#it was like being beaten over the head with a baseball bat <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[illustrious-slimeman]

Stay tuned for the sounds of a grown man refusing to debase himself online for the sake of his husband

[probssomethingorother]

NEW CHAPTER! 🚨

I am so sorry for not updating this for like almost two months. I had planned on adding something before September, but that never happened and then September turned into quite the crazy month that really zapped it out of me. Writers block hit and I just couldn't bring myself to do anything with this...until now.

Back & Forth: a the last of us fic

post-episode 8 Silver Lake hurt/comfort

Ellie & Joel, both riding the struggle bus, canon compliant

Rating: Mature for dark themes, nothing more than the show

It was Joel who stumbled first. He had felt the strength seeping out of him with every step so viscerally it was like his body was a container with a slow leak. His gate would falter and his hand would slip further down her shoulder, power waning. He would cough in his throat and blink forcefully trying to reignite the spark of energy that had carried him to Ellie just hours ago, but it was all a losing battle. And eventually, he lost it. It was Ellie who moved first after that.

chp 1 | chp 2 | chp 3 | chp 4 | chp 5 | chp 6 | chp 7 |

chp 8 !!! YAY !!

read on Ao3 or below the cut, and remember comment where you can!

Chapter 8:

Ellie woke up slowly, her eyes cracking open with diminished energy. It was dark, darker then she remembered it being before, and her eyes had to work hard to adjust. Her body felt heavy, but warm, and she relished in the sense of stillness for a moment; with a deep breath in and out, she took in the almost rare feeling of comfort. 

But, the moment of serenity didn’t last long, body and mind connecting more and more. The heaviness began to turn irritating, blankets too constricting, body too tight. Growing lucidity was also allowing her to recognize the scratchiness of the dingy fabric couch against the bare skin of her legs. 

no pants 

The memory came back to her hazily, like a dream she was struggling to keep in focus. She thought she remembered crying, and a flicker of of tears in Joel’s eyes flashes through her vision too. Neither recollection sat right with her. She isn’t a crybaby and Joel never cries - not a tear of grief when Tess died or ones of pain when the baseball bat ripped through his abdomen - he always is dry as a stone. 

Still unmoving, but peering down, Ellie could just make out the small dark bundle of her pants lying on the floor in front of the couch, plopped down next to Joel’s big coat. It was evidence enough that her memory was, unfortunately, serving her right. 

Cold, clothes, crying, fear, tenderness- it all was a bit muddled in her head, but she knew it had happened.   Fuck.

Ellie’s eyes wandered further and found Joel leaning against the side of the wingback chair, highlights from a dying fire giving his silhouette a faint orange outline. When she focused on him, she could just make out the sound of his breathy soft snores, almost wheezes.

Almost reluctantly, she pushed herself to sitting, swinging her legs over the side of the couch.  She looked down as she readjusted the swaddle of blankets around her, eyes coming to her bare legs. She knew Joel hadn’t done anything, but thinking about being half-naked in front of him had a weird feeling settling in the back of her throat. She tried to ignore it, but swallowing it back seemed to make little difference. She rolled her shoulders and cracked her neck, attempting to shake off a general soreness that gripped her body, but that too seemed to make little difference. 

It felt like she had been bodied by infected-  attacked and beaten down - which she certainly had; however, the culprits were not some clickers, but rather fucking mother nature and a psychopathic child molester. 

She promptly pushed away any further thoughts of him before they could come to the surface, not wanting to put her head through that torment right now, not when it seemed to be doing okay at the moment - physically.  It wasn’t hurting with the intensity it was earlier, but Ellie also didn’t expect it to stay that way for long. The residual pain that sat deep behind her eyeballs already felt like it was slowly expanding to take root in the rest of her skull. 

The pain was coming, just slowly, she knew it. With a deep breath, she rose from the couch, grasping the blankets firmly so every part of her was covered, and shuffled over to Joel and the weak, but lit, fire. Ellie had no memory of him getting one started but was grateful he did. Even though dying out now, and still cocooned in the blankets, she could easily tell it had made the room warmer. There was no longer a bite of coolness on her cheeks that she remembered there being before, and even the wood floor didn’t feel as cold as she remembered it. 

She paused and wiggled her toes against the floor for a second as she came to the realization that her boots and socks were gone too. Joel had stripped those from her as well. 

“Joel?” She called, voice cracking over his name with sleep-ridden hoarseness.  He didn’t stir.  Normally she would just let him sleep - she can take watch, she’s done it before; and hell, she just took care of him for a whole week - but she didn’t quite trust herself with properly stoking the fire. She didn’t want to ruin it completely, not when they really needed it. 

“Hey.” She tried again, but all she got was a soft mutter of something nondescript from Joel and a sleepy sigh. 

Shimmying her shoulders and hoisting the fabric up a little, Ellie readjusted the weighty blankets and poked her foot out, giving him a small soft kick to his outstretched leg at his thigh.

He woke with a jolt and a snort, arms resting at his chest immediately uncrossing and falling down, hands going to grab a rifle on the floor that wasn’t even there.  “What’s wrong?” He hastily and groggily asked in the process, not even quite fully consciousness yet, eyes blurry and disoriented.  Clarity quickly increasing, his hands came to rest on the cool hardwood, and his gaze rose to find her standing above him. 

Thank Jesus.  The wave of relief that washed over Joel seeing her standing above him was instantaneous. His body relaxed a little as he let out a breathy, “Hey.” His chest suddenly felt lighter and his shoulders sagged,  losing some of their rigidity from his sudden awakening.

“Fire’s going out,” Ellie said lowly, voice almost a whisper. 

His eyes went to her, the fire, and back again. 

Without a second thought, Joel scooted forward, arm wrapping around to brace his side as he slid a few inches closer to it. He cautiously poked at the small dying kindling with his hands, plucking and moving the remaining sticks, adding a few new pieces of cardboard to it as well. 

Ellie watched his hands work at it - skin unfazed by the heat surely still radiating off the burnt  bits. She always wondered how long it would take for her hands to get as calloused as Joel’s-  how long it would take for her to be able to withstand some mild burns.  It seemed like a badge of honor: rough strong skin showed capability, and all Ellie wanted was to be capable, to be able to take care of herself, and Joel. 

She didn’t think she had done all that well with either as of late.

“That should do it,” Joel said leaning back and brushing off his hands, palms wiping against each other. Weakly, he made his way off the ground- Ellie taking a step back so he had room to push himself off the floor using the chair as leverage with a throaty groan he tried to obviously, but unsuccessfully bite back.

When he came to standing in front of her, Joel couldn’t help but take stock of her face. In the dim light of the fire, he could tell the color had returned to it, not looking so ghostly pale, but of course, all the blood still marked it. With the cape like blankets and the shroud of darkness still painting much of the living room, she almost looked like she was wearing some sort of homemade halloween costume. 

For a moment he could see it: Ellie running around his house in Texas, scrounging up supplies - fake blood made of a mix of red paint and strawberry jam and a dark cloak sourced from unused linens- a take on something just generally scary, not actually mimicking anything in particular. She would probably complain about not being scary enough and add another coat of blood to her face. 

Sarah did something like that once, but she was trying to be “Ms. Frizzle,” and was stealing random things to glue onto one of Joel’s t-shirts, taken purposefully oversized to fit like a dress. She was never much into scary costumes, but she did have a knack for DIYing what she wanted, which also meant she had a knack for taking what she wanted without asking.

A practically imperceivable, mournful smile played at the corners of Joel's mouth, the memory he hadn't visited in years coming to mind. He brushed his hand against the back of his neck and tore his eyes away as he simultaneously pushed away the thoughts of Sarah and the thoughts of Ellie somewhere she could or would never be. 

A tightening sensation in his throat reminded him to stay grounded in the present, and it cleared it away with a huff and raising his head, before almost nervously asking, “How ya’ feelin’….still cold?” 

Ellie shook her head. 

“Good.,” he said with a curt nod as he weakly reached out and pulled the drooping fabric of the blanket more onto her shoulder before breaking away, crossing in the direction of the couch. 

His back to her, Joel slowly bent over to retrieve his jacket from the floor, lips going tight as he painfully leaned for it.

“We fell asleep,” Ellie said, her tone twinged with a slight undercurrent of reprimand and disapproval. They had put themselves in danger for hours.  Just the thought of it, their wide-open vulnerability, made Ellie’s heartbeat quicken and the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Anyone could have come in and found them. Could have shot them dead, or overpowered them, or tortured them, or just dragged them back to that fucking town, surely to be served up as a late night snack. 

“Joel-“

He was caught in his tracks at the sound of his name, one hand stuck gripping his side, the other tightly on the leather fabric of his coat as a wave of guilt made goosebumps flush down his body. He stood still for a moment, waiting for Ellie to say something more, for the other shoe to drop, but nothing manifested. He gulped down his guilt he rose back up, jacket in tow, and shakily worked on threading his arms through his coat sleeves, body still aching with every movement. His back remained turned, unable to face her. 

“They could have come,” she said solemnly. 

Joel clenched his jaw down, her words hitting him like a punch, highlighting his failure. She was freezing to death hours ago and he couldn’t even keep his own eyes open to make sure she was safe. He had left her defenseless.

Careless, stupid, weak.

“I know.” He mumbled it so softly that Ellie didn’t catch it from her place a few feet away. 

The following silence grew thick as Joel continued to wrangle with his coat. She waited for him to say something, not hearing his previous reply. She took a step forward only to pause, the space between them feeling so dense it seemed impenetrable at that moment. In fact, Ellie was sure she could take her switchblade and cut the air between them if she tried. 

Blowing out a deep breath, “Earth to Joel?” she pushed.

“I said, I know…. won’t let that happen, okay?” He was trying to be calm, but it just came off as a little cold.

“You can’t-” Ellie hesitated, almost exasperated by his reply, frustration bubbling. He couldn’t possibly be saying he could prevent anything from happening. The weight of all their experiences settled in her voice, heavy. “Can’t do that if you’re asleep.” 

“I’m failing in my sleep.”

His hands stilled again, heart skipping a beat, unsure of what to say back. All that was coming to mind was what he had said next to Tommy in desperation, the words now rooted in his head like some twisted mantra : “just going to get her killed, I know it, I know it.”

Joel wished he could find different words, the right words, but they felt far and trapped inside of him at the same time. Barricaded in by the weight of his own guilt and feelings of inadequacy. His hold body went still as the room suddenly began to feel too small, the air too heavy. 

Not Now. 

With a long exhale, he quickly continued to adjust his jacket on his frame, trying to busy himself with the simple task, hoping to outrun the growing sense of panic. It was cold and stiff, but not quite as soggy as it had been hours ago on Ellie. He tried to distract his mind with the simple task, but like unstoppable waves crashing to shore, suddenly all he could think about was the last time he tried to choke back the same feeling of panic - just hours ago when she struggled against him when she was on the brink of something dangerously irreversible. 

“Don’t do it, please don’t do it…..Stop.” It echoed as a scream in his ears. 

Joel could feel his heart getting tight and closed his eyes as he let out a steadying breath through his nose. He wasn’t trying to give her the silent treatment, but the guilt whipping up inside him again was almost immobilizing - making him feel a little woozy even.  

He closed his hands tightly into fists, pressing his nails into his palms, working to ground himself.  But, his silent stabilization efforts only made irritation bubble up inside of Ellie. 

After everything they had been through, he was suddenly seemed back to day-one-Joel, ignoring her like she was nothing more than a money ticket. She bit at her inner cheek, eyes narrowing as she intently watched him and waited for some sort of reply. 

None came. 

Tightening the blankets around her again she stiffly moved back toward the sofa, intentionally grazing his shoulder as she brushed past him, making him rock in place. With a deep sigh, she positioned herself on the couch, lying on her back. Out of the corner of her eye, she could just see Joel staring at her. 

The nerve. 

If there was one thing that peeved Ellie more than anything, it was being fucking ignored and Joel was just toeing the line of it. And for what reason, Ellie had no idea. 

With a huff, she turned her back to him, curling into the couch. 

[paladin-of-nerd-fandom65]

Happy New Year’s Eve to you too! :D I can’t wait for that “crossover” with the duo. I bet it’s young avengers or something (I’m more DC than marvel to be honest)

1: what is something the duo will never forget? Like Clark telling Chris you belong here; a El instead of a zod.

2: what’s their favorite YouTubers to watch?

3: I know you answer this already but every character in mortal kombat have two fatalities, so what other fatality would you give them? How about friendship move? I can Jake using his sticks to create firework sparklers.

4: when Chris use his darkness powers, is it like energy balls/blast or flames?

5: if it’s flames can he use it setting his farts on fire? or have Kon-El do the farting while Chris have his darkness near his butt XD

6: how would you write Superman & Lois? I definitely need more time to write more seasons lol

Just for a minor spoiler, that crossover for the Starburst Duo I had in mind (at least for the idea stage) is with Dragon Ball and given my liking of Son Gohan….I think you can piece together something from there lol

Anyways in celebration of the New Year, my last ask for 2023….

1) Aside that talk he has with Clark in reconciling on the Moon looking at a sight over the Earth, Chris’ most memorable moment would be the first ever time Jon finally had full flight which meant he joins Chris in the air, first the first time ever playing sky tag.

Meanwhile for Jake, besides that fateful duel with Zsasz and subsequent comfort he got in the hospital from Chris and his loved ones, his first ever patrol at the age of 8 years alongside Batman which invoked taking on both Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy at Bludhaven Stadium is one he’d always treasure and for good reasons.

2) I lean on Linkara of Atop of The Fourth Wall, The Blockbuster Buster and Angry Joe as their main go tos, otherwise the Duo would find both Nightwing and Superman channels which are highlights of their amazing feats captured from their smart phone cameras and more.

3) Chris; One other Fatality I can see him do would be a combination of sorts of Both Superman’s and Supergirl’s Injustice finishers. First, punching his opponent across the atmosphere in rapid succession, followed with a clear uppercut right into Earth’s Orbit finalized with a huge blast of heat vision that zaps into said opponent accelerating their fall to Earth and crashing in a massive asteroid sized explosion.

As for a Friendship, he’d use his shadowy aura to create flowers for giving while offering a free hand to pick up his beaten opponent of the ground

Jake; First he’d use a Starbolt charged Thunderclap blast his opponent back straight into the nearest wall, following it up with speed rushing to their face and laying down savage punch after right in the face, then grabbing them by the color, slamming them back first onto the ground and finally using a overcharged Starbolt on his escrima to slam it on the opponent head, the subsequent explosive discharge shaped like a massive lightning bolt.

For his Friendship, as you said, he’d use his sticks and starbolts to create sparkles while giving a respectful bow to his dazed and confused opponent.

4) Visually speaking, if not for his shadow based powers, they’d resemble energy blasts and balls akin to Dragon Ball’s Ki blasts and charge ups

5) As for the old flatulence stunt….I actually see both Conner and Chris not exactly going for it albeit for differing reasons; Conner as he thinks doing that is so 2000s, it’s no longer cool while Chris simply thinks it’s gross

6) Well, I’ll freely admit it has been quite some long time since I’ve seen enough clips of the show itself but I will give this.

Since Jon’s ten years old and likely attending Middle School, he’d instead take part in the baseball team as opposed to football. That said, I can see for see Clark being one of the coaches and during one game, Jon gets hit in the face with a ball when batting, the pain involuntarily causing his developing heat vision to burn up so Clark would use a hand to catch said heat cain on it so it doesn’t create a massive fire while calming down his hurt son. Jon feels real bad about it afterwards and locks himself in his room out of fear and anxiety about his loss of control. Not helping of his super hearing picking up on things all over the place and struggling to control it.

He’d mumble to his parents and brother something around the lines of “it’s too much….too big”. Then Clark would remember what his mother Martha told him once “Try making it little small” which help calm his senses down and allows the family to come in and comfort him

So yeah a bit of both the show and even Man of Steel 2015 (one of the actual gold scenes) thrown in if anything lol

[keysmashingfantasies]

Bloody Comfort

pre borderlands!Niragi x fem!reader / Niragi x fem!reader

A/N:  i feel like i only post Marvel on this blog and i missed my show so here it is, finally an AiB fic! :D also, minigame: how many alice in wonderland references can you spot? also also, bloody comfort is an awesome name for a band and if you do name your band that, i want my money. enjoy the fic! also also also i didn’t proofread SHIT so sorry for any grammar mistakes.

trigger warning: bullying, mentions of violence (nothing too graphic, i think but beware nonetheless), death (graphic. i mean, i’m not that good of a writer but still, beware), very slight mentions of nsfw, especially torwards the end, niragi (HE’S A WARNING OK), niragi having disturbing thoughts (what else is new. but fr, ok), sliiiiiight yandere niragi torwards the end. (also I tried not to describe in too much detail the bullying that niragi and the reader suffer in the fic so it wouldn’t be too sad). 

@dreamingofanisland here it is bestie! 

Niragi couldn’t pinpoint when he stopped being sad and when he started getting angry. From a suffocating hopelessness came a desperation he could only describe as feral. He often fantasized about just jumping over his desk and strangling each one of them to death but his thoughts quickly ended with Niragi envisioning himself being overpowered and beaten. He started to not only get angry at his bullies, but people in general. Things. Life.

How could so many people turn a blind eye? How could life be so unfair to give people like this the upperhand and not him? Not him that clearly deserved it? This world was backwards.

-

He knew he was fucked when he saw the bat, and although he braced for the impact he couldn’t help but fall to his knees and wince at the sickening sound that the baseball did in contact with his nose.

He just sat there and while all he wanted to do was to rip their throats with his teeth all he did was to endure a few more punches before they left with a promise that there would be more. He sat there trying not to cry with sheer frustration. His papers were scattered around, the left arm of his glasses was broken and his pristine black outfit was now covered in dust from the gravel, his hands scratched. He could taste blood on his tongue and he felt a sick satisfaction, pretending for one moment that it was another person’s blood he was tasting.

“Do you need help?”, a voice woke him from his violent daydreams. Suddenly everything boiled over and he felt an overwhelming anger rise inside of him. In a blink of an eye he was standing up, yelling at a somewhat blurry image of a girl who he towered over, even more as she shrunk under his anger. If he wouldn’t be so busy screaming profanities, he would be madly aroused.

“WHAT, HUH? CAME TO SEE THE SHOW? TO LAUGH AT ME?”, he was furious, and as he approached her, she proceeded to walk back.

“No. I just wanted to help”, she said. It seemed another flash and suddenly he could see a bit clearer. Although startled, she didn’t seem afraid of him, and was extending him a tissue. “Your nose is bleeding”, she said, and Niragi wanted to scoff at her for stating the obvious. But she was being kind. And as angry as he was, kindness wasn’t something that he could say no to. He tried his best to control his shaky hands as he took the tissue from her hands and carefully dabbed his nose, as she ducked to collect his papers, and tuck them back into his bag.

“Saw what they did to you. ‘m sorry”, she mumbled. Niragi wanted to strangle her out of sheer embarrassment.

“And you just took some popcorn and enjoyed the spectacle?”, he spat.

“I wanted to help but I wasn’t sure what to do. Would you rather if I had called someone?”, she asked. He breathed once, twice. She wasn’t mocking him, but was unnervingly calm. Something about her being calm while he was practically foaming at the mouth had him seeing red and suddenly he regret having wiped the blood off of his lips.

“No”, he said, calmly. “No, I wouldn’t. Sorry. I have to go”, he said, ripping his bag from her hands with such force that he tugged her arm with it.

“Wait! I mean what I said! I want to help!”

“You, help me? What are you going to do, huh? Be my bodyguard?”, he mocked her one more time. He couldn’t help himself, his brain got used to this. Fight or flight. His adrenaline was pumping and everytime he was around school grounds he looked over his shoulder.

“Hmmm, sorta? Not exactly but I could show you a place. A safe place”, she said. He just looked at her.

“If we get there and it’s a prank of some sort I’ll let you punch me. Square in the face”, she said.

“Are you insane? You just go around letting people punch you in the face?”, his mouth was quicker than his brains and suddenly he felt his face grow hot at the irony of what he had said. But if she noticed it, she didn’t mention.

“Let me help you”, she said.

And he did.

He followed her through a wooded area near the school grounds after walking through a hole in a fence.

He was getting ready to beat you to the punch and hit you so hard that you’d bleed as hard as he did, until you stopped until you reached a very underwhelming toolshed with a padlock.

“We’re here”, you said, and he realized that she sounded different. All this time she was on edge. ‘Of course, Suguru, you threatened the girl like, 3 times’, said the voice in the back of his head. She pulled a key from her bag and the padlock opened easily and they heavy chains fell to the ground and she pushed open the door, going inside. He hesitantly followed.

The inside is nothing as he thought it would be. For starters, it was surprisingly clean and  it didn’t smell bad. And instead of tools and brooms and leafblowers, it had bean bags, blankets, a table with a radio full of knickknacks in the corner and a chair that had clearly seen better days but looked comfortable none the less. The girl walked to a corner of the room and his eyes followed her as she closed the door, which had small sharpie drawings on it. She reached for a white box and settled it on the floor between the two bean bags, and reached inside a very small thermos to pull out an artificially blue isotonic drink and settled it down too. Then from the plastic bag he previously assumed was trash, she pulled a bag of chips.

She then patted the bean bag next to hers. “Welcome to my clinic”, she said, placing the white box on her lap.

-

After an entire afternoon of bonding over unhealthy food and an impromptu first aid rescue, Niragi learned that her name was Y/N, she was a year below and that this little world she created was her refuge from the girls in her class that picked on her.

“I found this and decided that it would be nice. No one’s using it, it’s far from everything. It’s on the Beheaded Woman’s territory”.

Niragi heard the rumors through his bullies. “One day we’ll drag you to the Beheaded Woman’s woods and fucking kill you”.  After further investigation, he learned that allegedly a girl was dragged through the woods and beheaded with a blunt axe.

“I made the rumors up. I had to make sure no one would find my safe haven”, she explained. “And once you write something in the girls’ bathroom stall, there’s no turning back. It’s out there and it’s truth”, she sighed. “I would know”.

He wasn’t the most up to date in all the gossip but she told him her story. The rumors they spread, the things they did to her. She almost seemed amused. He in turn told her his story. By the end of it, he could kill someone. She then offered him the other key to her safe haven.

“You can decorate it too. Don’t tell anyone else and make sure to lock it after you use it. Use it as much as you want, just make sure they don’t follow you, okay?”

He took the keys with shakey hands, a knot on his throat. Another type of adrenaline was pumping through his veins. When a few moments ago there were a fast white heat, coursing through him like an electric current, this was slow and almost overwhelmingly warm, like molten lava.

“Why are you doing this? Being so nice to me?”, he whispered as if it was a secret, as if this moment was another fantasy, a deer that’s easily spooked. He had fantasized about this too. A safe haven, an ally. A friend.

“Because we’re the same, you and I”.

-

You hated him. You hated him with a burning passion. What was at first an act of pity, born from the empathy you felt by seeing someone go through what you did, quickly became a friendship and like a disease, it spread to beyond your safe haven. You would spend your free time together, walk home together. You became friends. And what did he do? Exactly what he told you he would.

“Sometimes don’t you wish to disappear?”, he whispered to you once.

“Yeah. Like, run away? Yeah, I do”, you replied agreeing with him.

 ‘You’re the only one that understands me. We really are the same’, he would say. What at the beginning of your budding crush on him gave you butterflies on the stomach now made you want to throw up.

You lost your only friend. You despised the sound of music now, because every single song you heard, you shared with him. For the same reason, you didn’t enjoy your favorite movies anymore. Your bullies banded together to target you. And the worst part of all, is that you couldn’t even care. There was no silver lining anymore.

“Don’t you get furious?! Don’t you want to hurt them, make them pay?”, he said as he watched you apply concealer to a bruised cheek.

“I mean, I get angry but I try my best to not let it get to me. It’s what they want. I despise those people, I can’t get in a funk because of them”, you said nonchalantly.

But you had loved him. And now you felt like even moving around was an herculean task, like you were almost dead trying to get to safety. But there was no safety anymore.

Ironically, you started to understand him more and more after he disappeared. The anger, the hatred. How could anyone just follow their lives? When there’s people like you just suffering through yours?

Suguru Niragi was an illness, a parasite. He carved his way under your skin and into your heart, laid eggs of his hate on your veins and sucked you dry of your life’s essence. Then, after you were a shell of a human, he disappeared out of thin air, leaving you alone. Leaving you with those people. Leaving you to die.

And you were still in love with him.

-

You thought you were finally insane when it happened.

The streets were empty. Absolutely no one. You wondered for a moment if you felt so alone that your mind convinced itself that that’s exactly what had happened, if any moment now you would be locked in an insane asylum for running around and screaming until you throat got raw.

It took you two games to understand what was going on. You made sure to change clothes. Running shoes, leggings and a warm hoodie that you never let the hood down. You decided to significantly shorten your hair after you saw a man pull a young girl by the ponytail in a spades game. You loaded a backpack with food and bottles of water, anything you could find. And an axe that you took from an emergency box from the building you slept in.

It was on your 5th game that it happened. You saw people die in these games, but none of it was hands on for you. You just watched your back and hoped to win and let whoever was running this show take care of the rest. Honestly, you didn’t even wait to know if anyone even survived. You were done doing that.

When you got there, there were five people already. They banded together and whispered amongst themselves as you passed them by and grabbed a phone. Probably just a group of friends that got stranded at the same time and decided to stay together. You clutched you axe harder.

You didn’t even realize that you had zoned out until you heard hollering and four guys heavily armed walked you by. Where the fuck did they get guns? One of them let out a boisterous laugh that reminded you of someone that you wanted desperately to forget. You couldn’t even get over him during fucking Saw? That sound made your skin crawl.

Registration closed, said the mechanic voice. Difficulty: 8 of clubs. The first 5 players will be the first team and the last 5 players will be the second. One team must eliminate the others without losing any players. Both teams will be identified by the color of your screen, and will have one minute to hide.

You saw the armed guys’ screens light up red. You sighed in relief as yours did too. You made sure to keep your head down and thank whoever that not killing teammates was a part of the rules. They seemed amused and absolutely calm, and the guy with the rifle laughed again. You were shaking by now.

When the minute started, everyone bolted in different directions. You didn’t even look back to see if your teammates had accompanied you but by the sound of your footsteps crushing leaves, you were alone. You decided to go back after a while, looking around. A lamppost. Huh, lamppost it is. You leaned against the cool metal and focused on the silence. The minute had ended but they were still hunting. You didn’t come across anyone, which was good. After a while, all you could hear were distant gunshots.

You looked to the floor, only to see a shadow approaching you quick. You barely had time to dodge before a man hit you behind the head with a rock. You reacting made him lose his balance, falling to the floor and letting go of the rock. You looked at him. It was one of the boys from the other team. He had on a white button up blouse and a black hoodie. His hair had fallen over his brown eyes and he looked so scared and so alone.

This will have to do.

You didn’t stop, suddenly lifting the axe and bringing it down was like an automatic thing.

“I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU! HOW DARE YOU DO THIS TO ME? AFTER ALL I’VE DONE FOR YOU! YOU ABANDONED ME IN A MINUTE, LEFT ME ALONE IN THAT HELL!”

You didn’t stop when he started praying and then screaming. You didn’t stop when he started bleeding profusely or when the strength of your movements made your hood slide down from your head. You didn’t stop when his head got detached from his body and if you weren’t so angry, you would’ve listened tfootsteps. You didn’t stop until you had made mincemeat out of his face. Just for the sheer audacity of reminding you of him.

He looked at you from afar while you looked at the body of the boy whose skull you just had destroyed, a maniac, victorious smile on your face. You were pretending the boy was him. You really thought he had abandoned you? He would be absolutely heartbroken if he wasn’t so aroused. That’s what he always wanted to see, the instincts that you tried to push down. You were right, you were both the same. He wanted to lick that blood off of you, use it as lube to take you right there. When he first arrived at the Borderlands, when he first killed someone and liked it, he thought you would be disgusted by him. But look at you now. You were here, perfect for him, soaked in blood, feral. He’s never been so hard.

“Y/N”, he said.

“Niragi?,” you said. He ran to you, held you even when you fought back, even when you screamed bloody murder that you were going insane, begging to die already, even when you passed out on his arms. He licked a drop of blood from your neck.

“Let me take you to our safe haven”, he whispered against your skin.

[introvert--weeb]

The Case of the Other Time-Leaper

Below is the first chapter of this Tokyo Revengers fanfiction. Please bare with me as I haven't written in this style for a long time <3

Please do give some constructive feedback on what you all think. And whether it should be continued here.

Shibuya, Tokyo. 5.07.2005

"Kisaki wishes to meet with you."

The voice of Shuji Hanma filled the cold night air, his golden eyes narrowed at the one he was talking to. He really didn't want to be an errand boy for Kisaki, especially when the jobs were not as fun and thrilling as the others. Yet here he was, standing at the entrance of an alley, glaring at a shorter male who simply stared blankly back.

Genji had arrived in 2005 a few hour ago so he really wasn't expecting someone to request his presence already. While it was a little strange, the grey-haired boy was bored and in desperate need of some entertainment. After all, beating up random people he found was getting old quickly.

"Sure, just give me a moment, yeah?" He pushed himself from the wall he was leaning against before heading over towards the recent unconscious boy that had provided some brief entertainment. Rummaging through his pockets, he pulled out a wallet and pocketed it into his own jacket. "I'm good to go!" Genji smiled, his eyes focused solely on the tall boy. Hanma didn't know what it was about those eyes but they sent shivers down his spine, almost resembling instinctual fear. Something about the grey-haired boy had him on high alert for the first time. But he led the boy to where Kisaki was waiting regardless.

"So you're Tetta Kisaki?" Throwing his cigarette to the ground, Genji crushed the butt under the toe of his boot. For some reason, he was expecting someone more...intimidating? Not some scrawny blond with glasses. But hey, who was he to judge? He had come across a load of people in his travels, most of them surprising him.

Kisaki watched the newcomer in both caution and interest. He had heard about a boy that suddenly turned up and was beating down gang members left and right. All reports seemed to make out that Genji was something of a monster but the person stood in front of him seemed like nothing more than a regular 16 year old.

"I'm Genji! At least, that's what everyone calls me... I am surprised you heard of me considering I only arrived here a few hours ago!" Genji didn't wait for an answer to his earlier question. It was pretty obvious that he must be Tetta Kisaki considering the lanky male had brought him here.

"Here? As in Shibuya?" Hanma butted in.

"No, no, no. Here as in 2005! I can't remember where I was beforehand though! I do think it may have been 18th Century France though!" None of what was coming out of Genji's mouth made any sense to the other two boys. What did he mean he came here from 18th Century France? He was dressed in modern clothing after all. Surely if he had come back from then, he would be dressed in old timey clothing? Hanma put it down to the boy being delusional. After all, what sane person would believe anything coming out of the stranger's mouth?

"What are you talking about?" Kisaki asked, his interest piqued by what the boy was saying. Logically, none of what he had said was possible, but there was a part of the blond that believed him. That this Genji person had travelled through time and ended up here. And he would be damned if he didn't find out if it was possible.

"Leaped through time. I ended up here as I had no real destination in mind. Just had to get out before they pulled out the good ol' guillotine," Genji laughed, recalling the only memory he had from the last experience. "Didn't want to lose my head more than I already have, after all." The laughter started to creep Hanma and Kisaki out. It was a laugh of a person unhinged. Hanma knew he was crazy but damn, this boy was making him look normal.

"So you can travel through time...willingly?" Kisaki tried to confirm this information and smirked when the grey-haired boy simply nodded, now finding his attention on his lighter. "Then, are you willing to use that ability for me? I can make it worth your time," the blond simply came right out and asked the request. If he had a time-leaper, he could make sure his plans would work. Having Genji around was looking like a huge advantage. Hanma glanced over at Kisaki as if he was insane. Did he seriously believe what the boy had said? Sometimes, Hanma had to wonder if he was the normal one in this situation. Without proof, there was no way he would believe anything Genji had to say. Maybe he would get the shorter male to prove it later.

"What's in it for me? They do say that a favour is meant to be repaid with...something or other. Or was it that nothing in this life comes in threes? That didn't sound right..." Genji had lost himself in trying to recall a popular saying, his spare hand harshly ruffling the short grey strands. The information he was searching for must be in there somewhere. After all, that's what minds are for, collecting stuff to recall later, right? But it seemed as if his was failing him. "But never mind that! As long as I get to have some fun, I don't mind doing anything. However, want someone killed and that will cost you some candy!" Genji grinned, his eyes sparkling like a child in a toyshop. That is what he reminded Kisaki of anyway. A small child that had been told they could have whatever they wanted for simply having a mouthful of veggies.

From that moment, it seemed as though an agreement had been set. Kisaki could use Genji as a tool to further his plans, as long as he provided some entertainment for the older teen.

Somewhere in Shibuya, Tokyo. 6.07.2005

Takemichi comes back to the past, a clear mission in mind.

Meet with either Manjiro Sano or Tetta Kisaki and prevent the two from meeting.

Now that the blond thought about it, it seemed easier said than done. After all, he doesn't recall ever coming across either of them in his original past and he had no idea what they looked like. The only information he had was that they were the Top Two of Tokyo Manji Gang in the future. And the only people he knew that had any information about Toman were Kiyomasa and his small gang.

What the young teen didn't expect was to be thrown straight into a brawl as soon as he gets to said past. One punch to the face and he was out-cold on the ground, shouts and jeers being the last thing he hears before losing consciousness.

When he had finally regained consciousness, he wasn't expecting Kiyomasa and his gang to still be where the Fight Club takes place. Maybe he could use this situation to his advantage. After all, it would make his mission a lot easier if he could meet up with either Kisaki or Sano as soon as possible. Quicker he was in making sure they never meet, the sooner he gets to go back and Hinata would be safe. That was his thought pattern anyway.

Kiyomasa obviously didn't take the mention of his boss' name falling so casually from Takemichi's lips very well. In no time, Takemichi was beaten up a lot worse than he has ever been, blood staining his skin.

What was he thinking? He couldn't save Hinata. Not when he couldn't even stand up and protect himself. All he wanted was to head back to the comfort of his future. At least there he wasn't being beaten by Kiyomasa with a baseball bat.

Genji had decided he would wander around Shibuya, having heard about there being Fight Clubs taking place there. However, he must have been late since when he got to the location, all he saw was a beaten and bloody blond. He was about to walk off again in search of some other type of entertainment until he caught sight of the blue eyes. Those eyes didn't fit a 14 year old boy and it clicked almost immediately for the taller boy.

"Hey! You're a time-leaper, aren't ya?"

[theparanormalperiodical]

Top 10 Controversial Horror Films That Are Famous For All The Wrong Reasons *gags* *cries*

At the beating heart of horror is offence.

From that undeniable sense of something not being quite right, to the CGI-blood-spurtin’-adrenaline-fuelled scenes that leave us shaking in our boots, horror pivots on the knife edge of controversy.

It’s used to drive plots. It’s used to drive hype. And at the end of the month, it drives studio executives to the bank.

Horror films can be traumatic enough. But there are some films that bear the cross of controversy more than others. There are some films that have been branded as so damaging to their potential viewers that merely circulating copies of the film is illegal.

And yet their infamy has forged cult viewership. What was once shielded from us has now become ‘must see’.

Today we are going to be counting down horror’s most controversial films and what made them quite so topical.

*I’m going to star the ones that you can actually watch without getting traumatised. Some are controversial not because of their content but because some religious or political groups disagreed with them*

#10 - The Blair Witch Project (1999)*

Let’s ease in with a classic - a classic you can watch without sleeping with the light on.

In this found-footage flick we see a team of film students as they explore a local urban legend. But what they find leads them to unknown and ungodly territory.

The problem with this film is that it was marketed as a true story. No, not based on a true story, a true story. Yep, they claimed what we were seeing was real, found footage of some teens going mad as they forage deeper into mysterious woods.

IMBd went so far as to report that the actors were dead. Then, the movie studio super-charged their efforts to confirm to the public that not only was this film 100% real, the three main actors were still missing. The parents of the actors then started receiving sympathy cards.

There’s even a mocked up website that perpetuates these claims. 

#9 - Night Of The Living Dead (1968)*

Time for another not-too-disturbing film.

This is the original zombie apocalypse film saw a group of Americans attempt to survive an incoming attack of the undead while trapped in a rural farmhouse.

But the Motion Picture Association of America wasn’t too happy about it. The film rating system was yet to be in place, allowing children to also show up for an afternoon screening and be greeted by a 97 minute montage of extreme violence.

“The kids in the audience were stunned. There was almost complete silence. The movie had stopped being delightfully scary about halfway through, and had become unexpectedly terrifying. There was a little girl across the aisle from me, maybe nine years old, who was sitting very still in her seat and crying”

#8 - Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer (1986)

In this psychological film, we watch a random crime spree take place at the hands of a couple serial killers. Loosely based on real murderers Henry Lee Lucas and Ottis Toole, its controversial reputation was founded on the gore ‘n’ guts screened in the movie.

Whilst it didn’t receive much attention from the public, various classification boards across the world ensured new versions edited with certain scenes - often involving sexual assault and necrophilia - removed for viewers.

In 2003, the BBFC (the UK classification board) finally allowed the uncut version to be released and Australia followed suit in 2005.

#7 - I Spit On Your Grave (1978)

It’s the original rape-revenge flick. And it managed to piss everyone off.

Originally titled Day of the Woman, it tells the story of a fiction writer who exacts revenge on a group of four men who gang rape her.

Despite its pro-women claim-to-fame, the 30 minute rape scene begs to differ. Furious debate surrounds its feminist label as a film that forces the audience to endure rape from a female perspective and long-winded violence against men (something which is often reserved for women in horror). Regardless, the graphic violence earned it a steady ban in Ireland, Norway, Iceland, and West Germany.

#6 - Silent Night, Deadly Night (1984)*

You don’t get many controversial Christmas films. They typically stick to a cookie-cutter plot ‘n’ purpose every holiday season. But there are no strong women who need to rediscover the meaning of Christmas here.

Instead, we see a child traumatised by seeing his parents murdered on Christmas Eve go on a seasonal rampage as an adult.

A week after its release in the early 80s, it was pulled from theatres due to backlash. Marketing was focused on a Santa Claus killer with adverts often airing during family-friendly TV programmes and meant numerous children developed a phobia of Father Christmas. Large crowds protested cinemas with one notable protest involving angry families singing carols at the Interboro Quad Theater in The Bronx.

It was only in 2009 - 25 years after its original release - that a DVD of the film was first made available for purchase in the UK.

#5 - Psycho (1960)*

This legendary film follows the disappearance of a young woman after her encounter with a strange man called Norman Bates, one of horror’s most iconic figures. The controversy that would engulf this fim lay not in the violent attack on an innocent woman or even the disturbing content of the film.

Oh, no. It was because of what the leading lady was wearing.

In the opening scene of the film, we see Janet Leigh wearing nothing but a bra.

*gasp*

This racy attire was emblazoned across promotional material, meeting Hitchcock’s high standards of creating controversy around the movie. There was a no late admission policy for movie theaters, and the posters told viewers “Do not reveal the surprises!” to maintain a mysterious aura around the plot twist.

#4 - The Human Centipede (2009) (all of ‘em)

I’ve watched a lot of horror films, in case you couldn’t tell.

I’m used to watching a scary movie, shaking off the anxiety, and moving on with my life. But there are some that stayed with me. I only watched the trailer for the first movie, and it legitimately traumatised me. It gave me quite a severe, sudden bout of a depression for a solid month when I was 13.

Throughout horror’s goriest franchise, we see an evil doctor and amateur mad scientist attempt to sow several people together into a centipede-like chain from mouth to anus.

*retches*

At the heart of promoting the franchise was controversy. Tom Six, the director, forced a narrative that claimed from the first film that this was "100% medically accurate". He even alleged a Dutch doctor helped inspire the film, confirming that with an IV drip, this was entirely possible.

Although it didn’t receive furore that amounted to serious censorship or long-term banning, it was infamous for having its viewers vomiting in the cinema aisles.

The second film, however, was subject to much more severe controversy and could not legally be supplied in the UK until 2011 due to its heavy focus on sexual abuse, more graphic violence than the original film, and it’s pretty vile depiction of a murderer that was intellectually disabled.

Audiences were used to the graphic nature of the franchise by the third and final release. As the least-controversial and least-enjoyable film according to critics, it barely made a dent in the horror community.

Good riddance, I guess?

#3 - Faces Of Death (1978)

I’m not sure I’d recommend this one per se - but I will give it credit for being an interesting project.

This documentary-style film is a montage of footage of people dying in different ways. As a result of its very graphic and very real content, it was banned and censored in many countries. Only in 2003 was it released on DVD in the UK after a scene was cut featuring dogs fighting and a monkey being beaten to death.

Germany, Australia, and New Zealand followed suit, reversing their bans and releasing edited versions.

However, 7 years after its release, the media revamped its interest in the film after a maths teacher showed it to his class at a Californian high school. Two of his students claimed they were so traumatised they received a costly settlement to reimburse their emotional distress. Things took a darker turn a year later, when a 14 year old bludgeoned a classmate to death with a baseball bat; he claimed he wanted to see what it would be like to actually kill someone after watching Faces of Death.

#2 - Cannibal Holocaust (1980)

This Italian film’s title alone hints towards two frightening things: flesh-eating humans and genocide. In this found-footage movie we see an anthropologist lead a rescue team into the Amazon rainforest to find a group of filmmakers that went missing.

The rampant graphic content including sexual assault and animal cruelty showcased in the film (7 animals were killed during filming in some pretty horrific ways) led to it being banned in 50 countries.

Some also alleged that a handful of deaths seen in the film were real, as were the missing film crew. In fact, the actors portraying the documentarians signed contracts that stopped them appearing in motion pictures for an entire year to maintain the illusion of reality.

And only 10 days after its premiere, the director was charged with obscenity and the film confiscated. All copies were to be turned over to the authorities. There are currently a range of versions that have been edited to varying degrees and are allowed for circulation.

#1 - A Serbian Film (2010)

No.

Nope.

Don’t do it. Don’t watch this film.

A Serbian Film follows a retired porn star who agrees to feature in an “art film” for some cash. Little does he know this film will include rape, incest, pedophilia, necrophilia…

Just don’t watch it.

It is still banned in South Korea, New Zealand, Australia. It is supposedly a parody of politically correct films made in Serbia that are funded by foreign groups and allegedly speaks openly about post-war society and the struggle for survival.

*shakes head*

Off to have a 3 hour shower, brb.

If you, uhhh, liked this post please like and reblog.

And if you want to hear more about horror and the supernatural every week hit follow!

[f1nalboys]

Keiji 'Red' Devlin Bio

NAME: Keiji Devlin

AGE: 23

GENDER: Male

PRONOUNS: He/Him, They/Them

NATIONALITY: Japanese and Irish

NICKNAMES: Dev, K, Red

OCCUPATION: Lead singer and bass player in his punk band Sinful Tranquility. The band is quickly gaining popularity in the underground Anarcho-punk scene, but not enough to fully support himself. He comes from an affluent family (which he hides from most people) and he gets money from his mother every month to keep him afloat.

LOCATION: New York, New York, USA

HAIR/EYE COLOR: Dark brown eyes (almost black), with naturally black wavy hair. Has been dying his hair red for the last four years

HEIGHT: 6’2

BODY TYPE: Lanky, not a lot of muscles, and pretty thin. He does have a bit of chub near his hips <3

FACE: 90’s Takeshi Kaneshiro

CLOTHING: Punk/rock/grunge inspired. Mainly wears Anarcho-Punk clothing (all black, militaristic, lots of anarchist symbols/slogans, liberty spikes in his hair, etc) but tends to steer away from studded/spiked jewelry.

LANGUAGES: Fluent in English, nearly fluent in Japanese, and at conversational level for Spanish, Korean, and Gaelic.

BIOGRAPHY: Keiji grew up as the second of 5 children (4 boys, 1 girl) in Arizona. He was raised by his mom and dad until he turned 12 when his father left, divorcing his mother. His father is a broker on Wall Street and sends the family money each month to keep them comfortable but Keiji resents him for how he was able to make said money.

Red grew up with a need to protect those who he deemed as ‘weak,’ and he got into a lot of fights throughout his school career. His best friend is Naveen and he’s known him since the fourth grade. Naveen’s family was poor, the only member having money being his older brother who refused to help ease their financial burden.

Two months before his 18th birthday, Naveen and Red were talking and Naveen’s brother came up. He got angry at how his friend's brother was treating him so he took it upon himself to go confront the older man. Naveen’s brother was 27, big, and mean, so when Keiji confronted him he lashed out and began beating Keiji up.

Naveen stepped in just as Keiji was getting choked out and, after catching his breath, he grabbed a large rock and bashed Naveen's brother in the head. By the time Naveen was able to pull him off of his brother, he was dead, head beaten beyond recognition.

Thanks to Naveens testimony, Keiji was spared jail time and given 40 hours of community service as the murder was deemed self-defense. This is what sparked his blood-lust. Killing rich people, who were always bad in his experiences, gave him a sense of justice. Naveen and his ex, Indigo, are the only people aware of his killings.

TYPE OF VICTIM: Keiji goes after rich/affluent people. He refuses to kill lower class people and children. Though he doesn’t actively seek out people to kill, he will never pass up the opportunity to do it.

WEAPONS: He is a very hands on killer. He will use anything at his disposal, whether that be a crowbar, a lamp, a baseball bat, anything that will allow him to hear his victim’s pain. He likes to prolong the beatings and he always takes a photo of the aftermath.

PERSONALITY: To most, Keiji is a happy-go-lucky, funny, sweet guy. He’s the type to walk an old lady across the street while carrying her groceries for her. He loves to laugh and to meet new people, and he’s a big history nerd. If the person he’s meeting is rich, he does a complete 180. While the initial meeting/realization might be bad, he will reign it in long enough to convince the person to bring him over to their place/go home with him. That’s where the façade drops.

When he’s killing, he is sadistic. He takes great pleasure in hurting them and will spend hours doing so. A big part of his pleasure comes from their pleas’ for forgiveness and mercy. He finds it very ironic.

FACTS: Keiji is a big time smoker and needs to smoke at least twice a day, maybe more. He loves wine more than hard liquor, but loves mixed drinks more than wine. Heavy weight. Has abandonment issues which results in him having a hard time forming long lasting relationships and he tends to sabotage it himself. Loves watching trashy reality TV shows and will spend hours of his day watching them and smoking weed. Big pothead. Dislikes the police and government. Hides the fact he comes from a fairly well-off family, only Naveen knows.

[impossiblelibrary]

Today's rant brought to you by: Queer Eye Japan, can we all just try to be as kind as they try to be?

After watching the Queer Eye Japan super short season, I wanted to google to see the overall reaction to the show, make sure that my western eyes were correct in seeing the care that was given to the culture. Were cultural taboos, other than being outwardly gay, crossed? So I find this article in the top results and other than the perspective, why tho? Tokyoesque.com had an article with a higher reading level, with surface level appreciation but at least better written.

I can't get over this hate article though. Unfounded, dumb, wrong and incorrect. Do not go forward unless you like that blistering kind of anger from me.

But the reasons just get weaker as the article extends: "Hurts the country it set out to save?" Looking for white savior much? They did not go to save Japan, they gave some free shit to like 4-5 people, think smaller.

Their culture guide wasn't gay enough.

You want to suggest any lgbt insta models or celebrities, use your platform to raises some up?

"There is a growing sexless culture in Japan for married and unmarried people, and it is perilous watching Queer Eye present this without any context behind what is driving this behavior."

Sexiness is what the fab 5 embrace, unfortunately and it was probably discussed behind the scenes of how much talking about sex was allowed or polite and the conversation of not having sex is closer to the tip of the tongue rather than the feeling of sexiness. The West is not the ones blasting that information. It is across multiple Japanese printed newspapers and online stories by now and the "context" is still being discussed and debated amongst Japanese. So I don't think any outsiders should be weighing in or "explaining" this phenomenon. We can repeat what we have been told but guessing at the reasons is not our place. The reasons illustrated by the author of the article seem lacking, a take but not the only one, but who am I to speak on that being in a sexual relationship with someone who pulls from that culture?

Kiko begins to lecture Yoko-san on how she “threw away her womanhood” (referring to a Japanese idiom, onna wo suteru) by going makeup-free and wearing drab, shapeless clothes.

The mistranslation by the subtitles fixed by this author was necessary information. But Kiko didn't lecture her on it, it was brought up by Yoko before any of them arrived, that was her theme, that was what she had decided to focus on. Meanwhile, if you watched Jonathan, he understood there was no time to spend on makeup and skincare so provided her a one instrument, 3 points of color on the skin to feel prettier. That and the entire episode being the 5 treating her like a woman on a date, not trying to hook her up, which is what they did in American eps.

"In teaching a Japanese woman, who already struggles to find time for herself, how to make an English recipe, Antoni is making great TV and nothing more."

So Antoni shouldn't have taught her apple pie because it's too exotic for a Japanese woman. (Can you smell the sexism?)

He didn't make an apple pie, altho Yoko did mention her mother made that for her when she was a kid. He made an apple tartine after going to a Japanese bakery who makes that all the time. Then highlighted the apples came from Fuji in true Japanese media fashion. Honey, American television doesn't usually highlight where the ingredients come from. A Japanese producer told him to do that. So all worries handled within the same ep. She got Japanese ingredients, had the recipe shown to her and then made it for her friends in her own house. Did the author actually watch this show or nah?

"beaten over the head with his western self-help logic. “You have to live for yourself,” he says."

The style of build up the 5 went for was confrontational but in a "I'm fighting for you" way. It's hard to describe, but the best I can say is, a person has multiple voices in their head, from parents, siblings, society, and maybe themselves. By being loud and obnoxious, American staples right there, they are adding one more voice. You deserve this, you are amazing, you are worth it. I know this is against most Japanese cultural modesty, but maybe it shouldn't be.

Sarcasm lies ahead:

Apparently: mispronunciation is microaggressions, not just someone who had a sucky school system. Yea okay, They're laughing at the language not at how stumbling these monolinguals are with visiting another country. Mmhm. Japanese don't say I love you and don't touch and that should stay that way instead of maybe, once in awhile, feeling like they can hug. Yeah, let's just ignore Yoko's break down that she had never hugged her lifelong friend after hugging strangers multiple times. Maid cafes are never sexualized in Japan ever, just don't go down that one street in Akihabara where the men are led off by the hand sheepishly blushing. Gag me. And Japanese men love to cry in front of their wives and would never break down once the wife leaves. I have never seen a Japanese movie showcase that move. Grr.

"I identify as many cultures."

So you're a Japanese man when it's convenient for you to get an article published? Are you nationally Japanese or just ethnically or culturally?

Homeland is an inherently racist word?

"After the Bush administration created the Department of Homeland Security after the 9/11 terrorist attacks, a Republican consultant and speechwriter Peggy Noonan urged, “the name Homeland Security grates on a lot of people, understandably. Homeland isn’t really an American word, it’s not something we used to say or say now.”

Yes, let's use a Washington Post article rather than a etymology professor. Yes, the google search results increased after 2001 Homeland Security was used but the word has been around since the 1660s and I've read multiple turn of the century lit on white people returning to their homeland, i.e. the town off the coast they were born in.

"But" is not disagreeing. I think the repeated offender for the author is the not acknowledging the makeover-ees feelings. But, that is how LGBT have decided to deal with the inner voices that invade from society. They are just that, not our own, they are the influence of society, and we can choose, we have to choose, to be influenced by someone, anyone else.

Karamo can't speak about being black when an Asian is speaking about being Asian, even though the Asian gay man was feeling alone. It's called relating bitches, and I'm done with people saying that is redirecting the conversation, it's extending the conversation. That's how we talk, the spotlight is shared, especially when someone's about to cry and doesn't want to be seen as crying, time to turn the spotlight.

The gay monk wasn't good enough, you should have invited the gay politician.

Yeah, causes I'm sure a politician has all the time in the world for a quick stint and cry. They picked a Japanese monk who travels to NY because they had a guest who travels to the West too. Did you want him to stop traveling back and forth? Did you want a pure, ethnic and cultural Japanese gay man who has no ties to the west to talk to this Western educated young man? Seriously?

This is just not how it works in Japan.

Being in a multi-cultural marriage between two rebels, discussions on facets of culture are plenty in my household. Culture should be respected enough to be considered but not held on a pedestal like we should never adjust or throw some things out. LGBT being quiet and private for instance. "Being seen" was Jonathan's advice, and a good one especially for a Japanese gay man that was called feminine since he was a kid. Some gay men can hide, but as Jonathan said, he couldn't hide what he was, he couldn't hide this. So fuck it. Don't hide. It's actually more dangerous for a feminine man to come off as anxious rather than gay and proud. It makes you more of a target if they think you won't fight back. Proud means, Imma throw hands too, bitch.

This is also from the civil rights playbook going back to Black America: never hold a protest or a fight without the cameras, without being seen. LGBT have found the more seen they are, in media, in the streets, the better off we are. When LGBT Americans were being "private" about our lifestyles, we died, a la 1980s. They won't care if you start dying off if they never saw you to begin with.

And hence why I think the author's real anger is from these 5 being seen dancing flamboyantly in Shibuya, in Harajuku, afforded the privilege of doing this safely because of their tourist status, cameras and very low violence rate in Tokyo, loud and obnoxiously. Honestly, they wouldn't have been invited or nominated if they didn't want that brash American-ness coming into their home, just for a taste, at least.

Here's my real anger, my own jealousy: Japan's queer community currently does not have marriage or adoption rights. US does, so we have progressed further. But we are also not that many years from being tied to cow fences with barbed wire, beaten with baseball bats and left for dead overnight. If things are so bad over there, maybe take a few pages from the civil right playbook we took so much time to perfect and produced by the Black Americans who fought first. But so far, I only hear loss of jobs and marriages, which we still have here too. Stop trying to divide us, we are one community, LGBT around the world and we are here to try to help. Take it or leave it, it's not like we're going to go organize your own Pride parade for you.

Rant over? I guess. Is this important enough to be put in the google results along with his. Hell no, anyone with half a mind can see he's reaching more than half the time. And any argument about: this wasn't covered! There are a shit ton of conversations that are not covered in the 45 min they have. They are not a civil rights show, it's a makeover show, doing their best in that direction anyway. Know what it is.

Next blog post, what research I would guess was happening behind the scenes for each of the 5? I'm pretty sure I saw Jonathan doing Japanese style makeup there...

[figonas]

Twilight Re-watch Notes Pt. 1 - A Contest for the Worst Movie Quote in History

I'd like to think I'm funny so please enjoy my scene-by-scene notes from a recent Twilight Saga re-watch.

Hey Catherine Hardwicke, opening with the death of an animal was probably not the best choice but go off I guess??

There is a lot of general Bella awkwardness that I'm skipping over here but the scene in gym class is so horrifically, painfully uncomfortable that I almost passed out from the second-hand embarrassment.

Jessica trying her best to be fake nice to the human embodiment of a crumpled soda can: "Aren't people from Arizona like....really tan"

Bella with all the cadence of a child who just found out Santa isn't real: "yeah..I guess that's why they kicked me out"

Mike clearly just trying to get his dick wet: "HAHAH you are funny"

no mike she is not.

I'm not gonna go into the biology class scene because god knows tumblr has beaten that particular horse to death. BUT the scene in the administration office immediately after that is a TRIP. Edward has one of his most dramatic lines here when they won't let him switch classes: “I’ll just have to endure it” ?!?!?!?!?!?! This is INSANITY, he sounds like he's going to burst into tears like Edward please chill you aren't even being a little subtle.

I will never get over Bella trying to put Ketchup on her burger and then just???? giving up???? when it doesn't come out after she limply shakes it approximately once.

“HOW YOU LIKIN DA RAIN GIRL” Is our first contender for the worst and most unnatural line in movie history, and trust me there are plenty more.

Bella accusatorily saying “you were gone” to Edward as if this dude who she met for approximately 30 minutes 2 weeks ago owes her even a PALTRTY SCRAP of an explanation about anything???????

Actually, this whole scene is a horrific nightmare of awkward intrusive conversation:

“You’re asking me about the weather” HOE WHAT ELSE ARE YOU GONNA TALK ABOUT YOU DON’T KNOW EACH OTHER

“hey did you get contacts” WHO JUST ASKS THAT?!?

and of course; “it’s the fluorescents” [RUNS AWAY]

Charlie and Bella have the only organic-sounding dialogue in the entire movie. Any awkwardness they have is BELIEVABLE father-daughter awkwardness and not like "I'm being forced to film this against my will" awkwardness like every other exchange in this film series.

Bella asks Edward ALL OF ONCE about him saving her from the truck and Edward gets so haughty and smug thinking that Bella won't figure it out

“you’re not gonna let this go are you?” “no” “then I hope you enjoy disappointment” [storms off] MY DUDE LITERALLY 2 SCENES LATER SHE FIGURES IT OUT IN 3 GOOGLE CLICKS

“I had an adrenaline rush, it’s very common you can google it” contender number two for the terrible dialogue award.

Edward saying “if you were smart you would stay away from me” AFTER HE APPROACHED HER LIKE FUCK OFF [skeleton throwing its own skull gif]

Kstew got a lot of flack for her performance in this movie but when she has a good partner to exchange lines with she SHINES. The scene with Angela and her at the beach where she tells her to ask Eric to prom is GOOD. EVERY scene with Charlie in THIS ENTIRE FRANCHISE is GOOD. It is nothing but pure misogyny that Rpatz didn’t catch any flack for his truly, horrifically awkward performance

I cannot believe Stephanie thought it would be a good idea to have Edward save Bella from potentially getting gang r*ped like I get it girl is about the drama but still this is just a TOOOUCH too far

“your hand is so cold,” WHO SAYS THIS TO SOMEONE THEY BARELY KNOW COMPLETELY UNPROMPTED???

SHE TRIES TO REFUSE CARRYING BEAR MACE WHEN SHE WAS ALMOST R*PED NOT 4 HOURS PREVIOUSLY LIKE SIS CARRY A KNIFE?!?!?!?!?

The “you’re impossibly fast & strong” monologue is so bad I want to barf

“I’ve killed people before” “doesn’t matter” BITCH YES IT DOES WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU

“MY OWN PERSONAL BRAND OF HEROIN” IS SO BAD. Like we all recognize how bad this is right? Especially when one considered the target demographic for these films, i.e. teenage girls, have NO FUCKING FRAME OF REFERENCE FOR THIS WHAT.SO.EVER.

“And so the lion fell in love with the lamb” YOU’VE KNOWN EACH OTHER FOR ALL OF 3 SECONDS I CAN’T WITH Y'ALL. AT LEAST THE BOOK HAD SOME BUILD-UP JESUS GEEZUS

Who thought this meadow scene was a good idea, they need to be sent straight to hell. WHY ARE THEY LAYING DOWN LIKE, SIT MAYBE?????? IT’S SO WEIRD AND UNNATURAL THEY LOOK LIKE DOLLS I HATE IT

The scene where they get out of the car and Edward puts his arm around Bella while Spotlight by Mutemath plays in the background is TOP TIER teen drama bs and I love it. Far and away the best shot in the movie apart from The Baseball Scene(TM).

I will never get over the fact that Edward's bitch ass rats Bella out for already eating when she comes over to meet his family. BE FUCKING COOL EDWARD FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE, GOD!!!

Esme is too pure for this world I can’t deal with her, & Emmet waving the knife is my favorite thing in all 5 of these movies

Why tf are Alice and Jasper fucking off doing god knows what in a tree and not helping with dinner like everyone else? Y'all ain't special even Rosalie is helping

Esme talking to Rosalie “Clean this up..now” I LOVE YOU BE MY MOM

Earlier they talk about the fact that vampires don’t sleep BUT the first thing Bella says when she walks into Edward's room is “no bed” girl we know what you after you ain't slick.....

WHAT IS THIS DANCING SCENE IN HIS BEDROOM IT’S HORRIBLE TO WATCH and I want to find whoever thought “well I could always make you” was a good line for Edward to say and slap them directly in the mouth.

“hold on tight spider monkey” excuse me while I VOMIT

Mike offering his opinion on Bella dating Edward HOWEVER justified is automatically invalidated by A. his own romantic interest in Bella and B. the fact that he has also know Bella for all of 10 minutes & has no bearing on her personal life whatsoever

THE PAST COUPLE OF MONTHS THIS MAN HAS BEEN COMING INTO HER ROOM AND WATCHING HER SLEEP THIS IS RED FLAG CITY LIKE BELLA WATCH A TRUE CRIME DOCUMENTARY OR READ THE NEWS FOR FUCKS SAKE

THIS FRANCHISE HAS THE MOST HORRIBLE KISSING SCENES IN MOVIE HISTORY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! YOU CAN HEAR LITERALLY EVERY BREATH, EVERY AWKWARD PRESS OF LIPS. You're telling me THIS was the best take of this???? CAN YOU IMAGINE HOW AWKWARD THIS WAS TO FILM

The whole scene when Bella is telling her dad about her date with Edward is absolutely god tier. Charlie snapping the barrel of the shotgun closed, him motioning that he has a halo on, asking her if she still has her pepper spray. BILLY BURKE LIFTED THIS MOVIE UP AND TRIED SO HARD TO CARRY IT ON HIS BROAD, MUSTACHIOED DAD SHOULDERS, WE STAN

WHERE TO START WITH THE BASEBALL SCENE:

Supermassive Black Hole in the background, Alice going AWF with her pitching, Rosalie getting all pissed when Bella says she's out and Emmett yells "c'mon babe it's just a game" like the puppy dog of a person (vampire?) he is, CARLISLE WEARING A SCARF WHILE PLAYING BASEBALL, I WILL NEVER EMOTIONALLY RECOVER FROM JASPERS BAT TRICKS, EMMET AND EDWARDS LAUGH AFTER CRASHING INTO ONE ANOTHER.

A TRULY IMMACULATE MOVIE SCENE. This scene isn’t long enough

“My monkey man” might be the worst line in this movie, I’m so torn between which one is the worst. Also, I'm just now realizing that this is the second time someone has compared a loved one to some type of monkey and I really don't like it.

Bella's defeated “I can’t hurt him” breaks my heart every time. AND FUCKING BILLY BURKE pulling out his acting chops with Charlie’s poor little broken sounding “I know I’m not that much fun to be around we can do more stuff together” & “I just gotcha back” LIKE LITERALLY EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS SCENE HURTS ME ON A PHYSICAL LEVEL AND I AM ENTITLED TO FINANCIAL COMPENSATION

I know I've skipped over a lot but it's just a lot of like star wipe level montage of nonsense, so we are mOVING ON to what is possibly the biggest plot hole I've never recognized before now: How in the hell was James planning on luring Bella out if he didn’t find that videotape of Bella's mom looking for her????? Or was he just going to bust up in the holiday inn, metaphorical guns blazing & toss Bella out a window???

This fight scene between James & Edward is VERY poorly choreographed and you can practically see the stunt wires pulling on their clothes but no one is surprised..this is Twilight after all.

Who the fuck starts the fire in the ballet studio if Carlisle & Edward are with Bella, Jasper and Emmet are holding James's arms and Alice is ripping his head off???? Esme and Rosalie aren't there so the only explanation is that Emmett's power Stephanie never told us about is his ability to start small, controlled, indoor bonfires with his mind.

If Bella was losing blood from her femoral artery it is HIGHLY UNLIKELY that she would have been cognizant enough to tell them her hand was burning + THERE’S A BIG ASS BITE HOW DID THEY MISS IT???

Let Me Sign is such a good fucking song. Actually, while we're on music every song on every Twilight Saga soundtrack SLAPS. At least 1 department at Summit Entertainment was staffed with competent people. (side note, why the fuck do I know the studio by name that made this movie. I need to go lie down)

Bella acting a damn fool in the hospital bed like clingy much

CHARLIE IS SUCH A GOOD DAD FUCK!

The Edward/Jacob beef is so dramatic at prom can you both chill for 5 minutes we haven't even gotten to y'alls bullshit yet that's not until New Moon.

Bella really thought this mfer was gonna turn her at prom in the middle of the dancefloor??????????

Flightless Bird American Mouth. That's it, that's the bullet point

Victoria coming to prom, like we stan a dramatic bitch.

I will almost CERTAINLY post my New Moon (Extended Edition) notes in a few days. & yes I do have notes on the entire franchise.

[sierracolorstheworldofwords]

Yandereplier x anxious reader

An: Idk if anyone is going to read this but if you do and somehow like it HIT that reblog button babey! And also hit me up with a request if u want. Anyway, this was a request from Wattpad, and I have more one shots on there! The name of said wattpad is in my bio! :3 ALSO TRIGGER WARNING: Reader has an anxiety attack! So if that triggers you or anything please skip this! And read some of my other fics bc yes I’m plugging!

It all started with that nightmare.

Yan and you sat underneath a cherry tree in full bloom, each pink petal a promise, each soft flower a gentle declaration of love.

The sky was a beautiful island blue, and the clouds looked like they were painted onto the sky, just for you. You could see patches of them through the dark, curved branches of the tree, and feel the warm sun, sweet like honey, shining on your face.

Everything was.. perfect. You wished you could stop time forever, make this moment into a crystal bubble, preserve it in a snow globe forever.

"I have to tell you something." Yan said suddenly, fingers unwrapping from yours.

You turned towards him, taking in his gentle eyes— a beautiful brown that in the right light, looked red.

"Yeah?" You whispered softly, a love struck smile on your face.

He looked away from you, up at the sky, cracking his knuckles, "You know how I said I'd love you forever?"

"Of course! You tell me everyday—"

He took a deep breath, "That's changed. I found someone else."

You sat up suddenly, looking down at him in confusion, heart pounding fiercely in your chest, "Wh-what? Yan.. Yan that's not funny—"

"It's not a joke, senpai��� wait, I can't call you that, anymore, because you're not my senpai. I can't believe I even dated you! You were just trying to waste my time and keep me away from my real senpai!"

"Wh-what?! No!"

"You're so stupid and worthless, all you do is whine and I honestly can't believe I even loved you!"

A pair of legs appeared in front of Yan, a faceless figure standing in front of him. The opposite of you, everything you couldn't be... smart, witty, attractive, actually deserving of Yan's love. You watched Yan sit up, a smile on his face— a smile that used to belong to you and you alone.

"Senpai!"

He got up, hugged the mysterious person, and grabbed their hand, "Let's leave this freak! I missed you so much!" He cooed, leaning on their shoulder, completely love struck.

"Y-Yan! Wait!" You stood up, wanting to chase him, but you couldn't. You were stuck, as if your legs had been welded to the ground below you.

"See senpai? I'm so dedicated to you. I broke their heart to prove how much I love you— do you want me to break their bones too, senpai?"

The world stopped. Everything froze like an icy tundra. You fell to your knees, looking at them going further and further away, seeing Yan going further and further away.

Your heart felt like it'd been pulled out of your chest and beaten with a baseball bat full of nails. All you could do was watch Yan leave, seeing his red hair fade away. You sobbed as your everything—the only person you truly trusted left, laughing wickedly, not even caring about how you felt, not even caring.. not caring at all.

"Yan!" You screamed.

You stood up. Legs finally moving.

Maybe you could convince him! You loved him! You could convince him! You— you loved him!

"Come back!"

You began to run, legs finally working, you desperately reached for him, the world a blurry mess of tears, "YAN! COME BACK! PLEASE—"

But he didn't.

He disappeared. Didn't look back. kept going. Leaving you like an old doll he'd gotten bored of, finding a new toy instead.

You alone. Again.

With no one to turn to. Again.

Nobody to care for. Again.

Nobody caring about you. Again.

Alone. Again.

Blackness crawling into your chest again, loneliness nesting inside of your rib cage, cocooning itself inside you. Again. Again. Again.

Alone.

Again.

You woke up with a soft whimper, heart pounding in your chest as you felt warm tears falling down your cheeks. You closed your eyes, crying softly and hugging your pillow.

Maybe you should call Yan.

He'd be more than happy to comfort you! You sat up, grabbed your phone of the charger, and noticed the time— School was in hour. You sighed. He probably wouldn't even be awake now.

You lay down back down, wondering if you should text Yan.. everything that happened in your head kept ringing over and over again, especially what Yan said. You knew it was a nightmare, but it felt so real. Like it did actually happen.. like.. like it was going to happen. Could Yan ever.. ever find someone else? Someone who was better than you? He probably could, right? Then.. then he'd leave you all alone..

Your stomach curled into a tight, knot, and you felt the familiar fear run like a spiked metal wire in your veins, causing your heart to pound harder. What if it was all gonna happen? Not today or tomorrow, but.. someday? He could easily find someone else. He was so amazing and you.. you weren't.

Yan always said he loved you but.. but.. did he really? You were an anxious mess with too much emotional baggage, and sure, he had his problems, being possessive and clingy but.. but he didn't have the type of background you had. It just didn't make sense why he would choose you of all people. Your anxiety  just made the thought worse, dangling it above your head and maliciously smirking.

You closed your eyes, listening to the voice in your head telling you that Yan was going to leave you, and that you might as well get ready for it. Prepare for the inevitable. Did you really think he would actually wanna stay with you? Really? Really? Look at yourself, you're crying over a stupid bad dream, almost always insecure and almost as clingy as Yan. You were surprised he didn't find the constant need of reassurance from him annoying yet.

You wiped your tears and turned your phone  back on and opened  up your messages, reading a few from Yan—

Omg Senpai! I just saw the cutest person today! You'll never guess who!

....It was you! Love you! <3

A smile crossed your features and you wiped your eyes, of course he loved you. Of course he did. You scrolled up and read another one.

Senpai I can't wait for you to come over this weekend! :3 I'm so excited~! We're gonna watch so much anime and cuddle so much! :D I love cuddling with you, you're perfect cuddle size. uwu

Your cheeks flushed a little, and the voice in your head snickered. You really think he loves you? It asked, swirling in your head like a snake of smoke, all those cheesy messages don't mean shit. Maybe he does love you now, maybe— but don't you think he'll get tired of you?

You frowned, arguing with it. Wondering why Yan would say those things if he didn't mean them. Of course he meant them! You knew he did. He wasn't the type to lie about loving someone. That just wasn't Yan at all!

But how do you know? And maybe he does mean them.. or maybe he did mean them, but he doesn't mean them anymore because you were so annoying and he was just saying all those things to get you to shut up. The voice filled your head, burning up all the messages with questions of why, and how and really? What if it was all a lie? What if he used to like you and now he didn't— You slammed your eyes shut. Covering them with your hands as you gritted your teeth, asking yourself if you really were gonna cry over something so stupid?

How could Yan even love you when you were like this?

Your alarm rang and you gasped, sitting up, remembering you had to pack— today was Friday, you were supposed to go over to Yan's house for the weekend. Would you be annoying? Maybe you should cancel? Say.. say you couldn't come over? But.. he got everything prepared and— you sighed softly, rummaging through your drawer and stuffing clothes into your backpack.

Your phone buzzed, you looked at it before picking it up from your bed, turning it on and opening it. Reading  the message from Yan—

Good morning Senpai! It's Friday and I'm so excited!! Don't forget to pack! :3 Also love you and have a good day! I'll see you soon! Love you! Ok bye

A small smile bloomed on your lips, and you texted back, hearing that small seed of doubt as you did. You ignored it, sending a message that read— Morning Yan-Yan! Can't wait to see you and stay over, and don't worry, I packed up. Love you too and see you soon~

You placed it back on your bed and fixed up your hair before brushing up your teeth and getting dressed, making sure to grab your phone and headphones before you did. Then you went to school.

When you arrived, you met Yan in the cafeteria, he brought breakfast for you, which was an unexpected surprise, and all he asked in return was a kiss. (Which you found adorable, and of course you gave him one.)

The two of you ate outside, watching the sun rise as you talked. You wondered if you should tell him about your nightmare, but you didn't want to ruin his happy mood, or be annoying. Before you knew it, your first class started and Yan walked you to class, giving you a kiss and a hug before running to his class.

The rest of the day.. was.. a day.

Your anxiety kept piling up, and then just found more reasons for Yan to hate you—

looks, grades, the way you speak, how you talk too much, your smile, your eyes, the way you walked, the clothes you wore.. everything.

By the time the day was over, thoughts swirled in your head like a tornado, and when you went to meet him by your locker, it took everything in you to not cry and panic. Your stomach hurt and your heart pounded as your brain kept saying— he's gonna leave. Not be here. You'll be all alone. He won't miss you. He doesn't need you. Can't you be better?

You leaned against your locker, head swirling as your chest felt like it was being wrapped up in a giant fist. Your lungs constricted. Your heart pounded. Palms sweated. Throat dry. The world blurring, people becoming slashed of color, the school becoming nothing but a blur that felt.. that felt like distant waves at sea. Real, recognizable, but not entirely there, dreamlike in a sickening way.

"Senpai?"

Yan.

Your eyes snapped up, focusing on him, the world a buzz of noise. You were so stupid! You just had to go and panic, didn't you? Ruin everything like some sick disease—

"Are you okay?" He asked softly.

You couldn't breathe.

He should've been yelling at you! Scolding you! Punishing you! Giving you a reason to cry! A reason to be scared so why, why was he being so nice?

Air rushed in and out your throat as you tried to speak, words replaced with shallow harsh breaths. You placed a hand on your chest, heart pounding loudly in your ears.

Softly, Yan grabbed your hand, holding you close as everything crashed— crashed, crashed like a boat in the middle of a fearful storm, crashed like a frantic car speeding down the high way and off a cliff, crashed.

Yan pushed people out the way, practically slamming the school doors open before picking you up and cradling you like the gentle cargo you were. Fishing the keys out of his skirt pocket, he clicked the button, unlocked his red Cadillac, before opening the back seat door and placing you there, climbing in next to you and closing the door shut.

You looked at him, the eye of the storm, the patch of sky in the middle of the tornado and—

"Don't leave me Yan!" You sobbed, clinging on to him desperately, hands digging into the soft fabric of his white shirt and you cried.

"Leave you Senpai? Why would I leave?"

You couldn't even answer back, your breathing was too rapid, too much, your nerves felt like they were on fire, and the world wasn't real— or was it real and you weren't? Or was none of it real and you were just floating? And scared? And alone? And—

"Senpai." Yan whispered, his voice a soft breeze, "I'd never leave you, senpai. Never."

You only responded with a gasping sob, throat feeling like it'd been scratched over a thousand times.

Yan placed a hand under your quivering chin, lifting your face turning your face towards him.

"Breathe senpai, breathe— slowly." He murmured, scooting closer and using his other hand to stroke your cheek, "breathe.. breathe.."

You closed your eyes, taking a shaky breath, feeling your lungs expand like blooming pink flowers.

"That's right Senpai, just breathe for me, okay?"

You nodded, swallowing back tears and feeling him shift and wrap his arms around you loosely.

"Breathe out.."

You let out a deep breath.

"Breathe in."

You breathed in through your nostrils, feeling the air travel down your throat as you calmed down and wiped your tears away.

"Better?"

You nodded.

He wrapped his arms tight around you, kissing your forehead, "I'll never leave you Senpai."

You snuggled into his chest, saying nothing.

"I mean it. No matter what that mean voice in your head—who I really need to beat up by the way— says. I love you Senpai. You and only you."

You looked at him, eyes big and wide, vulnerable, begging him to reassure you like always. He practically read your thoughts.

"I mean it Senpai," he whispered, "I really do—

And I don't care how many times I have to tell you, because I want you to believe it, so if I have to say it a hundred or a thousand times then I'll say it. Because I love you."

You gave him a watery smile, warm tears pricking the corners of your eyes, "I love you too Yan-Yan."

He smiled, kissing your forehead, before tucking your head underneath his neck and softly rubbing your back.

“I love you so, so much Senpai," he whispered, "I'd do anything for you, and I mean anything."

Your heart pounded like always when he said those type of things— his words were so reassuring.. you snuggled into his chest, wrapping your arms around him.

"I love you so much— I'm.. im surprised you haven't left me yet, senpai..."

You gasped, pulling away momentarily, "Oh Yan! I'd never leave! I love you too much!"

The yandere smiled, grabbing your hands in his, "That's exactly how I feel Senpai.."

You smiled softly, wiping the last of your tears before hugging him again. The two of you cuddled for a while before you let out a yawn, exhausted from your anxiety filled day.

“Let's go home, senpai! Then we can take a nap!"

You nodded and agreed, crawling into the front seat, Yan followed and started up his car, clearly excited. His cheeks flushed and a smile crossed his face— causing your stomach to flutter like always. Yan didn't even know how beautiful he was, sometimes.. nor did he know how cute he could be. His hand rested on the gear shift between you, while the other one held the wheel as he backed out of the school, once he was onto the road, you grabbed his hand.

"Yan?"

"Yes senpai?"

"Y-you know how you have nightmares?"

"Yeah."

"I had one this morning.." you said softly, sadly, "and it was about you leaving.. and I just thought I should tell you.."

Yan stopped at a red light and looked at you as you continued, "I-it was about you leaving me and finding someone else.."

"Senpai.. I'd never, ever do that. There's no one else as wonderful and amazing and— and ahhh senpai! There's so many things about you that I love.. and I know you're scared of me leaving, but I promise I won't, okay?"

You nodded, biting your lip.

"I really do mean it, senpai. I love you so much. I— before I met you.. I.. I didn't feel anything at all, and I'd always have to pretend to be happy.. b-but.. when you came into my life.. I felt.. I felt so.. happy—" tears welled up in his eyes, and he turned towards the stoplight, realizing it was green with a nervous laugh, "I'm such a baby— the lights green!"

He pushed the break with his foot and continued driving to his house. You couldn't help but feel your heart pound, not out of fear.. but out of pure love for your Yan-Yan. Your stomach looped itself into playful knots as his words played over and over again in your head.

"Yan.. I feel the same way. Ever since I met you.. I.. I.. know what it's like to be happy.." you whimpered, eyes welling up again, causing you to wipe your tears, "and that's why I get so anxious— and why you get anxious too.. because we're so afraid of losing each other but.. but.. I.. I know that I'd never leave you.. and I'm starting to believe you'll never leave me either.. and I'm sorry it's taking me so long to believe it.. I'm always used to people leaving."

You saw Yan smile softly, and then his smile widened, brown eyes shining with determination, "Well senpai! I'll just have to make sure you believe it! Because I really mean it, I won't ever leave you!"

You smiled again, cheeks flushing, "Thank you Yan.. I— I love you so much."

His face turned red as his smile grew, "I love you too Senpai."

Soon enough, the both of you pulled into his driveway and got out the car, going straight to his bedroom and changing into pajamas. After that, the both of you snuggled underneath the covers, exchanging love struck glances and soft kisses, until.. you both eventually fell asleep in each other's arms.

[shinadog]

Oh, hey, forgot to post this here - Mob Part 3 is up (and part 4 is on its way).

Summary : Something happened after Haruka’s concert. (PART 2) (AO3 Link)

 3 - BLAME

Eventually, people left him alone.

They had tried their best, but since he had refused their help, they decided to give him some space. He was more than alright with that. Not that "alright" could ever be a word he would use to describe himself. Not anymore.

He felt numb. Disconnected from it all.

All the events of the past few days - the concert, the crowd, the call he received in the middle of that fateful night, the sleepless nights where he almost choked because he couldn't stop crying, the funeral... He remembered living those things, but when he thought about them, he felt like a spectator watching them from afar. Not an actor, but a powerless observer, a blurry silhouette who was barely floating above those horrible scenes.

On his good days, the days where he was more or less aware of his surroundings, the awful numbness of loss was replaced by a burning anger. On those days, he started to think about the people he blamed.

He had managed to get his hands on an impressive number of newspapers and magazines. The hyenas who worked for those rags must have had a field day with this disaster - a lot of ink has been spilled over this, and it didn't look like it was going to stop anytime soon. Good. Every new article fueled his anger, made something warm shake his numb, freezing body.

Sometimes, he would see her name in those papers. His own name, too. The sight of it made him sick, and he usually skimmed past it. He didn't want to know what the idiots writing them thought about him and his pain. More often than not, her name was replaced by a number. Lumped together with the rest of the poor souls who lost everything that night. He wasn't sure he liked that better.

The journalists who were feeling exceptionally bold sometimes talked about the yakuza. He kept those articles close. In one of them, he had seen the face of that man for the first time. The buff, scary looking guy in a bad suit. The "Dragon", a big name in the yakuza world, who had apparently moved away from it all years ago. The fucker whose stupid daughter's speech ruined everything. Kazuma Kiryu.

It was so much easier to hate someone when you knew what they looked like.

**********************************

Kiryu had fought many formidable foes in all his years in (and out) the business. Deadly, dangerous men who were out to get him, monsters who wanted to hurt his family. Yet, none of them hit him as hard as the shitty little TV in his hospital room.

Whenever he was back in his room, when very tired nurses managed to drag him away from Haruka so that he'd try to rest for once, he would turn the bloody thing on. No matter what time it was then, it felt like he always managed to find a channel that talked about the concert.

Even though his various babysitters always tried to turn the TV off, to distract him from it somehow, Kiryu seemed to always come back to it. That thing was hypnotizing. He only stopped when he left the room. Or when a particularly pissed Majima threatened to explode the screen with his baseball bat.

Still, Kiryu watched those programs diligently, listening to all the people who had something to say about this whole mess with all the focus he could muster.

Seeing some of the people who were in the crowd that night talk and listening to their retelling of it left him weirdly numb.

The enemies he had faced before were, well, people. They had names, stories, reasons to act the way they did. They were tangible, something Kiryu could punch. Defeat. Forgive. He could do no such thing with a mob. There was no big guy who had orchestrated the whole disaster, no mastermind who ran things in the shadows. No one he could easily blame, fight, and move on from.

For some reason, this lack of a proper target made him resent everyone else.

Kiryu thought himself to be a pretty forgiving person. Those feelings rearing their ugly heads were definitely new, and he didn't really know what to do with them. He mostly kept them bottled up, though, because that's what he usually did with unknown feelings, but it was starting to get tiring. Blaming everyone only made it clearer than no one was to blame, and that made him somehow angrier.

Still, that's what he did.

He blamed himself, first and foremost, as it was the easiest thing to do. He shouldn't have let Haruka go, shouldn't have left the orphanage, shouldn't have left that Park woman come into their home... Oh, he wanted to blame Park herself, of course, but being dead shielded her from his rage. Mostly.

Thinking about their last discussion, before she chased him from his home, was somehow too much for him to process anyway, so he mostly tried to banish her from his thoughts. Which was not exactly easy because every time he saw Majima, he was reminded of the fact that he didn't find it necessary to warn him about her and her history with him. So, naturally, he blamed Majima for that. Among other things, including faking his own death, forcing Kiryu to come out of hiding.

He blamed Saejima and Akiyama, for pulling their annoying "let's fight together" bullshit again and making him believe this would work. It didn't. So he blamed them and their stupid plan, he blamed-

Kiryu took a deep breath, focusing once more on the TV screen. All this anger was exhausting, and he was feeling dizzy already. Oh, that was another one - he blamed his stupid body for being messed up and forcing him to lay still, when all he wanted was to do something, anything, to get his mind out of it.

The TV, showing no mercy, was still going with various interviews when he saw the crying man.

A big guy, with shaking shoulders and his head down, mumbling something as he shook.

Kiryu felt a bit too ill to really listen to what he said, which didn't matter because he couldn't take his eyes off that man. A small text at the bottom of the screen finally managed to catch his attention, and he felt a heavy lump in his throat as he realized what he was looking at.

That guy's daughter was among the four people who died that night. She was fourteen.

As if he knew Kiryu was watching, the man suddenly looked straight into the camera, and the pain in those eyes hit him hard. As if he had been stung, Kiryu immediately stood up, ignoring his stiff body's complaints and bolted out of the room.

He slammed the door behind him, and, taking the time to appreciate that no one was standing guard to see him completely freak out, decided he would not go to Haruka’s room. On his worst days, Kiryu would blame her, too, looking at her sleeping form with uncontrollable anger. He didn't want to go there when he was already this agitated, so he started limping through the corridors.

He had been allowed recently to use crutches to move around, which were replacing the wheelchair. He was shaking, though, so perhaps that it wasn't such an improvement. Collapsing in the middle of the hospital didn't exactly sound like a good idea. Walking at random in the corridors to escape his TV screen was also not a good idea, but Kiryu was already too deep in thoughts to decide to turn away.

As he kept moving blindly, trying to calm down while not losing his already fragile balance, he was startled by a man inexplicably bowing down as he passed. Kiryu found himself blinking at the guy, dumbfounded, before he noticed the Tojo pin on his lapel, and the small, almost inaudible “Fourth Chairman” he had whispered. Right. Just your average Tojo clan goon, lost in a random hospital hallway.

Well, maybe not that random. There was another man standing at the other end of the corridor, staring at him with wide eyes, and a third in the middle, his arms crossed as he stood near the closed door. Before Kiryu could ask himself why that particular hallway was packed with yakuza, the guy had hurriedly knocked on the door and opened it just as fast, getting inside in an instant.

The man who had bowed down to him straightened up, his voice hesitant as he asked, “Have you come to talk with the Sixth Chairman, Sir?”

Not really, no. In fact, if Kiryu could not speak with anyone for the next 24 hours, that would be great. Still, he frowned. “I thought Daigo’s room was a few floors up.”

“It is, but the chairman is visiting his friend.”

Friend.

Kiryu had a vague memory of Akiyama introducing Shinada as “a friend of Daigo”, something that felt like it had happened in another lifetime. And, now that he was thinking about it, someone (Akiyama again, or Saejima, he wasn’t sure) had told him the man had been admitted here after the mob roughed him up. Having been pretty much trampled by the angry crowd, he had been lucky to make it out with, to Kiryu’s knowledge, only a few broken bones and a ton of bruises. Beaten up, but still alive. Conscious, even.

Unlike Haruka.

Kiryu felt something flick in his mind, and suddenly talking didn’t seem like such a bad idea after all. He had been eating up footage of the incident for days now, listening to all the people who wanted to share what they had lived, and while it surely left an impression on him, the last example having been enough to send him running for the hills, it was not enough anymore.

He started moving again, careful not to fall, feeling heavy already after only having been using the crutches for a couple minutes. Not that he cared what the bodyguards would think if he collapsed in front of them. That would give them something fun to share with their fellow Tojo buddies.

Annoyingly enough, Kiryu had barely made two steps when he was stopped in his tracks again.

“Fourth Chairman.”

It wasn’t like he was surprised to see Daigo come out of the door, greeting him with an uncharacteristic anxious edge to his voice. His bodyguard had more or less already said he was in there, but Kiryu still couldn’t help but think there was something odd about this encounter. Maybe it was the fact that Daigo was still using a wheelchair, making Kiryu tower above him. Maybe it was the way he was looking at him now, his whole body tense as if he was expecting some kind of confrontation. Kiryu hadn’t seen this kind of hostility in Daigo’s eyes in years, but mostly, the man looked tired. Worried, too. Kiryu felt his own anger fade away slightly, as he got closer, wincing when  a sharp pain on his left side reminded him not to move so quickly.

“Looks like things aren’t going so well for either of us, Sixth Chairman.” he said, realizing they were not exactly the two yakuza big names they usually were, but just two wounded idiots staring at each other in a hospital hallway. The bodyguards were following the scene, looking nervous. Kiryu wondered if they were worried a fight was going to break out. He didn’t really think that was a possibility. Apart from throwing one of his crutches like a spear, which would certainly make him fall, he didn’t see how he could be a threat, right now.

Kiryu cleared his throat, remembering what he was doing here in the first place. “I came to talk with Shinada.” This wasn’t a question or a request. Maybe he was threatening, after all.

“I don’t think that would be wise.” Daigo’s voice was low, his eyes drifting back to the door. “He’s still pretty shaken up by this whole mess. It’s still too soon.”

“Akiyama told me he was doing better.”

“He is, but… I’m afraid talking about this would be too much. For him… Or for you.”

That was new. Talking to him like that was not like Daigo at all, and Kiryu had to admit he would have been impressed, if he hadn’t been instantly annoyed by this. He resisted the urge to get closer, and instead stayed where he was as he asked, “Are you going to stop me, Daigo?”

“ I’m not sure I can. I guess I could roll on your foot if you take one more step, though.”

Kiryu was about to reply that he would definitely hit him with his crutch if that happened, when a voice he failed to recognize came from inside the room. “Let him in already, will you?”

With a heavy sigh, Daigo turned his chair around, letting just enough space so that Kiryu could get in.

Once he was inside, Kiryu realized something. This room was nearly identical to the one Haruka was in. Which wasn’t so surprising - hospital rooms tended to look alike. What made him tick was the silence in this room. No machines or respirator in here, and somehow, this angered him. He didn’t like the ferocity with which this thought had imposed itself on him, but as he looked at Shinada, able to breathe on his own and even having the gall to be conscious, staring back at him with wide eyes, Kiryu felt furious.

So that’s what he was doing, now. Blaming someone he barely knew for having the audacity to be in a better shape than his daughter. Kiryu supposed his sudden surge of animosity must have been noticeable, because all the certainty Shinada had when he asked him to come inside seemed to have vanished.

Now that he was really looking at the man laying in the bed in front of him, Kiryu had to admit he wasn’t exactly looking his best. He didn’t know Shinada enough to really tell the difference, having only met him once before the concert, but he didn’t remember him looking this exhausted. His face was covered in bruises, and part of it was still slightly swollen. Of course the simple fact that he was awake at all made him look healthier than Haruka, but he had clearly been through a lot. Feeling the anger quiet down for a bit, Kiryu greeted the man with a small nod of his head, unsure of what to say, suddenly.

“Well, let’s get on with it.” Daigo’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. “It’s late, already. You should both be getting some rest.”

And you’re not? Kiryu wanted to say, glaring at the corner of the room Daigo had retreated in. Kiryu had barely noticed he had gotten inside the room as well. Part of him wished he could have talked with Shinada alone, but he was somehow grateful that it wasn’t the case. He still felt agitated, ready to snap back at the smallest thing, so having some kind of onlooker in there was mildly reassuring. Still, Kiryu did not care much for his tone.

He was at least right on one thing. It was time to talk.

“Can you tell me what happened that night?” No preamble, no “hey how are you?”. Kiryu was not in the mood for small talk.

Shinada blinked, dumbstruck. “Haven’t… Haven’t they told you, already?”

“I want to hear it from someone who was actually there. I want to know how it could have come to this.”

He wasn’t wrong. Kiryu already knew more or less how it went. He had been filled in, and had seen enough from the news to fill in the blanks. He wasn’t sure why he suddenly felt like hearing it from Shinada’s mouth would be different, but he still felt a weird apprehension as he waited for the other man to answer.

It took him a couple of seconds, exchanging a worried look with Daigo from across the room, before he finally started. “I don’t… I don’t actually know how it began. The fight against that Baba guy had been harsh and since everything had gone well so far, I… I stayed behind for a minute. Caught my breath.”

Catching his breath. Losing precious minutes he could have used to grab Haruka before everything went downhill. Kiryu tried to be reasonable, reminding himself that he had never asked Shinada to actually get to Haruka after the concert. He was just supposed to stop the shooter. And he did. There was no real reason to blame him, as he had told himself countless times.

“When I left the Dome that’s when I realized something was up. It had already started then, and I heard the noises. The screams. People don’t make that kind of noise when they’re just leaving a concert, so I ran and-”

Though footage of the stampede no doubt existed, people having probably filmed it with their phones, the TV seemed to only show what happened after or before the mob was formed. Kiryu could only imagine the kind of racket thousands of people panicking and running everywhere would make. He frowned, feeling something boil inside him as he realized somewhere in all that noise, there might have been the voice of the child he swore he would protect.

He missed a sentence, and only came back to himself when Shinada started the next one. “It was crazy. It was like a sea of people, and they were everywhere, screaming and pushing and-”

With a nervous twitch in his eye, Shinada suddenly stopped talking. While he hadn’t talked that much yet, Kiryu noticed he seemed to be really agitated ever since he had started. He was breathing heavily now, eyes lost in some corner of the room.

He waited a few seconds for Shinada to catch his breath before he asked, “If you arrived after it had started, how did you end up caught in it?”

“Oh, uh. I heard some staff member guy yell something about one of their idols being lost in the crowd on his walkie-talkie. So I ran into the crowd.”

Somehow, Kiryu had never thought about all the people who were working there that night. Too busy focusing on Mirei Park and the fact that blaming her now was pointless, he had forgotten to add all the other folks who had worked with her to his now long list of people to blame. It was infuriating to think that between the staff members, the people of Dyna Chair who weren’t gruesomely murdered, the other idols and Shinada, all charged to keep her safe, Haruka had still been caught up in the mob.

“I thought “I’m a big tough guy, I can probably push my way into this” but that was really fucking stupid. There were hundreds of them, and everyone was panicking and running all over the place, I don’t-”

Kiryu knew that, had he been there that night, he would have ran into the angry crowd too, with no hesitation, no matter how stupid jumping right into a angry wave of people was. He wanted to believe he would have been able to fight it, too, to punch his way until he got to Haruka, but hearing the panic weaving its way into Shinada’s voice, his breath getting faster, he wasn’t so sure of it anymore. “I got knocked down pretty fast, and then I-”

There was another pause, and when Shinada talked again, it was with such a low voice Kiryu almost didn’t catch it. “It felt like drowning.”

“Enough.”

Having more or less forgotten that Daigo was in the room, Kiryu almost jumped as his hand landed on his shoulder. Apparently, while Kiryu had been busy focusing on Shinada’s retelling of the events, he had managed to drag himself from his chair, standing on his own though he was slightly hunched over, a hand pressed on his side. Kiryu would have yelled at him to sit back down, knowing that he had already messed up with his stitches at least once, but found that he couldn’t talk.

He was still stuck on Shinada’s last sentence.

  It felt like drowning.

Maybe it was the word “drowning”. It was visceral. Unpleasant. Kiryu felt sick as he wondered if that was how it had felt for Haruka, too.

Shinada had managed to find some of his composure back in the few tense seconds he took for Kiryu’s brain to finally start focusing on the scene again. Daigo’s hand was still on his shoulder, though he wasn’t sure if that was to get him to acknowledge him or if he was just leaning on him. Kiryu wanted to tell him to back off and sit down again before he hurt himself, but Shinada was faster, his breathing still somewhat erratic as he said, “It’s okay, Dojima, I can-”

“Kiryu.” Daigo ignored his friend’s attempt to stop him as he tried to straighten up, locking his eyes with Kiryu’s.   “What’s the point of this? You’re both still too tired to get upset about this. Let’s give it a rest.”

Upset.

The word sounded ridiculous when Kiryu could feel his anger threatening to overtake him at any moment. He was not “upset”, he was furious.

“You’re right.” He managed to blurt out, feeling somewhat nauseous all of a sudden. Maybe that he too could use some rest, that was the longest he had ever been standing up in days. He took a step back, careful not to lose his balance or make Daigo topple by removing himself from his grip too abruptly, giving Shinada one last look. “Thank you. I’ll let you rest.”

“Wait-” Shinada straightened up in his bed, trying to catch his eye. He was still talking too fast and breathing too hard, his voice cracking slightly as he said,  “I’m- I’m so sorry. I wish I could have done something to stop this.”

Kiryu had become something of an expert of empty, reassuring phrases after being fed so many of them in the past few days. He didn’t even look back as he walked out of the room, his voice probably harsher than he intended. “You did what you could. I can’t blame you.”

That was a lie, too. No matter how bad he felt seeing the man almost break down over the mere memory of the events, no matter how much he wanted to sympathize with him, Kiryu still blamed him. Like he blamed everyone. Like he blamed himself.

Feeling utterly sick with himself, he retreated to his room. The TV that he had left on when he ran away seemed to be taunting him, the bleak light it was projecting in the dark giving the room a ominous ambiance.

He punched the screen with such force that he almost broke his hand.

**********************************

Shinada had never been good at holding back his tears.

He had always cried easily, and never thought it useful to try to hide it.

Back in the day, he would cry when his baseball team won. Or when they lost. When he was banned after his first real game, he had wept for days. Some of these tears were also for his family, who had swore they would never talk to him again, but mostly, he was grieving the dream he was sure he had lost forever.

While he found many occasions to cry after that (being homeless for a while, being all alone, having no food for days, those kinds of things), Shinada had managed to more or less hold on for the past decades, and only cried every now and then.

The Dream Line concert had to be some kind of personal record. Shinada cried right after his fight against the shooter, overwhelmed by the adrenaline of it all, seeing the group perform from so far away while he was sitting in the stands, away from the spotlight. He also cried a few minutes later, when Takasugi’s call reminded him some people cared for him back in Nagoya. And, obviously, he cried after the incident, too. Because he was in pain, because he felt stupid and weak and useless. Because he blamed himself for what he was certain he could have prevented, had he been stronger.

Not crying while Kiryu, that man he had only just met and that he had still managed to disappoint, was standing in front of him, though? That was something. He could be proud.

Unfortunately, as soon as the door was closed behind Kiryu, he couldn’t hold it in anymore, and slumped back in his bed, and let out a small sob, knowing fully well he would be bawling his eyes out in a couple of seconds. Trying to delay the inevitable tears, he looked around, and was suddenly all too aware of Dojima still being in the room with him, standing awkwardly in the middle of it, looking at him with his usual stern expression.

It was not like Shinada minded him being here, really. If anything, he was grateful that he stuck around while Kiryu was there, a friendly face in a sea of hostility. As “friendly” as a scowling yakuza could get, at least. He supposed he should also be grateful for the way Dojima had insisted on bringing his interview with Kiryu to an early end. He couldn’t help but wish he could have said more, though. Apologized better. Still, he got him to leave the room right before Shinada hit his limit, so that was pretty great.

“Tatsuo…?”

Not expecting to hear his name hushed with such an hesitant tone, he took a second to wonder why Dojima was now looking at him with a slightly panicked expression.

Oh, right.

He  was  crying. He had barely noticed he had started to.

The room got more blurry now than actual tears were in his eyes, so much so that he almost missed Dojima dragging himself to his bed, gritting his teeth with each step. It only clicked in his mind that he had moved closer when he spoke again:

“Do you mind if I sit on your bed?”

Shinada shook his head. Sure, why not. The man should be sitting down, anyway, if his shaky steps were anything to go by. He still managed to get on the bed fairly quickly, making it creak under their combined weight.

A few seconds passed, the silence of the room disturbed by Shinada sniffing softly as he kept crying. Dojima said nothing, shifting awkwardly on the bed so that he was facing him, bending his body in a way that was probably not doing any good to his still healing bullet wound.

Shinada wasn’t sure why he suddenly felt overwhelmed by an urgent need for some kind of contact, but next thing he knew he had more or less collapsed in the other man’s arms. He felt Dojima stiffen against him, making him aware that perhaps entering the guy’s personal space like that without warning was a bit uncalled for. The man remained silent, though Shinada heard a very small gasp escape his lips.

Alright, so maybe he was out of line. No matter how shaken up he was, in pain and in tears, Shinada knew he wasn’t supposed to just throw himself at someone he hardly knew. Sure, technically Dojima and him had known each other for years, but they were not exactly friends back in high school. And their reunion had been so sudden that he barely had the time to process it. Vowing to protect each other’s dream meant they had  something , that much was certain, but Shinada wasn’t sure that would be the kind of relationship that involved offering a shoulder to cry on. Literally.

He could always stop, put some distance between them again. Apologize and blame it on the perfect blend of morphine and anguish in his body right now, making him a tad emotional. Dojima didn’t give him any time to back off though, wrapping his arms around him slowly. “Eh… Can I- I mean, do you…?”

Shinada wasn’t sure what he was asking. He wasn’t sure Dojima knew, either, with the way he was stammering. Still, he soon felt a hand stroking his back slowly, and that gesture was as soothing as it was unexpected. It was weird to think that last time those hands were on his body, they were in the middle of a full on brawl. The vicious punches he had received on that day suddenly felt very far away, replaced by a softness he would have never thought he’d see from his old classmate. He did look way less intimidating in his hospital gown, he had to admit. Maybe being shot just did that to people. Made them a bit more approachable. Or maybe he looked so pathetic right now that even the most cold-hearted criminal couldn’t resist him. Who knew. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he simply appreciated the fact he was offering some kind of comforting presence.

He allowed himself a few heartbeats to reposition himself, burying his face in the man’s chest before he returned to the task at hand.

Crying.

He cried because Kiryu blamed him, despite what he told him, he was certain of it. Because he blamed himself, too, obviously. Because he was exhausted, not having had a good night of sleep since the incident, waking up in a cold sweat every time he dozed off, his nightmare haunted by an angry crowd.

“I’m sorry,” Dojima’s voice interrupted his pity party, making him flinch. “I’m so sorry.” He kept repeating that, and Shinada had no idea why he was apologizing all of a sudden. He wanted to say that he was sorry too, sorry to have disappointed anyone who had believed in him when he left for the concert with the mission to protect that girl, but couldn’t make the words come out. So he kept on weeping, while Dojima kept whispering small apologies, pulling him closer.

Between two sobs, Shinada noticed there was something oddly familiar about this situation. It was not like it was a habit of his to break down and grab on to the nearest person to seek solace. Sure, he cried a lot, but he usually did it behind closed doors, alone. He had  some dignity left, surely. But being held like this as he wept brought him back to his first night in Nagoya, when he had felt a semblance of reassurance in Milky’s soft embrace. Well, sort of. Dojima was no Milky, he was still pretty stiff and the motion of his hand on Shinada’s back felt a bit awkward, he was clearly not used to this kind of gesture. Still, it felt nice.

It went on for a while, and Shinada felt like he was calming down when- “I need to move.” Just like that, Dojima released him, straightening up a bit too abruptly, shoving Shinada away. “Sorry. Bullet wound.”

Shinada watched him struggle to find a position that wasn’t putting any strain on his wound, before he settled for sitting on the edge of the bed, his feet planted on the floor. Dojima grimaced as he pressed a hand to his side, giving him a look that Shinada assumed was meant to be apologetic, but ended up looking like his usual tired scowl. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to rush you like that, but if I open up those stitches again, I’m afraid my doctor’s going to give up on me.” And, because he clearly hadn’t said that enough in the last five minutes, “Sorry.”

Rubbing his eyes with his hands to chase any surviving tears, and feeling pretty confident he had calmed down enough to attempt to talk, Shinada came to join him, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Why do you keep saying you’re sorry?”

Apparently, Dojima hadn’t expected his question (that he had managed to ask with a not-so-shaky-voice, not bad for a guy who had been crying for the last ten minutes), looking at him with wide eyes. Turned out the guy could somewhat emote, when he wanted to. Shinada would have found it funny if his answer hadn’t come with such a sad, almost choked tone. “You’re only here because of me. I dragged you into this. Had I left you alone, you wouldn’t be…”

“A fucking mess.”

 “In pain.” His voice was low, sounding more like the man he had fought on his roof again. “I knew of the dangers and I still let you come here. And now you’re…” He trailed off, frowning even more. “I’m so sorry, Tatsuo.”

Shinada hadn’t really thought of it that way. Dojima waltzing back into his life was what had led to him being stuck here, with nightmares in his head and regrets in his heart, that was true. But when he thought of his home, where he was basically starving and where everyone had been hiding things from him, where he was basically rotting away while clinging on dreams that would never happen… Would he really have been better off if the yakuza never came to find him?

He sighed, realizing he would probably never find a satisfying answer to this question. Instead he settled for shuffling closer to his friend (he had decided that “friend” was an alright word to use, now that the guy had seen him cry and had tried his best to comfort him), resting his chin on his shoulder.

“Well, that’s silly.” Shinada’s voice was still a little hoarse, but he tried his best to sound cheerful. Well, more cheerful than he was a few moments ago, at least. “Remember how you tried to stop me from coming with you? And look, you’re nice enough not to go 'I told you so' about it, too.”

“I should have stopped you.”

“You wish. We fought for it, remember? And I won.”

“You won because I agreed to back down. I shouldn’t have. Should have kept fighting. Better have you stuck at home with a broken leg than here and in anguish.”

Shinada never thought he would hear someone say “I wish I had broken your leg” in a nice way, but here he was. He chuckled, and noticing Dojima looked still rather glum, avoiding to look at him as he stared at one corner of the room, took a deep sigh.

“Well, I don’t blame you, okay?”

He really meant it, too. Dojima remained silent, but Shinada noticed his lip twitching slightly. He wasn’t sure if it was because his wound was still acting up, or because his words had touched him somehow, but hoped it was the latter.

He knew what blaming himself felt like, and wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

[falseroar]

Is This Your Card? Part 5: Silver Bullets

((The hunter discusses the possibility of Mark being a werewolf with the others before the district attorney finds a strange note and the mayor issues a challenge.

Links to Parts 1, 2, 3, and 4, and a link to the masterlist for the whole au.))

Abe swore under his breath while the chef did not feel the need to hold back as he began to rage that he wasn’t paid enough for this.

He tried not to look at the attorney as he straightened up, or at whatever expression the mayor had on his face right now, trying to focus instead on what this might mean.

“I assure you, Master Markiplier was not a werewolf,” Benjamin said, his calming hand outstretched toward the chef in particular, who just batted it away. “I am fairly sure one of the staff would have noticed that.”

“Except Mark was firing people left and right, wasn’t he?” Abe found his mouth moving on autopilot, just as it had when he first saw Mark’s body and turned on the attorney. The idea then had been the same as whenever he came across a witness—accuse anyone of murder, and they’ll start spouting off all they know if it means clearing themselves. Or that was the theory he generally went by, but instead the attorney had just seemed more closed and withdrawn than normal, their eyes so distant he wasn’t sure they even heard him then. Maybe, in retrospect, accusing someone of killing their best friend while they were still in shock might not have been the most tactful thing he had ever done.

Now he doubted he was helping much, even as he pushed forward with his current line of thought. “There’s barely anyone left on the staff now, isn’t that right?”

“Well, correct, we’re down to three at the moment, but Chef and I are still here most of the time. And even if Master Markiplier has been less…inclined to socializing lately—”

“You mean locked up in his bedroom half the day,” the chef interrupted with a scoff. “Man could be doing anything up there for all I care, so long as he paid me. Guess that’s out of the window now.”

“Mark was not a werewolf,” the mayor said, his voice straining with emotion. “We don’t even know who sent those cards or why! Why should we believe anything they say?”

An uncomfortable silence went around the room, and Abe thought of his own pair of cards tucked away deep within his jacket. The knowledge that he wasn’t the only one to receive a second card wasn’t as comforting as it could have been.

“Man, I’m just glad I didn’t get one of them death cards,” Chef muttered under his breath, only to immediately glance at the attorney when he realized what he had said aloud.

For their part, they didn’t acknowledge the remark. Instead, apparently still thinking of what Damien had said, they asked, “The box those cards were sent in, where is it?”

“It should still be in the dining room,” Benjamin said, a tinge of embarrassment in his voice as he added, “I’m afraid that I haven’t had the time to fully clean the house as I should, there have been so many…distractions this morning.”

“Yeah, I’d call finding out your boss has been murdered one hell of a distraction,” Abe muttered, unsure if anyone heard him over yet another round of thunder and lightning. “Now why don’t we have another look at that package?”

He led the way, pausing only once when he noticed the figure sitting alone in a darkened room, the shapes of plush chairs and hanging curtains suggesting a home theater of some kind, but Damien broke away from the group first with a murmur about having a word with the Colonel. Abe shrugged and continued on, glad he wasn’t the one who had to have that conversation.

In the dining room, Benjamin went to the side table and picked up the box, which he handed over to the attorney. Abe had to admit he had expected the butler to hand it to him, but he managed to hide his irritation if only because he probably would have handed it over to them in private, if for no other reason than to see what they could pick up.

Looking for it, he saw their nostrils flare as they looked over the outside of the box, pausing on the label that Mark showed the table last night, before frowning as they gave the box a slight shake.

“There’s something else in here.” They opened the box and turned one of the flaps out to reveal a piece of paper stuck to the underside, which fluttered with the movement but did not let go of the cardboard until they pulled it free. “Mark must have missed it when he opened the package last night.”

Their eyes skimmed over the short note before handing it over to Abe, allowing him to see that it was a series of lines typewritten much like the notes on the cards.

“Well, what’s it say?” Chef asked impatiently, and against Abe’s better judgment he began to read aloud.

“The cards have been dealt, the game has already begun. Whether you choose to play your hand or not, fate has already decided which chambers are loaded.” Abe turned the note over, but there was nothing else on the back to help explain. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Loaded chambers, sounds like Russian roulette to me.”

Abe spun around to see the Colonel standing at the door, the Mayor at his shoulder.

The Colonel shrugged at the expressions on the other faces in the room and said, “It was just the first thing that came to mind. What kind of game are we supposed to be playing then? I do hope it’s not Jumanji, took me ages to get out of that one.”

For someone who just found out his friend was dead, the Colonel seemed surprisingly blasé about this whole affair, Abe thought to himself. Then again, the man had seen enough death and undeath on the battlefield that maybe it took more than that to rattle him these days. Still…

“Clearly, the game of some sick and twisted individual,” Benjamin answered. “They must have planted the accusation in Master Mark’s envelope in the hopes that one or all of us might turn on him.”

“Well, whoever did it didn’t know what they were dealing with if that’s the case,” Abe said. When everyone stared at him, he felt the need to explain, “When I was examining the body, I found signs that Mark had been stabbed 37 times, poisoned, beaten, strangled, drowned, and then shot, in that order. Not exactly the way to go about it if you knew you were about to take on a werewolf.”

“Mark was a werewolf?!” the Colonel shouted. “Why, don’t be absurd! Where would you get a ridiculous idea like that?”

“Mark’s card,” Chef said, while Abe flashed the card in question. “We found it on him. But maybe the killer didn’t know, and that’s why they had to go through all that other stuff before the silver bullet finally put him down.”

“And they somehow had time to try all of that against a werewolf?” Benjamin asked. He raised his hands, gloved palms up, in a shrug. “Is it just me, or is this making less sense the more we learn about this situation?”

“Or mayhaps we are making this more complicated than it need be,” the Mayor said, his voice betraying an effort to keep his emotions in check. “Silver bullets are not exactly common.”

Suddenly, every eye in the room was on Abe, and not in the good way.

He felt the heat rise to his cheeks as he said, “Oh, sure, blame the monster hunter. Even if I had a motive, which I don’t—”

Chef cleared his throat and gestured towards the “Werewolf” card still in Abe’s hand.

“Please, like I would waste time with all of that other stuff if I wanted to kill a werewolf,” Abe scoffed. “Rule number one for dealing with werewolves: go straight for the silver.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the District Attorney wince and pinch the bridge of their nose with a sigh.

Right. Maybe that didn’t come out like he wanted it to.

“All the same, if everyone here who happens to possess a gun would be so kind to show their ammunition?” The mayor’s eyes were burning in to Abe now, but the hunter didn’t blink. He’d faced far deadlier stares than the glare of an elected official. Metaphorically and literally deadly, in the case of that one Gorgon who really didn’t handle rejection well.

“You know what? Fine. Colonel, anyone else here got a weapon?”

There were head shakes around the room, except for the chef who for some reason looked at the ladle he brought with him from the kitchen as though considering it for a moment.

“Never bothered with silver bullets myself,” the Colonel said as he pulled out his own gun, the same one he’d been waving around willy-nilly last night. “Homo necrosis, any kind of bullet will do, or a baseball bat if you’re feeling cheeky.”

“They’re expensive,” Abe agreed as he pulled his gun out of its holster. “That’s why I only use them when I have to, otherwise the ones I have on hand stay in a case I keep in my jacket.”

Both men unloaded their guns at the same time in front of everyone, revealing five bullets and one empty chamber each. In the palms of their hands, the ten silver bullets gleamed as they caught the light.

((End of Part 5. Thank you for reading!

Link to Part 6.

Tagging: @silver-owl413 @skyewardlight @withjust-a-bite @blackaquokat @catgirlwarrior @neverisadork @luna1350 @oh-so-creepy @weirdfoxalley @95fangirl @lilalovesinternet-l @thepoolofthedead @a-bit-dapper @randomartdudette @geekymushroom @cactipresident @hotcocoachia @purple-anxiety-blog @shyinspiredartist @avispate @missksketch ))

[searchingforstarss]

I'm playing the ultimate spiderman game and there's these guys with bats and now I can't get the idea out of my head. could you write irondad whump h/c with peter being beaten with a bat, maybe getting his jaw broken? Love all your fics so much!!!

i’m so sorry this took me a few days anon! i adored the prompt and i really wanted to make sure i did it justice. thank you so much for sending this in, i loved writing it so i hope you enjoy it x

–

“Look, kid, I’m listening to you, trust me, and I know things are getting bad but I’m not back in town until Thursday and I just need you to wait until then. Once I’m back we can come up with a game plan together.”

“I can handle it by myself, Mister Stark, we might not have until Thursday.”

“Peter Benjamin Parker, I do not, under any circumstances at all, want you going anywhere near this guy without me there. You hear me?”

“Okay, fine. I hear you.”

–

For the last three months, women have been being attacked in the middle of the night, usually in alleyways or secluded areas of parks, the kinds that most people know not to go anywhere near at night. None of this is particularly new, per se, because New York is a dangerous city and that’s why Peter spends so much time out patrolling, trying to protect the people and the city that he loves.

But it’s the same man, tall, broad shoulders, dark clothing and masked every time. Rumours have been flitting about the city that he carries a baseball bat with him.

Peter’s been dreaming of finally achieving something important, being able to break a big case all by himself, to prove to the Avengers and the NYPD that he’s capable of much more than they give him credit for.

This seemed like exactly the right opportunity, even if Tony kept telling him to leave it the hell alone. Once Peter’s successfully caught the guy, he’ll change his tune, surely. Just like the Vulture all over again.

So, he mapped it all out as carefully as he possibly could. He tracked the masked man’s movements around New York using Karen to hack into the city’s security camera network (and a whole lot of bribing and convincing her not to tell FRIDAY about his efforts because that would have Mister Stark putting an end to everything before he would even have a chance to go after the guy.)

The man operates between midnight and three am, Peter noted, and then he catches a C line train back to a ramshackle apartment block on the outskirts of Brownsville.

Peter figured that would give him a three-hour window. It all seemed quite easy, really. Wait until Mister Stark was out of town, tell May he was spending the night at Ned’s to work on a physics project and sneak out the window in his Spider-Man suit to slip into the man’s home. He thought maybe he could rummage around a bit, look for come evidence while he waited for the man to come home, only to ambush him and call the police on him in his own home. Right where he’s not expecting it.

Peter was quite proud of himself, honestly. He was so sure that he was going to prove Tony wrong, show him that he can do things like this himself.

It all would have been fine if Peter didn’t miss one tiny little detail. The man always returns home earlier on a Saturday night.

(Maybe he’s religious; maybe he has to get up early for church in the morning, Peter thinks to himself slightly deliriously, later on, wouldn’t that just be wildly ironic.)

He was caught off guard, so engrossed in the pair of bloody gloves that he’d found just lying out on the couch that he hadn’t heard the masked man creep into the apartment behind him.

Then everything went horribly, horribly wrong and he ended up here.

Wrists shackled to the wall behind him, slumped up against the ratty wallpaper in what looks like a bedroom inside of the apartment that he’s spent the last few days monitoring security footage of so closely. He really didn’t mean for this to happen. He should have listened to Tony.

Now, he’s just sitting, arms aching and splinters poking through the suit into the backs of his thighs from the neglected wooden floor below him. But honestly, most of his worries stem from the fact that this masked man is just sitting across from him. He’s settled on the edge a threadbare looking mattress, unmoving. It’s dark in the room and the only light slipping through the windows is from the flickering streetlamps outside. Peter can barely see the man anyway, face shielded by the mask, but he can tell he’s being stared at.

He’s getting sick of it. Sure, maybe he’s in a little over his head and maybe this is all just the universe punishing him for deliberately going against what Tony told him to do, but he’s over it and he wants to go home.

“Nice place you got here, but would you mind, like letting me go? I have places to be, man.”

“You’ve been pissing me off, Spider, prancing around the city in those tights, trying to get in my way. I think I’ll keep you right here.”

So he does speak. It’s a little unnerving when Peter can’t see the lips move from behind the mask.

“First of all, they’re not tights. Plus, who are you to talk, anyway? Who’s your style icon, Jason Voorhees?”

The man stares at him. “Shut up.”

“Oh c’mon. Jason Voorhees from Friday the 13th? You really don’t know him? He’s kinda a psychopath, not to spoil the whole thing for you or anything. It really is a great movie, you really should sit down and give it a watch sometime.”

“I said, shut up.”

“Alright, alright. Just trying to be helpful, but clearly, I’m not here for my movie recommendations. That’s fine, I get it.”

More silence.

“Seriously, though, I’m getting kinda bored over here. What are we doing, exactly? Apart from the whole me sitting here and looking pretty while you stare at me like a serial killer thing. Now that I think about it, the resemblance between you and Jason really is uncanny. “

“I’m trying to figure out what to do with you.”

Kinda ominous, but whatever.

“Whatever you do, I’d like to be wined and dined first, preferably.”

“If you don’t shut up right now, I’m going to make you,” the man growls, voice low and ripping from the back of his throat.

“That sounds a little like an innuendo and I’d really rather you didn’t.”  

“That’s it,” he mutters, turning to leave the room. Peter is relieved to have a break from dark eyes boring into him when the man returns only a minute or so later, breaking Peter’s brief solitude far too soon and oh - shit, there’s a bat clutched in his grip and his blood runs cold through his veins because holy fuck, clearly the baseball bat rumours were true.

Peter swallows down his panic.

“We’re gonna go play baseball? I’m not exactly a great shot, and you might have to let me out of these first,” Peter rattles his wrists around in the metal chains and they clink together, echoing around the sparse room, “but sounds like fun.”

“We’re not playing baseball.”

“Shame, because I passed a park on my way here and I’m pretty sure that there’s only been like, six murders there this year so that could have been a fun spot.”

“I’m going to enjoy this, you fucked up little kid.”

“Hey, I’m not a little-” Peter starts, but he’s cut off by all the air being knocked out of his lungs as he sees the bat raised in front of him.

People - mostly Tony, really - have always told him that his big mouth in the worst situations will get him in trouble someday. Today’s the day, apparently. Tony will have a great time telling him ‘I told you so,’ over this one.

His thoughts are cut off when the baseball bat collides with his jaw and a searing, fiery pain consumes his entire being. He’s engulfed by it, bones crunching and splintering underneath the unforgiving wood of the bat as it returns, again and again and again. No matter how desperately Peter begs and pleads, his pride and smart quips surrendering to the raw agony, the bat doesn’t stop.

His mouth is awash with the metallic taste of his own blood, and he spits it out uselessly around the pulverised bones of his jaw. It only fills right back up, coating the inside of his mouth with red once more. A drop trickles down his chin.

His jaw radiates a throbbing pain that courses through his veins. Dark spots dance and blur in the edge of his vision as his consciousness ebbs. At least if he’s unconscious he won’t have to feel any of this.

“Finally, peace and quiet. Let’s see how easy it is for you to run that mouth of yours now.”

Peter tries to spit another lot of blood out of his mouth in one last show of defiance, but he can’t even open his mouth properly without feeling like the pain will quite literally tear his entire skull open, let alone get the muscles to function enough to propel the blood anywhere, anyway.

Everything hurts.

He tips his head back against the wall in defeat. His eyelids droop, feeling too heavy to keep open, but the pain is worse when he closes his eyes. It’s all he has to focus on.

There’s a thunk, something heavy landing on the floorboards in front of him. Heavy footsteps leave the room. When he chances cracking one eye open, the man is gone, but the baseball bat, decorated with smears of Peter’s own crimson blood, has been tossed onto the floor in front of him.

—

There’s a crash at the door and Peter flinches back into the wall behind him. He’s not sure how long he’s been drifting in and out of consciousness and his entire jaw screams at the sudden movement but he doesn’t care because the man is back and he can’t do it again, he can’t.

He screws his eyes shut in misery and tries to prepare himself to take it because this is his fault, after all, he was stupid and he didn’t listen to Tony.

Now he’s paying the price because maybe Tony’ll be mad, maybe he won’t even come to get Peter - or even worse, maybe no one will come at all, to teach him a lesson and he’ll be left curled up here forever, shackled to the wall, bleeding and broken with the constant threat of a bat to the face looming over him the second he steps out of line.

Footsteps stop in front of him.

His lungs burn as he holds his breath unsurely. He waits for the sound of the bat being picked up off the floor in front of him but it never comes. Instead, it sounds like it’s kicked away. Peter resists the urge to cringe away because god, that’s maybe that’s even worse. The man could be sick of the bat already, maybe it’s not enjoyable enough for him anymore - not that it was ever enjoyable for Peter but he thinks it was probably better than a knife to the chest or a bullet to the head.

Based on his research, Peter is pretty sure that this man hasn’t killed anyone yet, hasn’t gone quite that far, but there’s a first time for everything.

He can vaguely sense movement in front of him. Someone is getting closer and he doesn’t dare to move or breath, knowing that he’s completely unable to protect himself with his arms compromised behind him.

Then there’s a voice.

“Hey, kid. Wanna open those eyes for me?”

Tony.

He blinks his heavy eyes open, doing what the man asks because avoiding doing so was what got him in this whole mess in the first place. Sure enough, when he does, he finds Tony crouched in front of him. He’s in a three-piece suit, glasses hastily shoved down the front of his shirt, the Iron-Man armour standing sentry behind him.

He stares.

Tony came. He’s here. Even though he was stupid and he didn’t listen and he fucked things up. Tony only forgave him after the Vulture because he saved the day. He did what he was meant to do, as a superhero. Tonight he’s only managed to piss off a notorious serial-attacker and consequently screw up his jaw past even the best abilities of his healing.

He needs to apologise, he needs Tony to see how sorry he is for everything, because maybe if he does Tony might get him out of here. Try as he might, he can’t form proper words around his broken jaw. Instead, whines and mumbles slip past his lips incoherently, eyes blown wide with all the words he wants to say but can’t force out.

“Shh, no buddy, don’t strain yourself, it’s all okay, everything is okay.”

Tony is lowering himself onto the floor next to Peter, reaching up to undo his shackles from the wall with a small rusted key. Peter doesn’t know where he got it from, but he’d entirely forgotten about the ache in his arms from the restraints, anyway, too focused on his jaw. He shakes them out at his sides.

If Peter is being uncuffed, then surely that must mean that Tony is considering getting him out of here. Peter so desperately wants to get out of here. What if Tony won’t take him with him if he doesn’t know exactly how sorry Peter is?

“Pl’se. S…s-s’rry.”

“No, Pete, it’s okay.”

Peter shakes his head frantically, the movement irritating his jaw but he continues anyway. He needs to keep apologising. He doesn’t want Tony to leave him here, he’s already in an insurmountable amount of pain and he doesn’t think he can survive anymore if the man with the bat comes back.

He won’t argue with Tony ever again. He’d be willing to promise anything if he could form words around the stabbing pain and shattered bones of his jaw.

“W’nna go h’me. W’th you. Pl’se. Don’t l’ve me.”

“I’m taking you home, I promise,” Tony says, never taking his eyes away from Peter’s. He’s strong and steady in a way that Peter definitely isn’t right now. It’s reassuring. “I just don’t want to risk flying and irritating that nasty looking jaw of yours, buddy. You’re not bleeding out so we’re safe to just wait here, you’re fine. Brucie and the medics will be here soon and we’ll be home before you know it.”

“‘M’st’r St’rk.”

“I’m here. You’re okay,” Tony murmurs and Peter lets the gentle tone wash over him, settling over his ragged and aching body, soothing like a balm.

He reaches a hand out to tangle it in the stiff fabric of Tony’s suit jacket sleeve. It’s not the softened cotton of his lab outfits that Peter is so used to but it will do. It’s enough.

Tony leans over and as gently as he can, lowers Peter down so his head is resting in his lap. “Get comfy down there for a minute, Pete. Won’t be long ‘til we’re out of this dump.”

Peter nods weakly. Now that Tony’s here, this dump isn’t nearly half as bad as it was only half an hour ago. Home sounds good though. He’d kill for a warm bed and some painkillers. Maybe he can even bribe Tony to keep this from May for a day or two so he can avoid being violently chewed out for lying to her about his and Ned’s physics project - though, he’s sure there’s a very slim chance of convincing him of that. He and May are a formidable force when combined.

Hands find his shoulders and they rub slowly at the tenseness there and the back of his neck with the sort of tenderness that only comes out when Peter’s upset or in a considerable amount of pain. Right now probably counts as both.

Peter doesn’t want to talk anymore, doesn’t want to risk aggravating his broken bones further now that Tony’s comfort is giving him something to focus on rather than the never-ending pain. He just wants to lie here and listen to him talk until it’s time to go home.

“Gotta tell you, kid, you gave me a hell of a scare. Your vitals went all wonky. I couldn’t get the baby monitor footage without your mask on but I could still track you. I owe the Secretary of State another meeting since I crashed out of our last one. Maybe I’ll drag you out there with me to get you back for this little stunt, huh? It’ll bore you to death, that’s a promise,” Tony chuckles. There’s no malice to his words, and Peter lets himself relax further back against him.

He was stupid, but it’s okay because Tony is here and Tony is looking after him.

Tony won’t let anyone hurt him anymore.

—

When Peter can talk properly and form full sentences again two days later, after bone reconstruction surgery and lots of help from his accelerated healing, the first words out of his mouth, in true Peter Parker fashion, are, “I’m so, so sorry, Mister Stark.”

Tony shushes him almost immediately. “Nuh-uh, none of that. God, you’re a stupidly self-sacrificing kid, have I ever told you that?”

“Maybe once or twice.”

“You’re lucky I love you then, huh, bud?”

“Mmm. Guess I am.”

“If you ever pull something like this again, I might have to reconsider.”

“Nah, you won’t.”

Tony’s silent for a moment. “Yeah, you got me there. I won’t.”

[perfeggso]

Noir (yutae)

Week I pt. 2

Tokyo – fall of 1983: Nakamoto Yuta is quickly rising in the ranks of one of Japan’s most notorious yakuza families, and he’s poised to climb even further if he can stop himself from being ruined by the pretty Korean boy who’s shown up out of nowhere.

Chapter 1  |  Chapter 2  |  Chapter 3  |  Chapter 4  |  Chapter 5  |  Chapter 6  |  Chapter 7  |  Chapter 8  | Masterlist 

Glossary of Japanese words

Characters: Yuta x Taeyong + NCT ensemble, Twice J-line (for funsies)

Genres: Gang!AU, angst, smut, fluff, 1980s!AU

Warnings: graphic violence, swearing, minor character death, alcohol use, mentions of drugs, period-typical homophobia, xenophobia, BDSM

Rating: 18+

Length: 2k (will progressively get way longer)

They had beaten Taeyong when he had asked.  He had gotten on his knees before the leader of the Specters and implored him humbly to let him join.  He would be a model warrior, he had assured: would fight unquestioningly anyone who challenged the gang and never run away.  He could prove himself.  The Spectors’ leader had pointed to the full red circle on his white headband.  Don’t you know we don’t accept gaijin ?   I’m not a gaijin , Taeyong had argued, only to be met with a venomous cackle.  Taeyong was sure he had felt a thin rain of spit land on him from the force of the laugh.  What are you then, Zainichi?  That’s worse!  Then they beat him. That was seven years ago, but it still carried trauma for Taeyong.

Gassan-ya was not Taeyong’s favorite bar, but it was doing him good to laze there at the counter drinking alone, eating peanuts, and listening to a mixture of citypop hits from the jukebox behind him and a report on Mitsubishi’s rising stock values on the television hanging from the ceiling.  That’s what he had been doing, until the Specters came zooming on their souped-up bikes past the front windows, hooting and hollering in their white uniforms, and banging baseball bats and rusty pipes against the pavement as they went.  Taeyong cursed to himself upon seeing the group of boys speeding off to a battle, shoving a handful of peanuts in his mouth and swigging the rest of his beer before ordering another.

He could never figure out why he was always so enamored with the Bosozoku boys he saw; why he had felt a need to become one.  Was it his desire for a sense of identity and belonging?  A need to act out against his parents’ authority?  The terrifying thrill he got from imagining himself in battle, taking a bat to some poor young man’s head?  Was it self-hatred?  He figured the correct answer was probably all of the above.  Walking around for almost a quarter century in Japan with the name Lee Taeyong had naturally brought him nothing but rejection – professional, academic, romantic, you name it.  And those who had accepted him were often no better off in life than he was.  Two of his best friends were locked away for petty theft, after all.

So, Taeyong had tried to join a violent biker gang at the age of seventeen, learning to ride his dad’s old motorbike, style a pompadour, and roll his R’s in preparation to make his case.  He did it because if he was going to be an outcast he at least wanted to be an outcast that someone could give a damn about.  He liked the thought of letting off some steam in a grand way, of being a source of fear for prosperous average Japanese people, of claiming his own place in the warrior tradition.  And it would have pleased him to have one of those bikes too.

But it had gone horribly wrong when he did make his case, and now he was too old for the Bosozoku anyway.  He spent his days working at an autobody shop and his nights drinking and trying not to get too close to anyone.  You see, Taeyong was a sensitive boy, but he lived in a world where it didn’t pay to be sensitive.

The bartender slid Taeyong his Sapporo over the counter as the rumble of twenty Bosozoku bikes was finally fading into the night, and he downed the drink as quickly as he possibly could.  It was a nice night and he needed to get out into the fresh air.

Taeyong left the bar on the outskirts of Tokyo and rounded the corner to a sidewalk perpendicular to a small alleyway.  Taeyong noticed curiously the sound of what he could only assume was an interpersonal struggle coming from the alley behind Gassan-ya: feet scraping against asphalt, heavy breaths, and urgent growled arguing.  Against his better judgement, perhaps because he had exceeded his usual drink limit, Taeyong decided to investigate, clutching the switchblade he kept in his pocket and tiptoeing cautiously as if attempting to approach a spooked deer.  When he got close enough to see, he found two men in trench coats hovering over the man Taeyong recognized as managing the bar in some capacity.  In the dusky light it was hard to make out anything clearly, but Taeyong was pretty sure at least one of the men held a revolver.  Taeyong tightened his grip on the knife and peeked out from behind a stack of liquor crates since he didn’t know what else to do and his curiosity was getting the best of him.  As if that would save him.  

“I’m sorry, we’re just a little short!” The man on the ground was attempting to explain – his voice hoarse.

“Well we’re sorry, but we need 30,000 for this week.”

“Please!” protested the apparent victim. “We’ll get it to you soon. Just – just give us a couple days.  I’ll do anything you need and we won’t be late again!”

Taeyong assumed the assailants would respond with something, but instead, the man on the ground seemed to spot him spying, their eyes locking, and Taeyong’s heart plunged into his stomach as the men in trench coats turned around and aimed at him.

“Come out, whoever you are,” said the closer one, “hands above your head!”  Were they cops?

Hesitantly, Taeyong crept out from his hiding spot and raised his arms as his lips attempted to form something coherent to say.

“What are you doing here?” Asked the other one.

What was he doing there?    

“I – I heard something.  I thought it might be a mugging…I’m sorry, I’ll just go.”

“Don’t move,” said the first one.  He turned to his partner.  “Take him to the van.  Kid’s a liability.”

“Yes sir!”  The farther one approached Taeyong and all of a sudden, his mind was spinning not just from the alcohol but also from the battle raging in his mind between the urge to run and the knowledge that he could very well lose his life.  If he were a wild animal, he would be playing dead.

Evidently, Taeyong didn’t think quickly enough, because his kidnapper had already reached him and taken off his hat to cover Taeyong’s face with.  He was led to a van, then formally blindfolded and handcuffed and left to wait for the two men to finish doing whatever they planned to do to that poor bar-owner.

The next several hours were the most terrifying and disconcerting thing that Taeyong had ever experienced.  First, they took him into the city to somewhere in Aoyama, he was pretty sure, and proceeded to have a conversation about him as if he weren’t right there with a man named Gwang-suk (Taeyong noted the Korean name with a mixture of comfort and dread).  Should they kill him?  Please, no .  Should they let him go? That would be greatly appreciated .  Should they recruit him?  To do what exactly??? Taeyong had deduced at this point that he was being held by one or another yakuza syndicate, but beyond that he could not have been more lost.  Then, Gwang-suk suggested they take Taeyong to someone named Nakamoto and that was that: back in the car.

A twenty-minute drive and he was marched into another building and shoved into a chair at an oak desk and finally allowed to see his surroundings.  Taeyong heard a man and a woman talking muffled through a wooden door behind the desk which, when it slid open, revealed a handsome man with white hair and piercings wearing a snakeskin suit.  In fact, Taeyong was briefly distracted by just how handsome the man was.

“ Shategashira !” Taeyong’s kidnappers bellowed, saluting the younger man who was now seated at the desk facing Taeyong.

“At ease,” he said coolly in a rounded Osaka accent.

The man on Taeyong’s left spoke.  “We’re sorry to interrupt you and Ms. Hirai, sir!”

“That’s no problem,” said the man Taeyong could only assume was “Nakamoto.”  “Work is always my priority as you know.”

“Of course, sir!”

The two men recounted their version of events with great enthusiasm and Nakamoto listened.  When they were done, he looked at Taeyong straight-on and asked, “is this all accurate?”

The directness startled Taeyong.  “Um – yes, factually that’s more or less it.  But I was never trying to get into any trouble!  I promise I would never talk!”

“Yes,” said Nakamoto, seeming to search Taeyong’s face.  “I’m sure you wouldn’t.  But you see, the Inagawa-kai simply can’t afford any loose ends, as I hope you understand.”  So that’s whose custody he was in, Taeyong realized, only the third largest and second most powerful criminal organization in Japan – maybe in Asia.  No sweat.  

“If you don’t mind me asking, what is your name?” Nakamoto asked.

“Taeyong.  Lee Taeyong.”

Nakamoto nodded knowingly.  “Mm, I figured that’s why you ended up here.  I deal with all the zainichi .”  

Nakamoto was the first Japanese person Taeyong had heard say that word without even a hint of distaste and this fact only confused his fear even further.  Taeyong had never felt more helpless.  Here he was, with no idea how anything around him worked nor what it meant, his life so fully in the hands of this beautiful man across from him that it made his head pound.  

“So, Taeyong.  Let’s figure this out.  Where are you from?  What do you do?  Tell me a bit about yourself.”

What is this, a job interview?

“I…well…um, I grew up in Shin-Ōkubo and I uh, still live there.  I work in an auto shop fixing cars.  I’m 24?  What else do you need to know?”

“We’re the same age,” remarked Nakamoto with a slight smile, and Taeyong wasn’t sure if this was supposed to be a means of connection between the two men or a subtle jab at Taeyong’s relative lack of status.  Either way, the nervous shaking in Taeyong’s body was beginning to fade as he became more and more confident he was not in imminent danger of death.  However, he couldn’t completely rule out the possibility he was being toyed with.

Nakamoto spoke again.  “How about your family?”

“We’re not very close,” said Taeyong.  “We only speak very occasionally.”

“Well,” Nakamoto responded, “we’re similar in that regard as well.  Do you have a criminal record?”

Taeyong was a bit taken aback by the question, but he was speaking with a gangster, so it wasn’t too out of the blue.  “I’ve stolen some shit, but I don’t usually get caught.  Spent a couple nights in jail for property damage a while ago.  Things like that, I guess?  I was sort of in a gang with my close friends in high school, but we didn’t do much other than loiter.  When I tried to join more established gangs I was rejected.”

“I see,” said Nakamoto, “well you could still always join a gang, if you haven’t already outgrown that impulse.”

Was this the recruitment his kidnappers had mentioned?  How on earth to respond?  “Oh?”

Nakamoto laughed, a sharp sound.  He was apparently done dealing with his victim and turned to the larger of the men who had abducted Taeyong.  “Find someone to go back home with him and monitor him tonight.  I think we’ll make him a foot soldier.  It’s better than the alternatives.  Understood?”

“Yes, Shategashira !”

Yuta turned back to Taeyong, who had gone tense against his chair.  What’s a foot soldier?  For Inagawa-kai? Would he have a gun?  Could he even fire a gun?? What were those alternatives that would be unspeakably worse??? And what was he supposed to say to his boss????

Nakamoto addressed Taeyong one more time.  “I hope you understand that this is for your own good and that you won’t resent me. I'm confident that we can come to an understanding.  I’ll be seeing you soon.”  And with that, Nakamoto was back out the door and Taeyong was once more being hauled to his feet.       

[kyndaris]

What Dreams are Made Of

As many of you know, the Yakuza series is a game franchise that is often regarded for being a serious crime drama. The first game focused on a diabolical plot to undermine the Tojo Clan when $10 billion yen went missing from their coffers. Yakuza 2 was focused on a brewing altercation between the East and the West, with a Korean mafia thrown into the mix. Often, the games would explore concepts of kinship, honour and second chances as players got to experience the underbelly of Japan. Yakuza 5 follows in this tradition by maintaining an over the top plot filled with drama and intrigue. But, for many, this game was often seen as the one with the weakest narrative. Instead of being focused solely on the criminals, it introduced two new playable characters: Haruka Sawamura, as she strives to become an idol, and Tatsuo Shinada, a washed-up baseball player that writes for an erotic magazine in the heart of Nagoya.

Just like in Yakuza 4, the story of Yakuza 5 is split into different arcs, culminating in the finale where the threads are tied together in a neat bow. While I questioned the disparate stories for each of the characters, I could not help but acknowledge how clever the writers were in maintaining a singular theme across all five of the parts.

Dreams.

Whether that meant Kiryu giving up managing Morning Glory so that his kids could live out their hidden desires to Saejima hoping to one day be free of the prison and take his rightful place as a leading officer for the Tojo Clan, this theme is carried throughout. By the end of Haruka/ Akiyama’s and Shinada’s arc, I felt I had been beaten over the head by how many times they mentioned how dreams are passed on from person to person. Even Haruka’s song in Japan Dome pounded this message with as much subtlety as a sledgehammer.

What irritated me, though, in regards to the story were the twists and misunderstandings that could have been easily solved with BETTER COMMUNICATION. Why some characters never reveal their motives will remain a mystery for me, but I suppose there needs to be a contrived situation where the player can go into an epic battle. Like the battle with Shinada and Baba at the end of the game. Was any of that really necessary? Baba had already chosen NOT to shoot Haruka. 

The fight between Majima and Saejima also came out of the blue. And Katsuya, for having a crane on your back, why did you feel it necessary for everyone to duke it out just to draw out the ‘real mastermind’? 

I also disliked how Aizawa crept out of the shadows and inserted himself into the final battle. His sudden reveal as the son of the main antagonist was truly uninspired. I would have preferred if Morinaga had played more of a role in the Finale instead of being name dropped by the Florist as now residing in the basement of the Tokyo Police Department.

By the way, what was with the convoluted method of trying to keep Saejima in prison and then springing him out? None of that made much sense. Also, why did the guard allow two inmates out to rescue a third escaped convict? The less that is said about this plot thread the better, I say. Although I did find it amusing when Saejima was forced to tussle with a bear. It made no sense, true, but now we can add Bear Wrangler to his list of skills.

Still, despite my gripes with the story, I thoroughly enjoyed the time I spent in Yakuza 5. Perhaps it was that more time had gone into developing this entry. The UI and textures were crisper. It clearly felt more of an upgrade from Yakuza 3 than Yakuza 4 did. The controls also saw a bit of improvement, though initially it felt as if my unarmed attacks weren’t hitting as hard as I had hoped. 

What was also admirable was the amount of time and energy spent in the side stories. Some of these were excellent diversions. Driving a taxi, lawfully, proved to be actually fun. Although people dashing out onto the road at the very last minute do deserve to be hit. Why would you run out? Are you idiots?

I also liked hunting on the mountain with Saejima. The shooting mechanics were not the best, but it was nice to see something a little different from punching thugs. In fact, there was actually quite a nice ‘look after the environment’ message in both Yakuza 4 and Yakuza 5 that I found somewhat amusing for a game that was all about hard-boiled criminals.

Then there was Haruka’s idol mini-game. Her story arc was probably the most confusing because none of the previous games had hinted at her interest in becoming an idol. Yakuza 2 even had a substory where she dismissed the idea. Of course, by game’s end, Haruka decided that after debuting, she would destroy her career as soon as it began by revealing that she was raised by a yakuza. This, probably, was probably the most contrived of the story lines that were in the game. 

Shinada’s side story, though, passed by quickly. It also felt like it focused very much on a minigame that I never touched much of in the previous games: baseball. Now, I’m no slouch when it comes to batting - having been on a softball team during high school, but oft times I found the timing in video games a bit harder to perfect. In any case, though, Shinada’s side story made hitting the ball a lot easier than in previous games. The controls did take some getting used to. By the end of it, however, I was smashing home runs left, right and centre.

Despite a confusing plot, I was enamoured by all the additional activities Yakuza 5 offered. I spent many hours trying to get Haruka to the top of the idol business and racing along highways. Some might see such things as distractions but I’ve always been of the view that taxi missions or hunting in the mountains actually add more to the game and characters. I can’t say if Yakuza 5 is my favourite game from the franchise, but I know that a lot of people poured their hearts and souls into it, and I’ll carry that dream forward.

[ms31x129]

The end is here Chapter 7! I went simple with this DJ Jackson/William was shaped by 2 couples who loved him. That’s at the heart of this incredible story, imho.  @cultureisdarkbeer @monikafilefan @today-in-fic

Chapter 1 - Courage to Jump Tumblr LINK  AO3 it is HERE.

Chapter 2: Luck of the Irish Tumblr LINK or AO3 it is HERE.

Chapter 3: Graffiti of the Heart Tumblr LINK or AO3 HERE.

Chapter 4: Leave Your Demons At The Door Tumblr LINK or AO3 HERE.

Chapter 5: Truth Is the Pain Inside Our Hearts Tumblr LINK or AO3 HERE.

Chapter 6: Final Destination Tumblr LINK or AO3 HERE. 

Chapter 7: Full Circle <<AO3 Link or if you like Tumblr you know the drill clickity-click on the Keep Reading link below. 

{Summary:

Jackson’s journey has come full circle, but what happens before it finally comes to an end?}

“Everything has a way of coming full circle. It takes patience and perseverance to see a dream through… to close that circle. Because some dreams, like some circles, can be much bigger than others.” -Karen Dale Trask

The fresh spring breeze tousled Jackson’s unruly hair. It either frizzed or flopped around his cowlick and left him consistently smoothing it down more often than not. He couldn’t help but wonder who he’d gotten that trait from: Mulder or Dana? Would he call her Dana or Mother or… Mom? Not that. He didn’t think he could ever find it in his heart to call anyone Mom again.

Jackson couldn’t help but think back to the moment he first spoke face to face with his birth mother. After hearing her heartfelt confession in the morgue, the one that made his gut tumble to his toes, he made a silent promise that he would talk to her at some point in the future. He just had no idea that the chance to make good on that promise would present itself so soon after he made it. He had just endured the worst day of his life after witnessing his parents lying lifeless on the floor covered in blood, and then hearing the words of a mother he never thought he’d meet left him reeling. Using Ghouli for selfish reasons had him feeling overwhelming guilt; yet seeing her and Mulder, under the guise of an illusion at that off-the-beaten-path gas station, had softened the ironclad armor he was trying so hard to construct around his heart...

The bell attached to the gas station door chimed and a tall man walked in.

“Can I get $40 on the SUV out there, please?” Jackson could see the attendant in his peripheral ringing the guy up as he popped a sunflower seed in his mouth. He watched the man turn to him and nod up at the TV where the Pirates and Nats were tied in the bottom of the 4th inning.

“You follow baseball?” His voice was low and smooth in a familiar sort of way that flowed over Jackson with ease.

Feeling a wave of goosebumps spike across his arms, he glanced over inside his illusion and directly locked eyes with the man his birth mother had embraced in the morgue: Fox Mulder.

Slowly nodding, Jackson answered, “I’m a Yankee’s fan myself.”

“Me, too!”

“Too bad I’m leaving town. Maybe, we could have caught a game,” Jackson sighed, confused that he actually meant it.

Mulder shrugged and scoffed at the pop fly to the pitcher's mound. “Yeah, maybe.”

“I bet a G-man can get good seats.” He nudged Mulder’s arm and pointed to the exposed badge sticking out of his jacket pocket.

Mulder narrowed his eyes at Jackson, the same ones he saw in the mirror every day. “Good eye.”

He huffed. “Gotta have one nowadays.”

Mulder smirked, nodding in agreement, and a flicker of sadness washed over his face as the screen focused in on a father and son laughing as they cheered on their team. “Years ago, I had the hope of taking my own son to a game.”

A knot began to form in Jackson’s throat. He cleared it and decided to leave a little something for the obvious emotionally worn-down man standing nearly shoulder to shoulder with him. “Well, maybe one day you can. Don’t give up.”

The smell of baked goods caught his attention and the memory of his first encounter with his birth father faded. He ventured over to the small mom-and-pop shop called “Little Virginia’s Bakery and Novelty Shop” with a renewed sense of purpose and food on the brain.

“Perfect!” His empty stomach rumbled in agreement.

For being an out-of-the-way shop, the little place held a few farmers, a family of three, and an elderly couple tucked away in the back. The sweet scent of cinnamon and sugar filled the air and Jackson’s mouth watered instantly.

“Hi there!” The silver haired woman stood from her corner table to greet him. “Welcome to Little Virginia’s. Hungry?” Her brown eyes trailed him from head to toe, assessing his dirty, worn jeans, well-loved jacket, and mussed hair. Jackson was sure he would hear a grandmother-like lecture about taking good care of himself; one he knew he’d never heard from one of his own. But, instead, she smiled and nodded to the bakery case. “How about I get you a nice carb-filled breakfast while you take a look around the place? Can’t help but assume you just might like something you see.” She pointed to the baseball on his shirt from his Freshman year travel league team—which he was reluctantly kicked off of for skipping too many practices.

“Uh, sure, okay. Thanks,” he stammered, unsure of what she meant by that yet followed her gaze to the wall behind him. Gasping, he wandered over to the large shelving unit filled with snow globes. “Wow!”

The wall was covered with a wide array of different sized globes. Each one was unique in design and meaning. Just like the collection back in his room that he’d never see again, he thought bitterly. He scanned each shelf from top to bottom, searching for one that called to him. It was something that he and his mom used to do on family vacations when they visited tourist shops.

Jackson slowed his mind and chose not to fight against the happier memory tickling at his brain of his very first snow globe that sparked not only the start of his collection, but his interest in all things cryptid...

“Jackson? There you are! I’ve been looking for you,” his mom chastised, grabbing his arm and kneading it between her fingers. “You wandered off again and left me wondering where my son’s imagination had decided to lead him this time.”

He sighed, hoping he wouldn’t be grounded later because of the strong attraction to what was staring him in the face at the moment. “Sorry, I just saw this and liked it.”

With a ruffle of his thick hair that dipped along his forehead, his mom chucked. “That certainly is an… interesting snow globe.” Jackson shook it and the white, glittery flecks swirled like a storm. “Why this one? It doesn’t seem to fit your space-themed bedroom.”

A grin spread across his chocolate stained mouth. “Oh, it does, Mom. Just like with outer space, there’s mystery behind the existence of Sasquatch. You know, guesses...”

She shook her head. “Theories, you mean,” she corrected, “just like with space. Jackson, you are too smart for your own good, you know that?”

His mom teased yet it was the truth; and he knew it. He knew a lot of things he wished he didn’t. “Yeah, I do.”

“Hey, kid!” A deep voice snapped Jackson’s eyes open and back to the shop. He stared at a man through one of the large glass globes and nearly laughed at the distorted fun house image he saw looking back. “You alright?”

“Yeah, uh yes, I’m fine,” he said, quoting his usual line when anyone asked how he was. “Just checking these out. I used to collect them, actually.” He wasn’t sure why he was sharing personal information with a stranger. He’d never done that before, but the kindness in the man’s eyes reminded him of his dad.

“Used to?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, just haven’t added to my old collection in a few years.”

“Well,” the man started as he adjusted his hat, “looks to me like you’re ready to start a new one.” Jackson raised a brow and watched as the man went and sat back down in his chair with a smirk peeking out from his mustache.

As Jackson continued to look through the mass of watery globes, he considered that the old man was right. Starting something new was exactly what he was hoping to accomplish. Just then, a ray of sunlight struck the glass on a small, circular one out of the corner of his eye. It sat on the shelf nestled in a row of sports themed snow globes. The one he felt compelled to touch left him baffled at the significant meaning. If he weren’t fully aware of the pain-free feeling in his skull, he might think the image inside the globe was a snapshot of a future vision.

Holding it up into the light, the tiny people inside painted an exact picture of a life that Jackson thought he was never meant to have.

A man stood on the pitchers mound, arm wound back in an arc, ready to let loose a curveball with the way his fingers were gripped around the seams. The batter was a boy with brown hair who leaned over the plate, wooden bat cocked back and poised in the air. There was a woman sitting on a grassy hill near the boy, strands of her red-gold hair were fisted within a tiny infants grasp cradled in her arms. In that moment, Jackson actually believed that fate was calling.

Over an hour later, Jackson had made it to the desolate Wallis road, his belly full and spirits lifted, but a part of his heart remained heavy. Nature called, so he found a tree among the weeds to relieve himself. As he zipped back up, in the far distance he noticed the roof of the house, and reality punched him square in the solar plexus. Would the DoD pick up his trail? By taking these next steps, did it place them all in danger? Maybe they had moved on and were a happy family without him—complete and worry free.

Maybe, his trek should end where he stood.

His thumb rubbed the glass auricle buried deep in his jacket pocket; the crinkled letter folded next to it worn by years, travel, and his own perspiration poked at the back of his hand. Both of them provided reassurance. Perhaps, another link from the past held an answer along with some courage. There was still one line left to read after all. Carefully, with trembling fingers he unfolded the paper and the heart-wrenching words flowed freely from his lips.

“And in that moment, you will be blessed… and stricken… for the truest truths are what hold us together, or keep us painfully, desperately apart .”

An explosion of images seared through his brain in a rapid fire of painful impulses, like an electrical storm burning across his neurons. He was assaulted by her face, her voice, her scent... It was then that Jackson refocused, the revelation that he had returned to a monumental moment in the past—a crucial turning point, as he began to walk his mother’s path one last time.

March 22, 2002

Her hands shook as she closed the door and entered her dark, silent apartment. She tore her purse, shoes, and jacket off in the entryway and let them fall carelessly to the floor. Her heart beat wildly within her chest as intense anxiety buzzed through her body, like a saw blade humming through flesh. Pushing it away yet again, she stumbled through the dim hallway, stopping abruptly as she came to a cracked open door.

She gasped, taking in the sight of the empty crib. Ignoring the voice in her head that Jackson could hear screaming for her to run—to hide and shut it all away, she allowed her fingertips to dance along the cool wooden bed where her son should lay dreaming. With a trembling chin, she reached in and grabbed his cream blanket, the one her mother had knitted for him when she hadn’t yet known to use pink or blue.

“Mom…” Jesus, her mother will never understand; she might always blame her for searching for answers to obscure questions when her miracle was held within her arms. She slammed her eyes shut as the memory of her mother’s advice played out behind her lids for Jackson to witness…

February 18, 2002

Sliding her arms into her jacket as she prepared to leave, she said, “Mom, it’s important. I wouldn’t go if it weren’t.”

Frustrated, her mother shook her head and clutched baby William tighter against her hip. “Yes, I know, Dana. You say it’s about getting answers.”

Shaking her head, she sighed and her eyes flicked to her son playing with his grandmother’s sweater, blissfully unaware of his role in life. “Answers about William, Mom.”

“I know you’re worried about him—that there are things about him that you just can’t explain. But, even if you were to get those answers, what would it change?”

With emotions flaring, her voice trembled as she tried to explain in the simplest way possible. “Mom, he’s my child.”

Refusing to back down and stay silent, she pleaded with her daughter to listen. “And you have to love him and raise him in spite of everything.” Stepping closer, her mother’s tone softened as her hazel eyes met watery blue. “Dana, God has given you a miracle. A child that wasn’t supposed to be.” Gazing down at her grandson with pride, she offered, “Maybe, it’s not to question—just to be taken as a matter of faith.”

Feeling lost and alone with horrible thoughts swirling of what secrets may be out there regarding her son, she stared at her mother’s worried expression and told her the truth. “Mom, I can’t take this on faith. I need to know,” she explained, soothing William’s soft, fuzzy hair, wishing she could fully trust what her heart was telling her. “I need to know if it’s really God I have to thank...”

Jackson felt his mother stiffen as her own memory melted away. Her eyes snapped open yet the residual turmoil of her mother’s words remained entwined like barbed wire within her chest.

“Oh, Mom...” she whispered and bit her lip until it hurt almost as much as her heart.

She inhaled a deep breath, her knees buckling at the strong baby scent and that’s when she saw it: her own withdrawn, broken reflection in the small mirror hung above the rocking chair. How could she look herself in the mirror ever again and not see someone who had simply given up, who didn’t have the courage to stand by her son and fight to the death to protect him? His father would have if he were here. Yet, she sent him away to keep their son safe, and now she was left with nothing.

Guttural cries finally burst free from her mouth, the awful feeling of guilt and sadness overwhelmed her. Pressing the scent of their baby boy to her face, she screamed into the yarn of the blanket as her emotions warred on. Her mother: a God-fearing woman who forgives as easily as she loves, would never forget what her daughter had done here tonight.

Emptiness echoed in the silence, fatigue pulled at the weariness beneath her lids as her fingers ran along the soft stitching connecting the satin to the plush cotton. Her body felt hollow, like a shell that held nothing but an ocean of tears and shards of glass wedged between her soul and her heart.

It hurt to be in her son’s room where he slept and played and nursed and listened to her terrible singing and… it hurt to breathe. “Oh God, Mulder, please forgive me.”  

A heavy layer of sorrow covered her chest, suffocating her. The reality of her decision surrounded her with every shallow breath she took. “Mulder, I’m so sorry,” she whimpered, fiery tears burning her down the column of her throat. “Our truest truth… our son, he’s held us together and now… and now desperately apart.”

No matter if her choice was right or not, William was their son: a living breathing product of their everlasting love, their miracle… and now he was gone. No matter her constant worry of the safety and origin of the miracle she held within her arms every day—had loved unconditionally the moment she knew he existed; she had willingly given away a part of her and Mulder’s love. A love so strong that it conquered the impossible and produced a wondrous gift. In that very moment, she knew she would carry this heaviness in her heart until the day she died. And Jackson felt her terrible thought that just maybe, she deserved to.

He felt his mother slipping away from his grasp as she road the roaring tide of her emotions. She and her gut-wrenching sobs were fading, drifting off into darkness where he knew she would rebuild her fortress of stoicism in order to survive, dimming the remaining light in her life as the vision did the same for him.

Time stretched like a rubber band connecting the past to the present. Jackson separated achingly slow from his mother’s grief with images fading into the back of his mind as his own anguish took hold.

“Ah, dammit!” The sheer agony that had coursed through her veins was enough for Jackson to still taste the metallic remnants of blood from her gnawed bottom lip within his own mouth. The upheaval of emotional static was in his head, shredding it from the inside—the side effects of constant fears and self-doubt. The selfless suffering felt from an unconditional love took away a piece of him as it took from her, unraveling the purity in his soul.

He felt his chin tremble uncontrollably, like it did when he was nine and was teased on the playground for being “weird.” He felt it: the last remaining bricks of the wall that stood to protect and uphold his heart crumbled, leaving him bare and exposed. The flashback sucked the breath from his chest and he folded, collapsing into himself and driving him to his knees.

Squinting up at the sun with a sheen of sweat across his brow, he clenched his fists, blanching his knuckles as nails dug deeply into the palms of his hands. Slamming them to the ground, Jackson screamed. The sound piercing the early afternoon sky like an air raid siren, unleashing the remaining demons from the scars that had refused to heal. The agony left his lungs with the strength of a gale force wind, begging the sun for its rays of light to soothe away the darkness. The torment felt as though it ripped his muscles, bones, and flesh to shreds. His dark lashes brimmed heavy with tears and the dam burst when his emotions surged against it. Crystal beads streamed from his deep blue eyes as heaving sobs tore at his throat and wracked his chest—the weight of his grief pressing him into the ground where he knelt.

Within the last year, he had cried all of three times: the night of his parent’s death, once out of sheer loneliness, and now from the effects of this letter. These words from his mother had saved him from the monster, the one indifferent to suffering and sorrow, and got him to feel.

Jackson dug into the dirt with the balls of his feet and pushed off, taking mighty strides as he sprinted before even aware of the conscious decision. His bag bounced along his shoulders, his long dark colored locks whipping back and forth behind him as he leapt large rocks and dodged roots. Charged with adrenaline surging through his veins, he had to keep running forward; nothing would stop him now. As quick as his long legs could carry him, his shoes hammered the hard earth that mimicked the pounding in his chest. The smell of bark and pine invaded his nostrils, his burning lungs begging for air, but Jackson embraced the pain. His shirt clung to his form, damp with sweat and tears and he ran, feeling her presence like he could feel her mind. He finally let down the mental barrier he had held up against reaching out and into her mind, liberating him.

All the signs, all the things leading him to reach this very path was fate; it had intervened and he knew now—felt it now… William needed to come home.

Now, the boy who had always felt split in two was whole. Now, he was finally fine . He was free.

By the time he reached the gated driveway to the property, the pain had dissipated as hope and truth dominated. One hand rested on the cold iron; his limbs on fire as he panted, trying to catch his breath. The well-worn house stood taller now—a simple A-frame with a couple dormers and extended front porch. The fence surrounding the property consisted of many shades of weathered wood, time and sunlight painting it several grayish and brownish hues. Beyond its confines stood a patchwork quilt of several grasses and wildflowers, sewn together by a dusty road. For a glimmer of a moment, he envisioned a little sister running through the rolling grass, chasing a dog to hug and cuddle, the puppy stealing licks while they laughed in amusement and drank tea on the front porch.

Jackson pulled open the heavy gate and stepped onto the familiar ground his feet had yet to tread. A deep breath calmed his rising nerves, as did walking through the tall wheat grass swaying in the open breeze. It all reminded him of his childhood farm and working the fields with his dad.

The land here grew wilder than his dad would allow, although so did he and, he suspected, so did the pair that occupied that house. He continued on, the rhododendrons now in full bloom overpowered the nearby flowers. They greeted his senses and he became more engrossed, living in the moment like he had never experienced before. This was real. His futuristic visions foreshadowed death and hellfire, reeking of ash and rot. But here, only birds sang and thick, green foliage swayed with the breeze, covering the sound of distant traffic.

For so long his thoughts never stopped spinning, visions of pasts and futures, the constant questioning of himself was nothing but a furnace of pain hidden beneath a forced smile and occasional happiness. All of that stood silent now. For the first time in his life there were no thoughts, only instincts. Ones that he trusted. So he continued walking along the gravely dirt driveway, up the worn steps to stand at their faithful door.

Somehow it all made sense, that the flashback visions would take him back to where this all began, bringing him full circle to find the truth; taking him back to the night where his old life had ended and was given a new one. The night William M. Scully became Jackson Van de Kamp. He was both Jackson and William, he realized: Chimera born—one boy with two sets of parents who loved him. One remarkable teen with a remarkable past standing on the porch of an unremarkable house, hoping to share a future with those who sacrificed everything for him.

Jackson had navigated his way through his birth mother’s past and his own—effectively finding himself during a time when he was truly lost. And, now, the son of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully would finally cross their threshold as his whole self, an open book written in a language only they could fully understand.

A flutter of nervousness began to churn in his gut. He shut his eyes, inhaling a deep breath and counted to ten, recalling what his dad had told him to do when he felt this way. Those familiar words of wisdom embraced him, giving him the push he needed to let loose three confident knocks to the squeaky screen door. Footfalls and muffled voices could be heard through the oak door and his heart pounded through his shirt.

A smile pulled at Jackson’s lips when he realized that he was standing inches from the proverbial edge of what was his leap of faith for a new beginning, completely unafraid and committed to jump.