#literally no one would understand even a fragment of what the scenario requires (I really need to write that stuff)

[h-didanart]

Have any of you guys ever been doodling when suddenly you’re hit by the angstiest idea ever and so you start workshopping that idea into an au as an alternate timeline to see if it would fit with the au only to create an absolutely heartbreaking and depression inducing scenario, only for your brain to decide that’s not enough and end up creating that same scenario in your two other main aus so that you end up with three deeply traumatized versions of the same character?

Anyone?

No?

That’s fair

I call them the heartbroken trio.

We have a post-Everything Goes To Shit arc Scythe, around January ‘24 Bloody, and a post-Second Takeover Harvest. You may notice I called them by their actual names and not by their usual [insert trait here]!BM names, and that’s on purpose.

See, due to various circumstances in each of their respective timelines, their twins died.

They’ve all taken it very harshly, but express it in different ways, Scythe is more reserved yet more ruthless in her anger, Bloody has become extremely disconnected from everything, and Harvest is an anxious wreck. All their reactions are directly correlated to their twins’ death and how they perceived it.

Anyways, yeah.

New au//timeline thing. Yay?

Oh, and for your troubles

The guy who in his canon lost his twin being extremely conflicted about the newcomers. Cuz in one hand they are versions of versions of himself that he knows that he can relate even more to! But on the other hand they are versions of versions of himself that he knows that he can relate even more to.

Yeah :P

Might elaborate on these guys later

[classic80sand90smovieloves2]

Andy Dufresne falling in love with you would include~

(Not my gif)(Requested by @awkwardnerdy-teen​)

( I had a lot of different ideas racing through my head and this big boy post is the result of that. You can absolutely ask for more hcs on one of these scenarios if you’d like, I just wrote a little bit for each)

- Since Andy goes to Shawshank in 1947; a time when women really weren’t allowed to work in prisons, there’s only so many ways the two of you could have met. I’ll list a few different scenarios before going into the specifics of each one.

- The scenarios~ A) You and Andy meet in place of him and his wife meeting, and he never goes to Shawshank. B) The two of you meet through mail as he serves out his sentence. Or C) you meet after he escapes and get to feel the brunt of his pent up, touch starved yearning.

- If you meet Andy before the events of the film then you’re able to prevent them from happening sheerly through existing.

- The two of you wind up meeting when you go to the bank he works at for some financial counseling. Let’s just say the predicament that you’re in requires a little more care than a one time visit and the signing of some papers so the two of you have a little more time to get to know each other, something that’s crucial in winning over Andy’s heart. 

- Andy is a hard man to know; a closed book through and through, so if he’s letting you in then there’s something special about you that he just can’t ignore. …And boy are you special to him. 

- Your warm voice, your smile, your perfect temperament. He’d never had such a pleasant client in his life. 

- Now, Andy always took pride in his work but when he was with you, he was actually eager to do it. To explain everything, make conversation, go over things a hundred times to make sure they were perfect, etc. You breathed new life into his day, even when others did everything they could to drain him of it. 

- And that was what he fell in love with first. Your ability to whisk away everything else that had happened to him during the day with a simple smile and kind gesture. 

- That being said, your relationship moves quite slowly. Andy acknowledges that he likes you a lot but he doesn’t fall head over heels in one day. It takes time and it’s an entire process in of itself.

- In the beginning, he just thinks that he likes you as a person. That the two of you have a special sort of connection that people discover only once in their lifetime, a connection that's shared between two friends. 

- But then, one day, the two of you are hunched over a sheet of paper, going over this and that and trying to figure out what works best for your situation. He looks over at you as you’re distracted with reading and for a long moment, he just stares at your face.

- He takes in every detail one by one until the full picture is there in all it’s glory, as though you’re some sort of Monet painting that’s made up of little perfect fragments. It’s then that he acknowledges just how pretty you are and just how attracted to you he really is. And thus begins the process.

- Andy; self admittedly, doesn't really know how to show how much he cares. Even though he’s beginning to understand that he loves you and that you own his heart, he’s at a loss for what to do about it. 

- So he does the only thing he can think of. He tries to make friends. 

- He begins to try to get closer to you; asking you about yourself, answering your questions about him, and starting conversations about things other than your financial stability. Soon enough, it works and the two of you can consider yourselves friends. 

- But it becomes increasingly obvious that the two of you are not just friends. You can see it in the way he acts around you and you know enough about yourself to understand that you like him far more than that. 

- Feeling your touch throws him for a loop. The accidental brush of your fingers against his own as you pass papers or the hand you lay on his shoulder when he’s engrossed in something; whether it be a document or his own thoughts, is enough to fluster him. He tries to play it off but you take notice of the time it takes him to plaster on a polite smile. 

- Andy is already a fairly quiet person but whenever you touch him or smile warmly at him, you’ll notice that he gets even quieter, his words trailing off until you can hardly hear them at all. 

- Occasionally, he’ll offer you a somewhat shy compliment. It’s worth that little twinge of nervousness to see the smile that you give him whenever he praises you. 

- Speaking of praise: he nearly turns red in the face whenever you tell him how great of a banker he is or any other compliment you can think of. Rest assured, he’s thinking about your words for the rest of the day. 

- He’ll absolutely go out of his way to see and make a good impression on you. Like there will be a day where you cant make it to one of your meetings and he’ll offer to meet you somewhere/at your house. He’ll literally meet you on his day off, even if you’ll just be going over documents, because to him, it’s worth the trouble just to see you. 

- It’s the 1940s so it’s sort of in character for you to bring him coffee or lunch/invite him over for supper as a thank you for all his help. Let me just say he damn near kisses you every time you do. He gets all tongue tied and shy, telling you that “you really didn’t have to” while he internally thanks god that you did. 

- Whenever you invite him to dinner, rest assured he’s bringing you the most expensive flowers he could find and agonizing over what to wear as though it’s a real date. He just tells you that the flowers; or wine, is “the least that he can do” after all the effort you’ve gone through to cook him a meal. 

- Every now and again you’ll catch him staring at you with this fond look on his face. He’ll immediately look away with a nervous chuckle when you catch him, apologizing and saying “nothing” when you ask him “what?”. 

- He makes his move on the last day you have to see him. A part of him pondered whether or not he should but at the last possible moment, he came to the conclusion that he couldn’t just let you walk out of his life. Even if you’d become good friends, he couldn’t allow the possibility of you just up and forgetting about him before he could confess his feelings to you. 

- So as you’re smiling and shaking his hand in gratitude, he moves to encase your hand with both of his own and asks if you’d join him for dinner. And though you’d had dinner together before, both of you know that it’s different this time and it’s different in the best way possible. 

Meeting through letter~

- Bored. Your life had become monotonous and you were bored. Bored of the tiring job and the same old city and the same old everything that happened every day. You needed something new to occupy yourself with, something exciting that would transport you into a life that was far more interesting than your own.

- Some women would take up reading, other would knit, but out of sheer coincidence, you’d stumbled across an ad for a prison penpal program in the paper and decided to give it a try. 

- So you mailed in a form and received a list of inmates that you could write to, one of which obviously being Andy Dufresne. You circled out a few names and wrote a few near identical letter and once again mailed them into Shawshank. 

- In the following week, you received a handful of letters, many of which you put aside or threw away due to their illegibility or their flat out raunchy contents. 

- At the end of the week, you had only a few letters that you could choose to respond to and, of course, you chose Andy’s. To be fair, he was the best choice. He was the most well-spoken, well-mannered, and educated one out of all the letters you’d received. Why wouldn’t you choose him?

- Andy had been itching for something to occupy him. His mind was going too fast for the nothingness that happened in prison so when he finally received a letter in the mail, it was like a blessing sent from above.

- It’s no secret that prison changes people ad oftentimes it does so by depriving them of real human interaction, or rather, female interaction. So when a letter obviously written by a woman lands in Andy's hands after god knows how many years in Shawshank; it makes him feel a certain way. 

- He eagerly awaits every response he receives and while no one would think that out of the ordinary for someone who has nothing else to do all day, he understands that his heart is far more invested in it then he would care to admit. 

- You’re a sort of fantasy for him. Sure, he has your kind words, your scrawling script, the riveting conversation that shows him your personality and the faint smell of your perfume. But he doesn’t truly know you, does he? 

- Its why it all seems so silly to him. To fall in love with words on a page seems like such a juvenile, outlandish thing to happen. He’s never even met you and yet he feels like he has; he imagines that he has and that’s part of what keeps him sane. The idea of you.

- But one can only imagine a person for so long. And so, he thinks it over and in the final few sentences of his latest letter, he asks if you can send a photo of yourself along with your response “so that he can put a face to his dear friend”.

- It’s a little while before he receives a response and a part of him dreads that he’s overstepped his boundaries. He fears that he’s lost this important part of his life, that he’s lost you, but just as he’s losing hope, a letter arrives for him; a neatly stuffed envelope that he can immediately recognize as being from you. 

- He knows that your photo is inside the envelope and a part of him contemplates not looking at it, wondering if its worth it to destroy the image he’s created for you. So he reads your letter first, relishing in the new set of words that you’ve sent for as long as he can until he can’t anymore. 

- Finally, after putting it off for as long as he can, he picks up your photo and flips it over, agonizing over every detail of your face. …You’re perfect. Absolutely breathtaking, enough to make his heart skip a beat just by looking at you. 

- He calls you beautiful in his next letter and it’s such a relief that you feel the need to celebrate. You feared that you’d receive no response or that the one you did receive would reveal him to be the complete opposite of what you’d thought him to be; revealing him to be some sort of gross pervert.

- But he was perfectly polite and kind so you wrote back with glee, asking for a photo of him; if it was possible. 

- He manages to get one taken of him and he sends it to you, and you’re surprised to find that you’ve been taking to a relatively handsome man. He gets almost bashful when you tell him such, fondly replying that you’re a liar in his next letter. 

- The only problem with him now having a photo of you is that there’s so much more intimacy to your correspondence. He now knows your face, your body, your hair. He can almost imagine how your skin would feel against his own and the way you smile upon seeing him. 

- And it’s agony. You’re so close and yet so far. He wonders if you feel the same and in some regard, he knows that you do. 

- So he confesses, telling you that he’s had a lot of time to think about it and that, though it may sound silly, he’s come to love you over the years. And in your next letter you return the sentiment.

- Rest assured, you’re one of the things in this world that really give him hope. 

Meeting after Shawshank~

- Andy crawled through hundreds of yards of shit and escaped to Mexico with a new identity and retrospective on life. He’s different than he once was, as different as can be, but perhaps it’s for the better. 

- He did end up opening that hotel on the beach which is where the two of you met. You’d gone to stay there as you looked for a new place to live. 

- Andy, while reserved, is a sweet and gentle man that radiates a certain wisdom and free spirited, joyful nature. He’s been born anew and it seems to show on his face. You like him straight away. 

- And he likes you, always making conversation and offering to help you with whatever you need. 

- The two of you begin a sort of routine. He takes you out on his boat everyday, mainly so that he has the chance to see your face in the sun, the water glinting in your eyes and your hair being blown by the subtle breeze. 

- Sitting on the beach with you is quite possibly the closest thing he’s ever felt to being in heaven. 

- Andy after his escape is more inclined towards opening up to people and showing his love. He’s realized a lot about himself and after years of solitude, he’s eager to have companionship, someone by his side, the touch of another person.

- He wants to have, hold, love another person. He’s realized that life is worth the heartbreak and vulnerability that loving someone brings. So he tells you about his feelings after a week or so of knowing you, admitting that he’s fallen for you and telling you that he’d really like to kiss you, “if that’s alright with you.”. 

[a-lil-perspective]

Hunter x Reader

A/N: What nobody asked for. I didn’t think a title would be appropriate for this particular piece of work. It really doesn’t coincide with any Star Wars themes, save for everybody’s favorite Sergeant making his debut within. It’s more of a Lil perspective. (Lol I’m sorry my last two brain cells have no sense of humor) For context: I have been absolutely suffocating lately, in every sense of the word. It’s almost indescribably oppressive, so I wrote this in desperately seeking comfort and therapy. Just a fragmented depiction, addresses underlying mental health issues and sensory disorders—in carrying my own subtle semblance of it, I love exploring those complexities with Hunter. It turns out soft. I think. Also, if you squint hard enough, you will see some song lyrics scattered throughout the fic in the form of thoughts. I wrote this in the format of Reader, though it’s practically a self-insert, I’m just not brave enough for those particular pronouns. :) Sorry in advance if this doesn’t apply to you...

▫️▪️▫️▪️▫️▪️▫️▪️▫️▪️▫️▪️▫️▪️▫️▪️▫️▪️

Isn’t anyone trying to find me... Won’t somebody come take me home...

The silence was prodding. Hunter’s gaze darted to your tense form numerous times over the span of several painfully long, anticipating minutes. Each time, your lips remained pulled into a tight line while your extremities fidgeted in repetition. Agitation hung thick in the air. A terse statement of Y/N’s mystics echoed off the walls, to no-one in particular.

“I think... I’ve been gone for a long time.”

Hunter’s eyes incredulously searched you. “What do you mean?”

You see me standing, but I’m dying on the floor...

Your fists reflexively clench in grabbing at any semblance of weight to prevent your form from being dragged down into the mental abyss. You could feel it’s foreboding pull. It’s impending chaos.

It’s coming.

“Talk to me, Y/N...”

Your grip slackens, and you slip right over the edge. Hunter is too late to grab you.

I only want to die alive...

Your broken, unbridled guttural cries in response to the months of overwhelming emotional suppression caused Hunter to wince, and his own sensory receptors gain enough momentum to inwardly complain. He instinctively stuffs it down before kicking into action.

“Hey, Y/N, I’m here—”

Electric. The touch. His touch. It pricked, and the very fine hairs adorning the skin along your arms instantly retaliated to the calloused padding of Hunter’s fingertips caressing. It exacerbated your state of distress and just like that, your neurons overloaded. Sharp, stale air seeped in between your grit teeth and inhalation of insecurity.

Your sudden intake of breath and harsh flinch caused Hunter to cease in brushing up and down the outer region of your upper arms. His eyes narrowed slightly and quickly picked apart your stance. It greeted him like an old adversary with the remnants of a longstanding history, and a discomfiture swirled around Hunter at it’s painful familiarity.

“I can’t do this...” You breathe out despair.

The existing in general? The physical connection itself?

The latter wasn’t your fault. But it sure as hell felt like it. It certainly wasn’t his fault. Thankfully, somehow, the glint in Hunter’s shifting irises reassured you that he was privy to your suffering, to some degree; he knew. He understood.

Of course he did.

For who to better understand heightened tactile sensitivity than Sergeant Hunter of Clone Force 99? He was neither confounded nor dissuaded by your particularity in the slightest.

It had always been an inherence of yours; a rather obnoxious caricature within the conundrum, some obscure accessory buried in your already heavily packed bags. An extra ingredient that completely screwed up the recipe. Constituted as awkward, plain and simple; the dramatized detail never became easier to address with age, and the thick lump of disdain in your throat only grew.

You set your jaw in frustration. How to even begin picking up and putting together the pieces of a person who’s constantly missing one, or several. You were never satiated, equanimity never extended it’s stay for long; simply just renting. There was always something, someone, leaving a smoking hole in your chest, forcing every euphoric guest out.

I seek to cure what’s deep inside... frightened of this thing that I’ve become...

Your features twisted in agony and discomfort that accompanied the stoked episodes. It made you bitter. It threw you to the streets and dubbed you a martyr before satirically exposing, taunting at the misfortune of your dealt deck of cards. It was downright embarrassing, obtruding. Trepidations instantaneously trampled your meager, sensory overloaded form each and every time. Your bitter, corrosive laugh was all the evidence in that moment; a feeble reminder of your hypocrisy.

Because how, pray tell, does one’s physicality simultaneously experience both a revulsion for tactility and desperate craving for touch itself? You never understood exactly the way the two collided and contradicted themselves. Your teeth clamped your tongue in quelling the deprivation and plea for more rising in your throat, while your neurons worked to whisk your form as far away from the man as possible—away to the repetition of obsolete emptiness and desolation awaiting to greet you. As always.

“Let me help, cyare.” Begging... the man was hurting for you.

Don’t want to say yes, don’t want to say no...

Your mind ached. You can’t stop the pendulum in your head. Forced to look through a kaleidoscope of melancholy. Pleas echoed in a cavernous empty shell, but fell on deaf ears. Tears cancelled their appointment, and the well currently ran dry. There was... nothingness. And you fought the growing complaisance with the notion. Numbness was terrifying, and being terrified was numbing. You didn’t do well with attitudinal changes, seeking restitution more than ever while you wholly acknowledged the aspect of a ginger touch; the literal power within one’s fingertips to effectively mitigate your suffering. An opportune moment standing before you, his brows furrowed in sympathy and the corner of his lips angled in assuring you of his patience.

But the sharp pang and quick successions of staccato rhythm reverberated deep in your chest and only exaggerated your pain. Curse your heavy heart. A huff of breath incited subtle movement in the loose strands hanging over your profile, to which Hunter borrowed a moment in reaching out to sweep the curtain back.

Your head was under water, yet... you were breathing just fine. You just had yet to find the damned drain to expel the pernicious and suffocating sea of psychological terror into.

I just need to clear my head... don’t let it go to your head...

You quiver under Hunter’s intense appraisal, and shame swirls thickly. “I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t be. Please.” He immediately interjects, his palm turns upright and opens invitingly. “I’m here. Tell me what you need.”

Just tell him what you need.

“I... I don’t know.” Your admission speaks in a whisper of loss and uncertainty. You roll the flesh of your bottom lip between your teeth, the lump returns to your throat, and it’s crawling. Your gaze flickers.

“Just focus on me, cyare.”

Another catch: you can’t maintain eye contact to save your life. Kriff your soul. “That won’t work.” Your eyes anchor to the cold floor as sheer panic and the sturdy walls themself began to rise around your trembling self.

I can’t come alive... I want the room to take me under... Feel myself fading away...

“Okay—it’s okay,” he soothes. Hunter fervently wracks his brain—the way he decompresses and approaches his own form of stimming is slightly different; it’s different for everybody with a hyperactive response to stimuli. It took the Sergeant years to cultivate those particular penchants and even longer to tailor and perfect them to his predilection. If anything, he felt slightly apprehensive in the success of his methods.

Your hands that now wrap tightly around your rigid form are currently the only familiar pair of hands granted permission to access the area. You give a brief squeeze and teeter on the balls of your feet.

Hunter didn’t require a sniper’s nonpareil eyesight to see right through your peculiarity, even if he was briefly taken aback at it’s sudden effervescing. Truthfully, he should’ve picked up on it days ago: at your fierce denial and subtle panic over Hunter’s harmless offer of a massage after you had worked out a particularly stubborn knot kinking his lower back—a simple requite of mutuality, or so he thought. At the time, the Sergeant found himself shrouded in enigma over your reaction; seriously, who—other than him who barely tolerates it—doesn’t enjoy massages? It now made perfect sense. He fought the urge to self-deprecate over his ignorance.

“I’m suffocating, Hunter.” You choke, and the cadence of your voice is like a knife twisting into his heart; he gleans vicarious pain from your own.

Clarity suddenly lights up the Sergeant’s features, and you’re briefly hyper-fixated with the way the inky but slightly faded outline of his shadowy tattoo fluctuates in natural contortion with his many facial expressions. Just behind his eyes he beholds his brothers—

‘I’m suffocating, ori’vod’...

Hunter remembers...

Of the exact way he presses against Tech in order to smother his vod’ika’s fleeting bouts of anxiousness—the pressure nearly breaking the kid’s goggles on more than one occasion, and the way he compresses Crosshair’s shoulders in squeezing out the pent up anger to placate amidst the sniper’s wavering, and the position of which Hunter managed to encompass his brawny brother in a comforting embrace whenever the big guy experienced despondency—that is until Wrecker quickly outgrew his ori’vod and began flaunting his own prowess of overpowering hugs.

The difference between the scenarios was minimal. Hunter knew exactly what to do. Like second-nature to him, his nurturing instincts fully kicked in and determination spread through every fiber of his being, quashing the previous buzz of his own nerves.

Hunter didn’t know how well he could alleviate your emotional pain, but there was something he could do for the neurological aspect, and hopefully, one could ease the other...

Hunter ambles up to you and in one swift motion, secures the length of his arms around your upper back, noting the delineate contour of toned muscles and shoulder blades poking into his forearms that now drape across before his hands encircle and come to firmly rest on each shoulder. Firmness. Pressure—for your state, this depiction is key. He determinedly pulls you to him, unrelenting in a tight grip. The position of the crown of your head settled neatly under his chin, and stray hair peppered his textured features with tickling kisses as Hunter dips his head to softly press his lips to your roots.

I wish that I could bring you back to me...

With your face suddenly buried in the man’s chest, you come to distinctly acknowledge two immediate sensations. One; the man is warm. Not the muggy, stuffy warmth of Tatooine that is unpleasantly abrasive and dry; but a soft warmth that permeates, stoking memories of baked goods within the cushion of a heated oven warmly enveloping you each time it’s doors open, and seeking to melt the hardened encasing that is your tense muscles. It eases you towards a serenity. You have a ways to go before you can make out the sign in the distance, but Hunter himself is one step forward along the path.

Two; he smells amazing. A faint smoky sultry, an obscurely mesquite scent, slightly tangy and reminiscent of raw timber that is both luxurious and intoxicating; a sweet smell you’d classify as anything but cloying. Like he bathes with suds of fresh mountain air and luscious forests. It’s soothing, and your mind immediately associates the tangibility with a daydream and mercifully blesses you with the glimpse; of your husband having just entered your cozy homestead from a day of hard but fruitful labor in his intricate works of carpentry within the serene seclusion of temperate countryside enveloping your favorite planet—

Handle with care... say you’ll be there...

“Whatcha thinkin’ about, cyare—is this okay?” Hunter momentarily shifts and the rich baritone of the Sergeant’s voice resounding through his broad chest reels you back while he briefly tenses at your pending answer.

It was okay—your head was still swimming in an infinitely deep ocean of thoughts, but the way his hand slips from it’s position on your shoulder to cradle the back of your head before curling around the soft locks equates to the physical manifestation of a life preserver cast to your drowning form.

Your muffled confirmation and sheepish thanks warmly enveloped Hunter, as did your hands shifting to wrap around his broad frame in reciprocation. His grip tightened, and he patiently waits for you.

Hold.... Hold on... Hold on to me, ‘cause I’m a little unsteady...

Hunter refrains from trailing to stroke further along your back; the sneaking suspicion that the sensation might further tip off your nerves. So he remained stationary, and deciphered the way you seemingly favored a firm, weighted grasp and a grounding touch over ghosting fingertips and light, feathery textures. He could relate to that.

But Hunter couldn’t stop the hum of contentment that escaped his lips at your fingers having absentmindedly wandered up to twirl at his ebony tresses. He, personally, loved your soft, well-placed strokes full of deliberation and meaning, and only you were allowed to grace him with them.

Hunter could feel your heart hammering against the veil of his blacks, and his ears hearkened to the rhythm of your burdened breaths. He shifted his weight and began to gently sway with you, unsure of the words to say.

“I should’ve told you earlier,” your conscience suddenly prods.

A snort fills the air. “Oh, I would’ve figured it out soon enough. I’m kinda smart like that,” Hunter cringes at his corny sense of humor, but he swore the faintest of chortles rumbled beneath him.

He grants a final squeeze to your shoulders, careful to avoid the sensitive areas along your arms, before pulling back to address your face. Trouble and distress still graced you, and Hunter laced his fingers with your own. He thumbed at the worn flesh encasing your defined knuckles, a relic indicative of steadfast manual labor. You slowly exhaled at the touch; pressure along the palms and backside of your hands was soothing to you. You often wrung them to keep preoccupied when there was no warmth to solidify the muscle, fingertips drummed erratic tempos along your thighs whenever the mood struck, and loud cracking of the stiff joints in transient tics was a regularly becoming thing.

Take me by the hand, take me somewhere new...

Hunter tugged lightly in ushering you to the cot, firmly planting himself on the worn, creaking edge before his gaze met yours in awaiting approval. If he blinked, he would’ve missed the barely perceptible nod of your head in confirmation. Hunter leaned back on his full weight in gesturing you with him, and your form followed suit as you found yourself abruptly layered directly atop the rugged plains of his chest. The quirk of his lips told you he didn’t mind being used as a body pillow. Hunter’s arms suddenly turned up empty to rest above his head.

“I want you to be comfortable. No brushing. Just tell me where to put my hands.” He clarified, and appreciation bubbled in your chest. You contemplated for a moment.

“Just... hold me close.” You began to guide his hands to the exact position. “Please.”

His limbs obeyed by wrapping snugly as a hand found rest at the small of your back, and the other nestled itself slightly higher up the expanse, fingers splayed. Hunter solidified the closed space, and not even a muted ray of light could pass between the two forms.

You found solace within the cage of well-endowed muscle, slowly suppressing your nerves on each side and physically shielding you from the works of mental oppression. But his touch left you hyperaware; from an overtly suffocating insecurity towards every part of your body now lingering against his own, to the precise and tranquil thrum of his heartbeat in contrast with your racing one. Your stimuli sparks again in response to the stress.

“Y/N.” Hunter cuts through your tension, his voice laced with concern—you cannot calm yourself down, and you’re certain your mind absolutely loathes you. “Everything will be alright, I promise—don’t tense up, baby. Relax against me.” You angle your head so that one side of your face plants to his chest; you wish to better hear his sturdy heartbeat. You suddenly remember your own. It’s still beating. Resounding; indicative of purpose. Your breaths; symbolizing life.

Just keep breathing... my air...

“That’s it. Just breathe.” Hunter encourages. He reaches up to press against your temple in stroking at the hairline. Unbound locks cascaded around each other, a mixture of two colors softly tangled on either sides of the furniture. You lost count of your numbered breaths in the midst of solitude when a question unveils from your thoughts.

“How do you do it?” Your words trump the stagnant silence, a desperate inquiry that peaks through the fibers. You tilt your chin to better regard the man.

Confusion tugs at the corner of Hunter’s lips. “Do, what?”

“Anything...” you unload, and there’s a crackle to your voice. “The stress, the sensory... how do you manage? What’s your anchor in this wretched, kriffing life?”

A smile creeps up Hunter’s features, and his deep, reflective pools burn through you. “I’m looking at my anchor. And she helps me manage just fine.”

Your eyes blow protuberant and you manage to stare at him, dumbfounded. “What?”

“Honey, you are it.” His satisfied smirk grows wider, digging into his cheeks.

Something twitches at the corners of your lip and pulls into an upward curve; the feeling is tight, foreign. Your cheek muscles are unsure of how to compensate for the expression. You can’t remember the last time a smile has naturally graced your features. Now, it’s genuine. It’s... nice, and the hot rivulets currently streaming down your face are in a unanimous agreement.

Hunter moves to cup your face and thumb below your eyes, and his lips kiss the salt away. You grab hold of his forearms and shut your eyes.

“You want to know how I manage?” He croons in determination, “When my visual is overstimulated, I close my eyes and focus on the features of your face ingrained in my memory. When certain auditory has me weak at the knees, I remember the lull of your voice, comforting. When my nerves are on fire and I want nothing more than to be physically desensitized, it’s your soft touch that acts as a blanket, covering, making it easier for me. You make it better. Me better. Life better.” Hunter finishes his declaration in lovingly swiping at your face once more, expunging your pain. Words make a prompt exit along with it.

Your lips find purchase at the stubble along his jaw, in response. You love being able to fully make out the intricacy of his irises, now that you’re lovingly gazing into them. When you exit your captivated trance—his eyes are beautiful—you vaguely note with a twinge of pride that the encounter was indefinitely your longest standing record for maintaining eye contact. Another gentle smile fills your features. You remove your weight from him.

“Take this off?” You shyly tug at the collar of his blacks, seeking his consent, respectful of his own sensory receptors and their boundaries.

“Thought you’d never ask,” Hunter sits to quickly shed the upper article of clothing. He pulls you on top once again, and you are relishing in his bare skin. Your fingers map out a path of their own volition along the various textures and scars dotting the pectoral flesh.

“You never told me what you were thinking about earlier,” Hunter nonchalantly called you out. Your brows furrow in confusion. “There was something different on your face when I first held you. Just a flicker. But you looked... happy. Content, even.” Hunter smirked. “Hope you’re not planning to keep all that happiness to yourself.”

You certainly weren’t planning to. You recalled the picturesque and beckoned it forth... there was your sign of serenity. Just the shape of it, but solid, and clear. Hopeful, and promising, just on the horizon. It made your chest flutter, and ebbed away at the heartache. You realized Hunter’s brow arched in anticipation.

“How would you feel about working in carpentry?” A chuckle. Hunter was thoroughly humored, and surprisal was briefly evident on his features.

“So I can build you and I a house? To fill a bunch of babies with? Gladly.” He chased the daydream alongside you, and it was your turn to borrow the surprise; your mouth hung agape as heat crept through the apples of your cheeks. Hunter’s laugh boomed as a hand fit under your chin to close your parted lips. He wished to use his own to do the trick, but, another time.

“I’m with you.”

[goddamnitdazai]

intersect. || TachiChuu

Rarepair week Day 3 - Carrying Home || Contains Manga Spoilers || canon typical violence ||  Death is a texture. Thick like sludge that clings to everything. Death is a consistency of cold, eerie thoughts that rupture in the forefront of a mind succumbing to pain. To sickness. Death is both stagnate and ever changing. It contorts itself in to the life of others who witness it while simultaneously diminishing the light of a soul once burning as forceful as the sun. Death is prudent and strong--but there are cracks and flaws. Immeasurable circumstances that can change with one movement, one different action where death is pushed off for a time being. Chuuya, for most of his life, has been the unstoppable force. Or at least has tried.

In the last year the movements he’d constructed within seconds have strung death up by its heels. It had been coming after those he cared for time and time again and it had the young man grinding his teeth in the throws of war. Endless, it seemed. The madness of it all drew heavy ink-hued bags beneath once bright azure and where he once saw home now laid a reminder of all those he lost. Five towers knocked down to three. Smoke and ash curling among ruins. Memories wrapped in crumpled steel and concrete. 

The Port Mafia and Yokohama were running short on time. People fled, as they did during the last great war, and people remained to fight off the ones who turned their city into a battle zone. Neighboring gangs teaming up under the leadership of one powerful, and rather obnoxious as Chuuya saw him, man with dark eyes and and even darker soul. There were days Chuuya did not rest more than an hour or two before being called on to team up with the city’s strongest ability users currently able to withstand the siege. The hunting dogs. Among their ranks, a man formerly part of what he considered his family and a man he respected, though their interaction remained in situational delegations. Now and again Chuuya had gone on shorter missions accompanied by Tachihara before he betrayed the Port Mafia. He was good with a gun, and Chuuya was good with his legs. Missions that required reconnaissance as much as brute power were done well by the two of them. At first the subordinate seemed nervous around Chuuya and he was unsure if it was his demeanor or his position. Both, Chuuya had assumed but with the events that had unfolded months ago it was heard to decipher what was true. At least that is what Chuuya told himself. Truthfully, he knew the kid wasn’t that great of an actor nor was he that cold. There was sincerity in who Tachihara was while hidden in the Black Lizard. He supposes it doesn’t matter at this point. Tachihara was doing his job to protect the city, and for the time being Chuuya could forget his transgressions for the sake of Yokohama. Hirtosu and Gin were breathing, and truth be told Chuuya related to both the feeling of betrayal and betraying what he could consider...family. A literal knife in Chuuya’s back based on fear and manipulation. Mirrored actions. Parallel paths intersecting on a different timeline. Chuuya huffs at the thought. Understanding Tachihara’s reasoning didn’t excuse his actions, but it made it more difficult at times to hold blame. Chuuya was angry; but could he be? A bullet whizzes past his head directing his attention to the forefront. He smirks. Twisting the bullet back to its original owner with a soft hum. Concrete falling to dust beneath this weighted footsteps red aura glowing through his body. Scent of blood thick in the air, but he’d been around it so long it’d become a familiar perfume. Gunshots ring out. His smirk rises knees bending to shoot him up on top of a pile of bricks next to a decaying parking garage. Bits of what used to be a bookstore and second floor coffee shop leaning down from bombs blowing out the walls. Glass shards rise up coated in fluid garnit piercing the air with a quick whistle that silences the gunfire. He was looking for the leader’s supply route, and from the look of all the semi trucks he’d found it. A second explosion rattles Chuuya’s skeleton before he jumps from rock to rock brought up by the gravitational pull at his fingertips. Avoiding the attempted assassination and only feeling faint warmth from the glowing fire until it buries itself in grey smoke. Chuuya smirks and waits for the second round of gunfire. Heart pumping blood quickly through his veins as bullets surround him, middle finger out and directing the now-ruby glowing bullets in a swirl just to send them right back. In his peripheral he notices metal beams moving quickly past the semi trucks that had been idling suspiciously quiet. Where were the drivers? Apparently, not the men he just killed with their own bullets. He could really use a fucking cigarette right now.

More metal rattles from a pile of wreckage flinging bits into dust covered shadows. Chuuya side steps one with a grunt hands shoved deep in his pockets as he walks towards the four trucks lined in a row trying to place what used to be here. He didn’t spend much time on this side of town unless he was driving by on his bike. A car dealership? Something useless to him. His eyes bounce around the environment taking in each strip of detail, where every particle of dust falls, and the faint sound of labored breathing. Chuuya stops mid-step peering down beneath his foot. Thick crimson pooling near a pile of sharpened metal fragments dug deep into a man’s body. Hunter green and pale blue--the color scheme was tacky and easy to spot. The enemy, despite their destruction, weren’t exactly in the business of protecting their own. Chuuya steps on the man’s chest ending it quickly. Traitor couldn’t even end a life before he moved on to the next, he thinks, jaw locking as he continues forward dust caking his shoe in mottled grey and brown. Mangled framework of a half-finished building peeks through the billowing smoke and dust. Night sky keeping a majority of the street clouded in deep navy, but the dark was nothing out of the ordinary for Chuuya. This much destruction in one swoop was something of a rare occasion and it left a sour taste in his mouth. He shakes the memory from his head; later. When he was alone with a bottle of wine and the job was completed. He could unravel for a moment before picking himself up again. His posture straightens as he kicks a boulder in to a hidden guard aiming for his head. “Oi, you fuckers going to play hide and seek all night or are we going to have a real fight?” He calls into the darkness, smirk rising higher than the sliver of moonlight above. More gunfire, scattered. Thin pops of gold against murky black encapsulating the broken down building making it easier for them to hide. Chuuya didn’t care. He was used to fighting in the dark. He follows the sound, humming. Bullets bouncing off him, cement cracking beneath his feet into a dozen sharp comets careening forward. Blood splatters. Metal shakes. A curled beam split in thin strips begins to vibrate at his ankle and shoots forward completing the end of a few stragglers his rocks didn’t take out completely. At least Tachihara was doing his fucking job. Chuuya ducks beneath one of the tilted beams leaning against a half-crumpled wall of bricks like the entrance to a tent. Smoke thick enough to make him pull his forearm up to block it from entering his lungs. Quietly he steps over rubble and glass shards, bullet casings rolling into the obscurity around him sound echoing louder the deeper he walks. Strips of moonlight casting white over bruised and battered bodies atop a pool of crimson painting the floor. Metal shards sticking out of a few further in. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up--something hits the floor near him hidden in the shadow barely caught by his quick-shifting gaze. Three seconds more and Chuuya would have kicked a crater in Tachihara’s head. “Oi, warn me next time you’re going to sneak up on me!” He grates out, pivoting with his hands shoved back down in his pockets. Blue eyes growing wide at the sight of his former subordinate. Tachihara looked a bit buffer, maybe from training again with the hunting dogs, maybe Chuuya never really paid attention. Blood had begun to streak down his side soaking the white t-shirt and familiar jacket. Strange how he’d changed from his outfit. Confuse the enemy, keep his secret identity hidden from foreign organizations..it didn’t matter. Chuuya’s jaw locks as he kneels down on the balls of his feet to asses. “You okay?” He asks voice a touch softer than before. Tachihara looks up at him blood caked on the right side of his head cascading down in thick dribbles over his cheek and chin. Shoulder speckled with the same deep red. “Yeah boss, asshole clipped my side and I fell.” He half-smiles and tries to push himself up to his knees only to fall again hand barely catching his weight. Chuuya’s brow arches. Boss? “Is Hirotsu okay?” Tachihara asks through gritted teeth. “Old man hasn’t been here all night. Shouldn’t he be helping or is it his bed time?” Despite the apparent pain Tachihara’s voice remains teasing, the way Chuuya remembered. Gruff, deep, a street tone Chuuya recognized in himself but airy in a way when he was around those he trusted. “Hirotsu…” shit, his head. Chuuya stares at him for a few moments running through different scenarios that could play out. Mori would want the information, but if he didn’t remember he was fucking useless as a captive. He wouldn’t even know he was captive. Chuuya rubs his palm down his face. “He’s fine. Hanging back letting us young ones do all the fuckin’ work.” Chuuya couldn’t let him die. For a myriad of reasons that would send the mafia in hot water, and..he couldn’t let him fucking die. Traitor or not. Traitor. That fucking word made Chuuya’s mouth feel dirty. And yet here they both were, perfectly described with that adjective. The only difference being time. Which meant what? It didn’t lessen the levels, the dishonesty and lies for personal gain. What happened because of his inability to lead. Tachihara showed himself as he was, there was little doubt in Chuuya’s mind the smoke and mirrors were just enough to infiltrate. Personal gain. Only reason to join a brigade like that; he wasn’t a mastermind like Jouno or a diehard believer...--but what drove him? Chuuya swears he feels something press into his back, the scar left long ago. Cold. His spine tingles. Tachihara’s face pales, sweat beginning to bead beneath his forehead and soak the front of his shirt. “C-c-chuuya-san...think..we can save the rest for the old man? Should pull his damn weight yeah?” That fucking half-smile, the one that tries to hide how deep his wounds were. His pain. “I suppose it’s only fair.” Chuuya states, extending his arms to scoop Tachihara up with ease. Kid was light as hell. “Oi, how do you weigh so little with all that muscle?” “I---you’re strong” He half bows to Chuuya in embarrassment, but the angle merely leads to Tachihara bumping the good side of his head against Chuuya’s chin. The older man grunts, eyes focused on what was in front of him. Feet moving fluidly through the wreckage; drop off point. The government had made one and he didn’t really give a fuck about being told to stay off the perimeter. Tachihara slumps against Chuuya’s chest causing Chuuya’s eyes to flit down in a panic that sends his heart to his throat. “Stay awake, Tachihara. It’s an order.” Chuuya commands in a tone the younger should recognize, and the reply of a simple nod is enough. The walk wouldn’t be too long, and from the quiet ahead there wouldn’t be much to stop them. Shadows pave their way winding through buildings and alleys. Yokohama drifting in to the one of the very few tranquil moments. Out of habit Chuuya begins to hum to himself. Filling the silence, and from what a few of them had said long ago… the reminder of someone else being there was comforting when everything else was uncertain and death loomed close. Chuuya tightens his grip on Tachihara, humming a bit louder as night begins to fall away to dawn.

[scripttorture]

Have you ever heard a character named Jason Todd? He is part of Batman mythos and used to be a kid hero who was tortured and beaten up with a crowbar by the infamous Joker. Now, my question is, how much times or days could somebody survive being beaten with a crowbar? And if the story allows for sad character to survive, what kind of physical or mental scar would leave such a traumatic event on someone young psyche?

Ihave actually written fanfiction with Jason Todd (I make no claims tothe quality).

Theanswer is that it really depends on where they’re hit and how luckythey are. All my figures here are estimates.

I’destimate that the number of strong blows to the head with a metalobject like a crowbar someone can survive is probably 0. One blowfrom a hard object like that can cause death. Hell one punch to thehead can cause death.

Modernmedicine can deal with a lot of the damage these kinds of scarringbeatings cause. Cosmetic and orthopaedic surgery are reallyincredibly advanced. Complex breaks no longer necessarily lead tolife long disability.

Butthere’s still only so much damage the body can handle before thingsstart to shut down.

Andbeatings generally are a particularly uncontrolled way of inflictingdamage.

Forexample: say the bad guy in this scenario decides to concentrate onone of the victim’s legs. This kind of systematic breaking of bonesmight actually be repairable nowadays with enough time, physio andsurgery. But if one of the bone fragments pierces a major vein in theleg then the victim would likely bleed out and die. Again, thatscenario doesn’t take more than one blow, it just requires a bit ofbad luck.

Blowsto the chest would likely crack or break the ribs and repeated blowscan drive broken ribs into the lungs. Which again, during a sustainedattack can be deadly.

Blowsaround the stomach area could cause a lethal amount of damage to theorgans there.

Andeven if none of this happens there’s a point where sustainedbeatings cause kidney failure.

Thisis actually what causes deaths in stress positions too. Essentially alot of damage to the muscles causes release of large proteins intothe blood stream. The body treats these as poisonous and so directsthem to the kidneys. But the kidneys can only cope with so much. Ifthe proteins keep coming (because the damage keeps happening) thenthey eventually fail under the strain of trying to get rid of them.

Nowin stress positions there’s a defined time frame for roughly whenthis level of damage happens in most people. But beatings, even withdefined objects, are highly variable in that regard.

Ifyou want to write this attack on Jason Todd and make it plausiblysurvivable I think that treating it as if he got lucky in some regardis sensible. This is a very risky scenario and however you look at itdeath is a likely outcome. I wouldn’t say survival is completelyimpossible but anyone being struck repeatedly with a heavy metalobject is at considerable risk.

I’dsuggest avoiding any blows to the head or neck. I’d suggest makingit oneattack rather than multiple beatings over several days.

I-hesitate to put down things like ‘number of blows’ for mostattacks because that kind of information often isn’t recorded. SoI’d be guessing based on no information. (Whipping is an exceptionbecause a lot of cultures sentenced people to a set number of strikeswhich were carried out over a particular period of time.)

Also-most survivors are probably not going to remember exactly how manyblows there were. Unless they were deliberately counting for somereason I don’t think many attackers would remember either.

Butin terms of the timeattacks like this take, it’s generally shorter then you’d think.That’s partly because, from the attackers point of view, it’shard physical work. Crow bars are heavy, swinging them with forcetakes effort. Most beatings take a few minutes. Anything with aheavier object is going to be more tiring for the attacker.

Idon’t think going over two minutes is a good idea in this case andsomething closer to a minute seems like a better option. Any longerwould make survival less likely and would also be less likely from-well considering the attacker’s strength and stamina.

Ialso think it would be a good idea to describe it so that the blowsaren’t concentrated on one particular area. If they’re spaces outover the victim’s body then his survival is probably a little moreplausible.

Asfor the lasting impact-

Thephysical damage is going to depend on where exactly you’redescribing the blows falling but we’re talking broken bones withjust about strike. Deliberate breaks near the joints tend to be morecomplicated and might cause permanent mobility problems. Some breaksmight require a degree of surgical correction.

It’s-So did you know that if someone gets hit hard enough with a hardobject their bone can literally pulverise? Sections of bone canstraight up ‘vanish’ because they’ve been broken into powder. Ifound that out recently. I don’t feel this has enriched my life.

Thisisn’t necessarily deadly but it requires surgical correction.Generally using bits of metal as I understand it. These surgeriesleave scars.

Anyarea that’s likely to have complex injuries requiring surgicalcorrection is going to have additional scarring related to thoseprocedures. Not being a medic I can’t give any real detail here,but I can point out vulnerable spots that often require surgery afterscarring beatings. Hands, feet and the joints are probably the mostvulnerable areas. The face is too, but I still advise you avoid that.In this case I think the collar bones could also be severely damaged.

I’dexpect a character with this injury pattern on this scale to needphysiotherapy and take a long time to recover their mobility.

There’sa high chance of permanent damage to the joints, hands, feet andspine. Any of these could result in life long disability.

Keepin mind I’m ignoring the chance of outright death or severe braindamage blows to the head might cause. I’m also ignoring fallinginjuries: if the character were to fall and hit his head that toocould be lethal.

There’dalso be a decent chance of infection which would effect long termrecovery.

Andagain, there’s a chance of kidney failure via muscle damage,there’s a chance of punctured lungs. There’s a chance that bruteforce damage from a blow to the lower back could damage the kidneysbeyond repair.

There’smonths, possibly years, of physical recovery here. And for asuperhero character without powers I think that means the characterprobably couldn’tever get back the level of ability they had before.

Idon’t mean they’d necessarily be permanently disabled (thoughthat’s a likely outcome for this scenario). Instead think of themas like an athlete at the height of their ability. A top athlete whosuffers injuries severe enough to have them hospitalised for monthsor years is probably never going to make it back to Olympic levelperformance.

Asfor the mental effects-

Weknow what the possible effects are. But most survivors don’t getevery possible symptom. It’s impossible to predict exactly who willget which symptoms.

I’vegot a post on the symptoms which you can read here.I generally suggest picking around 3-5 symptoms from the list.

Scripttraumasurvivorshasa post about how these symptoms can manifest at different ages here.

Agedoesn’t effect symptoms. But it can effect how people respond tosymptoms and how they express those symptoms. Because the way we showand talk about our feelings does change as we age.

Whenit comes to writinga character who’s survived an attack like this I tend to recommendpicking symptoms based on what youthinkadds to the story.

Takea look at the list. If there’s a symptom there that you think couldmake the plot you’re writing better that’s a good choice. Ifthere’s a symptom you could use to show the readers a little moreabout the kind of person Jason is, or something about hisrelationships to other characters, those are also good choices.

Alot of the later comics have emphasised Jason’s aggression.Personally I would steer away from that and try to pick symptoms thatwould help show his vulnerabilities instead. That’s a personalchoice rather than a judgement of what’s ‘better’ or ‘morelikely’.

Whenyou’re picking symptoms there isn’t really a ‘bad’ choice. Solong as you write the symptoms realistically.

Unlikethe physical symptoms psychological symptoms willbe there for the rest of the character’s life. They can improveand it’s perfectly possible to recover enough to live a full andhappy life. But that isn’t the same as the symptoms vanishing.

Picksymptoms that youfeel comfortable writing. If you don’t feel good about writingsuicidal feelings then there is nothingwrongwith picking a different symptom.

Andif you’re unsure about how to tie symptoms to a character or a plotthen I’ve got a post here on another comic book character you mightfind useful.

Ihope that helps. :)

Availableon Wordpress.

Disclaimer

[kiruuuuu]

More recruitverse in which Ivan is actually nice! (Rating T, nothing but fluff, ~2.2k words) - written for @nutbrain​ because you inspire, encourage and support all those around you 💙💙

.

Ivan Ivanovic has been called blind countless times throughout his life, sometimes a variation like deaf or stupid, usually in relation to perceived obliviousness. He’s neither of the three yet sees no trouble in letting others believe he is – after all, their assumptions about him reveal more about their personalities than his.

He learnt early on that some of the facts taught to children in good faith are nothing but propaganda, a desirable yet unattainable outcome, merely a way to try and manipulate them into ‘goodness’. He’s unable to help everyone so he doesn’t, reduces the situations in which he could help to a simple cost and reward deliberation: when he notices Shay (who quite clearly has his heart in the right place even if his head isn’t on straight) hanging around with the wrong people, he doesn’t interfere; when Jojo gets bullied for something over which he has no control, he stays away; when Valenti becomes a regular scapegoat since he wants to fit in so badly he’d rather take the blame, he doesn’t speak up; and when Gian is alienated and called elitist behind his back because he refuses to partake in activities he feels are unfair to others, he ignores it. None of these scenarios were worth his meddling.

But he also got told that others would come to his aid. That humanity is inherently good. And while he remains conflicted on this notion, he must secretly believe it true or else he wouldn’t be fighting for them. Even so, he remembers digging his own grave by allowing everyone around him to share his happiness, the life he was building with her, and in the process undermined his own credibility. Because when he started telling others of her worrying behaviour, they waved it off. She was so nice, wasn’t she? He was lucky to have her, who cared if she wanted to go through his phone? He shouldn’t have anything to hide, right? And if he did, it was his own fault. And so, eventually no help came. Because he’d been happy so far, hadn’t he? He knew what she was like, and he was probably exaggerating anyway. He shouldn’t throw away years of happiness after one off day, everyone has those, she’s been under a lot of stress recently, right? No? Well, there must’ve been a reason and the reason can’t have been anything other than him.

And then Jojo wouldn’t go away, and he brought three others with him. And Gian listened with more compassion than any of Ivan’s friends and family had done. And Shay treated him as if they’d known each other since they were kids. And Valenti, who normally doubted all his achievements and frequently demanded proof, defended him viciously the moment someone outside of their group did it.

Helping anyone became a lot easier with these four idiots as pay-off.

So no, Ivan isn’t blind. He’d even call himself unusually perceptive, though he doesn’t often act on it which, he assumes, is the reason why his awareness gets insulted, and he doesn’t act on it as it oftentimes requires him to go out of his way for someone who generally isn’t worth his time or effort. But sometimes, the opposite is true.

.

“I got propositioned just now!”, Jojo announces sarcastically proud as soon as he’s breezed into their room, hair still wet from his shower and already wearing clothes fit for sleep.

“Did you reactivate your Grindr account?”, Gian wants to know, being quite aware of the fact that Jojo proclaimed never to use the app ever again, but seeing as it was the third outburst he’s had over it since they’ve known each other, none of them took him seriously. Gian and Valenti only just came back as well from some form of punishment outside, meaning they’re both shivering and dancing on the spot to warm up faster.

Ivan’s arms remember the feel of the Frenchman’s body between them and remind him sharply. He regrets the hug they shared, the entire odd moment really because it leaves him no peace. He thinks back to it at least three times a day and has since tried to stay away from Valenti – and if his presence is unavoidable, then he at least hasn’t touched him again.

“Fuck no, I’d rather rim the devil than go back to that endless void of horny middle-aged creeps.”

“Sounds like you have solid target group at least”, Ivan offers as half-hearted comfort and gets shown a finger in return.

“Tell us, Jojo, who was dumb enough to hit on you while you’re in a mood this rotten?”, Valenti joins their conversation, trying to rub some feeling back into his hands.

“My mood was perfectly fine before that douchenozzle macho fuckboy opened his stupid mouth.”

“Please, your mood has been rotten for days now.”

“That’s not bloody true, why would -”

Wordlessly, they all glance at Shay who’s stretched out on his top bunk, phone in hand and texting away blissfully with a smile on his face. He hasn’t even welcomed Jojo back, let alone acknowledged any of them since he’s started talking to Brittany half an hour ago. By now, even Thatcher must be aware of what’s going on yet the Irishman in their middle remains unsuspecting. He would deserve to be called blind.

“Anyway”, Jojo continues and they all seem relieved at him picking up the thread of the conversation once more, “I ran into Jacob Griffin-Worthington, and as the laws of nature dictate, with a name like Jacob Griffin-Worthington, he had no choice but to be a giant arsehole. So there I was, minding my own business, when Jacob Griffin-Worthington appeared out of nowhere and wanted to know how my love life was going. And I told him it was fantastic, I literally can’t stop sucking dick every free minute I have, so Jacob Griffin-Worthington -”

“I swear, if you say his full name one more time I’m going to tell him you’re crushing on him”, Valenti groans, much to Ivan’s amusement. There’s no love lost between Jacob and any of them.

“- so he who shall not be named suggested I kiss his ass in case my mouth would ever become available again and I said before I voluntarily touch any part of his body, I’d rather -”

Shay produces an odd sound, almost like choking, and this time he notices holding all their attention, looking both flustered and thrilled. “What? It’s nothing. Keep talking.”

“Are you alright?”, Jojo asks, concerned, because as much as he’s pissed off with his best friend for everybody to see, they’re still best friends.

“Yeah, it’s just – Brit just -” He trails off, looks at his phone screen again briefly and cradles it against his chest once more. “No, it’s fine. What were you talking about?”

“Did she send a nude?” Valenti must’ve noticed Shay’s bright red ears.

“Well, not quite, but – almost. She’s so pretty.” Another glance. The red darkens. “Jojo, do you want to see? I’m only showing Jojo, before you ask, everything else would be weird.”

“It’s weird enough showing me”, Jojo murmurs and rolls his eyes, “but alright. Let’s see the goods.”

And while the two stick their heads together to marvel at Shay’s girlfriend at the one end of the room, Valenti and Gian exchange a few exasperated looks at the other. For the moment, Ivan returns to tapping away at his phone, learning all about castling while simultaneously keeping his ears open for fragments of conversations in case anything interesting comes up again.

“Did you not own a scarf?”, Gian addresses Valenti questioningly.

“Ah, curses, you’re right. If it’s gone, Bandit must’ve taken it. I’m telling you, we need to take him down, truce or not, he offered me another brownie the other day and I bet it wasn’t a normal one.”

“Perhaps we could try to endeavour not to instigate trouble for which we suffer the same consequences as Bandit does for his pranks.”

“So what you’re saying is: we shouldn’t get caught again.”

Gian’s deep sigh doesn’t cover up Shay’s quiet ‘you smell nice’ to Jojo and if Ivan wasn’t already busy googling something all of a sudden, he’d attempt to send Jojo some telepathic sympathy.

.

Getting away from the others isn’t difficult for Ivan, he merely needs to threaten with additional exercise and they drop out, and even on the occasions Valenti doesn’t, he can tire him out easily and then sneak away while the Frenchman is busy trying to breathe. He rarely makes use of this way to distance himself, yet sometimes needs a bit of time alone without having to justify himself and sometimes just so he can browse the shops in town. Wholly being in charge of his own income is a relatively new concept to him and so he makes a few purchases just because he can. He knows Valenti caught a look at some of his animal socks at some point and watching him struggle with himself about whether or not he should bring them up was extremely entertaining.

In this case, he makes a trip to buy something specific and then pretends to go for a late run that same evening, instead seeking out the only operator in Rainbow of whom he’s certain to receive assistance.

“You’re a recruit, no?”, Zofia asks him as soon as he’s gotten her attention.

“Yes. Ivan Ivanovic. I need your help.”

Admitting it to her is daunting. She possesses a strong presence as well as confidence and reminds him of two women in his life, none of whom he’d like to ever meet again. But where they abused their power over him, Zofia listens to his request willingly, asks a few questions and eventually agrees with a kind smile. Most operators neither have the time nor the patience to deal with any of the recruits’ problems, not even necessarily out of malice – Ivan understands it all too well and therefore doesn’t hold it against them, but it means he appreciates what Zofia’s doing even more. She wants to know why he came to her specifically and laughs when he reveals she just seems the right person for the job, like someone who has the skills he requires.

She goes out of her way to teach him, inspects his work readily and even meets with him secretly during the day for more encouragement. He vows to find out more about her interests so he can pay her back accordingly, but for the moment he’s busy with other things.

.

“Sounds like we’re meeting her tomorrow”, Jojo says over his shoulder as he enters and Ivan makes a conscious effort to arrange his expression into something neutral so he doesn’t give anything away. “Hey, Ivanko, have you heard? Shay wants us to meet his beautiful girlfriend with the differently-sized tits tomorrow.”

“Be nice to her”, Valenti warns him as they swarm out and gather a few supplies in preparation of going out again. “And for heaven’s sake, don’t mention her boobs.”

“Or what, Gian’s going to write me a very stern letter? If she’s a bitch, I’m gonna fling shit back at her. Not that Shay would ever be interested in a bitch, but just in case.”

“Well, he’s friends with you”, comes the mumbled answer which startles a chuckle out of Ivan. Valenti shoots him a quick smile before finally taking notice of the object lying on the blanket of his top bunk. “Oh, what is this?”

“The last fucking thread holding my patience together”, Jojo grumbles in response but looks over nonetheless, squints at the fabric Valenti picks up. Rich dark red is cascading over his hands and nearly reaches the floor on both sides, the material soft yet thick wool. “Looks like a scarf.”

“I recently lost mine, but – Ivan, was this here when you came in?”

He’s hesitant to make eye contact in case he gives himself away but needn’t have worried as Valenti’s attention is still focused on the cloth he’s holding. “Yes”, he says simply.

“Huh. Then I have no idea where it came from. You didn’t buy this for me, did you, Jojo?”

“I would’ve gotten you something more stylish and you know it. Maybe in purple.”

“But this is my favourite colour. I think only Gian knows it is, but I don’t think he can knit. It looks hand-made.”

“Yeah, whatever, just put it on and quit whining about the cold. Do we have everything? Ivanko, you want to watch us ruin our complexion by planting face-first in the snow with our improvised sleighs?”

“Always.” He closes the game app and gets up to put his jacket on, trying not to let his satisfaction show upon seeing Valenti wrapping himself in the scarf with a content expression.

“It’s really warm”, he announces and sinks deeper into the several layers, “and it smells good. Forget whoever might’ve lost it, it’s mine now. Let’s go.”

And while the two lead, rekindling the discussion about Shay’s girlfriend, Ivan follows them with a smile.

[storm-driver]

The Data Theory

This theory was originally developed by derekscorner and revised last night. I delve into the theory a little bit myself and came up with something pretty incredible. Again, most of this theory is in credit to derekscorner. All I’ve done is branch it out a little more. You can read the original post along with what I came up with here.

Kingdom Hearts is never entirely clear on how it’s universe works. The only trustworthy information you can get is spoken by characters in cut scenes, usually rather vague and said with symbolism, or it’s hidden somewhere in the “Reports” you recover throughout all of the games.

Because of this, the game can constantly flex it’s rules to bring about more scenarios and fix discrepancies it might have had in the past. But assuming, with the release 1.5+2.5 for the PS4, all of those discrepancies were fixed and the game is official, theories about this game will now become all the more relevant. And sensible.

Most things in Kingdom Hearts can be explained away in a rather convoluted essay. However, there are still select few scenarios that fans can’t seem to tackle because it wouldn’t make sense for how the game’s universe operates. One of these leading scenarios is the issue of bringing the lost Nobodies back into existence. I’m talking about Roxas, Naminé, and Xion.

“But it’s easy!” You say with excitement. “Sora just needs to release their hearts and they’ll be here!”

Well, in a sense, you’re right. But it also wouldn’t make sense regarding how the game works. Not many people remember them because they weren’t really relevant until now, but the Secret Ansem reports obtained in Kingdom Hearts II describe how an individual being works:

Secret Ansem Report #4

Three elements combine to create a life: a heart, a soul, and a body. But what of the soul and body left behind when the heart is lost? When the soul leaves the body, its vessel, life gives way to death, but what about when the heart leaves? A being does not perish when its heart leaves its body. The heart alone disappears into the darkness.

The body is quite obviously the body of a person, which is just their vessel. Their heart is basically their personality and memories, as well as “power”, which is stored inside their body. And the soul is not really their spirit, but rather just the life-force or energy used to make a body living.

This is where things start to get confusing. Regarding Sora releasing the hearts of Roxas, Naminé, and Xion, it could only POTENTIALLY work for Roxas. It’s best if we explain what each character’s scenario is.

Roxas, even though he doesn’t look like Sora, nor even has his voice or personality, is still Sora’s Nobody. His creation was brought about by Sora’s sacrifice. Sora’s heart was cast into the darkness, reforming as a Heartless, whilst his body and soul reformed in the Realm Between as Roxas. Roxas had Ventus’ heart within him because Ven’s heart didn’t leave Sora’s body upon him stabbing himself with the Keyblade. Because of this, his body reformed to somewhat compare to Ventus. Though there still isn’t an explanation as to why his clothing isn’t identical. Maybe we’ll never know.

So Roxas was created from Sora’s body and soul and could only be recreated if Sora became a Heartless again, giving up his body and soul for Roxas’ possession.

Naminé is something different altogether, but somewhat similar in how she exists. She was created when Sora released Kairi’s heart from within him, but she doesn’t actually have the qualities of a Nobody that normally others do. Because Kairi has a heart of pure light, she literally can’t create a Heartless. When her heart was stolen, her body kinda just slumped over like a sleeping puppet, kinda like what happened to Ventus. But it’s the fact that her body DIDN’T reform as a Nobody, but stayed in the Realm of Light. What ACTUALLY created Naminé was Sora releasing her heart from within his body. This leads me and some others to believe a fraction of him went off to form Roxas while another to form Naminé. It also kinda adds up as to why Naminé has blonde hair, because Ventus’ heart influenced her appearance slightly. And why her appearance is so basic, because it’s not a real body whatsoever.

So Naminé doesn’t have any body or soul, but she was created from borrowed fragments of Sora’s and influenced by Sora and Ventus’ hearts.

Xion is a pretty straightforward one. She isn’t an actual Nobody, but a puppet that had a soul stuffed inside it. She also has memories of Kairi from when Vexen “tested” Sora in Chain of Memories. But because Sora’s memories of Kairi were being shadowed by Naminé, she appeared like a shadow of Kairi. Her entire existence is dependent on these memories remaining inside her body. But because she decided that Sora needs to awaken, she willingly gave them up to Roxas and her body perished without its fundamental core. And without that core, all memories built on top of it crashed down and the chain was destroyed, leading everyone to forget Xion ever existed. The links of her memories were buried in Sora’s heart.

So Xion’s entire existence was dependent on Sora’s memories of Kairi and without them, her body couldn’t stand. And because all of her memories are broken in Sora’s heart, she is woven into his being.

“But wait!” You say with confidence. “Sora returned to the Realm of Light without his body and soul when Kairi brought him back!”

And there you are, calling out the holes in the theory. Hate it when people do that. This is best explained by looking somewhere completely different in the series: the creation of Vanitas.

Oh yeah, our mean bean who wants to murder everyone and gave Haley Joel Osment the time of his life getting to laugh so deviously. Vanitas’ creation isn’t too hard to understand: when the darkness of Ventus’ heart got ripped out of his body, it reformed as a being of darkness, Vanitas. And this is the cool part: Vanitas DIDN’T use Ventus’ body to form himself, but rather the power of darkness itself. He created his body through sheer force of manipulating the darkness within him, or perhaps Xehanort did it. My point still stands either way: if a being of pure darkness is capable of creating a body of pure darkness, could a being of pure light create a body of pure light?

Yes, you heard me. Kairi didn’t bring Sora’s body back from the Realm Between, but rather made him a new one out of the light within her heart. This did, however, make Sora an incomplete person. Because he no longer had a real body, I would think his life would be more on the line than ever. He is literally a floating heart surrounded by light at this point, making Darkness all the more lethal to the boy. But that’s not too important right now.

Because it’s dangerous for Sora to just be a heart surrounded by light, especially with Xehanort still trying to turn him into a vessel, him just giving up his body for Roxas would be rather dangerous. Even if Kairi pulled him back from the darkness, there’s no guarantee the same thing would happen again. And you can’t repeat the actions for Naminé without somehow hurting Kairi in the process.

So our issue here is lack of body and soul. Roxas can’t just take Sora’s body again, it would leave Sora in harm’s way. Naminé being created out of fragments of a body, or even just sheer nothingness, won’t work again. And recreating Xion would require that they know where this puppet lab is and how everything there works.

Each of these situations, each person is under special circumstances. But there has always been one definite and constant thing that has been able to manifest itself in the real world without harm: the data used in Ansem’s computer.

Yeah. Data. Just the 1’s and 0’s. Need an example?

1) The munny pouch that belonged to data-Olette in Twilight Town. Riku was able to retrieve it from within the data-world and BRING IT INTO THE REAL WORLD. He handed it off to Mickey, who gave it to Sora for them to buy train tickets.

See, that always bugged me. Really badly. That train we just took is a MAGIC TRAIN that’s ONLY HERE FOR US. Why in the world would we need to pay for tickets to go on this train that Yen Sid sent for US? There’s no one on the train checking for tickets! YOU CAN TELL BECAUSE THEY JUST WALK RIGHT ON WITHOUT ARGUMENT. There wasn’t any reason for that munny pouch to be handed off to Sora unless they wanted to make it BLATANTLY OBVIOUS that DATA CAN BE BROUGHT INTO THE REAL WORLD.

2) The Heartless invasion by the MCP. This one is the less obvious, but complete giveaway.  Those Heartless used during the invasion were, quite obviously, not meant to be in Radiant Garden. The MCP was spawning them there using data.

Yes! He used data to spawn the Heartless. Their models and code already existed in the computer, so he just turned on the Heartless Manufactory and went to work. And also, THE HEARTLESS MANUFACTORY! It literally CREATES BEINGS FROM DATA! This is a dead giveaway that data can be used to CREATE REAL LIFE THINGS!

And in Dream Drop Distance on the Grid, it’s constantly hinted at the fact that the device used to bring Sora and company in and out of Space Paranoids can work BOTH WAYS! In the actual movie, IT HAPPENED! A data person was brought out of the Grid and into the real world!

Data can be made into real, physical objects. And evidenced by the ending to Tron:Legacy, they can be alive, as well.

Now, how can I truly persuade you that this theory is correct? I was pondering this for a long time. While I first read about it, I was thinking to myself that this is completely bizarre and there’s no way the games would go this route. But as I looked into things myself and stared at the wall of Kingdom Hearts theories I’ve had over the years, it clicked. This was meant to happen. Allow me to explain.

The data version of Ansem and his research that was discovered inside Sora’s heart. This is huge. It seemed like a random thing that Nomura and crew threw into the game because… reasons. But it’s not. What if I told you that this data Riku found was actually research about how data can be brought into the real world and, in turn, can be used to recreate a person?

Ansem was researching the Nobodies and must’ve discovered something about using the data to make bodies for them. He must’ve told Naminé to some degree about this, giving her hope that she and Roxas wouldn’t actually disappear. This is what leads to Coded (Kingdom Hearts Re:Coded).

“WHAT?! CODED?!” Yeah, I know! Coded is ACTUALLY RELEVANT? Incredible! Anyways, it starts like this:

Naminé placed a data version of herself, as well as the memories inside Sora’s heart, in the journal. Because these weren’t supposed to be here, the journal got all messed up. After repairing it, Data-Riku was able to find this hidden data and Data-Sora was sent to investigate. He found the hidden memories as well as Naminé telling him that Sora needs to call these memories to the surface in order to awaken their hearts. From their, the Keyblade to Return Hearts, as mentioned in previous games, would be used to extract their hearts from within Sora and return them to existence. 

“Okay, cool. So Coded is hardly relevant.” OH, BUT I’M NOT DONE! Coded gets way more important. It’s actually the fundamental base for this part of the theory. And it’s mind-blowing how well this fits into place!

I’m gonna break away and give you guys a little lesson on 3D printing. In order to actually 3D print you need something that can fabricate what you’re trying to print. Once you have the device, you need a model. A good example of a model is like a ring. That ring was initially created or scanned into a model file so that the printer would be able to create it. You essentially make something out of data. So I’ve been thinking...

The transfer device in Ansem’s lab is basically a 3D printer, but it works both ways. It’s for someone to enter or exit the data-world. It’s MEANT to transfer atoms to data and data to atoms. It’s how they’re going to fabricate the bodies of data for Roxas, Naminé and Xion. It doesn’t even matter if you’re thinking of the lab in Twilight Town or the lab in Radiant Garden, because BOTH were built by Ansem!

But then comes the issue of the model they must “print” out. We need to create models of each of our little Nobodies from scratch. Huh? “Use Ventus as a model for Roxas?” Haha, well, you’re onto something. I’d completely agree with you to use Ventus as a basic model for Roxas were it not for the fact that we already HAVE a model of Roxas that’s already been created. The same can be said for Xion and Naminé. We have them already.

The models are already present in the journal in Coded.

Don’t believe me? Well, take a second glance at the Re:Coded HD Remaster from 2.5! 

HE’S THERE! Roxas already has a FULL MODEL of his body in the journal, complete with voice and body build, as well as his face and his hair, as seen underneath the hood. All you need to do is drop his heart into it and export the data using the terminal in Ansem’s lab!

Naminé PLACED all of this data inside the journal, not just for Mickey and company to find it and inform Sora about the memories inside him, but so they could USE the data to CREATE BODIES FOR OUR LOST FRIENDS.

“Wait a second! This is really cool and all, but wouldn’t Ansem’s computer already have some of this data then, effectively making Coded useless again?”

Man, we all really hate Coded, don’t we? My answer to that is: no, Ansem’s computer wouldn’t have this information on it nor would the models exist there. Why? Because, as BLATANTLY SPOKEN by Ansem and Riku themselves, and clearly evidenced multiple times throughout the beginning of Kingdom Hearts II, their data-Twilight Town has been completely compromised. Nobodies are everywhere and searching for Roxas. If the Organization found any of this information that Ansem and Naminé had discovered, everything would be over. So, in a panic, Ansem wiped his computer of anything having to do with data in correlation to Nobodies and hid it inside Sora, hoping they would find it. Naminé would hide the information about Sora’s hidden memories and the models that could be used inside the journal to be discovered later. Because Naminé was taken somewhere safe by Axel, she never got the chance to tell Sora about it. And seeing how Ansem immediately felt the need to begin his revenge scheme against Xehanort, he just left the boy to his own devices.

Seeing the main plot of Coded be revealed with Castle Oblivion in the end, I have no doubts that this theory is correct. The focus of the game is to figure out what Naminé hid in the journal. I feel like data-Roxas’ role in the journal is important here. He was meant to get Sora to understand the painful memories inside him and that it was Sora’s role to wake them up and return them to existence. I’m still not entirely sure how he can tie into this theory, but I know he’s a strong point of it.

But in short, here’s what we came up with:

Data can be used to recreate bodies for the Nobodies who disappeared.

The data transfer device in Ansem’s lab can be used to fabricate these bodies.

The journal informs Sora on how to wake up the hearts inside him.

The journal holds the models required to fabricate the bodies.