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mindtrcks · 2 years ago

Note

for tyler - maybe something about reader helping rescue him from thornhill & being the hyde’s master instead of her? love your writing style!

this is hungry work

Pairing: Tyler Galpin/Reader

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: vague mentions of grooming/violence, smut, quite a bit of plot oops, unrealistically happy ending

Summary: You may not have a master plan or a decades long vendetta, but you do have Nathaniel Faulkner's diary, and a recurring penchant for taking wild leaps of faith.

Nathaniel Faulkner says that the Hyde is a beast lying dormant in an innocent man. Something waiting to be awakened. A creature loyally dependent on its master, subservient to its core.

Wednesday says that it’s Tyler.

She says he’s a monster, that he killed enough people to get a taste for it, and now he’s killed his master, too. That he’s out of control and it’s only a matter of time before he does something big, before more people get hurt. She says anything he’s done before now has been a lie; he doesn’t care about you, and he never did. You were a pawn in he and Kinbott’s game, and he would've tossed you away the second you’d served your purpose. She says that he isn't the boy you thought, and he isn't to be trusted.

But he's sitting right in front of you, with the same puppy dog frown and furrowed brows as always. He's looking up at you with something like desperation in his eyes, and for the first time since you’ve met her, you doubt Wednesday. How could this boy—quiet and sweet and scared—be the monster she claims? How could Tyler from the coffee shop—Tyler who’s soft spoken and friends with outcasts and isn’t even screaming at Wednesday for kidnapping him—be anything but good?

You don’t doubt he’s the Hyde. If Wednesday had a vision, you’re not going to question that. But you do question whether or not she knows the whole story.

—

You’re at Nevermore when Wednesday finally pieces it all together. She’s been expelled, taking the fall for you and anybody else who’d been in that shed with her. Weems had taken it upon herself to personally escort Wednesday to the station, but evidently, even expulsion can’t stop somebody as stubborn as her.

She texts you from Eugene’s phone, the message just a single word. Thornhill.

It’s all you need to bolt up in bed, to shove your shoes on and search blindly for your jacket. You’re not sure whether it’s wishful thinking or just plain hubris, but some part of you—the outcast that wants nothing more than to fit in, to be a part of something—thinks that if you can stop Thornhill, you can stop it all. You can keep anybody else from being killed and thwart whatever Thornhill’s plan is, and best of all, you can help Tyler in the process.

It’s either that, or die trying.

—

Breaking into Thornhill’s classroom is easier than expected. She doesn't leave Ophelia Hall after eight anymore; the lockdown has grown too serious, the dark too dangerous. It allieves your fear, as you creep through Nevermore’s halls, to know that her classroom will be empty when you arrive. To not be afraid of Thornhill would be stupid; if Wednesday’s right, and Thornhill’s responsible for everything, you don’t doubt she’d be willing to kill you for snooping.

The door is locked when you reach your destination, but you waste no time in picking it. You aren’t sure how urgent this is, aren’t sure where Wednesday is or where Thornhill is or where Tyler is, and you aren’t sure what she could possibly be making him do.

You choose not to think about it as your eyes scan the room. You head to her desk first, frantically flipping through sheets of paper, turning over folders and ransacking drawers. You move to the bookshelf when the desk proves fruitless, scanning the dust on the spines of books. Nothing sticks out; the last thing you deem to try is the filing cabinet, looming in the corner of the room. There’s only one drawer that’s open, the metal dented and bent like it’d been slammed in a rush. Your feet take you to it before your brain even has time to consciously make a decision; your hands pulling it open before you know what you’re doing.

It’s empty, save for one thing: a leatherbound journal with the name Nathaniel Faulkner engraved on the spine.

—

Nathaniel Faulkner says that the Hyde is a beast lying dormant in an innocent man, a creature loyally dependent on its master.

He also says that this loyalty does not run as thick as one might think.

—

The thing is, you don’t know Tyler as well as you wish you did. You don’t get to talk as much as you’d like, or to hang out without the murders hanging over your heads. But it’s not like you’re a stranger, certainly not like Thornhill was. No, you’d go as far as to say you’re his friend, maybe among his only ones. He trusts you, and despite yourself—despite everything that he’s done—you trust him.

A Hyde’s relationship to its master is built on trust, says Faulkner.

And maybe you don’t have a master plan, or a decades long vendetta, but you do have Nathaniel Faulkner’s diary, and a recurring penchant for taking wild leaps of faith.

—

He’s in the woods outside of Nevermore when you find him, looking antsy and wrong.

You don’t want to think about what he’s doing there, about why his fingers are curled up into fists at his side. What he’s done doesn’t matter to you; all you care about is what he will do, what choice he’ll make. You approach him carefully, not wanting to set him off, or scare him away. You can’t imagine what kind of headspace he’s in, or the things going through his mind.

It’s only been hours since you’ve last seen him, but he already looks changed. Whatever act he’d been keeping up in Xavier’s shed, in the police station, he’s dropped now. His eyes are dark and his shoulders tense, mouth curled into something cruel. You hear Wednesday’s words echo in your head—he isn’t the boy you thought, he’s a monster, he’s using you—but you try to drown them out. You know Tyler. You know the good he’s capable of. So what if he’s capable of bad, too?

“Tyler,” you say, keeping your voice steady as you step forward. He doesn’t back up, but he does narrow his eyes, leveling you with a gaze that has you on edge, shifting on your feet, your body screaming at you to back down, turn away.

He smiles at you; not the small, shy thing you’ve seen from across the Weathervane so many times, but something sharp around the edges, showing a few too many teeth. Have his canines always been that big? Sharp enough to pierce skin? You feel something run up your spine; a shiver or a thrill, you aren’t sure, and you don’t care enough to try and discern it. Tyler’s walking towards you, and it’s hard to care about much of anything besides him in front of you and the diary weighing heavy in your bag. “You're the one they sent to fight the big, bad wolf?” he asks, looming over you. He expects you to be scared, to run away.

But scared isn’t exactly the word you would use. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

You can see his face flicker for a moment, quick enough that it would've gone unnoticed if you hadn't been looking for it. “And why is that?” he asks, nostrils flaring as he steps impossibly closer.

You refuse to let the proximity affect you, no matter how much it's trying to. “Because it’s pointless,” you say, chin lifting up in defiance. “You know Wednesday. She won’t let you win.”

“So I should surrender, then?” he scoffs, because he thinks those are his only two options. He thinks this is kill or be killed; keep fighting or get arrested, sent away for life. But you have another option.

“Not necessarily,” you say, as your hand snakes down to your satchel and pulls out the diary. Tyler’s eyes zero in on it instantly, lighting up with recognition, with want. “How would you like to put this whole mess behind you, Thornhill included?”

He blinks a few times before glancing back up at you, narrowing his eyes. “I can’t,” he says, baring his teeth around the words, like it physically pains him to say them.

You raise an eyebrow in challenge. “Why?”

He looks mad, now. Not the simmering anger that’s been in the air the whole time, but a lighter kind of rage that’s more akin to simple frustration. More akin to something you’ve seen on Tyler before. You never thought you’d be relieved for somebody to be mad at you. “That's not how it works.

“Because she’s taught you so much about how it works.”

“More than you possibly could,” he spits out, and it’s supposed to be an insult, but instead it’s just plain wrong. Because you have the exact same diary that she did, the exact same knowledge at your fingertips. Only, you’re willing to share your toys.

He watches as you lift up the diary, flipping to your bookmarked page. It’s power in your palms; power over Thornhill, over Tyler. It makes you sick, a little, knowing his fate is literally in your hands. How did Thornhill ever take it? “‘I have heard of Hyde’s gaining new masters only through means of battle spoils or dark magic, but I imagine there must be one other way,’” you recite, reading off of page three of Faulkner’s section on masters, the chapter you had found the most helpful in your frantic skim-through. Tyler stares down at you with something in his eyes that you’ve never seen before. You’ll unpack it later. “‘Seeing as the decision is always ultimately the Hyde’s—whether consciously or not—if a prospective master was ready and willing, a Hyde might simply choose them.’”

“You want…” he starts, incredulous, but doesn’t finish. He just looks at you, conflicted, confused, and maybe a little bit of something else. You understand that what you’re offering is bigger than anything you’ve done with him before now. Going from sitting across from each other at the Weathervane or being present in the same car—Wednesday or Enid or even Fester always a buffer—to offering yourself up as his master is quite the leap. Still, for whatever reason, you’re hopeful.

“Yes,” you answer, even if he technically never finished asking his question. Yes, you want to do this, yes, you’re willing to take the leap, yes to everything.

Tyler shifts on his feet, suddenly seeming wildly uncomfortable as his eyes skirt around the treeline. He’s looking for her, you realize. He’s scared she’s there, scared she’s watching. Scared he’s in trouble.

A gnawing pit forms in your stomach. “Tyler,” you say, and your voice draws his eyes away from the woods. “I’m offering. All you have to do is make the choice, and all this goes away.”

It sounds simpler than it is. There will be things to do, after. Strings to tie, messes to clean. But right now, all you need is to get Tyler away from Thornhill. Permanently.

Tyler stays silent for a moment, regarding you with something on his face that you don't recognize. “Why are you doing this?” he asks, unreadable. But you refuse to falter.

“Because you don't deserve…her,” you say. “The things she did to you. It doesn't have to be like that.”

He seems to consider this, for a moment, eyeing you up and down. He has no reason to refuse, not really. Not unless he actually does enjoy it, like Wednesday claims. If he likes killing, gets off on the taste of blood in his mouth. You know he doesn't, though. That's Thornhill. Right?

“So what do I do?” he asks, shrugging his shoulders up. “Since you're the expert here. What do I do?”

You close the diary, dropping it down to your side. There aren't step by step instructions, no ancient ritual for you to follow in the dead of night. All Nathaniel Faulkner had to say on the matter is that the choice is always the Hyde’s.

You roll with it.

“The choice is yours, Tyler. Make it.”

He furrows his brows, looks like he wants to protest, but doesn't. He keeps his mouth tightly shut, ducking his head down and focusing hard on the ground. You don't know what it's like, on his side. Aren’t sure how hard it could possibly be to make a decision, but won’t comment on it. You’ll give him however long he needs.

After what feels like an eternity but must’ve only been a few moments, he looks back up at you, and you know instinctively that it’s done.

“Did it work?” you ask, peering up at him. He seems unchanged. The same Tyler you’ve been talking to this whole time. The same Tyler that killed all those people and put Eugene in the hospital.

He shrugs. “Tell me to do something.”

You consider it; there's a million things you could tell him to do, endless ways this could go. In the end, you land on something simple. Something with no strings. “Come here,” you request, plainly.

And he does.

—

So you’re Tyler’s master, now.

It’s weird to think about. Weird to think that you’re the one who figured it out, that this victory belongs to you. You expected it might go to Wednesday, that she’d be the one to help Tyler. Either that, or kill him. You thought his fate would end up in her hands, for better or for worse.

Evidently, it did not.

—

There are many things you come to realize about Tyler in the following months that you never thought you’d get to know.

You know he doesn’t really drink coffee, despite his choice in occupation. He wears socks for as many hours of the day as possible, and he sleeps with three blankets instead of a comforter. You know he keeps a secret stash of twizzlers in the cabinet above the microwave, because if his dad sees them they’ll be gone before the day is over. You know what shampoo he uses, how he prefers Spotify over Apple Music, and which drawer is the sock drawer. You know his favorite TV show is Friends, and that he’s embarrassed to tell people about it.

You’re watching it right now, curled up on his couch in pajamas, empty bowl of popcorn abandoned at your side. Moments like this feel equal parts right and bizarre. Tyler’s a killer, and yet you’re spending your Friday night watching Friends together in his living room. It’s strange, but everything about your life is strange. You barely even notice it anymore.

Tyler shifts beside you; you’re so close on the couch that it seems less like two bodies and more like a wild conglomeration of limbs; a leg here, an arm twisting there, the brush of fingers on the back of your neck. His hipbone is digging into your thigh, but you don’t mind. You wouldn’t move if every one of your extremities had fallen asleep. If the couch had set fire.

“You should…maybe move your leg,” Tyler says, breaking you out of your haze. You don’t have to do anything but tilt your head to look at him; when you do, he’s staring back up at you with furrowed brows and flushed cheeks, working his lips together.

It takes you a moment to realize what he means, to feel that familiar weight pressing into the skin of your thigh. When you do, it’s with a start. Yes, you’ve done this a few times. But not enough for it to be a common occurrence. It may be rare, but it’s certainly not the first time. Once you get your bearings, you find that you’re confident enough to smile down at him, to raise an eyebrow and ask, “Should I?”

He makes a little sound in the back of his throat, and you can feel his hips arch up, ever so slightly. “I mean,” he starts, breathy and quiet. “Or you could keep it there. If you want.”

“What do you want?” you ask, sneaking a hand down to the sliver of skin exposed between Tyler’s shirt and his flannel pants. He shivers, but doesn’t answer. “Tyler,” you urge, trailing your fingers over his stomach.

“Touch me?” he asks, squeezing his eyes shut, tilting his head away.

And you’re not really in the business of denying him. It takes some adjusting—you do have to move your leg—in order to find the right angle, but Tyler waits patiently as you shimmy your way down the couch, until you can look at him and touch him all at once. You aren’t sure how long he’s been hard, but when you trail your hand down and underneath the waistband of his pants, he gasps too loud for it to have been a short while.

He’s hot and heavy in your hand, already a little wet, too. As you grasp him, he shoves his face into your shoulder, exhaling long and slow into your skin. “This what you mean?” you ask, maybe a little mean.

He nods. You won’t make him say it—you’re not that mean—but you could. If you asked, he’d answer. You’ve found that’s true in a lot of aspects of your life. It’s a power you’re still scared to wield, no matter how many times Tyler reassures you. You prefer subtlety, to guide him in this way, rather than by giving outright orders. You think he likes it better like this, too, if the way he’s squirming under your touch is anything to go by.

Friends is still playing in the background, but you’re too distracted to find the remote and mute it. Instead, you tilt your head to press a kiss to Tyler’s hairline, as you start to stroke him in earnest. You try to set a slow pace, but Tyler’s hips chase the contact until it’s fast and hard, just like always. One of these days, you’ll make him sit still, but today is not that day. You let him set the pace, pumping his cock for all it’s worth as he thrusts up into your first. He’s embarrassed, you know, but he barely shows it, apart from the way he hides his face. He’s as enthusiastic as you think he can be, not shy in showing you how much he’s enjoying himself, through little punched-out moans that have the tips of your ears turning red.

You’re not sure how much time passes like that. All you know is that your wrist is cramping and your bicep is aching, but you still feel like you could do this forever. The sight of Tyler underneath you, panting and sighing and practically shaking, is enough fuel for you for as long as he needs. Him falling apart for you has got to be one of your favorites sights; the sounds pouring out of him are music to your ears. At a particularly loud moan, you glance up, take in his state.

His shoulders are tense, his hands clenched into his fists and his hips staying shock-still. You let yourself smirk; one of the many things you know about Tyler is that he’s not always the best at lasting. “It’s okay, Ty,” you say, whispered into his jaw as you pick up the pace, moving impossibly faster.

He exhales in a gust of air, deflating almost instantaneously; now that he knows he doesn’t have to wait, he lets himself relax, sink into the couch. It’s not long after that that his hips jerk, and he jams his face into your shoulder once more, and you know.

You guide him gently back by the curls on the nape of his neck. There are many things you’ve gotten to know about Tyler, but the face he makes when he comes has got to be one of your favorites.

#wednesday #wednesday addams #tyler galpin #tyler galpin x reader #reader insert #this is also for all the anons who requested more tyler smut #i got u #sorry it took me a week

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paintyoureyeswithavividmind · 1 year ago

Text

close to home | chapter forty two

plot: the reader watches her friends die

series masterlist

Pairing: Eventual Daryl Dixon x f!reader Word Count: 1,347 Warnings: violence, blood, typical twd, character deaths A/N: thank you for reading!!!

Your eyes locked with Daryl’s across the lineup, and you could see he was badly hurt. Shot, it looked like, and it made you want to throw up. You were too far away from him to see his eyes, but you knew they’d been on you since you were on the ground.

The rest of your family looked as bad as him. Glenn, Rosita, Daryl, and Michonne were all across from you. They looked like they’d been through hell. Then there was Abraham, Maggie, Rick, and Sasha. The closest to you were Aaron, Carl, and then Eugene.

There was something wrong with Maggie; you prayed it wasn’t the baby.

That was all you had time to take in before Negan approached you and lifted your chin with the bat. You felt it dig into your chin, but to your surprise, it was almost gentle.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t hurt this pretty young woman. In fact, I made her dinner!” Negan exclaimed. “And she was such a wonderful guest.”

When he stepped away, you let out the breath you were holding in and looked at Daryl. You gave him a slight nod, trying to tell him you were okay. That you were okay with you about to die, and that he would be okay too. But a nod couldn’t say all that.

You were shaking as Rick was pointed out as the leader, and for the first time, you realized that Negan might not kill you. He might choose someone else. The Negan you met before was gone and was replaced with this sadistic asshole who seemed to be getting off on what was happening.

Negan went through his new rules. Alexandria now belonged to him. You all belonged to him. And everything you would do, it would be for him.

You couldn’t take your eyes away from your family the entire time. You did your best to memorize everyone’s faces, everyone that you love. You hoped and prayed that Negan would pick you. That he would kill you so they would live. But as Negan kept talking, you didn’t think that was true.

When Negan stopped at Maggie, you felt like you would be ill.

“Jesus, you look shitty. I should just put you out of your misery right now,” Negan said, gearing up to take a swing.

“No!” Glenn yelled, breaking from the lineup. He had almost reached Negan before Dwight got to him, forcing him to his knees and beating him.

You closed your eyes and tried your hardest to keep tears from spilling. You could hear Maggie screaming.

“Nope, nope. Get him back in line. All right, listen,” Negan began as you opened your eyes. “Don’t any of you do that again. I will shut that shit down, no exceptions. First one’s free. It’s an emotional moment, I get it.”

You were shaking harder, and you looked across to Daryl. There was nothing you wanted more in the world than to be with him right now. You wished you were back home in Alexandria, curled up in his bed. You cried at the thought of it.

The monster in front of you continued to verbally assault the group and smiled through it all. You felt like you were going to throw up and tried not to.

When that dreaded moment came, and you knew Negan was gearing up to kill somebody, you prayed it would be you. You wanted to beg Negan for it.

But when Negan picked Abraham, your body froze, and you couldn’t get those words out. And when the bat came down, it verbalized into a scream as you watched your friend go down.

You physically winced each time the bat came down again and again, even after Abraham’s skull was obliterated and there was nothing left but brain matter on the ground. Through thick tears, you watched it all. You couldn’t look away.

“Oh my goodness,” Negan laughed after it was done. “Look at this! You guys, look at my dirty girl.”

You wiped tears away from your eyes and glared at Negan, watching him laugh about what he just did. What he just took away from you all. You watched as he taunted Rosita, and your heart ached at your friend.

But then Negan turned towards you, and he actually smiled at you as he walked over, swinging the bat in his hand. Blood splattered across your face, and you flinched at the contact.

“(Y/N), (Y/N, (Y/N)...” Negan trailed off, “I told you I can’t let that happen, didn’t I?” He asked.

Your mind brought you back to the conversation you had, and you looked up at him with every ounce of hatred and watched as he squatted in front of you.

“Come on, baby, don’t look at me like that,” Negan said, reaching out to tuck a few strands of hair behind your ear.

You heard Daryl yell before you saw him move. But he didn’t make it halfway to you before he was pinned down by Dwight and two men you didn’t know.

“No!” Negan yelled, standing and swinging the bat, narrowingly missing your head. “Oh, no. That-- that is a no-no!” He said.

Your fingers trembled as they curled into the dirt below you, and you looked at Daryl pinned to the ground. You couldn’t find your voice. It was stuck deep inside you, and you couldn’t pull it out.

“Looks like I got a bit of competition, huh, boys?” Negan laughed with his men. “I guess I gotta take care of it.”

And it was right there that you found your voice.

“No!” You screamed. “No. P-please, no,” You cried.

Negan looked at you for a long moment before sauntering over. “Come on, baby, I gotta do something. I can’t let that slide.” You knew he was taunting you. Just like he did at dinner.

“Don’t kill him, please. I’ll do anything,” You said to the man.

“Anything, huh?” Negan asked, rubbing his beard. He glanced back at the men holding Daryl down. “Put him back in line.”

You breathed a sigh of relief and watched them drag Daryl back, but it hitched when you saw Negan approach Daryl. “You’re lucky I’m a sucker for such a beautiful girl.” Negan let out a loud sigh and looked around the lineup. “So… back to it.”

“No!” You screamed in horror as the bat landed on Glenn’s skull. “No,” You cried.

All you could hear was the sickening crunch of the bat and Maggie screaming. You blocked everything else out. You couldn’t hear anything but that as you watched, Negan beat the man who had become your brother to death.

Your fingers curled around your legs, body shook, like it didn’t know how to react. Like you physically didn’t know how to react.

You felt like you were losing consciousness like you were seeing everything from another point of view. And it all faded away when a gun was pressed against your skull, and Rick was dragged away. You didn’t hear anything. You didn’t see anything.

You didn’t know the sun came up, and you didn’t know Rick and Negan came back. Your body was a prison to your mind.

But then you heard one of the only things that could drag you back out.

“Kid…”

Your eyes moved to your right, and you watched Carl stand up and approach Negan. You started shaking your head, willing your body to let you speak, but it was like it could only watch. Even when Rick was about to take Carl’s arm, it wouldn’t let you speak.

But finally, finally, your body and mind connected when Negan said your name. “Load up (Y/N) in the truck. Time to collect on anything.”

Arms wrapped around you, and you thrashed. “No! No! Daryl!” You screamed, fighting with every ounce of strength you had left. But then another one grabbed your kicking legs, and you knew it was pointless.

Everything was now pointless.

#daryl x reader #the walking dead daryl #daryl dixion x reader #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon #daryl fanfiction #daryl x y/n #twd #daryl twd #daryl x you

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georgeweasleyslostearhq · 2 years ago

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Hi I'm dumb okay, idk how to send a request, but I hope I'm, doing it right, I have a little tiny request if u could write on when Xavier thorpe, gets arrested, maybe both him n the reader, were in the shed, and wednesday walks in, and everything happens, maybe the reader wad Wednesday's friend, and later after he Xavier was arrested, wednesday goes to talk to the reader but then she ignores her??

Please do except my request thank you 🤍🤍

FRAMED

pairings: Xavier Thorpe x Reader summary: ^^^ warnings:nothing much Notes: I'm pretty sure it doesn't specify a gender or sex so read it as whatever you want!

"what are you planning on painting tonight, Xav?" you asked Xavier happily

"i'm not sure, whatever comes to me" he responded, opening the door to his shed

"ladies first" he stepped aside to let you in. you giggled, kissing his cheek as you walked in with him beside you

"what the hell?" you gasped as you turned on the light, jumping in the sudden fright of seeing Wednesday Addams sitting in the corner holding a knife.

Xavier took his jacket off and turned around, he scoffed, walking towards her

"you know what? you need to stay out of my space" he stated

"you need to take your own advice" she stabbed the stool next to her, standing up "you left that in my room...actually you left it in Thing"

"what?" you questioned, walking closer

"how long have you been seeing Kinbott?" she ignored you

"Have you?... What am I saying? Of course you have" he took a short breath "You've been spying on me, right?"

Xavier took the knife out of the stood, holding it out in front of him

"Cause I'm the villain in your fantasy... My father thinks that my mental health is a PR problem that he needs to manage. He wanted to keep his troubled son out of the tabloids." he said playing with the knife

"I wasn't in your room. Believe me or don't believe me, I don't care." he huffed

the girl walked past him without a peep, looking at his paintings, stopping in front of one with a sheet covering it

"Your painting's been improving. I enjoy this one in particular." she pulled it down, revealing a painting of Kinbott with big scratches in her face "feels like you really lived it"

"what do you want?" he asked

"I'm asking the questions" Wednesday replied bluntly, walking back to the table behind her, you stepped out of the way and stood beside Xavier

"what's going on?" you inquired

"I don't know some fucked up theory she has" he rolled his eyes

she dug around his desk, picking up an inhaler

"what is Rowan's inhaler doing in your shed?" she went through more, pulling out a pair of glasses as you and Xavier stood there

"or Eugene's glasses?" she went back for more but Xavier took a step foward

"whoa, Whoa" he held his hand out

"or these stalker images you took of me" she threw on the table

"no, no, no- I-"

"-Don't forget your latest addition" she flipped a jar full of crayons and lifted a necklace from the bunch "Kinbott's necklace."

"Xavier what the hell is she talking about?" you panicked

"no, n- somebody planted that stuff!" he spoke anxiously

"Freeze!" the sheriff bursted through the door with his gun pointed at Xavier as the boy approached Wednesday

"drop the knife! down on your knees" he yelled, more police entered from the back, making you back up, eyes on Xavier as he knelt down on the ground with his hands up

"cuff him" he demanded as one of his men came up behind him, putting him in handcuffs

"what?-"

"-you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in court. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney one will be appointed. Appreciate the help, Addams." the sheriff finished

"you- you framed me! I'm being set up!" he yelled as the policeman pulled him up

"I should of let Rowan kill you" he spat as he walked past the raven girl

"Xavier" you sobbed as they pulled him out of his shed

he called out your name as they dragged him into a car

you ran out of the shed, looking at the car as it drove away with him in it

"I quite like being proven right" Wednesday smirked, talking to you and Enid

you were silent the whole time, aggravated by the dull girl beside you

"Y/n? you've been so quiet, are you ok?" Enid tilted her head, concerned

"no! I'm not ok, Xavier isn't the monster and I can't believe you would even think that, let alone plant those things in his shed and get the police to arrest him! he's not dangerous, he's loving and kind and caring, unlike you, Wednesday" you snapped

"it's upsetting that you still believe that" Wednesday furrowed her eyebrows

"you don't know him like I do! he wouldn't hurt anybody let alone kill them! he's not like that, Wednesday" you started crying

"he's not who you think he is" she narrowed her eyes

you scoffed, wiping small tears away

"Stop! just stop, Wednesday! you're not helping anyone! you're not solving anything, you're ruining things and hurting people, that's all you do! give up! you've been here, what? 2 weeks or something and you think you know everybody down to what to what their first meal was but you don't! you don't know anything!" you yelled at her

you looked at Enid and saw her shocked face, you looked down before grabbing you coat and leaving their room

"I hope you're happy, Wednesday, I hope in that twisted mind of yours, you realise that you're wrong, in every way" you said before slamming the door

you ran around the school, getting away from the fire and chaos, bumping into the boy you've been wanting to see for days

"Xavier!?" you gasped

he hugged you hurriedly and kissed you.

"get out of here! I have to go help" he backed away towards the quad after giving you a panicked smile

"no- I'm not leaving you!" you fought against it

"leave to the edge of the forest gates, you'll be safe there and I'll come and find you then, alright, Angel?" he nodded.

you begun to speak before he turned away and ran to the quad

"no- Xavier!" you yelled out to him before sighing and rushing out with the people leaving the school

you waited anxiously for the boy as you stood with your friends

"oh god" you started cursing to yourself, pacing around the area nervously

"hey" his voice said behind you, you whipped around and jumped into his arms

"there you are!" you cheered as he wrapped his arms around you

"I'm here" he whispered

"they let you go?" you questioned

"not exactly, Thing got me out of the cuffs and the car" he sighed

"I'm not the monster" he denied

"I know that, Idiot. the thought never crossed my mind that you were" you smiled up at him.

you leaned against him, wrapping your hand around his torso, under his jacket go give you some warmth as he wrapped his arms around you

the school was quiet as they waited for something, anything to happen

"where's Wednesday?" Enid asked as Ajax lead her through the crowd, everyone remained quiet as she looked around for an answer

but she spotted Wednesday walking towards them from a distance, she ran up to her and hugged her but she pushed her away and looked at her

pulling her back in, everyone began heading towards them, smiling.

"I'm really sorry for what I said to you, Wednesday. it was wrong of me to say that and none of it is true, you're a great friend" you cried to the girl

"don't tell me you want a hug too" she spoke bluntly

"no, no it's fine, you've already gotten one today" you shook your head, sniffeling

"come here" she grumbled, slightly holding out her arms

you stepped towards her and hugged her

"I'm sorry too" she apologised shortly

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

#xavier thorpe #xavier thorpe headcannons #xavier thorpe oneshot #xavier thorpe x reader #wednesday addams #netflix wednesday #wednesday series #wednesday 2022 #percy hynes white #jenna ortega #imagine #agnst #enid sinclair #ajax petropolus #enid x ajax

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zonerobotnik · 1 year ago

Note

What really bugs me is that you can get angry when somebody says "The Saporians are the way they are in canon" but you don't think I have the right to be upset when you talk down on my headcanons.

Yeah, no. The difference is that the Saporians AREN'T that way in canon. Everything I talked about; Varian being relaxed with them, Varian being fine with them in his lab but not Rapunzel or Eugene, Varian actually being happy while with the Saporians like they're his found family, Andrew trying to reason with Varian instead of just telling him it's happening, Andrew hesitating to kill him despite the laws of their people, Varian and Clementine giving each other sly looks before Clementine spun the wand for Rapunzel to notice, that's all canon. That's all ON-SCREEN CANON. What's NOT canon is Varian being abused by Andrew! What's NOT canon is Varian being afraid of them! What IS canon is Varian being wary of Rapunzel and Eugene seeing him slacking off! What IS canon is the fact that Eugene only spent time with Varian when he needed him to do something for him! What IS canon is the fact that Rapunzel's return forced them to take drastic measures because they were outnumbered by the Resistance and could no longer threaten them with jail if they opposed the King and Queen because they now had the Princess to support them and Varian didn't realize how dire it was yet when Andrew said "we don't have time"! Everything else is me taking on-screen evidence to try to piece together the lore that wasn't gone into. Again, ON-SCREEN EVIDENCE. Xavier had a scroll that showed two kingdoms, there's holes in the "love story", there's only Corona's sigil during the "Day of Hearts" festival, there's a RUINED CASTLE IN SEASON 3 THAT THEY FIGHT THE BARON IN THAT'S NEAR THE SUNDROP MONUMENT, the Saporian sigils, both past and present, resemble the Sundrop Flower, Demanitus used both magic and inventions to seal away Zhan Tiri and her Disciples, there's NO MENTION OF THE ROYAL FAMILY IN THE LOVE STORY, this is all ON-SCREEN FACT! It's not headcanon if it's ON-SCREEN. This isn't just concept art or headcanon! Just because it's underdeveloped and scattered around, it doesn't mean it's not canon! "Andrew abused Varian" is a headcanon I do not support!

#ask zone stuff

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augment-techs · 2 years ago

Note

KIMBERLY/SKULL fuck or die kink PLEASE

Because I refuse to reference the OG series for this, I'm afraid you're stuck with the Comics. World of the Coinless AU at that.

Hickies on her skin were against the rules.

Leaving semen inside of her as well.

Putting a cock in her mouth or ass without being told, too.

Fucking her in a position that Drakkon didn't get to observe every moment of was absolutely against the rules.

Really, it was amazing how much stuff was forbidden to happen to the Ranger Slayer in Drakkon's private rooms that went unsaid and unmentioned until it was too late.

The monster could do whatever he wanted, it was just that he was completely incapable of doing so to her with his own hands and cock. He needed someone else to do it while he watched on a throne of cushions and generally had his Huntsman service him orally until somebody messed up.

Then he'd cut off their heads and have Billy get rid of the corpse while he ordered Kim to finish herself off while he watched; usually coming only after she'd been made to say filthy, pathetic things to him from her place on the bed.

The noise he made was a grotesque animal cry that usually ran circles through her head from the moment she fell asleep until she woke up in the morning with Billy's back to her and Drakkon leaving them with orders to imbibe in each other or to just bathe until he called for them.

This was tedious and seemed neverending.

Until he found someone familiar that could actually play the game as well, if not better, than the whole lot of them.

If Kimberly was still capable of expressing joy beyond sneering at the dead bodies of Coinless she'd caught alone, or in battle with aliens that still thought Earth was an easy target, she might have laughed in joy when Drakkon put a fast-tracking soldier into the Red Sentries and had him come to his rooms after he'd passed his own test of pleasuring the tyrant. * *

Eugene Skullovitch had filled out remarkably well since high school. Lean muscle and so much black hair and fingers made for playing music that was no longer allowed inside the palace because Drakkon knew it gave people ideas and hope.

It was a little funny that Drakkon wasn't jealous that when he had Skull strip and start in on her, she was already wet and her mouth was smiling for real. Or he just didn't notice.

Skull was good at this. Scheherazade of the bedroom, he kept going and going and wasn't killed the next morning.

Fingers stroked through her hair, "I kind of miss the length, but you still look lovely."

Pads of his fingers traced the length of her neck, the insides of her arms, counted her ribs and skimmed her sex, "Oh, she's getting goosebumps, Sir. Shall I continue?"

When Drakkon showed all of his teeth in a smile, Skull knew to continue; to do more.

When Skull kissed her, it wasn't rough or possessive, just the light kissing that turned into making out that Kim had wanted much and often at sixteen; her legs on either side of his hips, breasts sliding up and down a muscled chest, her tongue going deeper into his until she had to pull back and breathe and he moved his tongue down her throat.

He never left marks on her, even if she eventually would have wanted him to.

He always had a condom, despite not needing one since brought in among the Red Sentries and Drakkon deciding he was better off without the chance to perpetuate his line. The best he could manage was some clear fluid that looked like crystal water--unless and until she looked closer and saw the little wisps of blood.

Still, Kim in her obedience and internal self-hatred of the act and acting was grateful that the boy she knew was still deep down inside Skull thought ahead, thought of her best interests and put them ahead of his possible wants or comfort.

(Her gratitude and the magic cloying to her--that was all that kept her from crying when he asked for permission to ease into her, voice level and calm and hiding how she could feel him shaking under her as he watched Drakkon use Billy to get himself off without asking.

Oil and rough hands and bruises like black butterfly wings on Billy's pale skin; how Drakkon wanted to treat his favorite doll, always, but had to settle for the one that didn't make him feel something he didn't want to in a way that allowed him to keep his erection.

Billy never could say anything afterwards in disgust for Drakkon, in empathy and jealousy for Kim; in his desperation for the boy he'd known almost as long as they'd been alive performing in the room like a rare show animal. Deer among wolves, fox among hounds, unicorn among lions.

It was really amazing neither of them vomited as often as they would have liked.)

She always came within the hour, always clawed at his wide (hideously scarred) back with a frenzy, legs tight around him and so grateful for the warmth Eugene gave off that she could almost forget about the spell or the room or Drakkon and everything when she screamed towards the ceiling and went tight as a bowstring.

When she was lowered back among the covers, still giddy with endorphins, getting rocked gently until she stopped pulsing, and grateful at being cleaned up with a warm cloth and kind grey eyes looking at her, she really did love this man.

(Even after, when her cover was blown amongst the Coinless and she opened her mouth to suggest the name that had doubtlessly lead to her old friends surviving her programmed attack, she believed that this was the only thing that let her fight this horrible magic enough to suggest interrogation and the Deadlock rather than an instant death.

It had cost Eugene almost two years of his life in agony, but at least he still had a life.)

#ask fill #prompt fill #mature | sexy times #world of the coinless #Red Sentry Eugene Skull Skullovitch #Ranger Slayer Kimberly Hart #Billy Cranston #Lord Drakkon #boom! comics power rangers #shattered grid #MMPR #mighty morphin comics #assault #extremely dubious consent #Mind Control #Huntsman AU

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russburlingame · 1 year ago

Text

A is for Accident

So, here goes.

A few weeks back, I was supposed to have started work on the Alphabet Superset, a project from Struthless that's aimed at helping motivate artists who are a little...stuck.

I am, strictly speaking, not stuck. I actually have more on my plate than I can handle most of the time. Still, it seemed like a cool project, and something that could help me hone some writing muscles that I don't use very often. I have a fiction project that has been percolating in the back of my mind, but it has been literally years since I wrote more than a few pages of fiction. And longer than that since I showed it to anyone.

So. The Alphabet Superset. It's a weekly challenge format, where you have a consistent theme and approach to the art, and each week you come up with a piece of work representative of that week's letter of the alphabet. I SHOULD have just started with D -- especially since I know what D is, and it's exciting! -- but I also know myself well enough to know that if I bail on A through C, I'll probably do basically none of the letters down the line.

Recently, I have been going through a bunch of my old archives to see whether there are any diamonds in the rough. So my "style" is going to be creative writing -- fiction and creative nonfiction, mostly not journalism, which is what I do the rest of my life. And the theme I'm choosing is autobiography. That doesn't mean you're going to get a lot of stuff that's super revealing about me -- although there will be some of that. It means each project will speak to a theme, an idea, or sometimes an archival project that was significant to a part of my life.

For the first installment, I'm going with "A is for Accident." The accident in question? A first-time hitman kills the wrong guy.

Oops.

This is a reworking of the first bit of 'I Got Him,' a novel I wrote once...but didn't back up before my computer was stolen. Back in the 2000s, not everything was always being loaded to the cloud. That was a rough lesson to learn, kids!

The only part of 'I Got Him' that survived was the first 40 or so pages. And I have always fantasized about bringing it back to life. This is not entirely new content, but a piece of the original version, lightly edited. I may tweak and hone a little more during a future week, but the hope here is to get myself back on track for the Alphabet.

So...here we go.

Oh, and this story takes place around 2003.

CHAPTER ONE: Somebody Got Murdered

“I got him,” Martin said into the phone. “Just like you wanted, I got him!”

“You didn’t,” Alderman said coolly, the background buzz of a crappy payphone not enough to mask his irritation.

“Best part?” Martin continued, undeterred. “I knew the bastard! Fucking comes into McVeigh’s all the time and gives me shit because his burger has mayonnaise. Like I can help it that nobody reads the ‘special order’ line.”

Alderman sighed. “What are you talking about?”

“What, I gotta say it?”

“That’s what I’m asking for.”

“How do I know the phone’s not bugged?” Martin asked, and instinctively looked around as he said it.

“Why on earth would it be?”

“Alright, fine….I killed the Zlomek guy for you.”

“Somehow I’m guessing that one of us has got something very confused here,” Alderman said, sarcasm starting to creep in around the edges of his frustration.

“How do you mean?”

“I’m very busy right now, actually. Can I call you back?”

“Oh, right, right. Fine. But we’re solid here, right? You’re going to make sure I don’t get blamed for this?”

“I really do have to go. I have a friend from work here right now,” Alderman said.

“Oh,” Martin said. “Didn’t realize. Sorry!” And then, after a pause, “We’re not on speakerphone or anything, right?”

“No, no. Eugene Zlomek is here, is all, and he’s telling me about his plans for the weekend. I think I’ve mentioned him before, right? A business acquaintance from the City.”

Martin felt his stomach fall into his testicles. “Fuck,” he said.

“That’s right.” The happiness in Alderman’s voice was the kind you only heard when businessmen were placating a customer, or an employee. Professional Happiness.

“How about I’ll call you tonight, okay? Have a drink and unwind while you wait, alright?”

Franklin Alderman didn’t wait for Martin to respond before hanging up. Martin had said, “Ri—” before realizing that nobody was on the other end, and then hung up with a petulance rarely seen in a grown man. He tapped the end of his rifle impatiently against the side of the phone booth for a minute, but his mind was moving too fast to remain focused on that, and he inadvertently put the barrel through the thin plastic panel.

The Verizon logo on the outside of the phone broke outward and away from the booth and bits of plastic rained on Martin’s hair. The reason it had rained on his hair, rather than on his shoes, is that when he heard the sound of the plastic popping and breaking away, he hit the ground in terror, dropping the gun. He was convinced that, somehow, it had gone off in the booth. Having no bullets in the chamber, though, the gun of course hadn’t go off, and continued not to do so when dropped. Suddenly he wondered what the hell he had been doing carrying the murder weapon around with him in the open to begin with.

Martin picked it up and forced it into his long, over-packed gym bag. It was nylon-and-mesh, and intended for use by baseball players (hence the length to accommodate a gun). It was loaded up with shorts and towels, on the off chance that anyone should want to take a look through it and Martin couldn’t dissuade them. The bag had a Champion logo on the top of it, which Martin couldn’t help but feel was a little ironic riding next to his face at the moment, while he tried to figure out how he botched his job so badly and who, exactly, he had killed.

He jogged to his car—a red, 1991 Ford Mustang LX waiting at the curb about fifteen feet from the payphone—and jumped in. He tossed the Champion bag in the back and shifted gears all at the same time, in one motion as though the release of the bag by his left arm had caused the right one to pull the lever between his front seats. The car failed to roar to life, but gurgled a bit, and rolled down the street in the way that 1991 Mustangs are wont to do.

The street was well-lit for the night drive home, and Martin was thinking of his terrible mistake, wondering what would happen next, when he saw the lights of a police car in his rearview mirror. He looked at the digital clock he had fastened to the dash when all of the vehicle’s interior lighting had failed months before. It read 1:39, which meant it had been a little more than forty-five minutes since Martin had killed someone who was not Eugene Zlomek.

He grabbed the pack of cigarettes from his dashboard and took one out. He lit it with a Zippo from his jacket pocket because the cigarette lighter in the Mustang had been removed by the previous owner, who thought he had been improving the transmission at the time. He rolled down the passenger side window and blew the smoke from his cigarette in that direction. He leaned onto the passenger seat and opened the glove box.

The police officer, carrying a flashlight that was completely unnecessary given the intensity of the spotlight he had pointed at Martin’s rearview mirror, used it to tap on the driver’s side window. Martin opened the driver’s door a crack and half-shouted out it.

“The window doesn’t open, Officer,” Martin apologized. “Wiring’s all screwed.”

“Can I see your license, registration and insurance card, please?” The policeman asked, with no clear indication that he understood or cared what Martin had said about the state of the Mustang.

“Absolutely. Hold on a minute.” Martin felt a cold sweat coming on as he rifled through the open glove box. He coughed a little on the cigarette, as he didn’t smoke. Instead, he had lit up to mask the odor of smoke in the car.

Having worn gloves for the killing, Martin thought that maybe they would have gunpowder residue on them, and started the light them on fire in the bushes outside the

Zlomek house. But when people inside realized that someone—not, apparently, Eugene

Zlomek—had been killed, they started to mill around by the window and Martin had felt

obliged to get out of there, carrying—in his dazed panic and hurry—his flaming gloves

with him. The smell of smoke was very strong in the car, and he had made use of some

very old, very cheap cigarettes a friend had left in the car months ago. He sat upright in

the driver’s seat, passing his license and insurance card to the patrolman outside.

“I can’t find the registration,” Martin said. “Can you take it off the windshield?”

The patrolman shone his unnecessary flashlight at the windshield to confirm that

there was, in fact, a registration on the car. “I’ll get it from the plates,” he said, and

walked to the front of the car, shining the flashlight some more.

The officer walked back to the open door. “Where is your front license plate?”

He asked.

“Vanished a few weeks ago; haven’t had time to report it,” Martin said honestly.

“You’d better.”

“I will.”

“Next time,” the cop warned, “you’ll get a ticket.”

“Is that why you pulled me over, Officer?”

“I’ll tell you when I get back.”

“I wasn’t speeding, was I?”

“I’ll talk to you when I get back,” the officer said, increasingly frustrated.

The patrolman walked back to his car, clicking the flashlight on and off, and then

sat in the driver’s seat for what seemed to Martin to be a very long time. Finally he got

out of the car, still hefting his flashlight.

“What’s that smell?” Asked the police officer when Martin reopened the door for

him.

“Smell?”

“Smoke. Do you have an exhaust problem, too?”

“Not that I know of. Maybe my cigarette?”

“Is it cloves or something?” The cop asked.

“No, just very cheap.”

“Hm. Maybe.” He straightened up. “Mr. Bidwell, do you know why I pulled

you over?”

“Because I have no front license plate?” Martin ventured.

“No.”

“Oh. In that case, I’m not really sure.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“No. Absolutely not. I’ve never had a drink in my life.”

“That sounds very defensive,” said the police officer, shining his flashlight around

inside the car.

“No, Officer. Just definitive.”

“Do your headlights work?”

Martin looked at the switch on his dashboard which controlled the headlights. It

was in the “Off” position.

“Shit,” Martin said.

“That’s what I thought when I saw you barreling down the road like that,” said the

patrolman.

“I just pulled away from the gas station about two miles back. This is a very well-

lit road…!”

“I understand. Are you related to Jonathan Bidwell?”

“My second-cousin.”

“His father was on my softball team last year.”

“Mike’s a great guy.”

“Yeah….I’m not going to ticket you tonight. Just be a little more with-it, okay?”

“Thanks.”

“No problem. And get your exhaust checked. I don’t think that’s tobacco.”

“Thanks.”

The patrolman walked back to his car and sat in it while Martin pulled back into traffic, turning on his headlights and blinker. In the back seat, the odor of the burning evidence still lingered. He left the passenger window down to get rid of it.

-----

“…But it’s trash, Doug!” Irwin shouted.

Irwin Shaw was sitting on a rolling chair in an office of white-painted concrete,

shouting emphatically at a stooped, wrinkled man whose white, bushy hair and lively eyes left even his best friends wondering how old he actually was. The man, his editor, walked away toward his own office and Irwin stood to follow him.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s trash, Shaw,” Doug told him. “What you did was unwarranted.”

“Completely unwarranted,” Irwin agreed, in a way that expressed a total lack of enthusiasm for, or interest in, Doug’s assessment.

“You wrote—let’s see…” Doug rustled papers around on his desk theatrically until he found one that he wanted. He squinted at it, opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again.

Then he threw that paper at the ground, and picked up another one instead. He looked pleased with this new acquisition.

“You wrote, ‘…where the only thing greasier than the fish fry and warm beer is the middle-aged barmaid who flirts with everyone under eighty.’”

“It’s true. The facts all check; I have quotes from seven regular customers.”

“I don’t care about your ridiculous quotes. You know you can’t say that shit.”

“Why not?”

“You know damned well why not,” Doug growled, withdrawing a pair of reading glasses from his paper-covered desk and putting them on top of his head as if he may wear them eventually, but not right now.

“I can’t tell the truth about the places I’m supposed to ‘review’ because they’re our advertisers and they might get mad if someone points out how shitty their bars really are.”

Irwin had used air quotes to emphasize his point when he said the word “review.”

“Not bars, Irwin. Clubs.”

“Three quarters of what you send me to cover for the ‘Local Clubs’ column are just crappy bars that have local cover bands playing on systems too loud for the rooms they’re in.”

“Tanner’s called. They won’t advertise with us anymore.”

“That’s not such a bad thing,” Irwin said. “I don’t think I would want our paper associated with that dive anyway.”

“No, no, no. That’s a very bad thing. Where do you think your salary comes from?”

“Salary?! You’re crazy. I get twenty bucks a story. That’s not a salary, that’s money for gas and food to get to, and then do, the story. And the food’s hardly ever any good. But I’m not complaining about the money, trust me. Play money for play journalism. It all makes sense.”

“I told you when you took over this column that the food is free at the clubs you’re writing up,” Doug sighed, putting his head in his hands and knocking the reading glasses askew, then taking them off and putting them back on the desk.

“I’m glad you think that; the bar owners don’t seem to have been told.”

There was a knock on the door, and a young, husky man with very black hair came in wearing a t-shirt that said, “Dammit—I Did Not Have Sexual Relations With That Woman Either.”

The young man said, “Mister Hooper? We really need you out here. It’s almost two,” and left in such a hurry, it was obvious that he was either very busy, or hoping to dodge Doug’s reply.

“Okay, Irwin. You’re off this column.”

“Doesn’t that have to wait until the real editors get here in the morning?” Irwin asked with a smirk.

“No. You run in my edition. And I already talked to Brad.”

“So, I’m fired?”

“No, you still have your other column.”

“Gee, thanks. You know, that one was also a lot more interesting before you guys started to get…”

Doug cut him off. “…And for the next few weeks, until we figure out what else you’re good for, I want you on newsdesk during this shift.”

“What?”

“General assignment.”

“I’m—what? Demoted? How does that even work, when you pay by the story?”

“Not demoted. The new Local Club writer came out of that slot. I just need you there until we fill it.”

“Roger is taking over the Club column?” Irwin choked on the statement, and caught his body trying to laugh without permission.

“Yes. Is there a problem with Roger, too?”

“Not at all, Doug. It suits him.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Doug asked, a vein in his head starting to throb.

“Your nephew’s not really a reporter, he’s just the nephew of an editor.”

Doug's face started to turn red, and he rose in from his seat, but Irwin continued. “That column isn’t really reporting, as I said, just kind of masturbation of our sponsors…”

The young man came back to the doorway, still looking harried. “Mister Hooper? It’s almost two.”

“Still?” Doug shouted.

The young man missed the sarcasm, and paused for a second before darting away to process it, as though the question might be a trick.

“…Yes?” He responded hesitantly.

“I’m coming,” Doug said to the young man, and then to Irwin he said, “Get out of my office. I just got like nine e-mails in two minutes, so something must be happening. Go check the places you go check.”

“Will do, Skipper. By the way, nice office you have here.”

“Yeah, Doug said, ushering everyone out the door. “It used to be a bathroom, but the Department of Health said it was too small for that. Now get out of it.”

“I see,” Irwin said, “You’ve gotta take a leak.”

Doug slammed the door.

Irwin walked around the corner behind him and was standing next to the computers that were set to receive e-mails from wire services, freelance writers and letters to the editor. Two of them were idling, waiting for a password to unlock them so that they may crash freely. On a third, there was an e-mail program open. This, Irwin knew, was the computer that John Ramsay, the editor in charge of the Op-Ed section, used to receive all of his e-mail. Irwin sat in front of the computer and looked up the e-mail preferences.

Ramsay had set the computer, apparently, to filter out pornography, letters from a recently-fired Sentinel employee and anything with a subject heading containing nasty language. Irwin knew that there had been some very, very unpleasant language used in a some recent letters to the editor, mostly directed at Ramsay’s mother after a story he’d written on why it was necessary to enforce dog-leash laws that were already on the city’s books. Irwin changed the settings so that anything containing any one of several nasty words would be forwarded to Ramsay’s home e-mail account and marked with a little red flag that said “Urgent!” if you held the mouse over it for a second.

He also turned on an auto-reply feature that would tell anyone e-mailing letters to the editor that The Editor had been “…eaten by a rampaging groundhog, and that future e-mails should be directed to:” and then Ramsay’s personal e-mail address again.

He skated sideways on the rolling chair, then, and punched his own password into another computer to see what had been coming in while he was in Doug’s office.

A few headlines popped onscreen: “Fire at Soup Company Kills 11.” “Classical Pianist Arthur Dent Dies at Age 67.” “French Language More Prevalent In Michigan, Study Shows.”

He printed off each of these and left them sitting on a desk for the news desk reporter to find in the morning, then he walked toward the door.

“Where are you going, Shaw?” Shouted Doug Hooper from a light table where he was looking at the next edition of the Sentinel.

“My People of Interest column,” Irwin said.

“I’ve already got it!”

“The next one.”

“What was on the wires?”

“Gerard Depardieu in Detroit.”

“Just go home, Shaw,” Doug said, waving at him irritably, looking down at the table, then feeling on the top of his head for the reading glasses that were no longer there.

It was 1:40 in the morning when Irwin Shaw left the offices of The Sentinel.

It was 6:51 the next morning when he finally arrived at home. At 1:46, as he was turning into his driveway, Irwin had heard on the police scanner in his car that a man had been found dead about four miles from where Irwin lived.

He arrived at the address of the death five minutes ahead of The Sentinel’s police reporter, Jim Smith. Jim was a tall, jolly guy whose writing was as bland as his name and who didn’t really care if other reporters hijacked his stories. He’d just been working the same beat for so long, it was like getting paid to hang out with his friends in blue.

The house was enormous, but other than that pretty unremarkable. It was white with black shutters, squarish, and had what appeared to be about one window for every room in its three sprawling stories. All of the windows were the same; there was no picture window visible on any of the three sides of the house that Irwin could see either from the road or from his current position in the driveway.

Irwin, flashing his press badge to no one in particular, stepped up near the front door of the house where the police and the press had already set up shop. There was a police line, and just outside of it a handful of uniformed police officers were talking in subdued tones to a young man and woman in their early- or mid-twenties. The young man looked vaguely familiar, but it was the kind of familiarity that easily could have come from living so near to one another and shopping in the same places. Irwin couldn't place him.

The police didn't seem to be talking to the young man and the young woman as much as talking to the young woman and tolerating the young man being there, his hands on the girl's shoulders obviously being integral to keeping her from falling apart. The young man looked around him, and his eyes were red. He glanced through the crowd, fixed on Irwin for a second, and then looked away. There didn’t seem to have been any indication of recognition from the young man in the second they'd made eye contact.

The officer who had been talking to the young couple turned his back and headed indoors, and the couple sat on the bottom step of the house's big, all-wooden porch.

Irwin hung his head, took a reporter's notebook out of the pocket of his gray trench coat and approached them slowly. He spoke, first, to the girl, who had obviously been crying. Her eyes were red and puffy, her hair mussed. There was blood on her shirt, which had been partially covered by the brown corduroy jacket slung over her body. The young man next to her didn't look much better.

"I'm sorry," Irwin started. "I know this is a terrible time, but can I ask you a few things?"

"Who are you?" The girl choked out.

"Irwin Shaw, with The Sentinel."

"Oh. Press."

"Yeah. We always know just where we're needed the least, and that's more or less where we're paid to be. I live right down the way, so my editor figured I might know you guys,. Your brother looks a little familiar."

The young man didn't move, didn't respond. He didn't seem to be acknowledging Irwin at all.

"He's not my brother," the girl corrected. "My fiancé. This is James. His father is...was...he's the son."

"Of the one who passed?"

"Right."

Irwin looked at the young man, whose dark hair was longish and unkempt and who appeared to have been rousted from his sleep to come to the crime scene; he was wearing sweat pants, a mesh shirt and slippers. His eyes were also red with exhaustion and tears.

"I'm sorry for your loss, James," Irwin said, but the young man didn't respond.

The girl chimed in quietly: “What do you need, Mister…hmm…I’m sorry, forgot already…?”

“That’s okay. It happens. Irwin Shaw, Sentinel. You’ve had a long night.”

“So do you know what’s happened?” She asked him.

“I heard on the police scanner that someone was found dead here.”

“Yes, James’ father.”

“You said,” Irwin led her on. “What happened?”

“He was murdered. Shot.”

“Was anyone else in the house at the time?”

“He was shot through the window.”

“Are they absolutely sure about that?”

“I don’t know if they are, but I am. I was in the next room.”

Where was James here? In bed?”

“Yeah, in bed…at home…” the girl seemed flustered. “…At his house. Sorry. I don’t usually talk to the press.”

“You’re fine,” Irwin reassured her, “You’re doing fine. What’s your name, though?” He was scratching out the first notes in his pad.

“My name? It’s Michelle Zlomek. This is my house.”

“You live here alone?”

“No. It’s my dad’s house. I live here. I’m not out of college yet.”

“Where do you go?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Okay…”

“Don’t you want to know about who was killed?”

“I was coming around to that.”

“His name was Lowe. Edward Lowe.”

“Name sounds familiar.”

“He was the CEO of Keystone Security,” James said. His voice was so hoarse and quiet that it took Irwin a second to realize that he was being addressed.

“We did a feature on them not long ago,” Irwin said, turning to James and trying to keep from seeming put off. “They’re local.”

“Yeah,” James said.

“Was there any reason why anyone would be wanting to kill your father, James?”

“Plenty.”

“Want to tell me some of them?”

“Not really.”

“Want to tell me who? I might be able to bring them to justice….”

“I thought that was the police.”

“Them, too,” Irwin quipped, trying his hardest not to sound overly glib and failing.

“I think I’ll stick with them. They’re kind of officially doing it.”

“They’re just part of the Executive Branch. The press is the Fourth Estate.”

“I am greatly disturbed by the death of my father, which comes as a shock to our family,” James said. It sounded as though he were reading from a script. “I look forward to seeing his killer brought to justice and will support the law enforcement community in any way I can during the investigation.”

“Wow,” Irwin said.

“Is that what you needed?” James asked, ice in his tone. “A comment?”

“Did you kill your father, James?”

“Fuck off.”

“I’ll fuck off in just a minute. Just wanted you to know—if you give a press conference and make a remark that shallow, in that tone of voice, anyone who sees you on TV will think that you killed Edward Lowe.”

“Off the record?”

“That all depends.”

“I already know who killed him. I also know they’ll never be held accountable. I just don’t know what I’m going to do about it yet.”

“Tell me what you think. Maybe I can get some evidence to supply to the police.”

“Why can’t I just tell it to the police?”

“Or that.”

“You’ve got my statement, Mr. Shaw. Please just go away now.”

“Miss? I forget your name.” He looked down at his scrawled notes. “Michelle!”

“What?” She sighed.

“Why was Mr. Lowe at your house so late?”

“My father works with Ed at Keystone.”

“What’s your father’s name?”

“Zlomek.”

“His first name?”

“Just go read some press releases or something,” James hissed. “I’m sure you can put it all together.”

“Thanks for the help,” Irwin said.

He stood, much to the chagrin of his knees and ankles, and turned around. He almost walked into a uniformed police officer who was making a beeline for something important.

“Whoa! Sorry,” Irwin said. “Irwin Shaw. Sentinel. Got a minute?”

“No,” the cop said, and tried to sidestep Irwin, who followed his movement.

“How about half of one?”

The cop’s jaw tensed for a second and then relaxed. “What do you want?”

“Whose house is this?”

“No comment.”

“What relation is he to the deceased?”

“No comment.”

“I hear he worked with the victim. What’s the homeowner do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you know that Lowe was the CEO?”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t know what Zlomek was? Is.”

“No.”

“You guys got on this pretty quick. I don’t live far.”

“I was in the area.”

“Doing what?” Irwin wondered if there was evidence to be had, which a slow patrolman might not put together and might, therefore, accidentally expose to the press.

“Someone busted in the side of a phone booth.”

“Sounds thrilling,” Irwin said, “What’s your name?”

“Shane Norton.”

“Thanks.”

Irwin put his pad and pen back in the pocket of his coat without having written anything about a vandalized payphone.

---

Martin’s phone was ringing.

He had been sitting up in bed for over three hours, waiting for the call, but he was slow to answer. On the small coffee table in front of his television was the morning’s paper. On the front page, with a tabloid-sized headline, was a story about a CEO of a locally-owned, New York-based company having been shot to death at his partner’s house the night before.

“Edward Lowe, 53, of Brick was killed last night in Red Bank….Lowe, the CEO of Keystone Security, was shot through the window of 212 Marsh Drive….The building belongs to Eugene Zlomek, Lowe’s business partner and the CFO of Keystone.”

Martin had killed Edward Lowe. Edward Lowe, the annoying bastard who always came into work and bitched about his cheeseburger. For a moment, Martin was struck by the pettiness of a millionaire—someone who obviously could have gone to a better establishment after one or two disappointments and left Martin the hell alone—coming every single day and bitching about mayonnaise. The thought, though, was hard-pressed to remain long in Martin’s mind, given the thoughts it was fighting for attention and the ringing of the phone that Martin knew could not possibly be good news.

“Yes?” He answered, tired and anxious and not at all happy to be alive.

“Martin, how are you?” Came Alderman’s voice from the other end of the phone; his good cheer was infinitely more frightening than if he had just called and started shouting.

I’m so sorry I fucked up, Mr. Alderman,” Martin said into the phone, so fast he could hardly be understood. “Please give me another shot—chance. I’ll fix things.”

“There’s nothing to fix. I’ve got things under control on my end, I think. You’re not going to be paid for this travesty, certainly. You did, after all, screw up the job rather severely…but you had the right idea and you got away without implicating any of us.”

“Thank you, Sir. Do do I…?”

“I want him dead by Friday, and I don’t want it in the papers. I don’t want my people to hear about it until it’s too late to be helped. This is kind of against the rules.” His sinister, faux-European voice paused to assume a more professional air. “Zlomek will be named CEO on Friday if he’s still alive when the Board meets in emergency session to discuss the passing of Mr. Lowe. At that point, he’ll become very useful to us. I’d rather he didn’t; he’s a prick and I don’t want to work with him for the rest of my days.”

“And you’re sure there’s nobody listening on the other end of the phone, right? I mean, I’ll get away with this, right?”

“The only thing that could get you in trouble now, Martin—is if you keep asking that. It’s really very unprofessional. It’ll give people the wrong idea.”

“Sorry.”

“Quite alright,” Alderman said. “I’ll call you when I hear that Zlomek is dead. In the meantime, you just sit tight.”

Before Martin could say goodbye, Alderman hung up the phone. Martin sat for a second, scowling at this indignity, and then hung up the phone and silently threw himself at, more than into, his huge blue easy chair. He picked up the remote control from the seat, flicked on the television and caught the news:

“Edward Lowe, President and CEO of Keystone Security, was killed late last night at the home of the company’s CFO Eugene Zlomek. This could spell more trouble for Keystone, whose bid to take over CopCo fell through very publicly last month and whose stock has been steadily declining since rumors surfaced that the company could face charges relating to union-busting. Lowe’s family says they intend to release a statement this afternoon. Keystone, meanwhile…” and Martin switched the channel. On HBO, they were playing a documentary about Lenny Bruce, and Martin left it there while he closed his eyes and tried to decide whether to cry or just take a nap until the phone started ringing again.

---

Irwin's phone was ringing.

After having filed the late-night story on the murder of Edward Lowe, Irwin had returned home and slept. His sheets were tossed everywhere, and there was a pretty clear trail of disorder from where Irwin had entered the dark room the night before, to where he'd hopped onto bed. In that trail were all of the pieces of junk that he had stepped on before falling asleep at five in the morning. He could see it all now, with his clear eyes and the light flooding the cheap lace curtains of the bedroom.

Monumentally disoriented, Irwin faced the wall and reached out. His hand struck the wall and he turned back around and reached out again, this time grabbing at his alarm clock.

"Yallo?" he muttered into the phone when, after its fifth ring, he finally had it in his hand.

"Shaw, what the hell were you thinking?" Hooper demanded.

"Say again?"

"I said, 'What the hell were you thinking?' Last night."

"Last night, I was thinking, 'I should hand in this story to Doug, so that he'll stop bitching.' Shows you Daffy Duck was right when he said it doesn't pay to think."

"Smartass. Stop screwing around. You were hounding someone else's story."

"Oh, come off it. You know he doesn't care."

"We have to have some semblance of order here, Shaw."

"It didn't seem to bother you last night; they said they were planning on running it on the front page."

"They did."

"Great. So what are you complaining about?"

And Irwin hung up.

Of course, I didn't know any of this yet. I figured it all out later.

"Blah-blah-blah!" The TV told me. I had been, for the previous hour, watching an HBO special on Lenny Bruce. Sunk low in a star-spangled camping chair in the living room of my small apartment, I stared vacantly at the television, too exhausted to either change the channel or take in the information in any meaningful way. My phone rang, and I ignored it. Finally, the answering machine kicked in.

"I don't know how you got this number," my voice came from the machine, "but there must be a good reason for it if you did. So state that reason and maybe I'll get back to you." There was then a series of beeps long enough to irritate all but the most persistent caller.

"Mr. Abernathy, we need to talk," a voice said. I cocked my head a little bit and hit the mute key on the remote control. Lenny Bruce was silent, but the TV continued to buzz with electrical life. The caller pressed on. "I believe that someone has tried to kill me. I was fortunate in that they failed, but I'm worried they may try again. I also have...fears...about the legal ramifications for me of their failed attempt. Please return my call at 200-8870. I will pay handsomely."

I clicked the sound on the television back on and mulled over what he had said. I already knew who he was, of course--it had been all over the papers about Ed Lowe at Keystone. There are only so many people who can afford my services, so there isn't a lot of room for coincidences in these matters.

There were only four or five people who could be calling me, asking for my help in this particular circumstance: Board members fo Keystone. I knew off the bat that I could count Mrs. O'Keefe out, clearly, and probably Bill Munger, too. He was too good a guy to be in a compromising position and too hapless to realize it even if he was. Also unlikely was Vittorio Graves, who was too old to be a suspect without a really solid motive--which nobody yet knew he had. That left the CFO, Eugene Zlomek. He made sense as a suspect; unfriendly, corrupt, young and strong...and the murder had happened at his house. So of course he hadn't done it, but the police would be positive he had.

Shit. I had to do this, didn't I?

I tuned off the television and sunk lower in my chair, closed my eyes and bowed my head. Might as well get some sleep.

#alphabet superset #murder mystery #struthless

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creative-pens · 2 years ago

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Gunman kills six, including ex-wife, in Mississippi

Tate County Sheriff Lance said deputies caught up with Crum outside his own home and arrested him. Behind the residence they found two handymen slain by gunfire — one in the road, another in an SUV.

ARKABUTLA: A lone gunman killed six people including his ex-wife and stepfather Friday at multiple locations in a tiny rural community in northern Mississippi, the sheriff said, leaving investigators searching for clues to what motivated the rampage.

Armed with a shotgun and two handguns, 52-year-old Richard Dale Crum opened fire at about 11 a.m. and killed a man in the driver's seat of a pickup truck parked outside a convenience store in Arkabutla, near the Tennessee state line, Tate County Sheriff Brad Lance said.

Deputies were working the crime scene when a second 911 call alerted authorities to another shooting a few miles away. After arriving at a home, they found a woman, whom the sheriff identified as Crum's ex-wife, shot dead and her current husband wounded.

Lance said deputies caught up with Crum outside his own home and arrested him. Behind the residence they found two handymen slain by gunfire — one in the road, another in an SUV. Inside a neighboring home, they discovered the bodies of Crum's stepfather and his stepfather's sister.

“Everybody has crime, and from time to time we have violent crime, but certainly nothing of this magnitude,” Lance said in an interview. He added: “Without being able to say what triggered this, that’s the scary part.”

Crum, 52, was jailed without bond on a single charge of capital murder, and Lance said investigators were working to bring additional charges. It was not immediately known if Crum had an attorney who could speak on his behalf.

That initial murder charge was for the killing of Chris Eugene Boyce, 59, the man who was shot outside the store. Boyce's brother was in the truck with him at the time and fled, according to the sheriff. Lance added that Crum chased the brother through a wooded area before he escaped unharmed.

Deputy Tate County Coroner Ernie Lentz identified the others killed as Debra Crum, 60; Charles Manuel, 76; John Rorie, 59; George McCain, 73; and Lynda McCain, 78. Lentz also said Boyce was from Lakeland, Florida.

Ethan Cash, who lives near the store, told WREG-TV he heard a gunshot from inside his house.

“I had just woken up and I look back here, and I see dude walking back here with a shotgun,” he said.

Cash added that he went to the scene and found one person who had been shot. He checked for a pulse, but found none.

In the lobby of the Sheriff’s Office, Norma Washington told The Associated Press that Boyce was her nephew. She said he and the brother, Doug, who lives in Alaska, had been in town cleaning up a property they inherited from their deceased uncle.

“I lost my brother, and now this one,” Washington said. “This has been something else.”

It was unclear whether Crum knew either of the brothers.

The killings stunned residents of Arkabutla, home to 285 people and located about 30 miles (50 kilometers) south of Memphis, Tennessee. It's the hometown of famed actor James Earl Jones, and nearby Arkabutla Lake is a popular fishing and recreational destination.

An elementary school and a high school in nearby Coldwater both went on lockdown while the suspect was being sought, according to the Coldwater Elementary School Facebook page. A short time later, a second post on the page said the lockdown had been lifted and “all students and staff are safe.”

April Wade, who lives in Arkabutla and grew up in Coldwater, said both are small communities where most people know each other, “but if you don’t, you know somebody who knows somebody.”

Speaking from a local tire store in the afternoon, Wade said she and her husband were aware of the shootings but had not yet heard the names of the suspect or victims.

“I think it’s crazy,” Wade said. “You do not expect something like that to happen so close to home.”

The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives said its agents were providing assistance to the sheriff’s department and state investigators. Lance said one of their top priorities was to determine a motive.

The sheriff, who has lived in the area his entire life and served in law enforcement for 25 years, said he could recall no prior problems with Crum.

The shootings are the first mass killing in the U.S. since Jan. 23, which saw the last of six in a three-week period, according to an Associated Press/USA Today database. It defines a mass killing as four or more people dead, not including the perpetrator.

In a statement, President Joe Biden said he and first lady Jill Biden were mourning the six victims and praying for the survivors. He urged Congress to act now on gun law reforms to address what he called “an epidemic” of gun violence.

#Mississippi #Murder

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argus-news · 2 years ago

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Gunman kills six, including ex-wife, in Mississippi

Ethan Cash, who lives near the store, told WREG-TV he heard a gunshot from inside his house.

“I had just woken up and I look back here, and I see dude walking back here with a shotgun,” he said.

Cash added that he went to the scene and found one person who had been shot. He checked for a pulse, but found none.

“I lost my brother, and now this one,” Washington said. “This has been something else.”

It was unclear whether Crum knew either of the brothers.

April Wade, who lives in Arkabutla and grew up in Coldwater, said both are small communities where most people know each other, “but if you don’t, you know somebody who knows somebody.”

Speaking from a local tire store in the afternoon, Wade said she and her husband were aware of the shootings but had not yet heard the names of the suspect or victims.

“I think it’s crazy,” Wade said. “You do not expect something like that to happen so close to home.”

The sheriff, who has lived in the area his entire life and served in law enforcement for 25 years, said he could recall no prior problems with Crum.

#Murder #Mississippi

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achillesmonochrome · 2 months ago

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I truly agree with the fact that an explanation can be great, but also, that it is an explanation, not an excuse.

The creators of Bojack were actually, very aware of the perception the people have of their character, and would go out of their way to show why, tragic past or not, none of that justifies the shit he pulled as an adult.

The explanations Horikoshi gives for his characters not only lack this level of nuance, in many cases, feels like there is missing information.

I am going to die saying how Mitsuki probably had a lot to do with Katsuki becoming what he is; but Horikoshi didn't seem to agree because Mitsuki saying "You made a mess by getting kidnapped because you are weak" was somehow a gag. Regardless, feeling the pressure of being the best, and how you don't know who you are outside of that, could be an interesting premise.

If Horikoshi actually dived into that.

I feel these things are mentioned, on the occasion, but rather than explore how this has messed up Katsuki, or even better, he realizing that with his obsession of being the best he has made himself miserable- nothing fundamentally changes and Katsuki barely behaves differently, while the world continues pretend his actions should had been stopped awhile ago.

With Enji, this gets even worse.

Endeavor's character feels like somebody took a book about the life of somebody, then proceeded to take chunks of pages at random times, and then given the book to you while told that it still makes sense.

Enji lost his dad when he was trying to save a girl in a fire; I could see him wanting to be a hero because of this.

But why he became so obsessed that by the age of 21, he decided he needed to have a kid that could surpass All Might, enough to buy a bride and delve into Eugenics? Hell if we know.

He became the #1, because All Might retires, and is after that he decides he needs to be a better father; (because yes, this sentiment gets stronger after almost dying against that Nomu, but did he tried to be better before, when Shouto was on his remedial classes) How does those two thing relate to each other? Good fucking question.

The thing with Kotaro is that, it could had been SO interesting.

Because chances are, Nana didn't tell Kotaro that there was this bad guy looking after them, she wouldn't tell her kid that there is a demon lord in the shadows that secretly controls everything. Kotaro would think perhaps he dad was killed in some random incident, and then her mom jut dipped.

This could be a great commentary on the accidental harms the hero society causes; that love ones of heroes are in danger, that even when they are public servants they need to hide things. We can continue with the commentary of the failures of society, about how perhaps Nana thought the foster system would be good to Kotaro, but it was more harmful that she could had ever imagined.

We could had shown that Kotaro, even with his traumatic story, had become far more harmful than how Nana raised him, that he let his own anger fester to the point of becoming toxic to his family.

But naaaaaaah, All for One was behind everything! He made Kotaro have Tenko, he told Kotaro that he needed to be strict, and made Tenko like heroes more just so Kotaro had more reasons to be worse to him.

Because society was never the problem, it was the actions of individuals, aaaaaaaaall of it.

I REALLY hate the common theme in BNHA of pinning the blame on something or someone for an abuser turning out the way they did.

Bakugou? Oh he got a big head from everyone praising him or just Bakugou being Bakugou.

Endeavor? Oh he watched his father die saving someone.

Kotaro? Oh it was all Nana's fault for abandoning him as a child and should've kept him even though it would've put a target on him for AFO to get to!

I especially hate the last one because it was literally villainizing and pinning blame on Nana all for wanting to protect her child. Sure it sucks that they went through that, but that doesn't mean they should physically take it out on those they're supposed to love and justify it.

Bro the Endeavor thing pisses me off so bad you don't understand😭 Like so many other aspects of the Todoroki story (excluding Shoto's flashback) it feels like it's only there to make Endeavor more sympathetic.

But the worst part is, this doesn't even have to be a bad thing. Bojack Horseman had a horrible childhood (mentally/verbally abusive and negligent parents, generational trauma, substance misuse in his genetics and throughout childhood, toxicity of Hollywood, etc.) but the show goes out of its way to make sure you know that it doesn't excuse his actions. It makes sure you know that he is 100% at fault for not seeking help as an adult.

But for Endeavor, it was just something thrown together last minute to justify him literally participating in human trafficking. Like, WHAT??

(Would also like to point out that his father being killed by a villain does fuck all for his personality. Endeavor has never been about righteous justice like All Might. He's always been about being the best, like Bakugou. How in the fuck does that correlate to his father being killed? You can tell Horikoshi threw that together last minute because it's so generic and dumb)

And don't even get me started on Kotaro. It 100% feels like Horikoshi continuously bashes Nana for giving him up, to the point where she's barely a character outside of that. There's a lot of characters who deserved better, but Nana will always be so high on my list because of this

#mha critical #bnha critical #I am still so salty about that last one bit

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spiltcandycoatedpunkblood · 2 years ago

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the shit happening with the try guys is not just simple celeb gossip it is an abuse of power and friendship and it needs to be fucking called out more

#imagine one of your friends tearing apart your whole company and family and friends and finances #after 8 fucking years of knowing each other #do not bury this #people need to be held accountable for their actions #vent #the rest of the try guys with their video #damn it feels like i feel all those stages of grief at once #eugene looks like he could kill somebody with that look #i pity the person in a twisted way that he is on the receiving end of that alone #rant #the try guys #abuse tw

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skin-slave · 3 years ago

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I'm sorry if people hurt you. But God doesn't make evil happen. Satan does. Please choose God.

My brain: Do not engage. Block. Delete.

Also my brain: You know what?

See, if god is omniscient, that means he knows everything at all times. God knew way before creating Lucifer that the fall, etc, were gonna happen. He knew about all the evil. All the punishment. All the suffering. And he did it anyway. On purpose.

It means he knew, before he made ppl, everything that would happen. He already knew about the apple, and that by creating ppl, he would be setting them up for failure. (Which he would then punish, like a parent beating their kid for spilling a glass of water that they themselves filled too full. Real classy.) He knew. And he did it anyway. On purpose.

If you're a little less "from dust," and a little more "Darwin," he knew before the first amoeba that evolution would lead to us. He knew all about genocide, starvation, cancer, babies in dumpsters, deforestation, micro plastics, rape, torture, eugenics, ad-nauseum. He knew everything, in disgusting detail. And he did it anyway. On purpose.

I could not care less if a guy he created, for the express purpose of being a supervillain, has a hand on someone's rudder. It does not matter, even a little bit, if he just set the universe up and let it run, hands-off. His larger plans or whatever are entirely irrelevant.

I'm not omniscient, but I know that, if I make a splodey device, it will explode. Creating that device and then passively letting it explode doesn't make me not responsible. I did it, on purpose, with full knowledge of the ramifications. I don't get to skate by just bc I didn't physically push the shrapnel thru the bystanders. I did that shit.

And I'm tired of getting the spin that "UwU it's not his fault..." If that god is real, he is at fault for literally everything. You cannot say he created babies, but not the leukemia killing the babies. He made them both, and not by chance. It was the most informed choice in the history of ever. Dude looked at pediatric leukemia and went, "yup, sounds like a good idea."

If a person created leukemia, on purpose, knowing it would be killing kids, I would not sing songs about how rad they are. Idgaf if they also made rainbows. That's some really evil shit. The worst person you know would probably pass on creating leukemia. The moral compass is not a little off there. It's gone.

"It's part of his plan," is not a save. It makes it worse. It means that guy values something above the wellbeing and lives of children. It means that, whatever that thing is, he's totally ok with becoming a cosmic Mengele to get it. It means he's too lazy/stupid/apathetic/whatever to get from A to B without torturing and murdering children.

Please tell me you can see how fucking horrific that is. Somebody's dad going, "yeah, I had to slowly kill my kids to get a PS5... well, I mean, I didn't have to... actually, I technically could've just snapped my fingers and one would've appeared... but I work in mysterious ways, ya know?" And we're supposed to respect that amoral piece of shit? Where tf is your moral compass?

And you know what? That same omniscient god knew, at the beginning of time, that I would think and feel like I do, and why. He knew. And he did it anyway. On purpose. Sure, maybe the plan is to wait till I die and torture me for being exactly what he knew I would be. But I would rather sit in hell with other ppl who called out the bullshit, than lick the boots of the worst creature I can imagine. I kinda have standards for myself.

#anti religion #not sorry this was cathartic #death mention #child death mention #lots of fuckin blasphemy

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unlikelyjedi · 2 years ago

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Jujutsu Kaisen Pride Headcanons

LET'S FUCKING GOOOOOOOO!!!!

I have waited SO LONG to talk about my latest hyper-fixation, it's unreal!!!

You don't understand how badly I need to talk about how gay the whole cast of characters in in JJK. And for once on these lists I don't think I'm reading too much into it and in many ways, JJK has intended queer readings to its plot and characters. Akutami Gege bless.

I'll try to cover as many people as I can. I know I won't be able to get to everybody, but I'll try my damndest. If you want to hear about somebody I missed, my asks are always open!!

I don't even want to give a fucking disclaimer this time. This is my personal opinion. Art is Subjective. I'm reading it in a gay way. Honestly if you're mad about that, then maybe don't engage with a fucking pride post. I'M READY TO HAVE FUN!!!!!!

For the last day of Pride Month, LET'S GOOOOO!!!

Itadori Yuuji (he/him): Bisexual

I love he!!! But that's beside the point. His celebrity crush on Jennifer Lawrence always cracks me up. I love it! I also like hearing about his little middle school crush on Yuko!

I also tend to read into the relationship of Yuuji and Junpei as romantic, but that might just be wishful thinking on my part.

But let's not kid ourselves. If you know me, you know I ship Itafushi and man they got it down bad for each other!! Let's just hope that nothing bad happens to my sweet boy ever for all eternity.... haha....

Fushiguro Megumi (he/him): Pansexual

Basically Canon.

Although, tbh upon initial rewatches, I just assumed he was gay. It's only upon further rewatches and fandom stuff that I've come to see him as Pan. Of course, Megumi's quote about him liking a person as long as their compassionate doesn't necessarily read as Pan. It could also be read as Bi, or Demisexual, or Ace, etc. etc. It's okay for there to be multiple interpretations. I just like Pan the most!!

I also like the Trans headcanon for him! Like a lot!!! It just works.

Kugisaki Nobara (she/her): Bisexual

A lot of people see her as a Lesbian, which, yeah I can see why.

But I've always felt that she "swung both ways" if you will. Both in her sexuality, and with a hammer.

Mostly with a hammer, actually.

Zenin Maki (she/her): Bisexual

Originally, I thought of her as a lesbian. But then I was introduced to YuutaMaki and I realized "oh they're really adorable" and now I read her as bi.

I believe in Nobamaki supremacy, though! I love them together. They're probably my favorite non-canon wlw ship!!

Inumaki Toge (he/they): Gay

He's gay. Specifically gay for Yuuta. Babes has got it bad.

Panda (he/him): Ally

A bad one, at that. For not seeing that his best friend was clearly in love with Yuuta and trying to set up Yuuta and Maki instead. Honestly Panda, Toge was sitting there pining, and you just had to twist the knife.

Okkotsu Yuuta (he/him): Bisexual, Asexual

Baby boy. Baby. There are, like, a million people that want to hold this man gently, despite him definitely being able to hold his own in a fight. Definition of looks like a cinnamon roll, could kill you.

Likes many genders, but only romantically.

Gojo Satoru (he/him): Gay

Another headcanon that I flipped on. I originally read him as bi, but upon further reading and watching, I think he's just gay. Likes men. Gets easily hurt by the men he likes. Rinse. Repeat.

Nobody can physically touch him, but his One and Only leaves him, and he's in shambles for the next ten years.

Don't even get me started on Nanago, because I won't stop-

Geto Suguru (he/him): Gay

I don't know what else to say about the guy who heard a eugenics theory and ran with it.

He's gay. He tops.

Mmmmm Monkey

(I know there's more to his character than that, but this is not the post to do an in-depth character study)

Nanami Kento (he/him): Bisexual

There's a universe where Nanami gets with that bread girl. I believe it.

I believe Haibara and he were a thing before Haibara... yeah.

I also think he'd find himself in an unlikely bond with Gojo. It's not something he saw coming nor particularly wanted, but love is fickle, isn't it.

Ieri Shoko (she/her): Lesbian

Mean Lesbian. Gay protector to her two idiot best friends. Would die for them, but would probably also throw them to the wolves. Likes Utahime, but doesn't go for it because she thinks Utahime doesn't like her back.

Iori Utahime (she/they): Lesbian, Demisexual

Stressed Lesbian. Very Panic. Also very angry. Has a very obvious crush on Shoko but thinks Shoko hates them (because Gojo told them Shoko hated them).

Also she's trans. I didn't put that in the big description, but she's trans.

Zenin Mai (she/her): Bisexual

She discovered she was bisexual once she got out of her oppressive family. We all agree Todo taking her to that idol was her bisexual awakening, yes?

Todo Aoi (he/him): Ally

The most homosexual heterosexual.

A surprisingly good Ally. Helped Mai discover she was bisexual. Looking out for Itadori and being a wingman (unless it's that boring Fushiguro guy). He attacked Megumi not because he likes guys, but because he was just insufferably boring.

He's great. And also annoying. Good character.

Miwa Kasumi (she/her): Sword Sapphic

Disaster. Absolute disaster. Definitely developed a crush on Maki. Falls for someone hard and fast.

Kamo Noritoshi (he/him): Asexual

I don't think Kamo likes anyone in a sexual way. Maybe in a romantic way, though. To be honest, he's kinda got a lot going on and I don't think he realizes he's any type of Queer.

Yoshino Junpei (he/him) Gay

Another reason to get picked on, I guess. Nobody in his close circle has a problem with it, especially not Junpei himself. It doesn't stop the bullying though. I believe Itadori and Junpei could've been a beautiful couple. Yuuji comes back from the dead with a new bf. Would've been great. heh

Sukuna (depends on the vessel): Queer, Genderqueer

I highly doubt Sukuna would care about gender. Despite being born a man, he's a curse. I don't think gender really matters for curses. And along with Sukuna wearing more feminine clothing, it's pretty canon. If Sukuna was inhabiting a girl, she'd use she/her pronouns. Same with a non-binary person, etc. I also highly doubt he's got a gender preference either. It wouldn't matter.

Mahito (any/all): Genderqueer

Same as above. He's a curse. Do you think they really care that much about gender?? She's supposed to represent human fears. Mahito also has a moment of gender non-conformity in the Juju-Stroll, so there's precedent.

Kenjaku (depends on the body): Genderqueer

Same as above. Again. Kenjaku is a curse and takes on the gender of the host he's possessing. This is not rocket science. It's built into the story! I love it!

Choso (he/him): Queer

Choso is GNC as many of the characters in this show are, but I do believe he, too is not straight. He's a curse. Sort of. And a good brother. And I think he'd know he's not straight. And would help out his brother with his love life. Whether Itadori wants it or not.

Really quick I wanted to Mention both Uraume and Hoshi Kirara who both have undefined pronouns and look more androgynous and feminine respectively. I can tepidly say they're both genderqueer, though there is debate on that. I'm hopeful that they both will be canonically queer though!!!

My God! I spent SO LONG on this!!! But I had fun!!! It wan good to do something myself for Pride Month when before I'd only been able to look on with longing as other people did fun stuff for pride! Now I get to put my silly little posts out into the world for a small handful of people to see and it's really fun!

I hope you've had a good month. Let's continue to be proud in the coming months. Especially when it's hard. Even if your version of pride is simply reblogging cute art and making headcanons for silly little characters!

I love you all!!!

#jujutsu kaisen #itadori yuuji #fushiguro megumi #kugisaki nobara #gojo satoru #geto suguru #zenin maki #zenin mai #okkotsu yuuta #inumaki toge #nanami kento #ieri shoko #iori utahime #lgbtq #pride month

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attackfish · 3 years ago

Note

Anon asks are in, so I'm going for one that's kind of out there: what if Ozai wasn't a power hungry monster, but was still an antagonist. Like, instead of being so egotistic, he's the opposite and devotes himself into being a dutiful son, of the both his father and his nation.

His relations with his children is still stunted, but in a "young man who has no idea on what's he doing trying to be a 'cold/distant but loving' father". with the same being true with his relationship with Ursa. Instead of killing Lu Ten and aiming for the throne, the former and Azulon die naturally and Ozai is elevated to being FL in all but name as Iroh is too depressed for his duties. It'd just be interesting seeing Zuko dealing with a father who he needs to stop but isn't necessarily evil, who's relationship isn't great, but in a way that's awkward and confusing.

For a little bit of context, I got this ask right after talking about how Zuko being able to realize his father was abusive toward him and also that his father's imperialism was wrong, and to draw parallels between the two, was very convenient and allowed for good thematic cohesion.

So of course somebody has to ask what does the story look like without that.

This is something that I'm already exploring in my Avatar Sozin, Firelord Ursa verse, my Regent Ursa verse, and in the verses where Iroh becomes Firelord without going through his realization that the war is wrong. In both cases, Zuko ultimately has to come to the painful, and in some ways much more difficult, realization that these people he loves and who have always loved and supported him, have done and are continuing to do horrible harm to other people and to the world. This could be even more fraught if Ozai and Zuko's relationship is distant even strained, in spite of being genuinely loving.

Now, aside from this emotional/thematic difference, there are going to be some fundamental practical characterization differences in any universe where Ozai isn't an abusive scumbag. Zuko and Azula were both clearly developed as characters with their history of abuse and favoritism baked in. This shaped their personalities and characterizations heavily. Having them act the way they do in the show without that history would not work. In any universe where Ozai isn't a horrifically abusive parent, his children are going to be completely different people, with different ways of seeing and reacting to the world.

Likewise, if he isn't an abusive father and husband, his relationship with Ursa is going to be radically different. How couldn't it be? Even if it starts the same way, with Azulon coercing Ursa (and I think it's safe to say, Ozai as well) into marriage for his little eugenics experiment, which is of course a horrible start, it will evolve completely differently from that point on. It's safe to say that their relationship might begin with mutual resentment and deep unhappiness. They are only human, after all. But without Ozai being actively cruel, and with children they each love and care for, I don't think it's unreasonable that they might grow to be friends and partners. Romantic love might not grow out of such a friendship, but it also might, in which case, Ikem would become no more than a happy memory for Ursa.

Speaking of resentment and people being human, there is Ozai's relationship with his father and brother. A loving, loyal son and brother Ozai might be, but Azulon is still Azulon, and he is heavily implied to be a... Shitty abusive father who plays favorites. Hmmm. And Ozai, much like Zuko (in canon) is the unfavorite. In canon of course, Ozai reacts to the unwinnable misery of life with a father like that, by becoming arrogant, selfish, and cruel to compensate. And even if he doesn't do that here, he will naturally feel resentment toward his father and brother, for his father's treatment, and his brother's seemingly effortless success and favor. He's human. Just look at canon Zuko's resentment toward Azula!

That resentment might even be stronger toward his brother, who is not actively mistreating him than it is toward their father who is, perversely for that very reason. The fear of an abuser's displeasure and the psychological stress that induces, as well as the need to create a semblance of control for a victim, often redirect their anger toward their abusers onto less intimidating people in their lives.

And this resentment might become all the greater after Azulon and Lu Ten's deaths, if Iroh, deep in his grief, shoves the responsibility of ruling onto Ozai's shoulders. Ozai could easily feel as if he's cleaning up his brother's mess, especially since he has a loss of his own to mourn. And as a loving father and brother who knows Iroh just lost a son, he might feel incredibly guilty about that resentment, but that doesn't make that resentment go away. And how much might that resentment worsen if Iroh takes back the reins of power, with the newfound conviction that the war their father taught them to fight, is wrong. A conviction Ozai doesn't share, one he sees as disloyal to their father's memory.

And how much might this tangle of emotions unravel with Ozai as heir presumptive to his elderly, widowed, childless brother? Especially if Iroh has an easier and less complicated relationship with Ozai's children than with Ozai himself. Especially if Zuko, and possibly even Azula begin to share Iroh's convictions about the war.

#avatar the last airbender #ozai #atla ursa #uncle iroh #zuko #azula #do you want to ask a question it doesn't have to be a question #noodle lord ozai #i ship iroh/tea #mother bear ursa #zuko is a dweeby little turtleduck #azula needs her own warning #posts i created

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walkerwords · 4 years ago

Text

“Hold On” Rick Grimes & Daughter!Reader

GIF CREDIT: http://gph.is/2yDy2U6

Request from @joelsheartache: I'd like to request a Rick x daughter!reader. The reader it shot instead of Olivia, but instead of a head shot it's in her abdomen but the shot is still fatal. Rick tries to stop the blood flow and says things along the lines of "You're gonna be okay, baby girl! You just have to focus on me! No, no, y/n, keep your eyes open!" You can decide if she lives or not! This may not be the best request, but I really liked the idea!

Word Count: 3635

Warning: Major Angst

Song I Wrote To: “Hold On” by Chord Overstreet

Note: Oof this was a request that I was both excited and stressed to write. I hope you like it

------

When you discovered your brother was missing, you knew exactly where he had gone.

You knew Carl wanted to kill Negan and you knew that he had been becoming more reckless since everything had happened at Terminus. Then, when Negan had killed Glenn and Abraham in front of him, Michonne had told you that something had shifted in your younger brother’s eyes.

You hadn’t been there when the Saviors had taken your people and killed your friends, but when they had returned and your father, Rick, came to find you, he hadn’t hesitated to take you in his arms and make sure that you were still there, that you were still alive.

You were his eldest and whenever he wasn’t home, you were the one who wanted to look after your little sister. However, seeing how broken they all looked, a part of you wished you would have been there. Maybe you would have been able to stop Negan or at least stop him from taking Daryl.

Living with Negan’s boot on your necks was horrible. Every day you woke up and you didn’t know what was going to happen. While you were used to that due to the new world, this was a new kind of danger and one your father was determined to keep you and your siblings from.

That is until Carl decided to go all lone-wolf and test your patience.

The next time you saw your brother he was being led back through Alexandria by Negan himself. You were helping Gabriel in the pantry when they had arrived. Rage entered your chest as you saw the murderer walking alongside Carl, but when you saw where they were headed, that was when you nearly ran after them. However, Gabriel had grabbed your arm, shaking his head.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Remember what Rick said. Carl won’t let him hurt her and I don’t believe Negan would harm a child.”

“He threatened to make my dad cut off his own son’s arm, Father,” you spat, staring after them.

“But he didn’t and I don’t know what happened with Carl, but he is still alive and looks unharmed. We have to trust that he will be safe.” You pushed away from him.

“Nobody is safe anymore,” you had told him, “and if he touches a hair on Judith’s head, I’m going to kill him.”

The rule that your dad had given you was simple: don’t let people know you were his daughter. At least, not his enemies’. You looked more like your grandparents than your parents and your Uncle Shane had once said that you could pass for Lori’s sister rather than her daughter which had come in handy at times.

Especially when Gareth hadn’t targeted you when he had attacked the church and so you were able to get a jump on him before your father had brought the machete down.

You kept out of Negan’s way for as long as possible until the moment arrived when Spencer Monroe decided to make an appearance. You never liked Spencer, nobody in your family did. He was proud, arrogant, and he had been stuck in Alexandria for way too long. He was a child trying to be a man and you were done with his high and mighty attitude.

When the moron had invited Negan to drink and play pool out in the street, that was when you had finally approached him and the others. Your brother was standing on the porch next to Olivia when you walked over. His eyes met yours and he shook his head, but you ignored him, planting yourself on the grass below him, crossing your arms.

You watched as Spencer tried to convince Negan to work alongside him instead of your father and you had to keep reminding yourself to stay calm. Rick and Aaron were on their way back. It was only a matter of time before they came home. You knew that was what Negan was waiting for, the opportunity to rub it in your dad’s face that Carl had been returned safely.

As you thought about all the ways you could potentially slit Negan’s throat, a cry of alarm brought you out of your thoughts. Looking up, you saw Spencer hunched over and in Negan’s hand was a blade dripping in blood. He was smiling as Spencer’s guts spilled from his abdomen. Monroe collapsed to the ground as his intestines slipped through his fingers.

Negan went to make some kind of speech when Rosita pulled a gun from the back of her pants. You barely had a second to stop her before she aimed and fired at Negan. You froze, waiting for his body to drop, but the bullet had hit his bat instead.

“Shit! What the shit!” Negan bellowed as Rosita looked at him in utter shock. The next second, one of Negan’s lieutenants slammed Rosita into the pavement, holding her down by her throat. “Shit! You just‒ You tried to kill me!? You shot Lucille!” he screamed. Rosita sneered at him from the ground.

“She got in the way,” she growled. Negan, fuming, turned Lucille to observe the slug that now marred her smooth surface.

“What is this? What is this? This little bad boy made from scratch? Look at those crimps. This was homemade. You may be stupid, darlin', but you showed some real ingenuity here,” Negan spat and then gestured to the woman that held your friend down. “Arat, move that knife up on that girl's face.” Rosita squirmed under Arat, but held her tongue. “Lucille's beautiful, smooth surface is never gonna look the same, so why should yours?! Unless... Unless you tell me who made this.”

“It was me!” Rosita yelled from the ground. “I made it.”

“You see, now I just think you're lying. And you lying to me now? Such a shame. Arat's gonna have to cut up that pretty face,” Arat pressed the knife against Rosita’s cheek. “One more try.” Rosita remained silent.

“Oh! You are such a badass! Fine. Have it your way. Arat…, Negan paused as he lazily looked around the group that had gathered. “Kill somebody,” he finished and Rosita yelled, trying to shove Arat off of her.

“No. It was me!” she tried again, but it was too late. In a single move, Arat spun on her knee, pulled her gun, and squeezed the trigger.

The next thing you heard wasn’t the gunshot, but the sound of your younger brother screaming as heat rushed into your abdomen.

-------

“No!” Carl screamed and Olivia watched in horror as you collapsed to the ground.

Carl vaulted over the railing and slid to your side. “Oh god,” he said, trying to figure out where to put his hands, but there was already too much blood. You stared up at him, trying to figure why he looked so stressed, and when you looked down at yourself and saw the blood, the wound, terror entered your mind.

Not like this.

From down the road came two people, running as fast as they could. Rick nearly dragged Aaron who looked to be beaten. When Rick had gotten to the group, both Tobin and Eugene tried to stop him.

“Rick, stop!” Gabriel said, trying to hide you from view. Rick pushed against the men that held him, handing Aaron over to Tara and Scott. When Gabriel tried to stop him again, Rick shoved him out of the way.

And then, he saw you.

It was like Lori all over again. He walked forward before his knees gave out and Tobin had to catch him again. Carl looked up at his father, tears already flowing from his left eye. “No!” Rick cried, agony soaking his voice.

“Damn!” Negan said, “someone was popular.”

“She’s Rick’s daughter!” Rosita snapped at Negan, getting her voice back as the cut on her face bled. Lucille went from his shoulder to down by his side in a single movement at her words and then Negan took a step back, his face full of shock.

Rick nearly crawled to you, forcing himself to be by your side. His eyes widened as he took in your condition. You knew what he was seeing, there was too much blood. There wasn’t anything anyone could do. Rick was shaking as he knelt in the grass. “No, no, no, dammit, please (Y/N), not like this, sweetheart,” Rick pleaded.

“(Y/N),” Carl choked out, trying to get you to look at him.

“No, I promised her,” Rick cried. “I promised Lori I would keep you safe! All three of you, I was supposed to protect all three of you…” Weak, you reached for your dad, sliding your hand up his face to feel the stubble that you loved so much. Blood smeared along his cheek as you tried to memorize the feel.

“It’s okay,” you whispered.

“She’s only seventeen!” Gabriel hollered, turning his attention to Negan. You were only a year and a half older than Carl and while the two of you had grown up together, you had always felt responsible for him and now as you began to not feel the pain, all you could think of was how you didn’t want to leave him.

“Dammit, Arat! What the fuck!” Negan yelled, approaching her.

“You said to kill someone,” Arat argued, but Negan wasn’t hearing it. He grabbed her by her arm and hauled her up.

“Not a fucking kid,” Negan snarled and then he threw her to his men. “Take her back to the Sanctuary. I’ll deal with her later.” As Saviors took care of their comrade, Negan turned back to you and your family.

Your father was leaning over you, brushing the hair from your face. Lifting your hand towards your brother, you ran it along the side of his face. Carl leaned into your touch, his best friend. You tried to wipe the tears that flowed down his cheek, but you could barely keep your arm up.

“You’re gonna be okay,” your dad said, pressing a firm kiss to the back of your hand, but you were shaking your head.

“No, I’m not,” you said with a weak cough. “I’m so sorry dad,” you told him, tears falling from your own eyes. “I promised not... to go… near him.”

“Shh, it’s okay,” Rick said. “Don’t apologize.” You began to cry more as the coldness seeped into your limbs.

“Dad,” you whispered, “daddy, don’t let me...don’t let me turn.” Rick’s eyes closed as his sobs took over him. “Promise me,” you finished.

“I promise, but you have to keep your eyes open for me. Don’t give up...” Rick pleaded and then you looked at your brother, your breathing labored as you mustered up the strength to look him in the eye.

“Tell Judith...Carl, you need to tell her…” you tried to finish, but Carl was already nodding.

“I will, (Y/N/N), I’ll tell her,” Carl promised.

“I love you both so much,” you said. “Michonne and Carol too and...Greene,” you said, not wanting to say Maggie’s name, not even then. “Tell them please.”

“We will,” Rick promised. “I love you so much.”

“I’m sorry, (Y/N),” Carl cried. “I’m sorry I snuck out to go there.” You shook your head, silently begging him to not blame himself. “I love you.” You squeezed your eyes shut as you nodded quickly.

You didn’t try to stop the tears now as they came at full force. You had thought about dying since the beginning of the outbreak. It was hard not too. You had seen so much death already, but you never imagined this is how you would meet your end.

With a deep breath, you turned your eyes to Negan, the only person who would be able to deliver your final message. Negan looked at you, bleeding and broken and he wanted to look away, but couldn’t.

“You,” you said hoarsely, “you need to tell Daryl that I meant it. Tell him I meant it. He’ll know,” you said and then with a cough, blood sprayed from your lips. As you stared up at the sky, your father turned his eyes to his enemy and they were as empty as he felt.

Negan’s eyes went from your father’s face to the hatchet at Rick’s hip. His hand curled around the handle, red entering those bright blue eyes of his. Negan looked as if he wanted to say something, but seeing Grimes leaning over his dying child had shut him up immediately.

Your father and brother held onto you as you lay in the grass of the front yard. There had been times that you thought you were going to die. The first time was when the farm was overrun, the second was when a Walker had nearly killed you while you were out on a run with Daryl at the prison, and the last time had been at Terminus.

You thought you would be ready, but you weren’t. You didn’t want to die and you just knew that your father would stop at nothing to avenge your death and that was something that you dreaded, but you also knew nothing would stop him. Not Michonne, not Carl, and not even himself.

Your grip loosened on your father and brother as you grew more tired. You didn’t know what would be on the other side. Perhaps there wasn’t anything anymore, but there was one person you were hoping to see and that was your mother.

All you wanted was your mom.

As darkness filled your vision, you imagined Lori reaching her hand toward you and with a small smile, you took your final breath.

------

Tara was the first one to crumble.

“(Y/N)!” she cried as Eugene caught hold of her, keeping her upright. Your best friend tried to get to you, but Porter made sure to keep her steady and in his arms. Rosita cried on the ground, guilt wracking her body as Gabriel stood by, saying a silent prayer for you. Carl stared down at you, your vacant eyes pointed at the heavens. He gently reached over and closed them, brushing his hand across your face.

“Rick,” Negan tried, but Grimes was frozen in shock. Instead, Carl was the one to answer the killer before him. Carl stood and slowly faced Negan, creating a barrier between you and the enemy.

“You killed my sister,” Carl said, tilting his head that was very much his father. Negan tried to speak, but Carl shook his head. “Get out, Negan,” Carl said between his teeth, his hand reaching for a gun that wasn’t there, “before I do kill you and trust me I’ll do it with my bare hands.”

The look on the teen’s face told him everything he needed to know, but before Negan could react, Michonne came running down the street, her katana swinging behind her back.

Everyone stepped aside as she ran towards you and her family. When she saw your body, Michonne’s eyes widened and then she ran to your side. “Oh, my girl,” Michonne said, gently, laying her shaking hand over your heart tears springing up behind her dark eyes.

Rick didn’t say anything as he reached over and took Michonne’s other hand, something he never did in front of outsiders. Michonne turned to the man she loved and pressed a kiss to his head as he leaned into her.

Then, because he knew that there wasn’t an infinite amount of time, Rick drew his knife, turning it over in his hand. Michonne lowered the blade, not wanting him to do it. He didn’t need to be the one to do it. Instead, Aaron staggered forward and opened his palm, ready to take the burden from the Grimes’ family just as they would do for him.

Michonne passed the knife to their friend as he kneeled down and turned your head to the side. Michonne buried her head into Rick’s shoulder as Aaron severed your brainstem and shoved the blade into your skull, placing you at rest for a final time.

Carl continued to act as a barrier between you and the Saviors, allowing your father and the woman who had become like a mother to you, say goodbye. Carl, who was still crying, never wavered.

“We’re leaving,” Negan announced and slowly the Saviors turned on their heels and walked back down the road, but not before Negan plunged his knife into Spencer’s skull, finishing him as he had begun moving once again.

Scott, Tobin, and a grief-stricken Tara followed the Saviors out of Alexandria, slamming the gate behind them. In the distance, Tara could hear the wails of Rick, Carl, and Michonne as they cried for their daughter and sister who was stolen from them.

-----

It was well into the evening when you and Spencer were buried.

It was agreed that Spencer would be buried next to Deanna and you, next to the flower bed. A part of Rick wished he could have taken your body to Hilltop to bury you with Glenn, but he knew he had to keep Maggie safe and not draw attention to the other community.

Rosita had taken a car with Eugene to inform Maggie, Sasha, and Jesus of what had happened to you. Rick knew how much Maggie loved you and he dreaded to know how she reacted to the news.

In the light of the moon, Carl, Michonne, and Rick knelt at your grave. Judith sat nearby, unaware that her sister was now gone forever. In her small hands was a bracelet that you had always worn, one she liked to play with. Carl had given it to her just before Gabriel had helped lower you into the ground.

It was silent before commotion drew the Grimes’ family out of their thoughts. From behind a house, Tara appeared, out of breath with wide eyes.

“What is it?” Michonne asked, but Tara was just shaking her head. Rick and Michonne glanced at each other before getting to their feet and following Tara who was gesturing them to follow her.

Carl stayed with Judith while Rick and Michonne made their way to the gate. What they saw, or rather, who, had Rick running at top speed. Leaning against Eric, bloody and beaten, but alive, was Daryl.

Rick ran to him, halting right before he plowed into the archer. Daryl squeezed Eric’s arm and promised him that he was good. Eric nodded and then left the brothers alone. “Daryl?” Rick asked, completely in shock.

“Son of a bitch let me go,” Daryl explained, shaking his dirty hair out of his face. “Just walked into my cell, dragged me out, threw me in a truck, and dropped me a half mile that way,” he said, pointing over his shoulder.

Rick was trying to understand Negan’s reasoning, but all he could think about was the fact that Daryl was home and no longer in his enemies clutches. “He lyin’ about (Y/N)?” Daryl asked and Rick shook his head.

Daryl didn’t hesitate any longer. He walked forward and took his brother into his arms. Rick collapsed against him, careful of his injuries. He clutched at Daryl’s back as the latter shook from emotion as well.

Daryl remembered when he had first met you. You were strong for a kid who had just seen the world burn and he liked you immediately. Then, you had met Beth on the farm and the two of you had been inseparable. He remembered how broken you were after her death and how you worked to overcome it, getting closer to Tara and your brother.

He couldn’t even begin to imagine you lying in the ground, still and cold. Michonne approached Daryl next and kissed him on the cheek as he held her, feeling her grief as well. The three warriors leaned on each other as they felt your loss and then, eventually, Daryl needed to see you.

-----

Michonne and Carl gave Daryl and Rick a moment by your grave. There was a simple marker and the necklace you always wore, a gift from Shane, was looped around the top of the cross for now. Rick was planning on giving it to Judith when she was older.

“What did she mean?” Rick said, breaking the silence. “(Y/N), she told Negan to tell you that ‘she meant it’. What did she mean?” Daryl sighed, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw.

“She once told me that she wanted me to fight,” Daryl explained. “It was after Beth and I told her about my old man.” Rick nodded, knowing the story of Will Dixon and what the bastard had done to Daryl as well as Merle. “I was doubtin’ myself, I didn’t think I could protect anyone again after I lost her. She believed I was a better man than my dad. I guess she really meant it.”

Daryl chewed on his thumb as he looked at the grave, willing himself not to cry. “She was about to be eighteen,” Rick said.

“Born in the winter, right?” Daryl remembered and Rick nodded. “Yeah, Lori mentioned that once.”

“I’m gonna kill him,” Rick said after a moment, his eyes on the night sky.

“No more waitin’, man,” Daryl said. “We gotta fight and we gotta fight for her just as she was willin’ to fight for Glenn, Abraham, Beth, and every other damn person we’ve lost.”

Rick nodded and then Daryl offered his hand to his best friend. Rick gripped it tight. He made a silent promise to you then just as he had to Lori as she died, he wasn’t going to let them win and he wasn’t going to let the world take any more of his family.

“We kill them all,” said Rick, “and Negan is mine.”

TAGS: @thanossexual @yes-sir-hotchner @felicisimor @amaroho

#twd imagine #angst #rick grimes x daughter!reader #reader insert #rick grimes imagine #carl grimes #negan #saviors #walkerwords #twd #the walking dead imagines #sad fic #sad imagine #The walking dead #the walking dead fanfic #daryl dixon

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kingreywrites · 4 years ago

Text

So Pardon The Dust

Fandom: Tangled

Word Count: 2493

Summary: When they arrive in the Dark Kingdom, the king has been dead for years.

Note: this is bittersweet, but the idea couldn’t leave me alone, and i had to write it out! so yeah, edmund’s death is heavily talked about, be careful if that’s not your thing! I just love Destinies Collide, and love what-ifs, so this story was born from there asghdh

Read on ao3

When they arrive in the Dark Kingdom, the king has been dead for years.

They don't know that. What they do know is that once their travel in a shaky gondola over an immense rift ends, everything seems too easy. The kingdom is dark, cold, smells of dust and rust permeating the air, and it makes it hard to imagine that anyone has ever lived in such a place. But Rapunzel's hair pushes her forward, and they don't spend any more time thinking about it.

They enter the equally dark and cold castle, searching for the moonstone.

Desperate for a flicker of warmth, Lance lights a fire in a lifeless living room with no windows. Eugene's gaze is drawn to a painting, throning above the fireplace and depicting a man and a woman he presumes to be the king and queen.

He cannot explain the deep uneasiness he feels at the sight, or even why he can hardly tear his eyes away from the picture. His heart is racing, and he explains it by blaming it on his concern for Rapunzel.

The queen's smile remains etched in his mind as he moves forward.

The king has been dead for years. They don't know it, but Eugene finds a room filled with overhanging statues and, sitting in front of a gigantic door, is a tiny skeleton covered in too big clothes and dust. A dark crown still hangs grotesquely on its head, but the first thing Eugene sees is the purple gem necklace between the fingers of its single hand. The same as the queen's in the painting.

Eugene has a bitter taste in his mouth. Rapunzel holds his hand, also upset, and he remembers that they are here for her, and for her destiny. He holds her fingers tighter between his, and they move toward the door.

The ghosts are… certainly a surprise.

Death is not something new to Eugene, yet he can't help but feel nauseous when the king's ghost appears so close to his own skeleton, eyes full of a melancholy and anger that only he understands.

He doesn't seem to be capable of speech. He just groans and attacks, mindlessly guarding the stone that cost him his life. When Adira arrives to help them, she calls him Edmund, a soft grief in her voice, and Eugene keeps the name in a corner of his head. Edmund. Not a ghost, not a skeleton, but Edmund, who protected his kingdom until he died trapped within it.

Finally, Eugene is the one who destroys his statue. He cuts off its head, and tries to forget how a few seconds before, it was his own that could have been lost, if the king's axe had not struck beside it. Luck saved his life this time.

Adira asks Rapunzel to enter the moonstone chamber by herself. She says that it's her destiny, and hers alone. Eugene wants to protest, worry burning in his heart, but he doesn't even have the time - Rapunzel looks at Cassandra, and announces that the three of them will go inside. He should be relieved, but he can't help but take another look at the king's- Edmund's body. Many people have died for this stone, and the more time passes, the more terrified he is of what awaits them on the other side. He knows death, more than any other member of this group probably; he's been around it personally. He promised himself when he came back to life, that he would never let Rapunzel die the way he did, slowly and violently, when she has so much to live for.

He doesn't know where this promise will lead him.

When they arrive in the Dark Kingdom, the king is dead. They enter easily, and though the ghosts of past rulers stand in their way, the path to the moonstone is far from the most difficult adventure he has ever experienced. Eugene is worried, of course he is - he's afraid of the conclusion of their journey, afraid of what he cannot predict. Rapunzel tells him she loves him, and he almost wants to throw up, because they're in the middle of a kingdom murdered by that exact stone Rapunzel intends to grab. I love you too, he thinks, but can't manage to say, because the words sound like a goodbye, and he's not ready for that. He'd die one thousand times for her, if she asked him to. He'd die for her against her will too, if necessary, but he knows he can't get in the way today. As desperate as he is to protect her, he knows how much she values being able to draw her own path.

He wants to grab the moonstone first because he loves her, and because he loves her, he stays back.

That's not the case for everyone. He notices too late Cass running for it, and Demanitus' warning echoes once again in his ears, mocking now that the only thing he can do is try to pull Rapunzel to safety as the world explodes in colours. The king is dead, and their friendship with Cassandra is too, the shadow of Gothel haunting Rapunzel once again despite how much she deserves to be free from it. Cassandra flees, Eugene hurts his arm when she pushes him away, and Rapunzel runs after her, desperate to salvage what can be.

It doesn't amount to much, in the end.

Things settle down, as much as they can while Rapunzel still sits listlessly near the broken bridge Cassandra left behind, and Eugene goes in the castle again, in search of bandages this time. His left arm hurts.

He doesn't expect to find Adira, standing silently in front of... Edmund. Her back is rigid, her mouth in a straight line, but when he calls her name, he sees a foreign melancholy in her eyes. He doesn't know her that well, but there's a lot Eugene can understand from looking into somebody's eyes.

Adira sighs, shoulders lowering, and he's sure she hears his unsaid question. "I shouldn't be surprised," she says, but it's clear that in a way, she is. "I… knew, that King Edmund was not well, when we left. I often considered that he might very well be…" she trails off, her eyes falling on his body again.

"It's different to be sure," Eugene responds softly, his voice loud in the silence of this immense room. Watching them - Adira, and this skeleton, barely hanging together enough to recognise a human shape - it was difficult to conceive that once upon a time, they had stood here together, alive and happy, perhaps. He can't imagine what it feels like to see an old friend this way, with no warning. "Adira…"

"It's okay, Fishskin," she smiles, and in her voice, he could hear the echoes of all the time Rapunzel told him she was fine, because she didn't know how to act when she was not.

He barely knows Adira. Both because he didn't ask, and because she didn't want him, or anyone, to know her. But he can guess easily that her life had never been one of peace, not even before leaving the Dark Kingdom, and losing contact with the other members of the Brotherhood. He doesn't think she's unhappy, per se, but he- he knows, they all know, especially now after everything that happened, that anger and fear and grief are not emotions that should be let to fester until they explode. Maybe it's his worry for Rapunzel speaking; maybe he's confusing everything, and Adira is simply dealing with the situation the way she wants to, but before he can think better of it, Eugene takes a step forward, and asks her if she wants to bury the king's body.

"To- To give him a better resting place," he explains awkwardly, her eyes piercing right through him. He's ready to say sorry and hope she doesn't kill him for overstepping her boundaries, but, to his surprise, she softens, a genuine if sad smile on her lips.

"Actually Fishskin, that's… a great idea."

And so they do it. Adira finds a bear hood that the King used to wear - Dabney, she says reverently - and they place his bones in it, carefully moving everything in tandem. They don't really talk while doing it. There's not much to be said. Eugene thinks of this king, who was so desperate to save his kingdom that he doomed it, and he thinks about death, too. About how lonely it is.

Adira leads them down a few corridors, and they emerge in a small, grey looking garden. They walk until they find an unmarked tombstone.

"The queen," Adira announces shortly, and Eugene wonders if she helped bury her too.

It's not the first time Eugene digs a grave for someone. He remembers starkly getting out of the tower with Rapunzel, both of them entirely different people than who they were before, and finding a cloak and ashes at the bottom of it. He remembers how quietly distraught Rapunzel had been, and how he had proposed to bury what was left of Gothel.

Shaking his head, he tries to think about something else, but it's hard given the situation. His arm aches at each of his movements. Surprisingly, Adira breaks the silence, and that's enough to distract him.

"I often disagreed with King Edmund," she says, without looking at him. "He was a good king, but his duty to the moonstone blinded him to the bigger picture, and I was afraid that it would lead him, and us, to lose everything. I was right, as I often am," she chuckles, but there's no mirth behind it. Simply grief. Something that can't be quite put into words.

"How did he lose his arm?" Eugene asks, voice low as they finally lower the bones into the ground. His eyes catch the sight of the necklace falling aside, and when they're done, he picks it up, thumb running over the smooth surface of the gem.

"The queen died," Adira whispers. She's looking at the necklace too, when he raises his head. "Edmund's grief led him to act on the anger he had been repressing for too long, but the moonstone was much more powerful than he imagined. Its retaliation costs him everything he held dear."

Gently, Adira takes the necklace from him, and Eugene can't explain the impulse that makes him want to hold onto it for a little while longer.

He's sentimental, he reasons. There's something deeply touching about this man dying while looking at the last thing connecting him to his late wife. These are good explanations, but neither of them addresses the unease and bitterness rising in Eugene's throat. He doesn't understand it himself.

Adira looks at the necklace for a long time, emotions he can't name in her expression. Memories she will not share make her frown, and Eugene feels more and more like he doesn't belong in this moment.

"Should we… bury that with him?" he asks awkwardly. Adira bites her lips, and finally shakes her head.

"This necklace was special for the queen. I know she intended to pass it down to her children."

A terrible voice in Eugene's mind reminds him that it's too late - they both died, and that necklace, that tradition, died with them too. He's hit by the tragedy of it all again, relentlessly reminded that the king passed away long before anyone could try to save him. And they would have, Rapunzel would have convinced him to let her through, she would have given him faith, Eugene is sure of that. He thinks that's why he's angry, too. The king has been dead for years, maybe, alone and desperate until his very last moments. And Eugene, Eugene wishes to go back in time, and give him another chance, get him the help he needed before it was too late.

He has never been good at accepting unhappy endings.

"When… When King Edmund banished us from the Dark Kingdom," Adira continues, "he also made another sacrifice. He sent his son away, when he was barely a baby, to be raised far from the moonstone and its dangers."

Son. A baby, sole survivor of the royal family, who probably doesn't know he is. A baby, who isn't one anymore now, but who is probably alive, and the thought is enough for Eugene to feel something new - he'd call this hope, but he's not sure that it fits. Closure, perhaps.

"You want to give their son the necklace," he smiles shakily.

"That's what needs to be done," Adira agrees, before putting away the necklace in her pocket. The gem catches the moonlight one last time, shining brighter than before, and it's easier for Eugene to let go, this time. "However, I did not keep track of the prince. I don't know what became of him, after we left, but I will keep searching until I find him."

"Hey," Eugene grins, wanting to lighten the atmosphere a little, "you searched for the mystical and maybe non-existent sundrop, and you found it, so I'm sure a prince will be no trouble. And if you need anything, we'll be happy to help," he adds, more earnest this time.

There's a newfound warmth in her eyes, and she inclines her head, acknowledging his words. The situation feels easier, somewhat. They finish replacing the dirt on top of the king's body, and Adira places a little stone to mark the emplacement.

The king is dead, and Cassandra is gone, but Eugene wants to believe that they all can find their own healing in time.

One wrong move reawakens the pain in his arm, and Adira gauges him when he flinches. She tells him that if there are any medical supplies around there, they're probably in the King's personal quarters.

With her instructions, it's not too hard to find them. The bedroom he finds is enormous, which only heightens how empty and dark it feels. Blindly, Eugene makes his way to a window, and pushes the heavy curtains away, letting the moonlight flood the room, and reveal the ambient dust like as many little stars in the night sky.

One side of the bed is unmade. Next to the other, there is an empty crib.

His heart is racing, and he can't explain it. He turns to the bedside table, and does find what appear to be bandages, next to a pile of papers, so close to the bed that it is easy to guess that the king often looked at them.

Eugene approaches. He tells himself, without much conviction, that he should not look. That even in death the king deserves to keep his privacy. Whatever these papers are, they must have meant a lot to him, keeping him company in his darkest hours, and Eugene doesn't belong in this story.

It only takes him a step, and a second, to recognize his old wanted posters.

#tangled #tangled the series #Eugene Fitzherbert #King Edmund #Adira #Rapunzel

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