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dadsbongos · 3 years

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Liebeskummer

Movie/Game/Show: Danganronpa: Killing Harmony Dynamic: Korekiyo Shinguji/Reader (and his sister shit but i actually take it seriously, unlike kodaka) Warnings: korekiyo’s backstory/trauma (his sister), sexual/physical/mental abuse implications (and outright said but not described in detail except the emotional and mental), anxiety in both kork and reader and mental breakdown(s?), airhead shit but it’s sad Summary: It’s all her fault. ~~~

Korekiyo suddenly turned to the girl beside him in his quiet research lab, “Have you ever heard of Jack of Fables, (Y/n)?” at her, albeit confused, nod, he continued, “Well, all those myths, fairy tales, and even nursery rhymes in reference to ‘Jack’ are actually about the same man. What this means is that Jack Be Nimble, of the candlestick, Jack the Giant Killer, who sold his cows then murdered and robbed a giant, Stingy Jack, who tricked the devil so relentlessly that he was banned from both afterlives, Jack of Jack and Jill, who cracked open his skull, Jack o’ Lantern, Spirit of Halloween and Headless Horseman, and Jack Frost, Spirit who ends autumn and begins winter are all one in the same. He made so many poor life decisions that he now serves as an immortal representation of winer with a pumpkin serving as head and flashlight. Is that not fascinating?”

“Aw,” (Y/n) grinned, nodding once again, “Like the American ‘Florida man’.”

Korekiyo sighed, disappointment palpable in his tone, “That is… actually much more accurate than I wish to admit.”

“Wait, wait,” she tilted her head, patting the man’s arm despite his attention already being on her, “So… like, was he also Jack the Ripper…?”

His eyes widened at her statement, “(Y/n), I must be grateful you were not born to the life of a woman of the night in Victorian London because I assure you, Jack the Ripper was incredibly real.”

“Oh, that’s so sad…” she pouted before clearing it back into her usual smile almost instantly, “Well, thanks for the folklore fun fact, Kiyo! I didn’t know that Jack was so dumb! God, I’d hate to be like him…”

“You do realize you’re not so bright yourself, yes?”

She shrugged, “I’m fine with that, but at least I’m not tricking the devil!”

So sweet and kind, the Ultimate Composer was. Against all expectations, she wasn’t highbrow or traditionally genius, but she was more than excellent company. And, to top it off, the idea of turning her into one of Sister’s friends was oddly… sickening.

It should’ve been perfectly fine - she was a deeply respectable young woman unlike Miu and Maki, there’s no reason he could have against her.

It just felt wrong.

“Oh! Oh!” she burst out, clapping her hands together, before turning and reaching into a bag slung around her hip. Rooting through scrapped sheet music and notes, once she found what she’d been searching for she held it up excitedly, “Boom!”

Korekiyo took the item, just barely brushing his wrapped fingertips against hers, “Cleopatra’s Pearl Cocktail… much appreciated,” he pressed the small bottle into a pocket on his uniform, “If you enjoy giving gifts, perhaps we can discuss cultural gift-giving practices?”

“Ooh, Kiyo’s gonna teach me?”

“Hmm,” Korekiyo hummed quietly to himself, “Well, perhaps… you would prefer I tell you of a composition piece in relevance to mythology, yes?”

“That’d be nice,” the girl giggled softly, rubbing the back of her neck, “To be honest, I just like when you talk… you sound so smart all the time!”

“My thanks, (Y/n),” he nodded curtly, muttering to himself before coming to speak up, “Alright, I believe that the composition for you would be The Ring of the Nibelung, of Germany.”

“Oh, I know that one!” she knew most ‘ones’, to be fair.

“I had suspected so, but have you heard of the heroic legends behind the pieces?”

“Ah, no… are those what you’re gonna explain?”

“I had planned to, yes. Alright, well, the four parts, as you know, are The Rhinegold, The Valkyrie, Siegfried, and Twilight of the Gods. Nowadays, they are most commonly played as individual, separate works despite making one complete story. They were always intended as a sequence - as The Ring cycle, cleverly. Each piece revolves on a loose basis to German heroic tales and Norse legendary sagas, with the overarching tale of the magic ring forged by the Nibelung dwarf, Alberich, which grants the power to rule the world,” he paused at the sight of (Y/n) yawning, his lips pursed and eyes shot down to his shoes before flickering back up to the girl, “Ah, my apologies for taking far longer than necessary. You must find this- “

“Ah, no!” (Y/n) shook her head, waving her hands about as though it would physically prove how far from needed his apology was, “That’s not it! I’m just kinda tired, ya know?” as if to prove her point, another yawn washed over her, “I hadn’t slept well last night after Kirumi…”

“I see,” Korekiyo nodded, closing his eyes to think over his words, “I apologize for making it about myself. If you wish, I could walk you to your dormitory. Now that you mention it, it has been quite the long day.”

“You don’t have to, Kiyo, I’d hate to bother you so much in one day let alone one sitting,” the composer puffed her cheeks out, “That’d be so obnoxious…”

“I don’t find it obnoxious whatsoever, especially if it’s to aid- “ he hesitated, “to aid a friend.”

He hadn’t had friends before. People usually found him creepy and that was the end of the story - nobody approached him and he didn’t branch out. Life went on. The world spun. His loneliness was everlasting and yet nonexistent. He has Sister. Though, deep down, he knows. She’s on another plane of reality with loneliness stronger than his, that’s why he sends her respectable young women.

Just like (Y/n).

But just… not (Y/n). For reasons he personally chooses to not disclose to even himself.

“Aww, Kiyo! You care!” the girl placed a hand over her heart as if to show that the organ itself was squeezing in delight at his offer.

“Of course, I do,” Korekiyo didn’t like how quiet she made him. How jittery and nervous. And he didn’t like how it made him question the way Sister made him feel.

She also made him nervous but it felt different. He liked to pretend it was the nervousness of a love you don’t quite have yet, but he fully knows he’d be lying. She was a mean girl, a bully in school before being hospitalized. Prone to violent and outright frightening outbursts when she had the energy to do more than force him to her side.

But he didn’t like questioning those feelings for Sister. Who he was, was based on her. His uniform. His passion and talent. His hair. His perfect complexion. His life as the universe knows it is an ode to her.

It’s too late for him to go back now… he’s already done so much in her name it’d be cruel to give up now. He might as well continue for Sister.

“If you really don’t mind, then yeah, I’d like it if we could walk together… I get a little nervous going around at night, you never know who’s gonna snap…”

“And you trust me?”

Shit. That’s what gets him in trouble. It’s as Sister always said. ‘Too naive to make his choices, and once he’s free, too inept to make the right ones.’

“Well, yeah,” (Y/n) spoke as if there was hardly any thought to the answer, “All you’ve shown me is somebody worth trusting,” then, she’s quick to remember poor Kaede, “Well, maybe I’m being silly. But hey, if I have to choose between dying trusting my friends and paranoid beyond myself, then maybe I’d- “ she paused, “Ehhh, I don’t like the way that’s coming out.”

“I understand what you’re attempting to say,” Korekiyo reassured, turning towards his research lab’s exit, “Let us start towards the dormitories, yes?”

“Right!” (Y/n) nearly found herself jogging to catch up to Korekiyo’s long-strided head start, she clutched the strap of her bag as she did so, “So… you heard about Angie’s plan, right?”

“To perform a resurrection?”

“Do you think it’ll work?” she seemed antsier than was typical for her, “I mean, you’re into anthropology, so, like, has there ever been a case where that did work? Do you know?”

“No, besides, that would be more akin to history, remember?” she probably didn’t, her memory failed her at an ungodly amalgamation of best and worst of times.

“Oh, yeah,” she murmured and nodded, pretending to recall the difference between the two.

“Who would you desire back into this game, if you could?”

“Rantaro,” her answer was quick, her fingers looping together nervously, “We didn’t really talk much, but uhm, whenever we did - he was really nice. He said I reminded him of a sister of his… so that’s a good thing, right?”

Depends on who you ask, really.

“You grew attached to him so quickly?” there was no jealousy there, he tried to convince himself.

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wish I’d gotten to know him more. He was always running around, trying to save us, and in the end… it got him killed.”

A lot of things will get you killed.

Korekiyo shook off the thoughts racking his brain, “Your care for him even through his estrangedness and peculiarity is truly beautiful, (Y/n),” he fiddled with the locket piece hanging around his shoulders, “Even your care for myself. I’d be lying if I’d said it wasn’t endearing.”

“You’re not…” her words died out, not wanting to lie to a dear companion of hers, “You’re a little off-putting but you’re not undeserving of love, Kiyo.”

It was a complete 180 from what Sister had told him his entire life. A new lesson coming in far too late. He had to earn love. He should’ve been crawling on his knees and pleading for affection, but now he was supposed to simply receive it? It sounded so incredibly fake. A fictitious tale told alongside gumdrop fairies and candy trees.

No place for someone of realistic standard.

No place for him.

“You’re far too kind, (Y/n).”

“Maybe you just haven’t known nice people,” she suddenly stopped, slapping a palm to her mouth and muffling against it, “I’m so sorry!”

“Worry not,” Korekiyo continued walking, “I’m unphased.”

Because maybe it was true.

Maybe Sister wasn’t so nice.

There was an itch at his skin in the thought and he shook his head.

Sister was kind enough to love someone like him. Who was of rotted soul and rancid heart.

“I shouldn’t have just said that, especially since I don’t really know your life…”

“Would you like to learn it someday?”

(Y/n) was fairly shocked at how quickly he seemed to breeze by her insult to his family and friends - well, if he had any friends - but she wouldn’t refuse. It was extra time with Korekiyo! Who could turn that down?

“I’d love to.”

“Tea and cookies,” (Y/n) pumped a fist in the air, “What could be better than enjoying those with a friend?”

Korekiyo felt his lips twitch up behind his mask at the rhetorical question, he reached out for his teacup, “Perhaps freedom from this killing game?”

“Oh, yeah, huh…” she deflated, “Jeez, I can’t believe I’d say that…”

Oh, great, of course, now he’s gone and made the local ball of sunshine in this school upset.

“Nevermind that, (Y/n), it was a tease…” he gripped the cup a little tighter, cheeks heating up in humiliation at his failed joke, “I apologize if it seemed like anything other than such.”

“No, don’t apologize, it’s fine! It was kind of a dumb thing to say, now that I put some brain into it,” so it made sense she’d said it, (Y/n) frowned at the bitter thought.

“Ah,” the clink of a cup against the table caught the girl’s attention, “I must change my mask in order to properly enjoy this tea and these cookies,” as the anthropologist went to turn, he was stopped by another outburst from the girl.

“No, don’t! Uh, here!” she clenched her eyes shut, papped her palms over her face, and turned her head downwards, “See? Now I can’t!”

“You don’t have to go to such lengths, I could simply turn- “

“No, no, I want you to feel comfortable and I heard once that doing things to make your friends comfortable is, like, a way to make them like you more?” she huffed at the wording, “Just, I don’t know… I want you to know that I care. Ya get it? No need to turn yourself away like that when I can just not look.”

A tuft of air passed through his nostrils at the girl.

Sister would adore a friend like her.

Korekiyo pulled down his mask, brows drawn tight towards his eyes at the new realization. It was no longer a matter of her being respectable, it was now the knowledge that someone as tender-hearted as (Y/n) would be loved beyond comprehension by Sister.

But… no. Sister couldn’t have her. She’d understand, right? Of course. She could have someone else - the other bubbly girl, what’s her name? Angie. She could have Angie.

Korekiyo just… he just needed (Y/n). Something about her was calming and sweet. He picked his mask for eating from a pocket in his uniform and carefully adjusted it over his lips so as to not smudge his lipstick. It wouldn’t anyway, he knew this, but it usually never backfired to be too sure.

The lipstick in itself was quite the hassle. Another homage to Sister that she might not even be seeing. So was the hair. It got tangled and knotted and was hell to dry after a shower.

“Not to rush you at all, but are you done? Cuz my eyes are starting to hurt… I think I’m squeezing them too hard.”

“Right, yes, I am.”

He really shouldn’t think like that… Sister deserved to be honored.

As if she’d been reading his mind, (Y/n) leaned over slightly, pointing at Korekiyo’s hair, “Hey, hey, how do you manage that? It always looks so silky and soft and well-kept.”

“Ah, well, it is quite troublesome most days, but with patience and rather expensive products, I keep it together.”

“I was wondering, too, do you ever put it up?”

“Not usually, though, that would be… nice on occasion,” he sipped at his tea, enjoying the way (Y/n) shyly glanced away to prove she didn’t want to invade his privacy. She was too delightful to be in a place such as this, even if he did enjoy the beauties of law-absence.

“Uh, I don’t want to come off pushy or like you have to let me, but if you want, I’d love to put your hair up! To be honest, I’ve been wanting to for a while,” her eyes widened at her own statement, “Oh, that sounded creepy. I’m so sorry.”

“I am hardly one to judge,” he reached over for a cookie, “But, if you’re so inclined, I won’t protest.”

“Yay!” she bounced slightly in her chair, “Oh, that’s great, Kiyo, thanks.”

“Shall we go to your dorm after finishing our refreshments?”

“I’d like that,” (Y/n) grinned.

And to think she almost didn’t approach Korekiyo on that first day in the school. How ridiculous could she have been to judge based on looks? Sure, he was a little strange and the way he spoke was unlike any teenager she’d ever met, but he was still a person. He deserved to be given companionship.

Besides, he’d only ever shown her kindness and support.

He didn’t even make fun of her when she said something stupid in front of everyone.

She cringed at the memory of every time Kokichi or Miu or Maki prodded at her. Even Ryoma and Kaito had picked on her when she misspoke during the first trial and just brought up a point the class had already proven. It made her heart wrinkle and shrink at the mere thought. Kokichi still made fun of her for questioning Tsumugi’s whereabouts during Rantaro’s murder.

“You’re staring into your tea, it will grow cold if you only look at it.”

“Oh, yeah,” shaking her head, (Y/n) silently cursed herself for spacing out. What an awful habit of hers, it was, “Sorry for taking so long.”

“You shouldn’t apologize, I’m not upset in the slightest,” he felt his heart lighten at the tiny smile that illuminated her face, “I simply enjoy spending this time together.”

“You’re too nice sometimes, Kiyo,” she giggled, but they both recognized the tingle of nervousness jumbling within it, “If you’re not careful, I might fall for you or something…”

“Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing?”

I wouldn’t mind, she wanted to say.

If you’ll have me, he wished to murmur.

Then he felt his chest tighten.

“Can I…” he tapped a finger to the table, “ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

“Uhm,” she bit her lip as she thought back, “No… why?”

“How do you think it feels?”

“Like, you could be free and yourself around the person? I’m not too sure, but I think if you and someone else are in love then you’ll accept each other completely, you know? Sure, there’s flaws in every person, but I think you accept those, too.”

“I see…”

“Kiyo, why do you ask?”

“I…” his brows furrowed, “A lot has been on my mind as of late.”

“Alright, I won’t pry,” standing from the dining table, (Y/n) clapped her hands together, “Now, if you’re still down, I’d love to put your hair up!”

“As it stands, I am still, as you put it, ‘down’,” Korekiyo nodded before joining the girl and starting towards her dorm room.

“Nice!” she pointed directly ahead, “Now, onward!”

A total airhead at her truest, Korekiyo thought. He didn’t usually partake in the type, but something about (Y/n) just pulled him in tighter every time he tried turning away.

So, what’s the harm in giving in? Swimming against the tide only ever led to drowning anyway, so why fight it?

Sister… Sister was dead. Is dead. Resurrection isn’t possible and hasn’t been in human history. And she had changed so much of him. (Y/n) would never force him to bend to her ideal.

The more he thought about Sister in comparison to (Y/n), the more he realized that Sister felt like a ball and chain - and (Y/n) felt like a breath of fresh air.

Just her name inside his own head sounded as sweet as the best form of heaven.

“Here we are!” (Y/n) cheered upon their arrival to her room, “There’s probably a bunch-load of unfinished works in here so just… don’t judge them too harshly, okay?”

“I could hardly judge an unfinished masterpiece.”

“I don’t know about masterpieces…”

“If you create them with heart and soul, there’s nobody who can effectively say they aren’t except for yourself,” Korekiyo enters the room after her, legs carrying him towards her desk as she roots around her bathroom for a hairbrush and hair tie, “Sadly, this is also applicable to disasters with effort put into them. However, just from skimming these, I can tell you they are not such disasters.”

“Aw, thanks, Kiyo, you know - I know I’m the Ultimate Composer and junk, but jeez it gets so nerve-wracking when people hear my stuff. I like what I write, but who’s to say other people will?”

“I understand that. Showing others your work is extremely unsettling at times,” he followed the girl to her bed and sat between her knees on the floor, “I recall feeling that way when I would dabble in artistry.”

“You can draw?”

“I would when I was much younger,” he felt her fingers run over his scalp and through his hair and the weight looming over his shoulders practically melted off, “I haven’t held onto any of them, and they’ve likely aged poorly, but I know how I felt showing them around.”

“Why’d you stop? If you don’t mind my asking,” reaching around, (Y/n) threaded her fingers through Korekiyo’s bangs and, as gently as humanly possible, pulled the hair hanging over and around his face back into a slicked style.

“My… sister, she always rathered that I participate in anthropology with her. I wasn’t all that good anyways.”

“Aw, that’s kinda sad. Even if you weren’t good, you could’ve improved over time.”

“Do you truly believe that, (Y/n)?”

“Of course, I mean, talents are just developed over time, right? Angie didn’t pop out of the womb an art genius and I didn’t start off great at writing music, you just keep at it and eventually your skill level is way better than when you started.”

Sister always said he’d be garbage at drawing. Somebody like him could never learn.

She tied off and twisted until the bun was perfect - well, not perfect. It was presentable enough, and it was just a bun anyway! Not like they had anywhere to be.

“Sorry it’s messy,” she scratched at her cheek, feeling anxious that he’d be upset with her work.

“I…” he felt another little smile peek over him, it was indeed messy with stray hairs sticking out here and there and a few tiny bumps running over his head, but even so, “I love it.”

“You do?”

“It’s a gesture from you, why wouldn’t I?”

Standing beside Korekiyo at the mirror, (Y/n) twiddled her thumbs before spewing out her question, “It’s totally cool if not, but can I hug you? Sorry if that’s weird!”

“No… it’s…” Sister never asked to touch him, and now that he thought about it, she never seemed to care when he told her to stop, “That would be wonderful.”

As her arms slowly came around him, he felt truly at ease. With Sister, there was always this fear of never being what she wanted. That she hated him deep down. With (Y/n), it felt like finally being attached to someone you were meant to. Returning to a place of deep affection.

“You truly do care about me, don’t you, (Y/n)?”

“What kind of question is that?” she back-pedals, “I mean, of course, I do. You’re very dear to me, Kiyo.”

Maybe even a little too dear, considering the current climate of the killing game.

But even so, neither of them pulls away. Neither cares enough to wrangle themselves from indulging in the other’s touch. It feels too good against their skin.

It’s then that Korekiyo’s brain strikes the flint to create the burning thought - maybe Sister wasn’t all that great. Maybe Sister didn’t love him.

She’s only ever made him miserable, now that he recalls it all.

(Y/n) doesn’t. She makes him feel human and alive and adored. He likes the way she makes him feel. And between the two, he much rather would be praised than berated.

Oh God, what did this mean again?

Where do the creation myths go?

Who’s Princess Kaguya?

Her head throbs at the thoughts rumbling through her. She tried to get Korekiyo to get someone, anyone, but her to organize his notes.

Shuichi would love this stuff! You two should bond!

Gonta could learn about being gentlemanly from you! It’d be a great learning experience!

I know you don’t like Miu that much, but maybe spending more time together could make you understand each other more?

Anyone.

And yet, Korekiyo denied. He liked spending time with her. He wouldn’t mind answering every question she had - no matter how many times she asked it. He was a patient person, he could handle it.

(Y/n) looked at all the books and stray papers surrounding her alike, bottom lip tugged between her teeth in focus and face beating hot in vivid embarrassment. He wasn’t even looking at her, thank God, but still… it was so mortifying that she’d already lost track of what she was doing.

She tried so hard to pay attention, she really, really did!

She wanted to help so bad. She wanted to be useful so bad.

But she knew… she’s not a smart person, per se. It was beaten over her head repeatedly her entire life by her family, schooling, peers, and even her friends. She was an idiot who couldn’t do anything right.

It’s why she wanted Korekiyo to ask someone else.

But how could she say no to him? He was always so nice, it’d be downright mean to refuse him. Right?

She felt her eyes burn, vision growing blurry through tears. Setting down the papers in her hands - (Y/n) covered her eyes to keep any wetness from splotching the notes below. It was the least a fucking moron could do.

“(Y/n)? Are you feeling okay?”

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

She nodded shakily, just wanting Korekiyo to ignore her and continue his work. Better yet, he’d kick her out and she could dodge the incoming humiliation altogether.

“Yeah,” her voice cracked, lips trembling.

Goddammit.

She heard papers rustling before she could feel the presence at her side. Fingertips just barely grazing her body before hesitating back, “You’re lying.”

Understatement of the year.

“I just… I’m so sorry, Kiyo. I’m such an idiot, I knew I couldn’t do this,” she whimpered, desperately trying to grab and suffocate down her bubbling sobs before they wracked her throat, “I’m too fucking dumb to do anything right… I’m sorry…”

“No, no, don’t apologize. You’ve done nothing wrong and you’re no idiot,” he’s immediately slammed with every memory of every time he’s called her such a thing. No matter how nice he tried to be about it, he still aided her insecurity, “I’m sorry for ever saying you were. Intellect is not measured by how well you can do a task nor should everyone’s mind be measured the same. Intelligence is fickle and is spread over a vast variety of subjects. You’re not an idiot for not being able to do something you’re not accustomed to.”

“I just… I- I wanted to help you but then I forgot everything you said about organizing them and then which regions are which and what even is a gorgon?”

He chuckled quietly at her question, “A creature in Greek mythology most commonly in reference to three sisters - Medusa, Euryale, and Sthenno - with hair made of living, venomous snakes that turned those who so much as looked upon them to stone,” he glanced around at what (Y/n) had gotten done, “I see that the filing in relation to music is nearly completed for your half.”

“That’s about all I’m good for.”

“And I would not have managed that so easily, music was never an incredible strength of mine - though I do admire it.”

“Don’t lie to me, Kiyo…”

“I would never,” he moved his notes away to sit more comfortably next to the girl, “In fact, if you’d be willing to listen…” his throat tightened and heart thumped in his chest, “I would like to tell you of something that’s been troubling me for quite some time.”

“Yeah,” she wiped away her tears, sniffling, “of course.”

“I told you of my sister, correct?” he waited for her nod of confirmation to continue, “Well, it’s my belief that…” his fists clenched.

What if she didn’t believe him? What if she blamed him? How do you tell someone your older sister raped and abused you when you’re barely even coming to terms with the fact yourself?

“(Y/n), I…” he stopped, gut bunching in knots before he suddenly ripped down his mask and turned to face her, “I think I need help…”

“What? You’re just wearing lipstick, Kiyo, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“No, no, no, no,” he shook his head, hands shaking wildly as he pulled out the ponytail (Y/n) had done up earlier and yanked through his hair, “E-everything I am is because of her! She consumes me even in death! She- she- she hurt me…”

“Oh,” the girl moved to sit up on her knees, hands reaching out but not yet touching him, “What happened, Kiyo? You can tell me, I’m listening.”

“She told me I was an awful boy, nobody but her could love someone so foul and creepy… she- “ he moved to grip his sleeves, “She touched me,” he looked into the girl’s eyes, “Is it my fault? Am I so disgusting? Why would she do this?”

“Do you want me to hold you or no?” at his shaky nod, she instantly took Korekiyo into a hug, cradling his head and shoulders to her body and stroking through his hair, “You’re more than what she made you. You’re bigger and better than her manipulation. And it’s not your fault she did what she did. It’s completely and totally on her. She took advantage of you, Kiyo, that’s not your fault.”

He grabbed her arm and pressed his face into her shirt as she held him, “Am I rotten? Am I lovable?”

“You’re the best person I’ve ever met. You’re worthy of love and care.”

His lipstick smeared over her shirt and across his cheek and neither of them minded. It would wash off eventually. Her stain on his life would come out.

“When we get out,” (Y/n) began again, “do you want to seek professional help? You can get it, Kiyo.”

He was slow to nod, beginning to grow tired from dosing out tears and trauma at once, “I do… thank you, (Y/n)...”

“No need to thank me.”

“(Y/n)?” she hummed quietly in acknowledgement, “Even if it isn’t for field work… I wish to travel the country with you. I want to show you the beauty of humanity as I know it… for our sakes.”

Looking down, (Y/n) caught the gentleness in his eyes, tender and soft and awaiting her response, she smiled softly, brushing back his hair, “I would love to, Kiyo. If it’s truly something you want to do, I would be happy to go anywhere with you.”

Nighttime was quickly approaching and with the atmosphere and turmoil of the class, (Y/n) didn’t feel very safe being out so late.

“You’re certain you don’t wish for me to walk you to your room?”

“No, you finish up here,” (Y/n) waved off Korekiyo’s offer, “Don’t be such a worry-wart, yeah? I’ll be fine! You better take care of yourself while I’m gone, though.”

He nodded, a small smile stretching over him, “I will, dear (Y/n), don’t worry.”

The girl’s eyes widened slightly before she returned his beam, “You have a cute smile, Kiyo.”

“Oh,” right, he didn’t have his mask on at the moment. It was refreshing to wake up and not trouble himself with makeup for a woman he wasn’t sure even cared - dare he say it, it was nice, even.

He’d only taken his mask off around (Y/n), it felt intimate. Sweet. Something passed only between them.

“Thank you.”

She nodded before turning back and pressing outward from his research lab, “I’ll see ya tomorrow, Kiyo! You better have the sweetest dreams, ya hear me?”

“You as well.”

He returned to cleaning up his lab, occasionally stumbling over a floorboard looser than the others. How troublesome.

That’s when her voice picked up from within his brain.

“You never loved me.”

He looked around despite knowing exactly where the voice was coming from.

“You let her do this to you. You let her take you from me.”

Pushing past them, he persisted in rooting through his notes and organizing his papers.

“She hates you. She’s scared of you. She’s just trying to be nice. You scare her. You scare all of them. You rotten, rotten boy. You’ve been ruined - only I could love a face so hideous and broken. A horrible, horrible boy lucky enough to be given the love I did.”

His hands shook, fingers twitching and heart thrumming heavy, “No. (Y/n) likes me. She enjoys my company.”

“Why would she enjoy the company of someone so lonely and depressing? So gross and foul? She probably hates you for partaking in your own sister’s touch.”

“No, she- she doesn’t… she knows it’s not… it’s not my fault…”

“Are you inside her head? How do you know? How are you certain? I’m the only one who ever loved you - and you’ve abandoned me. Left me all alone.”

“No, I- I haven’t abandoned you, Sister! Please, believe me, I never abandoned you.”

“So, you know what you must do to prove yourself to me.”

“(Y/n) wouldn’t like that…”

“(Y/n) wouldn’t like you anyway.”

She’s right, right? She’s right. Someone as wonderful and beautiful as (Y/n) could never adore him the way he does her. He loves her and she must find him repulsive. Staying out of fear.

Out of pity for the boy abused by his sister. And so, who better to return to than the more predictable of the two?

(Y/n) may have felt more like coming home than Sister - but Sister was home. (Y/n) was comfort. Sister was familiarity.

He found his foot planted against the loose floorboard once again. He knew how he had to make up for his misdeeds and abandonment.

“I’m truly relieved to see that you got to your room safely,” Korekiyo murmured to (Y/n).

“Huh? Oh yeah,” she pointed over to their local gentle giant, “Gonta and I crossed paths on my way and he wanted to walk me to my room and I just couldn’t say no to him. It’s nice to have someone you trust in this ‘game’. Well, other than you,” the elevator jumbled slightly as it dove down into Monokuma’s makeshift courtroom, “I trust you, obviously.”

She shouldn’t. And he wants to tell her that.

But as Kokichi and Shuichi take glances at him from across the elevator, he knows that she’ll figure things out soon enough.

And, during the trial, when Shuichi’s convicting Korekiyo of the murder of Angie Yonaga and Tenko Chabashira - she does. And she cries and screams and throws a fit. Demanding Korekiyo to fight back harder. Demanding Shuichi to stop lying and get serious. Because Korekiyo would never kill somebody.

He was nice. He was a gentleman. He cared about people. He had stolen her heart - and a man who managed that wouldn’t kill anybody. So, of course, Shuichi was lying.

“Do I have to remind you of what’ll happen if you don’t vote?” Monokuma bit out.

(Y/n) clutched at her hair - she knew what she had to do. But every time she went to vote for Korekiyo, her body wouldn’t let her.

Reaching over, the boy himself took her hand in his, “Allow me,” as he guided her hand over her voting panel. No matter how she swatted at his hand or tried to wrench herself from Korekiyo’s grip, he pressed her vote into his name.

She was forced to watch as he was strung up and spun. Made dizzy and sickly. She was made to watch as he fell into the melting pot. Fires eating at his body until he was no more than spirit.

As Monokuma and the sister who had harmed him so horrifically worked as one to rid the world of his soul.

Eyes went to (Y/n) as the execution subsided. Her sobs and hiccups drawing everyone’s attention.

Gonta was the first to approach, a large hand settling on the girl’s back as she cried, silently taking her into a hug.

Her heart wrenched, fingers squeezing at Gonta’s suit and throat rubbing raw with her wild wails.

He could’ve gotten help. He could’ve gotten out with everyone. If she’d just stayed with him then she could’ve done something. Angie and Tenko would be here. Korekiyo would be here.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Kaito’s voice peeked through, “Don’t cry because he’s gone, (Y/n). Move forward - for both of you.”

“I…” she shook her head, choking on a sob, “I don’t think I can…”

Shuichi placed a hand on Kaito’s shoulder, “Just give her a little time.”

As the group moved out of the courtroom, Gonta stayed by (Y/n)’s side up until she clumsily made her way into her dorm room.

Immediately, she collapsed into her bed sheets. Dreading tomorrow. And the next day. And the one after that. And the one after that. And so on. And so forth. Maybe she should’ve known better than to go around falling for a guy in the killing game. Maybe she should’ve held herself up in her room all alone.

There was no escape from this feeling. No hiding. It may get better over time - but Korekiyo would always be gone.

A buzz at the door caught her attention. Her movements were sluggish, honestly just hoping that whoever was there had given up and left by the time she finally answered.

Shuichi stood there, classically uneven, anxious smile and all, “I think there’s something you might be interested in? If you’ll follow me.”

No verbal response was given, only (Y/n) stepping out of her room and shutting the door behind her to give him her confirmation.

He began towards the casino. With a sigh, (Y/n) was about to tell Shuichi off - she didn’t need to start gambling to get over Korekiyo’s death - until he stopped in front of the building.

“I mostly just wanted you to get some fresh air,” he says earnestly before digging in his pocket and pulling out a key with a heart-shaped handle, “I got this from here. You can get your own or keep this one, I think you need it more than I do,” at her confusion he continues to explain, “It can take you into this weird dream-like state where you can see what ‘ideal’ you play in our classmates’ minds… I think you know who I gave this to you for.”

“Kiyo…”

“Yeah. You can see him again, if you want.”

She wanted to be strong and push the key back into Shuichi’s hand - instead, she just looked between him and the key in her hold and nodded slowly, “Thank you, Shuichi…”

He placed a hand on her shoulder, “Sleep well, (Y/n). I know you can grow past this.”

Because he did.

“I’ll try.”

But he wasn’t her. And Kaede was gone far before Korekiyo. And their grief was not the same.

“Thanks again, Shuichi.”

“Just take your time, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

Her knees felt like collapsing under the weight of her nerves, hand falling to the doorknob of the hotel room.

She pushed through her anxiety and found herself in a red-tinted room, a large heart-shaped bed in the center with a merry-go-round circling it. Then, she found Korekiyo standing to the side.

What would his ‘ideal’ version of her be? A friend? An out-of-touch acquaintance? A lover?

Her heart throbbed at the last possibility.

“Ah, my dear, back so soon?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry…”

“Why are you apologizing?”

“I’m, uhm, not sure?”

I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.

“Then don’t,” he seemed to glide across the room, taking the girl’s cheeks in his hands, “You’ve always had a problem with that, my love.”

My love? My love.

“Ah, yeah, sorry,” she huffed at her own word selection, “Oh…”

Korekiyo chuckled quietly, pulling down his mask to kiss her forehead, “I already took my medication while you were out.”

“Your medication?”

“Yes, from the doctor. You were the one who pushed me to go, have you forgotten?”

“Right! No, no, I just blanked,” she quickly lied, giving the boy a broad grin, “I’m glad, though.”

“It’s only medication, dear.”

“Still,” (Y/n) reached up to cup Korekiyo’s cheek, “it’s good that you’re following through with your meds.”

“Your support always helps,” he pressed another kiss to the girl’s forehead, “We’ll be leaving early in the morning tomorrow, I should warn you,” at her furrowed brows he explained, “In order for us to catch the first train to Iwate prefecture. Did you forget, darling?”

“Wait, wait, let me guess…” she waited for his nod before tossing out her suggestion, “We’re traveling for field work!” she was then quick to tag on, “As a couple that’s, like, super in love?”

“You didn’t forget at all, my love,” Korekiyo pulled away slightly, and sat on the bed, removing his shoes, “You play that memory of yours down too much. You’re far more intelligent than you think.”

“You think that?”

“Of course, I do. It’s not just because I love you dearly, either. You mustn’t let the words and actions of others control your opinion on yourself - you’re better than they say.”

This is his ultimate fantasy. He’s her lover. They travel and see the beauty of humanity together, just like what he said he wanted. He loves her. He thinks she’s so great.

He’s wrong.

She should’ve stayed with him that night.

He’s wrong.

She could’ve done so much to keep him with her.

He’s dead.

Because she should’ve stayed.

“Kiyo,” her eyes burned and began to soak, “I’m sorry!” her lungs rapidly expanded and contracted with her sporadic breaths, her hands clutching at her shirt. Her knees finally buckled and she collapsed to the ground, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry for being a stupid, stupid, stupid failure! Please… forgive me…!”

Korekiyo immediately stood up and rushed to (Y/n)’s side, bringing her into a tight hug as she fell to the floor, his fingers running through her hair. He kisses at her temple and cheeks, waiting until her cries settle enough for him to be audible in the room, “It’s interesting, dear, I first realized I’d fallen in love with you in a situation similar as this. I desired to comfort and reassure you just as I do now. You’re not stupid nor a failure, and I adore you above all else.”

Shaking her head, (Y/n) only began to cry harder into Korekiyo’s chest. This could’ve been their future. This could’ve been what they had to share and hold between only each other. If she’d only stayed. If she’d been with him that night.

“Oh, my dear, I’m sorry for upsetting you.”

“It wasn’t you,” she clamped a hand over her mouth, trying to keep back her cries, “I- I- it’s all my fault… it’s all my fault…”

“You haven’t done anything wrong, darling,” Korekiyo held her tighter, “I love you, my dearest (Y/n). No matter what you’ve done, I will always forgive you.”

And once again, her tears only came out harder. Her head pounding ruthlessly at the ache and consciousness fading out in her exhaustion. Korekiyo was dead. And no amount of her tears could ever bring him back.

#korekiyo shinguji x reader #korekiyo x reader #shinguji x reader #drv3 x reader #he deserved so much better :(( i wuv him #let me know if i miss anything with the warnings

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athena-is-a-chaotic-lil-shit · 3 years

Text

Feral Fatality

(Part 2)

I'm supposed to be working on the requests but here I am. Writing nonsense. But its my nonsense so *shrugs*

Pairing: Jason Voorhees x Fem!Reader

Word count: 2.4k

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence (or so I think), Blood (lots of blood), Murder (as usual), Feral side of the reader coming out for a brief moment, and cursing.

—

Three harsh knocks made you flinch and woke you up from your sleep.

"Hey, loser! It's dinner time. Eloiza wants you by the campfire. Now." Layla, one of Eloiza's side girls, stressed. You sat up, rubbing your eyes before you set your book on the bedside table.

"Did you hear me?! I said—"

"Yeah, yeah, I heard you alright. I'll be out." You swear the whole camp could hear her with the way she's squawking.

She stomped off, huffing loud.

You chose to stay in your baggy clothes. A black hoodie with a small yin-yang symbol on your left breast with a matching pair of black and white sweatpants, half of your ebony hair tied up in a ponytail.

It was already dark when you walked out, the moon climbing bit by bit up to the sky and subtly lighting your path. You shivered as a chilled breeze went past.

In the distance, you could see a small fire, dancing, swaying its fiery arms. It would have been a nice sight if not for the people around it.

Even from afar, you could see them engaged in a heated session, the smell of cigarettes and pot reached your senses, making you grimace.

"Yo look, it's (Y/N)," one of them said once you were close to the campfire.

Few gave you glances, before going back to their business. You remained quiet, though you noticed five people were missing in the group.

Fucking in the cabins, no doubt.

Eloiza was in the middle, her ass planted on someone's lap while she held a cigarette, both of them sharing and blowing smoke at each other.

Different. Out of place. You regretted coming out here, but if you didn't they'd only harass you in your cabin. Break down your door, and drag you out just to humiliate you. Then it fully dawned on you; no adults or teachers to protect you here, they could kill you if they wish.

You cursed as worst-case scenarios ran wild in your mind.

Damn, I'm gonna die tonight.

"Layla, why don't give her some food already, she's obviously hungry," Eloiza ordered.

"Ugh! Me again? Why can't you let Betty do it?" She was straddling Jake, vice-captain of the rugby team in your school. Layla subtly ground down her ass unto his crotch. The act was uncomfortable and disgusting to you.

Eloiza shot a glare at her, expression grim.

"Fine!" she jumped off, "I'll be right back babe," she whispered not so quietly. It was clear that they weren't in a relationship, only looking for someone to fuck. Lacking the sense of intimacy that lovers have. The air was just full of sexual tension and lust, anyone who's good at reading people would know.

And right now, you wanna vomit.

"While we wait for that hoe to come back, why don't you sit down with us for a bit (Y/N)?"

"Thank you, but I'm fine standing. I'll just take the food and eat in my cabin," you replied. Your smile was fake and your voice, monotonous. You hid your hands in your pockets.

"I insist, let's chat for a bit," she said. The rest of the group ignored you still as they were busy with their...partners.

You blinked and looked at her right in the eyes.

"No."

You refuse to submit to her, you submit to no one. You came to camp to get away from the noise people like her make. Ironically, you wouldn't be here if it wasn't for her either.

"What did you just say to me?" Oh, right, Eloiza hates you as much as she hates being disobeyed. Her face turned red, and it wasn't from the fire.

"No," you repeated.

"No?" she scoffed, "I told you to sit the fuck down. I was being kind to you and you de—"

"No, I won't sit down. And no, you were not kind, you just gave me an order and I refused."

The group froze and looked at you, halting their activities. Eloiza shot up, making you raise your guard and take a step back.

Still, you did not expect her to grab a half-burning log and fling it at you.

You barely dodged, the hefty ember grazing the side of your face, burning your skin and some of your black strands. You took a sharp intake of air and staggered back, dizzy and groaning from the pain as you hover your hand on your cheek. Gasps and cheers sounded around you.

"Nobody. Disobeys. Me." she said, accentuating every word. "You're just a useless piece of shit. You think being a smartass will save you? You do realize that I can kill you right here and now, don't you?" Eloiza threatened as she approached you, her eyes burning holes into your head. A hand grabbed her arm, "Babe, you can't murder her! We'll go to jail if you—"

"Shut up, Evan. No one would know what happened here. It's so easy to say a bear attacked and ate her. And who would notice her gone anyway? Everyone knows her parents don't give a shit about her."

She's right, no one would care if I'm gone. Nobody would give two shits if I died.

"But—"

"I said shut up, didn't I?! Do you want to die too, huh?!"

"Let her have fun, Evan," Betty commented.

"What the fuck is going on here??" Layla was back, carrying a bowl of soup.

While they were preoccupied, you twisted on your heel and bolted, your vision spun but you didn't stop. While a handful of traitorous thoughts tells you to drop dead, that you should just die than prolong your suffering, your heart didn't. Yes, not a soul cares about you, but you have yourself, your books, and your art. There was no fucking chance in hell you'd let them have their way with you.

You raced to your cabin and slammed it open, closing it in the same fashion and locking it in place. Your face was throbbing, stray tears stained your cheeks as you searched for a handkerchief to wet and cool your burns.

You eventually managed to lessen the pain, thanking yourself for bringing skin ointment. Your hands were shaking as you applied it to your skin, whimpers escaped your lips as it stung a bit. You took deep breaths to calm your heart down...

In. One. Two. Three. Out. Repeat.

—

Jason Voorhees stood in the shadows as the scene took place.

A girl was telling you to sit, and you refused politely, yet she asserted.

The others ignored you until you outright said no.

Was it so surprising to hear one word from your mouth that the whole group turned to you?

The girl snapped, took a burning log by its safe edge, and threw it at you. It hit your cheek and you staggered backward.

His grip tightened around his weapon as alarms rang in his head, an overwhelming urge to protect you arose. You did nothing wrong and that woman harmed you.

She was shouting, threatening to end your life. A man stopped her but...

Jason heard what she said, the words only made his sight darken with rage. What did she mean by "your parents 'don't give a shit' about you"? Did they not love you as a parent should to their child?

He sees you dash back to the cabin in haste and silently praises you for taking the chance to escape, he wouldn't want you to see what he'd do to them. The killer watched for a little longer only to make sure they wouldn't follow and hurt you again.

With you out of the way and safe, he emerged out of hiding. He threw an ax with precision, splitting open one's head like a coconut, the blood spattering on the ones nearby. In an instant, they shrieked in terror, their faces turning pallid, terrified as they scattered in different directions.

The hunt begins.

—

You broke out of your trance when the screams reached your ears.

Oh.

You were no fool of course. You knew the legend about Jason Voorhees was true, just from looking into the cases of mass disappearances, bodies never seen again. With no evidence, no one believed it, thinking it was just an old story to scare people away, a silly myth.

Nobody, except for one little you.

Well, maybe there was somebody else but you know what I mean.

It wasn't hard to connect the dots. There were two conclusions you came up with;

Either the killer was real or the people found themselves in the stomach of a monster.

You preferred the former, honestly.

Somehow, you expected this to happen. It was part of the reason why you came with them even though you knew the possibility. Risking your life in the process just to see him with your own eyes.

Wow, what's happened to me...

You sat up on the floor and as if on cue someone pounded on your door.

"(Y/N)!! (Y/N) Let me in! Open the door and let me in!"

By the sound of it, it was Betty.

You ignored her pleas, she deserves to get torn in half for being the bitch she was...

Wait.

Why not do it yourself?

A glance at the toolbox was all it took for you to stand up and take out a screwdriver. You approached the door, Betty still pleading for her life behind it.

"Please, please! I don't wanna die yet! I'm too young to—"

She stumbled forward when the door opened. But instead of a thank you, she screeched as you tackled her to the ground and stabbed her in the eye.

Stab.

Her blood splattered on your clothes and skin as you drove the metal tool into her skull several times. The squelching sound of meat and bones surrounded you together with the deafening pounding of your heart.

Betty had long gone silent. Her face was unrecognizable once you stopped.

Oddly enough, you felt a familiar thrill with what you did. It was the same one when you won your first contest, received your first trophy, and made your first masterpiece. It was a first.

And it was...enthralling.

You sensed someone's eyes on you. You looked up and saw a tall and massive man with a hockey mask covering his face, standing a few meters away, his machete dripping with blood. A glint of blue flickered in his eye for a moment.

Jason Voorhees.

Not knowing what to do and still high in the moment, you waved the bloody screwdriver at him and smiled.

"H-Hey," you uttered out.

The murderer—well, you were a murderer now too— trudged towards you, stopping when a scream to your left cut through the air.

—

Jason honestly couldn't believe what he was seeing. Little you with a little tool, gouging the brains out of the one he was chasing down.

With a screwdriver.

Multiple emotions went through him that moment, he was shocked that you could kill someone with your tiny hands, proud that you just killed said someone that was his prey, and relieved that you were alright.

Wait, were you?

He was snapped out of his thoughts when you waved and greeted him. You just waved and greeted— what? Why weren't you running back inside your cabin? Why didn't you scream at the sight of him? Did you not know him? Was the blood on his clothes and the weapon he was carrying not ringing any bells?

Jason wanted answers and moved to close the distance between you, but then a shrill cry echoed.

Someone got snared in his traps.

He looked at you, your face was dirty with blood, but your eyes were wide open, not of fear, but happiness?

He'll have to finish his hunt first. He gave you one more look before he trudged to the origin of the sound. He'll visit you later, that is if you're still here. He wouldn't be surprised if you used this chance to get out of the place, and he'd let you. You were innocent...different, and the murder you just did was well-deserved, albeit shocking.

It was the one who injured you, the cause of your burn, miserably crawling on the ground as her foot bled through the jaws of a bear trap.

"Help! Please help me!! I'm dying! Somebody help—"

She howled as the killer gripped the source of her pain and dragged her back to the center of the camp, taking the long path on purpose.

Jason was always angry in one way or another every time people came to disturb the place, but this? Oh no, all he sees is red, not a word had been heard from his mother ever since.

He would usually kill them the instant he catches his prey, but he wants—needs— this one to suffer. He knows, more than anyone, how it feels to be an outcast, to be bullied for being different. This hideous woman is going to die slowly, the pain she gave you a hundred times more agonizing.

"Let go of me you fucking murderer!" She shouted, kicking and clawing on the dirt in hopes of stopping him. Jason paid her no mind, his eyes focused on the fire that glowed close.

This bitch will burn to ash.

He stood in front of the campfire and brought up her body over it, her long blonde tresses turned to nothing as she flailed and shrieked pathetically. The killer crushed her legs before he let go, the flames big enough to devour her entirely, scorching her alive.

A yell from behind drew his attention as another one ran towards him, an ax lifted and ready to attack.

"Die you monster!" They shouted, embedding the ax on his shoulder. Jason felt no pain from the shallow wound, only an itch.

What a lousy attack.

Jason pulled out the silly thing and bashed it on his assailant's skull with one heavy strike, crushing the bones beneath. Lifeless, he tossed the body into the fire, the cries died down moments ago, only the smell of burnt flesh filled his nose as the embers crackled remained.

The undead man stalked away, feeling better than before. There were still a few people waiting to be disposed of.

Jason Voorhees will not rest until every single one of them is dead.

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ssneksnekk · 3 years

Text

Crossmare (w/hinted pining) and Bad Sans Poly (UNFINISHED)

I literally wanted to finish both of these but my stress and writer’s block said ‘fuck you.’ Soooo here ya go.

Crossmare (w/hinted Killermare pining)

(Voyuerism, Masturbation, pining, sleep deprivation)

“Oh! CROSS!” Nightmare screamed out, his moans echoing through some of the quiet castle. So much for soundproof. Killer grumbled quietly as he tried to tune them out. He put his face under the pillow, yet he could still hear the king’s moans.

Killer was currently laying his bed, trying to get some sleep. But, he couldn’t. For a good reason too. “FUCK! CROSS, STARS!” And that was why. Like, seriously, who decides to fuck in the middle of the night? Nobody else had the guts to knock on Nightmare’s door and tell them to quiet down and Killer sure as hell wasn’t going to.

So he was just trying to get some sleep and ignore his erection that was straining against his shorts. He was such a perv. But could you blame him? He was listening to his crush get wrecked by his bestfriend and that was a depressing thought on its own. But here he was, angrily throwing his shorts off and into one corner of the room.

Stars, he was summoned already. He sighed gently, letting himself sit up as he pressed his skull to the cold wall. Thank stars his room was the closest that had connected walls to Nightmare’s room. Nightmare and Cross had started dating only a few weeks ago but it seemed they couldn’t take their hands off of each other.

“I’M CUMMING!” Killer flinched as another loud moan resonated from his boss, he could even faintly hear Cross’ swear as well. “What’s wrong with me? Am I really gettin’ off to this?” He chuckled breathlessly, starting to let his hand take control of a pumping motion, his cock dripping of pre-cum from how excited he was.

He closed his eyes, trying to imagine it was him fucking the boss and not Cross. His amazing boss. The one he looked up to so much. His savior, his mentor, his everything. His soul shifted into that of a makeshift soul or in otherwards, a heart. He panted quietly, stroking his cock a bit faster when he heard Cross groan.

It was like he was there with him. His cock buried deep inside of the king. His tits in his face, gripping to him for dear life. Crying, begging, moaning for Killer to go harder or to cum inside of him. Begging Killer to impregnate him. “Fuck… Boss.. you sound so sexy.”

His strokes becoming faster as he panted shakily. His soul was leaking through his shirt, the red, slimy, fluid ruining his black sweater and staining his spine. His breath hitched and a groan escaped him as hot cum flowed down his cock, staining his sheets. He’d wash it later.

(I was proud of this one too. Anyways, next!)

Bad Gays, Bad Dreams

(Insomnia, sleep deprivation)

Nightmare sighed as he awoke from another bad dream. He needed to calm down. These dreams he’d been having had been growing more and more intense each time he fell asleep. Nightmare looked to his clock and sighed. It wasn’t even 5 in the morning. It was only 1 AM.

“I guess you’re up for good then, huh?” Nightmare jumped at the sound of another but at the sight of Killer, he growled. “What the hell are you doing in my private chambers?” Killer was quick to address himself. “Woah, woah, calm down, Night. You asked me to watch over ya while you took a nap. Seems that nap turned into sleep. Another bad dream?”

He forgot he’d asked Killer to watch over him just in case he’d lashed out. “Yes, yes, sorry.. I am sorry. It.. was a bad dream.” Killer got off of his phone and stuff it in his pocket before he scooted closer to Nightmare and rubbed soothing circles into his back. “They’ve been getting worser and worser. Wanna talk about it?”

Nightmare shook his head quickly and hopped out of bed. “No, no. No. I don’t want to talk about it. Though, thank you for the offer.” He put on his black slippers and yawned quietly before leaving his room with Killer trailing a bit behind him. He made his way down the dark corridors of the castle. Killer had to light a candle to see.

Soon upon arriving to the kitchen, he let Killer light up the candles they’d placed, and Nightmare had flinched rather hard when he’d opened the cupboard. “Horror?!” Realizing how loud he was, he dropped his voice to a yelling whisper. “Horror..! What the hell are you doing in there..?!”

Horror let out a grunt. He looked like a gremlin, hunched over and squeezed into the tight space of the cabinet, his long, slender fingered, hand shoved into a jar of cookies. “…Oh, hey, Boss..” His voice was deep and quiet, eyelight dim in the darkness.

Killer snorted out a quiet laugh. “I should’ve known. I’d been hearing noises from down hear for hours. Obviously, it was Horror, aye? Hm, you stuck there, Bud?” Horror ate the last cookie before he let out another grunt and nodded. “..Yes…” Nightmare rolled his eyes and used his tentacle to wiggle the overly large skeleton out of the cabinet, falling with a loud thud.

Though, Horror quietly said that he was alright before getting up and brushing off his clothing. Nightmare felt a bit more at peace to know that he wasn’t as alone anymore. Though, before he could say anything, he felt a presence next to him. Looking to his side, he saw Dust. Nightmare flinched hard before calming quickly. “I.. I am sorry, Dust. Did we wake you?” Dust shook his head, quietly stating to him that he was already awake and had been for a while.

Nightmare sighed gently. “It seems we’re all awake except for Cross.” Horror shook his head, pointing to the now awake skeleton who still looked sleepy. “Oh, Cross. Are you alright?” Cross yawned quietly and nodded at Nightmare’s question. “Yeah.. I knew I heard a noise down here so I checked it out.. seems it was good to do so. Did you have trouble sleeping again, Boss?”

Nightmare frowned. “There is no need to call me such a name when we are far more than just teammates, Cross. Please, call me Nightmare.”

As you can see, I had insomnia while writing these. Never drinking coffee that late anymore. I got addicted for a few days. Hopefully, I may finish these. If I’m lucky.

#Not really a post #update

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anonymouslyangsty · 3 years

Note

What do you think Assassin!Taka would do if he figured out how much his grandfather was manipulating him? Also, what do you think of an alternative Assassin!Taka where his first kill was his grandfather?

Very good question and very good concept.

Minor derailment for a sec (i swear it's relevant), but let's talk about Takaaki and Toranosuke in this au.

(warning, it ended up not being 'a sec'. I bolded the part where I ACTUALLY start talking about your question)

I feel like Torano's downfall was a bit of a slippery slope. He needed to gain some momentum before he went to murder and child grooming, as ya do. And I think the major step towards extreme corruption came through Takaaki.

I feel like those two have a rather tense relationship early on in the au. Takaaki knows that some of his father's dealings are fishy. Perhaps not criminal at that point, but not exactly clean either.

But Takaaki is still human. He's got a wife and young son to care for. If his father's slimy actions got out, they'd ruin the Ishimaru name. Plus, he isn't hurting anyone, right? So Takaaki leaves it alone.

That kind of dismissal only lasts for so long however, especially when you're as honest as Takaaki. Eventually, he's not going to be able to turn a blind eye, even if acting puts himself and his family at risk.

Perhaps Torano does something that goes a bit too far, that actually hurts people and ruins lives. Takaaki wouldn't be able to stand for it and, even if he cares about his father, he isn't going to deny his duties as an officer because of it.

But I think that Takaaki would make the critical mistake of trusting the goodness in his father just a BIT too much. He thinks he can talk sense into Torano, get him to change his ways without ruining his whole career. All Takaaki does is give him ample warning.

Torano cares about his son. Takaaki is a decent man, hardworking and honest. But he'll be damned if he lets his soft heart get in his way and ruin his legacy. So when Takaaki threatens to release info on Torano's illegal activities, he knows he has to keep his son quiet.

Toranosuke is very careful with how he does it. He can't just kill the man. If Takaaki shared his suspicions with anyone, his sudden death would be damning.

So he does the next best thing. Torano gets Takaaki declared clinically insane and locked in an asylum. He weaves this detailed, damning story, bribing as many people as he needs to to create a false narrative. Takaaki attacked him in his office, spouting conseracy theories and accusing him of murder!

Toranosuke deeply cares for his son, so he obviously wouldn't send him away unless it was for his own good, right? And if Takaaki's wife suddenly finds herself overwhelmed with life under the camera's eye, well. What kind of grandfather would Toranosuke be if he didn't care for Taka while his mother was away visiting family? He's just looking out for his family after all.

So that's all to say that Takaaki is alive in this au, locked away from crimes he didn't commit. After so long of being told he's insane, he slowly begins to believe it. Maybe he was becoming paranoid, seeing crimes where there weren't any. Maybe he had overreacted. Did he attack his father? He didn't recall doing so, but there was video evidence, so it has to be true.

It takes years for Takaaki to be deemed sane. By that point, he's convinced himself that he really had made up all those accusations. Taka's already gone at this stage, off training for his grandfather's purposes. But Takaaki thinks he's just off at boarding school.

Now I'll get to the point of this 'little' tangent. I think Takaaki's the one who proves to Taka that he's being used. Takaaki's an officer, likely far higher in standing than in canon. So it's plausible that he'd be employed to investigate a string of strange deaths that's caught the eye of a few officials.

It would be quite interesting for Takaaki to realize that the 'string' of murders is actually far longer than they'd realized. It'd be even more interesting for him to realize that his son is the one behind the deaths.

Takaaki is a father first and an officer second. There's no way he'll allow his son to take the fall, especially not once it becomes clear that Torano placed him into the role. Takaaki would absolutely try to make his son see reason, which means making him see that he's being used.

Okay NOW I'll actually get to the point.

If Taka found out he was being used by his grandfather...Well it sure wouldn't be a pretty sight. We already know how Taka responds to his world being destroyed: denial, unresponsiveness, and manic behavior. That's how he responded upon learning that a guy he was friends with for 3 days was a killer.

Assassin!Taka doesn't see himself as a murderer. He sees himself as an executioner, dealing out capital justice to those who abuse their power. He kills those that are irredeemable, who harm others without any empathy.

But if that was all a life, if he was working for the corrupt rather than against...He'd be just as bad as the corruption he sought to destroy. He'd be a murderer.

Put that revelation onto the realization that the man who raised him since his parents left, the man he looked up to as the pinnacle of greatness, is himself corrupt. Has himself committed the same crimes Taka killed to stop. That Taka was nothing but a tool for that corruption.

Literally everything that Taka is in this au would be a lie. He's not killing for justice, his mindset isn't the correct path, his grandfather isn't fighting for justice.

I honestly think Taka would have an extreme, violent response to that revelation. He'd see both himself and his grandfather as irreparably tainted, absolutely dripping in the blood of the innocent. And Taka has known no means of removing such blots on human society but to personally wipe them out. So that's exactly what he go out to do.

Now I'm thinking about Taka and Takaaki hunting down Torano for some vigilante justice. All while Takaaki subtly tries to convince his son not to kill both Torano AND himself. It would be very hard for Takaaki to convince Taka that he was a victim of his grandfather, and not equally as guilty.

(this is also making me think of an au where Taka's hired by the FBI for his skills in a Black Widow situation)

Speaking of that, let's get to the "Taka's first kill is his grandfather" au.

The first and biggest question is: who the heck puts Taka up to it? It would not be easy. I'm thinking that, in the normal Assassin!Taka au, Torano spends YEARS grooming Taka into accepting killing. Nobody else would have that kind of extended access to Taka except his parents.

...

Except his parents. I'm literally having ideas as I type this. New idea! I'm going to make Taka's mom relevant (and evil)! Also I'm calling her Nori because I just need a name.

Perhaps Takaaki's marriage was arranged for political reasons more than love. He had to marry wealthy, and ended up marrying the daughter of a wealthy businessman.

And that's a very useful position, isn't it? Nori is in a perfect place to learn the intimate details of the Ishimaru family. She can learn what little squabbles the family has amongst one another, what weaknesses there are, anything she could need.

Her parents are well acquainted with several politicians, all of whom are more than willing to act in favor of her family's company. All of whom are itching to become Prime Minister.

So a plan is made to leave the position of PM vacant. Assassinate Takaaki, frame Torano, get someone who'll act in favor of the company in control. Maybe throw in some Yakuza connections for flavor.

Nori is nothing if not a good actor. So when a bullet comes through a window during a banquet, going straight through Takaaki's skull and spraying the table with blood, she acts just like you'd expect a loving wife to. The event falls into chaos instantly, guards swarming the area. And little Taka, who'd been so excited to wear his new suit to the event, has to be dragged away from his father.

Nori's job at this point is to act the part of the mournful wife, suddenly finding herself a single mother. She also is tasked with beginning the rumor mill, whispering of the animosity her poor late husband and his father had for one another. How she's afraid that Toranosuke is somehow involved and, if she isn't careful, will act against her and Taka.

Somehow Taka ends up hearing about it. And well, Taka isn't the type to hide his feelings as a teenager, and he certainly doesn't do it as a child. It's an unexpected complication to the plan. Taka isn't going to just let the rumor float about. He's ready to go straight to his grandfather and demand answers, which would ruin everything.

They could kill the child, it wouldn't be terribly hard. But perhaps Nori has some attachment to him, even if she knows he was only born as a prop for her role. The only other option is to make him part of the plan.

Why frame Toranosuke for murder when you can convince his grandchild that he's a horrible man? A man so powerful that even the law can't touch him? A man so powerful that only someone truly dedicated to justice can bring him down?

It isn't hard to convince Taka to poison his grandfather. The hardest part is training him to hide his anger long enough to get the job done.

So now Nori has made way for a business partner to become Prime Minister, and she's created a hitman for the company. Taka would be a much more loyal assassin than simple money could buy. He's got a vendetta against corruption and a tarnished faith in the justice system. And Nori is in the perfect position to direct his righteous anger towards those that 'deserve it'. And if her definition of who deserves death is different than Taka's? Well, he doesn't need to know that.

#taka #takaaki ishimaru #kiyotaka ishimaru #danganrompa #talentswap #long post #tw: suicide mention #nothing happens but there's a plan #it's just mentioned in passing #an ask tag

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imnotoverlyobsessive · 3 years

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Mabel’s All-in-One Guide to Being a Shooting Star: How to Avoid Being Caught and Other Tips You Should Know

Chapter Three: Not Dipper

A big ol thank you to @edward-or-ford and @pacific-ship!

He’s so tall and handsome as hell; he’s so bad but he does it so well. I can see the end as it begins.- Taylor Swift, Wildest Dreams

Warmth.

Warmth and safety.

Those were the first things Mabel noticed when she woke up for those few brief seconds, the first things she could recall feeling. She was too tired to open her eyes, and her head was freaking killing her, but there was warmth seeping into her skin like melted butter into bread, and something smelled remarkably good.

It wasn’t a familiar smell, not by any means, but she found she liked it quite a lot. She turned her face towards the warm, smooth fabric the scent was coming from, nuzzling it happily with a small smile.

It didn’t help her killer headache, of course, but her bed or whatever it was, it smelled goooooood, and she was all for it.

She felt as if nothing could touch her, there in that little bubble of delicious-smelling warmth, and she wondered idly if Dipper was around, because she only ever felt so happy and safe when she was with him.

When had she seen him last, again? Mabel couldn’t remember. She couldn’t remember anything, really.

Oh well. Whatever. She was warm. She was safe. She was comfortable. She was happy. She smiled again, just a little bit, as her thoughts faded when she lost consciousness again.

She would not be so content when she woke the second time.

———————————————————————

There was a throbbing in her skull. An intense kind, particularly in her temples and behind her eyes. It hurt worse when she opened her eyes, and it took them several rapid blinks to adjust to lights that were actually quite dim, but with her concussion headache, they seemed ridiculously bright against the blue ceiling.

“Yeesh,” she muttered, sitting up on the… was that a chaise? Yup, okay, that was definitely a chaise. She’d never even seen one in person; those things were for fancy people. Mabel had always been many things, but fancy most certainly wasn’t one of them.

Anyway, she was sitting up on the super-duper fancy chaise, her hands supporting her. “My head, what in the…” Dammit, her wrists and arms hurt, too, those were, ugh, were those rope marks? They sure looked like rope marks.

There was a sound nearby when she spoke loud enough to be heard, but Mabel’s head was throbbing so loudly in her ears that she couldn’t hear much of anything. She massaged the skin on her wrists, trying to get the soreness to dissipate. It didn’t.

And then the whole thing came rushing back.

Shit. Was she married to the gnomes now? Was that gonna be her life? No, no, it was fine, gnome marriage wasn’t legally binding, she didn’t think, and even if it was, it wasn’t legal for somebody to marry a whole bunch of people at once, and it definitely wasn’t legal for that somebody to be an unwilling participant. Therefore, any marriage contracts they may or may not have drawn up were null and void, legally speaking. Which meant she needed to escape. Which meant she needed to figure out where she was.

Wait, what about the blood-gnome? What was up with that? Or, shit, the floating glow-dude! What the heckity hecking heckfire was going on with that shiz?

Suddenly, out of nowhere (or perhaps not truly nowhere; she just hadn’t examined where she was just yet, as she hadn’t looked up), a pair of arms wrapped around her, and her head was squished against a very masculine, yummy-smelling (the same smell as before, actually! What a lovely coincidence!) chest. Mr. Hugglebus reached up and threaded his fingers through Mabel’s hair, holding her head against him.

“Mabel,” a voice whispered, like its owner couldn’t believe he was getting to say her name. It was familiar, but also very much not, and Mabel was, like, off-the-charts levels of confuzzled. “Mabel,” the voice said again. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

It was hard to think with the pounding in her ears, but she did her best to ignore it.

She had bigger things to deal with than a headache, no matter how nasty it was.

“Wh- whoa there, friend,” Mabel said shakily, putting her hand on his chest and pushing away from him lightly. Mr. Hugglebus pulled back enough for Mabel to get a proper look at him, and…

Wait.

What?

“Dipper?” she gasped. He said nothing. “What is up with your hair, man?” she laughed. “Or- or your getup, like! What? You goin’ to a fancy party or something? No, no, wait!” she was giggling, and it hurt her head, but it was just so goddamn good to see him she didn’t care. “Okay okay, I know! You’re doing, like, a knock-off impersonation of Gideon, right?” He furrowed his brow, annoyance filling his ice blue eyes.

But… wait. Ice blue eyes? Dipper has brown eyes. They were identical to hers. She knew this. She’d stared into those stupid-beautiful eyes of his a bazillion and one times. She knew her bro bro’s eyes, aight? She knew those suckers. This guy, though. This guy was different. Like. Different different.

“Are you… are you Dipper? ‘Cause like. The Dipster I know won’t even wear color contacts for cosplay purposes, and those eyes ain’t blue naturally, so…”

It was several moments before he finally spoke. He was gazing at her with this weirdly intense look in his eyes (holy crap, those eyes, they were so pretty, nobody’s eyes should be allowed to be that freakin’ blue) she’d never seen on anyone before.

“I’m not… your Dipper,” his emphasis the ‘your’ was strange, condescending, as if he loathed saying it.

She scooted away, her back hitting the arm of the chaise.

All she could think about was a gnome drenched in blood, babbling in terror before exploding violently.

”Then who are you?” she whispered, eyes wide.

He smiled, and not unkindly, either. It was… strange. It was a kind smile from someone who didn’t look like such things came to them naturally. It was nothing like her twin’s smile.

Nothing like it at all.

It did something to her insides. Something she didn’t understand. Something she didn’t know how to interpret or name.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, keeping his distance, his legs twitching as if he wanted to get closer to her. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Okay,” she said, not believing him in the slightest. ‘Cause. Like. The blood-gnome. Had that been him? Had he done that? She hadn’t seen it, but in retrospect, it totally made sense for him to have done that somehow. “But who are you?” she asked again.

“I’m something of an… alternate version of the Dipper you know.” The more he spoke, the more she found his voice to be different and strange. Plus, he looked so similar to Dipper, but Mabel only ever saw her bro’s birthmark once in a blue moon. This guy had it front and center, and his hair was slicked back, and she lowkey wanted to touch it, just to see what it felt like. His voice was deeper than Dipper’s. More monotone, too. It was bizarre.

It was… it was attractive, is what it was. His look and attitude, the whole shebang, it was just insanely attractive. Wait, no, no! Mabel thought to herself. It’s cool, Mabel girl, you’re all good, everything’s a-okay, it’s just that he looks like your bro, alright? No big deal. Well, okay, you shouldn’t be having those kinds of thoughts about your bro, either, but we’re well past that.

“Alternate… version…?” Wait. Shit. Maybe he was… “Are you the anti-Dipper?” She whispered frantically, trying to back away more as if her back wasn’t already firmly pressed against the armrest. “There’s tons of different versions of me, I know that, but I’ve never seen another version of Dipper, and you look just freakin’ like him except for your whole… style and general demeanor, I guess, so-“ she was trying to get up, but holy hot pockets, that was some serious dizziness right there.

Moreover, was there another Mabel in this universe? She hadn’t seen another Mabel in years. It’d be… interesting to see one again. Wait, shit, if he was the anti-Dipper, there was the anti-Mabel somewhere around there, and Mabel was not at all confident she could currently best the anti-Mabel in a fight. And something told her the anti-Mabel wasn’t exactly one for fighting fair and waiting till she was ready. She wasn’t the meme-worth Inigo Montoya, and this wasn’t The Princess Bride.

Dammit.

Wait, he’d said he’d never expected to see her again. And she’d definitely never met him before, she would’ve remembered a fancy, older version of her bro, which could only mean he was talking about the other Mabel. Had something happened to her? Had she left, maybe?

“I’m not,” he cut in quickly, moving towards her slowly, like she was a feral cat ready to book it at any moment. “I’m not the… anti-Dipper, or whatever it was you said.”

She looked around. They appeared to be in some sort of dressing room. No, wait, it was Gideon’s dressing room! Except it wasn’t, because Not-Dipper was there, lounging on the ultra-fancy chaise as if he owned it, which he might very well have done, because Not-Dipper didn’t exactly look like he was a broke college student.

He looked like he used hundred dollar bills as tissues like Woody Harrelson in Zombieland.

Still very much fighting the urge to attempt to GTFO, as the kids say, Mabel turned back to him. “What are you, then?” He blinked for a moment, as if he were surprised, and then she belted out more questions. “What’s your name? How old are you? You don’t look like you’re the same age as me, which is weird if we’re kinda-sorta-pseudo-twins. Why am I here? Where even is here? How-“

“Okay, let’s do this properly, shall we?” He tilted his head when he spoke, the corners of his lips curling upwards in another one of those strange smiles that did something to Mabel’s insides. “One question at a time,” he said, holding up a long, slender finger. “You can ask me anything you want, and I promise to answer truthfully. However,” he crossed one leg over the other, his foot dangling off his knee, the arm closest to her draping casually over the back of the chaise, “for every question I answer, I get to ask one of you in return. You don’t have to answer me, of course, but if you choose not to, that’ll be the end of our little game,” he paused for a moment. “For the time being, at least. Sound fair?”

She nodded hesitantly. She could stop at any time, right?

“Go ahead, then,” he waved the hand that dangled haphazardly over the chaise.

“What’s your name?”

“Mason William Gleeful, but I’ve always been called Dipper,” he said easily, as if he’d been fully expecting that very question.

“Because of the birthmark, I assume,” Mabel was very careful not to phrase it as a question, not to raise the pitch in her voice at the end of her sentence. She didn’t know how he’d react if she asked two questions in a row.

“A fair assumption,” he agreed with a slight nod and another one of those smiles. Ugh. Could ya not, man? Like, for real, Mabel thought. His smile was most definitely not helping her nausea. “And your name? Your full name, if you would.”

“Oh, um,” was she seriously forgetting her own name? Jeez, Mabel, get it together, he’s not Dipper, get over it! “M- Mabel Caroline Pines,” she managed to stutter out.

“Pines, hm? Interesting. Alright then. Shall I go along with your other questions from before, as well?”

She shook her head. “Actually, I was wondering about your last name,” he raised his eyebrows at her and motioned for her to continue. “There’s a sort of… psychic, I guess is what you’d call him, in my universe, and he has that last name. Is that… I mean… we are in what looks like his dressing room, so…”

“I did shows here,” he said quietly, a strange look in his eye, as if he wasn’t seeing her despite looking right at her. “Once upon a time.”

“Oh. I see,” she squeaked out.

His gaze sharpened on her again, and he was moving closer to her, and Mabel tried to back up further, her sneakers scrambling against the fabric of the chaise. Eeek way too close way too close back the fudge up, man, what are you even-

“Why were you in his dressing room?” He was right in front of her face by that point, like waaaaaaay too close, ‘cause their noses were almost brushing and she could see each individual eyelash, and god his eyes were even more startlingly beautiful up close, and she wanted to reach up and touch-

No no no no, bad, bad Mabel, he’s not your Dipper, this is a different version! she told herself firmly. No touchy!

“We gave each other makeovers,” she said, trying very hard to keep her voice even. When he raised his eyebrows at her, she got mildly defensive. “I was twelve! He was… I dunno, ten or eleven! Jeez!” He chuckled at that, then leaned away from her, satisfied with her answer, she supposed, and resumed his previous position as if he’d never moved from it at all.

As if he hadn’t just sent a chill down her spine that was… not altogether unpleasant, which was significantly more concerning than it would’ve been if she’d hated every second he’d been near her.

She pursed her lips and put it from her mind. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five,” he said easily. “And you?”

“Nineteen,” she told him quietly, surprised at his age. She glanced at the foot he’d balanced on his knee.

His shoes were fancy, too. Everything about him seemed to be. “Not what you were expecting, I see,” he observed from her expressions. Damn her and her expressive face!

“Well, it makes sense, because you certainly look older than… than my Dipper.” Her voice shook on the word ‘my’.

His hand clenched into a fist.

She didn’t know what to think of it. Was he angry, or did it mean nothing?

“But it also doesn’t make sense, because if it’s a parallel universe, we should be the same age, I would think.”

“Well, not necessarily,” Not-Dipper reasoned. “In some universes, time moves at different rates, from what I’ve gathered. In our case, it’s the same, but it seems I was born earlier. I was born in 1993, whereas you were born in…” he thought for a moment, tilting his head to the side. “1999.”

“Oh.” She’d never noticed that when interacting with other Mabels. Perhaps it was simply because she was too preoccupied with not dying. It had seemed rather urgent at the time.

“Indeed,” he nodded. “So, your questions,” he reminded her after a few seconds of silence.

“Right.” What had they been again? He kept looking at her, she had to get him to stop doing that. It was distracting. His eyes were distracting. She couldn’t think when they were in her, dammit. Oh! That was it! “Where are we?”

“My universe. I found you with and brought you here through a portal,” he stuck a hand in his pocket. “If you meant the locale, however, as I said before, this was our-“ he cut himself off, took a breath. “My dressing room until several years ago, when I stopped performing.”

“I… see,” she said slowly. So where was the other Mabel, then? Shouldn’t there be a fancy, blue-eyed, properly Adult™ version of herself somewhere? She looked around the dressing room (holy crapinoli, she didn’t think she’d ever seen so much blue in one room), but there were no signs of a woman anywhere. There were no perfume bottles or makeup on the vanity, no dresses on the clothing rack, nothing.

How strange.

“Why were you in Gravity Falls?” He asked.

“To get away.” Helooked at her questioningly. Did it count if it was an unspoken question? She wasn’t sure, but she wasn’t risking it. “I needed an escape. College can be… stressful.”

That wasn’t the full reason, of course, but she wasn’t lying, either.

“Interesting.” He tapped his fingers on his leg. How could a person’s fingers be pleasant to look at?

“Why did you bring me here?”

“You needed help,” he said simply, shrugging a shoulder. He winced slightly when he did, but just a bit; the change in expression so minor she wasn��t sure she’d seen it at all. “However did you find yourself kidnapped by gnomes, of all things? Gnomes who wanted you for their queen, no less.”

She looked away. It’d been a long time since she had fought against anything but class schedules and exams she wasn’t prepared for.

“They… caught me off guard,” she told him quietly. “They tried something similar when I was a kid, but they lost. It never occurred to me that they might try again.”

“Gnomes are persistent little things,” he mused. “They dislike losing, and they are quite stubborn. It stands to reason that they’d try again if you’d beaten them before.”

“What… what did you do?” Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. “To the gnomes, I mean. Unless, of course, I’m misremembering, because there is every chance I am, what with the concussion I very likely have and all, so if I am just say the word, but it seemed pretty dang clear that-“

“I killed them,” he said bluntly. His face was bored, disinterested. Apathetic, even. It didn’t even seem to be bothering him. How could it not be bothering him? Unless…

Unless he’d killed before.

The human brain could get used to just about anything if given enough time.

“You- you killed them,” her voice was horrified, she knew. She could hear it in her tone. Yeah, she’d wanted to get away from them, she’d wanted them to leave her alone, and maybe she’d even wanted to give them a good whack, but she hadn’t wanted them dead.

“Of course I did,” he sounded surprised at her reaction. “They hurt you. They were going to hurt you far worse.”

“I know that,” she whispered. “I know that. But that doesn’t give you the right to just… you can’t be someone’s judge, jury, and executioner. That’s not right.”

“I only did it to save you, Mabel.” She had only heard Not-Dipper say her name once before.

It was different than when Dipper said it. Maybe it was because Not-Dipper’s voice was a little deeper, a little smoother-sounding?

“You weren’t safe. Not in your universe.” His eyes were burning, which was strange since they were the color of ice. “I can keep you safe. I will keep you safe.”

“Ummm… that’s cool and all, but that’s pretty freakin’ unsettling, to have somebody just, like. ‘Splode a bunch of gnomes for you,” she eyed him warily, still trying to figure out how to get away from the dude without crawling. Would he get angry with her for not being appreciative? She didn’t want to see him angry. Would he hurt her?

“I don’t want you to be scared of me,” he told her quietly, his voice a little sad.

She almost lied and told him she wasn’t scared of him, that everything was hunky-dorey, and that he should smile.

She didn’t.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have, I dunno, made people explode in front of me?” She was being sarcastic, she knew, and that was probably a bad idea, but sometimes she just couldn’t help herself.

“Gnomes aren’t people, technically,” he reminded her.

“Semantics,” she waved his argument away. “They’re living creatures. Or they were, anyway, before you decided to go and massacre them.”

Not-Dipper had a look on his face that suggested he wasn’t opposed to killing living creatures, whether they were human or not.

Maybe he already had.

Mabel hoped he hadn’t, but something in the way he held himself gave her a sneaking suspicion that he had.

“I’m sorry if that… bothers you, or if it scares you. I don’t want to make you feel those things,” he sighed. “That said, I think it’d be best if I were up front with you: if put in the same situation again -if you were in danger again, that is to say- I’d do the same thing.”

She crossed her arms, pursed her lips, and glared at him. “Take me home, please.”

There was panic in his eyes. “I- I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“The portal… it doesn’t work like that. I’ll have to find another way to get you back,” he explained. She was still glaring at him when he continued. “But for the time being, you can stay with me. If you want,” he turned his body to face her for the first time since he’d hugged her.

“Well. I suppose that’ll have to- WHAT ON EARTH IS THAT?” She was pointing, horrified, to his shoulder, where one arrow, perhaps about a foot long, was embedded in his shoulder. Another was in his side, the one that had been facing away from her. Blood had seeped through to pool around the entry wounds, though the bleeding seemed to have stopped. His eyes followed her shaking finger.

“Oh, right. I got shot with a couple of arrows. Just gnome ones, though, so they’re quite small,” she dropped her hand back to the soft fabric of the chaise.

“Okay, so you saved me, and you got hurt doing it,” she was saying this to herself, staring at her knees and speaking as if he couldn’t hear her when he could absolutely hear her. “Okay. Okay. This is fine, this is fine, Mabel girl.” She looked back up at him. “Okay, let’s go… wherever we need to go for you to treat those… yeah…”

“Very well,” he agreed. “I’ll take you there.”

He helped her to her feet, and she still found herself a bit dizzy, wobbling a bit.

“Would you like me to carry you?” he offered, steadying her with a hand on her arm.

“Carry m- say what now?”

“I don’t mind, particularly if you’re having difficulty walking still.” As if that explanation was adequate! Why was homeboy cool with it at all, though? She’d gotten a hella nasty gash on her leg once in PE, can ya guess how many people offered to freakin’ carry her to the nurse? Zero, is the answer. Zero.

What a weird dude. And Mabel was in love with her gay twin brother, so if she, of all people, thinks you’re weird, then you are weird.

“Nope!” she squeaked out way too quickly to sound even remotely close to being normal. “I’m good on the carrying front, thanks! Got it covered!”

“Suit yourself.” Ugh why, why was he smiling that smile again, it reminded her of Dipper and also not, and it made her nervous as all hell. “This way.” And with that, he promptly strolled out of his dressing room, clearly expecting her to follow.

#gravity falls #gravity falls fanfiction #gf fanfiction #pinecest #mabel pines #dipper gleeful #reverse dipper #reverse falls #fanfiction #my wriitng #Mabel’s all-in-one guide to being a shooting star #fucking hell RD is so hot

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meltwonu · 4 years

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| good in bed | [chapter 3]

pairing; non-idol!chan x reader

this chapter’s notes; oral(both receiving), face riding, minor hair pulling 😳and some minor angst🥴 we are almost at the finish line for this mini-series~ thank you for everyone who’s been interested in it~ 💕💕💕💕

chapters; 1 - 2 - 3 - x

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Chan the last time you said that, Seokmin had to get stitches.”

Chan rolls his eyes at you, hands on the wheel of his car. He hadn’t said exactly where he was taking you for your little picnic because, as he said, “it was a surprise” so you had hesitantly got into his car when he had picked you up about 30 minutes ago.

“Seokmin-hyung only had to get stitches because he thought belly-flopping onto the beer pong table was a good idea and he cracked his skull open.”

“Yeah, but you were the one who gave him that suggestion!”

“I said it’d be funny! I didn’t know we were gonna have to take him to the urgent care!”

You laugh along with him, glad that whatever weird mood Chan was in the last time you’d seen him seemed to be gone. It was still weird to you that he’d left without saying anything but you’d figured it was just something really important that he had to take care of.

The two of you had kept talking throughout the entire car ride, watching as the sun slowly set along the horizon. You were slowly exiting the city from what you could tell; the skyscrapers and highrises becoming small in the rear view mirror. It was Chan’s idea to have a picnic closer to sunset to which you had agreed to, packing a warm blanket for when the sun eventually went down.

“As long as neither of us end up in urgent care again, I really don’t care where you take me, Chan.”

“See, now, you can’t say shit like that cause we’ll end up at a clown convention and then you’re gonna be really pissed.”

The whole thing feels… romantic to say the least.

Chan takes you to an area with grassy hills and close to little city lights to obstruct your views of the sky. “I figured we can do some star-gazing out here later which is why I suggested we go closer to sunset.”

“Oh… Chan, that’s--”

“Soonyoung-hyung’s really been on my ass lately cause I fucked up at practice a few times so I was thinkin’ like, ‘we need to get away from the city’, you know?”

You nod, pushing your thoughts away as you help him set up. He had even brought some fake candles and some wine to help set the mood. And although neither of you had said it was a date, it definitely feels like one. Chan holds your hand, feeds you first and even wraps a blanket around you once he notices you shivering a little bit.

“Can I ask you a question?” Chan peers up at you after taking a bite of his food. “Yeah?”

“This is cute and all but… we won’t get… like, ‘hills have eyes’ crazies out here will we?” He chokes on his food, eyes as wide as saucers at your question as he rushes to swallow before he replies.

“No! I mean, I don’t think so? There’s not really a yelp page for open grassy hills outside the city though.”

“Okay I just…”

“Are you scared?”

“Not really? Just… curious. There’s like nobody out here except for us and a few houses that we passed, so, y’know.”

“Aww, is the baby scared? I’ll protect you!” Chan sends you a killer smile that sends your heart racing almost immediately. You smile back, averting your eyes quickly as you take in the fresh air. There was still the tiniest bit of sunlight left, your eyes sliding shut as you enjoy the last bit of warmth before the cool night breeze took over.

Chan watches you, committing the image of you glowing in the sunset to memory. “Wow…”

“Hmm?”

“Nothing, you’re just… beautiful is all. Like, the way the sun is hitting you right now makes you look like a goddess.”

Your brain goes haywire momentarily, rebooting as you tuck a stray hair behind your ear.

“Don’t say stuff like that!”

“Why not? Haven’t I said weirder things in bed?” You bite the inside of your cheek. Yeah, he’d said really possessive things and even jealous things in bed but the two of you were in a mood then. This time there was nothing prompting him to say any of that and it was really fucking with your brain. “Yeah I… guess.” Taking a sip of your cup of wine, you swallow down your feelings as best as you can.

The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, eating the food that Chan had packed and enjoying each other’s company until the sun had gone down completely. You take notice of the stars, watching them as you tug the blanket around yourself tighter. “Cold?”

“A little bit…” He finishes off his food, tidying up and putting the containers away in the bag he’d brought before filling his and your cup of wine. You wonder what he’s doing when he gets up from across you and places his cup next to yours on the blanket. But he slots himself behind you, caging you in between his legs and he wraps his arms around you to keep you warm.

“Is this okay?”

“Y-yeah…”

You hate the way Chan gets you to blush so easily. And you hate the way your crush on him grows every single time. There was definitely a fine line between being friends with benefits and actually dating Chan that you felt like had already gotten crossed a long time ago. But, simultaneously, you also didn’t know how Chan felt at all. You knew Chan was usually very vocal about his feelings and the two of you had even confided in each other through relationships and breakups. Hell, even one night stands were a topic of conversation with him on multiple occasions. But this was just weird to you now.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“Mm?”

“You’ve had this… faraway look in your eyes today, that’s all. Like, you laugh at my jokes ‘n stuff but then you look kinda sad after.” Chan’s voice is soft and warm; his lips kissing the crown of your head before he nuzzles into your neck. “You can tell me anything you know. It’s always a judgement free zone when you’re with me.”

“I know, Chan. Sorry, just… life’s been kinda weird lately I guess. But I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about it yet? You know what I mean?”

Chan hums, kissing the column of your neck. “Yeah, I feel you. But you wanna know somethin’?”

“Sure?”

“Wouldn’t it be romantic to fuck under the stars?” There was the word. Romantic.

“I mean… yeah?”

“That’s also kinda why I took you out here, I thought maybe we could? The atmosphere is nice and there’s nobody really around so…” Fuck it.

“Fu--Fuck, Chan…”

You tangle your hands into his hair, grinding down onto his face. You weren’t sure if face-riding was considered romantic but you also didn’t really care the second Chan’s tongue dips into your pussy. His hands grip your thighs, keeping you in place as his tongue licks stripes from your clit to your hole, licking up your wetness. You don’t really know how long it’s been since he started or if anyone can hear you out in the open but if there’s one thing, you’re definitely glad you wore clothes that were easy to get out of.

“God, your mouth is so good!” You untangle a hand, reaching back and gliding it down his torso until it rests over his cock straining against his jeans. You squeeze him through the material as he moans against your folds, drawing circles on your clit in harsh motions as his own hips thrust up into your palm. You can feel your orgasm already building; grinding down onto Chan’s tongue harder. The two of you continue like that for a little while longer until Chan taps on your thigh.

Thinking something is wrong, you lift yourself off of him, watching as he licks your wetness from his lips.

“I could eat you out for hours, but if you’re gonna cum, it’s gonna be on my dick.” You nod, helping him strip down until he’s as bare as you are. “Chan if we get in trouble for this…”

“We won’t! I promise. There’s nobody around here for at least half a mile or something.”

You take his word for it, pushing him down onto the blanket. He watches as you slot yourself between his legs, wrapping a hand around his cock and smearing the precum all over the head and shaft. You slowly lean in, kitten licking at his cock before you wrap your lips around him.

“Ugh, fuck!”

This time it’s Chan that tangles a hand through your hair, guiding your mouth down onto his cock slowly. He resists the urge to fuck your throat open, deep breaths and groans on his lips as he does so. You let him control the pace, bobbing your head up and down with his guidance.

There’s a few times when you deep throat him where you feel his soft and romantic side chipping away slowly; the hand tangled in your hair gripping tighter as he holds you on his cock. And it happens a few more times before Chan completely pulls you off of him by your hair, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple.

“You’re such a little minx, did you know that?”

You smile up at him, a thread of spit still linking your lips to his cock. “You’re the one who suggested we have sex out here so I mean...” There’s a chuckle on his lips as he lets go of your hair, smoothing it back down before he lays on his back again. “Wanna ride me?”

“Okay.”

You take a moment to shimmy on top of him; his hands immediately finding purchase on your hips. He helps guide you, watching as you position yourself over his cock. You sink down on him slowly at first, getting about a third of the way before you think ‘screw it’ and sheath him completely inside of you.

It knocks the breath out of Chan in an instant as you giggle above him. “Jesus, slow down!”

“Why?”

“I’m tryna enjoy the mood here! And you look pretty sitting on my dick like this. The stars around you… If you looked pretty in the sunlight earlier, now you just look ethereal with the stars surrounding you and basking you in the moonlight.”

You hate it here. You really really do.

“Oh… thanks” He nods up at you, a cute smile on his face. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

Choosing to ignore his last statement, you start riding him, alternating between swiveling your hips and grinding down onto him. The curve of his cock inside of you is enough to hit your g-spot; whines spilling from your lips as you chase your high.

Chan can tell when you start to get a bit tired as he plants his feet firmly onto the ground and thrusts up into you.“Ugh, Chan…”

He pauses for a second, his hands on your hips caressing your skin. “Something wrong?”

“No, just… you feel really nice…”

“You too, baby.”

You brace yourself on his torso as you ride him, the sound of your moans mix with his in the quiet moonlight.

Lifting your hands off of his torso, you snake your left hand up your torso, playing with your breasts and pinching your nipples while your other hand slides down to rub at your clit. The sensations have your toes curling and whimpering Chan’s name. He can feel the way you tighten up around his cock, finding it harder to thrust up into you. “Fuck, you’re so close, baby, I can feel you getting so tight.”

“Y-yeah...”

“Wanna cum together?”

“Mmhmm...” Chan helps guide your hips, licking his lips while he watches you touch yourself. “You’re so pretty... Lemme see you cum, baby.” He whispers words of praise, urging you to cum as his hands continue to caress your skin. You grind down onto him harder when you feel the tension in your lower abdomen about to snap. And when you cum on his cock, he follows suit, your name spilling from his lips the entire time the two of your ride out your orgasms.

And when you start to come down from your high, you can’t help but slump forward onto his chest, his arms wrapping around you protectively as you catch your breath.

“Fuck, baby, that was... intense.”

The two of you stay in that position a while longer; Chan admiring the stars above you as you enjoy his warmth and listen to his heartbeat. There’s words on your tongue you want to say but you keep it to yourself for now.

“This is nice and romantic and all, but d’you think we should get going?”

His voice breaks you out of your thoughts, nodding slightly against his chest.

It takes you two a while to clean up and get dressed, lugging all of your things back to his car. Chan doesn’t say a word to you the entire time, and you don’t really make an effort to either.

He opens your side of the car, letting you in before he slides into the driver’s seat and starts the ride home. It’s pleasant for most of the ride back; the radio filling up most of the silence until you realize that the two of you are almost back to your place. And the thoughts on your mind from earlier come back at full force.

“Hey, Chan?”

“Yeah?”

“What are we?” He turns onto the street where your complex is, hands tightening around the wheel unbeknownst to you. There’s an awkward silence even when the car stops in front of your place, Chan turning off the gas as he sits in his seat, unsure of what to say.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I... I don’t know how I feel right now. I don’t know what’s right...”

“Okay... I understand. That’s fine.”

You lay in bed tossing and turning all night regardless. You knew you’d probably have to stop this soon, you just didn’t know when. And yes, while you liked Chan, he still seemed confused and unsure if he wanted to take this to a different level or if he wanted to stay as friends with benefits. You could respect that. There was no real reason to be mad at Chan so you tried to not be.

There was a fine line that the two of you knew you’d crossed, that was obvious. And it was only fair that the two of you were most likely equally as confused as the other so you try to let it go, telling yourself you’ll try to clear the air with him tomorrow or something, if he doesn’t do it first. You wanted him to say something but you, too, weren’t really saying much. The two of you were both skirting around the topic so there was really nobody to blame. You shrug in bed, letting all your feelings go in hopes of finally getting some sleep.

But your phone rings next to you in the midst of your thoughts, tired eyes blinded by the sudden light as you check to see who it is.

You feel yourself heating up, a blush forming on your cheeks as you stare at your phone screen. You didn’t want to push him for more, but damn, he’d definitely gotten your attention now.

#gib!chan #dino smut #seventeen smut #svt smut #dino scenarios #dino imagines #seventeen imagines #seventeen scenarios #svt scenarios #svt imagines #lee chan #dino

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werezmastarbucks · 4 years

Text

honeymoon landing

honeymoon masterlist

word count: 3236

music: blood on the leaves by kanye west

warnings: choking

author’s notes: OUT OF SPITE, I want you to know this is a rewritten chapter. the first variant was ANNIHILATED by tumblr which is whatever. this story is the background/prequel to my three-part shot more like honeymoon. the idea of the prison world simply didn’t let go of me.

again, shoutout to my partner in crime @stfudipz who gets me and Kai like nobody else

As soon as you landed, it landed on you. The realization.

Sometimes it dawns after a while, sometimes it creeps up gradually like a snake, but that time you knew what you’ve done a second after the ethereal white glow of the portal ceased.

Transportation was painless and didn’t feel like anything. Not a buzz in your fingers, no lightness in your limbs. You wouldn’t get motion sickness. Another type of sickness settled, when you felt Kai wiggle away from under your arm.

You were startled, and at the same time, your head was absolutely clear, which was not true about the sky.

First of all, it was cast.

Second of all, you were shocked Damon did that. It hurt you way more than a lot of things could hurt you now. Damon, your friend, your past crush, your protector, your drinking buddy, your safe guy, looked at you the way he has never done before. Like you’ve gone completely mad, and he didn’t recognize you anymore.

Maybe you have.

Third of all, you’d been holding Kai, who was flying with you almost feet first, and now he sprinted away from your arms to stand up, and was frozen, silently, looking up like he suddenly got distracted.

Fourth of all, you were now in the prison world with Kai Parker.

And you understood it well.

You looked at him from the grass, and you didn’t breathe. Run? Stay? Curl and roll? Attack? Play dead?

What made you jump in front of him, was it his face when he realized he’s outpowered, almost gutted, betrayed, and about to be sent to the place he was terrified of? It was the fucker’s face. It was his face when you danced at the Grill, making the history out of one single date you’ve had before you decided he was worth it. He said, how don’t you crawl up the wall with the Boring Faces? and you found it hilarious, and bang, next thing you knew, his tongue was so deep in your throat he could almost tickle your lungs. You had never experienced anything quite like that before. The touch was electric. It was meant to be. You saw it in his eyes, too, he was amazed at how warm the hug was, when everybody stopped dancing and moved away from each other, you wouldn’t let go. The feeling of his arm around your waist, his fives on your back, just touching, was one of the most fulfilling things you’ve experienced in your life. In your romantic mind, perhaps, you thought he was the one, and maybe it wasn’t the love at first sight, but something like the realization at second touch.

He was your own, you knew that, but couldn’t explain. It was knowledge absurd and intimate enough not to share with anyone, and to take quietly, and just let it be. You knew it like you knew the rain falls from up there and down here.

You just couldn’t figure out why you had to have this mass murderer. This unhinged psychopath. This hurt killer who enjoyed inflicting pain on others. This chatty nightmare. On the date, he wouldn’t stop talking about himself, telling you the whole life story, and somehow you still lacked something, still wanted to know more. His hand on your lap felt so natural you enjoyed it like it was the familiar palm of your husband, and it was supposed to be there, and has been, for the last forty years. They way you touched, it felt like you already knew everything about each other.

Why wouldn’t you go with him?

Kai now looked down on you, lying on the ground, and his eyes were crazy mad. You knew he wasn’t all here, and you didn’t even get angry when he asked,

“How could you do that to me?”

“I didn’t send you in, Kai”.

“Your friends”, he whispered. You could see his white knuckles tightening. If he had glass in his hands, he’d cut his palms through.

“Your friends...”

“You’re not alone this time”.

“They did it because of you, Damon had told me to stay away from you...”

“He did it because you’ve been going around beheading people, Kai”.

He didn’t hear you. You got up, completely sober about what is going to be happening right now. Your mind was clear. Only there somewhere, in the back of your mind, queueing, was the horror.

I can’t run away from him here. It is his world. He will completely lose it.

There was sadness standing in line behind fear,

and I can’t have my own because he’s as good as gone.

You got up and ran towards the house, the dark mass here in the night, hoping that back in ‘94, the door was in the same place. You ran towards the entrance, feeling unfamiliar pebble road under your feet. You heard Kai running after you, and before you could think how scary it is, you crashed into something.

The collision was so violent you fell completely black for a moment. You got blinded, although there was not much to see anyway, since the moon was hidden behind the clouds, and the mansion stood lightless. It felt like a giant baseball bat hit you with a swing, violently, and tears of pain sprayed out of your eyes. Dumbfounded, you lay on the ground, slowly realizing you ran into a tree. That would not make it into the future. Perhaps Stefan tore it out with the roots in a fit of rage in 1999 or maybe the very 1995. Who knew; your head was spinning. Long, dull sound filled your brain.

Kai picked you up and took you by the hair as you waved your hands, trying to regain the sense of space. You touched your face with one hand and grabbed his fingers with the other; your face was wet with blood.

“Let me go”.

“Running away already? You think I’m gonna let you?”

You’ve never been dragged by your hair before. It was carrying all your weight on the strings of it. It was painful. You took his hand and pulled on it, pulling your legs up, and tried to stop him.

“Kai, stop! Stop where you are!”

He let go of you like you were hurting him. You rolled on the grass, and caught your breath, expecting a punch, but it never came.

Instead, you were left alone on the ground. You rolled onto your back and looked at the sky again. All was quiet.

You sat up, taking in the thick, dense air. It felt like it was going to rain. You got your heavy self up, and, as your eyes finally got used to the night, you walked on towards the house.

The porch, the heavy posh door, the wide hall, all was the same. Salvatore house was older than 90s drama after all. On your left, you felt for the light, and sighed, turning it on.

Then it dawned on you again, although you thought you were already mentally prepared. You were in the 94, and the house was what it used to be back then, and there was no escape from it.

You knew he’d return. Or maybe he wouldn’t. He mentioned it’s quite impossible to die here, so you didn’t worry about him killing himself.

You looked at the big round clock (surprisingly ugly; who was living there at that point? which of the Salvatore nephews?) in the kitchen and saw it was about half past eleven.

Then the silence made you shiver.

The wind outside was still, lying on the ground like a dead serpent. There were no crickets and no mice in between the walls, no bark beetles that used to shuffle cozily at night as you slept here many times.

There was nothing in this world except you, him, and this dark cast sky.

You limped towards the kitchen counter, observing things. A row of mugs was hanging above the sink, and you took one to make yourself some tea or coffee. Who needs so many mugs? There were no less than twenty of them. There were millions of millions of mugs in the world, and exactly half of them, just like half of everything else on this planet, belonged to you.

Think, think think. There was nothing to think about. There is a thing that’s called three foot world, and you were living in it. Right now, your aim was tea to soothe your aching head, and shower. Your body hurt, and you could feel your hair hurt, too. You sobbed a little, out of anger, and because it hurt so much. Part of feeling alive is feeling pain. You frowned, and groaned, and wiped away the tears, cursing under your breath at Kai and the kettle you couldn’t find.

Kettle finally came round, but the boy didn’t.

As you stood over the stove, listening to the water slowly heat, you tried to calm down the buzzing inside your skull.

Damn psycho. Why him.

Jerk

What an asshole, what a miserable selfish douche

You turned around to look over the kitchen, and find the ten differences between then and now. Kai reappeared like a shadow, like a silhouette out of a nightmare. His face changed, his posture - everything. He was a broken man now. He was stooping like a boar, piercing you with his eyes, and you thought for a second that he looked and felt more like a demon rather than a mortal. You haven’t heard him creep up on you, and you could barely see the trace of human in his impedning demeanor as he condemned you silently.

Kai attacked so quickly you barely managed to put out your fists to set them between you and him; he didn’t seem to feel pain, since he has felt it all; he didn’t seem to hear you wail as his hands clutched your shoulders, then crawled up to your neck. You dug your nails into the milk skin of his throat, and he didn’t flinch. You could feel the cage-like muscles of his neck under your fingers as you tried to inflict pain, still uncertain to go for the eyes; but as he started to choke you, you decided that it was either you or him after all.

You completely forgot at that moment that nobody dies in the prison world.

He pushed you towards the stove, nearly leaning you over the heating kettle and the open fire, and you twisted your arm, trying to get it.

“This torture”, he was whispering, as if he was communicating with the demonic spirits piloting whatever he was doing, in his head. Psychopaths. Fucking strong.

“I can’t subject you, too, to that. I am used to this place, but you have no idea...”

You opened your mouth like a fish, your throat squeezed in his palms, and your eyes rolling. Your hand got burned on the red-hot surface of the kettle, and your body twitched. Kai closed his eyes hard, and then opened them.

“The things I will do to you”, he moaned, as if it hurt him more than in hurt you. Anger was rising in you, and probably that’s why you wrapped your palm around the kettle. “If I just keep you dead...”

Swinging your arm back, you crashed it on his head, and Parker released you, yelping in pain and jumping away. You put hands to your face not to let boiling water spill into your eyes. Half-awake, you stooped, fell, rolled and was out of the kitchen.

The forest was useless. It was just a big mass of darkness, with trees everywhere, and as soon as you lost the sight of the house, you lost your senses, too. You had no idea which way was the road. And what did it matter? Not like you could run into the city, it’s too far away on foot, when you’re so incredibly hurt. First five minutes here, and you are in such ridiculous amount of pain you’re surprised how you’re still moving. Your arms are burnt, your throat is all but squashed, your ribs are hurting, your head is aching and spinning, your face is bleeding and your nose feels like it’s broken.

Is that how it’s going to be here? Kai chasing you and torturing you to no end? While having a panic attack? Was he trying to spare you? It looked like he almost cried, it looked like he was trying to suffocate you in spite of him, and in his mind, that could be mercy.

You wanted to groan, but was to weak. The silence was driving you mad: all around, not a spider sigh, no rustle, no bats, no owls, nothing. Windless, lightless hell, dense night, and the moon hiding somewhere.

You leaned on a tree to breathe a little, thinking, he’s going to find you. It’s his reign. He knows every inch of this land. He can walk with his eyes closed and sense you still.

“Y/N”, the distant call finally ended deafening quiet, and you raised your head like a deer.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me!”

Of course you don’t know, you incredible lunatic!

You expected no less of him. Fake aggressor remorse. Mercy my ass. He was just trying to cope with terror.

You moved on, trying to jog, but in the dark, it was almost impossible. Crooking roots in the earth, not much different than what they were back in the future, caught your feet. You stumbled through the thickets, understanding that you’re wandering in only to piss him off, just to do something.

“Y/N!” he sounded closer. Much closer, in fact, like he was spinting, or teleporting. You stood and tried to see with your skin. With your ears. But all there was - the ringing in your brain.

“Y/N!”

“Fuck off!” you shouted before you could slap yourself on the mouth. It just came out, so sincere.

You went again, but you could feel he was close.

“Please, don’t go! Hey, wait!”

There was no other explanation as to how he navigated here, in the dark, burnt with the boiling water, except that he was an actual spirit from hell, assigned to make your life miserable. Why did you go? Why did you go, oh, you had no fucking clue. What made you think inserting yourself into this would be a good idea.

I just didn’t want him to be alone, well, cry me a river, this fucker was about to turn your whole existence into one prolonged bite in the ass. There was a reason he was sent here in the first place after all.

You heard his footsteps too late, but it’s not like you could catch them before. He manifested himself, tap tap tap, like he jumped off a tree, and you bumped right into his open arms.

“No!”

Your hands flew up as you tried to scratch his face, forgetting completely that you had two good knees.

“Wait, wait, stop, no!”

This clusterfuck of a hug was spinning in place until Kai has had enough, and his restricting grasp turned into a desperate embrace of a drowning man.

He put his face right to the back of your head, and you could feel his body, leaning towards yours, as he shivered as if he was crying. All your fighting instincts were put on hold as you listened.

“Please, don’t go. Don’t leave me here. I can’t stay here alone”, he whispered, trying to conjure something in you.

There he was again, the boy who made you question everything. His arms tightened around you, because he was afraid. Anger boiled in you.

“Let go of me”, your voice was hoarse.

“No, I can’t”.

“I won’t run, Kai!” you snapped, and it sounded more like a bark. He shuddered like you slapped him on the face, and complied.

You were rubbing your face feverishly, almost whimpering with how much the burnt skin stung. The nose was killing you.

“I don’t know who you think I am, Parker”, you panted. You could see his eyes glow faintly in the dark. You had no idea where the light came from.

“But I’m not your fucking family. I’m not leaving”.

He could do this thing with his face, that made him look like he was a seventeen years old boy puppy, which would break just about anyone, except, maybe, Damon. Kai was so full of shit.

“Stay with me”, he said quietly like he didn’t hear you. You went on,

“But if you wanna pull your murderous shit on me, you gotta know one thing. Once I bounce back, I’m gonna give you as much hell as you give me, you got it?”

He nodded, although he certainly didn’t get it.

“Seriously, if you hurt me, I’ll retaliate so hard you’ll be wishing you were here alone”.

“Nothing is as bad as being here alone”, he said seriously.

You felt the air painfully clogging in your lungs. You opened your mouth to say something and was cut off, by the weirdest sensation, like you were stung with a needle full of drug all of a sudden.

You blinked, not understanding what’s happening.

Kai was looking at you, perplexed and careful, like he was ready to charge if you run again. You touched your face, made fists and undid them. Suddenly, your head was clear again, and you felt completely full of energy, like you really could run to the very Mystic Falls.

“What the hell?”

“It must be midnight”.

You touched the back of your head, where he pulled your hair, and it didn’t hurt anymore, either.

“Your body reset”.

“And yours?”

“Mine, too”.

“Y/N...”

“Wait a minute. It’s going to be happening every night?”

“There’s no every night”, he moaned, “there’s only tonight. Again and again. That’s why I tried to kill you, I guess. I don’t really... I don’t know why, by the way”, he started pacing, rubbing the hard tree skin like it could help him, “I don’t want you to go through this. You don’t know what it’s like here”.

You blinked with your dry eyes. You were still mad.

“Which way is the house?”

He pointed behind your back.

“Suck it up, Parker”, you said. “You’re a powerful coven leader now, aren’t you? You’re gonna find the way out of here”.

You walked back slowy, feeling your way around in the twilight, until you were back on the Salvatore yard. You didn’t hear his footsteps, like he was a bloody ghost, but Kai was following you all the way down, defeated, which didn’t bring you much pleasure. Stepping into the house, you looked back at him.

“If you touch me while I sleep...”

“I know, you’ll scratch my eyes out”, he said. Parker regained his composure and was straight and menacing as usual, like nothing happened. He bounced back quickly, too. He kept gazing at you, standing in the doorframe, a symbol of unwanted intervention, like a vampire.

“What?” you finally asked.

“Just wondering why Damon would send you here, while he knows what I’m capable of. Do you think he cares about you at all?”

You licked your lips.

“You should be thanking him. I’m the only one who cares about you”.

He was taken aback.

Yeah, take that, villain boy. Pretty soon he’ll learn what it feels like, to be taken care of. That’ll show him.

#kai parker #kai parker imagine #kai parker x reader #vampire diaries imagine #vampire diaries #tvd imagine

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dweetwise · 4 years

Note

random thought, but what if the party had been in the entity's realm? i dunno, seeing el just yeet palettes at killers would be a sight though kjdshkjs

i did this whole speech about how i can’t deal with kid characters in dbd so have some of the adult cast instead! i’m sorry it’s not what you wanted but i hope it’s ok <3 also let’s imagine them joining separately or this won’t make much sense. spoilers for st season 3!

Stranger Things characters as dbd survivors

Jonathan

So many tears from both sides when he reunites with Nancy. She's heartbroken that he's stuck here now too, but is also really happy to be with him.

Jonathan doesn't care about being trapped for potentially eternity. He’d literally do anything to be with her, and he would have come voluntarily.

Leans his forehead against a crying Nancy’s, smiles and murmurs “What’s one more shared trauma?” while Nancy chokes out a laugh through her tears.

They're disgustingly adorable at camp, constantly sharing soft looks and smiles and inside jokes.

Nancy will need lots of reassuring that Jonathan’s mom and brother will be okay without him, and that her own family is coping.

With Jonathan around, Nancy starts coming out of her shell more. She gets a lot of her fire back, determined to find a way out and rebel against the Entity.

Jonathan and Steve quickly become friends, as they were on good terms even before, but Jonathan is so grateful Steve has been there for Nancy. Steve is just glad to have a familiar face and is super happy for them.

Would probably bond with Jake because they're both pretty damn weird. Also Claudette and Adam, being the more quiet types, and Zarina for the photography.

Robin

Fucking screaming when her and Steve see each other at the campfire. “Dingus! Where the fuck have you been!?”

When she's given the ‘welcome to the fog’ talk by Dwight, her smile fades. “You're kidding,” she says, eyes wide, before turning to Steve. “Please tell me he's kidding.” “Sorry,” Steve cringes.

Is surprisingly quick to embrace the situation, following Steve’s lead in dealing with the situation with humor. Steve gets even more dorky and hyper than before, happy to have his partner in crime back.

Imagine Steve and Robin, full scoops outfits, bullying the shit out of killers.

She vibes with Nea and Feng who totally teach her all their toxic little tricks. She also finally gets to properly know Nancy, and they become fast friends as they have a lot in common and Nancy loves hearing about what happened in Hawkins after they were taken.

A lot of the other survivors mistake Robin and Steve for a couple, right up until Robin gets visibly flustered by a bear hug from Kate. She secretly also ends up crushing hard on Claudette, but doesn’t tell a soul, not even Steve.

That doesn’t stop her from bugging Steve about whether he has a crush and to let her wingwoman for him.

Once starts talking to Anna in Russian and nearly gets adopted and starved to death, but is luckily saved by Bill forcefully pushing her out through the exit

When she gets overwhelmed by the death and violence, Steve sneaks her away and lets her cry on his shoulder. Other times she tells stories of Dustin and the other kids, who looked for Steve and Nancy every day for months, and pets his hair while he quietly sobs into his Scoops hat.

Joyce

Steve and Nancy couldn’t be more confused upon seeing Joyce. “Mrs. Byers? What are you doing here?”

She's worried about her boys but quickly pulls herself together. Reassures Nancy that Jonathan is safe and free from Hawkins drama, though he’s never been able to get over Nancy after her disappearance.

“What about the kids? Are they okay?” mama bear Steve butts in. He smiles brightly every time she tells him stories about the kids’ adventures he’s missed.

She's a resourceful lady and does quite well in the trials. Hates most killers but is still furious with Demo for kidnapping her boy. Even David looks a little intimidated by her unbridled rage when she’s up against the killer, slamming pallets on its head and chasing it down when it tries to whimper away.

Will scold Legion like a disappointed mother. “What are you doing, boy? Is this what your parents would have wanted?” Joey actually pauses mid-frenzy, knife raised, before lowering the weapon and shuffling his feet in shame. “Sorry, ma'am.”

She's a good addition to the survivor camp, as they’ve never had a literal mom figure before. Laurie especially really looks up to her, and Meg loves her no-nonsense attitude. Joyce looks after the younger survivors and is on pretty good terms with everyone.

Well. With the exception of Ace. Upon first meeting him, she slaps him when he goes in for a cheesy kiss on her hand. “I was just told I’m stuck in an endless cycle of murder and violence—do you really think that's appropriate?” she scolds while Ace just grins.

Out of everyone, she’s the most determined to find a way out, inspiring a lot of the others with new hope.

Hopper

He's very confused and angry about the realm, even after Steve and Nancy explain everything. At this point he’s seen so much weirdness he’s just done with all the paranormal bullshit.

Just wants to go back to El and feels like her and the kids and the entire goddamn town of Hawkins need him.

Sucks in trials at first. “So let me get this straight... I have to repair machines and run circles around a piece of wood while a murdered is after me?” “Pretty much, yeah,” Steve shrugs. “Right, not happening. My gun has to be around here somewhere!”

Instant bros with Tapp because good cop and… good cop? Tapp is able to get through his thick skull with strategic advice, and they’re both very much about protecting the other survivors.

Fits in well with the rest of the Old Man Squad (TM) as well, even though Ash keeps trying to one-up his stories, Bill refuses to share his cigarettes, Felix constantly talks about weird future stuff, and Ace always teases him about his shit poker face.

He’s instantly very protective of Steve and Nancy and easily adopts Cheryl, Nea, Quentin, Laurie, Feng, Meg—the list goes on.

Billy

He did slightly redeem himself just before his death, but is still hesitant to join the group, thinking Steve and Nancy hate him after all the shit he put them and their friends through.

Nancy is wary but Steve is quick to forgive and forget. “Just don’t kick my ass or, y’know, try to kill us again, yeah?” Steve laughs a little shakily and, knowing Steve had more beef with him than her, Nancy follows his lead and eventually comes around.

Has a lot of banter with David, and nobody can really tell if they're best bros, hate each other's guts or have the hots for one another. The Entity gives him a shirtless skin too and they can usually be seen obnoxiously flaunting their abs together.

A lot of the others make fun of his hair and pretty boy look. Luckily he can take it in stride, dishing out just as much cheeky comments about Feng’s neon hair and some of Ace’s more questionable outfits.

Tries to hit on Jane because he's a thirsty fuck but gets a very patronizing “Talk to me in a decade, honey,” for his efforts.

Eventually opens up to Nancy that it's not fair for her and Steve to be stuck here, as they didn't do anything wrong. He thinks he deserves the punishment, and is surprised the Entity didn’t make him a killer after what he did.

He’s still a cocky little shit, though much more genuine than before—dying probably has that effect on you.

*cries* i’m so happy i got to write jancy i love them so much ;w; also i would 110% ship joyce and ace but i doubt anyone is surprised

#dbd headcanons #stranger things #jonathan byers #robin buckley #joyce byers #jim hopper #billy hargrove #steve harrington #nancy wheeler #dbd survivor #jancy #dbd #dead by daylight #request #dweetwrites

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kiridune · 3 years

Text

On Hallowed Ground

Sat, Sep. 07, 2002 Miami Herald

By DAVE BARRY (http://davebarry.com/misccol/hallowedground.htm)

On a humid July day in Pennsylvania, hundreds of tourists, as millions have before them, are drifting among the simple gravestones and timeworn monuments of the national cemetery at Gettysburg.

Several thousand soldiers are buried here. A few graves are decorated with flowers, suggesting some of the dead have relatives who still come here. There's a sign at the entrance, reminding people that this is a cemetery. It says: "SILENCE AND RESPECT."

Most of the tourists are being reasonably respectful, for tourists, although many, apparently without noticing, walk on the graves, stand on the bones of the soldiers. Hardly anybody is silent. Perky tour guides are telling well-practiced stories and jokes; parents are yelling at children; children are yelling at each other. A tour group of maybe two dozen teen-agers are paying zero attention to anything but each other, flirting, laughing, wrapped in the happy self-absorbed obliviousness of Teen-agerLand.

A few yards away, gazing somberly toward the teen-agers, is a bust of Abraham Lincoln. Lincoln gave his Gettysburg Address here 139 years ago, when the gentle rolling landscape, now green and manicured, was still raw and battle-scarred, the earth recently soaked with the blood of the 8,000 who died, and the tens of thousands more who were wounded, when two armies, 160,000 men, fought a terrible battle on July 1, 2 and 3 that determined the outcome of the Civil War.

Nobody planned for the battle to happen here. Neither army set out for Gettysburg. But this is where it happened. This is where, out of randomness, out of chance, a thousand variables conspired to bring the two mighty armies together. And so this quiet little town, because it happened to be here, became historic, significant, a symbol, its identity indelibly defined by this one overwhelming event. This is where these soldiers - soldiers from Minnesota, soldiers from Kentucky, soldiers who had never heard of Gettysburg before they came here to die - will lie forever.

This is hallowed ground.

On the same July day, a few hours' drive to the west, near the small Pennsylvania town of Shanksville, Wally Miller, coroner of Somerset County, Pa., walks slowly through the tall grass covering a quiet field, to a place near the edge, just before some woods.

This is the place where, on Sept. 11, 2001, United Airlines Flight 93, scene of a desperate airborne battle pitting passengers and crew against terrorist hijackers, came hurtling out of the sky, turning upside down and slamming into the earth at more than 500 mph.

That horrendous event transformed this quiet field into a smoking, reeking hell, a nightmare landscape of jet fuel, burning plane debris, scattered human remains.

Now, 10 months later, the field is green again. Peaceful and green.

Except where Flight 93 plunged into the ground. That one place is still barren dirt. That one place has not healed.

"Interesting that the grass won't grow right here," says Miller.

Nobody on Flight 93 was heading for Somerset County that day. The 33 passengers and seven crew were heading from Newark, N.J., to San Francisco. The four hijackers had a different destination in mind, probably Washington, D.C., possibly the White House.

Nobody on the plane meant to come here.

"I doubt that any one of them would ever set foot in Somerset County, except maybe to stop at Howard Johnson's on the turnpike," Miller says. "They have no roots here."

But this is where they are. And this is where they will stay.

No bodies were recovered here, at least not as we normally think of bodies. In the cataclysmic violence of the crash, the people on Flight 93 literally disintegrated. Searchers found fragments of bones, small pieces of flesh, a hand. But no bodies.

In the grisly accounting of a jetliner crash, it comes down to pounds: The people on Flight 93 weighed a total of about 7,500 pounds. Miller supervised an intensive effort to gather their remains, some flung hundreds of yards. In the end, just 600 pounds of remains were collected; of these, 250 pounds could be identified by DNA testing and returned to the families of the passengers and crew.

Forty families, wanting to bury their loved ones. Two hundred fifty pounds of identifiable remains.

"There were people who were getting a skull cap and a tooth in the casket," Miller says. "That was their loved ones."

The rest of the remains, the vast majority, will stay here forever, in this ground.

"For all intents and purposes, they're buried here," Miller says. "This is a cemetery."

This is also hallowed ground.

In the Gettysburg Address, Lincoln was essentially trying to answer a question. The question was: How do you honor your heroes? Lincoln's answer was: You can't. No speech you give, no monument you erect, will be worthy of them, of their sacrifice. The best you can do is remember the cause they died for, finish the job they started.

Of course the passengers and crew on Flight 93, when they set out from Newark that morning, had no cause in common. They were people on a plane bound from Newark to San Francisco. Some were going home, some traveling on business, some on vacation.

People on a plane.

Which makes it all the more astonishing, what they did.

You've been on planes. Think how it feels, especially on a morning cross-country flight. You got up early; you're tired; you've been buckled in your seat for a couple of hours, with hours more to go. You're reading, or maybe dozing. You're essentially cargo: There's nowhere you can go, nothing you can do, no role you could possibly play in flying this huge, complex machine. You retreat into your passenger cocoon, passive, trusting your fate to the hands of others, confident that they'll get you down safe, because they always do.

Now imagine what that awful morning was like for the people on Flight 93. Imagine being ripped from your safe little cocoon, discovering that the plane was now controlled by killers, that your life was in their bloody hands. Imagine knowing that there was nobody to help you, except you, and the people, mostly strangers, around you.

Imagine that, and ask yourself: What would you do? Could you do anything? Could you overcome the fear clenching your stomach, the cold, paralyzing terror?

The people on Flight 93 did. With hijackers in control of the plane, with the captain and first officer most likely dead, the people on this plane got on their cell phones, and the plane's Airfones. They reached people on the ground, explained what was happening to them. They expressed their love. They said goodbye.

But they did not give up. As they were saying goodbye, they were gathering information. They learned about the World Trade Center towers. They understood that Flight 93 was on a suicide mission. They figured out what their options were.

Then they organized.

Then they fought back.

In "Among the Heroes," a riveting book about Flight 93, New York Times reporter Jere Longman reports many of the last words spoken to loved ones on the ground by people on the plane. They're not the words of people in shock, people resigned to whatever fate awaits them. They're the words of people planning an attack. Fighters.

Here, for example, are the last words of passenger Honor Elizabeth Wainio to her stepmother: "They're getting ready to break into the cockpit. I have to go. I love you. Goodbye."

Here are flight attendant Sandy Bradshaw's last words to her husband: "We're going to throw water on them and try to take the airplane back over. Phil, everyone's running to first class. I've got to go. Bye."

And of course there are the now-famous words of Todd Beamer, who, after explaining the situation on the plane to an Airfone supervisor in Illinois, turned to somebody near him and said: "You ready? OK, let's roll."

They're getting ready to break into the cockpit.

I've got to go.

Let's roll.

We'll never know exactly what happened next. Some believe that the fighters managed to get into the cockpit, and that, in the ensuing struggle for control, the plane went down. Others believe that the hijackers, trying to knock the fighters off their feet, flew the plane erratically, and in doing so lost control. Inevitably, there is Internet-fueled speculation that the plane was secretly shot down by the U.S. government. (The government denies this.)

But whatever happened, we know two things for sure:

We know that the plane went down before it reached its target - that the hijackers failed to strike a national symbol, a populated area. They failed.

And we know that the people on the plane fought back. On a random day, on a random flight, they found themselves - unwarned, unprepared, unarmed - on the front lines of a vicious new kind of war. And somehow, in the few confusing and terrifying minutes they had, they transformed themselves from people on a plane into soldiers, and they fought back. And that made them heroes, immediately and forever, to a wounded, angry nation, a nation that desperately wanted to fight back.

And now these heroes lie here, in this field where their battle ended. This cemetery. This battlefield. This hallowed ground.

Wally Miller, coroner, has walked this ground hundreds of times. He spent endless hours among those collecting human remains and picking up plane parts. Even now, he walks with his eyes down, looking, looking. Every now and then he reaches down and picks up a tiny piece of plane - a thimble-sized piece of twisted gray metal, a bit of charred plastic, a shard of circuit board, a wire. This is what Flight 93 became: millions of tiny pieces, a vast puzzle that can never be reassembled. Despite the cleanup effort, there are still thousands of plane parts scattered for acres around the crash site, just under the new plant growth, reminders of what happened here.

The site is peaceful; no sound but birds. Miller walks from the bright field into the hemlock woods just beyond the barren spot where Flight 93 slammed into the earth. It's mid-afternoon, but the woods are in permanent dusk, the tall trees allowing only a dim, gloomy light to filter down to the lush green ferns that blanket the ground. The woods look undisturbed, except for bright "X"s painted on the trunks of dozens of hemlocks. The "X"s mark the trees that were scaled by climbers retrieving human remains, flung high and deep into woods by the force of the crash.

Some of the hemlocks, damaged by debris and fire and jet fuel, had to be cut down. These trees were supposed to be trucked away, but Miller, who, as coroner, still controls the crash site, would not allow it. Some of the trees have been ground into mulch; some lie in piles of logs and branches. But they're all still here. Miller won't let them be removed.

"This is a cemetery," he says, again. And he is determined that it will be respected as a cemetery. All of it. Even the trees.

Almost immediately after the battle of Gettysburg, people started coming to see the place where history happened. More than a century later, they're coming still.

Some are pilgrims: For them, Gettysburg is a solemn place, where the suffering and sacrifice of the soldiers still hangs heavy in the air. Some are purely tourists: For them, Gettysburg is another attraction to visit, like the Grand Canyon, or Graceland - famous, but not particularly relevant to their everyday lives. You park, you look, you take a picture, you leave.

I think that most of the visitors to Gettysburg, even today, are some mixture of pilgrim and tourist. But as the battle has receded in time, as the scars of the war have healed, tourism clearly has come to dominate the mixture. Despite the valiant efforts of many to preserve the soul of this place, to explain to the waist-pack hordes why this ground is hallowed, Gettysburg, surrounded by motels and gift shoppes, accessorized by a wax museum and a miniature-golf course, is now much more a tourist attraction than a shrine.

But soldiers are still buried here. And people still come to place flowers on graves. And the sign at the entrance to the cemetery still makes its plea: SILENCE AND RESPECT.

Immediately after Sept. 11, people started coming to see where Flight 93 went down. The site is a little tricky to find, but they found it, and they're coming still, every day, a steady stream of people who want to be near this place. They're not allowed on the site itself, which is fenced off and guarded, so they go to the temporary memorial that has been set up by the side of a two-lane rural road overlooking the crash site, a quarter-mile away.

The memorial - the word seems grandiose, when you see it - is a gravel parking area, two portable toilets, two flagpoles and a fence. The fence was erected to give people a place to hang things. Many visitors leave behind something - a cross, a hat, a medal, a patch, a T-shirt, an angel, a toy airplane, a plaque - symbols, tokens, gifts for the heroes in the ground. There are messages for the heroes, too, thousands of letters, notes, graffiti scrawls, expressing sorrow, and love, and anger, and, most often, gratitude, sometimes in yearbookish prose:

"Thanx 4 everything to the heroes of Flight 93!!"

Visitors read the messages, look at the stuff on the fence, take pictures. But mostly they stare silently across the field, toward the place where Flight 93 went down. They look like people you see at Gettysburg, staring down the sloping field where Pickett's charge was stopped, and the tide of war changed, in a few minutes of unthinkable carnage. There is nothing, really, to see on either field now, but you find it hard to pull your eyes away, knowing, imagining, what happened there.

There will be a permanent memorial for Flight 93. The temporary one is touching in its way, a heartfelt and spontaneous tribute to the heroes. But it's also haphazard, verging on tacky. Everyone agrees that something more dignified is needed. The official wheels are already turning: Congress has begun considering a bill to place the site in federal custody. Eventually land will be acquired; a commission will be appointed; a design will be approved.

Wally Miller frets about the memorial. He worries that, in the push to commemorate this as The Defining Moment In The War Against Terrorism, people will forget that it was also - maybe primarily - a personal tragedy for 40 families. He believes that, whatever is done at the site, there should be a place set aide for the Flight 93 families to grieve in private, away from the public, the tourists, the sightseers, the voyeurs, and what Miller calls "the metal-detector assholes."

Tim Lambert, who owns the woods where many of the remains were found, agrees that the paramount concern has to be the families.

"They are forced to live with this tragedy every day," he says. "The site itself is, for the most part, the final resting place for their loved ones. People need to remember and respect that."

One of the most heartrending quotes in "Among the Heroes" is from Deena Burnett, the widow of Flight 93 passenger Tom Burnett, who is believed to have played an active role in the battle on the plane. Mrs. Burnett is describing what it's like to be the widow of a hero:

"In the beginning, everyone asked, 'Aren't you proud of him? Aren't you happy that he's a hero?' I thought, my goodness, the first thing you have to understand is, I'm just trying to put one foot in front of the other. For my husband to be anyone's hero ... I'd much prefer him to be here with me."

So we need to remember this: The heroes of Flight 93 were people on a plane. Their glory is being paid for, day after day, by grief. Tom Burnett does not belong to the nation. He is, first and foremost, Deena Burnett's husband, and the father of their three daughters. Any effort we make to claim him as ours is an affront to those who loved him, those he loved.

He is not ours.

And yet ...

... and yet he is a hero to us, he and the other people on Flight 93. We want to honor them, just as we want to honor the firefighters, police officers and civilians at the World Trade Center and the Pentagon who risked, and sometimes gave, their lives to try to rescue others. We want to honor them for what they did, and for reminding us that this nation is nowhere near as soft and selfish as we had come to believe.

We want to honor them.

And so in a few years, when grass grows once again over the place where Flight 93 hit the ground, when the "X"s have faded from the hemlocks, there will be a memorial here, an official, permanent memorial to the heroes of Flight 93. It will be dedicated in a somber and dignified ceremony, and people will make speeches. Somebody - bet on it - will quote the Gettysburg Address, the part about giving the last full measure of devotion. The speeches will be moving, but they will also prove Lincoln's point, that the words of the living can add nothing to the deeds of the dead.

Thanx 4 everything to the heroes of Flight 93!!

There will be expressions of condolence to the families, and these, too, will be heartfelt. But they will not take away the grief.

I'd much prefer him to be here with me.

And then the ceremony will end, and the people will go home. And the heroes, the people on the plane, will remain here in the ground of Somerset County.

And years will pass, and more people will come here, and more, people who were not yet born when Flight 93 went down, coming to see this famous place.

Let's hope, for their sake, that the world they live in is less troubled than it is today. Let's hope they've never had to feel anything like the pain of Sept. 11, 2001.

Let's also hope that, when they stand here, they know enough to be silent, to show respect.

Let's hope they understand why this is hallowed ground.

#9/11 #current events #life

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vake-hunter · 4 years

Text

Acceptance into the House of Chimes results and which Master is playing Chimes in those results

this is fun and cute little details about the Masters

An innocent (Pages)

A fresh face among the jaded horde! No doubt you will achieve great things one day. But watch yourself: in Fallen London, innocence is a commodity like any other.

Mr Chimes glides across the floor and grasps your hand in a spotless white glove. It feels like shaking a branch wound with spider-silk. 'Most optimate friend!' it whispers. 'Welcome to our Chamber of Delicacies!'

An Extraordinary Beauty (Apples/Hearts)

Persuasive 20

That skin! Those eyes! That delightful nose! Nobody can resist you!

Mr Chimes glides across the floor and surveys you up and down. 'My dear, my dear,' it says. 'How very appetising to have you here with us. Will you tilt your head to the right a little? Just so. Just so.'

A Player of Games (Iron)

Watchful 20, the Boatman's Opponent 1

You are an emperor of the chess board. You shuffle tiles and playing cards with dazzling speed. Rumour has it that you have diced with Death itself.

Mr Chimes approaches: the clicking of its boot-heels on the floor is like bone dice thrown on marble. It hands you two mah-jong tiles. Engraved on the back of the Winter tile is the single word 'WELCOME'. On the back of the Plum tile, you read 'LUCK IS THE PREROGATIVE OF VICTORS.'

A noted trainer of Weasels (Apples/Hearts)

1 x Araby Fighting Weasel

The weasel-fanciers of Spite speak highly of your expertise with the genus mustela.

Mr Chimes is suddenly at your elbow. It inhales deeply. 'Oh, toothsome, my dear,' it says. 'Toothsome. Let the little fellows run free, by all means. Someone will manage the results, I assure you.'

A true patriot (Wines)

1 x A Copy of your Patriotic Adventure

Your writings inspire the youth of Fallen London to a frenzy of patriotism!

Mr Chimes takes your arm and guides you into the lobby of the House. Its grasp is like the clutch of a winter tree. 'We respect loyalty to an ideal,' it says. 'One of the more austere forms, perhaps. But a true realisation nevertheless. No?'

A masterful cat-chaser (UH I ACTUALLY DONT KNOW? Veils maybe?)

Shadowy 30

You have honed your skills in pursuit of the city's most evasive felines. They speak your name with respect, if not quite affection.

Mr Chimes steals up on you from behind, but you turn just before its gloved fingers touch your shoulder. It chortles. 'Who can stalk the stalker, eh? Welcome to my House. Ware the Bell!'

Not to be crossed (Iron probably)

Dangerous 20

There is something disquieting about your appearance. It's hard to pin down, exactly. An aura of suppressed violence.

Mr Chimes strides toward you. It holds up a hand in greeting. Or in warning? It nods once; it turns to go. That is all.

A crown in shadows (Wines)

1 Fate

Royal blood? Can it be true? On the wrong side of the blankets, no doubt. But that's what they say.

Mockery or respect?

Mr Chimes steps aside for you and makes the gentlest inclination of its head. 'We will bring you a bottle of something a little special,' it avers. 'We are delighted to add another crownable head to our collection!' Hm.

Allergic to brass? (Spices probably)

1 x Nevercold Brass Sliver

The touch of the stuff hives your skin and blears your eyes. It makes you weep tears of blood. This makes you an object of some fascination at parties.

A bewildered Master

Unthinkable!' the hooded Mr Chimes shrieks. 'Impossible! Unprecedented!' It seems quite cheerful about it, though. It does insist you demonstrate the weeping-blood business, unfortunately.

Exceptionally Talented (Cups/Mirrors. Possibly Hearts/Apples but almost definitely Cups/Mirrors)

10 x Confident Smile, Persuasive 100

Both ladies and gentlemen pause immediately before speaking your name. There is a quality to that pause which is not easily described.

A friendly thing

Mr Chimes' hand spiders along your arm. 'My dear,' it coos. 'If only my tastes ran to... well, perhaps if your blood was a little cooler. No matter, my dear. You will be treasured.'

The Rooftop Dancer (Veils)

Shadowy 60, Route: The Flit 1

You know the ways of the Flit like few others. They say you can reach the summit of All Christs' spire in the space of a single breath. They say you stole a feather from the Topsy King's hat. They call you 'Pussyfoot', but in a good way.

An avuncular approach

Mr Chimes drifts up like a scrap of silk on the wind. 'Good evening! Good evening indeed! You're a swift and circumspect maker of ways, aren't you? You are indeed! How very much to be admired.'

An Unparalelled Grotesque (Maybe Wines because it has blue eyes)

10 x Hard-Earned Lesson

In the decades since the Fall, no-one has ever looked quite like you. Thank God.

A long silence

The bluish glimmer of Mr Chimes' eyes is steady, but you sense an obscure emotion. 'Well,' it says at last, 'why not? Why not indeed.'

A Visionary (Wines. Not Pages due to wording. Royal we makes it Wines)

A Person of Some Importance: A Significant Individual

You have made the Square of Lofty Words your playground. You have cowed the women and men of the University. Your ideas are simple in outline and intricate in implication. They will be remembered, perhaps, when everyone in this room is dead. Except Mr Chimes.

A debatable honour

‘Dear friend,' Mr Chimes murmurs confidentially. 'We have often read the surveillance reports on your speeches. We have commended your texts to the Ministry of Public Decency. We look forward to hearing more of your thoughts.'

A Prisoner of Despair (Fires)

Melancholy 4

Can your misery be so deep and unrelieved that even Mr Chimes has taken pity on you? Or does it simply hope you'll be a diverting mascot?

Mockery, or Hope?

Mr Chimes bears down on you, robe flapping like a tent in a hurricane. Its voice is an alto shriek. 'Come along upstairs! It's warm enough. It'll steam the chill out of your heart. And, here - ' It hands you a candle. 'It'll light you to bed.'

A Speaker of Truth to Power (Iron)

Forceful 3, Subtle 3

You've said the wrong thing to the wrong people once too often. You're going to be a lot of fun.

An ambivalent welcome

Mr Chimes perches on a high carved chair like a black gull on a cliff. A footman approaches with a silver tray bearing a single card. It reads: 'SILENCE'. An announcement? A suggestion? An instruction? Or is Mr Chimes just being difficult for its own inscrutable entertainment?

A Possessor of Impossible Table Habits (Who knows. One who knows table manners I guess)

What are you - no. No! Such things were not to be dreamt of! A fork cannot be put to such uses! Close your mouth! Close his mouth! For the love of all that is holy! DON'T TOUCH THAT SPOON!

Mr Chimes arranges an audition of sorts. You are served a hearty meal of beef-steak and winter vegetables, and provided with all the cutlery you might require. You perform the operations for which you have become notorious. After a suitable time for the onlookers to recover their composure, you are admitted to the House.

Orphaned in a Grisly Accident (I want to say Veils due to what we know of its collections)

Mr Chimes likes tales of blood and terror. It likes tales of butter and whimsy too. Tales of blood, terror, butter and whimsy are like music and water to one dying of thirst in the Desert of Cymbals. The tale of your parents' death at the hands of the Dairy Kings will bring breathless listeners to the fire for a hundred nights.

Not a dry eye

You tell the tale, long and horrible as it is. Mr Chimes convulses with... Mirth? Pity? Fear? Black-liveried footmen watch impassively while its shoulders writhe and roll, and its eyes shimmer like topaz deep in its hood. At last it subsides and you are admitted to the House. 'Step carefully,' Mr Chimes flutes.

An Artist in Ivory (Wines was the Khan of Dreams, but this could be Spices talking. Or Cups/Mirrors.)

a Scholar of the Correspondence 1

You have carved flutes from femurs and trinkets from tibia. Your sigil-circled skull sits in the grandest gallery of Veilgarden. They whisper that when you die for the last time, Mr Cups itself will come for your bones.

A pale horse

‘A little gift,' Mr Chimes informs you. 'Something to recall the Khan of Dreams by. Since you seem so keen to commemorate him.' Do you? Or has Mr Chimes misunderstood the nature of your project?

A wanderer of Parabola (Mirrors)

7 x Memory of Light, A Game of Chess 9, Is Someone There? 10

In your dreams you have seen the Mirror-Marches, the Menagerie of Roses, the Castle of Forests, the nests of the Fingerkings... even though you may forget them when you wake. But there is a light in your eyes.

A light in the darkness

‘Yes,' says the Master quietly. 'The mirrors know your name. The serpents have your scent. The rivers of roses will not drown you. The apples of glass might lie quiet in your hands. If you burn, you burn like a candle. If you die, you die like dawn. You are very delicious.'

A zub-mariner! (Spices from voice but sounds like Fires from excitement about boats)

1 x Zubmarine, An Experienced Zailor 3

You are charting the unknown leagues beneath the zee.

Mr Chimes lopes towards you across the stone floor. 'Marvellous!' it shrills. It pumps your hand excitedly. It's like grabbing a nestful of velvet spiders. 'You'll fit right in here. Grab a seat.'

A killer of renown (Iron)

A Bringer of Death 1, 1 x Ravenglass Knife

Even in Fallen London, where bloodshed is as common as glim-fall, your name is whispered with apprehension.

Mr Chimes approaches in utter silence. It hands you a rostygold knife, hilt-first. Engraved on the blade is the word: MEET. That is all.

A font of devil's tears (Want to say Cups due to smell but could be any)

Connected: Hell 20

Did your masterwork really make a devil weep? It must be true. Mr Chimes has the tears there in a little bottle. Wait. Is it drinking them?

A chuckle in the hood

Mr Chimes drapes a companionable arm across your shoulders. It smells of dust and winter starlight. 'Devils despise that kind of humiliation,' it confides in you. 'I laughed for days. Come on upstairs.'

An Oenologonaut (Spices)

1 x Greyfields 1868 First Sporing, 1 x Greyfields 1879, 1 x Greyfields 1882, 1 x Black Wings Absinthe, 1 x Morelways 1872, 1 x Broken Giant 1844, 1 x Strangling Willow Absinthe, 1 x Fourth City Airag: Year of the Tortoise, 1 x Cellar of Wine

No-one has plumbed the secrets of the grape, the hop and the blood-apple more deeply than you. You can identify the products of vineyards that have no name in any human tongue.

Fond Sighs

Dear one,' says Mr Chimes warmly. 'Pleasure is a wilderness. We are its cartographers. Let us embark, you and I, on the catalogue of delight! Our journey begins here.'

A Liar among Liars (No idea)

1 x Appalling Secret, 1 x Uncanny Incunabula, 1 x Extraordinary Implication, 1 x Searing Enigma, 1 x Whispered Secret, 1 x Cryptic Clue

Who can ever believe your stories? Truth is mingled with falsehood like blood in milk. You are a prince of rumours. Or is it a princess? Who can ever be sure?

An impassive audience

Mr Chimes listens to your stories of star and sea and shadow. It neither nods nor shakes its head when you suggest certain relationships between the Mountain of Light and the troubling thesis of Mr Darwin. It is motionless when you venture a hypothesis as to why only six symbols of the Correspondence can be written together on one paper. When you begin to discuss a matter of wells and candles and the Third City, it raises a finger. 'This is false,' it murmurs. 'Let us ensure it remains that way,'

A Legendary Calumnist (Apples/Hearts)

Scandal 7, Persuasive 100, Watchful 100

Your barbs and insults and the twisting satires you've spawned have been the bane of the lowly and the great alike. All fear the savage edge of your tongue.

A cautious welcome

‘My dear,' Mr Chimes whispers. 'Be kind to the little ones, will you? Not all have your advantages. I admit you only on condition that you choose not to bite.'

‘I know a man.' (Probably Wines)

Connected: the Masters of the Bazaar 5

If it can be called a man. Step aside, peon. I am already welcome here.'

A hearty welcome

Come in, come in! A place by the fire is prepared for you. The table is set. The brandy rises from the cellar like the laughter of friends! Forget the petty troubles without. You have earned this night of peace.'

I will scream until your House rings with the Words of the Thunder! (Probably Wines)

Stormy-Eyed 5, having Recurring Dreams: What the Thunder Said 10

I am the storm, I am the wind, I am the rain! I demand admittance! Defy me and I will blow your House down!

The cloaked thing bows before me!

I fling gusts of squalling rain at its head! Then I race through the dusty corners and crannies of the House of Chimes with a cleansing breeze! I bid lightning spring from its spire in celebration! The Master insists I hang my oilskin on the hatstand before I drip on the carpets!

The Inescapable Arm of the Law (Spices I believe)

investigating the Rubbery Murders 12, ascending the Reliables list of Mr Pages 3, Connected: The Constables 50, Connected: The Great Game 50, Watchful 100, 1 x Antique Constable's Badge

Your eye pursueth the malfeasant as the wrathful eye of God pursued Cain across the desert. You have returned wedding rings to costermongers, cats to dowagers, and stolen hearts to sorrowful tomb-colonists.

A nervous flutter?

We are most pleased to see you here,' Mr Chimes shrills. 'You are an ingeniate of great note! But perhaps you should limit your investigations in this House, eh?'

A Blood-Cousin to Predators (Veils probably)

1 x Ancient Hunting Rifle, a Procurer of Savage Beasts 1, 1 x Fairly Tame Sorrow-Spider, 1 x Bengal Tigress, 1 x Araby Fighting-Weasel, Dangerous 100, Watchful 100, marked by the Eater-of-Chains 3.

You have brought the great beasts low and walked in the footsteps of the fierce. You have turned fang and cunning, spine and venom and brute strength, against the monsters who wield them.

A peculiar passion

Mr Chimes inclines its head to you. 'Beasts. Beasts beasts beasts! So many beasts, such little time. Perhaps you could turn your energies to the pursuit of troublesome humans, hey? Why waste your time hunting those who cannot speak? Or sing? But welcome welcome!'

#fallen london #lore

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yourdeepestfathoms · 4 years

Text

A Good Dog Doesn’t Bark

[yet another Foster AU for SIX, if there weren’t enough already]

(Read Anne As Courtney!Anne)

Word count: 4004

TW: Child abuse

———————

Jane couldn’t understand the idea of fostering.

“I mean, yes, it’s a good thing to do,” She had said over tea. “But wouldn’t you rather have a baby come from your body? You just won’t have the same connection with a foster child...”

Anne and Aragon gave her an unamused look. She continued her mantra with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“Plus!” She went on. “You may have to give them up! What if they’re terrible? Or you can’t raise them? Or if their parents want them back? Are you ready to deal with that guilt?” She stirred her tea calmly. “I’m just saying that maybe you two should just try for a moment first.”

“We’re lesbians, Jane.” Aragon deadpanned.

“I meant sperm implants.” Jane specified, slightly ruffled. “That’s what I did to have Kat!”

Aragon wrinkled her nose at the through. Anne snorted.

“No way.” They both said.

“Your loss.” Jane shrugged.

Despite their friend’s very helpful commentary, Anne and Aragon went on with their idea of fostering and went to an adoption fair hosted by the county foster program. There, they met a young eleven year old girl with gnarled blonde-brown hair, storm grey eyes, and a knack for drawing. Instantly, they both fell in love with her shyness and lamb-like appearance.

They had to have her.

“Kinda feels like we’re picking a puppy from a kennel,” Aragon admitted as Anne was driving them both to the house where they would retrieve their new daughter.

Anne has just smiled at her comfortingly, but even she had to admit it kind of did feel like that. Especially when they eventually got to their soon-to-be-daughter’s current placement.

“No, no, no, NO!!” A deep, rough voice roared. “You absolute IDIOT! You would have been dead! Do it again!”

That’s the first thing they heard when she stepped out of the car, then a series of grass-padded footsteps, the clanging of metal, and then a cacophony of crashes and rattles.

“Stop holding back!” The voice snapped. “Where’s that little monster I saw when I first got you?”

“I-I don’t know!” A second voice squeaked, similar to their girl’s. “Dormant? Sleeping? Hibernating? I learned that bears often hibernate, so if it’s supposed to be a bear— OW!!!” There was a howl of pain. “You said hair pulling was cheating!”

“I’m your guardian and teacher. Nothing I do is cheating! Now do it again or so help me—”

“Okay! Okay!”

There was another scampering or footsteps, metal hitting against metal, the strain and creak of ropes, and subtle harsh breaths and whimpers.

“There,” The younger voice panted. “Was that-” A squeal of pain, followed by a heavy thud up against what was presumably the fence. “Owww...! I-I wasn’t—” Another noise, this one the horrible sound of something whipping down against a skull. “Ow! Ow! Ow! Stop! I’m not ready!”

“USELESS!” The older voice bellowed. “Nobody is going to wait for you in a fight! SO STOP WHINING AND FIGHT BACK!!”

It was madness. Pure madness. And Aragon and Anne couldn’t just stand there and listen to it anymore.

They stormed through the backyard gate and stared in horror at the obstacle course set before them- thick nylon ropes hanging from old, gnarled trees overgrown around the yard; a steep, splintered wooden ramp; large, heavy tires set up in rows; deep trenches of muddy water; even what looked to be a board full of upturned nails placed on the ground. Most of the grass was dead and seemed to be stained a permanent shade of red. The worst thing, however, was the twisted older woman standing above a shuddering child with a bamboo pole in her hands. When she noticed the couple goggling at her, she didn’t look horrified to be caught, rather just annoyed. She prodded the child at her feet roughly in the shoulder.

“Get up.” She spat, then finally turned to address the visitors. “What?”

“What the fuck,” Aragon said first. “What the fuck is wrong with—”

Anne covered her mouth, but her wife struggled and even bit her in her attempt to keep scolding. The woman with the pole looks very amused.

“We’re here to get Joan.” Anne said, still attempting to wrangle up Aragon. “Umm... What is this place and, yes, what is going on?”

The woman raised her nose, examining the two of them.

��This is the Puppy Mill.” She said, and those words sent snarls of ice cold horror curling through Aragon and Anne’s stomachs. “Where the...unwanted children go. Or are born. I get a lot of knocked up teenagers.”

She cast a disgusted look over to a young pregnant girl sitting on the porch. The girl glared right back, and that’s when Anne and Aragon realized that they were surrounded by kids. Kids ranging from ages five to seventeen it seemed, either sitting on the roof or in trees or on the porch or watching from the windows inside. They were all dressed in rags, had their hair done in tangled messes, looked absolutely filthy, and had collars fastened around their necks. It made Anne want to cry and Aragon want to rampage.

“What the fuck,” Aragon muttered again.

“Who did you say you wanted again?” The woman asked. “My name is simply Wolf, by the way. Don’t wear it out.”

“Joan.” Anne repeated, trying to keep back a tremble in her voice. The smell of blood, piss, and sweat were swarming her senses.

“Joan...” Wolf looked around the backyard, tapping her chin. “Don’t think I have a Joan.”

“That would be me,” Gurgled the child at her feet. Wolf scowled down at her. Aragon and Anne realized she, too, had a thick, metal collar latched around her neck.

A shock collar.

“Oh. Right.” Wolf oozed. “I thought I told you to get up, Pit Bull.”

“Pit Bull?” Anne echoed.

“We don’t use real names here. For example, the six year old that just took your wallet without you knowing is Yorkie.”

“What?!” Anne whirled around to find that her wallet was, in fact, missing from her back pocket and now resided in the greedy little hands of a dirty, mud-smelling six year old boy with amber eyes. He had been going through it with his grimy fingers up until he was caught and then actually hunched over, bared his stubby teeth, and growled like a dog. Wolf laughed loudly.

“That’s my pup!” She cheered. She held out her hand and Yorkie immediately scampered over, pressing his head into it eagerly. She stroked his dusty hair gently. “Alright, now give this lady back her things. You’ll be rewarded for your thievery after this.”

Yorkie beamed. He gave Anne back her wallet and stuck out his tongue at her before skittering away to probably brag to his friends about what he had done.

“See. That’s what you should be like.” Wolf said to Joan, prodding her in the cheek with the end of her pole. “Why did you tell them your name? You know why don’t use those.”

“I’m sorry,” Joan whispered. She failed at getting up, still reeling from when she had been hit on the head, and just slumped to the ground in a woeful puddle, moaning pitifully.

“Why can’t she use her name?” Aragon hissed.

“And why do you call her Pit Bull?” Anne added.

“Because,” Wolf smirked wickedly with all her teeth. “Pit Bulls are killers, just like this little one.”

Black ice shot through Aragon and Anne’s veins. Darkness seemed to be rushing into their vision, sucking all their breath away. It was like the entire atmosphere was pressing down on them.

“What?” Anne whispered.

“You’re lying!” Aragon snarled.

“Tell that to the corpses of her parents she beat to death,” Wolf said smoothly. “She’s a little monster. My perfect little monster. If she can just get her training drills down.” She shot Joan a glare. “But she isn’t for sale. Not that you would want such a creature after hearing what it’s done.”

“No,” Anne shook her head. “We’re taking her. We have forms.”

Aragon fished them out of her purse and thrust them into Wolf’s hands. Wolf sighed, rolled her eyes, but scanned over the documents. She occasionally glances at Joan and then the couple as she was reading.

“Hm.” She eventually said. “I suppose you are right.” She suddenly snapped her head downward and jabbed the end of the pole in between Joan’s shoulder blades. It made Aragon jolt forward slightly, hands outstretched and twitching. She gave the woman an entertained look, then turned her attention back to the child on the ground. “Get up, beast. Go gather your things. You’re out of here.”

“B-but—” Joan tried to protest.

“NOW!”

Wolf grabbed Joan by the collar and yanked her to her feet, then shoved her roughly to the back door. The girl uselessly keeled over into the grass immediately, but managed to scramble inside.

“Worthless,” Wolf hissed under her breath.

“We can call the police.” Aragon warned dangerously. Her protectiveness for the child seemed to have only increased, despite the alleged news of murder.

“You can try.” Wolf said. “But it won’t do you any good. Nothing ever happens.”

“You’re hurting these children!” Aragon cried.

Laughter rang out through the entire backyard- the children were laughing.

“Awww, the rich lady thinks we have it bad!” One boy in a tree chortled.

“Probably because she’s had everything handed to her on a silver platter!” Another chimed in.

“Ohhh, look at me! I have money and can pay my mortgage! I need to barge into everyone’s lives and think I have to fix it!” A third mocked, causing a roar of giggles. Aragon suddenly felt a lot less pity for all these kids except her girl.

“She's acting this way because Pit Bull is a weak little bitch,” Said the pregnant girl on the porch.

“Yeah!” A seven year old joined in. “Pit Bull is making us look bad!”

It was that moment that Joan came back outside holding a small bag full of her belongings. She cowered under the looks she got and scampered over to the three adults. Her shoulders are hunched around her neck and she’s trembling, Anne and Aragon realize.

“Traitor!” A kid on a rickety tree branch shouted.

“Don’t come back here!” Another yelled.

“We don’t want you!” A third joined in.

“And neither do they!” The second added. “They’re just pitying you, Pittie! But they’ll throw you away soon!”

“Try not to kill them, too!” Bellowed a cruel fourth kid.

By that time, Joan was clearly fighting off a wave of tears.

“We’re leaving now.” Aragon snarled, glaring at Wolf and then all the children in the backyard. “God save you.”

Screeches of laughter filled the yard as the couple and their new foster daughter walked to the gate. They could hear the kids mocking Aragon’s words as they went, and Aragon somehow managed to keep from storming back over and pummeling all of them.

“Are you okay?” Anne asked Joan once they got to the car.

Joan looked down at her feet. “Yeah...”

Anne and Aragon exchanged worried looks, but didn’t try to prod. They just helped Joan into the car and began to return home.

The drive smelled like blood.

———

Joan was asleep when they got to the house—or maybe she was just unconscious. Anne and Aragon didn’t know. And they were not sure if they wanted to.

Anne grabbed the bag while Aragon carefully scooped up the child, who was alarmingly light. She was absolutely tiny too, even for an eleven year old. That was exactly why she barked at her wife to call her doctor friend to come do check a check up on the girl.

“They’re just the kind of injuries you would expect from an experience like this,” Maggie was saying as she returned from the child’s bedroom, removing the stethoscope from around her neck in a far too professional manner for what Aragon or Anne was used to. “Even though I’m not technically working right now, I still have to follow confidentiality agreements, so I can’t tell you the extent of her injuries, but she’s had a rough time. From what I’ve seen, it appears as though she was thrown into a wall and hit her head more than once; she’s got a few bruises, a bad ankle, and a couple of nasty broken ribs.” She concluded, setting down her medical kit on the coffee table. “All-in-all, she’s in pretty bad shape, but nothing seems critical. Speaking optimistically, she ought to make a full recovery."

The reaction to his proclamation was stunned silence as Anne and Aragon stared at her in disbelief. She looked back in confusion.

“What?”

“There is no way that's all that happened to her!” Aragon finally exclaimed explosively, halting her agitated pacing by the flat’s window. “When we went to her placement she had been hit in the head with a pole, I’m pretty sure there was blood everywhere, there was absolutely no hygiene there so it’s peak conditions for infections, and all you have to give me is a few bruises? Mother Mary above, you are a doctor, aren’t you? Why don't you just go fix her up and—”

“Training to be a doctor.” Anne cut in quietly, but her wife didn’t hear her.

“And we are her PARENTS now! We deserve to know what’s wrong with—”

“I think what Catalina is trying to say,” Anne finally took charge, and Maggie shot her a grateful look. “Is that you’re withholding important information from us, Mags, because a girl with the home we saw must have sustained much worse injuries than you’re explaining. So please, enlighten us.”

Aragon grumbled to herself before tossing herself down on the couch and downing an entire glass of vodka in one go.

Maggie, nervous, shuffles her feet and then sighed in defeat. She sat down on the arm of the couch.

“Alright, so basically, beside the bruises, cuts, sprained ankle, and bumps on the head, you’re looking at a girl who’s probably been severely abused throughout her entire life.” She said reluctantly, but bluntly, meeting eyes seriously with each of them in turn. “Not just physically, either. I really— I shouldn't be telling you any of this; legally I can’t. All I can say is that what happened to her today wasn’t the first time. It’ll take about a month and a half for all of her external injuries to heal completely, but with physical evidence of her history...the emotional toll is going to be huge.”

Anne set a hand on Aragon’s shoulder when she sensed her wife was getting worked up, but Aragon still got herself to her feet and marched to Joan’s new room. Maggie watched her good helplessly, then turned back to Anne.

“I’m sorry,” She whispered. “That I can’t be more helpful. She‘s right— I’m a doctor. I should be—”

“Shh,” Anne took one of her friend’s hands and rubbed the knuckles comfortingly. “It’s alright. You did more than enough.”

Maggie smiled at her, then got up and began to gather her things. She left some amoxicillin, antiseptic, extra bandages and gauze on the table.

“Just in case.” She said.

“Do you just carry this stuff around?” Anne asked, walking over and picking up the amoxicillin.

Maggie giggled. “Never know when you might need some strong painkillers!” She waved. “Call me if you need anything, alright?”

“Will do,” Anne nodded. “Thank you!”

With that, Maggie is gone. Anne can now hear Aragon cooing in the extra bedroom, so she takes the amoxicillin and a glass of water, and then walks over to the room. Inside, she finds her wife perched on the edge of the bed, stroking Joan’s hair, who is awake, but dazed.

“You took me away,” Joan whispered.

“That’s right.” Aragon said softly. “You’re safe now.”

Joan’s pale face crumbled. “Don’t make me go back there. Please. Please, don’t wanna go back...!”

Anne’s heart broke as she watched this. Aragon seemed to feel the same thing, because she wrapped Joan in her arms and pulled the tiny child into a tender embrace. The little girl immediately clung back, crying into the woman’s chest.

“We’ll never send you back.” Aragon promised her. “You’re our girl now. Our daughter.”

“That’s right,” Anne nodded, walking over. “We’ll take care of you, Joan.”

Joan looked up at them, grey eyes sparkling with tears. Anne and Aragon both reach out to wipe away the streams on each cheek.

“Thank you,” She whispered. She rested her head back on Aragon’s chest, taking steady breaths.

“Hey,” Anne said. “I know! Why don’t I go run you a nice hot bath while Catalina makes us some dinner? Then we can watch a movie! Our first family movie!”

Joan actually smiled, and it was such a beautiful thing to see.

“We never got to take hot baths,” She whispered. “Or watch movies, unless we were really, really good.” She looked up at the two women. “Can I really do that?”

“Of course, sweetheart.” Aragon said. “This is your home now.”

Joan gave another small, but giddy smile and hid her face in Aragon’s chest to hide her blush. Anne ruffled her hair affectionately and then got up to go run a bath in the bathroom connected to the room. Aragon continued to rock Joan in her arms until the water was ready.

—

The room smelled like apples. Not the fresh, crisp kind from the ageing trees in the orchard, but the sweet, faintly chemical scent of apple flavored products. It’s the scent of bath bombs and body wash and, in this case, no tears baby shampoo.

Something Pit Bull had never smelled before.

No-

Not Pit Bull.

She wasn’t-

She was-

She wasn’t-

She was-

She didn’t know who she was anymore.

She splayed her hands open and stared down at them, remembering the way hot, slick blood slid between her fingers. Remembered the chill of the fire stoker’s metal and the smoothness of the lamp’s body. Remembered the way they cradled her brother’s head, which was wrung backwards, neck snapped like a baby bird’s. Remembered how they clawed at His face when he tried to pin her down and remove her clothes.

His face. Him. Her daddy.

And her mummy had watched, face blank, not caring about her husband’s choice to punish their daughter. But she did care when their pathetic child reached back, grabbed a nearby screwdriver daddy had been using earlier that day, and drove it deep into daddy’s eyeball.

Those hands travel up and delicately touch the metal collar fastened tightly around her neck. Her name is engraved on the front- “Pit Bull.”

That’s her name. Not Joan. Who is Joan?

Joan was dead.

Pit Bull desperately roused herself from her reverie when she felt the lashing tongue of the belt across her shoulders and back, the sting of glass edging itself sneakily into her skin. She could see daddy again, his daunting figure towering over her seven-year-old self like some sort of terrifying giant.

Her head snapped up and she lost her will to panic when she noticed something. She was looking in a mirror.

She had not seen her reflection in a long time, since Wolf didn’t like anyone becoming too vain, so she would breaks all the mirrors or cover them up. Now, gazing at her petrified eyes, shrunken lips, and bruised cheek and jawbones, she was shocked by her defeated appearance. Her shape had held out well—she had lost more weight than she had imagined, but at least her her thick, blonde-burnished hair- brown creeping back in at the roots- seemed to be preserved. However, the expression in her own eyes frightened her. They were so blank, so dead—what had happened to her?

Her musing was interrupted by the low growl of her stomach. She needed food, badly. But where could she find some? This was those ladies’ apartment- ladies who were, in all likelihood, going to punish her severely if she took anything that was offered to her. She was used to the punishment—that was the way it was; she wasn't supposed to exist. She wasn't worthy of being alive, so it was natural that she should suffer some sort of consequence for wasting useful air. But she was hungry, and she wanted to at least choke a small portion of food down before the abuse began again. Even if the two women were nice, she couldn’t trust them. She couldn’t believe she let one of them hold her. She even cried in front of them!

She wouldn't dare to ask for any; that would only ensure further deprivation. Wolf’s words, not so long ago spoken, echoed through her head—if you ask, the answer is no.

It wasn't that she particularly enjoyed living to meet the brutal woman’s standards. It was only that she had been forced to learn in order to survive, and even now, after being allegedly set free, her mind and body still clung to that way of living. How could it not? It wasn't as though she had ever known any differently.

She would wait until they came to her, and then, hopefully while they were distracted, she would eat as much as possible before the beating came. She only hoped that it would not be too painful; she didn't want to throw it back up.

Pit Bull eventually peeled off her clothing and grimaced at her body’s state- tight blemishes decorating her body from her thighs to her neck, mottling her pale skin various sickly shades of black and navy and violet and mauve. Her collarbone was bruised all across, while fingerprints showed clearly around the tendons in her neck. Limitless scars in varying degrees of recovery were scattered like pine needles across the expanse of her arms, shoulders, wrists, back, and thighs. Angry red and deep blue marks mar the expanse of her pale back.

Wolf so badly wanted to make her the monster she was believed to be. And looking at how maimed she was, she was starting to believe that she truly was a creature of nightmares.

———

After an hour of being in the bathroom, Joan eventually wandered out in the dining room, bleary-eyed and hair dripping. Aragon smiled warmly at her from the kitchen and Anne went over to greet her.

“Have a nice bath, darling?” She asked the little girl, who blushed shyly at the pet name.

“Yes ma’am.” Joan whispered, keeping her head dipped low.

“We’re having lasagna.” Aragon told her. “Do you like lasagna?”

“I’ve never had it before,” Joan admitted. “Well- Maybe once. A long time ago.”

Anger flashed in Aragon’s eyes, and Joan flinched away. Anne set a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Wanna meet our cat?”

Joan’s eyes lit up. “You have a cat?”

Anne nodded and led her over to a fluffy white and brown ragamuffin sleeping on the couch. Its ears twitched and blinked big blue eyes at them when they approached.

“This is Speed Demon.” Anne said proudly. Joan giggled at the name, making her heart swell with even more love for this little one.

“He’s so pretty!” Joan exclaimed. She gently pet the cat, who immediately pounced on her hand. She laughed again.

“He’s evil.” Anne grinned.

“I like him,” Joan said. “Can he watch the movie with us?”

“Of course!” Anne said. She continued to watch the child play with Speed Demon until she abruptly stopped and touched the collar around her neck. “Joan? Sweetie?”

Joan turned to her. “Take it off.”

“What?”

“Take it off.” Joan whispered this time. “My collar. Take it off. Please.”

Anne nodded. Carefully, she reached out and unlocked the metal collar around the girl’s neck. She set it to the side and then looked back at Joan.

The real Joan.

This entire time, Pit Bull had been wearing the girl’s skin like a coat, but now with the collar removed, Anne could see that Joan was free.

Free.

Her Joan.

Her daughter.

#foster au #six the musical #six the musical au #six the musical fanfiction #six the musical fanfic #six fanfiction #six fanfic #anne boleyn #catherine of aragon #jane seymour #joan on the keys #maggie on the guitar #katherine howard #tw: child abuse #aralyn #aragon x boleyn

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unknown-cryptid666 · 3 years

Text

Michael Myers x Reader

May contain gore, sexual content, and kidnapping. Read at your own risk.

Chapter 8

"Michael, I should be at the hospital, not here." I told him and he pulled me closer. "At least take the mask off. It's creepy to sleep next to..." I looked away from him. He grunted but didn't take his mask off. "I seen your face the other day...Also I'll need your help for a week or two. Because of you, I need to be on bed rest." I heard him sigh as he held me as close as he could. I could feel his mask against my back. "Michael, please take that thing off." I heard him grunt again but felt him move. When he rested his head on my back again, I didn't feel the mask. I sighed contently. "That mask always feels weird against my back and makes it uncomfortable to sleep." I mumbled and yawned, falling back asleep. Soon, day came and I heard birds chirping outside. I tried to move, but felt Michael. "Michael? You're usually not in the bed at this time." "Sleep.." He mumbled. I tried to move again, but he held me down. I tried pushing his arms off of me, but he held me tighter. "Please, I want some water." I whined and he groaned getting up. "I'll get it..." He left the room and went to the kitchen. I searched my pockets for my phone. "Michael still has it..." He walked back in and gave me some water. "Thanks." I sat up to drink it as he laid back down. "I thought you'd be out killing right now." "You need to rest...I need to stay to help." He mumbled.

"Has the psycho gone soft?" I laughed a bit as he grunted in response. I sat my water on the night stand and laid back down. 'This is gonna be a long day.' I thought. He must have noticed I laid down since he brought me closer to him. "You're just a giant teddy bear." I laughed and looked over at him. He just closed his eyes and went to sleep. 'Something must be wrong with me to be acting normal around a killer.' I thought and looked at the ceiling. 'I wonder if my parents are looking for me.'

Back at The Hospital

Dr. Loomis and (y/n)'s parents arrived at the hospital to check on (y/n) only to find a blood bath. Limbs were severed from bodies, laying around on the floor. Blood on the walls, ceiling, and pooling on the floor. Mrs. (l/n) screamed in horror while Mr. (l/n) was trying not to throw up. "Michael was here." Dr. Loomis said. "We can tell Loomis. We need to find our daughter." Mr. (l/n) said. All three walked to her room, trying not to trip over bodies and limbs. They opened the door to find a dead guard and their daughter missing. "No..No not again..." Mrs. (l/n) said. "Why can't he leave our daughter alone!?" "He has a fixation with her." They both looked at Dr. Loomis. "If he wanted her dead, we wouldn't have found her alive. He protected her from the officers. There's something about her that h-" "Loomis, we just want our daughter away from that freak." Mr. (l/n) said. "Yes, I know that, but this, this could be the breakthrough I was looking for!" They both looked at Dr. Loomis as if he had lost his mind.

"Dr. Loomis you are not using (y/n) for your research! Once we get our daughter back we're packing and leaving! We should have left and went to a different hospital!" Mrs. (l/n) said. "He would have found her regardless of where you go." Dr. Loomis replied. They could tell Dr. Loomis was thinking and they didn't want to find out about what. They didn't want him to use their daughter as an experiment. "Loomis, please don't use (y/n) in this. W-" "But you both don't understand." Dr. Loomis paused. "He must of went back to the cabin. He knew that he wouldn't be able to take refuge in his home." Dr. Loomis started walking out of the hospital as the two followed. They got into the car and went to the cabin.

Michael heard the car roll up as well as the doors open and shut. (y/n) had woken up as well. "Michael, what's going on?" She asked, rubbing her eyes. Michael shrugged and put his mask on grabbing his knife. He told (y/n) to stay, but she didn't listen. She quietly snuck down the stair after him, knowing she should stay in bed, resting. Michael looked out the window and seen Dr. Loomis as well as her parents walking up to the cabin. He grunted and waited for them to come in. Quietly, the front door opened and small foot steps could be heard. Michael readied his knife and quietly walked up behind them. "We just want our daughter so we can leave Loomis." Mr. (l/n) said in a whisper. They turned a corner and found the stairs. (y/n) was in the middle of them, coming down, not noticing the people looking her way. "(y/n)!" Her mother screamed and ran to her with tears in her eyes. "Mom?" She looked up to see her dad, Dr. Loomis, and Michael staring at her. Her eyes widened in fear. Before she could yell, Michael lifted Dr. Loomis off the ground by his throat. Their eyes widened with fear and Dr. Loomis choked. "M-Michael! Leave him alone!" His head snapped to looked at (y/n), still choking Dr. Loomis.

I ran up to Michael, which I shouldn't have because of my ankle, and grabbed his arm. "Michael put him down." Michael shook his head, applying more pressure to his throat. "Michael, please." I looked at him pleadingly. I looked up to see my dad with a pan, about to hit him. "Dad! No!" I tried to stop him, but it was too late. He hit Michael in the back of his head with the pan. Michael dropped Dr. Loomis and turned his attention to my dad. In one swift movement, he threw my dad across the room, making him hit a wall. "Dad!" My mom and I ran to him, tear pouring down our cheeks. His head hit the wall hard enough to make his skull crack and bleed. "Dad...Please wake up, please." I shook him, but he made no movement. I cried harder as my mom clung to him, crying into his shirt. "Michael you fucking dumbass! How could you!?" I yelled at him.

Dr. Loomis got back up as Michael dropped his knife. He grabbed the knife and stabbed Michael in the back. "Run! Both of you! I'll distract him, just get as far away as possible!" Dr. Loomis yelled at the both of them, holding the knife in Michaels back. (y/n) and her mom ran back to their house, grabbing what they could so they could leave Haddonfield. Back at the cabin, Michael had finally gotten the knife out of his back. "Michael, look at what you had done. Come back with me, we can fix this." Michael stared at him and drove the knife into his shoulder blade. He was feeling emotions he couldn't explain. 'Kill him. Help her. Rip him apart. Soothe her.' His thoughts were everywhere. Soon, Dr. Loomis was dead, blood was everywhere. Michael walked out of the cabin, looking for (y/n). He had to find her, he had to. Soon, he made it back to his old house, but found they had left in a hurry. Just about everything was gone, except the furniture. He felt angry and for once, he was sad. For years, he kept going back to the house in hopes she'd return. The town decided to condemn the house so nobody else could use it. (y/n) and her mother never came back, not even for the furniture. Michael used his house once again, but never forgetting (y/n). He waited for her to come back everyday and every night, he went on a killing spree.

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#x reader #gore #horror #romance #michael myers

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mercurryblack · 3 years

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Chapter 4: Sardion

As LLAC prepares for their first day on the job, Headmaster Lionheart pays the team a visit.

❃❃❃

“Come on, already! They said ‘bright and early’!”

The next morning had dawned, and Team LLAC had decided to start it early— involuntarily, for the most part. Lillian had woken up the rest of her team just as the first rays of sun had come across the horizon, before the skies had even started to turn blue.

Amaryllis was in the dorm’s bathroom combing her red mess of bed-head out of her eyes, while Cait stood by her side at the sink, slowly brushing their teeth. Hattie, the worst morning person of the team, was blearily attempting to open a can of flash-brewed coffee, still clad in her pajamas and lopsided nightcap. She would have met with more success had she actually been holding the aluminum container upright; instead, she continued to scrabble around the bottom of the can, entirely unaware of the conspicuous lack of a pop-tab in her drowsy state.

Lillian, on the other hand, had already thrown on her outfit and was leaning against the doorframe of the dorm’s entrance by her elbow, lazily tapping her finger to her skull as she waited on her teammates. Before she could badger them again, however, her train of thought was interrupted by three knocks on the door.

“Who could be calling on us THIS early?” Amaryllis asked bemusedly, brushing her hair out of her eyes.

“I’ll have a look.” Lillian said, turning around to open the door.

Her eyes widened when she saw who the visitor was. Standing on the other side of the door was Leonardo Lionheart, the headmaster of Haven Academy. He was in full uniform and appeared wakeful— evidently, he had risen well before LLAC. Seeing him in the mirror, Cait and Amaryllis stopped their personal ministrations and turned around.

Hattie, unaware in her morning delirium, continued to hopelessly fiddle with the can.

“Oh! And just where might you be preparing to go, Miss Armilde?” he inquired in a pleasant tone, his lion tail gently swaying from side to side. “The breakfast hall won’t open until an hour from now.”

“Uh… Uhm…” Lillian hesitated, unsure of how to respond. Admittedly, while she knew that they would have had to meet soon regarding the assignment, she was quite surprised that he had come down to speak to them personally. She had assumed he would have sooner called LLAC to his own office.

Lionheart gently chortled. “A rhetorical question, Miss Armilde. I’m already well aware where you’re going.” The headmaster tilted his head, glancing over Lillian’s shoulder through the doorway. “May I come in for a moment?”

“Gllmmbbhhllbb.” Cait attempted to reply from across the room, but their mouth was still full of toothpaste.

“…Please do, Professor.” Lillian said, opening the door wider for him as she stepped to the side.

“Thank you.” Lionheart walked in and gently sat down on the foot of the bed closest to the door. “Good morning, you four. I’m very sorry to drop by so early in the morning. I know you’re supposed to have your rest today, but I was approached yesterday evening by Sardion Sarikaya and Rudyard Millard, and they proposed something to me that concerned you.”

Finally alerted by the headmaster’s distinct voice, Hattie rubbed her eyes as she tried to wake herself. “Th— gghhhh— th’ mrrdrr caze?” she asked, her voice slurred.

“Precisely, Miss Lazuli,” Lionheart continued as he clasped his hands in front of him, resting his elbows on his knees. “You all have been officially recommended to aid in a confidential criminal case that the Mistral Police are handling.” He paused to draw in a long breath, as if contemplating his decision. “Now, I’m not usually the one to let my students go on dangerous missions like this before they graduate, but Sardion and Rudyard made some strong arguments on your behalf— especially so for the latter. And given that, along with his reputation at Haven… well, I have decided to make an exception in this case for your team.”

“You’re saying…?” Lillian asked hopefully.

Lionheart nodded pensively. “I’m here to hear it come from yourselves that you want to undertake this mission. However, before you answer, I will ask you to remember that a large part of a Huntsman’s life is comprised of uncertainty. I don’t want to cause you any undue alarm, but there is the chance that you may not come back from this.”

His eyebrows knitted together ever so slightly. “I know that you four are well-regarded here at the Academy, but the world outside the Kingdoms can be unpredictably harsh. Trust is not an easy thing to build, and it is even harder to maintain.”

“Believe me when I say that I speak from experience— Humans and Faunus alike can be just as bad, if not worse, than the Creatures of Grimm.” His expression turned melancholic, and he let out a long breath, as if the statement brought up certain memories best left forgotten.

The four of them fell quiet, unsure of how to respond. It was true that they’d never considered what an official mission would be like— Lillian was the only one with prior experience, having helped Rudyard over the past summer with a Village Security mission, and even that had only been fighting a few low-level Grimm. It was a comfort to know he’d be at their side this time around, but if trained killers were involved…

Lillian was the first of them to speak up, taking it as her duty as a leader to do so. “Headmaster, we’re more than ready to help Detective Yuen—” She began.

Lionheart raised a hand to halt her response. “That may be so, Miss Armilde. But are you prepared?” he asked. “After all, you’ll be graduating next year. Why not just wait to go on a mission like this until then, as qualified Huntresses?” he continued, though not for the sake of argument.

Lillian hesitated for a moment before answering. “…That’s true, Professor. But Rudyard Millard is like a father to me, and I know how much his teammates meant to him. I can’t let this pass me by, and neither can you.” She turned to the rest of her team, who all nodded in affirmation. “Plus… we’re already in our third year, and I doubt we’re going to learn how to handle missions like these any other way. Sure, there’s danger, but we’ve got two of Mistral’s best at our sides. We can do this. Not alone, but as a team.”

Cait puffed their chest out in an exaggerated manner. “And even then, I think our skills speak for ourselves. I’ve seen the odds that those underground Vytal bookies were placing on us, and they were very flattering indeed.” They chimed in, grinning.

Amaryllis gave a curt, confident nod. “Plus, as far as leaders go… well, we could do a whole lot worse, but there’s nobody else I’d rather have than my sister.” She said.

“Yeah!” Hattie exclaimed. “We’ll get to the bottom of this case without dying for our country!”

Chuckling gently, Lionheart felt a small feeling of pride swelling inside him. Lillian was right— with a case like this, would receive training from reality, not just from the academy textbook that described a Huntsman’s life.

In a way, seeing LLAC prepare stirred up vague recollections of SYBR, back in the halcyon days when he had served as Haven faculty, long before taking up the role of headmaster.

Before…

He recognized he hadn’t responded to her. “Ah, good answer, Miss Armilde. And fine spirit, you four.” He said, standing up from the foot of the bed. “Now, I suggest you all eat your fill when the cafeteria opens. You’ll need it for today.”

“Thank you for letting us go, Professor Lionheart.” Lillian remarked.

The headmaster reciprocated with a smile. “I wish you good fortune, Miss Armilde. Make Haven proud.” Lionheart waved goodbye before heading back down the hall.

Lillian gave a wave back, before seeing him out and beginning to close the door. Just as she had her hand on the doorknob, however, something caught the corner of her eye and she looked out once more to see Lionheart.

From what she could see as he turned the bend in the hall, his head was bent in sorrow, and his expression was falling.

She quietly assumed it was related to the news of SYBR, and gently closed the door.

***

After spending a full night in her office, Detective Yuen had finally finished the corkboard full of the potential clues related to the killings of Yaara Dailan and Berilo Gaspar. Red yarns adorned the board as they hung onto pins and thumbtacks of varying colors; connecting each point but hardly bringing forth a clear answer.

Yuen was good at her job— damn good, in her own opinion, but she’d never encountered a case quite like this. She was used to her cases unfolding themselves with questions and answers through investigation, but there wasn’t a single witness to question nor an item out of place at either scene. Plenty of questions, no answers whatsoever.

She was about to take a sip of her third coffee for the day when Sardion opened the door and made his way inside.

“Detective. Good morning.” he greeted.

Yuen quickly began to fix her uniform and hair before greeting him, in a haphazard attempt at professionalism. “Uh, good morning, Sir Sarikaya. Sorry about the mess, I’ve been working on the board.”

“S’ fine.” He replied. “Are you okay? If you didn’t get enough sleep last night, it might affect your day.” Sardion worried.

“Fine and dandy, Sir, thank you for asking. I managed to get a bit of sleep last night.” What she chose not to mention was that ‘a bit’ was little more than a half-hour power nap. Nevertheless, it was all she felt she needed for the day ahead.

“Have you made any advances in the case since yesterday?” inquired Sardion. While he was better off than Yuen, he hadn’t had much sleep either. He had lain awake, with the terrible thought of how his friends died echoing in his head. Yet he had not succumbed to despair— he could grieve later. Here and now, he had to be a leader to Rudyard and LLAC both.

“So far, not so much. I got a call last night from the coroner’s lab— the autopsy results came back. They confirmed the burn marks on Yaara were from some sort of unrecognized chemical, they said a ‘caustic peptide’. On the other hand, Berilo only had the slash wound, no burns.”

Yuen tapped a group of several photographs on the corkboard— closeups of the wounds the two had suffered. Sardion felt his breath hitch as he brought himself to look at the photos; it was horrible to imagine it, but seeing what had killed his teammates was ten times worse.

“What I find unusual about it is how anyone could enter Yaara’s home. All the possible entryways were closed, no signs of forced entry or tampering. There weren’t any fingerprints inside or outside the house except for her own.” Yuen continued.

“How about Berilo?” Sardion asked.

“His case was a forced entry. Whoever did it kicked the door right off its hinges, so they must have reached him quickly, since he was in the living room. We found a few bits of dirt that must’ve come from the killer’s footwear, but no prints.”

Sardion kept his hand rested on his chin, looking closely at other pictures of the crime scene. He didn’t see anything unusual either, but he knew that was only the case in the pictures. It would be a lot different when he got there.

The sound of the office door opening took his attention off the corkboard— Rudyard had just arrived. Sardion noticed that the man looked more like his usual self; the initial anger and pain appeared to have faded from his eyes.

“Hey, Rudyard… uh, feeling any better?” Sardion spoke cautiously, unsure how his teammate would respond.

The Huntsman nodded. “A bit. I had some time to process my thoughts after we spoke to Lionheart.” Slowly shifting into a chair beside Sardion, he continued, “I’m sorry that I acted the way I did yesterday. Right now, all that matters is justice for our teammates.”

Sardion gave him a soft clap on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Rudd. I wasn’t far from doing the same myself.” Turning back to Yuen, he asked, “Can you continue with the plan, Detective?”

Yuen nodded. “Well, as I was saying, there were new reports given to me by the autopsy lab. If you would look at the board I made over there, there are pictures of Yaara’s burn marks and the bloodstain analysis from Berilo’s home.” she said, pointing Rudyard to the corkboard where Sardion was looking.

“For now, we should go to the two crime scenes and give them a once-over. Maybe we’ll see something that the first investigators didn’t. The kids can take Berilo’s house, we’ll look over Yaara’s.” she continued. “We’ll be heading out in a few minutes. I just have to finish up some reports. You gentlemen can grab some food from the canteen downstairs. Also, aren’t we waiting for your proteges, Sir Rudyard?”

The mere mention of the word ‘proteges’ triggered Rudyard’s mind to go back to what had happened yesterday. He felt ashamed at his rash decision-making, spurred on in an irrational, emotional moment.

What the hell was I thinking, roping them into this so abruptly? He thought to himself

“Actually, it’s just—ah, never mind. They’ll be here soon. We talked to Lionheart last night, and he said he’d catch them before they left.” answered Rudyard.

It was too late to change his mind now, as he knew how much Lillian looked up to him, and that was enough to know that she wasn’t going to accept another change of plans.

He’d have to make it up to her for this— to the lot of them, really.

#team llac #team llac fic #lillian armilde #amaryllis armilde #cait miya #harriet lazuli #leonardo lionheart #agave yuen #team sybr #sardion sarikaya #rudyard millard #fanfic #fan fiction #rwby fan fiction #rwby oc #rwbyoc #rwby

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galahadwilder · 4 years

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We Break Things Down Just to Build Them Back Up Again

Chapter 5: Proud

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AO3

As soon as he says it, Adrien knows he’s crossed a line. It's pretty obvious that she never intended for him to know; for as long as they’ve been friends—and she is one of his closest friends, oddness of their relationship notwithstanding—she’s never given any hint that she might have feelings for him. It was a secret, a secret spilled in anger and frustration, a secret that was never supposed to be shared.

They could have pretended it never happened, and everything would’ve gone back to normal. She could’ve pretended she never said it and he could’ve pretended he never heard it and they could keep being friends, keep being—

By bringing it into the open, he’s changed things. They can’t go back. He’s pushed what they have from stable ground into the river, unable to see if there’s a waterfall coming, or sharp rocks, or... He doesn’t want to lose her. He wishes there was a way to rewind time, to undo just thirty seconds, to never have brought this up at all and to keep things the way they were.

Marinette screams.

He doesn’t even think before he’s holding her, brushing at her hair, whispering apologies. He worries that he’s done the wrong thing again, that she’s going to push him away, but instead her head drops sideways into his chest, the side of her skull pressing against his sternum.

”Are you okay?” he whispers, not quite trusting his voice.

She nods, keeping her hands over her eyes.

The back door to the bakery bursts open, and the massive bulk of Marinette’s father charges out, all fists and concern, making Adrien flinch at the memory of vines and huge man-wolf. “Pumpkin?” he cries, his eyes zeroing in on her huddled in Adrien’s arms like a killer robot analyzing murder targets.

Adrien’s joints all lock at once, and he’s unable to prevent a whimper from escaping his teeth.

Immediately, Marinette just... melts. Her legs slip out from her elbows, her feet smacking against the cobblestone patio as her palm caresses Adrien’s cheek, her fingertips scratching at his sideburn in a way that leaves him undone. Her eyes lock on his, blue fire blazing within, and he feels his heart calm the way he does when he sees the same look in his Lady’s eyes. She’s got this.

”I’m okay, Papa!” she calls back without looking away from Adrien. “Just... made an idiot of myself in front of Adrien again?”

Adrien marvels at how Tom’s posture instantly relaxes, how he goes from “fight” to “jolly” in less than the time it takes Marinette to finish her sentence. “Oh!” her father says. “That’s—I’m glad.” He glances back at the bakery. “Sorry, I ran out on some customers...” He chuckles sheepishly. “We’re kind of having a rush today.”

Adrien’s jaw drops. He... he ran out on customers because he heard Marinette scream? And he’s not angry because it was a false alarm? There’s no punishment? No lecture? No...

No wonder Marinette could tell he’s afraid of his father, if this is what her relationship is like with hers.

Marinette twists her head, her pigtail batting Adrien in the face (which quite frankly offends his inner cat. You smack Kitty? You smack Kitty in the face? Jail! Jail for Princess!). “A rush?” she says. “Do you and Maman need help in the bakery?”

”I think we’re okay, Pumpkin,” M. Dupain says with a fond smile.

”Please?” she says, squirming a bit in Adrien’s arms. “I need something to do with my hands.”

He halts just before the door. “Well, if you insist,” he says, before heading back inside.

”Made an idiot of yourself in front of me... again?” Adrien says, gently helping Marinette to her feet. “Is that—does that happen a lot?”

Marinette bites her lip as she turns toward the bakery. “...Pretty much every day,” she mumbles, pulling him along after her by his wrist.

He stumbles after her, unsure what to make of what she’s just said—but suddenly the way she acts around him is thrown into a very new light.

”Come on,” she says with a smile. “Want to learn how to bake?”

His arms quickly get tired and sore from folding the heavy dough, and Marinette steps in to take over. She points him towards a pan of sweet dough that’s already spent the morning degassing, tells him that they’ve got an order of Chats Noir—“like Swiss Mice, but cat-shaped and covered in chocolate”—shows him how to make the basic shape, and leaves him to it.

Aside from her very gentle instructions, Marinette is quiet while they make the dough. Adrien doesn’t mind. It’s so different from the instruction he’s used to getting from his father, or the photographer, or his fencing coach that he just lets himself go, riding the calm of her voice like an inner tube on an ocean tide. It reminds him a bit of working with Ladybug, following that familiar voice as she takes him through an unfamiliar task, not with force or frustration but kindness and faith. Of course, Marinette isn’t Ladybug and the babbling crowd isn’t an Akuma bearing down on them; with no adrenaline screaming through his skull, he lets the indistinct voices and the repetition of the shaping of cat ears drown out his thoughts.

It’s a bit cramped behind the shelves with four people, but Adrien finds his claustrophobia isn’t so bad when he’s distracted by the smell of yeast and sugar and honey and cinnamon.

Then the first batch of cat rolls is in the oven and the crowd has died down a bit, and Marinette finally answers his question. “Yes,” she says, not taking her eyes off the thick dough she’s pounding out against the table with her palms. She's quiet enough that none of the customers can hear her—this conversation is just for him. “I do have a crush on you.”

Do, not did, he notices. Also, she won’t look at him—she addressed her sentence to the unmade bread, not to him, though if that’s what it takes for her to not stutter he’s not going to complain.

”It’s pretty debilitating,” she says, still staring at the paste beneath her palms. “And I’ve done some... pretty stupid things because of it.”

”I’m... sure they weren’t that bad,” he says as he moves to the mixing bowl and begins whisking the egg whites for the Cat’s Tongues.

”I’ve caused Akuma because of it,” she says, then her hands stop and she sighs. “Please don’t ask which ones.”

Adrien swallows. “I’m sorry,” he says. For someone with as big a heart as Marinette has, to have to deal with the guilt of causing an Akuma... He doesn’t know what else to say other than that.

She shakes her head. “My fault,” she murmurs. “My—my responsibility.” The wet slapping of the dough grows sharper.

Marinette's parents glance back at her, concerned, ready to jump in—as if this is a discussion they’ve had a hundred times—but Adrien gets there first, poking Marinette in the side. “Hey,” he says. “You’re allowed to make mistakes. Akuma are only one person’s fault, and...” He smiles. “That’s not you.” Then he raises an eyebrow. “Unless you’re secretly Hawkmoth.”

She laughs. “No, no I am not,” she says, her cheeks pinking. She looks at him and sighs. “See, this is why I have so much trouble getting over you,” she mumbles. “How am I supposed to move on when you keep being so sweet?”

Adrien’s stomach bottoms out. Sweet. People have liked him for his looks, or his fame, or his celebrity, but... sweet? Nobody’s ever called him that before except Ladybug, and... she doesn’t feel that way about him. (Kagami’s talked about his “soft heart,” but she always seems to have a little disdain in her voice when she says it. Though he’s fairly certain that disdain comes from her mother, not from her.)

Adrien opens his mouth to apologize, to tell her that he’s flattered but there’s someone else, and then... then her father brushes past, jogging the mixing bowl in Adrien's hands, and he remembers vines and wolfman and what happened the last time he turned her down, and he hesitates.

I need to, his brain says. It’s not fair to her.

He’ll hurt me again, his nerves reply.

Do we really want to say no anyway? his heart adds, quietly, unheard by the rest of him. It’s Marinette.

But in that crucial moment of indecision, Marinette continues. “The thing is,” she continues, “I don’t think it’s fair to either of us to get into a relationship while you're still learning about boundaries.” She turns, taking a bench scraper and tearing the dough apart, using the scraper to round it into uncooked rolls. “It's not that I don't still have feelings for you.” She sighs, hangs her head. “I just—I think being your friend is more important. For both of us.”

Adrien's not sure whether to be crushed or elated. On the one hand, she's just given him the perfect out—the perfect reason to say no, to turn her down. On the other... on the other. There's another hand. Why is there another hand? Why is he so disappointed?

He opens his mouth to say something—he's not sure what—but he's saved from finding out what his brain was going to spew next when M. Dupain suddenly turns around. “I think the cats are about ready, don’t you?” he says with forced mirth.

”Uh, I don’t...?” Adrien begins, at the same time as Marinette interjects “Papa, it’s only been—!” but her father bustles in between them and throws open the oven.

The cats are definitely not ready. Baked bread doesn't bubble like that.

"Oh, my," Tom says. He glances at Adrien. "Are you sure you haven't done this before?"

Adrien blinks, then shrugs. "No?"

Tom turns, waves his wife over. "Sabine, dumpling," he says. "Come take a look at Adrien's handiwork."

The cash register rings as she punches in the numbers for a customer. "In a minute, dear," she says.

Adrien bites his lip. "Did I do okay?"

Tom beams at him. "Adrien, son, you did beautifully," he says, reaching up to ruffle his hair, which sends a jolt of warm through Adrien's face. "Especially for your first time." He swings the oven closed and returns to stocking the shelves. "Proud of you!"

Proud of you.

The mixing bowl is halfway to the ground before he even realizes it's slipped out of his hands.

Proud of you.

He can't hear any of the rest of the shop—the pressure in his ears is squeezing in on his eardrums like q-tips.

Proud of you.

Marinette is turning to look at him, and he realizes his peripheral vision is just gone, like a buzzing at the edges of his vision.

Proud of you.

The bowl crashes into the ground, everyone in the shop jumps, and Adrien's crying. He's—he needs to stop, he's crying in front of people, he can't be, he, he—he can't breathe, he can't—

Marinette's mother's head barely comes up to his sternum; she is somehow, impossibly, even shorter than her daughter. He's trying not to melt into her arms.

"How long has it been since someone told you they were proud of you?" she murmurs, stroking his back.

He tries to speak, but only sobs instead. He can't remember.

He can't remember the last time someone told him they were proud of him.

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