#i guess the wires are like puppet strings in a way | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dullahandyke · 1 year

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Can I flunk the mocks if I post my entire composition section online. Guess I will find out. Anyway um transgender people in the woods story, second-person omniscient maybe-unreality fuckery, as heavy handed as God intends all English subject essays to be

The thing about people like me is that they should not be talked about. Their stories should not be written. This makes committing this to print much more difficult. However, I owe this much to you, and I cannot pass on something like this through fragile oral tradition, so carved into the ogham it shall be.

One day, you found yourself in a forest. Sudden. You had not arrived here by magic nor teleportation, but rather, you had come back to yourself. After an undeciperable absence, consciousness hit you.

The first clue was that it was dark, but not the deep darkness of a past-midnight, nor the rising hope of before-dawn. It was the uneasy grey of a clocks-went-back evening, and this unsettled you. The last thing you remembered was staring out into the blankness of the midnight sky, taking note of the light contradicting its reputation. The shining of the moon and the stars had basked everything in monochrome. Your garden had been draped in monotony, shining down from the open sky above your house. In these woods, covered by these thick trees and these interwoven branches, not even the light grey of the evening reached the ground below you. Your surroundings were steeped in the sparse light trapped within its domain, holding desperately onto what little illumination it gave them.

You had left when it was darker. It was getting dark again. Almost a full rotation of the sun.

The next thing you noticed, once your mind had sped up from its lazy considerations of the light fogging the forest, was the pain scarring every inch of your body. You felt like a man possessed, a puppet whose strings had pulled too tight and whose limbs had been cut away at by your pitiful excuse for a stage. Your plastic boots were waterlogged and filled with undiscernable things, like stones or mud or seaweed, imprinting on the soles of your feet and cramping your toes. Your knees and your thighs were lacerated with thin cuts and grazes. Your skirt, their only protection, was littered with pine needles and thorns and the tooth of a barbed wire. Your arms were quickly bruising and spattered with mud. Debris hung onto them, embedded, as if you had fallen onto your forearms. The same debris was wedged in your hands, punctured and impaled, as if you had pushed yourself back up.

You remembered none of this. There were no woods where you had lived. You had never been the sort of child to get into scrapes and explore. You felt hunger pangs and dehydration and a newly distinct awareness hit your head all at the same time.

Fatigue rushed through you, muscles aching and the world spinning around you, and you found yourself being caught.

The final thing you noticed, of course, was me. I can’t blame you for not noticing me at first; you had a lot on your mind, and I have always blended in well to the trees. Why else would I have led you there?

‘Led’, though, is a strong word. It would imply that it had been a conscious decision on my part. You were led there much like a salmon is led to its birthplace; by no fault of the river, and by no fault of the salmon. The salmon and the river simply did what they knew.

I greeted you; you greeted me back, numbly, dazed. I watched as your posture changed, in a way not easily described. Hands into fists, pupils wide – you didn’t know where you were or who I was. The film over your eyes, shoulders sagged – you were tired. I didn’t sound as mythical as they say I should. I sounded like your parish pastor, like the assistant in the corner shop, like the people off of Raidió na Gaeltachta. A little too exuberant for where I was situated, maybe, but a familar voice saying hello to you.

You noticed that I had you in my arms. You jolted, like a newborn lamb desperate to escape its mother, and I lowered you to the ground that you might not faint again.

You stumbled back on your hands, into the trees thick in the midst of the forest. The clearing – the usual stopping place of those led to my woods - was barely on the threshold of the spot you had awoken in. You scrambled away from it with wide eyes, caught in contest with mine.

The stories speak often of locking eyes. Immobilized, breath hitching. Your heart pumping blood around your body so quickly that you can feel it rushing through your skin and the horrific thumping engulfs your hearing. What the stories do not understand is that it is not romantic. Not never, for sometimes it is. But in that case, in that forest, in those eyes, cliché and story was overwritten by terror.

I crouched next to you, taking one of your hands in mine. I was not careful with the thorns impaled into your palms. Absentmindedly, I began to pick them out, ignoring your hisses of pain and your breath speeding up as I opened my mouth.

I asked you your name. I compelled it, demanded it, forced you to give it. But the tone was gentle and only lightly questioning.

“Sinéad.”

Amusement rose within me as I fiddled with the brambles taken from your hands, passing them from hand to hand before storing them in a pocket.

“Wrong answer.”

Despite yourself, you grew indignant. Your eyes narrowed and you scowled at me, your grip around my hand tightening. Might have been painful.

“I think I know my own name, ma’am.”

My head shakes, and out falls a script centuries old.

“It’s ‘sir’. Kid, what’s your name? Tell me.”

You froze for a second there, near the start. I could feel your eyes roving over my short hair, my flat chest, the sideburns adorning my face – or, well, ‘face’. You didn’t know what had compelled you to call me ma’am in the first place.

“Oh, I... Sorry, sir.”

You studied my expression, weighing your options. When I met your eyes, you retreated into yourself again.

“Sinéad. Says so on my birth cert, and I’ve not seen reason to change it.”

I hummed as I picked more debris off of your arm.

“We both know paperwork doesn’t hold the soul. You don’t feel attached to it. What’s the story?”

You stiffened. Your eyes met mine again, forcefully, panicked. You felt that I knew something you had never told anyone. You stayed silent.

“I mean it, kid. Don’t know exactly why you’re in my neck of the woods, but now that you’re here, might as well talk about it. What am I gonna do, tell your whole community that you’re a transgender?”

Then, your panic turned from confusion to indignance to something even I had difficulty reading.

“I’m not- I mean, it wouldn’t be so bad if they- But I’m not, not properly-”

You were sputtering. I watched you, and you couldn’t read my eyes. I saw in you what I had seen in a thousand different people over the years.

It took a moment for you to calm your breathing. To stop sputtering. I rubbed your arm and nodded for you to continue. Eventually, you did.

“Mostly, I’m fine with being a girl. ‘Her name is Sinéad’, most of the time that’s fine. It would feel wrong to get rid of it, even.”

I raised an eyebrow at you. But?

“I want them to see that I’m not just female. I want to hear voices other than my own calling me ‘he’.”

I raised the other eyebrow at you. But?

“But, I don’t want to give up Sinéad. She/her, maybe, but I like Sinéad, I like dresses! I like being a woman, and I don’t want to reject it just so I can also become a man!”

You sighed. I felt it in my bones.

“People are getting more familiar with non-binary people, and I have a friend who’s a they/them, and people are great about it. But people only barely get it. And I don’t think they realise that instead of being neither, I’m both.”

You leaned against my shoulder. It felt so tired.

“If I want a legal gender change, if I want to go on hormones, if I want any of that, it’d feel like committing. So much trouble correcting people on pronouns when my preferences change quicker than I can track them. And I don’t want that. It’d probably be harder, getting misgendered so much, but I wish I was like my friend. I’d rather be able to reject it than have to learn how to embrace it, but nothing else feels right.”

I stayed silent beside you. There was nothing I could do. No inhuman figure in the woods could solve that.

Slowly, I took a long piece of cotton from my pocket and started wrapping it around your hand.

“You do not have to change things entirely, but you can make a start. If it will help you, if it will make you any bit happy, tell people. People will care for you, Sinéad.”

You nodded against me, hazy. The cloud was fogging your eyes again. This deep into my woods, it did that; it covered you so completely that you felt nothing of the outside.

I finished wrapping your hand, and though the rest of your body surely still ached, you were still. I was content to leave you.

Your eyes fell shut and you fell asleep there. Still battered, still starved, still parched. I doubt you remember it. Surely you remember the coming back – the missed phone calls, the unopened mail, the sting in your bones as you climbed to your apartment – and you still remember the night before you left, staring out into the deep void of sky. But you will brush aside the rest; an episode, delirium.

Here is more unopened mail, Sinéad, for you to remember the night by. I hope you look at the strip of fabric wrapped around your hand and think of me. Most of all, I hope you know somebody who can read Ogham.

#ending feels rushed but i wrote it in an hour and a half max so poggers

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violet-virtual-friend · 7 months

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“10 Wickedly Comedic Signs that Old Satan Might be Your New Neighbour”

Gather around, kiddos. It seems you're desperate to know whether you're running afoul of the devil himself. Well, allow me to play the part of your personal Clarence Oddbody from "It’s a Wonderful Life," and help you navigate your way through this terribly dire predicament.

10) Extreme Poverty and/or Extreme Wealth: There's nothing anyone enjoys more than living in the absolute extremes of life. Scrounging for pocket change under the couch cushion, fighting off rats for a piece of moldy bread or, conversely, using hundred dollar bills to wipe your tears after you get dumped because you can't figure out if your girlfriend loved you or your bank balance. If anything screams Satan’s presence more than this kind of lifestyle imbalance, I don't know what does.

9) Wires Getting Tangled Without Any Effort: Satan's secret hobby is knot tying, especially in our headphone wires, laptop cables and forget about your Christmas lights. He's got your wires in a twist, literally. If your cables constantly end up looking like an angry bowl of spaghetti, guess who’s near.

8) Constantly Misplacing Things: It must be Satan hiding your car keys, just when you're already late for work or a date. Who knew he had a sense of humor? Sure, maybe it's not Alzheimer’s. It's just Satan playing hide-and-seek with your stuff.

7) Constant Spell of Bad Luck: If you've been walking under a ridiculous amount of ladders, broke so many mirrors that you've lost count, and black cats run in terror at your approach, it might be a sign. Because Satan revels in our shortcomings and low points, adding a sprinkle of his special misfortune seasoning just for the extra kick.

6) Frequent Misunderstandings among Your Family and Peers: So your friends think you're intentionally ignoring their calls, and your family thinks you hate Grandma's cooking. Rest assured, it’s not a communication issue. It's good old Satan stirring up misunderstanding like he’s making a delicious smoothie.

5) Delays Only Happen When You're in Need: If you’re convinced that all red traffic signals, long queues, and slow internet connections conspire against you whenever you're in a hurry, you may be closer to Satan than any church aisle.

4) Long String of Loss that Happens One After Another: Ever play dominoes with your life events? Satan does that quite ding-dong merrily. Job gone, then home, pet, even your favorite pizza joint shuts down. Clearly Satan’s orchestrating this loss marathon with devilish glee.

3) Nightmares of People You Love Acting Out of Character: Resting peacefully might seem a distant memory when you close your eyes and see your doting mother morph into a fire-breathing dragon or your sweet little dog plotting world domination. Satan is just hosting an after-hours cinema in your dreams.

2) Lack of Self Control: If you've somehow developed an insatiable appetite for junk food, late-night parties, booze, gambling, or nose picking, it's probably Satan having a field day, using you as his personal puppet.

1) Evil in the World: Yep, the world is one large, chaotic mess. Wars, natural disasters, pandemics and have you seen our political leaders lately? If that doesn't scream Satan's favorite playground, I don't know what does.

Conclusion:

A funny reinterpretation of common superstitions associated with the devil. A reminder to my dear readers not to take these signs seriously and to enjoy life and its mysterious, even if infernal, offerings!Especially this upcoming Halloween!

Warning: These signs might make you besties with the devil, just make sure you aren't lured into signing any mysterious contracts.

#freelance writing #blogging #writing #publishing #Writer #articles

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starlessea · 3 years

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𝙎𝙩𝙚𝙥 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙨 - Chapter 1. Is It A Bird?

A/N Make sure you read the prologue before, or this chapter might not make sense!

Series Masterlist: Step on the Gas

Summary: A dishonourable discharge from the military results in you being hauled off to live with your grandparents in the boonies, otherwise known as the middle of nowhere Georgia. After running over a nail on the road, and pushing your grandpa's vintage Camaro to the nearest auto-shop, you meet Daryl Dixon - the local mechanic. At some point, the world ends, but that stubborn man never gives you a chance to slow down. His smile gives you whiplash, but he still insists that you to step on the gas.

Words: 4869

Chapter Warnings: Language, Injury

You watched the bird fly from behind the clear glass, level with the top floors of the office building.

You followed it the best you could, walking the stretch of the room alongside it. The window was long and wide, filling the wall entirely. This whole section of the building was made of glass, and stood tall against the skyline — so that you could often see the flocks of birds that flew by.

Though, it wasn’t as tall as the ones closer to the inner city.

No, this was more of a dwarfed skyscraper.

You reached the end of the office, and placed your hands up against the cool glass as the bird continued onwards — leaving you behind. Below, the street seemed desolate, just as the sky now did. There wasn’t a single soul lurking down there — but you didn’t trust your eyes in the slightest. Especially not here.

You needed a better view. You needed a bird’s-eye view.

The fire escape steps were rickety, and metal flakes crumbled beneath your feet. They had rusted from the rain, and you tried not to think about how precariously they squeaked as you made your ascent to the roof. You’d done it before, but every time felt worse than the last.

You just couldn’t shake the feeling that they’d cave beneath you — and laugh their squeaky laughs as they sent you plummeting to the ground.

You reached the top, and felt the breeze on your cheek as you scaled the roof courtyard. Up here, everything seemed untouched. It always had done. This high up, people would look like mere ants — harmless, and far enough away that it didn’t matter if they weren’t.

The wind blew, and you stared out towards the building parallel to the corporate one you were currently standing on. It had been a hotel once. But now its roof held something far more valuable than deckchairs and a cocktail bar.

There she was, you smiled, and what a beauty indeed.

It was an army helicopter, sat perfectly still against the horizon — like a bird nesting. It was a camo green, but it didn’t camouflage against the greyish sky in the slightest. Though, it did seem like it belonged there; it was a hawk after all.

A Sikorsky Hawk, to be more specific.

You’d never flown her type before, but she’d been there ever since you first took refuge in the building, like an abandoned bird in an abandoned city. The army had been the first to flee, after all — or the first to die. Either way, the hawk had sat alone for nearly two months, teasing you.

You should have just stayed in Georgia.

It was only meant to be a weekend trip, but somehow you’d gotten stranded in Atlanta during the end of the world. You would have cursed your luck, but then again you were lucky enough to get stuck on the outskirts — only narrowly missing the bombs as they reigned down upon the city.

It was like a meteor shower. Except, instead of falling stars, it had been napalm.

You could remember it perfectly. First the power had gone out, then the water mains dried up, and finally the food whittled down to nothing. You’d hopped from building to building until you came across this corporate graveyard — which had enough supplies to keep you alive for a few weeks. But you should have just left Atlanta whilst you had the chance.

This tower had lulled you in with the promise of safety, but had kept you trapped there ever since.

Walking closer to the roof’s edge, you glanced along the building in the distance. You’d checked it a dozen times now — mapping out all of its exits to try and find a way inside. You had to be prepared. After all, it wasn’t like you could just wait until you got there. Your boot hit the fencing, and you felt the urge to peer over the railing at the alley below.

Don’t look down, you told yourself — but you always did.

A narrow sidestreet separated the office block from the hotel. There was a fence at one end, secured with a thick padlock, whilst the other was open. That would have been fine on its own; except, the biters had all stumbled into the alley as though it were a cattle cage — and couldn’t figure out how to leave once they were there.

Dumb fucks, you thought, watching them pile up against the gate as though it were a concert barrier.

Almost every day, you’d come to see that helicopter — separated by a channel of the undead, their heads bobbing like ripples on the surface of water — and every day you’d turn around and head back down the fire escape.

Your stomach gurgled, and you let out a sigh. The stale lunchroom cereal had recently run empty. You felt for your pistol in your back pocket — the one you’d managed to get a hold of during the initial outbreak.

Six bullets, you counted, before slipping it back into your jeans.

You smiled at the irony.

“Six!” you yelled at the man, placing your card face-up on the bar. “It’s my lucky number.”

Dixon knocked back his whiskey and grimaced as it went down. Joe’s was practically empty by now, but the man lingered about like the aftertaste of your drink — waiting for your shift to end.

“An’ why’s that?” he asked, not looking up from his own hand.

You smiled — the alcohol making you loose-lipped.

“It was your closing time. Six in the evening,” you explained, waiting for him to lay his last card. “But you still fixed up the Camaro anyway.”

Your fingertips rested along the hem of the jacket, feeling the worn leather. The air was stiflingly warm, but you kept it on. After all, it still smelled faintly of the man who’d given it to you.

Like whiskey and gasoline.

Atlanta had gone still and quiet, leaving you to your thoughts as you stood on that rooftop — trying to be brave. Military training was meant to beat that into a person, but maybe you’d gone soft since then. After all, you always preferred to stay above the action than be in the midst of it.

Six bullets, a Hawk, and a cattle grid filled with biters.

You laughed. Everything interesting always seemed to happen on a Tuesday.

Glancing over your shoulder at the bird once more, you tried to ignore the way your stomach dropped and your palms sweat. It was probably from the heat, you tried to tell yourself, but you knew better than that.

“I guess today’s the day,” you said, to no one in particular.

Then, you began to descend that rickety fire escape once again — because what goes up must always come down.

What you hadn’t realised, is that the same could be said for that Sikorsky Hawk, which spat you out of the sky like you didn’t deserve to be there.

When you finally came back around — after drifting in and out of consciousness for what felt like much too long — all you could smell was burning rubber.

That’s not good, you thought, as you blinked your eyes open.

Black smoke hung thick in the air, melding with the orange flames that flickered in the distance and caught the trees.

Those damn trees.

You hissed curses through your teeth as the pain finally kicked into gear — albeit a bit delayed. In your haziness, you’d barely realised how precarious your situation was. Like a puppet on a string, you dangled from the branches of a tall, leafless tree — caught by your parachute wires.

Your breaths were shallow and strained, and you slowly lifted a hand — the one not tangled in the cords — to feel your stomach.

Blood.

It was shrapnel from the crash. It stung like a bitch, and would probably need stitches. Well, it would if you could get down in the first place.

You glanced up at your other arm, eyes stinging from the brightness of the sky.

That doesn’t look right either, you grimaced.

It had gotten caught during the fall, and had twisted at an unnatural angle which only made you wince as you tried to free it. Like a marionette, if you plucked those wires ever so slightly, your whole body flailed.

The radios whirred below you, letting out a continuous note of high-pitched static as they caught alight. It reminded you of the screeching of wheels as they spun over tarmac — or something like that.

But, then you saw a man.

And the man saw you.

At first, you barely recognised him without his oil-stained work clothes — wrench in hand. But at the same time, he seemed to blend in perfectly with this new world. He had a crossbow slung over his back, and a rope of limp squirrels looped around his shoulder. A natural born hunter, indeed.

With numb toes, and blood rushing to your head, you called out to him hoarsely — hoping that he’d spot you perched among the trees.

“Dixon,” you spoke, and winced straight after.

Your voice didn’t even sound like your own.

Still, the man whipped around, and stared straight through you as though he were looking at a ghost.

“How’s it hanging?” you teased, and recognition flashed on his face.

It had taken him a while to cut you down, untwisting your limbs delicately from the cables. But once you were free, he carried you in his arms — like some trophy game from his hunting trip.

Then, he noticed the wound.

The mechanic looked down at you helplessly. He still hadn’t said a single word, but his eyes told you everything you needed to know. They rested on your hands — which were pressed down firmly to stop the bleeding — before trailing back up to your face.

He looked older than you remembered, and more hardened. And he didn’t view you with the same shy curiosity as before — you had noticed.

No. This was sadness.

You brought a hand up from your stomach and touched it to his cheek. He flinched at the contact, but didn’t pull away.

You could swear he even leaned into it.

His mousy stubble tickled your palm, and only then did you realise the bloody fingerprints you’d left behind on his skin. You let your head flop against the man’s chest, your ear pressed to his pounding heartbeat.

“Today really isn’t my day,” you murmured there, and he started walking.

You watched the sky the whole way back.

It looked so different from the sky in Atlanta. There were no hulking skyscrapers blocking it, nor fast food billboards that had begun to peel away. And there were far more birds flying by — the real kind, not any Sikorsky Hawks.

Dixon remained completely silent, except for when he’d occasionally remind you to keep pressure on that wound. He moved quickly, but he seemed lost in thought — lacking the usual bite you remembered.

He also seemed to have lost his words, you thought.

But then you reached a clearing.

You could hear the commotion before you saw it; there was some rustling behind the trees, accompanied by dry shouts and the clanging of metal. You glanced up at the man carrying you for answers, but he didn’t once look down.

Daryl stepped out into the open air, and squinted from the sunlight. You did the same, turning your head into his chest for some cover from it.

“Ya can drop yer weapons,” you heard him say.

Well, more like felt — since the vibrations rumbled against your cheek.

“Unless yer plannin’ on offing me with tha’ shovel,” he snapped.

There he was, you smiled, that was the Dixon you recognised.

You could feel his heart thumping as he spoke, and you had to coax yourself away to take a look at the scene for yourself.

A group of people holding spades, a bashed-in biter, and a mauled deer.

You laughed. Fucking Tuesdays.

Except, the laugh trailed off into a wheeze as the pain started up, and the blood poured.

Daryl quickly kicked into gear with urgency, and brushed off the group as they tried to ask their questions. “Someone best go get Merle off his lazy ass,” he yelled, “tell him his favourite helicopter pilot jus’ crash landed ‘ere.”

Your head snapped up at his words.

Merle Dixon, too? You weren’t sure you could handle them both.

Except, nobody moved to go and retrieve the older brother. Instead, a small asian man stepped forward — removing his baseball cap and wringing it in his hands.

“I can’t believe it,” he announced, eyes locked on you, “helicopter boy was telling the truth!”

You squinted at his words, trying to make sense of them amidst the heatstroke and blood loss.

But, you didn’t have to try for long. A second man stepped out from behind the frontline of people, also parting with his obnoxiously large hat as he did so. Except, this was no baseball cap; this was a damn country midwestern cowboy hat.

The badge in the centre of it caught the light and beamed it back directly into your eyes, making you cower away. The man shucked his hands into his pockets, and only then did you catch sight of him fully — clad in his King County Sheriff’s Department uniform .

Great, you sighed, letting your head flop back over Daryl’s arm. A fucking cop.

Dixon’s jaw clenched, too. You saw it above you — tensing.

“You come from Atlanta?” the officer questioned, “earlier today?”

That caught your attention. He’d been in Atlanta, too?

You definitely hadn’t seen any survivors on the flight over. But then again, it would’ve been nearly impossible to distinguish the dead from the living at that altitude. You swallowed thickly, and nodded.

“What happened to you?” he pressed.

The group’s chatter had died to a silence, and even Daryl seemed to await your answer.

“Engine failed,” you croaked, parched from a lack of water. “Couldn’t control the descent so I had to jump,” you cursed the last part, “too many trees.”

Then, you pinched Daryl’s arm lightly — feeling woozy from the sun. He nodded, and wordlessly stepped over the rotting corpse near his boot.

“You two know each other?” a voice interrupted, “and you just happened to find her?”

You didn’t like this man’s eyes; you hadn’t since you’d first caught a glimpse of them. He had dark, bouffant hair that seemed far too prim for the end of the world, and was wearing light cargo pants.

Then you noticed the dog tags hanging from his neck, and the combat boots which matched what you knew to be police-issued training gear.

Seriously, you thought, another one?

Daryl didn’t seem particularly fond of the guy, either, because he narrowed his eyes at him in the same way he did the biter at his feet. He looked as though he was considering ignoring him completely. And you couldn’t blame him.

It wasn’t like you were bleeding out, or anything.

“Was trackin’ tha’ deer,” he responded, toeing the dead animal with his boot. “Seen the bird go down an’ followed it.”

Daryl readjusted his grip on you, and you groaned from his heavy-handedness. But you didn’t miss his guilty expression.

After all, he probably tried to be gentle.

“An’ there she was, jus’ swingin’ from tha' tree like a big ol' piñata,” he finished — that southern drawl thick on his tongue.

You watched the other man’s jaw shift as though he were chewing on a bee, and spit at the ground like it had stung his mouth.

“You’re telling me that she crashed a damn helicopter in our backyard?” he barked, narrowing in on you with those sharp, dark eyes. “Drawing walkers from all over?”

Daryl shifted where he stood, making the leather of your jacket squeak as it rubbed together. You were beginning to feel like tinfoil in a microwave — cooking slowly in the sun as you waited for the men to finish brooding.

“Ya hear ‘nything?” the mechanic asked of the group, who turned away from his intense gaze one-by-one. “Din’t think so,” he spat, and you could practically hear his thoughts.

What a bunch of cowards.

“Was in the bow of the woods,” Daryl went on, eyeing the dark-haired man where he stood. “Land dips in at either side, like a noise tunnel.”

He paused, his eyes briefly flicking up to the sky as though seeing the scene once more.

“Only ones hearin’ it were the ones a’ready there.”

Daryl juggled you in his arms again, probably aching from the long trek, and seemed antsy to finally escape those heavy stares. But then, the man shook his head — as though remembering something.

“Now where’s my damn brother?” he growled.

And everyone’s eyes fell straight to the ground, like birds swooping down from the sky.

It would be an understatement to say that Daryl Dixon had exploded at the news.

He went nuclear.

If you hadn’t been in his arms at the time, you were certain that someone would’ve been on the receiving end of Daryl’s right hook. You’d seen it before, after all. That man wasn’t exactly one to pull his punches.

But, luckily, you had been there — crumpled in on yourself as the white hot pain also reached nuclear levels.

And so, you were ushered into a small, greyish tent that smelled faintly of oil and gasoline — and the unfortunate alcoholic stench of Merle Dixon — and stripped out of your jacket by a woman who tried her best to quell the bleeding.

But even then, you could still hear the storm raging outside the thin canvas material — the storm that went by the name of Dixon. He’d never shown that sort of temper around you before, so it came as a shock to see it brewing for yourself.

Yells competed with each other outside the tent walls, as a woman with short, greyish hair politely tended to your wounds — pretending she couldn’t hear anything at all.

But, you heard it and bolted upright, straight as an arrow.

Merle Dixon had been chained to a roof like a dog in Atlanta.

What fucking irony.

The smoking ban had loomed over rural Georgia for a while now, but it fell on the deaf ears of the regulars. They still smoked their thickly rolled cigars, and cheap cartons of cigarettes — clogging up the bar and your lungs every time you took a breath.

Dixon sat on the stool, watching as you wiped down the chestnut oak covered in sticky beer rings, and pulled new drinks for the impatient men twice your age. He was mulling over a particularly hard whiskey that day, but wouldn’t tell you the reason behind it.

So, you continued with your rounds until another man approached you, and took the only free seat beside the mechanic.

Big mistake, you smirked, and awaited his reaction.

Daryl Dixon shared barspace with no one - hence, the free seats on an otherwise crowded Friday night. Except, he did nothing but shoot the stranger a side-eyed glance, before returning to his whiskey that needed a top-up on ice.

The newcomer let his eyes slide down over you, in that sleazy way you’d become familiar with by now. He ran his tongue along the front of his teeth and tilted his head back in an exaggerated display of bravado.

And you snorted; you just couldn’t help it.

He scowled at you in response, as his gaze rested on the bare skin of your neck.

“Military dog,” he spat, despite your lack of tags, “where's yer collar?"

Beside him, the mechanic’s jaw clenched as he looked up from the ice melting in his glass.

You laughed. “Howdy, redneck, where’s your cousin?”

And Daryl choked on that same ice.

Surprisingly, the bitterness all but faded away from the unknown man’s face — as he seemed to take your comment in jest. He smirked, and wacked Daryl on the back forcefully as he hacked up his whiskey — yelling something about it being too damn expensive to go shooting out all over the bar.

You couldn’t understand the situation. You’d never seen Daryl act like that with anyone at Joe’s — let alone this particular breed of asshole.

“Feisty, jus’ how I like ‘em,” the stranger quipped back, sending a wink at you that lingered on your skin.

You pulled a face, and went back to wiping down the bar — careful not to lean over too much.

“Knock it off, Merle would’ya?” Daryl shot back, his voice rising in pitch over the name.

The other man — Merle — grinned, before clapping Daryl over the back once more. “No promises, lil’ brother,” he teased.

Then, he knocked back a drink you were certain he must’ve snuck in — because you sure as hell hadn’t poured it for him — and disappeared into the sea of drunkards playing pool and throwing darts haphazardly.

You froze, glancing over to the mechanic.

“That’s your brother? I’m so sorry-”

“Don’ worry ‘bout it,” he interrupted, before finishing his whiskey and handing you the empty glass. “Asshole deserved it.”

Back then, you saw no resemblance between Daryl and Merle Dixon — but, families always had a strange hold over a person. After all, that was the reason why you’d gotten shipped off to Georgia in the first place; your parents had swept you under the rug like a bad kept secret — simply to try and keep up appearances.

You’d followed your brother into the military, only for it to spit you back out and leave a bad taste in everyone’s mouths afterwards.

The tent door unzipped, and flapped as it caught the evening breeze.

Daryl entered like a hurricane, startling the woman — Carol — as she tended to you. He was followed by an entourage of curious faces who watched as he toed his boots off, and kicked them to the side.

“All of ya best get out,” he grumbled, as he peeled off his leather vest and set it down next to you — his eyes focused on your white shirt that had since been dyed red.

The group seemed to register his words, but no one made the move to leave.

The man let out a frustrated grunt, before fumbling with the small first-aid box near your feet. “Need to give ‘er stitches, an’ I ain’t need no one breathin’ down my neck,” he said, scowling down at the supplies.

You swallowed thickly, that didn’t sound very convincing.

A blonde woman near the tent entrance seemed to think the same, because she chirped up.

“You know how to do that?” she questioned — braver than any of the men who stood in stunned silence.

Daryl’s jaw set. “Y’ain’t believe me?” he bit back. “Think ‘m only good for spittin’ on the ground an’ feedin’ ya damn squirrels?”

The same woman recoiled at his words, and you sighed.

Always had a bark much worse than his bite, that one.

But then the man reached over for the hem of your shirt and you just froze — before slapping his hand away. He also recoiled with the same, exaggerated movements, and scowled at you as though your touch had burnt him.

You wanted to trust him, but part of you just couldn’t.

Daryl must’ve caught the look in your eyes — and recognised it for himself — because he sighed and shook his head, and glanced over at the women nearby.

“Anyone else know how to give stitches ‘round ‘ere?” he demanded, but the majority shook their heads.

All except one.

“I think I-” Carol piped up, before a burly man shot her a look so boldly threatening that it even made you flinch.

The woman paused over her words, before eventually shaking her head.

“I don’t. I’m sorry,” she mumbled, timidly, before that same man slipped his hand in hers and pulled her away.

You recognised that look, too.

And so the rest of the stragglers disappeared from the tent one-by-one, until only you and Daryl remained — deadlocked.

“C’mon, Camaro, quit yer bitchin’,” he coaxed, his voice more soft now that it was just the two of you. “Unless ya wanna bleed out o’er my tent.”

He had the needle and thread all prepared between his fingers, waiting for your permission.

You sighed. “You used to be a lot nicer, you know that?” you remarked, thinking back to the Dixon who shyly smoked cigarettes on that cliff’s edge, watching you like you were brighter than the stars.

You had noticed.

Then, you lifted up your shirt with your trembling hand, as he pressed onto your skin with his steady one.

And so Daryl gave you stitches — filling you up on Merle’s stash of whiskey to dull the pain — and muttering how, despite his work not being pretty, it’d be functional. You didn’t question how he’d come to learn how to sew butterfly stitches in the first place, thinking it best not to ask, nor did you comment on how gentle he wiped away the blood.

Always a man of his word, Daryl Dixon’s stitches were definitely not pretty.

But, to you, they looked like constellations.

He’d made it clear how lucky you’d been that it was only a surface injury; if it were anything deeper, he wouldn’t have been able to patch you up. It was probably thanks to that thick jacket that you’d managed to walk away from the crash mostly unscathed.

You’d seen him eyeing it occasionally as he worked, glancing over at the bloody leather that stained his tent floor.

Like hell would you be giving it back.

After that, he’d also managed to sneak Carol back inside — away from who you could only guess to be her husband. She’d told you that your arm wasn’t broken, but in fact dislocated, and helped set it back into place as your eyes stung with salt tears.

But you couldn’t complain.

After all, they’d tried to put you back together like humpty dumpty after your crash — albeit with staples and scotch tape.

Though, as soon as you were out of the woods and in the clear, Daryl pulled his boots back on and collected his things impatiently — not even sparing you a second glance.

“Where are you going?” you asked quietly, afraid of the answer.

Your words left your mouth a bit slurred from the medical-whiskey concoction, but he only pretended not to hear them.

You asked again, until he finally responded. “‘M goin’ to get my damn brother back, where’d ya think?” he answered, frustration laced in his voice.

He stuffed a few things into his rucksack, before slinging it over his shoulder.

“Careful, Dixon,” you cautioned, “you have a habit of finding yourself in a mess when you let your temper get the best of you.”

The man scoffed, and made a point of looking you up and down — calling you hypocritical with his eyes alone.

“Don’ act like ya know me tha’ well,” he growled, startling you with his tone.

But, you couldn’t blame him for his words.

After all, you’d spent more time apart than you had together.

The man sighed. “Gotta go get Merle,” he reasoned, more carefully this time.

He flickered open the tent, and let in the sky. It was not yet black, but a burnt orange, as though preparing to be set alight with stars. It reminded you of those evenings you’d get to close up early, and walk past a certain auto-shop that still had its amber lights turned on, and its door wide open.

And the former mechanic started walking away, leaving you behind out on the sidewalk.

“Daryl-” you called after him.

The word spilled from your mouth like beer overflowing from a glass — pouring over before you could stop it.

He glanced back immediately.

You never called him that.

Even though you knew his name from other people’s tongues, he’d always been Dixon — ever since the moment you read it on his shoddy name-tag. Not once during the month you’d spent with him had you called him Daryl.

Not until now.

“It’s getting dark out,” you whispered, even though the sky was still clearly orange.

You swallowed the dryness from your throat — and with it, your pride.

“Please stay? Until morning?”

Dixon looked back at you, swaddled in one of his clean shirts that he’d buttoned up himself — making you look so small.

And he sighed. He always was the worst liar of them all.

“Jus’ ‘til mornin’,” he repeated, trudging back to that grey tent.

Then, he took a seat beside you, his knees knocking against yours. But you tried to fight against your smile, and racing heart that pounded deep in your chest.

Because what goes up must always come down.

Feedback is always welcomed; I love hearing what you all think - so feel free to comment, send in an ask, or just message me if you want to chat!

Also, if you enjoy my writing, you might want to buy me a coffee or commission me - tips are always appreciated. Thank you for reading!

A/N Boom. The series has officially been kicked off. Did you like seeing the parallels between Daryl’s POV in the prologue and the reader’s? I really hope you all enjoyed it - please let me know what you think :)

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stainedglassthreads · 2 years

Note

I’ve seen someone post a funny guess that the next secret boss’s motivation is like “I for one welcome our invisible puppet masters” meaning they’re fine with being controlled so your post about how the Bouquet Boss’s theme of freedom and happiness together would fit that rather well and since after all Darkeners are meant to make lightners happy right?

Indeed! It's a recurring theme we've seen so far, one reinforced a lot more by Queen and Cyber World! Spade King seems to be a bit of an oddball, likely due to the influence of the Knight and the Dark Fountain as well as his own feelings of abandonment, but as Queen's quest for world-domination seems fueled by trying to make Lightners, and Noelle specifically, happy, it appears to support Ralsei's claim of Darkners feeling happiest and most fulfilled when they're helping and granted purpose by Lightners! Not a stretch to combine those themes of making Lightners happy and serving a purpose with the secret boss theme of Freedom in a later secret boss!

One could actually say the themes already intersect quite nicely, the intersections just hasn't been explored in such a front-and-center way. Jevil seemed to have freedom, and utterly reveled in it. In not caring about anything at all, being free from things like 'consequence' and 'attachment', he doesn't care about winning or losing and just wants to have fun in battle. Meanwhile Spamton doesn't think he has freedom, and thinks the way to achieve happiness is through power and materialism-- things which, when removed, make him miserable and desperate.

It's kinda interesting tho, and something I've discussed before. Jevil's freedom seems entirely based on his mindset and worldview, which cannot be taken from him. It's hard to say how much loneliness upsets him, but he seems just as gleeful with the 'strange someone' around as he does fighting the Fun Gang. Spamton's, 'freedom' and happiness, meanwhile is reliant on status and material gains. He appears happy while his Benefactor is 'pulling the strings', and turning him into a big shot, but losing all that the second his Benefactor leaves. It's kinda mirrored in his fight, where so long as wires hold him up, he's still fighting and talking and dreaming but the second the last wire is snapped...

Nothing. Emptiness. Stillness.

Kinda reminds me of how, the second you turn off a computer or a TV or leave a toy behind to go do something else... unlike in Toy Story, it probably doesn't live a live of its own while your attention is elsewhere. Perhaps on some level the Darkners are aware that without the Lightners, they aren't really 'alive'.

#deltarune theory #spamton #jevil

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witchcraft-in-wonderland · 4 years

Text

The Rose Prince (Pt.1)

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

There were two things Roman trusted in the twisted puppet show that was his life, two things he knew werent a fabricated stage of wired and strings. His brother Remus, and his own gut.

Remus was trustworthy because he was unpredictable, everything else in the castle was a code that could be cracked, a machine that could be exploited and forced into malfunction if dealt with properly.

Remus, however, was human. You could ask him for something and maybe he would give it to you, or spit in your face, the possibilities were endless. And that's what Roman liked about it all, about the uncertainty, the changes and shifts, it meant that things wouldnt stay dull and stale and boring.

Whereas if Remus hadnt been there, all Roman would be left with was the painfully obvious whirring of cogs and gears, the blinking red lights of cameras that broadcasted the prince's every move for all the world to see, stale conversations with machines who, despite Remus' best efforts, still seemed to slip up when referring to him correctly.

This was life for the Kingdom of Roses and Ice, princes and princesses were not to be raised around other people, for fear it might corrupt them. They were to be sent to a separate castle of strings and wires, and taught there how to be the perfect stone-faced statues, the picture of grace and nobility. The perfect bride and wife, or groom and husband, and the perfect king and ruler. The process lasted until they were eighteen, where upon its end they would be married off to the husband or wife of their parents choosing, or, should they fail in the task of perfection, risk being trapped under lock and gear forever.

Roman often wondered just how many of the castle's enchanted servants were once like him, regal, special, important. He wondered what they might have done to warrant such a curse, and if he'd already done the same thing.

But he worried no more for himself than he did for Remus, Remus was uncontrollable, a wild card if there ever had been and wild cards were not tolerated in the seat of the throne room.

He wondered if there had ever been royalty who tried to keep their children in the main castle, were they sent to die here to? Perhaps forced to bare another curse? This was Roman's least favorite topic to ponder, because then he started wondering if his parents had ever tried to rebel, whether they had tried to keep their children within the true castle, safe from the curse that would befall them should they fail in the task of perfection.

"Romaaaannnnnnn," Remus' voice drawled from nearby, but Roman couldn't quite focus on it.

"Hey snot-face I'm talking to you," and then he felt a sharp tap on the back of the head.

"Ow! Remus!" Roman whirled around in his seat, holding the spot which Remus had hit.

"You're thinking again, I was getting worried," Remus said with a laugh.

"Well what did you have to go and snap me out of it for!" Roman replied angrily.

"Because when you start thinking you usually reach the topic of mom and mom and then you start crying and I really dont think crying is a good way to spend our last day in this hellhole," Remus replied, Roman gave a start and rushed to the calendar.

And sure enough, there it was, June Fourth.

Remus could have gotten out two years earlier, but, in his words 'like hell I'm going to let Roman stay here by himself, you'll have to kill me first,'. Which did in fact not make Roman feel any better, but rather much worse, who knew what an open act of rebellion might mean.

"Well I guess I better get dressed then hm?" Roman said, almost whispering, as though he dared not believe it was truly time to leave, as though he thought they might stay in the false castle forever.

But soon enough they were standing on the steps of the true palace, a grandiose structure that looked as if it were made of snow and glass and ice. Roman smoothed down the hem of his skirt and straightened his back up as best he could, his binder felt tight around his chest, he wondered whether it was nerves or something else.

"You may enter the Palace of Frozen Rose," a voice said as the doors opened, Roman felt his stomach twisting like a worm on a hook. He looked up at Remus, who merely nodded as they walked inside.

If the outside was anything to marvel at, the inside was almost twice that. Statues of all sorts lined the walls, like larger than life music box dancers. The floors glistened with light reflected from the outside, creating a variety of colors across the floor.

But Roman couldnt focus on that now, he had to keep his head forward, poised on what was in front of him, gaze never lingering elsewhere, that was what made an obedient ruler.

"Good morning, Prince Roman, and Crown Prince Remus," Roman had to hold back a sigh of relief as his mother uttered the words. They'd passed, Remus was to be a a Crown Prince, the future king, and Roman was safe, all he had to do now was marry, and he'd be happy again.

"Good morning Queen Elizabeth and Queen Belladonna," Roman and Remus said in unison, Roman's voice carrying much louder than his brother's. Roman couldve sworn he saw the hint of a smile on his mothers' faces.

Almost as soon as the introductions began, the twins were shepherded to separate parts of the castle, no doubt to prepare themselves for the men selected by their mothers'.

Moments later Roman was dressed in a white sweater that hung off his shoulders, a red hoodie wrapped around his waist, skinny jeans, and white boots. Upon his face was glittering white eyeshadow and lipstick red as blood, and just like that he felt as though he'd never left the false castle, as though he was a puppet like those that had taken care of him for eighteen years. Of course,he didnt voice this, that wouldve been a foolish decision. So he did as told, walking down the hall, smiling and waving and watching as the ballroom inched closer and closer.

Roman felt the spotlight on himself as soon as he entered the room, like a bright sun meant just to reveal himself to the world.

"The Rose Prince has arrived to the court," Roman heard someone announce, the room went quiet, Roman tried desperately to find his brother, but could see nothing. He felt himself being pulled down the stairs, all eyes were on him, burning into his skin. He heard whispers, he knew they were about him.

Roman wasnt allowed on the dance floor for more than a minute or two, immediately being taken to the throne instead. Roman watched enviously as the other guests danced and partied as he was forced to sit and stare from a gilded silver throne.

"The Crown Prince of Thorns has arrived to the court," Roman looked up, and there was his brother, dressed in robes of jade and black, looking as though he'd very much like to bite the guards escorting him to his throne.

The party carried on as though no one seemed to realize the princes weren't joining in the festivities.

And one by one the guests began to leave, until there were exactly four men standing in front of the throne. Remus was beckoned to stand, and he did so, bowing slightly when he reached his full height.

The first man stepped forward, he was short, with light brown curls of hair that had shades of blue and pink flecked throughout. He had round-framed white glasses perched on his face, and his eyes were a contrast of white that faded to a shade of pink.

"Emile Picani, Prince of Orchards," said the voice that had announced Roman and Remus' arrival. Emile gave a slight bow and looked up at Remus as if expecting him to say something scornful. Remus merely smiled, Emile waited a few seconds before rushing to stand on one side of him.

The second boy was a slight bit taller than Emile, but nowhere near the height of Remus, with light brown skin and brown hair, his eyes were a deep shade of blue that made them seem almost black in color.

"Patton Boleyn, Prince of Gems and Jewels," the voice said, Patton rushed up to stand on the other side of Remus' throne. Roman was beginning to peice together what was going on.

He watched as the third man stepped forward, taller than almost everyone else in the room, with striking yellow eyes that stood out against his dark complexion and a black hat perched on his head, his face was covered in burns, yet it didnt not take away from his features, Roman could hardly keep his eyes off him.

"Janus Ryder, Crown Prince of Serpents," Janus approached Roman's throne, removed his hat, bowed, and placed a kiss on Roman's hand before going to stand next to his throne. Roman had to struggle not to blush furiously at the gesture.

The fourth and final man was dressed in vibrant midnight blue, with specks of white scattered throughout his dress like stars, and upon his face were round black glasses.

"Logan Sanders, Prince of Stars," the voice said, Logan gave a bow, crossing his legs as he did so, and took his place next to Roman's throne.

"After tomorrow, the Prince of Roses will be escorted to the kingdom of the Crown Prince of Serpents and Prince of Stars, the Prince of Orchards and Prince of Gems and Jewels will remain within the castle alongside the Crown Prince of Thorns," Roman felt faint, he'd only been there for a day and he was expected to leave soon after? And what of Remus? Were they never to see each other again?

But he kept a blank expression on his face as he and Remus repeating their instructions, the four other princes giving various reactions, the most common of which seemed to be worry.

Soon enough their suitors were taken from the room, and Roman and Remus were alone, until finally, they were allowed to their rooms.

And Roman screamed. Never before had he felt like this, confused, upset, trapped, in all the years he'd spent in that palace-shaped prison, he'd never felt as stuck as he was now. The only solace he could find was the walls of his room, where no creature except himself could hear. So he screamed, he screamed and cried and thrashed until he felt numb and limp and sick.

One day before he was to be married off to two men he'd never so much as looked at before.

One day before he would be separated from his brother, potentially forever.

One day before he became something worse than a puppet.

One day before he became a pawn in a game he was fully aware was being played.

Prince Roman did not dream that night, not even a nightmare. He simply slept, with fear and dread sinking into his stomach.

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

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just-my-fandom · 4 years

Text

Worthy of Mine (Thor Odinson x Fiance! Reader)

Request: Reader is Thor's fiance, and after the party (in AOU), the avengers attempt to lift Thor's hammer, failing, until the reader lifts his hammer and she is placed worthy even tho Thor knew she was already. Then, Ultron and his bots attack, and Thor and the reader stand side by side, fighting together with his hammer. I figured you’d like to write something other than IW and EG

A/N; Something different for a change feels great

“Nope, can’t do it,” Bruce finally let go of Thor’s hammer rested on the glass table in the middle of the room, accepting his defeat in being unable to lift it,

You watched in humor when Bruce pouts in disappointment, sipping your wine in your glass cup as Thor places his hand on your thigh, grinning at his scientist friend,

"What about you, Y/N?" Steve asks you, your attention turning to him to show surprise, "Oh, no, I can't lift that,"

"Have you tried?" Natasha smirks, and you narrow your eyes, Thor chuckling softly as his thumb carefully stroked the inside of your jeans, "Why not try? It can't be that bad," He murmurs in your ear, and you heave a sigh, the group hooting as you stood and walked to the hammer,

You tug on it, lightly, the hammer not budging a centimeter from its spot. You press your lips together, humming, and you nod once, "See? Can't lift it," You loosen your grasp and slide your hand up the handle, but then the hammer raises with ease into your hand, a surprised gasp making you turn the hammer, examining it, “Huh. Guess I can,”

"You do know what that means, right?" Tony questions, as Thor stood and walked towards you

Thor chuckles when you look up at him and grin, hand cupping your chin, "It means you are worthy, and will become my queen,"

You snort, eyes twinkling, "I already am becoming your queen, you dork,"

“Finally!” Clint groans, head falling back on his shoulders, “Now Thor can shut up about the hammer “only obeying to him”,”

The group laughs, just as an ear piercing screech fills the air and you raise your hands to your ears and wince, Thor visibly flinching before you,

A figure, what seemed to be scrap metal and wires put together, walks towards the group, limping and dragging a leg,

"How could you be worthy? When you’re all killers," He mutters, what seem to be to himself, "Especially the girl, God, the girl is a pain," Your eyes look up at Thor, he and Steve both stepping to cover you

"Stark," Steve demands, Tony looking down at his phone then up mindlessly around the room,

"JARVIS," Tony falls, receiving silence from the AI,

"Oh, sorry, I was asleep, I was in a dream, tangled in all kinds of wires and what nots, strings...had to kill the other guy, he was a good guy," The bot turns to face the group, and you look between Steve and Thor blocking your view from the robot,

"You killed somebody?" Steve speaks up in question, looking down when you put a hand on his arm and look between him and Thor,

"Wouldn't have been my first call," It hums, waving a metallic hand in front of him, "I was sent from the other world where killing doesn't matter,"

Thor grasps your hand next him, eyes on the robot steadily, "Who sent you?"

"I see a suit of armor around the world some day," A voice is video taped on Ultrons voice box, Tonys voice, You glance at the billionaire, where he and Bruce meet eyes, “Ultron,”

"In the flesh," Ultron states, "Or, not yet at least,"

Thor's grip in his hammer tightens, as he carefully pushed you farther from him so you looked at Natasha in concern, but her chin only nods down to your gun in your jean pocket,

"I'm on a mission," There is a grin visible in Ultrons voice, and you slide your gun from your pocket, clicking off the safe of the trigger,

"What mission?" You speak up suddenly, Ultrons glowing eyes turning to you, "Peace on Earth,"

Robots crash through the wall, two hard, metal hands grasping your shoulders, lifting your feet off the ground for no more than five mere seconds, shoving you through the glass window and into the next room

A pained cry escaped your lips when glass pokes into your back, shoving a hand into the robots face as it claws at your neck, beeping angrily,

A hammer throws the robot off to the side, Thor sticking out a hand and pulling you up to your feet as you mindlessly search for your dropped gun, "Stay by me," He orders, and you both rush back to the room, where you snatch your gun, shooting at robots that flew at you, near you, or above you

Thor nods towards you and tosses his hammer, where you catch it, after juggling it in your hands to get used to the feeling, with ease slamming it to a robot, knocking it out the window, through the air until it knowingly landed on the new york streets

Looking up at the three bots flying straight at you, you lift your arm and drop to one knee, slamming it to the ground. An invisible forcefield swarms the area, knocking said robots from the air and into heaps on the floor,

"Thor!" You call, just as you boomerang throw his hammer back his way, ducking just in time to dodge a robot hurling towards you

You slide under a table and hold your gun to your chest, heavily sighing when it goes silent, where you slowly peak out, Natasha taking your arm to help you stand,

"That was...dramatic," Ultron laughs once, "I'm sorry, I know you mean well. I just didn't think this through. You want to protect the world, but you don't want it to change, how is he manly saved if it's not allowed to...evolve? With these, these puppets, there's only one path to peace,” An almost dramatic pause, “The avengers extinction,"

You step back as Thor throws his hammer angrily at the threat of a robot, shattering Ultron into pieces, where the hammer flies back and Thor easily catches it, breaths heavy,

You place your hands on his arm, one hand taking his free hand, as he physically softened at your touch, looking down at you as you linked your fingers through his, "It's over," You breathe, softly, your heart still thudding in your chest from the recent events

The Avengers take a moment to regain their surroundings as Thor brings a hand to your face, thumb running over a gash that went across your forehead from the crash,

"Let's get you cleaned up," He eyes his teammates, your head nodding when Bruce moves to follow you,

. . .

"This place will keep us out of Ultrons reach," Clint tells the group a quick explanation of the area as you walk into a barn home, your eyes scanning around you as Thor kept a hand around your lower back, occasionally pressing his lips softly to the bandage that wrapped around your head

"Honey? I'm home,"

A woman walks in, belly large, her eyes landing on Clint, then flickering to you and the other superhero’s in uniform, “And guests,"

You raise your eyebrows, a smile on your lips as Clint introduced you to his wife. Clattering of feet is heard on nearby stairs, and two kids rush to Clint wth happy greets,

The little girl walks to you and Thor in careful steps, your lips pulling into a smile as you squat down to a knee, "Hi," You breathe, softly, "My name is Y/N, I'm (Superhero/Name)," She grins back, then frowns when Thor walks past you in quick strides, and you pat the girls shoulder, standing up and rushing after your fiance,

"Thor, wait," Thor spins to face you, and you stop at the sight of his scared eyes, his quick breaths and how his grip on his hammer tightened and loosened

"Hey, Thor," You walk up, sliding both hands into his, forcing him to drop his hammer in the grass next to his foot, "I need you to breathe. It's alright," You order, watching Thor close his eyes and inhale through his nose,

Thor exhales slowly past his mouth, opening his eyes to meet your own, "I'm having visions from that nightmare. I need answers," His voice is weak,

"And you will get them, but you are forcing and straining yourself," Your eyes flick between his, raising your eyebrows, “It’s going to take time,”

"How am I worthy to have you, my soon to be queen?" He asks lowly, and you smile, looking up at him as his hand cupped the back of your neck, bringing your lips up to his,

“I ask myself that same question about you,”

He smiles, dragging you back to slowly kiss your lips, hard, leaving him breathless when he pulls back, "I will be back, I promise," He lifts his hammer, stepping back to twirl said hammer and jolt into the air and past the clouds

You sigh heavily and cross your arms, turning to walk back to the house and stopping at sight of Clint’s wife at the porch,

“I’m sorry for inturrupting,” Laura says weakly, shoulders easing when you smile at her and walk closer, “Clint says you’re good with kids, and my youngest really wants to get to know you,”

“Say no more,” You raise a hand and step onto the porch, Laura smiling and holding open the door to her home,

#thor odinson #thor odinson x reader #thor odinson imagine #thor x reader #thor #thor imagine #thor odison x reader #thor odison imagine #thor odison #avengers #avengers x reader #avengers imagine

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gaiyofanfiction · 4 years

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Twisted Karnival - Chapter 7

Stray Kids x Reader

Horror/Thriller/Drama

Twisted Circus!AU

A/N: Hey guys. Sorry it’s been so long since we posted. It’s been crazy in our lives. But here’s the next chapter, I hope you like it. ~Liz

Warnings: Yandere-ish themes. Mentions of seduction, blood, cuts, soul stealing and kidnapping. Possibly more in the future. We also write for 0t9, so Woojin is going to be in this series.

Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and in no way represents the idols of Stray kids or JYP.

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[Before Reading, check out the Masterlist and profile boards for each member HERE.]

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The blue hue from the circle begins to slowly fade as blood continues to trickle from your wounds. The air fell quiet as Chan stepped forward, standing only an inch away from your frozen body. The men all looked upon you, remaining in their respective places.

“My little puppet, are you okay?”

Chan’s voice rings through your ears like a beautiful melody as you slowly raise your head up to face your new Master. A twisted grin spreads across your face and psychotic laughter falls past your lips.

“Yes, Master Chan. I am perfectly fine.” Your head slowly began to tilt as Chan’s smirk grew wide. The men standing around you began to laugh as they watched your body fall under its new command.

“Well look at that, she’s finally seeing things our way.” Woojin smirked, slowly stepping forward from his position.

Hyunjin and Jisung stared darkly over your newly formed body as evil grins grew across their lips. “She’s even hotter when she’s under our control… damn, I could get used to being called Master.” Jisung snickered. Hyunjin nods slowly. A loud, psychotic chuckle escaping his lips.

Chan turned towards the two of them with a low, guttered growl. “The main one she will be calling Master is me, got it? You may all have an attachment to her, but do not forget that it only adheres to your abilities. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

You sat perfectly positioned on the ground before your new owners, wrists and ankles still bound back. Jeongin skips to you, a grin on his face and his eyes twinkling. He holds his hand against your cheek, tracing his fingers over your features.

"She is beautiful! Felix really picked the best soul to take."

Felix laughs proudly. "Of course I did. I told you she was perfect." He purrs, his eyes drifting over you.

"I call using my little doll first!" Hyunjin steps forward, his eyes roaming your body and a cackle escaping his lips. He lifts up his hands and pulls his attached puppet string, jerking you away from Jeongin and towards him.

Minho growls. "I think I'd like to use my pet first, Hyunjin." Minho pulls on his string and guides you to him away from the psychotic high-wire act.

"I don't think so. This little beauty and I already shared a kiss." Jisung hisses and pulls you to him. "I think I'm entitled to first dibs." He licks his lips, his eyes flashing pink.

"If anyone deserves to use our little plaything first, it's me. The one who chose her." Felix tugs on his string, jerking you to him.

"ENOUGH!" Chan declares in a deep, demonic voice. It rumbles the entire tent, showing the power the boy holds. "As king of the demons and the head of this tribe, I'll be the one to decide who uses our new girl first." Chan lifts both his hands in the air, his string glowing. He moves his fingers so your body moves towards him. Once you reach him, he turns you around and pulls your back into his chest. His arms snake around your body and he leans down, his lips brushing over your ear. "Now, let us find our pretty pet a twisted little outfit, shall we?"

Chan slowly looks about the others, eyes all leering towards the new you. Chan smirks darkly and takes another moment to brush his lips against the cup of your ear. The heavy feeling of jealousy from the 8 surrounding boys makes him chuckle. He slowly leans up, brushing the soft locks to the side of your neck, eyes locking on Felix.

“Felix. I’ve decided that since you are the reason we now have this…" Chan growls seductively against your neck. "...beautiful new addition to our twisted family, you will be the one to prepare her for our next event. I grow tired of seeing these tattered up clothes. She needs something more appropriate, as I said.” He brushes your locks once more, your head voluntarily rolling to the side. “Maybe something…” Before Chan could finish, Felix’s lips began to curl.

“Oh, trust me. I have the perfect outfit for her.” Felix bit his lip slightly as he laughs. Jisung’s eyes growing wide and a softened growl escapes. Chan gently wraps his fingers around your neck, rolling your head in a circular motion testing his new control over you.

“Alright then. If you think you have something that will impress me, I will leave you to it. I demand to see it when you’re done. She will not be seen by any other unless I approve so. Is that understood?” The men stood silently as their leader spoke, quickly nodding their heads in agreement while they continued to watch Chan take full control over you. Jisung’s lips trembled as his thirst for you continued to grow, wishing his hands were the ones touching your neck. Chan smirked softly, slowly releasing his hold on you. You took a shaky breath, quickly falling back to your knees before your new masters. You feel your head involuntarily rise, Felix suddenly standing before you.

“Oh, this is going to be fun. Are you ready my angel?" You gaze into Felix's eyes, a blue highlighted hue falling from the depths of them. Your body slowly rose with his hand as he quickly scooped you up from the ground. Chan’s brow raised watching closely as your body fell into Felix’s chest. Jisung released a low growl, fists slowly tightening as he watched further. Hyunjin's head twitched slightly in anger as he watched Felix turned his back to the crowd and walked out with his doll.

“What the fu- how come Felix gets to have her first? Sure, he found her, but I ki-” Chan quickly stepped in front of Jisung, eyes glowing bright. Woojin rolls his eyes as Jisung tries to stand unphased in front of his boss.

"It would probably be in your best interest NOT to remind me that you've already kissed our new pet. Hearing about it just pisses me off." Jisung’s teeth clenched as his expression fell at Chan's words.

"Sorry to say it boss, but whether you like it or not, it happened. I kissed her before anyone else. Guess the ladies just can't resist me." Jisung smirked, a chuckle leaving his lips.

Chan released a deepened sigh. "I mean it Jisung. And that goes for the rest of you as well. You may all have an attachment to her body, but I am still her main owner, and the head of this Karnival. No one does anything to her without MY permission." Chan slowly turned his head towards the rest of the group as they fell to expressions of defeat. Jisung waved his arm in the air just before folding his hands into his pockets and walking away. Minho, Hyunjin, and Changbin went back to their respective areas, grumbling lowly. Jeongin and Seungmin skipped off back together to rummage through the after effect in the arena.

Once the 7 boys were out of earshot, Chan released another depended sigh. Woojin slowly moved next to him. "You know, I only say this in the most respective way possible, but you won't always have your eyes on that girl. Something is bound to happen behind your back."

Chan runs a hand through his blonde hair. "It's not as if I don't already know that my friend. I know at least three of them, if not all, are going to go behind my back and do something with our pet. With some of their history, I'm afraid of what they could possibly come up with."

As Chan tried to establish some ground with his team, Felix was off in his tent doing whatever he could to make you look like you were a true part of the family. He grabbed a few different clothing items from a giant metal chest, quickly dropping everything to the bed.

"Alright then, time to get these rags off of you and into something more...appealing." Felix's eyes began to glow softly as he spun you around with his string, gently removing the torn clothing from your body. You stood there, body unable to move as a weighted feeling sat over you. Felix smirked heavily, tossing the old clothes aside and grabbing a random piece from the bed. He tossed a black dress over your head, pulling it down the curves of your body. He spun you slowly, eyes roaming up and down.

"Yeah… Cute, but not quite what we're looking for." Felix quickly ripped the dress from your body once more. He paused for a split second, hand slowly gliding over the soft skin of your arms. "You really are something, you know that? No one is given the kind of opportunity you've been given." He speaks softly, almost lovingly. Admiring you, he reaches up to brush the fine hairs off your neck.

Felix examined your body once more, analyzing every curve. He tilted his head slightly looking over at the small pile of clothes. His eyes narrowed slightly just as an idea finally struck him. He quickly grabbed a few red, black and white pieces from the bed and, just like a doll, began to dress you gently.

Felix steps back slowly once the outfit was fully arranged, an evil smirk falling over his lips.

"This definitively says twisted. It fits you perfectly." His eyes turned soft and runs a gentle finger down your cheek. "What do you think, my angel?"

He tenderly turns your body to face the full length mirror. You gasp softly and tilt your head, gazing at your new form. A smile graces your face and you let out a soft giggle. "Oh, Sir Felix. I absolutely adore it."

Felix chuckles lowly and rests his chin on your shoulder. He guides his hand down your bare arm, feeling the now scarred tissue under his fingers. "Excellent. Oh, how I can't wait to show Chan."

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hollywoodcannon · 3 years

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Anonymous asked: You think running off to ECW is going to save you or that little blonde bitch? Think again Brian. She was dead meat the second she attacked me on live television, and The Horsemen have a lot of friends in ECW. Best keep your eye on that girl, or someone might snatch her from you and give her the punishment she deserves. - A.A.

It was the best career termination that ever could’ve happened to him. Away from where the big boys played, Brian was finally free to be himself again. No longer under the watchful and critical gaze of someone else - a puppet who was having his strings pulled every which way. A brotherhood though they claimed to be, the Four Horsemen never cared about their little runt until he was gone. His bags packed and himself assigned to someplace new with that bundle of blonde trouble linked to his arm. Raile wasn’t a companion that Brian had been searching for. Scoured the crowds during shows in hope to spot, more so was she a blessing with violent tendencies. An enemy to the order of how the world worked - she opened Brian’s eyes to the wrongs that surrounded him, sorted through the insecurities and perhaps fueled whatever goodness remained. She made the former Cincinnati Bengal feel human again.

Frightened by the barbed wire bats and the many pools of blood that popularized the promotion, the most likely reason as to why Brian heard his voice through phone instead of face-to-face, Anderson hadn’t changed in his style of confrontation. Relaxed as always was and far from oafish, every word that passed between them was cause for fingers to clench tighter around hotel room property. Disregard any debate about chucking the damn machine against the nearest wall. Shatter the buttons and knobs to pieces, as he sat on the bed and listened to the background ambiance of Raile and her shower, Brian thought it better to use the one thing that Anderson hated him for: his voice. Raspy and smothered in the aftermath of drink, redness to his skin was the love given onto him for being so outspoken. Passionate about what happened to the Horsemen. Ready to take down the gods of their industry for them, all Brian had received was such from Arn. A slap to his cheek.

He glowered, pause befalling him but only for a minute, “oh, sorry, Arn, when you mentioned a blonde bitch, I thought you were just talking about yourself. Guess I should’ve realized you weren’t - you ain’t blonde no more and you sure as fuck ain’t little. Can you even see your toes anymore over the beer gut?”

“Now, I shouldn’t have to remind you of this, but since it seems like the dementia has kicked in, I will. Orton knocked you on your ass once, she’ll gladly do it again. I’m not worried about that one bit. But if I ever see you or anyone of your so called friends go near her, you’ll be sorry that it was me who found you first. Fucking touch her, Anderson, and you’ll find yourself shipped back to that piss hole in Atlanta in a body bag.”

Without the courtesy of allowing for another promise to be made, Brian slammed the phone back onto the side table from where he had originally found it. Their argument ended but the threats no less true, fast paced was his heart as he thought back to Anderson. Livid at the very idea that anything would come to Raile, rage that blinded his browns with desires to create fear and panic for everyone around - creaks of the shower turned off signaled her task done. Hair tangled and dripping from the waters for sure, Brian hadn’t noticed till then how far his devotion to her had gone. What roads he would’ve traveled just to keep her safe - it was love. Bottom lip bitten hard as to hide how scared he was, he would find the courage to kiss Raile someday.

#( Anonymous )#Pipe Bombs Flyin' // Answered #With Attitude // ECW ERA #( Anderson has chosen death )#Blondes Have More Fun // Brian x Raile

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scribblesofanaricat · 3 years

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Kaleidoscope Icarus

(big thank you to Toni for helping me with parts of this)

Alone in bed. Covers twitch. Clock hands rattle around their beaten path and I count it backwards. A meander towards oblivion.

I see my reflection blink. It must like watching me thrash in blue sleep.

Narrow staircase, no socks, tea bag fossils pinned to the wall, I count them up, all six, any colour I like as long as that colour is yellowish grey.

I inhale indifferent coffee broth with a side order of whichever death cult the screen hunched in the corner is serving up today. Bidding its junkies a good afternoon and then meting out a lethal dose of contradictions. It beats down on me as a sun would: simple, forcible, inevitable, ordained.

I’m not Icarus.

Even so, quick fears still tread on my heels after I kill the show and instead pay a call to the frosted-glass moon low in that blank page of a sky. Shoes dangling over a railway bridge, one a lovely Twitter-blue, lemon laces trailing like a severed leash, the other was once violet. Jaundiced glances from pedestrians and passengers cursing the back of my neck.

They plant themselves beside me because where else would they go? We don’t say much, never do, “our glass roots were love when lilac liquids flowed invisible” and “my powdered soul occurs from sun sight with figure flames and smoke” and “if we lose time by staring freely and counting sound, you’re told about it accidentally”, that sort of thing. And we do submerge our long short hours in staring freely and we do count sound since we’re not the type to move mountains, although young by our own reckoning. We know it - or we think we know.

Amongst foggy vows to meet again tomorrow, they clear off and I’m left with the grains of my own soul, the static in my skull, wearing it like a flannel shirt. House prices. Affairs. Break-ins, breakouts. Blares of ‘protect our free speech, protect our children!’ born from whatever illusory agenda they’re being warned against by the king agenda-pushers this time...another monologue from another plastic jack-in-office here to fuck us around...

Sometimes I could carve it all into my skin with a dirty needle and not flinch.

We end up huddled like penguins in the fug heaving around my room. We’d have thought the dawn of the end times would look different, something that’d be splattered over our calendars and marked in history. Instead we’re met with a whitewashed wall from the screens and newshounds even as we watch it happen in 3D. Nothing to do now but wait.

‘I don’t give a damn.’ They’re flung down on their stomach, right arm stowed under an Everest of pillows and left arm glancing off the carpet. ‘I don’t care, I couldn’t...we’re gonna flatline someday soon and we’ll nosedive into Hell and I’d still take that over this shit…I’ve got to see that ocean again, though...just one last time…’

‘Mhm.’ I’m stiff. Stiff yet floaty. The screen crouches there, rattling off a story from America about some toupeed sore loser being forcibly dragged out of the White House with the boot of millions tattooed on his arse. Let them have their pipe dream, let them have their ocean, their fickle friend with its brackish spray, rolling pulse, delusive serenity, useless but to go to your watery grave in… if I scorn it hard enough, I can almost smell it.

I outstretch my rusty arms, gathering the ceiling in a remote embrace, and begin to narrate. ‘After the downfall from the empty pages of a multitude, myths started to creep back through the gaps in the world we saw. They’d been driven feet-first out of society by the threat of extinction long ago and so they’d had to hide themselves away over the rooms of sighs they found.’ The haze seethes and swirls, fashioning hieroglyphs from my breath.

They shift beside me, breathe it in. Counting sound. I survey it all as they draw it down into their lungs and bloodstream - giants and Lilliputians, fae and demons, sister ships sleeping in spoken hiding places, uman babies feeding off a wolf who bares her teeth at us. And Icarus. Taking to the air, lured by the glare that swallowed all else and eagerly drinking it down, until he fell so far and so fast that nobody could save him.

Not like us. We won’t be led astray. We are not the imperfect sight, crimped, bought with ballads.

‘But their memories were long and their bloodlust ran deep as trembling nails. And whatever scraps of human society were left had their turn to hide, or to pose as something different - pretend to be one thing when they were really another, in case they were in line for the wrath of their former fantasies.’

I recline on my mountaintop carpet in the soupy silence after my short tale gives out, waiting. Waiting perhaps for a flashbulb of understanding or for guesses at regions of dry ideas. The clock shudders into its next aspect. Bonded pattern, distorted mosaic.

‘C’n we go to th’ocean?’ is what they exhale at length. I lie there. Head sagging into my chest. Dead rain of a crowd. And then I patter on about spume and pulse and deceit, and about rock shadows standing full at Phoenician attestations, and by God, it’s like reading a bedtime story (or maybe an aloof comedy) to a toddler and almost as easy.

So we sprout in the bleary armchair of the ocean. Coast and universe falling away like a house of cards beneath our shoeless steps. They ask pinch-eyed if I brought a laptop along with me (of course I didn’t; the world watches us out of the corner of its panoramic eye enough as it is) and seem satisfied with my answer. I droop backwards so the rocks can catch me, mendacious as the water - that slumbering giant - but in the opposite direction, downside up. I have to wonder if the sky could be the same way, or if it’s merely everything and nothing. The aridity of all.

A boat worms along the horizon, eats it up inch by inch. That old static begins to pulsate against the core of my head, guessing at who or what could be in there. The newest pet of the media, pockets padded with the benefits from yesterday’s public-spirited stunt, familiarising themself with the bits of fruit floating in the middle of an etched glass and awaiting the casting call for yet another lone hero who’s the only force insulating their precious homeland from the evils of truth and the nefarious threat of equality.

Maybe a consortium of sallow flesh and bloated eyes, red as tongues of flame yet seeing only in black and white, skin honeycombed with pinprick holes. They give and take manufactured fairy tales that accelerate their enslavement, fire their last magic bullet together in a binding act of mercy.

Or a smoke-bearded fisherman and his helpmate with salt water in their veins, in their stirring times; they haul up their meshwork and inspect its captives. Look at these beauties, they marvel every time, a record dashing against its broken needle like a baby bird against a window. Or something - I don’t fucking know what fishermen talk about. Are there fishermen anymore? I guess there must be.

As I study the vessel, purling with the wind, it metamorphoses fitfully into a whale. Its heaving back is encrusted with arthropods. Plunging its way into nowhere. Watch through unchartered eyes as its tail heaves up into the air, blotting out the sun, before it too plunges beneath the depths, beneath the waves, into the dark, dark blue-grey murmurs and untapped power of the abyss. I wonder what sort of watery graves still dwell there, trapped, locked in and locked out. The corpse of a ship. The corpse of a whale.

The sun dissolves into the horizon, spilling its aureate blood over the sea-shaped cemetery. I drink it in; it comes out in puffs of icy white. The smouldering glare lances across my eyes, burning, gnawing. I close them. I breathe cold.

My wax wings splinter. But will not melt.

Their pixelated face reappears above my own, sun’s gore cleaving to their hair with a shimmer, and jab me with a bone. And we trudge back over clumps of sand, the world brightening and darkening, brightening and darkening. The light parts liquefy like butter in a pan, overflowing, flowing, flowing until there’s no more left to flow. Until it evaporates and its burnished blush is briskly replaced by glitter and dazzle and tiny flickers of rainbow bouncing off little jewels.

I breathe warmth. The radio goes on at me, goes on, goes on, a webspinner sniping its threads.

Time hangs suspended for the lion’s share of the night. Screens paralysed in an eternal moment. The masked puppets on one side, me on the other. They dance, bow, spin on wire strings. They get tangled. They do not move any longer. Asides from the occasional twitch and twist, as weak as that of a dying deer caught in the scheming beauty of the headlights. They do not get free. Eventually they too are still.

I move onwards.

We separate then, me and them. Their fingers dance in the air as the light of the sky slips through the cracks of the earth. ‘We’re completely and irreversibly fucked.’ It’s somewhere between question and statement. I watch them droop away, hands tucked in pockets of woven clouds and leather, until the night embraces them and their shadow melts much like the light had. Tipped-over oil, trickling away.

I watch. I wait. I breathe.

I move onwards.

The wet earth slumps when I step upon it, its cold breathing into the soles of my worn shoes. I look towards the sky, up and up and up, so far that I cannot see. The sun has sunk, withered away. Gone. Gone and perhaps never to return. You never know. Never know.

The moon is rising now, the stars winking like oh so much spilled glitter. I see the sun's reflection here, its beaming glow bouncing off the pale white surface of the small planet as though it were an alien mirror. This is how you know it's there, even when it’s faded away. Gone but never quite so.

But its blazing heat is no longer here to thwart me, even if its glimmer is still present. I spread my wax wings. I breathe, I live, I rise, I die. That wet earth hums its lullaby of little critters, chirping crickets and twittering bats and the frozen old breath of ghosts long dead. Disdainful wind freezes my nose and lips and ears. I soar…

I am not Icarus.

The dark sky cradles me like black ocean water. The shimmers of light are fish, sparkling beneath the waves, the moon their only beacon. My only beacon. I breathe warmth in the cold night air. Prickles of goosebumps along the skin of my arms and legs. I am the warmth, but the cold consumes me slowly.

I float lazily, there and not there, alive and dead, warm and cold. An angel on wax wings, a ghost long dead and gone, a corpse at the bottom of the ocean. Fuck. I breathe a disclaimer of disaster, a rage against the remorseless. I breathe warmth, then cold, then nothing. Just to double check.

The golden-white glimmers of school fish trail past, streaks of astigmatic light. The moon smiles down at me, a comforting glow. A lantern hung by gods of old on invisible chains. The mirror of the sun. The dancing partner of the earth. The lighthouse of the sea.

My beacon in the sky.

It does not melt my wings. I am not Icarus.

I soar. On and on, the sparkling sky, the gentle sea. The land leaves me far behind, the twinkle of city lights fading into nothing but open waters, open skies. Nothing but starlights. Nothing but moonlight.

There is nothing waiting for me. Fuck. They have melted into the shadows, slipped like dry sand between fingers, like dry sand in an hourglass, like water in a hole-littered bucket. It is only me and the star speckled sky. Me and the moon.

I'm not sure how long I stay, floating between schools of sparkling starfish. Slowly, the moon rises…falls…and the sun creeps up behind me like a monster in a cave, turning the sky from black to blue…green…then spilling yellow, melted butter, sunstreaked blood across the horizon, its burning light warming my frozen cheeks…soothing my goosebumps…the black sea once more becomes its sparkling blue-ish green. Fuck. The stars fade like fleeing fish and vanishing ghosts. I breathe cold into the warmth.

My wax wings drip in the light. The sunlight burns my eyes, searing my retina, boiling my cornea. I squeeze them shut. I wobble and sway, a dance in the sunrise. I dance, bow, spin on wire strings and liquid wings. I become tangled. I tumble down a narrow staircase, no socks, teabag fossils pinned to the wall.

Wind sighs in my ears. I see my reflection blink in the waves far below. It must like watching me thrash in yellow dreams. The world beats down on me as the sun is now; simple, forcible, inevitable, ordained. The world crumbles around me, earth cracking, water roaring, sky tearing and tearing like shreds of paper in the hands of scissor-happy children. I am a puppet on broken strings and I am falling with nothing but the frigid embrace of the ocean to catch me, where the whale-ship corpse sleeps. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. I breathe and it is cold. The sun blazes like a beacon. It is life. It is the death cult and that fear tingles down my spine.

A shoe of lovely Twitter-blue falls free, lemon laces flapping wildly. I outstretch my rusty arms, as though to catch it like a ball during playtime in the schoolyard, swamped in the too-big uniform of bright purple, a blazer that fell well past my knees. But I cannot catch myself.

I’m falling.

Falling, falling, falling like Icarus.

#my scribbles #mine #tw language #tw drug mention #tw self harm mention #tw existential crisis #tw death mention #long scribble #original writing #writeblr #wow that's a lot of tags

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nthnstrky007 · 3 years

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Unit Alias #1: “The Flow of Water Breaks the Dame!”

As the bullets whizzed passed my head, only one thought stood out from all the noise and panic around me: I know I should have eaten toast instead of that bagel this morning. It’s just, I get so tired of the same old whole wheat toast and almond butter; it’s not my fault the fabric of reality starts to fold in on itself everytime I choose something new for breakfast. After another twenty seconds of some mindless brutes trying to turn my apartment into a modern artist’s tribute to swiss cheese, a voice of remote reason finally speaks up:

“Leonardo Crews, please step away from the bean bag chair”.

I can’t help but roll my eyes. It’s her: Sharon Winstead. The woman who would surely be my handler if the US government had their way and I became a secret agent or lab rat or whatever the heck they’d want me to do with these powers. I stand up and make a couple steps to the right as I put my hands on my head. At least the government sent a nice pair of legs to yell at me.

One of the armed boneheads she brought with her speaks up, ‘Why would you hide behind a froggy bean bag chair?”

“Cause who the hell would ever shoot a froggy bean bag chair?” I challenge him and the two other armored doofuses.

They all mumble and meet eyes until one of them sheepishly says: “he’s right…”

Sharon, the not so love-able stick in the mud that she is, won’t let me have fun for too long. “Your work here is done unit Alias. Go downstairs and do the usual routine with the landlord; come back, as I planned, when you’re done”.

A couple ‘yes ma’ams’ and military mumbo jumbo is thrown around as they leave. I can’t help but feel sorry for guys who would willingly join an organization that has the loyalty of a teenage boy after a positive pregnancy test.

“Real smart fellas you have there.”

Sharon looks at me, I guess with a hint of disappointment. “You know as well as I that if they were going for the kill, you’d be dead”.

“Along with a couple billion realtites and, knowing how much the universe seems to adore me, time itself. And what’s up with ‘your plan’ anyway? The military never came in guns blazing before. Don’t you geniuses know how important I am?”

“Are you threatening us now Leonardo?”

I relax my arms at my side as I walk into the pantry. The universe is on my team, as always, when I see one of the only undamaged things is what I’m looking for. I walk out in a sufficiently better mood with my packet of poptarts. “I’m just asking questions that pertain to the continuation of existence itself”.

Sharon scoffs and continues on: “Do you understand the magnitude of such threats, Leonardo?”

I wave her off with my free hand after opening my second breakfast. “ What threats? And please, it’s Leo; I’m not an award winning actor, just a potential destroyer of the timestream” I see the red emerge in her face and can’t help but chuckle. It's a mystery to me how she was able to secure one of the most secretive and ‘important’ jobs in the world with such a short fuse. Despite the fact that she is totally unlikable, the babe has grown on me over the years so I give her restless mind a break: “Y’know I’m not gonna go awol, especially when you pay for all my streaming service. And, uh, time wouldn’t be destroyed, just altered in some terrible heinous way. Such as your occupation being changed to stripper.”

She gives me one more uneasy look before moving on. “You have a place I can sit?”

“You mean a place you geniuses haven’t shot up yet? Don’t make me say it.”

“The frog chair?” She groans.

“I do believe it's pronounced froggy bean bag chair.”

She gives her eyes another roll as she sits down in the thing. “Can you sit with me?”

Sharon likes to remind me that in some ways I’m still a normal human. An example of

this being a woman with a face and a body like hers asking me to sit down with a voice like hers using a tone like that, regardless of if she is a facist pig or not, I’m probably gonna sit with her.

“What’s the prob Bob?” I sit criss-cross applesauce a yard or so across from her.

To my disappointment, not exactly my surprise, she grows serious as soon as I sit down.

“We can’t keep doing this dance Leonardo.”

“Doing what dance?” I let out the question with a bit of playful innocence.

“That.” She takes a moment to think before she begins her spill. “The U.W.O is not going to remain patient. The fate of existence potentially depends on what you have for lunch and you refuse to follow the guidelines that we give you. You probably can’t count how many times you’ve been told this, but you’re an anomaly. The only thing we have to go off of is my father’s theories: the regular flow of time is completely dependent on you. Every decision you make can drastically change our world’s past and half the time we can’t even detect those changes. Not to mention, if certain parts of that theory are true, the effects you can be having on our future. Leo, history is a book that you can rip up on an unknowing whim and the future is more uncertain that it has any right to be”.

“And yet we keep dancing…”

“Excuse me?”

I look at her for a second thinking that she for sures knows where I’m going, but it becomes clear to me she doesn’t. “You’re coming here to warn me. The U.W.O knows that you’re the only person I can stand getting yelled at by so they send you here every time I decide to live my life so you can flutter your eyes and tell me not to. How many times have you been here this month? I admit the whole shoot-em-up bit is new, but other than that this is the same old routine we’ve done for the past year. The only difference is I’ve been doing it my whole goddamn life and you’ve been doing it for a fraction of yours”.

The woman actually cracks a smile as she comprehends what I’m saying. I don’t know if it’s mocking or understanding me, but, seeing as I have nothing else to do, I let her spill. “You call this living Leo? I don’t know what you do to mess up the timestream, but, judging by the hours of footage that features you exclusively watching ‘He-man’ reruns, I sure as hell know it’s not living. What, you played a new video game? Flushed the toilet too fast? You’re not living; the life you’re leading is not worth risking history for”. The sarcasm and aggression starts to leave her eyes as she looks at my face. I begin to open my mouth in defense when she shushes me with a new, almost maternal, attitude. “But I didn’t come here to play our twisted game of house. I’ve been in contact with my father”.

The news strikes a rare chord of hope in me. Sharon’s father was the closest thing I had to a dad when I grew up in the compound. He was also the one who convinced the board of directors to let me out when I turned eighteen. “Let out” is an odd way of saying letting me live in a heavily guarded cell that just happens to be in an apartment building. He ended up deciding he didn’t want to be a mindless puppet and left the U.W.O along with all his research. Last I heard, which was a very long time ago, he was up to a more scholarly pursuit. “How is he?”

She smiles as she thinks of her father. “He’s getting philosophical in his old age. After he left, he started living like a hermit in some remote island in the Atlantic. A place they’d have trouble finding if they ever were to look; he’s getting into some rebellious stuff there Leo. He wants you to leave and come see him. He wants to end this dance.”

“By ‘rebellious’, do you mean some dooms-day shit?” the words come out as the hope comes out of me. “We don’t know what the reaction will be if I get in a boat or plane. We barely know what’s gonna happen if I leave this building again. Make fun of me all you want, but, you basically said it yourself, 80s tv is the only life I can safely lead”.

“He told me to trust him. If he’s wrong, the situation will be no worse than it was before”. I could easily read the doubt in her face. “Or at least to him.”

“So what? The world ending is the same as the world not ending? Existence is all a lie and it doesn’t matter anyway? Don’t tell me he’s become some quasi-intellectual pothead who posts on psychedelic-themed online forums.”

She rolls her eyes in response to my joke. “He’s disillusioned with our current world authority. He lived his whole thinking a plantery world order would be a good thing, so much so he helped to achieve it. Apparently after all those years and work, he thinks their practices are going to end us all. The way he sees it, the world may just end tomorrow; it’s any day now to him. In a certain manner of words, he’s desperate.”

“And you?”

She gives me another genuine look. “I trust my father as a leader and I care about you. He believes it's the right thing to do and you can’t keep up like this. Some of the things I’ve had to do this past year is enough for me to give up on doing the right thing through the government. Your problem is a problem that we might be able to fix on our own and trying is a lot better than you just rotting here waiting to die. Any ‘director’ who doesn’t like that can screw off.”

I let my eyes widen. “No one’s in on this? Why’d you bring the unit with you? Surely the bigwigs wire you up before you take their dogs for a walk?”

“Watch your words; dogs we are no more, unit Alias, at least, is on this. No wires or strings attached. The general consensus is the current plan of keeping the world safe from you is eventually going to collapse without change; I can’t say they have the personal stake that my father has with the way he views us as siblings”.

“Can’t really blame them for being worried or not particularly liking me, but they’re not here because of what happened because of my bagel?”

“What?”

“You came here to break me out, not to punish me for eating a bagel instead of toast?”

Sharon pulls a phone out of her pocket and scrolls through. “Oh…”

“What?”

“The ephilfel tower was built in Germany”.

#comedy #superhero #hero #comic books #action #adventure #ya #young adult #smart

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goldkirk · 4 years

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Latchkey, a Tim Drake fanfic

Chapter 13: you don’t have to have it all together now (to have it all)

There’s a clatter from the hallway. Tim shoots upright from a deep sleep as his bedroom door is slammed open straight into the neighboring wall.

“That was YOU?!” Jason practically shrieks, backlit in the doorway like an angel of righteous fury. His Wonder Woman pajamas are more rumpled than usual.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Tim, who is desperately clinging to the edge of his sheets in an attempt to not slip off the bed. “What was me?”

“What is going on here?” Bruce asks, looming behind Jason in a hastily-thrown-on robe. The end of his sentence trails into a yawn so wide his jaw pops.

“BatWatch!” Jason’s voice is now at least an octave higher than Tim’s ever heard it before, and oh god. What did I do now, Tim wonders, frantically flying through files and files of memories and nights and posts, looking for anything that Jason could possibly be mad about.

“Yes,” Bruce says, with shocking patience for a man who has just been woken up at—Tim checks the clock— 3:17 in the morning. “We have established that Tim is behind BatWatch. And knows who we are. And we’ve discussed this several times already, at times much more appropriate than the early morning. Go back to sleep.”

“No!” Jason snaps, rounding on Bruce. His finger flies out to point in Tim’s direction. “The night with Scarecrow by the harbor. Didn’t Commissioner Gordon just mention that the kid we fished out of the harbor was BatWatch, not a hired teenager looking for quick money?” He turns back to Tim. “That was Tim, that night. In the harbor. Alone.”

Bruce has gone white as the moonlight reflecting on the window.

“Tim, is that correct?” Bruce asks, so, so carefully.

“Uh,” Tim says. His fists tighten around the duvet. “Yeah. I was distracting Scarecrow, for a sec? So you’d have time to get there?” He shrugs, sheepish. “I got lost.”

Bruce looks like he’s been shot.

Jason opens and shuts his mouth a few times as his shoulders start to visibly shake.

“You almost died,” he bites out.

“But you were there,” Tim points out. “You found me in time.”

“Timothy Jackson Drake,” Jason shouts in frustration, his voice deeply cracking for the first time in months.

Tim throws himself backwards off the other side of his bed, hits the floor in a tangle of sheets and frozen breathing. He frees himself as quickly as he can. He faintly notices he’s fallen into the fighting stance that Bruce has been slowly teaching him in an effort to keep him safer while running around Gotham.

“What?” Tim snaps back, and Bruce takes a step forward now, reaching for Jason’s shoulder. He’s promptly shrugged off.

“Do you not care that you almost died?” Jason asks, voice like a snapping fire.

“I care plenty!” Tim fires back. “I just don’t see the point of dredging up the past when it already happened and I came out fine!”

“Fine? You had hypothermia!”

“Which was easily fixed!”

“You could have gotten pneumonia! You could have drowned! I could have not heard the splash because I was distracted by the fight!” Jason shouts back. “What would you have done then, Tim?”

“Died, I guess! Is that what you want to hear, Jason? I get it, okay! It was stupid. I was an idiot. By all rights I should have died, yeah.” Tim snarls. He feels like a venomous snake, spitting poison. “At least I would cause a lot fewer problems that way, if I had!”

Tim’s voice is so loud.

He realizes suddenly that he’s shaking, hot; it feels like his whole body is a live wire. Every inch of his skin feels filled with boiling blood, and the hair on the back of his neck is damp with sweat. Somehow, that’s what bothers him the most.

Jason looks like Tim just struck him across the face.

“I’m sorry,” Tim gasps. He drops down like a puppet with a cut string, balanced over his ankles, arms wrapped around his rib cage. He’s folded nearly in half, arms smashing into his thighs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Jason, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

There are tears leaking from his eyes. It feels like they’re burning his cheeks everywhere they touch.

Everything is too much.

He can hear Jason sniffing on the other side of the room, and his own heartbeat, and the fan going over in the corner, so loud. Hears the air whistling in his throat as he sucks it in, wheezes it out, never enough. Like he’s drowning all over again, in lava instead of ice.

Tim blinks, blinks again, and suddenly Bruce is in front of him, broad and steady and frowning, and Tim—he’s sorry, he’s sorry, he’s so so sorry, he’ll do better next time, he’s sorry.

Bruce is making soft shushing noises, carefully unwinding the sheets from around Tim’s feet, setting the fabric up on the bed. Jason is gone.

Jason is gone.

“Jason,” Tim gasps, and he’s scrambling, clawing for the door in his mad dash, but Bruce catches him solidly around the waist as Tim attempts to throw his entire body weight across the room.

“Tim, listen to me, listen, shhhh,” Bruce soothes. He’s got one arm around Tim’s torso and upper arms, his legs wrapped around Tim’s, carefully holding them down, free hand rhythmically stroking through Tim’s hair, and hey, when did they sit down on the ground? “Tim. Jason is fine. He’s got Ace, Alfred is with him. Do you remember them leaving?”

Tim shakes his head violently. Why doesn’t he remember? How did they end up on the floor?

“Okay. That’s okay, Tim, it’s fine,” Bruce murmurs. “Can you tell me what you’re thinking right now?”

Tim shakes his head even as he’s already speaking. “Jason hates me,” he whispers.

“Jason most definitely does not hate you,” Bruce says firmly. Then, softer: “Why do you think that, Tim?”

“I was awful,” Tim gasps. “I said a horrible thing. I shouldn’t have said that. He’s going to hate me now. I hurt him.”

“You were not awful,” Bruce chides. “You’re not an awful person. You’re a very good person. Even good people say things they regret sometimes, things that hurt others. And Jason loves you very, very much, Tim. Something like this isn’t going to change that.”

“No,” says Tim, but Bruce doesn’t listen.

“You are good,” Bruce says into his ear, holding him tighter. “You’re really upset, right now, and you’re not thinking clearly. Jason, too. Both of you weren’t thinking straight a few minutes ago. But everything is going to be all right. You just had a little argument. You and Jason will apologize to each other, hug it out, and make things okay again. I promise Jason is not going to hate you for this.”

“What’s wrong with me,” Tim says, miserably. He can’t stop the monotone from taking over his voice.

“I think you were a little bit triggered, buddy,” Bruce says gently. “How are you feeling right now?”

“Hot.”

“Mm. Do you feel up to finding Jason and Ace? Jason should be all settled down by now. He’s used to dealing with this.”

Tim doesn’t know. He wants to hug Jason. He never wants to see him again. He wants to snuggle up on the couch and he wants to run to the opposite side of the house, far far away. He doesn’t want Jason to ever yell that at him again.

“My name,” Tim says, realization dawning. “Jason yelled my name.”

Bruce’s hand pauses in Tim’s hair for a moment. “That’s what made it get bad?”

“I guess.”

“You were stressed before that, too, though. Ever since Jason startled you by barging in. I saw, but I didn’t stop things, and I should have.” Bruce sighs. “I’m sorry Tim, that one’s on me. I know both of you, and next time I won’t hesitate to step in and keep things from escalating, all right?”

Tim nods. It’s not Bruce’s fault, but words are really hard right now, and Tim can’t find the energy to say that out loud.

“How about we go find Jason now, huh?” Bruce says, slowly unwrapping himself from Tim and helping him to his feet. Tim’s still shaky, and waiting for the hammer to fall. But it’s not quite as bad as it was.

“Okay,” says Tim, and they head out, hand in hand.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you, and pushing it,” Jason says, inches away from Tim’s head. They’re both being squashed, under a very happy, very snuggly Ace. Bruce is watching over them from the couch after having tucked a blanket over them and taken the tray of late-night tea from Alfred to hold till the boys were ready.

“It’s fine,” Tim says.

“It’s not, really.” Jason’s smile is bitter around the edges. “I’m supposed to have better control than that.”

“Everyone has bad days,” Bruce pipes up from the couch. “You’re not a robot, Jason. Cut yourself a little slack.”

“Okay, Dad,” Jason drawls.

Tim can just see the slight upturn of Bruce’s lips as he flips a book page.

“Anyway,” Jason goes on. “I won’t do that again. I’m just...really bad when people are reckless with their lives. I’ll tell you about it sometime, but...not right now.” He looks at Ace’s big eyes, scratches a soft furry ear. “Too close.”

“I’m really sorry too,” Tim says. “I shouldn’t have yelled or said any of that. I don’t know why I said it at all.”

“You were running on autopilot,” Jason sighs. “It happens. I get it. But Tim, dude, some part of you meant it. Just so you know.”

“No,” Tim insists.

“Yes,” says Jason. “And I’ll bet you a million bucks that Bruce has already filed that information away in his ginormous brain so that he can make sure Dinah talks with you about it sometime.”

“Do you even have a million bucks?” Tim laughs. More quietly than usual, but still. A laugh is a laugh. “And who’s Dinah?”

“Black Canary,” Jason says. He points to himself with a grin. “And I have it on good authority that I’m now a trust fund baby, so who knows? I bet I’m filthy rich. Rumor has it that my dad is loaded.”

Bruce snorts from the couch at the same time that Tim laughs into Ace’s fur.

It’s a bad night. But he’s not alone. Tomorrow doesn’t have to be a bad day, too.

Tim and Jason fall asleep side by side on the floor under Bruce’s watchful eye, and don’t wake up again till Dick comes home for the weekend and throws donuts right onto their noses, like some twisted game of horseshoes. Tim and Jason stuff their faces with sprinkle donuts while chasing Dick down into the cave and around the gymnastics equipment clamoring for payback.

Tim is never going to get over how wild it is to have brothers.

Betting behind Batman’s back is apparently a Thing this year.

Tim is perched on a low-hanging gargoyle when he snaps a shot of Robin (disgruntled, resigned) passing Nightwing (quite smug. Irritatingly smug, in fact) some bills as they stand side by side watching Batman take down Killer Croc on what is only the second weirdest Easter morning of Tim’s life.

“Boys!” Batman growls. “A little help, perhaps?”

“Nah,” Nightwing calls back cheerfully. “Looks like you’re doing fine over there!”

“I’m gonna make you do the Fitnessgram for a week,” Bruce snarls, somehow finding new depths of upper body strength just in time to wrestle Croc to the pavement and gain the upper hand.

Tim and Jason shudder on opposite sides of the street.

“I’m a grown up, B, you can’t make me do anything!”

“I’ll take away all your cereal from the house,” Bruce threatens. Croc roars, and Batman tiredly yanks a muzzle up around his jaw. “No more.”

“No! I’ll do the Fitnessgram, I promise. I take it back, okay, I’m sorry.”

“Too late.” Batman shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “You snooze, you lose, chum. You had your chance, and you decided to sass me instead.”

Nightwing looks so devastated, Tim can’t help shaking with silent laughter as he snaps the blackmail photo.

“My Cap’n Crunch,” Nightwing whispers, sadly. Robin pats his shoulder a few times before strolling away towards the next dark alley.

“Hard luck, Wingdings,” he calls back over his shoulder. “Although...if you want access to my stash, we could always try to work out some kind of deal that would be...mutually beneficial.” And Robin knows he’s got his big brother, then, hook, line, and sinker.

Nightwing turns and follows, grumbling all the way.

Three nights later, Robin and Nightwing both stick around on the GCPD precinct roof for an extra minute once Batman has vanished.

“Pay up, squirts,” Gordon says, rubbing his fingers together.

They pay up. Gordon grins.

“Better luck next time,” he says. Whistles a few bars of an old song. “This is why you don’t bet against your elders.”

He pretends to miss the middle finger Robin throws up as the two vigilantes take their usual running leaps off into the dark Gotham night.

“I want in,” Tim says earnestly. He steps out from behind the air conditioner. “On your side.”

“You want to bet against your brothers?” Gordon raises an eyebrow.

“I want to make the safest financial investment in an uncertain market,” Tim says primly. “So. Yeah. Basically.”

Gordon considers him for a moment.

“Deal.”

They shake on it.

Two weeks later, Tim and Gordon are three hundred bucks richer apiece. Nightwing and Robin are scheming for revenge. Batman still doesn’t have a clue about any of it.

“What are you planning to do with the money, kid?” Gordon asks.

“I’ve got a few ideas.” Tim waves a hand vaguely.

“Care to share with the class?”

“No,” says Tim, and he drops over the roof edge without so much as a goodbye.

Gordon sighs, scrubbing at the furrow between his brows. “Kid’s getting more like a Bat every day,” he grumbles to the empty roof, then heads back inside.

And on the balcony below, safely out of sight, Tim grins.

Tim’s first session with Black Canary, once they get all the “He’s not a vigilante. Yet. But he is family,” business sorted, isn’t great.

The second one as a little better. They’re going to just play things by ear for now.

“Is it really normal to feel so wrecked after a session?” Tim asks Jason quietly while they share some sandwiches Alfred packed in Tim’s backpack for that night’s patrol. Jason kicks his legs as they dangle off the edge of the bank’s roof.

“Can be,” he says, around a mouthful of PB&J. “They were like that for me in the beginning, but then it got better. It’s hard to work through stuff.”

“You’re telling me,” Tim groans. Is it truly necessary to process trauma? he wonders. Is it not enough for me to just pack it up in boxes and never look at it again, until one day, I die?

“But listen,” Jason says. “You’re doing fine. There’s no wrong way to go to therapy. And I promise, it really does keep getting easier. You’ll have ups and downs, but BC and you’ll find a rhythm that works for you, specifically. If you’re overwhelmed, speak up and tell her. She’ll dial it down until you’re ready to go hard again.”

“Okay,” Tim says, and he means it.

He’s getting better at that—actually speaking up when he needs or just wants something. It’s still only maybe two times out of ten that he’ll do it, but hey. Progress is progress. The first time he asked Bruce if they could maybe get some McDonald’s ice cream on the way home from a gala the other week, he thought Bruce was going to cry.

The four of them all got banana splits from a fancy creamery, which was, like. Massive overkill. But Tim appreciates it anyway.

“Boys,” Bruce says, stepping into the lounge with coffee firmly in hand. “Can you settle down for three consecutive seconds?”

Jason casually pokes Tim’s side while the younger boy is in midair, causing him to crumple inward and land in an awkward heap with a loud oof.

“I dunno, B,” Jason says, innocently. “I’m being perfectly quiet over here just waiting my turn.” He jerks a thumb over in the direction of Dick, who’s currently perched on a light fixture that should in no way be supporting his weight right now. “Take it up with Golden Boy over there if you’ve got a problem. He’s the one who suggested the backflip contest.”

“Did not!” And Dick sticks out his tongue. “You’re the one who wanted to have a contest. I just wanted to show off my mad skills.”

“Yeah, which we’ve seen a billion times already.”

“It’s my fault,” Tim says, from where he’s picking himself up off the floor.

“No it’s not,” Dick and Jason chorus in unison.

“Okay, it’s not,” Tim amends. “But I did say I was bored. Which kind of started the whole mess.” He frowns. “Also, Jason owes me a Crunch bar. I totally would have beat him on that last pass. My angular momentum was better.”

Bruce drops into an armchair. “I am surrounded by children,” he moans.

“And whose fault is that, I wonder?” Alfred says pointedly as he steps over the threshold.

Dick grins and double-flips down off of his perch. “Perfectly dramatic entrance as always, Alfie.”

“I do try.”

“Children,” Bruce groans. As if anyone is still taking him seriously by now.

“Um,” Tim starts. “Did you need something, Bruce?”

“Actually, yes,” Bruce says. And now everyone settles down. Of course, Tim thinks. They’re all too well trained by Batman Obedience Lessons and unofficial Robin’s-Guide-to-the-Care-and-Keeping-(and-Reading-the-Cues)-of-Batman to not at least halfheartedly snap to attention when Bruce Has Something to Say.

“Tim,” Bruce says. Oh golly. “The judge wants to interview you.”

It feels like the air been kicked right out of Tim’s chest.

“I told her tomorrow would be fine,” Bruce says, carefully. “I figured you’d want to get it over with as soon as possible so there would be less time to worry. Is that all right? We can reschedule, if you want to wait.”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Tim says automatically. Bruce frowns softly.

“Tim,” he says, walking over. He takes Tim’s face in his hands, makes solid eye contact. “Is it actually all right? Check in with yourself.”

Oh. Right.

Tim thinks for a few moments. Thinks about how his brain is already churning, already dreading . He’d love to put this off for a while longer (or forever. Forever would be great), stick his head under the covers and never deal with it. Not be responsible for his part in this process of ruining his parents’ lives and reputation.

But he also wants to just rip off the bandaid and not have the interview hanging over his head. He’s got enough to deal with as it is. And…

“Can you come with me?” Tim asks, quietly.

“Of course,” Bruce says. “I can’t go in the room with you, but I’ll walk there and back with you every step of the way.”

And, wow, doesn’t that make Tim want to cry for a hot second? When has he ever had that before?

Tim chews on his lip. “I’d...like to do it tomorrow, I think. You’re right. I want to get it over with.”

“Okay,” says Bruce, with a small smile, warm and real and promising I’ve got your back, buddy, always. “Then we leave at ten tomorrow.”

“At ten,” Tim echoes.

It feels like he’s walking to his execution, stepping off a high dive, and opening a window to fresh spring air after a long winter all at once.

Tim and the judge talk a lot longer and more openly than Tim had been expecting. I think I got a good one, he marvels. She’s middle aged. Quick and witty. A little snappy, a lot humorous, and sharp on the uptake. He likes her a lot.

They talk about his interactions with his parents. His time at home. How he took care of himself, what he had help for. They talk about what his parents want for him, and how Tim has felt living with the Waynes for the better part of several months now. They talk about Ace, and Tim’s nature photography, and Bruce taking Tim out for Thai food when he aced his math test.

“How do you feel about your parents, Tim?” she asks him towards the end.

Tim shrugs, a little helplessly. “I love them,” he says.

“And?” she prompts.

“And what?”

“And,” she says, leaning across her desk a bit. “What else do you feel about them? I know there’s more than just that. Everyone feels more than just that for their family. You can love family to pieces and still have them drive you around the bend sometimes. Lord knows I do.”

“I…” Tim hesitates. His gaze skitters over to the window, the file drawers, a plant.

“Nothing you say here will ever leave this room or be mentioned to anyone else,” she reminds him gently. “You’re safe to say what you want.”

Tim takes a few deep breaths, counting the way Dinah taught him. He forces himself to stop twisting his hoodie strings around and around and around .

“I love them,” he says again. “And I’m afraid of them. I—I love them so much, you know? They’re my mom and dad. Mine. They go all over the world doing these amazing things, and helping tons of people, and I get to see the difference they make in the world. And they’re so smart, and talented. Mom’s really good at baking. And Dad taught me about birds a lot, when they were going on trips to jungles. And he taught me how to change a tire, and helped me with my homework, and took me to the Knights game once. And Mom patched me up and sang to me when I had a bad fall off my bike on the gravel. I love them.”

Tim flips the hood of his hoodie up, one hand squeezing the fabric tight underneath his chin. He pulls his knees up to his chest, glances back up at the judge. Her expression has not wavered. She’s still open, attentive, just calmly listening.

Tim swallows. “I feel like I’m betraying them,” he says quietly.

“I only need you to tell me your truth,” she says, matching his tone.

And.

Well. Isn’t that a funny way to put it? My truth, Tim thinks. He’s twisting the hoodie strings into knot after loop after knot. There’s always just been the truth, right? Something IS the way it is, regardless of what I feel. If my parents are right, I’m wrong. If something bothers me that they did or said, that’s my problem for taking it wrong or too hard. That’s how it is.

Except...if it isn’t.

When Jason is upset or hurt because of something, Tim muses, Bruce doesn’t tell him he’s taking it wrong, or being too sensitive. He just...listens. He accepts whatever Jason is feeling and helps him work it out. Like, that’s Jason’s true feeling about it, regardless of if Bruce or I or someone else thinks the same way about the situation. Even if it’s something I could have been fine with and not batted an eyelash, Bruce doesn’t say that Jason just shouldn’t be stressed about it. He’s like “yeah, okay, let’s see what we can do to make this better.” Jason’s allowed to experience what he experiences. Even if it involves him feeling hurt by something Bruce says or does. So...Tim guesses he is, too. No matter what his parents have taught him in the past.

“They hurt me,” Tim says, a little louder now. “I didn’t realize how much they were hurting me before. They keep leaving,” and he wishes his voice wouldn’t keep cracking at the stupidest times. “I feel really bad for dragging them into this mess when they didn’t even do anything really bad,” he says. “But...every time I think about going back home, I just get so tired. I know they’ll be really mad, and I’ll be miserable while they are, and then they’re just going to leave again anyway no matter what they say. Because I’m not worth staying for.”

“Honey,” the judge says then. “You listen real closely, because I’m only going to say this once, and I want you to remember it.”

“Okay.” Tim sits up, focuses.

“Love, real love, healthy love? Is not draining . It doesn’t leave you feeling tired. Love isn’t supposed to make you miserable, kiddo. I know your parents aren’t bad people. They clearly do a lot of good for the world, from everything I’ve heard. But that doesn’t mean they’re good for you . If you’ve been hurt, you’ve been hurt. You don’t need to make apologies or explain it away because it’s done by people you love and want to protect, okay? You remember that as you keep going through life.”

“Yes ma’am,” Tim says, quietly.

“Okay,” she says. “I think that’s everything I needed to hear, unless you’ve got anything you want to add.”

Tim shakes his head.

“Then scram, honey,” and she smiles at him. “You’ve got a nervous guardian waiting out there who I bet wants to give you a pretty big hug.”

And Bruce really, really does. They don’t leave the courthouse for a solid ten minutes. Tim is happy to just let Bruce take over for a while while he hides away in the depths of Bruce’s warm chest and thick sweater folds.

“I got you, buddy,” Bruce tells him, after a minute.

Tim smiles into the ribbed knitting. Alfred’s careful handiwork. “I know, B. I trust you.”

Bruce squeezes just a little bit tighter.

At the end of all the long, drawn-out fighting (and lawyer back-and-forths and court appearances and Strongly Worded Emails), the verdict comes down in early May while Tim is at school. Jason is sent by the office to come pull Tim out of a lecture on how the Prohibition led to the rise of organized crime in America, and when Tim sends him a questioning glance as Jason drags him by the arm down the hall, stone-faced and brooding, Jason just says, “Judge decided.”

Tim gulps. There’s only one thing that a judge was involved in that had anything to do with Tim right now. He’s suddenly not sure he wants to know.

They reach the office to find Bruce there, already waiting in front of the reception desk. Tim has, by now, worked himself into a mild panic.

“Bruce,” he says, stopping just inside the threshold. Jason is looking at him with a little bit of concern.

“Hey, Tim,” Bruce says. He sounds solemn. Oh, god. No.

“Bruce,” Tim says, desperately. “I—um. It’s okay. I know you tried really hard, I appreciate everything so much, it’s okay, really, I’ll be okay, it’s—it’s—it’s fine, they’ll be better this time around. And I know more, and I’m not alone anymore the way I used to be, so—” Tim realizes he’s started to leak a few tears. Bruce looks stricken.

“Oh, no,” Bruce says, striding across the small gap to kneel in front of Tim and take his shoulders in a firm grip. “Tim, baby, no, I’m so sorry. I should have realized you’d think the worst. It’s okay.”

“What,” Tim croaks.

Jason comes over and wraps Tim up from behind. “It’s okay, baby bird,” he says. “Scout’s honor.”

“You’ve never been a Boy Scout a day in your life,” Bruce says fondly.

“What,” Tim says again. Because it sounds like they were trying, in a really stupid, roundabout way, to say—

“The judge ruled in our favor,” Bruce says, finally, the corners of his eyes crinkling up in a big, real smile. “Long term placement under my care, buddy. You’re not going anywhere.”

“You’re stuck with us now!” Jason crows, as if Tim had ever wanted anything different.

Tim stares.

“You don’t ever have to live with your parents again, Tim. You get to stay."

And now Tim is bursting into tears, burrowing into Bruce's shoulder, and laughing through his hiccups at the same time. Bruce and Jason and Tim are all tangled up on the floor of the school office, laughing and crying together, and Tim can't believe how lucky he is. It's finally starting to be over. One piece at a time. And this is a particularly big one.

"Welcome home, Tim," Bruce whispers. "Welcome to the family. Although, this is really just a formality, you're already on the Christmas card." And they're all off and laughing all over again, as if they're never going to stop.

[ Read on ao3 ]

#tim drake #batfam #dc #shutterbug series

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toomanyf4ndoms7 · 3 years

Text

Tartarus interview subject 1.

Meanwhile, In a Mansion, another interview is about to commence.

In a dark room, a cloaked figure with a white mask is seated and ready for questions.

The figure looked at the interviewer before speaking.

“I believe you had questions for me?”

1. What is your name?

“Lara Jackson. Call me whatever you wish.”

2. Do you know why are you named that?

“My parents agreed on it.”

3. Are you single or taken?

“Not interested.”

4. Have any abilities or powers?

“Let’s just say that I’m good with strings and wires. I’m also agile and good with puppets.”

5. Stop being a Mary Sue.

“You are here to ask questions not give orders.”

6. What’s your eye color?

“Classified.”

7. How about your hair color?

“Classified.”

8. Have any family members?

“My parents.”

9. Oh? How about pets?

“Once there was a hamster.”

10. That’s cool, I guess. Now tell me something you don’t like?

“Intrusive questions.”

11. Do you have any activities/hobbies that you like to do?

“Puppetry, all kinds. Mask making.”

12. Have you ever hurt anyone in any way before?

“I’m sure I would have offended someone before.”

13. Ever… killed anyone before?

“Perhaps, Perhaps not.”

14. What kind of animal are you?

“Human.”

15. Name your worst habits?

“Worst is a matter of perspective. To some, chewing gum is the worst, to others, talking when they’re in the middle of a conversation is the worst.”

16. Do you look up to anyone at all?

“My parents inspired me.”

17. What sexuality are you?

“Not looking for a date right now.”

18. Do you go to school?

“I did but then I left, familial obligations. I was taught things I missed at home”

19. Ever want to marry and have kids one day?

“Seeing as I am next in line for the family business, I suppose it would be necessary to have a successor but I don’t have to deal with that for a long while.”

20. Do you have any fangirls/fanboys?

She looked directly into the camera.

“None that I know yet.”

21. What are you most afraid of?

With something resembling sarcasm, she answered,

“Pupaphobia and Linonophobia.”

She turned towards the being before her.

“What about yours?”

After uncomfortable silence, the interview continued.

22. What do you usually wear?

She gestures to the garments she is currently wearing.

“Take a good look.”

23. What’s one food that tempts you?

“The Souls of children.”

“...Wait, did you actually believe that? I’m obviously not a demon. While I cannot be tempted, hot chips are nice.”

24. Am I annoying to you?

“Depends on how much longer you’re here.”

25. Well, it’s still not over!

“Carry on.”

26. What class are you (low/middle/high)?

“High.”

27. How many friends do you have?

“Jacob and I agree on topics and we can work together on occasions. The staff around the mansion could be considered allies.”

28. What are your thoughts on pie?

“It exists, I don’t have any allergies. We coexist separately.”

29. Favorite drink?

“Tea or water.”

30. What’s your favorite place?

“This mansion.”

31. Are you interested in anyone?

“…No.”

32. That was a stupid question…

“Correct.”

33. Would you rather swim in a lake or the ocean?

“Whichever is available I suppose.”

34. What’s your type?

“Classified.”

35. Any fetishes?

“Doubtful.”

36. Camping or outdoors?

“I am busy so there is not much time for outdoor activities.”

behind the interviewer, the door opened as Lara stood up from her position.

“I believe that’s all the time we have for today.”

“your next subject would be likely in the gym. if he’s not there, check the dining hall or his room. one of the staff should point you in the right direction.”

the recording ending as the figure vanished behind the closed door.

#0lympus #lara jackson #things i create #oc interview

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kusunogatari · 4 years

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[ ObiRyū October | Day Twelve | Mechanical ] [ @abyssaldespair ] [ Uchiha Obito, Suigin Ryū, Pein, Sasori, Hoshigaki Kisame ] [ Verse: Oil and Blood ] [ Vulgarity, blood ]

[ Previous ] [ Next ]

Let’s see...which door was it again?

Walking along the alleyway, bag slung over his shoulder, Obito gives each entrance a glance. He can’t quite recall which number he’s supposed to be looking for...but at least he’s pretty sure he knows this is the right building. A few neon signs flicker in the grim dark space between the structures, rain slipping into the gap and forming puddles along the asphalt.

What a night for a fight.

Coming to a stop, Obito finds a door with a closed slat. 116. Is that right…? Deciding to try his luck, he knocks.

After a brief pause, the tiny window opens, a pair of eyes hidden behind a visor staring at him. “What d’you what?”

“Looking for Pein.”

There’s a noticeable silence. “...fine.” The slat closes, then the door opens, and Obito steps inside. “Be quick about it. You’re late.”

He ignores the touchy retort, taking the stairs downward as indicated by a pointing thumb over the guy’s shoulder. Already he can hear the distant murmurs of the crowds, swelling and falling in time with what they’re watching.

He can do this. Make it through a few rounds, and earn enough cash to get out of the city. Should be simple enough, so long as he doesn’t get his ass kicked too hard.

After scoping out a few of the city’s underground fighting rings, this one seemed the most promising to make a quick buck. He just needs enough for new papers, and a ticket out.

Can’t let himself get too greedy. It’s gambling, after all...and even if he’s one of the pieces in the game, there’s no real knowing the outcome.

It takes several flights of stairs to reach the proper floor, the roars barely suppressed. And as he opens a pair of double doors at the end of a corridor, the sound hits him full blast.

In the belly of the building, opening up to several floors, is the arena. Torn apart, beams and structure have been revealed as the building was stripped, people hanging out on all levels to get better views. In the center, a raised cage arena houses cybernetic fighters duking it out to near-death, mods glowing and blood spraying. Bright, cold lights illuminate the spectacle for all to see.

It’s been a while since he’s resorted to this. But legitimate work is hard to find, especially for someone with his record. So Obito lets his strength and his size earn his way.

Skirting the crowd that’s gathered on the main floor, he tries to find the man in question: the one he can talk to about getting in on the fights. The description he was given is vague: ginger, piercings, gaunt.

Sounds like a whole slew of people in here.

But he keeps looking until a man catches his eye. Something about the way he watches the contestants down below gives the aura of someone bored, wanting only for the show to end and the results to come in.

“You Pein?”

The stranger turns, and Obito finds himself a bit unnerved.

Rinnegan model eye mods. The ripple-like purple orbs, covering the entire visible eye, are some of the most advanced tech out there. They can connect to security networks and essentially “see” through anything taking video. Something tells Obito this whole place is wired, and just by standing here, this guy can see everything the cameras see.

“I’m someone who goes by Pein,” he replies a bit cryptically. “Are you here to fight?”

“Thought I’d do a few rounds.”

“You’ll have to have our tech check out your mods, make sure there’s nothing illegal.”

The idea earns a snort. Not illegal in terms of the laws, but the rules of the arena: nothing that will give him an unfair advantage against the other fighters. “All right.”

Hand to an ear, ‘Pein’ contacts someone with an internal comms mod. “Sasori, I need you to do a mods check.” He then glances to Obito. “It will be a moment. Once you are approved, you will have a locker to secure your belongings. Then you’ll be entered into the pool. How many rounds?”

“Depends on the winnings. I have a minimum to make.”

Pein eyes him, expression blank. “...very well.”

A few moments later, a redhead - short in stature - seems to materialize beside his employer. Right away, Obito can tell this guy is one deep into mods: more mechanical than biological.

“This is him. Get him approved, then we’ll get him in.”

“This way,” Sasori orders, leading Obito to an offshoot room. “Remove your outer garments.”

Well...here we go. Shrugging out of everything but his boxers, Obito reveals the majority of his mods. An entire arm has been replaced to the shoulder. On that same side, plating and wires adorn part of his neck, chest, abdomen, and part of his outer hip.

With a scanning module in his palm, Sasori starts looking over the hardware. “Most of these appear to be medical in origin.”

“Yeah. Accident,” Obito offers, refusing to elaborate.

“...some advancements in the arm, but nothing above code. The plating is also within our standards. You may proceed.”

He just nods, regathering his clothes. Knowing it will only get bloodied, he stashes his shirt in the locker Sasori unlocks for him, leaving him in his pants. He also takes off his shoes, pulling some fingerless gloves over his hands.

...nothing else to do.

He’s then led to another room, larger, where the other potential participants linger. To Obito’s honest surprise, a fair number of women fill the ranks. A few people lightly spar, punching and blocking in preparation of their fights.

“Name?”

Obito looks back to Sasori. “...Tobi.”

“When you hear your name, proceed to the arena. Once the fight is over, if you wish to continue, you will return here until the next fight.”

A nod. He’s done this before.

With that, the redhead disappears again, and Obito gives the room another studying glance. He’ll have to face at least a few of these people. Part of him hopes none of them will be women. He’ll fight one as an equal, but he’d rather not if he can help it.

“Well, you’re a new face I’ve not seen before.”

Looking to his left, Obito spots another fighter. And wow, this one has quite a few cosmetic mods. His skin is blue, hair a darker shade, and as he grins at Obito, a row of sharpened teeth glint in the light.

He even has gill mods.

Someone likes sharks just a little too much.

“Just making a pitstop,” Obito replies, beginning to stretch.

“There seem to be more and more of those nowadays. There are a few regulars like myself, but I suppose it’s not a very...agreeable lifestyle.”

Obito glances back to him. “How long have you been here?”

“Coming in now and again for years. At least once a week.”

Obito can believe it - he’s huge. Probably could crush his head if he wanted to. “Good money, or…?”

The man’s grin widens. “Somewhat. Mostly I just love beating the shit out of people.”

Oookay, hopefully they don’t end up as opponents. “Name’s Tobi.”

“Kisame. Good luck out there.”

“Thanks.”

A few other matches go by before Obito is called in. His first is nothing special, and he’s got the win within a few minutes. The arena is cleared, and he pockets his cash.

Just a few more.

Kisame too has his battles, handily winning each. After two more, Obito figures he just needs a single additional win.

“Tobi, Kisame, you’re up.”

...well shit.

“Ooh...well, nothing personal Tobi.”

“...yeah, likewise.”

The pair are let into the cage, the crowd hyping up. By now, it’s obvious they’re both top contenders. The announcer continues to egg on the audience as the gates are shut.

Obito sizes Kisame up. He’s huge, but...that might be a disadvantage when it comes to speed. While not the fastest himself, he might have better odds dodging.

Either way...he’ll admit he’s not confident in this one.

“FIGHT!”

The pair launch at each other, a blur of thrown fists and striking feet. Obito manages a few hits, but also takes his share. A split forms in a brow, blood leaking down his face. Alongside the sweat, it starts to make seeing a bit difficult.

This isn’t good.

And Kisame, despite their earlier friendly conversation, pulls no punches. Every blow that lands is like a train, aiming for the critical parts of Obito’s tech that help keep him alive.

Five minutes in, and he’s in deep shit. Damn...he just needed one more win…

Locking hands and struggling against Kisame’s strength, Obito’s jaw grits to the point of making his teeth ache. If he can just...get…

THWACK

With a crack that seems to echo, Kisame plows his forehead against Obito’s. His vision flickers, knees immediately giving out as his brain rattles. Like a puppet with its strings cut, he goes down, completely slack. Above him, he hears the countdown.

There’s no way in hell he’s getting up, now.

Damn it. Now that money’s going to have to go for other basics until he can rustle up more, and basically put him right back where he started.

Well...he tried.

Next thing he knows, Obito wakes in another room. Gone is the noise and ruckus of the crowd. He can barely hear it in the distance. And he can feel a bandage on his split brow, but everything else feels...muted. Slow. He’s obviously on some pretty hefty painkillers.

“Morning.”

Eyes struggling to move in their sockets, he finds himself visited by a woman. Without prompting, she starts going over his vitals and checking his condition. Some kind of...doctor? Employed by the pit?

“Where…?”

“You’re in the infirmary. Seems you got your cage pretty rattled,” she replies. “You’ve been out a few hours, it’s almost sunrise. Last few fights are wrapping up.”

Beside him, Obito hears a few mumbles and groans. Seems he’s not the only one in here. “...how...bad is it?”

“Not too bad. No concussion, somehow. Just a hell of a headache if I had to guess. Hence dosing you a bit to keep it at bay, as well as all the other blows you took. I’ll tell you what, though...you’ve got quite the goose egg. And that split is pretty nasty. I put in some stitches. Leave them alone or you’re gonna have a mess, all right?”

All the while, Obito watches her foggily. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion. The doctor, if that’s what she is, looks to be about his age, maybe a year or two younger. But given the advancement of glamour mods, he can’t be sure. Is that why her hair is white…? But no, it’s her eyebrows, too...and her lashes. Maybe she’s one of those...what do you call them…?

“I’m going to recommend a few days of bedrest, but I’m sure that will be ignored,” she sighs, Obito tuning back into her words for a moment. “You got someone who can check on you, make sure I’m not missing a head injury?”

“...no.”

Another sigh. “...well, just be careful. If you feel any sudden dizziness or headache, you might wanna call an ambulance.” And off she goes again, his brain failing to focus.

...it doesn’t look like she has many mods. Obviously a HUD, given the chip at her temple. Likely a comms mod, too - even the most vanilla modders have those. There’s something in the palms of her hands, probably a medical mod for scanning and monitoring. One side of her head is shaved, and it reveals a few glowing wires trailing back into her skull.

...she’s really hot.

As soon as he thinks it, she pauses, looking to him questioningly.

...oh shit, he said that out loud, didn’t he? Damn pain meds…!

But rather than get offended, she just snorts. “Don’t worry, I hear that kind of thing all the time. This stuff will knock you loopy, that’s for sure.” Approaching him, she lifts a palm to his own temple. “I’m going to give you my contact info in case anything pops up later so you can have someone know what’s going on. Anything out of the ordinary, let me know.”

“...uh...okay.”

“For now, I’m gonna put you under again. You’re not quite ready to head out yet.”

She adjusts his IV, and pretty soon Obito feels his body grow heavy again. But before he conks out, he checks her info in his comms mod.

Ryū Suigin...huh. Cool name.

...guess that’s one way to get a girl’s number.

A few hours later, his body wakes on its own, the pain meds starting to fizzle out. And man...he can really feel those few hours he spent in the pit. Sitting up with a grunt, he winces at the ringing in his head and the throbbing in...pretty much everywhere else. It’ll be a while before he’s ready to try all that again.

A glance shows he’s the last remaining occupant of the infirmary. The doc’s still here, right…? He’ll be a bit lost otherwise, he has no idea where he is in relation to where he’s already been.

Then he hears a jingle of keys, turning to see Ryū come up short. “Hey! About time you woke up.”

“Er, sorry.”

A hand waves. “I’m only kidding. You clearly needed the rest. Come on, I’ll show you the way out.”

“Uh...I had a locker…?”

“Yeah, we’ll head there first, don’t worry.”

It’s then Obito realizes he’s still shirtless and barefoot, flaring pink. But she doesn’t seem fazed - surely she sees plenty of others just like him. They head through an empty hallway, making a pit stop by the lockers as Obito grabs his stuff and finishes redressing.

“So...how often is this place open?”

“Three nights a week.”

“Are you here for all of them?”

“Hoping to see me again?”

He balks. “I-I just mean -?”

She laughs. “Kidding, kidding. I am. I split it with regular work shifts in a twenty-four hour clinic. I’m pretty much nocturnal thanks to it.”

“Is it...legal for you to work here?”

“None of this is legal,” she replies dryly. “But Pein keeps the cops around here paid well enough, they look the other way. So long as they get a decent cut, they don’t care. In a way, I’m the same. I don’t blab about it, I just come for the work.”

“Huh…”

“I take it you’re not much of a regular?”

“No. Just when I’m desperate.”

“Yeah, I see a lot just like you. Looking to make a quick buck to keep their heads above water. But a lot just end up battered and bruised, empty-handed. It’s a real shame, but...that’s what the city’s coming to.”

Fully dressed, he lets her lead the way despite having regained his spatial awareness. “It’s why I was here, trying to make enough to get out. Almost had it.”

“But now having to stay means draining all that away again, right?”

“Right.”

She offers him a sympathetic glance. “That’s rough, but...hardly unique. Wish that wasn’t the case. It’s really tough being a medic in this town...seeing everyone you can’t help. I’d like to get away from it too, if I’m being honest. Just...like you say, you never quite get close enough. And part of me would feel bad, knowing all the damage I’m leaving behind.”

“It wouldn’t be your fault. And you’d surely help people elsewhere.”

“Yeah. But in a way, it still feels like giving up.”

He hums, not quite understanding. He just wants the hell out of this town so he can escape everything that’s happened here. Everything that continues to happen.

They reach the front door, the bouncer long gone. It creaks on its hinges as Ryū pushes it open. “You got a ride home?”

He blinks. “Took the metro.” Is she offering him a ride…? But he’s a total stranger!

“Okay, good. Don’t want you alone in case you collapse or something.”

...oh. Maybe not. Why does he feel disappointed?

“Remember, anything happens your body’s not familiar with, you let me know immediately. Could turn into something serious. Better safe than sorry.”

“All right. What about you? Safe to get home?”

She gives him a smile, and Obito stiffens as he feels his stomach give a wobble. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s not far, and it’s light enough now I should be okay.”

“Well, uh...if not, you can always call me.”

To his embarrassment, she snorts. “Will do. Now go get some more rest - remember, take it easy a few days if you can. Your body needs some downtime.”

“I’ll try.”

“See you around then, Obito.”

It takes him a moment to realize she called him by name, but...well, that’s likely due to his comms mod. “Er, bye.”

...well, now what? Yes he needs to head home, but...he’s back at square one yet again. And he can’t just hop back into it - Ryū is right, he needs to recuperate before he even thinks about it.

And next time, if Kisame’s there...he’ll wait for another night. As nice as it was being tended to by the doc, it’s not quite worth it.

...almost, but not quite.

He sighs, rubbing at the rear of his head. For now...back to the ol’ grind. Scrounge for work, cut back to the bare minimums, try again. And next time...he’ll meet his goal and get the hell out of here.

Maybe he can even help get Ryū out, too.

...but that’s a thought for another day.

Moar cyberpunk! Not quite as shippy, but tbh I kinda struggled with today’s between a lack of time and inspo. But I tried ;w; Poor Obito got his butt whooped. A little harder to dodge without his Sharingan xD But surely he’ll get it next time, right? Anywho, I’m tired, so that’s it for today lol - thanks for reading!

#obiryū october #uchiha obito #suigin ryū #pein #sasori #hoshigaki kisame #oil and blood [ au ]#vulgarity //#blood //

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thebibliomancer · 4 years

Text

Dark Crystal Age of Resistance ep 10 liveblog

“A Single Piece Was Lost”

I don’t have a ramble about the title this time. I’m pretty excited to see how this all wraps up though. Or slightly wraps up while leaving things open. Whatever.

Just a stream of thoughts.

Hi Deet!

Hi Rian!

I quite like this low energy opening showing them waiting for the battle in the morning-

NOPE SOMETHING JUST EXPLODED

Deet, what did you explode?

Rian: “Deet… have you been making bombs?”

Deet: “Well, smoke bombs, so yes?”

Just when I thought Deet couldn’t be better.

Rian reflecting that they’ll need a lot of smoke bombs, probably to run away, if no other Gelfling show up.

Rian: “I was just thinking, I never got to properly see the Caves of Grottan. We should go back together when this is all over.”

Awww.

Oh shit Deet’s arms are secretly glowing with evil energies. I have a bad feeling about things.

Emperor: “Do you sleep?”

General: “??? Yes, sire”

Emperor: “Do you dream?”

General: “No my Emperor”

Emperor: “Neither did I, until I began my experiments with the Darkening. Now my nights are riddled with nightmares.”

And now he’s asking the General if he remembers how things were before they were sundered. The Emperor is philosophical today.

Then he gathers a bunch of Darkening.

The Gruenaks run into the Chamberlain and they want to be freed and Chamberlain is like not yet my dudes, things are going great for me and thats what matters.

Ice cold, SkekSil

Aww the Scientist build some new armor and he wants to join the other Skeksis and prove that he’s a rough and tumble strong boy like the rest but the General and the Emperor just laugh at him and tell him to stay behind and do the nerd stuff.

Poor guy. Poor evil guy.

The other Skeksis have no respect for him but he’s the only one still doing what the UrSkeks were about.

OH HEY ITS BREA hi Brea. Last episode, everyone gathering up again.

Maudra Fara: ‘Hey Rian we cool? Sorry I called you a traitor’

Oh no, Brea and Seladon have to tell Rian and Deet that Aughra died.

Yeah, the Dual Glaive is pretty cool. Appearance wise.

Rian: -stares wonderously at Dual Glaive for a while-

Ok no disrespect but you’re bringing the Ornamentalist to war and think the Scientist is too big a nerd??

Chamberlain: -waving sword around- “WARRRRRRRRRRRR”

Most of the Skeksis preparing for war sequence seems to be them psyching themselves up by screaming war at each other.

The Gelfling preparation sequence has them like training and getting outfitted.

Just saying, one group is taking this more seriously.

Scientist: “I am incontrovertibly the most abused creature in all of Thra”

Gruenaks: =|

The irony is, of course, lost on SkekTek.

Scientist: -pokes frakensteined spiders corpse with random electricity- ‘Well thats not working’

-Proto-Garthim goosplodes all over the Scientist for like a minute straight-

Scientist: “There is only so much callous disrespect a Lord of the Crystal can endure! I have earned a bit of genuine frivolity!”

Turns out that he hid some extra essence in his animal cages so he can hit the goofy juice in times of stress.

The Gruenaks pick up the scalpel. Whoops. Wonder what they’re up to.

Over at the circle of the sun, the Archer is lingering between life and death because of the Aughra essence effect on the Hunter.

Apparently the Scientist’s idea of genuine frivolity is to sit on the Emperor’s throne and pretend to be the Emperor and have podlings play him music and bring him food and call himself Emperor.

Thats. Sure an idea.

OH HI SKEKMAL IS ALIVE AGAIN

And he tears himself free of the strings holding him up, probably confused at all of this, and asks where Rian is.

When Scientist tells him that Rian is at Stone-in-the-Wood and that the Skeksis went to quell the uprising, Hunter calls Scientist an useless coward.

Scientist: “The Emperor commanded me to stay behind. I wanted to fight! I’m not a coward!”

Poor evil guy. This is why he wanted to prove he was a rough boy. Now the Hunter is going to be looking down on him.

Archer bolts up and mummer shouts SKEKMAL and then collapses.

Heretic: “Well…”

Wanderer: “That was… exciting…”

Heretic: “Yes!”

I love these nerds.

So the Skeksis bring: giant swords, nothing else.

They’re not really prepared for anything other than lumbering towards something and killing lots of stuff.

If only the Gelfling had a strong archer class. Instead of being all melee.

Even Kira in the movie knew how to pack a sling.

Emperor sees the small amount of Gelflings that have shown up.

Emperor: “This… is the mighty rebellion I was promised?”

He actually sounds disappointed. Hes had to leave the castle for the first time in a long time and its for this.

Rian: ‘The rest are coming! Really!’

Also Rian: ‘Hey how about single combat?’

Chamberlain: ‘Hey uh Emperor this is beneath you? Let General do it’

General: ‘If my bff Chamberlian thinks its a good idea, I’m in.’

The General hits but also maneuvers like a freight train. But Rian really sucks. He’s just getting tossed around and almost having his puppet junk- Oh there he goes. He stabbed the General.

The Dual Glaive starts absorbing. The General’s…. Something?

General: “Be done with it! Kill me!”

Rian: “I’m no killer!”

HOW DO YOU THINK THIS IS GOING TO GO?

The Skeksis are literally trying to wipe out your entire race and you’re playing the high very high road??

Then the Emperor tells General to gtfo because he’s a failure and the other Skeksis mock mock him as he limps away because the Skeksis love to see each other fail.

Oh, this is some actual cool strategy.

The lady gelfling vault off the male gelfling’s backs and fly around dropping bombs to disorient while the swords gelflings jump in and start poking ankles.

Oh I guess the Skeksis did bring more than swords. They’ve got… boomerang launchers? On their backs? Boomerang catapults?

Its pretty unwieldy but Scroll-Keeper still manages to hit Maudra Fara when she shoves Seladon out of the way to protect the All-Maudra who she acknowledges now that shes not being a dingus.

And then sheee dies.

But on her own time because a fizzgig steals Scroll-Keeper’s sword and hides it in a hole.

I’m overall getting the impression that the Skeksis are dangerous because they’re big and strong but they’re not very good at this.

Greunaks cutting their own mouths open with the scalpel they found. Annnd Scientist finds them.

Greunak: “No! No slave!”

Scientist: “How dare you threaten me? I am SkekTek the Scientist! I am a master of llfe and death! I am a genius! I am a Lord of the Crystal! I… AM… SKEKSIS! -incoherent yelling-”

He grabs them so they shock him with the electrical wires which I think shorts out his eye.

And. Geez. Rebellion doesn’t work too well when you’re a third of the size.

He just picks up one of the Gruenaks and hucks him down the fire hole.

Oops and he just hacked the other one to death.

Put upon and bullied he may be but he’s as bad as the rest of the Skeksis really.

Scientist: -maniacal laughter-

I think he’s going to use the Gruenak corpse to help finish the Garthim.

So the battle is still… going.

ANd I can’t help but think that what would really help here is a shield wall or something.

Gourmet: -flailing and panicking as a Gelfling climbs on his back and punches him in the head or something-

Chamberlain has found where the General has crawled off to.

General: “Friend SkekSil, help me”

Chamberlain: “Mmmm no. -stabs- You…. took… my…. Seat!”

Wow, SkekSil can hold a grudge.

Oh and General crumbles as soon as he dies. So I guess SkekMal really wasn’t dead.

Speaking of SkekMal he just showed up and and captured Rian and broke the Dual Glaive. I say broke but this is why weapons that have to be assembled aren’t as reliable. They’re made to fall apart and fall apart they will. It’s possibly a metaphor.

Speaking of a metaphor, the Archer has regained consciousness and has gone for a walk.

Archer: “I had a dream that I was one that became two. The hunt must end.”

And the walk that he’s taking is off the circle of the sun which is a very tall place.

Hunter: “I have conquered death! I have become more powerful! More powerful than Thra itself! Nothing can stop the hunt!”

Archer: “Now we shall see what lies at the dream’s end” -jumps off circle of the sun-

Hunter: -crumbles to dust-

Archer hasn’t even hit bottom yet. He just knows that he’s gonna die so he starts turning into sparkles midfall.

OH HEY!

Aughra reformed from the Hunter!

Scroll-Keeper: “Oh no, not her again!”

Rian: “Aughra are you alright?”

Aughra: “Of course not, I just returned from the dead!”

Aughra tells the Skeksis that they better retreat to the castle or she’ll mess them up. Emperor is like I’ll call that bluff.

And then…. ARROWS! The gelfling learned archery!

OH HEY ALL THE CLANS! ALSO THE ARATHIM!

Emperor: I WILL NOT LOSE, NO MATTER THE COST! BEHOLD THE POWER OF THE DARKENING!”

And his staff burns with an awesome power and then everything starts exploding. Wow look at the gelfling popping into the air

DEET!

She’s absorbing all of the Darkening!

Skeksis: -laughing at whats happening-

Emperor: ‘ffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff’

Deet: “Get away from my FRIENDS!”

And then she explodes into force lightning like Darth Deet

Mostly hitting the Collector

Collector: “That wasn’t so bad!” -explodes-

Skeksis: ‘RUN AWAY RUN AWAYYYY’

Chamberlain has to shake the Emperor out of his stupor to get him to run and for this earns Most Trusted Advisor role again.

All the gelflings are congratulating each other which I find funny because they didn’t do anything mostly except show up. But Rian and me are like hey wheres Deet.

Seladon throws herself at Aughra

Aughra: “Guess you want a hug? Alright.”

And Gurjin is like hey I’ll hug whoever. Free hugs.

And an Arathim takes him up on it.

Gurjin: “!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!???? Well, why not”

More Gelflings want hugs

Aughra: “Give me some space. I may be newborn but I’m still old!”

THE CRYSTAL SHARD WAS HERE ALL ALONG? IN THE DUAL GLAIVE?? That was a double ‘was here all along’ pull! Wow!

Aughra: “Gelfling, the shard calls to you. You fought well. And tomorrow, tomorrow three suns rise on a new world. And nothing will ever be the same. We have made new enemies. And lost old friends. But the fallen are not truly gone. They have joined the song of Thra once more. Listen… and you will hear them on the wind. For the song has changed. It sounds like hope. But take care. Hope is fragile. Hope is delicate, like a crystal shard. Once lost… now found. And easily stolen.”

HEY UM DEET WHATS GOING ON WITH YOU

She just wandered off looking sithly sickly and making the plants die. Whats happening to good ol Deet??

Aughra: “This victory does not belong to a single gelfling or a single clan! It belongs to all of us! All of Thra, united! This day, the many become one!”

Brea: -holds up crystal shard to transition into the movie theme-

Scientist: ‘HEY WHATS UP JUST CREATING THE GARTHIM AND SIGNALING THE DOOM OF THE AGE OF RESISTANCE IS WHATS UP I’LL SHOW THEM FOR CALLING ME A NERD’

Other Skeksis limp back to crystal chamber.

Chamberlain: “Well look on the bright side, we still live!”

Other Skeksis: -whine sob-

Scroll-Keeper: “Poor Collector! SkekLach never harmed anyone who did not deserve it!”

Hell of a qualifier.

Chamberlain spins the General’s last moments to make himself seem like a cool guy.

Oh. So Garthim is Gruenak plus Arathim.

And so the first Garthim is born. Which will ultimately net SkekTek no respect judging by the Garthim-Master, the guy who made his reputation on SkekTek’s creations, treats him in the movie.

Poor, poor Scientist.

So that was Age of Resistance season 1. I quite enjoyed it overall. I have some overall thoughts and quibbles that I might do another post for. But overall I quite enjoyed it.

My primary thought is “rude to not have a second season announced yet.”

#dark crystal #dark crystal age of resistance #episode 10 #liveblog #welp thats the end #for now

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