kristopherwritesstuff - Tumblr blog

[kristopherwritesstuff]

It has been about a million years since I even Thought about this account but I just want it to be clear that I AM STILL WRITING. I still write semi-consistantly in my free time, I just don't post it because I have stupid standards for myself and I also never finish anything. But it's something I'm working on. Believe it or not half the stuff I write nowadays is DBD and slasher-focused or horror themed in some way with romance added in, but if anyone would like snippets of stuff I can drop something! I have....a lot of wips going on and even more plots to write up, but my longest wip currently is a GhostMyers one that I'm really enjoying. I also dabble in TMA and OC stuff right now. I can't promise to properly post anything, again it has been a long time since I attempted a long-term project on this blog, but I haven't stopped writing at all. I'm just mentally ill and working two jobs and trying to get through life while juggling several hobbies and interests at once!

[kristopherwritesstuff]

Can you feel it? The fermenting of your body. The decay of your insides, rotting and dissolving. Do you feel yourself dying? Can you sense the ruination of your being, the deep sense of wrong that curls in your gut and reaches out it's twisting, grinding fingers into your kidneys and your liver and your lungs. Into your brain. Can you feel your organs collapse, late at night, when you're lying awake and so aware of how your body breaks down and aches that you're too scared to move? It is eating itself alive. You are consuming yourself with every swallow of bitter liquid, every deep drag that burns your throat and tickles your lungs. You are dying. Do you sense it, as you go about your day? You are dying. Do you really understand how you would look if we opened you up, guts a pulsing, pulpy lump, black and half eaten by the poison you ingest without break? You are dying. Your lungs have failed and your kidneys are screaming for mercy, but do you even care? You are dying.

Can you feel it? The addicting clench of need in your gut, the craving, the want for more. Do you know what it means? What's being done to you? Do you know how you poison yourself day in and day out, every singing call of hell entwined into your very being, knotting itself into your veins and burrowing into your bones to hide itself deep. Have you any understanding of how you doom yourself every time you indulge? Do you care? Surely it must hurt. Surely it must scare you, to be controlled on puppet strings of addiction and want by those so much higher than you, so much stronger than you could inagine. You are hurting. You are taking placebo after placebo of death and decay and rot and you are sinking into a hole you cannot escape. There is a siren song in your brain you cannot block out. You are dying. There is a plea for more and a plea for less battling inside of you that never ends. You are dying. There is a wailing cry as your body craves what kills it every second you exist. You are dying.

Can you feel it? With every inhale of smoke inflaming your lungs, turning them to ash, your life grows shorter. Can you feel it? With every splash of liquid into your belly, slipping into your liver and rotting it slowly, your life grows shorter. Can you feel it? You cough and vomit and crave, fingers twitching and eyes twitching and your mouth so dry it feels like sandpaper. Can you feel it? You are dying. You are dying. You are dying. You do not care. You cannot save yourself. You are doomed.

Can you feel it?

[kristopherwritesstuff]

A JonDaisy fic - Chapter One

The initial ascent out of the Buried was a long one, even longer than the walk and crawl into it. Each drag closer to the surface, every inch moved through thick, clinging dirt and mud and soil, felt like hours even if it really was only seconds, and Jon dragged himself out of the ground, out of the small wooden coffin, with mud in his hair and dirt under his nails and little loose stones and clumps of soil tickling against his skin, under his clothes, staining his skin an even darker brown as he collapses on the smooth, cool hardwood floor, exhausted and weak.

  He could barely acknowledge Daisy landing next to him, shuddering and clinging, her hand finding his desperately, clutching like her life depends on it. Doesn't see her turn to him, eyes squinting and tired but flickering greedily over his face, taking it in, the first thing she's properly seen in six months, even as she gives a faint greeting to Basira. She doesn't even have time to turn to her properly, either, just drags her feet out of the coffin, hand still curled around Jon's, before she proceeds to collapse as the exhaustion hits her hard. That hadn't stopped Basira from lunging forward to check on her, though, or Jon, although her reluctance was clear when she turned to him.

  That's why he brushed her off. Struggled to his feet himself, bones aching and the weight of the world pressing down on him, and stumbles around trying to find anything he can to make Daisy's rest more comfortable. After all, there's no way he's going to be able to lift her, despite the weight loss, the muscle mass decrease, the soft, gentle limpness to her pale body that almost makes her seem dead. He would be worried she might be, if it weren't for the slow, shallow shift of her chest, her stomach, rising and falling with each breath. No chance of lifting her, even as painfully close to death as she is.

  Finding something, anything, to prop her head up with, to cover her body with, proves more difficult than first expected. He ends up having to steal a pillow from Melanie's lair, an old, worn blanket from his own office, and tries to shift her out the way, just so they can get the coffin out the room when they call artifact storage. After that, the first thing Jon does is get himself a coffee. He knows, rationally, he should read a statement, get some sleep, actually look after himself, but he gets the feeling Basira won't let him do that until she's gotten answers from him. He's gotten far too used to, he feels, her looking down on him and treating him like crap when she wasn't using him herself to get what she wanted. But he won't say anything about it, either, not really. Not how he wants. He doesn't think it's worth the hassle.

"So. You got Daisy out."

  "Yes, Basira. I did." He sounds tired, even to himself, sighing softly as he talks, eyes on the kettle brewing in front of him.

  "Without my say-so."

  "Quite frankly, Basira, I didn't think I really needed your say-so. You were gone a week, two weeks, longer than you were supposed to be, Melanie certainly was in no state or position to do anything about it either, and leaving Daisy down there any longer would have been cruel. The worst that would have happened is that I would have been stuck too. But I wasn't. I got us out. I got her out. Which is what you wanted, isn't it?"

  He's not being snappy. Not being snarky. No rudeness or anger in his tone. Just that slow, dead tiredness, one he feels in his bones, as he pours coffee grounds into his mug and pours hot water over them once the switch flicks on the kettle. The sound of bubbling, pouring water fills the silence between them as Basira tries to find words. He does it for her, once his mug is in his hands.

  "I'm going to find some people from Artifact Storage to take the coffin upstairs, out of the way, and then I'm going to go take a nap in my office." He's turning before she can say anything, downing half his coffee in one, and walks out of the breakroom, the woman staring after him in mild disbelief and a frosty, almost angry frustration. But she doesn't stop him, and he doesn't wait for her to.

  Two hours later the coffin is moved, and Jon had convinced Melanie to help move Basira to the couch, up against the wall and what he usually uses to rest. He, instead, sleeps at his desk, halfway through sorting through statements, coffee mug empty and cold on the end of his desk, safely away from any damage it could inflict or receive. His office is usually dark, so being disturbed by lights is unlikely, and he makes sure to close the blinds in his window and close his door securely before settling down to work and then, eventually, pass out, exhausted and grimy with an ache in his bones he's not sure will ever leave again. He isn't sure if he dreams or not, either. Everything is a soft, filtered blur, flickering too fast to keep track, really. Too many scenes melting through his head, flickering like an old VHS tape, sound like muted static in his head. He thinks he might be dreaming, because sometimes everything will stop, set on a particular scene, stuck in slow motion, and he's forced to watch, dishevelled and dirty, in a torn shirt and stained tie and his hair barely tied back, as he watches an endless hunt, watches friends slaughter each other, watches a man confronted by something posing as his cousin but isn't.

  He's jerked awake just as an eighteen year old, book in hand, opens the door to an old house with silver threads around his limbs, ready to be jerked inside and swallowed by the darkness and the creature just inside it. It's Daisy that wakes him, blonde hair grown out from her time in the dirt and dark, tufts around her ears and eyes tired but calm when she looks down at him.

  "Daisy," he tries to say, but it's mumbled and slurred with sleep, and he realises he was drooling while he slept, sleeve slick with it, and he wipes it from his mouth and chin absently, cheeks burning. "I, uh, you're-you're awake."

  "No shit, captain obvious," is her snorted reply, and he has to laugh, a little, eyes closing briefly.

  "Does, ah...Does Basira know you're awake?"

  "No. Wanted to check you were alright first." She's quiet, as she looks at him, watches him sit up and rub his face and yawn, forcing himself awake as he reaches for his coffee. The look on his face as he takes a sip makes her laugh, and he shoots her a glare as he spits the cold liquid back into his mug.

  "I'm glad you find that amusing, Detective. Would you like to drink cold coffee?"

  "Mm. Not anything you've spat in, thanks. Looking a bit of a mess, too, Sims." Daisy is smiling when she says it, quiet and almost relaxed, and Jon rolls his eyes, fighting down his own smile as he sets his mug back down, sliding it back slightly.

  "Yes, well, I did have to save a Detective from an eldritch horror in the form of the crushing bottom of the Earth," he says dryly, and lets his lips twitch up as he tips his head to the side slightly. "And really, you can hardly talk about how filthy I am when you probably look just as bad. I suppose we could both use the clean-up."

  He gets to his feet, stretching his arms above his head, and then sighs softly. He's still tired, which is really only to be expected, but going back to sleep doesn't sound particularly appealing, either. He'll go home, he thinks. Shower and maybe find food and try to clear his head of the Buried, and the coffin, and the Archives. Just...everything.

  That sounds like a good idea.

  "What are you thinking about?" Daisy is watching him, eyes big and soft, too big for her face, too soft for the fiery, snapping Detective he knew before this.

  "...Having a nice hot shower and watching crappy TV," he sighs, and she smiles, running a hand through the long, messy hair falling to her shoulders, over the small tufts just reaching her ears.

  "Sounds like heaven right now. Going home would…"

  It kind of hits her, then. The fact she doesn't have a home. Doesn't have anything, most likely. Six months of disappearing off the face of the Earth leaves her with the clothes on her back and not much else. It hits hard; hits her right in the chest, sends her heart clenching tightly, lungs too tight, breath stolen for a moment.

  Jon can tell, too. Knows it, like he knows that sugar is sweet and dirt is brown. His heart aches for hers, for a second.

  "Maybe talk to Basira?" He asks, hesitant but gentle. "She might be able to help."

  "...Yeah. Maybe." She hasn't moved, staring at his desk, and her voice is flat, empty, but he can sense the hurt there nonetheless. "I'll...I'm fine."

  "...Get some food, Daisy." Jon knows exactly how she feels and all he can do is hope she'll be able to work something out until getting her own apartment again. "Talk to Basira. It'll work out."

  She just nods, and he sighs, hesitates.

  "I'm...I'll go and get some tea. Coffee. Basira should be...somewhere. Maybe the back of the Archives? She should be around. I'll be back soon."

  Daisy isn't there, when he gets back, but the lack of dirt from her shoes indicates she didn't exactly walk out. He's not surprised; even walking for him is a struggle, like this. Still, he can only hope Basira looks after her.

The confrontation that happens next week is unexpected. Things had gone more or less smoothly, since Daisy had gotten back. She was getting the use of her legs back, slowly, with crutches and physio-therapy and help from Basira, when she was available. She was averse to being alone, they all quickly learnt, although that wasn't unexpected, at least in Jon's humble opinion. Being alone in crushing darkness for six months would cause anyone to be terrified of being alone, honestly.

  Apparently, Basira was not as attuned to this simple information as Jon was. She didn't seem to quite understand why Daisy was reluctant to do things alone, why she was always hanging around either her or Jon, or Melanie when she was available. That was, in Jon's opinion, the most likely reason that this had happened.

  "Daisy has a favour to ask, Jon." Basira's tone was brisk, stern, arms crossed over her chest as she looked down at the man at his desk, looking a bit better than he had done in a while but she was betting that was just due to his recent return and recovery from the coffin. He's staring up at her, hesitant, confused, although he does relax slightly when Daisy is mentioned, those large dark eyes flickering to her face instead.

  Daisy is...slightly uncomfortable, asking this, simply to value what little privacy Jon has left being violated. But Basira has made her feelings clear, and she didn't feel it fair to stay any longer.

  "...I need a place to stay."

  The silence that follows stretches into the air for what could be years, time trickling to a stop, breaths frozen and hearts still as the information melts into Jon's brain and tugs at the door in his mind, spilling free the information that tells him exactly why Daisy does.

  He can't find it in him to be surprised, and he hates it.

  "...Right. Well. I...I suppose I could...arrange something. Yes. Well, if you're, ah, quite comfortable…"

  Basira isn't. He could sense that a mile away. Two. Ten. It's the last thing she wants, Daisy staying with him. Other than Daisy staying with her any more. Too needy, too demanding, too anxious and afraid and panicked over nothing, in her head. Too silly over the most pathetic things. He keeps his comments to himself, as Daisy nods, arms wound around herself and barely able to meet his face. Keeps his comments to himself and wonders, idly, if any of his clothes will fit her. Probably, with the state she's in.

  Hopefully.

  "Good. Well...I, ah...I can take you in, certainly." He gives a smile, a little awkward, but he's trying to take it into stride for Daisy's sake. She's just watching him, eyes unfocused, clinging to herself tightly as she stands there, and Jon can see the panic bubbling in her chest. The fear of being alone. Of being in the dark. Of being buried alive under all her fear.

He's touching her before he can quite stop himself, gently taking a hand, instinctive and natural.

  "You're okay, Daisy," he murmurs, voice low, soothing. "You're okay. We're out. We're out and we're not going back. I promise."

  All she can do is nod, and cling to him, and blink the tears from her eyes, mouth soft and quivering with her anxiety and terror. He doesn't know what she's thinking of, not right now, but he holds her hand and murmurs to her gently, softly, while Basira just sighs.

  "I'll leave her with you. Make sure she eats."

  Jon just ignores her, stroking his thumb over Daisy's hand, a quiet reminder of himself and Georgie in similar positions, when he was trapped in her apartment and she'd hold him, soothing, after a nightmare. He wasn't even sure he'd ever see Georgie again.

  She deserved better than him. So did Daisy. And Martin. So had Sasha. And Tim.

  They all deserved more than him, more than his not-enoughness, but he couldn't dwell on that, even as it threatened to curl up his throat as an aching guilty sadness and take over his thoughts completely. Couldn't dwell because there were, always, more important things than him to deal with. Daisy was more important, despite everything she'd done. She was sane enough, sober enough, to admit to those wrongdoings, even though Basira tried to protect her, an old reflex of "protect my own" that Jon had picked up was more than just about any feelings the two had for each other. Cops stuck together, even out of the force.

He wasn't sure how well Daisy would follow that rule now, though.

She seemed better, after some tea and a Statement or two made by Jon. Seemed to settle, leaning against the side of his desk and listening to him talk, steady and secure, voice rising and falling and twisting with the words on the page, shifting from quiet and calm, steady, to lively and exaggerated in seconds. It was a comfort, she found. It wasn't the first time she'd come to him for company, nor would it be the last, but she was always amazed by how...accommodating he tried to be. How easy he was to be around, even with the darkness of his eyes during a statement, the slight glassy sheen when he was knowing something, looking for an answer, the double edge to his voice and the tremor of muted static, like pins and needles but painless, running through someones' throat, over their tongue and probing at their lips. Even then, he was pleasant company, voice soft and laugh gentle, unthreatening, careful. Each fidget and shift and flutter of his hands, fingers twining, picking at threads in clothing, just show off an anxious, shy man, terrified of doing the wrong thing and desperate to do the right one. She knows, in the past, consumed by the Hunt and her own paranoia and desperation for a chase, she would have seen that as a sign of weakness, of guilt (although a different kind of the one he actually feels), of his own exposure of his wrong-doings and crimes and would have taken him down effortlessly, mercilessly. Would have enjoyed it.

  She's not like that, after the Buried. She knows he's not like that, either. He tries his best, she can see, and even with his flaws, she can't help but be almost...endeared by him. He was the one of the only comforts she had, and it was why she often found herself in his office so often.

  If he minded, he never said. Seemed quite happy to have her around and tried to keep up conversation, as awkward and nervous as he could be, as tired as he was. Jon was warm and sweet on his best days, a smile on his lips as he bantered and joked with her, making her coffee and going to lunch with her whenever she wasn't with Basira. Which was good, because he didn't eat otherwise, as far as she was aware. He'd claim he'd eaten, if asked, but except for their lunches she isn't sure he genuinely does.

  She has a feeling today is one of those days.

  "...You went to get lunch today?"

  He starts, at that, glancing up, brows furrowing slightly.

  "Uh...I...Suppose. Yeah, I could get lunch. Basira busy?"

  She shrugs, sipping her coffee as she watches him. "Don't know. But you look like you could use it."

  "Thank you, Daisy." He's smiling, though, a small, amused little thing as he looks up at her, even with his voice dry and flat. "I appreciate your boost in my confidence and self-image."

  "What I'm here for, Sims."

  She's so casual with him, sometimes. So relaxed and calm, it's genuinely surprising when he compares it to the half feral woman who tried to slit his throat and dump his body in the woods like she did with all the other monsters she came across. It certainly isn't a bad thing, though. Jon is in need of friends, any he can feasibly get without them ending up hating him for one reason or another, and the fact he's found one in Daisy is...An unexpected comfort, but a welcome one. She cares for him, in her own way, and he knows making him eat lunch with her is just the way she expresses her worry for his health, her quiet concern.

  He really does appreciate it, the new little routine they've struck up over the past week or two, although he is trying to push the thought of her living with him to the side, for now. Getting lunch with her is strange enough, even if it's like lunch with anyone else he's ever gone with; they order and he pays and sometimes they'll eat his leftovers if he manages to convince them he really is well and truly full. She doesn't usually eat his leftovers, eats as little as him some days, but at least she is eating. At least he is eating.

The café they go to is small, a friendly little thing with a few neat tables and warm lighting and smiling servers with tired eyes. The entrance is at the left of the building, several tables dotted around the center and a few booths on the sides, and there's not that many people there; a couple or two, a small group of men probably on a lunch break, just the usual crowd. Daisy leads him to one of the booths on the side, sitting down next to him and pulling up a menu.

  "Anything at you want?"

  "Not really." Jon shrugs, idky scratching at the table top with a finger. "I'm just...Thinking."

  "About?"

  "Whether my spare sheets are clean for you."

  That makes her bark out a laugh, despite herself, despite the situation, and she rolls her eyes with a smile. "I see. That's a shame. I guess I'm ordering for you."

  Jon just looks at her. His mouth is drawn in a thin, unimpressed line, brow raised, and he looks so displeased it's almost funny.

  "You act like I don't know what to order you, Sims."

  "And everyone claims I'm the stalker," he murmurs, but there's a small smile on his lips as he picks up the menu. He ends up ordering just a small plate of sausage and chips, and Daisy gets herself some gravy and chips, and they eat quietly together. They don't feel the need to talk, with the sounds of the café surrounding them, the street from outside, but if Daisy links their pinky fingers together under the table neither comment on it. She needs the support, sometimes. The physical contact, the reminder that someone is there with her. It's common with Jon, since they got out the Buried; little touches, panicked glances, checking that he's still there with soft calls of his name. He's used to it, by now, having her call for him then not actually wanting to talk, just wanting to know he's around, wanting to know she's not alone. Jon indulges her, too. Having her stressed and anxious and on the way to a panic attack isn't worth not holding her hand for a few minutes, and he wasn't exactly opposed to it either, the reassurance she's there, too.

Talking about it would probably be beneficial, but Daisy was determined to return things to normal, as much as she could anyway. She'd only talk about it when necessary, and even then she was reluctant. Jon understood. He genuinely did. There were times when he was in his office, lights off, room illuminated only by the glow of his laptop screen and the blinking light of his tape recorder, that he'd get the overwhelming aching urge to cry and yell and panic, to instinctively reach for Daisy, to grab her and drag her to safety, that he'd feel the heavy, crushing weight down on his spine again. It terrified him, and that was the reason why he didn't speak of it. Who was going to offer him support, anyway? Basira, who only wanted to use him when she deemed necessary? Melanie, who didn't trust him as far as she could throw him and barely tolerated his presence? Daisy, who was in just as bad a place he was, almost certainly worse, and who, judging from how Basira had been looking lately, hardly slept? No. No, he didn't have anyone to go to, and he wasn't looking for sympathy regardless. There were far too many people who deserved it more than him.

Which is why he held her pinky finger under the table, and let her entwine their fingers once they were out the building, and held her upright when she leaned into him for support and comfort.

  It's why he let her come home with him that night, and fell asleep on the sofa with their hands clasped tightly and her head on his chest.

[kristopherwritesstuff]

Ugh

So. Guess who. Forgot about their fic. Because they're not a capable long-series writer and have been Distracted with life. Haha. That's right. This asshole.

So, to make it up to anyone who cares, I will be taking requests! I have a handful of fandoms I will list below I'll be happy to write for, and each mini-fic will be at least 900 words. It's all free, just a way for me to get back into writing and produce content again, and I'll be happy to write almost anything you want. Just drop a comment or message me asking for specifics on what you want.

Fandoms:

- Overwatch

- The Arcana (only the original three, I don't know Muriel, Portia or Lucio that well)

- Five Nights at Freddy's (all games).

- The Who Killed Markiplier Universe

- The Umbrella Academy

[kristopherwritesstuff]

Ugh

So. Guess who. Forgot about their fic. Because they're not a capable long-series writer and have been Distracted with life. Haha. That's right. This asshole.

So, to make it up to anyone who cares, I will be taking requests! I have a handful of fandoms I will list below I'll be happy to write for, and each mini-fic will be at least 900 words. It's all free, just a way for me to get back into writing and produce content again, and I'll be happy to write almost anything you want. Just drop a comment or message me asking for specifics on what you want.

Fandoms:

- Overwatch

- The Arcana (only the original three, I don't know Muriel, Portia or Lucio that well)

- Five Nights at Freddy's (all games).

- The Who Killed Markiplier Universe

- The Umbrella Academy

[kristopherwritesstuff]

Ugh

So. Guess who. Forgot about their fic. Because they're not a capable long-series writer and have been Distracted with life. Haha. That's right. This asshole.

So, to make it up to anyone who cares, I will be taking requests! I have a handful of fandoms I will list below I'll be happy to write for, and each mini-fic will be at least 900 words. It's all free, just a way for me to get back into writing and produce content again, and I'll be happy to write almost anything you want. Just drop a comment or message me asking for specifics on what you want.

Fandoms:

- Overwatch

- The Arcana (only the original three, I don't know Muriel, Portia or Lucio that well)

- Five Nights at Freddy's (all games).

- The Who Killed Markiplier Universe

- The Umbrella Academy

[kristopherwritesstuff]

Shit

So. I. Haven't been writing. Unfortunately. I'm drawing instead. Mermaids. Oops. Uh. I'll have an update at some point.

[kristopherwritesstuff]

Chapter 3

He's found by an intruder, a few hours after he's finished crying, curled up in one of the larger vents around the base, one that goes to and leads from nowhere. He's been there before, had padded it up with blankets and pillows for him to curl up in, surprisingly small when scrunched and contorted into a ball, and it stopped the sound of his sobs echoing through the shafts for the others to discover. He's found by smoke and rot and death, found by warmth and quiet and stillness, and neither of them react, for a moment, just motionless.

"...Pitiful."

"Fuck off, mate." His voice is dry and hoarse and muffled, nuzzled into the warm blanket smelling of cigar and gunsmoke and sweat, freshly stolen and warmed by his body heat. The being, the man, now, all thick long hair melting into smoke and sharp claws and deep red brown eyes, teeth digging into his bottom lip with the overbite developed, watches him, crouched low in the vent space, as Jamison curls himself away.

He should care, he supposes, about Reaper being not five feet away from him, most likely armed and dangerous besides that, but he can't bring himself too. This isn't the battlefield. He really has no grievances with the creature outside of that, despite his allegiance to Overwatch, and there are more than enough people to stop him that they don't need him to. Besides, what was the worst that could happen to him? A bullet through the head? A rush of blood and guts pooling on the floor for him to die in? Smoke choking him until he's writhing and twitching before falling limp, eyes glassy and lips blue?

Death. Death is the worst that could happen, and Jamison had brushed with death far too many times to particularly care. He'd let the man kill him, if he wanted, wouldn't put up a fight if a gun was pulled or talon slid against his thin throat.

There's nothing, though, not a movement or a sound from the Reaper.

"...Ain't gonna do anything? Thought you were called Reaper for a reason?"

"Why would I do anything?" He cocks his head, calm and cool. "You hardly look like you could stand, let alone attack me, Junkrat."

"Fuckin' could to," is what he mumbles out, like a small child, high and whining and pathetic. "Fuck you."

Reaper snorts and leans forward, pats his head. His talons scrape against his skull, scratching like he would a stray dirty mutt, but Jamison doesn't move, just watches him with one hooded golden eye, bony flesh fingers curled around metal ones. All he gets is a murmured "pitiful" again before the man is disappearing like smoke, melting into the darkness of the vents and leaving Jamison alone. It doesn't take long for the gunshots to start, the yelling and shouting and obscene sounds of tearing flesh and ripping clothes and screams of the wounded.

He falls asleep at some point, empty and cold, and dreams of thick brown hair and red eyes and the smell of gunpowder and cigars as he's held by sharp talons and soft gloves.

"Jamie?"

"Told you."

"Alright, Roadie, just--Shift, I need to get him out."

He wakes up to soft hands and the smell of bubblegum and strawberries and stinking radiation hidden underneath in the background. He doesn't want to open his eyes, wants to stay safe and warm and cared for in his dreams, but sharp rounded nails and paper soft fingers are stroking over his jaw and cheeks and pointy little nose.

"Jamie, can you hear me? Can you open your eyes?"

"He's fine. Been through worse."

"He fell through an abandoned air vent, I doubt--"

"He's fine. See?" His eyes are flickering open, all golden and lazy and tired as they study the pretty young lady in front of all, all sweet concern and pouty lips, and the masked man behind her, all bored calm and crossed arms, and closes them again.

"Lemme sleep."

"Angela's on her way, Jamie. You've broken your arm."

"'M alright." He doesn't care. Just wants to sleep. Drift away. Never wake up. Things are better in his dreams; no pain or ache and want for better, for more. He's wanted, in his dreams. Most of the time.

He can't protest when he's slung over Mako's shoulder like he weighs nothing, though. Just lets it happen as he's carried to the infirmary, concerned voices and murmurs following them all the way to the other side of the building, Hana following them to answer any and all questions.

It's just his arm, he wants to say, but his mouth isn't working and he wonders if there's something wrong with that, too, and not just the dully thumping twisted flesh hanging limply in front of his face.

"Oh, Jamison--"

"He's fine," Mako rumbles. "Needs some sleep. Wrap his arm up. I'll take him back."

"He's going to need at least a month--"

"He won't."

Whether he's talking about needing a month or staying, Angela isn't sure. Maybe both. But the large bodyguard is staring down at her, she can feel his eyes through his mask, and she's tempted, for a second, to back down. She has other patients to look after, those with worse than a broken arm and bruised jaw, but still. A patient is a patient, and no one needs help more than Jamison.

"Put him in the bed. You can stay with him, but I don't have the time to fight with you."

She leaves before he can answer. She isn't surprised to see them gone when she returns.

(It's here, finally. I know I said Monday but revision is stressful and my head is a mess but I promise I have more planned that'll be easier and nicer to write (even if it won't be nice) so....I don't know when the update will be but I promise I'll get it done within two weeks at most)

(And yeah it's shorter than the others but I literally spit it out so enjoy bad quality)

[kristopherwritesstuff]

Me: I'm gonna get Chapter 3 of the Highboom fic done by Monday!!

Also me, two days later, staring into the void: What's a motivation

[kristopherwritesstuff]

Listen....Chapter 3 might be a little while since my head is kinda distracted with stuff, honestly, and I don't know when it's gonne get done, maybe by Monday?? Sorry guys, but I'm doing my best, revision has me anxious and keyed-up.

But from what I've got, I hope you enjoy it

[kristopherwritesstuff]

So

I'm gonna start Chapter 3 today but chances of it being done is slim because I have like five hours of class during the main day so hopefully!! It'll be done by some point tomorrow!! In case anyone was actively excited for it. I just want to thank people for the love and support, regardless of whether they'll see this or not 💕💕

[kristopherwritesstuff]

Chapter 2

The irony of the situation wasn't lost on Jamison, not at all. Jesse was a bounty hunter, had been after Junkrat and Roadhog personally, at one point, so trusting him was typically out of the question, let alone becoming his friend and wanting to even have a romantic interest in the man that was willing to hand him over for a bit of coin. His attraction was stupid at best, but that didn't stop it, didn't even make it pause. His feelings didn't care that, out of everyone on the base, it would be Jesse that would be the first to betray him and break his cracked heart with disgusting ease.

It didn't care, even if he tried to, tried to give a fucking shit about the fact that what he was doing was dumb, stupid, crazy, batshit fucking insane, but every smile from Jesse, every wink and call and low chuckle, had Jamison weak in his damn knee; stomach twisting and fluttering and face too hot, even when he wasn't blushing. It was almost too much, every day of him seeing the man adding to the painful ache in his heart when he thought about the reality of things.

Because really, the reality was that Jesse wouldn't even give him a fucking glance. Wouldn't even consider Jamison Fawkes, local trash man and crazy freak, in any way other than friend, and even then Jamison couldn't help but wonder if Jesse even wanted that. He seemed like the kind of guy that was automatically friends with everyone unless you really pissed him off, and the thought of that, of Jesse only really tolerating Jamison because he had no reason to hate him, made his gut clench and his nose sting and his vision go blurry with tears in the middle of the night, when it always seemed to slip to the forefront of his thoughts. He could cry in the privacy of the dark without fear, curled up to Mako and hiding in the man's large chest, cradled like a babe while he sobbed and shivered his way through nightmares and anxiety and self hatred, but as soon as the daylight peeked through the base window, he'd just wipe his face dry and give a crooked grin and go back to his business, like nothing was wrong.

Nothing was wrong. This? This was nothing. Jamison was used to heartbreak, used to hurt and suffering and humiliation, but at least this time he didn't have to expose himself to it if he didn't want to. It wasn't Junkertown, wasn't the Outback. Jesse wasn't the Queen. He could avoid it, avoid all his fears, and he did.

Jesse didn't want him, wouldn't ever want him, and despite his blubbing and whining and pining Jamison had made peace with that fact a long time ago. He was more than content to take Jesse's affection and attention where he could get it, and anything else was a coincidental bonus. The one person who couldn't seem to understand this was Mako, for all his claimed to know Jamison better than he himself did.

"Rat."

"What?"

Mako shuffles, curling more onto his side around the slender man, head bowed down, mask off and eyes dark and gleaming in the dim moonlight streaming through the window, face a grimace with the harsh scars tearing through it. It's a sight Jamison is used to, had been for a while, but that doesn't stop him studying his face with some worry and concern in his expression. Mako ignore it; lifts a hand and gently wipes his tears away, frowning.

"Tell him."

"Roadie, don't start--"

"Tell him." He's serious, voice low and rumbling, hair tangling around his jaw and Jamison raises a (trembling) hand to pet through it, a welcome distraction from Mako's face and his thoughts and the entire conversation.

"Rat."

"Yeah, yeah, I--" He cuts himself short, swallows, shifts a little more into the warm heat of the body in front of him. "I will. Sure, mate."

There more quiet, Jamison more focused on Mako's hair than those dark, serious eyes studying him, before there's a deep sigh.

"...Go to sleep."

"Yeah."

He doesn't see Jesse for a few days, after that. He learns from Hana, the cutie with a ready grin and sweet words, that he's been sent out for the week, somewhere sunny and deadly with a few of the others, and he'd been left with a strange pit in his stomach that he'd been ignoring for the past three days. If anyone noticed his strange anxiety and jittery movements didn't comment on it, likely just saw it as Junkrat being Junkrat, and he was barely starting to calm down a little on day eight when the cowboy returns.

The first noticeable thing is his lack of arm, his metal one, his shirt simply tied at the base of his stump. There are fresh cuts stitched and bruises yellowing, fixed up by Angela and Baptiste, likely, and he has a black eye and a limp. He still grins at everyone, though, still laughs and flirts and relaxes wherever he is.

Jamison doesn't understand him at all.

Anyone else, anyone with common sense and a regular upbringing and sanity, would at least be trying to rest up and look after themselves, anyone else would listen to the blonde woman with bags under her eyes but a smile on her lips for whoever needs it when she yells at them to get their ass into bed, anyone else wouldn't be sauntering over and sitting themselves next to Jamison with a lazy grin and a cigar between their lips, arm over the back of the couch they sit on.

"Afternoon, Jamie. How ya been?" Jesse isn't even looking at him when he speaks, is too busy watching as Hana tries to both play her game while flirting with Brigette with obscure mechanical knowledge, much to the taller woman's amusement.

"...Alright." He gives a little shrug, looks up at man with a small squint. "...Ya bleeding, mate."

Jesse frowns, at that, his hand fumbling at his cheek to smear the blood across his tanned skin, and Jamison just clears his throat, glancing back over at the two on the floor, at the TV screen. Anywhere but Jesse.

"Thanks, sugar. Angela's been drivin' me mad, telling me to go rest up, like I don't have things t'do."

He wants to answer, to ask, to agree with their medic, but he can barely open his mouth when Jesse's attention is dragged away by the newcomer, just the door leading out onto the balcony closing to alert anyone it's been opened.

"Hanzo, sugar, ya look froze." His voice is light but concerned, and Hanzo just glances at him, raising a brow.

"I am perfectly fine. Was simply meditating."

"In the cold?"

"It is better than inside." There's a glint of something in Hanzo's eye, something that makes Jamison's stomach drop as the man tios his head up. "I prefer not to be distracted by the smell of blood and sweat, unfortunately."

"Distracted? If ya want a distraction…"

Jamison tunes out, after that. Curls up into himself and ignores the two men flirting, because that's flirting, blatant clear flirting in it's own weird way, and he doesn't want any part of him.

Because really, the reality was that Jesse wouldn't even give him a fucking glance, wouldn't even consider him, and Jamison had long made peace with that fact. It didn't make it sting any less, don't stop his heart aching or his tears flowing, but he'd accepted it to be true.

Not when there were guys like Hanzo Shimada around to sweep Jesse off his feet and treat him right, treat him like Jamison never could, no matter he wanted to.

No one notices him leave. No but Hana, and she's too distracted by Brigette to question it, her squealing giggles in his ear as he ducks out the room and deeper into the building. He needs somewhere to hide. Somewhere dark to curl up and hold himself. Somewhere to quietly loathe himself for, even now, having fucking hope, when it's so damn clear he is nothing and never will be anything.

He knows it. The Queen knew it, back when she had him in her clutches, just a pathetic little rat to squeak and squeal for her. Mako knows it, even if he acts like he doesn't.

Jesse must know it, too. He will, if he doesn't already.

Jamison Fawkes is nothing and deserves as much.

(I got this done super quick so,,,,,,,it's early lmao enjoy I guess)

[kristopherwritesstuff]

Chapter 1

Touch starved wasn’t a term Jamison was accustomed to. In the Outback, touch was reserved for scrapping, if it came down to it, or quick, dirty rutting against thighs it spit slicked hands.

Hygiene wasn’t common, but neither were the diseases typically present throughout the rest of the world, transmitted through dirty holes uncleaned. They knew better.

His vocabulary wasn’t lacking, either, not with all the travelling he’d done once he was out of the Outback and off the Australian coast, but “touch starved” was simply something that had never been brought up to him before, or explained if it had. Touch wasn’t something he actively sought, either, wasn’t something he knew he wanted until he agreed to Overwatch, Mako an automatic extension to the agreement and the only one who actively had looked out for him, even after the payments had ended and he had saved enough to do what he wanted.

Even then, touch wasn’t something they had actively participated in, other than Mako holding him down by the back of his neck with a firm hand, large fingers stroking over his thighs and hole and coaxing him into calm submission, soothing his jittery anxious energy.

There was nothing soft about it, though. Nothing caring, although Jamison knew Mako cared. Nothing just gentle and light, just a firm roughness that was used to get the Junker to shut up and sit still instead of getting caught up in his own head, going crazy again, another bomb spree meant to kill himself and everyone around him.

Touch wasn’t something he was aware he wanted, needed, until he met Jesse McCree; thick dark hair and a thicker body, relaxed and charming and handsome in a way Jamison hadn’t really seen in far too long, at least in a way that interested him. He didn’t hide his interest well, either; all wide golden eyes sober and calm without the anxiety of the Outback to have them flickering nervously (although they still did, when Mako wasn’t around, on edge and giggles threatening to bubble up his throat), arms crossed around his hollow stomach and deadly still, silent as he watched. Quiet as a damn mouse.

Too big for a mouse, though, and too dirty, too twitchy, too nervous, too dangerous for one. That’s what people think of rats, after all. Dirty and twitching and dangerous. They thought of Jamison the same; that’s how he got his name, earned it: just a rat in the junk, dirty and twitching and dangerous, and a part of him, niggling the back of his brain, scratching deep in his gut, told him that’s what everyone else thought, too, at the Watchpoint. Told him they hated him, mistrusted him, didn’t want him, would just stab him in the back and leave him to rot.

It was different with McCree, though. The cowboy, man, despite his low, whiskey rough voice and overbearing demeanour, was surprisingly warm and gentle, easy laughs on his lips and a wink in his eyes for practically everyone. He made everyone feel welcome, even Jamison and his bodyguard, and even though everyone had a soft smile and a kind word for the young, lanky man, it only really felt genuine from Jesse. He'd ruffle the dirty blonde mess on Jamison's head, would swing his arm around the man's shoulders and nudge him close under the watchful eye of the huge bodyguard usually nearby, and always had a kind word and light greeting whenever he spotted Jamison around the base, and it never failed to have the man softening up, relaxing, yearning for their interactions more and more.

He didn't confess this, never said anything, but that didn't stop Mako bringing it up two months into their joining of Overwatch, voice low and chest deep as he watches his boss fuss and fidget in front of the mirror, scrubbing at the ash and soot imbedded under his eyelashes like makeup.

"...Going to see the cowboy?"

"Roadie--"

"Gonna tell him?"

He's being glared at in the mirror, just the softest dusting of pink on Jamison's cheeks, and Mako just gives a small shrug. He could read him better than anyone, sometimes better than Jamison himself, but even the crush was clear, probably even to Jesse himself. Jamison just had trouble keeping himself to himself, a good counter to the stoic man he had employed and befriended.

Other than the glare, there's no answer, and Jamison returns to the mirror, fussing and huffing and scowling before giving up five minutes later.

He'd showered, tried to clean up a little, but the soot was still in awkward places, like under his eyes and in the curves of his earlobe and under his nails, but the rest was fairly clean, hair now a soft, fluffy mess on his head, light and pretty without ash and dirt and grease shaping it messily into flaming spikes. He almost looks good, especially with a clean pair of shorts on, loose tank top a few sizes too big with his unhealthy lank, and he straightens himself up a little, brows furrowed as he fidgets. Even his arm and leg have been cleaned.

"...You look fine."

Ignored again, other than a quick glance in the mirror, eyes thankful before Jamison turns and hobbles out the room with quick ease, good practise after years of using the peg leg.

Jesse's at the target range, and Jamison can't help but wonder why. His aim is damn near perfect, if not completely so, in the field, let alone against the robot dummies lazily patrolling around. He hears Jamison approach but says nothing, doesn't move, just fires another shot as the blonde man watches from behind him, chewing up his lips and trigger finger twitching with each shot.

"...Are ya gonna join me, darlin'?" The smooth, low voice makes Jamison start, fingers jerking, a bomb being sent flying towards one of the dummies and exploding on impact, taking out half of its head.

"Easy, 'rat. Didn't mean to startle ya." Jesse is turning, gun in its hollister at his hip, and easy grin on his face and a cigar, as usual, between his lips. "Haven't seen you all mornin'."

"Busy," is what falls from Jamison's mouth, body falling still under Jesse's gaze as the man eyes him up and down curiously.

"Nice to see yer takin' care of yourself. Didn't clean up 'specially for training, did ya?"

Jamison just nods after a slight pause if hesitation, biting his tongue for once, babble ceased in front of Jesse. If the pause is noticed, he doesn't say anything, just nods back, grinning, and takes a low drag from his cigar, exhaling the smoke almost lazily. It makes Jamison's nose twitch, watching the smoke swirl and twist in the still air, mouth dry at the now-familiar scent, and Jesse just hums at the red tips of his ears before he turns to empty his gun into the broken dummy currently whirling around in circles before collapsing from the sudden attack.

"Ya want a puff?"

"Nah, mate, Roadie says it's no good on my lungs, reckons I'll end up like him if I do." He gives a nervous laugh (at least Jesse thinks it's nervous, it's hard to tell with Jamison) and shrugs, almost a little helpless. "Don't like the taste, either. Smell ain't bad, but reckon that's all the smoke I've been sniffing over the years."

His voice isn't as high and crazed, like this. Still lilted up, but less excited, less shouting. Still a slight roll of the r's, but...it's calmer. Less Junkrat, more Jamison.

"Sure, sugar. Whatever ya want." Jesse shrugs, slumping down up against the wall, and Jamison slowly sinks down next to him, legs pulled to his chest, metal arm wrapped around them as he lets his gun rest next to him and flesh fingers idly rubbing the floor, careful not to touch Jesse. It felt good, being this close to him, being able to sit with the cowboy while he smoked and sent Jamison's head reeling with the smell of cigar smoke and unwashed leather and something earthy, and he simply rests his cheek against his knee, eyes flicking between his hand and Jesse's face. Jesse just keeps on puffing his smoke, head tipped back and hat dragged over his face a little, and it gives Jamison plenty of opportunity to stare and admire, stomach soft and warm in his gut. He's seen the old pictures of Jesse, back in his Blackwatch days, back even before that, and he could easily compare them to the man before him now, mentally noting the differences.

Broader. Chubbier, is what Jamison likes to think, because he likes the softness of Jesse's personality enough he wants it to match his physical appearance. Taller, obviously. A proper beard on his chin and jaw, although a little rough and patchy in some places, like he's had to shave without a mirror and it had grown back awkward. Robotic arm. Plain flannel shirt, a deep blue today. A low lazy voice that instantly sets people at ease.

Still handsome, though. Still attractive enough to claim anyone he wanted, cowboy get up or not. He just didn’t seem to want anyone.

"Can I help ya, sugar?"

Jamison flicks his eyes away quickly, trying to focus on how long he'd been staring, mouth dry. All he gets is blank, though, blank and Jesse's tanned skin and scruffy beard and chapped lips curled around the fat cigar nearly finished.

"Jamison?"

"I'm fine. It's fine. Don't worry, mate, just lost in thought, ain't no reason to worry." He can feel Jesse looking at him, curious and slightly amused, and he shuffles into himself, hiding away, trying to be smaller than he actually is. Trying to seem like a mouse instead of a rat.

"Sure, darlin'. Sure." There's a pause, a moment of relaxed quiet, Jamison's ears burning. "...Ain't gonna train? I could join ya."

There's a slight lilt to his tone that makes Jamison want to flush but he pushes it back, just shakes his head, stumbling to his feet. "Nah. Should probably go see what's cooking."

"Alright, whatever you want. I'll see ya later, yeah?"

Jamison fumbles, tongue thick in his mouth, hand fumbling to grab his gun.

"Yeah. Yeah, sure, mate."

He's scampering away before Jesse can say anything else, but he can feel his eyes on his back, burning into him like he'd just pressed his cigar there.

Jamison is so fucked.

[kristopherwritesstuff]

Just a little snippet of something I'm working on

Touch wasn’t something he was aware he wanted, needed, until he met Jesse McCree; thick dark hair and a thicker body, relaxed and charming and handsome in a way Jamison hadn’t really seen in far too long, at least in a way that interested him. He didn’t hide his interest well, either; all wide golden eyes sober and calm without the anxiety of the Outback to have them flickering nervously (although they still did, when Mako wasn’t around, on edge and giggles threatening to bubble up his throat), arms crossed around his hollow stomach and deadly still, silent as he watched. Quiet as a damn mouse.

Too big for a mouse, though, and too dirty, too twitchy, too nervous, too dangerous for one. That’s what people think of rats, after all. Dirty and twitching and dangerous. They thought of Jamison the same; that’s how he got his name, earned it: just a rat in the junk, dirty and twitching and dangerous, and a part of him, niggling the back of his brain, scratching deep in his gut, told him that’s what everyone else thought, too, at the Watchpoint. Told him they hated him, mistrusted him, didn’t want him, would just stab him in the back and leave him to rot.

It was different with McCree, though. The cowboy, man, despite his low, whiskey rough voice and overbearing demeanour, was surprisingly warm and gentle, easy laughs on his lips and a wink in his eyes for practically everyone. He made everyone feel welcome, even Jamison and his bodyguard, and even though everyone had a soft smile and a kind word for the young, lanky man, it only really felt genuine from Jesse. He'd ruffle the dirty blonde mess on Jamison's head, would swing his arm around the man's shoulders and nudge him close under the watchful eye of the huge bodyguard usually nearby, and always had a kind word and light greeting whenever he spotted Jamison around the base, and it never failed to have the man softening up, relaxing, yearning for their interactions more and more.

[kristopherwritesstuff]

Genji's Betrayal

It's quiet in the temple. Dark in the night, only flickering flames from candles and the soft green glow of the small dragon curled around his humans' shoulders, peaceful and calm while the young man meditates, eyes closed and breathing soft and slow, following the beat of his heart. It's impossible to hear the silent footsteps of the dark haired man behind him, impossible to sense the sadness and guilt and pain twisting in his soul, impossible to know what he's about to do. It's impossible for Genji to be prepared for the hot white pain searing through his body, the long, deep gash from his right shoulder to left rib, a neat curve, a bloody wound. He cries out immediately, dragon disappearing and replaced with the harsh red splashes of blood, but he's quick to turn anyway, eyes wide and shocked and then filled with fear and hurt when he sees the emotionless face of his brother, eyes locking and silent as they stare, blood soaking Genji's back and dripping onto the floor. A second passes, two, before he's leaping out the way as fast as he can as his brother swings again, quick and fast and catching across his stomach, more blood slicking the able body of the young ninja. There's no time to grab his wounds, to hold the blood in his body, he just has to stumble and slip and slide for the entrance and exit of the temple, tears obscuring his view and mixing with the blood soaking him. Another slash, because he's not fast enough to outrun the demon that's his big brother, across his legs and making him cry out and scream, falling to his knees and banging his head hard enough for blood to pour down his forehead but still crawling, weak and slow from bloodloss, desperate and sobbing. "Genji," comes his brothers soft voice, and why is it filled with pain and hurt, like he's the one that's been attacked? Why does he sound as sad as Genji feels, as broken and quiet as the bleeding man? "You know there is no point in running. I have to do this." There's a stamp on his ankle, hard and lethal and Genji screams as it shatters like glass, ruined and bloody under Hanzo's foot. The other one follows, and there's tears and blood and drool on the floor under Genji because he's sobbing and screaming, blood soaking the wood and stone tiles under his body, but he still moves forward, slow and weak as he tries to get free, driven by desperation and the need to survive. He stops when Hanzo presses his foot on the small of his back, the cold steel of his katana pressed against his neck. "Brother," he sobs, wiping at his face, blood smearing over his hands, trying to see, to look at his brother again but he can't twist, back ripping open even more. "Please, please don't do this, please-" His speech is choked and garbled, blood dripping into his mouth and he chokes, spitting it out, gagging on the taste of copper. "It didn't have to be this way, Genji," he murmurs again, as soft as before. "But I...I have no choice." "Anija, no, please," he screams, but he already has his eyes fixed on the sky, stars glimmering and smeared like oil paint, blurry through his tears and tinted red with blood. "Please, I'm sorry-" He gags, blood rushing up through his throat and mouth as Hanzo pushes down, pushes in the gash on his stomach trapped between Genji and the floor, and he sobs again, soft and broken and pained. "Hanzo, I'm sorry, I'm sorry please don't do this, please." "I hope you'll forgive me, Little Sparrow," Hanzo whispers, as he pulls the blade up again, blocking out the younger man's stream of 'I'm sorry', wet and choked and bloody. "I love you." /Written in school based off a RP with @musemaster \

[kristopherwritesstuff]

'I demand cuddles.' Hamilton /For @nowhere-dawn-death-phan\ "Ma! Mamma! Ma-a-ama!" The young calls out loudly from where he's perched on the piano stool, fat little legs hanging over the side and hands curled over the side of the stool. It doesn't take Eliza long to appear, hair slapped up in a bun and cardigan sleeves rolled up to her elbows, a smile on her face. "What is it, Philip? Mama is busy," she chuckles, walking over and crouching down in front of him, gently pinching his nose. "Want cuddles," he huffs, crossing his arms and glaring at her. "I /demand/ cuddles." "You /demand/ them?" She raises an eyebrow, an amused smile on her face. "What have I taught you about manners, Philip?" "...Please." "There we go." She scoops her son up in her arms, holding him to her chest as she kisses his forehead, arms wrapped around him securely. His arms go around her neck, clinging to her tightly, and she chuckles again, giving a soft hum. "Is that better, little man?" "Yeah," he mumbles. "When's papa coming home?" "He'll be back from the office in a few hours. Would you like to show him what you've learnt today?" "Yeah." "Good boy. He's going to be so proud of you."

[kristopherwritesstuff]

'The eerie stillness took hold. And slowly, we all began to sink into it. I felt like I was disappearing, like if I held my hand in front of my face it would be fading into darkness.' Roadrat /For anon ^-^\ The place we were in was pitch black, dark as night. Darker, I would say, only colourful swirls and patterns floating in front of my eyes, inside the mask and outside of it. We were restrained, naturally, tied up and handcuffed and alone, two different cells facing one another, unable to see the other but knowing they were there. He was crying, angry and fitfull and thrashing against his bonds, screaming about how he was going to kill everyone, blow them all up, make them pay for hurting me. For taking me away from him. He falls quiet after a while. Just broken sobs and angry muttering and the clinking of metal on metal. And then silence. The eerie stillness took hold. And slowly, we began to sink into it. I felt like I was disappearing, like if I held my hand in front of my face it would be fading into darkness. It always felt lile that when he was quiet, silent, unmoving and untalking and I'm unable to see. It always felt like I was drowning in nothingness, the inky blackness a stark contrast to the red and yellow and orange fire and flames and power he always had. I missed him, even though he was right there.