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keilemlucent · 3 years

Text

pretty eyes & starshine: i

(NSFW)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

part i || part ii || part iii

beta’ed: @shadowworks & @keiqos (thank you!! 💞)

word count: ~9.4k

Keigo surrenders to losing himself in the blank-walled, temporary home he inhabits. He finds familiarity in the routine of aches, pains and pills.

You’re his only solace.

warnings: bodily trauma, medical trauma, PTSD, dissociation, suicidal ideation, alcohol as a coping mechanism and graphic description of sustained injury

a/n: oh wow so here it is, big sad fic :’^) part one!! it’s canon divergent from manga chapter 296 onwards.

this one has been a long time coming. please mind the warnings!! this fic deals a lot with trauma and mental illness in tandem. the warnings are going to change with the coming parts, so please be mindful. i don’t wanna get too sappy, but this piece has been my Baby for the past few months, and i’m excited to finally share. that being said, enjoy loves 💞

Everyone is fucked up after the War.

There is no kindness in an aftermath like this one, not so soon, and certainly not with dried blood of old comrades and mud still caking under its metaphorical fingernails. The world was in shambles, and every hero is along with it.

There is something horrifying about being at the center of it all, Hawks, no, Keigo thinks solemnly, all too often.

He’s used to the attention he’s getting, touches and poking and prodding by near strangers. Except, he was used to exclamations of how great and powerful and remarkable he was. Now, all the attention he receives is followed by little sighs and sad, broken eyes.

He’s sure he looks equally as sad; Keigo had been nothing but an empty shell since the War had ended and he’d been carted off to his hospital room. Numb despite all of his burns.

It’s the shock, he tells himself, he’ll snap out of it any day.

Any day.

...

And it is any day.

He wakes up to screaming from the next room over, agonized wails that pierce the air as his morning nurse enters. She’s over-worked and haggard while checking his vitals with a forced smile. They don’t make conversation with him much anymore, and Keigo doesn’t have the energy to try and force it. There isn’t enough in him to pretend that he’s okay enough to banter with folks.

If he still had his wings, he would’ve wrapped himself up tight in the plumage and let himself rot away in some corner. He’d let the dissociated numbness fade, however long it took, and then succumb to whatever psychological wounds revealed themselves.

Waste away, all alone.

But he doesn't have that luxury. He is in an overcrowded hospital with swarms of civilians and heroes, all stuffed in one place because the world doesn’t have the time to differentiate between the wounded, nor the space or resources to give different resources. Though, Keigo is a special case, hence why he’s had healers coming to him for the past three weeks since the War trying to coax his body into genesizing a new pair of wings.

The Commission’s hospital has all the bells-and-whistles that a medical professional could need, but Keigo, and so many others, are facing problems that don’t have good and easy roads to healing.

That’s assuming healing was even possible.

Keigo is convinced, has been convinced, that there is no way to come back from the War, nor the absence on his back, nor the shouts and cries of pain that echo around the hospital like a new genre of music that Keigo so desperately wants to scrub from his brain.

Things change, it’s inevitable. Everyone falls eventually, and he was just used to flying.

It’s a harder descent.

...

Keigo doesn’t meet you on any day, he meets you on a lonely night.

The evenings and early mornings were the most peaceful at the hospital. Most folks, three weeks after the end of it all, had serious enough injuries that they had to be somewhat sedated to sleep, either for physical or mental pain keeping them from sleep.

It’s morose, Keigo thinks, quietly and privately, but he craves those hours. All he hears then is the hum of air vents and beeps of his own medical machinery. None of the audible agony of the folks he was sworn to protect.

He’s slept most of the day, not lucid enough to do much else, and the nurses haven’t been giving him sedatives unless he asked (though he always did.) Without forced quiet, he’s antsy, fingers twitching and flaring the new (and growing) pains rooted in his (empty, isn’t that horrifying—) back.

He rouses himself, adjusting his scratching hospital garb (thin sweats and a cheap crew neck with the back almost entirely cut away). With his IV pole at his side, he resolves to take a few laps and quiet himself, hopefully.

(Keigo would need sedatives, he always did, but it was nice to play pretend that he didn’t. It made things easier for a precious hour or two.)

His laps are usually quick, despite how much his body aches when he walks. So much new, burnt tissue that needed to learn how to move, how to live again, kept him throbbing and gritting his teeth.

Masochism be damned, he keeps at it during his sleepless nights. Physical therapy wasn’t an option when the world was caving in with him at the epicenter.

There’s a common room at the end of the foyer of identical (filled) hospital rooms, just a collection of stuffy, uncomfortable couches that face an aged TV and a wide bay of windows. It’s rarely used, just a formality for when the space of the hospital had regularly hurt victims and heroes. When it wasn’t bearing so much weight.

Sometimes, he would stop to idly regard the mostly barren world around the hospital. Far from the cities, a little hideaway for heroes and their loved ones to heal in privacy. Other than sheer distance, there is a thick, organic shield around the complex. It’s a towering forest, man-planted with identical types of trees in perfect rows.

It’s grim in its predictability.

(When did he get so fucking pensive?)

(Oh yeah, too much time locked in his goddamn skull.)

He hadn’t been planning to have any inner musings that night.

But, that night, he notes that he is not alone.

On one of the hard couches, you sit, with your own IV-pole companion and injuries, an arm carried in a monochromatic sling and set in a hard cast.

You turn to him, blinking wide eyes at him.

There’s a single lamp on, and the light dances in your eyes with its own unexpected rhythm.

Something compels Keigo to smile, cocky, like he used to, and greet you with a little wave, and a finger to his lips.

Your expressions melts, a hand going over your mouth to stifle a giggle.

It’s like you’re pulling him after that, he finds himself resting across from you.

You must look like a pair, he realizes. You’re greasy, he’s greasy. He’s got a fine layer of built-up stubble that shouldn’t be called anything other than impressive peach fuzz (not that Keigo’s seen it, he’s felt it. The idea of looking in a mirror makes him sick to his stomach. Though you don’t have any pseudo-beard, you’ve got your own unkempt look and feel that makes you two kindred without sharing a word.

It feels comfortable, warm.

“Hi,” you speak first, voice soft and gentle. “Can’t sleep?”

“Nah, who can?” Keigo replies, shaking his head. “But what about you? Midnight oil doesn’t burn without a cause, you know.”

Your expression is also painful in the way it’s so open, yet worn (most everyone had locked up by now, the ones in the hospital and Keigo imagined the ones outside of it too.)

“I like the sky�� the stars are pretty.” You sigh, wistful. “I watch for shooting stars.”

The thought, the significance of that obvious wanting, makes something pang deep in his chest. Childlike hope in a place like this, foolish as well as frail.

“Trying to get a wish?” Keigo clicked his tongue. “Smart.”

“No, no— wishing doesn’t... suit me, right now.” You snorted, shaking your head, the light in your eyes dancing, “I just think they’re pretty.”

Keigo blinks, unable to stop the way his eyes widen.

Your posture reads nothing but earnestness and vulnerability, so freely given (so undeserved) without a hint of pullback.

“What do you want to be called?”

“... Excuse me?” Keigo is not used to his thoughts being interrupted in the blanket of dark that he feels most comfortable in. Your words shock him enough with their meaning, let alone the way you’re so brazen.

“I, uh,” You stumble on your words. “I know who you are, but I also saw that whole broadcast, which I’m going to easily assume you don’t want to talk about. But, I don’t know how much you want to be called ‘Hawks’ at this point either.”

His mouth is dry.

“So, I ask instead,” You lean forward, your IV line pulling the slightest bit and you wince. His discomfort must be very fucking apparent, because you backtrack in moments. “... Or, neither. I can call you something else, too.”

“... A nickname, for someone you don’t even know?” Keigo, Hawks, whoever he is now struggles with words. There’s too many, and they’re all too fast, and he doesn’t have his wings to catch up to them or outrun them—

“Yeah, why not?” You shrug with a lazy smile. “I’ll call you... pretty eyes. How about that?”

Keigo does have pretty eyes. They’re gold, light and glittering amber in the lowlight. Before he, ya’ know, lost them, and when things were good, but awful, but normal, he darkened the organic marks around his canthi with liquid eyeliner. He liked makeup, prettied himself up and accentuated all the good he had. Preening.

None of that is left, just what organically was on his skin, and he hasn’t seen it in its raw state in years, and like fuck if he was going to look in a mirror just to figure out if his natural eyeliner was half as good as that by his own hand.

“Sure, that works,” He relaxes, mirroring your expression like the practiced... pro he is. “What do I call you, starshine?”

You roll your eyes, but nothing about you fades as you tell him your name, something that calms and fills him, “But, you can call me starshine if you want. Sounds nice.”

It’s sweet.

So, Keigo greets you.

“Nice to meet you, starshine.”

...

That’s the first time you kept each other’s company. Most of it is quiet, you truly do just want to watch the stars. Keigo did with you, tracing the shadows of clouds and moonlight with his eyes.

(Occasionally, his gaze shifts to you, regarding your figure with the same care for only a moment before returning to the sky you both miss.)

Eventually, the quiet heat of it puts him half to sleep, and he bids you goodnight.

You wave goodbye, rising as he away.

The light isn’t in your eyes anymore, and your warmth feels a little too far away.

...

The next days are long.

He slips into that shell-state again, where he’s a husk that stares emptily at the ceiling as the Commission tries to piece him together to a fraction of what he once was.

They fail, each time, because no healer they’ve brought can regenerate quirk-formed appendages, but he commends their efforts all the same. It’s out of desperation, sure, but he’s heard whispers of the new generation. In recalling his own sidekicks, he isn’t as scared for the future.

(Everyone else’s future. He’s so terrified of his own that he turns extra numb if he thinks about it.)

Selfishly, he just wants his wings for himself. They’d keep him plenty company. If he ever did get them back, he’d fly somewhere, faraway and alone to live out his days under his feathers and feel as empty as he wanted.

They fuss over him all day, not knowing those desires. They are private, and he only puts on his old, self-confident bravado so they don’t lock him up somewhere to have his brain picked and to fill the new holes with pill-shaped gauze.

As established, Keigo was content to rot.

(He can’t fully parse all of his feelings and they consume him.)

The healers for the week all failed, doing nothing but making his back bow and burn. It’s painful. Obviously, trying to stitch a body back together, or rather making a body make when it was so tired of creating—

(Feather after feather after feather, for how long?)

He’s glad his sessions are in a different room, a spare, horrifyingly metallic exam room across the hospital. It reeks like iron and isopropyl alcohol, but Keigo doesn’t mind. The filmy paper that rolls from the exam table gets soaked with his sweat as opposed to his familiar bed dressings.

Not to mention, it’s nice, not having to hear his neighbor’s screams and pleadings to God, any god, for reprieve. Calming.

(He feels less guilty. Less like it was his own hand that scarred up their bodies. If he can’t hear them, he only thinks of his own agony under ‘helping’ hands.)

His body is exhausted at the end of each day, and even his restlessness fades with the necessities of his body.

He doesn’t see you, and practically forgets about you.

It’s a week or so later when he takes one of his strolls, and finds you tucked away into your nook, dimly lit and with a blanket over your lap.

Keigo feels it as he nears you, that comfort that your expression bleeds into his very soul. Even as he watches your healthy hand nervously toy with the thin knit in your lap, it doesn’t dim you.

The lamplight dances in your eyes as you nod to him, “Fancy seeing you here, pretty eyes.”

“You’d never know it, but I live just down the hallway— me,” He touches his chest proudly, surprised by his own jest.

You gave a fake gasp, mirroring him easily, “Never knew I had such a well-known soul in my neighborhood. Forgive my transgression.”

Bending at the waist, as much as you can with your right leg extended, straight, you choke on laughter.

Keigo follows you in it, giggling, genuinely giggling, high and light and girlish like he’d never heard from himself before.

He snapped his mouth shut, thickly swallowing and shaking his head.

“No need to be shy,” You assured him with an affectionate turn of the head. “You have a lovely laugh.”

“Now you’re just flirting with me, cute.”

Your head tilted farther, confused, “I’m simply being kind to you.”

Why didn’t he have the snark to reply to that? Probably because he was half-dead and on painkillers for nearly a month. He’d beat himself up about it later, maybe.

There wasn’t an ounce of malice in your tone, just earnestness that tugged at his own insecurities.

You backpedaled. “How was your day?”

Keigo takes a few moments to respond, shaking his head without mind to the way his too-long hair flops in his face.

The banter isn’t forced, but it’s not welcomed yet.

As comfortable as you feel to him, Keigo isn’t comfortable.

“Same old, same old,” Living hell. “Boring, mostly. Painful, but dull. It’s crazy how much hell smells like cheap disinfectant, huh?”

You agree, quietly, “I’m pretty sure there’s many hells in this place.”

Keigo doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t.

You both regard the stars again with growing reverence. Specks of light dance back in your eyes as you both settle into the hard cushions like they were made of goose down and Sherpa.

...

Your conversations are... disjointed, to say the least.

There’s an inability for words and phrases to flow between you. There’s starts and stops, stalls like an engine that putters on tarry oil without ever truly firing. There are good feelings, still, safety in silence before words as you stargaze together through the comfort of a window.

It should feel disarming, to be so far from the sky yet have no way to reach it. And it is, but Keigo can swallow the reality these days. It’s easier when there’s someone on the mend close by, sharing in the discomfort of a rawed mind and the comfort of a yellow-toned fluorescent bulb.

It’s unspoken kinship. Keigo never had time for it in the past, but now it was all he had. There had to be some cruel irony in it (as if there wasn’t enough in his life), but he couldn’t make himself mind.

Everything he’d once excelled at, everything he had was gone. He was barren and stripped (don’t think about it—), exposed to the elements in all the worst ways. At least the hospital was clean and safe, relatively.

It feels safest with you near.

Sure, your conversations were clearly that of two horribly broken people, but that wasn’t new or surprising. It simply was.

“Do you know constellations?” You ask one night, a colder one, where you’ve got two blankets over your lap.

Keigo thought for a moment, “A handful, but I never took to stargazing, you know?”

You don’t relate, just chew your lip, the light of the dim lamp dancing across your irises.

“Can I show you some?”

“...Constellations?”

“What else?” You crack a smile. “Come on, pretty eyes.”

Whatever you’d like, he’d do.

He can’t refuse, he’s already getting weak for you.

Shifting, Keigo joins you on your typical couch for the first time. Your IV poles, thrumming and humming their own rhymes harmonize, quietly and mostly imperceptible.

You regard him even more warmly, so close, a little smile playing on your lips.

“What’s your sign?”

Keigo deadpans, “What?”

“Like... astrology. What’s your sign?”

You wiggle your eyebrows, knowing the double-meaning of your words.

Flirting again.

Since when had he been so bad at it?

“Capricorn,” He huffs back. He keeps his back off the stone-like cushions of the couch— his scarring had been itchy the whole day prior— so itchy—

You tap the plastic-y fabric gap between the two of you, grabbing his attention, “Hey, pretty eyes. Stick with me, let me show you where that one is.”

So, you do.

Your light-filled eyes trace the sky’s nighttime freckles, searching until you find what you’re looking for.

“There,” Your finger raises, tracing the patterns in the air. “That’s Capricorn, can you see?”

Not really, the stars are just a meaningless smatter. If there’s some sort of pattern he’s supposed to find, he comes up with none.

“Not in the slightest,” Keigo rolls his eyes. “Show me again?”

You don’t reply, but rather scoot a bit closer, mirror his hunch and pose with precision and tiny adjustments.

He doesn’t dare to breathe as you carefully grab his arm, extending it. You lay your cheek over his bicep, watching from the closest view to his own that you could.

“Do you see now?”

The only starlight he sees is right in front of him, soft cheek pressed against atrophying muscles. Sharing your heat so graciously as you would so easily come to, you chatter about the stories that are written in the stars, by all cultures, for so long.

Keigo hears, but he’s far more focused on how he wishes you were even closer.

...

After that night, you always share the same couch.

You face forward, right leg always extended and stiff-looking. Keigo doesn’t mind, hardly notices. He faces you, fragile back bandaged and kept away from the unforgiving grit of the uncomfortable couch. It looks a bit uncomfortable, the posing of it all, but with the words flowing easier, neither of you mind.

You keep showing him stars, the constellations you can remember and see in the night sky.

Keigo makes fun and crafts his own, connecting new dots and winding stories about them.

“See those three there?” He guides your hand, close enough to share your breath. “That’s the comb of the chicken. Star comb, if you will.”

You snort, rolling your eyes and pulling your hand from his grip, “There’s no cock in the stars, pretty eyes. Chickens can’t fly anyways.”

You both freeze.

Keigo’s mouth goes dry—

Chicken can’t fly.

As much as you’re both learning to be human again, there isn’t talk of your injuries. Maybe, there’s mutual curiosity (you’ve been here two months. just for a broken arm, why?), but like fuck Keigo wants to broach the subject.

“S-sorry,” you stumble over your words, physically retreating. “Shouldn’t have said that.”

It is a fact, chickens can’t fly, but Keigo isn’t a chicken. He’s a debauched, defamed hero whose home is the same set of a milky white, hospital ward walls. Once, a real hero, before the war, before selling his morals just for a chance at rest, before blue flame— burning—

“Pretty eyes,” Your voice trembles, shaking and lonesome. “Come back here, now. Come on.”

You’re holding his cheeks, unkempt nails pressing (blessedly) a bit too hard into his cheeks. The heat of you is so close, almost scalding him, but he wants more of it, more of the heat that doesn’t burn—

“You’re okay, pretty eyes, s-see?” You hold yourself together, jerking your head to the wide window and glittering stars. “We’re just stargazing.”

Keigo’s has tears leaking down his face, but neither of you acknowledge them. You release him, quietly spinning another tale about a hero hung in the cosmos. He thanks you for it silently by tugging you into his side.

(It was the first night you really touched him.)

(The light in your eyes was so close, he wanted it all for himself.)

...

They’re running out of healers to try.

From the weakest to the strongest quirk, no one could revive his dead wings. There was no root to push from the scar tissue, nor resolve left in Keigo to try and make new pins and feathers sprout.

His back isn’t fertile. It’s just as poisoned as the rest of him.

...

He wonders where you disappear to during the day. He takes his strolls then, too. Waves to nurses these days, not charming, just friendly, trying to make a little brightness.

There’s one day where he asks one of the nurses he knows best for a pair of scissors.

She looks at him, worried, “Don’t tell me we need to put you on psych watch.”

“What? No,” Keigo shakes his head, shaggy hair quivering around the frame of his face. “I just need a bit of a haircut.”

“... We can ask the Commission to bring someone in—”

“I can do it myself.”

She doesn’t argue with the firmness of his voice, rather, she hands him a pair of safety scissors with bright purple handles. They’re for a child, but Keigo’s fine with that. They’d do.

When he was younger, and in a pinch (and so poor he tried to eat grass and lick scraps from metallic packaging of discarded junk food wrappers) he’d cut his hair with his own feathers.

Safety scissors would be even easier.

It did mean that he had to confront his own visage, which he had gotten too good at avoiding.

The bathroom in his room is small, it would’ve been claustrophobic if he was still carrying a twenty-five-foot wingspan.

But, he isn’t. It was just him and the scars on his back that he definitely wasn’t ready to see.

He’s caught glimpses of himself over the past weeks, but nothing substantial. No view that would’ve given himself time to scrutinize over his imperfection.

The dull hospital mirror reveals too much about him. It feels too vulnerable, makes his chest tighten, as he stares himself in his ‘pretty eyes’.

Purple stamps below his eyes, probably not from sleeplessness itself, just the sheer exhaustion of living. The one under his left is an odd maroon color, mixing with the scar that is burned into that half of his face.

The skin was once soft, plump cheeks always tended too and well taken care of by expensive skincare products. Now, it’s charred and gaunt. Healing, but still obviously scarred heavy and deep. The weak beard he’s been growing (accidently) is patchy around the thickened tissue.

It bothers him—

It doesn’t look like him in the mirror.

It helps to take care of himself for the first time in a long while.

He shaves with the cheap foam and single blade razor they’d given him in the toiletries pack the first days he was there, while he was still numbed out and half-dead. The metal glides over his skin, stripping away the numbness just a little. The stubble and cream slide down the drain and away.

His hair is different. The waves had for so long been pushed back and held that way with the winds of his flights. The longer, feathery patches now hang around his face, dangling down and mingling with the too-long sections that curl over his ears and down his neck.

Wetting his hair, he cuts away what he can.

It’s blunt, messy, and not elegant.

All the same, the trim feels good.

Though, his mood goes sour when the screaming starts for the day.

The far wall of the bathroom was shared by him and his shrieking neighbor, and he took great care to never shower when they were singing their awful chorus. It grates on his ears; he should’ve been a bit empathetic to their suffering, but he didn’t care that much. It was so regular, that the screaming that might’ve once sent each one of his feathers (don’t think about, don’t fucking think about it) sharp as the razor in his hand, didn’t bother him in the slightest.

Just a poke at his temple, a jab and a drop of water that irks him more than anything else.

It is a... somewhat pleasant distraction. He can focus more on his fellow patient than his own haggard appearance, the scar, the lack of red at his back—

It’s all okay, ‘okay’, until the patient starts babbling.

“M-make it stop!”

Keigo stills.

A scream tears through the drywall. Even without his wings, it makes him thrum, far-too sensitive.

“Help!” The voice yelps. “HELP!”

There’s a thud and thump from the other room.

“Please, please!”

Keigo’s heart stutters in his chest, and the razor falls from his hand, clattering into the sink.

“MAKE IT STOP!”

It’s you.

It’s your screaming and shrieking that’s burrowed in his ears. It’s your voice that’s trembling in desperation that has him running out of his room, nearly pulling out his IVs as the pole teeters and follows behind him.

Why are you screaming?

Why have you always been screaming?

A nurse is trying to stop him, urging him to settle but he can’t. There's an urgency in his chest he hasn’t felt since back before and he has to heed it. He needs to.

He pulls his forearm from the nurse’s grasp, hissing in his own pain, muscles pulling and aching with disuse but he doesn’t care.

The nurses drag him back from your door, and they almost have him, almost have him on the ground.

And then he smells burning—

Cloth.

Flesh.

And something in him snaps.

He clocks the nearest nurse with a tight fist, ignoring his atrophied muscles and kicking with everything he could muster.

They release him, probably out of shock. (He’d been such a model patient, so complacent and quiet until then.)

Then, he stumbles into your room, and sees you, and wants to die.

...

There’s plenty of times in his life where Keigo felt like an animal. When the Commission first got their hands on him, they took to studying and picking his quirk about to figure out the most efficient way to rebuild it to their needs and uses. Now then, he felt very much like an experiment, only half-human. He was too young to really ‘get’ it, but the feeling persisted.

Sometimes, he felt similarly when he played celebrity. The talk shows, the modeling and media felt hoops he had to jump through just to get a decent night’s sleep. It was an additional job aside from heroics, one he excelled at and entertained him. But that didn’t mean each flash of a camera didn’t suck him dry of a bit of his dignity.

He was sure you had to be feeling similarly.

You’re writhing and arching in your bed, curls of smoke rising from your papery hospital gown. Every machine in your room is screaming with you, bloody and loud and angry—

And scared. Keigo recognized well, and it drove pins into his heart to realize it was you.

It’s even worse when he realizes some part of you is burning.

At your bedside, he freezes.

Nylon straps wrap around your wrist, around your cast, and keep you held tight to the bed. You’re tied down, held to the plastic bed frame as you wretch and scream.

You don’t even notice him.

The smoke rises from your burning hospital gown. He rips it away, tears the burning section away with his shaking hand. It’s crass, and Keigo sees a bit too much. The gauze wrapping your leg below is burning as well, in little veins of char that burns black and smoldering.

Keigo tears it all away, he tears and tears—

And then he sees the wound.

He was trained, once, to see this type of horror and not bat an eye. That training was gone, and all that remained was his starshine with a writhing, molten wound.

Keigo is numb as the nurses drag him back to his room, trying to decide if he prefers the apathy and numbness to injury that his old heroism gave him, or the blinding pain of empathy when someone you... care about is hurt.

He can’t decide which he’d rather suffer with.

...

You appear in the common room a few nights later.

Keigo still takes his walks in the late evening, even if you aren’t there. If anything, he needs them more. He’s restless, always listening for the screams or howls from the next room over. His annoyance towards them was gone, and all that remained was a concern that knotted in the pit of his stomach.

There’s a sigh of relief on his lips when he finds you, nestled into a pile of blankets with your IV pole, watching the stars with sad eyes.

He joins you on your couch, cracking a decent joke that you don’t respond to.

Then, there’s silence.

It’s as loud as the stars are bright. The expanse of sound is filled by the hum of the cold air and distant beeping.

“I’m sorry,” Your voice shakes. “You shouldn’t have seen me like that. It’s not... Easy to look at. Or, I imagine it’s not.”

Keigo wants to rip the apology from your tongue and burn it.

“No, please, it’s alright,” He’s begging too much. “I get it.”

As much as he can, anyways.

You’re quiet again, biting your lip so hard it must be close to breaking skin.

“Can we... talk about things?” You ask, softer. “I can’t keep pretending.”

“...’Pretending’?” Keigo knows, but he selfishly wants to hear you say it.

“Well, you didn’t think I’ve been here for two months for my bum arm, right?” You laugh weakly. “And I’m well-aware that you don’t have wings.”

We just don’t talk about it.

“It’s nicer to look at the stars and pretend everything’s fine,” Keigo lays the statement down and regrets it.

Your fist tightens, jaw clenching.

And there’s more silence.

It’s deafening to Keigo, he wants to speak, scream, but you’re quiet next to him. He can fill voids with his voice so, so easily, yet he turns in on himself.

“I know, it’s all hard,” Tears drip down from your words, though your cheeks remain dry. “I know, but there was a War two months ago, and we’re still holed up in a place like this, and we never talk about why.”

You turn to him, light dancing slowly in your eyes. Your lips part to speak, but no sound comes out.

“... I didn’t want to ask.” Keigo speaks, gaze shifting down to your leg. He questioned why a broken arm would keep you here, but you can’t just ask that. “It’s bad form to ask a stranger about their injuries unnecessarily when they’re traumatized.”

“But we’re not strangers, not anymore.”

Keigo can’t disagree.

...

You had been in a conbini when Gigantomakia tore through your little suburb. It was a few miles away, but the ground shook as if the goliath was just outside the automatic doors.

Your demon was near, though.

It was a man from the PLF who tore into you so badly. Just some random, emboldened civilian who ascribed to Destro’s ideology hard enough to think about taking out his frustrations on ‘weaker-quirked’ individuals.

That meant the young couple getting slushies in the corner, the old man behind the cash register, and you.

(You’d told your roommate you’d be home quick to help her study—)

(Your roommate is dead, under several tons of rubble.)

“The old man died before the heroes even started trying to rescue anyone. The couple was begging each other to hold on, but only one of them lasted. He died within a few weeks of being taken here.”

There was just you.

You’d hardly been touched by the man, the fucking villain, who’d set his mark on you. But it was more than enough to leave a writhing scar.

Keigo asks to see it, and quietly, you oblige him.

You’re in a gown, you always have been. The hem of it is pulled up by your visibility shaking fingers, and slowly reveals the scar in the lowlight of the ever-present lamp. He’d seen it once, but that didn’t change how startling it was.

It’s molten.

The skin is gnarled, twisting and scarred worse than anything Keigo’s ever seen. It was like the gore of a torn flesh was frozen over your right side, from your calf, to your thighs to your pretty hips—

“It goes higher, but that’s not exactly couth to show you,” you joke, but neither of you laugh.

“... It’s not moving anymore?”

“Oh, yeah. It calms down, when it’s dark. Nighttime and all. It stops being so ornery.”

Keigo has a laundry list of questions, but with the expression on your face that just bleeds exhaustion into the air, and the fresh burns from the restraints on your wrists, he keeps quiet.

Maybe, three months ago, he’d jabber on about the injury, try to gode some information out on the villain, profile him, track him and beat the tar out of him for touching you—

But this is the present, and Keigo is a wingless soul. All he has is a prescription for painkillers on a rigid schedule, and the awareness that you both appreciate each other.

Keigo scoots to your uninjured side, lifting his arm up and around your shoulder. It hurts, it fucking hurts, but he doesn’t mind.

You tense for a moment, turning to him with wide eyes, scared like he’s never seen.

Then, you melt into him.

...

Keigo’s busy with healers the week, though none speak his language, literally. They’re international, foreign aid that’s been flown in to try to pick up the disaster of a society that’s been left in the wake of the War and the dissolution of Tartarus.

None of them make progress.

As much as it burns (haha) him to his core, he’s accepting the reality, slowly but surely.

...

Endeavor visits him.

It’s the morning after a particularly sweet night with you. You still sit together in the starlight, though you’ve run out of constellations to show him. It’s less quiet than it used to be, just little banter that flows between the two of you. It feels more genuine than his old bluntness, welcome after so much odd tension when you first started enjoying the heat of each other’s presence and the far-off stars.

You’d taken to spending time together during the day as well... As much as you could. Strapping you to your bed was for your own safety. Your broken arm had snapped the first few days at the hospital because of the severity of your spasms and flares. The nurses keep you wrapped up, but Keigo drags a chair close to your bed and talks to you as much as he can.

It helps you relax.

Though the days fill with tension as you try to negate the inevitability of your molten scar coming to life, nights remain calm.

And so, so sweet.

You’ve taken to tucking into his side, telling him little treasured facts about the cosmos. It’s easier to guide his eyes like that, as your cheek rests over his collarbone.

It lingers with him, the feeling of your casual touch, so tentatively offered and so graciously received.

He traces his own constellations over your gown, mindful of the flesh beneath that heats beneath his palm when he gets too close.

After one of those wonderful, early nights, Enji Todoroki enters his room with all of the gusto one would expect. Which is not very much, but the sheer presence of him is enough to make Keigo quake.

Just like the little boy from Kyushu, Keigo regards him with stars in his eyes.

The hero, not a speck of flame on him (thank god) pulls up a chair near his bed. Keigo sits cross-legged and cocks his head to the side.

“What brings you to my neck of the woods, number one?” Keigo smiles.

“Number fifteen.”

“... What?”

“Since my injuries, I’m mostly on bedrest,” Enji replied, folding his hands on his chin. “I’m number fifteen now, and that number will more than likely just drop. I’m not much of a hero with only one lung. I’m planning to officially retire at the end of the month.”

Keigo’s chest goes tight and it feels like he’s joking. He tosses on a tight smile.

“This is hardly time for a pillar—“

“I’m no pillar. I never was,” Enji sighs, running a hand over his scarred cheek. “The kids can handle this.”

Keigo breaks so easily these days.

“That’s not fair—” He had been tossed into this all too early and god it fucked him up—

“Hawks,” Enji sighed. “There’s hardly anyone left to fight. They’re either dead, missing part of themselves, or gone.”

“So, you’re giving up?”

“If I didn’t, I’d die.”

Coward.

No, just honest and smart.

“Since when are you this selfish?” Keigo’s own words surprise him, but he doesn’t back down. “And this wordy, number one? You’ve changed.”

He spits the last phrase like an insult. He hates himself for it and would hate himself even more for it later.

Enji’s face remains solid and unwavering. The twitch in his brow is the only indication that Keigo’s words were even heard.

“Since we lost, Keigo. Things have changed.”

Keigo knew, of course, but it didn’t stop the anger from rolling his belly.

“Oh, like I don’t fucking know,” If Keigo still had his wings, they would’ve been extended and fluffed, angry as the pinched skin of his forehead.

This was his hero, he couldn’t be giving up too—

“Rest, Hawks,” Enji stand up, “You deserve it.”

Seems Endeavor really died. Enji’s face is worn, his expression neutral and jaw slack. He looks hollowed out and empty, not an ounce or morsel of fight left in him, even for a flightless bird in need of some encouragement.

There’s more to be said, but Keigo’s too angry to listen and Enji doesn’t have the energy to try.

Whatever news the old hero had come to bring was left undelivered.

...

You settle together the next few nights, both so damn tired, even though you’ve done nothing other than lay around a hospital for so-many weeks.

The air always vibrates between the two of you, that comfortable warmth shared between mingling breath and senses. Light dances in your eyes, twisting and bouncing like something otherworldly.

(Maybe it is.)

Your fingers lace together, held in Keigo’s lap. You trace the others hand in relaxing little lines and shapes, trying to soothe each other’s wounds, always.

“One of the doctors said the scar might start shrinking,” You break the tender silence, nosing into his jaw in the same way an affectionate cat would. “They’re not entirely sure, but it’s been stable for a few days.”

Keigo’s feathery (don’t think about it) eyebrows shot up, “That’s amazing, and there’s only a few spasms this week, too.”

(He kept good tabs on you, he had to.)

You hummed in agreement, a sad smile playing on your lips as it so often did.

With a quick blink, the light bouncing in your eyes faded, and the world felt a bit colder.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do when I get out of here,” You pressed closer to him. “There’s shelters, and some cities are taking refugees, but I don’t—”

Your jaw clicks shut, brow furrowed and mood soured.

(Keigo, mind you, is still focusing on the lack of light in your eyes and the chill of the air in the room.)

Something stirs, deep in his gut, but he doesn’t say anything. How Keigo used to have such a mouth, he didn’t know. These days, all he can is act, like somehow the loss of his wings came with the loss of his tongue.

Tugging you by the waist, mindful of the tender scar, he pulls you close, internally resolving.

...

She, the main Suit, visits him.

(It’s his last visitor at the hospital.)

There are no trumpeters, guards, or the like. It’s just the haggard president, matching Keigo with his dark circles and creased with new wrinkles and far-more grey sections in her slicked back hair.

The air stands still as she pulls up a chair, burying her head in her hands.

She, the Main Suit, has never been one to inquire as to how he is. Many of the others at the Commission were sweet, kind to him in youth, but she was all business.

Some things never change.

She breaks the silence of the room, “... do you want to be done, Hawks?”

The cords in his chest tighten, gaze going sharper.

He doesn’t answer.

They meet each other’s gazes; twenty years of fucked-up emotion being shared between the pair of them.

“We’ve done everything. Every healer, every quirk, every treatment, conventional or otherwise,” she’s too soft. “There’s nothing left to try.”

He knew that, he had to know that, right?

His throat feels sticky as he swallows down bile, the scars on his back burning anew. It’s somatic, it has to be, but his flesh crawls and writhes just like yours. His starshine. He hates the way his mind is racing, just as fast as it always has, but his body lacks the ability to keep up.

He grounds himself in the thought of you, his starshine. Your body. Your heat.

His narrow pupils refocus on the light tremble in her shoulders.

“I’m being honest, so I’ll ask again,” She meets his gaze, grey eyes as soulless and full as ever. “Do you want to be done?”

“Well, obviously I can't fight—”

“I mean it. All of it, Hawks. Maybe a few media appearances, but all this... shit. You’ve done enough.”

You’ve done enough.

The words bounce around in his skull.

“Do you want to be done?”

Done with being a hero.

That’s all he’d ever been, right? That is him, he is Hawks, for fuck’s sake, no one other than Dabi (may he rot and die and immolate in hell) even called him his actual name in years.

Keigo is Hawks.

His mouth is dry, and he tries to ignore the tears pricking his eyes. He’s not sure why he’s beginning to cry, and definitely not sure why tension is draining from his shoulders as he sighs out an answer.

“I’ll be done.”

You’ve done enough.

...

Hospital beds are a hot commodity, and now that Keigo had thrown in the towel (along with everyone else) to stop trying with his wings, he was to be discharged within a few days.

(“Just a few more days to adjust your body to your new medications—”)

He’d stopped listening after that.

...

Your last night together is so bittersweet, you taste it on each other’s tongues.

You have an episode early in the day. Your screaming wakes the floor, the burning smell of flesh cementing that it was you.

Keigo’s only half-lucid when he shoves into your room, holding your hands while nurses desperately try to administer pain medication.

It’s too much for you, the crawling edges of the scar once again consuming you in the molten, glowing amber veins of heat that tore through you so terribly.

You sleep the day away. Keigo stays with you for much of it, stroking the bones in the back of your hands.

...

He fucks you for the first time, that night.

His own IVs have been removed, he’s to be discharged first thing in the morning—

And he wants one more night of stargazing, please, please—

(Why’s he clutching at you so dearly?)

But you’re not in the common room.

Rather, you’re under a few thin blankets, eyes tired and lightless. Your arm is out of its cast, laying over the bed clothes. It scares him shitless at first as he tentatively enters. It’s you though, and the moment you see him, it’s like a flame, a good one, heats the room full and wide. A few specks of light dance in between your irises as your skin crinkles in a gentle smile.

You both know he’s leaving tomorrow.

The knowledge settles in the room like a weight that neither of you can move. So, Keigo takes to it and does what he can.

As opposed to his normal perch next to his bed, he sits beside you, removing the restraints on your wrists and helping you to sit up.

Keigo fishes around in his pocket, pulling out a folded square of paper and placing it at your bedside. It’s his phone number, an odd detail. Relationships usually shared far-earlier.

But there is nothing linear or normal about the two of you, or the situation you both sit and stewed in.

You both are making peace with it at your own pace.

The bed creaks as you move to sit beside him, legs dangling from the bed. There’s gooseflesh beneath your gown, the boring pattern obscured by the darkness of the room, but the molten lines of the scar ever-visible.

“I’m glad you’re getting out of here.”

But I wish that you weren’t leaving.

His hand finds your waist, careful like he always is, but so giving in the same breath.

“I am too. It’ll be nice to be.”

But I’m going to miss you.

It’s inherent, and has been forever. Since the moment you both stargazed in the common room and watched the worlds high above twist and shine without regard to your own hells, you’ve been ensnared in the other and neither of you have a want or need to let go.

Even with the inevitably of progress.

Keigo drowns in these thoughts, and has been since Endeavor visited and he was reminded of the harsh reality just outside of their tree-ringed prison. The reality he has to return to—

He presses his lips to yours, more desperate and needy than he had before.

Keigo had taken his share of you before, little pecks and the rub of the bridge of his nose over your jaw and cheeks. He had been a bit greedier with his hands, uncaring of the eyes of the night nurses when he’d touched you in the common room.

But he’s insatiable that last night.

The sheets of the plastic bed are too scratchy, they’re too harsh for you, and it burns Keigo to his core as he lowers you down. He cradles what he can, as your fingers latch onto his clothes (real clothes) and tug him as close as you can get.

The machines in your room cry, but they’re forgotten.

You nip at his bottom lip, dragging yours across his clean-shaven jaw before laying into his neck with kiss after kiss. His muscles shake, holding him over you, both of you atrophied but uncaring.

You suck a deep, throbbing bruise on the fragile skin of his neck. It’s something dark that won’t fade for a week. The thought stirs something in his chest, a white-hot feeling that wants to crack his ribs and consume him. He doesn’t give in, he can’t—

“Stay with me, pretty eyes,” you whisper, so sweet and gentle as you push floppy strands of hair from his face. “Stay here, just for a little while longer.”

The reminder jolts him back, back to you, and the way your body (so tired, but unwavering) jumps and rolls under his touch. He’s a glutton for attention, always has been, but your particular brand and sounds keep pulse hot and hard.

Shaky fingers pull his shirt over his head, sweaty palms push the gown over your hips. By the starlight, you’re both seeing too much of each other, but this is a goodbye, there’s no time to dwell on the discomfort.

Keigo tries to be careful as he adjusts your legs, tries to be mindful of the raw skin and flesh that makes you whine and half-writhe. You clutch at him, still trying to pull him closer despite the proximity and heat, like you need him as opposed to just wanting him.

There’s no fanfare in it, just more rushed kisses and the swirling of fingertips over covered clit. You catch each other’s gasps in the mingling of breaths you share. It’s choking, suffocating, yet entirely not enough. You beg, quietly, for more. Your fingers latch onto his wrist and urge him to help pull your panties off and away.

More, more, more.

By the time he slides into you, you're still tense, but so is he, and in a pile of tension and fear and wishful-thinking, you both come undone, and undone, and undone—

...

Keigo leaves the next morning.

The press is there, flash bulbs blinding him after so long with just fluorescents and starlight. He manages an easy wave or two, no autographs or gleaming smiles, just business and numbness that he needed to hold onto, so he didn’t fucking break.

He slips into the Commission’s car and leaves behind the hospital, you, and its wall of man-laid greenery and prays to forget it all quickly. He has enough to mourn.

...

Keigo wants to off himself when he arrives back at his penthouse.

How can he not?

His ‘home’ (if he couldn’t even call it that) is a dusty, time capsule of everything before. Before he got fucked up with the League, before the PLF, before the war, before Jin—

Every untouched bit of his life from when it was a few, precious fractions better stands unturned. A discarded jacket, wing slits visible and frayed. Scattered dead feathers that make his skin crawl. Memorabilia too, old merchandise that he never cared much about, but he definitely didn’t need to be seeing it now that ‘Hawks’ had burned up and died.

All disgusting reminders.

Something burning fills the base of his skull when his gaze fixates on one of the old plumes. He reaches out to touch the spine of it, instinctually expecting a little jolt of feeling from it, like he always had.

But there’s nothing. It’s dead, decaying, and so is he.

The reality of it breaks him, quick, hard and hot. He burns alive a second time.

He clears the liquor cabinet while blaring music from his over-priced stereo system loud enough to make his ears ache and throb. The music isn’t drowning anything out, but it’s better to pretend.

He finds a bottle of old pills and downs them with a few swigs of expensive whiskey and lets go.

...

When he comes to, he’s staring into a smashed mirror, with his own nails crusted in blood from thin welts in the skin of the scar on his face.

Much to his chagrin, he hasn’t forgotten anything. The memories of blue flames, red feathers, and the smell of your skin mixed with isopropyl alcohol feel brighter than ever. He grounds on them as he sobers up, latching onto the pain of his scar tissue and the solace you gave.

And won’t ever give him again.

Something in him wilts as he defeatedly goes to his phone, arranging any number of things to get him the fuck out.

...

The penthouse is sold, his more important belongings gathered in bland boxes.

And he leaves. There’s no sentiment holding him there, not anymore.

Fukuoka is gone and some distant memory as he drives (yes, he forgot that he had that skill) him and his things to his new home.

His penthouse had been immaculate. Crisp interior design, new shapes and colors that were on trend. He was hardly home to appreciate the modern beauty of it, but he’d received enough compliments from random hookups to know that it landed aesthetically.

But honestly?

Who the fuck cared?

His penthouse had been sold to the highest bidder and far behind as he arrives at his new, high home in the sleekness of his far-too fancy, disused car.

...

He gets a call from an unknown number, another one, on some snowy day, deep in winter.

Keigo debates answering it. He almost lets it slip to voicemail. The only calls worth answering are the handful from the Commission that he has to heed, or the odd one from Rumi, Fuyumi, and on occasion, Endeavor.

Not random numbers, he has no patience for it.

Yet, he answers it lazily.

“Washed up hero, how can I help you?”

“P-Pretty eyes?”

His heart stutters in his chest, he swears—

“Starshine?” He sounds breathless, the air leached from his chest as he white-knuckles his thighs.

He’d given up on you contacting him, yet there you were, or at least your voice, mechanical and high bouncing around preciously in the walls of the cabin

There’s a moment of silence, nearly, just your light breathing that receiver picks up.

Your voice trembles when you break it, “Y-yeah, it’s me, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to call—”

You don’t need to be sorry; he would wait for you forever, and then some.

“I d-don’t actually have a phone? Mine got trashed, uh, back then. I’m on the hospital’s line.”

Keigo hadn’t really considered that, he’s slipped the paper with his number on your bedside without a thought.

How much had you lost?

“No worries, chickadee,” Keigo is sure his smile is audible. “Why call now? Miss me too much?”

He had no idea.

You laugh, though it soured as you spoke, “I get discharged tomorrow.”

Keigo’s heart seizes again and he’s sure he’s going to go into cardiac arrest.

“The guy who gave me the scar and all? He fucked up a few other people, word eventually got here. Once the scar stops... glowing, it rests. If you make it until then, you’re good.”

And alive.

“The whole injury is stable, has been for a week now,” Surprisingly, there’s no relief in your voice. “They need my bed, so they’re releasing me.”

No, no, no.

Where will you go?

Keigo doesn’t say it, but the question hangs in the air and is quickly answered.

“They got me a spot in one of the shelters close by... It’s only a couple hours by train!” You try to sound happy, but it’s so hollow and unnatural; it makes Keigo physically sit up.

No, no, no.

That won’t do.

“... What won’t do?”

Keigo hadn’t realized he’d said it out loud.

Something is buried in his chest, something warm and molten, like the old veins of your scar, just kinder and better. It’s full of urges, so seldom used, selectively as needed throughout his career as a hero.

The need to keep something precious safe.

The thing hasn’t thrashed in months.

Yet now? It’s practically screaming.

“Pretty eyes?” You sound scared through the phone. “A-Are you alright? I can call back—”

“No, don’t, do not.” Keigo lets the flame fill his chest, welcoming it. “You’re not going to that shelter.”

He has something to protect.

“I don’t have another choice—”

Someone.

“You do.” Keigo keeps his voice even, the muscles in his back writhing. If he still had his wings, they’d be puffed out and large. Impassioned with feeling he finally let breath between his ribs. “I’ll come get you, tomorrow.”

“... P-Pardon?”

He doesn’t hesitate, and for a moment, he starts to feel like his old self.

“Come home with me, starshine.”

++++++

thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed!! 💗

look out for parts 2 and 3!!!💞

ko-fi

#salem writes #hawks x reader #hawks #takami keigo #takami keigo x reader #hawks x you #takami keigo x you #hawks fanfic #hawks imagines #my hero academia #mha x reader #anyways tag wall #enjoy loves #smorch

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when-the-feet-hurt · 2 years

Text

cw: attempted suicide, hospitals

“Can you just leave me alone?”

Whumpee tries to make it sound as threatening as possible, but their voice is shaky and weak, just like the rest of them. They try to sit up, but their body throbs with pain, and reluctantly, they lay back down in the hospital bed.

Caretaker shakes their head. “No, Whumpee. I can’t do that, not until you tell me what happened.”

“What do you think happened?” Whumpee avoids Caretaker’s gaze and looks at the catheter trailing from their arm to the IV drip, fighting the urge to rip it out.

“But why? Why did you…” Caretaker takes a deep breath. “Why did you try to kill yourself?”

Whumpee shifts in the bed and looks at one of the floor tiles instead of Caretaker. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“I’m just trying to understand—”

“You wouldn’t. You can’t,” Whumpee says, looking at Caretaker. They blink back tears. “Nobody can.”

“I can try, and if I can’t understand, then I’ll still help you.” Caretaker leans forward, giving Whumpee a small smile—but they stretch their lips too far, and it looks more pained than anything.

Whumpee laughs dryly. Their throat burns. “There’s no helping me, Caretaker. The only way to—”

“Don’t say that!”

Involuntarily, Whumpee flinches, and they curse themselves for being so sensitive, so weak.

Caretaker looks down. “... Sorry, I didn’t mean to raise my voice. But I meant what I said, Whumpee. Even if I can’t understand, I’m here for you. I’m here to help.”

“You shouldn’t waste your energy on a lost cause like me.”

“You’re not a lost cause. You just need help.”

Whumpee clutches the white sheets of the hospital bed. “I was trying to help myself.”

“Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.”

Shutting their eyes, Whumpee rolls over onto their side and brings the blanket over their head. They’re sick of this. They’re sick of being treated like glass. They’re sick of being told the same platitudes over and over, sick of being mistreated, sick of being ogled at, sick of being laughed at—and most importantly, they’re sick of being alive.

Caretaker sighs. “Look, I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s true. We can work through this. This is all temporary.”

“Temporary? I’ve felt like this for five years.”

Whumpee touches their throat softly, remembering the burning sensation of the rubbing alcohol going down their throat and the agonizing havoc it wreaked inside their stomach. All that pain for nothing. Why couldn’t they have died? After everything they’ve been through, that’s all Whumpee wants.

A gentle hand comes to touch their cheek, and it’s only then does Whumpee realize they’re crying. Caretaker looks at them with all the love in the world. It doesn’t help. At one point, it would have—two or three years ago, that’s all they desired: to be loved.

Now, nothing can heal their wounds, save for death itself.

#whump writing #suicidal whumpee

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ceriseeclipse · 3 years

Text

Dark Skies

The Signs’ Face Claims

I had this idea for a while: Personification of the signs. I always wanted to write a story that presents the signs as people, with the same features and personalities that the signs are said to have, living their lives, interacting with each other. Here are a few ideas for each character, if I get to the actual story, the characters will develop a lot of course. Please inbox me your feedback, if you would be interested in a story as such.

Here’s an idea for the face claims. (the actors’ actual sun signs don’t have anything to do with their roles):

Henry Cavill as Aries, the impulsive soldier.Strong-minded and brave, but a hot-head, which makes him dangerous in a fight. He often throws caution to the wind and goes straight to the point, which he may regret later. He lives for today, is initiative and ambitious, lacks certain gentleness, humility and sense of social act, hurts people without even intending to. He’s restless, vital and always looks for new challenges and adventures. Deep-set eyes and dark eyebrows give him the severe, serious but handsome look. He’s not into love, but does like sex. He rarely gets attached to people, only lives for war and winning battles.

Zoë Kravitz as Taurus, the confident, self-sufficient, but sensitive girl. You can rely on her, she’s honest and respects good manners. Patient and cautious, she knows what she wants and won’t let anyone stop her. She keeps her feet firmly on the ground, doesn’t like to dream or wish, she strongly believes that if you want something enough, you have to go and get it. She’s practical and responsible, but easier to break than she’ll ever show. She loves strongly, and passionately, has a big, loving heart, but knows when to let go, she doesn’t put herself down for anyone. Her doe-like, big, brown eyes will make you trust her with your life. She is exactly who a woman should be, if you could say that, confident, strong, independent and intelligent.

Tom Hiddleston as Gemini, the sweet and funny, blonde, curly-haired sunny-boy. He can seamlessly change everything, from style, ideas to work or partner. He is easy to adjust to significant changes. Surrounded by a little nervous energy, he is brilliant but sometimes emotionally unstable. Being bisexual, he likes to sleep around with different people, but doesn’t really mean to intentionally hurt anyone, he just expects other people to take life and relationships as easily as he does. He’s humorous, energetic and cheerful, but doesn’t let anyone see his sensitive side, that’s why his mysterious way seems very attractive.

Andrew Garfield as Cancer, the typical sweet boy, who likes to play with fire and often gets burned. He can go from being in a great mood to suicidal thoughts in a second. His heart is easy to break and he doesn’t know how to get over it. Trying to bring an order to his chaotic feelings, he starts writing. For himself at first, but that’s how his talent as a writer gets discovered. It helps at first, but his vulnerable nature wants him to take revenge on those who hurt him, which starts to destroy him slowly.

Madelaine Petsch as Leo, the Queen Bee in Louboutins. She likes expensive clothes, always looks flawless and knows it. She appears even more confident than she actually is. As a struggling actress, her life hasn’t been the easiest. Trusting and a little naive, she’s often been used and lied to. She likes to manipulate people, but sometimes ends up being manipulated herself. Trying hard to hide her generous, forgiving heart, she thinks that the key to success is heartlessness and diamonds. Her brutally honest personality gave her the name of a “bitch”, which she enjoys at times, it gives her a painful kind of satisfaction to be hated, but admired at the same time. Her long, red hair perfectly matches her ever-red lips and green eyes, that roll so often. She enjoys her naturally good looks and knows how to use it for her best.

Jamie Chung as Virgo, the beautiful healer. She’s a doctor, she lives for helping people. But the sad truth is, she doesn’t always know how to help herself. Being a gorgeous, strong woman, she is full of insecurities, no one can understand. She is ready to sacrifice herself for others, even people she doesn’t know, because her own life doesn’t mean anything to her. Attentive, with great analytical skills, she seems to see everyone's personality through, she sees when somebody’s hurting, when somebody's lying, her eyes don’t miss out on anything. She loves to bring order into the chaotic life, and tries to make the world a better place by being considerate and organized. Being wealthy, she doesn’t like expensive and unnecessary luxuries. Taurus is her soulmate, but unfortunately, there are many struggles that come in their way. Their love is beautiful and innocent, but leaves them both heartbroken, more than once.

Shay Mitchell as Libra, the girl next door. She has always been a girl who went by unnoticed. A wallflower kind of girl as they say. She never minds, she doesn’t like to show off, doens’t like to shine. Simple clothes and sneakers, ponytail and barely any make-up, that is her every day look. She has a soft personality and knows how to handle troubles, a diplomat, religious, fair, justice has always been important to her. People usually think that she is a depressed teenager, but that isn’t true, life is going as she wishes it to go. She doesn’t like to be pushed, pressured, she prefers to leave responsibility to others. Sometimes, she feels a little basic, that’s all. But the girl will find her place in this world very soon.

Michael Ealy as Scorpio, the blue-eyed devil. Despite what people said, he isn’t all that bad. The often call him “the evil eye”, if your eyes meet, you always move first. He can kill you with a look, undress you with a look, send you to hell with only one look. He’s never easy, everything is important to him and he takes everything seriously. All around him is black or white, nothing in between. The only people he can call friends seem more like loyal servants. It feels like he never tells the truth, he’s mysterious to a fault and will never tell you his opinion about anything. Don’t do him wrong, he will never let you leave with it. He scars a lot of people. Not always intentionally, just by being himself.

Will Smith as Sagittarius, the short-tempered cop. He’s charismatic and respectful, a real fighter for justice. Straightforward, he will shoot arrows, he can’t leave anything unspoken. If you’re in the wrong, he’ll make you crack. He does have strong relationships with people, but only the ones who deserve it in his opinion. Quite tolerant, he will accept a lot of your flaws, but never cross a line, he can cut you out of his life in a second. He’s living on the edge, taking risks, jumps into danger, whether it’s about work or love. Being short-tempered, he gets angry fast, screams, even gets physical, but calms down fast and often regrets it. He does have a good soul, but not many get to see it. Mostly, all they see is a man fighting for the good in any possible ways.

Keanu Reeves as Capricorn, the lone wolf. He never really needed anyone. He was fine being alone. Growing up in an orphanage, he was used to it. Not knowing love, no one to care about. But still, he got through, fought for his degree, became a teacher, not even knowing what for. He doesn't really fall in love, he doesn't really get attached, he doesn't really need it. His good looks and seemingly cool nature attracts a lot of people, he’s interesting, mysterious behind closed doors. But no one really knows him, not even himself. At times, it feels like he's ready, to be a part of the world, to take care of people, but he struggles to believe that anyone would put up with him. He always was so ambitious, so determined, but he came to a point where nothing makes sense anymore. That's the moment he meets him. Better said, he reads his book. A book about retaliation.

Margot Robbie as Aquarius, the sharp-tongued beauty. She grew through struggles and insecurities, which turned her into this perfect human being. She was abused, betrayed and had to fight to survive, just to become a brilliant thief. She’s a woman who gets what she wants, with her intelligence and incredible looks. She considers herself a visionary, she has her ambitions and desires, she’s close to the spiritual world and has a great imagination. Overly dramatic at times, she knows her worth, and knows others better than they know themselves. People bore her quite easily, she expects mystery and entertainment from others. Sexually passionate, she suffers from lack of permanent feelings. Her life has to be a never-ending adventure.

Jared Leto as Pisces, the lost soul. He'a a musician, struggling with drugs and alcohol abuse. His curious and creative mind can't manage between his will to get inspiration and his addictions. He always needs more, whether it's whiskey, love or music, he can never stop. At times, it feels like he's at the end, that he can't do it anymore, but only one shot, and he's back, writing, singing, playing guitar. He falls in love with creative souls like himself, struggling, even dying. For him, it's always over. Every day, can be his last and all he does is singing, dreaming, he always took the path of least resistance.

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tungstenb · 3 years

Photo

OC Profile

I wasn’t tagged, but I saw @pigeontheoneandonly’s post and it looked fun. Tagging anyone who wants to do this---for real! Tag me! Talk to me about your peeps!

I’m going to answer these as of ME3’s end so I don’t spoil too much that hasn’t been revealed in SAtS.

General

Full Name: Petra Maral Shepard

Alias(es): Born: Petra Maral Nazari, though she’s also gone by Petra Nazarian (reclaiming the truncated -ian suffix)

Gender: Female

Age: 32

Birthdate: April 11, 2154

Place of birth: Arcturus Station

Hometown: None, though she often daydreamed in childhood/adolescence that she had family back on Earth who would take her in (having grown attached to the idea that her parents had family they didn’t talk about). Her mother is from the Pacific Northwest, and her father is Persian-Armenian; from this information, Petra took a special interest in researching what living on Earth would be like---the natural wonder to explore, all the imaginary cousins and friends she’d meet. It was a way to cope with the isolation of being a spacer kid. (Funfact: this is the origin of Liara’s hallucinations in SAtS 15; note the mentions of Douglas firs and the Ararat Plain.)

Spoken language(s): English... and whatever else was required. Learning languages was a sort of backburner hobby for her, so she never got around to making much progress---not for lacking of trying. Liara roasts her endlessly for how awful her Arlees is, but to be fair, Arlees is difficult as hell (as are all asari languages).

Sexual orientation: Lesbian

Occupation: Retired after the end of ME3; she’s permanently disabled given limited resources post-war. Being a lifelong patient and surgical guinea pig to Miranda isn’t something she wants, especially if it only results in marginal QoL improvements.

Appearance

Eye color: Gray/hazel

Hair color: Brown

Height: 5′2″ (and proud of it)

Scars: Gash through left eyebrow (from Akuze); large warp burn spanning from left collarbone/shoulder-ish area to waist (from her encounter with Benezia on Noveria); assorted others that I don’t bother drawing because drawing scars consistently is hard.

Favorite

Color: Dark blue

Hair color: ?? On herself? Just natural. On others I don’t think she has a preference.

Song: She has a high tolerance for annoyingly repetitive music and generally loves pop (from any culture) that’s easy to dance and sing along to. Aside from that, her tastes also probably trend fairly bizarre at times, e.g. she unironically loves meme music and parodies, etc.

Food: Anything that’s hot and filling. She appreciates food that’s self-contained, like dumplings and burritos.

Drink: Coffee, coffee, and then more coffee. She had some bad experiences drinking while younger---and suspects her father struggled with alcoholism---so she’s a teetotaler until she finds herself working with Cerberus (and leans into some very unhealthy coping mechanisms).

Have They

Passed university: Yes

Had sex: Yes

Had sex in public: ...technically yes.

Gotten pregnant: No

Kissed a boy: I want to say no, but... see “bad experiences with alcohol” above; this wasn’t consensual.

Kissed a girl: Yes

Gotten tattoos: Yes. I’m not averse to the idea that she has several smaller tats I just haven’t planned yet, but her most treasured one is her wristband/forearm Armali-style bonding bracelet tattoo.

Gotten piercings: No

Been in love: Yes. This is a touchy subject for her, since she tends to be all or nothing with her interpersonal emotions. It’s easier to feel nothing; Liara just caught her off guard.

Stayed up for more than 24 hours: Yes

Are They

A virgin: No

A cuddler: Yes. Peesh is what my bff refers to as a “spouse barnacle”; i.e., her love languages are “physical touch” and “quality time.” Liara doesn’t mind... usually.

A kisser: Bahahaha, I’d say making out is one of her favorite pastimes.

Scared easily: Nah

Jealous easily: Probably not

Dominant: If we’re talking in bed then not... particularly...

Submissive: More so than you’d expect, but I don’t think I’d specifically label her this way. I’d describe her as attentive. ¬‿¬

In love: Yes

Single: No

Random Questions (tw for self harm/suicide mention)

Have they harmed themselves: Yes. This is a plot point in LWLS Book 2 (for the ME2-era flashbacks), and something Liara references in SAtS Chapter 19: “She carved all her old scars back into new skin.” Petra doesn’t take her Cerberus resurrection very well, let’s just say; it’s unnerving being a palimpsest.

Thought of suicide: Yes

Attempted suicide: Not... yet.

Wanted to kill someone: lmao, she tries not to, but... sometimes it’s just gotta be that way amirite fellas?

Have / had a job: Yep. If we’re talking pre-canon though, then she just took up odd menial jobs around the ships her parent(s) served on. Her father especially was the type to be controlling just for the sake of being controlling, so she didn’t have many opportunities to follow her academic passions; if her parents caught her enjoying something, they usually took it away. Before her enlistment, she also had to devote an excessive amount of time to PT/healing and (failed) training after her botched L3 surgery---one she only consented to under duress.

Have any fears: She has problems with vulnerability, which is why she usually handles situations either with stoicism or inappropriate and unnecessary humor. Relationship-wise, it’s hard for her to reconcile how she fears being alone while also feeling deeply uncomfortable with being Known™.

Family

Sibling(s): None

Parent(s): Hannah Shepard, Artur Nazari

Children: None

Significant other: Liara T’Soni

Pet(s): Fish (dearly departed, RIP). I see Peesh as a dog person, though. Big slobbery dogs.

#petra shepard #pshiara #SAtS #LWLS

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omori-brainrot · 3 years

Text

The Only One Left

tws: suicide, emetophobia, self-harm, death, grief, alcohol mentions

After the worst neutral ending, Aubrey and Kel soon follow Mari, Basil, and Sunny. Hero is the only one left, and he’s struggling to live with that. But at least his college friends are there when he needs it most.

I’m so sorry but this barged into my brain and wouldn’t leave until it was written and posted.

When Hero goes back to school after the funeral, he hangs one of Kel’s old jerseys on the knob of his dorm-room closet. He needs something to remember his brother by, something to make him feel like he’s not alone. Of course, he’s not really alone. He’s still an underclassman, so he shares his room with Josh.

He’d gotten lucky with his roommate: they’d managed to reach the storybook ideal of not only getting along, but becoming friends. Still. He wished there was no one around to see him cry for hours over the jersey, to see him start favoring the snooze button over his morning classes, to see him sink deeper into himself until he was sure he’d never surface.

Josh had been good-natured about it, at least. He never pointed out the cutting classes when Hero despaired about his grades after the fact, and when Hero couldn’t bring himself to stop sobbing when Josh needed to study, he just put on headphones or went to the library without a single complaint or sign of annoyance.

Hero wonders if Josh knows how close he feels to dying too.

How everyday feels like tar is pulsing through his body, getting caught in his organs and weighing him down until it feels like he’ll never breathe again.

He tells himself that if he joined his old friends, he’d be inflicting the same pain he lived with everyday onto his college friends. That if he were gone, their lives would be shattered instead of his.

Get over yourself. They don’t care that much. They don’t even know you. You only met a year and a half ago. They were fine without you before then. And besides, you’re not the best company anyway. You weren’t there though to stop Mari from hanging herself. You couldn't see the signs. You weren’t there enough to stop Sunny and Basil from stabbing themselves the night before Sunny was supposed to get a new start. You should have reached out earlier. You weren’t there enough to keep Aubrey from getting into that stupid drunk accident. You knew she was drinking too much and too often in an attempt to make her world bearable, you should have done something. You couldn’t stop Kel from poisoning himself with all those chemicals in the bathroom. You knew how hard it was for him to open up about negative emotions without being prompted, and you knew he was so alone after everyone else left. You should have come back from college more often. Why would anyone still want to be friends with you? Why would anyone care if someone like you was gone?

When thinking about his new friends doesn’t work, he reminds himself of his parents. They’d already lost one child. They’d be devastated to lose another. He couldn’t do that to them.

It doesn’t matter. They’re disappointed in you anyway. They see your falling grades and talk about how you shouldn’t give up on your dreams just because of what happened to Kel. They don’t understand that your only dream now is to make this constant pain stop. Besides, what does it matter if this hurts them? They should have been there for Kel when you were gone. As soon as you think that, you feel terrible. Which only makes you want to hurt yourself more.

Still, something makes him want to keep trying for a little while longer. Whatever it takes.

Which is how he ends up sitting over the trash can, taking a flimsy plastic dining hall knife to his arms.

If he wants to hurt himself but doesn’t want to die, this is the best he can do. Besides, it’s a little past midnight after a Friday, so Josh is attending whatever gatherings a non-imploding person attends on a Friday night.

Hero supposes that he should feel worse that things have come to this. But with every sting he only feels relief, even when he presses hard enough for the knife to draw shallow lines of blood.

For once, he’s barely thinking about anything else. Even with the jersey casting a shadow at the corner of his eye. He could get used to this sense of mindless pain.

When the door swings open and the light flicks on at a much earlier time than expected, his first response is to flinch back. It’s a second too late when it occurs to him that she should be rolling his sleeves back down.

Josh runs over, gently grabbing his arms and keeping him from doing so. “Wait. Wait.” He inspects the wounds for a moment. Looking worried, yet relieved that the injuries aren’t serious, he locks eyes with Hero. “Are you okay?” Hero opens his mouth, searching for an answer, but Josh continues. “Wait, you don’t have to answer that. That was a dumb question. Of course you’re not.”

“Yeah.” Hero says under his breath. He averts his eyes to the side of Josh’s head. He should have been more careful. What kind of person gets caught their first time self-harming? No wonder he’s so useless.

“If you let me take the knife with me, I can get some wet paper towels from the bathroom to help you clean up.” Josh holds out his hand, eyebrows creased in concern but eyes wide with expectation. Hero hands the knife over, ignoring the pang of reluctance to stop.

Josh races out of the room, and Hero takes a moment to look at his own cuts. He’s surprised at how many there are. He’d stopped paying attention while he was doing it. However, none of them look very bad, with the worst only bleeding very lightly.

Josh comes back faster than Hero expected, and diligently gets to work pressing the paper towels to the bleeding cuts. Hero winces a little at the sting, but he doesn’t mind this. It reminds him of when he was a child and his mother would clean up his scrapes. He realizes with a jolt that he doesn’t want to go back to hurting himself tonight.

“I hope you don’t mind me prying, but does this have anything to do with what you were telling me a couple months ago?”

“About—” Hero swallows thickly. He can’t bring himself to clarify. Besides, what could Josh be referring to besides Kel’s death? “Yeah.” His voice comes out strained.

“I’m sorry.” They sit in silence for a moment. “Hey, would it make it better or worse if I got Michelle and Dennis? We could get ice cream and you could tell us about your brother. Dennis said that helped when his aunt died.”

He was sure he’d want to say no—heck, he couldn’t bring himself to go to his favorite classes easily. But ice cream sounded nice, and he’d never noticed it before, but he was aching for someone to talk to. There was only one issue.

“Isn’t it almost one a.m.?”

Josh waved a hand dismissively. “That’s no problem if you want to go. I know a great all-night diner.”

That’s how he ended up in a nearly empty Denny’s with a few casual friends.

“Of course he’d refer to Denny’s as ‘a great all-night diner’.” Michelle dips a fry in her chocolate milkshake. Hero smiles slightly at her, eating a spoonful of his hot fudge sundae. The coldness of the ice cream is soothing, and he feels just a little bit better.

“Yeah, Josh, did you think Hero’s never heard of Denny’s before?”

“Hey, you’re not one to criticize me here. We came here for ice cream and you got pancakes.” Josh’s voice is light with playful teasing.

“So? They’re dessert pancakes. And there’s a scoop of ice cream on them.” Dennis gestures to the scoop with a flourish. “What does that have to do with you treating Denny’s like some obscure local mystery, anyway?”

Hero laughs a little. It feels unfamiliar and distant, but at the same time, somehow… right. He’s glad to not be alone tonight. Josh smiles with him. His eyes are still tinged with worry, but he’d reassured Hero on the drive here that none of the others had been told about the self-harm.

“So, Josh said we’re here because you had something to get off your mind?” Michelle looks at him, her worry less intense but still noticeable, like the mechanical whirring of a fridge in the background.

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, poking at his sundae. How could he even begin to say what was wrong? Hero figured he should just start with the part that had been hurting him the most in the past months. “I don’t know if you remember my brother’s funeral a while ago, but…”

“You miss him?” Her voice is soft, gentle.

He nods, tears burning in his eyes.

“What was he like?”

Hero takes a rattling breath. “He really liked basketball. He played it every day after school. I don’t think he was all that close with anyone on his team, but he liked playing it a lot.”

“Is the jersey on your closet his team jersey?” Josh glances at him.

He shakes his head. “No, he just bought that one at the store. Sports clothes were like his default uniform, whether he had practice or not.”

Dennis nods slightly. “I’ve known people like that. I think they just practice so much it’s not worth changing clothes.”

A small smile tugs at Hero’s lips. “Yep, that sounds like Kel. Always on the move.” He glances across the restaurant at another one of the late-night patrons, someone about his age drinking a cup of coffee. “Honestly, I bet part of it was all the caffeine .” Hero wrinkles his nose, a strange mixture of affection and loss nested in the hollowness of his chest. “He drank an unnatural amount of Orange Joe.”

“I didn’t know anyone actually drank that.” Michelle takes a long sip of her milkshake.

“Small base of loyal customers, I guess.” A memory drifts into Hero’s mind, and for once he doesn’t push it away. “I can’t believe he kept drinking it after that hot dog competition. He won, but he drank so much Orange Joe afterwards that he threw up before we left the fair. He always said it was worth it, though.”

Michelle shakes her head. “Siblings.”

For a moment, Hero is reminded of a dozen other conversations he’s had about Kel. He’d tell his grade school classmates about a recent squabble, or something funny Kel did, and that’s what they’d say.

Then the stark contrast of reality hits him. This isn’t a petty fight that will be resolved in a few hours, or a story where nothing serious is wrong. He’s up at one am having this conversation because Kel is gone, because Kel will never win another game, will never drink more unhealthy quantities of soda, will never even graduate high school. He’s here because Kel was found dead on the bathroom floor, next to an emptied bottle of cleaning fluid, and Hero hadn’t done enough to stop him.

He puts his spoon down and lays his head in his arms. Everything feels so heavy. “I should have been there.”

“It wasn’t your fault—” Josh starts, but Hero doesn’t let him finish.

“Yes, it was!” A few of the other late-night patrons glance at their table, and he realizes he said that much louder than he meant to. Taking a shuddering breath, he continues more quietly. “I should have been there. I could have taken more time off school, he was more important than a few stupid assignments. I…” he has to stop to take another uneven breath. His voice is shaky, and he’s not sure how much longer he can speak before he dissolves into sobs, so he talks faster. “I knew he was having a hard time, and I don’t think anyone else could tell because he just acted like he was fine. If I had been there…” He breaks. The crying he was holding back can’t be contained any longer. His shoulders shake and his throat burns. He doesn’t even care if the other people in the diner are staring. Through a blur of tears, he can see his friends looking at him with concern, waiting for him to get it all out.

When he catches his breath, he forces himself to keep talking. He feels like he has to get this out, no matter how much it hurts, no matter if he has to look away from his friends to bear to say it. “He killed himself. And I wasn’t there.”

Michelle is the first to speak. “I’m so sorry…”

Josh puts a hand over his. “That’s horrible… I’m sorry you have to live with that.” He pulls his hand back. “You must feel horribly guilty, but I really don’t think it was your fault.”

“You… don’t?” God, he imagines he looks so pathetic right now.

“Yeah, I mean, you’re just a person. There’s only so much you could have done. You clearly loved him a lot, and I’m sure that meant a lot to him.”

“But it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t there enough.” Hero’s sure he sounds like a broken record, but it’s all he’s been able to think about in the months since Kel’s death.

“Dude, you can’t save everyone. You can’t hold yourself to that standard.” Dennis’s voice is gentle, encouraging.

Hero looks away again, fresh tears emerging. “If that was all it was, maybe I’d think you’re right. But it’s not the first time this has happened.” He picks up his spoon, smushing the unmelted parts of the ice cream as he speaks. “I looked it up and it’s called a suicide cluster, but everyone else in town just calls it a curse.” He wipes away the new tears. “It doesn’t matter what you call it, though. Everyone I’ve grown up with is gone.”

“Shit…” For once, Josh is at a loss for words.

Michelle shakes her head. “It’s still not your fault. The only person who’s life and mental health you’re personally responsible for is your own. The most any of us can do for anyone else is be there and hope that’s enough, but if it’s not, that’s not your fault.”

Josh seems to come back to himself. “Yeah, absolutely. I stand by what I said before, no matter how many people died, because the same logic applies each time.”

“Wow… thanks.” It hasn’t fully set in, and to be honest, he doesn’t fully believe it either, but hearing that someone else believes it makes him feel a little better. “I’m… I’m scared it will never stop. What if everyone I get close to just keeps dying?”

“I… don’t think that will happen.” Dennis shrugs. “I mean, no matter what your town says, you’re not cursed or anything. It won’t go on forever.”

“Yeah, I guess so. My brain just needs to catch up, I guess.”

“It will, eventually.”

Michelle tilts her head slightly to one side. “If you don’t mind me asking, who else did you lose? No pressure, don’t answer if it will make things worse.”

Hero shakes his head. “It’s fine, I came here to get things off my chest anyway.” He pauses for a moment. “Let’s see… first, there was my high school girlfriend. That was four years ago. Last summer, her younger brother and a boy we were friends with growing up died on the same night, and earlier this year, before what happened to Kel, another friend got into an accident.” He feels like he should be more emotional as he says it, but he just feels empty. Like he’ll never feel human again.

“That’s terrible… if you ever want to talk about any of them, I’d be glad to listen.”

“Thanks.” The missing emotion is already bubbling back up a bit, and he has to swallow back tears. “You know, I don’t think anyone’s really asked me about any of them before tonight.” He sighs. “I kind of wish they would, now. I really liked telling you guys about Kel.”

“He sounds like a great brother.”

Hero’s tears start falling again, but somehow it isn’t as bad as before. “Thanks, he was.”

#I'm so sorry Hero my brain said you had to suffer #but hey at least you get ice cream out of it huh #tw suicice #tw emetophobia #tw self-harm #tw s/h #tw self harm #tw death #tw food #tw grief #tw grieving #omori #omori hero #omori fanfic #omori neutral ending #omori post-ending #tw alcohol mention

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arigatouiris · 4 years

Text

remember... me? // nakahara chuuya x reader

Author’s Note: Being awol for so long could only mean I was drowning in Bungo Stray Dogs and am now a hoe for Chuuya and Dazai. No regrets. I’m on season three rn and I’m only going to go on and read the manga after this, so I’m just THIRSTY. Hope you like this!

Word count: 5k+

Pairing: Nakahara Chuuya x Reader

Summary: Ever since laying his eyes on you, Chuuya sensed a familiarity that almost suffocated him. The ever-growing sense of deja vu didn't disappear even as he had you locked in his arms, or even as he stayed away; there was no explanation to it, whatsoever. He wondered if love was an emotion that would constantly have him question every action, every thought, and every moment that occurred, but what did he know of love? But then again, what didn't he?

Warnings: angst to fluff, soft chuuya, mentions of sex, mentions of drinking alcohol, mentions of blood, swearing (because Chuuya ofc), slight amnesia? ah, you’ll see, ig that’s it?

Even before you fell in love, you had always known that it was a bad idea. As unfortunate as you were, every time you felt a close connection with someone, it ended negatively. Whether it was the first boy you had ever kissed, who had broken your heart ruthlessly by kissing another boy a few days later, or the first person you thought you were in love with who had broken your heart by declining your proposal. Love had always left a remnant of displeasure and fear in your heart, and even without these experiences, you were certain that the concept of love was scary as it was. It wasn't as if Nakahara Chuuya was any different. Well, at least, he wouldn't be.

As soon as you opened your eyes, you noticed how the sun blossomed right outside your window. You knew from the telltale signs of dawn that it was your cue to leave; getting dressed would take less than 30 seconds, and heading out the door would take another 30. In less than two minutes, you'd be out of Nakahara Chuuya's hair, and live your life without the worry of any unnecessary attachment sticking to your psyche. However, for a moment, you lay there, admiring the lone tear that leaked out of his left eye, and you mindlessly wiped it away before it reached his cheek. You wanted to smile at his apparent softness, something you knew he'd try to hide with everything he had. You quietly got off the bed, careful not to throw the covers off his naked torso, and just as you were putting on your pants, your eyes darted to a very asleep Chuuya on the bed, obviously naked from the events of last night, before a thought crossed your mind—oh, how you'd kill just to linger around, but duty calls. A person so devastatingly afraid of love had no business to wish for fluff, it was just roll-call. A sigh exited your lips as you traversed on, mindful not to lay any loud step to awaken the sleeping beauty. To Chuuya, you were someone he had met just the night before, you weren't aware of his opinions on one night stands, but you were of the firm belief that they had to remain just one. Goodbye, Chuuya, you thought before sneaking out the door, almost as easily as you came in.

When Chuuya woke up, he smelt you. He felt a long-forgotten feeling at the back of his eyelids as if he had cried—but Chuuya stopped doing that long ago. He never cried again, he had seen and lived through too much even to consider letting his emotions loose. Yet, why had there been that feeling lingering behind that morning? His eyes searched for any sign of you but when he found none, his heart sank; he was familiar with one night stands, but he hadn't imagined that you adhered to such rules so stringently.

Ah, f*ck, he thought, as he sat up on the bed. He let out a shaky breath before feeling his eyes burn once more. His left hand reached forward and wiped off an incoming tear from his right eye before he frowned. What the f*ck? He thought before groaning. Something must've gone into my eye, he thought; desperate not to think of you. You had left behind your smell and as people say, memory and smell are intertwined. However, Chuuya didn't know that.

A short while after his shower that morning, Chuuya's phone rang indicating that he was needed elsewhere. The stupor that he had been transported into was over, and the feeling that he may have forgotten something had to be buried.

"Yeah?" Chuuya grumbled, ignoring his aching stomach; he knew he was forgetting something, something almost vital to his existence and identity, but his common sense reminded him that post-sex emotions can be overwhelming.

"Oh, rough morning, Chuuya-kun?" Mori's voice from the other end did little to ease his growing uneasiness.

"What is it, Mori-san?"

"I'm starting to worry about you. Chuuya-kun. You disappeared last night and just left. Regardless, your private affairs are your own, after all. I need you to look into something."

Took him long enough to come to the damn point, "What is it?"

"There's a large collection of ammunition that the mafia's stored by the bay. Rumor has it that someone's discovered that location and is intending on... borrowing our merchandise. I can't have that happen, you see. It's our produce, after all."

"Ah?! You can send someone else for something so small! Why can't you send the Black Lizards or something—"

"Oh, Chuuya-kun! I'm asking you because I know I won't have to ask again."

Chuuya hated taking orders from someone else, but he liked to believe he held some amount of agency in these areas. Letting out a long breath, Chuuya ended the call once accepting what needed to be done. It was simple enough, considering he didn't have anyone to kill or torture for information. As long as this meant he could work alone, Chuuya was glad. His life had reached a certain blissful limbo ever since Dazai's disappearance, not that he was complaining. Walking over to his hat, which was gracelessly laying on the floor, he felt the familiar smell reach his nostrils again—your smell, to be precise—and he almost froze as he reached to pick his hat. A sense of deja vu burned through his veins; strangely, these moments were occurring far too many times for him even to count. Some days, Chuuya could sense mornings repeat themselves, and nights disappear. Days would sometimes come to a standstill and sometimes, he'd lose them entirely. Time was breaking itself down rapidly, and sometimes, it grew numb.

Chuuya then did what Chuuya did best and ignored the entirety of it before letting his legs carry him to his next destination; he had always been a journey first, destination later type of guy, but Chuuya had mellowed down through the years. He wasn't the same free-spirited, arrogant 15-year old—he was now a man.

On reaching the bay Mori had mentioned, Chuuya's eyes narrowed when he spotted members of the Port Mafia having already been posted there. If people are here, then why'd Mori-san tell me to come here? Chuuya walked toward them before tapping a seemingly large man on his shoulder and waiting to hear from him.

"Ah, Chuuya-san! Thank goodness you're here!"

"What the f*ck's the hold up? If our guns are here, then just relocate—"

"We'd do that, but... there's a deranged person inside who's locked themselves in there! I think they've got an explosive and that could jeopardize everything! The guns, the dock, uh... Mori-san will—"

"Shut up, will ya?" If this was already annoying him, Chuuya could only wonder what the rest of the task would do. "Did you take a look at this deranged person?"

The man shook his head, "N-Not really. They've been here all morning, in fact."

"Oh? No one's seen this person get in?"

"I don't think so—"

"Tch, useless." Chuuya turned toward the entrance of the building and noticed how the shutters were closed.

"Also, one more thing, Chuuya-san," the man admonished, "There was a letter that was slipped out of the shutter. It was addressed to you."

This got his attention. Addressed to me? That's why Mori-san sent me here. Chuuya took the slip of paper before opening it, and on it was written with a neat cursive — 'I'm willing to speak to only Nakahara Chuuya, not anyone else. You do not know my ability, so if anyone approaches the building apart from him, I'll blow this place up.' A smirk landed on his face at the seemingly suicidal note that this person had written, and half of his mind wondered if it was Dazai who had played this ridiculous scheme. Letting out a breath, he waved his hand before walking toward the building and standing right in front of the shutters.

"Alright," He said loudly, "Open the damn shutters. It's me. Nakahara Chuuya!"

When the shutters did open, Chuuya stepped inside without a second thought; once he took close to six or seven steps inside, the shutters closed right behind him, keeping the light away. His eyes didn't waver, though. He had spotted the person in question's silhouette before the light left the room.

"This is mighty stupid," Chuuya said, laughing, "Blackmailing the Port Mafia? You're some idiot, aren't ya?"

"It isn't blackmailing, really," Came a familiar voice, and Chuuya froze. "It was a bad calculation, is all. I got a tip that there were illegal weapons here and I wanted to find out myself if that was true, but little did I know..." You stepped out of the shadow, with a sweet smile plastered over your face, "...that the Port Mafia was involved. By the time I could think of a justification, I trapped myself here and willingly gave myself to you."

It took him a couple of seconds to register what to say. He wasn't always thrown for a toss, Chuuya was sometimes quick-witted, but you seemed to have that annoying wit that reminded him of a certain suicidal moron. Your smile was infectious. But then again, so was the plague.

"You're not very smart, are you?" Chuuya countered with a straight face.

You only tilted your head in that annoyingly sweet way and said, "It wasn't a problem last night, was it?"

Chuuya's face brightened at the sudden recollection of your interactions from the night before. He turned his face away from you, not before regretting the action since that caused you to laugh at his sudden change in behavior. Chuuya wasn't shy, he didn't have a shy bone in his body—but, Chuuya could be put in awkward situations that made him feel bashful. Once your laughter ceased, he noticed how sullen your expression got suddenly. A dim look of hesitance plastered all over your face and there it was again—the deja vu—he recalled someone having written in a book he had once read that deja vu was simply a remembrance of the future. But then why had your facial expressions struck a chord in him the way that it had? Letting out a sigh, he pulled his phone out of his pocket before dialing the one person who could end this.

"Mori-san? Yeah, it's me. The issue's solved."

As soon as he placed his phone back inside his pocket, Chuuya chose to accept what he was feeling right then. Yes, it had been a one night stand with you, but something had been altered in the due course of time that he had spent with you. Ever since he laid eyes on you drinking alone in that bar, wine that he knew was cheap and low-class, ever since he had offered to buy you wine that you swore you'd love more than the cheap stuff you were drinking, Chuuya knew that interacting with you was a poison that he willingly swallowed, as if his life was dependent on it. Your quirky smirks, the way your eyes crinkled at the pressure of his gaze, the way you licked your lips after tasting the wine he had recommended, the way your eyes widened at the tenacity of the flavor, and the way your eyes met his, just a moment after, and a smile crawled its way to where a surprised look was—Chuuya was quite aware what this feeling was.

But, you had gotten out of bed hours before he could open his eyes. You had run away from the possibility of Chuuya getting to see those very reactions from you again. If you had denied him those experiences in the future, could Chuuya even ask them from you? It felt deeply insulting that you didn't choose to give them to him yourself, but for some reason, Chuuya didn't mind taking another step forward.

"What is it? You want me to repay you for saving my life?"

Chuuya scoffed before straightening his posture. "That's right. You owe me."

Your eyes twinkled at the teasing tone of his voice, "Oh? And what is it that I owe you, Nakahara Chuuya-san?"

"A date," He said, almost too quickly, knocking the air right out of you, "I want a date."

You were staring at Chuuya as if you were a blind person staring at the sun for the very first time. You weren't just surprised at his blatant honesty, but you were surprised that he had outright asked you out as if it were some demand. There was no hint of hesitation lodged in his voice, but that was Chuuya; he never hesitated before doing something he was sure would result in success. You had to give him more credit than that, honestly. You would have honestly laughed if your heart wasn't accelerating like a fawn running for its life, but at the same time, you were glad. More or less.

"I'm... surprised."

Chuuya scoffed before turning around to leave, "Yeah, I don't like it when I wake up to an empty bed. If we f*cked last night, then I'd like to know it was stellar. Or I'd rather it doesn't happen."

If that's the premise, so be it, you thought, a soft smile etched on your face. A smile Chuuya had seen many times before but simply had forgotten. When you walked out of there, no member of the Port Mafia followed you or even gave you a stink-eye, you were left to wander on your own. However, a hand gripped your wrist just as you were about to leave—your eyes widened to see Chuuya's intense gaze burning yours.

"Not a word to anyone about this."

It took you a second to realize he was talking about the ammunition and not him asking you out. When you blushed right then, you were glad he didn't spot it; or if he did, he didn't make too much of it. There was no need to say anything more, you knew when to meet him and what time as well. Just as the previous night. Chuuya never had to wait three days to know if someone was interested; Chuuya took what he liked because, for the most part, it definitely liked him back as well.

Unlike what most people believed about Nakahara Chuuya, he hated being angry. Even though he sported a constant frown across his face that he seemed to carry with pride, anger was quite rare for him to carry around with it. Anger made him feel vulnerable, dangerous—in a way that he didn't like; it deprived him of control, agency, dominance; it was a paralyzing emotion that rendered him helpless. He didn't need anger to get anything done—in fact, Chuuya was beyond that. However, that night, when he waited two hours for you to show up and you didn't, Chuuya felt a different sort of anger.

An ire born out of devastating humiliation was no ire at all. It was a rage nestled in a dark place, reminding him of the Corruption that he desperately wished to forsake. Chuuya not only felt humiliated for being stood up, he felt a deep, growing sorrow—a sorrow that didn't involve tears or screaming but silence, which was the worst indicator. Quietly, he left the bar where he had first met you and walked out only to notice that it was raining. One of the things he prided about himself was his ability to deduce things quickly—sure, he wasn't as witty as Dazai was, not that he'd ever admit that, but he was smart where he needed to be. Recalling details about you that most people would have forgotten seemed simple not because he was as talented as he thought he was, no, it was because you were impossible to forget. A drug that he just couldn't shake off.

His legs then carried him toward an area that seemed so familiar that he felt a wave of nausea itch at his throat. Chuuya clawed at his collarbones to stop the feeling from spreading but the nausea had reached his head and he felt as uncomfortable as when he had too much wine in a single night, on an empty stomach. Reaching a particular door that screamed at him for some godforsaken reason, Chuuya didn't bother knocking; the confidence bubbled inside his chest alongside the nausea. He spotted you on the couch, a bottle of wine in your hands—the wine he had recommended to you the night before—and your eyes widen at his sudden appearance.

"Chuuya!?"

"You f*cking stood me up—"

"How did you remember where I lived?"

Perhaps it was your choice of words. He was always good at guessing what people meant from the words they use, it had always been a certain gift he carried with himself. However, Chuuya didn't care right then. The ire rendered him blind. He rushed to you and knocked the glass off your hands, having it spill all over the carpeted floor before grabbing your collar and pulling you close. He was seething but for some reason, just the sight of you—surprised and quite possibly drunk from the wine—burned down his ire as if it were embers sparking off a tree trunk on a rainy night. Your silky robe slid off his hands with ease as he let you go, before darting his gaze away from you.

"Chuu—"

"I don't f*cking understand it either, alright?" He said, eyes stuck to the spilled wine on the floor. "I don't understand what this is, I don't understand why I can't let it go. I've had sex with women whose names I don't even bother to remember, but I can't forget your stupid f*cking face, or your stupid f*cking smile or the way you annoy the crap out of me. I can't forget how you'd rather drink cheap wine at the store and drink the wine that I f*cking recommended to you in secret, so I know there's something there, alright?!"

"Chuuya, I'm sorry—"

He looked at you with a deep frown, "What is it, then? Was the sex bad? Was it me—"

Your hands sprung to his face and it hit him again—the wave of deja vu—the feeling of your skin against his; it was intoxicating. He breathed in deeply, trying to recollect where he had smelt you before for it to have become so deeply rooted in his mind.

"How is it..." You began to mutter something under your breath but Chuuya's hand lifted your chin and forced you to meet his gaze, "Chuuya, I... I'm sorry. It's not that. It's not any of that. You're amazing. You're... I love you."

His eyes widened. Words that he normally would have run away from suddenly felt like home—he swore he had heard them before. He had heard them, from you, a long time ago and the smell of it resonated with the way you carried yourself. Apricots and honey, a smell so utterly natural yet devastatingly intoxicating, Chuuya was certain that whatever it was had to be love; because if it wasn't, then he didn't know what love was. Moving in, Chuuya's lips captured your own, and your hands quickly reached his hair before pulling him closer as if your life depended on it. A lovely trick designed by nature, Chuuya used it to silence you from uttering words right then. There was no need for words when action spoke so loudly. It didn't take long for his hands to reach your neck, pasting your body to his; and for this to lead further to a place of no return. Not that you minded, of course.

When Chuuya woke up, he smelt you. There was no long-forgotten feeling, there was no remnant that he desperately needed to remember—there was just you. You were breathing beside him, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, looking as peaceful as he had ever seen you; a sight he believed he had seen many times before. The intensity of which made him wonder if this was what people meant when they said soulmates existed; perhaps, he knew you in a past life, and had reunited with you in this one. Whatever it was, he felt content. His hand reached to brush a strand of stray hair off your cheek before noticing you inch closer toward him, blinding him with your scent again.

As established before, Chuuya was good at guessing what people meant by the choice of their words. He instantly remembered something odd that you had let loose the night before, something that made him wonder if there was a reason why he felt so intensely for you. Reaching forward and placing his hand at the back of your head, he pulled you to his neck, feeling your arms wrap around his naked chest. Chuuya's gaze fixed at the wall behind you before trying to decipher just what you had meant by 'How did you remember where I lived?'

A second later, you stirred before looking up at him and he cocked an eyebrow at your emotionless stare.

"God help me..." You said, "You're so pretty."

"Don't call me pretty." He argued, and you swore he could kill you with his morning voice and you'd be glad.

"Hey," He began, clearing his throat, "What did you mean by... what you said yesterday?"

"That I love you? Aw, Chuuya... Don't you know what that means?"

"No, you idiot. You asked me how I remembered where you lived. Why would you ask me that unless I..." His eyes widened. "Unless I somehow forgot..."

"Wrong choice of words, I guess. Forgive me, I was down three glasses of wine before you got here."

Chuuya laughed at your words right then before pulling you closer, feeling more content with your explanation than the gnawing suspicion that raged inside his brain. He wondered if love was an emotion that would constantly have him question every action, every thought, and every moment that occurred, but what did he know of love?

But then again, what didn't he?

Blissful days were cursed, or so he believed; Chuuya noticed how quickly they passed. He could, on some occasions, watch the days as they passed, exiting his body and seeing himself interact with the everydayness of things. The only thing that brought him life was to return home to you. Even with the ever-growing blissfulness, Chuuya didn't malinger. However, he couldn't shake off the feeling that every word that exited your mouth was a red herring—something that you were deviating from a fact that he had missed. He hated feeling like he was missing an important detail, but each time you smiled at him or stole a kiss, Chuuya was taken back to the very moment he fell for you.

Suddenly, as if his mind was taking him somewhere else, he recalled something. He didn't know if it was entirely a made-up scenario or something that happened in a past life because if it happened in this one, he'd have remembered. He spotted you, stumbling in front of a broken wine bottle, the owner of the store screaming in your ear—and you were trying to sound convincing. Chuuya watched himself walk over to you, and turn to the owner of the store before quickly understanding what had happened. You had dropped an expensive bottle of wine, and you had no means to pay for it; it caused him to chuckle a tad bit before throwing some money (or more) at the owner, causing you to turn to him with wide eyes. "It's alright," he had said to you, "I've got money."

Chuuya watched as he walked away from you, but missed how you had removed one of your shoes and thrown it at the back of his head. He froze before turning to you with a deadly expression, but instantly blinked when he noticed how heavily you were blushing before thinking, 'Holy shit, she's cute,' before having you walk over to him and scream—

"What do you think you're doing, pretty face?"

Chuuya stared at you as you chopped onions without shedding a single tear; he had no clue how you had learned to art to do so, but boy, was he glad you knew how to cook. You reached forward before using your wrist to wipe off a tear from his eye, scrunching a bit before realizing the onions must have done it. You giggled before turning back to them, chopping them quietly. That wasn't it, Chuuya thought, narrowing his eyes. That wasn't how he met you. He met you at the bar, where he spotted you drinking cheap wine and he walked over to you and recommended something else. He didn't meet you in a wine store—he didn't have a shoe thrown at the back of his head. Yet... His hand reached the back of his head and his fingers grazed the area where the shoe supposedly landed, It feels like it actually happened.

He shook his head before entwining his hands around your waist, before kissing the back of your neck. He wasn't usually so affectionate, but you didn't mind. Every time Chuuya touched you, it left scorch marks that were welcome; it was passion breathing fire, reflecting the color of his hair, the aura of his heart.

"What're you thinking?" You hummed, unaware of how intensely Chuuya was watching you.

"Nothin'."

Blissful days were cursed, Chuuya knew this for a fact. He could watch happy days pass by with him barely breathing, existing, feeling; but the bad ones lasted ages. He remembered walking into his own home one day, drenched in blood, covered with soot and mud, the urge to feel human contact was strong just then. He knew he could call you, he knew that he could rely on you especially since you had said the words 'I love you' to him over and over again, despite him having not said it in return. He wondered if that bothered you, he wondered if that made you want to leave him but you made no sign so far that you were displeased. He watched you like a hawk, after all, with that growing suspicion that drowned him on nights like these. He rang you in a moment, before feeling the phone vibrate next to his ear, his eyes ghosting on a dark patch in front of him. He needed your hands, your body, the smell of your hair; he needed the familiar apricot and honey to cover his nostrils whole. He needed you, just before asking you why you lied.

"Chuuya? It's 4 a.m., what's—"

"I need to see you."

You were quiet on the other end, wondering if he had figured it out. He must've, you thought, a bitter smile formed on your lips.

"I'll be there in—"

"No," He wasn't going to risk it, "I'm coming to you."

Your eyes glanced all over Chuuya's bloodied appearance before hearing the sound of your heart break—it was a soft sound, like a twig snapping under the weight of a stone. Your heart fell as he gave you his hat and removed his coat before you threw it into the wash. You led him to the bathroom, having him strip, and let him sit aside while you filled the tub. You knew he was watching you, you knew he was going to tell you the very same thing he had always told you.

"We need to stop this."

You didn't know why, but you laughed. Every single time that it had happened before, you had cried and asked him for an explanation, or even threw things at him—but this time, you laughed. This time, you desperately tried being away from him until he magically appeared at your home, shocking you to your very core at how your powers were slowly slipping off of him. You turned to spot Chuuya's eyes fixed at your form before a nasty frown formed on his face. You touched his cheek before whispering, "The bath's ready."

He sat in the water before letting out a groan, indicating that this was what he needed before he could reprimand you and leave you once again. However, just as you were about to leave, his hand gripped your wrist, another action that shocked you, and he stared at you.

"Wash my hair."

You nodded wordlessly before following through with it, wondering where this was going. All the other times, Chuuya would leave instantly after saying those words. All the other times, he'd ensure that he wouldn't see you for another month or so—before realizing that he had never met you. You weren't a cruel person, you were just desperately in love, having uncovered an ability that you thought could save you from torment. Yet, it presented more than it took away. One of the things you admired most about Chuuya was his hair, of how soft and luscious it was despite it being coated with blood on many days. You admired how well he took care of himself on the days that he could, and how he'd managed to put on that responsibility to you as well. You only began taking care of yourself because of him; and in a way, he had saved you.

"I..." Here it comes. "I didn't meet you for the first time at the bar, did I?"

You were quiet. But, silence at an occasion such as this was admittance.

"I've met you for the first time an exact three times. When you broke the wine bottle, and when you were scrambling around during a case, that's when I learned you were a journalist. And then... And then the bar,"

You didn't answer.

"I was chasing this guy, this..." He leaned his head over and sighed, "...this guy who ran off from the Port Mafia with some documents or some shit. He... He found you, and I... I thought I lost you," You couldn't tell if he was angry or just overwhelmed, "That's when I left you for the first time."

"Chuuya..."

"I left you one more time after. I can't remember everything..." His eyes met yours, steady and intense, "...and that's thanks to you, isn't it?"

"Chuuya, I—"

"You have an ability," He said, finally, "An ability to make people forget you."

You sat there, behind him, with your hands sunken in his locks. Your heart was rummaging against your chest and you bit your lip enough to draw blood; if he asked you why what could you say? Was there even a reason why you did what you did? Despite having him forget you for a total of three times, he had somehow magically returned, somehow asking for more and staying longer than he did before. It was almost a curse than anything else. The more you used your ability on someone, the less of an effect it would have each time. It was only a matter of time Chuuya figured things out. And now he had.

After the bath, he silently wore a change of clothes that you surprisingly had. He wanted to ask if this was from the first or second time he had met you, but he didn't. He turned to spot you standing a few feet away, before meeting his gaze.

"You did that for me, didn't you?" He was expressionless. To see Chuuya this way broke your heart. "So that it doesn't bother me."

"Also because I genuinely wanted you to stay away from me." You let out a laugh.

"I didn't f*cking stay away, did I?" He demanded, taking a step toward you, "No matter what stupid trick you used, I kept coming back!"

"You were the one who left first." You snapped, gritting your teeth.

Chuuya bit back his words for a moment before turning away. This action always melted your heart, when Chuuya turned away from you because you had stolen his words away.

"Things are different now, aren't they?"

"Yeah," They were different. He didn't leave. "Yeah, they are."

Silence followed a deep revelation such as this. His eyes didn't leave yours and you stared right back—it almost reminded him of the shoe-throwing incident. He chuckled before earning a frown from you.

"For being played around like that, I should be the one glaring at you." He scoffed.

"Chuuya, I love you."

It was at that second he remembered something. He believed you'd leave him because he hadn't told you he loves you or even bothered to say it back even when you had said it multiple times before already. However, at that second, he remembered that the first person to say those words between the two of you was Chuuya himself. I'm not going to leave, he thought before letting out a breath. He kissed the side of your head before wrapping an arm around your waist.

"Don't f*cking do that again." He scolded you.

"I could have stayed away from you each time, but you're like... a disease." You laugh.

He rolled his eyes before raising his voice, "Who're you callin' a disease?! If anything, you're a goddamn manipulator. F*cking stupid."

He rested his head on your shoulder before smelling the apricot and honey attached to your skin. It was just as intoxicating as the first time.

"I ain't leaving so..." His voice was muffled with how his mouth was pressed to your shoulder, "...I love you too."

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det-loki · 3 years

Text

poison & wine pt. seven

You think your dreams are the same as mine

warnings: suicide, blood/gore, angst

pairing: detective loki x fem reader

word count: 2,294

A/N: i am so sorry for the delay in updates, writers block slapped me in the face. this is a heavy chapter with a heavy subject, please be gentle and honest with yourself before reading. don’t force yourself. enjoy! xx

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You sat in the interrogation viewing room as Loki sat in front of you staring at Bob Taylor through the glass. You weren’t getting anywhere questioning him, so in a last resort attempt, you had him draw a maze in hopes to find the little girls. This had been going on for three hours. You shifted in the office chair slowly, your joints cracking at you angrily for sitting in this position for so long. Neither you nor Loki had moved much in the past three hours, watching as Bob drew his maze and listening to him hum as he did so. You could feel the waves of anger and frustration rolling off of David as he stared ahead with his chin in his hand beside Officer Carter.

The door opened behind you, Captain O’Malley leaning against the door frame, “How long has this Bob Taylor been workin’ on this map?”

“Three-and-a-half hours.” Loki quickly muttered before turning his attention back to Bob and the pages of maze drawings sprawled messily in front of him.

“And you two think this is gonna lead you to the bodies? Cause I sure as shit don’t.” O’Malley had been bothering you this entire case, creating unnecessary roadblocks for you and Loki, and David had had enough.

“Do me a favor, Captain. Go fuck yourself.” Loki snapped at O’Malley, who had no immediate reaction, he was used to this from David. “We weren’t getting anywhere questioning him.”

“That looks more like a maze than a map.” O’Malley walked closer to the window as he spoke, David getting more and more irritated with him.

“He’s got a thing for mazes. If you don’t have anything constructive to say, I’d appreciate it if you’d just fuck off and let us do our jobs.” You spoke up from your perch in the office chair, snapping at O’Malley, who was not used to this attitude from you, it was usually David. This caused a twinge of worry to set on Captain O’Malley, if you were starting to lose it then that meant something bad, and that scared him more than he liked to admit. You were struggling to not fly off the handlebars along with David.

Captain O’Malley nodded his head once, “I’m goin’ home. Call me if somethin’ happens.” Loki huffed loudly as O’Malley left, the door clicking as it shut. You and Loki continued to watch Bob draw his mazes as Officer Carter sipped on his coffee quietly, the only sound filling the room was Bob’s broken humming.

Loki snapped up from his rigid position, chair rolling back, snapping his fingers at Officer Carter to give him the key card to the interrogation room. You watched silently as Loki exited the room, too exhausted to question him. You adjusted in your seat, moving to the edge of it in case you needed to jump up.

“All right, it’s done now.” Loki snapped at Bob, his voice wavering and you knew that something was wrong, David hit his breaking point. You knew David like the back of your hand, and you knew the past few hours had been a lot for the both of you. You stood from your seat, ignoring the questioning look Officer Carter sent you, stars exploding across your vision as you stumbled out of the room.

You opened the interrogation room door to hear Loki continuing to yell at Bob, asking him what he was drawing. Taylor’s nose continued to drip blood on the paper and the table, mixing with his tears, multiple pages of drawings spread across the table haphazardly. You looked at David, trying to meet his icy eyes to get him to reel it back in, but his eyes stayed trained on Bob in front of him.

“Tell me what you’re drawing.” Loki waited a moment for a response, his arms crossed in front of him, sleeves pushed up his forearms, bunching at his elbow. More of his tattoos were exposed on his forearm, revealing more of yours and his history that had normally been hidden by clothing. The air in your lungs evaporated as Loki lunged for Bob, throwing him back against the backrest of the chair, hands intertwined tightly in the collar of Bob’s shirt as Bob cried out, “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can! Yes, you can!” Loki yelled in his face before throwing him forward against the table, the sound of an already broken nose cracking once again filled the air. You stepped forward quickly, hands grabbing at David’s bicep to try to pry him off of Bob.

“David, let go. You have to let go.” Your attempts were ignored as Loki continued to yell at Bob, his voice bouncing off the walls of the interrogation room. Behind you, the door flies open with Officers Carter and Wedge coming in and dragging Loki off of Bob. You shift in front of Bob, trying to calm him down as you see him reach for Officer Wedge’s gun.

Your eyes widen as you yell out, “Gun!” Loki and Carter draw their weapons as you continue to stand between them and Bob, pleading for Bob to listen to you and lower the weapon. You knew that two guns were being aimed at you, but you didn’t care, you were desperate. You also knew that if you made it out alive, David would be mad at you for standing in the middle of crossfire. You didn’t care anymore. At all.

“Bob put the gun down, we can figure this out.” You pleaded with Bob as he held the gun to his chin, Loki behind you, yelling at you to move. Your head snaps around briefly to David, telling him to put the gun down. Bob was scared and two guns being pointed at him wasn’t helping the situation. Your hands are thrown in front of you in a calming gesture as you look at Bob with a gun aimed at his head. Tears pricked your eyes as you continued to plead with him. He couldn’t kill himself, both for the sake of you and this case.

Everything happened in slow motion. The last thing you saw before dropping to the ground was Bob pulling the trigger with a shaking finger. Blood and brain matter splattered across the window behind him and pooled near you on the ground. Your ears were ringing as you felt Officer Carter nudge your shoulder and ask if you were okay as you nodded yes. Bob laid lifeless in front of you, limp. You were sure this image would haunt you forever, another nightmare added to the list. You sat up slowly and turned to see Loki run a shaking hand across his face, “Fuck. Go call a fuckin R.A.!” Officers Wedge and Carter ran out of the room, David standing with hands over his face and you on the ground, numb.

Your hands were covered in blood. You don’t remember how the blood got there , all you know is that the continuous scrubbing under the scalding hot water in the locker room isn’t working to get the red staining off. As you continued to scrub your hands raw, tears spilled over and down your face. You had just seen someone kill themselves, lost a lead to the case and you felt hopeless. Two little girls might be dead because of you. You felt arms snake around your waist, pulling your burning hands from the water. You struggled against David as you cried, his embrace tightening around you as you turned, your hands pounded weakly against his chest as you sobbed. You buried your head in the crook of his neck, apology after apology being whispered into your ear, David's hands clutching at your sides desperately so he didn’t fall apart.

You felt hot tears on your neck, shifting in Loki’s arms to see him crying. You brought your red trembling hands to his face, wiping away the tears with your thumb. You hadn’t seen David cry since the funeral, the worst day of your life. Neither of you said anything, just savoring a fleeting moment of peace in each other's arms before you had to go face the real world.

The next day, you sat in O’Malley’s office silently, Loki next to you with the maze drawing from Bob at his feet, he was in a place mentally far from here. He was hunched over, finger gliding over the paper, trying to find a way out as O’Malley poured whiskey into a glass for himself. He offered a glass to you and Lok but both of you declined, O’Malley combining both glasses in his own, not hiding his love for alcohol. You stared blankly at the ground, head pounding as O’Malley spoke, goosebumps raised across your arms, a chill ran through your body. The little girls were probably dead. You had seen a man kill himself. You haven't spoken to David more than 5 words at a time since the breakdown in the locker room. You encompassed the word ‘broken.’

“Well, at least I don’t have to worry about losing you two to PSP. Forensics is finished with the guy’s place, we’re gonna deploy the cadaver dogs. Look, kid, we can’t always save the day. All right? We’re just cops, janitors. So you lost this one, all right?” O’Malley had no idea what he was saying. He had no idea what this case meant to you or David. No one did.

You could feel O’Malley look between the two of you, “You two have gotten too involved with this case. You both look like hell.” You wanted to laugh. You did feel like hell. You had on one of David’s sweaters, opting for comfort, your hair messily pulled back, not having the energy to do anything more. Makeup hadn’t touched your face in a week, you’re dark circles engulfing your eyes. You definitely looked like hell. David was no better, his dark circles made him look sickly against his already pale skin, his stubble casting shadows on his face that made him appear much older than he actually was. Maybe you two were too invested, however neither of you said anything.

O’Malley huffed and looked at David, “Look, you want fulfillment, you need to find a girl, you know, start a family, have some kids. Let it go.” Your world shattered at O’Malley’s words. David brought his hands to his hair, tattooed fingers raking through it as he did his best to not lash out at Captain. He did not know the weight his words carried. Your little girl couldn’t just be let go. The complicated dynamic you and David had couldn’t just be let go. You and David were connected on a level deeper than anyone would ever be able to understand, the pair of you being present for every moment, the good, bad and the gruesome ugly. Foster homes, detention centers, halfway houses, grimey apartments, the police academy, even the fucking Chinese resteraunt, everything connected to you and David from the past flooded through your mind.

You followed David out of the room, not daring to speak to him after what Captain had just said to him. You knew he was furious. His personal life was always a touchy subject for him, considering his past. You were also a touchy subject. No one knew about you and David’s relationship; you were the one good thing he had and he didn’t want others to tarnish it by knowing. You were his home, able to be himself and unleash his inner demons with no judgement. You had seen it all first hand anyway, where there was David, you usually weren’t far behind. Unbeknownst to you, David wanted everything O’Malley had said with you, a family, the white picket fence house, even a dog. He didn’t think he was good enough for you to have those things.

You sat at your desk as David sat at his behind you, waves of anger rolling off of him yet he hadn’t said a word yet.

David finally snapped. You were counting the seconds, he made it to 47. He lashed out, shoving everything off of his desk, sending his computer monitor and papers flying. He sat at his chair for a moment, hands clasped in front of him, his body collapsed in over itself as everyone in the station turned to look in his direction. You watched from your chair only a few feet from him as he grabbed for his keyboard. He raised it above him, bringing it down against his desk twice, sending keys flying as the keyboard hinged against his force. The keyboard dropped from his hands, clattering on the carpeted floor as David brough a shaking hand to his face.

Looking down you see a key from the smashed keyboard. Leaning down, you pick up the key and stand, bringing it over to Loki. He had a picture of the corpse from the priest’s basement in his hands along with the maze drawing, studying it with an intensity that scared you. Your eyes dart from the pictures to the toy RV from Alex's room that had been knocked onto the ground. You looked between the two pictures, the significance clicking.

The maze drawing and the pendant on the corpse matched. Perfectly.

David’s phone ringing brought you back as he fumbled for it from his black shirt pocket. You could vaguely hear the person on the other line, “Hey, it’s Rich. We found something.”

You knew you and David needed to properly talk, and you definitely needed to call your therapist, but it had to wait. You needed to solve this, even if it tore you from the inside out. Even if it killed you.

tag list: . @lexie-wayland @whew-oh-em-gee @winterlavenderskysworld @buck-this-nasty @heeyirenee @pinkpunkdynamite @eleventhdoctorsangel @multiyfandomgirl40 @thanossexual @speedybonkuniversityzine @booklove103 @curly-q3 @msfarr88

#detective loki #detective loki fanfic #detective loki fanfiction #detective loki imagine #jake gyllenhaal #jake gyllenhaal fanfic #jake gyllenhaal imagine #jake gyllenhaal x reader #prisoners #Prisoners 2013 #hugh jackman #fanfiction #detective #angst #poison and wine

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creative-type · 3 years

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shoot the moon

It started because someone in Doflamingo’s family thought it was funny. Law didn’t know who, and he didn’t particularly care. Caring took energy he didn’t have, but on bad days when his joints ached and his cheeks burned with fever, neither did he have the strength to resist.

Which is why he found himself sitting at a table playing hearts.

He watched bleary-eyed as Baby 5 dealt the cards (it was Buffalo’s turn, really, but he didn’t know how and Baby always liked feeling useful) not entirely certain of the rules and thinking that the crew had officially taken the crew’s ranking system too far.

At least it wasn’t spades. Card games were stupid by themselves, trying to play with a partner would be intolerable. As Baby 5 dealt, Law couldn’t help but think how his limited time on this planet would have been better spent studying, or practicing his marksmanship, or doing anything other than this.

But all those things took energy he didn’t have. Not today, and soon not ever. There was a bitter, wrathful part of him that knew that even that was pointless, the knowledge of his own mortality a poison just as potent as the amber lead.

A sharp elbow dug at his ribs, Buffalo drawing Law from his dark thoughts with the reminder that he had to pass his cards, idiot. Law silenced him with a withering glare, but took two cards from his hand at random and passed them to his right. They’d already worn him down enough to sit at the table. Might as well play their stupid games.

Baby 5 led with the two of spades. Each turn Law laid down his card without really paying attention, and since no one yelled at him, he supposed he didn’t break any rules. Not that he cared.

The sound of idle chatter washed over Law without penetrating his conscious mind. Someone had snuck a bottle of rum from the storehold, and the burn of the alcohol sliding down his throat distracted from his misery. For once no one was being too loud, and he was able to drift in a pleasant haze.

When the round finished, Baby 5 scooped up the cards and began to shuffle while Buffalo tallied the score. Law had the most points, which must have meant that he was winning. The next hand was dealt. Then the next and the next. Law kept playing even as the pleasant buzz shifted to nausea churning in his belly and a headache pounded like a sledgehammer behind his eyes. But he didn’t care, and he didn’t stop, because this was the closest thing to happiness he’d known since Flevance.

Towards the end of the game Law noticed he’d been dealt a particularly bad hand. Too many hearts, the little clusters of red of red blending together like streaks of blood. On the pass he received two more, and some distant part of his mind wondered if he did bad enough, if the game would finally end.

This time Buffalo led. Just as before, Law played his cards without thinking, by now so miserable he couldn’t have concentrated even if he wanted to. After the round ended, it took him a long time to realize the table had gone silent. Too long. Law snapped back to reality, hyper aware and anxious. “What is it?” he demanded.

“Dude, you shot the moon,” Buffalo said.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Baby 5 pointed to the pile of tricks set in front of him. “You shot the moon and you didn’t even know? ” It was hard to tell if she was impressed or disgusted while Buffalo eagerly explained that by taking every heart and the queen of spades, he had somehow just managed to win the game.

“Trafalgar Law, you’re the luckiest person I’ve ever seen.”

In an instant, everything good about the night vanished into smoke. All consuming, white-hot fury erupted within Law, and only Doflamingo’s law against hurting family kept him from attacking. Lucky? What about his life had ever been lucky?

Law didn’t yell, he didn’t have the strength to scream, but his death-glare was enough to send Baby 5 scurrying behind Buffalo.

Hours later, Doflamingo found him collapsed in the training yard, scalpel in hand and surrounded by dummies shredded with a surgeon’s precision. And if he noticed the pool of blood-tinged vomit hidden in the corner, he didn’t mention it. The boy’s health would sort itself out in time; right now his hate was enough.

Corazon died, and Law’s soul died with him. He didn’t understand how he could keep on living when everyone he ever cared about was gone forever. Death would have been preferable to the continued suffering of his existence.

But that wasn’t an option, not with the cosmic scales left unbalanced. Law knew. It was the only thing that mattered. He would kill Doflamingo, or die trying.

As time went on, he became increasingly convinced his life was a cosmic joke. He didn’t understand how the universe would keep giving him people to love and care for, only to rip them away time and again. His family. Corazon. And now, potentially, his crew.

He was older, now, if not wiser. His heartstrings had played this requiem before, each step of his dance with Death intimately familiar. Law left them behind knowing he would lose them one way or another. He couldn’t bear the thought of leading them to their ultimate destruction, so he chose to bring Straw Hat for his suicide mission instead. He seemed crazy enough to try, and the D in his name did not go unnoticed.

But he didn’t die.

And Doflamingo fell.

And suddenly, he was on his way to take down an Emperor.

There was no time to process the insanity of his life, but on nights when he couldn’t sleep, Law tried. The pain of loss was just as sharp and heavy as it had ever been, but somehow, despite it all, Law was glad to be alive.

It shouldn’t have happened, but Luffy led him to believe in miracles. Life had dealt Law the shittiest hand time and again, but even after he’d stopped trying he’d somehow managed to play his cards just right and leave the game ahead.

Maybe it was something about that D initial. Maybe it was luck or fate or the stars conspiring to make his life as interesting as possible.

Or maybe that’s what happened when you shot the moon.

#creative-type writes #one piece #One Piece Fanfiction #trafalgar law #trafalgar D. Water Law #behold one of the few times I came up with the title first and then had to write the fic around it

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dirty-holy-things · 3 years

Text

The Space Between (your heart & mine)

Chapter 16 has been posted to Ao3, and below to Tumblr. Catch up on chapters 1-15 on Ao3.

Notes: 18+, explicit!!!! This chapter is the ‘burn’ of the slow burn we’ve been developing for 15 chapters. We’re finally there, for those of you who have been long-time readers. Please note, I’ve never written this much smut before. It’s A LOT, and I mean a lot of this chapter. M & F, oral receiving and penetration. Unprotected sex for the sake of storytelling, but please wrap it before you tap it IRL. Praise kink, because Din and Reader need validation. Some fun and adventurous positioning and activities. Also, very romantic ending.

Words: 9.1k update, 75.7k total.

If you would like to be added to my taglist, please fill out this form!

Having stepped into the dimly-lit club, your eyes took a moment to adjust and take in the scene around you. Low-slung leather chairs and booths were scattered throughout the dark room, their occupants being some of the more fearful individuals in the galaxy. These cruel and cunning men, however, were in varying states of disarray due to the large amounts of alcohol and spice that were brazenly displayed on the tables they were seated at. In addition to the smoke-stained booths, there were several raised platforms that held women who were twisting themselves around metallic poles, their bodies scantily clad as they danced sensually for the crowd of drunken onlookers.

And that was where you would find yourself shortly after being allowed into the club.

They had assumed you were one of the dancers.

A large, burly man grabbed you by the arm and you instinctively threw your elbow back into his gut at the sudden intrusion of your personal space, your arm connecting with a solid expanse of hard muscle. “C’mon, babydoll, don’t be so sensitive,” the man grumbled, hauling you towards the unoccupied pedestal. “Do your fucking job and don’t bitch about it.” He tossed you forward into the velvet-covered platform, and as you caught yourself on your hands, you understood that you had about three seconds to decide what you were going to do next.

Do you confront the man about the mistaken identity, and risk causing a scene? Risk losing the bounty, or possibly getting yourself hurt once they realize you’re not meant to be here?

Or do you get up there and find a way to make this unexpected plot change work for you?

Credit due to @knivesareout for the perfect moldboard and for her undying love for me and my fic.

Also tagging @soyelfuegoquearde for beta’ing my project and giving me all of the constructive criticism and positive feedback that has helped me grow as an author.

And my love @emmikmil / @bdavishiddlesbatch for her never-ending love and enthusiasm for Din and Reader.

I love you all so very much.

Chapter 16 - Read More

The things that you had heard in passing about Corellia were too kind in their assessment, and they had been harsh to start. There was a filmy scum that lingered in the air and clung to clothing, surfaces, even to the air in your lungs. The industrial planet was bleak and grim, and you were almost beginning to regret your offer to assist Din with this bounty; would it have really been so bad to hunker down here in the ship, sleep for a while, maybe even pick up a book in town to keep you entertained? However, you also knew that if you had to spend an undetermined amount of time cooped up in the ship, without Din, trying to manage the kid on your own, no view except that of a dirty industrial cityscape, being constantly terrified that Din could get hurt again — you would probably lose your mind. So you decided to step out into the grisly world of Corellia, Din at your side.

The towers of steel and metal that warped up towards the sky were certainly a departure from the organic beauty of Bardotta that you had grown accustomed to during the last job. You tried to find something appealing in the architecture, your eyes scanning the horizon, and came to the conclusion that there was certainly... dedication and precision in the construction, and that was something that you could appreciate. You needed to find something agreeable within it all.

The kid was sleeping in his cradle, the wampa having been tucked under his short green arm, left to rest in the ship during the course of what was predicted to be a short job. Din navigated the two of you through the dirty, narrow streets of the city and away from the shipyard. He didn’t seem to notice or mind the filth too much, as he stomped onwards through puddles, mud, trash, splashing it onto his clothing and armor — and being a bit more hygienically minded, you took the extra effort to keep yourself clean as you sidestepped what could reasonably be avoided. It was unnecessary self-preservation as the cleanliness of your boots probably didn’t matter much in the grand scheme of things, but it was just in your nature.

Din was leading you both to a well-concealed speakeasy, known for hosting an intriguing assortment of characters that preferred to avoid the prying eyes of the galaxy, and partake in... questionable activities. Din had made contact with an acquaintance who was able to provide you with instructions for how to enter into the underground club, including the password that was changed frequently specifically to avoid situations like yours. It was mean to be a safe haven for the rich and powerful; there would be drinking, music, smoking, gambling, bloodshed, prostitution, drugs, fighting, and that was on a quiet night. Gods only knew what else the oncoming evening could hold. You weren’t particularly worried, however, knowing that the towering bounty hunter that stalked along in front of you would keep you safe if worst came to worst. And you didn’t have any significant worries about this job, the nature of it being simple and familiar.

The setup of this job was similar to the one you had helped with back on Canto Bight; you’d flirt with the target, have a drink, bat your eyelashes, and draw him away from the crowd with a thinly veiled proposition. It wasn’t rocket science, luring a man; there were quite a lot of things in life that were harder, like navigating a ship or even firing a blaster. And yet Din seemed incredibly nervous and stressed on your behalf, holding enough worry for the two of you. While you had grown used to periods of silence from him, this one felt different. This one had an undercurrent of tension that rolled off of him in waves, so thick you could almost see it — or maybe that was just Corellia, and you were reading too much into this.

The sun was beginning to set along the horizon, reflecting beams of orange and crimson and gold throughout the city’s structure; you remembered how Din had shared with you that his favorite color was orange, and you wondered if he was finding some sort of beauty in this moment as well, or if he had even noticed. He hadn’t said anything to you for quite some time now, having navigated you from the outskirts of the city and its shipyard, to the bustling urban center that housed a variety of species and droids that were frankly quite rude. You had been bumped into on more than one occasion without so much as an ‘excuse me.’ You figured you had just grown used to the niceties that were afforded on a planet like Chandrila, and reminded yourself that you had chosen to leave that place in favor of travel — which would include a change in attitudes and social customs. You still made a point to apologize to those you collided with though.

Having seen the industriousness of the capitol city here on Corellia, you were increasingly intrigued by what this speakeasy experience would be like. Din had informed you that it was a popular spot for those working with Crimson Dawn, the Hutts, the Pyke Syndicate — violent, ruthless individuals. The target for this evening was a Twi’lek who had been working for the Hutts, who had ‘mysteriously’ disappeared with a large shipment of spice; it was suspected that he had run off with it for himself, feeling brave enough to try and hide. It was a stupid choice, even you knew that — while Orron had never tell you much about the spice dealings, you still knew that double crossing the Hutts was borderline suicidal. The sheer confidence and conceit of such a bold move was intriguing, that couldn’t be denied; but hiding from the Hutts was nearly impossible, and his bold stupidity would be catching up with him today.

You had worked to prepare yourself adequately for the evening, having brought along a pack of supplies that would transform you into an appealing bait prior to your arrival. You had correctly assumed that dressing for a party before trekking through the city would be a poor decision, and you applauded yourself for your foresight, seeing the grim state that your clothing was now in. The sun was descending lower into the skyline and you knew that you were getting close to the destination, based on the projected timeline for the job.

Picking up the pace so you were now walking in stride with Din, you tilted your head in the direction of a small shop that would likely afford you some space in a fresher to change and finish preparing. He nodded silently in agreement and you disappeared inside, finding a young boy with mousy blonde hair sleeping behind the counter. He was startled awake by your unexpected entrance, and you tossed him some credits to accompany your question about where you would locate a fresher. He pointed to the back of the store wordlessly and you thanked him before disappearing.

You closed the door behind you and locked it securely, before stripping out of the clothes that had accumulated a fair amount of muck in the past hour’s journey. You wriggled your way into a sparkling silver dress that just barely skimmed your thighs, admiring the shimmer of the sheer fabric as it clung to your body. The dress choice had been intentional, the versatility of it appealing; you knew it would sparkle like diamonds when caught by bright lights, and would set off a soft, illuminating glow in low light. Either way, eyes would be drawn to you. You slid on a pair of white boots that propelled yourself a good four inches higher into the air, and added a few pieces of jewelry to round out the look. You pulled your hair out of the buns you had tied it up in, as it now fell around your shoulders in casual waves, and you put on just enough makeup to highlight your features. Assessing that you looked enticing enough, you slid back into your dark grey coat that would hide your glamorous appearance from the city-dwellers until your arrival at the club.

As you stepped out of the shop to rejoin your companion, you readied yourself to say goodbye for the evening, trying to shift your perspective to the job at hand rather than the part of you that was incredibly sad to be parted from Din. Even knowing that the separation was only temporary, you would still be eagerly looking forward to being reunited. Staring up into the visor of the helmet, you stepped closer to him and placed your arms on his hips, wanting to pull him in closely but also understanding that it may not be an appropriate choice as you were out in public. He placed a gloved hand on your shoulder and another on the small of your back, the helmet coming to rest against your forehead.

“Do you have the blaster? And the knife?” He asked, his voice sounding constricted even with the modulator. You were getting better at deciphering that which the modulator tried to hide.

“I’ve got the knife, but the blaster doesn’t really go with this outfit,” you joked, reassuring him that you were protected. “This’ll be easy, I promise.” You whispered, trying to build up his confidence and sense of security. “Just like last time. We can get the job over with quickly, and then go home.”

You heard a soft sigh come through the modulator as he nodded. “I’ll see you soon.”

“I’ll see you soon, Din.”

***

Getting into the club had been ridiculously easy, especially once the guard at the door saw the way that you were dressed. For being so secretive of a club, you were shocked at the ease with which you were able to sneak in; you assumed that they just didn’t worry too much when a beautiful young woman turned up at their door. Din was going to take more of a… back-door route into the club, dispatching the guard who protected the service entrance, and he would find a discreet place to hide and watch out for you and the target. You had kept the knife, and the comm that was connected to his, and you would alert him when you had lured the Twi’lek away from the party and the crowd. Din would then join the two of you, disarm and cuff the target, and then you would go home to the Razor Crest. It was a simple plan, with a hefty payout for an evening of easy work.

... Or so you had thought.

And that was where you would find yourself shortly after being allowed into the club.

They had assumed you were one of the dancers.

Do you confront the man about the mistaken identity, and risk causing a scene? Risk losing the bounty, or possibly getting yourself hurt once they realize you’re not meant to be here?

Or do you get up there and find a way to make this unexpected plot change work for you?

You bit the inside of your lip to the point of bleeding as you quickly came to your decision. You brought yourself up onto the well-worn, blood red platform and into the blisteringly hot stage lights that were turned on you and the other dancers; taking a moment to pretend to bask in the cheers and lewd hollers that followed your entrance, you tried to get a feel for the rhythm of the music that you would now have to dance to.

Fuck, let’s hope they’re high enough to believe this.

Closing your eyes, you sank into the rhythm and melody of the music that the band was playing, and you began to move your body in time with it, trying to put on a show despite never having danced before a day in your life. This would be an awfully convenient time for some Force abilities to show up.

You had no such luck, but the drugged and drunk patrons didn’t seem to mind much; you were there for their amusement and pleasure, to fuel their egos and sense of power. You were also just one of several dancers; subtly turning, you observed the others so you could try and copy their fluid and sensual movements, the muscles in your thighs and core being worked in ways that you had not experienced before. You kept an eye out in the room for the target, and eventually you spotted him sitting about three booths away, a group of nasty looking mercenaries at his side.

Alright, let’s get this over with before my legs give out.

Batting your painted eyelashes at him, you winked at the Twi’lek and blew him a kiss before turning your focus back to the dance that you were trying to pull off.

The band changed songs, and the other dancers kept going, adjusting to the new tempo and you assumed that’s what was expected of you as well. You wondered when this would end, when you would have an opportunity to get this night over with — your legs were burning as you stretched, bent, spun, flexed in different and new ways, all while trying to maintain some semblance of decency — you didn’t want anyone but Din to look at you how these men were.

Keeping your focus on the target, you saw the Twi’lek man gesture to the burly man who had brought you up here; a quiet conversation took place during which he pointed directly at you, and then you witnessed the Twi’lek hand the man a stack of Imperial credits.

He was buying you.

It was a departure from the original plan, but then again everything about this night had been. The original plan had been left in the dust, and you just hoped that Din would be able to keep pace with the changes. Following the men’s transaction, you watched as the Twi’lek disappeared through a hallway into a private room, and the large man made his way to the platform you had been brought to. Coming to a halt in front of you, he grunted something entirely unintelligible over the sounds of the music and the crowd, but the meaning was not lost on you. Your services had been bought.

You climbed down from the platform, the glow of the hot stage light leaving you, and you sighed in relief; the man pointed in the general direction of where the Twi’lek had gone and you wordlessly took your cue to join him. Slinking your way through the tables, you ran your hand along the knife that had been carefully concealed, hidden underneath your dress and pressed against your ribs; you were suddenly very grateful for Din’s insistence that you carry it. You then retrieved the small comm from the bosom of your dress, having cleverly hidden it there; you pressed the button on the side once, twice, three times, alerting him that you were moving and the final phase of the plan was in action.

You arrived at the end of the hallway to find the door to the private room; it was one of many discreet doors, but this was the only one that was cracked just slightly to indicate to you where to go. Feeling your heart start to race, you hoped that Din would be close behind you, as the thought of being alone with this man for an extended period of time was admittedly quite terrifying; the thought that he had bought your... services, and would be expecting you to engage accordingly, made your skin crawl. The nervousness that you hadn’t felt previously was starting to catch up with you, and you had a bit more understanding of why Din had been as concerned as he was.

You could feel an acidic, stabbing pain of nervousness in your gut as your feet carried you closer and closer to the dark walnut door. Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, pushing that nervousness and fear away, you knocked softly on the door to indicate your arrival. You stepped into what was a surprisingly clean and relatively quiet room; it was free from the colorful and flashing lights of the rest of the club, instead being dimly lit with candles that illuminated comfortable-looking furniture, and a table with a bottle of sparkling wine.

You turned your gaze to the Twi’lek in front of you; he wasn’t unattractive, but the fact that he had the audacity to try and purchase sex from a woman — no, he wasn’t even purchasing sex from a woman, it was from a fucking pimp — was nauseating, and the smugness that rolled off of him threatened to make your nose turn up in disgust. Forcing aside your personal assessments, you smiled at him and took a seat next to him before pouring you each a glass of wine. You knew you needed to focus on playing your role and getting the job over with.

Taking a sip of the wine you had poured, the carbonation tickled your nose and you giggled instinctively, not accustomed to the sensation. The man took it as an indication of interest, however, and his hand moved to your upper thigh, pushing the hem of your dress to the side. He downed the rest of his drink quickly before turning to place his other hand on your shoulder — and then his body was moving closer and closer towards yours, and your heart pounded, your head screamed at you to get the fuck out of here, where is Din, fuck, should I kill this guy?

Right at the moment that you had moved to make a grab for your knife, the heavy wooden door you had walked through opened quietly and you breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the beskar that glowed in the lamplight. The Twi’lek kept his hands where they were on your body, but turned from you to speak to the intruder, growling, “Hey buddy, get the fuck outta here, can’t you see we’re busy?”

You winced and concealed a laugh, knowing that while this man may not die tonight, he would not be feeling too great once Din was done with him. The door closed and the three of you were concealed from the party, contained in the privacy of the room together. Before the man had time to touch you any further, Din reached out to grab the Twi’lek and roughly hauled him off of you, only slightly throwing his body into the glass table that shattered on impact.

You didn’t need to see Din’s face to know that he was absolutely livid. Having been removed from the unwanted grasp of the Twi’lek, knowing that you and Din were both safe, there was a part of you that got a sort of thrill from the protectiveness that Din displayed for you. It was also shockingly and undeniably attractive watching him rough the guy up, and your biological, hormonal response to the sight caught you a bit off guard.

The Twi’lek was unconscious, but thankfully not dead; after having been thrown through a glass table by your protector, he was... quite easy to disarm and handcuff. After Din had thoroughly secured the situation at hand, he stomped over to you angrily, the force of his steps echoing around you, and you could feel the rage and possessiveness that was positively boiling underneath the armor. “Are you alright?” He asked brusquely, pulling your scantily clad body into his heavily covered one.

“Yes, Din, I’m fine — things didn’t go exactly to plan, but I’m—“

He cut you off as he brought his hand down to cover your eyes— surprised, you started to recoil on instinct, until you heard the click of his helmet being removed; and then his lips were on yours, kissing you greedily and intensely in a way that you had never experienced before. Instinctively, your hands reached out to pull him closer into you and you were hit by an absolute tidal wave of need for him. You bit down on his lip, an animalistic drive taking over your body, and he growled underneath you. “Fuck,” he grunted, pulling away from you but keeping his hand securely over your eyes. “Fuck, fuck, not here — get you home —“

You weren’t sure if he was talking to you or not, but you whined as your body screamed out for more contact, more attention than what you were receiving. You heard the helmet click back into place and your chest deflated, knowing that you would not be getting what you needed; at least not yet. His hand moved away from your eyes and you saw Din standing in front of you, breathing heavily and roughly. You clearly weren’t alone in your own desires, but Din at least had the foresight to know that this was not the time or place.

He wordlessly turned to grab the unconscious man and haul him out, being rougher than you had expected as the man’s head knocked into the door frame with a thud. You followed along behind him, trusting him to know what he was doing despite the adrenaline and the hormones that were rushing over you both like Naboo’s waterfalls. He navigated you carefully out of the speakeasy, until the two —no, three— of you were back into the cool, muggy evening air of Corellia. You saw a guard had been dispatched by Din at the back door, and a M-68 Landspeeder that was presumably stolen was waiting for you. Din lifted the unconscious body into the back seat and allowed it to slump over before he was then reaching out to grab you, his hands planted tightly on your waist as he lifted you up, as though your weight was nothing for him, and set you down into the passenger seat of the speeder before climbing in next to you.

The journey back to the ship was blessedly short compared to the initial journey into the city, thanks to Din’s questionable acquisition of a vehicle, but it was just as silent as the day’s earlier journey had been. You weren’t sure of what was going on in Din’s head, but you knew that you were aching to get back to the security of the ship and to be able to be alone with him. You felt excitement blooming within you as the Razor Crest came into your line of sight, but Din remained maddeningly silent.

He got the limp body securely sealed into carbonite with impressive speed, before picking your tense and wanting body up and out of the vehicle. Much to your surprise, he didn’t set you down on the ground, but rather carried you up the ramp and into the ship you both knew as home.

You could feel the adrenaline and desire pumping through your body as you felt Din’s strong arms wrapped around you, carrying you gently but with a force and determination that was a bit nerve-wracking. You were fairly certain that you could hear his heart hammering against the beskar chest plate that you were pressed against, and his gloved hands just barely dug into your skin, making your heart race in anticipation for what was undoubtedly about to come next.

The lights in the cabin of the ship had already been turned off, and your sense of anticipation heightened with the deprivation. Din takes his helmet off in the dark. He placed you down unexpectedly, your feet fighting to keep you upright, and that coupled with the darkness was momentarily disorienting. He stepped closer into you, his frame eclipsing yours as you were backed into the wall of the cabin and you could feel the steel paneling against the skin that your silver dress had left exposed. The cold steel coupled with the desire that was burning through you, radiating from your core, gave you an intense sensory overload that left your chest rising and falling rapidly as your breaths became more shallow, a soft whine arising from you.

Your hands reached out, grasping for any bit of Din that they could reach, and you somewhat forcefully dragged him into you, using his body to pin yourself against the wall of the ship. You heard a grunt come through the modulator and the fire inside you crawled up your chest as you told him in no uncertain terms to “Take that off, right fucking now.”

You heard the helmet drop to the floor not a second later, with no regard for its integrity — but honestly, it was beskar, you’d be more worried about the integrity of the floor than the helmet — and the impulsiveness of the gesture only fueled the scorching fire that was running through your veins, setting every nerve ending alight. Finally having been freed from the restrictiveness of the helmet, Din growled your name under his breath as he leaned in to kiss you, echoing the fierce desperation with which he had kissed you in the speakeasy. His arms wrapped around you in a vice as his hands grabbed your ass, and he licked into your mouth, the heat and the taste of his tongue making you moan underneath him reflexively. You kissed him deeper, needing to be as close to him as possible — the cool beskar pressing into you made him feel even more domineering, powerful, but you resented its presence and the way it barricaded you from Din’s body.

“Never doing that again — not going on another job with me —“ Din grunted, his words partially lost in the heavy, bruising kisses he was trailing up your neck. “Saw you— saw you dancing, saw that motherfucker pay — should’ve killed him —“

God, the possessiveness and the protectiveness was fucking hot. There was something within you that reveled in his intense desire to protect you and keep you to himself. Memories of the fresher came back to you, how he had called you his good girl, and the prospect of hearing those words spoken into your soft skin again made you achingly wet for him. You sighed into him, your body melting underneath his touch as he kissed and harshly bit at the soft skin of your neck, loving the way his teeth felt scraping and sinking into you. It felt as though there was a storming, angry ocean of desire and desperation crashing into you ceaselessly, so overwhelming that you worried you might drown in it before Din would be able to give you what you needed.

You tangled your hands into the hair that you noticed was growing even longer, the curls feeling so real and so human, despite the forced disconnect of armor and anonymity. “Din,” you sighed, tugging his curling hair gently, trying to pull him out of the smoldering anger he was experiencing, and back into this moment with you. You didn’t want to hear any more about the job, the club, any of it — you wanted to hear Din tell you that you look so pretty taking his cock, you’re his good girl, your pussy feels better than anything in this galaxy.

“My girl,” he whispered roughly, digging his fingers into your exposed skin, the warm baritone of his unfiltered voice setting off butterflies — and for a moment you wondered if he could actually read your mind.

You nodded in agreement —you’re his girl, always — whimpering as one of his hands moved from your backside to roughly cup your breast; you felt the aged leather of the glove against your skin and realized he was all too clothed in comparison to your exposed form. Your dress had shifted to bunch around your waist as Din had pressed you into the wall, progressively revealing more and more of you to him. You reached out to grab his gloved hand, bringing it up from your chest and to your flushed face. He paused for a moment, waiting to see what you were doing; and then you brought his hand up to your soft mouth, gently biting down on his thumb and pulling the glove off with your teeth. The taste of gunpowder and leather lingered on your tongue, and there was some small piece of you that got a thrill from it.

It had been an experimental move, one that you weren’t sure how he would respond to, but the groan that echoed through him shot your adrenaline and confidence sky high, knowing that you made that happen, knowing that you were giving him what he wanted. And although he had you pinned against the wall, you still tried valiantly to remove some of the layers that separated you — you needed to feel his skin against yours, needed to be able to kiss him all over, wanted to taste him, wanted to feel him in new ways.

He took your cue and backed up slightly, allowing your chest the room to expand with much-needed deep breaths as he rushed to pry the armor and equipment off of himself, each thud and clang of beskar on the floor sending stronger and stronger waves of heat through your body; you wondered if this is what it was like to catch fire under the unforgiving suns of Tattooine.

You heard something soft and distinctly not-beskar land next to the two of you, and assumed that he was finally beginning to work his way out of his underclothes. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his pants and yanked him back towards you forcefully, needing to feel the heat of his body pressed against yours. You could feel the defined muscles of his abdomen, the assorted scars that scattered his frame, the broad shoulders and thickly muscled arms; you kissed down his neck and to his chest, biting down harshly and then soothing the area with your tongue, loving the way that he writhed and moaned against you as he held you against himself.

Your hand moved down from the wide expanse of his shoulders to palm at the rock hard erection that was unfortunately still barricaded by Din’s pants; and as you curled your fingers around his cock, Din growled and gathered the sheer fabric of your dress in his hands, pulling it down rapidly and aggressively, leaving you to try and extricate your arms from the delicate straps before he ripped it entirely off of your body. Eventually shimmying yourself free of the dress that had blessedly remained intact, you felt the pile of tulle and sequins fall to your feet. You kicked the garment away from you, a subtle hint to make Din distinctly aware of how exposed you now were. You pulled at the rough utility fabric that concealed the lower half of his body, that concealed his throbbing erection that you so desperately needed to feel within you — and Din stepped out of the clothing, the two of you breathing heavily at the amount of skin to skin contact you now shared; you wondered if he had ever been this bare, this exposed, with anyone before.

Although it was dark within the cabin of the ship, you knew each other’s bodies well, having spent several nights sleeping together, and your previous interactions during the shower having brought you closer than ever before. Your breath hitched in your throat as you had a sudden feeling of nervousness; you couldn’t understand why you were suddenly anxious, as this was something you had wanted for so long — but apparently you weren’t the only one with some nerves. Din’s breath shook as he pulled your body into his, whispering your name. “I don’t know that the bunk will be, ah... comfortable, or, you know, enough... space.”

That was a fair consideration, remembering how close you slept next to him; it wouldn’t offer enough space for anything other than sleeping.

An idea occurred to you; you leaned forward and kissed his shoulder, before you pulled away from his grasp, the chill of the cabin catching up with you as you crossed to retrieve the well-loved blankets from the bunk as you placed them onto the floor, creating a makeshift bed for the two of you. “Problem solved,” you whispered, grabbing his hand and guiding him onto the softened surface with suddenly confident steps.

He laughed gently, and you could feel a smile working its way to his face as you kissed him. He swung you up into his arms with ease, and you wrapped your legs around his waist as he carefully brought both of your exposed and nude bodies down to the floor. You were acutely aware of how his muscles flexed and contracted as he held you closely, his sculpted and scarred body feeling incredible as it laid on the floor next to yours. Now, being able to effectively move and maneuver yourself around him, you were emboldened to try something you had never done before, feeling confident as your adventurous ideas had been well-received so far.

Your soft and gentle hands pressed Din’s wide shoulders down into the unyielding floor and he complied, willing to let you have the control right now. You positioned yourself over his body so that your head was pointing in the direction of his feet, while you propped yourself up above his impressive, large frame on your palms, the arch of your back offering him a perfect view of how wet you were for him, damn near dripping onto his chest. He groaned explicitly as you bent forward to take his cock into your mouth, and you could feel the tension moving through his body as you took him deeper into your throat, your tongue swirling around him and tasting every exquisite, velvety inch of him.

You were relieved when Din’s broad and calloused hands came up to rest firmly on your ass, understanding what you were needing from him, and he pulled your aching center down to his stubbled jawline, to allow his tongue to trace gently over your clit, finally offering you the pleasure and stimulation that you had been needing since Din had kissed you feverishly in the club. You felt your eyes roll back with a wash of pleasure and relief as he sucked gently on the bundle of nerves, flicking his tongue across it in rhythmic circles, occasionally allowing his tongue to explore further into your body and enjoy all of the wetness you offered him — and you hummed in satisfaction against his thick cock, as you moved your mouth up and down his length, enjoying the wet sounds sounds it produced as you continually swallowed around him, loving the deep grunts and animalistic groans you received in response. The humming must’ve added some enjoyable stimulation for him, as you tasted his precum on your tongue; and then he slid two fingers into your tight cunt, working to open you up to be able to take the considerable length of his cock. You loved the deliciously wet and sloppy sounds that came from the two of you; your mouth, as you continuously drug your tongue along the underside of the cock that was hitting the back of your throat, and your pussy as Din finger-fucked you on the floor of the ship.

He added a third finger to your tight entrance and you instinctively cried out at the stretching sensation, your body writhing as his thumb moved to tweak continuously over your clit with varying levels of pressure.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Din sighed with a laugh. “If you think three fingers is a lot, you’re in for a surprise.” His voice sounded like gravel, rough and breathy and cracking beneath you, sending you higher and higher with his cocky assessment. Well, you were never one to shy away from a challenge.

You could feel the weight of your orgasm building within you, the heady and hot tension that had coiled at your center spreading its way out to your stomach, your thighs, threatening to break at any moment. Your muscles constricting, you chased that peak, that high, and your mouth slid off of Din’s cock as you gasped for air — “Din, fuck, Din, I’m gonna cu—“

And then he quickly pulled himself away from you, right as you were right there, and you cried out in exasperation and frustration at having been denied your orgasm; your entire body was screaming with anger and deprivation, and you felt as though you might shatter with all of the tension.

His body moved away from underneath you as you came to rest against the makeshift bed of blankets, and in the dark, you had absolutely no idea what was going on or why he had done this to you. “Din, what the fuck?” You hissed angrily, your hands reaching out to try and grab him and bring him back to you. But then you suddenly felt two strong, familiar hands grasp your waist from behind, and you were abruptly yanked upwards by your waist and onto your knees, the blankets ruched up underneath you; the disorientation of the darkness was intimidating but also incredibly exciting — although you were still somewhat pissed at Din for his asshole move.

You were on all fours, desperately waiting for Din to do something, anything.

“Look at my pretty girl, waiting so nicely for me.”

You felt Din’s muscled thighs and his thick cock press up against your exposed backside; you were able to determine that he was on his knees behind you. You whined in anticipation, not minding the hint of desperation that crept in with it.

“Gods, look at you. Fucking dripping wet, making a mess for me. Is that all for me, sweet girl?” He hmmed confidently, dipping his finger inside of you and bringing your wetness up to his mouth for a taste. “Bet you’re just dying to take this cock, to cum on it for me, aren’t you?”

You whined once more, a small, needy sound that would’ve been embarrassing had you not been so desperately wanting to cum after your earlier denial; your muscles still quaked and tensed as you hovered right on that edge. You pressed your ass further back into him, trying to get some sort of stimulation against your aching cunt, but Din just cupped your ass and pressed your shoulders down into the floor; you felt the wool blanket against your cheek as you writhed against him in frustration.

“Please,” you whispered.

“Please... what?” There was a somewhat maniacal edge to his voice and you felt a thrill of anticipation shudder through you.

“Din, please!”

“Please what?” His voice cut through you like steel.

You could feel the blunt and swollen head of his cock pressed against your throbbing entrance, and fuck, while you didn’t want to beg you couldn’t help it any longer, the unyielding desperation coursing hotly through you as you just gave in to what Din wanted. “Fuck, Din — please, please fuck me, please let me cum for you —“

A satisfied chuckle coming from deep within his chest, Din finally pressed forward into you with a ragged, shaking moan — and the resulting moan that came from your body echoed his own, as he buried himself impossibly deep into your tight and soaking cunt, while effectively pinning your shoulders to the floor and rendering you immobile. You had thought you would be prepared for the sheer size of him, the girth, the length that you had taken in your mouth and throat, but it was unlike anything you had ever experienced before — he really had been right in saying that three fingers wouldn’t compare.

For a brief moment you wondered if you would even be able to take all of him inside you — and your question was quickly answered as he pulled back from you, dragging his cock along your inner walls, before his hips snapped forward to slam into you with a shocking and devastatingly incredible force. Feeling his cock sink deeper and deeper into you, your body offered little resistance to this pleasure as you cried out at the stretching and filling sensation, hurting but in a good way that just made you crave him even more.

Din’s hands found their place along the bend of your hips as he pushed and pulled your willing body into his; and with each thrust forward penetrating you even deeper, you felt the edges of your mind starting to go white-hot with pleasure once more. You reveled in the sounds he made, needy and wanting, loving that he wasn’t one to shy away from letting you know just how fucking incredible this felt for him, too.

This was unlike anything you had ever experienced with a man before, Din was unlike anything else in this galaxy, and you knew that even if you spent a hundred years with him you would never get enough of this feeling — the feeling of his throbbing, veined cock dragging against your sensitive walls, hitting spots inside of you that you never even knew existed. You could feel the ever-increasing slickness of your cunt that allowed for him to slide in and out of you repeatedly, while the lower half of your body started to constrict with that same heat of pleasure that he had ripped away from you just moments ago — but that didn’t matter anymore, you had no room for grudges as he completely filled both your body and mind.

He said your name over and over, the sound spilling from his lips like a prayer, like a curse, like a promise — and you reveled in the sheer adoration of each utterance that tumbled from him. You wished that you could give him the same verbal adoration and praise that he offered you, but you were completely incapable of doing anything except making lewd, high-pitched, unintelligible sounds that echoed and radiated through the walls of the ship, becoming more desperate with each powerful thrust into your clenching and tight cunt.

“Gods, I knew you’d take my cock so f-fucking good, look at that — such a pretty girl, such a g-good girl — fucking knew you’d feel incredible from the m-moment I saw you, wanted to fucking split you in half on my cock —“

The praise and dirty words Din offered you tickled a previously-repressed, unexplored part of yourself and after this awakening you wanted more of it. Seeking out that praise and reinforcement, you decided to take back some control in this situation and initiate something more — Din had you fairly well pinned against the floor, his hips ramming his cock into you relentlessly, but you were able to shift your arms in a way that allowed for you to reach around the back of your thighs and spread yourself open even further for him. Your movement caught him off guard as his hips snapped into yours forcefully, his cock penetrating so far into you that you thought you may never recover from it — and the force of his thrust collapsed both of your bodies into the floor as a guttural fuck escaped from him.

You felt his broad chest and the heaviness of his frame crushing you into the floor, but you didn’t mind, loving the pressure of his full body weight against you while his cock was buried inside you so deeply that you could feel him twitching inside of you, could feel each beat of his heart pulsating through his body.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck” he gasped, pushing himself up off of your body and off of the floor. “I don’t know what the fuck you just did, but I’m going to need you to do that again for me.”

You grinned, somewhat delirious from all of the stimulation and physical sensations you had experienced here on this makeshift bed. And yet for all of the wonderful, amazing, beautiful things you had felt — you still hadn’t cum, and your very skin felt as though it was crawling with a fire that left you aching with every second that passed by. You wanted to cum, wanted Din to make you cum; and you wanted to make him cum in return, giving each other the release and bliss you had been wanting since your first meeting on Chandrila. If you were to tell the truth, you’d tell Din that you had wanted him from the very first day, even though you had fought so hard to quell those feelings.

You couldn’t see well in the darkness that shrouded the cabin — couldn’t see anything, to be honest — but you could feel your hands connect with Din’s shoulders and you shoved him back down onto the floor, appreciating his willingness to follow your lead. Your hands traced gently down his body, feeling every hard line and ridge of him, feeling every scar, and loving every inch of him that he had allowed you to see, at least in this way. You swung your legs over his waist and positioned yourself above him, guiding his thick and still-wet cock back inside of your tight and enveloping cunt; the two of you gasped at the sudden, clenching contact and rush of adrenaline, and you began to ride him in earnest, loving the sound of your skin slapping against his as you crashed into him over and over and over again.

“Gods, you just love it when I ride your thick cock like this, don’t you, Din?” You said with a malicious grin, hoping to draw out the same kind of dirty words he had given you earlier. “Just falling apart for me so easy—“

“Fuck, yes, I do love it my sweet —“ He choked out, his hands finding their way up your body and coming to rest at your breasts, tweaking your hardened nipples with his rough touch. “Love watching that tight pussy take my cock, love how you feel on me, love how you taste — you’re just so fucking incredible—”

“Show me how much you love it,” you challenged, an edge creeping into your voice. “Cum for me.”

His groans turned into irregular grunts of pleasure as he moved to hold your body in place, restricting your movements as he fucked up into you, sounds spilling forth from him. “Believe me, I will cum for you — I’ll cum inside that sweet, perfect pussy. But you’re gonna cum for me first, sweet girl.”

Din’s threat— or promise, depending on your perspective — echoed through you and a crashing tidal wave of need threatened to collapse your chest and inhibit your very breathing. Your body was positively aching with tension and strain now, your muscles screaming out in exhaustion — you needed to cum, you needed the release, you needed to fall over that peak and then rest next to Din. “Yes, please, please, please,” you cried, each word becoming more and more deranged and desperate than the last.

“Tell me what you need, sweet girl,” Din panted roughly, continuing to hold your shaking body in place as he fucked into you relentlessly.

You weren’t sure what you needed except more of Din, and you didn’t even know how to ask for that as he was clearly giving you everything he had, thrusting up into you and offering up each and every groan of pleasure that your pussy wrung from him. More. You just needed more.

“Kiss me, Din Djarin.”

He laughed softly and you could hear the smile in it; for all of the dirty words and debased, debauched actions, this sweetness was what you wanted and what you needed. He pulled your body in close to his, planting a soft kiss on your cheek before rolling the two of you over so you were now laying against the blankets. His cock never left your center, even in the transition; and then his hands brought your legs up to rest on his shoulders and he began drilling into you with an unholy force, crumpling your body in half with each thrust as he bent downwards to kiss you. He was panting and you could feel a bead of sweat drip from his forehead as he worked to get you there, fighting off his own orgasm, needing to get you there first.

As his lips pressed repeatedly into your soft and hot flesh, you could feel it coming on; that tense and aching heat coiled within you, your back arched up from the floor, and your hands rose up to pull Din in closer to you, gripping his hair forcefully. You couldn’t see anything in the blackness of the ship but your vision was changing regardless, as your body readied itself to jump from that cliff, giving you the release you needed. “Din—“ you gasped out, your muscles constricting.

“Yes, yes, cum for me sweet girl — wanna feel you cum on my cock,” Din grunted, thrusting into you with each word. He leaned in to kiss you once more and it was everything you needed.

It felt as though a seismic charge went off inside the small ship, your muscles contracting and quaking as your body was taken over by wave after wave of undulating pleasure. Your skin felt like it was vibrating at a new frequency, each nerve ending heightened and feeling overstimulated as you cried out in unintelligible but unmistakeable pleasure. Your cunt clenched around Din’s cock, spasming with each new wave of pleasure that overtook your body.

Din snarled at the feeling of you clenching and coming undone around him and you knew that he was close; you drug your nails against his scalp, his hair tangling between your fingers, and you leaned up to gently capture his earlobe between your teeth, tugging slightly. “Want you to cum for me, Din. Want you to cum inside me.”

The rapid movements of his hips became increasingly irregular until you felt the heat of his release within you, his body collapsing on top of yours as he inhaled deep and ragged breaths, you could feel him shaking on top of you, could feel his muscles and his cock twitching as he was lost to the overwhelming pleasure of his orgasm. Hot ropes of Din’s cum coursed through your pulsing and throbbing cunt, coating you and filling you in a way that made you writhe in pleasure and self-satisfaction; you couldn’t help but think of the way you’d be left dripping from him, a mix of both of your orgasms coating you in a messy, magnificent bliss. When he finally pulled away from your feverish and trembling body, you felt the mix of fluids cascading down your thighs in a way that almost made you want to climb on top of him again.

You were both left entirely breathless, every ounce of energy spent in giving the other what they needed and had been denied for so long. Din’s body rolled off of yours, allowing you to breathe deeply and you inhaled lungfuls of cool air, quieting the fire that coursed through your body. His chest taking deep and ragged breaths, he pulled you in close to his chest, his arms wrapping around you securely as he sighed and kissed every inch of exposed skin that he could reach. You were utterly wrecked, entirely devastated, and more blissfully happy than you ever could have imagined you could be.

This life was turning into everything that you had ever wanted, and feared you would never get. You felt tears of happiness pricking at the corner of your eyes, and you smiled into Din’s chest, never wanting to leave this moment.

He must’ve felt the tears that had slipped out and onto him; bringing your face up to his, his hand cradling your cheek gently, he kissed your forehead. “Sweet girl, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you whispered, a brilliant grin spreading across your face. “Everything is perfect. You’re perfect. This life here, with you, is perfect.”

You would later blame it on the rush of dopamine and oxytocin, but truth be told, you could no longer deny the truth to either yourself or to Din. Feeling emboldened and safe in this space with him, the truth tumbled forward from your lips, unable to be concealed any longer.

“I love you, Din Djarin.”

It felt beautiful and exhilarating to speak it out loud, to acknowledge the truth of your feelings. You didn’t even necessarily need for Din to say it back; that’s how secure you felt in this moment, in this feeling of love. You would love him endlessly, would love him through hell or high waters, would love him whether you were right next to him or lightyears away. You couldn’t hold back the truth, and nor did you want to. You loved Din Djarin, more than you had ever loved anything in existence, and while it was exhilaratingly terrifying, it also felt like the safest, most comforting thing in this galaxy.

And it was a whole new kind of bliss that was revealed to you when he spoke to you in response.

“And I love you.”

#Din Djarin #Pedro Pascal #Din Djarin fic #Din Djarin x Reader #the Mandalorian #Mandalorian fanfic #Din Djarin fanfiction #the space between

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kkurainmyheart · 3 years

Text

JEANPIKU WEEK, DAY 1 FREE SPACE

English is not my first language so here's the link for the original in Spanish. And below, the english version.

The night was peaceful, the music that came from the gramophone brought joy to the room illuminated by the softness of the pendant lamp that spread the rays through its bright windows. The room with pink walls and pompous white armchairs to match the curtains that revealed in its decoration the soft personality of the hosts of the place. The white fireplace crackled in a corner burning the logs that had been placed at some point during the day, the fire was reflected in the whiskey glasses that are located on the dark table on which part of the so-called Alliance played cards.

"I'm telling you, I was the best at playing cards."

"I believe you, Jean," Pieck smirked at her side.

Reiner, totally focused, took two cards from the deck and threw a card on the table.

"Even if I don't want to admit it, you're right," Connie mentioned. "He was the only bastard who understood the dynamics of the game, although I was the best at resisting when we drank."

Armin smiled nodding, under the table in a rapid movement he exchanged 3 cards with Annie's, nobody noticed.

"Who was the best drinking of the warriors?"

The boy from Ragako spoke again, before taking his glass and giving him a sip that burned his throat.

Pieck, Reiner, and Annie looked at him. It was not abnormal for this type of questioning between them, after the rumble they had invented a way to become close and maybe, just maybe, it also became a method of mutual forgiveness. Knowing their motives and circumstances helped them heal.

"I wasn't around long enough to know that, but I'm also curious, I guess Porco? or maybe you, Reiner,”

The blonde asked with interest, she had changed too much with Armin's company, she took 3 cards from the deck.

"Actually, it was her," the former titan pointed at the brunette who was sitting in front of him.

They felt Pieck's laughter rise at the sound of the music as she nodded in amusement. Jean and Connie's mouth dropped open in surprise, Armin raised an eyebrow. They had been together for five years, and on none of those occasions had the former wielder of the cart titan had more than a glass or two. Also, just looking at her petite build told everyone that Reiner was joking.

"I'm also the fastest drinking,"

she casually mentioned as she lowered her cards onto the table, 2 scales and a three of a kind to beat.

The petite woman who today wore a white shirt with a beautiful blue cotton skirt smiled as she rested her head on her arms that braced themselves on the table.

“It is impossible!”

"What's wrong Connie?" She said looking at him with bright eyes ”do you want me to prove it by defeating you in front of your friends? Armin please stop cheating” changing her gaze to the blonde who observed her embarrassed.

"You wouldn't in a million years, Angel. " Connie used the nickname derisively as she lowered her cards, four threesomes.

They both looked at each other seriously, making the rest of the table uncomfortable.

"You really didn't use that nickname!"

“I did it! Angel! Angel! Angel!” Shouted the boy sarcastically.

Pieck hit the table with both fists attracting everyone's attention, she felt frustrated and angry, no one called her that except the person who had given her the nickname.

"Bring alcohol! I'm going to make this competitive bastard cry!”

Soon the cards were replaced with glasses and bottles filled with fine liquor. The bets were not long in coming, they were soldiers, after all, betting was a tradition. Reiner and Annie decided to bet their money on Pieck; Jean and Armin had done the same for Connie. After many rounds of alcohol, they not only had a clear winner but two completely drunk people sleeping on the table.

A happy Annie put her money in the pocket of her caramel coat as she hummed the happy tune; Reiner counted his money in front of the losers, it was after 5 in the morning, they had to go home. They decided that it was wise to help clean up the house, while Annie was in charge of carrying the glasses to the kitchen along with Armin, Reiner would make sure that Connie did not choke on her own vomit; That left Jean taking over as the champion of the night.

Jean rolled his green shirt up to his elbows, then wrapped the girl's arm around his shoulder and helped her up; a very dizzy Pieck cooperated in the first meters of their journey; almost reaching the second-floor things got brutal. Jean was careless for two seconds and the girl was with half of her body hanging from the railing, trying to reach something that no one else saw; it was like a little 3-year-old girl discovering the world for the first time

“Sight! A butterfly!” She shouted, spreading his hands.

"Yes, yes Pieck" Jean addressed her calmly while holding her slim waist blocking her unexpected suicide attempt "come here."

He pressed the small woman against his chest to keep control over her, of course, there were no butterflies inside the house; the woman's imagination was at an all-time high and Jean was amused. He had seen other drunks before, but it was the first time he had seen the girl that way, her black hair still clung to the low ponytail with which she had started the day so he could see their expressions of astonishment at everything that she thought that saw.

“Is blue! Look how pretty, Jeanbo!”

The girl let go of his grip this time running down the hallway with white walls and pink carpet with intricate details; she almost tripped over the potted plants of the ficus plants that grow indoors. Jean sighed and took long strides to catch up with her, grabbing her sleeve and pulling her against him.

"Come on Pieck, let's put you to bed."

"But the butterfly?" She looked at him with sad eyes.

She really wanted to go after her imaginary little friend. Jean tried to walk with her to the other side of the hall where her room was supposed to be, they stumbled a couple of times in a clumsy forest of legs.

"Where's my butterfly ?!” She said scared, her eyes showed the terror she felt, and her mouth tightened in a line

"I don't know Pieck," he said tiredly.

He felt the girl cling to him, putting her ear close to his toned chest covered by the emerald shirt. He heard her sigh loudly and saw her tremble and then begin to cry loudly against his chest.

“Why are you crying?” his amber eyes and his voice denoted concern

Pieck stared into his eyes with fury and furrowed brows

"You ate it !!" she yelled

“What?”

"You ate my butterfly!" Tears flowed from his dark eyes like soft summer rain

“Of course not!”

“Yes! You did it! It's flapping in your chest!”

Of course, it didn't. First, there were no butterflies, secondly Jean would never eat a butterfly, and third, it was more than obvious that it was his heart beating indomitable for having her close. Maybe if she had been sober she would have said it, released what she felt like she wanted him to release that butterfly; but Jean, he was sure that she would not remember any of this the next day. So he decided to play around with this a bit.

"Yes, I ate it," he said with a slight smile as he stroked the girl's hair with one of his hands. "What will you do about it?"

Pieck was thoughtful for a moment, then in one swift movement, she laid her head back on the tall man's chest. She whispers against him:

"I'll get you out of there little friend, I promise ." She looked at him defiantly. "Spit it out!"

“Of course not!” Jean laughed at the ridiculous situation

"Don't make me take her out, Jean!" she said with a terrifying command voice, my God! He loved that terrifying command voice.

"I repeat, what are you going to do about it?" He took his hands to his hips, arrogant.

The petite woman stopped staring at Jean's chest silently, blinked a few times, and then her expression lit up in knowledge. She closed the distance between them, pulling the collar of the man's shirt so that they were both at the same height, then without saying a word or changing expression together with their mouths in a dirty kiss, violently sucking on Jean's tongue in the process. He snapped his neck out, and widened his eyes, he really didn't expect that

“What are you doing?” stuttering

"Sucking the butterfly out of you," she replied calmly and smugly, "so be a good boy and come back here. I have work to do and I still feel her flapping here.” She touched her slender fingers to Jean's chest, right above his heart.

He froze for a moment then a smile of understanding adorned his lips, he approached her mouth seductively.

"Let me help you," he whispered.

They began to kiss euphorically and hot, their breaths shaking, Jean's hands pressing her closer to his body, almost merging with each other. At some point, he lifted her up and the woman wrapped her legs around his waist as she played with his ash blonde hair. The tall man's big hands went up and down the brunette's small back. They parted gasping for air.

“Jean…

"Pieck ...

They both brought their foreheads together, she whispered to him with concern as she looked at him with regret.

"I think I swallowed the butterfly, I feel it beating here now." She pointed to her own chest, where her own racing heart was beating

Jean smiled.

“So let me help you again”

He was about to start a new kiss when Pieck stirred to release herself, he left her on the ground again looking at her strangely. She put her hands to her head, wincing.

"My head feels funny, oh my, is your girlfriend waiting for you?" Sighed “I also have a boyfriend? I can not remember”

"If you have it, come on, I'll take you to bed ."

The blonde sighed, took the impulse to take her in his arms, he also felt tired. Pieck rested her head on his shoulder and he could feel the calm breathing of the girl on his neck, she had fallen asleep.

He put the woman on the two-body bed with the blue coverlet; he lit the white lamp on the bedside table; he removed her heels and then positioned her on her side under the blankets; He kissed her forehead; he tucks the dark locks behind her ears and tucks her in.

He walked to the bathroom behind the white door in the corner of the room, filled a glass with water, and retraced his steps to place it on the nightstand. He watched the girl sleep and laughed as quietly as he could. He knelt beside the bed.

"I think you drank a lot today, Mrs. Kirstein”

He took the delicate hand of the girl, the hand that had a delicate wedding band on the ring finger, and kissed it fondly.

"I'm going to take Connie to his home and when I come back we'll take care of your clothes." He placed a kiss on her slightly parted pink lips. "I'll be right back, my angel."

He quickly descended the stairs, the walls of which hung photos of his wedding and his friends. Five years had not passed in vain.

“Let 's go?”

He was still amazed at how heavy Connie could be when he got drunk.

Jean woke up at noon the next day with a butterfly beating strongly in his chest, his wife sitting on his lap looking at him embarrassed.

"Please Jean, don't let me drink again."

"As you order, my Angel."

#Jeanpikuweek #jean kirschstein #jean kirstein #attack on titan #pieck snk #pieck finger #fingerstein #jeanpiku #pikujean #fanfic

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larathia · 3 years

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theorypost the first: Amane’s bruises.

Hokay. So. This is gonna be long, possibly triggery for abuse survivors, I’m just going to start with a cut so everyone has the option of ignoring it up front, before things get squishy.

There. Now.

Firstly - that abuse happened is not in question. Tsuchigomori is about as close as a disinterested third party as you can get, and the damage was extensive enough to make him take notice and try to intervene, even though he didn’t really care because he was sure Amane would pull through it and grow up to be a science teacher.

He uses rubbing alcohol and bandages. He comments on bruises, but you don’t use rubbing alcohol and bandages on bruises. You use them on scrapes, cuts, and burns.

We know that Amane dies after killing Tsukasa. Shortly afterward, too; the Red House arc mentions that a family of four dies all in one night. That it was ‘suicide’, or at least looked like it. We know that the twins’ mother, shortly after Tsukasa’s return, was damn sure that what came back was not her son. We know that Amane was being abused by someone he loved greatly. (And we know that because he forgives them, unconditionally. If it were just a school bully, he might keep quiet but I strongly doubt he’d forgive.)

Now. On to the options.

What people seem to forget, a lot, are two not-insignificant facts here. One is that eight years passed between Tsukasa’s return from the red house, and the death of the Yugi family.

The second fact is that it was the whole family that died - not just Tsukasa and Amane.

I mean. That’s kind of important. Yes, we have hints from Nene’s time travels that Tsukasa was sometimes violent. But we also have, from the priests, that Tsukasa’s mother was reacting badly to Tsukasa’s presence fairly soon after his return...yet she did nothing for eight years? While, apparently, Tsukasa got more dangerous?

Take a moment to consider what she knew. She knew that, prior to Tsukasa’s disappearance, Amane was sickly. Like, near-death sickly. Not-gonna-live-to-see-four sickly. And then...boom. He’s better. It’s a miracle. Nobody knows how but suddenly bam. Healthy child. And RIGHT AFTER THAT - Tsukasa disappears. He’s gone for six damn months. There isn’t a parent alive who wouldn’t be out of their mind with worry.

(One of the things I really, really want to know is how Amane’s parents treated him during that six month period. Did they cling harder to the son they still had, or did they ever think Amane’s sudden health and Tsukasa’s disappearance were linked somehow?)

And then - Tsukasa comes back. But he comes back different. He comes back able to grant wishes, for one thing. The boy we see in the Red House couldn’t stop offering wishes if he tried, but that’s the entity in the seat of its power. Let’s figure that maybe it took time for the entity to grow strong again, in Tsukasa’s body. Maybe.

You know what else we know? That right around this time - right around when Tsukasa disappeared and returned - a rock fell from the sky that Amane truly believes was a moon rock. That Tsuchigomori also believes was a moon rock.

And we know that Tsukasa thought, at this time, that Amane would go to the moon and bring back pieces.

I wonder how much power it took to pull that one off?

We know that Amane loves Tsukasa. Loves him so much that even when Tsukasa gets violent, he’d rather do anything than lift a finger against him. Yet there’s all these bruises. And Amane wants to be an astronaut - which is pretty much peak 60s escapist fantasy, let’s be real. It’s the ultimate fly-away fantasy.

What if the abuse was coming from the parents. What if - and I’m saying ‘what if’ because we DO NOT KNOW, okay. We have no evidence. Zeeero. Pure speculation. But so is saying the abuse came from Tsukasa, so bear with me a minute here.

What if - the parents knew that Tsukasa came back wrong, and they feared him, but Amane was just really glad to have his brother back? The parents can see shit going wrong - Tsukasa doing things, or things happening around him, that are straight up impossible. But Amane’s a child. And Tsukasa loves him. He’s not going to have the same perspective. Even if Tsukasa is occasionally Violent and/or Weird in ways that don’t benefit Amane (like leaving him alone at a festival) if overall Tsukasa defended him and was loving, Amane would probably forgive a lot.

The parents, though. The adults in the room know something’s wrong. Tsukasa’s at the heart of it, but we’re talking identical twins here and Amane’s encouraging it. What if - the parents tried to forcibly separate the twins? What if - they were hurting Amane in an attempt to prevent whatever was corrupting Tsukasa from spreading? Hell - what if it WAS spreading and the parents were panicking about it, coming down harder on Amane in an attempt to stop it?

Before y’all rip my throat out on this - bear in mind that Hanako is capable of being just as much of a trickster as Tsukasa. He’s less mean about it, most of the time, but that reputation for being a deceiver did not come out of nowhere. And that boy can fight. That, too, doesn’t come from nowhere.

What if the abuse was coming from the parents, and Tsukasa killed them for it? And then Amane, forced to accept that this is a bad line that’s been crossed, kills Tsukasa and then himself? What, then, is the breaking point?

The breaking point is Amane.

The thing about being bullied, about being abused, is that sooner or later fight or flight kicks in. You snap and fight back, or you snap and run away...or you just snap, all the adrenaline and fear turning inward.

I think it’s a very real possibility that while the bruises came from Amane’s abuser, the cuts were self-inflicted. That when Amane said he ‘wasn’t going anywhere’...he’d snapped. He gave his precious moon rock away (which is one of those things people do right before killing themselves) and he resolved to die. (Remember his snarling at Teru that exorcism would only be a release.)

I really doubt Tsukasa would have taken that idea well. And we do know that whatever Amane intended, it apparently blew up bigtime.

I do not present this as Definite Fact - only a theory that I think is a reasonable interpretation of the evidence. Trust me, I have others. I’ll get to them.

#toilet bound hanako kun

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feathersandblue · 3 years

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Dean Winchester, Character Death, and Frodo’s Return to the Shire

This will be a LOOONG post that has been stuck in my head for a while in bits and pieces - about Dean’s death, what it was and what it wasn’t, and incidentally, the Lord of the Rings has found its way in here too.

It’s pretty clear that Dabb always meant for Dean to die.

And while I strongly disagree with that, on so many levels, I think it might have been more palatable if framed in a different way, and so I’ve been trying to figure out what the ending might have looked like in a world that wasn’t quite as shitty as ours. Still shitty, but marginally less so.

Dean is notoriously bad at letting bad things happen if he can prevent them. I find it difficult to believe that Dean would ever quit hunting entirely, and for as long as he kept hunting, the danger of dying would always be present. It’s not unrealistic at all for him to die on a routine hunt. Life is unpredictable; life as a hunter, even more so. I understand that the writers might want to make that point. And it might have been valid if – and that’s the real problem – Dean’s death hadn’t otherwise been devoid of meaning.

The thing about character death – any sort of character death – is that it needs to have purpose.

And there are different ways that it can have purpose, but it depends on what sort of character we’re talking about.

Minor, often unnamed characters – the redshirts in every narrative – die to illustrate injustice or to highlight evil. Their death is a catalyst or a consequence of the events as they unfold, part of the conflict the heros have to solve. An army led into battle by a tyrant. Refugees in a camp dying of malnutrition. Murder victims of a serial killer. In all these cases, death fuels the plot but has little meaning beyond that.

There are minor characters whose death both fuels the plot and gives the hero a more personal motive to act. Supernatural is full of these. Mary and Jessica burning at the ceiling; Charlie dumped in a bathtub. Minor characters can have their own arcs, but ultimately their deaths are only important for the impact they have on the main characters.

The death of a protagonist is markedly different. Protagonists need to have agency even in death to maintain their status.

Their death has to be the reflection of their character development up to that point but it also has to tell us something about them that we did not already know – show us how they make a final decision or draw a final conclusion that marks the end of an inner conflict – which is what all storytelling is about. Character death has to serve a purpose to have meaning, and for a protagonist, the purpose must be personal.

And If it fails to do that, then that’s either a sign that we’re no longer dealing with a protagonist, or that something weng very, very wrong in the writers’ room. There is no inherent value in tragedy. In storytelling, tragedy is justified when it achieves something, otherwise, it’s just capriciousness.

Buffy’s death at the end of season 5 of BTVS is a classic example for the death of a protagonist. Harry’s decision to go and face Voldemort in the forbidden forest, even though it doesn’t ultimately kill him, is another. When Sam jumps into the abyss in Swan Song, that is his heroic sacrifice, but if he’d permanently died in season 2, that would have been bizarre and nonsensical because it was entirely beyond his control – it did not reflect his decisions, gave him no agency, and reduced him from a protagonist to a side character. In that moment, his death was something that happened to Dean. It worked because his death didn’t stick – he regained his agency after resurrection. But as an ending to his hero’s journey, it would have been singularly unsatisfying.

Dean is our protagonist, and he has been for 15 seasons. What does his death tell us about him that we didn’t know – what decisions did he make, what inner struggle got resolved, what meaning did his death have for him, personally, and then, in extension, for us?

The problem is that the finale, as is so often the case in Supernatural, tells two stories at once.

Whe the episode starts, it appears that Dean moves on with his life just fine, a well-adjusted model citizen. He’s ready to get a job, seems to be moderately happy. He even has dog. The decision to keep hunting is his, and death just accidentally happens, which of course is not unrealistic in his line of work. On the forefront, his death is brought about by the fact that he exercises free will. It tells us that he is a hunter and will always be one, that he keeps protecting people because that’s just who he is.

None of that, however, is new. It is just more of the same. All of Dean’s decisions in the finale tell us nothing about him that we did not already know. He’s trying to move on from the death of the people closest to him, as he’s always done. He chooses the hamster wheel, as he has always done. He follows in his father’s footsteps, as he has always done.

As he gets impaled, he has no choices left to make. There is no agency in his death, no inner struggle. His death furthers neither his character development nor the plot. That Dean simply accepts his death is as unsurprising as the fact that his final moments are spent reassuring Sam and telling him that he has to keep fighting.

The conclusion? Dean ceases to be a protagonist.

He dies not as the hero of his story. His death just happens to him.

After Sam and Dean had presumably freed themselves from the constraints of Chuck’s narrative, the final episode should have emphasized their agency, their freedom of choice, through change. But in the end, it only led them both to making the same choices as always, the unsurprising ones. And even the choices that did indicate a change (like Dean’s job application) were not shown to bear fruits.

What meaning does free will have when it doesn’t change the outcome? All the finale does is tell a bleak story about humanity and how we are incapable of making meaningful, consequential changes in our lives.

It’s almost like Lucifer is talking to us all the way from the Endverse of 5.04: “Whatever you do, you will always end up here. Whatever choices you make, whatever details you alter, we will always end up – here.”

Devastating as that is, there is another interpretation of the finale that is arguably worse, a different reading strongly suggested by both text and subtext.

Dean, as mentioned before, is trying to move on with his life but ultimately fails. The situation is different from the way he behaved when he lost Cas and Mary in season 13 where he was outright suicidal – his desperation is more quiet but also more profound. He seems determined to honor Cas’ and Jack’s sacrifice. But determination is not enough. Dean only goes through the motions, and it shows. He clings to the dog in the morning; the dog sticks to him closely throughout the day as dogs tend to do when they feel that their owner is in distress, almost like a therapy dog. His room looks messy, he makes an attempt to fix it but then abandons it as it requires too muh effort. Ultimately, he can’t be bothered. There are alcohol bottles standing around, a sign that he’s drinking, though not as heavily as in the past. All the while, he sems very laid-back, presumably relaxed and at peace and coping well with the loss but also weirdly detached.

When Sam mentions Cas and Jack at the pie festival, he says, “Yeah, I’m thinking about them too. You know that pain’s not going to go away. Right? But if we don’t keep living, then all that … sacrifice is gonna be for nothing.”

He feels an obligation. And he’s trying. It’s just not working very well.

He barely reacts when Sams pies him in the face.

When impaled on the rebar, Dean actively prevents Sam from calling for help. He tells Sam not to bring him back. And in the end, he asks Sam to tell him it’s okay to go. Which isn’t something he would do if he was simply dying – it strongly indicates that he wants to be allowed to die.

Prompting the conclusion that Dean is giving up on life the first opportunity he gets, not even knowing whether he’ll end up in heaven.

In this reading, Dean does have a little bit of agency. He makes a decision, sort of. His death marks the resolution of an inner struggle: He gives up.

He dies as a protagonist.

In the worst way possible.

In all honesty, I can’t decide which interpretation I hate more.

But what could the writers have done differently, if Dean was meant to die all along?

Back when the SPN finale had freshly aired, I was describing it like this:

Imagine that the One Ring is destroyed. But Merry died in the battle and Pippin went missing and was never found again. Frodo and Sam return to the Shire; Pippin and Merry are mentioned once in passing. Upon their arrival, Frodo is attacked by Wormtongue and slowly bleeds out over the span of thirty pages. Sam marries someone else than Rosie; Rosie is never mentioned again. Somehow, both Frodo and Sam are teleported to Valinor, where we are told that the real fun begins.

At the time, I only used this as an example to illustrate what a mess the finale had been. But in the weeks that have passed since, then, I’ve started thinking about the LOTR comparison some more, and it got me thinking about Dean’s death in a different way.

And it has everything to do with the difference between running from and walking toward.

As mentioned before, it’s not unrealistic that Dean would die on a random hunt. Would the Dean Winchester we know ever stop hunting? Maybe. We might want him to. Then again, would be still be Dean Winchester if he did? We know that Dean can’t help but feel responsible. He is someone who is incapable of staying hands-off.

Dean, as we see him in the finale, is trying to honor Cas’s and Jack’s memory by living, although he’s not very good at it – not outright suicidal but worn-out. Exhausted. And still he makes the decisions to keep hunting because he can do nothing else.

When Frodo and Sam returned to the Shire in LOTR, they had earned their happy ending. But Frodo, who had carried such a heavy burden that he was permanently altered by it, could no longer find happiness in Middleearth, and ultimately decided to depart for Valinor along with Gandalf and Bilbo with the promise of later being reunited with Sam. The journey had changed both of them, but it had changed Frodo to a greater degree, his responsibility had been greater, the weight on his shoulders heavier.

And I started to wonder whether the intention had initially been to show Dean in much the same state – and to frame his death as a decision to move on, the same way that LOTR has Frodo move on to the West.

Imagine the following: Cas is pulled into the Empty. His happiness and love change the Empty; he merges with it or otherwise changes it so that it’s now a more demon-friendly environment. Everyone there is at peace. Cas, in whatever form, moves on to Heaven – or maybe his soul does as it’s now mostly human.

Dean goes on a hunt and dies. Jack, or some other entity, shows up where you would expect the curiously absent reaper in order to give him a choice. Learning that Cas is in Heaven, and knowing that he will never be able to stop hunting if he remains on earth, Dean makes the conscious decision to move on. For the first time, Dean prioritizes his own happiness over his perceived duty. His death is no longer suicide by proxy, and neither is its sole purpose to illustrate the inherent meaningless of free will by turning him into a hamster-by-choice. Instead, it becomes a decision because he’s given back agency. He resolves an inner conflict and there’s even a final bit of character development as he breaks the chain of mutual co-dependency that ties him to Sam and allows himself to be with Cas. He remains a protagonist throughout the end.

And because he acknowledges his love for Cas and decides to be with him, he no longer just runs from, he walks toward.

The parallels to The Lord of the Rings get even more obvious when you take Sam into the equation because much like Samwise, Sam remains on earth in order to have a life that, for him, still holds meaning and the chance of happiness – whereas Dean can no longer be happy on earth as long as Cas isn’t there.

To be completely clear: I’d still think that such an ending would suck because it puts too much emphasis on an afterlife, and it would still send the message that characters like Dean could only find peace in death, and unless some adjustments were made to Sam’s arc as well, the ending would still suck for him.

But seeing as SPN plays in a universe where an afterlife exists, I could probably learn to live with Dean’s death if it had any sort of meaning, for him, besides dying and waiting for Sam to arrive, if it allowed for that final bit of character development. If he got to choose.

While I’ll never be able to see the finale that we actually got as anything but a complete atrocity.

#spn #supernatural #meta #dean winchester #destiel

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dylanhawth · 3 years

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[ LORENZO ZURZOLO, CISMAN, HE/HIM ] shh ! DYLAN HAWTHORNE, the TWENTY year old SECOND year ANTHROPOLOGY major from HARTFORD, CT is known as a TOURMALINE around here. HE was invited to join because HE PUBLISHED A COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES ANONYMOUSLY THAT GARNERED A BIT OF FOLLOWING AND RECENTLY STEPPED FORWARD AS THE AUTHOR, and now, they’re here to stay. HE reminds me of THE NERVOUSNESS OF A FIRST KISS, LEAVING SECRET MESSAGES IN LIBRARY BOOKS, DRIVING AIMLESSLY WITH THE WINDOWS ROLLED DOWN ON A WARM SUMMER NIGHT WHILE THE RADIO HUMS A PLAYLIST CURATED FOR YOU BY YOUR BEST FRIEND.

[ big ass bio ] | [ connections ] | [ pinterest ] | [ playlist ]

ooc.

omfg hello. i can’t tell you how excited and happy i am to be here. i was too nervous to apply for the last three months but i decided to stop being a Coward and just try. im SO happy to be here, it’s the highlight of my week tbh lmao. anyway i am mar, she/her, 24, est. i live in nyc and all i do is visit the planetarium and cry. i’m so fucking bad at these so im just gonna LIST things and hope you get the vibe. i am a pisces sun, scorpio moon. i prob have a napoleon complex a little bit lmao. my favorite social media site is goodreads and i get rlly sad when my friends rate books i love poorly dfljskdfs. i can touch my tongue to my nose. i eat a lot of persimmons. i have a favorite rock at my local park that i visit a lot. idk dfskjls. i’m v friendly tho so pls hmu. i send a lot of memes, and love making meme edits for the chars so im rlly sorry in advance if you guys hate that.

01. basics.

NAME. dylan h. hawthorne. ALIASES. dyl, hawth. AGE. twenty. HOMETOWN. hartford, ct. GENDER. cismale. PRONOUNS. he/him.

02. appearance.

EYES. green. HAIR. brown. HEIGHT. 6”0 BUILD. lean. BIRTHMARKS / BURNS / SCARS. a birthmark the shape of australia on his left thigh. TATTOOS. n/a. PIERCINGS. n/a.

03. habits.

ALCOHOL ? socially. SMOKING ? socially. HABITS. fidgets in chairs. cracks knuckles and back often. nervous laughter. chewing on pencils. talking to his plants. dogearing books. staring off into space and applying chapstick for a prolonged period of time. getting overly competitive about boardgames. stress cleaning. carries a book in his bag always. night owl. incredibly impatient when the internet is slow. creature of habit when it comes to menus, orders the same shit over and over again. LIKES. feeding the ducks at the local pond. the smell of the earth after a rainstorm. the way music sounds coming from another room. kissing. watering his plants. inside jokes. making wishes in fountains. discussing a recently finished book with someone. making handmade cards for friends on their birthday. fireworks. coming of age films. packages wrapped in twine. jogs. the way friday nights feels when you’re with someone you love. the feeling you get leaving the movie theatre. DISLIKES. being late. having too many coins on him. coffee with no sugar. when people speak loudly in the library. doing laundry. handshakes with too much squeeze. receiving voicemails. untidiness. golf. charles dickens. lectures with no student input. hot weather. confrontation. being caught in a lie. losing his umbrella. people who cheat during games. rainboots. bad table manners. humidity.

04. personality.

MYERS-BRIGGS. infp. ENNEAGRAM. the helper. ZODIAC. pisces. TEMPERAMENT. melancholic. ALIGNMENT. neutral good. ARCHETYPE. the lover. POSITIVE. empathetic. sensitive. intelligent. charismatic. easygoing. gentle. loyal. passionate. romantic. humble. supportive. gregarious. playful. diligent. NEGATIVE. deceitful. gullible. finicky. naive. obsessive. perfectionistic. secretive. timid. possessive. weak-willed. indecisive. cynical. indulgent. summary: basically, dylan is a love starved, people pleasing nervous wreck. big ass nerd who wants to be everyones friend, wants to be liked SO BAD. very charming and charismatic, comes off as fairly confident and comfortable at first. is able to make everyone feel loved and like they’re the most important person in the world, however lacks a backbone. is both romeo and juliet, and just as dumb as both of them too.

05. hc’s.

dylan was a football player in high school, believe it or not. he was rather good at it too, which is sort of jarring considering his pacifistic nature. however, he DID land on someone incorrectly at some point during his senior year, and broke their wrist. he quickly abandoned the sport altogether because of how guilty he felt.

touched on this briefly but dylan really… loves indiana jones lmao. like, it’s quite ironic given his absolutely inability to be a badass, and lack of suaveness. however, he admires indy’s lust for adventure. he also was obsessed with the mummy as a kid. both of these were incredible sources in his very irrational decision to sudden anthropology. however, he does really love and admire anthropology. his favorite ethnography is the spirit catches you and you fall down, which makes him cry like a little bitch every time he even thinks about it.

he’s the second oldest, but he is also baby. he is SUCH a big momma’s boy. he misses his mom so much. he writes to her often, and of course calls her even more. despite being six-foot tall, he still goes home and rests his head on his mother's lap, falls asleep as she runs her fingers through his hair. he often tries to find native english plants and flowers to press, and mail back to his mother in the form of bookmarks. has nEVER STEPPED ON A CRACK IN HIS LIFE, BABY.

just leaves a shit ton of notes in books in the library. some are riddles, some are poetry, some are commentary on the book, some are doodles. just depends on how he’s feeling for that book. he doesn’t tell anyone he does it, but he’s waiting for someone to connect the dots with his handwriting and writing style.

speaking of plants, his room is basically a big greenhouse. he has so many plants, and takes serious care of them all. he has a little humidifier in his space for them, marks down when he waters what plants, and has a label maker to label them all with a name. they are all named after shakespeare characters.

dyl is a doodler, so much so that he contributes to the school paper as a cartoonist. his cartoons are usually just random thoughts he has, but sometimes they get political and he works marxism into them. (this man loves marx.)

[ suicide implied tw, death mention tw ] he dresses like a victorian boy in love with his roommate who has recently died of scarlet fever and in his mourning, plans to disappear in the bog by the school by mysterious circumstances and become a ghost that haunts the college with his lover. like lots of gray and slacks and ties ands ties and sweaters, lol. also he has glasses that he never wears because he can never find them! catch him squinting in your classroom because he can’t see SHIT. too shy to ask you for your notes though, doesn’t wanna inconvenience you! but when he’s Out on the Town®, he fucking wears like, tacky patterned shirts that are expensive but ugly. someone please help him.

all about fun socks! he loves owning socks that have dumb little images on them. if you get him a pair of fun socks, he’d absolutely go nuts. his entire week: made.

he leaves his roommate limericks when he senses they are sad. tapes em to the bathroom mirror or leaves them in the fridge. also loves buying people presents. tiny ones. like haunted looking things from second hand stores, or your favorite chocolate. also is the sort of friend that has EVERYTHING in his bag, in case someone cuts themselves or has a headache. can be a bit of a mom himself. it’s the little things, y’know?

prob still in his emo phase. listens to way too mcr to not be lmao.

eco-friendly king, will not stand for you not recycling.

if you will allow him, he will attempt to have a secret handshake with you. he’s a child. is dying for someone to memorize the parent trap handshake and indulge him.

cannot sit still in a chair. fidgets an excessive amount, the bobbing of his knee and the squirming around. it just never ends.

bi. that’s the hc.

he’s a little bit in love with everyone he meets if you couldn’t tell, and it’s fucking disastrous.

he is based loosely off: patroclus ( the song of achilles ), ponyboy curtis ( the outsiders ), laurie laurence ( little women ), eduardo saverin ( the social network ), remus lupin ( hp ), oliver marks ( if we were villains. )

( @opalsmedia )

#opalsintro #intro #his background and things are in the big ass bio dfsklds but this is the gist of it lol

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daydreamed-snippets · 3 years

Text

TW: Sorry, I’m in a mood. Talk of Suicide. Abuse of prescription medication. Underage drinking. Hints at abuse

It was quiet here in the bones of the old house. Cold. Drafty. Wildlife feasted on the general decomposition of trim. Faded tile and decaying drywall dangling at odd angles. Bricks lay uprooted by greenery. Furniture slowly losing its form was arranged haphazardly throughout the house. Winn could see her breath hang in the air, curl in a tight spiral before dispersing into the night. A single electric lantern kept watch beside a nest of her own making: a bedding of dried leaves, her favorite crochet blanket, and a little radio faintly playing an upbeat tune.

Oh, and a bottle of whiskey and every fucking antidepressant and mood stabilizer those bastards had ever prescribed for her.

Playing eenie meenie miney mo, she uncapped a half-empty bottle of citalopram and popped all of it into her mouth. She took a swig, throwing her head back to ensure she swallowed. Looking around she supposed it was a fitting epitaph. Her end would be here, in this broken mausoleum, a showcase to humankind’s fundamental need to create something sublime but ultimately fail in its maintenance. To conceive something beautiful but become indifferent and bored with it, letting it fall into ruin. Wreckage that is only redeemable by nature itself. It would be nice, she thought, if something productive, beautiful even, grew out of her decaying life too.

Then maybe everything would have been worth it.

Absently plucking at weeds poking through fractured flooring, she huddled over on herself waiting for the drugs to take effect. Her stomach turned as she tried not to think. Tried not to repeat the same question over and over in her head.

How many times did she have to lose everything to take the hint? How many times did she have to hit rock bottom before her knees buckled and her legs snapped trying to stick the landing as she broke herself to please everyone?

For her, the answer was four. Not that that matters now. Cause now it was too late. Now she finally gets it. Now she gets why her Mami was so unhappy. Why Miami's boyfriend, Leonard, wasn’t happy. Why her doctors weren’t happy. Her teachers, her friends. Everyone. Why the world was unhappy. Maybe her death would make them happy again.

A breeze picked up, whistling through the gaps. It sounded like someone was whistling and walking around the house, wooden planks creaking. That should have terrified her but her mind was starting to feel a pleasant, sleepy haziness. She took another half-empty bottle by her feet and downed the contents, choking on her own saliva and the aftertaste of the alcohol.

Thoughts continued to rush in, unabated, like a broken dam. Each empty bottle held its own story, mostly of the times Leonard lugged her to another shrink, to “fix” her while her mother sat in the car, finding solace in a glass bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. Finishing it before Winn’s hour-long appointments were over.

None of it ever seemed to satisfy Leonard. Not that he ever waited for her to finish her prescription before shoving the next pill down her throat, deeming the previous one ineffective when she would have another episode. Promising that the next drug would be it. That the next one would work. And she believed him. Each and every time, she believed. Whatever was wrong with her, these next pills would fix it.

But they never did.

Soon it turned into, why can’t you be like x? Why can’t you just do x? Your attitude is why x is happening to you. Do you even want to get better from x?

She could put anything in for x. The equation stayed the same, with one common denominator:

Her.

Winn.

She was the shared numerator whose value was always zero. And anything that is multiplied by zero forever equals zero.

Another half-filled bottle, another swig. Her heart started slowing down. So did her breathing, face becoming flush. She was having a hard time keeping her eyes open.

Another floorboard whined under stress, and a voice followed it. “That is an especially painful way to die, dear one,” someone called out to her. “Overdoses can be messy affairs when attempted through the unpredictability of drugs.”

A surge of fright course through her. Who was that? A ghost? Leonard? She didn’t know. They remained out of sight. She looked up through the smog of her mind, unaware that anyone had breached the house grounds. She curled more into her nest.

It couldn’t be Leonard. At least she didn’t think it was him. It was hard to tell right now. It didn’t sound like him. Her chest wouldn’t stop stinging, though, at war with medical sedation and her adrenaline. Trying to play it cool, she schooled her tone, wishing she had a taser on her. Cursing how stupid she was to come here without one. “You lost?” she called, scrubbing her face with the bottom of her palm, her coordination clumsy. “The main road‘s that way.” She pointed, not exactly knowing if that was the right direction anymore. “House gone to be destroyed in the morning. The bots won’t check to see if anyone’s in here before they start smashing.”

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” he asked, coming into view. It sounded more like a statement. “Because you don’t think anyone will find you before they start demolition.”

She squinted at the man in an impeccable blue suit, refusing to answer. Definitely not Leonard. But…

“Mmm, I know you,” she said scrunching her eyes, fighting to place the face, fighting to find a name. Yes, she has seen him somewhere, but her mind could only remember one location in which she encountered him. A place shrouded in metaphoric perception and youthful symbolism. A place that is both romanticized and villainized oftentimes in the same breath. A place she could only visit when she closed her eyes at night and slipped from this reality to another.

“The man of my dreams. How—?” She swallowed, thoughts tripping over themselves. Her speech started to slur. He squatted in front of her, full weight on the balls of his expensive shoes, keeping his immaculate attire away from the dirt of the house. He moved gracefully, and though his smile looked concerned it was still every bit disarming.

“Uhh, I mean man from my dreams,” she stammered. “Uh, how is this?” It dawned on her. The part of her mind that was still intact. “Hallucinations. I’m dreaming. I-I’ve passed out.”

“You have not,” he said, making no move towards her. Simply staring her down with hooded eyes. “At least, not yet. And though I am, how did you put it, ‘the man of your dreams’, I’m not some figment of your imagination, Winnifred. I am quite real, and I’m here.”

Winn barked a laugh, “Oh my gods, for real? ‘I’m here’?” she mocked. “Everything’s good, I’m here.” She grabbed the bottle, his eyes following, and took a sip. “Fo sure, like that would really matter now. You can get your damn hair swirl outta my face with that.”

She made a move for his hair, uncoordinated and choppy, catching herself when she leaned forward too much and fell onto her hands. It took a while. He remained still for her, attentive, but unmoved. She was able to ruffle his dark blond hair out of its slicked-back position, wrapping a finger around the bit of lock that fell over his brow without falling again.

Their eyes met.

Realizing what she was doing she yanked her hand back as if burned. Confusion swept through her. He raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Convinced?”

“I can touch people in my dreams, it’s just...” It’s never felt so real.

She reached for another prescription. Clearly, she was delusional. Clearly, this was a trick. She poured out the oval-shaped pill preparing to swallow it whole. It was quite possible that she was out cold, body slumped over like the furniture of this house. Quite possible she was unconscious and this was her mind’s last chance at providing her with a final comfort. A childhood sentential to keep watch as she fades away.

She tilted her head back, arm poised to sling the pills into her mouth.

The man moves.

He shifts to catch her wrist in a light but firm hold. The bottle slips out of her fingers, clatters to the floor, along with the pills, dropping between boards and out of reach. Winn curses.

“Don’t touch me,” she said pulling away easily. “You don’t know me like that.”

“Listen to me, Winnifred,” his voice held a command. “I have not moved heaven and earth—I have not rescheduled my life just to watch your throw away yours. I do know you. I’ve known you since you were four years old. I’ve visited your dreams since your first nightmare. I’ve watched over you the best I could from afar.

“When I said, I’m here now, it wasn’t meant to be crass or derisive. So many people have let you down in your life, I being the chief among them. But I am here now. Things will get better. Let me prove it.”

“That wasn’t real. And dreams isn’t knowing someone.”

He tilted his head. “I know that your father left you when you were six. I know that your mother has been bounding from boyfriend to boyfriend, looking for validation but never really finding it. Each suitor worse than the last. The current beau is a monster called Leonard.”

She gulped, running a hand over her face. Tucking a curl behind her ear. He watched, gaze overly familiar. Possessive without even touching her. Eyes extracting what he wanted. She imagined he didn't take no for an answer. She imagined he changed outcomes to fit his ambitions.

She felt unable to hide.

“I know what he’s been doing to you,” he said, voice changing.

“H-how?”

He let out a breath of air. “I know this because I’ve seen your dreams. I know you’ve been having a recurring one of Leonard assaulting you, and then ending your life. It may happen in different facets and different places, but the theme is resoundingly the same. You also have recurring dreams of your mother’s lifeless body lying on the side of the road while traffic rushes by. Sometimes hitting her, most of the time not.” He adjusted his cufflinks, before completely abandoning his position to sit on the grassy floor. “You’ve been having these particular dreams for a while. It is because you venture into Leonard’s dreams each night, before going to your mother’s. It’s not unusual for someone with your abilities since they are the closest people to you. You’re able to see what Leonard will do to you, whether he’s willing to admit to his own perverse desires or not. And you’re able to view your mother’s darkest fears. Of being abandoned by everyone.”

“You’ve always had a talent for dream wandering and precognitive dreams. You were once able to control your dreams, steer away from the nightmares with my help.”

“I can’t anymore. It’s too—” her voice cracked, and she was reminded of his face. His words. How Leonard taught her to hold her breath, to clamp down on her tongue. He taught her to hide truths, and keep secrets. To bear the scars without screaming, and conceal them. He showed her to shut up while her dignity—her pride—would rage beneath the surface while he was near.

“Those dreams are just dreams. That’s what Leonard said.” She needed to adhere to that. If anything could appease Leonard it was that. And she needed to appease him. Her mother was too weak, too afraid for her own life to safeguard Winn’s, and yet too desperate for a man to head out on her own. Besides if they ran, Leonard would eventually find them. He always found them.

“Trust me, like you once did,” his voice was soft, yet it cut through her racing thoughts like a well-crafted blade. He held his hand out to her, the gesture speaking of promise and nostalgia. Reminding her of how of a strong presence he was in her dreams. The one bit of sanity in an array of insane characters and worlds. He slew monsters, clothed her when she was naked, stopped her before she'd slip into a free fall. Laughed with her. Held her when she cried. He was kind to her. Above all, he showed her tenderness when no one else did.

“Remember me,” he went on, “as I was. I can be that for you again, in this waking land. You can still choose to come with me and leave all of this sorrow behind. Or,” he withdrew his hand when she turned her head, refusing to take it. “You can choose not to, and I will sit with you until you lose consciousness. Then I will carry you to the nearest medical facility where they will pump your stomach, and a physiologist will evaluate you. One not worth the paper their license was printed on. They will, in all likelihood, lock you away in a psychiatric ward, to be forever treated as a pariah. It’s your choice.”

Her eyes jerked back towards him. He said it like a threat. Winn supposed she was running out of time. She wanted to trust him, but… she hadn’t seen him in her dreams for two years. He said that he’s there for her, but he hadn’t been. And she’d learned that being alone felt safer.

She pulled back, making a move to stand. Maybe he’ll let her go. Maybe he wasn’t even here. His fingers didn’t act like a vice when he grabbed her earlier. She easily slipped him then. Maybe she can do it again. Maybe—

Her legs buckled under her, nerve endings on fire. She vomited, hopefully not on him. Gods, not on him. Her vision blurred, darkness edging the rim. She felt hands on her but wasn’t for sure. She was dazed. She needed to resist. Or maybe she needed to give in. She couldn’t open her eyes though was mildly aware of the feeling of being lifted, of a certain weightlessness.

Winn was heaved against a strong chest. Instinctively, her hands went up, fingers curling and uncurling around dream man’s lapel in a display of rebellion or surrender, she wasn’t sure. She wanted defiance but it was so easy to just give in. Darkness claimed her.

Like it mattered because he wasn’t really there. Right?

#My writing #writblr #not a prompt #dreams #Winn #creative writing #Relictus City

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phantomphangphucker · 4 years

Text

Ectober Day 4: Youth - Weeping Flesh And Bone Chap.1: Can’t Stop Those Feet From Sinking

Lancer has seen plenty of troubled youths over the years, but when it comes down to it? No one’s worried or concerned him like Daniel does. And no one’s left him feeling as helpless either.

Lancer’s used to worrying about Daniel, had worried about the boy all his young life. From the day he was born into a dangerous house and possibly negligent parents. He worried over Jasmine too, of course; but she had always done well for herself. Her future was to be a bright one.

He’d hoped the same for Daniel. And with Jasmine there, that hope felt founded. In the beginning, that hope seemed founded and actualised. The boy was bright and happy. He was bullied sure, but he had a strong future and the drive for it. The keyword there was ‘had’ though. Because Highschool came and Daniel just...

Collapsed.

If Lancer were to use the kind of terminology that would make the boy smile, he’d say that it was like Daniel was a star that just burned too bright and too hot only to suddenly die and annihilate everything nearby.

Where the boy was once happy and eager, he became paranoid and seemingly too tired to care about anything. Where there was once perfect attendance and near-flawless homework, changed to the worst attendance Lancer’s ever seen and it had been as if the word ‘homework’ wasn’t even a thing to the boy anymore. And that was without even getting started on all the destruction of school property or the injuries.

The injuries were when Lancer’s worry over Daniel truly made itself known again. Depression and abuse both crossed his mind. Or maybe the bullying was getting worse. But there weren’t any other signs really. And it wasn’t just him.

It was his friends too. Sure they never seemed as hurt or as tired or as tardy, but still. If this wasn’t Amity, he’d have worried that they’d gotten involved in gangs or even possibly drugs. Those were functionally nonexistent in Amity though.

How all three seemed to handle the injuries so well and clearly by themselves, hurt him inside a little, but could he really inquire about it? He tried. He tried many times. But he was always waved off. Always given an excuse or sympathetic look. Like Daniel felt bad for Lancer over him being worried. Lancer didn’t want to make Daniel feel bad and his talks with the boy never seemed to change anything.

So he dropped it. And instead just hoped the boy would be okay. He had close friends and a smart level-headed sister. Jasmine being close with him was what really made Lancer feel a bit better. She wouldn’t let anything truly bad happen to her baby brother. She would speak up if something was truly wrong. She’d come to Lancer or someone else qualified if Daniel needed it. In fact, she had done that once or twice.

Then she was gone. Left for university. And Lancer worried more. Sure he was so very proud of the girl, but Daniel honestly needed her to stay. Lancer needed her to stay just to sleep better at night. Because Lancer knew Samatha and Tucker wouldn’t reach out for anyone. Jasmine would get help if that was what was best and needed. But the trio would likely let one of them nearly die before seeking help, and even that was debatable. Lancer had hoped dearly that his increased worry was unnecessary when Daniel didn’t seem to get worse.

Until he did get worse. Lancer wouldn’t have even noticed if he didn’t watch the boy as closely as he did. Daniel was simply too good at hiding things and pretending. That honestly terrified Lancer. Just the same as catching the whiffs of alcohol or sight of hard pain meds had terrified him. And even worse, that seemingly coincided with the boy seeming less stable. He twitched often and that paranoia of his was near-constant. Lancer put it together quickly, Jasmine’s main focus was psychology. She wanted to be a therapist.

Well, it seemed she already had been a therapist. She had been giving him mental help. Which just made Lancer doubt that belief that she would take Daniel to get proper help if he needed it. Which just made him even more worried that something bad was happening. Yet still, Daniel wouldn’t talk to him. And trying just seemed to make the boy more tired every time. Lancer backed off again when Daniel started seemingly avoiding any classes with him.

He was silently happy when Daniel started actually showing to and choosing his classes again.

Because if Lancer couldn’t help, then at least he could keep a watchful eye. And he could do what he could and try to keep the trio all in the same classes, keep them together. At least then there was someone to take notes for him when he slept, skipped, or left.

But then they were gone too.

Lancer doesn’t know how it happened. Or why. All he knows is that between their junior year and senior year, Samantha’s and Tucker’s priorities changed. Sure he was happy to see them trying harder in school and doing better because of it. Their futures would arguably thank them. But the cost was Daniel.

Where the trio had once been inseparable and constantly there for each other, now Samantha and Tucker seemingly near forgot Daniel even existed. Like they were doing everything they could to have nothing to do with him. They would wave to him sometimes. Throw him smiles. But would physically and verbally avoid him. And the worst thing was...

Daniel seemed to just accept this. Seemed to understand. Like he thought this was for the best.

The boy didn’t try to chase after them, never engaged them first, went on like this was what was supposed to happen. Lancer had been too stunned to even ask what happened. To check-in with the boy. The pit in his stomach and the growing fear in the back of his head only grew when he noticed that Samantha and Tucker didn’t seem to get injuries anymore. How they seemed well-rested, happier, and arguably normal.

While if Daniel had been dancing on the edge of a cliff before, now he had seemingly plummeted off it. In the months it took for Lancer to put himself together enough to talk to the boy, he doesn’t think a single day went by were Daniel wasn’t noticeably injured. Listening to the gossip of teachers made it clear he was sleeping in nearly every single class, hadn’t touched any homework, and was effectively failing everything. Lancer’s breaking point had been running into him at the bottle recycle, with nothing but liquor bottles and energy drink cans.

“This looks worse than it is”.

Lancer had raised an eyebrow, “does it?”. He knew better than to push too much with the boy. Daniel had been shuffling and twitching enough as it was.

Daniel had shrugged while looking around and tapping his fingers, clearly wanting the worker to hurry up. “‘S not all mine”.

“Your parents’ don’t drink, Daniel”.

“Uh, it... doesn’t affect me as hard as other people?”.

Lancer had just sighed, had bitten back the retort of that just being what happens when people build up a tolerance by drinking too much too often. Instead had given the boy a sad look as he left with his depressingly large amount of cash.

That night he had had a hard time sleeping, seriously worrying over wondering if Daniel was in his room or off in the park, alone and curled up with a bottle. Or doing whatever it was that got him so seriously hurt. He was so terrified that he, and everyone else, would only find out when Daniel ended up in the morgue. When the teen was found bleeding out in an alley. Or unable to be woken up, wrapped in heavy blankets and a bottle on the floor. Or, everything forbid, at the end of a noose.

Lancer’s used to worrying about Daniel, but this was too much. Part of him had wanted to call Daniel’s parents, that idea had gotten him staring at his phone for well over an hour. But he already knew they had written Daniel off. He had tried to talk to them before, they just brushed his worry off. Even chastised Daniel for ‘making Mr. Lancer worry over a kid who’s just lazy’. And they either didn’t notice or didn’t care that Daniel had been shaking. Lancer had revisited the idea that Daniel was being abused that night. But there simply was no way Jasmine wouldn’t have spoken up about that. None.

So that worry, that he just simply couldn’t sit on anymore, was what finds him here now. Physically grabbing Daniel’s sweater sleeve to stop him from leaving class. Hating how the boy twitches violently and looks to Lancer like he was about to get attacked. Not for the first time Lancer finds himself wondering what kind of Hell the world has put this teen through.

“Yes?”.

Lancer knows he won’t get Daniel to open up to him. To be honest with him. So instead he’s blunt, “you’re not okay. And I wish you would tell me, or anyone, why. You’re always hurt and tired. You’re coping with liquor, Daniel. Something’s very wrong. And it doesn’t seem like anyone around you even cares. Your parents have seemingly written you off. Jasmine is away. And Samantha and Tucker seemed to have forgotten you even exist half the time”.

Daniel scratches almost harshly at his arm and flicks his eyes around, “it’s fine”.

Lancer tightens his grip on the boy’s sweater, noting how little of the sweater sleeve the boy’s arm was actually filling up. He wasn’t eating enough. “No it’s goddamn not”.

Daniel blinks at him owlishly and stills, Lancer thinks it actually looks a little bit creepy. “you... you just swore”.

Lancer flicks his eyes over Daniel’s face. Noticing the hollowed cheeks and eye-bags that could be mistaken for eyeliner. “Because I care, Daniel. I’m goddamn terrified for you. I’m scared you’re dying. That I’m going to wake up to the news saying you were found dead or committed suicide. You need some kind of help and you’re clearly not getting it”.

Daniel shrugs awkwardly, clearly trying to play things off, “uh, I’m, uh, just bad at life?”. Lancer can’t help but glare at that, watching the boy's shoulders slump a little, “sorry. I don’t mean to worry you. Just, please, just ignore me? I promise the town won’t have to, um, bury me”. Daniel grabs at Lancer’s hand like he’s begging, “I’m still here, that’s not going to change. So please, just pretend I’m okay”, shrugging and looking away, “um, eventually you’ll convince yourself I am”.

Lancer blinks, is that what his friends were doing? Just pretending he was okay? That he didn’t need help? “I can’t do that, Daniel”.

Daniel looks back to him and snaps, though it’s clear to Lancer that it’s out of tiredness, “and why the Hell not”. Then looking to the ground and leaning away from him a bit, “sorry. It’s just... it would be better. You don’t belong here. Er, involved in me and my, um, stuff”, shrugging and maintaining his staring match with the floor, “‘s not like anything can change”, shrugging again, “save yourself by staying out of it. You’re more, um, breakable”.

Lancer bends down and moves his head to look Daniel in the eyes, “that doesn’t make sense, Daniel. You’re young-”

Daniel snaps again, glaring a little and cutting Lancer off, “yeah well the truth doesn’t have to make sense, does it”. Shrugging and glancing around, scratching at his arm some more, “sorry. Look, just, I’ll be gone after this year. And you can just, um, forget about me?”, shrugging and mumbling, “everyone else hopefully will”.

This is the most Lancer’s ever gotten out of the boy, he has to push this. He has to. “Why? And no, Daniel, I will not just forget about you”.

Daniel mumbles again, “just gonna get hurt”, then looks up at him, “‘cause, just ‘cause. It’s better. You got a life, they’ve got futures. Just, drop it please?”.

Lancer can tell he’s referring to his friends basically pushing him to the wayside. Lancer sighs slightly, it seems like Daniel had simply... given up hope for himself. “And you don’t?”.

Lancer’s stomach clenches when Daniel responds with a firm sure, “no”. Lancer physically sagging and drops his hand from Daniel’s sleeve at the sight of mist leaving the boy’s mouth. Daniel always ran off when that, whatever it was, happened. And sure enough, Daniel jerks and snaps his head around, “just, forget you ever met me. Forget I even exist. Please. And I, uh-”.

Lancer waves him off defeatedly, “go”. He can tell that Daniel feels bad when the boy winces before rushing off.

While Lancer just sits on the edge of his desk. It was pretty clear Daniel was effectively alone and had no intention of changing that. Even wanted that. He was a house that had all its support beams smashed out, barely holding itself up at all. And there was something, some awful dangerous thing, haunting that house. Chasing off anyone trying to install new support structures.

Lancer goes home that night feeling honestly worse than before. And worried that all he had achieved was making Daniel feel worse too.

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