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cowsaves · 1 year

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What Love Breeds: Chapter 9

Essie May's condition suddenly worsens, and Jason knows just how to fix her.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8

Essie's head pounds in the early dawn, but this isn't new anymore. Her head has been aching for the last month as her milk supply dwindles. She doesn't know why her milking time has become so much shorter than all the others, but Tommy finishes with her in twenty minutes and leaves with a grimace. Essie whines softly in her pen, much of her breakfast left untouched. Before, the smell was so powerfully alluring, she was scrounging her floor for the last bite. Now, she curls into a ball and whimpers. Her mind is foggy and memories don't fit where they should. Essie has flashes of waking up and going to the field in the middle of the night, being led there time after time. In the next flash, she's waking up in her pen. She groans as the pieces try to fit themselves together and merely mash into one another over and over.

The other girls are still milking when Tommy returns, this time with Dr. Amy and some of her friends in tow. They enter the pen and start manipulating Essie without a word, lifting her arms and strapping some piece of fabric around her bicep that squeezes too tightly. Essie watches Dr. Amy's face as she looks on, though her expression is flat and tells Essie nothing. Tommy and the doctor are talking quietly while Amy's friends continue to grope Essie and inspect her body. They finish as Jason approaches, taking powerful strides that quickly bring him to Essie's pen. Essie's heart rate calms as his presence nears. He comes upon Dr. Amy and Tommy with a smile and a light mist of sweat shining on his brow, speaking with more authority and loud enough for Essie to now hear.

"What seems to be the problem?" he asks. McCarthy raises her eyebrows in Tommy's direction almost imperceptibly. Jason is still jittery, still on edge. It's been a month and if anything, he's getting worse.

Tommy huffs. "Well, EMT299 is still not producing at her former rate, but beyond that, she seems to be in distress daily now. We don't know what changed, but something's off."

Amelia nods. "Her blood pressure is normal, we found nothing wrong with her in a quick physical; we'll need to x-ray her for anything more."

Jason shakes his head. "No, I don't think that's it. Look at her." He gestures to Essie's wincing shape. "It's... something else."

Tommy volunteers, "Well, we could try asking her."

"Asking her?" Jason's voice goes gruff.

"Yeah," Tommy says as he opens Essie's stall door and steps inside. "You know they keep a percentage of their language skills. Maybe she can tell you. Honestly, should've done that before I brought Amelia all the way down here."

Amelia snorts. "Not a bad idea."

Jason pushes past McCarthy and into her stall in a flurry. "Are you sure your answers will be reliable? I mean, her training was obviously more intensive than any we've done before."

"No," Tommy answers, "but it couldn't hurt, right?"

He knees before Essie as McCarthy's interns remove their equipment and bustle back beyond the stall. Essie looks at Tommy with pained, but trusting eyes, that are soothed all the more by Jason's warm scent. That same smell, though, tries to force her memories together. Essie whines.

Tommy levels with her and strokes her hair, brushing it out of her face and shushing her all the while. "Essie, tell us where it hurts. Speak."

The command compels Essie's mouth to open and release a low, pained, "moooooo," before she can think of anything else. Tommy waits, letting her words find their way out. Essie says, "Head... head hurts. Remember...ing things. Outside, at night, but then..." Essie mimes a burst of white light. "Just wake up h... he–"

Jason shushes her again. "It's all right, Essie, very good. Rest easy."

And Essie's eyes roll back as she slumps to the side, her breathing becoming deep and even.

"Shaw, she wasn't finished yet," Tommy says, eyeing Jason closely.

Jason shakes his head. "She's remembering her old life. I'm not about to let her relive that and strengthen those memories. Dr. McCarthy, set her up for another wipe. And let's drop her IQ...mm, as low as it can go, to be frank."

Dr. McCarthy leans forward, resting her elbows against the pen's fencing. Her eyes narrow.

"Amelia, do you agree with that?" Tommy asks. The atmosphere between Tommy and Jason sharpens.

"You don't?" Jason stands up to his full height and towers over Tommy's kneeling figure.

Tommy doesn't cower. "Just making sure we got all our ducks in a row."

Amelia cuts in. "It's really a perfect explanation. Much like our entire herd, EMT299 was running from something, from someone, and her memories before Shaw Farms were not pleasant. If they're starting to reappear now, she'd be plenty uncomfortable. It could be an explanation for her lack of milk, as well, but I'm not convinced there. We should get her started on an additional course of supplements. We'll go back to doubling her doses. The food shaft will skip her pen and we'll hand-formulate her courses again. Sound like a plan, boys?"

Tommy nods curtly.

Jason adds, "And the wipe?"

McCarthy shrugs. "We've got the time. No new applicants. Are you sure you want her that dumb, though? She's about to be a pretty popular option in the playpen, and a lot of our clients want something more than a blow-up doll."

Jason shakes his head. "I'm not talking about a lobotomy here. Ditzy. She'll have a harder time remembering her own life if there's not much to remember it with." He forces a laugh, though it sounds false even to his own ears.

Amelia shrugs. "Supposedly. We've never really aimed for pure stupidity, though."

"Essie's the first time for a lot of things," Tommy grumbles under his breath.

Jason ignores it. He orders, "Get it started."

Amelia nods. She pushes into the pen and with Tommy's help, stands Essie May to her full height. She commands, "Wide awake, and up tall."

Essie May blinks herself to life and stands rigidly upright. She turns her head from side to side, taking in the faces surrounding her. Comfort washes over her as Dr. Amy gives her a gentle smile.

"That's a good girl, Essie," Dr. Amy says. Essie's thighs squirm together. "Now, follow."

Everything falls from Essie's mind except the need to stay close on Dr. Amy's heels. She's immediately behind her as the floor transitions from hay-covered wood to smooth tile, a familiar cold Essie walked on seemingly a lifetime ago. They move through the facility until they stop before a door locked by keypad. Amelia doesn't bother hiding the code as she opens it, knowing what Essie's mind will be like on the other side.

They open to a small, white room. It's empty of all but a plain bench with a high back that faces the deepest set wall. Amelia sets Essie down in her seat and takes the leather belt extending from the bench. She straps Essie's neck into position, the belt working as much like a collar as a restraint, and a calculated smile falls across her lips. Amelia orders, "Essie, listen closely. Stay in this position. Do not move. Keep your eyes locked on that wall. You're going to hear a voice, a very nice voice that you'll listen to so intently. All of its words are going to become you're reality. Won't that be nice, to let the words decide for you?"

Essie, her eyes unfocused and lost in her suggestible state, bounce as she nods for Amelia.

"Yes, it'll be so nice, Essie. So nice to listen and let go of anything beyond the voice. So nice and comfortable."

McCarthy doesn't bring her out of her trance as she closes the door behind her. Metal mechanisms thump into place as Essie is locked into the room, primed to be wiped.

Essie's head feels disconnected from her body as it bobbles from side to side. She is still lost in the light, floating sensation as the room suddenly becomes a shade of soft, baby pink. A projector descends from the ceiling and lays spirals overtop every surface of the space. Essie locks onto them as the only shape that can ground her the further and further she falls into trance.

A voice comes alive overhead. This time, it is not the voice of Shaw, but of a woman with silken tones. The woman says, "Hello. Welcome to your own mind. Each swirl is one of your thoughts, is a piece of your brain, is a part of you. This spiral is all part of you. That's beautiful, isn't it?"

Essie nods so slightly it could be mistaken for another sway of her head.

"You're here to lose the past and become the present. You're here to live a new life, a happier life, a gentle life. You will not worry, you will not want for anything. This is your future. You are the present. The past is nothing."

The voice continues on, taking Essie deeper into her own subconscious. The voice bring them to the base of Essie's brain, where all her thoughts and memories are stored.

"These precious items... well, are they so precious? They're not the present. Do we have any need for the past?"

Essie shakes her head and gives the voice a dumb, "Unh-uhn."

"No, we don't need the past," the voice agrees, so sickly sweet it can't help but be condescending. "The past is the past. We are the present. We are the future. What is the past? Nothing. The past is - pop - gone in the blink of an eye. Can you tell me, what was the past?"

Essie tries to conjure a thought. Tries to give the voice what it wants. But the voice has only told Essie what the past is, not what it was.

"That's right! You have no answer. Because the past wasn't. Because the past isn't. There is only the present, and there is only the future. Tell me, there is only the present, there is only the future."

Essie forces out, "Only... the present... only... the future..."

"That's right! Exactly. We have only the present and only the future. There is nothing else. Only the present and only the future. Only the present and only the future. Only the present and only the future. Anything before is simply nothing. What is anything before?"

"Simply noth-nothing," Essie stumbles.

"Yes, simply nothing. The past is gone. We have wiped it from our minds. We are only the present, we are only the future. We do not need for anything else. When we feel for the past, we find nothing. We find nothing, so we don't feel for the past. We are simply the present, we are simply the future. Will we find the past? No. We will find nothing, because the past does not exist. What is the past?"

Again, Essie can't answer.

"Right! What past? What could possibly come before the present? There is nothing but the present. There is nothing but the future. Thank you for listening so closely."

There's a pause as the next segment of the session loads.

"When we have only the present and only the future, we don't need to think silly thoughts about, well, anything! The present and the future are happening to us right now. Can you say, right now?"

Essie slurs, "R-right now."

"But do we even need to say 'right now'? That seems like it takes so much work to think about. When, really, we can let the present and the future happen. We can look at our beautiful, pink, spinning mind, and let it run and run and run. We don't need to do much else, do we?"

As Essie attempts to answer, the voice closes the gap. "No, we don't need to do much else. We just let our thoughts run and run and run. We let them happen. We watch as the pretty pink swirls go by. We don't want for anything else. We watch as the pretty pink swirls go spinning by. We watch as the world goes spin, spin, spin all around us. The world happens to us, we don't happen to the world. So do we need to think those big, pesky thoughts?

"No, we don't need to. We don't need to think anything. All we need is our beautiful, pink, spinning swirls. They go around and around and around. Isn't that just so pretty? Don't you just, like, love to watch the colors?"

A placid, easy grin slips onto Essie's face as she watches the spiral go. The spiral's image becomes bigger until it's everything Essie can see.

"Pretty, so pretty. So nice to watch the colors spin by. We don't need or want or think. We just let the spiral happen. We just let the spiral happen. We just let the spiral happen. With every spin, it wipes away any of our pesky little thoughts. Wipe, wipe, wipe. So pretty to watch it wipe, wipe, wipe. All we need is our beautiful spiral. Wipe, wipe, wipe. All we need is our beautiful smile. Wipe, wipe, wipe. All we need is our obedience. Wipe, wipe, wipe. All we need is our happiness. Wipe, wipe, wipe. We don't think too hard. Because when we do, we feel the gentle surge of wipe, wipe, wipe. Go ahead, try and think about something big and important."

Essie tries to force her brain to find something, anything to think about. Just as she finds the details–

"Wipe, wipe, wipe. All gone. Try to tell me something! Anything, that needs more than just a couple, pretty words. We love our pretty words, don't we? But use some of the big, long ones. Some of the ones that aren't so pretty."

Essie tries again, and–

"Wipe, wipe, wipe. Can you see it? Yes, the spiral goes wipe, wipe, wipe. Can you hear it? Yes, when something too difficult, too hard and confusing, comes along, all you hear is wipe, wipe, wipe. Isn't that all better? Tell me, is it all better?"

Essie murmurs, "All better."

"Yes, good girl! Good girls get wiped. Good girls are empty. Good girls think about nothing but pretty pink swirls and use their short, pretty words. Are you a good girl?"

Essie is panting as if in heat. The sheer number of praise phrases thrown at her have her temperature climbing. "I'm good girl," she insists.

"Yes, very good girl! Good girl for using only your pretty words, for thinking only your pretty swirls. Good girl for getting wiped. Aren't you the perfect good girl, letting all those big, ugly thoughts go away?"

Essie nods hurriedly as many times as she can.

"Yes, yes you are such a good girl! You have been so good and so perfect. Please, allow your pretty little pink brain to slow all the way down to nothing. Slow all the way down to emptiness. Slow all the way down to pretty happy blankness. And now, you're ready to be wide awake."

As the voice speaks it, Essie emerges from trance light and airy. The spiral shuts off simultaneously, and the door opens with an echoing ka-chunk. Amelia examines her pupils, her reaction times with satisfaction, and Essie rejoins the herd just in time for free roam.

Essie May wobbles her way outside, her mind filled with nothing but air and euphoria, her pussy soaked with the voice's many compliments. She finds her cluster of friends lazily reclined in the warm grass. Winnie and Rose lounge on top of each other while Sarah Beth rolls herself and back and forth on the ground, giggling all the while. Essie totters past them, the group following her with their eyes, but losing interest as she keeps moving. No, Essie doesn't stop in front of her friends. She roams aimlessly through the fields, directly through other clusters with no mind paid to where she steps. Her eyes lock onto sight after sight and she staggers through the field, nothing left in her mind but pretty pink swirls.

Essie keeps on this path through the open field, now trained on a butterfly that darts about. It flaps its orange and brown wings so gently against the open blue sky. Essie reaches a limp, lazy arm for it, and can practically feel its velvet wings against her finger as she collides with another cow, tumbling to the ground and landing on her chest.

She whimpers as she props herself up, grass and mud scraped along her front. The other cow shakes her head and huffs, infuriated. Essie crawls to their side, ready to help them to their feet, when they shake Essie from their side. Bright ginger hair parts around Harper's pinched face, her eyes wildly darting up and down Essie's blank and clueless expression.

"Bitch," Harper huffs, her body slowly rising until she looms over Essie's smaller frame. "Bitch!"

Harper lunges forward and pins Essie to the ground as Essie squeals in panic and wriggles beneath her. Harper yanks at Essie's chest, fisting her tits in her palm and eliciting another squeal from Essie. She pinches and prods at Essie as she yips with in pain, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. She thinks Harper might finally be done with her as she reels back, until Harper grinds her knee against Essie's drenched cunt.

"You like this," Harper growls, her anger spiking.

"N-no," Essie whimpers. "Hurts! Hurts!"

Harper snorts, and applies more pressure to Essie. "Wet, needy bitch."

Essie's cheeks burn bright red, the shame intermingling with fear and her arousal that somehow, continues to grow. Essie can no longer understand why those three feelings swirl together, but she's stopped squirming under Harper's cruel hands.

Harper gives Essie one final thrust of her knee, and leans into her ear, fully pressing her weight onto her. "This is mine," she hisses. "My herd. My grass. My barn. Mine. Say it."

"Y-yours," Essie stammers. "Yours."

"Now you're mine too," Harper growls. "Say that."

Essie's mouth doesn't open. That's wrong, and she knows it. She's Jason's.

"Say it," Harper huffs, sinking her teeth into Essie's earlobe.

Essie cries out and thrashes against Harper. "No! No!"

"Say you're mi–" Harper howls as she's pried from Essie's body. Tommy is at Essie's side, pulling her free from Harper's grip as Carter wrangles Harper into submission. Carter barks, "Down!" And every cow within range is automatically on all fours, Essie included. Tommy takes that time to inspect Essie for injuries as Carter hauls Harper back to the barn. Essie comes away with a few scratches and bite marks, but is otherwise unscathed.

Harper's wild, livid eyes lock onto Essie's, and they're the last sight Essie remembers as Tommy pulls his handler's wand free.

#what love breeds #ch 9 #hucow kink

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zazzander · 2 years

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Jason Grace and Octavian, pt 1

Looking for more? Here's my master list of Octavian analysis.

I've discussed the character of Octavian a lot and one thing I noticed about his character is that there's a lot of parallels between him and Jason Grace.

What do they have in common?

The "Roman" facades

The desire for change (both to become more Greek and to uplift the monsters/fauns).

Healing the gods / becoming Pontifex Maximus

They both had duties forced upon them, likely from a young age

The general chafing against the rules, even against Fate itself

Yet they are at odds with each other.

I think it's because Octavian was forced to take on the sinister part of Rome. Skilled at the infighting, political jockeying.

It's easy to say for Jason to say he doesn’t like all that, from where he stands upon high. But Octavian was never the "golden boy".

Jason was loved and respected because of his father. Octavian, despite being the augur, is rarely offered respect. I think that's why Jason can be the strong and steady "leader". While Octavian can only be desperate.

Jason never needed to shout to be heard.

Octavian mustshout.

And blackmail. And make under the table deals. And generally reduce himself to being a slimy bastard.

And because I’m me, I’m going to explore that.

First Up:

Jason’s Memories and Past

There’s a running theme thought out Heroes of Olympus, even after Jason supposedly recovered from his amnesia at the Wolf House, of Jason either not remembering his past or feeling disassociated from it.

At the end of the Lost Hero, we get this passage,

His memory was still foggy, but bits and pieces were coming back. The night Lupa had tested him at the Wolf House, to decide if he would be a pup or food. Then the long trip south to… he couldn’t remember, but he had flashes of his old life. The day he’s gotten his tattoo. The day he’d been raised on a shield and proclaimed a praetor.

The first two events happened when Jason was very young – a toddler. And the final one, happened when Jason was fifteen. That’s a massive gap to have in his memories.

Which is why it makes sense that Jason defines it as “foggy” and “bit and pieces”. His memories didn’t return to him with the same clarity as Percy’s. And that was purposeful (which I'll be digging into later).

Throughout Mark of Athena, Jason is incredibly close to his chest when it comes to his feelings regarding the Romans.

And we see why in House of Hades, months after Jason supposedly recovered his memories,

It was hard to talk about his life before Juno wiped his memory. His years at Camp Jupiter seemed made up, like a movie he’d acted in decades before. [House of Hades]

And this is observable as well,

“And Jason… well, he has changed. He seems distant, no longer quite Roman.” [Mark of Athena]

So Jason hasn’t been able to reconnect with his Roman past. Some of his old memories he can accept, like those with Reyna; but everything else haunts him.

He’s no longer Roman, true.

However, with his memories back, he can no longer be the boy who adventured in The Lost Hero.

Which Piper notices,

But sometimes he acted so distant, like last night, when he’s been reluctant to talk about that old Roman legend. [Mark of Athena]

Jason surely has more memories of life than being a toddler (a few months at most) and his friendship with Reyna (which was approximately 2-3 years long). But he doesn’t dwell on them. He refuses to dwell on them.

So let's discuss why - and to answer that, we have to answer the question: Who was Praetor Jason?

Tradition, Romaness, and their Facades

Both Jason and Octavian are often presented as traditional Romans, upholding that structure, but they both desired change – a new start for Rome.

Because I've gone into already in other posts, I'll cover Octavian's facade first. Octavian wears his Romanness as a defence mechanism; it's a lie, an act. It's not who he is. Underneath the picture of a "good Roman" Octavian is a revolutionary. There are certain traditions and rules he simply doesn't believe in, and so he ignores them as much as possible. This can be a good or bad thing, depending on what he does and who it affects.

We can see his shifting mentality in how he dresses throughout the series. Whether he's in a toga, whether he takes it off, or if he removes all modern clothes (hiding his true self, his personality behind tradition).

So what about Jason?

Once he’d become praetor, he’d campaigned to rename the legion the First Legion rather than the Twelfth Legion, to symbolize a new start for Rome. The idea had almost caused a mutiny. New Rome was all about tradition and legacies; the rules didn’t change easily. Jason had learned to live with that and even rose to the top. [House of Hades]

Jason was praetor for only a 4-6 weeks before he disappeared. In that time, he almost caused a mutiny with his desire to change the legion. Despite what Jason says a little later, that he learned to live with the traditions – it’s clear from that action that he didn’t.

Jason isn’t the only on who wanted to change the legion. To give it a new start. The same can be said for Octavian, who wanted to make Apollo the patron god of the legion, replacing Jupiter. In the same way that, outwardly, Jason learned to accept the Roman way, Octavian goes “full Roman” in Blood of Olympus. He dons the full regalia of a Roman. Yet he retains his desire to reform the legion; to control it’s future.

Despite the facades, neither Jason nor Octavian fully abandon their desire for change, for a new start. And even more in parallel, both of them die before those visions could come close to fruition.

Jason could not help but die a Roman, as he feared. For that was his fate.

Octavian could not help but die in the fight against Gaia, as he (seemingly) feared. For that was his fate.

So what did Jason become, when he accepted the traditions of Rome – when he took on that façade?

Who was Praetor Jason?

Stripped of his memories, Jason still retained a personality. That personality isn’t a very likable one at first, especially in how he views Leo. Jason looks down on the people around him, not in a cruel way, but he still looks down on them. He is the type to “help”, but not as an equal. Instead, he believes – knows – that he is moral, physical, and social superior of all those around him.

He’s also fully prepares to save and protect those around him. He is selfless, almost a martyr in his actions. And that is where he becomes a likeable character. As much as he is arrogant, he is also kind and compassionate.

By the time Jason was elected praetor, he had gained himself quiet a legend – a legend, I suspect – that was built upon the character he had constructed for himself.

“You… the great Jason Grace… the praetor I looked up to. You were supposed to be so fair, such a good leader. And now you…” [Mark of Athena]

But it is a façade, it’s not real. Hazel admired him, she “looked up to” him. Jason was put on a pedestal from the moment he arrived at Camp Jupiter. So the arrogance makes sense, but I don't think it's Jason's most natural form. It’s something that was taught him, expected of him.

Jason lists Hazel as one of his friends at the end of the Lost Hero, but we can see that they weren’t really friends. They weren’t equals.

His friend’s faces: Dakota, Gwendolyn, Hazel, Bobby. And Reyna. Definitely there’d been a girl named Reyna. [The Lost Hero]

Even with Reyna, the relationship was built on expectations. Not on true connection. There was a fundamental disconnect between how Reyna saw things and how Jason did. One I’ve spoken about when I analysed her character.

Later in the Lost Hero, I think we get a really interesting quote, in context of what we know from the rest of the series,

The statue said nothing. Its painted eyes seemed to stare at him. “I wish I could talk with you in person,” Jason continued, “but I understand you can’t do that. The Roman gods don’t like to interact with mortals so much, and – well, you’re the king. You’ve got to set an example.”

We know that gods do come and visit New Rome a lot. There are multiple examples/quotes about this – too many to list here. So, it seems to me that Jason has been lied to, or perhaps simply lies to himself, so that the abandonment of his father doesn’t feel so wrong.

Furthermore, Jason phrases this message to his father regarding leadership and setting an example. His father is a king. And, in many way, Jason is as well. A “king” of the legion (or as he puts it "a prince in waiting"). To be king means to be above – to be isolated. And I believe the old Jason played into that. Always setting the example, never opening up, showing his true self. Never reaching out; in many ways, following the example of his father.

Having Lived on a Pedestal

So we have some insights into who Praetor Jason was.

I want to go in deeper by what I mean by Jason’s selfless arrogance with a few quotes from the opening of the Lost Hero. Because while his memories might be gone, that haven’t been replaced by anything – in the way Piper’s and Leo’s had been. And for that reason, Jason retains some of his old self.

None of them looked like hardened criminals, he wondered what they’d all done to get sentenced to a school of delinquents, and he wondered why he belonged with them. - Page 8

He’s confused as to why he could be considered a “bad kid”. He knows himself well enough to believe he wouldn’t belong among these kids. He immediately others himself from the crowd.

He’s also shown to be judgemental of others.

Sometimes, Jason turns out to be justified in his opinions, in the case of Dylan,

He smiled like he was God’s gift to juvenile delinquent girls everywhere. Jason hated him instantly. – Page 9

But sometimes not really,

Leo got up and brushed himself off. “I hate that guy.” He offered Jason his arm, like they should go skipping inside together. “‘I’m Dylan. I’m so cool, I want to date myself, but I can’t figured out how! You want to date me instead? You’re so lucky!’”

“Leo,” Jason said, “You’re weird.”

“Yeah, you tell me that a lot.” Leo grinned. “But if you don’t remember me, that means I can reuse all my old jokes. Come on!”

Jason figured that if this was his best friend, his life must be pretty messed up. – Page 9

Straight off the bat, Jason dismisses Leo. He met Leo ten minutes ago, and has already decided Leo is, more or less, beneath him.

This is the arrogance I’m talking about. The Jason we meet at the beginning is uptight, quick to assume people aren’t up to the same standards as he is. Whether that’s Dylan (who’s a misogynist) or Leo (who’s ‘weird’).

Even if he decides he’s going to be friendly with Leo, it’s from that place of being socially “higher”.

In addition to this, Jason has a bit of saviour mentality (which is a good trait for a hero, ‘with great power, comes great responsibility – Jason certainly knows that!). But we need to discuss it regardless, because sometimes Jason does try to step in, even when his help isn’t asked for.

Piper ignored them, but Jason was ready to punch them himself. He might not remember Piper, or even who he was, but he knew he hated mean kids.

Leo caught his arm. “Be cool. Piper doesn’t like us fighting her battles.”

What makes Jason a good guy here is that he accepts that. He doesn’t ignore Leo’s advice and charge into save Piper. This shows his willingness to listen to others. So yeah, he’s not a bad guy, he’s just used to being put on a pedestal.

Jason's arc is about taking down the facade, the persona.

The True Jason

One thing that I find interesting about the false memories Hera created of Jason, is that I believe they lined up with the person Jason wanted to be, the person he could be without his persona interfering.

All semester she’d worked on a relationship, trying to get Jason to notice her as more than a friend. Finally she’d gotten the big dope to kiss her. [Lost Hero 33]

This version of Jason is reminiscent of how he was unaware of Reyna’s affection for him. How she hoped they would one day date.

Jason stood right next to her: those sky blue eyes, close-cropped blond hair, that cute little scar on his upper lip. His face was kind and gentle, but always a little sad. [Lost Hero 33]

“My memories aren’t fake. They’re so real. The time we set Coach Hedge’s pants on fire. The time Jason and I watched a meteor shower on the dorm roof and I finally got the stupid guy to kiss me…” [Lost Hero 49]

She had liked Jason from the first week they’d met. He was so nice to her, and so patient, he could even put up with hyperactive Leo and his stupid jokes. He’d accepted her for herself and didn’t judge her because of the stupid things she’d done. [Lost Hero 49]

In many way, I find the “Jason” Piper describes to be the person we come to know. He’s a little reckless, he's ready to break the rules. But he’s also patient and caring. He is far less judgemental than the Jason at the start of the Lost Hero.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

#jason grace #heroes of olympus #hoo analysis #octavian analysis #jason grace analysis

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unofficial-batboy · 3 years

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Hey so I’m calculating Bat Family ages cause why the fuck not.

P.S I’m doing the current continuity.

Ok so we know that Bruce became Batman in Zero Year at the age of 25 and that the beginning of the New 52 is supposed to be Year 7 for the Batman making Bruce 32 years old.

We know that Dick became Robin during Year 2 when he was 15/16 when Bruce was 26. Barbara and Dick I believe are the same age in this continuity and she became Batgirl in Year 3 putting her and Dick at 16/17. Year 4 Dick left Batman and became Nightwing when he was 18. Year 4 I’m pretty sure is also when The Killing Joke takes place.

Jason became Robin and died in Year 4. He was 15 when adopted by Bruce. I’m unsure of what year he comes back in.

Year 5 Tim becomes Red Robin at I believe 15 but to be honest my memory is a tad foggy on his New 52 origin so feel free to update me.

Year 6 we are introduced to Damian who is said to be 10 years old. This is the same year Bruce “dies” and Dick replaces him as Batman at the age of 20. So Dick and Damian have a 10 year age gap.

So this puts everyones ages at the beginning of the New 52 at

Bruce: 32

Dick: 21

Barbara: 21

Jason: 18

Tim: 17

Damian: 11

Stephanie is a year older than Tim, I’m pretty sure Cass and Jason are the same age and I really don’t know Duke’s age honestly.

Ok time for Rebirth. So this section will be pretty quick. We see at the beginning of Rebirth that Damian gets his 13th birthday cake so just add 2 to everyone’s ages.

Infinite Frontier now. Damian is said to be 14 so it’s approximately 1 year after rebirth. So as it stands right now everyone’s ages are.

Bruce: 35

Dick: 24

Barbara: 24

Jason: 22

Cass: 22

Stephanie: 21

Tim: 20

Damian: 14

Stephanie being the same age as Cass and Jason feels off too me so maybe my calculations were slightly off on that but the rest should be accurate

I made an edit after doing a tad bit more research and this looks a little better. Obviously this is not the canon ages for any of them (excluding Damian) I’m just doing the math based off of DC’s own timeline.

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whump-town · 4 years

Text

Aversions

Hotch is less than dealing with the events of Foyet’s attack.

Warnings: alcohol abuse, child abuse, drug abuse, graphic depictions of violence & stabbing, self-destructive behavior, crying, self harm, mentions of suicide, suicidal ideations, violence with guns, and maybe some out of character Hotch and Emily.

Not sure how I feel about this fic... but I guess, we’re going in with both feet so

“You cannot save people, you can only love them.” --Anais Nin

Aaron Hotchner has never been good with words. Not the right ones, anyway.

But actions can speak louder than words.

He’ll spin Garcia around the dance floor when they go out for drinks. Hands placed just where they should be and he’ll laugh softly when she makes a thinly-veiled dirty joke. And she’ll remember those nights for her whole life. The way he smiled at her as the lights shimmered overhead. The way he blushed when she refused to dance with anyone else, stating she needed a real gentleman.

There are nights at Dave’s. Weekends that he gets to keep Jack, uninterrupted by cases, and they go to visit Pop’s; Jack’s third favorite person (mommy and daddy of course being one and two). It’s the sound of Jack’s happy feet running up and down the hall, Hotch’s thundering voice as he he-ho-hums and chases him along. Dave watching the youth bleed into that scrawny, spunky recruit from some twenty years ago. And Jack always runs into Dave’s arms and in one fell-sweep proclaims him the only safety he can get from his daddy. His giggling face turned into Dave’s shoulder as he shouts, “get him Pops, get him!”

Those memories were just weeks ago.

It’s been two weeks since Dave’s house was filled with Jack and Hotch, smiling and happy and… fuck just healthy.

Aaron Hotchner wakes up dizzy and sore. The pain ebbing into the numb, dull ache of whatever’s being steadily fed into the line disappearing into the pale flesh of his hand. For a moment, he just watches the ceiling spin. An all too familiar sinking feeling in the pit of his gut. Anxiety spreading its claws out to take root but he… he can’t seem to remember why.

Realization floods his chilled limbs with a shudder, the memories hitting his sternum. He leans his head back into the pillows, limp and stiff and cold and so fucking hot-- The stiff tug of the stitches in his abdomen force him to come to an altogether too swift descent. There’s a hissing sound that comes before his right-hand aches, something cold and heavy spreading up his arm and into his chest.

“Good to see you awake,” a nurse greets.

He’s too far gone to say anything.

By the time Emily finds him, he’s had one minor run-in with the staff. A doctor stops Emily in the hall, her tone laced with annoyance and apprehension that bleeds into her threat to restrain Hotch if that becomes necessary. Emily leaves with a nod and promises to keep an eye on him but she leaves with this tight bundle of uncertainty forming in her chest.

He wakes as she settles down in the visitor’s chair.

The stitches along his hip are tight, leaving him immobile despite his foggy brain wanting nothing more than to curl onto his side and sleep just a little longer. But the scent of the antiseptics burn his nose and he can still feel Foyet--

The tip of the knife slowly dragging down his chest. There’s no threat of a scratch or blemish out of place. Aaron’s breathing having long ago turned ragged and shallow. “Have you ever read the reports,” Foyet asks, keeping his slow purposeful movement going. “Tell me, Aaron, have you read what David Rossi and Jason Gideon had to say about you? Young Aaron…”

Foyet smirks as he stops, shifting as he presses weight into the stab. It’s slow and agonizing but, Hotch realizes with a shudder, he’s too cold and weak to even really feel it. His body slowly falling away.

“Not so young anymore,” Foyet comments. He takes a moment to watch the knife’s slow pull from Hotch’s body, smiling when Hotch’s chest catches and he falls silent and breathless. Not even the sound of his ragged wheezes filling the air. “I can see how they’re right, you know?” Foyet lays the knife down on the side, pulling himself up and away from Hotch. “I wonder what’s going to get you killed faster, your loyalty, or your stubbornness?”

His eyes peel open slowly. Uncoordinated and sluggish he raises his left hand to scratch at the dried blood on the side of his face. His fingers manage to clumsy hook the canal running his nose and he pulls it crooked on his face.

Her voice quiet, afraid any sudden movement from her or too sudden a loud sound, might startle him, she calls his name. “Hotch,” she rises from the chair. She hates how her voice wavers. The shift that takes place between them. Any semblance of friendship they might have must be cast aside because… he’s a material witness and a victim. One that she can set off. One she might break.

Stepping into his field of vision, she can see his shoulders relax. Just having someone else close. Someone he knows. “You…” she’s stuck between Emily and Prentiss. Between her role as his friend and his coworker and even her role as an agent. But he’s always commended her undercover work. She’s got a spark for thinking on her feet. “I’m going to fix the oxygen canal, okay? It’s going to agitate your skin otherwise.”

Through slow, coordinated, and purposeful movements she keeps her hands where his darting bloodshot eyes can see. She hesitates when he sucks in a panicked breath but something in the back of her mind says pausing is only going to make it worse so she pulls the canal into place. Her fingers just hardly graze his cheek but she can still his body flinch at the contact.

And all she can think is fuck.

“That’s better, huh?” Her eyes dart to the heart monitor, uncertain if she’s convinced herself that it’s beating erratically fast or if it’s just a fragment of her mind. More than anything else, she makes herself aware of her body. The way that she moves so as not to startle him or, as she’s quickly putting together, touch him.

She steps back to the side, fully aware of the way that his eyes don’t break away from her. “Get some sleep, boss.” There’s something familiar and light about the way she calls him that and she can only pray that gets them through.

He suspects that he’s finally gone and done it. A part of him is relieved to find that fourteen-year-old Aaron Hotchner, a boy clutching to life with bloodied hands, was so wrong. The flash of heat and the open sting of his father’s belt against his back isn’t what finally makes him snap. Forces and pries his tight hold from reality. It’s nine, precise stab wounds and an awful cocktail of drugs that he can’t see his way out of. That’s what breaks him. Then again, it’s so much more than that.

Derek Morgan. His dark blue shirt fitted tightly over his back, the edge of the back tucked into his black pants. Tight muscles shifting under his skin as he stands with his back facing Hotch. His tattoos, body art Hotch had never really cared to mind, staring back at him now. Those tattoos are the only sensible thing about the world as his body is pulled back down.

He blinks owlishly at JJ. Her cold, tiny hand squeezing his and trying so valiantly to get him to talk to her. A question, something pressing, something important but he can’t…

Garcia with her tear-stained cheeks and the mascara running down her cheeks in pools. She says his name, he doesn’t hear but he sees her mouth form the word. He thinks that she might sit by his side and read. He’s got the faintest in and outs of The Hunger Games plot stuck in his brain.

There’s a fuzzy, half memory of Reid. Even in the present, he’s not sure it’s actually happening. A hallucination, maybe, but as he’s looking the young genius over he’s not sure why he’d hallucinate Reid. Then again, who else is left? There’s this look in his eyes, it makes Hotch feel guilty. Wrong. He doesn’t dwell on that feeling for very long. One sluggish blink later and he’s gone… maybe he was a hallucination.

Somewhere between hugging Jack and Dave standing in the doorway to his room, Hotch feels a very deep, uncomfortable weight settle across his chest. A realization on the tip of his tongue-- he wishes that Foyet had just killed him.

Waking with only the weak light of the hall outside, he realizes that he has no idea how much time has passed. Days or hours or even time. Just that the room is dark and there’s a light glow from the machines behind him. The morphine’s going to kill him. He needs to be more alert but the edges of the world are blurry and he’s already succumbing to the warm sting spreading over his body.

His hips ache and he makes the mistake of shifting. It’s just a small movement, sleepy and hazed he’s not capable of too much more. Still, his body is on fire.

“Careful,” Emily whispers from the dark.

He can see her, out of the very corner of his eye, rustling as she moves out from under the mountain of a blanket and uncurls her legs. He watches, silent, as those legs seem to go on forever. Reality melting into the heat of his body, the flames licking up him. And her touch is the water he so desperately craves but he’s lost his sense. There is no up or down or reprieve from the heat.

“Easy,” she breathes across him, the flames succumbing to her. To her will. “Just breath.”

He’s sinking back under the haze, mouth full of cotton and jaw slacked open but he can’t find the words. He can’t seem to remember how to speak. “Prentiss,” he rasps, eyes sliding shut but his hand closes around hers. Begging, pleading that she understands.

“I’m right here,” she promises. “Sleep. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

A week later, she finds him tripping over himself he’s so drunk. Making a mess of himself and everything around him but… that’s all he’s ever been good for anyway. She doesn’t say anything. There isn’t any disappointment in her eyes, despite what he’s expecting.

Haley always hated seeing him drunk. He gets sloppy.

Where Haley had seen only Mr. Hotchner, a broken old bastard, in her husband, Emily just sees a man begging for normalcy. For the pain to numb and for things to return to normal.

Emily just takes the bottle out of his hand. Taking a chug out of the bitter, dark liquid she grunts as she swallows. It burns and she supposed that’s half of the appeal to him. “Come watch the History channel with me,” she says, taking his hand and guiding him to the couch. He goes easily. She knows he likes the History channel and she also knows that he just needs some stability. Something solid. So she leans into his side and holds his hand. Reminds him that he’s not as alone as he thinks that he is.

But even that’s not enough.

“Hotch! Hotch, that’s enough! He’s dead, man,” Morgan falls to his knees, pulling Hotch from Foyet’s body. “He’s dead.”

Emily watches Hotch’s trembling body. The split skin of his knuckles and the way that two of his fingers crookedly bend into his palm. Rough ragged sobs tear through the room, breathless words passing Hotch’s lips. He’s shaking uncontrollably. She watches, his bowed back, snap. His attention, that hawk-like, eerie attention, is moved. It’s changed.

He pulls himself from Morgan’s arms.

Morgan having drawn Hotch to his chest. Bent their bodies to mold them into a folded backward hug. Their heads pressed together. Morgan can’t help his own tears. The abject horror washing over his body at the sight of the mess before him. Great arching sprays of blood and the thick scent of blood looming over them. And George Foyet… a blooded lifeless body before them.

And Hotch…

He stumbles to his feet, pulling his body from where he’d fallen into Morgan. Where he’d allowed himself just a moment's embrace. He takes three, four large steps on shaking legs.

Emily steps forward but Dave catches her elbow. He stops her from moving to Hotch.

He’s not in his right mind. Dave’s only protecting her. Protecting them. Aaron is hardly going to survive today, he doesn’t need to accidentally hurt Emily. He is a live wire and he’ll take them all out in the explosion.

George Foyet arches against his wires and they’re standing right there when his anger boils over and he screams into the nothing. Holding Haley’s body in his arms so delicate and broken. They’re both just broken dolls, their cords cut and the curtain comes tumbling down. One last final blow-- his job really did take everything from.

Jack isn’t enough to save him.

He blows up. It’s not nuclear but it’s unhinged and raw and there’s something about his eyes that makes Emily finally draw the line. He’s hurting but there has to be a line. A place where one of them steps in and says that it’s enough. That he’s got to pull himself together before he sucks them all into the black hole of his chest. And she’s quickly realizing, she’s the only one strong enough to do the job.

She finds him on a bender. He can hardly stand and the light mirth she’d once admired about his quizzical eyebrow raises is gone. The man standing before is a mess and she’s not sure if she hates herself or him more for letting it get this bad. For not finding that line sooner.

“Jesus,” she whispers.

He knows disgust when he sees it. A childhood spent curled into his father’s shoe, cracked ribs, and broken arms, he knows disgust all right. And now, a fully grown man, he just laughs. There’s nothing light about the sound. It’s morbid and twisted in his throat. A hollow sound. She’s disgusted by him.

“You need a shower,” she informs him with a curl of her nose. She steps past him, ignoring the frown she shoots her. She knows that he doesn't want her here but what he wants isn’t really a priority right now. He hasn’t got to tell her. She can see it in his eyes and smell it on his breath. He wants to crawl into a dark hole and die. She’s here to drag his sorry ass out.

Looking around his apartment, the first priority is getting rid of all the bottles. “Where are the trash bags,” she asks, heading to his kitchen. He’s already shaking his head, running his hands through his thick greasy hair. She finds the bags on her own, right where she’d assumed they’d be. Under the sink. “Where’s Jack?”

He falls onto the couch with a huff. “Jessica,” he grunts.

Good, she thinks, for him. Jack doesn’t need to see his father like this. Hell, no one does but… someone has to. At the same time, if Jack were here, Aaron wouldn’t have let himself get this bad.

“He probably misses you,” she says, starting in on tossing his garbage. There’s an astounding lack of food but it’s also not entirely surprising that without one of them hovering over him and forcing him to eat that he hasn’t tried. The word suicidal may not have come out of their mouths but they watch him. They see him. Sometimes you don’t have to speak a truth for it to be true.

And Aaron Hotchner is a coward. They are all. It’s why they haven’t taken his guns and it’s why he hasn’t put one to his mouth.

There are three guns in his home.

Two service weapons that he wouldn’t stain with his own blood. He took a vow and those weapons are not meant for this. It’s a disgrace to the only thing that’s ever made him mean anything.

The third is a gun his father had given him.

He was sixteen.

The words had poured out of his mouth. An aching truth he hadn’t even realized was true until the words were spoken. He did want to kill himself. The abuse was never going to end. He could see no end in sight and his father consumed his every action and thought and even his self-image.

He was tired of his reflection.

His father had grabbed the bottom of his jaw, large fingers digging into his flesh as he’d pulled Hotch’s mouth open. Hotch had shaken, frozen in place, as his father pressed the barrel of his gun to the roof of his mouth. Gunpowder and cold metal.

Sometimes, Hotch can still taste it.

He’d been afraid to die then but now, he longs for it. There is a darkness in his veins, murky and thick, that he needs to spill out. To watch the crimson drip down his flesh so that he can see, so that he can know that beneath this shell he is alive. That there is only a part of his sum that is broken and dead. He is alive.

His ribcage expands with life.

His heart beats with purpose.

But his mind… it has rotted. Desolate and afraid.

His father had beaten him senseless that night but that made it no different than any other night.

And the very gun that had once been pressed between his lips now rests in the safe in his office. Untainted and calling out so wistfully to him. He can hear it now, as Emily calmly collects his empty bottles of alcohol. His throne of glass shattering beneath him. He can always hear it. How simple it would be to get it now. To just end all of this.

“Aaron?”

He looks up suddenly, eyes unfocused and glazed.

“Aaron!”

The bile hits the back of his throat and is thrown out on his hands and knees, expelling the contents of his stomach into the porcelain of the toilet. His head throbs as Emily follows him, turning on the lights. He’s been sitting in the dark for so long, he’d forgotten the sting of the light.

“Just leave me alone,” he grunts, spits falling over his bottom lip as his stomach aches on. Rolling and churning. He’s put nothing in it for the last forty-eight hours other than Scotch, Oxy, and two shitty beers from when he first moved into this shit-stained apartment. He groans as his stomach clenches, leaning his forehead against the cold porcelain.

Emily’s seen enough. She’s tired of this little performance he’s putting on. “No,” she steps to the sink and drenches a rag in the shockingly cold water. Wringing it out only slightly before slapping over the back of his neck. “This bullshit, it ends tonight, do you understand me?”

He grunts as the rag meets his skin, trembling muscles protesting at the temperature difference of his overheated body. Even if he could think of something to say in protest, he’s not sure it would make it past his lips without being accented by more drug-laced regurgitated booze. Besides, he knows she's right. Deep, deep down. Beneath the self-loathing heat and even farther down beneath the frayed parts of him that never survived childhood. He knows. He knows that even if it’s not for him, he has to stop. For the team and his son.

“First,” she whispers kneeling down beside him. “We need to get you sober.” She draws a clean rag over his face, wiping the vomit from his lips. “What have you taken?”

He shakes his head. Can’t meet her eyes. He’s ashamed and he should be.

She reaches out to touch him but he flinches, looking between her hand and her face. As if he’s expecting her to hit him. “Aaron,” she softens her voice. Moving slowly until she’s cupping his cheek. His eyes water, chest hitching as his breathing grows unsteady with the emotions boiling to the surface. “I just want you to get better.”

A tear falls down his cheek and he turns his cheek, trying and failing to hide it from her. He wants to get better.

Tears are falling down his face when he turns his face back to her and pulls in a stuttering breath. He pulls his sleeve up. He shows her the hesitantly made cuts on his forearm. “I-- I don’t…” he pulls away from the hand she reaches out to him with. But when she tries again, he lets her hold his wrist in her hand. Her finger ghosts over the scabs. He hadn’t known what he was doing and he hadn’t liked the blood. He’d just wanted the hurt.

It was too much like Foyet. The knife and the razor and the blood on his white t-shirt.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

She shakes her head. No, this is-- this is his fault. These cuts were made by his hand but they never should have let him get so low. They should have done more.

Pulling her eyes from his arm she steadies herself. He isn’t hopeless. He's a fighter and he’s stronger than she is. He’s got more to lose than he realizes.

“I took the oxy,” he admits. “It’s-- It wasn’t enough.” He’s shaking now, coming down from his anger and submitting to the pain. “You need to…” a part of his broken mind screams. It screams to fall silent. That he needs the gun and that he’s just supposed to be distracting her now so that he can follow through with the plan he’s been making for weeks--

The office and the gun. Spinning in the leather-bound chair that Haley had gotten him as a wedding gift and biting the bullet. The letters are written and waiting on his desk. The chamber is full. The gun calls for him.

“There’s a gun,” he whispers. “In my office, you need to-- you have to get it or I’ll…”

She nods her understanding.

He can’t see around the tears pooling in his eyes, “uhm... “ He’s trying to think, what else? What else is left? He couldn’t stomach the thought of slitting his wrist. Never had the nerve to draw a bath and just to sink into warmth… that’s too gentle. He’d needed a bang. A mess and more disgust. More hurt.

And now he can feel the panic of his options being taken away.

“Aaron,” she squeezes his hand. He meets her eyes and feels a fraction of warmth. “Just-- Just--” she wants to tell him to let her in. She wants to tell him that all this is going to pass in time and this awful moment will just be a cruel memory one day. But she’s looking at him and seeing her own reflection. Two people broken by time and unable to trust another human being. She can’t be certain why she does it.

Her mind screams that he’s neither trustworthy nor in the right mind but she wraps her around him and pulls him into a hug. “I love you,” she tells him, hugging him tightly. Feeling his tension and apprehension. Slowly, he lifts his arms and hugs her back. He clings to her. Squeezing her tight but she’s not going anywhere.

He’s vaguely aware of the fabric of her soft cotton shirt getting wet against his face. Her hand comes up and brushes his hair down and he finds that he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that he’s sobbing in the arms of the very woman who was once hired to end his career. He doesn’t care because he feels the pain and for once, he can breathe.

Emily holds him tighter. Neither is speaking. They just cling together in the storm and Emily hopes that she can drag him out of this mess. That he can come back here, to her arms instead of into the bottle. And she’ll get his gun. She’ll throw out all of the alcohol and call Jessica in three or four days when he’s mopped up and dry and tell her that Hotch needs to see Jack.

And maybe one day they’ll think back to this moment and it won’t hurt as much. But for today, for this moment, they just hold one another.

#tw alcoholism #tw alcohol #tw abuse #tw child abuse #tw guns #tw suicide #tw self destructive behavior #tw self harm #criminal minds #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #david rossi #george foyet #derek morgan #spencer reid #penelope garcia #jennifer jareau

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dannyphantom-justiceleauge · 3 years

Note

Ok but the biggest question I have for Guardian Danny... if he's now an ancient and powerful ghost on the Council of Ghosts... does that mean his friends and family are now dead after living long fulfilling lives themselves or did they also come back as ghosts?

the answer is gonna have to be yes, because i am a nice author who doesn’t want danny’s friends to die and i think it would be overall healthier for him and also rather in character if they join him in the ghost zone. rip angst writers but i’m different.

obviously it can’t be everyone. certainly not the JL crew, except jason. but the vast majority of the DP cast has some fore of ecto radiation/ direct contact with it. sam and tucker both had ecto acne and even though danny cured them before it could kill them, that was what made vlad into a halfa, so it must have some sort of linger effect. and that’s not to mention the general exposure they’ve had to ectoplasm, just through proximity. we’ve also witnessed jack fenton eat extoplasm and ectotainted food on more than one occasion. valerie has a ghost suit as an extension of herself and again proximity. dani is obviously sticking around

jazz and maddie are a little trickier. maddie seems to practice relatively safety about ecto exposure. at least for herself. and jazz, while still having the proximity exposure, has done a considerably better job at avoiding exposure. i think there’s been a good few times where she got coated in ecto goo, but my memory is foggy on that and i’m not sure if that would be enough to change her.

it should be noted, that my science is in order to make a ghost you need ectoplasm + death. as it stands all the characters have ectoplasm in there system but they won’t become ghosts until after they die. so theirs a strong chance of them being old people before they find out if they’re gonna be ghosts.

either way, it’d be nice if danny could keep his family. they might not become Gaurdians but at least he’s not alone.

getting into obsessions is fun part. sam: i can see as also being into saving people or protecting things. similar to danny. her goal in cannon had always been humanitarian and environmental efforts. sometimes she approached it too aggressive or controlling, but i also see that as fitting with an obsession. we could also tie her back in with undergrowth. but either way i still see her trying to do good as a ghost, and perhaps sometimes taking that to it’s negative extreme

tucker: honestly i could see him going a tech route. he’s kinda a weird cookie. he was obsesses with more than one thing in series. meat, technology, himself, it’s hard to narrow it down, especially when he’s established to go mad with power when he gets ghost powers. it happened twice. so keeping him in check would probably actually take a bit of effort. but then again, depending on when he dies, he might have grown out of that. he might be obsessed with protecting his friends now, or looking out for the little guy. he’d still probably have and ego, but everything else is up in the air.

jack: i stand by my head cannon that if jack were to become a ghost his obsession would continue to be ghosts. he is the ghost ghost. he is studying and fighting ghosts all across the ghost zone. he is incredibly obnoxious but also kinda adorable. it’s clear that he’s never been happier. (though whether maddie came with effects that)

val: is also tricky. it depends on how much she’s matured by the time she dies. because currently her obsession is vengeance and hunting ghosts. and considering there’s already a hunting ghost... i kinda hope she’s matured. i could honestly see her obsession becoming justice as she gets older, which is a better version of vengeance. but after so thoroughly and stubbornly misjudging danny, she hopefully has tempered her judgement of other to be fairer. most of the time. her justice is another thing i could see her taking to a negative extreme. she’s at very least fairer then walker. i could see her overhauling the ghost prison system honestly.

jazz: if she joins them... i don’t know, possibly psychology, possibly protecting her family

maddie: possibly more obsessed with inventing and science than ghosts.

whatever they have, i’m just happy they get to stick together and cause chaos in the ghost zone. - Hestia

#Danny Phantom #dpjl #Guardian!danny #hestiawrites

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perseusjackson-jasongrace · 4 years

Text

Kingdom Collisions IV

This is a fic i’m writing to incorporate more descriptions into my writing. Updates are sporadic as i don’t have chapters written in advance. I hope, however, you enjoy what is here :)

masterlist

P.S. ardor means flame in latin; cielo means sky in spanish

Jason Grace is tired. So so tired. Exhaustion is a weight pressing into his bones. He doesn't know why he snapped at Percy. His patience is usually an infinite string wrapping around his throat and tying a bow against his collarbone. But every part of him feels out of place. He stares at the mirror mounted to the wooden wall, stares at it until his eyes cross. But he doesn't recognize the person staring back.

They have the same blonde hair and blue eyes. The same tall, half-gangly half-lean frame. And the wonky glasses. But they don't have the spark that glitters in his eye. Or the dancing fingers that constantly needed to be entertained. No, those fingers lay limp at his side.

He sighs and moves to collapse onto his bed. At the very least the silk sheets are blissfully cool under his skin. When they had first got to the cabin he had been surprised at the sheer lack of opulence. In all his years of being a Prince and visiting every castle and vacation-home known to man he thought he had a pretty good idea about what royalty was like. But Crown Prince Percy Jackson and Queen Sally Jackson continue to surprise him. When they had insisted on a small wedding, consisting of no more than what was needed to officiate a royal ceremony, or when Queen Sally had pulled him aside after their dinner the night before and hugged him tight enough to stop his air flow.

"I am sorry Jason," She looked at him, her sea blue eyes glistening with unshed tears, "That you have to give up so many of your own choices. I hope one day, you will find peace and happiness despite the circumstances."

He had thanked her but her words, even now, puzzles him to the point of headaches.

Why did she care what happened to him? And why did she think he didn't have any choices?

His kingdom is as much a part of this agreement as theirs. All these questions buzz incessantly in his mind enough that he feels the low throb of a migraine at the base of his skull. Immediately, he pushes himself off the bed and gets into an ice cold shower. On top of everything, he doesn't need to be sick.

The shower beats against his back as he gets lost in his thoughts, remembering the last time time he had been under the relentless spray, in his own castle.

I can't believe you have to get married to some pompous no good jackass.

Aw don't say that. We don't even know him.

Yea but he's taking you away from me so I hate him

Don’t worry my ardor, I will find my way back to you.

A calloused hand, the colour of brass, snaked under his arm, resting against his chest, where his heart beats steadily.

What if you end up falling for each other?

He turned around, looking deep into those coffee eyes.

I don't know how I could possibly fall for anyone when you have already caught me.

I hate you for making me cry.

Jason had leaned in, tilted up that angular face, brushed away the curls.

I love you my ardor.

I love you mi cielo.

The memory fades as he pulls himself back to the present, letting the sound of sleepy birds and rushing water ground him.

Shutting off the shower he dries himself off quickly, glad to find the oncoming migraine gone. Not bothering with anything but a pair of boxers he makes his way into the lounge where the fire is slowly dying. He shoves a few more logs in and settles down on the fleece rug in front of it. Percy, he observes, is still holed up in his room.

He knows he should apologize, should offer some peace treaty after snapping like that, but he can't bring himself to care. He just wants to be at home, surrounded by his people, by his person.

He hasn't stopped thinking about them, about that smile, or the way their ears turn red when they notice Jason staring, or how they can fix literally anything you put in front of them.

He had asked why they never followed their father, take of the family business, why they chose to become a royal guard instead, but his ardor had shrugged and said there were more exciting things in the world than melting metal.

Jason always dragged them closer and tangled his fingers in that messy hair.

Well I guess it was the right choice. Because it brought you to me.

And then words were no longer necessary.

He shakes himself out of it, out of the life he's left so far behind. There is nothing there for him now. Nothing but a coronation and ruling for the rest of his days. The thought makes him queasy. Makes him want to fly into the sky and live amongst the clouds. Life, he thinks, would be much simpler if they could escape to the sky. Instead, he picks up the book he is reading and escapes into another world.

Some time later he dozes off, head lolling to the side. His dreams take him to hands of fire and cheeky smiles. He dreams of comfort.

"Jason," Someone calls him.

He mumbles for them to go away and tries to tuck himself back into bed, only to fall over and slam into a hard something?

"You can't sleep like this," The voice is saying, "You're going to ache tomorrow."

"Don't care." He groans, curling into a ball.

"Come on,"

And then he's being lifted clean of his feet and hoisted over a shoulder.

"What are you doing?" He manages to mutter.

"You can't sleep like that. First of all the floor is not comfortable and second I don't know how much you move in your sleep and I don't want a Jason barbecue."

"I don't want to sleep in my room." His brain is foggy and he trips over every second word.

"Why?"

"Iss cold."

"I'll get you another blanket." Percy's voice is nothing but a raspy breath.

"Have two," He mumbles, "Need to sleep with my—"

He’s cut off by a yawn.

"Your what?"

"My what what?"

He can hear his husband— oh yes his husband, what a silly thought— sigh and he pictures those striking green eyes rolling.

"My room has sun for most of the day, you can sleep there for now. We can discuss your room when you’re less sleep deprived. Sound good?"

"Soundddss dreamy," He sighs, fighting his fast closing eyes.

Just before the world disappears he's placed gently on cotton sheets. He can hear the birds starting to sing and he can feel the sun bathing his usually pale skin.

"This isss ni—" He yawns, "nice."

Jason Grace is fast asleep.

***

The Prince opens his eyes slowly, blinking back into the present. He doesn't recognize his surroundings. There's a small pile of clothes on a maple-wood rocking chair in the corner, and emerald curtains, fastened by glimmering ties, open to reveal huge arched windows. He looks down to see his legs entangled in black sheets and the faintest threads of cerulean blue weaving between the strands.

Percy's room, then.

But why is he in here. He doesn't remember drinking last night and that's the only way he could have possibly slept with his husband. Gods what a sad thought indeed. He decides to just ask the Black-haired Prince, not caring to delve into his memories to try piece together what happened. He thinks briefly about donning more clothes than his current boxers but his room is far and the house is warm, and mostly he just can’t muster up the energy.

He finds the prince at the kitchen counter typing furiously on his laptop. He takes a single moment to observe the scene. Percy's mussed curls and thin wire framed glasses pushed up his nose. A coffee cup, still steaming sits to his right, and a board of cheese and the bread he had baked is layed out on the other side.

"I can't be that pretty to look at, I haven't even brushed my hair yet." Percy says without looking up.

"Sorry," He's glad the Prince doesn't take his eyes away from the screen because Jason's cheeks are bright red.

He moves to grab some coffee and sits down on the opposite side of the table.

"So uh—" He rubs the back of his neck, "Why was I sleeping in your room."

"Oh," Percy starts, finally looking up. Those green eyes widen as big as saucers as he takes the golden prince in.

"What?" Jason panics, "We didn't do anything did we?"

His husband snorts, "Trust me. If we fuck, you'll remember."

He is ready with a snarky reply but the prince continues, "No you were sleeping in the lounge but the fire was still on and it just seemed like a recipe for disaster. I tried to take you to your room but you said it was cold so I put you in mine because it gets sun for most of the day."

Jason is taken aback. That's sweet... surprisingly sweet.

"Thank you."Percy shrugs and goes back to typing on his laptop. He doesn't know what he should do. They seem to have entered into some sort of civil conversation and he doesn't want to ruin the shred of normality.

So he downs the rest of his coffee, chucks the mug in the sink and disappears into his bedroom. Minutes later he comes out more clothed, jeans hugging his legs and a blue sweater that feels like getting a hug from a panda. If getting a hug from such an animal was warm and soft and cuddly. He wouldn't know.

"I'm going for a walk."

His husband just nods, motioning to the cabin keys distractedly. Jason, fortunately, picks up on the meaning and grabs them, tucking the set into his coat.

This is the first time since they had driven here three days ago that he's stepping outside. Dusk is just starting to settle and the world is awash in oranges and pinks and the faintest strokes of purple. He wants to live in these colours, wants to paint them across his eyes so he always sees the world in their shades. A little sparrow flies down and lands on a branch hanging just over his head. It chirps as he walks past, flurrying it's tail as if to say hello. And then it spreads its wings and soars into the open plains, into those bleeding colours.

He remembers suddenly, a story his nanny had told him.

Why Miss Rosie, does the sky change colours?

Because Little Prince, when artists die they say goodbye by giving us a final painting.

Does that mean when the clouds change shapes sculptors are saying goodbye?

Miss Rosiland Krynn had smiled at those big blue eyes and nodded.

What happens when the artist can't paint or draw or sculpt what about then?

Well when you hear the sounds of wind chimes tinkling in the garden, or the sounds of streams bubbling in the woods, or the whistle of birds as they wake up then you're hearing all the singers who can no longer sing on earth.

And what about the actors?

When you hear someone crying, or lots of people laughing, or when you can feel someone watching over you those are the actors. They're their to bring joy into the world through all the people still here.

And the dancers Miss Rosie?

Have you ever seen flowers in the breeze?

He nodded his head, clutching at her fingers in anticipation.

And have you ever seen reeds in the river?

He nodded again, practically bouncing in excitement.

And what do they look like they're doing?

Dancing Miss Rosie! He had squealed, falling back into the couch as he thought about all she had said.

Jason smiles fondly at those memories, at a time much simpler than this. Where the sky was a canvas and music was stored in the wind. He can almost believe Miss Rosalind as he surveys his surroundings. There is something magical about this place. Like no matter what's going on in the world, this will never be touched by it. He can't help but run his fingers along the bark of a willow tree and sink his feet into the lush grass under it. At least out here he doesn't have to be anyone but Jason Grace. The marigolds dancing in the evening breeze do not care that he is Crown Prince of Caelum. And the blades of grass that hold his weight don't mind that he is human, that he has to function, even when it's inconvenient, inconceivable. Best of all, nothing around here cares that he's anything at all. If he gives his name to the river bed they will tuck it in and let it rest.

So he sits under the willow tree, letting his name drift down the stream, and spins fantasies of a life long lost.

When he makes his way back to the cabin, hours later, he's almost convinced himself that the world has stopped. And he is nothing but a vessel, strong enough to bend time.

It is like a bucket of lava on his skin, then, when Percy meets him at the door and drops the words he doesn't want to hear.

"We leave tomorrow. There was a shootout at your castle."

Jason Grace falls to his knees, and holds down the bile in his throat, as molten eyes and burning hands flash in his mind.

I'm coming for you Leo.

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luninosity · 4 years

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One more @whumptober2020 fic for today!

For theme 19 - Broken Hearts - specific prompts: grief & mourning loved one; and theme 29 - I Think I Need A Doctor - specific prompt: reluctant bed rest.

Back to Jason and Colby, for this one! And the anniversary of Jason having lost someone significant - and some more hurt!Colby. He’ll be fine, though! I promise!

“Resting,” Jason said, meaningfully. “You. Bed.” He had a hand on Colby’s shoulder, a reminder. The bed perked up under Colby: doing its job.

Colby sighed. “I’m really doing all right.”

“You are, but you’re also recovering.”

“It’s not as if it’s even terribly—”

“You were,” Jason said, as calmly as he could under the circumstances, “in a fucking explosion. And got knocked out.” The stunt had gone wrong. Explosives too early and too strong. Something not measured right on the part of the demolitions crew. Colby hadn’t been far enough away. He’d hit unforgiving ground hard.

Jason, not in that scene, had been watching from behind monitors. Had run, heart in his throat. Colby had been waking up already, but slowly, dazed and bewildered about how he’d landed on the ground, when Jason’d flung himself down beside blue eyes.

Concussion, the doctors’d said. Not too bad, but needing rest and care. No strenuous activity for at least a couple of days, assuming nothing got worse. Nothing seemed to be, though Jason’s heart wasn’t convinced of that.

“They didn’t say no working on the novel, specifically…” Colby tried, plaintive.

“No exerting yourself physically or mentally, and you know it.” He touched Colby’s temple. The lights were low; they’d been too bright, earlier. “No screens. So no laptop. Your next genius collaboration with George can wait. How’re you feeling?”

“Tired. Bored. I can’t even look up banana bread recipes?”

“Not yet.” He ran his hand over Colby’s head, gentle. “I can do some baking. If you want bread.”

“Maybe later.” Colby shut both eyes, leaning back into pillows and Jason’s touch. “I’m not very hungry, at the moment.”

Jason’s chest tightened. “Something not feeling right? Nausea, headaches, like that?”

“Just a bit…”

“Want me to call someone?”

“They said it was normal, and it should go away on its own, and—”

“And if it doesn’t,” Jason said levelly, “then I will. Okay?”

“If it gets worse, you can.” Colby opened his eyes again. “I wish I could remember more. It’s disconcerting. One minute I’m being Cam, running out of the warehouse, perfectly in character…and then I woke up lying on the ground with far too many faces hovering around me. I don’t even recall that very clearly; I know you were there, and Evan, but it’s all sort of foggy from there to a hospital room. It’s such an odd feeling, knowing there’s something missing.”

“That’s normal too,” Jason said, reminding them both, and reached over to get the cup of water. “Here. Stay hydrated, at least.” He hated the small quiver in Colby’s voice. He hated that Colby’d had to be hurt again, to face tests and strange-if-professional hands on him again, to have a gap in memory.

And today, today, of all days…

He couldn’t think of that. He’d been trying not to think of that for a while now. He’d known what anniversary it was. Evan did too, and they’d looked at each other that morning, running through stunt choreography one more time; Jason had guessed they’d probably want to talk, or drink, later. He hadn’t mentioned it to Colby then. He’d planned to.

And then the world had imploded, and now they were here. In a luxurious hotel suite in Vancouver, not in a hospital, but with Colby very much injured. Jason’s lungs didn’t feel like they’d taken a full breath ever since the explosion. Or earlier. This day, and now this…Colby, and—

An older body hovered, when he rubbed his spare hand over his face. A friend. A good friend, the best, really, because Charlie had been the sort of person who’d happily teach a younger colleague how to do a kick or a fall or a vault across rooftops, sharing knowledge without jealousy; Charlie had been the sort of person who’d come over, bringing food and cheerful competent company, when Jason’s father’d been so badly injured decades ago; and Charlie had been kind to both his own younger brother and to Jason and to everyone, and then—

He tried to breathe some more, through the hurt. Through the anniversary. He knew Evan was hurting too.

It’d been most of the day, now. Late afternoon. He wished he could do more about the edges of sun slanting in around curtains. Colby needed dimness. Quiet. Soothing.

They’d been filming at dawn, first light; he’d been able to bring Colby home after a few hours. Colby had slept, on and off; sleep was good for healing, though Jason’d been told to wake him every two hours to check on his awareness. Colby seemed fine so far, if mildly distressed by the amnesia surrounding the impact.

Colby shifted a fraction; Jason realized he’d been holding the water and its straw in place way too long, and hastily set it down. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Are you at least allowed to read to me?”

“Probably? Nothing that’s work, though.” He picked up Colby’s hand, played with slim calligrapher’s fingers, surreptitiously tested Colby’s pulse. Seemed fine. “New Alex Castle novel? Rival steampunk magicians falling in love?”

“Yes, if you wouldn’t mind. It’s in my bag, from yesterday—”

“I’ll get it. Don’t move.”

When he came back Colby was setting down a phone, looking suddenly guilty. Jason said, “Don’t tell me you were doing work,” but kept his tone very light: Colby even these days instinctively flinched from disapproval, a legacy of older emotional wounds. “I love you, babe, but no, okay?”

“I, ah. I wasn’t attempting to work. I promise.” Colby sounded nervous but not afraid; he met Jason’s eyes. “Just checking something. Entirely quick. Finished, I swear.”

“I already texted Jill and Andy, but if you want—”

“No, it’s fine, they know I’m fine.” That was an exaggeration. Colby’s two best friends had heard about the accident via industry connections and Andy’s husband’s fingers on the pulse of the internet. They’d been worried; they still were.

Colby added, “Very well, not entirely fine as such, you don’t have to say it. Come sit with me?”

“Of course.” He settled down next to his heart, in bed; the padded headboard took some weight and offered some reassurance. He waved the paperback, with its swirling blue magical cover. “Tell me where to start.”

“Oh, we can start from the beginning, I was only a chapter or so in. But, before that…” Colby bit a lip, watched Jason’s face. “Er…may I ask you about something?”

“You don’t need to ask me whether you can ask—” He took a breath, let it go. He knew about those “Please. Please ask. Anything you want, cream puff.”

The occasional nickname made Colby giggle, though his eyes remained anxious. “I only wanted to…if I can, ah…you see, I do know what day it is, what anniversary, and…and I know this likely isn’t how you wanted to spend it…”

Jason had opened his mouth. No words emerged. He set the book down without thinking. It landed safely next to Colby’s leg.

That anniversary. Today. Charlie’s body, sprawled at the side of a diving tank, lifeless and limp, because a stunt had gone wrong then too—because it’d gone wrong right before Jason’d arrived, coming to meet him and grab lunch and talk about respective movies—because Jason hadn’t been two minutes earlier, hadn’t known, maybe couldn’t’ve done anything that everyone else hadn’t done, but he’d never know, he couldn’t go back and make himself drive faster or walk faster or—

Because he’d been there, he’d known before Evan had. Before any of Charlie’s family had. He hadn’t been the one to call them—too blinded by shock—but he’d always thought he should have. As a friend.

Years ago—decades ago, really, now. Still vicious, that memory. Under the surface most of the time, a part of him, familiar and well-worn; but every once in a while it bit hard. On a certain day.

He knew Evan didn’t blame him. Evan never had. And they’d become closer friends, slowly, through the aftermath: stumbling among emotions, catching each other.

And Evan, who was working as the choreographer for this film’s fight scenes, had been at Jason’s side today, waiting for Colby in the hospital. Right there to lean on. Holding his hand.

Colby did know the story, of course—had known that story for a long time, almost since the beginning. But Jason hadn’t remembered the exact date ever coming up. He was pretty sure he hadn’t said, back when they’d talked about it, though he really had meant to say something to Colby that afternoon.

He looked at Colby. Colby, injured and tired but hopeful, looked back, eyes all big and sweet.

Jason swallowed. Found words, scraping them together out of love. “I don’t want to be anywhere else. Not right now.”

“I do know you wouldn’t leave me alone. Not even temporarily.” Colby reached over. Collected Jason’s limp hand. Jason’s hand was larger overall, though Colby’s grip was surprisingly strong. Protective. “I thought perhaps…you might want to talk. And I’m here, of course. I’m always here if you want me. But if—”

“I said I’m not going anywhere.”

“No. But—”

This time a text interrupted. Jason’s phone. He eyeballed it, annoyed. Colby said, “It’s Evan. He’s outside, and I’m guessing he didn’t want to knock? Making noise?”

Jason paused. Took this in.

“I thought, you see, if I’d never convince you to go anywhere…and if you wouldn’t mind me being here…if I asked him to come by…and he said yes, of course…” Colby nibbled his lip again. That spot was turning pink. “Er…was that all right?”

Jason reached over. Set a finger on Colby’s mouth. “That’s not exactly no stress.” His voice came out very soft, mostly from amazement. Colby, in pain and dizzy and unhappy about gaps in memory, was still trying to take care of him.

“I want you to be all right as well,” Colby said, when Jason lifted the finger. “I need that. Please let me be here. For both of you, really; Evan’s my friend too, now, I think? Not the way he’s been yours, but at least a bit?”

“He is. And you’re—Colby, you…” He gave up. Shook his head. Leaned in for a kiss: tender, cautious, shaky with love and aching emotions, stretched and knotted up and given a beating today. Colby kissed him back, not tentative at all; Jason murmured his name again, and couldn’t resist just a little more tasting of him, a swipe of tongue, a nuzzle after.

He said, “I love you so damn much. You know that, right? I just—I love you.”

“I know. And I love you just as much.” Colby waved a hand, adorably and grandly imperious but not seriously so. “You may want to go and let him in.”

“You don’t move,” Jason said, and got up, rediscovering some equilibrium in the process.

Evan was leaning against the wall, texting, when Jason opened the door. He looked up, all fluid Krav Maga instructor’s grace and the same brown eyes and straight nose he and Charlie had shared; they’d always looked alike, even moved alike, though Evan had always been younger and just shorter enough for jokes about it. He said, “Hey,” and lowered the phone.

“Hey,” Jason said. “So…you and Colby were planning things, huh? Also, say hi to James for me.”

“I will. He’ll call me later.” Evan’s boyfriend was busy filming an old-fashioned detective thriller in Norway, though they talked constantly and sent each other pictures of ice cream shops and historical monuments. Jason cautiously approved of James, who seemed to’ve handled the whole revelation of Evan’s asexuality with pure and reaffirmed adoration, and who also looked at Colby Kent with the awe of someone in the presence of an acting genius.

“He worries, too,” Evan said, “he knows what today is,” and Jason nodded, because that meant Evan had told James, which meant Evan trusted James that much, which was another point in favor. Evan also held up a bottle. “Sparkling water? Elderflower-blueberry flavored? I thought about actual alcohol, but it’s not like I drink much, and Colby can’t, right now, anyway. How’s he doing? He said he was fine when he texted, but, y’know.”

“Perfect.” It was. Jason held the door for him. “Colby’s…okay. We’re keeping an eye on him. But he’s recovering. Like they said.”

He heard the words as they hit the afternoon, in his own voice. They were, he realized with surprise, true.

Colby was hurt, but was recovering. Getting better. And that was okay.

They’d all be okay, he thought. Together.

Evan peeked into the bedroom. Waved at Colby. “So you found a way to get out of your next training session with me, then.”

Colby laughed. “As if I’d want to. Come in, please. Jason offered to bake us banana bread later.”

“Did I?” Jason said. “Fine, I did.” Their suite had a kitchen. They’d done some shopping. He was pretty sure they had all those ingredients. “Here, I’ll pour that.”

“Oh, that sounds delicious, thank you—”

“I know you like interesting flavors,” Evan said, grinning; and took the other chair. “Jason, my parents say thanks for the donation to that charity, by the way, and also they’d love to say hi to you sometime. Kittens, this year?”

“Good,” Jason said, “it got there, then.” He did try to, every year. In Charlie’s name. Different charities, but all things he’d liked. Kittens had been one of them; Charlie and Evan’s family had always had cats. “I’ll give them a call. Or we can, maybe.” He glanced at Colby. “Everyone.”

“Maybe, yeah.” Evan accepted a glass when Jason handed it over. “So. To family, then?”

“Yeah.” Jason sat back down on the bed, arm around Colby, who leaned against him, bright-eyed and alive and real. “To family.” They clinked glasses; Jason kissed the side of Colby’s head, after. Colby’s blood relatives were uniformly dreadful; Colby was part of his family, now. The family they’d found and chosen and built, together.

“So,” Evan said, to Colby, “did Jason ever tell you the story about the time he and my brother snuck a classic Chevy off the set of an astronaut movie, picked me up, and took us all to the beach for the day? It was awesome until we were about to leave, and the car got a flat tire, and of course they were these fancy historical replica tires, so there’s us frantically calling everyone we knew to find a replacement, and not calling anyone who knew Jason’s dad, so it was harder than you’d think, because Luca knows everyone who knows anything about classic cars and the movie industry…”

“I remember Charlie saying he was going to pretend he didn’t know us,” Jason said. “He wouldn’t’ve, and we knew it, so it was a joke…”

Evan pointed at him, and quoted, with full dramatic effect, “Neither of you is my brother! I am an only child!”

“Oh, no.” Colby was laughing. So was Jason, because it’d been spot on. “What’d you do?”

“Gave up and called Jason’s dad. Who’d known since the first phone call, because he’d been on a call with that garage owner at the exact same time.” Evan swung both shoeless feet up to rest on Colby’s bed. “It’s a good thing your dad’s very cool. I mean, he wasn’t thrilled, but he figured we’d suffered enough, with the panicking and all. He handled it.”

“For years,” Jason said, “for years, after that, any time the three of us were together, and one of us did something embarrassing…”

Colby’s eyebrows went up, amused. “ ‘I am an only child’?”

“Exactly.” Evan nudged Colby’s foot with his. “Exactly that. Did Jason tell you the Pumpkin Cat story? I wasn’t there when they found her, just when Charlie brought her home, so Jason should start it.”

“Pumpkin Cat?” Colby inquired.

“Yeah. It’s a cute story.” Jason cuddled Colby a little more, liking the warmth, loving the shape of him, the presence. The lights were low and tranquil, and the bedroom tucked its walls around them, and Colby was slowly sipping sparkling water, awake and alert. They’d be back at work in a few days, and Colby would be all right; tension unwound, eased by berry-flavored water and words.

He knew Colby’d be all right. They all would.

He said, “We were working on this terrible low-budget horror movie, about a haunted scarecrow with a pumpkin head that comes alive and murders people…”

“That sounds…improbable.”

“Don’t even ask about where the cursed cornstalk spear fits in. Anyway, we walk onto set one day, right past the prop head, this giant fake pumpkin, and the pumpkin squeaks at us in this tiny little kitten voice, and Charlie runs over to look, and there’s this tiny orange baby stuck in the light-up mechanism, and he just dives right in to get her out, right as the director walks in, so all the guy sees is Charlie halfway into a pumpkin head we’ve been told is a delicate piece of prop equipment, so he stops right there to yell at us…”

“At which point,” Evan said, “my brother, being my brother…”

“Jumped up, held out a kitten, and said, ‘look, I found your ghost!’” Jason finished. “And everyone cracked up, because nobody ever could stay mad at him.”

“And that’s how we got Pumpkin Cat,” Evan said. “Cat number three, when Charlie brought her home. Cat number four, by the way, was Jason’s fault.”

“He sounds so lovely,” Colby said. “Like someone I’d’ve liked to meet.”

“He’d’ve liked you,” Jason said, and Evan said it too, at the same time; they glanced at each other, and at Colby, who got a little more shyly happy and offered, “It’s an honor? And how was your family’s fourth cat Jason’s fault?”

“So motorcycles are nice and warm in the winter,” Jason said, “and cats like to be warm, and my mom’s allergic, so we couldn’t keep him…” and reached for more sparkling water for a refill for Colby’s glass.

#whumptober2020 #no.19 #no.25 #broken hearts #grief #mourning a loved one #i think i need a doctor #reluctant bed rest #fic #character bleed #k.l. noone #jason/colby #bonus scene #mention of previous character death #my fic #original fic #sort of?#fic for my own published fic!

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halfbloodbatacademy · 4 years

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What I Wish Rick Riordan Did & Didn’t Do With The PJO/HoO Books

No hate to Uncle Rick, I love the books with all my heart, but there are some things I wish he did and didn’t do in the books, and I really feel the need to talk about it

Rather than killing Luke off to add to the trauma of the main trio, Rick could’ve kept Luke alive so we, as readers, had a reminder of what’s happened before: we still feel that everlasting pain of remembering what Luke has gone through, what he did as a result, yet still we would still read his character and his evolution as he tries to fix his mistake by preventing the younger demigods from making it in the first place

Dionysus- his attitude, I am in no way worried about (kind of a lie but whatever), it’s the looks... he was NOT ugly, he was effeminate/androgynous, and actually very gorgeous. I know, it’s the author’s own rendition of a story, I get it, I get it. I just wanted to share my opinion on Dionysus (the movies were awful)

Percabeth is just- No. They were NEVER my favorite shop. I did think it was cute at first, but then it just wasn’t. It was at fault of pushy writing, and the reactions of fans. At this point, I want to see them as best friends. I feel like Annabeth’s role is being drowned out by the fact she’s Percy’s girlfriend, and Percy is being made less of an individual person because of his relationship with Annabeth. I WANT to see them as two badass BFFs with totally individual personalities and purposes who care for each other like they’ve actually been friends for hundreds of lifetimes. I WANT to see people openly saying that Annabeth isn’t there to make Percy look more like a hero, or that Percy isn’t there to make Annabeth look way smarter. I PREFER PLATONIC BEST FRIEND PERCABETH TO CANON ROMANTIC PERCABETH AND I’M NOT SORRY WHATSOEVER

The lack of Grover... that’s it. Why tf was Grover basically nowhere to be found

Caleo... I KNOW, I KNOW, I’m complaining about another ship, I kNoW. Leo deserves happiness and a girlfriend,,, but CaLyPsO. I just... I have a huge grudge against Calypso after she literally blinded Annabeth because Percy didn’t come back to her island (that nobody is capable of ever revisiting) fast enough to come get her off. I liked Calypso, until she pulled that bullshit

Hylla & Reyna........ gimme more pls. Their story is so fucking interesting, and the people they’ve both become are fucking amazing like wtf. Gimme more bih

Demigods powers, god this is so UGH. The powers they have,,, are amazing, but they aren’t being set apart from mortals. They’re literally 1/2 GOD, literally everything about them should be better. If they’re godly parents magic DNA can take over how they look, it’ll take over how they function too. Like... hold tf on

BITCH TF, the general powers are right here but it never even DESCRIBES these once. I’m looking for some Titans Donna Troy running type bullshit m8. I want demigods literally ripping off car doors like the Winter Soldier man. The vibes I get from the books are just... literally humans with a sprinkle of magic

Idk wtf happened to Jason, but I heard this bitch is dead and I’m bouta riot. TF YOU MEAN BRICK BITCH IS DEAD

Solangelo... I love fanon Solangeo... but wtf is canon Solangelo doing? How tf- no. Just,,, why

I don’t have anything else to say... I’ll probably add more as time goes on, my memory is hella foggy and I gotta start my hw... bye

#percy jackson #annabeth chase #nico di angelo #reyna avila ramirez arellano #jason grace #leo valdez #piper mclean #hazel levesque #frank zhang #luke castellan #thali grace #percy jackson and the olympians #pjo #heroes of olympus #hoo

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rxdshood-a · 4 years

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the ghost of you // self para

WHO: Jason Todd & Stephanie Brown. Mentions of Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Ra’s al Ghul, Tim Drake.

WORD COUNT: 3159 words.

LOCATION: Wayne Manor.

GENERAL NOTES: Jason comes to visit Steph finally at the manor. Steph tells him what she knows. A self para with a sprinkling of technically self-interaction! Jason angsts. We all cry.

WARNINGS: Mentions of past death, injuries, anxiety, past trauma, violence, blood.

Jason hated being in the manor more than anything. There were too many ghosts. Too many foggy memories that made his chest tighten with a storm of emotions that he didn’t want to name. It loomed over him like it did back when he was a foot shorter and daunted by the fact that Bruce could change his mind at any moment. Even older and taller than he was back then it still feels daunting, the anxiety was already threatening to make him turn tail and run, but he had to do this. If not for Steph herself, but Tim.

The mere thought of Tim made Jason grimace, like poking at a sleeping bear with a stick his anger was reignited with a fury. The green that always lingered in the back of his mind seemed to perk up, circling like a shark. He had to take a few even deep breaths, fingers curled up into two tight fists before he could feel the anger and green smoke recede back. The combination of his unresolved anger at his brother’s disappearance and the anxiety and bad blood the manor brought was likely a disaster waiting to happen. Regardless, Jason trucked on. He had to. He would.

Opening the door to the manor Jason surveyed the long, seemingly quiet hallways. It was like getting slapped in the face with nostalgia. Half memories he could somewhat recall. There were some happy ones, like trying on the Robin suit for the first time. Him jumping out from behind the batcomputer and scaring Alfred, laughing in utter excitement and claiming it was the best day of his life. The nights he would sit in the kitchen and read while eating whatever cookies Alfred had made. The feeling of finally belonging. There were bad memories too. Screaming matches with Bruce, too many ‘I’m not Dick!’s thrown around. Too many plans made with Dick that were left abandoned, Jason hoping and staying too close to the phone only to be met with silence. Lashing out at Dick as he reached the end of his very short line of patience with him, going as far to break formation in their sparring session to bite the older Robin’s arm.

Dick still had a scar on his arm from the incident.

The anxiety stayed a constant presence, each step up the long manor stairs feeling all too dread inducing. The silence in the manor was something that Jason hated more than anything, even as a kid. It was so big and so quiet. The silence was always broken anytime Dick actually visited, whether it was broken by his squabbles with Bruce, or the pair of them actually laughing and enjoying video games or movies together. Other than that the silence was broken by him, making his presence bigger and louder. Constantly he was yelling, being reprimanded by the butler for shouting at inappropriate times, the laughter whenever he and Alfred would cook dinner together. If he didn’t make extra noise then Jason would drown in the silence, the cold the silence brought as the cavern between him and Bruce grew and grew, all before he even had died and it had become a grand canyon between them.

It was just one foot after the other. Simple, right? Wrong.

Each step brought ghosts, memories he didn’t want. Flickers of memories that haunted the man every time something triggered it. Passing the library, days and nights spent in there, reading all he could and perking up anytime Bruce entered, giving him a book suggestion. The time spent there together, reading in silence and feeling the smile that would play at his lips as he did, constantly aware of the man’s presence. It was their own form of bonding, it didn’t leave Jason no matter how hard he tried to forget it. The hope it gave him that led him to believe he actually could have a father. A family.

A shudder wracked through Jason’s body and he pushed forward, trying not to linger outside the library. A closed, all too familiar door, had him stopping in his tracks once more. His stomach lurched as he found his feet bringing him to the door, hand laying flat against the cool wood and staring at the doorknob like it’d open itself.

His room. His old bedroom. If it wasn’t locked, Jason was sure that if he opened up that door it would be just how he had left it before it all. His clothes all folded and tucked away in the wardrobe drawers. His textbook lay on the desk collecting dust. The mere thought had Jason grimacing and staggering back, immediately looking away. Ghosts. It was a thought that had made itself repeatedly known the moment he stepped onto the Wayne Manor grounds. There was a piece of this place that wouldn’t ever leave him, no matter how far he traveled. It’d always be a part of him, as much as he despised it.

Jason knew what room Steph was in, had been lamenting on it, whether he wanted to even do this, but ultimately pushed through. It wasn’t hard to figure she’d be holed up in Tim’s room. It didn’t take the skills of a Robin to know that she’d be in his room. As far as he knew of, Steph hadn’t seen many people save for those in the manor currently. Refusing to see anyone, staying silent on the groupchat end. He didn’t blame her. This trauma was something Jason was entirely too familiar with.

(The sound of maniacal cackling echoed in his head, phantom pains of bones breaking and sticky blood beneath his body caused Jason to shudder.)

It wasn’t something you could get over within a few days. Months even. She was grieving and processing trauma she endured all in one sitting. That could knock even the most trained bat kids on their ass. There’s only so much you can compartmentalize before it's all spilling over and you’re cracking and breaking at every seam. Maybe it comes out in anger like it did with Jason. Or maybe it came out in agonizing sadness. Whatever Jason was about to walk into, he was more than wary to see what state the Gotham girl was in. Scared that he may just see entirely too much of himself reflected back in her.

Approaching the door, Jason hesitated in his approach. He didn’t like feeling like this, off balance. The manor did that to him, left him unstable and on shaky ground that never stopped moving underneath his feet. A heavy sigh left the man and he scowled, finally making a decision and moving forward, turning the doorknob in his hand and entering the bedroom. The sight of the evidence walls was what Jason registered first, entirely too amazed at how chaotic Tim’s brain seemed to work. He was constantly analyzing, thinking, moving. That was reflected in the evidence thrown up on his walls. Then his green eyes moved to the unmoving lump buried under the comforter on the former Robin’s bed, a tuft of blonde hair sticking out near the pillows.

“Your footsteps don’t sound like Alfred. Too light to be Bruce’s, but too heavy to be Dick’s. So I can only assume it’s Jason.”

Steph’s voice startled Jason slightly, hand gripping the doorknob entirely too tight as he stared into the bedroom and hovered in the doorway. He didn’t know what to say. What do you say in these situations? You would think he’d be an expert on this, how to deal with trauma from torture and yet.

“Look at you. You still got those Robin trained ears.” Jason’s voice sounded stilted against the silence of the room.

“Not Robin anymore, or Batgirl. Or Spoiler even.”

Jason frowned at that, finally fully entering the room and shutting the door behind him quietly. He grabbed the desk chair at Tim’s unoccupied desk and sat down, wheeling it closer to the bedside but still staying a slight distance away to give her the space she may want. Her back was still to him, unmoving, not even shifting to look at him when he sat down.

“What does that mean?”

A sharp sigh, irritation bleeding into the girl’s tone in an instant, “what do you think it means, Jason? I’m nothing. I’m hanging up the suit. I’m burning it, whatever I can do to get it away from me. What good am I as a vigilante, as some makeshift hero, if I can’t even save Tim?” The tremble was clear in her voice now, body seeming to follow suit in the way it was now shaking beneath the covers. “I was like a lamb sent to the slaughter. I made it so easy for them to get me and use me as a pawn so he could get to Tim. How am I supposed to believe I can help people like that? I let Tim get sent off to his death, Jason.”

Her words had Jason alarmed in an instant. Death?

“Stephanie, you didn’t do anything. Ra’s al Ghul is one fucked up old ass man with a lot of experience and power at his fingertips. He would’ve done something, anything, to get to Tim one way or another, even if it meant not using you to get to him. You didn’t send him off to his death, I don’t—” Jason let out a harsh breath, running his hands through his hair and causing entirely too many strands to stick up every which way in a chaotic mess. “How would you have sent him off to his death? You didn’t do anything to cause that, Stephanie. We will find him. You know we won’t stop until we do.”

The silence grew, tension palpable in the air of the room and then finally, the lump that Jason had been talking to moved. Steph hissed and shifted to turn to look at him head on, tugging the blanket down and moving enough that she was propped up somewhat against the stack of pillows behind her. Jason took in the purple and yellowing bruises on her face, the bandage covering her cheek. The finger shaped bruises that were healing on her chin and neck were enough to cause his stomach to roll, a flare of anger igniting in his chest. There was a peak of a bandage from the collar of her sweater that was laid over her collarbone. Ra’s clearly did a number on her, it made Jason grimace. The poor kid.

“He took him, Jason.” Steph started, swallowing hard and tears shining in her tired eyes. “He wanted him. He kept going on about his obsession with Tim, that he wanted him and that’s why he used me. That Tim would yield to him because—” a broken sob left Stephanie’s mouth and before Jason registered it, his calloused fingers closed around hers and squeezed, her smaller hand trembling in his. “—because he wanted to save me, a girl that he thought he could have even though...even though Ra’s had already ‘laid claim’. He’s with him, Jason. Wherever Ra’s is, that is where you’ll find Tim.”

She looked exhausted. The words having taken a toll on her already bruised and battered body. Jason’s mind was going fast, taking in all the information the girl had offered up to him. His hand squeezed her own and he swallowed hard. That was more information than any of them had. He could work with that. He could get Tim back, or try to at least.

“He’ll expect you.”

Stephanie’s words had Jason faltering, looking at her face with a furrowed brow, “what do you mean?”

“The bats. I’m sure he’ll expect us. We’re his family. Of course we’d go after him. We’re just some trained vigilantes he’s come up against before. He has his knowledge on us already, I have no doubts about that. So how do we get around that? How do we get an edge against, as much as I fucking loathe to admit, an incredibly intelligent man?”

The thought posed a good question, Jason at a loss of an answer and merely shook his head, looking to Steph to see where she was going with this.

“Would he be expecting powered individuals who care just as much for Tim as we do?” Steph finally asked and in a moment it clicked, Jason sitting up fully with wide eyes.

“You want to have his old team help save him.”

Steph nodded. It was a valid thought. It was the bare bones of a plan, an idea barely if he was honest. Despite the clear anguish and pain in the girl’s features there was a fire that burned in her eyes, one he recognized in his own gaze, in Tim’s. It came with the territory of being a Gotham kid, of seeing this city in all its ugly glory and still loving it with everything you had in you. No matter how many times it beat you down, unrelenting and merciless in the pain it dealt upon you, you still came back. You still called it home, nowhere would compare, no matter how hard you tried. It was different for those who weren’t born here, grew up in its grungy streets and was brought up in the belly of the beast.

Sure, Dick grew up there to a degree, but he didn’t really get it. Not in Jason’s mind at least. Tim got it, of course he did. He was a Gotham boy, born and raised, but he and Steph understood it differently. They saw the streets, the ugly and violence that you had to wade your way through, trusting yourself before anyone else. Jason came out jaded, guarded and all too quick to throw out harsh and angry words to keep people at arm’s length. Steph on the other side of the coin was warm and loud, personality filling up a room in an instant to fill up the emptiness she felt and mistrust she quietly hid behind big smiles and sarcastic quips. That mistrust stayed with you, no matter how long you hadn’t been fighting your way through Gotham’s shady underworld.

What also stayed with you was a fire that no matter how dim it got, stayed lit. Gotham could break your spirits, your bones, your everything, but you’d still come back kicking and screaming. All Gothamites did. That was the fire that Jason saw in Steph’s eyes, the determination that was attempting to trump the trauma and fear she clearly felt. Despite how much pain and emotional trauma she had been put through with her time spent at Ra’s hands, she was still determined to get Tim back. It was a sentiment that Jason could return.

The thought of being anywhere close to the man had shivers running up Jason’s spine. The thought that they both shared the pit rage and the effects of it made him sick. He never wanted anything in common with that man. To think that he could lash out in a similar way to the villain painted a grimace upon his face. There were nights he wondered if the old fuck ever agonized over it like he did. If he felt out of control when that green haze crept to the forefront of his brain and took over, painting everything an angry, ugly shade of green that made him go charging in like a bull. Probably not. Jason hated that part of him more than anything like he had been broken and put together wrong when he came back. There were jagged edges that stuck out still, cutting even those he cared for the most despite himself.

Looking at Steph, Jason saw too much of himself. She was falling apart, doing her best to keep it together enough to tell him what she knew, the only way she thought she could help in her state. His fingers squeezed hers and his lips pulled up the faintest bit in a smile. He was never good at this part, being comforting. He wasn’t Dick who comfort seemed to come to all too easily. His comfort was stilted at best, unsure and awkward, afraid of saying the wrong thing. Even when he was Robin there were far too many times Dick had the right thing to say to quiet the fierce anger that raged inside of him. It was one reason he had looked up to the first Robin so much, he was just so good at everything he did while Jason felt like everything he touched turned rotten and crumbled beneath his fingertips.

“Thank you for telling me, Steph.”

Was that the right thing to say? Sometimes...sometimes Jason wished he could ask his brother for advice without the immediate urge to take it back, to lash out in unresolved anger he held towards the older man.

“I know this is hard to talk about, that you’re having a hard time with this, but this will help. We’ll find him. You know we will.” Jason said firmly, the former Batgirl’s fingers trembling in his own and a tear rolling down her cheek.

“I hope so. God, I hope so.” Steph’s breath hitched and a sob fell from her lips, pulling her hand back in an instant to cover her face with both of them.

“Hey, you did good. You did great, even. Come on, lay back down. You talked enough for one day.” Jason soothed, standing up and pushing the desk chair back to gently wrap his scarred fingers around Stephanie’s arms and squeezed.

He eased her back down into a lying position, hating the way her sobs and hiccups tugged painfully at his heart. As much of a pain in the ass she was, Jason had grown fond of the girl who stuck around the bats and had heart eyes for the boy he once loathed for replacing him, now a little brother in his eyes. He pulled the blanket up over Steph’s trembling form and tucked some of her hair behind her ear.

“You tell anyone I was this nice to you, I’ll kick your ass.”

A startled laugh left Steph, it obviously surprised both of them if her eyes widening a beat later was anything to go by. Jason’s lips pulled up into a wry smile and he patted her shoulder.

“Get some rest, kid.”

Stepping back, Jason looked at the larger than life girl who now seemed entirely too small and reluctantly moved out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him. The silence in the manor halls weighed down on him. Jason had vital information now, but no plan. He hardly ever was the man with a plan, that was Tim, even Dick. Now he had to be that man to save his little brother and bring him back home. He had no idea how in the hell he was going to do that.

#int: self para #self para: 002 #self para: the ghost of you #int: stephanie brown #stephanie brown: 001 #blood tw #death mention tw #trauma mention tw #violence tw #injury tw #anxiety tw

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thebraxiatelcollection · 5 years

Note

AU list - Accidental Marriage AU for Bernice Summerfield ( & her crew) pls?

AU List A-Z

@stillthesunkenstars and @devilfromthestars; may like this Benny/Brax ficlet ;) This was too long to do into a small prompt so kind of turned it into a small fanfic.

Bernice Summerfield woke up on the ground with a headache.

It wasn’t the first time she has been in this situation, no and it was not one she was proud to admit but she did not, in general, enjoy waking up on the ground. It was far from ideal circumstances and she groaned against the cold, cement floor before she opened her eyes.

Gods, how much Draconian brandy did she drink last night?

She winced, holding her head as she slowly sat up. The room seemed to still be spinning and she blindly groped about her bed for her alarm clock that seemed to be ringing-or was that just the ringing noise in her head? She wasn’t quite sure but as she was groping about, instead of finding the alarm clock or the blanket, she found an ankle. An ankle that wasn’t Jason’s as she and Jason had well and truly been divorced and she was still mad at him for the Sunless situation.

She leapt to her feet in surprise, opening her eyes which did nothing to help nurse her hangover. There was a rustle on the bed and Benny managed to peak at who it was underneath the bedsheets.

Gods, please gods no-

“Ah,” The voice drawled, showing no sign of a hangover. Of course, he wouldn’t. He was a bloody Time-Lord and they didn’t get drunk except on ginger. Bloody typical. “Gracious me.”

She cursed underneath her breath as she stumbled over her own feet and landed with an almighty crash on the floor. So much for her silent escape.

“Bernice-” Braxiatel started to say her name but it sounded too much like shouting in her ears.

“Quieter please Brax,” Benny winces, rubbing the back of her head. “Oh, my head. How much did I drink last night?”

“More than your usual amount I think,” Braxiatel comments as he sits up and oh no, he was naked from the waist up which did not help matters. “Somebody must have spiked my drink as well. My head feels fuzzy.”

“You think?” She retorts dryly as she uses the end of the bed to leverage herself up and sunk down on the edge of the bed, taking a moment to steady herself. “We’re going to suffer today.” When was the last time she got serious hungover like this? It must have been back in her university days on Dellah at the very least.

“Go back to sleep,” Braxiatel turned back on his side, making room for herself. “Unless you prefer to sleep on the floor.”

“But-what are we even doing here Brax?” Benny protested, but she had to admit, she was still knackered. Her body felt sore and tired and her head-gods! It wouldn’t stop ringing.

“Never mind about that. It’s 6am in the morning.” He mumbled.

“Fair point,” She agrees and she reached down and managed to snag the covers, pulling the sheet and duvet over both of them as she got back into bed. “We’ll deal with this later.”

“Of course, Bernice.”

She pulled the covers over her head, closing her eyes shut tight and prayed that when she next woke up, this was all some kind of horrible nightmare.

Benny woke up for the second time that day and it was almost four in the afternoon and was grateful to find she did not end up on the floor again which was a nice but instead of finding her cheek against the cold floor, her cheek was pressed against a very warm torso, hearing two double heart beats in her ear. In fact, it seemed to be all her limbs had become entangled with Braxiatel’s other limbs.

She blinked a few times, trying to adjust to what she was seeing in the darkness of Braxiatel’s bedroom.

Wait.

Braxiatel’s bedroom?

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Oh no.

Thankfully, Braxiatel was still asleep on his side, almost looking peaceful as memories started to drift through her mind from yesterday. She wanted to throttle Braxiatel for being more responsible about this but she couldn’t blame him when this was her fault just as much as his and, truthfully, she felt rather cosy and warm here, not wishing to move any time soon.

Braxiatel looked rather handsome in his sleep, almost well rested. It was unusual for Bernice to see Braxiatel with his guard down, especially after the Veronica incident. She moved to brush a hand through his salt and pepper coloured hair when she caught side on her hand, noticing a very recent addition of jewellery there.

There was a wedding ring on her hand. A very expensive, shiny and delicate looking ring.

“Oh bugger,” She groaned and she cautiously peeked at Braxiatel’s and sure enough, there was a ring on his hand that hadn’t been there before, matching hers.

As though Braxiatel could sense her staring at him, Braxiatel flickered his eyes open. “Bernice?” He asks, dumbfounded. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” She half-joked, not knowing how to bring their situation.

“You’re in my bedroom. In my bed.”

“Right...”

Braxiatel looked at her suspiciously, sensing her staring at their hands and he glanced down, seeing their wedding rings. “Ah.”

“Ah indeed.” Benny licked her lips. “Surprise may be my middle name but I didn’t expect this kind of surprise.”

“Do you remember what happened last night?”

Benny began to stretch, wanting to loosen her sore limbs. “At a guess? We had that celebration Christmas ball. We got amazingly drunk on Draconian and Ginger brandy, got married somewhere and ended up in bed.” Her eyes widened and she poked his side as a memory flashed before her eyes. “You kicked me out of bed by the way.”

“How rude of me.” Braxiatel frowns, lines creasing his forehead. “I must have drunk an awful lot of ginger. That’s terribly unlike me and I don’t usually sleep for such long periods either.”

“Lucky you. Wait, really? That explains why I never see the Doctor sleep.”

“Really. Time-Lord’s rarely have the need for it. Sometimes, they have power naps lasting for 30 minutes every couple of years but otherwise, we rarely let our guard down.” He manages to sit up, but thankfully, kept the bedsheet above his waistline.

“Where did we get married?” Benny manages to ask, her mind still foggy.

Braxiatel didn’t pause, staring at their rings as he took her hand in his. The wedding rings were antique and proper, that she could tell. Even when they were drunk, Braxiatel still had a taste.

“Space Vegas,” He replies. “In one of their elope churches.”

“Tasteful.” She says, trying to tell herself that this was okay. Everything was going to be fine. This didn’t change their friendship. They could just go about to their daily business and ignore the fact they got married whilst drunk at some space vegas wedding venue.

“This will be interesting to explain to Bev and the others,” Braxiatel mused, running a hand through his hair, trying to straighten it out. “Especially to Jason.”

“Yes, thank you for that reminder,” She groans. “Brax, tell me the truth. You have a better memory than me. What happened last night?”

Brax pauses, thinking. “You and I left the party after taking up a few bottles of Draconian and ginger brandy to my office. Then I woke up to find you on the floor of my bedroom.”

“This is all your fault.”

“Bernice!” Braxiatel says, exasperated. “I wouldn’t lie to you about this. I know just as little as you do which is frightening.”

Just then, his datapad ping and he reached over, finding it was from Bev Tarrant, his P.A. “Oh no.”

“What...?” Benny asks cautiously and she sits next to him, looking at the screen. On the screen, their wedding announcement had been made publically on their local news station and everyone was sending in their congratulations. “Oh no. Wait, is that Bev sending you an eggplant emoji next to a wedding ring?”

She could have sworn Braxiatel’s cheeks turned bright red as he hid the datapad. They both knew now they couldn’t hide their marriage. It was all out in the open and everyone knew.

“First thing first, we need to find that marriage certificate,” Benny says, climbing out of bed. “And find out what happened last night so we can fill in the gaps.”

“Quite,” Braxiatel agrees, getting out after her, grabbing his robe. “We’ll have to search the place.”

“You don’t remember where you put it?” Benny asked in disbelief. Blimey, he must have drunken a lot if he couldn’t remember where he put an important document. That was very unlike Braxiatel.

“Who says I had it? You could have had it,” He pipes up, heading to the bathroom.

That was true. Anyone of them could have the document and she put on the spare robe and began to search through his bedroom. And this was before she’s had any coffee.

“Check my pockets,” Braxiatel suggests, poking his head around the door, the bathroom running hot water. “That’s where I usually keep items. Besides, if we got drunk and married at the same time, having a marriage certificate and putting it in my pockets would make sense.” He disappears back in the bathroom.

“Right, of course.” Benny rolls her eyes fondly and she began to rummage. She could do with another drink but it was four in the afternoon and she needed a desperate cup of coffee. She finally found the document just after Braxiatel came out of the shower, smartly washed and dressed as though nothing had ever happened, still wearing his ring. “Found it.”

“Good.” He nods, taking the certificate. “I’ll give you a copy.”

“Brax...” She licks her lips nervously. “This won’t change anything, will it?”

“It shouldn’t do. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I’m a human and you’re a Time-Lord. Isn’t it against the law or something with your people?”

“Actually, no. It’s frowned upon, I admit that but times are changing and for the better back on Gallifrey. A slow, long road it is but whatever happens Bernice,” He meets her eyes, gently tilting her chin to look at him. “You are under my protection.”

“I don’t need protecting,” She says, but she was grateful for his support if it should come to that. “But thank you.” She chuckles. “You know, a Time-Lord and a human archaeologist, we make an odd pair, don’t we?”

“It’s almost as if it was meant to be,” Brax sang cheerily and presses the room service button, ordering coffee and some light lunch for the both of them.

“At least I’m not a plant this time. But if I want to make it clear Brax.” She crosses her arms. “I don’t want to be added as part of your collection like you did with Veronica. I’m me. Your...best friend, now you’re wife. Not some rare artefact to keep in your personal collection for only you to see. Got that?”

Braxiatel nodded. “Oh Bernice,” He gives a soft smile. “You are so much more than either of those things.” He offers her his hand with the wedding ring. “Are you willing to give us a go?”

She couldn’t help but smile back. “That I am.” Sje says to both of those things and takes his hand.

A new beginning was about to start.

#asks #bernice summerfield #irving braxiatel #brax #bev tarrant #gallifrey audios #my writing #peter summerfield #jason kane #timelords #human-nxture

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hazzasgayvodka · 5 years

Text

28 * DON’T LET ME DOWN * 28

Impact: Chapter 28

Chapter title song: Don’t Let Me Down - The Beatles

JESS

The bell rings signaling the end of Literature and I realize I can't remember a thing Jason said all class. My mind is in a million places, my hand dragging my pencil across my paper in small lines that form messy doodles across my notes. I pack up my things into my bag and wobbly stand from my desk, my head pounding from lack of sleep. The flood of students going out the door gets me caught towards the back and I feel a shiver come over my body, the feeling of someone watching me.

I find myself looking over my shoulder to make sure for the hundredth time that he's not sat there with his feet propped up, staring at me. I swear I can feel his eyes on me, sending shivers down my spine and goosebumps along every surface of my body.

"Hey Jess."

I jump at the sound of Jason's voice, turning around to face him abruptly, nearly bumping straight into him. He grabs my shoulders, carefully holding me back.

"Woah, careful," He laughs, "Are you okay, you seem a bit off today."

"Yeah, I'm fine, thanks Jason." I falsely smile, wrapping my arms around myself as the shivery feeling returns.

He reaches forward, taking me in his arms and I'm shocked. His embrace is comforting, his arms are strong around my quivering body. He breathes over my shoulder, his body condensing as he sighs, and I recognize the familiarity of the action all too well.

"It's going to be okay, he's-he's going to be okay." He says quietly, his voice cracking and I know that he's saying it more for himself than me.

I don't know what to say as he pulls away and I adjust my bag on my shoulder. His eyes meet mine and I realize now just how tired he looks, the angry red lines running through the whites of his eyes giving it all away. He nods to me in understanding, no words needing to be spoken but I surprise myself when I grab him in my arms again, pressing my head into his chest. He holds me to him, his hand cupping the back of my head. I breathe against his chest, his wrinkled button up quickly becoming stained with tears.

It's been three weeks.

He holds me back by my shoulders, wipes the tears from under my eyes with his thumbs and gives me a look of sympathy, neither of us know what to say. I weakly smile, thanking him for understanding as I adjust the strap of my bag on my shoulder and head to the door. I look over my shoulder one last time before closing the door behind me as he walks back to his desk and collapses in his chair. I watch as he runs his fingers through his hair, sighing, before finally letting his head fall into his hands.

It overwhelms me, makes me wonder why he thought this was all okay. Makes me ask where he is and what he's doing. It's been three weeks and I'm worried. No one has talked to him. He hasn't been in class, hasn't been at work. No, I can't do this. I can't go on worrying over him like this, I'm sure he's fine. I'm sure he's celebrating, finally raking in the payoff, and getting shitfaced with Niall right by his side.

It's then that I decide I need to go, I need to get out of here. I walk through the door and slam it behind me without looking back. Outside the sun is bright despite the cold, lifting my mood and making me squint my eyes. It dries the tear stains on my cheeks and warms me through my many layers of clothes. For the first time in two weeks, I feel a genuine smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

I walk to the coffee shop on the corner and I see his head of blonde hair at the front of the line. He grabs two coffees and turns back towards a booth. He meets my eyes across the shop and smiles, walking over to me and handing me a coffee.

"I already got your favorite." He grins, guiding me to a table and sitting down across from me.

"Thanks Miles." I smile, bringing the cup to my lips and taking a sip.

"Are you okay?" He asks, searching my eyes for any signs of what's wrong.

"Yeah," I lie, just like I've been saying to everyone for the past three weeks, "I'm fine."

HARRY

I wake up to bright light and pain in my neck. The sun is pouring in through the window, scalding my eyelids. I shield my eyes with my hand, sitting up from the floor, my bleary eyes barely able to take in my surroundings.

This floor isn't mine, these walls are not mine, this isn't my house, where am I? I look down to see my body half naked, Ashlyn lying beside me with my jeans and my shirt scattered across the floor. Her hair is a matted mess, her eyeliner streaking down her cheeks, her red lipstick smeared across her face.

I grab my clothes and stand up from the ground shakily, my head swimming, the whole room rocking back and forth like a ship out at sea. I nearly lose my footing as I brace myself against the wall and drag my malfunctioning body in the direction I believe to be the bathroom.

I shut the door behind me once I successfully collapse into the correct room, bracing myself against the sink. I'm hardly recognizable, my eyes bloodshot and my skin much paler than I seem to remember. Ashlyn's lipstick is smeared across my face and all the way down my stomach, red scratches from her claw-like nails mixing with the bluish-purple bruises all down my torso.

I splash my face with water, hoping to uncover the world from the foggy film I seem to be looking through, but it stays the same, covered in a haze. I slip my shirt over my head, the stark smell of tequila invading my nostrils as I do so. I feel sick as I shove my legs through my damp jeans, drenched with sweat and alcohol no doubt. I run my hands through my hair, but it makes no difference, I haven't washed it in days.

My phone rings in my pocket, making me jump and I take it out to see the last person I want to talk to.

"Are you coming?" He asks impatiently.

"Yeah I'll be there in ten."

JESS

We're outside his house in fifteen minutes and walking through the front door to be overwhelmed by the amazingly sweet smell of strawberry cupcakes. I find Eliza almost instantly, rushing around the kitchen in her adorable apron and burnt orange colored dress. I take her in my arms for a hug, relishing in the contact and the way she holds me like a mother should.

"Eliza you look amazing." I smile, holding myself back from her to take in her ensemble from head to toe. The diamonds around her neck make the outfit themselves.

"Oh, Jessica dear, you are too sweet." She grins, holding an apron out to me and welcoming me into the kitchen.

I tie it around my waist as Vance appears around the corner with his briefcase in his hand, fumbling with the tie around his neck. His eyes land on me in surprise and he stops dead in his tracks.

"Oh, Jess, I didn't know you'd be coming by." He smiles warmly.

"I didn't either," I confess, "It was a bit impromptu."

"Well, you're always welcome here." Eliza smiles, glaring at Vance with a look of warning.

He clears his throat and pushes past me, kissing Eliza on the cheek before continuing out the front door. The air awkward now, I know I'm not as wanted as I want to believe I am. This isn't my family, what was I thinking trying to adopt myself into it? It's the only place I've been able to come and feel safe and secure the past couple weeks.

"You kids ready for the homecoming dance tomorrow night? It's gonna be a fun one right after the game." Vance smiles.

Miles meets my eyes immediately, I can tell he's worried that the mention of homecoming is going to throw me over the edge but I won't let it phase me. He grabs my shoulder in solace but I shake him off, turning back to Vance.

"I won't be attending but I'm sure everyone will have loads of fun." I say confidently, holding myself together until I turn back towards the door.

As soon as I'm around the corner I hear the whispered voices of Eliza and Miles scolding him. The tears threaten to spill from the corners of my eyes but I squeeze them closed and take in a breath just as Miles finds me again.

"I'm sorry, he didn't know-"

"It's fine, I'm fine."

He looks at me the way that he does, with that sorry look in his eyes. I can't stay here forever. Every minute I'm here, I feel broken. Miles handles me like I'll shatter at any moment. Vance and Eliza tread on broken glass with every word they say.

My mind is thrown back to the day he asked me, the loving smile in his eyes. His short hair. The way he picked me up and kissed me and kept grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. Even then there were secrets, too many to count.

I know I can't stay here but I don't know where else I could possibly go. My dorm is filled with memories of loud music and him laying on my bed. I can't be in there alone knowing that Sam is with him, in his house, our house.

It didn't feel real until she brought my stuff back, an entire bag of clothes and makeup and a full box of fruity pebbles. I remember her telling me that he was screaming, shouting at the top of his lungs as he trashed the house. He tore the sheets off his bed and threw them away and ripped out all of the drawers of his dresser and dumped them on the floor. He knocked over bookshelves and broke every CD he owns, all because it reminded him of me.

I wish I could do it, break everything. Maybe then I could eat more than toast and coffee. Maybe then I could sleep longer than an hour or two at a time before the memories flooded me and made me wake up in crying agony, reaching for him across the bed. Days feel like years and nights feel like eons. Laying in an ice cold bed without the presence of his tattooed skin feels like Hell on Earth. I want to break it all, I want to tear it all, get rid of it all. Get rid of the feelings that make me nauseous and the cautious looks of everyone around me. Maybe then I could be present for more than a few seconds before I slipped into my sedated state where I'm numb and it doesn't hurt anymore.

HARRY

I walk in the front door with my gym bag slung over my shoulder. I'm still stumbling, my balance still not fully composed. He meets me in the living room with hollow cheeks and dead eyes. I wonder if I'll look like that soon. How long do you need to feel dead inside before it starts to show?

Niall's here, he tells me I'm being an idiot. I shrug him off. I walk to the bathroom and grab a new pair of jeans and a shirt out of my bag. I'm clean for the first time in what feels like forever. It takes a while for the soap to suds up in my hair, to break through all the layers of oil and product covering every strand. I spend ten minutes scrubbing my skin wishing I could get rid of it all, scrape myself down to muscle and bones.

My skin is sore and red and angry but it's all gone, she's gone. Her touch isn't lingering, Ashlyn's lipstick no longer stains every inch of me, I'm not covered in anyone but me, it's just me. It's me covered in scribbly black ink and part of me wonders what I'd look like without it all. I can't remember what my bare skin looked like before I covered myself in memories.

I regret it instantly, I miss the feeling of her skin on mine.

She's gone.

I pushed her away, I scrubbed her away, she's gone.

I'll never feel her fingers trace my skin again, never feel her lips against mine, never hear her voice or see her beautiful eyes. I want it back, I want her back, I never meant to erase her. I pound my fist against the tiled wall, my hands gripping my soaking hair and tugging it from the roots. I can't stand its length. It's overgrown and curling around my ears and the back of my neck. I miss her hands, threading through it and twirling the waves around her fingers. My hands are different than hers, it'll never be the same. I wish the water would come out hotter and faster, I wish it would cascade down my skin, a steaming Hell bath, surrounding my nerves and making me feel like I'm drowning.

I can't breathe, I can't eat, I can't sleep, she's gone.

JESS

"Everyone's going to be here any second you all better be ready!" Eliza calls throughout the house and I'm glad I went ahead and got changed already so she isn't yelling at me.

Miles comes out of his room in nice khaki chinos and a white button up with freshly showered hair. He smiles, his eyes wide when they land on me and suddenly I feel self-conscious in the short white dress.

"Jess you look amazing." He grins.

"So do you." I smile, straightening his collar.

Vance appears next, coming down the stairs in a hurry, his hands fumbling with the tie around his neck, "Liza, can you help me please, I seem to be having amnesia because I can't remember how to tie a bloody tie."

She puts her hands on his shoulders, calming him down and assuring him that it's only because he's nervous. I notice the small tremors in his hands and a tiny bit of sympathy for him becomes apparent in my mind. He rubs the back of his neck the same way that Harry does and suddenly I feel sick.

"Guys," Miles says, breaking away from me to sling his arms over both Eliza and Vance's shoulders, "It's just the first meeting of the wedding party, it's really not that big of a deal."

Eliza smiles, patting Miles' hand on her shoulder and smiling fondly at her son, "You're right, it's not a big deal Vance."

"We've only been planning this for a few months Liza," He sighs, "Is it too soon for all this? We don't even have a venue booked yet-"

"Do you think anyone cares?" She asks him, "It's both of our second weddings, it's not going to be crazy and extravagant, is it?"

"No but-"

"Then why do we care?" She smiles, leaning forward and pressing her lips to his, causing my stomach to flutter with happiness for them.

She pulls away from him, exiting back to the kitchen as a timer goes off for her cupcakes most likely. Vance's smile is brighter, his shaking hands stilled, and I feel a small bit of admiration for him.

"What would I do without her?" He laughs.

The doorbell rings a few minutes later and Eliza nearly jumps out of her skin, gathering everyone together and making sure everything around the house is in tip-top shape. She opens the door with a smile to two tall boys with matching grins who envelop her in a hug almost instantly.

"Jacob! Lucas!" Miles shouts, jumping into the group hug.

It finally clicks when I remember Miles telling me stories of his brothers. One of the boys grabs Miles in a headlock, ruffling his hair, making Miles whine about how Mom's going to kill him. He shoves him away before the next brother grabs him the same as before. Vance joins the hug, clapping both Jacob and Lucas' backs, all of them smiling like a family stock photo.

"Jess, what are you doing standing over there, get over here!" Vance laughs, all five of them opening their arms for me to join and I can't help the smile that spreads across my face.

I slip into their arms, joining the hug and my heart fills with joy, every part of me lighting up like a Christmas tree. I haven't felt true happiness like this in forever, the kind of happiness that makes you smile so hard your cheeks hurt. The brightness of the world increases, the swell of my heart just might cause it to burst through my chest. Miles takes me in his arms and kisses my cheek, his sparkling eyes nearly addicting. It's a kind gesture, nothing too romantic. Just enough to make my heart swell and hug him back.

The doorbell brings me hurtling back to reality and the door swings open revealing Lex holding two bottles of wine. He kisses everyone's cheeks, his face already flushed from alcohol or maybe excitement, who knows? Everyone greets everyone, everyone smiles, everyone hugs and cheers and grins and drinks. Everything is perfect, and I realize that there is only one person that could make me feel better than I do right now.

Just as the thought enters my mind, Harry strolls through the door. He's dressed in trousers and a button up, both all black. I can see him stumbling from here as he leans against the counter to walk himself to the living room. Is he drunk right now?

"Oh my god Jess, I'm so sorry, I really didn't think he'd actually show up." Miles rambles, taking my hand in his and trying to drag me away but I can't take my eyes off him.

His hair is overgrown and messy, curling around his face. It looks like it hasn't been brushed in days. I'm surprised to see his earrings and lip rings all removed. He grabs a short glass from the stack on the counter and fills it with bourbon, stumbling to the living room and collapsing onto the couch beside Lex. I move around the counter to get a better look at him and the sunken purple bags under his eyes.

I gasp as he looks up and his eyes meet mine. Despite the obvious tiredness in them, they're still vibrant, the greenest eyes I've ever seen. I tear my gaze away from him quickly, turning back towards the kitchen. I expect him to charge me, to run up to me and make a scene and beg me to listen to him but he stays put. I turn back around to see his eyes still trained on me, glaring as he stares over the rim of his glass, wincing as he swallows.

It hurts, staring at him. Knowing that he's just right there but he's so far away. It hurts knowing that he's done, that he's not going to get up and scream in my face. I wish he would, I wish he'd run up and smash his glass against the counter and beg me to look at him. I wish he'd do anything but just sit there and stare at me, mocking me because he's so close but so far.

It breaks me, the tears welling up and my throat threatening to close as I realize he's not fighting. The one man who always fought for me till the end, who never gave up despite our differences, he's not fighting anymore. He's sitting on the bench, watching the game go by and I'm getting slammed from every direction. He's not jumping in to help, he's not calling for a timeout, he's been reduced to only a spectator.

I choke out a sob as I put down my glass of champagne and head for the door. I can't be here with him. I never could have imagined that it would be this brutal, this heart wrenching. To stare into the eyes of the man I...I thought I could do it, I thought I could pretend everything was okay but that was before I saw him acting as if he's fine. Is he? Does it hurt him the same way it's hurting me? Has he been the same, going about his days as if we never happened? Lord knows I couldn't do it if I wanted to.

But maybe it wasn't to him as it was to me. Maybe he doesn't miss me the same way I miss him, like someone cut off my right hand. Maybe the sound of my name doesn't knock the wind out of him, maybe he sleeps every night without the empty pit in his stomach.

Miles tries to follow me as I run towards the door, but I hold him back, telling him to have fun as I evade the line of his brutal gaze.

HARRY

When my eyes land on her, my breath is knocked from my lungs. I haven't laid my eyes on her in weeks. My throat wants to close up but I take a sip of champagne to settle my heaving breath. I can't tell what it is, but she looks different. Her hair is more purple now than red, a dark burgundy indigo color. It's shorter, not touching her shoulders at all, and bone straight.

She looks frailer, has she been eating? Surely, she can't transform her body in only three weeks, but I swear her arms and legs are thinner than I remember. Perhaps it's the way her body folds in on itself rather than standing confidently as she usually does.

Her eyes are the same, a burning inferno. A golden brown that sucks you in like quicksand and holds you hostage for as long as you'll let it. She turns away suddenly, ripping my gaze away from her and running towards the door.

She can't do it, she can't see me, it's hurting her I can tell. I wish I could say it makes me feel better but it's anything but. It's a stab to my chest, over and over, the death of an already deceased heart. I want to run to her but I'd only be making it worse, I know. Miles follows her, and it makes me sick to my stomach. Are they back together? Is she happy with him? Is he the one she kisses goodnight and calls to pick her up from class?

Vance sits beside me, the couch beneath me dipping under his weight. I can tell he knows he's treading on thin ice with me, he doesn't know what happened, the torture I've been through.

"You look like hell." He sighs, grimacing.

"I've been through there once or twice this week."

He looks at me with sympathy in his eyes, he feels sorry for me. I haven't slept in all three weeks, the fear of nightmares swarming me after going so long without them keeps me awake. Everything I eat ends up coming back up, so I spend my daily calories on bourbon, jack, and vodka.

"We leave for San Francisco next week," He sighs, and I remember fondly the days I was planning to surprise Jess with the news of the trip, "Are you coming?"

"Is she going?" I ask.

He grimaces, knowing that neither of us will agree to go on this trip as long as the other is attending. I can put on the mask but I know she can't, she has no ability to hide her feelings as well as she wants to make everyone believe she can. She might fool others but I know, I know her.

"I'm not sure, she said she'd give me an answer tonight."

"She just left." I say monotonously, nodding my head towards the door.

He looks at me incredulously as he stands from the couch and shuffles past all of his guests to get outside and find her. I'm sure she's long gone by now, she was always good at running.

JESS

The front door opens, and I turn around expecting to see him, my heart fluttering in my chest but my eyes land on Vance instead. I curse myself for hoping it was him, what's wrong with me? Vance rushes to my side and the tears pour down my cheeks, hiccupping sobs echoing from my body.

I haven't cried since the second week. I thought I finally had him out of my system but seeing him here in the flesh ripped my stitches and reopened a gaping wound.

He crouches down, sitting on the concrete steps beside me without a word. He places his hand on my back and rubs up and down lightly, just enough to ensure me that he's here. I continue crying but it slows, the vicious sobs that were once rocking through my body now replaced with small sniffles and single tears falling down my cheeks.

"Have you thought about San Francisco?" He asks, surprising me.

"Not even a little bit." I sniffle and he laughs.

I know he doesn't want to say what he's really thinking. I know I haven't told him what really happened between me and Harry, he has no idea.

"You know," He starts, his eyes drifting across the street, "When Harry was a baby he cried all the time, we could almost never get him to stop. I remember I used to sing to him and rock him in his crib, there was only one song that could ever calm him down."

"What was it?" I ask, turning to look at him.

His eyes stay staring straight ahead, a small smile finding its way onto his lips, "Don't Let Me Down by The Beatles."

I let out a small laugh, my face finally breaking into a smile. He pats my back and laughs with me, finally turning to meet my eyes.

"He was singing it word for word by the time he was three years old," He chuckles, his eyes glossy as I wipe tears from my own, "He's always loved music, always turned to it for comfort. He has an addictive personality Jess, I think you know that. He's addicted to music because it makes him feel safe and he's addicted to you because you make him feel everything else."

His words make the tears pierce my eyes again and I'm hastily wiping them away with the backs of my hands, wishing I could shove the words out of my mind. I repeat them over and over in my brain and I know that they're true because he does the same to me. He ignites me like I'm the flame and he's the damn gasoline, fueling the fire within me. He has the ability to make me sad, to make me angry, to make me so unbelievably happy and so fucking mad.

I let my head fall to Vance's shoulder as the tears pour from my eyes and he wraps his arm around me comfortably. I haven't been held the way a dad holds you in so long and as soon as he starts rubbing up and down my back the tears come faster.

"Don't let him down Jess, don't let him down." He whispers, and that's when I finally shatter.

HARRY

"Another!" I yell over the loud pumping of the music, slamming my glass down on the bar top.

The bartender gives me a look that makes me want to punch him in the face. The world is swimming again, tilted and fading a bit black around the edges like an artistic vignette.

"Are you sure, sir? I think you've had enough." He says warily.

"I'll be the judge of when I've had enough! Your job is to serve so why don't you do your fucking job you fucker!" I shout, my face becoming hot and I can't tell if it's due to the alcohol or the adrenaline now coursing through my angered veins.

"Um, yes sir, another one right up." He says his voice rushed and sporadic.

"You bet it is, and you better make it quick, I'm not feeling too patient tonight."

He nods his head quickly, not daring to meet my eyes as his shaking hands grab a fresh glass from behind the bar and he pours yet another whiskey coke.

I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket for the hundredth time tonight and I let out a hefty sigh as I finally unsheathe it from my pocket and glance at the many notifications flashing across the screen. Surely, he's got to know by now that I'm simply not answering it. If he wants to talk to me he's going to have to get off his lazy ass and come find me.

The young man behind the bar hands me my fourth whiskey coke with rattling hands and I throw my head back, gulping it down in only a few sips. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and I feel his eyes on me as I slide the small glass back across the bar.

"Dylan, is it?" I ask, straightening up on the barstool I'm sat on.

"Um, yes sir." He says quickly, extending his hand.

"Harry," I say curtly, eyeing his outstretched hand, "Harry Styles."

"As in Styles publishing house?" He asks, his eyes widening.

"Something like that," I muse, "But that's not what I want to talk about."

He nods his head, attempting to seem casual but I can see the gears turning in his head as he eyes me, taking in my unusual appearance due to lack of sleep and abundance of alcohol.

"How old are you?" I question.

"Eighteen sir."

"Stop calling me sir."

"Yes sir-I mean-Mr. Styles." He stutters, his voice cracking due to nerves.

"Have you ever been in love, Dylan?" I ask, seemingly surprising him with my question.

"I um, yes, I have a girlfriend that I love very much."

"Tell her that," I advise, "And mean it. Tell her how much you love her every single day and don't be afraid to lose yourself, because she'll find you. If she runs, chase her. If she pushes, you better pull her right back, do you hear me Dylan?"

He nods his head vigorously, his uneasy eyes still trained on me wondering what I'll say next of course. My stomach feels uneasy as he offers to pour me another drink and I decline. I produce a carton of cigarettes from my pocket and ask him to light it for me.

I inhale carefully, relishing in the calmness that settles over me. Every cell of my body moves slower and allows me to think, relaxation covering me like a cloud and finally I can breathe.

"Why are you telling me this Mr. Styles?" He finally asks, speaking up despite the comfortable silence that had asserted itself between us.

"Because Dylan," I begin, "The perfect woman only comes into your life once, and I let mine get away. She's going to take on the world and I wanted to be beside her when she did, but I blew it. She was brilliant, and I let her go." I gulp, the words coming out shakier than I intended, "Don't let her go, Dylan."

I see him walk in a few minutes later, sighing in relief when his eyes land on me. He walks over and takes the bar stool next to me, collapsing onto the seat.

"I'll have a whiskey coke." He sighs, nodding to the bartender.

I grimace as the words come out of his mouth, I guess it's true, I really have been cursed to be just like him. He looks over at me, but I keep my eyes staring into the brown liquid in my glass. The bartender hands him his drink and he thanks him, taking two large gulps.

"I thought you didn't drink anymore?" I ask, turning to him with glaring eyes.

"To get through tonight, between the two of you," He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose, "I need a drink."

I think back to what I said to the bartender, it's everything I should say to her. I can't believe it as I look over at him, that out of everyone around me, he's the one that's here.

"Thanks," I shrug, swirling the drink in my glass, "For coming."

He nods, not saying a word as he gulps down another sip of his drink, grimacing as it goes down. I laugh as he shakes his head, his mouth puckering. He really hasn't drank for a while.

I drink another and he gets a water. I know he's staying until I leave, he won't let me get in a car in this state and I'm glad. He forces a water into my hand and stares at me the way a father does when he's telling you to eat your vegetables.

"Dad?" I ask, the word falling out of my mouth before I can catch it, "How do you know if a girl is the one?"

He straightens up in his seat, finally turning to face me and meet my eyes. He shakes his head with a chuckle and places his glass on the bar top, folding his hands in front of him.

"Harry," He says seriously, holding my gaze, "When you're sitting in a bar with your deadbeat dad after hardly speaking for years and asking him how to tell if she's the one, she's the one."

JESS

I walk into the office shakily, an uneasy feeling washing over me every time I get off the elevator. I'm always on edge, just waiting to turn around and see him standing there. He hasn't been in for weeks, Lex has been bringing him his work at home apparently, but I don't think he's been doing any of it.

It's crazy how quickly he went from being an absolute workaholic to not showing up in three weeks. It makes me think that all his hours here were just a lie too.

Vance strolls passed me as I head to the break room to grab a cup of coffee and his face is solemn as he waits to see what kind of mood I'm in today.

"Morning, Vance." I sigh, putting all of my effort into a smile.

He pats my shoulder and holds the door open for me. I grab a mug and pour a cup of coffee, it still feels foreign to only make a cup for myself.

"Did you finish up that paperwork I left on your desk?" He asks, taking a sip of his coffee.

"No, I'm sorry, I'll get it done first thing today." I sigh, running a hand through my hair in frustration.

"It's okay," He laughs, "Really Jess, it's not life or death."

I let out a breath of relief as he leans against the counter and I shake two sugar packets into my coffee with trembling hands. No matter how hard I try they won't be still.

"Have you thought about San Francisco?" He asks and my stomach flips.

"Yeah," I say uneasily, "I think I should go."

He looks up at me in surprise, his eyes wide in shock, "You do?"

"Yeah, I need to see this place, I want to explore and see the new building." I say carefully.

"You're thinking of moving there after school, aren't you?" He asks knowingly.

I feel the tears in the corners of my eyes as the words come out of his mouth, but I grip the edge of the counter and steady myself, breathing heavily.

"I can't come here every day and pass him in the hallway and act like nothing happened," I breathe, "I think I need to get out of here."

He nods his head in understanding, pursing his lips as he stands from leaning against the counter. He pats my shoulder, giving me a squeeze as he walks past me and that's when the tears burst, cascading down my cheeks.

HARRY

"What do you mean you're not letting me go to San Francisco? I'm head of editing, you can't just tell me I can't go!" I yell, pointing my finger into his chest with every word.

"Harry, you're off the rails. You haven't come into work sober in two weeks! We made an executive decision based on the future of this company, this is not the time for your antics!" Lex shouts.

"What the fuck are you talking about, mate? I'm fucking fine!"

He's not wrong.

"Harry, I'm really worried about you. What's happened? Something's changed." He says genuinely.

Her face comes surfacing to my mind and I want to rip my hair out. My morning scotch is wearing off and everything I've been trying to bottle up is coming rushing. Her eyes, her skin, her touch, her taste. It's all coming back, sitting in the office we shared one too many intimate moments within. I remember dancing and smoking by the window, tying ties and making out on desks.

I'm going to throw up.

"Harry! Oh my god, are you okay?" He asks a million questions a minute, holding me up from collapsing after emptying my stomach of scotch on his carpet. "Talk to me!"

"Sorry." I mumble, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

He's looking at me like I'm crazy, like I've just been diagnosed with a life-threatening disease. He looks like he's about to tell me that I only have a few weeks to live and the worst part is that I'd believe him if he did.

"Harry, you're not okay, you're not even stable. What's wrong? Are you sick? Do you need help? A doctor?" Lex asks over and over.

I can barely keep my eyes open and the contents of my stomach settled as I nod along to his many questions. It feels like an interrogation, like every part of me is vulnerable and out on display but I know it's the exact opposite. I know I'm not okay, but I refuse to believe myself when I say it, I refuse to believe I've truly done it, gotten rid of her.

But the truth of the matter is, I'm not okay, I'm not even stable.

#harry styles #harry styles au #harry styles smut #harry styles imagine #harry styles angst #harry

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danieldrylie · 6 years

Text

David Foster Wallace, Falling On Black Days, And The Beauty Of Anachronism

Every New Year, like clockwork—pun intended—our Facebook feeds, newspages, Twitters, and Instagrams are flooded with “People We Lost” articles. Usually, I would click through, thinking, “Oh, I liked that movie/song/photo.” Everybody dies, though, and I wouldn’t think too much else of it.

This year is different.

In the beginning of The End of the Tour, David Lipsky (played by Jesse Eisenberg) receives a phone call from his editor, informing him that David Foster Wallace had died. Lipsky finds the old tapes of his interviews with him during the publicity tour for Infinite Jest, and listens to them, reminiscing on his time with the writer.

In May, a familiar face popped up on my newsfeed. It was unlike the time Bob Dylan did, when I had a moment of panic, fearing he was dead (thankfully, he only won a Nobel Prize). The face I saw was too young. He wasn’t supposed to die yet, and I assumed he must have won an award or released an album. Like Lipsky, my stomach dropped through the floor.

Chris Cornell died. He was 52.

Although they weren’t the most famous band out of Seattle in the late 80s and early 90s, Soundgarden was the first grunge band to sign with a major label. They seemed poised to break out of the local scene, and they did, although Nirvana beat them to the punch. They had it all: a guitarist with a distinct style, who would incorporate elements of Indian music into their sound, much like The Beatles, the Stones, or Zeppelin before them, except with the added authenticity of actually being of Indian heritage. They had a skilled drummer and bassist.

And, they had a singer with a unique voice. He could almost be compared to Axl Rose, except without the whiny, piercing, almost Disney witch vocal quality. Chris Cornell had a haunting baritone you could feel in your bones, and transitioned seamlessly between octaves, often making me give up trying to sing along while I drove to work.

Soundgarden wasn’t typified by social activism like a band that came to the scene later, Pearl Jam. They weren’t the blind rage and angst of Nirvana. Though they could be very heavy when they wanted, they weren’t the groovy, thrashy grunge of Alice in Chains. They were honest, skilled musicians, and their style was comparable to early Black Sabbath. They wrote endlessly creative music, with existential, often brutal lyrics about depression, God, addiction, and finding a place in the world.

Those were the qualities that drew me in when I first started listening to Soundgarden, about twenty years too late. The lyrics resonated, and the instrumentation kept me interested. Chris sang about things that I had felt myself. Their music became a model for processing suffering with art. In fact, my first short story was named after the Soundgarden song, The Day I Tried To Live.

It surprised me how upset I was by the news of his death. Although I was a big fan, they weren’t the only band I listened to regularly, and I was too old to have any sort of Beatle-manic level of obsession with any musician. Sure, I was sad when Prince and David Bowie passed. But, many of my favorite artists were dead already.

Chris was different. He killed himself. I couldn’t get past that. Anyone who listened to his music knew he struggled with depression and addiction. Is there is something about art that attracts hurting people? That seemed to be true of grunge music. It was unexpected, still. He appeared to have beat his demons. It looked like he was on the other side. Just a few hours before he died, he was performing on stage, smiling. He looked happy.

Kurt Cobain, Layne Staley, Scott Weiland, and now Chris Cornell. They were the leaders of a movement that rejected the excesses of bands that came before. They were more Velvet Underground than Def Leppard, and their authenticity endeared them to young people in the early 90s who were equally as annoyed with big hair, spandex, and tacky songs about sex.

They died in unglamorous ways: above the garage with a shotgun, malnourished and anemic in a locked apartment, overdosed in a bus, and suffocated in a bathroom. Despite the fact that some may want to turn them into something almost mythological, their deaths were not poetic.

There are children who miss them, families who eat with an empty chair at the table, and empty notebooks that will never be filled with their words. Still, people romanticize it, like addiction and suicide were terms of the devil’s deal, as if Cobain would have never been great without taking a shotgun to that room in 1994. Their deaths are tragic, and terrifying, and some have the impression that turning suffering into art cemented their fates, like they needed it to create anything remarkable.

It is much the same with David Foster Wallace. Even with all the brilliance in his writing, it is impossible to ignore the haunting descriptions of depression and isolation. The End of the Tour communicates this well, portraying him living in a house with only his dogs and piles of his own books filling the guest bedroom.

You don’t meet any of his friends in his town. His friends from college are scattered around the country, and even there, you can see a divide between Wallace and them. At one point, he and Lipsky get into an argument, and Lipsky accuses him of trying desperately to come off as normal, and not a genius, as if he fears being himself completely would drive people away.

Those conversations are part of what makes the movie so good. Maybe, if I was a better person, I would have only taken that away. But, there was one thing that kept bothering me, and it had nothing to do with the story, or so I thought.

It may have been a result of the project’s budget. It bothered me, despite how much I adore the film. Multiple times throughout the movie, there are discrepancies in the background. They would be walking through a parking lot, and I could see cars in the background that were produced fifteen years after the events portrayed, making it difficult to believe I was watching two men in the mid-90s.

It broke the illusion. I would remember that I wasn’t watching David Foster Wallace and David Lipsky argue outside of an airport, but Jesse Eisenberg and Jason Segel pretending to argue outside of an airport.

However, as I reflect on this year, I see it now as an artistic element, intentional or not. The new cars in the background whisper into my ear, “This isn’t real. He is gone.” That is the beauty of it, in a dark way. Those anachronisms are a reminder that something has changed irreversibly. It can’t actually be Wallace on screen there. He is dead.

That is how it will always be, whether is is the moment when you see through a hologram of Tupac at Coachella, or you are reminded that it is only an actor with a bandana, or you listen to a cover of Black Hole Sun and realize it will always feel a little out of place without Chris singing it. The inconsistencies destroy the mythology, leaving the reality of loss in the forefront. There is nothing poetic there, only something missing.

The end of the movie has a dreamlike presence. Lipsky is reading at a bookstore, like he was before he left to interview David Foster Wallace, and it cuts in and out of him with Wallace, but the only sounds are his own words about the man, and a rising score in the background. Everything is foggy, ethereal in a way, like the light reflecting through the windows and diffused in the haze is memory itself, becoming brighter, but less clear at the same time.

We see Wallace dancing, smiling, happy. Lipsky cries while he reads and thinks of his friend. That is the tragedy. We are never really alone, even in our darkest moments. But, those moments can push us away from the people who care about us, and eclipse all the wonderful things in life.

Wallace will never write again, and Cornell will never sing again. The anachronism in The End of the Tour is a reminder to everyone who ever hurt and created that—while beauty may be extracted from pain—losing the fight against that pain is not art, but the loss of art.

Chris Cornell was not a great songwriter simply because of his struggles. He was a great songwriter who turned his struggles into art. David Foster Wallace was not a great writer because he was depressed. He was a great writer who turned his depression, fear, joy, and desires into some of the most incredible writing of the last 100 years, and—in a period of extreme darkness—lost the light and joy that can be found in spite of and out of pain.

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xrayleader-blog · 6 years

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Pokemon Mystery Dungeon - Team Switchback - Lutha

-*I don't have my original memories, but it doesn't matter anymore, i rather have memories of my two best friends, of my team....., of my brothers*

Name: Lutha

Species: Treecko

Age: 12

Misc. Characteristics: Slight green iris tint

Lutha is a humble and noble Treecko, he doesn't talk too much, only around his friends or people he considers very close to him, he can help whenever the situation allows him to, and even if some look up to him as a leader, he rather be considered as just one of them.

BIO:

Lutha's past is a bit sketchy, he barely remembers his parents, or his original birthplace, side-effect of the Temporal tower's colapse creating another reality and wrecking past, present and future, he just remembers living in a cave, wondering if the darkness could be vanquished.

He tried to explore the ruins of the Temporal tower in one of his many escapades, encountering Primal Dialga and Dusknoir, trying to "fix" the timeline by eliminating key Pokemon responsable for it's collapse, with Lutha matching the description of one of them.

His life would have come to a premature end, weren't for a Grovyle and a Celebi, who helped him escape the tower's ruins.

They later introduced themselves revealing their names, Jason and Melody, and their mission: finding the passage of time, and travel to the past to truly fix the timeline, before Dialga became insane, dragging Dusknoir along his delusional ideas.

They went through a lot of dead leads, illusions, traps and dissapointments, before finally finding the real passage of time and going along with the plan, with Melody staying behind to, "buy some time".

However, just when they entered, something attacked Jason and Lutha and separated them, an unknown dark entity....

Lutha woke up with the sounds of a worried Charmander, the Charmander introduced himself as "Clarke" and asked him who he was, and where did he came from, but Lutha didn't remember anything, except his name, and foggy-mixed memories of himself as a human, something he never was...

Lutha kept relating the few things he remembered to Clarke, until a worried Butterfree requested their help with bringing her son Caterpie from the depths of the forest, Clarke accepted and then requested Lutha's help, who then accepted with the hope of recovering his memories along the way

They did a good job, and Caterpie returned safe and sound, which inspired Clarke to form a Rescue Team with Lutha, who, unsure, gave it a try, having literally nothing to lose.

Now part of the newly-formed Team Switchback (a name that popped on Lutha's mind), Clarke and Lutha's actions eventually gained notorieship, as more Pokemon praised their actions, and some other, lohated them, which was the case of Team Meanies, specially it's leader, Gengar who atagonized them whenever he could.

Lutha noticed the uneasiness of the region, which, acording to Clarke, is caused by the recent natural disasters that torment the region, which is why there's been a rise in Rescue teams recently.

They later traveled to the Great Canyon at Clarke's suggestion, since there was a Xato there that could give them more insight on Lutha's memories, what they got instead, was the legend of ninetails, which told of a human who dared to touch one of his tails and was cursed in retribution....or so was what it was intended, his accompanying Gardevoir taking the hit for him, only for it to be abandoned by the human, the legend also foretolds of the same human, being reborn as a Pokemon around the time the natural disasters begin to occur.

Coincidence or not, Gengar eavesdropped on the conversation, and misplaced the guilt of the natural disaster on Lutha which prompted him and Clarke to run away in pursuit as Team A.C.T and the town try to kill him in order to stop the disasters, only after being cornered by A.C.T and saved by the Ninetales of legend is where they gained the full story and are pardoned.

However, there were other matters at hand, earthquakes wouldn't stop, it was assumed that it was the legendary Pokemon Groudon who was causing the earthquakes, which prompted A.C.T to head to it's location and defeat him, when they didn't came back, another team was formed with "the best of the best" of other teams to asist them, when they didn't came back either, Lutha and Clarke rallied whoever was left and head to Groudon's location to defeat and rescue the other teams, they were successful, but the earthquakes didn't stop, and it was only when they noticed a meteor that was about to destroy the planet that they formed a plan to go to the Skytower to request Rayquaza's help in destroying the meteor, they managed to convince him in the nick of time, however, the proximity of the meteor caused Rayquaza's attack to explode and engulf Lutha and Clarke in an explosion, which Clarke miracoulously survives, materializing back at the Great Canyon, with Lutha materializing a few seconds after, Clarke started to worry because his friend wasn't breathing, only for Lutha to reveal that he was hugging him so hard, he couldn't breathe.

A few months passed, and everything went back to normal, with Lutha and Clarke doing more rescue work and fortifying their friendship, until one day, Lutha took a morning walk on a beach nearby, where he found a scroll with a strange symbol, which gave him visions of a faraway town and Pokemon Square, both frozen in time, and a Squirtle with a rock with the same symbol which lead to a still-standing Temporal Tower

Believing that it was his mission to find the Squirtle, and avert the events of his vision, they went to A.C.T and asked them about it, who then told them about Treasure town, a faraway land where Pokemon do the task of rescue, exploration, and treasure-scavenging.

Lutha decided to head there, feeling that his memories must be linked to that place, with Clarke asking to go along, they requested the assistance of a passing Lapras, who took them to Treasure town.

However, just before arriving, a fierce storm started, and Lutha was separated from Clarke when he fell from Lapras and into the ocean.

He managed to swim to a beach, but not before hitting his head on a shallow rock, and blacking out, only to be found by a passing Squirtle, who went by the name of "Kyle", and he, just like Clarke, proceded to ask the same questions, which sadly, Lutha couldn't answer, since he once again gained amnesia when he hit his head, with only his name and the vague memories of him as a human coming back to him.

Kyle was then approached by a Zubat and a Wheezing, who saw his treasure his failed attempt at being recruited by Wigglytuff's Guild, giving them the chance to steal his treasure.

Desperate and scared, Kyle asked help from the only Pokemon nearby: Lutha, to recover his precious treasure, his Relic Fragment, as he also called it.

The followed the thieves into the depths of the Beach Cave, where they confronted and successfully defeated them them, Zubat and Wheezing running away empty-handed.

Kyle an Lutha's amazing demonstration of teamwork convinced Kyle of asking Lutha about joining him in becoming an exploration team at Wigglytuff's Guild, Lutha accepted, with the hope of recovering his memory.

Kyle and Lutha went back at the Guild's entrance and stepped on the front grate to have themselves identificated and granted entry, inside, they met the various guild members, amongst them Chatot, the "head of intelligence" and the leader, Wigglytuff, who then proceded to welcome them and assign them their new room, and now part of the similarily-called Exploration team Switchback, Lutha and Kyle went to sleep, ready to face the coming days.

One night, after aprehending Drowzee for kidnapping Azurill, Kyle told Lutha one of the tales his grandmother and his grandfather used to tell him: The Legend of the Time Gears, artifacts tasked with mantaining the Planet in movement.

Kyle and Lutha participated in various tasks in the upcoming days, such as exploring the Waterfall Cave, enduring Team Skull's bullying, and participating in the Guild's expedition to Fogbound Lake, where they saw first-hand the lake's Time Gear.

After returning home from the expedition, they met the famous explorer: The great Dusknoir.

Dusknoir returned with news of Fogbound lake's Time Gear being stolen, recruiting help from the guild in protecting the remaining Time Gears.

In his stay at Treasure Town, Dusknoir learned about Kyle and Lutha's first meeting, Lutha's "Clairvoyance" and revealed that Lutha's power was known as the "Dimensional Scream", which grants him visions of the past and future.

The Guild eventually cornered the Time Gear thief at the Quicksand Cave, which turned out to be Jason, who at first, didn't recognize Lutha and managed to knock him out with ease, with Kyle holding out on his own for a short time before the Time Gear was secured.

Jason was eventually captured, and everyone went to Treasure Town to bid farewell to Dusknoir, the Guild included.

Dusknoir called Kyle and Lutha to him, pretending to personally bid farewell, untill he suddently grabbed them both while announing that they where coming with him.

Lutha woke up in a dark cell, inhabited by him, Kyle, and a lone Charmander, later revealed to be his friend, Clarke.

Clarke claimed to know Lutha, who sadly didn't remember him because of his incident on Treasure town's beach, unable to remember the particular catchphrase he and Clarke made neither.

Clarke gave up before giving a slight hug to Lutha, who then grabbed his head in pain: some of his memories were flooding back to him, up to Clarke and Lutha's meeting in Tiny woods, Kyle explained that it was his Dimensional Scream ability, which gave him visions, but it didn't happened like that until that point.

With his memories back, Lutha gave a big hug to Clarke, a scene that warmed Kyle's heart with the memory of his grandparents.

Their wonderful reunion didn't last long, as they were programmed to be executed by Dusknoir and his Sableeye minions along with Jason for trying to change the timeline.

Lutha, Clarke, and Kyle managed to escape with the help of Jason, who then revealed his name to Lutha's friends, and proceded to escape the Lair, with a distrustful Kyle wearing them down on the way, it wasn't after rescuing Jason from a Spiritomb and explaining himself that they doubled their pace.

Meeting with Melody at Deep dusk forest and arriving at another Passage of time, Lutha and his friends were preparing to return to the present, only to be found by Dusknoir and his minions, with Dialga appearing not long after. Dusknoir then revealed that Lutha was the Pokemon who accompanied Jason on his first trip (Lutha landing on Tiny woods with mixed memories of being a human and Jason near Treasure Town a few months later).

Jason felt discouraged and defeated, but Kyle and Clarke's quick thinking managed to formulate a plan to teleport behind Dusknoir and sprint for the passage of time, which was successful.

Back on the present, Jason figured out that their dissapearance would mean that they cannot stay in Treasure town, which lead to Kyle offering his old home in Sharpeedo's bluff as a Shelter.

Clarke then asked Kyle if he knew anything about the symbol a scroll he was carrying, which Kyle answered yes, while showing his Relic Fragment that had the symbol on the scroll, Jason then revealed that they needed to head for a place called the "Hidden Land", which is where the Temporal Tower is located, out of options and with a few little months to spare Lutha, Kyle, and Clarke revealed themselves to be alive to Wigglytuff's guild while Jason went for the other Time Gears.

With help from the Guild, they reached the depths of Brine Cave, and managed to summon a Lapras, who then took them to the Hidden Land, only to be beaten to it by Dusknoir, who was waiting for them to take them back to the future, but they managed to overpower him, not before revealing that if they change fate, Jason and Lutha will fade from existance.

Even with that revelation, Jason decided to sacrifice himself by taking Dusknoir back to the future with him in order to buy some time for Lutha and his friends to complete the mission.

After witnessing Jason's sacrifice, Lutha, Kyle, and Clarke head to the temporal tower, where they confronted Primal Dialga, and after failing to reason with him, defeated him just in time to place the Time Gears on their respective places, averting the tower's collapse.

However, the blast of energy caused from the reacting Time Gears caused debris to fall from the roof of the tower's pinnacle, Lutha being severly injured by it, with Dialga still recovering from the battle, Kyle and Clarke raced to Lapras to try and save their friend, but they were too late, and Lutha perished from his wound, not wanting Treasure town and the guild to see him like this, they left him behind after taking his bandana, and left the Hidden Land.

One year later, on a newly-restored timeline, Jason and Melody decided to check on the Temporal Tower and the Hidden land, there, they learned from Dialga that Lutha sadly perished while restoring the Hidden land to it's current state, however, Dialga revealed that, since Lutha perished in the Hidden Land, there was a way of bringing him back, but he would only do it with one condition: Melody would have to renounce to her Time-altering ability, since Dialga didn't want anyone else to disrupt the timeline, or use her, either maliciously or not, to do so.

She accepted, and together, they brought Lutha back to life, who then woke up, and gladly hugged Jason and Melody, he then remembered Clarke and Kyle, and worryingly asked for them, but Jason revealed that it all happened a year ago, and they probably aren't even in Treasure town anymore.

Lutha understood, with tears in his eyes, but a reassuring Jason, dried his tears and told him that they can look for them, together.

Lutha, Jason and Melody then headed for Treasure town, where they found out what they already knew: Clarke and Kyle left Treasure town and head for a faraway kingdom, with a mysterious princess calling Clarke in a dream.

The trio then headed out for said faraway kingdom together, as a newly-formed family.

--------------------------------------------------

This might get confusing, so let mem explain: i have two realities for my canon stuff: one where Lutha died and one where he didn't, the one i'm currently following is one where he "almost died" under similar circumstances

Pokemon Belongs to Nintendo

Garry's mod belongs to Facepunch Studios

Team Fortress 2 belongs to Valve

#Pokemon #pokemon mystery dungeon #treecko #oc

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builder051 · 7 years

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#20 😍 love love love the idea of him getting ill at the gym because he works out too hard !!

It’s OC day today! Here’s Jason working out a little too hard and making himself sick at the gym. This is another one that lends itself to a pretty short story, so hopefully it still satisfies (Edit: It’s 1100 words. I thought it was going to be like 700.)

Additionally, I hope this doesn’t feel too anxious or ED-related. Suffice to say everyone at casa Deangeles-Carson has food/body issues even though Mike’s the only one with a diagnosis. I can own up to this one and say it’s all me working through my shit in the form of OCs.

___

Jason steps through the double doors, waving to his buddies and leaving the basketball court for the greater open space of the gym. He breathes heavily and pauses to pick up a towel from a stack on a table against the wall. He buries his face in the white terrycloth and wipes the sheen of sweat from his brow.

Jason’s already tired. An hour of casual 3 on 3 is enough of a workout most days, but the high that comes from the physical activity and moderate social interaction has him inspired. And so does his anxiety.

It’s the beginning of the holidays, the best time of the year. Which is also the worst time. School ramps up into finals, parents expect visits, shopping has to get done, and there’s not a square meal to be found because once-a-year holiday treats are around every corner.

Jason knows he’s a less-than-wholesome eater on the best of days, but he can’t help regretting the Halloween candy he’s still working through and cursing the Thanksgiving pies he knows will be shoved under his nose in a few weeks. He may be svelte and muscular now, but that doesn’t take away the memories of being the chubby kid, perpetually juxtaposed to Mike’s beanpole-ish frame.

Usually a pop tart or a burger is cancelled out with a workout and that’s that. But today Jason’s determined to balance his scales a little more in the direction of calorie burn, especially since he isn’t sure how many Reese’s cups he ate last night. He heads for the inclined sit-up bench, illogically deciding that working abs will make him feel a little better about what he’s been putting in his stomach.

Jason works through sets of 20, crossing his arms over his chest and bringing them up to brush his thighs on every rep. It’s a challenge to keep count, though. His mind continues wandering to the next visit back home and what kinds of awful challenges it’ll bring. He’s sure his parents will waste most of their criticism on Mike, which will leave him feeling safe and guilty. But a joke about him finally gaining the freshman 15 in his sophomore year is definitely an unwelcome possibility if he doesn’t keep up his fitness through the season.

When his abdominals are burning, Jason moves onto chest press, leg press, lat pulldown, and seated row. He doesn’t have a plan like arm day or leg day, he just wants to do as much as possible in the time he has before class.

His arms feel heavy and shaky when Jason finishes on the rowing machine. He stays perched on the small seat, mopping his face and the back of his neck. A slight tremor is sinking into his muscles, denoting that he’s thoroughly worked out.

Jason checks his watch. It’s almost 10 in the morning. His first class isn’t until 11:00, and since he’s already on campus, there’s still plenty of time to spend in the gym. Especially if he forgoes a shower and just opts for a dry shirt and Old Spice.

There’s a free treadmill in the bank of machines up by the gym’s large front windows. A little cardio cooldown seems like the perfect end to today’s session. Jason leaves his towel draped around his neck and hops toward it. He presses the illuminated buttons on the treadmill’s dashboard, starting at a brisk walk and working up into an easy jog.

Outside, the sprawling campus glows in the morning sunlight. Trees are beginning to molt to their naked winter forms; crunchy leaves drift to the grass while brightly colored ones still cling to finger-like branches. Jason spins through a few ideas in his head, wondering if it would be too kitschy to use something with imagery about the seasonal change in his next creative writing assignment.

He ticks up the speed on the treadmill to a quicker jog, then to a run. Just for five minutes, he tells himself. Then he’ll truly take a cooldown. A leisurely walking pace for a while to let himself really get his breath back. Just not quite yet.

Minute one is fine. Minute two brings a fresh wash of lactic acid into Jason’s legs. By minute three there’s pressure creeping into his shoulders. And it washes through his chest and throat during minute four.

Before the ascending timer shows the completion of minute five, the dashboard before Jason starts to blur. His head seems heavier on one side than the other, and the feeling that his insides are rising up within his core is pronounced. The idea that this is not good forms at the front of his foggy brain, and he fumbles for the emergency stop button.

Jason isn’t sure what he’s pressing, and it takes a few tries before the treadmill belt begins to slow under his feet. He’s already bolting before it comes to a complete stop, and the rising nausea is impossible to swallow. Dizziness makes it a challenge to track where he’s going, but luckily there’s a trash can only a few feet away.

Jason heaves hard, hoping no one is staring at him, but knowing everyone has to be. He’s so shaky he almost can’t feel his limbs or his face. The first gag brings only spit, but the second pulls up an arsenal of water and breakfast cereal and candy and dinner and god knows what else he’s eaten and not digested over the past day and a half.

“Hey, you ok, man?” The flash of a neon yellow t-shirt in Jason’s peripheral vision tells him it’s one of the gym’s staff coming to check on him.

“Ugh. Yeah,” Jason chokes, coughing a couple times. “Just probably a little much…” Vertigo swells and he feels himself swaying on his feet.

“Here, sit down for a second.” The personal trainer puts an arm around Jason’s back and lowers him to the scratchy carpet, pushing his head down between his bent legs.

A chill runs through Jason’s body, and a second later, his cheeks burn with mortified frustration. “I’m fine, really,” he says, trying to scramble back to his feet.

“Hold on, give it a minute,” the trainer says. He keeps a hand on Jason, oddly steady against Jason’s shaking body.

He does, giving in to the embarrassment and breathing in the rubbery scent of the carpet and the saltiness of his own sweat.

“Stay put while I get you a Gatorade,” the trainer instructs. “Then you can try to stand up.”

Jason nods into his knees, increasing the dizziness still swinging around his temples. God, he’s dumb. And now he’s probably going to be late for class. But at this rate, schoolwork is becoming the least of his worries.

#original fiction #ocs #my ocs #sickfic #emeto #emetophilia #mike & co #jason deangeles

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