsing on the pavement and Kiryu rushing in to CRADLE him in his arms like a damn fanfic. You’ve even got the “I did it for you” which everyone knows is basically an “I love you.” Look at Majima’s face in the gif. Bless the Kiwami 2 graphics, first of all. He’s looking at Kiryu like he wants him to be the last thing he sees, like he wants him to know that he’s going out for Kiryu, that despite the fact that he’s about to cough up blood he needs Kiryu to have the information he needs to save the clan and Kamurocho. He’s telling Kiryu all this with labored breath because he promised. Kiryu “One-Expression” Kazuma is viably worried as hell, the little nod in the gif kills me because Kiryu needs him to know he’s touched and he’s so grateful. The only reason Kiryu left him was because there was danger elsewhere and he trusts Kaoru enough to take care of him. (Side note: I love Kaoru Sayama, but I still feel like she’s good enough a character on her own and doesn’t need to be a romantic interest for Kiryu. Like it was like oh... she’s Girl so she needs to fall for the Big Strong Male Protag.... If Majima was a cis girl they would have made out in this game, maybe even y1.)

7) Speaking of sacrifices, Yakuza 3, the game where Majima literally joined the Tojo Clan again because Kiryu wanted him to protect Daigo. That’s a huge lifestyle change, Majima.

Yes, this scene is funny because Majima is riding in a Barbie-ass truck like a 15 year old driving on a learner’s permit in a downpour (yet proves he can drive stick seconds later) and thinks he hit Kiryu while he purposely hit everyone else. Look, Majima needs this ok y3 he looks like he’s been crying since kiryu left no one No One is going to hurt Kiryu now

That truck is likely stolen, he’s driving erratically as fast as he can because Kiryu is in danger, how did he even know that Kiryu was in danger is it like some kind of 6th sense... If you didn’t already know, I would take a bullet for Majima’s voice actor; his delivery of “Kiryu-chan! Where are you?!” could have just been like haha oops kiryu did i hit you ;3 but instead it’s this raw cry of genuine panic, like did his actions get kiryu hurt, Majima could not live with himself if he was the reason Kiryu got fatally hurt

8) Ok I’ve hinted at the fact that I have beef with the Hot Mess that is yakuza 5, wasn’t huge on Y4 and Y6 was fine but it was heavily based on the events of Y5. In my head I’ve got an entire fix-it fanfic in which Majima yeets out to Okinawa with Kiryu after Y3 I could write that upon request too ANYWAY here’s another sacrificial majima...

Despite not caring for Y5, THIS SCENE is RAW. Maybe he’s not super “unhinged” in this scene but it’s just so much. Majima, who Kiryu brokedown in his taxi bc he thought he got killed (because Kiryu made him stay in the tojo clan haha we’re out here crying), chooses Kiryu over Saejima. Saejima, Majima’s oath brother, Saejima. We love Saejima, Majima loves Saejima, but 25 years is a long ass time. Majima changed. Saejima changed. For awhile he had Makoto, but then Kiryu was all Majima had for a good chunk of Saejima’s time in prison. This is the man Majima got his eye stabbed out for defending. But the BaD GuYs that arent memorable enough for me to even look up the names of are like look, we want to watch the world burn because we are Bad Guys, so either you are going to fight your brother to the death or we are going to snipe Kiryu’s daughter in the fucking head. Obviously he doesn’t know that Baba is going to betray them, so he has to pick between Saejima and Haruka. He chooses to potentially kill Saejima for Kiryu’s happiness. I’m sure if things didn’t change, Majima would have held back and let Saejima kill him. Majima would rather die than see Kiryu in pain. Majima would rather kill Saejima/let Saejima kill him than let Haruka die. If that’s not a giant declaration of unconditional love and devotion, I don’t know what else to tell you.

Anyway, thanks so much for indulging me and listening to my yakuza opinions if you made it this far you the mvp :’’’’)

#i can't believe i sat down and wrote this monster #thank you so much for the ask #i love talking about majima and i have no one to discuss it with #distinguishedkingdomwolf #ask #kazumaji

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imjeralee · 4 years ago

Text

Comfort in Despair: Chapter 1 - 18.98Hz

Leon x F!Reader

Disclaimer: Do not own Pokemon

Note: This is my Leon fic!!!!! Originally posted on Archive of Our Own.

URL here - https://archiveofourown.org/works/25631500/chapters/62219596

Summary:

Galar is rich in folklore and tales of the supernatural.

As a Pokemon Researcher who specialises in ghost types, this is a great opportunity for you to investigate and learn more about the paranormal.

Along the way, you meet Leon (in the most awkward way possible) who becomes embroiled in your adventures.

^ Basically this story is about ghosts :/

Rating: General/Teen

Warnings: None! But dis fic be scary sometimes

18.98 Hertz

...

[18.98hz is the infrasonic signal reported to be responsible for ghost sightings]

...

Deep within the woodlands of the Wild Area, an abandoned manor sits undisturbed inside a secluded maze of overgrown fauna.

Rumoured to have been built during the eighteen hundreds, the architecture is undoubtedly Georgian, with a single door erected in the middle of the house and two rows of symmetrical, large windows. A proud Duke had built the impressive home for a beautiful princess he had fallen in love with. Unfortunately, a happy ending eluded the Duke as the princess was subsequently married off to another suitor and the Duke wasted away from a broken heart.

With no true owner, the house has been passed back and forth throughout several generations and archives reveal that the last recorded occupants dated back to the fifties - a young couple with small children - and they had stayed no longer than three months.

The family had been experiencing strange phenomena; they were plagued by eerie wailing noises, laughter and the sounds of footsteps in the empty hallways at night. The couple would often see apparitions in empty rooms. The youngest child developed an imaginary friend, described as a creature with the head of a boar.

One night, the couple were seen hurriedly fleeing the premises in the middle of the night in their nightclothes, dragging their children in tow and vowing never to return.

To this date, no occupant dwells within.

As the years passed, the manor fell further into ruin and disarray. With no human upkeep, it soon faded away from existence and hidden from the public. The stories soon dissolved into nothing but the stuff of legends.

No traveller would ever stumble upon this splendid home until a group of gym challengers travelling together on their Rotom bikes would spot the small glint of light a distance away.

It's night and the weather is dreary. They are strapping, young men and they look fearless, having braved through many hardships and difficult situations with each other and their Pokemon alike.

Tonight, they are hungry and exhausted from their long hours spent travelling and desperately seek shelter. Little do they know that a scene from a horror novel is in the making.

Heading towards the direction of the light in the distance, the three young men would eventually discover a beaten path that leads them to a foreboding manor. The boys are stunned at first and exchange glances of bafflement.

Every light of the building is on and shadows dance around in a window or two.

They cannot believe their good luck - what are their chances of stumbling across a house in the middle of the wilderness?

With the increasing torrential downpour and the weariness growing in their bones, the group pedal up to the door, lay down their bikes and knock on the rusted wood. They are hoping the occupants can grant them sanctuary for the remainder of the night. They had come across many kind individuals during their travels and have been offered gifts or generous hospitality. As they wait, they chat animatedly to each other about their adventures, laughing and smiling.

The door opens for them an inch or so as though beckoning them inside but no-one appears at the doorway.

Although they are confused, one of the gym challengers slowly pushes open the door and takes a cautious step.

"H-hello?" he calls as he glances around, "Anyone here?"

He is greeted by a long stretch of corridor with a single door at the far end. It's ajar and the light is on. Muffled voices can be heard emitting from within. His friends peer over his shoulders, intrigued.

"...Um, hello?" he calls again, a little louder than before, and he crosses the threshold.

His companions don't follow, seemingly having lost their nerve. Instead, they encourage their representative to enter the establishment further on their behalf. The sensation of unease and trepidation has suddenly made its presence known in the depth of their guts.

However, this young gym challenger is brave and for the sake of his friends, he enters. He steps through the corridor and arrives at the door, opening it with a shaking hand.

The door creaks loudly, dust falling off above and onto his head. He slides inside the room and sees it is an empty room, devoid of furniture and appears to be unused for many years. There is no indication of anyone living here and immediately, a shiver runs down his spine when he realises he is not alone.

The temperature in the room becomes frighteningly cold, the hairs of the back of his neck suddenly stand on end and his heartbeat speeds up.

In the corner of his eye, he senses someone or something.

He's too frightened to look but he forces himself to turn, his body stiff. An old man stands rigidly in one corner of the room furthest away from him, facing the wall. This strange figure is pallid and gaunt, donned in a haggard, grey robe that ends at the knees.

Unsure what to do, the boy ends up cautiously takes a step forward. It is human nature to be drawn to the unknown.

He takes a baby step forward. His feet feel heavy with each step. Slowly, he approaches.

"Um....mister?"

There is no response.

"Are you....are you okay?"

He reaches a shaking hand towards the figure and finally the old man turns, revealing a grotesque and demonic visage, a face with dark empty sockets and a horrid gaping mouth. An ear-splitting and unearthly shriek erupts from all four corners of the room and the boy stumbles backwards in fright and spins on his heel with a scream.

He runs, terrified for his life. The harrowing, agonising screams follow him out.

...

In the lush conservatory, your guest sits opposite you in the pristine white sofa with a cup of tea in shaking hand as he bravely recounts his horrific tale of the mysterious house deep in the woods of the Wild Area. He stops, unable to continue and unable to further describe the terror of that night which had effectively taken place three days ago.

Whilst Cutiefly buzzes around the plants, Polteageist sits on the table and helps refill your cup whilst you take notes. You thank your pokemon before briefly musing to yourself that Polteageist's tea is far superior than any other tea you've ever had and you wonder if there may as well be a coffee pokemon out there somewhere, waiting to be discovered.

"I-I know it doesn't sound like much but it was terrifying," he mutters, "And it wasn't a pokemon, either."

"It's too early to say, but I'll look into this for you."

"Y-you believe me?"

"Yes, I do."

The boy looks stunned at your response then morosely lowers his gaze to his lap; his eyes are sunken in, his face ashen and peaky. He has not slept well since the ordeal.

"Thank you for believing me. Nobody else did," he murmurs with a sigh of clandestine relief as he holds his clenched fist over his chest.

Your fingers tense under the gratitude, gripping the handle of your cup so tightly your knuckles turn white, but a fraction of a second later and you gradually relax and you smile. "No problem, leave it to me."

"Do you want me to take you there? I-I'm not sure if I can find it again though..."

"No need," you say, "I'll look for it myself."

After exchanging a few more words with your client, you leave the conservatory and escort him to the exit; he spots an old woman donned in a white lab coat sitting at the round table in the kitchen, helping herself to a slice of buttered toast. He recognises her as Galar's famed Pokemon Professor so he greets her politely and she responds in the same manner.

Before your client leaves, he thanks you again for listening and believing in his story when many others did not and you reassure him once more that you will get to the bottom of this; Polteageist and Cutiefly float beside you and wave as your guest departs.

Closing the door gently, you return to the conservatory to clean up and pick up your notes, then head to the kitchen where Professor Magnolia is now brewing herself a cup of tea with a paper in front of her. Upon your arrival, she looks up from her reading material. "Was that a new lead, dear?"

"Possibly. Don't leave any dinner for me, I'm heading out now."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I'll be back tomorrow morning, professor."

She nods, "Very well. Be safe, dear."

With Cutiefly and Polteageist beside you, you leave the kitchen and head up the stairs to your room.

Sonia is sitting at her vanity table with her back to you, carefully covering her nails with a new coat of seafoam-green nail polish that matches the shade of her eyes whilst her Yamper lies curled in its basket, snoozing away with a chew toy under its paw. When she sees you entering the room from the mirror, she spins round in her seat immediately to face you.

"How did it go?" She greets you cheerfully as you stride to your side of the room.

"It was okay, kinda typical. There was a derelict house, ghost lights and a frightening apparition of a very unfriendly old man."

She shivers all over. "That sounds horrid..."

"Sounds like my cup of tea. Isn't that right, Polteageist?" you reply with a grin. Whilst Sonia groans inwardly at your joke, Polteageist nods and spins happily around in his teapot in response.

"What are you going to do?" she asks, holding her hand up and blowing on her nails.

"I'm heading out now to check it out."

"Now??"

"Yep."

Sonia watches with widened eyes as you begin to prepare.

"Right! I'll need my bag, a few pokedolls, some Dusk Balls, my coat and radio. Poltea, let's get cracking."

Polteageist nods, punches at the air with his little fists and floats over to the desk to grab some lightweight items for you.

You share a room with Sonia; it's large enough to be divided into two. The division of the room is reminiscent of yin and yang. Whereas Sonia's section is a colourful, girlish paradise, yours is dull, gloomy, plain and lacklustre in every aspect. Your blinds are perpetually drawn, your walls devoid of any poster or print, your furniture basic and simple. Honestly, you don't spend enough time in the house to bother with decorations and only focus on the necessities.

You open your closet and begin changing out of your normal, everyday clothes and into a warmer shirt, trousers and a clean pair of socks before you pick up your trusty backpack which you keep propped up against the wall. Opening it, you begin packing your tools and various gear, grabbing them off your desk and tossing them inside. The only thing that does not properly fit is your sleeping bag which you keep rolled up and attach it to one side of your bag using a buckled strap.

Once her nails are dry, Sonia quickly gets up from her seat, leaves the room and promptly returns with a few snacks consisting of peanut butter protein bars, dried fruit mix and some Moomoo cheese that should help last you the entire night. "Here, take these."

"Thanks, Sonnie."

"I worry about you," Sonia says with a sigh as she returns to sit down and Cutiefly nestles in her hair and nuzzles the side of her cheek, "You're always leaving in the evening and coming home at dawn..."

"Can't help it, Sonnie. You know what it's like." You finally finish packing and stand up, donning your coat first before you pull the straps of your bag firmly over your shoulders. The last item you reach for is your pocket radio which Sonia eyes with concern.

"Be careful! And call us if anything comes up, okay? Well, maybe not Gran because she goes to bed at nine...but I'll still be up!"

You flash her a wide grin in response, "I'll be fine, Son. Wish me luck!"

"Good luck!"

You both exchange a hug before Cutiefly and Polteageist hover over to you and you pat them affectionately. "I'll be back soon. Be good," you say when they look at you sadly; you lean forwards and peck them over the top of their heads. Heading to the door, you turn to Sonia once more and throw your arms in the air. "Now I bid you, adieu."

Sonia giggles, twirling a curl of her hair with her finger whilst Polteageist waves sadly and Cutiefly loops in the air. You hurriedly dash out of the room, sprinting down the stairs and waving to Magnolia before you shove your feet into your hiking boots. You breeze out the house, heading towards the direction of the train station that will take you to the Wild Area. Checking your wristwatch, there should be a train arriving in ten minutes.

It's getting late, the sky is turning dark and people are on their way home but your day is just starting.

You are a Pokemon Researcher, specialising in the ghost type. You study the supernatural and the paranormal so naturally your work mostly begins at night. You have had clients who share with you stories of the weird and wonderful, the bizarre and downright strange and you've dedicated yourself in studying these mysterious and often terrifying occurrences. Galar is rich with supernatural lore and tales from the crypt so all in all, it's very exciting to be here.

Your new client and his horrific story is nothing new - it's probably a ghost Pokemon pulling the strings.

Having moved to Galar from Kalos, Magnolia and Sonia have been so good to you when you knew no-one and had no other place to go. They have taken you under their wing and they worry about you a lot usually because you leave at late evening or night, return at the ass crack of dawn and spend the majority of the day sleeping but this is a cycle you've grown accustomed to before you moved. Your body clock has completely adjusted. You're nocturnal.

You arrive at Wedgehurst station and go through the ticket barriers with your monthly pass in hand, surprised to see that the station is far busy today compared to usual.

Normally at this time, it's empty and quiet and the passengers are weary workers who are departing from their jobs in Wedgehurst to return home but on this occasion, you see far more individuals than you would have liked and you're forced to queue.

Nevertheless, you plug in your earphones, choose one of your favourite songs and bring out your journal to go over your notes you took down when you were speaking with the client.

When the train arrives, the increased number of passengers means you don't easily find a seat compared to other days as the commuters bumble in and out and the seats begin to slowly fill up. You look left and right and luckily, you find an empty seat just two rows ahead. You do hold back at first, wondering if there are any elderly citizens in the same carriage but after glancing around curiously, there are no old folk and no-one is interested in taking the seat.

You may as well sit down.

You end up squashed between a middle-aged woman who is busy knitting a green scarf with a Rowlet's face on it and on your left is a young guy dressed in white sweats with the hood pulled up and wrapped tightly around his head. A black cap has also been expertly placed to cover his face. He sits with his arms crossed over his chest, slouching to the side and quite possibly asleep.

Luckily, the next stop is the Meetup Spot of the Wild Area so you don't need to sit for too long.

A Charizard stands in front of you, holding onto one of the pivoted grab handles that dangle from the ceiling with a sticker slapped over his scaly chest that says 'World's Best Charizard'.

The doors of the carriage soon close and the train leaves the station, chugging down the tracks; during the brief journey, you and Sonia message each other before she goes downstairs for dinner so you leave her be to enjoy her meal. You use your notebook to occupy yourself and go through your notes and diagrams once again.

Your drawing skills are amateur but you've briefly sketched the house and drawn the horrific, ghostly man according to the boy's testimony and you spend some time studying your drawings until you hear Charizard let out an audible snort of curiosity and you look up.

He's looking at your notepad, at your diagrams, and you grin, "Oh? Are you interested?"

He nods.

It's not always you get the chance to talk to someone or a pokemon about your line of work because you're mostly met with skepticism or derisiveness. Therefore you find your grin widening and you excitedly gesture to the house. "There's a house in the Wild Area rumoured to be haunted. I'm heading there right now to take a look."

Charizard looks a little disturbed at your revelation and points a claw to the drawing of the old man and glances at you.

"That's a ghost."

His reptilian eyes widen thoroughly.

"I'm on the case. I'm a pokemon researcher, see?" You pull your badge out from your left pocket of your coat to show him and he scrutinises it intensely, "I'll get to the bottom of this and - "

You halt midway when the man on your left suddenly lets out a muffled groan and begins to lean against your shoulder with a tad more force than usual and you stiffen in your seat.

It's probably on accident and everyone else doesn't seem to notice; they're sitting with their pokemon or their eyes are glued onto their Rotom phones; everyone's too busy to notice so you inconspicuously use your shoulder to nudge him away and he returns to his normal spot. You inwardly breathe a sigh of relief until he slumps against you once more, groaning slightly. Even though he has a hat covering his face, underneath the fabric and you can feel his nose pressing against your neck and you tense up.

The train annoy announces that you're almost at your destination but you remember the wise words of Magnolia. She warned you to be careful when you're on the train at night, especially when you are on your own. Whilst you wonder if you are possibly sitting beside a pervert who is pretending to be asleep so he can act like he is nodding off and accidentally 'slumping' or 'bumping' against you, the Charizard helps you out by curling his claw and prodding at the young man firmly.

"Huh? What?" The sleepy young man finally retreats from you and you hear him mutter groggily, half-asleep.

Strange, his voice sounds familiar.

The tannoy sounds off once again: "We have now arrived at the Meetup Spot, Wild Area."

You're at your destination regardless so you quickly stand up and head to the doors with a few others as the train slowly rolls to a stop. Behind you, you hear the man waking up.

"Charizard, are we here?" he asks. Charizard lets out a low bellow and he exclaims, "Great! Let's go!"

As you step off the platform and begin to exit the station with the others, the young man breezes past you with Charizard at his heels, slotting his ticket into the machine and charging through the turnstile. Whilst you wonder what his rush is, it's then you see the long slither of purple hair cascading out of his cap in waves over his shoulders and it occurs to you that you had been sitting beside the Champion of Galar on the train the entire time.

Your eyes grow wide.

Charizard really should've been the first clue.

You leave the station dumbfounded as you contemplate this.

You don't know much about the Champion. The only information you know is the same stuff as any fan would know because you only used a quiz from a magazine to enrich your knowledge on him. You know his name is Leon, he is extremely handsome and nice, he has a Charizard, he is unbeatable, he has been the Champion for roughly ten years and he lives in Postwick. That's pretty much it.

In fact, your knowledge on modern affairs is so atrocious that you do often reprimand yourself that you should pay far more attention to the news and world affairs but your research took up a lot of your time and it didn't help that you were essentially a night owl. Regardless, Magnolia and Sonia knew him and he's been to the lab on a few occasions but needless to say, you were never there and more often than not, you were always fast asleep when he popped by.

You weren't engaged with or interested in the Pokemon League or the Championship anyway.

You had more important things to focus on, such as your studies.

The house is your priority now so you put away your music, take out your Rotom phone, turn on the GPS function and whip out your flashlight which you will use once you're on the path.

The Meetup Spot is a rendezvous point with only one or two friendly Watt Traders dressed in the most snazzy outfits you had ever laid eyes on and there is also a nice lady who can heal gym challenger's Pokemon essentially at no cost. You don't see the Champion or Charizard anywhere so you figured he must have headed towards the Wild Area already. You wonder why he is here and why he was keeping a low profile considering people are used to seeing him in his cape and champion uniform.

Standing at the summit, it grants you a fantastic view of the entire Wild Area which would've been more discernible if you were here during daylight hours. At night, all you can see is a massive and dark expanse with a few orangey blobs in the distance indicating a camp site or whatnot. There's not many. People don't like travelling at this hour.

You're going to be in there all night.

You spare a quick glance at your notes again. The group were travelling through the Rolling Fields and had apparently taken a shortcut past the Dappled Grove. They passed a pokemon den and a Pangoro who was sleeping near the lake. You are going to assume they mean West Lake Axewell. That doesn't give you much to work with but it's given you a good indicator as to what direction you should begin your search and furthermore the Rolling Fields isn't too much of a trek from the Meetup Spot.

You set off at once with your flashlight, wandering down the path that is outlined by tall trees. To a lost and tired traveller, the Wild Area can be frightening when it is dark but you're rather used to the paths and you've travelled extensively so you are rather familiar with the area.

Along the way, you jot down points of interest and mark your progress as you venture further. You see Hoothoots and Noctowls perched in the trees, cooing and watching you. A few Oddish scamper around, accompanied by some Spinaraks. They all hide when you approach.

As the night wears on and the hours pass, you wander aimlessly down the path yet find no trace of the house and you also don't see anyone along the way. That's how alone you truly are. You're halfway through the Fields when the trees to your left suddenly bustle and shake violently and you stop in your path and shine the flashlight, just to see a Hoothoot popping out from the branches, hooting loudly with glee.

It has a pile of clothes gripped in its one claw and you stare in confusion as to where it got the clothes from until two or three seconds later and a figure comes charging out of the trees, emerging from the same spot as Hoothoot.

Unable to stop himself in time when he spots you in the path, he smacks into you and you both go tumbling. It happens so quickly you are knocked off your feet before you can yell out and your back hits the cold and hard ground.

Whoever it is, he lands on top of you, his broad chest crushing the air out of your lungs. The impact is so strong your mind reels for a moment or so but you manage to shine your flashlight at the man and you see a pair of golden eyes staring back at you and you gape with shock.

It's Leon, and he looks as startled as you are as you both gawk at each other before he quickly scrambles off you and moves to stand, spluttering a string of apologies. You cannot believe your eyes; you have encountered the Champion twice in a day.

You see that he is damp and naked, save for the white towel wrapped around his hips which is threatening to fall off. He mutters a string of apologies whilst you merely stare with widened eyes.

Haunted house - zero. Wet, naked guy - one.

"Sorry!" He exclaims, sticking a hand out to you but you are so stunned by his presence you can only gape. Oblivious to your staring, he proceeds to explain his predicament, "Sorry, I...uh, a Hoothoot stole my clothes when I was taking a bath and I chased him out here. Are you...are you okay?"

Leon doesn't owe you any explanations yet he stands sheepishly before you, his cheeks stained with pink and it's a side to the Champion of Galar you have never seen before.

You are thoroughly reminded that he's still a human like you and that he too is a person on the pokearth who'll encounter bad luck on some occasions.

Poor guy.

You manage to pull yourself together, snapping out of your staring stupor.

"Oh, er...yeah, I'm fine." you utter quickly. It dawns to you that you’re not sure where to look when you catch a glimpse of his bare chest. His physique is not bulky or overly muscular... just perfect.

You quickly wipe those thoughts away from your mind and finally slip your diminutive hand into his, which is very warm, compared to yours anyway. He curls his fingers tightly around yours and pulls you up and off the ground.

"That's a relief," he says with a grin.

His strength is uncalled for as you're easily pulled back to your feet although you trip slightly and he is quick to catch you; his other hand shoots out to grab you firmly whilst you accidentally grasp his rock-hard bicep and your eyes grow wide.

You abruptly hop out of his grip and cradle your hand to yourself, your cheeks growing warm from the unfamiliar contact.

Above, Hoothoot coos with mischief and finally drops the clothes. The damage has been done; the clothes are stained with mud and you see it's a plain white t-shirt and black boxers.

However, Leon does not curse or yell at the owl as one might do. Instead, he grins widely. "Did you have fun?"

The Hoothoot nods with gratitude and flaps its tiny wings, flying away. You watch the departing pokemon whilst Leon quickly gathers his clothes up in his arms.

"I didn't mean to frighten you,” he says before he quickly pulls on his muddied shirt and slips on his shorts under the towel whilst you automatically glance away, cringing slightly. Once he's fully clothed, he whips the towel off and wraps it around his arm. "Are you hurt anywhere?"

"No, no, I'm alright," you utter quickly and Leon smiles warmly at your reassurance. His smile takes you off guard and you cannot help but stare, "Um, are you okay?"

He nods; he has some patches of dirt on his face so you delve a hand into your bag and pull out a pack of clean tissues which he accepts.

"Here, take this."

"Oh, uh, thanks very much!" he replies energetically, and his smile broadens as he wipes at his cheek.

His smile is contagious; you resist the urge to smile in return.

"Thanks!" He says again, when he's finished.

But he has some dirt on his chin so you gesture to yourself, "You still have some...ah, just a little...on your chin. Right there."

"Here?"

"Yeah."

He scrubs himself but the dirt remains on his chin.

".......Do you want some help with that?"

He looks owlishly at you. "Okay, sure."

You take a clean tissue from one of your own packet and step closer to him then lift your hand and carefully dab at the spot. Now that you're closer to him, you get a better look at his features.

All the stories, the dedicated websites, the magazine articles....they're all true. He's been asking if you are fine when he might be hurt too. He is kind. That's not all, even though he's wearing a basic t-shirt and boxers splattered in mud, he is incredibly good-looking.

With those long eyelashes, the dedicated gleam in his eyes, perfect pearly white teeth and long, unruly hair, the more you look at him the more your heart thumps a tad harder against your ribs.

Leon grows still, swerving his eyes to you.

When you look up, he quickly looks away.

Feeling awkward, you quickly finish the job and step backwards. "All done."

Leon thanks you again and for a moment or so, you both stand in silence until you realise there is no reason for you to linger any longer and the house is still waiting to be discovered. Clearing your throat, you straighten the lapels of your coat and adjust your bag to its proper position over your back.

"Well, I guess this goodbye - oh, wait, take this too," you fish a small glass bottle with a cork, no bigger than your pinky finger, that is filled with random herbs. "It's a good luck charm. It's been blessed and will keep you safe."

"Thank you, that's very thoughtful," Leon takes the little bottle out of your hand, inspects it before he slips it somewhere safe in his pockets.

"No worries. Goodbye now," you hurriedly make a beeline past him.

"Wait, you dropped these," Leon calls after you and you pause in mid-step at once, turning round slowly; he has picked up a card and a small black object off the ground and promptly holds them out to you.

Stunned, you pat yourself down only to discover that indeed, your pocket radio and card is missing. Bloody hell, how in the name of Arceus did you manage to drop the radio?? You mentally scold yourself and hastily return to his side to retrieve your items although you end up swiping the radio out of his hands rather forcefully, cradling it to your chest.

"Thanks. You can keep the card."

Leon glimpses at it briefly. It's your business card which contains your full name, occupation, email address and a contact number. There is also a brief blurb on your study of the occult. "...You're a Pokemon Researcher?"

"Yeah, that's right. I study ghost pokemon," you say without looking at him, your attention fully averted to the radio as you fiddle with the device, pulling out the antenna and rotating one of the dials. Although you move the dial, nothing gets picked up and there is only silence. You keep turning the dial until you configure it to the frequency of eighteen nine eight hertz.

"That's amazing. I heard that field of study can be terrifying."

You hesitate as he grins, then you nod. "It is. It's not for the faint-hearted. My line of work usually revolves around all sorts of dead things," you reply, before you ask, "Do you believe in ghosts?"

He blinks blankly at you. "Uh...well...I guess so."

His response is more or less awkward but you have placed him in a rather difficult position. You're not surprised by his response. Even though there are ghost-type pokemon, people still maintain skepticism when it comes to the supernatural.

A brief silence spawns following your reply. Leon appears...intrigued. He studies you carefully. You are a girl in a warm, long coat, slacks and comfy hiking boots. One would possibly mistake you for a gym challenger but you are a Pokemon Researcher and for a Pokemon Researcher, you are young for your age. And since you've met Leon all the way out here, you may as well ask.

"By the way, have you seen or heard anything weird around here? Like...weird lights or strange noises?"

"No-"

"Oh, okay, forget I asked then. Enjoy the rest of your evening."

"Wait," Leon says; he seems to have caught on that something must be amiss, "Is something wrong? Do you need help?"

The corner of your lips tug upwards into a smile. "No, it's fine-" you pause when a crackling static emits from the radio in your hands. Eyes wide, you lift it up and the white noise grows louder and louder until a scratchy and hoarse, little voice can be heard.

"......Is someone there? Hello....? Help me, please."

There are a couple of distorted crackling noises until the radio goes dead once again. You grow silent, lips turning into a frown.

Leon observes your reaction before he asks, "Who was that?"

You don't answer.

"Is your radio broken?"

"The question isn't a matter of who but what," you correct him, "'What was that'. And no, it's not broken. This is a special radio. It only works on this frequency."

And you show him your radio, the little screen and the dial and he glances over curiously.

"Eighteen ninety eight?" He utters.

"Yeah. If you want to see or hear ghosts, use this frequency."

Leon's reaction is a classic. His eyes widen to the size of saucers. Every time you talk to someone or meet someone, you always end up worming that into conversations and the expression on their faces are priceless. It's a killer.

"Well, that's what people say anyway. It's up to you if you want to believe it or not."

He looks confused.

You hope you haven't scared him too bad though so you grin widely to make him feel more at ease. "Relax. There's nothing here right now," you reply. He seems positively spooked as you slip the radio into your bag and zip it up. "Now if you excuse me, I have a haunted house to find. Goodnight."

Leon watches your retreating back heading further and further down the winding path until Charizard appears, swooping through the trees and landing on the ground with a loud thump. He's holding his sweats, bag and shoes and Leon grins widely.

"Thanks, buddy," Leon says, taking his belongings out of his grip; he slips on his shoes before Charizard snorts and nudges his head towards the trees. "Sorry, bud, not yet."

Charizard looks at him questioningly.

"I think we should go with her. She might need our help." Leon says, before he quickly reaches into his bag to pull out a clean shirt. He swap his sullied shirt and folds it away then hops behind a tree to change out of his muddy boxers for a new pair, dons his sweats and returns to the path.

He glances around, hoping to catch glimpse of you to see where you disappeared off to and successfully pinpoints you meandering down the beaten path a short distance away.

He yells your name and begins to trail after you.

You haven't gone too far and upon hearing Leon's voice, you turn round.

You stop in your path, raising a brow as soon as you spot a fully and more appropriately-dressed Leon dashing towards your direction with Charizard behind him. Stunned, you blink blankly as he stops in front of you, panting somewhat.

“Um...What are you doing?" you ask in bewilderment.

You glance at Charizard and he has the same sticker you saw at the train so you're certain it's him and he seems to recognise you also, tilting his head at you curiously and you nod. He lets out a loud but delighted huff in response.

"What? You two know know each other?" Leon asks, and Charizard nods. "You met on the train?"

Charizard nods again.

You merely grin.

"Then I guess no introductions are needed," Leon averts full focus back to you. "Can we come with you?"

"Why?"

"Because I think you need help."

"It's okay, I don't need help. No offence to you and the big guy," you reply, gesturing to Charizard, "Besides, I'm a bit of a lone wolf and it could be dangerous."

"That's exactly why we should go with you."

You're not particularly worried about Charizard so you proceed to examine Leon carefully, circling him with a hand under your chin as you look at him from head to toe and he blinks under your scrutiny. Maybe they should come after all. It would make things more interesting.

"...Alright. You want to come with me? Let's go then."

Leon replies with a grin, "Lead the way."

#jeralee #comfort in despair #archiveofmyown #leon #dande #Leon x reader #pokemon #pokemonshield #pokemonsword #pokemon shield and sword #sonia #professor magnolia

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klaineccfanficlibrary · 4 years ago

Note

Do you have a list of current regularly updating WIP’s?

The short answer is there is no list. What I do is search AO3 and FF.net for fics, sorted by update date. You can get a feel of whether they are updating regularly by the date the first chapter was posted and the date of the last update.

I’m setting out below the WIP fics that I am reading that update regularly. This is by no means comprehensive; there are some tropes and genres that I prefer more than others. Readers, please put in the notes to this post any additional suggestions. - HKVoyage

When the Night is Over by dizzywhiz

Starting college was the perfect opportunity for Blaine to spread his wings and begin embracing himself, even the part of him that once got him beaten within an inch of his life, leaving him with seemingly unstoppable nightmares. But what started out as a desperate lie to get someone off Blaine's back quickly turned into a whole lot more - good thing his new friend Rachel was willing to volunteer her boyfriend Kurt to help him out.

At least, Blaine assumed Kurt was her boyfriend.

~~~~~

If Music Be by BlurglesmurfKlaine

Kurt’s just trying to survive his last semester of college, which means making it through student teaching in one piece.

~~~~~

The Hating Game by coffeeorder

Blaine can count on one hand the amount of people he has hated in his life. But Kurt Hummel is definitely The Worst.

Or: That co-workers AU where they hate each other (until they don't)

~~~~~

The Concert by @little-escapist

The concert, the main event: through music, you can go through many emotions like excitement, joy, sadness, love, pleasure and even heartbreak.

Kurt is going to see Elliott Starchild live in concert with his friend Rachel's big brother Blaine. That concert begins a journey he never thought he'd find himself on. Can dreams really come true?

Note: Make sure you read the prelude Soundcheck first.

~~~~~

Just Like Jim and Pam by Catcat85

Inspired by Jim and Pam's relationship from the show, the Office. Cooper Anderson owns a top talent agency in Los Angeles. Kurt is Cooper's assistant. Blaine is a new Junior Agent. They meet on Blaine's first day of work, and Blaine falls for Kurt immediately. But there are things Blaine needs to prioritize first. Not to mention, Kurt may or may not already have a boyfriend. Oh, and there's also Sebastian, who has eyes for Blaine.

~~~~~

I Knew I Loved You by @tiggerblu

What starts out as pen pals will soon become Blaine and Kurt's most important relationship. Follow them as they grow up, and grow together. This is my addition to the Glee Fanfiction Friday 2020 challenge. Hope you enjoy it. AU. Rated M for now for possible future chapters. I don't own Glee.

~~~~~

Guarding the Shadows by @jayhawk-writes

Too distracted by their love for each other to make their own choices, Kurt and Blaine are thrust into an adventure they know almost nothing about. Born in mid-1600 London, they must overcome many obstacles including their financial barriers and their desire to find true love. However, there's a hidden piece of the puzzle they know nothing about: vampires.

~~~~~

Just When I Was Falling by @teddyshoney

When the counselor catches Kurt looking at a pamphlet about depression, she gives him a website to visit where he can chat anonymously with other students who have been bullied. A reluctant Kurt signs up and makes his first post which launches him into an online friendship with someone he'd really like to know in person. And, maybe someday, he will.

~~~~~

The Swan by @scatter-the-stars

The week on the cruise was just the beginning.

Kurt

He never planned to see Blaine again. To keep him, and the amazing week they spent together, in the past. To continue life how he lived it before. But that's easier said than done. Not when he can't stop thinking about Blaine. Not when it becomes harder and harder to deny what he makes him feel. So seeing him again as his professor forces him to face feelings and desires he promised himself to never deal with.

Blaine

Although every part of him wanted to see the guy from the cruise again, he never anticipated happening the way it does. And after Kurt makes it clear where he stands when it comes to what he wants, that doesn't make things any easier. He does his best to move on. To forget the guy who flipped his world upside down in seven days. But some things are not easy to walk away from.

Can a guy afraid of being hurt put himself in the way of letting that happen?

Can a guy who aches find a way to hold onto hope of having the one person he wants more than anyone else?

Can two men who want different things find their way to each other?

Note: Part 2 of The Aves series

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chaoticly-shy-dragon · 5 years ago

Text

Today was the day.

Today was the day, they were going to execute him.

Today was the day Darth Vader would finally meet the fate, he sentenced so many to.

He, of course, had been on trial, even if it was a closed and discreet one, specifically requested by the Alliance hero and Jedi - Luke Skywalker.

The Dark Lord’s fate was publicly announced on the Holonet approximately a day before the execution.

At first, the early reactions to the sentence were good and happily accepted. Those were the reactions from the high society in the Core.

The backlash that happened during the Coruscant night was massive and utterly unexpected.

Alliance’s posts were brutally attacked on some of the Outer Rim planets, many of the Imperial forces, who had been standing down, were arming up and thousands upon thousands of troopers were preparing to storm the city-planet.

Hundreds of planets started passive measurements against the notion - many planets, from Wobani to Cato Neimoidia, had stopped their trade with the Core.

The still vulnerable Senate was shocked and confused by the whole situation. When the people of Coruscant, started protesting in front of the Senate and the regulation posts that were installed on the planet, many senators didn’t know what to make from it.

The Senate was truly bewildered. Didn’t the people of the Galaxy know what atrocities the man had committed?

No matter what the public thought, in order not to sentence themselves to another war, the Senate agreed to delay or utterly change the sentence.

Once again Darth Vader had to stand a trial, but this time publicly.

The media jumped at the opportunity. Many reporters were sent to different parts of the galaxy to get answers.

The information they found was a bucket of cold water, spilled over the Alliance leaders.

Many articles popped out and with every one of them, the new government grew more and more bewildered.

Stories of Vader allying himself with local rebels to overthrow the Moff in charge of the planet, of him helping the flooded Akiva and other planets having a crisis due to some natural disaster.

Vader was even found responsible for the final liberation of Ryloth, and the death of more than several dozens of warlords from the Hutt clan.

One really fearless reporter even went to Mustafar and got access to Vader’s mission reports. But the real gold found there was an old videotape from around the creation of the Empire. Unfortunately, parts of the video were destroyed (after all Sidious couldn’t allow his apprentice to see Kenobi and his very-much-alive wife escaping the hellish planet), but the reporter still managed to acquire one spectacular Jedi fight (even if they couldn’t see what it had to do with Vader, anything connecting the Jedi was finally allowed once again).

All these articles were slow blows to the government and the idea that they protected.

The final blow came when the public required a meeting with Darth Vader.

At first, the idea seemed fine, after all, what else could possibly go wrong.

They had forgotten the request put in by Luke Skywalker after it came to light that Vader might live. The request for extra medical attention.

The man that they led into the studio had little visual connection to the imposing Dragon of the Empire. The only similarities were the built and the height.

His face was half-covered in a clear mask, showing on full display his scars.

And there were scars. Every visible inch of his skin was covered in scar tissue and was so very pale, that it was whiter than the stormtrooper’s new armor.

The interviewer, the screen directors and staff were starting for quite some time, brought back by the insistent cough of Luke Skywalker who was the one guarding the ex-Sith.

The live broadcast started with easy questions with not so easy answers:

“Are you really Lord Vader?”

“If that’s not your real name, what is it?”

“Why are you in the state of requiring life support suit?”

Then it came down to the hard ones:

“Why were you sentenced to execution in the first place if you haven’t actually done anything of the things they accused you of?”

Darth Vader’s real name was apparently Anakin Skywalker. He had been Jedi for more than ten years and a General in the Clone Wars for three.

He described his life as a Jedi, his inability to fit in because of his past. He explained the non-attachment rule of the Jedi, about the age at which people were accepted into the Order. Anakin told them that the Jedi couldn’t have strong relationships with their birth families and non-Jedi (a fact which surprised the Jedi in the room as much as it surprised the staff). He told them about their decision that a nine years old was too old to become a Jedi (the statement was met with denial and outrage).

He explained that during his years as a Jedi, the Order was mistrustful of him and because of it he grew closer to his friend in the Senate - the Chancellor.

Anakin started talking about the Clone Wars, about the horrors, the atrocities. He told them about the planets ruined because of the inability of the galaxy to listen.

The ex-Sith told them about the clones, his men, who were bred to die and never even complained about it. He told them stories about heroism far beyond the capability of anyone else. He told them about their lack of rights. He told the galaxy how his men fought for the Republic, killed for the Republic, sacrificed their lives for the Republic and the same Republic never gave them citizenship but treated them as objects, possessions.

Almost every member of the crew was moved by his words.

Anakin continued telling them that even if many tried to stop it, the war continued. He told them about how he fell in love, right at the beginning of the war. How he and his angel agreed that they could not live without one another. He told them about the little secret wedding on a Mid-Rim world.

If there had been someone who hadn't been crying, now they were.

Anakin was breathing hard, silent tears running down his cheeks.

He explained the strain the war put on people, who then put the blame on the Jedi. He told them how The Senate ordered the Order around, how they were forced to follow their orders so the Jedi could keep the little favor of the public.

He told them about the propaganda, about the campaigns, about the millions of people dying because there was no more food. About the greedy corporations and clans that spend all their money on more droids and clones, feeding the war machine more and more.

They had called him The Hero With No Fear. He and his Jedi Master became The Team - The Hero and The Negotiator. Unbeatable.

But ironically they were. They were beaten more than once. He had been constantly afraid -for his men, for his wife, for his student, for his brother.

A sob cut off his speech allowing, letting the silence settle.

Finally, they had the courage to ask him how old he had been during the war.

The man, the war veteran left with almost nothing to show for his accomplishments, answered “I was 19 when they sent me on the front. I was 20 when I became a General. My padawan, my apprentice was 14 when they sent her on the front. My men were 10 years old. For those of you, who had read about the war from your pads or in school, let me tell you how old was the youngest Commander- 11. There were teens on the front fighting, getting shot, being tortured for information, and nobody then, found it strange and unnatural,” the man was stopped by a hard pat on his shoulder. Luke Skywalker was looking forward, not seeing anything with a glassy look over his eyes.

The silence was like a heavy blanket over the people. There was horror, anger and sadness, oh so much sadness, in the air, drowning the inhabitants.

Anakin started talking once again. He told the galaxy about Count Yan Dooku of Sereno, once a Jedi Master and a Sith Apprentice, Master of Makashi. He told them about Asajj Ventress, once Jedi Padawan and a Sith Apprentice. He told them about the terror bringing Jedi Killer General Grievous. He told the galaxy their stories, their tragedies. He told them about their deaths.

Anakin was breathing hard, mind somewhere else. He took one much-needed pause and spoke about the rise of the Empire.

He told them about his wife's pregnancy, he told them about his mother’s death. He told them about the sleepless night and the pressure of both sides - the Senate and the Jedi.

The Dark Lord told them about Sidious, about the Grand puppeteer, the master manipulator, the Sith Master behind the war.

Ignoring the viewers' shock, which resonated through the Force, he told them about Order 66, about the Jedi Purge and his own involvement. He told them about the round of applause, Palpatine received when he took control over the galaxy as a whole.

Anakin took a deep breath and told them about Mustafar “I was sent there to kill the Separatist Council. On my way back I met my wife, my angel. She begged me to come with her, to help her raise our baby together, to be happy. She only wanted from me, to come back to her.”

There was something that was utterly broken in Anakin’s gaze, “I didn’t accept, instead I called her a liar and... I tried to kill her.” His voice started trembling from emotions too intense to be understood. “My Jedi Master, Obi-Wan engaged me in a duel to keep me away from her. To keep the galaxy safe from me. We fought as we have never fought before, and in the end, he won - he cut off my three remaining limbs and left me to burn on the shore.”

The broken man ignored the sharp intakes of breaths, the gasps and the sinking feeling of horror that was filling the room.

After a tense pause, Anakin continued “I was found by the Emperor who saved my life and put me in that torture device he called life-support. When I woke, the first thing I did was ask for Padmè, only to be answered that I had killed her.” His voice became more and more emotionless as he kept talking, “Later I found out I had had a psychotic break caused by the stress and lack of sleep. In my weak state, Sidious had managed to influence me even more than before. You asked me why I allowed them to accuse me of crimes I haven’t committed? Because even if I had been manipulated, influenced and lied to, I am still the person who took those choices. I am the horrible human being that helped a man commit a genocide, helped a man create a dictatorship and I am a man who deserves nothing else than the same sentence I sent so many others to.”

The silence that followed was heavy, pregnant and absolutely no one had an idea how to break it.

Finally, a movement caught their attention, and the staff all turned their heads to follow the path of the war veteran and the Jedi Knight out of the room.

Right before they made their exit, Anakin Skywalker turned and said “I did the good things in her name. In the name of Padmè Amidala Skywalker, who supported democracy until her dying breath. I did it in the name of Shmi Skywalker who let her son be taken away, while she was left in slavery. I did it for my son and daughter who could have grown in a better galaxy if it weren’t for me. I did it for the bright-eyed free boy who wanted to free all the slaves.” He took one last calming breath, “I did it because the galaxy needs more people ready to help each other.”

A quiet laugh broke through the grave silence, and for the first time today, the Jedi Knight spoke, “Come on, Father. You promised to show me that restaurant.”

The father and son left, leaving the reporter and his crew gaping like fish.

Finally, someone managed to say, “We can't edit any of this. This was live.”

Nobody answered, letting the silence fill the room once again.

...Or an idea, continuing my Sidious is Sympathetic! Fic. There was more but it got deleted... again. I think I went a bit overboard so, sorry.

In addition, I started series connected to this AU on ao3. If you want, you can check it out here.

#star wars au #starwars #star wars #darth sidious #darth vader #luke skywalker #anakin skywalker #sw crack #crack #sympathizing!sidious

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streetsavoir-faire · 4 years ago

Photo

Born Name: Damien Quincy Rodriguez

Age: 22

Birthday: May 26th 1998

Overview:

Mother: Catalina Rodriguez (39 February 19th, 1981)

Father(s): Michael Rodriguez (41 April 24th, 1979) Richard “Einstein” Jones (50), Fagin Jones (47)

Mother’s Occupation: Unemployed, Student

Father’s Occupation: Fast Food worker, mechanic, Odd-jobs in a diverse field. Warehouse work, delivery, MLM’s, production, etc.

Family Finances: Lower Class, Skirting Poverty

Other Close Family: Francis “Frankie” Corbyn (41) - ‘Uncle’, Ignacio Alonso Julio Federico De Tito (24) - Big Brother, Oliver Saluki-Sykes (20) - Little Brother, Rita Saluki-Sykes (29) - Sister,

Pets: Dorothy - Redish/pink betta Fish, Tiny - Tito’s Rottweiler/Pitbull Mix

Home Life During Childhood: Before he was found and taken in by Fagin? Horrible. Dodger suffered abuse from parents who were far too young and immature to have children. They didn’t want a kid, and they made that very clear to Dodger from the very moment they brought him home. He was never shown love or compassion from his mother or father. He was barely taken care of and owned one toy in his five or so years of living with them. He suffered emotional and physical abuse and spent many nights on the streets, unsupervised. Often, he was locked out of his house for ‘misbehavior’. Eventually Dodger just decided to stay out there and spent his nights under a bridge before eventually Fagin took notice of him and eventually gained his trust and brought him home.

After Fagin, his childhood was still a little troubled. Their family was poor, and often struggled to find money for food, luxuries or heat. Even struggling, Dodger much preferred his found family as he got to learn what it was like to have people that loved him. Even with debt collectors, facing abuse from the Sykes’ and occasionally needing to eat small inconsistent meals, or cuddle up together instead of having heat in the house. He wouldn’t trade it for the world.

What Did His or Her Bedroom Look Like: When Dodger moved in with Fagin he quickly took over the apartment’s storage loft and claimed it as his own. While it was dangerous (there was no barrier to stop anyone from falling back into the living room below) and a little drafty (there was also a nifty hole that gave him access to the roof) - it was home for Dodger. With a mattress tucked up into the corner and the rickety ladder to get up and down (that he himself rarely used), it was perfect for Dodger. Sure - it wasn’t all the spacious or child-friendly but... it was his favorite.

Any Sports or Clubs: Dodger didn’t go to school - and therefore he didn’t participate in any clubs or organized sports. Instead he went with Frankie to his theater group, spent time reading with Einstein & Fagin or scaled buildings and played made up sports with Tito.

Favorite Toy or Game: Dodger’s favorite toy (and something he still cherishes to this day) was a small teddy bear that Fagin got him the first night he came home. It’s over a decade (closer to two) old and is worn beyond relief, but Dodger still keeps it in his bedroom. As a child he carried it everywhere and was incredibly protective of it. It has plenty of tears and stitches that Fagin fixed himself - but Dodger loves it all the same.

Schooling: Again, Dodger didn’t go to school. He left his home before he would have been enrolled and while Fagin and Einstein tried to get him into school, Dodger simply couldn’t handle the hours away from his new family, nor could he deal with how overwhelming the whole concept was. So instead, they all did their part homeschooling himself and Tito over the years. He’s got plenty of street smarts and owes everything else he knows to Fagin, Einstein and Frankie.

Favorite Subject: Reading with Fagin & Einstein. (And reading plays with Frankie since he was so dramatic)

Popular or Loner: Popular (not in school obvs)

Nationality: American

Religion and beliefs: None

Physical Appearance

Face Claim: Tyler Posey

Movie/Era Representation: Alone

Complexion: Smooth, olive skinned, freckled

Hair Colour: Naturally Black / Currently Dyed Blue

Eye Colour: Brown

Height: 5′10

Weight: 153.4lbs.

Build: Athletic/Slim

Tattoos: A very large and ever growing collection --> See here

Piercings: 14mm Gauges in ears, nose piercing, snake-bites (re-pierced), eyebrow piercing (re-pierced)

Common Hairstyle: Typically sweptback, sometimes a mess when he wears a hat or beanie, usually tries to keep it semi-long, swept to the side (x is a common look)

Clothing Style: Casual street wear. Ratty jeans, ripped jeans, dirty jeans. T-shirts, muscle tanks, sweatshirts. Backwards hats or beanies. Worn black and white converse. Nothing fancy. You’ll tend to see a red bandana somewhere on his person. Sometimes he wears it around his head, sometimes around his neck, occasionally tucked into a pocket or around his wrist. But it’s always somewhere.

Mannerisms: Likes to drum his fingers or drum on things in general, also a knuckle cracker. Tends to move a lot because he’s high energy.

Usual Expression: Smiley babe

Health

Overall (do they get sick easily)?: Yes. A combination of terrible care to himself and drugs makes Dodger extremely susceptible to getting sick. He’s a perfect picture of what not to do health-wise and it shows.

Physical Ailments: Mildly Anemic,

Disorders: None

Neurological Conditions: None.

Allergies: Latex, mangos, cats,

Grooming Habits: He showers, unlike most #men he is not a 3-in-1 kind of guy, so he knows how to use separate body wash, shampoo and conditioner. He’ll wash his face every morning & every night and brush his hair and shit but he’s not over the top. Shaves if his facial hair gets longer than a mild scruff. Keeps the boys tame.

Sleeping Habits: Inconsistent. Dodger has no real sleep schedule, but he tends to sleep just about anywhere when he needs to. He’s the least picky about how he sleeps and falls asleep easy.

Eating Habits: Uh, he eats. Sometimes. Some days it’s eating for a village, some he skips for a day and is like ‘oh yeah oops.’ It depends. So I’d call this inconsistent as well.

Exercise Habits: He’s always exercising just by association. He walks/runs everywhere and climbs shit and is doing his free running/parkour all over Swynlake.

Emotional Stability: Fair. He tends to stay cool and tries to be the mediator when it comes to trouble. Dodger tends to be the one who keeps it together and stays calm when they’re in a situation. The relief, really. However when he does slip, he can get emotional quickly. Fun-fact: Dodger never yells. He may say things firmly, angrily, etc but he won’t yell.

Body Temperature: Runs warm.

Sociability: A social butterfly.

Addictions: Drugs (weed, alcohol, pills, etc).

Drug Use: Daily, addicted. The hard stuff isn’t daily (weed is... multiple times a day), but more every few days, once a week.

Alcohol Use: Often.

Your Character’s Character:

Bad Habits: Drugs. Drumming on objects or idly, cracking his knuckles, zoning out mid-conversation, scratching the back of his neck, smoking, manipulating people.

Good Habits: Loyalty, offering his help, extending manners, being kind.

Best Characteristic: Openness.

Worst Characteristic: Pride

Worst Memory: Being beaten within an inch of his life & having to leave his family and home behind and flee the country.

Best Memory: Being officially adopted as Fagin & Einstein’s son.

Proud of: Holding his job at the garage. Getting his gig at Pixie’s. Still being in a relationship (new record).

Embarrassed by: His inability to get his music off the ground, how he’s still in the same place in life when everyone else seems to be getting somewhere or doing things.

Driving Style: Does not drive.

Strong Points: His passion and drive. His ability to bring things and people together.

Temperament: Carefree and easy going.

Attitude: Optimistic & outgoing.

Weakness: Coming off as too confident, cocky.

Fears: Being abandoned/being alone again, his family getting hurt or dying.

Phobias: Being abandoned.

Secrets: An open book. Perhaps the one secret he has is knowing that Roscoe abused Oliver.

Regrets: Going to William Sykes and trying to buy them time to pay back their loan.

Feels Vulnerable When: He’s with his parents.

Pet Peeves: People who brag about their money. Charities, but not charity.

Conflicts: Having money in the family. Having Roscoe married to Rita when he fucking hates him but wants Rita to be happy.

Motivation: Support for Fagin & Einstein/to make them proud.

Short Term Goals and Hopes: To start picking up more gigs and getting music off the ground.

Long Term Goals and Hopes: To be able to fully financially support himself and the fam through his music and that he can quit his real job and do what he loves.

Sexuality: Pansexual

Exercise Routine: Running all around Swynlake like a crazy man.

Day or Night Person: Night - that’s when the action is.

Introvert or Extrovert: Extrovert

Optimist or Pessimist: Optimist

Likes and Styles:

Music: Punk Rock, Rock, Alternative,

Books: Any book that Fagin & Einstein used to read him

Magazines: Playboy (lol)

Foods: Quesadillas

Drinks: Coke, whiskey, vodka, rum, Gatorade,

Animals: Any are cool

Sports: The made up ones he’d play with Tito, Free running,

Social Issues: Domestic Abuse, Child Abuse, Women’s Rights, Magick Rights,

Favorite Saying: Absotively Posilutely

Color: Red

Clothing: Jeans, T-shirts.

Jewelry: Gauges, lip rings, nose ring, eyebrow stud.

Games: Poker, Rummy, Uno,

Websites: Not a huge internet person (because he didn’t grow up into it like most kids his age). He uses Twitter a lot though. Youtube just to watch things. Used to use the ‘Hub’ quite a bit ;)

TV Shows: Doesn’t really watch TV, but when they could pay for cable, anything ridiculous. He was a fan of the Crocodile Hunter if only because Tito and himself would mimic that show and get into so much trouble.

Movies: Again, he’s not really well versed in movies but.. I’m sure he was into shit he wasn’t supposed to watch when he could get ahold of them. Fight Club, Lethal Weapon, Die Hard, etc.

Greatest Want: To be happy & with his family.

Greatest Need: Affection.

Where and How Does Your Character Live Now:

Home: Dodger now lives in Benbow (2D) and honestly his biggest complaint is simply being on the second floor. He would much prefer an apartment he has to climb higher to break into (since who uses the door?). However, he doesn’t like the apartment nearly as much as he loved the old rickety apartment they lived in back home. He misses his loft and all the weird things that made it perfect. This apartment isn’t terrible - sure, the door sticks something fierce and it’s a little cramped for five people but... it’s fine. And the neighbors aren’t the worst, it’s just... never felt right. It’s still home, if only because home is determined by the people living there more than the place itself.

Household furnishings: A mish-mash of things. Nothing in the Jones household is a set. It’s all second-hand or used items that they got when they could and when they could afford to. That means everything from the tables and chairs don’t really.. match like they might in a normal household, but none of them really mind. They’re just grateful to have them in the first place.

Favorite Possession: The bear Fagin got him when he first came home.

Most Cherished Possessions: The bear Fagin got him when he first came home (shocker) - though a worn red bandana that he took from Fagin also comes in close second. He’s almost always wearing it somewhere. Also the stuffed Reindeer from his first Christmas. The beat up guitar that the whole gang pulled together to get him.

Neighborhood: Benbow

Town or City Name: Swynlake

Relationship with Family: Great! Dodger is incredibly close with his found family. He would lay his life on the line or do anything for all of them. He’s closest to Fagin, but only because that man gave him everything in life he’s ever needed when no one else would. He loves his family so much though. Even if he annoys the absolute piss out of Frankie & Rita, he couldn’t be happier.

Car: Doesn’t have one

Career: Part-Time Mechanic, Part-Time Musician, Part-Time Con-artist/thief

Dream Career: Musician

Dream Life: Happy & can provide and take care of his family so they don’t have to work so hard anymore.

Love Life: Peri

Talents or Skills: Singing, Guitar, Percussion, Piano - musical talent in mostly all forms, athletic ability/balance, can juggle, sleight of hand, pitch perfect.

Intelligence Level: Street smart, book....slightly smart.

Finances: Poor as fuck

Past Careers: Full time thief, part time street performer, odd jobs,

Past Lovers: ‘Lovers’, none really. The closest he had was a toxic first ‘boyfriend’, Corey but it didn’t last long.

#about #inspo #muse #x; Dodger #tw abuse #tw child abuse #tw drug mention

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yesvaldemarharder · 5 years ago

Text

It Hurts Like Hell || Valdemar x Adalia (OC)

Ok so one of my many rps made me want to write this. Where Adalia actually knew Valdemar as kids. That’s all I’ll say on that. If you don’t like ocs, bye but in this Adalia is a half angel half human hybrid oc. (Which technically makes her a nephilim so she can be evil as fuck if she allows evil to take over her)

I’ll perhaps post pictures of Adalia that I have drew later but for now here you all go! (Update from inbox coming soon so keep an eye out for those) this is also a bit of a song fic, ok it may be a full song fic but just read it and here me out.

Song: Hurts Like Hell - Fleurie

The body laid before her, limp, cold, gone and even though she hated to feeling of such coldness on her fingers she couldn’t help but touch the lifeless body. Her fingers ran up the cool skin, over the bloody chest and up to the cheek feeling the soft skin. She rubbed circles in the young girl’s cheek, her eyes bloodshot and bright with crimson. A twinge of pain sprouted until it hurt so much that Adalia had to close her eyes, gently, carefully..almost as if the girl wasn’t dead but simply asleep. Adalia didn’t wish to wake her.

The room was empty except for her and the dead, the smell of gore filled the air. No one was safe from the plague she could see, not men, women, or children. Not anyone.

Adalia had allowed this to happen, to scared to rely to heavily in her powers and now her she was, with the blood of an innocent on her hands. A human child who once smiled, who once laughed, now presented to her with her belly open to show Adalia the damaged that the plague had done to her small body. To show Adalia right to her face the failures she embraced. Angels were her to help and to keep the weak safe and yet - Adalia turned seeing a boy no older than perhaps nine, she gagged lightly pulling her hand from the girl to cover her own mouth. Angels were here to keep the voices of the unheard heard and yet she had allowed so many people to fall into the hands of the Devil.

Valdemar watched around the corner hidden, what was the angel doing now? Had they finally broken her? They watched as she straightened herself up as best as she could before wiping at her eyes. Valdemar lifted a brow, a demon in the dark who had been haunting this poor being since she got her, a wide smile on their lips as she caressed the boy’s cheek. She rubbed light circles in his cold flesh before leaning done to press a gentle kiss against his temples. His eyes had already been closed thank God but it didn’t seem to make Adalia feel any better.

Valdemar couldn’t understand the point of doing such, they were already gone, already long dead. There was no point of being gentle, kisses wouldn’t bring them back. Valdemar simply found it hilarious, angels worked in clearly different ways then demons did, it was laughable. Valdemar thought to themselves, what was even the point of watching this poor thing anymore. At first it was funny, they had used her; kissed on her flesh and clawed at her skin like they had really wanted her. It was really funny, hilarious to use her but now as they watched her walk around the many bodies they..found that this was just pitiful.

She didn’t look right here, around the dark layers that colored the dungeons walls, around the dark souls that hung around. Adalia was bright even when she didn’t wish to be, even when her scars showed that that she had been in quite a handful of not so bright places. An angel who should have been treated better. Valdemar snapped out of their thoughts when they heard her speak. Her voice light and smooth as she stopped to hold on to the side of one of the vivisection tables, blood running down she warm brown skin and wrist just to drip with a sickening ‘splat’ to the floor followed by ‘plunk, plunk, plunk’. The dripping of blood filled the nearly silent room.

“I’m...sorry I couldn’t help you.” She said, her voice shaky as she stood beside a dead woman who Valdemar had happily informed her was pregnant at her time of arriving at the dungeons. Far too happily. Adalia looked at her belly, bloated and veiny but because of building fluids. Definitely not a baby anymore, the baby had long been gone by this point.

It hurt. It hurt like hell.

In the silent struggle or wanting to walk away and sink to the floor and cry Adalia found her voice again.

“How can I say this..without breaking.” Her hands clutched the side of the table. “How can I..say this without taking over.” She whispered before pulling away. She had on the same thing that the other doctors wore and yet she looked so much different here. An energy that pulsed with love and sorrow reaching far enough to just brush against Valdemar’s senses and their eyes widened in a slight shock. An energy they had never felt before, one that for the first time in their long years of living actually made them pause. They continued to watch her and her hourglass shaped body, how her white heavenly hair bounced with each gentle step she took. Watched as her now bloody hands gently ran arcross the table leaving a streak or sadness behind. “How...can I put it down into words when it’s almost..almost too much for my soul alone?”

A crack in her voice, a crack in her shell, and now her heart was crumbling. Adalia took careful steps as if she was in a nursery singing to sleeping babies. Valdemar couldn’t understand but surprisingly th found themselves trying to. Why...was she so bothered by the natural cycle of life? It was normal for beings to die, that’s why Valdemar didn’t get close to others. Not again.

I loved and I loved and I lost you.

And it hurts like hell,

Yeah it hurts like hell.

White hair neck length hair flowing in the wind, a wide smile they could see as she ran. “Come on Val!” Came that sweet voice, and as the young demon followed they looked down to see that beautifully brown hand wrapped around a sickly green wrist. Wings, an angel. Adalia. Valdemar’s eyes widened the widest they’d ever done before. They didn’t like to think about their past, sometimes things were too foggy to remember, too long ago but something struck them there.

They remember her smile and they remembered her skin before it was laced with evidence of greedy hands. Before it was colored with trauma. Her eyes, they were attracted to them the second they found her waiting for Nadia all before herself. They knew those eyes, they knew that smile, they knew this broken angel who had been repeatedly beaten down by this cruel planet.

They remembered her, it was still a bit foggy but enough for them to remember that they once didn’t hate each like they did know. That once a very long time ago they had something that no one else could give either of them. Valdemar wish they could remember the way she laughed, the way she called for them with pure innocence and happiness in her voice. Had Valdemar, affected her more than they knew about. They swiftly went to take a step out of the shadows but she was already looking in their direction.

They froze, eyes on her where she seemed to meet them halfway. Could she see them? Valdemar couldn’t tell but they watched in silence as tears gathered in her eyes. Bright and shiny, silver...angel tears. Valdemar stayed still as she turned her head away wiping at her face with a hand swearing blood from her eye to her cheek which only managed to drip and color her work closed as tears washed the crimson away.

“I don’t want them to know the secret..I don’t want them to know the way I loved you.” She said and Valdemar felt a twisting pain in their chest, somewhere they thought wasn’t active anymore and yet Adalia was making it do such. They unconsciously reached up slowly to clutch their clothes before falling their hand into a fist. Something was beating. ‘Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump’ it went it quick beats, so quick that had they’d been human they would have had a heart attack. What happened? Would Adalia tell them if they asked? Did she even know? “I don’t think the understand it, no.” She continued and they looked back at her quickly as silver and crimson fell from her eyes, dancing down her cheeks leaving shiny streams against her skin. “I don’t think you’d accept me, no.”

“Adalia please stop that.” Came their voice, not as smooth as her but not horrid to hear either. They sighed lightly looking down at her. She laid in their lap, her finger lightly poking at their cheek as if she wished to drive them mad. Where were they? Valdemar ran their hand in the grass they sat in together, spiky but not harmful. Adalia pokes at their cheek one last time as they leaned down until their nose pressed together.

“Why should I?” She asked with a challenge and the younger demon scoffed halfheartedly. Their lips about an inch or two away from hers, their own brown locks casting a shadow for them. Adalia’s eyes, bright and naive. Valdemar’s however who had seen death before. An angel and a demon..as friends.

Valdemar got closer, Adalia’s tail flicked in the grass before curling, her wings tucked under her. Her wings that were pure white, powerful just like she herself was. “Because if you don’t, I’ll kiss you.” Valdemar spoke lightly against her lips as their eyes left hers to look down at her lips, smooth and full compared to their slimmer ones that were slightly chapped. Adalia giggled.

A sweet sound.

Valdemar shook their head which now started to beat, a rocking noise like a boat getting beaten by the waves of nature. It hurt. Adalia now stood with her back to them, Valdemar looked over her starting with her head full of white hairs which now had strands of purple or black in them to her shoulders that rose and fall and then their eyes were on her upper back. It trembled and they found themselves want to hold her and they attempted to step out of the darkness once more to enter her light but streaks of blood started to bleed through. Her tail was already out, hovering over the ground.

Where has her wings gone?

“Adalia!” The young demon shot up when their friend carefully approached. They smiled a little. She had vanished suddenly, Valdemar had grown worried, scared that their fight had drove her away but now she was back with them. Back at the Lazaret with them. They approached her arms open for a hug and then they stopped, feathers trailing behind her. “Ada?” They slowed down now taking the time to get a better look at her. There was no smile but their were tear streaks under her lowered gaze. They was no greeting but soft sniffles. They felt the urgency and quickly went over, and eyes narrowed into slits as they saw her wings. Bloody, cut, falling apart.

An anger suddenly took over Valdemar and they grabbed her wrist pulling her to face them. “Ada! Speak! What happened?” They demanded but even as they yelled at her she stood silent as if she had fell death. Her clothes dirty with blood, sweat, and tears. Someone had hurt their angel.

Dreams fight with machines.

Inside my head like adversaries.

Come wrestle me free,

Clean from the war.

Everything was bloody, Valdemar bathed her and with each flinch and shake they grew darker. They wanted to hurt something or someone..and even though Adalia was the only one with them they refused to let it be her. The river water grew bloody, her skin caked with dirt as she hugged herself. Valdemar tried to be careful with her now damaged wings running the wash cloth up her spine lightly. Then they noticed a collar around her throat and as they reached out without thought to grab it she slapped their hand away. Her sudden quickness shocking them as they quickly pulled away, water splashing heavily around the both of them.

Her eyes yelled at them without her having to physically. Anger, pain, and fear resided there, things that Valdemar had never seen on her face before. Things that hurt a lot more then the slap they had received.

The collar was still there. They thought as they looked at Adalia’s back. Why? Why was it still there? Why, why why?! Valdemar actually grew angry seeing it, their hands balling up into fist so hard that their nails couldn’t be stopped by the gloves they wore. Their nails piercing their palm until only black blood dropped from their fist. Now the dead bodies didn’t matter at all, but something about Adalia being surrounded by the dead was starting to bother them. She didn’t fit here, not in the dark, not with them.

Valdemar once held a dead body.

One that looked far too much like Adalia.

Almost identical.

Did they cry that day with that body?

They couldn’t remember.

Their eyes sharpened, it made more sense now. Everything made a lot more sense now to them as they approached her almost silently.

“Your heart fits like a key, into a lock on the wall.” She sung some more, and as she sung Valdemar couldn’t focus on anything but her. However the bodies seemed less in pain now, even when dead and after after being tormented in life, in death now they looked at peace. If blankets had been tucked just below their chests except from completely over them or not over them at all anyone would have thought it was just a room of snoozing people. Snoozing people who played with the dead instead of actually being them. “I turn it over, I turn it over...but I can’t escape.”

I turn it over, I turn it over.

Valdemar reached out to her, their fingers flexing lightly and as she sniffled they hesitated.

I loved and I loved and I lost you.

Adalia jerked when arms wrapped around her shoulders pulling her back from the dead body in front of her, the one she had been crying over. A past lover who could’ve treated her much than he had but he still held value to her. Valdemar scoffed at him as she gently caressed his arm before they pulled her back. Her arm fell limp. “Ada..” they mumbled against her to which she paused before turning her head to look at them.

“Val.”

And it hurts like hell.

- Not gonna lie I got lazy at the end but I do hope someone enjoyed that. I once drew a pic of Adalia with Valdemar a while ago but I’ve really touched up on her looks. And before any of the other role play partners comment, yes this is a different version of Adalia.

UwU

If anyone wants more parts to this or for me to actually write about them than fucking comment.

#the arcana #valdemar x apprentice #quaestor valdemar #valdemar x my oc #the arcana game

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