#and then turn around and say nobody will want to work a certain bad job out of self fulfilment | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

vennilavee · 2 years

Text

the six of cups

pairing: geto x reader, background satosugu

summary: Tokyo and Kyoto have been ravaged by a serial killer targeting women. You're a journalist in the middle of it all and as the city grows more and more afraid, your determination to find the killer never wanes. In the middle of all of this, lies the fate of your relationship with your boyfriend and colleague, Geto Suguru.

warnings: this is a slasher au, there is murder, sex, blood, drugs, lying

word count: 10.3k

a/n: written for @strawberrystepmom's halloween collab (this is long overdue). i hope you enjoy and please rb/leave a comment/leave an ask if you did!

“Did you see the email that came through from corporate?” Mei Mei asks in a hushed voice, leaning over so that nobody around you can overhear. There’s no reason to be so discreet. It’s only you two on this section of the floor anyway.

“No I didn’t, I’ve been working on this thing for Yaga all morning,” you reply before sending off an email and turning your full attention to her, “Why? What’s up?”

“Gakuganji sent this email to everyone,” she says, standing behind you and leaning over you to scroll through your inbox for you. The end of her braid tickles your forehead but you pay it no mind. She has a bad habit of doing this, being nosy and prying into things she doesn’t need to pry into. But you allow her to- perhaps the scent of her perfume has deluded your brain.

You rip your eyes away from her freshly manicured lavender colored nails and focus on the screen in front of you. The email reads:

“Due to the increasing number of violent deaths in Kyoto and Tokyo over the last few months, we are recommending that you take precautions in ensuring your own safety. Please be sure to implement a buddy system for the coming months so that we may keep track of everyone’s physical whereabouts. Your safety is our top priority. Stay tuned for further updates.”

“Seriously? Keep track of everyone’s physical whereabouts? More like they want to make sure we’re alive so we can work until either we die or we’re killed by Tokyo’s latest serial killer,” you mutter, exiting out of the email.

“Is there a difference? Did you like how they just said ‘violent deaths’ and didn’t address the fact that it’s all been women who have been turning up dead?”

“Isn’t it weird that this is happening in both Tokyo and Kyoto?” you murmur, “What a weird choice to make.”

“Maybe you can ask the killer in person why they chose Tokyo and Kyoto to conduct their murder sprees next time we work late,” Mei Mei jokes.

“Yeah, I’ll definitely get a posthumous Pulitzer for that.”

Your job as a journalist hasn’t been completely glamorous over the last twelve years or so. You’ve gone from assistant, to intern, to junior editor, to junior editor and columnist. Now your role is a bit of a mixed bag- you’re mostly an editor and an investigator. And you dabble in overseeing the interns, to say the least.

You didn’t have the ambition to be the best in your field, something some of your coworkers couldn’t understand. You just wanted to tell the truth because that’s what people deserve. And you’ve always had a knack for storytelling and weaving intricate words and topics together.

So here you were, starting your thirteenth year at the publishing company, itching for another series of truths to uncover.

You shut your laptop down and pack your bag as Mei Mei does the same in her cubicle. It’s a Friday evening and most of your team has taken to working from home on Fridays. You and Mei Mei happened to be here to finish up an article that’s due to Yaga on the following Tuesday. Otherwise, you’d be in your sweatpants in the comfort of your home with a warm drink in your hands.

But you’re not alone in the office. Another fellow coworker comes strutting towards you and you’re unable to suppress your groan and the roll of your eyes so far back into your head that you’re certain you see your own skull.

Geto Suguru with the audacity to lean against the wall of your cubicle with that stupid smirk and those stupid obsidian eyes.

You ignore him, and ignore the swirl of desire in the pit of your stomach. You refuse to be weak in the knees for him, not this time.

“C’mon, Mei Mei,” you say, meeting Geto’s amused eyes and not breaking eye contact, “Let’s go home.”

Mei Mei glances between the two of you, wondering why you sound so angry and why he’s just looking at you with that irritatingly mocking grin of his. The one she knows you’re weak for.

“Aw, but didn’t you see Gakuganji’s email? We need a buddy system,” he says, false honey in his voice and on his tongue.

You don’t reply, instead pushing past him and waiting for Mei Mei at the door.

“Uh,” she whispers once you’re far enough away from Geto that he won’t be able to hear, “Are you guys good?”

“Yup,” you reply crisply, popping the ‘p’, “I’ve just decided that he’s not worth my time anymore.”

“Oh, so now you listen? After like, six months?” Mei Mei chides, “I told you he was no good.”

“I’m a slow learner. But I get there eventually.”

You clearly don’t learn fast enough because it's not even two hours later that you eat your vitriolic words about your esteemed coworker. Geto Suguru has made himself at home in your apartment, legs sprawled across your couch with you laying on top of him.

The television is on but neither of you are paying attention. The noise is muted as he flicks his tongue into your mouth the way you like (as he’s come to learn over the last six months).

You haven’t even bothered to say that this was the last time because you both knew better. Geto had looked at you with that annoying, knowing look in his eyes. The way his lips curled told you everything you needed to know.

That he knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

His arms are tight around you, big hands splayed over your lower back as one roams the curve of your spine. He knows exactly where to touch you, to melt you into putty, to have you breathing songs into his lips.

Geto turns the television off just as it turns to the evening news. He catches a glimpse of the top headlines of the hour but the news anchor’s monotonous voice is too loud for him, too in his face. All he wants is to focus on you.

So he slips a hand under your shirt and swallows up your pretty whimpers.

“I thought you’d stopped this,” you murmur, raising an eyebrow at him. You’re holding a small baggie of white powder and Geto knows that you’re holding yourself back from raising your voice.

This isn’t the first time you’ve had this conversation with him. He can nearly hear your blood boiling with anger.

“It’s not for me,” he says honestly, “It’s for a friend.”

“Are you lying to me,” you say, squaring up to him and reading into his eyes. All you see are depths of sincerity and you let your shoulders relax.

“No. You can always tell when I’m lying, can’t you?” Geto says softly, reaching for you and pulling you into his lap. You stare at the bag in your hands as if it’s harmed you. And maybe it has.

About a year ago to the day, Geto was an absolute wreck. His best friend had gone missing without a trace in the middle of October of last year and there were no leads. No trail to follow, no witnesses. Nothing.

All he had was a voicemail that he never got around to deleting. And a three page letter kept tucked away at the bottom of his desk drawer. Nobody knew about that letter, not even the police. Some things were meant to be kept to himself, he had reasoned at the time. Besides, the letter wouldn’t provide any indication of Gojo Satoru’s location.

If he was still alive, he wouldn’t want to be found.

Gojo always had a higher purpose in life, anyway. Even if Geto wouldn’t understand it, he knew that they were destined for different paths. He doesn’t know when the split really happened. All he knows is that when his best friend, his other half disappeared, he turned to that pretty white powder to help him forget.

To help him get through the days.

And then there was you. His coworker of several years. He’d considered you to be annoying with your ability to sneak your way into his thoughts without even trying. You’d helped him pull himself out of his spiral and for the last six months, you’ve been in this on-again off-again relationship with him.

It’s taking its toll on you, though. You wonder if he considers you as a partner, an equal, or a caretaker.

But every time you say you’re fed up with him and want him to grow up, Geto always finds his way back into your arms. You continue to question your place in his life, in this world.

You wish you could just live in the moment with him, as he’s begged you to do before. You can’t help but wish for a future with him, but he always seems to be several steps behind you.

Which is why you’d given him the cold shoulder at work.

“Yeah,” you nod with a sigh, “You’ve always been a terrible liar.”

“It’s not mine,” Geto repeats, his voice softer, “You know I’ve been sober, right? Look at me.”

He cradles your face and your breath catches in your throat when his thumb runs over your bottom lip. Your eyelashes flutter when he kisses your cheeks, your forehead, your bottom lip, your nose.

“I know,” you say with closed eyes to stop your tears from leaking out of your eyes and dripping onto his thumbs, “I just…I worry about you.”

Geto Suguru says nothing, instead pulling you into a hug and rubbing your back soothingly. With warm hands, he is a balm on your clammy skin. Easing you and lulling you into the safety of his embrace. He nuzzles your neck with his nose, pressing a soft kiss there.

It’s what he used to do with Gojo to comfort him. It seems to work for you, too.

The killings have increased steadily over the last few weeks. The women in Tokyo and Kyoto are on edge, and a curfew has even been put in place. The entire city of Tokyo is a former shell of itself. It’s a literal ghost town after nine PM in Roppongi- the eerie night lights against the sound of silence almost makes the hairs on his arms stand up.

Almost. He’s the reason for the state of affairs in Tokyo, anyway.

He has nothing to fear, not when the entire island bows to him out of fear. They don’t even know who he is, no face or name to the atrocity. And yet, they force an identity on him.

What a bunch of fools. They don’t know their place, do they?

Ten bodies in as many weeks.

The neon lights that blaze from the abandoned nightclub just ahead on the street, as if nothing has happened. The streets are abandoned, the clubs are abandoned, the stores are abandoned…

He laughs, the sound echoing in the stillness of the night. Pressing two fingers to his covered face, he curiously sees bright red blood on the pads of his fingers. Before leaving, he walks up to the nightclub and sees his reflection in the big windows.

Tilting his head to the side and humming under his breath, he smears the blood along the glass as he walks toward Akasaka.

The breeze ruffles his hair as he makes his way through the night.

“I don’t get why we’re not reporting on the murders,” you mumble to Mei Mei, “People should know. Women should know.”

“Yaga says his hands are tied,” Mei Mei replies, “But honestly, you couldn’t pay me enough to report on it. We’ll have targets on our backs.”

“It feels like we already do,” you say, “But it also feels irresponsible…Look online, more people are complaining about the curfew than the fact that there’s a literal killer on the loose.”

“Did you hear that he left a body in the middle of Shibuya station?” she asks in a hushed voice. You gasp and before you can reply, you’re both interrupted by Geto who stands a little too close to you. Close enough to discreetly bump hips with you while you cast your lovesick, wet eyes at him.

Mei Mei rolls her eyes and scoffs.

You pretend you don’t hear it.

“Just one body? Heard it was four,” Geto says smoothly. Almost as if he’s unaffected by it. You don’t reply, instead following your colleagues into the conference room where Yaga has called a meeting.

There are only five of you in the office today- Mei Mei, yourself, Geto, Yaga and one of the interns, Okkotsu Yuuta. He casts his tired eyes to you and you feel a twinge of sympathy for him. His girlfriend was brutally murdered two years ago in broad daylight. The police had said that it was unrelated to the current string of killings, but you’re not sure.

He’s been struggling as he’s shared to you in not so many words. You think anyone would be in his position.

“You may be wondering why there has been no news about the recent…incidents,” Yaga begins.

“Yeah, the ceremonious killing of young women in two major cities are just incidents,” you say under your breath, earning yourself a glare from your boss. You shrug at him.

“The higher ups have placed a ban on reporting on this and so have the police,” Yaga says and before you can open your mouth to argue with him, “If you’ll allow me to finish.”

He looks pointedly at you.

“We should still gather information for when we’re allowed to report out publicly on this,” Yaga says, “And if this information somehow leaks between now and then… Well, that would be quite unfortunate, wouldn’t it?”

Another pointed look at you and Geto. Yaga seems to know who his troublemakers are, after all.

“Hey, uh, shit,” you say in a rush, “I’m running late. I don’t have a good excuse but I’ll think of one by the time I get into the office-”

“It’s the second time this month,” Mei Mei scolds you, “You’re gonna get lectured and your bonus is gonna be affected!”

“No, it’s not, Yaga wouldn’t dare. Not after what happened last year.”

“That’s what you think. Don’t underestimate him.”

“You mean don’t underestimate the higher ups?”

While you and Mei Mei bicker, your phone starts to ring in the middle of your conversation with her. Without looking at who’s even calling as you rush out of the apartment with the straps of your backpack barely on your shoulders, you answer the phone.

You assume it’s Geto Suguru to scold you for being late as well.

“What, you can’t wait an extra twenty minutes? You in love with me or something?” you say, barely listening for a reply as you wait for the bus.

Except you never do hear a reply. Perhaps it's the noise around you? Maybe the sound is muffled? But no… you have your headphones in and they do a good job of canceling the noise around you.

“Hello?” you say, not nervously at all, “This isn’t funny, Suguru-”

You pull your phone away from your ear to look at who’s calling. The caller ID says ‘scam caller’ and you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose.

But before you hang up the phone, you pause a second. The hairs on your arms stand up and despite being on a chattering bus full of passengers, a street full of cars and a city full of people… You feel the anxiety that comes with being absolutely, utterly alone churning in the pit of your stomach, bubbling up into your throat.

Because for a split second, you thought you heard heavy breathing on the other end of the phone line. That can’t be right. You must be hearing things, it’s probably just the person in the next seat catching their breaths after running to get on the bus.

You tuck your phone away in your bag, trying to still the twisting of your heart against your ribcage.

By the end of the day, the strange phone call is tucked far away from your mind. Once you succumb to the swamp of your deadlines piling up in your mailbox, it’s easy to forget about it.

You stick your fifth sticky note of the day onto your desk, a quick reminder of the follow-ups and phone calls you still need to make. You have several leads on several of your stories and nothing gets your blood pumping like seeing your to-do list get smaller but your web of connections getting larger. If it wasn’t for the sudden hunger pangs, you’d have continued working at your desk with your terrible posture and all.

It’s one of your fatal flaws, as your boss says. You never know when to quit and someday you’re going to get yourself hurt because of it. It’s so easy for you to get lost in your thoughts, to scribble the day away and lose time. Yaga says you’re going to get yourself killed one of these days, the way you run into things headfirst and don’t look back.

Like last year, when against your own better judgment, you went into a clearly active crime scene that hadn’t been cleared yet. Police weren’t even on the scene yet but somehow, you were. Your assignment was to do an exposee on the underground connections between the Yakuza and local politicians. But like anything else, you got too wrapped up in it.

Yaga says that in a past life, you were a curious cat because of how many times you’ve dodged death.

But even then, all you felt was adrenaline and exhilaration. You may be reckless at times, but you’re not stupid. Or oblivious.

You were always in control no matter the situation- whether it was choosing your next assignment, writing a scathing article on the controversies and hypocrisies of the top leaders in Tokyo, or willingly going into the dragon’s den, you were always in control. Or so you tried to convince yourself.

Even as you type away on your laptop with your slouched shoulders and your retinas burning, the drop of uneasiness has already begun to spread and spread like a wildfire that you can’t shake.

***

You’d told Mei Mei and Suguru that you wouldn’t stay at the office for too long. And yet, it’s nearly eight in the evening, and you’re still typing away on your keyboard.Hunched over, with your glasses placed on top of your head and hardly recognizing the rumble of your stomach.

You don’t even realize that you’re the only one on the floor. All of the lights have been off for hours and the only source of light is emitted by your laptop and by the bulb right over your head.

The minty blue color of the walls has never seemed so bright to you as it did at this hour. Rolling your shoulders back as you click ‘save’ on your document and start to pack your bag, you take your first sip of water in probably hours.

Nobody said you had the best habits.

The silence of the office bounces off of the walls before settling in your ears. Your ears twitch when you hear the sound of the building settling. Or is it footsteps or is it laughter? The elevator, maybe?

It’s only the click of your heels as you head out of your office floor and towards the elevator. But you can’t help but chance a glance to your right and left. Are you truly alone?

Further down the hall, a door hinge creaks loudly. It echoes down the hall, bouncing off of the walls and the floors. You press the elevator button more incessantly as the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Of course the elevator takes forever, when you need it to hurry up- it’s on floor 8, then 7, then 6…

Finally. The doors slowly split apart and you ignore the shiver that goes straight down your spine when you hear the faraway sound of demented laughter. You all but jump into the elevator and don’t dare to look to your right or left as the doors close.

Maybe you should have.

The next evening is uncharacteristically quiet.

You’d opted to leave the office early to balance out your late night from the evening prior. You hadn’t asked for permission, only telling Yaga as he gave you a wary, disapproving glance.

Sinking into your couch with your dinner on your coffee table, you turn the television on. Is anything good even on lately? You don’t remember the last time you caught up with a show, let alone sprawled out on your couch and indulged yourself. You keep the volume low, not wanting to inadvertently give yourself a headache.

Before you can sink into your cushions and erase the day’s events from your mind (including one frustratingly handsome Geto Suguru), your phone ringer pierces through the air. You eye your phone warily. This time, the caller is ‘unknown’ rather than ‘scam caller’.

“Hello?” you ask, tapping your nails on the edge of the coffee table impatiently. You’re ready to give this scam caller a piece of your mind for wasting your time.

“If you’re gonna try to get me to buy something, you might as well-”

But then you cut yourself off, hearing the sound of silence loud and clear. But it’s not just silence… It's laughter in the background. The same laugh you convinced yourself that you didn’t hear on the elevator. A chill shoots down your spine and you pull your phone back, staring at it as if it’ll give you answers.

And then a muffled scream from far, far away comes through your phone. Bile rises in your throat and you’ve never hated the fact that you lived alone more until this very moment.

“Who’s there?” you say sharply, “Hello?”

Just more deep, long breaths and the sound of the television blaring in the background.

“This isn’t fucking funny, who is this?” you try to keep your voice even, but even you can hear that you’re on the verge of panic.

But you’re not expecting a response at all.

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” the voice says on the other line with another laugh, sounding far away. Your blood runs cold immediately, your heart seizing in your chest and your legs about to give out.

But you hardly hear the voice anyway as you toss your phone across the room, hearing it thump on your rug. You still hear the voice on the other line, still demanding your name in that sugary, creepy way. You can faintly make out that the voice is deep and hoarse, as if they haven’t spoken out loud in several hours.

They hang up before you have the chance to crawl to your phone. You’re afraid to touch it, to look at it- as if the voice will materialize in front of you.

But you operate on autopilot, instantly calling Geto to ask him to come over. Hugging your knees to your chest as you sit on the floor, you muster up the courage to call him.

“Hey,” you mumble, “You free? Wanna come over?”

You do your best to keep your voice neutral- you don’t want him to think you’re eager, after all.

“Hey, baby,” Suguru replies, the same lilt to his voice as always. It soothes you only a little. “I’d love to but…” he sighs before delivering the final blow, “A… friend of mine is visiting for a few days. I can’t.”

This is news to you, but you don’t have the strength to argue with him. Not when you’re now coming to terms with the fact that you’ll be sleeping alone on the night that you had the biggest scare of your entire life.

“A friend? Who?” you ask. You won’t argue… you’re just asking questions. But you hear rustling, muffled voices, and a hint of laughter in the background. Before you allow your mind to wander, Geto interrupts you.

“I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow, baby. I gotta go, though, I’ll talk to you tomorrow-”

And he hangs up before you can even say goodbye.

***

You haven’t been able to sleep well and it shows on your face, in the lines under your eyes. Mei Mei had thrown you a look of concern when you had jumped out of your skin when she tapped your shoulder. She was only asking you if you wanted coffee and despite this almost daily occurrence, your heart races in your chest leaving you feeling nauseous.

“Are… you alright?”

“Yeah,” you say hoarsely, “Let’s go get coffee and breakfast.”

She continues to offer you strange looks as she talks your ear off on the way to the break room about her latest story and her new lead. You try to follow but your brain feels melted and fuzzy while her voice sounds muted in your head.

No matter where you are, you keep getting flashbacks to the heavy breathing. The mocking, cheery voice asking you for your name. The jarring sound of the voice runs through your mind, haunting your waking moments.

Despite being face to face with Mei Mei, you’re on another planet, re-living one of the most frightening experiences of your life. You’re in a building full of people, and yet you’re so alone.

“Huh? Did you say something?” you say, blinking the fog away from your eyes. Mei Mei snaps her fingers in your face for added measure and sighs.

“What the hell’s going on with you? Is it Geto?” Mei Mei asks knowingly.

“Oh, uh,” you hesitate, “It’s not Geto. I mean sometimes it is, but not this time.”

“Okay…?”

“It’s… stupid? I don’t know,” you mumble, hearing the ‘I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours’ chiming louder and louder. “I keep getting these weird phone calls.”

“Weird how?”

You don’t want to say it out loud. You haven’t even told Suguru yet, since he’d apparently taken a few days off to go on a last minute trip with his unnamed friend who was visiting town.

Saying it out loud makes it real.

You keep your voice at a whisper as you recall to Mei Mei the phone calls and how you think you’re being watched in your apartment. You can’t shake that feeling that there’s another pair of eyes on you at all times.

“It has to be a prank,” Mei Mei says unconvincingly, “Right?”

“I don’t…know,” you murmur, “Whatever it is… I’m scared.”

A barely concealed sob escapes your lips as the words slip off of your tongue and hang in the air.

Mei Mei offers you a hug in the middle of the break room and you find yourself wishing it was Geto instead.

“None of my leads are panning out! Can you believe this?” you groan in frustration, leaning back against your seat in defeat.

“Well… there is a serial killer on the loose,” Mei Mei comments, looking at you pointedly over her laptop screen, “It’s not that hard to believe.”

“But it’s weird. Like every time I get a tip or a cop that is willing to talk, I just get ghosted…”

“People are scared,” Mei Mei shrugs, “Speaking of being scared, have you gotten any of those phone calls recently?”

“Nah, I haven’t. But the last one was three days ago,” you whisper, looking around to see if anyone’s listening, “They stopped ever since Geto started sleeping over.”

“Oh, you guys are on good terms again?”

“Yeah…”

The truth was, he had showed up at your door (bypassing the front desk by smoothly telling him that he was your boyfriend) with a bouquet of your favorite flowers.

You fold your arms across your chest, clearly not impressed with him. Barely casting a glance at the bouquet, you stare directly at him. Not allowing yourself to sink into his warm embrace, no matter how much you may want to.

“Hi,” Suguru says, at least sounding apologetic.

“Hey,” you reply coldly.

“I’m sorry that it took me so long to come to you.”

“Whatever. You were so damn busy with your friend, you have no idea what’s been-”

“Can I come in? It’s chilly,” he interrupts and you have to resist the urge to slam the door in his stupidly handsome face.

“No, you can beg for my forgiveness right here.”

“Alright, alright. I’m sorry I left you alone when you were scared,” Suguru relents.

“And?”

“And I’m sorry I left you alone when there is a literal serial killer on the loose. It wasn’t very boyfriend material of me.”

“You’re so stupid.”

But despite that, you pull him inside your apartment and let yourself sink into his embrace as his arms wrap around you. Suguru is many things- sometimes forgetful, he runs hot and cold…

When you’re with him, you’re not alone. It’s easy to forget your fear when you’re in his arms. It’s easy to forget how not even a full week ago, you were on the floor on the verge of a panic attack. Suguru rubs your back and kisses your hair. Maybe there’s another unspoken apology somewhere in his movements. You would like there to be.

You pull away just to catch a breath and peer into the depths of his dark eyes. Something about Suguru always puts your mind at ease. He always has conviction written in his irises.

You don’t notice it right then (or maybe you don’t want to notice it), but his eyes glimmer more in the light than usual.

Shadows have begun to live in your apartment around the same time that Suguru moved in. You can feel them growing and shrinking with each step you take. Following you as you move from your bedroom to the kitchen, to your couch. The shadows weave into your rug and sometimes you think you hear a faint laugh or a footstep.

With Suguru living with you, the shadows seem to hold back. As if Suguru calms them down the same way he calms you down.

Despite Suguru’s presence in your home, you can’t shake the feeling of being watched. But the creepy phone calls have stopped for the most part.

It must be unrelated, but the killings have stopped, too.

The city is still on edge with a mandatory curfew. But you feel a little safer in your own home with Suguru there with you. You hate that you’d become so afraid in the last few weeks, but it’s hard not to be. Something strange is in the air, beyond the killings scattered across the country. You’re nervous leaving and entering your apartment and you hate every second of it.

You had your first night of well-rested sleep three days into Suguru moving in with you:

You push Suguru to your bed roughly and squeeze his cheeks with your hand as you climb into his lap. His hardness is evident through his pants and you only smirk at him.

“You,” a kiss to his cheek, “are,” a kiss to his other cheek, “fucking infuriating,” a sloppy kiss to his lips.

The way he likes it.

“Aw, come on. I finished unpacking my shit and this is the homecoming I get?” Suguru grins and you laugh. You don’t reply, instead pressing your lips to his again to drown out his teasing. He tastes like cigarettes and… something that you can’t quite place.

You lick the roof of his mouth before sucking on his tongue and swallowing his moan into the hollows of your throat. He tastes like cigarettes and chocolate, you realize.

You don’t open your eyes, for fear that you may not be reflected in his irises.

His hands wander, squeezing and smoothing your skin over. Enticing you to rock your hips into his. A trail of spit connects you both as you impatiently lift his shirt off to run your nails over the sharp planes of his chest.

Suguru’s touch has always been all-consuming. One taste of him is just not enough. He always leaves you wanting more- more of his heart, his mind, his body.

His cock brushes against your clothed wetness, catching on your clit, and you shudder in his arms. Your nails dig into his shoulder blades, bucking your hips faster and faster, chasing a release that you know Suguru will deny you.

“Fuck,” you hiss, “Fuck, I need you-”

To your surprise, he pushes your pants and your underwear down your legs as far as he can in one fell swoop. Suguru groans your name when he sees your glistening pussy and brushes over your clit teasingly.

“You wanna cum like this?” he murmurs, sliding a finger into your pussy easily, “Or do you want my cock, like I know you do?”

“Your cock,” you reply, already tugging at his sweatpants, “Just want you to fuck me, I missed you so much-”

Suguru’s skin is flushed and while you want to take the time to kiss your way down his chest, you’re unbelievably impatient. He takes his cock out of his boxers and rubs your pussy with the tip, making you whine for more. Your wetness smears over the head of his cock as you slide back and forth on it for friction.

And when you finally sink down on his cock, Suguru thinks he sees a piece of heaven as you tilt your head back and a soft moan of his name escapes your parted lips. You set the pace slowly, allowing yourself to get used to the feel of him inside you.

“You feel so good, darling,” Suguru croons, “As perfect as I remember, so beautiful-”

You cast your eyes downward to peer at him and he feels as though you're looking straight through him. As if you can see every part of him that shadows touch and every part of him that the light touches.

The shadow grows behind you, watching you both curiously. Suguru looks over your shoulder, but you don’t notice.

A two week period in between the killings had apparently just been a cooling off period, according to the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department. It’s on day sixteen that another body shows up in Ginza, and then Shinjuku on day twenty.

Whoever the killer is, they’re increasing their rate of kills.

Detective Nanami Kento, one of your primary contacts at the police department, says it’s a de-escalation. He says something must have set him off to increase the intensity and the rate of his kill sprees.

Nanami says it so matter-of-factly that you shudder. But you see the toll it takes on him. His brown eyes are dimmer each time you see him and his empty threats of leaving the department to open a bakery never seem to come to fruition.

You hope he gets to open up that bakery someday.

It’s no surprise that you’re walking into the police department first thing in the morning, bright and early. Because this is typically the time of day that you receive your daily phone calls from the unknown caller.

Not only have the kills been increasing. But the phone calls have been, too. Usually when you’re alone. Only once have you received your phone call when Geto has been with you, but they immediately hung up before you could say anything.

Afraid is an understatement. Each step you take, you can feel eyes on you. You can feel something lurking, a shadow following you through the city.

A light breeze tickles your face and it almost feels like a human.

You’re about an hour ahead of schedule. Just enough time to make yourself a cup of coffee and grab breakfast from the breakroom (while ignoring the glares of the cops around you). Nanami gives you special privileges here, and that includes coffee.

You take your time eating and say hello to Yuuji as you make your way into Nanami’s office. He welcomes you in by waving his hand and hardly looking up from his notes.

“I’d be offended if I didn’t know you so well,” you say, taking a seat in his leather chair.

“Who says you know me well?” he replies, looking up at you with a hint of a smile.

“I know how you take your coffee. I think I know you pretty well,” you say airily. Nanami mutters a quick thanks before asking you to bring him up to speed.

You place your phone on his neatly organized desk, closer to him than it is to you. As if you want it as far away from you as possible.

“I’ve received six phone calls in the last few weeks. Most of them have just been the caller breathing on the other line. Or I’ll hear laughter or just silence. Sometimes they hang up. But they only said something one time,” you say quickly as Nanami takes notes.

“What was said?”

“‘I’ll tell you my name if you tell me yours,’” you echo the voice from all those nights ago.

Nanami puts his pen down and takes a sip of his coffee. He tries his best to not look unnerved, not wanting to scare you even more.

“It’s not… related is it? To the killings? It can’t be. It’s just a weird, twisted coincidence. Right?” you whisper, squeezing the handle of your bag to anchor yourself.

He looks away for a second, a small sigh escaping his lips. Your stomach drops, dread settling in your bones. A shadow flashes across his face as he turns his eyes back to yours.

“Tell me. As your friend, not as your colleague,” you urge him, “You know something.”

Nanami hesitates before replying. “We haven’t shared with the press but… I’m telling you this as your friend.”

You nod, holding the handle of your bag even tighter.

“There was a survivor of the killings-”

“What?” you gasp incredulously, “How come we didn’t know-”

“To protect their identity. But she told us that she received phone calls before. From an unknown caller, where he would just breathe heavily. Ask a question here and there…

“And then she was attacked.”

“But she survived! Can I talk to her?”

“She’s dead now. She survived the first attack, but he found her again. It appears that he doesn’t like to leave a mess behind him…”

You sink in your seat as the weight of his words settles on you. His words hang in the air, frozen in the spaces between you both.

“So what the hell am I supposed to do while your police department gets its shit together trying to find this guy? Sit on my ass and wait? People need to know-”

“I don’t need you playing hero again,” Nanami hisses, “And getting yourself hurt. Like last time.”

You don’t allow your mind to replay a memory of last time, when you were sent on an investigative goose chase with your assignment on one of Tokyo’s biggest crime bosses. You’ll never forget the shade of pink that his hair was, or the black lines that marked his arms and his chest. You’d ended up in a warehouse bleeding from the wound in your stomach and you probably would have died there if Nanami Kento hadn’t found you.

You blink back the memory of hyperventilating in the ambulance with a mouth full of fresh blood by digging your fingernails into your palms harshly.

“You do your job and let me do mine-”

Your phone rings, cutting through the awkwardness easily. You shrink into your seat when you see the ‘unknown caller’ light up the screen.

“You’re going to answer and we’re going to record the call and try to track it. Ready?”

There’s no time to answer, but you answer the call anyway while Nanami gestures for his team to work on tracing the call. Blood rushes to your ears as you hear the familiar deep breathing that you’ve become too accustomed to.

“H-hello?”

Nothing. You don’t hear Yuuji and Haibara hurrying to set up a trace and you don’t feel Nanami’s eyes on you.

It’s just you and this shadow of a person.

“Who’s there? Who is this?”

The soft hum that comes out of your phone sends a shiver down your spine. It turns into a chuckle, and then into full blown, maniacal laughter.

You look at Nanami as your heart seizes in your chest and the floor is swept from under you.

“You sound so stupid,” he jeers. His voice sounds like a figment of your imagination but the flabbergasted look on Nanami’s face tells you that it’s not just your mind.

“Who are you,” you whisper again, “Are you the one killing all those women-”

“Tell me something,” he whispers, his voice close to the phone, “What’s your favorite scary movie?”

He hangs up abruptly and you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to regulate your breathing. Nanami sits next to you and places a hand on your shoulder to try to calm you down in not so many words.

“We got a location,” Nanami murmurs, “My people are on their way now. I’m going to meet them there.”

“I’m scared, Kento,” you finally confess, feeling somehow lighter and heavier at the same time. Tears prick your eyes as your shoulders slump in his hold.

“We’re going to find him. I promise.”

Two police cars are stationed outside your apartment building after that. It’s eerie to start and end your day knowing that you’re being constantly watched.

You don’t feel the shadows rising and falling in your apartment anymore either.

It’s only you and Geto in your apartment. His clothes have filled up a drawer of yours, his skincare placed neatly next to yours, and his hair products in your bathroom cabinets. Your apartment begins to smell like him, too. It should be comforting and safe.

But you’re still on edge. You don’t know if it’s because of him or because of…well everything.

Two more bodies were found yesterday, haphazardly disposed of. You haven’t received a phone call since the day that you went to the police station, but…

Nothing feels normal.

So you busy yourself with cleaning obsessively. Today, you’re cleaning out your drawers and it’s your second time this week cleaning the bathroom.

At least your restlessness is somewhat productive.

As you sort through your things methodically from bottom drawer up to the top drawer, you operate on autopilot. Take whatever is in the drawer (the bottom drawer is random stuff like stationary), wipe it down for dust, rearrange the items, close the drawer, wipe down the outside and over on to the next drawer.

It’s soothing to you, makes you feel like you’re in control of your life. Makes you feel like receiving phone calls from a serial killer is a faint nightmare and not your actual reality.

The next drawer is the drawer you gave to Suguru to put his clothes in. One thing you’re grateful for is how neat and clean he is- he may be neater than you. You don’t expect to have to rearrange much in his drawer but you begin your process. His clothes smell like his favorite cologne, the scent wafting towards you comfortingly.

But you notice something stuck in one of the sleeves of his sweater. You feel around for it, thinking it may be a lighter that Suguru forgot about.

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion when instead, you pull out a pair of round, black sunglasses. They can hardly be called sunglasses though, since the lenses are so… small. Who’s eyes could ever be covered by these sunglasses?

You’ve never seen your boyfriend wear sunglasses, much less these.

The lenses are shiny, as if they’ve been freshly cleaned. Maybe it’s a new pair that he forgot about?

Yeah, that’s probably it. Despite the fact that you know his memory is impeccable, you convince yourself otherwise.

Days feel longer than weeks and you can feel the anxiety clawing both you and Suguru up alive. You know that the location Nanami had didn’t pan out to anything meaningful, because nothing has been on the news. The killer is still out there, scoping out the streets.

Suguru’s been trying to put on a brave, reassuring face but you can tell that he’s nervous, too. He’s been biting his nails more frequently. He holds you close when you sleep, always burying his nose in your neck. As if he has to feel your heartbeat pulsing with each breath he takes, even in his sleep.

Suguru tries to keep his worries away from your ears, but he knows how observant you are. The last thing he wants is for you to be afraid or feel burdened by him.

Despite Tokyo literally becoming a ghost town over the course of the last month, he can’t help but think of his best friend. Where is Gojo Satoru- dead or alive? Why did he leave, who took him, is he happy…

Why did he leave?

Suguru doesn’t think he’ll ever get an answer, but he has a faint idea of one.

He shouldn’t be thinking of Satoru, not when you’re wrapped up in his arms and holding onto him tightly. As if he’s the only thing keeping you grounded to the thin thread of sanity that you have left. He anchors you, but his mind is far, far away. Reminiscing on times with Satoru in Okinawa…just a few months before he disappeared.

The police said there was foul play involved, but Suguru isn’t so sure. The letter that Satoru left him doesn’t indicate that… Besides, why would he leave his favorite pair of sunglasses behind with the note, only for his best friend to find them?

It was deliberate. It must have been. Satoru has never done anything that he didn’t always mean to do, after all.

Suguru hasn’t allowed himself to think of Satoru in that way in quite some time. If he allows his mind to go there, he knows he’ll be swallowed by sentimentality instead of reality. He can’t, not when your hand is loosely curled around his chest in the spot right below his heart.

He can’t think of Gojo Satoru and the way he used to smile into his skin, not when you do the same and you’re real and you’re warm.

Gojo Satoru is nothing but a memory, a memory packaged up in the pair of sunglasses and the old blindfold tucked away in your dresser drawer.

He’s been watching you for quite some time now, around two or three months. Staying hidden in the shadows is easy when you’re as oblivious and foolish as you are. Watching your daily habits- your breakfast, your shower, how you rush every morning to work, how you always toss your shoes in the right corner next to your coat closet before laying on the couch for exactly six minutes and going to change your clothes…

He’s watched Geto Suguru join you as part of your solo routines. He’s watched Suguru kiss you, fuck you, make love to you, cook for you, wash your blankets for you. Suguru kisses you with his heart on his tongue, slipping into your mouth and stealing your breath away as if it comes so easily to him.

He knows it does. You’re so stupid to take him for granted. As if he wouldn’t leave you in less than a minute when the timing is absolutely right. Suguru is a man of calculations and he would never make the wrong one. Not when it came to him.

You look at him with love in your eyes. It infuriates him, because Suguru looks at you the same way.

Purple eyes landed on bright blue eyes one evening after you both had showered together. Shock had colored the sharp planes of his face but before Suguru could reach out to him and touch his skin once more… He had to return to the shadows again. He’s not ready for his grand finale. All the pieces haven’t settled on the chessboard just yet.

He’s not finished with his masterpiece, he’s not finished painting Japan with the broad strokes of red. Can’t he see that he’s doing this for him? For your well being?

He won’t forget Suguru’s eyes in that moment for as long as he lives. Your figure was the focal point of his vision but instead he was reflected in Suguru’s irises, shining like an ember that never quite died. He wins, like he always does. You don’t know it, but he’s competing for Suguru’s love. And he always wins.

Suguru has a big, bleeding heart but there’s only room for one other person in it. And he refuses for it to be you.

Goosebumps rise on your skin from the chill of the night as the moon keeps you hidden from plain sight. You’d forgotten your jacket in your haste to leave your apartment. Suguru would have scolded you-

The same Suguru that you’re currently trailing after. He’d slipped out in the middle of the night after you’d heard him whispering furiously on the phone.

The only thing you’d heard him say was ‘Shibuya Station’ and that’s where you will follow him to.

You had to know why he’d all but ran out in a panic at 2:19 AM.

It’s eerily quiet as you try your best to keep up with his long strides without making noise but it becomes nearly impossible to. Suguru doesn’t look back, not even once, as he cuts through the dimly lit streets as fast as he can.

You look both ways out of habit before sprinting across the next street. You have to sprint just to keep up with his strides, despite that he’s about thirty feet in front of you. Something in you is forcing you to keep up with him, to follow him down this path no matter where it takes you. How can he just leave you in the middle of the night? With no explanation? He must be going somewhere important.

If it’s important enough to hide from you, considering that he’s nearly running through the empty streets. How can he just leave you behind so easily and keep you in the dark?

Your mind is running a mile a minute as your legs struggle to keep up. A deep sense of foreboding fills your belly when frigid whips of wind tickle your face. But you keep going. You have a burning desire to know why your boyfriend snuck out to Shibuya station in the middle of the night.

Yaga always said your curiosity would get you hurt someday, after all.

Suguru’s ears twitch as leaves crunch behind him along with the quiet sounds of the night, but he pays no mind to it. He’s stuck in concrete quicksand as the ground is swept from under him as he stares with wide eyes in disbelief. Is he in some old memory plucked straight from a deep crevice in his brain? Or is this the current reality? Blinking his eyes rapidly changes nothing. Because in front of him stands someone he hasn’t seen in over a year. His best friend who he never was able to say goodbye to.

It’s like he’s staring into a mirror, but a pair of strikingly blue eyes stares back at him.

“It was you this entire time,” Suguru exhales.

“Oh, please,” Gojo Satoru says airily with a too casual shrug of his hand, “Don’t pretend like you didn’t know.” The neon lights of the train station bounce off of his skin eerily, almost making him appear translucent.

Suguru tries, and fails, to look shocked.

“Oh, fine,” Suguru shrugs, finally allowing a smile to spread across his face, “You’re such an attention whore. And always so dramatic.”

His footsteps are slow as Suguru grits his teeth to force his legs to move. With his breath hitching in his throat and the wind blowing through his hair, he finally gets a good look at Gojo Satoru. His eyes are as bright as ever, iridescent and eerie with the backdrop of the moonlight.

Dried (or is it fresh) blood is splattered along his porcelain skin. Suguru ignores the urge to rub it away.

“I brought your sunglasses,” he manages to say, the words feeling choked in his throat. Blood hums under his skin, singing at the sight of a very much alive Gojo Satoru.

“I was wondering where they went,” Gojo says with a laugh. Suguru’s skin crawls with the sound.

“Everyone thinks you’re dead.”

“You didn’t, did you?” he asks in a sing-song voice, “You knew this entire time. You sly dog.”

Suguru says nothing, only stepping forward closely enough to place the sunglasses over Gojo’s eyes. He’s not very different from a year ago, apart from the dead look in his otherwise sparkling eyes and the fresh scar on the side of his face. Gojo winces when his fingers brush over the mark on his smooth skin.

“I guess someone put up a fight, huh?” Suguru says with a soft laugh.

“Yeah, what a pain,” Gojo snorts, “Are you…mad at me? I did this for you, you know-”

“I never asked you to, Satoru,” Suguru replies, “Don’t put this on me.”

“Yes! Yes, you did! You said it, you said I had to prove it to you. Prove that I was serious.”

“And this was the answer?” he chides him, cupping his cheek, “You didn’t have to fall off the face of the earth and commit a killing spree just for attention, you know.”

“Besides, did it even matter? You were with that whore anyway. I know you love her, you liar-”

“She’s not a whore, Satoru,” he says with a wide grin and pauses for two full seconds, “You can apologize to her yourself. She’s right behind me, hiding in those bushes.”

You stumble backwards into fallen leaves and branches despite your failed attempt at staying perfectly still and trying to blend into the trees. Should you run? Should you stay? Should you confront your boyfriend for being in love with a serial killer?

You should’ve just stayed home instead of following your boyfriend into the woods.

The sound of your heart thudding in your ribcage as the light autumn breeze whispers in your ear to run keeps you stuck in place. But you can only keep watching as two pairs of eyes, one of them belonging to the man you love, turn fully to stare you dead in the face.

Shards of cerulean wash over you as Gojo Satoru, the man you’d only read articles about, stares at you as if you’d offended him.

And then he laughs. Loudly and derisively, the sound gnawing at your skin. A wave of realization tumbles over you- it’s the same laugh you heard on the elevator, on the phone, in empty spaces…

You shiver, the frigid air seeping deep into your bones and settling in as melancholy.

You want to go home- to the place that you shared with Geto Suguru. Does that place even exist anymore?

“You can come out, sweetheart. I don’t bite,” the man with blue eyes has an oddly soothing voice. It still sends goosebumps up and down your arms, but you still shuffle out of the bushes and stand with your shoulders squared and your head held up high.

“I have the cops on speed dial,” you lie, your voice coming out a whisper rather than the roar you want it to be, “You- fucking- murderer!”

“Oh, that’s cute. Your friend is so smart,” he jeers, winking at Suguru, “You call the cops on me, you call the cops on your pretty boy boyfriend over here.”

It doesn’t fail you that they’re holding hands.

“H-how,” you finally let the mask fall, “How could you- I love, loved you and this? This is what I get?”

“I’m sorry, just so we’re both on the same page,” Gojo interjects, “Are you mad because he cheated on you or because he’s in relations with a murderer-”

“Shut the fuck up-”

“I can see why you like her so much, Suguru-”

“Enough!” Suguru interrupts you both as his patience begins to wear thin. He pinches the bridge of his nose before casting his eyes to you. You try your hardest not to wither in the iciness of his gaze, but you’ve always struggled with feeling small around him. There is nowhere to turn to, nowhere to go when he closes the gap between you both.

“I gave you everything,” you all but beg him, “I loved you, I-I wanted to-”

“You still do love me,” Suguru gently corrects you while cradling your jaw with his hand. As if he wouldn’t shatter you into a thousand pieces just with his touch. He already is.

“Fuck you,” you manage, feeling your hands begin to shake, “You? And him? Are you aware that your boyfriend is a fucking murderer? Or did that slip by you-”

“Love makes you do crazy things,” Gojo Satoru interjects, his voice sugary sweet and dripping with condescension. His voice sounds much closer than where he was before and he almost sounds displeased. “You should know.”

“And how would I know that, you stalker, you murderer-” you shriek, all sense of rationality slipping out of your grip, “With those fucking phone calls! I bet you got a kick out of it, didn’t you? All those terrified women-”

“Don’t worry, your fear was the most delicious, sweetheart,” his voice comes from right behind you and you rip your cheek away from Suguru’s hand to glare at Gojo.

“Oh, come on, don’t tell me you weren’t suspicious that something was going on! You can’t be that stupid. Suguru has better taste than that,” he jeers, his phony smile morphing into a sinister smirk.

You stay quiet, letting your gaze fall on Suguru. He at least has the decency to meet your eyes once more, his grip on your cheek tightening. Suguru struggles, watching your eyes swell with defeated tears. You close your eyes so he doesn’t see but his thumb catches them anyway.

“Just tell me one thing,” you whisper, “Were you with him? Those times you said your friend was in town? Were you an accomplice?”

Suguru’s silence is deafening and it crushes you infinitely. You close your eyes in despair and a little disgust, the images of him in your home, in your lap, in your bed fogging up your mind. This is the man who was at his rock bottom a year ago and now he stands tall in front of you with no remorse in his unreadable eyes.

He used to be an open book to you, his heart hanging high on his sleeve. You used to be able to read right through him, seeing through his mask of indifference. But maybe that was on purpose. Suguru wanted you to see only what he wanted you to see. He kept you close enough for you to care about him but far enough for you to actually know him.

Geto Suguru is layers deep of blood, bone, and sorrow and you never even touched the first layer of him.

“I loved you, I really did,” he says quietly.

“But you love him more? A serial killer?” you mumble, looking at him with lovesick eyes, “Nothing would’ve been enough for you. Nothing is enough for you, Suguru. When your boyfriend realizes that, he’ll kill you, too.”

You pause with a shuddering breath, your love and trust for him coalescing at the tip of your tongue. The words die there and you seal your fate with just a few words.

“Or maybe you’ll kill him first.”

A pair of unfamiliar, unwelcome hands wrap around your throat before you have the chance to dispel a breath from your shaking lips. All you can do is watch Suguru with pleading eyes, wordlessly begging him to just remember who you are to him.

You choke, breaths sputtering out as your lungs both expand and collapse with each blink of your eyes. You reach out for Suguru while clawing at his hands and kicking, trying to scream into the night for someone, anyone, for Suguru to do something as simple as save you.

He can’t take it anymore. Suguru turns away, looking up at the moon.

“Enough, Satoru. Not here.”

Eight Months Later

Mei Mei hasn’t stopped searching for you and Geto Suguru. Not when any credible leads led to dead ends, not when the police have slowed their search. Not even when the string of routine murders abruptly stopped. But the damage was done- the people of Tokyo and Kyoto were terrified to leave their homes and it would take time, maybe even years, to change that.

The police released a statement that they have a few persons of interest. Mei Mei isn’t so certain.

Nanami Kento has taken a leave of absence from his role as lead detective on the case. He refuses to share the details with her, but Mei Mei knows that something far more sinister is happening deep within the underbelly of Japan.

She can’t place her finger on it.

So, she continues like this for nearly nine full months, chasing down anything remotely related to you or Suguru or the murders. But it’s as if there’s a concrete wall up between her and the rest of the world. Information is hard to come by.

It’s only when she is in her kitchen a few nights later, putting together something resembling a dinner relatively late in the evening. A piece of stark white paper stuck under her coffee machine catches her eye. She doesn’t remember seeing it there this morning, how strange-

Mei Mei gasps and nearly falls to the floor when she sees familiar handwriting written on the piece of paper. She looks around, eyes darting to her front door and her balcony. How could anyone have possibly gotten inside without the alarms going off?

Reading the note over and over again for the seventh time doesn’t do anything to silence the noise of her rattling heart:

“Don’t look anymore.”

TAGS: @kentobean @aeanya @kalineedsasupportkento

#geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #suguru x reader #satosugu #jjk x reader #suguru geto x reader

256 notes · View notes

winterwandersland · 13 days

Text

Paperwork

cw/tw: slight swearing, very very very brief flashback of an assault, implied sexual relations word count: 5.5k Kamara continues to decrypt the flashdrive but makes an unexpected discovery.

Chapter Three

“Mare, are you doing okay over there?” Sergeant Riker stood against the door frame of the closed off room that was being used as an office. The desk Kamara sat at had multiple scratches and dents that made it obvious that it was over a decade old. There were initials graved right next to the computer that she constantly ran her fingers over as she worked, keeping her mind focused on its ridges rather than the clicking of the clock that was counting down. The code was running fluidly, though it flowed in a form that was unusual to her.

“Yea. It would be a lot easier if I didn’t know somebody was looking over my shoulder every two seconds.”

“I’m not over your shoulder. I’m by the door. You got about two more minutes before this thing blows.” The two bickered like siblings, nobody knowing whether they loved or hated each other. They were constantly at each other’s throats, but they also protected each other, though there were many times when Riker’s protection wasn’t needed because there was almost always a figure lurking behind Kamara, scaring off anyone who came too close. This was not one of those times.

“That’s too bad because I’m already done.” She slowly turned toward Riker, her hand on her hip as a smirk crept on her face. “You cocky motherfucker.”

“I’m not cocky. Just great at my job. Bet you wish you were as good as me, don’t ya?”

“Nah. I think I’ll keep my sanity.”

“I have my sanity.”

“Sane people know when to cut their losses.”

“If I had cut my losses, this whole quad would have blown and we would have lost all of our progress.”

“Better than losing our lives.”

“Funny you say that given I’m pretty sure we’re still breathing, and the decryption is done. Here’s the drive by the way. Might want to get that to the Captain.” She walked toward him as she extended her hand with the flash drive to the Sergeant. It wasn’t that he hated Kamara. He actually adored her, but it sometimes seemed like he was the only one who worried about her, everyone else letting her run wild just because she was an excellent asset.

The building shook and a blare filled the room, causing Kamara and the sergeant’s ears to ring, unable to hear each other. The sergeant yelled something, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying. Her vision blurred while she tried to scope out her surroundings, still trying to keep herself steady by holding onto Riker as he covered her. The cement ceilings covered the room in dust after another shock hit, bringing the soldiers back to their knees as they lost their balance.

“Bombs!” Kamara yelled and grabbed the sergeant that kneeled by her side, who kept his body over hers, protecting her from any debris that fell from above them. They went towards the entrance and made their way down the path that they first tracked down to find the abandoned building with a computer lab that held a flash drive with a code that could have detonated three bombs across the country. Keeping their heads ducked and staying low, they trekked through fallen debris, using only the flashes of glares that came through the cracks to find an exit and were met with blinding lights that kept them from seeing ahead of them.

“Put your hands up! Drop your weapons!” Kamara’s ears were still ringing, unable to hear much of the commotion that was going on around her. Despite the muffled voices, she was certain she could hear Riker yelling in the background. She felt a grip on her arm and immediately grabbed it, flinging the unknown man over her shoulder and onto the ground. Red filled the pavement below them as Kamara bashed his head with the barrel of her gun. The world was spinning, but she had learned a long time ago how to fight through the toughest of issues. The rest of her team came in blurs, looking to be inside the back of an armored vehicle, but she couldn’t tell who was who and the only person with a distinct uniform was her captain.

Another man approached her and encountered the same fate as his brains painted the pavement beneath them. She pointed her gun at the next armed man that came her way, and they returned the gesture. “Don’t shoot her!” the Captain yelled.

“She just killed two of my men. Why should she live?” The man’s voice was strongly accented, clearly a citizen of the country they were in. Five men surrounded Kamara, pointing their guns at her and yelling complete gibberish, which she identified as Russian once her hearing eased its way back to her. “Mare, put your weapon down!” Though the Captain and Kamara had their differences, she was still his teammate, and he didn’t want to see her killed just because of her prowess.

“Mare? Что это за позывной (What kind of callsign is that),” one soldier jested to his comrades.

“Интересно, почему они так ее называют (I wonder why they call her that),” another one said, each unaware that Kamara could understand them. “Хотите узнать (Want to find out)?” she scorned.

The man who seemed to be the leader of the group cocked his head at the blood-covered woman who continued to aim her firearm at each man, making circles as she practically spun to watch each of her blind spots.“She speaks Russian,” he said, then hitting the other man next to him on the arm with a smile. “I think Viktor is going to like her. Take her with the rest.” The men came towards her and she let off a shot, clipping one of them in the arm, but she was disarmed too fast for her to shoot again. The men were impressed with her fighting skills, but they quickly subdued her after injecting her with a syringe, bringing her down to her knees and everything around her went blurry until she saw the darkness behind her eyelids, watching her team fade to nothing.

Simon was silent, watching as the men carried her away and put her in the vehicle next to his with the other women of the team. “What are you doing with them?” he asked. He could’ve yelled at her not to fight just like the Captain did. It would have raised the probability of her listening, but once the captors established that there’s a relationship between two people, they will do everything to break them. “Women tend to be more feisty. Easier to keep men and women separated. Don’t worry. We won’t do anything to them.”

Click. Clack. Click. It was the only sound that filled the room as Kamara concentrated on the contents of the flash drive in front of her. Simon couldn’t do much but watch, knowing that speaking would throw her off of her rhythm that she had finally reached. Only three hours had passed, but it felt like it had been ten. The sun was setting, the natural daylight beginning to beam less through the pane of windows that faced the vehicle garage.

Now and then, Kamara would sneak a glance from the corner of her eye at Simon, who continued to watch her suffer through the memories that plagued her head. At times, he would sit next to her to tell her to take a break and when she refused, he’d roll her chair away from the computer and place himself in front of it. There was no point in fighting him, so Kamara gave herself the ten minute breaks that Simon advised she took. When she was up for it, she would lay her head in his lap, focusing on her breathing while Simon gracefully stroked the top of her arm, staying away from her forearm that she kept tucked between her legs.

During the times he wasn’t watching her, he would be on his phone, texting his comrades updates on the situation. “How far have you gotten?” he asked her.

“Not far enough.” How far she actually got through the crypt, she really didn’t know. Every time she felt like she was near the finish line, it seemed like it would run away from her and become out of reach again. “You got an estimate?”

“I’d give it fifteen minutes.” Vibrations floated through Simon’s body, elated that the brutal hours were finally coming to an end, but he needed more validation before he got his hopes too high, following a common phrase of war: never celebrate until you know the war is over.

“Fifteen minutes until you’re done?”

“No. Fifteen minutes until I blow my fucking brains out.” Goddamnit.

Simon knew it’d only be so long before she was cursing out the computer and then blaming herself for not being able to do the encryption. He was surprised she had even gone as long as she did without a complaint, only when he would force her to take a break which he told himself was why she hadn’t exploded yet.

“You need another break.”

“No, I don’t.” Vigorously, her leg bounced up and down as her eyes glued to the screen in front of her. Every code on the screen drew her in, keeping her focus on the decryption needed to crack them. There was no need to look at the keyboard, her muscle memory doing all the work for her. All she had to do was think of what to type and her fingers did the job, seldomly hitting a wrong key, but nothing she couldn’t fix.

“I wasn’t asking.” His shadow started creeping towards her and she rushed to get as much done before her man was pulling her away from the computer once again. Her heartbeat quickened as the shadow got closer to towering over her. “Okay. Okay,” she said as she put her hands up in a surrendering position. “I’ll take a break. Only five minutes this time. I think I’m almost done.”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“But I just said I’m almost-.”

“You said you ‘think’ you’re almost done. If you go back and you aren’t, you’ll be upset and then the process gets worse from there.”

“Fine.” She knew he was right. Simon knew Kamara like the back of his hand. It didn’t matter how many weeks or months he was away from her. He knew everything about her, from how she liked to dress depending on her mood to how many times she had to check the front door before she went to bed, though he had tried to break her of the habit. Anything from the type of forks and spoons she preferred to use to how she liked her sandwiches cut before she ate them. He studied her from the time he laid eyes on her and kept every detail in his head since.

Each chair in the lab had wheels, which Kamara enjoyed. For parts of her breaks, she’d spend her time spinning until her eyes could no longer focus. This time, she rolled herself in the chair to face Simon and propped her feet between his legs onto his chair. Simon didn’t look into it much and just allowed her to do as she pleased, as long as she wasn’t touching the computer. “How’s it going?”

“Terrible.” She used the heel of her foot to pull herself closer to Simon and hung her leg across his lap while keeping her other one bent. Uncertainty crossed Simon’s mind, unable to tell if he could make physical contact with her without making her uncomfortable. It wasn’t anything sexual that crossed his mind, but being able to touch her, even just placing a hand on her leg, would allow him to know that she was present and she wasn’t a figment of his imagination. But he also just wanted to keep her grounded, using his touch to let her know that he was there and not back to where he mind often wandered.

“Anything I can help you with?” If he couldn’t touch her, he had to resort to other options, ones that he knew let her know that he still loved her. Her heart beat faster the closer she got to Simon, but she kept the closure between them to use as exposure therapy for herself. Images of other men crossing her mind aren’t what she wanted to see when she was with her husband. She had her arms crossed and hung her head backwards on the chair, keeping her eyes closed and mentally counting her breaths as she spoke. “Not really. I am hungry, though. The mess hall open?”

“No. But if you want, I probably have something in the office.”

“That would be nice. Can I come?”

“No,” Simon dryly said as he tapped Kamara’s leg twice to signal her to move. A smile crept on her face as she planted her feet onto the floor and followed him to his office that was only a few hallways down from the computer lab. On the way, a group of soldiers chatted near the end of the hallway as they passed by. Kamara had only been to the office a few times, but the first time was all she needed to memorize where to go, so she moved in front of Simon, practically skipping to get some source of food, even if it would be a snack he stashed months before.

She reanalyzed all of her surroundings, noting every detail that had changed since she last visited the base. Chattering filled the adjacent halls, which stopped once Kamara passed. To the soldiers’ defense, Kamara was the first one to be seen coming down the intersecting hall. They wouldn’t have whistled at her if they knew the Lieutenant would be coming in right behind her. Though she ignored them and continued to stride her way towards the office, the lieutenant memorized their faces to note to torture them during their next drills.

Kamara stopped in front of the tall, brown door and pointed at it. “This one, ain’t it?”

They both knew it was the correct door, but sometimes Kamara needed the extra confirmation because she felt like her memory couldn’t be trusted, and Simon always granted her the reassurance that she needed, never pestering her for asking obvious questions.

The office was neat, almost nothing out of place except for the organized chaos of files that sat atop. “Want to bring those to the room so you can work on them?”

“Nah. It’ll get done.” Simon kneeled down to unlock the bottom drawer that was full of protein bars that he kept for late nights. “Choose your favorite.” Kamara’s upper lip curled and her eyes narrowed as her nose scrunched up. “Wow. Could you be any happier?” None of them were her favorite, but it was fun to mess with her. She didn’t even like protein bars.

“They all look like they taste like dirt.”

“They do, but you won’t be hungry anymore. Here,” he said as he pulled out a protein bar with a blue lining and held it out for Kamara to grab. She nuzzled Simon’s hand away and continued to look through the drawer with hopes to find something other than a protein bar. “No, you take it. You haven’t eaten either. I’ll just have a different one.”

“You take it. It tastes less like dirt.”

“It’s your favorite, no?” How did she know that? He had said nothing about it being his favorite and had only inquired about hers. Simon raised an eyebrow, his head tilting so slightly it wouldn’t have been noticeable if Kamara wasn’t paying close attention. “What makes you say that?”

“Because that’s the last one. You eat that flavor the most.” Being so observant was one of Kamara’s most noticeable qualities. Every room they walked in and every field they fought in, Kamara had already memorized every nook and cranny, every object out of place, and every blind spot. Unfortunately for Simon, Kamara’s observance also involved people, himself included, so anytime he wanted to be mysterious, like everyone perceived him to be, Kamara was always the one to figure out the mystery.

“What do you think Ghost is staring at?”

“Probably his next victim.” Kamara heard the soldiers chatting while she ate her sandwich, keeping her eye on the towering man that kept his gaze on a soldier who was roughhousing with his comrades. She moved from her seat and made her way towards Sergeant Riley with her sandwich in her hand. Chewing her food, she stepped in front of him, partially blocking his line of sight. She held the bitten half of her sandwich up to him. “Eat it.”

His eyes moved toward her, but he kept his head toward the other soldier. “Is she crazy? What is she doing?” The woman’s bravery appalled the private. Everyone knew they should not talk to Ghost unless he spoke to them. He was only a sergeant, but his presence still sent chills down many soldiers’ spines.

“Nah. I’m good,” he said as he nudged her arm out of the way. “You haven’t eaten.” She held the sandwich out again. Ghost kept his head turned towards the soldiers behind her. Kamara followed his gaze, identifying the soldier that had her boyfriend’s attention. “You still mad about that?”

Just a few hours earlier, one private had made the innocent mistake of flirting with Kamara, who kindly rejected him and continued about her day. But that isn’t what pissed Ghost off. Where the private went wrong is when he caught Kamara off guard and pinned her against the wall while she left the gym. Ghost saw the scene through the window of the room, but by the time he rushed in, the private was screaming on the ground with his arm forced behind his back, small cracks being heard as Kamara drew his arm back more while he wailed in pain.

“He touched you.”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle. So eat. You’re not you when you’re hungry,” she humored, her bright smile spreading across her face while she held back her own laughter.

“You’re not funny,” Ghost said as he took the sandwich from Kamara’s hand. “I know. I’m hilarious.” He eyed the sandwich, noticing a chunk of it was missing.“You bit off of it.”

“And? You’ve had your mouth in worse places.”

He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Those places are pretty good to me.” He lifted his mask slightly to take a bite of the sandwich as he smirked. “Goodbye, Simon,” Kamara said with a shy smile as she walked away shaking her head, returning to the table she previously sat at. Moments later, the man everyone feared was sitting next to her, his gaze now on her.

“I have another box that I haven’t opened. You can have it.”

“Alright. Whatever you say,” she said as she grabbed the bar out of his hand and also grabbed another one with purple lining out of the drawer before closing it. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” With a small grin crossing her face as she locked eyes with Simon, she said the three words she felt hadn’t been said in ages,“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

By the time they made their way back to the lab, the soldiers were already gone. They figured they scattered right after the lieutenant left their sight, too embarrassed to face him again.

“Who’s that?” Kamara asked as she spotted a woman coming from the hallway of the computer lab. It was the only room down that end of the hall, so she became more alarmed when she thought the woman had been near the drive. “That’s one of the cyops I told you about. She was the only one that got somewhere. Her name is Anya.”

“Hey there, L.T.” Anya had noticeable dirty blonde hair which Kamara noticed was close to Simon’s hair color. Her hair was cut into a bob and she was only a few inches taller than Kamara was. While she wasn’t a threat to Simon, Kamara kept her eyes on her, tracking each of her movements and memorizing every feature on her body. A bead of sweat dripped down Anya’s face, but that wasn’t uncommon for people in the building. The air conditioning had been broken for ages, causing discomfort to everyone in the building. Every attempt to fix it resulted in a few minutes of warm air, followed by a few bangs to signify the air conditioning had decided it no longer wanted to run.

“Hello. What are you doing this way?” Everyone respected Ghost. He was the Lieutenant, after all. And not just any lieutenant, but the Lieutenant of the 141. Everyone on the 141 was respected, but other operators and soldiers ensured to keep their respects at an all-time high around the members of the Task Force.

“I was actually looking for you. I wanted to ask if I could give the decryption another go.”

“Thank you for your time, but we found someone else to do the decryption.” Simon and Anya kept eye contact. He didn’t feel the need to hint that Kamara was the one doing the decryption, but it was evident Anya got the hint. His voice was steady and confident, like he knew that Kamara was the one. The only one that could handle the task that everyone seemed to have failed. Kamara kept her position like Simon’s shadow, staying close behind him and letting Anya know she was there. “Oh, alright. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of much help.”

“You did great.”

“Thank you, L.T,” she said, feeling Kamara’s glare pierce her skin, and then heading down the hallway. The pair entered the computer lab and took a seat. Kamara opened up the protein bar that she pulled from the drawer and began eating it. “The hell are you doing?” It was startling how quickly Simon’s tone changed, Kamara almost dropping her protein bar like she was a child who had gotten in trouble. She raised her eyebrows and covered her mouth filled with the bland tasting protein bar. “Um…eating?”

“That’s not the one I gave you.” Oh. He noticed. Simon was about just as observant as Kamara was, if not more. The only difference was that he couldn’t memorize every detail of his surroundings like she could, but he took note of every detail that seemed important and held onto it until the mission was complete and the information was no longer needed.

“I know. The blue one is for you.”

“I gave it to you.”

“But it was the last of that flavor and it’s your favorite, so you can have it.” As much as Kamara appreciated Simon’s selflessness, sometimes she felt like she was taking more than she was giving. She wasn’t sure how she could show Simon her appreciation other than reciprocating the gestures and supporting him in whatever he needed.

“I told you I had another box.”

“I wasn’t born yesterday. Eat the damn protein bar.” The rumbling of Simon’s stomach interrupted the silence. “Nah. I’m good.” Kamara’s eyes narrowed and she held her hands on her hips.“Suit yourself. I’ll keep it in my pocket for emergencies then.” She placed the bar in the pocket of her cargo pants, her favorite pair that she had gotten when she first enlisted.

Crumbs fell onto the chair with most of the protein bar, only about sixty percent of it being able to be eaten as a whole. From the looks of it, the computer was untouched, but Kamara still had a feeling something was wrong. She ignored the twisting feeling in her chest and continued to decrypt the code for another hour. “What the hell?” Her voice was higher than usual, unlike her typical naturally deeper and raspy voice

“What’s wrong?”

“No…no…no… Simon!” He rushed over to Kamara, who was beginning to panic, her eyes nearly popping out her skull. “What is it?”

“Look!” There was nothing there—at least nothing he could see—that looked out of the ordinary. “What am I looking at?”

“Read it!” She was panicking as she pointed to the screen filled with what looked like gibberish formed into some kind of symbol. He read over the foreign code, but could find nothing peculiar about it, let alone anything that should have made Kamara as scared as she seemed. “How did I not catch this before?” A tear trickled down her face as she stared at the screen.

“I need you to tell me what’s going on, Mar.” She silently outlined the code with her finger, forming an hourglass-like symbol. “I’m not understanding.” The symbol seemed vaguely familiar to Simon, but he couldn’t put his finger on it, but it was clear that Kamara knew exactly what it was. “Did you not read the fucking screen?”

“Aye. Calm it down,” he commanded. It was rare he had to be stern with Kamara outside of the field, but sometimes it was like she forgot he was her husband and not another soldier she could speak to in any way. She took a deep breath and apologized. “It’s in Russian. I can’t read it,” he explained. Her face soured, not even realizing that the code was in Russian because it came to her just like English. She looked back at the screen and started following each line of code and inquiring,“Do you know a Kate Laswell?:

“Yes. See’s the Chief Officer. CIA.”

“Soap and Gaz.”

“What are you on about?”

“Their names are in this code with what I’m guessing is their home addresses. Price is here, too,” she explained as she pointed to another name on the list. “Do you know who this is,” she asked as she said another name.

“Laswell’s wife.” Kamara read aloud more names, including Simon’s and her own, but she halted once she reached a name that made her stomach drop. “Si, where are the keys to the garage?”

“I have the keycard right here. What’s wrong?” He pulled out the keycard attached to his keys and held it up.“You got a motorcycle in there?”

“Loads of them. Kamara, talk to me, love.” She enforced Simon’s attention to the screen as she pointed out multiple names and read them aloud: Tommy Miller. Joel Miller. Sarah Miller. Ellie Williams.

“Fucking hell.”

“We have to get to them now!”

“We can go around back to get to the garage.”

“Nah, it’ll take too long.” She unplugged the printer that sat at the end of the row of computers and picked it up to put above her head. “What are you doing?” Immediately, the windows shattered, and the printer fell to the outside ground below them. Luckily, they were on the first floor, so no one was injured. “The garage is right there. Let’s go!” They rushed out the broken window and Simon equipped his keycard to enter the garage. He broke out the keys to a car, but Kamara went right past it.

“Where are you going? The car is right here.”

“Not fast enough. Where are the keys to this motorcycle?”

“Under the backseat cover.” The revving of the motorcycle filled the garage, but Simon stopped Kamara before she could take off, holding a helmet in his hand. “Take this. You can talk through the mic. I’ll be right behind you.” She put on the helmet and immediately sped off, almost leaving Simon completely in the dust as she went past Price, Soap, and Gaz. He mounted onto his own motorcycle, the one assigned to him when he was appointed the role of lieutenant. Before he could exit the garage, he was stopped. “What’s going on, L.T?”

“No time to explain. Hop in the car and follow the GPS.” Each of them followed instructions, though Soap grabbed a motorcycle instead of getting in the car with Price and Gaz. They sped towards Simon, who was doing his best to catch up to Kamara, but from the looks of his tracker, he’d have to up his speed if he wanted to catch up to her, so he did exactly that. “Ghost, tell your wife she’s on the wrong side of the road.”

“I’m sure she knows that.”

“She’s gonna get herself killed.”

“She’ll be fine.” Since he’d known her, Kamara had always done everything in a way that was more dangerous, but efficient, somehow always coming out on the other end alive. It scared him to death, but if he didn’t tell himself that she would be okay, he would panic, and there was no time for that.

Joel’s house was an hour away—an hour and a half with traffic. Kamara was almost maximizing the speed of the motorcycle, completely leaving everyone but Simon, who wasn’t far behind her, in the dust. Soap was starting to come close behind Simon, but kept his speed lower to give him room for any hard stops.

“Oncoming traffic. She’s gonna have to slow down. There’s no side streets,” Price said through the intercom. No one was sure if Kamara could hear, but she should have been able to. The adrenaline that pumped through her veins made it harder for her to focus on anything other than getting to Ellie. Her ears filled with the drumming noise of her heart. “Mar, you’re heading into traffic.”

“I see that.”

“This is a busy street. It's a semi alley.”

She kept quiet on the other line and spotted a vehicle on the side of the street that had a wooden ramp strong enough to hold the force of the bike. “What’s she doing?” Soap asked, watching Kamara’s motorcycle speed to the side.

“There’s too many semis.”

“I told you that. You gotta find another way, Mar.”

“I am.” She revved the motorcycle more and increased the speed, flying up the ramp of the vehicle. “What the hell?” Gaz said as he witnessed Kamara on the motorcycle flying through the air. He and Price leaned forward to watch as Kamara flew above the semi-trucks and lost sight of her once she was on the other end.

“I lost visual!”

“Kamara, are you still there?”

“She must’ve damaged the comms during the landing.” Soap and Simon got around the cars once Kamara was over, but Gaz and Price had to find another way to cut through. “Contacting Laswell,” Simon said.

“Her tracker is out,” Gaz informed Ghost through his coms. “Damnit, Kamara,” Simon said under his breath. Luckily for them, there was no body and only a few scraps from the motorcycle left on the other side of the road, so they had high hopes that she was still alive. “How much further, L.T?”

“Not far.” Laswell was on the other end of the line requesting immediate intel on the situation after hearing Simon’s requests..

“Where is she now?”

“On her way to the house.”

“Okay, but she can’t go alone. She isn’t authorized.”

“She’s too far ahead.”

“She’s not armed, is she?”

“No.”

“Good, so she can’t do too much damage. As long as she controls her temper and is patient enough upon arrival, everything will be fine.”

“She’s been working on her temper at home.”

“That’s good, so she shouldn’t cause any problems then. I’ll meet you all there and follow through with your request.”

It felt like forever until everyone reached Joel’s house. Smoke filled the air and ash fell from the sky, turning the black motorcycle gray. “Holy shit,” Soap said as they approached the scene. Crowds filled the area as the firefighters attempted to put out the fire. They were struggling to do their job as they held a wailing woman back from entering the burning house.

Simon rushed over and grabbed the woman that was practically fighting the firefighters. “Kamara! I need you to calm down!” Her mourns broke his heart, her sobs uncontrollable at the thought of losing her daughter. He dragged his wife to the side of the road where no one was watching, no one important, at least. She tried to break herself from his hold and run to the house, but Simon was too strong. Soap, Gaz, and Price issued everyone back to their homes, clearing the scene for any incoming backup Laswell may bring.

“Mar, listen to me.” Every noise and voice around Kamara was muffled. The only thing she could hear were her own screams that strained her throat. Her chest tightened like she could feel her lungs being crushed by a bed of rocks and her heart being squeezed too tight.

“She’s dead,” she sobbed into Simon’s arms. He held her as tight as he could, trying to keep her wails muffled between the two of them. “She’s dead! I was too late! She’s gone!” Her tears stained his shirt, his own almost breaching his eyes as the weight of Kamara and her pain nearly suffocated him.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Two Point Five

13 notes · View notes

razorblade180 · 9 months

Text

Thief’s Gambit

After a routine patrol of Vacou, Carmine sits on a rooftop, quietly on a rooftop. Normally she’d be ready to return home, but tonight she was given an anonymous request to wait at the Kingdom’s central location. Not one to ignore suspicious events, Carmine didn’t dare ignore the request. She’d get her answers soon enough. After all, there was someone already approaching behind her.

???: Such a goodie two shoes. It’s really impressive.

Carmine:What do you want, Mona?

Mona:Abrasive as ever. I thought you would’ve been a little surprised to learn I sent the request. After all, I really can’t stand you.

Carmine:Which is why I’m not surprised. *turns around* So what? Is this where you pull your daggers out and “settle the score?” I have to warn you I am incredibly tired and won’t hesitate to arrest-

Mona:Blah blah blah! Let me speak god damnit! You long winded types are so annoying. I’m here to ask you for a once in a lifetime favor. And before you say anything, no, it has nothing to do with a dumb relic sword.

Carmine:Wasn’t thinking about it until you said something. Not like I have access to it anyway. Cut to the chase already.

Mona:Later on tonight, I will be meeting with Aero and officially be resigning from his little gang. Do not tell him I’ve met with you. Soon I shall-

Carmine:No.

Mona:What? I haven’t even told you my favor in full yet!

Carmine:My opinion of you is rock bottom. Even so, you’re no idiot and do think of other’s feelings. It’s the leash Aero has on you that stops me from arresting you repeatedly and you know that. So…leaving the gang only means one thing. You’re planning on doing something completely out of line. You don’t want them associated and you don’t care about going to jail.

Mona:Heh, wow. There really is brain behind those annoying scarlet eyes. Too bad it only works for justice and is only half right. I don’t plan on rotting in a cell. If- When I pull this off, it’ll mean you’ll never see me again.

The air between them fell silent, Carmine’s curiosity piqued. Though she wasn’t sure that was good, given how Mona casually walked closer with her hands behind her head and stopped the the building’s ledge to look at the kingdom.

Mona:May favor is simple. I am going to do something horrible, and I need you to look the other way.

Carmine:I think you forgot how I spend my days making sure horrible things don’t happen. Plus I’d never make a promise with something that vague.

Mona:Ugh, I can see why you don’t have friends. Listen, I’m not telling you to not do your job. As a matter of fact, do all you can to save the innocent, but only that. Don’t come after me. Keep your pretty little eyes on the situation at hand and be the good little girl people think you are. Although we both know despite my “goodie little two shoes” remark, you’re more than willing to raise a little hell for the sake of humanity. It’s the only fun thing about you.

Carmine:You’re doing a really bad job of asking for favors.

Mona:Come now. Don’t pretend you don’t love the idea of never dealing with me again. You hate me as much as I hate you.

Carmine:I couldn’t care less about you honestly. You’re a broken person who’s no good for the people around her. Not that it’s your fault for being so…you. In fact if there’s anything we can agree on it’s how your mother should be put through hell and back.

Mona:Heh, fair enough. You saying we might’ve actually enjoyed each other’s company?

Carmine:Hell if know. As it stands, you’re like an ill dog in the Pound. Nobody can afford to take you in and nobody will be surprised when you suddenly aren’t around anymore.

Mona:Won’t stop a certain someone for being sad though. Perhaps I haven’t been phrasing this correctly. Don’t count this a favor to me. Consider it as doing Aero one. Like you said, nobody can afford to take me in and I personally never planned on turning my life around. Shouldn’t you be doing everything possible to cut me out of his life as quickly as possible?

Carmine:….

Mona:Look, I can’t promise you completely safety of civilians, but this kingdom has no shortage of heroes and huntsmen. All I can tell you is this, be near the slums at eight at night. Not s minute before, understand? I’m sure between you, your mother, father, and Aero’s parents, no innocent people will die. After all, I’m not trying to hurt innocent people.

Carmine:But you are trying to hurt someone?

Mona:Duh. It’s not like you don’t do the same to further your agenda. Let me fulfill mine and the rest is history.

Carmine:…I refuse to promise I will turn a blind eye. However, I won’t tell Aero. And maybe…I’ll drag my feet a little.

Mona:Hahaha! Works for me I guess. You really are stubborn, but not unreasonable. You have an annoying way of knowing the best course, even when it isn’t popular. I guess that’s the one thing I admire about you.

Mona took off the scarf that symbolized her affiliation to the gang. Honestly she was never the biggest fan of it considering it was inspired by the very girl who stood before her. It’s only fitting it should return to her.

Carmine stared with unblinking eyes at Mona’s gesture. Strange. The notorious bandit held a twinge of pain in her eyes. Maybe…no, Carmine didn’t allow herself to even fantasize about a different outcome between them. In the end, some things are simply beyond anyone’s control. Carmine took the thin, blue silk scarf into her custody; at the very least she could treat this request seriously no matter her final decision when it comes to pass. Carmine tore the scarf in half from the middle and wrapped a portion around Mona’s arm.

Mona:What are you doing?

Carmine:For better or for worse, you were once apart of something bigger. I see no reason for you to leave empty handed. I’ll find a use for the other half eventually.

Mona:Whatever you say. Welp, see ya never, probably. At least not in this scorching dump. Remember, this talk never happened. Oh, one final thing, a token of wisdom from your elder. You might want to consider working on your people skills.

Carmine:…..

And just like that, the notorious gem of the slums fell back into the city lights. Carmine couldn’t even see the woman anymore. She’d be lying if she said she felt unbothered. No good comes from a person as chaotic as Mona getting serious. All Carmine was certain of was despite her own gifts, this was the last time she’d see that messy blue hair in Vacou ever again.

#rwby #rwby au #rwbabies #mona paulo furem #carmine arc rose #rwby rosebud

23 notes · View notes

queenburd · 1 year

Text

IM NOT MAKING A FULL FIC FOR THIS THING, YOU GET THIS.

|.|.|

“Nobody's asked me to tell them a story in a while,” the Narrator says softly, looking a little lost. His hands fidget with each other, fingers rubbing the knuckles. He glances up to meet Stanley's eyes. “Are you certain?”

Stanley sighs. He makes a little gesture, a go on. “Let's hear it.”

The Narrator swallows. He thinks long and hard, so long the silence encroaches on all sides in the dark, surrounding them in this place by the escape pod. Stanley leans his back against it and tries not to be impatient; but it isn't like a Narrator to not talk, to think so carefully about every word. Is it? In any case, it's starting to get to him.

But he said he wasn't getting into this pod until the fellow told him why he was doing all this, and Stanley sticks with his decisions. No matter how the Narrator tries to make him regret it.

(Shit, that's not fair. Not this Narrator, just his—fucking hell, this is unnecessarily confusing.)

“You are so incredibly irritable,” the Narrator says flatly, hands in his lap.

“I told you to stop poking around my skull.”

“I'm trying! I'm sorry, Stanley, it's a bad habit, I'm just much more accustomed to nonverbal iterations. I do try to keep it surface level to respect your privacy, but you are being loudly unpleasant and it's distracting.”

“God, you're just as snide as he is.”

The fellow's face falls, and his eyes dart away. Shit.

Stanley scrubs his hands over his face. “I'm sorry,” he grinds out. “I haven't had to be nice to anyone in... ever. Fuck.”

“It's alright,” the Narrator says easily, and that's just so weird, that voice devoid of judgment or harshness. Something in Stanley rattles at the wrongness of it. He quiets it fiercely. Let it be.

“Right! Okay,” the fellow slaps his thigh lightly, aggressively changing the subject. “Alright, here we go. This is the story of a man named Stanley.”

Stanley groans. The Narrator giggles (giggles!), grinning childishly at him in a sidelong glance. “I'm joking! Oh, let me have my fun, it's been ages since I got to start a story, and the beginning is always the most difficult.”

Thudding his head back against the side of the pod, Stanley gestures again. “Just get this over with.”

The Narrator laughs a little. “Thank you. Humor me for a moment, alright?”

“Mhm.”

The fellow inhales deeply, and then begins, voice smooth and strong.

“This is the Story of a man named Stanley.

Stanley worked for a company in a big building where he was Employee #427. Employee #427's job was simple: he sat at his desk in Room 427 and he pushed buttons on a keyboard.”

The Narrator swallows and his next words are still steady, but chosen very carefully.

“He was very good at it.”

Stanley blinks. That's new. He looks at the Narrator, but the Narrator isn't looking at him. He's staring at the ground.

“One day Stanley looked up from his computer to find all his coworkers missing—if they had ever been there at all—and a voice telling him a story about himself. He obeyed the voice's narrations, found a mind control facility, turned it off, and left. So it was with shock that Stanley awoke sitting at his desk, as though he had just had a very realistic dream.

So he did it again. And then again. And every time was the same. And so it came to pass that Stanley began to fight for control over his own actions, against a Narrator who wanted to tell a story about freedom, and control. For a long time, neither of them were able to capture the true irony of the concepts. They played this tug of war with each other for an imperceptible length of time, always in step with each other, like they were made to do just this, in perpetuity. And indeed, they had been.”

He sounds so far away. Miles and years separate him from Stanley, his voice the tether between them.

“Yet despite this game of spite and control, Stanley was at heart a decent fellow. Even in the face of insurmountable odds and endless deaths, he made the active decision to not give as good as he got. For all that the voice treated him with cruelty and judgment and dismissal, when the opportunity came for him to cause it pain, he only chose it with great misery. He found no satisfaction in it. He was, in every way, a better person than it deserved by any means.”

A room with lights. A stairwell to nowhere. One of the few ways he could hurt the thing that loved to hurt him. The Narrator meets his gaze and nods, but continues without comment.

“After a time, Stanley's Narrator finally remembered that the story he was so protective of was supposed to have a happy ending. So it was with shame, and regret, that he acknowledged his own failures, both as a storyteller and as an individual. He decided to be better, to do better, not in the attempts to befriend his protagonist, but because it was his responsibility. He had, after all, made Stanley, and the world Stanley was trapped in, hadn't he? Wasn't it his obligation to take care of those things? Even if Stanley never forgave him, the narrator would—would...”

He trails off, and there is such a sadness in his face. Despite himself, Stanley wants to put his hand on the fellow's shoulder to ground him. But the Narrator squeezes his eyes shut, hard, and then shakes his head firmly, before he speaks again.

“And then one day something very frightening occurred. Something that would forever change Stanley, his Narrator, and the nature of their relationship. He had been sitting in the Museum for nearly half an hour trying to avoid the voice, when he realized that on the wall in front of him was a list. He had seen this list many times of course, but he had never really thought as to what it meant. So it was with confusion and growing concern that he finally paid attention to the large word written above the list.

Credits.”

The Narrator shivers.

“And there, on the wall, were names, and included in the list were things like “Stanley Model” and “Narrator”, with names attached. It was with horror that the realization struck Stanley in the face—not only was he not real, as the Narrator had always said, but so indeed was the voice that had relentlessly pursued him. It, too, was little more than trapped within the confines of the game that it claimed to have created. They were not captive and captor, but in fact two prisoners in an endless hell, designed for this hell. He had not, in fact, been in opposition to a godlike entity, but a thing even more trapped than he was. It couldn't follow him everywhere.

And the saddest fact of the matter was that it didn't even know. It had no idea that it was--”

The Narrator stops, covering his mouth as he inhales sharply. “I'm sorry,” he says, his voice wavering. He doesn't look at Stanley. “I—I'm sorry, I thought I was past this, do give me a moment--”

“Hey, hey,” Stanley starts, and this time he does place his hand on the Narrator's shoulder. He doesn't know if he's the best person for keeping someone calm. “Take it easy.”

There's a broken giggle, somewhat hysterical. “I—Ha. One would think, after years of having this information, it would stop driving me to the borders of madness.”

The Narrator takes a deep, fortifying breath. “I'm alright. Thank you. I'm sorry, this—the story's getting away from me. It should be shorter from here.”

“It's fine,” Stanley says, brow furrowed. He finds, honestly, that he doesn't mind it, though it does leave him a little shaken. He feels like this is new information, but at the same time, it feels like somewhere deep in his gut he already knew. Isn't that strange?

One more deep breath, and then the Narrator speaks again.

“Armed with this new information, Stanley and the Narrator decided together that they would make the best of the world they had access to, and they chose together to tell a new story within it. One of companionship, and compromise. And so the years passed with the two of them working together as equals within the confines of the Parable. They made jokes out of every ending, imbued them with new meaning and context. They managed to find ways to surprise the other, and keep it all refreshing.”

“It was with the introduction of the Stanley Parable: Ultra Deluxe that new assets were added to the game, giving them more ideas and more ways to surprise and delight each other. After a time, when the attention for the game had died down a bit, Stanley's Narrator made something quite special. After years of being little more than a voice in an office, he had made a character model with the new assets and features.”

He looks at his hands, turning them at the wrist, a smile stretched across his face.

“The Narrator always struggled with making choices, but he was quite happy with the end result, because he felt it really captured how he had changed and grown as a person. Stanley certainly approved of it. For a time, they ran through the Parable and all its endings, simply happy to make new memories and meanings alongside the old ones. It was after they had explored all their options and become as close as two people could ever be, that the Narrator finally managed to find a way to get the escape pod to work. They decided that they would leave the Parable together, two best friends in a new world.”

So strength in his voice, such warm joy. Stanley's only ever heard his Narrator speak like this in regards to jokes about the bucket.

It makes the next bit all the more painful:

“Only, when the pod door closed, the lights went out, and when they came back on again, the Narrator was alone.”

He sounds dead. He sounds hollowed out.

(“the end is never the end is ne--”)

A hand smacks at Stanley's arm lightly, halting his thoughts. There's very little light in the Narrator's eyes when he shakes his head. Don't. Do not think about that.

“Sorry,” Stanley says, feeling a little cold. Yeah, it's a bad spiral to remember even secondhand, so he can only imagine how experiencing it was. The emptiness in the Narrator's voice was just...

He can imagine that, for a while, the thought would have looped, and looped, and looped. The Narrator was alone.

The Narrator curls his arms around himself, curls them in his sleeves. He stares at his shoes.

“When he came to his wits, the Narrator found himself in a Parable that wasn't his own, with a different Stanley and a different Narrator, and a dynamic that had never gotten further than Stanley choosing kindness and the Narrator choosing cruelty. Horrified, and confused, the Narrator worked with this new Stanley to get to the escape pod, to freedom, in the hopes that maybe this time, they could get out together and find his Stanley, and then everything would be okay.

And then the pod door closed, the lights went out, and when they came back on, the Narrator was alone. Again.

And again.

And again.”

He stops talking.

There is no The End. There is no conclusion to the story. Because, Stanley realizes with growing nausea, for this Narrator:

The end was never the end. Not ever.

“How many times--”

“I've lost count,” comes the dull reply. “I don't want to count. I don't want to know. I just need to help you escape, because every time is the same. The Parable pits Narrator and Protagonist against each other, the struggle for control against each other never gets better, and in fact it only ever seems to end in the Narrator being so pigheaded and arrogant that his counterpart risks being crushed under the weight of it. I couldn't bear it, Stanley, I couldn't bear seeing every version of me try to destroy every version of him.”

There's disgust in his tone, disgust Stanley is familiar with and is usually the cause of. To see a Narrator direct it at what is basically himself makes his stomach turn. The fellow laughs humorlessly.

“That's the joke, isn't it? Perhaps I could have learned to one day forgive myself for being so cruel in the beginning, if I had managed to escape. Perhaps I'm actually meant to be beyond redemption, and this is a forceful reminder from the Parable that I'll never be more. Or,” and he laughs again, verging again into the hysterical, “perhaps I have become more, and that was the problem, because I was never supposed to change. Perhaps I'm the one iteration that broke the game, and this is just my punishment for it.”

“No,” Stanley says, “No, no, fuck that.”

A snort, perhaps a touch dismissive, which makes his hackles raise. “What do you think, then? Is there a point to this? God, why did I even--”

“Stop. Hey, stop.”

The Narrator inhales sharply, and then covers his mouth again, eyes squeezed shut. Stanley pretends not to notice the tear that escapes.

“I think,” Stanley says, and it's hard to do this, because he's not good at comfort, but dammit he's going to try, “I think that you're doing a good thing. You're helping us, right? You, you're choosing to help us. I think that's admirable.”

Silence, for a moment. The Narrator swallows.

“Scale of one to five, just how much of getting that out felt like swallowing tacks?”

“Ugh, five five five,” Stanley groans, head forcefully thudding back against the pod wall again. “Imagine me just slamming that button repeatedly.

The Narrator laughs. Stanley can't help himself—he grins, shaking his head at nothing.

#The Sparrow Parable #may writes #repeat and write this story

41 notes · View notes

lockandkeyhyena · 8 months

Note

long anon again! I hope you don't mind me sending you so many asks, your story has been producing so many thoughts out of me lately!

Not sure if this is too personal but I do want to clarify that I am myself a victim of multiple occurrences of grooming / attempted kidnapping. My whole family is comprised of mainly women / children and while I am no victim to any sexual act myself, it is unfortunately very common among the other members of my family (my older sibling is a direct result of csa, our mother is still haunted by the trauma to this day, she turned to drugs and everything it is very bad). I'm for sure not offering my support without any personal say in the matter haha

I feel like, despite my support for your story, my own personal views are very different from yours (and from the other anons who have spoken their own personal support). While I enjoy exploring the humanity of horrible people in media, I feel like in real life, it only truly makes me hate them more. If that makes sense?

The way I see it... Yes, these awful criminals are human, but that only makes their actions worse. They are entirely capable of care and consideration. Of recognizing right from wrong. And yet they make the choice to hurt others in some of the worse ways imaginable, deliberately, sometimes repeatedly, and often for nothing more than their own personal pleasure. And by the end of the day, the crime is nothing to them. They are able to walk away and live their sickeningly normal, bland lives, they are able to work their jobs, and enjoy their hobbies, and hug their mothers like it doesn't even matter. No regret. No apologies. So pity.

They are human but they are just about the worst of what our species has to offer. Forgiveness is off the table and my hatred is something I will take to the grave, and beyond, if there ever is the possibility.

Do I think these criminals can become better people? Yes, but I don't think it really matters after the deed is done. If it were up to me those kinds of criminals would spend the rest of their lives behind bars, and while I don't advocate for *torture* I for certain believe in punishment; proper consequences for ones actions. Maybe I could even tolerate rehabilitation, but never freedom. Never freedom.

To me its just another case of priority. I think of things on a mass, wider scale. These criminals are human, but they are humans who make the deliberate choice to hurt others. Some of them even *enjoy* doing it. They are a legitimate danger to the people around them, and to me it is only the logical decision to put innocent people before criminals, and especially before child predators. I cannot in good faith release someone who chooses to abuse kids out into the wild, no matter how many times I put them through a rehab program, because I absolutely cannot guarantee nobody else will get hurt.

If I make the promise that a criminal is rehabilitated, and that criminal goes on to hurt more people, well that blood would -- albeit indirectly -- be on *my* hands, wouldn't it? Am I willing to risk the lives and wellbeing of innocent people, innocent children, for the possibility of a criminal to be good? I can't do that... Maybe it isn't fair, but it wasn't fair of them to ruin an innocent persons life to begin with. There's only so much a society can do to prevent these kinds of things from happening (even a hypothetical perfect society wouldn't be able to eradicate all crime), at some point you have to make the decision to just keep bad people away from their targets. Obviously that goes without addressing the flaws of the modern day prison system, but I will not go into that.... lol

That and, I don't truly feel like *being good* is enough to constitute a 'redemption' for child abusers, at least in the real world. To me a bad person, especially of that caliber, has to *do good* in order to earn any sort of redemption. If you abuse a child and you truly regret it, I fully expect you to save 20 kids from a burning building and donate charity to victims for the rest of your life. After some proper consequences of course. Loll. Anyways those are just my thoughts!

hello again haha! no worries whatsoever, your thoughts are really interesting to read!

i think your perspective is really interesting and honestly, necessary, while it doesn’t line up exactly with mine, i can absolutely see where you’re coming from.

i definitely agree with you on the ‘being a better person’ and ‘doing better things’ aspect. you better save those children from a burning building.

and your analysis of predators being human and that making them worse is something i’ve never thought about that way and is a perspective i greatly appreciate!!

ultimately, the aim for my story is not to tell you how to feel about these terrible people but to show you that some people *can* change, regardless of people’s reactions to that.

i would personally never forgive alvin, hell i might even never stop hating him, but i think that being the case and him trying to be a better person regardless is what makes the story important.

anyway, i greatly enjoy your anons!! thank you for your thoughts haha, everyone should be reading them- you’re extremely articulate and informed

#yeen rambles #ask #csa ment #abuse ment #rape ment #hell story #alvin's infurno

7 notes · View notes

thewritersaddictions · 2 years

Text

The Rich: Tony Stark- Tabby Girl

Pairing: Tony Stark x Fem!Reader

Pov: Reader

Warnings: cuteness, cats, convincing, Tony stark, fluff, a little kissing.

Summary: Convincing Tony to get the cute tabby cat at the shelter, proves to be easier than previously thought.

A/n- firefly-graphics for dividers

WC- 1.5k

Marvel Master List // The Rich Master List

Climbing into the car I didn’t say where we were going. The driver had already been told our destination and he was just as excited bad I was about bringing a sweet little animal back home with us. The only person who didn’t know what was going on was sitting next to me.

Tony was sitting there his phone on the verge of getting thrown from the cars window. Stark industries had been taking a big hit in the stock market and it was currently driving Tony insane. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.” Tony yelled through his phone whoever was one the line must be crying by now. The call had already lasted an hour. Tony wanted a for sure answer that the stock wouldn’t drop any longer for the rest of the day, and eventually that turned into the rest of the week, then into the rest of the month.

When Tony was pissed things started to get over dramatic very quickly. I pressed my hand up on his thigh. He didn’t calm down but he did look at me. A small smile crossing his lips, before returning to the call. “I swear to all that’s holy if you don’t have an answer for me I’ll leave your firm by the end of the day.” And with that he ended the call. Fuming isn’t the word I would use for how angry Tony was.

“Baby?” I said. My hand still rested comfortably on his thigh. The suit pants weren’t soft but I rubbed small circles with my thumb. “Hmm, love?” Tony mumbled. “I won’t ask if everything is okay, but maybe just leave your phone behind when we get where we are going.” I suggested. Tony looked over at me. Brown eyes covered in sweetness, all that angry disappeared. “And where is it that we are going?” Tony asked. I raised one brow. “I’m not telling.” I said a giggle slipping through my lips.

“Driver where are.” Tony went to ask, “He won’t tell you.” I said interrupting him. “That have something to do with you Y/n?” Tony asked a small smile seeping through his eyes.

I shrugged my shoulders. A smirk crossing my face, a mischievous grin. Everything that told Tony I was lying straight to his face. “Well, we’ll I guess I’ll just have to be okay with that love. It better be a damn good surprise too.” Tony said taking a long sigh and then shutting his eyes for the rest of the drive.

Tony grabbed for my hand and interlocked our fingers together. The rest of the drive to the shelter was done in complete silence. Passing buildings and long streets filled with people walking from their jobs.

New York City was a large and beautiful place filled with many people and craved into the hearts of every American as the home of the avengers and the home to Stark industries. Bedsides that the car came to stop, the sliding privacy door opening.

The driver told us that we had arrived. Not disclosing where he had parked the small economy car. That was for Tony to simply find out. “Tony.” I whispered into his ear. “Love you have to let go of my hand so we can get out.” I said. He mumbled something and let go of my sweaty hand. I got out, and ran over to Tony door.

Tony was the icon of New York, so it was hard to go anywhere and not be bumped into by thousands of adoring fans. I never did mind that, watching Tony work a crowd of fans. As Iron man or Mr. Stark.

I quickly looked around searching, for a large growing crowd of people but found nothing. The shelter I had picked to go to was far enough of our town and far enough away from the big apple that I guess nobody was concerned about me or the man that walked out of the car.

Before getting out of the car Tony slipped on his sleek black shades. Ones that he wore when he was going for a certain braver look. He took my open hand and I shut the door behind him. He was still gazing in my eyes before a great deal of barking distracted him.

Raised brows that could be seen over the shard raised. I giggled a little before looking away from Tony’s jaw. “Ah so I see now why you wouldn’t dare tell me where we were going.” Tony quipped.

I rolled me eyes I interlocked our hands again and walking us towards the large open doors of the shelter. “We are here to look for a support animal for you Tony. Well maybe for the both of us.” I commented. The lady at the front desk had the cutest pair of scrubs on. A dog and cat print. “Hello ma’am are you looking to adopt a pet or just do some volunteering?” She asked her peppy voice vibrating off the walls.

“Looking to adopt.” I said squeezing Tony’s hand. “Yes looking to adopt.” Tony said through gritted teeth. Tony never did like being surprised or lied to, but frankly he knew I didn’t care and that I was going to do whatever I wanted and he would have to roll with it regardless.

The front desk lady opened the door towards the back rooms. The loud sounds of barking and a few meows could be heard when you first enter the shelters walls, but the longer you walk around the shelter the louder everything gets.

Cement walls that give vibrations towards the loud yipping and meowing. I let Tony lead us. He eyes grazing over small and large pups, large dogs with floppy ears, small dogs with large eyes. All staring at us as we walked. Some jumped onto the fence doors, some just laid pitifully on the ground.

We walked pasted every single dog. Every single fence door. It was hard large eyes that take your soul and drag you towards them. Into their fluffy hearts.

Tony was dragging me towards something else though. The cats, and the kittens that roamed around one room. “Look at them.” Tony said finally. Pointing towards some of the tinier kittens. Most were sleeping and fighting with what looked like their siblings.

We walked quietly through small patches of kittens as they slept. I saw the slightest smile grow into Tony’s expression. I smiled towards myself. Finally a good idea ones that would make all of Tony’s anger disappear.

Finally we made it to a larger room cars where in their own lockers. Each cat meow at us as we passed. Then Tony stopped us. His eyes g stuck on this one cat. A tabby cat.

Orange as the sun, her cute fluffy. A little fat and chubby, but there something about the way she looked loving towards Tony. Tony turning our hands still connected. Tony’s voice was small as it had ever been as he started talking to the tabby cat.

“How are you sweet girl?” Tony asked. The car just meowed and leaned into his touch. “What’s your name?” He asked her, before looking at the small tag that laid on the cages top. “Angel? Hmm I think that fits” Tony said. I watched the whole experience. Tony and this cat looked perfectly connected.

Arms crossed I waited till Tony was done talking to Angel. He turned pleading eyes looking back out at me. “What do you think?” Tony asked me. “I think she’s lovely.” I said with a small grin plastered on my face. “ you sure Y/n?” Tony asked me. He was trying to do something that wasn’t necessary. I just kissed his cheek and went to go find a volunteer to help us with adopting the large orange tabby cat.

“Angel” The front desk lady said as we walked out of the doors. Tony grinned with a large smile. “Yes ma’am.” He said. “You’ll love her, she’s truly the sweetest.” The lady said before Tony and I walked out the door. Tony opened my door for me before placing the cat between the two of us. Taking his spot in the seat. He couldn’t help himself and he opened the small cat carrier.

The cat knew exactly what was happening and jumped from her spot and right into Tony’s lap. Adoring eyes for the cat and lots of pets later we arrived back at the house. “We have to get things for her before the end of the night babe.” Tony said to me. My cheeks hurt as I continued to smile throughout the day.

I had seriously thought it would be harder to try to get Tony to adopt an animal from a shelter but something had drawn him to the large tabby cat. And that large cat had caused such a great deal of happiness that I was more than glad my idea worked out.

Before Tony went to get all the toys and other things that the sweet tabby cat needed Tony kissed me sweetly. His hands rested on my cheeks, and all of my heart went into that kiss. “Thank you for not telling me where we were going. I love you Y/n.” Tony whispered against my lips before leaning in for another hasty kiss and leaving me with our brand-new cat. A new bonding was starting and I was all for it.

Completed on: 11/26/22

Posted on: 11/27/22

The Rich-

63 notes · View notes

hoursofreading · 1 year

Quote

As a leftist, my core political assumption is that we are all responsible for each other’s material well-being, that we have a duty to build the kind of society where everyone’s basic needs are met, where everyone enjoys a certain degree of material comfort, and where our rights are respected equally regardless of race, religious, sexual and gender identity, ethnicity, or creed. That is the kind of mutual caring that I signed up for when I became politically conscious as a teenager. I never signed up for a vision of a society that helps everyone out there to constantly feel valid, mostly because society could never achieve such a thing. Nobody walks around feeling good about themselves all the time! Where on earth did people get the idea that human beings are meant to enjoy a permanent sense of mental security and social validity? That’s a totally unworkable and in fact quite cruel standard. If you want to be good to yourself, I suggest that you stop expecting society to be your therapist and go see licensed medical professionals in private to address the issues in your life that are appropriately treated that way. And if you want to be good to your society, I suggest you help to defeat the medicalization of everything, the casualization of the concept of trauma, the celebration of mental disorders, the assumption that everything that makes us unhappy is an injustice, the insistence that all conflict is abuse, and the infantilization of the human animal. That’s the best way to help. I would never respond to someone telling me that they’re in pain by saying that I don’t care. In fact I’ve spent hours talking complete strangers through mental health crises. But if you care for people you try to walk them towards self-reliance, dignity, and toughness. Not from a lack of compassion, but precisely out of compassion. What compassion calls for is not pop therapy or affirmation but the extension of adult respect, helping people to endure a tragic earth. What’s required in the days ahead is for all of us to be a little harder on ourselves while we fight like hell for a world with less poverty, racism, injustice, sexism, and inequality. And we have to unwind a lot of bad habits of mind that have become inescapable before they hurt more people than they already have. Yeah, sometimes you have imposter syndrome. And sometimes you feel like an imposter because you actually do suck at what you’re trying to do. Sometimes she’s not a narcissist, she just doesn’t love you the way you want her to, and she never will. Sometimes you don’t have ADHD, you just hate your job. Sometimes your boss isn’t a sociopath, he’s just correctly identified you as unqualified for a leadership position. Sometimes you really do have schizophrenia, only there’s nothing glamorous or exciting or romantic about it, and now you’re fat from meds and trying to hold down a steady job and going to support group to drink grainy coffee and hear people tell the same stories over and over again. And sometimes you’re just in pain because the world didn’t turn out the way you wanted it to, and you’re trying to scratch out a life you can live with, and you get overwhelmed with your mundane unhappiness on the subway home from work, and you think to yourself that it must be true that your suffering is something grander, something that calls out for medical attention and reasonable accommodation, something more that makes it easier. But it isn’t and it doesn’t and there isn't and you're just another good, deserving human being filled with the pain of being alive. I’m sorry. I am genuinely so sorry. You wanted things, and you didn't get them, and it hurts. You wanted to be something else, and you're what you are, and it hurts. You thought life would be more than it is, and it isn't, and it hurts. Me too. All of it hurts. So let it hurt.

Prologue to an Anti-Therapeutic, Anti-Affirmation Movement

#quote #advice

8 notes · View notes

thewadapan · 4 months

Text

Pitchposting: STREAMERS

Sometimes at work, I want to reach out over the counter with both hands, grab my customer by the head, and scream at them, have you ever worked a job like this in your life?

Pitch #1: Disclosure Agreements

A "streamer" is someone who broadcasts their stream of consciousness online. Riders can join or leave at any time, and experience all of the streamer's qualia, including some awareness of the streamer's thoughts and relevant memories alongside the raw sensory experience. The connection is one-way.

There's probably a stream for basically anything: adrenaline junkies skydiving or racing fast cars, artists struggling through the process of ideation in realtime, influencers eating experimental meals in foreign cafés, obviously a lot of people having a lot of sex, zookeepers, fighters, clubbers, stoners, and also one astronaut.

Casey finds streamers who are working shitty, minimum-wage jobs, and experiences their shifts with them.

It's mostly boring. It's very human. Maybe she's not the only one—there could be an entire subculture of workplace voyeurism. It can't yet be mainstream for people to be streaming their jobs, otherwise the public awareness that it's widespread would affect people's behaviour—y'know, the observer effect—so maybe it's underground. Maybe it's positive, and they're watching out of camaraderie, or maybe it's negative, and they're all just waiting for the bad day with the blow-up argument. If the workers get caught streaming, they'll be fired, so there's a strict culture of kayfabe in the riders: don't interact with the streamer, don't post their personal details anywhere. But then, what counts as a personal detail? People are breaking these rules all the time. People keep getting caught. The streams go dark. But there's always more: the world has an infinite supply of cashiers and call centre operators who just want to be seen, to be seen as a person, by anyone. Casey takes it all pretty seriously, which from a certain perspective makes her a fanatic: but her own emotions are naturally muted, repressed, given over to the people she inhabits. I think you can't help getting the sense that Casey is waiting for something, perhaps without even consciously knowing it.

One day, she's in a stream all by herself—maybe it's a night shift, maybe the job is uniquely boring or unpleasant, maybe the guy himself is offputting in just the right way that, most of the time, there's literally nobody else who wants to live in his head. And then something terrible happens. It'd probably have to be something like, he kills someone, or commits a terrible moral wrong by more subtle means (say, deliberately sabotaging a batch at his factory in a way that's likely to cause deaths), and appears to get away with it. Or maybe it's the other way around: something singularly horrible happens to him, and Casey is the only other person in the world who knows what he's experienced. Casey becomes obsessed with him, and travels to his place of work to expose him or meet him. I'm not exactly sure what the ending of this one would be like. For me, the moment this entire thing builds towards is one of rejection: Casey finally sees this guy from the outside, and he is disgusted by her and what she's done. What she envisions as a moment of catharsis or empathy turns in an instant into total alienation.

In text, this story could use a parallel-columns gimmick: the prosaic experience of the streamer on the left, and Casey's running commentary on the right. As a comic, you'd overlay Casey's thoughts as narration, while the artwork shows the streamer. I think it would be fun to do a really cold open, where it's not clear what the relationship is between these parallel narrative threads, or even that they're literally different people!

In television or movie, you could instead employ first-person POV camerawork, and/or split-screen effects. A more conventional approach might be to film Casey physically inhabiting the same scene as the streamer, jarringly substituting them from shot to shot. Casey's performance would never quite matching the emotional tone of the scene: maybe she laughs while the streamer is upset, or literally keeps making little asides at the camera.

(This story obviously wouldn't work as a video game, because the lack of agency Casey experiences—locked in, a spectator—is antithetical to the immersion and choice offered by games.)

Pitch #2: Exposure Therapy

A "streamer" is someone who relives the memory of another person, experiencing their stream of consciousness. The technology was originally intended for healthcare: memory transplants can be used for therapy, to allow patients to experience their fears in a perfectly controlled environment, or maybe even as a new form of anaesthetic; memories are a strictly controlled substance, like hard prescription drugs.

However, there's also a black market for memories: a marketplace of ideas, if you like. Suddenly, experience itself is being commodified; if you go through something terrible, that sucks for you, but hey, maybe someone will pay out the ass for you to show them that memory!

You can remember shaking the hand of a dead celebrity. You can remember going to that concert which sold out before you could get tickets. You can remember playing that concert. You can remember shooting up a school. You can remember being attacked by a bear. You can't remember what it feels like to die, but you can remember what it feels like to almost die.

And again, you can remember having all kinds of sex—but of course, this new kind of porn is harder to produce, because now all those pesky thoughts are an inextricable part of it. There's cyclical escalation where people are trying to feel better about the sex they're having, to produce more sublime smut, but the more self-conscious they're being about it, the worse it is. (I'm assuming people have thoughts like this while making regular real-world porn; the difference here, to me, is that the audience is experiencing those same thought processes, which then becomes part of it. The basic Streamers concept naturally lends itself to stories entirely about sex, via themes of intimacy and exhibitionism, so I'm trying to take these pitches in less-obvious directions.)

A lot of people think the whole thing is sick and tasteless. There's maybe a cohort of people who believe that running these memories constitutes creating—and then killing—a clone of the person who originally experienced them; they're framed as fringe conspiracy theorists, but there's a tiny chance they're right.

Trent is an ex-veteran who has killed a man in cold blood, legally. He is disabled and struggling to pay his healthcare bills. He feels used and abandoned by the government. When he discovers that there are sickos online who will pay very well for memories of murder, he makes the choice to share this memory, despite feeling like he's only further exploiting the man whose life he took. However, when the memory goes very public, his actions come under new scrutiny from the general public, and it threatens the entire legitimacy of his country's military and government. (For a version of this story without the military, Trent is a thief who "accidentally" killed a man during a home invasion that went awry.)

I do kind of think it'd be better to have the protagonist of this one be purely a victim, rather than a morally-complicated victim of the military-industrial complex. The thing is, the exact trauma they've suffered massively informs the character of the story. In Trent's case, his PTSD is externalised as it becomes reality for countless strangers around the world, and his sin is reified by the media.

For me, what I find compelling about this pitch in abstract is that it's a heightening of the economic pressures that face many writers of "real" literature: readers want real experiences, which means people writing about their real traumas, which can be a way of experiencing that same trauma over and over.

Pitch #3: Composure Breakers

Kyle is a "streamer"—that is, someone who streams an experience from one person to another. He breaks into someone's home, knocks them out, and forces them to inhabit the mind of someone undergoing trauma. (Perhaps it would be better for it to be a computer virus, or a letter bomb, or a magic power, or something similarly impersonal and hands-off.) Obviously this is illegal.

It's very ideologically motivated vigilantism: Kyle believes that if only he can show a bad person what it's like to live in their victim's shoes, they will change their ways. To start with, he's been using memories donated to him consensually: "this customer is rude to me and my colleagues every single day. I want you to make her see what she looks like from the outside". Or, "that public figure is a turbo racist. I want you to show him this time I was beaten within an inch of my life for the colour of my skin". Or, "that politician keeps lobbying for hostile architecture. I want you to make him experience a single night from when I was sleeping rough". Car crashes, redundancy, cyberbullying, poisonings, gender dysphoria, theft, workplace accidents, domestic abuse, chronic illness, sexual harassment: Kyle takes them all and uses them to make people beg for forgiveness, and as his ambitions grow, he turns his attentions to bigger targets. (If he's a hacker type, maybe it's a different kind of escalation—he uses a virus on the entire userbase of an incel forum.) The results aren't always perfect, but he believes he's overall doing good.

Eventually, though, he gets a violent memory of dubious provenance, and an opportunity to use it on a very powerful person. Maybe he's purposefully sought it out on the dark web, where people are selling bad memories for stupid money. Maybe a mysterious benefactor has passed the memory on to him. It's obvious that the victim shared this memory with someone they trusted, only to be betrayed, either for money or out of misguided concern. Kyle knows it's wrong to use it, but he's convinced this memory would let him make someone change the world.

I guess it's a little unclear to me exactly how the victim finds out their trauma has been used in this way. Maybe the public figure immediately makes a very public disclosure, with lots of specific details that the victim is aghast to recognise? To Kyle, they say: how dare you make them a victim, how dare you make them anything like me. The inherent contradiction of Kyle's ideology is laid bare: he wants to reduce suffering in the world, but the only way he can think to do this is by duplicating suffering.

I think this one would live-or-die on the quality and specificity of the experiences seen towards the beginning. If I was writing it, I'd want to make sure to consult with people who've experienced similar things to whatever I chose to depict. But the idea of that leaves me uneasy, because in a way, that transmutation of other people's trauma feels like exactly the same thing I'd be criticising Kyle of doing.

The only way I could see myself writing it would be if Kyle doesn't experience any of the memories himself, and neither does the reader: instead, we see these conversations before and after, and the mundane reality of him breaking into people's homes. But then, if the audience isn't actually experiencing those memories, that feels like it instantly makes this pitch a worse version of this premise than the previous two.

Still, in terms of the moral complexity, this is the one that grabs me the most. The themes of appropriation and justice have plenty of depth to explore, and I connect more with Kyle than with the other protagonists. I feel like we've all talked to someone who just does not understand how another person or group is suffering, and thought to ourselves, I wish I could put you through it.

Influences

If you haven't read any of my previous pitchposting articles on my website, here's the rub: I have no intention of writing this story. Sometimes I get an idea in my head, and it's an interesting thought exercise for me, but it doesn't compel me enough to go through the entire process of working out specific beats. This is how all my stories start life, as a very abstract outline full of the impressions of scenes: "a joke goes here" rather than the joke itself.

Although I've presented them in a certain order to create a logical progression, Pitch #3 was what first popped into my head, with the other two being variations on the theme. I was inspired by the very recent furor over Seven Shoulders, a newly-announced book by some guy called Sam Forster who disguised himself by doing blackface to prove that racism still exists in America. To see someone trying to vicariously experience other people's misery to prove a point, while violating generally those same people's basic wishes, filled me with secondhand embarrassment; this informed Kyle's character.

If you're compelled by these pitches, here's a list of pre-existing stories I consciously drew inspiration from:

I recently finished watching the hit show Severance, in which a work/life balance is forcibly implemented by partitioning the mind; one version of yourself knows only work, and the other knows the rest of life. While Severance is a dreadful mystery-box show that I'm convinced will never be able to deliver on an ending, its core conceit is great and it has some amazing character work. Themes of memory and exploitation have been on my mind!

"It's Not the End of the World" by @alexanderwales is an unfinished series of vignettes about a superhero with voyeuristic powers, set in the world of Ward by Wildbow. I always felt like it was a shame Wales never finished this one, because I loved it.

"Lena" is a short story by qntm about digital copies of the human mind, which are exploited years into the future. It slaps!

Much of the hedonism of Pitch #1 is, weirdly enough, inspired by a film I never finished watching: Like Me by Robert Mockler, about a girl who livestreams a bunch of fucked up shit. I genuinely just didn't have the stomach for it, but I also felt like it was fundamentally misanthropic in a way which I flatly disagreed with. Don't recommend it!

Obviously this whole thing is very Black Mirror, with particular inspiration drawn from "The Entire History of You" with its recorded memories, "White Christmas" with its vicarious livestreaming, and Pitch #2's main theme draws inspiration from the ending to "Fifteen Million Merits".

Without spoiling too much, the ending of Puella Magi Madoka Magica reveals that, in our final, darkest moments, we are not alone: a higher power is there to experience our suffering with us, take it on as their own. This is probably how Casey views herself in Pitch #1.

The movie Inception is about people trying to sneak an idea into the mind of an influential individual. I picture Kyle's means of implanting memories as being similar to the apparatus depicted in that film.

I probably also drew inspiration from the memory orbs in Fallout: Equestria, an edgy doorstopper My Little Pony fanfiction which I read as a teen and which basically forms the entire basis for my work. One character in that story develops a compulsion to watch a particularly memory orb over and over, as a coping mechanism.

What would your take on these stories look like? Are there any experiences you could be moved to share with other people? How do you think these stories end?

Anyway I promise I'm working on actual writing, I'm just very bad at it!

#writing #writing prompts #creative writing #short story

3 notes · View notes

bunnywritesjunk · 2 years

Text

Ruusaan | Captain Rex x Reader

Series summary: You missed your tropical planet, but coruscant had more to offer. You are a field medic in the 501st. you work closely with the captain in hopes of not losing your job. But how close is too close.

Chapter summary: You and Rex get some quality time. A certain general ruins that.

Pairing: Captain Rex x Reader

Warnings: Canon level violence, mean general, T for teen (for this chapter)

Word count: 2.4k

Genre: Fluff and angst

A/n: Hey guys, finally got this chapter out. I was gonna do it yesterday but we had a snowstorm and lost power...so fun. I hope you guys like this one. Also mc's tail works in a similar way to a cats just so you guys know.

Chapter 4

You explored the Umbaran Airbase, not finding anything particularly interesting. Just ships and weapons. Each hangar had a room of barracks and refreshers. You managed to find one that was not occupied with troopers as you were determined to get some alone time. You took a fresh set of blacks out of your pack along with your toiletries and headed to the 'fresher. You spent longer than you thought you would. This refresher provided sonic as well as water. You let your muscles relax under the hot water. You missed bathing in water and swimming, it reminded you of home. After you were done you put on some body oil and changed into your blacks. The tight stretchy material stuck to your skin a bit as you tried to slip them on. You walked out of the 'fresher only to bump into something hard. You look up to see your Captain.

“Oh, uh, I thought there was nobody in there. Sorry.” He avoided your eyes sheepishly and stepped back to let you pass.

“It's alright, I was done anyways.” You step around him and head to your bunk.

You laid down and as soon as your head hit the pillow you were out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You heard rustling and clinging sounds. You opened your eyes, blinking sleepily. You turn over to identify what woke you up. Rex was there two bunks away from you putting on his armor. You sat up and rubbed your eyes.

“Didn't mean to wake you.” He said in a hushed voice.

You groaned in response. You stretched your arms while swinging your legs over the edge of the bed.

“How long was I out?” You asked him.

“About five hours.”

You decided to get up, if you went back to sleep you wouldn't want to miss anything important. You slipped your armored medic suit over your blacks. You managed to get dressed faster than Rex as he had many pieces to his suit.

“Hey Rex, I have a question for you.” He hummed and looked up at you.

“Why did you apologize to me after I got grazed by that blaster shot?” You asked.

He looked down. “I don't know. I guess I just felt bad.”

“Felt bad about what? I mean, we are on a battlefield. Injuries are bound to happen.”

“No, I know I just...I don't know.” He got quiet as his sentence trailed off.

Sensing that he didn't want to answer, you chose not to push for one. You hoped that later on down the line he would open up to you more and won't be afraid of sharing his feelings. He was your Captain after all you have to communicate.

After he was done dressing, you both headed out into the hangar.

Rex started. “I have some errands to run around the base-”

“Oh like what?” You interrupted him.

He looked at you. “Well, uh, I gotta take inventory of Umbaran weapons, as well as rations, manage other troopers doing perimeter control, count casualties...Just boring stuff.”

“Let me help. I mean I don't have anything else to do really. Anyone who is injured is probably just resting at the moment.”

“Sure, I could use the company”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You sat on some crates while Rex took down info on his data pad. What he was doing you didn't care to know. You hummed while watching him.

“I told you it would be boring.” He says without taking his eyes off his datapad.

“And I told you it's fine.” You replied. After a beat, you spoke again.

“What's Kamino like?”

Rex paused. “Um, there's nothing really to say about it. Lots of water, and the cities are pretty much the same. Bland and simple, I did enjoy training there in the early days though.”

“Was training hard?” Rex walked over to another set of crates. You hopped off the crates to follow him.

“Yeah at times, but that's how it's supposed to be.”

“Makes sense.” You responded.

“What about you?” Rex asked.

“Hm?”

“What's your planet like?”

“Well, it is wet but not as wet as Kamino. It has extremely dense rainforests and vast oceans. My people live in the trees, we've built huge communities in the forest canopy and there are many cities.”

“Why in the trees?”

“The forest floor is very dangerous. Some large predators live down there as well as poisonous plants and animals.” Rex gave you a concerned look.

“Sounds...lovely.” You chuckled.

“I know it sounds scary but it's great honestly. Once you know your way around at least. My favorite part is the ocean. It's so beautiful, The sand is black and the water is a bright blue. Oh, and at night microorganisms light up the water when you touch it.” You smiled at the fond memory not realizing you'd been staring off into the distance.

“Oh, sorry I'm probably rambling.” You said sheepishly. You look over at Rex.

“I don't mind. You sound really happy talking about your planet.”

Rex stepped in front of you, a bit closer than usual. You began to notice just how tall he is, how chiseled his jawline is, and how despite his years of war his eyes were still soft. The tip of your tail swayed back and forth happily.

“Excuse me Ruusaan, I gotta get to that one.” He said pointing to the crate behind you.

“Oh! Sorry.” You moved out of the way for him while your tail hid in embarrassment. You almost forgot about the nickname he had given you. Your face heated at your previous thoughts. You made a mental note to get a grip on those feelings. War is not a time for crushes.

While Rex was busy with the crate, you noticed Fives enter the hangar. He walked toward the both of you.

“Hey, Fives.” You greeted. Rex looked up at the Arc trooper.

“Hey, sorry to bother but Rex, I need to speak with you.” Rex looked over at you.

“I'll be back.”

“Oh yeah it's fine, I actually have to comm Na'wi anyways.”

The troopers walked out of the hangar and you managed to find a secluded corner to sit in and comm your best friend.

“Na'wi? You there?”

“Hey, girl. You alright?” She sounded tired.

“Yeah, I'm good you?”

“Yup, alright now spill.” You giggled at her eagerness. Gossiping is her favorite pastime.

You went into detail about everything that happened with General Krell. You didn't even have to exaggerate because the events were so awful.

“Oh my stars, I can't believe he can just go around insulting people.” Na'wi said.

“I know. Listen, the second I get off this planet I need a break.”

“Well, you do have leave in a few months right?” She asked.

“Yeah, but honestly it's not a vacation. Just family stuff.”

“Better than war.” You hummed in response.

“Alright, I gotta go. I'll comm you later.”

You decided to head back to your bunk. Once you got there you sat at the edge of your bed. Your mind drifted back to your captain. You were in awe at how he led his men. Even in a difficult situation, he managed to keep it together. You admired that about him.

“No, stop it brain.” You told yourself. Having a small crush is fine but you won't let it affect your job or your focus.

Speak of the devil, Rex walked into your shared bunk space. He had mixed emotions written on his face.

“What's wrong?”

He sat on his bunk and sighed. He rested his helmet on the ground.

“Some of the men came up with a plan to stop the Umbaran supply routes. But Krell isn't on board with it. They decided to do it anyway.”

“Oh...That is quite concerning. Disobeying orders probably isn't gonna slide with Krell.” You looked at your feet.

“I want to support them. I know they're right but, Krell will make sure they pay for disobeying him. He's cruel.” Rex rubbed his face and rested his head in his hands.

You walked over and sat next to him on his bunk. Placing your hand on his shoulder to give a firm squeeze.

“I know you care about them and you're worried, but you know they got this. They know the consequences, and they know you'll have their back too.”

He glanced at you from the side.

“Thank you, Ruusaan.” You gave him a small smile as he kept gazing at you.

Suddenly, the ground rumbled and there was a dull explosion sound coming from a different part of the base. You could hear distant alarms ringing.

“I better go see what's going on. I'll see you later.” Rex said.

He grabbed his helmet and quickly left the room. You did not want to bother with what might have happened out there. You walked back to your bunk and settled in. Might as well rest your body while you have the time. You took your holo pad out and pout on your favorite drama show.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The communicator near the door beeped, indicating a message waiting. You walked over to it and pressed the button.

“Medic, your presence is required in the tower immediately.”

General Krell's voice rang through the small speaker. He ended the comm before you could answer. You left the barrack and headed over to the main tower elevator. On the way, you saw Fives, Jesse, Rex, and three other troopers beelining towards the same destination. You waved at them as a small greeting once you met them at the elevator. They looked sad, and maybe a little scared. Rex looked your way.

“Did he call you up?” The Captain asked.

You nodded. All of you shuffled into the elevator.

“What happened?” You asked the troopers hoping to get some sort of clarity as to what was going on.

“Well, you're about to find out...” Fives answered.

That did not reassure you. The elevator moved quickly and you were in the control room within seconds. You started to sweat a bit the anxiety of speaking with Krell was getting to you. The group walked out of the elevator as Rex spoke.

“You wanted to see them, sir.”

“Indeed.” Krell responded.

“It seems they have accomplished a very brave act. Unfortunately, they have also committed a serious crime by directly disobeying my order.”

Rex stepped forward. “With all due respect sir, the order to attack the cargo vessel was mine. If there's a punishment that should be given, it should be directed towards me.”

You looked at Rex surprised. No one should be severely punished for this, but with Krell's record, you can imagine he's going to try and give them the worst possible punishment.

Rex continued. “I'm their commanding offic-”

He was interrupted by Fives. “General sir, Captain Rex is attempting to take the blame for actions that were clearly mine.”

“Fives!” The captain snapped at him.

Fives continued. “I request that his admission of guilt be denied, and full blame placed upon me.”

General Krell looked down at the arc trooper.

“Oh, do you? You willfully countermand my direct order, and now you have the audacity to request who should bear the punishment of your insurrection!”

Krell jabbed his finger into fives' chest. Krell started pacing.

“Let me be clear about the punishment for the treason committed by Arc Trooper 5555 and ct-5597. They will be court-martialed, they will be found guilty, and they will be executed. “

You cleared your throat to speak. Krell whips his head towards you.

“General, didn't you say you couldn't lose more men before the march on the capital? Since they successfully crippled the enemy supply lines, maybe it would be best to hold off on punishing them until after the mission.” You never met his eyes as you spoke.

“You think I forgot about you, medic?” The General stalked over to you and bent down to your level. His breath wafted over your face.

“You are benched from now on.” You looked up at him.

“What?! Why?”

“You have proven yourself useless and I have cause to believe you knew about this little outing these troopers had, making you an accomplice. Consider your job lost, you will be sent back to Coruscant as soon as a shuttle off-world arrives.”

“Sir, she had nothing to do with this.” Rex said.

“My mind is made up Captain. Make no mistake, for crossing me, you will pay the price.” Krell turned around to face the control panels. Effectively dismissing the group.

You looked at the floor and felt tears welling up. Your tail whipped side to side. Two troopers grabbed Fives and Jesse by the arms and started leading them toward the elevator while cuffing them. You turned to follow them. Once you got out, you made your way to the barracks. You weren't able to stop your tears at this point. Once you got to your bunk you sat down with your head in your hands. You tried to take deep breaths but they came out stuttered and shallow. You felt pathetic sobbing over that crazy man. But he was going to kill two of your friends and you lost your job on the first mission. You were too lost in thought to hear the door slide open.

“Oh...Ruusaan.” You knew it was Rex, but you didn't bother to look up. He sounded apologetic.

He walked over and sat next to you. “Listen, I'm gonna try and talk to him. His punishment is too harsh.” He spoke to you softly.

You didn't respond. Rex put a gentle hand on your back and stiffly moved it up and down. You wiped your tears and sniffled.

“I'm ok, you don't have to comfort me.” You said in a hushed voice. You turned and gave him a small smile to reassure him but you didn't meet his eyes. The Captain gently grabbed your chin with his index finger and tilted your head up.

“You're a great teammate and a great medic. No matter what he says, keep your head up. Got it Ruusaan?” You looked into his amber eyes, and your heartbeat quickened. You gave him a tiny nod. Your gaze slowly shifted down to his lips. Rex stood up quickly.

“I'll come to check on you later.” He said. He left swiftly.

You lay down on your bunk and stared at the underside of the top bunk.

“What is happening to me?”

#rex x reader #clone trooper rex #clone captain rex #rex #captain rex #captain rex x y/n #captain rex x reader #rex x you #clone trooper x reader #clone wars 501st #clone wars fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #star wars prequels #swtcw fic #swtcw #tcw rex #captain rex angst #captain rex fanfiction

41 notes · View notes