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sailorshadzter · 10 months ago

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heavily inspired by 'tis the damn season.

as usual, thanks @taylorswift

She’s come back again, just like she always swears she won’t do.

It’s not a place she longs to come back to, not after all that had happened, not after all she’s endured. Yet, it feels strangely comforting as she drives down the old, familiar streets of the North, her windows cracked just a hair, allowing in the cold morning air.

If nothing else, she has not yet forgotten the taste of the Northern cold.

The radio blares a tune she doesn’t hear, blue eyes are scanning the homes as if they’ve changed even in the slightest. As if she might not recognize the place she grew up, as if she might not know the home she had once loved beyond all else. As she pulls into her family’s drive, she glances two houses down, to where once upon a time a boy she had loved lived. But now that house was occupied by ‘the nicest of folks” as her mother had said more than once over the last few years. A sigh escapes, rosy lips pursed as she shifts the car into park, the front door already opening.

She draws her eyes away from that other house and smiles, forcing herself to forget.

[ x x x ]

When she shifts her car into park, she knows that she’s crazy.

She looks to the left, to see the old church, to her right, the old school she once roamed the halls of. These places were still yet familiar to her, despite the long years that have passed, a testament to the importance of these places in her heart. It was here in these places where she fell in love, where she lost it all, where she learned just how cold life could be to a girl. Her gaze shifts over the gray stones of the graveyard and her heart sinks.

But she gets out of her car anyway, tugging her scarf a little closer, hands in the pockets of her gray wool jacket. She pushes open the old, rusting gate, wondering as she always does why they don’t just replace the thing, why the world in the North seems to never change despite the years that pass.

Her feet take her the ever familiar path to the grave she only visits when she’s home, the one she tries to pretend doesn’t exist when she’s not. The pain of this loss was just too great and she must constantly pry herself out of the hole grief has dug for her.

Robb’s grave is well kept, though the once fresh flowers her mother placed upon it have dried up and died. She sucks in a breath, letting it go in a cloud of white as she sinks to her knees, ignoring the mud that stains her jeans as she leans forward, fingertips tracing the outline of her brother’s name in the stone. It’s been three years too long without him, without his easy going smile, without his boisterous laugh, without his calming touch of hand. Before she knows it, tears are streaking her cheeks, cold in the winter breeze. She closes her eyes, allowing herself to sink into the memories of what she’s lost, of what she’s left behind…

“Sansa…”

The voice draws her out of her thoughts, though she couldn’t tell you just how long she’s knelt there. Drawing back, she twists around, blue eyes falling into place on the single man that stands just several yards behind her, solemn gray eyes unrelenting in their gaze. “Home for the holidays, are you?” Jon questions, tilting his head, the slightest of smiles curving on his lips.

Suddenly, it’s three years ago and they’re standing in this very same place.

She can still yet recall the every moment of their last meeting, of the time she had shattered his already broken heart. I can’t stay here, not anymore, she had whispered, willing him to reach for her, to beg her to stay, to keep her there beside him. Instead, he’d merely smiled, nodding, understanding. You could come with me, she had said next, but he’d only shook his head, knowing this was his place, his home, no matter what his heart wanted.

“Yeah,” she finally says, drawing herself out of the new wave of memories as she stands up, taking the few steps it takes to stand in front of him. They’ve not been this close in three years, yet his presence is as familiar to her now as it was then. “I’m here for a few weeks,” normally she’d come and go as quickly as the holidays did, but this time… Something had compelled her to take more time here with her family.

“That’s nice…” He shifts from one foot to the other, awkward in her presence, uncertain in what to say next. “The South is treating you alright, then?” He imagines her in the warm, Southern air, sunlight woven into her auburn locks. He imagines her as he always does, happy and laughing, with the wind in her hair and a permanent smile. She freezes, blinking those blue eyes, before she slowly nods, perhaps torn between admitting to him that his thoughts of her could not be further from the truth or lying that she’s never been happier. “Your mum told me you’re still singing,” he goes on next, thinking of all their days before, days of youth when she had dreamed of being a famous singer someday. The rest of the town had always laughed, calling it childhood fantasies, but Jon had always believed she could do it if someone would ever just give her the chance.

Sansa laughs, thinking of her mother bumping into him in town, perhaps at the grocery store- her heart flutters as she wonders if it were he that brought her up, or her mother. “I try,” she admits as her cheeks stain pink, which translates to each weekend she spends in any coffee shop, any bar, that will have her to perform, hoping that one day someone would hear her voice and take her to where she so desperately wished to be. She thinks of Robb then, his cheering her on from the front row of any school performance, of any talent show, of any car ride. Sorrow tugs at her heart and she sighs, looking up over his shoulder at the old church that sits in this distance, abandoned in the years since she’s left home. “How’s Ghost?” She asks, turning back to face him, watching as the first true smile appears on his face.

“He’s in my truck,” he says and she feels her heart skip a beat, thinking of all the time she spent in that truck, too. “Come on, I bet he’d love to see you,” he says next and against her better judgment, she follows him out of the cemetery and into the parking lot, where sure enough his old pickup truck is parked next to her car. Through the windshield she can see the great big white dog pacing back and forth, excited she thinks because he sees Jon returning to the truck. But to her surprise, when he opens the driver’s door, the dog leaps from inside and rushes to her, paws to her shoulders in his earnest attempt to lick her face.

Laughter tumbles from her lips as she gently pushes the dog down, dropping to her hunches so she can wrap the dog into her embrace. “Good boy, Ghost,” she chuckles as she holds tightly to him, recalling the many nights she slept tucked against the dog in Jon’s bed.

She misses this dog as much as she misses his owner.

Jon swallows, watching as she interacts with his dog as if no time has passed, as if nothing has ever changed. How many times has he wished for this moment in the last three years, he wonders, too many to count that was for certain. “I told you,” he laughs as she finally pulls herself away from Ghost, though the dog continues to sniff at her legs, her hands, until she gives in and returns her palm to stroke the spot between his ears; his favorite place to be petted. She still remembers, he thinks, though she would say how could she forget? “How long will you be in town?” He asks next and she looks up, blue eyes meeting gray; he needs to know beyond her comment of a few weeks.

“Until after the winter solstice,” she replies, having decided to stay for the local festival.

“Can I… See you again?” He asks softly, daring to be courageous.

A smile curves on her lips and she nods, unable to help herself.

[ x x x ]

The lingering touch of his hands in the darkness, the aching breath that catches in her throat.

“Jon, I…” she hisses, but he isn’t listening, not even close as he draws his lips across hers, silencing her before she can continue. His kiss fills her up, threatens to overflow, and she can do little but sink into it, into him. She threads her hands into his hair, unkempt from the hours they’ve spent between the sheets of his bed, tangled limbs and stolen kisses.

When he pulls away, their eyes meet, a single beat of silence, a single moment of true understanding. “Babe…” He murmurs, but she kisses him, silencing him as he’d only just silenced him. He’s drawing her in, closer than before, rolling them so he can lean over her, one hand tracing the curve of her cheek while the other presses itself between her thighs. They move in time with each other, as if it’s not been years since she slept in this bed, wrapped in his arms. They move in time as if they’ve never been apart, as if they know each other better than they could ever know anyone else. She knows what he wants to say, she knows what she wants to hear, but they both know it could never be. In the morning, she’d return home and they would forget this night had ever happened. It was their only option. It was the only way.

This was all it could ever be.

[ x x x ]

The darkness overhead is broken by the colorful display of fireworks.

“Beautiful,” she breathes, a sense of wonder brightening her eyes, a look on her face he’s not certain he’s seen ever before. Away from home all this time, she’s forgotten how beautiful of a show the North could put on for this event.

There in the night, with their heads tilted back to watch the show, Jon slips his arm around her shoulders. Time suspends and she glances his way, only to find he’s already looking right at her. Something cold twists in her heart, but she leans in all the same.

It was beautiful, wasn’t it?

[ x x x ]

They drive home in silence, but halfway through the drive his hand reaches for hers, taking hold without a second thought.

Almost as if it was a familiar sort of gesture, one he’s never forgotten, one he still yet dreams of.

She lays her head against the cold glass, watching the familiar landscape rush by her, fingers entwined with his. To her surprise, it’s not back to his home that he takes her, but rather he pulls into the parking lot between the old church and school, the one they’d stood in only a few short weeks ago. That’s right, I’m leaving tomorrow, she realizes with a start, turning to face him as he puts the truck into park, his face somber as always. “Jon, I…” She begins but he turns to her then, shaking his head.

There was nothing to say, after all.

She gives his hand a tight squeeze and for a long moment, they listen to the whistle of the wind outside, the promise of a winter storm woven into every whisper. It’s only when his hand touches her cheek that she realizes she’s begun to cry. “There’s always next year,” he laughs and she blinks, a chuckle escaping as she wipes her eyes. For the briefest of moments, she wonders if he might ask her to stay. For the briefest of moments, she wonders what her answer might be. But, just as she’d never ask him to wait, she knows he’ll never ask her to stay.

“Next year,” she agrees, leaning in to brush her lips against his.

He captures her mouth in a kiss that says it all- a kiss that long after they’ve parted ways, her lips still tingle with it.

[ x x x ]

When she pulls out of her family’s driveway that next morning, she waves goodbye to her parents, to her little siblings, and wonders why it hurts so much this time.

She drives down their street and at the stop sign, she wonders if she ought to turn back, if leaving home this time was a mistake. But she turns her car onto the main road, forcing herself to not look back, to never look back. There was nothing left for her here in the North.

Jon’s face flashes before her eyes but she drives on, willing herself to forget the feel of his hands in her hair, to forget the way his gray eyes would look into hers, to forget the warmth of his embrace. It wasn’t hers to hold onto, none of it was, none of it ever would be. And so, she drives past the old school, the old church, and she doesn’t look back.

She doesn’t see the old truck parked in the lot, watching her drive by.

Watching her leave.

#jonsa #actuallyjonsa #taylor swift is a jonsa #taylor swift #my writing #i wrote this #jon x sansa #modern jonsa #jonsa au

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mariacallous · 2 years ago

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Civilians describe being snatched from their homes and sent away for ideological screening, prolonged detention, and, in some cases, starvation and torture. Is there a larger plan at work?

On the morning of April 13th, forty-seven days after Russia began its siege of the Ukrainian port city of Mariupol, a man in his early twenties whom I’ll call Taras heard his dog barking in the front yard. Two days earlier, Ukraine’s President, Volodymyr Zelensky, had pronounced Mariupol “completely destroyed.” Russian forces had bombed or otherwise damaged ninety per cent of the buildings, including dozens of schools and a maternity hospital. The mayor estimated that at least twenty-one thousand residents had been killed. Taras had spent the better part of the siege with his family in a small basement, without electricity or running water. He would surface intermittently to collect buckets of rain to drink or to prepare meals of wheat porridge over a wood fire. All the cell-phone towers were down. But Taras had learned through an acquaintance that a close friend in an adjacent neighborhood was still alive, and he invited his friend to come “get drunk and cry a little.” When Taras heard the dog barking, he assumed his friend had arrived and rushed out to greet him.

At the door were two men in military fatigues, cradling assault rifles. Taras could tell that they were Russians by the white bands wrapped above their knees and elbows, which the occupying army used to avoid friendly fire. There were also distinctions in their accents; the men applied a hard “g” where Ukrainians use an airy “h” in words like govori, or “speak.”

“Who lives here?” one of the soldiers asked.

“Me and my family,” Taras said.

The men walked past him and began to search the house, room by room. They took down Taras’s full name. They noted the make and model of his car. One of the soldiers studied Taras’s vehicle registration, and observed that it listed a different address. Taras tried to explain that before the siege he had had an apartment across town. “Outside!” the soldier shouted. “You must go through inspection.”

Taras had heard that in some neighborhoods men were disappearing. He asked the soldier nervously, “How long will it take?”

“Two hours.”

Taras felt a pang of hunger—he hadn’t eaten anything since the previous day. He put on his sneakers, bluejeans, and a light jacket. The Russians escorted him to an intersection. He was not alone: six of his neighbors, all men of conscription age, had been rounded up, and were being guarded by a group of soldiers. Glancing down the block, Taras saw more Russians going from house to house, pulling young Ukrainian men into the street. Eventually, there were about forty men gathered with Taras.

A white bus pulled up, and Taras and his neighbors were instructed to board. After they filed in, and the doors closed, one of the Russians stood up and said, “You don’t know us and we don’t know you. We trust you exactly as much as you trust us.” He issued a single ground rule: “If you act up, we’ll wipe the floor with you. Does everyone understand?”

As the bus pulled away, Taras stared out the window. The colossal Illich Iron and Steel Works plant, with its once billowing stacks, rolling conveyor belts, and raging blast furnaces, got smaller and smaller. The day before, Russia claimed that a thousand and twenty-six Ukrainian soldiers had surrendered in its shadow. Taras saw large apartment buildings that had been reduced to rubble, houses missing walls and ceilings. He saw crudely dug graves in yards and, lying under a bridge, three decomposing human bodies. There’s nothing left, he thought. The men in the bus gazed upon the ruins.

After a half hour’s drive northeast, the bus slowed to a stop in front of a run-down banquet hall, in a semi-urban settlement called Sartana, on the banks of the Kalmius River. The soldiers collected the men’s I.D.s and herded them inside. There, a soldier would call out a captive’s name and bring him into an office, a kind of improvised interrogation room. When Taras’s name was called, he walked into the office and found twelve soldiers sitting at several tables.

“Have you served in the military?” one of them asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I have a white ticket,” Taras said, referring to a government pass denoting a medical condition that made him unfit for military service. Taras, who had boyish features and shaggy blond hair, had suffered from knee problems after tearing his meniscus playing soccer. The exemption was a disappointment; he had thought he would enlist in the Army, as his father had, and his father before him. Now he simply said, “A sports injury.”

“Undress,” another soldier demanded.

Taras stripped down to his underwear. From their seats, the men examined him for tattoos and any markings that might indicate that he had recently seen combat—calluses on the hands, chafing around the neck from a flak jacket, bruising on the shoulder from a firearm’s recoil.

Baiting him, one of the interrogators asked, “Where do you plan to serve?”

“Nowhere.”

At midday, the captives were brought outside. There was snow on the ground. The morning had been overcast and now it began to rain, compounding the cold. Four more buses arrived, and Taras stood waiting as about a hundred and fifty more captives were processed. By the time he got back on the bus, his jacket and sneakers were soaked through. He was shivering.

The buses continued northeast, crossing into the self-proclaimed Donetsk People’s Republic, a breakaway region whose independence Ukraine did not recognize. They stopped in the village of Kozatske, which had fallen to Russian-backed separatists years ago. There, in the cafeteria of an old primary school, each man was given a small serving of watery soup.

As night fell, the captives laid down tightly spaced rows of thin mats in classrooms and corridors. All the detainees appeared to be civilians from Taras’s working-class neighborhood, men who had spent the preceding weeks preoccupied not with winning battles but with keeping their families alive, day to day, under conditions of extreme deprivation. Taras himself had already lost more than twenty pounds in less than two months under siege, a conspicuous drop from an already willowy frame. He had developed chronic pain in his chest, which he assumed was from breathing stale basement air or sleeping on concrete.

Taras dragged his mat into a hallway. His stomach growled, and his clothes were still damp from the rain. Hungry, cold, and exhausted, he curled up in a ball and fell into a restless sleep. He had not yet heard a term that would soon become familiar: “filtration camp.”

Filtration, broadly understood as a process by which a wartime government or a non-state actor identifies and sequesters individuals it deems a threat, does not, in itself, violate international humanitarian law. A recent report by researchers at Yale on Russia’s occupation of eastern Ukraine notes that “occupying powers in international conflicts have the right to register persons within their area of control; the force in control may even detain civilians in certain limited circumstances.” The system can comprise various checkpoints, registration facilities, holding centers, and detention camps. At a United Nations Security Council meeting earlier this month, Russia’s U.N. Ambassador, Vasily Nebenzya, went so far as to describe its filtration program as “normal military procedure.” Whether filtration amounts to normal procedure, or something worse, depends on how it is executed—and to what end.

In 1994, Russia launched a full-scale military invasion to retake Chechnya, a separatist enclave that had declared independence three years earlier. The day after Russian tanks rolled in, Russia’s interior ministry issued Directive No. 247: “to establish filtration points for the identification of persons who had been arrested in the zones of combat operations and their involvement in the combat activities.” (In Russia, the term “filtration point” entered into circulation during the Second World War, when Soviet authorities began to screen for what Lavrentiy Beria, the head of Stalin’s secret police, called “enemy elements” in territory liberated from the Germans.) The first camp in Chechnya’s capital, Grozny, opened on January 20, 1995. The following year, researchers for Human Rights Watch concluded that Russian forces were beating and torturing the Chechen men being held there. Many were subsequently used as “human shields” in combat and as “hostages to be exchanged for Russian detainees.”

Three years later, during the Second Chechen War, the Russian general Victor Kazantsev expanded filtration, imposing an “identity verification regime” in “liberated areas” and calling for the “toughening of search procedures at checkpoints.” Chechen civilians were arbitrarily detained in even greater numbers; they were often discharged without their identity documents, limiting their freedom of movement and exposing them to rearrest at checkpoints. An H.R.W. report outlined what had become a standard strategy: Russian forces would bombard Chechen communities, then conduct a “mop-up” whereby soldiers went house to house arresting men, and sometimes women, suspected of having ties to rebel forces.

The researchers described the filtration process in Chechnya as a form of “collective punishment” imposed not only on the disappeared but also on their families. One woman, referring to a male relative who had been taken away, told the researchers, “He’s nowhere—not among the living, not among the dead.” The prominent human-rights group Memorial, which Russia’s Supreme Court shut down earlier this year, estimated that during Russia’s two wars in Chechnya at least seventy thousand civilians perished and more than two hundred thousand Chechens passed through filtration camps.

In early 2014, Russian forces invaded and annexed Crimea. Several months later, a Russian “humanitarian convoy,” ultimately comprising an estimated twelve thousand troops, entered the Donbas, in eastern Ukraine, in support of the D.P.R. and the so-called Luhansk People’s Republic. The following winter, the Ukrainian parliament commissioned fifteen international and Ukrainian human-rights organizations to prepare a report on places of illegal detention in occupied parts of the Donbas. The report, published in 2015, identified seventy-nine facilities administered by Russian forces and Russian-affiliated armed groups. Based on extensive testimony, the authors found “a widespread practice of torture and cruel treatment of illegally detained civilians and military personnel.”

The survivors presented detailed accounts of beatings, sleep deprivation, forced labor, compulsory exercise, mock executions, unprovoked shooting at detainees’ extremities, and threats to bring harm to the detainees’ families. One survivor told the investigators, “They touched my head and genitalia with a metal rod charged with electricity. They hit me with a ramrod. They hung me up to the ceiling, poured cold water in freezing temperatures.”

The investigators found that the severity of punishment that camp guards meted out was contingent upon a number of variables, including military background and, above all, a detainee’s “political views”—specifically, the degree to which he expressed “support of state sovereignty.” One tactic, referred to as “the elephant,” involved placing a gas mask over the detainee’s head and blocking the flow of air. Two men were castrated in front of other detainees. At one facility, camp guards carved the word “bandera”—for Stepan Bandera, a Ukrainian nationalist and a Nazi collaborator executed by the K.G.B. in 1959—on a detainee’s chest, before killing him. Tanya Lokshina, a senior researcher for H.R.W., told me that, based on the accounts of Ukrainian civilians who have been held at fourteen sites during the current conflict, “there are strong reasons to believe that men are being tortured in similar facilities today.”

On March 21st of this year, the twenty-fifth day of the current invasion, the Russian Embassy in Washington, D.C., issued a statement: “We have paid attention to the claims from the Ukrainian authorities, which are being circulated in the US media, about the alleged creation of ‘filtration camps’ by our military.” The stories of arbitrary detention and disappearances emerging out of Mariupol are a “fabrication,” the statement said. It described the filtration camps as mere “checkpoints for civilians leaving the zone of active hostilities,” and maintained that the Russians were “helping them stay alive, providing them with food and medicine.”

Taras awoke at dawn to the sound of Russian soldiers ordering everyone to go outside. That morning, they were bused to another camp, in the nearby village of Bezimenne (Russian for “nameless”), where Russian and D.P.R. forces held an additional six hundred or so detainees, including some women. Pulling up to the camp, Taras saw a cluster of blue and white tents. The previous month, the Russian state-owned newspaper Rossiskaya Gazeta had acknowledged the existence of the camp, stating that Ukrainians were being funnelled there to stop them from “infiltrating Russia through the fields or disguised as refugees so that they can avoid punishment.”

At Bezimenne, each detainee was photographed from four sides, fingerprinted, and subjected to another strip search. Anyone with a mobile phone had to turn it in and supply the passcode; camp officials scrolled through photographs, text messages, and browsing histories. They connected the devices to a computer and recorded their fifteen-digit serial numbers.

In a tent, Taras was interrogated by members of Russia’s Federal Security Service, the main successor to the K.G.B. This time, the questions were more probing. What were his views on the government in Kyiv? On the local authorities in Mariupol? Did he have family members serving in the Ukrainian military? In the volunteer battalions? Did he have any acquaintances in Russia? Taras answered each question tactfully but truthfully. He told his interrogators that he believed that Mariupol had been flourishing before Russia’s “special operation,” and that he’d never met a fascist in his life.

Occasionally, an interrogator, out of what seemed like either frustration or boredom, would go off script. And sometimes even the seemingly correct answer wasn’t good enough. If a detainee said that he didn’t approve of the government in Kyiv, his interrogator might insist that he elaborate on why he didn’t approve. Taras couldn’t make sense of what was happening. Were these interviews aimed at ascertaining reliable information? Or was this whole humiliating procedure a kind of ideological screening?

Afterward, a camp official handed him a piece of blue paper stamped with “F.P. Bezimenne.” F.P. stood for Filtration Point. Taras assumed that he had “passed” filtration and was cleared to return home. Instead, the men were dispatched back to the makeshift prison in Kozatske. The filtration receipts were taken from them.

The following weeks took on a bleak rhythm. The detainees had only what clothes they had been wearing on the day they were apprehended. Cases of what appeared to be pneumonia or COVID broke out, but the soldiers provided no aid or medicine. When one sick detainee started to fade away, the others pleaded for an ambulance to be summoned, to no avail. Several hours later, the man was dead. Guards ordered two detainees to move the body to the gymnasium.

The guards explained nothing. Detainees who were overly persistent with their questions were beaten. One especially distressed man begged to be released, on account of his mother, who he said was paralyzed and home alone. He later learned that she had died, likely of starvation. The guards would not permit her son to leave the camp to attend her funeral.

One of the men used a piece of chalk to mark each passing day. Food was served once in the morning and once in the afternoon. At communal tables meant for children, the men ate rice or plain macaroni, which one detainee later said “resembled glue.” Wild garlic grew around the perimeter of the building, and Taras took to eating whole bulbs as he would an apple. Water, which had to be delivered to the camp, was distributed every other day. There was often not enough to go around. In the classrooms, the detainees used a Soviet-era prison hack to boil and decontaminate it, by placing one end of a metal wire in a jar of water and inserting the other into an electrical outlet. Even so, diarrhea spread through the camp.

Without working toilets, the detainees relieved themselves in a field. Occasionally, someone would act up or try to make a run for it. As far as Taras could tell, none of the escape attempts were successful. Sometimes the soldiers would tackle a man to the ground and bind his wrists behind his back with tape. In full view of the others, they’d drag him into a car and take him away. Eventually, the guards permitted some of the men to leave the camp during the day, to work on nearby farms so that they could buy themselves extra food and cigarettes at a local shop. At night, they always returned; there were military checkpoints in every direction, and, in the D.P.R., a Ukrainian man caught without documentation risked a fate worse than indefinite detention.

Inexplicably, the detainees’ mobile phones were returned to them after inspection. Taras passed the time by looking through old pictures of better days: selfies with his girlfriend, whom he had met on Instagram two years earlier; snapshots of a trip to Paris. There was no way to directly contact family members in Mariupol, which was still without cell service. But the school had Wi-Fi, and the men could follow the news. Some had connections to the D.P.R. government. They’d call around to try to get answers. “You’ll be released soon,” one was told. Another was informed that “they’ll be transferring you to Russia,” and another that the D.P.R. armed forces “will mobilize you and send you to the front lines.” One of the captives even placed a call to the D.P.R. authorities. “My passport was stolen,” Taras overheard the man say. “They are holding me against my will.” Several hours passed. A local police car arrived. The camp guards summoned the detainee.

“Did you file a complaint?” a police officer asked tranquilly.

“I did,” the detainee replied.

A Russian soldier came over and handed the detainee his passport.

“Well, do you have your passport?” the officer asked.

The detainee hesitated. “Yes.”

“You want to know why you’re here?” the officer said. “Now you’ll go to a place where they’ll explain everything you need to know.”

Four days later, local police returned the man to the camp. The other detainees plied him with questions. Where had he gone? What did they say? How was he treated? He had no physical marks of abuse, but was clearly shaken. Finally, he divulged that he’d been taken to a prison somewhere in Donetsk and left in a cell with only a single piece of bread. He went silent, refusing to answer any more questions, and withdrew to his mat.

More than two weeks after the men had been rounded up, Taras called a D.P.R. missing-persons hotline.

“What is the name of the missing person?” the operator asked.

Taras gave his own name, date of birth, and city of residence. He could hear the operator entering the information. He drew a deep breath, the muscles in his jaw tensing.

After a minute’s search, the operator replied, “The individual passed through filtration on April 14th and was returned to Mariupol.”

Taras began to panic, his heart rate quickening. He told a fellow-detainee about the call, and the man then made an inquiry about himself. The operator informed him that he, too, had passed filtration and been released.

Another detainee called. Then another. In all, half a dozen men called the missing-persons hotline and received the same response. They had all passed filtration on April 14th. They had been released from custody and returned safely to their communities in Mariupol.

In mid-June, at an outdoor café in Tbilisi, the capital of Georgia, I met Tanya Lokshina, the senior researcher for Human Rights Watch and the last head of its Moscow bureau. Two months earlier, the Russian Ministry of Justice had “de-registered” the organization. Lokshina, who has radiantly red hair, was wearing an embroidered blouse and beaded bracelets, giving the impression of a professor at a liberal-arts college. She had overseen the bureau for nine of its thirty years in operation, and, like the rest of her colleagues, was now living and working in exile.

Over Turkish coffee and local cigarettes, Lokshina told me that, on February 24th—just hours before Vladimir Putin launched his invasion, when much of the world still believed he was bluffing—she packed a “small suitcase full of bathing suits” and boarded a flight for Cancún, a long-planned winter-break trip for her nine-year-old son. When the plane landed, she turned on her phone and learned that Russian tanks had crossed into Ukraine. The beach would have to wait. Lokshina and her son flew to Northern California. He stayed there with relatives, and she spent the next thirty-six hours travelling to Poland to compile testimonials from Ukrainian refugees. She continued her interviews on Moldova’s border with Ukraine. In April, she took a brief trip to Moscow to dismantle the H.R.W. bureau, before making her way to Kyiv and Lviv, in western Ukraine, to meet with people who had been subjected to filtration in the occupied territories. After several weeks, she picked up her son and relocated permanently to Tbilisi.

Lokshina believes that Russia’s network of filtration centers serves multiple, related strategic imperatives—among them, processing civilians for transfer to Russia, screening for combatants and saboteurs, gathering military intelligence, soliciting false testimonies of war crimes committed by Ukrainian soldiers, collecting personal data on the civilian population, and purging the occupied territories of residents insufficiently loyal to Moscow.

A spokesperson for Russia’s Federal Security Service has stated that filtration has a narrower intent: to capture “fugitives from justice.” The Ministry of Internal Affairs of the D.P.R. said that “filtration measures” were necessary to intercept “persons affiliated with the security forces of Ukraine, participants in nationalist battalions, members of sabotage and reconnaissance groups, as well as their accomplices.”

These official justifications are not entirely spurious. In August, the Times interviewed several Ukrainian “partisans,” combatants who operate in the occupied territories. In all but name and attire, they are active-duty soldiers, working in clandestine cells that are unknown even to one another. In Crimea, partisans helped blow up a Russian airbase. In Zaporizhzhia, they poisoned a group of around fifteen Russian soldiers. According to the Times, “the fighters strike stealthily in environs they know intimately, using car bombs, booby traps and targeted killings with pistols—and then blending into the local population.”

Still, even if the initial aim of filtration was a limited military objective—disaggregating civilians and combatants—the process quickly mushroomed into something grotesque. Much of the male population in Ukraine’s southeast has been interrogated and released, interned, deported, disappeared, or killed. According to an assessment by the U.S. National Intelligence Council, “Those who are deemed non-threatening may be issued documentation and permitted to remain in Ukraine with certain restrictions. Those deemed less threatening face forcible deportation to Russia. Those deemed most threatening probably are detained in prisons.” Uladzimir Shcherbau, an officer with the U.N. Human Rights Monitoring Mission in Ukraine, told me, “If you have a blue-and-yellow background on your phone, you don’t pass filtration, period.”

The exact number of Ukrainians being held in filtration centers in Russia and the occupied territories is unknown. By Russia’s own account, nearly four million Ukrainians have already undergone some form of filtration and been “evacuated” to Russia, some as far east as Vladivostok, near Russia’s border with North Korea. (The U.S. has estimated the number to be somewhere between nine hundred thousand and 1.6 million.) Ilya Nuzov, a Russian-born lawyer and the head of the Eastern Europe and Central Asia division of the International Federation for Human Rights, has called Russia’s filtration system “a program to facilitate the forced transfer of a large part of the population, which could amount to war crimes and crimes against humanity.”

In May, Andrey Turchak, a senior official from Putin’s United Russia Party, visited Kherson, a strategic port city by the Black Sea that had fallen to Russian forces early in the war, and announced that “Russia is here forever. . . . There will be no return to the past.” A few weeks later, a member of the State Duma wrote that “the Kherson region’s admission into Russia will be complete—similar to Crimea.” On June 27th, Kirill Stremousov, the deputy head of the military-civil administration of Kherson, which had been set up by Russia, announced on Telegram that the city was preparing for a referendum. Yevgeny Balitsky, the Russian-installed governor of Zaporizhzhia, two-thirds of which is under Russian control, followed suit. During a forum called “We Are with Russia,” he declared, “I am signing the order for the Central Election Commission to start preparations for holding a referendum on the reunification of the Zaporizhzhia region with the Russian Federation.” The night before, in an address to the nation, President Zelensky had said, “We will give up nothing of what is ours. . . . If the occupiers proceed along the path of pseudo-referendums, they will close for themselves any chance of talks with Ukraine and the free world.”

Michael Carpenter, the U.S. Ambassador to the Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe, told me that Russia is attempting to insure a more “compliant, pliable population” in the territories in the southeast. “At the Pentagon, there’s a term, ‘operational preparation of the environment’—military-speak for creating the conditions for control,” he said. In August, the Yale School of Public Health’s Humanitarian Research Lab identified twenty-one apparent filtration facilities in Donetsk; this was the most comprehensive assessment yet of what the Yale researchers called a “large-scale apparatus of screening and extrajudicial detention.” (Two months earlier, the U.S. National Intelligence Council had identified eighteen.) Using high-resolution satellite imagery, they found “two distinct areas of disturbed earth markings . . . possibly consistent with potential individuated or mass graves.” Detainees who were released from some of the facilities identified by the researchers reported “insufficient food and clean water, exposure to the elements, denial of medical care,” and “use of electric shocks, extreme conditions of isolation, and physical assault.”

At a recent U.N. Security Council meeting, Linda Thomas-Greenfield, the U.S. Ambassador to the U.N., said that Russia’s program of filtration and mass transfer was being closely overseen and coördinated by the Kremlin. She also noted that Russia was “imposing its educational curriculum in schools, and trying to get Ukrainian citizens to apply for Russian passports.” She said that the impetus for all these measures was clear: “to prepare for an attempted annexation.” Vasily Nebenzya, Russia’s U.N. Ambassador, dismissed Thomas-Greenfield’s remarks as a “new milestone in the disinformation campaign unleashed by Ukraine and its Western backers.”

Seven months into the war, Russia’s broader plans for Ukraine are now in more disarray than at any time since the start of the invasion. Recently, after a protracted stalemate, the Ukrainian military recaptured more than a thousand square miles of territory in the country’s northeast. “The reality check around Kharkiv makes the situation extremely volatile,” Hubertus Jahn, a scholar of Russian imperial history at the University of Cambridge, told me. Last week, Russian-installed administrations in Luhansk, Donetsk, Kherson, and Zaporizhzhia proceeded with referendums. According to Russia’s Central Election Commission, the results in favor of joining the Russian Federation ranged from eighty-seven per cent, in Kherson, to ninety-nine per cent, in Donetsk.

Absent a dramatic change of fortune on the battlefield, or the deployment of unconventional weapons—which could draw NATO forces into the war—Moscow’s most realistic endgame may now be to solidify its hold on the gutted regions, some forty thousand square miles containing rich farmland and immensely valuable mines. At a recent news conference, Putin said that this was his “main goal,” making no mention of “demilitarizing” or “de-Nazifying” the entire country, as he had previously declared. The next week, he ordered a “partial” mobilization of as many as three hundred thousand reservists. On Friday, during a ceremony at the Kremlin, he announced that Russia had acquired “four new regions,” welcoming residents of those territories as “compatriots forever.” The four proxy heads were in attendance; at one point, they huddled together and clasped hands with Putin, chanting, “Russia! Russia!”

Stephen Biddle, a defense analyst at Columbia University’s School of International and Public Affairs, told me, “Putin could withdraw to whatever positions he finds defensible, dig in, and protract the war, betting that his political position can survive long-term suffering. If U.S. Republicans win in the fall and in 2024, he might be right—a President Trump would quickly abandon Ukraine, and a Trumpy Republican Congress might abandon them before that.”

Whatever the Kremlin’s ultimate objectives, Lokshina, of H.R.W., said that it’s clear that the Russians are also using filtration and population transfers for propaganda purposes at home: “Their response to seven million Ukrainians fleeing to the European Union is, well, we received four million, so they’re not only running your way, they’re also running our way.” On Russian state television, groups of refugees conveyed by train to their assigned destinations have been greeted with fanfare by large crowds and television crews. In Tula, an industrial city a hundred and twenty miles south of Moscow, a local official told state reporters, “The displaced people will be provided with comfortable living conditions and get everything they need.”

Shcherbau, of the U.N. Human Rights Monitoring Mission in Ukraine, cautioned against extrapolating too much from the experiences of survivors. “We must be wary of survivors’ bias,” he said. “What is the statistical risk of being subjected to torture? What is the average length of detention? What happens to the individuals who don’t pass filtration? We don’t have clear answers to these questions. The worst cases are not yet known.”

Nearly three weeks into his captivity, Taras was desperate. He spent hours each day scrolling Telegram channels dedicated to covering the war, hoping for any information that might help him escape. At one point, he found the page of a Russian opposition journalist named Eduard Burmistrov, who was now living in exile in Tbilisi. On May 3rd, Taras threw a Hail Mary. Just before midnight, he wrote to Burmistrov, “Good evening, I am from Mariupol. After everything we have experienced, now we have been taken to some village against our will and our documents have been taken away.”

Burmistrov had been on the staff of TV Rain, Russia’s last independent television channel. On March 1st, the Russian government blocked the station, for broadcasting “false information” about Russia’s special military operation in Ukraine. The TV Rain staff, unable to call the war a “war” without risking long prison sentences, aired their final broadcast from Russia on YouTube and shuttered their offices indefinitely. Most of the staff fled within days, to Istanbul, to Yerevan, to wherever they could book flights. Burmistrov had flown to Serbia, then Turkey, before arriving in Tbilisi, which was quickly becoming one of the largest hubs for exiled Russian dissidents.

Burmistrov pressed Taras for more details. Taras wrote, “I ask for anonymity, but our situation needs to be made public.” He began sending photographs and short videos from inside the Kozatske camp. “To put it mildly, the conditions are not for humans. . . . They feed us just enough so that we don’t die. . . . We sleep on old rolled mattresses in classrooms and corridors. . . . We are guarded by three military police with machine guns. . . . Without our passports and filtration papers, we are nobody and nothing.”

Taras sent a flurry of messages to Burmistrov: “One person had a mini-stroke. . . . We are all getting sick. . . . Everyone is coughing. We go to the toilet in the field. We eat with spoons that are no longer being washed. There is no running water. . . . There are no answers to our questions about why we’re being held and when we’ll be released.” With Taras’s permission, Burmistrov planned to publish aspects of the account. “This cannot be delayed,” Taras wrote. “If something happens to us, the world should know about it!!!!!!!” Then, for fear that his phone might be inspected, Taras deleted the entire exchange.

A few hours later, Burmistrov contacted two former colleagues from TV Rain who were broadcasting from exile in Tbilisi, on a YouTube channel they’d started under their own names, Borzunova-Romensky. Under the “About” section on their page, they wrote, “They can shut down all the media, but we still have something to tell you.” The following morning, they posted a short segment featuring Taras’s leaked videos and photos, along with an anonymized text message he had sent recounting his ordeal.

Burmistrov asked Taras if it would be O.K. to share his story with a “good organization run by guys from Russia,” called Helping to Leave. “They work with Ukrainian organizations and help refugees get to Georgia,” Burmistrov wrote. Taras said yes.

Helping to Leave had its regional headquarters in an office a couple of blocks off Shota Rustaveli Avenue, Tbilisi’s main thoroughfare. When I dropped by one afternoon in June, a half-dozen volunteers, mostly Russian exiles in their twenties, were outside waiting for me. One of the volunteers was married to a Ukrainian man who was delivering humanitarian supplies to the front lines. She had “NO” tattooed across one eyelid, and “WAR” tattooed across the other; it occurred to me that showing her face in Russia was now a crime. It was pouring rain, and we sat on plastic chairs under the roof’s overhang. Everyone smoked.

The volunteers had started the group on February 24th, the day Russia launched its invasion. In the past seven months, they’ve aided or facilitated the safe passage of tens of thousands of Ukrainians out of active combat zones and Russian-controlled territory. Their operators work around the clock, supplying information about evacuation corridors and arranging housing, medical care, and psychological and legal support for people hoping to get out. Most of the work is done remotely, via Telegram, by a network of more than four hundred vetted and trained volunteers based all over Europe, as well as in the United States, Canada, Israel, and Thailand; the organization also coördinates with sympathizers inside Russia.

After connecting with Taras, the group got to work on a plan to rescue him and the other men in the camp. Polina Murygina, a Helping to Leave attorney, asked Taras for the names of his fellow-detainees. “We will send a list of the specific individuals whose safety we are concerned about to the authorities of Ukraine, Russia, and the DPR,” Murygina wrote.

“I’m a little worried,” Taras wrote back. “Could it not get worse for us?”

“In conditions of war and uncertainty, it is difficult to predict what is the right thing to do,” Murygina responded. “But, from my experience, if the authorities know that we know who exactly is being held, that lowers the likelihood that something terrible will happen.”

The next day, Taras sent the names of twenty-two of the nearly two hundred men at the camp. “I’m sure of these,” he wrote. “But collecting more names is very difficult. People are afraid and don’t trust anyone.”

Taras began to correspond with a Helping to Leave volunteer named Anna, a Russian woman who lives in Stockholm. He had learned that two men from the nearby camp at Bezimenne, where he initially underwent filtration, had disappeared after leaking three videos to the mayor of Mariupol. The mayor’s office had posted the videos on Telegram, with a description: “Footage from the middle of a filtration camp. A real ghetto!” Taras texted that the leakers “were taken away by the military to an unknown location. If someone knocks, that’s it, I may be taken away.”

Researchers for H.R.W. tracked down and interviewed the wife of one of the missing men. “He sent me a copy of that video that same day. I did my best to talk him out of publishing it,” she told them. “I saw that video on social media and it also got picked up by the press. . . . My husband stopped getting in touch. Our neighbor’s family also stopped hearing from him.” She later heard that D.P.R. security officials had taken the two men to the notorious Olenivka penal colony and that they were being accused of making an unauthorized recording and spreading false information about D.P.R. authorities. “Their fate and whereabouts remain unconfirmed,” the researchers wrote in a recently published report on the camps in the occupied territories. “They should be treated as presumptive victims of enforced disappearances.”

At Kozatske, guards started to press detainees about the leaks. “Why the fuck are you filming?” Taras heard one guard shout, to a man who had been pointing his cell phone at his food. “You’re only making things worse for yourselves.”

Taras quickly texted Burmistrov, “Eduard, please remove the post from Telegram. I wanted the world to see, but people are disappearing.” Burmistrov deleted his post, but it was too late—the photos were already being shared widely.

Burmistrov followed up the next day, texting, “How are you over there?”

“Men with balaclavas showed up,” Taras wrote back. “They look like real thugs. . . . They walked around the perimeter of the school with our passports,” which were kept in a cardboard box. He added, “I will check in with you so you are aware of all my movements, in case suddenly I disappear from communication.”

Another week went by without any news. “I’m still there,” Taras texted Anna. “Sick for several days.”

When Taras awoke on May 24th, it had been forty-one days since he and the other detainees had been taken. Shortly after a breakfast of cold macaroni, they were summoned outside. A D.P.R. police officer was standing with a Russian soldier, and Taras and the other men gathered in a circle around them. “We’ve received an order,” the officer said. “We are releasing you.” The guards started calling the men’s names, one after another, and handing back their passports, along with the filtration receipts. The men were hugging, crying. “Taras!” one of the guards bellowed.

At 1:03 P.M., Taras texted Anna, “They’re letting us go.” He sent a meme of Elon Musk with tears running down his cheeks, and wrote, “We don’t believe it.” Why now? Taras wondered. Was it on account of his leaks to Burmistrov? A back-channel intervention by Helping to Leave? The maneuvering of a sympathetic local administrator? The men were being released just as they had been apprehended—without explanation. Six minutes later, Taras sent Anna a voice note. “They gave back our passports,” he said. “Those who can leave on their own can leave.” He managed to reach an acquaintance who had cell service, who agreed to come pick him up. “Within a week I’ll try to get out of the country,” he told Anna. “Don’t write to me for a few days. Just write O.K. now and I’ll erase everything. I’ll be in touch.”

When Taras was taken away, in April, the trees were bare. Now everything was green, blossoming. After nearly six weeks of captivity, he was reunited with his family. They sat in the back yard, over a meal of bread, soup, and fresh green onions. His relatives couldn’t stop crying and poured him round after round of samohon, Ukrainian moonshine. It was apparent to all of them that Taras could not stay for long. There was no predicting when the men in camouflage would return. Three days later, he was on the road, driving a car left behind by a friend who was already out of the country.

Volunteers at Helping to Leave assisted in coördinating Taras’s route. Travelling west wasn’t an option; Russian forces had effectively blocked all evacuation corridors. He remembered how the roads had looked in March, when every third car heading in that direction returned riddled with bullets. He had observed one van coming back with all its passengers covering their mouths and noses. One of the passengers was dead, shot as they tried to make their exit. The Georgian border was more than four hundred miles southeast of Mariupol. To get there, Taras would have to pass through a sliver of southern Russia.

He went through eighteen military checkpoints. Even with his filtration receipt, he was questioned and sometimes made to undress. A drive that in peacetime takes about fifteen hours took three times as long. At one point, a Russian Federal Security Service official examined Taras’s phone, finding nothing of interest except a photograph of his girlfriend. He zoomed in and out on her features. “This your girl?” he asked Taras, without looking up. “Yes,” Taras replied. The official ogled her for a minute or so before handing back the device. “Why are you all running away?” the official inquired. “Who will defend the motherland?”

Taras had no rubles, and his Ukrainian bank cards didn’t work at any Russian A.T.M.s, so Helping to Leave arranged two pickups. Taras would arrive at a designated location, and someone would give him enough cash to fuel up and make it to the next stop. This was a risk to both parties, requiring faith and trust between complete strangers, citizens of enemy nations, but Taras had no other choice. After the first exchange, he stopped for the night at a roadside motel, and sent Anna a final voice note. “Thank you for your help and moral support,” he said. Lying there in a clean bed, with a full stomach, he said, he was overwhelmed with guilt. “I’m eating, taking showers, going to sleep on white sheets—living like a human being, while my family is still there. I feel so guilty for all this. . . . I’m sorry.”

In June, I met Taras at a hotel where he was staying, on the outskirts of Tbilisi. He is tall and gangly, and wore a soccer jersey with the Mariupol Football Club logo, looking less like a recent prisoner of war than like someone’s kid brother. Except for a bit of sunlight entering through a thin curtain, the room was dark. In a corner sat an overstuffed black suitcase. We found a table downstairs, in the hotel cafeteria. A light breakfast had been laid out, but Taras wasn’t eating. “There’s macaroni here,” he said. “I’m sure it’s good macaroni, but I can’t even look at the stuff.”

At the border with Georgia, Taras said, he had undergone one last round of hostile questioning by Russian officials. Finally, after passing through customs, he exhaled deeply. “I just broke down,” he told me. He cried as he drove, feeling a swirl of sorrow and relief and guilt and gratitude. Occasionally, he’d pull over, sit on the hood of the car, and just gaze at the Caucasus Mountains. “In the camp and at the military checkpoints, I had to choose my words with so much caution,” he said. Every utterance was a risk. “Now I don’t need to filter my thoughts. I don’t need to hide.”

A young woman was eating alone at a nearby table. Taras looked over at her periodically. I asked him if he knew her. He smiled. She was his girlfriend from Mariupol. Until a week ago, they hadn’t seen each other for a hundred and one days. For about half that time, each didn’t know if the other was still alive. After her apartment building was bombed, on March 20th, she and her family fled the city. On his way out, Taras drove past her block. “It’s all destroyed,” he said. “They erased her entire street—just rubble everywhere, a nightmare.” She first went to Bulgaria, then came to Tbilisi to be with Taras. “Last night, we were walking in the old city and we heard two guys walking behind us speaking Russian,” Taras said. Without any discussion, he and his girlfriend found themselves walking faster. “It was like a reflex. I know it’s not right. They’re probably normal people who themselves are running away from Putin, but right now I can’t help it.”

Taras said that they had both been having terrible dreams, assailed in their sleep by visions of armed soldiers, interrogation rooms, and the wretched ruins of their home city. Just about every night, he found himself back in the filtration camp. He’d wake up in a cold sweat, thinking of the untold number of men still being held by Russian forces. “These are permanent memories,” he said. “You just live with them and that’s it. You try to distract yourself, you try to live your life.”

Taras excused himself. He had to pack the car. Since the start of the war, about twenty-six thousand Ukrainian refugees have entered Georgia, but there is little work to be found and even less government support. On August 1st, the Tbilisi municipal government discontinued a program, in place since early March, that offered free hotel rooms to Ukrainian refugees. Many had moved on to the European Union. Taras and his girlfriend planned to drive to Poland, where they had friends who could help them make a new start.

The next time we spoke, by video chat over Telegram, they were in a suburb a few miles northwest of Gdańsk, a Polish port city on the Baltic Sea. Taras proudly showed me their two-bedroom rental. He stepped out onto the balcony to share a view of the quiet residential street. “It’s very nice,” he said. “There are areas like this in the U.S., right?” He pointed his phone toward a long, paved driveway. “These crazy parking spaces.”

During our conversations, Taras expressed a mixture of resignation about the current situation and hope for the future. He and his girlfriend could now access their bank accounts, but their savings were meagre; he aimed to find work soon, in human resources, or cars. “Tomorrow we will go to the U.N. office,” he said. “Maybe something will work out.” The air suddenly hummed with the sound of a plane flying over Taras’s new home. He looked up, then let out a brief, nervous laugh. “There’s an airport right next to the neighborhood,” he said. “I still get this feeling . . . I’m expecting an explosion.”

Two days earlier, Gdańsk city officials had changed the name of one of the city’s main plazas to Heroic Mariupol. “We will return to our city,” Taras said, “but only when it is Ukraine again.” After all the death and destruction he and his girlfriend had witnessed, they were eager to bring new life into the world. “Our children will have Ukrainian names,” he said. “They will be Ukrainian citizens.” He was confident that after the war the E.U. and the U.S. would help rebuild his city.

At times, Taras spoke of Mariupol not as a real place in the world, under temporary occupation by the Russian Federation, but as a memory or a dream, a phantom city situated somewhere in the distant past. “I would really like to return there, but Mariupol doesn’t exist,” Taras said. “There’s nowhere to return to.”

♦Published in the print edition of the October 10, 2022, issue, with the headline “In the Filtration Camps.”

#full article is posted here

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deviltoys · 4 years ago

Text

— ‘𝗯𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗯𝗼𝘆.’

sakusa kiyoomi x top!male reader. (wc; 1.7k)

#a/n: lolol self-indulgent sakusa fic because i wanna breed him so bad. this is painfully horrible and short but hopefully enough to feed everyone for the time being!

warnings. NSFW CONTENT, MINORS DNI, blindfold, overstimulation, breeding k., frat!au, gangbang, dubcon turned con, belly bulge, cum inflation, no aftercare, manipulation, sex slavery, implied somnophila.

joining the most prominent fraternity on campus was the last thing on his mind. sakusa struggled immensly when it came to social interaction, he even took extra precautions to avoid having to exchange any dialogue between peers. especially a bunch of guild boys who could barely keep their heads attached to their shoulders; but atsumu had somehow convinced him to give it a shot.

according to the miya twin, he needed to push past this boundaries and explore his comfort threshold a little more. the perfect place to do just that? a frat house. who's more loud and rowdy than a couple of douchebag adults trying to assert their alpha-ness by hosting a copious amount of house parties.

as much as he beseeched and argued against it, the frat scene had him hook, line and sinker. and soon, the unbearable pull of charming guys passing around pamphlets for recruitment day had caught up to him.

the hall of residence was a lot more alluring that media would lead on. he was pleasantly surprised by the cleanliness and charm of the home; the parade of shirtless guys crowding around the hobby room only added a sense of authenticity to the whole ordeal.

after he was plucked into the roster of other men trying their hand at slipping a way into the frat life of their dreams. the initiation was on the horizon, and sakusa’s overwhelming social anxiety from the day prior came flooding right back into his system. he had forgotten the most important rule about a brotherhood, proving your worth and loyalty to your new family.

the two paths you could choose to go down were no bed of roses— the first opportunity was to streak and sprint down the length of the campus yard. or a play special game, in which your fellow brothers would surprise you with.

no way in hell would he sacrifice his dignity by stripping down bare and humiliating himself in front of the entire university. his education was on the line, he had a reputation to uphold; the only option was to partake in whatever the sorority had waiting for him.

that's where you came in, merely handing the dark-haired male a piece of cloth to don around his eyes. the last thing he could recall about his surroundings was the eeriely warm yet sadistic expression you gave him— his vision melting into a blur of black when the blindfold made contact his skin.

“just find a place to sit on one of the couches, my brothers’ll be with you soon.” your tone was low and gravely, the remainder of his senses were heightened due to his loss of vision. his ears exploding with your voice and your voice only, he felt the flesh on his cheeks bleed from pink to red; praying you wouldn't notice his shift in attitude.

“ye- yeah.. okay, thanks.”

your footsteps faded into the backdrop, signalling him to begin his search for the couch. he'd rather die than have you watch him scramble around the room like a headless chicken. he stumbled around a little, as predicted— bumping into furniture here and there before his hips knocked into a pool table frequently used for beer pong.

his hands feel around the object in an attempt to slip past it, amongst all the chaos he's experiencing he's dimly aware of the presence of a group of people. the scuffling of shoes against the hardwood floors only solidify his suspicions, but before he's able to call out to you; or anyone. heavy pressure is placed atop his shoulder blades— the curve of hips lace into the divit of his ass until he's pressed against the table.

the silence drifting around the open space between your bodies isn't broken, nobody dare mumbles a sound. your broad palms slink up the underside of his shirt, keeping a painfully slow pace up his chest until your fingers pinch the first nipple they come in contact with. your free hand snakes around his hip and dips into the hem of his jeans before making it's way into the waistband of his boxers.

his body shudders desperately, thighs bucking forward as your fist pumps around the length of his twitching cock. by the time he can gasp out a flurry of winces, two fingers that weren't there previously, poke and prod around his rim. devilishly forcing his walls to mold around them and shape room for a few more.

both of your hands now find a home around his hips. your groin, which is positioned at his rear, ruts the outline of your erect bulge against his ass— plowing the multitude of fingers already planted inside of him, deeper. this only entails that the fingers now wrapped around his cock, teasing his chest, and sinking into the depths of his rectum all belong to a different set of people.

he once more unclamps his jaw to sputter out more nonsense, only moaning once the warm, wet agitation of lips suck a dark mark into the curve of his collarbone. he's overcome with bliss, marveling in the way each frat member simultaneously toys with his sensitive body.

an abundance of hands fumble with his zipper, unbuckling the leather around his waist— unlooping the material before tossing it aside. you shove his pants down past his calves, releasing your grip on him so that you're able to abandon your own set of clothes. there's more rustling of clothes and clinking of belt buckles and your hands return to him once more, binding his arms and shoulders while gently bending him onto the table.

bracing for impact, he's pleasantly astonished when his chin and shoulders sink into something soft and pillowy. you were kind enough to replace the hard surface beneath him with one of the sofa cushions, strengthening his trust in you.

with his body now calm and relaxed with aura around the six of you, you take a few moments to prepare your cock to breed your good little fuck toy.

hot breath teases the meek, male’s ear; your monstrous cock pressing into puckered hole only making the lewd torture of the situation worse.

“miya told us you'd like to become our little breeder sakusa, we've had our eye on you for awhile. is this true? do you want us to pump your little womb full of our children?”

atsumu? he was the one who had him in this position, such a trusted friend making him seem special enough to catch the attention of these compassionate boys? maybe he was born to be a slave for cock. atsumu wouldn't lie to him, would he?

oh poor kiyoomi, if only he saw right through that twisted facade.

you growl into the shell of his ear, he figures that you're the one who's bending over his back; threatening to breach his fertile hole. being the head of the frat, you got first dibs on all the fresh meat brought in, it's sad you'd have to share this one with your brothers.

there's nothing sakusa has to resist with, he whimpers out a few noises before you're rewarded with a barade of nods. a rise of chuckles and quiet exclamations from the group feed through his brain— apparently all of your peers are patiently waiting for their own couple of minutes with him. silent vulgarites phase past your teeth as you impatiently card a hand through his thick curls. plunging into the boy with one fluid motion, your cock vanishes from sight, disappearing inside of his stomach.

his ebony iris’ screw shut behind the blindfold. you can feel the way his womb parts just for your cock, the slimey g-spot of his is completely ignored as you push past it; the fat head of your cock mercilessly drilling into his belly. your cock is on full display, the layers of flesh seperating you from the outside world bend and jiggle around the outline of your shaft.

“i sure do hope you have enough room for all of our cum in there.” your thrusts don't falter, not daring to give his poor, ruined prostate a breather. “because we're not stopping until every single one of us has had a chance to knock you up!”

with those final words rolling off your tongue, your hips snapped long and harsh strokes into his twitching hole— cum bursting at the seams of your slit, balls tightening and enlarging as the pent up pleasure and lust readied the fat sacks for release. sakusa feels his tummy bloom with the first batch of warmth, sticky ropes of seed shoot right inside. perfectly filling him up in preparation for the next cock eager to breed his tight ass!

so wonderful, his womb feels so full and claimed! a bright and hot flush pools across his face; without warning the next cock sinks even deeper than the last. more of the groups genes passing through him, mating the frat’s new bitch over and over again. he's hit by a wave of orgasms after the second brother slams himself nice and deep, pumping his seed inside him once more. his asshole greedily opening and closing to filter as much thick cum as humanly possible into his intestines. before he's able to come to his senses, he's already chubby with semen; happily inviting the next member to come and breed his stupid body.

the entire night is flooded with sounds of hiccuping, skin on skin contact, and the leaking of cum being deposited right back into sakusa. the incredible feeling of his frat brothers groping and touching him up have him cumming time after time— all night he's shuddering as another orgasm passes through his frame.

once he's positively gushing with cum and reduced to nothing but an overstimulated puddle of arousal— you scoop up his limp, bloated body, collecting the rest of your buddies before carrying him to his very own dorm. labeling his room, the ‘breeding room’. the sorority didn't let him waste a dime of time rejuvenating his body with sleep. they didn't want their new play thing to go to waste; he was awoken multiple times during the wee hours of the night. cock fitted tightly between his lavish cheeks.

he was certainly going to love it here, nothing but a obedient puppet.

#𓉔 — m.list #𓉔 — directory.#𓉔 — works.#c; sakusa #sakusa kiyoomi x top male reader #sakusa kiyoomi x male reader #haiykuu x top male reader #haikyuu x male reader #sakusa kiyoomi #dark haikyuu #haikyuu smut #dark content #male dark blog

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redwinterroses · 3 years ago

Note

hey so here's an idea for a "two best friends but one turned evil and asked the other to kill him before he went too far gone" trope (you know exactly what i'm referring to)

the first character, looking into his friends eyes, stabs him in the heart. then they both fall down and the first character is left on his knees, head down, holding onto the sword embedded into his friend's chest, sobbing uncontrollably.

he doesn't touch the sword again and instead ties a ribbon around it in memory of the one he lost

you're welcome :)

- anon fierri

Not that this has been on my brain all day or anything, but... well. Okay. It has been. And then @/3lsmp posted that stuff about a zombie AU and-- well. This happened.

Yay for my first shulker box fic! (1,728 words, with mirrored/connected first and last lines)

Zombie stories don't have happy endings so... neither does this. Be warned.

Jimmy’s waiting when Scott gets back home.

He stands in front of the door to the house they’ve been living out of, with none of his gear or weapons on him. He’s leaning against the old oak that grows next to the sidewalk, one foot perched on a root that ripples out of the ground and cracks through the old concrete. The sun is setting behind him, but the twilight shadows don’t quite hide the bloody stain that spreads from his right shoulder.

Scott’s feet come to a stop of their own accord, and he very specifically does not move his hand to the hilt of his sword. He shifts his satchel— filled with goodies he managed to find today; he discovered an entire village that hadn’t been raided yet— on his arm, its weight heavy after an afternoon of walking. He hates the wary tone in his words when he calls out:

“Jimmy?”

Jimmy, looking up to see him, gives a shrug. “Told ya this would happen,” he says, and there’s a quirk to his smile that could break other hearts.

((hard to break what’s already shattering.))

Scott swallows. “Show me.”

Jimmy pulls the collar of his shirt to the side, and Scott winces at the bloody mess that is his mangled shoulder.

“Skizz got me,” Jimmy says. “It was stupid— I should’a been faster, but… I mean, it was Skizz, ya know? He still kinda looked like himself, and I thought… I dunno what I thought. But by the time I realized he was already gone, he’d got my shoulder in his teeth and…”

((the earth is crumbling away beneath him. this is a nightmare. time to wake up now.))

((please wake up now.))

“Hey, don’t worry.” Jimmy covers the wound back up. “It doesn’t hurt or anything.”

“It doesn’t— No, Jimmy that’s not the way to make me feel better.” Scott takes another step forward, his arms aching to reach out and his gut telling him to get away get away get away— He can feel his throat closing, swallowing emotions he refuses to feel.

“Look— ” Jimmy takes a step forward and Scott backpedals, half-unsheathing the blade at his hip. He hates himself for it instantly, but the instinct—

The instinct is what keeps him alive.

Jimmy just puts his hands up placatingly. “Hey, hey— I’m not that far gone yet.”

“You’re fine.” Scott tries to sound scornful, and nearly succeeds. “We’ll get you patched up and you’ll be good as new in a few days. Don’t be such a drama queen.”

With a laugh, Jimmy shakes his head. “Nice daydream,” he says. “That would be cool.”

They stand there, in a silence that shouldn’t have been awkward, for a long moment. Then, at the same time:

“Scott, you know— ”

“So I picked up a— ”

Pause.

“You go first,” Jimmy says.

((Jimmy always puts others first.))

Scott grits his teeth and forces his voice to be light and cheerful. Nothing is wrong. They’re fine. “I found canned soup!” he says. “Five cans— one’s a little rusty, but I’m sure it’s fine.”

“That’s… um. That’s good.”

Scott steps around Jimmy—

((not too close. don't get too close— no. damn you, coward, get as close as you want, there’s nothing wrong— ))

— and moves toward the house. “So…” he says, “I’ll just… start up the fire? Get dinner going? I think we’ve still got some— ”

“Scott.”

Jimmy’s voice stops him, and Scott winces. He drops his head, unable to look Jimmy in the eye.

“Don’t make me do this,” he says. His voice struggles, and his free hand goes to his throat, as if he can pull the plea from his chest. “You… you can’t make me do this. You can’t.”

((i can’t, i can’t, i can’t— ))

“You gotta.”

((too close!!))

Scott’s head snaps up, and one hand flails behind him, catching against the siding of the house. Jimmy is right there—

((danger! danger!))

But other than the tell-tale red gleam in his eye and the bloody stain on the shoulder of his shirt, Jimmy looks the same. Same golden hair, same dimple as he quirks half a sad smile, same gentle hands spread wide. Unarmed, though that won’t matter soon. He stands close enough that Scott could reach out and touch him— punch him, maybe, for being such an idiot… or wrap him in an embrace that will never let go.

“Skizz got me an hour ago,” Jimmy says, and his voice is as low as a secret. “I’ve got… what. Maybe twenty minutes? Another hour if we’re insanely lucky?”

“You’re fine,” Scott says again. But this time it comes out as a plea and not a statement.

“I’m not.” Jimmy shakes his head. His eyes shift to the side. “I… to be honest, I’m already feeling it.”

“Feeling— feeling what?” Why was he asking. What a stupid question.

And yet… yet he had to know.

Jimmy drops his hands to his sides, and they clench and unclench. Scott watches, mesmerized, his heartbeat fluttering in time with Jimmy’s hands curling into white-knuckled fists and uncurling into trembling claws.

“I can’t— I can’t describe it. It’s like I’m on fire. Only I’m drowning at the same time. Or something. And I— ” he takes a deep breath, and meets Scott’s gaze. A low growl comes into his voice, and the hands squeeze tight into hard twists of bone. “I look at you, and all I can see is how easy you’d be to kill right now.”

Scott’s sword is drawn before his denial can catch up.

((instinct keeps you alive))

Jimmy looks down at the shining blade, and finally his façade of cheerful nonchalance wavers. There’s a crack in his voice as he says, “There we go. That’s… that’s the way it’s gotta be.”

((i can’t, i can’t, i can’t— ))

And then, as if he can hear Scott’s internal scream: “I don’t— I don’t want to become like one of them. I don’t want… you to see me like that.”

Like one of them. Scott’s memories skip over images of white-eyed creatures, people he used to know, monsters with mindless hunger driving them to rip, to shred, to devour—

Jimmy wakes up crying some nights. He tries to be quiet, Scott knows, but in the single room they’ve barricaded against the darkness, every sound is magnified— and Scott's always been a light sleeper. He knows Jimmy dreams of them, dreams of blood and gore and of being left alone— or worse, of being the one to do the shredding.

He knows because he’s dreamed it too.

“I won’t let that happen,” he says, his voice firm. But there’s a tremble in the sword between them.

“You didn’t let it happen. It just… it just did, dude. That’s life.” Jimmy takes a deep breath, and with a far too gentle hand, takes hold of the sword blade and guides it to rest over his heart. “Anyway, you promised.”

“Right so, if I get bit, you have to take me out before I can hurt anyone.”

“Ew. What a horribly morbid things to say.”

“I’m serious! I couldn’t deal with it if I turned into one of those things and came after you or any of the others— ”

“It’s not gonna happen, so don’t be stupid about it.”

“Come on— just say it. Promise me that if I start to turn, you’ll… ya know. Kill me.”

“Jimmy— ”

“Promise me, Scott.”

“…Fine. But only if you promise the same.”

((it won’t happen. it'll be fine. they’ll be fine.))

“Of course, dude. I promise.”

“You promised.”

Scott’s face is wet with hot tears that he can’t feel himself crying, and he wants to drop the sword— wants to fling it away from both of them and let fate do its worst. Who cares if he dies too?

((jimmy cares. If you let him destroy you, it’ll destroy him first.))

“Damn you,” Scott whispers.

Jimmy smiles.

The sword enters his body too easily.

It slides between the ribs, the only sound the soft catch in Jimmy’s throat as the blade bites into his heart.

For a frozen instant, they both stand there, outside the house they’d claimed— the home they’d defended. Jimmy looks down at the weapon in his chest, one hand reaching toward Scott—

And he falls

((he falls and falls and falls and Scott is falling too and the sword clatters to the ground and he’s clutching at Jimmy’s face and bundling the body to himself and pawing the hair away from his eyes and Jimmy’s hand is on his and— ))

There are no final words. No poignant goodbyes, no tearful proclamations or whispered last regrets.

There is only an ending.

There is only Scott, silent and dry-eyed, kneeling on the ground under the oak with Jimmy’s lifeless hand clasped to his chest.

He doesn’t move, even as night falls around him—

((them))

— and the cicadas start their mournful chorus. Doesn’t stir until something rattles down the street and he dimly realizes that Jimmy would murder him if after all this, Scott went and got himself shredded by a zombie anyway.

Jimmy’s body is heavier than he expected, and yet somehow lighter than it ought to be. As if it’s missing everything that made it Jimmy. He drags it—

((him))

— inside the house and wonders what exactly he’s supposed to do now. Dig a grave, he supposes, but— where? In the yard? It seems so… anticlimactic.

((death is anticlimactic. life is the climax. death is… an afterthought.))

He leaves the sword where it fell. He can’t… he can’t bear to touch it now. Scott doesn’t believe in curses—

((yes you do yes you do you’re cursed this place is cursed and that sword is cursed and the ground where it lays is cursed and— ))

— and yet he can’t bring himself to fetch it. Someone else can find it.

He’ll dig the grave tomorrow.

Tonight… tonight he sits. Keeps watch. Hopes beyond hope that Jimmy will stir— knowing that if he does, it won’t be for any good reason. Knowing that if he does, he won’t be able to kill him a second time.

Tomorrow he’ll leave. Find a new place— far away. Sometime, maybe sooner, maybe later… he’ll find the end of his road too.

He hopes Jimmy will be waiting there, when he finally gets back home.

#i played with the prompt a little bit near the end #but... yeah. that's a thing i wrote today.#redwinterwrites #redwinteranswers #3L zombie au #why are we so mean to scott and jimmy in these fics honestly #someone write some good skizz angst or etho or somebody #they get left out lol

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laurasimonsdaughter · 4 years ago

Text

All about the Dullahan

Thomas Croften Croker’s Fairy legends and traditions of the south of Ireland (1825-1834) seems to be the main – if not only – written source of full folktales about the Dullahan. It contains a section titled “The Dullahan” which consists of four folktales, one ballad, and some research notes that refer to further stories.

Not all these stories actually even use the name Dullahan, but Croker seems to have gathered them together on the basis of them being headless. Explaining: “Headless people are not peculiar to Ireland, although there alone they seem to have a peculiar name” (1928, p. 98). So which Dullahan does Mr Croker have on offer? The answer is: a set of very different creatures which he all calls Dullahan, but which are not always referred to as Dullahan and who are, from story to story, revenants, fae, death omens, and a restless spirit.

I will sum up their characteristics for every story and give a verdict on their supernatural nature under the cut (this got very long):

The Good Woman (1928, p. 85-98):

Type 1:

A short woman in a large cloak that conceals her completely who is:

Headless, and isn’t carrying her head

Shows up in twilight, seen only by a man riding home alone

Very quick and nimble, can leap onto a horse and over a wall, seem to glide rather than run

Does not speak, does not make a sound when jumping on the ground

Is corporeal, as she can be touched

Is described as a “merry wench”

She allows a man to give her a ride before jumping off his horse and running away from him, clearly making a game of letting him chase her

She runs into the ruins of an old church near a pool to meet with:

Type 2:

A crowd of “well dressed ladies and gentlemen, and soldiers and sailors, and priests and publicans, and jockeys and Jennys, but all without their heads”

These Dullahan are having a party, where they dance around a torture wheel set with skulls (unclear if these are their own heads) amidst the ruins of the church, to the music of ringing bells and rattling bones

Accompanying them, but not dancing, are:

Type 3:

Skeletons with loose heads that they bowl and throw around as a game

They have bleached bones covered by moth-eaten shrouds

These Dullahan speak, but only in unison “as with one voice, that quavered like a shake on the bagpipes”

One of them carries his head under his left arm while he offers the human protagonist a drink

All three types are referred to as Dullahan

They all leave in “a great hurry scurry with the noise of carriages and the cracking of whips,” presumably making off with the protagonist’s horse as well, who accuses them of being “the horse stealing robbers of the world, that have no fear of the gallows”.

VERDICT: Revenant. Having wild parties, tricking people, and stealing from them is definitely fae behaviour, but apart from that these Dullahan seem to be playful and rather powerful undead, that once were human.

Hanlon’s Mill (p. 103-109):

A great high black coach drawn by six headless black horses, with long black tails reaching almost down to the ground, and a headless coachman dressed all in black sitting up on the box

Possibly heralded by strange sounds during twilight: “such blowing of horns and hallooing, and the cry of all the hounds in the world and “the golloping of the horses, and the voice of the whipper-in”

They appear near a pool of water, bringing darkness with them that blocks out the moon

Neither whip, nor hooves, nor wheels make any sound

The day after a hitherto healthy man has fallen ill and dies

Not called Dullahan by name

Verdict: Omen. Specifically the ghostly coach-a-bower, the death coach. The image of a black coach (or hearse) riding by to foretell someone’s death is quite a common occurrence in folklore.

“Another legend of the same district (as Hanlon’s Mill)” (p. 109):

A black coach, drawn by headless horses, drives to and fro every night, both through the countryside and through a town

It stops at the doors of different houses, but anyone who opens the door to it gets a basin of blood thrown in their face

Not called Dullahan by name, but the story is not told in full

VERDICT: ??? Supernatural prankster? No mention is made of this coach foretelling death, so this seems to be mischief for mischief’s sake. Throwing blood at people is also not very spectral, nudging them a step towards fae in my book.

A legend from Dublin (p. 110-111):

A coach, sometimes driven by a coachman without a head, sometimes drawn by horses without heads, drives furiously past a castle where a clergyman hung himself, possibly with supernatural aid

Not called Dullahan by name, but the story is not told in full

Verdict: Omen. The coach-a-bower again, but this time not to foretell a death but to announce that an (unnatural) death has taken place.

The Harvest Dinner (p. 112-128):

A great old family coach, drawn by six headless horses, driven by a headless coachman

There are headless passengers inside and four fine footmen standing behind the coach, also headless

They emerge from a moat with a great rumbling noise and go towards an old church

They are driving at the rate of a hunt and make sparks fly out of the stones of the road (which implies their horses were horseshoes!)

Even with the whole coach they are faster than a man on horseback

A gate opens for the coach as by magic

Not called Dullahan, but referred to as “fairies”

Ahead of them in this procession are other fairies: “the prettiest little fellows you ever laid your eyes upon. They were all dressed in green hunting frocks, with nice little red caps on their heads, and they were mounted on pretty little long-tailed white ponies, not so big as young kids"

All are seen by the light of the (full) moon, by a man going home alone at night, but he is not afraid of the headless fairies after he notices they have no eyes to see him with

VERDICT: Fae. They are clearly taking part in a fairy procession and are minding their own business, possibly going to have a party at the old church.

The Death Coach, a ballad (p. 134-136):

A coach decorated with a shroud, with headless horses, headless driver and headless passengers

The wheel spokes are thigh bones, the pole a spine and the lamps sculls

They drive at great speed and the coachman cracks a whip

They stop at a churchyard where they speak with the dead in the ground, arguing with them to let them rest there for the night

They plan to go on tomorrow: “for having no heads of our own, We seek the Old Head of Kinsale" (this is a place in Ireland, the whole ballad is full of puns like this)

VERDICT: More rowdy revenants. They have a very gaudy death coach, but do not foretell death, and are clearly accustomed to sleeping in graves.

An anecdote from Cork (p. 136):

Dullahans “drive particularly hard wherever a death is going to take place”

They come in a great crowd, with a large procession

The coachman has a long whip “with which he can whip the eyes out of any one, at any distance, that dares to look at him”

VERDICT: Omen?? Fae that are into death for the goth of it??

The Headless Horseman (p. 138-150)

A headless rider who carries his head under his right arm or in the pocket of his coat, on a headless white horse, who has its head floating in front of it

The head is gaunt and ashy pale, with “depressed features” that look “like a large cream cheese hung round with black puddings” and has two large, fiery eyes, matted black hair, and a mouth that reaches from ear to ear

He wears a scarlet single-breasted hunting frock with “a waist of a very old fashioned cut reaching to the saddle, with two huge shining buttons at about a yard distance behind”

He appears to a man on horseback, at night, in the rain

The head speaks in a hoarse voice, but only sparingly, most questions only get a “Humph”

The horseman rides without use of whip, spur or stirrups

The ground shakes under the weight of the hooves, which make a fearful clattering noise and stir the water of nearby pools into waves

Gladly enters into a race with the protagonist and he even promises the man that his horse will be safe

He is never called a Dullahan but just “the headless horseman” and even refers to himself in this way

After the race the headless horseman reveals that ever since he and his horse broke their necks at the bottom of a hill he has been trying to find a man brave enough to ride with him, he gives the man his blessing, promising him that he will never desert him nor the old mare he is riding (and supposedly helping him to win horseraces)

VERDICT: Restless spirit. To me this fellow has very little in common with the other stories. This is very much a doomed rider type of figure, although the curt conversation has a striking resemblance to a similar headless rider in the story A Queen’s County Witch (Yeats, 188, p. 151-154), where the figure is a witch in disguise.

Croker collected his stories in the typical 19th century folklorists’ style, through correspondence, interviews, and borrowing from other authors. He also rewrote the stories quite extensively, and has been criticised on his attitude towards “the Irish peasantry” as he did so. Yeats was one of these critics, (while he did still consider Croker an expert), and as he is the only other 19th-century source on Dullahan I thought his short notes are worth quoting too. He refers to the Dullahan (or Dallahan) both as “headless phantoms” and one of the “solitary fairies” (p. 81), and mentions them in the section “The Banshee”:

“An omen that sometimes accompanies the banshee is the coach-a-bower [cóiste-bodhar]—an immense black coach, mounted by a coffin, and drawn by headless horses driven by a Dullahan. It will go rumbling to your door, and if you open it, according to Croker, a basin of blood will be thrown in your face. These headless phantoms are found elsewhere than in Ireland.” (Yeats, 1888, p. 108).

CONCLUSION: If it’s Irish and headless and walking or riding around ominously, it’s a Dullahan. Which may be a fae, a ghostly omen, or a revenant, just as they please. There clearly is no one coherent definition to be found.

I still insist on putting the cursed headless horseman in another category though. Dullahan clearly have some shared preferences, like a love for twilight and moonlight, horses and coaches, ruined churches and pool. And, interestingly, they seem to always show up either with a coach or a whole company. So I feel justified in saying that the spectre of a solitary person who remembers his own death and knows his reason for still roaming the earth, does not embody the Dullahan sprit.

#well #that was a lot of reading #and I shall now put this delightfully obscure piece of folklore to bed #irish folklore #dullahan #revenant #ghosts #fae #laura babbles #I will blame Azura for all this at least in part to justify myself

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chilling-seavey · 4 years ago

Text

Seasons Change (d.s.) - ONE

↳ A/N This one already holds a special place in my heart and it has barely even begun! Might be a bit slower on updates because I want to make sure it’s perfect for us all. Thank you to @stuffofseaveyy for your unwavering help with plotting this storyline out, @randomlimelightxxx for your excitement and help, and of course, @jonahlovescoffee for being my hype girl and the best mayor’s wife anyone could ask for ;)

↳ Summary: Everyone knows everything about everyone in this small rural town in east Connecticut and the handsome single father who owns the farm down the main street seems to always be the talk of the town. Balancing the care of his acreage, raising his school-age son, and coaching the local boys’ hockey team keeps Daniel busy; but his mind never strays far from the expansive and vibrant flower gardens planted outside his farmhouse.

↳ Word Count: 2520

↳ Warnings: This story touches on topics such as loss of loved ones and grief. Nothing too detailed but read at your own discretion x

If you weren’t looking, you would miss it. An hour-and-a-half drive east of Hartford, Connecticut rested a small town that barely occupied more than an intersection of space in time. On your way east towards state lines, a rectangular green sign half covered by an oak tree would welcome you to Lincoln – Population: 200. You’d leave the town before you even realized you were in it if you weren’t paying attention but maybe that’s how the locals liked it.

People moved to Lincoln to get away from the bustle of the city…it was full of those people who had ‘let’s ditch this town’ mindsets and set down roots in a section of the world where they wouldn’t be bothered. It was the type of town that lived in the lyrics of a country song: picture perfect homegrown peace where everyone knew everyone and everyone had a place. It was easy to know everyone in a town like Lincoln. Driving in from the city you would pass a white paneled church, a few small single storey houses with lengthy driveways, the red trimmed general store, a brick sided restaurant, a run down and rusted mechanic’s shop, and catch a glimpse of the small community center just past the park before being enveloped by the nothingness that middle-of-nowhere Connecticut was known for.

Not much happened in Lincoln – at least nothing that was worth noting. Sometimes a car would break down and a city dweller in a designer suit would find his way to the general store to ask for assistance or, more often, a coyote would be rumoured to be roaming at night but that was the extent of the excitement. The most exciting thing to do outside of day to day work was play hockey and it seemed to be the town’s pride and joy of a pastime. There was no such thing as ‘hockey season’ as hockey season was year round in the small town of Lincoln, Connecticut. The community center housed an ice rink that could be melted down to a basketball court but everyone stayed for the hockey. The Lincoln Lighting Junior and Senior leagues were usually the talk of the town. The school-aged boys (ages 7-13) played for the juniors and the later teens and most of the fathers played for the senior league. The captain of the senior league was the coach of the juniors and he owned one of the few farms a few paces north of the main intersection.

A father of one and the best hockey player Lincoln had ever seen, Daniel Seavey was more than one could expect from a small town man.

He wasn’t your everyday potato farmer with uneven tan lines or a body that housed more beer than muscle and, in fact, he was the talk and the eye candy of the town. At only twenty-nine, Daniel was the best of the best in Lincoln: best hockey player, best coach, best farmer, best guitarist, best father; and he had the sandy brown hair and sky blue eyes of a heartbreaker to top it all. At six feet tall, Daniel was slim and handsome, and yet had the muscles capable of running a farm and shooting slapshots like you wouldn’t believe. Daniel was quiet and polite and he innocently humoured the wives of the town as they flirted with him in front of their unimpressed husbands.

But no one could be mad at Daniel. Not when he was the first and only widow Lincoln had ever seen.

Marigold Seavey was twenty-six when she died in her bed at their farmhouse in the early hours of the morning. Her passing was the first major event to ever shake the town of Lincoln. Everyone knew everyone in this town and, that being said, everyone knew what a sunshiny soul Marigold was. Daniel, especially, seemed to have his light burnt out once she was buried behind the church at the corner of town. Some of the folks in town will tell you that the saddest sight they had ever seen was Daniel standing at the foot of his wife’s grave after the funeral with his six-year-old son holding his hand and the two of them crying silent tears into the fresh fall soil.

Despite Daniel’s quiet persona, he was strong and he knew he had to be for the sake of his young son. He couldn’t wallow in his grief for long since he had a son to raise and a farm to tend to and the generosity of the townsfolk certainly helped him to stay on his feet after his wife passed.

It had been a year-and-a-half since Marigold died. Daniel had just turned twenty-nine as March moulded into April and the winter chill was starting to fade into spring and the second birthday without her wasn’t any easier. The birthday cake baked by his neighbour wasn’t as delicious as Marigold’s classic lemon cake she would make him every year but he politely thanked the woman and dared not complain. Daniel would never complain over the niceties of the townsfolk.

That’s what came with living in such a small town; everyone had everyone’s back.

It was the first Sunday of April and the first truly nice spring day of the year. With a crisp breeze in the air, it was only just warm enough to discard the winter jackets and most of the town was gathered in the large backyard of the mayor’s house for the usual after-church brunch. On the colder Sundays, brunch was held in the main restaurant but everyone preferred to gather in the fresh air and over the crisp green grass of the mayor’s house as soon as the weather permitted.

The mayor’s house was the largest and had the most land outside of the farms that were just north of the main intersection in town. Jonah – known by the locals as such since he didn’t like the formality that came with the title of ‘Mayor Frantzich’ – and his wife Jocelyn kept a pretty house on the edge of the little town. They could be what you call the ideal small town family with two kids, a dog, and white picket fence – enough backyard space for it to be the perfect spot for weekly brunch.

The town children had space to play and stretch their legs after sitting for an hour in church and the yard was filled with the shouts from their games. The adults lingered around the yard in various little circles, nursing freshly squeezed orange juice in spring-themed clear plastic cups and talking amongst themselves.

Daniel did a lot of listening during Sunday brunches, standing amidst one of the groups of parents as they talked about school, clubs, and work. Marigold was always the chatty one of the two of them…without her, Daniel felt out of place.

“What about you, Daniel? Think the frost will be gone to break ground this week?”

Jack spoke first, a shorter man with unruly brown hair and enough tattoos to surprise anyone with the fact that he raised an apple orchard. He owned the farm beside Daniel’s and was one of his closest friends in the town.

Daniel thought for a moment and scuffed the toe of his dress shoe against the grass. The cold ground was still pretty solid and the chill in the air still had them all wearing blazers over their Sunday button-ups.

“Only if this cold front lets up.” Daniel answered. “I’m hoping to plough by next week at the latest.”

“Everything’s been going well with the farm and your boy?” Jonah asked, his hand tucked around his wife’s waist and he raised his opposite hand to his mouth to sip his juice.

Daniel shifted on his feet and gave a shrug, his eyes drifting past the group of parents to easily pick out his shaggy haired brunette son across the yard with the rest of the kids. At almost eight-years-old, Lennox was the light of Daniel’s life; his little hockey star, helping hand, and the one whom his late wife’s smile and spirit lived on in. It had been a hard year-and-a-half for the two Seavey boys but Daniel was relived that he could hear his son laugh again, his audible glee reaching to the far edges of the mayor’s property and to his father’s ears.

“It’s been…fine.” Daniel sighed, his eyes lingering on his son as he answered Jonah’s question, “Lennox has been doing well…his grades are better this year which I’m relieved about. I just…I already sold the sheep and half the chickens and the second cow last spring to try and tame some of the workload but it’s still a lot.”

“Running a farm on your own isn’t easy.” Jack said, “I know how much work it takes for two owners let alone one.”

“We’re here to help with whatever you need.” Corbyn assured him. “I can give you deals on whatever you need from the shop as often as I can.”

Corbyn owned the general store in the center of town and was the bachelor of Lincoln. It wasn’t like there were any women to date in such a small place full of cookie cutter rural families but Corbyn was very happy as he was: running the store and being the eyes and ears of the town.

Daniel shut down his generous offer politely as he looked back to his friends, “No, no. I don’t want that…thank you though. I’m just worried the garden will suffer. With so much to do with ploughing and planting and coaching…I don’t know how much time I’ll have for the flowers.” Daniel let his gaze drift back to his son playing across the grass, “Lennox is too young to tend to them himself but he loves the gardens so much so I don’t want yet another thing to disappoint him.”

“Have you thought of hiring someone?” Jonah asked.

“Like a gardener?” Daniel hummed, “I dunno.”

Corbyn sipped his drink, “Is it in the budget?”

“I think so.” Daniel shrugged, swirling his orange juice in his hand. “Never thought about it. Mari always took care of the flowers so…”

“I have a family friend who’s pretty good with gardens…I’m sure she’d be more than happy to help out.” Jocelyn offered.

Daniel chuckled under his breath, “That’s…a nice offer but I’m not looking to put anyone out of their way. They’re just flowers after all.”

But everyone knew that they weren’t just flowers to Daniel. They were Marigold’s flowers.

Jack tisked at Daniel’s hesitation, “Well if it’s in your budget to hire a gardener and you know the gardens are important to Lennox and yourself, then why not give it a try? You don’t have anything to lose.”

Jonah only added onto the argument, “She’s been wanting to come visit Lincoln for a while now. Why don’t we invite her to town and she can stay with us and you can give her a look over…if you think you want to hire her then you can.”

Daniel thought about it for a moment, taking a sip of his juice as his eyes found his son again. It was habit. Lennox was already running for him at top speed across the grass and Daniel set his cup down on the table just in time to welcome his seven-year-old’s energetic jump at him. He scooped him up with one arm and a tired grunt as he hiked him up onto his waist and Lennox held onto him around his neck, giggling as the other kids ran over after him.

“Daddy’s safe. You can’t get me.” Lennox told them matter-of-factly.

Daniel smiled proudly and linked his hands under his son’s bum to hold him up securely. At almost eight, Lennox was a bit heavy to hold but after nine years of farm work and working out for hockey, it wasn’t much of an issue for Daniel to hold him. He’d never complain regardless.

The other kids found their parents, gladly taking sips of juice or pieces of cut up fruit after a tiring chase around the yard. Jonah and Jocelyn’s seven-year-old twins found their way between them and helped themselves to the few snacks on the table. They were the closest to Lennox’s age – although a few months younger – and the boy of the set of fraternal twins was on the junior hockey team with him.

With the parents busy for a moment with their children – Jack was helping to fasten his daughter’s curly hair back in her headband – Daniel pondered the previous offer. His son rested his head against his with his small arms slung around his neck and Daniel could feel each of his gentle breaths rising and falling his chest. Everything Daniel did was for Lennox. He bit his lip.

“No rush.” Jocelyn said to him, reassuring their offer as if she could see his hesitation, “Just let us know.”

“Thank you.” Daniel said honestly.

“The Herron’s are coming over.” Corbyn whispered to the group and right away they shifted awkwardly as the family approached. Daniel let out an anticipatory sigh.

If you ever thought of jealousy, you would think of Zach Herron; father of two boys who weren’t very good at hockey and husband to a wife whose eyes liked to linger on Daniel’s biceps a little too much. Zach envied a lot of Daniel…maybe even envied him that his wife was dead. He would never admit that out loud though.

“Seavey.” Zach greeted as his family approached the group with his petite platinum blonde wife on his arm. He glanced around to the others, “And friends.”

There was a dull chorus of replies.

Zach continued, “I’m still willing to buy your horses off you. You know I have a generous price to offer.”

Daniel chuckled lightly, “Yes, I know. But the horses are not for sale and they never will be.”

“Daniel would sell his house before he sells those horses.” Jack said. The group laughed lightly at the truth behind that.

Lennox wiggled from Daniel’s arms and he set him down to join up with the two Herron boys who had just come over. The children gathered together at the other side of the table and chatted excitedly. Daniel picked up his orange juice.

“Daniel,” Zach’s wife set a hand on his bicep, her face filled with nothing but dramatic concern, “how are you holding up?”

“I’m doing fine, Katie, thank you.” Daniel replied politely.

She sighed, “It would just be a terrible shame to see your beautiful gardens go to waste; I overheard you talking about it from over there. Please let me know if I can help in any way.”

Zach’s annoyed scoff had Jack smirking into his orange juice. Corbyn and Jonah exchanged amused glances between themselves. Daniel offered Zach’s wife a small polite smile.

“That’s very nice of you to offer, but Jonah and Jocelyn already offered a family friend who’s in the business.” Daniel looked over at the couple again, with slight thankfulness in his eyes, “And I think I will gladly take them up on that recommendation.”

Seasons Change Taglist: @stuffofseaveyy @randomlimelightxxx @jonahlovescoffee @hiya-its-amber @hopinglimelight @midnightpsychic @sbrewer21 @bessonsbxtch @viamiasoncrack @the-girl-who-cried-wolf

Please click the link in my bio to be added to the taglist!

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clean-bands-dirty-stories · 4 years ago

Text

Drive By ~ Reggie (part 2)

A/n: This part’s Discord link! I want to clarify this time that the discord server is actually run by @httpnxtt ! So bless her for giving us a place to SCREAM (as we so often do!) Also I wrote this listening to “Lover Man” by Ricky Montgomery and this HEAVILY follows that song so feel free to listen to it to enhanse the experience!

Word Count: 7400+

Warnings: OKay so listen this part could potentially be super triggering so READ THIS PLEASE!!!! Grief (blaming yourself, anger, depression, etc), trauma reaction to arguing/yelling, trauma reaction to assumed physical abuse, implied minors having past sexual experiences, internalized homophobia, people discriminate against soulmates in this au, implied domestic disputes, rejection. I... think that’s it I’m so sorry if I’ve forgotten something.

MASTERLIST

Reggie really hated soulmates.

He liked seeing other people and their soulmates, and he loved talking about soulmates with other people. It's just, if he'd had the choice, he wished more than anything that he could have just... not had one himself. He'd rather just be one of those odd people who never manifested a soulmate connection; that would be so, so much better if this is what having a soulmate meant for him.

Now, Reggie didn't always feel this way. When he was younger he used to listen to people talk about their soulmates all the time and dream of a future when he got his. His parents had been one of those people who strongly believed that soulmates were a bad thing, and had been open and proud that they weren't soulmates. Maybe seeing them argue all the time had been the basis of his love for soulmates, and his drive to find his.

If only he could tell his young self that life isn't that simple. There's no magical cure to loneliness, and soulmates aren't all they're cracked up to be. Not for him. Nothing ever was, for him.

"Reg?"

The bassist looked over, eyes wide as his name was called. "Yeah?"

Alex was the one looking at him, concern creasing his features. "You seem really distracted today. You alright?"

In all honesty, he absolutely wasn't. Ever since they'd been forcefully brought back into the land of the living as ghosts, and now they were trying to make a band again and Alex had found his soulmate and the world was so crazy different and Luke was acting weird like he ALWAYS did when soulmates were involved and Reggie was really overwhelmed.

"Yeah," he answered anyway. Thinking about soulmates makes him finally make a decision he's been trying to avoid for a few days now. "I'm a little restless. I think I'm going to go on a walk. Take a page out of your book." He smiles and stands up, and Alex nods.

Luke looked over. Reggie should have known Luke would have known that Reggie didn't like walks like Alex did. "Do you want company?"

"No," Reggie answered immediately. It came off less as desperate and more insistent though, so he didn't stress about how fast he'd said it. Usually he'd love to have Luke around, but he couldn't for what he wanted to do. Especially because he knew the only reason Luke wanted to go along is because the last time one of them went on a walk they came back with a soulmate mark, and he didn't want Luke to be all over him and protective. He couldn't deal with that right now. Luke's face fell though and Reggie added, "I just need some space you know?" His voice was soft this time, and Luke nodded after a second, a small smile on his face.

With that, Reggie poofed out of the garage and was outside, turning away to begin walking down the road.

The sun was going down before he found what he'd been looking for. He'd had to sneak around and peak where he probably shouldn't of, but he had to know. Fine, it was creepy. He wasn't proud. But he... he HAD to know.

It was his snooping that had brought him to the graveyard.

Walking through the yard looking at every single head stone searching for the one name he was most afraid to see but knew he eventually would, Reggie realized that in all of the things that he had imagined when he'd thought about tracking down a certain someone from his past every single outcome possible made him just as sick as this did.

Finally he came across the grave he was looking for. At the top was a name. Y/n's name. Reggie sat on the dirt, legs crossed, hands in his lap. As he looked at the grave, he felt the top right corner of his chest itch. The spot just below his collar bone. His hand itched to touch it, but he wasn't like Luke. He didn't give into urges. He was too afraid if he touched it enough times people would realized the real reason he never wanted to change in front of anyone else.

His eyes closed and he sighed. He leaned forward, resting his forehead on the gravestone. "I remember the night you left. The hours Luke spent crying when his soulmate mark turned grey. I remember Alex holding him so tightly and calming him down. How I had to..." He swallowed. "I had to be quiet about how much it hurt me too." He sat back, his eyes opening again as he looked at the year on the tombstone. He reached out, his fingers grazing over the year Y/n had died. "You died the same year we did. I wonder how it happened. How many months were you around that we weren't? What-" His voice choked with emotion. "Did you hear about us? What happened? Did you even care?" His voice was soft and it faded, his hands raising to rub at his face. Finally, Reggie shook his head and moved to his feet. He bent down to touch the top of the stone. "I'm sorry for how things happened all those years ago." And then he turned away and he left, and he didn't look back.

"You should ask him out."

Reggie jumped and his eyes whipped around. When had Y/n gotten to the studio? "Oh hey." He tried to smile and laugh the comment off, but his fear at being caught red handed made his stomach twist and both the sound and the expression he made were contorted with awkwardness.

Y/n rolled his eyes, leaning against the wall next to Reggie. "Listen I might be gay, but I'm not stupid." He grinned. "Luke. Talk to him."

Without meaning to, Reggie looked back at Luke. He was talking to Alex and Bobby about the newest song he'd written and how he wanted it to sound. Alex had asked about what the song was about and it had set Luke off for half an hour. Reggie hadn't taken his eyes off of the lead singer since the conversation had started. When talking about music and things he was passionate about in general, Luke was so... beautiful? That really was the word for it. He wouldn't have done it if he hadn't been sure no one was looking... he'd forgotten Y/n was coming over today. Even then, how did the dude just walk in without alerting a single other person in the room?

Reggie cleared his throat and looked away from Luke. At least it was Y/n. He didn't have to hide from Y/n. In the small time he'd been going out with Luke, Y/n had been the most amazing person Reggie had ever met. He was so warm and welcoming. He made Reggie feel safe, like every time he was around Reggie was coming home. It was a feeling he hadn't experienced since his parents had ruined the feeling of safety and belonging in his house, and since his feelings for Luke had made everything so weird for him in the studio. Both places had lots of good feelings and memories and got so very close, but it was Y/n that really drove it home, if you will. Because of this, when Reggie spoke, it was with defeat and not denial. "I can't."

"Why not?" Y/n asked.

Looking over at Y/n with an odd expression, Reggie felt himself get really confused. Was this one of those times he had missed something that was obvious to most people, or was that as weird as it felt? "You just learned I have feelings for your boyfriend and you want me to act on them?"

A soft, low laugh rumbled and Reggie felt himself smile despite himself. "He's not my boyfriend." Something between a grimace and a bittersweet smile rested on Y/n's lips, and slowly the sweet part of it was fading away. "He made that very clear." Reggie went to defend Luke but Y/n just held up a hand. "I know. I understand, I really do. Soulmates are like a huge taboo, and it doesn't help that we're both dudes. Trust me, I know how bad it can ruin your life when people find out you're not straight."

Reggie thought about Alex. "Most of us do," he said without thinking.

Y/n just nodded, not pressing Reggie for more information. Y/n was really good about reading people like that. Knowing what to say and when to say it. It was as if he could feel the spike of panic that Reggie had felt a second after saying what he had. "And I understand that too. I don't BLAME him. I'm not MAD at him. It just sucks. I mean, your parents don't know we're friends. None of your fans know I even exist. I mean Bobby and Alex are IN the band and they only found out about us like a week ago. We've been seeing each other for a month and a half." He scoffed. "I hate feeling like a secret. Like... he's ashamed of me. Like I'm sort of dirty pleasure. The way people look at porn." He rolled his eyes. "Honestly he's lucky he's worth it." This was said with more humor, and Reggie was relieved to feel the dark mood begin to slip away. "I have plenty of people who'd be very public about being in love with me." Then he winked at Reggie.

Without knowing why, Reggie's face went warm and his heartbeat picked up. It was the exact same thing that had happened when Luke made eye contact with him while they were singing, or when they got too close while sharing the mic and their shoulders or legs brushed. That moment of intense adrenaline when it was suffocatingly hot and Reggie's blood was rushing and then the guy he'd been crushing on for years looked at him and made him feel like he was the only person in the room. Reggie had always been so relieved that Luke could only do that during performances, when Reggie had something else to focus on immediately. When he had to be professional, and not when they were alone and he couldn't hold himself back from kissing Luke if given the chance.

How could Y/n make him feel like that now? They were just sitting here!

"If you're sad he won't publically be with you, then-"

"Because you two can have a relationship in public. People have seen you perform and no one blinks at it. Not at the way you look at each other, or how fine you are with invading each others' space. It's just written off as bandmates stuff. You probably share a room, or have known each other very long. Unless you kissed on stage no one would even care. Only the other gays would know and what are they gonna do, judge you?" He snickered and Reggie had to admit it made him smile. "You both have good reputations. It's as fair for me to be hidden as it is for him to hide me. He hates it - I can tell. He wants to go on actual dates or just been seen in public together. He wants to tell the girls that flirt with him to back off because he's taken. But he can't." Y/n sighed.

"And you think I can give him that?" Reggie asked. Y/n looked over, obviously surprised by the tint of humor in Reggie's voice. The bassist found it hilarious that all these things seemed to be a continuation of why Y/n wanted Reggie to give asking Luke out a shot... but then something clicked in his head and his smile dropped dead in exchange for wide eyes that matched Y/n's. "You think he likes me back." It was deadpan, opposite to the torrent of emotion inside of him.

Y/n scoffed. "Well YES, but... Reggie between us, you're the closest he's ever gonna get to a real relationship. The kind he wants, at least."

Reggie wasn't having that though. "Y/n he's head over heels for you. I didn't even think there was any room in that head of his FOR romance until he and Alex went out, and even then... I mean they broke up for a reason. Sometimes I feel like the only reason he-" Reggie snapped his mouth shut, eyes darting away as he realized what he was about to say.

By the look on Y/n's face, he got the feeling eh didn't actually have to say it. Y/n just nodded. "He only wants to be with me because we're soulmates." Reggie shrunk. "It's fine, I think so too. That's why I don't think I would mind if he did date someone else, along with whatever we have. As long as the person he decides to be with is okay with it. I don't know, I really like Luke and I really like us. I just feel like he deserves better sometimes, you know?"

The thing was, Reggie didn't know. He had never seen Luke as happy as he was with Y/n. He had meant that he only thought they had started dating because of the whole soulmates thing - Luke wouldn't still be with Y/n if the boy wasn't important to him. Luke looked at Y/n the same way he looked when he talked about music. But Reggie didn't know how to say that, so what he said instead was, "You matter a lot to him." It was quiet for a second before he added, "I don't think there are many people who make him as happy as you do. Even if you're just... here."

Y/n looked at his hands. "He told me about when he was a kid, and he'd check his body for any mark or name or phrase or anything. He told me about his parents had been missing s color before they met, and how they'd only told him when he was older and could keep a secret, but how they didn't want Luke to run away from potential great love because he turned away from his soulmate like so many do. They filled his head with so many hopes and dreams and... the way he looked at me that night. Without knowing anything about me, he looked at me like I was the reason the stars were in the sky. Sometimes I think that's all it is. That we share this mark, and the universe looked at me and whispered to him, 'that one'. He wouldn't have chosen me otherwise."

"He wouldn't have," Reggie agreed honestly. "But he has now, and I think it would kill him to lose you." Y/n went to argue, but this time it was Reggie who shook his head, cutting off whatever was about to be said. "I'm serious. You two are special. Don't diminish that."

After a second, Y/n's body relaxed and he smiled, nodding. "Thanks Reg." Reggie nodded and then they both looked at Luke, who was wrapping up whatever he was talking about, as Bobby wanted to get back to practicing. "I still think you should ask him out."

Reggie shoved Y/n off the couch at that, and both of their laughter finally brought the attention of Luke, who immediately ended the conversation by coming over and being within ear shot. Which meant Y/n had the last word.

This time.

"You're touching it again." Alex's eyes shot up to see Reggie's amused smile. He had gotten into the same habit Luke did; whenever he was nervous, his thumb would reach out to brush over the inked on words on his wrist. "What's bugging you?"

Alex sighed. "I'm just ALWAYS thinking about him, you know? Like I-" His face suddenly went very red. "I don't know, this feel so different to any relationship I've ever had. And maybe that's because the only other person I really dated was Luke, but-" He shrugged.

Understanding completely, Reggie nodded. "I get it. It must be nice, to have that. Do you think he feels the same?"

The blush got worse. "I... yeah." He cleared his throat and Reggie tried not to laugh. "We've been hanging out a lot and he's been answering a lot of questions. It's still not like anything serious - we're still getting to know each other, and we're both letting this take us where we want to go. Like, it's slower than it was with Luke, but faster than Flynn and Julie explained the pace of their relationship."

That made Reggie snort. "To be fair, it took YEARS for those two to do anything about their soulmate stuff."

"Yeah but they met super young," Alex reminded. Reggie nodded - that was a fair point. "Once they talked about what the soulmate thing between them meant, they took like a few months to figure it out. It's been like a week for us and I already feel like I've known him for years." He rubbed the back of his neck. His eyes kept flickering around the studio, and Reggie felt his stomach twist painfully as he realized what Alex was doing.

He was looking for Luke.

The last time they'd discussed soulmates, Julie had asked Luke about Y/n and it had gotten... awkward.

Reggie interlaced his fingers together to stop himself from suddenly scratching the intense itch he felt over that stupid, stupid mark on his chest. He couldn't stop thinking about it, but he refused to give himself away. He'd managed to hide it from his closest friends for an entire year - he wasn't going to trip up now. "Man, I'm happy for you. You deserve this. Not just the soulmate thing, but the way you talk about Willie makes me so happy for you." Reggie grinned despite himself. "I wish I could see you two together more."

Alex loosened up, his own smile growing. "Don't you listen to me talk about him enough without having to see me be an idiot in person?"

Reggie laughed. "You know I would love to see you be HAPPY," he stressed, raising his eyebrows. He always corrected his friends when they dished on themselves. "What you guys have is special."

Alex tilted his head. "You know, I always wondered what it would be like for you to get a soulmate. I bet you'd be even more a disaster than me."

Reggie had to remind himself that he was dead and didn't have a heartbeat, because he was sure he'd had a heart attack when Alex had said that. Once again, the urge to touch that damn mark was strong and he clenched his hands into fists so tightly his knuckles went white. "Yeah I've always wondered too." He cleared his throat. "That won't get you out of talking to me about Willie though. Come on, I have questions!"

The distraction worked... For now. He hoped it would keep working just a little longer.

Luke had fallen asleep hours ago, curled up with Y/n on the couch in the studio. His breathing was even and low and soft and it was almost enough to help Reggie go to sleep too. Only almost though, because Reggie was REALLY distracted by the way he looked with his hair falling in his face and his cheeks squished as he lay his head on Y/n's chest. He was even more distracted by the thought of being like that with Luke and feeling guilty because the more he thought about it, the smugger Y/n got and the smugger Y/n got, the more Reggie thought about it. It was a cycle and he was slowly going absolutely insane - the entire time, Y/n wore a knowing smile and barely held back from busting up laughing at him.

It was no different now.

"You're ridiculous," Y/n sighed softly.

"Shut up," Reggie complained, his eyes closing. It wasn't so much an order as it was a whine, and Y/n had to force himself not to giggle. Laughing would move his chest and wake up Luke, and the boy desperately needed sleep.

Y/n sighed. "I don't know why you don't just ask him out." This time Reggie groaned, but still kept it soft as not to disturb Luke. Bobby and Alex had gone home hours ago, and the three of them had stayed to talk, but Luke had fallen asleep so that Y/n was pinned. The problem was he couldn't get comfortable as he sat in the middle of the couch, leaving him nothing to lean against and fall asleep on. Y/n had invited Reggie to sit next to him and be Y/n's pillow, but the bassist didn't think he could handle that AND Luke without combusting.

Pulling his thoughts away from thinking about Y/n sleeping on him - because for some reason, that was so much harder to deal with than imagining Luke doing it, in the sense that it made his heart want to explode and his head feel fuzzy and his skin tingle and that terrified him in a way he could not explain - Reggie moved his gaze toward the roof before saying, "It wouldn't work out."

There was some shuffling and Reggie looked back to see Y/n very slowly, skillfully maneuvering Luke in a way that didn't wake the brunette as Y/n slipped out from underneath him. Luke complained in the form of sleepy, incoherent mumbles and scrunching up his face for a few seconds, but was otherwise undisturbed. Reggie was astounded. Luke was a light sleeper, so the feat alone was amazing... but also, if Y/n could do that the whole time why hadn't he done it much earlier instead of asking Reggie to join the sleep train?

While he was busy being surprised, Y/n settled in a new spot, next to Reggie. He reached out, his hand cupping Reggie's cheek to gently bring the boys' eyes to a meeting point. Reggie felt his throat clog up and swallowed to force down the lump attempting to choke him. "Reggie," Y/n asked in a soft voice, eyes earnest and wide. "Why don't you think you deserve love?"

Reggie was speechless. How could Y/n have POSSIBLY known that? "I didn't say-"

Y/n shook his head. "You didn't have to. But that's not important. Don't start lying to me now." Y/n was very close and Reggie could not summon a single helpful thought in all of the possible workings of his human mind. He HAD many thoughts, but not a SINGLE one of them included him thinking straight and it was immediately an intense struggle. "Reggie, you are so amazing," Y/n whispered, and the raspy touch in his voice made Reggie die a little bit inside. "You're so kind and warm and soft, like as a person. You feel so much and have so much compassion and care so much about people. I don't know what you think it is that has you so convinced you don't deserve EVERYTHING the world has to offer and more, but I promise you that everyone who matters? Alex, me and Bobby, and YES, even Luke - we all see how incredible you are. Please tell me you can see it too, even just a little bit.

A good swallow finally dislodged the lump in his throat, and Reggie found his voice. "Y/n..." He shook his head, and Y/n's hands fell to his shoulders. "I just feel... different than everyone else. I'm..." He couldn't find words. "It's not that I don't think I deserve happiness. I just feel like I'm not ever going to find it. Not like you and Luke. I don't think that's part of what's going to be in my future. I feel like I'm missing something important sometimes. Something other people just have, and are born with. Like a really key part of a puzzle?" He shrugged, turning his head away.

"Oh Reggie," Y/n whispered in that same soft tone that spoke volumes of softness and fondness. "How could you think you need anything other than what you already have, when what you have is so amazing and special?" Reggie looked over as Y/n's left hand shifted Reggie's collar to touch his skin at the top right of Reggie's chest with his palm. Y/n's fingertips grazed Reggie's neck. "Do you feel that, Reg? Your heart..." Reggie realized why Y/n had moved his shirt - to feel his heartbeat. "You bleed kindness. You have always, I think. From what I've seen, and what I've heard, you're surrounded by hardship and hate and struggle, and somehow you came out of all of it with a heart gushing with love. I don't care what you think you're missing. You have THIS, and that is ALL you need. YOU are enough, Reginald. You are all anyone ever needs."

Reggie felt an... odd sensation. A warmth that spread through his body, from where Y/n touched him. At first he thought it was just that the words had touched him so much, but as the warmth faded, there was something left behind. A tingly buzzing sensation, right where Y/n's palm touched Reggie's chest.

Eyes widening, Y/n moved his hand away. It was only then they both realized it was the same hand he had touched Luke with for the first time. The same hand that had the Rose tattoo. The one that matched the one on Luke's shoulder. The shape that marked the two boys soulmates. The mark which before had been only one outline of a rose... but was now two roses, crossed over each other. Identical, but facing opposite directions. Their stems curled the same way, the tilt was the same, but they faced opposite directions, ending up crossing each other.

"Oh my god," Y/n whispered. His eyes moved to Reggie's chest, which was still slightly exposed. His eyes went wide, his face draining of color.

A sort of panic suddenly flooding him, Reggie shot to his feet and flew to the bathroom. He tugged down the color of his shirt, looking in the mirror. To his horror, where Y/n's hand had touched his skin was the detailed drawing of a rose without any color. The same mark that had been on Y/n's palm and Luke's shoulder since they had met. Their soulmate mark.

His eyes caught motion and he looked over to see a suddenly shy Y/n in the doorway. "So," the teen edged, tension in his shoulders and hesitation in his eyes. "I guess this means we're soulmates too. How fun is that?"

"I guess I failed on that whole not coming back thing." Reggie was sat on the dirt plot in front of Y/n's gravestone again, shaking his head at himself. "I promised last time was my last time. Did the same thing the time before that." Reggie could feel his heart ache and his stomach tie into knots so tight that they gave him a stomach ache. His eyes watered as he looked at the name on the stone, blurring the words as he felt his heart scream in his chest. He put his face in his hands, slowly moving his fingers so they wound into his hair. "I miss you so much." He was crying, his body shaking violently as he tried to hold it in and failed. "God I'm so sorry Y/n. I'm so sorry I ran from you back then. That I pushed you away and ignored you. You were the only person that knew. The only person I could talk to about this."

For a second he cut off, and he really cried. He cried and cried until his throat was sore and his body felt painful from how tight it was wound. He knew the pain wouldn't last. Physical pain never did now that he was a ghost. It didn't change the fact that his very soul ACHED. He felt like he was missing something important. Something irreplaceable. Something precious. And it was all his own fault.

When his voice returned, it was watery and weak. His words were torn and broken with hiccups and stuttering. He was absolutely miserable. "Y-you said- I tried to- and you just-" He pulled on his hair, suddenly ripping his hands away from the strands to angrily wipe at the stupid tears that wouldn't let him talk. He NEEDED to talk. He had to get out what he was feeling and make sense of all of the thoughts in his head.

He had gone through denial the first time he'd come here. He'd thought it was some sort of conclusion. A letting go of the past, to know that Y/n was gone. It was supposed to be an answer to a question. He was supposed to be relieved to know what happened. He was supposed to just find out where Y/n had ended up and then be fine with it. He had even visited the second time only to give a proper goodbye, and that was when it had hit him.

Y/n was gone. He hadn't grown up. He hadn't found happiness. He hadn't experienced a world accepting of him. He hadn't found someone else and been happy and safe like he deserved. The pain that thought brought him was more overwhelming than the realization that Reggie himself had suffered the same fate. More sharp than even Alex or Luke suffering the same fate, because at least the three of them had each other. They had Julie and the band, and they had skipped right to the good parts and missed all the bad parts where people fought tooth and nail for the world they had now. But Y/n had only ever had Sunset Curve. He didn't have anyone else that cared about him. He had died, probably alone and miserable, feeling rejected by the two people he felt for the most, and probably forgotten by the two friends he had. The only four people that had been kind to Y/n in a very long had all shut him out and in his last moments, he had no one to turn to.

The third time Reggie came to visit, the pain had been replaced by guilt. He had spent nights awake thinking about all the times Y/n had begged Reggie to tell Luke about the rose. About Reggie being their soulmate too. Y/n had spent weeks and weeks trying to get them all on the same level. Trying to work it out. But Reggie had rejected him. Had run from him, the same way Reggie had been run from. He hadn't helped when Y/n had needed it as things turned south with Luke. He hadn't helped when Luke had come to him looking for advice after the fight with Y/n. He had told Luke to forget about it, and now Luke hated soulmates and Y/n had died alone and it was all Reggie's fault. If he had just been braver. A better friend. A better soulmate...

His fourth time at the grave, all he felt was anger. Anger at himself. Anger at Luke and Y/n for fighting. Anger at these stupid soulmate marks. Anger at the world that had raised him for seventeen years to hate the best parts of himself. To fear the way he loved, and the people he loved. He was angry at the nightmares and the pain and the worry and the stress that had been so needless. Why couldn't men be in love with each other? Because it wasn't how people had loved each other in public? Because it was new? Because it was different? Why were soulmates so terrible? Well that one he knew. Soulmates had been such taboo then because it was one less thing people could control. One less part of peoples' lives that could be locked down and forced around. A power stronger than any law. An energy that fueled hope. Hope, an emotion stronger than even fear if grown and bolstered. And that's what soulmates did, right? Encouraged people to think differently. See more. Try something new. Soulmates could be two men, or two girls, or a man and a woman. It could be anyone. Soulmates didn't gender code like society wanted them too, so obviously they were evil. Julie had gone off about it one day and you know what she was right! It was bullshit!

It was the fifth time Reggie had come with pleading eyes and begging and pleading. He had sat in front of that stupid gravestone and tried not to cry as he prayed to whoever might be listening. As he talked to thin air. As he picked up fistfuls of dirt and chucked them at the gravestone and demanded a second chance. He had screamed and kicked it and almost fallen on his face when he went through the stone. The fifth time Reggie had lost his mind, and he had spent hours trying to just get the chance to say sorry. To tell Y/n all the things he'd been wanting to tell him for so long. All he wanted was five minutes. Didn't he at least deserve that?!

Now Reggie had no other emotions left. He didn't have denial to lean on, or anger or desperation or anything else. He had used up every emotion he could think of - even jealousy for a while, as he listened to stories about Julie and Flynn or Willie and Alex. He had used one after the other until he was left stripped bare and emptied out. And now as he sat there, he cried and cried until the sadness was gone too and the tears all ran out. And then he just sat there and stared at the grey stone that was always cold and always had Y/n's name on it and offered no help or love or reprieve or condolences or even a little mercy. He looked at the grey stone and he felt a sort of kinship with it. He felt his insides pulse with a dull ache, as if they were sore. It sat there, reminding him consistently that he just felt... hollow. Empty.

Numb.

His fingertips grazed over the words carved to make Y/n's name, and he thought of the time that Y/n had tried to touch Reggie's soulmate mark; something Y/n did to Luke to remind both of them that they were soulmates. He remembered the day Y/n had begged Reggie to realize what they were. To really know it and really FEEL it and Reggie... he had pushed Y/n's hand away and said something he'd regret the rest of his life, and even after that.

How could one hotdog take so much from him in one go?

It wasn't fair.

"Reggie..."

Immediately, Reggie felt his body tense. "Where's Luke?" was his reply.

With a careful tone, Y/n answered, "That's what I came to talk to you about." Reggie's body only grew more rigid, but that didn't stop him moving away with ease and much speed when he felt Y/n's fingers graze his shoulder. He had been doing that every single time Y/n touched him since... since... His hand twitched and he almost touched the mark he had been ignoring for weeks, but managed yet again not to. "Reg," Y/n whispered. His voice sounded so frail and weak. So desperate. It was enough to break Reggie down enough that he slowly turned around.

And then immediately regret it.

Y/n looked like he'd been wrung out and hung to dry up in the sun. His skin was a different color than usual, like he felt queasy or was sick. There were bags under his eyes, and a expression on his face that made Reggie's heart burn with a pain he wasn't prepared for. He looked like he had been crying instead of sleeping. "Y/n... what happened to you."

Immediately, Y/n's shoulders sagged. he looked so small and defeated that Reggie drew back even more. The very air around Y/n simmered with pain and ache. "I'm... trying to make this work. This thing with Luke and- and with you-"

"Don't include me in that," Reggie snapped. He hadn't meant it to come out so harsh, but his panic had gotten the better of him and he had sounded angry. Like he was accusing Y/n of something.

Y/n's vulnerability was crushed to dust, and his face hardened and his body began to shake every so slightly. Reggie felt the yelling coming before he could hear it, and immediately his head was full of night spent curled in bed, trying to sleep as he crushed his ears with pillows and blankets and even his own hands to try and make himself stop hearing the shouts down the hall.

Y/n never yelled. He hadn't yelled once.

Hearing him yell now was so terrible that Reggie was stunned into silence for a solid minute.

"GODDAMNIT REGGIE!" He shoot his hate, his face twisted and his hands curled into fists and for a terrible second he thought Y/n was going to hit him. And then he immediately didn't understand why, because Y/n forced his hands opened and the earnest desperation was back and despite his anger he was pleading, and in that moment Reggie realized what he should have known by now: Y/n would never hurt him. Y/n would never hurt ANYBODY. Reggie was the one causing pain, and it was to the softest, kindest person he had ever met. The person who felt more pain than anyone else Reggie knew, and who still refused to let it destroy him. When Y/n spoke again, Reggie felt terrible to hear how raw the words sounded. "I'm trying to make you understand. I- I-" His eyes watered and Reggie felt a part of him shatter. "I lo-"

"Don't you dare say it." It came out as a plead, soft and wet and corrupted by a primal fear that made Reggie feel sick to his stomach to hear.

Whatever Y/n had heard in those words, it had taken something vital from him. His face went slack and tears fell down his face. Slowly, one at a time. He just looked at Reggie like he'd been slapped, and Reggie wanted to run away but he was frozen in place. "Do you just not like me back? Is it just about Luke? Do you only-?"

"I don't like Luke," Reggie demanded, finding strength in his voice again.

"Yes you do!" Y/n insisted. "I KNOW you do Reggie! I know you do because I see the way your hands twitch when Luke is near you, like you're dying to touch him. I see the way you look at him when you think no one is paying attention. I know he keeps you awake on the nights you can't sleep, and I know he's been as close to home as you could get for years because you go to him every single time you're upset or lonely or unsure. You seek comfort in him when you're hurting and you look to him for direction when you're lost."

"Stop it," Reggie whispered, his fingers curling into claws, nails digging at his skin even through his jeans.

Y/n just kept going. "And I know he feels the same about you because he says your name like it's the most beautiful word he's ever said, and he touches you like it brings him peace, and he talks about you like your his favorite song, and he's driven so intensely to be close to you like you're a fire and he's freezing. I see the way he looks at you and if I had a penny for every time he mentioned your name when the two of us were hanging out alone, I wouldn't be-"

"STOP IT!" His hands flew up to cover his ears... but for some reason Y/n cringed away from him. It felt like a punch to the gut to realize that Y/n had the same reaction as Reggie's had earlier. Y/n had, for some reason, thought Reggie was going to hit him. A look of guilt crossed Y/n's face and Reggie knew exactly what he was thinking. Reggie would never do something like that.

Whatever Reggie had, Y/n had it too, and that somehow made it so much worse.

For a second, they just sat there in silence. But then Reggie lowered his hands, very slowly, and Y/n spoke. "Is it because of me? What I was before you guys met me? What I did?"

Reggie didn't have to ask what Y/n meant. He knew full well how Luke and Y/n had met, and what it had meant. He knew that Y/n was touchy about this topic. He knew that it was something that Y/n had stressed about for a long time until he'd learned that Luke didn't really care or think about that stuff. How much it had been a relief for Y/n to get away from a life full of people and relationships that only wanted one thing from him. How nice it had been for him to get a break from meaningless interactions and one night stands and phone numbers he never bothered to keep.

Reggie also knew this had NOTHING to do with that. Reggie didn't care about Y/n's past, or how other people saw him. He knew better. He knew Y/n had a person. However, upon being given any other reason than the truth, Reggie's instinct was to take it and run. However, he knew this was worth than the truth. And for a split second he had to switch gears from accepting the excuse to dismissing it. He had to take just a fraction of a second to shut that down in his head, despite what his first thought had been.

It created a moment of hesitation.

A moment Y/n took as an answer.

Even when Reggie finally stuttered out an, "Of course not!" Reggie knew it was too late. Y/n stepped away from him, his face crumbling. The air had been knocked out of Reggie's body as he scrambled for something to say. "It's not Y/n I swear."

Y/n looked him dead in the eye. "Then what is it?" Reggie's mouth snapped shut. "Please Reggie, give me one other reason that makes sense. Tell me that it's not that you see me the same way everyone else does. That you're not just a little bit disgusted with me, and that's why you HATE the idea that we're soulmates. Tell me why it makes you so angry to think of being with Luke, when you're so obviously into him, if it's not because not even a little part of you think he's tainted because he's been with me even if it's not... like THAT."

Reggie did the worst thing he could have ever done.

He stayed silent.

He was too petrified to give Y/n the answer that could fix all of this. The answer that could clear the air. Maybe Y/n could help. Maybe they could make everything better. Maybe...

Whatever he'd been thinking it didn't matter, because the words didn't come out of his mouth and then the door to the studio opened and Luke was standing there, looking between them with eyes full of concern and confusion as the poor boy watched the two most important people in his life argue. Y/n went to leave, grabbing his bag as he made his way out of the studio, and Reggie let him walk away thinking something so damaging and wrong. Something that would ruin everything - all because Reggie was a coward.

"Mommy! Mommy! The angel helped me!" Reggie didn't even process it properly. It wasn't important. It didn't pertain to him. Why would he make note of it?

How wrong he was thinking that.

His mind was so focused on Bobby who was now Trevor, who had stolen their music. Who had stolen everything closest to Luke and hurt the man Reggie would anything for. Reggie was on a war path. He couldn't think about anything else until he heard Luke distinctly whisper in the softest, shakiest voice, "Y/n?"

Reggie's head whipped around to look at Luke, only for the action to repeat again as he quickly followed Luke's gaze to see....

Unable to help himself, Reggie gasped.

There was Y/n, in the exact same condition he'd been in the night he'd stormed out after arguing for Luke. That night was branded in Reggie's mind - he was sure Y/n was even wearing the same outfit. No... Y/n had never worn white while he was alive. Why was he decked head to toe in white?

The angel helped me! That was what the little girl had said. Had she been talking about Y/n? He saw the little girl, being pulled along by her mother, and that was when Reggie realized the child could SEE Y/n. In surprise, Reggie looked back at Y/n, and as if feeling his eyes, Y/n looked back at the same time. His eyes shot a mile wide, filling with even more hurt than had already been there just looking at Luke, who Reggie realized had been the target of his sad gaze before it had landed on him. The second their eyes met, Y/n was gone, disappearing in the same flash that he had seen Alex and Luke disappear in when they disappeared.

Luke fell to the knees, and Reggie felt the world crumble down with him.

188 notes · View notes

midnightseonghwa · 4 years ago

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𝐓𝐨 𝐁𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐓𝐨 𝐁𝐞 | 𝐩.𝐬𝐡

𝐖𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐀𝐮 - 𝟐

✕𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Grim Reaper!Seonghwa x Living!Reader

✕𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: Grim Reaper, Halloween Au

✕𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.4k+

✕𝐏𝐥𝐨𝐭: There’s nothing after death, or so they say. However, Seonghwa knows best and he’s determined to make you find out.

Alternatively: “Married couples always promise to love each other till death, but darling, I’ll show you love exists after death as well.”

✕𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Mentions of death, souls, grave yards, cemetaries, harassement/bullying and the afterlife. Seonghwa is holding a scythe to reap souls. There is some religious stuff as well. The people around you are really weird. You’re a living, breathing human at the beginning but not really at the end. The reader (you) are really weird. Some kissy kissy as well

✕𝐄𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬: Unedited

✕𝐀/𝐍: Remember that this is fiction and that I don’t actually see ateez in this way. The religious stuff has not been put in to offend anyone. It is solely for fictional purposes. Enjoy! Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist. Leave a comment under this post or message me! Also, this is inspired by OneUs’ song ‘To Be or Not To Be’. I am obsessed with their entire ‘Lived’ album...it’s a bit of a problem hehe

✕𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @pancakes-for-teddy

✕𝐀𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜: Here

Seonghwa watched you trace the crude grey stone with your fingers in a sense of curiosity.

You were a young child, new to the world but there was something extremely odd about you. Seonghwa had seen you a few times already, running around the cemetery as if it was the playground, playing hide and seek with the ravens that would sometimes whisper beautifully morbid things to you.

Tracing the sharp blade of his scythe, the male sighed and lowered his black hood when a series of footsteps crunched through the dead grass of the burial grounds.

"A mere lost soul," Seonghwa said as the groundskeeper of the cemetery came to a standstill next to him.

"A bit young to be a lost," he said but Seonghwa shook his head and ran his bony fingers over the staff of his scythe.

"Young souls are often the easiest to lose. But they are also the easiest to guide," he said and gave the groundskeeper a side-eyed glance.

"Are you going to guide her?" The groundskeeper asked in a quiet voice and Seonghwa inhaled deeply before covering his face with his hood again and disappearing into the shadows.

"Only if I must."

The next place Seonghwa saw you was at the foot of your grandmother's bed a few years later, crying hysterically.

Black ink flowed down your cheeks, leaving scorching burns in their wake but to any normal human, it would look like the most heart-broken tears were being shed.

Next to Seonghwa, your grandmother pressed a hand to her heart. Although pain was not felt by deceased souls, the phantom pains of her only grandchild's cries were enough to provoke a physical feeling.

Both your grandmother and Seonghwa stayed, observing everything until it was only you left in the room.

Seonghwa approached you and wiped the inky streaks off your face with a gentle bony finger.

"Do not cry, child," he said and offered you a single black raven feather, smooth as the blade of his scythe.

"Angel," the word left your small lips as you marvelled at the man in front of you. A graceful being in front of a clumsy child like you, your brain could only muster the closest celestial being.

"No, child. But you can most definitely think of me as your guardian angel."

And with that, Seonghwa left you with an eternal promise and the mark of the grim reaper on your soul.

"So much for a guardian angel," you said as you twirled the black feather between your fingers. Now in your early adult ages, the feather had remained the only constant in your life.

Encased between thin glass sheets, the black feather gleamed under the sunlight as you leaned against one of the headstones in the cemetery.

"(Yn)? Here again?" The groundskeeper asked as he strolled by with his tools, his black cat in tow.

"Yes sir," you smiled and closed your eyes, letting your head fall onto the grey stone that was basking in the sunlight.

"I was going to wash the stones today but it seems I'll have to wait," he said and you smiled at the older man.

"Thank you, sir. You know I don't have anyone else but you."

The groundskeeper gave you a small wave before continuing on his way.

Sighing and tucking the black feather back into your pocket, you plucked at the yellow grass that always seemed to surround you wherever you went.

It was true that the groundskeeper was the only one you had. After the encounter with your "guardian angel", things had gone immensely wrong for you.

You started having nightmares and hearing voices that always called for help. The murmurs and cried pains of the damned that always seemed to haunt you on the darkest of nights. This eventually led to your family declaring you sick and moving away to a bigger city, leaving you behind.

You were harassed horribly during school which made you drop out and just stay inside your old house until midnight hit the skies. The old ladies of the town would gossip about your creepy aura and flash you with crosses and holy water while you would walk down the street.

Sometimes, just to mess with them you would hiss and try to cover yourself from the holy objects and inwardly laugh as the women scurried away to protect their children and husbands. On other days you would hide under the black hood of your jacket and ignore all the comments about being a disgrace to God and whatnot.

To say that your town was an orthodox one was an understatement.

But today was one of those rare nights where the voices didn't seem to bother you as much. The people of the town had been ignorant towards you and it was a blessing through and through. Lying in your deceased grandmother's room, you stared at the arcane carvings in her ceiling. Your grandmother always believed in the afterlife and that death was not as bad as people put it to be. It was always just a change of worlds but never a permanent one.

Your hand reached out to trace one of the gold lines in the air. You had spent your entire childhood memorising them as your grandmother would tell you stories of the world beyond but now, they seemed foreign to you, almost dead and lifeless.

"I remember seeing you here when you were only a little child," a smooth voice flittered across the cold room as you jerked awake and stood up to find the source of the voice.

"Even as a child, you were always so mysterious. I never expected you would grow up to be so beautiful," the voice sounded again and Seonghwa emerged from the shadows, bony fingers clutching his scythe.

He leaned down to your level and traced your jawline. His finger was chillingly cold and wasn't soft as skin would normally feel.

Silence blanketed the room as you shrank under his cold stare.

"Am I finally going to die?"

Admittedly, the question was stupid but voicing it lifted some weight off your chest.

"Why would you die?" Seonghwa quipped an eyebrow at you, a slow smirk making its way onto his face.

"You look like a grim reaper," you whispered and fidgeted under the tall male's gaze.

Seonghwa laughed, it was chilling in its nature and froze your bones.

"That's because I am."

Regardless of his cold stare and voice, his tone was nonchalant and careless, as if admitting to being the grim reaper wasn't the biggest thing in the world.

"Oh..." you trailed off, not quite sure how to react to that piece of information.

"What do you want with me?"

"That's..." Seonghwa sighed and leaned against his scythe with a bored expression.

"A good question," he said and furrowed his eyebrows.

"If you don't have any specific requests then please leave," you said and trudged to the bedroom door, opening it wide and letting the cold wind whistle through the room.

"Actually, I wanted to take you with me," Seonghwa said and leaned his fingers out to touch your hair. He twisted them around his fingers and smiled. It was a sweet smile, one filled with love and adoration, something you had not experienced from any human before.

But lucky for you, Seonghwa was not human.

"Take me where?" You asked and brought your hand up to curl your fingers around his wrist. His skin was strikingly pale against yours and while Seonghwa could feel the low thrum of your pulse, you couldn't feel a thing.

"To the spirit world of course," he said and booped your nose lightly in a childish manner.

For a grim reaper, he sure was soft with his movements.

"What if I don't want to go," you whispered and dropped your hand from around his wrist. Seonghwa's unbeating heart dropped a little at the lack of physical contact as he too uncurled your hair from around his fingers and then caressed your head gently.

"I suppose that's fair," he said but one look at your face and he knew you were just being cautious of stranger danger.

"Listen," he started and leaned down, dangerously close to your lips.

"Wha-what are you doing?" You asked and leaned your face away from his.

"Just let me show you," he said and leaned closer to you.

Hesitantly, you met his face halfway and pressed your lips to his.

If only your family could see you now, they would bury you ten feet underground.

His bony fingers let go of his scythe which vanished into thin air as he pulled your waist closer to his.

His lips were cold and yours felt numb to his touch. It was an insensitive feeling but as Seonghwa exhaled into your mouth, you felt a wisp of odd smoke travel past your lips.

It looked like unfurling ink in water as the wisps passed from his mouth to yours.

Stilling in his arms, your vision blurred and Seonghwa's face pixelated before it dissolved into the same black wisps of smoke and you found yourself as a child sitting in the living room with your family.

"I'm afraid (Y/n)'s brain is not developing properly," A voice rang in your ears as you watched little you play with blocks and your parents conversing with a man in a white coat.

"Oh, nonsense. (Y/n) is doing just fine," your grandmother butt in and ushered the man outside, your parents giving her a glare.

A smile made its way onto your lips as you watched the scene in front of you. Your grandmother always did have her way with you in the best ways possible.

"Mother, you don't understand. (Y/n)'s not normal," you heard your father coax but your grandmother just shushed him and handed you a cookie, which you gladly accepted before going back to play with your blocks.

You reached your hands out to touch your grandmother's delicate face but your vision distorted again and merged into you sitting at the cemetery while you were younger.

From the corner of your eyes, you saw a figure talking to the groundskeeper while looking at you. The figure was clad in a long black cloak and you only caught a glimpse of his glimmering scythe before he disappeared into the shadows.

The ink once again unfurled and revealed to you getting harassed in school. The girls pulling your hair as you walked past them in the corridor while calling you names and the boys tearing your books apart and beating you up in the school's basement.

You cried watching everything unwind. These were the memories you had kept suppressed for so long but seeing them again had just opened up unnecessary scars in your heart.

"(Y/n)," a bony hand reached out for you and brought you back to reality as Seonghwa's fingers wiped at the tears that were streaming down your face.

"Wh-wha-what was that?" You asked and touched your face, fingers pulling away to reveal obsidian ink staining your fingers.

"Why...what...why are my tears black?"

"What have you done?" You demanded with a bite in your voice this time.

Seonghwa sighed and brushed your hair out of your brush before wrapping you in a blanket.

"I simply showed you everything you've been through in the mortal world."

His words rang in your ear with high pitched noise, like a shrill cacophonic note being hit on the violin again and again.

"(Y/n)," Seonghwa said and leaned down to your level again.

"It doesn't have to be like this. How can you keep living in this pain?"

"Who said I've been living in pain?" You retorted and pushed your pointer finger into his chest that was covered with black robes.

"My darling, I've been observing you for so long and the pain you feel could bring some of the most tortured souls to their knees."

You gulped, the air not quite flowing down your throat properly. Your body felt constricted as if it was trapped in the physical peel you call your body.

"Let me show you," Seonghwa whispered and snapped his fingers.

The air around you changed and it was no longer cold. it was no longer filled with hate and bitterness but instead, there was a warmth. A warmth that seeped into your bones almost as if it was a mother's hug. Your mother had never hugged you like this, it brought tears into your eyes. As if it had encased you in its warm arms, refusing to let go.

Your core, the very centre of your being felt whole again and every little touch was like a loving caress instead of sharp recoil.

But the moment was a fleeting one. Gone almost as soon as you had touched it, crumbled to dust right in front of your very eyes.

"What was that?" Your voice was soft and deep down, your held hope. You wanted that feeling to be your home forever. Somewhere you could finally be everything you've ever wanted to be. If Seonghwa was the key to that, you were willing to take that chance.

"Just a mere glimpse of what your life could be with me. Imagine everything I could give you, how free would you be," he said and you found yourself wondering exactly that.

What could Seonghwa give you, what could he offer and how free would you feel?

Freer that anything you ever felt on Earth, that was for sure.

"What do you say, my darling?" Seonghwa had his bony hand stretched towards your face. He gently caressed your cheek with one finger and you realised how menial everything was in compared to this. It was yours for the taking, everything he could ever offer was written in the hand of his ivory white hand and all you have to do was feed from it.

"Is it better to be alive or not to be? The question is yours," he said and you watched as the scythe was back in his hand.

"Where are you going?" You said and stood up from where you were previously sitting.

"Well, my darling, there's only one grim reaper and millions of souls to guide," he said and approached you closely.

"When you need me, call me by my name and I'll be there, always in the shadows but I'll be there."

"What am I supposed to call? Reaper?" You scoffed and turned away from him. How could you give someone the disease only to give them the cure as well?

"Call me Seonghwa," he said and disappeared with a cold whistle, as sharp as the blade he always carried.

Your every day after that was filled with constant itching to escape. The voices never left you alone and would only get amplified in Seonghwa's absence.

On the rare nights he did visit you, you would sit around the tombstones in the cemetery. He would tell you stories of all the souls he has guided into the spirit world and sometimes, the names he would tell you about would be in the very cemetery you two would spend time in.

The ravens would always squawk at your presence but you knew exactly how much they appreciated your company during the deadly hour.

You had come to know Seonghwa a great deal. His entire being was now an open book to you and every detail was like a word etched onto his pale skin that was the page. He would often shower you with ghostly kisses and you always found yourself wanting more.

"Just concentrate," his voice sounded behind you as you closed your eyes and narrowed all your energy onto the spirits he was talking about.

"You're special. Made for this, made for me. You can do it," he said and coaxed you further with a loving nudge.

"Seonghwa...I can't-" and the words got stuck in your throat as a wisp stroked your side and curled around your wrist.

"What...Seonghwa...what?" You stuttered and looked helplessly at the reaper.

"Just relax," he said cooly and you snorted at his comment.

"Yeah...relax," you said and shook your arm, trying to get the wisp off you.

"It's a soul, (Y/n). A lost one, just like yours," he said and stretched his hand, attracting the wisp towards it. You watched stoically as the white smoke uncurled and floated towards Seonghwa who sent it towards the sky in a hushed whisper.

"It's gone," he said and you nodded before sinking to the yellow grass under you.

"Seonghwa-" you started but when you looked up, he was gone with only the moon glimmering as bright as his blade looking down at you.

It was a horrible feeling to admit that you had gotten shamefully attached to Seonghwa. You found yourself thinking about him even when you were lying in bed, begging for sleep to take you without any nightmares.

Sitting up in your bed, the covers bunched around your midriff, you silently called his name.

"Seonghwa."

It was an almost non-existent whisper. Something that couldn't even be heard to your own ears but you had felt your lips move which was why you were sure of the letters tumbling from your lips.

"My darling, you finally learned how to use my name," his voice sounded and you jumped in your skin at the amount of soft malice in his voice. You wanted to bask in it.

"I want it," you voiced and he lowered his hood while quipping his eyebrow at you.

"What do you want?"

You inhaled deeply and leaned into Seonghwa.

"I want to be with you?"

Seonghwa laughed a musical laugh that was still cold in nature, the icicles pressing into your body.

"You've chosen not to be," he said and nodded moving even closer to you, almost pressing your body into his.

"Not to be what?" You asked and Seonghwa smirked the most deadly smirk you had ever seen adorn his sharp features.

"Not to be alive."

His final words made him press his lips to yours. This time, it was a liberating feeling as the black wisps climbed your body, tangling around your limbs and then finally your throat.

It was strangling all the life out of you but as Seonghwa petted and soothe your hair, you felt yourself feeling a tad bit better.

You lost yourself with one last word hanging from your lips, "Seonghwa."

The air was colder when you awoke. Two feet on the ground but they weren't yours.

Gasping, you stumbled backwards as you saw your dead body lying limp on the floor.

"They'll call it a miracle," Seonghwa said and kissed your hand that had turned a pale white to resemble his. There was no pulse this time and the place that held your beating heart was glaringly silent.

"How did you...what did you-" Seonghwa stopped you with a careless wave of his scythe.

"You don't have to know," he said as you both made your way to the cemetery.

"(Y/n)," the groundskeeper said and gave you a slight mocking bow.

"It's great to see you," he said and you laughed a hearty laugh, one that liberated your entire soul.

"I'm going to miss you, sir," you said but the groundskeeper shook his head with a slight chuckle.

"Nonsense, child. As long as you're with the reaper, you'll always see me."

Seonghwa grabbed your hand and led you into the shade.

"Are you ready?" He asked and you nodded enthusiastically.

Sharing one last kiss, you stepped into the shadows, disappearing forever.

"They got my birthday wrong," you complained to Seonghwa who just laughed and traced the headstone with his hand.

"Do you really care?" He asked and you whined a little before laughing.

"Not really...but they make me look older than I actually am!"

"It's alright, my darling. They never cared anyways."

And that was something you could agree on. They never did care. All they did was bury you ten feet under the ground and mutter false prayers of love before dispersing back to their lives that didn't contain a sick, now dead child.

When you were in high school, you had read Shakespeare's play, Hamlet. It was there you had learned the phrase 'To be or not to be, that is the question'.

It truly was the question, your question. But your grandmother always told you, death was never permanent, only a change of worlds so your answer to the question would always be ‘not to be’.

Not to be alive but to be by Seonghwa's side.

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roughentumble · 4 years ago

Text

geralt and roachie

@avrupasya asked for a fic/continuation of this post of mine, where modern au geralt’s roach is a stuffed animal. sortve told in, like, vignettes, i suppose?

[read on ao3 if you like!]

The one constant in Geralt's short, stressful life, is Roachie. The little brown stuffed horse, named after a fish with similarly colored eyes("I'm gonna' study animals when I'm big!" he proclaims to anyone who will listen, which isn't many, so he whispers it into his horse's mane instead) has been with him long enough that he has no memories without her in some peripheral corner-- clenched in his fist, sitting on his blanket, overflowing from a fit-to-bursting pocket of his shorts. She's been with him through two houses now. He likes to think that she was given to him the day he was born, that they'd never been separated, but he can hardly ask anyone for confirmation. It's just one of those certainties you hold in your heart as a child.

So of course, for his seventh birthday, a dog eats her.

(The kicker is that it isn't even his birthday. It's a government assigned day that may or may not be in the vicinity of the actual day of his birth. It's not like he was dropped off at the fire station with paperwork or anything. He is vaguely, sort of, aware of this, just enough that it feels like an extra kick while he's down.)

She is utterly and completely beyond repair. Her shape isn't even recognizable, and for all his inconsolable tears, she's gathered up and unceremoniously dumped in the trash.

He cries when he finds her, cries through dinner, cries late into the night, cries until he is informed by one of his caretakers through what seems to be a rather impressive headache that if he doesn't stop crying, he would be "given something to cry about," which...

He already had something to cry about. Hence the crying.

He chews on his fist, however, startled into silence by the shouting, and hiccups softly into his pillow. Even as he's left alone, in the dark, he can't settle-- the thought of Roach thrown away like garbage is one that just doesn't sit right with him. He waits until the house is silent, into the wee hours of the morning, then sneaks on silent feet to the kitchen. He rustles through the trash as quietly as he can, pulling out pieces of his old friend, now not simply in tatters but also covered in what was left of dinner.

He nearly loses it at the sight of her, destroyed and filthy. Tears well in his eyes, blurring the world around him, and he sniffles once, weakly, but he doesn't want to wake anyone, and who knows what they'd do if they found him rooting through the trash, so he steels his resolve. Stomps down on the urge to give into another round of crying fits.

The night air is cold against his hot, sticky face. It's refreshing, but he barely notices it as he shuffles into a far corner of the yard. He digs a shallow hole with his hands and reverently lays her body inside. He covers her back up, tamps the earth back down with his palms, and then sits back on his heels. He's a little too young to fully understand what goes on in a funeral-- he's never seen one before, after all-- but he's seen TV, and he knows you're supposed to say something nice, so he says something to the effect of "Roachie was the bestest friend, an' the prettiest horse, there ever was in the whole entire world," and then sits in silence for a few moments longer, sniffling in the cold night air.

He suddenly recalls headstones, and he doesn't have any rocks-- doesn't know how to carve words into one-- but he does see a stick nearby. He shoves it in the ground like a stake and looks over his work. About as good as any grave dug by a seven-year-old could hope to be. He stays there until the cold starts making the tip of his nose and the joints of his fingers hurt, and then he stumbles back inside and curls up in bed.

He's moved to a new house a week later.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He starts skipping lunches. He goes to school hungry, and comes home hungrier, and devours his dinners in this new house voraciously.

Every penny that would be spent on school lunches gets shoved in his pocket, then consolidated and shoved in his sock drawer when he gets home. Once he's gotten a decently-sized pile, he gathers it all up in his tiny little fists, shoves it in his pockets, and walks all the way to the local thrift store.

He'd gotten it into his head, somehow, that Roach still existed. Some childish idea that'd popped into his head as a comfort, and that got ingrained in his mind as he repeated it to himself over and over at night. He'd seen the rags, of course, what'd become of her after the dog had had it's way, he knew she was buried in the dirt a state away... but the core "soul" of his Roachie, that'd been with him and loved him and cared for him, was out there, in some other brown stuffed horse, waiting to be found again.

He marches into the toy section in the back of the thrift store with the determination of a soldier on a rescue mission.

And at the bottom of the bin, underneath all the teddy bears and off-brand babydolls, is one single brown stuffed horse.

Logic would dictate a coincidence-- but to his little eyes it looks a lot like magic.

He snatches her up instantly and runs to the front of the store, lest anything come and rip her from his arms again. He has to stand on his tip-toes, but he pushes her up on the counter, then pushes over the pile of money and asks if it's enough. The old lady looks at his pile, then pushes her glasses down the bridge of her nose to get a better look at the tag on the horse's ear. She squints, then glances at his wide, desperate eyes. "Well!" She announces. "Would you look at that. That's the exact right amount. Must be fate." Then winks down at him.

He gasps loudly, eyes getting impossibly wider. Fate-- Roach really had been waiting for him! He reaches up and makes a grabbing motion with his hands. "Can, can I... can I hold her, then?"

"She's all yours." The woman says gently, and places it in his waiting arms.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Roach stays with him all the way to the doorstep of the Kaer Morhen Home for Wayward Boys. He's thirteen, and she has a few weak seams, a few patches where the fur's been worn away. She's heavily loved, and he hasn't spent a night without her since they were "reunited". He's worn as well-- tired of the constant cycle of new places, new "families".

A few months later, with no prospect of leaving in sight, he takes back his wish for someplace permanent.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He rooms with a boy named Eskel, who is about the only bright spot in Kaer Morhen, as far as Geralt is concerned. He is only mildly mocking of a thirteen year old sleeping with a stuffed animal every night, and it's mostly companionable ribbing, so even though the thought of anyone mocking Roachie gets under his skin, he lets it go. Eskel is his friend, after all. Of course, though, because that's the way of the world, some older boys overhear Eskel's teasing.

He comes back to his and Eskel's room that night, expecting to find Roach under his pillow-- he's too old to carry her everywhere, now, so that's where she lives-- and instead she's strewn across his bed.

He's old enough, now, to know that it maybe looks a little ridiculous from the outside, but he's too upset to be self-conscious, and Eskel is nothing if not understanding as Geralt sobs into his shoulder that night, quiet except for the occasional little soothing noise as he strokes a hand up and down Geralt's trembling back.

It's unsalvageable, at least for their inexperienced hands. Neither of them is a seamstress. After lights out, Geralt sneaks out-- this time with Eskel in tow-- and creeps into the backyard. Just like last time, he silently digs a hole and places her inside. That's what you do with Roaches, after all-- you bury them, then you find her all over again. The idea of Roach not existing out there, somewhere, is inconceivable.

He curls up next to Eskel that night, and it isn't the same, and he doesn't quite sleep... but it helps.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

His first Roach had been about the side of a Beanie Baby, and had been a light, palomino sort of color. His second had been more the size of a Build-A-Bear, with slightly stiff limbs and brown fur so dark it was nearly black. The third time he finds Roach, she's a reddish sort of Bay, peeking out at him from behind a large Lego set on the thrift store shelf.

He'd already searched the bins three times and had come up empty-handed, not even a miscolored unicorn, or something else close-but-wrong to show for his efforts, and... there she is, sitting right there, like it's some sort of game. He gasps, and Eskel turns away from the slightly melted Barbies he'd been toying with at the sound. Geralt shoves the box aside and grabs at her, cradling her carefully in his hands. She's already a little on the worn side this time around-- one eye's a bit loose-- and she's right in the middle, size-wise, compared to her other two incarnations.

He loves her instantly.

It must show on his face, because Eskel laughs a little and throws an arm around his shoulders. "So, is this the fated horse, then?" He asks, teasing.

"Yeah," Geralt replies breathlessly, too excited to meet the teasing tone back, "I think so."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Lambert shows up when he's thirteen and they're both sixteen.

He's loud, and violent, and instantly hones in on Geralt's preternaturally graying hair and the shock of white growing out of the back of his head(poliosis, born from stress, though none of them know that term). He's inhumanly annoying, a real pain in the ass, and somehow, against all odds, Geralt and Eskel both instantly adore him.

Maybe it's the way he talks back to their "caregivers", or the way he sometimes gets into fights on smaller kids' behalf, who knows, but the three of them form a little clique fairly quickly. Lambert pretends it's begrudging, but it's not hard to see that it's mostly a front. He's a brat, through and through, but he's their brat.

Which is why he's even in their room-- they're all hanging out, Geralt flipping through a book and Eskel attempting to study, while Lambert fiddles with Roach. He turns her over in his hands, examines the spot where the loose eye had fallen off a year back, picks at one of her loose seams. "I just don't get it," he says, scrunching up his nose, "like. What does it do?" He asks.

"Be careful with her." Geralt says, flicking a glance over at Lambert before returning to his book. "And she doesn't do anything. She's a stuffed animal, she just sits there."

"Well, yeah, no duh." Lambert replies, rolling his eyes. "I'm not stupid." Eskel mumbles 'Could've fooled me,' from his own bed, and Lambert hisses back 'Watch it,' and kicks his leg as he snickers. "I mean, what do you do with it? Give it wots and wots of hugs and kissews?" He asks mockingly. He's holding her by the front legs, wiggling them up and down like some sort of dance and shoving her in Geralt's direction. He's about to tell Lambert to knock it off, trying to bat him out of the way to continue reading when, one of her legs just... pops off. There's a stunned moment where Lambert just stares at the two pieces in his hands.

A strangled noise works its way out of Geralt's throat, and he snatches Roach out of Lambert's hands.

"I-- I didn't mean..." He tries, looking between Geralt and Eskel helplessly, but the tears are already welling up as Geralt clutches her closer to his chest.

"Oh, shit," Eskel mutters and scrambles to his side drawer, which hides in the bottom a small sewing kit. Lambert slips out of the room in between Geralt sobbing and Eskel rushing to reattach the limb.

The fabric is weak enough around the seam, and Eskel is inexperienced enough at sewing, that the limb is noticeably shorter than the rest, but she's whole and in one piece by the end of the night.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Lambert awkwardly shuffles in place in their doorway the next day. "I-- fuck, man, I really didn't mean to..." He mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Geralt holds Roach a little closer. "It's fine," he says tersely, "but no one's allowed to touch Roach anymore. Ever." He says firmly.

"Yeah, no, that works." Lambert tentatively steps into the room and then, when he isn't shooed out and no one starts crying, grows a bit bolder, sitting down on the edge of Eskel's bed. "I mean, except for nursemaid Eskel over here, right?" He says jokingly, and earns himself a punch on the shoulder from Eskel.

"Piss off, ya' little brat." He mutters fondly.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Years pass and Geralt and Eskel age out of Kaer Morhen. They get an apartment, split the costs, because they've basically never not shared a room, and they need all the shoulders to lean on they can get. All they really get is each other, so they settle for that. A few more years and Lambert is shoved out at the healthy age of eighteen-- just like they were. He's invited to their little apartment, and he's loud, and complains that he went from one roommate to two, bitches about how they're both sticks-in-the-mud who don't know how to have fun, and that they snore, and that he'll never get a good night's rest.

It's exactly what they were missing, and Roach watches all of it from her spot on the shelf near Geralt's bed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Then, Geralt meets Jaskier.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The first time Jaskier comes over, Eskel and Lambert are both at work, so they have the apartment to themselves. Geralt opens the fridge to pull out two beers, and Jaskier flounces past him towards the shared bedroom. "I'm gonna' go root through your stuff without permission." He announces teasingly as he opens the door and slips inside.

Geralt snorts and rolls his eyes, taking his time popping open both bottles. He hears an exaggerated 'oooohh, interesting,' from the other room and carries the beers to his room. "There's really not much here to see." He says as he bumps the door open with his hip.

"Oh, I don't know about that." Jaskier replies from his place on Geralt's bed. "Who's this little cutie, huh?" His tone is light, teasing, and he's got Roach in his lap, playing with her ears.

Panic crawls up Geralt's throat-- she's old, now, and her ears were always a weak point. It's been years since he was sixteen, and her leg had come off so easily back then, so now... he shouts something strangled at Jaskier, maybe 'no' or 'stop', he isn't really sure, and Jaskier looks up with wide, startled eyes. He rushes over and drops the bottles on his night stand before scooping Roach out of Jaskier's hands. He doesn't yank-- terrified of what might happen to her stitching if he did-- but he isn't nice about it either.

He ignores Jaskier's stammering entirely, swiping his hand across her shelf to make sure there isn't any dust, before carefully sitting her precisely where she'd been. His hands tremble a little as they hover in the air in front of her, waiting to make sure she didn't fall, glancing over her to make sure nothing was out of place, that she still had all her limbs. After a moment, he lets out a shaky breath and steps back from the shelf.

"No one touches Roach." He says firmly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know," Jaskier starts, and Geralt whirls on his heel, grabs Jaskier's wrist.

"Swear it." He says, squeezes Jaskier's wrist tight. "Swear you won't touch her."

"I won't." He sounds a little mystified at the afternoon's sudden turn, but he gently places his other hand over Geralt's. "I promise."

Geralt deflates a little with relief, loosens his grip and lets Jaskier's wrist slip from between his fingers. "She's..." he starts quietly, eyes averted, guilt and embarrassment creeping in over his sudden outburst. "She's really fragile. I... I didn't mean to... just, please don't touch her." He finishes weakly.

Jaskier agrees once more, reaches out and squeezes Geralt's hand reassuringly. They drink their beer in the living room.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Months pass and his friendship with Jaskier deepens.

Then, he meets Yen.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Hmm." She says thoughtfully, arms crossed over her chest. "I like your stupid little horse."

Her tone is light, teasing, and it strikes him right through the heart all the same. But, at least she isn't trying to touch Roach. He pulls her down into his bed, and the conversation is forgotten.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They dance around each other like that for far longer than either reasonably should. Fuck, then fight, then silent treatment, only to fall back into bed and start the cycle anew.

He cares, really he does, and he knows Yen cares back, in her own way, but it's just all so... much. It's a little hard to take, most nights. As he lays there, unable to sleep, he catches sight of Roach out of the corner of his eye. His bed is cold and lonely, and thoughts of Yen won't stop swirling around his mind, and he just... he just wants to feel settled. Before he can talk himself out of it, he's carrying Roach down off her perch and curling around her to sleep with his old friend for the first time in a long time.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A few months later, Jaskier uses his spare key to open the door to Geralt's apartment after a few rounds of knocking goes ignored.

He's got snacks, and a six-pack of beer that he deposits in the fridge, before calling out into the apartment, announcing his presence. He gets back a muffled 'in here,' and opens the door to the bedroom to find Geralt planted on the middle of his bed, Roach cradled carefully to his chest. "Sorry," he says weakly, sniffling into his palm, "I- I guess I forgot we were supposed to hang out."

Jaskier's by his side in a moment, kneeling in front of him on the bed, gently brushing his hair out of his face. "Oh, Geralt, what happened?"

He shrugs a little, helplessly. "Yen and I broke up." He pauses for a moment, rubbing little circles into the back of Roach's head, and then adds, "For good this time."

Jaskier reaches out and gathers Geralt up in his arms, lets him tuck his face in the crook of his neck. "I'm so sorry..." He mumbles, nosing into Geralt's hair.

"It's fine," Geralt replies weakly, voice cracking, "it was bound to happen sooner or later. We're kinda'... volatile."

Jaskier huffs out a humorless laugh. "Yeah, that you were..." The past-tense on Jaskier's tongue hits Geralt like a bolt to the chest, and he chokes out a sob. "Oh," Jaskier croons back, reaching up to cradle the back of his head, "oh, it's alright... it'll be alright..."

As he collapses forward into Jaskier's arms, he lets himself be soothed by Jaskier's voice, his arms enveloping him, and the softness of Roach's fur beneath his fingers.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A few months later they kiss for the first time there, on his bed, in full view of Roach, which doesn't occur to him until later, but once it does it makes some small part of him wish he'd turned her around. She's seen enough of him, she doesn't need front-row seats to... that.

Then he realizes that she was also there for Yennefer, and he feels a sudden surge of guilt mixed with a healthy dose of shame.

His poor little Roachie.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The first time they fuck in his room, Geralt pauses with his hands on Jaskier's hips, blushing faintly. "Do... do you mind if I...?" He asks nervously.

"What is it, dearest?" Jaskier asks lowly, smoothing his hands up and down Geralt's bare chest, eyes all want and smoldering heat.

Geralt clears his throat awkwardly and lets go of Jaskier for a moment to reach up and carefully turn Roach so she was facing the wall. It's deeply embarrassing, but he hasn't been able to stop thinking about it ever since he had the realization about his time with Yen. He turns back around, expecting to be mocked, but Jaskier looks nothing except fond.

He laughs a little, but not meanly, and wraps his arms around Geralt's neck. "Good call," he says, pressing a kiss into Geralt's cheek, "don't want to subject poor Roachie to anything she didn't sign up for."

The complete lack of judgement, paired with the nickname, has a surge of affection swelling in Geralt's chest. He grabs Jaskier by the hips once more, and gently tosses him onto the bed. Jaskier laughs again, delighted, and opens his arms to grab at Geralt, who happily follows after him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Geralt, look at this!" Jaskier announces from the couch, tilting his phone screen to the side as Geralt scoots closer and hooks an arm around his shoulders for easier viewing. "It's a stuffed animal repair service, but she runs a blog with pictures of the process and calls herself Doctor Beth. Isn't that the cutest thing?"

"Hmm." Geralt hums back. He glances at the screen, scrolls a little, but he quickly abandons it in favor of burying his face in Jaskier's neck and depositing kisses along its length.

Jaskier laughs and snuggles closer, but holds out his phone screen more insistently. "C'mon, Geraaalt," he whines, "you have to actually look. It's cute! You have to say it's cute."

Geralt flicks his eyes towards the screen once more, then away just as quickly as he deadpans the word "Adorable." right into the curve of Jaskier's jaw.

"You are the worst!" He announces, but he's grinning like a fool, and he turns his head into Geralt's affection all the same.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Once the kissing has died down, and Jaskier is seated side-saddle in Geralt's lap, he pulls his phone back out. "In all seriousness," he says, tucked up comfortably against Geralt's chest, "it's actually very interesting. She's really good at her job-- look at this, the bear's practically rags before she reconstructs it."

Instead of trying to distract Jaskier again, Geralt dutifully listens, watching the pictures as Jaskier flips through them. She is rather good, he has to admit, and there is something interesting in watching the stuffed animal go from rags to repaired, in the same way it's relaxing to watch an episode of How It's Made. He 'hmm's again, though it's a more thoughtfully, agreeing sort of ‘hmm’ this time.

"I've actually been following her blog for a little while now, and... I was just thinking..." Jaskier fiddles with the edge of his phone case, "maybe you could... send Roach to her, and--"

"No." He says, swift and firm. The playfulness has left his tone entirely, just the thought of sending Roach anywhere enough to make anxiety race through his chest and his palms turn clammy.

Jaskier's mouth twists into a frown. "Oh... sorry. I just... I know she's fragile and I thought this might help, so I--"

Geralt slides a hand up and down Jaskier's back soothingly. "It's alright. Thank you, for thinking of her, just... I... I can't."

He nods in return and straightens up to press a kiss to Geralt's cheek. "Alright, love, whatever you're comfortable with."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Now that Jaskier's said it, though, the thought won't leave Geralt's head. He scrolls through Doctor Beth's blog when he's alone, gets a feel for her track record.

Roachie is fragile now. Close to ten years with him, and she was already thin in some places before he got to her.

On the other hand, does he really trust some stranger on the internet to treat her right? What if she comes back wrong? What if, somehow, she doesn't come back Roach? He reaches out to run his thumb gently across her snout, looking to soothe himself, and watches as little tufts of fur come away under his feather-light touch.

He's already buried two Roaches. He really doesn't want to do again.

"Well, Roachie," he murmurs into the empty room, "third time's the charm, right?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He is the closest to a nervous wreck that Jaskier's ever seen him in the intervening weeks. He'd packed the box with Roach so delicately, gently surrounding her with bubble wrap so she didn't get knocked around and somehow lose pieces in shipping, and as soon as the box was shipped he took to pacing the apartment and checking his phone every twenty minutes. Jaskier thought it was endearing, if a bit worrying.

It drove Eskel and Lambert up a wall.

There were a lot of movie nights in those weeks in an effort to keep Geralt's mind off of things, but inevitably about halfway through the movie he'd get a bit of a distant look in his eyes and he'd reach down to feel his phone in his pocket, make sure it was where he'd be able to feel it if he got an email.

Waiting to confirm materials, what color cloth to use and what eye matched best with her other in his opinion, what to do about her now rather sparse tail and mane.

Jaskier would touch his arm gently, bring him back to the present, and he'd turn his attention back to the movie, maybe sling his arm around Jaskier's shoulders. It was nice, and very sweet to see him so very concerned, but Jaskier did wish he could do a little more to ease some of Geralt's worries.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There are, as Jaskier recalls, a few posts where people had sent in video of the results, of them opening the box and seeing their little stuffed animal friend all fixed up. And he knows for a fact Geralt's going to be excited to see Roach again, so when the box finally arrives and Geralt sits down on the couch with it, Jaskier opens up the camera on his phone without much thought.

And then has to set it down almost immediately.

As soon as the box opens, before he could even get his hands on her, big, fat tears start rolling down Geralt's cheeks. Jaskier drops his phone on the table without even bothering to turn off the recording, rushing forward to envelop Geralt in a hug.

Geralt's hands grip the edge of the box so tightly his knuckles turn white, and Jaskier holds him closer, runs his fingers through Geralt's hair soothingly. "What is it, what's wrong?" He asks softly. Geralt shakes his head.

"She just-- she didn't even look this good when I first got her and I--" He's cut off by another sob, and Jaskier holds him a little tighter. "I just can't stop thinking about e- every time she... she broke and I couldn't fix her and I h- had to just... just buy a new one and I... I..."

"Shh, shhh..." Jaskier quiets him gently, pressing a kiss to his temple. "It's alright..."

"I know, I know, she just... she's like new, you know?" He says weakly into Jaskier's shoulder.

That gives Jaskier pause. "Love... are you," he asks incredulously, "are you crying because you're happy?" Geralt nods, and Jaskier can't help the little laugh that escapes him. "Oh, my dear heart..." He murmurs, almost sickeningly fond as he nuzzles into Geralt's hair. "Why don't you pick her up, then? I'm sure she missed you."

Geralt reluctantly pulls back from Jaskier's embrace to look down into the box.

She really does look good as new, and Geralt's almost afraid to touch her. Maybe the new stitching isn't as sturdy as it looks, maybe she'll fall apart in his hands, or maybe she just won't feel right... He sucks in a breath and carefully curls his hands around her. All his breath leaves him in a whoosh.

He holds her in his hands, and something he didn't even know was unsettled, settles in his chest.

As he presses her close to his chest, she still feels like Roach.

Except now she looks like herself again. Whole and complete and strong.

"Thank you," he turns to Jaskier and wraps an arm around him, tugging him in close while the other keeps a hold of Roach, "I never would've done this if you hadn't brought it up. I... Jask... thank you so much."

"Of course, love," he says gently, carding his fingers through Geralt's hair, "got to look out for dear Roachie... where would you be without her, hmm?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"You know, she's so much sturdier now that she's all fixed up." Jaskier points out gently, after a few quiet moments have passed. "She could handle... well. Being handled more, again. She doesn't have to live up on that shelf anymore."

Which, kind of had been the whole point, but Geralt hadn't thought it through in so many words. The tears come back with a vengeance and he sniffles into Jaskier's shoulder, clutches her to his chest firmer than he's dared to in years.

That night, he falls asleep with Jaskier behind him, and his old friend clutched in his arms, and it's maybe a little silly, a little childish, but it's the best sleep he's had in his life.

#witcher tag #writing tag #ogc tag #uh!!! hope u like it #also jaskier definitely gets to cuddle roach at some point now that she's all fixed up #also also. sorry if geralt seems like a crybaby here. i swear he's not its just that we only see him during the few times in his life #that he does cry #pinky promise lol

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det-loki · 4 years ago

Text

poison & wine part four

And you will destroy anyone who would try to harm her

But what happens when karma turns right around to bite you?

warnings: angst, cursing

pairing: detective loki x fem reader

word count: 3,000

A/N: I don't know why I struggled with this chapter so much but I did. I finally got it to a place that makes me happy though. Again, feedback is welcomed. Enjoy! 💕

1 2 3 ⌽ 5 6

You woke up feeling like death. Your brain was pounding against your skull, eyes sore, body aching, screaming for you to rest. You had no time to rest though. You sprawl your arm, reaching to the opposite side of the bed to hopefully find Loki but to no surprise, it was already vacant and cold. You rolled over to the bedside table, glancing at the clock, 5:46 A.M. You've got to be fucking kidding me.

You stumbled blindly into the kitchen, your feet still heavy with sleep. Every step you took, your body screamed at you to lay back down, stars floating across your vision. You found David sitting at the kitchen table in his work clothes, sitting in silence, rigid. As you walked closer, you took notice of what was in his hands. A photo album.

You almost collapsed on the spot, knees wanting to give out on you, your breath catching on your throat as you inhale sharply. Tears prick your eyes and your lip quivers as you step closer to David and the photo album.

Reaching David, you lay a shaking hand on his shoulder, not daring to peer at whatever photo he was looking at. You knew which photo album it was, the bright pink making your brain foggy, the album stood out like a sore thumb in the minimal gray of the kitchen. You knew if you saw any of the pictures you wouldn't be able to get out of bed for a month. David jumps slightly at your touch, snapping the album closed, a hand coming up to wipe away tears that had fallen down his face.

You moved from standing behind him to sit next to him, your hands finding each other as you sat down in the wooden chair, your body sighing in relief at the position.

"What are you doing, Loke?" Your voice came out as a rasp, crackling and chipping, sounding like sandpaper, disturbing the silence in the kitchen. Your voice sounded as broken as you felt.

"I needed to see her. Remember what we're fighting for. I-I was starting to lose her, her- I was starting to forget what she looked like. What kind of father is that, huh? What kind of father does that make me?" Loki's voice was rough with emotion, each word was a knife through your heart. He was the best father to your little girl, she had him wrapped around her finger since the day she was born. He was soft and tender with her, terrified of breaking her. After finding out you were pregnant, Loki went on a spiral of how he couldn't be a father, he didn’t know how. His childhood was nowhere near ideal, in and out of foster homes and juvenile detentions, his parents a figment of his imagination. He said he couldn’t be good and decent, claiming he was broken and corrupt. The first ultrasound appointment snapped him out of it, tears welled up in his eyes as the sound of your baby's heartbeat filled the room, his hand intertwined tightly with yours. There wasn’t a thing in the world he wouldn’t do for her, the line didn’t exist. You knew somewhere in that photo album there was a picture of him with a pink crown on his head as your little girl was in his arms laughing. The memory caused a fresh wave of pain to hit you.

"That makes you a grieving father who is in pain, Loki. Don't- please don't do this to yourself. She wouldn't want that for you. Or for either of us." The last thing you wanted was for David to fall down the spiraling hole of self-hatred. You could barely keep your head above water and you didn’t want him to drown with you. He deserved better.

"I know. I know. I just miss her. So fucking much, Y/N." David’s voice broke, crackling like static on a radio.

"I know." There was nothing else to say, your brain was a jumbled mess, thoughts not making sense. You knew.

"I went to her grave last week. I wasn't planning on it, I just ended up there. I'm sorry for not telling you, but it felt like something I needed to do alone. And then this fucking case, it doesn't feel real, it can't be a coincidence. It's like the universe knew." His words didn’t upset you, if anything it made you happy, he hadn’t visited her in a long time, he just wasn’t ready and you didn’t want to force him. You visited her regularly, in hopes to apologize or make things right, you didn’t know. The fact that he went made your heart warm temporarily, the cold would creep back in again eventually.

"David, I'm not mad at you for visiting our daughter. I think that's good. I just- this case is eating us alive. We have to make it out of this alive, promise me we will." You needed to hear it, your ears, and heart desperate for a lifeline. Desperate for a life to come back to after this case ended. If it ever did.

“We will. I promise you we will.” David brought your hand to his lips, kissing the back of it, brushing over the small black ink of a snake on your middle finger. You hoped he was right.

Hours later, you sat at your desk reading over the autopsy report of the man found in the priest’s basement. Nothing. Your phone rang loudly in front of you. It was David. You pick it up, nestling it between your ear and shoulder as you reread the report.

“Hey, I’m out here at a house on Fairmount Circle, the house the RV was parked in front of. It’s only been on the market a couple of months. I’m gonna track the owners down, see if they know anything. You got any new info on that corpse we found in the priest’s basement?”

You sighed into the phone, “No DNA, dental or fingerprint matches.”

“Nothing.” David replied in a monotonous tone, sounding fine, a stark difference than he was this morning. He was compartmentalizing, a little too well. You hated it when he did that.

“Priest is sticking to the story, too.” You had gotten report from a fellow detective who took the case, informing you about the priest’s questioning.

Loki scoffed into the phone, frustrated, “All right.”

You look up from your computer to see David walk into the station, walking to his desk opposite from yours. He sat down and immediately started typing. A few minutes pass before he looks over, eyes finding your hunched form, “Come here.”

You rose from your desk, your vision exploding with stars as you made your way over, leaving over his shoulder to read whatever he had been looking at.

The headline read: “Conyers Boy Disappears” dated August 31st, 1987. Barry Milland, age seven when he went missing from his family home.

David spoke below you, “ Let’s go.” You already knew where you were going, to contact the mother of still missing Barry.

You stood in the living room of Mrs. Milland’s home, Loki next to you as she sat in a recliner in front of a TV playing an old home video of Barry. Your fingers dug into your thigh and Loki’s hand was clamped over his mouth, the universe was playing with you, the tape that was playing was mocking the both of you, teasing you for the fact that you have done the very same thing as she was doing now, clutching onto the last good memories.

“Same person who took him took those girls. I’m sure of it.” Mrs. Milland’s voice shook with age as she spoke, eyes never leaving the screen.

The tape temporarily faltered, screen going static before returning to normal, “Wearing out the tape, I guess. I watch it every day after breakfast. It’s the only video I have of him.” She sighs before continuing, “It was before your time. 26 years ago, August 19th. I took a nap in the afternoon, and when I woke up Barry was gone. No one could ever tell me what happened to him. He was playing in the front yard, just a few feet from where they sat that RV was parked.”

God, you wanted to scream. Playing in the front yard and then gone. You were familiar with the pain and shame in her voice, you felt the very same thing every single day.

She speaks again, ripping you away from your thoughts, “What do you think that means?”

Loki raised his eyebrows, shaking his head as he looked at the carpeted ground, “I’m more interested in what you think that means.”

She shook her head, eyes still trained on the screen, “I don’t think we’ll ever know. It’s just like Barry. No one took them. Nothing happened. They’re just gone.”

You bit your lip so hard you tasted blood, fingers digging harder into the jean covered flesh of your thigh. Gone.

You and Loki sat in the car silently, digesting what you had been told by Mrs. Milland.

"Why are we doing this, David?" You weren’t referring to where you were, rather than what you were. How you got to this point in your life, why?

"What? Here?” David looked at you, confused.

"No. This. This job. This case. Is it to avenge her? Justice? Bring peace to other families like we couldn't have? I love my job, don't get me wrong, but I can't but help but question why is it this case? Why us?” You looked out the car window as you spoke, not catching David’s gaze.

"I don't know. I don't know, but we will get through this. I'm here, Y/N.” There was never a moment David wasn’t there for you, and vice-versa. You both knew each other better than you knew yourselves, able to take care of each other better than you could take care of yourself.

Loki’s phone buzzing in the cup holder made you jump, the bubble that had formed popping, David grabbing for the phone, reading whatever text he had been sent, “We might have something with the priest.”

You stood in the hallway, awaiting Detective Chemelinski to escort you to the priest’s interrogation room as David shifted his weight nervously. The fellow detective showed up, motioning for David to follow. Loki looked at you with mild panic in his eyes, silently pleading for you to follow. He didn’t want to face the priest alone. The memories would be too toxic for him to face without you. You nodded your head reassuringly, following David and Detective Chemelinski into the interrogation room Father Patrick Dunn was being held in.

Loki walked in first, you next, and Chemelinski last. You leaned against the wall as Loki greeted Dunn, “How you doin’, Father?”

“I’m...I’m- getting better.” Father Dunn avoided eye contact with everyone, eyes set on the table in front of him.

Loki sat across from him, “So Detective Chemelinski tells me that you have some specifics about the crime you claim that guy committed. The abductor.”

The priest nodded, “He was...waging a war against God.”

Loki chuckled, looking over at Chemelinski in disbelief and shaking his head, “Great. That’s great. I thought you said he had something specific.” Loki continued to shake his head, stammering at the other detective and gesturing in disbelief in front of him with his hands.

Detective Chemelinski looked at Father Dunn, “Tell him how he took the kids.” If it wasn’t for David wanting you in the room, you would have avoided the conversation, rather having the information relayed than point-blank. This was too raw, images of Loki in the boy’s home feeling like a white hot poker in your brain.

“He said...he took them in the daylight.” You swore you were going to pass out, your hands beginning to tremble at your sides. You wished you were stronger, able to do your job without feeling like you were going to die from the constant resurfacing of horrific memories of your little girl. Broad daylight. Screaming.

Why were you doing this?

The priest continued, “Sometimes...more than one child at a time.”

Loki rolled his eyes, “He said that?” The priest nodded. “-Did he say he was with anybody? He did it alone?”

“He...he said he had a family.”

Loki sighed, “That’s it?” The priest nodded again. Loki stood from the chair, shaking his head at Detective Chemelinski, “All right.” He walked to the door, tattooed hand on the handle, glaring at the detective, “Informative.” He walked out, leaving you to briefly apologize to Chemelinski before you ran to find David.

You found him in the locker room, sitting on the bench with his head in his hands.

You approached him slowly, “Hey, you okay?” It was a stupid question, of course he wasn’t okay. Neither of you were okay.

He looked up at you with tired eyes, “Yeah, I’m fine. I just needed a minute. The candlelight vigil is tonight if you wanna go.”

“I do. It’d be nice.” He nodded along with your words, you turned around and walked out of the room to give Loki sometime to himself. Sometimes silence could be healing, yet you didn’t think all of the silence in the world could heal these wounds.

You stood in front of the microwave watching your mug of coffee spin in circles. Coffee was now the main staple of your diet. It was late at the station, you and Loki being the only few still left. The temperature had dropped outside rapidly, leaving a chill in the air. Loki was outside turning the car on so it would be heating up as you poured coffee in a thermos.

You walked outside with thermos in hand, pulling your coat tighter as the wind bit through your coat. Loki was already inside the vehicle, waiting for you. You opened the passenger door, plopping down as the thermos sat at your feet.

“You sure you wanna go to this thing?” Loki asked gingerly.

“Yeah. Do you not?”

“I just don’t want you to feel like you have to. If you’re not up for it we can go home. I don’t want you to push yourself.” Loki spoke softly as not to disturb the ambiance inside the vehicle.

“I’m okay, David. I promise. It’ll be nice, show our respect, it’s not like we have to stay long.”

David nodded as he put the car in gear, pulling out of the police station parking lot.

Loki pulled up to the vigil, outside of the Dover’s home. A group of people had already gathered, lighting candles, placing flowers, and teddy bears.

You and David leaned against the car, watching in sorrow. You saw Franklin Birch double over, sobbing as his family held him. Your heart broke at the sight, you wished nothing more than to bring his daughter back unharmed. Each passing day caused unease to spread further and further in your body, day four setting a new record of turmoil.

Time passed as people started to leave, the group diminishing slightly. Beside you, Loki put on a stocking cap and rubbed his hands together for warmth. He still refused to wear gloves. He abruptly pushed himself off the car, walking closer to the vigil, obviously taking notice of something you didn’t. You walked next to him slowly, unsure of what exactly he was doing. Then you saw it, a man crouched down with his coat hood up, stroking a teddy bear that had been placed, his gloved hand gliding over it in a manner that made you uncomfortable. He looked up, locking eyes with Loki, and then stood up stiffly, Loki’s eyes following every move. The man glanced at you and then turned away. Loki walked closer, trying to trail him as the man continued walking away. You had an inkling that he was going to run, so you turned around towards the car as Loki made his way through the crowd.

Looking over your shoulder, you saw David take off in a dead sprint. Fuck.

You opened the driver’s side door of the car and sat down, grabbing the radio from the console.

“Dispatch, this is 13-43, we have a police pursuit on foot, 13-40 is responding. ”

The radio crackled to life, “10-4 detective, we have patrol rolling your way.”

“10-4” You sat the radio down, now all you had to do was wait for Loki to either come back or for him to call you to come get him.

30 minutes later, Loki came into view, slightly limping. He walked up to the car as you got out of the driver’s seat, “You should have stretched.”

Loki shrugged past you, “Yeah, fuck off. Now get out of my spot.”

You chuckled slightly as you walked around the car and pulled the door open and sat in your designated spot. Loki grabbed for the radio with his non-dominant hand, “Dispatch, this is 13-40. Pursuit has ended, the offender fled. Put a BOLO out, description will be given by an officer.”

Loki sighed heavily as he put the radio down, hand coming up to rub his right shoulder, “What happened, David?”

“The fucker jumped on me from a tree. I’m fine.” You rolled your eyes, Loki could be mauled by a bear and thrown into the ocean and he would still say he was fine. He was even more stubborn than you.

You got home that night at 2 A.M., going to the station after the vigil for David to write up a media release on the guy that ran and to give a description. You tried to get David to let you look at his shoulder but he refused, claiming he was fine, even when moving it he winced slightly.

That night you slept restlessly, dreams of hospitals and antiseptic haunting you. Making you question everything.

tag list: @lexie-wayland @whew-oh-em-gee @winterlavenderskysworld @buck-this-nasty @heeyirenee @pinkpunkdynamite

#detective loki #detective loki imagine #detective loki x reader #detective loki fanfic #detective loki fanfiction #jake gyllenhaal #jake gyllenhaal imagine #jake gyllenhaal x reader #prisoners #prisoners 2013 #fanfiction #poison and wine #hugh jackman #keller dover #jake gyllenhaal fanfic

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hoaxsen · 4 years ago

Text

| happy [ late ] new years to one and all <3.

| here's some Levi angst.

| word count; 1,684

I'm coming home.

" Promise me to stay alive? "

" I always do, runt. You better promise me. "

" I promise. "

Not all promises were made to be kept, either from the fact that they're broken almost instantly. Or they can't be kept at all, just empty words being said to fill the dead air created from the promise being said.

Words that people take so seriously, as if they'd truly mean something. They're supposed to mean something, right? Supposed to mean the world to the people who created this. End it off with pinkies interlocking, like a kid friendly way of signing off a piece of your soul.

A piece that you'll never get back. Discarded along with the broken seal, like as if finding a product in a store open. Needs to be thrown out.

I'm coming home.

" This expedition might get us even further in taking back for humanity. "

" Don't get your hopes up, just focus on coming back alive. . .please. "

" I promised, didn't I? "

You did, you promised Levi Ackerman an entire world in that one small and simple line.

But that universe didn't hold up for long, it collapsed along with the small space of an open heart he had. This expedition was supposed to be clean and simple, Erwin said. It was supposed to run flawlessly, as he's promised time and time again. But failed to keep, this entire mission wasn't supposed to end this way. His new formation was supposed to have fewer casualties, little to no accidents should everyone follow pursuit.

This time, that wasn't the case. The case that had opened and started it's cruel trial was the one happening here and now.

The weight of it feeling like a star going supernova inside his heart. Though since that pressure was trapped inside so tightly, there was no way for it to be let out. The captain shut down, his mind going blank and his eyes looking vacant as he drunk in the news.

Tell the world I'm coming home.

" They. . .were caught in the hands of a titan, sir. "

You weren't alive, not here to keep your end of the promise as he did with his. Not here to tell Levi that it was a mistake, they mistook you for someone else. That wasn't the ordeal, as much as he wished it was. All in his mind, playing on loop over and over was a silly little promise made before this. Of course it wouldn't have been kept, not in a world like this. A world where humanity is now at the bottom of the food chain, cornered like wounded animals.

The captain of the Survey Corps dared not to let his heart leap out of his chest. The man dared not to shed a single tear in front of his comrades. This was the norm, he'd had to chant to himself like a prayer on a broken record over and over for the silver lining to not shine through. Hold it back all the way until he was behind closed doors, locked so tight that letting it all out wouldn't be a problem. So that his regiment could probably see, that even their captain was at this game long enough to realize not every little thing was going to last.

A captain in front of everyone else, a human with emotions while being alone. That's how he wanted to treat this, tricking himself into thinking that's how he needed to treat this.

Should he have looked on that cart, pulling the fallen soldiers back to the safety of the walls. Levi knew he would have let that dam overflow with the sounds of a heart aching lover.

This expedition became the very reason why he loathed titans more. Becoming the very reason why, he started having doubts in his Commander.

I know my kingdom awaits.

The freshly dug hole waited for you alright back in Wall Rose. Somewhere maybe just outside the Krolva district, they called this place The Scouts Yard.

How this one patch of land that could have been used for anything else, soon started becoming overtaken by the bodies of his fallen companions from their ongoing war.

Now it houses your body.

The weather of the day was a stark contrast of his mood, the sun was shining with a few small thin clouds in the sky. A pity really, he thought that whatever God was out there might knew how to read a room. Levi slowly got down onto his knees to read the words on the new tombstone.

Here lies; Y/N L/N.

The ravenette couldn't bring himself to read the rest, already biting down his tongue to distract himself from the stinging of tears in his eyes. Hands clenched into fists at his side, his nails threatening to dig into his skin and draw blood. The dirt that was gathering at the knees of his uniform was going unnoticed.

' You promised me, idiot! How could you break it!? '

That broken promise lead you into a new world, a world of dirt under the earth. Was it like the hellhole he escaped from? Or was it better than the underground life? Except, there was no stairway fee. It was like your citizenship of this messed up surface world was revoked. Tarnished. Never to be used anymore. Torn away as if it were a fake and the MP's of that world came to collect you.

The grey orbs of the Ackerman were starting to itch and pulse with the amount of restraint he was using to not let himself cry. Levi's breathing changed into one of a heavy, and broken up pattern.

All he could think about was not here, not where people could see him at his weakest. Not at his lowest.

A hand being placed on his shoulder brought him out of his trance. Looking up, he saw none other than the man he promised himself to follow.

That's funny, huh? How he promised you he'd stay alive if you did, and how he promised himself to follow after your murderer. Every. Step. Of. The. Way. His life he placed in Erwin's hands, the same hands that weren't big enough to take your life into consideration. His own captain snapped at him, pushing his hand away harshly. Grey hues glaring ever so harshly at what seemed to be confused blue orbs.

Levi stood up to his full height, giving Erwin the greatest stare down of his existence. The commander taking a step back to retaliate, as if he were the victim.

" Levi- "

" This. Is your fault. "

Levi left Erwin with that, not catching how the commander suddenly got the hint, staring down at your grave.

And they've forgiven my mistakes.

Was it a mistake, to have broken a promise in this cruel and fucked up world? Was it really? You could catch Levi pacing the shared room with this thought in mind.

His side of the room was a complete and total mess. Just like his office, papers everywhere, wooden chair pieces scattered over his floor. Yet, should any piece debris get over to your side, Levi is cleaning it like a mad man. Leaving everything the way you had it before, hoping to preserve what he could of your memory.

Thinking it would bring a sense of calm to his nerves. All it brought uneasiness, abandonment, and a whole battalion of negative emotions that started attacking and swirling inside him. He almost questioned if this was how titans felt when their ends were coming to a near. A silly question, one used to try and distract himself. Not like it was helping in any shape or form, just made him feel worse. Useless even.

' Did I even say ' I love you enough ' ? Did I show them that I cared? Did I do enough before their time came!? '

A sob left him, loud and clear as day. Almost turning into another moment of pure wails and tears. The man was pretty sure he showed enough emotion, even when he tried and didn't really know how. Tried his best not to be closed off and buried in his work twenty-four/seven. He felt like screaming and sobbing this time. Was he even enough for you before death? If he wasn't so tired and dehydrated from doing the said act maybe about twenty minutes prior, Levi would have let the entirety of Wall Rose know his pain.

Eyes bloodshot from the onslaught attack of tears that kept pouring over from his once shining metallic eyes. How many cups of tea had he had? That somehow didn't end up as glass shards beneath his boots. For once, the mess didn't bother him, his promise to stay clean was broken. Just like almost everything else. One promise he made out of this shit, was to kill each and every titan. Then show Erwin that they're human, not just soldiers waiting to throw away their lives for bastard nobles.

Those were promises he couldn't break. Along with not forgetting you, a bittersweet reminder on how everyone precious leaves his life one way or another. No amount of rain in the world could wash away that pain.

Here now sat the Scouts' captain, sitting up against a heavy locked wooden door, holding what was your cloak from the expedition. Levi couldn't bring himself to clean it, the red of your blood, or maybe someone else's stained and clashed with the green. Making it a murky, dark, and odd color, Levi clutched it to his chest. His stray fallen tears turning the fabric a darker shade of its color.

" I promise you, brat. . .I'll be coming back home alive. "

Not all promises could be kept, just words to fill the dead silent air that was created. Reminders that it could always be broken in the least expected amount of time, in the most hurtful way. A stupid way to sign off a piece of your soul and hope for the better.

Tell the world that I'm coming home.

Levi Ackerman, was now no stranger to it.

#shingeki no kyoujin levi #levi aot #levi attack on titan #levi angst #levi ackerman #levi ackerman x reader #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan #attack on titan angst #angst

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babylooneytoonz · 4 years ago

Text

Blood Trails (Book 2 of Coffee Stains)

Summary : It's been five years since you gave birth to your and Bucky Barnes' daughter, left her with his father and went on to resume your duties with HYDRA. If plans made by you do not backfire, where will all the drama come from? What happens when HYDRA finds out that the child had never died? And worse, what happens when a brainwashed you is assigned the mission to get your own daughter captured by your HYDRA handler Vasili Dreznov (Will be played by Jensen Ackles in my book) ? What will happen when your fate crosses paths with your once lover once mission once again?

Warnings: Darker theme, Steve Rogers left after passing the shield to Sam Wilson, Bucky and Natasha leave the Avengers towers, will have violence and abusive language, a dark Bucky, sexual assault, Bucky Barnes with short hair

Word Count : 2600 + (Allegedly?)

Masterlist link

The branches hung low with the weight of the snow, although the green was still there under the brilliant white, just hidden away under the coating of it. The air was of course cold; and the view from the massive penthouse suite that belonged to Tony Stark looked like a canvas painting, where the color of pristine white had been strewn all over it.

Five year old Sasha stood against the frosty glass, staring out into the horizon. Behind her, the fireplace had already been lit, yellow embers erupting out of it; and a tall, decorated Christmas tree stood in a corner where Natasha Romanoff sat, her legs curled underneath her, her fingers grasping a mug of hot chocolate, when the child's sweet voice rang out in the living room, "Мама, когда папа вернется домой? Рождество." (Mama, when is daddy coming home? It's Christmas Eve.)

"дорогая, your daddy must be with your uncle Sam, he will come home. Почему ты не ложишься в постель?" (Why don't you get into bed?)

"Нет, пока папа не вернется домой." (No, not until my daddy is home.)

Natasha rolled her eyes, thinking back on how this little girl was just like Y/N, and shot her a quick smile, her ears already having picked up on the sound of the front door unlocking, meaning Bucky was home. She slid out of the comfortable position she was sitting in and stretched her arms into the air, before mumbling something to Sasha, who's eyes brightened when she saw her dad walk in.

Bucky was dressed in a heavy winter coat, his short black hair gelled back perfectly, without a single strand out of place; but hidden underneath the warm cap that he was wearing. Upon seeing his girl run towards him, he bent slightly, when Sasha ran into her father's arms, her tiny little arms clasping around his sturdy neck as he lifted her up and hoisted her against his hip, a rare smile playing against his lips. If anyone could make James Buchanan Barnes smile, it was little Sasha Barnes.

"How have you been, моя любовь?"

"Mama didn't let me go out and play in the snow, I really wanted to go," she brought her palms to her eyes and started rubbing them, when Bucky kissed her on her forehead softly, and she forgot about it.

"Come on now, let's get you to bed, your mama and I have some things to talk about," he kept her against his hip as he started towards her bedroom, and slowly lowered her into her bed. Sasha immediately pulled her toy close to her chest, and Bucky tucked her into the blanket.

Once he was sure that Sasha was comfortable and warm, he switched the lights off and his heavy feet dragged himself out of her room until he found his way to the bedroom he shared with his now partner, Natasha Romanoff.

"You were at her grave again, weren't you?" She asked, as she looked at herself in the vanity, combing her reddish black waves.

"I was angry, I needed to vent out."

"Well, did you vent out? Did she make you feel better?" She stood up, taking off her robe, as she got ready for bed.

Bucky didn't answer her, instead, he took off his coat, and then his shirt, grabbing a sweatpants and a comforter from the closet and locked himself in the bathroom. He looked at his own reflection in the mirror as he stripped. Bucky was on the edge; he always had been, ever since he had lost you. He didn't understand why it had to be him, in the end that was left alone; abandoned. Everyone left him, be it Steve, who left him to be with Peggy, or you, who died yet gave him the best gift of his life. He didn't understand why he couldn't be at peace. First it was Natalia, the woman he loved, and he couldn't have her. But now that he had her, it was at the cost of losing you, and he couldn't bear it at times.

"Ты там в порядке?" (You okay in there?)

Her voice was enough to snap him out of whatever it was that was spurring in his mind.

"Спи, Natalia, сейчас выйду." (Go to sleep Natalia, I'll be right out.)

She didn't say anything else, and neither did Bucky come out for a few minutes. When he finally mustered the courage to step out, he saw that she had her glasses on and she was flipping the pages of a book.

"дорогой, I'm sorry I snapped," she looked up at him when she heard him, and took off her reading glasses, slowly placing them on the side table as Bucky got into bed with her. She got into the space between Bucky's legs, bringing her knees up to her chest as Bucky engulfed her in his arms, "I'm sorry I was so involved with myself, I didn't ask you how your day was." Bucky's words made Natasha give him a weak smile and she sat straighter, staring into her lover's eyes.

"I'm worried about Sasha, Buck, I think we should try to take her out. She is literally cooped up in here all day."

"No."

"Bucky, it will be okay."

"Natalia, you know Sasha isn't like other children, and we've done a pretty good job keeping her hidden from HYDRA so far, I want to keep it this way," he nuzzled his nose against the nape of her neck and she melted into his warm embrace, her eyes fluttering slightly.

"She is only five, Bucky. We are keeping her cooped up in this house like a prison."

Bucky sighed, a soft, punctured sigh as he fell back against the headboard of the bed, his fingers stroking through Natalia's hair, "What if they find her? They haven't tried in five years. Not that the two of us can't handle it, but we don't know how badly they'll be after us if they find out."

"I know, Barnes, but think of her, think of all the normalities in life that she is missing on and besides, isn't this what you and Y/N always wanted for her? For her to grow up in the most normal way?" Bucky grabbed her hand, bringing it up to his lips, as he planted a chaste kiss over her knuckles, "how about we take her to the park tomorrow? The two of us, and her. It'll be fun, дорогой." He finally said.

He smiled down at her, nuzzling his nose once again against her, and finally let her go as she straightened herself and got into bed. Bucky stretched once and lowered himself into bed next to her after switching off the lights.

╞═════𖠁𐂃𖠁═════╡

"Are you bundled up nice and warm?" Natasha placed the mittens on Sasha's hands and made sure that the girl was bundled up in a nice, warm jacket. She nodded with her bright blue eyes, the only thing that she had inherited from her dad, everything else being from her mother.

She took her hand and walked out of her bedroom, finding Bucky by the security alarm of the penthouse suite as he was clicking around on a few buttons that beeped. When he saw that the two were here, he smiled warmly and took his daughter's other hand and the family left their home.

They walked down the densely snowed in street, the little girl skipping in excitement, with a great difficulty off course, her either hands holding Natasha's and Bucky's until they reached the park.

"Can we build a snowman mama?" She looked up at Nat, who only nodded and swiped her palm playfully over her forehead, ruffling the top of her head as the two of them ran off, towards the piles of snow, leaving Bucky standing there, with a smile on his face as he watched them.

"Daddy, I'm gonna hit you."

A fistful of snow came smacking against Bucky's face and he gasped dramatically, leaning forward and swooping some snow into his metal palm.

"You think you're going to get away?" Bucky's voice boomed back, as he threw a fistful of snow towards the girl. The girl, however, was super agile, and fast. She ducked at the right time, and the snowball flew from above her and hit Natasha square in the face. She gasped, her eyes widening as she turned towards the two.

"No, you did not just hit me."

"It was daddy, he hit you."

"Well, she ducked," Bucky chuckled dramatically, but started running after the little girl, squishing the snow underneath his heavy boots. The girl, even with ankle deep snow all around her, was running at a pace faster than most children her age, no doubt the super serum running in her veins.

"Well you can't catch me, you're a slow poke, daddy," she called back, turning her head slightly so she could see where Bucky was. As she was still running, looking back, her footing got caught in the snow and she fell face first into the white, glistening heap. Bucky reached her in time, quickly pulling her out of the snow, her face red slightly as Natasha and Buck tried to warm her face with their palms and all this while, the little girl kept laughing heartily.

A few steps away, shielded well behind a trashcan, the top of which was covered in snow, two men stood, their eyes fixed on the family in front of them. One of them pulled out a cellphone and started recording a video of them. Two minutes later, they lowered their round sort of Scotland yard looking hat over their eyes and twirled around, sliding their hands into the coats as they walked off. The man who had recorded the video footage sent it to someone and then pressing the phone to his left ear, started speaking to the other one on the line in Russian.

"Похоже, она сыграла всех вас, Johanna.. Нет, я отправил вам доказательства. Ребенок Зимнего Солдата жив." (Looks like Johanna played all of you.No, I've sent you the proof. Winter Soldier's child is alive.)

╞═════𖠁𐂃𖠁═════╡

"Johanna, ты хорошо справился." (You did good, Johanna.)

Your handler glanced you neck to toe, scanning your body for any visible injury but you had none, although you were covered in blood. This blood, however, didn't belong to you, but rather belonged to a Romanian woman, a really important woman, who had to be taken out, because she knew a lot of HYDRA secrets.

"Не моя кровь, Vasili." (It's not my blood, Vasili.)

You threw out your arms towards him, looking straight ahead, your eyes fixed on the concrete gray wall in front of your eyes. He looked up at you differently, the blues in his eyes twinkling as he patted on his knees, "Садись, милый." (Sit, my dear.)

Your eyes flicked from his blue ones down to his lap, and slowly, yet like a good, obedient student, you lowered yourself onto his lap. Vasili's intense studying of your face, and then slightly lower than that, until his eyes were travelling all over your body, although your lip quivered once in a while, but you didn't protest.

He eyed the dark marks that adorned the side of your neck, as they disappeared into your body beyond his visibility. He lifted his palm, using his index finger to trail over one of the marks as he spoke, "Johanna, вы знаете, что символизируют эти знаки?" ( Do you know what are these marks symbolic of?)

You bit down on your lip, and tried to think but all you felt was a gruelling pain at the back of your head; it made you shake your head. Vasili smiled crooked, his eyes glinting underneath the bulb that illuminated the room as his hands held you tight against his lap.

"Вы были наказаны за то, что влюбились в свою миссию." (You were punished for falling in love with your mission.)

The more you tried to think on his words, the worse your head revolted against it. It was like they didn't want you to think, or remember this mission Vasili was talking to you about.

"Слушай, дорогая, я должен быть твоим всем, ты должен поклоняться мне, и я всегда буду заботиться о тебе." (Listen darling, I should be your everything, you should worship me and I will always take care of you.)

Vasili's fingers then flew to your tunic, his fingers latched to the buttons on your chest as he started unbuttoning it, one by one. When he reached the third button from the top, there was a clatter outside the metal room, and then a thumping against the door.

"Чего ты хочешь ?" (What do you want?)

He snapped towards the door, his fingers now having moved away from your chest, but he still held you close, his fingers now stroking the side of your hips. A man stepped in, meeting Vasili's blue eyes for a split second and then immediately lowered it, without even placing it on you once.

"Вы должны кое-что увидеть." ( There is something you must see.)

Upon hearing the HYDRA guard's words, your handler turned towards you, as his hand that was on your waist now moved upwards to cup your cheek and pull your mouth dangerously close to his as he smiled evilly.

"Садись в ванну и жди меня там, мой солдат." (Get into the bathtub and wait for me there, my soldier.)

You nodded, and lifted yourself up from his lap, and Vasili stood up, and without addressing you again, he left your cell, and the door slammed shut behind you, leaving you alone with a tiny bed in one corner and a large bathtub in another. Remembering your handler's words, with slow steps, you found yourself at the bathtub, drawing yourself a warm bath.

Meanwhile, Vasili watched the footage on the holographic screen in front of him. Of course, Johanna had lied to them all, the girl in the video only proved it. The resemblance she had to her mother was uncanny. The same hair and face, except the eyes and the ability and speed, no wonder a result of the Winter Soldier's serum running through her veins. She was lovely; and Vasili wanted nothing more to have her here, so he could now experiment on her.

"Johanna ничего не помнит, и так остается. Если кто-то, я имею в виду, кто-то пытается заставить ее вспомнить..." (Johanna remembers nothing and this is how it stays. If anyone, I mean, anyone tries to make her remember..)

His words of warning were enough to instill a deep rooted fear inside all those who were present in that hall. They all nodded and watched the handler leave, an evil smile planted against his face. The footage had brought out a jovial mood in the man; he whistled to himself, a merry little tune as his footsteps rang through the dinghy hallway of the underground base in Hungary until his most favourite soldier's cell was in sight. Two guards stood by her door, and he motioned towards them to unlock the door and let him in.

The minute he stepped in, his eyes were greeted by a beautiful site of her, her clothes strewn all over the floor, her beautiful, naked back glistening underneath the flickering lightbulb overhead.

"Как прекрасно," he strolled towards you, and you craned your neck submissively, so he could brush his fingers against the side of your neck before he got into the bathtub with you. This was almost a routine; every time you came back from a mission. Your glassy, stone like orbs remained fixed on the wall, as Vasili took off his clothes and let them fall against yours, and stepped into the bathtub with you, pulling you against him. He cupped his palm and poured the water over your back, drawing designs on your moist back with it. You sighed, rolling your neck as his hands ran across the line of your shoulders, caressing your back.

"Солдат, у меня для тебя миссия." (Soldier, I have a mission for you.)

Your eyes lifted themselves off the ripples forming on the surface of water, and you turned your neck sideways, although you couldn't see your handler's face, "Куда мне теперь идти?" (Where do I have to go?)

"Америка.. Нью-Йорк." (America.. New York.)

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#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes x reader #james buchanan bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #winter soldier #winter soldier x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x you

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imagine-organization-xiii · 4 years ago

Note

Ideal Halloween themed dates for each organization member? 🎃

This was amazingly done by Sam last night while I was suffering from the hurricane in a blackout. AND GUESS WHO WAS FORCED TO WORK WHEN SHE SHOULD BE AT HOME HELPING CLEAN UP THE YARD UGH

Xemnas - Go for a late-night walk in the cemetery - Is it totally creepy at night? Yes. Do you both love it? Absolutely! There’s something special in the air on halloween night, maybe it was wayward spirits or the sense of mischief in the air, but whatever it is, it’s positively enthralling. The two of you walk amongst the graves, basking in the brightness of the moonlight and talking of your plans for the future. Hearing Xemnas talk of his goals is one of the many reasons you fell in love with him in the first place, after all. And if that weren’t good enough, the superior even takes a little extra time to surprise you with a small picnic set up under an old willow tree. There, the two of you eat lit only by a single candle and the full moon, until you decide to lay down and look at the sky until your eyes grow heavy.

Xigbar - Watch a Scary Movie at the Drive-In! - Xigbar likes to think of himself as a cool guy, and what would be cooler than picking up his sweetheart and taking them to scary movies at the drive-in? Watching a scary flick on the big screen is fun, but what’s even better is you holding him close to you when you are scared!! Score!! And when the movie is over, Xigbar might drive you both up to “make-out point” and well.. You know.. Best not hope there aren’t any psycho killers in the woods that night!!! You don’t want to end up in the sequel!

Xaldin - Build a Fire and Tell Ghost Stories - Camping out in the woods on Halloween night? Most people would say that doing so would be a terrible idea. BUT NOT YOU AND XALDIN! Camping on a cool fall night like Halloween is an absolute dream, and the two of you have the entire night to yourselves with no one else to bother you. Curled up together in front of the warm fire, now the real fun begins. You start to pass around your flashlight, telling stories and doing your best to scare the other until the end of the night when you are too scared to sleep alone. You curl up in Xaldin’s sleeping bag, resting your head on his shoulder as you ask him to protect you. You can literally feel his pride swell as you curl into him, as he longs to to protect you from what bumps in the night.

Vexen - Set Up Your Own Haunted House - Well, At first, Vexen didn’t feel that Halloween was a good enough excuse to be leaving his lab, so in your stubbornness, you decided to bring Halloween to him. You proceeded to sneak into the lab during the few hours that Vexen was not around, covering the walls in countless halloween decorations. Needless to day, Vexen was not particularly pleased at first at your redecoration. In fact he was furious. But as the day went one and he watched all of his fellow organization members coming to see ‘the haunted lab’, he couldn't help but see how happy scaring your fellow members was making you. And by the end of the night, he may or may not have stolen some of your fake blood and scared Demyx so badly he nearly soiled his trousers. Maybe taking a day off for Halloween wasn’t so bad after all.

Lexaeus - Make Decorated Halloween Cookies - Ohhh!!!! Baking is one of your favorite shared activities, and making fun halloween shapes is an absolute blast! You started with a basic sugar, something fun and easy, making shapes like ghosts and pumpkins! Working with Royal icing for the first time was a bit of a challenge, but you were able to figure it out after a few less than perfect tests. More and more cookies go into the oven, the warm smells drawing in everyone in the castle at least once to see where the aromas came from. By the end of the night, you are both covered in flower and grinning ear to ear as everyone has a taste of your treats!

Zexion - Have a horror movie marathon - Curled up in the dark Room, Zexion waited for you. The table was covered with candles and snack foods of all sorts. Neither of you were huge movie buffs, but after weeks of being hounded by the other members to watch a series of movies you hadn’t even heard of before, you eventually caved into trying something new. At first, you started with a classic slasher fic, you know.. With the teenagers having sex and then WHAM serial killer. You didn’t need to know horror movies to know how it would go, but you still jumped and clung to Zexion as hard as you could. The more and more movies you played, you became comfortable and snuggled close under the blankets with Zexion. Eventually, his hands started to wander, either uninterested by the film or simply unable to resist you. Either way, you didn’t pay much to the movies after that.

Saix - Get Spooked at a Haunted House - At first you thought it would be a great idea to go to a haunted house with your sweetheart, though Saix didn’t seem to agree. At first it was smooth sailing, walking through the house and jumping at the occasional spider prop or ghost puppet, until the first performer came through. The man wielded a chainsaw and charged your way, earning a squeal from you. Saix immediately moved to defend you, and in doing so, looked so intense that the chainsaw wielding man stopped in his tracks. “Woah, dude! You’re terrifying dude! Who did your makeup? Hey, Charlie! Get in here!!” in a matter of minutes, half of the cast of this haunted house, zombies and spirits alike, were in the room with you, complimenting how absolutely terrifying your boyfriend looked. And While he seemed unamused at their gawking, you could swear you saw a little smirk on his lips. Definitely not what you expected, but this certainly was a fun night of surprises!

Axel - Do a Late-Night Corn Maze! - Because who doesn’t love getting lost in the dark! No for real though, you thought you wouldn’t like the maze, but with every step, you and Axel had lots of fun! He even brought some flashlights and snacks to enjoy along the walk! Though as you walk farther along the trail, Axel decides it’s the perfect moment to regale you with a story, one about a couple that got lost on this very trail. It’s a good story, and you know he is trying to scare you but it won’t work until-- What was that??? You turn around and look for the source of the sound, but as soon as you turn back-- GOTCHA!! You scream. Loud. And all you can hear is Axel’s piercing laughter. Oh he got you good. You give him a punch in the arm, perhaps a little too hard. This maze wasn’t over yet and you were determined to get him back.

Demyx - Carve Pumpkins! - Man, trusting Demyx with a knife worried you at first, but every step was a barrel of fun! Scooping out the pumpkin was really messy and watching Demyx scream as he stuck his arm inside his pumpkin was an absolute riot. Pumpkin guts got everywhere, and then you had to CARVE the thing! Demyx quickly grew tired of actually carving his pumpkin, and simply drew a smiley face on the outside with a sharpie, but upon seeing the pumpkin you carved, he is utterly FLOORED. Suddenly, he is lifting the gourd up and carrying it around the castle, so proud of your work and bragging it to everyone in the castle!

Luxord - Take a Haunted Ghost Tour - A lot of “haunted” cities have these, but they are essentially a night of visiting actual haunted sites like houses and graveyards accompanied by a guide! And while you might not see any paranormal activity on your tour, hearing the tales of each stop is absolutely fascinating! And while this isn’t a ‘traditional’ halloween date, you and Luxord have a terribly good time learning! Though Luxord having a canteen of hot cider and a hip flask of bourbon definitely helped.

Marluxia - Plan or make your own Halloween costumes! - If ANYONE loves a good dressing up, it’s Marluxia! After one very LONG trip to the costume store to buy accessories, the entire night became a movie style makeover montage! Each of you pulled clothes out from your closet and box of accessories to make as many original looks as possible, doing each other's makeup and playing some fun spooky songs in the background! It was a total blast!! And when you’re both tucked out from your costume adventure, you both curl up in your most comfortable looks and watch as many episodes of The X-Files as you can before falling asleep in bed.

Larxene - Go Apple Picking - At first, Larxene wasn’t extremely interested in apple picking, saying that it was a lot of hiking for some heavy apples, but something about dressing in matching flannels and seeing how much there was to do seemed to change her mind. After picking a good amount of apples, (And Larxene showing up any dude that was trying to pick apples by zapping them out of trees) the two of you decided to hit up the small festival outside of the orchard. Among the stalls there were different kinds of foods and drinks for sale which you tried and loved! You never were able to eat all of the apples you picked, but eventually shared them with the rest of the organization so that they didn’t go bad.

Roxas - Celebrate Mischief Night! - You didn’t know about mischief night until Axel and Roxas told you about it, but apparently it is the night when the youths of twilight town ran amuck with pranks of all sorts! And how could you say no to that! At first the two of you started in twilight town, joining with the other children as they draw on the streets and egg houses. The adrenalin filled you as you ran from angry store clerks and fled in the woods. There was no way they would find you now. But as you walked through the woods, it became painfully apparent that you were becoming lost, until you and Roxas came across a large mansion in the woods. You could stay there until morning to go home, but the mischievous glint in Roxas’s eye begged to differ. Suddenly your rolls of toilet paper were flying as you TP’d the mansion with sniper-like accuracy. It was so fun you nearly fell over in laughter before opening a portal back home, leaving the mysterious mansion behind. As you left, you wondered what it held, but knew that you would probably never know.

Xion - Go Trick or Treating! - Are you two a little old for trick-or-treating? Maybe so, but it is so much fun to dress up in fun costumes and collect candy! Xion is so small and cute, no one would raise any questions as to if she were too old or not. And after a whole evening of running from house to house, collecting so much candy that your pillowcases are full, you both retire back home to curl up together, watch a spooky movie, and trade candy all night! (Or until she falls asleep next to you!)

#organization xiii headcanons #holiday headcanons #halloween headcanons #image headcanon #kingdom hearts headcanon

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midas-or-khaos · 4 years ago

Text

The Ones Above Us. Chapter 1

Date:- September 30th, 2008, 14 days after initial discovery.

Time:- 18:42 pm

Flicking a cheap Poundland lighter, sparks spat in the morbid matt of a pure black atmosphere out on location in the back arse of nowhere (somewhere far off Ireland’s version of the M6 he’d been told). Winter winds were of the worst kind: didn’t matter how far inland you made it, or how thick the walls on your house were, they traversed the land with albatross wings wide and undaunted by what they came into contact with, smacking into any surface with no regards to slowing down. They didn’t seem to have any regard for detective Arthur Fleming‘s Malboro either, a stiff left hand shaking at the switch, and the right vainly trying to create shelter for the cigarette.

“For FUCK sake.” Singed fingertips for his troubles.

“Serves you right. No smoking on the job detective, you know better.”

Head Forensic Pathologist Fatima Alvi. A 4’9 willowy thing with a short, plump bob, damn near bobblehead proportions and a tendency to get right under his fucking skin like the irritating shit she was. She’d succeeded young and now all that arrogance she hadn’t quite worked out her system from (what should be mandatory in his opinion) the hard labour of working up the social ladder had only boosted her tendency to tighten her favourite black brogues far too tight, straighten her back like a bloody ballerina and fix that rod she’d shoved up her arse however many years ago a little bit deeper.

“I’m ten yards from the sodding site and wrapped in a white, walkable body bag, I think we can both agree me being over here isn’t going to tamper with shit. And not to challenge ur dictatorship, luv, but you’ve got winged lashes big enough to take off under those goggles o’ yours. Now you go back under those useless gazebos, and I’ll happily freeze my arse off out here.” Turning back round to face the empty, Arthur cursed himself for getting a 4 buzz cut rather than a short back and sides a week ago.

Fatima despised this part of the job. Working with middle-aged, greying twats like this one that clearly hated their jobs, but seemed to have this vendetta against the mere mention of career change. Yes, she was aware as you age, getting a new job gets harder. Surprise though, so did being fresh out of uni. Life sends these little tests to fuck us all over, not just you mate. Must be the bitter taste of Thatcher’s rule that’s left him slow to change. Scarred from the days when not having a job meant not eating, full stop. Doesn’t give the trout-mouthed, once-upon-a-time aryan flag pole a reason to snap like Chihuahua.

“Why don’t you stop trying to get your next sad excuse for a hit from nicotine, and come over here and do your actual fucking job?”

“No respect.” Muttered Arthur to himself, giving up on his lost cause and unzipping the top half of his polymer suit to shove the cigarette into his oversized shirt pocket.

Finally the standing misery addressed the stout woman face to face, a shaking clinging to each syllable, “What the hell d’you need me for? It’s obvious this isn’t a normal murder case, IF we’re even call it a murder case. I mean for god sake, Fatima, the grave is over 50 feet long! Whatever we’re uncovering obviously isn’t a human, it’s a fucking dinosaur! Why am I here in the back-arse of all points nowhere, rather than a load of archaeologists?”

“Because what we’ve found so far isn’t making sense, and last time anyone checked, dinosaurs were fossilised. BONES, detective, not skin. This body is so fresh, there’s absolutely no decay at all! That’s impossible. Then there’s the skin, it hasn’t even been stained by acid or mud, like the skin is coated in some hydrophobic matter. None of this should be possible.” A sigh slipped the last of Fatima’s adrenaline-fuelled spitting out, she was tired. Tired of him, tired of working, tired of being in the cold. “Look, personally I think this is probably an elaborate hoax some twat on YouTube with a fringe or whatever has decided to plant in a well known historic location for views. The arseholes will probably be waiting for the news report on TV so they can have a laugh at our expense. None of this is natural, and frankly it’s starting to look ridiculous. However, so long as our shitty superiors believe this to be a murder case we stick to finding out how this thing died, understood?”

Scathing way of saying it, But a hoax was something Arthur was desperate to cling to. Of course, this was nothing but staged and faked beyond belief! None of this could be real. Give credit where credit’s due though, the bell-ends that did this were thorough. Tutting, Arthur knew he couldn’t argue his case anymore, and started to strut off on those stilts for legs back to the beams of spotlights, Fatima trotting along after him just to keep up.

“Glad to see you’re helping.”

“Just talk to me about what’s going on so we’ll be able to document this and go back to the hostel.” Spat Arthur in retaliation. He hated this job. These people. But most importantly, that thing.

Entering through the only available entrance, the two nearly ran into another detective. Useless idiot. Despite this temporary flimsy building being the size of a football field, there was barely enough space among the number of personnel of all ranks and professions, technology, storage facilities and dig sights to separate the wood from the leaves. To add to the misery, despite being as frosty inside as it was outside, the scent of dank earth and petrol from the excavation diggers still managed to permeate the trapped air. God it stunk.

Taking on a note of interest as she got into her element, Fatima called out as she moved out the way, “Right, so we are at the feet end, and up there at the other end of the canopy is our head. We’re going there first because that’s what the two witnesses found during their initial dig.”

Taking off briskly, the forensic pathologist seemed unfazed by the sheer size of the foot sticking out like a meteorite fallen to earth just a couple of meters from the entrance, not even gracing the thing a glance. Arthur had no such laissez-faire-attitude, frozen in tunnel vision. This is why he didn’t wanna come back in. The damn toes had the familiar, unique swirling pattern of calloused skin seen on humans, and blotches of brown that must’ve been freckles, as they lacked the blotchy, wet texture of mud. Veins passing like eels under ice became exposed near the epidermis, shining icy blue. On an intellectual level, the aged detective knew a foot his height in length couldn’t possibly exist in the real world. If they did, someone would’ve surely reported such a sighting.

On a primal level, instinct was sending adrenaline shooting to his heart, and his lungs could scarcely fill themselves in time to keep up with the demand of oxygenated blood. Those feet looked too alive. The raw power those hands must posses, accompanying such ginormous feet! All of it reminded him of his honeymoon with his wife on Safari, watching a pack of saltwater crocodiles descend in a snapping furry upon shared prey, crushing a zebra’s skull in its death roll, red and bloodied teeth and palate facing the animal’s terror-struck gaze whilst it still vainly screamed for its herd to come to its aid. The vocal cords snapped, eventually silencing under the sheer force of those jaws collectively ripping the head off n one piece. Two crocodiles sent the thing flying twelve feet in the air in pure territorial aggression, neither caring that they’d just murdered another being, before the Wiley victory went after the splattering mess to claim its prize. None of the herd even dared approach the brutality. Would these others do the same if he were captured? Would they leave him to the beast?

“Arthur, c’mon.”

Back to reality. “Sorry.”

Just focusing on Fatima’s back seemed to do the trick, heart rate levelling out below 100bpm. Don’t look round and it won’t be there. Arthur didn’t have it in himself to self scold for such a ridiculous reaction; he knew he should’ve stayed outside.

Still set on her headlong track, Fatima chose to not bother with looking back and risk painfully smacking into some poor soul, so delegated talking to the air in front of herself, hoping he heard her through the ruckus around them. “The head hasn’t decayed, following suit to rest of the currently exposed limbs, though there does appear to be damage. Face appears to be male, middle-aged 35 to 50’s. Noticeable marks being three precise third degree burns across the face resembling a striped pattern. No sign of healing or breakdown within the exposed areas either, which would suggest the burns were created after death.”

“Has anyone tested a sample of skin to see why there’s no breakdown?”

“We tried, but every single time someone has come in with a scalpel to remove a piece, once removed from the body the entire piece seems to crumble instantly to a fine blue dust and disappear.”

“What, Like Indiana Jones style? We found the crusader knight?”

“Please try and take this seriously Arthur, I wouldn’t mention our findings if they were false.” Tutted Fatima.

Arthur knew he was deflecting to shield himself. “I am. Can we at least try collecting the dust?”

“No use, I meant it when I said everything disappears.”

“So anything we test or observe must be on the body at all times or it’s essentially worthless?”

“Correct.”

Well that made everything just that little bit harder. JUST! They’d been reduced to the detective abilities of the bloody Edwardian period. No testing beyond what could be extracted from the soil (and judging by the lack of messy bodily fluids, the thing probably didn’t have any), and they had yet to uncover the rest of the body to see if there were any signs of obvious trauma that would account the reason behind the death. This was going to take forever. Every waking moment in this shithole was a second wasted. Whoever made this thing was one sick fuck.

“If I ever find the shitheads responsible for this prank, I’m gonna hand em a fucking life sentence. The law be damned.”

Just missing a collision with another photographer, the head finally came into full view. Even from this vantage point above ground, the thing didn’t seem small in any way. If he’d thought the foot was massive, the head was a new beast entirely upon its own pedestal. Surprisingly peaceful for a dead person, no expressions of pain or strain, just a suspiciously perfect sullen face (aside the burns of course). Knotted, greying-blond hair splayed out in dregs from the skull like old depictions of the sun’s rays, haloing the face and drawing you to the pair of closed lids. He wasn’t pretty by any standard, Arthur vainly self-noted. Weak chin jutting thin lips out from the round face, a high hairline accentuating the large forehead and a heavy brow ridge. If he weren’t the size of a four story building and significantly burnt, he’d have been extraordinary ordinary. Forgettable even. The detective knew he shouldn’t be saying that. It was a ‘victim’ after all.

“If we can’t remove any body parts, can we perhaps open the body up instead and take samples of anything inside the stomach, lungs, chest cavity etcetera?”

A grimace pulled at the woman’s lips, marring her usually stoic face, “Already done it, we had Liam go inside with a contamination dry suit whist you were outside. It’s the kind of stuff sewage divers wear at human waste plants.”

Arthur couldn’t help turning his own nose up at the prospect as well, shuffling unconsciously just a little further away. “And?”

“There were important pieces missing. A full, undisturbed respiratory system: lungs, trachea, the works. Oddly, absolutely no digestive or reproductive organs what so ever. Weirder yet, there were no signs of sabotage or surgical removal, it was like they were never there in the first place. What really caught my eye on the camera feed was that he had, what we think, are a series of air sacks integrated along the connection between the lungs and the diaphragm.”

“Meaning?”

Poor Fatima was looking at Arthur like she was trying to explain how to use the toilet to a three year old, a strong side eye from her place parallel to him

“MEANING this thing had an incredibly resourceful breathing mechanism.”

“So no basic necessary functions like the need to eat and reproduce, but a top quality breathing system. And you wonder why I’m not taking any of this seriously? Why couldn’t we just send a report saying it was a hoax and save time? It technically doesn't even come under the scientific detention of alive.”

“Well certainly not now it doesn’t.” Arthur gave his own stink eye back.

“... Look, why don’t we try and get the body transferred over to London? Our proper, large-scale testing equipment will be at our fingertips, and we’d be able to at least stick this problem on some stupid lab rats and be done with it, what d’you say?”

Fatima finally stopped half-hearting her disgust to focus on Arthur face to face. “Arthur, where d’you think that kind of space and discreetness would be possible in the middle of London city? This body is over fifty feet all, we wouldn’t even be able to keep it cool enough to stop potential decay-“

Arthur butted in, “- This thing has been out the ground for two weeks, Fatima, and hasn’t so much as lost a hair naturally. We don’t need to worry about decay. Yes, transferring the body would disturb the ‘crime scene’, but if we get this thing sent off as archeological dig remains, the disturbance won’t matter, and we’d be off the case. I don’t wanna be stuck with this shit anymore, do you?” Was he sounding too desperate?

She knew she shouldn’t mention it, not to herself and DEFINITELY not Arthur, but within her selfish consciousness, Fatima couldn’t agree with that. This may be a hoax to Arthur, but all these findings were starting to settle saplings in the garden of her imagination. These Findings weren’t Styrofoam cut outs painted with acrylic, nor were they polymer clay held together over a skeleton. whatever material this was, it was unlike anything she’d seen before. Maybe all this was a hoax, maybe all this was a waste of time.

But secretly, she wished it wasn’t.

“...I’ll see what I can do.”

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