#this is about me being an absolute sicko that needs to know how characters talk | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hersweetrevenge · 2 years ago

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as always, fridays are the most blessed day (clean again update 📚) !! and ahhh corey's teen rebellion is off to a great start !! as much as i love the turmoil of corey trying to keep his new life together, and the whirlwind intensity of his and reader's relationship, i also love him just like experiencing new things. i want to vicariously re-experience things for the first time through him lol

His route always ended at the library, loitering until they closed, checking out old cowboy movies he watched when he was little. He hoped they could distract him, keep him company

i don't need to tell you again how much corey and his comfort cowboy movies mean to me lol but i will anyway. there's something so quaint about his interests, so genuine in the way you just know they really speak to him and bring him comfort when he's lonely because he had nothing else.

spent the rest of the evening on the porch with old lady Joanna, smoking cigarettes and listening to stories about her life.

ahh my favourites, phil and joanna !! i'm happy to see them again lol i love this idea of him going to them when times are tough and he needs something to do to keep himself occupied. of course he's wary to get to close to them, like he is with everyone, but i want him so badly to start thinking of them kind of like family 🥺

["]I uh.. I know the chickens that laid them.” You giggle at the expression. “You know the chickens? Are they close personal friends of yours?”

i literally just love the way he talks lol it's such a funny saying that, but i can absolutely hear him say it like that. he has a really specific way of talking and wording things but you always nail it, especially with lines like this !!

He can tell you think he’s joking, but he doesn’t understand why. He looks at you blankly, trying to get it

again, he's just so earnest !! that's the thing about corey too that people never quite get, but you totally do -- he's awkward but he always knows when he's missed something, he just can't work out what. he can read people well enough, but that doesn't fix the things he doesn't know, it just means he's acutely aware that something has gone over his head.

He's thought about it often, especially on cold nights with a stiff neck, sleeping on the floor of an abandoned house and wishing he hadn’t survived. He thought about things far more destructive than marijuana.

ahhh !! i've been thinking about this since like chapter 2(?) lol it makes so much sense that he wouldn't actually risk getting drugs anywhere, i feel like that's very in character for him when he's been so methodical in keeping off the grid and crafting a new life. but its so interesting to see him acknowledge it from a better place, like he knows he would of if it hadn't been so risky. and just from a reading perspective, i love that it kind of gets resolved from my initial thoughts.

He looks at you with a dark expression, embarrassed and slightly betrayed.

*sickos voice* yes... ha ha ha... yes !! something about this is so perfect. how adoring he normally is but beneath it there's this very sensitive trauma of never just being normal. he does not do well when he thinks he's being laughed at. i feel like it's all a part of his very obsessive brand of love, he puts his whole heart into it and then gets really hurt if he feels like the subject of his affection isn't 100% on his side.

Then he leans down to put his lips on the bong, looking up at you through his eyelashes as you flick the lighter.

stop, stop, i'm already horny 🫣 something about him being so trusting and vulnerable and adoring. something unassumingly erotic about him. this image will never leave my brain, i'll be thinking about it on my death bed.

You keep your face close to his as he exhales. Then you kiss him, once, twice before pulling away.

ahhh the inherent intimacy of guiding and closeness and giving someone a first time !! the way he listens exactly and the experience is in your hands. it's a kindness, having no expectations on him because this is new and it can be so special if the love is there. this whole story is full of little intimacies that are so tender and touching. it's what love is all about !!

The way you say you’re strange, it might as well mean I love you.

and oh how i do love him !! being the weirdo has been the bane of his life, but him finding peace with that (slowly, of course) because the way the reader means it is with so much affection and understanding and it's only ever a good thing that he's strange (aren't we all?)

there's nothing inherently unlovable about him, he's just been told over and over that there is. he's resented being strange but somehow it sounds so sweet coming from reader. once again, that's what love it.

“This is cool,” he says, and giggles. His nerves are electrified

i can't even explain how much it soothed my soul to know that corey had a good first time stoned experience !! 💗💕 living through them vicariously lol and you just know it's beyond what he ever imagined and for once its a good surprise !!

corey would be such a good person to get high with, so long as you know nothing is going to come up and disturb the session. like if only his good emotions got heightened it would be perfect. also just hearing the way he would describe the feeling is so wholesome !!

the way i know it would fix me to have the most stitch-inducing laughing fit with corey. i want him laughing till he cries, actually.

He wants to be inside you. With his cock, yes, as deep as he can get it, but also with his soul.

boner in his pants, but also in his heart 💗 it's all connected anyway, the way he falls in love and the way he wants to be wanted. how he feels everything so deeply that he can never get close enough. how he can be so one-track minded and it makes him put his all into you, his body and soul and mind.

“Tell me something fucked up about you.”

you may as well have just told him he actually smoked the forever weed and 100 people are about to come over 😭

but narratively, i love this !! the stomach drop it gave me because one day i just know reader is going to ask something and corey is high or drunk or sleepy and can't stop himself before he says something he shouldn't of. it's moments like this that keep us on our toes, because no matter how comfortable this relationship feels (and you write the softness of it so well !!), we always have these reminders that corey is fucked up, isn't he?

["]I just kept thinking about it, like I could feel it in there, waiting... They never found out it was me.”

corey having warning signs before the accident and before michael !! i love how he's so drawn into his own story, the way he lives it and remembers how good it felt. but then there's this switch at the end, he's so matter of fact about it -- he doesn't even sound guilty, but the actual consequences (nearly burning the street down) don't really register for him. the fun is in the fire, not in the aftermath. he's such a firebug, you're right 😈💗

“You beat him with the bat?” Corey asks, trying not to sound too excited. You look at him with narrowed eyes, like you’re trying to figure something out. He looks down, not wanting to give himself away.

oh he's so fucked up, i love him !! he's tasted blood and the want for more is never going away -- i love these more toned down moments that can be played of, but really the violent impulses inside him are just being stoked.

and again, the hints towards 'things are good right now, but how long can they last? how long can corey last before he does something that gives himself away and you get scared of him?'

You’re genuinely dangerous.

i love this !! i love the sort of ambiguity of intentions. like is reader dangerous enough to not be scared of corey if she found out the truth? or is corey projecting that in the hopes that he doesn't have to give up all of his violent impulses to be with you? or are you dangerous is different ways, and you're just better at drawing the line ??

Clean Again

Chatper 9: SOMETHING FUCKED UP read on AO3 | previous chapter | tumblr chapter index make sure to check AO3 for this fic's playlist and other extras! (see a mini-playlist for this chapter on tumblr here)

A fun night in ends up kinda heavy.

general warnings for this fic - angst, fluff, smut (MDNI), canon-typical violence, canon-typical gore contents/warnings for this chapter - stalking, passing ref to hard drugs, marijuana consumption, arson, assault (non-sexual), passing mentions of sex/arousal

5,152 words

@rebel-blue @heartrot666 @wolvesandvampires @cordelium @toxicanonymity @multifandom--mess @hersweetrevenge @futurewife @yllcm @ethanhoewke dm me or reply to this post to be added to the tag list 💕

Thank fuck it’s Thursday.

You and Corey have gone three days or more apart since you started seeing each other. It’s not the length of time so much as it being intentional. It was easier to spend any number of days apart when any second you might text him or call him to ask him to come over. Knowing that text wasn’t coming made Corey fidgety. Last week he was beside himself, riding his bike for hours, on routes that just happened to pass by all the places you regularly go. I was just in the neighborhood. His route always ended at the library, loitering until they closed, checking out old cowboy movies he watched when he was little. He hoped they could distract him, keep him company when he was awake for 37 hours straight.

This week, to keep himself from sitting outside your apartment just hoping to get a glimpse of you, he called the elderly couple to see if they needed any help. Monday evening after work he rode his bike to the edge of town, following the familiar path as the paved roads gave way to dirt, scattering dogs and chickens as he roared into the yard. In the amber light of late afternoon, he deposited seeds in rows in their vegetable patch, tomatoes and sweet corn and summer squash. Tuesday evening Phil led Corey across several acres, deep into the center of the property, where he’d had to abandon his riding mower after it gave up on him that morning. As a man of a certain age and economic station, Phil knows a thing or two about a thing or two, and he ran Corey through the list of of valves and fluids he already checked before leaving him in the field to figure it out. Corey found the problem but didn’t have the part to fix it, so Wednesday evening on the way out to the farm he stopped to pick it up. Part in hand, the repair was a cinch, and he spent the rest of the evening on the porch with old lady Joanna, smoking cigarettes and listening to stories about her life.

But he finally gets to see you today. He makes record time from the garage to his apartment, then to yours. He bangs on the door with one hand, holding gifts for you in the other, a fresh bouquet and 18 eggs from Phil and Joanna’s chickens.

“Eggs?” You ask when he hands them to you.

“Fresh eggs. Free range. Laid just in the last couple days. I uh.. I know the chickens that laid them.”

You giggle at the expression. “You know the chickens? Are they close personal friends of yours?”

“No,” he says, laughing too. “I just help out on the farm where they live sometimes.”

“Well, thank you. That's really cool. I can’t wait to eat these. Send my regards to the girls,” you joke, placing them in the fridge.

The task he’s assigned himself tonight is oiling all the hinges and tightening all the knobs on your cabinet doors. Something you could easily do yourself, but he’s come to the point where he's scraping for projects, and he's more than happy to take care of it for you. He gets started while you fill an old peanut butter container with water for your flowers. They spill lazily over the wide mouth of the jar as you place it in the center of your kitchen island, a posture you mimic as you lean against the edge and watch him work.

“You do have a vase,” Corey says when he gets to the cabinet under the sink. He sets down his screwdriver and pulls something out. A glittery object that caught his eye deep in the shadows.

“I do?” You ask, confused.

He holds up a glass vessel, 10 inches tall, with a big belly bottom that tapers into a narrow tube towards the top.

“Corey!” You snort. He can tell you think he’s joking, but he doesn’t understand why. He looks at you blankly, trying to get it, and watches your face change as the realization dawns on you. “Oh! You really don’t know?”

“It’s not a vase?” He asks, turning it around in his hands. “It is weird that it has a hole in it, I guess.” He puts the tip of his pinky in the opening in the vessel’s belly.

“It’s a bong, Corey. A water pipe. For smoking. It’s just missing a couple pieces.”

“Don’t you only smoke cigarettes sometimes at bars?” Corey asks, still not fully grasping the concept.

“I don’t smoke tobacco out of it,” you say slowly.

“Oh…” he breathes, eyes widening in recognition. Corey had some inkling that there were different kinds of pipes people use for smoking weed, but he’d never seen one before now. At the parties he snuck out to in high school everyone had just smoked joints.

He’s always been curious, but when Momma was still alive he had been too worried about how she would react if she found out, her bloodhound nose easily defeating paltry pieces of gum and spritzes of cologne. Since he’s been on the run it hasn’t seemed like a good idea to seek out drugs. He's thought about it often, especially on cold nights with a stiff neck, sleeping on the floor of an abandoned house and wishing he hadn’t survived. He thought about things far more destructive than marijuana. But he’d never bought drugs before and an interaction with an undercover cop seemed like way too big of a risk.

“Do you smoke a lot?” He asks

“Not so much lately.” You shrug. “I think I still have some though.”

“Could we…? Do you have the missing pieces?”

“Yeah, if you’re sure you want to,” you say, face shifting from surprised to amused. Corey nods. “Okay. That needs to be washed because it’s been under the sink for a while.”

He turns to the sink and runs the water while you go into your bedroom. He hears you opening drawers and clinking glass objects while he washes the bong, using a sponge on the outside and a bottle brush on the inside, unsure of how thorough he should be.

“Put like, two inches of cool water in the bottom and meet me in here,” you instruct, standing in the archway with your hands full.

In the living room you’re lighting candles. On the coffee table he sees an ashtray, a little canister full of weed, two glass objects he assumes are the missing pieces, and another container.

“I didn’t realize it was so involved,” he says.

“It’s what you make it. I want you to have a good first time,” you say.

You move to your sound system. You start to put a record on the turntable but change your mind, pulling something up on your phone instead. Gentle indie music fills the room. Corey sets the bong on the coffee table and sits down on the couch while you draw the curtains and turn on a lamp. He’s excited and a little nervous.

He likes drinking well enough. His only experience being out at a bar is the Halloween party at Velkovsky’s, which ended badly, but he’d had a good time before he bumped into Mrs. Allen. Other than that he’d had a beer here and there, getting buzzed extremely quickly thanks to his practically non-existent tolerance. And there have been a couple nights with you since he started sleeping over, the two of you sitting at your dining table with a bottle of sweet white wine, getting progressively worse at Scrabble. He likes the numb feeling, everything happening without really happening. Pot can’t be that different, right?

You pop the top off the mystery container and Corey sees it’s filled with metal teeth. He watches as you break apart a little ball from the canister, a “nug” you call it, and lay it over the teeth. Your fingers work delicately but deliberately. You put the lid back on and hand it to him.

“Twist,” you say. He does as he’s told. You put one of the glass pieces in the hole in the side of the pipe, then reach out to take the grinder back. As you open it he realizes it has multiple chambers that unscrew independently, a nice design thing he appreciates. You pinch a little pile of shreds out of the chamber, dropping them into the other glass piece, which looks like a tiny goblet with a handle.

“This is the bowl,” you tell him. “To hit the bong, you gotta start with the bowl in the downstem.” You drop the bowl into the hole in the side of the bong, then pick the whole thing up with your left hand. You explain the process of lighting the bowl, inhaling, and clearing the bong.

“That sounds easy enough,” Corey says.

“It’s deceptive. It’s not like cigarettes,” you say. Then you take a hit to demonstrate. “Breathe deep, with the bottom of your lungs.” Your voice sounds dark and warped around the smoke. Then you release a huge plume toward the ceiling.

You hold the bong out to Corey and he accepts it.

“I should probably light it for you, your first time,” you say, holding up the lighter.

Corey nods his head. He closes his eyes and tries to empty his lungs completely. Then he leans down to put his lips on the bong, looking up at you through his eyelashes as you flick the lighter. Everything goes well until he pulls the bowl to clear the pipe. He panics immediately, coughing and putting the bong on the table still filled with swirling smoke. He coughs so hard tears come to his eyes. You look at him with a combination of pity and mirth.

“What the fuck!?” He chokes, wiping his eyes.

“It’s deceptive!” You say, suppressing a laugh. “Are you okay?”

He looks at you with a dark expression, embarrassed and slightly betrayed.

“Poor baby,” you pout.

Poor Baby. His breath hitches. Even hearing it sarcastically, the pet name strikes him hard. Twice as hard as the other week when you called him sir. Since he’s been in the south the occasional old lady has called him some term of endearment in a grandmotherly way. It always flusters him, the way these women so casually dole out maternal affection, something his own mother wielded like a weapon. But no one has ever, ever called him baby like that. He’s grateful that the coughing fit gives him an excuse for being so red.

“There is a way that might be easier,” you coo. “You can get it second hand.”

Corey clenches his jaw. He doesn’t know what you mean, but you seem to want him to guess. You sit there patiently.

“Show me,” he finally says.

Grabbing the pipe from the coffee table, you take a much bigger hit than before. He’s astounded at the apparent capacity of your lungs. You hold it in as you lean closer to him. When the tips of your noses almost touch you say one word in your growly smoke-filtered voice.

“Inhale.”

Then you blow the smoke into his face in a long, even stream.

Corey inhales and fills his lungs, breathing to the bottom like you told him to. He closes his eyes and hears you taking another massive hit as he exhales. You lean back into him, so close that your lips brush his on the second syllable.

“Inhale.”

Corey parts his lips and you breathe into his mouth. You keep your face close to his as he exhales. Then you kiss him, once, twice before pulling away.

“How do you feel?”

“Uh…” He feels very flustered but he doesn’t think it has much to do with the weed. “Normal?”

“Give it a couple minutes,” you say, nodding. Then, sort of suddenly, “There’s so much you haven’t done, isn’t there?”

Ostensibly it’s a question, but you know Corey well enough to know it’s a statement of fact. Of course there’s a lot he has done, things that most people never will. Most people will never look evil in the eye. Most people will never commit a murder, on accident or on purpose, much less 10 of them. Most people will never meet a beautiful girl while they live in hiding, waiting every day for the other shoe to drop. But none of it’s the kind of thing you can put on your resume. He's painfully aware of how sheltered he was for most of his life.

“You’re a strange man, Corey Carpenter,” you say. The sound of his fake name from your lips stings, but your tone soothes him. The way you say you’re strange, it might as well mean I love you.

Corey swallows hard. His mouth is dry and his tongue feels huge. Why is his mouth so dry? His lips stick together. “Can I have something to drink?” He asks hoarsely.

“Cotton mouth huh?” You say, patting his knee. “It’s working.”

You go into the kitchen and Corey hears you making two glasses of water. It seems like you’re gone forever, like each second lasts a year, like the world is in slo-mo. His heart rages against his ribcage. His head feels like a helium balloon, floating up and bumping against the tall historic ceilings, so far away even the string is out of reach. He thinks about calling your name, and feels like it takes several business days for his mouth to actually follow through.

You pad in from the kitchen with the waters. You’ve been gone for 90 seconds. He calls your name just as you come into view, and he feels like he’s done a magic trick.

“How do you feel?” You ask again, handing him his glass.

“Weird,” he says.

“Good weird, or bad weird?”

“I can’t tell.” He looks at you for guidance. “I think I can feel my skin more than usual.”

“Congratulations!” You exclaim. “You’re stoned!”

You sit down behind him on the couch. He tries to turn to face you, but you grab him by the shoulders and turn him back around. You gently scratch his back with both hands.

“How does that feel?”

He doesn’t respond verbally, he’s too absorbed in the sensations. He writhes around, trying to get whatever park of his back is currently under your nails closer to you. When you move one hand up his neck to his scalp, he leans so far into your touch that he falls backwards against you. You bring your face down to his, keeping your hand in his hair. You look into his half lidded eyes.

“This is cool,” he says, and giggles. His nerves are electrified, your nails on his scalp sending tingles radiating through his whole body. He looks down to check because he could swear he’s hovering six inches above the couch. He feels so immaterial that he’s surprised he doesn’t phase right through you. “I’m a ghost,” he whispers.

You cackle. “You’re a ghost, Corey?”

“Yeah,” he says, laughing too. He tries to fight off a full blown laughing fit. What’s even so funny? He’s not sure. His thoughts feel like they have to swim to get to him. If he doesn’t focus hard enough, they drift away. He sits up and turns to face you.

“What do you feel like you want to do? Is the music okay? Do you need anything?” You ask.

He considers. He had forgotten all about the music until you mentioned it, but now he’s falling into it, absorbed in waves by the guitar riffs. He picks up his glass and only means to take a sip, but finds himself chugging. He looks around the apartment, glowing warm from the lamp and the candles, and he looks at your face, soft and dreamlike in the light. He can feel himself grinning stupidly, but he can’t wipe the smile off his face. Your questions swim hard to get to him.

“The music… feels nice. Like I’m inside it,” he says.

“I love that feeling! But if you really wanna feel inside it, you need something fuzzier than this,” you say, scrolling through your playlists.

“Fuzzy?” He asks. You put a finger up. Hold on a second.

A new song starts playing. It is instantly cacophonous. It sounds like it was made by bees. It is fuzzy, that’s the perfect word for it. It feels like it’s massaging his brain. Even the singer’s voice is raspy and more like an instrument. He can’t understand the lyrics at all, but the vocals evoke a strong feeling anyway. The sound wraps around him like a warm blanket.

You grab the remote and turn the music up a little bit, swaying along serenely. Corey feels hypnotized watching you, your movements like a pendulum swinging in front of his eyes. You are so gorgeous, and you look so happy. He impulsively reaches out to touch your face. You nuzzle into his hand, and he feels like his heart stops beating.

He wishes the moment could last forever, but a new song comes on and it’s much faster than the last one. You spring off the couch and throw yourself around the living room, dancing with abandon.

Corey hasn’t danced in over a year, not since the Halloween party. He has not so much as tapped his foot, even with all the new music he’s enjoyed at your suggestion. Every time he wants to do something with you he did with Allyson he feels hesitant. He’s still avoided giving you a ride on his bike, and he hasn’t met anyone else in your life, although he suspects he can’t hold off on meeting Veronica much longer. But he feels so warm and tingly right now, and you’re having so much fun. He jumps up and joins you.

The two of you circle each other like sharks. You lunge forward and grab his hands, pulling him close to you, then pushing him away. He lets you swing him all around the living room. You spin under his arm and then into it so your back is pressed against him with his arm around your waist. You and Corey bounce and sway as a unit, sensing and anticipating each other’s movements. He feels you give into your impulse to grind on him and it makes his knees weak. The way you wiggle your hips back against him is torturous. A pained little noise escapes despite his efforts to stay quiet as he wills himself not to get hard. It’s a losing battle. Oh my god. He’s not sure if he thinks it or says it, but you press against him one more time, harder and slower, before spinning back out of his arm.

He’s not gonna let you get away that easily, using his hold on your hand to pull you back to him, and wrapping his other arm around your waist. Your giggle comes out like a squeal. You look up at him with wide, starry eyes. Another new song begins. He’s not sure why, but Corey feels like it’s the kind of song that would play at prom. He didn’t go to his prom, he didn’t go to any school dances. Momma never would’ve allowed it, so he just didn’t ask. Slow dancing is pretty intuitive though. He keeps you clasped against him tightly as the two of you rotate slowly in the candle light.

You sigh contentedly into his shoulder and press your hips against him. Every sensation feels amplified, and the softness of your belly against him through his jeans is insane. He puts his face in your hair and grinds against you, reveling in your smell as his breathing gets heavier. Nothing exists except you and the music. He wants to be inside you. With his cock, yes, as deep as he can get it, but also with his soul. He doesn’t have much, but he would give you everything. He wants to say I love you despite knowing it’s too soon. It would be okay if you didn’t say it back, if you just needed time. But he wouldn’t be able to take it if it scared you away, so he keeps quiet.

“Corey,” you say, ending his trance. “Tell me something fucked up about you.”

“What do you mean?” He asks, suddenly nervous.

“I don’t know. Something that follows you from your childhood, or… Something you think about a lot even though you know you shouldn’t. Something you hesitate to tell people, or that you’ve never told anyone.” You pull away slightly and meet his eyes, searching.

“Oh, I…” he starts then trails off. He looks away. What is he supposed to say to that? There’s no shortage of fucked up things about him, no end to the things he hesitates to tell people.

“You’re safe with me, Corey,” you coax him.

He knows you think you mean it, that you would accept him for a petty criminal record, a weird kink, an ugly divorce. Even if he told you his whole life story, he believes that you would hold his hand, right up until… Well, he’s not sure where the boundary is. Jeremy? The homeless man? Luring Doug to Michael, the first time he ended a life completely intentionally?

Not knowing the boundary isn’t as scary as the questions. He might say something well within the safe zone, but anything he says at all could lead you to ask questions. Questions the internet would happily supply the answers to even if Corey didn't. Questions with answers that would bring you well outside your limits, wherever they are. Finding out just who exactly has been sleeping in your bed would certainly mean the end of the relationship, and probably the end of Corey’s life too.

He looks back to you and then, up through the fog, he thinks of something he can tell you. A story that stands on its own, a story that you can’t google.

“When I was twelve,” he starts, “I found a lighter in the seat on the school bus.” The events play like a movie in his head, and he’s transported back to an autumn when he had just a tiny bit of freedom. Momma had burned all the bridges at her old job and her new one wouldn’t give her her preferred schedule yet. She hated when Corey would be home alone for any amount of time after school. But being a single mom trying to keep food on the table meant that for a few months she didn’t have the option of getting off in time to be home when he got there, temporarily granting him the luxury of being a latchkey kid.

“I put it in my backpack and kept it on me all day at school. I just kept thinking about it, like I could feel it in there, waiting. When I got home I knew I had a couple of hours alone. I spent it burning stuff. Pieces of cardboard from the garbage or whatever. I thought it was so cool how the fire could just… completely erase things. I wanted to watch something bigger disappear.

“My neighbors across the street had a car up on blocks. It didn’t have an engine. It had been sitting there for as long as I could remember. One of the windows was rolled down, or maybe just missing, so it was full of trash and leaves. I waited til nobody was looking and I lit a piece of cardboard and dropped it in. Then I ran home and watched it from my bedroom window.

“It was awesome. All the shit inside caught so fast, then the seats, then the frame. You wouldn’t think metal would turn to ash and float away, but it does. Cars are paper thin. I cut through them with a torch at work all the time.

“The fire got really fucking big. A lot bigger than I expected. I thought when the car burnt out, the fire would disappear, like it did with a cereal box. But the grass was super dry. It spread across the yard and caught my neighbor’s garage. I ... I didn’t call 911 because I was scared they would know it was me. Eventually someone else called, but the garage was gone by the time the fire department came.”

Corey basks in the rapt look in your eyes as he tells his story, still holding you close and swaying slightly. It feels so good to just be honest with you about something. Not to have to tiptoe around his secret. He can’t believe the way you eat it up.

“Then what?” You ask, awed.

“I don’t know. They never found out it was me.”

“Holy shit. You could’ve burned down the whole neighborhood, you little arsonist!” You poke him in the chest and laugh. "I should've known you were a firebug, Mr. Lights His Cigs with Matches."

“Guilty,” Corey says. Guiltier than you know. “What about you? Are you gonna tell me something fucked up about you?”

You pull out of his arms slightly, not to get away, but to bring him with you to the couch. He sits down with you, one arm still around your waist. You hit the bong. As you exhale you gesture to offer him more, but he’s still plenty stoned and he wants to focus on whatever you’re about to say.

“I didn’t tell you the whole story,” you say.

Corey is confused until he realizes you’re presenting your arm to him. The Carrie tattoo. He runs his fingers over it. With his sense heightened, he feels like he can read it like braille. He thinks back to the night the two of you watched Carrie. How you had unknowingly validated him. How he hoped you could find a way to feel your feelings about Carrie, about him.

“There was this guy. He used to be hot shit in the music scene here. I think at one point he was in… four different bands? I knew we had all these mutual friends, and I saw him around all the time. I mean, he was almost impossible to avoid. And he was cute, and he was talented. I thought that maybe he and I could really be something. But we just didn’t click like I hoped we would. Not like I click with you.

“I kept going on dates with him, even though I wasn’t feeling it. I wanted to feel it, or … I don’t know. It makes less sense the longer ago it happened. I guess he never picked up on the fact that I was pulling away. He was gone on tour a lot and I kinda hoped he would just get distracted and forget about me. But he didn’t. Even after I spelled it out for him, he still acted like we were together. I had to start avoiding shows his bands played, certain bars I knew he liked. I would still see him everywhere though. He would put his arm around me, try to make plans with me, whatever. He just wouldn’t take no for an answer, for months. It was so bad Veronica would physically get in between us so he would leave me alone.”

Corey clenches his jaw. He remembers the way Doug disrespected Allyson in front of him. Doug had treated Corey like shit too, threatening him when he arrived on the scene after the accident with Jeremy, making Corey’s handcuffs too tight. He deserved what he got just for that. But the thing Corey really couldn’t take was the way Doug pretended to be interested in Allyson, to care for her, while making her visibly uncomfortable. The way Doug acted like he owned her, like she owed him something, like she was too stupid to make her own choices. That was why Doug had to die. And as you talk, Corey silently promises that if he ever sees the guy from this story, he’ll have to die too.

“So on Halloween we did a bar crawl, everybody from work. And we all dressed up like Stephen King characters. I was Carrie and Veronica was Wendy from The Shining. Have you ever seen it?”

“No.”

“Okay, well, Veronica was a character that carries around a baseball bat for part of the film. And she went to the bathroom and she had me hold her bat.” You pause, making a sour face.

“Oh my god… I just realized. He must have seen that I was with people and waited. I thought the timing was a coincidence, but maybe it wasn’t. He was shit-faced, but I guess he wasn’t too far gone to realize he could only get near me when she and Rose left. That fucking asshole!

“Anyway, Veronica went to the bathroom and he came up behind me and put his hand on my stomach and tried to dance with me. And I just got so fucking angry… I broke his nose and three fingers.”

“I didn’t beat him, exactly. When he put his hand on me I just kinda…” You grab the three middle fingers on one of Corey’s hands. He looks back up, meeting your eyes, and holds his breath. You bend his fingers sideways, gently but firmly. First it’s a nice stretch, then it hurts. He doesn’t react. He trusts you not to actually break his fingers, but he almost feels like he would let you if you wanted to. You hold his fingers at that unnatural angle for a long moment. Then you let go.

“Like that. But harder, and faster. I didn’t think they would break so easy or that it would fuck up his tendons and stuff, but I was tipsy and full of adrenaline and I just… Did it. And then I hit him in the face with the bat, once. Once was enough.

“I was dressed like Carrie, and it felt kind of supernatural the way my instincts just took over so I could defend myself. I didn’t know I had that in me. I got the tattoo so I would never forget.”

Corey is completely smitten. He takes your hands, pressing his palms into yours, knowing you’ve both felt the vibration of someone else’s bones breaking. His impression of you as a huntress was more correct than he could’ve ever hoped. You’re genuinely dangerous.

His desire to say I love you floods back to him, but he bites his tongue. He has to figure out the perfect way to tell you.

#corey cunningham #my beloved #idk how many times i can tell you how much i adore this story before i get annoying lol but i love this story so much !! 💗💗💗#bonus highlights:#him instantly losing track of time when reader leaves the room. he is so real for that #*it sounds like it was made by bees*#intoxication light weight corey for the win !!#*he can’t hold off on meeting Veronica much longer* please !!#of course he didnt go to prom 😭😭#obsessed will never recover over evil side being the prom-esque song 😈😭💗#also the baby's first arson story just reminded me like ?? what was i thinking when i said joan drove him to/from school everday lol #you've mentioned the lighter before and somehow i just forget he would of got the school bus lol #you're so right though #corey: clean again

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avidoro · 4 years ago

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Edit: Guess I’ll put this in here since everyone is just glossing it over to look for the negative parts. I never said you couldn’t ship SessRin. I never said I was anti-SessRin. I know I tagged it as such, but it isn’t because of my opinion. I have friends who ship SessRin. I love those friends. What I mean by these statements is that the community in general is toxic because of the people in it who have caused problems for others. Like, for example, the person who felt the need to jump me about my personal ship because it wasn’t with Rin when I wasn’t even talking about a ship. Or the people who harassed the English voice cast to the point that even they were calling the SessRin community toxic. Or the people who are fighting to have any Sesshoumaru shipping blog deleted if Rin isn’t involved. I am capable of peacefully sharing Sesshoumaru with other shippers if they could be civilized. But since they aren’t, then I feel like I have the right to speak my mind. And those of you who feel the need to fight me about it are just proving my point because you’re so worked up that anyone could have a different opinion that you absolutely have to argue. That being said, I also stated that I would never have said a word about this if it weren’t for the fact that Rin is underage in Yashahime. Sunrise is trying to lie about how much time passed. They clearly didn’t do their own math. And while I’m fine with SessRin shippers who ship her as an adult, I will not tolerate the people who justify her being underage in Yashahime. Also to those trying to argue about Yashahime being canon, I would love to provide the evidence to the statement I saw, but it’s gotten lost in the sea of people arguing about the show being canon. It was something along the lines of her saying the story wasn’t canon or wasn’t hers but the three girls were and that she was washing her hands of InuYasha and other’s could do what they wanted with it. Which kind of implies it’s not canon but she doesn’t care. If I find it again I will definitely share it. But if Rumiko steps up and actually says the show is canon, then I’ll accept it as canon. But that doesn’t mean I’m okay with Rin being underage. But go ahead and continue to comment with your ridiculous arguments. New edit: @tiny-foots It’s not what I saw but I was provided this where Rumiko stated InuYasha was complete within herself meaning the story was done. She left it up to Mr. Sumisawa to write. Take it as you will, but I see that as her giving the okay for a fanfic to be officiated. But I don’t see it as canon. I suppose that can be left up to interpretation. But my personal belief is that it’s not canon. Even before all this I never even saw the original anime as canon.

I am going to start off by saying that I always said I would never be anti-ship. But if this is what it's come to then I am completely against what is happening right now.

Let's just pretend my OTP isn't actually my OTP right now. What I ship has nothing to do with this. In fact I am a multi-shipper, so don't even think about that. This is beyond more than my personal shipping opinions. InuYasha was my comfort series during a very rough time and Sesshoumaru is my favorite character because of his massive character development and redemption arc. He is an astounding character.

The fact that Sunrise has "officially" (I refuse to say canon because it's not canon. Rumiko said so. Fight me!) paired him with Rin is the most disturbing and disgusting thing they could have possibly done. Again, I am not against people who do ship them. If that's what they enjoy then that's fine.

HOWEVER!

The SessRin community is toxic AF! They have been for a long time and now they've been given a reason to really be horrible people. And that's only one reason why I'm disgusted by this entire thing. And mind you, since Yashahime isn't canon anyway, I wouldn't have cared as much if they hadn't done it the way they had. Let me break this down for you. I'm going to list why SessRin is unhealthy, toxic, and morally wrong and I'll even list some of the justifying arguments shippers have tried to use to support it and explain why they're wrong too.

Pairing Sesshoumaru with Rin destroyed his character development and redemption.

Sesshoumaru's father had a strong desire to see his son learn compassion. Toward everyone! Humans and youkai alike. He learned that lesson through both a human and a youkai. Rin and Kagura. These were the characters who were meant to teach him to be compassionate toward others. By pairing him with Rin you have taken away that compassion that he learned. It's like sticking a giant middle finger up to all the humans he was supposed to learn to respect and say he only tolerates Rin and no one else. There goes his redemption! Way to go, Sunrise!

SessRin was never meant to become a thing.

Rumiko went out of her way to create a bond between Kagura and Sesshoumaru as well as Kohaku and Rin. It's clear who we were meant to ship them with. These characters were placed as a barrier between Rin and Sesshoumaru to avoid an improper ship. SessKagu is the ONLY canon Sesshoumaru ship.

No child in their right mind grows up to fall in love with the man who raised them from childhood.

And if they do then they need to seek counseling because that's not healthy. A normal child would grow up to view that man as her father.

And how about these lame and unjustifiable arguments that SessRinners are throwing out.

"He waited until she was an adult! She's 18!"

Do some research. She is not 18! Look at the the facts that have been compiled. She is 15 MAX. She's underage!

"This was normal back then!"

No it was not! Again, do your research! Nobility groomed children to be wives, yes, but it wasn't normal. Even then the girl wasn't bedded until she was an adult. Also, would you portray a black person, in media, as an abused slave in 1800s America by your story's "good guy" and say it's okay because it was normal back then? I don't think so!

"They were meant to be together! It was a given! It was clear!"

Again, no it wasn't! Kagura was placed in the story for this purpose! She was in love with Sesshoumaru and he was falling in love with her. They are the ONLY canon Sess ship!

"Well, you're forgetting about the original series being about a 15-year-old girl getting with a 50+ year old man!"

There are so many reasons why this is an illogical statement. - InuYasha and Kagome met when they were mentally the same age. Sess and Rin met with he was mentally a young adult and she was EIGHT! - Kagome and InuYasha didn't have an official relationship until she returned from her time after three years... WHEN SHE WAS 18! - Every moment in the original story where Kagome was in an inappropriate situation she got mad and did something about it! She didn't just giggle and let the men around her ogle or touch her! - And my personal opinion, I also believe InuYasha and Kagome’s relationship was toxic anyway, so don’t try to hold that one over me. There’s a reason I’m a multi-shipper.

And one of my favorites, even from pre-Yashahime

"NO ONE is shipping child Rin with Sesshoumaru!"

Yeah? Go do a Google image search, you sickos. Edited to include this little treasure in the comments:

Who’s putting words in her mouth? She stated, in an interview plain as day, that Yashahime was not canon! She didn’t write it. An official publication does not canon make! Not to mention “the woman who changed him” is such an incredibly vague statement. If it was meant to be Rin, she’d have just said Rin. As mentioned before, she was very adamant about pushing the Kagura x Sesshoumaru ship. And Kagura definitely changed him. Was it not his compassion toward her specifically that regained his arm and gave him a sword? I’m pretty sure “the woman who changed him” was meant to be a vague statement because the canonical intention was just to leave it open to interpretation and is probably meant to be some random village woman who bonded with Sesshoumaru and ultimately completed his change.

And if, by chance, she did mean Rin, she didn’t say it was canon. Just that she was his wife meaning that is who Sunrise set as his wife in the show. Think about it? She was answering the question of “who had his children in Yashahime.” If she meant Rin, she was avoiding spoilers and giving a hint to who Sunrise chose as his wife. That’s not saying she would have picked Rin, herself. She didn’t write it. So it seems to me that you are the one putting words in her mouth.

Now tell me, if your best friend from grade school who was adopted told you when she was a teen or even an adult, "My dad's hot. We decided to sleep together." would you not find that disturbing? That's SessRin right now.

Also:

HANYOU NO YASHAHIME IS NOT CANON! THIS IS PER RUMIKO TAKAHASHI HERSELF! DO NOT TRY TO JUSTIFY THAT SESSRIN IS CANON NOW BECAUSE IT ISN'T! IT'S JUST AN OVERGLORIFIED AND POORLY WRITTEN FANFICTION!

ONLY THE MANGA IS CANON! OG SESSHOUMARU IS THE ONLY SESSHOUMARU!! That being said, I still say if you do happen to be a SessRin shipper, then you do you. Enjoy what you want. But what is happening right now does not give you a right to justify any toxic behavior that your community is expressing. Again, I wouldn’t even be mad if Sunrise hadn’t portrayed Rin as still being underage. I won’t stand to see people justify this!

#InuYasha #Yashahime #Anti Yashahime #AntiYashahime #Sesshoumaru #Sesshomaru #pedomaru #loliconmaru #antisessrin #Anti sessrin #Yashahime is not canon #anti sunrise #sessrin is toxic #sessrin is unhealthy #grooming is toxic #I would sooner ship Sesshoumaru with an actual dog than I would with Rin #Sesshoumaru is Rin's father

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gayregis · 5 years ago

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Ok here’s another “talk about the Witcher” prompt for you—bonhart. What are your thoughts, other than the fact that he is absolutely vile and evil (cuz obvs)? I think he was a Witcher originally. I think he makes a really good contrast against geralt, and sort of acts as a warning to ciri for what evil her raw skills could be used for. I was really satisfied by how she was finally able to face him and kill him completely alone. BUT I think that the sudden r*pe bits in LotL are unnecessary!

i think bonhart was a necessary evil as he adds so much of the darker themes to the latter half of the witcher saga, as in that blood of elves, time of contempt, and baptism of fire were still kind of lighthearted despite that there was a lot of going down in them. vilgefortz didn’t cut it for me to function as the only villain, just because he’s quite anime-esque in the fact that i think he would anime-laugh to geralt and then explain his super long evil plan to him and be like so what do you think :) im so evil :) ... like, bonhart isn’t a villain, he’s something even worse, he doesn’t find any pleasure in dramatic speeches or flourish, he finds pleasure in sincerely hurting people and watching them in pain. he’s absolutely vile and revolting, and just the most horrible character you could possibly concieve of. vilgefortz is one of the many parties (the lodge of sorceresses, nilfgaard, the aen elle) trying to hunt ciri down for her power, but bonhart hunts down ciri not only for the bounty but just because he wants to hurt her. i’m not really certain if there’s a deeper meaning to this character other than the representation of pure trauma, which has grasped ciri after she has been abandoned by everyone she’s ever known and loved. (and/or a warning of what she could become, as you said and i talk about a little later). i feel like a lot of people want the witcher books but only if they were without bonhart, without stygga, without rivia. and that’s an opinion people can have but i feel some of the utter suffering was put there for a reason... but it did get excessive.

especially the r*pe scenes. in my opinion, r*pe scenes are completely unnecessary... the only scene i think was "passable” was when yennefer stabbed bonhart with a fork, because i really was wanting bonhart to just get stabbed and choke. but i think this scene is also just plain gross still because of how much sapkowski tends to ... describe yennefer as beautiful and like this woman of pure beauty and sexiness despite her cold exterior, and i can’t help but feel it was just indulgent of sapkowski wanting to write yennefer in some kind of “sexual” situation (in quotes, b/c r*pe is not sex). it was pretty useless as a scene because we already know that bonhart is evil and that yennefer is a fighting spirit, so i highly question why it needed to be put in there.

i think a lot of how bonhart treats ciri is just torture p*rn and it just goes completely overboard, like, WE GET IT, HE’S EVIL! but i have to admit that it IS a fantasy series for adults so it’s not like i can say it’s inappropriate. it is also a book series, so you have the option to skip if it’s really unbearable (like it was for me. i basically skimmed all of that violence because i do not need to be absorbing that). i just feel like there are a bunch of sickos out there who would not see ciri’s treatment as such a bad thing, and that’s really why i’m wary of the scenes, like i KNOW there are people out there who WANT to see a teenage girl be abused, and that turns my stomach more than the actual writing does. but sapkowski at least treated it appropriately, as the vile and horrific treatment(s) they are, and didn’t romanticize anything like some authors might.

as a character, i think bonhart is exactly how you describe him, as a contrast to geralt, and also as a contrast to ciri. ciri was using her power for evil, and bonhart serves as this exaggerated caricature of what she could become if she continues on her current path. i say “exaggerated” for a reason, i think bonhart is absolutely an extreme that ciri may not ever really be able to become, but it’s a warning of the possibilities of power and using violence as power.

also, bonhart serves as a contrast to geralt because he is absolute sadism and lawlessness, and geralt is pacifist in nature (even though he was born into the life of violence) and creates his OWN code to abide by, even when there is no real “witcher code,” because he just feels like it. geralt gives ciri a sword but instructs her not to kill blindly with it, bonhart gives ciri a sword just so she can be forced to kill others.

the way i see it, geralt and ciri both learned from each other, and they were both wrong about a very specific thing. geralt was wrong about being indifferent and choosing indifference (as he says in time of contempt, and then develops to forge a fiery path to go find his daughter). ciri was wrong about using violence to right wrongs and letting revenge consume her spirit (which she learns through meeting bonhart, and then refines herself to focus her revenge on the sadistic man). as i always view geralt and ciri as not only characters, but larger, more universal symbols of parent and child, i think these two things that they were wrong about really play off of each other as a contrast between old and young, or parent and child. i feel like abiding by indifference plagues the older generation because it feels like a reward for already fighting so many battles, and seeking unrestrained revenge plagues the younger generation because they have not learned yet that it will consume all and bear no fruit.

also p.s.: i wish people would talk more about the theory that bonhart was a witcher originally. i think it holds a lot of weight, because his fighting was pretty much unparalleled, and even cahir who is a really good swordsman, fell to him. it stands then that bonhart has something unique about his fighting style that only another witcher (ciri) could defeat (and cahir also fell to ciri in toc, so it suggests that bonhart and ciri fight in similar ways?). (i know some people wanted geralt to fight bonhart, but i feel like that would have been out of place, as he is ciri’s tormentor and when she killed him that was sooo satisfying. vilgefortz was definitely geralt’s fight anyways, because of how vilgefortz wanted to use ciri and geralt is sworn by being her father to protect her.) but yeah i wonder wtf bonhart’s backstory is. i get he’s supposed to kind of come out of nowhere as a super evil guy, but i feel like he trained with witchers before or something... like he was training and then escaped before he could take the mutations, because he had already learned to kill and gotten a taste for it, drawn to violence after he was introduced to it.

#great ask thank you i never talk abt bonhart bc he scares the bejeebus out of me but hes a necessary topic!!!#ask #leo bonhart #ciri #geralt #the witcher spoilers /#zireaells

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shannygoatgruff · 5 years ago

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My Brother’s Keeper - Chapter IV

Genre: Psychological Thriller

Characters: Modern Ivar X Modern Hvitserk

Rating: MA 18+

Overall Warning: Dark story told from an emotionally distributed person’s POV with graphic and sadistic material including rape, terror, torture, kidnapping, drug use, slash, implied incest, necrophilia and insecurity. Heavy trigger warnings.

Chapter Warning: This chapter contains graphic violence, homosexuality, rape and anal sex. Heavy trigger warning.

Summary: Mama always said to be their brothers’ keeper. Now there is absolutely nothing these two won’t do for each other. Boys will be boys…

(source: unknown)

A/N: Okay, so we’re about to start going down the rabbit hole of crazy. I ask that you bear with me. As these two continue to “party” it will become more graphic but I try to do it as tastefully as possible. I promise you there is a method to my madness. Don’t give up on me, just yet...

Chapter IV

The media lies so much. They always say these horrible, hurtful things about us, like we are some perverted sex deviants that go around terrorizing the city. They don’t know us. They don’t know anything about us. I just think they’re mad that these dumb ass cops can’t do their fucking jobs and protect these citizens from the real bad guys, so they look for somebody to make out to be the villains. Guess who gets stuck that those personas? Me, and Ivar.

If you turn on any news station right now, they would be trying to convince you that I’m some sort of monstrous sexual predator and that Ivar is a sadistic animal. It's not like I'm the type to hide in a dark alley and use chloroform or some shit to knock somebody out, like some of the sick fucks I've read about. I don't prey on people or force them to do anything they don't want to do. They always give me permission for whatever I'm up for when they agree to leave with us.

Just like Ivar isn't anything like how they try to make him out to be. He doesn't snatch people off the street or drive around with a trunk full of medieval torture devices or any of that bullshit. We're nothing like those sickos you hear about that have 15 bodies buried in their backyards or watch on those Netflix documentaries. Those people are fucking crazy. We’re not.

We’re just two regular guys, who happen to have a hobby. It’s like stamp collecting almost. Nobody would say shit if we did all kinds of extensive research to find that one piece to add to our collection. They’d think it was fucking awesome that we were so dedicated to rare and beautiful stamps. Well, this isn’t much different; instead of fucking stamps, it’s people. We don't select just anybody. A lot goes into picking the perfect person that's lucky enough to be invited to one of our parties.

We gotta do a lot of waiting and watching. And it’s not like we have a type, either. It doesn't matter what our company looks like or what color eyes or hair they have. We’ve never given a shit about race, or body type. We don't have a sick fascination with strawberry blondes with green eyes or hate women in general. With us, it's all about the attitude, like a vibe. I can't really describe what it is we look for. We've been doing this long enough that I can spot what we need when I see it. Sometimes it takes all night. Some nights we go home empty-handed.

And some nights, like tonight, it’s right in front of me.

They've turned the lights out on the dance floor so only the blue and red strobe lights show the crowd. It doesn't matter; from the lights of the bar, I can still see everything. And I don't care that the music is so loud that I can't hear myself think. I've already spotted the one and I don't even notice the music anymore.

My eyes haven't strayed from the body dancing on the speaker stack. Dirty blonde hair, slight frame, and a toned body swaying to the music…this one is beautiful. Their energy is almost palpable.

For over an hour everyone who approaches has been turned down. I know, I've been watching. We're going to have to do this one right. One wrong move and we may be sitting at this club all night waiting for someone else suitable to come along. That won't do. I have my heart set on this and anything else will not quench this thirst.

Ivar and I haven't spoken about the blonde, we don't have to. I can see through the thin layer of smoke from the fog machine that his eyes are fixed on the dancing body, too. He's thinking what I'm thinking; we're usually on the same page about these things. My hand reaching over to pick up my vape is what pulls Ivar's gaze from the dance floor to my face. He looks at me with intense eyes and I simply nod my head.

I usually scope them out, but he's the one that always approaches. Ivar has a knack for talking to people. It’s part of his charm. He can make the most uptight person feel at ease with just a smile. Me? I’m pretty shy. When I get nervous I either seem to ask a lot of questions, or I don’t talk at all. I guess some people consider that a turn off. It doesn’t upset me, though.

If it takes Ivar being the Cult of Personality to get what we need, that's fine. We still get them, so I don't have anything to complain about. Especially, not with this one – we can’t afford any mistakes.

I watch in giddy anticipation as Ivar makes his way to the dance floor to make contact.

The wetness from the sweating tumbler in my hand seems to send a calming chill through my entire body. The gnawing in my stomach makes me feel like my whole body is about to ignite. It's only been four days since we were out last, but I swear it feels like an eternity. I think it's so bad tonight because I don't fully remember the last time. I don't have all of the memories that I need to keep me settled and stop the itching in my blood.

I feel like a vampire right now; like I need to feed. God, I hope Ivar doesn't fuck this one up.

I feel myself biting on the metal tip of my vape to keep my anticipation at bay. I let my eyes fix on the small body next to Ivar's as they make their way back to our table. Ivar takes a seat and so does the blonde. I won't say anything, not yet. I'll get to talk after when we go back to the warehouse. When Ivar leaves to get his head together, that's when I'll have all the conversation I need.

"You want a drink?" Ivar leans over toward the blonde with an arm casually resting on the back of our new friend’s chair. The smile on his face is electrifying. He's so damn beautiful and he knows it. I swear, if I looked like him and had half of his confidence, I’d be a dangerous man.

Shaking his head, the blonde smiles back. "I don't remember seeing you here before." He's such a pretty young man, somewhere between me and Ivar’s ages. His face is soft, almost like a girl's and his messy hair cut reminds me of how I wore my hair a few years ago. His dark blonde waves are sticking to his scalp and face, in some places with sweat and curling haphazardly around his head in others. I have to stop myself from reaching out and touching a strand of it because I don't want to scare him off. Especially not since I owe Ivar for last night and I want him so badly for myself.

This vape isn’t cutting it. I’m so excited that I need a real cigarette to calm myself down. I easily slide my hand onto the table to pick up my pack, trying my best not to break the trance that Ivar has this beautiful boy in. Their connection is so strong, I don’t even think he realizes I’m still sitting here.

When I feel in the pocket of my jeans for a lighter, I don’t feel it. I don’t know why I look around the club like it’s going to magically appear. But I do, I continue to look around as I feel my hands start to rub my chest as if I have pockets in my shirt that my lighter might be in.

Then I notice the blonde’s slow dramatic blink as he reaches across the table and hands me his lighter.

It’s as if he’s in tune with my every want and need. He’s toying with me. Oh, he’s definitely the one and Ivar sees it, too. We don’t even have to ask, this kid fucking wants it. This fucking guy is sitting here practically begging for it and we’re going to give it to him.

"I've never been here before." Ivar smiles coyly redirecting the blonde's attention away from my shy smile and the blush creeping up my neck. He's getting excited. I always know when Ivar is about to make his move because he drums his fingers in haphazard rhythms.

I’m too stunned to move. Fuck this cigarette. I want to watch my brother work his magic.

The blonde smiles, like this is a game to him. He has no idea how he's about to be played. He thinks he's flirting with Ivar; driving him crazy. Little does he know, you don’t flirt with Ivar. Ivar is the one that’s always in control. "No? Never? This is your first time?"

Batting his long lashes over his hungry eyes, Ivar nods slowly. He leans into the blonde to touch an errant curl on his head, "I'm a virgin." He bites his lip and the blush on the blonde's cheeks is all Ivar needs. He's permitting us to take him. "You wanna get outta here?" Ivar cuts to the chase with this one. He usually plays around with them more.

With us, it's not about taking anyone. We always invite our guests. If they decline the invitation, we wait until we find another one. But if they accept, then they're accepting of everything we want.

And this poor boy just nodded.

Without saying anything, I pick up my vape and cigarettes from the table. It wasn't conveyed, but it's a given that I'm going with them. He understood that when he handed me his lighter. He wants both of us and we both want him.

I make sure to walk behind them as we make our way through the club, so I can watch the way the blonde's hips sway. This is going to be so much fun. Not even the ringing in my ears from leaving the noisy club to the now quiet street is enough to make me concentrate on anything else but showing our new friend the best time.

It's only a few feet to the car before the party begins. I'm so excited that I have to stuff my hands in my pockets because if I could grab him now and do what I wanted, I would. Ivar notices the way I'm trying to get control of myself and after he lets the blonde into the front seat, he pulls me aside and strokes my hair. "It's okay, baby. He's ours." He places a gentle kiss on my forehead before opening the rear door for me to get in.

Nodding my head, I let out a deep breath. I love the anticipation...this feeling of euphoria. It's like knowing the hunger is growing in just a matter of hours I'm going to get to feast until it's sated. "I know." I try to keep myself from smiling, but I can't. I'm giddy with the prospect of the things I can do to him. I want it so badly my dick is already hard.

I watch from the back seat as Ivar closes his door behind him and without any thought, to it, my hand starts to pull at my zipper. Ivar's hand reaches out to stroke the shiny hair on the blonde's head and I let out the laugh I've been holding in. By the time Ivar slams the boy's head into the dashboard, I'm already stroking my cock. The blonde doesn't say anything else, he's knocked out I think, but I can see Ivar wiping the blood on the boy's shirt before he reaches over to buckle him in. We can't take any chances of him getting hurt in an accident or the police stopping us for a seat-belt violation. We're also so careful and we take good care of our company.

"Lock your door, Serk." Ivar's voice is calm and soothing and momentarily pulls me out of the feeling of my hand stroking myself. He turns around to look at me and shakes his head with a bemused smile. "Let's go have some fun."

The sound of dripping water is what I have to concentrate on so I don't have to listen to him scream. I love to watch Ivar work. He's so good at it and enjoys himself so much. There is nothing more beautiful to me than to see him smile, but I hate it when they scream. And because he won’t shut the fuck up, I have to miss out on all the things Ivar is doing to him and that electrifying smile that’s probably on his face right now.

These fucking people always want to come, they always want to party, but when they get here they want to fucking ruin it by screaming. It doesn't work that way. They need to make up their fucking minds. They either want to party or they don't. There is no in-between. They don't get to decide in the middle of it that they're not into it anymore. What the fuck do they think this is?

I had to get out of that room. His fucking screaming was driving me crazy. Tying him up had been the easy part because he at least then he was unconscious. I didn't even mind waiting for him to come to; at least he was quiet. Even though I do wish he had woken up sooner. While Ivar was gone we could've had a conversation or maybe had a smoke together. But the kid just wanted to sleep. He was so fucking boring.

I just sat next to the table that he was tied up to watching his chest rise and fall and the blood slowly dripping from nose. I played with his hair, too. It’s beautiful – so thick and wavy, and it smells amazing. I wish my hair felt like his. I have to remember to take some of it. I think on the days that hunger starts to get to me, if I can rub his hair and sniff it, I might be able to hold it off a bit longer.

My eyes travel from the puddle on the floor up to the leaky pipe on the wall. I wonder how long the water has been dripping.

Apparently, it’s been long enough tp slowly start eating the concrete away. Why don’t people take care of their buildings? They spend so much money to construct them and then companies pay so much money to rent them. You’d think someone would take care of these places, but instead, they just leave them to go to shit. The city needs to do something about this. I guess this place one time housed tires because it still smells like rubber and there are still some carotid hubcaps piled in the corner.

I wonder why it closed. The building itself is still structurally sound, besides the fact that there are no lights and there's a bunch of rusty metal in here, it's not that bad. A perfectly good building being left to ruin, where any sick perverted fuck could do God knows what to someone in. The world is a sick fucking place.

"Hvitserk?" I don't want to go back to that room. That fucking guy is still screaming. I mean after a while I would think he'd learn that Ivar doesn't care that he's hurting him. I mean, aren’t your senses supposed to shut off or dull after a while or something? Isn't that what makes some people pass out from pain? The cheese grater can't hurt that bad if he's still conscious and alert enough to scream about it.

I don't like really blood and I know he's leaking a shit ton of it right now. Of course, this would be the time that Ivar decides that I get him, once he's already extra bloody. Blood is really, really red and it’s hard to wash out. Plus, I swear, I always smell it on my hands for days no matter how many showers I take. "Can you shut him up?" I step into the room and no matter how much he's bleeding and looks warn out, my dick is still rock hard.

Ivar nods and in one quick motion, he punctures the boy's jugular with the corkscrew he pulls from his bag. He doesn't push into his neck deep enough to kill him right away, but it's deep enough to start the blood flowing. The gurgling doesn't bother me, it's the fucking wheezing I can't deal with. I think Ivar sees the irritation on my face because he frowns. "He's ready for you, brother."

I notice how the pumping blood from his neck collects with his blood that had already pooled on the floor. There’s so much red. Still, my approach to him is swift because I want him to still be warm and to see my face and notice me before he dies.

I think I like them best that way. I love it when they're still alive because they really get into it. The way they kick their legs, scratch, and bite…I know they're enjoying it as much as I am – but not when they still make noise.

This way, the way Ivar just did it, they're quiet and their eyes look right at me. They can actively participate and give me the silence that I need to concentrate on. Plus, I'm the last thing they see before they die and once they're dead, I can do whatever I want. It’s so beautiful. So intimate.

This silent friend is the gift my little brother gave to me. He loves me so much. He’s always looking out for me. I am going to make him so proud.

And this one...this guy is exceptionally beautiful. The look of sheer terror on his face gets me so hard that all I can do is push into him without noticing his blood smearing on my thighs. His eyes are growing gray and cloudy but he still knows what I'm doing and that I’m the one doing it to him. "Please?" I hear his faint whisper and it makes something in me grow warm. I fist his hair and slam his head back on the table. I keep doing it until he shuts up.

Ivar's laughing in the background. This is the part he loves the most. He loves to watch me fuck them. I can hear him grunting behind me and when I turn to look at him, he's pumping his cock in his hand. Watching him get himself off, and the feeling of this twink around me...this is bliss. I will never understand why Ivar doesn't want to try this. "Fuck him hard," his voice is a harsh growl as his hand pumps harder. His voice feels like fingertips grabbing my shoulders forcing me deeper and deeper.

The blonde's eyes are completely lifeless now. They're staring straight at me and for some reason, I can't stop laughing. He's so fucking tight. I know I have to finish soon before his muscles stop contracting. If he shits on my dick I swear I will cut his ass up into little pieces.

There it is. The moment I've been waiting for. That final gasp of air - his realization that he's dead... that's the money shot. I don't think I can stop cumming. I hear a growl that sounds almost desperate and I can only assume it's from me. I toss the table over with the blonde still attached to it. I don't need to look at him anymore. I got what I needed. My blood is finally settled.

Ivar's hand on my shoulder is what makes me realize I'm panting and I have to wipe the spittle off my chin. “You have fun?” He asks, as he moves my sweat-soaked hair off my face and tucks the strands behind my ear.

I can’t talk yet. I have still need to catch my breath. All I can do is rest my forehead against his and feel his love for me as I try to transfer my love for him back that way. Ivar holds my face in his hands and kisses my nose, before he pulls away and looks around the room.

As I fasten my pants think about how it’s time to clean up, only I don't feel like doing it now. I want to go home and crawl into bed. I'm exhausted. It's been a long night. Ivar must know how I'm feeling because he doesn't say anything to me like he normally does. Instead, he pours gasoline on the floor and table and points to the lighter in my pocket with a smile.

Once I light the blood-soaked dirty blonde locks on the dead man lying there, I look back at Ivar pouring two plastic cups of wine from his bag. He hands me a cup and we toast. "You ready to go?"

I love the way the fumes look while sipping on my drink. Everything looks wavy and there's a hint of blue and yellow dancing in the air. The smell is heavenly and it reminds me that we haven't had dinner. "Yeah. Can we stop by Burger King?"

Sated, full, and now showered, I lay on my bed and close my eyes. I had so much fun tonight and I know I will sleep peacefully. I look over at my cell phone lighting up on the night table and smile. "Hey, Thora.” Just hearing her voice and knowing that she's alright is the perfect ending to a perfect day.

Ivar's happy. I feel normal again. Thora's safe.

Life is good.

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damian-dreamz8442 · 5 years ago

Text

Missing in Action Part II

Hola, back with the second half of the fic. Should I link Part I here?

Psych, I already did.

BTW this is NOT canon compliant and I do not even try to be accurate at all, just in character.

Basic re-cap (spoilers) Damian is missing, kidnapped by a pack of goons in clown makeup, right out from under Dick’s nose. Afterwards he got a call from the Joker saying he has Damian, and gave Dick a bit of a clue as to where.

Meanwhile, the Joker is very angry over the fact that he doesn’t actually have Damian, and the little punk is, in fact, nowhere to be found.

Dick called the batmobile to his location, putting it on autopilot as he was in no condition to drive. His pounding head was only a minor distraction compared to the all-encompassing worry over Damian. He needed back-up if he was going to find Damian.

Stephanie was, unsurprisingly, the first to answer. “Batman?” She questioned, no doubt noticing Dick initiated a group call with her, Cass, Tim and Jason.

“I hope this is quick, Batman,” Tim added, keys clacking audibly in the background, “I’m in the middle of a case with the titans and-”

“Damian is missing.” Dick blurted, abandoning code names.

“What?” Jason barked. Dick could hear Cass narrow her eyes.

“He was kidnapped on patrol,” Dick explained, “a pack of goons took him, wearing clown makeup.”

“Oh my god.” Stephanie breathed, at the same time as Tim’s “the Joker? He’s back?”

“We don’t know that.” Jason reasoned, voice tight. “There are copy cats of the Joker all over Gotham.”

“I got a call.” Dick cut his brother off, trying to focus his eyes on the road despite not being in control of the car. “A payphone, somehow he knew I would still be in the area. He gave me a clue.” A really messed up, useless clue. Dick hated even remembering the words as they came along with that familiar nasal voice. He’d written down the message, scrawled hastily on a sticky note in his belt, but somehow he’d dropped it in his panic.

“He said he took Robin to ‘the place little robins go to... die’.” Dick ignored his voice crack, hoping the others would as well.

Tim’s typing stopped, “like actual birds or-”

“The warehouse.” Jason growled, eliciting a curse from Dick. “You don’t think...” Jason’s only response was a grunt.

Jason’s constant death jokes insured that at least they all knew which warehouse he was referring to. It did nothing to instill confidence in Dick.

“How long do we have?” Tim asked as Dick went about changing the coordinates in his GPS.

“It’s the Joker,” Jason grumbled, emotion lost from his voice in a transparent way of blocking out old memories, “we’ll be lucky if Damian’s even recognizable when we get there.”

The line went silent, the implications heavy on the group of siblings. Dick wished for the thousandth time that Bruce was there. He could’ve stopped all this, surely. Dick didn’t have time to think about the irony; losing his first robin the same way the first Batman lost his robin. Dick wouldn’t let his brain go there. He couldn’t.

Damian finally made it back to the street Dick was supposed to be on. Between limping and sticking to the shadows as much as possible in red and green, it had taken him nearly another hour. Quite the pathetic display, Damian told himself. No doubt if his father had been alive, he would’ve been disappointed.

Despite it being two hours, Damian was at a loss when he found the alleyway deserted. There was a creepy box, mostly broken, and a stuffed clown face that laid decimated not far away, but no Batman. Damian did not like the idea of limping all the way back to the manor. His ankle pulsed with constant pain, it was getting harder to breathe around his ribs, and the cuts littered all of his limbs had yet to stop bleeding. It was tempting to just sit against the wall and wait for someone to come along and put him out of his misery.

Instead, Damian limped over to a phone booth across the street. The receiver was unhooked, emitting the most sound, second only to Drake speaking. Damian hung it up with a grimace. He was surprised it worked at all, considering no one used phone booths anymore. Unless they were desperate. Which Damian was.

He was about to try to remember the number for Wayne manor, when Damian noticed something yellow discarded haphazardly outside the phone booth. It wouldn’t have been of much interest to him, except the handwriting was unmistakable.

Dick had used the phone booth and carelessly left behind a note. No doubt he was over reacting to Damian being missing, but at least it ensured he was alive. The note made little sense.

‘Where little robins go to die’, who would even come up with that? Damian made a face at the sickening notion.

Sluggishly, Damian’s brain aligned the clues. Dick thought he was missing, already on a scale of six of worry. He and Tim categorized a scale of worry for their family. Dick was almost always a five, Damian had never seen Jason rise above a two.

Someone had called him on the phone booth, obviously. It was unlikely Dick’s communicator was broken in the skirmish and even if it was he wouldn’t think to use a phone booth. For what purpose? He could just call the batmobile.

So some sicko had called the phone booth and given Dick the message. A clue perhaps? Damian read it again, allowed his mushy, bruised brain to comprehend the words. Wished he was as good a detective as Drake. Bashed the intrusive thought with a mental crowbar.

Crowbar! Damian would’ve smacked his head if it didn’t already hurt so much. Finally Jason’s fatalistic sense of humor came in handy; his cause of death ingrained in the back of Damian’s mind. A rather dark turn of thought, but Damian was more results oriented.

The Joker had beaten Jason with a crowbar, then killed him, in a warehouse on the other side of Gotham. It never did get rebuilt, but the Joker had erroneously threatened to do the same thing to Damian. Despite it being a lie, Dick would believe it. He didn’t know Damian escaped.

Great, just great. How unbelievably fantastic. What an amazing turn of events, now Damian would get the absolute privilege of walking all the way across Gotham, trying to catch up with Dick who was probably a hair shy of a ten. If Damian was wrong well... that would really suck.

Damian was really starting to understand why Joker was the most disliked criminal in the batfamily. (There was a vote. Ironically, they all like Harley Quinn the most.)

With no other options, Damian began limping in the vague direction of the infamous warehouse. A street later, he passed a marooned motorcycle. After that, his night got much better.

Dick ran across the grounds of the warehouse district to find the rest of his siblings not far from the remains of the blown up warehouse. Cass had a hand on Jason’s shoulder, while he quietly muttered about not letting Damian die the same way he had. It was cruelty on another level, this scheme of the Joker’s. Dick just wanted his robin back.

Tim and Steph were formulating a strategy. Well, Tim was, having pulled up an overhead view of the warehouse rubble. Steph kept suggesting they go in fighting, get Damian, and set Joker on fire. Tim pointed out eight reasons that would not work.

Dick stood next to Jason, taking a deep breath. “I don’t think we have time to wait, or make a plan.” He shot an apologetic look at Tim, “we just need to go in, canvas it, find Damian-”

“That’s what Joker wants!” Tim insisted, gesturing lamely to the building. “He probably has some game set up, or the entrance rigged, and we’ll all get blown up!” Jason bristled at the prospect of being blown up again, noticeable only to Cass. She squeezed his shoulder.

Suddenly, a sharp disc cut through the group, lodging in the tree behind them. They all looked at it in shock, Joker’s logo laughing at them. It blinked to life, emitting a hollow cackle.

“You’re too late!” Came a raspy voice. It hissed, a pathetic amount of laughing gas bubbling out of its edges. The frisbee was not meant to do damage, the real threat...

Dick spun around just as ruins of the warehouse let out a sickening crackle and exploded. Again.

“No!” Dick screamed, lurching forward. Cass jumped in front of him to hold him back, eyes trained on the building. Jason couldn’t tear his eyes from the flames, memories and horror clutching him.

“No, no, no, that can’t be it!” Tim insisted, burying his hands in his hair. “It’s... it’s the Joker! Where are the mind games? The... the...”

Stephanie crashed to her knees, gaping at the scene. “What just-what just happened?”

“Damian...” Dick’s voice cracked painfully, throat raw. He could feel the heat, there were debris floating down. Cass hugged him tightly.

Jason spun around and punched a tree, it was unclear if the following crack came from the wood or his knuckles. He let out a furious growl, which morphed into an anguished roar. “I’m. Going. To. Kill. That son of a b-- !”

Damian nearly stopped his stolen motorcycle as he saw the warehouse rubble go up in flames. What the... who would go through the trouble of blowing up that heap of cement? He could only hope Dick wasn’t in there, it would be just like him to do something stupid without Damian.

Finally making it over the grassy hill - one of the few greenspaces in this area of Gotham - Damian ditched the bike. He was about to hobble forward when he heard a haunted wail from none other than Jason Todd. Damian broke into a run, despite his bodies protests.

Had Dick gone into that building? Was one of them hurt? Damian could see his whole family gathered not far from the explosion. He could barely breathe, thanks to his ribs, and tripped on his ankle. He was panting by the time he got close enough to call out to them.

Are you ok?” He straightened to talk to Jason, the only one looking at him, “what happened? Sorry I’m late, but someone ditched me in central Gotham and-”

His whole family spun to look at him. Jason looked close to tears. Dick was crying. Stephanie was on the ground. Maybe she was hurt? Before Damian could ask, Dick was running full speed at him.

“Robin!” His voice was thick with relief as he swept Damian into a hug. Normally such contact was unwarranted but not uncomfortable. This time, could Damian just say, ow.

“Batman, release me!” Damian managed through gritted teeth, his ribs screaming at the pressure. There were definitely a few broken.

“Robin, I can’t believe... you were... and then we!”

“Batman! My ribs!” Dick let go immediately at the pained sound of Damian’s voice, supporting the boy as he doubled over painfully. He looked up to find his whole family gathered around him in concern.

There were hands all over him, noting his injuries, bracing his ankle, rubbing his back. Someone - Todd, probably - even took advantage of the situation to mess up his hair. It was too much to keep track of, making him dizzy.

“What happened?” He asked, batting the hand away from his hair.

“We thought you... you were in there.” Stephanie finally explained, pointing at the burning cement foundation.

“Joker, he... I saw you?” Dick was still unable to formulate a proper sentence.

Damian scoffed, which cost him dearly as pain seared through him. It took him another second to get enough breath back in his lungs to explain. “I got away from those buffoons in like... five minutes.” Two hours, but who was counting.

“Your ankle. Ribs. Head.” Cass countered. Ah, her hands were bracing his ankle.

“Well, I didn’t get away entirely unscathed.”

“We were really worried about you.” Tim’s voice was choked with emotion. He was rubbing Damian’s back. Damian couldn’t help but look at him in shock.”

“So you all rushed here... to try and save me?”

“Obviously!” Jason scoffed loudly. “Always.” He finished, locking eyes with Damian.

Damian cleared his throat - another act that rendered him speechless in pain for a few seconds. “Thank you for coming. As you can see, I’m fine.” The siblings shared an incredulous look.

“Is that Damian for ‘my body frigging hurts and I want to go home’?” Steph asked, leaning down to Damian’s level. He glared at her. “No, I’m-” he was about to say ‘not even that hurt’ but then Cass let go of his ankle to stand and Damian nearly fainted. To his utter mortification, a pained whimper left him.

“Oh, lil’D, c’mere.” Dick cooed sympathetically, slowly gathering him up. This time he was mindful of Damian’s ribs. Damian would not admit that a huge wave of relief washed over him as soon as he was being carried, weight off his ankle and head cradled on Dick’s shoulder.

“Put me down. I can... I can walk.” Damian’s protest held no heat, it was basically a whine. Dick leaned his cheek on Damian’s head softly. That was all it took for Damian’s body to finally give into the darkness.

When Damian came to, he was in the batcave on a bed next to Dick. Dick was holding his hand, half asleep, pristine bandages wrapped around his head. Despite the calm scene next to him, the batcave was anything but.

Tim and Cass were playing a video game on the huge monitor - correction, Tim was losing against Cass in a video game on the huge monitor - while Jason and Steph cheered them on. Alfred was cleaning up medical supplies when he noticed Damian’s attempt at awareness.

“Master Damian,” Alfred greeted with a soft smile. Dick jerked awake, already grinning. “Dami! You’re awake!” The game was paused as four more people came rushing to his bedside.

Damian hated being on pain meds. The sight of his family being so worries about him was enough to make him want to hug them. Humiliating.

“How are you feeling?” Tim asked. Before Damian could bite back with a harsh ‘fine’, his emotions betrayed him.

“Thank you,” he muttered, surprising no one more than himself. “Thank you for always coming for me.” Damian bit back the rest of his words, and the tears. He refused to be as pathetic and young as they expected of him.

Dick saw right through him, he always did. He reached over and hugged Damian - something that was quickly becoming a normal action, not that Damian could bring himself to mind. “We love you.”

#batfam #damian wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #stephanie brown #cassandra cain #robin #batman #red hood #red robin #spoiler #orphan #au #hurt/comfort #misunderstanding #tricks #gotham #the joker

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welcometocaritas · 5 years ago

Text

‘if you love me, don’t let go...’

First chapter of my yumagna fic is out ladies and gentlebabies!

Chapter: 1/6

Characters: Yumiko & Magna

Pairing: Yumagna

Fandom: The Walking Dead

Format: Multi-Chap

Summary: At some point, you just have to let go - or so Yumiko keeps telling herself.There was never any letting go of Magna.

Links: A03, FF.NET

[watermark is from my instagram yumagnas.home don’t worry i didn’t steal the pic ;)]

A/N:

[The rape/non-con is there for Magna's cousin and it will only ever be in references I will not be writing anything detailed about it because I don't want to trigger anyone and this isn't the story for writing about something like that as I would not be able to give it the time and attention it deserves]

Small note: Magna's cousin is called Maisie in this and I've also given her a brother called Morgan.

y'all are going to hate me because yes, this is going to be over 20000 words about a single night. And probably not even the whole night. but there's also flashbacks so it's OK? In my defense, we've gotten very few conversations with these two so there was a lot to talk about. I can't be held responsible for my actions. blame the writers.

I’m honestly a little worried that I’m going to bore people to tears because there’s really no plot. It’s just yumagna being soft and finally sorting out their shit.

I'm also working on a short oneshot - for real this time it's actually going to be short - that's set in the indeterminate future after this. It's basically just going to be pure fluff which you should knew is unheard of - I never write fluff. So hopefully it's not terrible.

There be angst here, lots of angst, but also comfort - if you’re familiar with my writing that won’t be a surprise to you.

I don’t have much hope for canon so I decided to do what I could to fix the mess they made.

I normally wouldn’t reveal anything that’s going to happen in a fic but y’all have been tortured enough already so just know I will absolutely be getting these girls back together, it won’t take more than a night, but it will take about 20000 words. Most of the story is written out already I’m just doing post-edits so I’ll update daily :)

If things seem a little disjointed it’s because I wrote everything out of order and it’s been a bit of a struggle to get everything to fit into place. I also haven’t slept more than 1-4 hours a night for the past three weeks, have been getting constant migraines and blood sugar crashes so I’m gonna apologize right now if there are any mistakes. I’m super sorry.

This is for the yumagna fandom cos I wanted y'all to have something nice with everything that's going on. I would also like to give a special thanks to Abbey and Mina who acted as my sounding board throughout this whole thing and were very patient with me - love you guys :)

....

"If you love me, don't let go

Hold

Hold on

Hold on to me

'Cause I'm a little unsteady

A little unsteady . . . "

- Unsteady by X Ambassadors

. . .

Nightmares had always been an issue, though less so in recent years. Magna had gotten almost gotten used to having a full night's sleep, barring the occasional pillow snatch. Back before all this started, she'd been on medication for PTSD, but well, it was kind of hard to fill a prescription in the middle of the apocalypse - and, well, the apocalypse had only added to the previous need for said medication. At least she was in good company. These days, it was more of a surprise if someone wasn't experiencing some form of post-traumatic stress, and that was a somewhat odd reality to wake up in, day after day. For years, this thing had set her apart but now? Now it just made her like everyone else.

Miko had nightmares too.

It was what had led to them sharing a 'bed' in the first place, way before things between them moved beyond the confines of friendship. They'd fallen asleep by the fire one particularly cold night, curled around each other for warmth, and they hadn't awoken until morning.

It had been something of a revelation.

On Magna's end, she suspected it had had a lot to do with trust. She'd trusted Miko not to shove a shiv into her side or try to cop a feel whilst she slept, trusted her even more to have her back if things went south during the night. She'd been . . . safe. Magna wasn't used to people being safe - she wasn't quite sure what she offered Miko in return, though; maybe the same thing.

Of course, in many ways Yumiko wasn't safe. There was nothing safe about the way Magna felt about her. Or the way those feelings seemed to be returned. She knew Miko had had a girlfriend in college who cheated - and when the other woman had told her that, a vindictive part of her had hoped the bitch had been one of the many, many people to meet their end by sicko teeth. Miko had smacked her on the arm for that comment, exasperation tempered by fondness and reluctant amusement.

She'd realized in her time away, that this past hurt would have only sharpened Magna's betrayal. Trust was important to Miko - hell, it was important to Magna - and she had broken hers by lying, lying for years. She hadn't thought of it that way when she'd been doing it. The secret had weighed on her, yes, but she'd been viewing it from a place of hadn't really considered how it would hurt Miko, only what it would do to their relationship if it had ever come out, what it would do to her.

That, more than anything, had made her realize that Miko had been right to kick her out. More than right.

Which is why she could hardly believe that they were here now. That Miko was letting her head rest in her lap, that she had invited her to do so. Sitting back against a tree and patting her thigh with a small smile her way when Magna had gone to settle a short distance off. The way she had nearly fallen over herself to accept that invitation was almost embarrassing but she couldn't bring herself to feel self-conscious about it, or to second guess the action. They'd done this as friends too and she was glad it wasn't something she had sacrificed with their relationship.

She'd been attracted to Yumiko from the moment they met. It was hard not to be. She wasn't blind - hot lawyer lady in a suit, how could she not notice her in that way? The woman had entered into her dilapidated life with a sureness and determination that was hard to dismiss. Intelligent, strong, and fighting for her.

No one had ever fought for Magna. Not until Miko.

(really, she'd been screwed from the start)

Of course, the person Yumiko was fighting for was little more than an illusion. If Miko had only known the truth then . . .

She probably would have dropped her like a hot potato, just like everybody else. She probably would have been wise to.

Or maybe she wasn't giving Miko enough credit. After all, she was still here now. Carding her hand through Magna's hair in a soothing motion as she pretended to sleep - and Miko pretended to believe her. She knew the truth now, and still she kept close. Maybe they weren't together anymore but that had been as much Magna's choice as Miko's. She couldn't let herself get to that place again, where she was so terrified of losing something, she ended up destroying it.

And God, Magna was so tired, so tired of being afraid, so tired of being angry.

Just so tired.

('I can't do this anymore.')

She needed a distance between them, even if she didn't want it. Romantic relationships had a tendency to blow up in her face. But friendships . . . well, they tended to be more reliable. After all, she had been friends with Miko for years and things only turned sour after they had crossed over the safety of that border into something more.

(things turned sour because you couldn't stand keeping it a secret from her anymore. The same thing would have happened if you'd still been only friends)

She shifted uncomfortably, remembering at the last second that she was supposed to be asleep. But Miko only stilled a moment before continuing with her motions, allowing the deception to maintain itself.

The relief passed her lips in a shaky exhale.

Magna couldn't bring herself to talk anymore. She was drained - both emotionally and physically - and the thought of pulling any more words out almost made her cry from exhaustion. And Miko seemed to sense that, almost as soon as Magna had first fallen silent. But then, she'd always been good at reading her.

She was observant. Like Connie.

Squeezing her eyes shut tighter, she immediately regretted the action. In the darkness, all she saw was her friend's face, disappearing into the crowd of sickos, possibly never to be seen again. Of course, Magna hadn't seen that at all. She'd kept her gaze ahead, too wary to look around and give away the disguise, but she had felt Connie's hand slip from hers, the ache of the empty space it left behind. Her imagination filled in the blanks now, even adding in a few colorful extras - wide eyes, a silent scream, falling beneath the weight of too many bodies, torn apart. Gone.

So many people were just . . . gone.

"Do you think she survived?" The words hung in the night air; foreign, distant. Magna blinked, unsure if they'd really come from her. She couldn't remember opening her mouth. But her tongue felt thick and heavy, her lips cracked, she could taste the metallic hint of blood caused by the effort.

Miko paused. Just a second, her fingers tangling in Magna's hair a little too tight, almost painful, then a breath, and she returned to smoothing it back. "You did."

"Barely. I was lucky."

"And there's no reason she won't be, too. Connie's smart, strong. She could make it."

Magna could think of a hundred reasons. A thousand.

Her stomach turned and she closed her eyes, opening them in a snap when Connie's face answered her. She trembled. "I should have stopped. I should have looked for her."

Miko didn't hesitate. "Then you'd be dead. Might even have gotten her killed as well. All for nothing."

At least, I wouldn 't be feeling like this.

Magna opened her mouth to argue but found that she didn't have the strength. She closed her eyes again, inhaling the scent of the woods, of the leaves and dirt beneath their bodies, of Miko. Especially Miko. "What the hell am I going to say to Kelly?"

If she wasn't dead.

What if they were the only ones left? Her and Miko. Bernie gone. Connie gone. Kelly gone. Luke gone. She'd failed to protect them. All of them.

And she'd thought she'd cried enough tears but her eyes burned and she rubbed at them fiercely, like there was dirt, like if she could just get it out the fire would vanish and she wouldn't crumble to ashes in its grip.

And there was Miko's voice, all at once gentle and firm, pulling her back. "She won't blame you. She knows you. You've always fought hard for us. As hard as you can. This just wasn't a situation in which you could."

Magna nearly scoffed.

No, she could have fought. But she'd gotten scared. She'd hesitated. She hated being fucking scared (small and shaking, hugging Morgan to her chest as Daddy's voice got loud, so loud, why was it so loud?). It was such a useless emotion. And now it had probably gotten Connie killed.

Miko tugged at her hair slightly, gentle but scolding. "Seriously, Magna. You couldn't have done anything. If anyone should be feeling guilty it's me."

Frowning, she turned her head in her grip to look up, a strand of hair snagged but she didn't mind the pain. "What are you talking about?"

But Miko shook her head, refusing to meet her gaze as she focused on raking her hands through Magna's hair, avoiding the knots with an ease born of years of practice. "I should have been there with you. I shouldn't have stayed behind that day."

And then you might be dead, too. Magna shuddered at the thought. Her worst fear, worse than Miko choosing to leave her, being taken from her. Forever.

And it wasn't even a what-if situation. It felt inevitable. This was the apocalypse: their expiration dates were always inching closer.

"I'm glad you did." Even though Magna couldn't see her face, she sensed her hurt, felt the flinch of her hand. "I couldn't lose you. Not like that."

Giving up on getting Miko to look at her, she settled back in her lap but kept her eyes open.

Yumiko's voice was caustic when she responded, fragile and harsh all at once. "I thought I lost you." The hand resumed its stroking, stiffer now, almost angry. "At least if I had been there I could have helped, and I would have known. I would have known if you were okay."

Not if you got out with Kelly.

But, no, Miko wouldn't have left them, wouldn't have left her. She would have seen her double back with Connie and gone after her too - like Magna, she was always watching. Maybe she would even have noticed and gone after Connie first - she was equally as protective of their group - and then Magna would have been the one left behind, to wonder, to fear.

Thinking about it, that probably would have driven her to punch Carol, too. Though her fuse had always been a lot shorter than Miko's.

Now, she snorted at the sudden memory. "I can't believe you punched Carol. I've never seen you like that." In a way, it had scared her. She was so used to Miko being the calm one, forever in control. She was the one who reined Magna in.

Okay, it had also been kind of hot. Even half-dead on her feet, she couldn't fail to notice that.

"To be honest, neither can I." There was a wry note to the older woman's tone, and Magna wondered if she was smiling, almost risked looking up again to find out. "I don't regret it, if that's what you're wondering."

"Not like you to kick a dog when it's down."

"Not like you to be so forgiving."

She scoffed. "I'm not. Connie's gone. Probably dead and she-" Magna swallowed, collecting herself. "I'm not forgiving. I just don't have the energy to be angry anymore."

"Well that's definitely not like you." Miko teased, hesitating for a moment before severity bled back into her tone. "Are you going to be okay?"

She closed her eyes, sighed. Why was she so good? "You don't have to worry about me, Miko."

Scoff. "Another lie. I found a grey hair the other day, thanks to you."

"Oh and it couldn't have possibly been the literal end of days that we're stuck in?"

"Have you met you?" Another tug at her hair, this time playful and, for a moment, Magna could breathe easier. "Seriously, though, are you going to be okay?"

For a moment.

She shifted, hair pulling painfully but that was almost welcome. "I'll be fine. I'll be a lot better once we find Kelly and Luke."

"And Connie."

"And Connie." She wished she could feel more hopeful on that front. Miko squeezed her shoulder and she relaxed slightly, trying to push the dark thoughts away for now. There'd been too many of them tonight already. There were always too many. But just for tonight she wanted to escape them, to hide away in Miko's lap and absorb every touch, every smell, every word . . . that she had come so close to never experiencing again.

. . .

"How can you lose me? You've owned me from the first moment I saw you."

― Dianna Hardy, Cry Of The Wolf

. . .

The full gravity of the world ending fell upon Yumiko within a matter of hours, there'd been no time to trivialize or hope. Right from the start, she'd felt the impact.

Her mother had been a doctor in the old world and she'd been working a shift at the hospital when the outbreak hit the city and surrounding areas. Yumiko's stomach still turned at the memory of calling her up from the safety of Magna's apartment, her eyes trained on the insanity playing out across every news station, her heart pounding as she pleaded, pleaded for the other woman to pick up, to be alright, to-

But the phone had rung and rung. One, two, twelve phone calls later and nothing.

----

Unable to sit and wait any longer, Yumiko swiped her abandoned keys off the table and marched towards the door, ready to drive over there right that second and make her mother okay. She was smart, her mother was smart, and resourceful, and she'd never stopped practicing krav maga - and Yumiko would definitely come to regret refusing all those classes the woman had tried to get her to enroll in growing up but she 'd been focused on her books and her studies and all her dreams for a future that fighting never entered into-

Her mother would be fine .

But a hand grabbed hers - strong, nails almost biting into her skin - and pulled her back. "You can't go out there."

Magna.

At some point, she 'd forgotten the other woman was even there, just whose home she stood barricaded within.

"I have to get to the hospital, my mother she-"

"Yumiko, you saw the news - hell, you just almost got your face bitten off by one of those sickos - the world's fucking lost it. " Her face took on an expression of incredulity. "And you want to go to the fucking hospital? No, no way."

Yumiko clenched her jaw, trying not to snap. "She's my mother. I need to make sure she's okay."

"I know, OK? Trust me I get it but . . ." she took a breath, frustrated and Yumiko could detect an air of desperation in the way she closed her eyes, pressed her lips together. "But you just, you can't, okay? They said that part of the city is already overrun and it's a hospital . The amount of people in there, dying people . . . it's a death trap."

Yumiko looked away, knowing she was right but unwilling to face it. It was her mother .

For a spiteful moment, she wondered whether Magna really did 'get it'. As far as she knew, the other woman hadn't visited her own mother since she was a child. Yumiko didn't even know if she was still alive - or if Magna knew for that matter.

"Look, I . . . " Magna shook her head. "If I thought that it could work, that we'd be able to help, hell even be able to get in there, I would drive you myself."

"You don't have a license." She wasn 't sure why she said it, why out of all the things Magna was saying, that had stuck out the most. But it was the only thing she had the means to protest.

Magna huffed. "Fine, I'd let you drive but that-that's not the point. Miko, we don't even know how to kill these things. I stabbed that guy in the neck and he barely even flinched. The dead are eating people, I can't . . ." She shook her head, lost for words. "I can't protect you from that."

Yumiko cursed the way those words made her stomach flip - not the time. Her phone felt heavy in her pocket, useless, and her mind was a violent hellscape, tossing up image after image of all the situations that could be keeping her mother from answering but . . .

Fuck it.

She was right.

The world shook for a moment, shaky legs almost falling out from under her as she allowed herself to sink down onto the floor, hiding her head in her hands. She was right . The darkness made everything still and she could imagine for a moment that this wasn't really happening, that it was just some big nightmare, that-

People were fucking eating people, for god's sakes. Dead people. How could this be real?

There was a pause, the sound of shuffling, and she felt a stiff form settle down beside her. Hesitantly, an arm came around her, too lose, too distant, but there. "I'm sorry."

Yumiko shook her head, forgetting entirely Magna's discomfort when it came to any kind of physical intimacy - hell, any kind of intimacy in general - and allowed herself to collapse. Falling into her, she buried her head in the other woman's chest, hands coming up to latch onto the fabric of her shirt, desperate for something, anything to hold onto.

Magna flinched and her body became like a rock, rebelling at every place of contact between them.

Remembering herself, Yumiko moved to withdraw, "Shit, sorry, I-" but the arm around her tightened, keeping her in place. Slowly, she felt the muscles against her force themselves to relax as that arm found a surer purchase, pulling her closer. After a moment, she felt the slight weight of a chin coming to rest on her head, a hand coming up to find one of hers. Disentangling Yumiko 's almost rabid hold, they wrapped around her and squeezed, held tight and this-

This was better.

"Stay."

She did.

. . .

"I am your friend. a soul for your soul. a place for your life. home. know this. sun or water. here or away. we are a lighthouse. we leave. and we stay."

― Nayyirah Waheed

. . .

Magna knew that Miko's upbringing had been a fair bit more stable than hers. Parents divorced at nine, yes, but that was terribly common wasn't it? (and neither of them had tried to shoot the other.) She'd graduated at the top of her class, whilst Magna had been kicked out of three schools for fighting before her aunt and uncle had given up and stopped sending her. It wasn't a huge loss. The only classes she'd been doing well in were art and P.E. And whilst she had missed those it was a relief to get away from the taunting students and judgmental teachers.

Considering her criminal record that kept her from working at anything other than a seedy truck stop with its overly handsy customers, that had probably worked out for the best. Good grades wouldn't have been of any help to her by then.

She still laughed sometimes at the memory of Miko popping by on her shifts, how out of place she'd looked, sitting on a rickety stool behind the counter whilst Magna tended customers, still dressed in a suit from work that never seemed to wrinkle.

The pair of them had garnered more than a few looks.

But Miko had been at ease with it, picking at her fries - the only food on the menu that would probably pass a health inspection - making small talk, interjecting with the occasional complaint about Jerry, the company vulture, who kept trying to steal her clients. Magna had been confused by the attention, wary even. She'd wondered if the lawyer checked up on all her former clients like this, or if she was just a special case. She hadn't asked - she hadn't wanted to know the answer, to face the inevitable 'yes'.

A part of her had wanted to scare her off, had hated the way she got instantly on edge as soon as she saw Miko's form enter in the door, the way she felt even worse when she watched her leave out it. But another, more secret part, had been starved for company; the kind that didn't make her want to punch someone, anyway. So she'd held her tongue, and slowly let down her defenses.

Until one night, a trucker had gone to bite a chunk out of Miko's face.

It had been her turn to work the truck stop diner connected to the store, and Yumiko had been leaning against the counter, nursing a cup of too-sweet hot chocolate and conversing with her between customers. She'd just glanced down at her phone after hearing a ping and Magna had looked up at the sound, glimpsed the man lumbering closer, closer - too close.

She'd never been so glad of the quick reflexes life had beaten into her, because in that moment she hadn't needed to think. She'd shoved Miko back, a little too forcefully since she ended up hitting the ground with a smack that made Magna wince - but it was enough.

Her hand had been grabbing the knife from beneath the bench before she even registered, her arm jolting with the shock of sinking it into flesh that gave way too easily as she leapt across the counter, blood spattering against her face in a terrible sort of deja vu, her stomach turning - fuck fuck fuck - but he didn't fall, didn't scream; and then she'd grabbed Miko, tugged her up and ran, ears howling with the sound of all hell breaking loose around them. The police sirens in her head hadn't been real, she'd known they weren't, they couldn't be, not this soon, but her heart pounded in her chest from more than just adrenaline and fuck-

She'd done it again.

And just when she was finally starting to get used to freedom.

She hadn't realized until later that night, hauled up in her apartment - it had been closest and neither of them had really wanted to be alone after that - and watching the actual End of Days unfold on international television, that it had been the first time they'd touched. Magna had always kept a certain level of distance and Miko had never tried to cross it. Not until later that night, when Magna had reached out to stop her from leaving, when she'd collapsed into her arms with an ease that made Magna want to run out the door instead . . . and later when Miko grabbed her hand as she was heading to bed. It was just a moment, just a brief squeeze accompanied by a weak but grateful smile - but Magna had felt her heart try to escape her chest at that smile, at that touch . . .

It had just been a push. Barely anything compared to getting someone out of jail at least twelve years - though more likely an entire lifetime - earlier than expected. Especially when she still hadn't known that the person she'd been fighting so hard to free wasn't nearly as innocent as she'd assumed.

Somehow, the most surprising event of the night, was that Magna hadn't minded the touch, hadn't pulled away. More shocking, she'd missed it when it was gone; had felt empty each time Miko left her grasp, yearning to reach out and-

And that was when Magna had known she was screwed.

Miko told her that she'd known the same thing sometime around the third day of planning their trial strategy.

Thirteen years later and they were still pretty screwed.

. . .

"I've spent much too long in the space between staying and letting go."

- Perry Poetry

. . .

A/N: So this story has turned out to be a lot more Magna-centric then intended and that's not because I love Yumiko any less, I just find it easier to get inside the heads of characters like Magna. I'm used to writing somewhat dysfunctional people with more than a bit of trauma (probably cos I have a bit of trauma of my own lol). You know, the loveable walking disasters of the world. She might come off a bit ooc in this and that's partly because I'm still familiarizing myself with writing her and because she's a tad bit fragile after everything that's happened, which i think we all saw in last episode - Miko is also feeling pretty fragile for the same reason. Speaking of which. What. The. Fuck. It makes zero sense to me that these two would make up but still not get back together and I'm gonna sue the writers for torture if this keeps going on. So I had to write a fix-it fic. And I also felt like there was a lot these two still needed to talk about that I'm not entirely confident the show will ever address so voila a fic was made.

Also, just gonna note going forth that Magna’s own feelings about herself aren’t necessarily a reflection of my own feelings about her character. Girl’s got some insecurities to sort through. Likewise, her judgments - good and bad - about Yumiko aren’t necessarily true, either, for the same reason. It’s one of the causes for conflict in their relationship.

So there are probably two ways to look at how these two might have noticed they had feelings for each other: a) these two idiots have been in love for 13 years and were both too chicken and oblivious to do do anything about it, or b) their love developed slowly from the bonds of friendship over a very long time. I like both options but I decided to go with the former for this fic.

The series titles is from the song You by Keaton Henson. If you're familiar with the song - my Lost Girl buddies will be - don't worry nobody is going to die! that line just really fits them so much, and it's also about accepting the fact that you might lose the one you love but that doesn't mean you should be afraid of loving them or living your life.

. . .

OK, just gonna do a little shameless self-promotion, hope you don't mind :)

I made a yumagna vid so if you haven't seen it already and you're interested it's here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=grzrpr0QZEE (I'm gonna do more so if you want to stay in the loop subscribe to my youtube channel. I'll probs end up doing a short one for Unsteady because of this fic but I'm holding out till we get a yumagna hug)

I have an insta for yumagna called @yumagnas.home . my multifandom one is @bonnielextra (lots of awesome women that i make edits for just fyi) and my personal one is @cissyalice. Hit me up so I can follow some more yumagna stans!

My twitter is @bonnielextra and @welcometocaritas (for my edits). Currently just a lot of crying about yumagna on the first one.

And my tumblr is welcometocaritas. Obviously no pressure to look at any of these but I just thought I'd put them in just case :)

#yumagna #magniko #the walking dead #nadia hilker #eleanor matsuura #yumagna edit #yumagna fanfic #magna twd #yumiko #yumiko twd #mypost #My posts #myfic #my fic #my edit #myedit

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commentaryvorg · 5 years ago

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Danganronpa V3 Commentary: Part 6.10

Be aware that this is not a blind playthrough! This will contain spoilers for the entire game, regardless of the part of the game I’m commenting on. A major focus of this commentary is to talk about all of the hints and foreshadowing of events that are going to happen and facts that are going to be revealed in the future of the story. It is emphatically not intended for someone experiencing the game for their first time.

Last time in trial 6, everything became terrible in a hopefully-mostly-deliberate way as Keebo took over as protagonist. Tsumugi pandered to the audience by trying to twist the story to be all about them and not this story’s actual goddamn cast, then completely forgot about that moments later as she forced an arbitrarily cruel final vote on the students that has nothing to do with actual hope and despair, apparently Kaito’s efforts in trial 5 suddenly mean nothing because it turns out the audience is totally okay with unfair executions after the mastermind broke the rules, and Keebo kept spouting a familiar meaningless buzzwordy hope that didn’t address any of his friends’ actual reasons for being in despair, which the audience lapped up because they’re morons while Keebo utterly failed to consider that maybe what they want from him isn’t actually a good thing.

Keebo’s already chosen to become the first arbitrary pointless sacrifice of the vote, and the Mass Panic Debate we just finished was supposedly him trying to inspire one of the others to do the same, even though he wasn’t even shooting his hope at them.

“Nekomaru”: “Even if you won’t give up, as long as you don’t sacrifice someone el—”

Not giving up is the definition of hope! Doing anything other than that should not be necessary for hope to “win”, you arbitrary fucking murderer!

But one way or another, whether due to Keebo’s nonsensical Hope Bullet efforts or not (I’d very much like to think not), Maki chooses to sacrifice herself.

Maki: “If Keebo and I sacrifice ourselves… then Shuichi and Himiko live, right? Then they can… survive this absurd killing game…”

Of course it would be her. Her backstory meant that she’d never cared all that much about her own survival or her own suffering, so if she can die to let at least Shuichi and Himiko live, then that’s no real loss, right? Kaito only helped so much with her sense of self-worth… and maybe his influence has been dampened right now because of all the bullshit Tsumugi has been spouting.

Shuichi: “Maki…?”

There’s a very subtle wavering to Shuichi’s voice here beneath his surprise. He can’t bear the thought of losing her too, and it’s this pain that’s going to lead to him figuring everything out and fighting back.

Maki: “I don’t want this killing game to end with despair. That would just… piss me off.”

Tsumugi: “Even if you only feel that way cuz I wrote you like that? Just like with Kaito…”

Tsumugi’s still bullshitting about the Kaito part, but otherwise what she’s saying is not entirely wrong. Despair being bad is self-evident and you don’t need to be written a specific way to think that. But the feeling of needing to “defeat” despair is something that’s still a part of Maki being manipulated, not by the way she was originally written, but by that Flashback Light in chapter 5. Maki still can’t quite see that to its fullest extent, despite having long since realised that the main point of that Flashback Light was to manipulate her into killing Kokichi.

Maki: “Even then… I’ll choose that ending if it means I can kill you. Even if I have to sacrifice my life, I will kill you!”

Now that’s something that’s how Maki’s always been written. Deal with problems that have no easy solution by killing them, and definitely kill the big evil mastermind no matter what you have to sacrifice to do so. Maki Roll, can’t you see that this is exactly like what you were trying to do for the first half of Kaito’s trial?

This would at least be Tsumugi’s writing backfiring on her, if this “punishment” she was going to receive was actually death. But since it’s not, she’s quite happy with Maki choosing this, and guh.

“Makiiii”

“my darling assassin T_T”

“That’s my Maki.”

“Assassiiiiin”

Maki has fans. Her fans seem somewhat possessive of her (although at least she doesn’t have the total sicko that Shuichi has). It also seems that some of them are hung up on the idea that she’s an assassin and don’t see her as so much more than that, as if the only reason they like her is a shallow “hurr durr schoolgirl assassin hot”, rather than any of the many things that have been compelling and interesting about her character and her arc. She deserves so much better than this.

“ALL OF THESE TEARS”

“;_; i’m gonna cry…”

At least a few of them are actually having meaningful, human reactions to this – a character they love is going to sacrifice herself for her friends! This is sad! …or, well, it would be if the sacrifice was at all meaningful and not completely arbitrary, but, you know.

“Another hope loop?”

This might finally be a vague allusion to other seasons we haven’t seen. I can kind of imagine a “hope loop” becoming the fandom term for one particular way in which the meaningless arbitrary hope ending was once resolved, but it doesn’t sound like it’s referring to DR1 or 2 specifically.

“Shuichi looks yummy <3”

I’m going to keep giving you updates on this one person just so you can keep seeing how much of an absolute creep they are.

Tsumugi: “I told you over and over there’s nothing for you out there.”

Keebo: “No, once the audience sees this ending, I’m sure they’ll help us.”

Oh, poor naïve Keebo, thinking that the audience is a force for good and actually gives a fuck about any of his friends when they’ve been watching them die. When they’ve been doing this for fifty-three seasons and keep wanting more. This ending right now is not meaningfully different from any of the previous ones and is not going to change anything about the audience’s behaviour at all, Keebo.

Shuichi: “It’s because of hope that this whole thing is happening!”

But Shuichi gets it! He’s figured it out! I also love the emotion in his voice here. All of Shuichi’s (English) voice acting in this last part of the trial we’re entering is just fantastic.

The music used for Shuichi’s Rebuttal Showdown here is Clair de Lune again, which is lovely. It’s like that’s become less Kaede’s song and more just a song for Shuichi’s sadness over losing his friends.

It’s a neat twist that the last Rebuttal Showdown is against the game’s actual protagonist. This is possibly the easiest one in the whole game, with Shuichi’s words coming in completely horizontal, unmoving lines. He’s just explaining the plain truth of the matter. He’s not wrong and he’s not trying to get in anyone’s way; he’s about to fix this whole ridiculous mess.

Keebo: (Shuichi… why? Is this the power of despair? Or…)

Yes, Keebo, despair is clearly so powerful and so evil that it dares to make Shuichi not talk like hope is the best thing ever. It couldn’t possibly be that Shuichi’s actually making complete sense and isn’t in despair any more and you should listen to him.

Buuut, Keebo’s only bullet (or, well, blade) is still just “hope”, so he still thinks that’s the only possible solution to this situation.

Keebo: “Despair takes everything from people! Even their strength to press onward! That’s why it’s not possible for despair to be better!”

Keebo, you absolute moron, this isn’t about which one is better! Obviously Shuichi knows that hope is a better feeling to have than despair, because he’s not an idiot! But no matter what Tsumugi’s trying to make it sound like, this isn’t about proving any kind of point like it was in DR1; this is about what happens next. This is about whether the outcome of the vote, regardless of which meaningless label is slapped on it, is something we’re actually okay with, including the fact that the killing game will keep happening if we do this.

“Shuichi is the cycle of despair?”

“What are you saying, hat boy?”

“What if Shuichi is the mastermind?”

“You’re slipping up, detective.”

“Fire, Keebo! I’ll allow it!”

Aaaaaand the audience has suddenly completely stopped caring about Shuichi as a character because he dared to say a bad word about hope. This is again not remotely what an actual reasonable, human audience that’s been enjoying this story up until now would ever do, and this time it can’t just be the cherry-picked minority of despair lovers, because this is the people who are rooting for “hope”. A reaction something like “well, he’s kind of got a point, but I still want more killing games…” would be reasonable, but not just immediately denouncing him the moment he questions them. Did they not even care about Shuichi at all during the five chapters they’ve seen of him and the arc he’s had?

Shuichi: “The people watching probably feel the same way… They want hope, too.”

Oh, Shuichi, you are giving them far too much credit. You’re assuming that the “hope” they’re obsessed with is actual hope that will inspire them in their daily lives. It sure would be realistic and understandable and relatable if that was the actual way the narrative was portraying this, but it really isn’t.

Shuichi: “Even if it’s fiction, everyone wants to feel hope… It gives them… courage.”

That should be how this works. And I love that Shuichi clearly understands this on a personal level. Now would be a very relevant time to remind everyone that Shuichi’s Likes in the report card are listed as “Novels”. Which means that, most likely, he always used fiction to give himself courage, especially when he had so little courage on his own in the first place! Shuichi understands better than any of these one-dimensional morons in the audience exactly what gaining real hope from fiction really feels like!

Shuichi: “While they ignore all the tragedies that we had to suffer to get there!”

Keebo: “Shuichi, that’s—”

Monokuma: “Then let’s start the Voting Time!”

Hah, Monokuma sure does jump in quick. He’s afraid of Shuichi pointing out what’s really going on here and how real all their suffering is and making the audience realise that maybe they shouldn’t actually want this after all, isn’t he.

Shuichi halts them to ask what the “punishment” for this vote will be, because he’s already figured out what it is. If we’d been playing as him, we’d have seen plenty of inner monologue of him slowly realising this and piecing it together as Tsumugi rambled on and on. But since we’re not seeing inside his head right now, all Keebo has seen is Shuichi being almost completely quiet and then suddenly jumping in with a fully-formed theory explaining exactly what’s going on and why this vote is bad. Shuichi really does look like a hero from the outside.

Shuichi: “That’s what Rantaro was talking about.”

…

Rantaro: “You wanted this killing game, so you have to win no matter what. …No matter what.”

…

Shuichi: “Something similar must have happened in the last killing game, and he was given a choice. He sacrificed himself… and was forced to participate again.”

See, Rantaro wasn’t the only survivor of his killing game. There were two actual survivors who got to escape into the outside world just like Shuichi and Himiko hypothetically would here. Rantaro just sacrificed himself to allow for that. (In my headcanon, those two survivors were both girls and kind of reminded Rantaro of his sisters and that’s why he chose to do that.) It’s still a stretch to think that Rantaro would ever have thought of that as “wanting” this killing game like his message said, though, so I still think that line was mostly there just to make chapter 4’s opening stinger mysterious.

But man, spare a thought for Rantaro’s two friends who survived and escaped, dreading to watch Rantaro go through this again while having forgotten about them, but watching anyway because they have to know what happens to him… and then seeing him be the very first one to die. That has to have been awful. I hope that when Shuichi, Maki and Himiko do escape, they find those two and every other pair of survivors from each past killing game and start some kind of big therapy group to deal with their trauma together and share stories of their lost friends and reassure themselves that they’re all still real.

Shuichi: “Tsumugi will still be the mastermind, Keebo will still represent the viewers… and Maki will be the new Ultimate Survivor. The killing game will begin again.”

Even if Maki wouldn’t necessarily die in this outcome, the fact that she’d lose her memories of everything in this killing game and forget about Kaito and Shuichi and be reset back to the guarded, lonely, self-loathing assassin she was at the beginning would still be awful and unacceptable. Especially since Kaito was one-in-a-million and the next game probably wouldn’t have anyone willing to help her out of it again.

It’s a little odd to think that Tsumugi would still be the mastermind? I always assumed Tsumugi wasn’t the mastermind of Rantaro’s game, simply because if she then also masterminded this game as well, it’d ruin the mystery for the audience. Unless she usually cosplays as some made-up character and this is the first time she’s ever played as herself (or at least someone who looks like herself and superficially shares her nerdiness but is less terrible and murdery).

“Izuru”: “Then it’s despair? You’re going to choose despair to end the killing game? …How boring.”

“Celeste”: “But this is fine. Our audience loves despair, so this will please them too.”

Will it? I mean, maybe it would if it were actual despair, since there’s emotional investment you can get from that even if it’s nothing but painful emotions. But what’s actually going to happen with the “despair” outcome of this vote is simply Shuichi, Maki and Himiko (and apparently Tsumugi) continuing to live isolated, boring lives in the academy without any more killings. That’s not a despair ending, that’s a boredom ending. Precisely the kind of thing the audience shouldn’t want.

Keebo: “Then… hope has to win this game, too. If we continue to win for hope, then this killing game will surely end someday!”

Keebo, dude. You’re going to continue doing the thing that Shuichi has just explained is exactly what causes more killing games to happen… and then you’re just going to hope that eventually they’ll stop happening anyway? You are not being very smart right now. If you’re going to hope for something to happen, you should also at least act in a way that might help make it come true, otherwise your hope is useless.

Shuichi: “When Maki said she was going to sacrifice herself just now, I thought… Why? So many of our friends have sacrificed their lives. Why Maki? Why now? Why do we have to go through it again…? The sorrow of losing Kaede… and Kaito… Why do we have to feel that sadness over and over and over again…? Why do we have to bear that burden…?”

I love Shuichi here so much. I love that he’s realised what this means and that it’s cruel and unfair and wrong.

Shuichi: “Well, I don’t care how much the audience wants it, I’m not gonna feel that way anymore! I don’t want anyone to feel that way anymore!”

I love that he’s realised that the audience wants this from him and how fucked-up that is! I love that he’s thinking that not just for himself, but for every hypothetical character in future seasons who’d ever have to go through this same pain if they don’t end this right here!

I just… really wish that that actually seemed like what the in-universe audience wanted at all. Some people were sad when Maki offered to sacrifice herself, but not a single person was thinking “oh man Shuichi’s going to be devastated to lose another best friend” and empathising with the pain Shuichi’s feeling here and enjoying doing so in that immersed, in-story way. Instead, they just immediately stopped seeing him as a person the moment he spoke out against them and their precious “hope”.

The thing is, I’m still enjoying Shuichi’s emotional pain here! Of course I am! Because I care about him and I’m empathising with him, and all of this is making me want him to succeed and get what he wants and never have to feel like this any more, even as I’m enjoying that he’s feeling this way right now.

And, see, while the in-universe audience are obviously inherently more twisted than an out-universe audience because the people they’re watching aren’t really fictional and they know this, that doesn’t have to automatically make them this kind of one-dimensional asshole who can’t even empathise with the characters or engage with this like it’s a meaningful story at all. Things could still have been made to work while having them basically respond to Shuichi and his story like those of us on the other side of the real fourth wall.

Enjoying actual genuine fiction requires suspension of disbelief, compartmentalising away and ignoring the knowledge that it’s all made-up, so that you can get invested and care about what happens. So in a similar way, it might be just about believable if we could be shown that this in-universe audience has instead been suspending their knowledge that it’s real, compartmentalising away and trying to ignore the fact that real people are suffering, so that they can still enjoy this and keep watching despite knowing that people – uhhh, characters, definitely not real people – are going to die. Then they could have been reacting to this approximately like a real person watching genuine fiction would (you know, with actual investment in and empathy for the characters), until Shuichi blows the lid off their wilful ignorance right here and forces them to confront their awfulness.

Shuichi: “Even if this is fiction, even if we’re all fictional… The pain in my heart is real! The sadness I feel when I lose the people I love is real!”

I am so, so glad that he’s realised this! This is one of my favourite moments in this trial and completely restored all the faith first-time-me had lost during all the ridiculousness of last post. This is exactly what we need to be talking about and really should never have stopped talking about – the fact that of course they’re still real people regardless of how fake their memories were. They still really felt all that pain, and they still really meant everything they did for their friends, and they still really died, regardless of the “writers” that were sometimes pulling strings behind the scenes.

And I adore the way Shuichi calls them “the people I love”. He’s not talking about specifically romantic love here, because he doesn’t have to be. Of course he loved them anyway regardless of what kind of love it was; they were his friends and they gave him all of his strength and meant everything to him. If anyone tries to use this line as proof that Shuichi must have had romantic feelings for Kaito as well, they’re completely missing the point. Using the word “love” in a platonic sense will always melt my heart and it’s especially so in this context here.

Although, while Shuichi is using this pain of his to prove to himself that he’s still meaningfully real, I do wish there was a little bit of time spent on the realisation that, since they all must have felt the same way as him, his friends must have been real, too. Being deceived into thinking they were just lies was what caused Shuichi to fall into despair, and there’s no way he’d have been able to climb out of that despair and talk so passionately about losing his friends if he didn’t truly believe once again that their lives were worth exactly as much as a “real” person’s. He has definitely figured this out by now, but it’s kind of a shame he never directly mentions it.

Shuichi: “I won’t forgive this game that treats us like toys. And if this is what the world wants… then I reject that world! I’ll fight the world that inflicts suffering for entertainment!”

Shuichi is being such a hero and Kaede and Kaito would be so proud to see him like this!

And it’s still inconceivable that seeing him like this isn’t what the audience wants. This is a far more inspiring and meaningful story than any of the nonsense Keebo has been spouting. They should be cheering Shuichi on, not Keebo – even if that means cheering Shuichi on against themselves.

“What are you saying, detective?”

“Forget about Shuichi.”

But nope. The audience doesn’t care about him. Now that he’s speaking out against them, they’d rather just drop him entirely.

“You’re in despair, right?”

“It’s okay to feel despair sometimes…”

Yes, clearly the only reason Shuichi is saying this is because he’s being controlled by that super-evil force known as “despair”, not because he’s right.

“C’mon, Keebo! Attack!”

“hurry up and refute it!”

“Force hope through!”

And of course, they just want Keebo to yell more words about hope at Shuichi, because doing that will totally change his mind and make him think inflicting suffering for entertainment is okay. Yelling emptily about hope can achieve anything, right?

“The big reveal, at last.”

Uhh, no? What does this person even think the “reveal” is supposed to be – the fact that these characters aren’t actually fictional and that watching them suffer for entertainment is fucked up? That’s not a reveal, that’s something that should have been apparent from the start but everyone has been wilfully ignoring. (And it’s something that everyone should now be forced to confront whether they like it or not, but apparently almost nobody is.)

“mmm… shuichi’s eyes ^q^”

This “fan” of Shuichi’s is still here. And they still don’t actually give a fuck about him and haven’t been paying attention to anything he’s been saying or feeling at all.

“Why have we been doing this…?”

You! You, right there, are the one sensible actual human being in this whole stupid audience! This is what everyone should be thinking right now – realising that Shuichi has a goddamn point and that this whole practice is vile and that if they actually care about any of these characters at all then they should want what Shuichi wants, which is to end all this and never have another killing game again!

“something’s different, right?”

“Are they blaming us?”

These ones are more ambiguous, but it is possible that these two people are also vaguely starting to realise that what they’re doing is not okay. Maybe.

Tsumugi: “It doesn’t matter what you do. No matter what a fictional character does or says, it’s just fiction to the outside world.”

See… based on the audience’s current comments, it’s really seeming like this is actually true, in this world. Those three just now are the only comments during this part that give any sense of people actually listening to Shuichi’s words. The overwhelming majority are like the ones I quoted at the beginning, complaining about Shuichi’s outlook and wanting Keebo to “fix” things for them.

Shuichi: “I… refuse to vote.”

Tsumugi: “Refuse to vote…?”

Keebo: “Monokuma said that if we don’t vote, we’ll be killed for breaking the rules!”

Shuichi: “Yes, I know. That’s why I’m doing it.”

And here’s this rule which has been vaguely a thing in the background of all the Danganronpas but was pointedly highlighted at the beginning of almost every trial in this one, making it kind of obvious it’d somehow be important later on. It’s also quite relevant that Monokuma’s declarations of this rule always explicitly said that not voting would result in death, not just “punishment”, because it means Tsumugi can’t suddenly pull a loophole and pretend this still just means they get forced into another killing game.

(Although that’s only assuming that the audience still cares about her following the rules, which, ha fucking ha.)

Shuichi: “If this ends without a single vote being cast for hope or despair… The audience would hate it. They’d never accept an ending like that… So I abstain! I refuse to give the outside world the ending it wants!”

I appreciate Shuichi’s determination and willingness to give his life to end this killing game for good and give a huge fuck-you to the audience… but honestly, it’s kind of flimsy that this would actually achieve that. It’s hard to believe that, over fifty-three seasons, there haven’t been a few kind-of-disappointing endings here and there (even accepting that this audience laps up meaningless buzzwordy hope-versus-despair nonsense like this). But surely the occasional boring ending would only make people shrug and hope the next season is better, and it’d take several in a row for them to finally think things will never get better and the show might as well just end.

Which, to be fair, might have been happening already if this season took longer than usual to come out and some people weren’t sure it ever would. But that apparent fact was buried in some obscure audience comments and wasn’t something Shuichi seemed to notice, so he shouldn’t be nearly so sure that this would work.

Plus, it shouldn’t only be about the ending – the rest of the story is a part of the story too. The other trials in this game have mostly been fantastic and there should be no way the audience wouldn’t want more of that kind of thing, no matter how disappointingly it ends!

…This should also still not actually be a disappointing ending at all, because look at what an amazing hero Shuichi’s managing to be! He’s willing to give his life to stop the real villain behind all this – not some meaningless concept of “despair”, but the people who actually wanted him and his friends to suffer! This is still something that it should be possible for the audience to accept makes a good story, despite the fact that they themselves are the villains in it.

Keebo: (Hope… won’t end the killing game? If that’s true, then this feeling that I must win for hope is…)

Geez, Keebo, glad you’ve finally caught up with us. It really should not have taken you this long.

It’s pretty neat that the “lying” mechanic as used here with Keebo isn’t actually lying – hope is just a concept, it’s not even a fact that you can lie about. Instead, it’s representing Keebo finally choosing to ignore and go against what his inner voice is telling him to do. The only weapon he has is hope, but that doesn’t mean this is the only choice he has.

“What are you doing, Keebo?”

“Hurry up and side with hope.”

“COME BACK HOOOPE”

“it’s hope again, right?”

And of course, the majority of the audience is not happy about this. Really, though, Shuichi has already ruined their hope ending by pointing out that this “hope” is arbitrary and cruel, and no amount of empty yelling about hope from Keebo could change that now even if he did keep listening to them.

“show us maki roll!”

This single comment here is the closest anyone in the audience ever gets to even vaguely acknowledging Kaito’s existence, since they’re using the nickname he gave her. And the utter lack any other mention of Kaito from the audience is quite clearly another thing that is completely Unrealistic and Wrong. Kaito was the best, and a significant amount of the audience should have been invested enough in his story and his influence on Shuichi and Maki to still be occasionally mentioning him here.

“i wanna break Shuichi’s fingers <3”

I sincerely hope that when Shuichi gets out of here, he ends up absolutely nowhere near this person and they never figure out where he’s living. Geez. Go and re-examine your life, you sick creep.

Keebo: “I may be a robot, but the thought of my friends dying still fills me with sadness. I don’t want anyone else to feel this way!”

You know, if they’d actually done anything at all with Keebo’s issues about being a robot, it could have worked pretty well in this trial. He’s always been struggling to fully understand the feelings of “real” humans, and so he should have also struggled to justify to himself that his own feelings matter even though they’re just being “simulated” by computer software. But he still feels it, so it still matters, robot or not. That’s exactly the kind of argument Shuichi had to make to himself to justify that he’s still real. Keebo could have been the perfect person (among those still with us) to help Shuichi and friends come to terms with the existential issues that this trial has given them! If only Keebo had had an actual proper character arc about accepting himself as just as much of a person despite being a robot, and also if only he’d ever been trying to give his friends actual hope during this whole deal. His character has so much wasted potential.

His protagonist status wears off here, which is an appropriate moment for it to do so. All he was ever meant to do as the audience’s protagonist was to keep the cycle going and keep more killing games happening, and now that he realises that, he doesn’t want to be their protagonist any more.

“gonna dismantle you, Keebo.”

Oh boy, here’s some foreshadowing to what they actually end up doing, because apparently none of them ever really cared about Keebo as a character or a person.

“WTF? You already killed each other?”

As if the fact that the murderers were all participants of the game makes everyone in the game a bad person and therefore it doesn’t matter if they suffer and die? As if most of the actual murderers were even bad people and not good people desperately trying to save everyone and/or being manipulated into it? Yeah, no, sure, this was all just a meaningless slaughterfest and so it’s totally okay for them to all continue to die.

“the questionnaires were pointless?”

I mean, it’s not like you guys ever affected Keebo’s actions in any meaningful way up until now anyway; I don’t know why you’re so disappointed.

“Shuichi has a point.”

Hello, sensible person! I don’t know if this is the same person as that one from before, but it’s nice to see at least a tiny, tiny fraction of the audience getting it. It really is such a tiny fraction, though – the vast majority of people are still just complaining about not getting what they wanted. And I’d like to just put this down to the fact that the people who are realising this are also nice enough to then stop watching and stay out of the comments section – but, no. The comments section is exactly where these people who’ve realised this should be, because they should be trying to persuade everyone else to agree with them and realise that this is fucked up and no longer want this!

Shuichi: “New characters are created just to show the outside world a fictional hope. They get written into these killing games, forced to betray one another…”

I appreciate how Shuichi is describing them as being “created”, because it proves that he now understands that this is exactly what happens. This has nothing to do with the pregame assholes who auditioned and wanted this; they just donated their bodies. The characters who are actually in this killing game never wanted any of this, yet they were literally created to suffer. That is not fucking okay and Shuichi will not let it continue. No-one else will ever be created for that purpose. He and his friends are the last.

Shuichi: “To end this killing game, and end it forever… We will reject Danganronpa!”

This whole speech here accompanies Shuichi’s protagonist status switching back on, and it has pretty nice dramatic effect. He’s being a hero!

Shuichi: “Tsumugi… you were right. I’m weak. I’m weaker than anyone else… If I didn’t have my friends, I’d be useless. That’s true even now!”

It’s lovely that Shuichi is okay with this. He realises that this is the character Tsumugi wrote him to be… but that doesn’t mean that it’s not still who he is, and it doesn’t mean he’s not real.

But he’s still not giving himself enough credit at all. Yes, he’s only able to be strong when he has friends to rely on and inspire him, but all that potential strength is still right there inside him, ready to be brought out by the right people! All he needs is a little nudge in the right direction, from the right kind of heroes.

Shuichi: “If Keebo and Maki didn’t stand up… I would have ended it all right then.”

It’s really sad to think what Shuichi probably means when he says “end it all”. Kind of like the way he once said that Kaito “saved his life”, without ever properly elaborating on what he meant by that.

But still, Shuichi – Keebo and Maki may have chosen to sacrifice themselves, but you’re the one who used the pain of that to realise that you’re still real and figure out what everything meant. They weren’t trying to encourage you to do that, or even to be strong at all, when they made their choice. That all came from you, and from your own strength that you’ve built up through Kaede and Kaito’s belief in you. You’re not as weak as you were at the beginning, not by a long shot!

Shuichi: “But it’s because I’m weak and because I lost my way… that I finally realized. I finally realised how cruel this “hope” really is.”

It’s cruel because the best way to write a good story is to have characters that are weak and suffer like Shuichi has been. The most inspiring type of heroes who give people the most hope aren’t the ones who are perfect and invincible, but the ones who struggle and suffer and yet still manage to win in the end. Shuichi has realised, because of his own suffering and the fact that he’s managed to claw his way through it anyway, that this is the kind of thing the audience should want to see, because it gives them the hope that they can overcome their weaknesses and struggles in the same way. A storyline like Shuichi’s should be exactly what the audience wants and exactly why this has happened so many times to so many real people who didn’t deserve to suffer for this.

I say “should be”, because this isn’t even remotely what the in-universe audience actually wants to see at all. It’s honestly bizarre how obvious the divide is between what Shuichi is describing as a genuinely inspiring engaging fiction that should be the reason the audience keeps wanting this, and the one-dimensional idiocy that this nonsensical audience apparently wants instead. If the out-universe writers are able to write Shuichi talking about the audience wanting this kind of story, they should also be perfectly capable of writing the audience actually wanting it! This shouldn’t be difficult.

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[Next post]

#danganronpa #danganronpa v3 #drv3 #ndrv3 #chapter 6 #class trial #commentary

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bluesfortheredj · 6 years ago

Text

David Budd Part 1

Woman I know you are the one to do this because your the best. Can I please get some bodyguard smut up in here? (Please say your watching it) His character or Richard it’s up to you. THANK YOU!

“David Budd?” you ask, sure that you’d heard that name before, “wait, you mean the hero of the moment that stopped the terrorist from blowing up a train?”

“That’s the one,” your manager nods.

“Oh my goodness, I’m sure he’s got better things to do than look after some actress. Isn’t there anyone else? He must be so annoyed being put on this job.”

“He was happy to be placed on this assignment, don’t worry.”

“I really don’t need a bodyguard, honestly, it’s just a convention, I’ve done them loads of times before, it’ll be fine,” you reply, shaking your head.

Nothing had happened to you personally, and as far as you were concerned it was your management being too overprotective. Two of your female co-stars had received letters recently at their home addresses, each containing a few strands of hair that, when tested, were a match to their own DNA. Now, according to the management team, you were at risk of being targetted too, and as you were currently in your home country, about to attend another convention, they’d booked extra security, including your own personal bodyguard. To you, it was a complete overreaction, and you felt absolutely embarrassed by the whole thing, especially knowing that this David Budd had literally put his life on the line when faced with a bomber.

“We can’t risk it, (Y/N), you know that. It’s just a weekend, please accept the extra help, and if anything hopefully this will put the sicko off from trying something.”

“It’s highly unlikely he would have followed me from the states,” you say, rolling your eyes.

“Y’know, sometimes I wish you’d let your guard down just a little, just so you can see the seriousness of this situation,” your manager frowns. Keith had seen it all with other actors and actresses he’d helped, but you held a special place in his heart, and he was like an Uncle to you now. You’d been through a lot in recent months, a messy break up that was splashed across the gossip magazines as details of your ex-boyfriend’s affair came out, and you’d hardened a lot, dealing with things by not letting yourself open up to them, and this situation was one of them.

“You’re being dramatic,” you reply with a sigh, turning to look out of the rented apartment in the city that had been chosen for you.

“(Y/N)...”

“Okay! Okay!” you relent.

“Someone’s gonna knock that wall down one day y’know,” Keith smirks.

“Ha! I’d like to see ‘em try,” you reply, raising an eyebrow.

“Hmm,” he hums, “you’ll see!”

A sharp tap at the door makes you both turn quickly to the door, and you almost feel yourself jump a little.

“See what you’re doing with all this talk?! I almost jumped at that!” you laugh.

“Well I’ll stop with all this talk now you’ve got the protection you need,” he says, opening up the door to a man in a sharp suit and ear piece. You stand up to greet him as he enters the room, and as Keith steps aside after shaking his hand, you find yourself staring at his chiselled jawline and perfectly curled hair.

“(Y/N), this is Police Sergeant David Budd,” Keith explains, “I’m going to go to the venue with the rest of security and leave you in his very capable hands.”

Before you can say bye to him, he’s gone, and you stand there staring at the officer in front of you.

“Hi, sorry, nice to meet you Sargeant Budd,” you smile, shaking hands with him.

“David, please. Or Dave, up to you Miss. (Y/L/N),” he nods politely.

“Ah, right, well then David, please call me (Y/N).”

“Of course, (Y/N),” he nods as he places his hands behind his back again and regains his stance. His thick Scottish accent made you smile, and you quickly looked down as you shook your head.

“Look, can I just say I’m really sorry you’ve been put on this detail, I read about what you did, and you’re a hero, and real life hero who shouldn’t be hanging around an actress who really doesn’t need all this,” you ramble, waving your hands around at the last part.

“Miss… (Y/N), sorry. If I may, I was given details about this job, and what this person has done to your co-workers is not something to be taken lightly. I’m here to protect you, no matter what,” he says. Somehow his small speech makes your knees go weak.

“Okay, thank you,” you mutter, “your bag was already delivered if you want to go through to the spare room and unpack.”

“Thank you,” he nods as you point to the door he needs. One weekend, just one weekend of his smooth accent, piercing eyes, and perfect jawline. You could handle this, it would be fine.

The first day of the convention went without a hitch, David always in sight of you as you sat at your table to sign, then posed for photographs with the fans, and you were completely knackered when you got out of the venue, slipping into the back of the car and almost falling asleep straight away.

“Can we stop off for food on the way back?” you ask David, sitting in the seat in front of you.

“I’d prefer it if you got it delivered Miss,” he replies.

“Of course,” you agree, sitting back in silence. You soon arrive back at the apartment block and David ushers you upstairs as the security settle in downstairs for the night. After persuading David to also get something to eat, you sit and wait for it to be delivered, him in the chair opposite the couch you were occupying. He was trying so hard not to stare at you, but it was difficult for him. He’d known who you were before getting this job, a fan of the show, and more specifically you, so naturally he jumped at the chance of being your personal bodyguard. He was professional, there was no doubt about it, but he couldn’t deny how much he was enjoying watching you with the public, your kind and caring nature shining through, even when you were exhausted and hadn’t eaten all day.

“May I ask a question, Miss?”

“(Y/N), please, and of course you may,” you nod.

“Sorry, (Y/N),” he smiles, correcting himself, “was acting something you’d always wanted to do?”

“Not really,” you chuckle, “probably shouldn’t admit that, should I?”

“I won’t tell a soul.”

“Good to know,” you smile. There’s a loud knock at the door and a fleeting look of panic crosses David’s eyes at the noise. He stands and answers the door, a member of the security team holding the inspected dinner, then returns to his seat with the food.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

“Of course, Mi- (Y/N),” he replies, passing you your meal, then taking his out of the bag. You’d heard he’d been positioned in Afghanistan before joining the force, and your heart sank a little at the thought he was still affected by it. He must have been through a lot out there, and you suddenly realised just how unimportant the trivial things you found yourself worrying about really were.

“David, I just want to apologise if I’ve- uh-” you start, suddenly wanting to apologise for all the stupid stuff you may have moaned about today, but he gives you a smile and shakes his head a little. He knew you’d spotted his momentary lapse in concentration, letting himself be startled by the door, and he knows you were given information about him beforehand as well, so it was easy for you to put two and two together.

“You don’t need to apologise for anything.”

You smile back at him and carry on eating, then put the containers in the bin and watch as David walks over to the window, looking out on the bright lights below. You study his form from afar, and your eyes end up hovering over his bum, the trousers he’s wearing fitting snugly around it, giving it the definition it deserves.

“I’m going to head to bed now,” you say, releasing the lip that had been clamped between your teeth for the past couple of minutes, “night David.”

“Night (Y/N),” he says, turning around to watch you walk into your room. You had a later start the next day thankfully and you were looking forward to your lay in, but once your head hit the pillow, all you could think about was him. It didn’t help that you could hear him walking around in the main part of the flat, and his footsteps came up to your door, stopping as if to make sure you were still in there, then move on less than a minute later. You look at the wall that separated you both as you hear him close his door, and can’t help imagining what he looks like naked.

“Fuck,” you whisper to yourself, rolling onto your back and staring at the ceiling.

#david budd #david budd imagine #bodyguard imagine #bodyguard #richard madden #richard madden imagine #request #reader insert #fanfic #fanfiction #bodyguard fanfic

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woildismyerster · 6 years ago

Note

Hey! I love your work, and I was wondering if you could do something with Darcy?

I’ve given it a try! I hope this isn’t terrible.

When your life was primarily made up of fantasies, it was annoying when you couldn’t get the fantasy quite right. When you couldn’t get the fictional lover to say the right thing, or when you couldn’t figure out what was supposed to happen next.

It all had to be perfect, or end perfectly. If your fantasy life couldn’t be perfect, there wasn’t a point to having one. Imperfections were for real life.

The most recent person that your fantasies centered around made it nearly impossible to fantasize. Even in your wildest dreams, Darcy was too good for you. He was perfect. He was the perfect guy, and that made it impossible to imagine him wanting you.

Okay, not perfect. He couldn’t be perfect, because you didn’t know him. You knew his name, because he told you his name every day when he came to the coffee shop you worked at. You assumed he was perfect, since he had that smile and those hands and he tipped well and he checked the nametags of everybody working so he could thank people specifically.

Perfect.

Perfect, and so, so out of your league.

You could see the surprise on his face when he came into the shop one day and saw that his regular table was taken. There were plenty of other seats available, but his steps faltered when the one he always used was occupied by an older looking businessman.

“I can take your order,” you parroted.

He glanced at the menu, though he ordered the same thing everyday. He had ordered the same thing since you started working the morning shift two years earlier, and you liked to think that he would keep ordering a chai latte for as long as you were there.

“I’ll have a chai latte. The order is for Darcy.”

You knew his name. You smiled politely anyway. While you got his order ready, you gave him a stiff smile over the counter. “Shame that you lost your seat.”

He blinked, surprised, but smiled. “It is. I always liked the view of that seat. Do you think any other seats are worth a try?” He was careful to pronounce every sound in every word, and you had to bite back a broad grin. He spoke perfectly, too.

You pointed at a chair in the opposite corner. “That’s a nice spot. There’s an outlet. Or,” you added with a nervous laugh, “the counter is always good.”

He accepted his cup with a grateful grin. “Thank you, Y/N.” He settled onto a seat at the counter. “I’ll save the corner seat for a more adventurous day.”

He sipped his coffee while he read the paper, and you peeked at him from the corner of your eye the entire while. You had talked to him. More than just taking his order, anyway. You filed it all away, knowing you would comb over it later. Perfect, perfect, perfect.

It caught you off guard when Darcy came back to the counter after finishing his drink. You hadn’t really talked to him since the day he sat at the counter, weeks earlier. His face was tight and uncomfortable, and he looked embarrassed to be up there.

“How can I help you?”

He leaned in close, making sure there was nobody listening in. “Somebody vomited in the bathroom.”

“Okay,” you sighed. “I’ll take care of it.” You were halfway to the men’s restroom before you realized he was following you in. “Oh, sir, you don’t have to -”

“It’s a lot,” he said quietly. “You’ll want a hand.”

When you pushed the door open, you understood what he meant. What had the sicko done, smeared it across the walls? Christ, it reeked. “Darcy, you should go. Seriously, it isn’t your job to clean it up.”

“It shouldn’t be your job, either,” he said. His nose wrinkled when he looked at it, but he rolled up impeccable sleeves and grabbed several paper towels.

“Wait!” He jumped when you barked the word at him. “Hang on, let me get you some gloves. We’ll want some heavy duty stuff for this.”

Neither of you spoke much while you cleaned, but it was companionable silence. It would be punctuated by one of you groaning in disgust, or laughing when the improbability of it all overwhelmed.

“I wish I had time to go home for a shower,” he sighed when the two of you left the newly cleaned room.

“That wouldn’t cut it,” you replied. “This’ll take bleach. Maybe acid.”

He laughed. “For my eyes, maybe.”

“Thank you,” you said. “For helping, I mean. I’m sure my manager will kill me when she finds out, but I really appreciated it.”

“I would say it was my pleasure, but that would be a lie.” When you grinned, he smiled back with a newfound friendliness. He had always been kind before, but some horrors were binding. Projectile vomit appeared to be one of them. “See you tomorrow?”

“If I skip the bleach and acid,” you said. “Hopefully we’ll meet under better circumstances.” You would take any circumstances, as long as he was there, but you would skip the vomit if at all possible.

The next time his seat was taken, Darcy didn’t hesitate to sit at the counter. He sat down and smiled at you, pulling out a newspaper instead of a book.

You grinned. “You still read the newspaper? How old even are you?”

“It would look pretty bad if I didn’t read the newspaper I work for,” he said.

You wiped down the counter as an excuse to keep talking to him. He always wore the most exquisite suits, and you supposed that working for the media explained it. You certainly weren’t complaining. “You’re a reporter?”

“Oh, no,” he said quickly. “No, I’m in charge of the layout of the paper.”

“That’s pretty cool.”

“It’s alright,” he agreed. “It pays the bills.”

You leaned against the counter. “What would you do if you didn’t have to worry about paying bills?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “That’s why I have this job, I guess. I don’t have any better ideas.”

Another customer came in, so you hurried away to help them. Darcy waited patiently, leaving his newspaper on the countertop as he did. When you got back, he had a question waiting for you.

“Is this the job you want?”

You shrugged. “It wasn’t. This was supposed to be my post-school filler job; the job that I worked while I looked for my career. It’s been two years, and I’m still here.”

“Well, you’re good at it,” he said.

“Awe, shucks,” you said lightly. “That’s good to hear. Now I just need to find a coffee shop that pays a living wage and has customers that treat me right.”

Darcy’s smile faded. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply -”

You blinked, coming back to reality. “No, no, you didn’t say anything wrong. Really, it’s nice to know that I do a good job. And for what it’s worth, the customers aren’t all bad. I even look forward to some of them.”

You leveled him with a smile, and he pulled his glasses off to polish them. “Customers appreciate seeing you here, too.”

“Customers will be seeing me around for a long time yet,” you said. “Aren’t they so lucky?”

“Incredibly,” he replied, with a smile so genuine that you had to go back to the register to hide your smile.

Darcy didn’t take his seat back in the following days, opting instead to stay at the counter.

“Good morning, Y/N,” he said with a smile. “I’d like a -”

“A chai latte, I know,” you said.

“And the order is for -”

“Darcy,” you interrupted. “I know your name. You come every day.”

He grinned. “So do thousands of other people.”

“Ah, but we always remember our favorites,” you said.

His smile escalated into a laugh. “How flattering.”

“It really is,” you confided. “We arm wrestle to man the register in the mornings, just so we can serve you.”

“Really?” He looked startled.

“No,” you snorted. “I’m not strong enough to win like that. I’m here because everybody else is afraid of me.” You could practically feel the other barista rolling her eyes, but she stayed quiet. You actually got to be on register every morning because you begged the manager to give you the position. Everybody knew about your thing for Darcy, so nobody fought you on it.

“Ah,” he said. He took his cup, grinning when he saw that you drew a smiley face by his name. “I can see why.”

“I’m terrifying.”

“Absolutely.” When he dropped money in the tip jar, he rolled his eyes and sighed. “I would never give this much money if I wasn’t so intimidated.”

“Right on.” You gave him your best glower, but it was ruined when you melted at his smile.

“Never do that again,” he said, and dropped another dollar in the jar.

Surprisingly enough, knowing Darcy didn’t kill the fantasies. On the contrary, they grew in detail and number. It was easier to get him right when you learned that he only worked for the newspaper because his dad owned the place.

He gave you his number so he could text you about an article he wanted you to read.

You started playing Words with Friends again, once you realized that he loved it more than life.

He would draw pictures on his napkins, and you would write different Jane Austen character names on his cups.

He would stop by during your breaks, and you started reading the paper just so you could talk to him about it.

You learned that he cleaned his glasses when he was nervous or embarrassed. He learned to predict what jokes you would make, before you started saying them.

Instead of being your refuge from reality, fantasizing about a life with Darcy made reality more difficult to cope with. Before you started talking to him, he was out of your league because he was perfect. Once you knew him, he was out of your league because, despite his imperfections, he deserved so much more than what you had to offer.

You never worried too much about knowing that unfortunate truth, since you never thought that he believed anything different. The perceived inequality was so obvious, so predictable, that you never thought there was anything to say.

“Any big plans for the weekend?” You popped the top onto his cup and handed it over, letting your fingers touch his a little more than necessary.

“No, but I do have plans,” Darcy said. He didn’t look pleased about it.

“Do tell.”

“My dad is having some family friends over for dinner, and he wants me to come along.” Darcy looked more upset about it than you would have expected, so you frowned at him.

“What’s the problem? Friends and free food. What’s wrong with that?”

“He’s done this before,” Darcy said glumly. “He brings friends over, but only when they have a single child around my age. They’re always successful, or on the way to it. It’s like a chaperoned blind date.”

“Oh.” Oh, oh, oh. “Not interested in the date?”

“No,” he sighed. “I haven’t been interested in their interventions in a while.”

“I only see two options here,” you mused.

“I’m listening,” he said. A smile was already curling at the edges of his lips.

“Number one - leave the country. They probably don’t know potential suitors in every country.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. “And the other?”

“Get a date of your own. Put yourself out there. Find someone who you’ll be happy to go out with,” you said. Not you, of course, but somebody. Somebody awesome, who had lots of money and charm and was probably gorgeous. Somebody like him.

“That’s not a bad idea,” he admitted, “but it isn’t as easy as you make it sound.”

“A handsome man like you? Piece of cake,” you scoffed.

He grinned. “If you have any suggestions, let me know.”

“Will do,” you said. You had no suggestions. You didn’t know anyone who was good enough for Darcy.

Darcy had started coming over during his lunch break sometimes, so you would take your break and eat lunch with him. You never quite understood it, since the coffee shop food was only halfway decent, but you didn’t discourage him. It was the highlight of your day.

He bit into a sandwich, already reaching for a napkin to wipe his fingers on. “Do you ever imagine living somewhere other than New York?”

“I imagine it, sure,” you said.

He looked surprised, maybe even a little unhappy. “Like where?”

“Anywhere. How could you watch a movie or read a book, and not imagine a life where it takes place?”

“The Hunger Games must have been agonizing,” he said with a crooked smile.

“Harry Potter was a miracle.”

“Lord of the Rings must have been pretty great,” he said thoughtfully. He loved Tolkien. It hadn’t taken you long to notice how often he brought up Tolkien’s books and movies, but you had never discouraged it. You reread the Lord of the Rings trilogy, just so you could carry a conversation about them.

“What about you? Do you ever imagine leaving?”

“Not really,” he said. “I like things the way they are.”

“I can tell,” you said with a smirk. “When you decided you wanted a new friend, you chose somebody who you could hang out with in the place they work.”

“What do you mean?” He looked honestly baffled, and you had to fight back a laugh.

“You’ve been seeing me at work for years, Darcy. We became friends, and your way of furthering the friendship was to come to the shop more often.” You bit into a donut, catching falling bits of frosting in the hand you cupped underneath. “We’ve never seen each other outside this place.”

He frowned. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“That’s how it is,” you said with a shrug. “I’m not complaining, just making an observation.”

“It has to change,” he said with finality.

“It’s fine, really -”

“No, you and I are friends.” He didn’t pull his glasses off, not entirely, but he traced his fingertips along the frames. “I want to see you more often. We can actually do stuff, like regular friends do.”

You could not think of a single thing that sounded bad about it, so you agreed.

In the end, it turned out that there was a problem. The more you saw him, the more you liked him. You liked that he offered you his elbow to hold when you walked through crowds. You liked that he sometimes went to restaurants just because he wanted an appetizer. You liked that he always dressed up, even on days off. You liked everything about him, aside from the fact that he deserved more than you had to offer.

Every month, he liked to go to the planetarium. It was the only place in New York that let you really see the stars, even if they were fake, so he wanted to look. New York was always a little overwhelming, he would say, but seeing the universe that way made it easier to cope with the chaos.

One evening, while the ceiling screen was talking about the Andromeda galaxy, you felt Darcy lean over to look at you.

“What is it?”

“Do you ever think that you would leave New York, if there was a job opportunity somewhere else? Something that you knew you’d love?” You couldn’t see his face clearly, but you saw the glare of the lights in his glasses.

“I dunno. Why?”

He shifted again, pulling his glasses off to rub at them. “I just like the way things are, is all.”

“I never said that I wanted to leave,” you said with a wry grin. “I don’t even look for jobs outside the city.”

“If you did,” he said quietly, “I wouldn’t want to lose you.”

“As if you could get rid of me that easily,” you said.

He shoved the glasses back up the ridge of his nose. “What I’m trying to say is, if you tried your hand at a career somewhere else, so would I.”

You blinked at him. In the background of the conversation, the narrator was talking about black holes. “You have a career here.”

“I could transfer to a different paper,” he said confidently. “I’d follow you.”

What was he talking about? Friends don’t follow friends across the country, and they especially don’t worry about this type of scenario when there is literally no reason to. “What’s bringing this on?”

“The thing is,” he said, “I really like you. I want to be with you, wherever we are. I know you don’t like the way things are in your life, but I want to always be the good thing. Anywhere we are.”

“Well,” you said awkwardly, “I’m staying here.” He liked you. Why on earth would he like you? You hadn’t planned on him liking you. He shouldn’t.

“I want to be with you here, too,” Darcy said. You could hear the cautious, hopeful smile in his voice.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you said in a low voice.

“Why not?” There was no defeat yet; he just sounded curious.

“Because you can do better.”

“Of course I couldn’t,” he scoffed. “There’s nothing better.”

“Of course there is! You’re a handsome man with a good job. I’m a barista, with no other prospects. You have a future, and I’m lucky to have a now,” you said. You were grateful for the dark. If you cried or something, you didn’t want him to know.

“I don’t want anybody else.”

“You should try to,” you said.

“Why?”

Your answer was cut off when the lights flickered back on, conversations roaring to life as all of the patrons stood to leave. You thought through your response as the two of you left the building, hoping you would find the right words to prove your point. The point didn’t present itself until you were walking toward the subway station.

“You’re like - like a prince out of a fairy tale,” you said. Darcy smiled, but you plowed forward. If you let yourself get lost in that smile, you would forget what your point was. You would forget why all of this mattered at all. “You’re the prince, and I’m the peasant, and it makes it all really weird.”

“Peasants and princes get together all the time,” he pointed out.

“Well, yeah,” you said. “But the stories never say that they’re in love, right? It’s a business deal, or a marriage of convenience. They aren’t soulmates or anything.”

“Can’t it be both?” He pulled his glasses off and polished the lenses again. “Can’t what’s best for everybody else be what’s best for the two of them? If it ends in happily ever after, doesn’t that mean love is a part of it?”

You frowned, rubbing your face with one hand. Things were finally going the way you had hoped, and it wasn’t what you wanted anymore. At least, it was what you wanted, but it wasn’t the ending you had decided on. “That’s what I’m trying to say. I don’t think this is what’s best for everybody else, and I don’t think it’s what’s best for us.”

He gaped at you, glasses forgotten in his hand. “You don’t believe that.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t. Do I make you happy?” His jaw was set, eyes hard. For once, he didn’t look perfect. He looked hurt and unhappy, and the imperfection wasn’t anywhere near as satisfying as you might have thought.

“Of course you do,” you said. “Of course you make me happy!”

“Do you think I’ll keep making you happy?”

“Yes.” How could he not? He made you ridiculously happy, just like he always had. That didn’t mean that you would make him happy.

“There you go,” he said. He gave a satisfied, tight-lipped smile. “I’m not saying that we’ll live happily ever after, but I do think we could live happily.”

That gave you a pause. “I make you happy?”

“Of course,” he said. “The happiest.”

“That doesn’t mean I’ll always make you happy.”

He gave a bark of laughter. “Isn’t that a risk everybody takes when they start dating? I know you make me happy now, and I think you’ll make me happy later. I care about you, and I think that you care about me. Nothing else matters.”

“Other stuff matters -”

“No.” He stopped you in the middle of the sidewalk and put his hands on your shoulders. “I want to be with you. I won’t try to push you into anything you don’t want, but if you want to be with me, that’s the only important thing. We should give this a try.”

You stared back at him, thrown. Maybe he was right. Maybe love didn’t have anything to do with deserving. It was just love and happiness, and you really thought that the two of you could have an abundance of both. “Okay.”

“Okay?” He smiled, slow and sweet. “You want this?”

“I want this. Let’s give us a try,” you said. “That concludes this business deal, prince.”

“Right.” He pulled back a little bit, but paused. “Wait, there’s one more thing to discuss.”

“What’s that?”

He pulled you closer and kissed you. He kissed as perfectly as he did everything else, which was kind of unfair. You wouldn’t be complaining.

He pulled away and grinned. “There we go. Meeting adjourned.” Instead of offering you his arm, he held your hand. You smiled while you walked. This was better than your best fantasies.

#Newsies #newsies fanfiction #newsies x reader #darcy #darcy x reader #ally writes

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